Portraits of Jesus: Studies in Christology 3161517954, 9783161517952

Citation preview

Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament · 2. Reihe Herausgeber / Editor Jörg Frey (Zürich) Mitherausgeber / Associate Editors Friedrich Avemarie (Marburg) Markus Bockmuehl (Oxford) James A. Kelhoffer (Uppsala) Hans-Josef Klauck (Chicago, IL)

321

Portraits of Jesus Studies in Christology Edited by

Susan E. Myers

Mohr Siebeck

Susan E. Myers, born 1958; PhD from University of Notre Dame in Christianity and Judaism in Antiquity; currently Associate Professor in the Theology Department at the University of St. Thomas, St. Paul, MN, USA.

eISBN 978-3-16-152027-3 ISBN 978-3-16-151795-2 ISSN 0340-9570 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 2. Reihe) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. © 2012 by Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, Germany. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was printed by Laupp & Göbel in Nehren on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Nädele in Nehren. Printed in Germany.

Preface The present volume is offered in honor of Harold W. Attridge on the occasion of his retirement from his post as Dean of Yale Divinity School. The volume is a collection of essays that examines the ways in which Jesus was portrayed in the literature of the earliest Jesus movement and over the next several centuries. Essays focus on the significance of Jesus in several writings from the first century, including the Gospels of Mark and of John, the letters of Paul, and the Book of Hebrews, as well as in a variety of other sources, including liturgical texts and writings from an array of Christian movements, traditions, and authors. Each essay follows one thread that decorates the rich tapestry of reflection on Jesus’ significance, and each is offered in gratitude to a scholar who has graciously illuminated the many elements of the portrait as well as its overall artistic value. Thanks are owed to many individuals who contributed to the completion of this volume. Each of the contributors not only provided an essay that seeks to engage the scholarly community and bring greater understanding of the ways in which Jesus was understood in the first centuries of Christianity, but each also sought input from other experts in the field. For their cooperation and hard work in producing stimulating scholarship, I sincerely thank them. I owe a debt of gratitude also to my graduate assistant, Marisa Plevak, who helped with indexing and sundry other tasks, and to Chia Lee and Mary Steele, who also assisted with indexing. I thank Tanja Idler at Mohr Siebeck for her very helpful input into the formatting of the essays. Indeed, I thank the entire staff at Mohr Siebeck for their assistance and especially Dr. Henning Ziebritzki for his guidance and patience. I am also grateful to Professor Jörg Frey for accepting this work for inclusion in the second series of Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament. Most of all, I thank the person who has inspired many to enter this field of research and has graciously urged students and colleagues alike to pursue a deeper understanding of Christian origins: to Harry, much gratitude. Susan E. Myers St. Paul, Minnesota

Table of Contents Preface ...................................................................................................... V Table of Contents ................................................................................... VII Abbreviations .......................................................................................... XI Introduction Susan E. Myers .......................................................................................... 1

Part I: Portraits of Jesus in Gospel Literature A Sententious Silence: First Thoughts on the Fourth Gospel and the Ardens Style George L. Parsenios .................................................................................13 Like Father, Like Son: An Example of Jewish Humor in the Gospel of John Joshua Ezra Burns ...................................................................................27 The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll .........................................................................45 Disobeying Jesus: A Puzzling Element in the Messianic Secret Motifs Jeremy F. Hultin ......................................................................................69 Crucifixion, State of Emergency, and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship Timothy Luckritz Marquis ........................................................................99 Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas: From Child’s Play to Rituals of Divine Discernment Stephen J. Davis ..................................................................................... 125

VIII

Contents

Part II: Portraits of Jesus in Paul “The Image of God”: Becoming Like God in Philo, Paul, and Early Christianity Gregory E. Sterling ................................................................................ 157 Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow Remaining as a Widow (1 Cor 7:40) Judith M. Gundry ................................................................................... 175 “An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4): The Metaphysical Contradictions of 1 Corinthians 8:1–11:1 in the Context of Jewish Idolatry Polemics Emma Wasserman .................................................................................. 201 The Use of Christological Traditions in Paul: The Case of Rom 3:21–26 Thomas H. Tobin, S.J. ............................................................................ 229

Part III: Portraits of Jesus in Prayer and Liturgy The Status of Jesus in Early Christian Prayer Texts Paul F. Bradshaw ................................................................................... 249 Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas Susan E. Myers ....................................................................................... 261 Handing on Tradition: Some Themes and Images in the Maronite Baptismal Ordo Bryan D. Spinks ...................................................................................... 287

Part IV: Portraits of Jesus in Other Early Christian Literature A New Sort of Priest for a New Sort of People: Hebrews as an Interpretation of Romans Joshua D. Garroway .............................................................................. 301

Contents

IX

Standing at the Foot of the Staircase: Christology and Narrative Structure in the Prologue to Hebrews (Heb 1:1–4) Candida R. Moss .................................................................................... 319 Born of Fornication: The Jewish Charge of Jesus’ Illegitimacy in John, Celsus, and Origen Daniel C. Harlow ................................................................................... 335 Shepherd of the Lamb: Paul as a Christ-Figure in the Acts of Paul Richard I. Pervo ..................................................................................... 355 Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited in Jewish Christianity, Sethian Gnosticism, and Mani Dylan M. Burns ...................................................................................... 371 Archived Portraits of Jesus: Unorthodox Christological Images from John and Athanasius Michael Peppard .................................................................................... 393 List of Contributors ................................................................................ 411 Index of Ancient Texts ........................................................................... 413 Index of Modern Authors ....................................................................... 446 General Index ......................................................................................... 457

 

Abbreviations 1. General A.D. a.k.a. B.C. B.C.E. bk. Bodl. Or. ca. cat. C.E. cent. cf. ch(s). Cn. d. Dec. diss. ed. ed(s). e.g. enl. esp. ET et al. fasc. supplet. Feb. ff. fig(s). fl. fr. frg(s). gr. HB i.a.

anno Domini, in the year of the Lord also known as before Christ before the Common Era book Bodleian Oriental manuscripts (Oxford) circa catalog Common Era century confer, compare chapter(s) Cnaeo died December dissertation edited by; edition editor(s) exempli gratia, for example enlarged especially English translation et alii, and others fasciculi suppletorii, supplementary installments February and the following one(s) figure(s) flourished from fragment(s) Greek Hebrew Bible inter alia, among other things

ibid. i.e. ill. inv. Jan. JT Laur. Or. l(l). log. LXX MS(S) MT Mt. NA n. Chr. Christ n(n). no(s). n.p. NRSV n.s. NT OT p(p). par(r). P.Berol. P.Hamb. Ph.D. P.Lond. P.Mich. P.Oxy. Prof. pt(s).

ibidem, in the same place id est, that is illustrated by; illustration(s) inventory January Jesus-tradition(s) Laurentian Oriental manuscripts (Florence) line(s) logion; logia Septuagint manuscript(s) Masoretic Text Mount Nestle-Aland nach Christus, after note(s) number(s) no place; no publisher; no page New Revised Standard Version new series New Testament Old Testament page(s) parallel(s) Berlin papyrus Hamburg papyrus Doctor of Philosophy London papyrus (British Museum, London) Michigan papyrus Oxyrhynchus papyrus Professor part(s)

XII   pl. R. rec. repr. rev. rev. ed. SCU

S.J. St. s.v.

Abbreviations plate(s); plural Rabbi recto reprint; reprinted revised (by) revised edition Senatus consultum ultimum, “final decree of the Senate” (emergency decree) Society of Jesus Saint sub verbo, under the word

Syr Taf. trans. v. viz. vol(s). vs. v(v). YHWH

Syriac Tafel, table translated by; translation; translator(s) vor, before videlicet, namely volume(s) versus verse(s) the tetragrammaton (name of the God of Israel)

2. Ancient Literature Abr. Acad. Post. Acts Acts Pet. Acts Thom. Adv. pag. Agr. A.J. Alc. Andr. Ann. An. post. Ant. Ant. rom. Ap. John ApocActs Apoc. Adam Apoc. Mos. Apol. Apol. 1 Apol. 2 Apol. As. Mos. Att. Aug. b. B Bapt. Bar 2 Bar. Barn. Bel B.J. b. Šabb.

De Abrahamo (Philo: On the Life of Abraham) Academica posterior (Lucullus) (Cicero) Acts of the Apostles Acts of Peter Acts of Thomas Historiarum Adversum Paganos (Orosius) Agricola (Tacitus) Antiquitates judaicae (Josephus: Jewish Antiquities) Alcestis (Euripides) Andromache (Euripides) Annales (Suetonius, Tacitus: Annals) Analytica posterior (Aristotle: Posterior Analytics) Josephus, Jewish Antiquities Antiquitates romanae (Dionysius of Halicarnassus) Apocryphon of John (Nag Hammadi) Apocryphal Acts Apocalypse of Adam Apocalypse of Moses Apologia (Pro se de magia) (Apuleius: Apology) Apologia (Plato: Apology of Socrates) Apologia i (Justin Martyr: First Apology) Apologia ii (Justin Martyr: Second Apology) Assumption of Moses Epistulae ad Atticum (Cicero) Divus Augustus (Suetonius) Babylonian Talmud Grundschrift (of Pseudo-Clementines) De baptismo (Tertullian: On baptism) Baruch 2 Baruch Barnabas Bel and the Dragon Bellum judaicum (Josephus: Jewish War) b. Šabbat

Abbreviations b. Sanh. b. Ta‘an. Cal. C. Ap. C. Ar. Carm. Carn. Chr. Cels. Chaer. Cher. 1 Chr 2 Chr Civ. 1 Clem. Cleom. CMC Cod. theod. Col Comm. Jo. Conf. Congr. Cons. ux. Contempl. Controv. 1 Cor I Cor. 2 Cor Corp. herm. Dan De an. Decr. Dem. Deo Det. Deus Deut Dial. Dial. Dial. Diatr. Did. Did. Dion. Div. Div. nom. Dogm. Plat. Ebr. Eccl Ecl. proph.

XIII  

b. Sanhedrin b. Ta‘anit Gaius Caligula (Suetonius) Contra Apionem (Josephus: Against Apion) Orationes contra Arianos (Athanasius: Orations Against the Arians) Carmina (Catullus and Horace: Odes) De carne Christi (Pseudo-Tertullian: The Flesh of Christ) Contra Celsum (Origen: Against Celsus) De Chaerea et Callirhoe (Chariton: Chaereas and Callirhoe) De cherubim (Philo: On the Cherubim) 1 Chronicles 2 Chronicles De civitate Dei (Augustine: The City of God) 1 Clement Cleomenes (Plutarch) Cologne Mani Codex Codex Theodosianus Colossians Commentarii in evangelium Joannis (Origen: Commentary on the Gospel of John) De confusione linguarum (Philo: On the Confusion of Tongues) De congressu eruditionis gratia (Philo: On the Preliminary Studies) Consolatio ad uxorem (Plutarch) De vita contemplativa (Philo: On the Contemplative Life) Controversiae (Seneca the Elder) 1 Corinthians 1 Corinthians 2 Corinthians Corpus hermeticum Daniel De anima (Aristotle: On the Soul) De decretis (Athanasius: Defense of the Nicene DefinitiionI) Demonstrations (Aphrahat) De deo (Philo: On God) Quod deterius potiori insidari soleat (Philo: That the Worse Attacks the Better) Quod Deus sit immutabilis (Philo: That God is Unchangeable) Deuteronomy Dialogus cum Heraclide (Origen: Dialogue with Heraclides) Dialogus cum Tryphone (Justin Martyr: Dialogue with Trypho) Dialogus de oratibus (Tacitus) Diatribai (Dissertationes) (Epictetus) Didache Didaskalikos (Alcinous) De sentential Dionysii (Athanasius: On the Opinion of Dionysius) De divination (Cicero) Divini nomini (Pseudo-Dionysius) De dogma Platonis (Apuleius) De ebrietate (Philo: On Drunkenness) Ecclesiastes Eclogae propheticae (Eusebius: Extracts from the Prophets)

XIV   1 En. 2 En. Enarrat. Ps. Ep. Eph Eph. Ep Jer 2 Esd Exc. Exod Exodus Rab. Ezek Faust.

Abbreviations

1 Enoch 2 Enoch Enarrationes in Psalmos (Augustine: Enarrations on the Psalms) Epistula(e) (Letter[s]) Ephesians Ignatius, To the Ephesians Epistle of Jeremiah 2 Esdras Excerpta ex Theodoto (Clement of Alexandria: Excerpts from Theodotus) Exodus Exodus Rabbah Ezekiel Contra Faustum Manichaeum (Augustine: Against Faustus the Manichaean) Flacc. In Flaccum (Philo: Against Flaccus) Fug. De fuga et invention (Philo: On Flight and Finding) Gal Galatians Gen Genesis Gen. Rab. Genesis Rabbah Gig. De gigantibus (Philo: On Giants) Gos. Eg. Egyptian Gospel (Gospel of the Egyptians) Gos. Phil. Gospel of Philip Gos. Thom. Gospel of Thomas Hab Habakkuk Haer. Refutatio omnium haeresium (Philosophoumena) (Hippolytus: Refutation of all Heresies) Haer. Adversus haereses (Irenaeus: Against Heresies) Haer. Adversus Omnes Haereses (Pseudo-Tertullian: Against all Heresies) Hag Haggai H. Ar. Historia Arianorum (Athanasius: History of the Arians) HcHaer Hymni contra Haereses (Ephrem: Hymns Against Heresies) Heb Hebrews Hec. Hecuba (Euripides) Hel. Syn. Pr. Hellenistic Synagogal Prayers Her. Quis rerum divinarum heres sit (Philo: Who is the Heir?) Herm. Mand. Shepherd of Hermas, Mandate Herm. Vis. Shepherd of Hermas, Vision HFid. Hymns on Faith (Ephrem) Hist. Historiae (Tacitus) Hist. eccl. Historia ecclesiastica (Eusebius, Theodoret: Ecclesiastical History) HNat. Hymni de Nativitate (Ephrem: Hymns on the Nativity) Hom. Homiliae (Homilies); including Pseudo-Clementine Homilies Hom. Epiph. Homily on the Epiphany (Jacob of Serugh) Hom. Matt. Homiliae in Matthaeum (John Chrysostom) Hos Hosea HVirg. Hymns on Virginity (Ephrem) Il. Ilias (Homer: Iliad) Inc. De incarnatione (Athanasius: On the Incarnation) Inf. Gos. Thom. Infancy Gospel of Thomas Inst. Institutio oratoria (Quintilian) Ios. De Iosepho (Philo: On the Life of Joseph) Isa Isaiah

Abbreviations Jas Jdt Jer Jn Josh Jub. Judg 1 Kgs 2 Kgs 1 Kor L.A.B. L.A.E. Leg. Leg. Let. Aris. Lev m. 2 Macc 3 Macc 4 Macc Magn. 2 Makk Mal Man. Hom. Man. Keph. Man. PsBk2 Mart. Pol. Matt Med. Metam. Metaph. Mic Migr. Mor. Mos. Mut. Nah Nat. Nat. d. NHC Num. Rab. Off. Opif. Or. Or. Or. ad Graecos Pall. Pan. Pel. Pesiq. Rab. 1 Pet

James Judith Jeremiah John Joshua Jubilees Judges 1 Kings 2 Kgs 1 Corinthians Liber antiquitatum biblicarum (Pseudo-Philo) Life of Adam and Eve De legibus (Cicero) Legum allegoriae (Philo: Allegorical Interpretation) Letter of Aristeas Leviticus Mishnah 2 Maccabees 3 Maccabees 4 Maccabees Ignatius, To the Magnesians 2 Maccabees Malachi Manichaean Homilies Manichaean Kephalaia Manichaean Psalm Book, pt. 2 Martyrdom of Polycarp Matthew Meditations (Marcus Aurelius) Metamorphoses (Ovid) Metaphysica (Aristotle: Metaphysics) Micah De migratione Abrahami (Philo: On the Migration of Abraham) Moralia (Plutarch) De vita Mosis (Philo: On the Life of Moses) De mutatione nominum (Philo: On the Change of Names) Nahum Naturalis historia (Pliny the Elder: Natural history) De natura deorum (Cicero) Nag Hammadi Codex Numbers Rabbah De Officiis (Cicero) De opificio mundi (Philo: On the Creation of the World) De oratione (Peri proseuchēs) (Origen: Prayer) Orations Oratio ad Graecos (Tatian: Address to the Greeks) De pallio (Tertullian: The Pallium) Panarion (Adversus haereses) (Epiphanius: Refutation of All Heresies) Pelopidas (Plutarch) Pesiqta Rabbati 1 Peter

XV  

XVI   Phil Phil. Phoen. Phys. Plac. Plant. Post. Praem. Praep. ev. Princ. Prov Prov. Ps.-Clem. Ps.-Clem. Hom. Ps.-Clem. Rec. Ps(s) QG 1QH Qoh. Rab. 1QS Rab. Rab. Perd. Rec. Resp. Rev Rom Sacr. 1 Sam SecCent Serm. Serv. Aen. Sib. Or. Sir Sobr. Somn. Spec. Strom. Suas. Subl. Symp. t. Tanh?.     Tg. Neof. 1 Thess t. Ḥul. Tib. Tim. 1 Tim 2 Tim T. Isaac T. Job

Abbreviations Philippians Orationes philippicae (Cicero) Phoenissae (Euripides: Phoenician Maidens) Physica (Aristotle: Physics) Placita (Aetius) De plantatione (Philo: On Planting) De posteritate Caini (Philo: On the Posterity of Cain) De praemiis et poenis (Philo: On Rewards and Punishments) Praeparatio evangelica (Eusebius: Preparation for the Gospel) De principiis (Origen: First Principles) Proverbs De providentia (Philo: On Providence) Pseudo-Clementines Pseudo-Clementine Homilies Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions Psalm(s) Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesin (Philo: Questions and Answers on Genesis) Hodayot (Qumran) Qohelet Rabbah Serekh ha-Yahad (Community Rule; Qumran) Rabbah Pro Rabirio reo perduellionis (Cicero: In Defense of Rabirius) Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions Respublica (Plato: Republic) Revelation Romans De sacrificiis Abelis et Caini (Philo: On the Sacrifices of Cain and Abel) 1 Samuel Second Century Sermones (Augustine: Sermons) Servius’s Commentary on the Aeneid Sibylline Oracles Sirach De sobrietate (Philo: On Sobriety) De somniis (Philo: On Dreams) De specialibus legibus (Philo: On the Special Laws) Stromata (Clement of Alexandria: Miscellanies) Suasoriae (Seneca the Elder) De sublimitate (Longinus: On the Sublime) Symposium (Plato) Tosefta Tanh?uma Targum Neofiti   1 Thessalonians t. Ḥullin Tiberius (Suetonius) Timaeus (Plato) 1 Timothy 2 Timothy Testament of Isaac Testament of Job

Abbreviations T. Jud. T. Naph. Tob Tract. Ev. Jo. Trad. ap. Trall. Treat. Seth Trim. Prot. Trin. Tro. Untitled Vit. Plot. y. y. ‘Abod. Zar. Yal. y. Šabb. Wis Zech Zeph Zost.

XVII  

Testament of Judah Testament of Naphtali Tobit In Evangelium Johannis tractatus (Augustine: Tractates on the Gospel of John) Traditio apostolica (Attributed to Hippolytus: The Apostolic Tradition) Ignatius, To the Trallians Second Treatise of the Great Seth Trimorphic Protennoia De Trinitate (Augustine: The Trinity) Troades (Seneca the Younger) Untitled treatise in Codex Brucianus Vita Plotini (Porphyry) Jerusalem Talmud y. ‘Aboda Zara Yalqut? y. Šabbat Wisdom of Solomon Zechariah Zephaniah Zostrianos

3. Journals, Series, etc. AB ABD ABRL AJP ALGHJ AnBib ANF ANRW ARM ARSHLL ASNU AYB BCNH BDAG BECNT BETL Bib BibInt BIFAO BJRL BJS

Anchor Bible Anchor Bible Dictionary Anchor Bible Reference Library American Journal of Philology Arbeiten zur Literatur und Geschichte des hellenistischen Judentums Analecta biblica Ante-Nicene Fathers Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung Archives royales de Mari Acta Regiae Societatis Humaniorum Litterarum Lundensis Acta seminarii neotestamentici upsaliensis Anchor Yale Bible Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi Bauer, Danker, Arndt, Gingrich: Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament Baker exegetical commentary on the New Testament Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium Biblica Biblical Interpretation Bulletin de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester Brown Judaic Studies

XVIII   BJSUSD BR BWANT BZ BZAW BZNW CBQ CBQMS CCSA CCSL CGL CH CJ CMC CP CPJ CSCO CUANTS DOP EKK EKKNT EWNT ExAud FC FRLANT GRBS HDR HNT HSM HTKNT HTR ICC IEJ IRT ISA JAC JBL JQR JRS JSJSup JSNT JSNTSup JSOT JSOTSup JSP JSPSup JSQ JTS KAI KEK KTU

Abbreviations Biblical and Judaic Studies from the University of California, San Diego Biblical Research Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Neuen Testament Biblische Zeitschrift Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Catholic Biblical Quarterly Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series Corpus Christianiorum: Series Apocryphorum Corpus Christianorum: Series Latina Coptic Gnostic Library Church History Classical Journal Cologne Mani Codex Classical Philology Corpus Papyrorum Judaicarum Corpus scriptorum christianorum orientalium Catholic University of America New Testament Studies Dumbarton Oaks Papers Evangelisch-katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament Evangelisch-katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament Exegetisches Wörterbuch zum Neuen Testament Ex auditu Fathers of the Church Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies Harvard Dissertations in Religion Handbuch zum Neuen Testament Harvard Semitic Monographs Herders theologischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament Harvard Theological Review International Critical Commentary Israel Exploration Journal Issues in Religion and Theology Ioannis Stobaei Anthologium (ed. Curt Wachsmuth and Otto Hense) Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum Journal of Biblical Literature Jewish Quarterly Review Journal of Roman Studies Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for the Study of the New Testament: Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament: Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha: Supplement Series Jewish Studies Quarterly Journal of Theological Studies Kanaanäische und aramäische Inschriften Kritisch-exegetischer Kommentar über das Neue Testament Die keilalphabetischen Texte aus Ugarit

Abbreviations LCL Loeb Classical Library LD Lectio divina LNTS Library of New Testament Studies LSJ Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell, Scott, Jones) MH Museum helveticum MNTC Moffat New Testament Commentary MScRel Mélanges de science religieuse NCB New Century Bible NEchB Die neue Echter Bibel NETS New English Translation of the Septuagint NHMS Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies NHS Nag Hammadi Studies NICNT New International Commentary on the New Testament NIGTC New International Greek Testament Commentary NOTA Novum Testamentum et orbis antiquus NovT Novum Testamentum NovTSup Supplements to Novum Testamentum NPNF Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers NTL New Testament Library NTS New Testament Studies NTTS New Testament Tools and Studies OBO Orbis biblicus et orientalis OCP Orientalia christiana periodica OGIS Orientis graeci inscriptiones selectae OLA Orientalia lovaniensia analecta OrChr Oriens christianus OrChrAn Orientalia christiana analecta ÖTKNT Ökumenischer Taschenbuchkommentar zum Neuen Testament PACS Philo of Alexandria Commentary Series Per. Perspectives PG Patrologia graeca [ = Patrologiae cursus completus: Series graeca] PGM Papyri graecae magicae PL Patrologia latina [ = Patrologiae cursus completus: Series latina] P.Oxy. P. Oxyrhynchus RB Revue biblique ResQ Restoration Quarterly RGG Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart RSR Recherches de science religieuse SA Studia anselmiana SANT Studien zum Alten und Neuen Testament SAOC Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilizations SBL Society of Biblical Literature SBLDS Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series SBLSCS Society of Biblical Literature Septuagint and Cognate Studies SBLSP Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers SBLSymS Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series SBLTT Society of Biblical Literature Texts and Translations SBLWGRWSup Society of Biblical Literature Writings from the Greco-Roman World Supplement series SBT Studies in Biblical Theology SC Sources chrétiennes

XIX  

XX   SecCent SFSHJ SHR SIG SJOT SJLA SNTSMS SNTW SO SP SPAW SphA SSEJC SST ST StPatr StudBib SUNT SVTQ TANZ TBei TDNT ThH THKNT TJ TLG TRE TS TSAJ TU TUGAL TynBul VC VCSup VT WBC WMANT WUNT ZAC ZKT ZNW ZTK

Abbreviations Second Century South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism Studies in the history of religions Sylloge inscriptionum graecarum Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament Studies in Judaism in Late Antiquity Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series Studies of the New Testament and its World Symbolae osloenses Sacra pagina Sitzungsberichte der preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften Sudia Philonica Annual Studies in Early Judaism and Christianity Catholic University of America Studies in Sacred Theology Studia theologica Studia Patristica Studia Biblica Studien zur Umwelt des Neuen Testaments St. Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly Texte und Arbeiten zum neutestamentlichen Zeitalter Theologische Beiträge Theological Dictionary of the New Testament Théologie historique Theologischer Handkommentar zum Neuen Testament Trinity Journal Thesaurus Linguae Graecae Theologische Realenzyklopädie Theological Studies Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum Texte und Untersuchungen Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur Tyndale Bulletin Vigiliae christianae Supplements to Vigiliae christianae Vetus Testamentum Word Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum/Journal of Ancient Christianity Zeitschrift für katholische Theologie Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

Introduction SUSAN E. MYERS The essays in this volume are offered in tribute to a scholar and friend, a man who has distinguished himself in the study of Christian origins, and who has worked tirelessly to bring a critical appraisal to the investigation of ancient religious traditions as well as to modern theological and religious education: Professor Harold W. Attridge, Lillian Claus Professor of New Testament and Reverend Henry L. Slack Dean of Yale Divinity School, and recently named Sterling Professor, Yale University’s most distinguished academic honor. Professor Attridge’s current and former students, as well as colleagues and friends, offer these essays in the hope that the research presented here both advances critical scholarship and demonstrates the lively exchange of ideas that Harry has modeled and promoted. Thanks go to Catherine A. Cory, a former student of Professor Attridge, who suggested the topic of early forms of Christology as an area of focus. Although Professor Cory was unable to contribute an essay to the collection, her idea brought to mind a comment that I heard Harry make over twenty years ago. Discussing the divergent paths taken in his research, Harry quipped that he had finished his dissertation on Josephus with the intent to write his next book on the Christology of the Fourth Gospel, but was easily led astray. He was inducted as a junior fellow into Harvard’s Society of Fellows and continued to focus on Hellenistic Judaism, but his skills were quickly noticed by others. Over the following decades, he was asked to edit various ancient texts, including the Jung Codex, which led him into rich insights in the study of the Nag Hammadi codices and gnostic Christianity. He was then asked to write a commentary on the Book of Hebrews for the Hermeneia series. More recently, he has been able to return to the Fourth Gospel, with a discernment that has surely been enriched by his scholarly meanderings. Throughout these endeavors and others, Harry has offered his extensive knowledge of the ancient world, including Greek and Semitic traditions, as well as his pronounced editorial skills and a facility for ancient languages that makes others sigh with envy. He has demonstrated openness to a variety of methodological approaches, while insisting on faithful investigation of the evidence. From Philo to Josephus,

2

Introduction

from the Nag Hammadi codices to the biblical canon, from the Psalms to Eusebius, or the Dead Sea Scrolls to the Acts of Thomas, Harry has advanced scholarship on numerous subjects and in countless ways. Not only have Harry’s scholarly interests ranged far beyond a particular period or region, but he has also forged ties with scholars on several continents, while generously guiding his own students to investigate extensively in their chosen areas. In addition, he has served on several editorial boards and in the administration of various academic guilds. In recent decades, his time has been dedicated to serving in a decanal role, first in the College of Arts and Letters at the University of Notre Dame and most recently at Yale Divinity School. It is on the occasion of his retirement from this last post that the contributors to this volume offer this collection of essays in humble tribute to Harry and to the pursuit of knowledge that he champions. The current volume is divided into four sections. The first includes essays that examine ways in which Jesus is presented in gospel literature. In “A Sententious Silence,” George L. Parsenios focuses on Jesus’ use of maxims in light of ancient rhetorical maxims known as sententiae. Parsenios first argues that maxims are a rhetorical means of expressing social, cultural or political divisions. He then places the Johannine use of sententiae in its historical context by using Quintilian to delineate how the sententiae were associated with a combative and aggressive style of oratory known as ardens et concitatum, a style that often employed antithesis, paradox or paronomasia. The Gospel of John also uses these techniques to express its theological vision, presenting Jesus involved in long discourses replete with sententiae that indicate Jesus’ distinction from the world. The author turns next to Tacitus, not only to provide concrete examples of sententiae but also to highlight the fact that Tacitus uses sententiae in combination with personal pronouns in order to distinguish between two groups: those who understand and those who do not. While the Fourth Gospel shares in this rhetorical strategy, it is also different from other ancient writings that employ sententiae by emphasizing not only distinctiveness but also the possibility of bridging chasms between people, a possibility that becomes available through faith in Jesus. Joshua Ezra Burns examines in his essay “Like Father, Like Son” another distinctive element in the Gospel of John: the use of irony, a device that is often employed to demonstrate to the reader the lack of understanding on the part of figures in the narrative. When examined together with another feature of the gospel, its sectarian rhetoric, the aspect of irony is altered, and the irony becomes more disparaging than humorous. This is especially true with respect to the Fourth Gospel’s discourses on Jews and Judaism. Burns explores one passage in particular, John 5:17, and subsequent antagonism between Jesus and “the Jews” in this gospel. Although

Introduction

3

the claim, “my father is still working, and I also am working” provides an opportunity for Jesus’ Jewish opponents to accuse him (falsely) of comparing himself to God, the accusers’ erroneous claim actually conveys a key aspect of Jesus’ nature as presented by the evangelist. The Gospel of John, then, pokes fun at “the Jews” who fail to understand, but, as Burns demonstrates, this is characteristic of much (self-deprecating) Jewish humor. Building on the current trend in Markan scholarship which acknowledges and seeks to elucidate the complexities of that gospel, Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll offers an essay that demonstrates how Mark used scriptural intertext to present a view of Jesus which defies categorization via any single hermeneutic or typology. In “The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark,” Ahearne-Kroll examines several events depicted in Mark’s gospel – Jesus’ baptism, transfiguration and Passion – and draws out the many scriptural allusions and images underlying each of these narrative accounts. He argues that Mark’s characterization of Jesus holds a variety of images – human being/suffering human being, prophetic figure, and divinely empowered figure – in tension with one another, often in the same narrative account. Thus, the author of Mark’s gospel offers a complex portrait of Jesus as an embodiment of the “tensions between the heavenly and earthly realities entailed in human suffering.” Jeremy F. Hultin discusses an interesting aspect of the messianic secrecy motif, focusing on the unusual instances where Jesus’ commands to secrecy are disobeyed. In “Disobeying Jesus,” Hultin seeks to identify the problem that gave rise to the portrayal of Jesus as “trying to maintain secrecy but failing to do so.” He suggests that the problem was rooted in the social and political dynamic that existed between Jews and Romans. Historically, the Romans often took severe action against the Jews when they perceived even minor threats to Roman order. The actions of and reactions to Jesus would have been perceived as disruptive to Roman order, and proclamation of a Messiah put the Jewish community at risk. The Markan Jesus, then, is presented as downplaying anything that could have disrupted the pax Romana or have led to endangerment of other Jews. Looking at the crucifixion of Jesus as attested in all of the canonical gospels, Timothy Luckritz Marquis addresses the political and social ramifications inherent in the execution of one who is, ironically, proclaimed as a king (“Crucifixion, State of Emergency, and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship”). Luckritz Marquis examines accounts of other executions and the ensuing social turmoil: the Roman citizen, Gavius, whose crucifixion within sight of Roman land was decried by Cicero as an assault upon libertas; and the apparent poisoning of the popularly acclaimed prince Germanicus, whose death was greeted with social upheaval by the populace. Both deaths were perceived to threaten the very foundations of

4

Introduction

the government and the social fabric. Drawing on the work of Georgio Agamben, Luckritz Marquis then discusses how the crucifixion of Jesus could be understood by his followers as a challenge to their political milieu. The depiction of Jesus’ death as a coronation-execution reveals structural fissures in society, and thus destroys social, political, and religious hierarchies. By proclaiming the cross widely, his followers challenged societal values and, in new positions of authority, enacted the reversal inherent in the crucifixion of a king. The opening scene of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, in which the child Jesus fashions sparrows from clay and then claps his hands to bring them to life, provides the focus for the article “Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas” by Stephen J. Davis. Davis examines this story through the lens of ancient cultural “sites of memory” – material items or social practices that re-present the past – in order to understand how ancient readers of the story would have reflected on Jesus’ significance. There is abundant evidence that the social memory of childhood, as known in the ancient world, often involved playing with animal (including bird) toys or included the practice of keeping birds as pets. The image of Jesus creating figures of birds while at play would have allowed readers to see Jesus’ actions as similar to their own childhood experiences, and thus to see Jesus as having experienced a typical childhood. At the same time, birds were also used in ritual actions including divination and spell casting. Jesus is presented, then, not only as a typical child but also as one endowed with miraculous powers. The second section of the book examines elements of Paul’s reflection on Jesus’ significance. Discussing the “common ground” between Judaism and Christianity, Gregory E. Sterling (“‘The Image of God’”) examines the exegetical traditions on the divine image (from Genesis 1:26–27) in Philo, in Paul, and in several early christological hymns. Philo’s Middle Platonism is evident in his understanding of the connection between the divine Logos and the Image of God. Humans do not relate to God directly, but rather relate to (and are a copy or image of) the Logos, who is the Image of God. Philo also knew of a tradition that distinguished between the earthly human, fashioned from the ground, and the heavenly human who is in the divine image. In response to the Corinthians’ preference for identifying with the “heavenly human,” Paul insists that humans can be made heavenly through the heavenly, risen Christ, who is the Image of God. Hymns that survive in Colossians, Philippians, and Hebrews also identify Christ with the Image of God, affirming that an intermediary Image is necessary for representing the transcendent God. Thus, while the New Testament writers apply the concept to Christ, they are building on a Jewish exegetical tradition that can be seen in Philo.

Introduction

5

Judith M. Gundry’s essay (“Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow Remaining as a Widow [1 Cor 7:40]”) deals with what Paul means when he says that the widow is “more blessed, if she remains so.” Gundry observes that scholars have not dealt with the tension between Paul’s opinion and the predominant view in ancient Judaism of widows as extremely unfortunate, since they had no husband through whom to obtain children, and therefore receive blessing. Gundry suggests that Paul’s contrarian opinion can be accounted for by his adaptation of two Jesustraditions that overturn the conventional means of blessing for women, the macarism on the barren in the end-time (Luke 23:29) and the conflict story on the widow and the resurrection (Luke 20:33–36). Gundry argues for possible allusions to these Jesus-traditions in 1 Cor 7:40a, and concludes that Paul’s probable allusions to Jesus-traditions, paired with his claim to “have the Spirit of God,” suggest Paul’s attempt to show the complementarity of (some) Jesus-traditions and the Spirit’s inspiration, when it came to formulating directives for those “on whom the ends of the ages have come.” Emma Wasserman’s essay treats Paul’s language about gods, demons, and idols in 1 Corinthians 8:1–11:1 (“‘An Idol is Nothing in the World’ [1 Cor 8:4]”). She draws attention to the way polemics and satires in Deuteronomy 32, Isaiah 40–48, and Jeremiah 10 make characteristically vague, contradictory, and vacillating claims about the metaphysical status of other gods. Wasserman argues that these features of the texts arise from shared anthropomorphic assumptions that understand gods as competing for honor and acclaim. This approach illuminates Paul’s changing arguments in 1 Corinthians 8:1–11:1 and explains his special concern with participating in rituals honoring the gods of others in 1 Corinthians 10. Treating Paul’s thought as operating with certain shared premises and assumptions also provides a way out of simplistic generalizations of his thought as uniquely Jewish, Greek, or Christian. To underscore this point, Wasserman treats 1 Corinthians 8:6 as appropriating from certain traditions of philosophical theology about the metaphysics of causes. The second section of the book closes with a discussion of “The Use of Christological Traditions in Paul,” by Thomas H. Tobin, S.J., concentrating on Romans 3:21–26 to show how Paul both appropriated and transformed earlier Christian traditions. In response to the fears of the Jewish and Gentile members of the Roman community that Paul was distinguishing between faith and righteousness, on the one hand, and the Mosaic law on the other, thus calling into question the very status of the Jewish people, Paul responds by emphasizing what he held in common with the Roman Christians, while setting out his own views. Paul indicates that, in the present time, God’s righteousness is manifest in the death of Christ, “apart

6

Introduction

from (observance of) the law,” and is now available to both Jews and Gentiles, as witnessed to in the law and the prophets. Paul incorporates and expands a traditional creedal formula to claim that God has put Jesus forth as an expiation, thus reestablishing a relationship between humans and God. Paul emphasizes God’s grace, the importance of faith, and the present character of the reality he describes, all in a manner that contrasts with his own stark distinctions made in Galatians. In the Letter to the Romans, Paul builds on what he has in common with the Roman Christians, and offers an understanding of God’s righteousness – available through faith to both Jews and Gentiles – that continues to affirm the divine origin and authority of the Mosaic law. Part III focuses on prayer texts, both formal and informal. The liturgical scholar Paul F. Bradshaw discusses the complexity of the status of Jesus in early Christian prayer texts (“The Status of Jesus in Early Christian Prayer Texts”). He notes that there were two early traditions of reference to Jesus in prayer: one in which Jesus is a revealer figure and a second one that presents Jesus as a mediator of the church’s praise and intercession. Even in later works, primitive titles are often retained in the prayers, which preserve more archaic language than the surrounding text. Bradshaw then turns to the question of direct address to Jesus in prayer, found in some early texts. While these are generally literary rather than liturgical works, they also give valuable evidence of early ritual practices. Even Origen, who makes the strongest claim that prayers were to be offered only to the Father, also provides the clearest witness that prayers were addressed to Christ and includes his own such prayers. In the end, the evidence from the first few centuries of Christianity is complex and prayer practices begin to be standardized only in the fourth century. My essay (“Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas”) builds on the work of Bradshaw and focuses especially on the Acts of Thomas, a work that provides valuable evidence for a type of Christianity that flourished in the third century. This work and others like it must be taken seriously as sources of evidence for early prayer practices. The Acts of Thomas evidences an abundance of prayer directly addressed to Jesus, including that used in liturgical settings. Indeed, not only is Jesus directly addressed in these prayers, but there is no sharp distinction between an appeal to Jesus and one to another reality (especially, but not only, to the Spirit). The work includes prayers addressed to various elements that represent heavenly realities. I suggest that these prayers to ritual elements are a development of the Hebrew tradition that God’s presence is experienced in the ordinary. Bryan D. Spinks (“Handing on Tradition”) examines the Maronite baptismal rite and the origins of its images in ancient texts from Syriacspeaking Christianity. Within these images are found, among others, the

Introduction

7

themes of putting on a new garment; of Christ as a shepherd, with the resultant “sealing” (branding) of the initiates as his sheep; and the idea of new birth in baptism, drawing on the idea of the font as a “womb.” Spinks finds the stimulus for these themes in such writings as the Odes of Solomon, the Acts of Thomas, and the Hymns of Ephrem, as well as the writings of Jacob of Serugh, from whom the Maronites draw inspiration for many traditions. Spinks concludes that the Maronite baptismal rite, with its vibrant images for Jesus and for the initiate, faithfully transmits the ancient Syrian tradition. The final section of the book deals with approaches to the person of Jesus in a variety of texts. It opens with two essays that examine the Epistle to the Hebrews, those of Joshua D. Garroway (“A New Sort of Priest for a New Sort of People”) and Candida R. Moss (“Standing at the Foot of the Staircase”). Garroway claims that the presentation in Hebrews of Jesus as the heavenly high priest develops the Pauline reference to Jesus as i9lasth/rion. In addressing the Romans, Paul links Jesus’ sacrifice with the faith of the believers which enables them, apart from the law or their ethnicity, to share in Abraham’s faith and thus accords them status as children of Abraham. Garroway notes that the Galatian Christians apparently found perplexing the idea that they were children of Abraham, which Paul needed to counter. It is in response to this puzzlement that Hebrews was written: to clarify Paul’s assertion that Jesus’ sacrifice was linked to the theme of righteousness and the claim that Jesus’ followers were descended from Abraham. Hebrews suggests that Christ’s role as heavenly high priest after the order of Melchizedek establishes Abraham’s authentic heirs. The new heavenly high priest of Hebrews constitutes a new people who are descended from Abraham as their new high priest is “descended” from Abraham’s priest, Melchizedek. The prologue of the Epistle to the Hebrews is the subject of Candida Moss’s essay. Moss suggests that most analyses of Hebrews separate the prologue from the body of the work, treating it as an independent christological hymn or as an epistolary prescript. Against this dominant view, Moss argues that the prologue was original to the text and not a preexistent oral or literary unit incorporated by the author. To support her argument, Moss marshalls evidence to show that a) Heb 1:3 of the prologue is not an independent christological hymn, and b) the prologue is a tightly knit, carefully constructed composition. In the final portion of the essay, the author examines the relationship of the prologue to the main body of the letter and concludes that the prologue anticipates “the christological and parenetical program of the work as a whole.” In the essay “Born of Fornication,” Daniel C. Harlow examines texts for evidence of Jewish refutation of the virgin birth tradition. Harlow first ex-

8

Introduction

amines John 8:41, within the larger context of the Gospel of John, to determine whether the Jewish charge against Jesus’ legitimacy refers to biological illegitimacy. He argues that John 8:41 cannot be cited as evidence that first-century Jews refuted Jesus’ parthenogenesis. In contrast, Harlow concludes that a) Celsus’ True Doctrine – a late second-century text – attests to and builds upon Jewish distortion of the Matthean birth narrative; and b) Origen’s Commentary on John testifies that, by the third century, John 8:41 was interpreted in light of Jewish polemic against Jesus’ parthenogenesis. In “Shepherd of the Lamb,” Richard I. Pervo probes the Acts of Paul to reveal the ways in which the text’s structure and content portray Paul as a “Christ figure.” Pervo first demonstrates that the text follows the framework of a gospel narrative. Within this narrative, Paul’s life and deeds closely parallel those of Jesus; like Jesus, Paul preaches, performs miracles, calls disciples, suffers a “passion” and appears to his disciples after his death. Pervo argues that this paralleling was intended to portray a deep conformity between the life of Paul and the life of Jesus – a conformity so extensive that Paul can even be called a ‘savior.’ Paul does not take the place of Jesus, but “by extending the savior’s work he becomes a savior himself.” This depiction of Paul as savior is not unique to Acts of Paul; it has roots in canonical writings and is represented in other Deutero-Pauline writings as well. Dylan M. Burns, in his essay “Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited,” discusses the concept of a reincarnating/reincarnated savior distinct from his appearance as Jesus of Nazareth. Texts attesting to Jewish-Christian (Elchasaite, Ebionite and Pseudo-Clementine) understandings, Sethian Gnostic concepts, and Manichaean belief in such a Christology form the basis of study. Burns delineates the evidence found in the relevant texts, focuses on understanding the relationships between the various traditions, and points out other “Christologies” which are sometimes confused with reincarnated savior Christology. Burns affirms that the Jewish-Christian tradition antedates the Sethian Gnostic tradition and suggests that this latter tradition was probably informed by the former. Additionally, he warns that modern scholars must be careful to avoid confusing reincarnational Christology with Pythagorean reincarnation or with appeals to philosophia perennis (as in Manichaeism). Reincarnational christologies are distinctive, used “in a variety of rhetorical contexts for diverse ends.” Michael Peppard’s essay, “Archived Portraits of Jesus,” describes two christological images that were cast aside as Nicene Christology emerged: that of Jesus as the Father’s Apprentice, derived from John 5:16–20a, and Athanasius’s image of Christ as the paradeigma of the emperor’s eikōn, or Imperial Statue. Peppard first discusses how each image served its author’s

Introduction

9

purpose of addressing Christological needs and controversies, then points out the limitations and imperfections that caused the images to be considered inadequate. Finally, he discusses the underlying correlations between the two paradigms and suggests that they may have been grounded in the Platonic concept of mimēsis. If interpreted through the nuances of this philosophical lens, the images – although eventually “archived” – could have been understood as compatible with what ultimately became orthodox Christology. The contributors to this book hope that the essays it contains will honor our friend and mentor, Professor Harold W. Attridge, by offering the same dynamic engagement with ancient traditions that we have learned from him and admired in his work.

 

Part I: Portraits of Jesus in Gospel Literature

 

A Sententious Silence First Thoughts on the Fourth Gospel and the Ardens Style GEORGE L. PARSENIOS The Jesus who strides across the pages of the Gospel of John speaks in pointed epigrams and aphorisms, and so it is no surprise that he inspires his interpreters to do the same. Rudolf Bultmann famously appropriates the aphoristic style of the Fourth Gospel by saying that, in John, Jesus reveals only that he is the revealer.1 When Wayne Meeks alters Bultmann’s appraisal of the Johannine Jesus, he employs an equally epigrammatic phrase and writes, “He reveals rather that he is an enigma.”2 The Jesus presented in the Fourth Gospel is indeed enigmatic, and one of the more enigmatic aspects of his life and work is his manner of speaking. He often leaves his conversation partners bothered and bewildered, as when the last words of Nicodemus to Jesus are, “How can these things be?” (3:9). Because Harold Attridge has focused his forays into the Fourth Gospel on John’s riddles and enigmas, often by comparison with ancient literature,3 the present paper will honor his important body of work by following this same procedure. I will investigate Jesus’ enigmatic style of speech in light of ancient rhetoric, especially rhetorical sententiae. A sententia (gnw&mh in Greek) is a maxim that expresses some broadly held truth in a pithy, pointed style, such as the comment of Shakespeare’s Polonius, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be” (Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 3). Maxims like these had been discussed and divided into different types as early as Aristotle, but they had a particular prominence in the rhetoric of the early Roman Empire. The present paper will examine the sententious style of early imperial literature, especially in the works of Tacitus, in or1

R. Bultmann, “Die Bedeutung der neuerschlossenen mandäischen und manichäischen Quellen für das Verständnis des Johannesevangeliums,” ZNW 24 (1925): 102. I warmly thank Michael Peppard and Lisa Bowens for helpful criticism of this paper. 2 W. A. Meeks, “The Stranger from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism,” JBL 44 (1972): 57. 3 His papers on John have helpfully been collected in Harold W. Attridge, Essays on John and Hebrews (WUNT 264; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010).

14

George L. Parsenios

der to understand more clearly the role of rhetorical sententiae within the theological drama of the Gospel of John. We will not begin, however, with sententiae of the first century in the Roman Empire, but rather, with sententiae of the nineteenth century in the British Empire. British authors like Rudyard Kipling regularly described the interaction between England and the oriental colonies with phrases like “East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.”4 This phrase is compelling for its rhetorical quality alone, but even more so for the manner in which the rhetoric of the phrase has a profound social significance. Among the many presuppositions connected to British control over India in the nineteenth century was the notion that India was one thing, and always the same thing. Most important of all, India was a different thing from England: never the twain shall meet. In his monograph, The Illusion of Permanence: British Imperialism in India, Francis Hutchins writes, An India of the imagination was created which contained no elements of either social change or political menace. . . . [It] was on the basis of this presumptive India that Orientalizers sought to build a permanent rule. 5

British literature of the time both reflects and creates this India. Kipling’s novel Kim, for example, participates in the production of what Edward Said calls the “immutable nature of the Oriental world as distinguished from the white world, no less immutable.”6 Said demonstrates the character of the created, immutable nature of India with several sententious passages from Kim, such as the claim that “Kim would lie like an Oriental.” Equally pointed in its chauvinism is the line “. . . all hours of the twenty-four are alike to Orientals.”7 Said argues that these maxims are derived from British perceptions of India, and in turn also fortify those perceptions as objective truths. The line that separates England from India is drawn by such maxims, in order to make absolutely sure that East will always be East and West will always be West, separate and apart. Social, cultural and religious divisions find their rhetorical expression in sententiae. John’s Gospel does something similar. We will see below that this similarity is not total, and that John is also very different from Kipling, but for now it will be helpful to focus on similarity. Very much like Kipling’s insistence that East is East and West is West is the comment of Jesus to Nicodemus: “That born from flesh is flesh, and that born from Spirit is Spirit” 4

From Rudyard Kipling, “The Ballad of East and West.” Francis Hutchins, The Illusion of Permanence: British Imperialism in India (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1967), 157. Cf. Said in following note. 6 Edward Said, “The Pleasures of Imperialism,” Raritan 9 (1990): 27–50; repr. in Edwardian and Georgian Fiction (ed. Harold Bloom; Philadelphia, Pa.: Chelsea House, 2005), 263. Citations are from the reprinted version. Italics mine. 7 Ibid., 263. 5

A Sententious Silence

15

(3:6). The immediately preceding verse has already informed us that one born of flesh cannot enter the kingdom of heaven (3:5), or, to return again to Kipling’s language: “never the twain shall meet.” The connection to Kipling here is more than stylistic. No less than Kipling’s maxims, Jesus’ sententiae in the Nicodemus dialogue provide a rhetorical expression of division. While Kipling illustrates the divisions between England and India, the Fourth Gospel describes the divisions between people of the flesh and people of the Spirit, those “from above” and those “from below.” (3:31). The peculiar language and style of the Fourth Gospel have often been investigated for their social significance and have been put in conversation with various social models. This has been a common way to discern and describe the Johannine community.8 But Jesus’ rhetorical style can also be placed into its ancient context and discussed and defined in light of the similar use of sententious speech in ancient authors. This is our present concern. The work of Quintilian (ca. 35–ca.100) provides a helpful starting point for the discussion. Greek rhetorical theorists like Aristotle and the anonymous author of the Rhetorica Ad Alexandrum (4th century B.C.E.) had earlier reflected on the rhetorical use of maxims, but by the early empire several considerable shifts had occurred in their use and definition. The first change will receive only brief treatment here. It has to do with the categories under which maxims were discussed. In the Greek tradition, this was under the heading of proof, pi/stij. Maxims were part of the machinery of argument. Since some maxims reflect common opinions (endoxoi), while others reflect paradoxical truths (paradoxoi), a different manner of argument was appropriate to each (1394b.7–34). Roman authors treated maxims differently, placing them, not under the heading of proof, but of style (elocutio).9 The anonymous Rhetorica Ad Herrenium (4.17.25), for instance, recognizes that there are different types of sententiae, but that the different types are distinguished only by whether they are mono-cola (sententiae simplices) or bi-cola (sententiae quae dupliciter efferuntur). Quintilian discusses sententiae as well, not as a part of proof in Book 5, but as an element of style in Books 8 and 9.

8 Wayne Meeks’s essay, the “Stranger from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism” explores the social character of this division through the perspective of key themes and language in the Fourth Gospel, such as the pattern of ascent and descent, while more recent scholars have investigated the connection. Norman Petersen, The Gospel of John and the Sociology of Light: Language and Characterization in the Fourth Gospel (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity, 1993). For a negative appraisal, see Edward Klink, The Sheep of the Fold (SNTSMS 141; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 9 See Paul Holloway, “Paul’s Pointed Prose: The ‘Sententia’ in Roman Rhetoric and Paul,” NovT 40 (1998): 36.

16

George L. Parsenios

This shift to style is significant because, not only are sententiae now discussed under the heading of style, but they are also closely associated with a newly popular style in imperial oratory. Quintilian labels this new style ardens et concitatum, “heated and impassioned” (Inst. 10.1.90). The ardens style was an aggressive approach to rhetoric, often compared to gladiatorial battles,10 and “characteristic of the genus dicendi ardens et concitatum was the brilliance and frequency of its sententiae.”11 In such a combative context, a particularly pointed sententia was seen as a way of skewering an opponent in combat. Fortunately, we possess a rich trove of Roman era sententiae because Seneca the Elder (ca. 50 B.C.E. – ca. 40 C.E.) excerpted and preserved them for the education of his sons in his Oratorum et Rhetorum Sententiae Divisiones Colores. He excerpts not only declaimers in Latin, but their contemporary Greek counterparts as well, indicating the breadth of this rhetorical style.12 More things changed in the Roman discussion of maxims than just the assignment of maxims to the realm of style. The very definition of what qualified as a maxim expanded as well. This change is important for the study of the Gospel of John, because many of John’s sententious statements might not have qualified as Greek maxims, but they are precisely what the Romans considered to be sententiae. The manner in which the Romans differed from the Greeks is obvious in Quintilian’s divisions of the sententia form. He uses the following categories: (1) traditional sententiae (8.5.3–11); (2) the new type (8.5.12–14), and even newer types (magis nova genera; 8.5.15–24).

The first category (traditional sententiae) is associated closely with the Greek gnw&mh. Quintilian writes (8.5.3), Although all the different forms are included under the same name, the oldest type of sententia, and that in which the term is most correctly applied, is the aphorism, called gnw/mh by the Greeks. Both the Greek and the Latin names are derived from the fact that such utterances resemble the decrees or resolutions of public bodies. The term, however, is of wide application (indeed, such reflections may be deserving of praise even when they have no reference to any special context) . . . 13

This is very close to the definition of the gnw&mh in the Greek world. For Aristotle, the gnw&mh 10

See Patrick Sinclair, Tacitus the Sententious Historian: A Sociology of rhetoric in Annales 1–6 (University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995), 14, 41, 123–32. 11 Janet Fairweather, Seneca the Elder (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 202. 12 See bibliography in Paul Holloway, “Paul’s Pointed Prose,” 39 n. 33. 13 Translations of Quintilian are taken from Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria (trans. H. E. Butler; 5 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1920).

A Sententious Silence

17

. . . is a statement; not a particular fact (such as the character of Iphicrates), but of a general kind; nor is it about any and every subject (e.g. “straight is the contrary of curved” is not a maxim) but only about questions of practical conduct, courses of conduct to be chosen or avoided. (1394a)14 The example that Aristotle gives of a proper maxim is: “Never should any man whose wits are sound have his sons taught more wisdom than their fellows” (1394a). A maxim like this could be applied in any context, and so Greek teachers would excerpt sayings from playwrights and poets (Menander was especially common) for students to memorize and apply broadly. The Romans did the same, with the understanding that a maxim should be meaningful apart from its original context, as we saw above in Quintilian’s definition of the traditional sententia. 15 But Quintilian does not confine the sententia to this traditional type alone. He classifies as sententiae even maxims that have a personal turn and are not so generally applicable. He writes, for example, Cicero again gives the general statement a personal turn when he says: “Caesar, the splendour of your present fortune confers on you nothing greater than the power and nothing better than the will to save as many of your fellow-citizens as possible.” (8.5.7)

Immediately after Quintilian quotes this example, however, he urges restraint in its use, writing that . . . we must be careful, as always, not to employ them too frequently, nor at random, nor place them in the mouth of every kind of person, while we must make certain that they are not untrue, as is so often the case with those speakers who style them reflections of universal application [catholica] and recklessly employ whatever seems to support their case as though its truth were beyond question.

Quintilian’s objections, as usual, are a conservative reaction to what is happening all around him, and not an indication of what people actually do. No one sets speed limits when everyone drives slowly and rhetorical textbooks often describe what they wish would happen, not what actually does happen. Even in the examples that Quintilian provides, we see what his contemporaries are really up to when he discusses “new” (12–14) and “even more new” (15–24) sententiae. For example, he quotes (8.5.18) Cicero’s comment to Atticus (Att. 8.7.2), “I know from whom to fly, but whom to follow I know not.”16 Such gnomic statements are understood as broadly applicable utterances that can be excerpted from their environment and still make perfect sense. But the Romans also call non-gnomic 14 Translations of Aristotle’s Rhetoric are taken from W. Rhys Roberts and Ingram Bywater, The Rhetoric and Poetics of Aristotle (Modern Library; New York: Random House, 1984). 15 Stanley Bonner, “Lucan and the Declamation Schools,” AJP 87 (1966): 260. 16 This translation is taken from Paul Holloway, “Paul’s Pointed Prose,” 38.

18

George L. Parsenios

utterances “sententiae.” Non-gnomic phrases express summary truths that define a particular situation, but not necessarily summary truths that could be broadly applied outside of that situation. In Roman rhetorical theory, though, both the gnomic and non-gnomic types are classified as sententiae. Indeed, the sententiae of the so-called newer style, the less gnomic type, were actually more popular among orators. There was a very lively debate about whether declaimers should rely on gnomic or non-gnomic utterances but, by far, they used non-gnomic sententiae more than gnomic. The nongnomic expressions predominate in the collection of sententiae excerpted from the schools of declamation by the elder Seneca.17 They produce their rhetorical effect (and thus perfectly reflect the aggressive ardens style) by relying on such things as antithesis, paradox, and paronomasia, where a play on words depends on the various possible meanings of a word or on the slight difference between similar sounding words. A good example of antithesis appears in the comment quoted above from Cicero: “I know from whom to fly, but whom to follow I know not,” (Habeo quem fugiam; quem sequar non habeo; Att. 8.7.2).18 Similar is a sententia copied by the elder Seneca: “Judge whether he was allowed to live, he who was not even allowed to die” (Controv. 8.4). In addition to antithesis and paradox, paronomasia is common. This device exploits the various possible meanings of a word or adds a prefix to a word in order to create a surprising expression: “Shall, then, Cicero’s scribings [quod scripsit] perish, and Anthony’s proscribings [quod proscripsit] remain?” (Suas. 7.11). Seneca the Younger, who learned the value of sententiae from his father, often employs them to express the paradoxes of Stoic philosophy. For example, he urges Lucilius not to fear the criticism of others by saying, “One must scorn scorn itself” (contemnendus est ipse contemptus; Ep. 76.4). Elsewhere, he writes of the unimportance of wealth for the Stoic sage by insisting, “The shortest way to riches is to despise riches” (revissima ad divitias per contemptum divitiarum via est; Ep. 62.3). He further emphasizes the Stoic sage’s detachment from the vicissitudes of life by saying, “. . . He is most happy who has no need of happiness” (felicissimum esse cui felicitate non opus est; Ep. 90.34). The Gospel of John also expresses the paradoxes and antitheses of its theological vision by relying on very much the same style of discourse. At least two of the Gospel’s sententiae are of the gnomic type, and could be applied beyond the boundaries of John’s theological horizon. The first is the phrase, “Servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers 17

See Bonner, “Lucan,” 261. The following examples and their translations are taken from Holloway, “Paul’s Pointed Prose,” 38–44. 18

A Sententious Silence

19

greater than the one who sent them” (13:16). The second is the lofty expression, “No one has greater love than to lay down his life for his friends” (15:13).19 But most often, the Fourth Gospel uses antithesis very much as Seneca did, to reflect the unique character of Johannine theology, as in the following verse cited at the opening of this paper: “What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit” (3:5–6). In other places, the point is to articulate a paradox, such as achieving life only through death: Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. (12:24–25)

The final line quoted here (12:25) relies also on paronomasia, where the paradox that death leads to life is extended by a shift from earthly life to eternal life. Equally paronomastic is the play on the word pneu/ma in John 3: “The wind [pneu/ma] blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit [pneu/matoj]” (3:8). Several antithetical sententiae are especially personal references to Jesus, and sound a great deal like Cicero’s “I know from whom to fly, but whom to follow I know not.” Jesus regularly says such things as “You will search for me, but you will not find me; and where I am, you cannot come” (7:33–34), and, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe” (20:29). And yet, to say that Jesus speaks in rhetorical sententiae is merely to say that the Fourth Gospel was produced in a particular rhetorical climate. But to what theological use does John put this sententious style? An important insight from Wayne Meeks can help us to formulate an answer to this question. When he defines Jesus’ strangeness in this world, Meeks focuses especially on the motif of ascent and descent in John. But Meeks adds that Jesus’ strangeness in this world is not something that is narrated and described, but rather something that arises from what Jesus says and how he says it. Of the motif of ascent and descent, Meeks writes, “The motif belongs exclusively to discourse, not to narrative. . . .”20 The motif of Jesus’ strangeness in the world operates on the level of discourse, where it is not actually narrated, but presupposed in everything Jesus says. This means that the motif operates on the level of rhetoric. What Meeks says about Jesus’ discourses can be connected to the fact that these discourses 19

That the phrase can be understood outside of its immediate context and, indeed, outside even of Christian theology is the fact that it appears in a slightly different form in Plato’s Symposium, 179b. 20 Meeks, “Stranger from Heaven,” 50, italics original.

20

George L. Parsenios

are replete with sententiae. John’s Gospel separates those born of flesh from those born of the Spirit, and he does so in an especially sententious style. John is not alone in using sententiae in order to underscore such distinctions. Tacitus (56–117 C.E.) does something similar, and his work provides interesting parallels to what we see in John. In his recent monograph Tacitus the Sententious Historian, Patrick Sinclair has coined the elegant phrase, “Sententiae speak to those who understand.”21 The phrase neatly defines Sinclair’s approach to Tacitus, which is centered on the social function of sententiae, and especially on their power to draw social boundaries and make social connections between author and audience. Tacitus uses maxims to connect with his implied reader and to forge a common bond as he and his readers survey together the sweep of Roman history. In doing so, Tacitus draws on an understanding of maxims that begins as early as Aristotle. Aristotle introduces social distinctions into his discussion of gnw/mai in various ways. For instance, Aristotle insists that youths and country folk (1395a) should not utter gnw/mai, even though they often are the ones most likely to do so. Both of these classes, after all, have no universal knowledge of the world and cannot speak broadly about what they do not understand. Maxims should be confined to mature people with the requisite knowledge of the world – essentially, Athenian gentlemen. Quintilian, as we saw in an earlier passage, feels the same way and urges that sententiae should not appear “in the mouth of every kind of person” (8.5.7). The social character of maxims is not related only to those who speak them, but even more to those who hear them. Aristotle writes, The maxim, as has been already said, is a general statement and people love to hear stated in general terms what they already believe in some particular connection: e.g., if a man happens to have bad neighbors or bad children, he will agree with anyone who tells him, “Nothing is more annoying than having neighbours,” or, “Nothing is more foolish than to be the parent of children.” The orator has therefore to guess the subjects on which his hearers really hold views already, and what those views are, and then must express, as general truths, these same views on these same subjects. (1395b)

In the Roman world, the social realities that are defined by maxims are made even more specific. The ability to produce powerful sententiae was a sign that one belonged to the upper echelons of the senatorial class. Sententiae were an expression of urbanity, as we see from the sparse contents of the lost work De Urbanitate of Domitius Martius, which is excerpted by Quintilian and which defines urbanitas by varying qualities, but especially by the ability to produce proper sententiae.22 Thus, when Tacitus adopts a 21 22

55.

The phrase is borrowed from Sinclair, Sententious Historian, 33. See E. S. Ramage, “The De Urbanitate of Domitius Martius,” CP 54 (1959): 250–

A Sententious Silence

21

sententious authorial persona, he clearly directs his work to the senatorial ruling class at Rome and associates himself with them. He establishes himself as an insider. Just as important, he establishes others as outsiders. A few examples of how sententiae mark these social boundaries come from Tacitus’s treatment in the Annales of the barbarian Arminius. Two episodes clarify how Arminius the “outsider” is sharply differentiated from the Roman “insiders.”23 First, Tacitus writes, Arminius’s authority was greater among them, because he counseled war: indeed, to barbarians, the more eager a man for daring, the more trustworthy and esteemed he is in revolutionary times. (Ann. 1.57.1)

In a civilized society like that defined by the Romans, this state of affairs defines a world turned upside down. Among Arminius and the barbarians, though, this is simply the way things are, in much the same way that Kipling defined Orientals. By expressing the opinion of Roman social elites in the form of a sententia, Tacitus renders this opinion a universal truth. Tacitus operates similarly when he deals with the father-in-law of Arminius, Segestes, who himself remained loyal to Rome. Tacitus refers to both men as “each noteworthy for his disloyalty or loyalty towards us” (1.55.1), invoking the high regard that Romans placed on fides (loyalty), and their scorn for its opposite perfidia (disloyalty).24 As he continues, though, he concludes his description of the two men with the following passage: Personal animosities were increased, because Arminius had carried off [Segestes’] daughter, though she was already betrothed: he [Arminius] was the despised son-in-law of a hostile father-in-law; and what were among harmonious men the bonds of devotion, were the provocations for resentments among enemies. (Ann. 1.55.4–5)

Although Segestes was loyal to Rome, his alliance with Arminius was based on a deficient respect for fides.

23

29.

24

In the next several paragraphs, I am guided by Sinclair, Sententious Historian, 15–

See, for instance, Cicero, Off., 1.1.23: “The foundation of justice, moreover, is good faith [fides] – that is, truth and fidelity to promises and agreements. And therefore we may follow the Stoics, who diligently investigate the etymology of words; and we may accept their statement that ‘good faith’ is so called because what is promised is ‘made good,’ although some may find this derivation rather farfetched. There are, on the other hand, two kinds of injustice – the one, on the part of those who inflict wrong, the other on the part of those who, when they can, do not shield from wrong those upon whom it is being inflicted. For he who, under the influence of anger or some other passion, wrongfully assaults another seems, as it were, to be laying violent hands upon a comrade; but he who does not prevent or oppose wrong, if he can, is just as guilty of wrong as if he deserted his parents or his friends or his country.”

22

George L. Parsenios

But the sententious description of Arminius contains further elements, and these elements turn our discussion back to the Gospel of John. We saw above that, when Tacitus describes Arminius and Segestes’ respective relationships to Rome, he refers to “us” at 1.55.1. Each of the two men, he remarks, was “noteworthy for his disloyalty or loyalty towards us” (1.55.1). This introduces the passage just quoted. The word “us” obviously and of course means the Romans. By referring to “us” in this way, Tacitus “clearly and unmistakably co-opts his reader into an ‘us-against-them’ relationship based on Roman partisanship and solidarity.”25 He regularly draws the reader into his view of reality with the careful and selective use of firstperson plural verbs and pronouns. This use of nos and noster in Tacitus should be understood, not as something akin to the so-called “royal we,” but as the pluralis sociativus, the “associative plural” that establishes a bond with the reader.26 Tacitus uses the pronoun “we” often in this way, as when he distinguishes Judaism from Roman religion and employs both the associative plural and a sententious tone. He writes (Hist. 5.4.1): “The Jews regard as profane all that we [nos] hold sacred, and yet permit all that we [nobis] abhor.”27 The same device appears even when Tacitus chastises the “we” made up of his fellow Romans, as when he critiques Greeks and Romans for never before recognizing the true significance of Arminius. He writes, He fulfilled thirty-seven years of life, twelve of command, and is celebrated still among the barbarian nations. Unknown in the history of the Greeks, who revere only their own deeds, he has barely been acknowledged by the Romans, since we commemorate bygone times with little concern for yesterday. (Ann. 2.88.3)

When Tacitus refers to the fact that even the barbarians recognize the significance of Arminius, he offers a not-so-subtle critique of his fellow Romans, who have yet to see why Arminius matters. How could Romans, he seems to ask, have misunderstood the significance of Arminius, when even the barbarians saw it? Then he solidifies this attitude by referring to what “we” do in the final line: “since we commemorate bygone times with little concern for yesterday.” In these descriptions of Arminius, a sententious description of the difference between barbarians and Romans is connected to the use of the first-person plural pronoun. The sententiae work in harmony with the plural pronouns to reinforce a distance between Romans and barbarians, and thus associate Tacitus with the Roman senatorial class. Such a use of per25

Sinclair, Sententious Historian, 19. Ibid., 19. 27 Translation modified from that of Tacitus, Histories, I–III (trans. Clifford Moore; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1925). For similar uses of the associative plural, see Agr. 43.1, 2; 45.1–2; Dial. 1; Ann. 2.18.1; 12.33. 26

A Sententious Silence

23

sonal pronouns is not confined to Tacitus, of course. The same phenomenon appears in works by other authors, such as Longinus’s On the Sublime. Longinus’s concern, though, is to distinguish Romans from Greeks. He writes of Greek authors as “we” and refers to his Roman patron Terentianus and other Romans as “you” (12.4–5). Tim Whitmarsh defines this device well. He writes, This schematic polarity between “we” and “you” then is not so much an articulation of a self-evident fact as an artful structuring device, designed to create a dilemma for the reader: which side are you on? Are you with “us” or “them”?28

What makes Tacitus interesting for Johannine studies, of course, is that he joins this use of first-person pronouns with a style rich in sententiae. This resembles the conversation in the Gospel of John in which Jesus speaks to the uncomprehending Nicodemus. We have already seen the sententious character of Jesus’ comments in chapter 3, which are sharply antithetical and pointed statements about the difference between above and below (“Whoever comes from above is above all; whoever comes from the earth is of the earth and from the earth he speaks”; 3:31), between the spirit and the flesh (“Whatever is born of flesh is flesh, and whatever is born of spirit is spirit”; 3:6), and between earth and heaven (cf. the contrast between ta_ e0p i/geia and ta_ e0p oura/nia in 3:12). If Tacitus marks himself off as a member of the Roman elite by adopting a sententious posture, and thus separates himself from the barbarian Arminius or from the Jews, Jesus does something similar as he separates himself from people of the flesh. Even more interesting, the Johannine Jesus also uses first-person plural verbs. Jesus makes a sudden and surprising shift to the first-person plural when he announces, “Very truly, I tell you, we speak [lalou/men] of what we know [oi1damen] and we testify [marturou/men] to what we have seen [e9w ra&kamen]; yet you do not receive [lamba&nete] our testimony” (3:11). Likewise, although Jesus previously referred to Nicodemus as the singular “you,” he now switches to the second-person plural, both in 3:11 with lamba&nete, and in all of 3:12 as well when he says, “If I have told you [u9mi/n] about earthly things and you do not believe [pisteu&ete], how can you believe [pisteu&ete] if I tell you [u9mi/n] about heavenly things?” It has long been understood that the dialogue between Jesus and Nicodemus is really a dialogue between two groups, a reality that the plural pronouns clarify.29 This is all well known. But the rhetorical character of this section, and especially its sententious quality, is now clearer. Jesus’ sententiae rein28 Tim Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 69. See p. 68 for more examples and further discussion. 29 See David Rensburger, Johannine Faith and Liberating Community (Philadelphia, Pa.: Westminster, 1988), 40, 56.

24

George L. Parsenios

force his strangeness because they separate him from the “you” of the world and connect him to the “we” of the people of the Spirit. The maxims invite the readers to imagine themselves as part of the “we” in Jesus’ plural pronouns, and the shared worldview that they articulate. Like Tacitus, therefore, the Johannine Jesus speaks in sententiae in order to associate himself with and to define a particular group – the people of the Spirit. When Nicodemus is utterly confused by Jesus, and asks, “How can these things be?” (3:9), he exemplifies the fact that, as Sinclair said of Tacitus, “Sententiae speak to those who understand.” Thus, the rhetoric of Jesus’ discourses fits neatly into a particular set of devices common in the early Roman Empire. John operates very much like Tacitus. And yet, in a very profound way, John is also very different from everything we have described above. When Kipling says of East and West that “never the twain shall meet,” he is saying something that is both true and false for the Gospel of John. It is true in the sense that flesh cannot inherit the kingdom of God. It is false, though, if we imagine that the chasm between people of the flesh and people of the Spirit is impassable. The chasm is certainly vast. But the bridge that leads a person across this chasm is faith in Jesus Christ. Indeed, as Leander Keck so rightly argues, John does not emphasize the distinction between people of the Spirit and people of the flesh in order to define two polar realities to which people are irrevocably bound (i.e., “never the twain shall meet”).30 Rather, John emphasizes the difference between the two in order to underscore the immediate necessity for people to cross from one pole to the other, from flesh to Spirit. In John 8, for example, Jesus emphasizes (8:21–23) that his opponents are from below (e0k tw~n ka&tw), and from this world (e0k tou/tou tou= ko/smou), while Jesus is from above (e0k tw~n a!nw ) and not of this world (e0k tou/tou tou= ko/smou). Because they are from below, they do not understand him, as Jesus says in the following passage: They said to him, “Who are you?” Jesus said to them, “Why do I speak to you at all? I have much to say about you and much to condemn; but the one who sent me is true, and I declare to the world what I have heard from him.” They did not understand that he was speaking to them about the Father. (8:25–27)

Up to this point, this conversation exemplifies what Sinclair has identified in Tacitus: “Sententiae speak to those who understand.” But John does not leave the matter there. Verse 8:24 indicates that people are not hopelessly locked in their respective realms. Jesus says, “I told you that you would die in your sins, for you will die in your sins unless you believe that I AM” 30 Leander Keck, “Derivation as Destiny: ‘Ofness’ in Johannine Christology, Anthropology and Soteriology,” in Exploring the Gospel of John: In Honor of D. Moody Smith (ed. C. C. Black and R. A. Culpepper; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 277.

A Sententious Silence

25

(8:24). The operative phrase here is the last one: “unless you believe that I AM.” Those “from below” are not hopelessly consigned to die in their sins because they are below. They can change their destiny. They can be born from above – if they believe. This recognition of the function of faith is a helpful and important corrective to the foregoing argument. John’s sententiae certainly seem designed to underscore the difference between people of the flesh and people of the Spirit, but these realities are not separated as certainly as Kipling separated the British ruling class from its Indian subjects, or as Tacitus marked the Romans off from their barbarian allies and enemies. For John, the two realities of flesh and Spirit are separate but they can nevertheless be transcended through faith in Jesus Christ. Another corrective is also in order. Jesus’ opponents are not alone in misunderstanding him. The disciples are often just as confused, because they are still awaiting the arrival of the Spirit of truth who will transmit to them insight that they do not possess (16:12–13). This essay has focused on the separation of Jesus from outsiders, but such a separation is only a single aspect of a much larger reality. If sententiae speak to those who understand, it is important to emphasize that no one ever fully understands the mystery at the heart of the incarnation. Even for those who believe, every moment of revelation is also a moment of concealment. Thomas, for example, makes the most exalted christological claim in the Gospel (“My Lord and my God!”; 20:28), and yet he is told that greater faith than his is still possible (20:29). Misunderstanding, or the lack of full understanding, is a basic aspect of Johannine Christology. Social explanations about the Johannine community and its separation from outsiders seem only to explain one aspect of this misunderstanding and incomprehension. Moloney rightly emphasizes that this is not inherently a sociological matter, but a christological matter.31 The point is profoundly illustrated when Jesus speaks of light and darkness at the close of his ministry (12:36). He says, “While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light.” But as soon as Jesus concludes this statement on light 31 See Raymond E. Brown, An Introduction to the Gospel of John (ed. Francis J. Moloney; New York: Doubleday, 2003), 289. For misunderstanding in John in general, see, for a representative view, E. Richard, “Expressions of Double Meaning and Their Function in the Gospel of John,” NTS 31 (1985): 96–112. Also, the balance between Christology and social history is only a slight modification of that expressed in the classic essay by Meeks, “Stranger from Heaven,” 164. Meeks explains the gradual development of the Johannine symbolic world by means of a mutually reinforcing relationship between Christology and the social experience of the community. The christological claims of the Johannine Christians led to their alienation, which in turn dictated how their Christology was expressed, which only led to further alienation, and so forth. I would simply see the misunderstanding and incomprehension as an inherent quality of Johannine Christology from the first.

26

George L. Parsenios

and illumination and revelation, the evangelist informs us, “After Jesus had said this, he departed and hid from them.” The very moment of revelation is thus a moment of concealment.32 The same concealment covers Jesus’ words at every turn, and lends a silence to his speech, albeit a sententious silence. The motivation behind this approach to language is christological, and emphasizes that no words are able to explain the mystery of the incarnation. In his important discussion of John’s use of genre, Attridge makes the point quite definitively, and in a way that will close this essay: The fourth evangelist has something of the literary artist and the popular philosopher in him, but the motivation for his genre bending is his own. His appropriation of a variety of words, of formal types of discourse, is not so much, as this essay originally suggested, a way of using a variety of forms to convey a message. Rather, the use of most of these forms suggests that none of them is adequate to speak of the Word incarnate. John . . . forces its audience away from words to an encounter with the Word himself. 33

32

The language of revelation and concealment here is borrowed from Nicholas P. Constas, “Symeon of Thessalonike and the Theology of the Icon Screen,” in Thresholds of the Sacred (ed. Sharon Gerstel; Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006), 179. 33 Harold W. Attridge, “Genre Bending in the Fourth Gospel,” in Essays on John and Hebrews, 78; repr. from JBL 121 (2002).

Like Father, Like Son An Example of Jewish Humor in the Gospel of John1 JOSHUA EZRA BURNS It is with great pleasure that I offer this paper in tribute to Harry Attridge. It was in Professor Attridge’s classroom that I was introduced to the Gospel of John and under his tutelage that I learned how to navigate its complexities. As a Jew and a student of Judaism with little prior background in the critical study of the New Testament, I first met the Fourth Gospel as a stranger to the text and, to my mind, an unwelcome guest in its literary world. Thanks, however, to Harry's expert guidance, I managed to achieve an appreciation of that world balanced by equal measures of sympathy and caution. My gratitude for his mentorship and my appreciation of his friendship are beyond words. It is therefore fitting that I take this opportunity to honor Harry by engaging his lessons on John’s Jewish rhetoric and its implications toward the social and theological perspectives of the Johannine community.

Irony and Humor in the Gospel of John One of the most distinctive literary qualities of the Gospel of John is its use of irony.2 The gospel has long been noted for its frequent portrayals of 1

I am grateful to Dr. Michael L. Peppard for his valuable comments and constructive criticism on an earlier version of this essay. All remaining errors and oversights are entirely of my own design. All scriptural quotations are taken from the New Revised Standard Version. All parenthetical references to scriptural verses refer to the Gospel of John unless otherwise noted. 2 Important works on the use of irony in John’s gospel include R. Alan Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design (Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1983), esp. pp. 165–80; Paul D. Duke, Irony in the Fourth Gospel (Atlanta, Ga.: John Knox, 1985); Gail R. O’Day, Revelation in the Fourth Gospel: Narrative Mode and Theological Claim (Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1986). For an overview of the relevant literature, see R. Alan Culpepper, “Reading Johannine Irony,” in Exploring the Gospel of

28

Joshua Ezra Burns

calculated miscommunication between its protagonist, Jesus, and the many impressionable individuals he encounters in his earthly ministry. The inability and, in some cases, unwillingness, of Jesus’ interlocutors to grasp the significance of Jesus’ teachings frequently results in their failure to appreciate the profound nature of his mission. The evident communication gap between Jesus and his contemporaries implied in the gospel is often described as a function of its ironic subtext. In its simplest form, the classical literary technique of irony assumes a certain degree of cultural dissonance between the circumstances of the text’s reader and the circumstances of its narrative. In an ironic narrative sequence, the reader is meant to see what the character or characters in the narrative cannot. If, therefore, we are to assume that the typical reader of John’s gospel is better attuned to Christian doctrine than its own cast of characters, the frequent failure of said characters to understand what is obvious to the reader may well reflect its author’s ironic sensibility. Yet in this definition of Johannine irony there is a paradox. Another of the gospel’s characteristic features is its sectarian rhetoric. The frequent miscommunication between Jesus and his interlocutors also has been described as a function of the gospel’s recurring polemic against competing groups both within and without the first-century church. The tension underlying this polemic is typically thought to reflect actual hostilities with the competing Jewish and Christian groups against whom the author of the gospel wished to define his own.3 Accordingly, one of the major functions of the gospel in its original context would have been as an ecclesiastical charter, a manifesto for the Johannine community meant in part to demarcate its ideological and social boundaries. That some of Jesus’ interlocutors are said in the gospel to misunderstand or to reject Jesus’ teachings therefore suggests that the persons or groups they represent were not meant to be included among the number of the Christian faithful. These characJohn: In Honor of D. Moody Smith (ed. R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 193–207. 3 For an overview of critical opinions pertaining to the gospel’s social rhetoric and its implications toward reconstructing the history of the Johannine community, see Harold W. Attridge, “Johannine Christianity,” in The Cambridge History of Christianity, Vol. 1: Origins to Constantine (ed. Margaret M. Mitchell, Frances M. Young, and K. Scott Bowie; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 125–43, at pp. 130–36 (reprinted in idem, Essays on John and Hebrews [WUNT 264; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010], 3–19, at pp. 8–13). My own stance on the sectarian profile of John’s readership community is informed primarily by Wayne A. Meeks, “The Man from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism,” JBL 91 (1972): 44–72 (reprinted in The Interpretation of John [ed. John Ashton; London: SPCK; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1986], 141–73), and J. Louis Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel (3rd ed.; NTL; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2003).

Like Father, Like Son

29

ters – predominantly Jews and including certain followers of Jesus – represent actual individuals whom the author of the gospel wished to locate outside of the Johannine community. As a result, one cannot necessarily assume that the implied reader of the gospel was meant to read the ignorance of its disenfranchised characters as ironic. In other words, the reader who identifies with John’s sharp sectarian rhetoric cannot help but see this aspect of his narrative as contemptuous.4 The conflicting opinions as to the efficacy of Johannine irony pose a dilemma to the modern reader. On the one hand, it is convenient – and not implausible – to assume that the author of the gospel crafted his narrative with ironic intent. To imagine that his overdrawn portraits of Jesus’ antagonists were meant to evoke humorous contrasts for his readers helps dull the gospel’s conspicuous polemical edge. On the other hand, to assume that these portraits were meant as caricatures of real people unwittingly implicated in the gospel narrative is to submit to the author’s prejudices. As Craig Koester has argued, the construction of group identity at work in the Gospel of John hinges on its author’s use of humor to undermine the other’s sense of self.5 Even, therefore, if the author of the gospel did mean to inject a certain sense of ironic humor into his narrative, to laugh at his jokes can be a pernicious prospect, especially when his objects of sport are represented by members of a historically marginalized group such as the Jews. For the contemporary reader attentive to the voices of the dispossessed, John’s irony can be a humorless irony, evoking not laughter at those who fail to grasp Jesus’ message but commiseration over the negative implications of their disparagement.6

4 For a more expansive critique of this nature, see Trond Skard Dokka, “Irony and Sectarianism in the Gospel of John,” in New Readings in John: Literary and Theological Perspectives: Essays from the Scandinavian Conference on the Fourth Gospel (ed. Johanne Nissen and Sigfred Pedersen; JSNTSup 182; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 83–107. See also Stephen D. Moore, “Deconstructive Criticism: Derrida at the Samaritan Well and, Later, at the Foot of the Cross,” in idem, Poststructuralism and the New Testament: Derrida and Foucault at the Foot of the Cross (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1994) 43–64, esp. pp. 59–62, and cf. Culpepper, “Reading Johannine Irony,” 201–5. 5 Craig R. Koester, “Comedy, Humor, and the Gospel of John,” in Word, Theology, and Community in John (ed. John Painter, R. Alan Culpepper, and Fernando F. Segovia; St. Louis, Mo.: Chalice, 2002), 123–41, at pp. 132–38. 6 For a similarly sober assessment of Johannine irony, see George S. MacRae, “Theology and Irony in the Fourth Gospel,” in The Word in the World: Essays in Honor of Frederick L. Moriarty, S.J. (ed. Richard J. Clifford and George W. MacRae; Cambridge, Mass: Weston College Press, 1973), 83–96 (reprinted in The Gospel of John as Literature: An Anthology of Twentieth-Century Perspectives [ed. Mark W. G. Stibbe; NTTS 17; Leiden: Brill, 1993], 103–13).

30

Joshua Ezra Burns

The tension, of course, between the humorous and pernicious aspects of Johannine irony is a function of the reader’s emotional response to the text. In order, therefore, to assess the intended effect of the gospel’s ironies, it is up to the reader to choose where she or he wishes to situate herself or himself in reference to the author’s own rhetorical objective. As Adele Reinhartz has demonstrated in reference to John’s discourse on Jews and Judaism, one can choose to comply with the evangelist’s prejudices, to resist those prejudices, or to negotiate an acceptable middle ground between these two perspectives.7 The same might be said of John’s ironies. While it might seem heartless to laugh at the victims of the gospel’s ironies, it would be unfair simply to ignore its comedic sensibility simply on account of its potential to offend. That would be to diminish the impact of the historical tensions that compelled the author of the gospel to define his group against its unwelcoming neighbors. This is particularly true of the Jewish neighbors for whom the evangelist reserves his strongest terms of alienation.8 It might not be convenient for the modern reader to appreciate the evangelist’s biting sense of humor at all times. Nevertheless, one must at least acknowledge the humorous intent of his ironies should one hope to discern the contentious reality behind his sectarian rhetoric.9

7

Adele Reinhartz, Befriending the Beloved Disciple: A Jewish Reading of the Gospel of John (New York; London: Continuum, 2001), esp. pp. 17–31. For a more concise treatment of Reinhartz’s vital analysis of the gospel’s anti-Jewish tendencies, see eadem, “The Gospel of John: How ‘the Jews’ Became Part of the Plot,” in Jesus, Judaism and Christian Anti-Judaism: Reading the New Testament after the Holocaust (ed. Paula Fredriksen and Adele Reinhartz; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2002), 99–116. 8 The alienation of the Johannine community from the Jewish community is expressed most clearly in the evangelist’s use of the unique term a0posuna/gwgoj (“away from the synagogue”) as a designation for the social situation of group in John 9:22; 12:42; and 16:2. This terminology, along with the gospel’s characteristic hostility toward the Jews and their tradition, suggests a historical rupture involving the Johannine community’s perceived expulsion from a specific synagogue community or from the Jewish community in general as symbolized by the synagogue. For discussion to this effect, see Martyn, History and Theology, 46–66, although see further Reinhartz, Befriending the Beloved Disciple, 37–41, for an important corrective to Martyn’s proposed reconstruction of this decisive event. 9 For a more thoroughgoing treatment of the sectarian politics behind the New Testament’s anti-Jewish rhetoric, see Luke T. Johnson, “The New Testament’s Anti-Jewish Slander and the Conventions of Ancient Polemic,” JBL 108 (1989): 419–41, with comments pertinent to the Gospel of John on p. 420.

Like Father, Like Son

31

“My Father Is Still Working, and I Also Am Working” Bearing these interpretive issues in mind, let us now turn to the passage of primary interest to our study. The fifth chapter of the Gospel of John features the first of the gospel’s narrative sequences pitting Jesus against the aggregation of anonymous Jewish antagonists notoriously styled by the book’s author simply as oi9 0Ioudai=oi, “the Jews.”10 Following their introduction, John’s Jews accompany Jesus through his earthly ministry, intermittently appearing to voice the misgivings about his intentions that eventually result in his arrest, trial, and crucifixion. The first confrontation between Jesus and the Jews follows a sequence in which the former, having recently arrived in Jerusalem for a Jewish festival, heals a lame man at the pool of Beth-zatha (5:1–9). The Jews, wary that this miraculous feat had been performed on the Sabbath, ask the man to identify the agent of his recovery. When he identifies Jesus as the one who healed him, the Jews waste no time in chastising Jesus for having violated the sanctity of the Sabbath day (5:10–16). Jesus responds with the sharp reply, “My father is still working, and I also am working” (5:17). This affirmation distracts the Jews from the relatively minor charge of Sabbath violation and invites the new charge that Jesus was “making himself equal to God” (5:18). This new charge, in turn, prompts an elaborate rhetorical stratagem in which Jesus expressly subordinates himself to God while demonstrating his singular prerogative as the Son of God to act as his Father’s earthly agent of creation and judgment (5:19–47). Scholars commenting on this passage typically read the riddling phrase “My father is still working . . .” as a subtle effort on the part of the evangelist to lampoon the Jewish Sabbath, i.e., to express disapproval of its ac10 I take it for granted that the gospel’s “Jews” represent not the Jewish people as a whole but stereotypical Jews, ethnic Judaeans, and/or anonymous Jewish individuals of specific interest to the circumstances of Jesus’ ministry. For discussion of these possibilities, see, e.g., Wayne A. Meeks, “‘Am I a Jew?’ Johannine Christianity and Judaism,” in Christianity, Judaism, and Other Greco-Roman Cults: Studies for Morton Smith at Sixty, Part One: New Testament (ed. Jacob Neusner; SJLA 12; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 163–86; Malcolm Lowe, “Who Were the 0Ioudai=oi?,” NovT 18 (1976): 102–7; Urban von Wahlde, “The Johannine ‘Jews’: A Critical Survey,” NTS 28 (1981–1982): 33–60; Henk Jan de Jonge, “The ‘Jews’ in the Gospel of John,” in Anti-Judaism and the Fourth Gospel: Papers of the Leuven Colloquium, 2000 (ed. Reimund Bieringer, Didier Pollefeyt, and Frederique Vandecasteele-Vanneuville; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2001), 239–59; Reinhartz, Befriending the Beloved Disciple, 72–75; Raimo Hakola, Identity Matters: John, the Jews and Jewishness (NovTSup 118; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 10–16; Lars Kierspel, The Jews and the World in the Fourth Gospel: Parallelism, Function, and Context (WUNT 2.220; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 13–36; John Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel (2nd ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 64–69.

32

Joshua Ezra Burns

cepted terms of observance.11 Jesus’ intimation that God Himself works on the seventh day presents a direct challenge to the traditional Jewish understanding of the Pentateuchal proscription against laboring on the Sabbath (Exod 20:8–11; Deut 5:12–15). Consequently, Jesus appears to capitulate to the deed in question while disarming his Jewish accusers by exposing their case against him as one predicated on faulty logic. But there is clearly more to this statement than a protest against the Jewish Sabbath. As Attridge has demonstrated, John 5:17 functions as a rhetorical pivot, at once neutralizing the foregoing Sabbath controversy while establishing the logical grounds for the ensuing christological exposition.12 In other words, Jesus’ revelation of his divine parentage leads his accusers, along with the implied reader of the gospel, to discern in the circumstances of his miraculous healing a demonstration of purpose far more profound than the deed in question.13 While there is little doubt that the wording of Jesus’ rebuttal is meant to provoke the Jews, its precise object of reference is lost in the narrative’s 11 On the range of implications of this episode toward the Sabbath law, see Severino Pancaro, The Law in the Fourth Gospel: The Torah and the Gospel, Moses and Jesus, Judaism and Christianity according to John (NovTSup 42; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 9–16; Lutz Doering, Schabbat: Sabbathalacha und -praxis im antiken Judentum und Urchristentum (TSAJ 78; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 468–72 (= idem, “Sabbath Laws in the New Testament Gospels,” in The New Testament and Rabbinic Literature [ed. Reimund Bieringer, Florentino García Martínez, Didier Pollefeyt, and Peter J. Tomson; JSJSup 136; Leiden: Brill, 2010], 207–53, at pp. 243–46); Martin Asiedu-Peprah, Johannine Sabbath Conflicts as Juridical Controversy (WUNT 2.132; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 59–75. Steven M. Bryan, “Power in the Pool: The Healing of the Man at Bethesda and Jesus’ Violation of the Sabbath (Jn. 5:1–18),” TynBul 54 (2003): 7–22, argues that the story’s object of Jewish offense should be understood as Jesus’ magical usurpation of God’s power. I find this suggestion unnecessarily complex in view of the gospel’s obvious intimations that Jesus and/or the lame man were thought to have violated the traditional Jewish proscriptions against healing and/or carrying objects in the public domain on the Sabbath day. 12 Harold W. Attridge, “Argumentation in John 5,” in Rhetorical Argumentation in Biblical Texts: Essays from the Lund 2000 Conference (ed. Anders Eriksson, Thomas H. Olbricht, and Walter Übelacker; Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity International, 2002), 188–99, at pp. 190–91 (= idem, Essays on John and Hebrews, 93–104, at pp. 95–96). See also Francis J. Moloney, Signs and Shadows: Reading John 5–12 (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1996), 9; Jerome H. Neyrey, “‘Equal to God’ (John 5.18): Jesus and God’s Two Powers in the Fourth Gospel,” in idem, The Gospel of John in Cultural and Rhetorical Perspective (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2009), 172–90, at p. 180. 13 For complementary literary analyses of this sequence, see R. Alan Culpepper, “John 5:1–18: A Sample of Narrative-Critical Commentary,” in The Gospel of John as Literature: An Anthology of Twentieth-Century Perspectives (ed. Mark W. G. Stibbe; NTTS 17; Leiden: Brill, 1993), 193–207, at pp. 201–2; Francisco Lozada, Jr., A Literary Reading of John 5: Text as Construction (Studies in Biblical Literature 20; New York: Peter Lang, 2000), 83–87.

Like Father, Like Son

33

rapid pacing. The author’s adroit neutralization of the Sabbath controversy likewise softens the sting of Jesus’ pointed argument against the Jewish law. This renders the ensuing rhetorical stratagem something of a non sequitur.14 The Jews, for their part, appear to overlook Jesus’ provocative intimation that God Himself does not observe the Jewish Sabbath. Instead, they are said to be angered by their belief that Jesus was now challenging traditional Jewish sensibilities as to the singular nature of the God of Israel. In fact, however, he has said nothing to this effect. That Jesus presumes to call God his father hardly deviates from the traditional Jewish language of divine patronage.15 To wit, the Jews themselves claim to be children of God later in the gospel narrative (8:41). Although brimming with christological potential, the words ascribed to Jesus in verse 17 therefore do not seem to warrant the charge levied against him in the following verse.16 Critical efforts to bridge this narratological gap tend to follow a common refrain. Since the early twentieth century, scholars have acknowledged the similarity of Jesus’ affirmation in verse 17 to a common philosophical debate over the Sabbath cited in a number of ancient Jewish

14 In view of the likelihood that John 5:1–18 incorporates traditional materials, I leave aside for the present purposes the possibility that its apparent narratological fractures are the result of imprecise editing. For discussions to this effect, see, e.g., Rudolf Bultmann, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (trans. G. R. Beasley-Murray, R. W. N. Hoare, and J. K. Riches; Philadelphia, Pa.: Westminster, 1971), 237–47; Robert T. Fortna, The Gospel of Signs: A Reconstruction of the Narrative Source Underlying the Fourth Gospel (SNTSMS 11; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), 48–54; L. Th. Witkamp, “The Use of Traditions in John 5.1–18,” JSNT 25 (1985): 19–47; Michael Labahn, “Eine Spurensuche anhand von Joh 5.1–18: Bemerkungen zu Wachstum und Wandel der Heilung eines Lahmen,” NTS 44 (1998): 159–79. 15 For this observation, see Wayne A. Meeks, “Equal to God,” in The Conversation Continues: Studies in Paul and John in Honor of J. Louis Martyn (edited by Robert T. Fortna and Beverly R. Gaventa; Nashville: Abingdon, 1990), 309–21, at pp. 315–18. On the likelihood, however, that Jesus’ vague insinuation of divine paternity is meant to foreshadow later, ostensibly more volatile developments in the gospel’s christological narrative, see James F. McGrath, John’s Apologetic Christology: Legitimation and Development in Johannine Christology (SNTSMS 111; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 80–86, and cf. Pancaro, The Law in the Fourth Gospel, 54–56. A. C. Sundberg, “Isos to Theo Christology in John 5.17–30,” BR 15 (1970): 19–31, discerns a more fully realized Christology in John 5:17 in view of the ensuing exposition, although his reading strategy necessitates an unconventional parsing of the chapter’s literary structure. 16 This ambiguity, of course, is retroactively resolved in the ensuing forensic discourse, in which Jesus appears to add weight to the charge of blasphemy; see Attridge, “Argumentation in John 5,” 192–96 (= idem, Essays on John and Hebrews, 97–100). To assume, however, that the Jews would have inferred Jesus’ complex logic on the basis of his terse rebuttal in verse 17 would be to credit them with more insight than the evangelist does.

34

Joshua Ezra Burns

texts.17 At several points in his writings, Philo of Alexandria asserts God’s right to maintain the world’s natural order throughout the week despite his instructions to humanity to refrain from work on the seventh day. Although Philo does not refer directly to the opposite argument, it is conceivable that his words were meant as a rejoinder to an established exegetical controversy over Gen 2:2–3, in which God is said to have rested on the very day He completed His work of creation.18 A similar debate is cited in a number of classical rabbinic texts in which various pagan and Jewish figures are said to have challenged the sages over the integrity of the Sabbath law in view of the fact that God maintains the order of His creation on the seventh day.19 If, therefore, one is to assume that this argument against 17 For the following, see, e.g., C. H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953), 320–23; Raymond Brown, The Gospel According to John (2 vols; AB 29; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1966–1970), 1:216– 27; Bultmann, The Gospel of John, 244–46; Barnabas Lindars, The Gospel of John (NCB; London: Oliphants, 1972), 218–19; C. K. Barrett, The Gospel According to St. John: An Instruction with Commentary and Notes on the Greek Text (2nd ed.; London: SPCK; Philadelphia, Pa.: Westminster, 1978), 255–56; Rudolf Schnackenburg, The Gospel According to St. John (trans. Cecily Hastings, Francis McDonagh, David Smith, and Richard Foley; 3 vols.; New York: Seabury, 1980–1982), 2:100–101; Ernst Haenchen, The Gospel of John (trans. Robert W. Funk; 2 vols; Hermeneia; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1984), 1:248–49; John Painter, The Quest for the Messiah: The History, Literature, and Theology of the Johannine Community (2nd ed.; Nashville: Abingdon, 1993), 224– 25; Francis J. Moloney, The Gospel of John (SP 4; Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 1998), 174; Asiedu-Peprah, Johannine Sabbath Conflicts, 77; McGrath, John’s Apologetic Christology, 85–86; Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel, 83–84; Neyrey, “‘Equal to God,’” 180. The proposed connections appear to have originated in the works of Hugo Odeberg, The Fourth Gospel: Interpreted in its Relation to Contemporaneous Religious Currents in Palestine and the Hellenistic-Oriental World (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1929), 202–3; and H. L. Strack and Paul Billerbeck, Kommentar zum Neuen Testament aus Talmud und Midrasch (6 vols.; Munich: Beck, 1922–1961), 2:461–62. The most extensive (and arguably most speculative) treatments of this theory to date are those of Jacques Bernard, “Le guérison de Bethesda: Harmoniques judéo-hellenistiques d’un récit de miracle un jour de sabbat,” MScRel 33 (1976): 3–34, and 34 (1977): 13–30, and Peder Borgen, “The Sabbath Controversy in John 5:1–18 and an Analogous Controversy Reflected in Philo’s Writings,” SPhA 3 (1991), 209–21 (reprinted in idem, Early Christianity and Hellenistic Judaism [Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996], 105–20). 18 The passages typically cited to this effect are Philo, Leg. 1.5–7, 16–18; Cher. 86– 90; Migr. 91; and Her. 170. For relevant discussion, see Doering, Schabbat, 370–71. For earlier evidence of this apologetic stratagem, see Aristobulus, frg. 5.11–12 (Eusebius, Praep. ev. 13.12.11–12), and frg. 5b (Clement, Strom. 6.16.141.7b–142.1), with texts in Carl R. Holladay, Aristobulus (vol. 3 of Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors; SBLTT 39; Atlanta, Ga.: Society of Biblical Literature, 1995), 182–85, and discussion in Doering, Schabbat, 312–14. 19 The passages typically cited to this effect include Gen. Rab. 11.5, 10; Exod. Rab. 30.9; Tanh?. Ki Tissa 33; Pesiq. Rab. 23.8; and Yal. Gen 16, although see Doering, Schabbat, 471, who correctly notes that these sources express none of the assumptions

Like Father, Like Son

35

Sabbath observance was well known to Jewish readers of the evangelist’s day, it stands to reason that Jesus would have presumed to correlate his own performance of creation and judgment on behalf of the lame man to God’s continual performance of creation and judgment in behalf of the entire world. Consequently, that Jesus dared to compare his work to the work of God would have upset his Jewish accusers more acutely than his intimation of divine paternity. The proposed allusion to the Genesis narrative is not without merit. There can be little doubt of the author’s interest in casting Jesus’ earthly ministry as a virtual re-creation of the cosmos modeled on the scriptural account of the original creation. This literary analogy positively defines the opening sequence of the gospel (1:1–18), establishing ample precedent for its recurrence in our brief narrative sequence and in the ensuing christological exposition.20 Whether this connection, however, is implied by the phrasing of John 5:17 is more difficult to ascertain. While it is possible that Philo formulated his defense of the Sabbath with the question of God’s own adherence to the law in mind, his words on the subject contain no hint of an actual controversy over the matter. To assume, therefore, that the evangelist meant to allude to the same controversy would be tendentious. The rabbinic sources are no more obliging. The earliest rabbinic text featuring the argument supposedly underlying John’s barb is Genesis Rabbah, a compilation dating no earlier than the fifth century C.E. In a forthcoming study, I demonstrate how the relevant passage in this text and its subsequent derivatives seem meant to counter Christian arguments against the Jewish Sabbath perhaps originating in the Gospel of John itself.21 Consequently, to cite these texts as witnesses to the currency of the Johannine motif in first-century Jewish discourse is entirely specious. Perhaps most problematic about the proposed explanation of the words ascribed to Jesus in John 5:17 is its incongruous place in the gospel narrative. Simply put, the complex exegetical and philosophical issues at play in the Philonic and rabbinic sources would seem out of place amidst the pithy banter between Jesus and his antagonists. As to the reconstructed logic implicating God and Jesus in a common scheme of creation and judgment, David Mealand’s words of caution are well taken: “an implied reader who about God’s capacity to create and judge on the Sabbath supposedly implied in the Gospel of John. 20 On the allusive literary connections between the Genesis narrative and the fifth chapter of John, see Peder Borgen, “Creation, Logos and the Son: Observations on John 1:1–18 and 5:17–18,” ExAud 3 (1987): 88–97; John Painter, “Earth Made Whole: John’s Rereading of Genesis,” in Word, Theology, and Community in John (ed. John Painter, R. Alan Culpepper, and Fernando F. Segovia; St. Louis, Mo.: Chalice, 2002), 65–84. 21 Joshua Ezra Burns, “The Relocation of Heresy in a Late Ancient Midrash, or: When in Rome, Do as the Romans Do,” forthcoming in JSQ.

36

Joshua Ezra Burns

has to be told about Jerusalem, and about Hebrew words, is presumably not expected to know all this.”22 To say the very least, one cannot expect the ancient reader of John’s gospel to have made these multifarious connections with the reflexive speed demanded by the gospel’s compact narrative. The Jews appear to understand Jesus’ words as blasphemous almost instantaneously, even before he actually begins to explain himself. One would therefore expect that the author of the gospel meant his readers to grasp the wittiness of Jesus’ rebuttal with a similar quickness. To invoke an abstract philosophical discourse involving God, Jesus, the Sabbath, and the laws of nature would be to divert the reader from the story at hand. In sum, even if the evangelist did mean to cast Jesus’ words in a philosophical mold, the typical explanation of the phrase “My father is still working . . .” does little to improve the coherence of the narrative sequence in which it appears. Jesus’ intimation that God is not bound by the Sabbath law is not the operative element of his rebuttal. If this were the case, the Jews simply would have accused Jesus of denigrating God. It is, rather, Jesus’ assertion that he merits the same exemption as God that prompts his accusers to drop the issue of Sabbath violation and accuse him of blasphemy. The Jews, in other words, are less offended by what Jesus says about God than by what he says about himself. So just what does Jesus say in John 5:17 that raises the hackles of his accusers? If not his proclamation of a new Genesis, what do the Jews hear in his words to alarm them of Jesus’ design to raise himself to the station of God? The answer, I believe, is to be found in one of the gospel’s more cunning ironies.

Irony in John 5:1–18 As we have seen, the gospel’s fractured account of Jesus’ momentous first confrontation with the Jews defies simple explanation. Although modern readers have attempted to discern legitimate grounds for the charge of blasphemy in the wording of John 5:17, the common argument in favor of this position is tenuous at best. We are therefore left with the possibility that the charge was not meant to be seen as legitimate at all. In view of the gospel’s penchant for irony, a number of scholars have cited our passage as an example of the sort of calculated miscommunication characteristic of this literary technique. Examples of irony abound in the verses leading up to Jesus’ confrontation with the Jews. Jesus, for instance, upon meeting the lame man for the first time, immediately offers to heal him. But the man, 22 D. L. Mealand, “John 5 and the Limits of Rhetorical Criticism,” in Understanding Poets and Prophets: Essays in Honour of George Wishart Anderson (ed. A. Graeme Auld; JSOTSup 152; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), 258–72, at p. 262.

Like Father, Like Son

37

oblivious to Jesus’ power, asks only for help getting into the pool (5:6– 7).23 Later on, the former invalid again meets Jesus, who now warns the man to avoid sinning in order to forestall future misfortunes. The man immediately proceeds to do just that by bringing Jesus to the attention of his accusers, the Jews (5:14–15). The Jews, for their part, profess their desire to know the identity of the individual responsible for the man’s healing. But the only article of truth his soon-to-be persecutors take away from their initial encounter with Jesus is his name (5:12, 15).24 This mildly amusing comedy of errors culminates in the decidedly humorless decision of the Jews to persecute Jesus for violating the Sabbath. Yet the story’s ironic undertone persists. For it is at this juncture that Jesus teases his accusers with the notion that he, like God, is not bound by the Sabbath law. As previously noted, Jesus does not claim at this inchoate stage in the gospel’s christological narrative to be one with the Father. And yet, in the following verse, the Jews jump to the conclusion that he has made himself “equal to God.” Consequently, whereas Jesus is compelled to correct the erroneous assumption of his accusers that he had compared himself to God, his accusers actually recognize a key aspect of his nature that Jesus himself has yet to acknowledge. As a result, the greatest irony of the whole incident is in the Jews’ response to Jesus’ defense of his actions at the pool. The Jews misconstrue Jesus’ words, but in doing so, they unwittingly confess to a still hidden truth of his mission.25 To explain the logical disconnect between verses 17 and 18 as a function of the author’s ironic sensibility obviates the need for a lucid correlation between the Sabbath controversy and the charge of blasphemy. For if one is to assume that the author of the gospel meant to have the Jews misinterpret Jesus’ words, there would be no need to apologize for their obviously faulty reasoning. This conclusion, of course, entails that the author constructed his narrative with malicious intent toward the Jews, in that their violent reaction to Jesus’ words would be meant to appear senseless. 23

For the following ironic character analyses of the lame man, see Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel, 137–38, 171; idem, “John 5:1–18,” 204–5; Jeffrey L. Staley, “Stumbling in the Dark, Reaching for the Light: Reading Character in John 5 and 9,” Semeia 53 (1991): 55–80, at p. 59–61; Moloney, Signs and Shadows, 5. 24 Kasper Bro Larsen, Recognizing the Stranger: Recognition Scenes in the Gospel of John (Biblical Interpretation Series 93; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 145–48, calls attention to this aspect of the Jews’ characterization in his effort to construe the episode at Bethzatha as a parody of the classical recognition scene. The Jews – including the lame man – fail to recognize Jesus for who he really is, gleaning only the most superficial details of his persona. See also Lozada, A Literary Reading of John 5, 84–85. 25 For this observation, see Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel, 171; Moloney, Signs and Shadows, 9–10; Attridge, “Argumentation in John 5,” 198–99 (= idem, Essays on John and Hebrews, 102–3).

38

Joshua Ezra Burns

Regardless of how near they arrive to the truth, it is their own ruthlessness that keeps them from seeing the truth so obvious to the faithful reader. That Jesus is said to run afoul of his fellow Jews on account of his casual disregard for the Sabbath law is another calculated irony: what the author wishes to portray as a trifling issue the Jews see as a capital offense.26 That Jesus, moreover, should refute the Jews by implicating God in his alleged crime is ironic as well. For should the Jews aim to indict Jesus for violating the Sabbath, they now seem prepared to indict God on the very same grounds.27 The author’s contrast between the kind, subservient Jesus and his fanatical Jewish accusers is undoubtedly unsettling to modern eyes. After all, the layers of irony we’ve observed are effective only to the reader who chooses to identify with the stark anti-Jewish stance assumed by the evangelist. Contemporary sensitivities to the negative repercussions of this stance tend to cast an apologetic veil over John’s manifest bitterness toward the Jews. But despite the good intentions of this revised interpretive agenda, there is no escaping the fact that the Gospel of John is replete with anti-Jewish rhetoric. That the author should have used the otherwise tangential occasion of Jesus’ miraculous healing as an opportunity to needle the Jews is therefore not surprising. Viewed, moreover, in light of the gospel’s broader ecclesiological narrative, it seems fair to say that the author meant to portray the incident at Beth-zatha as a symbolic flashpoint in the Johannine community’s withdrawal from the conventions of traditional Jewish thought and ritual practice.28 Accordingly, the caustic wit employed by the evangelist to demonstrate the irrationality of the Jews would seem meant not only to ridicule their hallowed law but to promote Jesus as the deserving object of reverence and devotion. He achieves this effect by 26

For complementary comments on this aspect of the story’s irony, see Tom Thatcher, “The Sabbath Trick: Unstable Irony in the Fourth Gospel,” JSNT 76 (1999): 53–77, at pp. 68–69, 71–72, 73–75. Thatcher astutely points out the author’s ploy of delaying his revelation that the miraculous healing takes place on a Sabbath until after the fact, thereby undercutting the compliant reader’s ability to indict Jesus on the same grounds as the Jews who figure in the story. That Jesus counters their charge by implicating God Himself in his alleged crime merely underscores the ironic effect. 27 For a similar assessment, see Paula Fredriksen, From Jesus to Christ: The Origins of the New Testament Images of Christ (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1988), 201. 28 Martyn, History and Theology, 72–76. Hakola, Identity Matters, 113–30, and Kierspel, The Jews and the World, 98–99, attempt to lessen the polemical element of the story by casting its Jews and their Sabbath law as symbolic representations of Jewishness with no discernable consequence to the actual Johannine community. While I agree that it is impossible to gauge the historicity of the episode recounted in the gospel, to relativize its implication of conflict between Christian and Jew as a mere figure of the evangelist’s theological imagination seems too apologetic to warrant serious consideration.

Like Father, Like Son

39

showing Jesus besting the Jews at their own theological casuistry, by forcing them, in effect, to turn on their own God. The humor in all of this might be dark, but it is unmistakable. To discern the humorous element running through this narrative sequence is to appreciate its nuanced polemic directed not necessarily against the Jewish Sabbath per se but against the actual Jews who, to the mind of the evangelist, observed it so senselessly. As a Jewish reader committed to constructive dialogue with Christianity and its sacred traditions, I must admit that I find this sort of material disheartening. I would much prefer that it had no place in John’s gospel. But as a reader attuned to the gospel’s multiple and complex Jewish discourses, I acknowledge the necessity to confront its more discomfiting passages in the hope of overcoming the challenges they pose to contemporary Jewish-Christian relations. Let us therefore return to the apparent logical disconnect between verses 17 and 18 to determine whether an intentionally ironic reading of this puzzling sequence might likewise shed light on its rhetorical context.

Jewish Humor? The term ‘Jewish humor’ is typically used in contemporary discussion to connote a certain self-deprecating comedic mentality. In generic terms, Jewish humor tends to play on the stereotypical Jewish foibles. The classic Jewish joke pokes fun at insecurity of the Jew as the timeless outsider, the perpetual other in the dominant societal framework in which he or she operates. The functional element of its humor is the presumed incapacity of even the most intelligent or adept Jew to escape the sense of inferiority supposedly instinctive to his or her condition of Jewishness. Classic Jewish humor therefore ridicules the Jew who aims to overcome his or her outsider status by apprising the Jewish insiders in the audience of the intractable cultural obstacles mitigating that possibility.29 Although Jewish humor as we know it is a decidedly modern phenomenon, its roots run deep. Long before the Jews found themselves minorities 29 Although an academic history of Jewish humor remains a desideratum, there has been no shortage of efforts to explore the historical dimensions of the genre. See, inter alia, the papers collected in Avner Ziv, ed., Jewish Humor (Tel Aviv: Papyrus, 1986); Avner Ziv and Anat Zajdman, eds., Semites and Stereotypes: Characteristics of Jewish Humor (Contributions in Ethnic Studies 31; Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1993); and Leonard J. Greenspoon, ed., Jews and Humor (Studies in Jewish Civilization 22; West Lafayette, Ind.: Purdue University Press, 2011). For semi-scientific efforts to pinpoint the origins of Jewish humor, see Raphael Patai, “Introduction: Jewish Humor – A Survey and Program,” in Ziv and Zajdman, ibid., pp. xiii–xix; Hillel Halkin, “Why Jews Laugh at Themselves,” Commentary 121.4 (2006): 47–54.

40

Joshua Ezra Burns

in their surrounding Christian and Muslim environs, they recognized their culture as quintessentially different from those of the nations in whose midst they operated. To this end, Erich Gruen has demonstrated the propensity of Jewish authors of the Second Temple period to imbue their otherwise serious work with occasional doses of irony and self-deprecating humor attuned to the comedic sensibilities of their Hellenized surroundings.30 Turning biblical stories on their ears, satirizing Persian kings and Greek princes, and generally having fun with the idea of Jewish identity, these authors set a precedent for the distinctive sense of humor that would take hold of the Jewish literary imagination in the wake of its encounter with Christianity.31 The willingness of ancient Jews to celebrate their cultural difference by subverting its very conventions mirrors the ironic sensibility of John’s gospel. While it is not clear whether the members of the Johannine community considered themselves Jews, the gospel’s frequent engagement of the Jewish tradition suggests a strong history of attachment to the Jewish community. The author, in any case, clearly expects his readers to think like Jews about matters of basic significance to Jesus’ mission, that is, about God, the Messiah, the Hebrew Scriptures, and so forth. In fact, the frequent miscommunications between Jesus and the Jews over these principles of faith are appreciable as such if we are to presume that the gospel’s implied reader is more perceptive about matters of Jewish interest than the Jews themselves. For only to the reader who sees through the pretenses of the self-righteous Jews does their violent treatment of Jesus appear darkly ironic rather than simply malevolent. This, in short, is the nature of the analogy I mean to draw between Johannine irony and Jewish humor. John’s Jesus chides the Jews not by dismissing their belief system but by pointing out its flaws. In the case of John 5:1–18, the reader is meant to understand Jesus’ healing and his words in the ensuing confrontation not to disparage the Sabbath law but to criticize those who would place its observance over the basic needs of their fellow human beings. Only the reader who knows that Jesus, in helping the lame man, is the only one in the story who has his priorities straight will see his supposed violation of the Sabbath as an excusable offense. Herein lies the humor in Jesus’ rebuttal, “My father is still working, and I also am 30

Erich S. Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition (Hellenistic Culture and Society 30; Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1998), 137–88 and passim; idem, Jews Amidst Greeks and Romans (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2002), 135–212. 31 For an illuminating treatment of the topic of humor in late ancient Jewish literature, see in general Holger Michael Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies of Jewish and Christian Literature (TSAJ 139; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), with pertinent methodological comments on pp. 16–21.

Like Father, Like Son

41

working.” Where Jesus means to deride his accusers for their senselessness, the Jews are too absorbed in their delusion of a Sabbath-observant God to detect the criticism in his words. Instead, they hear what they want to hear, namely that Jesus has dared to reduce God to his own sinful status. That is why they react as they do in the following verse, vindicating Jesus’ sense of discontentment in the most egregious manner possible. The irony is palpable. Jesus’ subtle transformation from Jewish insider to Jewish outsider might well reflect an even more sardonic commentary. It has been noted that the Jewish allegation that Jesus was “making himself equal to God” (i1son e9auto\n poiw~n tw~| qew ~|) appears to borrow a phrase ascribed in 2 Maccabees to the Seleucid king Antiochus IV, the catalyst of the Maccabean revolt of 167 B.C.E.32 Stricken with a debilitating disease, Antiochus reflects upon the many injustices he has perpetrated against the Jews, including, notably, offenses against Sabbath (e.g., 2 Macc 5:24–26; 6:5). Now at death’s door, he finally acknowledges his cardinal sin: “mortals should not think that they are equal to God” (mh\ qnhto\n o1nta i0so/qea 33 fronei=n; 2 Macc 9:12). While Antiochus was not the first villain to whom Jewish writers assigned this blasphemous design, he was arguably the most notorious. One can only imagine, therefore, how ancient readers of the gospel familiar with the book of 2 Maccabees might have reacted to hearing John’s malcontented Jews speak of Jesus in terms evoking the wicked Antiochus. An even more striking parallel with the gospel narrative might be drawn from another sequence in 2 Maccabees. Following the death of Antiochus, his role as the chief Greek persecutor of the Jews is assumed by Nicanor, the Seleucid governor of Judaea. Though initially peaceable toward his subjects, Nicanor is manipulated by the corrupt high priest Alcimus to turn on the former rebel leader Judah the Maccabee, by now a popular folk hero. When Nicanor plots to ambush Judah and his men on the Sabbath, his Jewish supporters beseech him to schedule their attack for another day of the week in deference to their day of rest. Incensed at their request, Nicanor challenges his men on their belief that God, the sovereign of heaven, had ordained the inviolable sanctity of the seventh day, declaring, “But I am a sovereign also, on earth, and I command you to take up arms 32

See, e.g., Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel, 326 n. 2; Meeks, “Equal to God,” 312; McGrath, John’s Apologetic Christology, 88; Moloney, The Gospel of John, 170; Craig R. Koester, The Word of Life: A Theology of John’s Gospel (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2008), 105. 33 On the background and volatile theological implications of this charge, see Daniel R. Schwartz, 2 Maccabees (Commentaries on Early Jewish Literature; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008), 358–59. For general comments on the rhetorical function of the Sabbath in 2 Maccabees, see Doering, Schabbat, 561–62.

42

Joshua Ezra Burns

and finish the king’s business” (2 Macc 15:5).34 Like Antiochus before him, Nicanor is soon shown to pay for daring to compare himself to God; Judah and his men quickly overtake Nicanor’s forces, felling their pompous commander in the ensuing melee. And like the confession of Antiochus, Nicanor’s famous last words come uncomfortably close in spirit to those uttered by Jesus’ antagonists in the Gospel of John: each asserts his right to violate the sanctity of the Jewish Sabbath by comparing himself to God. While these parallels do not amount to a firm basis for establishing John’s literary dependency on 2 Maccabees, they are nonetheless suggestive. If the evangelist did mean to evoke his readers’ memories of Antiochus and Nicanor, the correlation would merely add to the irony of the gospel narrative. Whereas their ancestors were once unjustly persecuted by men who dared to imagine themselves as equals of God, they now unjustly persecute Jesus by casting him in the monstrous mold of the blaspheming Seleucids. Even, however, for the author to intimate a correlation of this order would likely offend any remaining Jewish sensibilities maintained by his intended readership. One might therefore posit in the author’s appeal to 2 Maccabees an intentionally transgressive humor meant to push the gospel’s irony beyond its customary threshold of subtlety and into the less inhibited realm of satire. In fairness, I am somewhat at odds with myself to suggest that the pious author of the gospel would have dared to draw comparisons between Jesus and Antiochus or Nicanor, even if through Jewish mouthpieces. Then again, it is not up to me to decide what the evangelist considered within the limits of good taste. I will therefore conclude by stating simply that the words and actions ascribed to Jesus during the incident at Beth-zatha exemplify both the gospel’s overt anti-Jewish rhetoric as well as its equally potent covert Jewish rhetoric. The dual impulses of the evangelist to condemn those who opposed Jesus while implicitly laying claim to their cultural legacy speaks to the embattled position of an ancient Christian community wistful for an idealized Jewish past yet yearning to transcend its abiding sense of Jewishness. In my estimation, this conflict speaks to a subtle yet pointed sense of humor which, while evidently born of the evangelist’s jaded memory of his community’s past reverence to the Jewish

34

For comments linking this statement to the book’s typological characterization of Nicanor as a second Antiochus, see Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, 18, 497–98, and cf. Tobias Nicklas, “Die ‘Fratze’ des Feindes: Zur Zeichnung des ‘Nikanor’ in 2 Makk 14–15,” SJOT 17 (2003): 141–55, at pp. 149–50.

Like Father, Like Son

43

tradition, is no less authentically Jewish in its critique of that tradition.35 It is perhaps the gospel’s greatest irony – and I say this with a certain measure of self-conscious humor – that the author seeks to demonstrate Jesus’ rejection of the Jewish tradition by having him out-Jew his Jewish antagonists.

Conclusion It is to the credit of those who prefer to bridge the two sides of the ancient conflict between Judaism and Christianity that this humor is typically often overlooked in contemporary scholarship on the New Testament. The Gospel of John was not written to foster conversation between Jew and Christian but to set boundaries between them. It is up to the modern reader sensitive to the needs of both to recover the ancient common ground lost in the gospel’s heated social and theological discourses. It is undoubtedly easier to rationalize than to engage the gospel’s polemical rhetoric, especially considering the demand of the latter approach to probe the evangelist’s conflicted state of mind. To find humor, therefore, in a passage designed in part to create ill will between Christian and Jew, might appear unseemly to some. Yet while we might not share John’s sense of humor, that doesn’t mean the humorous intent isn’t there. As Attridge has observed of the fifth chapter of John, “At the level of genre, this all seems to be an apologetic defense with a rather emphatic wink.”36 I couldn’t agree more.

35 Cf. the comments of Johnson, “The New Testament’s Anti-Jewish Slander,” 441. A similar (and more straightforward) application of classical Jewish exegetical reasoning in an argument against the Jewish Sabbath is ascribed to Jesus in Mark 2:23–28. 36 Harold W. Attridge, “Genre Bending in the Fourth Gospel,” JBL 121 (2002): 3–21, at p. 14 (= idem, Essays on John and Hebrews, 61–78, at p. 71).

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark1 STEPHEN P. AHEARNE-KROLL

Introduction Contemporary scholarship on Mark evinces an exciting and rich vein of inquiry into the complex ways of understanding how the author of the Gospel of Mark structures his story to portray Jesus. There is an emerging consensus that instead of presenting the story of Jesus in a straightforward, propositionally logical way,2 there are multiple layers of the story that belie a single way of understanding its structure. From Howard Clark Kee’s metaphor of the fugue3 to Sherman Johnson’s image of the oriental carpet with crisscrossing patterns4 to Joanna Dewey’s notion of an interwoven tapestry, scholars are trying to do justice to the complexity of Mark’s narrative.5                                                                                                                        

1 I offer this essay as a small token of my appreciation for the substantial generosity, support, and guidance Harry Attridge has repeatedly shown me and my wife, Pat, over the years, both professionally and personally. 2 Joanna Dewey comments, “Mark is telling a story for a listening audience, not presenting a logical argument” (“Mark as Interwoven Tapestry: Forecasts and Echoes for a Listening Audience,” CBQ 53 [1991]: 224). 3 Howard Clark Kee, Community of the New Age: Studies in Mark’s Gospel (Philadelphia, Pa.: Westminster, 1977), 64, 75. Kee states the interpretive enterprise of Mark well: “What is required in analysing Mark is to recognize from the outset the multiple themes that are sounded throughout this document. Its simplicity of language must not lead the interpreter to infer a simplicity of thought patterns. At the same time, the search for a master key to Mark must not lead to coercion of texts by over-subtle exegesis” (64). 4 Sherman E. Johnson, A Commentary on the Gospel According to St. Mark (London: Adam & Charles Black, 1960), 24. 5 Adela Yarbro Collins, who writes her commentary from a perspective that focuses on Mark’s cultural contexts, states: “The author of Mark made use of traditions that already expressed an implicit interpretation of the person and activity of Jesus. He affirmed all of these by incorporating them into his narrative, even though, to a modern reader, there seem to be tensions among them. . . . The result is a complex portrayal of Jesus, multifaceted and somewhat ambiguous. Certain epithets and narrative accounts would evoke one set of associations and responses from the point of view of Jewish Scripture

46

Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll

 

As a result of Mark’s complexity, scholars are also rethinking the portrayal of Jesus in the gospel. Thankfully, the single-minded focus on the titles of Jesus as the key to unlocking his identity has mostly faded away from scholarly discussion. Although she is not interested in the question of Jesus’ identity in her latest book, Elizabeth Struthers Malbon not only argues against this atomistic approach to Mark, but she argues very convincingly that Mark portrays Jesus through five overlapping narrative techniques: enacted Christology (what Jesus does); projected Christology (what others say about Jesus); deflected Christology (what Jesus says in response); refracted Christology (what Jesus says instead); and reflected Christology (what others do).6 The insights that Malbon gleans from this approach are substantial, but there is room for more reflection on how Mark’s use of Scripture might factor into the complexity of its narrative Christology since Malbon spends little time explicitly dealing with how Scripture functions within the narrative Christology she explicates. A recent essay of Harold Attridge on the symbolic complexity of the Gospel of John might offer some cues as to how to proceed on this front. In “The Cubist Principle in Johannine Imagery: John and the Reading of Images in Contemporary Platonism,”7 Attridge argues for analogous treatments of images in John, Philo, and Plutarch. All, but especially Plutarch and John, present the phenomenon of multiple significations for an individual image – in John’s case, the many symbols that are used throughout the gospel to describe the implications of the divine Logos becoming incarnate in the world. For example, the symbol of water shows itself multiple times throughout the gospel, and each time the image takes on a slightly different significance (as an image for birth [with the spirit] in John 3; as an image of wise teaching that gives life in John 4; as the source of life flowing out of the belly of the believer/Jesus in John 7; as an image that focuses its life-giving significance on the cross with water and blood pouring forth from Jesus’ side in John 19). Simultaneous to this multiplicity of imagery lies a gradual focusing on one dominant image; in John’s case, “Jesus giving in word and deed the command to love.”8 This phenomenon of focus within a complexity of images – similar to the cubist principle in                                                                                                                         and tradition, but another set from the point of view of Greek literature and tradition” (Mark: A Commentary [Hermeneia; Minneapolis, Minn.: Augsburg, 2007], 44). 6 Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, Tex.: Baylor University Press, 2009). 7 Harold W. Attridge, “The Cubist Principle in Johannine Imagery: John and the Reading of Images in Contemporary Platonism,” in Imagery in the Gospel of John (ed. Jörg Frey, Jan G. van der Watt, and Ruben Zimmermann; WUNT 200; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 47–60. 8 Attridge, “Cubist Principle,” 60.

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark  

47

twentieth-century art, Attridge argues – allows Plutarch and John to “give one a glimpse, however fleeting, of ultimate reality.”9 The Gospel of Mark’s use of Scripture does something similar. There is no single hermeneutic that the author uses, no one trajectory of interpretation, no one typology or storyline from the Scriptures of Judaism appealed to by the author. Instead, Mark employs a multiplicity of scriptural stories, characters, and images to depict Jesus. Focusing on one of these traditional story lines, characters, or images does not do justice to the complexity of Mark’s characterization of Jesus, nor does arguing for a dominant one that controls the others. Instead, these various references to Scripture witness to the multiplicity of traditions needed to articulate Mark’s view of the complexities of the human condition before God in light of Jesus. John’s glimpse into ultimate reality entails the cross, as does Mark’s, but Mark’s characterization of Jesus through Scripture seems to focus that glimpse on the tension of the presence of the divine in the midst of human suffering. Malbon insightfully articulates this tension with regard to what she calls “the stereophonic message about Jesus’ death” in the scene at the cross: Jesus dies a real and horrible death, abandoned by his disciples and by his God; and . . . in Jesus’ death, God is still present – through Jesus’ death God still acts. . . . The voices are not blended or harmonized but presented in tension. . . . It would be a disservice to the simple complexity of the Markan narrative to drown out one voice or the other, or to otherwise “resolve” the tension. This tension is the mystery that is given in the Markan narrative. 10

Mark’s use of Scripture develops the complexity of this mystery because of the generally allusive, and therefore indirect, way he evokes scriptural images for Jesus. The christological effect is one that presents Jesus as the embodiment of the palpable tension that exists between the two poles of divine presence and divine abandonment in the midst of human suffering.

Complex Characterization Malbon argues that the gospel “places the entire story of the Markan Jesus under the rubric of the story of God with the people of God, ‘as it is written.’”11 While the Markan Jesus makes God known by telling the story of God with the people of God through Scripture, the story is a complex one that is not tension free or univocal. Instead, through the lens of Scripture, we see a Markan Jesus that is at once powerful and God-like, utterly human, and mediating between the divine and the human as a prophetic fig                                                                                                                         9

Attridge, “Cubist Principle,” 60. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, 190. 11 Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, 193. 10

 

 

48

Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll

 

ure. All of these images constitute what it means for Jesus to be the Messiah for Mark. The Baptism of Jesus The baptism scene in Mark 1:9–11 and the transfiguration scene in 9:2–8 are the two clearest indications of Jesus’ divine sonship in the gospel. Both use complex references to Scripture to accomplish this.12 In 1:11, the divine voice from heaven declares, “You are my beloved son; in you I delight.”13 The first part of the verse, most scholars argue, alludes to Ps 2:7, a verse within a royal psalm in which God declares to the anointed king of Israel, “You are my son.” The reference to this psalm,14 like all references to the Psalms, evokes David because it was widely believed at the time of Mark that David wrote the Psalms.15 The image of David in the psalm, however, is not just one of a human; the psalm declares him to be God’s anointed Son. Although “still subject to the Most High . . . [the king] is an elohim, not just a man.”16 As the psalm asserts, the king held a unique status on earth as acting with God’s authority and God’s power, a power over all the nations of the earth to the extent that they become the inheritance of the king, who holds their fate in his hands. LXX Ps 2:9 offers quite a violent image to describe the power the king holds as God’s Son: “You shall shepherd them with a rod of iron, and shatter them like an earthen vessel.” Mark’s evocation of Ps 2:7, then, works to characterize Jesus in a similar                                                                                                                         12

Thomas R. Hatina, “Embedded Scripture Texts and the Plurality of Meaning: The Announcement of the ‘Voice from Heaven’ in Mark 1.11 as a Case Study,” in Biblical Interpretation in Early Christian Gospels: The Gospel of Mark (ed. Thomas R. Hatina; London: T&T Clark, 2006), 81–99. 13 All translations of the original languages are mine unless otherwise noted. 14 I say “the reference to this psalm” because, as I have argued elsewhere, allusions to outside texts are usually imprecise and allow the audience to consider more than just the snippet evoked. Once the evoked text is identified, then there is a back and forth between the evoking and evoked text that can result in consideration of the surrounding context of the evoked text. In the case of the allusion to Ps 2:7, once the text is identified, the audience can consider the rest of Psalm 2 as possibly affecting the meaning of Mark 1:11. Hence the inclusion of Ps 2:9 in trying to understand the effect of the allusion on the baptism scene in Mark. I will take this approach with all the evocations discussed below, as well. For a discussion of the methodology described in this footnote, see Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll, The Psalms of Lament in Mark’s Passion: Jesus’ Davidic Suffering (SNTSMS 142; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 22–37. 15 See Ahearne-Kroll, The Psalms of Lament, 51–54. See also Margaret Daly-Denton, David in the Fourth Gospel: The Johannine Reception of the Psalms (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 59–91.   16 Adela Yarbro Collins and John J. Collins, King and Messiah as Son of God: Divine, Human, and Angelic Messianic Figures in Biblical and Related Literature (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2008), 15.

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark  

49

light as the image of David as God’s Son with all the powers that the psalm affords King David. Two things work to temper the unbounded power over life and death that the king holds as God’s Son as depicted in Ps 2:7: the evocation of (1) the near death of Isaac in Genesis 22 and (2) the Servant poem in Isaiah 42. Most scholars point to Ps 2:7 as the main referent of the first part of the declaration from heaven, as we have discussed, but the lexical similarity between it and LXX Gen 22:2, 12, and 1617 makes it a likely reference as well.18 Both use a0gaphto/j and a possessive pronoun (mou in Mark 1:11 and sou in Gen 22:2, 12, 16) as the qualifiers for u9io/j. The same lexical similarity appears in Mark 9:7 and 12:6. The sacrificial overtones of Jesus’ death later in the story (esp. Mark 10:41–45) could be understood to evoke Isaac’s near sacrifice at God’s behest (cf. 14:36). The lexical similarities and the thematic similarities of the sacrifice of the beloved son suggest that Genesis 22 should be read alongside Mark’s story of Jesus, starting with the baptism. Only some scholars would concede that Gen 22:2, 12, and 16 shaped Mark 1:11 (and, subsequently, 9:7; 12:6; and perhaps 14:36), and even those who do offer this as a possibility rarely discuss the implications for Jesus’ baptism and the story as a whole. 19 Matthew S. Rindge, however,                                                                                                                         17

All references to Genesis 22 will be to the LXX. One need not choose between the two because more than one biblical reference may be held in tension by Mark and the audience. Holding multiple references in tension reflects the frequent ambiguity of Mark’s story and adds to the depth of imagery used to portray Jesus in Mark. See Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, 190; and Hatina, “Embedded Scripture Texts,” 81–99. 19 Joachim Gnilka says, “Eine Anlehnung an die Isaaktypologie ist schwerlich auszumachen” (Das Evangelium nach Markus [2 vols.; EKK; Zürich: Benzinger, 1978], 1:53). Adela Yarbro Collins considers the evocation of Genesis 22 in Mark 1:11a, but then argues that Isa 42:1, a verse that is “actualized or fulfilled” in Mark 1:11b, inspired the expression   o9 a0g aphto/j (Mark, 150). Joel Marcus looks to the importance of Isaac’s binding in rabbinic traditions and notes that these traditions might be extant in the first century. But then he opts for the eschatological trajectories of interpretation found in post-biblical Judaism regarding Psalm 2 and Isaiah 41 and subsequently drops consideration of Genesis 22 playing any significant role on the baptism of Jesus (Mark 1–8 [AB 27; New York: Doubleday, 2000], 162, 166–67). Ira Brent Driggers says the allusion to Genesis 22 in Mark 1:11 “strikes an ominous tone” in the prologue to Mark, but he does not develop this idea other than to link it to the theological tension present in these first verses of the gospel (Following God through Mark: Theological Tension in the Second Gospel [Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2007], 19). Vincent Taylor only mentions Gen 22:2 as an echo in Mark 1:11 (The Gospel According to St. Mark [2nd ed.; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker Book House, 1966, repr. 1981], 162). Bas M. F. van Iersel simply comments that the reader is reminded of Abraham in Genesis 22 when reading Mark 1:11 (Mark: A Reader Response Commentary [trans. W. H. Bisscheroux; London: 18

 

 

50

Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll

 

offers one of the more extensive and convincing treatments of the connection between the gospel as a whole and the Aqedah. After he establishes the lexical and thematic similarities described above, Rindge argues that the rest of the gospel contains some suggestive allusions to Genesis 22, indicating an interest in depicting the story of the Markan Jesus as a reconfiguration of the Aqedah.20 Rindge first points to (1) the testing (peira/zw ) of Jesus, beginning at Mark 1:12, which recalls Gen 22:1, o9 qeo\j e0pei/razen to\n Abraam; and (2) Mark’s use of sxi/zw in 1:10 to describe the opening of the clouds for the descent of the Spirit, which recalls Abraham’s splitting of the wood for the impending sacrifice of Isaac in Gen 22:3. Rindge then points to the following intratextual relationships in the baptism scene and the death scene of Jesus in Mark 15:33–39: the use of sxi/zw to describe the tearing of the sky at the baptism (1:10) and of the temple curtain at the death (15:38); the declarations by the voice at the baptism (1:11) and the centurion at the cross that Jesus is ui9o/j qeo/j (15:39); and the voice (fwnh/) at the baptism (1:10) and Jesus’ cries from the cross (fwnh/; 15:34, 37). This allows Rindge to link the allusions to Genesis 22 with the death scene in Mark. Rindge also notices that, like Genesis 22, Mark contains three references to the beloved son – 1:11; 9:7; and 12:6. There are also similarities between Genesis 22 and the scene at Gethsemane in Mark 14. For example, Jesus takes Peter, James, and John but leaves behind his disciples, while Abraham takes Isaac and leaves behind his servants. Isaac talks to his father   (path/r) in Gen 22:7 as does Jesus at Gethsemane (14: 36). Taking into account this chain of allusions to Genesis 22, Rindge argues that Mark, beginning with Jesus’ baptism, reconfigures the story of the Aqedah to tell the story of Jesus. Mark links each reference to the impending death of Jesus, thereby presenting Jesus as an Isaac figure. The major difference between the Markan Jesus and Isaac is that God rescues Isaac before he is killed, whereas God does not rescue Jesus.                                                                                                                         T&T Clark, 1998], 101). Hatina says, “If Mark and/or his audience associated the binding of Isaac with the baptism of Jesus it would probably not have been limited to the story as it is found in the MT or the LXX, for aside from the dictional parallel, there is very little theological or thematic resemblance” (“Embedded Scripture Texts,” 88). The rest of his analysis in pages 88–93 has an interesting treatment of the post-biblical interpretation history of the Aqedah to show the possibility that Mark 1:11 may have been interpreting the Aqedah either similarly to some contemporaries or through the filters of this interpretive tradition. Hatina’s aim, however, is not to offer the implications of reference to the Aqedah for the overall narrative presentation of Jesus. Instead, his analysis offers part of his overall argument for plurality of meaning in Mark’s use of Scripture. See also Jeffrey B. Gibson, The Temptations of Jesus in Early Christianity (London: T&T Clark, 2004), 71–78. 20 Matthew S. Rindge, “Reconfiguring the Akedah and Recasting God: Lament and Divine Abandonment in Mark,” forthcoming in JBL.

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark  

51

Rindge’s argument is a complex one, and overall, it is convincing, even if some of the allusions he argues for are not certain. But once the lexical similarities between Gen 22:2, 12, 16 and Mark 1:11; 9:7; and 12:6 are established, then it is possible to read Mark in light of Genesis 22 as Rindge argues, and doing so would characterize Jesus as an Isaac figure, lending further depth to the sacrificial aspect of Jesus’ crucifixion. The ancient Jewish history of interpretation of the near sacrifice of Isaac sees him as a Son of God (Philo, Mut. 23.131), obedient sacrificial victim of national importance (Josephus, Ant. 1.22–36), model of martyrdom (4 Macc 13:8– 17; 16:15–23), atoning sacrifice (Pseudo-Philo, L.A.B. 18.5–6; 32.2–4; 40.2), and model of obedience (Tg. Neof. Gen 22:10). Any of these images could color the presentation of Jesus in Mark.21 And because of the morally problematic nature of the story in Genesis 22,22 Jesus as an Isaac figure could raise similarly ambiguous and problematic overtones to the story of Jesus dying on the cross as part of God’s “plan,” as many scholars interpret Mark’s story. Any of these uses of Genesis 22 and the resulting characterizations of Jesus offers tensive counter-images to the violently powerful, divinely appointed figure of Ps 2:7. The second part of the divine voice’s line in Mark 1:11 also counters the seemingly unbounded power over life and death that the king of Psalm 2 holds as God’s Son. Most scholars think that e0n soi\ eu0do/khsa is an allusion to Isa 42:1,23 but curiously, the MT of 42:1b (y#$pn htcr) is closer to the image used in Mark 1:11b than the LXX of Isa 42:1b (prosede/cato au0to\n h9 24 yuxh/ mou). Because the textual traditions around the writing of Mark are fairly fluid,25 it is possible that Mark either knew a Greek version of Isaiah that matched the Hebrew or he had access to the Hebrew.26 Whatever the textual particularities, the evocation of this verse allows us to explore the                                                                                                                         21

See Hatina, “Embedded Scripture,” 88–93 for an extensive discussion of these and other texts. 22 See John J. Collins, “Faith Without Works: Biblical Ethics and the Sacrifice of Isaac,” in Recht und Ethos im Alten Testament: Gestalt und Wirkung: Festschrift für Horst Seebass zum 65. Geburtstag (eds. S. Beyerle, G. Mayer and H. Strauss; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1999), 115–31. 23 See Hatina, “Embedded Scripture,” 84–88; Gnilka, Das Evangelium, 50; Rikki E. Watts, Isaiah’s New Exodus and Mark (WUNT 2.88; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 114–16, and 108 nn. 93 and 96 for additional literature. 24 See James R. Edwards, “The Servant of the Lord and the Gospel of Mark,” in Biblical Interpretation in Early Christian Gospels: The Gospel of Mark (ed. Thomas R. Hatina; London: T&T Clark, 2006), 51–52, who also brings in Isa 49:3 as a possible intertext. 25 See Eugene C. Ulrich, “Our Sharper Focus on the Bible and Theology Thanks to the Dead Sea Scrolls,” CBQ 66 (2004): 1–24. 26 The Hebrew of Isa 42:1 seems fairly stable. The MT matches exactly what we find in the Great Isaiah Scroll (1QIsaiaha) from the Dead Sea Scrolls.

 

 

52

Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll

 

ways that Psalm 2’s violently powerful image for the king is tempered by this particular poem about the Servant of the Lord. The nine verses of this poem portray a decidedly less violent image of the Lord’s Servant than the image of the king in Psalm 2. Yes, he will bring justice to the nations, but he will do so gently without even putting out “a dimly burning wick” or breaking “a bruised reed” (Isa 42:3). He will bring about justice, in part, by becoming a light to the nations, giving sight, releasing prisoners, and bringing them into the light (42:6–7). Adela Yarbro Collins argues with regard to the baptism scene that “the messiahship of Jesus is not presented in royal and military terms; instead the idea of the messiah of Israel is reinterpreted in prophetic terms.”27 While I agree that Mark presents Jesus both as messiah and as Isaianic Servant of the Lord, I think that the royal imagery of Psalm 2 is not necessarily lost because of the prophetic image from Isaiah 42. While there is no way to reconcile the violence of Psalm 2 with the peaceful and gentle justice-bringer of Isaiah 42, Mark preserves the royal image of chosen son as indicated by the first part of the divine statement from heaven in the baptism scene in 1:11.28 What we have, then, is a complex image of Jesus as an exalted, God-like, royal messiah (i.e., God’s Son) who enacts his messiahship in a prophetic mode in the image of the Servant from Isaiah 42. When we consider Genesis 22, we have the added dimensions of Jesus as Isaac, a human taken to the brink as part of a divine test of faith. There is no reason to think of one image as dominant over the others; the author of Mark holds them all in narrative tension with each other. The Transfiguration Mark 9:2–8 offers the only other scene where the divine voice from heaven appears. As in the baptism scene, the author uses a combination of scriptural images for Jesus in the transfiguration scene, but two of the elements of the combination are much more overtly presented than in the baptism. The voice from the cloud alludes to specific passages from Scripture (Ps 2:7; Gen 22:2, 6, 16), as does the scene in general (cloud: Exod 24:15–18; cf. 34:5; shining face: Exod 34:29–35), but I also include a discussion of Elijah and Moses because of Mark’s evocation of these scriptural characters as significant to the portrayal of Jesus in the scene. After Peter, James, and John accompany Jesus to the top of a high mountain, Jesus becomes transformed and his clothes become a dazzling white. This initial image of Jesus portrays him as a heavenly being, at                                                                                                                         27

Yarbro Collins, Mark, 151.   Preserving the royal character of Jesus in the image of David without the militaristic dimensions is consistent with how Mark presents Jesus as a Davidic figure in the rest of the gospel. Ahearne-Kroll, Psalms of Lament, 137–67. 28

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark  

53

most, or a glorified human, at least. In either case, he is not a normal earthly human at that moment. Then Elijah appears with Moses, and the two begin talking with Jesus. The passage of six days, the mountain setting, the glowing transfiguration of the main character, and the presence of God in the form of a cloud descending upon the mountain all hearken to the scene on Mount Sinai in Exodus when Moses receives the Torah from God (Exod 24:12, 15–18; 34:5, 29–35). The appearance of Elijah and Moses does at least two things. First, it extends and confirms the picture of Jesus as a heavenly being, especially to an audience familiar with Greek intellectual culture.29 Depictions of Moses and Elijah leading up to the time of Jesus communicate an otherworldly status for them. In the De vita Mosis, Philo describes Moses as being transformed by the Father at the point of death “into a singular restored nature . . . [and] into a sun-like mind” (ei0j mona&doj a)nestoixei/ou fu&sin ei0j nou~n h(lioeide/staton; 2.288). Josephus portrays Moses in a similar light, claiming that he “surpassed in understanding all men that ever lived and put to noblest use the fruit of his reflections” (Ant. 4.8.49) and saying at the point of death, “a cloud stood over him suddenly, and he disappeared down into a certain ravine” (ne/fouj ai0fni/dion u(p e\r au)to_n sta&ntoj a)fani/zetai kata& tinoj fa&raggoj; Ant. 4.8.48). Elijah’s story also ends mysteriously when he is taken up in a whirlwind as described in 2 Kings 2:11. Of course, Elijah’s end gave rise to much speculation about his return. Malachi 3:23 expects the return of Elijah to precede and announce “the great and terrible day of the LORD,” and New Testament authors transform this interpretation of Elijah into the precursor of the Messiah, equating John the Baptist with Elijah. Consequently, the image of the transfigured Jesus on the mountain standing with the heavenly Moses and Elijah produces a highly exalted picture of Jesus that shows that he belongs in their company.30 Second, Moses and Elijah recall the prophetic tradition from which they come.31 According to Deuteronomy, Moses was Israel’s greatest prophet (Deut 18:15; 34:10), became the mediator and interpreter of the divine gift of Torah to Israel,32 and was the one “whom the LORD knew face to face” (34:10). Josephus portrays Moses as the great prophet since “in all his utterances one seemed to hear the speech of God himself” (Ant. 4.8.49). First                                                                                                                        

29 Candida R. Moss, “The Transfiguration: An Exercise in Markan Accomodation,” BibInt 12 (2004): 69–89.     30 Yarbro Collins, Mark, 423. 31 Moloney rightly rejects the traditional explanation that Moses and Elijah represent the Law and the Prophets (Francis J. Moloney, Gospel of Mark: A Commentary [Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2002], 179), as does Yarbro Collins (Mark, 422). Taylor affirms the traditional interpretation (Gospel, 390), which goes back to the early church (Tertullian, Marc. 4.22). 32 Moloney, Gospel of Mark, 179.

 

 

54

Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll

 

Kings 17–19 allusively but clearly paints Elijah in parallel to Moses in character and action to the point where “[t]he cumulative impact of these extensive Mosaic allusions is to present Elijah as a Moses redivivus.”33 While Moses initiates the great line of prophets of YHWH, “in Elijah that line produces its quintessential hero.”34 All the gospel writers, including Mark, portray Jesus as both an Elijah- and Moses-like figure, but one might also consider Jesus as the successor to these two prophets, in particular, not just as someone with prophet-like qualities. The successor of a prophet need not be an inferior, especially if the “scene in II Kings 2:9–12 where Elisha was granted a double portion of the spirit of Elijah” is taken seriously.35 In other words, Elisha as Elijah’s successor was considered to be Elijah and then some. Jesus as successor to Moses and Elijah need not put him in an inferior position to them. Indeed, to be considered the successor of these two great figures means that their qualities and access to God are also present in the successor. Obviously, Mark does not portray Jesus solely as the successor of Moses and Elijah, but he firmly establishes the prophetic portrait of Jesus on the mountain by having Moses and Elijah appear to converse with Jesus. Finally, we have the voice from the cloud reasserting Jesus as God’s Son. There is no need to rehearse in detail the arguments about the complex use of Scripture in the voice’s statement because the first half of the declaration matches very closely the voice at the baptism scene in Mark 1:11. The declaration in 9:7 differs from 1:11 only in that the addressees of the voice in 9:7 are Peter, James, and John rather than Jesus himself.36 We saw in the first part of the baptism voice that through the use of Psalm 2:7 and Genesis 22:2, 12, 16, Mark portrays Jesus simultaneously as a Godlike royal figure (i.e., God’s Son) and a very faithful human figure in the mold of Isaac. The same holds for the first half of the transfiguration voice in Mark 9:7.37                                                                                                                         33

Jerome T. Walsh, “Elijah,” ABD 2:465. See 464–65 for discussion of the extensive allusive relationship between Moses and Elijah in 1 Kgs 17–19. 34 Walsh, “Elijah,” 465. 35 Raymond E. Brown, “Jesus and Elisha,” Per 12 (1971): 7. 36 1:11 =  su\ ei] o9 ui9o/j mou o9 a0gaphto/j. 9:7 = ou[to/j e0stin o9 ui9o/j mou o9 a0gaphto/j. 37 For the allusion to Genesis 22 in the voice at the transfiguration, see William Richard Stegner, “The Use of Scripture in Two Narratives of Early Jewish Christianity (Matthew 4.1–11; Mark 9.2–8),” in Early Christian Interpretation of the Scriptures of Israel: Investigations and Proposals (ed. Craig A. Evans and James A. Sanders; JSNTSup 148; SSEJC 5; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 116; Jon D. Levenson, The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1993), 30–31, 200–202, 228–29.

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark  

55

The second half of the voice’s declaration, however, differs from the baptism scene: “Listen to him,” instead of “in you I delight.” The voice’s injunction to listen to Jesus plays very strongly into the depiction of Jesus as a Mosaic prophet. In Deut 18:15, Moses talks about the prophet like him whom God will raise up, and then he asserts, “you shall listen to him” (au0tou= a0kou/sesqe), a very close parallel to Mark 9:7 (a0kou/ete au0tou=).38 God in Numbers 12:7–8 depicts Moses as a special kind of prophet, one who “is entrusted with all my house. With him I speak face to face [lit., mouth to mouth]39 – clearly, not in riddles; and he beholds the form of the LORD.”40 Nowhere in Mark is Jesus depicted as seeing God face to face.41 But the fact that he has the (divine) Spirit in him, that he (and he alone) hears God speaking to him at the baptism, and that the Spirit drives him for the rest of the story42 imply Jesus’ clear connection with God, like Moses and the other prophets. Most prophets claimed to receive (a) some kind of divine inspiration to ground their oracles and activity, (b) revelation of the word(s) of God resulting in some special knowledge of the divine, and (c) divine commission (articulated or presumed) to communicate this revelation to their audiences.43 What made a prophet a prophet was not a superhuman nature but a special knowledge of and contact with God, with Moses being the prime example.44 So, Jesus fits very well with Moses as a prophet and with Elijah as a prophet like Moses. Jesus succeeds Moses and                                                                                                                         38

Yarbro Collins, Mark, 426; Marcus, Way of the Lord, 80–81; Stegner, “Use of Scripture,” 115. 39 Cf. Exod 33:11; Deut 34:10, both of which have “face to face” to describe God’s interaction with Moses. 40 NRSV . 41 The scene at Gethsemane is close, although God does not appear in this scene. 42 In Mark 1:12, the spirit that he had received in 1:10 “drives out” (e0kba/llei) Jesus into the wilderness. And in 3:22, the claim by the scribes from Jerusalem that Jesus has Beelzeboul, and that his powers to drive out demons come from the prince of demons causes Jesus to respond with several parables that culminate in him condemning the scribes in 3:29: “But whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit, he will not have forgiveness forever, but he is guilty of an eternal sin.” Mark then clarifies in the next verse, “For they said, ‘He has an unclean spirit.’” 43 See the excellent description of prophets in post-exilic Israel in John Barton, Oracles of God: Perceptions of Ancient Prophecy in Israel after the Exile (New ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), esp. 96–140. 44 At least this is the Deuteronomist’s take on Moses. Philo says: “So, I am not unaware that all things that have been written down in the holy books are oracles given through him [xrhse/ntej di’ au0tou=]. . . . Of the oracles [tw~n logi/w n], some are spoken from the person of God through the interpretation of the divine prophet, others prophesied [e0qespi/sqh] from questions and answers, while others from the inspired prophet Moses and from him possessed [e0k prosw&pou Mwuse/w j e0piqeia&santoj kai\ e0c au(tou~ katasxeqe/ntoj]” (Mos. 2.188).   See Barton, Oracles of God, 120–21, for a good discussion of Philo’s perspective on Moses as prophet.  

 

 

56

Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll

 

Elijah with his divine inspiration,45 special knowledge of God’s will,46 and presumed commission to preach God’s kingdom.47 The command to listen to Jesus solidifies Mark’s depiction of him as a prophet like Moses and Elijah in this scene. The transfiguration scene does not end until after Jesus, Peter, James, and John descend from the mountain. On the way down, Jesus orders the three not to tell anyone about the vision on the mountain “until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead” (9:9). After puzzling about what Jesus told them, they ask him, “Why do the scribes say that Elijah must come first?” (9:11). Jesus answers them obliquely (or not at all) with a somewhat convoluted series of statements. It is best to quote them in their entirety: He said to them, “Elijah does come first and restores all things; and how has it been written about the Son of Man that he will suffer many things and be treated with contempt? But I say to you that Elijah indeed has come, and they did to him whatever they wanted, just as it is written about him.” (9:12–13)

The references to Scripture with respect to the characterization of Jesus and John the Baptist are complex, but I think they speak to the same dynamic depicted in the first part of the transfiguration scene. First, the Markan Jesus agrees with the scribes (or at least their reading of Mal 3:24) in his response to Peter, James, and John’s question about Elijah,48 and he extends their understanding of the role of Elijah as the one who “restores all things” (a0pokaqista/nei pa/nta). The context of the passage of Malachi referred to by Peter, James, and John offers some interesting parallels to the way Mark characterizes Jesus in 9:2–8. The end of Malachi speaks of the day of judgment of the Lord, presumably at the eschaton, a day “burning like an oven” (Mal 4:1 LXX), but those who fear the Lord will be protected by justice. The effect of Elijah’s return is described in Mal 4:4–5 LXX as follows: “Behold, I am sending you Elijah the Thesbite before the great and manifest day of the Lord comes, who will restore [a0pokatasth/sei; cf. a0pokaqista/nei in Mark 9:12a] the heart of a father to his son and the heart of a person to his neighbor, lest I come and utterly smite the land.” Depending upon the manuscript tradition, the following sentence either precedes or follows Mal 4:4–5: “Remember the law of Moses my slave, just as I commanded ordinances and decrees to him at Horeb for all Israel.” The implication is that fearing the Lord means remembering the law of Moses, and Elijah’s coming not only marks the Day of the Lord,                                                                                                                         45

At the baptism, the spirit of God descends into Jesus. Cf. Mark 1:15; 3:34–35; 8:31; 9:31; 10:33–34; 14:36.   47 Cf. Mark 1:14–15. 48 But before what does Elijah come? Malachi has Elijah come before the Day of the Lord, but Yarbro Collins notes that “the context of Mark . . . suggests that the disciples assume that Elijah must come before ‘the resurrection of the dead’” (Mark, 429). 46

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark  

57

but Elijah, in a sense, brings to fruition the ordinances and decrees of Moses by restoring father to son and person to neighbor. Again, Elijah is seen as a successor to Moses, enabling Israel to live what Moses commanded, only this time, the stakes are at their highest given the impending Day of the Lord. The Markan Jesus affirms this interpretation of Elijah’s return in Malachi by stating, “Elijah does come first and restores all things” (Mark 9:12). The timing of Elijah’s return as a forerunner to the Messiah, as presented in Mark (cf. 1:7–8) differs from Malachi’s vision as Elijah’s return marking the eschaton; perhaps Mark’s timing signals a Christian innovation in the way that the eschaton unfolds.49 Jesus then links himself (as suffering Son of Man in v. 12) to Elijah (an oblique reference to John the Baptist) in two ways, as the one who comes after John the Baptist (a.k.a. Elijah) and as the one who suffers like John the Baptist. John, for a second time, acts as an Elijah-type forerunner for Jesus. At this point in Mark, Herod has already beheaded John the Baptist after having him arrested (Mark 6:17–29). In other words, “they did to him whatever they wanted.” Again, Mark depicts Jesus as a successor to Elijah. The discussion with Peter, James, and John also extends the unexpected and offensive idea that Jesus as Messiah must suffer and die, which was already raised in 8:29–33. In 9:11–13, Mark adds the nuance to the passion prediction for the Messiah that it is also as Son of Man and as prophetic successor to Elijah that Jesus will suffer. All of these images – suffering human being, Messiah, Son of Man, and prophetic successor to Elijah – exist simultaneously in creative tension with one another, working together in the presentation of the Markan Jesus in the transfiguration passage. The Passion Mark’s Passion Narrative steps up the frequency of allusions to Scripture, and so Scripture plays a much larger narrative role than in the earlier sections of the gospel.50 By way of example, I will address only two scenes: Gethsemane and the Sanhedrin trial. The Gethsemane scene evinces a host of scriptural allusions, all of which work together to communicate the kind of suffering Jesus experiences as he faces his death. The scene describes Jesus’ test (or trial) before God, in a way. Jesus comes to a turning point in his life where he has to                                                                                                                        

49 Yarbro Collins argues that the timing of Elijah’s return as described in Mark is a Christian innovation because “there is virtually no evidence that the notion of Elijah as a forerunner of the Messiah was widely known in the first century CE” (Mark, 430; cf. the literature in n. 22). 50 For a recent treatment of the many allusions to Scripture in Mark’s Passion Narrative, see Kelli S. O’Brien, The Use of Scripture in the Markan Passion Narrative (LNTS 384; London: T&T Clark, 2010).

 

 

58

Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll

 

confirm his difficult path, and he turns to God as he pleads for his life. His path leads to death, as the audience has been told repeatedly, and yet the divine determinism that seems to overshadow the scene stands in tension, if not direct opposition, to Jesus’ prayer to God.51 And Jesus must face this path alone because Mark paints a picture of a man more and more isolated as the scene progresses, first from his disciples (14:32), then from Peter, James, and John, his inner circle (14:33), and then even from God (14:36). Mark depicts Jesus’ agony in this scene with visceral images from Scripture to communicate the depth of difficulty that Jesus has with the path,52 the result of which is a high level of tension between God and Jesus that culminates with the cry from the cross in the words of Psalm 22 (LXX Psalm 21).53 When the scriptural allusions are explored in some detail, one can see that Mark communicates evocatively for the audience the epic nature and depth of the suffering Jesus endures in prayer. In other words, the characterization of Jesus as a human suffering before God is simultaneously sharpened and deepened as a result of these scriptural allusions. For the sake of space, it will suffice to limit our analysis to 14:34, where we find the first clear reference to Scripture in this scene. I have argued elsewhere that in 14:34 Mark primarily evokes the refrain of LXX Psalms 41 and 42,54 most likely originally a single psalm broken into two                                                                                                                         51

Against Evans, who comments regarding the historicity of Jesus’ statement in 14:36, “The mere hint of tension between the will of Jesus and the will of his heavenly Father, something no Christian tradent would suggest, strongly points in the direction of dominical origin” (Mark 8:27–16:20 [Nashville, Tenn.: Nelson, 2001], 413–14). Given the way Jesus’ death plays out, it is clear that Mark is playing up the tension between God and Jesus. Therefore, there is just as much chance that this saying originated with Mark, or at least that Mark bought into this tension by using this statement, than in it originating with Jesus. Sharon Echols Dowd articulates the tension between Jesus and God as the tension between the power Jesus has access to through his connection with God and the suffering he endures as a part of his obedience to God (Prayer, Power, and the Problem of Suffering: Mark 11:22–25 in the Context of Markan Theology [SBLDS 105; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1988], esp. 151–62). 52 Evans underestimates the rhetorical function and power of the scriptural images in this scene: “Scriptural images such as these [i.e., those evoked by “Remove this cup from me” in 14:36] add color and backdrop to the words of Jesus’ pleading prayer” (413). 53 Rindge articulates this tension through the interplay of this scene with the Aqedah (“Reconfiguring the Akedah,” 22–25). He goes on to say that the words of Psalm 22 spoken by Jesus on the cross are “a fitting response to God’s abandonment” (25). 54 Mark uses   p eri/lupoj, yuxh/, and ei0mi/ in the same order as they appear in LXX Pss 41:6, 12 and 42:5, three of the first five words from this refrain. 1QH XVI, 32 also uses the same phrase from the refrain, and John 12:27 contains a possible use of Ps LXX 41:7. The lexical similarities between Mark 14:34 and the refrain and the usage by 1QH 16:32 and possibly John 12:27 give a high probability that Mark 14:34 evokes Pss 41:6, 12 and 42:5. See Ahearne-Kroll, Psalms of Lament, 66–69 for a detailed discussion.

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark  

59

at some point in its textual history.55 For our purposes, I will treat the psalms as one psalm, refer to them in the singular, and use the LXX version henceforth. Since Mark 14:34 refers to the refrain of the psalm, which appears three times throughout, the effect is that Mark evokes the entire psalm when referring to the refrain. The refrain of the psalm punctuates an extended lament that starts with a description of the devotion that the psalmist has for God, whose presence he longs for “as the deer yearns for springs of water” (41:2). The psalm juxtaposes this devotion with the absence of God in the midst of suffering, something perceived by his enemies with the mocking phrase, “Where is your God?” (41:4). The psalmist consoles himself with the memory of God’s presence and the hope of being with God in the house of God (41:5). The second part of the lament continues the juxtaposition of a description of suffering (“all your waves and your billows came upon me”; 41:8) with the perceived absence of God in its midst (“You are my protector; why did you forget me? Why do I go around looking angry while my enemy afflicts [me]?” 41:10). But there is less self-consolation with the hope of God’s presence; the refrain is the only consolation present in the second section. In the last part of the lament, the psalmist issues an extended challenge to God to deliver him. Psalm 42:1 contains three imperatives: “Judge me (kri=no/n me), God, and decide (di/kason) my case [brought] from a nation not pious, deliver me (r9u=sai/ me) from an unjust and deceitful person.” The next verse follows with the most direct challenge to God’s absence, “For you are my strength, God; why do you reject me?” Finally in 42:3, there is the request for God’s presence (“Send out your light and your truth”) and a promise to go to the altar of God to confess God in song, and then the final refrain. The content of the psalm is telling, but its structure and use of the refrain ultimately solidifies its rhetorical effect: The self-encouragement expressed in the refrain is present throughout, but by the end of the psalm, because of the direct challenge to God and the conditional vow expressed in the third strophe, the refrain also functions as a key part in the overall rhetoric of the psalm in attempting to persuade God to act on behalf of the psalmist. Therefore, ultimately, these two psalms try to use this rhythmic repetition as a persuasive device before God. 56

                                                                                                                       

55 Hans-Joachim Kraus, Psalms 1–59 (trans. Hilton C. Oswald; Minneapolis, Minn.: Augsburg, 1988), 437; Peter C. Craigie, Psalms 1–50 (WBC 19; Waco, Tex.: Word Books, 1983), 325; Robert G. Bratcher and William D. Reyburn, A Handbook on the Psalms (New York: United Bible Societies, 1991), 398; Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Die Psalmen I (Würzburg: Echter, 1993), 265; Hermann Gunkel, Introduction to the Psalms: The Genres of the Religious Lyric of Israel (completed by Joachim Begrich; trans. James D. Nagalski; Macon, Ga.: Mercer University Press, 1998), 312, 327. 56 Ahearne-Kroll, Psalms of Lament, 123. For a more extensive analysis of LXX Pss 41–42, see idem, 117–23.

 

 

60

Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll

 

The evocation of this refrain by Mark 14:34 deeply influences the description of Jesus’ distress and thus his characterization. No longer are the words used by Mark just descriptive of someone heading to death. Because of the psalm’s juxtaposition of the psalmist’s lament over suffering and the perceived absence of God in the midst of it as well as the refrain’s rhythmic repetition, Jesus’ suffering now takes on the character of the psalmist’s suffering. And that suffering is rife with lack of understanding (“All things are possible for you”; 14:36); struggle over the dissonance between divine protection (“Abba, Father!” in 14:36) and persecution by enemies (“The hour has come. . . . Look! The one who hands me over has come near”; 14:41–42); the prospect of death without being rescued by God (“not what I want but what you want”; 14:36); and challenge directed toward God to act on his behalf (“remove this cup from me”; 14:36). The threefold repetition of Jesus’ prayer in Gethsemane also resonates strongly with the repetition in the psalm, which we have seen is a persuasive device to convince God to act on behalf of the psalmist. So, in a sense, Jesus does not just pray to God; he embodies the lamenter.57 The other two Scripture passages that have similar language to 14:34 add some different dimensions to Jesus’ agony in the garden. I will consider Sir 37:2 first. Sirach 37:2 in the LXX might also come into play in Mark 14:34.58 Mark’s peri/lupo/j e0stin h9 yuxh/ mou e3w j qana&tou shares enough                                                                                                                        

57 I think Mark’s evocation of LXX Pss 41–42 goes beyond Jesus simply borrowing the language of these Psalms as Moloney (Gospel of Mark, 291) and John R. Donahue and Daniel J. Harrington (The Gospel of Mark [SP 2; Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2002], 407 and 413) argue. Moloney does not acknowledge the gravity of the perceived abandonment by God in the midst of suffering as that which lies at the heart of suffering in the psalms and in Gethsemane and the cross: “But through all the expressions of fear, suffering, and hopelessness, and the questions put to God, a profound trust is expressed in the ultimate victory of God over the source of evil. . . . The passion has begun, and these words of lament and anxiety point forward to the horror of the events that will follow. Jesus’ sudden change of attitude indicates the unrelenting nature of the suffering that he is about to endure. However, it does not take away from him the trust that . . . God will have the last word” (Gospel of Mark, 291–92). For a more extensive treatment of the interplay between LXX Pss 41–42 and the Gethsemane scene, see Ahearne-Kroll, Psalms of Lament, 179–91. See also Richard B. Hays, “Christ Prays the Psalms: Paul’s Use of an Early Christian Exegetical Convention,” in The Future of Christology: Essays in Honor of Leander E. Keck (ed. Abraham J. Malherbe and Wayne A. Meeks; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1993), 125–26; Harold W. Attridge, “Giving Voice to Jesus: Use of the Psalms in the New Testament,” in Psalms in Community: Jewish and  Christian Textual, Liturgical, and Artistic Traditions (ed. idem and Margot E. Fassler; SBLSymS 25; Atlanta, Ga.: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 102. 58 Donahue and Harrington, Gospel of Mark, 407; Yarbro Collins (Mark, 676) only mentions the passage but does not comment on its significance; Gnilka (Das Evangelium nach Markus) does not mention the passage. Iersel (Mark) mentions no scriptural refer-

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark  

61

in common with Sirach’s ou)xi\ lu&ph e1ni e3w j qana&tou | e9tai=roj kai\ fi/loj 59 trepo&menoj ei0j e1xqran to justify categorizing it as an evocation of LXX Sir 37:2. Sirach 36:23–37:15 offers some insights about the value of human relations – at least from an ancient Israelite male perspective – within which is a brief reflection on friendship in 37:1–6. Verse 2 describes what the author calls “a friend who is a friend in name only” (fi/loj o)no&mati mo&non fi/loj), particularly, one who turns from companion and friend to enemy and thus causes “grief [to] approach unto death.”60 Scholars usually note that Jesus is about to be handed over by Judas, one of the Twelve, and so a companion and friend.61 The action of Judas clearly fits the model of a companion and friend turned enemy from Sirach 37. This would be further supported by the allusion to LXX Ps 40:10 in Mark 14:18, where Jesus tells of Judas’s betrayal with the words of Psalm 40, which describes the betrayal of a trusted friend.62 Jesus is about to pray to God as Father to ask emphatically for a change in his path to death. The allusion to Sir 37:2 would deepen the malaise from which the Markan Jesus asks his Father for relief. The phrase that matches Mark 14:34 most closely comes from Jonah 4:9 and reads, “I am exceedingly grieved, even unto death” (sfo&dra lelu&phmai e0g w_ e3w j qana&tou). The lexical matches between Jonah 4:9 and Mark 14:34 are not extensive, but peri/lupoj in 14:34 matches the cognate verb 63 lupe/w in Jonah 4:9, and the phrase e3w j qana&tou is exact in both verses. Jonah 4:9 falls at the end of the story just after God kills the plant (or gourd, Greek koloku/nqh) that was provided to shade Jonah from his miseries. His miseries are not just caused by the weather but by the fact that God has abandoned any plan to smite the Ninevites. Jonah did a fairly bad job of prophesying; he went only about one-third of the way into Nineveh, and his proclamation of the city’s demise was curt and neglected to say which                                                                                                                         ences for Mark 14:34. Evans (Mark 8:27–16:20, p. 410) mentions every possible scriptural reference, including Sir 37:2 and Jonah 4:9, as is his wont. 59 Perhaps this commonality is even greater than that between Jonah 4:9 and Mark 14:34. 60 This is the New English Translation of the Septuagint (NETS). 61 Evans, Mark 8:27–16:20, p. 410.   62 For a more detailed discussion of this scene, see Ahearne-Kroll, Psalms of Lament, 173–78 and idem, “Abandonment and Suffering: The Use of Psalm 40 (LXX) in the Markan Passion Narrative,” in Septuagint Research: Issues and Challenges in the Study of the Greek Jewish Scriptures (ed. R. Glenn Wooden and Wolfgang Kraus; SBLSCS; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006), 293–310.   63 Yarbro Collins (Mark, 676–77) comments only briefly on the Jonah parallel; Gnilka (Das Evangelium nach Markus, 259) comments even less on it. It is not even mentioned as a possible intertext by Moloney (Gospel of Mark), Donahue and Harrington (Gospel of Mark), or M. Eugene Boring (Mark: A Commentary [Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2006]).

 

 

62

Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll

 

God he represented.64 And yet, the Ninevites, who were not adherents to the God of Israel, repented instantaneously and profoundly, as represented by their king who removed his robe, covered himself with sackcloth and ashes, and proclaimed a city-wide repentance with the hope that God would relent and not destroy the city. And it worked. Jonah, however, does not share God’s compassion and leaves the city to grieve God’s repentance. As an attempt to show how much God was affected by the Ninevites’ repentance, God conjures a gourd to grow up over Jonah, “and Jonah rejoiced greatly over the gourd” (4:6). Then God takes the gourd away the next day, which causes Jonah great distress, so much so that he says, “I am exceedingly grieved, even unto death” (4:9). If Jonah cared so much for a thing that gave him pleasure for one day, how much more would God care for something as great as the profound repentance of the 120,000 people in Nineveh?   One possible way to understand the evocation to Jonah in Mark is to draw an analogy between the relationship between Jonah and God, on the one hand, and Jesus and God, on the other. In the Jonah story, the author sets up a contentious relationship between Jonah and God, clearly showing the reluctance by Jonah to follow God’s command to go to Nineveh and prophesy its destruction unless the city repents. The contention between God and Jonah reaches ridiculous proportions by the end of the story, which is where the allusion in Mark directs the audience. Jonah’s reluctant prophesying results in mass repentance of the Ninevites, which only causes Jonah to express his grief melodramatically, even unto death. Clearly, Jonah’s wishes for the Ninevites are not God’s wishes. Analogously, Mark may be drawing this same picture of the relationship between Jesus and God in Gethsemane through the allusion to Jonah 4:9. Although Jesus submits to God’s will in 14:36, the allusion to Jonah seems to indicate how far apart Jesus’ wishes are from God’s, which lends much more depth to the commanding prayer of Jesus to God: “All things are possible for you.

                                                                                                                        64

I am indebted to conversations with Patricia D. Ahearne-Kroll on which this reading of Jonah is based. See also the comments by T. Eagleton: “Once in the city, Jonah shambles around playing at being a prophet, no doubt pretty perfunctorily, and is disgusted to find that his clichéd denunciations actually work” (“J. L. Austin and the Book of Jonah” in The Postmodern Bible Reader [ed. D. Jobling, T. Pippin, and R. Schleifer; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001], 179; repr. from The Book and the Text: The Bible and Literary Theory [ed. R. M. Schwartz; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990]). For an argument that the LXX change of the MT timing of repentance from forty days to three is an indication that Jonah did not want the Ninevites to repent, see R. W. L. Moberly, “Preaching for a Response?: Jonah’s Message to the Ninevites Reconsidered,” VT 53 (2003): 156–68.

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark  

63

Take this cup away!” Such a commanding prayer would not come from someone who is at peace with the difficult path ahead.65 These three scriptural evocations in Mark 14:34 offer a picture of Jesus as human as it gets. He suffers the psychological pains of perceived abandonment by God in the midst of suffering, and he embodies the lamenter who cries out to God for deliverance. He carries with him the pain of betrayal by one of his inner circle of disciples. And he expresses his strong opposition to God’s wishes regarding his path to the cross. Cut to the trial scene before the Sanhedrin a few verses later where Mark claims for Jesus a highly exalted status (14:62, the verse on which I will focus my analysis). For many scholars, the scene of Jesus’ trial before the Sanhedrin evokes the Servant from Isaiah 53, especially because Jesus remains silent through 14:61 (cf. Isa 53:7).66 While the context of Isaiah 53 might lend itself to the picture of Jesus silent before his (false) accusers in the verses leading up to Mark 14:61,67 that picture quickly changes68 when Jesus speaks in response to the (accurate)69 question of the high priest: “Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed One?” (14:61), perhaps a continuation of the filial imagery from Psalm 2 used for Jesus at the baptism                                                                                                                         65

Thanks to Adela Collins for suggesting this line of thought. Marcus, Way of the Lord, 187 mentions this correspondence. He also offers a chart of allusions to the Isaian Servant passages in Mark’s Passion Narrative that include fifteen references to seven verses from the servant passages in Deutero-Isaiah, mostly from chapter 53. Many other commentators also make the link between Jesus and the Servant in Deutero-Isaiah (Donahue and Harrington, Gospel of Mark, 442; Iersel, Mark, 447; Watts, Isaiah’s New Exodus, 363–64; C. Maurer, “Knecht Gottes und Sohn Gottes im Passionsbericht des Markusevangeliums,” ZTK 50 [1953]: 9; Douglas J. Moo, The Old Testament in the Gospel Passion Narratives [Sheffield: The Almond Press, 1983], 148; Eta Linnemann, Studien zur Passionsgeschichte [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1970], 131; Eduard Schweizer, The Good News According to Mark [Richmond, Va.: John Knox, 1970], 330). But Kelli S. O’Brien argues against any influence of the Isaian Servant on Mark’s Passion Narrative (pp. 76–87). Regarding Mark 14:61’s purported allusion to Isa 53:7, O’Brien argues that the link between the two passages is based on only one word, and not an uncommon word, so there is no allusion present in this verse (pp. 80– 81; cf. Morna D. Hooker, Jesus and the Servant: The Influence of the Servant Concept of Deutero-Isaiah in the New Testament [London: SPCK, 1959], 88–89). 67 There are other, better scriptural explanations for Jesus’ silence than Isaiah 53. Yarbro Collins (Mark, 703–4) convincingly argues that Mark may be using the voice of David from the psalms of individual lament to shape Jesus’ actions, in particular, LXX Ps 37:14–15. 68 Brown, Death of the Messiah, 1:464, who relies on H. Kosmala, ”Der Prozess Jesu,” Saat auf Hoffnung 69 (1932): 28. 69 “Jesus may have refused to answer the ‘false’ testimony, as if not wanting to dignify it with an answer. But when asked correctly about his identity, he chooses to answer” (Evans, Mark 8:27–16:20, 448). 66

 

 

64

Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll

 

and transfiguration scenes,70 but certainly an equation of Messiah with divine filiation. Jesus then answers affirmatively: “I am, and you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the power and coming with the clouds of heaven” (14:62). Although Jesus does not directly identify himself as the Son of Man here, Mark implies a cause and effect relationship between Jesus being the Son of the Blessed One and the enthronement and coming of the Son of Man. And by this time in Mark, the identification between Jesus and the Son of Man has been firmly established.71 Unpacking the scriptural imagery in these verses solidifies the divine overtones being claimed for the status of Jesus. Jesus’ answer to the high priest contains at least two, and possibly three scriptural references. The first, and the most doubtful one, is to the Greek translation of the divine name from LXX Exod 3:14, e0gw/ ei0mi.72 As Kelli O’Brien points out, although the words e0gw/ and ei0mi are very common, the phrase e0gw/ ei0mi is not. It also appears as the divine name in Isa 43:10, 25; 45:18; 51:12; and 52:6. I agree with O’Brien’s assessment on the improbability of an evocation of Exod 3:14 in Mark 14:62: “Though the words come to be used for the divine name in Christian tradition, it is unclear whether the phrase alone would have had that connotation when Mark was written. . . . In addition . . . the answer e0gw/ ei0mi matches perfectly with the question su/ ei0, which argues against this as a divine claim.”73 So, although e0gw/ ei0mi suggests the divine name in Exod 3:14, its uncertainty as a direct evocation renders it unworkable as such. Verse 62 has two clear scriptural allusions woven into the syntax of Jesus’ answer to the high priest. The title Son of Man for Jesus refers to the Danielic Son of Man, a heavenly figure related to the eschaton. In Mark, both the future, eschatological image and the present image of the suffering of the Son of Man come together in Mark’s depiction of the Messiah.74 The image, “Son of Man . . . coming with the clouds of heaven,” has its referent in Dan 7:13, and sandwiched between the two parts of the verse is                                                                                                                         70

See O’Brien, Use of Scripture, 106–7. See also Edwin K. Broadhead, “Reconfiguring Jesus: The Son of Man in Markan Perspective,” in Biblical Interpretation in Early Christian Gospels: The Gospel of Mark (ed. Thomas R. Hatina; London: T&T Clark, 2006), 26. 72 Actually, the translation of the divine name in LXX Exod 3:14 is e0gw/ ei0mi o9 w!n, and then God commands Moses to tell the Israelites, 9O w2n a)pe/stalke/n me pro_j u(ma~j. 73 O’Brien, Use of Scripture, 259. Yarbro Collins also takes this position (Mark, 704 n. 60) 74 Here I wish not to hold to the modern scholarly threefold categorization of Son of Man sayings in Mark going back as far as Rudolf Bultmann (Theology of the New Testament [trans. Kendrick Grobel; 2 vols.; London: SCM Press, 1952], 1:30) and still present as late as 2006 by Edwin K. Broadhead, “Reconfiguring Jesus,” 24. I see no reason to separate the Son of Man’s suffering from the Son of Man’s present earthly activity. 71

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark  

65

“sitting at the right hand of the power,” which alludes to Ps 110:1 (LXX Ps 109:1).75 Both of these allusions are to texts that contain images of divine figures having some significant part to play in human history. Daniel 7:1–14 describes a vision of judgment of the four kingdoms by the Ancient of Days, who is depicted with evocative and powerful imagery (clothing white as snow, sitting on a flaming throne, fire issuing from him). The consequence of that judgment includes one like a Son of Man coming with the clouds of heaven. The Ancient of Days hands over royal dominion to him so there will be universal honor and service given to him, while his kingdom will be everlasting and his kingship shall never be destroyed (7:14). Psalm 109 in the LXX also has an enthronement scene where the Lord enthrones the king (presumably David) by saying, “Sit at my right [hand] until I establish your enemies as a footstool for your feet” (LXX Ps 109:1). The psalm goes on to describe the nature of the king’s dominion as issuing forth from God (“A rod of your power the Lord will send out from Zion” [r(a&bdon duna&mew&j sou e0capostelei= ku&rioj e0k Siwn ; 109:2]) and as being “among the brilliance of the holy ones” (e0n tai=j lampro&thsin tw~n a(gi/w n; 109:3). Much as in the reference to Psalm 2 in the baptism and transfiguration scenes, where the king was not simply a human king but had a kind of divine status due to his filiation with God, so also with these two references to the Danielic Son of Man and the divinely appointed and divinely empowered king of LXX Psalm 109. By putting these two scriptural references on the lips of Jesus and implying a cause and effect relationship between Jesus’ sonship of the Blessed One and the enthronement and coming of the Son of Man, Mark claims for Jesus a highly exalted, if not divine, status. Along with the baptism and transfiguration scenes, the trial scene stands at the apex of status claims so far in the story. Ironically, it comes at the lowest point of earthly power for Jesus. As he makes these claims about himself, he stands virtually powerless before the Sanhedrin, and his affirmative answer to the high priest’s question of divine sonship solidifies his path to the cross rather than convincing his judges of his innocence of the charges. The juxtaposition of this scene with the one in Gethsemane offers some interesting possibilities about the characterization of Jesus through the use of Scripture. At Gethsemane, Scripture was used to depict Jesus in human terms as he struggles to understand and accept the impending suffering entailed in being God’s Son. In the trial before the Sanhedrin, Jesus as divine figure owns up to his divine filiation to the point where the end of his life as a human becomes certain. Through the use of Scripture, Mark makes the claim that Jesus’ suffering/death and divine sonship are                                                                                                                         75

There is universal consensus regarding these two references to Dan 7:13 and Ps 110:1 in Mark 14:62.

 

 

66

Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll

 

intimately intertwined. Mark accomplishes the marriage of suffering and divine sonship through the simultaneous depiction of Jesus as suffering and lamenting human through allusions to LXX Psalms 41–42, Jonah 4, and Sirach 37 in Mark 14:34; and as both king with divine status and Son of Man through allusions to LXX Psalms 2 and 109 and Daniel 7 in Mark 14:62. Divine sonship without suffering makes little sense for Mark’s depiction of Jesus, and through this claim, Mark accounts for how the Messiah could be crucified.

Conclusion The aim of this study was not to perform a complete analysis of the presentation of Jesus in Mark but only to look at his character through the lens of some of the scriptural references the author uses when telling the story of Jesus. We have looked only at a few scenes in Mark to demonstrate the complexity of characterization of Jesus through the author’s use of Scripture. We have seen that Jesus as (usually suffering) human (Isaac and the lamenting David), prophetic figure (Isaian Servant, successor to Moses and Elijah), and divinely empowered figure (Son of Man, divinely appointed and empowered king/Son of God) all exist together in Mark’s story of Jesus, sometimes in the same scene or even the same verse. This complex characterization through Scripture exists throughout Mark, and one could point to a number of passages that reinforce what I have argued above: the curing of the leper in 1:40–45 which has clear similarities to healing of Naaman by the prophet Elisha in 2 Kings 5; the feeding of the five thousand in Mark 6:30–44, which evokes Moses teaching and feeding in a deserted place during the Exodus narrative, continues the parallels with Elisha (cf. Elisha’s own multiplication miracle in 2 Kgs 4:42–44), conjures up images of God as shepherd over Israel (Psalm 23), depicts Jesus as the needed king that Israel lacks (cf. sheep without a shepherd description for Israel in 2 Kgs 22:17; 2 Chr 18:16; Nah 3:18; Jdt 11:19), and envisages Jesus as the host of the eschatological banquet described in Isa 25:6–8;76 the walking on the water in Mark 6:45–52, where e0gw/ ei0mi and Jesus’ desire to pass by the boat evokes the language of divine self-revelation (Exod 3:13–15; 33:18–23; Isa 41:4; 43:10–11; 1 Kgs 19:11–12); and the other scenes from the Passion Narrative that evoke the lamenting David from the psalms of individual lament (LXX Ps 40:10 in Mark 14:20; LXX Psalm 22 in Mark 15:24, 29, and 34; LXX Ps 68:22 in Mark 15:23). Human, divinely empowered, and prophetic images of Jesus abound through Mark’s use of                                                                                                                         76

See Yarbro Collins, Mark, 319–26 for an excellent treatment of the cultural context of the feeding of the five thousand in Mark.

 

The Scripturally Complex Presentation of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark  

67

Scripture. And there are other images of Jesus that the author proposes that are not directly communicated through scriptural evocation. Many scholars of Mark’s use of Scripture have noticed this complexity, but few have withheld from trying to simplify it through appeal to a supposedly controlling image, a trajectory of interpretation in post-biblical Judaism, or a narrative pattern in Mark.77 The result of these attempts oftentimes presents a one-dimensional Jesus whose death mechanistically saves humanity through sacrifice according to some abstracted divine plan. Maintaining the complexity of Mark’s Jesus reflects more accurately what we see in the narrative. The human, divinely empowered, and prophetic images of Jesus evoked through Scripture are placed within and contribute to a narrative framework that describes the life and death of Jesus. From the outset of the story, the themes of power and authority (political and otherworldly), human suffering, divine presence, divine determinism, and the proper human response to all these swirl around the audience. Jesus stands at the center of the whirlpool, and it makes sense that his characterization would be complex. The human, the divinely empowered, and the prophetic elements found in Jesus’ characterization join heavenly and earthly concerns without one drowning out the other, to use Malbon’s language. If we are to understand the Gospel of Mark as speaking meaningfully about death and salvation, we must see it through the lens of the complex and difficult reality of human suffering and the question of God’s response to and presence in the midst of that suffering. And if there is a way to focus Mark’s use of Scripture, it might be to say that the author uses Scripture to face directly the question of divine presence amidst human suffering and to present a Jesus who embodies the tensions between the heavenly and earthly realities entailed in human suffering.

                                                                                                                       

77 For example, Broadhead, following Norman Perrin, argues that the complexity of Mark’s narrative presentation of Jesus finds its resolution in the trial scene in Mark 14:53–65, which provides the hermeneutical key to the gospel (“Reconfiguring Jesus,” 23–27). Hatina, however, is on the other end of the spectrum in that he has worked for multiplicity of meaning when thinking about Mark’s use of Scripture: “My aim is to show that if Mark is taken seriously as narrative art, a search for the meaning, and hence the echo, is reductionistic because it potentially excludes the other layers of meaning which would have been open to the earliest audiences (and should remain open to the modern literary critic).” See “Embedded Scripture Texts,” 82–99; quotation at 82.

 

 

 

Disobeying Jesus A Puzzling Element in the Messianic Secret Motifs1 JEREMY F. HULTIN Of the various secrecy motifs that have been discussed under the rubric the “messianic secret,”2 one feature often deemed an oddity or exception is in fact peculiar enough to warrant its own investigation: namely, the fact that several of Jesus’ injunctions to silence following healings are explicitly disobeyed. Indeed, of the three times in Mark that Jesus orders the beneficiaries of his healings to remain silent (1:43–44; 5:43; 7:36), twice the command is expressly said to have been broken (1:45; 7:36), and in the latter instance, the violation is inversely proportional to the force with which Jesus issued the injunction: “Then Jesus ordered them to tell no one; but the more he ordered them, the more zealously they proclaimed it” (Mark 7:36). Mark thus draws attention to Jesus’ inability to silence those who had witnessed his healings. In a similar manner, Mark notes that even when Jesus sought privacy, he was “unable to escape notice” (7:24). Since the gospels rarely depict Jesus failing at his intentions,3 and since the vio1 It is a privilege to contribute an essay to this volume in honor of Harold Attridge, from whom I have had the good fortune to learn as he served in the roles of professor, Doktorvater, and dean. 2 It has long been debated how many of the disparate motifs of secrecy, silence, and esotericism should be understood as belonging to a broader, unifying theme. William Wrede listed five distinct categories of secrecy themes (William Wrede, The Messianic Secret [trans. J. C. G. Greig; Cambridge: J. Clarke, 1971], 34–36); cf. the lists in Gerd Theissen, “Die pragmatische Bedeutung der Geheimnismotive im Markusevangelium: Ein wissenssoziologischer Versuch,” in Secrecy and Concealment: Studies in the History of Mediterranean and Near Eastern Religions (ed. Hans G. Kippenberg and Guy G. Stroumsa; SHR 65; Leiden: Brill, 1995), 225–45, here 226; and David F. Watson, Honor Among Christians: The Cultural Key to the Messianic Secret (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2010), 2–3. 3 One thinks of two instances that were not part of this secrecy theme, and both were evidently the source of some discomfort. In Mark 6:5 (“And he could not [ou0k e0du/nato] do any deed of power there”), Mark clearly felt the need to explain that the lack of faith

70

Jeremy F. Hultin

lation of Jesus’ commands seems to undermine any purpose the secrecy motifs were meant to achieve, this aspect of the messianic secret presents a puzzle.4 Why would some passages draw attention to Jesus’ inability to silence the beneficiaries of his miracles and to avoid recognition? The traditions about Jesus were circulating during a time when the rights and well-being of Jewish communities throughout the Roman Empire could be endangered by any hint that Jews might threaten the pax Romana. In fact, in an effort to maintain good relations with Roman authorities, some Jews proactively reported or handed over figures who wanted to gather around themselves great crowds, since such figures could have been deemed seditious or disruptive and, as such, would have put entire Jewish communities at risk. Thus, to many Jews in Palestine or the Diaspora, it might have appeared that the Jerusalem authorities had exhibited prudence and wisdom in arresting Jesus before the Romans had to intervene directly. The peril that Jesus’ wonderworking reputation presented – and the predicament faced by Jewish authorities – is nicely captured by the Gospel of John when it has Caiaphas say, “If we let him go on like this . . . the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation” (John 11:48). In such an environment, those who wanted to proclaim Jesus’ mighty deeds faced a dilemma. They could not simply pass over his wonderworking, for it was his miracles, after all, that had persuaded so many that he “did all things well” (Mark 7:37). But proclaiming stories about a charismatic Galilean who drew crowds by his miraculous activity would have made Jesus sound reckless – and either shamefully naïve about, or callously indifferent to, the risks such activities posed to Judaeans everywhere. My proposal is that the motif of Jesus’ inability to maintain his own secret arose as a response to precisely this dilemma. I believe that in some accounts of his healings, it was claimed that Jesus tried to keep his activity secret; it was the beneficiaries of and witnesses to his miracles who, contrary to Jesus’ best efforts, had spread the word about him. Thus, the motif of disobedience to Jesus’ silencing and the motif of Jesus’ inability to conceal himself can be understood as attempts to absolve Jesus of his apparent recklessness, while still maintaining that he was a mighty healer who won widespread approbation. in Nazareth (Mark 6:6) was what limited Jesus, and Matthew has softened Mark’s “could not” to “did not” (ou0k e0poi/hsen; Matt 13:58). Similarly, Mark 6:48 (“He intended to pass them by” [kai\ h1qelen parelqei=n au0tou/j]) is omitted by Matt 14:25 and Luke 6:19. 4 Ulrich Luz, an expert both on the Gospel of Matthew and on the messianic secret, admits to being baffled by the motif of disobedience. In his massive commentary on Matthew (Matthew 8–20: A Commentary [trans. James E. Crouch; Hermeneia; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2001], 49), Luz says of Matt 9:30b–31 simply: “The command to silence and its immediate violation are difficult to interpret”!

Disobeying Jesus

71

To argue this thesis, I will start by surveying the passages that present Jesus as incapable of maintaining secrecy. Second, I will consider how various approaches to the messianic secret have tried to account for this peculiar motif. Third, I will give an overview of the dynamics of Jewish communities vis-à-vis their Gentile neighbors and the Roman colonial authorities, demonstrating that Jewish rights and well-being could be threatened by just the sort of campaign of signs and wonders that Jesus conducted. In an appendix, I will note the evidence that suggests that the motif in question was present already in the traditions used independently by Mark and Matthew, something that helps to account for the sporadic and seemingly inconsistent use of this motif in the gospels.

“The more he ordered them, the more zealously they proclaimed it” (Mark 7:36) The majority of Jesus’ injunctions to silence are not disobeyed. For instance, when he silences the demons who know him to be the Son of God,5 they do not violate the commands.6 Similarly, Jesus orders his disciples not to tell anyone that he is the Christ.7 After the transfiguration, he orders Pe-

5 Mark 1:25//Luke 4:35; Mark 1:34//Luke 4:41; Mark 3:11–12. There is a parallel of sorts to Mark 3:12 in Matt 12:16. But in fact, Matt 12:15–21 is quite different from Mark 3:7–12 except for the command to silence (Matt 12:16), and even the silencing has been changed, for in Matthew the command is issued to the (human) recipients of healings, not to demons. On the difficult source-critical questions this passage poses, see Luz, Matthew 8–20, 190–94. 6 The silencing of the demons is generally agreed to have originated in the rite of exorcism itself. See Otto Bauernfeind, Die Worte der Dämonen im Markusevangelium (BWANT 44; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1927); cf. Rudolf Bultmann, The History of the Synoptic Tradition (trans. John Marsh; rev. ed.; Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 1994), 209 n. 1, 223; Erik Sjöberg, Der verborgene Menschensohn in den Evangelien (ARSHLL 53; Lund: Gleerup, 1955), 150; Gerd Theissen, The Miracle Stories of the Early Christian Tradition (ed. John Riches; trans. Francis McDonagh; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1983), 144; Rudolf Pesch, Das Markusevangelium (2 vols.; HTKNT 2.1–2.2; Freiburg: Herder, 1976–1977), 1:123. But clearly Mark has adapted this traditional silencing to his own, different purposes. See the careful analysis of relevant parallels in Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2007), 165–70. H. C. Kee finds in the “rebuke” ( e0pitima~n) to demons evidence of the broader pattern of God’s battle against hostile powers (“The Terminology of Mark’s Exorcism Stories,” NTS 14 [1968]: 232–46). 7 Mark 8:29–30//Matt 16:16–20//Luke 9:20–21.

72

Jeremy F. Hultin

ter, James, and John not to reveal what they have seen until the resurrection.8 These commands are never broken in the narrative.9 On the other hand, Jesus also forbids some recipients and witnesses of his healings from speaking to anyone (Mark 1:43–44; 5:43; 7:36; Matt 9:30) and these commands are violated more often than they are kept (Mark 1:45; 7:36; Matt 9:31). After considering the passages that include unequivocal violations of commands to silence, we will also look at other healings in which there is some uncertainty about whether Jesus is demanding secrecy (e.g. Mark 8:26), and passages where others issue ineffectual commands to silence (Mark 10:46–52). The first episode in which Jesus’ command to silence is expressly disobeyed occurs in Mark 1:40–45.10 In Mark 1:40–42, a leper approaches Jesus and pleads to be made clean. At Jesus’ touch and his word, the leprosy departs. Jesus then “snorts” at the man and “drives him away” (1:43),11 8 Mark 9:9//Matt 17:9; cf. Luke 9:36. (Luke does not have a command to silence, but simply states: “They kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.”) 9 Because the commands to the demons and to the disciples have to do explicitly with maintaining the secret of Jesus’ identity as Son of God and Messiah, they are often viewed as constituting the true core of the messianic secret (so, e.g., Ulrich Luz, “The Secret Motif and the Marcan Christology,” in The Messianic Secret [ed. Christopher M. Tuckett; IRT 1; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1983], 75–96; Pesch, Markusevangelium, 2:37). Of the other themes sometimes thought to belong to the messianic secret – Jesus’ teaching his disciples privately, the disciples’ incomprehension and lack of faith, the “mystery of the kingdom of God,” and the “parable theory” – none portrays Jesus as incapable of maintaining secrecy, and hence will not be discussed here. 10 For a review of how scholars writing about the messianic secret deal with this passage, see Heikki Räisänen, The “Messianic Secret” in Mark (trans. Christopher Tuckett; SNTW; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1990), 144–49. 11 e0mbrimhsa&menoj au0tw~| eu0qu\j e0ce/b alen au0to/n. This verse bristles with difficulties; many regard it as secondary (e.g., Karl Kertelge, Die Wunder Jesu im Markusevangelium: Eine redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung [SANT 33; Munich: Kösel-Verlag, 1970], 67–68), and neither Matthew nor Luke has it in his account of the leper. It is not easy to find a well-attested meaning of e0mbrima&omai that would fit in this context. If it represents anger (as in Mark 14:5; cf. John 11:33, 38; BDAG s.v. 2), it is unclear why Jesus would still (cf. Mark 1:41 variant: o0rgisqei/j) be angry after the cleansing has been achieved. Some have suggested he was angry because he foresaw that the man would disobey the ensuing injunction to silence (so William L. Lane, The Gospel According to Mark: The English Text with Introduction, Exposition, and Notes [Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1974], 87; Gustav Stählin, “o0rgh/,” TDNT 5:419–47, here 5:427–28; DietrichAlex Koch, Die Bedeutung der Wundererzählungen für die Christologie des Markusevangeliums [Berlin: De Gruyter, 1975], 76–78), or angry at those who simply wanted miracles (Georges Minette de Tillesse, Le secret messianique dans l’Évangile de Marc [LD 47; Paris: Cerf, 1968], 149). Alternatively, e0mbrima&omai could bear its classical meaning of snorting (LSJ s.v. 1) if, as Jeremias claimed (without adducing much evidence), it pointed to a gesture in which one blew through the lips with the hand placed

Disobeying Jesus

73

telling him to say nothing to anyone, but to go directly to the priest (1:44).12 Contrary to these firm instructions, the man “went out and began to proclaim it freely, and to spread the word, so that Jesus could no longer go into a town openly.”13 over them to demand silence (Joachim Jeremias, New Testament Theology [New York: Scribner, 1971], 92 n. 1; so Pesch, Markusevangelium, 1:145). The most suitable meaning in this context would be “rebuke” (BDAG s.v. 1), roughly equivalent to the e0pitima&w in other commands to silence (Mark 1:25; 3:12; 8:30). The explicit contents of the “rebuke” would then come in 1:44. The choice of e0kba&llw – more suitable for “driving out” a demon than “sending away” a cleansed leper – is also puzzling. Theissen (Miracle Stories, 64) and Robert A. Guelich (Mark 1–8:26 [WBC 34A; Dallas, Tex.: Word, 1989], 75) suggest there may originally have been an exorcism. But note Mark 5:40, where the same verb is used for “sending away” potential witnesses to a miracle. 12 The command not to tell anyone in 1:44a may originally have been simply an expression of urgency, emphasizing that the man must report directly to the priest (so Walter Schmithals, Das Evangelium nach Markus: Kapitel 1,1–9,1 [2nd rev. and enl. ed.; ÖTKNT 2.1; Gütersloh: Mohn, 1986], 137–38; Yarbro Collins, Mark, 177). But the pattern of silencing, disobedient proclamation, and resulting publicity is exactly what we find in Mark 7:36; certainly Mark understands the command as part of Jesus’ broader efforts at secrecy. Bultmann, History, 212, and Minette de Tillesse, Le secret, 41–51, think the commands to silence in both 1:43 and 1:44a are secondary additions by Mark (see further in Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 146 n. 11). Luz (“Das Geheimnismotiv und die Markinische Christologie,” ZNW 56 [1965]: 9–30, here 15–16) notes that, although much of the vocabulary of 1:43–44 is uncommon for Mark, the cleansing of the leper in Papyrus Egerton has no command to silence; but this can hardly prove that no other preMarkan tradition had such commands (rightly Theissen, Miracle Stories, 146 n. 52; Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 147 n. 12). 13 J. K. Elliott, “The Conclusion of the Pericope of the Healing of the Leper and Mark i:45,” JTS n.s. 22 (1971): 153–57, building on G. D. Kilpatrick, “Mark i. 45 and the Meaning of logo/j,” JTS 40 (1939): 389–90, has argued, against the majority of translations and commentators, that in Mark 1:45a the grammatically ambiguous expression o9 de\ e0celqw_n h!rcato khru/ssein polla_ kai\ diafhmi/zein to\n lo/g on refers not to the leper telling the “tale” about his healing, but to Jesus preaching “the message.” (For older exponents of this view, see Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 147 n. 15.) On Elliott’s interpretation, Mark 1:44 concludes the pericope of the leper’s cleansing (cf. Matt 8:4), and Mark 1:45 is simply a Markan summary. In support of this interpretation he argues that the particle de/ would be insufficient to mark a change of subject from Jesus to the leper, especially since Jesus is again the subject of the conclusion of the sentence (w#ste mhke/ti au0to\n [namely Jesus] du/nasqai fanerw~j ei0j po/lin ei0selqei=n). Elliott also notes that for Mark lo/g oj typically means not “the tale” (e.g., of the cleansing), but rather “the Christian message” (e.g., Mark 2:2; 4:33; 8:32), and that in Mark the subjects of the verb khru/ssein are rarely “outsiders” (John the Baptist [Mark 1:4, 7]; Jesus [Mark 1:14, 38]; the disciples [3:14; 6:12; 13:10; 14:9]). Hence, he claims that 1:45 represents a simple summary: following the cleansing of the leper, “Jesus began to proclaim the message.” Against these arguments we may note that de/ is used disjunctively to mark the disobedience to Jesus’ command to silence in Mark 7:36 (where the meaning is unambiguous), and in the same passage the verb khru/ssein is used of the “outsiders” who “preach”

74

Jeremy F. Hultin

In the Lukan parallel (Luke 5:14–16), the leper’s disobedience is elided,14 but Luke still makes it clear that the word about Jesus spread contrary to his wishes: Jesus orders the leper to tell no one, “but the word about him spread all the more” (dih/rxeto de\ ma~llon o9 lo/goj peri\ au0tou=), and, just as in Mark, the report about him leads to an influx of crowds that forces Jesus to depart to deserted places (Luke 5:16). In Matt 8:1–4, on the other hand, there is no indication either that the leper disobeyed Jesus or that the miraculous cleansing was disclosed. At first glance, this seems to be in keeping with Matthew’s general lack of interest in – some would say distaste for – Mark’s secrecy motifs.15 But the language of silencing and disobedience from Mark 1:43–45, including some rare words, appears in an entirely different context in Matthew (9:27–31), where the Markan parallel (Mark 10:46–52; cf. Matt 20:29–34) lacks any reference to Jesus’ ordering silence. (See further analysis in the appendix, p. 93.) Mark’s second instance of disobedience (Mark 7:31–37) is even more striking. Having healed a man who was deaf and mute, Jesus forbids the witnesses from telling anyone, but to no avail: “Jesus ordered them to tell no one; but the more he ordered them, the more zealously they proclaimed it” (7:36). The result of the report is widespread acclaim: “They were astounded beyond measure, saying, ‘He has done everything well; he even makes the deaf to hear and the mute to speak’” (7:37). In the parallel healabout Jesus’ miracle (this is acknowledged by Willoughby Charles Allen, The Gospel According to Saint Mark: With Introduction, Notes, and Map [Oxford Church Biblical Commentary; London: Rivingtons, 1915], 64, who defended the same reading as Elliott). Furthermore, lo/goj can certainly mean “the story” or “the tale”; and in fact, the parallel to Mark 1:45 in Luke 5:15 (dih/rxeto de\ ma=llon o9 lo/goj peri\ au0tou~) suggests that Luke understood the present passage from Mark in this way (cf. 1 Macc 8:10; Acts 11:22; and note especially Matt 28:15, which not only uses lo/goj as “tale” but also uses the same (rare) verb as Mark 1:45: kai\ diefhmi/sqh o9 lo/goj ou[toj). Finally, Elliott’s claim that Mark 1:44 concludes the pericope because the parallel in Matt 8:1–4 lacks anything like Mark 1:45 fails to consider the fact that the language of Mark 1:45 does appear in Matt 9:30b–31 (a passage Elliott does not address). See James Swetnam, “Some Remarks on the Meaning of o9 de\ e0celqw&n in Mark 1,45,” Bib 68 (1987): 245–49. 14 That Luke has omitted the explicit reference to the leper disobeying Jesus “due to his respect for the authority of Jesus” (I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke: A Commentary on the Greek Text [NIGTC; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1978], 210) seems likely, especially when we observe that when people other than Jesus issue a command to silence and it is disobeyed, Luke follows the Markan wording very closely (Mark 10:48//Luke 18:39). The tendency to downplay the disobedience to Jesus seen here in Luke was to have a long history; cf. Chrysostom, Hom. Matt. 32.1 (ad Matt 9:30–31). 15 Luz’s opinion represents the consensus: “Matthew has no interest in most of the material that is associated with the Markan messianic secret” (Matthew 8–20, 190); Wrede, Messianic Secret, 151–64, goes through the Matthean passages in detail and concludes that the secret “no longer has the importance for Matthew that it has for Mark” (154). Luke is closer to Mark in many passages (see Wrede, Messianic Secret, 164–79).

Disobeying Jesus

75

ing in Matt 15:29–31, there is no command to silence; Luke has no parallel at all, as this falls within the “Great Lukan Omission.” Mark also augments the motif of Jesus’ inability to keep people from speaking about him by stating that he could not escape public notice despite his effort to do so (Mark 7:24).16 Here we are told that when Jesus was in the region of Tyre, “He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there [ou0de/na h!qelen gnw~nai]. Yet he could not escape notice.” This idea is found nowhere else. It is passed over in the parallel in Matt 15:21; Luke has no parallel; and even in Mark 9:30, which has a very similar statement about Jesus “not wanting anyone to know” (kai\ ou0k h!qelen i3na tij gnoi=) his whereabouts, there is no indication that Jesus was unable to maintain secrecy.17 One other passage in Mark includes an ineffectual silencing, albeit in this case not issued by Jesus. When blind Bartimaeus18 cries out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” the crowd of pilgrims19 orders him to be silent. Just as in Mark 7:36, the rebuke provokes even greater cries: “but he shouted even more loudly,20 ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’” Despite the resemblance to Jesus’ ineffective rebukes, there is general scholarly consensus that the crowds’ silencing of Bartimaeus is fundamentally unrelated to other messianic secret themes in Mark.21 Among the important differences: characters other than Jesus order the silence; it is issued prior to the healing;22 and the verb siwpa~n (“to be silent”) is not typical of the other terminology for Jesus’ silencing.23 In general, the episode 16 So Simon Légasse, L’Évangile de Marc (2 vols.; LD 5; Paris: Cerf, 1997), 1:446: “On reconnaît là [namely, Mark 7:24], sous une forme particulière, le theme marcien qu’exprime ailleurs l’ordre donné aux maladies de ne pas divulguer leur guérison, ordre transgressé sur-le-champ: le pouvoir et la gloire du Christ éclatent quand bien même il voudrait les dissimuler.” Similarly Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 167. 17 Mark 9:30 differs from 7:24 in that it explains why Jesus sought privacy – namely, because he was teaching the disciples about the fate of the Son of Man (9:31). 18 Mark 10:46–52//Luke 18:35–43//Matt 20:29–34 (in Matthew, of course, there are two blind men). 19 Mark: “the masses” (polloi/); Luke 18:39: “those who were in front” of the throng (oi9 proa/gontej); Matt 20:31: “the crowd” (o9 de\ o1xloj). 20 o9 de\ pollw~| ma~llon e1krazen (Mark 10:48); so Luke 18:39: au0toj de\ pollw~| ma~llon e1krazen; slightly modified in Matt 20:31: oi9 de\ mei=zon e1kracan. The wording of Mark 7:36 is different: au0toi\ ma=llon perisso/teron e0kh/russon. 21 Thus even Wrede, though generally inclined to see all references to concealment as contributing to a united theme, believes Mark 10:48 has “its own special significance” (Messianic Secret, 38; cf. 279–80). See the survey of opinions in Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 229–30. 22 This is brought out especially in Theissen’s form-critical analysis (Miracle Stories, 143–44). 23 Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 231.

76

Jeremy F. Hultin

more nearly resembles the disciples’ rebuke to those who brought children to Jesus (Mark 10:13): both the disciples and the crowds mistakenly believe that Jesus should not be bothered by these insignificant figures.24 Hence Bartimaeus’s persistence in crying out demonstrates a laudable faith;25 and the theme of the pericope does not belong to the apologetic motive that I am proposing lay behind Jesus’ own failed efforts at silencing. It must be clearly stated that in Mark there is real inconsistency with respect to Jesus’ commands to silence being violated. When Jesus heals Jairus’s daughter,26 he first seeks privacy for the healing,27 and then, having raised the girl from the dead, orders the parents “that no one should know this.”28 The story is often cited as an instance in which Jesus’ silencing seems particularly artificial, understandable only as an effort on Mark’s part to add to the air of secrecy, but frankly absurd when considered historically. The house was thronged with mourners who had just laughed at Jesus for claiming that the girl was merely sleeping. How were her parents to prevent anyone from learning that their daughter was again alive?29 In light of such a setting, it is remarkable that Mark has omitted 24 So Wrede, Messianic Secret, 280; Henry Barclay Swete, Commentary on Mark: The Greek Text with Introduction, Notes, and Indexes (Kregel Reprint Library Series; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Kregel, 1977), 244 (citing patristic interpretation along these lines); Vincent Taylor, The Gospel According to St. Mark: The Greek Text with Introduction, Notes, and Indexes (London: Macmillan, 1952), 448; cf. W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1988–1997), 3:107: “one supposes that the crowd, hardened to roadside beggars, thinks the man a nuisance.” 25 Cf. Mark 7:28. Most scholars recognize that the episode emphasizes Bartimaeus’s praiseworthy faith and persistence (so Paul J. Achtemeier, “‘And He Followed Him’: Miracles and Discipleship in Mark 10:46–52,” in Early Christian Miracle Stories [ed. Robert W. Funk; Semeia 11; Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1978]: 115–45, here 118– 19). 26 Mark 5:21–43//Matt 9:18–26//Luke 8:40–56. 27 Mark 5:37, 40//Luke 8:51. Matthew says nothing about the healing being done in private. But the motif of Jesus’ seeking to perform healings out of the public eye is generally viewed as belonging to pre-Markan tradition. So Martin Dibelius, From Tradition to Gospel (trans. Bertram Lee Woolf; New York: Scribner, 1935), 94: the miracle worker “does not allow his action, i.e. God’s action, to be seen by profane eyes”; see also Theissen, Miracle Stories, 60; Eduard Schweizer, The Good News According to Mark (Richmond, Va.: John Knox, 1970), 65; Luz, “Secret Motif,” 77. Bultmann, History, 214, adduces further grounds for the pre-Markan nature of 5:37. 28 Mark 5:43: diestei/lato au0toi=j polla_ i3na mhdei\j gnoi= tou=to; Luke 8:56: o9 de\ parh/g geilen au0toi=j mhdeni\ ei0p ei=n to\ gegono/j . Luke’s language of “not telling anyone” is typical of other passages in Mark (1:44; 7:36). 29 Matthew omits the command to the parents not to tell anyone, but states that the report about the event spread (Matt 9:26) – as it inevitably would have!

Disobeying Jesus

77

any mention of disobedience to Jesus’ demand for secrecy, where, for once, it would have been entirely understandable.30 Similarly, Mark reports no disobedience in the healing of the blind man in Mark 8:22–26. Here again Jesus seems to want to perform his healing privately, for he leads the blind man “out of the village” (8:23) and, having healed him, sends him “to his home” with orders not to enter the village (8:26). In light of Jesus’ retreat from the village, it is likely that, for Mark, Jesus’ instructions were tantamount to a command not to publicize the miracle;31 certainly the manuscript tradition, which has tended to add an explicit command not to speak to anyone, understood Jesus to be enjoining silence.32 In any event, the man is not said to have disobeyed Jesus’ instructions. In addition to these instances in which the healed do not violate Jesus’ commands to secrecy, we should note that in most cases Jesus does not even issue such commands.33 Jesus does not order silence in the healings at Mark 1:29–31; 2:1–12; 3:1–6; 5:25–34; 9:14–27; or 10:46–52.34 Although 30 The absence of any violation of the command to secrecy is a problem for the “epiphanic” interpretation of the messianic secret (see below). So, for instance, Hans Jürgen Ebeling, an exponent of the epiphanic interpretation, is forced to argue that Mark intended the reader to assume that the parents would disobey Jesus and the secret would get out (Das Messiasgeheimnis und die Botschaft des Marcus-Evangelisten [BZNW 19; Berlin: A. Töpelmann, 1939], 133; cf. Kertelge, Wunder Jesu, 119). For Luz this episode actually pertains to the secret of Jesus’ identity as Messiah, and hence the fact that this miracle is kept secret is no exception, since the secrecy about Jesus’ identity is typically preserved (he claims that the raising of a dead person was so clearly the act of the Messiah that this miracle effectively revealed who Jesus was). 31 Bultmann (History, 213) and Theissen (Miracle Stories, 148) think that the original story concluded with the man simply being sent home, without any nuance of secrecy. On this interpretation, Mark has added the words “do not go into the village” to incorporate this episode into his secrecy theme, “home” being for Mark the opposite of “village,” as private from public. Räisänen (Messianic Secret, 163–65) thinks 8:26b is actually original to the pre-Markan story and does implicitly demand silence, but he thinks this is related to the secret of Jesus’ identity rather than his healing activity. Earl S. Johnson, “Mark 8:22–26: The Blind Man from Bethsaida,” NTS 25 (1979): 370–83, argues that 8:26b should be distinguished from Mark’s secrecy motifs. 32 Indeed, a significant minority of textual critics regards the command not to speak to anyone (found in a variety of forms in important early manuscripts) as the original reading. See the thorough discussion of the thorny textual issues in Yarbro Collins, Mark, 389–90. 33 Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 155–60, reviews the passages that appear to lack any demand for secrecy. 34 In fact, even the demons are not always silenced (Mark 5:7). For an attempt to show that such instances do not constitute genuine contradictions or inconsistencies, see Jack Dean Kingsbury, The Christology of Mark’s Gospel (Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1983), 13–21.

78

Jeremy F. Hultin

Jesus sometimes seeks privacy before performing a healing,35 he also heals under the direct scrutiny of crowds and authorities (Mark 2:1; 3:1).36 Although he tells the leper to talk to no one, he also orders the Gerasene demoniac to announce “all that the Lord had done.”37 It would be tempting to understand this particular reversal of Jesus’ silencing policy as an exception stemming from ethnic or geographical considerations: the demoniac is in Gentile territory, and he tells of Jesus’ deed in the Decapolis.38 But in Mark 7:24, Jesus seeks secrecy in Tyre. Thus, no pattern is easily discerned.39 And whatever the functions of the injunctions to secrecy, the narrative makes no effort to conceal the fact that secrecy about Jesus is not maintained: his reputation spreads quickly (Mark 1:28), attracting crowds (Mark 1:45), so that Jesus and the disciples cannot even eat (Mark 3:20; 6:31). Jesus’ hometown had heard of his miracles (Mark 6:2–3), as had Herod Antipas (Mark 6:14). Even in Jerusalem people knew him as “Son of David” (Mark 10:48) and as a messianic claimant (Mark 14:61).40

35

Mark 5:37, 40; 7:33; 8:23. The public nature of these healings cannot even be dismissed as incidental: these miracles must be public, for they are meant to legitimate the Son of Man’s authority (so Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 156). 37 Mark 5:18–20//Luke 8:38–39. It has been claimed that this episode actually conforms to the pattern of silencing and disobedience found in Mark 1:43–45 and 7:36. Wrede (The Messianic Secret, 140–41), Dibelius (Tradition, 74), and Theissen (Miracle Stories, 68, 146–47) find a note of disobedience in the contrast between Jesus’ instruction “go to your home” (ei0j to\n oi]ko/n sou, Mark 5:19) and the man’s subsequent proclamation in the Decapolis (5:20). It is true that oi]koj can have connotations of secrecy in Mark, as in Mark 7:24, where Jesus enters a house to avoid notice, and in 8:26, where the healed man is sent “to his home” (ei0j oi]kon au0tou=) in explicit contrast to entering “into the village” (ei0j th\n kw&mhn). But since in Mark 5:19 Jesus instructs the man to go to his “home” and to his “people,” Mark surely implies that the man was meant to address a wider circle (Taylor, Mark, 284). Furthermore, there is a kai/ between Jesus’ command and the demoniac’s departure, not the disjunctive de/ of 1:45 and 7:36 (Sjöberg, Menschensohn, 153). 38 So Taylor, Mark, 285; Wrede, The Messianic Secret, 140 n. 30, lists older scholars of this opinion. 39 Cf. E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1985), 159: “It is not to be supposed that Mark or any of the other evangelists knew the actual interconnections among Jesus’ fame, his intention, his healing and his preaching.” For further criticism of any appeal to a precise geographical schema that would eliminate inconsistencies, see Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 154–56. 40 On the Markan passages that note the spread of Jesus’ fame, see Kingsbury, Christology, 78–80, and Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 224–41. 36

Disobeying Jesus

79

The Place of Disobedience in Theories of the Messianic Secret Thus one of the puzzles of the secrecy motifs is the sheer inconsistency with which they are worked out. Jesus is presented as striving for secrecy, but he is also well known. William Wrede famously argued that the secrecy motifs – which he insisted were pre-Markan in origin (hence the inconsistency of their deployment) – were meant chiefly to account for two different ways of conceiving Jesus’ messiahship. In the original conception, Jesus became Messiah only at his resurrection (Acts 2:36; Rom 1:4). At a later point in time, when Jesus’ earthly life was “being filled materially with messianic content,”41 some explanation was needed for why he had not been known as Messiah during his lifetime. The various motifs of secrecy were efforts to deal with this disparity: although Jesus was already Messiah, this was not widely known because his disciples failed to understand him, and because he silenced those who recognized him.42 Wrede also found in Jesus’ instructions to the disciples not to speak of the transfiguration until the resurrection (Mark 9:9) the key to unlock the variegated secrecy motifs, for this pointed to the conviction that who Jesus truly was could be understood only after the resurrection;43 prior to that there was only secrecy, misunderstanding, and parables.44 It will be immediately clear that the instances in which people disobey Jesus’ commands to be silent are singularly ill-suited to address the christological discrepancy Wrede identified, for they portray many people talking about who Jesus was and what he could do, and talking about him during his lifetime – precisely what, ex hypothesi, had not been taking place.45

41

Wrede, The Messianic Secret, 229 (emphasis removed). In a variation of Wrede’s thesis, Dibelius also argued for an apologetic function: efforts at secrecy were meant to account for why Jesus was so often rejected (Tradition). For a more recent variation on the apologetic explanation, see Francis Watson, “The Social Function of Mark’s Secrecy Theme,” JSNT 24 (1985): 49–69. 43 Wrede, The Messianic Secret, 114. 44 Several other scholars, although differing from Wrede in important details, have shared the view that Mark 9:9 must hold the key to Mark’s use of secrecy motifs. But rather than finding here an apologetic motive, they have argued that, in one form or another, the secrecy motifs are meant to point to a theology of the cross, either countering a divine man Christology and an undue emphasis on Jesus’ miracles, or even functioning as a polemic against particular factions of the nascent Christian movement (especially the Jerusalem church). See the discussions of Percy, Strecker, Conzelmann, Weeden, and Luz in The Messianic Secret (ed. Christopher M. Tuckett; IRT 1; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1983), 15–19; and cf. Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 154–55. 45 See the criticism offered by James D. G. Dunn, “The Messianic Secret in Mark,” in Tuckett, The Messianic Secret, 120–22; cf. Tuckett, The Messianic Secret, 26 n. 48, for a list of scholars who have expressed similar objections. 42

80

Jeremy F. Hultin

It is not clear how the portrayal of people disobeying Jesus’ injunctions to silence would address the fact that he was not widely known as Messiah. Along lines similar to Wrede, Dibelius argued that the commands to secrecy were intended not only to explain why Jesus was not more widely known as Messiah, but also “to show that Jesus did not wish Himself to be honoured as a miracle worker.”46 But again, such a view struggles to account for the disobedience to Jesus’ commands to silence. How could Mark be correcting a miracle-worker Christology when he draws attention to the profound impression Jesus’ miracles made on all who heard about them (Mark 7:36–37)?47 One analysis of the messianic secret that did focus on the breaking of the commands to silence was that of H. J. Ebeling.48 Ebeling argued that this theme was a literary device whereby the reader is shown that Jesus’ glory is ultimately irresistible.49 According to his interpretation, the motif of secrecy primarily increases the value of the revelation for the reader.50 Ebeling’s claim – that Jesus’ inability to keep his own secret was intended to emphasize the value of the revelation – has been adopted in various ways even by scholars who are critical of certain aspects of his study.51 Wrede himself acknowledged the problem created by the disobedience of Jesus’ commands to silence, remarking that this seems to wreck any consistent purpose for the secrecy motif and therefore to indicate that these notices are not a Markan creation (Messianic Secret, 17, 125–29); part of the explanation, suggests Wrede, could lie in the fact that Mark has taken over various traditional materials, only some of which included the motif of secrecy (125). But in Wrede’s view, the pattern of command to secrecy and violation of this command cannot fully be accounted for by appeal to Mark’s sources. Wrede insists that Mark does take Jesus’ commands to silence seriously, and yet Mark cannot have wanted to convey that Jesus’ “most characteristic intention was frustrated” (127). Since Mark repeatedly draws attention to the fact that Jesus’ commands to secrecy were violated, this must be “an idea of positive value to the author,” and not a matter of mere inconsistency. The positive value Wrede describes as follows: “[Jesus’] glory emerges from the fact that he wanted to remain hidden yet is at once confessed. The simple reader of the Bible understands the evangelist when he encounters in these remarks something with a triumphant ring about it” (128). Here Wrede essentially anticipates the thesis of Ebeling, on whom, see below. 46 Dibelius, Tradition, 223. 47 See especially the critique by Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 154. 48 Ebeling, Das Messiasgeheimnis. 49 Ibid., 135–36, 170–72. 50 Minette de Tilesse, Le secret, 249–51, sees all the injunctions to silence – of demons, disciples, and the healed – as Markan creations, in explicit agreement with Ebeling. 51 In particular Luz, “Secret Motif,” and Adela Yarbro Collins, who has impressively augmented and refined the insights of Ebeling and Dibelius by means of a comparative history of religions approach (“Messianic Secret and the Gospel of Mark: Secrecy in Jewish Apocalypticism, the Hellenistic Mystery Religions, and Magic,” in Rending the

Disobeying Jesus

81

Yet Ebeling’s “epiphanic” theory cannot easily explain why the commands to silence are often obeyed,52 why the secrecy was demanded only until the resurrection (Mark 9:9),53 or why there are so many miracles in which Jesus does not enjoin silence. If this were a literary device on Mark’s part to bring out the irrepressible glory of Jesus, why not have the commands broken more regularly? Furthermore, it is unclear how Ebeling’s theory accounts for the fact that the disciples – despite everything they get wrong – never break Jesus’ command to conceal his identity. In short, it is this combination of secrecy and secrecy broken that creates problems for various interpretations of the messianic secret.54 I believe that this inconsistency is one of several indications that the secrecy motifs had disparate origins (e.g., exorcistic rites, esoteric teaching, concealing r9h/seij barbarikai/, and so on) and predate Mark (see further in the appendix). But setting aside for the moment the question of origin, we must now address the question of purpose. What problem could the motif of Jesus’ trying to maintain secrecy but failing to do so have addressed? What previously has not been proposed is that this motif arose in response to a particular set of social and political realities, and was intended to exonerate Jesus of his apparent disregard for the way his reputation as a wonderworker would have endangered his fellow Jews. When political factors have been invoked in addressing the messianic secret, it has usually been to claim either that Jesus sought secrecy to avoid having a popular, “political” conception of messiahship forced on him,55 or else that Jesus Veil: Concealment and Secrecy in the History of Religions [ed. Elliot R. Wolfson; New York; London: Seven Bridges, 1999], 11–30; and Yarbro Collins, Mark, 170–72, 180, 374). Many scholars acknowledge that Ebeling’s theory works nicely for individual passages. So, e.g., Kertelge, Wunder Jesu, 70: in Mark 1:45 and 7:36, breaking the command is the goal of each pericope; Guelich, Mark, 79: “The man’s conduct in 1:45 would then represent not so much an act of disobedience as the impossibility of Jesus’ healings remaining hidden”; Légasse, L’Évangile de Marc, 1:142–43 (on Mark 1:45): by contravening the order to be silent, the recipients of miracles trigger popular enthusiasm, and thus work for the glory of their benefactor. Cf. Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 62 n. 101. Some ancient commentaries already suggested that violating the commands was primarily meant to have an impact on the reader; Bede drew a practical exhortation from the disobedience in Mark 7:36: volebat ostendere quanto studiosius quantoque ferventius eum praedicare debeant quibus iubet ut praedicent, “Mark wants to show how much more diligently and fervently those who are commanded to preach him should do so” (cited in Swete, Mark, 162 [my translation]). 52 See the trenchant criticisms of Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 60–62, 168, and Guelich’s critique of Luz (Mark, 76); see also my comments above in note 30. 53 Noted by Georg Strecker, “The Theory of the Messianic Secret in Mark’s Gospel,” in Tuckett, The Messianic Secret, 58. 54 Tuckett, The Messianic Secret, 15; Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 168. 55 So Johannes Weiss, Das älteste Evangelium: Ein Beitrag zum Verständnis des Markus-Evangeliums und der ältesten evangelischen Überlieferung (Göttingen: Vanden-

82

Jeremy F. Hultin

avoided publicity to keep himself from harm.56 To my knowledge no one has suggested that this was a motif meant to show that Jesus was concerned for how his activity might have endangered others. We turn now to review some of the evidence that illustrates the “politically precarious situation of urban Jewish communities . . . dependent as they often were on protection from Rome.”57 Throughout the first century, in the Diaspora as well as in Palestine, there was a mutually reinforcing oscillation between local Gentile hostility and misguided or malicious government policy toward Jewish communities.58

The Politically Precarious Situation of Jews in the First-Century Mediterranean World Various Roman leaders had guaranteed the right of Jews to live according to their ancestral customs, including the ability to make annual donations to the temple, the right to settle disputes within their own communities, and freedom from obligations on the Sabbath.59 But there is also evidence hoeck & Ruprecht, 1903), 236; W. Sanday, “The Injunctions to Silence in the Gospels,” JTS 5 (1904): 321–29 (especially 324); Oscar Cullmann, Shirley C. Guthrie, and Charles A. M. Hall, The Christology of the New Testament (Philadelphia, Pa.: Westminster, 1959), 124; W. Manson, “The Life of Jesus: Some Tendencies in Present-day Research,” in The Background of the New Testament and Its Eschatology (ed. W. D. Davies and D. Daube; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1954), 211–21, here 216; Dunn, “Messianic Secret,” 127. 56 So Taylor, Mark, 377 (“counsel of prudence”), but cf. ibid., 123. Theissen, “Pragmatische Bedeutung,” 227, also notes that as Jesus’ secret gets out, the danger to him increases. So already Origen, Cels. 1.61: “But it is not disgraceful carefully to avoid running straight into dangers . . .”; Cels. 1.65: Jesus “was careful not to meet dangers unnecessarily or at the wrong time or for no good reason” (trans. Chadwick). 57 Paula Fredriksen, “Judaism, the Circumcision of Gentiles, and Apocalyptic Hope: Another look at Galatians 1 and 2,” JTS n.s. 42 (1991): 532–64, here 558. 58 One thinks of the opening of Emil Schürer’s chapter on the Roman procurators: “It might be thought, from the record of the Roman procurators . . . that they all, as if by secret arrangement, systematically and deliberately set out to drive the people to revolt” (The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ [175 B.C.–A.D. 135] [rev. and ed. Géza Vermès et al.; 3 vols. in 4; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1973], 1:455). Richard Horsley (Bandits, Prophets, and Messiahs: Popular Movements in the Time of Jesus [Minneapolis, Minn.: Winston, 1985], 35) is more generous in his assessment: “The Romans took considerable care to be sensitive to Jewish religious scruples in their handling of Palestinian Jewish affairs. Nevertheless, as was virtually inevitable in a situation of imperial domination . . . they blundered into occasional provocations. . . .” 59 This summary is drawn from John G. Gager, The Origins of Anti-Semitism: Attitudes toward Judaism in Pagan and Christian Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), 41. See the collection of ancient texts establishing Jewish rights (with bib-

Disobeying Jesus

83

of periodic hostility toward Jews on the part of emperors and local rulers, as well as on the part of the Jews’ Gentile neighbors. The overall situation has been construed quite differently. To cite but two representatives of the scholarly divide: Erich Gruen concludes from his broad and careful study that Jews lived with “self-assurance and comfort in the Greek-speaking lands of the Mediterranean”;60 H. Dixon Slingerland, on the other hand, perceives a pattern of “continuous imperial antipathy towards the foreign cult” of the Jews.61 Naturally, the different conclusions result from different assessments of the data. For instance, the record of Greek and Roman opinions about Jews and Judaism includes both expressions of admiration and expressions of mistrust, hostility, and even loathing.62 How widespread were these respective views?63 How relevant, for instance, would the negative stereotypes of Jews be for a Jewish embassy to the emperor? liography) in Jewish Life and Thought among Greeks and Romans: Primary Readings (ed. Louis H. Feldman and Meyer Reinhold; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1996), 81–92. Josephus, in particular, describes at great length the rights guaranteed to the Jews (Ant. 14.185–267; 16.160–178). For scholarly analysis, see E. Mary Smallwood, The Jews under Roman Rule: From Pompey to Diocletian (SJLA 20; Leiden: Brill, 1981); Tessa Rajak, “Jewish Rights in the Greek Cities under Roman Rule: A New Approach,” in Studies in Judaism in Its Greco-Roman Context (vol. 5 of Approaches to Ancient Judaism, ed. William Scott Green; BJS 32; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1985), 19–35; Tessa Rajak, “Was There a Roman Charter for the Jews?” JRS 74 (1984): 107–23; Aryeh Kasher, The Jews in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt: The Struggle for Equal Rights (TSAJ 7; Tübingen: Mohr, 1985); Miriam Pucci Ben Zeev, Jewish Rights in the Roman World: The Greek and Roman Documents Quoted by Josephus Flavius (TSAJ 74; Tübingen: Mohr, 1998); Hannah M. Cotton, “Jewish Jurisdiction under Roman Rule,” in Zwischen den Reichen: Neues Testament und Römische Herrschaft (ed. Michael Labahn and Jürgen Zangenberg; TANZ 36; Tübingen: Francke, 2002), 13–28. 60 Erich S. Gruen, Diaspora: Jews amidst Greeks and Romans (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2002), 212; cf. H. Dixon Slingerland, Claudian Policymaking and the Early Imperial Repression of Judaism at Rome (SFSHJ 160; Atlanta Ga.: Scholars Press, 1997), 11 n. 11, who gives a representative series of quotations from historians who view Roman policy toward the Jews as generally favorable. 61 Slingerland, Claudian Policymaking, 87. 62 The largest collection of evidence is Menahem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism (3 vols.; Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974–1984). Feldman and Reinhold, Jewish Life, have conveniently divided sample quotations into categories such as “Pro-Jewish Attitudes by Intellectuals” (105–22) and “Criticism and Hostility towards Jews” (305–95), with topical bibliography. 63 Slingerland emphasizes both the currency and the potency of the slander; Gager and Gruen emphasize the positive assessment of the Jews and suggest that the more fantastic slurs against them were never taken seriously. Cf. the survey of past scholarship on these questions in Leonard Victor Rutgers, “Review: Attitudes to Judaism in the Greco-Roman Period: Reflections on Feldman’s Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World,” JQR 85 (1995): 361–95; and the response: Louis H. Feldman, “Reflections on Rutgers’s ‘Attitudes to Judaism in the Greco-Roman Period,’” JQR 86 (July, 1995): 153–69.

84

Jeremy F. Hultin

Slingerland reaches his own more pessimistic conclusion as a result of reading between the lines of Philo’s Legatio and Flaccus; he notes how hard Philo must work – and how many unpleasant episodes he must omit – to make it appear that imperial policy toward Jews had been generally benevolent. Philo and Josephus attempt to claim that, with the exception of the occasional bad governor or emperor, Jewish rights were widely respected; but the facts seem to tell a less encouraging story.64 So far as official Roman policy goes, Leonard Rutgers reached the judicious conclusion that “the constant factor in Roman policy toward the Jews was that there was no such constant factor.”65 The Jews’ independence, right to practice their ancestral customs, and indeed their very safety, were sometimes threatened; on more than one occasion Jews were the victims of imperial decrees and of mob violence. Some of the historical details are muddled in our sources, and are subjects of scholarly controversy. However, for the present thesis, it will be sufficient to show that throughout the time that traditions about Jesus were circulating and the gospels were being written, Roman authorities dealt vigorously with any disturbance to order. As a result, many Jews were at pains to present an image of themselves as peaceful defenders of that order, and tried to deal preemptively with potential troublemakers lest Rome intervene directly. According to several ancient sources, in 19 C.E. Jews were expelled from Rome.66 The ancient accounts and the modern evaluations67 vary so significantly that even summarizing the facts is difficult. Whether the problem was excessive Jewish proselytism (so Cassius Dio; Smallwood), or some sort of unruly behavior (Williams), or a Roman hostility to foreign rites,68 what is clear is that “Rome was determined to restore law and or-

64

Note for instance that Philo fails to mention the fact that Jews were banished from Rome under Tiberius (John M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora: From Alexander to Trajan [323 BCE–117 CE] [Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996], 298 n. 41). Slingerland points out how little of these Jewish troubles we would know were we reliant solely on Philo and Josephus (Claudian Policymaking, 15). 65 Leonard Victor Rutgers, “Roman Policy towards the Jews: Expulsions from the City of Rome during the First Century C.E.,” Classical Antiquity 13 (1994): 56–74, here 73. 66 Josephus, Ant. 18.63–84; Tacitus, Ann. 2.85; Suetonius, Tib. 36; Cassius Dio 57.18.5. 67 Cf. M. H. Williams, “The Expulsion of the Jews from Rome in AD 19,” Latomus 48 (1989): 765–84; Rutgers, “Roman Policy”; Smallwood, The Jews Under Roman Rule, 202–10; Slingerland, Claudian Policymaking, 51–63. 68 The followers of Isis were simultaneously expelled. For doubts that this expulsion arose from proselytism, see Martin Goodman, “Jewish Proselytizing in the First Century,” in The Jews among Pagans and Christians: In the Roman Empire (ed. Judith Lieu, John A. North, and Tessa Rajak; London: Routledge, 1992), 53–78, here 70.

Disobeying Jesus

85

der”69 and, toward this end, expelled Jews. (In the same year, Germanicus deprived Alexandrian Jews of their share of the grain distribution [Josephus, C. Ap. 2.63–64].) A decade later, Sejanus’s much more ambitious and menacing designs against the Jews70 must have created a significant scare, and likely persuaded many Jews that they “could no longer be confident about the emperor’s attitude to their concerns. . . .”71 Under Claudius there was also an expulsion of Jews from Rome. The sources for this event (or events) are thoroughly confusing.72 Claudius may have expelled the Jews,73 or forbidden them to meet together.74 It is difficult to determine whether the ancient reports refer to two separate events (repression in 41 C.E. and expulsion in 49), or are somewhat garbled references to a single event. What is clear is that Claudius’s “actions underlined the insecurity of the political status of the Jews in Rome and rendered them susceptible to suspicion or scorn.”75 Slingerland has forged an impressive argument that Claudius was, in fact, consistently hostile to Jewish interests; and at the same time that he was setting upon Jews in Rome, he also responded harshly to the Jewish delegation from Alexandria. The Jews of Alexandria had suffered terrible pogroms in 38 C.E.,76 and Flaccus declared Jews “foreigners and aliens” (Flacc. 54). The ensuing embassy to Gaius, headed by Philo, received no favorable response. Rather, it first endured the terrifying prospect of Gaius erecting his statue in the Jerusalem temple (Legat. 184–196; cf. Josephus, Ant. 18.259–309), and suffered the indignity of his anti-Jewish slurs (Legat. 361).77 Gaius also 69

Rutgers, “Roman Policy,” 65. According to Philo (Legat. 159–161), Sejanus invented slanders against the Jews because he wanted to destroy the entire nation. If Philo also devoted an entire work (now lost) to events under Sejanus, as indicated by Legat. 1 and Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 2.5.6–7, then “the threat was presumably serious” (Smallwood, Jews under Roman Rule, 202 n. 5). (On the likelihood that Philo did write a work on Sejanus, see Pieter Willem van der Horst, Philo’s “Flaccus”: The First Pogrom: Introduction, Translation, and Commentary [PACS 2; Leiden: Brill, 2003], 70.) 71 Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora, 301; on Sejanus’s policy, see Smallwood, Jews under Roman Rule, 165–66, 201–2, 208–9; Horst, Philo’s “Flaccus,” 89–90. 72 Cf. Slingerland, Claudian Policymaking, 89–129; Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora, 303–6; Smallwood, Jews under Roman Rule, 210–16. 73 So Acts 18:2; Suetonius, Claudius 25.4; and Orosius, Adv. pag. 7.6.15–16, who places the event in 49 C.E. 74 So Cassius Dio 60.6.6–7, who seems to place this in 41 C.E. 75 Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora, 306. 76 Philo, Flacc. 53–96. 77 On the events in Alexandria from 38 to 41, see Smallwood, Jews under Roman Rule, 220–55; Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora, 48–78. 70

86

Jeremy F. Hultin

imprisoned Philo’s brother, Alexander the Alabarch (Josephus, Ant. 19.276). In 41 C.E. Claudius finally heard the embassies from Alexandria. In Josephus’s telling, this old friend of Agrippa I sided squarely with the Jews.78 But Claudius’s actual letter (P.Lond. 1912; CPJ 153) suggests that he was rather more threatening toward the Jewish faction. Claudius did command the Alexandrians to behave “gently and kindly toward the Jews,” and to allow them to observe their religious customs (CPJ 153.82–87). But when he turns to the Jews, his tone is of “utmost violence.”79 He declared that he held within himself “a store of immutable indignation against those who renewed the conflict” (CPJ 153.78), referring in all likelihood to the Jews, who had, upon his ascension, taken revenge on the Greeks (Josephus, Ant. 19.278–279). He was indignant that the Jews had sent two embassies (CPJ 153.90–91), and he warned them not to bring other Jews into Alexandria from Syria or Egypt, “or I shall be forced to conceive graver suspicions.” Should the Jews disobey, he would “proceed against them in every way as fomenting a common plague for the whole world” (CPJ 153.96–100). Although Claudius urged both the Jews and the Alexandrians to live peaceably, the door was now open for charges against Jews to be especially explosive. The Alexandrian Isidoros took advantage of precisely this readiness “to conceive graver suspicions” when he accused the Jews, before Claudius, of “wishing to stir up the entire world.”80 This anti-Jewish tactic was used multiple times in the Acts of the Pagan Martyrs.81 Like-

78

Josephus, Ant. 19.280–285; so Smallwood, Jews under Roman Rule, 246 (but cf. 250). Slingerland, Claudian Policymaking, argues, with considerable force, that Josephus’s portrait of Claudius as friendly to the Jews has been received too credulously by modern historians. On Claudius’s letter to the Alexandrians, in particular, see ibid., 131– 50. 79 Arnaldo Momigliano, Claudius: The Emperor and His Achievement (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1981), 34. Kasher, The Jews in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt, 326, views Claudius’s tone as less severe. 80 o3lhn th\n oi0koume/nhn tara&ssein (Acta Isidori Rec. C col. ii.23 = Herbert Musurillo, The Acts of the Pagan Martyrs: Acta Alexandrinorum [Oxford: Clarendon, 1954], 23). On this incident, see Smallwood, Jews under Roman Rule, 250–55 (who notes that the date of the trial is not entirely clear), and H. I. Bell, “Anti-Semitism in Alexandria,” JRS 31 (1941): 1–18, here 9–13. One can easily recognize the potency of the charge Tertullus brings against Paul before Felix in Acts 24:5: eu9ro/ntej ga\r to\n a1ndra tou=ton loimo\n [cf. no/soj in Claudius’s edict] kai\ kinou=nta sta&seij pa~sin toi=j 0Ioudai/oij toi=j kata_ th\n oi0koume/nhn.

81 Musurillo, Pagan Martyrs, 58: “the impious Jews” are a risk to “attack and ravage our well-named city.” On the anti-Jewish tenor that runs through the Acts of the Pagan Martyrs, see ibid., 256–57, 263–64.

Disobeying Jesus

87

wise Apion, in his polemic against the Jews, claimed that they lacked loyalty to Rome and should be regarded with suspicion.82 Josephus mentions tensions between Jews and Greeks in Alexandria from 41 C.E. onward, resulting in huge loss of life in the riots under Tiberius Julius Alexander (B.J. 2.489–498).83 The Alexandrians, planning a delegation to Rome (no doubt carrying further accusations against the Jews),84 claimed that the Jews in their midst were “spies” and “enemies” (B.J. 2.490–491). The resulting fracas was settled by Roman troops in the most savage manner. If the charge that Jews were a menace to society got traction in the first half of the first century, it was to become even more forceful after the war with Rome. The element I would like to draw attention to here is that the Jewish desire to distance themselves from any hint of sedition exhibits itself in their proactively policing the sorts of troublemakers who might invite Roman intervention. For instance, Josephus states that following 70, some Sicarii escaped to Alexandria. In response to this “infiltration,” “the leaders of the council of elders, thinking it no longer safe for them to overlook their proceedings, convened a general assembly of the Jews and exposed the madnesss of the Sicarii” (B.J. 7.412). These leaders advised the assembly “to beware of the ruin with which they were menaced by these men and, by delivering them up, to make their peace with the Romans” (B.J. 7.412–414). This was surely sensible: the mere report of ongoing disturbances in Egypt led Vespasian, “suspicious of the interminable tendency of the Jews to revolution,” to shut down the temple at Leontopolis (B.J. 7.420–436). In Cyrene, one “Jonathan the Weaver” led people85 into the desert for “signs and apparitions.”86 The Jewish reaction reveals the social and political pressure to appear loyal: they reported Jonathan’s movements to the 82 Josephus, C. Ap. 2.33–78; Ant. 18.257–259; note especially C. Ap. 2.68 for the accusation of “fomenting sedition.” 83 Cf. Robert A. Kraft, “Tiberius Julius Alexander and the Crisis in Alexandria According to Josephus,” in Of Scribes and Scrolls: Studies on the Hebrew Bible, Intertestamental Judaism, and Christian Origins (ed. Harold W. Attridge, John J. Collins, and Thomas H. Tobin; College Theology Society Resources in Religion 5; Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1990), 175–84. 84 See Steve Mason, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, vol. 1b, Judean War 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 353 n. 3010. 85 Josephus, eager as ever to restrict such behavior to the rabble, says that Jonathan drew followers “from the indigent classes” (tw~n a)po/rwn, B.J. 7.438). 86 On the episode we are, unfortunately, reliant solely on Josephus (B.J. 7.437–450; Vita 424). Cf. Smallwood, Jews under Roman Rule, 369–70; Christoph RiedoEmmenegger, Prophetisch-messianische Provokateure der Pax Romana: Jesus von Nazaret und andere Störenfriede im Konflikt mit dem Römischen Reich (NOTA 56 = SUNT 56; Fribourg: Academic Press, 2005), 257–60.

88

Jeremy F. Hultin

Roman governor: “The men of rank among the Jews reported his exodus and preparations to Catullus, the governor of the Libyan Pentapolis” (B.J. 7.439). Thus for this individual to go out into the wilderness in expectation of miraculous signs was perceived as endangering even those Jews not involved with his activity. (Many of those who did follow Jonathan were killed by Roman troops [B.J. 7.440].) Roman suspicions of the Jews were sufficiently high that the moment was ripe for false accusations. According to Josephus, Catullus took advantage of this state of affairs to deal with private grudges and to confiscate property by having Jonathan impugn some Jews in Alexandria and in Rome (Josephus himself was named!) with the charge of sedition. Vespasian did not believe the story and Jonathan was tortured and burned alive (B.J. 7.450).87 If we turn from Rome and Alexandria to Antioch similar threats are found. According to Johannes Malalas, there was an anti-Jewish riot in Antioch in 39–40 C.E.88 Again in 67, one Jew accused his fellow Jews of wanting to burn the town; as a result of the suspicions this aroused, observance of Sabbath was itself viewed as indicating treasonous intent, and, according to Josephus, the day of rest was abolished not only in Antioch, but for a while, also in other cities (B.J. 7.51–53).89 Following the war, the Greeks availed themselves of the opportunity to request that Jewish rights be diminished.90 In Palestine the nature of the relationship with Rome was, of course, different, but still Jewish leaders understood that it was their duty to maintain order lest the Romans intervene.91 A few examples illustrate the pres-

87

Riedo-Emmenegger’s observations about this episode confirm precisely the point I am trying to make: “Dabei zeigt Josephus auch ganz genau, was in solchen Fällen die Aufgabe der lokalen jüdischen Eliten ist: das aufmerksame Beobachten umstürzlerischer Aktivitäten und deren rechtzeitige Meldung an die verantwortlichen römischen Behörden. Damit erweisen sich die lokalen jüdischen Eliten nicht nur als loyale Provinzbewohner, sondern sie leisten auch einen bedeutsamen Beitrag zur Sicherheit und Stabilität einer Provinz und damit der römischen Sicherheitsinteressen. Nur mit einem solchen Verhalten werden sich die Juden und Jüdinnen auch weiterhin der religiösen Privilegien im römischen Imperium erfreuen können” (Prophetisch-messianische, 260). 88 Smallwood, Jews under Roman Rule, 360–61; Glanville Downey, A History of Antioch in Syria: From Seleucus to the Arab Conquest (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1961), 193–95. 89 Smallwood, Jews under Roman Rule, 361–64. 90 B.J. 7.54–62; Smallwood, Jews under Roman Rule, 363–64. 91 See E. P Sanders, The Historical Figure of Jesus (London: Allen Lane/Penguin, 1993), 25–27, 265–68. In Palestine there were also hostilities with Gentile neighbors, and indeed the extent of latent hostility felt by Greeks toward the Jews in Palestine and Syria can be seen in the number of Jewish casualties at the outbreak of the war with Rome: 20,000 in Caesarea; 2,000 in Ptolemais; 10,000 or 18,000 in Damascus (this point is

Disobeying Jesus

89

sure on the high priest to maintain order. Around the year 50 C.E. fighting broke out between Samaritans and Jews from Galilee and Judaea (B.J. 2.232–246; Ant. 20.118–136). The “rulers and magistrates” from Judaea tried to prevent the people of Jerusalem from joining the mayhem. They pursued the youth in sackcloth and ashes, warned them that by their impetuous actions they would “bring down the wrath of the Romans on Jerusalem,” and also urged them to “take pity on their country and sanctuary, on their own wives and children” (B.J. 2.237). When the dust settled, it was Jewish notables, including the former high priests Jonathan and Ananus, who were summoned to Rome to give an account of their people’s conduct (B.J. 2.232–246). Because the Jewish aristocracy might be held accountable for disruptive behavior, it made sense for them to report insurgents to the Romans lest their own loyalties be called into question. Even the random prophet predicting doom for the temple, as in the case of Jesus son of Ananias, warranted the attention of the Jewish leaders. In this case they interrogated and flogged Jesus, and handed him over to the Romans (B.J. 7.300–309). The leaders wanted to show that they were doing their part to maintain order, even when it concerned only an unarmed prophet. This survey should be sufficient to demonstrate that, as Paula Fredriksen has put it, when the proclamation about Jesus reached the ears of the Gentile urban populations, it posed a risk for Jews. “Armed with such a report, they [Gentiles] might readily seek to alienate the local Roman colonial government, upon which Jewish urban populations often depended for support and protection against hostile Gentile neighbours. The open dissemination of a Messianic message, in other words, put the entire Jewish community at risk.”92 As a result of this risk, it is easy to understand the image of their communities that Jews were eager to put forth to Romans: they supported the Roman order;93 they did not like seditious elements, whom the Romans had every right to punish;94 and they were allies in maintaining peace. A made by Fredriksen, “Judaism, the Circumcision of Gentiles, and Apocalyptic Hope,” 56). 92 Fredriksen, “Judaism, the Circumcision of Gentiles, and Apocalyptic Hope,” 556 (emphasis added). 93 Philo, Flacc. 86–94; Legat. 230, 312. This included supporting the emperor (Flacc. 48–49, 97–98; Legat. 133, 141–154, 231–232, 279–280, 355–356); see Horst, Philo’s “Flaccus,” 149, for literature on Philo’s encomia toward the emperors. 94 When Philo criticizes those who offend rulers, he notes that they endanger not only themselves but all those around them: “Surely then they are all lunatics and madmen who take pains to display untimely frankness, and sometimes dare to oppose kings and tyrants in words and deeds. They do not perceive that not only like cattle are their necks under the yoke, but that the harness extends to their whole bodies and souls, their wives

90

Jeremy F. Hultin

central plank in Philo’s argument in Flaccus was that Jews were a peaceful people.95 Would it not have been difficult in such an environment to speak of Jesus’ activities without provoking those who wanted to emphasize Jewish orderliness? To speak of Jesus’ drawing crowds by his miracles would be to speak of precisely the sort of activity that had endangered Jewish rights. To draw this section of the argument to a conclusion: there is ample evidence that throughout much of the first century Jews could be vulnerable to the accusation of disloyalty to the empire. Conversely, any disfavor on the part of the authorities could expose Jews to violence from Gentiles. Hence, Jews who wanted to negotiate this delicate situation were eager to claim that they were a people who would never be a source of instability in the empire, and would turn over potentially inflammatory elements. According to my thesis, Jesus should be depicted as attempting to keep quiet those activities that were liable to disturb the pax Romana. Because the motif under question depicts Jesus as unable to conceal his wonderworking,96 we should also note that the Romans viewed popular Jewish prophets – especially when they drew crowds – as a threat to the stability of their rule.97 Promise of miraculous signs was provocation enough to invite Roman intervention,98 as the following episodes make clear.99 and children and parents, and the wide circle of friends and kinsfolk united to them by fellowship of feeling, and that the driver can with perfect ease spur, drive on or pull back, and mete out any treatment small or great just as he pleases. And therefore they are branded and scourged and mutilated and undergo a combination of all the sufferings which merciless cruelty can inflict short of death, and finally are led away to death itself” (Philo, Somn. 2.83–84, F. H. Colson and G. H. Whitaker, LCL, emphasis added). 95 On this theme in the Flaccus, see Horst, Philo’s “Flaccus,” 17–18. Philo (Flacc. 89–90) claims that Flaccus’s absurd search for weapons among the Jews turned up nothing because the Jews not only hid no arms but lacked even ordinary kitchen knives! 96 The political volatility of his miracles would have been all the more pronounced if, as is often claimed, they were taken as evidence of a messianic identity (so already, Wrede, The Messianic Secret, 80; see below on John 6 and 11). 97 So Riedo-Emmenegger, who notes that the fact that the Romans reacted with considerable military force even against unarmed prophets demonstrates conclusively that such figures were viewed as serious threats to Roman order: “Das rasche und harte Eingreifen der römischen Besatzungsmacht in diesen Fällen beweist, dass die politisch Verantwortlichen diese Gruppen als ‚anti-römisch‘ und als schwere Gefährdung der römischen Ordnung einschätzten” (Prophetisch-messianische, 310). Cf. Rutgers, “Roman Policy,” 70. 98 Theissen’s rhetorical question (Miracle Stories, 233), “Wie konnte er trotz so vieler Wunder am Ende hingerichtet werden?” has the matter backwards: Jesus’ wonders drew the (unwelcome) attention that led to his arrest and execution; it is not despite the miracles, but because of them. 99 For the sociology of these prophets and their followers, see Horsley, Bandits, Prophets, and Messiahs, 160–89.

Disobeying Jesus

91

– When the Samaritan prophet promised to uncover the sacred vessels Moses had buried on Mt. Gerizim, Pilate put to death both the leaders and the “influential” among the fugitives. (Ant. 18.85–89) – Under Cuspius Fadus (44–46) Theudas promised to part the Jordan. Roman soldiers killed or imprisoned many of his followers, and sent Theudas’s head back to Jerusalem. (Ant.. 20.97–99; cf. Acts 5:36) – Felix (52–60) punished various prophets who promised “marvels and signs” (Ant. 20.167–168; B.J. 2.258–260). And Felix used the heavy infantry to put a halt to the adventures of the Egyptian prophet. (Ant. 20.169–172; B.J. 2.261–263; cf. Acts 21:38) – Under Festus (60–62), a prophet promised “salvation” and an end of evils if people would follow him into the desert. Festus had him and his followers put to death. (Ant. 20.188)

The Gospel of John preserves the connection, on the one hand, between miracles and political aspirations, and, on the other hand, between miracles and the violent intervention of the Romans. In John 6, after the feeding of the five thousand, the people conclude that Jesus is “the prophet,” and want to make him king by force (John 6:14–15).100 The political implications of the miracle – and the volatile situation thereby created – are unmistakable.101 Similarly in John 11:47–51, the Jewish leaders give voice to the fear that Jesus’ signs – most recently, his raising of Lazarus – constitute a threat to the nation: So the chief priests and the Pharisees called a meeting of the council, and said, “What are we to do? This man is performing many signs. If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation.” But one of them, Caiaphas, who was high priest that year, said to them, “You know nothing at all! You do not understand that it is better for you to have one man die for the people than to have the whole nation destroyed.”

As E. P. Sanders has put it, “When Caiaphas ordered Jesus to be arrested, he was carrying out his duties, one of the chief of which was to prevent

100

On implicit logic of the passage, see Wayne A. Meeks, The Prophet-King: Moses Traditions and the Johannine Christology (NovTSup 14; Leiden: Brill, 1967). That John has Jesus remove himself from the scene at precisely this moment is perhaps functionally equivalent to the motif under discussion: it claims that Jesus tried to avoid such precarious situations. 101 That John 6:14–15 has a kernel of sound history has often been argued. Cf. David Rensberger, “The Politics of John: The Trial of Jesus in the Fourth Gospel,” JBL 103 (1984): 395–411 (especially 396 and the literature cited in note 5); Raymond Brown, The Gospel According to John (2 vols.; AB 29–29A; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1966– 1970), 1:249–50; C. H. Dodd, Historical Tradition in the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1963), 213–16; Dunn, “Messianic Secret,” 123.

92

Jeremy F. Hultin

uprisings.”102 Had Caiaphas not intervened, the whole nation might have come to harm. In the eyes of those Jews who worried about figures such as Jonathan the Weaver, it would have been Caiaphas, not Jesus, who appeared to have acted with prudent concern for his people. That is, unless Jesus had at least tried to conceal his miraculous activities. Thus, there is evidence that the Romans saw a potential threat to their order in miracles and in excessive charismatic popularity. Jews also understood that what was a threat to the Romans was, in turn, a threat to them. The Johannine Caiaphas cannot have been the only one who could draw such a conclusion: a person performing “signs” and gathering crowds was inviting Roman intervention, and Roman intervention generally meant collateral damage. In short, people behaving like Jesus would give the Roman leaders reasons, in Claudius’s words, “to conceive graver suspicions.” Given such political realities, how were those who spread the news of Jesus’ wonders to tell their stories without depicting him as irresponsible or even reckless? They could not very well avoid narrating Jesus’ wonders (and the crowds they attracted), for these formed a central plank in the presentation of the one who “did all things well.” Followers of Jesus wanted to talk about those miracles. I propose that some of them claimed that Jesus tried to keep his own miraculous deeds secret, to keep his own light under a bushel. He was not trying to put the leaders in an impossible situation; he was not flirting with military intervention; he was not unaware of the fact that Rome demanded order from the Jewish aristocracy.

Conclusion Jesus did attract crowds, and he awakened in them some of the same hopes as did other miracle workers and prophets. The threat such popularity posed was perceived by the Jewish authorities, who had Jesus arrested. In a time when Claudius could make a menacing threat against Jews in Alexandria and expel the Jews from Rome; when Roman prefects and procurators in Judaea searched for and killed popular prophets; when the high priest could be asked to account for any significant disturbance; when Jews in Cyrene and Alexandria felt the need to prove their loyalty to Rome by exposing dangerous elements in their midst – during such times, to tell the

102 Sanders, Historical Figure, 268; cf. ibid., 273: Caiaphas acted “because of his principal political and moral responsibility: to preserve the peace and to prevent riots and bloodshed. It was Jesus’ self-assertion, especially in the Temple, but also in his teaching and in his entry to the city, that motivated the high priest.” If this is so, then Jesus’ “teaching and self-assertion” – and, we may add, his miracles – forced Caiaphas’s hand.

Disobeying Jesus

93

tales of Jesus’ wonderworking was to talk about a man who seems to have failed to consider how his actions would have affected others. We might pose the following hypothetical question: How would the supporters of Jonathan the Weaver have told Jonathan’s story if they had wanted it to sound noble and tragic? How could they celebrate his popularity and his promise of signs and deliverance when it was precisely this popularity that had moved prudent Jews to hand him over? I am proposing that the supporters of Jesus faced this very dilemma, and that some of them improvised the following, in many ways awkward, solution: they claimed that Jesus had tried to keep his miraculous deeds quiet, tried to avoid crowds, tried to restrict the knowledge of his messianic identity. Presenting Jesus in this way was meant to address a problematic element in their hero’s activities. If they could claim that Jesus “wanted secrecy and only became all the more well known,”103 then he would appear less immediately responsible for his own fate and for the way he endangered other Jews. Certainly this proposal does not solve all the problems of the messianic secret motifs. I have cited Wrede often enough that I may cite him once more: “I am not asserting that I have provided a proof to remove every obscurity.”104 My hope is that this proposal sheds new light on just one of the mysterious motifs of the “messianic secret.”

Appendix: The Pre-Markan Origin of the Disobedience Motif The majority opinion holds that the explicit violation of commands to silence originated with Mark, either as Markan redaction (Mark 1:43–45; Mark 7:36)105 or Matthean use of this Markan material (Matt 9:30b–31). 103

Wrede’s formulation (The Messianic Secret, 127). Ibid., 230. Cf. Heikki Räisänen, “The ‘Messianic Secret’ in Mark’s Gospel,” in Tuckett, The Messianic Secret, 132–40, here 135: “Whoever claims to know precisely what Mark was aiming at with his secrecy theory is probably over-reaching himself”; Luz, “Secret Motif,” 75: “The messianic secret is still a mystery.” 105 Attributing Mark 1:45 to Mark are Dibelius, Tradition, 73–74; Sjöberg, Menschensohn, 159; Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 148 n. 16 (but see below). Luz thinks the spreading of the word is Markan (“Secret Motif,” 79), but of Mark 7:36–37, he says that the command to silence is Markan and the spreading of the word is traditional; so Joachim Gnilka, Das Evangelium nach Markus (2 vols.; 3rd rev. ed.; EKK 2; Zürich: Benziger, 1989), 1:213; Kertelge, Wunder Jesu, 119. Attributing Mark 7:36 to Mark are Erich Klostermann, Das Markusevangelium (4th ed.; HNT 3; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1950), 74; Ernst Lohmeyer, Das Evangelium des Markus (17th ed.; KEK 1.2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1967), 151; Walter Grundmann, Das Evangelium nach 104

94

Jeremy F. Hultin

Many scholars view even Jesus’ commands to silence in the case of healings as Markan creations, but these injunctions have more often been ascribed to pre-Markan tradition106 than have the notices of disobedience. Only rarely has it been argued that the commands to silence and the immediate violation of those commands originated prior to the composition of Mark.107 Although there is not enough evidence to overturn decisively this consensus, several reasons for viewing this motif as pre-Markan in origin may be adduced. First, as we have already seen, there are significant inconsistencies involved in Mark’s deployment of this motif, and this is more easily understood if Mark has passed along notes of disobedience where he received them in his traditions than if he created them. Second, several elements of Mark 1:45 and 7:36 are uncharacteristic of Mark, such as the use of khru/ssw for “outsiders” and the use of lo//g oj to designate “story” rather than “message”108 (see further below for other distinctive elements of Mark 1:43–44). Third, if the related theme of Jesus’ inability to escape notice in Mark 7:24 is pre-Markan,109 this suggests a pre-Markan origin for Markus (3rd ed.; THKNT 2; Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1965), 201; Kertelge, Wunder Jesu, 157; Gnilka, Markus, 1:296; Bultmann, History, 213; and Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 150 n. 22. 106 Theissen argues on formal grounds that all of the silence commands belong to the stories themselves, as parallels from the magical papyri demonstrate that they were an integral part of the healings (Miracle Stories, 68–69, 140–51); so Pesch, Markusevangelium, 1:313, 398; Samson Eitrem, Some Notes on the Demonology in the New Testament (SO Fasc. Supplet. 12; Oslo: A. W. Brøgger, 1950), 73; cf. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 286, 374. Pesch (Markusevangelium, 1:313) and Guelich (Mark, 303–4, 396–97) also argue on stylistic grounds that the commands to silence are pre-Markan. 107 Räisänen, “‘Messianic Secret’ in Mark’s Gospel,” 134, argued explicitly for this position: “Mark developed the idea of the miracle secret in a different direction from that of the messianic secret, so that the stress now lies on the disobeying of the command and the ensuing publicity (7:36). This motif too was at his disposal in the tradition (1:45, cf. Matt. 9:30f)” (emphasis added). (Other scholars sharing this view are cited below in note 111.) But Räisänen later revised his opinion. In the 1990 English edition of The “Messianic Secret” in Mark, 147, he argues that Mark 1:45 “can hardly come from the same milieu as the basic substance of the story”; and he adds (148) that one cannot find in Mark 1:43–45 and Matt 9:30 “the existence of a common pre-Markan tradition which already contained the motif of an injunction to silence which was disobeyed.” 108 See note 13 above. Cf. Karl Ludwig Schmidt, Der Rahmen der Geschichte Jesu: Literarkritische Untersuchungen zur ältesten Jesusüberlieferung (Berlin: Trowitzsch, 1919), 66, and Taylor, Mark, 190. 109 The language is not typical of Mark: Kai\ ei0selqw_n ei0j oi0ki/an ou0de/na h1qelen gnw~nai, kai\ ou0k h0dunh/qh laqei=n. Note that h0dunh/qh is an Ionic form used only one other time in the NT, and lanqa/nw is used nowhere else by Mark. The traditional (pre-Markan) origin of this verse is defended by Pesch, Markusevangelium, 1:387 and Yarbro Collins, Mark, 364–65; cf. Bultmann, History, 64 (“may well have been in Mark’s source material”). Among those who view 7:24 as Markan are Kertelge, Wunder Jesu, 151; Luz, “Se-

Disobeying Jesus

95

the disobedience motif as well. Finally, and perhaps most important, this motif appears in Matthew in a non-Markan context. As was noted earlier, Matthew has dropped many of the Markan commands to silence (e.g., Mark 1:25, 34; 7:36), and even where he retains such commands, as in the case of the leper (Matt 8:4), Matthew mentions neither disobedience nor even the fact that Jesus’ reputation spread.110 But the very fact that Matthew has so often omitted this motif, where he had it in Mark, makes it all the more striking that he has Jesus’ command to secrecy being broken in Matt 9:27–31, a passage unique to Matthew (although a doublet of the blind man at Jericho [Matt 20:29–34], which is parallel to Mark 10:46–52). There are remarkable similarities between Matt 9:30–31 and Mark 1:43–44a and 1:45: Matt 9:30–31

Mark 1:43–44a

kai\ e0nebrimh/qh au0toi=j

kai\ e0mbrimhsa&menoj au0tw~| eu0qu\j e0ce/b alen au0to\n kai\ le/g ei au0tw~|: o3ra mhdeni\ mhde\n ei1p h|j

o9 0Ihsou=j le/g wn: o9r a~te mhdei\j ginwske/tw.

Mark 1:45 oi9 de\ e0celqo/ntej diefh/misan au0to\n e0n o3lh| th=| gh=| e0kei/nh|

o9 de\ e0celqw_n h1rcato khru/ssein polla_ kai\ diafhmi/zein to\n lo/g on.

Most of the common material is uncharacteristic of either evangelist: diafhmi/zw occurs elsewhere in the NT only in Matt 28:15; e0mbrima&omai occurs only here in Matthew and only once more in Mark (14:5); and only here is a command to silence begun with the imperative of o9ra&w . If both evangelists here preserve pre-Markan tradition, this would account for the similarity of the vocabulary and for the fact that this language appears in different contexts. Furthermore, that Matt 9:30–31 includes the very motif Matthew elsewhere passes over gives additional reason to believe that this

cret Motif,” 77; Schweizer, Mark, 152; Gnilka, Markus, 1:290; Räisänen, Messianic Secret, 166. 110 For an evaluation of how the messianic secret passages bear on the synoptic problem, see Peter M. Head, Christology and the Synoptic Problem: An Argument for Markan Priority (SNTSMS 94; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 233–55. It is interesting to note that Wrede felt that, judged by their respective treatments of this theme alone, one would have thought that Mark was posterior to Matthew and Luke (Messianic Secret, 148).

96

Jeremy F. Hultin

was part of the tradition that Matthew inherited independently.111 Alternative hypotheses fail to persuade. For instance, Luz thinks that Matthew drew his language from Mark 1:43 and 1:45 since Matthew had omitted this material when first using Mark 1:40–45 in Matt 8:1–4.112 This assumes that Matthew was determined to find some way to incorporate even those elements from Mark – such as Jesus’ strong emotion, secrecy, and inability to impose his will – that he clearly found problematic. Bultmann views all of Mark 1:43 and o3ra mhdeni\ mhde\n ei1ph|j in 1:44a, as well as all of 1:45, as Markan additions to the original story of the cleansing of the leper.113 But this would mean that when Matthew used Mark 1:40–45 in Matt 8:1– 4, he edited out precisely the Markan additions to the original story, only to reintroduce these secondary elements when narrating a different miracle! It is easier to imagine that Matthew and Mark had independent access to the same material; this would account for its appearing in different contexts, as well as for their both using the same uncommon vocabulary.114 Thus, the existence of pre-Markan traditions of Jesus’ inability to silence the recipients of miracles would best explain the striking inconsistency of the motif as it appears in Mark as well as the appearance of this motif in Matthew apart from its Markan contexts. This was apparently not a particularly widespread motif; nor was it one that won much of a following, for none of the gospels employs it extensively or works out its implications consistently. It is worth making one additional comment about the relative rarity of this motif in Matthew and Luke. We would not expect that Matthew and 111

So Räisänen, “‘Messianic Secret’ in Mark’s Gospel,” 134; and idem, Das “Messiasgeheimnis” im Markusevangelium: Ein redaktionskritischer Versuch (Schriften der Finnischen Exegetischen Gesellschaft  28; Helsinki: [n.p.], 1976), 65–68 (a view he later revised; see above, note 107); Walter Grundmann, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (THKNT 1; Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1968), 277; Ernst Lohmeyer, Das Evangelium des Matthäus (ed. Werner Schmauch; KEK; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1956), 179; Theissen, Miracle Stories, 152. 112 B. H. Streeter argues along similar lines (The Four Gospels: A Study of Origins, Treating of the Manuscript Tradition, Sources, Authorship, & Dates [London: Macmillan, 1924], 170–71). 113 Bultmann, History, 212. 114 The other noteworthy instance of silencing the beneficiaries of healings in Matthew occurs in Matt 12:15–21 (cf. Mark 3:10–12). The details of this pericope diverge considerably from Mark, but Matt 12:16 ( kai\ e0peti/mhsen au0toi=j i3na mh\ fanero\n au0to\n poih/swsin) is very similar to Mark 3:12 (kai\ polla_ e0p eti/ma au0toi=j i3na mh\ au0to\n fanero\n poih/swsin). Yet in Matthew, the antecedent of au0toi=j is the recipients of Jesus’ healings; in Mark, it is the demons! Matthew tries to account for what he apparently recognized to be an unusual aspect of Jesus’ conduct by introducing a lengthy citation of Scripture: “This was to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet Isaiah, ‘he will not wrangle or cry aloud . . .’” (Isa 42:1–4).

Disobeying Jesus

97

Luke would slavishly reproduce this motif where they found it in Mark (or in their other sources) – especially if its functions in Mark were puzzling and its presence in other sources was sporadic. But what we would expect to find is some awareness that the crowds’ acclamation of Jesus was problematic and demanded an apologia. In fact, we find precisely this. For instance, in Matt 21:15–16, when the children at the temple cry out, “Hosanna to the Son of David” (cf. 21:9), the chief priests and scribes are indignant and address Jesus as though astonished that he would permit such public acclaim. Matthew has Jesus answer in a characteristically Matthean way, identifying the children’s utterances as a sovereign act of God in fulfillment of Scripture (Ps 8:2 [LXX]: “Out of the mouths of infants and nursing babies you have prepared praise for yourself”).115 In the roughly parallel episode in Luke 19:37–38, it is a crowd of Jesus’ disciples who hail him as king, and Pharisees116 who urge Jesus to silence them.117 Jesus’ response – “If these were silent, the stones would shout out” – is materially the same as his response in Matt 21:16: this is the act of God, and nothing more can be done about it.118 In effect, both Matthew and Luke claim that, with Jesus’ arrival in Jerusalem, his hour has come. What has been whispered must now be shouted from the rooftops; to continue to enjoin silence would now be futile.119 What is most important for the thesis of this essay is that Matthew and Luke both sense that the crowds’ acclamation of Jesus would be met with angry and anxious reactions, and with the expectation that Jesus should have done something to stop it. That he did not do so demanded an explanation of some sort. Although Matthew and Luke have made less of the idea that Jesus’ injunctions to silence were disobeyed, each has still preserved further evidence for the very social pressures that I believe contributed to the growth of the disobedience motif.120

115

On the oracular nature of children’s speech, especially in the vicinity of a temple, see Davies and Allison, Matthew, 3:143. 116 If we consider this in the light of Luke 13:31, where the Pharisees warn Jesus that Herod wants to kill him, it would appear that they here urge Jesus to silence his followers because they believe that, if he did not, he would be killed. It is debated whether Luke 13:31 is meant to depict the Pharisees acting out of genuine concern for Jesus, although I regard this as likely; so M. Rese, “Einige Überlegungen zu Lukas xiii, 31–33,” in Jésus aux origines de la christologie (ed. Jacques Dupont; BETL 40; Louvain: Leuven University Press, 1975), 201–25. 117 Luke 19:38: dida/skale, e0piti/mhson toi=j maqhtai=j sou. 118 Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (2 vols.; AB 28–28A; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1981–1985), 2:1246. 119 Cf. Minette de Tillesse, Le secret, 291. 120 I would like to thank Joshua Garroway and Jill Hultin for reading a draft of this essay and offering much helpful advice.

 

Crucifixion, State of Emergency, and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship1 TIMOTHY LUCKRITZ MARQUIS New Testament scholars have long observed that, at the heart of the four canonical accounts of Jesus’ execution lies the depiction of an ironic coronation. Though Pilate and the Roman soldiers intend mockery through the “royal” trappings afforded Jesus, the accounts, in context, clue the reader to recognize the truth behind the farce, that Jesus really is a king.2 Evidence from a number of ancient sources helps explain the crucifixion accounts within ancient expectations. For example, the physical “elevation” inherent to crucifixion could connote various types of upward social mobility. Especially telling is the passage from Artemidorus’s Oneirocritica (“Interpretations of Dreams”) in which nighttime visions of the torturous execution promise ironic benefits for the dreamer (2.53).3 Poor people who 1

I am honored to share in celebrating Prof. Attridge’s tenure as dean. I thank Frank Crouch, Larry Welborn, and Adela Yarbro Collins for reading and commenting on my essay. Their generosity in extending advice should not be construed as agreement with my arguments, and remaining errors are of my own making. 2 See now Joel Marcus, “Crucifixion as Parodic Exaltation,” JBL 125 (2006): 73–87, for overview of scholarship and an important reappraisal. See also Laurence L. Welborn, The Fool of Christ: A Study of 1 Corinthians in the Comic Philosophic Tradition (New York: Continuum, 2005), 129–47, on the darkly humorous elements evoked by crucifixion in 1 Cor 1, especially in the context of theatrical mime, taking some inspiration from Hermann Reich, Der König mit der Dornenkrone (Leipzig: Teubner, 1905). In this vein, scholars have long seen the incident Philo retells in In Flaccum (36–40) of the Alexandrians vicariously mocking the Jewish puppet king Herod Agrippa by hailing the homeless Carabas as royalty as an important parallel to the “mocking” nature of Christ’s execution in the Passion Narratives. 3 In addition to Marcus’s recent essay, see Justin Meggit, “Laughing and Dreaming at the Foot of the Cross: Context and Reception of a Religious Symbol,” in Modern Spiritualities: An Inquiry (ed. Laurence Brown et al.; Oxford: Critical Studies in Religion: 1997), 63–70; and “Artemidorus and the Johannine Crucifixion,” Journal of Higher Criticism 5 (1998): 203–8. In her response to Marcus’s article, Adela Yarbro Collins (“Mark’s Interpretation of the Death of Jesus,” JBL 128 (2009): 545–54, esp. 550–54) questions whether figurative interpretation of a dream can aid in interpreting a story depicting an actual crucifixion (551–52). It is for this reason, I think, that Marcus points to other cultural evidence for

100

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

dream of crucifixion will come into money; slaves will be freed. If the setting of the dream is a city, the dreamer will have power in that city. The connection between crucifixion and social elevation, in fact, was surprisingly well known; as Marcus notes, among the many ironic statements of the Johannine Jesus, his assertions of his own “elevation/glorification” (using the verb u9yo/w ) are readily understood by the crowds (12:32–34), though the Fourth Gospel usually casts as imperceptive the multitudes gathered to hear Jesus.4 In observing the odd link between crucifixion and exaltation, Justin Meggit posits an impetus for interpretation “from below,” that is, as stemming from the lower classes’ creative, and even subconscious (hence the dreams interpreted in Artemidorus), reappropriation of state power exercised through the torturous punishment of the cross.5 Among his argument’s other merits, the reading has the very existence of the gospel depictions on its side: the disciples, certainly not members of the ruling elite, framed accounts of the crucifixion as a central aspect of their proclamation. Against Meggit, however, Marcus marshals ancient evidence that it was those who inflicted crucifixion who intended the irony of its physical elevation and its public nature: For it is revealing that the criminals so punished were often precisely people who had, in the view of their judges, gotten “above” themselves. . . . Crucifixion was intended to unmask, in a deliberately grotesque manner, the pretension and arrogance of those who had exalted themselves beyond their station; the authorities were bent on demonstrating through the graphic tableau of the cross what such self-promotion meant and whither it led. Crucifixion, then, is a prime illustration of Michel Foucault’s thesis that the process of execution is a “penal liturgy” designed to reveal the essence of the crime.6

ancient views of crucifixion as parodic exaltation (though Yarbro Collins disputes the relevance of some of these, as well). 4 Marcus, “Crucifixion,” 75, citing Emanuel Hirsch, Das vierte Evangelium in seiner ursprünglichen Gestalt, verdeutscht und erklärt (Tübingen: Mohr, 1936), 71. With the pun (in addition to other features), the Fourth Gospel is far clearer than the Synoptics about figuring the crucifixion as an ironic coronation. See, in particular, Yarbro Collins (“Mark’s Interpretation of the Death of Jesus,” 550–51), who asserts that, for Mark, Jesus’ kingship begins not at his death but with his second coming (cf. Mark 14:62). While Mark’s eschatological outlook tends to look forward to Jesus’ true moment of power, it does offer to the reader narrative, proleptic glimpses of his reign in places such as his baptism (1:10–11) and transfiguration (9:2–9). In Mark, the crucifixion can be understood as a pivotal manifestation of his messiahship, and, as I argue, the Passion Narratives and their proclamation frame the event as revealing stark fissures within dominant regimes. 5 Meggitt, “Laughing,” 66. 6 Marcus, “Crucifixion,” 78–79, citing Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (New York: Pantheon, 1977), 35, 43, and 47.

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

101

Marcus’s exposition of crucifixion as institutionalized parody is convincing in light of the ancient evidence he puts forth. Yet he goes on to conclude that, in the end, Jesus’ earliest followers hijacked the mocking nature of crucifixion to their own ends, asserting their teacher’s exaltation and their own. To my mind, it may ultimately have been the public nature of crucifixion that allowed such reappropriations. As Foucault also argued, though public executions allow the state to communicate not just to the punished but to the populace, the stage could be assumed by the spectators in their public reactions to executions, making sovereign-subject communication through punishment a two-way affair.7 Can we really assert, however, that the earliest accounts of Jesus’ crucifixion transform a parody of Christ into a parody of state?8 Certainly, Marcus is perceptive in the pregnant statements ending his essay: “Here the mockery that has transformed kingship into a joke encounters a sharper mockery that unmasks it, so that the derision of kingship is itself derided 7

For the intervention of popular opinion in public execution as a problem leading to the modern shift toward disciplinary regimes, see Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 59– 65, explaining that the crowd attending medieval and early modern executions could (and did) “express its rejection of the punitive power and sometimes revolt” (59). 8 Some may take issue with my assertion that the critiqued target of the Passion Narratives is, in essence, “political” or having to do with the structures, social locations, and ideologies of governance, as opposed to being “religious” or in some sense “theological.” The two conceptual categories, however, are in no sense mutually exclusive and, both in theory and practice, inseparable. Certainly, within most Jewish texts of the periods surrounding the origins of the Jesus movement, kingship qua messiahship was a political category. Others may object that attention to Jesus as “crucified king of the Judeans,” as well as Jesus’ polemic against Judean leaders centered around the temple cult (see the third section of the essay) risks resurrecting the anti-Judaic portrayals of “the Jews killing their king” (for an early example, see Melito of Sardis, Peri Pascha 72–86). On the notion of “Jewish” culpability for the crucifixion, I am in full agreement with those such as Gerard S. Sloyan, The Crucifixion of Jesus: History, Myth, Faith (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1995), 37–44, who reconstruct that Jesus was probably executed on suspicion of sedition and not blasphemy (as the Markan narrative [14:64] claims), since his “kingdom” and “temple” language would be seen as striking the heart of power held by Roman occupiers and the Jerusalem leaders who collaborated with them. See Yarbro Collins (Mark: A Commentary [Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2007], 699–700), who similarly reconstructs sedition as the charge against Jesus, noting that shifting blame to the Judean leaders also helped Jesus’ later followers protect themselves against the same allegation. The Romans would have quickly dispatched one who made such statements, not to mention a teacher who drew large and potentially threatening crowds. The earliest Jesus movement, however, reflecting the non-elite Palestinian subject position, was more likely to blame their compatriots in the Sanhedrin who cooperated with the Romans than the true source of injustice and violence, the occupiers themselves. Thus, as Sloyan remarks, “As modern reporters, they [the evangelists] were a flat failure. As ancient dramatists, they were more than a little successful; in assigning human responsibility for Jesus’ death, in light of subsequent history they were tragically successful” (42).

102

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

and the true royalty emerges through negation of the negation. For many early Christians, this reversal of a reversal, which turned penal mockery on its head, was probably the inner meaning of Jesus’ crucifixion.”9 The literary and structural mechanisms by which that “reversal of a reversal” occurred, however, remain to be investigated. A deceptively simple starting point may be the identity of the victim in this case, at least as asserted by the gospels. Insofar as the earliest followers of the message of the risen Christ claimed that he was, in fact, a king (and depicted the crucifixion as a public, though parodic, coronation), Jesus is an abnormal object of crucifixion, to say the least. Insofar as the cross bears a king, the act itself enacts a reversal or negation of the highest order, at least from the point of view of foundational and constitutive aspects of regulative society. It has become axiomatic in crucifixion scholarship that the victims of the punishment were “outsiders” (slaves, nonRomans, or criminals); citizens only in scandalous cases (such as treason); and certainly never kings.10 In fact, as we proceed to examine cases in which people who should not have been crucified were crucified, we can see the constitutive breakdown of society that such deviations from the norm entailed. More specifically, I will investigate three cases of crucifixions of individuals to whom were attributed positions of rights and power (Gavius the Roman citizen, Germanicus the imperial heir, and Jesus of Nazareth, “King of the Judeans”), to expose how the accounts of these deaths depict the anticipated, foundational breakdown of society that would (and, in some cases, nearly did) occur in their wake. The accounts of the events share deep structural commonalities: each portrays the victim as, in some sense, a small step removed from his proper location of freedom or authority; in each, the public and publicized nature of the event plays an important role in the reversal it performs; and, in each, the event summons a larger public to fill the power vacuum created by ignominious execution, ultimately effecting the type of social reversal reflected in and evoked by the texts themselves.

9 Marcus, “Crucifixion,” 87, relying on James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1990). 10 A near exception and parallel to the Markan Passion is depicted in Plutarch’s Life of Cleomenes III of Sparta who, after failing to find support in exile from Ptolemy IV Philopator and staging a failed rebellion, commits suicide. Ptolemy hangs (krema/sai) the corpse, the head of which comes to be ominously “protected” from birds of prey by a large serpent. The citizens of Alexandria come to revere him as a “child of gods” (qew=n pai=da; Cleom. 39). See the discussion in Yarbro Collins, Mark, 765–66. The story is not completely helpful for the present project since the king in question is a deposed king being treated as such.

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

103

The Boundaries of Citizenship: Gavius, the Crucified Roman Cicero, in his speeches (composed in 70 B.C.E.) prosecuting the Roman governor of Sicily, Gaius Verres, dwells upon charges that Verres crucified Roman citizens, and provides some of the clearest evidence that, from a Roman point of view, citizens were not to experience that punishment.11 Passages from the Verrine Orations are well known in crucifixion scholarship, yet some specific ways in which Cicero’s forensic histrionics convey the horror of the action have not been treated. In my reading, I highlight the geographical aspects depicted in Cicero’s Verrine Orations – which clearly expressed his outrage at the crucifixion of the Roman citizen Gavius – in order to illuminate what Cicero viewed as widespread dangers to the constitutive values of citizenship and libertas. In the Verrine Orations, Verres’s allegedly illegal punishment of citizens becomes a paradigm for the unifying theme of Cicero’s prosecution – that, in the case of Verres, the Roman Senate and people are witnessing clear examples of the cracks forming in the foundation of the republic. Cicero focuses on the plight of one crucified citizen as an example of the larger societal issues he targets – a certain Publius Gavius, a citizen of Rome and Cosa, whom Verres had publicly beaten and crucified, claiming he was actually a spy working for a slave insurrection. (From Verres’s point of view, crucifixion would have been the appropriate charge for Gavius’s alleged treason.) Cicero is particularly upset by the fact that Gavius’s repeated proclamation of Roman citizenship did not halt the proceedings, since Cicero asserts that claims to citizenship, even at the far edges of the inhabited world, should protect an individual from execution (2.5.166). Because Verres had violated this right, he had jeopardized the safety and liberties of all Roman citizens. In Cicero’s carefully constructed vignette, however, the violation of universal Roman citizenship came not simply through the crucifixion of Gavius, but also through the particular place where Verres had him crucified: not at the ends of the earth, but at the very threshold of freedom, through which Verres virtually “declared war upon the whole principle of the rights of the citizen body”: What else was the meaning of your order to the Messanians, who had followed their regular custom by setting up the cross on the Pompeian Road behind the town, to set it up in the part of the town that looks over the Straits? and why did you add words that you cannot possibly deny having used, words that you said openly in the hearing of all – that you 11

See Martin Hengel, Crucifixion in the Ancient World and the Folly of the Message of the Cross (trans. John Bowden; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1977), 39–45 (chapter 6, “Crucifixion and Roman Citizens”) for a treatment of crucifixion as a punishment for treason, mentioning both Gavius and Rabirius (discussed in n. 16 below); see also Sloyan, Crucifixion of Jesus, 18–19.

104

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

purposely chose this spot to give this man, since he claimed to be a Roman citizen, a view of Italy and a prospect of his home country as he hung on his cross? That is the only cross, gentlemen, ever set up in this spot in all Messana’s history; and you now see why. This place with its view of Italy was deliberately picked out by Verres, that his victim, as he died in pain and agony, might feel how yonder narrow channel marked the frontier between the land of slavery and the land of freedom [libertatis], and that Italy might see her son, as he hung there, suffer the worst extreme of the tortures inflicted upon slaves. (2.5.169, LCL trans. Greenwood)

In light of the claim that even barbarians respect the title “Roman citizen,” Cicero’s concluding depiction of the exact location of Gavius’s crucifixion becomes especially ironic and rhetorically powerful. Gavius’s death threatens Roman liberty precisely because it is so near its source – here, the Italian peninsula. The narrow boundary between Italy and Sicily becomes a perilously close dividing line between freedom and slavery, republic and tyranny. Cicero exclaims that “[i]t was not Gavius, not one obscure man, whom you nailed upon the cross of agony: it was the universal principle of liberty and citizenship” (communem libertatis et civitatis causam; 2.5.170, modified from LCL). This crucifixion by Verres stands as a climactic vignette within the Verrine Orations. Yet, even more significant for Cicero than the specific offenses of Verres is the general trend he outlines of the influence of extortion in trials run by senators, claiming that Roman trials are viewed with suspicion of corruption. Thus, he warns the Senate that “it is the present trial in which, even as you will pass your verdict upon the prisoner, so the people of Rome will pass its verdict upon yourselves” (1.16.47). Cicero even cuts short his opening remarks so that there can be no further delay in the trial – an eventuality for which Verres had hoped – thus ensuring that the crowds filling Rome at the time might still be there as the matter continued: “I will not permit the settlement of this case to be delayed until after the departure from Rome of these multitudes that have simultaneously assembled, from all parts of Italy, to attend the elections, the games, and the census” (1.18.54). Cicero views himself as speaking not merely to the Senate but to all of Italy, which here functions as a figure for the power derived from the Roman people. Cicero’s statement at the conclusion of the second action (“At this very moment, the eyes of all men are turned upon each one of us here” [2.5.175]) is all the more powerful when we consider that the speeches of the second action were never delivered, since Verres had fled into exile. Cicero took the unusual measure of publishing the speeches which thus took on a much more public audience than nor-

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

105

mal, serving to indicate the foundational import of the case against Verres.12 Within his indictment of Roman jurisprudence, Cicero sets the crucifixion of Gavius as a paradigm for the general threat to libertas. A common denominator between the trial of Verres and the tale of Gavius is the deprivation of the basic rights of citizenship; in a trial, citizens expect judges to decide fairly, while they also expect safety from torture. Yet another commonality between Gavius’s fate and Verres’s trial is their public nature. Beyond being public, both events, as framed by Cicero, had a universal import expressed in geographical terms. All of Italy (that is, the Roman people) witnesses to the trial, through the populace’s presence in the city during the holiday, through Cicero’s publication of the speeches, and through Cicero’s assertion of the people’s unified stake in the trial’s outcome. Similarly, Gavius’s execution at the dividing line – between the land of citizenship and freedom (Italy) and those lands to which it had spread (here, Sicily) – marks, at an international border, the breakdown of Roman freedom.13 While citizenship should carry its privileges to the ends of the earth, its threatened eradication takes place at the threshold of its very home. True, Cicero contends that the execution might just as well have occurred in the center of Rome, so severe was its impact on the foundational rights of the republic.14 The statement, however, strikes more at the idea of the temerity of Verres and the assertion that the act was performed “in the sight” of Roman citizens and all people. Though Gavius has the rights of a citizen, they are denied him; like Italy itself, in Gavius’s moment of agony his rights are just out of reach. Despite the natural separation of Sicily and Italy, their nearness certainly emphasizes the stark juxtaposition of citizenship and crucifixion.15 The publicity of the event enacts, for a fictively as12

See Ann Vasaly, “Cicero’s Early Speeches,” in Brill’s Companion to Cicero: Oratory and Rhetoric (ed. James M. May; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 90–92, on the Actio Secunda as a “monumentum” to Cicero’s political and rhetorical skills during his early career. 13 Cicero concludes the tale of Gavius’s crucifixion at the Strait of Messana by asserting that Gavius died “in sight of Italy, at the entrance-gate of Sicily, in a place where all who came or went that way by sea must pass close by it” (2.5.170). Cicero’s telling provides an international audience for the execution. 14 “One can imagine how it vexed him to be unable to set up that cross to crucify us Roman citizens in our Forum, in our place of public assembly [in comitio] and public speech [in rostris] . . .” (2.5.170). 15 A similar depiction can be found in the Pontica of Silius, in which a Carthaginian leader recalls the death of the Roman hero Regulus: “I was looking on, when he hung high upon the tree and saw Italy [Hesperia] from his lofty cross” (2.343–344; LCL trans.). Coincidentally, Marcus (“Crucifixion,” 87) mentions the same incident, citing the “noble” nature the author must have ascribed to Regulus. This is likely true of Silius’s perspective, as Regulus was a revered exemplar of courage in Roman thought. But note that the Carthaginian speaker intends to mock the supposed power of Rome by highlighting that “the hope and pride of Hector’s race” (2.342–343) died ignominiously just out of

106

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

sembled citizen body, the structural dissolution of a constitutive distinction among inhabitants of the global republic: citizen versus subject, foreigner, and slave. In Cicero’s rhetorical construction, the crucifixion of a citizen reveals a disjunction so stark as to threaten society’s foundations. The horror expressed in such a matter, however, is not so much visceral but structural. In other writings, Cicero makes clear that the crucifixion or execution of citizens is indeed of structural import with respect to the republican foundation of libertas; the execution of citizens can (though, in extreme cases, should) occur only in case of state emergency.16 In the matter of the execusight of his geographic source of strength and safety. As in the Verrine Orations, proximity to the source of freedom highlights its conspicuous and complete absence. On Regulus and the cross, see the discussion in Hengel, Crucifixion, 64–68. 16 In this vein, another locus classicus for crucifixion studies should be mentioned here, though I confine it to a footnote for brevity. In 63 B.C.E., Cicero defended the aged Rabirius, who, in 100 B.C.E., had participated in the killing of Saturninus under the authorization of a senatus consultum ultimum (usually denoted by classics scholars as SCU) – that is, a decision proclaimed by the Senate that some sort of emergency necessitated that all magistrates (and even all citizens) join with the consuls in taking whatever means necessary to save the republic. Almost 40 years later, senators including Julius Caesar attempted to punish Rabirius under the ancient law of perduellio (treason), legally punishable by public crucifixion. What distinguishes the passage in Rab. Perd. from that of the Verrine Orations, however, is that the trial itself concerned two distinct legal means by which a citizen might be deprived of his rights and executed. Julius Caesar and the others who contrived the prosecution against Rabirius were, in many ways, putting on trial the institution of the SCU, seeing it as unduly empowering the Senate to quash popular attempts at reform. (On this point, see Th. N. Mitchell, “Cicero and the Senatus ‘consultum ultimum,’” Historia 20 [1971]: 52.) The passage (Rab. Perd. 16) so often cited in work on Jesus’ crucifixion has Cicero lamenting the notion that legal provision would deprive a citizen of libertas and allow for his public torture and killing, claiming that “the executioner, the veiling of the head, and the very word ‘cross’ should be far removed not only from the person of the Roman citizen but from his thoughts, his eyes and his ears” (LCL trans. H. G. Hodge). But if Cicero finds crucifixion for reason of perduellio so shocking, how can he justify the execution, without trial, of Saturninus? In this case, Cicero must defend the practice of the SCU. He makes this clear at the outset, justifying his advocacy by asserting: If it is the duty of a good consul, when he sees everything on which the state depends being shaken and uprooted, to come to the rescue of the country, to aid in securing the welfare and the fortunes of the public, to plead for the loyal support of the citizens and to set the public welfare before his own; it is also the duty of good and courageous citizens . . . to block all the approaches of revolution, to strengthen the bulwarks of the Republic and to hold supreme the executive power of the consuls, the deliberative power of the Senate, and by your verdict to declare that he who has followed their guidance deserves praise and honour rather than condemnation and punishment. (3) For Cicero, the SCU and the state of emergency it authorized was a necessary recourse for the salvation of the state. It is as if the extraordinary circumstance of executing a citizen ignominiously and without trial could only occur in an extraordinary legal circum-

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

107

tion of a citizen, constitutional matters were always prominent, since the constitutive elements of the republic itself rested, at least in theory, on citizens’ rights. Citizen and non-citizen met at the dividing line of the patibulum, a public marker that helped to create an essential distinction. As Cicero would put it, the cross that bore the citizen bore libertas as well.

The Boundaries of Sovereignty: Germanicus, the Murdered Prince By focusing on Cicero’s reactions to crucifixions of citizens, we can highlight the revulsion expressed toward the crucifixion of individuals of power. In a similar vein, in the ancient world, the death of a king (or even an heir to a throne) occasioned not only extensive public and ritual mourning but, understandably, upheaval in the social and political fabric of a society. Further, examining ancient reactions to “unjust” deaths of kings (including assassinations) may shed light on the range of expectations that might attend royal death, even the ironic coronation-execution of Jesus. The best-known case of the public response to the death of a member of the imperial household is that of Germanicus, adopted son of Tiberius, in 19 C.E. Unanimously attested as popular by ancient accounts, Germanicus was a figure of great admiration and power even during the height of his father’s reign.17 In general, accounts of Germanicus’s popularity agree on his attitude and relationship with contemporaries, soldiers, and (in particular) commoners, as well as foreigners,18 endearing him to all except the powerful. Tiberius himself was said to have resented Germanicus’s influence. The most detailed account of the events surrounding his death is given by Tacitus, though primary documents unearthed across the Mediterranean have substantiated, in broad strokes, much of the tale. Just before his demise, Germanicus had been sent as proconsul to deal with the eastern provinces and manage conflicts with the Parthians. The appointment angered his rival, Gnaeus Piso, then governor of Syria, who seemed to spread invective against the prince wherever crowds had hailed him, particularly in Athens and Antioch, and countermanded Germanicus’s orders in the stance – that is, the suspension of normal law, including the hierarchies of magistrates and the rights of citizens it engendered. In fact, for Cicero, a public, legal, ignominious execution (such as crucifixion entailed) manifested a fundamental problem with the workings of the state. 17 For a helpful summary of Germanicus’s career and reputation, see H. S. Versnel, “Destruction, Devotio, and Despair in a Situation of Anomy: The Mourning for Germanicus in Triple Perspective,” in Perennitas: Studi in Onore di Angelo Brelich (Rome: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 1980), 542–48. 18 Tacitus, Ann. 2.70; Suetonius, Cal. 3; Josephus, A.J. 18.206–210.

108

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

provinces (Tacitus, Ann. 2.57, 69). Throughout his tours of the east, Germanicus was met with acclamations more fitting for the emperor himself or even the divinized Augustus.19 The various ways in which ancient authors extolled Germanicus almost defy belief. Accounts of public and worldwide reaction to his death, however, far surpass even depictions of his reputation during life. After his Egyptian excursion, Germanicus arrived in Antioch where he immediately took ill. Tacitus reports that Germanicus suspected magic or poison from Piso and accused his rival from his deathbed (Ann. 2.69–70). Unsubstantiated rumor across the empire agreed with Germanicus’s suspicions, adding, according to Tacitus, the suspicion that Tiberius had concocted the plan (Ann. 2.82; Tacitus mentions Tiberius’s dislike of Germanicus at 1.33 and happiness concerning his death at 3.2–6). Though it is altogether possible that Piso had no hand in the prince’s death, historical sources report that the crowds took rumor as fact. Widespread opinion eventually forced Tiberius to demand a senatorial inquiry into the matter. The Senate soon cited Piso for killing Germanicus, among other offences as a magistrate – including, coincidentally, crucifying a Roman citizen.20 Piso killed himself before the verdict was passed. Both Tacitus and Suetonius (we may include the brief mention by Josephus in A.J. 18.54) claim that exorbitant popular reaction to the death of Germanicus both exceeded and preceded mourning on the part of Tiberius 19 Germanicus’s visit to Egypt is a famous case in point – a visit which, incidentally, was a political error on the prince’s part, since Egypt was understood since the beginning of Augustus’s reign as the special holding of the emperor not to be entered without his permission (Ann. 2.59); the thinking was that Egypt, major grain supplier to the empire, would be the ideal headquarters for a usurper of the throne (as it had been for Germanicus’s biological grandfather, Marc Antony, in his conflicts with Octavian). Germanicus’s raucous reception in Alexandria only made him more of a target; a pamphlet written on papyrus (P.Oxy. 2435) preserves part of his speech to the city. In it, he seems taken off guard, frequently attempting to quell the crowd’s cheers and ovations. A separate document copies two edicts Germanicus issued to the city soon after. The crowds, he commanded, were to stop requisitioning gifts for which he had not asked. Furthermore, they were to cease hailing him with titles reserved only for his father and grandmother (Livia) or else he would stop appearing in public. The edicts were first published by U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff and F. Zucker in Sitzungsberichte der Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften (Berlin: Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1911), 794–821; see also Select Papyri (LCL), 211. For translations of the edicts as well as of P.Oxy. 2435, see Robert Kenneth Sherk, The Roman Empire: Augustus to Hadrian (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 60–61. 20 The death of Germanicus and its aftermath is now described by a wealth of discovered documentary evidence in addition to the literary accounts of Tacitus and Suetonius. The Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre was discovered in six copies on bronze tablets in Spain. Likewise, a decree of posthumous honors for Germanicus are preserved on the Tabula Hebana (recording the lex Valeria Aurelia) and the Tabula Siarensis (a bronze copy of the Senatus Consultum de Honoribus Germanici Decernendis).

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

109

and the Senate. Tacitus reports the extent to which city life ground to a halt after news of the death: A storm of complaints burst out . . . “It was the mere truth, as the elder men said of Drusus [heir to Augustus], that sons with democratic tempers were not pleasing to a father on a throne; and both had been cut off for no other reason than because they designed to restore the age of freedom [libertate] and take the Roman people into a partnership of equal rights.” The announcement of his death inflamed this popular gossip [vulgi sermones] to such a degree that before any edict of the magistrates, before any resolution of the senate, civic life was suspended [i.e., there was a iustitium; ante edictum magistratuum, ante senatus consultum sumpto iustitio]; the courts deserted, houses closed. (Ann. 2.82, LCL trans. Jackson, modified)

The arrival of Germanicus’s ashes at Brundisium and their transport to Rome also occasioned extensive mourning; both the inhabitants of local cities and soldiers mourned him on the road, while Germanicus’s relatives left Rome to meet the entourage on the way (Ann. 3.1–2). Tiberius had to issue a proclamation in the spring of the following year, both to quell rumors that he had not sufficiently mourned or honored his nephew and adoptive son, as well as to exhort the public to return to life as normal. Only then did the iustitium cease (Ann. 3.6–7; see also Suetonius, Cal. 6.2).21 Most dramatic, however, is the report of Suetonius: “On the day when he passed away the temples were stoned and the altars of the gods thrown down, while some flung their household gods into the street and cast out their newly born children” (Cal. 5.1, LCL trans.). Such excessive and seemingly spontaneous reactions raise the question of the historical reliability of the sources, in particular, Suetonius.22 At the very least, the accounts give a later picture of how Germanicus’s death was remembered, and the similarities among the accounts indicate that civic mourning must have been extreme. From a political and social point of view, the spontaneous iustitium stands as an innovation when it comes to mourning the death of a member of the imperial household.23 Along with the exposure of children and the expulsion of lares, the entire response points to, as Versnel has argued, a loss of hope leading to the breakdown of social life so complete as to be understood as anomic.24 In Suetonius’s account, the per21 For the extensive public and official mourning, see also Suetonius, Cal. 6.2. The Tabula Hebana (lines 54–59) orders not only that temples close on the day of Germanicus’s interment but each year on the anniversary of his death. For the text, see James H. Oliver and Robert E. A. Palmer, “Text of the Tabula Hebana,” AJP 75 (1954): 225–49. For an English translation, see Sherk, The Roman Empire, 67–72. 22 For a discussion about the possible veracity of Suetonius on this point, see Versnel, “Destruction,” 553–55. 23 Versnel, “Destruction,” 609. 24 This is a major point throughout Versnel, “Destruction”; see especially 601–15. As he points out (610), ancient historians noted a similar, Persian custom of ceasing public

110

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

ceived murder of Germanicus, a proleptically acclaimed emperor, froze Roman society and dissolved normal social bonds. The development of the notion of suspension of public life in the face of mourning, however, provides an important connection with our previous discussion of the crucifixion of citizens and the undermining or suspension of constitutive aspects of republican legal practices. For, in the republic, the iustitium was not a function of mourning per se, but a legally sanctioned reaction to a threat to the state, usually termed a tumultum. As such, the institution bore much in common with the republican SCU (Senatus consultum ultimum).25 Thus, the crucifixion of a citizen under the republic shared a crucial commonality with the murder of Germanicus under the empire: both entailed a perception of the collapse of foundational principles of the government as a whole. Attention to the development of the SCU and the iustitium has attracted much scholarly attention in the past decade thanks to the work of philosopher Giorgio Agamben, whose reflections on sovereign power (in particular, the power to declare a “state of exception” or “state of emergency”) throughout Western history yield at least two obvious benefits for my project. First, part of Agamben’s work seeks the roots of the “state of emergency” in the development of the Roman concept of the iustitium or “legal standstill” during the late republican and early imperial periods of Rome. Second, Agamben’s interest in the writings of Paul the Apostle as a resource for examining social change provides ready links between his theorizing and historical work on the earliest Jesus movement. I will briefly summarize these two aspects of Agamben’s work before expanding upon it in view of the remainder of my inquiry into the death of Germanicus. Agamben’s work on the “state of exception” revisits the Roman state of emergency, primarily through the institution of the iustitium or “legal standstill.” In normal Latin usage, the term meant the suspension of all government business, especially the closure of the law courts, but also the closure of temples and most public businesses. Such a provision, however, was enacted in the case of sudden danger to the city, a danger usually associated with war, but more directly connected to the public tumultum or “uproar” in anticipation of danger. Moreover, some historians of ancient law have posited a close connection between the iustitium and the SCU. In a classic study of the term, Adolph Nissen connected the two provisions, business upon the death of the king. The fourth-century historian Ammianus Marcellinus (19.1.7) refers to the practice as iustitio indicto, while Stobaeus (4.2.26) calls it a0nomi/a. 25 As it did in the republic. In response to the danger posed by Marc Antony after the death of Caesar, Cicero asks the Senate to recognize the event as a tumultus and institute a iustitium in preparation for war (Phil. 5.12). For the SCU, see n. 16 on Cicero’s defense of Rabirius.

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

111

as well as the declaration of a tumultum, as a unified matrix of legal practices.26 Nissen’s connection allows Agamben to speak of the iustitium as a blanket term for the suspension of the republic in time of imminent danger to Rome. Under the republic, the Senate’s issuing of a iustitium or the SCU, ordering all magistrates – or even all citizens – to take whatever means necessary to save the republic, seems to enact a leveling of political statuses. In effect, however, the practice results in a social reversal, insofar as the most common citizen was granted extraordinary power, while the most noble magistrate was brought down to the level of all other citizens.27 Thus, in the iustitium as in the SCU, the republic suspends its legal framework and magisterial hierarchies, distilling itself down to its basic component, the citizen. For Agamben, the sovereign “decision”28 to declare a tumultum and enact a iustitium reveals the basic constituency of the state. When scholars turn to the development of the iustitium under the principiate, however, they confront a long recognized aporia in classical legal history. For, from Augustus on, the iustitium no longer refers to a state of emergency called by the Senate but to the public mourning in the wake of the death of an emperor or a member of his household – including Germanicus. Versnel attributes the evolution of the custom to the more general shift in state power from republic to principiate, to “the practically messianic expectations people cherished in [Germanicus’s] regard, the shifting of personal affection from state to prince, and the feelings of devotion evoked by this personalization of political power. . . . The prince being the state, the good prince being the object of messianic expectations, his death acquires implications of chaos, anomia and anomy. And the people act accordingly.”29 The wrongful death of the prince creates a regulative vacuum that the populace attempts to fill. 26

Giorgio Agamben, State of Exception (trans. Kevin Attell; Chicago, Ill.: The University of Chicago Press, 2005), 41–51, largely building on Adolph Nissen, Das Justitium: Eine Studie aus der römischen Rechtsgeschichte (Leipzig: Gebhardt, 1877). 27 Agabmen, State of Exception, 43–45. See Versnel, “Destruction,” 582–84, who uses a sociological perspective to point to the “role-reversal” and “egalization of social distinctions” (584) common to anomic rites of mourning. 28 Agamben’s main focus in exploring the Roman iustitium is to analyze the origins of the modern state of emergency, which he views as becoming an increasingly quotidian practice of governance in modern states. He adopts and debates the thesis of the controversial philosopher of law Carl Schmitt who observed that, apart from the governance of law, all sovereign powers are imbued with the power to “decide” to suspend the law in the face of external necessity. See Agamben, State of Exception, 32–36. 29 Versnel, “Destruction,” 612. As Agamben, State of Exception, 68, notes, Suetonius has the dying Augustus ask if there is a tumultum occurring in the city because of his impending passing. “[T]umult now coincides with the death of the sovereign, while the suspension of the law is integrated into the funeral ceremony. It is as if the sovereign,

112

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

Agamben seeks a more structural, legal, and philosophical grounding for this development. He notes that some first-century philosophers, bent on justifying Augustus’s rule, began to defend the notion of the concurrence of emperor with law itself. Diotogenes, in particular, coins the phrase basileu\v no/mov e1myuxov and explains that the king is a “living law and like a god among men.”30 Similar formulations occur in the discourse on sovereignty falsely attributed to Archytas, which claims that there are two types of law: the king who is a “living law” and the inanimate law in “letter” (gra/mma). The correspondences help Agamben explain why the iustitium, once the suspension of legal and governmental activity in the face of tumultum, becomes the tumultuous mourning of an emperor or prince who was understood to be the embodiment of the law. If the sovereign is a living nomos, and if, for this reason, anomie and nomos perfectly coincide in his person, then anarchy (which threatens to loose itself in the city upon the sovereign’s death, which is to say, when the nexus that joins it to the law is severed) must be ritualized and controlled, transforming the state of exception into public mourning and mourning into iustitium.31

Agamben’s analysis, building as it does on the historical and literary work of past classicists and legal historians, has great explanatory force. His inquiries into the Roman state of exception support his interest in examining the role of law, messianism, and social change at Christian origins, and he is one among many recent post-Marxist philosophers mining the writings of Paul the Apostle in order to understand the social construction of new universalities. Indeed, in State of Exeption, Agamben tantalizingly draws linguistic parallels between Paul’s letters and the treatises of Diotogenes and Pseudo-Archytas.32 Similarly, in his philosophical commentary on Romans, Agamben notes how Paul’s innovative use of the verb katarge/w (“nullify” or “render idle”), employed to speak of the various regimes of worldly power no longer operative for the individual or community in Christ, mirrors the basic logic of the state of exception. When, in Paul, the

who had absorbed into his ‘august’ person all exceptional powers . . . and who had, so to speak, become a living iustitium, showed his intimate anomic character at the moment of his death and saw tumult and anomie set free outside of him in the city.” 30 Agamben, State of Exception, 69. On how the notion of the “living law” influenced Jewish and Christian philosophical traditions, see John Martens, “Nomos Empsychos in Philo and Clement of Alexandria,” in Hellenization Revisited: Shaping a Christian Response within the Greco-Roman World (ed. Wendy E. Helleman; Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1994), 323–38. 31 Agamben, State of Exception, 70. 32 So, Diotogenes claims that the king represents a1neu no/mou dikaiosu/nh , while Rom 3:21 proclaims xwri\v no/mou dikaiosu/nh in Christ. Compare also the notion of written law (gra/mma) in Pseudo-Archytas and Paul (Agamben, State of Exception, 71).

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

113

law is “nullified,” it is suspended so that it might be fulfilled.33 Nowhere does Agamben make a historical, literary, or otherwise genetic connection between the Roman iustitium and Paul’s notion of katargh/siv. Nor does he connect the notion of the imperial iustitium as the loss of an emperor or prince embodying “living law” with early Christian claims about the death of Christ. It seems to me, however, that some rather basic parallels between Germanicus and Jesus can be drawn – both sons of kings (some early Christians would have even called Christ an “adopted” son)34 sent, because of their great strength, wisdom, and compassion, to secure their fathers’ territories, only to be unjustly killed. Versnel’s choice of the category of the “messianic” to describe attitudes toward Germanicus encapsulates the perceived similarity. But rather than make direct connections between popular hopes about Tiberius’s heir and the expectations of the early Jesus movement, I would rather draw some deep structural parallels about the logics that governed responses to the losses of these two leaders.35 Two cautions about Agamben’s approach must be highlighted before examining how Christ’s crucifixion was understood by his followers to challenge constitutive aspects of their political milieu. One is to emphasize the obvious point that early Christians – even Paul – would not have been familiar with the details of Roman constitutional law. This is perhaps why Agamben avoids positing direct connections between the iustitium and Paul’s language about the law, much less between the state of exception and depictions of the crucifixion. We are looking for what we might risk classifying as “popular” and public responses to the loss of a leader, including assumptions about its effect on the social and political fabric.36 Luckily, in the case of Germanicus, we have just such a reaction: the people of Rome (and, if multiple literary and documentary sources are to be believed, much of the known world) took initiative to mourn the loss of the hope and safety of Rome in the passing of Germanicus. In its function as a 33 Giorgio Agamben, The Time That Remains: A Commentary on the Letter to the Romans (trans. Patricia Dailey; Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2005), 95– 108. 34 On adoption in early Christianity, see now Michael Peppard, The Son of God in the Roman World: Divine Sonship in its Social and Political Context (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 35 To my knowledge (and surprise), there has been no extensive comparison of Christ and Germanicus, not even some poorly executed “parallelomaniac” attempt to debunk the earliest Christian message of the type found throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. 36 In my reading, Agamben’s thought on states of exception, though rooted in history and philosophy of law, seems to require some theorizing on the “popular” and its role in state governance. His recent book (The Kingdom and the Glory: For a Theological Genealogy of Economy and Government [Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2011]) provides just such a turn.

114

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

response to the popular element in state governance, the imperial iustitium is not vastly different from republican modes of emergency law, including the SCU, or with republican discourse about the execution or crucifixion of citizens. In all cases, the fundamental distinctions among the population are at stake, whether the primacy of the citizen’s libertas over and against the bare life of the foreigner, slave, and criminal, or the enforced consensus toward the primacy of the emperor in imperial ideologies. And, as Foucault has indicated, the public itself wields a surprising and paradoxical amount of voice and control in the public rituals of trial, festival, funeral, and execution. As with their acclamations of Germanicus’s benefaction and near divinity in life, the crowds attempted to wield control over the political situation through their mourning his death. Similarly, early retellings of Christ’s crucifixion can be read as one way in which his followers controlled its meaning, especially in terms of the ways in which they attempted to create regimes of power with such retellings. The observation about the role of the “popular” in states of emergency leads to a second observation: the spontaneous and extensive mourning for Germanicus was, of course, not for an emperor but an heir, one step removed from the seat of sovereignty. The people did not mourn the emperor they had but the leader for whom they had hoped, their spes. Insofar as Germanicus was a future king, he represented a promised future – whether an ideal emperor or the possibility of the republic’s restoration.37 That the hopes for Germanicus were so easily transferred to (and ultimately disappointed by) Tiberius’s eventual heir, Gaius Caligula, points to the notion that Germanicus was a signifier who, through accomplishments and personality, came to represent the general aspirations of subjects for their government. Just as Gavius rhetorically served as a stand-in for the rights of citizens in the Verrines, the acclamation and public mourning of Germanicus ritualistically encapsulated the hopes of the people. We now turn to discerning the cognate hopes expressed in the parodic depictions of the coronation and crucifixion of Jesus.

The Boundaries of Messiahship: Jesus, the Crucified King As discussed above, the basic Passion Narrative shared by the four canonical gospels portrays an ironic, even parodic, coronation ceremony surrounding Jesus’ execution by crucifixion. In this parodic sense, Jesus is crowned as king just before he is crucified. By triangulating the basic, structural reaction to the crucifixion of citizens in Cicero, the “murder” of 37

For the hopes of the people for Germanicus, see Versnel, “Destruction,” 550–53.

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

115

the prince Germanicus, and the crucifixion of the king Jesus, I hope to shed some light on the logic by which Jesus’ early followers challenged local and global regimes of authority through the depiction of the crucifixion as coronation and execution. In my analysis, I will touch upon a few crucial features of the Passion Narratives: the location of the crucifixion; the inscription and title at the crucifixion; the relationship between the city of Jerusalem and its temple, on the one hand, and Christ’s execution, on the other; and, finally, the commissioning of the first followers in relation to the “publicizing” of the crucifixion narrative. In each case, I will contextualize the features within the gospels and gospel sources as a whole.38 a. The Place of Crucifixion The four canonical accounts of the crucifixion agree that Jesus was killed outside the Jerusalem city limits at a place called “Golgotha” or “the SkullPlace.” Mark and John both make clear that the soldiers “lead out” (e0ca/gousin; Mark 15:20) Jesus or that Jesus himself “went out” (e0ch=lqen; John 19:17) to the place of execution. John is most explicit about its setting and appearance, dispensing details throughout the narrative: he depicts the crowds who read the inscription on the cross, and he explains that “the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city” (19:20). All four accounts explain that Jesus was crucified with two others, though only the Synoptics describe them (Mark 15:27 and Matt 27:38 have “bandits” [lh|stai/]; Luke 23:33 has “criminals” [katou=rgoi]). In general, the execution of criminals by crucifixion occurred outside of city limits for a number of reasons. Since crucifixion exercised its shame and social control through its public nature, it often occurred beside busy roads near city gates. Yet there was also a sense that such a cursed event and its victim should not pollute the city.39 Reading the fear of pollution in reverse, it is reasonable to see expulsion from the city as demarcating the civic status (or lack thereof) of the crucified, rendering crucifixion an ultimate banishment from basic rights (or, following Marcus, an emphatic sign that the crucified should not have aspired to rights or power to begin with). This may be the meaning behind 38 Just as the first two sections treated Cicero’s rhetoric in and publication of the Verrines, as well as the ritualized and remembered mourning for Germanicus, my focus here is not so much on the historical veracity of all details of the text, but on the depictions as literary constructs presenting stylized perspectives on the significance of the events. 39 On this point, see John Granger Cook, “Envisioning Crucifixion: Light from Several Inscriptions and the Palatine Graffito,” NovT 50 (2008): 279, citing the lex Puteoli and Cicero, Rab. Perd. 4.11. In general, Roman burials happened outside city limits; even Roman emperors tended to be buried outside of Rome out of concern for pollution: see Mary Beard, John A. North, and S. R. F. Price, Religions of Rome: A History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 180–81.

116

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

the spurious addition to the Markan text that makes up Mark 15:28 in the textus receptus: “And the scripture was fulfilled, ‘He was reckoned among the lawless [a0no/mwn].’” The verse is rightly taken to be an interpolated marginal gloss inspired by Jesus’ Last Supper instructions in Luke 22:37. Most assume the interpretive addition explains the presence of bandits on either side of Jesus. Yet the statement provides an apt conclusion to the entire passage outlining the actual crucifixion (15:20b–27). By being “led out” to Golgotha for crucifixion, he has been identified as a criminal, set in a location of legal deprivation and anomie. The location – though standard when it came to crucifixions – may help illuminate the logic by which the Passion Narratives framed Jesus’ decidedly nonstandard, parodic coronation/execution. It is not simply that someone placed beyond the extreme margins of society (lower-class, excluded even by cultic and political leaders of his own ethnic group, a Galilean and not a Judean [on these features, see below]) is crowned king of Israel; rather, such a marginalized figure is crowned and crucified just within sight of the symbolic center of power, the city of David and its temple. The spatial optics of the event recall the climax of Cicero’s depiction of the crucifixion of Gavius, on the shores of Sicily, in sight of Italy. Gavius’s libertas is deprived at the borders of its source, whereas the Messiah is crucified at the boundaries of his seat of power. In both cases, the literary depictions of the events emphasize the public nature of the execution’s location. Such a proximate, public exclusion not only reverses normal social hierarchies but enacts the reversal in such a way as to threaten it constitutively. For Cicero, Gavius’s execution just outside Italy had effects such that it might as well have happened in the Forum itself. Similarly, in the Markan Passion Narrative, Jesus’ crucifixion outside Jerusalem’s walls dramatically creates fissures in the temple (see Mark 15:38 and Synoptic parallels, as well as the discussion below). To say that the event of a crucified, crowned king creates social reversal oversimplifies the logic of the narrative. Accounts of Jesus’ crucifixion, like the account of the crucifixion of Gavius, depict what we might call a proximate marginality, one that publicly displays, within sight of the center of power, a subject position in the process of marginalization or disenfranchisement, a display revealing that which is foundational or constitutive to the given society. As I discuss below, much of the lead-up to the crucifixion emphasizes the proximate marginality of Jesus’ kingship.

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

117

b. The Galilean King of the Judeans The “inscription” or “title” above Jesus names him as “King of the Judeans” in all four canonical accounts.40 John’s version, however, adds not only Jesus’ name (as does Matthew’s) but his hometown: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Judeans.” In general, though they do so in different ways, the Passion Narratives focus on Jesus’ origins as he visits Jerusalem for the last time. Mark and Matthew make the Galileanness of Jesus and Peter a central aspect of Peter’s identification by those standing outside the trial (Mark 14:66–72; Matt 26:69–75). Matthew specifically has the crowd label him “the prophet, Jesus of Nazareth in Galilee” just after his triumphal entry and before his disturbance in the temple (21:11).41 John has the soldiers seek “Jesus of Nazareth” in the repeated identification scene at Gethsemane (18:5–7). It is fitting that John identifies Jesus’ origins in the “title” placed at the cross, since the Fourth Gospel explores, more than the others, the tension implicit in a Galilean-Judean Messiah.42 Early on, Nathanael questions how any ruler could hail from the village of Nazareth (1:45–46), a sentiment later echoed by the Jerusalem crowds in 7:40–43. The geography of messiahship in John has been treated by many scholars;43 at least in part, Jesus’ “otherness” is expressed by the fact that he is simultaneously “Judean” (in the sense that we moderns might say “Jewish”) and not Judean. The Synoptics, too, meditate on Jesus’ Galilean identity insofar as the basic Markan narrative locates his public ministry exclusively in Galilee and its environs, saving his only visit to the seat of power to the last week of his life.44 For reasons we will continue to explore below, all four gospels have Jesus’ ministry finding its greatest purchase in Galilee, just removed from Judea. As with the setting of the crucifixion just outside of 40 In general, “Judean” is preferable to “Jewish” or “Jew” for translating 0Ioudai=ov in so far as it better escapes the gravitational pull of modern notions of religion, which are anachronistic for reflecting ancient conceptions of ethnicity, politics, and cultic allegiances. Furthermore, “King of the Judeans” is especially important for my present argument emphasizing regional distinctions between Judea and Galilee. 41 Matthew seems to link closely the triumphal entry to the temple disturbance, demolishing in the process Mark’s intercalation of the temple scene with the prophetic sign-act of the withered fig tree. 42 For reference to Jesus’ “hyphenated” identity, I am indebted to Osayande Obery Hendricks, “Guerrilla Exegesis: ‘Struggle’ as a Scholarly Vocation: A Post-Modern Proposal for Insurgent African American Biblical Interpretation,” Semeia 72 (1995): 87–88, though I reverse the order of the geographical modifiers here. In general, the Johannine tension between Jesus’ Judean and Galilean roots serves to point heavenward toward a “truer” sense of his origins and destination. 43 See, for example, Wayne A. Meeks, “Galilee and Judea in the Fourth Gospel,” JBL 85 (1966): 159–69. 44 Of course, I exclude the Lukan nativity account in this assessment.

118

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

Jerusalem, Jesus’ ministry occurs just outside the province of his purported power, Judea. In so far as Jesus claims authority apart from a Judean setting, he is not unlike later Galilean popular political leaders as depicted by Josephus. The historian had much at stake when writing on the region, having been selected by the Jerusalem leaders as general of the area in the early days of the Judean Revolt. A close reading of his descriptions of the region shows that Josephus was concerned about the “Judean” identity of the Galileans, but not primarily in terms of law observance or other religio-cultural practices (such as the use of stone vessels, miqva’oth, ossuaries, or abstention from pork).45 Rather, for Josephus, what put the Judeanness of Galileans into question was their willingness to ignore upper-class Jerusalemites as a source of cultural-political authority.46 That Galileans could consider themselves followers of the God of Judea, practitioners of Judean customs, and heirs to the promises and prophecies of Judean scriptural tradition, all while disregarding Judea’s rulers, seemed untenable to Josephus. Yet, this is precisely what local Galilean leaders of the first century did.47 It is perhaps no coincidence that many of the “Judean” revolutionaries of the early Roman period hailed from outside the province: Judas of Galilee, his descendant Menahem, John of Giscala, the anonymous Egyptian prophet (A.J. 20.169–172), and Simon bar Giora of Gerasa. It is as if the messianic revolution required a near outsider – a non-elite, non-Judean – to upend, most radically, the prevailing order. In this project, popular expectations regarding the utility of a proximate marginality governed the logic of social change. c. The Temple Curtain and the Consolidated Messiah In the Synoptic Passion Narratives, the coronation-crucifixion of a notquite-Judean Messiah just outside the capital has immediate effects for the center of power, that is, the temple. Once Jesus has expelled his final breath, “the veil of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom” (Mark 15:38; cf. Matt 27:51; Luke 23:45). Scholars have debated the import of 45 The last four are the main issues that occupy Galilean archaeologists interested in determining the “Jewishness” of a particular site. See the discussion in Halvor Moxnes, Putting Jesus in His Place: A Radical Vision of Household and Kingdom (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2003), 42–43, citing J. L. Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus (Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity International, 2000), 43–49. 46 See the discussion in Timothy Luckritz Marquis, “Re-presenting Galilean Identity: Josephus’ use of 1 Maccabees 10:25–45 and the term Ioudaios,” in Religion, Ethnicity and Identity in Ancient Galilee (ed. Jürgen Zangenberg, Harold W. Attridge, and Dale B. Martin; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 55–67. For the complex cultural and political relationship between Galilee and Jerusalem, see Richard A. Horsley, Galilee: History, Politics, People (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity, 1995), 137–57. 47 For example, Jesus, son of Sapphias.

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

119

the event: does it “foretell” the destruction of the temple in 70 C.E., the contemporary event so vexing for the author of Mark? Is it a symbol of divine mourning for the death of Jesus? Does it symbolize the presence of God made available to all? Or does it assert the demise of the cultic system that ensures yearly forgiveness as well as the law that prescribes it?48 In any case, there is no doubt that the tearing of the temple veil impacts the center of Judean cult and culture. One may ask, however, why the death of the king or Messiah should have any impact on the temple. In a very real, scriptural, and traditional sense, the temple is not David’s house but God’s. Certainly, David’s palace and dynasty were nowhere to be found in the first century, but that did not stop some Jewish groups from preserving messianic distinctions between temple and throne. Most famously, the Essenes expected two Messiahs, of Israel and Aaron, to deal with political-military and cultic matters, respectively. We have just seen how the early Jesus movement played off of the confusion of regional messianic categories with its proclamation of a Galilean-Judean Messiah. Mark, in particular, also plays with the traditional Davidic titulature for the Messiah. Recall the scene of the disciples plucking grain on the Sabbath: Jesus responds to the scribes’ and Pharisees’ outrage by claiming wide-ranging Davidic authority, recalling that David ate and distributed to his companions the bread in the temple despite not being a priest. “The Sabbath is for man’s sake, not man for the Sabbath’s sake; therefore the Son of Man is lord even over the Sabbath” (Mark

48

I prefer the first option, with Raymond E. Brown (The Death of the Messiah: From Gethsemane to the Grave [2 vols.; ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1994], 2:1098–1118), though it may, in turn, entail the other options. I agree with Brown that we should rely on “portent of the Temple’s destruction” as a base interpretation of the veil tearing, though for different reasons. (Brown helpfully shows that the evidence of Jewish reports of portents of the destruction, as well as Christian interpretation and expansions of the tale, point to destruction as the basic meaning here.) By focusing on the space of the building as the basic point, we avoid positing single, theological meanings as the “intended” meaning of the evangelist. The destruction of the temple would have multiple areas of impact, with theological, political, economic, and social effects. As much as possible, all should be taken into account in exegesis of the veil rending within the context of each gospel as a whole. Thus, other meanings of the event (such as the theophany in response to Jesus’ final cry and death, as favored by Yarbro Collins, Mark, 762–64) need not be excluded by the temple destruction theory. The end of the temple necessitates, in many traditions, the revelation of God or God’s angels leaving the precinct; one need only recall the chariot vision of Ezek 1. (Brown [citation above] offers a wealth of other examples from Jewish and Christian literature.) See also Joel Marcus, Mark 8–16 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2009), who asserts that, from an apocalyptic point of view, the veil’s “ripping is bound to be revelatory as well as destructive” (1067).

120

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

2:27–28). If “son of man” is to be understood as a messianic title here,49 Jesus claims the ritual authority granted to the descendent of David. One factor that may problematize or expand the messianic impact of this passage is Mark’s emphasis on David’s companions, especially when one considers that it is the disciples, not Jesus, who have violated the Sabbath.50 Through Jesus, Messianic, cultic authority has been granted to his disciples, who, during their itinerant travels with Jesus, violate the Sabbath simply by plucking grain for quick food.51 Elsewhere, the Markan Jesus deploys Davidic notions of messiahship in starkly different modes, usually in relation to disparate social contexts and audiences. When teaching the crowds in Jerusalem just before his death, he challenges traditional, “scribal” expectations of the Messiah as son of David with a creative rereading of the two “Lords” of Psalm 110:1. Mark makes clear that the undermining of scribal wisdom by this Galilean teacher pleased the large number of residents and Passover visitors (“And the large crowd gladly [h9de/w v] listened to him”; 12:37). One might easily find Mark’s uses of Davidic Messiah terminology confusing and contradictory.52 The common denominator, however, between Jesus’ identification and lack of identification with David, in these two passages, is the relationship Jesus constructs between authorities (scribes and Pharisees) and non-authorities (his disciples or the crowds). The Markan Jesus tactically construes his messiahship in relation to the classes excluded by the political situation. For Mark, the temple stands as a dividing marker between Judean leaders who are complicit in economic, political, and cultic corruption, on the one hand, and those who felt the effects of disenfranchisement, on the oth49 Whether o9 ui9o\v tou= a0nqrw/pou reflects the “son of man” as “any human being” (and thus connects it to the a1nqrwpov of v. 28) or “the Son of Man” as Messiah is a wellknown conundrum. Since it is the disciples, and not Jesus, who are accused of breaking the Sabbath here, their authority to do so must, in part, be at stake. Yarbro Collins (Mark, 204–5) argues that the reader is meant to catch the messianic allusion here. So, “sons of men” can adjudicate when to break the Sabbath because the “Son of Man” says so. 50 Mark’s emphasis on David’s companions seems starker when one considers that, in 1 Sam 21, David did not actually have any companions! See Yarbro Collins, Mark, 202 n. 129, citing David Daube, “Responsibilities of Master and Disciples in the Gospels,” NTS 19 (1972): 1–15. 51 See Gerd Theissen, “The Wandering Radicals: Light Shed by the Sociology of Literature on the Early Transmission of Jesus Sayings,” in Social Reality and the Early Christians: Theology, Ethics, and the World of the New Testament (trans. Margaret Kohl; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1992), 49. 52 On the “tension” concerning Davidic expectations developed by the Markan narrative, see Yarbro Collins, Mark, 581–82. Another major technique through which Mark modifies Davidic categories is through citation and allusion to the Psalms of lament; see now Stephen Ahearne-Kroll, The Psalms of Lament in Mark’s Passion: Jesus’ Davidic Suffering (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010).

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

121

er. That Jesus condemns the temple as a “den of robbers,”53 foretells its destruction through his cursing of the fig tree (Mark 11:1–14, 20–21), and promises that his disciples might remove “this mountain” (that is, Zion 54; Mark 11:23) clearly shows the temple as a locus of separation between Judean leaders and the Judean devotees distanced from the center of their worship and ethnicity. Preeminently, the disciples exemplify this nonleadership class, especially in view of their position as leaders through the social reversal the crucifixion entails.55 Two conclusions follow from interpreting the rending of the temple veil within the context of Jesus’ proximate marginality. First, the messianic and constitutive centrality of the temple not only evokes prophetic traditions surrounding the destruction of the first temple but, more specifically, speaks to a popularized blurring of messianic categories in which Davidic political power melds with cultic authority. Second, the crucifixion’s impact on the temple also speaks to the specific social reversal at stake in Jesus’ mission and, thus, in his coronation and execution. If the king is a Galilean, a Nazorean, a member of the classes marginalized by Roman domination and elite Judeans, then the social location at stake in the event is the non-leadership class of Judeans, who are personified by the crowds, the Galileans, the disciples, and, of course, Jesus himself. In the narrative framing of the Passion accounts, Jesus’ public execution, proximate to the center of power, publicly enacts and overturns the constitutive distinction within occupied Palestine.

Conclusion The cases of Gavius and Germanicus, figures who were proximate to power yet radically excluded through death, aid in a structural and historicized interpretation of Christ’s crucifixion. In each case, the accounts depict the 53

Mark 11:17, citing Isa 56 and Jer 7 as broad critics of the injustice of the temple system. 54 See John T. Carroll and Joel B. Green, The Death of Jesus in Early Christianity (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 1995), 32. 55 See Carroll and Green, The Death of Jesus, 33, citing Joel Marcus, The Way of the Lord: Christological Exegesis of the Old Testament in the Gospel of Mark (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1992), 119–28. Whether Mark’s account targets any financial misdealing on the part of the merchants or (more probably) the cultic and financial violations that had characterized priestly management of the Second Temple from the early Seleucid period until its destruction (see Adela Yarbro Collins, “Jesus’ Action in Herod’s Temple,” in Antiquity and Humanity: Essays on Ancient Religion and Philosophy [ed. Adela Yarbro Collins and Margaret M. Mitchell; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001], 45–61), the story targets the divides in Judean and Palestinian society that eventually led to the events of 70 C.E.

122

Timothy Luckritz Marquis

unusual death of a figure acclaimed to have a socially central or politically constitutive role within society – one a Roman citizen, one a charismatic prince, and one the Messiah. The death of each activates an emergency focused on the social location in question. Cicero decries the death of libertas with the death of Gavius; with the perceived murder of Germanicus, the population of Rome forfeits all “hope” and institutes its own iustitium. Similarly, the earliest accounts of Jesus’ death portray the crucifixion as a simultaneous coronation-execution that destroys Roman-Judean hierarchies, creating a vacuum to be filled by a non-elite leadership position called “disciple.” Thus, the parodic coronation and crucifixion of Jesus, in part, served to legitimize new positions of authority in an emerging, alternative society. In conclusion, and to bolster my claim, I turn to one of the best attested sayings in the earliest Jesus tradition. Here, I give the Markan form – the first mention of “cross” or crucifixion in Mark: “If someone wants to follow after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me” (8:34; Matt 16:24; Luke 9:23). Versions of the saying occur in Q (Luke 14:27; Matt 10:38) and Gospel of Thomas (55) – to my knowledge, the only allusion to crucifixion in either Q or Thomas. The saying’s broad attestation and pivotal position in the various gospel traditions speaks to its perceived power for communicating the true, cruciform nature of discipleship. But just as the cross tells us something about the commission to follow Jesus, the commissioning of followers can also tell us something about the cross. For the earliest leadership of the Jesus movement, the crucifixion of the Judean king revealed and exacerbated structural fissures in Judean society, creating a reversal of power – or, to put it another way, a suspension of the regulative order of things and a power vacuum that needed to be filled. For early leaders of the Jesus movement, the crucifixion justified and provided the logic for their itinerant commission to village and household, proclaiming to those of their social class the spirit of a king of their own. Proclaiming the proximate marginality of the crucifixion publicized the constitutive problem of occupation for Judeans and all the world to see. Indeed, we can get a stronger sense of the connection between crucifixion and commission if we reflect on the ways in which Christ’s crucifixion was publicized. How could the earliest proclaimers of Jesus have claimed to be commissioned by the cross? After all, Mark, Matthew, and Luke depict Jesus’ followers as standing too far from the scene to give adequate testimony to the events. The narratives themselves militate against the notion that they heard the call of the cross as eyewitnesses. But, as in Cicero’s fictive production of a crucifixion on an international stage, or like the popular responses to the news of Germanicus’s death, Jesus’ crucifixion

Crucifixion and the Proximate Marginality of Christ’s Kingship

123

becomes most public not through its location outside Jerusalem, but through the construction and spread of its narrative by the disciples themselves. It is through the framing and retelling of the scene that both the constitutive undermining of the Roman occupation of Judea and the commissioning of Jesus’ lowest devotees takes place. Quite beyond the boundaries of Israel, accounts of the crucifixion traveled to other locales to speak to those excluded from power in other subject positions. Thus, we find Paul proclaiming “Jesus Christ publicly displayed as crucified” (Gal 3:1), as a means of universalizing the message of the cross. Paul envisions, through prophecies like those found in Isaiah 52, the Gentiles arriving at the temple to worship God, a reversal on a global scale. Likewise, the author of Hebrews positioned his readership, along with Jesus, “outside the camp” (13:10–13).56 The coronation-crucifixion of Christ ultimately finds its power in the impetus it provides to those who publicly experience it: to challenge the constitutive societal values and fissures it reveals, to bring the message to broader and more diverse social locations, and to enact the reversal and justice of the cross to ever wider communities.

56

“The character of the realm ‘outside’ is its shamefulness, where carcasses were disposed and criminals were executed. The Christian addressees then are called upon to do what exemplars of faith such as Moses (11:26) and Christ himself (12:2) did. In this equivalent of the call to take up the cross, Hebrews suggests where it is that true participation in the Christian altar is to be found – in accepting the ‘reproach of Christ’” (Harold W. Attridge, The Epistle to the Hebrews: A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews [Hermeneia; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1989], 399).

 

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas From Child’s Play to Rituals of Divine Discernment STEPHEN J. DAVIS When I was a child I thought my father possessed some kind of secret wisdom about the ways of birds. If we were outside together in the yard he would stop at the first sound of their song and confidently identify the species that produced it. In southeastern Pennsylvania, we would often hear sparrows, robins, blue jays, cardinals, and the occasional oriole, but what got him most excited were the varied vocalizations of the mockingbird. Before I knew it, he would be tweeting or warbling out a response that mimicked (albeit with a marked human accent) the fluctuating tones and rhythms of their jesting calls. On other occasions, Dad would look up at the sky to spy a solitary hawk floating on an air current high above or, just as mesmerizing, a flock of geese in their distinctive V-formation. The flock’s shared natural instinct to organize themselves in the form of this alphabetic sign was a testimony to the mystery of creation, and Dad’s ability to decipher the meaning of their movement – north in advance of summer, south in anticipation of winter – seemed almost divinely inspired to my young, unpracticed eye. In my childhood memories, I recall my father as a mystic adept in the ways of amateur ornithology. The five-year-old Jesus whom we meet at the beginning of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas is a bird watcher as well, one who also seems to be preternaturally knowledgeable about avian language and flight. In our early written versions of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas – in Greek, in Latin, and in Syriac – the story of a five-year-old Jesus playing in pools of water, making sparrows out of clay, and bringing those birds to life is consistently featured as the first episode in the narrative. In later literature and art, the image of Jesus and the birds would become emblematic of his miraculous powers, made manifest even in early childhood. In this article, I take up this iconic story again and approach it from a new vantage point – one specifically informed by the study of social memory. To put it in the form of a question, what cultural “sites of memory” in Greco-Roman late antiq-

126

Stephen J. Davis

uity would have informed the early reception of this tale about Jesus’ childhood? As conceived by Pierre Nora, the phrase “sites of memory” (lieux de mémoire) refers to material artifacts and related social practices that function to re-present the past in functional or symbolic ways for particular communities.1 One of the motivating questions of this study is to ask how the Infancy Gospel of Thomas itself would have functioned as a “site of memory” for reimagining the contours of Jesus’ childhood in late antiquity. But another more specific question, inextricably related to the first, concerns how this text and its stories would have sponsored cognitive links with other cultural “sites” as part and parcel of this process of reception. What artifacts and practices – what social realia – would have been most relevant to ancient readers and hearers as they sought to make sense of the young, wonderworking Jesus portrayed in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas? In pointing to such “sites of memory” as crucial points of reference for the text’s interpretation, I make two interrelated claims. The first is that the gospel’s “reminiscences” of Jesus’ childhood were grounded in commonly shared (adult) assumptions of what a prototypical childhood looked like in the Greco-Roman world. The second is that the gospel’s representation of Jesus’ extraordinary early prowess was also grounded in equally common cultural knowledge about ritual activities understood to grant humans special access to divine power.

To the Birds: The Story of Jesus and the Sparrows in the Greek Infancy Gospel of Thomas Let us begin by briefly revisiting the story in the Greek Infancy Gospel of Thomas.2 When we first encounter Jesus, he is five years old and “playing at the ford of a rushing stream.” Commanding it “only by means of a word,” he gathers the flowing water into ponds and purifies it. Then, with 1

Pierre Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,” Representations 26 (1989): 19. 2 A standard critical edition of the Greek Infancy Gospel of Thomas (in all four recensions) has been published by Tony Burke, De Infantia Iesu Evangelium Thomae Graece (CCSA 17; Turnhout: Brepols, 2010). Here and elsewhere (unless otherwise noted), I use recension Gs (= Jerusalem, Bibliotheke tou Patriarcheiou, Cod. Sabaiticus 259), now regarded as “the best available witness to an early form of the gospel in its language of composition” (Burke, De Infantia, 197), as the basis for my textual analysis: ed. and trans. Burke, De Infantia, 301–37; see also Reider Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus: Decoding the Apocryphal Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Eugene, Ore.: Cascade Books, 2009), 219–32 (text) and 233–42 (translation).

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

127

other boys gathered around at play on the Sabbath day, he takes “soft clay from the mud,” and shapes it into the form of twelve sparrows. The story then concludes with an accusation and a miracle. A Jew notices what Jesus is doing and informs Jesus’ father Joseph that the boy is violating the Sabbath through his actions. When Joseph comes to ask Jesus why he is doing this on the Sabbath, Jesus does not respond, but instead he simply “clapped his hands and commanded the birds” to “Go, take flight like living beings.”3 We are told that, in response to his words, the sparrows immediately “took off and flew away twittering.”4 This tale of Jesus and the clay sparrows became one of the most popular stories about Jesus’ childhood in late antiquity and the Middle Ages. In addition to its prominent place in all Greek recensions of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, variations on this story also appear in Latin, Syriac, Slavonic, Georgian, Armenian, Irish, Ethiopic, and Arabic Christian traditions about Jesus’ youth.5 The early Christian Gospel of Bartholomew (which 3

In the other Greek versions (Ga, Gb, Gd), Jesus calls them “living ones” and exhorts them to “Remember me” (Inf. Gos. Thom. 2.4): see Burke, De Infantia, 344–45 (Ga), 402–3 (Gd), and 456–57 (Gb, = ch. 3.2). The Greek texts of recensions A and B, and the Latin text of recension D, were originally edited by Constantin Tischendorf, Evangelia Apocrypha (2nd ed.; Leipzig: Mendelsohn, 1876). The Greek text of recension D was first published by A. Delatte, “Évangile de l’enfance de Jacques: Manuscrit No. 355 de la Bibliothèque Nationale,” in Anecdota Atheniensia, vol. 1: Textes grecs inédits relatifs à l’histoire des religions (Paris: Edouard Champion, 1927), 264–71. Each of these editions has now been superseded by Burke, De Infantia: for texts and translations, see 339–89 (Ga), 391–451 (Gd), and 453–63 (Gb); translations of all four Greek recensions are also available online at http://www. tonyburke.ca/infancy-gospel-of-thomas/. 4 Greek Inf. Gos. Thom. 2.1–3 (Burke, De Infantia, 302–5). 5 For a bibliography and discussion related to the transmission of these traditions, see Wilhelm Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha (ET trans. R. McL. Wilson; vol. 1; Cambridge: James Clarke & Co.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1991), 439–43, 456–59. English translations of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas in Syriac, Ethiopic, Old Latin, Georgian, Irish, Slavonic, and Late Latin are available online at Tony Burke’s website: http://www.tonyburke.ca/infancy-gospel-of-thomas/. The Arabic Infancy Gospel sur-vives in two MSS: Oxford, Bodl. Or. 350 (Oxford), and Florence, Laur. Or. 387. The manuscript at the Bodleian Library in Oxford was first published by Henricus Sike, in Euangelium infanti: Vel, Liber apocryphus de infantia Servatoris (Trajecti ad Rhenum: Franciscum Halman, Guiljelmum vande Water, 1697). A corrected edition was later published with a Latin translation by J. K. Thilo, in Codex Apocryphus Novi Testamenti (vol. 1; Leipzig: Vogel, 1832), 65–131. This text has been translated into French and Spanish: French trans. P. Peeters, Évangiles apocryphes (vol. 2; Paris: Auguste Picard, 1914), 1–65; Spanish trans. A. de Santos Otero, Los Evangelios apocrifos (10th ed.; Madrid: Biblioteca de autores cristianos, 1999), 309–38. An English translation by A. Roberts and J. Donaldson appears in ANF 8.404–15 (available online at http://www.ccel. org/ccel/schaff/anf08.vii.xi.html). The Arabic text at the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana in Florence was published with an Italian translation by M. E. Provera, Il Vangelo Arabo dell’Infanzia (Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 1973).

128

Stephen J. Davis

dates at least as early as the fourth century C.E.) cites the story of Jesus and the sparrows, likening the flight of the birds to the apostles’ mission to the four corners of the world.6 It is also recollected in two different verses in the Qur’ān, where ‘Īsa (Jesus) tells the Children of Israel, “Lo! I fashion for you out of clay the likeness of a bird, and I breathe into it and it is a bird, by Allah’s leave” (Sura 3:49), and later Allah speaks to ‘Īsa and says, “Remember the favor I have shown to you and to your mother; how I supported you through the holy Spirit, so that you might speak to the people in your cradle even as in maturity; and how I taught you Scripture and Wisdom, the Torah and the Gospel; and how you created from clay a likeness of a bird with my permission, and how you breathed upon it and it became a bird with my permission” (Sura 5:110).7 By the medieval period in the Latin West, this miracle of Jesus bringing clay birds to life would find its way into the iconography of churches and chapels, such as St. Martin’s in Zillis, Switzerland, where a painted ceiling panel depicts Jesus releasing one of the sparrows as two other boys look on.8 6 Gospel of Bartholomew 2.11: ed. A. Vasiliev, Anecdota graeco-byzantina, vol. 1 (Moscow: Universitatis Caesareae, 1893), 12; see also Burke, De Infantia, 31. For an English translation, see J. K. Elliott and M. R. James, The Apocryphal New Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 652–72; see also the critical French translation and study by J.-D. Kaestli, “Questions de Barthélemy,” in Écrits apocryphes chrétiens (ed. François Bovon and Pierre Geoltrain; vol. 1; Bibliothèque de la Pléiade 442; Paris: Gallimard , 1997), 255–305; and J.-D. Kaestli and P. Cherix, L’évangile de Barthélemy d’après deux écrits apocryphes (Apocryphes 1; Turnhout: Brepols, 1993), 29–134. In the surviving Slavonic recensions and in one of the Latin manuscripts, this work is identified as the Questions of Bartholomew: see V. Moricca, “Un nuovo testo dell ‘Evangelo di Bartolomeo,’” Revue Biblique n.s. 18 (= 30) (1921): 481–516, and n.s. 19 (= 31) (1922): 20–30; and G. N. Bonwetsch, “Die Apokryphen Fragen des Bartholomäus,” Nachrichten von der Königlichen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen: Geschäftliche Mitteilungen (Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften Philologisch-Historische Klasse; Göttingen: Dieterich, 1897), 1–42. A. Wilmart and E. Tisserant (Fragments grecs et latins de l’Évangile de Barthélemy,” Revue Biblique 10 [1913]: 161–90, and 321–68) have identified this text with the eponymous gospel mentioned by Jerome in the prologue of his Commentary on Matthew and later condemned in the Decretum Gelasianum. 7 Qur’ān 3:49 and 5:110: ed. and trans. M. W. Pickthall, The Meaning of the Glorious Qur’ān (Beirut: Dar al-Kitab al-Lubnani, 1970), 69–70, 158 (translation modified); see also Neal Robinson, “Creating Birds from Clay: A Miracle of Jesus in the Qur’ān and Classical Muslim Exegesis,” Muslim World 79.1 (1989): 1–13; and idem, Christ in Islam and Christianity: The Representation of Jesus in the Qur’ān and the Classical Muslim Commentaries (London: Macmillan, 1991), 142–55. 8 St. Martin’s Church, Zillis, Switzerland: see David R. Cartlidge and J. Keith Elliott, Art and the Christian Apocrypha (London: Routledge, 2001), 98–99, 107–8, and Figure 4.21. For more detailed treatments of the iconography in this church, see Ernst Murbach, The Painted Romanesque Ceiling of St. Martin in Zillis (ill. Peter Heman; New York; Washington: Frederick A. Praeger, 1967); Diether Rudloff, Zillis: Die romanische Bil-

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

129

Here, I focus my questions on the Greek text and the cultural milieu of its early readers. In particular, what would Jesus’ interaction with birds – both clay and live – have signified to ancient recipients of this work? How did the setting of the story – at the “ford of a rushing stream” – relate to the actions performed by this child savior? Scholars have often struggled to interpret these story details, as they have primarily concentrated on possible scriptural allusions and antecedents.

Bird Watching in the Bible Arguments for biblical allusions in the story have hinged in part on the use of specific vocabulary. In the Greek Infancy Gospel of Thomas, the word strouqi/a is used to refer to the birds that Jesus brings to life. The term strouqi/a can refer generally to “small birds,” but it can also refer more specifically to “sparrows” as a species.9 Notably, the same Greek word appears in Matt 10:29–31 and Luke 12:6–7 where Jesus compares the value of human beings favorably to that of sparrows. In Matthew, we are told that the price of sparrows is two for a penny and that “not one of them will fall to the ground” without the Father’s knowledge (10:29). In Luke, their price on the street has gone down slightly (five for two pennies), but their divine valuation remains the same: “not one of them is forgotten in God’s sight” (12:6). Some scholars have tried to press for a terminological connection between the Infancy Gospel of Thomas account and these particular verses from the Synoptic Gospels, but there is little else in the story to recommend one.10 derdecke der Kirche St. Martin (Basel: Verlag Peter Heman, 1989); and Marc Antoni Nay, St. Martin’s Church in Zillis (Berne: Society for the History of Swiss Art, 2008). 9 D’Arcy W. Thompson, A Glossary of Greek Birds (London: Oxford University Press, 1936), 268–70. 10 Ronald Hock (The Infancy Gospels of James and Thomas [Scholars Bible 2; Santa Rosa, Calif.: Polebridge, 1995], 105) also rejects the synoptic stories as primary intertexts. However, his own solution – that sparrows are naturally associated with water and rainy weather – is no more satisfying, especially since there is no mention of rain in the earliest Greek recension, Gs. One finds textual additions explaining that Jesus was playing after a rain or thunderstorm only in later Greek and Slavonic versions of the infancy gospel: for the Greek versions, see Burke, De Infantia, 340–41 (Ga), 401 (Gd), and 455 (Gb); for the Slavonic text, see Thomas Rosén, The Slavonic Translation of the Apocryphal Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Studia Slavica Upsaliensia 39; Uppsala: Uppsala University, 1997), 48 (an English translation of the Slavonic text by T. Allen Smith is available online at http://www.tonyburke.ca/infancygospel-of-thomas/the-infancy-gospel-of-thomas-slavonic/). It should be noted that some late medieval Latin scribes observed the verbal connection between infancy gospel and Jesus’ synoptic teachings about strouqi/a, and sought

130

Stephen J. Davis

Another possible biblical intertext for the appearance of sparrows in this story is Prov 26:2 (LXX) – “Just like birds (o1rnea) and sparrows (strouqoi/) fly, idle words (matai/a) do not fall upon anyone.” The Greek substantive plural adjective, matai/a (“vain or idle [words]”) in the Septuagint translation stands in for the Hebrew, qillah hinam, “groundless curses.” Thus, the Greek word used here may have originally carried a range of associations, from false accusations to undeserved execrations. In this context, it is noteworthy that the story of Jesus’ miracle with the birds parallels the structure of this verse from Proverbs. His release of the vivified sparrows into the air is immediately followed first by a public accusation (lodged by Annas, the high priest’s son) that this miracle had violated the Sabbath, and later by Jesus’ cursing of the high priest’s son for destroying the pools that he had formed. Could some ancient readers have made a link between these words in Proverbs and Annas’s accusation? If so, Jesus’ release of the birds would have been understood as an act designed to show that Annas’s accusation was an empty one. Could other readers have connected the Proverbs allusion with Jesus’ subsequent act of causing his accuser to wither? If so, they would have had to understand the fulfillment of Proverbs in ironic terms. In the infancy gospel, Jesus’ own curses are proven to be far from idle: they fall upon the other child (and later his teachers) with a very real and deadly effect. Despite these structural parallels, however, there are problems with pressing this argument for Prov 26:2 as a biblical intertext, especially given the lack of evidence for such an interpretation in antiquity. In the absence of specific external evidence, any connection between the infancy gospel and Prov 26:2 remains in the realm of the unprovable. In their search for biblical antecedents, scholars have relied not only on terminological interconnections, but also on broader thematic and narratological parallels. One example of this is a recurrent effort to interpret Jesus’ act of bringing the birds to life as a recapitulation of the creation story to underscore it by making a subtle alteration to the wording of the infancy gospel, namely by adding the promise, “nobody shall kill you” (a nemine mortem invenietis) at the end of Jesus’ words to the sparrows (Late Latin Inf. Gos. Thom. 4.2; ed. Tischendorf, Evangelia Apocrypha, 2nd ed., 164–80, at 168; trans. ANF 8.400). This late Latin insertion perhaps was meant to echo Jesus’ promise in Matt 10:29 that “not one of them will fall to the ground” on account of God’s providence. It may also have served as an implicit apologetic against a tradition in Islamic commentary on the Qur’ān, which claimed that the birds in fact died after they had flown out of sight (al-Tha`labî, `Arâ'is al-majâlis fî qisas al-anbiyâ' or Lives of the Prophets as Recounted by . . . al-Tha`labî (trans. William Brinner; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 653–74; discussed by John Renard, Friends of God: Islamic Images of Piety, Commitment, and Servanthood (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 2008), 93 and 296 n. 8.

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

131

in Gen 1–2.11 According to this reading, Jesus’ act of gathering the water (u3data) into pools and purifying it by means of a word (lo/goj) echoes God’s ordering of the waters (u3data) by means of a verbal command in Gen 1 (especially as read through the lens of John 1:1–3). Like the creation of humankind out of the earth (gh~) in Gen 2:7, Jesus forms the birds out of “soft clay from the mud” (e0k th_j u3lewj phlo/n) and gives them life in chapter two of the Greek Infancy Gospel of Thomas. The placement of the story about the pools and the sparrows at the beginning of the infancy gospel is cited as further evidence that it was modeled as a “creation narrative” in miniature, echoing God’s creation of the world in Genesis.12 Matthew 10:29–31, Luke 12:6–7, Prov 26:2, and Gen 1–2 may (or may not) have served as biblical touchstones – scriptural “sites of memory” – among some early Christian readers trying to make sense of the story. However, given the multi-referential and intertextual nature of reading in antiquity, these texts alone are not sufficient for elucidating fully the association of birds, children, and divine power in early Christian cultural memory. To do so requires us to use a wider angle lens for our task of “bird watching” in the Greco-Roman milieu.

Bird Watching in Greco-Roman Culture In ancient literature and art, birds find frequent association with children. Greek and Roman children played with toys modeled after birds and kept birds as pets, while birds were also used as technological props for negotiating encounters with the divine in magical spells and in oracular settings. I shall argue here that ancient recipients of the Greek Infancy Gospel of Thomas would have viewed the story of Jesus and the sparrows (at least in part) with an eye toward such cultural practices. For them, Jesus’ childlike play and wonderworking would thus have simultaneously signaled his experience of a typical human childhood and his embodiment of divine potency.

11 Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 128; see also Richard Bauckham, “Imaginative Literature,” in The Early Christian World (ed. Philip F. Esler; London; New York: Routledge, 2000), 791–812, see esp. 797; and W. Baars and J. Helderman, “Neue Materialien zum Text und zur Interpretation des Kindheitsevangeliums des Pseudo-Thomas,” OrChr 77 (1993): 191–226, see esp. 205–11; a continuation of this article appears in OrChr 78 (1994): 1–32. 12 Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 128.

132

Stephen J. Davis

A Child’s Life with Birds: Playing with Toys and Caring for Pets Let me begin with some observations about how birds, as a narrative device, would have helped mark the young Jesus as a typical child for GrecoRoman readers. After diverting the water into pools, his first act is to shape the moist clay into the form of birds. In this context, it is important to note that there is widespread evidence in classical and late antiquity for the use of wood, bone, metal, stone, and terracotta figurines of animals – including lions, bears, crocodiles, rams, camels, horses, pigs, dogs, cats, and birds – as children’s toys.13 Indeed, actual examples of such toys have been found across a broad geographical range in Greek, Roman, and Egyptian cultural settings.14 A brief survey of the archaeological record will serve to illustrate how common animal toys would have been in households from classical to late antiquity. With regard to this material data, let me start with two initial observations: first, a good number of the ancient toys now preserved in museum collections were originally recovered from children’s graves; and second, terracotta bird figurines feature prominently among this corpus of evidence.15 13 Anita E. Klein, Child Life in Greek Art (New York: Columbia University Press, 1932), 9–10 and pl. VIII–IX. 14 For discussions of toy animal figurines made from various materials in antiquity, see C. D. Lazos, Paizontas sto chrono: Archaioellênika kai Vyzantina paichnidia 1700 p. Ch.–1500 m. Ch. (Athens: Aiolos, 2002), esp. 415–18; Eugenia Salza Prina Ricotti, Giochi e giocattoli (Vita e costumi dei Romani antichi 18; Rome: Edizioni Quasar, 1995); Marco Fittà, Giochi e giocattoli nell’antichità (Milan: Leonardo Arte, 1997), esp. 48–89; Da Roma per gioco: Giochi e giocattoli nell’antica Roma (ed. Marco Fittà; Museo di Antichità Collezioni Archeologiche; Rome: Electa, 2000), 8–25; and Cäcilia Fluck, “Puppen – Tiere – Bälle: Kinderspielzeug aus dem spätantiken bis frühislamzeitlichen Ägypten,” in Spiel am Nil: Unterhaltung im Alten Ägypten (ed. H. Froschauer and H. Harrauer; Vienna: Phoibos Verlag, 2004), 1–21. On the relationship between such toys and children’s care and concern for live animals, see Keith Bradley, “The Sentimental Education of the Roman Child: The Role of Pet-Keeping,” Latomus 57.3 (1998): 523–57, esp. 538–39. The transmission history of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas itself also bears witness to the relevance of such toy usage as an interpretive context for later readers, editors, and translators of the text. In the Arabic Infancy Gospel, the story about Jesus and the birds is expanded and reduplicated into a pair of scenes in which his actions of molding the birds out of clay and making them come alive are repeated. While the second telling of the tale (Arabic Infancy Gospel 46) draws most directly on the story as it appears in the Greek text, the first telling (Arabic Infancy Gospel 36) adds crucial new details. Most notably, Jesus does not limit his craftsmanship to sparrows; instead, he creates a whole menagerie of creatures out of clay, including “images of asses, oxen, birds, and other animals.” 15 On the funerary evidence for animal and bird figurines, see especially John H. Oakley, “Death and the Child,” in Coming of Age in Ancient Greece: Images of Childhood from the Classical Past (ed. Jenifer Neils and John H. Oakley; New Haven, Conn.;

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

133

One of the earliest examples comes from the fourth century B.C.E.: a group of objects recovered from a child’s tomb includes a number of earthenware toys, most notably two animal statuettes of a rooster and a horse.16 Clay forms of roosters, hens, ducks, and pigeons from the Roman period survive as part of the collections of antiquities housed at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, the Germanisches Zentralmuseum in Mainz, and the Kurpfälzisches Museum in Heidelberg.17 Similar small-scale limestone figures are housed in the Wallraf Richartz Museum in Cologne.18 Finally, the British Museum collection in London includes one ancient toy consisting of two clay birds mounted on a wooden stick that allowed them to rotate on its axis.19 The use of such clay figures as children’s toys is attested all across the Roman Empire, from Britain in the northwest to Egypt in the southeast. A set of Roman terracotta figurines in Colchester, England, may have been designed expressly for children’s play.20 Excavations of the Agora in Athens have turned up numerous clay toys and rattles shaped in the form of domesticated animals, including birds.21 A clay bird on wheels found in a London: Yale University Press; Hanover, N.H.: Hood Museum of Art, Dartmouth College, 2003), 163–94, esp. 174–79. 16 Newark, N.J., The Newark Museum, Eugene Schaefer Collection, 1950, 50.212, 50.292, 50.367.A–C, 50.638–640, 50.647, 50.649–650, 50.720–721. Oakley, “Death and the Child,” 176, 302–3, cat. 118. Other examples of horse figurines preserved in collections housed in Syracuse, Corinth, Rome, and New York are documented by Anita E. Klein, Child Life in Greek Art, 9 and pl. VIII (A–D). 17 Examples include two terracotta figurines of roosters in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford (Fittà, Giochi e giocattoli nell’antichità, 72, figs. 121–22); four terracotta figurines of birds (two roosters, a duck, and a pigeon) in the Germanisches Zentralmuseum, Mainz, Germany (Salza Prina Ricotti, Giochi e giocattoli, 26, fig. 14); and two children’s rattles in the form of a rooster and a hen in the Kurpfälzisches Museum in Heidelberg (Philipp Filtzinger, Dieter Planck, and Bernhard Cämmerer, eds., Die Römer in Baden-Württemberg [Stuttgart; Aalen: Konrad Theiss Verlag, 1976], 289, fig. 116). 18 Three limestone figurines of birds (two roosters and one pigeon) at the Wallraf Richartz Museum, Cologne: (Fittà, Da Roma per gioco, 21 [also on cover]). 19 British Museum, London (Marco Fittà, Giochi e giocattoli nell’antichità, 72, cat. 124). 20 Joan Alcock, Life in Roman Britain (Stroud, Gloucestershire: Tempus, 2006), 100– 101. 21 Clairève Grandjouan, The Athenian Agora: Results of Excavations Conducted by the American School of Classical Studies at Athens, vol. 6: Terracottas and Plastic Lamps of the Roman Period (Princeton, N.J.: American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 1961), 25; Brigitte Pitarakis, “The Material Culture of Childhood in Byzantium,” in Becoming Byzantine: Children and Childhood in Byzantium (ed. Arietta Papaconstantinou and Alice-Mary Talbot; Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, and Harvard University Press, 2009), 220–22, figs. 18 (dog) and 19 (rooster); see also the bird rattles from the fourth century C.E. documented in the American School of Classical Studies publication, Birds of the Athenian Agora (prepared by Robert D.

134

Stephen J. Davis

Roman tomb in Palestine attests to the popularity of such toys during the first and second centuries C.E.22 Similar examples of rattles and wheeled toys have been found in late antique and Byzantine Egypt.23 In Karanis, a town on the northeastern edge of the Fayum Oasis, the figure of a clay hen was found alongside camels, cattle, pigs and horses made of the same material.24 While many of these clay toys would have been manufactured for children by adults, there is also literary and archaeological evidence for children’s involvement in “the shaping of clay or mud into various playthings and toys” even into the medieval period.25 Children’s play in games or with toys has been described by Johan Huizenga as an activity that specifically contributes to the shaping of a kind of social memory. Play is temporally and spatially delimited, and thus marked off from everyday activities in such a way that it “assumes fixed form as a cultural phenomenon” – as “a treasure to be retained by the memory.”26 Furthermore, as a ritualized set of actions, play is eminently repeatable (whether in the mind or in actual practice) and therefore it can be “transmitted” as a “tradition.”27 In this context, the image of Jesus playing with clay birds – so commonly attested among ancient household artifacts – would certainly have prompted and reinforced such social memories of childhood among adult Greek and Roman recipients of the text. After shaping the sparrows out of clay, Jesus’ second act is to bring those birds to life and to release them into the air. If the ancient material record for clay bird toys is forthcoming, the evidence for children’s interLamberton and Susan I. Rotroff; Princeton, N.J.: American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 1985), esp. 7 and 9, figs. 12 (= inv. T1423) and 17 (= inv. T1854). 22 J. Zias, “A Roman Tomb at ‘Ar‘ara,” ‘Atiqot: English Series 14 (1980): 63–65; cited by Brigitee Pitarakis, “The Material Culture of Childhood in Byzantium,” 228. 23 For an Egyptian example of a clay rattle in the form of a bird, see László Török, Coptic Antiquities I (Bibliotheca Archeologica 11; Rome: “L’ERMA” di Bretschneider, 1993), 54, K 6 Taf. LXXV. For an example of “a wooden bird-shaped pull toy fitted with a pair of wheels” discovered at Gerzah (ancient Philadelphia) in the Fayyum, see Gawdat Gabra, Le Caire: Le musée copte et les anciennes églises (Cairo: Egyptian International Publishing Company, 1996), 98; L’art copte en Égypte: 2000 ans de christianisme (Paris: Institut du monde arabe et Gallimnar, 2002), 218, nos. 270a–b and 271; Gawdat Gabra and Marianne Eaton-Krauss, The Treasures of Coptic Art in the Coptic Museum and the Churches of Old Cairo (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2006), 143, no. 89a–c. 24 Fluck, “Puppen – Tiere – Bälle,” 19, and cat. no. 13. Fluck comments on the special association birds seem to have had for children: “Vögel scheinen für Kinder von besonderer Bedeutung gewesen zu sein: Sie sind wie kein anderes Tier auf vielen Kindergrabstelen im gesamten römischen Reich präsent” (p. 19). 25 Pitarakis, “The Material Culture of Childhood in Byzantium,” 218. 26 Johan Huizenga, Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Ltd., 1949), 9–10. 27 Huizenga, Homo Ludens, 10.

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

135

est in and care for live birds as playthings and pets is perhaps even more abundant.28 It is not a coincidence, I think, that school handbooks frequently included vocabulary sections with names of different species for students to learn and memorize.29 In her study of childhood in ancient Greece and Italy, Ada Cohen has identified birds as “ubiquitous live toys” for the younger set.30 Indeed, both literary and material evidence attest to the popularity of domestic bird care in the ancient world: numerous authors mention cases of children keeping birds, and birds are frequently depicted in the company of children on both painted pottery and sculpted stone monuments.31 From the third century B.C.E. to the second century C.E., a whole series of ancient authors makes passing reference to the practice of keeping birds as pets among both elite and non-elite Romans.32 In Plautus’s play The Captives, the slave Tyndarus mentions the fact that jackdaws, ducks, and quails were common presents for patrician children, while he himself had received a crow for his amusement when he was young.33 Nearly two cen-

28

Klein, Child Life in Greek Art, 10–12. A. C. Dionisotti, “From Ausonius’ Schooldays? A Schoolbook and Its Relatives,” The Journal of Roman Studies 72 (1982): 83–125, esp. 86 and 93. 30 Ada Cohen, “Introduction: Childhood between Past and Present,” in Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy (ed. Ada Cohen and Jeremy B. Rutter; Hesperia Supplement; Princeton, N.J.: American School of Classical Studies in Athens, 2007), 2– 22, quote at 19 n. 65; see also Lazos, Paizontas sto chrono, 439–59. Once again, the Arabic Infancy Gospel provides at least one witness to the way the story of Jesus and the sparrows was later interpreted in light of children’s practices of keeping birds as pets. Chapter 36 (ed. Thilo, Codex Apocryphus Novi Testamenti, 110) contains an expanded version of the tale in which Jesus takes the birds he has fashioned out of clay and makes them walk, leap, stand still, fly, perch, eat, and drink at his command – actions that correspond to the way a pet bird is trained to heed its young master’s wishes. 31 Francis D. Lazenby, “Greek and Roman Household Pets,” The CJ 44.4 (Jan. 1947): 245–52; and 44.4 (Feb. 1947): 299–307, esp. pp. 249–52 and 299–301. 32 For a discussion of most of these sources in relation to broader patterns of petkeeping in antiquity, see Bradley, “Sentimental Education,” 523–57. On the popularity of birds as pets in Greek cultural contexts, see also John Pollard, Birds in Greek Life and Myth (London: Thames and Hudson, 1978), esp. 15–16. 33 Plautus (254–184 B.C.E.), The Captives, 1002–1003 (ed. and trans. Paul Nixon; vol. 1; LCL; London: Heinemann; New York: Putnam, 1916), 562. In the first century C.E., Seneca (ca. 4 B.C.E.–65 C.E.; Apolocyntosis 13.3 [ed. and trans. W. H. D. Rouse, LCL; London: Heinemann; New York: Putnam, 1930], 400–401) would speak in similar terms about the keeping of a dog as a pet for the purpose of pleasure (in deliciis habere). 29

136

Stephen J. Davis

turies later, the Roman writer Varro speaks knowledgeably about the cultivation of aviaries, including one that he built on his estate near Casinum.34 Around the same time, in the mid-first century B.C.E., Catullus composed his famous pair of poems about his lady Lesbia’s pet sparrow (passer), in which he describes how it would allow itself to be held by its mistress and would peck at her finger, how it would hop in her lap and chirp only for her. According to the poet, Lesbia was as close to that sparrow as to her own mother, and at its death her eyes became “swollen and red with weeping.”35 Literary evidence for the keeping of birds as children’s pets in the first few centuries C.E. is just as common. While Ovid and Columella both remark on the domestic raising of doves as commonplace in Roman society,36 more specific references to bird-keeping by little boys are found in other authors. For example, Pliny the Elder reports how Nero and Britannicus kept nightingales and a starling as pets during their boyhood years.37 In the early second century C.E., Pliny the Younger relates how the Roman senator M. Aquilius Regulus, distraught over the death of his son, slaughtered the boy’s ponies, dogs, and birds (including nightingales, parrots, and blackbirds) in an act of mourning.38 Further evidence for the domestic care of sparrows in particular comes from the Roman rhetorician Fronto, who was active during the middle of the second century C.E. He tells of how his grandson kept sparrows (along with chickens and pigeons) as pets, and shares how he himself was also said to have had a passion for these same 34

Varro (116–27 B.C.E.), On Agriculture 3.5–11 (ed. and trans. William D. Hooper and Harrison B. Ash; rev. ed.; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.; London: Harvard University Press, 1935; repr. 2006), 446–89. 35 Catullus (ca. 84–ca. 54 B.C.E.), Poems (Carm.) 2–3 (ed. and trans. Francis W. Cornish and G. P. Goold; rev. ed.; LCL: Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1978), 2–5. 36 Ovid (43 B.C.E.–17/18 C.E.), Metam. 13.831–833 (ed. and trans. John F. Miller; vol. 2; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1976), 286– 87; Columella (4–70 C.E.), On Agriculture 8.8.9–10 (ed. and trans. E. S. Forster and Edward H. Heffner, vol. 2; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1954), 366–67; see also George Jennison, Animals for Show and Pleasure in Ancient Rome (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1937; repr. Philadelphia, Pa.: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005), 101, 122–23, 131–35. 37 Pliny the Elder (23–79 C.E.), Nat. 10.120 (ed. and trans. H. Rackham; vol. 3; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1940), 368–69. 38 Pliny the Younger (61–ca. 112 C.E.), Ep. 4.2.3–4 (ed. and trans. Betty Radice; vol. 1; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1969), 244– 45. In Petronius’s first-century novel, the Satyricon 46 (ed. and trans. Michael Heseltine; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1956), 78–79, a father kills his son’s pet birds for a very different reason: the ragman Echion is driven to distraction by his son’s obsession with his birds and secretly kills three of the boy’s favorite goldfinches to quell his frustration.

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

137

kinds of birds during his own childhood (“from my earliest infancy”).39 This common practice of keeping birds as pets continued in later centuries. In the fourth century C.E., the Greek writer Libanius recalls caring for pigeons (peristerai/) as a small boy.40 At the very end of the same century, Augustine of Hippo in his Confessions recalls (and ultimately rejects) “the innocence of childhood” (innocentia puerilis), a life stage that he associates with playthings like nuts, balls, and pet sparrows (passeres).41 In addition to these written sources, it is also important to comment on the abundant material evidence for domesticated birds, and for their close association with children, from antiquity to the early Christian period. Domestic vessels and decorative items provided one social context for the visual representation of this motif. Ceramic bowls (xo/ej) from Athens and other places in classical Greece depict small children with their winged pets. On a late fifth-century B.C.E. red-figure example discovered in the Athenian Agora, a nude boy holds a small bird at arm’s length in his left hand while reaching out to it with his right.42 Other bowls from the fifth and fourth centuries feature a boy tempting a bird with a piece of cake,43 a girl chasing a bird with a toy roller,44 and another boy offering a bird a grasshopper as a snack.45 During the Hellenistic period, artisans in the town of Amisos in Asia Minor (modern Samsun on the Turkish Black Sea coast) produced terracotta figurines with tender scenes of children cradling and kissing birds in their hands,46 as well as less tender ones of children watching a cockfight.47 39

Fronto (ca. 100–170), Ad amicos 1.12 (ed. and trans. C. R. Haines; 2 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1919–1920), 1.172. 40 Libanius (314–394 C.E.), Autobiography 5 (= Oration 1.5; ed. and trans. A. F. Norman; vol. 1; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1992), 56–57; see also Constantin A. Marinescu, Sarah E. Cox, and Rudolf Wachter, “Paideia’s Children: Childhood Education on a Group of Late Antique Mosaics,” in Cohen and Rutter, Constructions of Childhood, 101–14, esp. 107 n. 8. 41 Augustine, Confessions 1.19.30: (ed. and trans. William Watts; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1977), 56–59 (my translation). 42 American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Birds of the Athenian Agora, 10– 11, and fig. 19 (= inv. P 16912). 43 Attic red-figure xou=j (425–420 B.C.E.), from Athens: Boston, Museum of Fine Arts, Henry Lillie Pierce Fund, 01.8086; Oakley, “Death and the Child,” 280, cat. no. 91. 44 Attic red-figure xou=j (ca. 420 B.C.E.), probably from Greece: Worcester, Mass., Worcester Art Museum, Bequest of Sarah C. Garver, 1931.56; Oakley, “Death and the Child,” 280, cat. no. 92; see also the Attic red-figured lekythos (ca. 420–390 B.C.E.) by Aison showing a girl with a pet bird, discussed by Pollard, Birds in Greek Life and Myth, fig. 24. 45 Painted Ceramic Bowl (ca. 360–350 B.C.E.): Paestum, Museo Archeologico Nazionale; Fittà, Giochi e giocattoli nell’antichità, fig. 107. 46 See the two identical molds from the second century B.C.E., preserved in Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glypothek, 5444 and 5424: Ellen D. Reeder, “Some

138

Stephen J. Davis

Evidence from the late Roman period includes wall paintings, sculptures, and mosaics recovered in situ from private homes and public worship spaces. A wall painting of an infant boy with two birds (one a dove and the other a duck) was found in a first-century C.E. house at Pompeii.48 The child, identified in the painting as “the boy Successus” (puer Successus), may also have been the subject of a stone sculpture discovered in the garden area of the same residence, which also depicts a small boy holding a dove.49 Later mosaics discovered at early Christian sites in Palestine also provide useful information about the domestic care of winged creatures as pets: in selected examples, birds are depicted in cages or with tethers around their necks to prevent them from flying away, sometimes in the company of human handlers.50 However, the vast majority of material artifacts again come from cemeteries – especially grave stelae, sarcophagi, and the occasional wall painting – and this evidence spans an enormously broad temporal and spatial Hellenistic Terracottas and Sculpture in Asia Minor,” in The Coroplast’s Art: Greek Terracottas of the Hellenistic World (ed. Jaimee P. Uhlenbrock; College Art Gallery, The College at New Paltz, State University of New York; New Rochelle, N.Y.: A. D. Caratzas, 1990), 81–88, here 82, figs. 68 and 69. 47 Baltimore, The Walters Art Gallery, 48.1714; and Paris, Louvre, D 466: Reeder, “Some Hellenistic Terracottas and Sculpture in Asia Minor,” 81, fig. 66; and 82–3, fig. 70. 48 Pompeii, Regio I, Insula 9.3, Room 10, Center of north wall, SAP inv. no. 41661: Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Houses and Society in Pompeii and Herculaneum (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1994), 192 (for an architectural plan of the building, see 191, fig. A.2); for a photo of this painting and the room in which it was discovered, see http://www.pompeiiinpictures.com/pompeiiinpictures/R1/1%2009%2003%20p4.htm. 49 Pompeii, Regio I, Insula 9.3, Room 6, North portico of the garden area: for photos of the sculpture taken in 1952 at the time of excavation, see http://www.pompeiiin pictures.com/pompeiiinpictures/R1/1%2009%2003%20p2.htm. 50 For examples from Jerusalem and Madaba, see Frederick J. Bliss, Excavations at Jerusalem, 1894–1897 (London: The Committee of the Palestine Exploration Fund, 1898), 253–55; Sylvester J. Saller and Bellarmino Bagatti, The Town of Nebo (Khirbet al-Mekhayyat) with a Brief Survey of Other Ancient Christian Monuments in Transjordan (Publications of the Studium Biblicum Franciscanum 7; Jerusalem: Franciscan Press, 1949), 237–38, pl. 40.3; Ute Lux, “Eine altchristliche Kirche in Mādeba,” Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 83.1 (1967): 165–82 and pl. 26–40, esp. pp. 170, 172, 177, and pl. 31b, 35c. For a discussion of the evidence for these practices not only in early Byzantine Palestine, but also in ancient Egyptian, Nabataean, Greek, Roman, and Hebrew cultures, see Ulrich Hübner, Spiele und Spielzeug im antiken Palästina (OBO 121; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992), 28–37, esp. 28 and 31. On late medieval and early modern representations of people (esp. children) using bird tethers, see Rolf Wilhelm Brednich, “Vogel am Faden: Geschichte und Ikonographie eines vergessenen Kinderspiels,” in Festschrift Matthias Zender: Studien zu Volkskultur, Sprache und Landesgeschichte (ed. Edith Ennen and Günter Wiegelmann; vol. 1; Bonn: Ludwig Röhrscheid Verlag, 1972), 573–97 (with 14 figures).

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

139

horizon from Attic Greece, to Roman Britain, to late antique Egypt. Recently, some historians have argued for possible symbolic resonances of birds in Greco-Roman funerary art. Thus, Ada Cohen argues that birds, due to their timelessness and lack of individuating features, serve to cast the “continuous unfolding of the human life course” into sharper relief: as such, they allude to the “tenuous contact between the world of the dead and the world of the living.”51 For her part, Janet Huskinson notes that birds convey to the viewer “a whole range of ideas – innocence, tenderness, naturalness, and elusiveness,” but that they also may represent “the soul or life-force” of the child.52 Indeed, Plutarch compares the soul to a “captive bird” in his Consolation to his Wife, a work written after the death of their infant daughter.53 And on contemporaneous Roman reliefs on children’s sarcophagi, the personified female Psyche (Soul) is shown in the company of birds. Two examples come from the Catacomb of Praetextatus: on one, Psyche appears with a large bird, flanked on the right by Cupid and a hare; on the other, she receives a peacock while a second bird alights beneath her chair.54 Finally, on another sarcophagus from Taormina, Psyche stands beside the seated figure of the deceased child and holds a bird in her hand.55 In each case, there is an association of birds with the souls of prematurely deceased children. These possible symbolic connections notwithstanding, it is important to recognize the shared cultural assumption that underlay the pervasive representation of birds and children on ancient tombs – namely, that petkeeping was recognized as a common activity among young boys and girls in antiquity. Four scene types in funerary sculptures and paintings underscore the variety of activities typically associated with children’s care of birds in the home:

51

Cohen, “Introduction: Childhood between Past and Present,” 20. Janet Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi: The Decoration and Social Significance (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 88. 53 Plutarch, Cons. ux. 611 E (ed. and trans. Phillip H. De Lacy and B. Einarson, in Plutarch’s Moralia, vol. 7; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1959), 600–601. 54 Rome, Catacomb of Praetextatus, mid- to late third century C.E.: Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, 52–54, cat. no. 7.4 and 7.5. 55 Taormina, Museo del Teatro inv. no. 57 (undated): Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, 52–54, cat. no. 7.8. 52

140 1. 2. 3. 4.

Stephen J. Davis

Child standing in the company of a bird;56 Child holding a bird in hand;57 Child offering/receiving a bird to/from someone else;58 Child feeding, petting, or playing with a bird.59

Types 1 and 2, which present scenes of the deceased child simply standing or holding/petting the bird, constitute the vast majority of the extant examples. While the figure of the child in these images appears rather stylized and static in contrast to the other two types (where bodily movements are more accentuated), the quotidian nature of the scenes is nonetheless highlighted by the artists, who often depict the deceased child in the company of parents, toys, and other pets. For example, on one Greek funerary stele dated ca. 340 B.C.E., a young girl is depicted standing and holding a doll 56 For representative examples of Type 1, see Oakley, “Death and the Child,” 169, cat. 68; Fittà, Giochi e giocattoli nell’antichità, 65–66, 68, figs. 103–4, 112; also Fittà, Da Roma per gioco, 20; Bradley, “Sentimental Education,” 528–29, pl. XIII–XV, figs. 5, 7, and 8; and Diana Kleiner, “Women and Family Life on Roman Imperial Funerary Altars,” Latomus 46 (July–Dec. 1987): 545–54, and plates XIV–XV, esp. 553, and pl. XV, fig. 4. 57 For representative examples of Type 2, see Oakley, “Death and the Child,” 3, 180– 81, 183–84, cat. no. 124, and figs. 1, 23, 25; Christoph W. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones (vol. 1; Kilchberg, Switzerland: Akanthus, 1993), 188–89, no. 0.869a; Janet Burnett Grossman, “Forever Young: An Investigation of the Depictions of Children on Classical Attic Funerary Monuments,” in Cohen and Rutter, Constructions of Childhood, 309–22, esp. 315; Diana E. E. Kleiner, Roman Group Portraiture: The Funerary Reliefs of the Late Republic and Early Empire (New York: Garland, 1977), 174 and fig. 66; Alcock, Life in Roman Britain, 100 (on two Roman tombstones at York that show young girls cradling birds in their hands); Salza Prina Ricotti, Giochi e giocattoli, cover image; Katerina Romiopoulou, Ellēnorōmaïka Glypta tou Ethnikou Archaeologikou Mouseiou (Athens: Tameio Archaiologikon Porōn kai Apallotriōseōn Dieuthunsē Dēmosieumatōn, 1997), 74, cat. no. 74; Fittà, Giochi e giocattoli nell’antichità, 69, fig. 113; Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, 58, cat. no. 8.26; Froschauer and Harrauer, Spiel am Nil, 19, fig. 19; and also Ägypten, Schätze aus dem Wüstensand: Kunst und Kultur der Christen am Nil, Katalog zur gleichnamigen Ausstellung im Gustav-Lübcke-Museum Hamm (Wiesbaden: L. Reichert, 1996), 75, cat. no. 6. 58 For representative examples of Type 3, see Oakley, “Death and the Child,” 182, fig. 22; Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 412, 415, cat. no. 1.690 and 1.694; Grossman, “Forever Young,” 318 and fig. 16.8. 59 For representative examples of Type 4, see Marie-Therese le Dinahet, “L’image de l’enfance à l’epoque hellenistique: La valeur de l’exemple delien,” in Les Pierres de l’Offrand: Autour de l’oeuvre de Christoph W. Clairmont (ed. Genevieve Hoffmann with Adrienne Lezzi-Hafter; Zürich: Akanthus, 2001), 93–94, fig. 4; Reeder, “Some Hellenistic Terracottas and Sculpture in Asia Minor,” 85, fig. 76 (cf. fig. 77); Oakley, “Death and the Child,” 189–90, cat. no. 126; Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, 24, 58, 66, cat. 1.47, 8.22, 9.43; Bradley, “Sentimental Education,” 537 and pl. XV and XIX, figs. 8 and 13; Fittà, Giochi e giocattoli nell’antichità, 66, fig. 106; and Fittà, Da Roma per gioco, 19.

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

141

and a bird, while a small Maltese dog springs up at her feet.60 On another Attic gravestone, a girl named Plangon also holds a doll and a bird in her hands. She is accompanied by a pet duck, and on a wall near her hang knucklebones and other playthings.61 This convention of representing children with birds (or perhaps occasionally bird figurines?) in their hands continues into late antiquity, as attested by second- through fourth-century examples from Greece,62 Italy,63 and Egypt.64 As mentioned above, the other two types accentuate various bodily movements associated with the practice of caring for pets. Type 3 (scenes of children offering or receiving a bird to or from another child or a parent) seems to be a special feature of Attic grave stelae. The evidence for Type 4 ranges later, into the Hellenistic, early Roman, and late antique periods. The scenes grouped under Type 4 represent children in more dynamic, playful interaction with birds, including petting, feeding, and acts of mischief. While the act of petting birds could have been designed to evoke a tender, emotional response from viewers, especially in the context of memorial graveside practices, it also would have evoked memories of childhood play. Three examples show how artists used contextual images to underscore the playful associations of petting. First, a funerary stele in the Piraeus Museum in Athens shows a little boy named Protarchos playing with a goose while it sits in his mother Nikeso’s lap.65 Second, a Hellenistic funerary stele preserved in the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles shows the placid figure of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl named Apollonia standing and reaching up to pet a dove that is perched on top of a short pil-

60

Oakley, “Death and the Child,” introduction frontispiece, and 181, cat. 124. Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek GL 199: Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 188–89, no. 0.869a; Grossman, “Forever Young,” 309–22, here 315. 62 Funerary stele of a girl named Olympia holding a bird (first half of the 2nd cent. C.E.), Athens, Archaeological Museum: Romiopoulou, Ellēnorōmaïka Glypta tou Ethnikou Archaeologikou Mouseiou, 74, cat. no. 74. 63 Statue of a girl holding a bird (2nd cent. C.E.), Rome, Galleria Collonna: Fittà, Giochi e giocattoli nell’antichità, 69, fig. 113. Sarcophagus relief of a young boy holding a bird, with another at his feet (ca. 320 C.E.), Vatican Museums, Galleria Lapidaria, no. 9256: Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, 58, cat. 8.26. 64 Funerary stele of a boy kneeling while holding a bird (Roman late antiquity), from Oxyrhynchus (Egypt), Recklinghausen, Ikonenmuseum, Inv. 511: Froschauer and Harrauer, Spiel am Nil, 19, fig. 19; see also Ägypten, Schätze aus dem Wüstensand, 75, cat. no. 6. 65 Athens, Piraeus Museum; Alexander Conze, Attischen Grabreliefs (4 vols.; Berlin: W. Spemann, 1893–1922), 1:20, no. 62, pl. XXVII; Lazenby, “Greek and Roman Household Pets,” 249. 61

142

Stephen J. Davis

lar to her right; in her left hand, however, she holds a ball.66 Third, a Roman sarcophagus relief carved during Trajan’s reign (98–117 C.E.) depicts a young boy (the deceased) reaching out to touch the head of his pet goose; the playfulness of his gesture is reinforced by a smaller figure to the right – a boy, perhaps his younger brother, who grasps the handle of what looks like a scooter.67 Other funerary art captures children in the act of feeding birds. The sculpted face of a gravestone from Delos shows a boy named Zosas playing with a rooster: with his right hand he holds what looks like a bunch of grapes over the bird’s head.68 Late Roman sarcophagus reliefs from the third century C.E. offer variations on this theme: one preserved in the Louvre and dated 280 C.E. shows a child offering grapes to a bird, and a similar scene is preserved on a sarcophagus in the Museo Nationale Romano.69 Children are also depicted engaged in playful contests of will with birds. Falling into this category are scenes where children try not to feed their pets but to keep food away from them. A grave stele from Smyrna, now in the Louvre and dated to the second or first century B.C.E., shows a child kneeling and holding a loaf of bread or some other edible item away from a hungry and overly inquisitive rooster. 70 Several centuries later in Ostia, the sculptor of a late Roman boy’s sarcophagus rendered a similar scene: the deceased child is shown trying to keep a large bird away from an equally large bunch of grapes.71 This scene has numerous parallels in contemporary domestic sculpture: in one case, a small terracotta shows a boy sitting on a bench leaning away with a large cluster of grapes while a rooster pecks at his knee. 72

66

Malibu: The J. Paul Getty Museum (ca. 100 B.C.E.): Oakley, “Death and the Child,” 189–90, cat. 126; Bradley, “Sentimental Education,” 537 and pl. XIX, fig. 13. 67 Bradley, “Sentimental Education,” 529 and pl. XV, fig. 8. 68 Le Dinahet, “L’image de l’enfance à l’epoque hellenistique,” 93–94 (fig. 4). 69 Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, 58 and 66, cat. 8.22 (Paris, Louvre inv. no. Ma 952, 280 C.E.) and 9.43 (Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano, inv. no. 75184). 70 Ernst Pfuhl and Hans Möbius, Die ostgriechischen Grabreliefs (Mainz am Rhein: Zabern, 1977), 211, no. 804, pl. 117; Margarete Bieber, The Sculpture of the Hellenistic Age (rev. ed.; New York: Columbia University Press, 1961), 137, fig. 539; Reeder, “Some Hellenistic Terracottas and Sculpture in Asia Minor,” 85, fig. 76. 71 Ostia, Azienda 10 (late 2nd or early 3rd cent. C.E.): Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, 24, cat. 1.47. 72 Simone Mollard-Besques, Catalogue raisonné des figurines et reliefs en terre-cuite grecs, étrusques et romaines (4 vols.; Musée du Louvre, Département des antiquités grecques et romaines; Paris: Éditions des Musées nationaux, 1963), 2:134, no. MYR 310, pl. 162f.; Reeder, “Some Hellenistic Terracottas and Sculpture in Asia Minor,” 85, fig. 77.

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

143

Finally, children and birds are also depicted in more vigorous physical interaction. On a funerary slab in the Catacomb of Domitilla in Rome,73 an artist has etched the figure of a boy who holds a stick with a string at the end, perhaps a kind of makeshift whip. His body is turned toward a peacock in chase. For his part, the peacock seems intent on keeping a healthy distance. While this scene is unique to Roman funerary art, other scenes of children at play with birds are preserved in sculpted miniatures from domestic contexts, including a number of variations on a boy wrestling with a goose.74 Having surveyed a healthy cross-section of this ancient material evidence, I now return to my main concern. How is this data relevant for a contextualized reading of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas? What does this evidence tell us about how ancient readers and auditors of the story would have encountered this scene of Jesus and the birds? We have seen how, at home and in oft-frequented public settings like cemeteries and shops that sold ceramic bowls and children’s toys,75 denizens of the ancient Mediterranean world – pet-owners and non-pet-owners alike – would have encountered visual stimuli that reinforced the association of children with the practice of keeping birds (and other domestic animals) as pets. In some cases, men and women would have been reminded of their own childhood interactions with roosters and geese, nightingales and peacocks, pigeons and sparrows. What I would like to suggest is that the image of a young Jesus at play, interacting with clay toys and live birds, would have served a similar function. From the get-go, this story would have marked Jesus’ human childhood as one that conformed to certain familiar childhood patterns and practices in the Greco-Roman world. As such, it would have served as a cultural “site of memory” for recipients of the Greek Infancy Gospel of Thomas in at least two ways. For a select few, it would have allowed them to draw cogent connections between Jesus’ actions and their own childhood experiences with birds. For a broader audience, the infancy gospel (along with the other literary and material artifacts I have cited) would have worked to reinforce and shape a shared cultural perception – a collective memory, if you will – of bird-keeping as typical child’s play, and Jesus as having experienced a typical childhood.

73

Rome, Catacomb of Domitilla (3rd cent. C.E.): Fittà, Giochi e giocattoli nell’antichità, 66, fig. 106; also Fittà, Da Roma per gioco, 19. 74 Bradley, “Sentimental Education,” 536, and pl. XVIII, fig. 12. 75 On the social importance of the memorial practices that took place at cemeteries in the early Christian era, see now Ramsay MacMullen, The Second Church: Popular Christianity A.D. 200–400 (Atlanta, Ga.: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009).

144

Stephen J. Davis

Divine Signs: Birds in Ancient Cultic Worship, Magical Practices, and Augury Having sketched out how the story of Jesus and the birds would have evoked commonly shared images of Greco-Roman childhood, I also want to argue that this same scene would have simultaneously elicited a competing set of cultural memories – memories drawn from other spheres of ancient society that would have destabilized Jesus’ representation as a typical child and that would have cast him in a very different light in the eyes of readers. Thus, even as the image of Jesus forming clay figures of birds and releasing live birds into the air would have prompted specific associations with common forms of childhood play, these same actions would also have had other, very different cultural resonances among the same community of reception. In what follows, I explore how these actions would have recalled for readers certain conventional ritual actions associated with votive dedications, magic, and divination, in which birds (or bird figurines) served as key technological props. Dating back to the Minoan and Mycenaean periods in Greece, the use of terracotta bird figurines as votive offerings and as signs for the epiphany of a god are attested in house sanctuaries.76 In fifth- and fourth-century B.C.E. Greece, clay modeled birds were also found in public sanctuaries like that of Demeter in Acrocorinth. Excavations at Corinth have also yielded figurines of boys carrying grapes, toys, and animals (including birds), usually interpreted as scenes of cultic offering, as idealized depictions of ritual practices in which children may have actually participated.77 Various other ceramic statuettes connected with a possible cultic (and/or domestic) provenance have been uncovered during excavations at the Arabian sites of ed-Dur and Thaj, as well as at Babylon, Seleucia-on-theTigris, and Dura Europos.78 76

Martin Persson Nilsson, The Minoan-Mycenaean Religion and Its Survival in Greek Religion (Skrifter utg. av. Kungl. Humanistiska vetenskapssamfundet i Lund; Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup, 1950), 333–35. 77 Gloria S. Merker, The Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore: Terracotta Figurines of the Classical, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods (Corinth, Volume 18, Part 4; Princeton: American School of Classical Studies in Athens, 2000), 193. 78 Aurelie Daems, “The Terracotta Figurines from ed-Dur (Umm al-Qaiwain, U.A.E.): The Animal Representations,” Arabian Archaeology and Epigraphy 15.2 (2004): 229–39, esp. 230, 235–36, figs. 1–2; Grace Burkholder, An Arabian Collection: Artifacts from the Eastern Province (Las Vegas, Nev.: GB Publications, 1984), 205, and fig. 44b (3rd cent. B.C.E.–1st cent. C.E.); Kerttu Karvonen-Kannas, The Seleucid and Parthian Terracotta Figurines from Babylon in the Iraq Museum, the British Museum and the Louvre (Monografie di Mesopotamia 4; Florence: Casa editrice le lettere, 1995), 110–11, and pl. 85, figs. 700–704, 707, 709, and 713 (2nd cent. B.C.E.–2nd cent. C.E.); Wilhelmina Van Ingen Elarth, Figurines from Seleucia on the Tigris (University of Michigan Humanities

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

145

During the classical period, live birds came to be closely linked with the worship of Kore and Aphrodite,79 and sparrows in particular benefitted from the god Apollo’s special protection at Branchidae in Anatolia. 80 Such cultic associations survived in some areas into Roman late antiquity: according to Claudius Aelianus (ca. 175–ca. 235 C.E.), in his day the killing of a sparrow dedicated to Asclepius in Athens still brought a penalty of death to the transgressor.81 The presence of birds would also later become closely associated with dedicatory offerings and healing practices at the pilgrimage shrines of Christian saints.82 In ancient Egyptian magical practice, birds – both inanimate and live – were frequently incorporated into spell prescriptions, and sometimes the rites intentionally seemed to blur the lines between the role played by molded animal figurines on the one hand, and living, breathing specimens on the other. Thus, the early and quite fragmentary Papyrus Westcar (18th–16th century B.C.E.) preserves the story of a chief temple priest named Webaoner who magically transforms the wax figure of a crocodile into an actual reptile by throwing it into a lake. (The crocodile then performs the useful service of devouring his wife’s illicit lover.) 83 In another story, an Egyptian high priest named Neneferkaptah animates clay figurines through verbal incantations.84 Series 45: Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1939), 333–36, cat. nos. 1547–73; pl. LXXX–LXXXI, figs. 594–97 (2nd cent. B.C.E.–2nd cent. C.E.); Susan B. Downey, Terracotta Figurines and Plaques from Dura-Europos (Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 2003), 189, 205–8, cat. nos. 158–59, figs. 148–49 (2nd– 3rd cent. C.E.). 79 Merker, The Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore, 43, 126, 265, 268–69, 278 (V9 and V10). 80 Herodotus 1.159; cited by Pollard, Birds in Greek Life and Myth, 146. 81 Aelian, Varia Historia 5.17; cited by Pollard, Birds in Greek Life and Myth, 146. 82 The fifth-century Life and Miracles of Saint Thecla describes how pilgrims to Hagia Thekla in Seleukia would feed grain to local pigeons and bring birds to the saint’s shrine as sacrificial offerings, and how, in the atrium of the shrine, children would be seen playing with various species of birds (G. Dagron, Vie et miracles de Sainte Thècle [Brussels: Sociètè des Bollandistes, 1978], 133–34). One of the miracle accounts in that collection (Miracle 24: Dagron, Vie et miracles, 350–53) even relates how a young toddler was healed of an eye ailment after a crane lanced his eye with its beak. 83 Geraldine Pinch, Magic in Ancient Egypt (Austin, Tex.: University of Texas Press, 1995), 96. For a transcription and translation of this papyrus, see Stephen Quirke, Egyptian Literature 1800 BC: Questions and Readings, London: Golden House Publications, 2004), 77–89. 84 Frances L. Griffith, Stories of the High Priests of Memphis (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1900), 24; A. Meyer, “Kindheitserzählung des Thomas,” Handbuch zu den neutestamentlichen Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung (ed. E. Hennecke; Tübingen: Mohr, 1904), 132–42, at 135; T. Chartrand-Burke, “The Infancy Gospel of Thomas: The Text, Its Origins, and Its Transmission,” Ph.D. diss. (University of Toronto, 2001), 45

146

Stephen J. Davis

In the Papyri Graecae Magicae, much attention has been given to the way ritual practitioners manipulated clay figurines modeled after human subjects in order to exert control over the minds and bodies of eroticized female targets in certain binding spells.85 Much less attention has been given to a similar theory of correspondence at work in the use of bird statuettes (and mummies) by the same guild of specialists. One papyrus dated to the fourth or fifth century C.E. instructs the spell giver first to “take a Circaean falcon and deify it” by drowning it in the milk of a black cow, and then to set the corpse of the falcon up “as a statue in a shrine made of juniper wood.”86 The practitioner is then supposed to dedicate a sacrifice and “speak directly to the bird itself,” for the purpose of summoning Orion and coming “face to face as companion” to the god.87 The next entry in the same papyrus tells the one performing the rite to “grasp a falcon’s head” and shake it in his right hand before dedicating it as a sacrifice.88 This series of actions is designed to elicit a divine sign – the appearance of another (live) falcon that flies down, flaps its wings, lands in front of the spell agent, and then takes flight again, only to disappear into the heavens.89 This sign is linked to the epiphany of the god, who is described as “an aerial spirit.”90 A similar connection between the flight of birds and divine epiphanies may be found in other spells, including an (available online at http://www.collectionscanada.gc.ca/obj/s4/f2/dsk3/ftp05/NQ63782. pdf). 85 For examples, see PGM IV.296–466 (ed. K. Preisendanz, vol. 1, 82–88; trans. E. N. O’Neill, in Hans Dieter Betz, The Greek Magical Papyri in translation: including the Demotic spells [2nd ed.; Chicago, Ill.: University of Chicago Press, 1992], 44–47); S. Kambitsis, “Une nouvelle tablette magique d’Égypte, Musée du Louvre, Inv. E 27145, 3 e/4e siècle,” BIFAO 76 (1976): 213–23, and plates; and David Martinez, P.Michigan XVI: A Greek Love Charm from Egypt (P.Mich. 757) (Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1991). For further discussion of the use of such clay figurines, see Christopher A. Faraone, “Binding and Burying the Forces of Evil: The Defensive Use of ‘Voodoo Dolls’ in Ancient Greece,” Classical Antiquity 10.2 (1991): 165–220; Robert K. Ritner, The Mechanics of Ancient Egyptian Magical Practice (SAOC 54; Chicago, Ill.: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1993), esp. 113–36, 159–62; Pinch, Magic in Ancient Egypt, 90–103; and Stephen J. Davis, “Forget Me Not: Memory and the Female Subject in Ancient Binding Spells,” in Women and Gender in Ancient Religions: Interdisciplinary Approaches (ed. Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll, Paul A. Holloway, and James A. Kelhoffer; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 248–59. 86 PGM I.4–5, 26–27 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 1, 2–4; trans. Betz, 3). 87 PGM I.24–25, 29, 39–40 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 1, 4; trans. Betz, 3–4). 88 PGM I.59–64 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 1, 6; trans. Betz, 4); cf. PGM IV.3125–3171 (ed. Preisendanz, 174–76; trans. Betz, 98–99), instructions for the making of a phylactery in which “a wild white-faced [falcon]” is sacrificed to a statue with the heads of a falcon, a baboon, and an ibis. 89 PGM I.64–67 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 1, 6; trans. Betz, 4–5). 90 PGM I.88–90, 96–97 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 1, 6; trans. Betz, 6–8).

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

147

amulet with a Coptic invocation offered up to “the Father Pantokrator” (identified with the god Atikhis), who “must fly like the birds of heaven” to save the petitioner.91 Live birds in the Greek magical papyri are not only sacrificed in petition to the gods, but ritual practitioners – not unlike Jesus in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas – also hold and release live birds, observe their flight, and even speak to them directly and give them commands. In one charm to induce insomnia or wakefulness, the release of a bat or a bird (ornufin) with the name of the god and an incantation written on its wing is thought to bring about the charm’s intended effect.92 Another spell designed to revitalize a sun scarab is accomplished “through the 25 living birds,” perhaps an allusion to the release of one bird per hour over the course of a whole day, with the rebirth of the scarab taking place after the first hour of the new dawn (the first day of the month).93 In other rites, spell-givers address birds directly with spoken commands designed to control – either to suppress or to motivate – their vocalization and flight. Such actions rested on the premise that those reciting the spells were empowered to communicate with birds in their own language, and that this language was one shared by the gods themselves. Thus, in one rather lengthy magical rite (PGM XIII.1–343), the one reciting the spell calls on the creator god in several sacred tongues, including “birdglyphic” (orneoglufisti) and “falconic” (hierakisti), and then claps (krotein) three times.94 These greetings are later echoed by the first among the angels and by a falcon (probably understood as the instantiation of the god Horus).95 Further on, “the practical uses of this sacred book” that heretofore were known only by “experts” are finally disclosed to the spell-owner. This spell-owner is notably addressed as a “child” who at one time made an oath in the “temple of Jerusalem” and who will be “filled with divine wisdom.”96 The book’s practical uses include (among other things) the power to resurrect dead bodies, to kill snakes, and to determine the life or death of a bird by reciting the words of the spell into its ear.97 91

PGM XLVIII.1–21, esp. 1–8 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 2, 181; trans. Betz, 282). PGM XII.376–396 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 2, 82–83; trans. Betz, 166–67). 93 PGM IV.475–829, esp. lines 795–799 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 1, 88–100, esp. 100; trans. Betz, 48–54, esp. 53). 94 PGM XIII.81–89 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 2, 91; trans. Betz, 174); a similar set of instructions for bird vocalizations and clapping is found in PGM XIII.594–602 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 2, 115; trans. Betz, 187). I thank Elizabeth Davidson for calling my attention to the ritual function of clapping in these spells. 95 PGM XIII.148–161 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 2, 94; trans. Betz, 176). 96 PGM XIII.230–234 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 2, 98–99; trans. Betz, 179). 97 PGM XIII.234–343, esp. 247–248, 260–261, 277–282 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 2, 99– 105, esp. 100–101; trans. Betz, 179–81, esp. 179–80). 92

148

Stephen J. Davis

The cluster of themes laid out here bears an intriguing resemblance to details found in early Christian narrative traditions about Jesus’ precocity at a young age. In the Greek Infancy Gospel of Thomas, the Christ child indeed engages in debate with Jewish legal experts in the Jerusalem temple, resurrects a dead boy named Zeno after he had fallen off of a roof, kills a serpent who had unwisely bitten his brother James, and also claps and speaks words in a way that holds power over the life of birds.98 It would certainly be too much of a stretch to try to argue that this particular spell was crafted with such infancy stories in mind. However, it is not unreasonable to raise questions about how such kinds of ritual language and practice might have informed the worldview of the infancy gospel’s early audience of reception. Indeed, the repeated recitation of such rites in the Greek-speaking Mediterranean world would have helped cultivate in its population a close association between efficacious speech (as a manifestation of heavenly wisdom) and the instrumentality of birds in ritualized performances of divine power. Thus, even for those predisposed against anything that smacked of so-called “magic,” these rites would have provided a practical reference point for making (an alternative) sense of Jesus’ actions in the infancy gospel. As further evidence for the dissemination of such cultural assumptions, let me turn finally to one last spell from the Greek magical papyri and thence to the wider ancient practice of divination. The spell in question (PGM III.187–262) is an invocation to the sun god Helios in which the one reciting the prayer assumes a position of sovereignty over the cosmos. Specifically, he first commands the “circling birds of air” to “keep quiet,” and orders the “rivers, streams, and fountain [flows]” to stand still.99 Then, he tells the “birds of augury” to “stop everything beneath the sky,” and warns snakes hiding in their dens to “attend the cry and be afraid.”100 As before, one notes that Jesus performs a similar set of actions in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, where he directs the flowing waters of a “rushing stream” into standing pools, commands the flight (and vocalization) of birds, and (later in chapter 15) seeks out and destroys the “miscreant snake” that had bitten his brother James.101 In these scripted actions, the child Jesus manifests a recognizable kind of physical control over the natural realm that would have tallied rather neatly with ancient readers’ expectations regarding the divine efficacy of spells and other ritual forms of power in the Greco-Roman world.

98

Greek Inf. Gos. Thom. 2.4, 9.3, 15.2 (Burke, De Infantia, 305, 325, 333). PGM III.198–201 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 1, 40; trans. Betz, p. 23). 100 PGM III.202–203 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 1, 40; trans. Betz, p. 24). 101 Greek Inf. Gos. Thom. 2 and 15 (Burke, De Infantia, 303–5 and 333). 99

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

149

The Greco-Roman divinatory practice of taking the auspices – alluded to quite plainly in the Helios-prayer when the spell-giver appeals to “birds of augury” for aid – constituted another highly visible ritual setting involving live birds, and it provides a final case study for gauging the cultural import of Jesus’ actions in the infancy gospel. In the larger ancient corpus of magical papyri, divination spells frequently feature children as privileged mediums who exhibit a particular aptitude for prophetic insight – for gazing at and seeing the gods (“those who fly through the air”), and for communicating information from the divine realm in a straightforward and truthful manner.102 As a species of divination, augury therefore would have served as yet another practical “site of memory” for readers trying to “discern the signs” related to the young Jesus’ activity of “bird-watching.” Augury – referred to in Greek linguistic settings as ornithomancy – involved a set of ritual methods used for discerning the will of a god. What distinguished augury from other divinatory methods was its practitioners’ studied focus on the flight of birds as a sign of divine favor (or disfavor). On “auspicious” occasions, augurs would release birds into the air and observe their direction of flight and the sounds they made, interpreting those movements and noises as portents of future events. In ancient Greece, the practice of “bird interpretation” (Gr. oi0w noskopei=a) was sometimes linked with oracular practice, as at Delphi where, “beside the stream and shrine of Earth,” birds were seen to be “messengers and heralds” whose presence pleased the gods and who conveyed indications of the divine will to supplicants through their sounds and calls.103 More frequently, Greek “bird interpreters” (Gr. o0rniqosko/poi, o0rniqokri/teij, oi0w nosko/poi) probably

102 See, e.g., PGM VII.540–578 (ed. Preisendanz, vol. 2, 24–26; trans. Betz, 133–34). Sarah Iles Johnston (“Charming Children: The Use of the Child in Ancient Divination,” Arethusa 34.1 [2001]: 97–117) cites this spell and lists numerous other examples in analyzing the social role of children as divinatory agents. For two earlier studies of child mediums in the ancient world, see T. Hopfner, “Die Kindermedien in den griechischägyptischen Zauberpapyri,” in Recueil d’études dédiées à la mémoire de N. P. Kondakov: Archéologie, histoire de l’art, études byzantines (Prague: Seminarium Kondakovianum, 1926), 65–74; and E. R. Dodds, The Ancient Concept of Progress and Other Essays on Greek Literature and Belief (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973), 185–205. Finally, Franz Dornseiff (Das Alphabet in Mystik und Magie [2nd ed.; Leipzig; Berlin: Teubner, 1925], 20) also notes the account of children who served as blindfolded soothsayers under the emperor Didius Julianus (193 C.E.), as recorded in the late Roman Augustan History (7.10). 103 Plutarch, On the Oracles at Delphi (De Pythiae oraculis) 400, 402, 405 (ed. and trans. F. C. Babbitt; in Plutarch’s Moralia, vol. 5; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1936), 288–89, 304–5, 320–21.

150

Stephen J. Davis

would have been encountered as members of local familial guilds or in the role of freelance itinerants.104 Under the Roman Republic, the public role of augures was increasingly formalized through the formation of a college of priestly magistrates (pontifices) who oversaw and regulated the taking of the auspices on various occasions – especially at elections and inaugurations, and at the crossing of territorial boundaries.105 As such, augury was widely viewed as “a scientific art of public utility.”106 A special class of rites called peremnia involved taking auspices beside a stream or river before one made a crossing.107 In Roman culture, rivers and streams were regarded as “ominous barriers . . . separating the living from the dead,” and peremnia were acts of augury designed to counteract the potential for ritual violation (vitium; pl. vitia) or unfavorable omens associated with those locations.108 Cicero (106–46 B.C.E.) explicitly refers to the custom of taking auspices beside rivers in his treatise On Divination while comparing the different ways augury was performed at Rome and in foreign lands. In Cicero’s day, such acts of peremnia were no longer consistently practiced by Roman legions on the march, but they apparently

104

Sarah Iles Johnston, Ancient Greek Divination (Malden, Mass.; Oxford: WileyBlackwell, 2008), 109–43, esp. 128–32. 105 Allen Brent, The Imperial Cult and the Development of Church Order: Concepts and Images of Authority in Paganism and Early Christianity before the Age of Cyprian (Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae; Boston; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 21; A. S. Pease, “Auspicium,” in The Oxford Classical Dictionary (ed. N. G. L. Hammond and H. H. Scullard; Oxford: Clarendon, 1970), 154. Cicero (Leg. 2.31; ed. and trans. Clinto W. Keyes; LCL; London: Heinemann, 1928], 408–9) identifies the right of augurs as “the highest and most important authority in the state,” a right to adjourn legal councils and committees and to rescind their decisions. 106 Tertullian, Pall. 6 (PL 2.1050A; trans. ANF 4.12). Tertullian lists “the birdgazer” alongside “the first teacher of the forms of letters, the first explainer of their sounds, the first trainer in the rudiments of arithmetic, the grammarian, the rhetorician, the sophist, the medical man, the poet, the musical timebeater, (and) the astrologer” as public figures in Carthaginian society who are deemed worthy to be vested with the philosopher’s mantle (pallium). Accordingly, he argues that the pallium is suitable clothing for the Christian as well, since he or she is a member of a “divine sect and discipline” (ibid.); see also Geoffrey D. Dunn, Tertullian (London: Routledge, 2004), 41. 107 A. S. Pease, “Auspicium,” 154. 108 Louise Adams Holland, Janus and the Bridge (American Academy at Rome, Papers and Monographs 21; Rome: American Academy at Rome, 1961), 1–20; Rabun Taylor, “Tiber River Bridges and the Development of the Ancient City of Rome,” The Waters of Rome 2 (2002): 4 (available online at http://www.iath.virginia.edu/rome/ Journal2TaylorNew.pdf).

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

151

continued to be performed on a regular basis “in city locations” (ad urbanas).109 Later, during the reign of Augustus (27 B.C.E.–14 C.E.), the constitutional “right of augury” (ius augurium) came to be formally invested in the emperor himself, who accordingly took on the title of Pontifex Maximus. In this context, Livy (59 B.C.E.–17 C.E.) ties the practice of bird interpretation to the “peace of the gods” (pax deorum), which was understood to prevail over the destruction caused by war and natural disasters.”110 A century later, the historian Suetonius (d. after 130) uses word play to connect Octavius’s official augural role as emperor with his decision to take the name Augustus: “He preferred to be called Augustus . . . because religious places which are consecrated by an ‘augur’s’ ritual [in quibus augurato] are called ‘august’ [augusta dicantur],” and because “Rome had been founded by an august augury [augusto augurio].”111 Here, Suetonius makes allusion to the widely known tradition that Romulus had founded Rome after seeing “twelve sacred birds” fly down from heaven, an event interpreted as a sign of the divine favor for the “throne” he established there.112 A similar link between augury and the establishment of ancient cities may be noted in early Greek traditions as well.113 However, in the case of Rome, the retelling of this foundation legend came to serve an important 109 Cicero, Div. 2.76–77 (ed. and trans. W. A. Falconer; London: Heinemann; New York: Putnam, 1923), 456–59; cf. Cicero, On the Nature of the Gods 2.3.9–10 (ed. and trans. H. Rackham, vol. 1; LCL: Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1933, repr. 1979), 130–33. Cultural memories of this practice would have been reinforced in educational settings through readings of Virgil’s Aeneid, Book 9 (ed. and trans. H. Rushton Fairclough and G. P. Goold, vol. 2; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2000), 114–17, where Turnus pauses by a brook and makes a vow to heaven to pursue war. In late antique commentary, this action was explicitly read as a rite of augury: see, e.g., Servius (late fourth century C.E.), Commentary on the Aeneid (Serv. Aen.) 9.24 (ed. G. Thilo and H. Hagen, Servii Grammatici qui feruntur in Vergilii Carmina Commentarii [Leipzig: B. G. Teubner, 1883], 311). 110 See the discussion of Livy in Brent, The Imperial Cult and the Development of Church Order, 28; also J. H. W. G. Liebeschuetz, Continuity and Change in Roman Religion (Oxford: Clarendon, 1979), 56–65. 111 Suetonius, Aug. 7 (ed. J. C. Rolfe, vol. 1; LCL; London: Heinemann; New York: Macmillan, 1914), 130–31); Brent, The Imperial Cult and the Development of Church Order, 38; Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 112–13. 112 Cicero, Div. 1.107–108 (ed. William A. Falconer, 338–41); see also Marcus Cornelius Fronto, To Emperor Lucius Verus (Ad Verum Imperator) 2.1.11 (ed. and trans. C. R. Haines, in Fronto’s Correspondence; rev. ed.; LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1929), 141 (“Between Romulus and Remus, as they took the auguries on separate hills, birds decided the question of sovereignty” [translation modified]). 113 Pollard, Birds in Greek Life and Myth, 122.

152

Stephen J. Davis

purpose within an emerging imperial cult – namely, to give a historical warrant for the emperor’s public role as high priest and divinely ordained king.114 This survey of the role augury played in Greek and Roman societies provides additional cultural coordinates for understanding how Jesus’ miracle with birds might have been read and contextualized by early recipients of the infancy gospel. In a world where the act of releasing birds into the air and observing their flight was associated with the ritual discernment of divine favor and with the inauguration of newly ordained leaders – where the release of birds by the banks of streams was understood to absolve a person of possible ritual transgressions; where the vision of twelve birds in the heavens would have recalled stories endorsing the establishment of a new reign of peace, a new kingdom ruled by a priest-king – Jesus’ actions at the beginning of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas would have taken on an added significance. They would have been perceived as gestures that effectively countered, co-opted, and Christianized the ritual repertoires of magic and divination so ubiquitous in ancient society.115

Conclusion In the end, this survey of ancient “sites of memory” – from children’s play with birds as toys and pets, to the use of birds and bird figurines as votive offerings and as ritual accoutrements in magical practice and augury – has allowed me to begin to test out what I might call a new, “readerly” approach to the Greek Infancy Gospel of Thomas. What this approach does is 114 Beginning in the period of the republic, the emperor’s own reputation as a divine ruler was further grounded in stories about the posthumous apotheosis and divinization of Romulus, who became identified with the early Roman deity Quirinus in local cultic parlance and practice: Duncan Fishwick, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West: Studies in the Ruler Cult of the Western Provinces of the Roman Empire (vol. 1.1; Leiden: Brill, 1987), 51–55. On Caesar’s promotion of himself as a “new Romulus,” see W. Burkert, “Caesar und Romulus-Quirinus,” Historia 11 (1962): 356–76; Stefan Weinstock, Divus Julius (Oxford: Clarendon, 1971), 175–99; and Fishwick, Imperial Cult, 56–59, 67–68. 115 In some ways, this narrative Christianization of “pagan” ritual gestures in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas may be likened to the rhetorical strategies of second- and third-century early Christian apologists who sought to represent Christianity as the fulfillment of Greek philosophical practice. A similar sociological dynamic also prevailed in later saints’ cults, where literary vitae and collections of miracles presented the power of Christian holy men and women in competition (or “co-opetition”) with rival cultic figures, including Greek gods and other saints: for examples, see my book, The Cult of St. Thecla: A Tradition of Women’s Piety in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 73–80, and 133–36. On the concept of “co-opetition” in recent sociology, see A. Brandenburger and B. Nalebuff, Co-opetition (New York: Doubleday, 1996).

Bird Watching in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas

153

carve out an imaginative space for discerning the interpretive coordinates – the operative social memory – of an early Christian readership. In the case of the story of Jesus and the birds, I have suggested that these coordinates may be found in a set of shared cultural associations related to birds, childhood, and ritual acts of power. For Greco-Roman readers – Christian and non-Christian alike – such social memories were sedimented in readily recognizable practices and material artifacts.116 The final product of such memory work would have been a multi-layered reading of this young Jesus both as a typical, recognizable child and as a divinely endowed prodigy whose actions portend the later, adult fulfillment of his miraculous power.117

116

On the sedimentation of social memory in bodies, places, and practices, see Paul Connerton, How Societies Remember (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 117 Various scholars have compared the Infancy Gospel of Thomas to ancient biographies of heroes and holy men whose childhood years “are seen as anticipations of their future greatness” (Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 49); see also Hock, Infancy Gospels, 96–97; and Burke, De Infantia, 281–84.

 

Part II: Portraits of Jesus in Paul

 

“The Image of God” Becoming Like God in Philo, Paul, and Early Christianity1 GREGORY E. STERLING Benjamin Disraeli was a remarkable individual by any measurement: a significant literary and political figure, he is the only person of Jewish ancestry to serve as the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. Ambitious to gain entrance into the society of nineteenth-century England, he converted to Christianity at the age of twelve. However, unlike many others who converted, he did not scorn his ancestry; rather he chose to honor it. As he grew in fame, his relationship to Judaism became more complex. Disraeli believed that Christianity began as Judaism and that Judaism led to Christianity, each was incomplete without the other. The sphinx-like nature of his personal religious views are captured by an anecdote. Queen Victoria is once said to have asked him: “Mr. Disraeli, what is your real religion? You were born a Jew and you forsook your great people. Now you are a member of the Church of England, but no one believes that you are a Christian at heart. Please tell me, who are you and what are you?” Mr. Disraeli is reported to have replied: “Your Majesty, I am the blank page between the Old Testament and the New.”2 Mr. Disraeli’s blank page is the common ground that exists between Judaism and Christianity. I would like to take one example to illustrate how we might fill in Mr. Disraeli’s “blank page” that points us back to a common beginning, a point d’appui from which the distinctive perspectives of Judaism and Christianity evolved. More specifically, I would like to ex1 It is a privilege to dedicate this essay to Harry Attridge who has been a mentor and a good friend since I joined the faculty of the University of Notre Dame in 1989. He is not only a superb scholar, but an exceptional human being. 2 On Disraeli’s Jewishness see Todd M. Endelman, “Disraeli’s Jewishness Reconsidered,” Modern Judaism 5 (1985): 109–23; Todd M. Endelman and Tony Kushner, eds., Disraeli’s Jewishness (London; Portland, Ore.: Vallentine Mitchell, 2002); and Bernard Glassman, Benjamin Disraeli: The Fabricated Jew in Myth and Memory (Studies in Judaism; Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 2003).

158

Gregory E. Sterling

plore the exegetical traditions on Genesis 1:26–27 in Philo, Paul, and a group of early Christian hymns or elevated liturgical pieces. The Jewish commentator, the Christian Apostle, and the authors of the early hymns share an understanding of the “image of God” that is uncommon in other Second Temple Jewish and early Christian authors.3 What is their understanding and how might it have become common property? This is not the first attempt to examine the similarities and dissimilarities between the understanding of the “image of God” in Philo and Paul. Earlier efforts have argued that a gnostic framework4 or Tanak5 or a sophistic celebration of Moses underlay the similarities.6 There are, however, fundamental problems with each of these religionsgeschichtlich constructions. Gnosticism requires a dualism that is not present in these texts: it assumes a fundamental break between God and the cosmos that is found in second century C.E. and later texts but not in the texts that we are considering. Conversely, Tanak does not provide the ontological and cosmological structure that is assumed by these texts. Finally, while Bruce Winter has made an interesting case for the presence of sophists in the first century 7 C.E ., there are significant issues with understanding Philo’s references to 3

Here is a sample of how different Jewish authors read Gen 1:26–27: Sir 17:3 and Wis 2:23 understood it to convey the eternal nature of the soul; Pseudo-Phocylides 106 thought that it indicated that the spirit is a loan from God and God’s image; 4 Ezra 8:44 wrote that it emphasizes the elevated status of humanity; 2 En. 44.1–3 stressed an ethical reading, i.e., to insult a human is to insult God; in 2 En. 65.1–2, humanity is in the form of God, i.e., a human being has eyes to see, ears to hear, a heart to think, and reason to argue; Pseudo-Philo, L.A.B. 3.11 (Gen 9:1) and Hel. Syn. Pr. 3.19–21 understood it to note that a human being is a microcosm of the cosmos; Hel. Syn. Pr. 12.36–40, that a human being has a rational capacity in the soul; L.A.E. 13.3 (Gen 2:7 and 1:27); 14.1–3; 15.2; Apoc. Mos. 10.3; 12.1; and 35.2 suggest that it referred to Adam; L.A.E. 37.2–3 and 39.2–3 suggest that it refers to Seth; T. Isaac 6.34 offered an ethical reading similar to 2 Enoch 44.1–3 above; Sib. Or. 8.402 identified the image of God with right reason. There are a few surveys of how Second Temple Jews understood the image of God: Jacob S. Jervell, Imago Dei: Gen 1, 26f. im Spätjudentum, in der Gnosis und in den paulinischen Briefen (FRLANT n. F. 58; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1960), 15–51; John R. Levison, Portraits of Adam in Early Judaism: From Sirach to 2 Baruch (JSPSup 1; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988); and George H. van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context: The Image of God, Assimilation to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient Philosophy and Early Christianity (WUNT 232; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 1–47. 4 The most important representatives are Friedrich Wilhelm Eltester, Eikon im Neuen Testament (BZNW 23; Berlin: A. Töpelmann, 1958); Jervell, Imago Dei; and Peter Schwanz, Imago Dei als christologisch-anthropologisches Problem in der Geschichte der Alten Kirche von Paulus bis Clemens von Alexandrien (Halle: M. Niemeyer, 1970). 5 E.g., Edvin Larsson, Christus als Vorbild: Eine Untersuchung zu den paulinischen Tauf- und Ikontexten (ASNU 23; Uppsala: Gleerup, 1962). 6 Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context, who depends on the work of Bruce Winter (see next note). 7 Bruce Winter, Philo and Paul among the Sophists: Alexandrian and Corinthian Responses to a Julio-Claudian Movement (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2002).

“The Image of God”

159

sophists as references to a distinct group rather than as a general warning to readers against individuals who offer carefully crafted but misleading arguments.8 For these reasons, I think that there is still a need to explore the potential of the exegetical traditions as they might have circulated among Jewish synagogues. The early Christian hymns will help us understand the place of the exegetical tradition.

Philo of Alexandria We begin with the writings of Philo of Alexandria, a member of one of the wealthiest and most influential Jewish families of Alexandria in the first century B.C.E. and first century C.E. who wrote three different commentaries on the Pentateuch: Questions and Answers on Genesis and Exodus, the Allegorical Commentary, and the Exposition of the Law.9 In the opening treatise of his Exposition of the Law entitled On the Creation of the Cosmos, Philo offered three different interpretations of the phrase “in the image of God.” He understood the image of God to be the Logos,10 the mind in us,11 and a heavenly person who is distinct from the earthly Adam.12 We will explore the first and third of these.13 Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context, accepted Winter’s work as a beginning point for the second half of his monograph. 8 See, for example, Post. 86; Sobr. 9; Migr. 72, 171; Her. 246; Congr. 67; Fug. 209; Mut. 10, 208; Somn. 2.281. 9 For a brief introduction to the three series see Gregory E. Sterling, “Philo,” The Eerdmans Dictionary of Early Judaism, 1063–70; Maren R. Niehoff, “Philo, Allegorical Commentary,” 1070–72; Maren R. Niehoff, “Philo, Exposition of the Law,” 1074–76; and David T. Runia, “Philo, Questions and Answers on Genesis and Exodus,” 1078–80. For studies on the image of God in Philo see the surveys in n. 3 above to which we should add Eltester, Eikon im Neuen Testament, 30–59. The most important recent thematic treatment is Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context, 48–69. 10 Philo, Opif. 25–26. 11 Philo, Opif. 69–71, 72–75. Cf. also Opif. 145–146; Leg. 1.42; Det. 83, 86–90; Her. 230–231; Mut. 223; Spec. 1.171; 3.207; QG 2.62. There is a direct connection between the Logos as Reason and the mind that is in us. 12 Philo, Opif. 134–135. In some texts, Philo suggests that there are two human beings (Opif. 134–135; Leg. 1.31–32; QG 1.4; 1.8a; 2.56; cf. also Her. 56–57, that draws a distinction between classes of humans), while in others that there are two minds (Leg. 1.53– 55; 1.90–92 and 1.94; 2.4; Plant. 44–46). 13 On the three different interpretations see my “Different Traditions or Emphases: The Image of God in Philo’s De opificio mundi,” New Approaches to the Study of Biblical Interpretation in Judaism of the Second Temple Period and in Early Christianity: Proceedings of the Eleventh International Symposium of the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature, June 2007 (ed. Gary Anderson, Ruth Clements, and David Satran; Leiden: Brill, forthcoming). For a broader analysis of the relationships among different exegetical traditions about the creation of humanity in

160

Gregory E. Sterling

The Logos The first interpretation occurs at the end of Philo’s exposition of “day one.”14 The Alexandrian thought that the use of the cardinal number “one” set the first day of creation off from the other days that use ordinal numbers. He suggested that “day one” referred to the creation of the intelligible cosmos that the Creator used as a model for the sense-perceptible cosmos created on the second through sixth days. He compared the process to the establishment of a city – he probably had the founding of Alexandria in mind.15 An architect thinks through a plan and then has the city built. So God thought the “ideas” before the sense-perceptible world was founded.16 The location of the ideas was in the Logos: “If someone wanted to use clearer words, he would say that the intelligible cosmos is nothing other than the Logos of God in the act of creating the cosmos” (§24). He explained: “For the intelligible city is nothing other than the reasoning capacity of the architect who is in the process of thinking through the founding of the intelligible city” (§24). In case someone objected that this was good Platonic philosophy but not scriptural exegesis he said: “This teaching comes from Moses; it is not mine. For as he describes the creation of the human being, he expressly acknowledges in the following statements that he was cast in the image of God” (kat’ ei0ko/na qeou= [§25]). Philo unpacked the phrase “in the image of God” (kat’ ei0ko/na qeou=) with two conditional sentences. The first is: “If the part is an image of an image, it is clear that the same is true for the whole” (§25). The protasis is supported by the biblical text: a human being is an image of the Image of God. Philo does not explain how he reaches this conclusion here. We will see shortly that he emphasized the preposition “in” or “according to” (kata/) and understood that human beings were created “in” or “according to” Philo see Thomas H. Tobin, The Creation of Man: Philo and the History of Interpretation (CBQMS 14; Washington, D.C.: The Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1983). 14 Opif. 15–25. Cf. §§15–35 for the full discussion of Gen 1:1–5. Philo depended on an earlier tradition for his treatment of day one. See Gregory E. Sterling, “‘Day One’: Platonizing Exegetical Traditions of Genesis 1:1–5 in John and Philo of Alexandria,” SPhA 17 (2005): 118–40. 15 For details see David T. Runia, “Polis and Megalopolis: Philo and the Founding of Alexandria,” Mnemosyne 42 (1989): 398–412; reprinted in David T. Runia, Exegesis and Philosophy: Studies on Philo of Alexandria (London: Variorum Reprints, 1990). 16 On the ideas as the thoughts of God in Philo see Roberto Radice, Platonismo e Creazionismo in Filone di Alessandria (Metafisica del Platonismo nel suo Sviluppo Storico e nella Filosofia Patristica 7; Milan: Vita e Pensiero, 1989), 229–80 ; idem, “Observations on the Theory of the Ideas as the Thoughts of God in Philo of Alexandria,” SPhA 3 (1991): 126–34, which provides an English summary of the argument in the book; and the critique in David T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria, “On the Creation of the Cosmos according to Moses” (PACS 1; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 151–52.

“The Image of God”

161

God’s Image: thus a human being is not God’s image, but an image of God’s Image. Reasoning a fortiori, he moved to the apodosis: what was true for the part, i.e., a human being, must be true for the whole, i.e., the cosmos. If a human being was created on the basis of an existing Image, then the cosmos must have been created on the basis of an existing image or model. The second conditional sentence follows: “If this entire senseperceptible cosmos, that is greater than a human image, is a copy of a divine image, it is clear that the archetypal seal, that we claim is the intelligible cosmos, would be the model, the archetypal idea of the ideas, the Logos of God” (§25). The protasis of the second conditional sentence picks up the apodosis of the previous conditional sentence: the sense-perceptible cosmos is a copy of the intelligible cosmos. The apodosis drawn from this is problematic: the intelligible cosmos is the Logos whom Philo identifies in four ways. The Logos is the archetypal seal (h9 a0rxe/tupoj sfragi/j),17 the intelligible cosmos (nohto\j ko/smoj),18 the model (to\ para/deigma),19 and the archetypal idea of ideas (a0rxe/tupoj i0de/a tw~n i0dew~n).20 The problem in the reasoning is that it is not obvious how we move from the protasis, i.e., the cosmos is a copy of the intelligible cosmos, directly to the apodosis, i.e., the intelligible cosmos is the Logos. Something is missing that would permit us to identify the Logos with the intelligible cosmos. It would have been more reasonable for Philo to cast the second condition in terms like these: if the sense-perceptible cosmos is a copy of the intelligible cosmos, then the intelligible cosmos is a copy of God. This would not, however, have been an acceptable conclusion for Philo who consistently situated the Logos between God and the cosmos. It was his larger system of thought that accentuated the transcendence of God and required him to posit an intermediary between the unknowable God and the senseperceptible world that led him to accentuate the role of the Logos as the representative of God. While his logic is less than cogent, the thought is clear and makes sense within the framework of Philo’s thought. This is one of seven texts where Philo explicitly connected the “image of God” with the Logos.21 Two of the other texts help to fill in one of the 17

See also Leg. 1.22; Ebr. 133; and Spec. 2.152. Philo identified the Logos with the architectonic seal in Opif. 25 and Ebr. 133. 18 See also Opif. 15, 16, 19, 24; Gig. 61; Deus 31; Sobr. 55; Her. 75, 111; Mut. 267; Somn. 1.186, 188; Mos. 2.127; Praem. 37; QG 2.54a. Philo connected the Logos with the intelligible cosmos in Opif. 24 and Deus 31. 19 Philo connected the Logos with the model in Opif. 36, 139; Leg. 3.96; Her. 234; Somn. 1.75, 85. Cf. also Somn. 1.206. 20 Compare Opif. 16; Her. 280; Mut. 135, 146; Somn. 1.188; Spec. 1.171; 3.83, 207. Cf. also the following texts that use i0de/a as a parallel with the terms listed above: Leg. 1.22; Det. 78; Ebr. 133; Conf. 172; Mos. 2.74; Spec. 1.327. 21 The seven texts are Opif. 25; Leg. 3.96; Her. 231; Spec. 1.81; 3.83, 207; QG 2.62.

162

Gregory E. Sterling

gaps in the passage above. Both are from the Allegorical Commentary. In the first, Philo offered a series of examples of individuals who were endowed with various gifts by God, including Bezalel, the chief craftsperson of the tabernacle. Working from Exod 31:2–3, Philo drew from an onomasticon and wrote: “Bezalel means ‘in the shadow of God.’” He then explained: “God’s shadow is his Logos that, like an instrument, he used to create the cosmos. This shadow – and its representation (to give it a name) – is the archetype of other things.” The relationship between God and the Logos is thus that of the real to the shadow. Philo appears to make a connection between the popular etymology of Bezalel and the metaphor of Plato’s cave in Republic 7. However, the shadow has the same relationship to other things as God has to the shadow. Philo continued: “For just as God is the model of the Image, that has just been called shadow, so the Image is the model of other things, as he made clear at the outset of his legislation by saying: and God made the human being in the image of God.” The exegete concluded: “Thus the Image was cast to represent God and the human being to represent the Image that had acquired the power of a model.”22 Philo is even more forthright in his treatment of the covenant that God made with Abraham in Genesis 15. He explained Gen 15:10 in the following way: “He did not divide the birds. He calls the two forms of reason that are winged and by nature fly aloft birds: one is the archetypal Reason above us, the other the copy that exists in us.” He then tied his explanation back to Genesis 1: “Moses calls the one above us the Image of God, but the one in us the impress of the Image. For he says, God made the human being not as an image of God but in the image of God” (ou0xi\ ei0ko/na qeou=, a0lla\ kat’ ei0ko/na qeou=). The Alexandrian now spells out what he means: “Thus the mind in each of us, that is properly and in reality the human being, is a third cast removed from the Creator. The middle cast is a model of our mind, a representation of God’s mind.”23 The basis for his distinction between the Image proper and humans who were created “in the image” is the preposition, “in” (kata/), i.e., we were not created as the image of God but “in the Image of God.” There is thus an ontological order that moves from God through the Logos to humanity. This helps us to understand the first gap above between the Logos and humanity, but does not explain the relationship between God and the Logos. If we work through all seven texts and collect the epithets that describe the different relationships, we find the following.

22 Philo, Leg. 3.96. Cf. also Plant. 27; Somn. 1.206. On Philo’s use of an onomasticon see Lester Grabbe, Etymology in Early Jewish Interpretation: The Hebrew Names in Philo (BJS 115; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1988), esp. 143–44 or #35. 23 Philo, Her. 230–231.

“The Image of God”

163

God is the model of the Image or Logos.24 The Logos has a double relationship: the Logos relates to God and to humanity. In relationship to God, the Logos is an image25 or representation.26 In relationship to humanity and the cosmos, the Logos is an archetypal seal,27 the intelligible cosmos,28 a model,29 the archetypal idea of ideas,30 or the archetype.31 Humanity does not relate directly to God, but to the Logos. We are an image,32 a copy33 or an impress of the Logos.34 In this way the Logos became the Image of God to humanity. The Image of God in Gen 1:27 on this reading is thus the Logos. It is not immediately apparent from reading the LXX of Gen 1:27 that this should be the interpretation.35 What led Philo to include this interpretation? There appear to be at least three factors. It is clear that Plato’s Timaeus stands in the general background. In the sections that immediately precede the text that we have examined, Philo paraphrased Plato’s famous discussion on God’s motivation in creation: “For if someone wished to search out the reason why the universe was created, I think that he would not miss the mark if he said what one of the ancients said: ‘The Father and Creator is good.’” He continued: “For this reason he did not begrudge a share in his own nature to a substance that has nothing lovely in itself but is capable of becoming anything.”36 The ancient that Philo has in mind is Plato who wrote: “Let us state the reason why the constructor constructed becoming and the universe. He was good and for the good no sense of begrudging ever arises over anything.” He concluded: “Since he did not have any sense of begrudging, he wished that all – as far as it was possible – be similar to himself.”37 Plato’s influence extends well beyond this example and pervades Philo’s interpretation of Genesis 1, including his understanding of the image of God. Plato wrote: 24

Philo, Leg. 3.96. Philo, Opif. 25; Leg. 3.96; Her. 231; Spec. 1.81; 3.83. 26 Philo, Leg. 3.96; Her. 231. 27 Philo, Opif. 25. 28 Philo, Opif. 25. 29 Philo, Opif. 25; Leg. 3.96; Her. 231; Spec. 3.83. 30 Philo, Opif. 25; Spec. 3.83, 207. 31 Philo, Leg. 3.96. 32 Philo, Opif. 25. 33 Philo, Opif. 25; Her. 230. 34 Philo, Spec. 3.83. 35 Martin Rösel, Übersetzung als Vollendung der Auslegung: Studien zur GenesisSeptuaginta (BZAW 223; Berlin; New York: De Gruyter, 1994), 49, suggested that the translators selected their terminology on the basis of its Platonic background. 36 Philo, Opif. 21. See Plato, Tim. 29d–e. 37 Plato, Tim. 28d–e. For a detailed treatment see David T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the “Timaeus” of Plato (Philosophia antiqua 44; Leiden: Brill, 1986), 132–36. 25

164

Gregory E. Sterling

“if these arguments hold, then it is completely necessary that this cosmos is an image of another.”38 This statement of Plato’s explains why Philo introduced Gen 1:27 in connection with the reading of day one. He picked up on the presence of “image” in Plato’s Timaeus and “image” in Gen 1:27 and made the connection: Plato’s phrase, “this cosmos is image of another” led Philo to appropriate “image” in Gen 1:27 as a warrant to posit the intelligible world in his interpretation of “day one.” This still does not, however, explain why Philo identified the intelligible cosmos with the Logos or, to put it in biblical terms, associated the Image mentioned on the “sixth day” with “day one.” This was not due to Plato, but to the way that Middle Platonists read the Athenian master. The first witness to the intelligible cosmos as the complex of ideas rather than Plato’s simpler “intelligible living being” is Arius Didymus, the court philosopher of Augustus, who wrote: “As the particular archetypes – so to speak – precede the bodies that are perceived by sense, so the idea that includes in itself all ideas, being the most beautiful and most perfect, exists as a model for this cosmos.”39 His view was taken over by Alcinous in his Handbook of Platonism in the second century who made the same move from the individual sense-perceptible object to the cosmos. He began with the individual objects: “since the individual and natural sense-perceptible objects must have certain definite models, namely the ideas . . . it is necessary that the most beautiful construction, the cosmos, was made by God as he looked at a certain idea of the cosmos, being a model of this cosmos so that this cosmos is copied from that idea.”40 Philo accepted this in keeping with his Middle Platonic perspective. He identified the intelligible cosmos with the Logos as the intermediary figure in his thought. Virtually all Middle Platonists had a second principle that served an intermediary role, although they gave the second principle different names: “the Idea,”41 “the heavenly Mind,”42 “the demiurgic God,”43 and the “Logos.” The Logos appears as early as Antiochus of Ascalon44 and Eudorus45 who are among the first known representatives of Middle 38

Plato, Tim. 28b. Arius Didymus cited in Eusebius, Praep. ev. 11.23.3–6, esp. 6. See also Stobaeus 1.12.135.20–136.14 (Wachsmuth-Hense). 40 Alcinous, Didaskalikos 12.1. See John Dillon, Alcinous, “The Handbook of Platonism” (Clarendon Later Ancient Philosophers; Oxford: Clarendon, 1993), 114–17, for details. 41 Timaeus of Locri, On the Nature of the World and the Soul 7. 42 Alcinous, Didaskalikos 10.3. 43 Numenius Frg. 12 ll. 1–3. 44 See Cicero, Acad. Post. 28–29. 45 The evidence is Philonic, i.e., if it can be assumed that the two shared a common view. See John M. Dillon, The Middle Platonists, 80 B.C. to A.D. 220 (rev. ed., Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1996), 128. 39

“The Image of God”

165

Platonism. Later Platonists such as Plutarch used the Logos for the immanent (not the transcendent) aspect of God’s relationship to the cosmos and humanity. In his allegorical interpretation of the Isis-Osiris myth, Plutarch identified Isis with the receptacle, Osiris with the Logos, and their offspring Horus with the sense-perceptible cosmos, brought about by the imposition of order and reason (Osiris) on the receptacle (Isis).46 Philo belongs to the same intellectual tradition, only he used the Logos for both the immanent and the transcendent aspect of God’s relationship to the cosmos, i.e., the Logos in relationship to the cosmos (immanent) and in relationship to God (transcendent). Since the Logos was the agent through whom God created the world, it was natural for Philo to identify the Logos with the Image of God. There was, however, at least one other significant tradition that played a role. Other Jewish authors had made a similar identification with Wisdom or Sophia. The best example is the Wisdom of Solomon, another Alexandrian text from either the first century B.C.E. or the first century C.E. The celebration of Sophia in this protreptic work reaches an apex in a poem that falls into halves. The first half opens with a list of twenty-one attributes of the spirit of Wisdom that is followed by the functions of Wisdom (7:2–24). The second half opens with a list of five attributes of Wisdom that is again followed by the functions of Wisdom (7:25–8:1).47 The five attributes are that Wisdom is “a breath of God’s power,” “a pure emanation of the Almighty’s glory,” “a reflection of eternal light” (a0pau/gasma . . . fwto\j a0idi/ou), “an unblemished mirror,” and “an image of his goodness” (ei0kw_n th=j a0gaqo/thtoj au0tou=). All five attributes accentuate the way that Wisdom represents God. The final attribute uses the language of Genesis 1:27, although it does not allude to the text directly. It probably reflects the same exegetical tradition that we find in Philo that identified the Logos with the Image, except in this instance Wisdom rather than the Logos was identified with the Image. The point is that the identification of the Image with Wisdom or the Logos was part of an exegetical tradition that is attested in Alexandrian texts.

46

Plutarch, Mor. 369. For the philosophical background of the terms, see David Winston, The Wisdom of Solomon: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 43; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1979), 178–90. For a recent discussion of the poem with bibliography that addresses the issues discussed here, see Ronald Cox, By the Same Word: Creation and Salvation in Hellenistic Judaism and Early Christianity (BZNW 145; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2007), 64–69. 47

166

Gregory E. Sterling

The Heavenly Person The third interpretation of the “image of God” that Philo offered in On the Creation of the Cosmos dealt with the distinction that he drew between the human created in Gen 1:26–27 and the human created in Gen 2:7. The Jewish commentator wrote: “After these things he says that God fashioned a human being by taking soil from the earth and breathed into his face the breath of life” (§134). The Alexandrian explained: “Through the statement he sets out most clearly that there is an enormous difference between the human being just fashioned [tou= te nu=n plasqe/ntoj a0nqrw/pou] and the human being who earlier came into existence in the image of God” (kai\ tou= kata\ th\n ei0ko/na qeou= gegono/toj pro/teron [§134]). He first described the human being of Gen 2:7: “For the human being who was fashioned [diaplasqei/j] is sense-perceptible, already having a share in quality, consisting of body and soul, male or female, mortal by nature” (§134). He then contrasted the human being of Gen 1:27: “But the human being who came into existence in the image of God [o9 de\ kata\ th\n ei0ko/na] is a type of idea or kind of seal, intelligible, incorporeal, neither male nor female, immortal by nature” (§134).48 The distinction between the two humans is part of Philo’s larger distinction between the first and second creation accounts. While he had earlier drawn the dividing line between the intelligible and the sense-perceptible between “day one” and the “second” through the “sixth” days, he drew it between the first and second creation accounts when he came to explain Genesis 2. The inconsistency suggests that Philo inherited different Platonizing readings of Genesis 1–2. He appears to have been far more concerned about the need to draw a line between the intelligible and the sense-perceptible than he was about where the line was drawn. The important point for our purposes is to recognize that Philo knew a tradition that drew a distinction between the heavenly human created in the image of God and the earthly human fashioned from the ground. The precise relationship between the two humans is a matter of debate.49 For our purposes it is enough to recognize the presence of a tradition that posits a distinction based on the two creation accounts. We thus have evidence for different exegetical traditions of Gen 1:26– 27 (and 2:7) in Alexandria. One of these understood the Image of God to be the Logos or Wisdom and another understood the image of God to be a heavenly Person in contrast to the earthly human being who is sense48

For the full statement see Philo, Opif. 134–135. On the distinction between the two accounts of the creation of humanity, see Richard A. Baer, Philo’s Use of the Categories Male and Female (ALGHJ 3; Leiden: Brill, 1970), 20-35; Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the “Timaeus” of Plato, 334–40; Tobin, The Creation of Man, 102–34; Runia, Philo of Alexandria, “On the Creation of the Cosmos,” 321–29; and Sterling, “Different Traditions or Emphases.” 49

“The Image of God”

167

perceptible. In the former case, humans are an image of the Image, i.e., the Image is the means by which humans can become like God. Is there any evidence that the same traditions circulated in other circles?

Paul We turn first to Paul to answer this question. I would like to consider three texts. 1 Corinthians 15:44b–49 Paul had a tumultuous relationship with the community in Corinth. One of the issues on which Paul differed with the Corinthians was the future resurrection. Some of the Corinthians denied that there would be a future resurrection. Paul wrote a lengthy response arguing for it.50 Towards the end of his argument he turned his attention to Genesis. He began with Gen 2:7 and then moved to Gen 1:27. His argument is framed on the basis of his eschatological perspective: he understood Christ to be a second Adam. He argued: “If there is a natural body, there will be a spiritual body. So it is written: The first man Adam became a living soul, the last Adam became a life-giving spirit” (vv. 44b–45). The Apostle inserted the language of order into the text to make his point. He is emphatic about the sequence: “The spiritual was not first but the natural, then the spiritual.51 The first man was earthly, from the ground; the second man was from heaven” (vv. 46–47). This led him to conclude: “As the earthly man, so are the earthly people and just as is the heavenly man, so are the heavenly people. Just as we have worn the image of the earthly, so we will wear the image of the heavenly” (vv. 48–49).52 50 There is a large bibliography on this chapter. Some of the most important studies that have recognized the value of the Philonic material for the debate are Richard Horsley, “‘How Can Some of You Say That There is no Resurrection of the Dead?’: Spiritual Elitism in Corinth,” NovT 20 (1978): 203–31l; Gerhard Sellin, Der Streit um die Auferstehung der Toten (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986); and Gregory E. Sterling, “‘Wisdom among the Perfect’: Creation Traditions in Alexandrian Judaism and Corinthian Christianity,” NovT 37 (1995): 355–84. 51 Paul had already drawn a distinction between yuxiko/j and pneumatiko/j in 2:14–16. On the distinction and its relevance here see Birger Pearson, The Penumatikos-Psychikos Terminology in 1 Corinthians: A Study in the Theology of the Corinthian Opponents of Paul and its Relation to Gnosticism (SBLDS 12; Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1973) and Richard Horsley, “Pneumatikos versus Psychikos: Distinctions of Spiritual Status among the Corinthians,” HTR 69 (1976): 269–88. 52 1 Cor 15:44b–49. With many others I recognize a new unit of thought in v. 44b. For a counter view see Anthony C. Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (NIGTC; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2000), 1279–80.

168

Gregory E. Sterling

Paul’s insistence on order may be due to a view held by the Corinthians that the heavenly human being of Gen 1:26–27 took precedence over the earthly human being of Gen 2:7. On this reading, the Corinthians would have drawn a distinction between the two humans in Gen 1:26–27 and 2:7. They aspired to the first or heavenly human who was without a corporeal body. The resurrection of a body therefore made no sense. Why would someone want the second limited experience of existence if the first were possible? How would the Corinthians have known this? They may have known the third exegetical tradition about the image of God attested in Philo’s On the Creation of the Cosmos.53 The basis for this reading is Paul’s rejection of the natural sequence of Genesis 1 and 2 and the identifications based on the creation accounts. It is true that his Christology required that Christ followed Adam, i.e., the heavenly followed the earthly. The same Christology drove his eschatology that shaped his ontology: human beings were not an earthly reflection of the heavenly to which they might aspire, but human beings could be made heavenly through the heavenly, risen Christ. The Corinthians will have new bodies that correspond to Christ’s exalted status. Image is thus tied to Gen 1:27, but given an eschatological twist that is closely connected with Paul’s Christology. Paul might have made the argument solely on the basis of his own thought. However, the context is polemical. He does not simply work through Genesis 1 and 2, but argues for the reversal of them. His need to argue about order suggests to me that he is countering a view held by the Corinthians that appears to be strikingly similar to the third view attested by Philo. 2 Corinthians 3:7–4:4 Paul returned to the image of God in his third letter to the Corinthians or 2 Cor 2:14–6:13; 7:2–4, in which he defended the nature of his ministry.54 He contrasted the nature of his ministry with the ministry of Moses in a midrash on the Exodus pericope that describes Moses’ descent from Sinai after he received the second set of tablets.55 His beginning point was the 53

For details see my “‘Wisdom among the Perfect,’” 355–84. The number of letters exchanged between Paul and the Corinthians is not clear. Paul’s first letter was apparently lost (1 Cor 5:9). The Corinthians wrote Paul (1 Cor 7:1). First Corinthians was his response. I take this section of 2 Cor to be the first part of the letter that he wrote to the Corinthians after 1 Corinthians or his third letter to them. 55 Exod 34:27–35. I have called this a midrash because Paul works sequentially through the text of Exod 34: 2 Cor 3:7 // Exod 34:29–30; 2 Cor 3:13 // Exod 34:33; 2 Cor 3:16 // Exod 34:34. The nature of the treatment has been heavily disputed. Hans Windisch, Der zweite Korintherbrief (KEK; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1924), 112, argued that it was a Christian midrash taken over by Paul. Dieter Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians (Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1986), 264–71, contended that it represents a reworking of a homily written by Paul’s opponents who cham54

“The Image of God”

169

statement in Exodus 34 that “the visage of the skin of his face was glorified while he spoke with him” (Exod 34:29). Paul argued from the lesser to the greater: if the inferior ministry came with glory when Moses spoke with God, surely the superior ministry of the Spirit has come with greater glory. He made the comparison explicit by using “how not more” (pw~j 56 ou0xi\ ma~llon) or “much more” (pollw~| ma~llon) three times. The Apostle next moved to the statement that Moses put a veil on his face (Exod 34:33). He explained that the purpose of the veil was to keep the children of Israel from seeing the glory dissipate from Moses’ face (2 Cor 3:12–15). Paul thought that the veil remained in place, only it now lies on the hearts of those who hear Moses read and prevents them from seeing that the glory has faded from him. The final point from Exodus 34 that Paul explicated was Moses’ removal of the veil when he spoke with God (Exod 34:34). The Apostle applied this to his contemporaries: “But we all with unveiled faces see the Lord’s glory as we are transformed into the same Image from glory to glory, for this is from the Lord, the Spirit.”57 Paul argued that Christians not only have the capacity to see the glory but to become like the glorious Image. The Image that he has in mind can be none other than Christ. He made this explicit a few verses later when he added a comment about his ministry: “If our gospel is hidden, it is hidden among those who are perishing. In such cases, the god of this age has blinded the minds of the unbelieving so that the illumination of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the Image of God, will not shine on them” (4:3–4). While Paul does not cite Gen 1:27, he clearly understands that Christ is the Image of God and that Christians are in the process of becoming images of Christ. Thus Christ is not “in the image of God” but is “the Image of God”; Christians are in the process of becoming the image of God’s Image. This is strikingly similar to the first understanding of the “image of God” in Philo’s On the Creation of the Cosmos. pioned Moses as a theios aner. James D. G. Dunn, “2 Corinthians III.17 – ‘The Lord is the Spirit,’” JTS 21 (1970): 309–20 and Carol K. Stockhausen, Moses’ Veil and the Glory of the New Covenant (AnBib 116; Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblica, 1989), 13, 17, have suggested that it is Paul’s own exegesis developed within this context. Joseph A. Fitzmyer, “Glory Reflected on the Face of Christ (II Cor. 3.7–4.6) and a Palestinian Jewish Motif,” TS 42 (1981): 630–44, argued that it was a prevous Pauline composition. Victor Paul Furnish, II Corinthians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 32A; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1984), 229–30, contends that while Paul drew from Exod 34, he did not provide a sustained exegesis of it. Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context, 313–39, argues that Paul gives an anti-sophistic reading of Exod 34 that was introduced by his opponents. 56 2 Cor 3:7 vs. 8, 9a vs. 9b, 11a vs. 11b. This is a form of the qal wa-homer argument or a minore ad majus. 57 2 Cor 3:7–11, 12–18. The citation is v. 18.

170

Gregory E. Sterling

Romans 8:29–30 The third and final text where Paul alludes to the image of God is in his letter to the community in Rome. In a celebration of God’s care for believers, Paul set up a chain of four couplets: the first phrase of each couplet consists of a relative pronoun and a verb; the second phrase has a corresponding demonstrative pronoun and a verb. The couplets interlock: the verb of the second phrase in one couplet becomes the verb of the first phrase of the next couplet. For whom he foreknew, he predestined; whom he predestined, these he also called; and whom he called, these he also justified; and whom he justified, these he also glorified.58

The first couplet differs from the following three couplets in several ways. The most important is the presence of an object in the second clause. The full couplet reads: “for whom he foreknew, he predestined to be sharers in the form of the image of his Son, so that he might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters.” The phrase “image of his Son” explains the noun that I have translated “sharers in the form” (summo/rfouj). The noun is a compound with the preposition su/n, a preposition that Paul likes to use to signal joint participation. He used it three times in a preceding verse: “if you are children, then you are heirs, heirs of God, joint heirs [sugklhrono/moi] with Christ – if you suffered with him [sumpa/sxomen] so that you might also be glorified with him [sundocasqw~men].”59 Paul’s point is that Christians share in the form of God’s Image who is Christ. In this way, Christ becomes the “firstborn” both in preeminence and in his transforming power for others.60 The emphasis in this text is on the transformation of believers into the image of the Son who represents the Father. The thought is strikingly similar to the first exegetical tradition attested in Philo’s On the Creation of the Cosmos.

58

Rom 8:29–30. Rom 8:17. 60 The double aspect of “firstborn” (prwto/tokoj) in this text is widely recognized, e.g., C. E. B. Cranfield, The Epistle to the Romans (2 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1975–1979), 1:432 and Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Romans: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 33; New York: Doubleday, 1993), 525. 59

“The Image of God”

171

With the exception of the first passage, Paul does not make an explicit reference to Gen 1:27. However, it is clear that he is drawing on a tradition based upon Gen 1:27 and that he expects his readers to understand this. What background does he assume? While there are different possibilities, there is one that deserves particular attention.

Christological Hymns There are three christological hymns in the New Testament that open with equivalent statements about the nature of Christ. Colossians 1:15 Who is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation . . . Philippians 2:6 Who existing in the form of God did not exploit equality with God . . . Hebrews 1:3 Who being the reflection of his glory and the imprint of his substance . . .

The hymns are striking because they identify Christ with the Image of God. Colossians, a Deutero-Pauline letter, does so explicily. Like Romans, it links “image” with “firstborn,” although the function in Colossians appears to emphasize Christ’s preeminent status61 and does not extend this to the experience of others as Paul did in 2 Corinthians and Romans. The other two texts have equivalents. The Philippians hymn uses “form of God.” As we have just seen in Romans, Paul understood the “image” and “form” to be directly related (“in the form of the image of his Son”). It is likely that the author of the hymn did so as well.62 The association was common. For example, the Third Sibylline Oracle refers to humans as those “who have the God-molded form in his image” (a]nqrwpoi qeo/63 plaston e]xontej e0n ei0ko/ni morfh/n). It is also worth noting that Philippians uses the language of imitation to introduce the hymn, even if it does not employ the specific concept of becoming the image of the Image.64 The opening in Hebrews shares conceptual parallels with two of the five phrases that open the second half of the poem celebrating the functions of Wisdom in the Wisdom of Solomon where “a reflection of eternal light” 61

For discussion see Cox, By the Same Word, 172–75. For a careful discussion see Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context, 89–90. Sib. Or. 3.8. 64 Phil 2:5. 62 63

172

Gregory E. Sterling

(a0pau/gasma . . . fwto\j a0idi/ou) is equivalent to “an image of his goodness” (ei0kw_n thj~ a0gaqo/thtoj au0tou=). The author of Hebrews drew a parallel between “reflection of his glory” (a0pau/gasma th=j do/chj au0tou=) and “imprint of his substance” (xarakth\r th=j u9posta/sewj au0tou=). The interchange of glory and light is common as is the association of “image” and “impression” for the paradigmatic quality of the intermediary.65 It is possible that Wisdom served as a background for Hebrews here.66 There is a similar equivalence in Paul who said of the male: “a man should not cover his head since he is the image and glory of God.”67 In all of these cases, the affirmation is the same: the transcendent God is represented by an intermediary Image. Given the presence of this affirmation in three different hymnic texts, it seems likely that Paul may have learned of the identification of Christ as the Image of God in Christian worship. This, however, begs the obvious question: where did the authors of the hymns learn the identification? While the christological hymns do not explicitly allude to Gen 1:27, I think that they must have had it in mind. They all begin with references to Christ in a pre-existent heavenly, not earthly, form. In Colossians and Hebrews the references are to his cosmological role in creation, a clear hint that Genesis 1 is the background. The other early Christian text that has a similar orientation is the Prologue to the Fourth Gospel. Like the three texts above, it either contains a hymn or was based on a liturgical piece. The text opens with a rehearsal of day one of creation and, like Philo, understands day one to refer to the eternal rather than to the temporal. While John 1:1–18 does not contain an allusion to Gen 1:26–27, it opens with an unambiguous reference to Genesis 1 as a way to set out the pre-existent state of Christ presented as the Logos.68 In this way it matches the other Christian hymns and suggests that Genesis 1 played a prominent role in the opening of early christological hymns. These hints suggest that the identification of Christ with the eternal was likely based on Jewish exegetical traditions that associated Wisdom or the Logos with the Image of God. Early Christians incorporated this identification into their liturgical celebrations of the risen Christ who has taken the place of Wisdom or the Logos. Christ became for them the “Image of God,” just as the Logos was for a Platonizing Jewish interpreter like Philo. They understood this to be a challenge for them to become an image of the Image of God. 65

See, for example, Philo, Leg. 3.95–96 and Ebr. 133. For a treatment see Cox, By the Same Word, 207–19. 66 For a careful discussion of this possibility, see Harold W. Attridge, The Epistle to the Hebrews: A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews (Hermeneia; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1989), 42–43. 67 1 Cor 11:7. 68 See Sterling, “‘Day One,’” 118–40.

“The Image of God”

173

Conclusion We can now pull our evidence together. We discovered that Philo understood “image of God” in at least three ways in his On the Creation of the Cosmos. Two of these are important for our purposes: he understood the image of God to refer to the Logos and to a heavenly person in contrast to an earthly person. In the case of the former, he thought that humans were created in the image of the Image of God. The basis for this identification was the need to posit an intermediary between God and humanity who represented God to humanity and gave humanity access to God. Early Christians found attractive the exegetical interpretation of “the image of God” to be an intermediary. In some cases, they used it to celebrate the exalted status of the heavenly Christ. This is clear in the hymns and Paul. Paul went beyond the hymns in arguing that believers could become the image of the Image. While neither the early hymnists nor Paul knew the philosophical nuances that Philo did, they probably knew the exegetical tradition that he and other Platonizing Jewish interpreters offered. It is not difficult to understand why early Christians would find it attractive. If these conclusions are sound, they offer evidence for Disraeli’s “blank page.” There is common ground at some of the most fundamental levels between the two religions. The relationship is complex and differences as well as similarities are real. The presence of this common tradition in two of the most important authors of the first century make me think of Disraeli’s dilemma. We should remember that Philo of Alexandria was given a posthumous baptism by early Christians and even called a bishop in some medieval manuscripts. Christians rather than Jews preserved his commentaries. It was not because he was a Christian; Philo was unambiguously Jewish in his allegiances. His views were, however, so appealing to Christians that early Christians rewrote his history and made him one of their own. His later contemporary, Paul, also has ambiguities. While he has been called the Founder or the Second Founder of Christianity for his role in the inclusion of Gentiles, he never eschewed his Jewish ancestry. He understood the common ground that existed between the two. We should as well.

 

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow Remaining as a Widow (1 Cor 7:40) JUDITH M. GUNDRY In 1 Cor 7:40 Paul writes: But she [the widow] is more blessed/fortunate, 1 if she remains so, in my opinion. And I also2 think that I have the Spirit of God (makariwte/ra de/ e0stin e0a\n ou#twj mei/nh|, kata\ th\n e0mh\n gnw/mhn: dokw~ de\ ka0g w\ pneu~ma qeou= e1xein).

Interpreters offer few comments on Paul’s opinion about the widow in this verse, even though he here goes beyond his earlier statement in 7:8, “and I say to the unmarried3 and the widows, it is good for them to remain, as I also [remain].” Clearly, 1 Cor 7:40a is another indication of Paul’s preference for celibacy for the unmarried (cf. 7:7–8, 27b, 32, 37–38).4 But his description of the widow who remains unmarried as makariwte/ra seems to reveal a bit more than previous statements. With Wolfgang Schrage, we can rule out as foreign to Paul’s thought the notion of “a higher degree of future salvation,” based on the later church’s notion of celibacy as merit.5 But does Paul simply mean, as Schrage suggests, that the widow will be “happier,” if she remains a widow, because she will avoid the problems                                                                                                                

1 makariwte/ra , here translated “more blessed,” in line with the most common use in early Christian literature; cf. BDAG, s.v. maka/rioj 2: “blessed, fortunate, happy, privileged, fr. a transcendent perspective.” 2 ka0g w&, which goes with dokw~: “And I also think . . .”; against translations which take ka0g w/ to go with e1xein: “. . . I also have.” 3 toi=j a0g a/moij, which probably refers to widowers; cf. the discussion in Gordon D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (NICNT; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1987), 287–88, et al. 4 So, e.g., Dieter Zeller, “Der Vorrang der Ehelosigkeit in 1 Kor 7,” ZNW 96 (2005): 61–77, esp. 75. 5 Wolfgang Schrage, Der erste Brief an die Korinther (EKKNT 7; 3 vols.; Düsseldorf: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1995), 2:206. See his discussion (2:209–11) of the history of interpretation of this verse. Similarly, David E. Garland, 1 Corinthians (BECNT; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2003), 344, who cites for this sense Herm. Mand. 4.4.1–2: “But if he [the survivor] remain single he gains for himself more exceeding honour and great glory with the Lord.”

176

Judith M. Gundry

and inconveniences of marriage?6 That solution is unlikely, for it conflicts with the dominant understanding of widows in OT-Jewish and early Christian tradition as extremely unfortunate, both economically and legally, and dependent on the support of God and other believers – a rarely noticed discrepancy.7 One interpreter parallels Paul’s opinion with the esteem which a Roman widow enjoyed, if she did not marry again but remained faithful to her first husband, and thus exemplified the ideal of the univira, or wife of one man.8 But this Roman ideal reinforced a uniquely female virtue of lifelong faithfulness to a spouse even after his death, whereas Paul insists on mutual obligations of husbands to wives and wives to husbands in 1 Corinthians 7, and names the same obligations of each toward the other (cf. 7:2– 5, 10–16, 32–34). The Roman ideal of the univira thus cannot account for Paul’s opinion on the widow.9 The comparative adjective, krei=sson, in 7:38, referring to the man – “the one who does not marry (his virgin) will do better” (krei=sson) – is too ambiguous to shed light on the comparative, makariwte/ra. In the light of the basically contrarian nature of Paul’s opinion, it is significant that he appeals to having the Spirit in support of it. We might thus assume that his contrarian opinion about widows’ remaining widows rests                                                                                                                 6

Schrage, Der erste Brief, 2:206; also C. K. Barrett, A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians (London: Adam and Charles Black, 1968), 186; Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians, 329; similarly, M. L. Barré, “To Marry or to Burn: purou=sqai in 1 Cor 7:9,” CBQ 36 (1974): 193–202: 201–2. Garland, 1 Corinthians, 344, pleads for a double sense of makariwte/ra as referring to both worldly well-being and blessedness by being devoted to the Lord (cf. Luke 12:37). 7 Noticed by Zeller, “Der Vorrang,” 75. See, further, below. 8 Zeller, “Der Vorrang,” 75. On the univira, cf. Jane F. Gardner, Women in Roman Law and Society (Bloomington, Ind.; Indianapolis, Ind.: Indiana University Press, 1986), 51, citing Richard Lattimore, Themes in Greek and Latin Epitaphs (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1942); Michel Humbert, Le Remariage à Rome (Milan: Giuffré, 1972); Marjorie Lightman and William Zeisel, “Univira: An Example of Continuity and Change in Roman Society,” CH 46 (1977): 19–32, esp. 27; Bernhard Kötting, Die Bewertung der Wiederverheiratung (der zweiten Ehe) in der Antike und in der Frühen Kirche (Geisteswissenschaften/Rheinisch-Westfälische Akademie der Wissenschaften 292; Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1988), 17. Cf. also Sarah Pomeroy, Goddesses, Whores, Wives and Slaves: Women in Classical Antiquity (New York: Schocken, 1975), 149–50, 158; J. P. V. D. Balsdon, Roman Women: Their History and Habits (London: Bodley Head, 1962), 76–77, 89–90, 220–22; Margaret Y. MacDonald, Pauline Churches: A Socio-historical Study of Institutionalization in the Pauline and Deutero-Pauline Writings (SNTSMS 60; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 185–87. 9 See, further, my discussion in “‘She is More Blessed, if She Remains So’: Paul’s Macarism on the Widow in 1 Cor 7:40a” (manuscript). Similarly, Schrage, Der erste Brief, 2:206 n. 886 rejects the possibility that Paul’s opinion contrasts to a possibly “negative reaction” to a second marriage by a woman (but not by a man!), “weil die Abneigung dagegen in der damaligen patriarchalisch bestimmten Gesellschaft groß war.”

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40) 177   solely on his prophetic authority. But I will argue below that he probably also alludes to Jesus-tradition (JT) in support of this opinion, just as he alluded to JT (on marriage and divorce) in his permission to the widow to marry – “a wife is bound as long as her husband lives; but if her husband should die, she is free to be married to whom she wishes, only in the Lord” (7:39; see, further, below). I will argue that 1 Cor 7:40a might echo JT in Luke 23:29 and in the conflict story of Jesus with the Sadducees in Luke 20:27–40, in particular, vv. 33–36: Luke 23:29: For behold, the days are coming in which they will say, “Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that did not bear and the breasts that did not nurse.”10 Luke 20:33–36: “In the resurrection, therefore, which one’s wife will the woman be? For the seven had her as a wife” [according to the law of levirate marriage]. And Jesus said to them, “The sons of this age marry and are given in marriage;11 but those who are considered worthy to attain to that age and the resurrection from the dead, neither marry, nor are given in marriage; for neither can they die any more, for they are like angels, and are sons of God, being sons of the resurrection” (cf. Mark 12:25: cf. Matt 22:30).

First Corinthians 7:40a has never, to my knowledge, been suspected of alluding to JT. But, by applying the criteria for an allusion to JT which scholars have used in evaluating proposed allusions to JT in Paul’s letters,12 and by taking into account other observations concerning Paul’s use                                                                                                                 10

On the close parallel in Gos. Thom. 79, see, further, below. 2 1 sc gamou=sin kai\ gami/skontai. D ff i q r sy (and cf. a c e l) read gennw~ntai kai\ gennw~sin, “are begotten and beget,” either instead, or in addition. Though poorly attested, this variant captures the sense of the context. 12 Cf. esp. Dale C. Allison, Jr., “The Pauline Epistles and the Synoptic Gospels: The Pattern of the Parallels,” NTS 28 (1982): 1–32; Richard J. Bauckham, “The Study of Gospel Traditions outside the Canonical Gospels: Problems and Prospects,” in The Jesus Tradition Outside the Gospels (ed. David Wenham: vol. 5 of Gospel Perspectives, ed. R. T. France and David Wenham; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985), 369–403; Biörn Fjärstedt, Synoptic Tradition in 1 Corinthians: Themes and Clusters of Theme Words in 1 Corinthians 1–4 and 9 (Uppsala: Teologiska Institutionen, 1974); Frans Neirynck, “Paul and the Sayings of Jesus,” in L’Apôtre Paul: Personnalité, Style et Conception du Ministère (ed. A. Vanhoye et al.; BETL 73; Louvain: Peeters, 1986), 265–321 = idem, Evangelica II (BETL 99: Louvain: Peeters, 1991), 511–68; idem, “The Sayings of Jesus in 1 Corinthians,” in The Corinthian Correspondence (ed. R. Bieringer; BETL 125; Louvain: Peeters, 1996), 141–76; P. Richardson and P. Gooch, “Logia of Jesus in 1 Corinthians,” in The Jesus Tradition Outside the Gospels (ed. David Wenham: vol. 5 of Gospel Perspectives, ed. R. T. France and David Wenham; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985), 39–57; Michael Thompson, Clothed with Christ: The Example and Teaching of Jesus in Romans 12.1–15.13 (JSNTSup 59; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 30–36. Cf. further, on Paul and Jesus-tradition, David L. Balch, “Backgrounds of 1 Cor. vii: Sayings of the Lord in Q; Moses as an ascetic qei=oj a0nh/r in ii Cor iii,” NTS 18 (1972): 351–64; Cilliers Breytenbach, “Vormarkinische Logientradition: Parallelen in der urchristlichen Brieflitera11

 

 

178

Judith M. Gundry

of JT,13 I will argue here that there are good reasons to add this text to the relatively short list of probable allusions to JT in Paul.14                                                                                                                 tur,” in The Four Gospels, 1992: Festschrift Frans Neirynck (ed. F. van Segbroeck et al.; 3 vols.; Louvain: Peeters, 1992), 2:725–49; John P. Brown, “Synoptic Parallels in the Epistles and Form-History,” NTS 10 (1963): 27–48; W. D. Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism: Some Rabbinic Elements in Pauline Theology (Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1980); David L. Dungan, The Sayings of Jesus in the Churches of Paul (Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1971); James D. G. Dunn, “Jesus Tradition in Paul,” in Studying the Historical Jesus: Evaluations of the State of Current Research (ed. Bruce Chilton and Craig A. Evans; Leiden; Boston: Brill, 1994), 155–78; Traugott Holtz, “Paul and the Oral Gospel Tradition,” in Jesus and the Oral Gospel Tradition (ed. Henry Wansbrough; JSNTSup 64; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 380–93; H.-W. Kuhn, “Der irdische Jesus bei Paulus als traditionsgeschichtliches und theologisches Problem,” ZTK 67 (1970): 295–320; Stephen J. Patterson, “Paul and the Jesus Tradition: It is Time for Another Look,” HTR 84 (1991): 23–41; John Piper, “Love your Enemies”: Jesus’ Love Command in the Synoptic Gospels and in the Early Christian Paraenesis (SNTSMS 38; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), esp. 102–19; J. Sauer, “Traditionsgeschichtliche Erwägungen zu den synoptischen und paulinischen Aussagen über Feindesliebe und Wiedervergeltungsverzicht,” ZNW 76 (1985): 1–28; P. Stuhlmacher, “Jesustradition im Römerbrief: Eine Skizze,” TBei 14 (1983): 24–50; Christopher M. Tuckett, “1 Corinthians and Q,” JBL 102 (1983): 607–19; idem, “Paul and Jesus Tradition: The Evidence of 1 Corinthians 2:9 and Gospel of Thomas 17,” in Paul and the Corinthians: Studies on a Community in Conflict, Essays in Honour of Margaret Thrall (ed. Trevor J. Burke and J. Keith Elliott; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 55–73; Nikolaus Walter, “Paul and the Early Christian Jesus-Tradition,” in Paul and Jesus: Collected Essays (ed. A. J. M. Wedderburn; JSNTSup 37; JSOT Press, 1989), 51–80; A. J. M. Wedderburn, Jesus and the Historians (WUNT 269; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 157–58; David Wenham, “Paul’s Use of the Jesus Tradition: Three Samples,” in The Jesus Tradition Outside the Gospels (ed. David Wenham: vol. 5 of Gospel Perspectives, ed. R. T. France and David Wenham; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985), 7–37; M. and R. Zimmermann, “Zitation, Kontradiktion oder Applikation?: Die Jesuslogien in 1 Kor 7,10f. und 9,14,” ZNW 87 (1996): 83–100. The above titles represent only a sampling of the voluminous literature on the topic. Treatments of 1 Cor 7:10–11 and 9:14 alone are numerous. For a survey of the Jesus-Paul debate, see Victor P. Furnish, “The Jesus-Paul Debate: From Baur to Bultmann,” in A. J. M. Wedderburn, ed., Paul and Jesus, 17–50. The related issue of echoes of Scripture in Paul has been explored, above all, by Richard B. Hays, Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1993). 13 The caveat by Furnish, “The Jesus-Paul Debate,” 44, that “the identification of all allusions . . . is a very subjective and therefore problematic enterprise” is taken seriously here, but needs to be qualified by the fact that the application of various well-established criteria places controls on the process of identifying allusions and thus considerably reduces the degree of subjectivity in this process. 14 Only eight allusions are frequently cited, as noted by Allison, “The Pauline Epistles,” 10: (1) Rom 12:14 = Matt 5:44/Luke 6:28; (2) Rom 12:17 = Matt 5:39–42/Luke 6:29–30; (3) Rom 13:7 = Mark 12:13–17/Matt 22:15–22/Luke 20:20–26; (4) Rom 14:13 = Mark 9:42/Matt 18:7/Luke 17:1–2; (5) Rom 14:14 = Mark 7:15/Matt 15:11; (6) 1 Thess 5:2, 4 = Matt 24:43/Luke 12:39–40; (7) 1 Thess 5:15 = Matt 5:39–48/Luke 6:27–38; (8) 1 Cor 13:2 = Mark 11:23/Matt 21:21. Victor P. Furnish, Theology and Ethics in Paul

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40) 179   If my arguments are persuasive, some fresh and significant inferences can be drawn for the debate on Paul’s use of JT, and on the contested relationship between early Christian prophetism and JT, as I will discuss briefly in my conclusion.15

General Observations Favoring Allusions to Jesus-Tradition in 1 Cor 7:40a Dale C. Allison, Jr., in his 1982 article, “The Pauline Epistles and the Synoptic Gospels: The Pattern of the Parallels,” observed that JT is concentrated in particular places in Paul’s corpus, one of which is 1 Corinthians.16 Paul refers explicitly to JT concerning marriage and divorce in 1 Cor 7:10– 11: “To the married I command, not I, but the Lord . . .” (cf. Mark 10:11– 12/Matt 19:9; less similar are Matt 5:32/Luke 16:18). Paul refers explicitly to JT on remuneration for preachers of the gospel in 1 Cor 9:14: “Thus the Lord commanded . . .” (cf. Matt 10:10/Luke 10:7).17 Gordon D. Fee pointed out that JT on marriage and divorce is also most likely reflected in Paul’s statement in 1 Cor 7:39, “a woman is bound for as long as her husband lives, but if he should die, she is free to marry whom she wishes, only in the Lord,” which “runs so counter to Jewish understanding and practice at this point in history that it almost certainly reflects Paul’s understanding of Jesus’ own instructions” against divorce.18 Paul refers explicitly to Jesus’ words at the Last Supper in 1 Cor 11:23, which can be taken to reflect                                                                                                                 (Nashville, Tenn.: Abingdon, 1968), 51–65, also cites 1 Thess 5:13 = Mark 9:50, but omits 1 Thess 5:2, 4 (53–54). Contrast Alfred Resch, Der Paulinismus und die Logia Jesu in ihrem gegenseitigen Verhältnis (TU 12; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1904) who identified a whopping 925 allusions in nine Pauline letters. More stringent criteria for assessing proposed allusions have since been developed. 15 According to Dunn, “Jesus Tradition,” 160, “there is little genuinely fresh to be said [about the currently accepted allusions to JT in Paul], and the result would not change the complexion of the debate or its broad outcome.” The allusions to JT in 1 Cor 7:40a which I am proposing here, however, may produce some fresh insights and stimulate debate. 16 Allison, “The Pauline Epistles,” 10–11: “The appearance of this sharp pattern suggests that at certain points Paul consciously turned to the Jesus tradition.” Allison also argues for a clustering of uses of JT in Romans 12–14; 1 Thess 4–5; and, if we take into account the longer lists of proposed echoes, Col 3–4. The clustering of JT in Paul seems to be a now well-accepted observation in the literature on the topic. 17 1 Thess 4:15–17, “for this we say to you by the word of the Lord . . .,” is best taken as a prophetic utterance, rather than a dominical saying. Paul cites the credo at 1 Cor 15:3–5; cf. Kuhn, “Der irdische Jesus,” 296. 18 Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians, 355.

 

 

180

Judith M. Gundry

his knowledge of JT,19 though most think Paul has this from the liturgical tradition: “I received from the Lord that which I also delivered to you, that the Lord Jesus in the night in which he was betrayed took bread; and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, ‘This is my body . . .’” (1 Cor 11:23–27). A widely accepted allusion to JT in 1 Corinthians is 1 Cor 13:2: “If I have all faith, so as to remove mountains” (= Mark 11:23/Matt 17:20; Matt 21:21/Luke 17:6).20 Allison also finds an allusion to JT in 1 Cor 4:12 (cf. Rom 12:14), “when we are reviled, we bless” (= Luke 6:28; cf. Matt 5:44), and 1 Cor 8:13, “if food causes my brother to stumble . . . that I might not cause my brother to stumble” (= Mark 9:42). 21 It is sometimes claimed that 1 Cor 7:25, where Paul states that he does not have a “command of the Lord” on “virgins,” may imply his knowledge of other logia, but this is uncertain.22 Less clear are other proposed allusions to JT in 1 Corinthians based on shared terminology or imagery: 1 Cor 4:5 (= Luke 6:37); 1 Cor 6:7 (= Matt 5:38–42/Luke 6:29–30);23 1 Cor 1:23 (= Matt 11:6/Luke 7:23); 1 Cor 4:1– 2 (= Matt 24:45–51/Luke 12:41–46; cf. Matt 25:14–30/Luke 19:12–27, etc.); 1 Cor 3:6; 9:7, 11 (= Mark 4:3–9/Matt 13:3–9/Luke 8:5–8; Mark 12:1–12/Matt 21:33–46/Luke 20:9–18); 1 Cor 3:10–12 (= Matt 7:24–27/ Luke 6:47–49); 1 Cor 15:25 (= Mark 12:35–37/Matt 22:41–46/Luke 20:41–44); inter alia.24 Because these allusions are difficult to confirm, given that the common terminology or imagery can be accounted for in                                                                                                                 19

Tuckett, “Paul and Jesus Tradition,” 55. Neirynck’s doubts are adequately addressed by the comment he cites by Victor P. Furnish, “The Jesus-Paul Debate,” 17–50, here at 61: “If a saying from the Jesus tradition does lie behind 1 Cor 13:2, the apostle has felt quite free to employ it in his own way. The saying had called for faith and had emphasized its astounding power. But Paul is appealing for love, and insists that nothing exceeds it in importance.” Paul’s undisputably creative use of JT is crucial to my argument here. 21 On 1 Cor 2:9 and the parallel in Gos. Thom. 17 and their relation to JT, see Tuckett, “Paul and Jesus Tradition,” who concludes (73) that “any line of development between the Pauline epistles and the gospel tradition thus seems to have gone in this case from Paul to the gospel tradition and not vice versa.” 22 “Command of the Lord” may refer not to a dominical saying but to the risen Lord’s command, as it apparently does in 14:37, and as also the “word of the Lord” in 1 Thess 4:15–17. 23 Allison, “The Pauline Epistles,” 11–17. 24 Richardson and Gooch, “Logia of Jesus,” 46–50. They also argue (49–50) for a possible “connection” between Paul’s clear preference for celibacy, and celibacy as a gift, in 1 Corinthians 7, and discipleship sayings in the Synoptics regarding “hating” family members and “loving” Jesus more than them (1 Cor 7:1 = Matt 10:37–39; Luke 14:25–27) and the saying that it has been given only to some to accept non-marriage (1 Cor 7:7 = Matt 19:11–12). On Matt 19:10–12 and related texts on sexual desire in the Jesus-tradition, see also Dale C. Allison, Jr., Jesus of Nazareth: Millenarian Prophet (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1998), 172–216. 20

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40) 181   other ways, e.g., as part of a stock of Jewish or Hellenistic materials,25 and because many of these are not accepted by the vast majority of scholars, I will not presume that these are authentic allusions in my arguments below. The clustering of explicit references and clear allusions to JT in 1 Corinthians – especially in ch. 7 – works in favor of my suggestion that Paul is alluding to JT in 1 Cor 7:40a. For, as Richard J. Bauckham comments (referring to the work of Allison and Peter H. Davids): “A certain number of clear citations or allusions in a particular writer may provide not unreasonable grounds for tipping the balance in favour of more doubtful allusions, especially if these show some kind of coherence with the clearer ones.”26 Allison also argued that Paul mines his Jesus material to a large extent from blocks of pre-synoptic material.27 Allison highlights three collections of logia and probably an extended report of the passion as Paul’s main sources for JT: (1) logia in Luke 6:27–38 (the central section of the Sermon on the Plain, reflected in Rom 12:14, 17, 21; 14:10; 1 Thess 5:15; Col 3:12); (2) logia in Mark 6:6b–13/Matt 10:1–16/Luke 9:1–6; 10:1–12 (the missionary discourse reflected in 1 Cor 9:14; perhaps 1 Thess 4:8; Rom 16:19); (3) logia in Mark 9:33–50 (a collection of logia united by particular catchwords reflected in 1 Thess 5:13; Rom 14:13; 1 Cor 8:13; Col 3:5; perhaps Col 4:6);28 (4) a Passion Narrative reflected in 1 Cor 11:23b,   e0n th=| nukti\ h[| paredi/deto, “in the night in which he was betrayed” (cf., e.g.,

                                                                                                                25

Cf. the caveats by Richardson and Gooch, “Logia of Jesus,” 45–46, 48; Neirynck, “The Sayings of Jesus.” 26 Bauckham, “The Study of Gospel Traditions,” 384; see, below, n. 28, for Davids on JT in James. 27 Anticipated by Fjärstedt, Synoptic Tradition, who established on the basis of 1 Cor 9:14 that Paul knew a missionary discourse (see below). Similarly, Wenham, “Paul’s Use,” 28. Some of Jesus’ sayings which Paul knew are not traceable to a larger source, according to Allison, “The Pauline Epistles,” 17, namely, 1 Cor 13:2; 1 Cor 7:10; Rom 14:14; 1 Thess 5:2. 28 Allison, “The Pauline Epistles,” 11–16, who cites others in support: Heinz Schürmann, Das Lukasevangelium (HTKNT 3; vol. 1; Freiburg: Herder, 1969), 386, recognized Paul’s knowledge of the “cluster” of JT now preserved in Luke 6:27–38 (see above, n. 16); Fjärstedt’s and Dungan’s work (see above, n. 12) implies Paul’s knowledge of blocks of tradition preserved in Luke 10; Matt 10; C. H. Dodd, The Epistle of Paul to the Romans (MNTC; New York: Long & Smith, 1932), 218, judged that “it can hardly be doubted that sayings like these [about causing a brother to stumble in Mark 9:42; Matt 18:6; Luke 17:1–2] were in Paul’s mind.” For a similar argument that James uses blocks of JT, cf. Peter H. Davids, “James and Jesus,” in The Jesus Tradition Outside the Gospels (ed. David Wenham: vol. 5 of Gospel Perspectives, ed. R. T. France and David Wenham; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985), 63–84: see esp. 67–70.

 

 

182

Judith M. Gundry

Mark 14:30)29 and in the centrality of Jesus’ death and resurrection for Paul and his churches (cf., e.g., 1 Cor 15:3–8). Paul’s use of blocks of JT (even if Allison has overestimated the number of authentic allusions) could favor the allusion I am proposing to Luke 23:29, which is L material (Luke 23:27–31) found in Luke’s Passion Narrative. Paul may have known an early Passion Narrative containing this material. The likelihood that Paul knew Jesus’ saying in Luke 23:29 also increases, if the close parallel in Gos. Thom. 79 supplies an argument for multiple attestation of this saying, as Marion L. Soards has cautiously argued (see, further, below).30 But the disputed nature of Thomas’s relation to the Synoptics does not permit great weight to be placed on this argument.31 Allison makes the additional, “tentative” suggestion that Paul knew and drew on a pre-Markan collection of conflict stories behind Mark 12:1–40. For Rom 13:7 contains an accepted allusion to Mark 12:13–17/Matt 22:15–22/Luke 20:20–26, the conflict story about paying taxes. And some have suggested that Rom 13:8–10 could reflect the influence of Jesus’ command to love in Mark 12:28–34/Matt 22:34–40/Luke 10:25–28, the conflict story about love of enemies.32 If so, the proximity of these two al                                                                                                                 29

Allison, “The Pauline Epistles,” 16, citing Martin Hengel, Zur urchristlichen Geschichtsschreibung (Stuttgart: Calwer, 1979), 45. That Paul knew Q is questionable, according to Tuckett, “1 Corinthians,” 619: “Whether the traditions [used by Paul] . . . formed part, or all, of the so-called Q material must remain much more questionable.” 30 According to Marion L. Soards, “Tradition, Composition, and Theology in Jesus’ Speech to the ‘Daughters of Jerusalem’ (Luke 23,26–32),” Bib 68 (1987): 221–44, esp. 232–33, Luke 23:29a–d is “either Lukan composition or use of a tradition (oral or written).” The decision “depends largely on how one evaluates a sometimes-observed but inadequately-studied parallel between these lines and a portion of Gos. Thom. log. 79.” In the view of Soards, “a decision on the origin of Thomas must be made for each logion.” After discussing the case of log. 79, Soards judges that there are no conclusive arguments for Thomas’s dependence on Luke, rather, there are significant differences between log. 79 and Luke 23:29. He concludes, “the simplest explanation for the similarities is the use of other similar tradition(s) by both Luke and Thomas.” Thus Soards proceeds on the basis of the independence of Luke and Thomas at this point, while aware of the “vulnerability of such a hypothesis” (234–36). 31 Cf., e.g., the more skeptical conclusions regarding Thomas’s independence in Craig Blomberg, “Tradition and Redaction in the Parables of the Gospel of Thomas,” in The Jesus Tradition Outside the Gospels (ed. David Wenham: vol. 5 of Gospel Perspectives, ed. R. T. France and David Wenham; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985), 177–205. 32 Allison, “The Pauline Epistles,” 17, 30 with n. 97, notes the following proponents of an allusion in Rom 13:8–10: Rudolph Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament (2 vols.; New York: Scribner, 1951–1962), 1:188; Leonhard Goppelt, Theology of the New Testament (2 vols.; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1981–1982), 2:367; Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism, 138; Richard N. Longenecker, Paul, Apostle of Liberty (New York: Harper & Row, 1964), 189; Archibald M. Hunter, Paul and his Predecessors

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40) 183   lusions in Romans 13 and the likelihood that the “two synoptic narratives probably belonged to the same pre-Markan collection of conflict stories” lead Allison to the conclusion that it is “possible that this collection [of conflict stories] had come down to Paul, perhaps as part of a passion source.” But this suggestion “must . . . remain tentative,” according to Allison, apart from further “convincing allusions to incidents or sayings in Mark 12:1–40.”33 Below I supply arguments for just such a further allusion (in 1 Cor 7:40a), namely, to the middle story in Mark 12 recounting Jesus’ controversy with the Sadducees over the widow and the resurrection (Mark 12:18–27/Matt 22:23–33/Luke 20:27–40).34 If Mark 12 reflects the order in the pre-Markan collection, and Paul knew the first and the third story, he is likely to have known the second story in the series as well. But if so, he knew it in a form that most closely resembles Luke 20:27–40, as I will argue below. Allison’s observations concerning Paul’s use of blocks of pre-synoptic material, in particular an early Passion Narrative and a pre-Markan collection of conflict stories (in Mark 12) work in favor of my proposal of an allusion to Jesus’ sayings in Luke 23:29 and 20:33–36.  

Criteria for an Allusion to Luke 23:29 in 1 Cor 7:40a The Criteria of Shared Terminology and Form The term maka/rioj is common to 1 Cor 7:40a and Luke 23:29, and is used in a macarism in both cases. Only a few interpreters, to my knowledge, have recognized the macarism in 1 Cor 7:40a.35 1 Cor 7:40a: “But she is more blessed . . .” (makariwte/ra de/ e0stin). Luke 23:29: “. . . ‘Blessed are the barren and the wombs that did not bear and the breasts that did not nurse’” (maka/riai ai9 stei=rai kai\ ai9 koili/ai ai4 ou0k e0ge/nnhsan kai\ mastoi\ oi4 ou0k e1qreyan).

The combination of a common term used in a common form works in favor of an allusion to JT in 1 Cor 7:40a.36                                                                                                                 (Philadelphia, Pa.: Westminster: 1961), 107. Furnish’s objections (Theology and Ethics) are discounted by Allison as “just simply tenuous” (5). 33 Allison, “The Pauline Epistles,” 17. 34 See below, pp. 193–97. 35 Zeller, “Der Vorrang,” 75. Implicitly, Hans-Josef Klauck, 1. Korintherbrief (NEchB; Würzburg: Echter, 1984), 58–59. 36 Cf. Neirynck, “Paul and the Sayings of Jesus,” 320: “Possible allusions to gospel sayings can be noted on the basis of similarity of form and context.” Richardson and

 

 

184

Judith M. Gundry

A shared term as such is not necessarily indicative of an allusion.37 But a shared term that is not part of Paul’s regular vocabulary is a better indication of an allusion.38  M aka/rioj occurs only three other times in Paul: “‘Blessed [maka/rioi] are those whose lawless deeds were forgiven, and whose sins were covered.” (Rom 4:7, citing LXX Ps 31:1) “Blessed [maka/rioj] is the man whose sin the Lord will not reckon.” (Rom 4:8, citing LXX Ps 31:2) “Blessed [maka/rioj] is the one who does not judge him/herself in that which s/he approves.” (Rom 14:22)

Not only does Paul seldom use maka/rioj, he uses it only in macarisms, as seen above, and in two out of three cases, under the influence of tradition (LXX). Thus it seems possible, if not likely, that in 1 Cor 7:40a Paul is reformulating a macarism which he has taken over from some source. Could Jesus’ macarism on the barren be this source? On the one hand, there are differences between Jesus’ macarism on the barren and Paul’s macarism on the widow. Paul uses the comparative form, makariwte/ra, instead of the simple form, as in Jesus’ saying. And they deal with different women: the widow (in Paul) and the barren (in JT). On the other hand, such differences are precisely what one would expect of Paul when using JT. He typically reformulates and/or adapts JT when alluding to it.39 Even when he explicitly cites Jesus’ sayings (at 1 Cor 7:10– 11; 9:14), as Frans Neirynck has observed, “the words are . . . not quoted as sayings in oratio recta.”40                                                                                                                 Gooch, “Logia of Jesus,” 45: “The repetition of a phrase . . . is a much more plausible indication of an allusion [than parallels of isolated words].” 37 Bauckham, “The Study of Gospel Traditions,” 383: “The degree of verbal resemblance is important, but by no means decisive and cannot be applied as a mechanical test”; similarly, Allison, “The Pauline Epistles,” 8. 38 Cf. Thompson, Clothed with Christ, 31, et al. 39 Compare 1 Cor 7:10–11 with Mark 10:11–12/Matt 5:32; 19:9; Luke 16:18; compare 1 Cor 9:14 with Mark 6:8–9/Matt 10:10; Luke 9:3; 10:7. Similarly, compare 1 Cor 11:23–26 (which Paul may have known as an independent piece of liturgical tradition) with Mark 14:22–25; Matt 26:26–29; Luke 22:14–20. Cf. Wenham, “Paul’s Use,” 28, who concludes that “Paul cites the Jesus-tradition in various ways . . . most frequently he draws on the tradition freely and incorporates Jesus’ teaching into his own teaching without explaining that he is doing so.” Cf. Richardson and Gooch, “Logia of Jesus,” 57: Paul “is free to adapt those traditions to the communities’ needs.” 40 Neirynck, “Paul and the Sayings of Jesus,” 306. Cf. also Thompson, Clothed with Christ, 32: “Allowance must be made for deliberate redactional adaptation, faulty memory, or use of a form of the Gospel tradition different from those available to us”; Bauckham, “The Study of Gospel Traditions,” 383–84: “The relationship to the writer’s own style and vocabulary needs to be considered, but some writers will be more likely than others to assimilate allusions to their own style and vocabulary.”

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40)

  The Criteria of Shared Motifs, Content, Unusual Ideas, and Conceptual Agreement

185

First Corinthians 7:40a shares with Jesus’ saying in Luke 23:29 (1) two key motifs: particular women, and their being described as blessed/more blessed; (2) an unusual idea: ascription of blessedness to women typically seen as unfortunate and lacking in divine favor; (3) conceptual agreement: women who lack blessing as childbearers are “blessed.”41 Both 1 Cor 7:40a and Luke 23:29 refer to particular women (widows, the barren) as “blessed,” or “more blessed.” Moreover, Neirynck has shown that when Paul explicitly cites JT, “[Jesus’] ‘word’ is referred to as a command of the Lord for a special group of people, those who are married in 7,10 . . . and those who proclaim the gospel in 9,14 . . .” (italics mine).42 Thus, even though we are dealing with a (proposed) allusion (rather than a citation) in 1 Cor 7:40a, it is significant that here Paul is formulating advice for a special group of people, viz., widows. Paul’s description of the widow who does not marry as “more blessed” is in stark contrast to the dominant view of widows in OT-Jewish and early Christian traditions. Widows were seen as extremely unfortunate (cf. Ruth 1:13, 20–21; Luke 7:12–15; 18:2–8; 21:1–4), in need of divine care and protection (cf. Jdt 9:4, 9; Job 29:13; Deut 10:17–18; also Pss 68:5; 146:9; Mal 3:5; 1 Tim 5:5) and human charity (cf. Deut 24:19–21; Isa 1:17; T. Job 9:3, 5; 10:2; Luke 18:1–8; Acts 6:1; Jas 1:27; 1 Tim 5:4, 8, 16). Widowhood could also serve as a metaphor for judgment (cf. Isa 54:4–8) and powerlessness (cf. Rev 18:7). In Luke 23:29 blessedness is, surprisingly, ascribed to “the barren” (ai9 stei=rai), and (by synecdoche) to “the wombs that did not bear and the breasts that did not nurse” (kai\ ai9 koili/ai ai4 ou0k e0ge/nnhsan kai\ mastoi\ oi4 ou0k e1qreyan). By contrast, in OT-Jewish and early Christian literature barrenness was shameful and the barren were seen to be under divine punishment, since God controlled the womb (cf. Gen 16:1–2; 29:31; 30:1–2, 22– 23; 1 Sam 1:5–6; Pss 127:3; 128:3–4; Luke 1:25, 36).43 Both Paul’s opinion on the widow and Jesus’ saying on the barren thus reverse the typical associations of these particular women with extreme misfortune, and instead associate them with blessedness. First Corinthians 7:40a and JT in Luke 23:29 agree in this unusual idea, thus meeting an important criterion for an allusion to JT. As Bauckham notes, “agreement in                                                                                                                 41

Cf. Allison, “The Pauline Epistles,” 8: “Words count for little if ideas are not similar” (in critique of Fjärstedt’s methodology focused on theme words). 42 Neirynck, “Paul and the Sayings of Jesus,” 306. 43 Cited by Joel B. Green, The Gospel of Luke (NICNT; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1997), 65 n. 14. Cf. Phyllis Trible, God and the Rhetoric of Sexuality (Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1978), 34–38.

 

 

186

Judith M. Gundry

an unusual idea, with minimum verbal resemblance, may be more impressive than agreement in a commonplace idea expressed in rather common and obvious words and phrases, even if the degree of verbal resemblance is relatively extensive.”44 Moreover, the widow’s misfortune was strongly associated with her lack of childbearing, apart from marriage, as I will show below. Thus her misfortune overlapped with that of the barren. It is the misfortune of those characterized by lack of childbearing (inter alia) that Paul overturns in his macarism on the widow, as does JT in the macarism on the barren in Luke 23:29. Jesus’ macarism on the barren is part of a section of special Lukan material (Luke 23:27–31) depicting the imminent eschatological reversal of the barren and the childbearing. Here childbearing women mourn Jesus in anticipation of his death, and he tells them: “Stop weeping for me, but weep for yourselves and your children.”45 For, as he explains, they will be engulfed in the destruction which is about to come, when people “will begin to say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us,’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us’” (cf. Luke 23:30) – thus bringing to an end their blessed status as childbearers.46 In these circumstances, “they will say, ‘Blessed are the barren . . . !’” This probably refers to the reversal of fortunes through God’s saving intervention in behalf of the unfortunate (cf. Luke 6:20–22). Paul’s macarism on the widow, similarly, reverses the misfortune of those who do not bear children, because they are not married. Marriage and childbearing were seen as desirable sources of material and social well-being for a woman, not only in an OT-Jewish context but also more widely in the Hellenistic world – though elite Roman women seem to have formed an exception in some cases.47 Thus widows’ misfortune was due partly to not being able to bear children. For example, when the elderly Hebrew widow, Naomi, loses both husband and sons she voices her des                                                                                                                 44

Bauckham, “The Study of Gospel Traditions,” 383–84; cf. also Thompson, Clothed with Christ, 31. 45 On the identity of the “daughters of Jerusalem,” see Soards, “Tradition,” 228–30.   46 For a macarism on the woman who has children, cf., e.g., LXX Gen 30:13; Luke 11:27–28, possibly based on LXX Prov 23:25; Luke 1:42 (here: eu0loghme/nh su\ . . .); 2 Bar. 54:10 (cited by Green, Luke, 460, who also cites Petronius, Satyricon 94.1). On the expectation of childbearing for the Roman matron, see Pomeroy, Goddesses, 184. Cf. also the macarisms on the man who has many children in LXX Pss 126:3–5; 127:3–4. 47 The Augustan marriage laws rewarding marriage and procreation and penalizing noncompliance in both regards (the lex Julia in 18 B.C.E. and the lex Papia Poppaea in 9 C.E .) responded to a trend away from the traditional values of marriage and procreation for the sake of the common good; cf. Pomeroy, Goddesses, 132–33, 166; Gardner, Women in Roman Law, 54. See, further, on marriage/remarriage and procreation in the GrecoRoman world, Pomeroy, Goddesses, 149–50, 158, 161; Balsdon, Roman Women, 76–77, 9–90, 220–22; MacDonald, Pauline Churches, 185–87.

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40) 187   pair of ever marrying and having children again: “If I said I have hope, if I should even have a husband tonight and also bear sons . . .” (Ruth 1:12). But when her daughter-in-law, Ruth, marries Boaz and bears a son, Naomi has the good fortune of obtaining a child by proxy and reaping the benefits thereof: “A son has been born to Naomi” (Ruth 4:17). He, or perhaps Boaz himself, is expected to “be to you a restorer of life and a sustainer of your old age; for your daughter-in-law, who loves you and is better to you than seven sons, has given birth to him” (Ruth 4:15).48 In 4 Macc 18:7–9 a Jewish widow whose husband and children have perished pronounces a macarism on the deceased husband: “The father of these grown lads has died. He is blessed [maka/rioj me\n e0kei=noj] because he lived his life with good children and did not suffer this moment of being deprived of them.” She, however, deprived of husband and sons, is only “righteous” (dikai/a): she had been an unspoiled “pure virgin” (parqe/noj a9gnh/) and “remained with my husband during the period of my prime” (e1meina de\ xro/non a0kmh=j su\n a0ndri/). The implication is that blessedness for this widow will be obtained through remarriage and having more children. In a probably post-Pauline early Christian context (in 1 Timothy), widows who are “younger,” i.e., of marriageable age, are expected to marry and bear children in order to avoid economic deprivation (and dependence on the church dole), inter alia (1 Tim 5:13–14). Though some widows apparently had sought not to marry, under the influence of ascetical teaching (cf. 1 Tim 4:3, 8), the author adopts the traditional Jewish view of widowhood as something to be escaped on account of the destitution and social marginalization which it entailed. This comes across clearly in the description of the older widow – who is not expected to marry and bear children, and who has no children, grandchildren, or others to support her – as socially and economically impoverished and vulnerable: she “has been left alone” and has “fixed her hope on God” and is to be put on the list for material assistance from the church and is to receive honor from the community (1 Tim 5:4–5, 9, 16): “Honor widows who are really widows!” (ta\j o1ntwj xh/raj; 1 Tim 5:3). Thus 1 Cor 7:40a and Luke 23:29 agree conceptually on the matter of the lack of childbearing as not standing in the way of women’s blessedness – whether the lack of childbearing was a result of barrenness, or widowhood. It is not hard to imagine that Paul dismissed childbearing as not essential to the widow’s blessedness, in analogy to the macarism on the barren in JT. For nowhere in this entire chapter devoted to marriage and celibacy does Paul mention procreation, which was the very purpose and obligation                                                                                                                 48

Similarly, the barren wife, Rachel, obtains children by proxy and is thus vindicated by God, Gen 30:3, 6.

 

 

188

Judith M. Gundry

of marriage according to OT-Jewish tradition (e.g., Josephus, B.J. 2.160). He merely takes a positive view of children born to a married couple (when discussing the case of a Christ-believer married to an unbeliever): “Your children . . . are set apart [a3gia] [for God],” rather than “unclean” (a0ka/qarta; 7:14). The Criterion of Shared Context The statements about particular women who are “blessed/more blessed” in 1 Cor 7:40a and Luke 23:29 both reside in eschatological contexts. First Corinthians 7 as a whole is characterized by an eschatological perspective. Verse 7:26 refers to “the present [or: impending] distress” (th\n e0nestw~san a0na/gkhn), which most scholars take to refer to the eschatological woes, or at least some circumstances prefiguring them.49 Verse 7:28 warns that “such as these [those who marry] will have affliction in the flesh” (qli=yin de\ th=| sarki\ e3cousin), which most likely refers to affliction characterizing the end-times (cf. 1 Thess 3:3–4; Mark 13:17, 19–20a; par. Matt 24:19, 21–22; Rev 7:14),50 not the everyday problems of marriage. Verses 7:29a and 7:31b frame the intervening injunctions with references to the imminent end: “The fixed time is shortened” (o9 kairo\j sunestalme/noj e0sti/n) and “the form of this world is passing away” (para/gei ga\r to\ sxh=ma tou= ko/smou tou/tou). Because they live in the end-times, “those who have wives should be as not having [wives],” etc. (7:29a–31b), i.e., should adapt married life in the light of their eschatological existence.51 It is also frequently noted that in 10:11 Paul describes Christ-believers as those “. . . on whom the ends of the ages have come.” This eschatological perspective supplies the context for Paul’s opinion at 7:40a that the widow “is more blessed, if she remains so.” Such is not the case apart from an eschatological perspective (see above on the conventional misfortune of widowhood).                                                                                                                 49

Cf. Luke 21:23; cf. Josephus, B.J. 5.13.7 §571 (cited by Joseph A. Fitzmyer, First Corinthians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AYB; New Haven, Conn.; London: Yale University Press, 2008], 315); for the eschatological woes associated with the end-times, in the LXX cf. Zeph 1:15, and in Jewish apocalyptic literature, cf. Jub. 23:11–25; 4 Ezra 5:1–13; 6:18–24; 9:1–12; 2 Bar. 25–27; 1 En. 100:7; 103:7; As. Mos. 10:3–6 (cf. Rev 7:14). 50 Cf. Hans Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians: A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians (trans. James W. Leitch; Hermeneia; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1976), 132 n. 19: “Here the eschatological sense is made perfectly clear by the future tense.” 51 It is doubtful that these injunctions refer merely to a change in perspective on one’s engagement with the world, as many interpreters assume, under the influence of a particular interpretation of 7:32–35. The large number of injunctions to particular actions in this chapter speaks against such a view.

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40) 189   Jesus’ macarism on the barren in Luke 23:29 is introduced with a reference to the future “days”: “For the days are coming [e1rxontai h9me/rai] in which they will say, ‘Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that did not bear and the breasts that did not nurse!’” The antithetically parallel statement to the childbearing women, “weep for yourselves and for your children!” has in view the coming destruction of the city: “Then they will begin to say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us!’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us!’” (23:30). As Soards has argued, Luke uses this material to show the eschatological significance of Jesus’ death: it inaugurates the last days.52 Then the eschatological reversal of the childbearer and the barren will take place. The conventional blessing on the childbearer (cf. Luke 11:27: “blessed is the womb that bore you . . .”) will be taken away through the coming destruction; eschatological blessing will come to the barren through God’s saving intervention on behalf of the unfortunate.53 The childbearing women are to mourn for themselves and their children because this reversal is imminent, just as Jesus’ death is imminent.54

                                                                                                                52

On the identity of the “daughters of Jerusalem,” see the discussion in Soards, “Tradition,” 241: Luke intends here “to heighten the image of Jesus . . . and to emphasize that the Passion of Jesus is a moment of great significance that inaugurated ‘the last days.’” 53 Cf. John Nolland, Luke 18:35–24:53 (WBC 35c; Dallas, Tex.: Word Books, 1993) 1137: “The Lukan text proposes a dark future in which the natural values of the present will be reversed.” Cf. Green, Luke, 816: The “calamity of divine judgment, for those who align themselves with the purpose of God, is a sign that redemption is near (21:28).” Cf. Mary’s Magnificat (Luke 1:46–55), where the misfortune of a woman is reversed through pregnancy and giving birth, so that “behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed” (i0dou\ ga\r a0po\ tou= nu/n makariou=si/n me pa=sai ai9 geneai/; 1:46) – combining the conventional and the eschatological blessing on women. 54 Similarly, Luke 21:23: “Woe to those who are with child and to those who nurse babes in those days!” The statement probably alludes to the particular difficulty that pregnant and nursing women will experience in fleeing the coming destruction (cf. 21:21), or to their being killed or captured (cf. 21:24). Cf. Sib. Or. 2.190–193 (cf. 196– 197, 212–213): “Alas, for as many as are found bearing in the womb on that day, for as many as suckle infant children.” Fitzmyer, Luke, 1498, draws a parallel with classical texts that depict suffering caused by the death, capture, or suffering of one’s children in times of war or political upheaval (cf., e.g., Euripides, Andr. 395–396 [cf. 419–420]; Tacitus, Ann. 2.75; Seneca the Elder, Controv. 2.3.2). Brant James Pitre, “Blessing the Barren and Warning the Fecund: Jesus’ Message for Women Concerning Pregnancy and Childbirth,” JSNT 81 (2001): 59–80, argues that the Synoptic texts on the eschatological woes experienced by mothers, as well as the blessing of the barren rather than the childbearers, reflect a “message of apocalyptic asceticism that originated with Jesus and was directed specifically to women” (61), enjoining them not to procreate. It is impossible within the confines of the present article to interact with this thesis.

 

 

190

Judith M. Gundry

The Evidence for Multiple Attestation of JT on the Blessed Barren The close parallel to Luke 23:29 in Gos. Thom. 79 has been noted by Soards, among others,55 who displays the parallels between Gos. Thom. 79 and Luke 11:27–28 and 23:29 as follows: 11:27a 11:27b 79a 11:27c 79b 11:27d 79c 11:28a 79d 11:28b 79e 23:29a 79f 23:29b 23:29c 79g 23:29d 79h

As he said these things a woman from the crowd, lifting up her voice, said to him A woman from the crowd said to him, “Blessed is the womb that bore you “Blessed is the womb that bore you And the breasts that you sucked.” and the breasts that nourished you.” But he said He said to [her], “Rather, blessed are those who hear the word of God and observe it. “Blessed are those who have heard the word of the Father and have kept it in truth. For look! Days are coming in which they will say, For there will be days when you will say, ‘Blessed are the barren and the wombs that did not bear ‘Blessed is the womb which has not conceived and the breasts that did not feed.’” and the breasts that have not suckled.’”

Whether or not we agree with Soards that Gos. Thom. 79 suggests the original unity of the sayings in Luke 11:27–28 and 23:29,56 Gos. Thom. 79 may preserve Jesus’ saying in Luke 23:29 in a different form. This possibility is favored by the eschatological flavor of the reference in Gos. Thom. 79 to the future days – “for there will be days when you will say” – in contrast to Thomas’s characteristic interest in present existence, which many have noted. Gos. Thom. 79 thus may provide evidence for multiple attestation of the JT in Luke 23:29, rendering it more likely that Paul could have known Jesus’ saying and adapted it in his own macarism on the widow who remains unmarried. This argument need not depend on an early (first century C.E.) dating of Thomas and acceptance of its independence from the Synoptics, which is hotly disputed, but simply on the evidence that Thomas at particular points preserves early JT. Bruce Chilton, for one, has                                                                                                                 55

Soards, “Tradition,” 232–34. According to Soards, “Tradition,” 241, Luke divided the tradition concerning the barren and the childbearers, and used one part in chapter 11 and integrated the other part into his Passion Narrative. 56

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40) 191   argued for “a rather rich vein of authentically dominical material in 11. 54, 82, 99.”57

The Criterion of Dissimilarity Raymond Collins compares 1 Cor 7:40a to commonplace popular sayings on marriage in which the term maka/rioj appears.58 It is thus imperative to ask whether these sayings could render my proposed allusion to JT in Luke 23:29 a mere coincidental similarity rather than an intentional use of JT by Paul. Collins cites the following: Menander: “. . . and a thing which they call blessed [maka/rioj], I take no wife” (frg. 3K). Euripides, as cited in Stobaeus, Anthology: “Blessed [maka/rioj] is he, whoever marries and obtains a good wife; and he who does not marry” (ISA 4.525.16–526.1).

These sayings, however, are formulated from the perspective of the man, while Paul’s is formulated from the perspective of the woman: “She is more blessed . . .” Further, in the macarism above attributed to Euripides, a man is “blessed” if he “obtains a good wife,” but he may also be “blessed” by not taking a wife – presumably, if he cannot find a “good” one. Maka/rioj here has the connotation of “fortunate, happy” “because of circumstances.”59 In 1 Cor 7:40a, by contrast, only the widow who does not marry is “more blessed” (makariwte/ra). Paul does not say that the widow who marries is likewise “blessed” (though perhaps we might infer a certain degree of blessedness from the comparative, makariwte/ra).60 Nor does he mention any particular conditions (e.g., obtaining a good husband) for being “more blessed, if she remains so.” On the one hand, Paul’s widow is “free” to marry: “If her husband should die, she is free [e0leuqe/ra] to marry                                                                                                                 57

Bruce Chilton, “The Gospel according to Thomas as a Source of Jesus’ Teaching,” in The Jesus Tradition Outside the Gospels (ed. David Wenham: vol. 5 of Gospel Perspectives, ed. R. T. France and David Wenham; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985), 155–75, quote from 169. 58 Raymond F. Collins, First Corinthians (SP 7; Collegeville, Minn.: The Liturgical Press, 1999), 303. 59 Cf. BDAG, s.v. maka/rioj 1.a. Cited for this meaning are Acts 26:2; Diogenes Laertius, 7.179; Epictetus, Diatr. 2.15, 18; Josephus, A.J. 16.108; 20.27; Herm. Vis. 1.1–2; Chariton, Chaer. 6.2.9, and, wrongly, in my opinion, 1 Cor 7:40 (compared with Luke 23:29). Similarly, Georg Strecker, “maka/rioj,” EWNT 2:925–32, at 2:926, translates 1 Cor 7:40, “. . . ist besser daran.” But he (2:930) takes maka/rioj in Luke 23:29 not to be based on circumstances but divine action: it “is not to be understood literally, rather, as a circumlocution for the inevitability of the future judgment” (translation mine). 60 Andreas Lindemann, Der erste Korintherbrief (HNT 9/1; Tübingen: Mohr [Siebeck], 2000), 183, suggests that the variant reading, maka/ria, in P46 and Clement of Alexandria tones down the exaggeration implied in Paul’s comparative form, or eliminates the need for an explicit point of comparison in the context.

 

 

192

Judith M. Gundry

whom she wishes, only in the Lord” (7:38). On the other hand, she is not described as also “blessed” if she marries. Paul’s reluctance to describe the widow as “blessed” if she marries – despite the fact that blessedness was normally associated with marriage and childbearing for widows – suggests a lack of conceptual agreement between the commonplace sayings on marriage that Collins cites and Paul’s opinion on the widow. Paul uses maka/rioj for the eschatologically “blessed” here, as seen above. The unmarried widow obtains eschatological blessing – despite not marrying.61 The comparative, makariwte/ra, is probably to be explained by the fact that eschatological blessing of God is greater than the conventional blessing on the woman who marries and bears children. The widow who remains a widow is “more blessed,” insofar as she participates in the blessing of the new age, not the present age. I have already ruled out the possibility that Paul’s macarism in 1 Cor 7:40a is inspired by the Roman ideal of the univira.62 And, if 1 Timothy 5:9 reflects this ideal in the description of the “real widow” as e9no\j a0ndro\j gunh/, “a woman/wife of one man,” it has no bearing on the present discussion. It was not until the fourth century C.E. that widowhood without remarriage was embraced as something positive by Christendom at large.63 It is thus not surprising that a TLG search for xh/ra in close proximity (within 20 lines) to maka/rioj (and cognates) resulted in no hits for the period relevant to the interpretation of 1 Cor 7:40.64                                                                                                                 61

Contrast LXX Isa 54:1: after a period of “barrenness” Israel will experience eschatological redemption denoted by abundant “childbearing”: “Rejoice, barren one, who does not give birth . . . for more (will be) the children of the desolate one than of the one who has a husband.” Paul dissociates eschatological blessing from marriage and childbearing. 62 See above, p. 176. 63 Cf. Margaret A. Schatkin, “Widows,” in Encyclopedia of Early Christianity (ed. Everett Ferguson; 2nd ed.; New York; London: Garland, 1997), 1177–78: “By reversing the prevailing negative estimation of widowhood, the fathers felt that they were promoting Christian values. The ‘grace of widowhood’ is a plant unique to Christian agriculture (Ambrose), and even the pagans were beginning to admire it (Libanius). John Chrysostom’s homily Vidua eligatur recounts this profound social transformation and deems it permanent.” 64 Cf. David G. Hunter, “The Reception and Interpretation of Paul in Late Antiquity: 1 Corinthians 7 and the Ascetic Debates,” in The Reception and Interpretation of the Bible in Late Antiquity (ed. Lorenzo DiTommaso and Lucian Turcescu; Bible in Ancient Christianity 6; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 163–91, at 166: Paul’s “decidedly ambivalent perspective on marriage” in 1 Corinthians 7 “left the door open for the radical ‘encratite’ interpretations of his teaching that appeared in the second century.” For an extensive critique of the interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7 in terms of sexual asceticism, see Will Deming, Paul on Marriage and Celibacy: The Hellenistic Background of 1 Corinthians 7 (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2004).

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40) 193   Thus Paul’s macarism on the widow cannot be accounted for by his drawing on a common stock of material on widows in his wider cultural environment. The macarisms on the barren in Luke 23:29 and a few other Jewish and apocalyptic texts remain the closest parallels to Paul’s macarism on the widow in 1 Cor 7:40a. Whether Paul is more likely to be dependent on JT than on some other apocalyptic/eschatological macarism on the conventionally unfortunate woman who bears no children, I hope to clarify by suggesting a second allusion to JT in 1 Cor 7:40a. In summary, before preceding to consider a second allusion to JT, the following criteria favor an allusion to Luke 23:29 in 1 Cor 7:40a: – common terminology, especially when uncharacteristic of the author making an allusion: maka/rioj, which is rare in Paul and appears especially when borrowing a macarism; – common motifs: particular women, who are regarded as blessed/more blessed; – agreement in an unusual idea: the blessedness of those who are otherwise regarded as unfortunate or divinely disfavored; – common context/perspective: here, the eschatological crisis as the context for the blessedness of the barren and widows who do not remarry; – conceptual agreement: the blessedness of women despite their not bearing children and thus lacking the conventional mark of blessing on the childbearer; – dissimilarity to other traditions: similarity of Paul’s macarism only to a handful of Jewish eschatological/apocalyptic macarisms on those who are barren, creating a narrow window for possible borrowing by Paul.

Criteria for an Allusion to Luke 20:33–36 in 1 Cor 7:40a Above I noted Allison’s suggestion that Paul may have known a preMarkan collection of conflict stories (reflected in Mark 12:1–40), the first and third of which he alludes to in Rom 13:7 and (probably) in Rom 13:8– 10. Here I will argue that in 1 Cor 7:40a Paul probably alludes to the second story, the conflict with the Sadducees over the widow and the resurrection. Further, Paul reflects more closely Luke’s version of that story (Luke 20:27–40) than Mark’s or Matthew’s (Mark 12:18–27; Matt 22:23– 33). The Criterion of Shared Terminology There are several terminological links between Luke 20:33–36 and 1 Cor 7:40a and their surrounding contexts:   h9 gunh/   (1 Cor 7:39 passim; Luke 20:28, 29, 32–33) and the verb pair, game/w  and  gami/zw  (Luke 20:34–35; 1

 

 

194

Judith M. Gundry

Cor 7:36–39 passim).65 Moreover,   gami/zw   (occurring once in each passage) is very rare, which heightens the significance of this common term.66 The Criteria of Shared Motifs, Context, and Conceptual Agreement In the conflict story in Luke 20:27–40 the Sadducees ask Jesus about a widow whose husband died childless, and who – according to the law of levirate marriage, for the sake of enabling a man to have progeny so that his name would continue and he would have in some sense an afterlife – was subsequently married successively to his six brothers. Whose wife will she be in the resurrection (i.e., when all seven of her dead husbands are alive at the same time)?   In Mark Jesus responds that there is no marriage in the future resurrection: “For when they should rise from the dead [o#tan ga\r e0k nekrw~n a0nastw~sin] they neither marry nor are given in marriage but are like angels in the heavens” (Mark 12:25; similarly, Matt 22:30: e0n ga\r th=| 67 a0nasta/sei). In Luke Jesus omits the temporal reference and simply states: “Those who are considered worthy to attain that age and the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage” (ou1te gamou=sin ou1te gami/zontai). I. Howard Marshall comments that the statement can be understood to mean the abolition of earthly relationships, although “the basic point being made is that marriage as a means of procreation is no longer necessary” (italics mine),68 namely, as a means of dealing with the problem of death.69 Joel Green comments from the perspective of the woman: “No longer must women find their value in producing children for patrimony” (italics mine).70 (Others have taken this verse as evidence of Lukan sexual asceticism.)71 Such comments rest on the notion that the fu                                                                                                                 65

Noted by Balch, “Backgrounds,” 353–56. Cf. Thompson, Clothed with Christ, 31, on rarity of terms in a logion and an epistle as “oral signposts recalling readers to JT.” 67 o#tan followed by the subjunctive a0nastw~sin makes their “rising” from the dead a future possibility, and thus locates “neither marry nor consent to marriage” in the future. 68 I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke: A Commentary on the Greek Text (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1978), 741. 69 On marriage/sex for procreation, cf. Josephus, C. Ap. 2.25 §199; Philo, Spec. 3.6 §§32–36, interpreting Lev 18:19–22. Cf. 1 En. 15:6–7 for the notion that angelic beings, who are immortal, thus do not need wives (noted by Nolland, Luke, 966). 70 Green, Luke, 721. 71 Turid K. Seim (“The Virgin Mother: Mary and Ascetic Discipleship in Luke,” in A Feminist Companion to Luke [ed. Amy-Jill Levine; Cleveland, Ohio: The Pilgrim Press, 2004], 89–105) takes Luke 20:34–36 as evidence of an “ascetic morality as a proleptic assimilation to the life of the resurrected. The life to come is being expressed in the present by those . . . [who] already refrain from matrimony” (90; cf. also idem, “Children of the Resurrection: Angelic Asceticism in Luke-Acts,” in Asceticism and the New Testa66

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40) 195   ture life of the resurrection can already be present in anticipatory form in particular earthly behaviors. François Bovon notes the “auffallenden Parallelstelle” in 1 Cor 7:32–34, where the unmarried are no longer concerned with the things of this world but completely devoted to Christ’s service, as well as Paul’s parallel notion that sin and death have been defeated in Christ’s death and resurrection.72 This view is supported at a number of points in the text. Minus Mark’s future reference (“when they should rise from the dead”; Mark 12:25), Luke’s present tenses apply to the present, not to the future (i.e., as futuristic present tenses).73 The children74 of this age marry and are given in marriage [gamou=sin kai\ gami/skontai], but those who are considered worthy to attain that age and the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage [oi9 de\ kataciwqe/ntej tou= ai0w ~noj e0kei/nou tuxei=n kai\ th=j a0nasta/sewj th=j e0k nekrw~n, ou1t e gamou/sin ou1t e gami/zontai], for they cannot die any longer [a0poqanei=n e1ti du/nantai], for they are [ei0sin] equal to the angels, and they are [ei0sin] children of God, because they are [o1ntej] children of the resurrection.

Such claims, though unusual, are supported by Jesus’ additional critique of the Sadducees in Luke 20:37–38: it seems to require the notion that death is already in some sense overcome and that life-after-death is in some sense a reality: But that the dead are raised [e0gei/rontai oi9 nekroi/], even Moses showed . . . he calls the Lord the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. Now he is God not of dead people [nekrw~n] but of living people [zw/ntwn], for all are alive through him [pa/ntej ga\r au0tw~| zw~sin]. (Luke 20:37–38)

Here God’s covenant relationship with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob implies that they are alive in some sense, despite their death. “The dead are raised” (e0gei/rontai) is offered as an explanation for the title, “the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob . . . God of living peo-

                                                                                                                ment [ed. Vincent L. Wimbush and Leif E. Vaage; New York: Routledge, 1999], 115– 25). Cf. Balch, “Backgrounds,” who tries to establish dependence on JT for an ascetic view of marriage in the Corinthian community; for a critique, see Tuckett, “1 Corinthians and Q,” 615, who notes that Balch’s argument virtually reproduces that of Quentin Quesnell, “Made Themselves Eunuchs for the Kingdom of Heaven (Matt. 19:12),” CBQ 30 (1968): 344–46. 72 François Bovon, Das Evangelium nach Lukas (4 vols.; EKK 3; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag; Düsseldorf: Patmos Verlag, 2009), 4:118–19. 73 Cf. Bovon, Das Evangelium nach Lukas, 4:116. Bovon (4:121) thinks Luke has received tradition on the “Gegenwart einer Auferstehung, die sich in der Zukunft erst noch entfalten sollte,” while his redaction stresses the “Zukunft einer Auferstehung, deren erste Auswirkungen bereits spürbar sind.” 74 Literally, “the sons” (oi9 ui9oi/).

 

 

196

Judith M. Gundry

ple.”75 “All are alive to him” stresses the inclusion of those who have already died in the “all” (pa/ntej) who now “are alive” (zw~sin), and “through him” (au0tw~|) – or perhaps “to him” – explains in what way those who have died now live: by virtue of God’s relationship to them. The parallel with 4 Macc 7:19 has been noted by commentators: “They [the righteous martyrs] who believe that to God they do not die [qew~| ou0k a0p oqnh/skousin]; for, as our forefathers, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, they live to God” (zw~si tw~| qew~|).76 An even closer parallel, according to E. Earle Ellis, is Gal 2:19–20: “I died to the law through the law, that I might live to God [i3na qew~| zh/sw ]. I have been crucified with Christ. And I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. And that which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God . . .” (cf. also Col 3:3–4). Ellis concludes: If Luke xx.38b reflects the Pauline thought-pattern, the phrase might read, ‘For all are alive in him’ (or ‘in their relation to him’). It is probable that Luke’s is a pesher-ed text which has his Christian readers specifically in view and refers to the life of the coming age which has become present in the resurrection of Jesus Christ.77

Ellis implies that Luke has redacted JT under the influence of Paul, which is a possibility to consider. In either case, Luke’s version of this conflict story has Jesus expose the following problem with the Sadducees’ question: “The scenario they had painted . . . fails to account for the reality that the age to come impinges already on life in the present”78 – or better: the age to come is already present, in some sense.                                                                                                                 75

Similarly Green, Luke, 722; cf. Heb 11:13–16: “God is not ashamed to be called their God, for He has prepared a city for them” (i.e., Abraham, Sarah, and other examples of faith who died as “resident aliens”; see Harold W. Attridge, The Epistle to the Hebrews: A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews [Hermeneia; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1989], 328–32). 76 For the view that the righteous live after death, cf. also 4 Macc 16:25: o3ti dia\ to\n Qeo\n a0p oqano/ntej zw~sin tw~| qew~|; 4 Macc 17:18: kai\ tw~| qei/w | nu=n paresth/kasin qro/nw| kai\ to\n maka/r ion biou=sin ai0w ~na; Luke 16:22–23. The notion of the immortality of the soul does not suit the context of resurrection in Luke 20:27–40 (pace Fitzmyer, Luke, 1301–2) and is not to be identified with the notion of survival beyond death of the righteous, as in Wis 1:15; 3:4; 8:13; 15:3; 4 Macc 14:5 (with Nolland, Luke, 967: “God has taken the righteous dead [alive] to his own realm, where they await their resurrection future [cf. Wis 3:7–8]”). Nolland here rejects as less likely the view that Luke 20:37–38 alludes to the notion of souls in Sheol as a “place of availability for a future beyond resurrection,” so that “those waiting in the wings, so to speak, are very much alive from the point of view of the purposes of God.” 77 E. Earle Ellis, “Jesus, the Sadducees and Qumran,” NTS 10 (1963): 274–79, quote from p. 276. 78 Green, Luke, 721.

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40) 197   Assuming that Paul knew JT on the widow and the resurrection in its Lukan version implying that the widow would no longer need to marry and have children, and that he had in mind not only the deceased husband’s interests but also the widow’s herself, he could have echoed this JT in his macarism on the widow who remained unmarried. Rather than seeking blessing in the conventional sense, through marriage and having children, she could expect to be blessed, indeed, “more blessed,” by remaining unmarried and not bearing more children. For she would receive the eschatological blessing on the unfortunate from God through Jesus Christ.79 In summary, 1 Cor 7:40a (and its wider context) shares with JT in Luke 20:33–36: – common terminology: gunh/, game/w , and the rare gami/zw; – common motifs: the husband’s death; the matter of the widow’s marriage; – an eschatological context; – an unusual idea: marriage as no longer necessary or expected; – conceptual agreement: eschatological life/blessing upon the unmarried (apart from childbearing).

Conclusion and Significance for the Debate on Paul and Jesus-Tradition The present article has attempted to argue that 1 Cor 7:40a probably alludes to JT in Luke 23:29; 20:33–36, at least when the criteria for evaluating a possible allusion to JT are applied. If so, this would be a particularly significant allusion for several reasons. First, it would have a bearing on the debate on whether JT at a very early stage was infused with the sayings                                                                                                                 79

Contrast 2 Bar. 10:13–16: procreation is inadvisable under the dire circumstances of war and political upheaval (in the wake of the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 C.E.), for it leads only to pain and desolation: “And you, bridegrooms, do not enter, and do not let the brides adorn themselves with garlands. And you, women, do not pray to bear children . . . For why should they give birth in pain, only to bury in grief? Or why should men have sons again? Or why should the seed of their kind be named again, where this mother is desolate, and her sons are taken into captivity?” Baruch cites the eschatological reversal of the childbearer and the barren to support injunctions against procreation peculiar to the circumstances: “The barren will rejoice above all, and those who have no sons will be glad, and those who have sons will mourn.” Cf. also Seneca the Elder, for women’s not wanting to conceive and bear children in times of war or tyranny. Contrast the man’s anxiety about not doing his duty in producing children, in Propertius, Elegies 2.7: “How should I furnish children to swell our country’s triumphs? From my blood shall no soldier ever spring” (cited by J. Dorcas Gordon, Sister or Wife? 1 Corinthians 7 and Cultural Anthropology [JSNTSup 149; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997], 77).

 

 

198

Judith M. Gundry

of early Christian prophets, which simply became an indistinguishable part of that tradition.80 Against such a hypothesis, 1 Cor 7:40a would provide evidence like that in 1 Cor 7:10–11 that Paul distinguished between JT and his inspired opinion. For in 1 Cor 7:40a Paul would be alluding to JT in support of the very opinion for which he cites his prophetic authority (“I also think that I have the Spirit”). It would also show that Paul attempted to depict JT and his prophetic authority as complementary in a particular instance, each supplying support for his “opinion,” each having a significant role in doing so. Further, 1 Cor 7:40a would constitute a particularly significant allusion to JT because it succeeds the allusion to Jesus’ teaching on marriage and divorce in the immediately preceding verse, which supports widows’ freedom to marry. Paul would have thus connected both his permission to marry and his opinion that remaining unmarried is “more blessed” to different elements of JT. The tradition could support more than one option for the widow in the Corinthian community.81 The first option accords with the dominant OT-Jewish tradition and post-Pauline early Christian tradition concerning widows that favors marriage. The second, disfavoring marriage, is strikingly dissimilar, showing the influence of Jewish eschatological/apocalyptic ideas like those found in JT in Luke 23:29; 20:33–36, Paul’s likely source – though this cannot be shown conclusively. Significantly, Paul joins his prophetic authority only to JT favoring widows’ remaining unmarried, not to JT compatible with widows’ marriage. Was this because his contrarian opinion on widows’ remaining unmarried needed the added support from the Spirit? Or is this an example of Paul reigning over JT rather than being reined in by it? Many have observed that Paul, despite citing the Lord’s prohibition of divorce, allows divorce at the initiation of an unbelieving spouse (1 Cor 7:10–13, 15). And despite citing the Lord’s command that the preachers of the gospel get their living by the                                                                                                                

80 Cf. Rudolph Bultmann, The History of the Synoptic Tradition (trans. John Marsh; New York: Harper, 1963), 127–28: “The Church drew no distinction between such utterances by Christian prophets (ascribed to the ascended Christ) and the sayings of Jesus in the tradition, for the reason that even the dominical sayings in the tradition were not the pronouncements of a past authority, but sayings of the risen Lord, who is always a contemporary for the Church” (cited in Dunn, “Prophetic ‘I’-Sayings,” 175). Dunn (179–98) et al. have offered counterarguments. 81 Similarly, Brown, “Synoptic Parallels,” 46–47, comments that Paul can employ more than one Jesus-tradition in the same discussion. For example: “Rom. xiv. 13–20: the liberals quoted an (unoriginal) formula, ‘nothing is unclean’ (no. 20). Paul accepts it, but counters it with two others: ‘don’t judge’ (no. 10), ‘don’t set stumbling blocks’ (no. 17).” Second: “I Cor. xiii.1–3: Paul deprecates in favour of agape various gifts for which Q authority had been claimed: ‘faith that moves mountains’ (no. 17), ‘give to the poor’ (no. 9)” (the numbers denote particular sayings of Jesus in Brown’s discussion).

Jesus-Tradition and Paul’s Opinion About the Widow (1 Cor 7:40) 199   gospel, he refuses to use his right to do so in Corinth (1 Cor 9:14–15).82 My argument concerning 1 Cor 7:40a implies a more nuanced view of Paul’s regard for JT in the very act of departing from it: Paul’s “opinion” on widows’ remaining so, for which he claims the authority of one who has the Spirit, is also, significantly, in continuity with JT. Paul derives his opinion from the intersection of the inspiration of the Spirit of God83 and Jesus-tradition.84 Harold Attridge, my colleague and dean, to whom this article is warmly dedicated in gratefulness for his many outstanding scholarly contributions, has also benefited the general public through his popular critiques of Dan Brown’s highly entertaining but historically inaccurate novel, The Da Vinci Code. This novel features a Jesus who marries and has children. It is perhaps fitting to conclude this article by drawing some implications from my argument for why the Jesus of early Christian tradition, unlike most Jewish men of his day, did not marry and have children: to do so would have been to admit the ultimate power of death, requiring the solution of marriage and procreation. The celibacy of Jesus in early Christian memory attests the belief that the dead are raised, which already Moses implied in

                                                                                                                82

Cf. Richardson and Gooch, “Logia of Jesus,” 44–45: “By referring to them [Jesustraditions] as Lord’s commands rather than Jesus-traditions he underlines that they are authoritative for him. But in both places he uses them only to support his argument, not to anchor it. Moreover, Paul feels free to adapt the content of the divorce prohibition to meet his communities’ needs, and to claim a concession from the command regarding support in what he judges to be the overriding interests of the gospel and his relationship to a particular church. Paul, then, knows synoptic-like traditions of Jesus’ teaching but applies them freely. They are neither the acknowledged basis of his practice nor the chief source of his halakah for his communities despite the fact that he stresses their authority as Lord’s commands.” Dungan, The Sayings of Jesus, argues that Paul’s handling of JT at 1 Cor 7:10–11 and 9:14 “prefigures the Synoptic editors’ use of [these same Jesus sayings],” viz., redaction of the Jesus-tradition to rule out abuse in a new situation. Cf. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, “The Divorced Woman in 1 Cor 7:10–11,” JBL 100 (1981): 601–6, at 606: “The dominical logion does not control Paul’s thought in 7:1–11, it is brought in as an afterthought because of its pastoral utility. Nor does the logion constrain him in 7:15; he does precisely what the logion forbids.” 83 15 P 33 reads Xristou= instead of qeou=, perhaps under the influence of 1 Cor 2:16: h9mei=j de\ nou=n Xristou= e1x omen. 84 Contrast Dunn, “Prophetic ‘I’-Sayings,” 180: “The distinction [between JT and Paul’s opinion] is one of authority: where the earthly Jesus has spoken on a subject, that word is to be regarded as an instruction or command; but an opinion, even if formed immediately by the Spirit, cannot count as a ‘command of the Lord’, but only be offered as advice. In other words, for Paul there is a qualitative distinction between Jesus-tradition and the inspiration of the present, and the one is not a complete substitute for the other”; similarly, Wenham, “Paul’s Use of the Jesus Tradition,” 29. Contrast also the more skeptical conclusions of Furnish, “The Jesus-Paul Debate,” 44.

 

 

200

Judith M. Gundry

his appellation of the Lord as “the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.”

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4) The Metaphysical Contradictions of 1 Corinthians 8:1–11:1 in the Context of Jewish Idolatry Polemics EMMA WASSERMAN Few scholars have done as much as Harold Attridge to integrate Greek intellectual tradition into the study of early Christianity and Judaism. This essay draws on his legacy to consider Paul’s theological claims in 1 Cor 8:1–11:1, especially as they relate to the status of God, Christ, eidôla, daimonia, and the “others gods and lords” of 8:5–6. The argument developed here identifies a distinctive weave of traditional anthropomorphic conceptions of the gods with Greek language drawn from philosophical theology. This approach illuminates certain difficult features of Paul’s text, especially the varying claims about other gods, eating sacrificial meat, and the appreciation of “Greek influences” on the language about God and Christ in 1 Cor 8:6. Though this study focuses more directly on God in the context of “other gods and lords,” it is conceived as a prolegomena to a fuller treatment of Paul’s christological language in 1 Cor 8:6 and 10:14– 22. While 1 Corinthians 8:1–11:1 develops a sustained discussion of ethical concern for others, its arguments about God, Christ, and other divine beings seem to vacillate. At first Paul seems to argue that there are no other “gods and lords” (8:5–6) so that eating meat sacrificed to them becomes a matter of indifference (8:1–13; 10:25–11:1), at least at the theological and metaphysical level. Yet in the midst of two arguments to this effect, he adds that sacrifices involve daimonia (daimo/nia) and that sharing table fellowship (koinwni/a) with them will provoke God’s wrath against idolaters (10:14–22).1 Scholars often explain these contrasts by theorizing different audiences, polemical responses to opponents, and differing practical contexts for consuming meat.2 A long tradition, for instance, has made Paul’s 1

On the Christian preference for daimo/nion rather than dai/mwn, see Dale Martin, “When Did Angels Become Demons?” JBL 129 (2010): 657–77, here p. 658 n. 4. 2 Debates have also centered on the unity of the text, the place of chapter 9, and the existence or nonexistence of discrete factions at Corinth, especially in light of Paul’s

202

Emma Wasserman

quotations of and responses to intellectualizing opponents – whether gnostic libertines, Corinthian enthusiasts, or wisdom speculators – central to interpretation.3 Theories regarding opponents remain common but show little agreement about the empirical basis for distinguishing Paul’s thought from that of his rivals, even when it comes to supposed direct quotations of their teachings. 4 In contrast, attempts to relate the different arguments about meat to different eating contexts have won broader support. Many agree that 10:1–22 treats table fellowship in a temple, perhaps entailing direct engagement in the worship of so-called idols (ei0dwlatri/a) while in the less openly ritual contexts envisioned in 8:1–13 and 10:25–11:1, consuming meat becomes a matter of indifference.5 This solution has won support but raises a number of further issues, such as “why would direct participation in sacrifices raise the specter of idolatry while the meat becomes safe to eat once taken elsewhere?”6 and “why would Paul deny the language about “the strong” and “the weak.” For an overview, see Wendell Willis, “1 Corinthians 8–10: A Retrospective After Twenty-Five Years,” ResQ 49 (2007): 103–12. 3 For an overview of the scholarship see Willis, “Retrospective,” 106–7; for a more recent incarnation, see Richard A. Horsley, 1 Corinthians (Nashville, Tenn.: Abingdon, 1998), discussed below. 4 The positions are too numerous and disparate to summarize. For recent examples, see John Fotopoulos, “Arguments Concerning Food Offered to Idols: Corinthian Quotations and Pauline Refutations in a Rhetorical Partitio (1 Corinthians 8:1–9),” CBQ 67 (2005): 611–31; and Joseph A. Fitzmyer, First Corinthians (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2008), 330–52. 5 This view is especially associated with Gordon Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (NIGTC; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1987); idem, “ei0dwlo/quta Once Again: An Interpretation of 1 Cor 8–10,” Bib 61 (1980): 172–97; and Ben Witherington III, Conflict and Community at Corinth (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1995). More recently, see Derek Newton, Deity and Diet: The Dilemma of Sacrificial Food at Corinth (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1998), 331–71; David Horrell, “Theological Principle or Christological Praxis?: Pauline Ethics in 1 Corinthians 8:1–11:1,” JSNT 67 (1997): 83– 114; idem, “Idol-Food, Idolatry, and Ethics in Paul,” in Idolatry: False Worship in the Bible, Early Judaism, and Christianity (ed. Stephen C. Barton; London: T&T Clark, 2007), 120–40. Dale Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1999), takes exception on the grounds that there are no clear textual signals of different practical contexts and that the theory works with untenable public/private distinctions. By contrast, Horrell (“Idol Food,” 104; “Theological Principle,” 101, 103) follows others in drawing attention to the prohibition of ei0dwlatri/a in 10:14, in contrast to the more flexible concerns with ei0dwlo/quta (8:1, 4, 7, 10; 10:19) and i9eroqu/ton (10:28). See also Horrell, “Domestic Space and Christian Meetings at Corinth: Imagining New Contexts and the Buildings East of the Theatre,” NTS 50 (2004): 349–69; J. E. Stambaugh, “The Functions of Roman Temples,” ANRW 2.16.1 (1978): 554–608. 6 Several recent monographs attempt solutions: Newton, Deity and Diet; Alex T. Cheung, Idol Food in Corinth: Jewish Background and Pauline Legacy (JSNTSup 176; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999); John Fotopoulos, Food Offered to Idols in Roman Corinth: A Social-Rhetorical Reconsideration of 1 Corinthians 8:1–11:1 (WUNT 2.151;

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

203

existence or relevance of the ‘other gods and lords’ in chapter 8 and then go on to construe them as daimonia in chapter 10?” Discussions of idolatry in Deuteronomy 32, Jeremiah 10, and Isaiah 40– 48 illuminate Paul’s text insofar as they evoke common anthropomorphic conceptions of the gods. In particular, they share common patterns of assumptions about the high God as competing with other divine beings for honor and prestige. These polemical or competitive contexts for imagining the gods produces vague, ambiguous, and even contradictory claims about the metaphysical status of other divine beings, which typically become foils for hymning the great power of the high God. Just as idolatry polemics attack other gods as at once powerless, nonexistent, and threatening, so too 1 Cor 8:1–11:1 evokes and celebrates the great power of the cosmic Creator and ruler God while vacillating between affirmations of the nonexistence, insignificance, and powerlessness of other beings. Though making vague or ambiguous claims about eidôla, daimonia, and “other gods and lords,” Paul’s text works with the central conviction that the high God must be distinguished from them and properly acclaimed. This polemical framework makes sense of difficult features of the text, especially Paul’s varying language about other gods and his special concern with honoring them in public ritual contexts. Identifying certain organizing premises and assumptions as common to 1 Cor 8:1–11:1 and Jewish idolatry polemics allows for an appreciation of the creative appropriation and synthesis that characterize the text. The final section of this essay treats 1 Cor 8:6 as one such case of appropriation, arguing that Paul uses metaphysical and philosophical language to elaborate his more anthropomorphic conceptions of God and Christ. On these terms, Paul resembles the biblical polemicists in working with certain theological premises but they amount to basic commitments, not some imagined Jewish thought world or rigidly construed intellectual tradition. Though they organize his developing argument, they do not fix or determine his specific use of language, imagery, and argument, which unfolds as creative and idiosyncratic. While in this case the metaphysical language contributes only descriptive elaboration of a basically anthropomorphic theology, it reveals distinctive features of Paul’s intellectual repertoire and has broader relevance to the study of Paul’s letters as well as the Christian appropriation of philosophy more generally.

Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003); Joop F. Smit, About the Idol Offerings: Rhetoric, Social Context and Theology of Paul’s Discourse in First Corinthians 8:1–11:1 (Louvain: Peeters, 2000).

204

Emma Wasserman

Contexts and Interpretation Unhelpful constructions of Paul’s supposed Jewish or Hellenistic influences have often frustrated the interpretation of 1 Cor 8:1–11:1. In addition to having varying theories of opponents and different ritual settings, interpreters differ widely on how to understand Paul’s text in light of Jewish and non-Jewish intellectual contexts and often work with tacit distinctions between Jewish and Hellenistic traditions, conceived of as relatively stable and simplistic thought-worlds that oppose and exclude one another. For instance, most scholars agree that Paul’s discussion draws on Jewish traditions about idolatry but often fail to specify what patterns of agreement are relevant. Conversely, many dismiss non-Jewish material as marginally relevant at best and treat Paul’s arguments about self-giving and imitation of Christ as the in-breaking of a uniquely Christian ethical insight. On these approaches, an imagined edifice of Jewish thinking undergirds a key part of Paul’s argument but the rest can be grounded only in Christ’s life, death, and resurrection. Meanwhile, others find strong resonances with certain Hellenistic intellectual traditions, especially about adaptability, freedom, the so-called “prepositional metaphysics” in 1 Cor 8:6 (cf. Rom 11:36; Heb 2:10; Col 1:15–20), and even what Hans Conzelmann terms “enlightened rationalism” about the gods.7 Even setting aside the issue of so-called Hellenism, simplistic notions of Judaism and Jewish influences often lead to a confused analysis of Paul. For instance, scholarly consensus takes 1 Cor 8:1–11:1 as rooted in the biblical traditions but most studies give little attention to the ambiguities and tensions in biblical and post-biblical discussions.8 So Joseph Fitzmyer contends that the language of 1 Cor 8:4, “an idol is nothing at all in the world,” should be interpreted in light of idol discussions from the Hebrew Bible (citing Lev 19:4; 26:1; Deut 32:21; Jer 8:19; 10:8; and Ps 115:4–8) and Septuagint tendencies to equate idols with demons (1 Chr 16:26; Deut

7 So Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1975); Abraham J. Malherbe, “Determinism and Free Will in Paul: The Argument of 1 Corinthians 8 and 9,” in Paul in His Hellenistic Context (ed. Troels Engeberg-Pedersen; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1995), 231–55; Clarence E. Glad, Paul and Philodemus: Adaptability in Epicurean and Early Christian Psychagogy (Leiden: Brill, 1995), esp. 236–326. 8 An exception is Horrell who notes: “It is hardly adequate simply to say that Paul denies the existence of idols but believes in demons. The tension, rather, is one that runs through much of the Bible’s polemic against idols and idolatry. On the one hand, idols are nothing; they are not gods, but ridiculous artifacts made by human hands (e.g. Isa 44:9–20), yet at the same time (or precisely for this reason?) idolatry – giving worship and allegiance to anything other than Yhwh – is a dangerous and heinous sin (e.g. Deut 6:13–15),” in “Theological Principle,” 97.

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

205

32:17; Ps 106:36–37).9 While this material is certainly relevant for Paul’s text, Fitzmyer does little to explain the nature and scope of these supposed connections, as if Jewish language and ideas about idolatry require no explanation. Such analysis is especially important because the texts do not show patterns of agreement in the precise language about, or metaphysical status of, these gods, non-gods, and idols. Leviticus 19:4 and 26:1 refer to “idols” (‫אלילים‬/ei1dwla); Deut 32 refers to demons (‫)שדים‬, recent (‫)חדשים‬ strange gods (‫)בזרים‬, and not gods (‫ ;)לא אל‬in Jer 8:19 offerings to images and foreign idols (‫נכר‬, ‫ )פסל‬provoke God’s anger while elsewhere in Jeremiah these are called delusions (‫ ;)הבלים‬by contrast, the long parody in Jer 10 mocks them as dead wood, capable of neither evil nor good, and gives no hint of the larger metaphysical or theological picture (cf. Ps 115:4–8); Psalm 106 accuses wayward Israelites of sacrificing to the dead (v. 28, ‫)מתים‬, serving idols (v. 36, ‫ )בעצ‬and sacrificing their sons and daughters to demons (v. 37, ‫ )שדים‬and idols (v. 38, ‫ ;)בעצ‬by contrast, 1 Chronicles 16 implies that there are other gods below YHWH and that they are idols: “he is to be revered above all gods [‫]על כל אלהים‬. For all the gods of the peoples are idols [‫]כל אלהי העמים אלילים‬, but the LORD made the heavens. Honor and majesty are before him; strength and joy are in his place” (16:25– 27). Though Fitzmyer roots ideas of idolatry in biblical tradition, his discussion proves remarkably free of analysis and explanation.10 Similar issues and problems inform Richard Horsley’s very different approach to 1 Corinthians. For Horsley, an elaborate theory about the “Hellenistic wisdom speculation” of Paul’s opponents everywhere informs the letter.11 For instance, imagining Paul as opposing his opponents’ Jewish-Greek rationalist theology (and occasionally appropriating it polemically), Horsley aligns 1 Cor 10:20–21 with Jewish idolatry traditions. So he writes: “The phrase ‘sacrifice to demons’ (v. 20) comes from Deut 9 First Corinthians, 341. He also dismisses the significance of Rom 12; Acts 15; Rev 2:14, 20; and Did. 6.3. By contrast, Richard Liong-Seng Phua (Idolatry and Authority: A Study of 1 Cor 8:1–11:1 in the Light of the Jewish Diaspora [LNTS 299; London: T&T Clark, 2005], 29–35) attempts a definition of idolatry that amounts to a morass of various confessional views. 10 Similar problems arise in his analysis of Paul’s daimonia in 1 Cor 10 (First Corinthians, 393–94). Fitzmyer first takes Deut 32:17 as referring to Canaanite deities but when he connects Paul’s language to the LXX of this text he just assumes that the translation “wicked demons” becomes self-evident. On this basis, he finds that Deut 32:17; Tob 3:8; and Ps 91:6 refer to “evil spirits” even though this qualifying language is present only in Tobit and implied in Ps 91. Similarly, M. Gruber’s entry for “gillulim” in the Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible (hereafter DDD; ed. Karel van der Toorn, Bob Becking, and Pieter W. van der Horst; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 346–47, discusses a wide variety of meanings and then concludes without argument that, by contrast, “Paul regards ei1dwla as demonic powers. They exist, but they do not exist ‘for us’” (347). 11 1 Corinthians, 116–17.

206

Emma Wasserman

32:17, a text from which developed the Jewish apocalyptic view of other ‘gods’ or ‘idols’ as demonic powers opposed to the purposes of God. This was a tradition in which Paul was firmly rooted, and contrasts with the enlightened Corinthians’ view that idols were nothing (8:4).”12 The supposed Jewish apocalyptic view and the enlightened Corinthians’ one are both tendentious. While an advance over theories of gnostic opponents, the enlightened opponents theory retains many of the problems associated with gnostic ones, especially in positing an elaborate intellectual exchange, assuming the reality of a discreet group with unified doctrines, and identifying their supposed beliefs and doctrines as implicitly heretical.13 Further, though popular, the dualistic apocalyptic conflict that Horsley alludes to lacks serious analysis and historical justification.14 While he understands Paul’s thought on dualistically warring beings as a departure from earlier Jewish traditions, the analysis of idol polemics developed here suggests that this pattern fits with Jewish traditions more generally and should not be understood as unique to apocalyptic. The alternative developed here understands Paul’s thought about gods and non-gods in terms of certain organizing premises and assumptions. While these premises can be contextualized and explained in light of other intellectual traditions, especially certain Jewish idol polemics, they provide a framework for an often idiosyncratic elaboration and synthesis of multiple traditions and discourses, including but not limited to Greek phil12

1 Corinthians, 141. Stanley K. Stowers, “Types of Meals, Myths, and Power: Paul and the Corinthians,” in Redescribing Christian Origins 2 (ed. Ron Cameron and Merrill P. Miller; Atlanta, Ga.: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), 105–50. 14 Such theories became especially popular in post-World War II biblical theology due to such figures as Oscar Cullman (The State in the New Testament [New York: Scribner, 1956]; idem, Christ and Time [Philadelphia, Pa.: Westminster, 1950]); and Ernst Käsemann (Commentary on Romans [trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1980]); idem, “On the Subject of Primitive Christian Apocalyptic,” in New Testament Questions of Today [Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1969], 108–37). More recent studies representing this tradition of interpretation are: Clinton Arnold, Powers of Darkness: Principalities and Powers in Paul’s Letters (Downers Grove, Ill.: Intervarsity, 1992); Beverly Roberts Gaventa, Our Mother Saint Paul (London: Westminster John Knox, 2007); J. Louis Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (New York: Doubleday, 1997), 393–406; idem, “Apocalyptic Antinomies,” in Theological Issues in the Letters of Paul (Nashville, Tenn.: Abingdon, 1997), 111–23; and Clinton Arnold, “Returning to the Domain of the Powers: ‘stoicheia’ as Evil Spirits in Galatians 4:3, 9,” NovT 38 (1996): 55–76. For helpful criticisms, see Christopher Forbes, “Paul’s Principalities and Powers: Demythologizing Apocalyptic?” JSNT 82 (2001): 61–88; Stowers, A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews, and Gentiles [New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1994], 179–89; and my The Death of the Soul in Romans 7: Sin, Death, and the Law in Light of Hellenistic Moral Psychology (WUNT 2.256; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008). 13

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

207

osophical ones. This provides an alternative to simplistic formulations of Paul’s thought as drawing on fundamentally Jewish, apocalyptic, or Hellenistic-rational traditions that are conceived of as static, coherent, and oppositional.

Competition Among the Gods in Jewish Idolatry Polemics Constraints of space do not allow a full survey of idol polemics in Jewish tradition but examples drawn from Deuteronomy 32, Jeremiah 10, and Isaiah 40–48 underscore certain distinctive patterns.15 These texts do not present a firm, widely agreed upon cosmological and theological picture of what divine or semi-divine beings are or why one should not worship them. They do, however, show common patterns of assumptions in anthropomorphizing God as a cosmic King who competes with others to win acclaim.16 The Song of Moses in Deut 32 develops a broad cosmological, theological, and historical justification for God’s relationship to his elect. According to this text, the truly powerful King and cosmic Creator singles out a special people for direct and unmediated rule but allocates the other peoples to his angels. These discussions of election arise within a far-reaching set of cosmological claims that continuously assert the great power of the true God over creation and God’s gifts to and special relationship with this elect. In Deut 32:1–6, a speaker emerges who calls heaven and earth as witnesses, hymns the great power of the Creator and ruler God, and then discusses the creation of and gifts to the elect, their eventual decay, and future restoration. Reflecting Near Eastern ideas about the divine council, verses 8–9 explain that God apportioned the rule of the nations to his an15

A fuller discussion would include Exod 32–33; Deut 9:10–29; 1 Kgs 12:25–30; Judg 8:17–18, 22–28; Dan 3; Hab 2; Pss 115; 135; Ep Jer; Bel; Jub. 12; 20; Wis 13–15; Let. Aris. 135–137; and the writings of Philo and Josephus. See Nathaniel Levtow, Images of Others: Iconic Politics In Ancient Israel (BJSUSD 11; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1998); Wolfgang M. W. Roth, “For Life, He Appeals to Death (Wis 13:18): A Study of Old Testament Idol Parodies,” CBQ 37 (1975): 21–47; Gerhard von Rad, Wisdom in Israel (Nashville, Tenn.: Abingdon, 1973), 177–85; Horst Dietrich Preuss, Verspottung fremder Religionen im Alten Testament (BWANT 5.12; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1971). Phua, Idolatry and Authority, deals with a broad range of texts but without much critical analysis. 16 Many texts imagine God as enthroned in a heavenly court, kingdom, or temple where other divine beings serve and acclaim him, as Isa 6; 1 Kgs 22:19–22; Pss 29; 89; 96; 148; cf. Gen 1:26; Job 1–2; 38:7 (contrast also Ps 96:7–8 and the MT of Deut 32:8). Angels also appear in the heavenly court in texts like 1 Enoch 1–32, Daniel, and Revelation.

208

Emma Wasserman

gels (‫בני אלהים‬, LXX a0gge/lwn qeou=) but kept Israel alone as the object of his unmediated rule (cf. Deut 4:19; Sir 17:17; Jub. 15:31; Acts 7:42–43).17 The text uses angels to explain God’s rule as extending over all while singling out Israel as having a uniquely direct relationship. This special relationship emphasizes the singularity of God and of Jacob/Israel by stressing that “the LORD alone guided him; no foreign god [‫ ]נכר אל‬was with him” (32:12). The text emphasizes relationships of reciprocity and exchange as it goes on to imagine Israel as violating covenant loyalty. So the text moralizes against Jacob as growing decadent, going astray, and losing his true understanding of the high God, at once the cosmic Creator and ruler of all. As a result, he worships beings denounced alternately as recent gods, strange gods, and ‫שדים‬, often translated as “demons”:18 He abandoned God who made him, and scoffed at the rock of his salvation. They made him jealous with strange gods [‫]בזרים‬, with abhorrent things [‫ ]בתועבת‬they provoked him. They sacrificed to demons, not God, to deities they had never known, to new ones recently arrived whom your ancestors had not feared [‫לא ידעום חדשים מקרב באו לא שערום אבתיכם‬ ‫]לשדים אל אלה אלהים‬. You were unmindful of the Rock that bore you; you forgot the God [‫ ]אל‬who gave you birth.19 (32:15–18)

Jacob violates the reciprocity owed to the patron God and provokes jealousy by worshipping others. Though Deut 32 denies that these other, recent, or strange gods have power, it presumes an anthropomorphic hierarchy among divine beings and construes God as demanding acclaim appropriate to his station. The text also depicts Jacob as decadent, wayward, and immoral, but God’s desire for appropriate honor and acclamation become 17

The MT of Deut 32:8 apportions among the “sons of Israel” but the LXX has j a0g ge/lwn qeou= and 4QDeut supports the reading with ‫בני אלהים‬. S. B. Parker, “Sons of (the) Gods,” in Toorn, Becking, and Horst, eds., Dictionary of Deities and Demons, 794– 800, argues that the MT of 32:8 rewrites the original to make YHWH supreme, similar to Ps 82; cf. 1 Kgs 22:19–22; E. Theodore Mullen, The Divine Council in Canaanite and Early Hebrew Literature (HSM 24; Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1980), 202–3; H. Niehr, “Host of Heaven” in Toorn, Becking, and Horst, eds., Dictionary of Deities and Demons, 428–30; on Greek traditions, see T. F. Glasson, Greek Influence in Jewish Eschatology, with Special Reference to the Apocalypses and Pseudepigraphs (London: SPCK, 1961), 69–73. 18 This terms appears in Ps 106:37 and Lev 17:7; as a Near East deity, see Joanne K. Kuemmerlin-McLean, “Demons: Old Testament” ABD 2:139; G. J. Riley, “Demon,” in Toorn, Becking, and Horst, eds., Dictionary of Deities and Demons, 237; Martin, “Demons,” 658–59, notes that this is a favorite term among the rabbis; see also Frederick E. Brenk, “‘In the Light of the Moon’: Demonology in the Early Imperial Period,” ANRW 2.16.3 (1986): 2068–2145. 19 On sacrifice to demons, see Bar 4:7; 1 En. 19:1; Jub. 1:11; T. Job 3:3; Philo, Mos. 1.276; Acts 17:18; Rev 9:20 (cf. Isa 13); Barn. 16:7; Justin, Dial. 30.3; 55.2; 73.2; cf. Plutarch, Mor. 316B; 417C; Martin, “Demons,” 663–64.

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

209

central to the developing narrative. While the abandonment of Israel/Jacob becomes a response to insult, the text also promises a future restoration arising out of the high God’s concern for standing and honor among the gods.20 So God punishes Israel but also promises to restore her: “lest they say, ‘Our hand is triumphant, the LORD has not wrought any of this’” (Deut 32:27).21 Anthropomorphic assumptions undergird the central justification for YHWH’s actions: first jealousy and vengeance, then concern about seeming to have lost power among the gods. Though the text never discusses conflict between YHWH and these new gods, false gods, or demons, it justifies God’s restoration as arising out of an anthropomorphic competition for status among them. As a consequence, restoration results from God’s concern to display his power rather than any attributes of his elect. Deuteronomy 32 goes on to attack these other gods as powerless and those who worship them as senseless fools. So the text asks, “How could one have routed a thousand, and two put a myriad to flight, unless their Rock had sold them, the LORD had given them up? Indeed their rock is not like our Rock; our enemies are fools” (32:30–32). These verses begin a long rhetorical buildup that understands YHWH’s coming restoration as demonstrating his power by restoring Israel and defeating these less powerful gods: Where are their gods [‫]אלהמו‬, the rock in which they took refuge, who ate the fat of their sacrifices, and drank the wine of their libations? Let them rise up and help you, let them be your protection! See now that I, even I, am he; there is no god besides me. I kill and I make alive; I wound and I heal; and no one can deliver from my hand. For I lift up my hand to heaven, and swear: As I live forever, when I whet my flashing sword, and my hand takes hold on judgment; I will take vengeance on my adversaries, and will repay those who hate me. I will make my arrows drunk with blood, and my sword shall devour flesh – with the blood of the slain and the captives, from the long-haired enemy. Praise, O heavens, his people, worship him, all you gods! 22 For he will avenge the blood of his children, and take vengeance on his adversaries; he will repay those who hate him, and cleanse the land for his people. (Deut 32:36–43)

YHWH ’s displays of power directly challenge those of other gods. The rhe-

torical “where are their gods?” and the enumeration of the sacrifices and 20 Similarly, Martin Karrer, “The Epistle to the Hebrews and the Septuagint,” in Septuagint Research: Issues and Challenges in the Study of the Greek Jewish Scriptures (ed. Wolfgang Kraus and R. Glenn Wooden; Atlanta, Ga.: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006), 350. 21 John J. Collins, “The Mythology of Holy War in Daniel and the Qumran War Scroll: A Point of Transition in Jewish Apocalyptic,” VT 25 (1975): 596–612, here 599–600 n. 31.     22 The NRSV of 32:43 has been emended in accord with 4QDeutq, omitted in the MT, and missing from 4QDeutj, while the LXX has “praise, nations, his people”; Kerrer, “Epistle to the Hebrews,” 350–52; cf. Ps 96:7.

210

Emma Wasserman

gifts offered by their worshippers clearly celebrates the powerlessness of both. The taunt “there is no God besides me” starkly emphasizes the weakness of YHWH’s adversaries and fits well with the long descriptions of military prowess. The language about these strange, recent, not gods, demons/sons of God/angels, proves remarkably vague and even contradictory, with verse 38 even addressing them as nonexistent. Deuteronomy 32 consistently affirms that, to the extent that they do exist, they are comparatively powerless and weak, with 37–38 charging that they offer no help against the true God kindled to anger. In contrast to Deut 32, Jeremiah 10:1–16 construes competition with other gods as involving icons and statues rather than gods, non-gods, demons, angels, or recent gods.23 By focusing satirically on the icons, the text alludes to the existence of other gods only to imagine YHWH as victorious over them.24 So verse 2 alludes to and attacks the religious practices of others: “Do not learn the way of the nations. Do not be dismayed by the signs of the heavens, for the nations are dismayed by them” (Jer 10:2; cf. Deut 4:1–40; Isa 45:13–14; 47:13–14). These derisive allusions to the gods and cult of others set up for a lengthy attack that satirizes their supposed understanding of the iconodule or cult statue. So Jeremiah 10 goes on to extol the victory of YHWH over “lifeless and dumb idols” while claiming the cosmogonic attributes of other gods. YHWH’s great power and solitary craftsmanship of the world thus become central concerns.25 An exemplary discussion arises in Jeremiah 10, which satirically identifies the gods of others with their cult statues. In a display of what Levtow terms “Yahwistic creation ideology,” Jer 10:1–16 attacks the power of Mesopotamian deities over the natural world by expropriating their roles.26

23

On the complex compositional history of Jer 10:1–16 see Levtow, Images of Others, 48–50. He argues that even in its late MT form, vv. 1–16 have been reworked in an attempt to construct a thematically unified poem. Roth, “For Life,” 35, finds more incoherence in the text. The LXX omits 6–8, and 10, and puts 9 between the first two cola of v. 5 (supported by 4QJerb); E. Ray Clendenen, “Discourse Strategies in Jeremiah 10:1– 16,” JBL 106 (1987): 401–8. 24 The mundane qualities of idols presents a well-worn biblical polemic, e.g., Deut 4:28; 28:36; 29:16; 2 Kgs 19:18; Isa 37:19; 48:5; Ezek 20:32; cf. Horace, Satires 1.8.1–3 for a Greek parody. On the various terms translated “idol,” see Edward M. Curtis, “Idol, Idolatry,” in ABD 3:378–79. 25 On the hymnic/confessional framing of the icon parodies see Levtow, Images of Others, 40; Roth, “For Life,” 31; Claudia Bergmann, “Idol Worship in Bel and the Dragon and Other Jewish Literature from the Second Temple Period,” in Kraus and Wooden, eds., Septuagint Research, 209–10. 26 Images of Others, 54; see R. P. Carroll, Jeremiah: A Commentary (London: SCM Press, 1986), 257; and Toorn, “God (I),” in Toorn, Becking, and Horst, eds., Dictionary of Deities and Demons, 352–65, on polemical co-option.

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

211

The text repeatedly hymns YHWH’s status as the solitary Creator God while claiming the attributes and functions of other gods for himself: But the Lord is the true God; he is the living God and the everlasting King. At his wrath the earth quakes, and the nations cannot endure his indignation. Thus shall you say to them: The gods who did not make the heavens and the earth shall perish from the earth and from under the heavens.27 It is he who made the earth by his power, who established the world by his wisdom, and by his understanding stretched out the heavens. When he utters his voice, there is a tumult of waters in the heavens, and he makes the mist rise from the ends of the earth. He makes lightning for the rain, and he brings out the wind from his storehouses. Everyone is stupid and without knowledge; goldsmiths are all put to shame by their idols [‫ ;]מפסל‬for their images [‫ ]נסכו‬are false, and there is no breath in them. They are worthless, a work of delusion; at the time of their punishment they shall perish. (Jer 10:10–15; cf. Isa 44:9–20)

Stripping other gods of their roles in creation, the Aramaic text of verse 12 attacks them as “the gods who did not make the heavens and the earth.” Though the current form of the text seems to allow for their existence, it quickly asserts their irrelevance by equating them, satirically, with their iconodules and statues. Nevertheless, an unstated assumption is that (somewhat absurdly) YHWH competes with these lifeless and dead icons for prestige and acclaim. The resulting polemic serves as a foil for celebrating the great power and might of the true God who acts without helpers. The viciously satirical depictions of the mundane materials and craftsmanship of icons appear and reappear in the text but function contrastively to emphasize the true power of the divine being who is at once Creator and King of all. However much the text denies the equivalence between God and the dumb and lifeless idols, the competitive framing holds the narrative together and offers a convenient vehicle for the definition, elaboration, and celebration of God’s exclusive status and power.28 This makes sense in light of the practical realities of ancient Near Eastern religion, characterized by multiple gods and patron deities. Like Jeremiah 10, Isaiah 40–48 celebrates the high God by sharply contrasting YHWH with satirical depictions of Babylonian gods and the folly of their devotees.29 As in Jeremiah, YHWH’s cosmogonic role in Second Isaiah emphasizes the power and autonomy of God who acts without help27

Verse 12 is an Aramaic addition to the MT; see Levtow, Images of Others, 46 n. 12. Similarly, Levtow, Images of Others, 52–55. 29 Levtow (Images of Others, 57–59) argues that the earliest kernels of the icon parodies are Babylonian but they are reworked in postexilic Judah. Roth (“For Life,” 31–32) distinguishes the theology of the icon parodies from that of Second Isaiah more generally. He notes, for instance, that the parodies attack the mundane qualities of icons while the rest of Second Isaiah argues that other gods have failed to demonstrate their power as gods. Though they may have been originally distinct compositions, their integration by the writer/editor exploits considerable similarities. 28

212

Emma Wasserman

ers and counselors.30 So chapter 40 asks, “Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand and marked off the heavens with a span, enclosed the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains in scales and the hills in a balance? Who has directed the spirit of the LORD, or as his counselor has instructed him?” (40:12–13), and 41:20 insists, “so that all may see and know, all may consider and understand, that the hand of the LORD has done this, the Holy One of Israel has created it.”31 Unlike the cast of characters in Babylonian and Mesopotamian creation myths, YHWH acts alone, as if his solitary creative role magnifies his power. Texts like Deut 32 and Jer 10 often attack Israel’s enemies as foolish and ignorant. This is especially clear in polemics that ridicule the supposed power of other gods and in hymns to YHWH’s cosmogonic prowess. While stressing YHWH’s sole work in creation, Second Isaiah also uses the order and complexity of the creation itself as evidence of the power of its Creator so that those with true knowledge about the cosmos have exclusive access to the true God of all. As a result, claims about the creation of the cosmos and the patterns of ongoing regularity and order within it become strategic tools for grounding the wisdom and knowledge of YHWH’s worshippers. So chapter 40 asks: Have you not known? Have you not heard? Has it not been told you from the beginning? Have you not understood from the foundations of the earth? It is he who sits above the circle of the earth, and its inhabitants are like grasshoppers; who stretches out the heavens like a curtain, and spreads them like a tent to live in; who brings princes to naught, and makes the rulers of the earth as nothing. . . . To whom then will you compare me, or who is my equal? says the Holy One. Lift up your eyes on high and see: Who created these? He who brings out their host and numbers them [‫]צבאם במספר‬, calling them all by name; because he is great in strength, mighty in power, not one is missing. (40:21–26)32

Knowing and understanding the true origins, nature, and destiny of the world become central to the argument about YHWH’s authority as Creator and King. Arguments about the gods, hosts, the order of the natural world, and the histories of peoples and groups are all seamlessly knit together in a vision of cosmic hierarchy and rule beneath a single all-powerful King. The resulting vision anthropomorphizes the creation itself as a single cosmic kingdom. YHWH’s supreme power over this kingdom becomes the basis for derision towards others, alluded to with comments like “who is my equal?” and “who has counseled the LORD?” Similarly, chapter 45 insists: “I am the LORD, and there is no other; besides me there is no god [‫אלהים‬ 30 See also Mark S. Smith, The Origins of Biblical Monotheism: Israel’s Polytheistic Background and the Ugaritic Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 179–94. 31 Cf. 40:9–14, 21–26; 41:44; 42:5; 43:10–13; 44:8–10, 24; 45:18, 21; 46:9; 47:13– 14; 48:12–13. 32 Cf. KTU 2 1.65; KAI 26A III 5.

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

213

‫]ואין עוד זולתי אין‬. I arm you, though you do not know me, so that they may know, from the rising of the sun and from the west, that there is no one besides me; I am the LORD, and there is no other [‫אפס בלעדי אני יהוה ואין עוד‬ ‫]כי‬. I form light and create darkness, I make weal and create woe; I the LORD do all these things” (45:5–7). YHWH’s victory appears assured because the cosmic and theological paradigm developed here suppresses the possibility of defeat. The discussions of God as cosmic Creator, sustainer, and ruler evoke the potential existence of other gods with rhetorical questions to the effect of “who is God’s counselor or helper?” and “whose power is equal to this god’s?” only to deny their existence and power, rightly understood. Mentioned in passing, the “hosts” in verse 26 are clearly subordinates or lieutenants of this high God. In many other contexts, however, Second Isaiah uses biblical iconpolemics to ridicule the opponents and competitors of YHWH as the “dead and dumb” icons themselves that its polemics render absurd, lifeless, and powerless. So in a characteristic taunt, chapter 41 asks of the icons: “Let them bring them, and tell us what is to happen. Tell us the former things, what they are, so that we may consider them, and that we may know their outcome; or declare to us the things to come. Tell us what is to come hereafter, that we may know that you are gods; do good, or do harm, that we may be afraid and terrified. You, indeed, are nothing and your work is nothing at all; whoever chooses you is an abomination” (41:22–23). Not only do these false gods know nothing of the future, but they are also powerless and can do “neither good nor evil” (cf. 44:10). The text further develops its attack on the religious practices of others in a series of wordplays that contrast Babylon and her gods with Israel and YHWH. For instance, Isa 46 classically elaborates the icon polemic by parodying the use of icons in ritual processions. Where Bel and Nebo are carried by men and beasts into captivity (46:1–2), Israel is portrayed as borne, rescued, and carried by YHWH (46:3–4). Verses 5–7 directly compare YHWH and these supposed icon-gods: To whom will you liken me and make me equal, and compare me, as though we were alike?33 Those who lavish gold from the purse, and weigh out silver in the scales – they hire a goldsmith, who makes it into a god; then they fall down and worship! They lift it to their shoulders, they carry it, they set it in its place, and it stands there; it cannot move from its place. If one cries out to it, it does not answer or save anyone from trouble. Remember this and consider, recall it to mind, you transgressors, remember the former things of old; for I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is no one like me [‫]אנכי אל ואין ודע אלהים ואפס‬. (Isa 46:5–9)

33

See Levtow, Images of Others, 68 on the word plays; Smith, Origins of Biblical Monotheism, 179–94.

214

Emma Wasserman

The other gods are satirically represented by their iconodules rather than as competing deities with their own cults, pantheons, and client kingdoms. Instead of doing battle with gods, then, YHWH becomes the victor (somewhat absurdly) in a battle with non-gods, the dead and lifeless images. The stark claim “I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is no one like me” becomes a kind of taunt evoking a competition among the gods that YHWH has already won. Though these chapters often deny the reality of other gods, they are everywhere implicated as competitors for status, power, and honor. Like Deuteronomy 32 and Jeremiah 10, Second Isaiah uses a fluid and revolving set of strategies for delegitimizing the gods of others. It alternately mocks the gods and the religious rituals of others, hymns the great prowess of YHWH in his victory over other gods (or non-gods), and strategically plays with notions of understanding and truth to delegitimize the beliefs and practices of other peoples.34 The context of religious and political competition thus looms large even though the texts are at pains to show that YHWH has no real competitors. Similar patterns arise in a range of biblical and post-biblical writings like Psalms 115 and 135, Hab 2:18–19, the Epistle of Jeremiah, and the Wisdom of Solomon 13–15. For instance, Psalm 135 announces, “I have come to know that the LORD is great, our master greater than all gods [‫]מכל אלהים‬. All that he pleases he does, in heaven and on earth” (135:5–6), and then contrasts this great power with the lifeless and dumb idols whose ridiculousness as objects of worship parallels the stupidity of their worshippers. Likewise, Jubilees 11–12 plays strategically on notions of competition and knowledge as Abraham comes to realize “the errors of all that went astray after graven images” and develops an extended idol-parody in chapter 12 that emphatically concludes, “do not worship them!” (12:5; cf. 12:3; 20:6–10; Isaac in 22:22; 36:5).35 Like so many other texts, Jubilees seems hardly concerned with the potential contradiction between claiming that other gods are powerless, nonexistent, and irrelevant and insisting on the grave offense of worshipping and honoring them. These polemics show no interest in developing coherent or systematic philosophical or theological claims but they do show that notions of wisdom, understanding, and the true nature of reality could be 34 As Roth notes (“For Life,” 30), the focus on issues of knowledge and understanding led some commentators to typify the theology of idol parodies as “rationalist.” See, e.g., von Rad, Wisdom, 178, 184–85; Frank Crüsemann, Studien zur Formgeschichte von Hymnus und Danklied in Israel (WMANT 32; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1969), 113–14, 154. 35 Roth (“For Life,” 45–47) argues that the prominence of idolatry discussions in Bel and the Dragon, Jubilees, and Wisdom suggest that refusing idol worship was becoming more and more central to Jewish life, as expressed succinctly in Wis 14:27, “the worship of unnamed idols is the beginning, cause, and end of every evil.”

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

215

potent instruments for depicting YHWH as a victorious all-powerful Creator and King of all.

Competition Among the Gods in 1 Corinthians 8:1–11:1 The Jewish idolatry polemics in Deuteronomy 32, Jeremiah 10, and Isaiah 40–48 help to explain Paul’s peculiar statements about the existence or nonexistence of other gods, his concern with appropriate honor and acclaim in 1 Cor 10:14–22, and his strategic use of ideas about wisdom, knowledge, and understanding throughout 8:1–11:1.36 First, the idol parodies illuminate common patterns of ambiguity and contradiction in Paul’s statements about “other gods and lords,” eidôla, and daimonia. Like the biblical polemicists, Paul imagines God as unique in status and power while marginalizing other divine or semi-divine beings as nonexistent and powerless, with the notable exception of Christ. This makes sense of his claim that eidôla (8:4) and other gods do not really exist (8:6), the subsequent argument that they are actually daimoni/a (10:14–22), and his implicit challenge to the power and influence of the daimonia themselves. Second, patterns of anthropomorphism in the biblical texts illuminate Paul’s concern with properly honoring God in 1 Cor 10:14–22. While never suggesting that these daimonia have power, Paul argues that sacrificing to them dishonors God and kindles a wrathful jealousy. Though daimonia pose no real threat, then, publically worshiping them angers the truly powerful divine being, as in texts like Ps 96, Ps 148, and numerous others.37 Finally, the arguments of 1 Cor 8:1–11:1 are similar to the icon polemics in playing on notions of true knowledge about the gods. This knowledge and understanding especially concerns the status and power of different kinds of in36

On idolatry language elsewhere in Paul’s letters, see Rom 1:18–32; 2:22; 1 Cor 5:10, 11; 6:9; 12:2; 2 Cor 6:16; Gal 5:20; and 1 Thess 1:9. 37 On the negotiation of honor in public ritual contexts like sacrifice see Saul Olyan, “Honor, Shame, and Covenant Relations in Ancient Israel and Its Environment,” JBL 115 (1996): 201–18, esp. 204. Olyan stresses honor as owed by an inferior to a superior; in the context of worship, see Exod 20:12; Deut 5:16; Hag 1:8; Mal 1:6; ARM 2.77.14; KTU 1.17 V 20, 30; Isa 24:15–16; 29:13; 43:23; Pss 5; 86; Prov 3:9; 14:31; on the reciprocal nature of honor, 1 Sam 2:30. On the anthropological literature see J. G. Peristiany and Julian Pitt-Rivers, “Introduction,” in Honor and Grace in Anthropology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 1–17; M. Herzfeld, “Honour and Shame: Problems in the Contemporary Analysis of Moral Systems,” Man 15 (1980): 339–51. For an important critique and the argument that Jewish texts are marked by the absence of honor language in relation to other humans, see Seth Schwartz, Were the Jews a Mediterranean Society? Reciprocity and Solidarity in Ancient Judaism (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2010), 1–44.

216

Emma Wasserman

visible beings, the true nature of the cosmos, and the religious beliefs and practices of others. The arguments of 1 Cor 8:1–11:1 resemble those of the biblical polemicists in using ideas about knowledge and understanding to craft a particular vision of hierarchy and standing in the social, political, and cosmic order. Considered broadly, Paul’s arguments in chapter 8 turn on the premise that a true picture of cosmic power undermines the religious claims of others. Where other religious traditions assume meaningful exchange with their gods, Paul attacks the very existence of other gods and hence the basis for the supposed benefits conferred on their worshipers. Verses 1–3 take issue with what constitutes knowledge and understanding; they set up well for the arguments about “so called gods and lords.” In verse 4, Paul writes: “an idol has no real existence [ou0de\n ei1dwlon e0n ko/smw|] and there is no God except the one God [ou0dei\j qeo\j ei0 mh\ ei[j].” While the metaphysical claims here seem straightforward, Paul quickly alludes to a more pluralistic practical reality, “there are those called gods and lords in heaven and earth [kai\ ga\r ei1per ei0si/n lego/menoi qeoi\ ei1te e0pi\ e0n ou0ranw~| ei1te 38 e0p i\ gh~j] so in that sense there are many gods and lords.” Just as Jeremiah, Isaiah, and Deut 32 allude to the religious beliefs of others while denying their legitimacy, Paul gestures towards the existence of other views about the gods and then develops a picture of reality that supposedly undermines them. Further attacking the views of others, he goes on to describe the objective reality of the true and all-powerful God, as if true by declaration: “For us, by contrast, there is one God, the father, from whom are all things and for whom we are, and one Lord Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we are” (8:6).39 As discussed further below, this language adapts certain ideas from philosophical theology

38 w3sper ei0si\n qeoi\ polloi\ kai\ ku/rioi polloi/. Interpreters dispute the finer points of the translation, though not the overall sense. Fitzmyer takes the ei1per as concessive, indicating a simple, real condition with the w3sper: “For even if there are so-called gods either in heaven or on earth – indeed there are many ‘gods’ and many ‘lords,’” (First Corinthians, 340–41); Smit (About the Idol Offerings, 75) takes the ei1per as indicating the hypothetical nature of the w3sper clause: “If indeed there are so-called gods either in heaven or on earth, then in that sense there are many gods and many lords”; Fee (Commentary, 372) takes the second clause as parenthetical: “Even if there are so-called gods, whether heavenly or earthly (just as there are indeed gods many and lords many).” 39

a0ll’ h9mi=n ei[j qeo\j o9 path\r e0c ou[ ta\ pa/nta kai\ h9mei=j ei0j au0t o/n kai\ ei[j ku/rioj ’Ihsou=j Xristo\j di’ ou[ ta\ pa/nta kai\ h9mei=j di’ au0tou=. The language of God as father is

common in Greek literature, e.g., Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus 30; Aratus, Phaenomena 15. In Jewish literature see Wis 14:3; Sir 23:1; 3 Macc 6:3; cf. Isa 63:15; Sir 4:10; 51:10; Tob 13:4; Apoc. Mos. 35.3; Mark 14:36; Rom 8:14–15; Gal 4:6; Josephus, Ant. 2.6.8; Philo, Ios. 2.65; Sacr. 68; b. Ta‘an. 23b; see David Winston, The Wisdom of Solomon (New York: Doubleday, 1979), 264–66.

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

217

about so-called “prepositional metaphysics.”40 Though few in Paul’s audiences are likely to have heard the metaphysical resonances, he probably writes with particular concern for the intellectual specialists in their midst who would appreciate such language. Nevertheless, claims about God’s great power and the elect’s access to that power resonate clearly even in these abstract and elusive pronouncements. Whatever else Paul means by asserting that all things are from, through, and for God and Christ, the language imagines God as all-powerful, distinguishes Christ as having a similar but slightly different status, and affirms that, by virtue of their relationships with God and Christ, the elect attain a place of great privilege in this great “all.” First Corinthians 8 counsels great caution when it comes to eating meat sacrificed to “idols” (ei1dwlo/quton) but this concern arises out of practical ethical issues rather than theological ones. At the broader metaphysical level, in fact, Paul seems content to undermine the religious beliefs and practices of his neighbors. So he writes: “Food will not better our standing before God. We are no better off if we don’t eat, or if we do” (8:8).41 This denies outright the central premise of traditional Mediterranean religions, namely, that sacrifice involves meaningful exchange and reciprocity with the gods. As often noted, Paul contextualizes this argument within a series of warnings that show special concern with the ways that others may misunderstand such eating. The argument that follows in 9:1–26 picks up on this ethical concern for other Christ-followers and develops a lengthy discussion about e0leuqeri/a and e0cousi/a.42 Nevertheless, nothing in the subsequent discussion of chapters 8 and 9 challenges the claim of 8:8 that food is matter of theological or metaphysical indifference. First Corinthians 10 seems to qualify and even contradict the earlier arguments about the indifferent status of idol meat. So verses 1–13 evoke exemplary instances of idolatry from the biblical tradition, verse 14 demands “therefore, flee the worship of eidôla” (feu/gete a0po\ th~j ei0dwlolatri/a j), and 15–22 argue that sacrifices are offered to daimonia (20, 21) and so will anger God.43 While this argument could plausibly be understood as the climax of a rhetorical or argumentative crescendo begun in 40 David T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus of Plato (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 171–74, uses this phrase but borrows it from W. Theiler, Die Vorbereitung des Neuplatonismus (Berlin: Weidmann, 1964). 41

brw~ma de\ h9ma=j ou0 parasth/sei tw~| qew~|. ou1t e e0a \n mh\ fa/g wmen u9sterou/meqa, ou1te e0a \n 46 fa/g wmen perisseu/o men. While awkward, the whole second clause is attested in P ; cf.

Col 1:15–20. 42 See Malherbe, “Determinism and Free Will;” Glad, Adaptability, 236–326. 43 See Wayne A. Meeks, “‘And Rose up To Play’: Midrash and Paraenesis in 1 Corinthians 10:1–22,” JSNT (1982): 64–78, esp. 66 on the “judgment oracles” in the prophets and Deut 32.

218

Emma Wasserman

chapter 8, the subsequent verses insist that meat sold in the marketplace or encountered at the house of an unbeliever poses no threat at all.44 So 10:25 insists “Eat whatever is set before you without raising concerns about conscience” (10:25). Even in the home of an unbeliever, in fact, Paul only takes issue with how those without true knowledge may misunderstand the significance of eating (10:27). This seeming vacillation fits well with the marginalizing polemics in Jewish writings about other gods.45 As Deut 32 pillories strange gods, recent gods, and ‫שדים‬, and like robust polemical traditions that attack icons as dead and dumb, so too Paul’s language vacillates on the precise status of other gods while constantly maintaining the incomparable power of the high God. Like these texts, again, he never wavers on the powerlessness of these beings or cult statues. In fact, Paul distinguishes God and Christ as the only powers of concern and relevance. First Corinthians 10:16–22 develops direct parallels between sharing the body and blood of Christ and eating meat sacrificed on the Jewish altar (the case of “Israel according to the flesh”). As noted, a range of scholars draw a distinction between the worship of eidôla (ei0dwlolatri/aj) and the eating of sacrifices to eidôla (ei0dwlo/quton) in verse 10:19 and earlier (8:1, 4, 7, 10; cf. i9ero/quton in 10:28). Yet they do not agree on how to understand the distinction between participating in the sacrificial meal and consuming idol meat in other contexts. The scholarship on honor and shame proves particularly illuminating for this problem, especially as it relates to biblical traditions about idols and public rituals for attributing honor to superiors.46 This suggests that Paul understands participation in public ritual sacrifice to other gods as insulting the honor and standing of the true God. That is, he assumes a basically anthropomorphic idea of God as competing with other gods, and divine and semi-divine beings for honor appropriate to their station. Without relying on some imagined public/private dichotomy, Paul’s thinking can be better understood as reflecting the tensions within polemical traditions that everywhere insist on the powerlessness of these beings while also affirming the high God’s demand of exclusive worship. The argument about offending or insulting the true God provides a useful alternative to implying that others have influence or legitimacy. Though his Christ-followers lack a communal sacrificial meal in honor of the deity, Paul invokes their meatless meal in honor of Christ and God 44 Newton (Deity and Diet) follows Fee and others in eliding the concerns of 8:1–13 and 10:14–22. This helps with Paul’s caveat about being observed reclining e0n ei0dwlei/w | in 8:10, but does not fit easily with his statements about the indifferent status of idol meat in 8:8 and 10:25. 45 Horrell (“Theological Principle,” 47) similarly notes a “hedging strategy” in 1 Cor 8. 46 See Olyan, “Honor, Shame, and Covenant Relations,” 203.

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

219

(10:16–17) and then compares it with the Israelite practice of sacrifice and distribution of meat. So he asks, “aren’t the people who eat sacrifices sharers in the sacrificial altar?” (10:18).47 This discussion of table-fellowship sets up well for his penultimate argument about idol meat: Am I saying that idol meat is something or that an idol is something? No, rather that the things they sacrifice are sacrificed to daimonia and not to God. I do not want you to be fellow sharers with daimonia. You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of daimonia or partake of the table of the Lord and the table of daimonia. Or shall we provoke the Lord to jealousy? Are we stronger than he? (10:19–22)

Reaffirming the non-reality of idol meat and idols, Paul points out what may seem quite mundane: that the ritual context of sacrifice implicates participants in honoring the deity. He can hold together claims about the non-reality and non-power of these non-gods with God’s great concern with sacrificing to them because he assumes that God requires honor appropriate to divine standing. This makes sense of the odd protest “am I saying that idol food is anything or an eidôla is anything? No, but that what they eat they offer to daimonia and not to God.” Though the language here alludes to their existence, it conveys little about the precise ontological status of daimonia or their relationships to the human world generally. Instead, Paul assumes that God requires honor and submission appropriate to YHWH’s status and enforces these demands with punishing wrath (cf. Deut 32:21; Exod 20:4–5, 34:14; Josh 24:19–24; Ps 78). Though he never hints that God could be anything but victorious, Paul’s claims about exclusive worship arise from the assumption that the high God competes with other beings for status and honor. Though common to numerous texts, a similar complex of ideas appears in Psalm 96: For great is the L ORD, and greatly to be praised; he is to be revered above all gods [‫אלהים‬ ‫]כל‬. For all the gods of the peoples are idols [‫ ]אלילים‬but the L ORD made the heavens. Honor and majesty are before him; strength and beauty are in his sanctuary. Ascribe to the L ORD, O families of the peoples, ascribe to the L ORD glory and strength. Ascribe to the LORD the glory due his name; bring an offering, and come into his courts. (96:4–8)

This text envisions the LORD as above all other gods, glosses them as idols, hymns the great power of God as Creator, praises God’s kingly attributes of strength, majesty, and honor among the gods, and insists on fitting worship and offerings. Similarly, Paul relegates the other gods to powerless daimonia and eidôla while insisting that their worship insults the honor and standing of the true and all-powerful God. 47 I cannot address Paul’s language about table fellowship and sacrifice here, but see Harm W. Hollander, “The Idea of Fellowship in 1 Corinthians 10:14–22,” NTS 55 (2009): 456–70, who helpfully discusses similar language in Philo, Spec. 1.221, and the bread of the presence in HB/LXX tradition. See, for example, Exod 25:23–30; Lev 24:5– 9; 1 Kgs 7:48; 1 Macc 1:22; 4:49, 51; 1 Clem. 43.2; T. Jud. 21.5.

220

Emma Wasserman

Like a range of biblical and post-biblical texts, 1 Cor 8:1–11:1 never argues that daimonia have real power to protect or reward human beings.48 Instead, the real danger is the wrath of God kindled to flame by their honoring other gods. Though the language of honor is absent in this text, it is developed more directly in Paul’s long discussion of idolatry in Rom 1:18– 32 and implied here. It will be left to later systematizers to attempt more coherent theological positions on the relationships between God, Christ, and other semi- or quasi-divine beings. Nevertheless, the tension, ambiguity, and even contradiction in 1 Cor 8:1–11:1 fit well with traditions of Jewish theological polemics and may also help to explain the rather broad range of positions Jews seem to have taken on the issue of eating idol meat.49

Expropriation and Synthesis in First Corinthians 8:6 More than half a century ago Edward Norden drew on Stoic thought to illuminate the language about causes in 1 Cor 8:6 and Rom 11:36.50 This idea has had a checkered influence on later interpretation with most taking it as a tacked-on quotation with little relation to Paul’s larger thought. So interpreters treat this as a foreign, Hellenistic addition,51 a polemically refashioned response to the Corinthians’ wisdom speculation,52 or an “ac48

See Wis 14:31: “For it is not the power of those by whom they swear, but the judgment of them that sin, that ever proceeds against the transgression of the wicked” (ou0 ga/r h9 tw~n o0mnume/nwn du/namij, a0ll’ h9 tw~n a9martano/ntwn di/kh e0p ece/rxetai a0ei\ th\n tw~n a0di/kwn para/b asin ; trans. Winston).

49 See Peter Borgen, “‘Yes’, ‘No’, ‘How Far?’: The Participation of Jews and Christians in Pagan Cults,” in Engeberg-Pedersen, ed., Paul in His Hellenistic Context, 30–59. 50 Edward Norden, Agnostos Theos: Untersuchungen zur Formengeschichte religiöser Rede (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1912), 240–50; cf. Jacques Dupont, Gnosis: La connaissance religieuse dans les Épîtres de Saint Paul (Paris: Gabalda, 1949), 335–41. 51 Conzelmann (1 Corinthians, 144) understands 8:6 as un-Pauline in content (with others) but entertains the possibility of a rationalist critique, as does Kurt Niederwimmer, Der Begriff der Freiheit im Neuen Testament (Berlin: Töpelmann, 1966). Fitzmyer (First Corinthians, 337) accepts Murphy-O’Connor’s view that 8:6 does not have “a purely cosmological meaning” but is also “soteriological.” Fitzmyer does take the prepositional metaphysics more seriously as it relates to questions about Christ’s preexistence and role in creation, but assumes that wisdom speculation mediates this (First Corinthians, 343). 52 Horsley finds a more widely dispersed tradition of “doxology formulae” in Corp. herm. 13.19; Pseudo-Apuleius, Asclepius 34: praises of “divine omnipotence” in PGM 4.283; and the writings of Philo. He uses this to argue, however, that 8:6 is a kind of “foreign body” in the more genuine Pauline letter that responds to Paul’s supposedly enlightened spiritual opponents by replacing sophia/wisdom with Christ as the instrumental cause (1 Corinthians, 120).

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

221

clamation, a spontaneous reaction of wonder at the power experienced by adherents of a deity” similar to the “Great is Artemis of the Ephesians!” in Acts 19:28 and 34.53 The preceding analysis suggests that the language about causes in 8:6 need not indicate polemical appropriation of specific opponents or the spontaneous acclamation of religious subjectivity. Rather, it resembles the ways that biblical polemicists, like a great variety of writers, expropriate language and images about other gods. In this case, Paul uses ideas about divine principles and metaphysical causes familiar from philosophical traditions but adapts them to fit more anthropomorphic ideas about the gods. Though few may have heard the philosophical resonances, the language produces a highly abstract and open-ended set of claims about power, subordination, and election conceived of on a broad stage involving the origins and destiny of “all things.” Two further caveats should clarify the nature and scope of this argument. First, it is possible that 8:6 responds to a highly specific tradition, person, or group but virtually no evidence exists for this beyond Paul’s elusive and polemical claims. Though common, the project of positing concrete groups with specific teachings has led to highly speculative justifications for Paul’s imagery and argument. While piling hypothesis upon hypothesis, such approaches also distract attention from features of the text that are more readily available for analysis and explanation, such as the ways that polemical appropriation and synthesis often characterize the work of religious and intellectual specialists.54 Theories about hypothetical opponents have also contributed to a fracturing of the discussion into numerous positions and arguments with little consensus about what constitutes an argument or what kinds of evidence should be used. Second, it is also possible that Paul encounters the prepositional metaphysics as already mediated by certain Jewish traditions and discourses, ones that similarly influence texts like Heb 2:10, Col 1, and the prologue to the Gospel of John. While the evidence of Philo, Aristobulus, and the Wisdom of Solomon proves intriguing, it is sufficient but not necessary for the language of 1 Cor 8:6 to derive from some supposed Jewish or Christian source. A more minimalist position identifies philosophical language as a feature of Paul’s intellectual repertoire that he uses to suit a particular elaboration on God’s cosmogonic prowess. Further, though we lack evi53

Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, “1 Corinthians 8:6, Cosmology or Soteriology?” RB 85 (1978): 254–59; Fitzmyer, First Corinthians, 336. For a critique and helpful alternative see Gregory E. Sterling, “Prepositional Metaphysics in Jewish Wisdom Speculation and Early Christian Liturgical texts,” SPhA 9 (1997): 219–38, esp. 232–39. 54 For instance, Adela Yarbro Collins shows that Rev 12 expropriates myths about Apollo’s birth to challenge imperial ideology about the realization of the golden age (The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation [HDR 9; Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1976], 101, 105).

222

Emma Wasserman

dence for evaluating Paul’s specific dialogue partners, patterns of appropriation and synthesis characterize a wide range of religious and philosophical texts. The intellectual traditions implicated in 1 Cor 8:6 tend to criticize sharply traditional religion, especially its anthropomorphic assumptions about the gods and the cosmos. Though they often differed widely from one another, early philosophers and scientists were implicitly and explicitly critical of traditional Mediterranean religion and especially took aim at the ways its myths, beliefs, and practices anthropomorphized the gods and made them accessible to negotiations through ritual and prayer.55 As M. R. Wright observes, pre-Socratics like Xenophanes and Heraclitus openly attack the gods of Homer and Hesiod and the everyday religious practices they engendered. In some cases they targeted prayer and ritual washing (Heraclitus, Frgs. 5, 14–15, 40, 42, 56–57, 96); in others they replaced a popular epithet of Zeus, “father of all and king of all” (Frg. 53), with “war,” a metaphysical principle involving conflict and balance.56 While criticizing traditional religion for projecting anthropomorphic attributes onto the gods, philosophers also took aim at their supposed role in the natural world and developed alternative metaphysical and cosmological theories to explain the structure, origins, and destiny of the world available to human experience and observation. In spite of this critical stance towards everyday religion, most early Greek intellectuals put gods and divine principles at the center of these explanations. Though there are some objections, most philosophers posit intelligent or mind-like causes that create, structure, and maintain the cosmos. As if identifying the imperfection, multiplicity, and mutability as the most characteristic features of human beings, they tend to insist that the divine must be perfect, unified, undying, self-consistent, encompassing all things, and for a few like Plato and Aristotle, immaterial. These philosophical theories understand metaphysical principles as in some way living, endowed with qualities of mind, intentionality, and reason. While showing anthropomorphic tendencies, such theologies are still very far from traditional views about the gods and tend to attack them, implicitly and explicitly. For instance, Xenophanes proposed a kind of nonanthropomorphic divine mind that “causes everything to vibrate” (Frg. 23– 26) and Thales was reported to have said, “all things are full of gods” (Ar-

55

The following discussion draws on M. R. Wright, Cosmology in Antiquity (London: Routledge, 1995), 163–84. See also Harold W. Attridge, “The Philosophical Critique of Religion under the Early Empire,” ANRW 2.16.1 (1978): 45–78. 56 Wright, Cosmology, 168.

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

223

istotle, De an. 411a8).57 Even where they agree on intelligent first causes or structuring principles, however, philosophers differ widely on whether divine providence structures the lower, sublunary spheres, and often undermine the kind of individual providence entailed in traditional religious practice.58 Whatever else they mean by “god,” the philosophers’ abstract metaphysics bears little relation to traditional beliefs and practices that treat gods as powerful, invisible agents available for negotiation and exchange. This would especially come to worry Plato who in the tenth book of the Laws took aim at the atheistic naturalists for so redefining the gods that they became virtually irrelevant. Especially among Middle Platonists, prepositions became a shorthand way to express the causes (a0rxai/ or ai0ti/a) by which objects come into being, especially the cosmos.59 Though similar use of prepositions originates with Aristotle, Platonists are especially fond of using them to elaborate their metaphysics, often coupling them with analogies relating to craftsmen and building.60 The creation of a statue requires a craftsman with requisite skills, materials with pre-existent qualities (stone, metals, paints), and a broader set of interests and pressures that motivate him, like concerns for honor or wealth (Seneca, Ep. 65.4–5). These in turn designate the efficient, material, and formal causes of the statue. While the analogy appears straightforward, philosophers predictably disagree on whether any one cause is sufficient, necessary, or to be precisely defined. A kind of standard Platonist schema arises that uses u9f’ ou[ (by which) for the efficient cause, pro\j o3 (towards which) for the formal cause, and e0c ou[ (out of which) for the material cause. Though some favored only two, three causes became the norm and some opted for more.61 The writings of 57 See Wright, Cosmology, 167 on the afterlife of this statement in Plato’s and Aristotle’s thought. 58 On sublunary providence see Robert Sharples, “Aristotelian Theology after Aristotle,” in Traditions of Theology: Studies in Hellenistic Theology, Its Background and Aftermath (ed. Dorothea Frede and André Laks; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 1–40. 59 Sterling, “Prepositional Metaphysics,” 219–38; Runia, Timaeus, 171. 60 Aristotle does not use the prepositions in this way but specifies efficient causes as to\ e0c ou[ and to\ ou[ e3neka . On his material, formal, efficient, and final causes, see Phys. 2.7.198a; 3.3.194b–200b; Metaph. 1.3.1 (933a–b); 5.2.1–3 (1013a–b); An. post. 2.11.20– 24 (94a); Sterling, “Prepositional Metaphysics,” 220–21; R. K. Sprague, “The Four Causes: Aristotle’s Exposition and Ours,” The Monist 52 (1968): 298–300. 61 Varro (apud Augustine, Civ. 7.28) and Aëtius (Plac. 1.11.2) prefer three, while Alcinous (Did. 12.1–2) and Seneca (Ep. 65.7–10) add more. Tim. 29d7–e2 (quoted in Seneca, Ep. 65.10; cf. Philo, Opif. 16–25; 172) makes the goodness of the demiurge the final cause. This is also developed in Alcinous: “It is necessary that the most beautiful of constructions, the world, should have been fashioned by [u9po\] God looking to [pro\j] a form of World, that being the model of our world, which is only copied from it, and it is by assimilation to it that it is fashioned by the creator, who proceeds through a most admira-

224

Emma Wasserman

Philo of Alexandria provide helpful illustrations of variation, especially in light of Philo’s interest in elaborating additional instrumental causes. Reflecting broader tendencies in Middle Platonism, Philo often explains the interactions between the craftsman (demiurge or efficient cause) and the material world by positing instrumental causes variously designated as Logos, wisdom, or the instrument (organon). Placed within the trajectory of Middle and neo-Platonism, this fits with a broader tendency to transcendentalize the divine craftsman while introducing instrumental causes to explain its immanent role in creating and maintaining the cosmos. This move will eventually result in a first and second God, the latter of which gets its “hands dirty” in the material world.62 Though Philo’s statements about prepositional metaphysics vary, he often distinguishes hierarchically among causes and gives Logos prominent roles in creating and sustaining the cosmos and intervening in the history of its peoples.63 For instance, Cher. 124–130 allegorizes a statement by Cain as distinguishing the demiurge/efficient cause from the Logos as the instrumental one. For Philo, Cain’s error consists of the claim, “I have gained a man through [dia/] God” (similarly, Eve in QG 1.58 and Adam in Sacr. 10), because this mistakes God, the efficient cause, for the instrumental one, his Logos. Philo goes on to designate the demiurgic God as the ultimate cause (to\ u9f’ ou[, to\ ai1tion), matter or the elements as the material one (to\ e0c ou[, h9 u[lh), the Logos as the instrument (to\ di’ ou[, to\ e0rgalei=on), and the final cause as God’s goodness (to\ di’ o3, h9 ai0ti/a).64 The same scheme reappears in QG ble providence and administrative care to create the world, because [dio/ti] ‘he was good’ [Tim. 29e]. God created it, then, out of [e0k] the totality of matter” (Did. 12.1–2, trans. John Dillon); cf. Apuleius, Dogm. Plat. 1.7–9 for the same use of Timaeus. As Dillon notes (Alcinous: The Handbook of Platonism, Translation with Introduction and Commentary [Oxford: Clarendon, 1993], 115), it remains unclear whether the paradigm or the model is inside or outside the mind of the demiurge or even whether the demiurge is the supreme God. For Peripatetic developments of four causes and Platonic and Neo-Platonic additions, see Sterling, “Prepositional Metaphysics,” 224–25. 62 John Dillon, The Middle Platonists, 80 B.C. to A.D. 220 (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1996), 138. On the instrumental role of the Logos, see also Leg. 3.96; Cher. 125. Dillon argues that this amounts to orthodox Middle Platonism leaning toward a first and second deity with some idiosyncratic features, but Runia (Timaeus, 173–74) notes that examples are scarce (e.g., Plutarch, Mor. 373C; 720C; Atticus, frg. 4.7). See also Dillon on Tim. 28–29 in “Pleroma and Noetic Cosmos: A Comparative Study,” in Neoplatonism and Gnosticism (ed. Richard T. Wallis; Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York Press, 1992), 100. 63 See Harold W.Attridge, “Philo and John: Two Riffs on the Logos,” SPhA 17 (2005): 103–17. 64 See Leg. 3.96; Cher. 28; Sacr. 8; Deus 57; Conf. 62; Migr. 6; Fug. 12, 95; Somn. 2.45; Spec. 1.81. His “Logos cutter” also implies such a formulation (Her. 160) as do sophia in Det. 54 and Fug. 109, and the powers in QG 1.54.

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

225

1.58 but in Prov. 1.23 the final cause becomes the model.65 This suggests the mutability of Philo’s schema, as does the changing role of the Logos elsewhere in his analysis. In contrast to the multiple first causes, the Stoics developed a single unified cause that is at once material, immanent, and instrumental. Though Stoics ultimately insist on two causes (an active, divine, reasoning principle that acts on passive and inert matter), everything hangs on the active cause that structures the whole into a variegated but uniformly rational and coherent whole (Seneca, Ep. 58 and 65).66 It is a short step, then, to the kind of monism hymned in Marcus Aurelius: “from him, and through him, and to him are all things” (o3ti e0c au0tou= kai\ di’ au0tou= kai\ ei0j au0to\n ta\ pa/nta; Med. 4.23) that so inspired Norden and resonates in early Christian texts such as Rom 11:36 and Heb 2:10 (cf. Eph 4:5; Heb 1:2; John 1:3, 10).67 As other interpreters have argued, 1 Cor 8:6 does not fit easily with the typical Stoic or Platonic use of these prepositions as sketched above.68 Texts like Rom 11:36 and Heb 2:10 seem to use a Stoic schema to elaborate on God’s great power while 1 Cor 8:6 adds distinctive language about Christ and the elect. According to the Middle Platonic formulations found in Philo, Paul’s statements could describe God as the supreme principle and Christ as the instrumental one. Yet the language about e0c ou[ ta\ pa/nta and the h9mei=j does not fit easily with such a schema: “For us, by contrast, there is one God who is the father from whom are all things and for whom we are, and one Lord Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we are” (a0ll’ h9mi=n ei]j qeo\j o9 path\r e0c ou[ ta\ pa/nta kai\ 65

See Runia, Timaeus, 21; on problems with the Armenian translation of Prov., see Sterling, “Prepositional Metaphysics,” 227 n. 47. Horsley (1 Corinthians, 133) identifies this with Middle Platonic tendencies to construe the Logos as sophia, similar to Wisdom 7:20–29 and 9:1–2 (cf. Leg. 3.96; Opif. 24–25; Spec. 1.81; Det. 54; cf. Fug. 190; Deo 57; Her. 199; Ebr. 30–31; Sacr. 8; Leg. 2.49), which has relevance for 1 Corinthians. 66 Sterling, “Prepositional Metaphysics,” 220–23; Pseudo-Aristotle “all things are from God [e0k qeou=] and through God [dia\ qeou=] hold together for us” (De Mundo 397b); Aelius Aristides, “for all things everywhere are through you [ dia\ sou=] and have become for us on account of you [ dia\ se]” (45.14; 43.9, 23 replace “you” with “Zeus” and Dio/j); cf. Pseudo-Apuleius, Asclepius, 34; Corp. herm. 5.10; and the alternative Stoic positions discussed in Sterling, ibid., 223. 67 H. Dörrie, “Präpositionen und Metaphysik: Wechselwirkung zweier Prinzipienreihen,” MH 26 (1969): 217–28 develops a different and rival scheme that is “StoicGnostic” (Runia, Timaeus, 171–72), one that reacts to the multiplicity of causes and gives one chief cause e0c ou3, e0n w{|, or di’ ou[ and ei0j o3n that he connects to Rom 11:36; Col 1:16; and John 1:1–4. 68 See the very lucid discussion in Sterling (“Prepositional Metaphysics,” 219–20) who shows that interpreters from the time of Basil of Caesarea noted problems with taking this language as strictly Platonic.

226

Emma Wasserman

h9mei=j ei0j au0to/n kai\ ei]j ku/rioj ’Ihsou=j Xristo\j di’ ou[ ta\ pa/nta kai\ h9mei=j di’ au0tou=; 8:6). Platonic positions do not fit well with the e0c ou[ ta\ pa/nta

since matter or elements would normally fit here in place of “the all,” which may suggest a mixed intellectual heritage. Further, the addition of Christ as the di’ ou[ suggests an attempt to distinguish an instrumental cause, a distinction much more elaborately developed in texts like Heb 1:2, Col 1:15–20, and the prologue of John, not to mention later Christian Logos theology.69 On the other hand, a Stoic schema could also explain the curious language about all things being from and for God, since Stoic monism could accommodate multiple roles easily and the use of the di’ ou[ for Christ in 8:3b could be repetitious, since there was no absolute fixed form of the preposition.70 Yet analysis must also take account of the addition of h9mei=j, which has the effect of writing Paul’s elect into a broad metaphysical picture about first and final causes. The text invokes “the all” and then focuses attention on the specialness of h9mei=j who are ei0j au0to/n (God) and di’ au0tou= (Christ), in keeping with Paul’s constant concern with distinguishing his elect Christ-followers. First Corinthians 8:6 adapts prepositional metaphysics whose original home was philosophical theologies that sharply criticized and undermined traditional religion, especially of the immanent, anthropomorphic kind developed in Paul’s letters. In fact, a God who gets angry, picks favorites, and punishes and rewards them based on their obedience and submission could hardly be further from the metaphysical divine principles developed among philosophers. In this case, Paul’s appropriation transforms the metaphysics of causality into an epithet that elaborates on Paul’s anthropomorphic myth of the cosmic ruler God. In some sense, then, scholars are right to understand philosophical teachings about divine first, sustaining, and final causes as of limited immediate significance for Paul’s theology. They appear here more or less as window dressing on Jewish theological premises, none of which fit very well with the interests of philosophical 69

See Harold W. Attridge on Heb 2:10, The Epistle to the Hebrews: A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews (Hermeneia; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1989), 79–82; Thomas Tobin, “The Prologue of John and Hellenistic Jewish Speculation,” CBQ 52 (1990): 252–69; Attridge, “Two Riffs on the Logos,” 103–17. 70 On the mixed Platonic and Stoic tendencies, see Sterling, “Prepositional Metaphysics,” 235–37. He concludes: “We know that both Jews and Christians found some aspects of the Stoic conception of God appealing: the common citation of Aratus Phaenomena in Aristobulus Frg. 4 (= Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 13.12.5) and Acts 17 demonstrates the attraction for both groups. We also know that the Platonic understanding of prepositional metaphysics played a role in the thought of the Jewish exegete Philo and in selected liturgical texts in the New Testament. What we do not know is whether these are analogous appropriations or whether early Christians accepted and adapted the formulations from their religious parents” (236–37).

“An Idol is Nothing in the World” (1 Cor 8:4)

227

theology. In context, the prepositional metaphysics of 8:6 functions as an epithet expressing God’s creative power and control over the origins and destiny of the cosmos. While it may be intended for listeners with more specialized interests, the language makes some highly abstract claims that are open to creative reinterpretation and elaboration by those with and without knowledge of the philosophical origins of these ideas. Its presence here also tells the historian something rather interesting about Paul’s intellectual repertoire, that it included fairly precise statements about metaphysical causes. While in this case the theological language appears denuded of much clear philosophical relevance, his language suggests that Paul knows enough philosophical theology to dress up an anthropomorphic God who demands exclusive commitment, acclamation, and submission.

Conclusions Rather than condemning idolatry from some uniquely Jewish perspective, the polemics in Deut 32, Jer 10, and Isaiah 40–48 can be better understood as working with common anthropomorphic views of the gods. Centrally concerned to assert the incomparable power of the high God, these texts polemically deride other divine and semi-divine beings as weak, powerless, nonexistent, or as mere lieutenants of the high God. Similarly, 1 Cor 8:1–11:1 uses ambiguous language about the precise metaphysical status of other gods while emphasizing the great power of a high God with anthropomorphic attributes and characteristics. Paul’s language about God and Christ also expropriates from traditions of Greek philosophical speculation about the metaphysics of causality. In Paul’s case, this produces a synthesis of imagery drawn from philosophical theology and more traditional anthropomorphic views of the gods. This suggests a view of Paul as a type of intellectual producer who identifies plausible points of homology and congruence between cosmological, theological, and metaphysical ideas and produces a synthesis that conforms to no single idea. Nevertheless, Paul is not unique in borrowing language and ideas from intellectuals and changing them to suit his idiosyncratic and context-specific interests and arguments. This suggests that more precise analyses of intellectual synthesis may prove fruitful for understanding Paul and early Christian literature more generally.

 

The Use of Christological Traditions in Paul The Case of Rom 3:21–26

1

THOMAS H. TOBIN, S.J. Over the past century and a half one of the chronic issues in the history of early Christianity has been the relationship between Jesus and Paul.2 The issue was often framed in a phrase suggested by William Wrede in his book Paulus in 1904. In that book Wrede concluded that Paul “is to be regarded as the second founder of Christianity.”3 But the debate about the place of Paul in the history of early Christianity goes back at least to an article by F. C. Baur in 1831 in which he argued that Paul’s views were in opposition to those of the primitive Christian community.4 The “Pauline” party was set against the “Petrine” party. Over the decades the issue has ebbed and flowed. In this essay I would like to explore the issue in a much more limited fashion by looking at a particular passage (Rom 3:21–26) in Paul. The purpose is to illustrate how Paul appropriated already-existing early Christian traditions and turned them to his own purposes. This process of appropriation and transformation illustrates, in a more detailed and nuanced fashion, some of the ways in which Paul both was and was not a “second founder of Christianity.” 1 It’s a pleasure to present this essay to Harry Attridge, who has been a wonderful friend and colleague for a number of years. 2 For a history of the debate, see Victor Paul Furnish, “The Jesus-Paul Debate: From Baur to Bultmann,” in A. J. M. Wedderburn, ed., Paul and Jesus (JSOTSup 37; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989), 17–50. For more recent discussion, see David Wenham, Paul: Follower of Jesus or Founder of Christianity? (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1995); Burton L. Mack, “Regarding the Christ Myth: Paul’s Gospel and the Christ Cult Question,” in Ron Cameron and Merrill P. Miller, eds., Redescribing Paul and the Corinthians (Early Christianity and Its Literature 5; Atlanta, Ga.: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), 35–73. 3 William Wrede, Paulus (2nd ed.; Tübingen: Mohr, 1907), 104. The book was translated into English in 1907 (Paul [London: Philip Green, 1907], 179). 4 “Die Christuspartei in der korinthischen Gemeinde, der Gegensatz des petrinischen und paulinischen Christenthums in der alten Kirche,” Tübinger Zeitschrift für Theologie 4 (1831): 61–206.

230

Thomas H. Tobin

To provide a context, let me begin by saying something about the Letter to the Romans as a whole and then something about the passage I want to look at in detail. Romans represents Paul’s attempt to respond to the misgivings the Roman Christian community had about aspects of his interpretation of the gospel.5 The attitudes of the Roman Christian community toward Paul were complex. Paul and the Roman Christian community certainly had some basic convictions in common. Both certainly saw themselves within the context of Judaism, that is, the Jewish way of life. Both were committed to Jewish monotheism, the belief in one God who was the God of Israel. Both accepted the Jewish Scriptures as a central source of authority. Both were committed to the centrality of Jesus as the Messiah or Christ within the context of Jewish belief. Both saw their faith in Jesus as the Messiah as the fulfillment of their Jewish beliefs and expectations and not a rejection of them. Although they did so for different reasons, both also agreed that circumcision was no longer necessary for full membership in the community. Because of this, both would have agreed that Gentile believers were now to have equal status with Jewish believers. There were, however, significant differences between them. These differences clustered around their different convictions about the basic value and continued observance of the Mosaic law. The Roman Christians, whether of Gentile or of Jewish origin, for the most part, continued to observe the ethical commandments of the law. Because of the ethical superiority of its commandments, the law was what distinguished them from their nonbelieving fellow citizens. Given these convictions, they looked with alarm at some of the things they thought Paul advocated. Paul’s views of the law called into question much that was integral to their identity. They were scandalized by the sharp contrasts he continually drew in Galatians (e.g., Gal 3:1–4:31) between the Mosaic law and its observance on the one hand and faith and righteousness on the other. These contrasts were so stark that they found it difficult to imagine how Paul could ever have considered the Mosaic law to have been of divine origin or its observance to have been divinely commanded. Paul was claiming that no one was ever made righteous through the observance of the law (Gal 3:11). He was, in effect, calling into question not only the Roman Christians’ present observance of the law. He was also calling into question the observance of the law in the past by the Jewish people. He was, in fact, calling into question not only the status of the law but also the status of the Jewish people, whether present or past. There seemed to be no advantage nor had there ever been an advantage to being members of the Jewish people. Paul’s account of things even called into question the future of the Jewish people. 5

For a fuller explanation, see Thomas H. Tobin, Paul’s Rhetoric in Its Contexts: The Argument of Romans (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2004), 47–103.

The Use of Christological Traditions in Paul

231

The promises God made to Abraham and to his “seed” were not to the Jewish people but to Christ and, through Christ, to believers in him (Gal 3:16). The Jewish people, Israel, could be neither sons nor heirs of God’s promises to Abraham and so were excluded from the future, eschatological fulfillment of those promises (Gal 4:1–13). All of this seemed to them to annul the clear meaning of the Jewish Scriptures. Finally, they were also troubled by what they saw as the practical consequences of Paul’s views about the law (Gal 5:1–6:10). For them the observance of the law provided a framework for conducting their lives in an orderly, ethical fashion. Compared to the observance of the law, the Roman Christians feared that Paul’s conviction that, empowered by the Spirit, believers would be able to practice virtue and avoid vice without observing the law was wrong-headed. They saw the moral disarray of the Corinthian Christians as ample evidence that their fears were well founded. These problems were the predictable results of abandoning observance of the Mosaic law. Paul’s responses to these misgivings were also complex. Paul consistently appeals to convictions and viewpoints he shares with the Roman Christians and bases his arguments on them. This is especially the case in the expository sections of the letter (Rom 1:18–32; 3:21–26; 5:1–21; 8:1– 30). In Rom 1:18–32, he bases his arguments on a Hellenistic Jewish critique of Gentile religiosity and morality which he has in common with the Roman Christians. In the other three expository sections, he appeals to traditional Christian creedal formulas which both of them have in common. It is especially true of Rom 3:21–26 to which I want to return shortly. In three of the four major argumentative sections of the letter (Rom 2:1–3:20; 3:27–4:25; 8:31–11:36), Paul also appeals extensively to the Jewish Scriptures for support of his arguments. In the other major argumentative section (Romans 6–7), although Paul appeals only once to the Jewish Scriptures for support (Rom 7:7 citing Exod 20:27; Deut 5:18), it plays a major role in his argument in Rom 7:7–25. Again the authority of the Jewish Scriptures is something Paul shares with his Roman Christian audience. With this in mind, let us now turn to the section of Romans I am most concerned with in this essay. In Rom 3:21–4:25 Paul moves to a new stage in his argument. He begins in Rom 3:21 by claiming that “now the righteousness of God has been manifested apart from the law, although the law and the prophets bear witness to it.” This moves beyond Rom 1:18–3:20 which was an interpretation of the past of both Gentiles and Jews. In Rom 3:22–26, the section I am most interested in, Paul draws on a traditional creedal formula he has in common with the Roman Christians. But he also glosses it to show that this righteousness, which comes through the death of Christ, is received through faith, and is for both Jews and Gentiles without distinction. On this basis he then argues in Rom 3:27–4:25 that, al-

232

Thomas H. Tobin

though this righteousness is both apart from the law and intended for both Jews and Gentiles alike, this still does not annul the law. Rather it upholds the law. In support of this, he uses the example of Abraham. He argues, primarily on the basis of texts from Genesis, that Abraham was made righteous by his faith in God and not by his observance of the law.6 In addition, through the promises made to him because of his faith, Abraham is the father of both Jews and Gentiles. As is the case for Romans as a whole, the issues at stake in Rom 3:21– 4:25 also become clearer when set against the backdrop of Paul’s arguments in Galatians that I mentioned earlier. In Gal 3:1–4:31, Paul starkly contrasted righteousness through faith with observance of the law. The contrast seemed to be a matter of principle. But in Rom 3:21–26 Paul does not contrast righteousness through faith with the law. Rather, righteousness takes place “apart from the law.” In addition, the contrast Paul does draw is not one in principle but a temporal one. The righteousness of God is now being manifested apart from the law.7 Paul also clearly uses the figure of Abraham very differently than he did in Galatians. In Gal 3:6–14 the promises to Abraham seemed to be intended for the Gentiles but not really for the Jews. These promises seemed to bypass the Jewish people and come directly to Christ (Gal 3:15–18). In Rom 4:1–25, however, Paul emphasizes the role of Abraham as the father of both Jews and Gentiles. Paul’s very different view of Abraham is shown most starkly in his radically different use of the phrase “and to your seed” (kai\ tw|~ sme/rmati/ sou) from Gen 12:7. In Gal 3:16 Paul specifically interpreted “seed” as a singular noun referring specifically to Christ and not to the Jewish people. In Rom 4:13–17, however, he quite specifically interprets “seed” as a collective noun that includes both Jews and Gentiles. It is hard to imagine a starker reversal of interpretation.

The Structure of Rom 3:21–26 With all these issues in mind, we can now turn to Rom 3:21–26. Although the passage is quite brief, it is hard to think of another passage in Paul’s letters that has generated more controversy. At this point in the letter, however, Paul was actually trying to be anything but controversial. The structure of the passage is fairly simple. In Rom 3:21–22c Paul states what will serve as the basis for his further arguments in Rom 3:27–4:25. This 6

See Gen 12:3; 15:5–6; 17:5, 10–11; 18:18. This temporal notion is clearly important for Paul. He returns to it in Rom 3:26 when he refers to the demonstration of God’s righteousness “in the present time” (e0n tw|~ nu~n kairw |~). 7

The Use of Christological Traditions in Paul

233

consists of three parts: (1) The righteousness of God has now been manifested apart from the Mosaic law; (2) this righteousness is witnessed to by the Jewish Scriptures (i.e., the law and the prophets); and (3) this righteousness is through faith in Jesus Christ for all who have faith (i.e., both Jews and Gentiles). As is clear from the rest of the passage, the righteousness of God which Paul is referring to is the righteousness which is manifested through the death of Christ and its consequences. In Rom 3:22d–26 he then offers two reasons in support of this. First, there is no distinction between Jews and Gentiles, for all sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Rom 3:22d–23). Second, Paul appeals to and comments on a traditional creedal formula he has in common with the Roman Christians (Rom 3:24– 26). He hoped that by this point in his argument the Roman Christians would have found both these reasons uncontroversial. Each part of the passage, however, needs some explanation. Paul claims in the first part (Rom 3:21a–b) that the righteousness of God has now been manifested apart from the law. The Greek word “now” (nuni/) has both a temporal and a logical sense. Both senses are operative here, but the emphasis is on its temporal meaning. This is clear from Rom 3:26, where Paul describes the death of Christ as a demonstration of God’s righteousness “in the present time” (e0n tw~| nu~n kairw ~|). The perspective in his arguments is once again temporal. He emphasizes this by placing nuni/ as the first word in the sentence. God’s manifestation of righteousness in the present time in the death of Christ certainly differs from how God manifested righteousness in the past, but it is not necessarily in opposition to it. What is distinctive about the present manifestation of God’s righteousness is that it takes place “apart from the law” (xwri\v no&mou). The context in which the phrase occurs makes clear that Paul means “apart from observance of the law.” Immediately preceding this passage, in Rom 3:20, he claimed that no one was made righteous based on works of the law (e0c e!rgwn no&mou). Immediately following the passage, in Rom 3:28, Paul will claim that a person is made righteous “apart from works of the law” (xwri\v e!rgwn no&mou). And in Rom 4:6 he will write about the person whom God considers righteous “apart from works” (xwri\v e!rgwn). This manifestation of God’s righteousness now takes place apart from observance of the Mosaic law. Because he places the phrase second in the sentence and out of its natural word order, Paul obviously intends to emphasize it. His intentional emphasis of the phrase is even clearer when one realizes that he has never used the phrase “apart from (observance of) the law” before, but now uses it three times in Rom 3:21–4:25.8 But what is the point he is actually emphasizing? This becomes clearer when one remembers once again the very different way Paul wrote about the law and 8

He will also use the phrase “apart from the law” again in Rom 7:7, 8.

234

Thomas H. Tobin

its observance in Galatians. There Paul starkly and consistently contrasted throughout his arguments in Gal 3:1–4:31 a righteousness based on faith with one based on observance of the law. But in Rom 3:21 Paul pointedly does not describe the present manifestation of God’s righteousness in opposition to observance of the law but as “apart from (observance of) the law.” This change is clearly intentional. Especially in conjunction with his use of “now,” it represents a significant shift in the way Paul views the law and its observance. From this new perspective, the law and its observance played a legitimate and divinely ordained role in the past. As Paul stated at the end of the preceding section (Rom 3:20), the recognition of sin came through the law. It is difficult to overestimate the importance of this new and different perspective. This temporally oriented perspective allows Paul both to maintain his basic conviction that, in Christ, righteousness is now through faith apart from observance of the law, and to do so without denigrating the divinely ordained role of the law in the past. In the second part (Rom 3:21b), Paul emphasizes that the present manifestation of God’s righteousness apart from observance of the Mosaic law is witnessed to by the Law and the prophets. As he did in Rom 1:18–3:20, Paul wants to claim that his position is in continuity with and is supported by the Jewish Scriptures. He does not, however, immediately explain how this is the case. Rather, he returns to it in Rom 3:27 where he claims that his position does not annul the law but upholds it. In support of this, he then offers a much revised interpretation of the example of Abraham in Rom 4:1–25. In the third part (Rom 3:22a–c), Paul clarifies the meaning of this present manifestation of the righteousness of God through the use of an appositional clause. It takes place through faith in Jesus Christ (dia_ pi/stewv 0Ihsou~ Xristou~) and is meant for all who have faith (ei0v pa&ntaj tou_v pisteu&ontaj), for both Jews and Gentiles. Neither phrase in itself would have been controversial for the Roman Christians.9 They, like Paul, had faith in Jesus Christ; and, like Paul, they were convinced that this faith was meant for all who believed, for both Jews and Gentiles. What would have been controversial, however, was the context within which Paul placed these phrases. Paul linked these two elements with his conviction that God’s righteousness was now manifested apart from observance of the Mosaic law rather than in conjunction with its observance. In addition, as Paul explains the significance of this claim in Rom 3:22d–26, it will become clear that he means not simply “for both Jews and Gentiles now” but, more specifically, “for both Jews and Gentiles now” on the same basis, that is, on the basis of faith apart from observance of the Mosaic law. 9

For a defense of 0Ihsou= Xristou= as an objective genitive, see Tobin, Paul’s Rhetoric, 132–34.

The Use of Christological Traditions in Paul

235

With this in mind, we can now turn to Rom 3:22b–26, where Paul offers two reasons in support of his claim in Rom 3:21–22c. In Rom 3:22d– 23, he first sums up and appeals to what he had already established in Rom 1:18–3:20. There is no distinction between Jews and Gentiles because all, both Jews and Gentiles, sinned and so fall short or are in need of God’s glory. Given its brevity, Paul obviously takes this point as something already established by his arguments in Rom 1:18–3:20. In its present context, it serves as the basis for a further development in his argument. If both Jews and Gentiles are similarly situated in terms of sin, then the present manifestation of God’s righteousness through faith in Jesus Christ should also affect both Jews and Gentiles in a similar fashion. The equality of Jews and Gentiles in relation to sin sets the stage for the similar equality of Jews and Gentiles in relation to God’s present manifestation of righteousness now in Jesus Christ and through faith in him. Based on this first appeal, Paul then makes a second appeal (Rom 3:24– 26). In it he uses a traditional creedal formula that he shares with the Roman Christians and which he also amplifies and glosses in order to clarify its relevance for its present context. There are three issues that need to be touched on. First, what was the extent of the traditional formula? Second, what was its original meaning? And third, how did Paul make use of it, and to what purpose did he put it in the context of Rom 3:21–4:25? The answers to these questions illustrate both Paul’s appropriation of earlier traditions and his transformation of them for his own purposes.

The Extent of the Traditional Creedal Formula The first question is the extent of the traditional creedal formula. A rather literal translation of Rom 3:23–26 is as follows: 23

For all sinned and lack the glory of God, 24 being made righteous [dikaiou&menoi] as a gift [dwrea/n] by his grace [th=| au)tou= xa&riti], through the redemption [a)polutrw&sewv] which is in Christ Jesus, 25 whom God put forward [proe/qeto] as an expiation [i9lasth&rion],10 10

“Expiation” or “means of expiation” are probably the best translations for i9lasth&rion. Paul’s Roman Christian audience probably would have heard echoes of the description of the “mercy seat” (i9lasth&rion e0pi/qema) above the ark in Exod 25:17–22 as well as of the description of the ritual on the Day of Atonement in Lev 16. But such echoes should not lead us to translate i9lasth&rion as “mercy-seat” or try to force the interpretation of Jesus’ death in this passage into the strait jacket of the ritual of the Day of Atonement. The language is metaphorical. It uses cultic language and imagery to interpret a non-cultic event. For a very sensible explanation of these issues, see Brendan Byrne, Romans (SP 6; Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 1996), 126–27, 132–33. For

236

Thomas H. Tobin

through faith [dia_ pi/stewv], by his blood [e0n tw~| au)tou~ ai3mati] for a demonstration [e1ndeicin] of his righteousness for the remission [pa&resin]11 of the sins [a(marthma&twn] formerly committed [progegono&twn] 26 in [the time of ] God’s patience [e0n th=| a)noxh=| tou= qeou=] for the “demonstration [ th_n e!deicin] of his righteousness”12 in the present time [e0n tw~| nu=n kairw~|], so that he may be righteous and make righteous the one who has faith in Jesus [to_n e0k pi/stewv70Ihsou=].

The sections in italics are what I take to be parts of the traditional creedal formula. Most interpreters agree that, with the exception of “through faith,” Rom 3:25–26a is part of it. The reason for this is the unusual clustering in these verses of words that Paul rarely uses or uses nowhere else. There are three words that occur nowhere else in Paul: i9lasth&rion (expiation), pa&resij (remission), and progi/nomai (to happen or be done before). In addition, the Greek verb proti/qhmi occurs elsewhere in Paul only in Rom 1:13 where it almost certainly has a different meaning (“to intend or propose,” rather than “to put forward”).13 In addition, two other words are used only once elsewhere in Paul: a(ma/rthma (1 Cor 6:18) and a)noxh& (Rom 2:4). Paul, then, is clearly quoting from a traditional creedal formulation in Rom 3:25–26a. The exception is the phrase “through faith” in Rom 3:25. “Faith” is obviously a central concept for Paul, and it is clearly an insertion by Paul because it breaks up the pre-Pauline phrase “an expiation by his blood.” While it is much more disputed, it also seems to me that Rom 3:24, with the exception of the phrase “by his grace” (th~| au)tou~ xa&riti), is also part of the traditional formula Paul is quoting.14 The first reason for suggesting this is again a matter of vocabulary. The Greek adverb dwrea&n (as a gift) appears only twice elsewhere in Paul, and in neither case does it an interpretation that takes i9lasth&rion as “mercy-seat,” see Ulrich Wilckens, Der Brief an die Römer (3 vols.; EKK 6; Zurich: Benziger, 1978–1982), 1:190–92. 11 The meaning “remission,” “forgiveness,” “dismissal” for pa&resij is found in Phalaris, Ep. 81.1; Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. rom. 7.37.2; SIG 742, 33; 39; OGIS 669, 50. The most enlightening use of pa&resiv is in the letter of Phalaris. Phalaris quite easily characterizes the “remission of debts” ( pa&resij tw~n xrhma&twn) discussed in the letter as both a xa&riv (benefit, gift) and a dwrea& (gift). In addition, he uses the verb pari/hmi in the sense of “remit.” This suggests that pa&resij in Rom 3:25 should be translated as “remission” rather than as “passing over.” See also BDAG, 776. 12 The presence of the article (th/n) indicates that Paul is quoting the phrase from the traditional creedal material. 13 See BDAG, 889. 14 For a fuller explanation for the inclusion of Rom 3:24 in the traditional creedal formula Paul draws on, see Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Romans: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 33; New York: Doubleday, 1993), 342–43, 347–50.

The Use of Christological Traditions in Paul

237

have the same meaning.15 In addition, the Greek noun a)polu&trwsij (redemption) also occurs only twice elsewhere in Paul. Later, in Rom 8:23, it has an eschatological meaning rather than the present meaning it has here in Rom 3:24. The other occurrence is in 1 Cor 1:30 in a list that itself seems to be made up of traditional terms.16 A second and more convincing reason for taking Rom 3:24 as part of the pre-existing formula Paul is quoting is the redundancy in its opening phrase (“being made righteous as a gift by his grace”). Paul often uses the word “grace” (xa&riv), and it is obviously important for him. But, in this context, the phrase “by his grace” (th=| au)tou= xa&riti) seems redundant since it carries basically the same meaning as the immediately preceding “as a gift” (dwrea&n). This awkwardness is best explained by taking the phase “by his grace” as Paul’s own clarification or gloss of the preceding word dwrea&n. If that is the case, then the preceding phrase “being made righteous as a gift” probably belongs to the pre-Pauline creedal formula. Finally, the opening phrase of Rom 3:24, “being made righteous as a gift,” is grammatically awkward. The participle dikaiou&menoi (“being made righteous”) grammatically governs all of Rom 3:24–26 and itself depends on pa&ntev (“all”) at the beginning of Rom 3:23.17 What this means is that the participle “being made righteous” in effect carries on the thought of the two finite verbs “have sinned” and “lack” in Rom 3:23. Given this, one would have expected a series of coordinated clauses in which the last was an adversative clause: All have sinned and lack the glory of God but are now made righteous as a gift. . . . It is true that Paul does use participial clauses elsewhere to carry on the thought of finite verbs (2 Cor 5:12; 7:5; 10:14–15). But in 2 Cor 10:14–16 the participial clauses which follow the finite verbs are circumstantial rather than adversative in meaning. In 2 Cor 5:12 and 7:5 the participial clauses do have an adversative meaning. Yet in both cases, Paul indicates this by his use of “but” (a)lla&) before the participial clauses. Given all this, it makes much more sense to explain the awkwardness in Rom 3:24 as caused by the fact that, with the exception of the phrase “by his grace,” the participial clause in Rom 3:24 was also part of the traditional formula Paul was quoting. All these reasons taken together indicate that the traditional formula Paul was using probably included all of Rom 3:24–26a, with the exception of “as a gift” in Rom 3:24 and “through faith” in Rom 3:25. 15

In 2 Cor 11:7 it means “without cost” and in Gal 2:21 it means “for nothing, in vain.” 16 The other terms are “righteousness” and “holiness.” 17 For the range of possibilities, see C. E. B. Cranfield, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans (6th ed.; 2 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1975–1979), 1:205.

238

Thomas H. Tobin

The Original Meaning of the Traditional Formula The second question concerns the original meaning of the traditional creedal formula. Even more than the question of the extent of the traditional formula, its interpretation is a matter of dispute. 18 The purpose of this traditional creedal formula is fairly clear. It was to interpret the meaning and significance of the death of Jesus. The thought of Rom 3:24–26a is that human beings are made righteous before God by the redemption that takes place in Christ Jesus. This redemption involves the remission of sins that had previously been committed during the period of God’s patience or forbearance. This redemption in Christ Jesus is brought about at God’s initiative and is a demonstration of God’s righteousness. Through personal initiative, God put Jesus forward as an expiation by means of his blood. This expiation is the source of righteousness for human beings and of the remission of their sins as well as the demonstration of God’s own righteousness. The background and sources of this creedal formula are complex. The notion of God’s righteousness as expressed in the Jewish Scriptures provides the overall framework for the formula. A central attribute of God in the Jewish Scriptures was righteousness.19 This righteousness often carried with it a forensic notion of God’s acts of judging justly.20 Especially in the postexilic period, this righteousness also manifested mercy or graciousness.21 It is this notion of God’s righteousness as merciful and gracious that is central to Rom 3:24–26a. It is God’s demonstration of personal righteousness that leads to the remission of sins by means of the death of Jesus. It is crucial to keep this framework in mind if one is to understand the meaning of Rom 3:24–26a. The notion of the death of a human being as a means of expiation to a deity, however, has its roots beyond Judaism in the Greco-Roman world. Greek and Roman literature is filled with examples of human beings who were willing to die nobly for the sake of some cause, whether for the city, for friends, for the law, or for truth.22 For the most part, these noble deaths 18

For a bibliography, see Fitzmyer, Romans, 354–58. See Pss 35:28; 36:7; 51:16; 103:17; 112:9; Prov 16:10; Isa 46:13; 59:16. For a fuller treatment of the concept of God’s righteousness, see Fitzmyer, Romans, 105–7 and Wilckens, Römer, 1:212–20. 20 See Isa 3:13; Jer 12:1; Hos 4:1–2; 12:3; Mic 6:12; Pss 9:9; 96:13; 98:2. 21 See Isa 51:5, 6, 8; 56:1; 61:10; Ps 40:9–10. 22 For the city: Il. 15.495–98; Thucydides, 2.43.1–2; Horace, Carm. 3.2.13. For friends: Plato, Symp. 179b. For the laws: Demosthenes, Or. 26.23. For philosophy, Plato, Apol. 32a; Diogenes Laertius, 5.7–8. For a fuller treatment, see Martin Hengel, The Atonement: The Origins of the Doctrine in the New Testament (Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1981), 6–18. 19

The Use of Christological Traditions in Paul

239

were not interpreted explicitly through the use of cultic imagery or language. There are also famous examples in Greek and Roman literature of literal human sacrifices whose purpose was to placate a deity for the good of the community.23 These were themselves cultic acts. But there was also a phenomenon in which the noble deaths, especially of those who gave their lives for the sake of the community, came to be described and interpreted using cultic imagery and language. The use of this language and imagery was usually not exact. There was often an awareness of the metaphorical nature of the language and that the cultic language and imagery was being used to interpret a non-cultic reality. This was obviously made easier by the broadly religious context within which dying for the sake of the community was already seen.24 For example, the Roman historian Livy (8.9.10) described how in 340 B.C.E. the Roman general Decius plunged to his death in the thick of the Latin enemy “as though [sicut] sent from heaven as an expiatory offering [piaculum] of all the anger of the gods, and to turn aside destruction from his people and bring it on their adversaries.”25 Plutarch, in Pel. 20–21, could even list both actual human sacrifices and soldiers dying for their country together. In the middle of references to actual human sacrifices, he listed the Spartan king Leonidas, who died in the battle of Thermopylae and “who, in obedience to the oracle, sacrificed himself, as it were [tro&pon tina/], for the sake of [u(pe/r] Greece.”26 This same phenomenon, in which cultic language and imagery was used to describe and interpret the significance of someone’s noble death for the sake of the community, also found its way into Hellenistic Judaism. Although debatable, this may have been the case for the stories of the deaths of the Jewish mother and her seven sons in 2 Maccabees 7 and of the Jewish elder Razis in 2 Macc 14:37–46. The way their deaths are described in 2 Maccabees seems to imply that they died as some sort of vicarious atonement for the Jewish people.27 It is certainly the case, however, that cultic imagery and language were used to interpret the noble deaths of the Jewish martyrs in 4 Maccabees. In 4 Macc 6:27–29, the Jewish leader Eleazer, as he is dying in torment, lifted his eyes and addressed God: 23 Plutarch provides a list in Pel. 20–21. It was also a favorite theme of Euripides (see Phoen. 911–1018, 1090–1092; Hec. 342–378, 432–437). See also Seneca, Tro. 193–202. 24 Hengel (Atonement, 10) makes this point. 25 Livy (10.28.12–13) describes a similar act by Decius’s son also as an expiatory offering (piaculum). 26

Lewni/dan te tw~| xrhsmw~| tro&p on tina_ proqusa&menon e9a uto_n u(p e\r th~j 7(E lla&d oj

(Pel. 21.4). The oracle Plutarch refers to is found in Herodotus, 7.220. 27 The case for this interpretation has been made most recently by Jan Willem van Henten, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviors of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees (JSJSup 57; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 140–56.

240

Thomas H. Tobin

27

You know, O God, that though I might have saved myself, I am dying in burning torments on behalf of [dia/] the law. 28Be merciful to your people and be satisfied by our punishment for their sake [u(pe\r au)tw~n]. 29Make my blood their purification [kaqa&rsion], and take my life as a ransom [a)nti/yuxon] 28 for theirs.

Eleazer dies a noble death on behalf of the law and the Jewish people. At the same time, however, his death is interpreted by means of the cultic language and imagery of purification through his blood. The same is even clearer in the final interpretation of all of the martyrs’ deaths in 4 Macc 17:20–22: 20 These, then, who have been consecrated [a(giasqe/ntev] on behalf of [dia/] God, are honored, not only with this honor, but also by the fact that because of them our enemies did not rule over our nation, 21the tyrant was punished, and the homeland purified [kaqarisqh~nai] – they having become, as it were, a ransom [a)nti/y uxon ] for the sin of our nation. 22 And through the blood [ dia_ tou~ ai#matov] of those devout ones and their expiating death [tou~ i9lasthri/ou qana&tou],29 divine Providence preserved Israel that previously had been afflicted.

Once again, all of the martyrs died a noble death for the sake of God. But their deaths are also extensively interpreted by means of cultic language and imagery. They are consecrated; through their deaths the homeland is purified; through their blood and their expiating deaths, God preserves Israel. The traditional creedal formula Paul uses in Rom 3:24–26a clearly reflects this same kind of development. In this case, Jesus’ death is interpreted as an expiation by the shedding of his blood. This results in the remission of sins and so reestablishes a proper relationship with God. There are crucial differences, however, between the interpretation of Jesus’ death in Rom 3:24–26a and the previous texts. First, in Rom 3:24–26a, it is God who takes the initiative, who puts Jesus forward as an expiation, and who demonstrates in Jesus’ death God’s merciful righteousness. Early Christians obviously took over the kind of interpretation found in 4 Maccabees and used it to interpret the death of Jesus. But they placed it within the framework of the larger Jewish notion of the righteousness of God mentioned above. This is quite different from the other texts in which human beings take the initiative and the person’s death is accepted by the deity as reestablishing the proper relationship. Second, the expiation has a universal significance. Unlike what was found in the previous texts, the expiation 28 The meaning of a)nti/yuxon both here and in 4 Macc 17:21 is not altogether clear. It seems to be a neologism. See David A. DeSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary on the Greek Text in Codex Sinaiticus (Septuagint Commentary Series; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 147–48, 249–50. 29 This is the reading of MSS A and V. This reading, which takes i9lasthri/ou as an adjective modifying the noun qana&tou, is preferable to the reading of MS S which reads tou~ i9lasthri/ou tou~ qana&tou and takes i9lasthri/ou as a noun.

The Use of Christological Traditions in Paul

241

described in Rom 3:24–26a is neither confined to a particular set of circumstances nor are the effects confined to a particular group of people. It is at God’s initiative, and it is for the benefit of all human beings. This traditional creedal language found in Rom 3:24–26a will also emerge in Rom 5:6–10 and in Rom 8:3. It is part of a larger web of cultic language used quite widely and quite early in Christianity to interpret the death of Jesus. It is found elsewhere in Paul in Gal 2:20; 1 Cor 11:25; 15:3; 2 Cor 5:14–15. But it is also found in the Synoptic tradition in Mark 10:45//Matt 20:28; Mark 14:24//Matt 26:27//Luke 22:28. It also appears in John 3:16; 6:51–57; 1 John 1:7; Rev 5:6, 9, 12; 13:8 and in Heb 8:1–10:18. While it is impossible to reduce this language to any kind of unified account, it is certainly both widespread and early. The language is not a creation of Paul, but something he draws on and uses for his own purposes. In this sense, Rom 3:24–26a is similar to numerous other texts from earliest Christianity which also interpreted Jesus’ death.30

Paul’s Use of the Traditional Formula The third important question is how Paul uses this material in its present context. His basic approach is to use this traditional creedal formula, which he shares with the Roman Christians, as a foundation for explaining how this shared foundation supports his central convictions about faith and its relation to observance of the law and about the relationship between Jews and Gentiles. He goes about this in several ways. First, however grammatically awkward it is, Paul connects the long participial clause of the traditional creedal formula in Rom 3:24–26a to “all” (pa&ntev) of the preceding finite clause. He thus creates a parallelism. Just as all sinned and lack the glory of God, so now all are made righteous as a gift by God’s grace. His justification for this is that there is no distinction between Jews and Gentiles in this regard. Second, he inserts two clarifying phrases within the traditional creedal formula itself. The first insertion is “by his grace” (th=| au)tou= xa&riti) in Rom 3:24, which he uses to clarify the phrase “as a gift” (dwrea/n). The point of this clarification is to connect the word “grace,” which Paul uses often and is a central idea for him, to the closely related phrase “as a gift,”

30 Two recent studies on the various interpretations of Jesus’ death in early Christianity are John T. Carroll and Joel B. Green, The Death of Jesus in Early Christianity (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 1995) and Morna D. Hooker, Not Ashamed of the Gospel: New Testament Interpretations of the Death of Jesus (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1995).

242

Thomas H. Tobin

which is part of the traditional creedal formula.31 Apart from the greeting in Rom 1:5, 7, this is the first time Paul uses the word “grace” in Romans. To understand why Paul does this, one has to understand how he has used the word in his earlier letters and how it plays a central role for him later in Romans itself. In both Galatians (1:15; 2:9) and in 1 Cor 15:10 Paul uses “grace” as a way to describe both his own call and to legitimate his own identity as an apostle. It is a word central to his own experience. But it was also an important concept in his controversies with the Galatian Christians. This is especially the case in his stark contrast between righteousness through the observance of the law and righteousness through grace. In Gal 1:6 Paul is astonished that the Galatians have so quickly turned from the God who called them by grace to another gospel. In Gal 2:21 he claims that he does not nullify the grace of God. For if righteousness were through the law, then Christ died for nothing. Finally, in Gal 5:4, he claims that those who would be made righteous through observance of the law have cut themselves off from Christ. They have fallen away from grace. In all three cases, grace is an integral part of the stark contrasts Paul drew between his gospel of righteousness through grace and faith, and righteousness through observance of the law. But in Rom 3:24 Paul intentionally changes the valence of “grace.” He connects it with “as a gift,” which is part of the traditional creedal formula he shares with the Roman Christians. “Grace” is another way of describing something he and the Roman Christians actually have in common rather than something that drives them apart. In addition, it characterizes a righteousness which Paul has just described as something that “now” has been manifested (Rom 3:21). Grace is no longer, as it was in Galatians, part of a stark, in-principle contrast to observance of the law. It becomes part of the very different temporal framework which dominates Romans. Righteousness by grace is now apart from observance of the law. It is different from righteousness through observance of the law, and it now takes the place of observance of the law. But it is not as such opposed to the law, and it does not empty the law of its divinely sanctioned authority in the past as it seemed to do in Galatians. Once Paul has realigned the meaning of this term, he will then use it at a number of crucial points in his arguments in the rest of Romans.32 The second insertion Paul makes in the traditional creedal formula is “through faith” (dia_ pi/stewv) in Rom 3:25.33 The insertion is awkward, coming as it does between “as an expiation” and “by his blood” which obviously went together in the traditional material. Given its awkwardness, why does Paul place it where he does? The reason is that he wants to char31

The word xa&riv appears 65 times in Paul’s letters. Rom 4:4, 16; 5:2, 15, 17, 20, 21; 6:1, 14, 15, 17; 7:25; 11:5, 6. 33 The manuscripts are fairly divided between dia_ pi/stewj and dia_ th~v pi/stewv. 32

The Use of Christological Traditions in Paul

243

acterize the way in which this expiation is received or appropriated by human beings. It is an expiation experienced through faith. The purpose of this insertion differs, however, from that of the previous one. Here Paul’s purpose is not to reinterpret a previously controversial concept but to emphasize the importance of faith. This is something which he and the Roman Christians have in common but which was not specifically contained in the traditional creedal formula. Paul did not expect that this addition would have been controversial for the Roman Christians. The third and final way Paul interpreted the traditional creedal formula for his purposes was to add two comments of his own in Rom 3:26b–c immediately after it. Both comments emphasize aspects of what he has just written. In the first comment, Paul repeats the phrase, “demonstration of his righteousness,” from the traditional formula and adds to it “in the present time” (e0n tw~| nu~n kairw~|). This harks back to the very beginning of the passage (“But now apart from the law . . .”). It emphasizes again the temporal perspective Paul is now insisting on. This again is quite different from the earlier in-principle contrasts of Galatians. The warrant in Paul’s mind for the additional comment, “in the present time,” was probably the phrase “because of the passing over of the sins formerly committed” (tw~n progegono&twn a(marthma&twn). He takes this to mean that the way in which God deals with sins “in the present time” differs from the way in which God dealt with them in the past. In the second comment, Paul adds that all of this now happens “so that he [God] may be righteous and make righteous the one who has faith in Jesus” (to_n e0k pi/stewv 7)Ihsou~). This comment is not so much for emphasis as for the sake of clarity. He wants to make sure his Roman Christian audience does not miss the point of his awkward insertion of the phrase “through faith” in Rom 3:25. He tries to clarify the connection of “through faith” to God’s putting Jesus forward as an expiation by his blood. In the present manifestation of divine righteousness, God’s purpose in doing this is so that God might be righteous and make righteous the one who has faith in Jesus.

Conclusions In Rom 3:21–26, then, Paul moves to a new stage in his argument. He begins in Rom 3:21–22c by stating his three-part claim: (1) the righteousness of God is now manifested apart from observance of the law; (2) this is witnessed to by the Jewish Scriptures: and (3) this righteousness is through faith for Jews and Gentiles on the same basis. He then goes on to offer two reasons in support of this claim. The first is really an appeal to what he argued in Rom 1:18–3:20, that Jews and Gentiles are similarly placed in re-

244

Thomas H. Tobin

lation to sinfulness. The second is an appeal to a traditional creedal formula he has in common with the Roman Christians and which he glosses. Paul does all of this in as irenic and uncontroversial a way as possible. He tries to root the controversial aspects of his argument in beliefs he and the Roman Christians have in common. Righteousness is now through faith and apart from the law, and this righteousness is for both Jews and Gentiles on the same basis. The point of all this becomes clear when we realize that Paul is doing all of this against the background of what he wrote earlier in Galatians. Instead of the stark contrast and opposition between faith and observance of the law so central to Galatians, Paul turns the difference between the two into a temporal one. It is now that the righteousness of God is manifested through faith and apart from the law. Paul does not surrender his central conviction about faith and its present relation to observance of the law, but he does put it into a temporal framework, which no longer denigrates the law or its earlier observance. While Rom 3:21–26 parallels Rom 1:18–32 in appealing to what Paul and the Roman Christians have in common, Rom 3:21–26 does it, however, in a different way. Rom 1:18–32 appealed to Hellenistic Jewish viewpoints about Gentile religiosity Paul and the Roman Christians had in common. Rom 3:21–26, however, appeals explicitly to traditional Christian material which they share. This establishes a precedent. Paul will make similar appeals to traditional Christian material in both Rom 5:6–10 and Rom 8:3 and will similarly reinterpret them for his own purposes. Both of these texts are parts of passages (Rom 5:1–20; 8:1–30) which play roles in the next two stages of Paul’s arguments similar to that played by Rom 3:21–26.34 Let us return to the initial question of this essay, whether or in what ways Paul was or was not a “second founder of Christianity.” What this analysis of Rom 3:21–26 suggests and illustrates is the extent to which nuance is crucial. Paul has often become identified with the Christology of this passage or with various theories of redemption supposedly contained in it. Both the Christology and the Soteriology of this passage have then been contrasted to the teachings and identity of the “historical” Jesus. Whatever the relationship to the “historical” Jesus may or may not have been, what is illustrated by this passage is the extent to which the Christology of the passage is already traditional by the time Paul uses it. Rather, Paul’s interest in the passage is in using it as a foundation, a foundation he shares with the Roman Christians, for his own arguments about the centrality of faith, apart from but not in opposition to the law, and for all, both Jews and Gentiles on the same basis. This is where Paul’s interests lay, and it suggests where his central contributions to early Christianity argua34

See Tobin, Paul’s Rhetoric, 163–65, 279–84.

The Use of Christological Traditions in Paul

245

bly were. While this essay certainly does not decide the issue, it does suggest the direction in which a nuanced solution is to be found.

 

Part III: Portraits of Jesus in Prayer and Liturgy

 

The Status of Jesus in Early Christian Prayer Texts PAUL F. BRADSHAW Because prayer texts have a tendency both to retain archaic expressions long after they have fallen into disuse in normal verbal interchange and also not to adopt more recent language forms until they have become well established in other contexts, they offer to the historian the potential to look back a generation or more behind the date of the written word. Through this lens we have the possibility of observing how Jesus and his role were understood in the prayer vocabulary of the earliest Christians and how those understandings changed and developed in the first two centuries of the church’s existence, before more developed christological and more overtly Trinitarian language begins to emerge from the third century onwards. Although scholars differ as to the date when the ancient church order known as the Didache was finally edited in its present form, there has been a growing tendency to date the composition of parts of its contents, including the meal prayers in chapters 9 and 10, earlier rather than later, and certainly well before many of the New Testament writings. The Didache never calls Jesus “the Lord Jesus Christ,” and has only “Jesus Christ” once in the whole work – in the doxology at the end of the prayers in chapter 9: “for yours is the glory and the power through Jesus Christ for evermore.” All the other doxologies in these prayers employ the simpler form, “glory to you for evermore,” similar to those found in a number of New Testament texts,1 except for the conclusion of the prayers in chapter 10 (paralleling that in chapter 9), which has “for yours is the power and the glory for evermore,” as does the doxology appended to the Lord’s Prayer in chapter 8. It has therefore been suggested by several scholars that the text of the doxology at the end of chapter 9 has been corrupted in the process

1

See Rom 11:36; Gal 1:5; Phil 4:20; 2 Tim 4:18.

250

Paul Bradshaw

of transmission, either deliberately in order to “correct” it, or accidentally, because it was a formula familiar to a later copyist.2 If this conclusion is correct, the sole designation of Jesus in these prayers is as God’s pai=j: We give thanks to you, our Father, for the holy vine of David your servant, which you have made known to us through Jesus your servant; glory to you for evermore. . . . We give thanks to you, our Father, for the life and knowledge which you have made known to us through Jesus your servant; glory to you for evermore.

While it is possible that pai=j could have been meant here in the sense of “child,” yet because the same title is also bestowed on King David, it seems more likely that “servant” is the intended meaning. Although the Septuagint normally renders that designation for David by dou~loj (see, e.g., 2 Samuel 7:1–29), pai=j is used instead in 2 Chronicles 6:15. Moreover, as Jonathan Schwiebert has remarked, “through long habit, scholars of early Christianity understandably tend to take every reference to ‘David’ as a messianic one. Yet the term pai=j resists this interpretation. . . . Evidently it was never a title for the Messiah at all. The analogy with David, therefore, can hardly imply a Messianic notion of Jesus: both are called not ‘anointed’ but pai=j, which only implies obedience to God in service to Israel.”3 According to these prayers, the principal role of Jesus was as revealer – of life and knowledge in the above extract from the prayers in chapter 9, and of knowledge, faith, and immortality, spiritual food and drink, and eternal life in the prayer in chapter 10. Nor is the eschatological expectation in these prayers focused on the return of Jesus but on the gathering of the church into God’s kingdom. It is even conceivable that the final invocation after the prayers, maranatha, although generally treated by commentators as referring to the coming of the Lord Jesus, may not in fact be so intended but could be calling upon the Lord God, especially if the reading, “Hosanna to the God of David,” is retained rather than emended. Thus, here Jesus is primarily the servant who reveals, and not the Messiah who will return. As a title for Jesus, pai=j is not unique to the Didache. But except for two appearances in a speech in Acts (3:13, 26), it is only ever found in prayers in early Christianity, evidently being too antiquated to have survived elsewhere. Thus, it occurs in a prayer put into the mouths of the 2 See for example Jean-Paul Audet, La Didachè: Instructions des apôtres (Paris: Gabalda, 1958), 234; Klaus Wengst, Didache (Apostellehre), Barnabasbrief, Zweiter Klemensbrief (Munich: Kösel, 1984), 80; and especially Jonathan Schwiebert, Knowledge and the Coming Kingdom: The Didache’s Meal Ritual and its Place in Early Christianity (LNTS 373; London: T&T Clark, 2008), 65–66. But cf. Kurt Niederwimmer, The Didache (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1998), 150–51. 3 Schwiebert, Knowledge and the Coming Kingdom, 83 (emphasis in original).

The Status of Jesus in Early Christian Prayer Texts

251

Christian community in Jerusalem by the author of Luke–Acts, where, after referring to David as God’s servant (Acts 4:25), as does Didache 9.2, the prayer goes on to speak twice of “your holy servant Jesus” (Acts 4:27, 30). Although the prayer as a whole is generally thought to be the author’s composition, his choice of what were, by his time, clearly archaic expressions suggests that the epithet was not uncommon in very early Christian prayer formulas. Outside the New Testament it occurs next in 1 Clement, traditionally dated ca. 96 C.E., in three places in a lengthy petitionary prayer. Here, however, it has become combined with Xristo/j: “through his beloved servant Jesus Christ,” “through Jesus Christ, your beloved servant,” and “Jesus Christ is your servant” (1 Clement 59.2, 3, 4). The most interesting aspect of this prayer for our present purposes, however, comes in its doxology, which is considerably more elaborate than those in the Didache: “We praise you through the high priest and guardian of our souls, Jesus Christ, through whom be the glory and the majesty to you both now and to the generation of generations and to the ages of ages. Amen” (61.3). This uses the Greek verb e0comologou&meqa, “we confess,” to express praise – a usage found in the Septuagint and among early Greekspeaking Jews to translate the Hebrew verb hodah, which had the same double meaning, but one that was gradually being abandoned by early Christians in favor of eu)xariste/w .4 It also introduces the epithets “high priest” and “guardian of our souls,” in order to describe Jesus. Neither of these terms was a complete innovation, of course – the former is central in the Letter to the Hebrews, and a similar expression to the latter occurs in 1 Peter 2:25, although using e0pi/skopoj rather than prosta/thj as here – but this is the earliest known use of either of them in the setting of a prayer. The designation of Jesus as high priest in this context is only making explicit what was already implicit in the statement that he was the one through whom praise was offered to God. Although in Hebrews it was in interceding rather than in mediating praise that Jesus was explicitly said to be continuing to exercise his high priestly role (7:25), in Hebrews 13:13 he is also the one through whom the “sacrifice of praise” is to be offered to God by Christians. Glory is also offered to God through Jesus in other doxologies in 1 Clement (58.2; 64; 65.2). This is an advance on the language and theology of the Didache, where Jesus was the one through whom the knowledge of God had been revealed and the one because of whom praise was now being offered, but was not himself the mediator of the church’s worship as such. On the other hand, reference to Jesus in what 4

A rare occurrence of the use of e0comologou~mai in this sense in the New Testament is Matt 11:25//Luke 10:21: “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and intelligent and have revealed them to infants. . . .”

252

Paul Bradshaw

are apparently reflections of prayer passages in the New Testament reveals that not only might he be associated with God in the opening address of the prayer, as in “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who . . .”5 or “We always give thanks to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,”6 but the praise and thanksgiving might be offered through him either at the beginning, “We give thanks to you, O God, through Jesus Christ our Lord,”7 or in the doxological conclusion: “to the only wise God be glory for evermore through Jesus Christ.”8 While, therefore, this role for Jesus seems to have been unfamiliar to the tradition behind the Didache texts, it was apparently known from an early period in other Christian circles. The appellation of Jesus as high priest is not restricted to this intercessory prayer in 1 Clement, but also occurs twice elsewhere in the letter, in each case again combined with the term prosta/thj: This is the way, beloved, in which we found our salvation, Jesus Christ, the high priest of our offerings, the guardian and helper of our weakness. Finally may the all-seeing God and Master of spirits and Lord of all flesh, who chose the Lord Jesus Christ and us through him for a peculiar people, give to every soul that is called by his magnificent and holy name faith, fear, peace, patience and endurance, selfcontrol, purity, moderation, to be well-pleasing to his name through our high priest and guardian Jesus Christ, through whom be glory and majesty, power and honor, to him both now and to all ages of ages. Amen. 9

This second instance is particularly interesting both because it is in the context of a further prayer and because it appears to be petition as well as praise that is here being directed through the high priestly agency of Jesus. The titles “servant” and “high priest” recur in the prayer in the Martyrdom of Polycarp alleged to have been said by Polycarp as he awaited his death in Smyrna. His martyrdom is traditionally dated February 23, 155 or 156, with the account itself, actually a letter from the church at Smyrna, written the following year. Candida Moss has recently challenged this latter assumption, arguing that the work’s sophisticated and nuanced view of martyrdom, as well as the fact that it appears to have had no literary impact before the second half of the third century, makes it difficult to date earlier than that century.10 However, even if the account itself was not written until this later date, the prayer could be older than that – or at least be using archaic language. It begins with the following address: “Lord God Almighty, the Father of your beloved and blessed servant Jesus Christ, 5

See 2 Cor 1:3; Eph 1:3; 1 Pet 1:3. See Col 1:3. 7 As some construction of this kind seems to lie behind Rom 1:8 and Col 3:17. 8 Rom 16:27. 9 1 Clem. 36.1; 64. The former has echoes of Heb 2:17–18; 4:15; 5:1; 8:3. 10 Candida Moss, “On the Dating of Polycarp: Rethinking the Place of the Martyrdom of Polycarp in the History of Christianity,” Early Christianity 4 (2010): 1–37. 6

The Status of Jesus in Early Christian Prayer Texts

253

through whom we have received knowledge concerning you . . .”; and ends thus: “Therefore and for all things I praise you, I bless you, I glorify you through the eternal and heavenly high priest Jesus Christ, your beloved servant, through whom to you with him and the Holy Spirit be glory both now and to the ages to come. Amen.”11 Although in both instances in this prayer pai=j could naturally be translated in its other sense of “child,” yet in the light of its similar use in other early prayers “servant” is more likely intended. The opening parallels the use of the word in combination with both “beloved” and “Jesus Christ” twice in the prayer in 1 Clement, though here adding “and blessed,” while its reference to the gift of knowledge through him echoes its use in Didache 9, although in the Martyrdom it is knowledge about God. The combination of pai=j with “high priest” in the doxological conclusion, on the other hand, is unique to the Martyrdom, and the incipient Trinitarianism of the addition of “with him and the Holy Spirit” to the formula seems to confirm a third-century date for the final redaction of the text rather than its alleged mid-second-century origin, even if it roots lie in an earlier time. The designation “high priest” is used by Polycarp himself in a prayer that concluded his letter to the Philippians (although this section is extant only in Latin): “Now may the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, and himself the eternal high priest, the Son of God Jesus Christ, build you up in faith and truth . . .” (12.2). The prayers in the so-called Apostolic Tradition of Hippolytus present us with problems of dating and provenance as well as of text, because this church order is no longer extant in its original Greek, except for a few fragments, and can be reconstructed only with some difficulty from various ancient translations and versions. Although it is traditionally regarded as emanating from Rome in the early third century, there is a growing consensus of opinion that it is really a composite work made up of various layers of material from different historical periods, from the second to the fourth century, and seemingly from different parts of the ancient Christian world.12 Nevertheless, some characteristics of the material assist in determining which are the older and which the newer strata in the work, not least the vocabulary and structures of prayer texts within it. One of these, a prayer to be used in connection with the offering of first fruits, has a 11

Mart. Pol. 14.1, 3. For a summary of the current state of the question, see J. A. Cerrato, “The Association of the Name Hippolytus with a Church Order, now known as The Apostolic Tradition,” SVTQ 48 (2004): 179–94; also Paul F. Bradshaw, Maxwell E. Johnson, and L. Edward Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2002); and for a somewhat more conservative position, Alistair Stewart-Sykes, Hippolytus: On the Apostolic Tradition (Crestwood, N.Y.: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2001). 12

254

Paul Bradshaw

strongly primitive quality that points to an early date for its composition. Addressed to God alone, its sole reference to Jesus is in its conclusion, where God is praised “through your servant Jesus Christ our Lord, through whom be glory to you to the ages of ages. Amen.”13 Elsewhere in the church order the instruction is given that all “blessings” should conclude, “To you be glory, Father and Son with the Holy Spirit in the holy church, both now and always and to the ages of ages.”14 Not all the doxological endings of prayers in the Apostolic Tradition conclude in this way, however, and it seems highly likely that the wording has undergone expansion in the course of the transmission of the text in order to conform to later Trinitarian doctrine, and the prayer was originally (in the second century?) addressed to the Father alone. The only close parallel to this formula as it now stands is in Contra haeresin Noeti 18.10: “To him be glory and power with the Father and the Holy Spirit in the holy church both now and always and to the ages of ages.” Although this work has been attributed to Hippolytus, that ascription has been questioned by some scholars, and doxologies in other works attributed to Hippolytus are all much simpler in form.15 Other doxological endings to prayers in the Apostolic Tradition show signs of similar later emendation. Once these are removed, they too reveal a pattern closely resembling the prayer over the first fruits, “through your servant Jesus Christ, through whom . . .,”16 except for the post-baptismal prayer, which appears to have been the only one originally to have had the simpler conclusion suggested in the above reconstruction of the instruction about blessings.17 Although the body of these prayers also gives evidence of some revision from their earliest forms, their Christology remains, perhaps surprisingly, quite primitive. The ordination prayer for a bishop be13

Trad. ap. 31, according to the Latin version of the prayer, which is confirmed as authentic by a Greek version that appears in the oldest extant Byzantine euchologion, Barberini gr. 336 (eighth century), although in such a defective state that it must have fallen out of actual use long before. All the other linguistic versions of this chapter modify and expand the doxology. See Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary, 6, 165–68. 14 Trad. ap. 6.4. See Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary, 52–54. 15 See the works cited in Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary, 54 n. 12. 16 Trad. ap. 3.6 (ordination prayer for a bishop); 4.13 (eucharistic prayer); 7.5 (ordination prayer for a presbyter). Lack of reliable textual witnesses makes it impossible to reconstruct the earliest form of the conclusion of the ordination prayer for a deacon (8.12) and the prayer at lamp lighting (29C.9). See Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary, 30–31, 40, 56, 62, 156. 17 Trad. ap. 21.21. See Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary, 118.

The Status of Jesus in Early Christian Prayer Texts

255

gins with a quotation from 2 Corinthians 1:3: “God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Father of mercies and God of all comfort”; and its only other reference to Jesus is in the context of “the spirit of leadership which you granted through your beloved servant Jesus Christ to your holy apostles.”18 The ordination prayers for presbyters and deacons refer to Jesus only in their opening address, “God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ” in the case of the former, and “God . . ., Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, whom you sent to serve your will and manifest to us your desire” in the case of the latter.19 The eucharistic prayer has the beginning, “We give thanks to you, God, through your beloved servant Jesus Christ,” and continues by describing Jesus as “savior and redeemer and messenger of your will, who is your inseparable word, through whom you made all things” and who “was incarnate and manifested as your Son”20 – all terms entirely consistent with second-century theological writings.21 This survey suggests that there were two very early traditions of referring to Jesus in prayer. One described him as God’s servant who was the mediator of God’s revelation, the other as the Christ/Son of God who, exalted to heaven, was the mediator of the church’s praise and intercession, and hence came to be designated also as high priest. While the titles “servant” and “Christ” came to be combined in later prayers and “servant” was used in concluding doxologies, “servant” and “high priest” were not so combined, at least not in the same part of a prayer, with the sole exception of the doxological conclusion to the prayer in the Martyrdom of Polycarp, which in its present form may belong to the third century rather than an earlier date. “Servant” as a title for Christ tends to disappear from prayers after this time, surfacing only in fourth-century texts that consciously reproduce material from an older source (in Apostolic Constitutions 7.25–26 and Pseudo-Athanasius, De virginitate 12, both drawing on Didache 9–10; and in the eucharistic prayer in the Barcelona Papyrus, drawing on 1 Clement

18 Trad. ap. 3.1, 3; treating the Greek text of the Epitome of Apostolic Constitutions 8 as having preserved the earliest reading here. See Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary, 30–32. 19 Trad. ap. 7.2; 8.10; adopting the reading of the Latin in the absence of any better text. See Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary, 56, 62. 20 Trad. ap. 4.4–6, again following the Latin. See Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary, 38. 21 See further Paul F. Bradshaw, “A Paschal Root to the Anaphora of the Apostolic Tradition? A Response to Enrico Mazza,” StPatr 35 (2001): 257–65.

256

Paul Bradshaw

59.2).22 The title appears also in certain Egyptian prayers that preserve some archaic language in their concluding doxologies (in the eucharistic prayer and a prayer for the sick in the Barcelona Papyrus, as well as an intercessory prayer in the Deir Balyzeh Papyrus and in P.Berol. 13918).23 It also occurs in another doxology in Pseudo-Athanasius, De virginitate 14, a work of uncertain provenance but probably stemming from Cappadocia rather than from Egypt.24 The prayers that we have examined so far have Jesus as the one through whom praise and petition are addressed to God, but not as the one directly addressed in prayer. The Latin phrase carmen Christo quasi deo in Pliny the Younger’s letter to the Emperor Trajan ca. 112 C.E., describing the practice of the Christians in Bithynia whom he has interrogated,25 is often cited as evidence that they were addressing Christ directly, but it needs to be remembered that not only is this testimony being quoted second-hand by one who was not a Christian himself, and who therefore possibly misunderstood what he was being told, but that singing a hymn to Christ is not precisely the same as addressing him in prayer. For example, a hymn about Christ, ascribing praise and glory to him for what he had done, could be described as being sung “to Christ,” without it actually addressing him directly. Nevertheless, there are a few instances in early Christian literature where it does appear that Christ is the object of prayer, the most wellknown being Stephen’s prayer in the Acts of the Apostles as he was being stoned to death, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit” (Acts 7:59). In order to deal with such instances, liturgical historians have, in the past, often tried to make a distinction between what they described as “private prayers” (which might so address Jesus) and “public prayer” (in which prayer was always offered through Jesus and not to him). Thus Josef Jungmann could say, “up to the fourth century, the prayer directed to Christ was widely used, both privately and in the form of hymns and acclamations. It is not among the official prayers said by the leader of the liturgical assembly. For the latter, the rule was prayer offered to God ‘through Christ’”; or as he puts it more succinctly, “although the prayer to 22

For the text and translation of the Barcelona Papyrus, see Michael Zheltov, “The Anaphora and the Thanksgiving Prayer from the Barcelona Papyrus: An Underestimated Testimony to the Anaphoral History in the Fourth Century,” VC 62 (2008): 467–504. 23 For the Egyptian prayers, see Alistair C. Stewart, Two Early Egyptian Liturgical Papyri (Alcuin/GROW Joint Liturgical Studies 70; Norwich, U.K.: Hymns Ancient and Modern, 2010), 10, 25, 27, 39. 24 For an English translation, see Teresa M. Shaw, “Pseudo-Athanasius, Discourse on Salvation to a Virgin,” in Religions of Late Antiquity in Practice (ed. Richard Valantasis; Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000), 82–99, here at 92. 25 Pliny, Ep. 10.96; Latin text and English translation in Pliny, Letters (ed. Betty Radice; LCL 59; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1969), 288–89.

The Status of Jesus in Early Christian Prayer Texts

257

Christ was in use by the faithful from the earliest times, it was denied a home for a long time in the solemn public worship of the community.”26 Such a rigid distinction between popular piety and official liturgy is, however, anachronistic for the first few centuries of Christianity, and we should also expect that prayers that were said in communal gatherings would have influenced how individuals prayed on their own, and viceversa.27 Furthermore, there is second- and third-century evidence that at least some Christians were addressing Christ directly in their prayers – not just associating his name with God in the ways in which Larry Hurtado has extensively demonstrated from the first century onwards,28 but invoking him on his own. Although much of this occurs in prayers contained within apocryphal scriptures, it should not be written off solely for that reason. While some allowance needs to be made for the fact that these are literary and not liturgical texts and also for the particular styles and biases of the individuals and communities that produced and circulated these works, an impenetrable iron curtain should not be erected by scholars between the worship of such communities and those of the wider Christian culture of the particular region. Our knowledge of the initiation and eucharistic practices of Christians in third-century Syria, for example, has to rest to a very large degree on such sources, because of the paucity of alternative texts from that time and place. Prayers addressed directly to Jesus rather than to God predominate among those quoted in these scriptures, although invocations made to the Holy Spirit are also found. Two examples taken from descriptions of the celebration of the Eucharist in the Acts of Thomas must suffice to illustrate this trend: Jesus, who deemed us worthy to partake of the eucharist of your sacred body and blood,29 now we make bold to approach your eucharist and to call on your holy name. Come and partake with us. (49)

26 Josef Jungmann, The Place of Christ in Liturgical Prayer (London: Chapman, 1965), 170–71, 213. See also ibid., 160: “even in the earliest Fathers there is evidence of private prayers to Jesus and of hymns of praise to him.” 27 See further Paul F. Bradshaw, “God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit in Early Christian Praying,” in The Place of Christ in Liturgical Prayer: Christology, Trinity, and Liturgical Theology (ed. Bryan D. Spinks; Collegeville, Minn.: The Liturgical Press, 2008), 51– 64, here at 52–54. 28 See, for example, Larry Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2003). 29 Both body and blood are mentioned in this particular instance, although the rite involves only bread.

258

Paul Bradshaw

We eat your holy body that was crucified for us, and we drink for our salvation your blood that was shed for us. Therefore, let your body become our salvation, and your blood produce remission of sins. (158)30

Evidence for prayers addressed to Jesus, even if not the texts of prayers themselves, however, also occurs in other parts of the ancient Christian world. Some of this is admittedly ambiguous. Thus, when Tertullian speaks of Jesus being “awakened at the last times by the prayers of the saints” to calm the world and restore tranquility (De baptismo 12.7), he does not necessarily mean prayers addressed specifically to him; nor, when he mentions disparagingly the practice of saying the words “for ever and ever” to anyone other than “God and Christ” (De spectaculis 25.5), must one conclude that the doxology was addressed equally to both. Instead, it may mean only that Christ was referred to in some way within it. On the other hand, while Origen is among the most forceful advocates that prayer should be offered only to the Father (“if we give heed to what prayer properly is, surely prayer is to be addressed to no man born of woman, not even to Christ himself, but to the God and Father of all alone”31), he is also our clearest witness to the fact that others were addressing prayer to Christ, or perhaps to Christ together with the Father. He asks: “Are we not divided if some of us pray to the Father and some to the Son, inasmuch as they who pray to the Son, whether with or without the Father, commit a foolish sin in great simplicity because of their lack of discernment and criticism?”32 In his Dialogue with Heraclides, he is more explicit as to the context of this praying. He insists that “the offering” should be made to God through Christ, and that it should “not be made twice,” that is, that the eucharistic prayer should not be addressed both to the Father and to the Son.33 Such an admonition only makes sense if there were actually people who were doing just that. Some scholars would try to minimize the significance of these remarks, claiming that they were directed to the activities of some small heretical group and so not testimony for more widespread deviancy from an alleged norm. But there is no evidence that it should be restricted in this way. And indeed, the fact that North African ecclesiastical legislation at the end of the fourth century found it necessary to stipulate, “let no one in prayers name either the Father instead of the Son, or the Son instead of the Father; and when one 30

English translation by Harold W. Attridge, The Acts of Thomas (Salem, Ore.: Polebridge Press, 2010) 53, 117. 31 Origen, Or. 15.1; English translation from E. G. Jay, Origen’s Treatise on Prayer (London: SPCK, 1954), 126. 32 Origen, Or. 16.1; English translation from Jay, Origen’s Treatise on Prayer, 130. 33 Origen, Dial. 4. For this interpretation of the phrase, see Allan Bouley, From Freedom to Formula: The Evolution of the Eucharistic Prayer from Oral Improvisation to Written Texts (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1981), 140–41.

The Status of Jesus in Early Christian Prayer Texts

259

stands at the altar, let prayer always be directed to the Father,”34 demonstrates just how widespread and persistent the practice was. What is more, even Origen himself was not above addressing his own prayers to Christ. Having said that supplication may be made “to saints, provided a Paul or a Peter may be found,35 that they may help us, making us worthy of attaining the power given to them of remitting sins,” he continues: “Now if these prayers are rightly offered to men who are saints, how much more ought we to give thanks to Christ who has shown us such great kindness by the will of the Father! But we must also make intercession to him.”36 This statement might perhaps be understood to mean that intercession should be addressed to God through Christ, but in his Contra Celsum he is more specific: “We have to send up every petition, prayer, intercession, and thanksgiving to the supreme God through the high priest of all angels, the living and divine Logos. We will even make our petitions to the very Logos himself and offer intercession to him and give thanks and also pray to him, if we are capable of a clear understanding of the absolute and the relative sense of prayer.”37 What he seems to be saying here is that it is wrong for others to pray directly to Christ because they do not have a proper understanding of what they are doing and of the relationship of Christ to God, but that it is acceptable for him to do so because he knows that such an address is only relative and not absolute. As he explains later in the same work, “we ought to pray to the supreme God alone, and to pray besides to the only-begotten Logos of God, the firstborn of all creation; and we ought to beseech him, as a high priest, to bear our prayer, when it has reached him, up to his God and our God and to his Father and the Father of people who live according to the word of God.” 38 To this evidence may be added a whole catalogue of brief prayers to Christ scattered throughout Origen’s writings.39 Thus, the status accorded to Jesus in early Christian prayer texts is not the simple matter that it is often made out to be. It is true that from earliest times a mediatorial role is assigned to him in some sources – as the one through whom God’s revelation had been brought and as the high priestly 34

Canon 21 of the Council of Hippo Regius (393), repeated as Canon 34 of the Third Council of Carthage (397); Latin texts in Charles Munier, Concilia Africana a. 345–a. 525 (CCSL 149; Turnholt: Brepols, 1974), 39, 183. 35 I.e., someone who has the apostolic power of forgiving sins; see John 20:23. 36 Origen, Or. 14.6; English translation from Jay, Origen’s Treatise on Prayer, 126. 37 Origen, Cels. 5.4; English translation from Henry Chadwick, Origen: Contra Celsum (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953), 266. 38 Origen, Cels. 8.26; English translation from Chadwick, Origen: Contra Celsum, 471. 39 For examples, see Charles Bigg, The Christian Platonists of Alexandria (Oxford: Clarendon, 1913), 228–29 n. 1.

260

Paul Bradshaw

one through whom the praises and prayers of Christians were offered to God. But alongside that there soon arose in some circles a tradition of addressing prayers directly to him, with or without the Father. So widely pervasive is the evidence for such prayers that they cannot be assigned merely to the world of the deviant and heretical, nor to private devotion over against formal liturgical worship. And it appears that it was only in the changed atmosphere of the fourth century, when orthodox doctrine began to exercise a firmer influence on the formulation of liturgical language, that such practices were reined in and the so-called “classical” pattern of prayer being offered to the Father through the Son in the Spirit came to predominate.

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas1 SUSAN E. MYERS Scholars of Christian liturgy, notably the twentieth-century Austrian scholar Josef Jungmann and those who comment on his work, have raised questions concerning whether (and when) Jesus is addressed in prayer in extant writings from the early centuries of Christianity.2 Jungmann asserted that, although prayers directed to Jesus existed in early Christianity, these were anomalous; it was only after the rise of Arianism in the fourth century that formal prayers were directed toward Jesus. Later scholars have challenged some of Jungmann’s assertions, his methodology, and his exclusion of certain texts from the corpus he consulted.3 This essay, by an 1

I offer this essay to my Doktorvater Harry Attridge, in gratitude for all he has taught me. I also wish to thank those who read this essay and provided feedback: Paul Bradshaw, Susan Graham, Richard Pervo, and Marisa Plevak. 2 Jungmann’s Die Stellung Christi im liturgischen Gebet was first published in 1925 (Münster in Westfalen: Aschendorff). The second edition appeared in 1962 and was translated into English as The Place of Christ in Liturgical Prayer (trans. A. Peeler; Staten Island, N.Y.: Alba House; London: Chapman); this translation was republished by Chapman (and simultaneously by the Liturgical Press in Collegeville, Minn.) in 1989 with a forward by Balthasar Fischer. A helpful translation of Jungmann’s Greek and Latin passages can be found in A Translation of the Latin Texts and Select Greek Passages in Joseph A. Jungmann’s “The Place of Christ in Liturgical Prayer” (trans. Gerald J. Milske; 1989?). Jungmann presented his thesis essentially unchanged also in a 1947 essay, “Die Abwehr des germanischen Arianismus und der Umbruch der religiösen Kultur im frühen Mittelalter,” ZKT 69 (1947): 36–99, published in English as “The Defeat of Teutonic Arianism and the Revolution in Religious Culture in the Early Middle Ages,” in Pastoral Liturgy (New York: Herder and Herder, 1962). His influence could be felt in liturgical discussion through much of the twentieth century. A collection of essays, stemming from a 2005 conference and responding in part to Jungmann’s claims, bears the title The Place of Christ in Liturgical Prayer: Trinity, Christology, and Liturgical Theology (ed. Bryan D. Spinks; Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2008). 3 Jungmann’s standard for acceptable prayer is fairly simple. Building on the claim by Origen that liturgical prayer in the earliest churches was directed to the Father, through the Son, and in the Holy Spirit (Or. 33.1), Jungmann declares that any evidence of aberrations from this norm indicates either the reality of private prayer, heretical practices undeserving of attention, or post-conciliar attempts to give greater honor to Jesus in light

262

Susan E. Myers

outsider to the area of liturgical scholarship, offers a fresh appraisal of some of the liturgical prayers known from the third-century Christian novel 4 the Acts of Thomas, including prayers offered directly to Jesus,5 as well as diverse prayers that suggest an array of heavenly realities that were encountered through liturgical prayer and action. Evidence from the early centuries of Christianity in Northern Mesopotamia suggests that the experience of the divine in this region was multi-faceted and vibrant; any assessment of prayer encounters in earliest Christianity must take into account the evidence from this region with its distinctive traditions.6

Use of the Acts of Thomas in Discussing Prayer Patterns Jungmann understandably ignored the prayers of the Acts of Thomas and other apocryphal acts, since they do nothing to further his thesis. The novel contains numerous and lengthy prayers addressed to Jesus, as well as prayers that seem to begin to address one figure and then shift to another, often of subordination of the Son to the Father in the Arian system. Jungmann’s concerns, therefore, were primarily with demonstrating the intersection of public prayer practice with doctrinal formulations. 4 I focus on the more primitive Greek version of the work, but with an eye toward the Syriac as well. 5 Because Jungmann was convinced that certain types of Christianity in the early centuries, even prior to Nicea, were “heretical,” he chose not to examine evidence from literature that challenged his thesis, including that represented by the Apocryphal Acts and other popular literature. Even among the authors he consulted, and indeed in the New Testament itself, there are prayers to Jesus as well as those that avoid directly invoking Jesus, as recent scholars have shown: see especially the essays in the volume The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St. Andrews Conference on the Historical Origins of the Worship of Jesus (ed. Carey C. Newman, James R. Davila, and Gladys S. Lewis; JSJSup 63; Leiden: Brill, 1999), and those in Spinks, The Place of Christ in Liturgical Prayer. 6 Related to the issue of whether prayer was offered to Jesus is the question of worshipping Jesus: Does the reality of address to Jesus in prayer necessitate an identification of him as worthy of adoration or indeed as divine? A lively debate on these issues currently ensues. Among New Testament scholars, see, for example, the work of Larry Hurtado, especially Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2003); Richard Bauckham, Jesus and the God of Israel: “God Crucified” and Other Studies on the New Testament’s Christology of Divine Identity (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2008); and James D. G. Dunn, Did the First Christians Worship Jesus?: The New Testament Evidence (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2010); as well as essays in the volumes mentioned in note 5. While not directly concerned with these questions, this essay touches on the implications of prayers addressed to Jesus – or to other heavenly realities – in the Acts of Thomas.

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

263

Jesus. Some prayers seem to apply attributes to Jesus that are striking or might otherwise be applied to “Father,” to God, or to Spirit. There are prayers explicitly addressed to the Spirit, while several prayers call upon such heavenly realities as “waters,” “mercy,” or “oil” to be present in the liturgical elements or in the community gathered to pray. Although a triadic formula of Father, Son, and Spirit does appear in ritual settings, 7 communication with the divine is not limited to the formula of prayer to the Father, through the Son, and in the Spirit. Rather, the Acts of Thomas attests to a lively style of prayer addressed to various stated recipients, and expressed for a variety of purposes. The work contains prayers of praise,8 prayers that recount the apostle’s life and deeds,9 and prayers that make requests, whether to seal doors that had been miraculously opened (ch. 161), to redirect the flow of waters that had protected the apostle from torture by fire (ch. 141), or to protect the soul on its heavenly journey (chs. 148:4–5; 167). Numerous prayers in the work make christological claims, often recalling events from the gospels or asserting that Jesus is a revealer, a healer, or one who gives eternal life.10 Especially notable in this work are the prayers offered in liturgical settings and calling on a heavenly reality to be present. The Acts of Thomas has been discounted in analysis of liturgical language, since it is not a liturgical text but rather a novel, and the prayers contained in it are therefore of a private nature, and because it does not represent a standard form of Christianity later deemed “orthodox.”11 It is necessary to respond briefly to these claims. While many of the prayers in the Acts of Thomas are not set in liturgical settings, the work includes five initiatory scenes that provide valuable evidence for early Christian ritual practices in the region of Syria. Not only do these scenes include prayers to Jesus, but they offer a glimpse into the fascinating style of liturgical prayer that was apparently known in the region from which the work arose. In addition, as Paul Bradshaw rightly points out, any distinction between 7

And, in a non-ritual setting, at 96:4 and, in the Syriac, at ch. 70. For the ritual use of the triadic formula, see chs. 27:10; 49:4; 121:7; 132:7; and 157:16. 8 See, for example, the various “Glory to you” prayers, such as those in chs. 59, 80, and 153. 9 See especially the middle of the lengthy prayer near the end of the apostle’s life (the prayer is found in chs. 144–148; the account of the apostle’s life is in ch. 147) and, to a much lesser extent, the prayer in ch. 167. 10 The composite character of the work makes a systematic presentation of the novel’s Christology an especially formidable, if not impossible, task. 11 Jungmann’s third reason for disregarding a prayer addressed to Jesus – that it was an attempt, in response to Arian subordination of the Son, to give greater honor to Jesus – cannot be said of the Acts of Thomas, since it antedates the Arian controversy, and Jungmann does not reject the Acts of Thomas for this reason.

264

Susan E. Myers

public and private prayer in the early centuries of Christianity is anachronistic, pointing to later liturgical developments.12 Finally, since the Acts of Thomas stems from an area that was sometimes outside the Roman Empire, with different political, cultural, and linguistic norms from those in other areas where Christianity flourished, one cannot expect it to conform to norms found elsewhere. The principal objection, however, to use of the Acts of Thomas and similar works in assessing prayer practices is the association of the work with unacceptable heretical groups, especially gnostics.13 Indeed, Epiphanius14 declares that gnostics employed the Acts of Thomas, while Augustine15 attests its use by Manichaeans. The use of a work by an identifiable group does not, however, indicate the work’s origin; rejection of a writing on the basis of its use by gnostic Christians would, of course, require rejection of such a writing as the Gospel of John. But there remains the possibility that the Acts of Thomas employs gnostic concepts and could have been produced by gnostic Christians or had gnostic elements incorporated into it. This was the premise of much scholarly work on the novel in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.16 More recent studies have questioned widespread application of the term “gnostic” to texts and groups in earliest Christianity, since many of the elements identified as “gnostic” can be found also in anti-gnostic writers. There is certainly no evidence that a member of a group identifying itself as the gnostikoi produced or compiled the Acts of Thomas, nor does the work include reference to the gnostic cosmogonic myth. It does, however, include elements that are found also in gnostic texts, whether known from the heresiologists or from the gnostic library found at Nag Hammadi. Far from indicating the specifically gnostic character of the work, this reality of shared elements suggests that there 12

Paul Bradshaw, “God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit in Early Christian Praying,” in Spinks, The Place of Christ in Liturgical Prayer, 51–64; here p. 53. Jungmann acknowledges that prayers to Jesus existed prior to the fourth century, but alleges that they are not part of “official” liturgical prayers. See Jungmann, The Place of Christ in Liturgical Prayer, 170–71. 13 Jungmann, The Place of Christ in Liturgical Prayer, 164–73. 14 Pan. 47.1. 15 Faust. 22.79. 16 Many early scholars on the Acts of Thomas sought gnostic parallels with concepts found in the work, of necessity working from evidence for gnostic thought provided by the heresiologists. Richard A. Lipsius, Wilhelm Bousset, and Günther Bornkamm made the case most strongly: Richard Adelbert Lipsius, Die apokryphen Apostelgeschichten und Apostellegenden (2 pts. in 3 vols.; Braunschweig: Schwetschke, 1883–1887), 1:225– 347; Wilhelm Bousset, Hauptprobleme der Gnosis (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1907); Günther Bornkamm, Mythos und Legende in den apokryphen Thomas-Akten: Beiträge zur Geschichte der Gnosis und zur Vorgeschichte des Manichäismus (FRLANT 49; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1933).

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

265

were motifs and allusions that were valued by various Christians, and a fluidity of thought and expression, at least in some regions, prior to the great doctrinal debates of the fourth century and beyond. The distinctive language of the Acts of Thomas reflects a regional flavor, outside the bounds of Greek- and Latin-speaking Christianity. Finally, although there can be no question that lively debates and mutual condemnations were found between various Christians in the early centuries, it is misleading to speak of the Acts of Thomas as representative of recognized heresies in the era and region from which it originates. Instead, this early Christian novel gives witness to a type of Christianity, with its earthy appeal and colorful language, that was at home in eastern Syria in the early to mid-third century.

Prayers to Jesus throughout the Acts of Thomas The Acts of Thomas, then, contains many prayers that appeal directly to Jesus, although this is by no means the only pattern of prayer found in the work. We shall turn first to consider a sampling of such prayers throughout the Acts of Thomas before addressing those appeals found in specifically ritual settings within the work. The Acts of Thomas can be divided roughly in half, with the first half comprising discrete stories of the apostle’s travels and adventures, while the second half tells a unified story of Judas Thomas preaching the gospel of the new god to individuals associated with the court of King Mizdai. Act 1, an account of the apostle’s sale as a slave and attendance at the wedding of a king’s daughter, reflects many of the values of the second half of the work and probably stems from the same hand that wrote the unified story found there. This author not only wrote the second half of the novel, but also edited the entire work.17 At the wedding, the apostle prays over the couple and their retinue in the bridal chamber, then leaves, only to be replaced by Jesus, in the form of the apostle, who convinces the couple to renounce sexual expression in order to devote themselves to their newfound love, Jesus. Thomas’s prayer, directed to “my Lord and my God,” makes several interesting claims about the addressee of the prayer. 17 On the composite nature of the work, see Yves Tissot, “Les actes de Thomas, exemple de recueil composite,” in Les actes apocryphes des Apôtres: Christianisme et monde païen (ed. François Bovon et al.; Publications de la Faculté de Théologie de l’Université de Genève 4; Geneva: Labor et Fides, 1981), 223–32. For discussion of the author of the second half of the Act of Thomas as redactor of the whole, see my Spirit Epicleses in the Acts of Thomas (WUNT 2.281; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), esp. 30– 34.

266

Susan E. Myers

The initial form of address in ch. 10 clearly reflects Thomas’s declaration in the Gospel of John 20:28; it is not until halfway through the prayer that the speaker appeals directly to Jesus. Yet the entire prayer reveals much about the author’s understanding of Jesus. There is not a great deal of surprise here; much of the prayer reflects traditions known from early writings, including biblical materials. Jesus is, for example, a companion to those who serve him, a sentiment appropriate to a story of an itinerant Christian preacher; the idea is found also in a speech of the apostle in chapter 37.18 He is the “hope of the poor and redeemer of those imprisoned,” perhaps reflecting the application in Luke 4:18–19 of the words of the prophet (Isa 61:1) to Jesus. He is the “savior” (e.g., Phil 3:20) who gives life to the world (John 6:51), and the “Son of the living God” (Matt 16:16).19 Yet there are also distinctive emphases in this prayer reflective of other prayers in the Acts of Thomas, as well as additional striking features. The prayer of the apostle in chapter 10 of the Acts of Thomas reveals an understanding of the addressee that is evident in several other prayers within the work.20 Jesus is, for example, said to be “refuge” and “rest.” The term katafugh/ appears five times in the Acts of Thomas, three times in prayers that give the appearance of having been inserted into their present location in the work.21 “Rest” (a0na/pausiv) is also a feature of such 18 The idea also seems to appear in the Homilies of Narsai. See Homily 32, in the Liturgical Homilies of Narsai (trans. R. H. Connolly; Cambridge: University Press, 1909), 63. In Israel’s tradition, God often guides the Hebrew people, while the role is given to the figure of Wisdom in wisdom literature (e.g., Wis 7:15 or 9:11). The Spirit of truth provides guidance in the Gospel of John (16:13). 19 For Pauline allusions in the Acts of Thomas, see Harold W. Attridge, “Paul and the Domestication of Thomas,” in Theology and Ethics in Paul and his Interpreters: Essays in Honor of Victor Paul Furnish (ed. Eugene H. Lovering and Jerry L. Sumney; Nashville, Tenn.: Abingdon: 1996), 218–31. 20 In this prayer, the addressee is Jesus. While this is often true of other prayers in the work, there are exceptions that will be discussed below. 21 On this phenomenon of independent prayers (whether or not written by the author/redactor of the Act of Thomas) inserted into the work, see ch. 3 of my Spirit Epicleses. The related katafu/gion appears six times, including once in the prayer under consideration, once in an initiatory epiclesis in ch. 27, twice in ch. 46, where a demon gives advice to “take refuge in one greater than I,” and in prayers of the apostle in chs. 48 and 67. The word katafugh/ is used in a brief prayer of Mygdonia in ch. 98 and in a statement by the apostle in ch. 102. In addition to its appearance in the prayer in ch. 10, it is used also in lengthy prayers in chs. 60 and 156. In ch. 156, the prayer immediately precedes an initiation ceremony and mention is made of the initiands in the words of Thomas. Most of the prayer, however, has little to do with the immediate context, although it shares a number of elements with other distinctive prayers in the Acts of Thomas. The prayer in ch. 60 follows a description of a tour of hell and the subsequent transformation of those who heard the tale. Mention of gifts being brought to completion, for which thanksgiving is also made, suggests the possibility that the prayer was originally com-

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

267

prayers; the same phrase “refuge and rest” is used in chapter 60 as well as here in chapter 10. Indeed, throughout this work and elsewhere, initiates are provided protection,22 which enables them to find rest.23 In this prayer, Jesus is i0atro/v, “healer” of souls, a claim found elsewhere in this work;24 although other doctors heal only bodies (ch. 95), Jesus heals bodies and souls (ch. 156). He is one with understanding and he reveals that which is hidden. The verb e0pi/stamai is used of a heavenly figure in only three instances in the Acts of Thomas: here, in chapter 10, Jesus knows things coming in the future, whereas in chapter 80, “Christ” is addressed as one who understands the “workings of the mind.” The Spirit in chapter 50 is declared as one who comprehends the “mysteries of the chosen one.” In all of these instances, the addressee is also a revealer figure, making manifest things that are hidden (or, in ch. 80, revealing “the way of truth”). In particular, the Spirit epicleses of chapters 27 and 50 use almost identical language (“revealer of hidden mysteries”; “one who discloses what is secret”) to that in chapter 10. In chapter 39, rest itself is hidden, but made manifest in action. Animals know that Thomas bears a secret message (chs. 39 and 78), apparently aware of the tradition found in the Gospel of Thomas 13 that Jesus revealed things privately to Thomas. Finally, Jesus has “power” over the enemy, as also in the prayer in chapter 39. “Power” features prominently in the final initiation scene of the work; indeed it appears in all of the initiation scenes in the work save one (that in chs. 49 and 50).25 The statement about Jesus’ “power” appears in the section of the prayer in chapter 10 in which Jesus’ name is used and in which several conventional claims are made about him: twice called “Christ,” he is also “compassionate Son,” “perfect Savior,” and “Son of the living God.” The appeal posed for or used in a liturgical context. No sacramental activity appears here; the prayer of ch. 60 moves into the “Look on us” prayer of ch. 61, which emphasizes the family and possessions left behind by adherents of the one to whom the prayer is addressed. 22 One of the functions of the initiatory seal (or sign in Syriac) is to protect those who have received it. The woman in ch. 49 requests the “seal” in order to protect her from a demon who had possessed her. The apostle declares in ch. 157 that initiation provides “defense from the adversary,” while he prays in ch. 25 that the initiands be guarded from the “wolves.” 23 For discussions of “rest” in other early Christian writings, see Judith Hoch Wray, Rest as a Theological Metaphor in the Epistle to the Hebrews and the Gospel of Truth: Early Christian Homilies of Rest (SBLDS 166; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1998), and Jan Helderman, Die Anapausis im Evangelium Veritatis: Eine vergleichende Untersuchung des valentinianisch-gnostischen Heilsgutes der Ruhe im Evangelium Veritatis und in anderen Schriften der Nag Hammadi-Bibliothek (NHS 18; Leiden: Brill, 1984). 24 He is healer of bodies in a speech in ch. 37, is said to heal the sick in a prayer in ch. 47 and the weary in ch. 60, and is declared healer of his own possessions in ch. 143. 25 It appears in the (discrete) scene that follows immediately after ch. 50, in which the apostle prays that heavenly powers come to dwell in the waters he is blessing.

268

Susan E. Myers

to one who is “compassionate” is common in the Acts of Thomas; some form of the term eu0splagxni/a or of spla/gxnon can be found not only here in chapter 10 but in all of the prayers that we will examine, within or immediately preceding or following every initiatory scene in the work, and in several other places as well.26 “Compassionate” designates the divine here, in the epicleses found in initiatory settings in chapters 27 and 50, and in prayers of the apostle near (ch. 122) or in prison (ch. 160). The compassion may be perfected (chs. 27, 39, 50, and 48) or be the source of the one addressed (ch. 48: “voice arisen from perfect compassion”); indeed, Jesus is the “son of compassion” in chapters 10 and 156. In chapter 10, power and compassion are not antithetical, but different ways of describing the same reality that is Jesus. Two elements in the prayer in chapter 10 and present in several places in the Acts of Thomas reveal ideas that are endemic to this region, but often appraised quite differently. The apostle refers to Jesus as the one who has descended to Hades. The concept of a descent to hell, building on the ambiguous comment of 1 Pet 3:19–20, will become quite popular in the Syrian tradition. The idea is represented not only here in chapter 10 (in which Jesus, the ambassador from on high, descends to Hades to open locked doors), but also in chapter 156, which declares that Jesus descended into Hades with power and ascended with glory.27 While this image flourished in Christian thinking, especially in the east, the corresponding element in the prayer did not. The prayer in chapter 10 addresses the one who descends to Hades as the “voice that has been heard by the rulers.”28 The idea of Jesus as the “voice” is echoed also in chapter 48, in which the voice has arisen from perfect mercy, similar to the “voice” of chapter 156, which has “come from on high.” Hippolytus29 indicates that the gnostic Peratae spoke of a figure who could be called a “voice” that aroused the sleeping; the concept of heavenly “rulers” who impeded the path of the soul was known to several gnostic schools. But the statement need not suggest gnostic influence; it could simply be a reflection on John 5:25 (“the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who hear will live”) coupled with the concept of demonic powers not uncommon in the ancient world.30 26 “Compassion” describes Jesus, but is also a quality of the apostle (ch. 20) or is desirable for humans to display (as in ch. 29) or receive from God (ch. 87). 27 Perhaps also in ch. 60, in which the apostle addresses a prayer to the “Living One,” who gives life to those who are dead. 28 The Syriac (which has significantly different material in this prayer) reads, “You called with your voice to the dead and they became alive.” 29 Haer. 5.9.1. 30 A few examples will suffice: Matt 9:34; Mark 3:22; 1 Cor 10:21; Porphyry (apud Eusebius, Praep. ev. 4.22.15) speaks of a ruler of evil spirits.

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

269

The prayer in chapter 10, then, has a concept of Jesus as a heavenly figure who guides, heals, and cares for humans, who reveals that which is hidden, who defeats the enemy, and who has acted even in behalf of the dead. Many of these elements are seen in other prayers in the Acts of Thomas; we turn now to a brief presentation of distinctive characteristics of a few prayers. Chapter 39. In a prayer that directly appeals to Jesus with the opening words “Oh Jesus Christ,” we meet again the concept of hidden realities and victory over the enemy. Images abound in the prayer in chapter 39, following immediately upon the speech of an ass (and therefore including a line about Jesus speaking through dumb animals). The first image is that of a spring or fountain; although the “savior of souls” is called an everlasting spring, 31 the metaphor is never developed. The savior32 as “fountain,” rather than supplying refreshment, is said to be defender and helper. The notion of defender against the “enemy” develops into that of an “unconquered athlete” and even a victorious general. The idea of Jesus as an athlete involved in a contest is suggested in the epiclesis in chapter 50, which states that the addressee, the Spirit, shares in the contests of the athlete. Jesus directs the contest in chapter 33, while chastity33 is the unconquered athlete of Thomas’s speech in chapters 83–86.34 The idea of rest becomes respite (a1nesiv)35 and is associated with joy (as also in Thomas’s prison prayer of ch. 142). The final image in the prayer is that of Jesus as good shepherd, a clear reference to John 10:11, but also alluded to in the mention elsewhere of the “flock” (chs. 25, 67, 156). Chapters 47 and 48. There can be no mistake that the lengthy prayer of chapters 47 and 48 is addressed to Jesus: the name appears five times at the beginning of most lines in chapter 47 and opens chapter 48 as well. Again, Jesus is the hidden mystery that has been revealed and again called “voice,” but this prayer reveals knowledge of elements from various gos31

In the Hebrew tradition, fountains indicate divine blessing (Joel 3:18), provide for cleansing of sin (Zech 13:1), and are associated with salvation (Isa 12:3). In Wisdom literature, water imagery describes wise teachings (Prov 13:14) or the wise teacher (Sir 24:30) and the Mosaic law becomes an overflowing river in Sir 24. Drinking of the water quenches thirst and fills the drinker with wisdom in 1 En. 48:1. For Jeremiah, the fountain of living water is God (Jer 2:13; 17:13), a concept that is echoed in the Odes of Solomon, which speak of imbibing of the “living fountain of the Lord” (Ode 30) which brings “rest.” See also the satisfying fountain in AcThom 25 and 37. 32 Both here and in ch. 10, “savior” appears in the Greek, where the Syriac has “messiah.” 33 Syriac: qadishuta. 34 Narsai speaks of the newly baptized emerging from the font as athletes in Homily 21. See Connolly, Liturgical Homilies of Narsai, 54. 35 As also in the epiclesis in ch. 50, where it likewise immediately follows mention of the “athlete.”

270

Susan E. Myers

pels, including the Gospel of Thomas. Explicit mention is made of the “three words” told to the apostle and not revealed to others (Gos. Thom 13), but most allusions are to canonical stories. Not only is there mention of Jesus’ death and burial, but also of his ministry: he is one who “brings the dead to life and heals the sick,” who catches fish for meals but provides bread for others, the one who walks on water. Chapter 48 provides reflection on theological claims as well as events from Jesus’ life; he is, for example, both the one judged and tormented in prison and the one who releases those bound. As in chapter 39, he is the cause of life. The careful antitheses in both chapters suggest a conscious presentation of a balanced Christology.36 Jesus is, for example, the one who has died and also the one who brings life and healing. He is the “only begotten,” but also the “firstborn of many brothers and sisters”; “God from God Most High,” but also the “man despised until now.” Chapters 60 and 61. The patterned repetition in chapter 47 (of Jesus’ name) assumes a different configuration in the prayer of chapters 60 and 61. The pattern of beginning lines with “glory” is quickly dropped in chapter 60, but the entire chapter 61 is ordered with lines that begin “Look on us.” As before, the addressee is clearly Jesus (mentioned explicitly only once), and, as in chapter 48, Jesus is called “only begotten” and “firstborn of many brothers and sisters.” As seen before, he is defender, helper, and provider of refuge, rest, and healing.37 What is unique is that he is called “sleepless one who awakens those who are asleep,” perhaps another allusion to the tradition of a descent into hell, especially since it is followed by reference to the living one “who gives life to those who lie in death.” Most striking, however, is the plea to bring gifts to completion and a shift in focus to those of “us,” who are said to have left homes, parents, property, kinsfolk, family members, and spouses in order to share in the “true communion” and to partake of “true fruits.” Presumably, in its present context, the prayer is to be understood to refer to “all the people” who had previously “believed” and provided for others, as described in chapter 59. The awkwardness of the shift in subject, the anaphoral repetition of “look on us,” the abruptness of the ending (at the conclusion of an act) and the content of the prayer in chapter 61 suggest that it was initially independent and inserted into its current location. This may be true also of the prayer in chapter 60 (which contains suggestions of liturgical origins) or indeed of many of the prayers that we are examining. 36 Not unlike those of Ignatius (Eph. 7.2); Melito (Peri Pascha 5–12); Origen (Comm. Jo. 20.11), etc. 37 This is, in the words of A. F. J. Klijn, “a doxology in which Christ is named with names similar to those found in c. 10, 39 and 48” (Klijn, The Acts of Thomas: Introduction-Text-Commentary [NovTSup 5; Leiden: Brill, 1962], 254).

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

271

Chapter 80. The “Glory to you” prayer in chapter 80, with its repetition of the word “glory,” its balanced presentation of ideas, and its lack of contribution to the forward movement of the story,38 gives evidence of having originated in a quasi-liturgical setting or of having been composed for the present context. In this respect, it is much like the other prayers that we have examined and, indeed, like other prayers throughout the work. In content, the “Glory to you” prayer shares motifs with these prayers that appear to be independent in origin, motifs that are often quite distinct from the surrounding narrative. The most interesting aspects of the “Glory to you” prayer are elements that we have already discussed, since this prayer shares features with the prayers in chs. 10, 39, and 47. The apostle addresses Jesus (also called “my Christ”) and speaks of his mercy and pity (balanced with statements of his “majesty” and “strength”) as well as his role as revealer. Jesus is himself called “hidden” (immediately before the declaration of his revelatory role), and is also the “restful one” who has “achieved rest.” As in other prayers, concerted effort is made to present a balanced Christology; for example, “Glory to your divinity”39 is followed by “Glory to your humanity.” Brief allusions to the gospels may be found in the praise given to Jesus’ resurrection and to his ascent, and the declaration that he will judge the twelve tribes of Israel, as well as the statement that he is the lo/gov of the Father. The prayer is preceded by the declaration that Jesus knows what is in the heart and understands the human mind. Chapter 156. Although lacking any direct address to Jesus, the prayer in chapter 156 is clearly offered to him. Not only are there appellations (e.g., “voice,” “physician”) that are used of Jesus elsewhere in the work, but the prayer makes reference to Jesus’ desert fasting and elements of his ministry, as well as his crucifixion, descent into Hades, and ascension. Unlike some of the other prayers that we have examined, this prayer contains, incorporated into it, a direct reference to the surrounding narrative.40 The apostle prays specifically for several characters in the story (soon to be initiated), asking that they may be gathered into the “fold,” using the image 38

Indeed, this entire section is an interruption of the story. Two women fall down as if dead in ch. 75 and are ignored until the apostle speaks over them in ch. 81. The intervening material includes a lengthy speech by the demon that had attacked the women, a conversation between the apostle and demons, a speech of the ass that had carried Thomas, made to the apostle alone, a speech of the ass to the crowds assembled, and the apostle’s “Glory to you” prayer. Lengthy speeches and prayers that do nothing to move the story forward are common occurrences in this work and demonstrate its composite character. 39 This is the only explicit mention of Jesus’ divinity found in the entire work, although the phrase “My Lord and my God” is addressed to him in prayer on four occasions. 40 This can be said also of the prayer in ch. 25.

272

Susan E. Myers

of a sheepfold that we noted also in prayers in chapters 25 and 67. As also in other prayers, Jesus is asked to be a guide for the initiands, and their physician, of both body and soul, as well as their rest. He is also hope and refuge, and the “voice from on high.” Interestingly, it is only here in the Acts of Thomas that Jesus is called e9tai=rov, friend. Other elements, although familiar from earlier prayers, especially that in chapter 10, are concretized; as katafugh/ (refuge), Jesus also becomes a lodging or harbor. At times the prayers in the Acts of Thomas do make some strong christological claims, such as the statements that “you alone are God and no other” (ch. 25), “Jesus, God of God, Savior” (ch. 47), or “God from God Most High” (ch. 48). Also found are the claims that Jesus is “in all things” and “pervade[s] all things” (ch. 10). At the same time, Jesus is clearly “Son of the living God” (ch. 10), “the heavenly word of the Father” (ch. 80) who is “sent from on high” (ch. 156). One must recall, of course, that this work antedates the doctrinal definitions reached in the fourth-century councils, at which clarity of expression was demanded. Indeed, even some of the strongest statements presented here were eventually adopted in creedal formulae. Rather than providing a “persistent equating and identification of Christ with God the Father,”41 the prayers attempt to explicate the bold christological statement on Thomas’s lips in the Gospel of John (20:28).42 This most notable declaration by the apostle, as known from the gospels, features prominently in the Act of Thomas; “My Lord and my God” appears four times in the work, all appropriately on the lips of the apostle.43 Throughout the prayers the author/redactor shows little interest in making ontological claims about God, but rather proclaims God’s relationship with humans, made manifest in the actions of Jesus. In doing so, the author/redactor does not hesitate to address Jesus directly. This survey of a few prayers found mainly in non-liturgical settings in the Acts of Thomas suggests several things. First, there exists an affinity between these various prayers to Jesus, often a likeness in content but also 41 So Jungmann, The Place of Christ in Liturgical Prayer, 168. This was one of Jungmann’s reasons for choosing to disregard evidence from the Apocryphal Acts in his assessment of early Christian prayer. 42 I leave open the question whether these prayers were traditional prayers taken over by the author/redactor and, if so, whether the author/redactor has modified the prayers to reflect personal theological values, or whether the prayers were composed for their present locations. In general, I suspect the former, with or without editorial modification: the author/redactor often seems to have chosen prayers for their theological themes, although the prayers use terms other than those found in sections clearly composed by the author/redactor. 43 And all, interestingly, in the unified story of the second half or in Act 1 (in the prayer in ch. 10), thus reflecting a common hand in these sections.

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

273

in form. The affinity between the prayers in chapters 10 and 156 in particular demonstrates the common values evident in the bridal story of Act 1 and the longer Mygdonia story found in the second half of the work. While the prayers in the Acts of Thomas contain distinctive images of Jesus, perhaps reflective of the type of Christianity found in the region of northern Mesopotamia, there is little if anything that can raise eyebrows here. Neither the prayers nor the Acts of Thomas itself can unequivocally be called gnostic, although gnostics and Manichaeans may have used similar terms and images and were certainly drawn to the work. For the scholar of early Christian prayer forms, evidence from the Acts of Thomas cannot be rejected but actually demonstrates some of the complexity of prayer in ancient Christianity. Indeed, the argument that prayer was never offered directly to Jesus – and subsequent rejection of prayers that were so offered – is clearly circular, serving only to reinforce the claim by ignoring the evidence. In terms of actual address to Jesus, the prayers we have examined evidence a range of practice. On the one extreme can be found the prayer in chapter 47, which calls on Jesus by name repeatedly. On the other extreme is the prayer in chapter 156, which makes no explicit mention of Jesus. Most often, however, can be found a single mention of the name of Jesus, followed by a variety of appellations. Several formal and informal characteristics of the prayers exist. All of the prayers evidence use of repetition in the form of the prayer, although this is more pronounced in some prayers than in others. All of these prayers, and indeed others in the Acts of Thomas, liberally employ allusion, relying on images and metaphors for Jesus or his actions. Reference can sometimes be made to events from Jesus’ life, but this is not required. Throughout, however, are found proclamations about Jesus’ benevolent role with respect to his adherents; he acts as their savior, healer, or guide, roles that cannot be assigned independent of the relationship between Jesus and his followers.

Prayers in Liturgical Settings Within the Acts of Thomas can be found five descriptions of initiation ceremonies, and one non-initiatory Eucharist.44 The initiatory scenes in this 44 The non-initiatory Eucharist of ch. 29 consists of a brief prayer while the bread (the only element in the Eucharist) is being distributed. The apostle does not direct a prayer to any particular figure but declares, “May this Eucharist produce compassion and pity and not judgment and retribution.” The lack of an addressee makes this prayer immaterial to our present investigation.

274

Susan E. Myers

work provide some of the earliest evidence for liturgical practice in Syriacspeaking Christianity as well as those traditions that depend on it; they will form the basis of the present discussion.45 Since one of the arguments advanced against the prevalence of prayers to Jesus in the pre-Nicene period is that prayers directed to Jesus do not represent “official,” liturgical prayers, it behooves us to examine the evidence that exists from this region. There is a wide variety in the rites described in the initiation scenes of the Acts of Thomas,46 and the prayers that accompany the rituals are similarly diverse, both in length and in the identity of the one addressed. Two include long prayers to the Spirit only, while other scenes have quite a variety: one scene comprises a prayer to the oil, another to the bread, and another to the “fruit,” probably the olive that produced the oil. Three initiation stories include prayers offered to Jesus, whether directly or indirectly. There is no prayer addressed generically to “God” and none directed to the “Father,” although every scene, in both Greek and Syriac, includes a threefold triadic formula of Father, Son, and Spirit at some point in the ritual. Of those rituals that include an appeal to Jesus, two address him rather

45

See especially the work of Gabriele Winkler on Syrian and Armenian rituals: Das armenische Initiationsrituale: Entwicklungsgeschichtliche und liturgievergleichende Untersuchung der Quellen des 3. bis 10. Jahrhunderts (OrChrAn 217; Rome: Pontificium Institutum Studiorum Orientalium, 1982); “The History of the Syriac Prebaptismal Anointing in the Light of the Earliest Armenian Sources,” in Symposium Syriacum 1976 (OrChrAn 205; Rome: Pontificium Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1978), 317–24; “Zur frühchristlichen Tauftradition in Syrien und Armenien unter Einbezug der Taufe Jesu,” Ostkirchliche Studien 27 (1978): 281–306. Paul Bradshaw (“God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit in Early Christian Praying,” 59) points out the inconsistency in declaring that the Acts of Thomas and other apocryphal acts do not represent “official” liturgical practice, when they are consulted for evidence of the earliest traditions. Bradshaw also rightly notes (p. 53) the variety that existed in liturgical celebration (and other aspects of Christian tradition) within the first few centuries and often even within a single region. 46 Two initation accounts, both in the first half of the work, completely lack baptism (although one, in ch. 27, is preceded by mention of a “bath” in ch. 25 in the Greek [mention of “bath” is absent from the Syriac in this scene, which does, ironically, include a baptism]). Of these two initiations, one involves a morning Eucharist, following an evening anointing, while the other lacks any ritual of anointing, but includes a nebulous “seal” (or “sign” in Syriac), followed by Eucharist. Three rituals (in chs. 121, 132–133, and 157–158) include anointing, followed by baptism and then Eucharist, but exceedingly brief is the description of Eucharist in one account and the descriptions of baptism in all of them (although there is a speech and prayer regarding baptism in ch. 132); only passing reference is made to anointing in ch. 132. Celebration of the Eucharist can consist of bread alone (chs. 27, 50, and 132); bread and a cup of water (ch. 121); or bread and a cup, the contents of which are unspecified (ch. 158).

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

275

briefly,47 while the third ritual consists of three prayers (in ch. 157), the first to multiple entities and the last two prayers, the second of which is quite brief, to Jesus. We shall examine each ritual and its corresponding prayers individually, before drawing final conclusions from the evidence. The first two rituals to consider are those found in the first half of the work. The prayers offered in these initiatory settings are strikingly similar, and distinct from any others within the work (and, indeed, elsewhere as well). Both are addressed to a feminine revelatory figure, 48 both include multiple requests for the divine figure to “come” followed by intriguing epithets, and both conclude with an appeal to the divine, whether to “cleanse and seal” the initiates, as in chapter 27, or to share with them in Eucharist, as in chapter 50. Because many of the same epithets are used in these two prayers, and because these prayers correspond with one another in form, it seems likely that the same figure, explicitly called “Holy Spirit” in the prayer in chapter 27, is addressed in both prayers. This is complicated, however, because the prayer in chapter 27, proclaimed over the oil of anointing and spoken during the anointing itself, opens by calling on the “holy name of Christ.” In addition, the prayer in chapter 50 is preceded by an appeal to Jesus to “come and partake with us,” and closes with a declaration that the Eucharist is made “in your name,” although no name is explicitly provided in the epiclesis itself.49 Apparently for these reasons, the identity of the addressee has been called into question. Knowing the “name” of a deity is essential in knowing how to approach or pray to the divine. In Israel’s tradition, the holy ineffable name of God dwells within Israel (Ezek 20:9) and can even be hypostasized in philosophical texts.50 In Christian tradition, activities, such as healing, are often conducted “in Jesus’ name,” while liturgical actions are offered “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” a phrase that appears in all of the initiation scenes in the Acts of Thomas. The name of Jesus itself is invoked as well; the apostle prays “in your name, Jesus Christ” (ch. 157). The prayer in chapter 27, though clearly addressed to the “Holy Spirit,” begins by invoking the “holy name of Christ, which is above every name”51 as well as the “power of the Most High.” Appeal to a Valentinian gnostic text, the Gospel of Truth, may be helpful here; it speaks of the 47

In chs. 49 and 133. It should be noted that the Eucharist is associated with Christ, even when a prayer is not addressed to him. It is the “Eucharist of Christ” in ch. 27; the recipient is made a “sharer in the body of Christ and in the cup of the Son of God” in ch. 121. 48 This figure has been variously identified as Sophia or other feminine divine figures. 49 In the Syriac of ch. 50, the addressee is the “Spirit of holiness.” 50 Philo, Contempl. 78. 51 A transparent allusion to Phil 2:9.

276

Susan E. Myers

“name” in a manner similar to that of Philo: “Now the name of the Father is the Son. . . . The Father’s name is not spoken, but is apparent through a Son” (38.7–24). The way in which to know the name of the Father is through the communication of the Son, who himself bears that name; it is he who is being communicated. In similar fashion, the prayer in chapter 27 associates the “holy name of Christ” with the Spirit who reveals the hidden mysteries; to appeal to the name of Christ is to ask for a revelation that is communicated through the power of the Spirit, the one who reveals the mysteries of God. As Gabriele Winkler has stated, the epiclesis calls upon “the Spirit, the Mother, who reveals herself and is made present by calling down the Name of the Anointed.”52 There is no contradiction, then, between appealing to the “name of Christ” in a prayer addressed to the Spirit, since the Spirit makes manifest the hidden and exalted name. In particular, in these initiation scenes, she does so through the oil of anointing, over which the epicleses are pronounced. There is a connection between the anointing Spirit and the Christ, the one who has been anointed and whose presence is invoked over those who are themselves being anointed. In the scheme of the epicleses, the oil, through which the Spirit is communicated, also bears the name of the Anointed one himself. The initiation scene of chapter 49 lacks mention of an anointing or a baptism, but instead includes a laying on of hands and a “seal.” The apostle then approaches a table with the bread of blessing and calls on Jesus: “Jesus who deemed us worthy to partake of the Eucharist of your sacred body and blood, now we make bold to approach your Eucharist and to call on your holy name. Come and partake with us.” Although only the bread is mentioned in the ritual itself (ch. 50), the participants are said to share in Jesus’ body and blood. Most notably, Jesus is asked to be present in the ritual and to commune (koinwne/w ) with those celebrating, although the lengthy prayer that follows appeals to a feminine figure who is called upon to “commune” in the Eucharist as well (ch. 50). Although the identity of this revealer figure has been much discussed,53 the similarities between this prayer and the one in chapter 27 make it possible to know that the same figure is addressed and to determine that she is 52 Gabriele Winkler, “Further Observations in Connection with the Early Form of the Epiklesis,” (Le Sacrement de l’Initiation Origines et Prospective: Patrimoine Syriaque Actes du colloque III; Antelias, Lebanon: Centre d’Études et de Recherches Pastorales, 1996), 79. 53 See Robert Taft, “From Logos to Spirit: On the early history of the epiclesis,” in Gratias agamus: Studien zum eucharistischen Hochgebet, für Balthasar Fischer (ed. Andreas Heinz and Heinrich Rennings; Freiburg: Herder, 1992), 489–502; Winkler, “Further Observations”; Winkler, “Weitere Beobachtungen zur frühen Epiklese (den Doxologien und dem Sanctus): über die Bedeutung der Apokryphen für die Erforschung der Entwicklung der Riten,” OrChr 80 (1996): 177–200; and my Spirit Epicleses, 146–52.

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

277

indeed to be identified as the Holy Spirit. The Spirit is explicitly stated as the addressee in the prayer in chapter 27, and the feminine address in chapter 50 is even more striking: all but one epithet is in the feminine and the only one that is not is ta\ spla/gxna, a neuter plural that probably translates an original Syriac rah?me. The epicleses, then, are indeed addressed to the Spirit. But there is not a sharp distinction made between the Spirit who is invoked and the Christ who is present in the rituals. The Acts of Thomas was, after all, written well before the distinction made between different hypostases in the Godhead as defined in the First Council of Constantinople. The prayer language of the work evocatively addresses the divine without making any attempt to define the heavenly reality. Prayers in the initiation scenes in the second, unified half of the novel are at times even more challenging. There is only one prayer in the initiation of the noblewoman Mygdonia as described in chapter 121,54 a prayer again over the oil of anointing and indeed addressed to the “holy oil.” In this prayer, the apostle declares that the oil is given for sanctification, and is a secret mystery that reveals the cross. Just as the Spirit, generally associated with the oil, and addressed in the epicleses of chapters 27 and 50, reveals hidden mysteries, so also here the oil itself “reveals hidden treasures.” The prayer closes with the request, “Let your power come; let it be established in your servant Mygdonia.” The power of the oil is communicated to a new initiate through the anointing. In chapter 27, the “power of the Most High” is invoked in a prayer to the Spirit; God’s power is manifest through the presence of the Spirit. The similarities in language and ritual between the prayer in chapter 121 and the epiclesis to the Spirit in chapter 27 suggest that much the same understanding is found in both. The Spirit is present in the oil and “discloses covered parts,” revealing hidden mysteries of God. What is striking is that, in the prayer in chapter 121, it is the oil itself that is invoked. An appeal to something being used in the ritual itself is found also in the initiation account of chapters 132 and 133, in which the apostle prays a “bread of life” prayer over the bread of the Eucharist.55 The apostle begins 54 Although there is an entreaty for the initiate: “May the care of the Lord be with you, as with the others.” 55 Prior to the “bread of life” prayer, the apostle Judas Thomas speaks of baptism. It is the remission of sins, and that which gives birth to a new person. At this point, the two principal witnesses to the Acts of Thomas in Greek diverge. Both manuscripts have the apostle describe baptism ( MS P says that it causes one to share in the Holy Spirit), then each launches into a (different) “Glory to you” prayer consisting of three epithets and concerning baptism, before turning to the ritual of anointing and another “Glory to you” prayer. The first “Glory to you” prayer in MS U is addressed to “the ineffable one who shares in baptism,” the “invisible power in baptism,” and “renewal.” Manuscript P prais-

278

Susan E. Myers

to “pronounce” various words over the bread, starting with “We pronounce over you the name of the Mother” (“Mother” is changed to “Father” in the Syriac). Elsewhere,56 mention of the “Mother” indicates the Spirit, as is most likely the intention here. Mention is made of other esoteric realities (an “ineffable mystery,” “hidden authorities and powers”) which are also pronounced over the bread; although these concepts may be shared with Valentinian gnostic thought, they are also at home in this non-gnostic work that proclaims the revelation of that which is hidden. The “power” of God appears elsewhere in Christian tradition, notably in the annunciation scene in the Gospel of Luke (Luke 1:35) and in the risen Jesus’ instructions to his followers at the end of that same gospel (Luke 24:49), as well as in early prayers in this work. At first glance, use of the plural hints at hostile powers – and the Acts of Thomas is filled with the idea that humans are struggling against evil powers – but their desired presence in a eucharistic celebration excludes that possibility. Instead, the heavenly powers indicate figures in the heavenly court or, more likely, aspects of the divine. “Power” features prominently in other prayers as well, where it functions metonymically for God. The last thing to be pronounced over the bread is the name of Jesus; in the apostle’s words, “We pronounce over you your name, Jesus.” The double address at first appears confusing; the prayer is addressed to the bread (the first “you”), yet the apostle speaks of “your name, Jesus.” I suggest that this awkward phrasing actually hints at an important reality es “your ineffable power,” “the one clothed” in baptism, and the one who releases humans from sin and communes with them. Although the specific claims are somewhat different, both manuscripts address one who is in some sense hidden or unknown and who bears power. Some elements of this prayer in ch. 132 suggest that it originally referred to the oil. It speaks, for example, of light being poured out, certainly a quality associated with oil, as well as of an invisible power, a claim elsewhere made of the oil (ch. 157) or the Spirit. A prayer in ch. 157 appears to assign “remission of sins” to the anointing. But, although the manuscripts diverge in the course of this prayer, there is no manuscript evidence for this suggestion. The second “Glory to you” prayer in ch. 132, spoken during an anointing, gives glory to “merciful love,” the “name of Christ,” and the “power founded on Christ.” Although the mention of “merciful love” is new, the epicleses of chs. 27 and 50 included mention of “compassion” as well as, in ch. 27, the “name of Christ” and “power” (“power” appears also in chs. 121 and 157). With one exception, namely mention of the “name of Christ,” the recipient of this prayer and the one preceding it is addressed in enigmatic terms without specific referent. The one who is invisible and ineffable is indeed not directly described, but hidden from the reader, emphasizing the inscrutable character of the divine. 56 Chs. 27 and 50, and probably in the Hymn of the Bride in ch. 7 and in the closing doxology of the prayer in ch. 39. The mention of Mother is lacking in the Syriac of ch. 39. In the Greek, it is separated from “Spirit” by a stray kai/, suggesting a fourfold address but probably better understood as an example, perhaps inadvertent, of hendiadys.

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

279

in the prayer language in the Acts of Thomas: earthly realities, such as the bread, represent heavenly realities. Appeal to the earthly element is a way of appealing to the divine and making present that which is heavenly, in much the same way that Jesus is understood to manifest the presence of God. It is in chapter 157 that we find the lengthiest initiatory prayer to Jesus in the novel; the apostle actually addresses Jesus in two prayers that follow a long invocation to “fruit” and to “power.” The setting is an anointing, which will be followed by a very brief account of baptism and a Eucharist in chapter 158, the latter accompanied by a lengthy prayer. Of the three prayers that accompany the anointing, two are spoken over the oil (although one of these is addressed to Jesus) and the third is pronounced during an anointing of the head (which is followed, presumably, by a fullbody anointing, since the apostle anoints only the man while Mygdonia anoints the women initiands). The first anointing prayer addresses the “fruit, more beautiful than the other fruits, to which no other fruit can be compared.” Although other appellations intervene, the fruit remains the addressee, and is said to crown victors, give light in darkness, to have bitter leaves and unappealing appearance but also a pleasant taste. Clearly, the “fruit” is that of the olive, which produced the oil over which the prayer is spoken. In later Syriac-speaking Christian tradition, Christ is the olive, from whom come the sacraments or “mysteries.” In one of his hymns On Virginity, Ephrem compares the Christian to the leaves of an olive tree, withstanding the vicissitudes of the weather and remaining attached to the tree, which is Christ, and “planted” in him.57 Christ is the tree, often associated with the Tree of Life in Paradise (sometimes seen as an olive tree), but also the fruit of the tree, and through him, according to Ephrem, come “water, milk, and oil,”58 representing initiatory elements.59 The Tree of Life also represents the cross, which is sometimes understood as the wood of

57

HVirg. 6.10 (CSCO 223; CSCO Scriptores Syri 94, p. 23). Both in his Commentary on the Diatessaron (21.11) and in his HFid. 65.7 (CSCO 154; CSCO Scriptores Syri 73, p. 202). 59 Milk or cheese could be used in Eucharist; see Andrew McGowan, Ascetic Eucharists: Food and Drink in Early Christian Ritual Meals (Oxford: Clarendon, 1999) for a discussion of the variety found in early Christian liturgical practices. The idea of the Tree of Life producing oil probably stems from similar claims in the Life of Adam and Eve (Vita Adae et Evae) and in the Apocalypse of Moses (Apocalysis Mosis). See Robert Murray, Symbols of Church and Kingdom (London: Cambridge University Press, 1975; rev. ed.; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2004), 321. 58

280

Susan E. Myers

the vine and sometimes that of the olive tree.60 Using language reminiscent of the prayer in chapter 157, Aphrahat associates the fruit of the olive with the ability of oil to produce light as well as its use in initiatory anointing: he speaks of “the fruiting of the light-giving olive, in which is the signing of the mystery of life.”61 Some of these connections, such as that between the oil, the cross, and the tree in paradise, are found not only in later Syrian writers, however, but also in earlier writings associated with the region. The Gospel of Philip, for example, seems to associate the tree of the cross, planted by Joseph the carpenter, with the tree of paradise and also an olive tree, which produces the oil of chrism.62 The prayer to the fruit in chapter 157 of the Acts of Thomas both reflects and gives inspiration for some of these developments. Acknowledging the tradition of weaving victory crowns from olive branches (see, for example, Jdt 15:12), the prayer suggests that the initiate has triumphed. The “fruit” gives light as well; it is a “revealer” (o9 deiknu/j), as also mentioned in the prayer addressed to the oil in chapter 121, bringing forth light in darkness. Although appearing to be “weak,” the oil is powerful. An address to the “power of the wood” declares that those “clothed” with this power can defeat their adversaries. The “wood” here certainly alludes to the wood of the cross, unmistakable in the second prayer over the oil in this chapter, that addressed to Jesus. Finally, the prayer to the “fruit” suggests that the oil is “merciful,” and has been “heated by the force of the word,”63 perhaps an allusion to the medicinal use of oils. The prayer to the “fruit” gives way to two prayers addressed to Jesus, the first of which is also spoken over the oil of anointing. By use of the 60 For a complete discussion of the complexity of these images, especially the vine and olive, see Murray, Symbols of Church and Kingdom, esp. ch. III, “The Vineyard, the Grape and the Tree of Life.” There is possible archaeological evidence that olive trees may have been used in crucifixion. Remains of the crucified body of a man named Yehohanan include the heel bone, still bearing the nail that was used in crucifixion. On the point of the nail, possible olive wood fragments suggest that Yehohanan may have been crucified on an olive tree or upright beam. See N. Haas, “Anthropological Observations on the Skeletal Remains from Giv‘at ha-Mivtar,” IEJ 20 (1970): 38–59. See description of the wood on p. 56. Yigael Yadin objected to the identification of the wood as olive wood (“Epigraphy and Crucifixion,” IEJ 23 [1973]: 18–22). The wood fragments were examined by the Department of Botany at Hebrew University, but the wood at the point of the nail was too small for positive identification. See Joseph Zias and Eliezer Sekeles, “The Crucified Man from Giv‘at ha-Mivtar: A Reappraisal,” IEJ 35 (1985): 22–27, esp. p. 24. 61 Dem. 23. 62 Gos. Phil. 73,8–19. 63 If the “word” here is taken as a reference to Jesus, this prayer includes a rare although ambiguous suggestion of Logos theology in the Acts of Thomas.

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

281

third-person imperative,64 the apostle asks that “power” come to be established in the oil, and that “the gift”65 come and dwell in the oil. The “power” was also established in the “wood akin to you,” surely a reference to the wood of the cross;66 in the prayer to the oil in chapter 121, the oil reveals the cross. The tradition that Jesus was crucified on a cross of olive wood leads to the claim that he imparts strength to the olive, a strength that can abide in the oil used for anointing.67 The prayer to Jesus in chapter 157 suggests the idea that the cross was made of olive wood and associates “power” with the olive, declaring that the power of the olive wood was unendurable for those who crucified Jesus.68 The “gift” that is to dwell in the oil is also powerful, for it caused Jesus’ enemies to fall to the ground.69 Direct reference to Jesus breathing (e0mfusa/w ) the powerful gift on his enemies indicates that the gift is the Spirit, an identification that accords well with other prayers in the work and with the strong regional traditions that associate the Spirit with the oil of anointing. These two prayers in chapter 157, then, speak of the fruit of the olive, that is, the oil of anointing, and declare that it has the power of the olive tree. Building on traditions that associate the olive tree with victory cele64 On the use of the third-person imperative in initiatory prayer language, see Sebastian Brock, “The Epikesis in the Antiochene Baptismal Ordines,” in Symposium Syriacum 1972 (OrChrAn 197; Rome: Pont. Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1974), 183– 218, esp. the summary beginning on p. 213. According to Brock, this indirect (through Christ) appeal for something/one (usually the Spirit) to come is the second stage of a three-stage development in address found in Syriac liturgical prayers. Brock is discussing epicleses asking for the presence of the Spirit; the first stage of development included direct address (“come”), while the second and third stages were indirect (“may your Spirit come”), first an indirect appeal to Christ and only later an indirect appeal to the Father. Only at a relatively late date – and only in West Syrian texts – is the imperative to “send your Spirit” found. Brock finds evidence for the first two stages solely in the Syriac of the Acts of Thomas, although the Greek, especially in the initiatory material, is generally to be preferred. In reality (pace Brock), the oldest appeals seem to be those to the heavenly elements, corresponding to the earthly elements over which the prayer is offered. 65 Elsewhere (ch. 51), the eucharistic bread is a “gift.” 66 Indeed, if the “power” is that from the first prayer, it is precisely the power of the olive wood itself. In the first Jesus prayer, then, the au0tou= refers to the cu/lon (pace Harold W. Attridge, The Acts of Thomas (Early Christian Apocrypha; Salem, Ore.: Polebridge, 2010), 117. 67 There may be some contradiction here, since the first prayer over the oil suggests that the oil already bears power, but the second prayer to Jesus requests that the power dwell in the oil. The text is also somewhat confused, but not enough to obscure this meaning. It may, however, also be possible that the inherent power of the oil is that long associated with olive trees, while the power being invoked is that of the Spirit. 68 In an enigmatic statement, it is actually the communication (word) of the power that is overwhelming. 69 John 18:6.

282

Susan E. Myers

brations and suggesting that Christian initiation can be so understood, the prayers paradoxically assert that the crucifixion of Jesus on a cross of olive wood is the source of the power that resides in the olive. The oil, over which Jesus’ “holy name” is invoked, is the central element in the initiation scene and the olive from which it is obtained is itself the recipient of the first, lengthy prayer. Although the fruit is not said to be a heavenly reality, it is given honor and its worthy qualities extolled. While there is clear evidence of an address to Jesus in these liturgical prayers, the most striking aspects of the prayers are their use of invocations to ritual elements and the mention that earthly elements give expression to invisible, spiritual realities. The heavenly realities can be qualities that are invoked in many prayers in the Acts of Thomas, both initiatory and non-initiatory. Jesus is, for example, called “compassionate Son” in a prayer from Act 1, a claim echoed elsewhere. The appeal to one who is “compassionate” is common in the Acts of Thomas; some form of the term eu0splagxni/a or of spla/gxnon can be found in many prayers to Jesus, within or immediately preceding or following every initiatory scene in the work, and in several other places as well.70 “Compassionate” designates the divine in the epicleses found in initiatory settings in chapters 27 and 50, and in prayers of the apostle near (ch. 122) or in prison (ch. 160). The compassion may be perfected (chs. 27, 39, 48, and 50) or be the source of the one addressed (ch. 48: “voice arisen from perfect compassion”); indeed, Jesus is the “son of compassion” in chapters 10 and 156. “Compassion” seems to be another way of speaking of God; it is certainly a spiritual reality made manifest in Jesus, but also an apt way of describing the Spirit (chs. 27 and 50). Similarly, in chapter 122, glory is given to the merciful one on earth, who was sent by a heavenly counterpart, also dubbed Mercy. Jesus makes manifest a heavenly reality, whose title – Mercy – is precisely the quality shown by Jesus. Jesus is the merciful one; God is Mercy itself. The clearest indication that earthly realities represent hidden, mysterious realities dwelling in the heavenly realm can be found in a nonliturgical prayer found in chapter 52.71 After the hands of a young man, guilty of a wicked deed, shrivel up when he attempts to take the Eucharist to his mouth, the apostle orders a basin of water to be brought, into which the man will place his hands and be restored. The apostle prays an epicle70 “Compassion” describes Jesus, but is also a quality of the apostle (ch. 20) or is desirable for humans to display (as in ch. 29) or receive from God (ch. 87). 71 Perhaps it is precisely because this prayer appears in a non-liturgical setting that it has been preserved without emendation and thus can offer the best example in the work of the phenomenon of appeals to heavenly realities to dwell in their earthly counterparts. I suspect that it is actually a primitive example of a liturgical prayer.

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

283

sis over the waters, somewhat similar to those found in the liturgical sections we have been examining: “Come, waters of the living waters, realities from what is real and that have been sent to us; rest that has been sent us from rest; salvific power that comes from the power which conquers all and subdues all things to its own will – come and dwell in these waters, so that the gift of the Holy Spirit might be brought to perfect completion in them.” This prayer includes mention of many of the same claims that we have seen before as qualities of the Spirit, including “rest” and “power”; here these qualities are said to come from the same qualities that exist in a superior form elsewhere. Proper understanding of the superior qualities is clarified at the beginning: there is a reality from which are sent those elements mentioned in the prayer, and when the elements of rest and power dwell in the earthly waters, the Holy Spirit is present in the waters. The heavenly reality thus dwells in the earthly reality that corresponds to it or that is used in the ritual; the earthly reality represents that which is truly real in the heavenly sphere and acts as a means of access into the heavenly realm. By coming to dwell in the waters that are in the basin, the heavenly waters make possible a divine communication, the gift of the Spirit. Yet mention of these heavenly realities is not a means of multiplying divinity; the “power” is explicitly said to conquer and subdue all things. It is, again, used metonymically for God. This is biblical language.72 Without denying the supremacy of the God of Israel,73 ancient authors could speak, for example, of the appearance of a messenger (angel) as an indication of the presence of God. Hagar, after being visited by the “angel of the LORD,” asks, “have I really seen God?” (Gen 16:13). The angel of God also speaks to her of her son, declaring in the first person, “I will make a great nation of him” (Gen 21:18). Visionaries and writers of apocalypses speak of angels and glorious figures who represent God, 74 building on the throne vision of Ezekiel, in which “the glory of the Lord” is present in “something like a human form” on the divine throne (Ezek 1:26–28). In the words of James D. G. Dunn, “Angels in the religion of Israel and early Judaism, therefore, are a reminder to us that in talk of worshipping God, the term ‘God’ can be . . . unclear.”75 Even 72 The Hebrew tradition knows of many signs of God’s presence in ordinary objects, sometimes acting in extraordinary ways (pillar of cloud, burning bush, bread of presence, etc.). The focus here is on those figures or objects that represent a heavenly reality. 73 I am not here entering into a discussion of whether pre- or postexilic Israel can be said to be strictly monotheistic. Instead I am examining ways in which the God of Israel could be understood to be present to humans. 74 For a fuller discussion of such figures in the Hebrew tradition, especially as indicators of the presence of God, see James D. G. Dunn, Did the First Christians Worship Jesus?, 66–71. 75 Dunn, Did the First Christians Worship Jesus?, 71.

284

Susan E. Myers

more striking is language of God’s spirit, always closely identified with God. When Saul loses God’s favor to his opponent David, his state can be described as the absence of God’s spirit (“Now the spirit of the LORD departed from Saul”; 1 Sam 16:13) or as the absence of the LORD (“the LORD was with [David] but had departed from Saul”; 1 Sam 18:12). Divine Wisdom is personified (Prov 8; Sir 24; Bar 3; Wis 9)76 but is not worshipped as a rival to the God of Israel.77 God’s word is creative (Gen 1), it is the way in which God communicates through the prophets (e.g., Isa 9:8), and it will be established in the monarchy (1 Kgs 2:4).78 In all of these ways, God’s presence is described in concrete images and terms. This Semitic practice of employing tangible realities to speak of God appears also in the New Testament. Perhaps the most evocative imagery, suggestive of heavenly realities reflected in tangible objects and figures on earth, is that of the Book of Hebrews, with its notion of a heavenly sanctuary, a heavenly sacrifice, and a heavenly high priest (chs. 8–10). While the earthly representations of these heavenly realities are mere copies of those that are true, they operate according to the regulations of the first covenant, given by God to Moses. The rituals of the Mosaic law formerly provided for purification, for forgiveness; it was necessary (Heb 9:23: a0na/gxh) to have such rituals. The superiority of the heavenly things requires a heavenly sacrifice, and the Mosaic law is only a shadow of good things (Heb 10:1), presumably in heaven, but there is no denial that the law was given by God. That which exists on earth reflects – dimly and imperfectly, it is true – the perfect and “true form of these realities” (Heb 10:1). Here we see the Hebrew tradition meeting the Platonic forms. This is precisely what the liturgical prayers of the Acts of Thomas reflect also (although perhaps without the Platonic influence): a development in a Semitic Christian region of the Hebrew notion that the ineffable God enters into the world and becomes present in the ordinary.

Conclusion There is no question that prayers in the Acts of Thomas are directed to Jesus, who is (among other claims) revealer, healer, and one who offers 76 The Peshitto OT contains the book of Wisdom, apparently translated from Hebrew rather than from the Greek LXX. 77 Dunn, Did the First Christians Worship Jesus?, 74–79. 78 Philo’s concept of the divine word as the “son of God” or the first-born “image of God” is the fullest expression of an understanding of the divine word present in the world, but a Christian Logos theology is almost entirely lacking from the Acts of Thomas. Instead, the Hebrew concepts (rather than their Greek development) inform the work.

Praying to Jesus in the Acts of Thomas

285

compassion and rest. In ritual prayer, the apostle calls upon Jesus to dwell in the community, but appeals also to the Spirit. There is not a sharp distinction made between the divine figures involved, although several prayers also speak clearly of Jesus’ earthly ministry. Indeed, precisely because of Jesus’ life on earth can he function as the means by which God is present in the world. But Jesus and the Spirit are not the only ones to whom prayer is addressed, as is especially evident in ritual contexts. Prayers in the liturgical scenes in the Acts of Thomas provide an insight into the understanding of proper ritual prayer in northern Mesopotamia in the early to mid-third century. Although some or all of the prayers may have existed independently, they show a variety in the ones addressed, just as the descriptions of the rituals evidence a variety of practices. Apart from the consistent mention of baptizing or sealing in the name of the Father, Son, and Spirit, there is no required formula for initiatory prayers, whether in address or in content. Many of the prayers do share characteristics, such as mention of the revelatory nature or the power of the one being addressed, or, in terms of form, repetition of an initial word or phrase. But the addressees of the prayers vary considerably, ranging from address to the element over which the prayer is spoken (such as the “bread of life” in chapter 133 or the “holy oil” of chapter 121) to direct appeal to Jesus. At times, the addressee seems to oscillate between Jesus and a heavenly reality. This is due to the understanding of the supernatural realm and the way in which the divine is communicated to humans. There is a reality beyond that which is readily apparent – often reflected in physical objects – which is made available through the rituals celebrated in the Christian community. The heavenly realities are not at odds with the glorified Jesus who is proclaimed but are ways of speaking of the reality of the divine and the possibility of human participation in heavenly realities. The threefold initiation formula suggests knowledge of what will emerge as a more developed Trinitarian definition, but in this work, there is no clear demarcation between what will come to be known as “persons” within the Godhead. The Spirit can be addressed as the “name of Jesus,” for she communicates the revelation of Jesus. At the same time, Jesus’ power is precisely the presence of the Spirit. There is no sharp distinction between Jesus and the Spirit, or indeed Jesus and “God”; all of these titles and more are ways of expressing the reality of the divine. Indeed, liturgical prayer can be directed to the liturgical elements, evidencing a complex understanding of how humans can communicate with the divine, and how the divine is present in sacramental activity. In this way, Syriac-speaking Christianity develops the biblical practice of situating the awe-inspiring presence of God within that which is commonplace, and offers an understanding of the sacramental “mysteries” as portals to the divine realm.

 

Handing on Tradition Some Themes and Images in the Maronite Baptismal Ordo BRYAN D. SPINKS The three traditionally Syriac-speaking ecclesial communities – the Church of the East, the Syrian Orthodox Church, and the Maronite Church – share not only a common ancestral liturgical language; in spite of the christological differences between the three communities, they also share a common ancient ante-Nicene and post-Nicene patristic canon. The baptismal rites of each community are now quite distinct, but the more ancient evidence suggests a once more broadly shared tradition.1 Of the three rites, the Maronite is of particular interest. Named after Jacob of Serugh, it has much in common with the Syrian Orthodox ordo.The present rite dates only from 1942, but was based on the older manuscript tradition which has been studied by Augustin Mouhanna.2 The concern of this paper will be to note some of the theological emphases that are in direct continuity with the older Syriac baptismal tradition as evidenced by the Odes of Solomon, the Acts of Thomas, Ephrem, and Jacob of Serugh. As with most baptismal rites, the Maronite baptismal liturgy expresses a wide spectrum of ideas and images as found in the New Testament. For example, on forgiveness, the promion speaks of Jesus the high priest “who showed us the way of purification, by first purifying himself in the waters of the Jordan, and led us on the path of life to redeem us from our sins.”3 A diaconal proclamation makes reference to pardon of faults and remission of sins.4 However, throughout the ordo there are references to themes that are deep in the older Syriac literature. The sedro speaks of the spiritual fire                                                                                                                         1

See Sebastian Brock, “Some Early Syriac Baptismal Commentaries,” OCP 46 (1980): 20–61. 2 Augustin Mouhanna, Les rites de l’initiation dans l’église maronite (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1980). English translation of the present rite: Mysteries of Initiation: Baptism, Confirmation, Communion According to the Maronite Antiochene Church (Washington D.C.: Diocesan Office of Liturgy, 1987). 3 Mysteries, p. 13. 4 Ibid., 28.

288

Bryan D. Spinks

in the baptismal furnace and that the baptized are clothed with the robe of glory and the seal of the Holy and life-giving Spirit.5 There are other references to the robe of glory, or the robe of justice, which receives further mention with the putting on of the crown or headband to protect the myron. It also appears in the concluding prayers. The theme of Christ as shepherd and the marking of the sheep is prominent, and sealing and marking the candidate as a lamb is extended to the baptismal formula, “N is baptized a lamb in the flock of Christ, in the Name of etc.’ In the consecration of the baptismal waters, it is the new birth of the baptism of John that is stressed: Though he had no need, he received baptism in the river Jordan and sanctified for us this font of baptism, a salvific and fruitful womb. By your will, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, he abided in the world in three places: in a womb of flesh, in the womb of baptism, and in the dark mansions of Sheol.6

And later: As the womb of our mother, Eve, gave birth to mortal and corruptible children, so may the womb of this baptismal font give birth to heavenly and incorruptible children. And as the Holy Spirit hovered over the waters of creation, and gave birth to living creatures and animals of all kinds, may [s]he hover over this baptismal font which is a spiritual womb. May [s]he dwell in it and sanctify it. Instead of an earthly Adam, may it give birth to a heavenly Adam.7

And when myron is added to the water, Blessed are you, O Lord God, for you purified and sanctified these waters by the power of the glorious Trinity, and they became a new womb, giving birth to spiritual children.8

                                                                                                                        5

Ibid., 15. Ibid., 33. 7 Ibid., 34. 8 Ibid., 37 6

 

Handing on Tradition

289

These themes and images are ones found in the earlier Syriac literature associated with baptismal themes. Although five of the Odes of Solomon are preserved in Coptic and Greek, most are in Syriac, and it is thought that Syriac was their original language. Some scholars have regarded the Odes as entirely concerned with baptism, while others such as J. H. Charlesworth have argued that they have nothing at all to do with baptism.9 Mark Pierce took a middle way, suggesting that some of the hymns have baptismal allusions and imagery.10 Though Pierce is probably correct, there remains the danger of reading later baptismal practice into imagery that may in fact allude to something quite different. With this caveat in mind, it is possible to find some of the core baptismal themes within the Odes. Robing: Ode 3:1 refers to “putting on,” which may certainly allude to baptism, but since the verse is incomplete, this must remain speculative. Far less speculative is Ode 25:8: “I was covered with the covering of your Spirit [emended from “mercy”], and I removed from me my garments of skin.” Michael Lattke notes that here we have a reference to the protection and clothing by God’s covering Spirit, which in later theology was associated with baptism.11 The verse itself may have been inspired by Ephesians 4:22–24, or at least, by a similar belief such as in 1QS IV, 7–8 where the reward of the sons of light is a crown of glory and a garment of majesty.12 It is suggestive of a return to paradise. In Ode 33:12, where grace is the subject of the hymn, those who put on grace will not be falsely accused, but shall possess incorruption in the new world. Ode 39:8 speaks of putting on the name of the Most High. Seal: In Ode 4:6 grace is once again described as something that is put on. Verse 7 says, “Because your seal [h?otmok] is known, and your creatures are known to it.” H?tm is one of the words in Syriac liturgical texts used to render the Greek sfragi/j, which itself is used in conjunction with circumcision, the Holy Spirit, the sign of the cross, and the ritual processes of baptism. Subsequent verses assert that the heavenly host also possess it (eternal life?), and verse 10 reads: “Sprinkle upon us your sprinklings; and open your beautiful springs which abundantly supply us with milk and honey.”                                                                                                                        

9 J. H. Charlesworth, The Odes of Solomon (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973). All quotations are from Charlesworth. 10 Mark Pierce, “Themes in the ‘Odes of Solomon’ and other early Christian Writings and their Baptismal Character,” Ephemerides Liturgicae 98 (1984): 35–59. 11 Michael Lattke, Odes of Solomon: A Commentary (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2009), 362. 12 J. H. Charlesworth, The Odes of Solomon, 111.

 

290

Bryan D. Spinks

The possible allusions to baptism are strong, though of course not indisputable.13 In Ode 23:8–9 h?tm occurs twice, with reference to grace. In subsequent literature, “mark,” “brand,” and “seal” are used in connection with anointing in initiation, and Ode 36:6 reads: “And He anointed me with his perfection; and I became one of those who are near him.” Whether or not a literal anointing with oil is envisaged here does not detract from the initiatory and salvific overtones. Womb: Ode 19 is famed for its feminine attributes of the Father and Spirit in relation to the Son, and is concerned with the incarnation. Verse 4 reads: “The Holy Spirit opened her bosom, and mixed the milk of the two breasts of the Father.” Some commentators have suggested that ‘ubboh should be understood in its rarer meaning of womb. In turn, this has been taken as prefiguring the idea of the Holy Spirit opening the womb of the font. However, such a rendering ignores the fact that karso, uterus, is the term used in verse 6, and thus makes such a rendering less likely. Given the nature of the Odes, and their various possible allusions, it may be wise to conclude that, at least through the eyes of later tradition, these particular allusions could be read as being allusions to baptismal imagery. The Acts of Thomas has been described as an “early novel from Syriacspeaking Christianity,” and combines legend and propaganda of an ascetic type of Christianity.14 The work sets forth the missionary teaching and preaching of Thomas the Apostle who eventually travels to India, and is martyred there. Extant in Greek and Syriac, it is generally accepted that a now lost Syriac text underlies the Greek, but that the present Syriac text is derived from the Greek, and has been expanded and edited to accord with later “orthodox” praxis. In his recent edition, Harold Attridge notes that “its poetic and liturgical elements (prayers, hymns, sacramental themes) provide important evidence for the study of early Syrian Christian traditions.”15 Amongst liturgical scholars, much attention has been paid to the ritual pattern of initiation recorded in these Acts, where anointing precedes baptism in water, but in two cases in the Greek text, initiation is in oil only; scholars also debate whether anointing evolved from the head only to the whole body, or if different practices coexisted.16 Harold Attridge also                                                                                                                         13

Charlesworth, 24 n. 18. So Susan E. Myers, Spirit Epicleses in the Acts of Thomas (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 107. 15 Harold W. Attridge, The Acts of Thomas (Early Christian Apocrypha; Salem, Ore.: Polebridge Press, 2010), 1. 16 Gabriele Winkler, “The Original Meaning of the Prebaptismal Anointing and Its Implications,” Worship 52 (1978): 24–45; Susan E. Myers, “Initiation by Anointing in Early Syriac-Speaking Christianity,” Studia Liturgica 31 (2001): 150–70; Bryan D. 14

 

Handing on Tradition

291

draws attention to chapter 25:4, where the sequence is the bath followed by anointing.17 Beyond the ritual pattern, however, theological themes are disclosed in the narratives and liturgical prayers. Robing and putting on are not prominent themes at all in the Acts of Thomas, but are alluded to. In this work initiation is strongly tied to asceticism, which is illustrated by the conversion of Mygdonia, who leaves her husband for Christ the true bridegroom. In chapter 124 Mygdonia replies to her husband Carish with a song/poem in which mortal marriage is contrasted with heavenly marriage. The reference to “clothes that grow old” (mortal marriage) suggests spiritual clothing that does not grow old. In the Hymn of the Bride in chs. 6 and 7, the “Bride” has garments that give off scent (perfumed oil of anointing?) like the flowers of spring, and at the royal wedding feast, “royal garments” are put on, as well as “gleaming stoles.” In contrast, the term seal (sfragi/j) is prominent in this narrative. Exactly what the term refers to in the Acts is unclear, but it certainly never seems to refer to baptism in water. It is usually associated with the anointing, but is not necessarily limited to this act, but to initiation as a whole. Myers notes that 40% of occurrences are found in chapters 26 and 27.18 In chapter 26 it is used in the sense of marking and branding of sheep: “Since our souls are ready and eager for God, give us the seal; for we have heard you say that the God you herald recognizes his own sheep through his seal.” Similarly in chapter 131 the general Sifor asks to receive the seal “so that we may become worshippers of the one true God and might be numbered among his lambs and sheep.” But it is also protective against demons, and where directly related to anointing, gives remission of sins, defense from the hostile one, and protection of the soul (ch. 157). There is also a reference to “the sealing of the seal,” which is followed by the apostle pouring oil on the heads of the initiates and then smearing and anointing them, presumably their entire bodies (ch. 27). It is clear in this narrative that anointing is central in initiation, and the prayers/invocations over the oil yield an interesting theology of oil. In chapter 157 Judas Thomas takes oil in a silver vessel, and proceeds to make an invocation over it, with a twofold address. The first part of the invocation is addressed to the oil and its source, the olive tree. It is a fruit more beautiful than other fruits, and to which no other fruit can compare. It is apparently the “power of the wood,” and clothes people so that they can overcome their adversaries. It crowns victors (this seems to refer to                                                                                                                         Spinks, Early and Medieval Rituals and Theologies of Baptism: From the New Testament to the Council of Trent (Aldershot, Eng.; Ashgate, 2006), 19–24. 17 Attridge, The Acts of Thomas, 10. 18 Myers, Spirit Epicleses, 114.

 

292

Bryan D. Spinks

olive oil rather than a wreath of olive leaves). The bitterness of the leaves is contrasted with its sweet fruit. Then the apostle addresses Jesus and requests his victorious power to come and be established in the oil. The power is his gift, which suggests that it is the Holy Spirit. The apostle anoints Vizan with the formula: “In your name, Jesus Christ, may it become for these people remission of sins, defense from the hostile one, and salvation for their souls.” Elsewhere the oil is the secret mystery in which the cross was revealed to us, and it reveals hidden treasure (ch. 121). The feminine imagery in chapter 27 is particularly striking. Addressed as the Holy name of Christ, the Holy Spirit is a merciful mother, fellowship of the male, and Mother of the seven houses. At least “mother” suggests offspring, and thus initiation as new birth is not far in the background of the imagery of this invocation. Scholars have questioned the orthodoxy of both the Odes and the Acts of Thomas, though often by standards of later orthodoxy. However, there is no such questioning of Ephrem, the harp of the Spirit. Using the Semitic genre of verse and poem, he was a prolific writer. In his Hymns and other writings the themes already alluded to in the Odes and the Acts of Thomas find their full expression. The Hymns on Epiphany are probably later than Ephrem, but seem to come from his school of thought, and the Syriac tradition accepts the attribution to him. In Hymn on the Nativity 23 Ephrem portrays the life of Christ as a series of putting on – the garments of youth, the water of baptism, and the linen garment of death – all for our salvation. Ephrem asserts: All these are changes that the Compassionate One shed and put on when He contrived to put on Adam that glory that he had shed. He wrapped swaddling clothes with his leaves and put on garments instead of skins. He was baptized for [Adam’s] wrongdoing and embalmed for his death. He rose and raised him up in glory. Blessed is He Who came down, put on [a body] and ascended! (HNat. 23.13) 19

In the Hymns against Heresies 17, he says: Body and soul together exalt you, for they have been baptized in you and have put you on. (HcHaer. 17.5) 20

In Pseudo-Ephrem Hymn on Epiphany 4 the writer says: O children of the baptismal font, babes, who without spot, have put on Fire and Spirit, preserve the glorious robe

                                                                                                                        19

Kathleen McVey, Ephrem the Syrian: Hymns (New York: Paulist, 1989), 190. Sebastian Brock, The Luminous Eye: The Spiritual World Vision of Saint Ephrem (Cistercian Studies Series 124; Kalamazoo, Mich.: Cistercian Publications, 1985), 93. 20

 

Handing on Tradition

293

that you have put on from the water. Whoever puts on the robe of glory from the water and the Spirit, will destroy with its burning the thorny growth of his sins. (HEpiph. 4.19–20) 21

Thus, just as in the incarnation Christ put on the body and regained what Adam had lost, so in initiation Christians put on Christ, and are reclothed with the robe of glory that Adam lost. In Hymns on Virginity 4 and 5, Ephrem extols the importance of oil as being the key symbol for Christ’s saving work. The name of oil is like a symbol and in it is portrayed the name of the Anointed. The name of oil was crowned, for it is the shadow of the name of the Anointed One (Hymn 4). Oil became the key of the hidden treasure house of symbols; the olive tree stripped off and gave to the Anointed the comeliness of the symbols upon it. Hymn on Virginity 7 provides a range of images that we have already encountered in the Odes and the Acts of Thomas: A royal portrait is painted with visible colors, and with oil that all can see is the hidden portrait of our hidden King portrayed on those who have been signed: on them baptism, that is in travail with them in its womb, depicts the new portrait, to replace the image of the former Adam who had become corrupted; it gives birth to them with triple pangs, accompanied by the three glorious names, of Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The oil is the dear friend of the Holy Spirit, it is Her minister, following Her like a disciple. With it the Spirit signed priests and anointed kings; for with the oil the Holy Spirit imprints Her mark on Her sheep. Like a signet ring which leaves its impression on wax, so the hidden seal of the Spirit is imprinted by oil on the bodies of those who are anointed in baptism; thus they are signed in the baptismal [mystery]. (Hymn on Virginity 7.5–6) 22

In this short extract we again have the sfragi/j (though Ephrem uses msh?’, tab’a, and rushma). Although the image of sealing wax is also used, branding of sheep by the Holy Spirit is the baptismal counterpart to the anointing of priests and kings. Hymn on the Resurrection 1 asserts: “The shepherd of all flew down in search of Adam, the sheep that has strayed; on His shoulders He carried him, taking him up.”23 Ephrem grounds this in the saving work of Christ when in Hymn on the Crucifixion 2 he says: “The                                                                                                                         21

Ibid., 93. Sebastian P. Brock and George A. Kiraz, Ephrem the Syrian: Select Poems (Provo, Utah: Brigham Young University Press, 2006), 189. 23 Ibid., 79. 22

 

294

Bryan D. Spinks

New Lamb instructed that shepherd [Moses] who had grown old with [his] flock how he might mark out his symbol in a lamb taken from the sheep, [serving as] His type.”24 In Hymn 7, the anointing is also a new birth in the womb of baptism, which in the very next stanza is elaborated: They go down sordid in sin, they go up pure like infants, for baptism is a second womb for them, Rebirth [in the font] rejuvenates the old, as the river rejuvenated Naaman. O womb that gives birth every day without pangs to the children of the Kingdom! (Hymn on Virginity 7.7) 25

And: Once this womb has given birth, the altar suckles and nurtures them. (Hymn on Virginity 7.8)26

For Ephrem this too is grounded in the baptism of Christ. In Hymn on the Church 36 he says: “The river in which He was baptized conceived Him again symbolically; the moist womb of the water conceived Him in purity, bore Him in chastity, made Him ascend in glory.”27 In Hymn on Epiphany 13, baptism is described as a mother (cf. the epicletic prayers in the Acts of Thomas): “Baptism is a mother who gives birth daily to spiritual ones and solemnly raises new children for God. . . . Inside the womb of baptism is the inner debt repaid, mercies wipe away the large bill of Adam in the water and oil of baptism, and it is torn in pieces” (Hymn on Epiphany 13.1–2)28 It has been the practice of the Eastern Churches to name prayers after their important saints and teachers, and so, for example, the Byzantine Church has Eucharistic liturgies named after St. John Chrysostom, St. Basil, and St. James. The Syrian Orthodox Church, in addition to naming Eucharistic anaphoras after its great divines, also names it baptismal rites, one after Severus of Antioch, and another after Timothy of Alexandria. As noted, the Maronites named their baptismal rite after Jacob of Serugh, who although a non-Chalcedonian, was deemed a moderate, and as a Syriac theologian, was highly regarded by the Maronites. In most cases it seems that the liturgical attributions are honorary rather than indicating actual authorship, even if in some cases the Divine may have edited or revised a                                                                                                                         24

Ibid., 127. Ibid., 191. 26 Ibid. 27 Ibid., 71. 28 Edmund Beck, ed. and trans., Des heiligen Ephraem des Syrers Hymnen de Nativitate (Epiphania) (CSCO 186; CSCO Scriptores Syri 82; Louvain: Durbecq, 1959), 189. 25

 

Handing on Tradition

295

text.29 It can be argued, however, that the attribution to Jacob is fitting, in that some of the images found in the earlier Syriac tradition are also used and developed by him. Sebastian Brock notes that, although Jacob did not write a commentary on a baptismal liturgy, he did treat initiation in two homilies and an exhortation to baptism.30 In the Homily on the Epiphany, the images of womb and robe are prominent, and inseparable: “In the womb of baptism He placed the robe of glory and He sent the bride [the Church] to go down to clothe herself from the waters.”31 The homily explains that John the Baptist was sent ahead to carry along the adornment for the bride before the arrival of the Bridegroom: “He [the Baptist] carried along and opened the trunk of the Spirit over the waters, and brought out the garments to clothe the church in sanctity.”32 John began the process of washing, cleansing, polishing and sanctifying the bride. She, the comely woman, “stood looking for the Bridegroom, when He would come, in order to enter with Him into the womb of the waters to be sanctified.”33 Although many descended into the waters and were cleansed, they were not yet clothed in the garments of the Spirit.34 The imagery of the Spirit as fire heating the waters – already found in the History of John the Son of Zebedee and in Ephrem – is important also for Jacob. The Holy Spirit “came out by itself and stood above the water and the heat of His power kindled them.”35 As Jesus comes near to the river, “John noticed the river grew hot, and its abounding streams were transformed.” The crowd drew back so that Jesus stood alone as a solitary, as the sacrificial Lamb separated from the flock.36 When the Baptist protests that he is not worthy to baptize Jesus, Jesus replies:                                                                                                                         29

See Robert Taft, “St. John Chrysostom and the Byzantine Anaphora that Bears His Name,” in Essays on Early Eastern Eucharistic Prayers (ed. Paul F. Bradshaw; Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 1997), 195–226; Bryan D. Spinks, “The Anaphora of Severus of Antioch: A Note on its Character and Theology,” in Qusi/a ai0ne/sewj: Mélanges liturgiques offerts a la memoire de l’archeveque Georges Wagner (1930–1993) (ed. J. Getcha and A. Lossky; Paris: Presses Saint Serge, 2005), 345–51. 30 Sebastian Brock, “Baptismal Themes in the Writings of Jacob of Serugh,” in Symposium Syriacum 1976 (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1978), 325–47; P. Bedjan, Homiliae Selectae Mar-Jacobi Sarugensis (5 vols.; Paris: Harrassowitz, 1905–1910; repr. with additional material by Sebastian Brock; 6 vols.; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2006), 1:153–67; 1:167–93; 1:193–211. 31 Hom. Epiph. 15. Jacob of Sarug’s Homily on Epiphany (ed. Thomas Kollamparampil; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2008), 8. This homily is in Bedjan, Homiliae Selectae Mar-Jacobi, 1:167–93. 32 Ibid. (Hom. Epiph. 21–22). 33 Ibid., 16 (Hom. Epiph. 85–86). 34 Ibid., 20. 35 Ibid., 22 (Hom. Epiph. 139–140). 36 Ibid., 24 (Hom. Epiph. 149–160).

 

296

Bryan D. Spinks

The great mercy has drawn me to descend to become a newborn babe. It is that [mercy] which drew me to descend to become baptized. The baptismal womb is not narrower than the belly, and the water of the river is not more dark than the womb.37

To John’s further objections, Jesus explains: While I do not need the furnace of the waters, behold, I am entering so that humanity that is worn out should be recast with the stamp [tab’a] of mine. I am stimulating them so that they should come to the fountain like me, in order that with the coin of mine they shall be stamped spiritually.38

Here the sfragi/j is a stamp of an image as on coins, although tab’a by this time tends to be used for the pre-baptismal anointing, now supplemented by a post-baptismal anointing. In addition to the idea of womb, Jacob also used the Pauline imagery of tomb, but juxtaposed with that of the womb: To the tomb of water I am bringing down humanity, so that I may make them immortal in the resurrection. I am making them enter into the moist womb so that it will conceive them and give them the new birth without birth pangs.39

Here there is a hint of three wombs, which Jacob elsewhere articulated as staging posts: He completed his whole course by three staging posts: He resided in the virgin and came to birth, though he was God; again baptism received him, and yet he was God; and he descended to Sheol, and the world recognized that he was God.40

The theme of imprint and clothing is also found in a madrosho attributed to Ephrem but which Brock believes is really the work of Jacob. Contrasting the prelapsarian “Adam” with the “Adam” addressed in the madrosho, the former is told: “You were clothed in rays of light, you were sealed with the King’s own necklace; who is it who has given you leaves [to cover your] nakedness?”41 The context of the term tab’a here is not baptismal, but it is difficult not to imagine that the prayer had baptismal overtones for the “Adams” who were singing it. The last verses return to the theme of clothing/robe:                                                                                                                         37

Ibid., 30 and 32 (Hom. Epiph. 215–218). Ibid., 38 (Hom. Epiph. 281–284). 39 Ibid., 40 (Hom. Epiph. 285–288). 40 Bedjan, Homiliae Selectae Mar-Jacobi, 3:593, cited in Brock, “Baptismal Themes,” 326. 41 Sebastian Brock, “A Prayer Song by St. Jacob of Serugh Recovered,” in Jacob of Serugh and His Times: Studies in Sixth-century Syriac Christianity (ed. George Anton Kiraz; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias, 2010), 29–37, here p. 35. 38

 

Handing on Tradition

297

Your greatness and your beauty which were lost – [this] you have [now] found on the height of Golgotha. Arise, clothe yourself and return to your inheritance. Strip off your rags and the leaves [that cover] your nakedness; take and put on the glorious robe, enter into Eden which is opened and awaits you. That garment which the serpent stole from you the King’s Son had brought and given to you. Praise be to Him who has returned you to your Father’s house. 42

In his study of baptismal themes in Jacob, Brock notes that Jacob has little to say about oil, and we have noted above the use of imprint. Jacob does refer to the rushma. Whereas the Hebrew nation was marked with blood (circumcision), God marked the Gentiles with oil.43 In one homily the Chaldeans ask “to receive the rushma of baptism and be numbered among the lambs of the fold of Christ,” and “the rational sheep gather, ardent to drink water that flows from the Crucified One.”44 “The Lord of the sheep made the rushma of oil his flocks.”45 In the exhortation to baptism, Jacob speaks of the rushma being placed on the forehead.46 The oil gets its sweet scent from mixing with herbs.47 It is quite probable that Jacob is also alluding to the epiclesis in the blessing of the water and oil when he writes in his Homily on the Epiphany: The Spirit floated from the Father in a great wonder and flew down descended, rested upon and abode upon His Beloved. She candidly came in bodily form of a dove to circle in the air there and to set up Her nest in the baptismal water.48

Throughout the writings from early Syriac-speaking Christianity, Jesus is described in various ways: he is the shepherd of his sheep, who are marked with his “seal,” as well as the source of the “power” that infuses the oil of anointing. He “puts on” various garments (youth, baptism, death) for the sake of salvation; by his putting on a body in the incarnation, it becomes possible for his followers through initiation to put him on, as they also put on fire, Spirit, and the “robe of glory.” Jesus enters into three “wombs”: he                                                                                                                         42

Ibid., 37. Cited in Brock, “Baptismal Themes,” 338. 44 Cited in Brock, “Baptismal Themes,” 338 n. 73, and p. 330. 45 Ibid., 338 n. 74; Bedjan, Homiliae Selectae Mar-Jacobi, 4:793. 46 Bedjan, Homiliae Selectae Mar-Jacobi, 1:207. 47 Cited by Brock, “Baptismal Themes,” 340. 48 Homily on the Epiphany 369–372; Kollamparampil, Jacob of Sarug’s Homily on Epiphany, 48. 43

 

298

Bryan D. Spinks

enters the womb of his mother and that of Sheol which he enters in death, while his descent into the waters of his own baptism cause all baptismal waters to function as a womb, giving birth to the initiate. In all these ways and in others can be seen a variety of images for Jesus and for the relationship between Jesus and the Christian community, images that were inspired by and that impart meaning to the ritual actions of the baptismal rite. From this brief survey it can be seen that the Maronite baptismal rite, though a relatively recent revision, is based on more ancient liturgical manuscripts and has striking images which set it apart from the rites of the other two Syriac-speaking churches. Its use of images of branding sheep, of putting on a robe of glory, and of the font as womb are ones that are embedded deeply in the Syriac tradition. In that sense, the Maronite rite represents a faithful handing on of themes and images found in the older literature.

 

Part IV: Portraits of Jesus in Other Early Christian Literature

 

A New Sort of Priest for a New Sort of People Hebrews as an Interpretation of Romans JOSHUA D. GARROWAY

Introduction In Romans 3:21–22, Paul proclaims that “now the righteousness of God has been revealed apart from the law . . . a righteousness of God that comes through faith in Jesus Christ for all who believe.” God made such righteousness available, Paul reveals three verses later, when God “put forth [Christ] as a i9lasth/rion, through faith, by his blood, which was a demonstration of God’s righteousness on account of God’s disregard for previous transgressions.” This passage’s peculiar vocabulary and knotty syntax make it one of the most controversial in the Pauline corpus.1 The majority of commentators nevertheless agree that Paul is interpreting the death of Christ in sacrificial terms. Although such terms are otherwise absent in his surviving epistles, Paul’s reference to Christ as a i9lasth/rion, the Septuagint’s term for the so-called “mercy-seat” atop the ark of the covenant, along with the mention of Christ’s blood and God’s remission of 1 Although difficulties abound, probably the most controversial surrounds the Greek term i9lasth/rion. As Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Romans: A New Translation with Introduction and c\Commentary (New York: Doubleday, 1993), 349–50, explains, the term presents two problems in particular. Firstly, it is not clear whether it is a noun or an adjective. Secondly, and more importantly, it is not clear what the term actually means. In Hellenistic Greek literature, a i9lasth/rion was a propitiation offering aimed at appeasing a god’s anger, a translation adopted perhaps most successfully by Stanley K. Stowers, A Rereading of Romans (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1994), 209–11. In the Septuagint, however, it refers to the mercy-seat atop the ark, and thus most commentators contend that Paul is identifying Christ with the place and means of expiation in the Day of Atonement ritual. Classic philological studies of the term include Romauld Alphonse Mollaun, St. Paul’s Concept of ILASTHRION according to Rom. III,25: An HistoricoExegetical Investigation (CUANTS 4; SST 21; Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1923), 45–89; Adolf Deissmann, “ILASTHRIOS und ILASTHRION: Eine lexicalische Studie,” ZNW 4 (1903): 193–212; C. H. Dodd, “ILAS- KESQAI: Its Cognates, Derivates, and Synonyms in the Septuagint,” JTS 32 (1931): 352–60.

302

Joshua D. Garroway

previous transgressions, has led many to think that Paul is here construing Christ’s death as the sin offering performed by the high priest in the inner sanctum of the temple on the Day of Atonement.2 The purpose of this sacrifice, at least as one can best determine it from Paul’s line of reasoning, was twofold: on the one hand, Christ’s sacrifice made available the redemptive faith which, when embraced, justifies a sinful believer in the eyes of God. This faith, not the law, has in fact become the only means of such justification in the wake of Christ. On the other hand, inasmuch as faith has become the new criterion by which one’s inclusion in God’s covenant is determined, Christ’s sacrifice effectively transforms the status of believers, rendering them all “seed of Abraham” regardless of their actual pedigree. Indeed, reinterpretation of traditional terms of Jewish identity is one of Paul’s primary objectives in Romans, appearing frequently and in each successive part of the letter. In Romans 2, for example, the terms “Jew” and “circumcision” are subjected to revision; in Romans 4, the “children of Abraham” is so altered; in Romans 8, it is the “children of God”; and most famously, in Romans 9–11, “Israel” is refashioned into a name properly befitting those who become heirs to the patriarchal promises by receiving the faith made available through Christ’s sacrifice. As it turns out, the genuine descendants of the patriarchs – the branches in the family tree, as it is depicted – are those connected to the roots of Israel by faith.3 As clear as Paul’s reassessment of identity in terms of Christ is, however, its connection to the epoch-defining sacrifice described by Paul in Rom 3:25 is hardly transparent. How, exactly, did Christ’s sacrifice transform so fundamentally the manner in which the terms of Jewish identity are to be reckoned? The closest Paul comes to clarifying the connection appears in his discourse on Abraham in Rom 4:1–16, the passage following Paul’s identification of Christ as a i9lasth/rion.4 Paul suggests that the faith made 2 Most recently, see Robert Jewett, Romans: A Commentary (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2007), 284. For alternative views, see among others Sam K. Williams, Jesus’ Death as a Saving Event: The Background and Origin of a Concept (Missoula, Mont.: Scholars, 1975), 5–56; Cilliers Breytenbach, Versöhnung: Eine Studie zur paulinischen Soteriologie (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1989), 166–168; Stowers, A Rereading, 206–13; Stefan Schreiber, “Das Weihegeschenk Gottes: Eine Deutung des Todes Jesu in Röm 3,25,” ZNW 97 (2006): 88–110. 3 On the correspondence between the olive tree metaphor in Rom 11:17–24 and the concept of the family tree, see especially Caroline Johnson Hodge, If Sons, Then Heirs (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 142–43. 4 Admittedly, 4:1–12 does not come immediately on the heels of Rom 3:25–26, as Rom 3:27–31 stands between them. Both 3:27–31 and 4:1–12 appear to be working out the consequences of the faith made available through Christ’s sacrifice: the former emphasizes the apparent equality between Jews and Gentiles in light of faith; the latter re-

A New Sort of Priest for a New Sort of People

303

possible by Christ’s sacrifice enables believers, including Gentiles, to exhibit the same faith Abraham demonstrated when he was reckoned righteous by God in Genesis 15. Such imitation, in turn, transforms the status of believers, including Gentiles, allowing them to claim Abraham as their legitimate forebear and benefactor. To modern readers this correlation may seem obvious. Centuries of Christians claiming authentic descent from Abraham, at least in some spiritual sense, have made the notion of faith-based Gentile descent from Abraham an understandable, if contentious, matter. When Paul first articulated this view, however, it must have sounded dubious and peculiar. It is a curious contention, after all. Why should sharing the faith of Abraham make one his heir or descendant? And how, exactly, do Christ’s sacrifice and the faith resulting from it turn Gentiles into “the seed of Abraham,” into “Jews,” into “Israel”? Paul’s epistle to the Galatians reveals just how suspicious this notion must have been in its original context. Many of Paul’s Galatian charges were apparently not persuaded by his initial effort to convince them that they were children of Abraham, and soon thereafter they were “bewitched,” as Paul describes it (Gal 3:1), by rivals who underscored the oddness of this view. The premise of this essay is that the perplexed response of the Galatians was not unique among the first audiences of Paul’s epistles. Early readers of Romans, perhaps even the readers of the autograph itself, were equally vexed by Paul’s unusual, though obviously significant, description of Christ as a i9lasth/rion whose death inaugurated a source of salvation outside the law and concomitantly transformed the “seed of Abraham” into a people determined by faith rather than by descent. I propose that the Epistle to the Hebrews, the New Testament’s “word of exhortation” whose provenance has been so vigorously debated throughout the years, was composed in response to this very question. In its original context, Hebrews served as an explanatory supplement to Romans, an interpretive appendix composed by someone other than Paul, whose objective was to clarify the audacious, if curious, connection Paul had drawn in Romans 3– 4 between Christ’s sacrifice and the righteousness furnished to the newly constituted descendants of Abraham. According to the author of Hebrews, the connection can be appreciated once one understands Christ’s role as the long-awaited and extraordinary high priest after the order of Melchizedek.

veals how such faith makes it possible for both Jews and Gentiles to be Abraham’s heirs and offspring.

304

Joshua D. Garroway

Background This essay will not be the first to propose so close a relationship between Romans and Hebrews. In 2003, Dieter Georgi entertained the possibility that Hebrews served originally as an interpretation of Romans in which a member of a heterogeneous “school of Paul” mobilized Paul’s theological program in a way that generated rapprochement, rather than division, between churches and synagogues in the late first century.5 He was inspired by the work of his teacher, William Manson, who a half century earlier maintained that Hebrews was sent initially by an Alexandrian Jew in the tradition of Stephen to the allegedly hard line Jewish-Christian faction at Rome – that is, the “Hebrew” faction – described by Paul in Romans 14.6 What inspired Georgi, in particular, is the placement of Hebrews immediately after Romans in the Chester Beatty papyrus P46, a placement that may simply be a function of the epistle’s length, but may also indicate that the collector of P46 (or similar earlier versions) believed Hebrews was written by Paul or, alternatively, was written as a complement to Paul’s epistle to the Romans.7 As suggestive as Georgi’s proposal was, however, his treatment was both cursory and speculative. More recently, Clare K. Rothschild has afforded a more thorough and compelling case for linking Hebrews with Romans in her monograph, Hebrews as Pseudepigraphon.8 As the title indicates, Rothschild contends that the author of Hebrews deliberately intended his “word of exhortation” to be acknowledged as the product of Paul. “Hebrews was most likely written,” she concludes, “as if by Paul, as a tool for understanding the [Pauline] corpus, in particular Romans. The writer would have been a Paulinist of the highest order – a well-educated, literate follower, perhaps biographer or secretary. . . .”9 Her selection of Romans as the Pauline epistle interpreted by Hebrews is based chiefly upon the biblical references shared 5 Dieter Georgi, “Hebrews and the Heritage of Paul,” in Hebrews: Contemporary Methods, New Insights (ed. G. Gelardini; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 239–44. 6 William Manson, The Epistle to the Hebrews (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1951). 7 Against the claim that the placement of Hebrews in P46 may be the result of its length (for example, Craig R. Koester, Hebrews: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [New York: Doubleday, 2001], 21), it should be noted that, according to this criterion, Hebrews should have been placed after 1 Corinthians rather than before it. According to David Trobisch, Paul’s Letter Collection: Tracing the Origins (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1994), 16–17, the scribe responsible for P 46 bumped up Hebrews in the order so as not to separate the Corinthian correspondence. 8 Clare K. Rothschild, Hebrews as Pseudepigraphon (WUNT 235; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009). 9 Rothschild, Hebrews as Pseudepigraphon, 153.

A New Sort of Priest for a New Sort of People

305

uniquely by Romans and Hebrews, notably Hab 2:4, as well as the correspondence between the emphasis in Hebrews on the “once-for-all” sacrifice of Christ and Paul’s use of the term e0fa/pac in Rom 6:10.10 Rothschild marshals an array of evidence to support her view. First she considers the circumstantial evidence exposing, for example, the age-old canard that Hebrews was largely rejected in the West prior to Jerome and Augustine. On the contrary, she demonstrates that the authority of Hebrews and its Pauline authorship was accepted in the West hardly less than in the East in the second, third, and fourth centuries, so that Jerome and Augustine merely endorsed, rather than recuperated, that view. Hebrews never had to earn its Pauline association, in other words, because it always had it. Moreover, Rothschild shows, scarcely any evidence exists to support the oft-repeated claim that Hebrews originally circulated independently, whereas several factors indicate that it circulated with other Pauline epistles de novo.11 Complementing the earliest manuscript evidence, which finds Hebrews next to Romans in P46 and possibly in P13, allusions to Hebrews in 1 Clement alongside those to 1 Corinthians and Romans suggest that Hebrews circulated with Pauline epistles as early as the late first century.12 These circumstantial factors suggest some sort of original connection between Hebrews and Paul, and more specifically, Paul’s letter to the Romans. In addition, there are details in the text of Hebrews itself that might indicate pseudepigraphy. The most important is the epistolary postscript (Heb 13:22–25), which resembles Paul’s style, includes greetings from “those in Italy,” and mentions “our brother Timothy,” the name of a wellknown companion of Paul. In the past, commentators routinely deflected the Pauline characteristics of the postscript by attributing it to a second 10

See Rothschild, Hebrews as Pseudepigraphon, 153 n. 156. In this respect, Rothschild follows in the footsteps of Charles P. Anderson, “The Epistle to the Hebrews and the Pauline Letter Collection,” HTR 59 (1966): 429–38, who challenged the longstanding view that “the Pauline corpus and Hebrews were known and used independently of one another prior to the latter’s incorporation in the former” (429). Anderson concludes the essay by suggesting that a superior option for understanding the inclusion of Hebrews in the Pauline corpus might be that “Hebrews may have gained admittance to the canon through association with a Pauline letter or letters prior to the formation of the corpus as a whole” (438). That possibility is precisely what the present essay proposes. 12 13 P is a third-century opisthograph from Oxyrhynchus containing much of Hebrews (2:14–5:5; 10:8–22; 10:29–11:13; 11:28–12:17) written on the reverse of an epitome of Livy. The pagination of the manuscript suggests that it originally contained twice the amount of writing required for Hebrews, leading Philip W. Comfort and David P. Barrett to suppose that Romans may have supplied the text now missing (The Complete Text of the Earliest New Testament Manuscripts [Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 1999], 730). The similarity of the text to that in P 46, which also places Hebrews after Romans, makes their proposal all the more attractive. 11

306

Joshua D. Garroway

hand. Franz Overbeck, for example, held that it was added in order to give the impression of Pauline authorship.13 Since the publication of Harold W. Attridge’s influential commentary in 1989, however, most interpreters have followed him in accepting the originality of the postscript.14 Yet, they have also followed Attridge in downplaying the Pauline character of the postscript in order to attenuate the apparent link between Hebrews and Paul. According to Rothschild, the postscript is both original to Hebrews and Pauline in style because the author of Hebrews intended for the epistle to be accepted as the work of the apostle. Hebrews, in other words, is a pseudepigraphon. Rothschild’s solution is not the only way to resolve the matter. One could also account for both the originality of the postscript and its Pauline style by proposing that the author sprang from a “school” of Paul, as Georgi suggested, or that the author was connected to a contemporary Pauline school. Even Attridge concedes the possibility of a “loose association” of the author of Hebrews with a Pauline school.15 Knut Backhaus has advanced this view, arguing that the author of Hebrews was a member of an interpretive circle with close connections to a Pauline school.16 Thus, at least three strategies for identifying the author of Hebrews vie for consideration among the commentators who acknowledge the Pauline character of the postscript: the author was either an imitator of Paul, a member of a Pauline school writing on his own (anonymous) authority, or an “outsider” with ties to a Pauline school. This essay will not endorse one of these views against the others. Indeed, I am far less concerned with the identity of the author than with the author’s specific objective in penning his “word of exhortation.” The manuscript evidence alone justifies an investigation of the possible relationship 13

Franz Overbeck, Zur Geschichte des Kanons (Chemnitz: Ernst Schmeitzner, 1880), 15–16. Other noteworthy attributions of the postscript (or more of Hebrews) to a second hand include Charles C. Torrey, “The Authorship and Character of the So-called ‘Epistle to the Hebrews,’” JBL 30 (1911): 137–56; Hartwig Thyen, Der Stil der jüdischhellenistischen Homilie (FRLANT 47; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1955), 16– 17; George Wesley Buchanan, To the Hebrews (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1972), 267; A. J. M. Wedderburn, “‘Letter’ to the Hebrews and Its Thirteenth Chapter,” NTS 50 (2004): 390–405. 14 Harold W. Attridge, The Epistle to the Hebrews: A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews (Hermeneia; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1989). 15 Attridge, Hebrews, 6. 16 Knut Backhaus, “Der Hebräerbrief und die Paulus-Schule,” BZ 37 (1993): 183–208, cited here at 183. As Rothschild, Hebrews as Pseudepigraphon, 60, notes, Backhaus is reviving in slightly different form the view of William Wrede, Das literarische Rätsel des Hebräerbriefs (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1906), who claimed that the author of Hebrews decided at the last minute to pass off his work as a prison letter of Paul, and therefore provided a few sparse indications of Pauline pseudepigraphy.

A New Sort of Priest for a New Sort of People

307

between Romans and Hebrews. When this evidence is considered alongside the postscript in Hebrews, which links the author to Timothy and makes Italy a likely destination, the pursuit proves all the more advisable.17 If Hebrews indeed circulated alongside Romans from the start, either as a couplet (P13) or as a part of a larger corpus paulinum (P46),18 and if the author indeed sent the correspondence to Rome with greetings from Italian expatriates, then proposing a relationship between Hebrews and Romans hardly seems irresponsible.19 In this vein, I propose that Hebrews be viewed as an explanatory appendix to Romans, which aimed to clarify Paul’s terse and tantalizing allusion to Christ in Rom 3:21–26 as sacrifice that provided righteousness to Gentiles independent of the law and, just as importantly, made it possible for Gentile believers to become authentic descendants of Abraham. Early readers of Romans, perhaps even the recipients of the autograph itself, requested – much like the Galatians, apparently – further explanation for such a curious contention.20 The ingenious author of Hebrews found the linchpin by identifying Christ as an extraordinary, self-sacrificial high priest – a high priest not after the Levitical order, but after the order of Melchizedek.

New Priest, New Covenant, New People Hebrews identifies the principal purpose of its “word of exhortation” in two thesis statements: 2:10–18 and 6:13–20. The author does not indicate 17

Both Koester, Hebrews, 581, and Attridge, Hebrews, 410, acknowledge that it is impossible to determine on the basis of the expression oi9 a0po\ th=j 0Itali/aj alone whether the greeting is sent from Italians living abroad, thus implying an Italian destination for the epistle, or Italians living in Italy, and hence a destination outside of Italy. Support exists for both possibilities: in favor of an Italian (Roman) destination are Raymond E. Brown and John P. Meier, Antioch and Rome: New Testament Cradles of Catholic Christianity (New York: Paulist, 1984), 142–49; and Backhaus, “Der Hebräerbrief,” 196–99; in favor of a destination outside of Italy are Ceslas Spicq, L’Épître aux Hébreux (2 vols.; Paris: Gabalda, 1952–1953), 1:261–64; Herbert Braun, An die Hebräer (HNT 14; Tübingen: Mohr [Siebeck], 1984), 484. Both Koester and Attridge conclude that the weight of the evidence as a whole favors an Italian destination, if only slightly. 18 See above, n. 12. 19 Rothschild, Hebrews as Pseudepigraphon, 154–62, proposes that Hebrews might originally have served as Paul’s “missing speech” to the Jews in Acts 28. 20 The date of the composition of Hebrews cannot be determined with precision. After an exhaustive summary of the relevant data, Attridge, Hebrews, 9, proposes a date anywhere between 60 and 100 C.E. Koester, Hebrews, 50, suggests 60 to 90 C.E. If the actual date of composition falls on the earlier side of this range, then it may well be the readers of Paul’s autograph who are requesting elucidation.

308

Joshua D. Garroway

that these passages are introductory encapsulations of the argument as a whole – “thesis” paragraphs as we call them – but their location and content suggest as much. The main point of the treatise, its kefa/laion (8:1), is that Christ has become an extraordinary high priest who resides in heaven ministering in the celestial tabernacle on behalf of his people.21 The author hints at this thesis already in 1:3, then discloses it plainly in 2:10–18 by proclaiming that Christ became “a merciful and faithful high priest in the matters of God in order to expiate [i9la/skomai] the sins of the people.” The ensuing discourse (3:1–5:10) explains how Christ, as high priest, showed himself to be both merciful and faithful. Then, following a digression, Hebrews resumes with the so-called “difficult discourse,” which again treats of Christ as the consummate high priest. Again, the author proclaims the theme straightaway, declaring in 6:13–20 that Jesus, by entering the inner sanctum of the temple, “has become a high priest for ever,” now identified more specifically as a high priest “after the order of Melchizedek” (6:20). Thus, inasmuch as the main premise of Hebrews is Christ’s identity and function as a high priest, 2:10–18 and 6:13–20 appear to be the programmatic introductions to that assertion in the former and latter discourses, respectively.22 Both passages correspond uncannily to Paul’s description of Christ’s sacrifice (Rom 3:21–26) and its impact on the identity of Abraham’s authentic descendants (Rom 4:10–16). The link between Heb 2:10–18 and Romans is particularly suggestive. Having established the kinship of Christ with the many sons he brought to glory through his redemptive death, Hebrews proclaims that Christ, by undergoing this death, “does not take hold of angels but takes hold of the ‘seed of Abraham.’” Some commentators have proposed that the “seed of Abraham” refers to Israel “in the flesh,” but the context demands that this moniker describe those persons who have benefited directly from the death of Christ – namely, believers brought to 21

Commentators tend to agree that kefa/laion means “point” or “main point” in this instance, not “summary.” See, for example, Attridge, Hebrews, 217; Koester, Hebrews, 374–75; B. F. Westcott, The Epistle to the Hebrews (London: Macmillan, 1892; repr., Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1951), 212. There is disagreement when it comes to what part of the epistle the author is encapsulating in a single point: the previous section, the ensuing section, the entire epistle, and so on. I agree with Buchanan, To the Hebrews, 132, who says kefa/laion “refers not only to the discussion in chapter seven, but to the very beginning of the book.” 22 Numerous commentators have attempted to describe the entire structure of Hebrews, most notably Albert Vanhoye, La structure litteraire de l’Épitre aux Hébreux (2nd ed; Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1976). Attridge, Hebrews, 19–20, offers an alternative. I will not attempt to describe the structure of Hebrews other than to say that Heb 2:10–18 and 6:13–20 serve as introductions to the “easy” and “difficult” discourses respectively, both of which seek to demonstrate that Christ is a merciful, exalted, extraordinary high priest whose self-sacrifice provides incomparable benefit to believers.

A New Sort of Priest for a New Sort of People

309

glory through Christ’s death, whether Jews or Gentiles, whose descent from Abraham is now reckoned in terms of their relationship to Christ.23 Other language in the passage suggests that this seed consists not merely of descendants of Abraham, but of participants in a new sacred family: they have become “sons” and “children” of God brought to glory, “brothers and sisters” whom Christ unashamedly acknowledges. The notion that faith in Christ transforms even Gentile believers into authentic descendants of Abraham is Paul’s distinctive innovation. It was Paul who argued at great length, first to the Galatians and then to the Romans, that faith has so dramatic an effect on pedigrees. Although Attridge suggests that identification as the children of Abraham was a “common Christian self-designation,” the texts he adduces to corroborate this claim (Luke 1:55; Gal 3:8–9, 29; 4:28–31; Rom 4:1–25; John 8:33) do not reveal as much. For example, Mary’s statement in the Magnificat, that God has fulfilled the promise “to our fathers, to Abraham, and to his seed forever,” hardly indicates that Gentile believers in Christ are included in the last category. Mary’s is the prayer of a Jewish woman and, accordingly, it refers to herself and her fellow Jews as the seed of Abraham. Likewise, it is specifically Jews, not believers in Christ, who identify themselves as the “seed of Abraham” in John 8:33. Even if Jesus’ rebuke in John 8:39 is construed as a contrary-to-fact condition (which is unlikely), such that Jesus in fact dispossesses his Jewish opponents of the title, the text does not suggest that by doing so he confers the title rightfully upon future believers.24 That leaves the citations from Galatians and Romans. Indeed, apart from Romans, Galatians, and Hebrews, no text from earlier than the second century makes faith in Christ a criterion for determining descent from Abraham. It was not a “common Christian self-designation” in the first century, but a Pauline novelty. If the reference to the “seed of Abraham” in Heb 2:16 does not suffice to establish the link between Hebrews and Romans, consider the terminology Hebrews uses to describe Christ’s death in 2:17. Christ shared the sufferings of his brethren, Hebrews teaches, so that he might become “a merciful and faithful high priest in the matters of God in order to expiate the 23 Buchanan, To the Hebrews, 36, claims that the “seed of Abraham” here refers to Jews – that is, the physical descendants of Abraham – but this view is correctly rejected by most commentators. See, for example, Attridge, Hebrews, 95 n. 179. 24 As Raymond Brown, The Gospel According to John (i–xii) (AB 29; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1966), 356–57, observes, worthy commentators and translators have presented the condition alternatively as a real, a contrary-to-fact, or a mixed condition. The variety is best explained, he concludes, if the original reading is the mixed condition and the other two represent attempts to harmonize the protasis with the apodosis. If it is a mixed condition, then Jesus is saying the Jews are in fact Abraham’s children, despite the apparent renunciation of this status indicated by their actions.

310

Joshua D. Garroway

sins of the people.” The verb “to expiate,” i9la/skomai, is a rare verb in the New Testament (occurring only here and in Luke 18:13) and corresponds to the even rarer term, i9lasth/rion, with which Paul describes the redemptive death of Christ in Rom 3:25. Admittedly, such correspondence might be a coincidence, as each author might have independently adopted this terminology to describe Christ’s death, but the uncanny correspondence between Heb 2:16 and Romans 3–4 makes it more likely that Hebrews chose that verb precisely because Paul had described Christ as a i9lasth/rion. Whereas Paul left the correlation between the sacrifice and the formation of the seed of Abraham unexplained, Hebrews puts forth Christ’s identity as a self-sacrificial high priest to fill that gap. Before we examine how that argument takes shape, the second so-called thesis passage in Hebrews will be considered because, as I suggested above, the introduction to the difficult discourse likewise emphasizes the transformation in Abrahamic descent effectuated by Christ’s sacrificial death. In Heb 6:13–20, it is not the “seed of Abraham” whom the author determines, but their derivative and equivalent, the inheritors of the promise given by God to Abraham. In concluding his transition to the difficult discourse, the author exhorts his readers to reinvigorate their faith, “lest you be lethargic, but might rather be imitators of those who through faith and endurance inherit the promises” (6:12). As the author explains in 6:13–20, the genuine inheritors of the Abrahamic promises are all those who have grabbed onto the hope of redemption, which is secured not only by God’s oath but also by Christ’s entrance into the holy of holies and, presumably, by his self-sacrificial service there as a high priest after the order of Melchizedek. The recipients of the Abrahamic promises, then, are none other than the “seed of Abraham” to whom the author referred in the first discourse – namely, whoever professes faith in Christ’s redemptive sacrifice. Paul, too, couches the descent of the faithful in terms of the Abrahamic promise(s), especially in Rom 4:13–16. As Paul explains it, the promise God conferred to Abraham and his descendants was secured by faith, rather than the law, so that Abraham’s descendants necessarily include anyone who demonstrates faith regardless of his or her commitment to the law. The formula remains the same when Paul revisits the matter in Romans 9–11: faith makes one a recipient of the promise, which in turn makes one a descendant of Abraham. Hebrews espouses the same idea in Heb 2:16 and 6:17 with one additional, important detail: Christ mediates the faith, the receipt of the promise, and the establishment of Abraham’s authentic heirs and descendants by means of his service as a high priest after the order of Melchizedek. This high priest serves “his people,” as

A New Sort of Priest for a New Sort of People

311

Hebrews puts it in 2:16, through his self-sacrificial death in the inner sanctum of the heavenly temple. But how, exactly, did Christ’s priestly service construct a new Abrahamic people? Hebrews finds the answer in two peculiar characteristics of Melchizedek and the priesthood supposed to issue from him. First, Melchizedek is a0pa/twr, a0mh/twr, a0genealo/ghtoj: motherless and fatherless, lacking not merely a Levitical genealogy, but any genealogy whatsoever (7:3).25 Second, Melchizedek’s priestly service is without parallel, a point the author establishes by reviewing Melchizedek’s prototypical appropriation of a tithe from Abraham (still as Abram). In explaining the significance of that event, Hebrews shows peculiar interest in Abraham’s “loins” (Greek o0sfu/j), a term appearing twice in the span of five verses, because they reveal the superiority of Melchizedek’s priesthood. The argument runs as follows: the descendants of Levi, Abraham’s great-grandson, were commanded to take tithes from the twelve tribes of Israel, who are also Abraham’s descendants. In other words, the mortal Levites take tithes from their mortal brethren. But Abraham, the forebear of Levi and every other Israelite, paid his tithe to the immortal priest, Melchizedek. Melchizedek’s priesthood is thus superior to that of the Levites. Indeed, as Hebrews suggests, the Levites themselves paid a tithe to Melchizedek when Abraham did because “Levi . . . was in the loins of his father when Melchizedek met him” (7:10). For Hebrews, these two peculiar characteristics of Melchizedek – his lack of genealogy and his superior priestly service to Abraham – have dramatic implications once Melchizedek’s priestly line is consummated by his successor, Christ the high priest. As nearly every reader of Hebrews has observed, they indicate a shift in the law, indeed a nullification of it, because the reemergence of a superior and immortal high priest after the order of Melchizedek obviates the law’s inferior, subservient, and mortal Levitical priesthood. As Hebrews puts it, “when the priesthood is changed, there is necessarily a change in law” (Heb 7:12). This abrogation of the law in favor of God’s oath is, in turn, accompanied by a newer and better 25

He is also deemed immortal, “having neither a beginning of days nor an end of life” (7:3). The author no doubt derives Melchizedek’s lack of genealogy and mortality from the silence of the biblical narrative. Since Genesis fails to report Melchizedek’s birth and death, the author alleges that these unrecorded details never occurred. This exegetical technique was not unique in ancient Jewish exegesis. See, for example, Philo’s treatment of the tabernacle (Leg. 2.55) and of Noah (Abr. 31). According to Hebrews, Melchizedek’s immortality resembles that of Christ, a similarity that accentuates the eternality of the priesthood they share. As Koester, Hebrews, 348, observes, there are problems in pressing the comparison of Christ with Melchizedek too far. Hebrews itself acknowledges that Jesus had an ancestry traced to Judah. Jesus also died, unlike Melchizedek, although the author of Hebrews obviously assumes that Jesus lived after his death.

312

Joshua D. Garroway

covenant safeguarded by Christ, which in turn is characterized by a newer and better heavenly cult. This sequence of supersession finds elaboration in Hebrews 7–10: Hebrews 7, as we have just seen, describes the superiority of Christ’s priesthood to the Levitical priesthood; Hebrews 8 describes the superior covenant; Hebrews 9 and 10 describe the superior tabernacle and sacrifice. What too few commentators have observed, however, is that the new high priest, his superior covenant, the superior tabernacle, and the superior cult require a superior people to be served by those institutions. A priest without a people is like a teacher without students, an actor without an audience, or a doctor without patients, an incomplete tandem that prevents the practitioner from carrying out his duty. The new people to whom Christ ministers as a high priest are identified from beginning to end in Hebrews by first-person plural pronouns. Hebrews opens, for example, with the famous declaration that “God, having spoken of old in many ways and in many forms to [our] fathers through the prophets, at the end of these days spoke to us through a Son. . . .” (Heb 1:1).26 The possessive pronoun may not be original to Hebrews, but there is no disputing the authenticity of the second pronoun, which identifies the author of the epistle, as well as the intended audience, as the recipients of a revelation from the God of the fathers, who is certainly the God of the Israelites, the God of Abraham. The “us” to whom God spoke through the Son is identical to the “we” and the “us” mentioned throughout Hebrews – namely, those believers who have confidence and hope on account of the faith they have put in Christ as their ministering high priest. They are “the people” for whom Christ made expiation for sins in the capacity of a high priest (2:17); “the people of God” for whom the Sabbath rest remains (4:9); “the people” whom God, through Jeremiah, declares to be God’s own (8:10); and “the people whom Christ sanctified through his blood and suffering” (13:12). So, too, are they the “seed of Abraham” (2:16) and the heirs of the promise given to Abraham (6:13–20). They may also identify Abraham as their patria/rxhj (7:4), a superfluous descriptor added to the author’s account of the interaction between Abraham and Melchizedek in order to emphasize that, just as the people served by the Levitical priesthood claim Abraham as a patriarch according to the flesh, so the people served by the priesthood of Melchizedek may claim Abraham as a patriarch according to a superior type of descent. The new people served by Christ are the people of Abraham because, just as Melchizedek was the priest for Abraham, so

26 The first-person plural pronoun is less well attested and probably not original to Hebrews. As Attridge, Hebrews, 35, suggests, it appears to be an “unnecessary correction disturbing the balance of the first two clauses and the alliterative effect of this clause.”

A New Sort of Priest for a New Sort of People

313

Christ, the high priest after the order of Melchizedek, now serves as priest for a people after the order of Abraham.27 Not coincidentally, the characteristics of the new people are nearly identical to the peculiar characteristics of the priest who serves them. Just as Christ (like Melchizedek) lacks the genealogy required to be a priest under the law, as he does not trace his lineage through the fleshly line of the Levites, nevertheless he is a high priest – and the consummate one at that – because he traces his descent directly and immediately, albeit figuratively, to Melchizedek with no intervening generations. Likewise, the people served by Christ, by and large at least, lack the genealogy required to be considered the seed of Abraham and his heirs, as they do not trace their lineage through the fleshly line of the Israelites. As Hebrews might put it, they never resided in Abraham’s loins, as did the people served by the Levitical priesthood.28 Nevertheless, Hebrews maintains, they are the “seed of Abraham” because they trace their descent directly and immediately, if only figuratively, to the patriarch himself, and they are served by the same priestly order as was Abraham. They have been stripped away, dare one say, like wild and uncultivated olive branches, and transformed instantly into immediate descendants of the noble Abrahamic line simply by virtue of their relationship to the high priest Christ, whose status as a priest has a similarly dramatic and, as Heb 7:16 makes explicit, non-“fleshly” origin.29 For the author of Hebrews, Christ the high priest mediates a new covenant, through a new sacrifice, in a new tabernacle, for a new people, a people who trace their descent and inheritance from Abraham in the same way their priest traces his descent and inheritance from Abraham’s priest – independently from the law or from a line of physical descent.

Conclusion Modern interpreters have speculated endlessly about the origins of the peculiar high-priestly Christology found in Hebrews. Attridge devotes two lengthy excursuses to the subject, the first exploring the “antecedents and development of the high-priestly Christology,” the second considering

27 Koester, Hebrews, 343, says something similar: “Abraham’s relationship to Melchizedek sets a precedent for the relationship of Abraham’s descendants (2:16) to Christ.” 28 On several occasions, Hebrews emphasizes the relationship between the Levitical priesthood and the “people” served by it (e.g., 5:3; 7:5; 7:11; 9:7). 29 Heb 7:16 proclaims that Christ’s priesthood is “not according to a law of a fleshly [sarki/nhj] command.”

314

Joshua D. Garroway

Melchizedek in particular.30 In both cases, he concedes that the treatment in Hebrews does not correspond closely to contemporary Jewish beliefs. He sifts through the usual suspects – the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, Jubilees, Philo, 1 Enoch, the Fourth Gospel, and the Servant Songs – and ultimately concludes that the angel-priest traditions in 1 Enoch, Jubilees, and the Scrolls at best provide “possible models” for Hebrews’ high-priestly Christology, to which the author of Hebrews added the notion of priestly self-sacrifice.31 This addition, Attridge explains, was in keeping with other early Christian traditions about a selfsacrificial Christ. The passage to which he refers first and foremost is, not surprisingly, none other than Rom 3:25. Indeed, he cites Paul’s epistle to the Romans twice to substantiate his claim that, “it is certainly clear that the two major high-priestly functions attributed to Jesus, intercession [Rom 8:34 et al.] and self-sacrifice [Rom 3:25 et al.], are widely attested in early Christian texts.”32 In other words, one might reasonably suspect that it is Paul, more so than the angelic speculation in Jewish literature, that provided the most immediate inspiration for the novel view of Christ in Hebrews as an interceding, self-sacrificial high priest. This study has offered one possible explanation for the connection between Paul and Hebrews. Paul had tantalized his readers with a brief but unexplained allusion to Christ’s death as a i9lasth/rion which provided, on the one hand, a means of justification for all people independent of the law and, on the other, a new way to reckon membership in God’s people, the heirs and descendants of Abraham. Curiosity over this enigmatic remark, however it manifested itself historically, prompted the author of Hebrews to elaborate on the nature and efficacy of Christ’s sacrificial death. Identification of Christ as a self-sacrificial high priest after the order of Melchizedek supplied the linchpin. On the one hand, it explained why the law had been obviated as the mode by which the God of Israel relates to God’s people. After all, “when the priesthood is changed, there is necessarily a change in law” (Heb 7:12). Just as importantly, it explained why the genuine children of Abraham and the heirs of his promise are not his fleshly descendants necessarily, but anyone served by the priestly order that served Abraham. The lexical and thematic correspondence between Hebrews and Romans discussed above, in addition to the circumstantial evidence, make this approach to Hebrews a viable, if not certain, interpretive possibility. Of course, when it comes to Hebrews, a text with such obscure origins, certainty about anything is rarely, if ever, achieved.

30

See Attridge, Hebrews, 97–103, 192–95. Attridge, Hebrews, 101. 32 Attridge, Hebrews, 102. 31

A New Sort of Priest for a New Sort of People

315

In that vein, I would like to conclude by responding to the criticisms likely to confront the unconventional thesis put forth in this study. First, and this may go without saying, I am not suggesting that explication of Romans 3–4 is the exclusive concern of Hebrews. Much as it would be difficult to identify the singular issue in, say, Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians, as that epistle addresses numerous questions and concerns, so I would concede that Hebrews is not simply an interpretation of Romans. It is at least partly (and, in my opinion, mostly) an interpretation of Romans, but it may well have other objectives – exegetical, pastoral, exhortatory, or otherwise. Second, one might reasonably ask why the compiler of P46, or whoever appended the title, “To the Hebrews,” would have done so if aware that the document was related historically to Romans. It is possible, of course, that such a compiler was unaware of the original context in which the work was composed, but I believe it is no less likely that whoever titled the epistle did understand its origins. Seeing as Romans had as its principal theme the reevaluation of Jewish identity in terms of Christ, and seeing as this unnamed epistle fleshed out the mechanism by which believers in Christ became justified outside of the law and, as a result, the authentic “seed of Abraham,” perhaps this compiler named the document “To the Hebrews” precisely to suggest that those addressed by it are not only the “seed of Abraham” in the true sense, but indeed, genuine “Hebrews” as well. Finally, I suspect some readers may wonder why the author of Hebrews, if his principal aim was to clarify Romans, by and large neglected the term “righteousness” and emphasized rather the term “perfection.”33 As Morna Hooker has observed, the concept behind these terms is basically the same for Paul as for Hebrews, but there is no disputing that Paul prefers dikaiosu/nh and its equivalents to describe what Christ made available apart from the law, while the author of Hebrews prefers teleio/thj and its equivalents.34 I do not believe this shift in terminology obscures the unmistakable correlations between Romans and Hebrews described above, nor do I think we should expect an interpretive writing to mirror exactly the terminology used in the text being interpreted. Indeed, when it comes to pseudepigraphy, it is often the differences in syntax, style, and vocabulary that allow us to distinguish the authentic letters of Paul from the deutero-Paulines. Nevertheless, I would like to suggest one admittedly speculative explanation for the change in terminology. Perhaps the change stems from yet 33 Indeed, this was the question posed by Professor Attridge when I first described this study to him. 34 Morna Hooker, “Christ, the ‘End’ of the Cult,” in The Epistle to the Hebrews and Christian Theology (ed. R. Bauckham et al.; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2009), 189–212.

316

Joshua D. Garroway

another of Paul’s tantalizingly terse and enigmatic statements in Romans. When he indicts his Israelite brethren for their ignorance in Rom 10:3–4, Paul declares that “they did not know the righteousness of God and, seeking to establish their own righteousness, they failed to submit to the righteousness of God; for Christ is the end (te/loj) of the law for righteousness for all who believe.” What Paul means by “the end of the law” remains a source of debate among interpreters, the primary issue being the extent to which te/loj means “termination,” “goal,” or “fulfillment.”35 Is it possible that the emphasis on “perfection” in Hebrews marks the first entry in this history of interpretation, a playful shift in terminology that capitalizes on the semantic and phonetic resemblance between te/loj and te/leioj? By repeatedly underscoring the incapacity of the law to furnish perfection (e.g., Heb 7:11, 19; 9:9; 10:1; 11:40), the perfection of Christ (e.g., Heb 2:10; 5:9; 7:28), and Christ’s capacity to furnish perfection for believers (e.g., Heb 9:11; 10:14; 12:23), the author explains how Christ became “the te/loj of the law for righteousness for all who believe.” The relationship between Christ and the law, for which Paul used the term te/loj, is now put in terms of the various tel- roots (te/leioj, teleio/w , teleio/thj, telei/w sij) that convey the notion of perfection. Christ terminated and fulfilled the law, therefore, by realizing the perfection that remained forever inaccessible under the law. This perfection, in turn, made perfection (qua righteousness) available for all who believe. Such playful punning would certainly not extend beyond the reach of the author of Hebrews, who displays a knack for midrashic exegesis and etymological Greek wordplay elsewhere in the epistle. Indeed, as Attridge has observed, he even tinkers with the tel- root itself, juxtaposing the contrived word teleiwth/j with the complementary a0rxhgo/j in Heb 12:2.36 To prove definitively whether this focus on perfection reflects an intentional development of Paul’s enigmatic statement in Rom 10:4 is not pos35

Frequently cited in this discussion are Robert Badenas, Christ the End of the Law: Romans 10:4 in Pauline Perspective (JSNTSup 10; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985); G. E. Howard, “Christ the End of the Law: The Meaning of Romans 10:4ff.,” JBL 88 (1969): 331–37; W. S. Campbell, “Christ the End of the Law: Romans 10:4,” StudBib 3; JSNTSup 3; ed. E. A. Livingstone; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1979), 73–81; E. P. Sanders, Paul, the Law, and the Jewish People (Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress, 1983); Ragnar Bring, “Die Gerechtigkeit Gottes und das alttestamentliche Gesetz: Eine Untersuchung von Röm 10:4,” ST 20 (1966): 1–36; James D. G. Dunn, “‘Righteousness from the Law’ and ‘Righteousness from Faith’: Paul’s Interpretation of Scripture in Romans 10:1–10,” in Tradition and Interpretation in the New Testament: Essays in Honor of E. Earle Ellis (ed. G. F. Hawthorne; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1987), 216–28; Peter Stuhlmacher, “Das Ende des Gesetzes: Über Ursprung und Ansatz der paulinischen Theologie,” ZTK 67 (1970): 14–39. 36 According to Attridge, Hebrews, 356, “the juxtaposition [of archegos] with teleiwth/j” is an “obvious play on a0rx - and tel- stems.”

A New Sort of Priest for a New Sort of People

317

sible. As I conceded above, it is speculative. Far less speculative is the prospect sketched in the preceding argument of a literary connection between Romans and Hebrews. Circumstantial evidence, such as the location of Hebrews in P46 and the citations in 1 Clement, makes the claim reasonable, as does the internal evidence provided by the epistolary postscript of Heb 13:22–25. The relationship between the texts comes into fuller focus, I suggest, when one appreciates the link between Paul’s curious description of Christ as a sacrifice in Romans 3–4 and its correspondence to the depiction in Hebrews of Christ as a self-sacrificing priest after the order of Melchizedek, whose sacrifice makes it possible for the authentic “seed of Abraham” to inherit the promises stored up for them. As the author of Hebrews explains, Christ became a new sort of priest for a new sort of people.

 

   

Standing at the Foot of the Staircase Christology and Narrative Structure in the Prologue to Hebrews (Heb 1:1–4) CANDIDA R. MOSS Having spoken of old in multiple forms and multiple fashions to the fathers through the prophets, in these final days God has spoken to us through a Son, whom he established as heir of all things, through whom he also created the universe, who, being the radiance of his glory and the imprint of his fundamental reality, bearing all things by his powerful word, having made purification for sins, took a seat at the right hand of the Majesty on high, having become as far superior to the angels as he has inherited a name more excellent than they.1 (Heb 1:1–4)

Although the Epistle to the Hebrews describes only its discussion of Melchizedek as a “word that is difficult to interpret” (Heb 5:11), it would not be an overstatement to apply this description to the complexity of the document as a whole. The structure of the so-called letter has caused manifold problems for those attempting to systematize its argumentation as a whole. These difficulties arise not because the work lacks structure – on the contrary, there is a superabundance of structural markers – but because the various strands of the argument are so tightly interwoven that the text becomes a seamless self-referential whole. The prologue to Hebrews (Heb 1:1–4) is by definition the beginning of the text’s argument, yet it has often been divorced from the body of the work as a mere epistolary prescript or an independent hymnic summary of the significance of Christ. The purpose of this paper, by contrast, is to ex                                                                                                                

1 Trans. Harold W. Attridge, The Epistle to the Hebrews: A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews (Hermeneia; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress Press, 1989). This paper began its life as a seminar paper in a master’s level advanced Greek course on Hebrews taught by Harold Attridge at Yale Divinity School in the Fall of 2000. It is no coincidence that a number of the class’s participants – Glen Snyder, Brent Nongbri, Timothy Marquis, Alice Yafey, and I myself – were so greatly inspired by Harry that we have gone on to careers as New Testament scholars. It is with profound gratitude for a decade of instruction, inspiration, and friendship that I dedicate this essay to him now.

Candida R. Moss  

320  

amine the importance of the prologue as an integral part of the original text, an organizing feature for the entire work, and a foundational statement of the christological program of the account. Against the dominant view that this section existed as an independent christological hymn, it will argue that the prologue inaugurates all of the major thematic elements of the parenetical and expository section of the account and introduces the key terminology by which these themes will be developed. The structural symmetry of the prologue is itself symbolic of the close relationship between the theological elements and exhortatory program of the work. In short, the prologue forms the conceptual foundation for the work, out of which the author’s argument spirals as a rhetorical staircase. Before turning to the role of the prologue in the text as a whole and the christological paradigm that it introduces, it is first necessary to examine the literary integrity and form of the text as it stands.

The Form, Structure, and Integrity of the Prologue In critical analysis of the New Testament, literary considerations frequently play second fiddle to historical interrogation. Not so in the case of the opening of Hebrews. The author has crafted a sentence of such seamless elegance and sophisticated argumentation that even the most hurried reader cannot fail to recognize its literary artistry.2 This sophistication is nowhere more apparent than in the opening sentence, the carefully balanced clauses of which are judged by many to be “la plus parfait” in the New Testament.3 Such structural precision is neither peripheral nor incidental; it is integral to our understanding of the text. In the words of Grässer, For the exegesis [of Heb 1:1–4] it is, I think of the greatest importance that one understands that the stylistic care and meticulously composed structure are a factor in the au-

                                                                                                                2

We might note the statement of Attic philologist Friedrich Blass that “the Epistle to the Hebrews is the only piece of writing in the N.T., which in structure of sentences and style shows the care and dexterity of an artistic writer,” in his Grammar of New Testament Greek (trans. Henry St. John Thackeray; 2nd ed.; London; Macmillan, 1905), 296, cited in William Baird, History of New Testament Research, vol. 2: From Jonathan Edwards to Rudolf Bultmann (Minneapolis, Minn.: Augsburg Fortress Press, 2003), 184–85. 3 C. Spicq, L’Epître aux hebreux (Paris: Garabaldi, 1977), 56. In this respect Hebrews has no shortage of scholarly admirers. See Albert Vanhoye’s statement that the opening is “une des plus remarquables periodes que l’on puisse trouver dans le Nouveau Testament,” La Structure Litteraire de l’Epître aux hebreux (2nd ed.; Paris: Brouwer, 1976), 65.

Standing at the Foot of the Staircase

 

321

thor’s intention. We are therefore interested in the analysis of structure not simply as something alongside exegesis; but precisely as exegesis.”4

The structure of the prologue, however, is secondary to the genre of the passage. It is the assumption of this paper that Hebrews is a unified composition. As noted, the dominant view of Heb 1:3, however, is that it was originally an independent christological hymn; thus before proceeding to a discussion of the function and christological import of the prologue we must first establish the relationship of v. 3 to the rest of the account. In scholarly concatenations of christological hymns, Heb 1:3 is regularly included as one of a number of early liturgical articulations of the identity and significance of Jesus.5 The identification of “hymnic pieces” in the texts that make up the canonical New Testament is a notable development of mid-twentieth-century scholarship. The task of identification, weighed down as it is with the theological burden of retrieving the earliest christological statements of embryonic Christianity, ignites fierce debate about the form-critical definition of hymns, the Sitzen im Leben of texts, and the historical-religious background of these pieces. It is impossible to undertake here a serious critique of the vast array of scholarly literature on the subject, but it is important to note two points: first, that the existence of christological hymns is not universally accepted and second, that neither form-critical nor religionsgeschichtliche methods have been successful in identifying these so-called hymns.6 The designation of Heb 1:3 as a hymn is, like the designation of other scriptural passages as hymns, based on a combination of thematic, stylistic, and formal features in the verse. In particular, the use of the opening relative o#j is treated as marking the beginning of a hymnic fragment that was originally tied to thanksgiving (Phil 2:6; Col 1:15; 1 Tim 3:16; Eph 2:14). Additionally, the general absence of the article, the use of balanced clauses,                                                                                                                 4

E. Grässer, “Hebräer 1:1–4: Ein exegetischer Versuch,” Text und Situation (Gütersloh: Mohn, 1973), 183, translated in John P. Meier, “Structure and Theology in Hebrews 1,1–4,” Bib 66 (1985): 168–189 (quote from p. 169, emphasis Meier).   5 The precise content of these lists varies. Ralph P. Martin cites John 1:1–14; Col 1:15–20; Phil 2:6–11; 1 Pet 1:18–21; 2:21–25; 3:18–22 and 1 Tim 3:16 as “putative hymns” in Carmen Christi: Philippians 2:5–11 in Recent Interpretation and in the Setting of Early Christian Worship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), 19. Cf. Jack T. Sanders, who adds Eph 2:14–16, but rejects 1 Pet 1:18–21 and 2:21–25, in The New Testament Christological Hymns: Their Historical Religious Background (SNTSMS 15; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), 10–11, 16. 6 For a survey of the comparative strengths and weaknesses of both these approaches, see Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, “Wisdom Mythology and the Christological Hymns of the New Testament,” in Robert L. Wilken, Aspects of Wisdom in Judaism and Early Christianity (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1975), 17–41; and Sanders, New Testament Christological Hymns, 24.  

322  

Candida R. Moss  

and the abundance of participles in the verse are regularly cited as characteristics of hymns.7 The distinctive use of the relative and the elevated language certainly offer strong evidence for the hymnic interpretation, but the primary point of comparison should be the style of Hebrews, not the elements of a distilled ideal form. The use of balanced clauses and poetic form is not unusual for the author of Hebrews. On the contrary, carefully constructed relative clauses marked by rhythm and occasionally interwoven with participles are characteristic of the author’s style.8 With respect to the content of the supposed hymn, the evidence here is no more compelling. It is self-evident that the subject matter of a christological hymn is Christ, but it is the manner in which Christ is described that marks the hymns as part of a separate genre. The hymns describe the person and action of Christ on a grand, even cosmic, scale. Sanders has gone so far as to argue that the hymnic passages “seem to present generally the same myth of the redeemer, involving his participation in creation, his descent and ascent to and from the world, and his work of redemption.”9 Some of these elements are present in Hebrews: as the a0pau/gasma of God’s glory and xarakth/r of his fundamental reality, the Son has unity with the Father (Col 1:15; John 1:14), is the agent of creation (Col 1:15; John 1:14), effects reconciliation between God and humanity (Col 1:18, 19; Eph 2:14–16; 1 Tim 3:16) and is exalted and enthroned (Phil 2:9–11; 1 Tim 3:16; 1 Pet 3:22). Not all of Sanders’s motifs are present in the prologue, however. The notion of descent is noticeably absent in the introduction (cf. Phil 2:7; John 1:5, 9), as are explicit references to death and resurrection (Col 1:18; 1 Tim 3:16; 1 Pet 3:22). Not only are segments of the “myth” of the christological hymns absent in Heb 1:3, but the theology of v. 3 is in line with the perspective of the author of the Epistle to the Hebrews himself. Certainly the exaltationist Christology of Heb 1:3 fits with the general characterization of christological hymns as containing high Christology, but the assessment can be applied to Hebrews as a whole, which uses elevated language to set the priestly activity of Christ on a Platonically inspired cosmic stage. The identification of exaltationist Christology in a so-called hymn is only truly persuasive if it jars with the character of the text in which it is set. In the case of Hebrews, such discordance is noteworthy in its absence.                                                                                                                 7

Sanders, New Testament Christological Hymns, 19. John P. Meier, “Symmetry and Theology in the Old Testament Citations of Heb 1,5– 14,” Bib 66 (1985): 504–33 (see esp. p. 526), who correctly identifies the same feature in 1:1–4, 10, 14–15; 4:12–13; 5:5–10; 7:26–27; 8:1–2; 9:6–10, 11–12; 10:19–22, 24–25. See also the observation of Grässer that the “presence of relative clauses does not in and of itself indicate traditional material of hymns,” in Meier, “Structure and Theology in Hebrews 1,1–4,” 192, 194. 9 Sanders, New Testament Christological Hymns, 24.   8

Standing at the Foot of the Staircase

 

323

Linguistically, v. 3 stands out from the rest of the work. The terms xarakth\r and a0p au/gasma are hapax legomena in Hebrews, suggesting to some a separate source for the verse. Given that these terms and the concept of perfect reproduction to which they refer are not found in the other hymns, however, it is impossible to conclude that the verse is a hymn merely by default. This line of reasoning seems especially problematic given the strong parallels with other non-hymnic material in Alexandrian Jewish literature. The same terms appear in the writings of Philo and the Wisdom of Solomon. The depiction of Lady Wisdom is especially noteworthy: For she [Wisdom] is a reflection of eternal light, a spotless mirror of the working of God, and an image of his goodness.10 (Wis 7:26)

The terminology of v. 3 also appears in Philo. He uses xarakth/r to mean archetype or copy,11 to refer to the manner in which the human spirit is created in the image of God with the stamp of divine power, and 12 a0p au/g asma to denote both the mind and the world. The ambiguous and historically important term u9po/stasij, used three times in Hebrews with distinct meanings, is used by Philo to describe the “fundamental reality” of the divine realm in contrast to everything that is a skia/ (shadow).13 The linguistic links between Philo and Hebrews, together with their common interest in the relationship between transcendent and temporally limited entities, indicates a variety of social settings and intellectual environs within which the author of Hebrews is working. Distinctive vocabulary and an eye toward heavenly affairs do not necessarily categorize Heb 1:3 as a hymn.14 One of the distinctive features of christological hymns, which often facilitates their identification, is that they seem out of place in their literary environment. The placement of what were originally independent units of tradition within the flow of a separate and distinctive argument often results in a noticeable thematic and stylistic fissure in the text. In the case of                                                                                                                 10

    0Apau/gasma ga/r e0stin fwto\j a)idi/ou kai\ e1soptron a)khli/dwton th=j tou= qeou= e0nergei/a j kai\ ei0kw_n th=j a0g aqo/thtoj au0tou=. 11

Philo, Plant. 18. Philo, Det. 83; Opif. 146; Spec. 4.123. 13 Philo, Somn. 1.188. On the interpretation of this term see Helmut Koester,   “u9po/stasij,” TDNT 8:572–89.   14 See Janoz Frankowski, who states, “obviously the text contains some content from tradition, namely the connection with the Wisdom tradition (Wis 7:26) and with the speculation of Philo’s circle, but the actual formation of the verse is the work of the author of Hebrews,” in “Early Christian Hymns recorded in the New Testament: A Reconsideration of the Question in Light of Heb. 1:3,” BZ 27 (1983): 183–94 (see p. 187). 12

324  

Candida R. Moss  

Heb 1:3, however, the transition from an alien hymn to what is assumed to be the original work of the author is seamless.15 A number of scholars have treated the prologue (correctly, in my view) as a carefully crafted chiasm. If this is the case, the possibility that a hymn was inserted into the introduction of Hebrews is precluded by the seamless structural perfection the author achieves in vv. 1–4. It is highly unlikely that an unedited, independent hymn formed one half of a perfect chiasm. The precise structure of the prologue, however, requires further attention. The structure of the passage is tightly knit and yet subtly handled. First, we can note the subtle shift in subject/agent throughout Heb 1:1–4. In vv. 1–2a God is the grammatical subject and primary agent of revelation. The Son is not mentioned in the opening verse, only to be introduced in v. 2a as the instrumental agent of revelation (e0n carrying an instrumental sense, akin to the Hebrew b@). In v. 2b the Son, as heir, is the recipient of God’s action and in v. 2c is the instrumental agent (di 0 ou[), only this time of creation. In vv. 3a–4, however, the Son becomes the grammatical subject and chief agent; God is mentioned only by pronouns or through periphrasis. From a rhetorical viewpoint, therefore, the opening four verses can be divided into two parts: vv. 1–2a, in which God is the subject, and vv. 3–4, in which the Son is the subject. The distinction is far subtler; the graceful movement from theology to Christology is discreet, graceful, and subtle. Second, the prologue contains a carefully structured list of christological designations (caesaura). The relative clauses that follow v. 2a are grammatically dependent (directly or indirectly) on ui3oj and form a chain of descriptions of the person and activity of the Son. The precise arrangement of this list of christological designations is the subject of some debate, although almost all scholars are in agreement that the prologue functions as a chiasm of some kind.16 Meier’s scheme, which proposes that vv. 3–4 operate with both temporal and theological concerns in mind, seems to capture the movement of these verses:17                                                                                                                 15

See the critique of Reinhard Deichgräber offered by Meier in “Symmetry and Theology,” 527. Deichgräber had attempted to posit a firm literary break at the end of Heb 1:2. 16 See the summary of various configurations in Daniel J. Ebert IV, “Hebrews 1:1–4,” TJ n.s. 13 (1992): 163–179, who eventually centers his own chiasm on v. 3a–b. The salient point of the chiasmus he describes as “the son’s threefold mediatorial relationship to God,” 168. Mediation between God and humanity is undoubtedly a feature of the christological program of Hebrews, but Ebert presses too hard on this one theme. He does not note the importance of Christ as leader, the one to be imitated, and the one through whom Christians are able to approach the sanctuary themselves (Heb 10:17). 17 Meier, “Symmetry and Theology,” 524–28.  

Standing at the Foot of the Staircase

 

325

i. whom he established as heir of all things, ii. through whom he also created the universe, iii. who, being the radiance of his glory and the imprint of his fundamental reality, iv. bearing all things by his powerful word, v. having made a purification for sins, vi. took a seat at the right hand of the Majesty on high, vii. having become as far superior to the angels as he has inherited a name more excellent than theirs18

The author moves back and forth in time, from the point of exaltation (i) to creation (ii) and then eternal relation with God (iii). It then moves forward again through the maintenance of creation (iv) through sacrifice (v) and then to the eventual exaltation (vi and vii). The precise structure of these verses, in a manner that reaches outside of v. 3, further undercuts the suggestion that the author works with a pre-existing text. With the exception only of the previously noted two words, the rest of the vocabulary of these opening verses is used with great frequency throughout the body of the text. Given the literary, structural, thematic, and linguistic evidence, it seems unlikely that the author of Hebrews used a pre-existing unit of oral or literary tradition in his composition of the prologue. If he did, then he found a source so well suited to his argument that it became not only the literary frame for the prologue but the conceptual axis for the entire text. Pierson Parker’s well-known critique of source division of the fourth gospel seems apt here: if the author of Hebrews used a christological hymn, he wrote it himself.19 It is clear from the parallels with authentic christological hymns, however, that the prologue includes a number of traditional affirmations about Christ.20 The literary and structural unity of the prologue exclude the pos                                                                                                                 18

 i. o3n e1qhken klhrono/mon pa/ntwn, ii. di0 ou[ kai\ e0poi/hsen tou\j ai0w ~naj: iii. o3j w@n a0pau/gasma th=j do/chj kai\ xarakth\r th=j u9posta&sewj au0tou=, iv. fe/rwn te ta_ pa&nta tw|~ r9h/mati th~j duna&mewj au0tou~, v. kaqarismo\n tw~n a(martiw~n poihsa&menoj vi. e0ka&qisen e0n decia|~ th=j megalwsu/nhj e0n u9yhloi=j, vii. tosou/tw| krei/ttwn geno/menoj tw~n a)gge/lwn o#sw| diaforw&teron par’ au0tou\j

19

keklhrono/mhken o!noma  

Pierson Parker’s original dictum is: “It looks as though, if the author of the fourth Gospel used documentary sources, he wrote them all himself,” JBL 75 (1956): 303–13 (quotation from p. 304). Parker’s famous phrase was based on the careful philological work of Eugen Ruckstuhl, Die literarische Einheit des Johannesevangeliums (Freiburg: Paulus, 1951). 20 It might be suggested that the traditional affirmations of the prologue form the substance of the   homologia of Hebrews (3:1), and this remains a possibility. It is doubtful, however, that the author has a static conception of the confession. As we shall see, the author constantly expands his argument in a dynamic fashion. Even if the prologue

Candida R. Moss  

326  

sibility of pre-existing literary tradition for v. 3, while the reference to speech in vv. 1–2 hint at pre-existing oral proclamation.

The Function of the Prologue in Hebrews Once the literary integrity of the prologue is established we can enquire about the role of the opening four verses in the overarching composition of Hebrews. Defining the overall structure of Hebrews has proven to be a task of immense difficulty. The problem is not the lack of structure, but the manner in which Hebrews develops its argument. Rather than dealing with individual elements in turn, the author of Hebrews introduces the tenets of his argument subtly and develops these with increasing clarity throughout the text. Attridge’s analysis of the problem is to the point: Hebrews constantly foreshadows themes that receive fuller treatment elsewhere and frequently provides brief summaries that resume and refocus earlier developments. Any structural scheme captures only a portion of this web of interrelationships and does only partial justice to the complexity to the work. 21

Clearly, something other than a programmatic outline is required. A conceptual model, which captures the dynamic process by which the author develops his argument, is vital for an understanding of the movement of thought in Hebrews. Hebrews is akin to a staircase composition; the argument of the text unwinds and progresses in an apparently seamless fashion, continually retracing its steps and building upon past foundations while expanding from a determinable starting point and progressing toward an eventual goal.22 In this complicated and dizzying structure, the clear point of departure and the bedrock for the text’s argument is the introduction itself. It is often noted that the opening exordium forms a kind of overture to the account as whole. It “encapsulates many of the key themes that will develop in the                                                                                                                 makes up part of the confession of Heb 3:1, it does not fit the pattern of a confessional prologue. See Oscar Seitz, “Gospel Prologues: A Common Pattern?,” JBL 83 (1964): 262–68.   21 Attridge, Hebrews, 16–17. 22 The notion of staircase composition is adapted from scholarly analysis of psalmody, which designates a particular form of parallelism as “staircase parallelism.” In staircase parallelism the second line of a couplet takes up and develops the theme of the first in an AB//AC pattern; thus the thought of the two clauses overlaps. The utilization of this term seems particularly apt in light of the prominent role that the psalms occupy in Hebrews. For a discussion of parallelism in the Hebrew Bible, see James L. Kugel, The Idea of Biblical Poetry: Parallelism and its Thought (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1981).  

Standing at the Foot of the Staircase

 

327

following chapters.” 23 The close relationship between the introduction and the catena of vv. 5–11 is easily demonstrated and most agree that the christological discussion of Hebrews 2, at least, is anticipated in the opening verses.24 Most interestingly, in the case of those who propose thematically oriented structures to Hebrews, the thematic development is consistently viewed as having its origin in the prologue.25 As we will see, however, these approaches do not go nearly far enough in conveying the extent to which the opening exordium anticipates the theological and parenetic development of Hebrews as a whole. The relationship between the prologue and the main body of the text is stylistic, linguistic, and theological. Many of the distinctive stylistic elements of both the parenetic and expository sections are inaugurated here. The use of long periodic sentences,26 the poetic style,27 and the precise use of balanced parallel clauses28 are characteristic of both the introduction and the rest of the account. Similarly, the opening alliteration is only one of numerous examples of assonance resounding in the text.29 The employment of comparative language,30 the use of the descriptive genitive,31 and the stylistic marker tosou~toj . . . o#soj 32 all recur with great frequency throughout. The consistent use of these features not only demonstrates common authorship, it shows us that the tone and style of the text is set at its very outset.                                                                                                                

23 Attridge, Hebrews, 36. The recognition that 1:1–4 forms a prologue disproves the view of Raymond E. Brown that “it seems to be a uniquely Johannine feature in the New Testament to begin major writing with a theological prologue” and, although he concedes that Heb 1:1–4 “might rival” the Johannine corpus, he undervalues the craftsmanship and thematic importance of the prologue as a literary unit. See Raymond E. Brown, The Epistles of John (AB; New York: Doubleday, 1982), 30. 24 Vanhoye, Structure litteraire, 69. 25 E.g., P. E. Hughes, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1977), 3–4, who highlights the superiority of Christ over the prophets (1:1–3), the angels (1:4–2:18), Moses (3:1–4), and Aaron (4:14–10:18) and the superior form of priesthood that he represents (10:19–12:29). We might compare the approach of F. F. Bruce, who sees the introduction as announcing the theme of the finality of Christ (The Epistle to the Hebrews [NICNT; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1990], lxiii–lxiv). These analyses direct us to the manner in which multiple thematic elements are rooted in the introduction. 26 2:2–4, 8–9, 14–15; 3:12–15; 5:1–3, 7–10; 7:1–3; 9:6–10; 10:19–25; 12:1–2. 27 4:12–13; 7:1–3, 26–28. 28 7:3, 26. 29 2:1, 2, 10; 3:12; 9:26; 11:4; 12:11; 13:19 (to cite only those examples commencing with a “p” sound). 30 6:9; 7:7, 19, 22; 8:6; 9:23; 10:34; 11:16, 35, 40; 12:24. 31 3:6, 12; 4:2, 16; 5:7; 9:5; 12:9, 15. 32 7:20, 22; 8:6; 10:25.  

Candida R. Moss  

328  

In the same way the language of the opening exordium introduces key christological terms, the meaning of which will be more fully parsed and developed later in the work. The seemingly innocuous contrast between the many and various ways in which God spoke in the past with the single embodied communication that opens the text is emblematic for the argument of Hebrews as a whole. What superficially appear to be tired statements about the superiority of the revelation of Christ to now-defunct Judaism are grounded in good rhetorical premises. In essence the comparison is between multiplicity and singularity. In the exordium the comparison is eschatological: a final definitive revelation that is contrasted with the multiple revelations of old. Christ’s superiority over the old order (1:2, 4) is shown to include the angels, Moses, Joshua, and Aaron.33 Yet the singularity and uniqueness of this revelation is shown in the central expository section to be functionally superior. Here the “once and for all” sacrifice of Christ is contrasted with the yearly sacrifices of the high priest (9:12, 25– 28; 10:1–13). The single punctuating statement of God is inherently better than the conversations that preceded it. Throughout the rest of the account Hebrews makes sophisticated plays on the embedded expectations created by the use of loaded terminology in the introduction. The term klhrono/moj, used in the prologue to describe the Son’s inheritance of “all things” (vv. 2, 4), is further developed in the body of the work in relation to the addressees of the letter. The angels are those who serve the heirs (plural) of salvation (1:14), the addressees are warned against sluggishness and exhorted to imitate those who are heirs of the promise (6:12), and Noah through faith is designated as an heir (11:7). In this way the opening reference to the status of Christ as heir is gradually expanded, first by means of an implicit analogy – the angels serve Christ the Son (1:6–7) and, by extension, all heirs (1:14) – then as part of the exhortatory program of the work. Those who are not sluggish and demonstrate faith become heirs of God (6:12; 11:7). If the distinction between son and servant, as expressed in chapters 1–2, is what positions Christ as above the angels, then by extension the same expectations can be applied to the other heirs of Christ. The same ambiguity surrounds the use of the term u(po/stasij (1:3; 3:14; 11:1). At each junction when the word is used its meaning shifts and refocuses. In the opening exordium the elusive medical term denotes that Christ is the fundamental reality of God. In the parenthetical remark of 3:14, Christians are instructed that they become partners with Christ only if they hold fast to their “first confidence” to the end.34 The ambiguity of                                                                                                                 33

1:4, 5, 14; 2:2–3, 18; 3:1–6; 5:4; 11:23–29.  me/toxoi ga_r tou~ Xristou~ gego/namen, e0a&nper th\n a)rxh\n th~j u9posta&sewj me/xri

34

te/louj bebai/a n kata&sxwmen

Standing at the Foot of the Staircase

 

329

this phrase is part of the studied vagueness of the author. The listener’s interest is pricked by the unusual use of the term u(po/stasij. Ultimately, the listener learns in the famous dictum on faith in 11:1 that it is faith that is “the reality (u(po/stasij) of the things hoped for.” It is to this reality that the audience is exhorted to hold fast in 3:14, but it is a faith grounded in the essence of Christ’s being in 1:3. The language of comparison also takes it root in the prologue: the term dia&foroj connotes both differences in quality (1:4) as well as type (9:10). In the initial description of the better covenant of Christ in 8:6 it is unclear precisely how it is that the covenant offered in Christ is superior to that which preceded it. The following chapters serve to state and restate precisely how it is that the covenant is superior: both because of its interior quality (a difference in type) and because it is based on greater promises (a difference in quality). The two-part superiority of the covenant of Christ, a fundamental element of the argumentation of Hebrews’s central portion on sacrifice, is stated at the outset in 1:4. The salvation of Christ is superior to that of the old order in quality and kind. The superiority of Christ in the opening exordium, however, is the name that he inherits. The centrality of the notion of the “name” of God is not unexpected, for reverence of the divine name was a distinctive feature of ancient Judaism. The notion that the name inherited by Christ is more excellent that that of the angels, both in quality and fundamental type, is significant. In the body of the letter, however, the name inherited by Christ reappears in slightly different contexts. Christ is not ashamed to call all Christians his brothers and sisters in 2:12, while in 6:10 the author exhorts the recipients of the letter to confidence that God will not overlook them if they show confidence in “his name.” Finally, in 13:15 the Christians are urged to confess the name of God. The reciprocity of the confessional relationship is familiar to the reader of the Synoptics and Revelation (Mark 8:38; Luke 9:26; Rev 2:17), and though it gestures towards contexts of public examination and trial (Heb 10:19–25, 35) it may be directed toward mere moral perseverance. The use of the unusual terminology “makes a purification for sins” (kaqarismo\n tw~n a(martiw~n poihsa&menoj; 1:3) to describe the means by which salvation is brought about springs off the page. The terminology itself draws upon priestly understanding in which forgiveness from sin is achieved through cleansing. The unusual form offers a more subtle allusion to LXX Job 7:21, in which the forgetting of sins is central to their eradication. Such matters are picked up again in 9:14, 22, and 23, where the efficacy of Christ’s sacrifice is discussed, and also in 10:2 where it is clear that Christ’s sacrifice will bring an end to the remembrance of sins. The use of cultic language and ideology here gestures toward another as-

330  

Candida R. Moss  

pect of Christ’s identity: his service as high priest. In Leviticus 16, the subtext for Hebrews 9–10, sin can be remitted only through a purifying sacrifice made by the high priest. The presentation of Jesus as high priest, alluded to in the introduction, is gradually revised and expanded (2:17; 4:14; 6:19–20); purification from sins comes to be both the saving action of Christ and the means for his enthronement and exaltation. The phrase “e0ka&qisen e0n decia|~ th~j megalwsu/nhj e0n u9yhloi=j” to describe the post-cathartic exaltation of Christ is an allusion to Psalm 110. The notion of enthronement at the right hand of power is a theme in Hebrews (1:8; 8:1; 10:12; 12:2); however, the allusion here anticipates the prominent role that the priesthood of Melchizedek will play in the account (Ps 110:4; cf. Heb 5:6; 6:20; 7:1–28). The dual focus on kingly enthronement and priestly purification in 1:3 alludes to the traditional two-part identity of Melchizedek the priest-king. It is noteworthy that the intricate linking and expanding of key terminology from the prologue focus on Christology. Even more can be added with respect to the individual themes raised in the introduction. Just as the terms used in the introduction become catchwords in the rest of the account, so also the concepts hinted at here become instrumental in the account as whole. To return to the form of the introduction, vv. 1–4 are arranged as a chiasmus, and the center of the chiasmus is generally considered to be its most important part.35 At first glance, we might be disappointed to find that the critical matter in a hymn of cosmic importance is the unassuming phrase “bearing all things by his powerful word” (fe/rwn te ta_ pa&nta tw|~ r9h/mati th~j duna&mewj au0tou~). The bathos of the phrase, however, belies its subtle importance and allusive significance. The introduction is replete with imagery of conversation and dialogue: God has spoken through the prophets and now speaks in the Son while the Son bears all things by his own word. Just as the Son mirrors the essence of God, so his singular word mirrors God’s once-and-for-all statement. Moreover, the word by which the Son bears the world is the means by                                                                                                                 35

So Nils Wilhelm Lund, Chiasmus in the New Testament: A Study in Formgeschichte (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 1942). The notion that structurally the center of a chiasmus is its most important part has been adapted by others including J. P. Heil, “The Chiastic Structure and Meaning of Paul’s Letter to Philemon,” Bib 82 (2001): 178–206. For an appraisal of various scholarly theories about chiasmus see David E. Aune, The Westminster Dictionary of New Testament and Early Christian Literature and Rhetoric (Louisville, Ky: Westminster John Knox, 2003), 93–96. The assumption that chiasmus must always work in the same way is indebted to structuralist notions about how texts and literary features work. The evidence is rarely this obligingly simple. For an example of a chiasm in which the central component is not the most important part, see Psalm 29. I am grateful to Joel Baden for this reference.

Standing at the Foot of the Staircase

 

331

which he makes purification of sins and, consequently, is exalted at the right hand of power. Speech, in other words, acts. The phonetic imagery and the reference to the word of the Son focus our attention on the two junctures in the texts where Jesus speaks: 2:11–13 and 10:5–9. In the first of these, Jesus proclaims the names of his “brothers and sisters” in the midst of the assembly because he has trust in God: For this reason Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers and sisters, saying, “I will proclaim your name to my brothers and sisters, in the midst of the congregation I will praise you.” And again, “I will put my trust in him.” And again, “Here am I and the children whom God has given me.”36 (2:11–13)

In Hebrews, as in Greco-Roman society more widely, shame is contrasted with boldness. We can infer, therefore, that Jesus’ bold proclamation of the names of his brothers and sisters is linked in the catena to trust. The situation envisions a bold, trusting proclamation. In 10:5–9, when Christ speaks again, he twice refers to how he has come to do God’s will. Consequently, when Christ came into the world, he said, “Sacrifices and offerings you have not desired, but a body you have prepared for me; in burnt offerings and sin offerings you have taken no pleasure. Then I said, ‘See, God, I have come to do your will, O God’ (in the scroll of the book it is written of me).” When he said above, “You have neither desired nor taken pleasure in sacrifices and offerings and burnt offerings and sin offerings” (these are offered according to the law), then he added, “See, I have come to do your will.” He abolishes the first in order to establish the second.37 (Heb 10:5–9)

                                                                                                                36

 di' h$n ai0ti/an ou)k e0paisxu&netai a)delfou_j au)tou_j kalei=n le/gwn: a)p aggelw~ to_ o!noma& sou toi=j a)delfoi=j mou, e0n me/sw| e0kklhsi/a j u(mnh&sw se, kai\ pa&lin: e0g w_ e1somai pepoiqw_j e0p 0 au)tw|~, kai\ pa&lin: i0dou_ e0g w_ kai\ ta_ paidi/a a# moi e1dwken o( qeo&j.   37 Dio_ ei0serxo&menoj ei0j to_n ko&smon le/g ei: qusi/a n kai\ prosfora_n ou)k h)qe/lhsaj, sw~ma de\ kathrti/sw moi: o(lokautw&mata kai\ peri\ a(marti/a j ou)k eu)do&khsaj. to&te ei]pon: i0dou_ h#kw, e0n kefali/di bibli/ou ge/graptai peri\ e0mou~, tou~ poih~sai o( qeo_j to_ qe/lhma& sou. a)nw&teron le/g wn o#ti qusi/a j kai\ prosfora_j kai\ o(lokautw&mata kai\ peri\ a(marti/a j

332  

Candida R. Moss  

The link between these two Christly utterances is that both are scripted using biblical citations and both deal with the theme of obedience to God. In 10:5–9, the author uses physical imagery of the body in relation to Christ’s fidelity, the implication being that obedience involves action. In Hebrews as a whole it is Christ’s faithful and obedient sacrifice (10:5) that enables him to proclaim the names of his brothers and sisters (2:11–13). It is the obedient sacrifice that makes the purification for sins (1:3) and enables the salvation of his siblings. The link between obedience, sacrifice, and salvation is further illuminated in one further passage where Jesus “speaks.” In 5:7–10 Jesus offers prayers and supplication with a shout and “was heard” because of his reverence. This reverence is more precisely defined in the following sentence as the obedience with which Christ suffered. This model of active fidelity and obedience to God is precisely that to which the sluggish audience is called. Hebrews exhorts them to imitate Christ’s boldness (6:12); just as Christ was not ashamed to speak and trust (2:11–13) so too at the end of Hebrews the members of the audience are urged that they too “should take courage and say, ‘The Lord is my helper, and I shall not fear’” (13:6). The exhortation is to imitate both Christ’s speech and also his mode of speech (the audience is encouraged to address God in Scripture, as Christ did). In this way, we can see that the introduction prepares the audience for the exhortations to fidelity, boldness, and fearlessness, all of which are fundamental to the parenetic program of Hebrews. Christ is the model for active fidelity, for approaching boldly and speaking.

Conclusion We have seen that the prologue to Hebrews is a literary unit composed entirely by the author of the epistle as a whole, who drew upon traditional affirmations and acclamations about Christ current in his circle. These statements are arranged to form the backbone of a delicately balanced chiasm that focuses upon the saving action of the Son. In relation to the main body of the text, the opening exordium functions as an overture to the work as a whole, anticipating, with varying degrees of subtlety, the christological and parenetical program of the work as a whole. The themes of kingship, priesthood, sacrifice, and superiority are all found here, but most importantly the center of the chiastic structure focuses on the obedient word of the Son. The foundations of Christ’s throne rest on his word. Both                                                                                                                 ou)k h)qe/lhsaj ou)de\ eu)do&khsaj, ai3tinej kata_ no&mon prosfe/rontai, to&te ei1rhken: i0dou_ h#kw tou~ poih~sai to_ qe/lhma& sou. a)nairei= to_ prw~ton i3na to_ deu&teron sth&sh|  

Standing at the Foot of the Staircase

 

333

the salvific action and the inheritance of Christ are within the audience’s grasp. Despite the elevated christological terminology of the introduction, the audience has the opportunity to lay hold of the reality of God’s glory and become co-heirs with Christ.

 

Born of Fornication The Jewish Charge of Jesus’ Illegitimacy in John, Celsus, and Origen1 DANIEL C. HARLOW In John 8:31–59 Jesus and “the Jews” engage in a theological paternity suit during the Feast of Tabernacles. The Jews insist that they are “seed of Abraham” and have never been enslaved to anyone (8:31–33). Jesus grants their former assertion but not the latter, since they are slaves of sin, telling them to do what they have heard from the Father (8:34–38). The Jews reply, “Our father is Abraham,” to which Jesus responds, “If you are really Abraham’s children, you would be doing the works of Abraham, but now you are seeking to kill me, a man who has been speaking to you the truth that I heard from God. Abraham did not do this” (8:39–40). Jesus adds that the Jews are doing the works of their father, intimating that someone other than Abraham is their sire (8:41a). A few verses later he makes clear who he has in mind: “You are of your father the devil” (8:44.) In 8:41bc the Jews answer angrily, “We [h9mei=j] have not been born from fornication; we have one father – God!” The emphatic pronoun h9mei=j in the first of these two clauses suggests that the subtext of their statement is “as you were.” So while defending their legitimacy, they are implicitly denying Jesus’ legitimacy. The question, however, is what sort of legitimacy they intend. Are they aiming at Jesus’ spiritual illegitimacy, in effect claiming that, unlike him, they are not apostates? Or are they hinting that he is biologically illegitimate? If so, do we have here an oblique rejection of the claim that Jesus was born of the Virgin Mary, or at least the implication that there was something scandalous about the circumstances of his birth?2 To an                                                                                                                        

1 It is a pleasure for me to offer this essay in honor of Harry Attridge, whose brilliant scholarship, stimulating teaching, and supportive mentorship at Notre Dame have continued to be a source of inspiration. 2 Allusions to Jesus’ illegitimacy have been sought in Mark 6:3 (“Is this not the carpenter, the son of Mary . . . ?”) and in Gos. Thom. 105 (“Jesus said, ‘Whoever knows father and mother shall be called the son of a whore’” [ⲡⲟⲣⲛⲏ]). The identification of Jesus as the son of Mary in the Markan verse need not be taken as a slur on Jesus’ birth

336

Daniel C. Harlow

swer these questions we must examine John 8:41 in its immediate and wider literary context. To gain some hermeneutical leverage on the Johannine verse, we will proceed to contrast it with the earliest explicit reference to the illegitimacy charge, found in Origen of Alexandria’s apologetic treatise Against Celsus, itself written in reply to the anti-Christian tract of the pagan philosopher Celsus, The True Doctrine. After considering Origen’s reply to Celsus, we will turn to his Commentary on John to consider his own interpretation of John 8:41. Taken together, these three fascinating texts open a window onto disputations over the figure of Jesus among Christians, Jews, and pagans in the early centuries of the common era.

John 8:41 (a) u9mei=j poiei=te ta_ e1rga tou= patro\j u9mw~n. (b) ei]pan [ou]n] au0tw~|: h9mei=j e0k pornei/aj ou0 gegennh/meqa. (c) e3na pate/ra e1xomen to\n qeo/n. The Jews’ statement in 8:41b is ambiguous for at least three reasons. First, Johannine dialogues and monologues are famous for their often convoluted progression. In dialogue scenes especially, the presence of ironic statements, rhetorical questions, and abrupt expostulations by Jesus frequently make the conversation difficult to follow. Second, at some points in John it is probably wrong to draw a hard and fast distinction between the literal and figurative levels. At times they can overlap or complement one another. This appears to be so in 8:31–59, where Jesus and the Jews speak on both levels as the dialogue develops. For example, when the Jews claim to be Abraham’s “seed” (v. 33) and to have Abraham as their “father” (v. 39), their physical descent from Abraham probably includes and from their perspective proves their spiritual fidelity. It may be that the Jews’ assertion in 8:41b operates on both levels as well. Third, although the Jews in John often misunderstand Jesus’ words, they sometimes do understand them, while in other instances it is not entirely clear whether they comprehend what he is saying or not. In lines leading up to 8:41, their misunderstanding is evident in 8:22 (“Will he kill himself, since he says, ‘Where I am going, you cannot come?’”; cf. 7:35 for a closely related ironic question in reply to a similar remark by Jesus); 8:27 (“They did not understand that he                                                                                                                         but can be explained on the assumption that Joseph was dead and that both Mary and Jesus were well known in their village. The obscure wording and lack of narrative context make the logion in Thomas an even less likely candidate. See further John Meier, A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus, vol. 1: The Roots of the Problem and the Person (New York: Doubleday, 1991), 225–27; Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah (updated ed.; New York: Doubleday, 1993), 534–35, 537–41.

Born of Fornication

337

was speaking to them about the Father”); and 8:33 (“We . . . have never been enslaved to anyone”). Two of their remarks, though, are rather ambiguous. In 8:19 they ask, “Where is your father?” They seem to be inquiring about Jesus’ earthly father, whereas he has just been speaking of his heavenly Father. But they may rather be rejecting sarcastically Jesus’ unique relation to God, as if to say: “Where is this heavenly Father you keep talking about? We do not recognize the God of whom you speak!” Also somewhat unclear is 8:39a, where the Jews reply to Jesus’ appeal – that they do what they have heard from the Father (v. 38) – by exclaiming, “Abraham is our father!” Perhaps they do not realize that Jesus is speaking of God, but their remark may rather have them ironically favoring their Abrahamic paternity over their divine paternity.3 In any case, in v. 39b Jesus says that their attempt to kill him proves that they are not the spiritual children (te/kna) of Abraham.4 The Jews’ retort in 8:41 to Jesus’ animadversion that they are doing the works of their father indicates that they understand him to be using the word father in a spiritual sense. But their retort consists of two statements: “We were not born of fornication” and “We have one Father, even God.” The second of these statements clearly asserts their paternity on the spiritual level, recalling the affirmation of loyalty to the one true God uttered by the priests at the beginning of each day of Succoth.5 The key question is whether the first one does this as well. Commentators on the Fourth Gospel remain divided over how to answer this question, though in the last generation there has been a decided tilt toward the spiritual interpretation.6 The emphatic pronoun h9mei=j (“We                                                                                                                         3

Compare 19:15, where the chief priests unwittingly reject God’s kingship when they tell Pilate, “We have no king but Caesar.” 4 Verses 38 and 39 are particularly confusing because of the variant readings in the manuscripts. In v. 38, different witnesses read “seen” vs. “heard” and “the Father” vs. “my Father” vs. “your Father.” In v. 39 the confusion centers on whether Jesus’ remark states a real condition (“If you are . . . do”), a contrary-to-fact condition (“If you were . . . you would be doing”), or a mixed condition (“If you are really . . . you would be doing”). The third reading seems to be the correct one (with ei0 . . . e0ste in the protasis and e0p oiei=te in the apodosis). 5 Francis Moloney, “Narrative and Discourse at the Feast of Tabernacles, John 7:1– 8:59,” in Word, Theology and Community in John (ed. John Painter, R. Alan Culpepper, and Ferdinand F. Segovia; St. Louis, Mo.: Chalice, 2002), 158–59, 166, citing m. Sukkah 5:4 and Zech 14:9, “On that day the L ORD will be one and his name one.” 6 Commentators who think that physical legitimacy and illegitimacy are at issue include J. H. Bernard (1929), E. C. Hoskyns (1947), C. K. Barrett (1955; 2nd ed. 1978), and R. A. Culpepper (1998). Those who think that spiritual legitimacy and illegitimacy are in view include H. Odeburg (1929), W. Bauer (1933), M.-J. Lagrange (1936), R. Schnackenburg (1971), E. Haenchen (1980), G. R. Beasley-Murray (1987), G. R. O’Day (1995), A. Lincoln (2005), and J. R. Michaels (2010). Among those who think

338

Daniel C. Harlow

were not born of fornication”) has been taken to imply an accusation of literal pornei/a on the part of Jesus’ parents.7 But the pronoun itself cannot decide the issue; its occurrence in 8:41b is most readily explained as a counterpoint to Jesus’ emphatic u9mei=j in 8:41a. As noted at the outset, its rhetorical effect is to supply a subtext – “We were not born of fornication, as you were” – but this subtext does not specify what sort of fornication is at issue. Another suggestion is that taking pornei/a literally would make the Jews’ statement in 8:41 match their earlier claim to be Abraham’s seed (spe/rma, 8:33) and to have Abraham as their physical ancestor (8:39).8 But this argument assumes that physical descent and spiritual paternity would not be closely related from the Jews’ perspective. So the immediate context of chapter 8 offers no strong support for the view that the Jews are claiming physical legitimacy for themselves and implying biological illegitimacy for Jesus. Yet three passages earlier in John raise the possibility that the Fourth Evangelist knows – and expects the reader to know – the story of Jesus’ birth from a virgin. If Johannine awareness of that tradition may be taken for granted, then an implicit rejection of it in 8:41 would be more plausible. Philip finds Nathanael and says to him, “We have found the one about whom Moses wrote in the law and the prophets – Jesus, son of Joseph, from Nazareth. (1:45) And they were saying, “Is not this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know? How can he now say, ‘I have come down from heaven’?” (6:42) Others were saying, “This is the Christ,” but some were saying, “The Christ is not to come from Galilee, is he? Does not the scripture say that the Christ is from the seed of David and comes from Bethlehem, the village where David was from?” (7:41–42; cf. Mic 5:2)

The mere mention of Joseph in the first two passages indicates only that the Fourth Evangelist knows of him; it does not necessarily reflect knowledge of the Matthean and Lukan infancy narratives or even of the traditions that informed them. The verses in ch. 7 provide a prime example of Johannine irony, but the point on which the irony turns is far from clear. On the one hand, the evangelist may expect informed readers to know that Jesus was in fact born in Bethlehem and to marvel at the crowd’s igno                                                                                                                         that an allusion to Jesus’ physical legitimacy is possible are L. Morris (1965), R. E. Brown (1966), J. N. Sanders (1968), B. Lindars (1972), F. J. Moloney (1998), and D. M. Smith (1999). Some commentators do not discuss the matter, or else briefly mention it without taking a position; e.g., B. F. Westcott (1908), R. Bultmann (1959), and S. Schulz (1978). 7 C. K. Barrett, The Gospel according to St. John (2nd ed.; London: SPCK, 1978), 348. 8 J. H. Bernard, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to John (2 vols.; Edinburgh: Clark, 1929), 2:312.

Born of Fornication

339

rance of this fact. Yet even if this is the case, acknowledging Bethlehem as the place of Jesus’ birth need not include knowing and affirming that Mary was still a virgin when she conceived Jesus. On the other hand, the irony may be that Jesus is the Messiah even though he did not hail from Bethlehem but from Nazareth, because his ultimate origin is e0k tw~n a!nw (3:31; 8:23). We cannot, then, assume that the Fourth Evangelist knew and accepted the tradition of Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem, far less that he knew and accepted the virginal conception tradition. He may have known these traditions but decided to suppress them, either because he rejected them or because he wished to develop his Christology in a different direction. But he may not have known them. The Fourth Evangelist certainly incorporates some traditions about Jesus that made their way into the Synoptics, and may presume familiarity with a few traditions that he does not overtly adopt, but even if he knew Matthew or Luke, he does not appear to have relied on them.9 The net result is that none of the three passages cited above can be called on to support the presence in 8:41 of an implicit slur on Jesus’ parentage. For this and the following reasons, the declaration h9mei=j e0k pornei/aj ou0 gegennh/meqa in John 8:41 is best understood in terms of spiritual legitimacy.10 Most immediately, the Jews’ avowal is a claim about themselves, not about Jesus – it is they, not he, who are on the defensive. And as others have noted, the word pornei/a is often used in the Greek Bible as a metaphor for covenant infidelity or idolatry, and makes good sense here.11 Moreover, Jesus has not denied the Jews’ physical descent from Abraham at all, only their being the patriarch’s legitimate spiritual heirs. They therefore assert the highest paternity possible by claiming to have God as their father; they are good monotheists who, in effect, affirm the Shema (Deut 6:4) and identify themselves with Israel, God’s son (e.g., Exod 4:22; Deut 14:1–2). Only in 8:48 do they go back on the offensive: “Are we not right in saying that you are a Samaritan and have a demon?” (cf. 7:20). This rhetorical question, which expects a positive answer, amounts to an accusation of blasphemy. To call Jesus a Samaritan is to label him an apostate (and possibly a magician as well), and to say that he has a demon is not                                                                                                                        

9 The whole question of John’s relation to the Synoptics is very complicated. For a judicious review and assessment, see D. Moody Smith, John among the Gospels (2nd ed.; Columbia, S.C.: University of South Carolina Press, 2001). 10 Augustine understood John 8:41 in this way (Tract. Ev. Jo. 42.7): “And because it is the custom of the Scriptures, which they [the Jews] read, to call it in a spiritual sense ‘fornication’ when the soul is, as it were, prostituted by subjection to many false gods, they made this reply” (NPNF1 7:236). 11 See, e.g., Jer 3:2, 9; Ezek 16:15–36; Hos 1:2; 2:2, 4; cf. Philo, Migr. 69; Num. Rab. 2:15–16.

340

Daniel C. Harlow

only to call him mad but to charge him with leading others into idolatry and committing it himself (cf. Deut 32:17; Ps 106:36–37). The wider context of 8:41 also suggests that spiritual legitimacy is the issue. The entire section extending from chapter 5 through chapter 10, in which Jesus fulfills and replaces the Jewish festivals, is framed by the charge of blasphemy: For this reason the Jews were seeking all the more to kill him, because he was not only breaking the Sabbath but also calling God his own Father, making himself equal to God. (5:18) The Jews answered him, “It is not for a good work that we are about to stone you but for blasphemy – to wit, because you, a man, are claiming to be God.” (10:33)

The discourses and dialogues in chapters 5, 7, and 8 concern Jesus’ origin and destination, and his status as both Son of God (in a divine sense) and Messiah.12 The Jews regard Jesus’ claim to divine sonship as blasphemous, while the crowds alternately question and dispute it. The blasphemy charge and death plot are first announced in the aftermath of Jesus’ healing the paralytic at the pool of Bethzatha (5:16–18). After he has been cured by Jesus and accosted by the Pharisees for carrying his mat on the Sabbath, the man is later found by Jesus in the temple and warned not to sin again lest something worse happen to him. The man then goes and tells the Jews the identity of his healer. (Whether he is simply reporting the fact or deliberately informing on Jesus is unclear.) At this point (5:16) the narrator reports, “Therefore the Jews were persecuting [or pursuing; prosecuting: e0di/w kon] Jesus, because he was doing these things on the Sabbath. But Jesus answered them, ‘My Father is working still, and I am working.’” The rest of chapter 5 (vv. 19–47) presents an apologetic speech by Jesus that contributes substantially to John’s extended trial motif.13 Jesus responds to                                                                                                                         12

The all-important Johannine question of Jesus’ origin also features in ch. 6 (esp. 6:41–42). John 6 makes sufficiently good thematic sense in its current position, given the wider section’s portrayal of Jesus replacing the Jewish festivals. Even so, chs. 5, 7, and 8 almost certainly belong together, ch. 6 having been inserted when the gospel was revised and expanded. Reading them together not only makes better sense of Jesus’ geographic movements (5:1; 6:1; 7:1), it also accounts for the note in 7:1 that Jesus avoided going about in Judea because “the Jews were seeking to kill him” (cf. 5:18), and for Jesus referring in 7:21–23 to his healing of the lame man in ch. 5 as if it occurred just yesterday. Further, statements in Jesus’ monologue in ch. 5 are reprised in chs. 7 and 8 (compare 7:16–24 with 5:19–20, 44; 8:13–18 with 5:31–37a; and 8:49–50, 54 with 5:41–44). 13 See Andrew T. Lincoln, Truth on Trial: The Lawsuit Motif in the Fourth Gospel (Peabody, Mass., Hendrickson, 2000). On the forensic rhetoric of the discourse, see Harold W. Attridge, “Argumentation in John 5,” in Rhetorical Argumentation in Biblical Texts: Essays from the 2000 Lund Conference (ed. Anders Eriksson, Thomas H. Olbricht, and Walter Übelacker; Emory Studies in Early Christianity 8; Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity

Born of Fornication

341

the accusation of blasphemy by defending himself (he does only what he sees the Father doing; 5:19–30), by calling witnesses to testify in his behalf (John the Baptist; the works themselves; and the Father, 5:31–39), and by turning the table on the plaintiffs (they refuse the testimony of Scripture and have Moses as their accuser; 5:40–47). The conflict between the Jews and Jesus in chapter 5 escalates in chapters 7 and 8, which are set during the Festival of Booths (cf. 5:1, which has Jesus going to Jerusalem for an unspecified festival). The material in 7:10– 52 focuses on the source of Jesus’ erudition and teaching, on his origins, and on his messianic status. Both his presence at the festival and the statements he makes there meet with speculation among some Jerusalemites and end in three (!) failed attempts to arrest him (7:30, 32 [cf. v. 45], 44). Then in 8:12–20, after claiming to be the light of the world, Jesus again invokes witnesses in his favor, as he did in 5:31–39, and eludes arrest yet once more. The dialogue that ensues in 8:21–30 centers on Jesus’ announcement of his imminent departure and return to the Father, which the Jews fail to comprehend. The final dialogue in 8:31–59 puts the issue of paternity front and center. By 8:59 the Jews’ insistence that they have two fathers, Abraham and God, has been shown to be false; their real father is none other than the devil. The passage ends with Jesus’ declaration, “Before Abraham was, I am” – his most audacious claim to divinity – and yet another failed attempt to stone him (8:58–59). In all this Jesus’ self-claims, like his very coming into the world as the incarnate Logos, provoke division: some believe; some do not. The Jewish leaders, however, remain implacable in their resolve to kill Jesus, refusing to accept him as the one sent by God above to the world below on a unique revelatory and saving mission. With this context in mind, we may return to 8:41bc. The two assertions of the Jews – “We are not born of fornication; we have one Father, even God” – appear to be two ways of saying the same thing: “We are not spiritual bastards, like you, but legitimate sons of God.” The most compelling reason to take their claims in this way comes in the very next verse, 8:42, where Jesus immediately responds, “If God were your Father, you would love me, for I proceeded and came forth from God; I came not of my own accord, but he sent me.” Significantly, Jesus says not a word about fornication but only about the Father. That he does so suggests that the narrator intends for the Jews’ two statements to make a single point about spiritual legitimacy or paternity. John 8:41, then, probably does not imply a charge of Jesus’ biological illegitimacy or a rejection of the virgin birth tradition. Commentators who                                                                                                                         Press International, 2002), 188–99; reprinted in Attridge, Essays on John and Hebrews (WUNT 264; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 93–104.

342

Daniel C. Harlow

see the virgin birth being denied here are reading the verse, whether deliberately or unconsciously, in light of the Matthean and Lukan birth narratives. When one reads the Fourth Gospel canonically, the allusion is admittedly hard to resist. Nevertheless, John 8:41 cannot be adduced as solid evidence that Jews in the first century knew and rejected the story of Jesus’ birth from a virgin.

Celsus’s The True Doctrine and Origen’s Against Celsus John 8:41 looks all the more unlikely as an implicit rejection of Jesus’ parthogenesis when held up against an explicit rejection. For that we must go into the second century, by way of Origen’s third-century treatise Against Celsus. In this work Origen presents a detailed and lengthy refutation of Celsus’s The True Doctrine (Alēthēs Logos).14 Here we have the first clear, dateable instance of the illegitimacy charge. Origen became familiar with Celsus’s work when his wealthy patron Ambrose gave him a copy of it around the year 248 C.E. and urged him to refute it. For various reasons, he hesitated at first but eventually agreed. We are fortunate that Origen’s eight-volume work survives virtually intact, and in the Greek language in which he wrote it instead of in a Latin translation. Origen preserves approximately seventy percent of Celsus’s treatise, though apparently not in its original order. Celsus had composed True Doctrine seventy or more years earlier, in the period 170–180, perhaps in response to Christian apologetic writings such as those of Justin Martyr.15 We know very little about him beyond what can be gleaned from Origen. Though Origen mistook him for an Epicurean philosopher, Celsus was a                                                                                                                         14

The main critical edition is Marcel Borret, Origène, Contra Celse: Introduction, Text Critique, Traduction et Notes (5 vols.; SC 132, 136, 147, 150, 227; Paris: Cerf, 1967–1976). The standard English translation is Henry Chadwick, Origin: Contra Celsum (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953; repr. with corrections, 1965). On Origen, Celsus, and their respective treatises, see esp. Chadwick, Origin: Contra Celsum, ix–lx; Carl Andresen, Logos und Nomos: Die Polemik des Kelsos wider das Christentum (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1955), 8–107; Joseph W. Trigg, Origen: The Bible and Philosophy in the Third-Century Church (Atlanta, Ga.: John Knox, 1983), 214–39; Robert L. Wilken, The Christians as the Romans Saw Them (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1984), 94–125; and R. Joseph Hoffmann, Celsus, On the True Doctrine: A Discourse Against the Christians (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 5–49. (Hoffman’s book is a reconstruction and translation of Celsus’s treatise.) 15 On the identity and date of Celsus, see Chadwick, Origin: Contra Celsum, xxiv– xxix. On Celsus’s work as a response to Justin, see Andresen, Logos und Nomos, 308– 400.

Born of Fornication

343

Middle Platonist. A rather conservative intellectual, he loathed Christianity above all because it undermined the reason (logos) and doctrine (nomos) that lay at the foundation of Greco-Roman culture, and failed to give traditional beliefs and cultic observances their rightful due. Through both wide reading and keen observation, Celsus was fairly well informed about Judaism and about Christianity in its many second-century varieties. Like other pagan critics of the upstart movement, such as Lucian and Galen in the second century and Porphyry in the third, Celsus attacked Christian belief and practice on several fronts, formulating a variety of arguments. He regarded Christianity as a subversive association that attracted only the ignorant and gullible, comparing it to various mystery cults, which Romans tended to disdain. He disparaged the unoriginality of its ethics and its apostasy from Judaism, whose worst features, a radical monotheism and social exclusivism, were the only ones it adopted. He also exploited the fact that Christianity was divided into several competing sects whose only commonality was the name of Christ. He heaped scorn upon the new religion’s conception of God as an anthropomorphic and bloodthirsty deity, and denounced the doctrine of the incarnation as absurd. While rejecting polytheism and images, he charged, Christians nevertheless worship a crucified man as a second god. Celsus faulted the gospels as well, criticizing them for being inconsistent and ridiculous and for depicting Jesus as a man of crude origins who became a magician and whose more noble teachings only plagiarized Plato. The notion that he came down to earth to live among men is preposterous, requiring belief in an arbitrary, capricious God. In any event, Jesus himself certainly did not act like a god. The claim that he rose from the dead is completely spurious; after his death he allegedly appeared to his followers – just the sort of people most likely to be deceived by sorcery and hallucination – but not to his persecutors or to anyone else. To make his ad hominem attack on Jesus more biting and entertaining, Celsus at times imagined a Jew interrogating Jesus. His polemical account of Jesus’ birth and early career comes about midway in Book 1 of Origen’s treatise: After this he [Celsus] represents the Jew as having a conversation with Jesus himself and refuting him on many charges, as he thinks: first, because he fabricated the story of his birth from a virgin; and he reproaches him because he came from a Jewish village and from a poor country woman who earned her living by spinning. He says that she was driven out by her husband, who was a carpenter by trade, as she was convicted of adultery. Then he says that after she had been driven out by her husband and while she was wandering about in a disgraceful way she secretly gave birth to Jesus. And he says that because he was poor he hired himself out as a workman in Egypt, and there tried his hand at certain magical powers on which the Egyptians pride themselves; he returned full of conceit because of these powers, and on account of them gave himself the title of God. . . . Let us return, however, to the words put into the mouth of the Jew, where the

344

Daniel C. Harlow

mother of Jesus is described as having been turned out by the carpenter who was betrothed to her, as she had been convicted of adultery and had a child by a certain soldier named Panthera.16 (Cels. 1.28, 32)

Origen recasts the direct address of Celsus’s Jewish interlocutor, which would have read something like this: “Let us imagine what a Jew would say to Jesus: ‘Is it not true that you fabricated the story of your birth from a virgin . . .?’”17 Celsus’s account has every appearance of being a deliberately garbled version of Matthew’s infancy narrative. It echoes Joseph’s initial resolve to break his engagement with Mary quietly on learning of her pregnancy (Matt 1:19) and conflates the visit of the magi with the flight to and return from Egypt (2:1–15). The claim that Jesus gave himself the title “God” recalls Matthew’s explanation that the name Emmanuel means “God with us” (1:23). As many have suggested, the name Panthera, though common enough in Roman antiquity, may have been chosen as a pun on παρθένος, the Greek word for “virgin,” with three of its consonants being inverted (r–t–n > n–t–r). Celsus may have concocted his antinarrative de novo from his own reading of Matthew. More likely his version of the story is based on slanders circulating among Jews in his day.18 That such slanders became increasingly common in the following decades is indicated by Tertullian. In his treatise On Spectacles (ca. 197), he imagines himself gloating over the spectacle (!) of the damned in hell; among the tormented are those who had mocked Jesus as “the son of a carpenter or a whore [quaestuariae filius], Sabbath-breaker, [and] Samaritan who had a demon” (30.6).19 In the Acts of Pilate, a work of the fourth or fifth century that includes some traditions which may go back to the second century, Jesus is explicitly accused by the elders of the Jews, Annas and Caiaphas, and the whole multitude, of being illegitimate: “What should we see? Firstly, that you were born of fornication; secondly, that your birth meant the death of the children in Bethlehem; thirdly, that your father Joseph and your mother Mary fled into Egypt because they counted for nothing among the people” (2.3).20 Twelve devout Jews standing before Pilate deny these accusations,                                                                                                                        

16 Trans. Chadwick, Origin: Contra Celsum, 28, 31. Chadwick puts the extracts from Celsus in italics. 17 Cf. Hoffman, Celsus, On the True Doctrine, 57. 18 See further Brown, Birth of the Messiah, 535–37; Claudia J. Setzer, Jewish Responses to Early Christians: History and Polemics, 30–150 C.E. (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1994), 147–51; Stephen G. Wilson, Related Strangers: Jews and Christians 70– 170 C.E. (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1995), 185–89. 19 The last epithet reflects the charge of the Jews in John 8:48. 20 Trans. Felix Scheidweiler, “The Gospel of Nicodemus, Acts of Pilate and Christ’s Descent to Hell,” in New Testament Apocrypha, vol. 1: Gospels and Related Writings

Born of Fornication

345

asserting that they were present at the couple’s betrothal. The context implies the charge that Mary conceived Jesus by Joseph but before they were married, their scandalous premarital relations forcing them to flee to Egypt. This passage may presuppose an earlier form of the Panthera story than we find in Celsus or else be based strictly on Matthew.21 By the fourth century the Panthera story had become widespread in both Jewish and Christian circles. In one of his early apologetic works, Eusebius of Caesarea commented on LXX Hos 5:14 (dio/ti e0gw& ei0mi w(j panqh\r tw ~| Efraim) with the remark, “the text may be quoted against those of the circumcision who slanderously and abusively assert that our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ was born of Panthera” (Ecl. proph. 3.10).22 Various rabbinic texts mention “Jesus ben Pandera,”23 but none from the tannaitic period (70–200 C.E.) do so in relation to his birth. Yet, in uncensored manuscripts and printed editions of the Babylonian Talmud there are two nearly identical passages, in different contexts, that appear to reflect Jewish polemics against the virgin birth of Jesus: b. Šabb. 104b and b. Sanh. 67a. They do not name Jesus explicitly but evidently refer to him alternately as Ben Stada and Ben Pandera. The passage in b. Šabbat occurs in a discussion of the permissibility of writing on the Sabbath:                                                                                                                         (rev. ed.; ed. W. Schneemelcher; ET ed. R. McL. Wilson; Cambridge: Clarke; Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1991), 508. 21 Scheidweiler (“Acts of Pilate,” 501–2) suggests that the earlier, milder charge that Mary had premarital sex with Joseph, rather than committing adultery with another man, may have been current when Matthew’s genealogy was compiled or that it originated as a Jewish rejection of Matt 1:18. The Matthean infancy narrative, however, does not look like an apologia at all and in this respect stands in marked contrast to Matt 27:62–66 and 28:11–15. These latter two passages, unique to Matthew, have the chief priests, Pharisees, and elders posting a guard at Jesus’ tomb to prevent his disciples from stealing his body and claiming that he had risen from the dead, and the subsequent spreading of the rumor that Jesus’ disciples did this very thing. The narrator reports in 28:15, “And this story is still told among the Jews to this day.” 22 Cited by Chadwick, Origen: Contra Celsum, 31 n. 3. In the same note, Chadwick cites various Christian authors of the fourth to ninth centuries who identified Panther [sic] as an ancestor, alternately, of Joseph (e.g., Epiphanius, Pan. 78.7.5) or Mary (e.g., John of Damascus, De fide orthodoxa 4.14). It is not hard to see what is going on here: church fathers eventually resigned themselves to the Panthera tradition but rendered it innocuous by transforming the figure from Mary’s lover into one of her (or Joseph’s) forebears. 23 E.g., t. Ḥul. 2:22–24 / y. Šabb. 14:4, fol.14d / y. ‘Abod. Zar. 2:2, fol. 40d / Qoh. Rab. 1:24 on Eccl 1:8. For discussion of these and other passages, see Peter Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2007). Schäfer offers a needed corrective to the minimalist approach represented by Johann Maier, Jesus von Nazareth in der talmudischen Überlieferung (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1978), which for more than three decades has inclined most scholars to see very few, if any, references to Jesus in rabbinic literature.

346

Daniel C. Harlow

H E WHO SCRATCHES A MARK ON THE FLESH. It was taught, R. Eliezer said to the Sages: But did not Ben Stada bring forth witchcraft from Egypt by means of tattoos? – Was he then the son of Stada? Was he not the son of Pandera? Said R. Ḥisda: The husband was Stada, the lover Pandera. But was not the husband Pappos ben Yehuda (and) the mother Stada? The mother was Miriam, a women’s hairdresser, as we say in Pumbeditha: This one turned away from her husband. – He was a fool, they answered, and proof cannot be adduced from fools.24

So in the tradition attributed to R. Ḥisda (died ca. 309 C.E.), Mary had a husband (l(b) whose name was Stada but also a lover (l(wb) whose name was Pandera. The last sentence in the discourse evidently explains the name Stada as an epithet from the Hebrew/Aramaic root )+s/y+s (“to turn away from, go astray, commit adultery”) that slandered Miriam (Mary) as h+ws – an adulteress. The rabbinic discussion bears three striking similarities with the passage in Celsus: the adultery of Mary, the name Pandera for her lover, and the reference to Ben Pandera (Jesus) learning magic in Egypt. It seems likely that rabbinic sages and Celsus were drawing on the same Jewish tradition that polemicized against the virgin birth tradition by distorting details of the Matthean account.25 Origen devotes several paragraphs to refuting Celsus (Cels. 1.29–39). He begins by reproaching Celsus for “failing to keep the character entirely consistent with that of a Jew” (1.28). He also maintains that those who invented the myth that Jesus was the spawn of Panthera unwittingly show that his birth was in fact extraordinary, since they kept the part of the story about Mary not conceiving Jesus by Joseph. Origen’s main riposte, however, is to argue from effects to cause. Despite being raised in humble circumstances, with no serious education or rhetorical training, Jesus rose above his situation to become a popular, persuasive speaker and leader. His disciples were certainly convinced that there was something divine about him, for they not only left their homes to follow him but were willing to suffer the same fate he did, after they saw him risen from the dead. It is highly unlikely that a man of Jesus’ fame and character would have had such an ignominious birth. Far less could this be true of one who not only performed wonders but taught morality. God, who sends souls down into human bodies, would scarcely have forced such a man to be born in so shameful a way. And if the physiognomists are right that all bodies conform to the habits of their pre-existent souls, then the soul of one who was destined to live a miraculous life would surely have                                                                                                                         24

Translation adapted from H. Freedman in The Babylonian Talmud, Seder Mo’ed: Shabbath, vol. 3 (ed. I. Epstein; n.p.: Rebecca Bennet Publications, 1959), 504 n. 2. The parallel passage in b. Sanh. 67a comes in a discussion about the death penalty for those who lead others into idolatry: “And thus they did to Ben Stada in Lod, and they hung him on the eve of Passover. Ben Stada was Ben Pandera. R. Ḥisda said . . . .” 25 Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud, 20.

Born of Fornication

347

been provided with a body miraculously. It was only fitting that he should be, as the prophets foretold, the offspring of a virgin who bore “a child whose name was significant of his work, showing that at his birth God would be with men” (1.34). At this juncture Origen calls on the Old Testament (1.34–36). He wryly observes that Celsus does not have his Jew quote and expound Isa 7:1–14, either because Celsus was ignorant of this text or because he knew it would unintentionally support the doctrine he opposes. Were a Jew to argue that the passage speaks of a young woman and not a virgin, he could easily be refuted on lexical grounds.26 Further, what kind of a miraculous “sign” would a young woman bearing a son be? Only a woman who had not had intercourse with a man would be a fitting mother for one called Emmanuel, “God with us.” And since no one was born in King Ahaz’s time in fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy, the prediction must have applied to the Savior, who was “of the seed of David according to the flesh” (Rom 1:3). After addressing Jewish objections, Origen turns to Greeks (1.37). They know that the Creator enables females of certain species to bear offspring without having intercourse with a male. Why then could God not have enabled a woman to do so? What is more, the Greeks themselves grant that not all people were born of the union of a man and a woman. If the world was created in the way they say it was, the first humans must have come into existence not through intercourse but through the generative principles inherent in the earth. But this is more incredible than believing that Jesus was born of a mother but no human father. When Celsus has his Jew quote Greek myths in ridicule of Jesus, he only makes his imaginary character look like a buffoon. As for Jesus working his miracles by magic, it is hard to see why a magician would bother teaching morality (1.38). Finally, the gibe that God would not have had sexual intercourse with a woman of such low origins as Jesus’ mother is vulgar street talk undeserving of a reply (1.39).

                                                                                                                        26

Origen’s point here is that the Hebrew word hml( – used in Isa 7:14 and rendered in the LXX as parqe/noj and in other Greek translations as nea~nij – is also applied to a virgin in Deuteronomy (22:23–26). Perhaps Origen knew a Hebrew text of Deut 22:23 with the word hml( but the MT reads r(n (qĕrê: hr(n). In any case, the Hebrew words hml( and hr(n refer to a young woman in general, without specifying whether she is a virgin or not; hence the need in Deut 22:23 to specify (probably through a scribal gloss) a virgin with the word hlwtb “If there is a young woman [hr(n] (who is) a virgin [hlwtb] already engaged to be married, and a man in town lies with her. . . .”

348

Daniel C. Harlow

Origen’s Commentary on John When Origen set about writing Against Celsus (ca. 248 C.E.), he had recently finished working on his Commentary on John, the earliest commentary on this book (indeed, on any New Testament writing) to survive, and the first to see in John 8:41 a slur on Jesus’ virgin birth. Only nine of its thirty-two volumes are extant (and survive, like Against Celsus, in Greek).27 Origen dictated it to a team of stenographers over more than a decade, from 231 to the 240s C.E., having undertaken it at the behest of Ambrose, who probably wanted an “orthodox” counterpart to Heracleon’s interpretation of the Fourth Gospel.28 Origen does quote and refute Heracleon, but only sporadically (most extensively in his exposition of John 4 in Book 13).29 It is difficult to discern any single, overriding purpose in his sprawling commentary.30 There are polemical strains in it, aimed not only at Heracleon and other “heterodox” interpreters, such as Marcion and Patripassian modalists, but also at literalist ones. There are also apologetic strains, in which Origen defends himself against objections to his hermeneutical method and theological positions. On the whole, though, the commentary reflects the more positive goal of offering Christian intellec                                                                                                                         27

Book 1 (John 1:1a), Book 2 (1:1b–7), Book 6 (1:15–29), Book 10 (2:2–25), Book 13 (4:13–54), Book 19 (8:19–25), Book 20 (8:37–53), Book 28 (11:39–57), and Book 32 (13:2–33). There are also fragments of Books 4 and 5. The most recent critical edition is Cécile Blanc, Origène: Commentaire sur S. Jean: Introduction, Text Critique, Traduction et Notes (5 vols.; SC 120, 15, 222, 290, 385; Paris: Cerf, 1966–1992). For a full English translation, see Ronald E. Heine, Origen: Commentary on the Gospel according to John Books 1–10 (FC 80; Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1989); idem, Origen: Commentary on the Gospel according to John Books 13–32 (FC 89; Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1993). 28   C f. Origen, Comm. Jo. 6.6–12; Eusebius, Hist. eccl.   6.24, 28, 32. For critical reconstructions of the chronology of Origen’s work on the Commentary on John, see Pierre Nautin, Origène: Sa vie et son oeuvre (Paris: Beuchesne, 1977), 377–80, 410–11, 427– 38; and Heine, Books 1–10, 4–5; idem, Books 13–32, 4–19. Nautin dates the completion of Book 32 to the year 248, Heine to 242.   29 Of Heracleon’s work – perhaps a commentary or perhaps a less ambitious exegetical effort – all that survive are fifty-one quoted extracts (forty-eight from Origen’s commentary, two from Clement of Alexandria, and one from Photius); they are conveniently collected in W. Foerster, Gnosis: A Selection of Gnostic Texts (trans. R. McL. Wilson; 2 vols.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 1:162–83. For a lucid theological and philosophical comparison of Origen and Heracleon, see Harold W. Attridge, “Heracleon and John: Reassessment of an Early Christian Hermeneutical Debate,” in Biblical Interpretation: History, Context, Reality (ed. Christine Helmer; Atlanta, Ga.: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005), 57–72; reprinted in Attridge, Essays on John and Hebrews, 193–207. 30 See further J. A. McGuckin, “Structural Design and Apologetic Intent in Origen’s Commentary on John,” in Origeniana Sexta (ed. G. Dorival et al.; BETL 118; Louvain: Peeters, 1995), 441–57.

Born of Fornication

349

tuals, such as Ambrose, an exposition of the spiritual sense of the work Origen regarded as the most profound of the four gospels – the “first fruits” among them. Origen’s basic approach in the commentary was not only to explain the meaning of words and concepts in each passage of the Gospel of John (on either or both the literal and figurative levels), but to relate them to occurrences of the same terms and ideas elsewhere in Scripture. This made for very slow going. The first book covers only John 1:1a, and by the end of Book 5 he had gotten only as far as John 1:17. Later volumes cover the material at a faster pace, but by the time he laid aside the work after finishing Book 32, he had gotten only as far as John 13:33. Like virtually all ancient Jewish and Christian interpreters, Origen believed that every word in Scripture was divinely inspired and that the Bible was a unitary book.31 The literal sense of a passage is available to all Christians, but its deeper, spiritual sense – the one that most concerned the biblical authors themselves – was available only to those given the divine grace to apprehend it. In the Commentary on John he sometimes explains only the literal sense of a passage. To this level of interpretation he brought all the technical skills of Alexandrian literary scholarship: textual criticism, grammar (including what we would call genre criticism), etymology, lexicography, and semantics. At other times he considers only the spiritual sense, which includes not only allegory but typology. On occasion he elucidates both levels.   Origen often appeals to the Synoptic Gospels to explain or elaborate on an event or saying in the Fourth Gospel. He does not hesitate to note when John and the Synoptics disagree in their depiction of an episode or saying of Jesus. Most discrepancies, he thought, can be reconciled at the factual, historical level, but others, such as John’s chronology of Jesus’ ministry and of the temple incident in John 2, cannot. In these cases the spiritual sense must be sought. The factual differences, he held, were intended precisely to express different spiritual truths: “The spiritual truth is often preserved in the bodily falsehood, so to speak” (Comm. Jo. 10.20). Indeed, the greater the differences, the greater the range of spiritual meanings intended by the four evangelists. Origen’s exposition of John 8 comes in Books 19–20. Book 19, which is only partially preserved, covers John 8:19–25; Book 20, which is com                                                                                                                         31

On Origen’s hermeneutical approach and theological interpretation in the Commentary on John, see further Trigg, Origen: The Bible and Philosophy, 148–56; Heine, Books 1–10, 10–23; idem, Books 13–32, 19–65; M. F. Wiles, The Spiritual Gospel: The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel in the Early Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960); and Kyle Keefer, The Branches of the Gospel of John: The Reception of the Fourth Gospel in the Early Church (London: Clark, 2006), 64–80.  

350

Daniel C. Harlow

plete, treats 8:37–53. His discussion of John 8:37–41a in Comm. Jo. 20.2–127 begins with a resolution of the apparent conflict between John 8:37 (“I know that you are seed of Abraham”) and 8:39 (“If you are Abraham’s children, do the works of Abraham”). He resolves the seeming contradiction by distinguishing the words “seed” and “child.” Seeds are generative principles (spermatikoi\ lo/goi, a good Stoic/Middle Platonic notion), and the Jews do not have the proper ones implanted in their souls in a way that would make them children of Abraham; they have not received the Word to let it continue in them. Moreover, they have not seen the Father, as Jesus has (8:38a), but they have heard him (John 8:38b) – in the testimony of Moses and the prophets. This proves that the Father of Christ is none other than the God who gave the law and the prophets. Against Heracleon, Origen denies that Jesus’ statement “because my word has no place in you” (8:37) means that the Jews are unfit in their nature or essence (20.54–56). When the Jews reply “Abraham is our father” (8:39a), in response to Jesus’ urging “do what you have heard from the Father” (8:38b), they are not being modest; clearly they do not love Jesus (8:42) since they are seeking to kill him (8:40). In Jesus’ appeal, “If you are children of Abraham, do the works of Abraham” (8:39b), the plural works is the equivalent of saying “do all the works of Abraham.” The whole story of Abraham must be interpreted allegorically, with each thing he did being assigned a spiritual meaning (20.67–79). When the Jews seek to kill Jesus (8:40a), they are seeking to kill a man, because even if they succeed, God is not killed. “For it is not permitted to say that God dies. For this reason the Word in the beginning with God, who also was God the Word, did not die” (20.85). Origen then relates Jesus’ comment, “This Abraham did not do” in 8:40b to his later statement, “Abraham rejoiced that he might see my day” (8:56), explaining that “the spiritual economy related to Jesus” has always been present (20.87–95). He interprets 8:41a, “You are doing the works of your father,” in light of 8:44, “You are of your father the devil.” To disallow a deterministic interpretation of the latter verse, he cites Matt 5:45 (“that you may become sons of your Father who is in heaven”) and 1 John 3:8, 9 (“He who commits sin is of the devil. . . . Everyone who has been born of God does not commit sin”). There is a crucial distinction, he observes, between being “of the devil” and being “born of God,” a difference that refutes those who think that some are sons of the devil as a result of creation (20.127). Here Origen probably has Heracleon in mind, even though he does not name him.32 The problem with the Jews is that they have not gone forth from their father’s house as Abraham did but                                                                                                                         32

Cf. Comm. Jo. 20.168–170 on John 8:44, where Origen cites Heracleon explicitly on this point.  

Born of Fornication

351

“still belong to the wicked father and still do the works of that father” (20.126).   This brings us to Origen’s exposition of John 8:41bc, where the Jews say, “We have not been born of fornication; we have one Father, God”: I ask whether those Jews who are said to have believed in him [cf. John 8:31] do not respond rather vindictively, because they were reproved as not being children of Abraham [cf. 8:39], by hinting in a veiled manner that the Savior was born of fornication. They assume this as probable because they do not accept his famous and widely discussed birth from the Virgin. For indeed it appears very irrational to me that they uttered these words in response to his saying. For if their statement, “We have not been born of fornication,” be understood in its literal sense, it is appropriate neither to what precedes nor to what follows. Furthermore, since the Savior said that God was his Father, and acknowledged no man as his father, it is likely because of the statement, “We have not been born of fornication,” that, to give offense, they in turn add, “We have one Father, God.” It is as if they were saying, “We are the ones who have one Father, God, rather than you, who claim to have been born of a virgin, though you were born of fornication. You boast that you have been born of a virgin by saying that you have God alone as your one Father. We who acknowledge God as our Father do not deny that we also have a human father.” 33 (Comm. Jo. 20.128–130)  

Origen’s interpretation is striking. He takes the Jews’ response to include a veiled allegation that Jesus was born a bastard, even though on his own admission nothing in the preceding or following context calls for such an accusation intended in the literal sense. As he sees it, the Jews make an ad hominem attack on Jesus out of sheer spite because of what he has said to them in verse 39. He assumes that the virgin birth tradition was widespread in Jesus’ lifetime and that his Jewish opponents knew it and flatly rejected it .34 Most striking of all, he depicts the Jews accusing Jesus himself of fabricating the story of his birth from a virgin – and broadcasting it to boot! Three factors seem to be driving Origen’s reading of 8:41. The first one has to do with his reading of the Fourth Gospel itself. Evidently he takes 5:18 – the statement that Jesus was “calling God his own Father” (pate/ra i1dion e1lege to\n Qeo/n) – to imply that Jesus denied having an earthly father.35 The second one has to do with how Origen read John in relation to the Synoptics. Here, as often in his Commentary on John and in other works, he conflates the incarnational Christology of John and the virgin                                                                                                                         33

Trans. Heine, Books 13–32, 233. Origen was followed in this interpretation by Cyril of Alexandria (fl. 421–444), Commentary on the Gospel of John 5.5: “The unbelieving Jews . . . thought that the Holy Virgin had been corrupted . . . and that she gave birth to a child conceived not by the Holy Spirit or of adoption from above but rather conceived by one of those of the earth” (A Library of Fathers of the Holy Catholic Church, Anterior to the Division of the East and West [ed. J. B. Pusey et al.; 48 vols.; Oxford: Parker, 1838–1881], 43:641). 35 It is clear from elsewhere that Origen regarded Joseph as Jesus’ adoptive father, as Matthew and Luke do.   34

352

Daniel C. Harlow

birth Christology of Matthew and Luke – when, in fact, Matthew and Luke say nothing about an incarnation, and John nothing about a virgin birth. Earlier church fathers had done this,36 but never as graphically as Origen does here when he imagines the Jews accusing Jesus himself of announcing and even boasting of his birth from a virgin.   The third factor at work seems to be Jewish polemics against the virgin birth tradition current in Origen’s own day. In his vivid, expansive paraphrase of their statements, the great commentator has the Jews in John 8 do exactly what Celsus had his imaginary Jew do in True Doctrine: accuse Jesus directly of manufacturing the story of his virgin birth. Origen could not have had Celsus’s Jew in mind when commenting on 8:41, since he had finished with Book 8 of his Commentary on John some years before writing Against Celsus, but he no doubt did have in mind Jewish repudiation of the virgin birth tradition in his own time. At this point in his commentary, then, he is reading contemporary disputations among Jews and Christians back into the time of Jesus – in a manner not wholly dissimilar to the Fourth Evangelist’s retrojecting the Christology and conflicts of the Johannine community of the late first century back into the ministry of Jesus several decades earlier.

Conclusion We do not know how the story of Jesus’ virgin birth reached Matthew and Luke, only that they inherited early tradition and then developed it independently of one another. The Fourth Evangelist shows no clear indication of having known the tradition, and that is one reason why John 8:41 does not seem to imply a charge of Jesus’ biological illegitimacy. By the midsecond century, though, it was widely enough known for Jews to begin refuting it by taking details of Matthew’s account and using them to concoct a counterstory of Jesus’ origins and career. In the late second century Celsus exploited this trend in Jewish circles in his treatise against Christians; in True Doctrine, he put the story of Jesus being born of an adulterous union between Mary and a Roman soldier named Panthera and learning magic in Egypt into the mouth of an imaginary Jewish interlocutor who accosts Jesus and accuses him of fabricating the story of his birth from a virgin. Church fathers and rabbis of the third and fourth century were familiar with this polemical recasting of the Matthean infancy narrative. In the mid-third century Origen interpreted John 8:41 with the same Jewish attack in mind as he wrote his Commentary on John, and then a few years later refuted                                                                                                                         36

10).

Beginning as early as Ignatius in ca. 110 C.E. (Eph. 7, 18, 19; Magn. 11; Trall. 9,

Born of Fornication

353

Celsus’s version of it in Contra Celsum. It is not difficult to imagine Christians, Jews, and pagans in cosmopolitan Caesarea, Origen’s adopted city, arguing over their rival understandings of this aspect of the life of Jesus of Nazareth.

 

Shepherd of the Lamb Paul as a Christ-Figure in the Acts of Paul RICHARD I. PERVO

Introduction The object of this essay is to present and examine the portrait of Paul as a “Christ figure” in the Acts of Paul from two perspectives. The larger is the structure of the book as a whole, in so far as this is known. Examination of christological or soteriological images, themes, or action is the more specific of these tasks. The concept of “Christ figure” is no more closely defined than these two subjects. In the Acts of Paul, Paul is not a literary “Christ figure” who sacrifices himself for others, for example.1 He is a Christ figure particularly in that his career closely parallels that of Jesus. Paul can do what Jesus did and does so. He is also a Christ figure in that he is a savior. The model for the Acts of Paul is a gospel like Mark with the addition of 16:9–20 or, to be more provocative, like the edition of Luke known to or produced by Marcion.2 The Gospel of Mark (1:1–16:8) is also the evident model for the canonical Acts, particularly for its story of Paul (Acts 9–28).3 As François Bovon has argued, the canonical gospel structure is the basis for all of the various Acts of Apostles.4 1 This notion derives from the substitutionary model of atonement. The Acts of Paul does not promote that theology. 2 On Marcion’s edition of Luke see Joseph B. Tyson, Marcion and Luke-Acts: A Defining Struggle (Columbia, S.C.: University of South Carolina Press, 2006). John is also a possible model. The basic contrast with canonical Luke and with Matthew is the absence of infancy narratives in the Acts of Paul (and Acts). 3 See Richard I. Pervo, Acts: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2009), 20–21. 4 F. Bovon, “The Synoptic Gospels and the Non-Canonical Acts of the Apostles,” HTR 81 (1988): 19–36. See also Dennis R. MacDonald, “Apocryphal and Canonical Narratives about Paul,” in Paul and the Legacies of Paul (ed. William S. Babcock; Dallas, Tex.: Southern Methodist University Press, 1990), 55–70, 59–61, and Ann Graham Brock, “Genre of the Acts of Paul: One Tradition Enhancing Another,” Apocrypha 5

356

Richard I. Pervo

The Acts of Paul proceeds from an (evident) initial epiphany commissioning the apostle, to a post-mortem appearance by him. Within this frame are placed an itinerant ministry with sermons, healings, exorcisms, other wonders, and confrontations with opponents, climaxing in a final journey to the capital, trial, and execution, a fate presaged by prophecies. The author took some pains to establish these parallels. Table 1: Acts of Paul as a “Gospel” Element

Acts of Paul

Gospel Parallel

Acts et al.

1. [Initial Epiphanycommission]

Cf. 9:5–6, repeat

Mark 1:9–11

9:1–19a (repeated: 22; 26)

2. Wilderness

Cf. 9:7

Mark 1:12–13

3. Ministry a. Proclamation b. Wonders c. Persecution

A 2, 3 B2 C2

A Mark 1:14–15; 1:21 B Mark 1:23–34 C Mark 2:1–22; cf. Luke 4:16–30

4. Inaugural sermon, opening macarisms

3:5–6

Matt 5:3–12

5. Recruits followers who renounce all and are persecuted and Forerunners

3 3 3–4; 14 3:1

6. “Passion Predictions” 7. Passion a. Message in capital b. “Gethsemane” c. Arrest d. Trial e. Execution

12:2, 3, 5; 13:2

Mark 8:31; 9:31; 10:33–34

13:5–14:1 14:4 14:3 14:3–4 14:5

Mark Mark Mark Mark Mark

8. Vindication a. Appearance b. Empty Tomb

14:6 14:7

Luke 24; Matt 28 Mark 16:1–8

Mark 1:16–20; 10:28 Mark 13:9–13; Matt 10:17– 25 Luke 10:1

11–13 13:32–42 14:43 14:53–15:15 15:16–37; John 19:34

cf. Gal 1:17 9:20–22 13:6–12 9:23–25

14:20 14:1–6 20:35; 21:4, 11–13 28:17–31 21:10–14 21:33 22:30–25:12 — (Acts 27–28 is a symbolic death and resurrection narrative)

(1994): 119–36. MacDonald was the first, to my knowledge, to compare the structure of the Acts of Paul to the canonical gospel type. The Acts of Paul’s apparent knowledge of all the canonical gospels suggests a date near 175, as proposed above.

357

Shepherd of the Lamb

Working Presuppositions The Acts of Paul is to be dated ca. 175 C.E., not distant from Irenaeus in time.5 The work appeared in Asia Minor, presumably in an urban area like Smyrna or the cities mentioned in Acts 13–14: Pisidian Antioch, Iconium, Lystra. Ephesus is less likely. Tertullian may have been correct in stating that the “final author” was an Asian presbyter, but his statement cannot be verified and may suit his polemical intentions.6 Table 2: Contents and Condition Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Location/Subject Damascus to Jerusalem (conversion) (Syrian?) Antioch Iconium (Paul converts Thecla) Antioch (Thecla) Myra Sidon Tyre Jerusalem, Cicilia, Smyrna (?) Ephesus Philippi (3 Corinthians, a later addition) Philippi Corinth Voyage to Italy Rome (martyrdom)

Condition D C-A A C C (-) CC-B+ ACB+ B A

Condition Ratings: A = attested in multiple witnesses (MSS and versions) B = fairly complete attestation (+ = 2 versions, in part) C = fragmentary attestation D = little available data

Witnesses include ancient and later MSS in various languages, and material gleaned from texts that had access to the Acts of Paul. The best-attested chapters (3, 4, and 14) enjoyed separate liturgical and cultic use. They also exhibit minimal overlap with – and thus potential contradiction of – the canonical Acts. 5 There is a wide consensus on the date. The major exception is Willy Rordorf, who prefers a date ca. 150. Individual MSS are later and may contain anachronisms. 6 Tertullian, Bapt. 17. On this controverted text see Anthony Hilhorst, “Tertullian on the Acts of Paul,” in The Apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla (ed. Jan N. Bremmer; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 150–63, and Willy Rordorf, “Tertullien et les Actes de Paul,” Lex Orandi, Lex Credendi: Gesammelte Aufsätze zum 60. Geburtstag (Paradosis 36; Publications de la Faculté de théologie de l’Université de Neuchâtel, Suisse 11; Freiburg: Universtitätsverlag, 1993), 475–84.

358

Richard I. Pervo

The most complete text of the Acts of Paul underlies the translation of Willy Rordorf et al.,7 which previews his forthcoming CCSA edition. The material about (Paul and) Thecla, denoted chapter 3 in earlier versions, is now divided into chapters 3 and 4, in accordance with the conventional geographical plan.

The Structure of the Acts of Paul Beginning from Damascus8 The beginning of the Acts of Paul survives in quite fragmentary form.9 One reason for this is that material at the beginning and the end of codices is most vulnerable to loss. The extant papyrus fragment coheres with Paul’s story of his experience delivered some time later in a sermon at the house of Prisca and Aquila in Ephesus: Paul said: “My brothers and sisters, listen to what happened to me, when I was in Damascus, when I persecuted the faith in God, when mercy struck me, mercy from the father who proclaimed the message of his son to me, so that I might live in him, having no other life but that in Christ. I entered into a large assembly10 with the support of blessed Jude, the brother of the lord, who gave me from the beginning the sublime love bestowed by faith. (9:5)

The event, located in and near Damascus, is traditionally known as “The Conversion of Paul.” Although it agrees generally with Acts 9, Galatians is the major source of this account. Paul’s sermon in Acts of Paul 9 seems to envision that he persecuted believers (Gal 1:23) in Damascus, a possible inference from Gal 1:17, but not from Acts 9. Gal 1:16 is the primary source of the claim that God revealed the message to Paul. The language about Paul’s life in Christ comes from Gal 2:19–20.11 The evidence from the Coptic fragment makes it quite probable that the Acts of Paul described the “conversion” in its opening chapter. Chapter 9 contained a repetition of that important story (with variations, no doubt), inspired by the retelling, 7 “Actes de Paul,” in Écrits apocryphes chrétiens 1 (ed. François Bovon and Pierre Geoltrain; Paris: Gallimard, 1997), 1115–77, supplemented by Rodolphe Kasser and Philippe Luisier, “Le Papyrus Bodmer XLI en Édition Princeps l’Épisode d’Èphèse des Acta Pauli en Copte et en Traduction,” Le Muséon 117 (2004): 281–384. 8 It is not likely that Paul was in Jerusalem at the opening of the Acts of Paul. 9 There is a small but valuable fragment on a papyrus of the John Rylands Library, Rylands Inv. 44. See W. E. Crum, “New Coptic Manuscripts in the John Rylands Library,” BJRL 5 (1920): 497–503, esp. p. 501. 10 Or “church.” 11 Luke also preferred Galatians to the evidently “standard” account of Acts 9 and, in the course of the repetitions in Acts 22 and 26, moved the story closer to Galatians. See R. Pervo, Acts, 629–30.

Shepherd of the Lamb

359

in the canonical Acts, of the “conversion.” This hypothetical but probable opening was an initial epiphany comparable to the baptism of Jesus in Mark 1:9–11. A Superhero in Paradise Acts of Paul 9:7–9 contains one of the most famous, indeed, notorious, incidents of the book. Followed by two women, Paul set out (from Damascus?) to reach “Jericho in Phoenicia” by the next day (!). Paul and his companions are in the Judean desert, the “valley of dry bones,” from which depression emerges a large, hungry lion. To these terrified humans, the lion, like a good catechumen, expresses the desire for baptism. That sacrament accomplished, by triple immersion in the river (Jordan), the neophyte went on its way rejoicing, confirming the legitimacy and appropriateness of the rite by thwarting the lubricious advances of a libidinous lioness. The lesser point of this narrative is to demonstrate Paul’s charismatic power, which includes, as well it should, mastery over the animal kingdom.12 The greater is the intimation of eschatological fulfillment, the termination of competition among species.13 Both of these can be inferred from Mark 1:13:14 “Jesus was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts [meta& tw~n qhri/w n]; and the angels waited on him.” The item that does not fit is the temptation.15 To associate with wild creatures as the preposition implies (it does not have to mean that wild animals were in the vicinity) and be waited upon by angels evokes the wilderness as a foreshadowing of and model for celestial life. The author of Acts of Paul does not follow the gospel outline woodenly. Mark, in this case, serves as inspiration. Essentials of Ministry Paul’s ministry is like that of Jesus (and, for that matter, like that of Paul in Acts). In ch. 2 (evidently in Antioch),16 the apostle engages in preaching, raises a dead person, and is run out of town (cf. Luke 4:16–30). The 12 On this virtue see Ludwig Bieler, QEIOS ANHR: Das Bild des “Göttlichen Menschen” in Spätantike und Früchristentum (2 vols.; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1967 [original 1935–1936]), 1:103–10, with examples). Additional Jewish and Christian examples include T. Naph. 8.4 and the Vita Pachomii 21. The latter follows a temptation scene. 13 See, e.g., Isa 11:6–9. 14 I do not argue that these interpretations reflect the intent of Mark, but that they are possible interpretations. Both Matthew and Luke delete the phrase. 15 The oft-cited T. Naph. 8.4 does not speak of satanic temptation but of the flight of the devil from the virtuous. 16 The location is based upon the opening of ch. 3 and the Acts of Titus.

360

Richard I. Pervo

pattern is, however, generally characteristic of Acts, in which persecution drives the plot and expulsion from a municipality results in expansion of the mission. Not unlike the canonical gospels and Acts, which delay the protagonist’s initial sermon,17 Acts of Paul 3:5–6 evidently follows the memorable example of the Gospel of Matthew.18 The programmatic sermon (set in a house church) opens with an overture of effervescent beatitudes. Although macarisms announce people’s standing from the divine perspective, they may also intimate the authority of the speaker, particularly when they are paradoxical, such as “Blessed are the poor.” Disciples Paul recruits a number of disciples,19 who are expected to share his life of renunciation, itinerant teaching, healing, and persecution. The most famous of these is Thecla of Iconium, whose story enjoyed great popularity in antiquity and the Middle Ages; Thecla was dismissed from the Roman calendar in 1969, followed within a decade by reception into the feminist galaxy of stars.20 Thecla is a full-fledged disciple. Recruited by Paul’s message, she gives up all: family, splendid marital prospects, and wealth, to follow him at a considerable cost. Twice condemned to death and twice rescued, Thecla also acquires a new patron/mother in Tryphaena,21 whose largess she gives 17

Mark does not provide sustained discourse until 3:23 (–4:34). Luke locates the inaugural sermon, as noted, at 4:16–30, while Matthew opts for the Sermon on the Mount (chs. 5–7). 18 “Evidently” concedes the possibility of missing data, but the use of Matthew 5 is quite suggestive. The contrast between settings is clear. Matthew has Jesus address a Galilean audience on a mountain. Paul speaks to Greeks in a private home. 19 These include supporting households, such as those of Anchares (2:2), Onesiphorus (3:2), and Hermias (4:16), and an anonymous household in 10:1. Aquila and Prisca (9:1) probably belong to this category. Other disciples include Demas and Hermogenes (3:1), Titus (3:2), Thecla (3:7), Thrasymachus and Aline, and Cleon and Chrysa (6:1), Theudes et al. in 6:6, Lemma and Ammia (9:7), Luke (14:1), Patroclus (14:2), others, as well as Longinus and Cestus (14:5). 20 See Stephen J. Davis, The Cult of Saint Thecla: A Tradition of Women’s Piety in Late Antiquity (Oxford Early Christian Studies; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); Karl Holzhey, Die Thekla-Akten: Ihre Verbreitung und Beurteilung in der Kirche (Munich: J. J. Lentner, 1905); and Léonie Hayne, “Thecla and the Church Fathers,” VC 48 (1994): 209–18. 21 For the view of Tryphaena as patron see Magda Misset-van de Weg, “A Wealthy Woman named Tryphaena: Patroness of Thecla of Iconium,” in Bremmer, ed., The Apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla, 16–35. Melissa Aubin views her as a surrogate mother, in “Reversing Romance: The Acts of Thecla and the Ancient Novel,” in Ronald F. Hock, J. Bradley Chance, and Judith Perkins, eds., Ancient Fiction and Early Christian Narrative (SBLSymS 6; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars, 1998), 257–72.

Shepherd of the Lamb

361

to Paul for distribution to the poor. Thecla’s path to acceptance as a disciple was not easy. Her longing for Paul leads her to leave the house alone at night and join Paul in his cell for instruction, surrendering precious possessions as bribes to pass these barriers. Teenage girls who sneak out at night to meet strange men alone still fail to gain social approval. In Thecla’s culture such acts were monstrous; witness the reaction of her mother. Said parent, Theocleia, infuriated by this rebellious daughter, calls for her immolation. The request is granted. Condemned to be burned at the stake in the theater, Thecla is stripped naked and directed to mount a pyre of wood and straw assembled by the youth of both sexes.22 The fire is ignited, but a providential deluge delivers the condemned prisoner (3:18– 22). No disciple has done more to meet the Markan standards of eligibility (Mark 8:34–38). When she has finally tracked down the apostle, who had received a far lighter sentence, Thecla exclaims: “I shall cut off my hair23 and follow you wherever you go” (3:25). The second part of her offer derives from Luke 9:57, a promise of unconditional discipleship that introduces an apophthegm on the homelessness of Jesus. The first clause is a proposal to transcend or renounce the limitations imposed by sex, i.e., gender. Paul turns down both the offer and her request for baptism. Not even a severe bob will insulate Thecla from the temptation to matrimony.24 Another chapter and more trials will be required before she undergoes a martyr’s baptism and finally obtains a commission from Paul: “Go and teach God’s message” (4:17). Having received that commission,25 Thecla sails off the pages of the Acts of Paul into a world of her own. In response to the evangelical message, Onesiphorus and the entire family abandon all and become, to their substantial discomfiture, itinerants (3:23).26 Like Jesus, Paul often had companions in his travel. One or more companions is standard for the first half of the work; in the second half the apostle generally travels alone. Two is the most common number: Lemma and Ammia [1], Demas and Hermogenes (3). In Rome, Luke and Titus await Paul and thereafter become his companions. In 4:1 Paul travels to 22

The youth manifest their utter rejection of Thecla’s behavior by participation in her execution, which thus acquires the character of a corporate act, similar to stoning. 23 The meaning of perikarou=mai is being disputed at present. The concrete meaning is “cut/shave (all) around.” 24 Tension with ch. 1 is apparent. If baptism produced a celibate lion, would it not work for Thecla? 25 Cf., e.g., Matt 28:16–20. 26 My paper on this subject, delivered in Berlin in 2010, is scheduled for publication: “The Hospitality of Onesiphorus: Missionary Styles in the Acts of Paul,” in Clare Rothschild and Jens Schroeter, eds., The Rise and Expansion of Christianity in the First Three Centuries C.E. (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012).

362

Richard I. Pervo

Antioch with Thecla. Chapter 6 begins with an entourage that brings Luke 8:1–3 to mind: “Some couples from Perga 27 Paul: Thrasymmachus and Aline, as well as Cleon and Chrysa. In the course of the journey they fed Paul.” Like the itinerant Jesus Paul has hosts on the road.28 Paul, like Jesus (Luke 10:1), has forerunners who prepare his way. Titus plays this role in Iconium (3:2) and, with Luke, possibly at Rome (14:1).29 The gospel parallels extend also to small details. Like Jesus (and others)30 Paul can be transfigured (3:3). His arrests can evoke that of Jesus: “Thamyris, full to the brim with jealousy and rage, arose early and went to Onesiphorus’s, accompanied by magistrates, public functionaries, and a mob armed with clubs . . .” (4:15; cf. Mark 14:43). The narrator was sufficiently fond of this parallel to repeat it: “Paul saw Hermippus approaching with a sword in his hand, accompanied by young men armed with clubs. Paul ‘I am a robber; no murderer am I’” (5:12; cf. Mark 14:48). Castellius the governor “heard Paul gladly,” bringing Mark 6:20 to mind. The apostle nourishes the hungry family of Onesiphorus by selling his cloak31 to purchase five loaves, surely not a number drawn out of a hat (3:25; cf. Mark 6:35–44, specifically Mark 6:41; John 6:9). Paul, like Jesus, feeds his hungry followers. The subtlety and creativity of these borrowings is well illustrated by the incident of Hieronymus’s ear (9:25– 28). In the hailstorm that terminated Paul’s execution by beasts in the arena, Hieronymus, the governor who had allowed this sentence against his better judgment, suffered a painful injury to his ear. When he repents and invokes the god of Paul, Hieronymus is healed. The healing of an adversary’s ear comes from the passion of Jesus, particularly Luke 22:49–51, but the Acts of Paul uses it in a distinct manner.

27

The verb “followed” is a conjectural restoration but quite certain. Lemma and Ammia [1; cf. 9]; Anchares in 2 (evidently); Onesiphorus in 3; (none in 3:23); Hermias (4:16) in Myra; Hermocrates also in Myra (5); itinerant supporters in 6; unknown host in 8 (Smyrna?); Prisca and Aquila at Ephesus (9); unknown householder in 10–11 (Philippi); Stephen at Corinth (12); and Claudius at Rome (13). 29 According to the Acts of Titus 4, Titus played this role in every place Paul was to visit. This may be a generalization from Acts of Paul 3. The inspiration evidently comes from 2 Corinthians (e.g., 7:6; 12:18). The question arises whether Titus had been introduced in Acts of Paul 1–2 or if the reader was presumed to know his identity from the epistles. (The canonical Acts of the Apostles does not mention Titus.) 30 Transfiguration was also an attribute of Stephen (Acts 6:15; 7:55) and other holy persons. 31 Cf. 2 Tim. 4:3, and Richard I. Pervo, “Romancing an Oft-neglected Stone: The Pastoral Epistles and the Epistolary Novel,” Journal of Higher Criticism 1 (1994): 25– 47 (esp. 42 n. 94), as well as C. Spicq, Les épitres pastorals (4. ed. refondue; 2 vols.; Paris: Gabalda, 1969), 814–16. 28

Shepherd of the Lamb

363

“Passion Predictions” These sayings are a structural element in the Gospel of Mark (8:31; 9:31; 10:33–34) that set forth Markan theology in forecasts by Jesus of his less than glorious earthly fate. Luke imitated the predictions in Acts, with respect to Paul, emphasizing their literary capacity to raise suspense through foreshadowing (20:35; 21:4, 11–13). In the Acts of Paul, the three inspired predictions take place in worship at the house of Stephen:32 12:2. When the time had come for Paul to leave for Rome, grief over when they would see him again gripped the believers. Filled with the Holy Spirit, Paul said: “Sisters and brothers, devote yourselves to fasting and charity, for I am headed for a fiery furnace – I am speaking of Rome – and I should not be able to endure it if the Lord did not empower me.” 12:3. [When they heard this], the believers were troubled and resumed their fast. Cleobius, speaking through the Spirit said to them, “Sisters and brothers, Paul must fulfill the entire plan of God and go up to the place of death [. . .] with impressive instruction, knowledge, and dissemination of the message, until, having stirred up jealousy, he leaves this world.” When the believers and Paul heard this, they raised their voices and prayed: “God of our Lord, father of Christ, come to the aid of your slave Paul, so that he may remain with us because of our weakness.” 12:5. But the Spirit fell upon Myrta, who said: “Brothers and sisters, why do you regard this sign with fear? Paul, the slave of the Lord, will deliver many in Rome and will nourish so many with his message that their number will exceed calculation and he will become the most noteworthy of the faithful. The glory [of the Lord Christ Jesus] will clothe him with splendor, a magnificent grace in Rome.”

The fourth prediction takes place on the voyage to Rome. Contamination at some stage with the Acts of Peter seems likely.33 13:2. At that time the Lord came to him, walking on the sea. He nudged Paul and said, “Get up and see!” Upon awakening he said, “You are my Lord Jesus Christ, the king [. . .]. But why are you so sad and gloomy, Lord? If you are troubled, [tell me clearly what it is], Lord, for seeing you like this is quite upsetting.” “Paul, I am going to be crucified again.” “God forbid, Lord, that I should ever witness that!” “Paul, go to Rome and exhort the believers to remain faithful to their heavenly calling.”

Mark 6:45–52 is the primary model. The “Christ” to whom this refers is Paul. (In the Quo Vadis story [Acts Pet. 35], Jesus will undergo a second crucifixion because Peter has taken flight.) This foreshadows both the 32

At two points the text must be restored. For an extensive discussion of the relationship between these two Apocryphal Acts, see Dennis R. MacDonald, “Which Came First?: Intertextual Relationships among the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles,” in The Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles in Intertextual Perspectives (ed. Robert F. Stoops; Semeia 80; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1997), 11– 41, esp. 13–24. MacDonald defends the priority of the Acts of Paul against the general consensus. 33

364

Richard I. Pervo

death of Paul and its meaning.34 Like Acts (which it probably imitates), but quite unlike Mark, the Acts of Paul does not neglect the possibility of pathos with regard to these predictions. Mark places four chapters, a good quarter of the text, between the final prediction and the arrest of Jesus. Acts of Paul (and canonical Acts) spares the audience by shortening this gap. The Passion A. (Acts of Paul 13:5–14:1; Mark 11–13). Prior to Jesus’ arrest Mark devotes several chapters to his teaching in the Holy City (and to his final meal). This provides firm motivation for his arrest. The Acts of Paul follows this model.35 B. The Gethsemane episode of Mark 14:32–42 has a brief parallel in Acts of Paul 14:4, where it follows the protagonist’s arrest: like Paul in Acts, and quite unlike Jesus, Paul has no hesitations about embracing his fate. The soldiers thereupon begged him, “Please, please help us and we shall let you go.” “I am no deserter from Christ, but a loyal soldier of the living God. If I knew that I was going to die, I would have tried to save myself, 36 Longinus and Cestus, but since I live for God and love myself, I am going to the Lord, so that I might come back with him in the glory of his father.”

C–D. Acts of Paul has twice imitated the language of Jesus’ arrest.37 His final arrest in the capital comes as part of a general roundup. The Acts of Paul expends little energy on the actual trial. Nero is a tyrant, but everyone knew that. E. While the other prisoners are condemned to incineration, Paul alone is to be decapitated.38 To the inquiries of Longinus and Cestus about salvation, he said: “Come promptly here to my tomb at dawn. You will find two men praying, Titus and Luke. They will seal you in the Lord.” Paul stood, facing east and prayed at some length, communing via prayer,

34

See below. In the Acts of Paul, Paul arrives in Rome as a free person, unlike in Acts. 36 The contrary-to-fact statement is difficult – the Greek apodosis reads “I would have done it” – and witnesses seek improvement. MS A adds, after “die,” “for my king, as you think,” and, at the close: “so that I might be rescued by you and evade dying.” Syr says, in effect, “When I must die, I would not run away, as you advise me.” 37 See above. 38 The manner of Paul’s execution can be inferred from Acts, which is the only known source of the claim that he was a Roman citizen. The burning of the others may derive from Roman tradition. See Willy Rordorf, “Die neronische Christenverfolgung im Spiegel der Apokryphen Paulusakten,” NTS 28 (1981–1982): 365–74, reprinted in Lex Orandi, Lex Credendi, pp. 368–77. 35

Shepherd of the Lamb

365

in Hebrew with his forebears.39 Without another word he stretched out his neck. When the executioner lopped off his head, milk spewed out onto the soldier’s clothes. When the soldier and all the bystanders saw this they praised the God who had given Paul such glory. They then returned to report to the emperor what had happened.

Improving, as it were, on the gospel tradition, Paul directs these witnesses to visit his tomb at dawn (cf. Mark 16:1–2). The eruption of milk is an indisputable miracle. One may argue about the blood and water of John 19:34, but ordinary humans do not exude postmortem milk.40 The subsequent doxology imitates Mark 15:39 (et parr.). Like Jesus (Mark 15:34), Paul prays in a Semitic language. The Post-resurrection A. A post-resurrection appearance precedes the tomb scene. The apologetically sensitive must once again approve of Paul’s wisdom, since he appeared to a rather distinguished company, including a number of philosophers. (Nero, if not distinguished, was certainly important.) No one will dare to dismiss these witnesses as “hysterical women.”41 Here, like the risen Christ of the gospels, Paul can appear (and evidently disappear, 14:7) at will. No stress is laid upon the material nature of his body. He is visible and audible.42 B. The closing scene of Acts of Paul is the climactic example of an express mimesis of Mark: 7. Longinus and the centurion Cestus set out with anxiety for Paul’s tomb as he had told them. Upon their arrival they saw two men at prayer, Paul between them. The sight astonished them. Titus and Luke, swept away by mortal fear, turned and ran away. Their pursuers cried, “We are not chasing you with death in view but life, as Paul – who was praying between you a moment ago – promised.” Titus and Luke were glad to hear this and sealed them in the Lord.

Reaching the tomb “at dawn” (cf. Mark 16:1), as instructed, the two soldiers, Longinus and Cestus (the latter a centurion), are astonished at the sight of two men praying with Paul; they flee in fear (cf. Mark 16:8). The tombside pair, the promised Titus and Luke, do the same. All the principals (Paul has evaporated) are heading away from each other. Mark 16:1–8 39

tion.

There are various expansions here and in subsequent phrases in the textual tradi-

40 This image suggests (with a nod to Tertullian) semen martyris lac ecclesiae. As the blood of the martyr nourishes the church, so the milk from the martyr Paul is nourishing. The image evidently points to Paul as the creator and caretaker of neophytes. 41 This is Celsus’s famous jibe at the gospel tradition, in Origen, Cels. 2.55. 42 This is at some tension with 3 Corinthians, although the same tension can be found in Matt 28 and John 20.

366

Richard I. Pervo

has provided the basis for this nearly comic moment.43 The soldiers quickly recover their courage and recall the fleeing disciples, who administer the promised baptism. This conclusion seals the deal. It is inexplicable other than on the grounds of imitating the gospels. This imitation is not simply aesthetic; its purpose is to make the career of the apostle conform to that of his master. Paul is a “Christ figure” in the Acts of Paul because he does and experiences what Jesus does and experiences. His career is also, as some of these parallels intimate, salutary. Paul is a savior.44 That is the subject of the second major section of this essay.

Images of Paul In the course of their journey through the desert (1, evidently; 9:7) Paul delivers his two companions from the lion. Rescue from lions is a common biblical image of divine protection.45 Acts of Paul 2:1 witnesses the raising of the dead son of Anchares.46 Since this is proclaimed as the gift of Christ, Paul is a secondary savior. This characterization generally applies to the various wonders worked by Paul, but christological formulae (such as “In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to rise”) are not required.47 In Acts of Paul 3–4 Paul is the master and shepherd, while Thecla serves him as lamb and pupil. He is the “absent Christ” to whom she prays. The actual Christ is willing to take the form of Paul in order to comfort her: 3:21. Strongly moved, the governor had Paul flogged and expelled from the city. As for Thecla, he condemned her to be burned. He arose and proceeded directly to the theater. The entire mob also headed for the violent spectacle. Thecla kept looking for Paul, as a lamb in the wild looks for the shepherd. Glancing about the crowd she saw the Lord, looking like Paul, seated there. 48 “Paul has come to watch over me, as if I could not oth-

43 It is difficult to imagine that the implied readers found the situation comic. Modern readers have difficulty not finding it comic. 44 The same may be said, if to a slightly lesser degree, of Paul in Acts. See R. Pervo, Acts, 639–78. 45 Cf., e.g., Ps 91:11–13. See also Leland Ryken et al., eds., Dictionary of Biblical Imagery (Downers Grove, Ill.: InterVarsity, 1998), 49–50. 46 Other resurrections: 5:3 and 14:2. 47 This is also true of Acts; cf. 9:40; 20:7–12, both accounts of resurrection. 48 Cf. Acts 7:55. On polymorphy of Christ, see Léon Vouaux, Les Actes de Paul et ses lettres apocryphes (Paris: Letouzey, 1913), 186.

Shepherd of the Lamb

367

erwise endure this.”49 She continued to hold her eyes fast upon him, but he went up into heaven.

Rather than protest a system that gave the instigator (Paul) a much lesser sanction than that which she received, Thecla seeks only to lay her eyes upon him.50 The image of sheep without a shepherd has a wide and deep background, but its immediate inspiration is Mark 6:34.51 Since Paul cannot be present to support her in her time of need, Christ acts as his deputy.52 For Thecla Paul is simply the savior. After her escape from immolation Thecla sets out in quest of Paul. She found him (in a tomb) with the family of Onesiphorus: 24. At the tomb she came upon Paul praying on bended knee, “Father of Christ, let not the fire touch Thecla, but be with her, for she is yours.” Standing behind him, she exclaimed, “Father, the maker of heaven and earth, the father of your beloved son Jesus Christ, I praise you because you have delivered me from fire so that I might see Paul.”

The content of the beatific vision for Thecla is Paul. In the next section he is feeding the hungry, also a christological symbol.53 At this point Thecla is making her (unsuccessful) pledge to renounce all and follow her master (quoted above). Acts of Paul 3 contains the most explicit “paulology” of the book. “Acts of Thecla” is as an appropriate a title of this chapter in one way as it is for Acts of Paul 4 in another.54 Myrta’s prophecy (12:5), an interpretation of why the (eucharistic) bread offered by Paul broke into fragments of its own accord, says: “The slave of the Lord will deliver many in Rome and will nourish so many with his message that their number will exceed calculation.” Paul multiplies the members of the body of Christ as Jesus multiplied loaves.55 13:1–2. Epiphany on the voyage to Rome (for the text of 13:2 see above):

49

Not clear. A Latin MS (Lbb) makes the statement positive, “as I endure.” Vouaux, p. 187, wants the statement to imply support. 50 To make sense of the narrative, the reader must presume that Thecla was not present for the sentencing of Paul. 51 Some Latin witnesses tone this imagery down. 52 The capacity of Christ for polymorphy is a given in various Apocryphal Acts. On the theme, see David R. Cartlidge, “Transfigurations of Metamorphosis Traditions in the Acts of John, Thomas, and Peter,” in The Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles (ed. Dennis R. MacDonald; Semeia 38; Decatur, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1986), 53–66. 53 See the next paragraph. 54 In the detached editions of chs. 3–4, titles vary. The modern “Acts of Paul and Thecla” is one of the least appropriate. 55 Although Paul is described as a redeemer, Christ receives the credit, as it were.

368

Richard I. Pervo

13:1. When Paul boarded the ship, attended by the prayers of all, its captain, Artemon, who had been baptized by Peter, [greeted] Paul with joy . . . and so, because so many things had been entrusted to Paul, [Artemon treated him as if, in him,] the Lord had come aboard. Once the ship had gotten underway, Artemon, by divine grace, joined Paul to glorify the Lord Jesus Christ, who had fashioned in advance his plan for Paul. When they had reached the high sea and quiet prevailed, Paul fell asleep,56 exhausted 57 by his fasting and nightlong vigils58 with the believers.

This passage, whatever its links to the Acts of Peter 5 and 35,59 utilizes the sea stories of Mark 4:35–41 and 6:45–52. Paul takes the role both of the disciples, apart from any sign of fear, and of Jesus. Paul, like Jesus in Mark 4:38, is in the boat asleep. The text, which is broken and possibly corrupt, evidently says that the captain treated Paul as if he were the Lord.60 This could be viewed as good hospitality (e.g., 9:48), but the dialogue in 13:2 suggests that it means more. Unlike the Acts of Peter, Christ’s statement about undergoing a second crucifixion is not a prod toward martyrdom, nor does it predict the manner of Paul’s death. The saying rather means that Paul’s martyrdom will be a saving event. This is fulfilled both concretely, in that the death of Paul brings Nero’s persecution to an end (14:6), and symbolically, in the nourishing milk discharged from his executed body. The living Paul is the shepherd of the people, guarding and nurturing the faithful. His death brought life to many. Only planted seeds produce fruit.

Conclusion Expressions like “Christ figure” are nebulous at best. In this essay the phrase embraces two basic literary techniques: structure and symbolism. The Acts of Paul follows the form of the narrative gospel. That structure alone does not establish the hero as another Christ, so to speak, but the parallels show Paul doing what Jesus did, recruiting disciples to follow him as well as performing various miracles. The survey of images confirms that Paul is shepherd and sacrificial lamb, a martyr who dies so that others may have life.61 56

Luke 8:23. Luke 9:32; Matt 26:43. 58 Luke 6:12. 59 See n. 33. 60 The italicized words are not an attempted reconstruction, but ad sensum. The text (P.Hamb. 7:20–22) has gaps, but it may also be corrupt. The alternative is to read o9 ku/rioj e0mbh/nei (= e0mbai/nei) as “The Lord came/comes aboard,” which would produce a harsh contradiction. 61 Cf. John 12:24. 57

Shepherd of the Lamb

369

As the various christological declarations demonstrate, Paul does not usurp Christ’s place in the economy of salvation. By extending the savior’s work he becomes a savior himself. Criticism has tended to denounce this result as excessive glorification of the apostle and, in so far as it confuses the sender with the one sent, bad christology. Such judgments generate much vigorous rhetoric and more than a little superficiality. An Acts of Paul modeled upon the mainstream interpretation of the undisputed letters would also attend to suffering and travail, with limited attention to miraculous deliveries. Although that Christology has influenced the Acts of Paul, it does not dominate it. This work celebrates the praesentia Christi through the continuation of Christ’s saving work in leaders who can work wonders of deliverance. The view of Paul as a savior in Acts of Paul is consistent with its theology. The Acts of Paul is arguably no more than an extension of the view of Paul as savior in the canonical book of Acts. The same view emerges in Colossians and Ephesians,62 and will characterize other works.63 The Acts of Paul present the apostle as a Christ figure in considerable detail and variety, but this is not an aberration. It represents one vital strain of the Deutero-Pauline tradition.

62 See Richard I. Pervo, The Making of Paul: Constructions of the Apostle in Early Christianity (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2010), 16–17, 64–77. 63 Ibid., 174–77.

 

Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited in Jewish Christianity, Sethian Gnosticism, and Mani DYLAN M. BURNS

Introduction: Reincarnated Jesus Traditions It is sometimes worth emphasizing the plural in “portraits” of Jesus in the early church, as we do in this volume – not to stress diversity of secta, but the idea that there have been lots of Christs. Such traditions are understudied, and a survey of them is itself a desideratum. More importantly, they remain little understood, with respect to provenance, significance, and relation to similar traditions. In this contribution, I will attempt to delineate some ancient christological trajectories that affirmed the reincarnation of the savior before (and beyond!) his appearance as Jesus of Nazareth. The most well known of these are associated with movements commonly described today as “Jewish Christian,” due to their adherence to the Jewish law – the Elchasaites, Ebionites, and author(s) of the Pseudo-Clementine literature.1 However, I will also note a trajectory that is less well known 1 The author has reservations about the term “Jewish Christianity,” which can apparently denote a wide variety of non-“orthodox” groups and thinkers across the spectrum of the early church. For a survey of scholarship, see Matt Jackson-McCabe, “What’s in a Name?: The Problem of ‘Jewish Christianity,’” in Jewish-Christianity Reconsidered: Rethinking Ancient Groups and Texts (ed. Matt Jackson-McCabe; Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 2007), 7–38; for a critical look at the term, see Joan Taylor, “The Phenomenon of Early Jewish-Christianity: Reality or Scholarly Invention?” VC 44 (1990): 313–34, esp. 321–25, 327. However, given the proclivity of much scholarship to refer to the Ebionites, Elchasaites, and Pseudo-Clementines – which may well indeed share some kind of genetic relationship – as “Jewish Christian” on grounds of Torah observance combined with worship of the figure Jesus Christ, I will simply do the same. For a similar approach and survey of evidence, see Georg Strecker, “Judenchristentum,” TRE 17 (1988): 310– 25; James Carleton Paget, “Jewish Christianity,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, Vol. 3: The Early Roman Period (ed. William Horbury, W. D. Davies, and John Sturdy; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 731–75; Paget, “Judenchristen: II. Alte Kirche,” RGG 4 (2001): 603–5; F. Stanley Jones, “The Pseudo-Clementines,” in JacksonMcCabe, ed., Jewish-Christianity Reconsidered, 285–304, esp. 286–88. For critique of this approach, see Jackson-McCabe, “What’s in a Name?,” 34–37.

372

Dylan M. Burns

and has not been commonly associated with Jewish Christianity: Sethian Gnosticism. Finally, I will briefly examine recent work on the adoption of this christological model by the prophet Mani. Concluding remarks will propose, among other things, a recalibration of reincarnational Christology in the source-critical history of the Pseudo-Clementines, the importance of Jewish-Christian literature for the emerging phenomenon of Sethian Gnosticism, our understanding of Sethian soteriology itself, and the evolution of Mani’s missionary rhetoric.

Reincarnated Saviors amongst the Elchasaites, Ebionites, and the Pseudo-Clementine Literature The idea that the savior has incarnated in the world before his appearance as Jesus of Nazareth is most commonly associated with a body of evidence commonly described by scholars as “Jewish Christian,” including the Elchasaites, the Ebionites, and the Pseudo-Clementine literature. Hippolytus tells us that, in the third year of the reign of Trajan (101 C.E.), a Syrian named Elchasai obtained a vision of two angels who warned him of the impending end of days and advised him to reform the nascent Christian movement. His ideas were transmitted in the Book of Elchasai, a document whose ideas caused much consternation amongst the patristic opponents of his followers for a variety of reasons.2 One was its Christology, which affirmed multiple incarnations of the Christ; Hippolytus of Rome complains that 2 The best survey of evidence about Elchasai and his writing remains Gerard P. Luttikhuizen, The Revelation of Elchasai: Investigations into the Evidence for a Mesopotamian Jewish Apocalypse of the Second Century and its Reception by Judeo-Christian Propagandists (TSAJ 8; Tübingen: Mohr [Siebeck], 1985); see also the shorter account in idem, “Elchasaites and Their Book,” in A Companion to Second-Century Christian “Heretics” (ed. Antti Marjanen and Petri Luomanen; VCSup 76; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 335–64, esp. 342–56; Johannes van Oort, “Elkesaiten,” RGG 4 (1999): 1227–28. The author agrees with Luttikhuizen that the text was an apocalypse by genre (“The Book of Elchasai: A Jewish Apocalyptic Writing, not a Christian Church Order,” SBL Seminar Papers, 1999 [SBLSP 38; Atlanta, Ga.: Society of Biblical Literature, 1999], 405–25, pace F. Stanley Jones, “The Genre of the Book of Elchasai: A Primitive Church Order, Not an Apocalypse,” in A. Ötzen, ed., Historische Wahrheit und theologische Wissenschaft: Festschrift für Gerd Lüdemann [Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1996], 87–104; similarly, see recently, Strecker, “Judenchristentum,” 320; Oort, “Elkesaiten,” 1227). Regardless, there is obviously no reason an “apocalypse” could not contain liturgical information; 4 Ezra 1:30–32 discusses feast days, the new moon, and circumcision, while the opening colophon to the highly liturgical Three Steles of Seth (NHC VII,5) refers to what follows as the Apocalypse of Dositheus.

Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited

373

Some others . . . procured a foreign volume, named for a certain Elchasai. . . . They do not confess that there is but one Christ, but that there is one above and that he is infused into many bodies frequently [a)ll’ ei]nai to\n me\n a!nw e3na, au0to\n de\ metaggizo/menon e0n sw&masi polloi=j polla&kij ], and now into Jesus. Similarly, they confess that he was begotten of God at one time and at another time he became a Spirit and at another time was born of a virgin and at another time not so. 3

Epiphanius of Salamis reports a similar doctrine in his description of the Sampsaeans, a group of Elchasaites occupying the Transjordan: They confess Christ in name, believing that he was created and that he appears time and again. He was formed for the first time in Adam and he puts off the body of Adam and assumes it again whenever he wishes [e0kdu/esqai de\ au0to\n to\ sw~ma tou= 0Ada_m kai\ pa&lin 4 e0ndu/esqai, o3te bou/letai].

Hippolytus’s unfortunate acquaintance with the sect is via an Elchasaite missionary by name of Alcibiades of Apamea, who brought the Book of Elchasai to Rome in the 220s C.E.:5 [Alcibiades] asserts that Christ was born a man in the same way common to all, and that he was not at this time born for the first time of a virgin but – adopting that Pythagorean doctrine – that he, having been previously born and being re-born, thus appeared and exists, undergoing alterations of birth and moving from body to body. 6

As is well known,7 a similar Christology is found in Epiphanius’s account of the Ebionites:8

3

Hippolytus, Haer. 10.29.1–2 (Marcovich) in Patristic Evidence for Jewish-Christian Sects (trans. A. F. J. Klijn and G. J. Reinink; NovTSup 36; Leiden: Brill, 1973), 123. See also Gedaliahu G. Stroumsa, Another Seed: Studies in Gnostic Mythology (NHS 24; Leiden: Brill, 1984), 76, 88; Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 64–65. 4 Epiphanius, Pan. 53.1.8. Numbering is that of Williams, of Holl’s text (The Panarion of Epiphanius of Salamis [trans. Frank Williams; 2 vols.; NHS 35; NHMS 36; Leiden; New York: Brill, 1987–1994]). 5 Hippolytus complains that the Pope St. Callixtus I (ca. 218–223 C.E.) inspired Alcibiades to come to Rome during his reign by propagating the doctrine (also found in the Book of Elchasai) of second baptism for the remission of new sins (Haer. 9.13.1–4). 6 . . . kai\ pro/teron, kai\ au]qij polla&kij gennhqe/nta kai\ gennw&menon pefhne/nai kai\ fu/esqai, a)lla&ssonta gene/seij kai\ metenswmatou=menon, e0kei/nw| do/g mati xrw&menoj (Hippolytus, Haer. 9.14.1, trans. Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 117, modified). 7 Thus, for instance, Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 73. 8 For surveys of the evidence about the Ebionites, see Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 19–44; F. Stanley Jones, “Ebionäer/Ebioniten,” RGG 4 2 (1999): 1041–42; Sakari Häkkinen, “Ebionites,” in Marjanen and Luomanen eds., Second-Century Heretics, 248– 78. The Ebionites are the center of the movement of “Jewish Christianity” as described in the oeuvre of Hans-Joachim Schoeps, in works such as Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums (Tübingen: Mohr, 1949); idem, Urgemeinde, Judenchristentum, Gnosis (Tübingen: Mohr, 1956); idem, Jewish Christianity: Factional Disputes in the Early Church (trans. Douglas R. A. Hare; Philadelphia, Pa.: Fortress Press, 1969).

374

Dylan M. Burns

But others among them say that he is from above [a1nwqen au0to/n] and was created before all things, that he is a spirit and stands above the angels and is lord of all and that he is called Christ and has been chosen for all eternity. He comes into the world when he wishes [e1rxesqai de\ e0ntau=qa o3te bou/letai], for he came into Adam and appeared to the patriarchs, clothed with a body [e0fai/neto e0nduo/menoj to\ sw~ma]. It is he who went to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and who came at the end of times and clothed himself with the body of Adam and appeared to men, was crucified, raised and returned on high.9

Yet in the following chapters, Epiphanius mentions two other Ebionite Christologies – that Adam was Christ,10 and that Christ descended on Jesus the man in the form of a dove11 – concluding that the Ebionites must have originally held these latter views, but changed their minds under influence of one “Elxai.”12 Modern scholars are divided over whether Epiphanius’s hypothesis is correct,13 or if, rather, the Ebionite/Elchasaite Christology goes back to a pre-existing Jewish Christianity.14 In any case, Schoeps rightly notes that the Elchasaite doctrine differs from that of the Ebionites insofar as, for the latter, the line of incarnations stops with Jesus; the former assert one more descent, into Elchasai himself.15 Epiphanius was also the first to recognize a relationship between the Ebionites and Pseudo-Clementine traditions,16 but it is impossible to deter9

Epiphanius, Pan. 30.3.4–5. Cf. his account of the Elchasaites, ibid., 53.1.8. 11 Epiphanius, Pan. 30.14.4; in 30.16.3–4, Christ, while pre-existing in heaven as an archangel, descends as a dove (for the Ebionite Christ as an angel without the dove, see Tertullian, Carn. Chr. 14; Schoeps, Jewish Christianity, 64; Christ as archangel: Ps.Clem. Rec. 16.4). Irenaeus, too, assigns this doctrine to the Ebionites, without mentioning angels (Haer. 1.26.1). For more citations and general discussion of angelomorphic Christology in Jewish Christianity, see Richard N. Longenecker, The Christology of Early Jewish Christianity (SBT Second Series 17; London: SCM, 1970), 26–32. 12 Epiphanius Pan. 30.3.2–5; 30.17.5–6; cf. 30.34.6. 13 Epiphanius is followed by, for example, Lucien Cerfaux, “Le vrai prophète des clémentines,” RSR 18 (1928): 143–63, esp. 160. 14 “It is, for example, quite out of the question that the original Elkesaite doctrine could have contained anything similar to the characteristic Christological conceptions found in the ‘Ebionite’ writings used by Epiphanius. The very contrary is true: the Elkesaites were influenced by Jewish-Christians who held Christological views similar to those found in the ‘Ebionite’ books. It is this same Jewish-Christian influence which accounts for the Elkesaites’ repudiation of Paul and their adherence to the Jewish Law” (Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 70; similarly, Schoeps, Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums, 327; Luttikhuizen, “The Book of Elchasai: a Jewish Apocalyptic Writing,” 416–17). 15 Schoeps, Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums, 327; idem, Jewish Christianity, 71; followed by Karl Hoheisel, “Das frühe Christentum und die Seelenwanderung,” JAC 27/28 (1984/1985): 24–46, at 37. 16 The best status quaestionis on the Pseudo-Clementine literature remains F. Stanley Jones, “The Pseudo-Clementines: A History of Research,” SecCent 2 (1982): 1–34, 63– 96; idem, An Ancient Jewish Christian Source on the History of Christianity: Pseudo10

Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited

375

mine exactly what documents the heresiographer possessed, which ones are prior, and what accounts were mixed up with others by him.17 The two Pseudo-Clementine documents we possess, the Recognitions and Homilies, are both late fourth-century texts that presume a “basic writing” (“B” = Grundschrift) of material shared between the two that was most likely composed out of a variety of earlier, untransmitted texts and traditions.18 The terminus post quem for B is late second century C.E.19 Both texts contain a diversity of christological ideas,20 but a particularly distinctive one that is shared between them and central to their theology (and thus most likely an innovation of the author of B) is the identification of Christ with the “True Prophet”:21 Clementine “Recognitions” 1.27–71 (SBLTT 37; CAS 2; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1995), 4–38. See also Georg Strecker’s classic, Das Judenchristentum in den Pseudoklementinen (TUGAL 70; Berlin: Akademie, 1958); F. Stanley Jones, “Pseudoklementinen,” RGG 4 6 (2003): 1791. 17 Epiphanius notes that the Ebionites read the Periodoi Petrou (“Wanderings of Peter”), quotations of which are paralleled in the Pseudo-Clementines (Pan. 30.15.1–3; Jones, “The Pseudo-Clementines,” 290–303). Nor are Epiphanius’s other sources obvious to the modern reader. Jones hypothesizes that Epiphanius knows Ps.-Clem. Rec. 1.32.4– 33.2 (Ancient Jewish Christian Source, 123); Häkkinen thinks it possible that he used the Book of Elchasai to flesh out his report on the Ebionites (“Ebionites,” 257), while Petri Luomanen stresses the probable influence of the Book on the Ebionites known to the heresiographers (“Ebionites and Nazarenes,” in Jackson-McCabe, ed., Jewish Christianity Reconsidered, 81–118, esp. 86–88, 97 –98). 18 There is no scholarly consensus concerning the identity and provenance of the author of B, the character of B with respect to the Rec. and Hom., and the delineations and content of the earlier sources available to him/her (the Preaching of Peter, Ascents of James, etc.) For discussion, see Jones, “History of Research”; Robert E. Van Voorst, The “Ascents of James”: History and Theology of a Jewish-Christian Community (SBLDS 112; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1989), 1–46. 19 The Grundschrift appears to be familiar with the Book of the Laws of the Countries (Rec. 9.19–29). For a handy discussion, see F. Stanley Jones, “The Astrological Trajectory in Ancient Syriac-Speaking Christianity (Elchasai, Bardaisan, and Mani),” in Atti del Terzo Congresso Internazionale di studi “Manicheismo e oriente Cristiano antico” (ed. L. Cirillo and A. van Tongerloo; Manichaean Studies 3; Louvain: Brepols, 1997), 183–200; see also Nicole Kelley, Knowledge and Religious Authority in the “PseudoClementines”: Situating the Recognitions in Fourth-Century Syria (WUNT 2.213; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 82ff. 20 For instance, Christ is said to be an angel at Rec. 1.24.5 and Hom. 2.2–3; 2.24.2. 21 On the True Prophet, see Cerfaux, “Le vrai prophète”; Han J. W. Drijvers, “Adam and the True Prophet in the Pseudo-Clementines,” in Loyalitätskonflikte in der Religionsgeschichte: Festschrift für Carsten Colpe (ed. Christoph Elsas and Hans G. Kippenberg, with Hubert Cancik, Burkhard Gladigow and Kurt Rudolph; Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 1990), 314–23; Charles A. Gieschen, “The Seven Pillars of the World: Ideal Figure Lists in the True Prophet Christology of the Pseudo-Clementines,” JSP 12 (1994): 47–82; most recently, Kelley, Knowledge and Religious Authority.

376

Dylan M. Burns

For the True Prophet Himself – from the beginning of the world, through the course of time [ab initio mundi per saeculum] – also hastens to rest. For He is present with us at all times [adest enim nobis omnibus diebus]; and if at any time it is necessary, He appears and corrects us [apparet et corrigit nos], that He may bring to eternal life those who obey Him.22

The True Prophet is even incarnate in the thought of anyone who is drawn to truth, and, ostensibly, presents them with knowledge.23 As a rhetorical foil, he offers the author of B an authorization of certain doctrines and practices (i.e., belief in astrology, adherence to Jewish law, valorization of the Hebrew Bible) that require defense from competing worldviews, such as those of the Greek philosophers24 and especially Marcion.25 The vocation of the True Prophet is occasionally identified with that of the Spirit, which, in this case, was originally possessed by Adam,26 passed on to the sinless patriarchs,27 and eventually descended on Christ,28 the ultimate True Prophet, whose teaching is related by Peter to “Clement.” As in Epiphanius’s summary of Ebionites, we see both a pneumaticadoptionist and a reincarnational Christology, but here in the same passage: “He [Christ] alone has it [the Spirit], he who from the beginning of the present aeon, changing his guises along with his names, enters the world up to even our own times . . .”29 Schoeps and Gieschen have both gone so far as to ask if B does not refer at all to a reincarnating savior, but simply a particularly elevated spirit of prophecy.30 Such a reading is difficult to harmonize with the other passages from B reviewed here which do clearly refer to repeated appearances of the True Prophet, although there is no reason to preclude the Prophet’s possession of the Spirit in each of his

22

Rec. 2.22.4, trans. ANF. “For He is within the mind of every one of us [inest enim intra uniuscuiusque nostrum mentem], but in those who have no desire of the knowledge of God and His righteousness, He is inoperative; but He works in those who seek after that which is profitable to their souls, and kindles in them the light of knowledge [lumen scientiae]. Wherefore seek Him first of all; and if you do not find Him, expect not that you shall learn anything from any other” (Rec. 8.59.3–4, trans. ANF). Cf. Justin Martyr, Dial. 61.1; 66. 24 See the discussion of Kelley, Knowledge and Religious Authority, esp. 36–81. 25 Schoeps, Urgemeinde, Judenchristentum, Gnosis, 65; idem, Jewish Christianity, 123, 126–27; Drijvers, “Adam and the True Prophet,” esp. 318; Gieschen, “Seven Pillars,” 62–63. 26 Hom. 3.21; 8.10; Rec. 4.9. 27 Per the discussion of Gieschen, “Seven Pillars,” 62–63, 70–71. 28 Hom. 8.10; 3.15; Rec. 1.60. 29 Hom. 3.20.2, trans. ANF, modified. 30 Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums, 103, 106–7; idem, Jewish Christianity, 61, 70–71; Gieschen, “Seven Pillars,” 73ff. Schoeps does acknowledge “a certain vacillation between manifestation and incarnation” (Jewish Christianity, 71). 23

Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited

377

manifestations, or even to assume that the Recognitions and Homilies, as highly composite works, must be internally consistent. It is impossible to determine whether the author of B, introducing the peculiarly Jewish-Christian Christology of multiple incarnations, was an innovator, or if s/he simply followed some of the lost Jewish-Christian texts also read by the Ebionites. It can be demonstrated, however, that one of B’s sources that is discernible to modern scholarship was not the inspiration for the reincarnations of the Prophet: Recognitions 1.27–71.31 As Jones argues (following Strecker), one can distinguish insertions, by the author of B, of the True Prophet into an account where he and his pattern of reincarnations are conspicuously absent. For instance, the True Prophet appears to an Abraham rapt in contemplation and delivers a veritable summary of the theology of B. Yet the previous section, marking the beginning of the pericope, has an angel appear instead.32 The other reference to the reincarnating Prophet in 1.27–71, meanwhile, is often noted by commentators,33 yet without reference to problems in its textual tradition. It states: Christ, who has existed from the beginning and always, was ever present with the pious, though secretly, through all their generations, and especially with those who waited for Him, to whom He frequently appeared [et expectabatur quibusque frequenter apparuit].34

Yet the Syriac recension of the Recognitions does not include the important final clause, “to whom He had frequently appeared.”35 Scholars have not yet determined whether (or where) to accord the Latin or Syriac

31

For a masterful analysis of this source, see Jones, Ancient Jewish Christian Source, followed closely here. I agree with him (146–48) that the source does not fit Epiphanius’s description of the Ascents of James allegedly read by the Ebionites (pace Van Voorst, “Ascents of James”). 32 Rec. 1.33.1–3; 1.32.3; Jones, Ancient Jewish Christian Source, 152–53, 161, also noting parallels to Hom. 1.17.2–4 = Rec. 1.14.2–4; Hom. 8.10.2 = Rec. 4.9.2. 33 Wilhelm Bousset, Hauptprobleme der Gnosis (FRLANT 10; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1973), 171–75; Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 34, Gieschen, “Seven Pillars,” 73, and Häkkinen, “Ebionites,” 268. 34 Rec. 1.52 (Latin), following the trans. of Jones, Ancient Jewish Christian Source, 84. 35 “From the beginning Christ has been in all generations, and He was secretly with those who wanted to be in the fear of God and who were awaiting Him as one who was far off” (trans. Jones, Ancient Jewish Christian Source; for text, see Wilhelm Frankenburg, Die syrischen Clementinen mit griechischem Paralleltext: Eine Vorarbeit zu dem literargeschichtlichen Problem der Sammlung [Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1937], 58). The problem of the Syriac (lack of) parallels is not noted in scholarship on the True Prophet. (On Latin Rec. 1.52, see Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 34; Gieschen, “Seven Pillars,” 73; Jones, Ancient Jewish Christian Source, 130–35; Häkkinen, “Ebionites,” 268.)

378

Dylan M. Burns

priority in determining the Greek Vorlage of the Recognitions,36 but the present author would hypothesize that here the Latin is preferable, as follows: the passage concludes a long discussion about Christ, the True Prophet.37 In its description of his first incarnation in Adam, the text appears to draw from stock apocryphal lore about the first man’s divine nature and experiences in paradise.38 The interest of this section is, like 1.33.1–3, afield from the rest of 1.27–71 and thus probably an insertion by the author of B, as suggested by Jones.39 By the same token – the centrality of the True Prophet’s appearances – it is unlikely that the author of B would have here inserted a section on Christ that did not mention his preNazoraean incarnations, while doing the opposite elsewhere, and that a Latin translator of the Greek Recognitions, observing this discrepancy, chose to harmonize the passage with the reincarnational Christology of the rest of B. It is more likely that the Syriac translator saw the clause in question as objectionable and removed it. In any case, Jones’s analysis of the source of Recognitions 1.27–71, which shows that 1.33.1–3 and 1.44– 52 are probably insertions by the author of B, indicates that the author of this source, Jewish Christian or otherwise, was not aware of and/or interested in a reincarnated savior familiar to us from Elchasaite and Ebionite traditions. It is quite possible that such traditions entered the Pseudo-Clementine Romance only with B. Scholars have long recognized that there is probably some genetic connection between the reincarnational Christologies of these Jewish Christianities, but are at odds over what it might look like. One major problem is confusion (ancient and modern) between the notion of a preincarnate savior or prophet who intermittently descends to earth, and the doctrine of reincarnation of all souls, which stems from Hippolytus’s erroneous claim (see above) that Alcibiades of Apamea must have been a Pythagorean, because he was committed to an Elchasaite Christology in 36

Jones, Ancient Jewish Christian Source, 49; see also the more detailed discussion in idem, “Evaluating the Latin and Syriac Translations of the Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions,” Apocrypha 3 (1992): 237–57. 37 Rec. 1.44–52. 38 Such as Adam’s acquisition of divine ointment (Rec. 1.47–48, hieratic oil; cf. L.A.E. 40–42, where Adam receives oil from the Tree of Mercy on his deathbed). 39 “The concern with the prophet of truth in this section suggests that this figure did not belong to the source of R 1.27–71 at all, especially since a differing Christology can be perceived at other places in R 1.27–71.” This differing Christology claims that He “was the prophet proclaimed by Moses who would come for the abolition of sacrifices and that Jesus is the Christ who has both already come and will come again,” the first coming being his incarnation in Jesus of Nazareth (not before!). (Jones, Ancient Jewish Christian Source, 135. Strecker recognized before that 1.44.4–1.52 is an interpolation of the author of B [Das Judenchristentum in den Pseudoklementinen, 41–42, 223, 236]. See also Van Voorst, “Ascents of James,” 34–35.)

Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited

379

which the savior made multiple descents to earth. None of the evidence we have about Elchasai or Alcibiades beyond Hippolytus’s jibe indicates that they defended the reincarnation of souls in toto.40 So, it is possible that Hippolytus’s claim tells us more about his rhetorical aim in the Refutatio – tracing the doctrines of his opponents back to the various Greek philosophical schools – rather than actual influence of Pythagorean reincarnation upon the thought of the Elchasaites or the Pseudo-Clementines.41 Meanwhile, scholars agree that speculations about Christ’s previous incarnations are quite early. If Hippolytus is not incorrect that the idea is in the Book of Elchasai wielded by Alcibiades, it is reasonable to suppose that the idea of a reincarnated Judeo-Christian savior goes back at least as far as Elchasai himself, in the early second century C.E.42 Conversely, if one adopts the stance that the Elchasaites derived their Christology from pre-existing Jewish-Christian ideas, the doctrine could be still older yet.43 The provenance of these speculations is more controversial. Certainly they could be related to allusions from the New Testament to Christ’s preincarnational existence,44 but their very early date and distinctive emphasis 40 Contrast, for example, his more substantive account of Carpocratian “Pythagoreanism,” which affirms that humans undergo reincarnation until they escape sinfulness (Hippolytus, Haer. 7.20). 41 For claims of Pythagorean influence on the Elchasaites, see Schoeps, Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums, 108; Samuel N. E. Lieu, Manichaeism in the Later Roman Empire and Medieval China: A Historical Survey (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1985), 28; for “Elchasaite” defense of reincarnation, see Reinhold Merkelbach, “Die Täufer bei denen Mani Aufwuchs,” in Manichaean Studies: Proceedings of the First International Conference on Manichaeism, August 5–9, 1987, Department of History of Religions, Lund University, Sweden (ed. Peter Bryder; Lund Studies in African and Asian Religions 1; Lund: Plus Ultra, 1988), 105–33. For the “Pythagorean” background of the Pseudo-Clementines, see Cerfaux, “Le vrai prophète,” 160. This confusion is happily avoided by Hoheisel, “Das frühe Christentum und die Seelenwanderung,” 37. 42 Pace Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 65; Luttikhuizen, “The Book of Elchasai: A Jewish Apocalyptic Writing,” 417; idem, “Elchasaites and Their Book,” 342, 360, asserting that no reincarnational Christology can be attributed to Elchasai or his Book. Yet Hippolytus, Haer. 10.29.1–2 (discussed above), specifies that readers of the Book were interested in a reincarnational Christology. Given the presence of this Christology in Hippolytus’s report about Alcibiades (Haer. 9.14.1–2), it is probable that such a Christology was also in the Book of Elchasai. Hippolytus’s evidence is also read in this way by Strecker, “Judenchristentum,” 320; 116–18; Merkelbach, “Die Täufer bei denen Mani Aufwuchs,” 116–18; also Schoeps (see below). 43 “Very ancient”! (So Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 71.) 44 The idea follows quite naturally from passages in the New Testament which refer to Christ as pre-existing in heaven prior to the incarnation: John 1:1–18; 8:56; 1 Cor 10:4; Phil 2:6; Col 1:15–20; 1 Pet 3:18; Heb 11:26; Jude 5 (cited in Gieschen, “Seven Pillars,” 73 n. 71). I here bracket the (probably unanswerable) question of which strains of firstcentury Judeo-Christian thought were most important for the formation of reincarnational Christology. Schoeps has pointed towards Paul (see below), but the importance of the

380

Dylan M. Burns

on pre-Nazoraean appearances of the savior (absent in the NT) seems to set them apart. Consequently, scholarship has focused on their proximity to Gnosticism (or lack thereof). Scholarship of the early twentieth century read gnostic soteriology largely through the lens of the then newlydiscovered Mandaean literature, featuring the recurring descents and ascents of a “redeemed redeemer.”45 Probably with this very Mandaean sense of “Gnosticism” in mind, Strecker declared that the reincarnational Christology of the Pseudo-Clementines (and Jewish Christianity in general) “ist auf gnostischem Boden gewachsen.”46 Schoeps retorted that the “Urmensch-Erlöser” of Gnosticism has “nothing in common” (italics his) with the Adam of the Pseudo-Clementines.47 As noted above, he saw the doctrine as simple adoptionism that identifies Adam with Christ, as we find in Paul, even if it strongly influenced Mani later.48 Both theses are objectionable. Schoeps (consciously!) assigns to the Jewish Christians a highly selective reading of Paul’s identification of Adam with Jesus that utterly ignores the apostle’s unfavorable comparisons of the first man with the Christ.49 The Mandaean Gnosticism mentioned by Strecker, meanwhile, is today assigned to a provenance far too late to have influenced the early church, much less Elchasai at the turn of the second century C.E.50

Fourth Gospel should not be overlooked (Wayne Meeks, “The Man from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism,” JBL 91 [1972]: 44–72). Meeks is undecided as to whether Johannine or gnostic materials have prior influence (ibid., 72). Further (beyond Johannine and Pauline materials), see Longenecker, Christology of Early Jewish Christianity, 58– 62. 45 Thus Left Ginza 2.5, pp. 461ff. (Lidzbarski), trans. Kurt Rudolph in Gnosis: A Selection of Gnostic Texts (ed. Werner Foerster; ET ed. Robert McL. Wilson; 2 vols.; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), 2:255: “I am a mana of the Great Life . . . a son of abundant radiance, a son of bright (or: everlasting) splendor. Wherefore am I stripped of my radiance, brought and cast into the bodily garment? . . . I am angry and tormented in the bodily garment, into which I was brought and cast. How many times must I take it off, how many times must I put it on! Repeatedly my conflict is renewed, and I may not see the Life in this škina . . .” See also Kurt Rudolph, Gnosis: The Nature and History of Gnosticism (trans. Robert McL. Wilson; San Francisco, Calif.: HarperSanFrancisco, 1987), 358–59. 46 Strecker, Judenchristentum in den Pseudoklementinen, 149, 151; see also idem, “Judenchristentum,” 320; Rudolph, Gnosis, 308. 47 Schoeps, Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums, 103; idem, Urgemeinde, Judenchristentum, Gnosis, 50; idem, Jewish Christianity, 71–72. 48 Idem, Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums, 110; idem, Urgemeinde, Judenchristentum, Gnosis, 52. 49 Idem, Jewish Christianity, 68–69; cf. 1 Cor 15:44–49; Rom 5:14–15. 50 A handy summary of the shift in the relevance of Mandaeism for the reconstruction of early Gnosticism can be found in Karen King, What is Gnosticism? (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003), 83ff., 137–47.

Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited

381

Jesus Christus, Setheus Redivivus: The Descents of the Savior in Sethian Gnosticism51 More recent scholarship has again raised the question of a relationship between Gnosticism and Jewish-Christian Christology. Howard Jackson recalled the Elchasaites and Ebionites in a study concerning the gnostic visionaries Marsanes and Nicotheus, their celestial divinization and subsequent salvific descents to earth as an incarnation of the celestial savior.52 Marsanes and Nicotheus are both seers implicated in the cluster of traditions that scholars commonly refer to as “Sethian” Gnosticism, so-called due to its focus on the figure of Seth as revealer and savior.53 An apocalypse entitled Marsanes occupies the tractate of the unfortunately mutilated, but obviously Sethian, Nag Hammadi Codex X;54 Nicotheus is known 51 In this section I significantly revise and expand material briefly covered in my doctoral dissertation: “Out of Heaven: Myth, Eschatology, and Theurgy in the Sethian Gnostic Apocalypses of Nag Hammadi” (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 2011), 246–64, 316 n. 431, 397–401. 52 Howard Jackson, “The Seer Nikotheos and His Lost Apocalypse in the Light of Sethian Apocalypses from Nag Hammadi and the Apocalypse of Elchasai,” NovT 32 (1990): 250–77, esp. 267–68. 53 Hans-Martin Schenke, “Das sethianische System nach Nag-Hammadi-Handschriften,” in Studia Coptica (ed. Peter Nagel; Berlin: Akademie, 1974), 165–72; idem, “The Phenomenon and Significance of Gnostic Sethianism,” in Rediscovery of Gnosticism: Proceedings of the International Conference on Gnosticism at Yale, New Haven, Connecticut, March 28–31, 1978 (ed. Bentley Layton; 2 vols.; SHR 41; Leiden: Brill, 1980– 1981), 588–616; for more detailed analysis, see the oeuvre of John D. Turner, but esp. Sethian Gnosticism and the Platonic Tradition (BCNH Section “Études” 6; Louvain; Paris: Peeters, 2001). For criticisms, see Frederik Wisse, “Stalking those Elusive Sethians,” in Layton, ed., Rediscovery, 563–76; Gerard P. Luttikhuizen, “Sethianer?,” ZAC 13 (2009): 76–86; Tuomas Rasimus, Paradise Reconsidered in Gnostic Mythmaking: Rethinking Sethianism in Light of the Ophite Evidence (NHMS 68; Leiden: Brill, 2009). For a review of this scholarship, see Burns, “Out of Heaven,” 1–25, 35–41, distinguishing (with Rasimus) between “Ophite” and “Sethian” literature, with the latter term encompassing the Apocalypse of Adam (NHC V,5), the Egyptian Gospel (NHC III,2; IV,2), Melchizedek (NHC IX,1), the Trimorphic Protennoia (NHC XIII,1), Zostrianos (NHC VIII,1), Allogenes (NHC XI,3), Marsanes (NHC X), the Three Steles of Seth (NHC VII,5), sections of the Apocryphon of John and the Gospel of Judas, and heresiological material from Epiphanius about the “Sethians” and “Archontics,” discussed below. 54 On Marsanes, see Birger Pearson, “Gnosticism as Platonism: With Special Reference to Marsanes (NHC 10,1),” HTR 77 (1984): 55–72; idem, “Introduction: Marsanes,” in Nag Hammadi Codices IX, X (ed. Birger Pearson; NHS 15; Leiden: Brill, 1981), 229– 50; idem, “Marsanes Revisited,” in Louis Painchaud and Paul-Hubert Poirier, ed., Coptica - Gnostica - Manichaica: Mélanges offerts à Wolf-Peter Funk (BCNH Section “Études” 7; Québec: Université Laval; Louvain: Peeters, 2006), 685–96; most fully: John D. Turner, “Introduction: Marsanes,” in Marsanès (ed. and trans. Wolf-Peter Funk, Paul-

382

Dylan M. Burns

from the Untitled treatise in Codex Brucianus, which mentions him alongside “Marsanios,” another incarnation of the savior;55 Porphyry also tells us that an Apocalypse of Nikotheos circulated amongst the gnostic opponents of Plotinus, who seem to have possessed “Platonizing” Sethian apocalypses which, like Marsanes, are deeply implicated in contemporary Platonic metaphysics;56 Nicotheus seems to have outlived Marsanes as an authority in Manichaean tradition.57 As Jackson observes, the Sethian gnostics were interested in savior figures who incarnated in a variety of ancient worldly prophets, such as Nicotheus or Marsanes, and produced apocalypses bearing the names of these authorities, even as though worked on Platonic philosophy. John Reeves also drew attention to Sethian Gnosticism in his work on the background of Mani’s doctrine of the divine “heralds,” discussed in more detail below.58 Here I will briefly review the Sethian evidence, some of which calls out for more study, and some of which has remained neglected all along. Following Pearson, Reeves recalls, in passing, the testimony of Epiphanius about the Sethians, and two treatises from Nag Hammadi, the Egyptian Gospel and Zostrianos. The latter two examples are worth explicating further.59 The Egyptian Gospel refers to a “great savior” known as “the Hubert Poirier, and John D. Turner; BCNH Section “Textes” 27; Québec: Les presses de l’université Laval; Louvain: Peeters, 2000), 1–248. 55 Untitled ch. 7, p. 235.4–23 (Carl Schmidt and Violet MacDermot); Jackson, “Nikotheos,” 261; see further Burns, “Out of Heaven,” 349–51. 56 Porphyry, Vit. Plot. ch. 16; for discussion, see Michel Tardieu, “Les gnostiques dans La vie de Plotin,” in Luc Brisson, ed., La vie de Plotin (2 vols.; Paris: Vrin, 1982– 1992), 503–46; Burns, “Out of Heaven,” 43–55. The magnum opus on Sethianism and Platonism remains Turner, Platonic Tradition. 57 See below, n. 91. 58 John C. Reeves, Heralds of That Good Realm: Syro-Mesopotamian Gnosis and Jewish Traditions (NHMS 41; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 8. The probable influence of the “Jewish-Christian” reincarnational Christology on Mani, Muhammad, and probably even the Shi‘ite doctrine of the returning Imam has long been noted by scholars (Schoeps, Theologie und Geschichte des Judenchristentums, 110, 334–42; idem, Urgemeinde, Judenchristentum, Gnosis, 52; idem, Jewish Christianity, 71 n. 16; Gieschen, “Seven Pillars,” 66). 59 Epiphanius, meanwhile, is quite clear that the “Sethians” believed that Seth was a reincarnating savior: “But the Christ himself came as Jesus, a descendent of Seth with respect to seed and succession by blood; he appeared in the world not through birth, but mysteriously. This one was Seth himself, who both before and later, as the Christ, visited the human race [o3j e0stin au0to\j o9 Sh/q o9 to/te kai\ Xristo\j nu=n e0pifoith/saj tw|~ ge/nei tw~n a0nqrw&p wn], having been sent from above, from the Mother” (Pan. 39.3.5, trans. mine). “The cyclical pattern thus parallels (and is probably ultimately the same as) the doctrine of the periodic mission of the ‘herald’ or ‘true prophet’ found in Manichaeism and Jewish Christianity” (Reeves, Heralds, 37; cf. Strecker, Judenchristentum in den Pseudoklementinen, 149). The hypothesis of Reeves that the seven “sons” of Seth known as “al-

Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited

383

Great Seth” 60 who exists in heaven, primordially generated along with the Four Luminaries of the Autogenes aeon.61 This pre-existent Seth also incarnates in history three times in order to protect his offspring, the “Seed of Seth,” from the machinations of a satanic ruler of the cosmos.62 His third incarnation is Jesus of Nazareth.63 Zostrianos, meanwhile, is a human seer who achieves divinization through celestial baptisms and angelification.64 As in the Egyptian Gospel, “Emmacha Seth” is a cosmic figure dwelling in the aeons with his “seed,” associated with the Four Luminaries.65 Yet Zostrianos is implicitly associated with the figures of Seth and Jesus Christ by virtue of his scribal activity in heaven and subsequent ministry on earth. In the former case, the enraptured Zostrianos assumes the role of a divine revealer (of cosmology and psychagogy) and scribe, a guise recalling Enoch and commonly adopted by Seth in early Christian literature.66 Meanwhile, Zostrianos returns to earth in disguise to hide his identity from malevolent archons (recalling Jesus in the Ascension of Isaiah), begins preaching to a hostile community who tries to kill him, and finishes the tractate with a sermon.67 By virtue of his ascent, Zostrianos is a descending savior, who has not simply imitated Seth but become an incarnation of him.68 logeneis” were considered by the Archontics to be vehicles of the heavenly Seth is, on the other hand, pure speculation (Pan. 40.7.5; Reeves, Heralds, 127). 60 Birger Pearson, “The Figure of Seth in Gnostic Literature,” in Layton, ed., Rediscovery, 473–504, 484–85. 61 Seth’s celestial home varies in the (probably corrupt) text, from the second luminary (Gos. Eg., NHC III,2.65.16–17), to the third (IV,2.68.3–5 = III,2.56.20). All Nag Hammadi translations are my own, with reference to the CGL and BCNH editions. 62 Ibid., IV,2.73.27–74.9 = III,2.62.13–24. See also A. F. J. Klijn, Seth in Jewish, Christian and Gnostic Literature (NovTSup 46; Leiden: Brill, 1977), 104; Pearson, “Seth in Gnostic Literature,” 498; Reeves, Heralds, 126–27. 63 Gos. Eg., NHC III,2.63.4–8, 64.1–13. 64 Zost., NHC VIII,1.6.3–7.22. 65 Ibid., 6.17–31; 30.4–14; 51.12–18. 66 For survey, see the materials collected in Klijn, Seth, 17–18, 49; Burns, “Out of Heaven,” 243–44. 67 Zost., NHC VIII,1.130.1–18: “And I wrote three wooden tablets, leaving them in gnosis for all those who would follow me, the living elect. I came down to the perceptible world . . . going around to preach the truth to everybody. Neither the angelic beings of the world nor the archons saw me, for I evaded a myriad of torments which nearly killed me [ !ⲧⲁⲩ!ⲧ ⲉⲡⲙⲟⲩ]. Instead, I taught a myriad (of people) in error, saying, ‘Ye living, the Seed of the holy Seth, understand (me)! Do not disobey me!’” See also Asc. Is. 10.24. 68 Also suggested by Pearson, “Seth in Gnostic Literature,” 490, 498; idem, “The Figure of Seth in Manichaean Literature,” in Bryder, ed., Manichaean Studies, 147–56, 154; idem, “Gnosticism as Platonism,” 59; Jackson, “Nikotheos,” 259; Reeves, Heralds, 125, 127. Turner states that “Zostrianos is clearly a savior figure, presumably in the type of

384

Dylan M. Burns

As Turner has demonstrated, the Egyptian Gospel influenced doxological passages in Zostrianos, revealing the latter text’s affinity with the former.69 One could go further, and assert that the documents also share a peculiar Seth-Christology which, as in Jewish-Christian traditions, considers Jesus one of many descents of the savior – here, Seth. In both texts, Seth is a disembodied cosmic entity, but also considered the father of the elect, which is governed by a descending revealer-savior figure (“Emmacha Seth” or Zostrianos). His “seed” is both pre-existent (in the aeons) and present in the “living elect.” The identification of Seth with the “incarnation” of Jesus of Nazareth is explicit in the Gospel, but probably in the background of Zostrianos, for several reasons: as already mentioned, the seer’s descensus absconditus and controversial ministry remind one of Jesus. Moreover, the text refers to the figure of Yesseus Mazareus Yessedekeus (a corruption of “Jesus of Nazareth, Jesus the Just”),70 also known to the Apocalypse of Adam and the Egyptian Gospel as the “living water.”71 It is possible that “Yesseus” is a title for one of the many incarnations of the cosmic “Seth,” who incarnates in physical form to provide his “seed” with knowledge of the “living water,” although he never explicitly identifies himself with it. Two passages in the text may refer to the Incarnation: one mentions someone “that suffers although he is unable to suffer.”72 Another says that there is a perfect figure who does not lose honor even when he descends “to a body, passing through matter.”73 I suggest that “Yesseus” is

Seth, the ‘spiritual’ son of Adam.” See “Commentary: Zostrianos,” in Zostrien (NH VIII, 1) (ed. Catherine Barry et al.; BCNH Section “Textes” 24; Québec: Presses de l’Universite Laval; Louvain: Peeters, 2000), 483–662, quote on 484. 69 See discussion in Turner, “Commentary: Zostrianos,” 217–22; idem, “Baptismal Rite,” 971. 70 Apoc. Adam, NHC V,5.85.30ff.; Gos. Eg., NHC IV,2.75.24ff. = III,2.64.9ff.; IV,2.78.10ff. = III,2.66.8ff..; Zost., NHC VIII,1.47.5–7ff. For discussion of the title “Yesseus . . .” see Turner, Platonic Tradition, 165, 278; Rasimus, Paradise Reconsidered, 276–79. 71 Apoc. Adam, NHC V,5.85.30ff.; Gos. Eg., NHC IV,2.75.24ff. = III,2.64.9ff., IV,2.78.10ff. = III,2.66.8ff. Turner, Platonic Tradition, 165, 278; Rasimus, Paradise Reconsidered, 276–79. 72 Zost., NHC VIII,1.48.26–28, previously noted by Schenke, “Phenomenon,” 608, and Luise Abramowski, “Nag Hammadi 8,1 ‘Zostrianos’, das Anonymum Brucianum, Plotin Enn. 2,9 (33),” in Platonismus und Christentum: Festschrift für Heinrich Dörrie (ed. Horst-Dieter Blume and Friedhelm Mann; JAC Ergänzungsband 10; Münster: Aschendorff, 1983), 1–10, here 2. Cf. Michael Allen Williams, The Immovable Race: A Gnostic Designation and the Theme of Stability in Late Antiquity (NHS 29; Leiden: Brill, 1985), 199 n. 27; Turner, “Commentary: Zostrianos,” 565. 73 Zost., NHC VIII,1.123.2–10: “for this reason he is a perfect glory: so that, should he be capable of attaching and grasping, he becomes perfect. For this reason, even if he comes down to a body [sw~ma] with a passing through matter [u9lh/], for the sake of total

Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited

385

a title for one of the many incarnations of the cosmic “Seth,” who incarnates in physical form to appear to his “seed.” Descending saviors undergird other Sethian gnostic texts. Sometimes, the savior is not explicitly identified as Christ: in the Apocalypse of Adam, Seth directly intervenes in history via his guise of “The Illuminator” (fwsth/r), inaugurating the eschaton with his descent “out of foreign air.”74 In Allogenes, the eponymous seer is told by the angel Youel “that you might be saved in that one who belongs to you, that one who was the first to save and who does not need to be saved . . .”75 This figure is probably Seth,76 for three reasons: First, the text often refers to a savior figure

perfection [ⲧⲙ#ⲧⲡⲁⲛⲧⲉⲗⲉⲓⲟⲥ], no greater honor is subtracted from him, since these things are perfect and are part of him.” 74 Apoc. Adam, NHC V,5.82.25–28, re: Pearson, “Seth in Gnostic Literature,” 497. Reeves hypothesizes that the term fwsth/r is a technical term for an avatar of Seth across Sethian literature, as it is here, or in Manichaeism (with respect to the “Apostle of Light”; Heralds, 139 n. 101, re: Man. Keph. 7.27–30; 23.17; 25.11; 30.17; Man. Hom. [33.23]; 85.33; see further Man. PsBk2 166.19) While the comparison to these Manichaean texts is acute, it is a difficult case to make for Gos. Eg. and the rest of the Sethian texts, where the term describes four celestial entities who dwell in the Autogenes, a subaeon of the Barbelo. They do not appear on earth at all; in fact, in Gos. Eg., it is they who send Seth to incarnate instead! (“Then the [great Seth] was sent by [the four] great luminaries [fwsth/r]” – NHC IV,2.74.9–11.) Moreover, at other times, Manichaean texts seem to use the term fwsth/r to describe celestial entities, like the Sethians (Man. PsBk2 22.14–15; 26.10; 76.17–18; 86.19; 95.23; 96.25; 121.31; 165.16; esp. 139.29: “the luminaries that are in the heavens” [ⲫⲱⲥⲧⲏⲣ ⲉⲧϩ!"ⲡⲏⲩⲉ]). A “luminary” therefore could designate either an avatar of the savior or a heavenly being/locus that aids the avatar (and the elect) in both Manichaean and Sethian gnostic traditions. 75 Allogenes, NHC XI,3.50.21–36. 76 On Allogenes as Seth, see Pearson, “Gnosticism as Platonism,” 59; Tuomas Rasimus, “Porphyry and the Gnostics: reassessing Pierre Hadot’s Thesis in Light of the Second- and Third-Century Sethian Treatises,” in Plato’s “Parmenides” and its Heritage (ed. John D. Turner and Kevin Corrigan; 2 vols.; SBLWGRWSup 2–3; Atlanta, Ga.: Society of Biblical Literature, 2010), 2:81–110, here 2:106 n. 98. More hesitant are Reeves, Heralds, 122; David Brakke, The Gnostics: Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Christianity (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2010), 80. John D. Turner has suggested to me (in correspondence) that the savior “who does not need to be saved” may also be the guardian provided to Allogenes at the beginning of the text (NHC XI,3.45.9–10). This hypothesis is not impossible, but it is hard to square the importance that the text places on the savior with the total absence of the “guardian” throughout the rest of the treatise. Conversely, the “guardian,” Thrice-Male Child, Seth, and Allogenes could be read as inundations of hypostasized saving activity itself; in any case, the characters occupy the same soteriological continuum. Cf. also the earlier account of Turner, “Allogenes: Notes to Text and Translation,” in Nag Hammadi Codices XI, XII, and XIII (ed. Charles W. Hedrick; NHS 28; Leiden: Brill, 1990), 243–68, 244, 253, identifying the “guardian” with the Protophanes and perhaps the Barbelo (but not the savior).

386

Dylan M. Burns

known as the “Thrice-Male Child,”77 who is closely associated with the cosmic Seth in the Egyptian Gospel.78 Second, the name of the seer Allogenes is itself a reference to Seth.79 Moreover, his narrative – dialogue with an angel, emotional distress, rapture, revelation of neoplatonic metaphysics and Sethian doxology, and subsequent return to earth and founding of a ministry – is virtually identical to that of Zostrianos/Seth. It is worth adding that a highly fragmentary treatise in Codex Tchacos features a protagonist named “Allogenes” who is clearly associated with Jesus of Nazareth – perhaps he, too, is an incarnation of Seth.80 Finally, Pearson has hypothesized that the seer Marsanes was understood to be an incarnation of Seth, given his similarities to “Zostrianos,” “Allogenes,” and their peculiar brand of Sethian neoplatonic thought.81 I am inclined to agree, although the lacunous nature of the MS does not permit certainty. Accounts of other gnostic schools show that reincarnational Christology was hardly limited to Sethian literature.82 One case, however, deserves special attention, due to the difficulty of determining its relationship to the Sethian traditions discussed above: the famous “Pronoia Hymn” ending the long recensions of the Apocryphon of John and underlying the third section

77

Allogenes, NHC XI,3.51.27–35; 58.7–19; for discussion, see John D. Turner, “Introduction: Allogenes (BCNH),” in L’allogène (ed. and trans. Wolf-Peter Funk, Madeleine Scopello, and John D. Turner; BCNH Section “Textes” 30; Québec: Les presses de l’université Laval; Louvain: Peeters, 2004), 1–175, 85–86. 78 For the Thrice-Male (or “incorruptible”) Child as one of the host of heavenly entities whom the cosmic Seth praises to create his “seed,” see Gos. Eg., NHC IV,2.65.5–30 = III,2.53.12–54.11; IV,2.67.2–9 = III,2.55.16–56.2; IV,2.67.27–68.5 = III,2.56.13–22. See also Stroumsa, Another Seed, 79. 79 The name a)llogenh/j, “another race,” obviously recalls Gen 4:25 LXX’s epithet for Seth – “another seed” (spe/rma e3teron). Cognate terminology is widespread in Gnosticism. (For discussion, see Burns, “Out of Heaven,” 236–37.) 80 Tchacos Codex 60:13–19, where the protagonist either is Jesus Christ or quotes him when he says, “get behind me, Satan!” (Matt 4:10; Luke 4:13). 81 Pearson, “Introduction: Marsanes,” 242–43; idem, “Seth in Manichaean Literature,” 154; idem, “Gnosticism as Platonism,” 59. Pace Turner (“Introduction: Marsanes,” 48), who understands Seth to be a savior figure (as in Gos. Eg.) rather than seer or prophet; yet Seth was often regarded as simply a seer or revealer figure (see above, n. 66). In any case, when the kind of knowledge revealed has soteriological valence (as in Marsanes and the other “Platonizing” Sethian texts), the distinction between a savior and a revealer is less clear. 82 On “Sethians” (apparently unrelated to those described above) identifying Christ as Seth, see Pseudo-Tertullian, Haer. 2.9. The Valentinian Heracleon thought Christ and Elijah shared a prophetic office of baptism, but it is not clear whether or not this extended to an identification of the two figures (Origen, Comm. Jo. 6.13, re: John 1:24–25; cf. Henry Chadwick, Early Christian Thought and the Classical Tradition: Studies in Justin, Clement, and Origen [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966], 115).

Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited

387

of the Trimorphic Protennoia.83 While initially regarded as Sethian by Schenke, Turner, and others, both texts are products of complex sourcehistories that likely involve a plurality of gnostic traditions including Ophitism as well as Sethianism.84 In any case, it is likely that the Pronoia Hymn is not of Sethian provenance. In a stunning piece of gnostic poetry, it describes the threefold descent of the divine Mother, Barbelo (also known in the treatise as pro/noia, providence), into the abyss (the world) as a savior figure: Still for a third time, I went (down into the world) – I am the light which exists in the light, I am the remembrance of Providence [pro/noia] – that I might enter into the midst of darkness and the inside of Hades. And I filled my face with the light of the completion [sunte/leia] of their aeon. And I entered into the midst of their prison, which is the prison < of> the body. I said, “He who hears, let him get up from the deep sleep.” And he wept and shed tears; bitter tears he wiped from himself, and he said, “who is it that calls my name, and from where has this hope come to me, while I am in the chains of prison?” and I said, “I am the Providence of the pure light; I am the thinking of the virgin Spirit, who raises you up to the honored place. Arise, and remember that it is you who hearkened, and follow your root, which is me, the merciful One . . .” 85

As is well known, the Trimorphic Protennoia also identifies divine providence as the Mother Barbelo and her threefold descent into the material cosmos to awaken humankind to its divine origins, the third being to aid Jesus Christ.86 Neither treatise identifies the pre-existent savior or any of its incarnations as Seth, in striking contrast to the other Sethian treatises surveyed above, such as the Egyptian Gospel. In fact, Seth does not appear in the Protennoia or the Pronoia Hymn at all.87 Nor are Seth’s 83

On the Pronoia Hymn, see Bernard Barc and Louis Painchaud, “La réécriture de l’Apocryphon de Jean à la lumière de l’hymne final de la version longue,” Le Muséon 112 (1999): 317–33. The Hymn and Trim. Prot. come from a common milieu, but it cannot be demonstrated which document preserves earlier traditions (Rasimus, Paradise Reconsidered, 278–79). One could guess, however, that the version in Ap. John is prior, since it is shorter, having thus been expanded by the author of Trim. Prot. (John D. Turner, “Introduction NHC XIII,1*: Trimorphic Protennoia,” in Nag Hammadi Codices XI, XII, and XIII, ed. Hedrick, 373–401, esp. 385–86). 84 Alastair Logan, Gnostic Truth and Christian Heresy: A Study in the History of Gnosticism (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), esp. 16–17; Turner, “Introduction NHC XIII,1*: Trimorphic Protennoia,” 385–86; idem, Platonic Tradition, 283–84; esp. PaulHubert Poirier: “Introduction: La pensée première,” in La pensée première à la triple forme (ed. and trans. Paul-Hubert Poirier; BCNH Section “Textes” 32; Québec: Les presses de l’université Laval; Louvain: Peeters, 2006), 1–123, esp. 120–23. 85 Ap. John, NHC II,1.30.32–31.17. 86 For “first thought” as Barbelo, see for instance Trim. Prot., NHC XIII,1.35.1ff.; also 37.12; 38.8; 42.3ff.; 48.32. 87 It should be noted, however, that the brief, cosmogonic section of Ap. John appears to be indebted to soteriological traditions akin to those we have observed in Gos. Eg. and Zost., since here Seth dwells in heaven in the second luminary; his seed, in the third

388

Dylan M. Burns

descents ever identified with providence itself in any of the other Sethian treatises. In the Pronoia Hymn and its parallel in the Protennoia, the reincarnating savior is not Seth, but the divine Mother. Having observed a number of “reincarnational Christologies” across the spectrum of Sethian gnostic literature, one can hypothesize that there is some kind of genetic relationship between Sethian gnostic speculation (even in its “Platonizing” forms) and the Jewish-Christian circles discussed above. We also observe that the Jewish-Christian material showed little or no interest in Seth. This probably means that Sethian material is somewhat later, as proposed by Logan, Rasimus, and Turner. It draws upon the authority of an antediluvian figure in the later second- or early third-century C.E. apologetics,88 while it is also committed to a reincarnational Christology. As we have seen, reincarnational Christology goes back to at least the early second century (Elchasai), so it probably informs Sethianism, and not the other way around. The provenance and dating of the doctrine of Mother Barbelo’s multiple incarnations – a separate reincarnational Christology! – is even more obscure. All that can be said is that it probably originated outside of Sethianism, perhaps contemporaneously with it, perhaps before.

The “Heralds of that Good (Realm)” and the Philosophia Perennis As noted above, Reeves has argued that Sethian and Manichaean reincarnational Christologies share “the same ideological environment” as the Elchasaites, Ebionites, and the Pseudo-Clementines, which he dubs “SyroMesopotamian Gnosis.”89 The present contribution largely agrees with his

(NHC II,1.9.11–15). This slice of the text (highly distinct from the Pronoia Hymn) is likely authentic Sethianism, and, as understood by the redactor of both the long and short recensions, probably describes the pre-existent savior Seth who manifests as Jesus Christ. Cf. the useful account of Turner, “Commentary: Zostrianos,” 544. 88 Logan, Christian Heresy, 26ff.; Turner, “Sethian Gnosticism: A Revised Literary History,” in Acts du huitième congrès international d’études coptes: Paris, 28 juin–3 juillet 2004 (ed. Nathalie Bosson and Anne Boud’hors; 2 vols.; OLA 163; Louvain: Peeters, 2007), 2:899–908; Rasimus, Paradise Reconsidered, 38–39, 197ff.; see also Luttikhuizen, “Sethianer?,” 94. 89 Reeves, Heralds, 8; also 126, on Seth as “a preexistent heavenly entity who periodically descends to the physical realm and ‘clothes’ itself in human flesh in order to impart authoritative instruction regarding the supernal realm. This concept of the cyclical return of a discrete heavenly entity in diverse human forms is structurally congruous with the Manichaean doctrine of the recurrent incarnation of the Apostle of Light within select

Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited

389

erudite study, while suggesting some modifications (summarized in the conclusions below). Presently I will offer another one with regard to the Manichaean evidence. A plenitude of Coptic and Latin Manichaean sources list various apostles of light who had access to the same divine truth and dwelt amongst the primeval Jewish patriarchs, culminating in Jesus Christ and, eventually, Mani himself.90 Often, these accounts appear indeed to describe something like the seers of Sethian Gnosticism who are enraptured and transformed into the savior, as in this passage from the Cologne Mani Codex: Each one of the forefathers showed his own revelation to his elect [e3kastoj tw~n progeneste/rwn pate/rwn th\n i0di/a n a)p oka&luyin e1deicen th=i e9a utou= e0klogh=i], whom he chose and brought together in that generation in which he appeared [kat’ e0kei/nhn th\n genea_n kaq’ h3n e0f a/nh ], and how he wrote (it) and bequeathed (it) to posterity [toi=j metageneste/roij ]. Now he (i.e., each forefather) explained about his rapture [a(rpagh=j ]; and they (i.e., the elect) preached it to outsiders [. . .] to write and demonstrate hereafter and to praise and extol their teachers and the truth and the hope which was revealed to them. So, then, during the course and circuit of his apostleship [kata_ th\n peri/odon kai\ perifora_n th=j a)p ostolh=j ] each one, as he saw, spoke and wrote for a memoir – as well as about his rapture.91

St. Ephrem, meanwhile, writing in Syriac, asks, And if (the followers of Mani) should assert out of (misplaced) reverence that there were ancient teachers of (Manichaean) truth – for they say of Egyptian Hermes and the Greek Plato and Jesus who appeared in Judaea that “they were heralds of that Good (Realm) to the world” [)B+ whd nwN) )zwr*K], (what does that prove?) For if it is so that (the ancient teachers of truth) taught these (doctrines) of the Manichaeans, as they allege – if Hermes had knowledge of Primal Man, father of the ziwane, and if he had knowledge of the Pillar of Glory and of [the Realm] of Brightness and the Porter and the rest of the others that Mani proclaims and even worships and prays to; if Plato had knowledge of the Maiden of Light . . . and the Mother of Life, or the battle or the peace – instead, he did have knowledge of . . . Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite the adulterous goddess, and if Jesus taught them in Judaea about refining (the Light), and if he taught the worship of those luminaries that Mani worships, the one whom they assert is the Paraclete who would come after three hundred years, and (if) then we discover that their doctrines or antediluvian biblical forefathers and ‘national’ religious teachers like the Buddha, Zoroaster, and Jesus.” 90 Ibid., 28 nn. 73–74 recalls Man. Keph. 12.9–12; Man. Hom. 68.15–19; Man. PsBk2 142.3–9 (on the martyrdom shared between the various sages, up to Mani). On the “apostles in every generation” who “reveal the mysteries of the world,” see also Man. Keph. 302.20–26 (trans. Iain Gardner) in Manichaean Texts from the Roman Empire (ed. Iain Gardner and Samuel N. C. Lieu; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 227. 91 CMC 46.3–48.15, trans. Ron Cameron and Arthur J. Dewey. See also Reeves, Heralds, 15–16; M299a, l.1–5, trans. Walter B. Henning, “Ein manichäisches Henochbuch,” SPAW (1934): 27–35, 27–28: “. . . und hernach, in den verschiedenen Zeiten machte ebenfalls der Heilige Geist seine Größe kund durch den Mund der Propheten der Gegenden, welche sind: Šēm, Sēm, Enōš, Nikotheos . . . und Henoch . . .”

390

Dylan M. Burns

those of their adherents agree with one another, or if one of theirs (agrees) with those of Mani, it (their allegation) is defensible. But if there is no agreement, refutation (of their allegation) is obvious.” 92

Reeves holds that, given the early date of Ephrem’s text and its possible preservation of Mani’s own Aramaic terminology via its composition in Syriac, this is the best evidence we have for what Mani himself probably thought.93 Branching out to the other evidence, Reeves suggests that, in the Manichaean doctrine of “prophetic succession,” . . . a heavenly entity known as the Apostle of Light, who is in turn under the direction of the Light-Nous, has periodically manifested itself in human guise to proclaim the message of redemption among humanity. The succession of such ‘prophets’ is comprised initially of important biblical forefathers from primeval history and continues on to embrace renowned religious teachers of more recent religious vintage such as Zoroaster, the Buddha, and Jesus, before culminating with the self-declared “seal of the prophets,” Mani himself. 94

While this is certainly true of some of the sources, such as the Cologne Mani Codex,95 others – like St. Ephrem, as quoted here – do not actually refer to a descending savior or revealer, but to the appearance of a primaeval wisdom which is cognate with the various religions, but most cogently expressed and universally disseminated by Mani.96 Similar arguments were used in early Christian apologetics97 and eventually taken up by Muhammad (Qur’ān Sura 2:136). It is by no means obvious that one should harmonize these two distinct claims to authority – one of a repeatedly descending prophet-savior, the other of a philosophia perennis – in the various Manichaean sources. If Mani was raised in the Elchasaite community described in the Cologne 92 Prose Refutations against Mani, 2:208.17–209.20 (C. W. Mitchell; trans. Reeves, “Manichaean Citations from the Prose Refutations of Ephrem,” in Emerging from Darkness (ed. Paul Mirecki and Jason DeBuhn; NHMS 43; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 217–88, here 263–65, slightly modified following Mitchell). 93 Reeves, Heralds, 11–13; idem, “Citations from Ephrem,” 218–19, 94 Reeves, Heralds, 8. Similarly: Michel Tardieu, Manichaeism (trans. M. B. DeBevoise; Urbana, Ill.; Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2008), 13–18. 95 Man. PsBk2 43.32–34, trans. C. R. C. Allberry: “Thou [Jesus] didst assume different forms until thou hadst visited all races: For the sake of thy loved ones, until thou hadst chosen them out of their midst . . .”; H.-J. Klimkeit, “Gestalt, Ungestalt, Gestaltwandel: Zum Gestaltprinzip im Manichäismus,” in Bryder, ed., Manichaean Studies, 45– 68, 64–67. For further sources, see above, n. 90. 96 This is true of the Arabic sources (ʿAbd al-Jabbār, al-Bīrūnī, and al-Shahrastānī) read by Reeves, Heralds, 9–10 and Tardieu, Manichaeism, 14–15; thus also Man. Keph. §154, in Ein Mani-Fund in Ägypten: Originalschriften des Mani und seiner Schüler (ed. Carl Schmidt and H. J. Polotsky; Berlin: Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1933), 44ff. (discussed in Rudolph, Gnosis, 335). 97 See above, n. 23; also Justin Martyr, 1 Apol. chs. 5; 46; 64; 2 Apol. 8; 10; 13.

Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited

391

Mani Codex, as commonly held by scholars today,98 we would expect that he was influenced by Jewish-Christian Christology and in turn influenced early Islam, as held by Reeves and others.99 I would suggest that Manichaean rhetoric about the philosophia perennis, as preserved by Ephrem, certainly could go back to Mani himself, but in his adult life as a missionary,100 not his upbringing amongst the Elchasaites; indeed, as Tardieu remarks, Mani’s self-understanding as the universal prophet sent to all peoples is profoundly un-Elchasaite.101 Certainly the two claims to authority are hardly mutually exclusive, which is why they became bundled up together in the sources.

Conclusions In any case, Jewish-Christian and Sethian gnostic sources bear witness to widespread interest in images of the many incarnations of the savior in early Christianity. A reincarnational Christology was most likely introduced to the Clementine romances by the author of B, even if it probably goes back at least as far as Elchasai, in the early second century C.E. Meanwhile, it is more widespread in the Sethian literature than previously thought by scholars, although it was received in the Pronoia Hymn and Trimorphic Protennoia separately from Sethianism. In both cases, the Jewish-Christian evidence appears to antedate the traditions preserved at Nag Hammadi. The hypothesis of Strecker and others that this distinctive aspect of Jewish-Christian Christology originated in Gnosticism is probably incorrect. Rather, the reverse may be true, although we need not accept Schoeps’s explanation to account for it. Moreover, the possibility of Jewish-Christian influence on even the earliest Sethian thought102 invites 98 Doubted by Luttikhuizen, Revelation of Elchasai, 220ff.; but see the objections of F. Stanley Jones, “Review of Luttikhuizen, Revelation of Elchasai,” JAC 30 (1987): 200–209, followed by Rudolph, Gnosis, 329; idem, “The Baptist Sects,” in Horbury et al., eds., Cambridge History of Judaism, 471–500, esp. 485 n. 36; Gardner and Lieu, eds., Manichaean Texts in the Roman Empire, 33–35. See also Merkelbach, “Die Täufer bei denen Mani Aufwuchs.” 99 Schoeps, Theologie und Geschichte, 334–42; idem, Jewish Christianity, 71 n. 16; Rudolph, Gnosis, 339; Gieschen, “Seven Pillars,” 66; Luttikhuizen, “Elchasaites and their Book,” 353, 360. 100 It is worth noting that al-Bīrūnī, for instance, refers to the missionary text Šābuhragān when describing Mani’s philosophia perennis. 101 Tardieu, Manichaeism, 17–18. 102 First suggested by Strecker, “Judenchristentum,” 323, with reference to the Apoc. Adam and (the actually non-Sethian!) Treat. Seth (NHC VII,2). Pearson, meanwhile (“Seth in Manichaean Literature,” 155), has hypothesized that Mani was familiar with Sethian literature, perhaps already circulating amongst the baptist community of his

392

Dylan M. Burns

the hypothesis of a Syro-Mesopotamian origin for the emergence of Sethianism – after all, the Book of Elchasai was borne west by a native of Apamea, and our chief evidence for veneration of Seth in early Christianity is of Syrian origin.103 Finally, reincarnational Christology should not be confused by modern scholars with Pythagorean reincarnation (as it may have been by Hippolytus, in the case of Elchasai) or with the apologetic staple of appeal to a philosophia perennis (as it may have been by Mani, or at least his followers). Rather, we are dealing here with a distinctive christological model that was deployed (and distorted) in a variety of rhetorical contexts for diverse ends; our name for this model should thus reflect its flexibility. Even if their earliest exponents rejected Paul and extolled the Jewish law, it is clear that reincarnational Christologies are often found with little or no reference to the law. Therefore, one cannot simply refer to them as “Jewish Christian” or “Ebionite.”104 “Syro-Mesopotamian gnosis” is also misleading, for the “Jewish-Christian” groups among whom we first see this Christology do not appear to have been interested in the gnostic myth. Nor is it simply “that ancient Semitic notion of the ‘True Prophet,’” for the term “True Prophet” appears to be a technical designation used by the author of B, absent in the greater complex of evidence surveyed here.105 I have therefore in this contribution employed the rather unfortunate, if accurate, term “reincarnational” Christology – although “born again” is tempting! It is with pleasure that I present this brief study on repeated revelations to a scholar who has given us works of such quality that they will require no revision or reincarnation themselves, thus permitting future prophets to direct their attention to other theophanies.

youth. The present study could support Pearson’s hypothesis as well, although the latter does not explain the similarities between Sethianism and Jewish Christianity explored above. 103 Pace Schenke, who originally proposed Palestine (Schenke, “Phenomenon,” 607; followed by Turner, Platonic Tradition, 240 n. 17). 104 As do Klijn and Reinink (Patristic Evidence, 73) or Schoeps, respectively. 105 Pace David Frankfurter, “Apocalypses Real and Alleged in the Cologne Mani Codex,” Numen 44:1 (1997): 60–73, 63, 68.

Archived Portraits of Jesus Unorthodox Christological Images from John and Athanasius1 MICHAEL PEPPARD1 If one were to imagine traditional Christian theology as a museum with many rooms, one would find that the largest and most frequented room is devoted to Christology. Here are featured the most famous and beloved portraits of Jesus. An introductory tour includes all the highlights of the tradition: Messiah, Lord, Savior, Lamb of God, Word, Light, and Son of God. In addition to these masterpieces, frequent visitors or members of the museum are also familiar with the lesser-known portraits: for example, Son of Man, Healer, Rabbi, Prophet, and Son of David were once very important but are no longer familiar to casual visitors; other portraits, such as High Priest, Wisdom, Bread of Life, or King, are beloved by some current members but almost unknown to others. Then there are the rotating exhibits, special times in the year when members flock to the galleries to witness a cherished or poignant masterpiece: Child of Mary, Suffering Servant, Risen Lord. Year in and year out, the members of this museum, not to mention the curators and tour guides, gaze upon these portraits until they know each line and hue by heart. The bountiful feast for the eyes seems to lack nothing; indeed, it is more than most viewers can handle. In a secluded office of the museum sit a few bespectacled archivists and conservators who know, however, that not everything is out on display. Discarded portraits are strewn about the archives. Are they works of inferior or unknown artists? On the contrary, several of these same artists have pieces included in the highlights tour. If it is not the obscurity of each artist that caused these particular portraits to be shelved, then why are they not in the gallery? In this essay, allow me to dust off two of these ancient portraits of Jesus. The artists of these textual portraits are so famous that they are known by one-word names: John and Athanasius. And yet not 1

For helpful feedback during preparation of this essay, I am grateful to Elizabeth Johnson, Joseph Lienhard, George Parsenios, and Larry Welborn.

394

Michael Peppard

every Christology fashioned by them earned a spot on the usual tour. Let us explore what concerns, traditions, or contemporaneous imagery might have impelled each artist to design his portrait. What aspects of Jesus Christ was each trying to portray, and through what medium? In addition we will propose possible reasons why each portrait failed to capture the imagination of enough curators and members in subsequent years. What aspects of Jesus Christ did each portrait obscure? And what changes in the surrounding christological culture caused each of them to be judged unworthy or passé? In the end, we will see that both John and Athanasius were attempting in their portraits to express the indistinguishably exact unity of Father and Son by adapting examples from everyday life. They thus had goals worthy of what would become Nicene orthodoxy. However, their chosen methods for portraying Father-Son unity were innovative, even “unorthodox” (i.e., unusual, unconventional), and also conflicted with some tenets of emerging Nicene orthodoxy. The subsequent process of consolidation and codification in Christology of the fourth century thus caused these two portraits to be removed from the spotlight. They were not buried or destroyed – just archived.

The Apprentice The author of the Fourth Gospel is arguably the most successful christological artist of all time.2 That author (“John,” for the sake of convenience) put forward highly influential versions of Word Incarnate, Light, Lamb of God, Good Shepherd, Bread of Life, Vine, and many more. One gets the sense that, like the psalmists and prophets of the Hebrew Bible, John was multiplying his divine imagery in order that no single portrait would be seen as sufficient to capture the reality of God, who in John’s view became incarnate in Jesus. Stated another way, John, like other early Christian theologians, was searching for the best images that testified to both the unity of and the differentiation between God and Jesus Christ. A crucial moment in that search occurs in John 5, a crux interpretum in christological debate.3 The occasion of Jesus’ teaching was his healing of the paralytic on the Sabbath, the day on which no work was to be done. 2 Engagement with the Gospel of John in the course of the essay will (the author hopes) provide a tribute to the scholarship and mentorship of Harold Attridge. Ad multos annos! 3 A helpful survey of patristic ways of dealing with this pericope can be found in Basil Studer, “Johannes 5,19 f. in der Trinitätslehre der Kirchenväter,” in «Imaginer la théologie catholique», Permanence et transformations de la foi en attendant JésusChrist: Mélanges offerts à Ghislain Lafont (ed. Jeremy Driscoll; SA 129; Rome: Centro

Archived Portraits of Jesus

395

And so, because he did this sort of thing on the Sabbath, the Jews began to persecute Jesus. But he had an answer for them: “My father is working even until now, and so I am working too.” For this reason the Jews sought all the more to kill him – not only was he breaking the Sabbath; worse still, he was speaking of God as his own father, thus making himself equal to God. Jesus continued his response: “Amen, Amen, I say to you, it is not possible for a son to do anything by himself, but only that which he sees his father doing. For whatever the father does, the son does likewise. The father loves the son, and everything that he does, he shows him.” (John 5:16–20a)4

The christological portrait contained in this controversy might be called “the Apprentice,” a title that relies on C. H. Dodd’s argument that a parable about “a son apprenticed to his father’s trade” lies behind Jesus’ teaching in John.5 Dodd draws on documentary papyri about apprenticeship, along with texts from the Hebrew Bible and rabbinic literature, to establish the plausible social context in which an original parable of Jesus would have resonated. Dodd proposes a parable drawn from everyday, artisan life, which John has allegorized by placing it in this particular literary context. This instance thus resembles other times in the Fourth Gospel where the author adapts Synoptic-style parabolic speech in order to focalize the attention of the listener on the person of Jesus himself. Synoptic parables usually use images drawn from the worlds of nature or domestic agrarian life, but John’s Jesus draws these worlds into an image of himself (light, wine, water, grain, bread, vine, shepherding). In this case, an everyday observation about the means by which trades are passed on through families – the Parable of the Apprentice – becomes an allegory for the relation between Jesus and his heavenly Father.6 But how specifically did this portrait of Jesus as Apprentice help the author of the Fourth Gospel? With what aspect of Christology was he concerned? In his study of “Argumentation in John 5,” Harold Attridge deals Studi S. Anselmo, 2000), 515–42. The text was also relevant in the Reformation era, when both Calvin and Luther took up the question of the “work” of God. 4 Trans. adapted from Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel According to John (i–xii) (AB 29; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1966), 212. I do not interpret the definite articles before “son” and “father” in vv. 19–20 as titles (“the Son” and “the Father”), but rather as generalizing the statement to be proverbially about any son and any father (following C. H. Dodd, “A Hidden Parable in the Fourth Gospel,” in More New Testament Studies [Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1968], 31 n. 3). Cf. Mark 3:27; 4:21; Matt 12:43. 5 Dodd, “Hidden Parable,” 31. The sense of father-son apprenticeship is conveyed by the narrative image, not through a specific noun. In ancient Greek, the meaning “apprentice” was usually conveyed by the word maqhth&j (e.g., P.Oxy. IV 725.15 [II], an apprenticeship contract). 6 Since Dodd and others have used the word “apprentice,” I will also, but with the note that an apprenticeship (an exchange of labor for training and expertise) is usually distinguished from learning a hereditary trade (from one’s own parent). The son in a hereditary trade would be present longer for the learning and participate in the work to a degree beyond what a typical apprentice would have the chance to do.

396

Michael Peppard

with the apprentice portrait and emphasizes the unanswered question of how and when the apprentice-son sees the master-father at work. As the argument leaves implicit the characters’ identity, it also leaves unexplained how the Son “sees” the Father’s works. A hostile reader might at first construe “sight” to mean the observation of the Father’s ever present work. . . . Yet the reader, instructed by affirmations of Jesus’ heavenly origin (1:1, 3:13), may understand differently how this Son has watched his Father at work. He would have done so as the Word present with the Father “from the beginning.”7

Thus the accusation that Jesus was making himself “equal to God” is rejected and accepted at the same time. On one level, Jesus distinguishes himself from the Father by elaborating his role as God’s Son as that of an apprentice to a master; at the conclusion of the speech, he reaffirms, “I can do nothing on my own” (5:30). Yet because of the strong, unique link between fathers and sons in hereditary trade guilds, John also “pushes the claims that Jesus makes for himself toward an affirmation of functional equivalency with God.”8 What is more, the savvy listener would have understood Jesus to be describing an antemortal apprenticeship, during which he was (qua Word) in the beginning with God. Such an inference would be confirmed in the next chapter, when the time of “seeing” is further clarified: “only the one who is from God has seen the Father” (6:46). One reason why the portrait of Jesus as Apprentice did not become known as a Johannine masterpiece is that the image called to mind Jesus’ earthly origin – as presented in other Gospels – and thus may have distracted listeners from John’s main message about his heavenly origin. The image of a young boy, training in the workshop at his father’s side, certainly captures the earthly childhood of Jesus as presented by Matthew (“son of an artisan,” Matt 13:55), but a listener must labor too mightily to conjure up Jesus’ heavenly origin in the workshop setting. Yet deeper reasons exist for this portrait’s archived status, and to analyze these we must turn back to the place where, as Attridge reminds us, all Johannine theology finds its root: the prologue (John 1:1–18). It often seems as if the Fourth Gospel portrays the Christology of Sonship par excellence, since Father-Son language saturates its pages. Howev7

Harold W. Attridge, “Argumentation in John 5,” in Essays on John and Hebrews (WUNT 264; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 97; repr. from Anders Eriksson, Thomas H. Olbricht, Walter Übelacker, eds., Rhetorical Argumentation in Biblical Texts: Essays from the Lund 2000 Conference (Emory Studies in Early Christianity 8; Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 2002), 188–99. 8 Attridge, “Argumentation,” 100. Cf. the dexterous discussion of a son’s agency in Jewish juridical conventions in John Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 292–329, in which Ashton relies also on the analysis of John’s “Sendungschristologie” in Jan-Adolf Bühner, Der Gesandte und sein Weg im vierten Evangelium (Tübingen: Mohr, 1977).

Archived Portraits of Jesus

397

er, the portrait of the Apprentice exemplifies particularly well the fact that “Son” is not the root metaphor of John’s Christology. The manifold themes of the Fourth Gospel are governed, rather, by the overture of the Johannine prologue and its dual signifier for the protagonist: he is Word and Light. This fact is clear from the prologue, which, according to the principles of textual criticism, does not contain the word “son.”9 The images of Jesus in the rest of the gospel, even the central image of Son, are understood only through consistent reference back to the overture and an encounter with the Word who illuminates.10 While acknowledging that John put the Father-Son kērygma to great use elsewhere in his narrative Christology, one can nonetheless explain the absence of “son” from the prologue. Father-Son imagery has potential limitations with respect to unity and equality of the parties. For John the idea of Logos better captured how something could be both unified to its source and distinct from it, just as the Word both exists in the mind and is incarnated in and revealed to the world through speech. The Word is literally in two places at once, both invisibly mysterious in the mind and grasped with the senses in the world. Such dual existence was discussed philosophically by Philo, Plutarch, et al., with a distinction between the logos endiathetos (the internal logos) and the logos prophorikos (the uttered logos).11 Additionally for John, the idea of Light captured (better than the idea of Son) how something could exist in multiple appearances, while remaining unified and undiminished. The “light from light” image is known best from the Nicene Creed, but the example of light passed from torch to torch was used as an illustration of the philosophical principle of undiminished giving already in the second century by, for example, Justin Martyr, Tatian, and Numenius of Apamea.12 That in turn relied on more basic – and ultimately, more helpful – uses of light as “radiance” or “refulgence” (a)pau&gasma , Wis 7:26; Heb 1:3), which likely stemmed from Platonic reflec-

9

Cf. NA 27 and discussion in Michael Peppard, The Son of God in the Roman World: Divine Sonship in Its Social and Political Context (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 143–44. For an alternative view, see Bart D. Ehrman, The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 78–82. 10 Thanks to Harold Attridge, who first drew my attention to this way of interpreting Johannine Christology. One ancient precursor to Attridge’s approach to John is found in Augustine’s reading of the Apprentice passage through the lens of the prologue (Augustine, Tract. Ev. Jo. 18–20). 11 For discussion and bibliography, cf. Adam Kamesar, “The Logos Endiathetos and the Logos Prophorikos in Allegorical Interpretation: Philo and the D-Scholia to the Iliad,” GRBS 44 (2004): 163–81. 12 Justin Martyr, Dial. 61; Tatian, Or. ad Graecos 5; Numenius, Fragments (trans. and ed. Édouard des Places; Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1973), frg. 15.

398

Michael Peppard

tions on the relationship between the eternal realm of the Forms and the realm of the sensible world. The image of light was so central to early Christian theology that Jaroslav Pelikan could say, “the history of the development of the doctrines of the Trinity and of the person of Christ in the first five centuries could conceivably be written around the several explanations and expositions of this image, as the interpretation of the image of light advanced from the naïve and unreflective suggestions of the early Greek fathers to the sophistication of the late Greek fathers.”13 Pelikan is surely right in assigning “a good share of the credit” for this development to Athanasius, who dexterously wove philosophical conceptions with biblical language and imagery.14 He also saw the potential problems with the “torch to torch” image and instead emphasized the sun-radiance image.15 Going a bit beyond Pelikan’s argument, I would contend that, although the “begotten son” image remained central to the Nicene Creed, it was necessarily qualified and even reinterpreted by the imagery of radiance, or “light from light.” These limitations of the Father-Son image help to explain why the portrait of the Apprentice was archived: it caused no small amount of trouble for defenders of Nicene orthodoxy.16 In the final analysis, it proves exceedingly difficult to maintain a static and nonsubordinationist Nicene Christology when picturing Jesus as the Apprentice. An apprentice is, by definition, not already equal to a master. An apprentice changes – makes progress – and such “advancement” (prokoph&) is strictly forbidden by Nicene orthodoxy.17 The image of the Apprentice is dynamic, more like a coming-of-age movie than a still portrait of a mature man, and thus could not adequately portray the eternal perfection the Son. Stated another way, once christological debate began to be articulated in the ontological language of the Nicene era, the principle of undiminished being (ou)si/a) moved to the center. But the Apprentice image offered instead a principle of undiminished doing, or better, of undiminished epistēmē (savoir-faire or know-how). The intention of the Apprentice image was to bolster a kind of 13 Jaroslav Pelikan, The Light of the World: A Basic Image in Early Christian Thought (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1962), 56. 14 Pelikan builds his argument in Light of the World around the frequent quotation of Ps 36:9, “In thy light do we see light,” and to this many others could be added from the Bible. 15 Athanasius, Decr. 23. Pelikan, Light of the World, 58. 16 Cf. Studer, “Johannes 5,19 f. in der Trinitätslehre der Kirchenväter.” I should make clear, though, that none of the ancient or late ancient authors explained the problems with John 5:19ff. explicitly as problems with the apprentice image. They were debating squarely in the realm of theological ideas, and the inadequacy of the apprentice image was only implicit in their theological argumentation. 17 E.g., Athanasius, C. Ar. 3.51–52.

Archived Portraits of Jesus

399

“high” Christology of preexistence, an antemortal apprenticeship of epistemic mimēsis, but later on, the portrait did not prove to be orthodox enough for the ontological discourse of the Nicene era. The difficulties that accumulated around the Father-Son metaphor in the Nicene era ended up being filtered out by Platonic philosophical categories; and over the entire scene shone the blinding power of the light metaphor. And yet even Athanasius, the central artist of Nicene orthodox Christology, occasionally strayed from the concepts provided by Platonic philosophy and the examples provided by Scripture or the natural world. When he did so, the result was, shall we say, unorthodox.

The Imperial Statue From the portrait of a son at work in his father’s workshop, we turn now to a product of a workshop – or rather, to a textual portrait of a product of a workshop. The textual artist is Athanasius, and he is painting a portrait meant to refute the Arian school of artisans and banish their artwork once and for all from the museum. The portrait itself is of a work of art, namely a statue of the Roman emperor. What gives rise to such a portrait of the Son? A large portion of Athanasius’s third Oration Against the Arians contends with the Arians over the proper use of the Gospel of John with respect to the Father-Son relationship. Throughout the Orations he is frequently concerned with the issue of Father-Son unity, and among his favorite scriptural quotations to defend full unity is Jesus’ statement, “The one who has seen me has seen the Father” (John 14:9).18 At the beginning of the Oration, when Athanasius engages John 14:9–10 most thoroughly, he fashions an example to help his readers understand that to see the Son is to see the Father: And one may come to understand this at once from the example [para&deigma] of the emperor’s eikōn. For in the eikōn is the form and appearance of the emperor, and in the emperor is that form which is in the eikōn. For the likeness of the emperor in the eikōn is indistinguishably exact: so that a person who looks at the eikōn, sees in it the Emperor; and he again who sees the emperor, recognizes that it is he who is in the eikōn. 19

18 Before its use here at C. Ar. 3.5, it has been already been quoted 13 times in C. Ar. 1 and 2. Besides texts from the prologue of John (John 1:1, 1:3, and 1:14) and Heb 1:4, the verses John 14:9–10 are the most frequently quoted texts in the Orations. Cf. James D. Ernest, The Bible in Athanasius of Alexandria (Boston; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 154. 19 Athanasius, C. Ar. 3.5. Trans. adapted significantly from NPNF. Despite the Roman emperors’ frequent disavowal of kingship terminology (rex, regnum, and regius), the word basileu&j is a normal way for Greek authors to refer to an emperor. Indeed, the

400

Michael Peppard

The word eikōn (ei0kw&n) is often translated as “image, Bild, etc.,” and in that case a translator would not need to decide what kind of imperial image the author imagined. One might imagine a flat painting, but more likely the word signifies something three-dimensional, such as a bust or a full-body statue – both were widely disseminated in the Roman Empire. The “statue” translation is preferable for two reasons: first, Athanasius’s emphasis on the “indistinguishably exact” (a)para&llaktoj) representation works well with a full-body eikōn; second, he extends the example (see below) by discussing the “worship” of the eikōn, a ritual practice performed more frequently before statues or busts than before paintings or coins. Thus we have a rare christological portrait of the Son as Imperial Statue.20 The fact that Athanasius calls the statue a paradeigma (pattern, example) for Christian theology is surprising because almost all of his other paradeigmata are scriptural.21 The chief ones are begetting, father, son, light, radiance, or fountain, each of which “accommodate[s] divine truth to the limited human capacity for understanding.”22 It is true that the word eikōn is itself eminently scriptural, but the eikōn of a king or emperor is not a pattern to be found there. In addition, Athanasius animates the statue with a speaking role, thus drawing sustained attention to the paradeigma: And because the likeness does not differ, the eikōn might say [to one who, after having seen the eikōn, wanted to have a look at the emperor], “I and the Emperor are one; for I

phrase ei0ko&nej basilikai/ is how Libanius describes imagines imperatorum (Libanius, Or. 56.13). 20 This portrait of Jesus has received little attention from contemporary scholars. The paradeigma is not analyzed in otherwise thorough studies of Athanasius, e.g., Ernest, Bible in Athanasius,151–59; Charles Kannengiesser, Athanase d’Alexandrie, évêque et écrivain: Une lecture des traités “Contre les Ariens” (ThH 70; Paris: Beauchesne, 1983), 318. Kannengiesser argues against Athanasian authorship of the 3rd Oration, but in any case, he does not deal with the statue example. In his excellent treatment of Father-Son theology in Athanasius, Peter Widdicombe analyzes well the ideas argued in C. Ar. 3.1– 6, but he does not mention the paradeigma of the statue (The Fatherhood of God from Origen to Athanasius [Oxford Theological Monographs; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994], 201–5. E. P. Meijering, Athanasius: Die dritte Rede gegen dei Arianer (2 vols.; Amsterdam: Gieben, 1996), 1:65–69, offers a short commentary and concordance to other relevant passages but does not acknowledge or deal with any of the theological problems raised by the example. Gerhart B. Ladner, “The Concept of the Image in the Greek Fathers and the Byzantine Iconoclastic Controversy,” DOP 7 (1953): 1–34, discusses imperial images in patristic theology as an important subset of the theology of the eikōn overall. His is a synthetic study covering several centuries and does address some of the issues taken up in the present essay. 21 I am not aware of his using anywhere else a theological paradeigma that is not biblical or natural (and most are both). 22 Ernest, Bible in Athanasius, 151–52. Cf. Pelikan, Light of the World, 23–36.

Archived Portraits of Jesus

401

am in him, and he in me. What you see in me is what you see in him; and what you have seen in him is what you see in me.”23

The paradeigma, “I and the Emperor are one,” hardly seems orthodox. Nevertheless by inventing this nonscriptural portrait of Jesus and even giving it life, it is clear that Athanasius wanted it to be noticed and reckoned with. So what were the impetus and the goal of this new artwork? What theological concerns and contemporaneous imagery impelled Athanasius to fashion the portrait of Jesus as a statue of the Father?24 An imperial statue captures well the ideas of sameness and unity, which were chief concerns of Athanasius in the Orations. One summary statement, occurring just before the statue example, declares the tautotēs (identity, sameness) and enotēs (oneness) between Father and Son.25 Athanasius was thus drawing upon the logic of an ancient cultural practice: the real presence of a person – especially a ruler – in the form of an image or statue was a well-regarded fact.26 Imperial busts and statues “stood in for” the emperor himself at diverse affairs, from dinner parties to judicial proceedings, and the emperor was a deus praesens (manifest god) in his various temples and shrines throughout the empire.27 In addition, the permanence 23 Athanasius, C. Ar. 3.5. Trans. adapted significantly from NPNF. He gives voice to other objects in 3.8, 3.34, and 3.36. 24 Sara Parvis suggests that the innovative paradeigma of the Imperial Statue relied on Marcellus’s exposition of eikōn in Contra Astertium. For Marcellus, as for other theologians, the point of an image was “to make the absent present, the invisible visible,” and Athanasius was making such an idea concrete. In that understanding of eikōn, Athanasius’s example would have exemplified the incarnation; however, Athanasius said he was trying by his paradeigma to exemplify the other primary understanding of eikōn among theologians, namely, eikōn as manifestation of equality. Therein was a problem, according to my analysis. Cf. Sara Parvis, “‘ta_ ti/nwn a!ra r(h&mata qeologei=?’: The Exegetical Relationship Between Athanasius’ Orationes Contra Arianos I–III and Marcellus of Ancyra’s Contra Astertium,” in The Reception and Interpretation of the Bible in Late Antiquity: Proceedings of the Montréal Colloquium in Honour of Charles Kannengiesser, 11– 13 October 2006 (ed. Lorenzo DiTommaso and Lucian Turcescu; Bible in Ancient Christianity 6; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 361. 25 Athanasius, C. Ar. 3.4. Ladner, “Concept of the Image,” 8, summarizes the point of Athanasius’s example in a similar way. 26 On some of the challenges of conceptualizing idolatry, see Clifford Ando, “Idols and Their Critics,” in The Matter of the Gods: Religion and the Roman Empire (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 2008), 21–42. 27 On the overall functions of imperial images, see Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (trans. Alan Shapiro; Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1988). Cf. Clifford Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 2000), ch. 7, “Images of Emperor and Empire.” One artistic example from early Christianity (6th–7th cent.) is the illuminated manuscript page depicting the trial before Pilate in Codex Purpureus Rossanensis (“Rossano Gospels”), which depicts signiferi flanking Pilate and holding images

402

Michael Peppard

of a statue expressed the Athanasian emphasis on the unchangeability of the Son. Against purported Arian emphases on a dynamic Son with the capacity for change, Athanasian theology placed the Son firmly in the realm of static Being, where he is “unchangeable” (a)nalloi/w toj) and “immutable” (a!treptoj).28 A third benefit of this portrait was how it allowed Athanasius to combine the concepts of eikōn and morphē (“appearance”), both of which are important christological words from the New Testament (Col 1:15 and Phil 2:6, respectively), into one coherent example drawn from everyday life. Although the paradeigma was not scriptural, it was fashioned to bring together favorite christological concepts from Johannine and Pauline literature. If imperial statues manifested the presence of the emperor, it was appropriate in Roman culture that such statues be worshipped (prosku&nhsij). Athanasius appeals to that ritual practice when he concludes the paradeigma thus: “Accordingly whoever worships the eikōn, in it worships the emperor also; for the eikōn is his appearance and form. Since then the Son too is the Father’s eikōn, it must necessarily be understood that the divinity and particularity of the Father are [also] the Son’s being.”29 A handy textual example of the kind of space-transcending presence that might be seen, honored, or worshipped in an imperial statue is found in Tacitus’s narration of a battlefield obeisance to a statue of Nero: there was “an impressive show” (magna specie) with processions, a makeshift temple, sacrifices, and other rituals, which in combination “aroused deep emotion” (magnis animorum motibus) among the participants and observers.30 Besides sparse literary examples of ritual practice, the honoring and worship of the emperors have been amply documented through recent interpretations of material culture.31 That is to say, Athanasius was not reaching for an unusual of the emperor. For discussion, cf. Codex purpureus Rossanensis, Museo dell’Arcivescovado, Rossano calabro: Commentarium (Rome: Salerno editrice; Graz: Akademische Druck- u. Verlagsanstalt, 1987), 147. 28 Athanasius, C. Ar. 1.36. See other references and discussion in Meijering, Die dritte Rede, 1:66. 29 Athanasius, C. Ar. 3.5. Trans. adapted significantly from NPNF. 30 Tacitus, Ann. 15.29. 31 The research has progressed by region: Robert Étienne, Le Culte Impérial dans le péninsule ibérique d’Auguste à Dioclétien (Paris: E. de Boccard, 1958); S. R. F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984); Duncan Fishwick, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West (2 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1987–1992); Uta-Maria Liertz, Studien zu Kaiserkult und Kaiserverehrung in den germanischen Provinzen und in Gallia Belgica zur römischen Kaiserzeit (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 1998); Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002); Monika Bernett, Der Kaiserkult in Judäa unter den Herodiern und Römern: Untersuchungen zur politischen und religiösen Geschichte Judäas von 30 v. bis 66 n. Chr. (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007); Maria Kantiréa, Les

Archived Portraits of Jesus

403

example by conjuring an imperial statue and the worship of the emperor’s presence in it. Portraiture and statues were abundant; according to Fronto, images of the emperor were literally “anywhere and everywhere.”32 To get a sense of how widespread the imago of Augustus was, for example, one might imagine seeing him in the place of each and every church in the United States of America.33 In other words, most residents of the empire (especially in urban areas) would have seen statues of the emperor – and have seen them worshipped – more often than they would have seen the natural source of a stream (another of Athanasius’s paradeigmata, e.g., C. Ar. 3.3).34 For all of these reasons, the portrait of the Son as Imperial Statue had a longer life than the portrait of the Apprentice. In fact, several other major artists imitated it in their Christologies and their preaching.35 Why then, was it ultimately discarded, being mostly unknown after the fourth century? The decline and fall of the Roman Empire (and its imperial statues) no doubt played a role. Before that, Theodosius II allowed the presence of imperial statues or images, but condemned the worship of them.36 Athanasius also had some personal conflicts with emperors in real life (to put it mildly), which perhaps caused the example to fall from favor.37 His eventual labeling of Constantius as the “Antichrist” was not likely to encourage dieux et les dieux augustes: Le culte impérial en Grèce sous les Julio-claudiens et les Flaviens: Etudes épigraphiques et archéologiques (MELETHMATA 50; Athens: Ke/ntron 9E llhnikh=j kai\ Rwmai+kh=j 0A rxaio&thtoj tou= 0Eqnikou= 0Idru&matoj 0Ereunw~n; Paris: Diffusion de Boccard, 2007). To this one might add a study of Egypt: Eleanor G. Huzar, “Emperor Worship in Julio-Claudian Egypt,” ANRW 2.18.5 (1995): 3092–3143. 32 Fronto, Ep. 4.12: usquequaque ubique imagines vestrae sint volgo propositae. 33 For the numbers on which this comparison is based, see Peppard, Son of God in the Roman World, 91. 34 The importance of the historical context of ruler worship for the interpretation of patristic examples is expressed well in Ladner, “Concept of the Image,” 20–22. 35 For example, see the patristic quotations in John of Damascus, De imaginibus, which cites Methodius, Gregory of Nyssa, John Chrysostom, Basil, and others. Cf. Kenneth Meyer Setton, Christian Attitude Towards the Emperor in the Fourth Century (New York: Columbia University Press, 1941), ch. 8 on “Imperial Images,” which is mainly a summary of the patristic references without much analysis; and Ando, Imperial Ideology, 238–39. There are also earlier examples of using paintings and coins as paradeigmata for christological ideas. For example, Irenaeus constructs a theological analogy to a king who makes a painting of his son (Haer. 4.17.6). Athanasius also uses an example of a painting: the human person as imago Dei is like a stained painting that needs to be restored, and the Son (as image of the Father) comes to renew the painting to its previous glory (Inc. 14.1–2). We might call this Athanasius’s “Art Restoration” Christology. Cf. Augustine, Trin. 14.16. 36 Cod. theod. 15.4 (“De imaginibus imperialibus”). 37 Cf. Timothy D. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993).

404

Michael Peppard

the propagation of the Imperial Statue Christology!38 More importantly, though, there were serious flaws in the portrait itself. The statue demonstrated well the permanence and unchangeability of the Son, but its expression of unchangeability was too static. Even as Christian theologians were increasingly using Platonic philosophical categories, which encouraged a sharp division between the realms of (static) Being and (dynamic) Becoming, they were also devoted to the God of biblical revelation, who is the “living God” that can not be frozen in a statue.39 Therefore, theologians of the Nicene era ultimately preferred imagery that showed dynamic unchangeability; they sought ways to express how something could be in the highest realm of Being, unchangeable and unalterable, and yet not be frozen still. Such dynamic unchangeability was better expressed through the images of fountain-stream, source-stream, sunradiance, light-refulgence, and eternal begetting. The essential, unchangeable bond between the parts of these paradeigmata was undeniable, and each also portrayed the dynamic attribute of the living God. As noted above, imperial statues and busts were ubiquitous, and so a second problem with the emperor-statue paradeigma was that it suggested numerous “sons” of the Father.40 The idea of the divine sonship of all Christians was completely scriptural and orthodox, of course, whether imagined through begotten metaphors (so John) or adoptive metaphors (so Paul).41 According to the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus himself teaches that all peacemakers will be called “sons of God” (Matt 5:9). The Nicene era was precisely the time, though, when the divine sonship of all Christians was being clearly and definitively separated from the unique divine sonship that belonged to Christ alone. The emphatic separation of two kinds of divine sonship – and of what their respective imagery should consist – continued through the fourth century and was encapsulated well by Augustine: “He is unique, we are many; he is one, we are one in him; he was 38

Athanasius, H. Ar. 67–68, 74. These issues of Christology, Platonism, and the proper role of images came to the fore again during the iconoclastic debate, during which examples from Athanasius, Basil, and others became central. Cf. ch. 3, “Images of the Invisible,” in Jaroslav Pelikan, The Spirit of Eastern Christendom (600–1700) (vol. 2 of The Christian Tradition: A History of the Development of Doctrine; Chicago, Ill.: University of Chicago Press, 1974), esp. 102–4. 40 The same potential problem arises with any of the paradeigmata using “seals” and their “impressions” to portray Trinitarian theology (e.g., Pseudo-Dionysius, Div. nom. 2.5). The multiple impressions of an archetypal seal work better as examples of how Christians relate to God (e.g., Clement of Alexandria, Exc. 86; Origen, Or. 13 [ANF numbering] = 22 [PG 11.485]). 41 Cf. Michael Peppard, “Adopted and Begotten Sons of God: Paul and John on Divine Sonship,” CBQ 73 (2011): 92–110. 39

Archived Portraits of Jesus

405

born, we were adopted; he was begotten as Son by nature in eternity, we were made sons by grace in time.”42 Augustine even uses the example of imperial images to argue such a point. During a sermon on the Ten Commandments, he distinguishes the Son as image of God from all people as images of God.43 His argument contrasts the way an emperor’s (one) son is an image of the emperor differently than an emperor’s (many) coins are his images. “There’s an image, and then there’s an image,” he emphasizes – a son being the best one.44 Augustine’s preferred imperial analogy to the Father-Son relationship in heaven is thus an emperor and his living son.45 The emperor and his coins are somewhat analogous to the relationship between the Father and Christians, he says, except a Christian is “God’s coin with intelligence and a kind of life” while “a coin doesn’t know it bears the image of the emperor.”46 Taking Augustine’s sermon as the more representative deployment of the imperial image example after Nicea, it seems probable that the preponderance of actual imperial images (coins, busts, statues) in the world worked against the effectiveness of Athanasius’s paradeigma. It undercut a Nicene theological emphasis on Christ’s Sonship as unique. Earlier in the third Oration, Athanasius had inveighed against materiality being ascribed to the Son (C. Ar. 3.1); a third problem with this paradeigma, then, was its inextricable link with the ideas of materiality and, in turn, createdness. The Arian controversy and the Council of Nicea were centrally concerned with how best to construe the generation of the Son from the Father, and “begotten not made” (gennhqe/nta ou) poihqe/nta) won the day.47 Yet by definition, all works of art are made; art is paradigmatic of madeness. The statue is Athanasius’s only christological paradeigma that suggests madeness, and its relative lack of success can be attributed in 42

Augustine, Enarrat. Ps. on Ps 89[88]:6 (PL 37.1124). Trans. my own. Cf. Athanasius, C. Ar. 2.58ff., and prior to that, Alexander of Alexandria, Letter to Alexander 28– 29. Greek text available in Athanasius Werke: Dritter Band, Erster Teil (ed. Hans-Georg Opitz; Berlin and Leipzig: De Gruyter, 1934), Urkunde 14 (apud Theodoret, Hist. eccl. 1.4). 43 Augustine, Serm. 9.8.9 (PL 38.82). He discusses the father-son image among men, the image of a man looking in a mirror, the emperor’s image in his son, and the emperor’s image in his coins. 44 Augustine, Serm. 9.8.9: nam imago et imago est. Trans. my own. 45 Eusebius would agree, cf. Hist. eccl. 10.9.4. 46 Augustine, Serm. 9.8.9: sic et tu nummus Dei es, ex hoc melior, quia cum intellectu et cum quadam vita nummus Dei es … nam nummus nescit se habere imaginem imperatoris. Trans. my own. 47 Previously Dionysius of Alexandria had argued that the Son could be described as both “created” (kti/sma) and “made” (poi/hma; Athanasius, Dion. 20–21). Later Nicene orthodoxy rejected the “made” word group (poi-) but had to deal exegetically with the “create” word group (ktiz-), due to the crucial text, Prov 8:22.

406

Michael Peppard

large part to that.48 A related criticism of the paradeigma stems from how impossible it is to imagine an emperor and his statue as equal in temporal origin. The Arian controversy hinged on Arius’s belief that “there was [a time] when the Son was not,” but there certainly was a time when the emperor was and his statue was not. In other words, Athanasius, the masterful artist of orthodox portraits, had painted himself into a corner. Previously in the Orations (2.44ff.), he had been in the same corner because of the Arian emphasis on Prov 8:22, which plainly describes the Wisdom of God as “created” (e1ktise/n me). Since Athanasius agreed with the Arians that the verse referred to the Son, he devoted considerable time to parsing it.49 He would thereby eclipse Origen as the craftiest Christian interpreter of Prov 8:22, and indeed, his exegetical escape from that corner would become a case study in apologetics for subsequent theologians.50 But here, in the case of the statue, Athanasius cannot blame “Ario-maniacs” or anyone else for the exegetical challenge – the corner into which he is painted. The portrait of the Son as Imperial Statue, with all of its problems for Nicene Christology, was his and his alone. Besides these crucial theological problems with the paradeigma, we can conjure a final reason why it might have been unpopular. The comparison to the worship of a statue (and a talking one to boot) encourages a leveling of the differences between Christianity and paganism. When the statue in question represents the emperor, the example might further have aroused specific negative sentiments among Christians. In fact, the Second Council of Constantinople’s anathematization of Theodore of Mopsuestia repudiates his comparison between the worship of Christ and the worship of the emperor’s image.51 More importantly, the memorialization of Christian martyrs in communities of the fourth century is well documented; because of the continuous architectural, liturgical, and narrative presentations of the martyrs, the persecutions of emperors Diocletian and Decius were nev-

48 When Basil used the example of an imperial eikōn for a similar christological purpose (De spiritu sancto 45 = PG 32.149), he guarded against misunderstanding with a crucial distinction (cf. above on Augustine’s use of the example): “Now what in the one case the image is by reason of imitation (mimhtikw~j), that in the other case the Son is by nature (fusikw~j); and as in works of art the likeness (o(moi/w sij) is dependent on the form, so in the case of the divine and uncompounded nature the union consists in the communion of divinity.” He develops the example again in Homily 24 = Contra Sabellianos et Arium et Anomoeos (PG 31.607). Trans. adapted from NPNF. 49 Cf. Widdicombe, Fatherhood of God, 210–22, for thorough analysis of Athanasius’s argument on this issue. 50 Origen deals with the verse in Princ. 4.4.1, for which the original Greek is extant. 51 Second Council of Constantinople (553), Canon 12.

Archived Portraits of Jesus

407

er far from mind.52 Christians were frequently attending funerary meals and feast day liturgies in memory of martyrs, many of whom imitated Christ unto death precisely by not worshipping an imperial statue.53 When we add this fact to the aforementioned theological concerns, it is not hard to see why imagining Christ as an imperial statue did not catch on.

Portraits of Mimēsis The two portraits under consideration are deeply connected. Not only are both textual artists known for Christologies of Father-Son unity, but Athanasius was even commenting on John’s portrayals of Father-Son unity precisely during this part of the Orations. On the whole, John and Athanasius were among the two most important crafters of what would become orthodox Christology, and yet both have portraits of Jesus that were archived for insufficiently serving that purpose. Their own overall emphases created a christological school of thought that would, ironically, exclude some of their own portraits from the museum. It is as if a painting undeniably by Claude Monet were to be judged unfit for display at The Musée d’Orsay because it didn’t exhibit all the tenets of Impressionism. There are further similarities: the historical contexts of the portraits are alike in that both were fashioned in the course of christological conflict. To attempt to resolve or bring clarity to a controversy, both portraits appeal to the category of vision: one imagines the Son’s perfect observation of the Father; the other imagines the Son as a perfect visual representation of the Father. More importantly, both of the portraits deal with “likeness” by using homoi- words (o9moi-), and this shared feature gets us closer to what caused them to be archived. The Apprentice says, “Whatever the father does, the son does likewise” (o(moi/w j), and the Imperial Statue is the “likeness” (o(moio&thj) of the emperor. Athanasius does qualify the word

52

For vivid reconstructions of popular piety surrounding martyrs in this era, see Ramsay MacMullen, The Second Church: Popular Christianity 200–400 CE (Writings from the Greco-Roman World Supplements 1; Atlanta, Ga.: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009). 53 E.g., Martyrdom of Dasius 7–8: I(ke/teuson, Da&sie, ta_j i9era_j ei0ko&naj tw~n basile/w n h(mw~n (“Dasius, supplicate before the holy images of our emperors”). Thanks to Candida Moss for this reference. Other martyr acts imply the presence of imperial statues, even if they do not explicitly mention them. On imitatio Christi in martyrdom, cf. Candida R. Moss, The Other Christs: Imitating Jesus in Ancient Christian Ideologies of Martyrdom (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010).

408

Michael Peppard

“likeness” by calling it “indistinguishably exact” (a)para/llaktoj);54 he further explains what he does not mean by it elsewhere in the argument.55 And yet, by the mid-fourth century, the debate over homoi- and homowords in Christology would take center stage. When viewed from the late fourth century, it would become challenging for interpreters of John or Athanasius to avoid the ultimately heterodox connotations of homoiwords in Christology. The Apprentice and the Imperial Statue might be assessed best, in the end, as Christologies of mimēsis. The first portrays a dynamic mimēsis of epistēmē (know-how), in which the Son uses his own perfect vision to imitate exactly the works of his Father. The Son imitates the active attribute of the Father. The second showcases a static mimēsis of eikōn (image), in which the Son is seen by others as the indistinguishably exact likeness of the Father. This unalterable image of the Father’s unchangeability is parsed by Athanasius as a combination of eidos (form) and morphē (appearance). Since both John and Athanasius exhibit familiarity with Platonic philosophical tropes, it is possible that they intended their portraits to be understood within traditional Platonic conceptions of mimēsis.56 For Plato and his intellectual heirs, mimēsis was not a second-class way of apprehending reality in the phenomenal world (that is, the world of bodies in which we live). Mimēsis was not “mere” imitation; it was the primary way for embodied souls to ascend the intellectual ladder toward a glimpse of the really real. Throughout the Platonic corpus, “mimesis was used to describe a process that went beyond the copying of external form to the representation of essential character.”57 It is therefore possible that, despite the christological problems raised by the Apprentice and the Imperial Statue, some late-ancient Christians who encountered these portraits – having already gained a thorough education in Platonic mimēsis – could have articulated how they cohered with emerging orthodox Christology.58 But the 54

This adjective is fairly rare in Greek before it becomes a favorite in fourth-century Christology. Basil elaborates more specifically than Athanasius on what “image” and “likeness” do not mean in his theology of the Father-Son relationship (Ep. 38.8). 55 Athanasius, C. Ar. 1.21; 1.40–44; 1.52; 2.17–18; 3.10–11; 3.20. 56 A foundational work on Platonism in Athanasius’s theology is E. P. Meijering, Orthodoxy and Platonism in Athanasius: Synthesis or Antithesis? (Leiden: Brill, 1974). 57 Leon Golden, “Plato’s Concept of Mimesis,” British Journal of Aesthetics 15 (1975): 120. His analysis is offered on the basis of the entire corpus and not simply the most famous locus, Resp. Bk. 10, in which Plato does not admit poets to the ideal polis on account of their mimetic craft. The positive aspects of mimēsis in Neo-Platonism and its usefulness in patristic theology are discussed by Ladner, “Concept of the Image.” The relationship between mimēsis in Plato and later Platonism is a rich subject that cannot be further addressed here. 58 Ladner, “Concept of the Image,” 16–20, suggests that the crucial distinction that enabled understanding (and was probably made first in Basil’s use of the imperial eikōn

Archived Portraits of Jesus

409

problems they raise are more significant than their capacities for elucidation, and for the vast majority who lacked a philosophical education, these two portraits seemed unorthodox. In the museum of christological portraits, the works of two masters were destined for the archives.

example) was that between images kata_ fu&sin or ge/nnhsin and images kata_ te/xnhn or qe/sin or mi/mhsin. This distinction enabled Christians to discuss Christ as eikōn within the parameters of orthodoxy.

 

List of Contributors Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll, Associate Professor of New Testament, Methodist Theological School in Ohio, Delaware, Ohio. Paul F. Bradshaw, Professor of Liturgy, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, Indiana. Dylan M. Burns, Postdoctoral Researcher, Københavns Universitet. Joshua Ezra Burns, Assistant Professor, Marquette University, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Stephen J. Davis, Professor of Religious Studies, Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut. Joshua D. Garroway, Assistant Professor of Early Christianity and Second Commonwealth, Hebrew Union College – Jewish Institute of Religion, Los Angeles, California. Judith M. Gundry, Research Scholar, Associate Professor (Adjunct) of New Testament, Yale University Divinity School, New Haven, Connecticut. Daniel C. Harlow, Professor of Religion, Calvin College, Grand Rapids, Michigan. Jeremy F. Hultin, Assistant Professor of New Testament, Yale University Divinity School, New Haven, Connecticut. Timothy Luckritz Marquis, Assistant Professor of New Testament, Moravian Theological Seminary, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Candida R. Moss, Associate Professor of Theology, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, Indiana.

412

List of Contributors

Susan E. Myers, Associate Professor of Theology, University of St. Thomas, Saint Paul, Minnesota. George L. Parsenios, Associate Professor of New Testament, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, New Jersey. Michael Peppard, Assistant Professor of Theology, Fordham University, New York City, New York. Richard I. Pervo, Saint Paul, Minnesota. Bryan D. Spinks, Professor of Liturgical Studies and Pastoral Theology, Yale University Divinity School, New Haven, Connecticut. Gregory E. Sterling, Professor of New Testament and Christian Origins and Dean of the Graduate School, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, Indiana. Thomas H. Tobin, S.J., Professor of New Testament & Early Christianity, Loyola University Chicago, Chicago, Illinois. Emma Wasserman, Assistant Professor of Religion, Rutgers University, New Brunswick, New Jersey.

Index of Ancient Texts 1. Biblical and Apocryphal/Deuterocanonical Genesis 1–2 1 1:1–5 1:26–27 1:26 1:27 1:27 LXX 2 2:2–3 2:7 4:25 LXX 9:1 12:3 12:7 15 15:5–6 15:10 16:1–2 16:13 17:5 17:10–11 18:18 21:18 22 LXX 22:1 LXX 22:2 LXX 22:6 LXX 22:12 LXX 22:16 LXX 22:3 LXX 22:7 LXX 29:31 30:1–2 30:3 30:6 30:13 LXX 30:22–23

131, 166, 168 162, 163, 172, 284 160 158, 166, 168, 172 207 158, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 171, 172 163 166 34 131, 158, 166, 167, 168 386 158 232 232 162, 303 232 162 185 283 232 232 232 283 49, 50, 51, 52, 54 50 49, 51, 52, 54 52 49, 51, 54 49, 51, 52, 54 50 50 185 185 187 187 186 185

Exodus 3:13–15 3:14 LXX 4:22 20:4–5 20:8–11 20:12 20:27 24:12 24:15–18 25:17–22 25:23–30 31:2–3 32–33 32:17 33:11 33:18–23 34 34:5 34:14 34:27–35 34:29–35 34:29–30 34:29 34:33 34:34

66 64 339 219 32 215 231 53 52, 53 235 219 162 207 340 55 66 168, 169 52, 53 219 168 52, 53 168 169 168, 169 168, 169

Leviticus 16 17:7 18:19–22 19:4 24:5–9 26:1

235, 330 208 194 204, 205 219 204, 205

Numbers 12:7–8

55

414 Deuteronomy 4:1–40 4:19 4:28 5:12–15 5:16 5:18 6:4 6:13–15 9:10–29 10:17–18 14:1–2 18:15 22:23–26 22:23 24:19–21 28:36 29:16 32

Indices

32:1–6 32:8–9 32:8–9 LXX 32:8 32:8 LXX 32:12 32:15–18 32:17 32:21 32:27–38 32:27 32:30–32 32:36–43 32:43 32:38 34:10

210 208 210 32 215 231 339 204 207 185 339 53, 55 347 347 185 210 210 203, 205, 207, 208, 209, 210, 212, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 227 207 207–208 208 208 208 208 209 204–205, 205–206, 219 209 210 207, 208 209 209 209 207 53, 55

Joshua 24:19–24

219

Judges 8:17–18 8:22–28

207 207

Ruth 1:12 1:13 1:20–21 4:15 4:17

187 185 185 187 187

1 Samuel 1:5–6 2:30 16:13 18:12 21

185 215 284 284 120

2 Samuel 7:1–29

250

1 Kings 2:4 7:48 12:25–30 17–19 19:11–12 22:19–22

284 219 207 53–54 66 207, 208

2 Kings 2:9–12 2:11 4:42–44 5 19:18 22:17

54 53 66 66 210 66

1 Chronicles 16:25–27 16:26

205 204

2 Chronicles 6:15 18:16

250 66

Job 1–2 7:21 LXX 29:13 38:7

207 329 185 207

Psalms 2 2 LXX 2:7 2:9 2:9 LXX 5 8:2 LXX 9:9 21 LXX 22 22 LXX

48, 49, 51, 52, 63, 65 66 48, 49, 51, 52, 543 48 48 215 97 238 58 58 66

415

Index of Ancient Texts 23 29 31:1 LXX 31:2 LXX 35:28 36:7 36:9 37:14–15 LXX 40 40:9–10 40:10 LXX 41–42 LXX 41:2 LXX 41:4 LXX 41:5 LXX 41:6 LXX 41:7 LXX 41:8 LXX 41:10 LXX 41:12 LXX 42:1 LXX 42:3 LXX 42:5 LXX 51:16 68:5 68:22 LXX 78 82 86 89 91 91:6 91:11–13 96 96:4–8 96:7–8 96:7 96:13 98:2 103:17 106:28 106:36–37 106:36 106:37 106:38 109 LXX 109:1 LXX 109:2 LXX 109:3 LXX 110 110:1 110:4

66 207, 330 184 184 238 238 398 63 61 238 61, 66 58, 59, 60, 66 59 59 59 58 58 59 59 58 59 59 58, 59 238 185 66 219 208 215 207 205 205 366 207, 215 219 207 209 238 238 238 205 205, 340 205 205, 208 205 65, 66 65 65 65 330 65, 120 330

112:9 115 115:4–8 126:3–5 LXX 127:3–4 LXX 127:3 128:3–4 135 135:5–6 146:9 148

238 207, 214 204, 205 186 186 185 185 207, 214 214 185 207, 215

Proverbs 3:9 8 8:22 13:14 14:31 16:10 23:25 LXX 26:2 LXX

215 284 405, 406 269 215 238 186 130, 131

Ecclesiastes 1:8

345

Isaiah 1:17 3:13 6 7:1–14 7:14 7:14 LXX 9:8 11:6–9 12:3 13 24:15–16 25:6–8 29:13 37:19 40–48 40:9–14 40:12–13 40:21–26 41 41:4 41:20 41:22–23 41:44 42 42:1–4

185 238 207 347 347 347 284 359 269 208 215 66 215 210 203, 207, 211, 214, 215, 227 212 212 212 49 66 212 213 212 49, 51, 52 96

416 42:1 42:1b 42:1b LXX 42:5 42:6–7 42:3 43:10–13 43:10–11 43:10 43:23 43:25 44:8–10 44:9–20 44:10 44:24 45:5–7 45:13–14 45:18 45:21 45:26 46 46:1–2 46:3–4 46:5–9 46:5–7 46:9 46:13 47:13–14 48:5 48:12–13 49:3 51:5 51:6 51:8 51:12 52 52:6 53 53:7 54:1 LXX 54:4–8 56 56:1 59:16 61:1 61:10 63:15 Jeremiah 2:13 3:2 3:9

Indices 49, 51 51 51 212 52 52 212 66 64 215 64 212 204, 211 213 212 212–213 210 64, 212 212 213 213 213 213 213 213 212 238 210, 212 210 212 51 238 238 238 64 123 64 63 63 192 185 121 238 238 266 238 216 269 339 339

7 8:19 10 10:1–16 10:2 10:5 10:6–8 10:8 10:9 10:10–15 10:10 10:12 12:1 17:13

121 204, 205 203, 205, 207, 210, 212, 214, 215, 227 210 210 210 210 204 210 211 210 211 238 269

Ezekiel 1 1:26–28 16:15–36 20:32 20:9

119 283 339 210 275

Daniel 3 7 7:1–14 7:13 7:14

207 66 65 64, 65 65

Hosea 1:2 2:2 2:4 4:1–2 5:14 LXX 12:3

339 339 339 238 345 238

Joel 3:18

269

Jonah 4 4:6 4:9

66 62 61, 62

Micah 5:2 6:12

338 238

Nahum 3:18

66

417

Index of Ancient Texts Habakkuk 2 2:4 2:18–19

207 305 214

Zephaniah 1:15 LXX

188

Haggai 1:8

215

Zechariah 13:1 14:9

269 337

Malachi 1:6 3:5 3:23 3:24 4:1 LXX 4:4–5 LXX

215 185 53 56 56 56

Baruch 3 4:7

284 208

Bel and the Dragon 207 Epistle of Jeremiah 207, 214 Judith 9:4 9:9 11:19 15:12

185 185 66 280

1 Maccabees 1:22 4:49 4:51 8:10 10:25–45

219 219 219 74 118

2 Maccabees 5:24–26 6:5 7 9:12 14:37–46

41 41 239 41 239

15:5

41–42

3 Maccabees 6:3

216

4 Maccabees 6:27–29 7:19 13:8–17 14:5 16:15–23 16:25 17:18 17:20–22 17:21 18:7–9

239–240 196 51 196 51 196 196 240 240 187

Sirach 4:10 17:3 17:17 23:1 24 24:30 36:23–37:15 37 37:1–6 37:2 37:2 LXX 51:10

216 158 208 216 269, 284 269 61 61, 66 61 61 60, 61 216

Tobit 3:8 13:4

205 216

Wisdom of Solomon 221 1:15 196 2:23 158 3:4 196 3:7–8 196 7:2–24 165 7:15 266 7:20–29 225 7:25–8:1 165 7:26 323, 397 8:13 196 9 284 9:1–2 225 9:11 266 13–15 207, 214 13:18 207

418

Indices

14:3 14:27 14:31 15:3

216 214 220 196

Matthew 1:18 1:19 1:23 2:1–15 4:10 5–7 5 5:3–12 5:32 5:38–42 5:39–48 5:39–42 5:44 5:45 7:24–27 8:1–4 8:4 9:18–26 9:26 9:27–31 9:30–31 9:30b–31 9:30ff. 9:30 9:31 9:34 10:1–16 10:10 10:17–25 10:29–31 10:29 10:37–39 10:38 10:46–52 11:6 11:25 12:15–21 12:16 12:43 13:3–9 13:55 13:58 14:25 15:11 15:21 15:29–31

345 344 344 344 386 360 360 356 179, 184 180 178 178 178, 180 350 180 74, 96 73, 95 76 77 74, 95 74, 95 70, 74, 93 94 72, 94 72 268 181 179 356 129, 131 129 180 122 95 180 251 71, 96 71, 96 395 180 396 70 70 178 75 75

16:16–20 16:16 16:24 17:9 17:20 18:6 18:7 19:9 19:10–12 19:11–12 19:12 20:28 20:29–34 20:31 21:9 21:11 21:15–16 21:16 21:21 21:33–46 22:15–22 22:23–33 22:30 22:34–40 22:41–46 24:19 24:21–22 24:43 24:45–51 25:14–30 26:26–29 26:27 26:43 26:69–75 27:38 27:51 27:62–66 28 28:11–15 28:15 28:16–20

71 266 122 72 180 181 178 179, 184 180 180 195 241 74, 75, 95 75 97 117 97 97 178, 180 180 178, 182 183, 193 177, 194 182 180 188 188 178 180 180 184 241 368 117 115 118 345 356, 365 345 74, 95, 345 361

Mark 1:1–16:8 1:4 1:7–8 1:7 1:9–11 1:10–11 1:10 1:11 1:11a

364 355 73 57 73 48, 356, 359 100 50, 55 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 54 49

Index of Ancient Texts 1:11b 1:12–13 1:12 1:13 1:14–15 1:14 1:15 1:16–20 1:21 1:23–34 1:25 1:28 1:29–31 1:34 1:38 1:40–45 1:40–42 1:41 1:43–45 1:43–44 1:43–44a 1:43 1:44 1:44a 1:45 1:45a 2:1–22 2:1–12 2:1 2:2 2:23–28 2:27–28 2:28 3:1–6 3:1 3:7–12 3:10–12 3:11–12 3:12 3:14 3:20 3:22 3:23–4:34 3:23 3:27 3:29 3:30 3:34–35 4:3–9 4:21 4:33

49, 51 356 50, 55 359 55, 356 73 56 356 356 356 71, 73, 95 78 77 71, 95 73 66, 72, 96 72 72 78, 93 69, 72, 73, 74, 94 95 72, 73, 96 73, 74, 76 73, 96 69, 72, 73, 74, 78, 81, 93, 94, 95, 96 73 356 77 78 73 43 119–120 120 77 78 71 96 71 71, 73, 96 73 78 55, 268 360 360 395 55 55 56 180 395 73

4:35–41 4:38 5:7 5:18–20 5:19 5:20 5:21–43 5:25–34 5:37 5:40 5:43 6:2–3 6:3 6:5 6:6 6:6b–13 6:8–9 6:12 6:14 6:17–29 6:20 6:30–44 6:31 6:34 6:35–44 6:41 6:45–52 6:48 7:15 7:24 7:28 7:31–37 7:33 7:36–37 7:36 7:37 8:22–26 8:23 8:26 8:26b 8:29–33 8:29–30 8:30 8:31 8:32 8:34–38 8:34 8:38 9:2–9 9:2–8 9:7

419 368 368 77 78 78 78 76 77 76, 78 78 69, 72, 76 78 335 69 70 181 184 73 78 57 362 66 78 367 362 362 66, 363, 368 70 178 69, 75, 78, 94, 95 76 74 78 80, 93 69, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 78, 81, 93, 94, 95 70, 74 77 77, 78 72, 77, 78 77 57 71 73 55, 356, 363 73 361 122 329 100 48, 52, 56 49, 50, 51, 54, 55

420 9:9 9:11–13 9:11 9:12–13 9:12 9:12a 9:14–27 9:30–31 9:30 9:31 9:33–50 9:42 9:50 10:10 10:11–12 10:13 10:28 10:33–34 10:41–45 10:45 10:46–52 10:48 11–13 11:1–14 11:17 11:20–21 11:23 12 12:1–40 12:1–12 12:6 12:13–17 12:18–27 12:25 12:28–34 12:35–37 12:37 13:9–13 13:10 13:17 13:19–20a 13:32–42 14 14:5 14:9 14:18 14:20 14:22–25 14:24 14:30 14:32–42 14:32

Indices 56, 72, 79, 81 57 56 56 57 56 77 96 75 56, 75, 356, 363 181 178, 180, 181 179 184 179, 184 76 356 56, 356, 363 49 241 72, 74, 75, 77 74, 75, 78 356, 364 121 121 121 121, 178, 180 183 182, 183, 193 180 49, 50, 51 178, 182 183, 193 177, 194, 195 182 180 120 356 73 188 188 356 50 72, 95 73 61 66 184 241 182 364 58

14:33 14:34 14:36 14:41–42 14:43 14:48 14:53–15:15 14:53–65 14:61 14:62 14:64 14:66–72 15:16–37 15:20 15:20b–27 15:23 15:24 15:27 15:28 15:29 15:33–39 15:34 15:37 15:38 15:39 16:1–8 16:1–2 16:1 16:8 16:9–20

58 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 66 49, 50, 56, 58, 60, 62, 216 60 356, 362 362 356 67 63, 78 63, 64, 65, 66, 100 101 117 356 115 116 66 66 115 116 66 50 50, 66, 365 50 50, 116, 118 50, 365 356, 365 365 365 365 355

Luke 1:25 1:35 1:36 1:46–55 1:46 1:55 4:13 4:16–30 4:18–19 4:35 4:41 5:14–16 5:15 5:16 6:12 6:19 6:20–22 6:27–38 6:28

185 278 185 189 189 309 386 356, 360 266 71 71 74 74 74 368 70 186 178, 181 178, 180

Index of Ancient Texts 6:29–30 6:37 6:47–49 7:12–15 7:23 8:5–8 8:23 8:38–39 8:41–56 8:51 8:56 9:1–6 9:3 9:20–21 9:23 9:26 9:32 9:36 9:57 10:1–12 10:1 10:7 10:21 10:25–28 11:27–28 11:27 11:27a 11:27b 11:27c 11:27d 11:28a 11:28b 12:6–7 12:6 12:37 12:39–40 12:41–46 13:31 14:25–27 14:27 16:18 16:22–23 17:1–2 17:6 18:1–8 18:2–8 18:13 18:35–43 18:39 19:12–27 19:37–38 19:38

178, 180 180 180 185 180 180 368 78 76 76 76 181 184 71 122 329 368 72 361 181 356, 362 179, 184 251 182 186, 190 189 190 190 190 190 190 190 129, 131 129 176 178 180 97 180 122 179, 184 196 178, 181 180 185 185 310 75 74, 75 180 97 97

20:9–18 20:20–26 20:27–40 20:28 20:29 20:32–33 20:33–36 20:34–36 20:34–35 20:37–38 20:38b 20:41–44 21:1–4 21:21 21:23 21:24 22:14–20 22:28 22:37 22:49–51 23:27–31 23:29

421

23:29a 23:29b 23:29c 23:29d 23:30 23:33 23:45 24 24:49

180 178, 182 177, 183, 193, 194, 195 193–194 194, 197 194 177, 183, 193, 197, 198 194 194 195 196 180 185 189 188, 189 189 184 189, 241 116 362 182, 186 177, 182, 183, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 198 190 190 190 190 186, 189 115 118 356 278

John 1:1–18 1:1–14 1:1–4 1:1–3 1:1 1:1a 1:1b–7 1:3 1:5 1:9 1:10 1:14 1:17 1:15–29 1:24–25 1:45–46 1:45

314, 355 35, 172, 221, 379, 396 321 225 131 396, 399 348, 349 348 225, 399 322 322 225 322, 399 349 348 386 117 338

422 2 2:2–25 3 3:5–6 3:5 3:6 3:8 3:11 3:12 3:13 3:16 3:31 4 4:13–54 5–10 5 5:1–18 5:1 5:18 5:1–9 5:6–7 5:10–16 5:12 5:14–15 5:15 5:16–20a 5:16–18 5:16 5:17 5:18 5:19–47 5:19–30 5:19–20 5:19ff. 5:25 5:30 5:31–39 5:31–37a 5:40–47 5:41–44 5:44 6 6:1 6:9 6:14–15 6:15–57 6:41–42 6:42 6:46 6:51 7 7:1

Indices 349 348 46 19 15 14–15, 23 19 23 23 396 241 15, 23, 339 46, 348 348 340 340, 341, 394, 395 33, 36 340, 341 340 31 37 31 37 37 37 395 340 340 31, 32, 33, 35, 36, 37, 39 31, 37, 39, 351 31, 340 341 340 398 268 396 341 340 341 340 340 340 340 362 91 241 340 338 396 266 46, 338, 340, 341 340

7:10–52 7:16–24 7:20 7:21–23 7:30 7:32 7:33–34 7:35 7:40–43 7:41–42 7:44 7:45 8 8:12–20 8:13–18 8:19–25 8:19 8:21–30 8:21–23 8:22 8:23 8:24 8:25–27 8:27 8:31–59 8:31–33 8:31 8:33 8:34–38 8:37–53 8:37–41a 8:37 8:38 8:38a 8:38b 8:39–40 8:39 8:39a 8:39b 8:40 8:40a 8:40b 8:41 8:41a 8:41b–c 8:41b 8:42 8:44 8:48

341 340 339 340 341 341 19 36 117 338 341 341 338, 340, 341, 349, 352 341 340 348, 349 337 341 24 336 339 24–25 24 336 335, 336, 341 335 351 309, 336, 337, 338 335 348, 350 350 350 337 350 350 335 309, 336, 337, 338, 350, 351 337, 350 337, 350 350 350 350 33, 336, 337, 338, 339, 340, 341, 342, 348, 351, 352 335, 338, 350 335, 341, 351 336, 338 341, 350 335, 350 339, 344

423

Index of Ancient Texts 8:49–50 8:54 8:56 8:58–59 8:59 9:22 10:11 10:33 11:33 11:39–57 11:47–51 11:48 12:24–25 12:24 12:25 12:27 12:32–34 12:36 12:42 13:2–33 13:16 13:33 14:9–10 14:9 15:13 16:2 16:12–13 16:13 18:5–7 18:6 19 19:15 19:17 19:20 19:34 20 20:23 20:28 20:29

340 340 350, 379 341 341 30 269 340 72 348 91 70 19 368 19 58 100 25 30 348 18–19 349 399 399 19 30 25 166 117 281 46 337 115 115 356, 365 365 259 25, 266, 272 19, 25

Acts 2:36 3:13 3:26 4:25 4:27 4:30 5:36 6:1 6:15 7:42–43 7:55

364, 366, 369 79 250 250 251 251 251 91 185 362 208 362, 366

7:59 9–28 9 9:1–19a 9:20–22 9:23–25 9:40 11:22 13–14 13:6–12 14:1–6 14:20 15 17 17:18 18:2 19:28 19:34 20:7–12 20:35 21:4 21:10–14 21:11–13 21:33 21:38 22 22:30–25:12 24:5 26 26:2 27–28 28 28:17–31

256 355 358 356 356 356 366 74 357 356 356 356 205 226 208 85 221 221 366 356, 363 356, 363 356 356, 363 356 91 356, 358 356 86 356, 358 191 356 307 356

Romans 1:3 1:4 1:5 1:7 1:8 1:13 1:18–3:20 1:18–32 2:1–3:20 2 2:4 2:22 3–4 3:20 3:21–4:25 3:21–26

171, 304, 305, 307, 317 347 79 242 242 252 236 231, 234, 235, 243 215, 220, 231, 244 231 302 236 215 303, 315, 317 233, 234 231, 232, 233, 235 229, 231, 232, 243, 244, 307, 308

424 3:21–22 3:21–22c 3:21 3:21a–b 3:21b 3:22–26 3:22a–c 3:22b–26 3:22d–26 3:22d–23 3:23–26 3:23 3:24–26 3:24–26a 3:24 3:25–26 3:25–26a 3:25 3:26 3:26b–c 3:27–4:25 3:27–31 3:27 3:28 4 4:1–25 4:1–16 4:1–12 4:4 4:6 4:7 4:8 4:10–16 4:13–17 4:13–16 4:16 5:1–21 5:1–20 5:2 5:6–10 5:14–15 5:15 5:17 5:20 5:21 6–7 6:1 6:10 6:14 6:15 6:17

Indices 301 232, 235, 243 112, 231, 234, 242 233 234 231 234 235 233, 234 233, 235 235 237 233, 235, 237 237, 238, 240, 241 236, 237, 241, 242 302 236 302, 310, 314, 236, 237, 242, 243 232, 233 243 231, 232 302 234 233 302 232, 234, 309 302 302 242 233 184 184 308 232 310 242 231 244 242 241, 244 380 242 242 242 242 231 242 305 242 242 242

7:7–25 7:7 7:8 7:25 8 8:1–30 8:3 8:14–15 8:17 8:23 8:29–30 8:31–11:36 8:34 9–11 10:3–4 10:4 11:5 11:6 11:17–24 11:36 12–14 12 12:14 12:17 12:21 13 13:7 13:8–10 14 14:10 14:13–20 14:13 14:14 14:22 16:19 16:27

231 231, 233 233 242 302 231, 244 241, 244 216 170 237 170 231 314 302, 310 316 316 242 242 302 204, 220, 225, 249 179 205 178, 180, 181 178, 181 181 183 178, 182, 193 182, 193 304 181 198 178, 181 178, 181 184 181 252

1 Corinthians 1 1:23 1:30 2:9 2:14–16 2:16 3:6 3:10–12 4:1–2 4:5 4:12 5:9 5:10 5:11

225, 305, 315 99 180 237 180 167 199 180 180 180 180 180 168 215 215

425

Index of Ancient Texts 6:7 6:9 6:18 7 7:1–11 7:1 7:2–5 7:7–8 7:7 7:8 7:10–16 7:10–13 7:10–11 7:10 7:14 7:15 7:25 7:26 7:27b 7:28 7:29a–31b 7:29a 7:31b 7:32–35 7:32–34 7:32 7:36–39 7:37–38 7:38 7:39 7:40 7:40a 8:1–11:1 8:1–13 8:1–3 8:1 8:3b 8:4 8:5–6 8:6 8:7 8:8 8:10 8:13 9 9:1–26 9:7

180 214 236 176, 180, 181, 188, 192 199 168, 180 176 175 180 175 176 198 178, 179, 184, 198, 199 181, 185 188 198 180 188 175 188 188 188 188 188 176, 195 175 194 175 176, 191 177, 179, 193 175, 191, 192 175, 177, 179, 181, 183, 184, 185, 187, 188, 191, 192, 193, 197, 198, 199 201, 203, 204, 215, 216, 220, 227 201, 202, 218 216 202, 218 226 201, 202, 204, 215, 216, 201 201, 203, 204, 206, 215, 216, 220, 221, 222, 225, 226, 227 202 217, 218 202, 218 180, 181 201 217 180

9:11 9:14–15 9:14 10 10:1–22 10:1–13 10:4 10:11 10:14 10:14–22 10:15–22 10:16–22 10:16–17 10:18 10:19–22 10:19 10:20–21 10:20 10:21 10:25–11:1 10:25 10:27 10:28 11:7 11:23–27 11:23–26 11:23 11:23b 11:25 12:2 13:1–3 13:2 14:37 15:3–8 15:3–5 15:3 15:10 15:25 15:44–49 15:44b–49 15:44b–45 15:44b 15:46–47 15:48–49

180 198 178, 179, 181, 184, 185, 199 203, 205 202 202, 217 379 188 202, 217 201, 215, 218 217 218 219 219 219 202, 218 205 205, 217 217, 268 201, 202 218 218 202, 218 172 180 184 179 181 241 215 198 178, 180, 181 180 182 179 241 242 180 380 167 167 167 167 167

2 Corinthians 1:3 2:14–6:13 3:7–4:4 3:7–11 3:7

171 252, 255 168 168 169 168, 169

426

Indices

3:8 3:9a 3:9b 3:11a 3:11b 3:12–18 3:12–15 3:13 3:16 3:18 4:3–4 5:12 5:14–15 6:16 7:2–4 7:5 7:6 10:14–16 10:14–15 11:7 12:18

169 169 169 169 169 169 169 168 168 169 169 237 241 215 168 237 362 237 237 237 362

Galatians 1:5 1:6 1:15 1:16 1:17 1:23 2:9 2:19–20 2:20 2:21 3:1–4:31 3:1 3:6–14 3:8–9 3:11 3:15–18 3:16 3:29 4:1–13 4:6 4:28–31 5:1–6:10 5:4 5:20

358 249 242 242 358 356, 358 358 242 196, 358 241 237, 242 230, 232, 234 123, 303 232 309 230 232 231, 232 309 231 216 309 231 242 215

Ephesians 1:3 2:14–16 2:14

252 321, 322 321

4:5 4:22–24

225 289

Philippians 2:6–11 2:5 2:6 2:7 2:9–11 2:9 3:20 4:20

321 171 171, 321, 379, 402 322 322 275 266 249

Colossians 1 1:3 1:15–20 1:15 1:16 1:18 1:19 3–4 3:3–4 3:5 3:12 3:17 4:6

221 252 204, 217, 226, 321, 379 171, 321, 322, 402 225 322 322 179 96 181 181 252 181

1 Thessalonians 1:9 3:3–4 4–5 4:3 4:8 4:15–17 5:2 5:3 5:4–5 5:4 5:9 5:13–14 5:13 5:15 5:16

215 188 179 187 181, 187 179, 180 178, 179, 181 187 187 178, 179 187 187 179, 181 178, 181 187

1 Timothy 3:16 5:4 5:5 5:8 5:9 5:16

321, 322 185 185 185 192 185

427

Index of Ancient Texts 2 Timothy 4:3 4:18 Hebrews 1–2 1:1–4 1:1–3 1:1–2 1:1–2a 1:1 1:2–4 1:2 1:2a 1:2b 1:2c 1:3–4 1:3 1:3a–b 1:4 1:4–2:18 1:5–11 1:5 1:6–7 1:8 1:10 1:14–15 1:14 2 2:1 2:2–4 2:2–3 2:2 2:8–9 2:10–18 2:10 2:11–13 2:12 2:14–5:5 2:14–15 2:16 2:17–18 2:17 2:18 3:1–5:10 3:1–6 3:1–4

362 249 172, 304, 305, 306, 307, 315, 317 328 319, 320, 322, 324, 327, 330 327 326 324 312 325 225, 226, 324, 328 324 324 324 324 171, 308, 320, 322, 323, 324, 325, 326, 328, 329, 330, 332, 397 324 328, 329, 399 327 327 328 328 330 322 322 328 327 327 327 328 327 327 307, 308 204, 221, 225, 226, 316, 327 330, 331, 332 329 305 327 309, 310, 311, 312, 313 252 309, 312, 330 328 308 328 327

3:1 3:6 3:12–15 3:12 3:14 4:2 4:9 4:12–13 4:14–10:18 4:14 4:15 4:16 5:1–3 5:1 5:3 5:4 5:6 5:7–10 5:7 5:5–10 5:9 5:11 6:9 6:10 6:12 6:13–20 6:17 6:19–20 6:20 7–10 7 7:1–3 7:3 7:4 7:5 7:7 7:10 7:11 7:12 7:16 7:19 7:20 7:22 7:25 7:26–28 7:26–27 7:26 7:28 8–10 8:1–10:18 8 8:1–2

325, 326 327 327 327 328, 329 327 312 322, 327 327 330 252 327 327 252 313 328 330 327, 332 327 322 316 319 327 329 310, 328, 332 307, 308, 310, 312 310 330 308, 330 312 312 327, 330 311, 327 312 313 327 311 313, 316 311, 314 313 316, 327 327 327 251 327 322 327 316 284 241 312 322

428 8:1 8:3 8:6 8:10 9–10 9 9:5 9:6–10 9:7 9:9 9:10 9:11–12 9:11 9:12 9:14 9:22 9:23 9:25–28 9:26 10 10:1–13 10:1 10:2 10:5–9 10:5 10:8–22 10:14 10:17 10:19–12:29 10:19–25 10:19–22 10:24–25 10:25 10:29–11:13 10:34 10:35 11:1 11:4 11:7 11:13–16 11:16 11:23–29 11:26 11:28–12:17 11:35 11:40 12:1–2

Indices 308, 330 252 327, 329 312 330 312 327 322, 327 313 316 329 322 316 328 329 329 284, 327, 329 328 327 312 328 284, 316 329, 330 330, 331, 332 332 305 316 324 327 327, 329 322 322 327 305 327 329 328, 329 327 328 195 327 328 123, 379 305 327 316, 327 327

12:2 12:9 12:11 12:15 12:23 12:24 13:6 13:10–13 13:12 13:13 13:15 13:19 13:22–25

123, 316, 330 327 327 327 316 327 332 123 312 251 329 327 305, 317

James 1:27

185

1 Peter 1:3 1:18–21 2:21–25 2:25 3:18–22 3:18 3:19–20 3:22

252 321 321 251 321 379 268 322

1 John 1:7 3:8 3:9

241 350 350

Jude 5

379

Revelation 2:14 2:17 2:20 5:6 5:9 5:12 7:14 9:20 12 13:8 18:7

205 329 205 241 241 241 188 208 221 241 185

429

Index of Ancient Texts

2. Other Jewish Writings Apocalypse of Moses 10.3 158 12.1 158 35.2 158 35.3 216 Aratus Phaenomena

226

Aristobulus Frg. 4 5.11–12 5b

221 226 34 34

Assumption of Moses 10:3–6 188 Babylonian Talmud b. Šabbat 104b 345–346 b. Sanhedrin 67a 345, 346 b. Ta‘anit 23b 216 2 Baruch 10:13–16 25–27 54:10

197 188 186

Dead Sea Scrolls see Qumran 1 Enoch 1–32 15:6–7 19:1 48:1 100:7 103:7

314 207 194 208 269 188 188

2 Enoch 44.1–3 65.1–2

158 158

Exodus Rabbah 30.9 34 4 Ezra 1:30–32

372

5:1–13 6:18–24 8:44 9:1–12

188 188 158 188

Genesis Rabbah 35 11.5 34 11.10 34 Hellenistic Synagogal Prayers 3.19–21 158 12.36–40 158 Jerusalem Talmud y. ‘Aboda Zara 2:2 345 fol. 40d 345 y. Šabbat 14:4 345 fol. 14d 345 Josephus Antiquitates judaicae 1.22–36 51 2.6.8 216 4.8.48 53 4.8.49 53 14.185–267 83 16.108 191 16.160–178 83 18.54 108 18.63–84 84 18.85–89 91 18.206–210 107 18.259–309 85 19.276 86 19.278–279 86 19.280–285 86 20.27 191 20.97–99 91 20.118–136 89 20.167–168 91 20.169–172 91, 118 20.188 91 Bellum judaicum 2.24 194 2.160 188 2.232–246 89 2.237 89

430

Indices

2.261–263 91 2.489–498 87 2.490–491 87 5.13.7 188 7.51–53 88 7.54–62 88 7.300–309 89 7.412–414 87 7.412 87 7.420–436 87 7.437–450 87 7.438 87 7.439 88 7.440 88 7.450 88 18.257–259 87 Contra Apionem 2.25 194 2.33–78 87 2.68 87 2.63–64 85 Vita 424 87 Jubilees 1:11 11–12 12 12:3 12:5 15:31 20 20:6–10 22:22 23:11–25 36:5

314 208 214 207 214 214 208 207 214 214 188 214

Letter of Aristeas 135–137 207 Life of Adam and Eve 13.3 158 13.3 158 14.1–3 158 15.2 158 37.2–3 158 39.2–3 158 40–42 378 Mishnah Sukkah 5:4

337

Numbers Rabbah 2:15–16 339 Pesiqta Rabbati 23.8 34 Philo 221, 314 De Abrahamo 31 311 De cherubim 28 224 86–90 34 124–130 224 125 224 De confusione linguarum 62 224 172 161 De congressu eruditionis gratia 67 159 De deo 57 225 De ebrietate 30–31 225 133 161, 172 De fuga et inventione 12 224 95 224 109 224 190 225 209 159 De gigantibus 61 161 De Iosepho 2.65 216 De migratione Abrahami 6 224 69 339 72 159 91 34 171 159 De mutatione nominum 10 159 (23.)131 51 135 161 146 161 208 159 223 159 267 161 De opificio mundi 168, 172 15–35 160 15–25 160

Index of Ancient Texts 15 161 16–25 223 16 161 19 161 21 163 24–25 225 24 160, 161 25–26 159 25 160, 161, 163 36 161 69–71 159 72–75 159 134–135 159, 165 134 166 139 161 145–146 159 146 323 172 223 De plantatione 18 323 27 162 44–46 159 De posteritate Caini 86 159 De praemiis et poenis 37 161 De providentia 225 1.23 225 De sacrificiis Abelis et Caini 8 224, 225 10 224 68 216 De sobrietate 9 159 55 161 De somniis 1.75 161 1.85 161 1.186 161 1.188 161, 323 1.206 161, 162 2.45 224 2.83–84 90 2.281 159 3.207 159 De specialibus legibus 1.81 161, 163, 214, 225 1.171 159 1.327 161 2.152 161 3.6 194 3.83 161, 163

431

3.207 161, 163 4.123 323 De vita contemplativa 78 275 De vita Mosis 1.276 208 2.74 161 2.127 161 2.188 55 In Flaccum 84 36–40 99 48–49 89 54 85 86–94 89 89–90 90 97–98 89 Legatio 84 1 85 133 89 141–154 89 159–161 85 184–196 85 230 89 231–232 89 279–280 89 89 312 89 355–356 361 85 Legum allegoriae 1.5–7 34 1.16–18 34 1.22 161 1.32–32 159 1.42 159 1.53–55 159 1.90–92 159 1.94 159 2.4 159 2.49 225 2.55 311 3.95–96 172 3.96 161, 162, 163, 224, 225 Quaestiones et solutiones in Exodum 159 Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesin 1.4 159 1.8a 159 1.54 224 1.58 224, 225 2.54a 161 2.56 159 2.62 159, 161

432

Indices

Quis rerum divinarum heres sit 56–57 159 75 161 111 161 160 224 170 34 199 225 230–231 159, 162 230 163 231 161, 163 234 161 246 159 280 161 Quod deterius potiori insidari soleat 54 224, 225 78 161 83 159, 323 86–90 159 Quod Deus sit immutabilis 31 161 57 224 Pseudo-Philo Liber antiquitatum biblicarum 3.11 158 18.5–6 51 32.2–4 51 Qohelet Rabbah 1:24 345 Qumran Dead Sea Scrolls 314 1QH XVI, 32 58 1QS IV, 7–8 289 208, 209 4QDeutj 209 4QDeutq

4QJerb

210

Sibylline Oracles 2.190–193 189 2.196–197 189 2.212–213 189 3.8 171 8.402 158 Testament of Isaac 6.34 158 Testament of Job 3:3 208 9:3 185 9:5 185 10:2 185 Testament of Judah 21.5 219 Testament of Naphtali 8.4 359 Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs 314 Tosefta t. Ḥullin 2:22–24

345

Tanh?uma Ki Tissa 33

34

Targum Neofiti Gen 22:10 51 Yalqut? Gen. 16

34

3. Other Christian (including Gnostic Christian) Writings Acts of Paul 1–2 1 2 2:1 2:2 3–4

356, 357, 369 362 357, 361, 362, 366 356, 357, 359, 362 366 360 356, 358, 366, 367

3 3:1 3:2 3:3 3:5–6 3:7

356, 357, 359, 361, 362, 367 356, 360 360, 362 362 356, 360 360

433

Index of Ancient Texts 3:18–22 3:21 3:23 3:25 4 4:1 4:15 4:16 4:17 5 5:3 5:12 6 6:1 6:6 7 8 8:1–3 9 9:1 9:5–6 9:5 9:7–9 9:7 9:25–28 9:48 10–11 10 10:1 11 12 12:2 12:3 12:5 13 13:1–2 13:1 13:2 13:5–14:1 14 14:1 14:2 14:3–4 14:3 14:4 14:5 14:6 14:7

361 366 361, 362 361, 362 357, 367 362 362 360, 362 361 357, 362 366 362 357, 362 360 360 357 357 362 357, 358, 359, 362 360 356 358 359 356, 360, 366 362 368 362 357 360 357 357, 362 356, 363 356, 363 356, 363, 367 357, 362 367 368 356, 363, 367, 368 356, 364 356, 357 360, 362 360, 366 356 356 356, 364 356, 360 356, 368 356, 365

Acts of Peter 5 35

368 363, 368

Acts of Pilate 2.3

344

Acts of Thomas 262, 264, 265, 287, 290, 294 Act 1 265, 272, 282 Chapter 6 291 7 278, 291 10 266, 267, 268, 269, 271, 272, 273, 282 20 268, 282 25 267, 269, 271, 272, 274 25:4 291 26 291 27 266, 267, 268, 274, 275, 276, 277, 278, 282, 291, 292 27:10 263 29 268, 273, 282 33 269 37 266, 267, 269 39 267, 268, 269, 270, 271, 278, 282 46 266 47 269, 270, 271, 272, 273 48 266, 268, 269, 270, 272, 282 49 257, 267, 275, 276 49:4 263 50 267, 268, 269, 274, 275, 276, 277, 278, 282 51 281 52 282 59 263, 270 60 266, 267, 268, 270 61 267, 270 67 266, 269, 272 70 263 75 271 78 267 80 263, 267, 271, 272 81 271 269 83–86 87 268, 282 95 267 96:4 263 98 266 102 266 121 274, 275, 277, 278, 280, 281, 285, 292 121:7 263 122 268, 282

434 124 131 132–133 132 132:7 133 141 142 143 144–148 147 148:4–5 153 156

Indices

157:16 158 160 161 167

291 291 274, 277 274, 278 163 275, 285 263 269 267 263 263 263 263 266, 268, 269, 271, 272, 273, 282 274 267, 275, 278, 279, 280, 281, 291 263 258, 274, 279 268, 282 263 263

Acts of Titus

359

157–158 157

Alexander of Alexandria Letter to Alexander of Constantinople 28–29 405 Ambrose

192

Aphrahat Demonstrations 23 280 Apocryphon of John (NHC II,1) 381, 386 II,1.30.32–31.17 387 II,1.9.11–15 387–388 Apostolic Constitutions 7.25–26 255 8 (Epitome) 255 Apostolic Tradition 3.1 255 3.3 255 3.6 254 4.4–6 254 4.13 254

6.4 7.2 7.5 8.10 8.12 21.21 29C.9 31

254 254 254 254 254 254 254 254

Arabic Infancy Gospel 36 132, 135 46 132 Ascension of Isaiah 10.24 383 Ascents of James 375 Athanasius De decretis 23 398 De incarnatione 14.1–2 403 De sententia Dionysii 20–21 405 Historia Arianorum 67–68 404 74 404 Orationes contra Arianos 1 399 1.21 408 1.36 402 1.40–44 408 1.52 408 2 399 2.17–18 408 2.44ff. 406 2.58ff. 405 3.1–6 400 3.1 405 3.3 403 3.4 401 3.5 399, 400–401, 402 3.8 401 3.10–11 408 3.20 408 3.34 401 3.36 401 3.51–52 398

435

Index of Ancient Texts Pseudo-Athanasius De virginitate 12 255 14 256

Clement of Alexandria 191 Excerpta ex Theodoto 86 404

Augustine Confessions 1.19.30 137 Contra Faustum Manichaeum 22.79 264 De civitate Dei 7.28 223 Enarrationes in Psalmos 89(88):6 405 In Evangelium Johannis tractatus 18–20 397 42.7 339 Sermones 9.8.9 405

Stromata 6.16.141.7b–142.1 34

Barberini Greek codex 336 254 Bardais?an Book of the Laws of Countries 375 Barnabas 16:7

208

Basil of Caesarea De spiritu sancto 45 406 Epistula 38.8 408 Homily 24 406 1 Clement 36.1 43.2 58.2 59.2 59.3 59.4 61.3 64 65.2

305, 317 252 219 251 251, 255–256 251 251 251 251, 252 251

3 Corinthians

365

Council of Hippo Regius Canon 21 259 Cyril of Alexandria Commentary on the Gospel of John 5.5 351 Didache 6.3 8 9–10 9 9.2 10

205 249 255 249, 250, 253 251 249, 250

Egyptian Gospel (NHC III,2; IV,2) 381, 382, 383, 387 III,2.53.12–54.11 386 III,2.55.16–56.2 386 III,2.56.13–22 386 III,2.56.20 383 III,2.62.13–24 383 III,2.63.4–8 383 III,2.64.1–3 383 III,2.64.9ff. 384 III,2.65.5–30 386 III,2.65.16–17 383 III,2.66.8ff. 384 III,2.67.2–9 384 III,2.67.27–68.5 386 IV,2.68.3–5 383 IV,2.73.27–74.9 383 IV,2.74.9–11 385 IV,2.75.24ff. 384 IV,2.78.10ff. 384

436

Indices

Elchasai Book of Elchasai 372, 373, 379, 392 Ephrem 287 Commentary on the Diatessaron 21.11 279 Hymns Against Heresies 17.5 292 Hymns on the Nativity 23.13 292 Hymns on Faith 65.7 279 Hymns on the Church 36 294 Hymns on the Crucifixion 2 293–294 Hymns on the Resurrection 1 293 Hymns on Virginity 4 293 5 293 6.10 279 7 293 7.5–6 293 7.7 294 7.8 294 Pseudo-Ephrem Hymns on Epiphany 292 4.19–20 292–293 13.1–2 294 Epiphanius Panarion 30.3.2–5 30.3.4–5 30.14.4 30.15.1–3 30.16.3–4 30.17.5–6 30.34.6 39.3.5 47.1 53.1.8 78.7.5

374 374 374 375 374 374 374 382 264 373, 473 345

Eusebius Eclogae propheticae 3.10 345

Historia ecclesiastica 2.5.6–7 85 6.24 348 6.28 348 6.32 348 10.9.4 405 Praeparatio evangelica 4.22.15 268 11.23.3–6 164 13.12.5 226 13.12.11–12 34 Gospel of Bartholomew 127 2.11 128 Gospel of Judas 381 Gospel of Philip 73,8–19 280 Gospel of the Egyptians see Egyptian Gospel Gospel of Thomas Logion 13 267, 270 17 180 54 191 55 122 79 177, 182, 190 79a 190 79b 190 79c 190 79d 190 79e 190 79f 190 79g 190 79h 190 82 191 99 191 105 335 Gospel of Truth 275 38.7–24 276 Grundschrift (of Pseudo-Clementine literature) 375, 376, 377, 378, 391, 392 Hermas see Shepherd of Hermas

437

Index of Ancient Texts Hippolytus Apostolic Tradition see Apostolic Tradition Contra haeresin Noeti 18.10 254 Refutatio omnium haeresium (Philosophoumena) 5.9.1 268 7.20 379 9.13.1–4 373 9.14.1–2 379 9.14.1 373 10.29.1–2 373, 379

139–140 149–160 215–218 281–284 285–288 369–372 madrosho

History of John the Son of Zebedee 295

John of Damascus De fide orthodoxa 4.14 345 De imaginibus 403

Ignatius To the Ephesians 7 352 7.2 270 18 352 19 352 To the Magnesians 11 352 To the Trallians 9 352 10 352 Infancy Gospel of Thomas 125, 127, 132, 143, 153 Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Greek) 126, 143, 152 2 148 2.1–3 127 2.4 127, 148 3.2 127 9.3 148 15 148 15.2 148 Irenaeus Adversus haereses 1.26.1 374 4.17.6 403 Jacob of Serugh 187, 294, 295 Homily on the Epiphany 15 295 21–22 295 85–86 295

295 295 296 296 296 297 296–297

Johannes Malalas 88 John Chrysostom Vidua eligatur 192

Justin Martyr 1 Apology 5 390 46 390 64 390 2 Apology 8 390 10 390 13 390 Dialogus cum Tryphone 30.3 208 55.2 208 61 397 61.1 376 66 376 73.2 208 Life and Miracles of Saint Thecla 145 Marcellus Contra Astertium 401 Martyrdom of Dasius 7–8 407 Martyrdom of Polycarp 252, 255 14.1 253 14.3 253

438

Indices

Melchizedek (NHC IX,1) 381 Melito of Sardis Peri Pascha 5–12 270 72–86 101 Narsai Homilies 21 32

269 266

Odes of Solomon 287, 292, 193 3:1 289 4:6 289 4:7 289 4:10 289 19 290 19:4 290 19:6 290 23:8–9 290 25:8 289 30 269 33:12 289 36:6 290 39:8 289 Origen Commentarii in Book 1 2 4 5 6 6.6–12 6.13 8 10 10.20 13 19–20 19 20 20.2–127 20.11 20.54–56 20.67–79 20.85 20.87–95 20.126

evangelium Joannis 348 348 348 348, 349 348 348 386 352 348 349 348 349 348, 349 348, 349 350 270 350 350 350 350 351

20.127 350 20.128–130 351 20.168–170 350 28 348 32 348, 349 Contra Celsum 342, 348, 352 1.28 343, 344, 346 1.29–39 346 1.32 343, 344 1.34–36 347 1.34 347 1.37 347 1.38 347 1.39 347 1.61 82 1.65 82 2.55 365 5.4 259 8.26 259 De oratione 13 404 14.6 259 15.1 258 16.1 258 22 404 33.1 261 De principiis 4.4.1 406 Dialogus cum Heraclide 4 258 Orosius Historiarum Adversum Paganos 7.6.15–16 85 Patrologia graeca 11.485 404 32.149 406 Patrologia latina 2.1050A 150 37.1124 405 38.82 405 Polycarp To the Philippians 12.2 253 Preaching of Peter 375

439

Index of Ancient Texts Pseudo-Clementines 371, 372, 374, 379, 380, 388 Homilies 1.17.2–4 377 2.2–3 375 2.24.2 375 3.15 376 3.20.2 376 3.21 376 8.10 376 8.10.2 377 Recognitions 1.14.2–4 377 1.24.5 375 1.27–71 377, 378 1.32.3 377 1.32.4–33.2 375 1.33.1–3 377, 378 1.44–52 378 1.44.4–1.52 378 1.47–48 378 1.52 (Latin) 377 1.60 376 2.22.4 376 4.9 376 4.9.2 377 8.59.3–4 376 16.4 374 Second Council of Constantinople Canon 12 406 Second Treatise of the Great Seth (NHC VII,2) 391 Shepherd of Hermas Mandate 4.4.1–2 175 Vision 1.1–2 191

Tatian Oratio ad Graecos 5 397 Tertullian 365 Adversus Marcionem 53 De baptismo 12.7 258 17 357 De pallio 6 150 De spectaculis 25.5 258 30.6 344 Pseudo-Tertullian Adversus Omnes Haereses 2.9 386 De carne Christi 14 374 Third Council of Carthage Canon 34 259 Trimorphic Protennoia (NHC XIII,1) 381, 387, 388, 391 35.1ff. 387 37.12. 387 38.8 387 42.3ff. 387 48.32 387 Untitled treatise (Bruce Codex) 382 Vita Pachomii 21

359

4. Inscriptions and Papyri Archives royales de Mari 2.77.14 215

Berlin Papyrus 13918 256

Barcelona Papyrus 256

Chester Beatty papyrus 191, 217, 304, 305, 307, P46 317

440

Indices

Corpus Papyrorum Judaicarum 153 86 153.78 86 153.82–87 86 153.90–91 86 153.96–100 86 Deir Balyzeh Papyrus 256 Kanaanäische und aramäische Inschriften 26A III 5 212 Die keilalphabetischen Texte aus Ugarit 1.17 V 20 215 1.17 V 30 215 1.65 212 Orientis graeci inscriptiones selectee 669 236 Oxyrhynchus Papyrus 199 P15 33 305, 307 657 (P13) IV 725.15 395 2435 108 Papyri graecae magicae I.4–5 146 I.24–25 146

I.26–27 I.29 I.39–49 I.59–64 I.64–67 I.88–90 I.96–97 III.187–262 III.198–201 III.202–203 IV.296–466 IV.475–839 IV.795–799 IV.3125–3171 VII.540–578 XII.376–396 XIII.1–343 XIII.81–89 XIII.148–161 XIII.230–234 XIII.234–343 XIII.247–248 XIII.260–261 XIII.277–282 XIII.594–602 XLVIII.1–21 XLVIII.1–8

146 146 146 146 146 146 146 148 148 148 146 147 147 146 149 147 147 147 147 147 147 147 147 147 147 147 147

Sylloge inscriptionum graecarum 742, 33 236 742, 39 236

5. Other Ancient Writings Acta Isidori

86

Acts of the Pagan Martyrs 86 Aelian Varia Historia 5.17 145 Aelius Aristides 43.9 225 43.23 225 45.14 225

Aëtius Placita 1.11.2

223

Alcinous Didaskalikos 10.3 12.1–2 12.1

164 223, 224 164

Allogenes (NHC XI,3) 381 45.9–10 385 50.21–36 385

441

Index of Ancient Texts 51.27–35 58.7–19

386 386

Ammianus Marcellinus 19.1.7 110 Apocalypse of Adam (NHC V,5) 381, 391 82.25–28 385 85.30ff. 384 Apocalypse of Dositheus see Three Steles of Seth Apocalypse of Nikotheos 382 Apuleius Apologia (Pro se de magia) De dogma Platonis 1.7–9 224 Pseudo-Apuleius Asclepius 34 220, 225 Aristotle Analytica posterior 2.11.20–24 (94a) 223 De anima 411a8 222–223 Metaphysica 1.3.1 (933a–b) 223 5.2.1–3 (1013a–b) 223 Physica 2.7.198a 223 3.3.194b–200b 223 Rhetorica 1394b.7–34 15 1394a 17 1395a 20 1395b 20 Pseudo-Aristotle De Mundo 397b 225 Arius Didymus 164

Artemidorus Oneirocritica 2.53

99

Atticus Frg. 4.7

224

Augustan History 7.10 149 Cassius Dio Roman History 57.18.5 84 60.6.6–7 85 Catullus Carmina 2–3

136

Celsus 365 The True Doctrine 342 Chariton De Chaerea et Callirhoe 6.2.9 191 Cicero Academica posterior 28–29 164 De divinatione 150 1.107–108 151 2.76–77 151 De legibus 2.31 150 De natura deorum 2.3.9–10 151 De officiis 1.1.23 21 Epistulae ad Atticum 8.7.2 17, 18 In Verrum (Verrine Orations) 114 1.16.47 104 1.18.54 104 (Actio Secunda) 105 2.5.166 103 2.5.169 103–104 2.5.170 104, 105 2.5.175 104 2.342–343 105 2.343–344 105

442

Indices

Orationes philippicae 5.12 110 Pro Rabirio Perduellionis Reo 3 106 4.11 115 16 106 Codex Theodosianus 15.4 403 Cologne Mani Codex 391 46.3–48.15 389 Columella On Agriculture 8.8.9–10 136 Corpus hermeticum 5.10 225 13.19 220 Demosthenes Orations 26.23

239 239

Fronto 136 Ad Amicos 1.12 137 Ad Verum Imperator 2.1.11 151 Epistula 4.12 403 Heraclitus Frg. 5 222 14–5 222 40 222 42 222 53 222 56–57 222 96 222 Herodotus Historiae 1.159 7.220

145 239

Homer Iliad 15.495–98

238

238

Dio Cassius see Cassius Dio Diogenes Laertius 5.7–8 238 7.179 191 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Antiquitates romanae 7.37.2 236 Domitius Martius De Urbanitate 20 Epictetus Diatribai (Dissertationes) 2.15 191 2.18 191 Euripides Andromache 395–396 419–420 Hecuba 342–378 432–437

Phoenissae 911–1018 1090–1092

189 189 239 239

Horace Carmina 3.2.13 Satirae 1.8.1–3

238 210

Left Ginza 2.5

380

Lex Puteoli

115

Lex Valeria Aurelia 108 Libanius 192 Autobiography 5 137 Orations 56.13 400 Livy 8.9.10 10.28.12–13

239 239

443

Index of Ancient Texts Longinus De sublimitate 12.4–5 23 Manichaean Fragments 299a 1.1–5 389 Manichaean Homilies 33.23 385 68.15–19 389 85.33 385 Manichaean Kephalaia 7.27–30 385 12.9–12 389 23.17 385 25.11 385 30.17 385 302.20–26 389 Manichaean Psalm-Book, Part 2 22.14–15 385 26.10 385 42.32–34 390 76.17–18 385 86.19 385 95.23 385 96.25 385 121.31 385 139.29 385 142.3–9 389 165.16 385 166.19 385 Marcus Aurelius Meditations 4.23 225 Marsanes (NHC X,1) 381, 382, 386 Menander Frg. 3K

191

Numenius Frg. 12 ll. 1–3 15

164 397

Ovid Metamorphoses 13.831–833 136

Petronius Satyricon 46 94.1 Phalaris Epistula 81.1

136 186

236

(Pseudo-)Phocylides 106 158 Plato Apologia 32a Respublica 10 Symposium 179b Timaeus 28–29 28b 28d–e 29d–e 29d7–e2 29e Plautus The Captives 1002–1003

238 408 238 224 164 163 163 223 224 135 135

Pliny the Elder Naturalis historia 10.120 136 Pliny the Younger Epistulae 4.2.3–4 136 10.96 256 Plutarch Cleomenes 39 101 Consolatio ad uxorem 611 E 139 De Pythiae oraculis 400 149 402 149 405 149 Moralia 316B 208 369 165

444

Indices

373C 417C 720C Pelopidas 20–21 21.4

224 208 224

Porphyry Vita Plotini 16

268

239 239

382

Propertius Elegies 2.7

197

Quintilian Institutio oratia 5 8 8.5.3 8.5.3–11 8.5.7 8.5.12–14 8.5.15–24 8.5.18 9 10.1.190

15 15 16 16 17, 20 16, 17 16, 17 17 15 16

Qur’ān 2:136 3:49 5:110

390 128 128

Rhetorica ad Alexandrum 15 Rhetorica ad Herrenium 4.17.25 15 Šābuhragān

391

Senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre 108 Senatus consultum de Honoribus Germanici Decernendis 108 Seneca the Younger Epistula 58 225

62.3 65 65.4–5 65.7–10 65.10 76.4 90.34 Troades 193–202

18 225 223 223 223 18 18 239

Seneca the Elder Apolocyntosis 13.3 135 Controversiae 2.3.2 189 8.4 18 Suasoriae 7.11 18 Servius Commentary on the Aeneid 9.24 151 Stobaeus Anthologium 1.12.135.20–136.14 164 4.2.26 110 4.525.16–526.1 191 Suetonius Divus Augustus 7 Gaius Caligula 3 5.1 6.2 Claudius 25.4 Tiberius 36

151 107 109 109 85 84

Tabula Hebana 108 Tabula Siarensis 108 Tacitus Agricola 43.1 43.2 45.1–2

22 22 22

445

Index of Ancient Texts Annales 1.33 108 1.55.1 21, 22 1.55.4–5 21 1.57.1 21 2.12.33 22 2.18.1 22 2.57 108 2.59 108 2.69–70 108 2.69 108 2.70 107 2.75 189 2.82 108, 109 2.85 84 2.88.3 22 3.1–2 109 3.2–6 108 3.6–7 109 15.29 402 Dialogus de oratibus 1 22 Historiae 5.4.1 22 Tchacos Codex Allogenes 60:13–19 386 Three Steles of Seth (NHC VII,5) 372, 381

Thucydides 2.43.1–2

238

Timaeus of Locri On the Nature of the World and the Soul 7 164 Varro 223 On Agriculture 3.5–11 136 Virgil Aeneid 9

151

Xenophanes Frg. 23–26

222

Zostrianos (NHC VIII,1) 381, 382, 387 6.3–7.22 383 6.17–31 383 30.4–14 383 47.5–7ff. 384 48.26–28 384 51.12–18 383 123.2–10 384 130.1–18 383

Index of Modern Authors Aasgaard, R. 126, 131, 153 Abramowski, L. 384 Agamben, G. 110, 111, 112, 113 Ahearne-Kroll, P. D. 62 Ahearne-Kroll, S. P. 48, 52, 58, 59, 60, 61, 120, 146 Alcock, J. 133, 140 Allberry, C. R. C. 390 Allen, W. C. 74 Allison, D. C. 76, 97, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 193 Anderson, G. 159 Anderson, G. W. 36 Anderson, C. P. 305 Ando, C. 401, 403 Andresen, C. 342 Arnold, C. 206 Ash, H. B. 136 Ashton, J. 31, 396 Asiedu-Peprah, M. 32, 34 Attell, K. 111 Attridge, H. W. 13, 26, 27, 28, 32, 33, 37, 43, 46, 47, 60, 69, 87, 118, 123, 172, 196, 199, 222, 224, 226, 229, 258, 266, 281, 290, 291, 306, 307, 308, 309, 312, 313, 314, 315, 316, 319, 326, 327, 335, 341, 348, 394, 395, 396, 397 Aubin, M. 360 Audet, J.-P. 250 Auld, A. G. 36 Aune, D. E. 330 Austin, J. L. 62 Baars, W. 131 Babbitt, F. C. 149 Babcock, W. S. 355 Backhaus, K. 306, 307 Baden, J. 330 Badenas, R. 316

Baer, R. A. 166 Bagatti, B. 138 Baird, W. 320 Balch, D. L. 177, 194, 195 Balsdon, J. P. V. D. 176, 186 Barc, B. 387 Barclay, J. M. G. 84, 85 Barnes, T. D. 403 Barré, M. L. 176 Barrett, C. K. 34, 176, 337, 338 Barrett, D. P. 305 Barry, C. 384 Barton, J. 55 Bauckham, R. 131, 177, 181, 184, 185, 186, 262, 315 Bauer, W. 337 Bauernfeind, O. 71 Baur, F. C. 178, 229 Beard, M. 115 Beasley-Murray, G. R. 33, 337 Beck, E. 294 Becking, B. 205, 208 Bedjan, P. 295, 296, 297 Begrich, J. 59 Bell, H. I. 86 Bergmann, C. 210 Bernard, J. 34 Bernard, J. H. 337, 338 Bernett, M. 402 Betz, H. D. 146, 147, 148, 149 Beyerle, S. 51 Bieber, M. 142 Bieler, L. 359 Bieringer, R. 31, 32, 177 Bigg, C. 259 Billerbeck, P. 34 Bisscheroux, W. H. 49 Black, C. C. 24, 28 Blanc, C. 348 Blass, F. 320

447

Index of Modern Authors

Bliss, F. J. 138 Blomberg, C. 182 Bloom, H. 14 Blume, H.-D. 384 Bonner, S. 17, 18 Bonwetsch, G. N. 128 Borgen, P. 34, 35, 220 Boring, M. E. 61 Bornkamm, G. 264 Borret, M. 342 Bosson, N. 388 Boud’hors, A. 388 Bouley, A. 258 Bousset, W. 264 Bovon, F. 195, 265, 355, 358 Bowden, J. 103 Bowie, K. S. 28 Brachter, R. G. 59 Bradley, K. 132, 135, 140, 142, 143 Bradshaw, P. F. 253, 254, 255, 257, 264, 274, 295 Brakke, D. 385 Brandenburger, A. 152 Braun, H. 307 Brednich, R. W. 138 Brelich, A. 107 Bremmer, J. N. 357, 360 Brenk, F. E. 208 Brent, A. 150, 151 Breytenbach, C. 177, 302 Brimmer, W. 130 Bring, R. 316 Brisson, L. 382 Broadhead, E. K. 64, 67 Brock, A. G. 355 Brock, S. 281, 287, 292, 293, 294, 295, 296, 297 Brown, D. 199 Brown, L. 99 Brown, J. P. 178, 198 Brown, R. E. 25, 34, 54, 55, 63, 91, 119, 307, 309, 327, 336, 338, 344, 395 Bruce, F. F. 327 Bryan, S. M. 32 Bryder, P. 379, 383, 390 Buchanan, G. W. 306, 309 Bühner, J.-A. 396 Bultmann, R. 13, 33, 64, 71, 73, 76, 77, 94, 95, 96, 178, 182, 197, 320, 338

Burke, T. 126, 127, 128, 145, 148, 153 Burke, T. J. 178 Burkert, W. 152 Burkholder, G. 144 Burns, D. M. 381, 382, 383, 386 Burns, J. E. 35 Butler, H. E. 16 Byrne, B. 235 Bywater, I. 17 Cameron, R. 206, 229, 3489 Cämmerer, B. 133 Campbell, W. S. 316 Cancik, H. 375 Carroll, J. T. 121, 241 Carroll, R. P. 210 Cartlidge, D. R. 128, 367 Cerfaux, L. 374, 375, 379 Cerrato, J. A. 253 Chadwick, H. 82, 259, 342, 344, 345, 386 Chance, J. B. 361 Charlesworth, J. H. 289, 290 Chartrand-Burke, T. see Burke, T. Cherix, P. 128 Cheung, A. T. 202 Chilton, B. 178, 190, 191 Cirillo, L. 375 Clairmont, C. W. 140, 141 Clements, R. 159 Clendenen, E. R. 210 Clifford, R. J. 29 Cohen, A. 135, 137, 139, 140 Collins, A. Y. see Yarbro Collins Collins, J. J. 48, 51, 87, 209 Collins, R. 191 Colpe, C. 375 Colson, F. H. 90 Comfort, P. W. 305 Connerton, P. 153 Connolly, R. H. 266, 269 Constas, N. P. 26 Conze, A. 141 Conzelmann, H. 79, 188, 204 Cook, J. G. 115 Cornish, F. W. 136 Corrigan, K. 385 Cotton, H. M. 83 Cox, R. 165, 171, 172 Cox, S. E. 137

448

Indices Craigie, P. C. 59 Cranfield, C. E. B. 170, 237 Crouch, J. E. 70 Crum, W. E. 358 Crüsemann, F. 214 Cullmann, O. 82, 206 Culpepper, R. A. 24, 27, 28, 29, 32, 35, 37, 337 Curtis, E. M. 210 Daems, A. 144 Dagron, G. 145 Dailey, P. 113 Daly-Denton, M. 48 Daube, D. 82, 120 Davids, P. H. 181 Davidson, E. 147 Davies, W. D. 76, 82, 97, 178, 182, 371 Davila, J. R. 262 Davis, S. J. 146, 152, 360 DeBevoise, M. B. 390 DeBuhn, J. 390 Deichgräber, R. 324 Deissmann, A. 301 de Jonge, H. J. see Jonge De Lacy, P. 139 Delatte, A. 127 Deming, W. 192 DeSilva, D. A. 240 Des Places, E. 397 Dewey, A. J. 389 Dewey, J. 45 Dibelius, M. 76, 78, 79, 80, 93 Dillon, J. 164, 165, 224 Dionisotti, A. C. 135 DiTommaso, L. 192, 401 Dodd, C. H. 34, 41, 91, 181, 301, 395 Dodds, E. R. 149 Doering, L. 32, 34, 41 Dokka, T. S. 29 Donahue, J. R. 60, 61, 63 Donaldson, J. 127 Dorival, G. 348 Dornseiff, F. 149 Dörrie, H. 225, 384 Dowd, S. E. 58 Downey, G. 88 Downey, S. B. 145 Driggers, I. B. 49 Drijvers, H. J. W. 375, 376

Driscoll, J. 394 Duke, P. D. 27 Dungan, D. L. 178, 181, 199 Dunn, G. D. 150 Dunn, J. D. G. 79, 91, 169, 178, 179, 198, 199, 262, 283, 284, 316 Dupont, J. 97, 220 Eagleton, T. 62 Eaton-Krauss, M. 134 Ebeling, H. J. 77, 80, 81 Ebert, D. J. 324 Edwards, J. R. 51 Ehrman, B. D. 397 Einarson, B. 139 Eitrem, S. 94 Elarth, W. Van Ingen 144 Elliott, J. K. 73, 74, 128, 178 Ellis, E. E. 196 Elsas, C. 375 Eltester, F. W. 158, 159 Endelman, T. M. 157 Ennen, E. 138 Eriksson, A. 32, 340, 396 Ernest, J. D. 399, 400 Esler, P. F. 131 Étienne, R. 402 Evans, C. A. 54, 58, 61, 63, 178 Fairclough, H. R. 151 Fairweather, J. 16 Falconer, W. A. 151 Faraone, C. A. 146 Fassler, M. E. 60 Fee, G. D. 175, 176, 179, 202, 216, 218 Feldman, L. H. 83 Ferguson, E. 192 Filtzinger, P. 133 Fiorenza, E. S. see Schüssler Fiorenza Fischer, B. 261 Fishwick, D. 152, 402 Fittà, M. 132, 133, 137, 140, 141, 143 Fitzmyer, J. A. 97, 169, 170, 188, 189, 196, 202, 204, 205, 216, 220, 236, 238, 301 Fjärstedt, B. 177, 181 Fluck, C. 132, 134 Foerster, W. 348, 380 Foley, R. 34 Forbes, C. 206

449

Index of Modern Authors

Forster, E. F. 136 Fortna, R. T. 33 Fotopoulos, J. 202 Foucault, M. 100, 101, 114 France, R. T. 177, 178, 182, 191 Frankenburg, W. 377 Frankfurter, D. 392 Frankowski, J. 323 Frede, D. 223 Fredriksen, P. 30, 38, 82, 89 Freedman, H. 346 Frey, J. 46 Froschauer, H. 132, 140, 141 Funk, R. W. 34, 76 Funk, W.-P. 381, 386 Furnish, V. P. 169, 178, 180, 183, 199, 229, 266 Gabra, G. 134 Gager, J. G. 82, 83 García Martínez, F. 32 Gardner, I. 389, 391 Gardner, J. F. 176, 186 Garland, D. 175, 176 Gaventa, B. R. 33, 206 Gelardini, G. 304 Geoltrain, P. 358 Georgi, D. 168, 304, 306 Gerstel, S. 26 Getcha, J. 295 Gibson, J. B. 50 Gieschen, C. A. 375, 376, 377, 379, 382, 391 Glad, C. E. 204 Gladigow, B. 375 Glassman, B. 157 Glasson, T. F. 208 Gnilka, J. 49, 51, 60, 61, 93, 94, 95 Golden, L. 408 Gooch, P. 177, 180, 181, 184, 198 Goodman, M. 84 Goold, G. P. 136, 151 Goppelt, L. 182 Gordon, J. D. 197 Grabbe, L. 162 Gradel, I. 151, 402 Grankjouan, C. 133 Grässer, E. 320–21, 322 Green, J. B. 121, 185, 186, 189, 194, 195, 196, 241

Green, W. S. 83 Greenspoon, L. J. 39 Greig, J. C. G. 69 Griffith, F. L. 145 Grobel, K. 64 Grossman, J. B. 140, 141 Gruber, M. 205 Gruen, E. S. 40, 83 Grundmann, W. 93 Guelich, R. A. 73, 81, 94 Grundmann, W. 96 Gunkel, H. 59 Guthrie, S. C. 82 Haas, N. 280 Hadot, P. 385 Haenchen, E. 337 Hagen, H. 151 Haines, C. R. 137, 151 Häkkinen, S. 373, 375, 377 Hakola, R. 31, 38 Halkin, H. 39 Hall, C. A. M. 82 Hammond, N. G. L. 150 Hare, D. R. A. 373 Harrauer, H. 132, 140, 141 Harrington, D. J. 60, 61, 63 Hastings, C. 34 Hatina, T. R. 48, 49, 50, 51, 64, 67 Hawthorne, G. F. 316 Hayne, L. 360 Hays, R. B. 60, 178 Head, P. M. 95 Hedrick, C. W. 385 Heffner, E. H. 136 Heil, J. P. 330 Heine, R. E. 348, 349, 351 Heinz, A. 276 Helderman, J. 131, 267 Helleman, W. E. 112 Helmer, C. 348 Heman, P. 128 Hendricks, O. O. 117 Hengel, M. 103, 106, 182, 238 Hennecke, E. 145 Henning, W. B. 389 Henten, J. W. van 239 Herzfeld, M. 215 Heseltine, M. 136 Hilhorst, A. 357

Indices Hirsch, E. 100 Hoare, R. W. N. 33 Hock, R. F. 129, 153, 360 Hodge, C. J. 302 Hodge, H. G. 106 Hoffmann, G. 140 Hoffmann, R. J. 342, 344 Hoheisel, K. 374, 379 Holl, K. 373 Holladay, C. R. 34 Holland, L. A. 150 Hollander, H. W. 219 Holloway, P. 15, 16, 17, 18, 146 Holtz, T. 178 Holzhey, K. 360 Hooker, M. D. 63, 241, 315 Hooper, W. D. 136 Hopfner, T. 149 Horbury, W. 371 Horrell, D. 202, 204, 218 Horsley, R. A. 82, 90, 118, 167, 202, 205, 206, 220, 225 Horst, P. W. van der 85, 89, 90, 205, 208 Hoskyns, E. C. 337 Hossfeld, F.-L. 59 Howard, G. E. 316 Hübner, U. 138 Hughes, P. E. 327 Huizenga, J. 134 Humbert, M. 176 Hunter, A. M. 182 Hunter, D. G. 192 Hurtado, L. 257, 262 Huskinson, J. 139, 140, 141, 142 Hutchins, F. 14 Huzar, E. G. 403 Iersel, B. M. F. van 49, 60, 63 Jackson, H. 381, 382, 383 Jackson-McCabe, M. 371, 375 James, M. R. 128 Jay, E. G. 258, 259 Jennison, G. 136 Jeremias, J. 72 Jervell, J. S. 158 Jewett, R. 302 Jobling, D. 62 Johnson, E. S. 77

450 Johnson, L. T. 30 Johnson, M. E. 253, 254, 255 Johnson, S. E. 45 Johnston, S. I. 149, 150 Jones, F. S. 371, 372, 373, 374, 375, 377, 378, 391 Jonge, H. J. de 31 Jungmann, J. 257, 261, 262, 263, 264, 272 Kaestli, J.-D. 128 Kambitsis, S. 146 Kamesar, A. 397 Kannengiesser, C. 400, 401 Kantiréa, M. 402 Karrer, M. 209 Karvonen-Kannas, K. 144 Käsemann, E. 206 Kasher, A. 83, 85, 86 Kasser, R. 358 Keck, L. E. 24 Kee, H. C. 45, 71 Keefer, K. 349 Kelhoffer, J. A. 146 Kelley, N. 375, 376 Kertelge, K. 72, 77, 81, 93, 94, 95 Keyes, C. W. 150 Kierspel, L. 31, 38 Kilpatrick, G. D. 73 King, K. L. 380 Kingsbury, J. D. 77, 78 Kipling, R. 14, 21, 24, 25 Kippenberg, H. G. 69, 375 Kiraz, G. A. 293, 294, 296 Klauck, H.-J. 183 Klein, A. E. 132, 133 Kleiner, D. E. E. 140 Klijn, A. F. J. 270, 373, 374, 377, 379, 383, 392 Klimkeit, H.-J. 390 Klink, E. 15 Klostermann, E. 93 Koch, D.-A. 72 Koester, C. R. 29, 41, 304, 307, 308, 311, 313 Koester, H. 323 Kohl, M. 120 Kollamparampil, T. 295, 296 Kondakov, N. P. 149 Kooten, G. H. van 158, 159, 169, 171

451

Index of Modern Authors

Kosmala, H. 63 Kötting, B. 176 Kraft, R. A. 87 Kraus, H.-J. 59 Kraus, W. 61, 209 Kuemmerlin-McLean, J. K. 208 Kugel, J. L. 326 Kuhn, H.-W. 178, 179 Kushner, T. 157 Labahn, M. 33, 83 Ladner, G. B. 400, 401, 403, 408 Lafont, G. 394 Lagrange, M.-J. 337 Laks, A. 223 Lamberton, R. D. 133–34 Lane, W. L. 72 Larsen, K. B. 37 Larsson, E. 158 Lattimore, R. 176 Lattke, M. 289 Layton, B. 381 Lazenby, F. D. 135, 141 Lazos, C. D. 132 Le Dinahet, M.-T. 140, 142 Legassé, S. 75, 81 Leitch, J. W. 188 Lentner, J. J. 360 Levenson, J. D. 54 Levine, A.-J. 194 Levtow, N. 207, 210, 211, 213 Lewis, G. S. 262 Lezzi-Hafter, A. 140 Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G. 151 Liertz, U.-M. 402 Lieu, J. 84, 379, 389, 391 Lieu, S. N. E. Lightman, M. 176 Lincoln, A. T. 337, 340 Lindars, B. 34, 338 Lindemann, A. 191 Linnemann, E. 63 Lipsius, R. A. 264 Livingstone, E. A. 316 Logan, A. 387, 388 Lohmeyer, E. 93, 96 Longenecker, R. N. 182, 374 Lossky, A. 295 Lovering, E. H. 266 Lowe, M. 31

Lozada, F. 32, 37 Luckritz Marquis, T. 118 Lüdemann, G. 372 Luisier, P. 358 Lund, N. W. 330 Luomanen, P. 372, 373, 375 Luttikhuizen, G. P. 372, 374, 379, 381, 391 Lux, U. 138 Luz, U. 70, 71, 72, 73, 76, 79, 80, 81, 93, 95 MacDermot, V. 382 MacDonald, D. R. 355, 356, 363, 367 MacDonald, M. Y. 176, 186 Mack, B. 229 MacMullen, R. 143, 407 MacRae, G. W. 29 Malbon, E. S. 46, 47, 49 Malherbe, A. J. 60, 204, 217 Mann, F. 384 Manson, W. 82, 304 Marcovich, M. 373 Marcus, J. 49, 55, 63, 99, 100, 101, 102, 105, 119, 121 Marinescu, C. A. 137 Marjanen, A. 372, 373 Marsh, J. 71, 197 Marshall, I. H. 74, 194 Martens, J. 112 Martin, D. B. 118, 201, 202, 208 Martin, R. P. 321 Martinez, D. 146 Martínez, F. G. see García Martínez Martyn, J. L. 28, 30, 33, 38, 206 Mason, S. 87 Maurer, C. 63 May, J. M. 105 Mayer, G. 51 McDonagh, F. 34, 71 McGowan, A. 279 McGrath, J. F. 33, 34, 41 McGuckin, J. A. 348 McVey, K. 292 Mealand, D. 35, 36 Meeks, W. A. 13, 15, 19, 28, 31, 33, 41, 60, 91, 117, 217, 380 Meggit, J. 99, 100 Meier, J. P. 307, 321, 322, 324, 336, 345

452

Indices Meijering, E. P. 400, 402, 408 Merkelbach, R. 379, 391 Merker, G. S. 144, 145 Meyer, A. 145 Michaels, J. R. 337 Miller, J. F. 136 Miller, M. P. 206, 229 Milske, G. J. 261 Minette de Tillesse, G. 72, 80, 97 Mirecki, P. 390 Misset-van de Weg, M. 360 Mitchell, C. W. 390 Mitchell, M. M. 28, 121 Mitchell, T. N. 106 Moberly, R. W. L. 62 Möbius, H. 142 Mollard-Besques, S. 142 Mollaun, R. A. 301 Moloney, F. J. 25, 32, 34, 37, 41, 53, 60, 62, 337, 338 Momigliano, A. 85, 86 Moo, D. J. 63 Moore, C. 22 Moore, S. D. 29 Moriarty, F. L. 29 Moricca, V. 128 Morris, L. 338 Moss, C. R. 53, 252, 407 Mouhanna, A. 287 Moxnes, H. 118 Mullen, E. T. 208 Munier, C. 259 Murbach, E. 128 Murphy-O’Connor, J. 199, 220, 221 Murray, R. 279, 280 Musurillo, H. 86 Myers, S. E. 265, 276, 290, 291 Nagalski, J. D. 59 Nagel, P. 381 Nalebuff, B. 152 Nautin, P. 348 Nay, M. A. 129 Neils, J. 132 Neirynck, F. 177, 178, 180, 181, 183, 184, 185 Neusner, J. 31 Newman, C. C. 262 Newton, D. 202, 218 Neyrey, J. H. 32, 34

Nicklas, T. 42 Niederwimmer, K. 220, 250 Niehoff, M. R. 159 Niehr, H. 208 Nilsson, M. P. 144 Nissen, A. 110, 111 Nissen, J. 29 Nixon, P. 135 Nolland, J. 189, 194, 196 Nora, P. 126 Norden, E. 220 Norman, A. F. 137 North, J. A. 84, 115 Oakley, J. H. 132, 140, 141, 142 O’Brien, K. S. 57, 63, 64 O’Day, G. R. 27, 337 Odeberg, H. 34, 337 Olbricht, T. H. 32, 340, 396 Oliver, J. H. 109 Olyan, S. 215, 218 O’Neill, E. N. 146 Oort, J. van 372 Opitz, H.-G. 405 Ötzen, A. 372 Overbeck, F. 306 Paget, J. C. 371 Painchaud, L. 381, 387 Painter, J. 29, 34, 35, 337 Palmer, R. E. A. 109 Pancaro, S. 32, 33 Papaconstantinou, A. 133 Parker, P. 325 Parker, S. B. 208 Parvis, S. 401 Patai, R. 39 Patterson, S. J. 178 Pearson, B. 167, 381, 383, 385, 386, 391, 392 Pease, A. S. 150 Pedersen, S. 29 Peeler, A. 261 Peeters, R. 127 Pelikan, J. 398, 400, 404 Peppard, M. 113, 397, 403, 404 Peristiany, J. G. 215 Perkins, J. 361 Perrin, N. 67

453

Index of Modern Authors

Pervo, R. I. 355, 358, 361, 362, 366, 369 Pesch, R. 71, 72, 73, 94, 95 Peterson, N. 15 Pfuhl, E. 142 Phillips, L. E. 253, 254, 255 Phua, R. L.-S. 205, 207 Pickthall, M. W. 128 Pierce, M. 289 Pinch, G. 145, 146 Piper, J. 178 Pippin, T. 62 Pitarakis, B. 133, 134 Pitre, B. J. 189 Pitt-Rivers, J. 215 Planck, D. 133 Poirier, P.-H. 381, 382, 387 Pollard, J. 135, 145, 151 Pollefeyt, D. 31, 32 Polotsky, H. J. 390 Pomeroy, S. 176, 186 Preisendanz, K. 146, 147, 148, 149 Preuss, H. D. 207 Price, S. R. F. 115, 402 Provera, M. E. 127 Pucci, M. Ben Zeev 83 Pusey, J. B. 351 Quesnell, Q. 195 Quirke, S. 145 Rackham, H. 136, 151 Rad, G. von 207, 214 Radice, B. 136, 160, 256 Räisänen, H. 72, 73, 75, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 93, 94, 95, 96 Rajak, T. 83, 84 Rasimus, T. 381, 384, 385, 388 Reeder, E. D. 137, 138, 140, 142 Reeves, J. C. 382, 383, 385, 388, 389, 390 Reich, H. 99 Reinhartz, A. 30, 31 Reinhold, M. 83 Reinink, G. J. 373, 374, 377, 379, 392 Renard, J. 130 Rennings, H. 276 Rensberger, D. 91 Resch, A. 178 Rese, M. 97

Reyburn, W. D. 59 Richard, E. 25 Richardson, P. 177, 180, 181, 183, 184, 198 Riches, J. K. 33, 71 Riedo-Emmenegger, C. 87, 88, 90 Riley, G. J. 208 Rindge, M. S. 49–50, 58 Ritner, R. K. 146 Roberts, A. 127 Robinson, N. 128 Rolfe, J. C. 151 Romiopoulou, K. 140, 141 Rordorf, W. 357, 358, 364 Rösel, M. 163 Rosén, T. 129 Roth, W. M. W. 207, 210, 211, 214 Rothschild, C. K. 304, 305, 306, 361 Rotroff, S. I. 134 Rouse, W. H.D. 135 Ruckstuhl, E. 325 Rudloff, D. 128 Rudolph, K. 375, 380, 390, 391 Runia, D. T. 159, 160, 163, 166, 217, 223, 224, 225 Rutgers, L. V. 83, 84, 85, 90 Rutter, J. B. 135, 137, 140 Ryken, L. 366 Said, E. 14 Saller, S. J. 138 Salza Prina Ricotti, E. 132, 133, 140 Sanday, W. 82 Sanders, E. P. 78, 88, 92, 316 Sanders, J. A. 54 Sanders, J. N. 338 Sanders, J. T. 321, 322 Santos Otero, A. de 127 Satran, D. 159 Sauer, J. 178 Schäfer, P. 345, 346 Schatkin, M. A. 192 Scheidweiler, F. 344, 345 Schenke, H.-M. 381, 384, 387, 392 Schleifer, R. 62 Schmauch, W. 96 Schmidt, C. 382, 390 Schmidt, K. L. 94 Schmithals, W. 73 Schmitt, C. 111

Indices Schnackenburg, R. 34, 337 Schneemelcher, W. 127, 345 Schoeps, H.-J. 373, 374, 376, 379, 380, 382, 391 Schrage, W. 175, 176 Schreiber, S. 302 Schroeter, J. 361 Schulz, S. 338 Schürer, E. 82 Schürmann, H. 181 Schüssler Fiorenza, E. 321 Schwanz, P. 158 Schwartz, D. R. 41 Schwartz, R. M. 62 Schwartz, S. 215 Schweizer, E. 63, 76, 95 Schwiebert, J. 250 Scopello, M. 386 Scott, J. C. 102 Scullard, H. H. 150 Seebass, Horst 51 Segovia, F. F. 29, 35, 337 Seim, T. K. 194 Seitz, O. 326 Sekeles, E. 280 Sellin, G. 167 Setton, K. M. 403 Setzer, C. J. 344 Seybroeck, F. van 178 Shapiro, A. 401 Sharples, R. 223 Shaw, T. M. 256 Sherk, R. K. 108, 109 Sike, H. 127 Sinclair, P. 16, 20, 21, 22, 24 Sjöberg, E. 71, 78, 93 Slingerland, H. D. 83, 84, 85, 86 Sloyan, G. S. 101, 103 Smallwood, E. M. 83, 84, 85, 86, 87 Smit, J. 203, 216 Smith, D. 34 Smith, D. M. 24, 28, 338, 339 Smith, M. 31 Smith, M. S. 212, 213 Smith, T. A. 129 Soards, M. L. 182, 186, 189, 190 Spicq, C. 307, 320, 362 Spinks, B. D. 257, 261, 262, 291, 295 Sprague, R. K. 223 Stählin, G. 72

454 Staley, J. L. 37 Stambaugh, J. E. 202 Stegner, W. R. 54 Sterling, G. E. 159, 160, 166, 167, 168, 172, 221, 223, 224, 225, 226 Stern, M. 83 Stewart, A. C. 253, 256 Stewart-Sykes, A. C. see Stewart, A. C. Stibbe, M. W. G. 29, 32 Stockhausen, C. K. 169 Stoops, R. F. 363 Stowers, S. K. 206, 301, 302 Strack, H. L. 34 Strauss, H. 51 Strecker, G. 79, 81, 191, 371, 372, 375, 377, 378, 379, 380, 382, 391 Streeter, B. H. 96 Stroumsa, G. G. 69, 373 Studer, B. 394, 398 Stuhlmacher, P. 178, 316 Sturdy, J. 371 Sumney, J. L. 266 Sundberg, A. C. 33 Swete, H. B. 76, 81 Swetnam, J. 74 Taft, R. 276, 295 Talbot, A.-M. 133 Tardieu, M. 382, 390, 391 Taylor, J. 371 Taylor, R. 150 Taylor, V. 49, 53, 76, 78, 82, 94 Thackeray, H. St. J. 320 Thatcher, T. 38 Theiler, W. 217 Theissen, G. 69, 71, 73, 75, 76, 77, 78, 82, 90, 94, 96, 120 Thilo, G. 151 Thilo, J. K. 127, 135 Thiselton, A. C. 167 Thompson, D. W. 129 Thompson, M. 177, 184, 186, 194 Thrall, M. 178 Thyen, H. 306 Tischendorf, C. 127, 130 Tisserant, E. 128 Tissot, Y. 265 Tobin, T. H. 87, 160, 166, 226, 230, 234, 244 Tomson, P. J. 32

455

Index of Modern Authors

Tongerloo, A. van 375 Toorn, Karel van der 205, 208, 210 Török, L. 134 Torrey, C. C. 306 Trible, P. 185 Trigg, J. W. 342, 349 Trobisch, D. 304 Tuckett, C. M. 72, 79, 81, 93, 178, 180, 182, 195 Turcescu, L. 192, 401 Turner, J. D. 381, 382, 383, 384, 385, 386, 387, 388 Tyson, J. B. 355 Übelacker, W. 32, 340, 396 Uhlenbrock, J. P. 138 Ulrich, E. C. 51 Vaage, L. E. 194 Vandecasteele-Vanneuville, F. 31 van der Horst, P. W. see Horst van der Toorn, Karel see Toorn Van der Watt, J. G. 46 van Henten, J. W. see Henten Vanhoye, A. 177, 308, 320, 327 van Iersel, Bas M. F. see Iersel van Oort, J. see Oort van Tongerloo, A. see Tongerloo Van Voorst, R. E. 375, 377, 378 Vasaly, A. 105 Vasiliev, A. 128 Vermès, G. 82 Versnel, H. S. 107, 109, 111, 113, 114 von Rad see Rad von Wahlde, U. C. 31 Voorst, R. E. van see Van Voorst Vouaux, L. 366, 367 Wachter, R. 137 Wahlde, U. C. von see von Wahlde Wallace-Hadrill, A. 138 Wallis, R. T. 224 Walsh, J. T. 54, 55 Walters, N. 178 Wansbrough, H. 178 Watson, D. F. 69 Watson, F. 79 Watts, R. E. 51, 63 Watts, W. 137 Wedderburn, A. J. M. 178, 229, 306

Weeden, T. J. 79 Weinstock, S. 152 Weiss, J. 81 Welborn, L. L. 99 Wengst, K. 250 Wenham, D. 177, 178, 181, 182, 191, 199, 229 Westcott, B. F. 308, 338 Whitaker, G. H. 90 Whitmarsh, T. 23 Widdicombe, P. 400, 406 Wiegelmann, G. 138 Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U. von 108 Wilckens, U. 236, 238 Wiles, M. F. 349 Wilken, R. L. 321, 342 Williams, F. 373 Williams, M. A. 384 Williams, M. H. 84 Williams, S. K. 302 Willis, W. 202 Wilmart, A. 128 Wilson, R. McL. 127, 345, 348, 380 Wilson, S. G. 344 Wimbush, V. L. 194 Windisch, H. 168 Winkler, G. 274, 276, 290, 291 Winston, D. 165, 216 Winter, B. 158, 159 Wisse, F. 381 Witherington, B. 202 Witkamp, L. T. 33 Wolfson, E. R. 81 Wooden, R. G. 61, 209 Woolf, B. L. 76 Wray, J. H. 267 Wrede, W. 69, 74, 75, 76, 78, 79, 80, 90, 93, 95, 229, 306 Wright, M. R. 222, 223 Yadin, Y. 280 Yarbro Collins, A. 45, 48, 49, 52, 53, 55, 56, 57, 60, 61, 62, 63, 67, 71, 73, 77, 80, 81, 94, 99, 100, 101, 102, 119, 120, 121, 221 Young, F. M. 28 Zajdman, A. 39 Zangenberg, J. 83, 118 Zanker, P. 401

456

Indices Zeisel, W. 176 Zellentin, H. M. 40 Zeller, D. 175, 176, 183 Zenger, E. 59 Zheltov, M. 256

Zias, J. 134, 280 Zimmermann, M. 178 Zimmermann, R. 46, 178 Ziv, A. 39 Zucker, F. 108

General Index Abraham 234, 302–303, 308–315, 335– 339, 341, 350 Adam as savior/Christ 373, 374, 380 Alexander the Alabarch 86 Allah 128 Anointing in initiation 267 n. 22, 274 n. 46, 275–277, 277 n. 55, 278–279, 290–296 – in Acts of Thomas 290 Antioches IV Ephiphanes 41–42 Antiochus of Ascalan 164 Apion 87 Aqedah/Akedah 50 n. 19, 50 n. 20, 50, 58 n. 53 Arians/Arianism 263, 399, 402, 405–406 Asclepius 145 Baptism 277 n. 55, 274 n. 46, 276, 279 of Jesus 48–52 Baptismal images – branding/marking 288–291, 294, 297, 298 – robe/robing 288, 293, 295, 297, 298 – seal/sealing 288–291, 293 297, 298 – spiritual fire 288 – womb/mother 290, 294–298 Barbelo 387–388 Ben Stada 345 Ben Pandera 345–346 Birds in Greco-Roman culture 131–149 – as children’s pets and toys 131–143 – augury 144, 148–150, 150 n. 106, 150 n. 112, 151, 151 n. 109, 152 – in ancient cultic worship 144–145 – in magical practices 145–148 – on funerary art 139–143 Burials, Roman 115 n. 39 Caesaura 324 Caiaphus 92, 92 n. 102

Catullus, Roman governor 88 Celsus 343–348, 352 Cicero and rhetoric 18–19 Childhood of Jesus 125–129, 143 Children as divinatory agents 149, 149 n. 102 Christological hymns 171–173 Christological images 393 – apprentice 394, 395 n. 5, 395 n. 6, 396– 398, 398 n. 16, 399, 403, 407–408 – imperial statue 399–401, 401 n. 34, 402–406, 406 n. 48, 407–408, 408 n. 58 Christology – angelomorphic 374 n. 11 – Ebionite 371–373, 373 n. 8, 374, 374 n. 11, 375 n. 17, 376–377, 381, 388 – Elchasaite 372–374, 378–379, 379 n. 42, 380–381, 388, 391–392 – high priest 251–253, 302, 319, 330 – Johannine 25, 25 n. 31 – Nicene 394, 397–399, 404, 405, 405 n. 47, 406 – Pseudo-Clementine 371, 372, 374–375, 375 n. 17, 378–380, 388 Claudius, Roman emperor 85, 86, 86 n. 78, 92 Crucifixion 99, 99 n. 2, 99 n. 3, 100, 103 n. 11 – and irony 100 n.4 – as institutional parody 101 – of Germanicus 107–110, 114 – of Jesus 102, 114–123 – of Publias Gavius 103–105 Daimonia 201, 203, 215, 217–220 Day of Atonement 235 n. 10, 301 n. 1, 302 Delphic oracle 149 Demiurge in Platonism 223 n. 61, 224

458 Demons see Daimonia Divine council 207 Eidôla 201, 201 n. 1, 203, 215, 217–219 see also Idols Elchasai 372–374, 379–380, 388, 391, 392 Eleazar 239–240 Elijah 52, 53 n. 31, 54–57, 57 n. 49, 66 – as Moses redivivus 54, 54 n. 33 Epiclesis 267–269, 274–277, 277 n. 55, 281 n. 64 Eucharist 274 n. 46, 275 n. 47 Eudorus 164 Expiation 235 n. 10, 235–236, 243 – human death as 238–240 – Jesus’ death 240, 241 – piaculum/offering 239, 239 n. 25 Feast of Tabernacles 335 Festival of Booths 341 Flaccus 85, 90 n. 95 Gaius, embassy to 85–86 Gnaeus Piso, governor of Syria 107–108 Gnosticism 158, 173 – Mandaean 380, 380 n. 10 – Manichaean 382, 382 n. 59, 385 n. 74, 388–392 – Sethian 381–385, 385 n. 74, 386–389, 391 Holy Spirit – and baptismal water 296 – and prayer 274–278 – as mother 276, 278, 278 n. 56, 292 – in baptism/initiation 288–290, 292– 294, 296 Idols – meat offering 219 – Jewish polemics against 206–214 see also Eidôla Image of God 157–173 – in Paul 167–171 – in Philo 160–167 – as heavenly person 166–167 – as Logos 160–165 – as Wisdom 165 Imperial Statue

Indices – Eikōn 399, 400, 400 n. 20, 400 n. 21, 401 n. 24, 402–403, 403 n. 35, 404, 404 n. 40, 405–406 Paradeigma 400, 400 n. 20, 400 n. 21, 401 n. 24, 402–403, 403 n. 35, 404, 404 n. 40, 405–406 Initiation – prayer 266 n. 21, 274–283 – seal 275 n. 48 see also Baptism Irony, Johannine 27–43, 100, 338, 339 Israel, restoration 207, 209 Iustitium 109, 110, 110 n. 25, 111, 112, 112 n. 29, 113–114 Jews and Roman rule 82–87 – death of prophets 91 Jews and Roman state 70–71, 82–92 Jesus, son of Ananias 89 Jonathan the weaver 87, 87 n. 85, 88, 92, 93 Lady Wisdom see Sophia Leonidas, King 239 Leontopolis temple 87 Logos 46, 259, 280 n. 63, 341, 342 – in Philo 160–165, 224, 225, 225 n. 65, 284 n. 78 – in Plutarch 9 Mani 371–372, 380, 382, 389–392, 391 n. 102 Manichaean Gnosticism see Gnosticism Marcion 355 Maronite baptismal liturgy/rite 287– 288, 295, 298 Marriage and childbearing – barrenness and New Testament – macarisms 177, 183–187, 189–192, 197 n. 79 – in Hellenism 186 – in Old Testament/Judaism 186–187 – Roman view 186 Mary, mother of Jesus 335, 335 n. 2, 339, 344–346, 352 Melchizedek, priesthood of 307–308, 310–313, 317, 319, 330 Mercy seat 235 n. 10, 301 Messianic secret 69–72, 72 n. 9, 73–82, 92–93

General Index – disobedience motif 69–70, 70 n. 4, 72– 74, 74 n. 14, 76, 77 n. 30, 79 n. 44, 80–82, 93–94, 94 n. 107, 98 – origins of disobedience motif 93–97 Middle Platonism 224, 224 n. 62 Mohammed 382 n. 58, 390 Moses 52–53, 53 n. 31, 54–55, 55 n. 44, 56–57, 66, 158, 160, 162, 168, 169 Nag Hammadi 381–382, 391 Nero , Roman emperor 364, 365, 368 Nicanor, governor of Judea 41–42, 42 n. 34 Ninevites 61–62, 62 n. 64 Oil of anointing 274, 274 n. 46, 275–281, 290–294, 297–298 Panthera/Pandera story 344–345, 345 n. 22, 346, 352 Passion account – of Jesus 57–66 – of Paul in Acts of Paul 363–365 Paul – arrest 356, 364 – as master 366–367 – as savior 355, 366–367, 369 – as shepherd 366–368 – disciples 360–362 – execution 356, 365 – passion account 356, 363–365 – post-resurrection appearances 356, 365 – transfiguration 362 – wilderness experience 356, 359 Peripatetics 224 n. 61 Philosophia perennis 388, 390–392 Platonism 160, 162–165, 172–173, 224, 224 n. 61, 225, 226, 226 n. 70 – mimēsis 405 n. 47, 408, 408 n. 57 Prayer addressed to Jesus 256–259, 261, 261 n. 3, 262, 262 n. 5, 263 263 n. 11, 264, 265–273 Prayer addressed to Holy Spirit 274–278 Prayer “through” Jesus – Jesus as servant (pais) 250, 252–253 – Jesus as high priest 251–253 Prologue, Epistle to Hebrews – as christological hymn 320–325 – relationship to body of letter 327–332 – staircase parallelism 326, 326 n. 22

459

Ptolemy IV Philopater 102 n.10 Pythagorean reincarnation 373, 378–379, 379 n. 41, 392 Quirinus 152 n. 114 Regulus, Roman hero 105 n. 15 Rhetorical sententiae/maxims 13, 14 – Aristotle 17, 20 – function 14, 18 – Greek use 15, 17 – Quintillian 15–17, 20 – Roman use 15–18 – Ardens style 16, 18 – use by Cicero 18–19 – use by Seneca 18 – use by Tacitus 20–23 – use in Gospel of John 14–15, 18–20, 23–26 Roman Christian community – and Mosaic Law 230–231, 233–234, 244 – and Paul 230–235, 235 n. 10, 243–244 Rome, and Jewish prophets 90–92 Romulus 145 n. 114 Sabbath, Jesus’ violation of 32, 33, 37 “Seed” of Abraham 231, 232, 302–303, 308, 309, 309 n. 23, 310, 312–313, 315, 317, 335, 350 “Seed” of Seth 382 n. 59, 383–385, 386 n. 78, 386 n. 79, 387 n. 87 Sejanus 85, 85 n. 70 Senatus consultum ultimatum (SCU) 106 n. 16, 109, 110 Seth 381–382, 382 n. 59, 383 , 383 n. 67, 384–385, 387 n. 87, 388, 392 Sites of memory 125–126, 131, 143 Son of Man 56, 57, 64, 64 n. 74 Sophia/Wisdom 165–166, 171–172, 275 n. 48, 323 Theodosius II 403 Transfiguration of Jesus 52–54, 54 n. 37, 55–57 “True Prophet” (Pseudo-Clementine) 375–378, 378 n. 39, 382 n. 58, 392 Univira 176, 192

460 Verres, trial of 103–104 Vespasian, Roman emperor 87–88 Virgin birth tradition 335 n. 2, 341–342, 352 – Celsus 343–348, 352 – Jewish polemic against 345–346, 352 – Origen’s defense of 344–347

Indices Widows/widowhood – Old Testament/Jewish view 176, 185, 188, 198 – Paul’s use of Jesus Tradition 179–197 Wisdom see Sophia