Rhetoric and Drama in the Johannine Lawsuit Motif (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen Zum Neuen Testament) 9783161502620, 9783161515477, 3161502620

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Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Herausgeber / Editor Jörg Frey (Zürich) Mitherausgeber / Associate Editors Friedrich Avemarie (Marburg) Markus Bockmuehl (Oxford) Hans-Josef Klauck (Chicago, IL)

258

George L. Parsenios

Rhetoric and Drama in the Johannine Lawsuit Motif

Mohr Siebeck

George L. Parsenios, born 1969; 2003 PhD, Yale University; Associate Professor of New Testament at Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, New Jersey (USA).

e-ISBN PDF 978-3-16-151547-7

ISBN 978-3-16-150262-0 ISSN 0512-1604 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data is available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. © 2010 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 typeset by Martin Fischer in Tübingen using Minion typeface, printed by GuldeDruck in Tübingen on non-aging paper and bound Buchbinderei Spinner in Ottersweier. Printed in Germany.

For my parents

Acknowledgements People write books in order to participate in scholarly discussions, and I hope this book makes a contribution to the ongoing conversation about the meaning and significance of the Gospel of John. As I finish it, however, I have in mind not so much the conversations that I hope will follow its publication, but the many conversations that occurred during its production. Two of the following chapters, for instance, had earlier lives as papers at the 2006 Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Washington, D. C., one in the Corpus Hellenisticum Novi Testamenti Group, entitled “The Ζήτησις in the Oedipus Rex of Sophocles and the Gospel of John,” and one in the Johannine Literature Section, entitled “The Lawsuit Motif and Dramatic Recognition in the Gospel of John: Semeia and Anagnoresis Reconsidered.” Portions of chapters 1 and 3 are also taken from or based on my essay “‘No Longer in the World’ (John 17:11): The Transformation of the Tragic in the Fourth Gospel.” HTR 98 (2005) 1–21, and are used here by permission. An earlier form of chapter 3 was also read by Harold W. Attridge, Wayne A. Meeks and Margaret M. Mitchell. Their rigorous and insightful criticisms were an immense help, and caused me to rethink the project in new ways. For various forms of encouragement and help, I have also to thank the following people: Leander E. Keck, Brian Blount, Angeliki Christofield, Gordon Graham, Rainer Hirsch-Luipold, Carsten Claussen, Paul Holloway, Jaime ClarkSoles, Ksana Blank, Rev. Calinic Berger, Bishop Savas of Troas, David FigueroaOrtiz, J. N. H. Perkins, and Richard K. Fenn. C. Clifton Black, Jeremy Hultin and Matthew Bollinger graciously read various portions of the manuscript, and saved me from several errors. In spite of help from them, and from so many others, the mistakes that remain are, of course, my own. Finally, and most important of all, I am very pleased that the book has been published in the WUNT series of Mohr Siebeck, and I want to express my sincere gratitude to Henning Ziebritzki, and even more especially to Jörg Frey, for accepting the manuscript and for their patient assistance in bringing it to press. I wrote this book during a period of persistent and sometimes grave illness, and I never would have finished it without the generous support of many people. My colleagues in the Biblical Studies department at Princeton Theological Seminary deserve special thanks. During an academic year (2007–2008) when the department was already shorthanded due to sabbaticals and an open position, they took on even more work by reducing my responsibilities. Professor Lee

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MacDonald was also in Princeton doing research that year, and he graciously offered a very popular and interesting course when mine had to be canceled. President Iain Torrance and Dean Darrell Guder of Princeton Seminary were supportive in every possible way as well, and they both have my abiding thanks. I also am immensely grateful for the support and valued friendship of Fr. Zosimas of Xenophontos Monastery, and Fr. Maximos of Simonopetra Monastery. The overwhelming brunt of the burden, however, was borne by my wife Maureen and the three Parsenakia: Nicholas, Julia and Constantine. My gratitude to and for them extends beyond this book. Because my parents, however, provided unending material and moral support to them when I was unable to share fully in the daily circus of family life, this book is dedicated as a small token of thanks to my mother and father.

Table of Contents Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VII Abbreviations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XI Chapter 1

Rhetoric, Drama and the Johannine Lawsuit Motif 1 1.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2 Rhetoric in John . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.3 Drama in John . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.4 Tragedy and Forensic Rhetoric . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.5 John and Euripides: Appearance and Reality, Guilt and Innocence . . . . . 1.6 The Johannine Lawsuit Motif . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.7 The Trial before Pilate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.8 Summary of the Present Monograph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1 4 10 13 28 34 37 41

Chapter 2

What Do You Seek? 49 2.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2 Elias Bickerman on Seeking in the Gospel of John . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3 Investigative Seeking in Greek Rhetoric and in Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex 2.4 The ζήτησις in the Gospel of John . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.5 Judgment, Seeking and Reversal at John 8:50 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.6 Seeking and Misunderstanding in John’s Linguistic World . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.7 Sapiential and Judicial Seeking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

49 52 54 58 64 71 82

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Chapter 3

The Signs of Jesus as Evidence 87 3.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 3.2 The Symbolon of Oedipus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 3.3 Forensic Rhetoric vs. Dramatic Recognition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 3.4 Signs in Aristotle’s Poetics and Rhetoric . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 3.5 Evidence in Greek Tragedy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 3.6 Identity and Guilt / Innocence in the Sign at the Wedding at Cana (John 2:1–11) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 3.6.1 Signs and Witnesses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 3.6.2 The Hour and the Glory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 3.6.3 Fitting Events Into One Another, Not After One Another . . . . . . . . 113 3.6.4 The Processes of Death and Resurrection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118 3.7 The Signs and the Dialectical Theology of John . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 Chapter 4

Conclusions and Proposal for Further Research 129 4.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 4.2 Rhetoric and Drama in Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 4.3 Rhetoric and Drama in Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 4.4 Rhetoric and Drama in Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134 4.5 Rhetoric and Drama in the Sententiae of Jesus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135

Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 Index of Ancient Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 Index of Modern Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 Index of Subjects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

Abbreviations ABRL AGJU AJP BICS BIS BTB BZNW CBET CBQ CJ CP DK

Anchor Bible Reference Library Arbeiten zur Geschichte des antiken Judentums und des Urchristentums American Journal of Philology Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies Biblical Interpretation Series Biblical Theology Bulletin Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology Catholic Biblical Quarterly Classical Journal Classical Philology Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker (ed. H. Diels and W. Kranz; Berlin: Weidmann, 1951–52) GOTR Greek Orthodox Theological Review GRBS Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies HTR Harvard Theological Review HUT Hermeneutische Untersuchungen zur Theologie IBT Interpreting Biblical Texts JBL Journal of Biblical Literature JRS Journal of Roman Studies JSNT Journal for the Study of the New Testament JSNTSup Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplements JTS Journal of Theological Studies LCL Loeb Classical Library LNTS Library of New Testament Studies LSJ Liddell, Scott and Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon NovTSup Novum Testamentum Supplements NTL New Testament Library NTS New Testament Studies PCPS Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society RHR Revue de l’Histoire des Religions SBLDS Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series SBLSS Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series SNTSMS Society of New Testament Studies Monograph Series TAPA Transactions of the American Philological Society TDNT Theological Dictionary of the New Testament WUNT Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament ZNW Zeitschrift für die Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der Älteren Kirche

Chapter 1

Rhetoric, Drama and the Johannine Lawsuit Motif 1.1 Introduction The following book will explore the legal character of the Gospel of John in light of ancient rhetoric and ancient drama. Two basic principles motivate the study. The first principle is that the Gospel of John is a uniquely legal document that locates the life of Jesus within a uniquely legal setting. John is not alone, of course, in exploring questions of law, guilt and innocence in the life of Jesus. Each of the canonical Gospels does so in its own way. But, if the Fourth Gospel is not alone in raising these questions, it surely stands alone in the way that it frames them. For example, Matthew, Mark and Luke depict two trials of Jesus leading up to the crucifixion – one trial before the Sanhedrin, and one before Pilate. John, however, has only the trial before Pilate. There is in John no formal trial before the Sanhedrin.1 Jesus certainly addresses the High Priest in John (18:19–24). There is a similar episode. But it is not a trial. Brown identifies several things that are missing in John’s equivalent scene, and which by their absence make the scene something less than – or other than – a trial. He writes, “There are no witnesses, no judges, no interrogation about the sanctuary, or about Jesus’ Christological identity, no charge of blasphemy and no sentence.”2 And yet, the lack of a trial before the Sanhedrin does not mean that John ignores Jesus’ trial before the leaders of Israel. That trial is not erased, but displaced and the entire life of Jesus becomes a legal contest before the leaders of Israel.3 While there may be no 1

Matthew (27:57–75), Mark (14:53–72) and Luke (22:54–71). Raymond Brown, Death of the Messiah: From Gethsemane to the Grave (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1994) 1.420. 3 Lincoln writes, “This narrative, unlike that of the Synoptics, has no account of a Jewish trial before the Sanhedrin. Instead, throughout his public ministry, Jesus can be viewed as on trial before Israel and its leaders.” See Andrew Lincoln, Truth on Trial: The Lawsuit Motif in the Fourth Gospel (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2000), 23. D. Moody Smith reflects slightly differently on the lack of a trial before the Sanhedrin. He certainly acknowledges the difference between John and Mark on this point, and writes, “There is in John no account of a hearing, much less a trial, before Caiaphas. Indeed, the reader is left to imagine – or supply – what happened,” John among the Gospels (2nd edition; Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina, 2001) 216. His chief concern, however, is to understand what this circumstance tells us about John’s relationship to the Synoptic Gospels. If John knew Mark’s version, for example, why did he leave out the theologically loaded Marcan trial scene? (216–19). In a more recent essay, Smith also argues that the lack of a Sanhedrin trial in John 18 is not an expression of Johannine theological ingenuity, but 2

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witnesses in the scene before the Sanhedrin, for example, testimony frames the Fourth Gospel from start to finish. The narrative opens when John the Baptist provides testimony (μαρτυρία) to those who were sent to him from Jerusalem (1:15, 19; cf. 1:6, 8) and closes with the testimony (μαρτυρία) of the Beloved Disciple (21:24). In the theological vision of the Fourth Gospel, therefore, the entire life of Jesus is a legal drama that begins and ends with the testimony of reliable witnesses. Numerous other aspects of the Fourth Gospel contribute to this legal tone, but for now it is enough to affirm that the Gospel of John is a uniquely legal document. That is the first principle of this study. The second principle is that the pronounced judicial character of John is shaped by the language and procedures of ancient rhetoric and ancient tragedy. Legal rhetoric and tragic drama represent twin modes of discourse that were joined at their birth in ancient Athens, and then continued to resemble and relate to one another as they matured over time. The connection between legal rhetoric and tragic drama continues even on the 16th century English stage. Lorna Hutson has recently shown, for example, that English dramatists developed new ways of treating evidence in dramatic plots in the wake of new developments in English legal processes.4 Changes on the stage, Hutson argues, reflect changes in the courts. Even more interesting, however, Hutson shows that British playwrights were not only imitating contemporary courtroom behavior, but were influenced by ancient orators and rhetorical theorists as well, especially Quintillian and Cicero. Cicero’s De Inventione, for example, was a central school text in 16th century England, and its instructions on courtroom debate find clear expression in the structure and content of arguments in Elizabethan tragedy.5 the exact opposite. John’s scene may actually be more historically reliable than that in Mark, if John is relying on different traditions, not modifying the same traditions. See D. Moody Smith, “John: A Source for Jesus Research?” in John, Jesus and History, Volume 1: Critical Appraisals of Critical Views (eds., Paul N. Anderson, Felix Just, Tom Thatcher; SBLSS 44; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007) 168–69. For this same view about John’s historical reliability in relation to Mark, see also Paula Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews: A Jewish Life and the Emergence of Christianity (New York: Knopf, 1999) 223–24. The following argument does not clash with these views, however, and does not assume that theological artistry and historical reliability are completely incompatible. See for this view Paul N. Anderson, “Prologue: Critical Views of John, Jesus and History,” in John Jesus and History, 2, and especially Richard Bauckham, The Testimony of the Beloved Disciple: Narrative, History and Theology in the Gospel of John (Grand Rapids, Baker, 2007) 12, 93–112 and passim. 4 Lorna Hutson, The Invention of Suspicion: Law and Mimesis in Shakespeare and Renaissance Drama (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007). The same concern drives the work of Kathy Eden, who traces a close relationship between tragedy and the courts on many levels, beginning in classical Athens, and extending into the Roman world and on into Elizabethan times. See Kathy Eden, Poetic and Legal Fiction in the Aristotelian Tradition (Princeton: Princeton University, 1986) and eadem, “The Influence of Legal Procedure on the Development of Tragic Structure” (Ph.D. dissertation; Stanford University, 1980). See also Subha Mukherji, Law and Representation in Early Modern Drama (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 5 Hutson, Invention of Suspicion, 1. She writes as follows about the specifically legal rhetoric that influenced tragedy: “[The De Inventione] was (as most histories of Renaissance rhetoric

1.1 Introduction

3

Most important of all for our purposes, the British were not misusing Cicero when they relied on his rhetorical rules for shaping courtroom drama. He too variously connects rhetoric and drama. For example, when Cicero is explaining that different orators achieve the same excellence through different styles, he justifies the point by turning for a moment to tragic poets, and says, “This can in the first instance be observed in the case of poetry, poets being the next of kin to orators …” (De Or. 3.27).6 Quintillian is no less clear on the connections between rhetoric and drama, when he urges students of rhetoric to learn various skills from Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides and apply these skills in arguing in the Roman courts of law (Inst. Orat. 10.1.66–68). Furthermore, if Cicero and Quintillian inspired their English readers in the future, they were themselves only transmitting what they had received from Greek writers in the past. Greek orators, Greek rhetorical theorists and Greek playwrights had seen relations both broad and deep between the rhetoric of the courts and the tragic stage long before Cicero and Quintillian. The Eumenides of Aeschylus provides the most obvious example of this connection. The play questions the justice or guilt of Orestes and his parents by staging a trial over which the goddess Athena presides (569–754). The trial includes evidence, witnesses and jurors, as well as long speeches laced with legal language both for and against the accused. The Eumenides is not at all unique in this regard. It is merely the most obvious example of a widespread connection between the pursuit of justice in the courts of law and the evaluation of guilt and crime on the tragic stage. Edith Hall summarizes the Greek phenomenon well. “Crime,” she writes, “and the problem of what to do with the criminal were the topics which had to be addressed by both the dramatist and the writer of forensic speeches. The main difference is that for the law courts two people (usually) wrote the script instead of one.”7 We will see below how true this statement is when we look more closely inform us) one of the most important texts in the basic rhetorical curriculum of the schools and academies in the first age of print. What those histories tend not to explain, though, is that De Inventione, like another enormously important Latin treatise on rhetoric, Quintillian’s Institutio Oratoria (‘Institutes of the Orator’) was concerned with judicial, or forensic, oratory: that is to say, these books were designed to teach lawyers how to find arguments to prove the likely innocence or guilt of a defendant in a particular case. In learning even elementary lessons in grammar and composition, then, sixteenth-century writers inevitably absorbed ways of thinking about proof and evidence,” Ibid, 1. 6 He also famously says that watching a great orator at work in the courts is like viewing a performance of the great Roscius, an eminent actor in the Roman Republic, Cicero, Brutus, 290. See also Cicero, De Oratore 3.27. There was special overlap between rhetoric and drama in the area of delivery, but by no means only there, as we see below. Also, one had to be careful, of course, about being too “dramatic” in a trial. For a succinct expression of the promises and perils that attended the interaction of rhetoric and drama, see the brief summary of opinion in the textbook on Roman oratory by Catherine Steel, Roman Oratory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006) 54–55. 7 Edith Hall, “Lawcourt Dramas: Acting and Performance in Legal Oratory,” in The Theatrical Cast of Athens: Interactions Between Ancient Greek Drama and Society (Oxford: Oxford

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at ancient connections between rhetoric and drama. For the present, however, it is enough to affirm that, in Athens and Rome (and, later, even in London!) tragedy and legal rhetoric are inherently linked outside the Gospel of John. Our concern is to show that they are also inherently linked within the Gospel of John. To demonstrate this link, we must attend closely to the intersection of rhetoric and drama, because that intersection is not only the place where rhetoric and drama meet one another, but also the place where they both meet John. That is the second principle underlying this monograph. This is all to state the matter briefly, however, and in merely skeletal form. The following chapter fleshes out the relevant issues more fully, and traces the various sinews and joints that hold together a single body of discourse that is shared in common among forensic rhetoric, tragic drama and the Gospel of John. The chapter unfolds in three major sections. The first part discusses previous work on rhetoric and drama in Johannine studies. The second part demonstrates and explores the connections between tragedy and rhetoric throughout antiquity. The third part elaborates more fully on what it means to speak of a Johannine lawsuit motif, with special emphasis on those legal concerns that receive further treatment in the following chapters. We can begin, therefore, by turning our attention to previous work on John’s relationship to ancient rhetoric.

1.2 Rhetoric in John Unfortunately, there is less to say about the rhetorical criticism of the Gospel of John than one would like. The rediscovery of classical rhetoric by New Testament scholars has, of course, had an enormous impact on the study of the Pauline corpus. Betz’ commentary on Galatians in 1979 provided the initial spark for this renewed interest, and subsequent interpreters have taken up the torch both to shed new light on old problems, as well as to illuminate paths not previously traveled.8 Although some scholars remain skeptical about how much Paul’s letUniversity Press, 2006) 354; repr. from BICS 40 (1995). In what follows, all citations are from the reprinted version. 8 See Hans Dieter Betz, Galatians: A Commentary on Paul’s Letter to the Churches in Galatia (Hermeneia: Philadelphia, Fortress, 1979). See also, idem, “The Literary Composition and Function of Paul’s Letter to the Galatians,” NTS 21 (1975) 353–79. This interest in rhetoric seems new, because it had been dormant for some time prior to Betz’ work on Galatians. But the dissertation of Rudolph Bultmann had been a rhetorical study of Paul’s use of the diatribe. For the history of the question, particularly in regard to Romans, see Stanley K. Stowers, The Diatribe and Paul’s Letter to the Romans (SBLDS 57; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1981) 7–25. C. Black traces interest in the rhetorical character of the New Testament even further back, to the middle of the 19th century and the work of C. G. Wilke, Die neutestamentliche Rhetorik: Ein Seitsenstuck zur Grammatik des neutestamentlichen Sprachidioms (Dresden and Leipzig: Arnold Christian Gottlob, 1843) in C. Clifton Black, “Kennedy and the Gospels: An Ambiguous Legacy, A Promising Bequest,” in Words Well Spoken: George Kennedy’s Rhetoric of the

1.2 Rhetoric in John

5

ters reflect the canons and techniques of ancient rhetoric, no one can deny the impact that rhetorical criticism has had on Pauline studies.9 And this influence is not confined to Paul. The interpretation of most New Testament letters has found renewed vitality in the application of rhetorical criticism.10 The same can be said for the Book of Acts.11 The same cannot be said, however, for the Gospels.12 In spite of a few important articles or chapters, and even fewer monographs, the utility of ancient rhetoric for the study of the Gospels has not yet been clarified. To be sure, valuable insights have been developed by comparing the rhetorical chreia to the style and form in which Jesus’ words and deeds have been preserved.13 But in spite of such promising efforts, one searches in vain for the level of interest in rhetorical criticism that characterizes Pauline studies. And if this is true of the Gospels New Testament (eds. C. C. Black and D. F. Watson; Waco: Baylor University, 2008) 79 note 42. In the case of 1 Corinthians, for instance, Margaret Mitchell relied on rhetorical analogies to address long standing questions about the composition and order of the letter, and did so in a way that did not rely on probability and speculation, but on the evidence of other ancient texts. See her Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation: An Exegetical Investigation of the Language and Composition of 1 Corinthians (HUT 28; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991; repr. Louisville: Westminster / John Knox, 1993). Stanley K. Stowers has worked similarly in recognizing the diatribal style of Romans, especially in his reading of speech-in-character in Romans 7. See, for example, Stanley K. Stowers, A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews and Gentiles (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994) 264–84. 9 For reservations about the application of rhetoric to Paul’s letters, see R. Dean Anderson, Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Paul (CBET, 18; Kampen: Kok Phraros, Kampen, 1996); Stanley E. Porter, “The Theoretical Justification for Application of Rhetorical Categories to Pauline Epistolary Literature,” in Rhetoric and the New Testament:Essays from the 1992 Heidelberg Conference (ed. Stanley E. Porter and Thomas H. Olbricht; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1993), 100–122. 10 See the entry on any given letter in Duane F. Watson, The Rhetoric of the New Testament: A Bibliographic Survey (Blandford Forum: Deo Publishing, 2006). 11 For rhetoric and the Book of Acts, and especially the interaction of rhetoric and historiography broadly construed, see the exhaustive and innovative study of Clare K. Rothschild, Luke-Acts and the Rhetoric of History: An Investigation of Early Christian Historiography (WUNT 2.175; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2004). 12 See for this opinion, Harold W. Attridge, “Argumention in John 5,” in Rhetorical Argumentation in Biblical Texts (Anders Ericksson, Thomas H. Olbricht, Walter Ubelacker, eds., Emory Studies in Early Christianity 8; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2002), 188; and George Parsenios, review of John Carlson Stube, A Graeco-Roman Rhetorical Reading of the Farewell Discourse, JTS 59 (2008) 754–55.    13 The chreia is a rhetorically charged anecdote designed to preserve the words and deeds of historical figures for some edifying purpose. For brief but helpful comments on the chreia, see Craig A. Gibson, “Learning Greek History in the Ancient Classroom: The Evidence of the Treatises on Progymnasmata,” CP 99 (2004) 110–11. For ancient texts regarding the style of the chreia, see Ronald F. Hock and Edward N. O’Neil, transl. and eds., The Chreia and Ancient Rhetoric : Classroom Exercises (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2002). For the chreia in the speeches of Jesus in Mark, see C. Clifton Black, “An Oration at Olivet: Some Rhetorical Dimensions of Mark 13,” in Persuasive Artistry: Studies in New Testament Rhetoric in Honor of George A. Kennedy (ed. Duane F. Watson; JSNTSup 50; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1981) 66–92; Adela Yarbro Collins, “The Apocalyptic Rhetoric of Mark 13 in Historical Context,” Biblical Research 41 (1996) 5–36. Cf. Harold W. Attridge, “Argumentation,” 188.

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in general, it is particularly true of the Fourth Gospel.14 Kennedy explored the rhetorical character of the Farewell Discourses (John 13–17) in 1984, and those who have followed him have followed him so closely that they, too, have confined their efforts mostly to the Farewell Discourses.15 This trend is not total, of course. Attridge, for example, has interpreted John 5 through a careful and subtle application of rhetorical categories, while Lincoln refers briefly to forensic rhetoric in his extensive and important analysis of the Johannine lawsuit motif.16 Even so, the picture that one gets of the rhetorical character of the Fourth Gospel looks nothing like the nuanced rhetorical portrait that Pauline interpreters have drawn from Paul’s letters.17 It is more like a series of partial sketches. A recent essay by Black, however, shows the way to fill in some of the blank spaces in the landscape of Johannine rhetoric. Black reflects on the influence (or lack thereof) that Kennedy’s work has had on the study of rhetoric in the Gospels.18 Especially because Kennedy devoted three chapters of his handbook to the rhetorical criticism of the Gospels,19 Black wonders why so few people have 14 Attridge refers to it as “the least likely hunting ground for rhetorical critics,” “Agumentation,” 188. 15 Chapter 3 is devoted to John 13–17 in George Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation Through Rhetorical Criticism (Chapel Hill; University of North Carolina, 1984). Kennedy was soon followed in studying these chapters through the lens of rhetoric by C. Clifton Black, “The Words That You Gave to Me I Have Given to Them” in Exploring the Gospel of John: In Honor of D. Moody Smith (ed. R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black; Louisville, KY: Westminster / John Knox, 1996), 220–239; repr. as chapter 4 in C. Clifton Black, The Rhetoric of the Gospel: Theological Artistry in the Gospels and Acts (St. Louis: Chalice, 2001); and John Carlson Stube, A Graeco-Roman Rhetorical Reading of the Farewell Discourse (LNTS 309; London: T & T Clark, 2007). Others have even more specifically developed Kennedy’s suggestion that these chapters might draw on the rhetoric of consolation. For this approach, see Paul Holloway, “Left Behind: Jesus’ Consolation of His Disciples in John 13–17,” ZNW 96 (2005) 1–34; George Parsenios, “Paramythetikos Christos: John Chrysostom Interprets the Johannine Farewell Discourses,” GOTR 48 (2005) 215–36; and chapter 3 in idem, Departure and Consolation; Manfred Lang, “Johanneische Abschiedsreden und Senecas Konsolationsliteratur. Wie konnte ein Römer Joh 13,31 – 17,26 lesen?” in Kontexte des Johannesevangeliums: Das vierte Evangelium in religionsund traditionsgeschichtlicher Perspektive (eds. J. Frey and Udo Schnelle; WUNT 1.175; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2004) 363–412. 16 See Attridge, “Argumentation;” Andrew Lincoln, Truth on Trial (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2000) especially 174, 375. See also the discussion of rhetoric, which is thin but suggestive, in Peter M. Philips, The Prologue of the Fourth Gospel: A Sequential Reading (LNTS 294; London: T & T Clark, 2006) chapter 3. 17 The metaphorical association of rhetoric and portraiture is, of course, drawn from the recent study of Margaret Mitchell, The Heavenly Trumpet: John Chrysostom and the Art of Pauline Interpretation (HUT 40; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000; repr. Louisville: Westminster / John Knox, 2002). 18 Black, “Kennedy and the Gospels.” The relative neglect of Kennedy’s insights on rhetorical criticism is in stark contrast to the importance attached to his other contributions to Gospels study. See ibid, 64–66. 19 In addition to chapter 3 on John, chapters 2 and 5 cover the Sermon on the Mount and “The Rhetoric of the Gospels” respectively. See the relevant chapters in Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation.

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followed his lead. Black offers, and then evaluates, several possible explanations for this neglect.20 His reflections lead to two issues that are especially relevant for the present book. The first has been stated above, but deserves to be stressed here again: the Gospel of John has a pronounced legal character.21 Even so, this recognition has not been coordinated in any systematic fashion with the fact that the courts of law were one of the primary settings for rhetoric in the ancient world. Black writes, Judicial rhetoric, as Kennedy reminds us, was the social location for a vast body of theory and practice of rhetoric among the ancients. Why have Johannine critics so little availed themselves of its resources?22

This, then, is the first of Black’s helpful insights, stated in the form of a question: why are scholars of the Fourth Gospel so slow to look to forensic rhetoric, when the forensic character of the Fourth Gospel should encourage them to do so? This question soon receives an answer, which is the second of Black’s helpful observations. In an effort to explain why so few scholars have looked to rhetoric, he writes the following: The gospels are narratives; Kennedy’s rhetorical criticism, based on ancient handbooks that detail the proper construction of speeches, is less well suited for the exegetical task.23

If rhetoric is about argument and persuasion in speeches, it is difficult to see how this can apply to the narratives of the Gospels. The Gospels may contain speeches, but they are made up of more than speeches. Letters like Paul’s, by contrast, are much easier to read as pieces of oratory, especially because there are considerable points of overlap between oratory and epistolography throughout antiquity.24 Indeed, because famous orators like Demosthenes write letters that are infused with rhetorical styles of argument, one need not leap very far to read

20 Connecting most of the issues that Black raises is the overarching question of whether or not Kennedy’s work is compatible with theological and literary trends in contemporary Gospels research. In almost every case, however, Black shows that whatever obstacles might appear to separate rhetorical criticism from the larger world of Gospels criticism, these obstacles are only apparent, not real. Black, “Kennedy and the Gospels,” 69–70. 21 Black cites Lincoln, Truth on Trial, and J. Louis Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel (3rd ed.; NTL; Louisville, KY: Westminster / John Knox, 2003). We will explore more studies below. 22 “Kennedy and the Gospels,” 70. 23 Black, “Kennedy and the Gospels,” 71. Italics original. 24 The point is made regularly. See, for instance, David Aune, The New Testament in its Literary Environment (Philadelphia: Westminster / John Knox, 1987), especially 197–202; and H.–J. Klauck, Ancient Letters and the New Testament: A Guide to Context and Exegesis (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2006) especially 206–211 where he also warns that one must not assume a complete convergence of rhetoric and epistolography, especially in theoretical works, until very late.

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New Testament letters through the lens of rhetoric.25 Reading the Gospels this way seems to require a much longer jump. Something like this surely explains why previous rhetorical criticism of John has been focused on the Farewell Discourses. In spite of having several lines of narrative in the opening scene (13:1–30), these discourses are Jesus’ addresses to his disciples. They look like a speech. Black’s essay is helpful, therefore, because it states succinctly both why rhetoric is important for reading the Gospel of John, and why this importance has not been fully recognized. The Fourth Gospel is infused with forensic language and scenarios, a fact that seems to invite comparison with forensic rhetoric, and yet, this language and these scenarios are cast in a narrative form  –  a reality that seems to stand in the way of any profitable comparison with rhetoric. The forensic character of John invites rhetorical criticism, but the narrative character of John seems to discourage it. There is no reason, however, not to find rhetorical dimensions in ancient narratives. Rhetoric lies somewhere behind most ancient writing, and any genre of literature might be profitably interpreted in light of rhetoric.26 In an essay on the importance of rhetoric for ancient historiography, Gibson offers an insight that applies to more than just historiography. He writes, “But history, much less the writing of history, was not a subject studied in the schools. Rhetoric was. In fact it was the subject.”27 Gibson’s concern is to show not only that a rhetorical education was an important opportunity to learn history, but also that history writers and biographers were indelibly shaped for their work by their rhetorical education.28 For this reason, he urges modern historians of the ancient world to understand the rhetorical exercises given in the progymnasmata as the building blocks for history writing and biography.

25 Demosthenes’ Epistle 1, for instance, is a letter that is also a sterling example of deliberative rhetoric. 26 For survey articles on the interaction of rhetoric with several other forms of literature, such as drama, historiography, biography, novels, and more, see the essays in Part II of Stanley Porter, ed., Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period, 300 BC to AD 400 (Leiden: Brill, 2001). 27 Italics original. See Craig Gibson, “Learning Greek History,” CP 99 (2004) 126. For more on rhetoric and education, see also R. Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001). Rhetoric and historiography are joined in various ways in various works. For a quick description of the relevant issues, see Charles Fornara, The Nature of History in Ancient Greece and Rome (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984) 169–175. See also, Rothschild, Rhetoric of History, especially chapters 3 and 4. 28 Gibson, “Learning Greek History,” 126. How this is so is reflected in such comments as the following: “The exercise in encomium would have helped students think systematically about the lives of praiseworthy historical characters, a skill useful in writing biography and history,” ibid, 113.

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Some New Testament scholars, as we noted above, have already followed this advice, when they show that the chreia provides the model for Jesus’ interaction with his opponents, and the verbal sparring that ensues. In John, however, the hostile questioning of Jesus does not take the form of clever attempts to trip him up. His opponents do not trick him; they put him on trial. Neyrey insightfully compares John and the Synoptics on this point, and writes as follows: The chreia works by having some hostile question asked of the sage or some criticism made of him and his practice, to which he necessarily responds with cleverness, so as to vanquish his questioners and critics. In the Fourth Gospel, the ubiquitous chreia is replaced by formal forensic proceedings against Jesus, which move beyond hostile questions and criticism to legal charges, which if sustained would end in Jesus’ death.29

If we are going to follow Gibson’s advice, therefore, and look to rhetoric for help in understanding John, the chreia cannot be the only place, or at least the primary place, to look. There are other resources, though. The fact that the chreia is replaced or transformed by forensic proceedings in John does not mean that rhetoric is no longer relevant. Rhetoric is simply relevant in a different way. We can examine what Neyrey calls John’s “formal forensic proceedings” by examining similar things in Greek tragedy. Classicists have studied the use of legal rhetoric in Greek tragedy with particular attention in recent years. By using their work to understand what the tragedians do, we can get a better sense of what John is doing. Indeed, tragedy serves in the following study as a middle ground that helps to see how the canons and principles of rhetoric have been translated into a format more like the narrative format of the Gospel of John. Tragedy provides a bridge between rhetoric and John, and John seems to use rhetoric in a way that follows, even mimics, what the tragedies do.30 But this focus on tragedy also creates another set of questions. We have just noted that the rhetorical character of John has not been clear in previous work, and have asserted that the use of legal rhetoric in Greek tragedy will illuminate the use of legal rhetoric in the Fourth Gospel. But, why can we assume that ancient drama will help to interpret John? If New Testament scholars have imagined that rhetoric is distant from the concerns of John, it might seem that drama is even more remote.

29 Jerome Neyrey, “The Trials (Forensic) and Tribulations (Honor Challenges) of Jesus: John 7 in Social Science Perspective,” BTB 26 (1996) 107. 30 This is not to say that tragedy is the only narrative form that uses legal rhetoric. Potentially, any narrative form in antiquity could reflect legal realities and further research might yield insights from novels and biographies and other forms of literature. The present study will confine itself to tragedy, however, because of the special points of contact that become clear when we do so.

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1.3 Drama in John Fortunately, a large and growing body of work argues otherwise.31 Many scholars have discussed the dramatic character of the Fourth Gospel, and they have done so with greater intensity recently.32 Two extremes, however, have characterized much previous work. On the one hand, some scholars define John as a tragedy based on how Aristotle defines tragedy in Book 12 of the Poetics.33 But this is to go too far. The Fourth Gospel does not follow a metrical scheme. There is no shift from speech to song. Indeed, there are none of the most basic markers of a tragedy in John.34 On the other extreme, however, are those interpreters who employ the term “dramatic” strictly as an adjective. They refer to the Gospel of John as dramatic in the same way that a thunderbolt is dramatic or arresting.35 This approach holds no promise for seeing in John any actual interface with ancient dramatic techniques. The following analysis stands at the midpoint between these two extremes. While it is clearly a mistake to read John’s Gospel as a thoroughgoing Greek tragedy, the Gospel is dramatic in more than an adjectival sense. Other scholars have already recognized this circumstance, and have benefited from reading John as a prose work that bears more than passing resemblance to techniques or tropes 31 This review of methods and approaches for studying the dramatic character of the Fourth Gospel is a modified version of that presented in George Parsenios, “No Longer in the World’ (John 17:11): The Transformation of the Tragic in the Fourth Gospel,” HTR (2005) 98: 2–4 and idem, Departure and Consolation: The Johannine Farewell Discourses in Light of Greco-Roman Literature (NovTSup 117; E. J. Brill: Leiden, 2005) 17–22. 32 See especially the work of Jo-Ann A. Brant, Dialogue and Drama: Elements of Greek Tragedy in the Fourth Gospel (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2004). 33 F. R. M. Hitchcock, “Is the Fourth Gospel a Drama?” in The Gospel of John as Literature: An Anthology of Twentieth Century Perspectives (ed. M. Stibbe; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1993) 15–24. The same use of Aristotle’s Poetics is aimed at the Gospel of Mark in Martin Hengel, Studies in the Gospel of Mark (transl. John Bowden; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985) 34. We must note, however, the ambivalence of classicists regarding Aristotle’s value in clarifying tragic stagecraft. Oliver Taplin writes, “Aristotle’s Poetics is the most influential critical work on Tragedy ever written, and with good reason. But its influence has not been wholly for good,” The Stagecraft of Aeschylus: The Dramatic Use of Exits and Entrances in Greek Tragedy (Clarendon Press: Oxford, 1977) 25. The present study will rely not only on the theoretical work of Aristotle, but on actual dramas, much like scholars who clarify Paul’s rhetorical technique by reading, not only rhetorical textbooks, but actual speeches as well. See, for instance, Margaret M. Mitchell, Rhetoric of Reconciliation, especially 8–11. 34 For a full outline of the structure of a Greek tragic play, with particular attention to Sophocles’ Antigone, see Mark Griffith, Sophocles, Antigone (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999) 12–13. 35 R. H. Strachan, The Fourth Evangelist: Dramatist or Historian? (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1925); James Muilenberg, “Literary Form in the Fourth Gospel,” JBL 51 (1932) 40–3. C. Milo Connick, “The Dramatic Character of the Fourth Gospel,” JBL (1948) 159–170. Brown refers to the “dramatic” quality of the Gospel regularly, as in his treatment of Jesus’ trial before Pilate, The Gospel According to John (2 vols.; Garden City, NY: Doubleday) 2.843–872, especially 858.

1.3 Drama in John

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in ancient drama.36 For these scholars, the author of the Fourth Gospel thinks in dramatic categories.37 To argue this is no different from claiming that the gospel borrows structural and thematic motifs from ancient biographical literature.38 A related concern, however, arises with the use of texts so far removed in time and space from the Gospel of John, especially since much of the argument in the present study is based on comparison with 5th century Athenian tragedy. But these texts are not nearly so far distant as they seem. By developing dramatic styles, the Gospel of John reflects what Easterling has dubbed the “theatricalization of ancient culture.”39 Easterling relies on this phrase to explain the influence of Greek tragedy far beyond the chronological and geographical boundaries of classical Athens. Well into the Roman Empire, classical tragedy exercised considerable cultural and literary influence. This is not so obvious in the sparse evidence about the production of plays, but is indeed evident in the ripples of influence in various other social and literary contexts, especially in the prose authors of the Roman Empire.40 Greek prose authors like Thucydides and Herodotus, of 36

See, now, for an elaborate study of the Fourth Gospel as a dramatic work, Jo-Ann A. Brant, Dialogue and Drama; Peter M. Phillips, The Prologue of the Fourth Gospel: A Sequential Reading (London: T & & Clark, 2006) 37–54; William Domeris, “The Johannine Drama,” Journal for Theology for Southern Africa 42 (1983) 29–35. John’s use of a prologue has been loosely but not assiduously compared to the use of the prologue in ancient dramas by Elizabeth Harris, Prologue and Gospel: The Theology of the Fourth Evangelist (JSNTS 107; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994). Studies in Johannine irony have also devoted attention to dramatic irony. See, for example, George W. MacRae, “Theology and Irony in the Fourth Gospel,” in The Word in the World: Essays in Honor of F. L. Moriarty (Cambridge, MA: Weston College, 1973) 83–96; repr. pages 103–113 in The Gospel of John as Literature (ed. M. Stibbe; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1993); Paul D. Duke, Irony in the Fourth Gospel (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1985). See also Mark Stibbe, John as Storyteller (SNTSMS 73; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). For the use of twoactor scenes, especially in John 9, see J.L Martyn, History and Theology, 26. 37 Ludger Schenke, “Joh 7–10: Eine dramatische Szene,” ZNW 80 (1989) 188: “Der Autor denkt in Kategorien des ‘Dramas’ …” See also the comment of Brant which is very insightful about John’s use of dramatic conventions: “Although the gospel writer consistently makes use of these conventions, he does not make consistent use of them. The conventions seem to serve more as tools to tell the sort of story he wants to tell rather than the constitutive parts of a genre he seeks to realize,” Dialogue and Drama, 158. For a study of the entire Gospel with loose recourse to dramatic concerns, Schenke’s Johannes Kommentar (Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1998), and his Das Johannesevangelium: Einführung, Text, dramatische Gestalt (Stuttgart: Verlag W. Kohlhammer, 1992), especially in the section that opens with the question, “Ist das JohEv ein Drama?”, 211. While Schenke, however, does not rely exclusively on Aristotle’s Poetics to determine to what extent the Gospel of John is or is not a drama, he relies much on Aristotle, which is not an entirely helpful way to determine to what extent the Gospel of John relies on ancient dramatic material (see above, note 4). 38 R. A. Burridge, What are the Gospels?: A Comparison with Graeco-Roman Biography (Cambridge / New York: Cambridge University Press, 1992). 39 P. E. Easterling, “From Repertoire to Canon,” in The Cambridge Companion to Greek Tragedy, ed. P. E. Easterling (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) 226. 40 The dramatization of Roman social life is reflected in the grisly practice of staging public executions and punishments in the form of dramatic productions. See, for instance, K. M. Cole-

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course, had earlier steeped their histories in tragic motifs, and Polybius was also indebted to tragic models.41 But closer in time and place to the Gospel of John, Josephus relies on dramatic models at great length for character development and the staging of scenes in the production of his Bellum Judaicum.42 Greek and Roman novels also borrow heavily from dramatic patterns.43 Finally, Lucian and Plutarch refer as well to tragic performances or themes, and often write with dramatic models in mind.44 The legacy of tragic poetry, therefore, sounds more clearly when we keep our ears tuned to these various prose authors.45 The following monograph argues that the Gospel of John also resonates with the echoes of Athenian tragedy in the Roman Empire. And a key note in the harmony that links John to ancient tragedy is the legal emphasis of both. We can now discuss in greater detail the intersection of rhetoric and drama, with particular attention to the forensic character of ancient tragedy.

man, “Fatal Charades: Roman Executions Staged as Mythological Enactments,” JRS 80 (1990) 44–73. 41 Charles Fornara, Nature of History, 171. On Polybius, see F. W. Walbank, “History and Tragedy,” Historia 9 (1960) 216–34. 42 Jonathan Price, “Drama and History in Josephus’ BJ” (paper presented at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature Josephus Seminar, Boston, MA, 1999); Louis Feldman, “The Influence of the Greek Tragedians on Josephus,” in Hellenic and Jewish Arts: Interaction, Tradition and Renewal (ed. A. Ovadiah; Tel Aviv: Ramot Publ. House, Tel Aviv University, 1998) 51–80. 43 See the following, for instance, in regard to the Satyricon of Petronius: Gerald N. Sandy, “Scaenica Petroniana,” TAPA 104 (1974) 329–346; Gianpiero Rosati, “Trimalchio on Stage,” in Oxford Readings in the Roman Novel (ed. S. J. Harrison; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999) 85–104. 44 For the study of Lucian’s writings, with an eye toward using them to determine theatre productions occurring in the 2nd century AD, see M. Kokolakis, “Lucian and the Tragic Performances in his Time,” Platon 12 (1960) 67–106. See also for attention to the dramatic character of Lucian’s writing, Diskin Clay, “Lucian of Samosata: Four Philosophical Lives (Nigrinus, Demonax, Peregrinus, Alexander Pseudomantis)” ANRW 36.5: especially 3414, where Clay begins to speak of “The Mime of Philosophy.” For an analysis of Plutarch’s condemnation of tragedy, as well as the nevertheless very full use of tragic elements in the Demetrios, see Phillip de Lacy, “Biography and Tragedy in Plutarch,” AJP 73 (1952) 159–71. More recently, see, J. M. Mossman, “Tragedy and Epic in Plutarch’s Alexander,” in Essays on Plutarch’s Lives (ed. Barbara Scardigli; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) 209–228, as well as G. Zanetto, “Plutarch’s Dialogues as Comic Dramas,” in Rhetorical Theory and Praxis in Plutarch: Acta of the IVth International Congress of the International Plutarch Society, Leuven, July 3–6, 1996 (Collection d’Etudes Classiques 11; ed. L. Van der Stock; Louvain: Peeters, 2000) 533–41. 45 John’s Jewishness does not distance him from these broad cultural trends. Not only does Josephus swim in this dramatic stream, but two hundred or so years before the Gospel of John was written, Ezekiel the Tragic Poet wrote the Exagoge, a verse rendering of the Exodus of Moses that is heavily indebted to the dramatic style of Euripides. The standard text and analysis of the Exagoge is H. Jacobson, The Exagoge of Ezekiel. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983).

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1.4 Tragedy and Forensic Rhetoric The forensic character of tragedy, however, has not been so obvious to other Johannine scholars, and has actually been obscured in the midst of a difference of opinion that currently operates among interpreters of the Fourth Gospel. This debate receives greater attention later in this study in Chapter 3, and we here only address one side of the divide, as it is present in the recent and important work of Jo-Ann Brant. As she concludes her study on the dramatic quality of the Fourth Gospel, Brant turns briefly to Lincoln’s work on the Johannine lawsuit motif in order to claim that legal rhetoric has only the slightest significance for the study of the Gospel of John. She assigns, not only the Fourth Gospel, but the entire genre of tragedy to another species of rhetoric, epideictic rhetoric.46 There are, of course, three rhetorical species or types distinguished by Aristotle in his Rhetoric (1.3.1–5): deliberative, forensic and epideictic. Aristotle separates these three according to such things as their social location, their τέλος and their posture toward time. Deliberative rhetoric, for example, is at home in the civic assembly and is oriented toward the future, since its goal is to demonstrate what will or will not be expedient (συμφέρον) for the city. Forensic rhetoric, by contrast, is the rhetoric of the law courts. Its concern is not the future, but the past, and whether or not a given action was just (δίκαιον). Finally, epideictic rhetoric is concerned with neither the future nor the past, but with the present, and with determining whether something is or is not honorable (καλόν). A good example of epideictic rhetoric is a funeral oration at a public festival for fallen soldiers, designed to foster civic pride. Brant passes over deliberative rhetoric quickly, and turns to Lincoln’s claim that John uses forensic rhetoric to produce “a sort of tribunal to accuse the Jews and defend Jesus.”47 She opposes Lincoln on this point. If John is dramatic, she argues, then John is epideictic, because all tragedy operates like epideictic rhetoric. To her mind, the only thing that could possibly connect tragedy to forensic rhetoric is that tragedies were performed in competitions, and a victor was selected by a jury. So, in the same way that a jury would decide the outcome of a case, juries would also decide which tragedies were worthy of prizes in ancient Athens.48 If only a thread this thin connects tragedy to forensic rhetoric, however, the bonds with epideictic rhetoric are much greater in her eyes. In epideictic rhetoric, she argues, the “primary rhetorical purpose is not to persuade that one competitor is worthier than another but rather to represent an action as lauda46

Dialogue and Drama, 234. Dialogue and Drama, 234. Regarding Deliberative rhetoric, she claims that John 20:31 “suggests to many that the purpose of the Fourth Gospel is to lead the reader to accept or reject Jesus and therefore its rhetoric is deliberative.” But she cites no one who makes the explicit connection to deliberative rhetoric. Ibid, 234. 48 Dialogue and Drama, 234. 47

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tory or deplorable.”49 In this way, tragedy evokes such things as funeral orations, and the commemoration of death. Brant then adds, “The action of the gospel, Jesus’ verbal contests, and the representation of his death render the rhetoric of the gospel epideictic and place it in the tragic commemoration of death.”50 By connecting John to epideictic rhetoric, Brant makes a good point  –  but only up to a point. To be sure, there are epideictic elements in the Fourth Gospel, especially in the Farewell Discourses.51 But there are questions here that require a much more nuanced view of ancient rhetoric. Does the category of epideictic, for instance, cover all of the rhetorical possibilities in the entire Gospel? Even more important – indeed, most important of all – can the entire genre of tragedy be contained within the epideictic category? There are several problems with each of these assertions, and they can be unpacked separately. First and foremost, Brant assumes that rhetorical categories are a totally straightforward and obvious thing. They are not. A perfect example of their possible complexity resides in the speeches deployed in the γραφὴ παρανόμων procedure. Such speeches are equal parts deliberative and forensic, since the γραφὴ παρανόμων is a legal process that nevertheless arises in a political situation. The procedure unfolds when one person puts a motion before the civic assembly and another person challenges the motion as illegal. Upon such a challenge, the political vote in the city assembly is halted until the legality of the measure might be decided by a jury. The speeches delivered in the subsequent trials are technically forensic speeches, therefore, because they concern a question of law, but they also have an eye toward the political situation that inspired the original decree. Such orations, like the famous On the Crown of Demosthenes, are just as concerned with what is expedient (τὸ συμφέρον of deliberative rhetoric) as they are with what is just and lawful (τὸ δίκαιον of forensic rhetoric).52 These hybrids, however, are just one extreme example of the type of mixing that happens in ancient oratory. Even orations that represent a clear and obvious example of one type of rhetoric nevertheless employ features of another type where neces49

Dialogue and Drama, 234. Dialogue and Drama, 234. 51 Kennedy’s chapter 3 of New Testament Interpretation is entitled “Epideictic Rhetoric: John 13–17. See also Stube, Graeco-Roman Rhetorical Reading, 70–71, 81. The speech of consolation falls within the epideictic category, as defined by Menander Rhetor. For discussion, see Holloway, “Left Behind,” 2 and passim. 52 For discussion of the interaction of different rhetorical types in On the Crown, see, Harvey Yunis, Demosthenes, On the Crown (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). Yunis writes (8), “Thus, in addition to arguing that the indicted decree was paranomon, the prosecutor of a graphe paranomôn also argued that the decree was inexpedient (asymphoron).” For more on the interaction of politics and legal concerns in these speeches, see Harvey Yunis, “Law, politics and the graphe paranomôn in fourth century Athens,” GRBS 29 (1988) 361–82. For more on the graphe speeches in general, and one such speech in particular (Demosthenes 23, Against Aristocrates) see Terry Papillon, Rhetorical Studies in the Aristocratea of Demosthenes (New York, Peter Lang, 1998). 50

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sary.53 Given these chances for the mingling of different types of rhetoric, the assignment of a document to one rhetorical category or another is not always a simple exercise. St. Paul’s Epistle to the Galatians is a case in point. Is it forensic or deliberative? Interpretations differ.54 And if it is so difficult to determine with precision whether a single letter represents this or that form of rhetoric, Brant appears to be making a precipitous move in assigning, not just one tragedy, but the entire genre of tragedy, to the single style of epideictic. The epideictic label seems even more unlikely for one other very important reason. Several classicists have studied the rhetorical character of ancient tragedy in recent works, and have associated it, not with epideictic rhetoric, but precisely with legal rhetoric. These scholars have recognized that the overlap between tragedy and legal rhetoric includes the superficial sorts of connections that Brant cites, such as that both tragedies and court cases involved juries and both were competitive performances. But such things only scratch the surface of the legal character of ancient tragedy. The connections between the court and the stage are broad and deep. As Hall writes, Dramatic contests shared with legal trials not only formal aspects – the performance before an audience, and the judgment by a democratically selected jury – but subject-matter as well.55

As we will see in a moment, the connections on the level of subject-matter are quite extensive. First, however, one other point needs to be made. These connections between legal rhetoric and tragic drama should not lead us to assume a total correspondence between forensic rhetoric and tragedy. It simply does not seem helpful to summarize the essence of one entire genre (tragedy) according to the categories of another (oratory). Indeed, even after Hall affirms a close af53 For example, Margaret Mitchell argues that 1 Corinthians is an example of deliberative rhetoric, but she recognizes that epideictic elements of praise and blame appear in the letter as well in 1:18–4:21. Regarding this interaction of different rhetorical types, Mitchell writes, “The rhetorical handbooks in a few places allow for epideictic elements of blame or praise in deliberative rhetoric. These allowances in rhetorical theory are overwhelmingly confirmed by actual deliberative texts …,” Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 213–14. 54 Betz reads Galatians as an apologetic letter along the lines of a forensic defense speech in “The Literary Composition and Function,” and idem, Galatians, 14–25. Kennedy reads Galatians, by contrast, as a deliberative piece in New Testament Interpretation Through Rhetorical Criticism, 144–152. The question of whether or not Galatians is an apologetic letter has been enriched by the opinions of Church Fathers, in the work of Janet Fairweather, “The Epistle to the Galatians and Classical Rhetoric,” Tyndale Bulletin 45 (1994) 1–38, 213–244 and Margaret M. Mitchell, “Reading Rhetoric with Patristic Exegetes: John Chrysostom on Galatians,” in Antiquity and Humanity: Essays on Ancient Religion and Philosophy, Presented to Hans Dieter Betz on His 70th Birthday (eds. Adela Yarbro Collins and Margaret Mitchell; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001) 333–55. David Aune succinctly and clearly outlines both the forensic and deliberative elements of the letter in New Testament in its Literary Environment, 207. 55 Edith Hall, “Lawcourt Dramas,” 354. Although Hall is emphatic and illustrative on this point, she is hardly alone, as we see below, and throughout the following chapters.

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filiation between tragedy and the rhetoric of the courts, she recognizes that in actual practice “the distinction between the three kinds of rhetoric is frequently blurred.”56 The safest approach, then, is to affirm that all forms of rhetoric are given roles on the tragic stage. The Eumenides of Aeschylus, for instance, includes a famous trial scene with forensic language and procedures, but the Orestes of Euripides offers an occasion for deliberative rhetoric, and Euripides’ Suppliants has a funeral oration in epideictic mode.57 While the present study presupposes, therefore, a shared discourse between tragedy and forensic rhetoric, the goal is not to separate tragedy from other forms of rhetoric. Indeed, the connections between rhetoric and drama throughout antiquity are so elaborate as to defy any easy classification.58 But the connections are real. Having made this qualification, we can now show how closely legal rhetoric and tragic drama correspond to one another. In order to lay the groundwork for showing connections between tragedy and legal rhetoric in particular, we can first demonstrate what is shared between drama and rhetoric more generally. New Testament scholars, as we said above, have recognized the ancient connections between rhetoric and epistolography. Associations between rhetoric and drama are just as certain. In fact, the links between rhetoric and drama were articulated much earlier by theorists than links between speeches and letters. Ancient rhetorical theory, after all, came relatively late to discussing letters as a branch of rhetoric.59 By contrast, already as early as Aristotle, rhetoric and tragedy were joined in theoretical discussions, and the two continued to be joined in both theory and practice well into the Roman Empire. These connections were not always celebrated. Aristotle himself lodged the following complaint against his contemporaries: “The old tragic poets made their characters speak politically; poets now make them speak rhetorically.”60 He probably means, by lamenting 56

Ibid, 368. These examples are taken from Victor Bers, “Tragedy and Rhetoric,” in Persuasion: Greek Rhetoric in Action (ed. Ian Worthington; New York: Routledge, 1993) 178. 58 That there are deep connections, however, is nowhere disputed. The points of contact are many. In addition to more bibliography cited where relevant in the argument below, see Ruth Scodel, “Drama and Rhetoric,” in Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in Hellenistic Period, 330 B. C. – A. D. 400 (ed. Stanley E. Porter; E. J. Brill: Leiden, 2001) 489–504; Victor Bers, “Tragedy and Rhetoric,” 176–95; Josiah Ober, Mass and Elite in Democratic Athens: Rhetoric, Ideology and the Power of the People (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991) 154–55; Edith Hall, “Lawcourt Dramas,” 353–92; R. G. A. Buxton, Persuasion in Greek Tragedy: A Study in Peitho (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Richard Garner, Law and Society in Classical Athens (New York: St. Martin’s, 1987) 82–83, 95–130. Georgia Xanthakis-Karamanos, “The Influence of Rhetoric on Fourth-Century Tragedy,” CQ n. s.29 (1979) 66–76; eadem, Studies in Fourth-Century Tragedy (Athens, Greece: Athenian Academy, 1980) 14. 59 See Klauck, Ancient Letters, 209–210. 60 Poetics, 6. Translation taken from Bers, “Tragedy and Rhetoric,” 178. Aristotle, of course, does not see rhetoric as entirely a bad influence on tragedy. While his Rhetoric recognizes flaws in oratory as practiced by his contemporaries, Aristotle did not devalue and dismiss oratory in the way that Plato did in the Gorgias. Indeed, when he refers to oratory as ἀντίστροφος to dialec57

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that characters speak rhetorically (ῥητορικῶς), that they speak in flowery figures and phrases that a modern person might characterize as “mere rhetoric,” with plays on words and clever phrasing.61 Even in spite of this complaint, however, Aristotle himself developed elaborate theoretical ties between the two modes of discourse – ties so strong, in fact, that Salkever has argued that Aristotle actually understands tragedy as a branch of rhetoric.62 Whether or not that opinion is warranted, it is certainly true that Aristotle saw deep relations between tragic plays and public orations. This can be seen by cross-referencing his Rhetoric and Poetics.63 In discussing the character (ἦθος) of an orator, for example, Aristotle insists in the Rhetoric (3.7.6) that … to each class and habit there is an appropriate style. I mean class in reference to age  –  child, man or old man; to sex  –  man or woman; to country  –  Laceaemonian or Thessalian ….If then anyone uses the language appropriate to each habit, he will represent the character, for the uneducated man will not say the same things in the same way as the educated.64

tic, meaning that it corresponds to or is correlated to dialectic, (Rhetoric, 1.1.1), Aristotle seems to be alluding to and directly challenging the denigration of oratory in the Gorgias of Plato. As Kennedy writes, in the Gorgias, “justice is said to be antistrophos to medicine (464b8) and rhetoric, the false form of justice, is compared to cookery, the false form of medicine (465c1–3).” See Aristotle, On Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse (transl. and introd. George A. Kennedy; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991) 28–29 note 2. For a speculative but creative suggestion about the interaction of Plato and Aristotle’s opinions on the relative value of rhetoric, see Eugene E. Ryan, “Plato’s Gorgias and Phaedrus and Aristotle’s Theory of Rhetoric: A Speculative Account,” Athenaeum 67 (1979) 452–461. 61 For this understanding of “rhetorical,” see Bers, “Tragedy and Rhetoric,” 178. For further discussion of what both “political” and “rhetorical” mean in this passage, see XanthakisKaramanos, “Influence of Rhetoric,” 66–67. The tragedians, it should be noted, did not need rhetoric to learn to play with words and pursue creative means of expression. As Scodel writes, “The devices that elevate style originated in verse, and rhetoric created rules for using them in prose.” See Scodel, “Drama and Rhetoric,” 489. This makes it difficult to say sometimes whether a certain style of expression is inherently tragic or taken over from rhetoric. Scodel adds, however, that certain things are fairly obviously influenced by contemporary rhetoric, such as the Gorgianic style of Sophocles’ Antigone 555, ibid, 489. 62 See Stephen G. Salkever, “Tragedy and the Education of the Demos: Aristotle’s Response to Plato,” in Greek Tragedy and Political Theory (ed. J. Peter Euben; Berkeley: University of California, 1986) 293, where he writes, “Aristotle does not explicitly name tragedy as a branch of rhetoric, but it seems safe to assume that it is: many of his examples of rhetorical devices are taken from tragedies …”. The suggestion is not as outlandish as it might at first seem. Nicolaus of Myra similarly claimed that Aristotle viewed history as a combination of deliberative, epideictic and forensic oratory. Cf. Gibson, “Learning Greek History,” 118. 63 It can also be seen where the Rhetoric explains rhetorical phenomena with examples from dramatic texts. Helen North, “The Use of Poetry in the Training of the Ancient Orator” Traditio 8 (1952) 6–7. See also Hall, “Lawcourt Dramas,” 367–68; A. P. Dorjahn, “Poetry in Athenian Courts,” CP 32 (1927) 85–93. 64 Translation from J. H. Freese, Aristotle: The Art of Rhetoric (LCL; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1994) 379. See also Hall, “Lawcourt Dramas,” 375.

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This conforms to his comments in the Poetics (14), where he says that a speaker on the stage should be given words that are appropriate for that character’s gender and status. Rhetorical character and dramatic character coincide, therefore.65 When an orator approaches a jury he must have a believable character, one that fits the criteria that Aristotle defines. This makes every speech from Greek antiquity one side of a drama between two characters playing roles.66 In seeing connections such as this between rhetoric and drama, Aristotle does not swim against the tide, furthermore, but he rides happily along with contemporary currents.67 J. Ober notes how closely rhetoric and drama are associated in ancient Athens when he writes the following: The Athenian politicians were, undoubtedly, acutely aware of the continuum between politics and theatre, and they exploited it in the highly charged and competitive arenas of the Assembly and the popular courts.68

65 See also William Sattler, “Conceptions of Ethos in Ancient Rhetoric,” Speech Monographs 14 (1957) 55–65. 66 Character is only one of many such points of contact between rhetoric and drama in Aristotle’s theoretical vision. Delivery is another. Aristotle may only grudgingly accept the value of delivery in oratory, but he similarly links the orator’s delivery of a speech before the public to a dramatic character’s delivery of lines in a play. See Rhetoric, 3.1.1. Aristotle does not appreciate this similarity, of course. He regrets that the actor is more important than the poet, and that victory in dramatic competition often depends on delivery, and not on the quality of what is said. The same, he laments, is at work in public life, owing to the depravity (μοχθηρία) of contemporary politics, so that a well delivered speech wins over a well considered speech. See Rhetoric, 3.1.1–10. For more on the connection between dramatic and rhetorical delivery, see also Arthur Pickard-Cambridge, The Dramatic Festivals of Athens (2nd ed; Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1988) 168. 67 Aristotle, of course, must be used with a critical eye. Because he is often less interested in describing what people are actually doing, and more interested in telling them what they ought to be doing, his insights cannot be the only voice in a historical study of either rhetoric or drama. In regard to the Poetics, see Stephen Halliwell, Aristotle’s Poetics (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), who places Aristotle’s Poetics within the wider context of Aristotle’s thought, and in the same movement shows how little concerned Aristotle is with practical advice for playwrights. Halliwell writes, “It is not the primary purpose of the Poetics to examine or assess individual works of Greek poetry, but to establish a philosophical framework for the understanding of poetry in general, and to do so in a way which entails the statement and advocacy of criteria of poetic excellence (37) … If a young Athenian dramatist had taken the improbable decision of going to Aristotle for instruction in his work he would have come away with material for reflection, but he would have had to develop his craft elsewhere” (38). Oliver Taplin writes in regard to the errors that can arise from trying to determine actual practice in tragedies from the Poetics as follows: “Aristotle’s Poetics is the most influential critical work on Tragedy ever written, and with good reason. But its influence has not been wholly for good,” The Stagecraft of Aeschylus: The Dramatic Use of Exits and Entrances in Greek Tragedy (Clarendon Press: Oxford, 1977) 25. The same applies to the study or oratory and Aristotle’s Rhetoric. Scholars who desire to see what actually happened on the ground in ancient oratory can use the Rhetoric responsibly only if they supplement it with evidence from actual speeches. For this, see Margaret Mitchell, Rhetoric of Reconciliation, especially 8–11. 68 Mass and Elite, 154.

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This connection between the stage and the orator’s platform operates on many levels. There is first a simple question of geography. In Athens, after all, the theatre of Dionysus is situated in clear view of the site where citizen bodies met to hear legal cases or to deliberate about the city’s political life.69 And yet, there is more at work than mere geography. The combination of rhetoric and drama is often embodied in particular people. The most famous example of this personal embodiment is Aeschines, the opponent in Demosthenes’ famous speech On The Crown. Aeschines was a famous actor before he entered the political realm and Demosthenes repeatedly mocks his background on the stage.70 But this may be a case of the pot and the kettle. If Plutarch is to be trusted on this point, Demosthenes was himself trained in the art of delivery by the actor Satyrus.71 These two men, Demosthenes and Aeschines, were the leading political figures of their time.72 They could hardly have been the only people who had one foot in each of the streams of drama and rhetoric.73 Beyond geography and personalities, however, lie even more meaningful associations between rhetoric and drama. Tragic arguments often mimic rhetorical patterns of persuasion.74 This will be the focus of Chapter 3 of the present mono69 Hall also writes, “Drama and trials shared a context: both were enacted in public spaces in the civic heart of Athens …” in “Lawcourt Dramas,” 359. 70 In addition to charging regularly that Aeschines was a bad actor, Demosthenes also argues that he was merely an actor. For instance, when Demosthenes compares his own career to that of Aeschines and can point out all of the things he himself did previously for the city, he remarks that Aeschines can only point to his career on stage for a previous record of serving the city, and then proceeds to quote some of the more unpleasant lines that Aeschines uttered onstage (18.267). For other references to Aeschines’ career as an actor, see Demosthenes 18.127, 180, 242, 262, 280. 71 Plutarch writes (Demosthenes 5–8) that this was a major turning point in his development. After being excited about a public career and devoting himself to rhetorical study, he still lacked the ability to hold the attention of his audiences (5–7). When he confesses this limitation to Satyrus the actor, Plutarch tells us of the following response from Satyrus (8.1–2): “You are right, Demosthenes,” said Satyrus, “but I will quickly remedy the cause of all this, if you will consent to recite offhand for me some narrative speech from Euripides or Sophocles.” When Satyrus showed the superiority of his own delivery in relation to that of Demosthenes, Demosthenes recognized the value of performing a speech in a particular way. Regardless of what he says about Aeschines, then, his own career may not be that far removed from the stage. See also Ober, Mass and Elite, 114, 154. Even if this anecdote is not historical, “it expresses a truth about the way in which ancient speakers learned both delivery and mnemonic techniques …” Edith Hall, “Lawcourt Dramas,” 370. See Ibid, 369–371, for further examples and reflection on personal connections between rhetoric and drama. 72 For a succinct view of contemporary history, as well as the overlapping careers of Demosthenes and Aeschines, with full bibliography, see Yunis, Demosthenes: On the Crown, 1–16. 73 So says Ober, Mass and Elite, 154. We know, for instance, that at least two other famous actors, Aristodemus and Neoptolemus, also pursued political life. Regarding the relationship between Aristodemus and Aeschines, see A. P. Dorjahn, “Some Remarks on Aeschines’ Career as an Actor,” CJ 25 (1929) 228. 74 For discussion, see the following: A. P. Burnett, “Human Resistance and Divine Persuasion in Euripides’ Ion,” Classical Philology 57 (1962) 89–103; A. F. Garvie, “Deceit, Violence and Persuasion in the Philoctetes,” in Studi classici in onore di Quintino Cataudella (Catania 1972)

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graph, and prominent among the patterns of persuasion in drama is the argument from probability (εἰκός).75 Arguments from probability appeal to nature, and to what naturally happens in human affairs.76 Such appeals can, of course, be problematic. At least sometimes, anyway, we should expect the unexpected. Aristotle quotes Agathon in making this very point at Rhetoric 2.24.10: “Someone could say, perhaps, that what is probable is precisely this: that many improbable things encounter mortal beings.” Even so, the argument from probability is as common in tragedy as it is in rhetoric. In Oedipus Rex, for example, Oedipus accuses Creon of taking part in a palace plot. Creon defends himself in various ways, but his first line of defense is the argument from probability (583–602).77 It is simply not reasonable – not probable – for him to want to seize the throne. Why, he asks, would he want to be the king, with all of the attendant worries, when he already has the power of a king by being the king’s adviser? Why would he want to be the king, and worry, when he can wield the authority of a king, and have no fear? To act in such a way would be to do something improbable. That is Creon’s defense. Oedipus has accused him of treason, and Creon is defending himself as though at a trial and commentators define this scene as a forensic episode.78 As we listen to Creon’s defense, therefore, our focus is already tightening from a broad view of all rhetoric into a closer look at forensic rhetoric in particular. What, then, are the connections between legal rhetoric and tragic drama? The first thing to emphasize in this regard is that forensic concerns appear in all ancient drama, not just in tragedy. Both comedy and tragedy, in Greece as well as Rome, are imbued with forensic language, forensic themes and forensic scenarios.79 This is most obvious where dramas depict trials or legal scenarios with great regularity, as in the famous trial scene in Aeschylus’ Eumenides (569– 213–26; N. S. Rabinowitz, “From Force to Persuasion: Aeschylus’ Oreteia as Cosmognoic Myth,” Ramus 10 (1981) 159–91; R. G. A. Buxton, Persuasion; K. Wilkenson, “From Hero to Citizen: Persuasion in Early Greece,” Philosophy and Rhetoric 15 (1982) 104–25; H. Konishi, “Agamemnon’s Reasons for Yielding,” American Journal of Philology 110 (1989) 189–209. 75 See Scodel, “Drama and Rhetoric,” 491. 76 For a recent and important discussion of probability arguments, see Michael Gagarin, “Probability and Persuasion: Plato and Early Greek Oratory,” in Worthingon, Persuasion, 46–68. 77 The actual appearance of the term εἰκός does not define probability arguments in tragedy. See M. Gagarin, “Probability and Persuasion,” 66, note 13. 78 The forensic character of this interrogation is discussed more fully in the following chapter. For now, consider the comment of Charles Segal, Oedipus Tyrannus: Tragic Heroism and the Limits of Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 84, who says, “This is a courtroom scene …” 79 In addition to further bibliography cited in the following argument, see Eden, Poetic and Legal Fiction, especially chapter 1; Rush Rehm, Greek Tragic Theatre (New York: Routledge, 1992) 4–5, 21, 64, 73, 148; Jennifer Wise, Dionysus Writes: The Invention of Theatre in Ancient Greece (Ithaca: Cornell University, 1998) 94, 138–140; and especially Edith Hall, “Lawcourt Dramas,” 353–392.

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754).80 But forensic matters are so pervasive in Greek and Roman New Comedy that Adela Scafuro has coined the phrase “forensic disposition” to describe the characters of the comic stage.81 The phrase “forensic disposition” does not merely imply that the characters drag one another into the courts (although they do), but even more, that they drag the things of the courts into their daily lives. All the vicissitudes of life are met with a forensic posture involving the interrogation of witnesses and the evaluation of proof. This propensity is not confined to New Comedy either, but is fully in keeping with the comic precedent set by Aristophanes, in whose play the Wasps the hapless figure of Philocleon is obsessed with the courts (φιληλιαστής, 88). Even beyond the Wasps, Aristophanes regularly mentions (and mocks) the law-courts of Athens.82 In the Clouds, for instance, Strepsiades is presented with a map of Athens. He finds the map unrecognizable, however, saying, “That’s not Athens; I don’t see any courts in session (208).”83 Not only tragedy, therefore, but all ancient drama reflects an abiding concern for legal affairs and legal rhetoric. I attend in what follows, though, only to tragedy. Indeed, tragedy is so closely connected to forensic rhetoric that Else argued many years ago that the very origin of tragedy lay in the imitation of forensic processes of question and answer.84 He argues that when a tragic actor is called ὑποκριτής, the meaning of the term is “answerer.” As tragedy evolved, so he argues, from a set speech delivered by a single figure to a more dialogical format, this answerer was added to respond to the questions of the protagonist. Moreover, this change was made in imitation of legal interrogations in which one person answered the questions of another. All tragic dialogue, therefore, is connected at its very root to forensic processes. Else’s arguments are hard to sustain as the easiest reading of the evidence in this particular instance, but that does not mean there is no connection between tragic dialogue and the courts.85 In fact, what Else says in a speculative way about the origin of all conversation in tragedy is generally assumed to be true about one type of tragic diction in particular: stichomythia. Stichomythia is the term for the form in which tragic characters regularly speak to one another in alternating one-line exchanges. These one-line interrogations 80

See also Euripides’ Trojan Woman (860–1059). Adela Scafuro, The Forensic Stage: Settling Disputes in Graeco-Roman New Comedy (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1997) 25–27. 82 For a list of passages from Aristophanes relating to the courts, see G. E. M. de Ste. Croix, The Origins of the Peloponnesian War (Ithaca: Cornell University, 1972) 362 notes 8, 10, as well as David Konstan, Greek Comedy and Ideology (Oxford: Oxford University, 1995) 16–27. 83 The translation is from Bernard Knox, Oedipus at Thebes, (New Haven, Yale University, 1957) 78. 84 G. F. Else, “The Case of the Third Actor,” TAPA 76 (1945) 1–10; idem, “ΥΠΟΚΡΙΤΗΣ,” Wiener Studien 72 (1959) 75–107. 85 The evidence is complicated and does not need to be rehearsed here in full. For a criticism of Else’s position, see Pickard-Cambridge, Dramatic Festivals, 126–132. For a defense of Else, see Eden, Poetic and Legal Fiction, 14–15 note 7. 81

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mimic trial debates in the Athenian law courts.86 Rush Rehm writes, for instance, “The rapid exchange of alternative points of view also reflects the process by which Athenian juries reached their verdicts.”87 The following conversation between Electra and the Chorus in the Libation Bearers is a famous example of stichomythia (168–78): Electra: Chorus: Electra: Chorus: Electra: Chorus: Electra: Chorus: Electra: Chorus: Electra:

I see cut here on the tomb a lock of hair. From some man? Or from a slim-waisted girl? This is an obvious clue for anyone to judge. Let me, then, learn how so – older learning from younger. There is no one but me who could have cut it. Indeed, the ones for whom it would be appropriate to cut their hair are enemies. And, likewise, it appears to be so very similar to … – to which tresses? For, I want to learn this. … to my hair it bears a close resemblance. It couldn’t be a veiled gift from Orestes, could it? It most definitely resembles his locks.88

A feature of dramatic style that is even closer to the style of the courts, and which is given special prominence in the work of Euripides, is the ἀγὼν λόγων, “contest of speeches.”89 The term ἀγὼν can be applied to any number of struggles and competitions in ancient Greek life and literature, but it has a special sense in tragedy.90 The contest of speeches seems first to appear in Sophocles’ Ajax and Antigone, but is given particular attention by Euripides who fashioned it into a distinct scene with recurring characteristics.91 The ἀγὼν is often the place where the crucial conflict of a play is treated thoroughly, and the central and defining aspect of the ἀγὼν is the careful balance of two speeches. Most important for 86 Wise argues that this mode of communication arises at least partly from the move to written texts in tragedy, which explains why stichomythia does not occur in the oral world of epic poetry, Dionysus Writes, 94. After asserting this, however, she adds, “As a poetic mode of representing human speech, however, it owes an equal debt to the model of forensic speech …,” ibid, 138–140. See also Eden, “Influence,” 159. 87 Rehm, Greek Tragic Theatre, 63–64. 88 My translation. 89 Somewhat surprisingly, Brant identifies a contest of speeches in John 8, and even cites classics scholars who locate the contest of speeches against the backdrop of forensic rhetoric and process, Dialogue and Drama, 140–49. This does not cause her to see the Fourth Gospel as a forensic document, however. She seems to absorb the forensic character of the agon into what she deems to be a more pervasive epideictic character in John, when she says in the quotation cited above: “The action of the gospel, Jesus’ verbal contests, and the representation of his death render the rhetoric of the gospel epideictic and place it in the tragic commemoration of death,” ibid, 234. 90 Michael Lloyd, The Agon in Euripides (Oxford: Clarendon, 1992) 2. 91 The thirteen examples of the phenomenon that Lloyd studies are the following: Alcestis, 614–733; Medea 446–622; Heraclidae 120–283; Hippolytus 902–1089; Andromache 147–273, 547–746; Hecuba 1109–1292; Supplices 399–580; Electra 988–1138; Troades 895–1059; Phoenissae 446–635; Orestes 470–629; Iphigenia at Aulis 317–414, Ibid, 3.

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our purposes, when Lloyd explains the origin, form and function of this verbal contest, he looks to the courts, where trials were also decided by dueling speeches.92 In private cases over such things as inheritance disputes, it appears that four speeches were allowed. Each person could speak twice, in the alternating sequence of prosecutor, defendant, prosecutor, defendant.93 In public cases, however, only one speech was permitted to each party.94 Lloyd sees this model of dueling speeches as very much like the contest of speeches in Euripides. He writes, The law court provides the most relevant parallel to the Euripidean agon. Quarrels are not normally conducted through the medium of set speeches, but that is exactly the form that they took in the Athenian courts. Euripides evidently adapted the form of the trial in order to obtain a dramatic form in which opposing characters have the opportunity to state their cases in a systematic way.95

Now, not all agon scenes in Euripides are forensic trials. Some have a more obviously political cast.96 But the agon is certainly evocative in some sense of the rhetorical world of ancient Athens, and of the forensic trial in particular.97 It is not only, therefore, in the use of superficial trial scenarios, but also in basic matters of structure, like stichomythia and the “contest of speeches,” that tragedy evokes forensic rhetoric. Tragedy also uses the language of legal rhetoric, indicating the concern for justice that occupies both modes of discourse. The plays of Aeschylus alone not only resound with the repeated use of words for evidence (τεκμηρίοισιν, Agamemnon, 1366; τεκμήρια, Eumenides, 485) and testimony (μαρτυρέω, μαρτυρία, μάρτυς, Eumenides, 485, 576, 609, 664, 797, 798) but also dozens of other legal terms.98 Driven by this reality, Chapter 2 of 92

Lloyd, 13. For the structure of Athenian trials, see Douglas MacDowell, The Law in Classical Athens (Ithaca: Cornell University, 1978) 249. 94 This, at least, seems reasonable to infer where Demosthenes preempts his opponent’s arguments in On the False Embassy (19.213) on the grounds that he will not have a second chance to speak. See MacDowell, Law, 249. 95 Lloyd, Agon, 13. It is important to stress as well that the connections between the speeches in tragedy and the debates in the courts of law is not merely a matter of form. The content and style of the speeches is also dependent in many ways on forensic rhetoric. Lloyd explores specific connections, Ibid, 19–36. The speeches begin, for example, with a proemium like a rhetorical proemium (25–28), and end with the kinds of appeals to the audience that are also typical in speeches (28). Likewise, the argument from probability figures large in these speeches (29). There is also in the agones what Lloyd calls a “rhetorical self-consciousness,” in which the speakers reflect regularly on the act of speaking itself and show care for the art of speaking and their argument in a way that is similar to oratory (34–5). Euripides does not use technical legal vocabulary as often as Aeschylus does, however, in such texts as those in the Oresteia. The Hippolytus of Euripides, however, does employ legal vocabulary (34). 96 See the discussion of various scenes in Lloyd, Agon, 14–15. 97 Rush Rehm writes that the agon is modeled on both “the political debate in the Assembly and the legal judgments in the lawcourts,” Greek Tragic Theatre, 64. 98 Robertson, for instance, compiles from the tragedies of Aeschylus several pages of legal terms used both in specifically legal scenarios, as well as in a metaphorical sense to give a legal 93

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the current monograph will explore the legal associations that surround the term ζητεῖν in John by seeing how the term functions both in Greek rhetorical texts, and in Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex. Chapter 3, similarly, will trace the way in which the Johannine term sign (σημεῖον) functions in a way that evokes both evidence in the courts and the tragic processes of demonstrating a character’s identity. Tragedies, therefore, not only look like legal contests by including scenes with stichomythia and the “contest of speeches,” but they also sound like legal contests by using legal language. Tragedy and legal rhetoric are closely linked at several levels of comparison. We should not assume, however, that they are linked in any simple way. Much of the foregoing argument has made it appear that tragedy merely borrowed from forensic rhetoric, with influence moving only in one direction. The reality is much harder to define. When discussing the links between tragedy and rhetoric, for instance, Scodel writes, “Influence, however, is not all one-sided. From the fifth century onward, poetic drama and rhetoric were deeply intertwined, each affecting the other.”99 A good example of how difficult it is to map the lines of influence appears in the argument from probability. Its creation is often attributed to the sophists Tisias and Corax, but its first appearance is in poetry – in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes.100 The argument had broader circulation, therefore, and cannot be assumed in some simple sense to have been taken up into tragedy as an imitation of rhetoric. It is not just the case, therefore, that tragedy relies on forensic rhetoric. Drama and rhetoric, rather, are two expressions of “constant competitive social performances,” and influence also went in the other direction, with forensic rhetoric borrowing from tragedy.101 For example, when Demosthenes describes the secrets accompanying the birth of Meidias (Demosthenes 21, Against Meidias), we hear that the stories are like “something from a tragedy” (ὥσπερ ἐν τραγωδίᾳ 21.149).102 Or, when Demosthenes draws on tragic imagery to depict Athens’ war with Philip II in his famous On the Crown, he depicts Philip as a storm washing over the Athenian ship of state, like some irresistible force overwhelming tragic dimension to any dispute.See H. G. Robertson, “Legal Expressions and Ideas of Justice in Aeschylus,” CP 34 (1939) 209–219; J. -P. Vernant refers to “the almost obsessive use of a technical legal terminology in the language of the tragic writers,” in J.-P. Vernant and P. Vidal-Naquet (eds.), Myth and Tragedy in Ancient Greece (transl. J. Lloyd; Zone Books: New York, 1990) 31. See also R. F. Kuhns, The House, the City and the Judge: The Growth of Moral Awareness in the Oresteia (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1962). See also Hall, “Lawcourt Dramas,” and Kathy Eden, “Influence,” 163 and 230, note 26. 99 Scodel, “Drama and Rhetoric,” 489. 100 M. Gagarin, “Probability and Persuasion,” 49–51. See George Kennedy, A New History of Classical Rhetoric (Princeton: Princeton University, 2001) 11, for a new assessment of Tisias and Corax. 101 Hall, “Lawcourt Dramas,” 384. 102 For an interpretation that views the speech as a theatrical display, see Peter J. Wilson, “Demosthenes 21 (Against Meidias): Democratic Abuse,” PCPS 37 (1991) especially pages 174–187.

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figures who cannot escape their destiny.103 Very often, exemplary figures are also drawn from tragedy in order to illustrate or emphasize a given argument. Hyperides, for instance, underscores how foolish Charippus was by wondering if even the crazed Orestes would have done what Charippus did (1.7). In a speech to prosecute a woman for poisoning her husband, Antiphon refers to her as “this Clytemnestra” (1.17), the queen who famously killed her husband in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon.104 Greek tragedy and forensic rhetoric are involved, therefore, in a complex relationship of mutual influence. What Goldhill says in regard to the sophists and tragedy is, therefore, relevant to the current discussion. After demonstrating that the sophists provide important background reading for studying the tragedies, Goldhill recognizes that the sophistic material cannot be in some uncomplicated way labeled as the “background” of tragedy. “Background” is not at all the proper word. He writes as follows: I have attempted to show how the sophists do not merely constitute an intellectual background or influence on the literary world of tragedy. Rather, tragedy and sophistic writing both attest to a radical series of tensions in the language and ideology of the city of fifthcentury Athens.105

It is wrong, then, to speak simply of tragedy borrowing from forensic rhetoric. Tragedy and forensic rhetoric are mutually borrowing from one another in a variegated pattern of influence that defies easy definition.106 We have seen this complexity in Greek life and literature in various ways in the preceding survey, but it is important to stress that the phenomenon is not confined to the Greek world. The interaction between rhetoric and drama continues into the Roman Empire and beyond, as the British playwrights men103 See, for an elaboration on this theme, G. Rowe, “The Portrait of Aeschines in the Oration on the Crown,” TAPA 97 (1966) especially 404–6. Rowe explains that the speech was successful, against all odds, because (406), “Demosthenes caused his audience to see themselves as the heroes in the tragedy and therefore proudly to assume with him the responsibility for what had happened … As one who opposed Demosthenes’ policies, Aeschines was alienated as the incongruous impostor, the alazôn of the comic stage.” 104 Hall writes, in reference to this example, “This sly allusion suggests that the speaker is an Orestes, offering the woman, as in Aeschylus’ Eumenides, to the jurors of Athens. They are thus encouraged to vote, like Athena in that play, in the speaker’s favor,” “Lawcourt Dramas,” 385. Michael Gagarin writes as follows on the further connections between Antiphon 1 and the Oresteia: “This introduces the basic polarity of the speech – an innocent victim set against his evil murdering wife  –  which evokes among other things, the myth of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, with whom the latter explicitly associates his stepmother,” Antiphon the Athenian (Austin, TX: University of Texas, 2002) 146. For further ways in which this speech evokes the Oresteia, see idem, Antiphon: The Speeches (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) 116. 105 Simon Goldhill, Reading Greek Tragedy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) 243. 106 A recurring concern of Bers’ essay on rhetoric and tragedy is to sound a cautionary note about imagining an easy picture of how rhetoric influences tragedy, “Tragedy and Rhetoric.” He prefers to speak of shared cultural values and commonplaces, rather than the direct influence of the one on the other.

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tioned above saw so well. In fact, the variegated relationship between rhetoric and drama reaches a special degree of complexity precisely when the Gospel of John was being produced, during the Silver Age of Latin literature in the 1st and 2nd centuries.107 Francesca L’Hoir entitled her recent study of Tacitus’ historiography Tragedy, Rhetoric and the Historiography of Tacitus’ Annales in order to show precisely the interaction of various literary styles in Tacitus’ work. She defends this posture by insisting, “Tacitus’ historiography is a product of Silver Age rhetoric, which blurs the boundaries not only between prose and poetry but also between history and tragedy.108 She goes on to speak of “an amalgamation between oratory and tragedy.”109 This amalgamation is clearly operative in the mind of Quintillian, for instance, when he offers aspiring orators a reading list to foster eloquence. Other orators like Demosthenes and Cicero are on the list (10.1.22–23), as is Homer, the grand old master (10.1.46). When he chooses among the three great Athenian tragedians, he recognizes value in each of them. In the end, however, he prefers Euripides to Sophocles and Aeschylus, but not because Euripides is the better poet. Poetry is not the issue; forensic rhetoric is. Quintillian writes: “No one could deny the necessary fact that, for those readying themselves to plead cases, the more useful by far is Euripides … In both speaking and debating, he could be compared to any of those who have been eloquent in the courts” (10.1.67–68). One should not read Euripides, therefore, in order to be a great poet, but in order to be a great orator. Quintillian is joined in this advice by Cicero. Like Demosthenes, Cicero is said by Plutarch to have honed his rhetorical delivery by studying with actors (Cicero, 5), and to have urged other aspiring orators to do the same. In his De Oratore, Cicero himself encourages this type of education in those who wish to be successful in oratory, because success in oratory requires skills beyond those provided by nature in most people. While other arts (ceteris artificiis, 1.127) demand nothing beyond natural abilities, oratory demands more, including the skills of the tragic poet and actor. The orator must have exceptional skills in logic and in philosophy, but must possess as well “a diction almost poetic, a lawyer’s memory, a tragedian’s voice, and a bearing almost of the consummate actor” 107 Dating the Gospel of John is, of course, a complicated matter. For a recent discussion about how papyrological evidence does – and does not – help us to date John, see Brent Nongbri, “The Use and Abuse of P52: Papyrological Pitfalls in the Dating of the Fourth Gospel,” HTR 98 (2005) 23–48. For our purposes in the present argument, any date in the 1st and 2nd centuries is acceptable. 108 Francesca L’Hoir, Tragedy, Rhetoric and the Historiography of Tacitus’ Annales (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 2006) 2. Regarding the need for Johannine scholars to be aware of the mixing and blending of genres in contemporary ancient literature, especially Latin authors, Attridge writes, “Fiddling with generic convention was the stuff of which literature great and small was ever made, from Vergil’s adaptation of epic to early Christian transformations of romantic novels.” See “Genre Bending in the Fourth Gospel,” JBL 121 (2002) 21. 109 L’Hoir, Tragedy, Rhetoric, 2.

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(1.128).110 Finally, Seneca’s tragedies also demonstrate that rhetoric in general, and legal preoccupations in particular, appear in Roman tragedy no less than they had in Greek tragedy.111 It seems quite clear, then, that tragedy and forensic rhetoric are closely connected and mutually influential throughout antiquity. What that connection means for the present inquiry is perhaps now clear as well. We saw above that the Gospel of John is participating in the broader phenomenon of the “theatricalization of ancient culture.” We can now refine this claim somewhat further to include forensic rhetoric. To put John in conversation with classical tragedy is inherently to put John in conversation with forensic rhetoric. Or, rather, it is to include John’s voice in an already lengthy conversation between tragedy and forensic rhetoric. The foregoing argument has made this obvious from the perspectives of ancient rhetorical theorists, actual speeches and actual dramas. When Black, therefore, urges Johannine scholars to look to forensic rhetoric in order to trace the contours of John’s lawsuit motif, he also recognizes that this task is difficult because of the inherent difference between forensic speeches and the narrative form of the Gospel of John. Tragedy shows us a way forward, because it is imbued with the language, style and structures of forensic rhetoric. One way to bring John closer to legal rhetoric is to bring John into conversation with Greek tragedy. This raises a critical question, however, and one that we can address at this point. Should we imagine the Fourth Evangelist reading both rhetoric and tragedy, or only one of them alone? L’Hoir comes up against precisely the same question when she identifies verbal connections between what Tacitus narrates about the Caesars and what Aeschylus depicts regarding the house of Atreus. The schools of rhetoric had long used the events of the house of Atreus in various ways, so L’Hoir writes, Whether Tacitus used Aeschylus’ original as a paradigm or whether he relied on commonplaces perpetuated in the schools of rhetoric must remain pure speculation. Nevertheless, the historian’s depiction seems to confirm a tragic frame of reference that envisioned the fall of the house of the Caesars in terms of the fall of the house of Atreus …112

The sheer literary and rhetorical skill of Tacitus could have driven him to shape, from rhetorical reminiscences alone, a series of scenes that recalled the fall of the house of Atreus, whether he actually read Aeschylus or not. Or, conversely, he 110 Translation from E. W. Sutton, Cicero: De Oratore (LCL; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1942) 91. 111 For the rhetorical character of Seneca’s tragedies, see H. V. Canter, Rhetorical Elements in the Tragedies of Seneca (University of Illinois Studies in Language and Literature, 10; Urbana: University of Illinois, 1925). Regarding forensic concerns in Seneca’s tragedies, see Eden, “Influence,” 244–287. For further evidence of the amalgamation of rhetoric and drama among the Romans, see L’Hoir, Tragedy, Rhetoric, 2–5. 112 L’Hoir, Tragedy, Rhetoric, 70.

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could have read Aeschylus. Because rhetoric and drama are so closely connected throughout antiquity, and especially in the age of Tacitus, it is impossible to determine which is more likely. If this is the case for Tacitus, whose educational milieu is relatively clear because we can assume that he enjoyed the education of other people of his status in the Roman Empire, it is even more true of John, whose entire life and career, let alone his education, are not at all clear.113 We can say almost nothing with certainty about what he read, apart from the Old Testament. We know only such general realities as the fact that the tragedians were part of the school curriculum throughout the Hellenistic and Roman periods in the East, or that many prose authors in the Roman Empire regularly rely on tragic language and scenarios in a phenomenon that is called the “theatricalization of ancient culture.”114 Beyond such broad insights, it is impossible to say what John knew and did not know, or what John might have actually read. I submit, however, that, regardless of what John read, if we read John in concert with ancient rhetoric and ancient drama, we will read John differently, and with greater insight.

1.5 John and Euripides: Appearance and Reality, Guilt and Innocence It will be useful now to turn to a specific example in order to show more precisely what it means to explore the forensic character of John through the forensic character of tragedy. We can look specifically to the Helen of Euripides. Both the Gospel of John and Euripides’ Helen appear to exonerate a figure who was considered guilty of a terrible crime, and in each case the line that separates guilt from innocence is the difference between appearance and reality. Both works dramatize the innocence of their central figures by showing that guilt was only apparent, not real. This dichotomy of appearance and reality, of course, does not point exclusively to tragedy. Long before Euripides wrote, and much earlier than the Gospel of John appeared, philosophers had argued that false appearances can distract human beings from true reality. Heraclitus famously says, for instance, “The true nature of things loves to hide itself.”115 Since this is so, and the true nature of things is not available to the senses, then the senses are not to be trusted. What

113

See Ibid, 2–5 for the educational expectations of Tacitus. For the theatricalization of ancient culture, see section 1.3 above. For the tragedians in education, see Raffaella Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 146, 198, 226. 115 In Greek, φύσις κρύπτεσθαι φιλεῖ (DK 22). For the translation of φύσις as “true nature” or “a thing’s true constitution,” see G. S. Kirk, J. E. Raven, M. Schofield, The Presocratic Philosophers: A Critical History with a Selection of Texts (2nd ed; Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1983) 192. 114

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the senses apprehend from the world of appearance is not real. It is not true. For Parmenides, among others, the senses can lead to opinions, but not to knowledge of the truth, “ἀλήθειη.”116 These ideas had a special currency for thinkers working in the Platonic tradition, like Philo or Plutarch, and Johannine scholars like Dodd and Hirsch-Luipold have seen the categories of Middle Platonism where John separates appearance (ὄψις) from reality (ἀλήθεια).117 There are, however, aspects of this dichotomy in John that the philosophers cannot help us to explore, especially where the difference between appearance and reality frames a question of guilt or innocence.118 In John, after all, Jesus appears to be on trial, but is in reality the judge. Jesus appears to be convicted, but his condemnation is actually his vindication and triumph. This reversal is most obvious in the trial before Pilate, where the roles of the judge and the one judged most dramatically shift.119 To be able to see that Jesus is the judge, however, and to see that he actually triumphs in his apparent conviction, one must see the difference between appearance and reality. Jesus insists, “Do not judge by appearances (ὄψιν), but judge justly” (7:24). Later, Jesus will add (8:15), “You judge by human standards (κατὰ τὴν σάρκα); I judge no one. Yet even if I do judge, my judgment is true (ἀληθινή) for it is not I alone who judge, but I and the Father who sent me.” Proper judgment distinguishes between appearance (ὄψις) and reality / truth (ἀλήθεια). And, in John 7 and 8, where these statements are uttered,

116 See the discussion of Parmenides’ notions of truth in relation to the later divisions between rhetoric and philosophy in Robert Wardy, The Birth of Rhetoric: Gorgias, Plato and their Successors (New York: Routledge, 1996) 9–14. 117 For the translation of ἀλήθεια as “real,” see R. Brown, The Gospel According to John (AB 29; New York: Doubleday, 1966) 499–500. For connections between this notion of ἀλήθεια and Middle Platonism, see C. H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1953) 139, 170–178 and Rainer Hirsch-Luipold, “Klartext in Bildern: ἀληθινὸς κτλ., παροιμία  –  παρρησία, σημεῖον als Signalwörter für eine bildhafte Darstellungsform im Johannesevangelium,” in Imagery in the Gospel of John: Terms, Forms, Themes and Theology of Johannine Figurative Language (ed. J. Frey, et al; WUNT 200; Tübingen, Mohr-Siebeck, 2006) especially 68–74. 118 The legal character of the difference between appearance and reality is made clear by Lincoln, who emphasizes that to judge by appearances means to judge by the Law of Moses, Truth on Trial, 231. Severino Pancaro makes the point well when he writes in relation to John 7:24, “What has met the eye of the Jews has been a behavior which appears unlawful. There can be no doubt that the Sabbath works of Jesus were, technically speaking, flagrant violations of the Law. To judge according to appearances would mean to condemn Jesus as a violator of the Law,” The Law in the Fourth Gospel (NovTSup 42; E. J. Brill, Leiden, 1975) 166. 119 In an important essay for the clarification of the legal character of John, Josef Blank writes that the trial before Pilate appears to be a trial between Jesus and the Jews in the presence of Pilate (“Jesus und die Juden vor Pilatus”) but is actually a trial of Pilate and the Jews in the presence of Jesus (“Pilatus und die Juden vor Jesus”), “Die Verhandlung vor Pilatus Joh 18, 28–19, 16 im Lichte johanneischer Theologie,” Biblische Zeitschrift 3 (1959) 63. For a succinct statement on this feature of the Fourth Gospel, see most recently C. Koester, The Word of Life: A Theology of John’s Gospel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008) 10–11.

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those who judge by appearances, are judging from the Law.120 According to the Law, as the opponents of Jesus understand it, Jesus is a sinner, because he healed on the Sabbath (5:16; 7:23; 9:16, 20). He is guilty of blasphemy, because he makes himself equal to God (5:17–18), makes himself the Son of God (19:7), and even makes himself God (10:33). Finally, when he defends himself, he can only cite his own testimony (8:13, 17; see also 5:31). When judged by appearances, then, Jesus is obviously guilty, and is condemned. But those who judge Jesus through the eyes of faith can see beyond appearances.121 Indeed, Jesus does not claim that he did not work on the Sabbath (5:17). He simply insists that his unity with God, who never ceases working, makes him an exception to this rule. Jesus is an exception to the rule about witnesses as well, because of his nearness to the Father (8:14). The question, then, is not one about whether or not he healed on the Sabbath. It is about the right perspective on this healing. To those whose perspective is based on appearances, Jesus is a mere mortal. To do what he does and to claim what he claims is blasphemy. But to those who see beyond appearances, and through the eyes of faith, Jesus in no way violates the Law. Thus, a question of innocence or guilt is filtered through the question of appearance and reality. The same dichotomy is at work in Euripides’ Helen.122 The Helen relies on the difference between appearance and reality in order to render Helen blameless for the Trojan War.123 The play operates on the presupposition that the standard myth about Helen’s role in the destruction of Troy is wrong. Helen only appeared to set the war in motion, but the real Helen was not taken to Troy. The goddess Hera actually sent Helen’s double to Troy (16–21). The real Helen is blameless. 120

The following is drawn from Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 231–242. Pancaro, Law, 167. 122 The relationship between appearance and reality, of course, receives treatment throughout Greek tragedy. See, for instance, the discussion of the pursuit of clarity in the Agamemnon, as it is discussed by Goldhill, Reading Greek Tragedy, 17–18. What Goldhill recognizes is not that characters are able to achieve clarity in interpreting the physical evidence they encounter, but that they only pursue this clarity, and always in vain. Their senses deceive them about the truth. Likewise, Segal writes about Oedipus’ angry encounter with Teiresias by saying, “Rather than providing a basis for a ‘tragic flaw,’ this scene is the most dramatic enactment to this point of the tragedy of knowledge: truth is trapped in illusion and in the disturbances of language and emotion,” Oedipus Tyrannus, 80. Interestingly, these tropes of ignorance and knowledge, appearance and reality and sight and blindness are taken up in Tacitus and seen as a reflection of his reliance on tragic modes of discourse. See, for instance, Francesca Santoro L’Hoir, Tragedy, Rhetoric and the Historiography of Tacitus’ Annales (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 2006) 83–108. Finally, if tragedy in general contrasts appearance and reality, then Euripides makes this contrast with special zeal, and with so much zeal that when Aristophanes parodies Euripides, he does so by playing on the difference between appearance and reality in the Acharnians (440–41). For more on appearance and reality in Euripides in general, see Matthew Wright, Euripides’ Escape Tragedies: A Study of Helen, Andromeda and Iphigenia among theTaurians (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) 268. 123 For the relationship between appearance and reality in the Helen as it is discussed here, see Ibid, 268–79, 285–337. 121

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One must distinguish, however, between appearance and reality to see that she is blameless. Seeing reality, however, is precisely the problem. When Helen first appears, Teucer cries out (72): “Oh, Gods, what image (ὄψιν) do I see?” He considers the real Helen to be some sort of false copy (74, μίμημα), confusing what is true for what is merely an appearance. Like various characters in the Fourth Gospel, Teucer is faced with the problem of appearance and reality and has difficulty distinguishing between the two. Helen herself also reflects regularly on her condition, and how she is only guilty in appearance. She laments: “I am cursed, and I seem (δοκῶ) to have touched off the great war for the Greeks by betraying my husband” (54–55).124 She seems to have started the war, but only in appearance. Helen also connects the distorting power of appearances to her guilt. She raises the legal question of what is just (δίκαιον) like a defendant in court when she insists, “Even though I am innocent (οὐκ … ἄδικός), I am much maligned” (270), in a way that sounds like Jesus’ claim that his own judgment, which is not according to appearances, is δικαία, (5:30; 7:24) and that there is no ἀδικία in him (7:18). To see the forensic character of the Helen, moreover, we need not speak in some general sense about the broad influences of forensic rhetoric on all of tragedy, but are able with some certainty to identify a specific influence on the play of Euripides: Gorgias’ Encomium of Helen.125 Gorgias also argues that Helen does not deserve to be blamed for the war at Troy. Even more significant, the recurring factor that Gorgias cites in defense of Helen is the difficulty of distinguishing appearance from reality (8–14).126 Gor124 For the contrast between illusion and reality in Helen, see the following lines: 4, 18–21, 27, 34–6, 42–3, 54, 66–7, 72–7, 108, 117–22, 137–40, 160–1. See Wright, Euripides’ Escape Tragedies, 279, note 204. 125 The historical connection between Euripides and Gorgias is not absolutely clear. Some take a very minimalist view of the relationship between the two authors and their texts on Helen. For example, MacDowell writes, “But was Euripides answering Gorgias or Gorgias answering Euripides? Probably neither,” D. M. MacDowell Gorgias: Encomium of Helen (Bristol: Bristol Classical, 1982) 12. Several other scholars, however, see many and more certain connections. Ruth Scodel, for instance, sees broad associations between the plays of Euripides and several speeches, but especially the Helen of Gorgias, when she writes, “It is unlikely to be coincidence that Euripides composed tragedies that required speeches on precisely these topics …; some of his Helen’s argument closely parallel Gorgias’s,” “Drama and Rhetoric,” 494. See also eadem, The Trojan Trilogy of Euripides (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1980) 44, 56, 90–92, 95, 97, 99, 144. Wright uses even stronger language, and writes, “The reason why Gorgias is so crucial, then, is because he provides an answer to two questions – first, why Euripides should have turned his attention with such intensity to the reality-and-illusion theme in 412…; and second, why Euripides should have chosen to explore this theme through the myth of Helen in particular …,” Euripides’ Escape Tragedies, 276. 126 This is the third of four lines of defense. The others are that she was compelled by the gods (6); by brute force (7); and by love (15–19). “Each is a mighty power, so that Helen should not be blamed for submitting to it,” MacDowell, Gorgias, 12.

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gias, to be sure, uses this dichotomy differently than Euripides. Where Euripides exonerates Helen by showing that other people are distracted and misled by appearances, Gorgias argues that, not other people, but Helen herself, was deceived by the illusion of appearances, and especially by the misleading power of words. Words, after all, are tools of deception that can falsely persuade people to believe appearances rather than the truth (13). Love is also deceptive, if we imagine that Helen was beguiled by the handsome appearance of Alexander into joining him at Troy (19). Love works through appearance (15, διὰ τῆς ὄψεως) to deceive and compel, so Helen could not resist Alexander’s superficial attractiveness. If Helen was deceived in this way, then she is blameless, since, in a case of seduction, it is the seducer, not the seduced, who is guilty (ἀδικεῖ, 12). This term ἀδικεῖ also evokes the same forensic concern for what is just (τὸ δίκαιον) that we saw in Helen’s lament in Euripides about not being guilty (οὐκ ἄδικός, 270). Euripides modifies Gorgias, then, but only by working with the same themes and basic concerns as Gorgias.127 Most important of all, we should not be fooled by the title of Gorgias’ speech into thinking that it is not a forensic speech. It is technically true that the encomium operates in the epideictic mode.128 But the Encomium of Helen only has the appearance of an encomium, and this appearance is deceiving. Gorgias’ speech is an unusual encomium, and its most unusual feature is that it takes the form of a legal defense speech.129 It certainly begins in the manner of a standard encomium, but everything after section 6 is a forensic ἀπολογία.130 Indeed, Gorgias argues from 6 onward that “Helen must be acquitted” (τὴν ῾Ελένην … ἀπολυτέον), clearly evoking the language of the courts. Even in antiquity, Isocrates recognized that Gorgias had blurred the lines between epideictic and forensic rhetoric. Isocrates complains in his own Helen (14) that

127 Wright recognizes, of course, that Euripides alters what we find in Gorgias, when he writes, “Although … it is impossible to say just how original Euripides is, it seems that he is not just alluding to or rehashing Gorgianic material. Instead, he is doing something more ambitious, taking Gorgias’ ideas further and presenting them from new angles,” in Euripides’ Escape Tragedies, 276–77. 128 See, for example, the classic study on epideictic rhetoric by Theodore C. Burgess, Epideictic Literature (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1902) 120–26 and passim. 129 MacDowell, Gorgias, 36. See, however, the response to MacDowell by H. Ll. Hudson-Williams, review of D. M. MacDowell Gorgias: Encomium of Helen, Classical Review n. s. 36 (1986) 131. Hudson-Williams writes, “It is likely that in the development of the prose encomium there was some confusion between the genuine encomium … and the forensic exercise in arguing a difficult legal case.” 130 Hudson Williams writes, “Gorgias’ work starts like the traditional encomium by linking Helen with her glorious ancestors, but from 6 onwards it is an ἀπολογία, a legal-type speech defending Helen on the charge of adultery,” ibid, 131. For the judicial apology, see Betz, Galatians, 14–15.

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another writer (presumably Gorgias) has written en encomium on Helen of Troy that is not really an encomium at all, but a forensic ἀπολογία.131 Modern interpreters make the same claim. For instance, Wardy writes, “Gorgias’ text is truly forensic.”132 And what John does looks a great deal like what Euripides does. In both John and Euripides, a figure is exonerated of past wrongs by distinguishing appearance from reality. Guilt is removed by removing the deceptive veil of appearances. The mechanism is slightly different in each work, of course. In Euripides’ play, there are two figures who are confused for one another. In the case of Jesus, the same figure is understood in two different ways. But the function is the same: to dramatize the manner in which a former assumption of guilt was based on appearance, not reality, and to dramatize the difficulty that various people have in seeing the innocence of the main figure. The relationship between the works of Gorgias and Euripides shows us as well why it is so useful to see the interaction of rhetoric and drama, and to account equally for both sides of this pair. Only by looking at both do we see what John is doing more clearly. Without Gorgias’ speech, and without forensic rhetoric more generally, we might not notice the forensic concerns implicit in Euripides’ play. And yet, Gorgias’ speech alone is not enough to help us to interpret John. The ingredients that are later combined in Euripides’ play are all present in Gorgias’ speech – guilt or innocence, appearance and reality – but they are not present in the same proportions. Euripides and Gorgias seem to be using the same ingredients, but they mix these ingredients in very different ways. It would be hard to understand John’s Gospel in light of Gorgias’ speech alone because John looks like Euripides, not Gorgias. Only when we see, therefore, how rhetoric is taken up into drama can we see what happens in the Gospel of John. Now, it is true that there is nothing really new in what the preceding paragraphs have said about the Gospel of John, apart from showing that John and Euripides operate in a similar fashion. Chapters 2 and 3, however, show how the forensic character of tragedy helps us to see new dimensions in the forensic character of the Gospel of John. And to prepare for these chapters, we must now explain more clearly what it means to speak of the legal character of the Gospel of John.

131 For a discussion of how Isocrates and Gorgias are related to the development of the three main categories of rhetoric (deliberative, epideictic and judicial), see Wardy, Birth of Rhetoric, 25–28. 132 Wardy, Birth of Rhetoric, 28. Wardy explains that what Gorgias is up to, however, is an attempt to undermine the genre of encomium, ibid 25–51 and especially 25–28.

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1.6 The Johannine Lawsuit Motif The legal dimension of the Fourth Gospel has been recognized by many people, and studied in many ways. This legal preoccupation is most obvious in the reliance on particular terms that carry forensic significance, especially words like judgment (κρίσις / κρίνειν), witness (μαρτυρία / μαρτυρεῖν) and prosecute / condemn (καταγορεῖν).133 But this legal character is not confined to only a few common words. The lawsuit motif has been connected to the most important theological, literary and historical concerns in Johannine scholarship.134 Such concerns include debates over the Law,135 eschatology, Christology,136 and the role of Jesus’ signs as legal proof of his identity.137 The most elaborate attention to the lawsuit motif has not been given to theology in isolation, however, but to the place where history and theology inform one another. Nils Dahl, for example, defines the Johannine concept of history as both Christocentric and forensic.138 The history of the world before Jesus, of Jesus himself, and the history of the Johannine community after Jesus, is a juridical history. Such an understanding of history explains why the Fourth Gospel calls John the Baptist a witness, and nothing but a witness (1:6–8, 15, 19). The Baptist has no other role than to point to Jesus, and especially to the innocence of Jesus. 133

For judgment, see Josef Blank, Krisis; Untersuchungen zur johanneischen Christologie und Eschatologie (Freiburg: Lambertus, 1964). For witness, see Johannes Beutler, Martyria (Frankfurt, Knecht, 1972); James M. Boice, Witness and Revelation in the Gospel of John (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1970); Allison A. Trites, The New Testament Concept of Witness (SNTSMS 31; Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1977) and, for a different but very important view of testimony in John, see, of course, Richard Bauckham, The Testimony of the Beloved Disciple. 134 For the legal character of the Gospel in general, see various references in Rudolf Bultmann The Gospel of John: A Commentary (trans. G. R. Beasley-Murray et al.; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1971) 50, 84–97, 145, 72, 238–84. 135 See Pancaro, Law. 136 For both eschatology and Christology, as his title indicates, see Blank, Krisis. Meeks also argues that the royal imagery in John has more to do with the kingly role of the Prophet like Moses than it does with the Davidic Messiah. The trial before Pilate is one of the critical areas where he shows the intersection of Prophet and King in a way that more evokes Moses than David. See Wayne A. Meeks, The Prophet-King: Moses Traditions and the Johannine Christology (NovTSup 14; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1967) especially pages 61–81. Peder Borgen also understands Jesus’ relationship to the Father according to halakhic rules about agency in “God’s Agent in the Fourth Gospel” in Religions in Antiquity (ed. J. Neusner; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1968) 137–48.); repr. in John Ashton, ed., The Interpretation of John (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986) 67–78. 137 For the signs as legal evidence, see A. E. Harvey, Jesus on Trial: A Study in the Fourth Gospel (London, SPCK, 1976) 95–100; Loren Johns and Douglas Miller, “The Signs as Witnesses in the Fourth Gospel: Reexamining the Evidence,” CBQ 54 (1994) 519–35; Willis H. Salier, The Rhetorical Impact of the Semeia in the Gospel of John (WUNT 2.186; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004); Kasper Bro Larsen, Recognizing the Stranger (BIS 93; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2008) 143 and passim. 138 See Nils A. Dahl, “The Johannine Church and History,” in Current Issues in New Testament Interpretation (ed. W. Klassen; New York: Harper and Row, 1962) 124–42; repr. in Ashton, Interpretation, 122–40. Citations are from the reprinted version.

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His task is both Christocentric and forensic.139 The same is true for all those who precede Jesus,140 and even more true for those who follow Jesus, as the work of the Paraclete shows. The Paraclete, according to Dahl, continues Jesus’ work by, among other things, “pleading his case.”141 But Dahl paints in broad strokes when he depicts the Gospel of John in a forensic scene. Much more detailed is the famous portrait of the Johannine community drawn by J. Louis Martyn. His reconstruction has dominated historical study of the Fourth Gospel for decades, and relies on the assumption that John’s Gospel reflects a two-level drama. One level, the surface level, is the story of Jesus as he is persecuted and prosecuted by the leaders of Israel. The second and more important level is the story of the Johannine community as they, too, are persecuted and prosecuted by the leaders of Israel. The link between the two levels, and the link between Jesus and his followers, is the forensic persecution that they both endure.142 But the most detailed and most recent examination of the lawsuit motif is that undertaken by Andrew Lincoln, whose narrative study of John covers the lawsuit motif from the beginning to the end of the Fourth Gospel. Lincoln couples this literary study with the historical and theological insights mentioned above, and unites the entire narrative of the Fourth Gospel under the forensic concept of witness, which is first signaled in the ministry of John the Baptist (1:6–8, 15, 19), and again later with the final testimony of the Beloved Disciple (21:24). One must be careful not to overstate the centrality of this legal motif, of course. D. Moody Smith sounds a cautionary note in this regard in his review of Lincoln’s Truth on Trial.143 Where Lincoln emphasizes the legal character of the Beloved Disciple’s witness, Smith argues that the work of the Beloved Disciple as a witness is not primarily a legal task, but a historical task.144 The witness of the Beloved Disciple has more to do with his work as a historical eyewitness, than his work as 139 Dahl writes, “But the Johannine concepts of witness and testimony have juridical connotations; thus, they are linked up with something which might be called a Johannine conception of history, because the conflict between God and the world is also conceived in forensic terms,” “Johannine Church,” 135. 140 Such as Jacob, whose well is the subject of the discussion with the Samaritan Woman, as well as Isaiah, Moses and Abraham, whom Dahl styles “Witnesses Before Christ,” in “Johannine Church,” 128–32. 141 Dahl, “Johannine Church,” 135. 142 The literature that further develops or responds to Martyn is so vast as to include much of the scholarship on John over the last thirty years. For a recent response, however, based on the legal character of John 9, see Edward Klink, The Sheep of the Fold: The Audience and Origin of the Gospel of John (SNTSMS 141: Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007) 107–51. 143 D. Moody Smith, review of Andrew Lincoln, Truth on Trial, JTS 58 (2007) 221–26. 144 Smith writes, “If one looks to 1 John, as the document most closely related to the Gospel of John, if not the first commentary on it (R. E. Brown), there is a direct answer to the question of the relationship of witness to eyewitness as raised by the Gospel. The essential visual, as well as aural, and even tactile, dimensions of witnessing are clearly set forth in 1:1–2. See Smith, review of Lincoln, 225.

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a witness in the trial of Jesus.145 His testimony demonstrates that the story is true, and not necessarily that Jesus is innocent. This is clearly correct and is important to keep in mind, but it does not exclude the legal character of testimony in the Gospel of John, as Smith himself emphasizes when he claims that “there are several, if interrelated, things going on in this Gospel.”146 The notion of eyewitness testimony, in other words, does not exclude the legal character of testimony in John. Testimony in the Gospel of John can play even more roles. Mary Coloe, for instance, has connected John the Baptist’s testifying work to his friendship with Jesus, the Bridegroom.147 But it is clear that there is a definite legal dimension to testimony in John. Meeks makes the point well when he connects the comments of Jesus at 8:14 and 8:16. At 8:14, Jesus insists that even if he does testify on his own behalf, his testimony is true, and then he announces similarly at 8:16 that, even if he judges, his judgment is true. Meeks then writes, The parallelism indicates that μαρτυρία and μαρτυρεῖν are forensic terms in the Fourth Gospel. On good grounds several scholars have proposed that the literary structure of the whole gospel suggests an extended court process between God and the world.148

While it is important, therefore, to recognize that the legal character of testimony does not exhaust the concept of testimony in John, it is also important to recognize that testimony has a legal character. And, while the lawsuit motif is not the only concern in the Gospel of John, it is certainly an important concern. Why, however, did John cast the life of Jesus in this legal framework? The best way to answer this question, and so introduce the basic concerns of the lawsuit motif, is to start at the end of the legal pursuit of Jesus, in the trial before Pilate (18:28–19:16a). This trial is the summation and culmination of various strands in the network of legal themes that operate throughout the Fourth Gospel.149 In the case of the lawsuit motif, therefore, looking to the conclusion is the best introduction.

145 Smith writes further on the matter elsewhere, and argues, “Despite the critical problems connected with the Gospel’s authorship, it wishes to be understood as based upon eyewitness testimony to the historical figure of Jesus,” The Theology of the Gospel of John (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1995) 77. 146 Smith, review of Lincoln, 225. 147 Mary L. Coloe, “Witness and Friend: Symbolism Associated with John the Baptiser,” in Imagery (ed. J. Frey et al.) 319–332. 148 Meeks, Prophet-King, 65. 149 Dahl, for instance, writes, “In the proceedings before Pilate the lawsuit reaches its climax,” “Johannine Church and History,” 135.

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1.7 The Trial before Pilate Two aspects of the trial before Pilate deserve special consideration, because they are particularly important for the argument of this monograph. First and foremost, Jesus is pronounced innocent by Pilate.150 After only a brief crossexamination (18:33–38), Pilate announces, “I find no case against him” (18:38). Even after Pilate has Jesus flogged, he announces again, “I find no case against him” (19:4). And even when the chief priests cry out for Jesus to be crucified, Pilate again responds, “I do not find a case against him” (19:6) The innocence of Jesus is a critical factor in the Johannine lawsuit motif and is the first thing we need to underscore in the trial before Pilate. The second important aspect of this trial flows from the first. It centers on the giant reversal that lies at the heart of the lawsuit. The difference between appearance and reality is again at play. In the trial in chapter 19, Jesus appears to be on trial before Pilate, but as Blank has shown, every action in this trial operates on two levels.151 In the world of appearances, the Jews are the prosecutors, Pilate is the judge, and Jesus, the defendant. The apparent conviction of Jesus, however, is actually the real conviction of his opponents. The actions against Jesus on the level of appearances are nullified and called into question when these same actions are viewed from what is really and actually occurring.152 The literal trial of Jesus before Pilate is actually the trial of Pilate before Jesus. Seams in the fabric of the literal trial betray here and there an indication of the theological vision of the Fourth Evangelist. When Pilate, for instance, tells Jesus that he has the power of life or death over Jesus, Jesus tells Pilate, “You would have no power (ἐξουσίαν) over me unless it had been given you from above” (19:11). This statement is to be connected to John 10:17–18, where Jesus announces that he alone has the power (ἐξουσίαν) to lay down his life, based on the command given him from his Father. “The power to crucify Jesus does not lie with Pilate but with Jesus. He is the one who decides what happens.”153 Van Der Watt draws out the implications of this reversal according to the labels “figurative” and “ordinary,” but which here apply to the categories of “appearance” and “reality.”154 In appearance, for example, the 150 Lincoln says in regard to Pilate’s decision, “His declaration of Jesus’ innocence (v.38b) means that, from this point, the trial is a travesty of justice, being carried out with the judge explicitly aware that the accused is innocent …,” Truth on Trial, 129. See also Jan Van Der Watt, The Family of the King (Biblical Intepretation Series 47; E. J. Brill, Leiden, 2000) 389, who writes, “Pilate allowed Jesus to be crucified, not on the basis of his findings (which indicate that Jesus is not guilty – 18:38; 19:4), but on the basis of fear for the Jews who might bring his friendship with Caesar in disrepute (19:12–13).” 151 “Verhandlung vor Pilatus,” 64. 152 This is to paraphrase Blank, “Verhandlung vor Pilatus,” 64 who writes, “Daher ist in dieser Situation fast jedes Wort paradox. Jede Handlung hat ihren Vordergrund, aber auch ihre Hintergrundigkeit, die den Vordergrund aufhebt, ungultig macht und in Frage stellt.” 153 Family of the King, 386. 154 Family of the King, 389–90.

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place and time of the trial is during the Passover in Jerusalem, but in reality, the setting of the trial is on the cosmic stage. The charges appear to be leveled against Jesus that he makes himself God, but are really leveled against those who do not know Jesus, or hear the Father. And the verdict of not guilty in the case of Jesus has its counterpart in the guilty verdict of those who crucify Jesus. Thus, when the sentence of death is given to Jesus, it is really the sentence of eternal death for his opponents. Because Pilate is only apparently the judge, and Jesus is the judge in reality, the entire cast of characters, and the question at issue, are also reoriented when viewed properly. It is not Jesus’ blasphemy or his danger to the Roman state that are in question, but the rejection of God and his Son. De La Potterie writes as follows: On the human level Jesus is the accused, the one condemned by men; but on the symbolic level, on the religious plane of the history of salvation, it is in fact Jesus who judges men.155

This reversal, of course, is not exclusively a legal reversal. The dominant imagery attached to Jesus in this trial is actually not that of judge, but of King.156 And yet, this royal imagery is intertwined with the legal concerns of the trial in various ways. Jesus’ role as king is inherently connected to his role as judge, especially since Jesus is pronounced a King in the setting of a trial. A curious grammatical feature further connects the roles of king and judge. John 19:13 reads as follows: ὁ οὖν Πιλᾶτος … ἤγαγεν ἔξω τὸν ᾽Ιησοῦν καὶ ἐκάθισεν ἐπὶ βήματος. Someone sits on the bema here, but who? The verb ἐκάθισεν could be either transitive or intransitive. If it is intransitive, with no object, then Pilate himself has sat down on the bema.157 But, it is also possible that the verb is transitive, and that τὸν ᾽Ιησοῦν is not only the object of “he lead” (ἤγαγεν), but also the object of “he sat” (ἐκάθισεν). In this reading, Pilate led Jesus out and sat Jesus on the bema. This is Jesus’ enthronement as King. But in this very role as King, it is he and not Pilate who is seated on the judgment seat. If this second reading is correct, it shows very starkly the legal reversal inherent in this trial scene. The royal imagery of the scene is even more closely tied to the lawsuit motif when Jesus himself defines his work as King in legal language. Jesus says to Pilate, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify (μαρτυρήσω) to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice” (18:37). This

155

Ignace De La Potterie, “Jesus King and Judge according to John 19:13,” Scripture 13 (1961)

108. 156 This is especially the concern of Meeks, who nevertheless sees forensic imagery here, too, Prophet-King, 73–78. 157 This is the opinion of both Rudolf Bultmann, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (trans. G. R. Beasley-Murray et al.; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1971) 664 note 2 and Edwyn Hoskyns, The Fourth Gospel (London: Faber and Faber, 1947) 524. Histories of the problem, and a clear explanation of the relevant issues, are to be found in Meeks, Prophet-King, 73–76 and Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 133–35.

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statement locates Jesus’ kingship within the legal category of testimony. Several other factors closely connect kingship with Jesus’ role as judge. First, when Pilate asks Jesus, “What is truth?” (18:38) he is assigning himself to a particular group in the Fourth Gospel. The limits of this group are defined by the judgment they receive when they respond to Jesus. In the Gospel of John, “the manifestation of the truth is itself a κρίσις” that reveals where people stand in relation to the truth.158 At 3:31–36, for instance, we hear that Jesus testifies (3:32, μαρτυρεῖ) to what he has seen, and yet no one receives his testimony (3:32, μαρτυρίαν). Those who do receive it, however, recognize that God is true (3:33, ἀληθής). Those who do not receive it fall under the wrath of God (3:36). They are condemned in judgment. Jesus even more closely identifies his testimony with his role as judge in chapter 5. At 5:24, Jesus announces, “Very truly, I tell you, anyone who hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life, and does not come under judgment (κρίσιν), but has passed from death to life.” The connection between testimony, judgment and truth is even more explicit in the set of parallel phrases in chapter 8 that we just saw above. The two sentences are the following: (8:14) Even if I testify (μαρτυρῶ) on my own behalf, my testimony (μαρτυρία) is true (ἀληθής) (8:14) (8:16) Yet even if I do judge (κρίνω), my judgment (κρίσις) is true (ἀληθινή) (8:16)

All of these examples make it clear, therefore, that when Pilate asks “What is truth” (18:38), he is de facto falling under the judgment of Jesus. These examples also demonstrate something even more important for the present monograph. The legal character of Jesus’ life is not confined to the trial before Pilate, and terms like witness and judgment that are inherently legal outside the Gospel of John are also understood in a legal sense within the Fourth Gospel. The comments from chapters 3, 5 and 8 do not only clarify the issues at stake in the trial before Pilate, but demonstrate as well that these issues are not confined to that trial. They operate throughout the Gospel of John. The trial before Pilate, therefore, provides important insight into the legal character of the entire Fourth Gospel. It shows in what way Jesus is not only innocent of blasphemy, but in what way he is also more than, or other than, innocent. To see him as innocent is still to read only at the level of appearances, where he is merely the defendant on trial. The theological perspective of the Fourth Gospel wants us to see something deeper. Jesus is not the defendant, but the judge, together with the Father. And the examples above show that this dynamic operates not only in the trial before Pilate, but throughout the entire Gospel of John, from 158 Meeks, Prophet-King, 65. I also follow Meeks in the following treatment of chapters 3, 5, and 8.

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the testimony of John the Baptist in chapter 1, to the testimony of the disciple whom Jesus loved in chapter 21. This is all to explain, however, what the lawsuit motif is, and how pervasive it is in John. But after explaining the “what” of the lawsuit motif, we cannot ignore the “why.” Why, that is, did John rely on this mode of narrative? Why cast the life of Jesus in forensic terms? Many possible answers could respond to this question, depending on whether one approaches it from a historical, sociological or literary perspective. Dahl and Martyn, for instance, might say that the legal processes plaguing the Johannine community made the legal perspective an inevitable lens through which they viewed their own lives and the life of Jesus. Van Der Watt, in a more literary mode, has said that this legal framework calls the reader to judge – and so be judged – just like the characters encountering Jesus within the narrative.159 The present study would like, however, to focus on one aspect of the lawsuit motif that might be common to all such proposals. Lincoln recognizes that the Gospel of John is not only the courtroom record of a trial, but is itself a piece of testimony.160 We have alluded more than once above to the closing line in chapter 21, where the entire Gospel of John is identified as a piece of testimony, but can quote the relevant line here. After Peter refers to the disciple whom Jesus loved (21:20), we hear from this disciple himself the following statement: “This is the disciple who is testifying (ὁ μαρτυρῶν) to these things and has written them, and we know that his testimony (ἡ μαρτυρία) is true” (21:24). Lincoln cites this phrase as a way to argue that the entire Fourth Gospel is a form of testimony.161 As soon as he does so, however, he immediately qualifies what he means by this designation. He does not want to commit the “category mistake” of claiming that the genre of the entire Gospel of John is a piece of witness testimony from forensic rhetoric.162 The genre of the Fourth Gospel, he recognizes, is the ancient bios, not a rhetorical narratio. Narrative is important in forensic rhetoric, to be sure, but the Fourth Gospel cannot be confined to one aspect of forensic rhetoric. It is a biography. And yet, ancient biographies often involved the contested debate over the significance of a given life, defending one tradition or person and attacking another. This explains why the Gospel of John has both “an apologetic and polemical function.”163 John is presenting a particular perspective on the contested significance of the life of Jesus. More specifically, Jesus was convicted of 159 He writes, in Family of the King, 338, “The forensic imagery is figuratively applied as a literary mechanism. The implied reader should envisage himself or herself as being present at a court case with the above mentioned witnesses … In a secondary sense the implicit reader is also put in a position of judgment, however the verdict of the implicit reader will not determine the truth. It will simply identify the implied reader with either of the groups in the narrative.” 160 Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 170, 229–30. 161 Ibid, 170. 162 Ibid, 170. 163 Ibid, 171.

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blasphemy, and executed by Pontius Pilate. The Gospel of John reopens the case, so to speak, in order to raise the question, Were they right? The lawsuit motif may do much more than this, but it surely does no less than this.164 Such a posture toward the past, and more specifically, toward a question of guilt or innocence in the past, creates a basic coincidence between John, on the one hand, and the twin worlds of drama and forensic rhetoric, on the other. Recall from above that Aristotle defines forensic rhetoric as the rhetoric that is concerned with questions of justice about events in the past. This focus on justice and past events inspires Hall to connect forensic rhetoric to tragedy. She writes as follows: This definition confirms the connection between tragedy and legal rhetoric, for tragic drama, like law court speeches, deals with the past and its subject-matter addresses alleged crime, proof, culpability or innocence, judgment and punishment.165

This constellation of concerns was obvious above in the Helen of Euripides, and is no less prominent in other plays. Most obviously and most famously, the three plays of the Oresteia appraise the guilt or innocence of the troubled members of the House of Atreus. The murders of Agamemnon by Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, as well as the murder of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus by Orestes, set a chain of events in motion that concludes in the trial of Orestes in the Eumenides. Likewise, the Oedipus Rex of Sophocles is occupied with a tangled web of crimes in the past of the most unspeakable kind. John is no different, as we see in the next chapter. The Fourth Gospel, therefore, just like the Oresteia, the Helen and Oedipus Rex, returns to the question of Jesus’ condemnation, and asks, Were his accusers right? In the mode of legal rhetoric, John presents a narration of past events in order to reappraise a question of guilt.

1.8 Summary of the Present Monograph The following chapters bring this overarching concern to bear on two specific matters, which are actually, in the most superficial sense, issues of definition and vocabulary. Several important terms, like witness and judgment, give a forensic cast to the Fourth Gospel. Two other terms also carry forensic significance: the verb “to seek” (ζητεῖν), and the noun “sign” (σημεῖον). The forensic sense of these terms, however, has been either ignored or disputed in previous work. The use of these terms in rhetoric and tragedy helps us to see them more clearly. A brief overview of the following chapters can show how this will work, beginning with the word “seek.” 164 For more options regarding the historical, literary and theological concerns of the lawsuit motif, see ibid, 183–262. 165 Hall, “Lawcourt Dramas,” 368.

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To be sure, the language of seeking and finding would seem to be an unusual place to look for connections between John and classical literature. “Seeking and finding” obviously connect John to the Old Testament and the heritage of Judaism, especially the wisdom tradition. But these traditions do not explain the full function of seeking in John. There is a critical point where the Jewish phenomenon morphs into something more at home in Greek literature. While the disciples seek Jesus and find in him the revelation of God, Jesus’ opponents seek him and do not find him. More often than not, they seek to arrest and kill him. This latter form of seeking, the hostile form, has a forensic cast not fully appreciated in previous work. The Attic orators, however, show us that there was in Athenian legal procedure an investigative process called “seeking,” (ἡ ζήτησις). This procedure has been shown to be one of the driving forces in the plot of Oedipus Rex, where Oedipus pursues the murderer of his predecessor and father, King Laius. Chapter 2 will set forth the details of this procedure, and show how it has been incorporated into Oedipus Rex. Furthermore, the word seek is surrounded in the orators with various other terms and various other procedures. These same terms and procedures are connected with seeking in the Oedipus Rex. Even more interesting, this same sense of seeking and the same terms and themes that appear in Oedipus Rex also appear in the Gospel of John. Furthermore, the similarities connecting John with rhetoric and tragedy are not merely superficial. I will do more, in other words, than simply attach the label “forensic” to seeking in the Fourth Gospel, and so include “seeking” in the arsenal of Johannine legal vocabulary, alongside “witness,” and “judgment.” Rather, by reading John together with Oedipus Rex, we can see just how thoroughly this investigative seeking reflects the same complex patterns of reversal that drive the entire lawsuit motif in John. Both John and Oedipus Rex rely on the notion of investigative seeking in order to demonstrate a dramatic legal reversal. This reversal is especially important for understanding Jesus’ confusing claim at John 8:50: “Yet I do not seek (ζητῶ) my own glory; there is one who seeks (ζητῶν) [it] and he is the judge.” The verse raises a host of interpretive questions. What is the connection, first of all between the two references to seeking? In the first instance, Jesus is the subject of the verb, and in the second, the Father is the obvious subject. Are they seeking the same thing, though? Interpreters unanimously think so, and follow the NRSV translation provided here, in which the term “it” is inserted after the phrase “there is one who seeks.” The assumption is, Jesus does not seek his glory, but the Father does seek it. The pronoun “it” does not appear in the Greek text, however. Its inclusion is an interpretive move. Likewise, a specifically legal sense is present when the Father’s seeking is connected to judging: “there is one who seeks and judges,” but previous interpreters have been unable to clarify this legal sense. The following study makes the connection plain, and in the process, challenges the prevailing assumptions that have motivated

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previous interpretations. Most important of all, the Father’s seeking implies a radical reversal in the lawsuit motif, in keeping with what we have already seen above. The opponents of Jesus think that they are the ones seeking Jesus. But this is only on the level of appearances. The real “seeker” is the Father. Other uses of the word “seek” also carry this legal sense, as in the warning that Jesus levels against his opponents at John 7:34: “You will seek me, but you will not find me.” The verse is often understood as an evocation of Proverbs 1:28–30, and as a warning about those who do not seek Wisdom. Chapter 2 shows, however, that this misses the actual sense of the verse as it functions in the broader sweep of the Fourth Gospel. The verse can be better integrated into the larger narrative if we see seeking here, not in light of seeking in Wisdom literature, but in light of forensic rhetoric. What makes this verse so interesting is that it certainly does sound very much like Proverbs 1:28, where the wicked are warned that they will seek, but not find (ζητήσουσίν με κακοὶ καὶ οὐχ εὑρήσουσιν). While it may sound like Proverbs, however, the verse functions in a forensic sense more at home in Greek rhetoric. This verse implies, therefore, a merger between a more Jewish set of ideas, and one more at home in Greek literature. Where we see rhetoric and drama intersect, therefore, we also see the mixing of “Judaism” and “Hellenism.” I will return to this issue below. First, however, I would like to turn for a moment to introduce what this study will argue about the signs of Jesus in John. The theological and literary character of the Johannine signs is complex and multifaceted. W. Salier has recently added a new dimension to the discussion, however, by recognizing that the word σημεῖον is one of the common words for evidence in Greek rhetoric.166 Salier has pointed an important way forward, but there is still more to say on the matter. The argument in chapter 3 of the present study supports his basic contentions by extending them, and especially by recognizing that the term “sign” has a special place in debates over identity in Greek tragedy. When people try to prove their identity, or debate the identity of others, the accompanying pieces of proof are identified like pieces of evidence, and described with the vocabulary of evidence. The word sign is one such technical term. A sign is evidence in rhetoric, therefore, but is no less a piece of evidence in epic and dramatic scenes of recognition. Connecting rhetoric and drama also helps to show the way forward through a current debate in Johannine studies regarding the signs. We saw a glimpse of this debate above in the brief discussion of Brant’s work on epideictic rhetoric. In the struggle to understand the dramatic and rhetorical character of the Gospel of John, scholars have seen these two modes of discourse as polarities that are mutually exclusive. Some emphasize that John has a legal tone, and so would be happy to connect John to legal rhetoric. Others emphasize that John is more dramatic than rhetorical, and so argue that the process of recognizing Jesus is 166

Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 34–38.

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more important to John, or at least more primary, than showing whether or not Jesus is innocent. This debate becomes relevant to the signs when scholars debate whether the signs are evidence of Jesus’ identity, or signs of his innocence. Yet, the entire debate reflects a false dichotomy. The worlds of rhetoric and drama do not oppose, but support, one another. And the process of recognition in tragedy is inherently linked at the most basic levels to discussions of evidence in rhetoric. The discussion of the signs in chapter 3, therefore, shows in a variety of ways why it is important to read John in light of both rhetoric and drama. We do not need rhetoric and drama, of course, to understand why John calls the wondrous deeds of Jesus signs. We need go no further than the Septuagint to explain why the term was meaningful to John. The miracles that Moses performed before Pharoah, for instance, are called “signs.”167 The various references to Moses throughout the Fourth Gospel make it highly likely that the signs of Jesus are intended to evoke the same power and function as the signs of Moses. I do not contend, therefore, that the signs in the Gospel of John are “Greek” and not “Jewish.” But, if we do not need to look to Greek models to see why John uses the term sign, these models do help us to see how John uses the term sign. The signs of Moses have been transformed by being deployed within patterns of persuasive argument that closely resemble those of Greek rhetoric and drama. The signs reflect the same thing, therefore, that seeking does: a complex interaction between some elements that are more Jewish, and some that are more Greek. The Fourth Gospel involves a creative process of reflection on various cultural and religious commonplaces that produces an integrated style of expression, and one that cannot be easily classified under “Judaism” or “Hellenism.” The preceding chapter has stressed the need for an integrated look at rhetoric and drama together, and it can conclude by insisting that there is in John as well an interaction of the worlds of Judaism and Hellenism. New Testament study has long operated under the assumption that the worlds of Judaism and Hellenism are utterly separate realities, though the greater emphasis in recent decades has been on seeing a more complicated process of interaction between these supposedly separate monoliths.168 The present study is an attempt to continue this new mode of operating. Previous analysis of the Johannine lawsuit motif has stressed connections to certain Old Testament and Jewish legal procedures169 although Neyrey also 167 See, for example, Exodus 3:12; 4:1, 5, 8, 9, 31. For discussion, see Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 20–22, 30–34. 168 For discussion of the problem in the history of scholarship, see the essays in Troels Engberg-Pedersen, ed., Paul Beyond the Judaism / Hellenism Divide (Louisville: Westminster / John Knox, 2001), especially chapter 1 by Wayne Meeks (“Judaism, Hellenism and the Birth of Christianity”) and chapter 2 by Dale Martin (“Paul and the Judaism / Hellenism Dichotomy: Toward a Social History of the Problem”). 169 This is especially true of Harvey, Jesus on Trial and Lincoln, Truth on Trial. See also Neyrey, Gospel of John, 292.

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sees the shape of the cognitio not only in the trial before Pilate, but also in trial scenes earlier in the narrative.170 Lincoln is especially specific in connecting the Johannine lawsuit to biblical models, and particularly to the divine lawsuit in Deutero-Isaiah. A major factor supporting this connection with Deutero-Isaiah is that so many other aspects of John’s theology and language point to DeuteroIsaiah as well.171 And yet, in spite of these obvious associations with Deutero-Isaiah, even Lincoln makes passing reference to Greek and Roman forensic rhetoric, as we saw above. The present study is simply an attempt to give this material a more prominent place in the analysis of the Johannine lawsuit motif. Indeed, the patterns of reversal and irony that Lincoln explores with the help of Deutero-Isaiah are not displaced by the following argument, but supplemented. The various resources and cultural commonplaces that John draws on, whether they are more Jewish or more Greco-Roman, are thus presented in an integrated and unified way. This monograph follows those Pauline scholars who understand various aspects of Pauline thought as creative interactions with the cultural and religious heritages of both “Judaism” and “Hellenism.” John Fitzgerald, for instance, has understood Paul’s teaching on reconciliation (καταλλαγή) as an intersection between Jewish and Greek modes of thought,172 while David Aune has argued the same in regard to Paul’s anthropological models,173 and Margaret Mitchell has seen the very same dynamic in Paul’s procedures of pastoral accommodation.174 These essential features of Paul’s theology and pastoral care cannot be explained by relying in some simple sense on one side alone of the Judaism / Hellenism divide. Only when both modes of expression are given their due place can Paul’s arguments be fully understood, and even then his work involves a creative appropriation of these raw materials. The same is surely true of John, as interpreters increasingly recognize.175 For example, the Fourth Gospel’s Prologue has been repeatedly compared to tragic 170 Neyrey, “Trials and Tribulations,” 109–110 and passim; idem, The Gospel of John (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2007) 300. 171 There are, for example, three direct quotations of Isaiah in John: John 1:23 quotes 40:3; 12:38 quotes 53:1; 6:45 quotes 54:13. Perhaps even more significant, the trial speeches in the Septuagint text of Deutero-Isaiah regularly employ the phrase ἐγὼ εἰμι (Isaiah 41:4; 43:10, 25; 45:18), which is so important for the Gospel of John, especially in the legal struggles in John 8 (8:12, 24, 28, 58). For other factors as well, see Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 43–45. 172 John T. Fitzgerald, “Paul and Paradigm Shifts: Reconciliation and Its Linkage Group,” in Paul Beyond (ed. Engberg-Pedersen) 241–262. 173 David E. Aune, “Anthropological Duality in the Eschatology of 2 Cor 4:16–5:10,” in Paul Beyond (ed. Engberg-Pedersen) 215–41. 174 Margaret M. Mitchell, “Pauline Accomodation and ‘Condescension’ (συγκατάβασις): 1 Cor 9:19–23 and the History of Influence,” in Paul Beyond (ed. Engberg-Pedersen) 197–214. 175 Hirsch-Luipold, for example, has recently understood the signs of Jesus in John in precisely the same way. He does so not only by giving full attention to both the Old Testament and to Middle Platonism in his study of the signs in John, but also by stating that the efforts to see striking differences between the two worlds of thought on this issue do not survive serious scrutiny.

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prologues, and this is obviously a correct way to read it.176 But a careful analysis also makes it obvious that, at precisely the point where the Johannine Prologue is most like tragic prologues, it is also most evocative of the scriptural heritage of Israel. It is most Jewish where it is most Greek. In a helpful essay on the similarities and differences that exist among the extant prologues of Greek tragedies, Segal emphasizes that one necessary feature of a prologue is a quality that he labels “seriousness and cosmicity.” He defines this quality by saying, “To win authority, the prologue must convince us of the seriousness of its contents …,” and then he adds that the prologue must demonstrate a connection between “the crisis of the moment and the remote beginnings of all things.”177 Tragic prologues often link their immediate story to the grand narrative of history by hearkening back to the misty origins of time. The Eumenides of Aeschylus, for example, only turns to the painful events of the house of Atreus after dwelling for over two dozen lines on the obscure myths and deities of pre-Olympian times. The first line of the prologue invokes Earth, then so on down the line to Zeus, beginning as follows: First of the gods I honor in my prayer is Mother Earth, The first of the gods to prophesy, and next I praise Tradition, second to hold her Mother’s mantic seat … (1–3)178

The Hecuba of Euripides does the same, by opening with a prologue spoken by the ghost of Polydorus, son of Priam and Hecuba of Troy. Polydorus announces that he comes from where Hades lives separately from the other gods and then narrates the ancient events of the Trojan War (1–2). Tragic prologues, therefore, link the events of the present with the events of the past, even the remotest past. This is surely what the Gospel of John does as well, as it announces in its famous first line: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” That sentence delivers us into the misty origins of time and shows both seriousness and cosmicity, grounding the ensuing narrative about the life of Jesus in a much larger narrative about the work of God even before the creation of the world. In this respect, John clearly follows the procedures of a tragic prologue. But – and this is the crucial point – at the very moment where John follows the tragic prologues by situating the life of Jesus “in the beginning,” the language that John employs to do so is the language of the book of Genesis. The ἐν ἀρχῇ of John 1:1 clearly evokes the ἐν ἀρχῇ of Genesis 1:1, and the whole Prologue of John has by some scholars been perceptively read as an exegesis of He sees the alternative between a Jewish / biblical or a Greek / philosophical background for the signs as misleading, and proposes rather to speak of how the Jewish-Christian interpretation of history merges with a Platonic notion of images. See Hirsch-Luipold, “Klartext in Bildern,” 100. 176 Among others, see Brant, Dialogue and Drama, 17–26. Duke, Irony, 24, 161, note 47. 177 C. Segal, “Tragic Beginnings: Narration, Voice, and Authority in the Prologues of Greek Drama,” Yale Classical Studies 29 (1992), quotations from pages 92 and 93 respectively. 178 The translation is from Robert Fagles, Aeschylus: The Oresteia – Agamemnon, The Libation Bearers, The Eumenides (New York: Penguin, 1984) 231.

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the creation story in Genesis.179 The Johannine Prologue, therefore, represents a creative union of Greek tragic elements and the theological and linguistic world of the Old Testament. It sounds like Genesis 1, but it operates like the prologue of a Greek play. Such a mixture of elements is precisely what we should always be expecting from John, no less than from Paul. If the two streams of Judaism and Hellenism can ever really be separated,180 they merge into a single style of discourse in their creative appropriation by John into the the Fourth Gospel. The following chapters, therefore, will uncover the interaction between Judaism and Hellenism in John at the same time that they explore the intersection between rhetoric and drama.

179 See, for example, Peder Borgen, “The Prologue of John – An Exposition of the Old Testament,” pages 75–96 in P. Borgen, Philo, John and Paul: New Perspectives on Judaism and Early Christianity (Brown Judaic Studies; Atlanta: Scholar’s Press, 1987); repr. from “Observations on the Targumic Character of the Prologue of John,” NTS 16 (1970) 288–95. 180 As Holloway helpfully writes, “The distinction here between ‘Jewish’ and ‘Greco-Roman’ is not altogether satisfactory, since first-century Judaism was by definition a Greco-Roman religion … I do not mean to imply that by following Greco-Roman models the author of John has consciously turned his back on Jewish traditions, of for that matter that he was even aware of employing one type of death scene versus another.” See Holloway, “Left Behind,” 2. Carsten Claussen also emphasizes the need to account for both “Jewish and Hellenistic texts” in the study of the Fourth Gospel, in Carsten Claussen, “Johannine Exegesis in Transition: Johannes Beutler’s Search for a New Synthesis,” in What We Have Heard from the Beginning: The Past, Present and Future of Johannine Studies, (ed. Tom Thatcher; Waco, TX: Baylor, 2007) 36. For a lengthy discussion on the matter, see especially Jörg Frey, “Auf der Suche nach dem Kontext des vierten Evangeliums: Eine forschungsgeschichtliche Einführung,” in Kontexte (ed. J. Frey and U. Schnelle) 3–45.

Chapter 2

What Do You Seek? 2.1 Introduction The first words of Jesus in the Gospel of John take the form of a question. At 1:38, Jesus turns to two disciples of John the Baptist, and inquires, “What do you seek?” (τί ζητεῖτε).1 The risen Jesus asks a similar question. When he encounters Mary weeping at the empty tomb, he asks her (20:15), “Why do you weep? Whom do you seek?” (τίνα ζητεῖς). At his two most anticipated entrances, therefore, Jesus greets his expectant disciples by asking whom or what they seek. The hunted Jesus does the same. At his arrest in the garden, Jesus twice asks the arresting officers, “Whom do you seek (τίνα ζητεῖτε;18:4, 7, 8)? He then adds, “If you are seeking me (ζητεῖτε), let these people go” (18:8). Everyone, therefore – friend or foe – is seeking Jesus. But, not all seeking is the same. In the first two cases, Jesus is sought by diligent disciples. In the garden, he is sought by hostile opponents. The disciples seek to know and befriend him. The opponents seek to arrest him. Jesus’ opening question is, therefore, very significant. If all are seeking, but not all seeking is the same, then the question is, “What do you seek?” The following chapter argues that when friend and foe answer this question differently, they are responding out of two different literary and theological traditions that lie behind the complicated notion of seeking in the Fourth Gospel. Friendly seeking in John largely follows biblical models, especially from Wisdom literature.2 Wisdom traditions cannot fully explain the hostile seeking of Jesus, however. While interpreters regularly distinguish various types of seeking in

1 On this point, John Painter writes, “The first word of the central character of the story in a book like the Gospel of John suggests an impressive and significant pronouncement,” in John Painter, “Inclined to God: The Quest for Eternal Life  –  Bultmannian Hermeneutics and the Theology of the Fourth Gospel,” in Exploring the Gospel of John: In Honor of D. Moody Smith (eds. R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black; Louisville: Westminster / John Knox, 1996) 354. That the initial question of Jesus concerns seeking is also noted by others, especially Bultmann, Gospel of John, 100 and Hoskyns, Fourth Gospel, 171. 2 By Wisdom tradition, or Wisdom literature, is meant such works as Proverbs, Sirach, Wisdom of Solomon, and several works from Philo and Qumran. See, for the difficulty in demarcating Wisdom traditions, Cornelis Bennema, “The Strands of Wisdom Tradition in Intertestamental Judaism: Origins, Developments and Characteristics,” Tyndale Bulletin 52 (2001) 61–82.

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John,3 and recognize that the opponents of Jesus are said to seek him,4 to seek to arrest him,5 or to seek to kill him,6 interpreters have not understood to what extent this hostile seeking is – or is not – related to the wisdom tradition. Over 70 years ago, however, Elias Bickerman argued that the hostile seeking of Jesus was best understood as a form of legal investigation.7 Walter Bauer also heard a legal resonance in John’s treatment of seeking.8 Eminent commentators like Bultmann, Hoskyns and Lagrange engaged Bauer’s arguments, but Bickerman’s essay has been almost completely ignored.9 The verdict of recent interpreters is that seeking has no legal character in John. The following chapter reopens the proceedings on this question, by bringing new evidence to bear from legal rhetoric and tragic drama. This evidence not only supports the case made by Bauer and Bickerman, but also answers the objections raised by those who oppose them, and demonstrates that the hostile seeking of Jesus in the Gospel of John is a form of legal investigation.10 The term seek should be understood in these contexts to mean something closer to “investigate.” 3 Jerome Neyrey, for instance, writes, “We note the double meaning of the term seek, which could mean friendly association with Jesus (1:38–39), but in this context more likely means hostile assault on him …” See Jerome Neyrey, “The Trials (Forensic) ad Tribulations (Honor Challenges) of Jesus: John 7 in Social Science Perspective,” BTB 26 (1996) 110–111. This quotation recognizes that seeking Jesus can be motivated by hatred as well as love, and emphasizes the language of seeking within a forensic context. But it defines such seeking no more specifically than to say that it represents “hostile assault” within the forensic scene. Francis Moloney adds similarly, “The use of the verb “to seek” … to describe the action of Jesus’ opponents always has a hint of violence …,” Gospel of John (Sacra Pagina 4; Collegeville, MN; Liturgical, 1998) 250. Both statements are correct, but the violent pursuit of Jesus can be even more clearly connected to the legal processes unfolding throughout the Gospel. Seeking carries a hint of violence, but also carries more than a hint of legal pursuit. 4 7:11; 11:56; 18:4, 7, 8. 5 7:30; 10:39 6 5:18; 7:1, 19, 20; 8:37, 40; 11:8 (to stone him). 7 Elias Bickerman, “Utilitas Crucis: Observations sur les récits du procès de Jésus dans les Évangiles canoniques,” RHR 112 (1935), 169–241 repr. in Elias Bickerman, Studies in Jewish and Christian History: Vol. 3 (AGJU 9:3; Leiden: Brill, 1986) 82–138. Citations in this chapter are taken from the reprinted version. 8 Walter Bauer, Das Johannesevangelium (Handbuch zum Neuen Testament 6; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1933) 131. See also “ζητέω” in idem, A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature (rev., transl. and ed. W. F. Arndt, F. W. Gingrich and F. W. Danker, [from German 6th ed.] Chicago: University of Chicago, 2000) 428; 9 Bickerman’s essay is cited, however, in the entry under “ζητέω” in Bauer, et al., A GreekEnglish Lexicon, 428. As for the legal character of seeking in John, the opinion of C. K. Barrett is now commonly expressed, if the issue is raised at all. He writes, in regard to the pairing of seeking and judging in John 8:50, “The forensic meaning of κρίνειν is not to be found in ζητεῖν also.” See his The Gospel according to St. John: An Introduction with Commentary and Notes on the Greek Text (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1978) 290, For responses, see Rudolf Bultmann, Gospel of John 300; Edwyn Hoskyns, The Fourth Gospel (ed. F. N. Davey; London: Faber and Faber, 1947) M.-J. Lagrange, Évangile selon St. Jean (rev ed.; Paris: Gabalda, 1936) 251. 10 There are, of course, other types of seeking in John that do not fit neatly on the continuum between friendly and hostile seeking. Sometimes, for example, a ζήτησις (“inquiry”) is a theo-

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The following chapter will support this argument in three stages. I will first turn to ancient sources in which seeking is a juridical term, beginning with the papyri assembled by E. Bickerman, and then continuing with Greek legal rhetoric and the play Oedipus Rex. Second, I will bring this material to bear on the Gospel of John and so demonstrate that several appearances of the word ζητεῖν have a legal sense in John. Not only the term “seek,” however, is shared by John and Sophocles. A host of other terms and themes will also be seen to be shared in common. Third, I will discuss the way in which John uses the ambiguities inherent in language to foster misunderstanding among Jesus’ interlocutors, and show how the term ζητεῖν fits within this context. The fourth section then discusses additional phrases in John, especially 7:34, in which the juridical and the sapiential notions of seeking stand side by side. The chapter closes with a discussion about the blending of sapiential and legal traditions in John’s lawsuit motif. The goal in all of this effort, of course, is not to replace Wisdom with legal rhetoric, but rather, to argue that the two are caught up in a creative process whereby various resources are developed and blended as John dramatizes the pursuit of Jesus by both opponents and disciples. The overemphasis on Wisdom in previous work requires that we distance some examples of seeking in John from wisdom traditions, but this is always done under the assumption that both wisdom traditions and Greek legal language are operative in John’s notion of seeking, and that a “nexus of interconnected ideas” is assembled around this logical inquiry or debate. “Now a discussion (ζήτησις) about purification arose between John’s disciples and a Jew,” (John 3:25); “Jesus knew that they wanted to ask him, so he said to them, “Are you discussing (ζητεῖτε) among yourselves what I meant when I said, ‘A little while, and you will no longer see me, and again a little while, and you will see me’?” (16:19). This is in keeping with the use of the word in philosophical contexts. For this, see Heinrich Greeven, “ζητέω, ζήτησις, κτλ,” TDNT 2.893–94. Seeking can also refer, in a rather mundane sense, to the act of looking for or aspiring to something. For instance, the disciples are afraid to interrupt Jesus while he speaks with the Samaritan Woman and ask him (4:27), “What do you want?” (τί ζητεῖς). In the trial before Pilate we also read, “From then on Pilate tried (ἐζήτει) to release him …” (19:12). The legal sense of this term, in the midst of a trial, should not be dismissed out of hand, of course. There are other places where the sense of seeking could be mundane, but which must carry some theological import as well, as in John 5:44: “How can you believe when you accept glory from one another and do not seek (ζητεῖτε) the glory that comes from the one who alone is God?;” and later, “… for no one who wants (ζητεῖ) to be widely known acts in secret (7:4); and, “Whoever speaks on his own seeks (ζητεῖ) his own glory; but the one who seeks (ζητῶν) the glory of him who sent him is true, and there is nothing false in him” (7:18). Or, ζητεῖν can refer to seeking done by Jesus or the Father. “But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father seeks (ζητεῖ) such as these to worship him” (4:23); “I can do nothing on my own. As I hear, I judge; and my judgment is just, because I seek (ζητῶ) to do not my own will but the will of him who sent me” (5:30). Some of these unrelated examples of seeking are closer to the concerns of the present chapter than they appear, but we focus first and foremost on the hostile seeking of Jesus by his opponents. For the discussion of ways to understand seeking in John, see Painter, “Quest for Eternal Life,” 354–6 and Mark Stibbe, “The Elusive Christ: A New Reading of the Fourth Gospel,” JSNT 44 (1991) 19–25, 31.

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term.11 The following chapter, therefore, will not attempt so much to diminish the role of Wisdom traditions in interpreting John’s notion of seeking, but rather highlight with equal clarity the relevance of Greek legal language. The current opinion on the meaning of ζητεῖν ignores almost completely the force of the word in Greek legal language.

2.2 Elias Bickerman on Seeking in the Gospel of John Just how thoroughly the legal sense of the term ζητεῖν has been ignored is made obvious by the fact that interpreters no longer even cite a remarkably learned and important essay by E. Bickerman. Bickerman expressed surprise in 1935 that the legal character of ζητεῖν had gone unnoticed by both commentators on the Gospel of John as well as by historians of Jesus, and he thought that he had set the situation aright with his extensive research.12 Over 70 years later, however, the matter remains largely as he found it. One of Bickerman’s central contributions is to connect seeking to another legal term in John which has only been recognized for its full significance in a few places, the word that means “to provide information,” μηνύειν (11:57).13 As Jesus draws near to the Passion in John, he avoids arrest by retreating into the desert (11:54; 12:36). He is finally arrested in secret (18:1). Bickerman sees in this retreat a parallel to the flight of fugitives to evade detection and arrest in Roman Egypt. Authorities enrolled the names of such fugitives on proscription lists, and the people thus proscribed were said to be “sought” through a procedure that is described by various forms of ζητεῖν and its cognates.14 Even more interesting, however, informers were publicly asked to deliver information (μήνυσις) leading to the discovery of those in hiding. One surviving denunciation states specifically, “I inform (μηνύω) that Sarapas is in the city.”15 Bickerman recognizes that this combination of ζήτησις and μήνυσις has a surprising similarity with John 11

The phrase is taken from John T. Fitzgerald, “Paul and Paradigm Shifts,” 259. Bickerman, “Utilitas,” 117. 13 W. Klassen has recognized the significance that this term has as evidence for the phenomenon of “informing.” He writes regarding the term μηνύειν, “It is often used in a legal sense, ‘to serve as an informer,’ (μηνύτηρ), and the information laid is called the μήνυμα. It is used thus by the Fourth Gospel when the author reports that the chief priests and the Pharisees had given orders that anyone who knew where Jesus was should give information (μηνύω), so that they might arrest him (John 11:57),” Judas: Betrayer or Friend of Jesus (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996) 65. For more texts, see ibid, 65, 75 notes 15–16. Klassen does not connect this term to the word “seek,” however, with which it is often associated as this chapter demonstrates. 14 For ζήτησις, see Ludwig Mitteis and Ulrich Wilcken, Grundzüge und Chrestomathie der Papyrusfunde (1:2; Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1963) 1, 19; For cognate terms, see Bickerman, “Utilitas,” 116, notes 177, 180. 15 Paul Collart, Les Papyrus Bouriant (Paris, Honoré Champion, 1926) 21: μηνύω Σαραπᾶν … εἶναι ἀνὰ Πόλιν. See Bickerman, “Utilitas,” 116, note 187. 12

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11:56–57, where people were seeking (ἐζήτουν) Jesus (11:56), and the chief priests and Pharisees – who have been described as seeking Jesus in one way or another since chapter 5 – called for informers to provide information (μηνύσῃ) of Jesus’ whereabouts, so that they might arrest him (11:57).16 This association of ζήτησις and μήνυσις in 11:56–57 parallels legal procedures in Roman Egypt, and shows in a clear way that seeking in John has at least some juridical connotations. A similar pattern appears in the Martyrdom of Polycarp, which also combines ζήτησις and μήνυσις.17 When the crowds called out for Polycarp’s death (3.2), for example, Polycarp retreated to a rural farm. Like the persecutors of Jesus, the persecutors of Polycarp are said to be searching for him (ζητούντων αὐτόν) and under torture by the police, two slaves betray Polycarp’s hiding spot, and these two slaves are said to suffer the punishment of Judas (6.2).18 Bickerman’s argument is important, therefore, for the obvious reason that it shows that seeking is a legal term in the Roman Empire. Even so, Bickerman’s work does not give a full picture of how legal seeking functions in the Gospel of John. For example, Bickerman does not mention 7:34 anywhere, and the fact that he does not deal at all with the enigmatic phrase in 8:50 is especially a problem, at least for those who oppose a legal reading of seeking in John. Jesus says at 8:50, “Yet I do not seek (ζητῶ) my own glory; there is one who seeks (ζητεῖ) it and he is the judge.” This was the verse that Bauer saw as having a particularly legal sense, and he translated the latter part of the clause as “there is one who investigates (ζητεῖ) and judges.”19 We deal with this verse further below, and at this point we need only to hear one response to Bauer’s argument, to show why further work is needed. Schnackenburg opposes Bauer by writing, “ζητεῖν can also be a technical term for a juridical investigation … though this is unlikely here: God has no need to undertake an investigation.”20 Schnack16

Ibid, 117. Ibid, 118. 18 Incidentally, another combination of ζήτησις and μήνυσις, which is not cited by Bickerman, occurs in the Acts of Paul and Thecla. Only here, Thecla is sought (ἐζητεῖτο) by her parents and her jealous betrothed (19). Like in the Martyrdom of Polycarp, however, a slave informs (ἐμήνυσεν) them of her whereabouts. When they discover that she is with St. Paul, they inform the governor and incite the city. The pursuit by parents and a husband-to-be is not an act performed by a legal body, but it is the pursuit and persecution of a Christian who is unable to be found that involves ζήτησις and μήνυσις. Later, in chapter 40, the same two terms are used when Thecla is searching for Paul. 19 Bauer refers to Philo On Joseph 174, where Joseph’s brothers worry: “The conspiracy we contrived against him is being investigated (ζητεῖται), and the investigator is no mortal being (ὁ δὲ ζητῶν οὐκ ἔστιν ἄνθρωπος), but God …,” Johannesevangelium, 131. The text of Philo enters the commentary tradition, however, not through Bauer, but through the commentary of Westcott who, nevertheless, does not seem to recognize fully its legal implications, B. F. Westcott, The Gospel according to St. John: The Authorized Version with Introduction and Notes (London: John Murray, 1882) 138. 20 Rudolf Schnackenburg, The Gospel According to St. John (New York: Seabury, 1980) 2.492–3 note 121. 17

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enburg’s opposition can be overcome, but only if we understand that seeking has become a literary and theological motif in John. Only then do we see why God undertakes an investigation. Bickerman’s arguments are not conclusive in responding to Schnackenburg because he does not attend to the literary function of seeking in John, nor does he address every important passage. Papyri alone, therefore, do not resolve the problem, a fact which may explain the neglect of Bickerman’s work. Other ancient texts, however, are more helpful, especially Sophocles’ famous tragedy, Oedipus Rex. Not only does a legal investigation under the rubric of “seeking” (ζητεῖν) drive the plot of that play, but seeking has become in Oedipus Rex a literary motif that functions very much like the hostile seeking of Jesus in the Gospel of John.

2.3 Investigative Seeking in Greek Rhetoric and in Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex In order to see the legal character of seeking in Oedipus Rex, we need first to recognize that the term ζητεῖν has a technical sense in Greek legal rhetoric. An initial and suggestive combination of “seeking and finding” occurs at the end of Lysias 1 (On the Murder of Eratosthenes). To demonstrate that he killed Eratosthenes legally, and not as an extension of some private feud, the defendant urges the jury to investigate as much as they like whether there was ever any previous quarrel between Eratosthenes and himself (1.43). He tells them that, even though they seek (ζητοῦντες) for some prior enmity, they will find none (οὐδεμίαν γὰρ εὑρήσετε). The language of seeking and finding appears here, therefore, in a legal context, and, even more important, in a combination that looks very much like Pilate’s response to the Jews (18:35; ἐγὼ οὐδεμίαν εὑρίσκω ἐν αὐτῷ αἰτίαν; cf. 19:4, 6) But this is an almost casual use of the terms, and is not necessarily forensic in any technical sense.21 More technical usages of the word abound, however. In his speech Against Timocrates, Demosthenes explains (24.11) that, in the event of a crime of public 21 In this survey of the word ζητεῖν among the orators, it is important to recognize that I am not tracing an aspect of the art of persuasion. Some might say, therefore, that the following argument is not “rhetorical” in some technical sense, because we are really discerning Athenian legal processes that are reflected in the orators, and not rhetorical patterns of argument and persuasion. But that is an incidental concern. For, our goal is to show how legal realities are filtered through tragedy. What matters is that Oedipus Rex uses these legal processes, not where the processes are developed and our focus is still the dramatization of legal language. Furthermore, the following argument is still, technically speaking, an interaction with oratory, since our chief witnesses to the forensic language we are tracing are Lysias, Demosthenes, Andocides and Dinarchus. They are orators, and we are using their speeches. We have, then, clearly an intersection of rhetoric and drama.

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import, a commission of investigators (ζητητάς) was appointed and the public was summoned to provide information (μηνύειν) to the commission. Here again, therefore, is the association of investigation (ζήτησις) and informing (μήνυσις) that we saw above in John 11 and in the evidence that Bickerman assembles.22 The same association of ζήτησις and μήνυσις appears in Andocides’ On the Mysteries. Andocides defends himself in this speech against charges emanating from one of the most famous events in Greek history. In the days leading up to the disastrous Athenian expedition to Syracuse (415 B. C. E.), two great sacrileges occurred. The statues of Hermes throughout Attica were desecrated, and the Mysteries of Demeter at Eleusis were celebrated improperly.23 An investigation, which Andocides calls ζήτησις (1.36, 40), was initiated to root out the blasphemers by sifting through evidence (μήνυσις) provided by informers.24 Andocides informs us as well that the investigators engaged in cross-examination, or in “exposing the matter,” when he defines their work as “ἐξελέγχοντες τὸ πρᾶγμα” (1.65). Thucydides similarly emphasizes the role of cross-examination (ἔλεγχος) in sifting through evidence when he describes the same episode. His particular concern is the abuse of this process, since even the best people did not remain unexamined (ἀνέλεγκτον) upon the testimony of even the most disreputable people.25 The conclusion of all this investigative activity is to amass enough evidence to try and convict the criminal.26 Dinarchus and Thucydides describe this conclusion with the term “finding,” εὕρεσις.27 Dinarchus writes, for instance, of the city investigating (ζητεῖν) in order to discover (εὑρεῖν) who had committed a crime of bribery (1.4), and Thucydides also describes the end of the investigation as finding, εὑρεῖν (6.53.2).28 From the Attic orators, then, as well as from Thucydides, we get a sense of Athenian investigative procedures in the ζήτησις, and the technical language associated with these investigations, especially terms and procedures such as μήνυσις, ἔλεγχος and εὑρεῖν. With this material in mind, we can examine Oedipus Rex in order to see that it also is patterned on the ζήτησις. R. G. Lewis, writes as follows:

22 For ζητηταί and the call for informers, see Douglas MacDowell, The Law in Classical Athens (Ithaca: Cornell University, 1978) 181–3. For investigative seeking in general, idem, Andokides: On the Mysteries (Oxford: Clarendon, 1962) 6, 73, 87. 23 For these events, see William D. Furley, Andokides and the Herms: A Study of Crisis in FifthCentury Athenian Religion (BICSS 65: London: University of London, 1996). 24 For ζήτησις and μήνυσις in Andocides 1, see 1.13–19, 23, 27, 32, 34, 40, 42, 54, 59. See also Thucydides 6.27.2, 28.1, 29.1, 53.1, 60.4. 25 6.53.2. 26 Andocides 1.17 refers to handing over the accused to the courts, based on the evidence assembled. 27 In Andocides, it is πυθέσθαι, 1.43, 58. 28 See also 6.60.4, where the ζήτησις pursues what is τὸ σαφές.

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The simple truth appears to be that Sophocles founded his exposition of Oedipus’ selfdiscovery on the Athenian process of ζήτησις – the proceedings of a publicly appointed commission of ζητηταί or inquisitors charged with investigating a crime of public import committed by a person or persons unknown and with gathering information that would identify the criminals and lead to their prosecution.29

Oedipus begins his investigative ζήτησις with a tip from an informer. Oedipus sent Creon to inquire at the Delphic Oracle about why Thebes is plagued by disasters and disease (69–77), and Creon learns from the oracle that the city suffers because the murder of King Laius, the former King of Thebes, has gone unavenged, and the murderer has not been punished (106–07). This information is called by the technical term μήνυσις when Oedipus asks Creon (102), “Well, concerning whose fate does [Apollo] provide this information (μηνύει)?” We saw above among the orators that information was a key part of investigation, and the oracle of Apollo is the μήνυσις that sets the ζήτησις of Oedipus in motion.30 The investigation is described in the language of “seeking” immediately afterward, as when Oedipus is told (110): “Whatever is sought (ζητούμενον) is caught, but what is ignored escapes.” From this point forward, Oedipus is regularly cast in the role of “investigator,” ὁ ζητῶν. He announces that he will struggle on behalf of the dead former king, “seeking (ζητῶν) out the perpetrator of his murder” (266). When the chorus hear this, they refer to the object of the investigation

29 See R. G. Lewis, “The Procedural Basis of Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus,” GRBS 30 (1989) 50. For more on investigative seeking in the play, see also Bernard Knox, Oedipus at Thebes (New Haven: Yale University, 1957) 78–98. For various discussions of the legal character of this play, see also G. Greiffenhagen, “Der Prozess des Oedipus.” Hermes 94 (1966) 147–76; Richard Garner, Law and Society in Classical Athens (London: Croom Helm, 1987) 103–4; Frederick Ahl, Sophocles’ Oedipus: Evidence and Self-Conviction (Ithaca: Cornell University, 1991) 19–21 and passim; A. A. Long, Language and Thought in Sophocles (London; Athlone, 1968) 161 writes, “The atmosphere of the lawcourts still pervades central scenes in the Oedipus Tyrannus …” “Seeking” should be understood in a technical sense, because it is neither typically Sophoclean, nor typically poetic, language. While the term seek occurs 8 times in this play, it occurs only a few more times in other plays: Ajax (470, 806), Oedipus at Colonus (362, 389) and the Trachiniae (55). It is also not typically poetic vocabulary. In Homer, we find it only once (Iliad, 14.258), and once in Hesiod (Works and Days, 400), never in Pindar and in tragedy in only one play of Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound (262, 316, 776), Knox, Oedipus, 117, 237 notes 32, 33. Knox and Goldhill recognize that Sophocles’ use of seeking corresponds with technical philosophical vocabulary as well, and that seeking also can point in a philosophical direction. For instance, Socrates summarizes the charges against him at trial by saying that his opponents identify him as someone “who investigates (ζητῶν) both the things under the earth and the things in the heavens” (Plato, Apology 19b). The same language is applied by Aristophanes in the Clouds to both Socrates (171–2) as well his students (188). For more references and discussion, see Knox, Oedipus, 116–20 and Goldhill, Reading Greek Tragedy, 199–22. The present study focuses on the legal, and not the philosophical, sense of seeking, but to emphasize the one is not to deny the other. 30 See Lewis, “Procedural Basis,” 53; Knox, Oedipus, 80. Translations of Sophocles are mine, based on the text in Hugh Lloyd-Jones and Nigel Wilson, Sophoclis Fabulae (Oxford Classical Texts; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990).

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as τὸ ζήτημα (278). Likewise, when Teiresias shockingly announces that Oedipus is himself the murderer, he says, “I declare you to be the killer of the man whose killer you seek (ζητεῖς) to arrest” (362). Oedipus does not grasp the seer’s meaning, assuming that Teiresias is plotting against him (380–403). Teiresias, therefore, repeats, “This man, whom you seek (ζητεῖς) right now, making threats, and enquiring after Laius’ murderer, this man is here … (449–51)”. Later, as the play draws to its terrifying close, Oedipus announces to the Chorus (1111–12), “I think I see the shepherd, whom we seek (ζητοῦμεν) but now.” Identifying the work of Oedipus as an investigative ζήτησις, however, involves more than counting the appearances of the word ζητεῖν. Not just the terminology, but the actual work of Oedipus mirrors the activity of the Athenian ζήτησις. For example, the Athenians in 415 offered rewards to informers, and punishment to those who withheld information.31 At the very start of his ζήτησις, Oedipus makes a similar public proclamation, offering rewards for those who provide evidence (224–32), and warning everyone not to harbor the impure man, or suffer the same banishment that that criminal deserves (232–250). Even more important, a central task of the Athenian investigators was to gather information, and to cross-examine people through ἔλεγχος on the basis of this information. This is what Oedipus does repeatedly, and his actions are even called ἔλεγχος.32 Teiresias, for example, complains to Oedipus, “Why do you interrogate (ἐλέγχεις) me in vain?” (333).33 In the next scene, Oedipus challenges Creon regarding the report he brought back from Delphi. Creon urges Oedipus to inquire himself of the oracle and so see “evidence of these things” (τῶνδ’ ἔλεγχον, 603).34 Oedipus interrogates everyone, however, not just Teiresias and Creon.35 Throughout the play, he cross-examines Creon (87–131), Teiresias (316–462), and then Creon again (513–630), but then also Jocasta (726–862), the messenger from Corinth (954–1085) and the Shepherd (1119–85). 31

For these rewards, see Thucydides 6.27.2 and Lewis, “Procedural Basis,” 50–51. For legal cross-examination in this play, see Ahl, Sophocles’ Oedipus, 4, 20, 22–25, 27, 29, 61, 75–76, 81, 101–02. 33 Segal writes that in this episode “we are on the familiar ground of legal debate. This is a courtroom scene ….,” Oedipus, 84. Dawe similarly describes the interrogation of Teiresias by Oedipus starting at line 555 as a “good, crisp law-court scene,” Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex, 13. 34 Additional vocabulary underlines the legal character of these interrogations. Oedipus greets Teiresias by saying “You have entered so despondently” (319), where “entering” is a technical term for entering court: εἰσελήλυθας (Knox, Oedipus, 84, 226 note 134). See John Burnet, Plato: Euthyphro, Apology of Socrates, Crito (Oxford: Clarendon, 2002) regarding the use of εἰσάγειν and εἰσέρχομαι as the technical terms for dragging or being dragged into court. For examples: Demosthenes 18.103 (εἰσελθεῖν) and 18.278 (εἰσεληλυθότας). When Teiresias responds, “Let me go home,” he again uses technical language for being excused from court (320): ἄφες μ’ (Knox, Oedipus, 84, 226 note 135). See Demosthenes 21.120, 22.4. 35 Segal writes, “These are almost juridical inquiries … All six show Oedipus’ keen intelligence in action as he tries to solve the murder of Laius and the mystery of the plague by careful cross-examination,” Oedipus, 50–51. 32

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Finally, the conclusion of Oedipus’ investigation is expressed with various words, but one of them is εὑρίσκειν and its cognates.36 He urges people to offer information because, “the time has come for these things to be found out (ηὑρῆσθαι, 1050).” The Chorus announce Oedipus’ guilt in the same way: “Time, who sees everything, has found (ἐφηῦρε) you against your will” (1213). Oedipus soon adds, “For I am now found (εὑρίσκομαι) to be an evil man …” (1397), a phrase that he repeats a few verses later (1421). His investigative seeking, therefore, ends in finding. Oedipus is never convicted, however. In the Athenian efforts to discover the blasphemers in 415, the investigations over the Herms and the profanation of the Mysteries led to trials in court based on what had been discovered in the investigations. Oedipus simply goes into exile (1518).37 Nevertheless, his guilt has been clarified by the same process that operated in the Athenian investigations in 415. There was a ζήτησις that involved μήνυσις and ἔλεγχος, and which ended in discovery, or “finding” (εὕρεσις).

2.4 The ζήτησις in the Gospel of John These same processes and terminology appear in the Gospel of John. When the opponents of Jesus pursue him, they investigate him like Oedipus investigated the murderer of King Laius.38 In John 11:57, the priests and Pharisees call for informers to provide information (μηνύσῃ) about where Jesus is, as we saw in Oedipus Rex (102).39 And, like the investigation led by Oedipus, the pursuit of Jesus is regularly called “seeking.” At 5:18 the Evangelist announces, “For this reason the Jews were seeking (ἐζήτουν) all the more to kill him, because he was not only breaking the sabbath, but was also calling God his own Father, thereby making himself equal to God.” When the controversy in chapter 5 resumes in chapter 7, the resumption is signaled with the following announcement: “After 36

Lewis, “Procedural Basis,” 54. Ibid, 63–66. 38 Others have compared “the Jews” in John to the Chorus in Greek tragedy. See, for example, Winfried Verburg, Passion als Tragödie?: die literarische Gattung der antiken Tragödie als Gestaltungsprinzip der Johannespassion (Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1999) 112–122; Jo Ann Brant insightfully connects the deliberative role of “the Jews” in John to the deliberations which never lead to action of choruses in tragedy, Dialogue and Drama: Elements of Greek Tragedy in the Fourth Gospel (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2004) 178–87. But in the present case, this assumption seems to require reevaluation. The Jews seem very much to function like Oedipus in the present case, and they not only deliberate, but move to arrest Jesus in chapters 11 and 18. 39 In Oedipus Rex, though, Apollo’s information launches the investigation, while in John, informing comes as the investigation concludes. Both types of informing occurred in Athens, Lewis, “Procedural Basis,” 51. 37

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this Jesus went about in Galilee. He did not wish to go about in Judea because the Jews were seeking (ἐζήτουν) to kill him (7:1).” His opponents elsewhere seek to kill (5:18; 7:1, 19, 20, 25; 8:37, 40) and to stone him (11:8). But their seeking is not only a specific desire “to kill.” They also seek to arrest him (7:30; 10:39), as well as simply “seek” him (7:11, 34; 11:56). Most important of all, in the scene where Jesus is arrested, the pursuers are three times described as simply “seeking” (18:4, 7, 8). Further connections link the forensic procedures in the two texts. Those who pursue Jesus, for example, behave like Oedipus by repeatedly engaging in crossexamination (ἔλεγχος). Jesus even challenges his interrogators in much the same way that Teiresias challenged Oedipus when Jesus asks (8:46), “Which of you convicts (ἐλέγχει) me of sin?”40 The investigators of Jesus resemble Oedipus, however, not only because their work is called ἔλεγχος, but even more important, because it looks like ἔλεγχος. This is true from the first scene of the Gospel, when inquirers are sent from Jerusalem to John the Baptist to determine who he is, and to gather evidence for the sake of those who sent them (1:19–24). This scene represents the interrogation and examination of a witness. As Neyrey has shown, such question / answer sessions are not intended merely to impart information. They are players in what he calls “the game of attack and defense.”41 And the work of interrogation gains considerable momentum in chapter 5. At 5:16, we are told that the Jews begin to prosecute (ἐδίωκον) Jesus after he heals the man at the pool.42 Following his lengthy response to their questions in chapter 5 (5:19–47), Jesus removes himself in chapter 6. When he returns in chapters 7–8, he is again interrogated, and, as we saw above, he even characterizes this interrogation as ἔλεγχος (8:46). In chapter 9, the Pharisees interrogate the man born blind (9:16–17), his parents (9:18–23), then the man himself again (9:24–34). Indeed, Jesus’ opponents rarely appear when they are not interrogating Jesus or someone else about Jesus’ identity, or discussing what legal actions to take against Jesus. Their investigation into Jesus’ blasphemy looks very much like the investigation that took place in Athens in 415, and even more like the investigation that takes place in Oedipus Rex. In each case, an act of impiety needs 40 The exact sense of ἐλέγχει here has been disputed. The forensic sense of the term is not the only one possible. Büchsel defines the word generally to mean “to show someone his sin and to summon him to repentance” and so believes the word to have an “emphatically ethical application.”For various usages in philosophical and biblical texts, see Friedrich Büchsell, “ἐλέγχω, κτλ,” TDNT, 2.473–75. It has a clear forensic sense as well, though, as the evidence from the orators above demonstrates. Barrett has recognized this when he defines the word as follows, “ἐλέγχειν means ‘to expose’, for example, of sin, or error; hence ‘to convict’,” Gospel according to John, 289–90, 405. See also Brown, Gospel according to John, 1.358; Moloney, John, 280–81. 41 Jerome Neyrey, “Questions, Chreai, and Challenges to Honor. The Interface of Rhetoric and Culture in Mark’s Gospel,” CBQ 60 (1998) 660. 42 For this translaton of διώκω, see A. E. Harvey, Jesus on Trial: A Study in the Fourth Gospel (London: SPCK, 1976) 50–51. Moloney uses both “persecute” and “prosecute” in his John, 174.

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to be investigated, while the investigation goes by the title “to seek,” and involves cross-examination (ἔλεγχος) and a call for information (μήνυσις). Finally, the conclusion of the investigative seeking in John is called “finding,” just as it was in both Oedipus Rex and the Attic orators. Pilate claims three times that he “finds” nothing that convicts Jesus (οὐχ εὑρίσκω ἐν αὐτῷ αἰτίαν, 19:6; see also 18:38; 19:4). An uncanny connection exists, therefore, between the Fourth Evangelist and Sophocles when it comes to legal activities that are defined by the words ζήτησις, μήνυσις, ἔλεγχος and εὕρεσις. The real significance of this circumstance is not yet clear, however. It is certainly important to notice that Oedipus and the opponents of Jesus are both said to “seek” as they investigate a case of blasphemy. Recognizing this parallel, however, is to recognize only half of the matter. Or, to use more Johannine language, to see only this much is to judge on the level of appearances (7:24). It is one thing to recognize that the legal pursuit of Jesus is called “seeking,” and that this process resembles the investigative “seeking” conducted by Oedipus. In both John and Oedipus Rex, however, the real investigation is actually being conducted by someone other than the apparent seeker. Both works dramatize a huge legal reversal. In John, this reversal appears especially in the trial before Pilate, as we saw previously in chapter 1 of this study, where it was said that this episode may appear to be the trial of Jesus before Pilate, while in reality it is the trial of Pilate and the Jews before Jesus.43 The same reversal drives the legal scenarios throughout the Fourth Gospel.44 John 9, for example, not only opposes sight and blindness, but also demonstrates how the apparent judges are really the defendants, and the defendants are the judges. The chapter opens by identifying the blind man as a sinner, and the label of sinner is applied thereafter to both Jesus (9:16, 25, 31–33) and the blind man (9:2, 34).45 The chapter closes, however, with an unexpected pronouncement. First, Jesus identifies himself, not as the defendant, but as the judge. “I came into this world” he says, “for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind” (9:39). Likewise, if the apparent defendant and sinner is really the judge, then the apparent judges are the sinners. Jesus tells the Pharisees, “If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, ‘We see,’ your sin remains” (9:41). The same reversal of judicial roles and of guilt and innocence operates in Oedipus Rex. The baleful cries of Oedipus signal his terrifying recognition that his seeking leads to finding no one but himself. “For I am,” he says, “now found 43 Josef Blank, “Die Verhandlung vor Pilatus Joh 18, 28–19, 16 im Lichte johanneischer Theologie,” Biblische Zeitschrift 3 (1959) 63. 44 For legal reversal in John, see Meeks, Prophet-King, 61–81; Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 33–35, 123–38; Neyrey,” Trials and Tribulations,” idem, Gospel of John, 143–44; Jan Van Der Watt, The Family of the King: Dynamics of Metaphor in the Gospel according to John (BIS 47; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 382–92. 45 For sin and reversal in John 9, see David Rensberger, Johannine Faith and Liberating Community (Philadelphia: Westminter, 1988) 42–48.

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to be evil …” (1397). Oedipus is both the seeker and the sought. Not only do the Gospel of John and Oedipus Rex both involve investigative seeking, therefore, but they also both inject a dramatic legal reversal into their plots that is oriented around this investigative effort. In both works, those who believe that they are weeding out a religious impurity are in fact the very ones working against divine plans, since appearance is not reality. The connections between the two works on this point can be made even more tightly. In both works, first of all, this legal reversal involves the opposition between not only appearance and reality, but also between sight and blindness and between knowledge and ignorance. We saw this above in regard to John 9, where Jesus connects the blindness of the Pharisees to their sin. Keener has neatly explained that, just like sight and blindness, knowledge and ignorance in John operate according to the same dichotomy.46 Again in John 9, for example, the Pharisees refer to Jesus by saying, “We know (οἴδαμεν) that this man is a sinner” (9:24), and then they add further, “We know (οἴδαμεν) that God has spoken to Moses, but as for this man, we do not know where he comes from” (9:29). Their knowledge, however, is as unstable as their sight. By contrast, the blind man has surer knowledge, which he indicates by saying, “I do not know (οὐκ οἶδα) whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know (οἶδα), that though I was blind, now I see” (9:25). He disavows any knowledge that would be equal to what the Pharisees know when he refuses to claim that Jesus is a sinner, indicating that his knowledge is of a different order. Later he underscores the higher order of his knowledge by claiming, “We know (οἴδαμεν) that God does not listen to sinners … If this man were not from God, he could do nothing” (9:31–33). In the same way, therefore, that the blind see, the apparently ignorant are also the ones who truly know. The same set of associations occupy the interrogation of Teiresias by Oedipus, where sight and blindness are connected to knowledge and ignorance.47 Oedipus, for instance, taunts Teiresias with being physically blind several times (348, 374–5, 389, 412), but when Teiresias first appears, Oedipus greets him as the one who knows (φρονεῖς) what has befallen the city (302). Teiresias’ knowledge is regularly cited (316, 330), and it is because of this knowledge that he is said 46

Keener, Gospel of John, 1.234–47, especially 247. See Ahl, Sophocles’ Oedipus, 67–102. For illusion and reality in this play, see also Segal, Oedipus, 79–80. For the question of knowledge and ignorance, see also Goldhill, Reading Greek Tragedy, 200–21. Such a concern with knowledge and ignorance, of course, is not confined to Oedipus Rex, or even to Sophocles. L’Hoir writes, “Recurrent words connoting knowledge and ignorance are a commonplace of tragedy, which often contrasts the dichotomies,” Tragedy, Rhetoric, 91. The example she explores at some length is taken from the Agamemnon of Aeschylus, such as where the Watchman in the opening lines of the play strains to know for certain whether the beacon he sees really does signal the return of Agamemnon (1–39). For similar connections of John to Oedipus Rex, developed in a different way, between sight / blindness and knowledge / ignorance, see Larsen, Recognizing 150–63. 47

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both to see (324) as well as to be the one whose sight is closest to Apollo’s (284). Teiresias is also the one in whom truth has been born (299), and he regularly raises the issue of what is true (350, 356, 369). Oedipus, by contrast, may have physical sight, but he is blind to the truth and Teiresias tells him so (367, 372–3), reviling him for not seeing the trouble that besets him (413–14). In spite of his claims to knowledge, Oedipus is truly ignorant (345, 415, 424), while the blind man knows and sees everything clearly. Just as in John 9, therefore, a reversal of both sight and blindness and of knowledge and ignorance occurs in the context of a legal interrogation. But the common elements in each plot thicken even further. This legal reversal in both works also involves a subtle play on words, and, even more interesting, a play on precisely the same words. The first term thus used is ἐλέγχειν. When Oedipus interrogates Teiresias, the Chorus subtly indicates that things are not entirely as they seem. Although Oedipus is the interrogator (333), the Chorus greet Teiresias as the one who will expose the murderer by cross-examination (297, ὁ ἐλέγχων αὐτὸν). Because Teiresias is ostensibly the witness and Oedipus is the interrogator, this comment of the Chorus is puzzling.48 Oedipus should be labeled ὁ ἐλέγχων. What the comment shows, however, is the difference between appearance and reality. Like the Pharisees in John 9, when Oedipus interrogates Teiresias, nothing but Oedipus’ own crimes is revealed. Teiresias is the one laying the matter bare, not Oedipus. The subtlety of this reversal disappears when Teiresias announces like a hammer strike that Oedipus is himself the murderer (362, 449–51). In a way that emphasizes this reversal of roles, the ground shifts in the ensuing deliberations of the Chorus. The Chorus now regard Oedipus as the accused, not the investigator, and weigh the charges that have been leveled against him (462–513). Knox identifies the change in mood and writes as follows: But a significant development has taken place. Oedipus was the first accuser, yet the chorus considers him, not Teiresias, as the accused … The action is moving towards a reversal; in terms of the legal mode of the action, the investigator and the accuser has become the defendant.49 48 See, for example, Dawe, Sophocles: Oedipus Rex, 122, who writes of the application of the title ὁ ἐλέγχων to Teiresias as follows: “A strange remark, for the identity of αὐτόν is at issue, and until it is known, processes of elenchus, examining, cross-questioning, refuting, have no place. The person in question, Oedipus, is in reality present, and Teiresias will in fact expose him. Sophocles knows this, and his choice of words is perhaps influenced by these considerations. Yet, even in the Oedipus-Teiresias scene that follows, the one who applies ἔλεγχος to the other is rather Oedipus than Teiresias.” 49 Knox, Oedipus, 85–86. Ahl also writes, “For Teiresias is Oedipus’ cross-questioner and refuter in the dialogue that follows: the only person in the play to accuse Oedipus outright of killing Laios, and to suggest that he was the child of Laios and Jocasta. He turns Oedipus from principle investigator into the accused. And such is his success that by the end of the play everyone, including Oedipus, accepts the full sweep of Teiresias’ charges. True, Oedipus attempts both to cross-question and to refute Teiresias. But in the hostile interchanges that follow, Oedipus is verbally routed. Teiresias earns the Chorus’ title of great refuter,” Sopocles’ Oedipus, 76.

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The same reversal operates with ἐλέγχειν in the Gospel of John. Although Jesus describes his opponents as the ones conducting an ἔλεγχος at 8:46, the following statement appears at 3:19–20: And this is the judgment, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil. For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be convicted (ἐλεγχθῇ).

There is some question as to whether ἐλεγχθῇ here carries a forensic sense, as it does in chapter 8, and interpreters debate whether the word means specifically “convict” or, in a less technical sense, “expose.”50 The surrounding language regarding the light and the darkness may seem at first to make “expose” a reasonable translation, but the legal sense of the term is more certain after a closer reading. The very “exposure” of the darkness only happens through its judgment by the light.51 To be exposed, therefore, is to be judged, which gives the notion of exposure a definite legal sense. Those who approach Jesus as criminal investigators will expose nothing but their own sins – and be themselves convicted (ἐλεγχθῆ). Like Teiresias, therefore, Jesus is being cross-examined by what appear to be investigators, but in reality Jesus is the one doing the examining. To emphasize the point, and to make the reversal even more complete, the work of the Paraclete operates in the same fashion, bringing conviction to those who believe that they are the prosecutors: “And when he comes, he will convict (ἐλέγξει) about sin and righteousness and judgment …” (16:8–11). In John, therefore, the process of ἔλεγχος implies the same type of reversal that it did in the interrogation of Teiresias by Oedipus. Those who cross-examine Jesus to expose his sin (8:46) expose no other sin than their own (9:41). The second word that is caught up in the legal reversal in both works is the most important word of all: seeking. To identify this phenomenon in Oedipus Rex, our interest attaches to another curious comment from the Chorus. Not only do the Chorus reverse Oedipus’ role as interrogator (ὁ ἐλέγχων), but also his primary role as investigator (ὁ ζητῶν). They remind Oedipus that the investigation is not really his investigation in the end. Rather, “The enquiry was the task of Phoebus [Apollo] …” (279; τὸ δὲ ζήτημα τοῦ… ἦν Φοίβου).52 It is Apollo’s job to reveal whoever it was who committed the deed (279; ὅστις εἴργασταί ποτε). However much Oedipus may see himself as a co-worker (244–45; σύμμαχος) of Apollo, and however much he may conduct his investigation to remove a blasphemy on behalf of Apollo (236–45), it is Apollo’s investigation. And Apollo has his own plans. In50 Barrett calls it a “convincing exposure,” citing the similar statement about the Paraclete in 16:8, where to expose means to convict, Gospel according to St. John, 217, 486. Brown sees no juridical sense in the term, Gospel according to John, 1.135. 51 Andrew Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 71. 52 The phrase is difficult to translate, and the translation offered here is that of Hugh LloydJones, ed. and transl., Sophocles: Ajax, Electra, Oedipus Tyrannus (LCL; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1994) 351.

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deed, in the reversal of roles that drives the play, Teiresias announces that Apollo is actually working against Oedipus. He prophecies, “No, it is not at my hand that you are destined to fall, since Apollo, who has it in mind to bring this about, will be sufficient” (376–77).53 Two levels are operating, therefore, in the forensic processes of the play. In the realm of appearances, Oedipus conducts his ζήτησις to weed out a murderer. In reality, however, and in the processes of Apollo’s investigation, Oedipus is not the investigator and interrogator. He is the defendant and the one being interrogated. He may appear to be the seeker, but he is actually the one sought, and his apparent cross-examinations show only his own guilt.

2.5 Judgment, Seeking and Reversal at John 8:50 The same dynamic operates with seeking in the Gospel of John. This is most clear in the puzzling comment of Jesus at John 8:50: “I do not seek (ζητῶ) my own glory. There is one who seeks (ζητῶν) and judges (κρίνων).” Jesus’ foes appear to seek him, but the Father really “seeks and judges” (8:50). This rendering is a literal one, but the verse is translated this way in only a few New Testament translations.54 The majority of modern translators and all recent commentators render the verse differently. They interpret the word “glory” as the object of both clauses, and so add the pronoun “it” after the second occurrence of the word “seeks.” The typical translation of this verse, therefore, is, “Yet I do not seek my own glory; there is one who seeks it and he is the judge” (NRSV).55 This unanimity in recent translations and commentaries, however, disguises the debates over this verse in commentaries from the early and middle decades of the 20th century. Bauer saw a play on words in this verse, and a very delicate nuance separating the two senses here of ζητεῖν.56 To Bauer, the glory of Jesus is indeed the object of “seek” at 8:50a, but “seek” in 8:50b has no direct object and is, rather, a technical term for legal investigation. Bauer renders 8:50b, therefore, “there is one who investigates and judges.”57 Lagrange dismisses this reading quite quickly, however, and Hoskyns regards the common opinion as the one “obviously intended by the author.”58 In defense 53

Translation in Lloyd-Jones (LCL) 363. KJV, NKJV, NASB. 55 RSV, NRSV, NJB, NIV, NAB, ESV. Barrett writes, “The former part of the verse compels us to supply with ζητῶν, τὴν δόξαν μου; the forensic meaning of κρίνειν is not to be found in ζητεῖν also” (Gospel according to St. John, 350). See also, Brown, Gospel according to John, Moloney, Christian Dietzfelbinger, Das Evangelium nach Johannes (Zuercher Bibelkommentare: NT 4; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 2001) 265–67; Hartwig Thyen, Das Johannesevangelium (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005) 448. Schnackenburg, Gospel according toSt. John, 2.219. 56 Bauer, Johannesevangelium, 131. 57 “Es ist einer vorhanden, der untersucht und richtet,” Ibid, 130. 58 Lagrange, Évangile selon St. Jean, 251; Hoskyns, Fourth Gospel, 346. 54

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of his position, however, Hoskyns offers only the rather anemic explanation that Bauer relies on “only non-biblical evidence for the translation investigates.”59 Hoskyns’ commentary is rich and insightful, but this particular argument is not a strong one. Bultmann makes the case more forcefully. He supports Hoskyns’ position but does so from a theological and exegetical argument about how Jesus’ statement here resembles similar statements elsewhere, especially regarding witness and judgment. Bultmann writes,60 He does not judge (8:15; 12:47), but the Father makes him judge (5:22, 27), and so he does judge (5:30). Similarly, he does not bear witness to himself (5:31), but points to the Father’s witness to him (5:32, 36 f.), and so in fact he does bear witness to him (8:18). In the same way then, he does not seek his honour, but the Father seeks it …

In the same way, therefore, that he does not judge or testify on his own, so Jesus does not seek his own glory. The Father seeks it for him (8:50). Bultmann also believes this theological position finds support in arguments based on John’s style. He finds a parallel structure reflected in both 8:50 and 5:31–32. 5:31–32 read as follows:61 “If I testify on my own behalf, my testimony cannot be verified. There is another who testifies on my behalf … (ἄλλος ἐστὶν ὁ μαρτυρῶν περὶ ἐμοῦ)

Those phrases, he argues, resemble 8:50, when divided similarly: Yet I do not seek my own glory; (8:50a) there is one who seeks it and he is the judge. (8:50b) (ἔστιν ὁ ζητῶν καὶ κρίνων)

Because the sense of testifying is the same in both clauses of 5:31–32, Bultmann argues that the sense of seeking is the same in both clauses of 8:50.62 This is the standard opinion regarding this verse. I believe it is in need of reassessment, however. Bultmann and others rely on theology and Greek style to oppose Bauer, but theological and stylistic arguments are just as strong in support of Bauer. We can look first at John’s use of language. Greeven defends Bultmann’s reading by saying, “It is hard to think that there is a change in meaning between ζητῶ in 50a and ζητῶν in 50b.”63 But John regularly changes the meaning of a word in the middle of a sentence. In the conversation with Nicodemus, for example, Jesus explains the need to be born from above, and 59

Hoskyns, Fourth Gospel, 346. Bultmann states the matter succinctly when he says that “ὁ ζητῶν … should be completed by τήν δόξαν μου.” See Bultmann, Gospel of John, 300. 61 Ibid, 300. Barrett similarly cites John 5:45: “Do not think that I will accuse you before the Father; your accuser is Moses, on whom you have set your hope (ἔστιν ὁ κατηγορῶν ὑμῶν Μωϋσῆς),” Gospel according to John, 290. 62 Bultmann, Gospel of John, 300. 63 Heinrich Greeven, “ζητέω, κτλ,” TDNT 2.892. 60

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elaborates by discussing spiritual rebirth (3:6–8). The word πνεῦμα is elastic in the ensuing explanation, and refers to both the Spirit of God and to the mundane wind. Jesus says (3:8): “The wind (τὸ πνεῦμα) 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 (τοῦ πνεύματος).” Even closer to our present concerns, Jesus juxtaposes different types of seeking in close proximity to one another in 7:18–19.64 Exactly like at 8:50, the first sentence refers to seeking one’s own glory, and the second sentence refers to the investigative and hostile pursuit of Jesus. The two sentences are the following: Whoever speaks on his own seeks (ζητεῖ) his own glory; but the one who seeks (ὁ δὲ ζητῶν) the glory of him who sent him is true, and there is nothing false in him (7:18). “Did not Moses give you the law? Yet none of you keeps the law. Why are you seeking (ζητεῖτε) to kill me?” (7:19)

Thus, a statement about seeking glory is followed by a statement about seeking in a hostile sense. I argue that the same shift in the referent of seeking occurs in 8:50, though this shift happens with a further twist. Not only does the meaning of seeking change; the subject who performs the seeking also changes. In the second part of 8:50, it is the Father – and not Jesus’ opponents – who is really doing the investigative seeking. Such a change in the role of the one seeking is precisely what we saw in Oedipus Rex, where it was revealed that Apollo was the one driving the ζήτησις, and not Oedipus. The greatest proof that this is the proper sense of John 8:50, however, resides not in John’s resemblance to Oedipus Rex, but in factors within the Gospel of John itself. Seeking does not stand alone in the latter part of 8:50, after all, but is coupled with judging (“there is one who seeks and judges.”). Judging is also mentioned repeatedly in John 7 and 8, and if we attend to the character of judging in these chapters, we will understand the relationship between seeking and judging in 8:50. The unity and coherence of John 7 and 8 have not been clear to all interpreters.65 At least one factor that holds the chapters together, however, is the treat64 Dietzfelbinger also turns to this verse to explain the seeking of glory in it, but not with the implications of the current study, Evangelium nach Johannes, 267. There are further connections than just the juxtaposition of two types of seeking, and of the mention of seeking one’s own glory. There is also the fact that each refers to Jesus’ being called demon-possessed. D. Moody Smith comments on the charge that Jesus is demon-possessed at 8:48 by writing, “But his complaint that the Jews are seeking his death has once before evoked the response that Jesus has a demon (7:19),” 187. 65 For example, the events in these chapters take place during the Feast of Tabernacles, but Moloney has argued that the setting of the feast is not confined to these chapters, but extends beyond chapter 8 and through chapter 10. Only then are we told that the setting has changed. Even if this is true, however, there are factors that indicate that 7 and 8 still form a unity. Not least of these is the inclusio that is formed by the notion of secrecy. Chapter 7 begins with the notice (7:4) that Jesus is working in secret (ἐν κρυπτῷ), and his brothers urge him not to do so.

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ment of judgment that they offer. More specifically, there is a shift in the notion of judging. Chapter 7 and 8:12–20 offer one perspective on judging, but 8:21–58 present another, and it is important to notice what this tells us about the roles that the various actors play in the forensic drama of these chapters.66 In both chapter 7, and in 8:12–20, Jesus’ primary activity is that of witness. He has made a legal claim, and his opponents are questioning the legal basis of his claim, as well as his testimony. Jesus insists that he does not judge (8:15), and other people are regularly cast in the role of judge (7:24, 51; 8:15). In the latter part of 8, however, Jesus plays the role of judge in concert with the Father. “Yet even if I do judge,” he announces, “My judgment is valid; for it is not I alone who judge (κρίνω), but I and the Father who sent me” (8:16). He then adds again at 8:26: “I have much to say about you and much to condemn (κρίνειν); but the one who sent me is true, and I declare to the world what I have heard from him.” The Tabernacles Discourse in John 7–8 begins, therefore, by showing Jesus being judged, but it ends with him performing the role of judge. Judgment in John 7 and 8, therefore, involves the same reversal that we saw above regarding cross examination (ἔλεγχος) in John 9. Judging is not the only activity of Jesus’ opponents in these chapters, however. Even more than they judge him, they are said to seek him (7:1, 11, 19, 20, 25, 30, 34, 36; 8:21, 37, 40). And, if their judgment is turned back on them, so should their seeking be reversed.67 Therefore, when seeking and judging are coupled at 8:50, we should understand that the Father is not only the real judge, but also the real seeker, or perhaps better, the real investigator. Jesus’ opponents appear to judge and investigate, but in their very investigation and judgment, they are themselves being judged and investigated by the Father. 8:50 should be read, therefore, as referring to the Father and should be rendered, “there is one who investigates and judges” (8:50). He then goes to the feast, and until the end of chapter 8 debates with his opponents. Following these debates, 8:59 ends with the notice that he hid himself (᾽Ιησοῦς δὲ ἐκρύβη), C. H. Dodd, Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1968) 348. For discussion of coherence in these chapters, see, Neyrey, “Trials and Tribulations,” 106. 66 The following analysis of judgment in John 7–8 relies on Jerome Neyrey, “Trials and Tribulations,” 107–16; idem, Gospel of John, 139–67; idem, “Jesus the Judge,” 509–41. Moloney argues that the concern for witness in chapter 8 is not forensic, as it was in John 5:31. He writes, “Here there is no trace of a trial, but the Pharisees attempt to understand and control Jesus by means of their legal tradition … To judge Jesus’ claims as forensic martyria, open to the judgment of Torah, is to miss the point,” Francis Moloney, Signs and Shadows:Reading John 5–12 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996) 94–95. This seems to miss the connection that Jesus himself makes in 8:14–16 between witness and judging, as these are understood by Meeks, Prophet-King, 65. See in the present study, sections 1.6–7. See also the discussion in Brown, Gospel according to John, 1.342–45 and Schnackenburg, Gospel according to St. John, 2. 187–96. 67 This reading, though not preferred, is acknowledged by Hoskyns, who still rejects a legal sense of seeking (Fourth Gospel, 346), and by Bultmann (John, 300 note 2). See also the discussion below in this chapter.

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It seems eminently preferable, therefore, to read the sense of ζητεῖν in 8:50a as being different from the same word in 8:50b. In 8:50a, the verb seek has the object “glory,” but in 8:50 ζητεῖν is intransitive and has become a technical term for legal investigation. To translate the term as “seek” in both cases may still be the best interpretive move, since such a translation preserves the play on words. Nevertheless, Bauer’s reading of 8:50 is essentially correct. Additional and final support for this reading can be found even among those who oppose Bauer. Although Hoskyns and Bultmann argue in favor of the standard reading and reject Bauer’s interpretation, they each also recognize that Bauer’s reading is very much in accord with Johannine theology. Indeed, Bultmann sees “no material difference …” in the theology of the Gospel of John if Bauer is right, “for in either case we must preserve the image of Jesus’ law-suit against the world before the tribunal of God …”68 The life of Jesus, as Bultmann sees it, and especially the conflict between Jesus and the world, is “continually portrayed as a trial, in which the Jews are under the illusion that they are the judges, whereas in fact they are the accused before the forum of God.”69 If 8:50 has a juridical connotation, this is perfectly in keeping with this notion of reversal. Hoskyns argues the same. He writes, The Jews suppose that they are protecting the honor of God by seeking to put Jesus to death … They sought Jesus, they judged Him, and finally they put Him to death. The ultimate truth, however, is precisely opposite. It is God who is seeking … and judging those who reject His Son.”70

Bultmann and Hoskyns, however, offer this reading as a second and less reliable option because they do not believe that seeking is a judicial term. The preceding argument has shown, by contrast, that it is very much a juridical term and that Bauer was entirely correct to see a change between 8:50a and 8:50b. At this point, however, a point of correction is in order. I do not want to overemphasize the change that occurs between 8:50a and 8:50b. Seeking the Son’s glory in the first clause is not utterly disconnected from the Father’s investigative seeking and judging in the second clause. In fact, seeking the Son’s glory is intimately tied to the lawsuit motif, and especially to the legal reversal that drives the lawsuit motif. This is so because of the particular way that John understands Jesus’ glory.71 Many have interpreted the word glory in John in light of ancient 68

Bultmann, Gospel of John, 300. Ibid, 86. 70 Hoskyns, Fourth Gospel, 346. 71 See Jerome Neyrey, “Despising the Shame of the Cross:’ Honor and Shame in the Johannine Passion Narrative,” Semeia 68 (1994) 113–37; Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 285–301. I cannot agree, however, with the recent essay by Jan Van Der Watt, who argues that John’s use of the word glory for the events of the hour implies some sense of embarrassment about those events. There is surely the sense that the gruesome episode of the cross requires reinterpretation, but no sense at all of embarrassment. Indeed, John seems to shine a light on the issues encompassed in Jesus’ glorification and emphasize them, not hide them out of embarrassment. See Jan Van Der Watt, 69

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honor and shame language, and that seems helpful in many ways, especially because of the manner in which glory in John is attached to scenarios that would otherwise involve, not honor and glory, but shame. Indeed, the primary referent of glory in the Gospel of John is the hour of Jesus’ condemnation. When his rejection is complete and he turns his face finally toward the cross, Jesus announces (12:23), “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified.” The Son’s glorification is not only tied to his death at the hands of his opponents, but also to the great reversal that lies at the heart of that death. De La Potterie elegantly connects the glorification of the Son and the reversal of judgment by coordinating several verses in John 12 and 16.72 For example, when Jesus announces (12:31), “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified,” he adds soon thereafter, “Now is the judgment (κρίσις) of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out (12:31).” In the midst of the Farewell Discourses, which take place within the span of the hour (13:1) Jesus can also claim, “The ruler of this world has been condemned” (κέκριται, 16:11). The moment of Jesus’ glory, therefore, is the moment also of the condemnation and judgment of his opponents. The hour of Jesus’ death and resurrection is also the moment when his condemnation is reversed, and this condemnation falls instead upon his persecutors. Such an association of glory and the reversal of judgment shows that when the Son speaks of seeking his own glory in 8:50a, he is implicitly referring to the great legal reversal in which he is not the judged defendant, but the one who sits as Judge alongside the Father. Therefore, when 8:50b makes this legal reversal explicit by saying that the Father “seeks and judges,” we are still operating within the same complex of ideas. All of this only further supports the legal reading of seeking in John 8:50b. And if the reversal implicit in 8:50b is fulfilled in the trial before Pilate, this returns our attention to one further connection between John and Oedipus Rex. The ζήτησις in Oedipus Rex, as well as in the legal procedures of ancient Athens, was not a trial, per se, but an investigative process that could lead to a trial. The same is true of the investigations in the papyri from Roman Egypt. These legal processes are not trials, but investigations that involve the pursuit of information and people. In the case of Oedipus, the ζήτησις involves precisely the same pursuit of information. When Oedipus is himself found to be the criminal, however, he does not go to trial. He simply goes into exile (1518). But the investigation would naturally have led to trial, if he had not exiled himself.73 In any event, the fact that the ζήτησις is an investigation, and not a trial, makes it very interesting that we see in the Gospel of John so many connections with “Double entendre in the Gospel according to John,” in Theology and Christology in the Fourth Gospel: Essays by the Members of the SNTS Johannine Writings Seminar (ed. G. Van Belle, J. G. Van Der Watt, P. Maritz; Lueven: Leuve University, 2005) 463–81. 72 See De La Potterie, “Jesus, King and Judge,” 110. 73 Lewis, “Procedural Basis,” 63–66.

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the ζήτησις of Oedipus Rex. That fact can be correlated with the circumstance that was noted at the opening of Chapter 1 of the present study. We recognized there that the Gospel of John, unlike the Synoptic Gospels, does not portray a trial of Jesus before the Sanhedrin. The scene before the Sanhedrin lacks the various elements and processes that would have made it a trial. The trial before the Sanhedrin does not disappear, but rather, it reappears in a different form. The entire Gospel of John becomes a trial. That conclusion, however, might be slightly revised at this point. It might be better to say, not that the Fourth Gospel becomes a trial of Jesus before Israel, but that it becomes an investigation of Jesus, in the technical sense of the ζήτησις. In the same way that the Athenians in 415 and Oedipus were trying to gather evidence in order to bring someone to trial, the opponents of Jesus have also become ζητηταί whose goal is to gather enough material against Jesus in order to take him to Pilate. Lincoln regularly speaks in a way that suggests that there are two trials in the Gospel of John, one before Pilate in chapters 18–19 and one before Israel that spans the earlier chapters.74 But to speak of a trial suggests a single event, or at least an event that is confined to a particular time and space. The so-called trial before Israel in John, however, takes place over a vast expanse of time and in many different episodes. Perhaps, therefore, we should not speak of the legal pursuit of Jesus by the leaders of Israel as a trial, but as an investigation that leads to the trial before Pilate. There is only one trial, then, and that is the trial before Pilate. Everything prior to that should not be called a trial, but an investigation. This actually makes much more sense of what we see in John. In papyri, in oratory and in tragedy, therefore, seeking is a legal term outside of the Gospel of John. Interpreters have known this for decades, however, and still rejected such a reading within John. What the preceding argument has shown is that a legal sense of seeking makes the best sense for John, not only because of its usages outside the Fourth Gospel, but in light of the theological and literary designs of the Fourth Gospel itself. Most interesting of all, the legal reversal that seeking involves in John mirrors the legal reversal that seeking involves in Oedipus Rex. This raises a fundamental question. Because we have argued for so many connections on so many levels between John and Oedipus Rex, the question naturally comes to mind of whether or not John read Sophocles. Such a question, however, is as impossible to answer as it is natural to ask. There are, as we have seen, several parallels in vocabulary and situations that make such a connection plausible. But, even if John had quoted Sophocles directly, we could not say for certain how he had come across the line quoted. When Stowers, for example, argues that Romans 7 operates within a pattern of moral reflection that begins with Euripides’ 74 See, for example, Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 34, where he speaks of “the trials of Jesus before Israel and before Pilate.”

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Medea, he also shows how thoroughly Medea’s thoughts had been developed and embedded in philosophical and rhetorical reflection. Did Paul read Euripides, then, or did Paul read the people who had read Euripides before him? No one can say for sure. And yet, even though it would be impossible to connect Paul to Euripides directly, some association with the tradition that Euripides initiated is hard to deny.75 In the same way that we cannot say what Paul read, we cannot say either what John read, a point that was made in the previous chapter of this book. Regardless of whether or not John read Sophocles, I would submit that, if we ourselves read Sophocles, we will read John differently, and recognize how thoroughly the language of the Fourth Gospel reflects the legal realities discerned in the preceding argument. The papyri that Bickerman cites show clearly that ζητεῖν carries a legal sense in the Roman Empire, so we can at least imagine that John has taken up the legal language of his day in the same way that Sophocles took up the legal rhetoric and procedures of classical Athens. Even more important, and also just like Sophocles, John has dramatized a huge legal reversal by depicting a ζήτησις that involves μήνυσις, εὕρεσις and ἔλεγχος. Thus, the term “seek” carries the sense of “investigate” in at least John 8:50, and at the point when Jesus is arrested in the garden (18:4, 7, 8). I will now argue that a similarly legal sense of seeking exists in other texts in John, especially John 7:34.

2.6 Seeking and Misunderstanding in John’s Linguistic World At the heart of this chapter, therefore, lies a simple matter of definition. We want to understand how properly to translate the term ζητεῖν as it appears in its different usages in the Gospel of John. Nevertheless, while this is a simple matter of definition, definitions are not so simple. Words do not have meaning in a vacuum or in some abstract sense, but only within the context of particular utterances.76 And if this can be said of all language in general, it can be said with special emphasis of the Fourth Gospel, which reflects a “blatantly self-conscious use of language.”77 John’s use of language is so intriguing that increasing numbers of interpreters claim that the Gospel of John speaks in an “antilanguage,” and in ways that overturn the normal expectations of grammar and the normal refer75 Stanley K. Stowers, A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews and Gentiles (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994) 260–64. 76 The point is famously and forcefully made in the context of biblical studies by James Barr, The Semantics of Biblical Language (Oxford: Oxford University, 1961), especially chapter 8, and especially page 217. For an application of the principle to a specific question of lexicography in the Johannine literature, see Margaret M. Mitchell, “‘Diotrophes Does Not Receive Us:’ The Lexicogaphal and Social Context of 3 John 9–10,” JBL 117 (1998) 299–320. 77 Norman Petersen, The Gospel of John and the Sociology of Light: Language and Characterization in the Fourth Gospel, (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity, 1993) 1.

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ents of particular words.78 Regardless of the value or limitations of such theories, and without engaging in the debates surrounding them, we can affirm that the Gospel of John unquestionably reflects an idiosyncratic approach to language. This is obvious, for example, in John’s alternating use of synonymous terms. When Jesus questions Peter, for instance, at 21:15–17, the conversation involves a notorious shift back and forth between two different words for “love:” ἀγαπᾶν and φιλεῖν. The history of scholarship on these verses includes several attempts to tease significance from this change in verbs, but no effort has survived serious scrutiny.79 Moloney expresses the prevailing opinion when he identifies the change from ἀγαπᾶν to φιλεῖν as nothing more than “the Johannine practice of using synonymous verbs for stylistic variety.”80 The two words for love are also not the only pair of synonyms in these verses. In addition to using two words for love, for example, Jesus also alternates in 21:15–17 between two terms for caring for a flock (βόσκειν; ποιμαίνειν); two words for the flock, (sheep, πρόβατα; lambs ἀρνία); and two interchangeable verbs for the expression “to know,” γινώσκειν; εἰδέναι.81 78 The discussion of John’s language as an antilanguage is not merely a linguistic discussion, but involves the blending of linguistic issues with social theories about the makeup and character of the Johannine community. Those who assume that John reflects an antilanguage connect their linguistic arguments to the social historical theories of Wayne Meeks especially, who made very insightful comments about John’s use of language in his classic essay “The Stranger from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism,” in The Interpretation of John (ed. John Ashton; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986) 141–73; repr. from JBL (1972) 44–72. For this connection between linguistic theory and sociology, see Petersen, Gospel of John, 1–7, 134–35, note 1. For antilanguage in John, see ibid, 89–109. Several scholars have recently challenged the notion that any of the Gospels has such an isolated perspective on its own life and the life of Jesus. See, for instance, Richard Bauckham, ed., The Gospels for all Christians: Rethinking the Gospel Audiences (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998). Edward Klink has applied the assumptions in these essays to the Johannine community and to an appraisal of John’s use of a supposed antilanguage in The Sheep of the Fold: The Audience and Origin of the Gospel of John (SNTSMS 141; Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2007) especially 74–86. 79 For a clear exposition of the options, see Donald Carson, The Gospel according to John (Grand Rapids; Eerdmans, 1991) 676–77. 80 Moloney, Gospel of John, 559. For the same interpretation, as well as the added insight that these verbs are used interchangeably throughout the Gospel of John, see Bradford Blaine, Peter in the Gospel of John: The Making of an Authentic Disciple (Academia Biblica 27; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature 2007) 165–167, who writes, “Taking into consideration the additional fact that ἀγαπάω and φιλέω are used interchangeably in the Gospel – describing both the Father’s love for Jesus (ἀγαπάω in 3:35 and 10:17; φιλέω in 5:20) and Jesus’ love for [the Beloved Disciple] (BD is ὅν ἠγάπα on most occasions, but ὅν ἐφίλει in 20:2) – it becomes all the more clear that the terms are synonyms …,” ibid, 166. For a brief but insightful statement on different words for “love” in pre-Christian Greek, see K. J. Dover, Plato: Symposium (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1980) 1–2. For later distinctions between these two terms outside of John, see the discussion of Christian authors, and their varying uses of φιλία / amicitia and ἀγάπη / caritas in David Konstan, Friendship in the Classical World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 161–166. 81 Carson, Gospel according to John, 677.

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Such variation may well be yet another area in which we see the intersection of rhetoric and drama in John, since the rhetorical device of variatio (using a new word instead of repeating the same word twice) is a favorite stylistic technique of Sophocles, as in Oedipus Rex (54). The Priest refers to Oedipus’ reign by shifting from ἄρξεις to κρατεῖς.82 Regardless, it can be strongly affirmed that John commonly uses multiple words in this synonymous fashion.83 With ζητεῖν, however, we have the opposite phenomenon. It is not so much the case that many words express the same referent, but that many referents are potentially expressed in the same word. Seeking defines radically different activities in John, and readers must determine which sense is operative in a given setting. Other words reflect the same complexity, of course, when the Fourth 82 For variatio in Sophocles in general, see J. H. Kells, Sophocles: Electra (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1973) 15. For variation in general in Johannine style, with dozens of examples, but little interpretive attention, see Leon Morris, Studies in the Fourth Gospel (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1969) chapter 5 entitled “Variation – A Feature of the Johannine Style.” 83 Especially interesting are the various terms for seeing: βλέπειν, θέασθαι, θεωρεῖν, ἰδεῖν, ὁρᾶν. After discussing the nuances that might separate their meanings in John, however, R. Brown agrees with the opinion expressed above when he writes, “At most, there may be a tendency to use one verb rather than another for a specific form of sight, but the consistency is not remarkable,” Gospel according to John, 1.503. The move from ἐσθίειν (φαγεῖν) to τρῶγειν in John 6 has been one of the pressing issues in the study of this controversial chapter but the change in terms does not necessarily mark a shift in what it means to eat Jesus’ flesh, according to Paul Anderson, The Christology of the Fourth Gospel: Its Unity and Disunity in the Light of John 6 (WUNT 2.78; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996) 208. For the opposite opinion, however, see Brown, Gospel according to John, 283. For a discussion of the alternation between νίπτειν and λούειν in John 13, see R. Alan Culpepper, “The Johannine Hypodeigma,” Semeia 53 (1991) 140–41, 148–49 notes 10–11. For similar overlap  –  with some distinctions  –  between using ἀποστέλλειν and πέμπειν to refer to the sending of Jesus, see Karl Rengstorf, “ἀποστέλλω (πέμπω), κτλ,” TDNT 1.403–406. Even the hour of Jesus can be referred to by both ὥρα (2:4; 7:30; 8:20; 12:23, 27; 13:1; 17:1) and καιρός (7:6, 8). Finally, for this understanding of John’s alternation between γινώσκειν and εἰδέναι, see Craig Keener, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2003) 1.234–47. That John uses synonyms so regularly suggests that variability in language is simply a feature of Johannine style which may occasionally imply a different sense of seeing, sending, knowing, loving, etc., but not systematically. Indeed, the real purpose of this variable style may lie elsewhere. James Barr has taught us to be careful about uncritically blending theology and linguistics (Semantics of Biblical Language, 8–20), but there may indeed be some theological significance to the use of such synonymous expressions. There is at least a parallel phenomenon in John’s use of religious images. Harold Attridge has argued that John attaches greater complexity and variety to religious images, not to dilute the image, but to focus more and more exclusively on a single referent. See H. Attridge, “The Cubist Principle in Johannine Imagery: John and the Reading of Images in Contemporary Platonism,” Imagery in the Gospel of John: Terms, Themes, and Theology of Johannine Figurative Language (ed. J. Frey, et al.; Tübingen; Mohr Siebeck, 2006) 47–60. The image of the Son of Man, for example, is associated with various biblical episodes, such as Jacob’s Ladder from Genesis at John 1:51 and the serpent from Numbers in John 3:14, but the effect of multiplying these biblical associations is to focus on the single image of “seeing” the Son of Man (50). As Attridge writes, “Complexity overdetermines, interconnects by anticipation, and yet at the same time focuses,” 49. It is at least possible that something similar is at work in the multiplication of synonymous expressions listed above, since the use of various words focuses on a single referent.

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Gospel exploits the breadth of semantic range available in a given word in order to create opportunities for misunderstanding.84 Or, more to the point, John plays with various ways of understanding words in order to dramatize various ways of misunderstanding Jesus. Famous examples of this phenomenon appear in the dialogues between Jesus and Nicodemus in chapter 3, and between Jesus and the Samaritan Woman in chapter 4. When Jesus tells Nicodemus that he must be born ἄνωθεν, Nicodemus takes the word in a mundane sense, and imagines that Jesus means that Nicodemus must be born “once again” from his mother’s womb (3:3–4). Jesus really refers, of course, to a new birth which has nothing to do with earthly procreation, but which has its origin “from above” with God (1:12–13). Likewise, when Jesus speaks to the Samaritan Woman about “living water,” she imagines that Jesus means “lively” water, in the sense of “running” water (4:10–14). The living water that Jesus offers, however, is no earthly refreshment, but, again, a gift of life from above.85 The same type of misunderstanding occurs with the word ζητεῖν, especially when Jesus combines it with the notion of his “going away,” ὑπάγειν (7:33; 8:21–22; 13:33).86 Jesus says in chapter 7, for example, “I will be with you a little while longer, and then I am going (ὑπάγω) to him who sent me. You will seek (ζητήσετε) me, but you will not find me; and where I am, you cannot come” (7:33–34). The response of his interlocutors misses the point of his statement utterly, and again reflects a mundane sensibility which misunderstands Jesus’ 84 For a survey of the history of the issue of misunderstanding in John, see Saeed HamidKhani, Revelation and Concealment of Christ: A Theological Inquiry into the Elusive Language of the Fourth Gospel (WUNT 2.120; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000) especially chapters 1 and 4; Donald Carson, “Understanding Misunderstandings in the Fourth Gospel,” Tyndale Bulletin 33 (1982) 59–67; R. Alan Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987) 152–65, and see also “misunderstanding” in the index. Behind the whole debate also stands Meeks’ famous essay, “Stranger From Heaven.” 85 The precise nature of the gift is, of course, disputed. In antiquity, opinion alternated between viewing the water as the Holy Spirit or viewing it as Jesus’ teaching, Maurice Wiles, The Spiritual Gospel: The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel in the Early Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960) 45–48. The same alternatives of teaching and Spirit continue to occupy some strands of modern discussion, though a current tendency is to accept both at once. See, for example, F. J. McCool, “Living Water in St. John,” The Bible in Current Catholic Thought: Essays in Memory of M. J. Gruenthaner (ed. J. L. McKenzie; New York: Herder and Herder, 1962) 226–235; Brown, Gospel according to John, 1.179; J. L. Porsch, Pneuma und Wort: Ein exegetischer Beitrag zue Pneumatologie des Johannesevangeliums (Frankfurt: Josef Knecht, 1974) 143. A more recent argument is that Jesus is himself the gift, interpreting this passage through the filter of John 3:16 and related passages which emphasize that what God gives to the world is Jesus himself. For this, see Teresa Okure, The Johannine Approach to Mission: A Contextual Study of John 4:1–42 ( WUNT 2.31; Tübingen: Mohr / Siebeck, 1988) 97; See Moloney, John, 117, 122. 86 The connection between ζητεῖν and ὑπάγειν in a way that leads to misunderstanding has been noted often. See especially E. Richard, “Expressions of Double Meaning and Their Function in the Gospel of John,” NTS 31 (1985) 100–11; Hamid-Khani, Revelation and Concealment, 87; For seeking and misunderstanding in general, see also Culpepper, Anatomy, 157–159.

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heavenly mission. They wonder, “Does he intend to go to the Dispersion among the Greeks and teach the Greeks?” (7:35–36). Similarly, at 8:21, Jesus says, “I am going (ὑπάγω) away, and you will seek (ζητήσετε) me, but you will die in your sin. Where I am going, you cannot come.” The confusion of his hearers about precisely what he means is again pronounced. They wonder, “Is he going to kill himself? Is that what he means by saying, ‘Where I am going, you cannot come’?” (8:22). The phenomenon is not confined to Jesus’ opponents, of course. The disciples, too, misunderstand what Jesus means when he speaks of seeking him in vain at 13:33. “Little children,” he says, “I am with you only a little longer. You will seek me (ζητήσετε); and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, ‘Where I am going (ὑπάγω), you cannot come.’” The disciples are confused and seem to miss the greater point of what Jesus means. Peter is especially confused. He does not understand what following Jesus entails, but he will learn.87 Just as in the conversation with the Jews in chapters 7 and 8, therefore, a misunderstanding of where Jesus is “going” is connected to a discussion of how his interlocutors will “seek” him. And yet, even though Jesus himself connects his conversation with the Jews to his conversation with his disciples, at a deeper level, these two conversations are not at all the same. Jesus’ statement to the Jews, after all, is a warning. The statement to the disciples is different. The different tone is obvious in the fact that he addresses his disciples as his “little children” (13:33), and then also turns the negative of verse 33 into a positive by verse 36 when he says, “You will follow me later.”88 When he tells the disciples that they will seek him in vain, therefore, he is speaking of a temporary separation that actually implies closer association. Indeed, when Jesus refers again to his going away at 16:5, he emphasizes not his distance from the disciples, but rather his closeness through the sending of the Paraclete (16:7). The disciples do not know exactly what it means yet to follow Jesus, but, as he himself says, they will follow him later (13:36), for they have been given birth from above and are now reborn as “little children.”89 This is not at all like the combative tone in chapters 7 and 8. Those chapters emphasize the judgment of those who reject Jesus. The problem with the Jews in this chapter 87 On Peter’s misunderstanding in the Farewell Discoures, see the essay of R. Alan Culpepper, “The Johannine Hypodeigma: A Reading of John 13:1–38,” Semeia 53 (1991) 133–152; as well as Blaine, Peter, 57–78. 88 See Brown, Gospel according to John, 2.612. He adds as well, “The similarity of xiii 33 to vii 33–34 and viii 21 is not in the fact that all are warnings, but in the misunderstanding that greets both the promise of xiii 33 and the warning of vii and viii.,” ibid, 2.612. For the closer association of the two statements because they are both pre-Resurrection realities, see Carson, “Understanding Misunderstandings,” 87. 89 This connection between little children and new birth is made by Gail R. O’Day, “The Gospel of John,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, edited by Leander E. Keck, et al. 12 vols (Nashville: Abingdon, 1998) 9:732.

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is not that they follow Jesus imperfectly, but that they do not follow him at all. He insists that he has been sent by the Father (7:28–29), but they think that they know where he is from (7:27). Their thinking is not illuminated “from above,” but is bound by earthly parameters. Even when Jesus says that he is going away, they take this in a strictly mundane sense, and wonder if he will go to the Diaspora (7:35). When he reiterates the warning that they will seek him in vain at 8:21, he adds the frightening promise, “You will die in your sin,” emphasizing that their misunderstanding is not a misunderstanding about how to follow Jesus, but a misunderstanding that keeps them from following him at all.90 In spite of the connections, therefore, that Jesus makes between his comments in chapters 7, 8 and 13, the similarity that these verses share is really a similarity in difference. This difference has received emphasis because it has an important bearing on the present argument. R. Brown is one of those who distinguish sharply the warnings in 7:34 and 8:21 from the later statement of Jesus in 13:33, but he nevertheless associates all three verses (7:33–34; 8:21–22 and 13:33) with seeking and not finding in Wisdom literature.91 He connects all three Johannine verses to Proverbs 1:28–30, where Wisdom announces, Then they will call upon me, but I will not answer; they will seek me (ζητήσουσιν) diligently, but will not find me (εὑρήσουσιν). Because they hated knowledge and did not choose the fear of the LORD, would have none of my counsel, and despised all my reproof, therefore they shall eat the fruit of their way and be sated with their own devices.

I will argue, however, that the hostile seeking of Jesus’ opponents differs in marked ways from such comments in wisdom traditions.92 Separating the hostile 90 O’Day sums up the difference between the misunderstanding of the disciples and that of the Jews in the following way: “When Jesus spoke to the ‘Jews,’ those in power who opposed him, he pointed to his return to God as a moment of judgment and condemnation. Here, his departure is presented to his disciples as the seal of their new relationship with God, with Jesus, and with one another,” O’Day, John, 732. 91 He writes, “Thus the coming of Wisdom provokes a division: some seek and find …; others do not seek and when they change their minds, it will be too late (Prov i 28). The same language in John describes the effect of Jesus upon people,” Brown, Introduction, 263. See also Brown, Gospel of John, 1.cxxiv;1. 318, where he cites as well Isaiah 55:6; Hosea 5:6; Deuteronomy 4:29, but sees a special connection with Proverbs 1:28 on stylistic grounds; Brown, Introduction, 263. See also Catherine Cory, “Wisdom’s Rescue: A New Reading of the Tabernacles Discourse (John 7:1–8:59)” JBL 116 (1997) 101. 92 This is not to deny, of course, that the Fourth Gospel is saturated with language and imagery familiar from wisdom traditions. Raymond Brown connects John to wisdom literature as a way to undermine assumptions about John’s connection to Gnostic, Mandaean or Hermetic literature, Gospel of John, 1.cxxiv. The Johannine Prologue has been a special place for demonstrating connections to wisdom literature, and a vast bibliography demonstrates how fruitful this area of inquiry has been. See the dozens of studies cited in Cornelis Bennema, The Power of Saving Wisdom: An Investigation of Spirit and Wisdom in Relation to the Soteriology of the Fourth Gospel (WUNT 2.148; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002) 18–19, note 92. Further studies show as well that these connections extend beyond the Prologue to the entire Gospel, for which, see Raymond Brown, An Introduction to the Gospel of John (ed. Francis Moloney; New York:

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seeking of Jesus from wisdom traditions will be the first stage in connecting this hostile seeking to Greek rhetoric and drama. It must be affirmed in general, of course, that John’s treatment of seeking and finding has clear and obvious connections to seeking and finding in wisdom traditions.93 Wisdom says, for instance, “I love those who love me, and those who seek (ζητοῦντες) me diligently find (εὑρήσουσιν) me” (Proverbs 8:17; see also Wisdom 6:12), while the disciples of Jesus – who love Jesus – seek and find him in the same way. In fact, as soon as Jesus first asks, “What do you seek?”(1:38), his new disciples announce, “We have found (εὑρήκαμεν) the Messiah …” (1:41), and “We have found (εὑρήκαμεν) the one Moses wrote about in the Law!” (1:45). And yet, seeking is connected to finding in ambiguous ways in John. Where Matthew can have Jesus say, “Seek and you will find” (ζητεῖτε καὶ εὑρήσετε; Mt 7:7), and Luke can record Jesus as saying slightly differently, “Whoever seeks, finds” (ὁ ζητῶν εὑρίσκει; Lk 11:9–10), no one is ever told by Jesus in John, “Seek and you will find.”94 The only promise in John about “seeking and finding” is the warning that the one thing will never lead to the other. As we saw above, Jesus says at 7:34, “You will seek me, but you will not find me,” and then adds at 8:21, “I am going away, and you will seek me, but you will die in your sin,” and again later to the disciples, “You will seek me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, ‘Where I am going, you cannot come’.” (13:33). And this returns us to the question at hand: does the seeking and finding by Jesus’ disciples and opponents at 7:34, 8:21 and 13:33 function only and merely like the seeking of Wisdom? Proverbs 1 envisions a scenario in which people first reject Wisdom’s call, then later repent and seek Wisdom, but their seeking Doubleday, 2003) 258–259; Bennema, Power of Saving Wisdom; Delbert Burkett, The Son of Man in the Gospel of John (JSNTSup, 56; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991); Sharon Ringe, Wisdom’s Friends: Community and Christology in the Fourth Gospel (Louisville: Westminster / John Knox Press, 1999). 93 Bennema raises the issue, but only to distance “seeking” from notions of salvation in John (Power of Saving Wisdom, 111 note 30). For Wisdom and seeking, see Ernest G. Clarke, The Wisdom of Solomon (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1973) 46–47; Mark Stibbe, “The Elusive Christ,” 19–25, 31. 94 See Neyrey, “Trials and Tribulations of Jesus,” 115. There is another difference as well. In these Synoptic sayings, seeking and finding refer to the Kingdom of God. In the Fourth Gospel, however, seeking and finding is applied, not to the Kingdom of God, but to Jesus himself. This is a typical move for the Fourth Gospel, in which realities applied by the Synoptics to the Kingdom of God are applied to the person of Jesus. In some of the “I Am” statements in the Fourth Gospel, for instance, Jesus does not say exclusively “I Am” (8:24; 8:28; 8:58: 13:19), but adds a predicate, e. g., “I am the Resurrection and the Life” (11:25). When the “I Am” phrase is linked like this to a predicate, Brown believes that the sense is similar to the Synoptic sayings that define the Kingdom of God / Heaven, by saying, “The Kingdom of God / Heaven is like …” (e. g., Mt 13:31). What the Synoptic Gospels apply to the Kingdom of God, however, John applies to the person of Jesus, Brown, Gospel, 535. Brown writes, “Moreover, the parables that the Synoptics associate with the basileia seem to give way in John to figurative speech centered about the person of Jesus,” Ibid, cx.

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is in vain. Such penitent seeking does apply to Peter in the context of 13:33. At the arrest and trial of Jesus, Peter abandons Jesus like those who turn away from Wisdom. Later, however, Peter earnestly desires to find Jesus and is rehabilitated (21:15–17). Unlike Wisdom in Proverbs 1, however, Jesus is merciful and Peter is accepted.95 In spite of this slight alteration in the response to the seeker, if the penitent seeking of Proverbs 1 appears anywhere in John it appears with Peter. It does not operate, however, at 7:34 and 8:21, in the hostile seeking of Jesus by his opponents. To be sure, several factors may seem to connect John 7 and 8 to Proverbs, especially the fact that other wisdom motifs appear throughout these chapters.96 There are, for example, the use of the images of light and water, as well as the fact that Wisdom is with God from the beginning and is sent from God (Prov 8:22–23; Sir 24:9; Wis 7:10, 26, 29), while Jesus is also with God in the beginning (8:28) and is sent by God (8:42).97 Moreover, John 7:34 mirrors Proverbs 1:28 in every respect except that it is spoken in the second person, not the third. Disrupting these similarities, however, is a critical quality of John 7:34 and 8:21 that differs markedly from Proverbs 1:28. Proverbs envisions the repentance of those who initially reject Wisdom, but then seek Wisdom later. This is not what Jesus’ opponents do. They certainly reject his invitation and they certainly seek him. In fact, they have sought him since 5:18, and continue to seek him throughout chapters 7–8 (7:1, 11, 19, 20, 25, 30, 34, 36; 8:21, 37, 40). This is clear enough. But, they do not seek him to repent from rejecting him. They seek him because they reject him. And they continue seeking after chapter 8 in order to express this rejection. We read, for example, that “They sought (ἐζήτουν) to seize him” (10:39). At 11:8 we hear that they sought (ἐζήτουν) to stone him, while at 11:56, we are told simply: “they sought (ἐζήτουν) him.” Finally, at 18:4 and 7, Jesus asks those who arrest him, “Whom do you seek (ζητεῖτε).” He then clarifies, “If you are seeking me (ζητεῖτε), let these people go.” (18:8). His promise “you will seek me” is thus fulfilled in the efforts to arrest him. His opponents do not seek, therefore, to repent from rejecting him. Seeking is the very expression of their rejection. The phraseology of 7:34, therefore, sounds on the surface very much like Proverbs 1:28, but the purpose is very different. The seeking of Jesus’ opponents is motivated by a different concern. This is an important matter and deserves emphasis. Clearly, John’s notion of seeking is heavily dependent on wisdom traditions. And yet, he has creatively merged these wisdom traditions with other senses of the notion “to seek.” I would argue that this has a direct bearing on how we should understand the notion of seeking. It has taken on a legal, juridical tone. 95 For Peter in John 13 and 21, see Bradford Blaine, Peter in the Gospel of John, chapters 3 and 7. 96 Cory, “Wisdom’s Rescue,” 99–102; Brown adds: “… The theme of Jesus as Divine Wisdom is very strong here and underlies many of the statements,” Gospel of John 1.318. 97 Light: John 7:37–39; Prov 9:4–5; Sir 51:23–24. Water: John 8:12 and Sir 1:29; Wis 7:10. See Cory, “Wisdom’s Rescue,” 100.

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To grasp the juridical sense of seeking more fully in this verse, we should turn our attention for a moment away from the term “seek” and look more closely at the term to which seeking is here paired, the word “find.” If seeking in the first half of the warning in 7:34 is fulfilled when Jesus’ opponents continue to seek him, then it is likely that their “not finding” in the second half of the verse also has a narrative fulfillment.98 Neyrey and Cory have argued thus, and see the promise about “not finding” fulfilled in such places as verse 8:59, when Jesus escapes those who try to stone him.99 This interpretation has much to commend it, especially in light of the proximity between Jesus’ promise that his persecutors will not find him, and their inability soon thereafter to seize him (8:59). On the other hand, 8:59 does not use the phrase “not find.” The phrase “not find” does appear later in John, though. After interrogating Jesus, Pilate announces, “I find no case against him” (19:6; οὐχ εὑρίσκω ἐν αὐτῷ αἰτίαν), a verdict that he utters twice elsewhere as well (18:38; 19:4). Compared to John 8:59, the verdict of Pilate depicts the more likely narrative fulfillment of Jesus’ promise at 7:34, because the trial before Pilate represents the next time after chapter 8 that someone in the Gospel is said not to find something. In fact, no one else but Jesus finds anything at all until after the Passion.100 This suggests that Jesus’ phrase “You will seek me, but you will not find me” has the sense “You will investigate me, but you will not find me guilty” or something equally evocative of the courts. Further support for such a reading of finding in both 7:34 and in the trial before Pilate is that the ζήτησις in Oedipus Rex, as we saw earlier, also concludes with “finding.” Such a reading is not without opponents, of course. Neyrey, for example, initially proposes, but then opposes, the possibility that John 7:34 is fulfilled in the verdict of Pilate. He has two principle objections.101 First, he sees a difference between Jesus’ warning and Pilate’s verdict. Jesus refers to being found personally (“You will not find me”) while Pilate’s concern is finding Jesus guilty (“I find no charge / nothing”). The referent of finding seems to have changed. But such a slight variation hardly drives an irreconcilable wedge between the two phrases.102 Even more important, after Neyrey opposes any connection between John 7:34 and the verdict of Pilate, he finds even less likely places for the narrative

98 Barrett sees fulfillment of this prophecy, not within the narrative, but only at the final judgment,” Gospel according to St. John, 325. This is reasonable, but the evidence arrayed here shows the importance of finding a narrative fulfillment as well. 99 Cory, “Wisdom’s Rescue,”101; Neyrey, “Trials and Tribulations,” 115. 100 Before the Passion, Jesus finds many things (9:35;10:9;11:17). Only after the Passion are Peter and several disciples (21:2) told, “You will find” while fishing (21:6). 101 “Trials and Tribulations,” 115. 102 We saw above that a superficial similarity cannot connect Prov 1:28 to John 7:34 and it follows that a superficial dissimilarity should not separate John 7:34 from 18:38; 19:4, 6, if they otherwise seem closely connected.

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fulfillment of 7:34, such as at 7:45, 8:20, and 10:39.103 These verses certainly refer to the arrest of Jesus, but none of them mentions finding, let alone “not finding.” Neyrey, thus, denies any connection between John 7:34 and the verdict of Pilate because the notion of finding slightly changes, but he then connects 7:34 with other scenes that have no mention of finding at all. This seems the wrong way to proceed. The reappearance of the phrase “not find” in the trial before Pilate (18:38; 19:4, 6), regardless of what is not found, makes the Pilate trial the most likely narrative fulfillment of the warning in 7:34. Strong support for this interpretation lies in the pervasive legal character of John 7 and 8.104 Chapters 7 and 8 are filled with legal terms like testimony (μαρτυρία;) and judgment (κρίσις / κρίνειν;) that earlier appeared in chapter 5. In fact, the interrogation of Jesus by his opponents here in chapters 7–8 is an extension of the response to the sign in chapter 5. Jesus refers back to that incident as the reason for his continued harassment when he says, “I performed one work, and all of you are astonished” (7:21). The legal episodes in chapters 5, 7 and 8, therefore, not only share the same language, but also respond to the same incident.105 And they address this incident in a specifically legal fashion, especially in chapter 8 when a question is raised about valid testimony. Because Jesus testifies on his own behalf, the Pharisees will not accept his testimony (8:13–19). The theme of judgment is also pervasive, further clarifying the trial context.106 Nicodemus wonders, for instance, under what conditions the law of Moses judges people guilty (7:51). Similarly, Jesus criticizes the basis for judgment used by his opponents. He tells them, “Do not judge by appearances, but judge with right judgment (7:24) and then later adds in the same vein, “You judge according to the flesh; I judge no one” (8:15).107 The conflict with Jesus and the Pharisees here is not just any conflict, then, but a legal one about guilt and innocence, with witnesses and judges. Given the legal character of chapter 7, a statement uttered here would very reasonably be fulfilled in the actual trial before Pilate. A comment from one judicial scene would thus be fulfilled in another. But the connection between John 7 and the trial before Pilate can be made even more certain. Neyrey himself has shown that the legal pursuit of Jesus in chapter 7 follows the same path as the trial before Pilate.108 The events in chapter 103

Ibid, 115. See, for example, Jerome Neyrey, “Trials and Tribulations,” 107–16; idem, Gospel of John, 139–67; idem, “Jesus the Judge: Forensic Process in John 8:21–59,” Biblica 68 (1987) 509–41; Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 82–96. 105 The charge of Sabbath violation at 5:10, 16, for example, continues to be the reason for the pursuit of Jesus at 7:21–23. 106 George Beasley-Murray writes of the Tabernacles Discourses in chapters 7 and 8, “It is a story of κρίσις …,” in John (WBC 36; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1999) 104. 107 The theme of judgment comes through as well in 8:16, 26 and 50. 108 This summary comes from Neyrey, “Trials and Tribulations,” 110, 116 and from the summary of Neyrey’s arguments in Van Der Watt, Family of the King, 382–83. 104

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7 have a striking correspondence to the events in the trial before Pilate, as the following list makes clear: (1) an arrest (18:1–11), which in chapter 7 is an unsuccessful effort (7:32, 44, 45–46); (2) charges leveled against Jesus (19:7), which in chapter 7 are the charges that he is a false prophet (7:12, 41, 47) and does not observe the Sabbath (7:21–23); (3) a judge, who is Pilate in the trial in chapter 19, while the judges in chapter 7 are the Pharisees, chief priests and, generally, the Jews (7:13, 15, 32, 45–52); (4) a cognitio, and in chapter 7 this is conducted by both the opponents of Jesus (7:14–15, 37–43) as well as by Jesus himself (7:28–29); (5) there is a verdict in the trial before Pilate of innocence (18:38; 19:4, 6) but the final decision is to punish Jesus (19:12), and in John 7 Jesus is arrested as though he has been convicted (7:30, 44).

These similarities between the two scenes make it all the more likely that Jesus’ promise “You will not find” has its narrative fulfillment in the trial before Pilate, when Pilate “finds nothing” (18:38; 19:4, 6). Neyrey’s second objection to the present reading has to do not so much with the notion of finding, but with the concept of seeking. He argues that “seek” essentially means “kill” in John, because “seeking to arrest [Jesus] serves as the prelude to killing him and so comes to the same thing. ‘Seeking’ in John 7 is tantamount to murder.”109 If 7:34 anticipates the trial before Pilate, therefore, it anticipates the execution of Jesus (19:12), and not the verdict of Pilate. There is certainly support in John for thinking this way, since seeking often means “seek to kill” (5:18; 7:1, 19, 20, 25; 8:37, 40). I would reverse, however, the relationship between the part and the whole. Seeking is not an aspect of the larger concept of murder, but rather, the killing of Jesus is but one aspect of what it means to seek Jesus in a legal fashion.110 I argue, therefore, that the term ζητεῖν in 7:34 carries the sense of the English word “investigate,” and the whole verse should be understood to mean “You will investigate me, but you will not find me guilty.” “Seek” and “find” may still be the best words to use in an English rendering of ζητεῖν and εὑρίσκειν, since a play on these words with other verses is obviously important in John. But the sense of the words in 7:34 is primarily legal, not sapiential.111 109 Neyrey, “Trials and Tribulations,” 114; idem, The Gospel of John (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007)144, 146. 110 Even in Oedipus Rex, seeking is in at least one place not expressed in an intransitive way, but is called seeking “to arrest” (362). 111 “Negative” seeking exists, of course, in wisdom literature. The Strange Woman in Proverbs 7:15, for example, labels her seduction “seeking.” John’s usage is not merely negative, however, but specifically legal. Also, it cannot be said that Jesus levels the statement about “not finding” against the Pharisees and chief priests (7:32), which means it cannot apply to Pilate. Pilate is a representative of the κόσμος that opposes Christ, and “the Jews” distinguish themselves from Pilate before their trial. At first, for example, they are reluctant to enter the praetorium, so that they can still eat the Passover feast (18:28). In the course of the trial, however, the line that separates the Jews from Pilate slowly erodes until they are both representatives of the κόσμος, and

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Several uses of seeking in John, therefore, have an unambiguously legal sense, as when Jesus is arrested in the garden (18:4, 7, 8), or when the Father is said to be the one who seeks and judges (8:50). This helps us to read in a more legal sense such passages as 7:34, and to understand the seeking of Jesus here as a legal investigation and prosecution. Thus, although Jesus’ opponents are sometimes said to be seeking to kill him (5:18; 7:1, 19, 20; 8:37, 40; 11:8), this does not indicate that the sense of seeking is equivalent to “kill,” but that seeking to kill Jesus is an aspect of the investigation to arrest him. Seeking refers to legal investigation. Furthermore, when we read John 8:50 and John 7:34 with the investigative sense of seeking in mind, these two verses become important expressions of the two primary qualities of the Johannine lawsuit that were clarified in Chapter 1 of this study. 7:34 demonstrates that Jesus is innocent of the charges against him, such that his opponents will investigate him, but Pilate finds no charge against him, and 8:50 shows that, precisely because Jesus was innocent, his apparent conviction and condemnation are the real conviction and condemnation of those who killed him. One final issue regarding 7:34 deserves attention before we conclude, however. If that phrase is understood largely in light of Greek legal language, how does this account for the fact that the phrase sounds so much like Proverbs 1:28? To answer this question, the remainder of the present chapter will discuss the interaction of sapiential and judicial notions of seeking in John 7:34.

2.7 Sapiential and Judicial Seeking The present chapter has relied on the notion that, when it comes to seeking Jesus, there are two types of seeking in the Gospel of John. Those who “find” Jesus to be the Messiah (1:41) and to be the one written about in the Law (1:45) are the people who seek him like the earnest seekers of Wisdom, but those who deny that he is the Messiah and believe that he violates the Law seek him in a very different way. Their seeking is a legal investigation. Sapiential and legal traditions, therefore, represent opposing responses to Jesus. And yet, in spite of the fact that this line of argument has driven the current chapter, it is not wise to separate too starkly Jewish wisdom traditions and Greek legal rhetoric. We should, rather, imagine John creatively appropriating and blending the traditions at his disposal in order to shed light on the person and the Jews can shout, “We have no King but Caesar” (19:15). Wayne Meeks writes, “Rejecting the ‘King of the Jews,’ ‘the Jews’ cease to be ‘Israel,’ the special people of God, and become only one of the ἔθνη subject to Caesar” (The Prophet-King: Moses Traditions and the Johannine Christology [NovTSup 14; Leiden: Brill, 1967] 76). See more recently Lars Kierspel, The Jews and the World in the Fourth Gospel: Parallelism, Function and Context (WUNT 2.220; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006) especially chapters 3–5.

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ministry of Jesus, and our analysis should balance with equal regard the worlds of “Judaism” and “Hellenism.” In the first place, this means that we have to take seriously the fact that not all seeking is positive in Wisdom literature. The Strange Woman in Proverbs 7:15, after all, calls her seductive pursuits “seeking.” Not all seeking, therefore, is earnest and praiseworthy in the Wisdom traditions, and we cannot imagine that negative, hostile seeking can only come from Greek legal usage. But there is an even more profound sense in which we should see a creative blending and appropriation of traditions in John 7:34. Chapter 1 of the present monograph drew to a close by recognizing the interesting circumstance presented by John 1:1. Like tragic prologues, the Prologue to the Gospel of John opens by grounding the narrative of the Gospel in the far, distant past, prior to the creation of the world. By opening with the phrase “In the beginning,” the Gospel of John incorporates the ensuing narrative about Jesus within the larger narrative of God’s work that began even before the creation of the world. John mimics those tragic plays that also ground their stories in the most ancient of times and in the remote workings of the Olympian gods and goddesses. But when the Fourth Gospel links the narrative of Jesus to the time before all time, it does so through the language of Genesis 1:1. The ἐν ἀρχῇ of John 1:1 draws obviously from the ἐν ἀρχῇ of Genesis 1:1, and initiates an evocation of Genesis 1:1 that operates throughout the Prologue.112 John 1:1, therefore, sounds like Genesis 1:1, but functions like a line in a tragic prologue. Judaism and Hellenism blend and merge. Something similar happens with seeking and finding in 7:34. As we have said repeatedly, the phrase clearly sounds like Proverbs 1:28, despite a slight change in the person of the verbs, as the following view makes clear: John 7:34 ζητήσετέ με καὶ οὐχ εὑρήσετέ με Proverbs 1:28 Ζητήσουσίν με κακοὶ καὶ οὐχ εὑρήσουσιν

Despite its cosmetic similarity with Proverbs 1:28, however, John 7:34 does not function like that verse at all. Once taken up into the Gospel of John, the phrase operates in a very different sense. It certainly relies on the language of Proverbs, and does so in a context that is saturated with wisdom traditions, but it functions in the Johannine narrative like a phrase in Greek legal rhetoric. In such a setting, the phrase stares Janus-like in both directions, and evokes both traditions. It sounds like Wisdom literature, but operates like a legal phrase. I am not, therefore, intending to separate neatly and starkly the influences of “Judaism” and “Hellenism” in this verse, but rather, would like to argue for a careful and creative blending of cultural, literary and theological commonplaces.

112

See Borgen, “Prologue of John.”

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And it may be no surprise that such a verse as 7:34, with its combination of sapiential and legal seeking, appears in the Tabernacles Discourses of John 7–8, especially if Catherine Cory is correct to see these chapters as an example of the wisdom tale. The wisdom tale is a literary form clarified by G. W. E. Nickelsburg on the basis of such texts as the Joseph cycle in Genesis 37–45; the story of Ahikar; the Book of Esther; Daniel 3 and 6; and the story of Susanna.113 Each of these texts seems in striking ways similar to Wisdom of Solomon 1–6. The basis of this repeated narrative is “a story in which the protagonist is threatened with trial or ordeal but later is rescued, vindicated and restored to power, while his or her opponents are made to suffer for their wrongdoing.”114 But the wisdom tale is a distinct form and is unique among general wisdom traditions in several ways. The Wisdom / Sophia traditions more generally construed, for instance, are concerned with such things as where Wisdom is to be found, where Wisdom dwells, and what Wisdom is.115 The wisdom tale is different. Its preeminent concern is God’s justice. By showing that the protagonist of the wisdom tale is rescued and innocent, the wisdom tale demonstrates that God is in control of the world and controls the world in a just fashion.116 Cory sees several features of the wisdom tale in John 7–8. There is, for instance, a conspiracy against Jesus,117 and accusations are leveled against him for the claims he makes about himself.118 There is also, conversely, a vindication of Jesus in keeping with the format of the wisdom tale, though with alterations to accommodate the unique shape of Jesus’ life.119 For our purposes, the most important aspect of the wisdom tale is the attempt to put the protagonist on trial.120 In the wisdom tale, trials occur in Ahikar 3:14–15; 4:1–2; Daniel 3:13–18; Susanna 28–40; Wisdom 2:20. 113 G. W. E. Nickelsburg, Resurrection, Immortality and Eternal Life in Intertestamental Juaism and Early Christianity, (HTS 56: Cambridge; Harvard University, 2006) 67–140. 114 Cory, “Wisdom’s Rescue,” 95. This is a shorter version of the description given by Nickelsburg, Resurrection, 67. This is also just a general description. She counts 17 typical components of the wisdom tale, all of which are not present in all the occurrences of the wisdom tale, but which do recur with regularity in several versions. 115 Cory, “Wisdom’s Rescue,” 99–102. 116 Ibid, 97–98. 117 Ibid, 103. For conspiracies in the wisdom tale, see Gen 37:18–20; Ahikar 3:7, Esther 3:6; 5:9–14; Daniel 6:4–5; Susanna 12–15. 118 Cory, “Wisdom’s Rescue,” 104. For such accusations in the wisdom tale, see Esther 3:8–9; Daniel 3:8–12; Daniel 6:12–13; Susanna 27, 34–40. 119 For example, the protagonist of the wisdom tale is usually rescued before death. Jesus speaks of being lifted up, however, and exalted, at death (8:28). He will be exalted, then, which is a sign of his innocence and his vindication, but unlike other heroes in the wisdom tale, he will not be saved from death. Vindication comes after death. Finally, the vindication of Jesus is paired to the condemnation of his opponents. He will be lifted up, but he warns them,”You will die in your sin” (8:21). In the end he will be vindicated over those who plot against and accuse him, Cory, “Wisdom’s Rescue,” 105–6. 120 See Nickelsburg, Resurrection, 76–77.

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If the wisdom tale provides the raw materials for the debates in John 7–8, we must recognize that this form stands alongside the general Wisdom themes that exist throughout these chapters, which were noted earlier. And because the wisdom tale involves a trial, we have in John 7–8 an environment that is simultaneously sapiential and judicial. Such a mixture of sapiential and judicial themes has a special relevance for seeking, because the wisdom tale provides a context in which sapiential notions about seeking merge with, and even morph into, something more at home in Greek legal rhetoric. What we have in John, therefore, is a creative intermingling of cultural and theological commonplaces drawn from Jewish Wisdom literature as well as from Greek legal rhetoric and tragic drama. In the wisdom tale, both sapiential traditions and legal rhetoric have a place. It is, therefore, not surprising that we hear in this context a sapiential phrase like “You will seek me, but you will not find,” which is almost an exact replica of Proverbs 1:28–30, but which functions like a phrase more at home in Greek legal rhetoric. W. D. Davies referred to Johannine “bilingualism” as a way to describe how a given Johannine term could simultaneously resemble both Jewish and GrecoRoman patterns of expression.121 John’s treatment of seeking reflects this same bilingualism, as long as we recognize that a different sense of seeking might predominate in this or that use of the word. Every individual seeker must be interrogated and made to answer the question that Jesus himself asks in his first words in the Gospel of John: “What do you seek?

121 W. D. Davies, “Reflections on Aspects of the Jewish Background of the Gospel of John,” in Exploring the Gospel of John in Honor of D. Moody Smith (ed. R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black; Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996) 44. For studies on both Jewish and classical traditions in John, see now the essays in Jörg Frey and Udo Schnelle, eds., Kontexte des Johannesevangeliums: Das vierte Evangelium in religions- und traditionsgeschichtlicher Perspektive (WUNT 1.175; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2004).

Chapter 3

The Signs of Jesus as Evidence 3.1 Introduction A distinctive feature of the Fourth Gospel, and one of the features that most differentiates it from the Synoptic Gospels, is that the Fourth Gospel calls the miracles of Jesus signs (σημεῖα), and claims that these signs were written in order that readers might believe (πιστεύσητε) that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God (20:30–31). But if the Johannine association of σημεῖα and πιστεύειν is unique among the canonical Gospels, it is not unique in ancient literature. Recent studies have focused their attention on two other bodies of comparative material that also associate signs and belief: rhetoric and recognition scenes. First, signs (σημεῖα in Greek; signum in Latin) are explained and explored in ancient rhetoric as a type of πίστις, or proof.1 This has been known by Johannine scholars for some time, but has been developed more explicitly in the recent work of W. Salier.2 Second, signs also play a role in recognition scenes in ancient literature, ranging from epic poetry to tragic poetry and even prose novels. Recognition scenes occur when long lost intimates (typically family members) recognize one another after a period of separation.3 The process of recognition is often completed by means of some token or piece of evidence, and one term for this evidence is sign,

1

See, for example, Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1.3.7; 2.25.8; Quintillian, Inst. Orat., 5.9.1. A connection between the rhetorical character of signs in Aristotle and the New Testament in general was recognized in an early but underdeveloped way in Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 15, but has been stated more explicitly and been applied to the lawsuit motif in John by Salier, Rhetorical Impact of the Semeia, 34–38. Without any reference to ancient rhetoric, the signs were also considered to be a form of evidence by earlier interpreters, such as Harvey, Jesus on Trial, 95–100; and Johns and Miller, “Signs as Witnesses.” 3 A recognition scene is, in the words of Aristotle, “a change from ignorance to knowledge, producing either friendship or hatred.” Poetics, 11.4, translation slightly modified from the translation of Hamilton Fyfe, transl., Aristotle: Poetics, Longinus: On the Sublime; Demetrius: On Style (LCL; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973). The paradigmatic recognition in Greek literature is that of the long-lost Odysseus (Poetics, 16.4), who is recognized by his family and friends when he returns to Ithaca after twenty years of war and wandering. On recognition in Homer’s Odyssey, see Sheila Murnaghan, Disguise and Recognition in the Odyssey (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987). But perhaps the most famous recognition scene is that in Oedipus Rex (Poetics 11.5–6), when Oedipus, in an instant, recognizes that he has murdered his father and married his mother. 2

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σημεῖον. In a very Johannine phrase, for example, Chrysothemis can announce in Euripides’ Electra (886), “I believe (πιστεύω)… after seeing the signs (σημεῖα).” These two bodies of comparative material have not been adequately connected in previous work, however. While both rhetoric and recognition scenes hold equal promise for Johannine interpretation, the opinion has arisen that these two types of sign are mutually exclusive, or at least that the one has priority over the other. Such a divide has arisen because the interpretation of the signs has been caught up in a more basic debate between those who emphasize the lawsuit motif in John and those who emphasize the recognition motif. This more primary debate has led to the assumption that the signs in John must either be evidence of Jesus’ innocence (like signs in legal rhetoric) or evidence of Jesus’ identity (like signs in recognition scenes). This assumed dichotomy, however, is not real. Rhetoric and recognition do not offer two competing types of sign – neither in ancient literature broadly speaking, nor within the Gospel of John – but rather, reflect one and the same function of the sign. In keeping with the concerns of the present monograph, therefore, the first half of the following chapter will reconcile the supposed separation between signs in rhetoric and signs and drama.4 The latter part of the chapter will address a related question. The association between signs and belief may be, as noted above, one of the defining qualities of the Gospel of John, but how John understands the connection between signs and faith is not immediately obvious. The Fourth Gospel seems to be of two minds on the matter. While the Fourth Evangelist insists that signs are necessary for belief (20:30–31), Jesus himself can reject, or at least critique, those who believe in him because of signs (2:23–25; 4:48). This antithesis is, of course, one of the most famous points of confusion in the interpretation of John, and has given rise to various ways of understanding the connection of signs to faith. When this chapter argues, therefore, that the Johannine signs are a form of evidence like signs in both rhetoric and drama, how does such an argument correlate with the longstanding debate about signs and faith? If the signs are evidence, does this mean that they are always positively correlated with faith and are a firm foundation for faith? That question will occupy the latter part of the chapter.

3.2 The Symbolon of Oedipus The concern of the first part of the chapter, however, is to define in what sense the signs of Jesus are evidence. In order to clarify the position that this chapter 4 To speak of “drama” requires some explanation, since certain of the texts discussed below in the survey of scholarly opinion are drawn, not only from drama, but also from epic literature and novels. My argument, however, focuses on drama, and so I continue to speak of the intersection of rhetoric and drama, specifically.

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will take in regard to previous work on the subject, I will return for a moment to the play that occupied so much attention in the last chapter, Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex. The question of Oedipus’ guilt and the question of his identity are inherently linked in that play. To know who he is, is to know that he is guilty, since he discovers his identity in the midst of the legal process of the ζήτησις. If identity and guilt are so linked, then the evidence for one is also the evidence for the other. Such an association of guilt and identity appears in the use of words for evidence, such as σύμβολον. As Oedipus begins his investigation, he recognizes that he will not get very far without a σύμβολον, (221) a word which is often translated as “clue.”5 Dawe defines the term as anything that contributes to putting “two and two together,” and “a piece of evidence contributing to a proof.”6 That Oedipus calls for this evidence just as he has begun his effort to track down the regicide, and invites informers to tell him what they know about the crime (223–275), gives the word a clear juridical character. The word σύμβολον, however, can also refer to a marker of some kind shared by two people to show that they are allied to one another. Most important of all, in Euripides’ Ion (1386) a σύμβολον is the token left with a child exposed at birth to help it someday clarify its parentage. This token is a piece of evidence in that play’s recognition scene. The σύμβολον in this sense is evidence of identity that leads to recognition. Segal notes the dual character of the word and applies this to Oedipus as follows: Oedipus’ initial objective, the public task of ‘tracking down’ a killer by a ‘clue’ (symbolon in the juridical sense), turns into the personal and intimate task of finding the ‘birth token’ (symbolon in the personal sense) that proves his identity.7

The association of the juridical and the personal within a single piece of evidence shows in a preliminary way how Oedipus’ efforts to track down a killer are intimately connected to the efforts to find out his own identity. One piece of evidence can refer to both his identity and his guilt because these two realities are inextricably linked in this play. Because the engine that drives Oedipus’ process of recognition is a legal process, the discovery of his guilt is simultaneously the discovery of his identity. I will argue that the same thing is true of the Gospel of John. If the signs are evidence on behalf of Jesus, they are evidence of both his identity as well as his innocence.

5 See, for example, the translation of Oedipus Rex in R. C. Jebb, The Complete Plays of Sophocles (New York: Bantam, 1967) 82 and LSJ 1: “a sign or token by which one knows or infers a thing.” 6 Dawe, Sophocles: Oedipus Rex, 116. 7 Segal, Oedipus, 66.

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3.3 Forensic Rhetoric vs. Dramatic Recognition This association between identity and innocence has not been obvious in previous work on John, and I would like briefly to survey the contours of the previous discussions of the subject. I must say at the outset, however, that I am not in essential disagreement with any of the scholars mentioned below. I agree with all of them to a large extent, and only disagree with them when they disagree with each other. The problem is the mere fact of the assumption that they disagree with each other. The opposing sides in the current divide are defined by their responses to an important insight made by R. A. Culpepper.8 Culpepper argued that the Fourth Gospel’s narrative is sustained by a series of encounters with Jesus that are reminiscent of recognition scenes in Greek epic, tragedy and even the Old Testament. He argues that many of John’s recognition scenes are failed recognitions, because people fail to see who Jesus is. Because they do not recognize him, they kill him. The crucifixion, however, marks the point where Jesus completes his mission of revelation, since, in his resurrection, Jesus most fully reveals the divine reality that he descended to earth to deliver. The central question for the Fourth Gospel, therefore, is, do readers understand who Jesus is? As Culpepper writes, “The story unfolds in a series of recognition scenes, until at the end the question is whether or not the reader has recognized in Jesus the eternal Word.”9 Culpepper’s work is important, and the theme of recognition is clearly a helpful category for interpreting the Fourth Gospel.10 Even so, Culpepper’s basic insight about recognition scenes in John has called forth several responses, some supportive and some critical. Brant and Larsen support his basic insight, even as

8 R. Alan Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983) 81–84; idem, “The Plot of John’s Story of Jesus,” Interpretation 49 (1995) 347–58. This is especially obvious in the dialogue with Nicodemus in John 3, Culpepper, “Plot,” 353–354.Culpepper is not alone, of course, in making this claim, nor was he the first to make it. For the history of efforts to discern recognition themes in the Gospel of John, see Larsen, Recognizing, 6–17. Culpepper is held up for special consideration because of the way that responses to his work specifically have led to a division between those who see recognition themes in John and those who pursue and illuminate the lawsuit motif in John. It must be said, of course, that Culpepper’s own work does not necessarily require or create this divide. Indeed, in the very essay in which he lays out his theories about dramatic recognition, he can include the following comment: “In a sense, the trial of Jesus occurs throughout his ministry,” Culpepper, “Plot,” 354. 9 Culpepper, “Plot,” 357. 10 One area, however, that requires refinement is the singular reliance on Aristotle for determining the nature and function of recognition scenes, Culpepper, Anatomy, 81–82. See chapter 1 of the present study, page 13 note 33; page 24 note 67. This is a problem which Culpepper himself resolves subsequently in R. Alan Culpepper, The Gospel and Letters of John (IBT; Nashville: Abingdon, 1998) chapter 4. Larsen, of course, has resolved this dilemma finally by citing elaborately from ancient texts on recognition scenes. See Larsen, Recognizing.

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they extend and enhance it.11 Lincoln, however, has been more critical.12 Because ancient recognition scenes have no cognitive character, Lincoln argues, they are inappropriate for comparison with the Gospel of John, which speaks of making God known and reflects a pronounced cognitive dimension. More recent studies have demonstrated the cognitive character of ancient scenes of recognition, however, and this critique cannot hold.13 But, at an even more basic level, Lincoln insists that the category of recognition is not as significant for John as the lawsuit motif.14 When it comes to the purpose of the Gospel of John for those who read it, he speaks not of readers who should recognize the identity of Jesus, but of jurors deciding the innocence or guilt of Jesus.15 This assumed separation between the lawsuit motif and the recognition motif is established in the work of Lincoln, and continues in various ways when Brant and Larsen defend Culpepper.16 We addressed the arguments of Brant in Chapter 1 of this monograph, and suggested a refinement in her approach to the rhe11

Brant, Dialogue and Drama, 21, 42–3, 50–57, 86, 168, 170, 177, 232; Larsen, Recognizing, 6–23. The careful delineation of the recognition type-scene is one advance by which Larsen supports Culpepper’s work in the face of Lincoln’s criticism. Lincoln criticized Culpepper because Culpepper read almost every scene in John as a recognition scene, making it difficult to see the value of the designation. What Aristotle defined as one major event became in Culpepper’s argument something that appeared in every scene in the Gospel of John. See Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 162. When Larsen defines more carefully what a recognition type-scene is, he makes it more reasonable to read recognition scenes in John. 12 See especially Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 161–62. 13 For the cognitive dimensions of recognition, see Larsen, Recognizing, 34–44. 14 Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 162–163. 15 To buttress the point, Lincoln refers to comments of Aristotle and Cicero regarding rhetorical persuasion in the courts, but does not pursue them systematically, Truth on Trial, 173–174. 16 Although all of these scholars want sharply to distinguish the legal motif and the recognition motif, it is important to say that they also see inherent connections between them, especially in the cases of Larsen and Lincoln. In various ways both interpreters seem to recognize that the legal motif and the recognition motif are not so separate after all. In his methodological discussion about John’s plot and narrative technique, for example, Larsen sees that the lawsuit motif and the recognition motif are two aspects of the same reality in John. He claims that the “purpose of the narrative” is “the promotion or confirmation of belief in Jesus as the Messiah …,” Larsen, Recognizing, 42. He calls this dominant purpose the “epistemological plot” of the Gospel. But this epistemological concern with belief manifests itself in the narrative in a variety of ways. Larsen writes, The cognitive question concerning Jesus’ true identity is thematized in various ways, for example in the forensic language (the trial motif) and the language of glorification, whereas this study focuses on its formal articulation in the recognition scenes (42). For Larsen, then, the recognition scene is simply another way of accomplishing in narrative form what the lawsuit motif is also designed to accomplish. Lincoln, too, in spite of his opposition to Culpepper’s theories about dramatic recognition, sees the value of connecting the lawsuit motif and questions over Jesus’ identity. He begins his study, for instance, by insisting, “The themes of this Gospel are intricately interwoven, and to isolate one carries the danger of the whole becoming unraveled,” Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 12. He believes, however, that he has isolated the most important motif in the Gospel, the lawsuit motif, ibid, 12. But even he recognizes that the question of Jesus’ innocence is connected to the question over Jesus’ identity. As Lincoln recognizes,

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torical character of tragedy.17 Her opposition to the legal arguments of Lincoln was discussed at length there, and we do not need to dwell further on her work here, except to say that she combines this opposition to Lincoln’s legal focus with an eloquent exposition on the importance of recognition scenes in John. She connects John to drama by separating John from legal rhetoric. Larsen does the same. Larsen’s sophisticated argument recognizes some basic points of compatibility between legal concerns and recognition in John, but he, nevertheless, still applies this dichotomy between the lawsuit motif and the recognition motif to the study of the signs.18 His work is valuable for showing that in ancient literature extending from Homer’s Odyssey onward, people recognize the identity of others through tokens that are often called “signs.”19 The Johannine signs are, in keeping with this tradition, tokens of recognition that lead people to recognize who Jesus is, and they do so in the manner of signs in Homer’s Odyssey, where the Homeric term for sign is sêmata. By making a play on this Homeric term, Larsen refers to the signs in John by coining the phrase “sêmeia as sêmata.”20 In demonstrating this function of the sign, however, Larsen interacts with the work of W. Salier, who has recognized that “sign” is a term for evidence in Greek and Latin rhetoric.21 Salier connects the Johannine signs to the forensic themes that Lincoln emphasizes, and understands his study of signs to be an extension of this is also true even in the precursors to the Johannine lawsuit in Deutero-Isaiah. Regarding Deutero-Isaiah, Lincoln writes (12): Rather, in that lawsuit …, what Yahweh is asking for is recognition of Yahweh’s own self as the only true God and the sort of relationship of trust that arises out of this recognition. The lawsuit in Isaiah, then, is a demand for recognition. The same combination of recognition and the lawsuit motif, says Lincoln, operates in the Gospel of John. He writes, for instance, in regard to John, “Clearly, in this trial there is sovereign self-regard on God’s part. God wants recognition as God,” ibid, 188. This is reflected specifically in such things as the clash between Jesus and his opponents over the Jewish Law. Where Jesus is accused of violating the law, argues Lincoln, John does not say that the law defends Jesus. Rather, John claims that Jesus is an “exception to the Law,” ibid, 235. To his opponents, Jesus is a blasphemer who violates the Law. But he is only guilty if he is not who he says he is. Recognizing who Jesus is and recognizing that Jesus is innocent of blasphemy are thus two sides of the same reality. In his actual interpretation, therefore, Lincoln pursues the lawsuit motif in John in a way that is keenly aware of the connection between the lawsuit motif and recognizing Jesus’ identity. He is simply not convinced by the claim that there is a formal connection between recognition scenes in drama and the Fourth Gospel. He does not oppose the notion that John is interested in the recognition of Jesus’ identity, but seems simply to oppose the way that Culpepper has presented it. 17 See chapter 1, section 1.4. 18 Larsen, Recognizing, 15 note 45. Larsen does recognize the rhetorical character of recognition. He can, for instance, say that recognition can unfold in John in the manner of an enthymeme, Recognizing, 144, 148. But, it is also true that he separates signs from rhetoric, as we see. So, although his work is very subtle, it is still open to some refinement. 19 For signs in recognition and in John, see Larsen, Recognizing, 112–24. 20 Ibid, 112. 21 Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 34–38.

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Lincoln’s focus on witness in John.22 Just like the theme of witness, Salier argues, the signs drive the lawsuit motif. They do so in two ways. They are (1) palpable proof to decide whether Jesus is guilty or innocent, and (2) they offer “testimony to the truth of Jesus’ claims concerning himself.”23 In this latter capacity, they also lead to a verdict of guilt or innocence on the part of those who reject or accept the testimony of the signs.24 The signs, then, are simultaneously related to Jesus’ identity and his innocence, as well as to the guilt or innocence of those he encounters. Larsen recognizes some value in this approach to the signs, but finds it not entirely satisfactory. His perspective on the work of Salier is instructive, because it shows clearly the dichotomy between legal rhetoric and recognition that we have been tracing above. He does not establish a total separation of the lawsuit motif from the recognition motif, and connects them in various ways. And yet, his reading of the signs, nevertheless, reflects the dichotomy we have mentioned above. First, he somewhat misrepresents the work of Salier even as he acknowledges its value. When Larsen argues that it is incomplete to read the signs as evidence in the sense that the orators intend, he writes the following: Pieces of evidence in a trial focus on the question of guilt, whereas the primary function of the signs in John is to display the identity of the yet unidentified one, which is also what the semata of the recognition scene do.25

In Salier’s model, however, as we just saw above, signs are indeed concerned with the question of guilt and innocence, but not exclusively so. The signs are also proof of Jesus’ identity. For example, Salier does not read the sign at the Wedding at Cana (2:1–11) against the exclusive backdrop of guilt or innocence. Rather, the role of this sign is “to display the glory that marks out the Son as the unique divine representative of the Father.”26 This is not a question of guilt or innocence, but of identity. When he says that the signs are evidence, therefore, Salier does not mean that they are evidence only of guilt or innocence. They are evidence of identity as well. But they are evidence within the lawsuit motif. And this is the specific point against which Larsen is arguing. He believes that the primary role of signs lies within the recognition motif. The signs are caught up into the legal concerns of the Gospel eventually, but only in a secondary sense. Their primary function is as tokens of recognition. They are debated like evidence only when a sign does not lead immediately to recognition, and characters argue as though they are in court. An especially elaborate version of this 22

Larsen, Recognizing, 17, 44, 47. Ibid, 172. 24 Ibid, 172. 25 Ibid, 116. As the discussion of Salier shows, however, this is not entirely what Salier means by evidence. Signs in part show that Jesus is innocent, but they also are testimony to his identity. We will address this further below. 26 Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 50. 23

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phenomenon appears in Book 12 of Heliodorus’ Aethiopica, where Charikleia tries to prove that she is the daughter of the king. She calls for a trial, witnesses and a judge to demonstrate her identity.27 In this case, recognition becomes a forensic procedure, and tokens of recognition become forensic evidence.28 But, to Larsen, the signs are first and foremost tokens of recognition that may or may not be taken up into a legal scenario.29 This is the key to his view of the signs. They may in some secondary sense be taken up and treated like evidence, but this is a secondary sense. In a more primary sense, a more inherent sense, they are tokens of recognition. Larsen’s work makes clear and important distinctions at a high level of abstraction. But in the present case, he tries to separate the forensic character of the signs from their character as tokens of recognition in a way that is not helpful. This approach to the signs, however, reflects the presuppositions of the several scholars who assume that the recognition motif and the legal motif in John are mutually incompatible, or at a minimum, that one motif must have priority over the other. Larsen did not originate the dichotomy between judicial rhetoric and recognition, but he does represent its most recent manifestation. This dichotomy does not, however, hold up in light of the ancient sources.

3.4 Signs in Aristotle’s Poetics and Rhetoric To deal at the most fundamental level of the issue, however, we must now turn to Aristotle, because he clarifies quite plainly that the function of signs in rhetoric and their function in dramatic recognition are not opposed or alternate views of the sign, but precisely the same sense of the sign. The relation between signs in rhetoric and recognition has eluded previous Johannine interpreters, however, because, although they have all read Aristotle, they have each read part of Aristotle, and not the same part. Those who trace the theme of recognition read what Aristotle says about recognition in the Poetics.30 Those, on the other hand, who debate the value of the signs as legal evidence rely only on what Aristotle says in the Rhetoric.31 Reading the Poetics and the Rhetoric in isolation, however, is a critical problem, because doing so restricts Aristotle’s discussion of signs and

27

Larsen, Recognizing, 112. Larsen also recognizes that trials can become opportunities for recognition, as in the trial before Pilate, where the Ἰουδαῖοι and Pilate fail to recognize Jesus. See Larsen, Recognizing, 173–180. 29 Ibid, 116. 30 See, for example, Culpepper, Anatomy, 80–1; Brant, Dialogue and Drama, 42–3; Larsen, Recognizing, 25–31. 31 See Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 36. 28

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the various associations that he attaches to the term.32 By coordinating what he says in both the Rhetoric and Poetics, we can see the inherent connection between rhetoric and recognition in the Johannine signs.33 In Book 1 of the Rhetoric, Aristotle discusses signs within his larger discussion of “proof” (πίστις). As he catalogs the various propositions that lie behind syllogisms, he distinguishes three types: infallible signs (τεκμήρια); probabilities (εἰκότα); and signs (σημεῖα).34 Since these terms will be important through the whole of this chapter, I will dwell on them briefly here. These three different terms identify the fact that some propositions are more reliable and persuasive than others. The infallible sign (τεκμήριον) is the most certain form of proof, and is exemplified by the claim that, if someone has a fever, it follows that that person is ill (1.2.17–18). Less certain are simple signs (σημεῖα). A simple sign appears in the claim that, because Socrates was wise and just, the wise are therefore just. This may be true in the particular case of Socrates, but does not apply universally (1.2.18). Probabilities (εἰκότα) are also not certain in all cases, for they attempt to apply universal truths to particular situations, such as the claim that children love their parents. This claim might hold true in some cases, or even in most, but it need not be always true.35 According to varying levels of probability, then, propositions can be founded on three types of proof (πίστις): τεκμήρια, σημεῖα and εἰκότα. Aristotle, of course, does not invent these terms, which have a long history among ancient orators that extends both before and after Aristotle.36 32 Indeed, Aristotle speaks of signs in ways relevant to the Gospel of John in several places and in several works, not only in his Rhetoric and Poetics, but also in the Prior Analytics (e. g., 70b). 33 At the 2006 meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, I delivered a paper in the Johannine Literature Section entitled “The Lawsuit Motif and Dramatic Recognition in the Gospel of John: Semeia and Anagnoresis Reconsidered,” which was a skeletal version of the present chapter. I there coordinated the passages in Aristotle’s Poetics and Rhetoric that drive the following argument. I read Larsen’s dissertation (completed in May, 2006) following this paper, and my treatment of his work in the present chapter is based originally on his dissertation. In the published form of his work, however, appearing in 2008, he, too, notes the coordination of these two passages from Aristotle, Recognizing, 15, note 45. This partially blunts my critique of his work, but he did not substantially change his own argument, apart from the laconic mention of the association of these two passages from Aristotle. My original response, therefore, to his very interesting and important work still stands. 34 1.3.7; Cf. 2.25.8. See also Prior Analytics 2.27. The translation of these three terms is taken from Eden, Poetic and Legal Fiction, 11. The term πίστις, of course, has different nuances in different sections of Aristotle’s Rhetoric, and can be translated as either “proof,” “the means of persuasion” or “belief.” For debates over the various senses of πίστις in Aristotle, see Joseph T. Lienhard, “A Note on the Meaning of Pistis in Aristotle’s Rhetoric,” AJP 87 (1966) 446–454. 35 1.2.15. The example of children and their parents comes from William M. A. Grimaldi, Aristotle, Rhetoric I: A Commentary (New York: Fordham University Press 1980–88) I.62, who writes, “An example of such an εἰκός would be: children love their parents. As we experience and know the world of reality, this proposition represents what is generally the case, but not always so.” 36 These are the regular terms for proof and evidence in the Greek orators. Antiphon, to name only one, uses them regularly: εἰκότα (5.25, 28, 37); σημεῖα (5.28); τεκμήρια (5.38, 61, 63). For

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Furthermore, although Aristotle is speaking in general of all species of rhetoric (deliberative, epideictic, forensic), the focus on the presentation of proof shows that the rhetoric of the courts lies behind his discussion of all rhetoric. “The principles of persuasion which Aristotle extends to all rhetorical discourse, in other words, derive from legal procedure, and more specifically from the practice of presenting proof in court.”37 On the basis of what Aristotle says in the Rhetoric, therefore, and on the basis of what orators actually do in speeches, the rhetorical character of the signs seems secure. Most important of all, Aristotle connects σημεῖον and πίστις. This immediately calls to mind John 20:30–31, where the signs are said to be written to inspire faith (πιστεύειν).38 To take the side of Lincoln and Salier about the legal character of the signs in John, however, is not to agree with Lincoln that John is distant from dramatic recognition. Aristotle does not allow such a separation. On the contrary, when Aristotle ranks the credibility of recognition scenes in drama, he does so by using the same categories that he did for proof in the Rhetoric. He writes as follows (Poetics, 16.11–12): The best of all Recognitions, however, is that arising from the incidents themselves, when the great surprise comes about through a probable incident (δι᾽ εἰκότων), like that in the Oedipus of Sophocles; and also in Iphigenia; for it was not improbable that she should wish to have a letter taken home. These last are the only Recognitions independent of the artifice of signs (σημείων) and necklaces. Next after them come discoveries through reasoning (ἐκ συλλογισμοῦ).

The three phrases and terms marked here in Greek correspond precisely to Aristotle’s categories of proof in rhetoric. Two terms are obviously the same in both the Rhetoric and the Poetics: σημεῖα and εἰκότα. The third is equally obvious after a brief clarification. For, while τεκμήρια appear to be absent from the discussion in the Poetics, they are accounted for by the phrase ἐκ συλλογισμοῦ. In the Rhetoric, Aristotle defined τεκμήρια as those signs “from which a syllogism might arise” (ἐξ ὦν γίνεται συλλογισμός, 1.2.17). Thus, τεκμήρια are those signs which are ἐκ συλλογισμοῦ. Aristotle’s three forms of rhetorical proof, therefore, are also three forms of tragic recognition. The sign does not become forensic evidence when it is held up for debate. It is inherently a piece of evidence. It intends to prove something. As Kathy Eden writes, more examples, see Friedrich Solmsen, “The Aristotelian Tradition in Ancient Rhetoric,” in Aristotle: The Classical Heritage of Rhetoric (Ed. Keith V. Erickson; Metuchen, NJ: The Scarecrow Press, 1974) 301, note 17; repr. from AJP 62 (1941). 37 Eden, Poetic and Legal Fiction, 9–10. This is, of course, in spite of Aristotle’s own protestations to the contrary. For the transmission of these terms from Greek to Latin rhetoric, and the even greater emphasis on legal rhetoric there, see Eden, Poetic and Legal Fiction, 85–95. For the legal character of Quintillian’s work, see Hutson, Invention, 79. 38 We complicate this notion of the sign below, but allow it to stand now for the sake of argument. The signs do not, however, have such a simple connection to faith.

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With only the most minor adjustment of terms, then, the means of tragic recognition are seen to coincide with the orator’s instruments of proof. In constructing his scenes of discovery, in other words, the dramatist relies on methods equally fundamental to rhetorical persuasion.39

The sign, therefore, is a piece of evidence that is involved in the process of persuasion. This is true whether we are speaking of the sign as a style of argument in rhetoric or of the sign as a token or piece of physical evidence in a recognition scene. Both intend to persuade and to lead from ignorance to knowledge. Identifying this inherent connection is a crucial first step in reconciling the two poles in the Johannine treatment of signs. But further steps are necessary – and available. Aristotle is not our only resource for exploring this reality.

3.5 Evidence in Greek Tragedy In the first place, we can expand the discussion beyond recognition scenes. Ancient tragedies reflect a repeated concern for the cognitive conflicts that accompany the evaluation of evidence, and they reflect this concern in more places than in recognition scenes. In regard to the plays of Aeschylus, Eden writes, The tekmeria and semeia of his plays designate the physical phenomena which, when combined with logical inference, indicate a judgment leading to a course of action … The sensible world supplies the raw material to which the intellectual world attaches the ordering principle of causality. Judgment negotiates between the information received from sense impression and the logical faculty which interprets the data, or more simply, between the senses and the reason. But the relative importance given to these two constituents of the formula – sense impressions and reason – can and did change.40

The Agamemnon of Aeschylus reflects the way in which judgment is developed by characters as they evaluate evidence. In the opening lines of the play, the Watchman sees a beacon in the distance, which he calls a token like the token that Oedipus searched for above, λαμπάδος τὸ σύμβολον (8).41 The series of speeches and debates that ensue test or discuss what the beacon is evidence for, and whether or not to trust it. When Clytemnestra explains to the Chorus that the beacon signals the Greek victory at Troy (268), they ask her what piece of evidence (τέκμαρ) she has as proof (πιστὸν) of such a claim (272). Clytemnestra responds that the proof (τέκμαρ) and token (σύμβολον) on which she bases her story come from a message from Agamemnon himself (315–316). The Chorus listen and they assent, announcing that they believe what she says as “trustworthy evidence” (πιστὰ τεκμήρια, 352). The Chorus were right, however, to be at first 39

Eden, Poetic and Legal Fiction, 11. Eden, “Influence of Legal Procedure,” 192–193. 41 Ibid, 172–76. 40

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suspicious of Clytemnestra, as we find later when she kills her husband.42 Even so, this scene shows that, when characters discuss the meaning of the beacon, their discussion is not casual or commonplace. Their discussion has become an evaluation of evidence and proof. Such evidence, moreover, extends beyond this one example from the Agamemnon, and is not confined to Aeschlus. Greek tragedy in general has an ongoing and pervasive concern for the value of physical evidence in making judgments. To put the matter into the language of Aristotle, the tragedies reflect a regular interaction between inartistic (ἄτεχνοι) and artistic (ἔντεχνοι) proofs. On the relation between artistic and inartistic proofs, Aristotle writes as follows at Rhetoric 1.2.2: Proofs (pisteis) are either inartistic or artistic. By inartistic I mean those that are not provided by us but are already at hand, such as witnesses, interrogations, contracts, and the like; by artistic, I mean those that can be constructed systematically by us. Thus we have only to make use of the former, but we must discover the latter.43

The sense of “art” implied in the term in-artistic is that these forms of proof do not require the art of the orator. These are things like witnesses and various forms of physical evidence. In modern trials, something like a fingerprint is a form of inartistic proof. It has the power to persuade that a crime was committed even without the art of the orator. Artistic proofs, on the other hand, arise only from the skill of the orator. They depend on the orator’s ability to convince people through syllogistic logic, not physical evidence, what the truth of the matter is. Perhaps, for example, the fingerprint mentioned above was only at the crime scene because the defendant had regular business there, and not because the defendant committed a crime. Or, even quite apart from any physical evidence, the orator might demonstrate how improbable it is that the defendant could have committed any such crime. Friends, in all probability, do not murder friends. The question of physical proof need not even enter the argument in such a case. The defense would simply rely on the question of probability.44 42 For the discussion of how appearance and reality are filtered through the untrustworthy use of language by Clytemnestra, see Goldhill, Greek Tragedy, 1–56. He writes, “This suggestion that Clytemnestra’s hypocrisy implies a separation between a signifier and what it signifies is particularly important for the scenes preceding the messenger scene, which are also largely concerned with the arrival and understanding of a message, or rather, of a signal, the beacon-light whose anticipation opens the play” (9). 43 Translation modified from Michael Gagarin, “The Nature of Proofs in Antiphon,” in Oxford Readings in the Attic Orators (ed. Edwin Carrawan; Oxford: Oxford University, 2007) 216. 44 It is a mistake, of course, to draw too sharp a distinction between these two types of proof. After all, to utilize inartistic proof in the most convincing fashion requires rhetorical art of the highest calibre, to ensure that the most convincing evidence is chosen and that it is presented in the most convincing format. Not all orators, of course, could utilize documentary and physical evidence as effectively as others, but some level of art was always possible. As Carey writes, “The degree of art involved in the formulation and deployment of ‘artless’ proofs

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When they are taken up and dramatized on the tragic stage, artistic and inartistic proofs interact with one another in various ways.45 In some scenarios, inartistic proof is more easily and more quickly credible. At other times such proof is sharply challenged by artistic proof and syllogistic logic. The return of Orestes to his sister Electra, for example, is described differently by Aeschylus, Euripides and Sophocles, and each different telling depicts a different response to the palpable evidence of inartistic proof. I will review those passages here in order to highlight the differences. Even more important, I will insert passages from the Gospel of John where relevant, in order to show that John does as the tragedies do. John, too, reflects this interaction between artistic and inartistic proof. Aeschylus’ Libation Bearers presents the first example, and depicts the credulous acceptance of inartistic proof. Orestes leaves two locks of his hair at the tomb of his father. When Electra later approaches the tomb, she notices the locks of hair and recognizes them as her brother’s (168–78): Electra: Chorus: Electra: Chorus: Electra: Chorus: Electra: Chorus: Electra: Chorus: Electra:

I see cut here on the tomb a lock of hair. From some man? Or from a slim-waisted girl? This is an obvious clue for anyone to judge. Let me, then, learn how so – older learning from younger. There is no one but me who could have cut it. Indeed, the ones for whom it would be appropriate to cut their hair are enemies. And, likewise, it appears to be so very similar to … – to which tresses? For, I want to learn this. … to my hair it bears a close resemblance. It couldn’t be a veiled gift from Orestes, could it? It most definitely resembles his locks.46

She recognizes her brother’s hair, therefore, because it looks like hers. She is not completely convinced right away, but is eventually convinced solely on the basis of physical evidence and testimony. After seeing a footprint that she calls further evidence that Orestes has returned (δεύτερον τεκμήριον, 205), Orestes himself probably varies from animal cunning to astute and sensitive expertise. But art of a sort there is …,” Christopher Carey, “‘Artless Proofs in Aristotle and the Orators,” in Oxford Readings in the Attic Orators (ed. E. Carawan, Oxford: Oxford University, 2007)246. One must be careful, therefore, not to separate too starkly the artistic and inartistic elements of a speech. Even so, when it comes to the dramatic evaluation of evidence, the separation of artistic and inartistic proof is a helpful distinction. 45 Aristotle prefers those recognitions which rely more on “artistic” proof, of course. See Eden, Poetic and Legal Fiction, 20–21. Eden also argues for a dialectical historical development for the interaction of artistic and inartistic proofs in tragedy, ranging from Aeschylus to Euripides in her “Legal Procedure,” 165–243, and her arguments are impressive, but even she recognizes the hypothetical character of this historical reconstruction. We will not, therefore, follow Eden in plotting differences onto a dialectical chronology, even as we use her types. 46 The translations of the works of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Electra in the following pages are mine.

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appears with clothing that Electra stitched when they were young.47 This is proof to Electra of his identity (230–246). She hesitates at first, therefore, but only because the truth seems too good to accept (195–200), and she does accept it. The inartistic proof, the palpable evidence, leads to acceptance and belief. This scene corresponds to those scenes in John where the proof of the signs convinces people to believe in Jesus (20:30–31). The disciples, for instance, believe in Jesus after the sign at the wedding at Cana (2.11).48 They do so much more quickly than Electra, of course, but the sign provides them with palpable proof of Jesus’ identity. Jesus’ words can cause the same effect as his signs. When Jesus calls the thirsty to come to him and to drink, the Evangelist says (7.40–41), “When they heard these words, some in the crowd said, ‘This is really the prophet.’ Others said, ‘This is the Messiah.’” Whether by word or deed, therefore, Jesus’ inartistic proof elicits belief. Others respond to Jesus, of course, with less credulity. The same is true also in other versions of Electra’s recognition. In Sophocles’ Electra, for instance, the palpable proof at the tomb is contradicted by additional evidence that appears more trustworthy. This additional evidence shows up in the play’s prologue, where Orestes and his Tutor spread a rumor that Orestes was killed in the Pythian Games. In this way, Orestes can surprise his enemies (44–50). Electra, however, also believes this false report, so will not accept that Orestes has returned (670–677). When Chrysothemis, therefore, tells Electra about the tokens at the tomb, Electra does not accept the palpable proof, as the following dialogue makes clear (883–886): Electra:

Poor wretch! By listening to whom among mortals do you so immoderately believe (πιστεύεις ἄγαν) this claim?

Chrysothemis: I believe (πιστεύω) this claim, having seen clear evidence (σημεῖα) on my own – not from another.

Using very Johannine language, Chrysothemis believes the signs. She also proceeds with further evidence (τεκμήριον, 904) of Orestes’ appearance at their father’s tomb (892–919). The audience, of course, knows from the prologue that Chrysothemis is correct and that Orestes still lives. Chrysothemis rightly interprets the signs. But the signs she sees at the tomb are contradicted by the false report of Orestes’ death, which seems more trustworthy to Electra. Later, when an urn is brought in, which is supposed to carry the remains of Orestes, Electra calls the urn “obvious proof” (ἐμφανῆ τεκμήρια, 1109) of her brother’s death. The emphasis in this play, therefore, is “clearly on the deceptiveness of false proof.”49 47 The numbering of these pieces of evidence, and how this might resemble the numbering of the signs John in 2:11 and 4:54, has been noted by Larsen, Recognition, 120. 48 See also 2:23, 3:2, 6:14. 49 Eden, “Influence,” 207.

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The evidence of Orestes’ arrival that was so obvious in Aeschylus’ play is not so obvious in the version of Sophocles, due to credible counterevidence. This apparent superiority of counterevidence compares well to the Gospel of John, especially in chapter 7. The signs of Jesus in chapter 7 provoke faith in some: “Yet many in the crowd believed in him and were saying, ‘When the Messiah comes, will he do more signs than this man has done?’ ” (7:31). For others, however, false counterevidence contradicts the signs. They say, “We know where this man is from, but when the Messiah comes, no one will know where he is from” (7.27). Jesus’ well-known origin in Nazareth means that he cannot be the Messiah. The signs, therefore, cannot mean that he is the Messiah. A similar response met Jesus’ claim in chapter 6 about descending from heaven. The doubters claim, “Is this not Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know? How can he now say, ‘I have come down from heaven’?” (6.42). People reject Jesus’ testimony just as they reject the signs – because they trust instead false evidence about his origin. Like Electra, they believe counterevidence, even though it is really false evidence. That the counterevidence is false is shown by the prologue, not only in John but also in Sophocles’ Electra. In Sophocles’ play, the information in the prologue reveals that Orestes has returned and is alive. Those who believe otherwise are wrong; those who believe the signs are right. In John’s Gospel, the Prologue tells us who Jesus is, and that he is from above. When people assume, therefore, that they know Jesus’ origin apart from the prologue, they are led as far astray as Electra. The relationship in each work between the prologue and the evaluation of evidence provides an ironic and dramatic frame to the debates over identity.50 Interestingly, the prologue serves the same function in Euripides’ Electra. In fact, in this play’s prologue, a disguised Orestes actually tells Electra that he still lives (228–230). But she does not believe that he has returned. In this play, however, Electra does not reject the evidence because of false counterevidence. She rejects it on the basis of logical reasoning, on the basis of artistic proof. Electra arrives at the tomb of her father and finds there the Old Man (Πρέσβυς), who has discovered various tokens at the tomb (hair, clothing, footprint), and he assumes that the tokens indicate Orestes’ return. To each of these pieces of evidence, however, Electra responds with syllogistic reasoning that argues against the return of Orestes (524–546). The Old Man, for instance, finds a trace of hair that Orestes left behind. Electra counters this evidence, however, with the argument that, if this hair belonged to Orestes, then this would mean that Orestes slunk in like a coward. But Orestes is brave. As Electra says, “Old man, you utter things unworthy of a wise man if you think that my courageous brother would, from fear of Aegisthus, enter this land secretly” (524–526). Since Orestes is not a coward, the hair cannot be his. The Old Man next turns to the footprint, and Electra sees the 50

On irony and the Johannine Prologue, see Brant, Dialogue and Drama, 17–18.

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proof, but undermines it (534–537). Last of all, the Old Man asks if she might recognize a stitch of Orestes’ clothing, because she had made a shirt for him when he was young (539). Electra responds as follows (541–544): Don’t you know? When Orestes escaped this land I was yet a young girl. But even if I had woven him robes, How could he, only a boy then, have the same clothes now, Unless the robes grew together with his body?

Electra is, of course, wrong, and the Old Man is correct. Orestes has returned. The physical evidence has led the Old Man to surmise accurately what the fate of Orestes is, but Electra rejects the evidence in favor of logical arguments, in favor of artistic proof. She knows Orestes, and these signs cannot point to Orestes. In the same way, some reject Jesus because his activity does not correspond to what they assume about the Messiah. Jesus heals on the Sabbath, and only a sinner would violate the Sabbath that was instituted in the Law of Moses (5:15–16). In John 9, the Pharisees are divided after Jesus heals the man born blind. Some Pharisees said (9:16), “This man is not from God, for he does not observe the Sabbath.” Others responded, however, by asking, “How can a man who is a sinner perform such signs?” (9.16). The clash is one between artistic and inartistic proof, and very much like the debate between the Old Man and Electra. To one group, the signs are proof of Jesus’ identity. To others, the signs are contradicted by logic and presuppositions about the character of the Messiah. But the formerly blind man relies on the sign (9.24–25): “One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.” Therefore, where Electra rejects the signs of Orestes’ return, because they indicate the return of a coward, the Jews reject the signs of Jesus, because they point, not to the Messiah, but to a sinner. The varying evaluations of the signs in the Gospel of John, therefore, reflect the same type of debates over evidence that we see in the tragedies. Or, to use an elegant phrase that Daube has applied to Oedipus Rex, the debates over the signs in John involves “a straight confrontation of old and new in the matter of proof.”51 Daube applies this phrase to Oedipus Rex in a way that evokes the kinds of debates over evidence just surveyed above. In the case of Oedipus, the old proof is divine revelation, while the new proof relies on syllogistic reasoning, Aristotle’s artistic proof. For instance, when the seer Teiresias identifies Oedipus as the murderer of King Laius (362), Oedipus rejects the divine inspiration of the seer by raising a logical problem. Why could Teiresias not solve the riddle of the sphinx that once terrorized Thebes (397–399; see 132)? If Teiresias had no insight then, he cannot be trusted now. Daube defines this reality as follows: “Time was when the inspired dictum would have been final. Now it can be spurned, in favor of

51

David Daube, “Greek Forerunners of Simenon,” California Law Review 68 (1980) 306.

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rational investigation.”52 Logic and cross-examination have, then, replaced forms of proof that are not able to be verified by the categories of logical probabilities. The same epistemological confrontation drives the Gospel of John, although it works in the opposite direction. In the Gospel of John, the inspired speech and divine signs of Jesus are not the old proof, but the new. By contrast, his opponents base their judgment on the older forms of proof, especially Scripture.53 For example, the signs in John 7 convince some onlookers to wonder whether Jesus is the Prophet or the Messiah, but, by contrast, others insist, “Has not the Scripture said that the Messiah is descended from David and comes from Bethlehem, the village where David lived?” (7.42). Jesus declines to engage in midrashic debate when these problems arise, however. Rather, Dahl writes, “As John sees it, a teacher of Israel is not in need of exegetical explanations, but of a new birth (3.1 ff.).”54 This new birth comes about by believing in Jesus (1.12–13), which is precisely the thing that the opponents of Jesus refuse to do. They see the signs, but do not believe. No less than Oedipus Rex does, the Gospel of John reflects the “straight confrontation of old and new in the matter of proof.” If all of the above is accurate, though, and the signs of Jesus are evidence like evidence in the tragedies, this raises a minor question about vocabulary, and one that is appropriately addressed here. If John follows the tragedians in the manner described above, one might expect the Fourth Gospel also to use the many other terms for evidence that the tragedies employ, such as τεκμήριον.55 Why does John not use these other terms? Why is sign the only term for evidence? We can only speculate, of course, but a reasonable explanation resides in the intersection of Greek rhetorical language and the use of the term sign in the Septuagint. In the first place, we do not need Greek rhetoric and drama in order to understand why John has chosen to call the miraculous works of Jesus 52 Ibid, 306. Daube believes this confrontation between two types of proof in Oedipus reflects the shift in Athenian forensic procedure from a reliance on religious oaths to the more rhetorically sophisticated artistic proofs that appear in Antiphon, and Daube follows the long accepted conclusions of Solmsen (cited at Daube, “Greek Forerunners,” 307 note 23) who argued to this effect in F. Solmsen, Antiphonstudien (Neue Philologische Untersuchungen 8; Berlin: Weidmann, 1931). The matter is debatable now. For the contours of the debate, as well as bibliography, see Michael Gagarin, “The Nature of Proofs in Antiphon,” in Oxford Readings in the Attic Orators (Oxford: Oxford University, 2007) 214–228. For a version of Solmsen’s thesis that defends the early use of “automatic proofs” like those that Daube ascribes to Teiresias, see Edwin Carawan, Rhetoric and the Law of Draco (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998). Regardless of the historical reality outside of the play, however, there is in Oedipus Rex a confrontation between two types of proof, and that is an illuminating parallel to read alongside the Gospel of John. 53 For the struggle between Jesus and his opponents over the nature and place of Scripture, see Jaime Clark-Soles, Scripture Cannot Be Broken: The Social Function of the Use of Scripture in the Fourth Gospel (Leiden: Brill, 2003). For the debates between Jesus and his opponents over Scripture and the Law, see also Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 222–241. 54 Nils Dahl “Johannine Church,” 127. 55 Interestingly, the term τεκμήριον does occur in the Septuagint in three places: Wis 5:11, 19:13 and 3 Macc 3:24. See Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 36 note 50.

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signs. The Septuagint phrase “signs and wonders” (σημεῖα καὶ τέρατα) appears in several New Testament texts, including John 4:48, and the Septuagint generally labels the miraculous works of figures like Moses as σημεῖα.56 Moses’ signs (σημεῖα), like those of Jesus, are intended to lead to belief (πιστεύειν).57 A sign in this sense “attests or confirms the authority of a prophetic word or the status of the prophet himself.”58 In the same way, Jesus’ signs attest and confirm that he is the Messiah and the Son of God (John 20:31).59 John’s primary interest in signs, therefore, is almost certainly not an interest in evidence in some general sense as it is in the tragedies, but specifically with the religious power of signs, and even more specifically with the signs of figures like Moses in the Septuagint. 56 Mt 24:24; Mc 13:22; Ac 2:19, 22, 43; 4:30; 5:12; 6:8; 7:36; 14:3; 15:12; Rom 15:19; 2 Co 12:12; 2 Th 2:9; Heb 2:4 (Compare LXX Deut 13.1–3, Exod 4:8–9, 21; 7.9; Judg 6.18).Philo and Josephus follow the Septuagint in calling the miracles of Moses signs. See Philo, Life of Moses, 1.76–83 and Josephus, A. J. 2.274. 57 Exodus 4:8–9 reads: “ἐὰν δὲ μὴ πιστεύσωσίν σοι μηδὲ εἰσακούσωσιν τῆς φωνῆς τοῦ σημείου τοῦ πρώτου πιστεύσουσίν σοι τῆς φωνῆς τοῦ σημείου τοῦ ἐσχάτου καὶ ἔσται ἐὰν μὴ πιστεύσωσίν σοι τοῖς δυσὶ σημείοις τούτοις μηδὲ εἰσακούσωσιν τῆς φωνῆς σου λήμψῃ ἀπὸ τοῦ ὕδατος τοῦ ποταμοῦ καὶ ἐκχεεῖς ἐπὶ τὸ ξηρόν …” See also Exodus 3:12; 4:1, 5, 31. 58 Salier, Rhetorical Impact of the Sēmeia, 20, 60. 59 John also seems to assume that the Messiah’s arrival will be accompanied by signs, as when people wonder, “Yet many in the crowd believed in him and were saying, “When the Messiah comes, will he do more signs than this man has done?” (7:31). The same sentiment appears a few verses later (7:41), but leads to people wondering whether the Messiah can come from Galilee. Still others see the signs and understand them to point to the status of a prophet (7:40). Following up on such suggestive verses, Meeks has examined Jesus’ identity as the “Prophet like Moses” promised in Deuteronomy, and sees the signs supporting Jesus’ status as the Mosaic prophet. The expectation of a Davidic King has been reworked in John along the lines of traditions about Moses who was both Prophet and King. See Meeks, Prophet-King, 17–29, 32–98. Also stressing the Mosaic character of the signs are Johns and Miller, “Signs as Witnesses,” 526–27; Susan Hylen, Allusion and Meaning in John 6 (BZNW 137; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2005) 120. Others, however, argue that expectations of the prophet like Moses may have some value for John, but the primary christological emphasis in the Fourth Gospel is on Jesus as the Davidic Messiah. See, for instance, Wolfgang Bittner, Jesu Zeichen im Johannesevangelium: die MessiasErkenntnis im Johannesevangelium vor ihrem jüdischen Hintergrund (WUNT 2.26; Tübingen; Mohr Siebeck, 1987); Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 88–9. Still others see some sort of blending of the Davidic Messiah and the Prophet like Moses. See, for example, Morna Hooker, The Signs of a Prophet: The Prophetic Actions of Jesus (London, SCM, 1997) 65; Martyn, History and Theology, 103–114. Others see the signs as evoking some prophetic allusion, such as Dodd, Interpretation 142 and Barrett, Gospel according to St. John, 63. Others see the signs in John as connected to Wisdom literature. See, for example, D. K. Clark, “Signs in Wisdom and John,” CBQ 45 (1983) 201–19. Not all of these theories and connections are equally illuminating, of course. Hylen points out, for instance, that the signs in the prophets are predicted, but not enacted, by the prophet, Allusion, 212 note 4, whereas Moses was the one who performed the signs in Exodus, like Jesus in John. Also, Brown claims that to see connections between the signs and Wisdom 11–19 “requires great imagination,” Introduction, 262. The most enduring arguments are those circulating around the Prophet like Moses and the Davidic Messiah. This study need not choose, and is only worried about this question at a higher level of abstraction. The signs surely prove something about Jesus’ identity and are debated in a particular manner for that reason. It is the debate itself that is the interest of the present inquiry.

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Once the term was chosen, however, it resonated with a host of cultural, philosophical and literary associations.60 One of these associations is the forensic use of the term in rhetoric, and its adoption by the tragedians in their discussions of evidence. In rhetoric and drama, signs have persuasive power. To be sure, the signs in the Septuagint are also meant to persuade.61 But, as we have seen above, the Johannine signs have been situated within an epistemological debate over the value of evidence that bears striking resemblance to the debates over artistic and inartistic proof in Aristotle and the Greek tragedians. In the Fourth Gospel, the process of persuasion has assumed a dramatic shape that exceeds what appears in the Septuagint, and yet closely resembles what appears in tragedy. John has, therefore, taken up a scriptural term that has considerable theological freight, but deployed it in such a way that it functions like a piece of evidence in Greek rhetoric and drama. As we saw in the previous chapter with the term ζητεῖν, we see here now again a basic intersection of John’s Jewish scriptural heritage and the rhetorical and dramatic commonplaces of the ancient world. Some basic conclusions can be drawn at this point, before pushing the argument any further. First and foremost, the texts in Aristotle and in the Greek tragedians make it quite clear that previous interpreters have been wrong to emphasize the supposed distinction between legal rhetoric and dramatic recognition, whether they assume such a distinction in John, or in classical literature more broadly. To say that the sign is like a piece of evidence in legal rhetoric, or to say that the sign is a token of recognition, is to say very much the same thing about the sign. Signs in rhetoric and signs in recognition are both instruments of persuasion. Johannine interpreters have missed this inherent connection between rhetoric and drama because they have read only the Poetics or only the Rhetoric of Aristotle in isolation, and not both together. Rhetoric and recognition do not oppose one another in their treatment of signs, but share a single concern. Recognizing this dual quality of the sign is the first step in connecting in John the rhetorical character of the signs and the recognition character of the signs. It is only the first step, however. The ancient texts cited above provide a helpful platform for showing that rhetoric and drama share a similar understanding of the signs, but the texts cited above do not help us specifically to see that the signs in John are equally connected to the lawsuit motif and the recognition motif in John. That is due to the particular concerns of their plots. In the plays mentioned above, recognition was solely a question of identity. While John may be like those plays in demonstrating the process of persuasion and the evaluation of proof, John is more like other plays when it comes to linking the question of identity to a question of guilt or innocence. 60 For the various possible meanings of the term in different contexts, see Hirsch-Luipold, “Klartext,” 90. 61 The point is made by Johns and Miller, “Signs as Witnesses,” 526–7.

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Such an association of identity and innocence, for instance, is important in Euripides’ Helen (see Chapter 1 of the present study). The eponymous heroine of that play is only recognized as innocent for starting the Trojan War if she is also recognized as being the real Helen. Her innocence and identity are one. The connection of identity and innocence is equally pronounced in Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex, and in a way that is even closer to the Gospel of John. The term σύμβολον in that play, as was shown above, has been understood to refer equally to Oedipus’ identity and to his guilt. The σύμβολον is equally a piece of evidence in the legal processes of the play, as well as a token in Oedipus’ process of self-discovery.62 The same dual character applies to the evidence in Oedipus Rex that goes under the noun σημεῖον and the verb σημαίνειν.63 Oedipus gathers evidence about the murderer of King Laius that is equally evidence about his identity. For example, the blind seer Teiresias announces that Oedipus is himself the killer of Laius. Teiresias’ testimony, as we saw in the last chapter, is damning and begins to reveal Oedipus’ true identity as regicide. Jocasta, however, tells Oedipus that Teiresias knows nothing about who Oedipus is, and she defends her claims by insisting, “And I will display for you concise evidence (σημεῖα) of these things” (710). The signs are pieces of proof that undermine Teiresias’ condemnation of Oedipus. They are, therefore, necessarily proof regarding both Oedipus’ identity as well as his guilt / innocence. Later, Jocasta urges a messenger to reveal valuable information about Oedipus’ identity by saying, “Tell us: desiring what, or wishing to provide what evidence (σημῆναι) have you arrived here?” (933; cf. 957). Oedipus himself soon thereafter commands a shepherd to divulge important information and says, “Testify (σημήνατ’), since it is time these things were discovered” (1050). And as he plunges ever closer to his excruciating recognition, Oedipus announces to his wife / mother Jocasta: “Now that I have acquired evidence (σημεῖα) like this, I will undoubtedly clarify my parentage” (1058–59). The signs that lead him to clarify his parentage, therefore, and so recognize his identity, are also the last pieces of evidence needed to conclude that he is the murderer that he seeks. These are the pieces of evidence that his ζήτησις is uncovering.

62 Larsen, of course, recognizes that John and Oedipus Rex both bring a legal dimension to the process of discovery, but, as we will see in a moment, he severely restricts the relevance of this fact. For the combination of legal and recognition motifs, see Larsen, Recognizing, 163–180, especially 176. Recognition may at some point become a legal process or take on a legal dimension, but the lawsuit motif is generally dependent for Larsen on the recognition motif, especially, as we see below, when it comes to the signs. That is the issue that we would like here to refine. 63 A point of clarification is in order here, because the verb σημαίνω and the noun σημεῖον are treated as both expressing the legal sense of evidence or testimony, following the discussion of legal terms in this play by Lewis, “Procedural Basis,” 51–55. No claim is made about the Johannine use of σημαίνω (12:33; 18:32; 21:19), which is a contested issue. Some view the use of this verb as indicating that Jesus’ death is a sign. For this, see Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 121–125. For the opposite view, see Brown, Gospel of John, 1.468.

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Precisely because the legal question of guilt or innocence is one and the same with the recognition of Oedipus’ identity, the signs are both legal evidence (that he is a murderer) and tokens of recognition (that he has killed his father and wed his mother). Therefore, the legal aspect of the signs and their role in Oedipus’ recognition cannot be sharply separated. What is more, the play does not become forensic at some certain point, but is infused with legal language from the very start. The oracle of Apollo, after all, is called μήνυσις as early as line 102, and thenceforward, the legal language, as we saw in the last chapter, continues. From beginning to end, therefore, the identity of Oedipus and the guilt of Oedipus are explored along the same trajectory. Jesus’ identity and the question of his guilt or innocence are connected in precisely the same way. He is only guilty of blasphemy, after all, if he is not the Son of God. According to the Law, as the opponents of Jesus understand it, Jesus is a sinner, because he healed on the Sabbath (5:16; 7:23; 9:16, 20).64 He also blasphemes because he makes himself equal to God (5:17–18), makes himself the Son of God (19:7), and even makes himself God (10:33). But those who believe that Jesus is who he says he is, those who see him through the eyes of faith, do not see him as a blasphemer.65 Indeed, what makes his work on the Sabbath lawful is precisely that it was done by Jesus. Jesus does not claim that he did not work on the Sabbath (5:17). He simply insists that his unity with God, who never ceases working, makes him an exception to this rule: “But Jesus answered them, ‘My Father is still working, and I also am working’.” (5:17) Likewise, Jesus is an exception to the rule about witnesses as well, because of his nearness to the Father: “Even if I testify on my own behalf, my testimony is valid because I know where I have come from and where I am going …” (8:14). Jesus’ identity is what makes his statements and his actions “legal,” showing that his innocence and his identity, therefore, are inseparable. If this reality holds true in general in the Johannine lawsuit, I believe it also holds true in the signs, which are one of the pieces of evidence within this lawsuit. To demonstrate that this is the case, I will look more closely at the sign that Jesus performed in the Wedding at Cana in John 2:1–11.

3.6 Identity and Guilt / Innocence in the Sign at the Wedding at Cana (John 2:1–11) The sign in John 2 deserves singular attention because, as Salier states, when the Fourth Evangelist calls this sign the ἀρχὴ τῶν σημείων, interpreters should not read ἀρχὴ only to mean “first.”66 They should also see in this word the sense of 64

Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 234–5. Pancaro, Law, 167. 66 Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 50. 65

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“beginning.” The ἀρχὴ is the beginning of the signs, and “the foundation and pattern for everything that follows.”67 What we say about this sign, then, can apply to all the signs. Even more important for the present argument, this sign is the one most contested by Larsen as being unrelated to the lawsuit motif. He writes, True, the Johannine sêmeia become proofs of Jesus’ innocence (of the charges that he is a blasphemer and lawbreaker), when the forensic aspect comes up in the subsequent interpretation of the signs …; but first the signs display his identity, being acts of showing. They are his visible tokens of divinity, they appear for the first time before the cognitive conflict has commenced (2:1–11), and the forensic aspect appears only when this display of identity collides with the worldview of the Ioudaioi.68

The essential quality of the signs, therefore, is drawn from their role as tokens of recognition. They may become a form of evidence when they are caught up and debated by Jesus’ opponents in the manner that we have seen above. But they are not essentially a form of legal evidence. They are essentially tokens of recognition. Because the sign in chapter 2 occurs before the cognitive conflict over the identity of Jesus begins in chapter 5, the sign in chapter 2 cannot be considered a piece of evidence in the lawsuit motif. The legal dimension of the signs only begins there. 3.6.1 Signs and Witnesses Larsen has carefully described the microgenre of the recognition scene in ancient literature, and has added a degree of clarity and precision to this question that has shown just how useful the recognition scenes in ancient literature are for interpreting the Gospel of John. In his taxonomy of the recognition type-scene, the following elements narrate the various stages in which people go from ignorance to knowledge in a recognition scene:69 1) the meeting, which determines the economy of knowledge in the scene to follow; 2) the move of cognitive resistance, which contains expressions of doubt, requests for proof, suggestions of alternative identification, judicial investigation, or sheer rejection; 3) the display of the recognition token; 4) the moment of recognition; and 5) the move of attendant reaction and physical (re)union.

67

Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 50. Larsen,Recognizing, 116. Larsen believes that the second sign, the healing of the royal official’s son in John 4, also lacks a cognitive dimension (Recognizing, 121) and so it is like the sign in John 2. We do not look at that sign, however, because our concern is to show that it is possible to see a legal dimension to the signs prior to John 5, and we can demonstrate that adequately by examining John 2. 69 Larsen, Recognizing, 219–20. 68

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By tracing how John deploys these elements in various ways, he shows an interesting and clear progression in the development of recognition motifs in the plot of the Gospel of John. Given these elements and their relation to one another, however, Larsen will only identify recognition scenes proper at a certain point in John. A key element on which this identification depends is the move of cognitive resistance. Chapters 1–4 have no such cognitive resistance, at least not like later chapters, so their role as recognition narratives takes on a preparatory character. While they include no recognition scene proper, they do present narratives from early Christian tradition that have been reworked in order to accentuate the recognition of Jesus.70 Furthermore, in these partial recognition scenes, Jesus is successfully recognized by those who encounter him. The signs, therefore, point to Jesus’ identity and are tokens of recognition in a very unproblematic fashion. There is no cognitive resistance. They are not, however, evidence in any legal sense, nor do they have any bearing on the question of Jesus’ guilt or innocence. In chapters 5–19, however, a change occurs and a cognitive conflict enters the Gospel of John. Only at this point do recognition scenes proper appear in John. Especially in John 5 and 9, those who encounter Jesus do not recognize him, and debates ensue about the proper way to determine who Jesus is. These debates over identity become debates over signs, and what the signs of Jesus mean. While the signs in chapters 1–4 were only tokens of recognition, they now become in 5–19 pieces of evidence in the cognitive conflict over determining who Jesus is. The tokens of recognition have, thus, become something akin to evidence, even though they are not inherently so. They become evidence, but only as the plot develops. Such a reading of the linear development of recognition motifs and recognition scenes in John leads to interesting insights about how recognition works in John, and is a groundbreaking way to read the Gospel of John.71 In such an effort to be precise, however, it is important not to be more precise than John is. By so neatly separating the sign in John 2 from the later, legal function of the signs, I believe that Larsen has separated things that John keeps together. The sign in John 2:1–11 is simultaneously evocative of both the legal and the recognition motifs in John. I will affirm at the outset, therefore, what Larsen says about the recognition character of this sign. The connection with the concerns of recognition is most obvious when we read the sign at the Wedding at Cana in concert with a famous scene from Heliodorus’ Aethiopica (10.12). When she is called on to defend her

70

For this summary, see ibid, 20–23, 218–23. This is not in keeping with his own strictures, however. He insists that the recognition motif and the lawsuit motif only begin at chapter 5. But, for some reason, he can speak of the recognition character of a sign before chapter 5, and cannot yet speak of the legal character of a sign before chapter 5. If neither of them is entirely operative until chapter 5, why does the one (recognition) get to define the sign in chapter 2, while the other (rhetoric) is seen as secondary? 71

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identity, lest she be killed as an impostor, Charikleia defends her role as daughter as follows: The law may permit you, sire, to kill aliens, but neither law nor nature allows you, Father, to murder your own child! For today the gods shall proclaim you a father, deny it as you will. In every case that comes to trial, sire, two types of evidence are recognized as most conclusive: documentary proof and corroboration by witnesses. Both types I shall adduce to demonstrate that I am your daughter.

When combined with the testimony of a witness, physical evidence is more credible in establishing a case. This combination of physical evidence and testimony corresponds to the recognition processes, stark as they may be in John 1 and 2. When characters in recognition scenes display proof of their identity, they can do so either by visibly displaying some token or other proof of identity (showing) or they can expose the identity of the person in question, not through physical proof, but through some claim or statement (telling).72 In John 1, there is a strong emphasis on seeing Jesus, which has to do with something being shown (1:51), but there is also a considerable degree of “telling” in the testimony provided by John the Baptist (1:6–7, 19–28). The “telling” in John 1, therefore, is linked to the “seeing” in John 2 with the sign at the Wedding at Cana, where Jesus reveals his identity through a sign. Precisely the same combination occurs, incidentally, as the Gospel draws to a close, where chapter 20 ends with a discussion of Jesus’ signs (20:30–31), and chapter 21 ends with the testimony of the Beloved Disciple (21:24–25). The physical evidence of the signs is again linked to the testimony of a witness. This combination, however, of verbal testimony and of physical evidence, as expressed in the passage from Heliodorus, does not evoke recognition scenes only, or even primarily. It equally – or even primarily – evokes legal rhetoric in the courts. Such a combination of evidence and testimony is regularly discussed among the orators in their treatment of signs. Cicero even uses the two terms that we see in the Gospel of John when he writes as follows (De Inventione 1.30.48): A sign (signum) is something apprehended by one of the senses (sub sensum) and indicating something that seems to follow logically as a result of it … and yet needs further evidence (testimoni) and corroboration (confirmationis).73

Cicero then goes on to provide examples of signs, including such things as blood, pallor, dust and other such things (1.30.48). If these things are to count as evidence, they are in need of some further evidence (testimonium) or explanation to connect them to a crime or to any other particular event. The sign appeals directly “to the senses of the spectator, providing him, Cicero says, with the basis for some logical inference.”74 Some piece of accompanying evidence confirms the 72

For showing and telling, see Larsen, Recognizing, 48–51. Translation from Eden, Poetic and Legal Fiction, 86. 74 Eden, Poetic and Legal Fiction, 87. 73

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impression left by the sign. By following the testimony of the Baptist in John 1, the sign in chapter 2 provides visual proof (though, of course, in narrative form) that parallels what the oral proof of the Baptist has been providing in John 1. The testimony of the Baptist and of the various other figures in John 1 both prepare for and explain to the reader how to understand the sign in John 2. This is what Cicero says good testimony should do when put in conjunction with a sign, and this is the basis of what Charikleia says in the Aethiopica.75 What Larsen associates, therefore, with recognition scenes is equally connected to certain principles that are prominent in the processes of legal rhetoric. Thus, we see once again the importance of looking, not only at drama and not only at rhetoric, but at the place where rhetoric and drama intersect. The comparison of the Fourth Gospel to the comments of Cicero coordinates John’s terminology and procedures of argument with texts and terms outside the Gospel of John. What Larsen sees as a feature of recognition is just as certainly, and perhaps more so, a feature of discussions of proof in legal rhetoric. John’s procedure, therefore, reflects legal procedures outside the Fourth Gospel. To push the discussion forward now, it is also possible, and perhaps even more important, to show that the sign at the Wedding at Cana also reflects the legal language and themes within the Gospel of John. 3.6.2 The Hour and the Glory Several legal terms, of course, appear in John long before the legal pursuit of Jesus begins in earnest in John 5. The Fourth Gospel even opens by repeatedly mentioning the testimony of John the Baptist (1:7, 8, 15, 32, 34), which puts us in a legal mindset from the start. Furthermore, Meeks traces legal language and themes throughout the Fourth Gospel, beginning in chapter 3, in order to explain the full significance of Pilate’s question, “What is truth?” (18:38).76 At 3:31–36, for instance, we hear that Jesus testifies (3:32, μαρτυρεῖ) to what he has seen, and yet no one receives his testimony (3:32, μαρτυρίαν). Those who do receive it, however, recognize that God is true (33, ἀληθής). Those who do not receive it fall under the wrath of God (3:36). They are condemned in judgment. Jesus even more closely identifies his testimony with his role as judge in chapter 5. At 5:24, Jesus announces, “Very truly, I tell you, anyone who hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life, and does not come under judgment (κρίσιν), but has passed from death to life.”

75 A fuller discussion of this phenomenon in John would account for John’s regular pairing of signs and discourses, since the signs of the Fourth Gospel are often confirmed or explained, or in various ways, connected to discourses. I am in the process of developing such a study, but here confine myself to a more limited aspect of this much larger question. 76 Meeks, Prophet-King, 65–67.

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The connection between testimony, judgment and truth is even more explicit in the set of parallel phrases in chapter 8 that we just saw above. The two sentences are the following: (8:14) Even if I testify (μαρτυρῶ) on my own behalf, my testimony (μαρτυρία) is true (ἀληθής). (8:16) Yet even if I do judge (κρίνω), my judgment (κρίσις) is true (ἀληθινή).

All of these examples make it clear, therefore, that when Pilate asks “What is truth” (18:38), he is de facto falling under the judgment of Jesus. They also show that the legal character of chapters 5, 8 and 18 find a counterpart in chapter 3 already. We have argued for a similar connection in Chapter 2 of the present monograph, where the use of the verb ἐλέγχειν at John 3:20 is a self-conscious reference to the use of the same verb in John 8:46.77 Jesus’ opponents believe that they are convicting and exposing him, but are themselves exposed and convicted in the process. This is a legal reversal, and connects the very legal debates in John 8 to those in John 3, which are thus colored as well with a legal brush. If there are so many legal terms already in the early chapters of John, therefore, why are signs somehow excluded from having a legal sense in chapter 2? Perhaps one justification for this lies in the fact that Jesus says in the Wedding at Cana, “My hour has not yet come” (2:4). The hour of Jesus is the hour of his death and glorification, and his glorification and death will not come for many more chapters. The gradual but steady approach of the hour is one of the definitive chronological devices sustaining the plot of the Gospel, and the reader’s expectation extends until chapter 12, when Jesus announces, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified” (12:23).78 It would seem, therefore, that we cannot read the events of the hour – with their attendant legal issues – back into the sign in John 2. Jesus himself separates this earlier episode from the later ones. The Evangelist, however, connects them when he announces that the sign at the Wedding at Cana “reveals Jesus’ glory” (2:11). This puts us very much into a legal framework, because, when the “glory” of Jesus evokes the hour in which Jesus is handed over, killed, and then raised, this “glory” just as certainly refers to the great legal reversal implicit in the events of the hour. De La Potterie has shown the close connection between the glorification of the Son and the reversal of the judgment of the Son by coordinating several verses in John 12 and 16.79 For 77

See Chapter 2, page 63. Moloney notes the interplay between the Jewish festal cycles and the development toward the hour, and writes, “There have been two ‘times’ running through the story …,” Glory Not Dishonor: Reading John 13–21 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1998) 12. 79 See De La Potterie, “Jesus, King and Judge,” 110. The term glory is, of course, more multifaceted than this, for which, see further Chapter 2 of this study, note 72. For the role of Jesus’ glory in the recognition motif of the Gospel of John, see Larsen, Recognizing, 112–123. 78

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example, when Jesus announces (12:31), “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified” Jesus adds soon thereafter, “Now is the judgment (κρίσις) of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out (12:31).” In the midst of the Farewell Discourses, which take place within the span of the hour (13:1) Jesus can also claim, “The ruler of this world has been condemned (κέκριται, 16:11)”. The moment of Jesus’ glory, therefore, is the moment also of the condemnation and judgment of his opponents. The hour of Jesus’ death and resurrection is also the moment when his condemnation is reversed, and this condemnation falls instead upon his persecutors. Two things are now clearer in regard to the legal character of John 1–4. The sign at the Wedding at Cana is connected to testimony in a way that conforms to the principles of legal rhetoric that are enunciated in Cicero. The sign in 2:1–11 is, likewise, connected to words like “hour” and “glory” that also put us into the arena of the Johannine lawsuit motif, and is surrounded by a host of other legal terms in John 1–4. The terms “hour” and “glory,” however, also suggest a further and even more elemental way in which the sign at the Wedding at Cana is able to be connected to the full-blown character of the lawsuit motif. To say that this sign is not legal or is distant from legal concerns is to assume that John discusses any given theme in a disciplined linear fashion and that the development of themes follows a clear and disciplined trajectory. According to such a line of thinking, if the cognitive conflict in the lawsuit only begins in John 5, then no concerns of the lawsuit exist prior to John 5. But this is not how John works. The very combination of the terms glory and honor in the sign at the Wedding at Cana show precisely the way in which John often violates the strictly linear development of time. Or rather, John establishes a strict set of time relations in the life of Jesus, and then violates and transcends them. 3.6.3 Fitting Events Into One Another, Not After One Another I will turn now, therefore, to the question of time in John and to the way in which events in this Gospel do not always fit “after one another,” but just as often “fit into one another.” I will not discuss the order of events, however, under the rubric of “plot,” in the way that others have discussed it.80 While the present monograph may be impoverished because I do not enunciate a specific view of the plot of 80 An issue that underlies much of the discussion about recognition scenes in Culpepper, Larsen and Lincoln is the desire to clarify and define the plot of the Gospel of John, and each of these three develops elaborate structures in order to map John’s plot at various levels of abstraction. Culpepper’s essay, for example, is entitled “The Plot of John’s Story of Jesus.” When Lincoln criticizes Culpepper (Truth on Trial, 162), it is in the midst of a discussion of plot, Ibid, 159–168. For Larsen’s interaction with Lincoln and Culpepper on the issue of the plot of John, see Recognizing, especially 25–47.

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John’s Gospel anywhere in this book, I would submit that, in the present case, this is an advantage. In his desire to clarify how John’s plot works, and especially to see how recognition scenes develop and change over the course of the Gospel, Larsen has traced a careful progression in the way that recognition works in John. But the separation of the sign in John 2 from the lawsuit motif assumes that the linear development of John’s plot is far more rigid and straightforward than it actually is. In certain ways, there is a strict linear development in the order of events in John. But in some very key ways – and in ways that are specifically important to chapter 2 – John also violates this strict sense of linear development. It is not so much, therefore, a matter of fitting things after one another in John, but of fitting them into one another. When read in this way, it is perfectly reasonable for the sign in chapter 2 to have a legal quality even before specifically legal scenarios are played out in John. What does it mean, therefore, to speak of events fitting “into one another” rather than fitting “after one another”? The phrase is borrowed from studies on death in Greek tragedy.81 There is generally no single “death scene” in a Greek tragedy. Rather, the death is first sung about in choral lyrics as though is already a fact. Then, the death itself occurs, but almost always offstage so that no one actually sees it. Finally, the corpse is brought out for view, and there is the report of a messenger about the death. The moment of death, therefore, is rather elusive. It is spoken of as a fact before it happens, and it is reported long after it happens, but the moment in which it actually happens is never quite clear. The death spreads out and cannot be contained within a single episode. To explain this presentation of death and the ordering of events in tragedy, Macintosh relies on the following comment of G. Lukács: “To fit these moments together must therefore be a matter of fitting them into one another, not after one another.”82 This phrase applies well to John also. I have in another essay compared tragic deaths to the death of Jesus in John and will summarize my argument here because it has considerable bearing on the present argument. The reader of the Gospel of John anticipates the arrival of the hour from 2:4, where Jesus informs his mother at the Cana wedding: “My hour has not yet come.” The reader’s expectation extends until chapter 12, when Jesus announces, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified” (12:23).83 The hour defines a definitive watershed between past and future. For example, John explicitly states that Jesus’ words and deeds can only properly be understood after the Resurrection: “After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this …” (2:21). The same thing is repeated later, when we read, “His disciples did not understand these things at first; but when Jesus was glorified, 81

See Macintosh, Dying Acts, 57. Italics in Macintosh, 57, citing Lukács (1974) 159. 83 For time in John, see above, note 78. 82

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then they remembered that these things had been written of him and had been done to him” (12:16).84 Likewise, John says in regard to the Spirit (7:39), “Now he said this about the Spirit, which believers in him were to receive; for as yet there was no Spirit, because Jesus was not yet glorified.” Before Jesus is glorified, therefore, his disciples do not understand him, and the Spirit is not yet given. Understanding and the possession of the Spirit are postresurrection realities. But the Fourth Gospel also violates this strict scheme. The most obvious case of this violation is the claim about the sign at the Wedding at Cana (2:11): “Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.” Jesus is only glorified in the hour, though, and, at the Wedding at Cana, he tells us that his hour has not yet come (2:4). Even as John establishes a strict division between events before and after the hour, therefore, he also transgresses this division. This is a reflection of the fact that John is written from the postresurrection perspective, so that the events of the hour of Jesus influence the story long before they are actually narrated. While all gospels are, obviously, written from the postresurrection perspective, the Synoptic Gospels only imply this perspective. In John it is more explicit. The Fourth Gospel establishes a tension between, on the one hand, Jesus as one who still walks toward his death and, on the other, the Jesus in whom it believes, who is already resurrected and glorified.85 In the Farewell Discourses, at the point where one temporal realm is closest to the next, the chronological categories are especially blurry. This is the moment in which Jesus’ narrative status prior to the Resurrection most blends with his actual postresurrection status.86 A few examples can demonstrate the confusion. Jesus announces his departure by informing the disciples, “Little children, I am with you only a little longer” (13:33). And yet, in his prayer to the Father he has already left them behind, saying of the disciples: “While I was with them …” ὅτε ὔμην μετ᾽ αὐτῶν (17:12).87 Jesus also refers to his death as a coming conflict with Satan (“Behold, the Ruler of this World is Coming,” 14:30), but soon thereafter heralds his success in the conflict as a past event: “Take heart, I have overcome the world,” with νενίκηκα in the perfect tense (16:33). Later, Jesus opens chapter 17 by praying, “Father, the hour has come; glorify your son …” (17:1; cf. 17:5), and yet already insists earlier 84 Nils Dahl, “Anamnesis: Memory and Commemoration in Early Christianity,” in Jesus in the Memory of the Early Church (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1976) especially 28–29. Cf. 12:16: “His disciples did not understand these things at first; but when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that these things had been written of him and had been done to him.” 85 Writing of the arrival of the hour at 13:31, Frey comments, “Die temporale Perspektive scheint zwischen der einen und der anderen Aussage zu wechseln, von der nachösterlichen Retrospektive zum Standpunkt des auf seinen Tod zugehenden Jesus,” Eschatologie, 2. 135. 86 See Frey, Eschatologie, 2.247–252 and passim. 87 Cf. 16:4b as well. I follow Frey in taking the shifts in verb tense seriously, and not viewing them merely as an issue of style. See Jörg Frey, Die johanneische Eschatologie. Band 2. Das johanneische Zeitverständnis (WUNT 110; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998) 23–147.

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in chapter 13, “Now the Son of Man has been glorified” (13:31), with ἐδοξάσθη in the aorist tense. Finally, Jesus can announce his imminent departure from the world by saying, “In a little while, the world will no longer see me” (14:19), but then conversely announces, “And I am no longer in the world,” καὶ οὐκέτι εἰμὶ ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ (17:11). It is as though two discourses have been blended together, one that Jesus delivers around the table on the night of his betrayal, and one that he delivers from the realm of the Father after the Ascension. Jesus is alternately here and there, before and after, above and below. A recurring aspect of Greek tragedy provides a suggestive parallel to what we see in John. When tragic figures deliver their last words before death, they do not die in an instant. They, rather, die into their death, making tragic dying a process, not a single moment.88 A parade example of the phenomenon is the death of Alcestis in Euripides’ Alcestis.89 In her final speech, Alcestis is gradually extracted from the living environment around her, simultaneously speaking of her death prospectively and retrospectively. The premise of the play is that the god Apollo has granted to Admetus the opportunity to avoid death, provided that Admetus can find someone to die in his place. His wife, Alcestis, agrees to stand in her husband’s stead, and her last words before death are the point of concern here.90 Like Jesus, Alcestis is both still alive and already dead in her last words. A discussion between a maidservant and the Chorus signals her liminal status. When 88 The idea that death is a process enters into tragedy very naturally from ancient Greek social and religious practice, in which death is treated very much like a process. Robert Garland, The Greek Way of Death, (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press) 13, distinguishes three stages of death: (1)dying, (2) being dead but uninterred, (3) being dead and interred. The time when the soul separates from the body is a taxing process, so requires meticulous care by survivors on behalf of the dying person. Thus, the process of dying begins when death approaches. The process is finally over only at the celebration of the 30th day rites, ibid, 39. See also E. Vermeule, Aspects of Death in Early Greek Art and Poetry (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1979) 21, who sees the funeral as the end of the process of death. In either case, death is a process. Macintosh is able to connect these social practices to the Greek and Irish stage with very interesting effect, especially because the conventions apply not only to ancient Greek social life and drama, but to modern Irish social life and drama as well. For, on the one hand, Irish dramatists follow Greek dramatic practice in presenting death as a process, due to the broader revival of classical literary traditions in modern Ireland. Even more important, however, the more general conception of death as a process prevailed in early 20th century Ireland no less than it had in ancient Athens. The parallels between Greek and Irish treatment of death on the stage operate, then, on multiple levels. Cf. Macintosh, Dying Acts, especially 1–38. 89 In the present discussion of Alcestis, Hippolytus and Trachiniae I follow very closely the work of Macintosh, “Tragic Last Words” and Dying Acts. 90 For various interpretations of the Alcestis’ view and treatment of death, see the following: Charles Segal, “Euripides’ Alcestis: How to Die a Normal Death in Greek Tragedy,” in Death and Representation (ed. Sarah Webster Goodwin and Elisabeth Bronfen; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993) 213–241; J. W. Gregory, “Euripides’ Alcestis,” Hermes 107 (1979) 259–70; Wesley D. Smith, “The Ironic Structure in Alcestis,” Phoenix 14 (1960) 127–45; Anne Pippin Burnett, “The Virtues of Admetus,” CP 60 (1965) 240–55.

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the Chorus leader inquires, “I would like to know whether the queen yet lives or has died” (139–40), the maidservant responds, “You might call her both living and dead” (141). And when we do finally see and hear Alcestis, this dual status is reflected in her words. Although she opens her final conversation with her sons and husband in the familiar valediction to the sun (244), she is soon engrossed by the darkness of the underworld, and begins to address her comments both to her husband, who sits beside her, as well as to Charon, ferryman of the dead (252–258). In the same breath, she asks her husband whether he can see Hades as she does (259–60), and then she commands Hades to release her (263). Given that she speaks into two realms, whom does she address in 266, when she commands, “Let me go, let me go now”?91 She seems already to be removed from the scene around her. Like Jesus, she speaks as one approaching death, and yet as one whose death is already a reality. In 267, she again addresses directly her attendants among the living, and finally announces to her children, “Children, children, your mother is no more [οὐκέτι].” She then bids farewell to the boys, in what commentators refer to as her “first death.”92 But there is more. The “second death” follows in the ensuing verses as she addresses her husband for the last time. She as much looks forward to her demise prospectively as she looks backward to it in the past. Alcestis and Admetus both rely on past tense verbs in discussing her death. She laments, “[H]onoring you, and having caused (καταστήσασα) you instead of me to see the light, I am dying (θνήσκω).” 93 The aorist participle καταστήσασα indicates that she has already died in the past. Yet, the resumption of the present tense (θνήσκω) indicates that the process of death continues. Admetus also speaks to her as though she lived and died in the past: “While you lived, you were my wife …” (329). After continuing to bid farewell to her husband, however, she finally informs him, as she did her sons, “You may say that I no longer (οὐκέτ’) exist” (387).94 Even this is not the end. She speaks further, until Admetus urges Alcestis to look at their children, and she repeats, “I no longer exist” (390). In spite of no longer existing, however, she bids her husband a final post mortem farewell, 91 It becomes clear whom she addresses only in the next line as she asks to be returned to her bed and then calls to her children in 267. 92 Alcestis only appears to die twice because she first delivers her last words in the form of a lyric ode, and then again in spoken trimeters. Because of this alternation in vocal delivery, Dale writes, “The thread of action does not necessarily run continuously through both of these in a strict sequence of time …[The] situation is realized first in its lyric, then in its iambic aspect,” A. M. Dale, Euripides’ Alcestis (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974) 74. “The dying-scene of Alcestis is split and experienced by us twice over through the diffractive effect of lyric and spoken presentation. It is as though Alcestis dies twice,” writes John Gould, “Dramatic Character and ‘Human Intelligibility’ in Greek Tragedy,” PCPS n. s. 24 (1978) 50; J. McGaughey, “Talking about Greek Tragedy,” Ramus 1 (1972) 30–31. 93 Alcestis, 282–4. Cf. Macintosh, Dying Acts, 140. 94 My translation.

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“χαῖρ’” (391). In her final words to her sons and husband, then, Alcestis is about to die, and has already died. As the maidservant informs us even before we see Alcestis, she is equally among the living and the dead (141). At a very basic level, then, a fundamental similarity unites the death of Jesus and the deaths of tragic characters. As they draw nearer to death, each of them travels back and forth across the threshold that separates life and death. In both cases, dying figures either are pronounced dead by others, or pronounce themselves dead, many times before they actually die. In the Fourth Gospel, this manner of speaking lasts for 5 chapters. In the tragic example cited above, it persists over hundreds of lines. The similarity between the Fourth Gospel and the tragedians, however, appears most clearly in light of the vast difference that separates them. In order to show just how alike John is to tragic models, we will have first to see a fundamental point at which John differs from the tragedians. For, Jesus does not stand on the threshold between life and death, but on the threshold between life and glorification in new life – the Resurrection and Ascension. When Jesus declares that he “is no longer in the world,” he does not imply that he has descended into the underworld like Alcestis, but that he has returned above to the Father. So, as tragic characters slowly descend into death, Jesus gradually rises into his glorification. What is true of death in tragedy is true of the Resurrection in John. And just such a twist in expectations is precisely what we should expect from the Fourth Gospel. Attridge has recently demonstrated that whenever the Fourth Gospel relies on traditional conventions or a generic model, the raw materials never look the same after John has deployed them.95 The genre is always “bent.” John’s use of the testament demonstrates the procedure well. Scholars regularly see affinities between Jesus’ final speech and the biblical testament form. But at a certain level of abstraction, John has radically bent the generic expectations of the testament. Whereas the typical testament emphasizes the impending departure and ensuing absence of the dying character, John’s testament promises that, in spite of leaving, Jesus will continue to be present to his disciples in a variety of ways. By steering the basic style of the testament in an entirely new direction, the Fourth Gospel has bent its model genre.96 The same is true of John’s use of tragic death scenes, inasmuch as the emphasis that tragedy places on death is taken up in John and applied to the glorification and Resurrection of Jesus. 3.6.4 The Processes of Death and Resurrection Recognizing that death is a process in Greek tragedy, Fiona Macintosh has analyzed the various factors that make tragic death to be thus. She sees special 95 96

Harold W. Attridge, “Genre Bending in the Fourth Gospel,” JBL 121 (2002) 3–21. Ibid, 17–18.

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significance in the obscurity that surrounds the moment of death. Dying almost always occurs offstage, and the audience hears of it from messengers.97 For this reason, the death scene is actually no scene at all. The thing most anticipated is never given.98 Only its buildup and aftermath receive attention. “[The precise moment of death] can never be captured in an instant, but is always an elusive future or past event in an essentially endless process.”99 But it is wrong to suggest that the manner of dying is what makes tragic characters unusual. It is their manner of living that sets them apart, since there is never a time when dying characters are not dying. To clarify what this means, notice how the Old Man (Πρέσβυς)in the Trachiniae comments on the status of Heracles: “For he’s only just on the verge of living” (976). The quotation offers an important insight into the perception of death in Greek tragedy. Macintosh writes, [T]he fact that Heracles is conceived of as being on the verge of living, and not (as we would expect) on the verge of dying, is particularly illuminating. For Heracles, during the Trachiniae, is more of death than he is of life … But Heracles is neither completely in death nor in life during the course of the play. Heracles, in these terms, can be both killed and alive, both mourned and yet not die within the span of the dramatic action, because he occupies a transitional state which makes him both of and not of this world simultaneously.100

For Heracles, therefore, as well as for Alcestis, the comment of Admetus is definitive: “The one so destined has already died, is dying and is no more.”101 The process of dying has begun long before each drama opens. So says Sophocles’ Antigone: “My life has died from long before” (559–60).102 Indeed, there is never a time when tragic characters are truly alive. Macintosh writes as follows: 97 People die onstage in only two (perhaps three) plays: Alcestis, Hippolytus and, debatably, Ajax. In those cases where deaths do occur onstage, the driving motivation of portraying the death scene is to emphasize the guilt of those responsible for the death. For discussion and bibliography, see Macintosh, Dying Acts, 130–157. 98 Ibid, 55–58. 99 Even the reports of death neither focus on the moment of death, nor even provide a detailed narrative of the events surrounding the death. Messengers regularly do not provide the entire logos of offstage disasters, but report instead the necessary pathos. In Aeschylus’ Persians, for instance, the messenger is referred to as one who will tell the whole logos (πάντα λόγον), but then himself introduces his report as the whole pathos (πᾶν πάθος), and three times insists that he does not report all of the details (329–30, 429–30, 513–14). What he reports is the sense of calamity that attended the defeat. See James Barrett, Staged Narrative: Poetics and the Messenger in Greek Tragedy (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2002) 29–30. See also Macintosh, Dying Acts, 126–57. 100 Macintosh, Dying Acts, 69. 101 τέθνηχ ὁ μέλλων καὶ ὁ θανὼν οὐκέτ’ εστιν (529). 102 Lukács formulates this reality in a powerful statement: “The dying heroes of tragedy … are dead a long time before they die,” G. Lukács, “The Metaphysics of Tragedy,” in Soul and Form (transl. Anna Bostock; Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1974) 159. In the same paragraph, Lukács writes, “The tragic experience, then, is a beginning and an end at the same time. Everyone at

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Tragic existence means being denied access to the process of living, and being forced to die into death. Death in tragedy does not inform the tragic characters’ lives, it is the form of their lives, and consequently gives them a supra-human status as specters in the land of the living.103

All of this can certainly be said of the Johannine Jesus, as long as we recognize that we are speaking not of his death, but of his glorification and Resurrection. The phrase “supra-human” quoted above, for instance, calls to mind the claim of Johannine scholars that Jesus in John is not human, but is “God striding across the earth.”104 If those destined to die in tragedy have already died, are dying and are no more, then, in the Fourth Gospel, Jesus has risen, is risen and is no longer in the world, but has ascended to the Father – even before these events are actually narrated. The composer of the Gospel is so aware of Jesus’ resurrected status that this awareness influences even the portrayal of Jesus prior to his glorification. The whole narrative reflects the glory of events that have already occurred in real time, but have not yet occurred in the narrative. Ignoring this aspect of the Gospel, Käsemann famously argued that the death of Jesus was irrelevant for the theology of John.105 For Käsemann, if Jesus’ death is a revelation of glory, one must recognize that Jesus reveals his glory elsewhere, for instance, at the Wedding at Cana (Cf.2:11). Thus, the death of Jesus is no more important than the wedding miracle, since the death provides but another means of accomplishing what the miracle already has. This line of interpretation fails to account, however, for the postresurrection perspective of the Gospel. Far from signaling the diminished significance of the death and resurrection, the revelation of glory at the wedding indicates that all of Jesus’ earthly life is narrated from the perspective of his glorification in death.106 That Jesus reveals his glory before he is glorified in the narrative only further emphasizes that he has been glorified (in actual history) before the narrative begins, and that the whole narrative is infused with this reality. such a moment is newly born, yet has been dead for a long time …” Macintosh concludes, similarly, “The cost of tragic status is an exclusion from the process of living,” Dying Acts, 78. 103 Ibid, 90. 104 See Ernst Käsemann, “The Structure and Purpose of the Prologue to John’s Gospel,” in New Testament Questions of Today (transl. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1969) 159, 161. See also, idem, The Testament of Jesus: A Study of the Gospel of John in the Light of Chapter 17 (transl. Gerhard Krodel; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1968). For an important response specifically to Käsemann, as well as a clear review of the relevant problems, see Marianne Meye Thompson, The Humanity of Jesus in the Fourth Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988). 105 “[In] John the glory of Jesus determines his whole presentation so thoroughly from the outset that the incorporation and position of the passion narrative of necessity becomes problematical,” Käsemann, Testament of Jesus, 7. 106 The Gospel does, however, distinguish between the pre-and post-Easter presentation of Jesus, especially in the Spirit’s postresurrection power to enable people to perceive Jesus properly, Thompson, Humanity of Jesus, 126. See also D. Moody Smith, The Theology of the Gospel of John (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995) 102.

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The same can be said for Jesus’ glory in the Wedding at Cana in chapter 2. To understand how Jesus can be glorified before the hour of his glorification, we must try not so much to fit the two episodes after one another, but into one another. The glorification in chapter 2 is not connected in a linear chronological fashion to the hour of Jesus’ glory, but operates according to the postresurrection perspective of the Gospel. Because the entire Gospel is written after the resurrection, the reality of the resurrection is available even before the hour of the resurrection is narrated. The Gospel has made it clear in various ways that the revelation of Jesus’ glory only happens in the hour, but Jesus tells us at the Wedding at Cana that his hour has not yet come. How, then, does he reveal his glory already at the Wedding at Cana? Because, as with death in tragedies, when it comes to the ordering of events in John, we should not always try to fit events after one another, but into one another. If this is so, then we cannot assume such a rigid chronological scheme in the Fourth Gospel, at least not when it comes to the total isolation of John 2 from the later legal confrontations and debates that come after John 5. This sign is connected in critical and important ways to those later signs. Salier’s insight cited above is apt, therefore, and deserves to be repeated. When the sign in John 2 is called the ἀρχὴ τῶν σημείων, the word ἀρχὴ here might mean “first,” but it can also mean “beginning.” The ἀρχὴ is, thus, the beginning of the signs, and “the foundation and pattern for everything that follows.”107 The signs do not merely become evidence in the lawsuit motif in some secondary sense, while their real purpose is merely as tokens of identity. This means that, from the very beginning, from their first performance in the Wedding at Cana, the signs speak equally to Jesus’ identity and to his innocence. The signs consistently speak to both issues. There is a univocity to the signs, combining these two elements.

3.7 The Signs and the Dialectical Theology of John If, however, the signs speak to both Jesus’ identity and to his innocence, and so unite these two issues in only a single voice, this does not mean that the signs always speak in the same voice. John is not so straightforward. While the preceding argument has focused on the unity of rhetoric and recognition in the Johannine approach to the signs, the remainder of this chapter will emphasize, in another sense, the diversity of expression that the signs communicate. What does this mean? I argued above that John represents the same confrontation between two types of proof that also appears in a play like Oedipus Rex. The correct or incorrect 107

Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 50.

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evaluation of evidence indicates whether a person is blind or seeing, and if a person has knowledge or is ignorant. Such an epistemological divide between two types of proof suggests a simple distinction between true knowledge and false knowledge, and between those who believe the signs, and those who reject them. In many cases, as in John 9, this clear divide holds true. John is not always so straightforward, however. The value of signs for promoting faith in Jesus is not always clear.108 The Fourth Gospel appears to present competing conceptions about the relationship between signs (σημεῖα) and believing (πιστεύειν). A few examples will clarify this well-known problem. As the Gospel draws to its close, for instance, the Evangelist famously apologizes for being unable to narrate all of Jesus’ signs, and then adds, “But these are written so that you may come to believe (πιστεύσητε) that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name” (20:31). Jesus’ sign during the Wedding at Cana is in perfect accord with this statement. The sign inspires faith. The disciples believed (ἐπίστευσαν; 2:11). But a quite different association between signs and faith appears only a few verses later. Although many people in Jerusalem believed in Jesus (2:23; ἐπίστευσαν) because of his signs (σημεῖα), he would not entrust (2:24; ἐπίστευεν) himself to them. Two chapters later, at 4:48, Jesus appears even to rebuke the royal official for requesting a sign by saying, “Unless you see signs and wonders (σημεῖα καὶ τέρατα) you will not believe (οὐ μὴ πιστεύσητε).” Are signs, then, a proper basis for faith, or not? The Gospel of John seems of two minds on the subject. Interpreters are of even more minds. Several positions have been taken in response to this problem. Some take very seriously the tension that appears to exist in the competing statements about the signs, but others find ways to remove the tension. Those who attempt to erase the tension in the signs do so either by arguing that signs are always positively construed with faith, and then they read opposing verses in a way that makes them offer less opposition to faith,109 or they argue that signs are negatively construed with faith, and then read the seemingly positive verses in a way that makes them seem less positive.110 Whether they read the signs positively or negatively in relation to faith, such interpreters argue that 108 This is one of the most pressing problems in the history of Johannine studies, for the history of which, see Gilbert Van Belle, The Signs Source in the Fourth Gospel : Historical Survey and Critical Evaluation of the Semeia Hypothesis (Peeters: Leuven, 1994). 109 Representative of the positive estimation of the relationship between signs and faith are the following: Marinus De Jonge, “Signs and Works in the Fourth Gospel,” in Miscellanea Neotestamentica (ed. Tjitze Baarda, A. F. J. Klijn and Willem C. Van Unnik; NovTSup 48; Leiden: Brill, 1978) 107–25; Marianne Meye Thompson, “Signs and Faith in the Fourth Gospel,” BBR 1 (1991) 89–108; Johns and Miller “Signs as Witnesses;” Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 14, 21, 51, 53 and passim. 110 For an eloquent expression of this opinion see the recent essay by Craig Koester, “Jesus’ Resurrection, the Signs, and the Dynamics of Faith in the Gospel of John,” in Resurrection of Jesus (ed. Koester) 47–74, with further bibliography.

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John speaks with one voice on the signs, and they overcome data that suggests otherwise through close exegesis of the offending passages. To other interpreters, however, the varying statements about the signs reflect competing voices that are not so easily reconciled. In one way of acknowledging this reality, the differing statements about the signs are thought to reflect the different stages of editing that brought the Fourth Gospel to its final form.111 The interpreter’s goal, then, is to assign each voice to its appropriate moment in the history of the Johannine community, distinguishing sources and their editors in the production of the Fourth Gospel. Source criticism, however, is not the only means for taking the tensions in John seriously. Another way of reading still recognizes the tension that exists in statements about the signs, but deals with this tension differently. The competing voices do not imply several speakers, but one speaker who can engage in an internal conversation in which opposite positions can be equally valid. The juxtaposition of contradictory statements in this sense is not the accidental result of many years of editing, but an intentional move that leads one to reflect in a particular way on the paradox that lies at the heart of Jesus’ life and revelation. There is a dialogue between opposing voices, where the tension in the opposition of voices is not resolved, but each voice is allowed to stand. The remainder of this chapter will argue that the signs of Jesus are best understood in light of this dialectical model.112 If, however, John expresses his theology in this dialectical mode, why is this so? Barrett explains this theological perspective by pointing to John 12:36 as a definitive statement for the theology of the Fourth Gospel.113 12:36 reads as follows: While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light.” After Jesus had said this, he departed and hid from them.

In the same breath, therefore, that we hear Jesus telling people to walk in the light of his revelation, he also dims this light by hiding himself. Every moment 111

The most well-known expression of this, of course, is in the work of Fortna, Gospel of Signs. While I will argue for a dialectical approach to the role of the signs in the lawsuit motif, I also recognize that anything that the dialectical approach can explain could also be explained through source criticism. In his discussion of John 5, Attridge, for example, takes seriously the tension in the statements about witness, and then writes that the tensions could be “the subtle manipulations of a mature dialectical mind, or the work of a redactor …,” “Argumentation,” 195. For a discussion of the problems inherent in source critical arguments, however, see Paul N. Anderson, “On Guessing Points and Naming Stars: Epistemological Origins of John’s Christological Tensions,” in The Gospel of John and Christian Theology (Ed. R. Bauckham and C. Mosser; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008) 318–19. It also bears emphasizing that the dialectical approach to John’s theology receives special support from the great number of theological themes in John that operate in precisely this same mode. For a list of all of the theological and literary aspects of John that reflect the dialectical conversation of Johannine theology, see Anderson, “On Guessing Points,” 314–16 and Brown, Introduction, 250–51. 113 Barrett, “Dialectical Theology,” 67. 112

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of revelation is also a moment of concealment.114 This pairing of revelation and concealment is the only way to express the inexpressible reality that lies at the center of the Gospel of John – that eternity has entered time, and that the inexpressible Word of God has become flesh and has spoken. Although no one has ever seen the Father, it must be equally affirmed that the Only Son has made the Father known (1:18). The ability to see this revelation, and, indeed, the very place of sight in the formation of faith, is also caught up in the dialectical movements of the Gospel of John.115 Throughout John 6 and later, for example, seeing is connected in various ways to believing. Jesus, on the one hand, can insist, “This is indeed the will of my Father, that all who see the Son and believe in him may have eternal life; and I will raise them up on the last day” (6:40). And yet, on the other hand, this connection between seeing and believing is not so certain or secure, because Jesus just said a few verses earlier, “But I said to you that you have seen me and yet do not believe” (6:36), contradicting, or at least complicating his claim that seeing leads to believing. The final statement on seeing and believing, however, creates an even more emphatic separation between seeing and believing in the life of faith, when Jesus famously says to Thomas (20:29): Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.’

On this matter, Barrett writes, This tension of visibility and invisibility is central in John’s thought; faith depends on sight, yet it is independent of sight, and cannot be equated with sight … Faith rests upon the once-for-all visibility of the Son of man, and especially of the risen Jesus; yet it is not simply observation, for to observe bare facts about Jesus (as in 6.42) can lead to unbelief, and faith itself means trust in the invisible – the invisible truth in the visible man Jesus, and indeed in the Son of man, when the Son of man is no longer an earthly visible, but a heavenly invisible figure.116 114 For other elucidations of the dialectical theology of John, see Paul N. Anderson, The Christology of the Fourth Gospel : its Unity and Disunity in the Llight of John 6 (WUNT 2.78; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996); Idem, The Fourth Gospel and the Quest for Jesus: Modern Foundations Reconsidered (London: T &T Clark, 2006); Martin Hengel, The Johannine Question (Philadelphia: Trinity, 1989) 96–108;and especially for a recent discussion regarding the dialectical character of the signs in John, see Michael Becker, “Zeichen: Die Johanneische Wunderterminologie und die frührabbinische Tradition, in Kontexte (ed. J. Frey, et al) 246 and passim. 115 Barrett, “Dialectical Theology,” 58–60. 116 Barrett, “Dialectical Theology,” 60. In a similar vein, Attridge writes about John’s transformation and violation of the rules of the genres of the Fourth Gospel as follows: “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’s genre bending is an effort to force its audience away from words to an encounter with Word himself,” in “Genre Bending,” 21.

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The signs rely on this same problematic surrounding the treatment of “seeing and believing” in John, and operate in this same dialectical mode. Such an assumption, however, presents a particular problem for the present study because I have spent the entire preceding chapter arguing that the signs are pieces of evidence within the Johannine lawsuit. How can they be evidence that leads to faith, though, and yet still have an ambiguous relation to faith? Other interpreters who read the signs as evidence argue very differently. They use the evidentiary character of the signs as a way to argue that the signs are consistently positively construed in relation to faith. Johns and Miller have, for example read the signs as a key piece of evidence in the Johannine lawsuit motif, but they rely on the evidentiary character of the signs to argue specifically against the dialectical approach to Johannine theology. If the signs are evidence, then the signs are always positively construed with faith.117 I will show, however, that to place the signs within the lawsuit motif is not a way of distancing the signs from the dialectical theology of John, but actually shows even more clearly that the signs should be understood as operating in the dialectical mode. I will deal directly, therefore, with the arguments of Johns and Miller, because their very efforts to separate the signs from the dialectical model only further show the dialectical character of the signs. In the first place, they read in a positive light those passages that seem to portray faith based on signs in a negative light. Their most impressive and ingenious move is a new interpretation of 4:48: “Unless you see signs and wonders you will never believe (οὐ μὴ πιστεύσητε).” They emphasize that the phrases rendered in English as “unless” (ἐὰν μή) and “never” (οὐ μή) are phrases that are almost always used throughout the Fourth Gospel to emphasize solemn pronouncements and requirements for salvation.118 Johns and Miller assume from this fact that 4:48 is not an ironic rebuke, but a solemn pronouncement about signs being essential for belief. If the verse were taken in utter isolation, this argument would be very convincing. When read in light of the entire Gospel, however, it is less so. Even in chapter 4, in close proximity to this statement, we see how the Fourth Evangelist uses the same terminology to refer to both positive and negative realities. Jesus, after all, is called a Ιουδαίος (4:9), and insists that salvation comes from the Ιουδαίοι (4:22), and yet, throughout the Gospel of John, the term Ιουδαίος refers to Jesus’ opponents.119 Given the consistently negative sense of the term elsewhere, should we assume that the positive uses of this term in chapter 4 are 117

See, for example, Salier, Rhetorical Impact, 57–59. For example, “Then Jesus said to them, ‘Truly, truly I say to you, unless (ἐὰν μη) you eat the flesh of the Son of the Man and drink his blood, you do not have life in yourselves’” (6:53), or “Those who drink of the water that I will give them will never (οὐ μή) be thirsty” (4:14). For the list of further examples, see Johns and Miller, “Signs as Witnesses,” 530–31. 119 See Barrett, “Dialectical Theology,” 54–55. See, more recently on the question, Kierspel, Jews and the World. 118

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not positive, but are actually meant to disparage Jesus? Or, conversely, does the positive appearance of the term here redeem every negative usage elsewhere? It is surely better to assume that John is deliberately ambiguous, and that the term Ιουδαίος is caught up in the dialectical movements of the Gospel.120 The same holds true for the critical phrases in 4:48 that Johns and Miller emphasize. The obvious sense of the verse is that it is an ironic rebuke. Even though we see language used in a negative sense here that is elsewhere positive, that does not erase the sense of rebuke. Rather, it shows that the phrase is deeply embedded in the Johannine dialectic. The terminology is disorienting, because phrases that are positive elsewhere in John are used in a negative sense here. Far from distancing this verse from the Johannine dialectic, though, Johns and Miller have shown how thoroughly the verse is embedded in the dialectical movement of the Fourth Gospel. They also emphasize that the Fourth Gospel abounds with legal terms like “testimony” and “judgment.” By associating the signs with these obviously legal terms, Johns and Miller hope to show that the signs fit squarely within the Johannine lawsuit motif.121 But, connecting signs to other elements of the lawsuit motif does not distance the signs from the Johannine dialectic; it all the more connects the signs to the dialectical flow of the Gospel. No less than the signs, the concept of testimony also reflects the Johannine dialectic, especially in John 5. Indeed, all of John 5 reflects this dialectical mode of thinking. Attridge has shown that, in the first part of John 5, when Jesus defends himself against the claim that he has made himself equal to God, he at first appears to refute the charge and deny that he made any such claim (5:19), and yet he denies this claim in a way that slowly makes it clear that, indeed, Jesus is equal to God.122 Jesus is not the Father, true. But he is the Father’s Son. And he does operate on the Father’s behalf (5:20). And he does accomplish the Father’s work (5:19–30). Most important of all, he deserves the same honor as the Father (5:23). So, even in his denial of the charge, Jesus demonstrates that the charge is true. In some sense, he is equal to God. The same mode of argument operates in the section of chapter 5 dedicated to Jesus’ witness. At first, Jesus seems to admit there that his testimony on his own behalf is invalid, and so he offers others who testify alongside him: John the Baptist (5:33); the Father’s works (5:36); the Father himself (5:37); the Scriptures (5:39); and Moses (5:46). But then he begins to make the same move that he made in the earlier part of the chapter with the question of his equality to God. Even as he admits that he needs other witnesses to certify his own, he claims that it is precisely his own testimony that certifies theirs. Jesus says (5:32), “There is 120

See Barrett, “Dialectical Theology,” 54. Johns and Miller, “Signs as Witnesses,” 522–3, 525. 122 Attridge, “Argumentation,” 198. 121

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another who testifies on my behalf, and I know that his testimony to me is true.” Several other people testify to Jesus, therefore, but it is Jesus who validates their testimony, and in such a way that it appears that he actually does not need any additional testimony.123 Even as he lists other witnesses, he affirms that he does not need them. In a way that holds opposite realities in dialectical tension, therefore, Jesus’ self-testimony is not – and yet also very much is – valid on its own. The question of whether or not Jesus is a judge is equally caught up in the Johannine dialectic. Several passages claim that Jesus does not judge, as follows: Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that he the world might be saved through him (3:17). You judge by human standards; I judge no one (8:15).

On the other hand, several verses claim the role of judge for Jesus, as follows: The Father judges no one, but has given all judgment to the Son, so that all may honor the Son just as they honor the Father (5:22). Jesus said, I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind (9:39).

No less than the signs, therefore, the themes of witness and judgment operate within the Johannine dialectic.124 Johns and Miller are correct, therefore, to situate the signs within the lawsuit motif. They are perhaps too hasty, however, in separating the lawsuit motif from the dialectical mode of thinking. Other key parts of the lawsuit motif are also themselves caught up in the Johannine dialectic. This means that, if the signs are evidence, they are evidence of a certain kind. They are evidence in a world where the bases of our knowledge have been problematized, where signs and witnesses are useful and excellent, but what really matters is seeing the invisible reality within the visible Jesus. This is why Jesus can say to Thomas, “Blessed are they who have not seen and have yet believed” (20:29). To conclude this chapter, therefore, we can summarize its results very briefly. The signs of Jesus are evidence within the Johannine lawsuit that prove the innocence of Jesus and they are also evidence that should lead people to recognize the identity of Jesus. They are equally evidence of his identity and his innocence. These two realities cannot be separated in John. Because the signs are evidence showing that Jesus is the Son of God and Messiah (20:30–31), they are also evidence showing that he is innocent of blasphemy. They are evidence, however, in a world in which the Word of God has become flesh, a reality which is not visible to the eye and never able to be fully understood. To call the signs evidence, 123

Attridge, “Argumentation,” 198–99. These passages are cited and read in a dialectical way in Anderson, “On Guessing Points,” 315. For a different reading of the question of judgment in 8:15, suggesting that there is no tension here, see Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 85. 124

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therefore, is not in any way to suggest that this makes the question of faith easy or obvious. The signs are revealed as evidence in a situation in which every moment of revelation is equally a moment of concealment. Furthermore, the signs not only represent equally the twin realities of revelation and concealment, but also, at a different level of abstraction, the twin realities of Judaism and Hellenism. The signs of Jesus were compared in the foregoing chapter to evidentiary signs in Greek rhetoric and drama. They are evidence that leads to recognition. But they are not typical tokens of recognition. The tokens that identify Orestes are locks of hair and footprints, and the signs that identify Oedipus are testimony and syllogistic logic. Jesus’ signs are materially very different. They are wondrous deeds and supernatural miracles. In substance, they more closely resemble the signs that Moses performs before Pharaoh. Like the signs of Moses, Jesus’ signs are miraculous acts which show that God has sent him and works through him. They look like the signs of Moses, therefore, but are debated like signs in rhetoric and recognition scenes, and so they are equal parts Greco-Roman and Jewish. They are wondrous deeds (Judaism) but are evaluated like evidence in a trial (Hellenism). The signs reflect yet another area of creative interaction between Judaism and Hellenism in John.

Chapter 4

Conclusions and Proposal for Further Research 4.1 Introduction It may seem strangely out of place to conclude a study on the Gospel of John by referring to a conversation reported to have taken place between Napoleon and Goethe, but because their conversation had to do with paradoxes and aporiae in literature, it is illustrative of much that has been discussed in the preceding chapters, and will help to draw the discussion to a close. Napoleon, it seems, was puzzled by an element that appeared not quite right in Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther. When the French Emperor explained what he considered to be an inconsistency to the author, Goethe gave the following response: (I replied that I found the criticism quite correct), and admitted that it was possible to show that there was something not quite right in this place. But, I added, an author ought perhaps to be forgiven if he availed himself of an artistic device not easily detectable, in order to achieve certain effects which he could not have brought about in a simple and natural way. ‘Der Kaiser,’ Goethe concluded, ‘seemed content with that.’1

The Fourth Evangelist was confronted with an even more inexpressible reality that could not be narrated in “a simple and natural way,” and the literary and theological tensions of the Fourth Gospel represent an attempt to express this inexpressible reality.2 When the Creator enters creation, and the immaterial Word becomes material flesh, this cannot be portrayed in a simple and natural way. To look beyond appearances and to see the invisible Word requires not sight but insight. John’s dialectical theology elevates readers’ minds to this necessary insight. Distinguishing appearance from reality is related to other issues as well. The Word not only entered the World, but was crushed by it. Jesus was executed as a blasphemer. John wants us to ask as we read, Were his opponents right? Because Jesus’ opponents could not see beyond appearances, they killed the author of life, making his apparent condemnation their actual condemnation. Their mistake in judgment is not only a grave disaster, then. It is literally a tragedy, and John relies on common tragic themes to narrate their error: guilt and innocence; appearance and reality; knowledge and ignorance.

1 2

Cf. Dawe, Sophocles, 22. See Attridge, “Genre Bending,” 17–18.

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Comparing John to tragic drama illuminates not only these themes, but the literary form they take as well. The Fourth Gospel has many puzzling literary seams, such as when Jesus announces at 14:33, ‘’Arise, let us go forth” (14:33). Despite this announcement, Jesus goes nowhere and continues speaking. He finally departs only at 18:1. Interpreters often assume that the space between the announcement of the departure and its actualization reflects a literary seam and sloppy editing.3 Dramatists, though, use the delayed exit to spotlight departing characters and slowly abstract them from their surroundings. Through this device, Jesus speaks to his disciples on the night of his betrayal but also beyond them to all generations.4 The delayed exit elevates Jesus’ words above his immediate surroundings to all future disciples. Such a thing could not be depicted simply and naturally. Attridge’s insight about John’s use of genres is, therefore, applicable to more than genre. Attridge writes, 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 … [The] use of most of these forms suggests that none of them is adequate to speak of the Word incarnate. John’s genre bending is an effort to force its audience away from words to an encounter with the Word himself.5

Such a comment places John’s approach to genre within a theological framework, and it is in his theological paradoxes that we see John most thoroughly turning words in on themselves, as we saw in the case of the signs, testimony and judgment in the previous chapter. We should, therefore, not attempt to resolve the paradoxes of John. Quite, the contrary, the paradox is the point. When the Word becomes flesh, when heaven meets earth, there is not just a union of heaven and earth, but a collision that shatters reality, or what was thought to be reality, into innumerable splinters. Whatever John touches, therefore, is different after it enters his hands. We must allow things to be held in tension and paradox, therefore, which we might otherwise try neatly to separate. And, this approach to John’s theological project applies as well to John’s use of the traditions that come to him from his Jewish theological heritage and from the Hellenized culture of the Roman Empire. These, too, are not so neatly separated. And a key element in this mixture of elements is the blending of rhetoric and drama. By way of summary of the foregoing chapters, therefore, I would like to repeat how the current monograph sees the combination of these various elements in the rhetoric and drama of the Johannine lawsuit.

3

See Parsenios, Departure and Consolation, chapter 2 See Parsenios, „Transformation of the Tragic,“ 18. 5 „Genre Bending,“ 21. 4

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4.2 Rhetoric and Drama in Chapter 1 The Gospel of John is not a tragedy in the most superficial understanding of the word “tragic,” because the bright light of the Resurrection washes away any sense that Jesus’ life ends in disaster. In this sense, the Fourth Gospel is like Euripides’ Alcestis, which ends with Alcestis’ return from the dead. But the comparison to Alcestis only further complicates the question of whether or not the Gospel of John is “tragic,” because interpreters have wondered whether or not Alcestis, with its happy ending, is itself a comic satyr play, and not a tragedy at all. The same has also been argued in regard to John, but I do not believe there is anything comic in John.6 I think it is better to see John, not reversing tragedy by relying on comedy, but rather, transforming what is tragic and bending tragic modes of discourse to his own purposes. When John uses tragic modes of narration and themes, therefore, he also transforms them to apply to the life of Jesus. And yet, this only underscores the fact that there are tragic themes and tragic styles of narration that resonate with the life of Jesus and are valuable for depicting the life of Jesus. We have seen several of these in the preceding study, and mentioned them first in the opening chapter of this study, such as the dichotomy between appearance and reality, knowledge and ignorance, sight and blindness, the emphasis on recognition themes and many more. All of these are elements of the Fourth Gospel that distinguish it from the Synoptic Gospels, especially in Jesus’ conflict with Israel. The question of the conflict with Israel also raises the question of rhetoric. The chreia has been useful for understanding Jesus’ conflict with Israel in the Synoptic Gospels, but John seems to transcend it. John’s debates with the leaders of Israel are often specifically legal debates, and the chreia does not help with these. This does not mean that rhetoric is irrelevant for John, however. It means that we have to find the right kind of rhetoric. Forensic rhetoric seems especially valuable. That legal rhetoric is presented in speeches and textbooks, however, has made it difficult for Johannine interpreters to utilize this material to its fullest. And this brings us back to tragedy. If legal rhetoric is defined by its interest in (1) a question of justice that (2) has to do with the past, then the same can be said for tragedy, which regularly plumbs the question of justice as it relates to events in the past. We saw this in chapter 1 of the present study when we compared Euripides’ Helen to the Gospel of John and saw several points of contact between the two texts. Both are concerned with explaining how the dichotomy between 6 Craig Koester, for instance, has argued that John’s use of such things as irony is comic. Irony is not necessarily comedy, though. Oedipus Rex is full of irony, but there is nothing funny about that work. See Craig R. Koester, “Comedy, Humor and the Gospel of John,” in Word, Theology and Community in John (ed. John Painter, et al; St. Louis: Chalice, 2002) 123–42. For Alcestis, See B. Seidensticker, “Dithyramb, Comedy and Satyr Play,” in A Companion to Greek Tragedy (ed. Justina Gregory; London: Blackwell, 2005) 50.

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appearance and reality misled people to judge a person guilty of a crime, when in fact no crime had been committed. Both texts, thus, filter a question of justice through the difference between appearance and reality. Furthermore, showing that Jesus was wrongly convicted, and is, therefore, innocent of blasphemy, is one of the key concerns of the Johannine lawsuit motif. The corollary of Jesus’ innocence is the guilt of his accusers, and showing this guilt is yet another important concern of the Johannnine lawsuit.

4.3 Rhetoric and Drama in Chapter 2 The first concern in chapter 2, of course, was to establish the legal character of the term “to seek.” The language of seeking and finding would seem to be an unusual place to look for connections between John and classical literature. “Seeking and finding” obviously connect John to the Old Testament and the heritage of Judaism, especially the wisdom tradition. But this is only partly true. There is a critical point where the Jewish phenomenon morphs into something more at home in Greek literature. While the disciples seek Jesus and find in him the revelation of God, Jesus’ opponents seek him and do not find him. More often than not, they seek to arrest and kill him. Jesus tells his opponents, however, that they will seek him and not find him (7:34). If we coordinate this phrase with the trial before Pilate, where Pilate three times that he says he finds no charge against Jesus (18:38; 19, 4, 6), we begin to see that “finding” seems to have a legal sense in John. We also saw that the promise that the opponents of Jesus would continue to seek him, also did not seem to correspond to seeking as it was understood in Wisdom literature, and specifically in Proverbs 1:28. There, seeking implied penitent seeking. When Wisdom is rejected by those too foolish to accept an invitation to be wise, the foolish sometimes repent and earnestly seek Wisdom. They seek in vain, however. Under these circumstances, Wisdom can be sought, but never found. Although this sense of seeking and not finding is commonly connected to John 7:34, this is not what John seems to narrate. Jesus’ opponents do indeed keep seeking him, but they do not seek him out of repentance. They seek him because they do not repent. Their seeking, that is, is not a way to make up for their initial rejection. Their seeking is the expression of their rejection. This means that something else is at work here than just the wisdom tradition. I believe that such hostile seeking reflects the influence of Greek legal rhetoric. We can identify this phenomenon in a preliminary way in John where Lysias 1 draws to a conclusion by insisting (1.43), “seeking … you will find nothing (ζητοῦντες … οὐδεμίαν γὰρ εὑρήσετε).” Taken alone, this passage, and others like it from other orators, would mean little. All that they show is that “seeking and finding” is as much a part of forensic rhetoric as it is the wisdom traditions. But there is much more to say. For, there was in classical Athens a forensic

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procedure called the ζήτησις which had several components to it, especially the invitation to informers to offer evidence (μήνυσις), and the interrogation of witnesses. We know about the ζήτησις procedure and find its key vocabulary in the Attic orators and in Thucydides. It is not a trial, but a pre-trial inquiry, involving the pursuit of witnesses and information to see if a crime has been committed, and, if so, by whom. This procedure has been shown to be one of the driving forces in the plot of Oedipus Rex. Oedipus pursues those guilty of Laius’ murder through μήνυσις, and through the examination of witnesses, called ἔλεγχος. He is constantly said to be “seeking” in his investigation. That μήνυσις was a key part of the ζήτησις in both practice and in Oedipus Rex makes it all the more interesting that we find in John 11:56–57 the notice that people were “seeking” (ἐζήτουν) Jesus and the Pharisees had given orders that people offer information (μηνύσῃ) if they knew where Jesus was. The Pharisees and leaders of the Jews also spend the entire Gospel, from the interrogation of John until the arrest of Jesus, investigating and interrogating witnesses. It would appear that they are conducting a forensic ζήτησις. Decades ago, Elias Bickerman recognized that the actions of the Pharisees and leaders of the Jews mimic the “seeking” that he discerned in legal notices from Egyptian papyri. But Bickerman’s work has been completely ignored, perhaps because he cannot explain the peculiar verse at John 8:50, in which Jesus announces, “Yet I do not seek (ζητῶ) my own glory; there is one who seeks (ζητῶν) and judges. Most translations add the pronoun “it” after “seeks,” indicating that the two references to seeking have the same object: Jesus’ glory. I believe, however, that the second mention of seeking is a forensic reference. The reference to judging in such close proximity would seem to support this contention. That the term ζητεῖν carries a forensic sense in this verse has been either denied or ignored altogether by commentators. But the forensic sense seems most appropriate in light of the argument in chapter 2. Now, to be sure, John did not know Athenian legal procedure, and whether or not John knew Oedipus Rex is impossible to determine precisely. Even so, it is likely that John knew of the kind of procedures whose vague traces Bickerman has studied. By reading John in light of Oedipus Rex we see a model for how a forensic ζήτησις can be dramatized, and this helps us to see new possibilities in John. But there is even more than just a similarity in vocabulary between John and Oedipus. There is a similar function in the ζήτησις especially in the way that a basic irony underlies each investigation. Oedipus conducts an inquiry that leads to his own guilt. He thinks he is the prosecutor, but he is actually the guilty defendant. A similar irony drives the lawsuit motif in the Gospel of John. The very prosecution of Jesus actually leads to his exoneration (“you will not find”). Even more, it leads to the insight that Jesus is not the judged but the judge, together with his Father. The leaders of the Jews think that they are conducting an investigation, but it is actually God who is investigating and judging.

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4.4 Rhetoric and Drama in Chapter 3 We do not need ancient rhetoric or drama to understand why John has called Jesus’ miraculous deeds “signs.” We need go no further than the Septuagint to explain why the term was meaningful to John. But W. Salier has recently highlighted the fact that “sign” is a term for evidence in Greek and Roman rhetoric. This is an important insight, and guides us to further insights about, not why John uses the term sign, but how he uses it. Salier’s work can be further developed, however, when one recognizes that Greek tragedies regularly employ the language of evidence, including the term σημεῖον, and do so in ways that closely resemble the Gospel of John. Aristotle makes this clear when he uses the same terms for evidence in his Rhetoric as he does for tokens of identity for tragedy in his Poetics: τεκμήρια, εἰκότα and σημεῖα. Even more important, several plays employ this rhetorical language for evidence, especially Oedipus Rex, the Choephoroi of Aeschylus, and the Electra plays of both Sophocles and Euripides. Indeed, in Sophocles’ Electra (886), the character Chrysothemis argues, “I believe the signs (πιστεύω τὰ σημεῖα),” when she is interrogated about why she thinks Orestes has returned. No less than they do in John, however, tragic characters debate the meaning and value of signs, and the contour of the debates in John often resemble the debates in tragedy. For instance, Euripides’ Electra refuses to trust the physical evidence that suggests that her brother has returned (524–44). For, if he did return, but only left such evidence as appears before her, it would mean that he is a coward. Since he is not a coward, the physical evidence suggesting his return must be rejected. As far as Electra is concerned, Orestes is still gone. The Pharisees argue in the same way in the debate over Jesus’ signs in John 9. The sign of healing does not convince them that Jesus is from God. Rather, because the act was performed on the Sabbath, it means that Jesus is a sinner (9:16). The physical evidence of the sign must be rejected, again in favor of syllogistic reasoning. In both cases, then, the physical evidence indicates to some people either that Orestes has returned or that Jesus is from God. Others reject the evidence, however, through logical reasoning. There are three such ways to respond to physical evidence in the tragedies and John, and I reviewed each: 1) acceptance of the evidence; 2) rejection by counterevidence; 3) rejection by syllogistic logic. But the function of signs is more complicated than this suggests. Previous scholars have recognized the evidentiary quality of the signs and so read the signs as part of the Gospel’s lawsuit motif, akin to such things as witness and judgment. I agree with and support their work – up to a point. The signs are indeed part of the Gospel’s lawsuit motif. This does not mean, however, that the signs are evidence in an uncomplicated way. For, those scholars who read the signs as part of the lawsuit motif believe that this removes the tension in John’s treatment of the signs. Specifically, they use the evidentiary character of the signs as a way to undermine the dialectical approach to Johannine theology. To them, there is no

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dialectic. Signs are supposed to lead to faith, period. If they do not, the fault lies not in the sign but in the eye of the beholder. I would like to suggest, however, that to view the signs as evidence actually places them more firmly in the dialectical mode of thinking. Tragedy helps to make this argument. Other factors do as well, especially the other elements of the lawsuit motif, like witnessing. For, as we saw in John 5, witnessing is caught up in the dialectical movements of the Gospel. Thus, to connect the signs to witnessing is not a way of distancing the signs from the dialectical model, but actually makes the dialectical model that much more appropriate. Reading the signs within the Johannine dialectic means that the signs are evidence of a particular kind. They are evidence from the physical world that should lead one to believe in Jesus (20:31). But every such moment of revelation in John’s dialectical model is equally a moment of concealment (12:35–36). We, thus, learn from ancient sources on rhetoric that “sign” is a term for evidence. But to see how the sign has been dramatically incorporated into the Fourth Gospel, rhetoric is not enough. We must look also at drama. When we do so, we see that the signs are dramatized as evidence within the dialectic of the Johannine lawsuit motif.

4.5 Rhetoric and Drama in the Sententiae of Jesus The foregoing monograph was originally conceived as a study, not only on seeking and on signs, but also on sententiae. The sententious speech of Jesus, no less than the other two areas of inquiry, shows the intersection of rhetoric and drama. But a study on sententiae would have distracted us from the specific pursuit of legal rhetoric. In order to maintain a unified them in the present work, the study has confined itself to those places where we have seen ancient drama intersect with legal rhetoric. But drama, as we discussed in chapter 1, is in some sort of complicated dialogue with all forms of ancient rhetoric, and these other intersections of rhetoric and drama must surely shine a light on new angles of interpretation for the Gospel of John. One area that is very likely to be helpful in this regard lies in the aphoristic speech of Jesus, specifically his use of rhetorical sententiae. To see how this might be helpful, however, we should not look to the use of sententiae in the rhetoric of the Roman Empire in the 1st century, but with sententiae in another Empire in another time: the British Empire in India in the 19th century. British authors like Rudyard Kipling regularly described the interaction of England with her colonies by phrases like “East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.” Statements of general, universal truths like this neatly fit the category of sententia as ancient authors define it. What is compelling about this phrase, however, is not its rhetorical quality, but the manner in which the rhetoric of the phrase has a profound social power. Among the many presuppositions connected to British control over India in the 19th century was

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the notion that India was one thing, and always the same thing. British literature of the time reflects, and, indeed, creates this India. Kipling’s novel Kim participates in the production of an Oriental world that has immutable characteristics, as opposed to a white world that is equally stable and unchanging. Edward Said demonstrates this created, immutable nature of India with several passages from Kim, such as the claim that “Kim would lie like an Oriental.” Especially elegant in its chauvinism is the line “all hours of the twenty-four are alike to Orientals.” As Said argues, these rhetorical sententiae are both derived from British perceptions of India, and in turn also fortify those perceptions as objective truths. Social divisions find their rhetorical expression in such sententiae.7 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 ” (3:6). In the immediately preceding verse, we learn as well that one born of flesh cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven, or, to paraphrase Kipling: “never the twain shall meet.” The connection to Kipling here is more than stylistic. No less than in the case of Kipling, Jesus’ sententiae in the Nicodemus dialogue provide a rhetorical expression of social division. Kipling illustrates the divisions between England and India, while the Fourth Gospel illustrates the divisions between people of the flesh and people of the Spirit. Furthermore, the social function of sententiae is not something that Edward Said is alone in recognizing. Social realities are a regular part of ancient discussions of sententiae. Aristotle connects social and rhetorical matters early on in his Rhetoric when he insists that a maxim is a means by which a speaker appeals to, and identifies himself with, the mores of a particular segment of society. The power of rhetorical sententiae to shape social realities in literature has been carefully and creatively explored in the works of Tacitus by Patrick Sinclair, and a similar line of approach would surely be valuable in Johannine studies.8 The social reality of sententiae alone is interesting and helpful for understanding the rhetorical character of the Gospel of John. But there is a particular quality to sententious speech in Seneca’s tragedies that deserves special attention. In episodes of crisis or confusion, we sometimes see characters questioning other characters. The interrogators, however, are sometimes met only with sententiae from those they are questioning.9 And the sententious response leaves the questioner only more insistent and more frustrated. He eventually walks away, not having got his questions answered, but having only been given a string of aphorisms. This seems very much like the way that Jesus confuses and befuddles his interlocutors at 7:32–36. This matter cannot be pursued further now. When 7

Edward Said, Orientalism (London, Penguin, 2003) 149–50. See Patrick Sinclair, Tacitus the Sententious Historian, A Sociology of Rhetoric in Annales 1–6 (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University, 1996). 9 For sententiae in Seneca, see C. A. J. Littlewood, Self-Representation and Illusion in Senecan Tragedy (Oxford: Oxford University, 2004) 6, 41, 49. 8

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it is explored, it will surely demonstrate yet another way in which rhetorical phenomena are taken up into drama in ways that illuminate the Gospel of John. The sententious quality of dramatic speech, like the matters studied in the foregoing monograph, will help us to illuminate the literary and theological shape of the Gospel of John. We will read John more clearly if we pay close attention to the place where rhetoric and drama intersect, because this intersection is not only the place where rhetoric and drama meet one another, but also the place where they both meet John.

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Index of Ancient Sources I. Old Testament Genesis 1:1 37–45 37:18–20 Exodus 3:12 4:1 4:5 4:8–9 4:8 4:9 4:21 4:31

Proverbs 1 1:28–30 1:28

46–47; 83 84 84 n.117

7:9

44 n.167; 104 n.57 44 n.167; 104 n.57 44 n.167; 104 n.57 104 n.56; 104 n.57 44 n.167 44 n.167 104 n.56 44 n.167; 104 n.57 104 n.56

Deuteronomy 4:29 13:1–3

76 n.91 104 n.56

Judges 6:18

104 n.56

Esther 3:6 3:8–9 5:9–14

84 n.117 84 n.118 84 n.117

8:17 8:22–23 9:4–5

77 43; 76; 85 76 n.91; 78; 79 n.102; 82; 83 77 78 78 n.97

Isaiah 40:3 41:4 43:10 43:25 45:18 53:1 54:13 55:6

91 n.16; 92 n.16 45 n.171 45 n.171 45 n.171 45 n.171 45 n.171 45 n.171 45 n.171 76 n.91

Daniel 3 3:8–12 3:13–18 6 6:4–5 6:12–13

84 84 n.118 84 84 84 n.117 84 n.118

Hosea 5:6

76 n.91

II. New Testament Matthew 5–7 13:31

6 n.19 77 n.94

24:24 27:57–75

104 n.56 1 n.1

152

Index of Ancient Sources

Mark 13:22 14:53–72

104 n.56 1 n.1

Luke 11:9–10 22: 54–71

77 1 n.1

John 1 1:1 1:6–8 1:6–7 1:6 1:7 1:8 1:12–13 1:15 1:18 1:19 1:19–28 1:19–24 1:28 1:32 1:34 1:38–39 1:38 1:41 1:45 1:51 2 2:1–11 2:4 2:11 2:21 2:23–25 2:23 2:24 3 3:1 ff. 3:2 3:3–4 3:6–8 3:8 3:14 3:17 3:19–20 3:20

40 46–47; 83 34, 35 110 2 111 2; 111 74; 103 2; 34; 35; 11 124 2; 34; 35 110 59 78 111 111 50 n.3 49; 77 77; 82 77; 82 73 n.83; 110 121 93; 107–115; 120–21 73 n.83; 112 100; 112; 115; 120; 122 114 88 100 n.48; 122 122 74 103 100 n.48 74 66 66 73 n.83 127 63 112

3:25 3:31–36 3:32 3:33 3:35 3:36 4 4:9 4:10–14 4:14 4:22 4:23 4:27 4:48 5 5:15–16 5:16 5:17–18 5:17 5:18 5:19–47 5:19–30 5:19 5:20 5:22 5:23 5:24 5:27 5:30 5:31–32 5:31 5:32 5:33 5:36 5:37 5:39 5:44 5:46 6 6:14 6:36 6:40 6:42 6:53 7 7:1 7:4

51 n.10 39; 111 39; 111 39; 111 72 n.80 39; 111 74 125 74 125 n.118 125 51 n.10 51 n.10 88; 104; 122; 125 80; 123 n.112 102 30; 59; 107 30; 107 30; 107 50 n.6; 58; 59; 81; 82 59 126 126 72 n.80; 126 65; 127 126 39 65 31; 51 n.10; 65 65 30; 65 65; 126 126 65; 126 126 126 51 n.10 126 59; 73 n.83 100 n.48 124 124 101; 124 125 n.118 59; 66; 67; 78; 80; 84; 85; 101 50 n.6; 59; 67; 78; 81; 82 51 n.10; 66 n.65

Index of Ancient Sources

7:6 7:7 7:8 7:11 7:12 7:13 7:15 7:18–19 7:18 7:19 7:20 7:21–3 7:23 7:24 7:25 7:27 7:28–9 7:30 7:31 7:32 7:33–34 7:33 7:34

7:35–36 7:35 7:36 7:37–9 7:39 7:40–1 7:40 7:41 7:42 7:44 7:45–46 7:45–52 7:45 7:47 7:51 8 8:12–20 8:12 8:13–19 8:13

73 n.83 77 73 n.83 50 n.4; 59; 67; 78 81 81 81; 81 n.111; 83 66 31; 51 n.10; 66 50 n.6; 59; 66; 66 n.64; 67; 78; 81; 82 50 n.6; 59; 67; 78; 81; 82 80 n.105; 81 30; 107 29, 31; 60; 67; 80 59; 67; 78; 81 76; 101 76; 81 50 n.5; 59; 67; 73 n.83; 78; 81 101; 104 n.59 81; 81 n.111 74; 75 n.88; 76 74 43; 51; 59; 67; 71; 76; 78; 79; 79 n.102; 80; 81; 82; 83; 84 75 76 67; 78 78 n.97 115 100 104 n.59 81; 104 n.59 103 81 81 81 80 81 67; 80 59; 66; 67; 66 n.65; 78; 79; 80; 84; 85 67 44 n.171; 78 n.97 80 30

8:14–16 8:14 8:15 8:16 8:17 8:18 8:20 8:21–22 8:21–58 8:21 8:22 8:24 8:26 8:28 8:37 8:40 8:42 8:46 8:48 8:50 8:58 8:59 9 9:2 9:16–17 9:16 9:18–23 9:20 9:24–34 9:24–25 9:24 9:25 9:29 9:31–33 9:34 9:35 9:39 9:41 10:9 10:17–18 10:17 10:33 9:20 10:17–18

153 67 n.65 30, 36, 39; 107; 112 29; 65; 67; 80; 127; 127 n.124 36, 39; 67; 80; 112 30 65 73 n.83; 80 74 67 67; 75; 75 n.88; 76; 78; 84 n.119 75 44 n.171; 77 n.94 67; 80 44 n.171; 77 n.94; 78; 84 n.119 50 n.6; 59; 67; 78; 81; 82 50 n.6; 59; 67; 78; 81; 82 78 59; 63; 112 66 n.64 42; 50 n.9; 53; 64–71; 80; 82 44 n.171; 77 n.94 67 n.65; 79 11 n.36; 59; 60; 61; 62 60 59 30; 60; 102; 107 59 107 59 102 61 60; 61 61 60; 61 60 79 n.100 60; 127 60; 63 79 n.100 37 72 n.80 30 30 37

154 10:22 10:39 11 11:8 11:17 11:25 11:54 11:56–57 11:56 11:57 12 12:16 12:23 12:27 12:31 12:33 12:36 12:47 13 13–17 13:1–30 13:1 13:19 13:31 13:33 13:36 14:19 16:5 16:7 16:8–11 16:11 16:19 16:33 17:1 17:5 17:11 17:12 18 18:1–11 18:1 18:4 18:7 18:8 18: 19–24 18:28–19:16a 18:28 18:32

Index of Ancient Sources

72 n.80 50 n.5; 59; 78; 80 55 50 n.6; 59; 78; 82 79 n.100 77 n.94 52 52–53 50 n.4; 53; 59; 78 52; 53; 58 69 115; 115 n.84 69; 73 n.83; 114 73 n.83 69; 113 106 n.63 52; 123 65 78 n.95 6; 6 n.15 8 69; 73 n.83; 113 77 n.94 115 n.84; 116 74; 75; 75 n.88; 76; 78; 115 75 116 75 75 63 69; 113 51 n.10 115 73 n.83; 116 116 10 n.31; 116 115 1 n.3 81 52 49; 50 n.4; 59; 71; 78; 82 49; 50 n.4; 59; 71; 78; 28 49; 50 n.4; 59; 71; 78; 82 1 36 81 n.111 106 n.63

18:33–38 18:35 18:37 18:38

19:7 19:11 19:12 19:13 19:12–13 19:15 20:2 20:15 20:29 20:30–31 20:31 21 21:2 21:6 21:15–17 21:19 21:20 21:24–25 21:24

37 54 38 37; 37 n.150; 39; 60; 79; 79 n.102; 80; 81; 111; 112 37 37, 37 n.150; 54; 60; 79; 79 n.102; 80; 81 37; 54; 60; 79; 79 n.102; 80; 81 30; 107 37 51 n.10; 81 38 37 n.150 82 n.111 72 n.80 49 124; 127 87; 88; 100; 110; 127 104; 122 40; 78 n.95 79 n.100 79 n.100 72; 78 106 n.63 40 110 2, 35, 40

Acts 2:19 2:22 2:43 4:30 5:12 6:8 7:36 14:3 15:12

104 n.56 104 n.56 104 n.56 104 n.56 104 n.56 104 n.56 104 n.56 104 n.56 104 n.56

Romans 7 15:19

70–71 104 n.56

1 Corinthians 1:18–4:21

15 n.53

19 19:4 19:6

155

Index of Ancient Sources

2 Corinthians 12:12

104 n.56

2 Thessalonians 2:9 104 n.56

Galatians

4; 15; 15 n.54

Hebrews

104 n.56

III. Apocrypha, Pseudepigrapha and Other Jewish Literature Ahikar 3:7 3:14–15 4:1–12

84 n.117 84 84

Josephus Bellum Judaicum 12 Antiquitates Judaicae 2.274 104 n.56 3 Macc 3:24

53 n.19

On Moses 1.76–83

104 n.56

78 n.97 78 78 n.97

Susanna 12–15 27 28–40 34–40

84 n.117 84 n.118 84 84 n.118

Wisdom of Solomon 1–6 84 2:20 84 5:11 103 n.55 6:12 77 7:10 78; 78 n.97 7:26 78 7:29 78 11–19 104 n.59 19:13 103 n.55

103 n.55

Philo On Joseph 174

Sirach 1:29 24:9 51:23–4

29

IV. Early Christian Literature Acts of Paul and Thecla 19 53 n.18 40 53 n.18

Martyrdom of Polycarp 3.2 53 6.2 53

V. Classical Greek And Latin Literature Aeschylus Agamemnon 1–39 8

23 n.95 25 n.104; 30 n.122, 41 61 n.47 97

268 272 315–16 352 1366

97 97 97 97 23

156

Index of Ancient Sources

Libation Bearers 134 168–178 22; 99 205 99 195–200 100 230–46 100 Eumenides 1–3 485 569–754 576 609 664 797 798 Persians 329–30 429–30 513–14

16, 41 46 23 3, 20–21 23 23 23 23 23

119 n.99 119 n.99 119 n.99

Prometheus Bound 262 56 n.29 316 56 n.29 776 56 n.29

5.37 5.38 5.61 5.63

95 n.36 95 n.36 95 n.36 95 n.36

Aristophanes Acharnians 440–41

30 n.122

Clouds 171–2 188 208

56 n.29 56 n.29 21

Wasps 88

21

Aristotle Poetics 6 11.4 11.5–6 12 14 16.4

41 10 n.33; 18 n.67; 105 16 n.60 87 n.1 87 n.1 10 18 87 n.1

Andocides 1 (On the Mysteries) 1.13–19 55 n.24 1.17 55 n.26 1.23 55 n.24 1.27 55 n.24 1.32 55 n.24 1.34 55 n.24 1.36 55 1.40 55; 55 n.24 1.42 55 n.24 1.43 55 n.27 1.54 55 n.24 1.58 55 n.27 1.59 55 n.24 1.65 55

Prior Analytics 2.27 95 n.34 Rhetoric 1.2.2 1.2.15 1.2.17 1.2.17–18 1.2.18 1.3.1–5 1.3.7 2.24.10 2.25.8 3.1.1–10 3.7.6 16.11–12

98; 105 95 n.34 96 95 95 13 87 n.1; 95 n.34 20 87 n.1; 95 n.34 18 n.66 17 96

Antiphon Oration 1 (Against the Stepmother) 1.17 25 5.25 95 n.36 5.28 95 n.36

Cicero Brutus

290

De Inventione 1.30.48

2; 2 n.5 110

157

Index of Ancient Sources

267 282–4 329 387 390 391 529 614–733

117; 117 n.91 117 n.93 117 117 117 118 119 n.101 22 n.91

Andromache 147–273 547–746

22 n.91 22 n.91

Electra 228–30 524–26 524–46 534–37 539 541–44 988–1138

101 101 101 102 102 102 22 n.91

21 (Against Meidias) 21.120 57 n.34 21.149 24

Hecuba 1–2 1109–1292

46 22 n.91

22 (Against Androtion) 22.4 57 n.34

Helen 4 16–21 18–21 27 34–36 54 54–55 66–67 72–77 72 74 108 117–122 137–140 160–161 270

28–33; 106 31 n.124 30–31 31 n.124 31 n.124 31 n.124 31 n.124 31 31 n.124 31 n.124 31 31 31 n.124 31 n.124 31 n.124 31 n.124 31, 32

Heraclidae 120–283

22 n.91

De Oratore 1.127 1.128 3.27

26 26–27 3; 3 n.6

Demosthenes Epistle 1

8 n.25

Orations 18 (On the Crown) 14; 14 n.52; 19 nn.70, 72; 24–25 18.103 57 n.34 18.127 19 n.70 18.180 19 n.70 18.242 19 n.70 18.262 19 n.70 18.267 19 n.70 18.278 57 n.34 18.280 19 n.70

23 (Against Aristocrates) 14 n.52 24 (Against Timocrates) 24.11 54 Dinarchus 1 (Against Demosthenes) 1.4 55 Euripides Alcestis 139–40 141 244 252–58 259–60 263 266

117 117; 118 117 117 117 117 117

158 Hippolytus 902–1089 Ion 1386

Index of Ancient Sources

23 n.95 22 n.91

89

Iphigenia at Aulis 317–414 22 n.91 Medea 446–622

71 22 n.91

Orestes 470–629

16 22 n.91

Herodotos

11

Hesiod Works and Days 400 56 n.29 Homer Iliad 14.258

56 n.29

Odyssey

92

Hyperides Orations 1.7

25 12

Phoenissae 446–635

22 n.91

Lucian

Suppliants 399–580

16 22 n.91

Lysias 1 (On the Murder of Eratosthenes) 1.43 54

Trojan Women 860–1059 21 n.80 895–1059 22 n.91 Ezekiel the Tragic Poet Exagoge 12 n.45 Gorgias Encomium of Helen 6 32, 32 nn.126, 130 7 32 n.126 12 32 13 32 8–14 31–32 14 32 15–19 32 n.126 15 32 19 32

Plutarch Cicero 5

12; 29 26

Demosthenes 5–7 5–8 8.1–2

19 n.71 19 n.71 19 n.71

Polybius

12

Quintillian Inst. Orat. 5.9.1 10.1.22–23 10.1.46 10.1.66–68 10.1.67–68

2 3 n.5 87 n.1 26 26 3 26

Heliodorus Aethiopica 12 10.12

111 94 109–110

Sophocles Ajax 470 806

22 56 n.29 56 n.29

Heraclitus DK 22

28; 28 n.115

Antigone 555

22 17 n.61

159

Index of Ancient Sources

Electra 886 44–50 670–677 883–86 892–919 904 1109

88 100 100 100 100 100 100

Oedipus at Colonus 362 56 n.29 389 56 n.29 Oedipus Rex 54 69–77 87–131 102 106–107 110 132 221 223–75 224–32 232–50 236–45 244–5 266 278 279 284 297 302 316–462 316 319 320 324 330 333 345 348 350 356 362 367

24; 30 n.122; 41; 42; 54–64; 121–2 73 56 57 56; 58; 107 56 56 102 89 89 57 57 63 63 56 56 63 62 62 61 57 61 57 n.34 57 n.34 62 61 57; 62 62 61 62 62 57; 62; 81 n.110; 102 62

369 372–3 374–5 376–377 380–403 389 397–99 412 413–4 415 424 449–51 462–513 513–630 555 583–602 603 710 726–862 933 954–1085 957 1050 1058–59 1111–12 1119–85 1213 1397 1421 1518

62 62 61 64 57 61 102 61 62 62 62 57; 62 62 58 57 n.33 20 57 106 58 106 58 106 58; 106 106 57 58 58 58; 60 58 58; 69

Trachiniae 55 559–60 976

56 n.29 119 119

Tacitus Annales

Thucydides 6.27.2 6.28.1 6.29.1 6.53.1 6.53.2 6.60.4

26–28; 30 n.122 11 55 n.24; 57 n.31 55 n.24 55 n.24 55 n.24 55; 55 n.25 55 n.28

160

Index of Ancient Sources

VI. Papyri Collart, Les Papyrus Bouriant. 21 52

Mitteis, Grundzüge und Chrestomathie 1, 19 52 n.14

Index of Modern Authors Ahl, Frederick 56 n.29; 57 n.32; 61 n.47; 62 n.49 Anderson, R. Dean 5 n.9 Anderson, Paul N 2 n.3; 73 n.83; 123 n.112; 124 n.114; 127 n.124 Attridge, Harold W. 5 nn.12–13; 6; 6 nn.14, 16; 26 n.108; 73 n.83; 118; 118 n.95; 123 n.112; 124 n.126; 126; 126 n.121; 127 n.123; 129 n.2; 130; 130 n.5 Aune, David 7 n.24; 15 n.54; 45; 45 n.173 Barr, James 71 n.76; 73 n.83. Barrett, C. K. 50 n.9; 59 n.40; 63 n.50; 64 n.55; 65 n.61; 79 n.98; 104 n.59; 123; 123 n.113; 124; 124 n.115–116; 125 n.119; 126 n.120 Barrett, James 119 n.99 Bauckham, Richard 2 n.3; 34 n.133; 72 n.78; 123 n.112 Bauer, Walter 50; 50 n.8; 53; 53 n.19; 64–65; 64 nn.56–57; 68 Becker, Michael 75 n.88; 124 n.119 Bennema, Cornelis 49 n.2; 76 n.92; 77 n.93 Bers, Victor 16 nn.57–58, 60; 17 n.61; 25 n.106 Betz, Hans Dieter 4; 4 n.8; 15 n.54; 32 n.130 Beutler, Johannes 34 n.133 Bickerman, Elias 50–55; 50 nn.7, 9; 52 nn.12, 14–15; 53 n.18; 71; 133 Bittner, Wolfgang 104 n.59 Black, C. Clifton 4 n.8; 5 n.13; 6–8; 6 nn.15, 18; 7 nn.20–23; 27; 48 n.1; 85 n.121 Blaine, Bradford 72 n.80; 75 n.87; 78 n.96 Blank, Josef 29 n.119; 34 n.133, 136; 37; 37 n.152; 60 n.43 Boice, James M 34 n.133

Borgen, Peder 34 n.136; 47 n.179; 83 n.112 Brant, Jo-Ann A. 10 n.32; 11 nn.36–37; 13–15; 13 nn.46–48; 14 nn.49–50; 22 n.89; 43; 46 n.176; 58 n.38; 90–92; 91 n.11; 94 n.30; 101 n.50 Brown, Raymond 1; 1 n.2; 10 n.35; 29 n.117; 35 n.144; 59 n.40; 63 n.50; 64 n.55; 67 n.66; 73 n.83; 74 n.85; 75 n.88; 76; 76 nn.91–92; 77 n.94; 78 n.96; 104 n.59; 106 n.63; 123 n.112 Bultmann, Rudolf 4 n.5; 34 n.134; 38 n.157; 49 n.1; 50; 50 n.9; 65; 65 nn.60–62; 67 n.67; 68; 69 nn.68–69 Burgess, Theodore C. 32 n.128 Burkett, Delbert 77 n.92 Burnet, John 57 n.34 Burnett, Anne Pippin 19 n.74; 116 n.90 Burridge, R. A. 11 n.38 Buxton, R. G. A. 16 n.58; 20 n.74 Canter, H. V. 27 n.111 Carawan, Edwin 99 n.44; 103 n.52 Carey, Christopher 98 n.44 Carson, Donald 72 n.79; 72 n.81; 74 n.84; 75 n.88 Clark, D. K. 104 n.59 Clarke, Ernest G. 77 n.93 Clark-Soles, Jaime 105 n.53 Claussen, Carsten 47 n.180 Clay, Diskin 12 n.44 Collart, Paul 52 n.15 Collins, Adela Yarbro 5 n.13 Coloe, Mary L. 36; 36 n.147 Connick, C. Milo 10 n.35 Cory, Catherine 76 n.91; 78 n.96–97; 79; 79 n.99; 84; 84 nn.114–119 Cribiore, R. 8 n.27; 28 n.114

162

Index of Ancient Sources

Culpepper, R. Alan 6 n.15; 49 n.1; 73 n.83; 74 n.84, 86; 75 n.87; 85 n.121; 90–92; 90 nn.8–10; 91 nn.11, 16; 94 n.30; 113 n.80; Dahl, Nils 34–35; 34 n.138; 35 nn.139–141; 40; 103; 103 n.54; 115 n.84 Dale, A. M. 117 n.92 Daube, David 102; 102 n.51; 103 n.52 Davies, W. D. 85; 85 n.121 Dawe, R. D. 57 n.33; 62 n.48; 89; 89 n.6; 129 n.1 De Lacy, Phillip 12 n.44; De La Potterie, Ignace 38; 38 n.155; 69; 69 n.72; 112; 112 n.79 Dietzfelbinger, Christian 64 n.55; 66 n.64 Dodd, C. H. 29; 29 n.117; 67 n.65; 104 n.59 Domeris, William 11 n.36 Dorjahn, A. P. 17 n.63; 19 n.73 Dover, K. J. 72 n.80; Duke, Paul D. 11 n.36; 46 n.176 Easterling, P. E. 11; 11 n.39 Eden, Kathy 2 n.4; 20 n.79; 21 n.85; 22 n.86; 24 n.98; 27 n.111; 95 n.34; 96–97; 96 n.37; 97 nn.39–41; 99 n.45; 100 n.49; 110 nn.73–74 Else, G. F. 21; 21 nn.84–85 Engberg-Pedersen, Troels 44 n.168; 45 nn.172–174 Fagles, Robert 46 n.178 Fairweather, Janet 15 n.54 Feldman, Louis 12 n.42 Fitzgerald, John T. 45; 45 n.172; 52 n.11 Fornara, Charles 8 n.27; 12 n.41 Fortna, Robert T. 123 n.111 Fredriksen, Paula 2 n.3 Freese, J. H. 17 n.64 Frey, Jörg 6 n.15; 29 n.117; 36 n.147; 47 n.180; 73 n.83; 85 n.121; 115 nn.85–87; 124 n.114 Furley, William D. 55 n.23 Fyfe, Hamilton 87 n.3 Gagarin, Michael 20 nn.76–77; 24 n.100; 25 n.104; 98 n.43; 103 n.52

Garland, Robert 116 n.88 Garner, Richard 16 n.58; 56 n.29 Garvie, A. F. 19 n.74 Gibson, Craig A. 5 n.13; 8; 8 nn.27–28; 9; 17 n.62. Goldhill, Simon 25; 25 n.105; 30 n.122; 56 n.29; 61 n.47; 98 n.42 Gould, John 117 n.92 Greeven, Heinrich 51 n.10; 65; 65 n.63 Gregory, J. W. 116 n.190; 131 n.6 Greiffenhagen, G. 56 n.29 Griffith, Mark 10 n.34 Grimaldi, William M. A. 95 n.35 Hall, Edith 3; 3 n.7; 15; 15 n.55; 16 n.58; 17 nn.60, 63–64; 19 n.69, 71; 73; 20 n.79; 24 n.98, 101; 25 n.104; 41; 41 n.165 Halliwell, Stephen 18 n.67 Harris, Elizabeth 11 n.36 Harvey, A. E. 34 n.137; 44 n.169; 59 n.42; 87 n.2; Hengel, Martin 10 n.33; 124 n.114 Hirsch-Luipold, Rainer 29; 29 n.117; 45 n.175; Hitchcock, F. R. M. 10 n.33 Hock, Ronald F. 5 n.13; L’Hoir, Francesca Santoro 26; 26 nn.108–109; 27; 27 n.112; 30 n.122; 61 n.47 Holloway, Paul 6 n.15; 14 n.51; 47 n.180 Hooker, Morna 104 n.59 Hoskyns, Edwyn 38 n.157; 49 n.1; 50; 50 n.9; 64–65; 64 n.58; 65 n.59; 67–68; 67 n.67; 68 n.70 Hudson-Williams, H. Ll. 32 nn.129–130 Hylen, Susan 104 n.59 Hutson, Lorna 2; 2 nn.4–5; 96 n.37 Jacobson, H. 12 n.45 Jebb, R. C. 89 n.5 Johns, L. and Miller, D. 34 n.137; 87 n.2; 104 n.59; 105 n.61; 122 n.109; 125–127; 125 n.118; 126 n.121 De Jonge, M. 122 n.109 Käsemann, Ernst 120; 120 nn.104–105 Keener, Craig 61; 61 n.46; 73 n.83

Index of Ancient Sources

Kells, J. H. 73 n.82 Kennedy, George 6–7; 6 nn.15, 19; 14 n.51; 15 n.54; 17 n.60; 24 n.100; 87 n.2 Kierspel, Lars 82 n.111; 125 n.119 Kirk, Raven and 28 n.115 Schofield Klassen, W. 34 n.138; 52 n.13 Klauck, H. –J. 7 n.24; 16 n.59 Klink, Edward 35 n.142; 72 n.78 Knox, Bernard 21 n.83; 56 nn.29–30; 57 n.34; 62; 62 n.49 Koester, Craig R. 29 n.119; 122 n.110; 131 n.6 Kokolakis, M. 12 n.44 Konishi, H. 20 n.74 Konstan, David 21 n.82; 72 n.80 Kuhns, R. F. 24 n.98 Lagrange, M.-J. 50; 50 n.9; 64; 64 n.58 Lang, Manfred 6 n.15 Larsen, Kasper Bro 34 n.137; 61 n.47; 90–95; 90 nn.8, 10; 91 nn.11, 13, 16; 92 nn.18–20; 93 nn.22–25; 94 nn.27–30; 95 n.33; 100 n.47; 106 n.62; 108–111; 108 nn.68 – 69. 109 nn.70–71; 110 n.72; 112 n.79; 113 n.80; 114 Lewis, R. G. 55; 56 nn.29–30; 57 n.31; 58 nn.36, 39; 69 n.73; 106 n.63 Lincoln, Andrew 1 n.3; 6; 6 n.16; 7 n.21; 13; 29 n.118; 30 n.120; 35; 35 nn.143–44; 36 n.146; 37 n.150; 38 n.157; 40; 40 nn.160–163; 44 n.169; 45; 45 n.171; 60 n.44; 63 n.51; 68 n.71; 70; 70 n.74; 80 n.104; 91–93; 91 nn.11–12, 14–16; 92 n.16; 96; 103 n.53; 107 n.64; 113 n.80; 127 n.124 Littlewood, C. A. J. 136 n.9 Lloyd, Michael 22 nn.90–91; 23; 23 nn.; 92, 95–96 Lloyd-Jones, Hugh 56 n.30; 64 n.53 Long, A. A. 56 n.29 Lukacs, G. 114; 114 n.82; 119 n.102 MacDowell, D. M. 23 nn.93–94; 31 n.125; 32 nn.126, 129; 55 n.22 MacRae, George W. 11 n.36 Martin, Dale 44 n.168

163

Martyn, J. Louis 7 n.21; 11 n.36; 35; 35 n.142; 40; 104 n.59 McCool, F. J. 74 n.85 McGaughey, J. 117 n.92 Meeks, Wayne 34 n.136; 36; 36 n.148; 38 nn.156–157; 39 n.158; 44 n.168; 60 n.44; 67 n.66; 72 n.78; 74 n.84; 82 n.111; 104 n.59; 111; 111 n.76 Mitchell, Margaret M. 5 n.8; 6 n.17; 10 n.33; 15 nn.53–54; 18 n.67; 45; 45 n.174; 71 n.76 Mitteis, Ludwig 52 n.14 Moloney, Francis 50 n.3; 59 nn.40, 42; 64 n.55; 66 n.65; 67 n.66; 72; 72 n.80; 74 n.85; 76 n.92; 112 n.78; 114 n.83 Morris, Leon 73 n.82 Mossman, J. M. 12 n.44 Muilenberg, James 10 n.35 Murnaghan, Sheila 87 n.3 Neyrey, Jerome 9; 9 n.29; 44; 44 n.169; 45 n.170; 50 n.3; 59; 59 n.41; 60 n.44; 67 nn.65–66; 68 n.71; 77 n.94; 79–81; 79 n.99; 80 n.108; 81 n.109 Nickelsburg, G. W. E. 84; 84 nn.114, 120 Nongbri, Brent 26 n.107 North, Helen 17 n.63 Ober, Josiah 16 n.58; 18; 18 n.68; 19 nn.71, 73 O’Day, Gail R. 75 n.89; 76 n.90 Okure, Teresa 74 n.85 Painter, John 49 n.1; 51 n.10 Pancaro, Severino 29 n.118; 30 n.121; 34 n.135; 107 n.65 Papillon, Terry 14 n.52 Parsenios, George 5 n.12; 6 n.15; 10 n.31; 130 nn.3–4 Petersen, Norman 71 n.77; 72 n.78 Philips, Peter M. 6 n.16; 11 n.36 Pickard-Cambridge, A. 18 n.66; 21 n.85 Porsch, J. L. 74 n.85 Porter, Stanley 5 n.9; 8 n.26; 16 n.58 Price, Jonathan 12 n.42 Rabinowitz, N. S. 20 n.74 Rehm, Rush 20 n.79; 22; 22 n.87; 23 n.97

164

Index of Ancient Sources

Rengstorf, Karl 73 n.83 Rensberger, David 60 n.45 Richard, E. 74 n.86 Ringe, Sharon 77 n.92 Robertson, H. G. 23 n.98 Rosati, Gianpiero 12 n.43 Rothschild, Clare K. 5 n.11; 8 n.27 Rowe, G. 25 n.103 Ryan, Eugene E. 17 n.60 Said, Edward 136; 136 n.7 Ste. Croix, G. E. M. 21 n.82 Salier, Willis H. 34 n.137; 43; 43 n.166; 44 n.167; 87; 87 n.2; 92; 92 n.21; 93; 93 nn.25–26; 94 n.31; 96; 103 n.55; 104 n.59; 106 n.63; 108 n.67; 121; 121 n.107; 122 n.109; 125 n.147; 134 Salkever, Stephen G. 17; 17 n.62 Sandy, Gerald N. 12 n.43 Sattler, William 18 n.65 Scafuro, Adela 21; 21 n.81 Schenke, Ludger 11 n.37 Schnackenburg, Rudolf 53–54; 53 n.20; 64 n.55; 67 n.66 Scodel, Ruth 16 n.58; 17 n.61; 20 n.75; 24 n.99 Segal, Charles 20 n.78; 30 n.122; 46; 46 n.177; 57 nn.33–35; 61 n.47; 89; 89 n.7; 116 n.90 Seidensticker, B. 131 n.6 Sinclair, Patrick 136; 136 n.8 Smith, D. Moody 1 n.3; 6 n.15; 35–36; 35 nn.143–144; 36 nn.145–146; 66 n.64; 120 n.106 Smith, Wesley D. 116 n.90 Solmsen, F. 96 n.36; 103 n.52 Steel, Catherine 3 n.6 Stibbe, Mark 10 n.33; 11 n.36; 51 n.10; 77 n.93

Stowers, Stanley K. 4 n.8; 70; 71 n.75 Strachan, R. H. 10 n.35 Stube, John Carlson 5 n.12 Sutton, E. W. 27 n.110 Taplin, Oliver 10 n.53; 18 n.67 Thompson, M. M. 120 nn.104–106; 122 n.109 Thyen, Hartwig 64 n.55 Trites, Allison A. 34 n.133 Van Belle, Gilbert 69 n.71; 122 n.108; Van Der Watt, Jan 37; 37 nn.150, 153–154; 40; 40 n.159; 60 n.44; 68 n.71; 80 n.108 Verburg, Winfried 58 n.38 Vermeule, E. 116 n.88 Vernant, J. P. 24 n.98 Walbank, F. W. 12 n.41 Wardy, Robert 29 n.116; 33; nn.131–132 Watson, Duane F. 5 nn.8–9, 13 Westcott, B. F. 53 n.19 Wiles, Maurice 74 n.85 Wilke, C. G. 4 n.8 Wilkenson, K. 20 n.74 Wilson, Nigel 56 n.30 Wilson, Peter J. 24 n.102 Wise, Jennifer 20 n.79; 22 n.86 Wright, Matthew 30 n.122; 31 nn.124–125; 32 n.127 Xanthakis-Karamanos, G. 16 n.58; 17 n.61 Yunis, Harvey 14 n.52; 19 n.72 Zanetto, G. 12 n.44

Index of Subjects Agôn Logôn (contest of speeches) 22–23 Appearance / reality 28–33; 37–9; 43; 60–71; 80; 98 n.42; 131–32 Blindness / sight 30, n.122; 59–64; 102; 122 Chreia 5; 9 Dialectical theology of John 121–128 Glory 42; 51 n.10; 53; 64–71; 93; 111–13; 115; 120–21; 133 Hour (of Jesus) 51 n.10; 68 n.71; 69; 73 n.83; 111–121 Innocence / guilt 1; 3 n.5; 28–34; 37–41; 44; 60; 80; 84; 88–94; 105–8; 121; 127 Judgment 1; 23 n.97; 29–31; 34; 36–42; 50 n.9; 51 n.10; 53; 60; 63- 71; 75–76; 79 n.98; 80–81; 94; 97–9; 103; 111–13; 126- 27; 130–34 Judaism / Hellenism 42–47; 12 n.45; 82–5; 104–5; 128 Language, John’s use of 71–74 Legal reversal 29–43; 45; 58–71 Probability, argument from 20; 23 n.95; 24; 98 Pilate 1; 10 n.35; 29; 34 n.135; 36–41; 51 n.10; 54; 60; 69–70; 79- 82; 111–12; 132 Prologues (in drama and in John) 46–7; 76 n.92; 83; 100–2

Proofs (artistic / inartistic) 98–105 Recognition 54; 56; 87–107 Rhetoric 2–10; 13–33; 54–6; 90–7 Seeking 24; 41–3; 49–86; 132–3 Sententiae 135–7 Signs 24; 41; 134–5 – in rhetoric 94–7, 110 – in drama 94–106 – in Aristotle 94–7 – in John 34; 107–111; 121–8 Stichomythia 21–24 Symbolon 88–90; 97 Theatricalization of ancient culture 11, 28 Truth 29–32; 38–9; 40 n.159 Wisdom 42–3; 49–52; 76–8; 81 n.111; 82–5 Wisdom tale 82–5 Witness / testimony 1; 2; 3; 21; 23; 30; 34–36; 39–42; 59; 62; 65; 67; 93; 94; 98; 107–11; 123 n.112; 126–7; 133–5 Knowledge / Ignorance 30 n.122; 56; 61–2; 87; 97; 108; 122; 131