Sceptic and Believer in Ancient Mediterranean Religions (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen Zum Neuen Testament, 443) 9783161563058, 9783161592492, 3161563050

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Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Herausgeber/Editor Jörg Frey (Zürich) Mitherausgeber/Associate Editors Markus Bockmuehl (Oxford) ∙ James A. Kelhoffer (Uppsala) Tobias Nicklas (Regensburg) ∙ Janet Spittler (Charlottesville, VA) J. Ross Wagner (Durham, NC)

443

Sceptic and Believer in Ancient Mediterranean Religions Edited by

Babett Edelmann-Singer, Tobias Nicklas, Janet Spittler, and Luigi Walt

Mohr Siebeck

Babett Edelmann-Singer, b. 1975; 2005 Promotion; 2013 Habilitation; since 2018 Heisenberg Fellow at Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München, Germany; Research Associate at the Department of Greek, Latin, and Classical Studies, University of the Free State, Bloemfontein, South Africa; 2019–2020 Visiting Associate Professor at Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München, Germany. Tobias Nicklas, b. 1967; 2000 Promotion; 2004 Habilitation; since 2007 Professor of New Testament at Universität Regensburg, Germany; Research Associate at the Department of New Testament, University of the Free State, Bloemfontein, South Africa; since 2018 Director of the Centre for Advanced Studies “Beyond Canon”, Universität Regensburg, Germany; since 2019 Adjunct Ordinary Professor at the Catholic University of America, Washington, DC. Janet E. Spittler, b. 1976; 2007 PhD; since 2017 Associate Professor of Religious Studies, University of Virginia, USA; Research Associate at the Department of Greek, Latin, and Classical Studies, University of the Free State, Bloemfontein, South Africa. Luigi Walt, b. 1975; 2008 PhD; since 2013 co-chair and member of the scientific committee at the Italian Centre for Advanced Studies on Religions (CISSR), Bertinoro, Italy; since 2018 Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the Centre for Advanced Studies “Beyond Canon”, Universität Regensburg, Germany.

ISBN 978-3-16-156305-8 / eISBN 978-3-16-159249-2 DOI 10.1628/978-3-16-159249-2 ISSN 0512-1604 / eISSN 2568-7476 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament) The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2020 Mohr Siebeck Tübingen, Germany. www.mohrsiebeck.com 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 and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was typeset by epline in Böblingen using Minion typeface, printed on non-aging paper by Gulde Druck in Tübingen, and bound by Buchbinderei Spinner in Ottersweier. Printed in Germany.

Table of Contents Introduction  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . � VII Clifford Ando Disbelief and Cognate Concepts in Roman Antiquity  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . �  1 Jan Assmann Ancient Egyptian Disbelief in the Promises of Eternity  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . � 21 Tim Whitmarsh The Invention of Atheism and the Invention of Religion in Classical Athens  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . � 37 Jan N. Bremmer Youth, Atheism, and (Un)Belief in Late Fifth-Century Athens  . . . . . . . . . . . . � 53 Matthew A. Fox Disbelief in Rome: A Reappraisal  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . � 69 Babett Edelmann-Singer “Who Will Worship This Man as a God, Who Will Believe in Him?” – Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis and the Hermeneutical Categories of Belief and Scepticism in Emperor Cult  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . � 93 Kai Trampedach Plutarch als Apologet des Orakels von Delphi  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . �111 Janet Downie Belief and Doubt in Aelius Aristides’s Isthmian Oration: To Poseidon  . . . . . . �127 Inger N. I. Kuin Loukianos Atheos? Humour and Religious Doubt in Lucian of Samosata . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . �147 Tobias Nicklas Skepsis und Christusglaube: Funktionen, Räume und Impulse des Zweifels bei Paulus  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . �165

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David P. Moessner Luke as Sceptical “Insider” – Re-configuring the “Tradition” by Re-figuring the “Synoptic” Plot  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . �185 Benjamin Schliesser The Gospel for Sceptics: Doubting Thomas (John 20:24–29) and Early Christian Identity Formation  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . �203 Anna Van den Kerchove “Why Do You Doubt?” – Scepticism and Some Nag Hammadi Writings  . . . �227 Richard L. Gordon Evading Doubt: Astrology and Magic in the Greco-Roman Period  . . . . . . . . �243 General Bibliography  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . �269 List of Contributors  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . �303 Index of Sources  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . �305 Index of Modern Authors  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . �321 Index of Names, Places, and Subjects  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . �329

Introduction The majority of the essays collected in this volume were presented and discussed during the conference “Test Everything”: Sceptic and Believer in Ancient Med­ iterranean Religions, which took place on October 18–20, 2017, at the University of Regensburg, Germany. The meeting was organized as a joint venture by the Regensburg chairs of Ancient History (Babett Edelmann-Singer) and New Testament Studies (Tobias Nicklas) together with Janet E. Spittler (University of Virginia). It was based on an idea first proposed by Margaret M. Mitchell (University of Chicago), who, unfortunately, could not be present at the conference. The meeting understood itself as a continuation of a 2011 symposium on different perspectives on the miraculous in ancient Mediterranean antiquity.1 While the 2011 conference focused on the culturally and situationally conditioned borderlands between credibility and incredibility with respect to religious accounts, the 2017 meeting was interested in the expression of scepticism and disbelief towards one’s own tradition – a phenomenon we began to refer to with the shorthand “insider doubt.” It concentrated on a timeframe between roughly the second millennium BCE and the third century CE. The main questions we wanted to approach  – from a number of different perspectives, with diverse methodological and regional foci, and thus within a multidisciplinary atmosphere – were the following: If doubt (or scepticism) is present, what, specifically, is doubted? Where is doubt (or scepticism) acceptable? Where is this not the case? How is doubt expressed within a specific religious community, and what reactions does it provoke? How does “insider doubt” differ from the sceptical attitude of outsiders? We are fully aware that this volume cannot cover the whole spectrum of issues related to the topic of “insider doubt,” not least because the 2017 meeting raised as many new questions as it answered. While the present volume includes and benefits greatly from essays kindly provided by Tim Whitmarsh (which were originally conceived for a project of his own),2 we intend to fill still more gaps with a follow-up meeting, planned to be held at the University of Virginia within the next few years. Nevertheless, we are already able to formulate a first set of preliminary results: 1  Published in Tobias Nicklas and Janet E. Spittler, ed., Credible, Incredible: The Mira­ culous in the Ancient Mediterranean (WUNT 321; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013). 2  Tim provided us with the essays of Jan Assmann, Clifford Ando, and Matthew Fox that he planned to edit within a volume on Disbelief in the Ancient Mediterranean. We are extremely thankful for his generous support to our project.

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(1)  Starting with the contribution by Clifford Ando, all essays in this volume are (on different levels) concerned with problems of terminology and categorization. Most readers of this volume will be well aware of both the fact that our contemporary concepts of “religion,” “belief,” “faith,” “scepticism,” “doubt” or even “atheism” are not identical with the emic categories used in ancient sources and the difficulties this fact entails. That said, we are confident that these terms can be useful as long as they are well-defined and understood as etic categories. This is especially the case with the contemporary term “religion,” the use of which has been heavily criticized in recent years by authors such as Brent Nongbri, Carlin A. Barton, and Daniel Boyarin.3 While the essays presented here vary somewhat in their definitions of terms like “faith,” “scepticism,” or even “atheism” (this diversity being related to the different sources dealt with), all of them understand the basic phenomenon of doubt as only comprehensible in complex relation to belief. Doubt, as we understand it, is always entangled with specific conceptions of faith, belief, and religious practice. To this another complex of terms must be added, namely the “polarity between knowledge and belief,” as it can, for example, be observed in the writings of Cicero and Augustine.4 An even sharper antagonism is seen by Tim Whitmarsh, who explicitly relates the “invention” of atheism to the “invention” of religion and places this development in the Athens of the late 430s BCE.5 (2)  The expression of doubt is only possible in contexts that offer space for aspects of personal, individual belief. While scholars have long connected the rise of individual belief to late Medieval and early Renaissance societies in the so-called West, Jörg Rüpke and others have recently dismantled this notion, revealing it to be a modern construction determined by the limited access to individual perception and belief afforded by our extant sources.6 This conclusion is confirmed by many observations offered in the articles collected in this 3  Cf. Brent Nongbri, Before Religion: A  History of a Modern Concept (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2013); Carlin A. Barton and Daniel Boyarin, Imagine No Re­ ligion: How Modern Abstractions Hide Ancient Realities (New York: Fordham University Press, 2016); and the criticism by Tim Whitmarsh, “The Invention of Atheism and the Invention of Religion in Classical Athens,” in the present volume. 4  See Clifford Ando, “Disbelief and Cognate Concepts in Roman Antiquity,” in the present volume. This also explains our decision to open the volume with Ando’s contribution, to signal how much of our modern terminology still depends on a set of categories germinated by the early Christian appropriation – and polemical adaptation – of the vocabulary of ancient Roman reflection on “religion.” 5 See Whitmarsh, “The Invention of Atheism.” 6  Cf., for example, Jörg Rüpke, Aberglaube oder Individualität? Religiöse Abweichung im römischen Reich (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013); or idem, “Individualization and Privatization,” in Oxford Handbook for the Study of Religion, ed. Michael Stausberg and Steven Engler (2nd edition; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 702–717; but cf. also the essays in the forthcoming volume by Maren Niehoff and Joshua Levinson, ed., Self, Self-Fashioning, and Individuality: New Perspectives (Culture, Religion, and Politics in the Graeco-Roman World; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019).



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volume. Jan Bremmer’s contribution, for example, highlights the emergence in late fifth-century Athens of a cluster of texts that show an increasing scepticism towards traditional forms of belief. However, even if they are related to wider historical trends and shifts, and even if such trends and shifts should not be underestimated, these texts are to be seen as witnesses of individual cases, not a monolithic movement.7 Babett Edelmann-Singer’s article, in turn, shows that one cannot answer the traditional question whether “the” Romans believed in the divinity of their living and their deceased emperors by a simple “yes” or “no.” Instead, different individuals reveal different stances towards different aspects of the cult (and even Seneca the Younger, who is able to make fun of Claudius, should not too quickly be counted as a critic of the emperor cult per se).8 Likewise, Inger Kuin shows how difficult it is to find even Lucian of Samosata’s real attitude towards religion behind the many (partly contradictory) authorial masks he wears.9 (3)  All essays in this collection confirm (and offer partly new material to) Tim Whitmarsh’s thesis that doubt towards one’s own religious tradition is not simply a “Western” post-Enlightenment phenomenon.10 Jan Assmann, for example, points to sources from the Middle Kingdom of Egypt, which demonstrate clear signs of scepticism towards Egyptian ideas about the afterlife (and the importance of being buried in a proper tomb).11 And while several con­ tributions deal with aspects of Greco-Roman religion, it becomes clear that even Christianity is able to include aspects of doubt and scepticism in its system.12 Matthew Fox’s article goes even further, arguing that Enlightenment criticisms of religion (and related forms of atheism) are not an isolated phenomenon, but can be traced to the Renaissance re-discovery of Greco-Roman antiquity, demonstrating the extent to which arguments developed by Cicero (mainly in De natura deorum) were re-used and integrated into Enlightenment discourses.13 7  See Jan N. Bremmer, “Youth, Atheism, and (Un)Belief in Late Fifth-Century Athens,” in the present volume. 8  See Babett Edelmann-Singer, “‘Who Will Worship This Man as a God, Who Will Believe in Him?’ Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis and the Hermeneutical Categories of Belief and Scepticism in Emperor Cult,” in the present volume. 9  See Inger Kuin, “Loukianos Atheos? Humour and Religious Doubt in Lucian of Samosata,” in the present volume. 10  Cf. Tim Whitmarsh, Battling the Gods: Atheism in the Ancient World (New York: Alfred E. Knopf, 2015), 4–12. 11 See Jan Assmann, “Ancient Egyptian Disbelief in the Promises of Eternity,” in the present volume. 12  This, in a certain sense, seems to go against Whitmarsh, Battling the Gods, 11 and 241–242. However, the concrete question of whether monotheistic religions like Judaism, Christianity, and Islam allow space for doubt and criticism or even need it, has to be deepened and will be a crucial topic for the follow-up meeting. 13  See the closing lines of Matthew Fox, “Disbelief in Rome: A Reappraisal,” in the present

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(4) Doubt towards one’s own religious tradition finds particularly fertile ground in communities and societies that offer room for a distanced reflection on religious practice and belief. This is usually not the case in contexts that focus primarily on religious practice and where the transmission of this practice functions via forms of imitation of earlier generations. The emerging world of books, moreover, with its related opportunities for theoretical study, paves the way for forms of reflection that can lead to doubt and scepticism. And indeed, many of the sources discussed in this volume are authored by highly educated intellectuals engaging with this world of books: Cicero, Ovid, Seneca, Plutarch, Aelius Aristides, Lucian of Samosata, and others. Yet one should not go so far as to imagine that “insider doubt” and “scepticism” are only to be found in circles of highly learned “intellectuals”:14 as underscored by Tobias Nicklas in his essay, the early Christians’ idea of a “discernment of spirits”  – related to the understanding of phenomena within their own religious movement  – is something that is expected not just of a certain elite, but of every believing person.15 (5)  At least some religious traditions offer opportunities and contexts wherein aspects of doubt are not just tolerated but are accepted, perhaps even expected. In his contribution, for example, Jan Assmann identifies literary genres related to certain events in a person’s life (like a widow’s lament over her dead husband) wherein scepticism can find a regular expression. Janet Downie speaks about Plutarch and others who regarded “some measure of rational doubt” as “necessary for a healthy religious attitude.”16 And several systems indicate limits of accepted scepticism or distance: while the post-mortem “image” of emperor Claudius allowed a distanced attitude towards his cult, the question of how far this distance and even scepticism could go was in the hands of the ruling emperor; and, of course, a figure like Paul, for whom “faith in Jesus Christ” was a key of his theology, could not accept disbelief towards the basic assumptions of his “gospel.” (6)  In many cases, doubt and scepticism towards certain religious ideas or aspects of belief also served as a motor for creative reinterpretation of those ideas. This is the case for many aspects of early Christian theology and Gnostic thought, examined here by David P. Moessner, Benjamin Schliesser, and volume: “The entire notion of intellectual freedom which is fundamental to the modern academy is built upon a sharpening of intellectual tools, which is in no small part a response to the ideas of freedom from doctrinal authority. The Roman discussion of disbelief is a fundamental part of that tradition, and the Enlightenment encounter with it is where our own aspirations to freedom of thought coalesce with the Roman exploration of that idea.” 14  The term “intellectual” is, of course, a problematic one. 15  See Tobias Nicklas, “Skepsis und Christusglaube. Funktionen, Räume und Impulse des Zweifels bei Paulus,” in the present volume. 16  See Janet Downie, “Belief and Doubt in Aelius Aristides’s Isthmian Oration: To Posei­ don,” in the present volume.



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Anna Van den Kerchove.17 Likewise, Janet Downie’s contribution shows how a second-century author like Aelius Aristides developed criteria which allowed him to rework and rewrite myths to adapt them to the requirements of rational reflection, while Kai Trampedach deals with Plutarch’s apology for the oracles, which he understands as an implicit but very clear witness of increasing insider doubts concerning the truthfulness of the Delphic Oracle. Interestingly, Plutarch manages to cope with the serious objections raised, but at the same time needs to completely re-configure and re-interpret decisive aspects of the tradition.18 (7)  At least in some cases, special historical circumstances can be related to waves of doubt and scepticism towards traditional beliefs. Whereas, for example, Jan Assmann regards it as possible that the Amarna experience – “the incredibly bold step of Akhenaten to discard the whole traditional belief system in favour of a radically new one”19 – provided a decisive impulse for scepticism against traditional Egyptian beliefs, Jan Bremmer relates the development of a cluster of “sceptical” texts in late fifth-century Athens to “the trials of that time.”20 These observations indicate a path that could be followed more thoroughly in future meetings and volumes. (8)  Even sources that evince techniques for avoiding or counteracting any kind of doubt concerning a religious practice, belief, or system, reveal indirectly that they are in fact confronted with doubt and scepticism, even as they reject such attitudes. As Richard Gordon illustrates in the essay that closes the volume, magical and astrological systems allow doubt only as a criticism of other experts within the same system; thus criticism that could be expressed as “insider doubt” is redirected towards the development of strategies “for coping with possible or claimed disconfirmation.”21 The possibility of doubt is, in a sense, frontloaded in the opaque complexity of an adequate preparation of a horoscope or a magical recipe: the superior expertise required of the astrologer or magician and the intricacy of the calculations and recipes integrate the possibility of failure, channelling any doubts towards the competence of the practitioner and away from the system itself.

17  See, respectively, David P. Moessner, “Luke as Sceptical ‘Insider’: Re-configuring the ‘Tradition’ by Re-figuring the ‘Synoptic’ Plot”; Benjamin Schliesser, “The Gospel for Sceptics: Doubting Thomas (John 20:24–29) and Early Christian Identity Formation”; and Anna Van den Kerchove, “‘Why Do You Doubt?’ Scepticism and Some Nag Hammadi Writings,” in the present volume. 18  See Kai Trampedach, “Plutarch als Apologet des Orakels von Delphi,” in the present volume. 19  Assmann, “Ancient Egyptian Disbelief.” 20  Bremmer, “Youth, Atheism and (Un)Belief.” 21 See Richard Gordon, “Evading Doubt: Astrology and Magic in the Graeco-Roman Period,” in the present volume.

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(9)  While a monotheistic religion like Christianity straightforwardly rejects serious signs of “atheism,” and from its earliest period develops a creed that must be accepted by all its followers, it is certainly not immune to “insider doubt.” Early Christianity not only integrates aspects of scepticism, it in fact owes important parts of its self-reflection, that is, its theology, to forms of doubt and scepticism that can already be found at its roots. This is shown  – in different ways  – by each of the three contributions related to early Christianity in our volume: David Moessner understands Luke as a sceptic who critically screens the traditions transmitted to him and is thus able to come to a radical revision of the material which was handed down to him; Benjamin Schliesser suggests looking at the Gospel of John as a “Gospel for sceptical believers”; and Tobias Nicklas argues that even the apostle Paul, who in his extant letters never shows traces of doubt or tolerance towards unbelief, is able to integrate scepticism towards different phenomena (such as glossolalia, prophecy etc.) found in the new movement. These initial observations on Christianity certainly require further discussion; we hope, in future conferences and volumes, to turn more deeply to related phenomena in Jewish and Islamic sources. Finally, among the many new questions and paths for further research that emerged at the conference itself and through the planning and editing of this volume, we would highlight the following: (1)  What can be said about the relationship between increasing textualization or scripturalization22 and the emergence of “insider doubt”? (2)  Why do some systems allow and even integrate some aspects of doubt while others seem unable to tolerate it? (3) To what extent do historical developments cause “waves” of “insider doubt” and to what extent does this relate to different “systems” of belief? And to what extent is “insider doubt” a dynamic promoter of historical development? It would not be appropriate to conclude this introduction without expressing our gratitude to the different people who made this conference possible. We are grateful to the Regensburger Universitätsstiftung Hans Vielberth for a grant which offered the financial means to organize the conference at Regensburg. The concrete organization of the meeting was in the hands of Gertraud Kumpfmüller, secretary at the chair of New Testament Studies, whose work went far beyond what one can usually expect. A whole team of helpers before, 22  For critical discussion on these two terms, cf. recently Vincent L. Wimbush, ed., Theo­ rizing Scriptures: New Critical Orientations to a Cultural Phenomenon (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2008); Joachim Schaper, ed., Die Textualisierung der Religion (FAT 62; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009); and James W. Watts, ed., Iconic Books and Texts (Sheffield and Bristol: Equinox, 2013); cf. also Duncan MacRae, Legible Religion: Books, Gods, and Rituals in Roman Culture (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 2016); and Guy G. Stroumsa, The Scriptural Universe of Ancient Christianity (Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 2016).



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during, and after the conference made this publication possible. We would like to mention Judith Bauer, Judith König, Elena Köstner, Felix Schmutterer, and members of the University of Regensburg Centre for Advanced Studies “Beyond Canon” (DFG‑Kollegforschungsgruppe FOR 2770). We would also like to thank the publishing house Mohr Siebeck, especially Dr. Katharina Gutekunst and Elena Müller, for taking care of the process of publication. Regensburg, Munich, and Charlottesville, May 2019 Babett Edelmann-Singer, Tobias Nicklas, Janet E. Spittler, and Luigi Walt

Disbelief and Cognate Concepts in Roman Antiquity Clifford Ando 1. Introduction The epistemology of religion in ancient and late ancient Mediterranean religions has been a burgeoning field of study in recent years. In particular, much valuable work has been done to explore and elaborate a distinction drawn already in antiquity, between religions that understood themselves as empiricist in orientation and so based on knowledge, and others that posited a basis beyond verification and so claimed to rest upon the belief of their adherents. Jan Assmann has suggested that this distinction has historically been drawn at those moments when religions he terms secondary sought to separate themselves from the primary religions that populated their context: primary religions are polytheistic, empiricist, knowledge-based, porous, international, and open to translation. Secondary religions separated themselves by identifying certain axes of analysis as salient and making strong claims to distinction along them: they might be monotheistic, oriented to belief, closed and exclusive.1 This is not the place to discuss Assmann’s broader claims in detail, the focus of this essay and volume being on epistemology. However, it merits observation that Assmann’s project coheres with others in the history of late antiquity, focused on acts of distinction between Judaism and Christianity, on the one hand, and Christianity and Islam, on the other.2 In these cases, it is not any simple distinction between primary and secondary religions, or between monotheism and polytheism that was at stake. Rather, this body of scholarship demonstrates that the clarity of the boundary between cultural systems – indeed, their status as separate systems – as well as the severity with which that boundary was policed, 1  This is a crude representation of what Assmann has termed “the Mosaic distinction,” first fully elaborated in Jan Assmann, Moses the Egyptian: The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997), a learned and elegant work. Assmann has responded to the enormous literature it generated in Of God and Gods: Egypt, Israel, and the Rise of Monotheism (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2008); and The Mosaic Distinction or The Price of Monotheism (tr. Robert Savage; Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010). 2 Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004); and Thomas N. Sizgorich, Violence and Belief in Late Antiquity: Militant Devotion in Christianity and Islam (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), are among the most ambitious works in this domain.

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Clifford Ando

all rested upon political concerns in the contexts in which the boundary was first drawn, even as their subsequent re-articulations have reflected the contingent concerns in the contexts of those iterations. Importantly, the contexts are ones of sameness: the need to draw the boundary arises out of an anxiety about the potentially same, for whom, and about whom, one does not wish to be mistaken.3 Two points of relevance to the present inquiry follow from this observation. First, in order to be effective, many such acts of distinction can and should be understood as parasitic upon emergent polarities within the wider context. What is more, in many contexts, boundary-drawing by one group causes the group from which the one withdraws to take up, in an ideologically charged way, the same or similar distinctions.4 We should therefore be conscious of the form and limits of the historical understanding achieved when we excavate and chart “their” use of the distinction between knowledge and belief. No doubt, such archaeological work is essential to proper understanding of the institutions they established and practices they employed for the authentication and contestation of religious information, as also for the policing of individual or communal compliance with assorted norms. The openness of Romans, for example, to revision of their rites follows upon the security they ascribed to the intelligence obtaining at the moment of initial performance, as well as the modes they possessed for assessing the effectives of subsequent performances.5 The very different methods employed by pagan and Christian Romans and, indeed, their very different ambitions, in policing compliance are likewise expressions of particular epistemic commitments, and I shall say a word about these later in this chapter. But there is nevertheless also a danger that, by proceeding in this way, we will merely rehearse in our own language the nodal points of an ideologically-motivated discourse. The second point to issue from my observations about the historical structures of acts of distinction in general, and from those concerning the ideological nature of the languages of religious epistemology in particular, follows upon the first: additional understanding would no doubt accrue by adducing conceptual frames from historical epistemology outside those employed by, or derived from, the discourses of classical antiquity. The otherness of any given analytical frame3  Let me be clear that the perception of “sameness,” like any assertion of radical difference, is itself an ideological act, however much the parties committing such acts seek to grant them ontological security by framing the distinction as “natural” (for example), which recursively endows their own act with the status of observation. 4 The related problem, that such polarities remain available to be mobilized in acts of policing internal to any given community  – by Jews against Jews, or by Christians against Christians – is raised by Assmann; see also Clifford Ando, “Scripture, Authority and Exegesis, Augustine to Chalcedon,” in Dans le laboratoire de l’historien des religions. Mélanges offerts à Philippe Borgeaud, ed. Francesca Prescendi and Youri Volokhine with the assistance of Daniel Barbu and Philippe Matthey (Geneva: Labor et Fides, 2011), 213–226. 5  On this point see Clifford Ando, Roman Social Imaginaries: Language and Thought in the Context of Empire (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2015), 53–81, building on idem, Roman Religion (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2003), 12–13.



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work to the landscape in question could operate to reveal aspects of that landscape not visible when it is viewed through a lens crafted and employed by those who created its contours. Classical Roman paganism being (in Assmann’s terms) a primary religion, it represents itself as empiricist and thus founded upon knowledge.6 This self-understanding was affirmed in explicitly contrastive terms when Christian Romans began to assert the basis of their own system in belief. Hence, in classical Rome, as belief played no normative role in discourses on religion, so disbelief had no purchase as a form of conduct or epistemic position. That said, knowledge and belief, together with the forms of argument each subtends, reason and authority, were already figured as binarisms in the first and most influential work on religious epistemology to be written at Rome: Cicero’s On the Nature of the Gods. In consequence, a vocabulary of disbelief is already apparent in the earliest nonScriptural works of Christian Latin. Given the role played by prior ideological structures in the emergence of antinomian ones, this is scarcely surprising. Nonetheless, it does suggest, as regards the topic of the present essay, that one can scarcely write a simple developmental history of discourses of disbelief. This essay therefore proceeds by a double movement, first examining the particular use made by Cicero and Augustine of the polarity between knowledge and belief, and then examining the apparent emergence of Christian “disbelief ” (if that is what it should be named) out of a vocabulary whose primary referents in the classical period concerned intersubjective ethics.

2.  Authority and Reason in Cicero’s On the Nature of the Gods Cicero foregrounds the problem of epistemology from the very start of On the Nature of the Gods. What is more, he does so in a fashion that draws attention to the form taken by his work, to wit, a dialogue, as well as to his own choice not to appear in it. He knows, of course, that some will want to know what he himself thinks about the topic but declines to give them what they want. His view, he fears, would be accepted because it is his, and not because it is cogent. For in philosophical argument it is not the weight of authority but that of reason that must be sought (non enim tam auctoritatis in disputando quam rationis momenta quaerenda sunt). Wherefore the authority of those who profess themselves teachers often stands in the way of those who wish to learn, for students cease to put forward their own judgment and hold as decided whatever they see adjudged by those whom they admire.7 6 

For work on Rome conducted along similar lines see Ando, Roman Religion, 1–15. Nat. d. 1.10. Translations of Cicero’s On the Nature of the Gods are adapted from Harris Rackham, ed. and tr., Cicero: De Natura Deorum. Academica (LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1933). 7 Cicero,

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In consequence, although On the Nature of the Gods contains a preface by Cicero in propria persona, he does not speak in his own voice. As we shall see, the contrast with Augustine could not be starker. The polarity of authority, which issues in uncritical acceptance, and reason, which argues from facts and issues in knowledge, occupies a superordinate place throughout the dialogue, whoever the speaker. The speakers are three: Velleius, an Epicurean; Balbus, a Stoic; and Cotta, an Academic, who happens also to be a priest. Indeed, the choice to make the sceptic a priest is a fascinating one, to which we shall shortly return. The dialogue contains expositions of Epicurean and Stoic theology by Velleius and Balbus, respectively; and each receives a formal response by Cotta. It is perhaps worth emphasizing at the start that Cicero nowhere seriously canvases the possibility of atheism. Instead, he largely affects via silence a normative denial of the possibility of such.8 Indeed, the most radical positions that Cicero attributes to historically-attested philosophers are varied theories of divine impassivity: For there are and have been philosophers who maintain that the gods have no oversight whatsoever over the affairs of human beings. But if the opinion of these men is true, how can piety or reverence or religious sentiment exist? For all these things must be rendered in pure and chaste fashion to the numen of the gods for these reasons alone, that the gods take notice of them, and that some benefit has been rendered by the immortal gods to the race of humans beings.9

That said, the more extreme possibility of nonexistence is raised by the Academic Cotta, first in his response to Velleius. In an inquiry such as this, that is, one concerning the nature of the gods, it must first be asked whether or not the gods exist. “It is difficult to deny.” I believe that it would be, were the question asked in a public assembly, but it is very easy in a conversation and gathering of this kind. As a result, I, who am a pontifex, who thinks that the rites and religious scruples of state cult should be protected with the highest degree of piety – I should like very much to be persuaded of this first thing, that the gods exist, not simply as a matter of belief but also as a matter of fact (non opinione solum sed etiam ad veritatem).10 8 Jan Bremmer, “Atheism in Antiquity,” in The Cambridge Companion to Atheism, ed. Michael Martin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 11–26, largely concludes that no first-person advocacy of atheism survives from Graeco-Roman antiquity: atheism was something with which one smeared one’s opponents, not a position one claimed for oneself. Tim Whitmarsh, Battling the Gods: Atheism in the Ancient World (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2015), by contrast, discovers a remarkably sophisticated range of skeptical religious positions, although, as he allows, these did not coalesce into points of advocacy for specific communities. Rather, the history of atheism was constructed in hindsight through ancient modes of intellectual history. “The doxography of atheism is particularly significant because of the relative marginality of atheism in antiquity. To be an atheist was, for most, to be a member of a virtual rather than a face-to-face community” (208). 9 Cicero, Nat. d. 1.3. 10 Cicero, Nat. d. 1.61.



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We shall have to wait until the third book to see whether Cotta’s scepticism is met by the arguments of his friends. In each pair of speeches, Cicero attends with enormous care to the very different epistemic bases of each school. In the case of Velleius, this is true both of his positive statements of Epicurean doctrine and of his criticisms of philosophical competitors. For example, the Epicureans were atomists; Platonic claims on behalf of a transcendent demiurge therefore struck them as ridiculous. How did Plato acquire any information about this opifex, this world-creator, asks Velleius, Was it with oculis animi, the eyes of his mind?11 The sarcasm directed at theological metaphor is palpable; its potency is great. For his part, Balbus offers two forms of evidence of the existence of the gods and their involvement in the governance of the world. The first type of evidence derives from observation of natural order, nature here being non-Epicurean in that it does not contain the gods; rather, it is ordered by gods who in agency transcend it.12 “What could be more clear or more perceptible, when we look upon the heavens and contemplate the stars, than that there must be some godhead of most outstanding mind by which they are governed?”13 The second body of evidence cited by Balbus are historical records: evidence in human history, on the terrestrial rather than heavenly plane, of divine order. If what is at stake might in framework be described as divergent doctrines of immanence – to Epicurus’s impassive deities Balbus opposes “present gods who often display their power” – each also relies upon different forms of evidence, differently privileged. Cotta demolishes the arguments of Balbus in several ways. The agency of the gods in historical events, for example, is mere hearsay, deriving as it does from suppositions about cause that Balbus cannot vindicate. Cotta retorts: “You fight me with rumours (rumoribus), Balbus, but I seek from you reasons (rationes).”14 Cotta reviews Balbus’s examples seriatim and in each case urges that mere human agency is sufficient to explain them. Generals may have invoked the gods to encourage their soldiers, but those were stratagems only. The fault lines separating Velleius and Balbus  – and ultimately Cotta  – are multiple, and they must be properly distinguished in order sufficiently to un11 Cicero,

Nat. d. 1.19. Observation of order in the natural world, particularly in the heavens, plays a similar role in the Stoic argument for the human perception of right order in book 1 of Cicero’s On the Laws; see, e. g., Leg. 1.58–62. This likewise is an issue to which we shall return. 13 Cicero, Nat. d. 2.4. This moment in the dialogue may be profitably contrasted with Plato, Leg. 10: there, each side, which is to say, the atheists as imagined by the interlocutors in the dialogue, as well as the interlocutors themselves, takes its stand by reference to the same body of evidence, to wit, the observation of order in the natural world, which finds its highest expression in the motion of the stars. The two sides differ in the need felt by the religionists to describe that order as the hypostatic expression of the agency of a transcendent prior, to wit, “a soul possessing all virtue” (Plato, Leg. 898c6–8). 14 Cicero, Nat. d. 3.13. 12 

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pack and understand their separate roles in this and later debates. On one level, the positions of the two are remarkably similar. Velleius and Balbus alike assert that the truth of their claims about the gods can be verified by others through observation of the world. Both therefore believe themselves to be committed to a correspondence theory of truth. Those two disagree, however, about the materiality of the gods and, as a related matter, they are committed to quite different theories of immanence. As I  have emphasized, despite the role he plays as interrogator of the two philosophical theologies, Cotta is not a mouthpiece only of scepticism. He is also a priest. Balbus had in fact ended his speech by appealing to Cotta’s status as pontifex and denounced the Academic practice of arguing for and against all positions as unproductive and, where religion is concerned, evil and impious. Cotta opens by responding to this appeal. I am considerably influenced by your authority (auctoritate tua), Balbus, and by the plea you put forward at the conclusion of your discourse, when you exhorted me to remember that I  am both a Cotta and a pontiff. This no doubt meant that I  ought to uphold the notions (opiniones) about the immortal gods that we have received from our ancestors, and the rites and ceremonies and duties of religion (sacra caerimonias religionesque).   For my part I always shall uphold them and always have done so, and no eloquence of anybody, learned or unlearned, shall ever dislodge me from the notion (opinio) as to the worship of the immortal gods that I have inherited from our ancestors.15

Cotta continues emphatically to underline the distinction, always implicit in his vocabulary, between the epistemic basis of his commitment to the practice of worship as institutionalized within his community and the basis to which theological discourse aspires: There, Balbus, is the opinion of a Cotta and a pontiff. Now, Balbus, oblige me by letting me know yours. You are a philosopher and I ought to receive from you a reasoned account of religion (rationem religionis), whereas I must trust our ancestors even without such an account being given (maioribus autem nostris etiam nulla ratione reddita credere).16

Cotta then challenges Balbus to vindicate a claim made earlier, to the effect that any sound inquiry into the nature of the gods should (i) show that the gods exist; (ii) describe their nature; (iii) show that the world is governed by them; and (iv) demonstrate that they care for the welfare of humans. Balbus is flustered and stalls for time by asking what specifically Cotta wants to know. Then Cotta said, “Let us examine the first topic, and if we take that to be first regarding which there is agreement among all except the impii, namely, that the gods exist – although for me, at any rate, it is not possible that this should be shaken from my soul  – nevertheless, this very thing of which I  have been 15 Cicero,

16 Cicero,

Nat. d. 3.5. Nat. d. 3.6.



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persuaded on the authority of our ancestors, you teach me not at all why it should be so.”17 Balbus’s immediately subsequent attempt to advance arguments Cotta meets with disdain: “You despise authority and fight with reason,” but his arguments are shallow. For Cotta, one argument only was sufficient, “that it had been handed down by our ancestors. But you despise authorities and fight with reason.”18 What is more, the form of Cotta’s argument would appear generalizable: the content of statements about the gods being admitted (albeit problematically) to stand outside the possibility of proof, the argument (for him, at least) turns on the question of their acceptance, their propositional content being more or less wholly bracketed.19 Cicero thus positions Cotta not simply as a sceptic in regard to the philosophical theologies of the Epicurean and Stoic. Through him, Cicero also provides a positive account of the epistemology subtending what Varro might have called civic theology, the theology of any given (political) community. In such religions, constituted as they are by institutions and practices elaborated over time among ancient peoples (to use Varro’s language), what is accepted as truth has, or, at least, needs to have no more than a narrowly testimonial basis, and in any event its object is social cooperation. The ontology ascribed to the objects of knowledge in such a system can therefore be remarkably limited; its metaphysics are vastly less grandiose than in those presupposed by the Platonizing Stoics or, as we shall see, Platonizing Christians.

3.  Transcendent Authority and Earthly Error in Early Augustine Augustine’s philosophical and doctrinal writings from his conversion to his assumption of the episcopacy have distinctive flavour.20 Not yet subject to the moral, pastoral and institutional pressures that he felt so deeply as a bishop, Augustine wrestled more open-endedly with philosophical and doctrinal ques17 Cicero,

Nat. d. 3.7. Nat. d. 3.10. 19  I frame the matter in this way to gesture at its relevance to issues that lie outside the scope of this essay, concerning not simply the nature of epistemology in primary religions as regards other primary religions (a problem raised by Jan Assmann) but also the specific form taken by Roman arguments for tolerance, which were avowedly functionalist in ambition and based on remarkably narrow social epistemology. On these latter issues see Clifford Ando, “Die Riten der Anderen” (tr. Gian Franco Chiai, Ralph Häussler, and Christiane Kunst), Mediterraneo Antico 15 (2012), 31–50 (now available in an expanded version in English as “The Rites of Others,” in Roman Literary Cultures: Domestic Politics, Revolutionary Poetics, Civic Spectacles, ed. Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2016], 254–277); see also Ando, Roman Social Imaginaries. 20  For a reading of the Cassiciacum dialogues in light of Augustine’s projects of the late 380s and early 390s see Sabine MacCormack, The Shadows of Poetry: Vergil in the Mind of Augus­ 18 Cicero,

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tions than he allowed himself later to do. What is more, he did so through acts of reflection and literary forms – not least dialogue and the so-called soliloquy – that he perforce abandoned as he became ever more implicated, indeed, invested in structures of institutional authority and worldly power.21 Among his very early works, problems of epistemology receive particularly intense scrutiny.22 Indeed, the very earliest work of Augustine to survive is the first book of a three-book dialogue, Against the Academics; the work in its entirety was written simultaneously with the other dialogues from his retreat to Cassiciacum in 386. The title of Augustine’s work responds to a treatise of Cicero’s on Academic scepticism, and Augustine explicitly acknowledges his reliance on Cicero’s Aca­ demica as a doxographic matter.23 Nevertheless, the focus of Augustine’s treatise resolves at the close of its third and final book not to conclusions regarding epistemology in general, but rather to conclusions regarding epistemology in matters of religion. Thus, at a substantive level, Augustine’s Against the Academics should in fact be read as responding to Cicero’s On the Nature of the Gods, nor was Augustine the only late ancient Christian to regard that work as the one great study of religious epistemology in the Latin tradition.24 Like On the Nature of the Gods, Augustine’s Against the Academics is a dialogue, in which Augustine’s younger protégés struggle to describe, defend, and critique some version of Academic scepticism. However, where Cicero declined to speak in propria persona, Augustine contrives to provide an authoritative doxography and final statement in his own voice. In more respects than one, Augustine and the Christians thus deployed the vocabulary of classical epistemology and forms of classical inquiry in support of a very different model of social authority and its forms of institutionalization.25 Against the Academics is a problematic work, but its peculiarities need not concern us here.26 Here, I wish only to discuss the premises from which it begins tine (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 45–88; see also Catherine Conybeare, The Irrational Augustine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006). 21  No recent work has done so much to illuminate the importance of literary form to Augustine’s intellectual projects as Brian Stock, Augustine the Reader: Meditation, Self-knowledge, and the Ethics of Interpretation (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1996); and idem, Augustine’s Inner Dialogue: The Philosophical Soliloquy in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 22 André Mandouze, Saint Augustin. L’aventure de la raison et de la grâce (Paris: Études Augustiniennes, 1968), 93–111. 23  On Augustine’s Against the Academics see Karin Schlapbach, ed., Augustin: contra Academicos (vel De Academicis), Vol. 1: Einleitung und Kommentar (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003). The quotations are adapted from the translation in John J. O’Meara, ed., Augustine: Against the Academics (New York: Newman Press, 1951). 24  See Ernst Behr, Der Octavius des M. Minucius Felix in seinem Verhältnisse zu Ciceros Büchern De natura deorum (Gera: H. Rudolph, 1870), on Minucius Felix. 25  Ando, “Scripture, Authority and Exegesis,” offers one portrait of this issue. 26  Conybeare, The Irrational Augustine, 11–41, offers a fine reading of Against the Aca­ demics, with particular insight into the two prefaces, and to the difficulty Augustine encounters



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and then rehearse three moments in the conversation before I turn to its climax. Augustine opens with an address to Romanianus, in which he declares that, “Philosophy promises that it will make known the most true and most hidden God, and even now is on the very point of deigning to present him to our view, as it were, through shining clouds.”27 Here, Augustine performs a double move. First, he asserts that the truth is not simply hidden but removed from worldly processes of discovery. Second, he implicitly meets and attempts to bracket critiques like that made by Velleius or Balbus. Velleius, it will be recalled, sought to identify a gap between the metaphysical status that Balbus ascribed to the objects of his knowledge (a transcendent divine) and the means Balbus brought to bear to get to know them (observation of objects of a lower metaphysical status and quite different ontology). Velleius voiced this critique in part by exposing to scrutiny the epistemic limitations of philosophical metaphor. By revealing himself to be self-conscious precisely about his use of metaphor (quasi per lucidas nubes, “as it were through shining clouds”), Augustine seeks to disarm such critiques. A second act of framing is performed by Trygetius in the first book. What shall we do about persons whose statements occasionally turn out to be true? (Trygetius) “Shall I then say that a man has knowledge, even if he has often said things that were not true, a man whom I would not say had knowledge even if with hesitation he had said true things? You can take what I say about him as my opinion on haruspices, augurs, all those who consult the stars, and all interpreters of dreams […]”28

Augustine here engages and dismisses the possibility of a correspondence theory of knowledge. What is more, it is not simply that, on his view, mere correspondence between an occasional statement and truth does not validate a system of knowledge; the preeminent examples of persons who are unsystematically sometimes right and sometimes wrong are classical Roman religious experts. No conclusion, Augustine urges, can be drawn about their knowledge, and thus no authority should be granted them, on the basis of any pattern of truth or falsehood in what they say. To appreciate the dogmatic claims advanced by Augustine himself as speaker in the third book, it might be helpful to consider the depth of his engagement with the classical vocabularies of religious epistemology in the second. Let me illustrate the matter by reference to two moments. First, Augustine cautions his interlocutors not to allow a properly rigorous definition of knowledge to overdetermine their sense of how one may come to knowledge.29 On the one hand, they should remember that they know only those things that they know in the same way as they know the sum of one, two, three in reconciling the commitments he brought to Cassiciacum, as it were, with the reading of Paul that he was then undertaking. 27 Augustine, Acad. 1.1.3. 28 Augustine, Acad. 1. 7. 19. 29 Augustine, Acad. 2.3.9.

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and four is ten; while on the other, they should not doubt that philosophy can produce similar knowledge: “Believe me or, rather, believe Him who says: Seek and you shall find” (Matt 7:7). Here, Augustine invokes a Platonizing metaphysics and epistemology: true knowledge concerns only things with a stable ontology, for which category he offers as a paradigmatic instance mathematical objects and relations, which is to say, avowedly abstract creations whose only criterion of truth is internal self-consistency. But Augustine also allows for the gap identified by Velleius: he can specify no means to get to know such objects of knowledge. He therefore invokes trust in authority or, rather, in a self-correction, he invokes what he believes to be a higher authority whom he interprets as urging trust in authority as the means to knowledge (nam mihi credite, uel potius, illi credite qui ait […]). Second, according to Augustine, the Academics worried that a too radical suspension of assentio, “assent” or “agreement,” would lead to inactivity and thus ethical failure on the part of the wise man.30 They therefore devised the categories of the probable and verisimilitude, the “like-truth,” as bases for social action, while still urging that “the very refraining from or, so to speak, suspension of assent, was a great act in itself on the part of the wise man” (et ipsam refrenationem et quasi suspensionem assensionis).31 Augustine here gestures at the crux of the dispute between Balbus and Cotta. The dogmatic ascription of the status of knowledge exclusively to transcendent objects produced in Balbus only aporia, which Cicero’s Cotta resolved by the double move in the domains of metaphysics and epistemology outlined above. Augustine rightly sees the Stoic category of the “like-truth” as a related solution in the domain of objects in this world, though Augustine regards it as an inappropriate self-subversion on the part of the Stoics of their own metaphysical commitments. But at least one speaker, Trygetius, defends the Academics, urging that whatever one makes of the notion of suspension of agreement, they pursue verisimilitude by means of rationes, reason, while Augustine’s caricature of them follows only fama, rumour, which is the vilest of authorities (auctoritates).32 Against the Academics then climaxes with an impassioned statement of fundamentalism from Augustine: For that philosophy is not of this world – such a philosophy our sacred mysteries most justly detest  – but of the other, intelligible world. To which intelligible world the most subtle reasoning would never recall souls blinded by the manifold darkness of error and stained deeply by the slime of the body, had not the most high God, because of a certain compassion for the masses, bent and submitted the authority of the divine intellect even to the human body itself. 30 Augustine,

Acad. 2. 5. 12. Acad. 2. 5. 12. 32 Augustine, Acad. 2. 8. 20. 31 Augustine,



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  Whatever be the position of human wisdom, I know that I as yet have not attained it. Though I am in my thirty-third year, I do not think that I should give up hope of reaching it some day. I have renounced everything else that men regard as good, and have proposed to dedicate myself to the search for wisdom. The arguments of the Academics seriously held me back from this quest; but now I feel that in this disputation I have protected myself sufficiently against them. No one doubts but that we are helped in learning by a two-fold force, that of authority and that of reason (gemino pondere […] auctoritatis atque rationis). I, therefore, am resolved in nothing whatever to depart from the authority of Christ, for I do not find a stronger. But as to that which is sought out by subtle reasoning – for I am so disposed to be impatient in my desire to apprehend truth not only by believing but also by understanding (non credendo solum sed etiam intellegendo) – I feel sure at the moment that I shall find it with the Platonists, nor will it be at variance with our sacred mysteries.33

Readers of Augustine will recognize here many foreshadowings of his conversion to a non-rationalist epistemology in Confessions (book 6), which is connected in the broader narrative of that work, as it is here, to Augustine’s other conversion, namely, to a Platonizing metaphysics. I kept my heart from all assent, as I wanted to be as certain about things I could not see as I was that seven and three are ten […] By believing (or perhaps, “trusting”) I might have been healed (et sanari credendo poteram). My soul resisted your hands, though you prepared the medicines of faith (medicamenta fidei) and scattered them over the sick of this world and gave to them such authority (auctoritas).34

Three new concepts intrude here: certainty, faith and understanding. To the notion of certainty I  will return. “Understanding” largely serves as a proxy for knowledge, being based on reason: it becomes an important term of art in religious epistemology largely in consequence of its use at Isa 7:9, Nisi credide­ ritis, non intelligetis, “Unless you believe, you will not understand,” a verse that becomes foundational to arguments for religious coercion in late antiquity and beyond. “Faith” as it is used here is essentially synonymous with “trust,” which is to say, it is the disposition whose characteristic action is credendo, trusting. The connection between authority, trust, faith and reason is made clear in a series of essays produced by Augustine during the decade that leads from Against the Academics to Confessions. Let me conclude this section by emphasizing two crucial points of difference between these very similar declarations of faith by Cotta and Augustine. First, Cotta’s authorities are human and occupy the same epistemic position as he does. Classical Roman religion is, on this model, sustained by inter-subjective and inter-generational trust of the sort essential to social cooperation, within a community understood to share particular political, cultural, epistemic and 33 Augustine,

Acad. 3. 19. 42–20.43. Conf. 6.4.6–5.7. For a reading of the Confessions along these lines see Clifford Ando, “Signs, Idols, and the Incarnation in Augustinian Metaphysics,” Representations 73 (2001), 24–53; for a broader study of these themes see Henri-Irénée Marrou, Saint Augustin et la fin de la culture antique (Paris: Boccard, 1958), 161–186. 34 Augustine,

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theological commitments. Augustine’s authority, by contrast, is notionally extrahuman. As crucially, memory of that authority is encoded in a text. A good measure of the difference that one observes between classical and Christian Romans as regards the politics of knowledge-adjudication and contests of authority and reason arises in the dynamics that follow from the appropriation of a pre-existing vocabulary centrally located in another realm – to wit, trust in intersubjective ethics – for talking about correct and incorrect interpretation. This situation is then further inflected by the interposition of a metaphysical distinction between the adherent and the party to whom s/he notionally directs her faith. I will return to this problem in a moment. A second point of difference is as follows. Cotta’s turn to authority and belief operates to sustain the distinction between reason and faith that he and his interlocutors and, indeed, Augustine and his interlocutors had all seemed to affirm. Augustine’s insistence that one must surrender to authority to achieve understanding brutally subverts that distinction, and his preference for Matt 7:7 over against Isa 7:9 in works of the 390s probably betrays some discomfort with this fact.35 The conclusion will take up the problem of how to understand these knowledge systems in relation to each other.

4.  The Epistemics and Ethics of Classical Social Cooperation To understand the emergence of something like disbelief, and to explain why one should probably ultimately decline to name it disbelief, it would be useful to take up the problem of belief one last time. Classical Latin vocabulary or, perhaps, classical Latinate epistemology, has more or less no way to discuss religious belief as an epistemic problem of the atomized individual. Most of the terms that might be thought relevant – credo, assentio, assentior, and, as a related matter, fides – require in their standard usage no specification as regards the propositional content that one believes or in which one has “faith.”36 Their primary domain was not epistemic. On the contrary, in classical Latin such terms are emphatically ethical, and indeed, as Brian Krostenko has observed to me, a primary field of 35  For a more detailed consideration of Augustine’s citation practice in this regard see Ando, “Signs, Idols, and the Incarnation,” 40–41. 36  One might make reference here to Teresa Morgan, Roman Faith and Christian Faith: Pistis and Fides in the Early Roman Empire and Early Churches (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). She is surely correct to assert that western thinking since Augustine, including a great deal of modern scholarship, has been influenced by Augustine’s “division of faith into fides quae creditur and fides qua creditur, ‘the faith which is believed’ (the propositional content of faith) and ‘the faith by which it is believed’ (that which takes place in the heart and mind of the believer)” (11). She later concludes: “Pistis and fides are fundamentally relational concepts and practices, centring on trust, trustworthiness, faithfulness, and good faith, before broadening out to the ‘deferred’ and ‘reified’ meanings mapped in the Introduction” (503).



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their application, especially as regards credere and fides, is economic relations among private individuals. Their usage thus testifies to an insistence upon the inter-subjective or testimonial nature of classical belief, which is to say, that it rested fundamentally and necessarily upon the surrender of trust within particularized human communities.37 Thus, with Latin credere, one might easily say, “I trust X,” or “I trust X that Y,” but it is not the natural word with which to claim, “I believe proposition Y,” as the formulation begs the question, “Whom do you trust, such that you accept that proposition Y is the case?” The use by non-Christians of this vocabulary for trust and agreement in such a way that one might construe it to mean either “to believe in something,” which is to say, believe in the existence of something, or to designate the condition of unbelieving or disbelieving, is quite late and occurs nearly exclusively in Seneca, Pliny, and Apuleius. Apuleius, for example, is responsible for the only extant uses of the gerundive incredundus, “not to be believed”: the rites of Egyptian priests have a power that is “not to be believed”; or, most famously, a Chaldaean at Corinth is reported to have told Lucius that he would himself become an historiam magnam et incredundam fabulam, “a long story and unbelievable tale.”38 (I will refer ever so briefly to the use of incredulus, unbelieving, in the Latin Aesclepius transmitted with the works of Apuleius somewhat later on.) Of far greater interest to our topic is the extension in meaning of the term credere, “trust,” to mean something like “believe in the existence of.”39 In this usage, it occurs perhaps four times in two pagan authors, Pliny and Seneca. For example, Pliny opens the second book of the Natural History with a discussion of divinity, natura and mundus, words we can with caution translate “nature” and “world.” The two relevant uses of credere occur in this context. The first is brief: some people say that there are many worlds, ut totidem rerum naturas credi oporteret, “such that one must believe in as many natures.”40 The second is as follows: For this reason, I deem it a mark of human weakness to seek to discover the shape and form of god. Whoever god is, if there is indeed a god [or, provided that he is in fact other ], and in whatever region he is, he is entirely sense, entirely sight, entirely hearing, entirely of soul, entirely of mind, entirely of himself. To believe in innumerable gods and, indeed, so many as correspond to human virtues and vices, like 37  The exception to this claim in respect to terminology is naturally opinio and its cognates, which are part of an apparatus used to classify propositions along some measure of epistemic security. 38  TLL s. v. incredundus: Apuleius, Met. 2.12; Apol. 47; and Flor. 15.15 (Hunink). 39  Latin vocabulary and, with it, the epistemology of Roman religion can be usefully contrasted with the ready vocabulary in classical Greek for expressing belief in a god and, vice versa, non-belief (see, e. g., Plato, Leg. 885c7: ἡμῶν γὰρ οἱ μὲν τὸ παράπαν θεοὺς οὐδαμῶς νομίζομεν). See, on this point, Henk S. Versnel, Coping with the Gods: Wayward Readings in Greek Theology (RGRW 173; Leiden: Brill, 2011), 539–559. 40 Pliny, Nat. 2.3.

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Pudicitia, Concordia, Mind, Hope, Honor, Mercy, Faith or, as Democritus thought, only two, Punishment and Reward, approaches an even greater madness (innumeros quidem credere […] maiorem ad socordiam accedit).41

The two uses in Seneca occur in the Letters and deserve quotation and discussion. The first way to worship the gods is to believe in the gods (primus est deorum cultus deos credere); the next is to acknowledge their maiestas, to acknowledge their goodness, without which there is no maiestas.42 We are accustomed to give considerable credit to universal presumptions, and we employ as an index of truth the fact that something seems true to all people. Hence, we take it that gods exist inter alia for this reason, that belief concerning the gods is implanted in all people nor is there any nation thrust so far beyond the reach of law and custom that it does not believe at least in gods of some sort (ut non aliquos deos credat).43

What are we to make of these outliers in the standard usage of credere? Are they in fact outliers? Regarded in isolation, it might seem so. But the broader context of Letter 117 in particular reveals three crucial facts: (i) belief in the gods is understood to be universal; (ii) epistemic commitment at the level of the individual is taken to follow from just this presumption that such commitment is universal – in other words, the act of “believing in god” is not here separable from individual embeddedness within some community of belief, however attenuated; and (iii) the analytical polarities that we have observed elsewhere (belief vs. knowledge; empiricism vs. testimonial authority) are in operation here as well. Several further consequences follow from the argument thus far, which will sharpen the stakes when we turn to the very different landscape of Christian credulity. “Belief in god” being normatively bracketed as beyond question, on grounds of its universality (with the possibility of non-belief being effaced through silence), the scope of individual choice or commitment was limited to the level of practice. What is more, in the Roman case at least, because the possibility of unmediated knowledge of god was very limited, the extension of trust or surrender to authority that lies at the heart of religious affiliation was understood as an ethical act vis-à-vis one’s human community. As a corollary, the practice of worship in any given community was evidence only of the form that the institutionalization of religion had taken there: it was not, to employ Seneca’s vocabulary, an argumentum veritatis. Within such a framework, consent to the practice of worship might well function as a litmus test of religious commitment as classical Romans were prepared to understand it. Let me cite two pieces of evidence along these lines. 41 Pliny, Nat. 2.14; translation from Harris Rackham, ed. and tr., Pliny: Natural History. Books I–II (LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1938). 42 Seneca, Ep. 95.50; translation after Richard Gummere, ed. and tr., Seneca: Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales (LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1925). 43 Seneca, Ep. 117.6.



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First, from Tacitus’s Annals, when the lament is made that the massive and concentrated population of foreign slaves in the great households of Rome is dangerous, their religious commitments are described thus: “There are entire nations of slaves in those households, practicing diverse cults and foreign rites, or none at all […]”44 It is not non-belief, but the non-existence of rites that constitutes the outer limits of the Roman imaginary. Second, in a famous passage from the Acts of Cyprian, an ostensible record of the death of the Christian bishop Cyprian under Roman persecution in the late third century, the governor explains to the bishop that the emperors have established a minimum threshold of the following kind, to wit, “those who do not cultivate Roman religio should at least acknowledge Roman rites” (Romanas caerimonias recognoscere).45 (Please recall at this juncture the absolutely essential role played by rites, caerimonias, in the priest Cotta’s account of religion.46) As later events make clear, the act of recognition in fact consists in action, in performing those very rites: “And the proconsul said: ‘The most sacred emperors have ordered that you should perform the rites’ (iusserunt […] caerimoniari). The blessed Cyprian responded: ‘I will not do that.’”47 To employ the language of Cotta from On the Nature of the Gods, in both these cases, the propositional content of one’s opiniones de diis immortalibus, of one’s notions concerning the immortal gods, is simply set aside, in favour of a focus on one’s acceptance of the institutions of worship established by one’s ancestors. That is the measure and the limit of Roman religion.

5.  The Emergence of Incredulitas Classical Latin language concerning trust and authority does eventually come to resemble modern language concerning disbelief, and to the extent that this occurs, it does so in Christian texts. What is perhaps surprising is the swiftness with which the apparatus develops: it is basically fully formed within a half century from the emergence of Latinate Christianity. Two related moves are decisive: those expressing religious dissent or even doubt are labelled non-believers, or perhaps, non-participants in a community of trust; and unbelief is ideated, incredulitas becoming not simply the characteristic but the essential flaw of the incredulus. In this way, “disbelief ” becomes a sort of non-propositional litmus 44 Tacitus,

Ann. 14.44.3. Acta Cypriani 1.1. 46  See Cicero, Nat. d. 3.5 (already quoted at n. 15) as well as 1.61: “As a result, I, who am a pontifex, who think that the rites and religious scruples of state cult (caerimonias religionesque publicas) should be protected with the highest degree of piety – I should like very much to be persuaded of this first thing, that the gods exist, not simply as a matter of some notion but also as a matter of fact (non opinione solum sed ad veritatem).” 47  Acta Cypriani 3.4. 45 

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test of proper religiosity. Of course, in practice it was presumably a proxy for many other things, but that is a problem we can set here set aside. It is in my view impossible to establish a historically meaningful chronology of these developments. Among other things, we face the difficulty that the half century of Latinate Christianity that I  named above is attested by the most meagre of fragments. That being the case, in what follows I should rather to illustrate two features of Latinate Christian thought on disbelief between the late second and early fifth centuries: its lack of propositional content (which is to say, I would like to persuade you that disbelief was nearly exclusively an ethical problem or problem of will; it was, one might say, non-credal), and, as a second matter, I want to emphasize its essentialization. One might commence these projects by gesturing at the various synonymities visible in the manuscripts and quotations from the Italian old Latin translation of the Bible, the so-called Vetus Itala. For example, at Matt 17:17, the phrase  Ὦ γενεὰ ἄπιστος καὶ διεστραμμένη is rendered either generatio in­ credibilis or generatio incredula. In the related passage from Luke 9:41, the best attested text is O generatio infidelis. The last term is advanced to make a purely ethical claim. The use of the three terms (incredibilis, incredula, and infidelis) to translate the one word ἄπιστος does not, of course, demonstrate whole-cloth synonymity, but it certainly affirms the continued participation of Christian (in) credere in the domain of the ethical. We might turn next to a famous denunciation of non-trust, Audite increduli, the cry of Moses at Num 20:10, before drawing water from the rock. The Latin Christian implications of Jewish doubt are given definitive articulation in Augustine’s Questions on the Heptateuch, in a commentary on Num 11:21–23, when Moses despairs that even with God’s aid he will in fact be able to feed 600,000 people.48 Augustine says it is customary to ask whether Moses expresses doubt or merely poses a question (quaeri solet utrum hoc Moyses diffidendo dixerit an quaerendo). If we think he is expressing doubt, the question arises why the Lord does not reproach him, as he reproached those who doubted the power of God when water flowed from the rock …

Augustine moves on: Indeed, saying such things as these, Zacharias was indicted for incredulitas, and the punishment was inflicted of having his voice suppressed (Luke 1:18–20). Why? Because God judges not concerning words, but concerning hearts.

Augustine then turns to the episode when water is made to flow from the rock (Num 20:2–12), when Moses addressed the people: Audite me, increduli, “Listen to me, you who doubt.” 48 Augustine,

Quaest. Hept. 4.19.



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These words should be understood as if it had been said, “Assuredly, in keeping with your incredulitas, water cannot be led forth from this rock,” so that at last by striking it, it might be shown that it could be done through divine power (divinitus), namely, that which they in their infidelitas had not believed, especially as he had said, “Listen to me, unbelievers.”

Here Augustine both ideates and essentializes doubt – a contingent act of doubting becomes a token of characteristic disbelief – and also equates incredulitas, which one might mistakenly have thought was not distrust or doubt but disbelief concerning something, with infidelitas, a lack of reciprocal trust and trustworthiness. The same act of abstraction, by which a person labelled incredulus in a sacred text is charged by Augustine with incredulitas, is performed in the City of God in Augustine’s meditation on Apuleius, Aesclepius 37.49 It is in consequence of ideational operations such as these that Christian ideologues could identify incredulitas as the characteristic, indeed, essential flaw of their opponents: in­ credulitas Iudaïca, incredulitas paganica, and so forth, which are already terms of art in Tertullian’s polemics in the last decade of the second and first decade of the third century. To develop the point made above, it seems to me crucial to the dynamics that imbricate a Christian epistemology with Christian efforts to locate social authority in particular institutional structures and practices, that in spite of a doctrine of immanence (or epiphany) that postulated individuals as (potentially) directly interpellated by their god, the moments of direct interpellation that become canonical are located in and known through texts.50 Christian doctrines of immanence therefore do not escape the emergent structures of authority that proceeded along two complex lines: on the one hand, the language of trust was now employed to describe the disposition of the adherent toward a text (hence the possibility for its extreme abstraction); and on the other, the policing of conduct was still located in human institutions but now revolved, crucially and perilously, around correct understanding of that text. To conclude this section where we concluded the last, let us turn to the law. In a law from 409 concerned with Christian conversion to “Caelicolism” or Judaism, Honorius and Theodosius II first urge “that whatever differs from fides Christianorum is contrary to Christian law.”51 They were therefore keen to remind converts away from Christianity that they should return to the fold, in order that the Christian mysteries not be polluted with perversitas Iudaïca. “This is all the more necessary since it is worse than death and crueler than murder, if a person ex Christiana fide, of Christian faith should be polluted by incredulitas Iudaïca.” So much for commands to caerimoniari. 49 Augustine,

Civ. 8.24. Christian doctrines of immanence along these lines of course resembled those in many other contemporaneous religious systems (see, e. g., Ando, Roman Religion, 238–239), but none of those were so invested in the sacrality of a particular text. 51  Cod. theod. 16. 8. 19. 50 

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6.  A Digression on Certainty52 The abstraction “certainty” is first attested in Christian late antiquity (the first secure usage occurs in the writings of Gregory the Great), and a minor literature in modern security studies has seized upon this fact to posit the birth at that moment of particular conceptions of security, certainty and risk.53 At some level, that entire historical project rests on a set of methodological fallacies about both the survival of evidence and the nature of language: there is no reason to believe Gregory was the first to coin the word, nor is there any justification to focus on certitudo over against the enormous importance of certus and certiorem facere in classical Latin. This is not to say, however, that certainty has no history, nor that the triumph of Platonizing metaphysics through the vehicle of Christianity played no role in that history. Certus is often translated “certain” – and this is no doubt often adequate – but it bears recalling that certus is in fact a perfective passive participle, from cerno, to see, to distinguish and to resolve. In the last meaning it is used above all of legally-binding decisions by parties to state-supervised proceedings. What is certain is therefore things of two kinds: those that have been empirically verified, by sense perception and above all by sight; and those that have been affirmed. “Certainty” is therefore another area in which the interrelated epistemic and metaphysical priorities of Latinate classical culture dissent from those of Latin Platonism, in its pagan as well as its Christian form. In classical Rome, certainty was sought and resided in the here-and-now of social reality; one acquired it through autopsy; and it was created in and for that social reality by state authorities and human institutions. Late ancient certitudo, by contrast, is attributed very precisely to that other, intelligible world, wherein resides eternal life, access to which is controlled by philosophers and clerics.

7. Conclusion It would, I think, be fair to say that historians of Mediterranean religion have absorbed neither the revolutions in the historical study of epistemology made by Ian Hacking and Steven Shapin between the 1970s and 1990s, respectively, 52  This section condenses and translates for this context an argument elaborated in Ando, Roman Social Imaginaries, 96–97. 53 Andrea Schrimm-Heins, “Gewißheit und Sicherheit: Geschichte und Bedeutungswandel der Begriffe ‘certitudo’ und ‘securitas’ (Teil I),” Archiv für Begriffsgeschichte 34 (1991), 123–213; and eadem, “Gewißheit und Sicherheit: Geschichte und Bedeutungswandel der Begriffe ‘certitudo’ und ‘securitas’ (Teil II),” Archiv für Begriffsgeschichte 35 (1992), 115–213; see also Franz-Xaver Kaufmann, Sicherheit als soziologisches und sozial-politisches Problem. Unter­ suchungen zu einer Wertidee hochdifferenzierter Gesellschaften (Stuttgart: Ferdinand Enke, 1970).



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nor the work on testimonial knowledge by Tony Coady from 1994.54 All these were attempts to historicize, qualify, and in some ways bracket or diminish then standard taxonomies of the forms and theories of knowledge: whether a classicizing/Cartesian one, which accorded the title knowledge only to the results of contemplation of self-evident first principles; or internalist/externalist ones, which differ in the demand they make upon the knower’s ability to justify the correspondence between his or her true belief and some external state of affairs. Of course, it is important to acknowledge that no classical thinker successfully sustained any version of these distinctions, even at the level of theory: Plato does occasionally grant sense-perception the status of knowledge; Augustine insists that he knows who his parents are, though he knew that only from testimony. (Indeed, this becomes his preeminent example of such knowledge, paradigmatic for the certainty one can derive from mere trust.) The doctrines of the probable and of verisimilitude developed in antiquity were attempts to bracket and contain the kind of nonsense that might follow from anyone’s taking Platonic epistemology too seriously. One might pursue such concessions and efforts at containment down through the ages. The question before us is how to tell the story of the emergence of disbelief in the Latin West without simply rehearsing the tropes of an ideologically-motivated discourse. Certainly one step in the right direction would be to acknowledge that our internalist/externalist distinction (so to speak) is not theirs. To do that would require recognizing that “we” (as it were) continue to respect the Greek/ medieval model at least in part because as post-Cartesians, we accept some subset of its propositions on grounds of their coherence with our own individualist and rationalist commitments, and so are led to ignore the rather idiotic metaphysical pieties that underlay those propositions in antiquity. (I offer no comment here on the cogency of Cartesian individualism and rationalism, that being outside my brief, and must likewise decline to explore the extent of contemporary elisions of metaphysics in our engagement with ancient thought.) Following Tony Coady, I adopt the phrase “Greek/medieval” deliberately, in order to flag the Platonic ancestry of late ancient and medieval Christian theories of knowledge, and likewise the policing function that disbelief as an abstraction was devised to serve. As a related matter, we have been led by the prestige of that tradition to neglect the classical Roman correlates of contingent acts of trust and distrust and the more humble, more humane, more functional externalist epistemology that they adumbrated. 54 Ian Hacking, The Emergence of Probability: A Philosophical Study of Early Ideas about Probability, Induction and Statistical Inference (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975); Steven Shapin and Simon Schaffer, Leviathan and the Air-Pump: Hobbes, Boyle, and the Experimental Life (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985); Steven Shapin, A Social His­ tory of Truth: Civility and Science in Seventeenth-Century England (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1994); idem, The Scientific Revolution (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1996); C. A. J. (Tony) Coady, Testimony: A Philosophical Study (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994).

Ancient Egyptian Disbelief in the Promises of Eternity Jan Assmann The ancient Egyptian world is moved, animated, and illuminated by two central phenomena: the daily course of the sun and the annual cycles of the inundation of the Nile and the vegetation. In the Egyptian imagination, both refer to a transcendent sphere: the heaven in the case of the sun and the netherworld in case of Nile and vegetation. These two spheres are dominated and represented by two Gods: Re, the sungod, and Osiris, the god of the netherworld. Re and Osiris stand also for the two aspects of time or eternity: neheh, the time of endless repetition and regeneration, is represented by Re, especially in his morning form of Khepre, and djet, the time of endless duration and continuation, is represented by Osiris, the lord of the netherworld and of the dead, especially in his cognomen as Wannafre, “He who endures in perfection.” The two aspects of time refer to the aspect system of the Egyptian language. Neheh is time in its imperfective aspect, as an ongoing process, djet is time in its perfective aspect, as an accomplished process whose final result is unchangeably and forever enduring. Neheh is time as visualized and symbolized by the celestial bodies and their cyclical movements, especially the sun, whose hieroglyph serves as a determinative or classifier of the word, and djet is visualized and symbolized by the stone, and the word is written with the sign of the earth as a classifier. These two words complement each other to form the encompassing concept both of time and of eternity. They serve as both denotations and negations of time. They negate time as transitoriness and caducity by denoting the endlessness of repetition and duration. The ancient Egyptian ideas and hopes of overcoming death are directed towards these two aspects of endlessness: endless regeneration in neheh and endless duration in djet.1 During the third millennium BCE (i. e., in the Old Kingdom), the time of the great pyramids, these two hopes find their strongest expression in the beliefs and practices of the royal funerary cult. The dead king transforms himself into Osiris and partakes of endless duration in the subterranean chambers of his monumental pyramid; he ascends to heaven and unites with the sun god by means of the same pyramid, which is pointing towards heaven and oriented to the cardinal points. Normal mortals, by contrast, are buried in tombs and 1  See my book Steinzeit und Sternzeit. Altägyptische Zeitkonzepte (Munich: W. Fink, 2011), 13–85.

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instead of ascending to heaven they dwell in their tombs and descend to the realm of the dead, the domain of Osiris. “Humans hide but gods fly up” (Pyr 459a), we read in a spell of the Pyramid Texts. The king, being a god, flies to heaven; the humans hide in their tombs and descend to the realm of Osiris and the dead. Their hopes of an afterlife are based on endless duration and its medium, the stone. Insofar as they have access to building craft and stone masonry, which is a monopoly of the state, they build themselves monumental tombs in which they can both “hide” and communicate with the world of the living. Their mummy rests in the inaccessible burial chamber, and the accessible parts of the tomb accommodate the cult and the representations of the tomb-owner. He or she inhabits the tomb and communicates with the living in the form of his/her ka, an invisible double, that is able to cross the “false-door” separating and linking the two spheres of the visible and the invisible, the accessible and the inaccessible, in order to animate his representations, receive the offerings, and protect the tomb. The ka is the principle of dynastic or genealogical continuity; it unites fathers and sons, running through the sequence of generations. Its symbol and hieroglyph is a pair of arms that reach out, not upwards in adoration but horizontally in an embrace. The sign symbolizes the mystic embrace that unites a deceased father and a surviving son. Also the king has a ka, being the son of the sun-god and of his biological father who after death has become Osiris, but in addition to his ka, he also has a ba in the form of which he is able to fly up to heaven and to move freely in the spheres of heaven, earth and netherworld. There is, thus, a very marked difference between the royal form of afterlife, which is one of divine immortality in the heavenly sphere, and the afterlife of normal mortals who go down to the realm of Osiris and stay in their tombs on earth, communicating with posterity by means of their inscriptions and the mortuary cult.2 With the end of the third millennium BCE and the collapse of the Old Kingdom, the texts that codified the royal ideas about a celestial afterlife in the world of the gods became accessible to the literate elite, at least to its most prominent members. We cannot tell how far these beliefs and ideas penetrated downwards into larger parts of the Egyptian society. Our notions of the Egyptian beliefs are based on texts and monuments and the generalizability of these observations remains an open question. The concept of ba, however, became anthropologized, namely believed to be the property of every human being. Now, everybody (and again: we cannot tell whether “everybody” means every member of a certain elite or every Egyptian) saw him- or herself presented with two ways to avoid vanishing and perishing: the way of terrestrial, monumental 2  For Ancient Egyptian beliefs in the hereafter see my book Death and Salvation in Ancient Egypt (tr. David Lorton; Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005).



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duration and the way of celestial immortality. The criterion for reaching immortality, however, had to be redefined. It could no longer be a question of royalty or non-royalty and was redefined as a question of morality, that is, of good and evil in a moral sense. This is the origin of the idea of a judgment of the dead, where everybody has to appear after death before a tribunal of 42 judges – one for each of the 42 nomes of Egypt – under the presidency of Osiris. There, they had to recite a long list of possible sins protesting their innocence while their heart was laid on a scale and weighed against a feather, the symbol of truth. With every lie, the scale with the heart would sink. Justified and acquitted of all possible sins, however, the dead would be admitted to the field of reeds, a celestial Elysium, and granted immortality.3 A wisdom-text known as the Teaching for Merikare that probably dates back to the Middle Kingdom (i. e., the 18th century BCE) refers to the idea of the post-mortem judgment in the following verses: The court that judge the wretch, You know they are not lenient On the day of judging the miserable, In the hour of doing their task. It is painful when the accuser has knowledge. Do not trust in length of years. They view a lifetime in an hour! When a man remains over after death, His deeds are set beside him as a sum. Being yonder lasts forever. A Fool is he who does what they reprove! He who reaches them without having done wrong Will exist there like a god, free-striding like the lords of eternity!4

The way that leads to immortality is here recommended as leading a responsible life with the final account-giving in view. For our categories of logical thinking, the two forms of surviving death, the monumental way of lithic duration and the moral way of justification and immortality would exclude each other. Why build an expensive monumental tomb and provide for the even more expensive mortuary cult, if one passes into transcendent realms to live among the gods, free-striding like the lords of eternity? For the Egyptians, however, the two concepts of afterlife complement each other. Even after adopting the ideas of justification, Elysium and immortality, they continued to mummify their corpses, to build monumental tombs and to 3 

Assmann, Death and Salvation, 73–86. Merikare P 53–57; see Joachim F. Quack, Studien zur Lehre für Merikare (Göttinger Orientforschungen 23; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1992), 34–35. 4 

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establish a cult as an interface with the world of the living, a place of worship, sacrificial communication and autobiographical self-representation. The building of a tomb remained the most important life-project. In the Teaching of Hordjedef that dates perhaps back to the Old Kingdom we read the exhortation to build oneself a tomb and to magnificently equip one’s home of eternity. Here, it is also stressed that one should build one’s tomb not only for oneself but above all for one’s son who is to perform the mortuary cult, to take one’s place in the world of the living and to bridge the gap that divides the two worlds of here and there: Build a house for your son; then a place will be created for you, in which you will be. Richly equip your house in the realm of the dead, and effectively outfit your place in the West. Heed: death counts little for us, Heed: life counts much for us. The house of death is for life.5

The same exhortation is repeated in other and even more beseeching words in the Teaching of Ani that dates from the 13th century BCE, thus perhaps over one millennium or at least 500 years later: Do not leave your house without knowing where you can rest. Let one know the place you have chosen, so that you will be remembered as long as you are known. Place it before you as the path to take, while you are mentioned in what you have found. Furnish your place in the valley of the dead and the “netherworld” (the burial chamber) that will shelter your corpse. Place this before you as one of your concerns. Also, as concerns great old age: may you rest in your tomb-chamber. No reproach befalls the one who acts thus; it is well with the one who is thus prepared. When your envoy of death comes to fetch you, let him find you ready. Truly, he waits not for you. Say: “Here comes one who has himself prepared for you” and do not say “I am too young for you to take me.” Indeed, you do not know your death! Death comes, it steals the child from the arms of its mother, just like the one who has reached old age.”6 5 Georges Posener, “Le début de l’ Enseignement de Hardjedef,” REg 9 (1952), 109–120 at 109–110. 6  Ani 17.11–18.4; see Joachim F. Quack, Die Lehre des Ani (OBO 141; Freiburg and Göttingen: Universitätsverlag Freiburg and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 96–99.



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In the Instruction for Merikare, from which I have already quoted the maxim about the judgment of the dead, the ancient maxim of Hordjedef became modernized, namely moralized as follows: Richly equip your house in the realm of the dead, and effectively outfit your place in the West by being upright, by doing justice, upon which man’s heart may rely.7

A tomb is not built by stone alone but by being upright and doing justice. The monumental tomb is but the visual sign of a good, that is, justifiable life. The secret of redemption from vanishing and perishing is Ma᾽at, the Egyptian goddess and personification of justice, order and truthfulness. In the Tale of the Eloquent Peasant, it is said that Ma᾽at takes him, who practiced her in his life, by the hand and accompanies him to the necropolis: Justice is for eternity: it enters the graveyard with its doer. When he is buried and earth enfolds him, his name does not pass from the earth; he is remembered because of goodness, that is the rule of the god’s command.8

When Hecataeus of Abdera 1500 years later visited Egypt and interrogated the inhabitants about the meaning of their sumptuous tomb architecture, he found the same principles still alive: The Egyptians regard the time spent in this life as completely worthless; but to be remembered for virtue after one’s death they hold to be of the highest value. Indeed, they refer to the houses of the living as “inns” (katalyseis), since we dwell in them but a short time, while the tombs of the dead they call “everlasting homes” (aidioi oikoi) since in Hades we remain for an endless span. For this reason, they trouble themselves little about the furnishings of their houses, but betray an excess of ostentation concerning their places of burial.9

Virtue, neferu in Egyptian, meaning “perfection” refers to living according to the rules of Ma᾽at. This is what ensures endless remembrance and endless duration in one’s house of eternity. The Vizier Amun-User who lived in the first half of the 15th century avowed the same principles in one of his inscriptions, again quoting and modifying the classical maxim of Hordjedef:

7  Merikare P 127–128; see Georges Posener in Annuaire du Collège de France 67 (1966– 1967), 343. 8  Eloquent Peasant B1.338–342 = B2.72–75; see Richard B. Parkinson, The Tale of the Eloquent Peasant (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 43–44. 9  Hecataeus of Abdera, cited by Diodorus Siculus, Bibl. Hist. 1.51; see Edwin Murphy, ed. and tr., Diodorus: On Egypt (Jefferson: McFarland, 1985), 67–68.

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I built for me an excellent tomb in my city of eternity I equipped magnificently the place of my rock-tomb in the cliffs of everlastingness. May my name endure upon it in the mouth of the living, my memory being perfect with people after the years to come. Just a trifle is the life-span spent on earth, but eternity is (spent) in the netherworld. God praises the noble one who acts for himself with regard to the future who seeks with his heart to find for himself what is wholesome, namely burying his corpse and making his name live, and who considers eternity.10

We see, that the old ideal of an afterlife in and by means of a monumental tomb that serves not only as a hiding place of the mummy but, above all, as the place of ongoing communication with the living, and the new ideal of passing the judgment of the dead and being admitted to the Elysium of the field of reeds exist side by side. From the beginning of the second millennium on, moreover, the tomb is seen not only as the place of cult but also as a door to the upper world where the dead, by crossing the “false door” may go up and see the sun. This idea of “going forth by day” becomes in the course of the second millennium the most important goal of all the various preparations for surviving death. This much about the Egyptian beliefs. The second part of my essay will be devoted to expressions of disbelief. I  start with a text, in which the two ideas of transcendent immortality and immanent continuity through monument and cult appear in a rather conflictual relationship, casting serious doubts on the sense of tomb-building. This is the famous Dialogue between a Man and his Ba, dating from about the same time as the Teaching for Merikare, the MK.11 Both interlocutors agree in their longing for death. The man, however, wants to postpone death until a tomb has been built and a survivor has been appointed to perform the funerary and mortuary rituals, whereas the ba pleads for an immediate departure from this world, doubting the sense of cult and tomb-building: If you think of burial, it is heartbreak. It is the gift of tears by aggrieving a man. It is taking a man from his house, 10  Theban Tomb 131; see Eberhard Dziobek, ed., Denkmäler des Vezirs User-Amun (SAGA 18; Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag, 1998), 78–79; cf. Assmann, Steinzeit und Sternzeit, 25. 11  Papyrus Berlin 3024; see James P. Allen, The Debate between a Man and his Soul: A Mas­ terpiece of Ancient Egyptian Literature (CHANE 44; Leiden: Brill, 2011).



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casting him in the desert. You will not go up to see the sun. Those who built in granite, who erected halls in excellent tombs of excellent construction   – when the builders have become gods, their offering stones are desolate, as if they were the dead who died on the riverbank for lack of a survivor. Follow the feast day! Forget worry!12

In the most radical way, the ba casts doubts on the usefulness of tomb-building and mortuary cult. The man’s concern about finding a survivor and building a tomb are, in his eyes, absolutely meaningless. The fate of the tomb-owners will be quite the same as the fate of those who died in poverty without having had the means to build a tomb and provide for a survivor to perform the cult. There is no hope of passing the threshold, crossing the false-door, “going forth by day” to see the sun. In the continuation of the dialogue, the two interlocutors arrive obviously at an agreement. The ba concedes to the man to prepare for death in the traditional way, and the man acknowledges that the true afterlife takes place not here but “yonder”: “He who is there, the man admits, will be a living god.”13 Another text, dating presumably from the same time of transition around 2000 BCE, casts doubts not on tomb-building in this world but on life conditions in the other world. This text, too, is a dialogue. In consequence of some catastrophic events that are not made clear (presumably the murder of Osiris by his brother Seth), Atum, the creator, assigns Osiris to the netherworld where he is to reign as lord of the dead. Osiris, however, does not view this realm as an Elysium: Osiris: O Atum, how is it that I must travel to the wasteland of the realm of the dead? It has no water, it has no air, it is utterly deep, dark, and endless! Atum: You live there in contentment of heart. Osiris: But there is no making love there. Atum: I have granted transfiguration in place of water, air and making love, and contentment of heart in place of bread and beer.14

There is no mention of redemption from death and of reaching an Elysian sphere where Osiris will rule and find eternal satisfaction of his wishes and desires. In12 

Dialogue between a Man and his Ba, cols. 56–68; cf. Allen, Debate, 62–67. Dialogue between a Man and his Ba, cols. 142–143; cf. Allen, Debate, 106. 14  Book of the Dead 175; see Assmann, Death and Salvation, 121–122, 134–137. 13 

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stead, Atum says that he will transform these very desires, so that Osiris will no longer yearn for water, air, bread, beer and sexual pleasure. He has replaced desires with contentment of heart, and human nature with transfiguration. This answer, however, stands in stark contrast to all the descriptions and depictions of the Elysian sphere to which the Egyptians hoped to be assigned after their justification before the divine tribunal and must, therefore, be counted as an expression of disbelief. From the New Kingdom, the same time as the Teaching of Ani quoted previously, comes another wisdom text that not only casts doubt on the sense of tomb-building, but offers a much more efficient alternative for escaping death and reaching immortality, namely the composition of a book of wisdom. The pupil is advised to learn to write and to follow the example of the classical, immortal authors: They (the sages of the past) have not created for themselves pyramids of ore nor stelae of iron; they have not contrived to leave heirs in the form of children, to keep their names alive. But they created themselves books as heirs and teachings that they have written. They employed the scroll as lector priest and the slate as “loving son.” Teachings are their pyramids, the reed their son, the polished stone surface their wife. The doors of their tomb chapels have crumbled, Their priests went away, their tomb chapels are forgotten, but their names are recalled on their writings, that they have created, as they endure by virtue of their perfection. Their creators are remembered in eternity.15

Here, the belief in self-eternalization is not rejected, but the way of tomb-building and the foundation of cult is discarded in favour of an even more elitist way: the way of literary immortality. This form of escaping death presupposes a strong concept of cultural memory into which a person may inscribe him/herself with its idea of “classical” literature and its institutions of learning. At the time when this text was composed, Egypt was already in a situation to look back on almost 2000 years of recorded history and of a canon of classical authors of the Middle Kingdom (thus of a period of about 500–700 years in the past), whose books every adept of the literary craft had to learn by heart. Literature appears here as a kind of “heterotopos,” an exceptional space or place, where other rules and beliefs hold than those shared by the general world. 15  Papyrus Chester Beatty IV, verso 2.5–3.11; see Miriam Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature, Vol. 2: The New Kingdom (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), 175–178.



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The same applies to a sphere which is alluded to in the last line of the speech of the ba in the dialogue of the “Tired of Life”: “Follow the feast day! Forget worry!” The ba is here quoting a genre of songs that are performed, usually by harpers but occasionally also by lute players, in the context of a festive banquet. The most famous of these songs occurs in a tomb inscription accompanying the figure of a blind harper and dating from the Amarna/post-Amarna period, and interspersed among love songs in a somewhat later papyrus, which is stated to come from the tomb of “Antef.” How happy is this good prince! The beautiful fate has come. A generation passes, another stays, since the time of the ancestors. The gods who were before rest in their tombs, their places are gone, what has become of them? I have heard the words of Imhotep and Hordjedef, whose sayings are recited everywhere. What of their places? Their walls have crumbled, their places are gone as though they had never been! None comes from there to tell of their state, to tell of their needs to calm our heart until we go where they have gone. Hence rejoice in your heart! Forgetfulness befits you, Follow your heart as long as you live. Put myrrh on your head, dress in fine linen, anoint yourself with oils fit for a god. Heap up your joys, Let your heart not sink! Follow your heart and your happiness, Do your things on earth as your heart commands! When there comes to you that day of mourning, The Weary-hearted hears not their mourning, Wailing saves no man from the pit! Make holiday, Do not weary of it! Lo, none is allowed to take his goods with him, Lo, none who departs comes back again!16

16  Papyrus Harris 500 (BM 10060), recto 6.2–7.3; see Miriam Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature, Vol. 1: The Old and Middle Kingdoms (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), 196–197.

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There are something like 30 songs known to us: half of them share the pessimism and scepticism of the Antef song regarding the durability of tomb and cult and the blissful character of the existence after death, the other half, to the contrary, praise the hereafter and the dead who have reached this blissful state. The two groups of texts that apparently share the same Sitz im Leben and belong, therefore, to the same genre, stand in most extreme contrast to each other. Moreover, the Egyptians themselves were well aware of this antagonistic relation, for one of these songs begins: I have heard these songs that are inscribed in the tombs of the ancestors and what they say in extolling the life on earth and belittle the hereafter. Why are such things done to the land of eternity? Our ancestors rest therein since primordial times and whoever will exist in endless years to come, They will all go there. There is no staying in Egypt. The time spent on earth is but a dream, but “Welcome, safe and whole” is said to him who reached the West.17

This text subscribes to the advice of the Vizier Amenuser, who held that life on earth is worthless (“just a short moment”) in comparison to the eternity of the hereafter; it is also corroborated by the report of Hecataeus about the meaning of tomb-building. But also the sceptical songs would concede that much. They, however, draw the opposite conclusion. Just because earthly life is so short it has to be turned into a feast and enjoyed. Concerning the shortness of time here and the endless length of time there, there is little disagreement among the two groups of songs. The sceptic group, however, doubts that there will be any welcome in the realm of the dead. What the sceptic harpers proclaim belongs to the semantic of the feast that – being a typical heterotopos – forms an independent universe of meaning within the broader context of general culture. We meet with the same exhortations to remember death, realize the shortness of life, and grasp the present festive moment with all intensity of awareness and enjoyment also in Babylonia. In the epic of Gilgamesh, it is the divine inn-keeper Siduri who greets Gilgamesh with these words: Gilgamesh, whither are you wandering? Life, which you look for, you will never find. For when the gods created man, they let death be his share, and life withheld in their own hands. Gilgamesh, fill your belly. Day and night make merry. 17  Harper’s song in the tomb of Neferhotep (Theban Tomb 50); see Assmann, Death and Salvation, 119 and 436–437 n. 18.



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Let days be full of joy, dance and make music day and night. And wear fresh clothes. And wash your head and bathe. Look at the child that is holding your hand, and let your wife delight in your embrace. These things alone are the concern of men.18

Gilgamesh, in his search of immortality, has reached the end of the world. Siduri tells him that immortality is not man’s lot but mortality and that he should make his short stay on earth as joyful and lively as possible. Man should not spoil the precious moment of earthly existence by worrying about an imaginary hereafter. The relation of this wisdom to the feast is given by the fact that Siduri is an innkeeper pouring wine to the gods. Banquet songs fall into her competency. Even in the Bible we meet with this sceptical view of afterlife and immortality. In chapter 9 of Ecclesiastes we read: Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for God has already approved what you do. Always be clothed in white, and always anoint your head with oil. Enjoy life with your wife, whom you love, all the days of this meaningless life that God has given you under the sun – all your meaningless days. For this is your lot in life and in your toilsome labour under the sun. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the realm of the dead, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom.19

This is a typical banquet song, very much in the line of Siduri and the Antef song, that found its way, among other songs of similar tendency, into the book of Ecclesiastes because the ritual frame and occasion of reading and reciting this book is the feast of Sukkot that is spent in booths of branches with much singing and wine-drinking. Qoheleth is one of the five megillot or scrolls that are assigned to certain feasts: Esther to Purim, Song of Songs to Pesach, Ruth to Shavuot, Lamentations to Tisha b᾽Av and Qoheleth to Sukkot. The Egyptian custom of singing such songs at festive banquets, therefore, falls in line with a general eastern Mediterranean and Near Eastern custom. When Herodotus visited Egypt in about 450 BCE, he observed a peculiar festive custom: 18  Gilgamesh, Si 3.1–15; cf. Alexander Heidel, The Gilgamesh Epic and Old Testament Parallels (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1949), 70; Andrew George, The Epic of Gilgamesh: The Babylonian Epic Poem and Other Texts in Akkadian and Sumerian (New York: Penguin Books, 1999), 124. 19  Eccl. 9:7–10; see Norbert Lohfink, Kohelet (NEchtB; Würzburg: Echter, 1980), 67–71.

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“At their banquets as the rich people give, a man carries a wooden effigy of a corpse around after dinner. It is extremely well carved and painted and one or two cubits long. This he presents to his fellow drinkers saying: This one behold, drink and make merry! When you are dead you will be like him!”20

Petronius, in his Satyricon, reports of a similar custom. There, a silver skeleton is presented after dinner, together with a 100 year old wine. To this Roman custom in the wider sense belong also the “skeleton goblets,” which show the drinker together with his transitoriness the advice: “Acquire and enjoy” (ktô chrô).21 This means that life should not be devoted exclusively to the acquisition of wealth but should also leave room for enjoyment. We meet with the same maxim in Egypt, at an early and very prominent place. Thus teaches the sage Ptahhotep in the most famous of the classical wisdom books: Follow your heart as long as you live and do not more than is ordained. Do not diminish the time of following the heart! It is the abomination of the ka when his time is curtailed. Do not pursue your daily business beyond what is necessary for keeping your house. Even the property of him who follows his heart prospers but riches are useless if the heart is neglected.22

The adage of the harpers, “follow your heart,” is repeated three times. Now we understand what is meant by this expression. It refers to the place reserved for leisure in the time economy of the Egyptian gentleman. It is the same wisdom that is couched into the two words of the Roman skeleton goblets: ktô chrô, “acquire and enjoy.” Leisure is the locus of beauty in Egyptian life; it serves at animating the heart that withers in the unrelenting pursuit of business. Moreover, the advice is to acquire but also to enjoy. The feast, the “beautiful day” as the Egyptian expression runs (the same as yom tov in Hebrew and yonteff in Yiddish) belongs within the sphere of leisure, of “following the heart.” The monumental tomb, even including its moral foundation, is also a form of acquisition that requires constant care and concern. It may lead one to forget about the present and to focus all too exclusively on the afterlife. The Egyptians were wise enough to very early recognize the danger of their propensity to invest everything in their houses of eternity and the endless time they would spend in the other world 20 Herodotus, Hist. 2.78; Plutarch, Is. Os. 17; Sept. sap. conv. 2.148a–b; Lucian, Luct. 21; for archaeological evidence see Pierre Montet, La Vie quotidienne en Égypte aux temps des Ramsès (Paris: Hachette, 1946), 100–101. 21  See Claudia Nauerth, Vom Tod zum Leben. Die christlichen Totenerweckungen in der spätantiken Kunst (Göttinger Orientforschungen 1; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1980), 117–120. 22 Ptahhotep 186–193 = Papyrus Prisse 7.9–10; see Günter Burkard, “Die Lehre des Ptahhotep,” in Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments, ed. Otto Kaiser (3 vols.; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1991), 3/2.195–221 at 203.



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being remembered because of their virtue. They allowed themselves, then, these moments of reflection and scepticism  – or even disbelief  – without giving up their interest in eternity. Besides the feast and literature, however, there is still a third place where voice is given to doubt and disbelief. This is the dirge, the ritual lamentation of the surviving widow. I quote only one example of this genre. The basic concept of these lamentations is inversion. Death is not the continuation, but the inversion of life. They depict the realm of death in terms very similar of those used by Osiris in his dialogue with Atum. The glib one, silence has befallen him. The wakeful one is asleep. The one who took no sleep at night is weary every day. The house of those in the west is deep and dark. There is no door, no window in it, no light to brighten, no north wind to refresh the heart. The sun does not rise there, they lie forever in sleep because of the darkness, even in the daytime. Oh, woe! May the dear one be safe and sound, breathing air! The one with the booming voice is silent, he does not speak. The self-aware one (p3 jp d.t = f ) is unknowing. ˉ Those in the west are in difficulty, their condition is bad, How motionless is the one who has gone to them. He cannot describe his condition, he rests in his lonely place, and eternity is with him in darkness.23

It is certainly no coincidence that the ancient genre of dirges or lamentations assumes these pessimistic tones about the condition of the dead at the very same time when the sceptical harpers’ songs appear in tomb inscriptions. We are dealing here obviously with a loosening of the strict rules of decorum. Now, after the cultural revolution of Akhenaten, thoughts are admitted into the canon of tomb inscriptions that could formerly find no place there. Thus, a place is given to voices that stand in opposition or contradiction to the prevailing, official belief system. It is also possible that the Amarna experience – the incredibly bold step 23  Theban Tomb 296 (Tomb of Nefersecheru); see Jürgen Osing, ed., Das Grab des Nefersecheru in Zawyet Sultan (Archäologische Veröffentlichungen des Archäologischen Instituts Kairo; Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1992), 54–55. For this and more “widow’s laments” see also Assmann, Death and Salvation, 113–119.

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of Akhenaten to discard the whole traditional belief system in favour of a radically new one – led to a wave of scepticism in traditional beliefs. Yet I think it is more plausible that these sceptical and pessimistic voices were always there and found their expression in the heterotopoi of literature, the feast and the lament, without, however, finding a place in the canon of tomb inscriptions with their eternalizing aspirations. There is one very late text, and this will be my last example, dating from the first century BCE. It is a stela that a high priest of Ptah set up for his deceased wife – or which she herself had set up when still alive – in which she addresses her surviving husband: O my brother, my husband, My friend, high priest! Your heart will not weary of drinking and eating, Of intoxication and lovemaking! Spend a good day, follow your heart Day and night! Let no care into your heart! What are years not spent on earth? The West, it is the land of slumber, a burdensome darkness,   the dwelling place of those who are there. Sleep is their occupation. They wake not to see their brothers. They cannot gaze upon their fathers and mothers, Their hearts miss their wives and their children. The water of life, which is the nourishment of every mouth, It is thirst for me. It comes only to the one who is on earth. I thirst, though there is water beside me. I do not know the place where I am Since I came to this valley. Give me flowing water! Say to me: “May your form not be far from water!” Turn my face to the north wind   on the bank of the water! Surely my heart will be cooled in its grief. Death, “Come!” is his name, whoever he calls to himself, they come immediately, though their hearts shudder in fear of him. No one sees him among gods and men. Great and small alike are in his hand. No one staves off his curse from the one he chooses. He steals the son from his mother, rather than the old man that is drawing nigh to him.



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All the fearful are placed before him, but he turns not his face to them; he does not come to the one that prays to him, he does not heed the one who praises him, he is not seen, so no gift can be given to him.24

This exceptional and moving text combines the wisdom of Siduri and the harpers, the motif of carpe diem with the disillusioned view of the afterlife we met with in the anxious questions that Osiris asked about the netherworld, though there is still a faint hope that the libation and the prayer of the survivor could do something for the dead. The Egyptians did in fact give up the custom of monumental tomb-building in Ptolemaic and Roman times, preferring to reuse existing tombs from older periods; meanwhile, the mortuary cult was reduced to a mere libation, administered by the Choachytes, a professional class of mortuary priests. Still, I would not view even this latest period of Egyptian religion as a time of general disbelief. A great many funerary texts, even new compositions in Demotic language, date from this Greco-Roman period, showing that the classical belief system, centred on Re and Osiris, on the hope of entering neheh and djet, was very much alive – and with it the Egyptian forms of heterotopia, of giving room to contrasting voices.

24  Stela of Taimhotep (time of Ptolemy XI); see Eve A. E. Reymond, From the Records of a Priestly Family from Memphis (Ägyptologische Abhandlungen 38; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1981), 165–179, pl. 12; Charles Maystre, Les grands prêtres de Ptah de Memphis (OBO 113; Fribourg and Göttingen: Universitätsverlag Freiburg and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992), 414–421.

The Invention of Atheism and the Invention of Religion in Classical Athens Tim Whitmarsh In this contribution, I argue that atheism and religion were invented concurrently, in Athens in the late 430s BCE. “Invention” can take many forms. I do not, of course, mean that this was the first generation anywhere in the world to express belief in or doubt about the power of supernatural beings to effect change in our world, or in the power of humans to influence the behaviour of those beings. I certainly do not mean that this is an instance in which the “Athenian genius” bequeathed an invention to posterity. My argument is, rather, a narrower one: that this era saw Greek culture, for the first time that we can identify in Greek (and arguably in world) history, reflect upon the idea of religion as a bounded field distinct from other areas of human culture, and indeed upon the possibilities of a world without it. Mary Beard has argued that the Roman late republic was a “period when ‘religion,’ as an activity and a subject, became clearly defined out of the traditional, undifferentiated, politico-religious amalgam of Roman public life.”1 My claim is analogous for the Athenian period from the 430s onwards – with the additional claim that in order to define (however fuzzily) “religion” in a positive sense, one also needs to be able to negate that definition. The invention of “religion” as a field of enquiry thus went hand-in-hand with the invention of atheism.2 1 Mary Beard, “Cicero and Divination: The Formation of a Latin Discourse,” JRS 76 (1986), 33–46 at 46. I am grateful to colleagues at the conference in Regensburg, and especially to the editors of this volume; and also to participants in a panel discussion at the Society for Biblical Literature meeting in Denver, November 2018. 2  For studies of varieties of classical Greek atheism see esp. Paul Decharme, La critique des traditions religieuses chez les Grecs des origines au temps de Plutarque (Paris: Alphonse Picard et fils, 1904); Anders Bjørn Drachmann, Atheism in Pagan Antiquity (London: Gyldendal, 1922); Hermann Ley, Geschichte der Aufklärung und des Atheismus, Vol. 1 (Berlin: VEB Deutscher Verlag der Wissenschaften, 1966); Gilles Dorival and Didier Pralon, ed., Nier les dieux, nier dieu (Textes et Documents de la Méditerranée Antique et Médiévale 2; Aix-en-Provence: Publications de l’Université de Provence, 2002); Hildegard Cancik-Lindemaier, “Gottlosigkeit im Altertum. Materialismus, Pantheismus, Religionskritik, Atheismus,” in Atheismus: Ideologie, Philosophie oder Mentalität?, ed. Richard Faber and Susanne Lanwerd (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2006), 15–33; Jan N. Bremmer, “Atheism in Antiquity,” in The Cambridge Companion to Atheism, ed. Michael Martin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 11–26; David Sedley, “The Pre-Socratics to the Hellenistic Age,” in The Oxford Handbook of Atheism, ed. Stephen Bullivant and Michael Ruse (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013),

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1.  To Define: “Religion” Definition is, indeed, where we must begin. What do we mean by “religion” and, indeed, by “atheism”? According to one influential strain in the modern scholarship, to speak of “religion” in relation to a pre-modern period is misleading. In 1962, Wilfred Cantwell Smith demonstrated that the Latin-derived word “religion” only acquired its current sense (of a coherent realm of human experience of the divine) in the 19th century, with Schleiermacher.3 Recently, Brent Nongbri has influentially pushed a stronger, more politicized version of this claim: that to adopt the category of “religion” is adopt a category created by the European Enlightenment, and thus tainted by imperialist and colonialist exploitation. It is, therefore, not simply an anachronism, when used of ancient peoples, but the reenactment at the discursive level of abhorrent practices: Religion has a history. It was born out of a mix of Christian disputes about truth, European colonial exploits, and the formation of nation-states […] Ancient peoples were not in the business of dividing aspects of their lives into “religious” and “non-religious.”4

Nongbri’s title Before Religion signals methodological continuity with the cultural-constructionist vogue of the 1980s and 1990s for locating moments in time when phenomena were “invented”: his book joins a long list of titles such as Be­ fore X or The Invention of Y. This mode was canonized by Foucauldian precedent: in particular, the first volume of his History of Sexuality argued that the concept of sexuality emerged with nineteenth-century psychopathology, and had little purchase beforehand.5 For Foucault, the nineteenth-century invention of “sexuality” was no impediment to beginning his chronological history of “sexuality” two and a half millennia earlier; many of his devoted, literalist followers, however, have adopted a punitive nominalism, characterized by the banishment of certain allegedly anachronistic words and ideas from historiography. What Nongbri fails to acknowledge is that language is always historically situated: avoiding an isolated term will not change that. What is required is self-awareness and nuance, not the prescriptive banishment of certain words.6 139–151; Tim Whitmarsh, Battling the Gods: Atheism in the Ancient World (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2015); and the special issue of Philosophie Antique 18 (2018). 3  Wilfred Cantwell Smith, “‘Religion’ in the West,” in The Meaning and End of Religion (New York: Macmillan, 1963), 15–50; repr. in Readings in the Theory of Religion: Map, Text, Body, ed. Scott S. Elliott and ‎Matthew Waggoner (Critical Categories in the Study of Religion; London: Equinox, 2009), 5–40. 4 Brent Nongbri, Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2013), 159. 5  See Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Vol. 1: An Introduction, tr. Robert Hurley (London: Allen Lane, 1984 [or. 1976]); idem, The History of Sexuality, Vol. 2: The Use of Pleasure, tr. Robert Hurley (London: Penguin Books, 1992 [or. 1984]); idem, The History of Sexuality, Vol. 3: The Care of the Self, tr. Robert Hurley (London: Penguin Books, 1990 [or. 1984]). 6  Following Nongbri, Carlin A. Barton and Daniel Boyarin, Imagine No Religion: How



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I begin with Nongbri’s book because it encapsulates a modern trend in the historiography of religion; because if one takes his argument seriously then my argument in this chapter is invalidated from the start; and because I  disagree profoundly. Scholarship must of course continually examine its own emic analytical categories, and measure these against the etic categories used by the societies under consideration. But Nongbri’s strong conclusion enjoining us to renounce the study of religion is misconceived, for at least two reasons. First, historical scholarship is always, inevitably consigned to using inadequate “redescriptive” terms. It is by definition an act of judicious translation: we take source material produced by another context and attempt to find the correct analytical terms with which to describe it in a modern, scholarly idiom. We cannot obviate this challenge simply by isolating and expunging certain features of modern discourse. Indeed, any desire to do so is misplaced. To assess a culture in entirely etic terms would be undesirable: that would be to participate immersively, not to analyse.7 Distance, and the translation across distance, are the sine quibus non of scholarly effort. Even Nongbri acknowledges this when he urges us to study “ancestral tradition” or “ethnicity” instead of “religion”: these are every bit as much redescriptive categories born of the modern European intellectual tradition. (The idea that “ethnicity” – which gained currency in the Anglophone world in the aftermath of the Second World War as a more palatable substitute for “race” – should be seen as an unproblematic and easy category is particularly bizarre.) The second reason why we should keep “religion” (conceived of suitably flexibly) in the scholarly vocabulary is that it allows us to speak of a feature of societies that would otherwise be indescribable. The separation of sacred and profane (personnel, space, time, activities, physical and mental states etc.) is fundamental to most forms of settled society. The realm of the sacred is of course not coterminous with that of “religion” as it is understood in the modern West, but nor does it blur amorphously into all other areas of life. The world of the sacred is usually defined scrupulously (if variously in different cultures). Nongbri’s error lies in a false inference, from the self-evidently true premise that pre-Enlightenment cultures lack an Enlightenment conception of religion, to the misguided Modern Abstractions Hide Ancient Realities (New York: Fordham University Press, 2016), explore in detail the uses of the Greek term θρησκεία and the Latin religio, showing elegantly and powerfully that these words are employed tactically and sparingly, and never have the same comprehensive force as the modern western conception of “religion.” This is convincing insofar as it goes; but (as will become clear) I am unconvinced by the strong thesis that the ancient Greeks and Romans therefore lacked the tools with which to conceptualize humans’ interactions with the gods, and vice versa. 7 Tim Whitmarsh, “Quantum Classics: Literature, Historicism, Untimeliness, Uncertainty,” in Griechische Literaturgeschichtsschreibung. Traditionen, Probleme und Konzepte, ed. Jonas Grethlein and Antonios Rengakos (Greek Literary History; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2017), 30–45 at 32–33.

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conclusion that they therefore lack any conception of religion. Durkheim addressed precisely this problem in the opening chapter of The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life: whereas most in the Christian intellectual tradition seek to define religion as “a sort of indivisible entity” constituted by unified metaphysical beliefs, it is rather “made up of parts […] a more or less complex system of myths, dogmas, rites and ceremonies.”8 The problem, we might say, is precisely that attempting to define religion at core (as Nongbri does) immediately congeals it into a category that is useless for pre-Enlightenment cultures. What is required is not that we “imagine no religion,” but that we imagine religion differently, with the agility required to adapt to the varieties of human culture. For while there is certainly something distinctive about the way in which Enlightenment Europe and its colonies constructed the idea of religion, there is no reason to think that it has been more distinctive than any other culture’s conception of the sacred. To isolate the discourse of the post-Enlightenment West, to say this culture stands so far apart that its terminology bears no relation to that of any other, and to roll together all pre-Enlightenment or non-Western cultures into a single, undifferentiated category defined in opposition: this merely reinstates European exceptionalism under a different guise.

2.  Ta Theia When attempting to show that the ancient Greeks had no conception of religion, both Nongbri and Boyarin9 focus on the word θρησκεία –  which is, as it happens, the modern Greek word for “religion.” They have little difficulty in proving their point, namely that it is in antiquity an obscure and marginal word that has little to do with the modern conception of religion. The root form is attested in only four passages before the Hellenistic period, all in Herodotus’s Histories, and all in his second book (focused on the topsy-turvy sacred culture of Egypt). This association with foreign practice is borne out in an ancient (pseud)etymology deriving the word from “Thracian.”10 θρησκεία is, for sure, not any kind of candidate for an ancient Greek equivalent to “religion.” A  far better candidate, however – not discussed either by Nongbri or by Boyarin – is τὰ θεῖα, literally “the things to do with the gods.” This kind of usage (the neuter plural of a substantivized adjective) is an entirely conventional way of expressing a general sphere in Greek, analogous to, e. g., τὰ ἀφροδίσια (“the things to do with Aphrodite” – i. e., sex) and τὰ Περσικά (“the things to do with the Persians,” i. e., Persian culture). This kind of generalising abstraction is a feature of late 8 Émile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, tr. Joseph Ward Swain (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1915 [or. 1912]), 36. 9 In Barton and Boyarin, Imagine No Religion. 10  Etym. Magn., s. v. Θρῆσκος.



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fifth-century Athenian intellectual culture. It is no coincidence that such words tend to find their way into book titles: the Hippocratic corpus, written largely in the late fifth century, contains titles like “Epidemics” and “Prognostics”; Ctesias’s histories, written in the early fourth century, were entitled Περσικά and  Ἰνδικά; and so on (and of course this habit survives into English: we speak of general fields as “mathematics,” “mechanics” and so forth). τὰ θεῖα is a second-order, reflexive term, born into a world that is beginning to develop books, libraries, archives and specialist academic fields. Here, for example, is Socrates in Plato’s Euthyphro (written probably in the first quarter of the fourth century BCE): Then the best thing for me, my admirable Euthyphro, is to become your pupil and, before the suit with Meletus comes on, to challenge him and say that I always thought it very important before to know about τὰ θεῖα and that now, since he says I am doing wrong by acting carelessly and making innovations in matters of τὰ θεῖα, I have become your pupil.11

Socratic irony, of course: Socrates does not really believe he can learn much from Euthyphro. What is more, as Hannah Willey has recently observed, Plato seems to present Euthyphro as getting his ritual terribly wrong, in that he turns to legal redress when he should be turning to purification.12 But this is beside our present point, which is that τὰ θεῖα is imagined not just as “ce que nous nommons réligion,”13 but also as a sphere of expertise that can be accessed by specialist study, just like rhetoric or medicine. We shall return to this later.

3.  Redeeming Diopeithes The phrase τὰ θεῖα is first attested, however, not in Plato or in any other philosophical source, but in a law promulgated in around 432 BCE by a zealous prophet called Diopeithes.14 The source for this law is Plutarch’s Life of Pericles: 11 Plato,

Euthyphr. 5a. Willey, “Social-status, Legislation, and Pollution in Plato’s Euthyphro,” in Pu­ rity and Purification in the Ancient Greek World: Texts, Rituals, and Norms, ed. Jean-Mathieu Carbon and Saskia Peels-Matthey, Kernos Suppl. 32 (2016), 113–131. 13 Jean Van Camp and Paul Canart, Le sens du mot “Theios” chez Platon (Recueil de travaux d’histoire et philologie 4/9; Leuven: Publications Universitaires de Louvain, 1956), 33, on our passage. 14 Eudore Derenne, Les procès d’impiété intentés aux philosophes à Athènes au Ve et au IVe siècles avant J. C. (Liège: Vaillant-Carmanne, 1930), 13–41, lays out the sources clearly. Recent discussion of the decree not discussed further below: Martin Ostwald, From Popular Sov­ ereignty to the Sovereignty of Law: Law, Society and Politics in Fifth-Century Athens (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 529–532; Robert Garland, Introducing New Gods: The Politics of Athenian Religion (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992), 139–141; Antonio Banfi, “I processi contro Anassagora, Pericle, Fidia ed Aspasia e la questione del ‘circolo di Pericle’. Note di cronologia e di storia,” Annali dell’Istituto Italiano per gli Studi Storici 16 (1999), 3–85 at 7–31; Robert Parker, Athenian Religion: A History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996) 66–67; 12 Hannah

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And Diopeithes brought in a bill providing for the public impeachment of such as did not cultivate ta theia (τοὺς τὰ θεῖα μὴ νομίζοντας), or who taught doctrines regarding the heavens (λόγους περὶ τῶν μεταρσίων διδάσκοντας), directing suspicion at Pericles by means of Anaxagoras.15

The two clauses of the decree are conventionally, and no doubt correctly, understood to be connected: Diopeithes was apparently attacking not just atheism but atheism that consisted in teaching the material nature of the heavenly bodies. Now, Plutarch was writing half a millennium later, so we have to treat him with care; even so, it is likely (so I  shall argue in this section) that the decree is genuine. He had good sources: in particular he had access to Craterus of Macedon’s compilation of Athenian decrees which had been transcribed from the original inscriptions. Since we do not have Craterus, we must (with the latest scholarship)16 leave open the question of whether he was Plutarch’s source for the Diopeithes decree. Certainly it is not beyond the realms of possibility that Plutarch used epigraphic testimony (however indirectly) here: elsewhere he describes himself as having “tried to collect texts, found either on votive offerings or in ancient decrees, which have escaped most authors, and which are cited by some only rarely.”17 Not all, however, have been convinced. The most sustained attack on the historicity of the Diopeithes decree comes from Kenneth Dover.18 Dover’s aridem, “Law and Religion,” in The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Greek  Law, ed. Michael Gagarin and David Cohen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 61–81; Chiara Pecorella Longo, “Il reato di empietà nel diritto attico,” in Politiche religiose nel mondo antico e tardoantico: poteri e indirizzi, forme del controllo, idee e prassi di tolleranza. Atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Firenze, 24–26 settembre 2009, ed. Giovanni A. Cecconi and Chantal Gabrielli (Munera 33; Bari: Edipuglia, 2011), 43–55 at 48–53; Alexander Rubel, Fear and Loathing in Ancient Athens: Religion and Politics during the Peloponnesian War (London: Routledge, 2014), 37–45. On the remoteness of the possibility that Diopeithes’s name should also be read as the proposer of the decree in IG I3 61.4 (where only -θης is now legible) see Robert Parker, Polytheism and Society at Athens (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 92 n. 11. 15 Plutarch, Per. 32.2. 16 Donatella Erdas, Cratero il Macedone. Testimonianze e frammenti (I frammenti degli storici greci 2; Rome: Arbor Sapientiae, 2002), 203 (“possibile”). Craterus is conventionally identified either with the general who served under Alexander, ca. 370–21 BCE, or with his son, ca. 321–255. See more generally Carolyn Higbie, “Craterus and the Use of Inscriptions in Ancient Scholarship,” Transactions of the American Philological Association 129 (1999), 43–83; Erdas, Cratero il Macedone, passim; and Michele Faraguna, “Alcibiade, Cratero e gli archivi giudiziari ad Atene,” in Δύνασθαι διδάσκειν. Studi in onore di Filippo Càssola per il suo ottantesimo compleanno, ed. idem and Vanna Vedaldi Iasbez (Fonti e studi per la storia della Venezia Giulia – Studi 11; Trieste: Editreg, 2006), 197–207. 17 Plutarch, Nic. 1.5. See Higbie, “Craterus and the Use of Inscriptions,” 43–46, on Plutarch’s use of documentary sources (drawn both from material culture and, more frequently, from compilations). 18  Kenneth J. Dover, “The Freedom of the Intellectual in Greek Society,” Talanta 7 (1976), 24–54; repr. in The Greeks and Their Legacy: Collected Papers, 2 vols. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1988– 1989), 2.135–158 at 146–147. David J. Cohen, Law, Sexuality, and Society: The Enforcement of Morals in Classical Athens (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 212 (accepting



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gument – which forms part of a wider argument that classical Athens’s “atheism trials” are largely the invention of post-classical historiography19 – is based in the following claims: i) The decree is not mentioned before Plutarch, half a millennium after the “event.” ii) It is (Dover claims) not known to the fourth-century historian Ephorus of Cyme (who is transmitted by Diodorus Siculus) in his account of accusations levelled against Anaxagoras to attack Pericles. iii) It is not mentioned in the scholia to Aristophanes, Knights 1085 and Wasps 380, which collect instances of Diopeithes’s religious excesses (satirized by Aristophanes). iv) A law attacking those who teach about what is in the sky would have been socially destructive, since it would also have swept up, in Dover’s phrase, “useful and possibly devout mathematicians who calculated programmes of intercalation, not to mention seers who interpreted heavenly signs.”20 v) The decree refers to τὰ μετάρσια (= “the heavenly bodies”), where μετάρσιος is an Ionic, poetic word that gains currency in non-Ionic prose only in the Hellenistic period. Classical Attic would write τὰ μετέωρα. Dover therefore concludes that it is likely that the “decree” is likely to have been the invention of Hellenistic Peripatetics, perhaps ultimately Demetrius of Phalerum. Most of these objections, however, are trivial. To begin with (i): Dover himself acknowledges that Plutarch is usually treated as an excellent source for the history of Athens, who preserves much valuable testimony that would otherwise have been lost. (Dover does not mention the possibility of Craterus as a source, though it must have crossed his mind.) More generally, Dover’s general dismissal of Plutarch (and indeed Diodorus/Ephorus) probably reflects an unspoken assumption that Thucydides’s account of the build-up to the Peloponnesian War, which ignores anti-Periclean agitation as a cause and focuses instead on conflict with Corinth, is self-evidently superior  – a position that no longer claims the unchallenged dominance that it once did.21 As for (ii), Dover’s claim that Ephorus (via Diodorus) does not mention the decree is misleading, and only partially true. What Diodorus says is that Dover), and Anthony J. Podlecki, Perikles and His Circle (Abingdon: Routledge, 1998), 32–34, also register doubt about the historicity of Anaxagoras’s trial (but Podlecki, 34, concedes that the “strongest evidence of an actual prosecution is the hint that a documentary source may lie behind Plutarch’s report of Diopeithes’s decree calling for eisangelia against atheists”). 19  It is clear that some of the atheism trials are ahistorical. But certainly not all: see Parker, Athenian Religion, 199–217. 20  Dover, “The Freedom of the Intellectual,” 146. 21 Alessandro Giuliani, “Riflessi storiografici dell’opposizione a Pericle allo scoppio della Guerra del Peloponneso,” in Fazioni e congiure nel mondo antico, ed. Marta Sordi (Milan: Vita e Pensiero, 1999), 23–40.

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“the enemies of Pericles […] falsely accused the sophist Anaxagoras of impiety against the gods; and they involved Pericles in their accusations and malicious charges.”22 This is clearly compatible with Plutarch’s claim, even if it does not describe the exact legal mechanism employed by Pericles’s enemies.23 Dover’s elliptical summary (of “the circumstances in which συκοφαντία of Anaxagoras was used as a weapon to weaken the position of Perikles”)24 is slanted so as to omit the crucial point that the attack consisted precisely in an arraignment for impiety towards the gods. Diodorus is much closer to what Plutarch says than Dover’s summary suggests. In fact, since Plutarch is not following Ephorus in his account of the prosecution of Anaxagoras (the broader chronology he describes is different),25 Diodorus/Ephorus can be taken rather as independent corroboration of the broad outlines of Plutarch’s account. Point (iii) is also weak. The Aristophanic passages satirize Diopeithes’s behaviour as a prophet, not as a law-maker, and so it is unsurprising the scholia reproduce parallels from other comic poets about his eccentric religiosity. The absence of other kinds of testimony, which would be of at best tangential value for an explanation of Aristophanes, is not a significant one. Point (iv) neglects the obvious point that the provisions of the decree would clearly have operated as a kind of hendiadys: its victims would be arraigned if they not only made observations about the heavens, but also did not νομίζειν τοὺς θεούς. The only one of Dover’s points that holds water is the linguistic one, (v). It is undeniable that in fifth-century and earlier literature μετάρσιος (and its Aeolic/ Doric variant πεδάρσιος) appear only in poetry (very commonly, for example, in the tragedians) and Ionic prose (Hecataeus, Herodotus and the Hippocratics).26 It is also true enough (though Dover does not make this point) that Plutarch must have found the word in a source: it is not elsewhere a word he himself uses.27 It seems to me, therefore, that we have three possibilities: 22  Diod. Sic. 12.39.3 = Ephorus BNJ 70 F 196: οἱ μὲν ἐχθροὶ τοῦ Περικλέους […] Ἀναξαγόραν τὸν σοφιστήν, διδάσκαλον ὄντα Περικλέους, ὡς ἀσεβοῦντα εἰς τοὺς θεοὺς ἐσυκοφάντουν· συνέπλεκον δ’ ἐν ταῖς κατηγορίαις καὶ διαβολαῖς τὸν Περικλέα. 23 Jaap Mansfeld, “The Chronology of Anaxagoras’ Athenian Period and the Date of His Trial. Part II: The Plot against Pericles and His Associates,” Mnemosyne 33/1–2 (1980), 17–95 at 76; more generally on the compatibility of the two accounts see Giovanni Parmeggiani, Eforo di Cuma. Studi di storiografia greca (Studi di storia 14; Bologna: Pàtron, 2011), 430. 24  Dover, “The Freedom of the Intellectual,” 146. 25  Mansfeld, “The Chronology,” 24–40. 26 Hecataeus, FGrH 1 F 305; Herodotus, Hist. 7.188; Hippocrates, Mul. 68, 110 etc. Σ ps.‑Pl. Sisyphus 389a claims that μετάρσια has a different meaning to μετέωρα (the latter refer to the heavens proper, the realm of the heavenly bodies, while the former denotes the upper atmosphere); see, however, Wilhelm Capelle, “πεδάρσιος – μετάρσιος,” Philologus 71 (1912), 449– 456, who demonstrates conclusively that the two words are used synonymously, and indeed interchangeably. 27  The usage at Qu. Gr. 292c is in a Theophrastean title. De fato (cf. 571b) is spurious. μετέωρος, on the other hand, is common.



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(a) The decree is original, and the word μετάρσιος has a specific force. (b) The decree is original, but the wording is mediated. (c) The decree is, as Dover suggests, a Hellenistic invention. There should be no automatic presumption in favour of (c). Could the inscription have deliberately used a dialectical word that was associated with Anaxagoras (as per [a])? He was, after all, an Ionian, and may no doubt have used the Ionic form in his writing. The fact that cosmologists such as Diogenes of Apollonia and he were apparently known even to Attic and Atticising writers as μεταρσιολέσχαι (alongside the more familiar μετεωρολόγοι) strongly suggests this: the sources are admittedly post-classical writers, but post-classical writers who otherwise use the Attic μετέωρος and derivatives.28 Aristophanes (whose regular word is μετέωρα) puts the word μετάρσιος in the mouth of the dithyrambic poet Cinesias (Av. 1382): perhaps this is simply a poeticism, but the context does suggest elevated metaphysical thought, possibly motivated by an association with Ionian cosmology. There is, indeed, one important example of an Ionic word that demonstrably did enter the Athenian mainstream via Anaxagoras, namely μύδρος (“lump”). His description of the sun as a “flaming lump” (μύδρον […] διάπυρον, T1.23, 60, 86 etc.) gained such fame that from the late fifth century onwards any mention the sun as a μύδρος served as an implicit allusion.29 Indeed, one tradition records that this description of the sun was the very reason for his prosecution.30 It is perfectly possible, therefore, that the decree used the Ionic μετάρσιος precisely in order to pinpoint the Ionian cosmologists as its target (thus, incidentally, leaving Dover’s “useful and possibly devout mathematicians” and seers beyond its reach). Alternatively, the word may have been substituted into the wording of the decree at a latter point thanks to its close association with Ionian cosmology (in which case Plutarch’s source is unlikely to have been Craterus, who would surely have preserved the original wording). What of positive arguments for the historical existence of the decree? (Dover is curiously silent about these.) The strongest evidence comes from reports of the trial of Socrates. As is well known, the wording of the first clause of the indictment (“Socrates does wrong by not cultivating the gods cultivated by the city but

28 Ps.‑Pl. Sisyphus 389a; Plutarch, Per. 5.1; Nic. 23.4. Wilhelm Capelle, “μετέωρος  – μετεωρολογία,” Philologus 71 (1912), 414–448, comprehensively surveys the use of μετεωρολόγος etc. in connection with natural philosophers of the Periclean era (the noun is not attested before then: 428–433). 29 “Critias” TrGF 1 (43) F19(= B 25 DK).35 (cf. Plato, Apol. 26c–d); Philo, Somn. 1.22, Aet. 47; Lucian, Icar. 7.20. 30  Diog. Laert. 2.12 (= Sotion fr. 3 Wehrli): Anaxagoras was prosecuted  – by Cleon, according to this tradition – διότι τὸν ἥλιον μύδρον ἔλεγε διάπυρον. Cf. Anth. Pal. 7.95, also cited at Diog. Laert. 2.15.

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introducing new gods”)31 echoes (Plutarch’s account of) the Diopeithes decree. Now, Socrates was convicted after a regular prosecution (γραφή), not under Diopeithes’s decree (which stipulated impeachment, εἰσαγγελία). Nevertheless, the use of the phrase θεοὺς οὐ νομίζων – a highly distinctive, indeed odd, form of words – clearly suggests a relationship of jurisprudential intertextuality with Diopeithes’s τοὺς τὰ θεῖα μὴ νομίζοντας. What is more, it is all but certain that the charge against Socrates alludes to that against Anaxagoras (rather than, e. g., Plutarch’s source inventing a charge against Anaxagoras on the analogy with Socrates), since the connection is drawn directly by Plato. In the Apology he has Socrates ask Meletus to explain what “not cultivating the gods” means: Soc.: Are you saying that I myself don’t cultivate gods (οὔτε […] νομίζειν θεούς) at all and this is what I’m teaching the rest? Mel.: That’s what I’m saying: you don’t cultivate the gods (οὐ νομίζεις θεούς) at all. Soc.: My dear Meletus! What makes you say that? I don’t accept that the sun and moon are gods (οὐδὲ ἥλιον οὐδὲ σελήνην ἄρα νομίζω θεοὺς εἶναι), as everyone else does? Mel.: No, by Zeus, members of the jury, since he claims the sun is a stone (λίθον) and the moon earth (γῆν). Soc.: My dear Meletus, do you think it’s Anaxagoras you’re prosecuting (κατηγορεῖν)?32

Plato’s primary reason for including this passage is apologetic, that is, to combat the depiction of Socrates in Aristophanes’s Clouds as a full-on Anaxagorean, engaging in “aerial walking and contemplation of the sun” (Nub. 265). But it also depends upon the reader’s awareness that Socrates’s prosecution has elements in common with Anaxagoras’s. It might be said that nothing in the passage requires Anaxagoras to have been prosecuted for “not cultivating the gods”:  Socrates may simply be contrasting their philosophical styles (as most commentators have assumed). But the train of thought is obscure unless the reader is expected to know of Anaxagoras’s prosecution on the grounds of not cultivating ta theia and teaching doctrines regarding the heavens. Specifically, Socrates immediately jumps from the circumstances of a legal charge of not cultivating the gods to discuss Anaxagoras’s teaching that the sun is a rock and the moon made of earth, a connection that is hard to explain without the prior existence of the Diopeithes’s decree. What is more, the final sentence quoted above gains added point if the contrast is between the two trials, not just the two philosophers’ beliefs.33

31 Xenophon, Mem. 1.1.1: οὓς […] ἡ πόλις νομίζει θεοὺς οὐ νομίζων (cf. Apol. 10–11). For discussion see Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith, Socrates on Trial (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), 30–37. 32 Plato, Apol. 26c–d. 33  A point made (more assertively than I have done) by Brickhouse and Smith, Socrates on Trial, 32.



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4.  The Invention of Religion and the Invention of Atheism It is likely, then, not only that the Diopeithes decree was historical but also that it had a major impact on Athenian culture, to the extent that it was known to Plato some 50 years later (even though he, Plato, was probably not born when it was enacted). In this section, I argue that its impact was, in fact, likely to have been considerably greater even than that. Scholarly attention has focused on unpacking the meaning of the phrase νομίζειν τὰ θεῖα (or τοὺς θεούς, in the Socratic indictment). Broadly, two meanings of νομίζειν in this context are possible: one cognitive (“believe x to exist,” i. e., with ellipsis of εἶναι), one practical (“ritually perform”).34 Clearly, whichever translation one adopts has wider implications for the interpretation not only of the decree itself but also for one’s understanding of classical Athenian “theology”: the latter meaning would conform to the conventional understanding of Greek religion as largely based around ritual practice, while the former suggests a more belief-based system. In 1969, Wilhelm Fahr collected all of the usages of this and similar phrases, and showed that both meanings were in use from the 420s onwards, and in fact one can detect a broad shift from the practical to the cognitive over the remainder of the fifth century. My translation “cultivate” represents an attempt to capture this ambiguity.35 Less attention, however, has been paid to τὰ θεῖα, a phrase of which the Diopeithes decree offers apparently the earliest recorded example in this sense. τὸ θεῖον in the singular is certainly found earlier in the sense of “divinity,”36 an abstraction that may derive from Presocratic thought,37 but it seems unlikely that the plural has this sense (in the Diopeithes decree or anywhere). τὸ θεῖον in this sense is an abstraction, “the concept of deity,” or “divinity” (i. e., the aggregate of gods),38 not a synonym for ὁ θεός.39 It is thus unlikely to be pluralized. νομίζειν 34 Wilhelm Fahr, ΘΕΟΥΣ ΝΟΜΙΖΕΙΝ: Zum Problem der Anfänge des Atheismus bei den Griechen (Hildesheim: G. Olms Verlag, 1969), with 162–164 on the Diopeithes decree. It is a weakness of Fahr’s discussion that he does not distinguish between τοὺς θεούς and τὰ θεῖα. 35  Fahr, ΘΕΟΥΣ ΝΟΜΙΖΕΙΝ. Manuela Zecharya-Giordano, “As Socrates Shows, the Athenians Did Not Believe in Gods,” Numen 52/3 (2005), 325–355, attempts to restrict the nonPlatonic usages to the “practical” meaning, unsuccessfully: see Hendrik S. Versnel, Coping with the Gods: Wayward Reading in Greek Theology (RGRW 173; Leiden: Brill, 2011), 542–544. 36  Cf. Aeschylus, Ag. 1084; Cho. 957. 37  We have testimonia using the phrase, but no ipsissima verba: Thales fr. 1.137; Xenophanes 28.977a line 31. 38  “Une acception collective”: Gilbert François, Le polythéisme et l’emploi au singulier des mots θεός, δαίμων dans la littérature grecque d’Homère à Platon (Bibliothèque de la Faculté de Philosophie et Lettres de l’ Université de Liège 147; Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1957), 204. François’s book is a valuable study of the singular-for-plural phenomenon in early Greek literature’s representation of the divine. 39 See also Thomas Harrison, Divinity and History: The Religion of Herodotus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 177 (on Herodotus: “Whereas ὁ θεός may be used for generalizing statements on the behaviour of the divine, and while ὁ θεός and οἱ θεοί are used

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τὰ θεῖα, then, is likely to cover the spectrum between “practise conventional religion” and “hold conventional beliefs about the gods.” Since the decree seems to have attacked materialist ideas about the heavens, it is likely that the primary intention was to stigmatize beliefs rather than practice,40 though the imprecision may have politically helpful (both in broadening the potential net and in spreading fear that heterodox religious thought might lead to the breakdown of traditional practice).41 The Diopeithes decree, then, was revolutionary in at least two senses: it not only proscribed atheism for apparently the first time in Greek history, but also gave currency to a term and concept that was new in Greek thought: τὰ θεῖα.42 The phrase seems to have had an immediate impact, spreading into the tragic vocabulary throughout the 420s  – particularly in contexts where traditional belief in the gods was being challenged. One example comes in a well-known fragment from Euripides’s Bellerophon (TGrF 5.1 F286). The speaker claims that there are no gods, on the grounds that there is no systematic reward to the good and punishment to malefactors; it is only, the speaker concludes (in a lacunose sentence), “fears (?) and misfortunes” that “build up τὰ θεῖα,” that is, presumably as a psychological compensation.43 τὰ θεῖα here must mean something like “human beliefs in the existence of gods.”44 The most prominent such use of τὰ θεῖα, however, comes in Sophocles’s Oedipus the King. This is a play that is unfortunately difficult to date. Many have wanted to place it in the early 420s, but its most recent editor counsels that it could be anywhere from the 440s to the 420s (or even, at a stretch, beyond those limits).45 It is important to acknowledge this uncertainty, and proceed cautiously. Nevertheless, my view is that the aura of religious scepticism that overhangs the play (on which more below) best suits the climate of the 420s; and that in the 420s the plague that ravages the city at the outset of the play would have added point. to describe divine actions […] τὸ θεῖον is a term applied to the diagnosis of divine intervention in the world”). 40  For a contrary view see Versnel, Coping with the Gods, 544 (“die Existenz der Götter nicht für wirklich halten”). 41 So Fahr, ΘΕΟΥΣ ΝΟΜΙΖΕΙΝ, 163. 42  Perhaps with ellipsis of πράγματα (cf. Herodotus, Hist. 9.65.2; and Philolaus fr. 11.20 D–K). 43  τὰ θεῖα πυργοῦσ᾿ αἱ κακαί τε συμφοραί, with adopting Riedweg’s preceding supplement ἀλλ᾽ ἡμῖν φόβοι (Christoph Riedweg, “The ‘Atheistic’ Fragment from Euripides’s Bellero­ phontes (286 N²),” ICS 15 [1990], 39–53 at 45–46). More generally on this fragment (and its possible allusion to Diagoras of Melos) see Tim Whitmarsh, “Diagoras, Bellerophon and the Siege of Olympus,” JHS 136 (2016), 182–186. 44  Elsewhere in Euripides, τὰ θεῖα can also mean “the mind of the gods,” i. e., their plans for humans (fr. 483 TGrF, HF 62, Andr. 439 [pace Kovacs: “the gods”], Hel. 13, 922) or “the sphere of the gods” (IT 572). See below. 45 Patrick Finglass, ed. and tr., Sophocles: Oedipus the King (CCTC 57; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 1–6, with discussion of earlier scholarship.



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At one point, Jocasta and Oedipus believe that the oracles concerning the child of Jocasta and Laius have been disproven (since the child was exposed to die, and did not kill his father or marry his mother). “As a result,” concludes Jocasta, “I wouldn’t look this way or that as far as prophecy is concerned, in the future” (857–858). The chorus then sing an ode contemplating the consequences if oracles are no longer going to come true: No longer shall I go in reverence to the inviolate navel of the earth, nor to the temple at Abae, nor to that of Olympia, if these oracles do not accord with truth, so that all mortals may point to them. But o mighty one, all-ruling Zeus (if you are rightly thus called), may this not escape you and your ever-deathless power! For already the oracles of Laius are fading and are being expunged, and nowhere is Apollo manifest in honour; τὰ θεῖα are perishing (ἔρρει).46

What does τὰ θεῖα mean here? Translators and commentators are split: some favour “religion”47 or “religious observance”;48 others prefer “the power of the gods,”49 “the divine order”50 or similar. Both possibilities make sense contextually (though I shall refine the second option below): the chorus certainly see the failure of oracles in terms of a weakening of divine power (“the oracles […] are fading”);51 but that also has consequences for human ritual practice (“No longer shall I go in reverence […] nowhere is Apollo manifest in honour”). It is worth taking a capacious view here: fundamentally, τὰ θεῖα simply means “things to do with the gods,” and can in principle include both human and divine agency.52 Sophoclean usage is split: in three places (frr. 585, 919 TGrF; Phil. 452), the meaning is “divine will” or “divine practice” in relation to the mortal 46 Sophocles,

Oedipus the King, 899–911. Taplin, ed. and tr., Sophocles: Oedipus the King and Other Tragedies (Oxford World’s Classics; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 48. 48  Roger D. Dawe, ed. and tr., Sophocles: Oedipus Rex (Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 187; Finglass, Oedipus the King, 447. 49 Hugh Lloyd-Jones, ed. and tr., Sophocles: Ajax. Electra. Oedipus Tyrannus (LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1994), 415. 50 Albert Henrichs, “‘Why Should I Dance?’ Choral Self-Referentiality in Greek Tragedy,” Arion 3/1 (1994–1995), 56–111 at 66 (see however the nuance supplied in the quotation in n. 52). 51  Note also that Zeus’s description as “all-ruling” is here qualified by the conditional “if you are rightly thus called.” It is standardly observed that in divine address such conditionals can imply a punctiliousness about naming rather than any doubt as to the god’s power; in this context, however, there is inevitably of sense that Zeus’s authority depends upon that of the oracles (“if you really are in control […] this is the time to show it”: Finglass, Oedipus the King, 446). 52  Henrichs, “Why Should I Dance?”, comments that the “laconic locution τὰ θεῖα epitomizes the sum total of polytheism, including the entire range of divine and human interaction and reciprocity: the divine world order, the observance of cult, and the performance of ritual, down to the consultation of oracles and to the very dance performed by the khoreutai in the orchestra as they sing” (66). 47 Oliver

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sphere;53 at Oedipus at Colonus 1537, by contrast, it must mean “human practice in relation to the gods.” Unlike the modern “religion,” τὰ θεῖα was conceived of as a two-way conduit between humans and gods: it was both how gods related to humans and how humans related to gods. For this reason, it means something more than “the power of the gods” or “the divine order” in the passage from Oedipus the King: the force is rather “the gods” ability to influence human affairs. It remained, however, a rather highbrow term, suggesting specialist knowledge: this is largely implicit in the Sophoclean passage discussed above (where the chorus are veering into metaphysical speculation), but is brought out clearly in two Aristophanic passages.54 In one, the oracle-collector (χρησμολόγος) of Birds (performed in 414) counsels Pisetaerus to “bear the will of the gods (τὰ θεῖα) with equanimity” (Av. 961). The phrase contributes to the oracle-collector’s pretentious (and unsuccessful) attempt to construct himself as the practitioner of a specialist skill that will be indispensable to the new city. There may be a hint of Diopeithes to Aristophanes’s oracle-collector who uses a normative claim to pronounce on τὰ θεῖα to style himself as an indispensable purveyor of knowledge: in fact, “the great” Diopeithes is explicitly mentioned as a comparable oraclecollector (988).55 The second passage comes from Clouds (in a part that has probably survived from the first performance in 423),56 where Socrates is setting Strepsiades right in his views about the gods: Socrates: Would you like clear knowledge of the truth about matters divine? (βούλει τὰ θεῖα πράγματ᾿ εἰδέναι σαφῶς ἅττ᾿ ἐστὶν ὀρθῶς;) Strepsiades: I certainly would, if it’s actually possible.57

The truth in question is that the Olympian gods do not exist, and instead one should worship natural forces: Air, Ether and the Clouds. τὰ θεῖα πράγματ᾿ thus connotes not just specialist knowledge as to how gods and humans relate to each other, but specifically (in this context) materialist, Presocratic knowledge. Particularly notable is the offer to supply the “truth,” literally “what is correctly (known).” τὰ θεῖα here is a form of cultic orthodoxy  – even though the cult in question is, ironically, an eccentric philosophical thinktank rather than a 53  In phrases such as ἐν […] τοῖς ἀνθρωπείοις καὶ τοῖς θείοις (Plato, Symp. 187e; cf. Euripides, Iph. taur. 547, a passage on which doubt has been cast), where πράγμασι is probably to be understood (cf. Philolaus, F11.30 FGrH), τὰ θεῖα can denote the realm of the gods. 54  There is a third usage in the late play Wealth (497), where it unproblematically means “ritual practice.” 55 The Spartan Diopeithes, often identified by modern scholars with ours, was also a χρησμολόγος (Plutarch, Ages. 3.3). The oracle-collector Hierocles is similarly satirized in Peace (cf. 1045–126). 56  On the evidence for which parts are revised and which not see Kenneth J. Dover, ed. and tr., Aristophanes: Clouds (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968), lxxx–xcviii. 57  Nub. 250–1.



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religious group. Even through Aristophanes’s distorting fish-eye lens we can see the ongoing association between τὰ θεῖα and protected knowledge.

5. Conclusions My claim is not, of course, that τὰ θεῖα is an exact translation of the modern “religion”: Nongbri and his followers are right to stress (with Smith) the modern heritage of the term an sich. My point is rather that we should not allow the dogma of the modern academy to deafen our ears to the subtler vocabulary that ancient cultures had to express ideas that we crudely designate as “religious.” From the late 430s onwards, Athenian culture developed an idea that the understanding that τὰ θεῖα was a unified field designating the complex relations between humans and gods, and that ownership of this field was contested between prophetic specialists and intellectuals. It was also – crucially for this volume and the concerns it raises – contested between those who wished to define τὰ θεῖα in terms of traditional θεοί and those who denied this (and would eventually come to be called ἄθεοι). I have argued that the Diopeithes decree is likely to have been historical, and the catalyst for the formalization of τὰ θεῖα as a coherent category: the evidence seems to me compelling (albeit exiguous: I doubt these will prove to be the last words on the matter). At any rate, some sort of event must have occurred to trigger this tight nexus of associations between the discourse of τὰ θεῖα, Anaxagoras and philosophical naturalism, and the interest in “cultivating the gods”: a highprofile legal pronouncement would fit that bill exceptionally well. If we accept the decree’s historicity, then the final irony is that Diopeithes’s plan to control Athenian discourse concerning the gods seems to have backfired spectacularly: he created and embedded a coherent civic space not only for religious thought, but also for its abnegation. The invention of “religion” was also, simultaneously (and perhaps inevitably), the invention of “atheism.”

Youth, Atheism, and (Un)Belief in Late Fifth-Century Athens Jan N. Bremmer There can be no doubt that atheism is à la mode and socially acceptable. As with all modern fashions and developments, this one too has impacted contemporary research on Greek religion, especially that of Athens. Modern atheism usually defines itself in response to a Christian faith that in two millennia has developed a full religious system nourished by successive kinds of philosophy and honed by combating heresy. To apply the term “atheism” to ancient Greece suggests something more or less comparable, but was that really the case? Greek religion had no creeds, no dogmas. So is ancient atheism comparable to modern forms? Instead of immediately tackling the problems of this approach, let me start somewhat differently and ask first: how did Greek children learn their religion or did they do so at all? It is well known that ancient Greek did not have a term precisely corresponding to our religion. This has long been observed and has been the subject of several recent books. First, in 2013 Brent Nongbri published Before Religion, in which he argued that the notion of religion is not a natural part of life but a historically developed concept, which we should not project back onto antiquity. In 2016 Carlin Barton and Daniel Boyarin continued this line of research with a philologically detailed analysis of the Latin and Greek concepts of religio and thrêskeia (words usually, if wrongly, translated with “religion”) in a book with the title Imagine No Religion, a title borrowed from John Lennon’s famous song.1 Even if one agrees with their conclusion that these terms should not be translated with “religion,” it does not follow that we should not use the term for antiquity, since the same can be said for fields like law, economics, and sexuality, amongst others. Second-order terms can be used, as long as we remain aware that they are foreign to the object of study. Still, it is obvious that we should take their point into account when thinking about subjects like belief, atheism, and religious education. So how did the 1 Brent Nongbri, Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2013); Carlin Barton and Daniel Boyarin, Imagine No Religion (New York: Fordham University Press, 2016), to be read with the review by Anders Klostergaard Petersen, BMCR 2017. 06. 14: (last accessed on May 21, 2019).

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Greeks learn about their gods and heroes, their prayers and sacrifices, their temples and sanctuaries? This is not the place for a full account of Greek religious education,2 but a few texts will help us to get an idea. Let us start with a quote from one of the lost tragedies of Euripides, the so-called Wise Melanippe, which was probably performed in the 420s BCE, a date not unimportant for us. After its protagonist Melanippe had been seduced or raped – the line is thin in Greek tragedy – by the god Poseidon, she hid her twin babies in an ox-stable, where they were discovered and taken for some kind of cow-born monsters – a Euripidean adaptation of the well-known mythical motif of “the girl’s tragedy.”3 Naturally, Melanippe defended her children, and we have a few lines left of the speech she made in their defence, in which she argued for the natural birth of her twins. The argument goes as follows: This account is not my own, but I had it from my mother, that Heaven and Earth were once a single form. But when they were separated from each other into two, they bore and delivered into the light all things: trees, birds, animals reared by the briny sea – and the human race (F 484 Kannicht).

The fragment is interesting for two reasons. First, the cosmogonic myth is attributed by Melanippe to her mother. It is noteworthy that it is not the father but the mother who is the teller of myths. The important role of the mother, rather than the father, occurs in several Greek texts and we will come back to it shortly. It implies that mothers must have been very important in the process of introducing their children, both boys and girls, to the gods and the ways they operated and ought to be worshipped. Secondly, the Greek term for “account” in this fragment is mythos, the Greek word which, via Latin mythus, has given us our modern term “myth.” Originally, it was associated in Greek with an authoritative speech-act and only late in the fifth century BCE, more or less at the time of the production of Euripides’s play, did it begin to develop from a term commanding obedience and respect into the term for an “imaginative tale.”4 In our fragment it still seems to hover in between. It is clearly used here to claim authority, but at the same time the tale told is so un-Greek that it must have come as a big surprise to the audience 2  Cf. Jan N. Bremmer, “The Family and Other Centres of Religious Learning in Antiquity,” in Centres of Learning: Learning and Location in Pre-Modern Europe and the Near East, ed. Hendrik J. W. Drijvers and Alasdair A. MacDonald (BSIH 61; Leiden: Brill, 1995), 29–38; Christoph Auffarth, “Religious Education in Classical Greece,” in Religious Education in Pre-Modern Europe, ed. Ilinca Tanaseanu-Döbler and Marvin Döbler (Numen Book Series 140; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 39–61. 3 For this motif, see Jan N. Bremmer and Nicholas M. Horsfall, Roman Myth and Mythography (London: University of London Institute of Classical Studies, 1987), 27–30. 4  For this development, see especially Robert L. Fowler, “Thoughts on Myth and Religion in Early Greek Historiography,” Minerva 22 (2009), 21–39.



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when the play was performed. There is, then, something ambiguous about the fragment, even though it testifies to the sophistic movement by mentioning “the human race” as the last and, evidently, most important stage of the cosmogony. Yet it was not only mothers who were important in religious education. When we turn to ritual, we notice another figure who was certainly equally important. We are fortunate to have a passage from a fourth-century legal defence speech by Isaeus, in which the plaintiffs want to demonstrate that they are the legitimate grand-children of their maternal grandfather. One may of course ask: why the maternal grandfather? In Greece, maternal grandfathers will have survived much longer than paternal ones, unlike those of today, for the simple reason that there was an average age-difference of about 10 to 15 years between husband and wife.5 Now the speaker offers the following proof, which is our most valuable literary testimony of religious transmission for Greek sons: For, as was natural, seeing that we were the sons of his own daughter, Ciron never performed a sacrifice without our presence; whether he was performing a great or small sacrifice, we were always there and took part in the ceremony. And not only were we invited to such rites but he also always took us into the country for the festival of the Dionysia, and we always went with him to public spectacles and sat at his side, and we went to his house to keep all the festivals; and when he sacrificed to Zeus Ktesios [the guardian of family possessions]6 – a festival to which he attached a special importance, to which he admitted neither slaves nor free men outside his own family, but at which he personally performed all the rites7 – we participated in this celebration and performed the sacrifices with him, helped him with extra things and took part with him in all the other rites, and he prayed for our health and wealth, as he naturally would, being our grandfather.8

Even though the speaker had to do his utmost to convince the jury of his legitimacy, the account had to seem persuasive to them if it were to be successful. Especially interesting is the stress on participation in the sacrifices, the heart of Greek religion. We can see how the boys must have gradually progressed. First, when very small, they would have been there to watch the grandfather, to help roast the meat, then to lift the sacrificial animal for the kill and, finally, when adult, they would have been allowed to sacrifice by themselves,9 for which they 5 Walter Scheidel, “The Demographic Background,” and Mark Golden, “Oedipal Complexities,” in Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, ed. Sabine Hübner and David Ratzan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 31–40 and 41–60, respectively. 6  For this Zeus, who was particularly concerned with wealth, see Robert Parker, Poly­ theism and Society in Athens (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 15–16; Pierre Brulé, La Grèce d’à côté. Réel et imaginaire en miroir en Grèce antique (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2007), 405–428. 7  Note this very interesting testimony to personal religion in ancient Greece. 8  Isaeus 8.15–16; translation slightly adapted from Edward S. Forster, ed. and tr., Isaeus (LCL; Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 1927). Cf. Parker, Polytheism and Society, 43–44. 9  For boys at sacrificial representations, see Lesley A. Beaumont, Childhood in Ancient Athens (London and New York: Routledge, 2012), 156–160.

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had acquired performative knowledge in the course of the years. I  could give other examples, but the picture is clear. In Greece, religion – that is, myth, ethics, and ritual – was communicated to children from their earliest youth onwards, not in a formal but in an informal manner. As Pierre Bourdieu succinctly formulated in a different context, “know-how (the modus operandi) is transmitted by practice without making use of discourse.”10 In such an education, there is little occasion for critical thinking. Although in Euripides’s play Melanippe, and even more her mother Hippo, is imagined as an intellectual woman, it is very doubtful that they would have instilled doubts about myths into their children. The women of the Athenian upper classes were limited in their movements, like women in Saudi-Arabia, at least until very recently, and thus fairly shielded from new intellectual movements, particularly before the advance of the book, which might have made a difference in this respect. So girls will probably have been less critical and less innovative, since they were more isolated than boys, as is also shown by the more conservative character of female speech in Athens.11 On the other hand, although the paternal education seems to have been pretty authoritarian, older boys had the chance to go out and meet people with other ideas. Plato (Rep. 2.377a) explicitly contrasts the time of the telling of myth, that is, the time of staying home with the mother, with the time of the gymnasion. The latter seems to have been an important place of discussion and debate, perhaps sowing seeds of doubt regarding the traditional beliefs they had heard so far. Plato has several dialogues begin with Socrates in the gymnasion,12 and he lets Socrates characterize his followers as “young men who especially have leisure, the sons of the wealthiest men” (Apol. 23c).13 It is these young men who are at the centre of the religious scandals that shook the Athenian society to the 10 Pierre

189.

Bourdieu, Esquisse d’une théorie de la pratique (Geneva: Libraire Droz, 1972),

11 Andreas Willi, The Languages of Aristophanes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 137–197; Alan H. Sommerstein, Talking about Laughter: And Other Studies in Greek Comedy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 15–38; Evert van Emde Boas, Language and Character in Euripides’ Electra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 27–31 (with further bibliography and interesting questions). 12 Plato, Lysis and Euthydemos; cf. Parker, Polytheism and Society, 250–251. 13  For the young and sophists, see also Martin Hose, “Die Erfindung des Experten. Über Sophisten und ihr Auftreten,” in Performanz von Wissen. Strategien der Wissensvermittlung in der Vormoderne, ed. Therese Fuhrer and Almut-Barbara Renger (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2012), 29–47, with excellent observations on the ways the sophists fashioned themselves. The supposed bad influence of Socrates on the young is of course also part of the charge of impiety against him, see, with full bibliography of the charge and the trial, Jan N. Bremmer, “Religion and the Limits of Individualisation in Ancient Athens: Andocides, Socrates and the Fair-breasted Phryne,” in Religious Individualisation: Historical and Comparative Perspectives, ed. Martin Fuchs et al. (Berlin and Boston: Walter de Gruyter, 2020), 1009–1032; and Orestis Karavas, “Le procès et l’exécution de Socrate chez trois auteurs de l’époque impériale,” Mouse­ ion III 15 (2018), 369–388.



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core in the last decades of the fight century, and to which we will come back shortly. Now, can we speak of “belief ” as the result of this informal and traditional religious education? In his recent book On Greek Religion, Robert Parker, arguably our best living expert of Greek religion, states: “As for the vocabulary with which these opinions (i. e., about the divine) should be described – opinion, belief, faith – this too is largely a question of the meaning we choose to ascribe to English words.”14 However, matters are not quite as simple as that, it seems to me. Words matter, and we cannot ascribe any meaning to any word. So which one of these words most appropriately describes the end result of Greek religious education? The English term faith by way of Norman French eventually derives from Latin fides, which is etymologically cognate with πίστις.15 Faith starts to refer to Christianity in the mid-fourteenth century. It replaced Old English geleafa, “belief,” “faith,” which is cognate with Dutch geloof and German Glaube, words that, like fides, etymologically also mean “trust.”16 Faith with its trust in God is a central part of the language of Christianity,17 as in the motto, adopted in 1956, of the United States and its currency: “In God We Trust.” On the other hand, πίστις is not typical of the language of classical Greek religion.18 So faith does not seem to be the right word. It is different with opinion and belief. The first is not a marked term in matters of religion, but the second is. Its modern usage has a strong cognitive and propositional accent,19 which it has had in English since the sixteenth century, whereas before that it could even mean the creed. The applicability of the term for Greek religion has recently been discussed by several scholars.20 My compa14 Robert Parker, On Greek Religion (Cornell Studies in Classical Philology 60; Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2011), 34. 15  See most recently Michiel de Vaan, Etymological Dictionary of Latin and the Other Italic Languages (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 218. 16 Wolfgang Meid, “Zur Etymologie und Semantik von glauben,” in Anatolica et Indoger­ manica. Studia linguistica in honorem Johannis Tischler septuagenarii dedicta, ed. Henning Marquardt, Silvio Reichmuth, and José Virgilio G. Trabazo (Innsbruck: Institut für Sprachen und Literaturen der Universität Innsbruck, Bereich Sprachwissenschaft, 2016), 191–202. 17 Teresa Morgan, Roman Faith and Christian Faith: Pistis and Fides in the Early Roman Empire and Early Churches (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); Jörg Frey, Benjamin Schliesser, and Nadine Ueberschaer, ed., Glaube. Das Verständnis des Glaubens im frühen Christentum und in seiner jüdischen und hellenistisch-römischen Umwelt (WUNT 373; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017). 18  For Greek πίστις, see Milena Bontempi, La fiducia secondo gli antichi: “pistis” in Gorgia tra Parmenide e Platone. Pensiero giuridico e politico (Naples: Editoriale Scientifica, 2013). 19 Eric Schwitzgebel, “Belief,” in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2015), ed. Edward N. Zalta (; last accessed on May 21, 2019): “Most contemporary philosophers characterize belief as a ‘propositional attitude.’” 20  For example, by Thomas Harrison, Divinity and History: The Religion of Herodotus (2nd edition; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 20–22; Julia Kindt, Rethinking Greek Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 30–32.

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triot Henk S. Versnel has argued that “the statement that the (‘religious’) notion of ‘belief ’ is an exclusive privilege of the Christian creed and consequently can only be used with the full array of its Christian connotations is nothing less than an instance of Christian bias.”21 This statement is hardly the right way of formulating the problem. When we talk about the Christian belief or speak about “my belief,” this presupposes certain propositions within a context in which others do not believe or follow a different belief. Such “high-intensity” content of the term belief is indeed typical of modern parlance and cannot be found in ancient Greek texts. Admittedly, it is true, as Versnel argues, that in practice not every Christian will be conscious of the things he actually believes himself or even fully subscribe to all of them. Yet this objection does not refute the fact that as a performative expression “I believe” in the religious sense is typical of Christianity. That does not mean that the Greeks did not believe in their gods in the modern sense of the term. Yet their ideas about the gods and other aspects of their religion do not add up to an equivalent of the Christian belief in its “high-intensity” content. Regarding ancient Greece, it seems therefore more persuasive to talk about a plurality of beliefs rather than about a single belief. Taking all these considerations together, it seems better to think of a spectrum running from unbelief or indifference about the gods to atheism,22 which suggests a reasoned rejection of religion, such as we can hardly observe in classical Greece; in fact, we have no idea to what extent the few Greeks denying the existence of the gods had thought through the consequences of their ideas. It should perhaps also be noted here that atheism is even absent from the index of Parker’s On Greek Religion, although Burkert’s great handbook has an informative section on “atheists.”23 On the other hand, we do notice an increase in scepsis, unbelief and lack of reverence regarding the gods in Athens in the later fifth century BCE. In the rest of my contribution I will therefore ask when exactly, by whom, and why we find this increase. Admittedly, these questions have often been discussed, but 21  Henk S. Versnel, Coping with the Gods: Wayward Readings in Greek Theology (RGRW 173; Leiden: Brill 2011), 539–559, esp. “Did the Greeks Believe in Their Gods?” at 554. Note that not all Versnel’s arguments are persuasive; cf. Alexandre Jakubiec, “Rites and Religious Beliefs of Socrates according to Xenophon (Apology of Socrates 11 and Memorabilia 1.1.2),” ClQ 67 (2017), 291–293; for a more fundamental critique of Versnel, see B. Anthony Ellis, “Proverbs in Herodotus’ Dialogue between Solon and Croesus: or Methodology and ‘Making Sense’ in the Study of Greek Religion,” Bull. Inst. Class. Stud. 58 (2015), 83–106. 22  Compare also the title of the best study of medieval unbelief: Dorothea Weltecke, Der Narr spricht: Es ist kein Gott. Studien zu Atheismus, Unglauben und Glaubenszweifel vom 12. Jahrhundert bis zur Neuzeit (Frankfurt: Campus, 2010), summarized as “Orte des Zweifels. Zu Glaubenszweifel und Nichtglauben im lateinischen Mittelalter,” in Orte der europäischen Religionsgeschichte, ed. Adrian Hermann and Jürgen Mohn (Diskurs Religion 6; Würzburg: Ergon-Verlag, 2015), 363–392. 23 Walter Burkert, Greek Religion (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1985), 313–317.



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it is perhaps possible to add a few considerations and overlooked texts to our present understanding. By starting at this point in time I do not mean to indicate that nobody ever before had doubted the existence of gods. On the contrary: there is a long tradition in Greece of stating that the bad end of criminals proves the existence of the gods, which seems to presuppose a certain doubt. However, although this argument, or its opposite that triumphant injustice proves the nonexistence of the gods,24 already occurs in Homer, we can notice a striking clustering of such texts in the last decades of the fifth century BCE.25 As we will see shortly, this chronology fits passages explicitly expressing a strong doubt about the gods’ existence. Let us start with the first question, which I will try to answer by looking at a series of texts in chronological order. It is rather remarkable that we suddenly see signs of unbelief, sometimes expressed in a reaffirmation of belief, beginning in the 420s BCE in several authors and genres. I will limit my subject to general expressions of unbelief, and leave aside those that contested the divinity of, say, the sun, as in the case of Anaxagoras. Philosophers like him might be considered forerunners of modern atheists, but nothing warrants that claim, as we do not know his views about the gods in general. The fact that Anaxagoras was probably accused of impiety need not say anything, as the latter claim could be launched against all kinds of people.26 It is therefore methodologically safer to limit ourselves to clear statements. Some scholars begin as early as the so-called Diopeithes decree, presumably from the 430s BCE, in which we find the important combination θεοὺς νομίζειν, “to believe that the gods exist,” but the fact that our source for this decree, Plutarch, contains an anachronism makes it hard to accept his quotation as a faithful quotation of a decree from the fifth century.27 We are on a firmer footing in the following texts, which, taken as a whole, are less numerous than one would 24 Euripides, Herc. Fur. 841; El. 583–584. The idea also occurs in TrGF Adesp. 99 (Euripides, given the context in Athenagoras?), 465 Snell-Kannicht (μήποτ’ suggests a philosopher, according to Wilamowitz, but it also occurs in Euripides). 25  Od. 24.351; Euripides F 577 Kannicht (from the fairly early Oenomaos); Suppl. 731–732 (late 420s); Herc. Fur. 772 (around 415); El. 583–584 (413); Bacch. 1325–1326 (406); Aristophanes, Thesm. 668–674 (412/411). 26  For a very full discussion of all Athenian impiety trials, see Jakub Filonik, “Athenian Impiety Trials: A Reappraisal,” Dike 16 (2013), 11–96; and, from a more narrative perspective, idem, “Impiety Avenged: Rewriting Athenian History,” in Splendide Mendax: Rethinking Fakes and Forgeries in Classical, Late Antique, and Early Christian Literature, ed. Edmund P. Cueva and Javier Martínez (Groningen: Barkhuis, 2016), 125–140. For ἀσέβεια, “impiety,” see most recently Ana Vicente Sánchez, “La conducta ἀσεβής y sus vínculos (θέμις,  Ἐρινύς y otros) en la obra de Esquilo,” CFC Estudios griégos e indoeuropeos 25 (2015), 125–155; Esther Eidinow, Envy, Poison, & Death: Women on Trial in Classical Athens (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 48–62; Fred S. Naiden, “Contagious Ἀσέβεια,” ClQ 66 (2016), 59–74. 27 Plutarch, Per. 32.2 with Stadter, ad loc.; cf. Kenneth J. Dover, The Greeks and Their Legacy (Oxford: Blackwell, 1988), 146–147.

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think on the basis of the extensive discussions of Greek belief by Versnel or Tim Whitmarsh’s book on atheism.28 Our first certain text, which has been handed down in Christian times, is a famous fragment from Euripides’s Bellerophon, a tragedy that was probably performed around 426 BCE, as it was parodied by Aristophanes in his Acharnians of 425 and still fresh in the poet’s mind (and, one presumes, the audience’s) in 421 when he put Peace on the Athenian stage, a play that extensively uses the Bellerophon as an intertext.29 Early in the play he says: Does someone say there are indeed gods in heaven? There are not, there are not, if a man is willing not to rely foolishly on antiquated (παλαιός) reasoning. Consider it for yourselves; do not base your opinion on words of mine. I say myself that tyranny kills very many men and deprives them of their possessions; and that tyrants break their oaths to ransack cities, and in doing this they are more prosperous under heaven than men who live quietly in reverence from day to day. I know too of small cities doing honour to the gods that are subject to larger, more impious ones, because they are overcome by a more numerous army. I think that, if a man were lazy and prayed to the gods and did not go gathering his livelihood with his hand, you would [here is a lacuna in the text] fortify divine power, and ill-fortune.30

The speaker, probably Bellerophon himself, is not a young man. In all likelihood he is already a father of a grown-up son (cf. F 304a). The statement, then, is a radical expression by an adult man, not by an arrogant youth, of a feeling often encountered in Euripides that the irreligious prosper, whereas the pious suffer.31 Consequently, the gods have no power and divine power is imaginary. Moreover, he contrasts his new ideas with the traditional accounts, the now “antiquated reasoning.” However, at the end of the play the traditional order is re-established and Bellerophon’s “atheistic” declaration more than outweighed by his pitiable lot. In other words, the statement is the expression of a character in the play, not necessarily the opinion of the playwright himself.32 Staying with Euripides,33 we have a quotation from his Phrixos B (F 820b Kannicht; tr. Paul D. Kovacs), which probably dates from the mid to late 420s: 28  Versnel, Coping with the Gods, 539–559; Tim Whitmarsh, Battling the Gods: Atheism in the Ancient World (New York: Knopf, 2015), to be read with my review in CP 113/3 (2018), 373–379. 29  S. Douglas Olson, ed. and tr., Aristophanes: Peace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), xxxii–xxxiv; Mario Telò, “Embodying the Tragic Father(s): Autobiography and Intertextuality in Aristophanes,” ClAnt 29 (2010), 278–326 at 308–317. 30 Euripides F 286 Kannicht; tr. Christopher Collard, slightly adapted. The last line of the fragment may not originally belong to it. Dustin W. Dixon, “Reconsidering Euripides’ Bellerophon,” ClQ 64 (2014), 493–506, unpersuasively suggests that these lines were not spoken by Bellerophon. 31 Euripides, Hipp. 1102–1103; and Scyrii F 684 Kannicht. 32 Christoph Riedweg, “The ‘Atheistic’ Fragment from Euripides’ Bellerophontes (286 N),” Illinois Classical Studies 15 (1990), 39–53. 33  See also Mary R. Lefkowitz, “‘Impiety’ and ‘Atheism’ in Euripides’ Dramas,” ClQ 39



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Oh, the delusions of mortal men, who vainly say that chance exists, but (not) gods! You men know nothing, even though you think your words are sound: for if chance exists, there is no need of gods; but if the gods [have strength], chance is nothing.

The speaker is probably a god, who derides the mortals, but that is all that we can say about the fragment. Rather surprisingly, we have a somewhat comparable fragment that has been persuasively attributed to Euripides’s tragedy Phrixos A, which will have been written a bit earlier than the previous fragment, although not much: See, all you who think that the gods do not exist, being doubly in error with your poor judgment. They exist, indeed they exist. And if anyone evil is doing well, let him enjoy the time of his prosperity: for in due course he will pay the penalty.34

In this case, though, it is probably not a god who speaks but possibly Athamas, the father of Phrixos. In either case, the existence of the gods is affirmed against speakers or actors who seem to have implied the contrary, but the fragmentary nature of the textual tradition prevents us from saying more. In any case, it is hardly probable that these few fragments are the sum total of passages in the tragedies of Euripides that testify to doubt about the existence of the gods, since Aristophanes in his comedy Women at the Thesmophoria, performed in 411, has a female seller of wreaths complain that “now by working in the tragedies he has persuaded men that the gods do not exist” (450–451) and in the Frogs, staged in 405 BCE, just after the death of Euripides, he has Aeschylus say of Euripides that he is “hated by the gods” (936). Given this interest of Aristophanes in Euripides’s religious views (or those expressed by characters in his plays), let us now move to his comedy. Our earliest passage derives from his Knights (30–34), which was first performed at the Lenaia festival of 424 BCE. In the play, two slaves, Nicias and Demosthenes, have a kind of discussion about the belief in gods: N: The best course open to us now is to go and kneel before the statue of some god. D: What statue? Do you really believe in gods? N: I do. D: What evidence do you rely on? N: The fact that I am hated by the gods. Isn’t that reasonable? (1989), 70–82, repr. in Euripides, ed. Judith Mossmann (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 102–121. 34  TGrF Adesp. F 624 Snell-Kannicht = Euripides F 912b Kovacs, who accepts the emendations and attribution to Euripides as proposed by Christoph Riedweg, “TrGF 2.624  – A Euripidean Fragment,” ClQ 40 (1990), 124–136; see also Kannicht on Euripides F 1129–1131.

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It might be relevant in this case that the speakers, although having the names of prominent Athenians, are slaves, which should perhaps diminish the value of the conversation, but the same cannot be said of the following dialogue in the Clouds, according to the revised version of the play which cannot be later than 418 BCE. Here Socrates laughs at Strepsiades when the latter is ready to swear an oath by the gods and says: What do you mean? Swear by the gods? To start with, the gods hold no currency (νόμισμα) with us (247–248).

It is highly interesting to see that instead of using a verb, that is, saying that we do not νομίζειν θεούς, “believe in the gods,” the speaker transforms the full verb into an abstract noun (νόμισμα), which can also mean “currency,” “money.” The interesting aspect of the expression is that such abstract nouns were typical of contemporary sophistic vocabulary.35 In other words, for perceptive members of the audience, the way in which Socrates formulates his skepticism must have reminded them of the sophists. Somewhat later in the play, in a dialogue between Strepsiades and his son Pheidippides, we hear again that certain ideas are outmoded and old-fashioned: Ph: My dear father, what is wrong with you? You’re not in your right mind, by Olympian Zeus! S: Just listen to that! Olympian Zeus! What stupidity – believing in Zeus at your age. Ph: Why ever do you laugh like that? S: To think that you’re such a baby and your ideas so antiquated (ἀρχαιϊκά) (816–821).

Interestingly, we find here once again the idea that believing in the gods is an old-fashioned idea, but in this passage it is expressed differently from the Bellerophon fragment where it is described as objectively old.36 It is noteworthy that the father does not say ἀρχαῖα, the adjective that we find somewhat later in the play, where the tables are turned and where we now have the reversed dialogue: Ph: Listen to that! Paternal Zeus! How old-fashioned (ἀρχαῖος) you are! Is there any Zeus? S: There is. Ph: There is not, no, because Vortex (Δῖνος)37 is king, having expelled that Zeus (1469–1471).

Instead of ἀρχαῖα, however, as might have been expected on the basis of this passage, the father used ἀρχαιϊκά in the previous passage. Once again, it is a sophistic form of ἀρχαῖα that is used by Aristophanes.38 It seems therefore a 35 

Willi, Languages of Aristophanes, 137.

36 Michel Casevitz, “Remarques sur le sens de ἀρχαῖοϛ et de παλαιόϛ,” Métis NS 2 (2004),

125–136. 37  For the importance of Vortex in pre-Socratic thought, see Mirjam E. Kotwick, Der Papyrus von Derveni (Berlin and Boston: Walter de Gruyter, 2017), 261–263. 38  Willi, Languages of Aristophanes, 144.



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reasonable suggestion that the sophists, as part of their performance, had appropriated the opposition “new vs. old-fashioned” to impress their often youthful audience (below). Among the sophists we can observe an increasing agnosticism if not atheism. The oldest and perhaps most famous sophist was Protagoras (ca. 490–420 BCE), who came from Abdera, a city in the north-east of Greece, birthplace of Democritus (ca. 460–400?), who could have developed into an atheist but apparently did not. Protagoras was renowned for what probably was the opening sentence of his work called “Concerning the Gods,” since in antiquity the titles of prose works often consisted of their opening words: “Concerning the gods I am unable to discover whether they exist or not, or what they are like in form; for there are many hindrances to knowledge, the obscurity of the subject and the brevity of human life.”39 It is clear from this quotation that Protagoras was an agnostic rather than an atheist, as Cicero in his De natura deorum (1.1.2) and Galen in his De propriis placitis (2; ed. Boudon-Milot and Pietrobelli) still recognized. Yet the most important sophist was Prodicus of Keos (465–395 BCE), whom Plato closely associates with Socrates in several dialogues.40 Prodicus’s influential book Horai will have appeared about 420 as his theory about the gods was parodied in the Birds (690–692) of 413. Although Prodicus was also one of those philosophers with a reputation for speculating “about the heavens,” as we know from Aristophanes (Birds 690; Clouds 360–361), who actually seems to have been influenced by him in his Clouds,41 his main claim to fame was different. In fact, his ideas were much more radical as, according to Philodemus, he maintained “that the gods of popular belief do not exist nor do they know, but primitive man, [out of admiration, deified] the fruits of the earth and virtually everything that contributed to his existence.” The highly stylized character of the language suggests that this passage closely reflects Prodicus’s own words, and his privileging of agriculture can be closely paralleled in other Athenian authors of his time.42 Unfortunately, we have little evidence of the extent 39 Protagoras B 4 Diels/Kranz (= DK). All fragments are quoted from their standard editions. For discussions of this fragment, see most recently Vincenzo Di Benedetto, “Contributo al testo del frammento di Protagora sugli dei,” Riv. Cult. Class. Med. 43 (2001), 345–46, reprinted in his Il richiamo del testo. Contributi di filologia e letteratura, 4 vols. (Pisa: ETS, 2007), 4.1521–1523; Jonathan Barnes, “Protagoras the Atheist?” in Interpretation und Argument, ed. Helmut Linneweber-Lammerskitten and Georg Mohr (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann 2002), 11–23, reprinted in his Mantissa: Essays in Ancient Philosophy, 4 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2015), 4.190–203; Michele Corradi, “Il Περὶ θεῶν di Protagora. Un nuovo tentativo di ricostruzione,” Maia 69 (2017), 444–469. 40 Plato, Min. 96d; Charm. 163d; Prot. 316a, 341a; Theaet. 151b; Hip. maj. 282c. 41  Angus M. Bowie, Aristophanes: Myth, Ritual and Comedy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 109–110. 42 Philodemus, PHerc. 1428, fr. 19; tr. Albert Henrichs. Cf. Albert Henrichs, “Two Doxographical Notes: Democritus and Prodicus on Religion,” HSCP 79 (1975), 93–123 at 107–115;

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to which Prodicus was influential at this time or whether he reinforced, so to speak, sceptical tendencies already present in Athenian society. Yet he cannot have been unknown, as Aristophanes mentions him several times.43 Especially illuminating is the following fragment of his lost comedy Tagenistae: “Either a book corrupted this man or Prodicus or one of those babblers” (F 506 K/A). The fragment, even though we do not know its context, puts Prodicus firmly in the context of the sophists, the “babblers,” and their corrupting influence.44 However, Prodicus’s views were less radical than those expressed in a famous fragment about the “invention” of religion, which has long been assigned to Euripides, but nowadays is more often attributed to Critias. The fragment has repeatedly been discussed, and we need not rehearse recent debates.45 Suffices to say that Critias presents a theory of religion based around two stages: first, the establishment of laws, and subsequently, when this was not sufficient to civilize people, the introduction of gods by a clever man to put fear into the wicked. For our analysis it would have been helpful if we could have put a date on the original play. All we can say, unfortunately, is that it can hardly have been performed before 430 because of Critias’s youth at that time. It also seems reasonable to think of his fragment as coming after Prodicus, since it is much more radical. On the other hand, it is perhaps less likely to have been voiced on the stage after 415 and the various religious scandals of that year. Interestingly, we do not see a reflection of these far-reaching sophistic theories in Euripides, but we do hear about the theories of the natural philosophers in an undated fragment: “who seeing this, does not teach his soul beforehand to recognize a god, and does not hurl far from him the crooked deceits of talkers about the heavens (μετεωρολόγων), whose bold tongue makes random throws about what is hidden, without any sense at all” (F 913 Kannicht, tr. Robert Parker, adapted). Not surprisingly, these talkers about the heavens are associated with the sophistic “babblers” by Plato.46 After these verbal expressions of unbelief, scepticism and even outright atheism, it is time to turn our attention to actions. In 415 the Athenians undertook a see also Henrichs’s second thoughts about the translation in his “The Atheism of Prodicus,” Cronache Ercolanesi 6 (1976), 15–21; Jan N. Bremmer, “Atheism in Antiquity,” in The Cam­ bridge Companion to Atheism, ed. Michael Martin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 11–26 at 15. 43 Noboru Notomi, “Prodicus in Aristophanes,” in Il quinto secolo. Studi di filosofia antica in onore di Livio Rossetti, ed. Stefania Giombini and Flavia Marcacci (Perugia: Aguaplano, 2010), 655–664. 44  For “babblers” and sophists, cf. Eupolis F 386, 388 K/A; Aristophanes, Nub. 1480. 45 Critias TrGF 43 F 19; cf. most recently, with bibliography, Pieter W. van der Horst, Jews and Christians in their Graeco-Roman Context (WUNT 196; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006); Patrick O’Sullivan, “Sophistic Ethics, Old Atheism, and ‘Critias’ on Religion,” CW 105 (2012), 167–185 (less convincing); Tim Whitmarsh, “Atheistic Aesthetics: The Sisyphus Fragment, Poetics and the Creativity of Drama,” Cambridge Classical Journal 60 (2014), 109–126. 46 Plato, Phaedr. 260a; Crat. 401b.



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major expedition to Sicily to conquer Syracuse,47 but shortly before the Athenian fleet was due to sail to Sicily, it was discovered that nearly all the images of the god Hermes in public places had been mutilated, and that the Eleusinian Mysteries had been repeatedly profaned.48 Hermes was the only god who was the object of real human affection and was also the most popular god on Athenian vase paintings, which regularly show the statue of Hermes moving towards or otherwise communicating with the worshipper – the only god to do so regularly.49 Fritz Graf, followed by Simon Hornblower, has played down the identification of Hermes with the herm,50 but the shared identity of god and statue was a recurrent feature all through antiquity from Homer onwards.51 Consequently, the mutilation struck at the very heart of Athenian lived religion. The Mysteries were the most solemn and prestigious festival of Athens. Their profanation equally struck at the heart of Athenian religion. The subsequent investigations quickly managed to find the culprits, who clearly belonged to the upper classes and the milieu in which the sophists moved. Although their profanations were performed in private, around the same time Diagoras, a citizen of the island Melos, revealed and mocked the Mysteries openly.52 Diagoras had been living in Athens for many years and must have been a well-known figure in Athenian intellectual life. He had already been mocked in Hermippus’s comedy Moirai (F 43 Kassel-Austin), written before 430, and Socrates is called the “Me47  For the mood at the time, see also Jan N. Bremmer, “Prophets, Seers, and Politics in Greece, Israel, and Early Modern Europe,” Numen 40 (1993), 150–183 at 170. 48  For these scandals, see most recently Oswyn Murray, “The Affair of the Mysteries: Democracy and the Drinking Group,” in Sympotica, ed. idem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 149–161; Fritz Graf, “Der Mysterienprozess,” in Große Prozesse im antiken Athen, ed. Leonhard Burckhardt and Jürgen von Ungern-Sternberg (Munich: Beck, 2000), 114–127; Stephen C. Todd, “Revisiting the Herms and the Mysteries,” in Law, Rhetoric, and Comedy in Classical Athens: Essays in Honour of Douglas M. MacDowell, ed. Douglas L. Cairns and Ronald A. Knox (Cardiff: Classical Press of Wales, 2004), 87–102; Simon Hornblower, A Commentary on Thucydides, 3 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991–2009), on Thucydides 6.27–29; Robin Osborne, Athens and Athenian Democracy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 341–367 (on the Herms); Alexander Rubel, Fear and Loathing in Ancient Athens: Religion and Politics during the Peloponnesian War (New York: Routledge, 2014), 74–98, which is the expanded and revised translation of his Stadt in Angst. Religion und Politik in Athen während des Peloponnesischen Krieges (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2000), 178–232. 49  This is overlooked, in an otherwise useful discussion, by Versnel, Coping with the Gods, 335–343; but see Anja Klöckner, “Facing the Sacred: Emotions in Images of Cult and Ritual,” paper delivered at the workshop on “Reading Emotions in Ancient Visual Culture,” Swedish Institute of Classical Studies in Rome, Apr. 17, 2014. 50  Graf, “Der Mysterienprozess,” 123; Hornblower, Commentary, on Thuc. 8.28.1. 51  Cf. Jan N. Bremmer, “The Agency of Greek and Roman Statues: From Homer to Constantine,” Opuscula 6 (2013), 7–21; Fernande Hölscher, “Gottheit und Bild – Gott im Bild,” in Ding und Mensch in der Antike, ed. Ruth Bielfeldt (Heidelberg: Winter Verlag, 2014), 239–257. 52  See now Marek Winiarczyk, Diagoras of Melos: A Contribution to the Study of Ancient Atheism (Berlin and Boston: Walter de Gruyter, 2016); Alexander Meert, Positive Atheism in Antiquity (Diss. Univ. Ghent, 2017), 240–438.

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lian” for denying the existence of Zeus in Aristophanes’s Clouds (830), which even in its revised version cannot be later than ca. 418 BCE. However, after the first-fruits decree of the early 410s and the bad treatment of his home island by the Athenians,53 Diagoras apparently decided to hit the Athenians where it hurt most: their Mysteries.54 Consequently, as the eleventh-century al-Mubashshir, an author of Syrian descent, whose account – via Porphyry – seems to derive from the erudite Athenian historian Apollodorus (ca. 180–120 BCE), notes: When he [viz. Dhiyaghuras al-mariq, or “Diagoras the heretic, or apostate”] persisted in his hypocrisy [or “dissimulation”], his unbelief and his atheism, the ruler, the wise men [or philosophers, hukama] and leaders of Attica sought to kill him. The ruler Charias the Archon [Khariyus al-Arkun (415–414)] set a price on his head [literally: “spent money,” badhal] and commanded that it should be proclaimed among the people: “He who apprehends Diagoras from Melos [Maylun] and kills him will be rewarded with a large sum [badra, traditionally a leather bag containing 1000 or 10,000 dirhams].”55

It is not surprising, then, that Epicurus already mentions Diagoras together with Critias and Prodicus as the arch-atheists,56 even though the existence of a book by Diagoras with explicitly atheistic doctrines was already called into doubt by Aristoxenus.57 In fact, the only two direct quotations we have of his poetry are perfectly traditional. With the year 415 BCE we seem to have reached some kind of temporary watershed in Athenian religious life. On the one hand, the historian Thucydides will be notably silent about religion in his work,58 but on the other hand we no longer hear of any more outrageous actions nor, if my dating of the Critias’s frag53  The date of the first-fruits decree is not wholly certain, but the evidence we have points to a later time than the 430s, which is favored by Hornblower, Commentary, on Thucydides 6.27–29; cf. Theodora Jim, Sharing with the Gods: Aparchai and Dekatai in Ancient Greece (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 208. 54  Cf. Christoph Auffarth, “Aufnahme und Zurückweisung ‘Neuer Götter’ im spätklassischen Athen. Religion gegen die Krise, Religion in der Krise?” in Die athenische Demokratie im 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr., ed. Walter Eder (Stuttgart: Steiner 1995), 337–365; Franck E. Romer, “Atheism, Impiety and the Limos Melios in Aristophanes’ Birds,” AJP 115 (1994), 351–365; and idem, “Diagoras the Melian (Diod. Sic. 13.6.7),” Classical Weekly 89 (1995–1996), 393–401. 55 Al-Mubashshir apud Franz Rosenthal, Greek Philosophy in the Arab World (London: Variorum, 1990), ch. I, 33 (= Orientalia 6 [1937], 33); tr. Geert Jan van Gelder, whom I thank for his comments and fresh translation of the passage; note also Melanthius FGrH 326 F3; Craterus FGrH 342 F16. Date: Diodorus Siculus 13.6.7 and, independently, Mubashshir. On Porphyry, see Emily Cottrell, “Pythagoras, the Wandering Ascetic: A  Reconstruction of Porphyry’s Life of Pythagoras According to al-Mubashshir ibn Fātik and Ibn Abī Usaybiʻa,” in Pythagorean Knowledge from the Ancient to the Modern World: Askesis, Religion, Science, ed. Almut-Barbara Renger and Alessandro Stavru (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2016), 467–518 at 475–478. 56 Philodemus, Piet. 525 Obbink. 57  Aristoxenus, fr. 45 Wehrli2; cf. Robert Parker, Athenian Religion: A History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 208 note 57. 58 Simon Hornblower, Thucydidean Themes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 25–53.



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ment is right, do we read any more such challenging atheistic views in tragedy or comedy. For the moment, respect for traditional cults seems to have been the word of the day. Looking back, we can see that the great majority of expressions and actions of unbelief and atheism cluster in the period of 430–415. The latter date is obvious the result of the trials of that time. The earlier date will be the consequence of the disastrous plague, the effects of which seem, in religious terms, to have paralleled those of the huge earthquake in Lisbon of 1755.59 Moreover, it is probably after 430 that we witness visits from famous sophists to Athens, such as Gorgias in 427 (DS 12.53.1–3) and Prodicus presumably somewhat later; Hippon is mentioned by Cratinus (F 167 K/A) shortly before the performance of the Clouds and Protagoras by Eupolis in his Flatterers of 421 (F 157 K/A). These sophists seem to have appealed especially to the younger generation, which is so prominent in tragedy, comedy and historiography of precisely that period.60 In fact, in the last decades of the fifth century Athens saw a real process of de-traditionalization – witness the agnostic, atheist and materialist discourses of philosophers and dramatists, which we have reviewed.61 One need not be a full-scale believer in rational choice theory to see that the young have the least to lose with new insights  – as we ourselves witnessed in the 1960s hippy movement and again ever since, even today with the enthusiastic young followers of Bernie Sanders and Jeremy Corbyn. We should also not forget that precisely in the last quarter of the fifth century literacy made big advances in Athens. This relatively new technology was eagerly taken up by the Orphics, and the oldest surviving European book, the Derveni papyrus, is a great example of this development. Books made it possible for the various philosophical, theological, and even medical experts, such as the Hippocratics, to spread their insights and expertise.62 The quotation from Aristophanes’s Tagenistae (above) shows that the Athenians themselves also noticed the connection between books and sophists.63 Yet books never acquired an authoritative status in religion, as happened with the Torah, the Quran or the Bible. Religious education or, perhaps better, socialization in Greece and Greek culture elsewhere remained informal until virtually the end of classical civilization. Does all this justify calling a book about ancient atheism Battling the Gods?64 Most certainly not for the late fifth century. What we have seen are expressions of agnosticism, indifference, unbelief and free-thinking, but hardly a reasoned 59 

Parker, Athenian Religion, 200. S. Strauss, Fathers and Sons in Athens: Ideology and Society in the Era of the Peloponnesian War (London and New York: Routledge, 1993), 13–78. 61  Bremmer, “Atheism in Antiquity.” 62  As noted by Kotwick, Der Papyrus von Derveni, 63. 63  See also Willi, The Languages of Aristophanes, 154–155. 64  Whitmarsh, Battling the Gods. 60  Barry

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attack on religion. The most radical position is pronounced in a play of which we do not know the context or the outcome for the speaker. From the most famous “atheist” Diagoras we have nothing left that warrants the label, and all interpretations of his work and references to him, however ingenious,65 are built on sand. It also seems that the period we have discussed was pretty unique in Greek history.66

65 Tim Whitmarsh, “Diagoras, Bellerophon and the Siege of Olympus,” JHS 136 (2016), 182–186, is ingenious but not supported by any firm evidence. 66  I am most grateful to Anthony Ellis for his comments and skilful correction of my English.

Disbelief in Rome A Reappraisal Matthew A. Fox To reflect upon disbelief at Rome, and to investigate the possibility of atheistic thought, is also to reflect upon our current paradigms for thinking about Roman religion. Scholarship in this field has expanded hugely in recent years, in part prompted by an interest in local histories, often supported by archaeological advances, or, where they are lacking, by a focus on text-based topography.1 Its fruits are the knowledge of a myriad cult practices, grounded in Realien. They provide work for scholars, without demanding too much theoretical anxiety. Recent methodological advances, however, do underpin such work. These have given universal endorsement to an interpretation of Roman religion as practicebased, focused on ritual, cult, and image, rather than on theology, text, or feeling. According to this interpretation, in the pagan Roman world, religion centred on the performance of rituals that acted as a focus for the identity of particular communities, and as a result were susceptible to various forms of manipulation within those communities.2 From a methodological perspective, the focus on ritual and community was, as Scheid has observed, a way to escape Protestant assumptions about the nature of religion in the lives of individuals, with their focus on the concept of belief.3 1  Reasonable evidence of the expansion is the thirty volumes of survey articles on the religions of the empire, ANRW 16.1–27.1. Note too the dominance of topography and local history in Hubert Cancik, Römische Religion im Kontext. Kulturelle Bedingungen religiöser Diskurse. Gesammelte Aufsätze, Vol. 1 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008). In a similar direction, though with more concern for the resonances in Roman literature, Richard Jenkyns, God, Space, and City in the Roman Imagination (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). 2  So, e. g., Cancik, Römische Religion, 4–6; Robert Turcan, Rome et ses dieux (Paris: Hachette, 1998), 10–15. This position is located in the history of scholarship in John Scheid, Religion et piété à Rome (2nd edition; Paris: Albin Michel, 2001), 20–26. 3  Neatly described by Clifford Ando, in his foreword to John Scheid, The Gods, the State, and the Individual: Reflections on Civic Religion in Rome (tr. Clifford Ando; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016), xi–xvii: “Scheid describes the emergence of what he alternatively terms a sociological or secular perspective on Greek and Roman religions as a hard-won struggle on the part of researchers to set aside a priori commitments, derived above all from Protestant Christianity, about what religion is and how individuals and communities relate to religions” (xii; cf. Scheid’s account of this genealogy, at 16–21). I am intrigued by an alternative origin story for the belief-orientated idea of religion, which connects the focus on

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My aim is to reappraise this idea of Roman religion, prompted by the questions this volume is asking. The motivation is simple: in order to understand unbelief, you need to demonstrate that belief is itself a relevant category. I will do so by examining not the developments in 19th-century theology that brought Protestant ideas of belief into scholarship, but rather their antecedents, the Enlightenment work of Protestant or free-thinking theologians, who saw in Roman religion an unparalleled opportunity for thinking beyond Christian doctrine, and for exploring the limits of belief. I  do not undervalue this shift in paradigms in a more sociological direction, nor do I  claim that belief does occupy a central place in Roman religion, when viewed from an historical perspective. However, I  shall explore the evidence of sceptical, even atheistic thinking in late Republican Rome, in order to question how well that phenomenon is served by a scholarship that treats such thinking as marginal to, or unrepresentative of, the experience of individuals living a system centred on orthopraxy. For while it is true that the Romans had an established reputation for their religiosity, it is also clear that their self-proclaimed piety had a context beyond the performance of ritual, in a well-defined idea of what unbelief involved, and what its implications were.4 That may just be the discourse of the elite, but I  think a closer engagement with this aspect of Roman religion is a vital supplement to the current approach.

1.  A Space for Disbelief in Roman Theology When Polybius was giving his account of the Roman world to Greek readers, baffled by the speed with which this barbarian culture had risen to unrivalled dominance, he pointed to a number of factors to explain Roman superiority. Some were likely to strike Greeks as morally ambiguous, such as the extremes of Roman military discipline, or the notion that the goddess Tyche, in Latin Fortuna, was promoting Rome’s rise. One, however, would have been some comfort: the godfearing quality of the Romans, their deisidaimonia.5 In his succinct discussion of the internal to neoliberalism: see Mark Elmore, Becoming Religious in a Secular Age (Oakland: University of California Press, 2016), 179–181; Elmore is also cautious of the colonialist perspective underpinning notions of the universality of religion in historical cultures: 4–8. 4  This contribution thus owes much to the ground-clearing work of Tim Whitmarsh, Battling the Gods: Atheism in the Ancient World (New York: Alfred E. Knopf, 2015). 5  Polybius 6.56.6–15. See Jyri E. Vaahtera, “Roman Religion and the Polybian Politeia,” in The Roman Middle Republic: Politics, Religion, and Historiography c. 400–133 BC, ed. Christer Bruun (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2000), 251–264. On Polybius’s Tyche, see Donald W. Baronowski, Polybius and Roman Imperialism (London: Bloomsbury, 2011), 208 n. 17, with references. On the influence of this passage on Enlightenment atheists, see Winfried Schröder, Ursprünge des Atheismus (Stuttgart and Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 1998), 217–225.



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this term, Polybius touches upon a crucial theme – one that dominated Roman discussions of religion in the following century. Superstition may be bad, but in the case of Rome, it holds the entire state together (τοῦτο συνέχειν τὰ  Ῥωμαίων πράγματα, 6.56.6). The credulity of the masses can be wisely exploited, and the Romans have brought religion to be so prominent, in both private and public life, that it is impossible to exaggerate its importance (ὥστε μὴ καταλιπεῖν ὑπερβολήν, 6.56.9). Its effect has been to unify Roman society, and give it, he implies, a rallying point that the too sceptical Greeks had lost. Religious unity contributes, alongside the constitutional and military arrangements Polybius discusses in book 6, to Rome’s political success.6 Polybius identifies something that is corroborated by many discussions of religion in both Latin and Greek. Rome is a society in which religiosity abounds – a fact amply demonstrated by the archaeological record – but where there is a consciousness, especially among the political elite, of an absurdity to many of the stories connected with religious practice.7 In spite of that consciousness, religious observance remained central to the workings of Roman society. To discuss religion at all, therefore, is to admit the possibility of doubt, and that doubt is connected to the idea of political control. Without falling into the trap of making belief, however conceived, into the central concern of Roman religion, it is clear that for Polybius, Rome is a society where there was no contradiction between religious observance and a sceptical attitude towards religious traditions. As striking as that is, we must also note the position of authority adopted by the historian, which presents us with a strikingly modern possibility for the ancient understanding of the role of religion in their own societies. Polybius identifies a cleft between popular religious practice, and the theoretical or philosophical conversation that can produce scepticism about belief. He may even be implying that the political power of Greece has been undermined by the prevalence of a philosophical scepticism concerning religion. He characterizes the Roman populace as credulous, but allows for the existence of a different realm of thought, where the elite, through a combination of philosophical or political literacy, are immune from the grip that religion has upon the emotional life of ordinary people. It is a view that coincides with the basic premises of modern 6 Robert Muth, “Vom Wesen römischer ‘religio’,” ANRW 16.1 (1978), 290–354 at 291–296, gathers the ancient sources for the determining role of piety in Rome’s military and political success. 7  On archaeological traces of popular religion, see essays in Jörg Rüpke, ed., A Companion to Roman Religion (Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 2007), by Jonathan Williams (“Religion and Roman Coins,” 143–163), Katja Moede (“Reliefs, Public and Private,” 164–175), Rudolf Haensch (“Inscriptions as Sources of Knowledge for Religions and Cults in the Roman World of Imperial Times,” 176–187), and Annemarie Kaufmann-Heinemann (“Religion in the House,” 188–201). Dionysius of Halicarnassus, a century later than Polybius, identifies the absence of myth as one of the marks of the superiority of Roman religion over Greek (Ant. Rom. 2.19.1–2).

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religious scepticism.8 The purpose of this chapter is to argue that this apparent modernity is more than a casual coincidence. Rather, it represents a direct continuity in thinking, a consequence of the appeal that the discussion of Roman religion had during a period of decisive development for the modern academic disciplines: the 18th-century Enlightenment, in particular, in its Protestant or free-thinking incarnation. Considering the hermeneutic situation of the scholar of ancient religion today, I shall argue that we can achieve a more stable basis for understanding the preconceptions underlying our own view of religion in premodern societies if we pay closer attention to the way in which the faith-driven, but intellectually adventurous world of the Enlightenment dealt with the possibility of atheism, especially in its handling of Roman material.9 Indeed, I believe that an awareness of the Enlightenment reception of Cicero and Lucretius is an essential pre-condition for making progress in our understanding of Roman religion itself. That is because our own problems in clarifying ancient disbelief are themselves a product of a tradition that builds on categories established in Enlightenment thinking, in a process that centres on the treatment of a few key Roman texts. The first stage in this argument is provided by the early response to the possibility for disbelief found in Roman theological thinking itself. Although most often associated with the polymath Varro, what became known as his theologia tripertita built on an existing tradition, and extrapolates the ideas represented in Polybius.10 The tripartite theology, known from Augustine’s discussion of Varro, proposed a hierarchy of religious truth, depending both upon the sophistication of the thinker, and on the discursive realm in which it operated. The genus myth­ icon was for poets, and the theatre; physicon, for philosophers and the educated elite; and civile for the people, and for practical religious observance.11 Augus8  See, e. g., Paul K. Moser, “Religious Skepticism,” in The Oxford Handbook of Skepticism, ed. John Greco (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 200–224. 9  On the problems behind the assumption that pre-modern societies were dominated by religious “enchantment,” see Callum G. Brown, “The Necessity of Atheism: Making Sense of Secularisation,” JRH 41 (2017), 439–456, a discussion built around Charles M. Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge, Mass.: Bellknap, 2007). 10 Augustine, Civ. 4.27 and 6.5. The identification of Scaevola as a source, the younger pontifex (d. 82 BCE), relies on Augustine’s reading of Scaevola as a character in one of Varro’s works: see Wolfgang Speyer, “Das Verhältnis des Augustus zur Religion,” ANRW 16.3 (1986), 1777–1805, 1792–1794. The remains are too scanty to reveal whether Varro used characters like Cicero, allowing an element of invention, nor is there independent evidence for Scaevola’s theology. 11 See Godo Lieberg, “Die Theologia Tripertita in Forschung und Bezeugung,” ANRW I. 4 (1973), 65–115; idem, “Die Theologia Tripertita als Formprinzip antiken Denkens,” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 125 (1982), 25–53; Wolfgang Speyer, “Das Verhältnis,” 1792–1794; Gerard O’Daly, Augustine’s City of God: A Readers’ Guide (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 102–108; Clifford Ando, The Matter of the Gods: Religion and the Roman Empire (Berkeley and London: University of California Press, 2008), 106; Peter Van Nuffelen, “Varro’s Divine Antiquities: Roman Religion as an Image of Truth,” CP 105 (2010), 162–188, with further bib-



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tine’s presentation is slanted to emphasize the (as he sees it) illusory nature of Varro’s theological framework. So it is hard to tell how far Varro’s exploration of three perspectives represented a form of scepticism that withheld endorsement from all three.12 At any event, it is easy to see how this system appealed to the rationalists of the time, faced as they were with the twin pressures of Greek philosophical traditions, and the chaotic proliferation of ritual observances that constituted Roman religious practice. Plutarch’s Roman Questions is a telling account of the eclecticism in explanation that that intellectual climate fostered. In that work, Plutarch adopts, like Polybius, a proto-anthropological outsider view, but at a time when Roman political dominance was no longer exotic. He rarely arrives at a definitive explanation of the curiosities he describes, and presents a variety of types of explanation: etymologies, historical or mythical aetiologies, observation of the natural world, or more “scientific” philosophical theories about it.13 And between Polybius and Plutarch, there is the ghost of Varro’s sixteen books on the antiquities of divine affairs, the Antiquitates rerum divinarum.14 Probably tending to diversification of interpretation, this lost work catalogued and discussed a wide range of religious rites, many obscure or obsolete, and in the process advertised the richness of Rome’s religious traditions. But given its detail, dimensions, and interest in obscurity, it seems unlikely that the institutions of religion emerged as designed to foster belief as such. Pride in religious traditions was compatible with faith in an entirely different system for describing the reality of the gods. Varro’s own adherence to the heterodox Pythagorean sect is a vivid emblem of a double standard that was common-place: a rationalist or philosophical outlook on the inner religious world, but a practical one to the external religious world of traditional practice, and especially the rituals of the public realm.15 It would seem that questioning and interpreting religion runs alongside religious observance as lying at the heart of Roman identity.16 In that context, it is liography at 162 n. 2; Jörg Rüpke, Religion in Republican Rome (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), 172–185. 12  Van Nuffelen, “Varro’s Divine Antiquities,” argues that Varro was deliberately Stoic in his analysis. 13  See Jacques Boulogne, “Les ‘Questions Romaines’ de Plutarque,” ANRW 33.6 (1992), 4682–4708; Rebecca Preston, “Roman Questions, Greek Answers: Plutarch and the Construction of Identity,” in Being Greek Under Rome: Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic, and the Development of Empire, ed. Simon Goldhill (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 86–118; Katerina Oikonomopoulou, “Plutarch’s Corpus of Quaestiones in the Tradition of Imperial Greek Encyclopaedism,” in Encyclopaedism from Antiquity to the Renaissance, ed. Jason König and Greg Woolf (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 129–153. 14  For a succinct evaluation of Varro’s contribution, see Hubert Cancik, Religionsgeschich­ ten. Römer, Juden und Christen im römischen Reich. Gesammelte Aufsätze, Vol. 2 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 31–34. 15  On Varro’s Pythagoreanism, see now Katharina Volk, “Roman Pythagoras,” in Roman Reflections, ed. Gareth D. Williams and eadem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 33–49. 16  On the co-existence of belief with critique as characteristic of Greek thinking, see Barbara

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not surprising that expressions of disbelief can be found. At the same time, there is a general tendency to theological pluralism. From our present-day perspective, with sectarianism and extremist intolerance increasingly visible, Roman religion represents something of an Eden, where piety and scepticism co-exist, and where differences between religions were, with rare exceptions, tolerated.17 It would be disingenuous to ignore that picture, and aim to recover an objective view of what disbelief meant, aspiring to some kind of historicized epistemology. The topic is one in which we ourselves have too great an investment. But there is a further compelling reason for taking a different approach to Roman disbelief. As Brown has recently argued, there are still significant obstacles to the study of atheism from an historical perspective, the result of the close implication between scholars of religion and their own religious perspectives. Atheism is not an established “category of historical analysis,” and every engagement with the theme requires a redefinition.18 Disbelief has the advantage of being more nebulous in its associations than atheism, but it cannot make any greater claim to a consensus that overcomes the differences in perspective that are often implicit in scholarly orientations: as Brown points out, the history of atheism is inextricably tied to the history of religion, and that is overwhelmingly carried out by believing scholars. In that context, the study of atheism in the Enlightenment constitutes a crucial, but little-studied connection between our own disciplinary needs, and the Roman engagement with disbelief. By paying closer attention to how Roman struggles to reconcile traditional and rationalist approaches ramified during the 18th century, we can achieve a better understanding both of the nature of Roman religion, and of our own entanglement in it. To take this argument further, I  turn to the key text in the Enlightenment appropriation of rational approaches to religion: Cicero’s De natura deorum. Although it not possible within the scope of this chapter to define in detail the connections between Cicero’s tools of analysis and their Enlightenment successors, the reading I present below is directed at making them visible. Without underestimating the gulf between the assumptions about belief in the Enlightenment context, and our own, my aim is to point out how readily Cicero can appear to endorse a non-religious position. Graziosi, “Statues Crumbled” (Review of Whitmarsh, Battling the Gods), LRB 38.15 (28 July 2016), 31–32. 17 So Harold W. Attridge, “The Philosophical Critique of Religion under the Early Empire,” ANRW 16.1 (1978), 45–78: “At one extreme stood the radical scepticism about the fundamental assumptions underlying religious belief. This criticism, however, remained abstract and theoretical, and either ignored or acquiesced in cultic practice” (45). On tolerance, see Julia Annas, “Ancient Scepticism and Ancient Religion,” in Episteme, Etc.: Essays in Honour of Jonathan Barnes, ed. Ben Morison and ‎Katerina Ierodiakonou (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 74–89. Ando, The Matter of the Gods, offers a re-evaluation. 18  I allude to the pioneering article on gender, Joan W. Scott, “Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis,” AHR 91 (1986), 1053–1075. In part, I do so in order to emphasize the difficulty of finding a definition of atheism that commands consensus.



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2.  The Theology of Doubt: On the Nature of the Gods On the Nature of the Gods (Nat. d.) is a rich source for understanding theological debate at Rome. Its importance stems from Cicero’s own philosophical training, and from the book’s place within his larger philosophical project, a pioneering effort, written during the dictatorship of Julius Caesar, to produce for Latin readers a guide to the major currents of a discipline that until that time had been almost exclusively the domain of Greek thinkers. Cicero’s philosophical education provided a singular advantage: he was trained in the tradition of the post-Platonic Academy, a school characterized by its tendency to refuse positive doctrine, and to regard the goal of philosophical training to be skill in testing the merits of competing doctrines. That background means that Cicero was ideally placed to provide a guide to philosophy for Roman readers – readers who were, at least in his evocation of them, likely to stand beyond the influence of any individual philosophical school. However, it would be a mistake to regard On the Nature of the Gods as a neutral document, one that only mediates the philosophical views of other thinkers. As well as fulfilling this ambition, and in the process acting as a record of otherwise lost Hellenistic theology, the work is a vindication of the Academic approach, and the manner in which it delivers its argument reflects this polemic. Cicero makes clear that some regard the Academic tradition as the antithesis of philosophy: a system guaranteed to bring darkness rather than light (Nat. d. 1.3.6). His defence centres on the idea it is well suited to theological questions, because they tend to such great diversity, with so little likelihood at arriving at any kind of certainty (Nat. d. 1. 6. 13–14). Strikingly, he ends the preface with the explicit declaration that the degree of disagreement (dissensio) among the most learned men about theological proofs compels even those who think they possess certainty to doubt. Not active disbelief, but scepticism about the possibility of acquiring certain knowledge about religion. However, scepticism concerning the various positions of the Greek philosophical schools is different from scepticism concerning the actual institutions of Roman religion. That said, Cicero has ambitions to bring these two different arenas together, and the way he does so reveals a great deal about the focal points of belief at Rome. Just before this statement defending a sceptical approach to religious discussion, he gives a useful list of such focal points, in effect a list of key terms, concepts central in religion itself, and for discussing it. Most of them have survived into English with little alteration: religio, pietas, sanctitas, caeri­ moniae, fides (faith, trust), ius iurandum (oath-taking), templa, delubra (shrines), sacrificia sollemnia (solemn sacrifices), auspicia (auspices – the process for determining divine will in advance of any particular action).19 All these topics have 19 

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to be brought back to the question about the gods. In other words, the preface sets out a particular view of how religion works: the gods are at the centre  – it is almost impossible to know anything about them with any certainty – and dependent upon them, the whole range of religious practices which permeate most aspects of daily life. So in spite of the disjunction between religious practice and theological debate, this work will consider them as part of one larger question, to look for ways to think about the presence of gods in religious practice that responds to the Roman context. He is, in other words, insisting on a basis of belief in an area where it is not necessary, and where our current paradigms prefer it to remain absent. The result is a struggle in which the ramifications of disbelief are given plenty of airing, and where the fragility of the connection between belief and practice becomes increasingly visible.20 To substantiate that analysis, I now discuss some of the arguments in the preface in more detail. The opening contains a rich treatment of the place of doubt in theological discussion. In this introduction, before the dialogue begins properly, Cicero sets up two themes that will be important for the dialogue that fills the remainder of the work. The first is the separation between religious practice from religious feeling; and the second is the application of philosophical scepticism as a tool for interrogating religion. Cicero’s text is worth careful reading: Of the many matters in philosophy that have as yet not been properly explained, the most intractable and obscure, Brutus, as you well know, is the enquiry into the nature of the gods. It is most excellent for our knowledge of the soul, as well as necessary for controlling religion. The opinions on it of the most learned men are so varied and so discrepant, that they should be taken as a strong argument that the origin and starting-point of philosophy is ignorance, and that the Academics were prudent in withholding assent from subjects that are uncertain: for what is uglier than unfounded opinion?21

Cicero begins by justifying the topic of the work, the nature of the gods. From a philosophical perspective, it is singularly difficult, but also necessary for the moderation of religion. With that first sentence, Cicero establishes a dichotomy between philosophical enquiry and religious practice, and at the same time, implies that the former has a beneficial effect upon the latter. In doing so, he is unpacking the same ideas that Polybius handled a century earlier. The connection between religio and the insights philosophy offers into understanding the human soul, is not explained, although its presence here points to an assumption about the wider ambitions of the work, and about the expectations of Cicero’s readers. The discussion of religion by prominent contemporaries does 20  That tension receives more polemic treatment in a later dialogue, On Divination, where Cicero discusses communication with the gods. See Mary Beard, “Cicero and Divination: The Formation of a Latin Discourse,” JRS 76 (1986) 33–46; Malcolm Schofield, “Cicero for and against Divination,” JRS 76 (1986) 47–65; Matthew Fox, Cicero’s Philosophy of History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 209–240. 21  Nat. d. 1.1.1. All translations are my own.



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not need to be explicit about the wider social good that theological understanding brings with it. Cicero then goes on to point out how enormous the diversity of opinion is, a situation that justifies his adherence to the tradition of Academic scepticism, the withholding of positive assent to ideas that have been unable to achieve a philosophical consensus. His framing of that preference is expressed in value-laden terms: What could be uglier (turpius) than rashness; and what rasher or more unworthy (indig­ num) of the seriousness and resolve of the wise than to believe something untrue, or to defend without hesitation a position that was not properly comprehended or known?22

The arguments are compressed but express a number of ideas which are central to this work, and to the wider evaluation of disbelief at Rome. Scepticism in philosophy is not to be confused with scepticism about religion – it refers to a particular philosophical school and its method.23 However, there is an overlap between the person who takes a sceptical approach to all philosophical issues, and the person who, applying their scepticism to the available religious doctrines, finds they are unable to believe in any of them. That problem is the one that propels the point that Cicero makes next: Indeed, in this field most have said that gods exist – which is mostly likely to be true, and to which conclusion we all come with nature as our guide. Protagoras declared himself unsure, while Diagoras of Melos and Theodorus of Cyrene thought that none at all existed.24

Atheism, actual denial of the existence of the gods, is discussed here because Cicero needs to get it out of the way before the real work of the dialogue begins; he does not want a conversation about the gods to have to deal with the possibility that they do not exist.25 But he is also prompted to bring in the issue of atheism because he has just evoked the scepticism of the Academy. In demar22  Nat. d. 1.1.1–2: quid est enim temeritate turpius? Aut quid tam temerarium tamque indi­ gnum sapientis gravitate atque constantia quam aut falsum sentire aut quod non satis explorate perceptum sit et cognitum sine ulla dubitatione defendere? – He employs the same language to reprise this argument at the end of the preface at Div. 1.4.7, employing temeritas, turpis, and this time, error. 23  Indeed, as noted by Alan C. Kors, “An Uneasy Relationship: Atheism and Scepticism in the Late French Enlightenment,” in Scepticism in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Sebastian Charles and Plinio J. Smith (Dordrecht and London: Springer, 2013), 221–230, in the French Enlightenment, scepticism and atheism pulled in opposite directions, atheism itself being anti-sceptic in its methods. Note too the summation of Annas, “Ancient Scepticism,” 82–83: “Scepticism about God does not, then, undermine anything on which pagan religious belief rested in the first place. It takes us through philosophical argument back to ordinary life without undermining it.” In this text, much rests on how to interpret the relationship between Cicero (as Academic) and Cotta, the Academic character. See Joseph G. DeFilippo, “Cicero vs. Cotta in De natura deorum,” Ancient Philosophy 20 (2000), 169–187. 24  Nat. d. 1.1.2. 25 Cf. Attridge, “Philosophical Critique of Religion,” 49, on Sextus Empiricus’s handling of atheism as following the same structure.

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cating between philosophical scepticism and religious scepticism he has drawn attention to atheism as a phenomenon, even though methodological doubt does not logically entail atheism. He points out, indeed, that those few who claim that there are no gods are greatly outnumbered by those who agree they do exist. Absolute disbelief is an exceptional position. But a great deal of attention is paid to the less extreme view  – one familiar from Epicureanism  – that, once their existence is granted, the gods are disconnected from human affairs. Cicero soon comes on to these philosophers, presenting them as posing a serious threat to the fundamental institutions of religion.26 And although I agree with Ando (see his contribution in this volume) that Cicero never provides a strong argument in favour of atheism, atheism as an active possibility casts a shadow over the entire work.27 Not because Academic scepticism entails scepticism about the existence of the gods, but rather because the Academic attack on any theological system will use the arguments of that system to demonstrate that the gods do not exist.28 When Cicero shows Cotta doing this to the Epicurean arguments of Velleius, the arbitrary nature of belief comes across strongly, largely because, as Cotta points out, the Epicurean god is such a minimal kind of god to begin with. Indeed, in De divinatione (Div.), a kind of sequel to Nat. d., almost the first argument to appear after the prologue is Cicero’s defence of Cotta’s attack on Stoicism. His brother read it, and found that it brought him to doubt his own religious beliefs, though not to abandon them entirely: “I am glad about that,” I said, “since Cotta himself is arguing more to disprove the arguments of the Stoics than to destroy men’s (belief in) religion.”29

Whilst it is therefore correct to say that Cicero does not give much room to atheism in theory, his works can be taken, in this imagined reading of Nat. d. hot-off-the-press, to constitute a threat to traditional belief. That is one of the reasons why Nat. d. proved such an important work in the Enlightenment: without advocating atheism, it explores theology from a perspective informed by extreme scepticism. Its textual dynamic is geared towards finding the positions that will do the minimum to repudiate atheism, by demonstrating what is the very least that can be said about the gods to justify belief in their existence. 26 

Nat. d. 1.3. Schröder, Ursprünge, 16: “Der Altertumswissenschaft ist kein Dokument des Atheismus bekannt.” Marek Winiarczyk, “Wer galt im Altertum als Atheist?” Philologus 128 (1984), 157–183, is a still-useful catalogue of possible exceptions. 28  “With respect to gods, the sceptic aims to show that from the premises accepted by a Stoic theologian it follows that no god exists” (Simo Knuuttila and Juha Sihvola, “Ancient Scepticism and Philosophy of Religion,” in Ancient Scepticism and the Sceptical Tradition, ed. Juha Sihvola [Acta Philosophica Fennica 66; Helsinki: Societas Philosophica Fennica, 2000], 125–144 at 126). Johannes F. Buddeus (Budde), Theses Theologicae de Atheismo et Super­ stitione (2nd edition; Jena: Bielcke, 1722), 32–37, is an early treatment of the Academy that balances scepticism and disbelief. 29  Div. 1.5.9. 27 Cf.



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The distinction between superstitio and religio seems to have suggested itself easily to those discussing Roman religion.30 It involves distinguishing between understanding the true nature of the gods, and the popular accretions that get in the way of that. That distinction is important in the first book of Nat. d., dominated by the presentation of Epicurean ideas from their spokesman Velleius. The distinction can work within the Epicurean system, but also provides a common vocabulary for the attack on Epicureanism from an Academic perspective. Velleius praises his school’s theology precisely because it offers a route to piety without superstition (Nat. d. 1. 17. 44–45). He then expounds the same arguments about the basic fact of the existence of the gods as revealed by nature that Cicero had used in the preface. With reference to specific writings of Epicurus, Velleius argues that superstition can be eliminated, while the gods themselves remain the object of pious worship. In the hands of Cotta, Nat. d.’s Academician, however, the religio/superstitio distinction assumes a more radical quality. Speaking of atheist philosophers, the same Diagoras, Theodorus, and Protagoras named in the preface, and mentioned near the start of his speech (1.23.63), he says: These men’s opinions remove not only superstition, which includes an empty fear of the gods, but also religion, which is contained in the pious worship of the gods.31

The next step in his argument is to refer to the view that traditional religion was the fabrication of wise men, seeking to preserve the state by using religion on those sections of the population not amenable to rational argument. Cotta alluded to a similar argument earlier, when pointing out that philosophers have deliberately employed anthropomorphic deities in order more easily to turn the ignorant away from depravity and towards worship.32 These are further versions of the double-edged deisidaimonia with which I  began: religion as a political tool, exploiting credulity in the masses. But in repudiating Velleius’s ­reliance upon the existence of the gods as an anchor against atheism, Cotta comes close to grafting a denial of the gods’ existence on to Epicureanism. It is easy to claim that the gods are not frightening if you believe they would have no power over human lives.33 Towards the end of this speech, Cotta is yet more explicit: 30 

Cicero’s own discussion comes at Nat. d. 2.28.71–72; cf. Div. 2.148–149. Friedrich Solmsen, “Cicero on Religio and Superstitio,” Classical Weekly 37 (1944), 159–160, is still worth reading. See too Maurice Sachot, “‘Religio/Supertitio’. Historique d’une subversion et d’un retournement,” RHR 208 (1991), 355–394; René Gothóni, “Religio and Superstitio Reconsidered,” Arch. f. Religionspsych. 21 (1994), 37–46; Scheid, Religion et piété, 160–167; Maijastina Kahlos, Debate and Dialogue: Christian and Pagan Cultures c. 360–430 (Aldershot: Taylor & Francis, 2007), 93–112, adding Christian extensions to the pagan distinction. 31  Nat. d. 1.42.118. 32  Nat. d. 1.27.77: quo facilius imperitorum ad deorum cultum a vitae pravitate converterent […]. 33  I gloss Nat. d. 1.42.117: Nam superstitione, quod gloriari soletis, facile est liberari cum sustuleris omnem vim deorum (“It is easy to be freed from superstition, as you lot so often

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Indeed, Epicurus drew out religio by the root from men’s souls when he removed assistance and favour from the immortal gods.34

In his opening, Cicero allows for the possibility that the Academic method can bring darkness rather than light. Much of the speech of Velleius, although delivered from an Epicurean perspective, takes the form of ridiculing existing theories of the gods. It summarizes a large number, and points out the absurdities of them all. Irrespective of its local rhetorical function (i. e., to demonstrate the unique validity of Epicureanism), Velleius’s speech can easily be experienced as a bravura display of atheism: the voice of the Epicurean, bolstered by the dialectical rigour of the Academy. After the entire tradition of Greek philosophy has been paraded before the reader, each great name ridiculed for absurd ideas about the gods, Cicero’s characterization of the Academy as obfuscating is realized. Philosophy begins to look like a theological cul-de-sac, and the gods have been subjected to so many bizarre interpretations that no interpretation seems viable. Although it would be a mistake to make an exact equation between this accumulation of doubt with a position of active disbelief, if belief in anything is so problematic, readers might well conclude that believing in nothing maybe more satisfactory. The effect is to widen the space between religio and superstitio, and to make absence of belief into the element that exists in that space. The gap is one that was, from time to time, filled by the interventions of shrewd individuals. That is more than just a theoretical possibility. Cicero’s thinking has its counterpart in an identifiable trend in the behaviour of the political elite, who would intervene in religious practice in a manner that makes the hints of Polybius into concrete realities. There are a number of cases where the interests of a particular political group were secured by their manipulation of the sacred regulations relating to voting assemblies, so that opponents to particular legislative measures could prevent them from being enacted. Because the holders of the higher religious offices belonged almost exclusively to the established aristocracy, there was a political bias of the most obvious kind in the manipulation of religion.35 Indeed, it was almost commonplace in the late Republic to exploit sacred regulations as a mechanism for interrupting or blocking political procedures (elections, meetings of the assembly), or for personal transactions such as adoption. The Bona Dea scandal of 62 BCE is the best-known example, when P. Clodius boast, if you’ve already removed all power from the gods”). The argument was evidently widely understood: Philodemus’s (Epicurean) On Piety is largely concerned with repudiating the identification of Epicureans with atheism. 34  Nat. d. 1.43.121. 35 See Veit Rosenberger, “Republican Nobiles: Controlling the Res Publica,” in A  Companion to Roman Religion, ed. Jörg Rüpke (Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 2007), 292–330. Jörg Rüpke, “Between Rationalism and Ritualism: On the Origins of Religious Discourse in the Late Roman Republic,” ARG 11 (2009), 123–143 at 124, goes so far as to designate religion as “the central medium of political communication for the Roman nobility.”



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infiltrated the women-only festival of Bona Dea, hosted by the wife of the new Pontifex Maximus, Julius Caesar. Clodius’s actions demonstrated the frailty of religious practice, and of the political capital that could be derived from exposing that frailty.36 Whatever Clodius’s intentions, the scandal that resulted was the catalyst for much of what his subsequent political career represents: a challenge to the hold on politics of the traditional elite, and a rejection of the symbolic and institutional forms of their power. As tribune in 59 BCE, he introduced a law known as the Lex Clodia de agendo, and sometimes as the Lex Clodia de obnuntiatione.37 It struck at the misuse of augural observation as a political tool. Although it was another fifteen years before Cicero wrote Div., it is not difficult to see that Cicero had little to lose by exposing omens, augury, and the auspices as sources not of divine revelation, but human manipulation. Those who are keen to emphasize the lack of explicit atheism for Rome would not interpret this as evidence in itself. I would argue that, taken together with the texts, we have a strong indication that religious institutions were subject to consistent pressure, and that the spectre of atheism hangs over not just the political manipulation of ritual, but also the highly-developed discourse designed to bolster religion through philosophical discussion.

3.  The Religion of the Poets In Varro’s three-fold theology, poetry was a recognized register of religion, albeit not one that the philosopher could endorse. In this section, I present three samples from the canonical poets of the late Republic and early Principate: Lucretius, Virgil, and Ovid. These short readings are slanted to draw out the resonance with the tensions already discussed. I begin with an important passage from Lucretius. It is, I think, impossible to understand the stakes in Cicero’s theology without drawing attention to the visionary quality of Lucretius’s rejection of religion: As before our eyes human life on earth lay foully oppressed by powerful religion, which showed its head from the regions of heaven, bearing down on mortals with its dreadful glare, it was the Greek mortal man who first dared to lift his eyes against it, and first dared to resist. Neither the reputation of the gods nor lightening nor heaven with its threatening rumble cowed him, but they incited all the more the sharp virtue of his spirit, to desire to break open the narrow bars of the gates of nature. So the vivid force of mind won out, and he journeyed beyond the far-flaming fortifications of the world and traversed the whole universe in his mind and spirit, and victorious, delivers to us what can exist, what cannot, 36  For a full discussion, though one rather more judicious in its conclusions, see W. Jeffrey Tatum, The Patrician Tribune: Publius Clodius Pulcher (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999), 64–86. See too David Mulroy, “The Early Career of P. Clodius Pulcher: A Re-examination of the Charges of Mutiny and Sacrilege,” TAPA 118 (1988), 155–178. 37 See Tatum, Patrician Tribune, 125–133; and on the religio-political principle of obnun­ tiatio, Scheid, Religion et piété, 49–52; idem, The Gods, the State, 84–85.

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and finally for each thing, what its limited power is, through what reasoning, and what its ultimate end point. Therefore in its turn religion is crushed, laid low beneath our feet, and victory makes us equal to heaven.38

If this does not constitute atheism as such, it does constitute a direct challenge to the value of religio. Especially when read with an eye to its imagery, it makes a clear statement about the illusory quality of religion, about the relative positions of humans and gods, and about the potential of rational enquiry not to come to a better understanding of the gods, but to demonstrate that nature’s laws operate entirely independent of them. These topics generate many of the arguments within the poem, and similar expressions of the awfulness of traditional religion occur regularly. The most memorable, shortly afterwards, describes the sacrifice of Iphigenia. It is introduced by the striking sententia, “religion has brought forth criminal and impious deeds” (1.83: religio perperit scelerosa atque impia facta). Religion is not just a cruel burden on the spirit, it is also ethically dangerous, causing humans to act in ways that conflict with its own stated aims of promoting piety. Lucretius strengthens the arguments about the possibility of atheism within Nat. d.’s discussion of Epicureanism, and on its own terms bears witness to the possibility of a passionate rejection of traditional religious practice. With the move to establish an empire, Julius Caesar and Octavian/Augustus both fostered a more reverential attitude. They probably drew upon the writings of Varro and others as a source both for their numerous religious reforms – some innovations, some revivals – and for a vaguer notion of what a traditional Roman life looked like. Two further poetic examples illustrate an awareness of the possibility of lapses from orthodoxy (not just orthopraxy), and the importance, from an Augustan perspective, of repudiating that possibility. In the eighth book of Virgil’s Aeneid, Evander explains to Aeneas the memorialization of Hercules that is being performed just at the moment when the Trojan exiles appear at the site of Rome: King Evander said, “It was not an empty superstition, one that disregards the old gods that imposed these rituals, these banquets following tradition, and this altar of so great a deity upon us. We are acting, Trojan guests, as those rescued from fierce dangers, and we renew honours that are deserved.”39

Evander imagines that outsiders may look upon the sacrifice and feasting as a sign that these lowly folk are in the thrall to a vana superstitio. It is important to him to demonstrate the opposite, and that these rituals have a proper rationale: commemoration of the deeds of their benefactor. Evander’s words add a further gloss to superstitio: it is veterum ignara deorum, that is, it displays no knowledge of the old gods. These words imply a different version of the contrast between religio and superstitio, one in which tradition plays a determining role. However, 38 

Lucr. 1.62–79. Aen. 8.184–189.

39 Virgil,



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Virgil is also alluding here to a form of religious belief that we would not regard as particularly traditional, and which responds to the new political situation. That is the doctrine known as Euhemerism, named after the Hellenistic author who propounded the idea that the Olympians had acquired divine status as a result of super-human achievements on earth. The doctrine reflected the situation familiar from the Hellenistic monarchies, in which dynasts were the focus of cult. It seems too to have played a role in Ennius’s epic, and Virgil’s allusion to it is far from isolated.40 However, its appearance in this episode is pointed, since the celebration of the liberation by Hercules from Cacus had allegorical resonance with the victory of Octavian/Augustus over Antony. So Evander’s insistence that this celebration is a proper rite, in accordance with the religion of the old gods, and on no account to be mistaken for vana superstitio, constitutes a brazen redefinition of traditional religion, and the position of the ruling house within in. At the same time, it evokes a sceptical observer, an outsider, like Aeneas, who could interpret the sacrifices in a more sceptical manner. Ovid is hardly a systematic thinker, and his work delights in destabilizing ideas, rather than exploring moral or theological theories. However, in his Meta­ morphoses, disbelief plays a prominent part in the selection of stories. Referring to two of those elaborated by Ovid, Phaethon, and Hippolytus, Cicero remarks that these stories show the gods subject to human failings – and while they are appropriate for poetry, “we want to be philosophers, the authors of things, not fables.”41 Varro’s categories do not, however, prevent the anthropomorphic interpretation of the gods from producing politically challenging narrative. The idea of questioning the Olympian order surfaces early in the Metamor­ phoses, when, in recounting the origin of the world, Ovid describes the battle between the gods and the giants  – a tale that draws attention to the problem of authority within the conventional pantheon. While Hesiod’s Theogony, the first account of that battle, may not have become a key text for stressing the arbitrary nature of Olympian rule, the story still points to a persistent problem in the religious world-view: that the position of the gods is arbitrary, based on violence, and in effect no different from the authority of a human ruler over his subjects. It is fundamental to the Metamorphoses that this vision of the divine is unsatisfactory, filled as the poem is with stories of the self-interested power of gods over mortals. Many of those stories demonstrate the arbitrary nature of divine rule, but a few, including, crucially, the earliest proper metamorphosis parable, the story of Lycaon, take a more specific form. They reinforce the idea that challenging belief in divine power will result in that power being exerted more fully in revenge. 40 See Dennis Feeney, “Roman Historiography and Epic,” in A  Companion to Roman Religion, ed. Jörg Rüpke (Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 2007), 129–142 at 132–134. 41  Nat. d. 3.77: nos autem philosophi esse volumus, rerum auctores, non fabularum.

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Even when describing the creation of the earth at the very start, Ovid, in spite of the homage to Lucretius, envisages a more hierarchical universe than his predecessor, though he is equivocal about whether mankind or the Olympians were first to come into being.42 The first characteristics of the Golden age to be mentioned are the freedom from the authority of law, punishment, and fear: those are the hallmarks of a society based upon the need for sanctions. Ovid repeats the word vindex (“avenger”) twice in quick succession (Metam. 1.89; 1.94). However, this nostalgia for a more equal relationship between human and divine is fast supplanted by an extreme authoritarianism, as Ovid recounts Jove’s vanquishing of the giants, and describes the new breed of mortals that rise from their blood as contemptrix superum, “despising the higher powers” (Metam. 1.161). The sight of them recalls to Jupiter’s mind the banquet of Lycaon, and roused to anger he calls an assembly of the gods, to recount that story, and encourage them to support his destruction of humanity with a great flood. In describing the other gods’ behaviour and reaction, Ovid makes a direct comparison between Augustus and Jove, and of these gods’ loyalty to that of Augustus’s subjects on an occasion when a savage band was raging to blot out Rome’s name in Caesar’s blood, cum manus inpia saevit / sanguine Caesareo Romanum exstinguere nomen (Metam. 1.200–201). As Bömer points out, Ovid never uses the word Caesarius to refer to Julius Caesar, and this threatened coup could as likely refer to any number of conspiracies against Augustus, as to the actual murder of Julius Caesar.43 Even before the story of Lycaon begins, therefore, the reader is prepared for a vision of divine authority which is comparable to a human dictatorship, jealous of its power and vindictive. It is the nature of Lycaon’s crime, revealed only once Jupiter has begun his proper narration, that makes the particular nature of divine rule clear. From Jove’s perspective, there is no need for an elaborate account. He was on a journey, and arriving at Lycaon’s seat, he gave a sign – not specified – that a god had arrived. Lycaon’s people react as expected, and worship him. But Lycaon first laughs at their acts of piety (1.220: irridet primo pia vota), and then says that he will test whether or not the visitor is a god. His plan is to feed Jove human flesh and then kill him while he sleeps. The display of impiety is compounded by the gruesome sacrifice of another guest to provide the meal. Ovid does not grant much space to Lycaon’s thoughts, but the words experirar and experientia appear close together (1.222; 1.225). Here is a figure sceptical of any message from the divine, and employing human measures, testing and 42  Either Nature or deus were responsible for the division of heaven from earth (Metam. 1.21; cf. 1.33: quisquis fuit ille deorum, “whichever god it was”). Either the opifex rerum or Prometheus were responsible for creating the first humans and giving them the shape of divinities (Metam. 1.79–83). No origin story is given for the gods, and when Jupiter replaces Saturn, Ovid gives no hint of the back-story (Metam. 1.113). 43  Cf. Franz Bömer, ed. and tr., P. Ovidius Naso: Metamorphosen (Heidelberg: Winter, 1969), 87, on Metam. 1.199–208.



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experimentation, to evaluate its truth. There is no admiration for this conduct – unsurprising given who is telling the story  – but making religious scepticism a manifestation of the same barbarity which Lycaon expresses by serving Jove human flesh is to slant the story in the direction of piety, and to identify scepticism about the gods as an idea which will produce dire results.44 That scepticism is figured as a parallel to a dangerous lack of respect for even basic social order. The most famous of the subsequent tales that reinforce this theme are those of Arachne and Niobe, who both pay dearly for boasting of their superiority to particular goddesses.45 That is an arrogance that goes beyond Lycaon’s, since both women acknowledge the gods, but are tempted by their own successes (at weaving and motherhood) to act as their rivals. But there are other, less wellknown figures: the Propoetides, whose crime and punishment are similar to Lycaon’s (Metam. 10.238–242).46 They deny that Venus is a divinity, and their atheism elicits a divine anger that leads them to grant common access to their bodies, and to lose the faculty of pudor, shame. They thus change easily into stones. There is a stronger causal link between their beliefs and their behaviour than we find with Lycaon  – although one could argue that it is the denial of Jupiter that can enable him to murder and cook his Molossian guest.47 Disbelief in the Metamorphoses brings forth swift and drastic punishment. It is also, at least in the examples discussed here, delineated as an assertion of independent action that flies in the face of an observant mode of behaviour widely accepted by the communities in which these maverick individuals operate. There is no doubt who is steering this world, in spite of the echoes of Lucretius, and an interest in the material essence of the universe that gives nature its own dynamic. If one can speak of the theology of the Metamorphoses, it is one in which divine authority is regularly exposed as vengeful and capricious, while the poem projects to its readers the choice between unquestioning obedience, or brave rebellion, fated to be viciously crushed, and resulting in the same gruesome transformations that are the outcome of the erotic attentions of the deities: being raped by a god has much the same effect as challenging one.

44 

On this episode within the tradition of Roman poetic theomachy, see Pramit Chaudhuri, The War with God: Theomachy in Roman Imperial Poetry (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 85–89. 45  Discussed by Chaudhuri, War with God, 101–107. 46  Bömer, Metamorphosen, 368 (on Metam. 5.551), lists all the passages where transformations occur as a result of divine punishment, supplemented by idem, ed. and tr., P. Ovidius Naso: Metamorphosen. Addenda, Corrigenda, Indices, Vol. 1: Addenda und Corrigenda (Heidelberg: Winter, 2006), 152. Cf. Henri Bardon, “Ovide et la métamorphose,” Latomus 20 (1961), 485–500 at 494–495. 47  The Cerastae, introduced along with the Propoetides, also victims of a metamorphosis brought about by Venus, show, like Lycaon, a murderous contempt for the laws of hospitality (Metam. 10.222–237).

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The contrast with Nat. d. is striking. Cicero employed a form of scepticism that questions all authority and did so in the shadow of Caesar’s dictatorship. Augustus’s re-orientation of all ideology around tradition, piety, and the ruling house, leaves little optimism for those who challenge the authority of the gods, even when they appear in the most populist form, to apply Varro’s category to Ovid’s work with myth.

4.  Roman Theology in the Enlightenment It was in the Enlightenment that comparative studies of religion became established. That development depended upon a freedom from doctrinal religious truths that was supported by developments in natural science, as much as by the evolution of religious thought in the aftermaths of the Protestant Reformation, and the exploration of non-European societies. But the absolute dominance of the ancient world to any idea of cultural or intellectual history, and the domination of school curricula by Latin literary classics, had a determining effect on the narratives of religious evolution. Building on a method established most emblematically by Augustine, the truths of Christianity needed to be asserted against the enormous cultural authority of ancient literature and, in particular, against philosophy, from which it had emerged. Augustine’s work is quite conscious of the tension this produces, between the debt to both pagan ideas and pagan poetry, and the need to repudiate it. In that way, the very structure in which religious history could be written was implicated in a struggle with paganism. So as the critical impulses of the Enlightenment evolved, and it became interesting to approach the writing of religious history from a perspective that was different from a history of doctrine written from inside the system, the interaction with paganism was an essential resource. To Enlightenment rationalists, Rome offered two great opportunities: Lucretius and Cicero. In the former, the scientific-minded were presented with the shocking vision of a universe defined through materiality. The divine is relegated either to a far-flung enclave, or to the realm of allegorical myth. Human propensities to spiritual thinking are explained as the result of physical processes – fantasies produced by clusters of atoms and their movement. Lucretius was a major influence both upon those looking for inspiration for their own deistic ideas, and for those needing a neat embodiment of the horrors of atheism.48 Atomic theory is fundamental to Lucretius’s universe built without divine intention, but the critique he exercises against social and religious orthodoxy 48  For a brilliant summary, see Eric Baker, “Lucretius in the European Enlightenment,” in The Cambridge Companion to Lucretius, ed. Stuart Gillespie and Philip Hardie (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 274–288.



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had just as profound an impact. The contrast with Descartes was pointed, since his science aimed to strengthen the understanding of the true nature of a rational deity. Lucretius’s relegation of the gods to their distant home, and insistence on the physical unreality of spiritual truth, presented an alternative to a universe centred on a god that went further in the rejection of traditional religion than most could countenance. Cicero’s role was more varied, that variety springing from the diversity of his writings. For some, such as the deist John Toland, Cicero was the malleus superstitionis, the hammer that would crush superstition. But in the large number of tracts and articles discussing Cicero’s theology in the 18th century, his scepticism produced a varied response.49 A closely argued doctoral dissertation from the 1780s concludes that, while never betraying his Academic principles and asserting positive doctrine, Cicero was still a religious thinker, and held a Stoic view of a benign deity.50 However, Cicero’s Academic approach was frequently interpreted as vacillation. Much of the 18th-century dislike of Cicero comes from the nature of his writing, his use of the multi-vocal dialogue form, and his failure to endorse any single theological position. Many 18th-century readers construed this as a weakness, a kind of doctrinal indecisiveness.51 A few, such as Toland, and later Voltaire and Hume, grasped it as a potential exit route from dogmatic conflict.52 It is not easy to summarize the relationship between Roman expressions of disbelief and the overtly atheistic thinking that developed in this period.53 For a start, publications with an explicit atheistic mission were too liable to censorship 49  See Matthew Fox, “Cicero and Historicism: Controversies in Cicero’s reception in the Eighteenth Century,” in The Afterlife of Cicero, ed. Gesine Manuwald (London: Institute of Classical Studies, 2017), 144–161. 50  Benjamin P. van Wesele Scholten, Dissertatio philosophico-critica de philosophiae Ciceronianae loco, qui est de divina natura (Amsterdam: den Hengst, 1783). This is still a live debate. A  recent book on Cicero’s legal thinking argues that for Cicero, ratio is divine: Jed W. Atkins, Cicero on Politics and the Limits of Reason (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); cf. my review: JRS 105 (2015), 428–430. 51  In this respect, Cicero’s scepticism resembled that of modern sceptics, in the tradition of Bayle and the Encyclopaedists. See Anton M. Matytsin, “The Protestant Critics of Bayle at the Dawn of the Enlightenment,” in Scepticism in the Eighteenth Century: Enlightenment, Lumières, Aufklärung, ed. Sébastien Charles and Plínio J. Smith (Dordrecht and London: Springer, 2013), 63–76. 52  For Cicero’s philosophical influence in the Enlightenment, see Günter Gawlick, “Cicero and the Enlightenment,” Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century 25 (1963), 657–682; Paul L. MacKendrick, The Philosophical Books of Cicero (London: Duckworth, 1989), 265–285; Matthew Fox, Cicero’s Philosophy, 274–302; and idem, “Cicero and Historicism.” On Voltaire, see Rainer Gartenschläger, Voltaires Cicero-Bild. Versuch einer Bestimmung von Voltaires humanistischem Verhältnis zu Cicero (Marburg: Heinz Lecroix, 1968); Matthew Sharpe, “Cicero, Voltaire, and the Philosophes in the French Enlightenment,” in Brill’s Companion to the Reception of Cicero, ed. William H. F. Altman (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 329–356; on Hume, Peter S. Fosl, “Doubt and Divinity: Cicero’s Influence on Hume’s Religious Scepticism,” Hume Studies 20 (1994), 103–120. 53 The readings of French clandestine atheistic writings in Schröder, Ursprünge, are

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to be published openly, so survive sporadically in so-called clandestine form.54 Mainstream theological works that had the misfortune to be regarded as atheistic (e. g., Locke, Spinoza, Toland) could find themselves burnt, their authors exiled to countries with more tolerant regimes. That reminds us not to overlook the overlap between worldly authority and religious freedom of thought. Nonetheless, substantial evidence of the interplay between ancient and modern can be found in the histories of atheism that began to be produced from the mid-17th century. Both for ourselves, and for those early readers not tempted by clandestine literature, it is these works which, while cataloguing and repudiating atheism, also define it as a particular way of thinking.55 They create it as a possibility, even as they condemn it, and atheism thus becomes the rallying point for religiosity. The identification of the exact form that atheistic thought took in antiquity is used to sharpen the repudiation of anything that could be categorized as true religious nihilism, and to rehabilitate the different possibilities for religious expression that existed before the idea of universal Christian orthodoxy. The great advantage, for the historians of atheism, is that by focusing on the multiple ways in which belief can be brought into question, these works produced a vision of devotion secure against the theological controversies of the day. It is almost as if religion does not need to be defined, if atheism is given a sufficiently detailed exploration. The most ambitious of such histories appeared in 1725, the Historia universalis atheismi et atheorum of Jakob Friedrich Reimann, thereafter a standard reference work.56 Reimann’s claim to universality is realized by taking a global approach, and he discusses atheism in China and the New World, as well broken down into distinct theological positions, many deriving support from individual ancient sources. 54 For clandestina in a wider context, see Christine Haug, Franziska Mayer, and Winfried Schröder, ed., Geheimliteratur und Geheimbuchhandel in Europa im 18. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011), which includes Winfried Schröder, “Aus dem Untergrund an die Öffentlichkeit,” 109–126. Schröder’s starting point is that philosophical extremes, especially atheism, tend only to be advocated in clandestina. See too Gianni Paganini, “Enlightenment before the Enlightenment: Clandestine Philosophy,” Etica & Politica 20 (2018), 183–200. 55 Silvia Berti, “At the Roots of Unbelief,” JHI 56 (1995), 555–575, 561–562, argues for a parallel distortion in libertine writing that sought its genealogy in mainstream thinkers. Schröder, Ursprünge, 23 n. 6, disputes a number of Berti’s arguments. But see Michiel R. Wielema, Review of Schröder, Ursprünge, BJHP 9 (2001), 381–387, on Schröder’s methodology. 56  Reprinted as Jacob Friedrich Reimann, Historia universalis atheismi et atheorum falso et merito suspectorum (1725), ed. Winfried Schröder (Stuttgart and Bad Cannstatt: FrommannHolzboog, 1992). Other interesting examples: Gottlieb Spitzel, Theodori Spitzelii scrutinium atheismi historico-aetiologicum (Augsburg: Praetorius, 1663); L. Anton Reiser, De origine, progressu et incremento antitheismi, seu atheismi, epistolaris dissertatio (Augsburg: Göbel, 1669); Samuel Parker, “Disp. I. An philosophorum ulli, & quinam athei fuerunt,” in Disputationes de Deo et Providentia Divina (London: Clark, 1678), 1–102; Jenkin T. Philipps, “De Atheismo,” in Dissertationes Historicae Quatuor (London: Meadows, 1735), 1–122. On Reimann, see Martin Mulsow and Helmut Zedelmaier, ed., Skepsis, Providenz, Polyhistorie: Jakob Friedrich Reimmann (1668–1743) (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1998).



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as dealing, by genre, with the authors of Greco-Roman antiquity. His method is to rehabilitate each ancient source from suspicions of atheism, while in the process, drawing attention to the attraction that same source could have for the modern free-thinkers: the real target of Reimann’s polemic, and also included in his history.57 That process of rehabilitation depends on his perspective on the difference between pagan and Christian belief. He allows the piety of the pagan to outweigh the excusable failure to recognize the reality of the Christian god. Atheism is understood as the denial of divinity in general, impietas becomes its synonym, and thus the piety of an author can be detected in his attitude to the divine, however that was understood in his own cultural context.58 But not all commentators were so open-minded. Euhemerus (fl. mid-third century BCE) was characterized by Plutarch (Is. Os. 23) as spreading atheistic doctrine, with his theory of the death and deification of those who became the gods. To the Swiss theologian, Jacob Zimmermann, it is Plutarch, with his affection for the pagan pantheon, whose theological credentials are suspect, while Euhemerus needs reclaiming. He is one of few ancient authorities to perceive the fictitious quality of the Olympians, and to provide a perspective that allows them to be dethroned.59 In these writings, ancient authorities provide a resource on which modern theology can draw in order to realize its main purpose: the defence of Christianity against the threats from rationalist, deistic, or materialist ideas. Even while exposing, in other essays, the moments where Cicero or Giordano Bruno approach atheistic thinking, Zimmermann’s real satisfaction comes from demonstrating that both can be assimilated to current theological orthodoxy.60 By the mid18th century, when Zimmermann was writing, such a strategy was familiar. The magnum opus of the Cambridge Platonist, Ralph Cudworth, from 1678, draws on ancient theories of matter to demonstrate the immortality of the soul, and makes ancient science into the justification for a newly rationalized Christian metaphysics.61 The subtitle clarifies the main ambition of Cudworth’s enormous, 57 See Schröder’s introduction to Reimann, Historia universalis atheismi: “Es geht in Reimanns Darstellung der antiken ‘atheistischen’ Philosophien nie nur um Irrmeinungen der Vergangenheit, sondern auch und vor allem um einen Fundus von Argumenten und Theorien, die von Freidenkern der Gegenwart aktualisiert werden konnten” (21). 58  Earlier treatments took a different approach. Reiser, De origine, for example, regards atheism as the manifestation of the devil’s activity. Its prevalence before the coming of Christ is not to be held against those who were effectively the devil’s victims. 59  Johann J. Zimmermann, Opuscula (Zurich: Gessner 1757), 1055–1060. For Euhemerus, late antique authors such as Lactantius provided a precedent. A  significant proportion of Zimmermann’s copious opuscula deal with disbelief. Euhemerus is also discussed by Philipps, “De Atheismo,” 56–57; and Buddeus, Theses, 85–89. 60 Zimmermann, Opuscula, 1081–1127 and 1128–1188. 61 Ralph Cudworth, The True Intellectual System of the Universe (London: Royston, 1678). See Guido Giglioni, “Ralph Cudworth on Stoic Naturalism,” RHS 61 (2008), 313–331; Catherine Osborne, “Ralph Cudworth: The True Intellectual System of the Universe,” in The

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but never completed, tome: The first part; wherein, all the reason and philosophy of Atheism is confuted; and its impossibility demonstrated. Cudworth’s aim is to establish an interdependence between materialism and faith. His basic principle he calls Atomick Physiology – a theory that insists on the materiality of the world, and which stresses the importance of ancient atomism in uncovering that basic truth. The antiquity of the theory is of particular value, enabling him to give a distant origin to his own system, and to produce a critical history of philosophy that traces the evolutions in these ideas. High on his agenda is the rehabilitation of ancient paganism as underpinned by a sophisticated philosophical system. His main work on ancient texts comes as a reworking of the history of philosophy read through Plato, but he also makes use of Cicero’s De natura deorum as a source for understanding paganism.62 He devotes several pages (434–438) to arguing that Cicero, rather than a theological sceptic, was actually “a Dogmatick and Hearty Theist” (434). In terms both of system-building and prolixity, Cudworth is an extreme case. But that extremity is prompted by the perceived danger to religion posed by science. Cudworth seeks to repel it by grounding his science in philosophical systems from antiquity, and by repudiating the supposed rational basis of the new atheisms with a rationality derived from a reading of the Presocratics, Plato, the Stoics, and Cicero. Amidst a new wave of rationalist and scientific thinking that threatened to make traditional religion look mysterious, or too like superstition, Roman religious thinking offered an appealing reasonableness. There is something distinct about Roman religious thinking, in particular as represented by Cicero, that gives it a clear appeal to those wanting to demarcate religion from superstition, and, going further, to allow for religion to exist on a non-dogmatic basis, where belief is not a focus for intellectual or moral compulsion. It is not a coincidence that Cicero’s other great contribution to western thought is secular in its orientation. De officiis sees duty, at least in practice, as a matter for the community, rather than expressing the relationship between human and divine. The susceptibility of Roman religion to rational reinterpretation gives it a unique place in the development of modern thinking about religion, precisely because its handling of disbelief is so explicit and so sophisticated.

Presocratics from the Latin Middle Ages to Hermann Diels, ed. Oliver Primavesi and Katharina Luchner (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2011), 215–235. 62  E. g., Cudworth, True Intellectual System, 422, 513–514.



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5.  Conclusion: Roman Disbelief via Enlightenment Roman paganism was not, in its practice, a “religion of the book.” But the literary discussion of it by those who did practice it provides our best hope of understanding it. The form which that understanding takes is shaped by our own position within the academy, and its own aspiration to a rational framework to discuss religion. That framework has been shaped by the Enlightenment encounter with Roman texts, and by the dialectic between the textual authority of pagan thinkers, and Christian ideas of belief (themselves, of course, forged through dialogue with those same texts). That encounter took place in theological thinking, but also outside it. I have discussed Roman poetry because, as a central part of the educational curriculum, it too contributed to later conceptions of religion, and demonstrates well the close intersection between religion and political authority. Cicero, Lucretius, and even Virgil and Ovid are all good evidence that the Roman discourse of disbelief was energetic and sophisticated. It is no surprise that its impact in the Enlightenment was far-reaching. To fail to engage with this tradition, or to supplant it by adopting a sociological approach that itself owes its origins to those same Enlightenment roots, is be condemned to a partial understanding of the values at play in the history of religious thought. The entire notion of intellectual freedom which is fundamental to the modern academy is built upon a sharpening of intellectual tools, which is in no small part a response to ideas of freedom from doctrinal authority. The Roman discussion of disbelief is a fundamental part of that tradition, and the Enlightenment encounter with it is where our own aspirations to freedom of thought coalesce with the Roman exploration of that idea.63

63  I would like to express thanks to the editors, and to Tim Whitmarsh, Catherine Steel, Callum Brown, and Charlotte Higgins.

“Who Will Worship This Man as a God, Who Will Believe in Him?” Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis and the Hermeneutical Categories of Belief and Scepticism in Emperor Cult1 Babett Edelmann-Singer 1.  Ruler Cult and Belief: Some Introductory Remarks Belief has never been a much appreciated category in the study of Roman religion.2 As an expression of an individual, cognitive and emotional realm of experience, it has almost never been of great importance. As a fundamental dimension of the pagan Roman religion, the existence of belief has in fact often been questioned or actually denied. Simon Price, for instance, described it as follows: Indeed the centrality of “religious belief ” in our culture has sometimes led to the feeling that belief is a distinct and natural capacity which is shared by all human beings. This, of course, is nonsense. “Belief ” as a religious term is profoundly Christian in its implications; it was forged out of the experience which the Apostles and Saint Paul had of the Risen Lord. The emphasis which “belief ” gives to spiritual commitment has no necessary place in the analysis of other cultures.3

Simon Price’s verdict was very influential and has had, over the recent decades, a significant bearing on scholars’ views of Greek and Roman religion.4 His basic assumption that ritual was the essence of ancient religion – that ancient religion 1  I would like to thank the participants of the conference for the productive discussion. I  would especially like to thank Janet Spittler and Richard Gordon for the correction of the English text. 2  For a recent discussion of the term religion cf. Carlin A. Barton and Daniel Boyarin, Imagine no Religion: How Modern Abstractions Hide Ancient Realities (New York: Fordham University Press, 2016); Jörg Frey, Benjamin Schliesser, and Nadine Ueberschaer, ed., Glaube. Das Verständnis des Glaubens im frühen Christentum und in seiner jüdischen und hellenistisch-römischen Umwelt (WUNT 373; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017). 3  Simon F. R. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 10–11. 4  Richard L. Gordon, for example, emphasizes in an article on superstitio during the late Roman Republic and in the Roman Empire that the fault of the Christians in Roman eyes was the rejection of rituals like sacrifices and therefore the refusal to participate in the religious community: “The reason for this refusal, including their belief in a different sort of god to whom sacrifice was unacceptable, were not at issue.” Cf. Richard L. Gordon, “Superstitio, Superstition

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is thus to be seen as ontologically ritualistic and not as an expression of inner faith – is perhaps even still in its heyday.5 This dismissal of the existence of inner faith is even stronger when it comes to ruler cult. Glen Bowersock clearly epitomized this: “No thinking man ever believed in the divinity of the living emperor.”6 This majority view seems to substantiate an understanding of the emperor cult that has dominated the scientific discourse since the 19th century. The idea that the establishment of the ruler cult was a political means of achieving and retaining control was predominant in classical studies over decades. Duncan Fishwick’s résumé can be taken as a case in point: The overall impression one has in retrospect, then, is of central orchestration and control through the entire period from Augustus down to the middle of the third century […] By and large provincial cult […] appears as an instrument of imperial policy, a device that could be manipulated in whatever direction purposes of the central authority might require.7

Fishwick and other scholars have argued that this model of politically motivated and orchestrated coercive action is only valid for the Western parts of the empire.8 and Religious Repression in the Late Roman Republic and Principate (100 BCE – 300 CE),” Past and Present 199 (Suppl. 3, 2008), 72–94 at 90. 5  Cf. for example Mary Beard, John North, and Simon F. R. Price, Religions of Rome, Vol. 1: History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 43; Monika Linder and John Scheid, “Quand croire c’est faire. Le problème de la croyance dans la Rome ancienne / When Believing is Doing: The Problem of Believing in Ancient Rome,” ASSR 81 (1993), 47–61. Further examples in Hendrik S. Versnel, Coping with the Gods: Wayward Reading in Greek Theology (RGRW 173; Leiden: Brill, 2011), 545. Against the communis opinio argue Steven J. Friesen, Twice Neokoros: Ephesus, Asia and the Cult of the Flavian Imperial Family (RGRW 116; Leiden: Brill, 1993), 146–152; Manfred Clauss, “Deus Praesens. Der römische Kaiser als Gott,” Klio 78 (1996), 400–433; idem, Kaiser und Gott. Herrscherkult im Römischen Reich (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1999); Philip A. Harland, “Honours and Worship: Emperors, Imperial Cults and Associations at Ephesus (First to Third Centuries C. E.),” Studies in Religion – Sciences Religieuses 25/3 (1996), 319–334. See also Andreas Bendlin, “Rituals or Beliefs? ‘Religion’ and the Religious Life of Rome,” Scripta Classica Israelica 20 (2001), 191–208. 6  Glen W. Bowersock, “Greek Intellectuals and the Imperial Cult,” in Le culte des sou­ verains dans l’empire romain. Sept exposés suivis de discussion, ed. W. den Boer (Entretiens sur l’Antiquité classique XIX; Vandœuvres and Geneva: Fondation Hardt, 1972), 180–206 at 206. 7 Duncan Fishwick, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West: Studies in the Ruler Cult of the Western Provinces of the Roman Empire, Vol. 3: Provincial Cult. Part 1: Institution and Evolution (RGRW 145; Leiden: Brill 2002), 219. Fishwick’s argument resembles the sophist Kritias, who claimed in a late fifth-century BCE satyr-play called Sisyphos that the belief in gods was the invention of a smart man who wanted to deter offenders by making them believe that superior beings can see, hear, and know everything. 8  “In this respect the western provinces differed significantly from those of the East, where experience with the ruler cult stretched back to the time of the Greek city states and Hellenistic kingdoms. Initiative from below was consequently the norm in the Greek world […]” (Fishwick, The Imperial Cult, 219). For a general discussion on emperor cult and its role in comparison to the Christian cult cf. Karl Galinsky, “The Cult of the Roman Emperor: Uniter or Divider?” in Rome and Religion: A Cross Disciplinary Dialogue on the Imperial Cult, ed. Jeffrey



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This argument is clearly based on a traditional – and deeply biased – doctrine in the historical discourse of the 18th and 19th centuries which drew a clear cultural line between the Western and the Eastern parts of the Roman Empire. The general agreement among scientific minds of these centuries was that the ruler cult agreed with the disposition of the subjects in the Eastern provinces and had thus been appropriated easily on the basis of their cultural imprint and the resulting decadence. Among the morally superior subjects in the Western parts of the empire however, it was considered an imposition and had only been accepted on the basis of command and obedience.9 Quite recently, doubts have been repeated voiced, on the one hand, concerning any clear distinctions between Christian and pagan attitudes, and, on the other hand, concerning the correspondence between ancient and modern Western understandings of both religion and belief. The tendency to address questions of individuality and emotion casts doubts on the established patterns of understanding. Charles King (2003) and Hendrik Versnel (2011) have challenged the rejection of real belief in ancient religion, Versnel in particular with respect to Brodd and Jonathan L. Reed (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), 1–21, with response by Steven J. Friesen, “Normal Religion, or, Words Fail Us: A Response to Karl Galinsky’s ‘The Cult of the Roman Emperor: Uniter or Divider?’,” in the same volume at 23–26. 9  This opinion is based, not least, on the separation of the cult – claimed by Cassius Dio – which was introduced by Augustus in Asia and Bithynia in the year 29 BCE. According to Dio, who writes in the first half of the third century CE, Augustus permitted the provincials (peregrini) to worship his person, whereas Roman citizens (cives Romani) were ordered to worship Caesar and the goddess Roma: Καῖσαρ δὲ ἐν τούτῳ τά τε ἄλλα ἐχρημάτιζε, καὶ τεμένη τῇ τε  Ῥώμῃ καὶ τῷ πατρὶ τῷ Καίσαρι, ἥρωα αὐτὸν  Ἰούλιον ὀνομάσας, ἔν τε  Ἐφέσῳ καὶ ἐν Νικαίᾳ γενέσθαι ἐφῆκεν· αὗται γὰρ τότε αἱ πόλεις ἔν τε τῇ Ἀσίᾳ καὶ ἐν τῇ Βιθυνίᾳ προετετίμηντο. καὶ τούτους μὲν τοῖς  Ῥωμαίοις τοῖς παρ’ αὐτοῖς ἐποικοῦσι τιμᾶν προσέταξε· τοῖς δὲ δὴ ξένοις,   Ἕλληνάς σφας ἐπικαλέσας, ἑαυτῷ τινα, τοῖς μὲν Ἀσιανοῖς ἐν Περγάμῳ τοῖς δὲ Βιθυνοῖς ἐν Νικομηδείᾳ, τεμενίσαι ἐπέτρεψε (“Caesar, meanwhile, besides attending to the general business, gave permission for the dedication of sacred precincts in Ephesus and in Nicaea to Rome and to Caesar, his father, whom he named the hero Julius. These cities had at that time attained chief place in Asia and in Bithynia respectively. He commanded that the Romans resident in these cities should pay honour to these two divinities; but he permitted the aliens, whom he styled Hellenes, to consecrate precincts to himself, the Asians to have theirs in Pergamum and the Bithynians theirs in Nicomedia”) (Cass. Dio 51.20.6–7; tr. Earnest Cary, LCL). According to Cassius Dio, the gesture of submission was made more explicit concerning Romans than it was for Greeks. In addition to that, it was cemented by spatial separation. The cults for the cives Romani were to have their centers at Ephesos and Nikaia, those for the peregrini should be based in Pergamon and Nikomedia. There is a general consent that Cassius Dio’s statement has to be specified: for Octavian, too, a cult was established only in combination with the goddess Roma. We know that from Tacitus (Ann. 4.37.3) and Suetonius (Aug. 52) as well as from numismatic evidence (RPC I  1, 377–379). Roman coins likewise solely depict the Augustus-and-Roma-Temple in Pergamon. There is no numismatic evidence for a supra-regional cult-site which was dedicated to Divus Iulius and the goddess Roma. Today there are consequently serious doubts concerning the separation which is claimed by Cassius Dio. Cf. Babett Edelmann-Singer, Koina und Concilia. Genese, Organisation und sozioökonomische Funktion der Provinziallandtage im rö­ mischen Reich (HABES Heidelberger Althistorische Beiträge und epigraphische Studien 57; Stuttgart: Steiner, 2015), 86–94.

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Greek ruler cult.10 Both authors acknowledge the validity of the concept of belief, but they also adhere to the notion of a spectrum of belief, on which pagan religion has “low intensity” in matters of belief, whereas Christian contexts are marked by “high intensity.” With respect to emperor cult in the Roman world, Ittai Gradel (2002)11 suggested a spectrum of divinity, attributing divinity to the divinized emperor, but seeing it as a kind of relative divinity in contrast to the absolute divinity of the traditional gods. In other words: people believed more in traditional gods and less in emperors. Against this backdrop it seems reasonable in a collection of essays that focuses on insider doubts to raise the question whether and if so how heuristic terms like belief and scepticism help in understanding emperor cult. The main objective of the article is to search the sources for explicit or implicit references to belief in the divinity of emperors in a categorical sense. Furthermore, the information offered by sceptical voices will help to cast new light on the understanding of belief as a heuristic term.

2.  Belief and Scepticism in Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis It seems reasonable to begin with Seneca the Younger’s satirical text Apocolocyn­ tosis12 – because this is one of the most explicit but also most debatable texts on the meaning of ruler cult. “Who will worship this man as a god? Who will believe in him?”13 By thus dramatically intervening into the debate in heaven about whether the recently deceased Claudius should be made a divus, the divinized princeps Augustus succeeds in preventing his admission into the exclusive circle of the gods. After the gods themselves have failed to agree  – some argue for his divinization on grounds of his ancestry, others are opposed to it for quite general reasons and argue that former mortals should not be given access to the Pantheon – it is Augustus’ speech that turns the tide against Claudius. It seems therefore advisable to take a closer look at his words. After Divus Augustus has emphasized his own merits in restoring the res publica,14 he covers Claudius’ alleged crimes in detail: the murders of members 10 Charles King, “The Organization of Roman Religious Beliefs,” ClAnt 22 (2003), 275–312; Versnel, Coping with the Gods, 548. 11 Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 321–324. 12  Cf. Cass. Dio 60.35.2–3.The name Apocolocyntosis is mentioned only in Cassius Dio’s Roman History. 13 Seneca, Apocol. 11.3: Hunc deum quis colet? Quis credet? Tr. in Peter T. Eden, ed. and tr., Seneca: Apocolocyntosis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). 14  Here Seneca’s text is in full accordance with Augustus’ political will, the Res Gestae. Cf. Seneca, Apocol. 10.1–2: Tunc divus Augustus surrexit sententiae suae loco dicendae, et summa



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of his own family, of his own wife, and of numerous knights and senators. He then cries out: Is this the man you now wish to make a god? Look at his body, born when the gods were in rage! In short, let him utter three words in quick succession and he can take me as his slave. Who will worship this man as a god? Who will believe in him? While you create gods of this sort nobody will believe that you are gods.15

Finally he demands that Claudius be banned from the heavenly fields. Although the authenticity of Seneca’s text has quite often been doubted,16 the majority of classicists believe in Seneca’s authorship and have read the text as a facundia disseruit: “Ego” inquit “p. c. vos testes habeo, ex quo deus factus sum, nullum me verbum fecisse: semper meum negotium ago. Sed non possum amplius dissimulare, et dolorem, quem graviorem pudor facit, continere. In hoc terra marique pacem peperi? Ideo civilia bella compe­ scui? Ideo legibus urbem fundavi, operibus ornavi, ut – quid dicam p. c. non invenio: omnia infra indignationem verba sunt” (“Then the deified Augustus rose to his feet at his turn for expressing his opinion, and discoursed with the utmost eloquence. ‘I have you, honourable members, as witnesses’ he said, ‘that from the time I became a god I have not uttered a word. I always mind my own business. And yet I can no longer pretend, or restrain the grief which shame makes heavier to bear. Was it to this end that I  secured peace by land and sea? Was it for this that I checked the civil wars? Was it for this that I gave the city of Rome a foundation of laws, and an embellishment of public works, so that –? What should I say, honourable members? I find nothing. All words fall short of my indignation’”); in comparison to R. Gest. divi Aug. 3 Bella terra et mari civilia externaque toto in orbe terrarum saepe gessi, victorque omnibus veniam petentibus civibus peperci (“I undertook many civil and foreign wars by land and sea throughout the world, and as victor I  spared the lives of all citizens who asked for mercy”); or R. Gest. divi Aug. 20: Capitolium et Pompeium theatrum utrumque opus impensa grandi refeci sine ulla inscriptione nominis mei. Rivos aquarum compluribus locis vetustate labentes refeci, et aquam quae Marcia appellatur duplicavi fonte novo in rivum eius inmisso. Forum Iulium et basilicam quae fuit inter aedem Castoris et aedem Saturni, coepta profligataque opera a patre meo, perfeci et eandem basilicam consumptam incendio, ampliato eius solo, sub titulo nominis filiorum meorum incohavi, et, si vivus non perfecissem, perfici ab heredibus meis iussi. Duo et octoginta templa deum in urbe consul sextum ex auctoritate senatus refeci nullo praetermisso quod eo tempore refici debebat. Consul septimum viam Flaminiam ab urbe Ariminum refeci pontesque omnes praeter Mulvium et Minucium (“I restored the Capitol and the theatre of Pompey, both works at great expense without inscribing my own name on either. I restored the channels of the aqueducts, which in several places were falling into disrepair through age, and I brought water from a new spring into the aqueduct called Marcia, doubling the supply. I completed the Forum Julium and the basilica between the temples of Castor and Saturn, works begun and almost finished by my father, and when that same basilica was destroyed by fire, I began to rebuild it on an enlarged site, to be dedicated in the name of my sons, and in case I do not complete it in my life time, I have given orders that it should be completed by my heirs. In my sixth consulship I restored eighty-two temples of the gods in the city on the authority of the senate, neglecting none that required restoration at that time. In my seventh consulship I restored the Via Flaminia from the city as far as Rimini, together with all bridges except the Mulvian and the Minucian”; tr. in Peter A. Brunt and John M. Moore, ed. and tr., Res Gestae Divi Augusti: With an Introduction and Commentary [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967]). 15 Seneca, Apocol. 11.3–4; tr. P. T. Eden. 16  Cf. recently Anton Bierl, “Passion in a Stoic’s Satire Directed Against a Dead Caesar? Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis as a Saturnalian Text Composed for Overcoming the Crisis,” Maia 69 (2017), 326–349; Christian Reitzenstein-Ronning, “Certa clara affero? Senecas

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proof that the veneration of deceased Roman rulers differed fundamentally from traditional religious rites and had, in particular, no basis in individual belief. In trying to make sense of Seneca’s ambivalent treatment of the deceased emperor, it has been argued that “the governing class went through the motions of deifying Claudius with no more sincere faith, or deeper sense of self-importance, than they showed in their other attentions to the state religion.”17 In an attempt to explain the critical, sometimes even cynical, stance of the literary sources attributed to ancient authors like Seneca, Tacitus, Suetonius or Cassius Dio, historical research has taken refuge in the dichotomy between a real, authentic and even individual faith on the one side, and state religion, above all the emperor cult, on the other.18 The Roman elite,19 in particular, is credited with an almost schizophrenic attitude, believing that emperor cult was not part of real religion, not a commitment, but only a question of political realities or ritual performances. This interpretation is not convincing at all. Seneca’s Augustus focuses on two aspects of ruler cult, ritual and actual cult (colere) on the one hand and matters of belief (credere) on the other. Credere in the sense of “believing in something,” of “taking something to be true,” clearly has this implication. Seneca’s satire must therefore not be understood as an outright rejection of the concept of imperial apotheosis.20 Augustus’ – or rather Seneca’s – scepticism was by no means targeted at the apotheosis of a deceased ruler in general, but solely at Claudius as a person. Divus Augustus is trying to salvage the exclusiveness of the divine circle, while the traditional deities Apocolocyntosis und die Zeichensprache des Principats,” Chiron 47 (2017), 213–242; Niklas Holzberg, “Racheakt und ‘negativer Fürstenspiegel’ oder literarische Maskerade? Neuansatz zu einer Interpretation der Apocolocyntosis,” Gymnasium 123 (2016), 321–339. Many classical philologists have doubted Seneca’s authorship, mainly on the grounds that it is impossible for a philosopher and rhetorician who dedicated himself to the Stoa and its ideals to stoop to such scurrility. How could the very person who wrote the laudatio funebris for Nero, Claudius’ young successor, libel so grossly the man in whose shadow he had risen to glory and wealth? Cf. Manfred Fuhrmann, Seneca und Kaiser Nero. Eine Biographie (Berlin: Fest, 1997), 178–181, who answers this question with an allusion to an outlet-function of the text: “Schließlich sei an den psychischen Druck erinnert, dem höfische Protokolle und Zeremonien die Beteiligten auszusetzen pflegen. Hier sind Ventile gefragt […]” For the involvement of Seneca in the political and economic day-to-day-business of the Roman elite in Neronian times cf., e. g., Cass. Dio 62.2. 17  Eden, Seneca: Apocolocyntosis, 7. 18  The author completely agrees with Angelos Chaniotis, who identified a “tendency to dissociate emotion and cognition” in the studies on ancient religion. Cf. Angelos Chaniotis, “Introduction,” in Unveiling Emotions: Sources and Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World, ed. idem (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2012), 12. 19  Cf. Spencer Cole, “Elite Scepticism in the Apocolocyntosis: Further Qualifications,” in Seeing Seneca Whole: Perspectives on Philosophy, Poetry and Politics, ed. Katharina Volk and G. D. Williams (Columbia Studies in the Classical Tradition 28; Leiden, Boston: Brill 2006), 175–182. 20  For a recent study on this field cf. Michael Koortbojian, The Divinization of Caesar and Augustus: Precedents, Consequences, Implications (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013).



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are jeopardizing this exclusiveness with their positive evaluation of Claudius. Augustus is laying down a norm: to him it must be possible for human beings to believe in a god; such belief is based on certain traditional premises, which include majesty, authority, moral grandeur. Claudius fails on all these counts. He lacks all the physical and temperamental qualities a god must possess: He is a murderer and he is handicapped. This renders him unfit for divinity.21 His unfitness undermines belief not just in the new gods, like Caesar and Augustus, but also the traditional ones. Human beings’ readiness to believe in gods rests heavily on concrete expectations of god-like behaviour and god-like qualities. Seneca’s text is situated within a long-standing controversy on the nature of the gods and on the boundaries between man and gods, a debate that had effectively begun with Euhemerus of Messene and Hellenistic rulers like Demetrius Poliorketes and extending through Lucian of Samosata, who in his work Gods in Council makes Momos the God say self-deprecatingly: “And with these theological curiosities before their eyes, we wonder why it is that men think lightly of the Gods!”22 Seneca’s text perfectly fits in with this tradition. His objective in Apocolocyn­ tosis was to satirize Claudius’ apotheosis as a particular case, not to oppose the institution of divi in general. Seneca’s Augustus thus acts as a fully integrated member of the Roman pantheon. So Seneca’s criticism of the proposal to declare Claudius a divus must be seen as a private initiative that was fed by motives that are partially understandable, but very high-minded. Official imperial theology was based on divine sonship. Claudius’ official divinization was therefore prerequisite for not breaking the imaginary chain of imperial apotheoses on which the Julio-Claudian dynasty was built. The scepticism directed towards false divinization and the emphasis on belief expressed in the text suggests that the author considered even the consequences of apotheosis, namely the functional aspect of the ritual performances that followed on from the declaration, as dependent on faith, on credibility. This leads to a seldom asked but central question: Did the Romans or at least some of them, believe in the divinity of their living and their deceased emperors? In the third part of the essay, sources are discussed that suggest that belief was understood as an element in religious discourse. Some of these sources are rather 21 

Cf. Lucian, Deor. conc. 4–5.

22 εἶτα θαυμάζομεν εἰ καταφρονοῦσιν ἡμῶν οἱ ἄνθρωποι ὁρῶντες οὕτω γελοίους θεοὺς καὶ

τεραστίους (Lucian, Deor. conc. 5). Lucian refers to demigods like Dionysos and his followers such as Pan or Silenus. For the early Greek and Hellenistic discussions regarding humans as gods, cf. Babett Edelmann, Religiöse Herrschaftslegitimation in der Antike. Die religiöse Legiti­ mation orientalisch-ägyptischer und griechisch-hellenistischer Herrscher im Vergleich (Studien zur griechisch-römischen Antike 20; St. Katharinen: Scripta Mercaturae, 2007); cf. also Versnel, Coping with the Gods, 439–492. Cf. for religious doubt in Lucian in general Inger Kuin’s article in the present volume.

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explicit in their explanatory power while others should be classified as rather implicit.

3.  Belief as a Contemporary Category of Literary and Religious Discourse 3.1.  The Case of the Neronian Senator Thrasea Paetus One example that should be discussed in this context comes from Tacitus’s An­ nales book 16, where the case of the Neronian senator Thrasea Paetus is described against the backdrop of the Senate’s opposition to Nero’s regime.23 Thrasea – a former consul, priest in the college of quindecimviri, and advocate of the Stoa – is presented as the perfect example of a virtuous senator who eventually chooses death over abandoning his freedom of thought. His behavior is commonly seen as political opposition.24 He was a bonafide conservative dedicated to the mores maiorum who presumably turned on Nero after the murder of Agrippina.25 He withdrew deeper and deeper into some kind of inner emigration until he finally ceased to take part in public political life. After not having entered the curia for three years  – an act considered as oppositional  – he was finally accused,26 on the one hand, of neglecting both his civilian and political duties as a senator, and, on the other, of ignoring his religious duties as a priest and citizen by not swearing an oath on the emperor, by not taking vows (despite being a member of the priesthood of the quindecimviri), and by not offering sacrifices for the welfare of the princeps. All further charges one reads in Tacitus clearly refer to the realm of personal belief. Thus, it was claimed that Thrasea did not believe in the divinity of Poppaea, deceased wife of Nero, and did not swear on the acts of Divus Augustus and Divus Iulius – once again implying that he did not believe in their divinity: “It shows the same mind-set not to believe in Poppaea’s divinity as to refuse to swear obedience to the acts of the Divine Augustus and the Divine Julius.”27 The fact that the entire trial was an investigation into private religious attitudes becomes even clearer when one considers another scene Tacitus describes in the context of the trial against Thraseas’ co-defendant Borea Soranus. In association with the accusations against her father, Soranus’ daughter was taken 23 Tacitus,

Ann. 16.21–35. Cf. Ronald Syme, “A Political Group,” in Roman Papers VII, ed. Anthony R. Birley (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 568–587; Vasily Rudich, Political Dissidence under Nero: The Price of Dissimulation (New York: Routledge, 1993), 75–80, 170–179. 25 Tacitus, Ann. 14.12.1. 26 Tacitus, Ann. 16.22. 27 Tacitus, Ann. 16.22.3: eiusdem animi est Poppaeam divam non credere, cuius in acta divi Augusti et divi Iuli non iurare. 24 



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to court and accused of having performed magical rituals in order to harm the emperor. She confessed to being in contact with magicians, but insisted under tears that her sole objective had been to help her father. Her dramatic testimony ended with the words: “No mention was made by me of the emperor, except as one of the divinities.”28 It seems clear that she had also been accused of not having accepted the divinity of the ruler. This text establishes a connection between the divinity of the emperor – and in particular of the Divi – with a sort of personal belief.29 3.2.  Caligula and the Jewish Delegation A second example that highlights the question of belief in the emperor’s divinity is the well-known scene, described by Philo of Alexandria,30 in which the emperor Caligula meets a Jewish delegation in 40 CE.31 Caligula greets the Jewish envoys with the following words: So you are the god-haters, the people who do not believe that I am a god – I, who am acknowledged as a god among all other nations by this time but am denied that title by you?” […] “Granted,” said Gaius, “that this is true, and that you have offered sacrifices. But it was to another God, even if it was on my behalf. What is the good of that? You have not sacrificed to me.”32

The Jewish philosopher’s account seems to confirm all the prejudices against the tendency towards (self)-divinization of Caligula that we are familiar with from senatorial sources such as Cassius Dio. In the light of the case of Thrasea 28 Tacitus,

Ann. 16.31.2: nulla mihi principis mentio nisi inter numina fuit. similar case seems to be given in the accusations against the governor of Syria Cn. Calpurnius Piso, known from a senate decree of the year 20 CE (Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone patre). Among other things, Piso is accused of the violation of the numen of the divine Augustus “in that he withheld every honour that had been accorded to his memory or to those portraits which were granted to him before he was included in the number of the gods” (CIL II2/5 900; tr. in Koortbojian, The Divinization). The precise meaning of this accusation is not clear but Eck’s suggestion that it relates to Augustus’ lifetime seems plausible; cf. Werner Eck, Antonio Caballos, and Fernando Fernández, Das senatus consultum de Cn. Pisone patre (Vestigia 48; München: Beck, 1993), 186–188. In the early Roman Empire, there are some other cases in which individuals were accused of violating the numen Augusti (cf., e. g., Tacitus, Ann. 1.73.2; Rubrius, by committing perjury). 30  Cf. Maren R. Niehoff, Philo of Alexandria: An Intellectual Biography (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2018). 31 Philo, Legat. 353–357. 32 Philo, Legat. 353–357: σαρκάζων γὰρ ἅμα καὶ σεσηρὼς “ὑμεῖς” εἶπεν “ἐστὲ οἱ θεομισεῖς, οἱ θεὸν μὴ νομίζοντες εἶναί με, τὸν ἤδη παρὰ πᾶσι τοῖς ἄλλοις ἀνωμολογημένον, ἀλλὰ τὸν ἀκατονόμαστον ὑμῖν;” […] “ἔστω” φησί “ταῦτα ἀληθῆ, τεθύκατε, ἀλλ’ ἑτέρῳ, κἂν ὑπὲρ ἐμοῦ τί οὖν ὄφελος; οὐ γὰρ ἐμοὶ τεθύκατε”; tr. in E. Mary Smallwood, ed. and tr., Philonis Al­ exandrini Legatio ad Gaium, Edited with an Introduction, Translation and Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 1961). Still relevant for the meaning of the Greek term theos in comparison with English ‘god’ is Price, Rituals and Power; see also Versnel, Coping with the Gods, 465–470, 539–559. 29  A

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Paetus, however, Philo’s account does not seem that strange: personal belief could actually be expected in emperor cult, even if it seemed unreasonable for the Jews. Although this text is an invective against Gaius’s allegedly outrageous behavior and hostility towards the Jews, its arguments follow the same line as Seneca’s. The cult of the living and deceased emperor is connected to belief in the divine nature of the emperor. Interestingly enough, this does not necessarily imply any sort of fundamentalism, according to which scepticism would be a crime. Caligula himself shows how the sceptical group of the Jews could escape the accusation of disbelief: “I think that these men are not so much criminals as lunatics in not believing that I have been given divine nature.”33 So it was up to the emperor to define what degree of scepticism is acceptable and what is not. There are a few other examples where terms of belief are explicitly discussed in connection with the emperor cult. The first comes from Seneca’s De clementia, where he says that Augustus’s clemency is one of the reasons why he was believed to be a god: “We believe that he is a god – and not because we are under orders.”34 The second mention of belief in conjunction with a deceased emperor is in Pliny’s Panegyricus: “You gave your father his place among the stars with no thought of terrorizing your subjects, of bringing the gods into disrepute, or of gaining reflected glory, but simply because you believed he was a god.”35 To sum up, it is reasonable for the ancient historian to take questions of belief into account when dealing with emperor cult, because contemporary sources also do. Belief in the divinity of the living or deceased emperor is at the very least an option in the contemporary discourse of the nature of the Roman ruler. In the last part of the essay sources are presented that can be put under the title “implicit indications” of individual belief. Consideration of the following objects, inscriptions and texts clearly indicates that the question of belief was not limited to literary discourse but was also part – sometimes even a necessary part – of ritual performance in emperor cult.

33 Philo,

Legat. 367.

34 Seneca, Clem. 1.10.3: Deum esse non tamquam iussi credimus; tr. in Susanna Braund, ed.

and tr., Seneca: De Clementia. Edited with Text, Translation, and Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 35 Pliny, Pan. 11.2: Tu sideribus patrem intulisti non ad metum civium, non in contumeliam numinum, non in honorem tuum, sed quia deum credis; tr. in Betty Radice, ed. and tr., Pliny: Letters, Books VIII–X. Panegyricus (LCL; Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 1967).



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4.  Belief as a Contemporary Category of Ritual First I  will focus on a little statuette of the emperor Nero that derives from a lararium.36 The object (Fig. 1) is part of the collection of the Römisch-Germa­ nisches Zentralmuseum Mainz (RGZM) and was on display in the great exhibition on the emperor Nero in Trier in the year 2016. It evidently once belonged to the statuettes that furnished a private household shrine, a lararium. The fact that statuettes of the emperor or of members of the imperial family might be included in such shrines is confirmed by passages from Ovid’s Tristia and letters, as well as Horace’s Odes.37 For example, in one of his letters written in 12–13 CE, Ovid mentions little silver statuettes of Augustus, Tiberius, and Livia, which he describes as divine and which he includes in his household shrine.38 He performs rites before the statuettes and addresses prayers to them.39 What is constructed in these surely self-serving texts of an exiled poet waiting for his return is standard Roman practice. So it must be assumed that the statuette of Nero also stood in a lararium in a private household and that cult was paid to it during the lifetime of the emperor. This draws a direct line to another example of private cult, namely dedications and prayers. Ovid, for example, addressed prayers to the statuettes in his lararium every morning and he offered sacrifice at least once a month.40

36 

Fig. 1: Nero statuette from Lararium, 54–59 CE (?), Nero with beard and laurel wreath, Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum Mainz (RGZM), Inv. O. 34486, acquired from arts trade sources; of unknown origin. Cf. also Alexandra Sofroniew, Household Gods: Private Devotion in Ancient Greece and Rome (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2015). 37 Horace, Carm. 4. 5. 31–36; Ovid, Tristia 3. 8. 13–14; 5. 2. 45–46. 38 Ovid, Pont. 2.8.1–4: Redditus est nobis Caesar cum Caesare nuper, quos mihi misisti, Maxime Cotta, deos; utque tuum munus numerum, quem debet, haberet, est ibi Caesaribus Livia iuncta suis (“Two Caesars have lately been delivered to me, Cotta Maximus, sent by you: a god with a god, and to make up your gift to its full and proper tally, Livia’s there, conjoined with her Caesars”; tr. in Peter Green, ed. and tr., Ovid: The Poems of Exile. Tristia and the Black Sea Letters [Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005]). 39 Ovid, Pont. 4.9.105–110 (16 CE): nec pietas ignota mea est: videt hospita terra in nostra sacrum Caesaris esse domo. stant pariter natusque pius coniunxque sacerdos, numina iam facto non leviora deo. neu desit pars ulla domus, stat uterque nepotum, hic aviae lateri proximus, ille patris. his ego do totiens cum ture precantia verba, Eoo quotiens surgit ab orbe dies (“Nor is my loyalty unobserved: an alien country now sees a shrine to Caesar in my house, with Caesar’s loyal son and consort-priestess standing beside him  – no minor powers now he’s a god! To complete the family group, each of his grandsons is present, one next to his grandmother, one beside his father. To all these I offer prayers and incense daily at sunrise”; tr. Peter Green). 40  Despite all this evidence, Fishwick denies the reality of these prayers and offerings to the emperors, speaking instead of metaphors and symbols. Cf. Duncan Fishwick, “Prayer to the Living Emperor,” in The Two Worlds of the Poet: New Perspectives on Vergil. Mélanges in Honor of Alexander G. McKay, ed. Robert M. Wilhelm and Howard Jones (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1992), 343–355; idem, “Votive Offerings to the Emperor?” ZPE 80 (1990), 121–130.

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Fig. 1: Nero statuette from Lararium, 54–59 CE (?), Nero with beard and laurel wreath. © Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum Mainz / Florian Schimmel and Martin Rasch.

Other objects underline a personal belief in the emperor. Two well-known small bronze busts (Fig. 2)41 from the western province of Gallia Aquitania with dedications to Augustus and Livia come from a private context and show that 41  Fig. 2: Bronze busts with dedication to Augustus and Livia (CIL 13.1366), 30–70 CE, discovered in 1816 in Neuilly-le-Réal, France, height ca. 21 cm, Paris, France, Musée du Louvre, inv. no. Br 28 / Br 29. Cf. Duncan Fishwick, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West, Vol. 2: Studies in the Ruler Cult of the Western Provinces of the Roman Empire. Part 1 (Leiden: Brill 1991), 535 n. 363; Clauss, Kaiser und Gott, 32–33; Nike Meissner, Studien zu verkleinerten rund­ plastischen Kaiserporträts von Augustus bis Septimius Severus (Diss. Universität Mainz, 1998), 82–83; Beate Schneider, Studien zu den kleinformatigen Kaiserporträts von den Anfängen der Kaiserzeit bis ins 3. Jh. (Diss. München, 1976), 10–12; Dietrich Boschung, Die Bildnisse des Augustus, Vol. 1.2: Das Römische Herrscherbild (Berlin: Mann, 1993), 33–34; Georgina E. Borromeo, Roman Small-Scale Portrait Busts (Diss. Brown University, 1993), 249; Ludwig Curtius, “Ikonographische Beiträge zum Porträt der römischen Republik und der julischclaudischen Familie. XII: Zum Bronzekopf von Azaila und zu den Porträts des jugendlichen Augustus,” MDAI(R) 55 (1940), 36–64.

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Fig. 2: Bronze busts with dedication to Augustus and Livia (CIL 13.1366), 30–70 CE, discovered 1816 in Neuilly-le-Réal, France, height ca. 21 cm. Paris, France, Musée du Louvre, inv. no. BR 28 / Br 29. © 2006 Musée du Louvre et AFA / Daniel Lebée et Carine Deambrosis.



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Augustus and Livia might form part of the religious system of offerings and votives even of a peregrine (non-citizen).42 Caesari Augusto / Atespatus Crixi fil(ius) v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito) // Liviae Augustae / Atespatus Crixi fil(ius) v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito) To (for?) Caesar Augustus (Livia Augusta) / Atespatus, son of Crixus, willingly and deservedly fulfilled the vow.

There is a debate as to whether these busts are just objects dedicated to another god or whether they were actually dedicated to Augustus and Livia,43 though in my view the latter is implied by the dative case.44 Beyond that, the inscription resembles votive inscriptions from the East of the empire.45 So there is strong evidence that this is a dedication to Augustus and Livia, albeit after their deaths. We also read of prayers and sacrifices in literary texts.46 What do prayers, sacrifices and dedications mean for the question of belief? Prayers, for example, should be understood as a proof of belief in the existence of gods and in the practical applications of their power, for prayers are predicated on the belief that gods can and will respond to requests with actions in the material world. 42 Recent research has shown that the typological, stylistic, and epigraphic anomalies, observed on several occasions, should be related to the Gallo-Roman context of the creation of the two busts. Tests have revealed an unusual ancient technique in the manufacture of the eyes (opaque white glass, black-looking glass with no division between the different colours). Elementary chemical analysis confirmed that the eyes were produced using luxury glassmaking techniques – coloured glassware with cameo decoration, millefiori glassware, jewellery – probably between 30 and 70 CE. The two ex-votos, dedicated by Atespatus, may thus be dated to after the death of Augustus in 14 CE and Livia in 29 CE. Cf. Sophie Descamps-Lequime, Isabelle Biron, and Juliette Langlois, “Les yeux d’Auguste et de Livie au musée du Louvre. Une nouvelle technique antique identifiée,” in Bronzes grecs et romains. Études récentes sur la statuaire antique, ed. Sophie Descamps-Lequime and Benoît Mille, Technè 45 (2017), 84–99. 43  What we see is obviously a dedication as the formula votum solvit libens merito clearly shows. Cf. Clauss, Kaiser und Gott, 33, with further examples. 44  Against this view cf. Fishwick, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West, 2.1.535 n. 363: “Busts or statues are often enough identified by names on their bases, usually in the nominative (Latin), or the accusative case (Greek) […] Here the dative case led Hirschfeld to conclude that Atespatus had made his vow to Augustus and Livia ut deis […] Rather than impute effective divinity to the emperor and his wife it seems preferable to understand datives of honour that served in practice to identify the busts.” 45  Cf., e. g., SEG II.718 from Pednelissos (Chozan): Αὐτοκράτορι Καίσαρι | Τραϊανῶι Ἀδριανῶι | Σεβαστῶι καὶ τῷ δήμῳ | τὴν εὐχὴν ‖ Σάλμων Θ̣ [έ]ονος? | ἱερεὺς Διὸς καὶ προθύ|της τ[ῶν Σεβ]αστῶν γε|νόμενος [ἀνέθη]κεν | σὺν γυναικὶ (δηνάρια) σ’ (“To emperor Caesar Trajan Hadrian Sebastos and the people the votive was set up by Salmon son of Theon, priest of Zeus and sacrificer for the Sebastoi, along with his wife, at a cost of 200 denarii”). 46  Cf. the texts of Ovid and Horace cited above (notes 37, 38, 39). Other examples are the prayers and offerings to Caesar in the forum at Rome (Suetonius, Caes. 85; Cass. Dio 44.51.1–2). See also Tacitus, Ann 1.54.2, where Tiberius is named as priest for the deified Augustus, and Tacitus, Ann. 4.52.2, where Tiberius sacrifices privately to the Divus Augustus. Even though one might doubt the historicity of the latter text, because Tacitus obviously needed a proper context for the story he wanted to tell about Agrippina and her expectations as an offspring of the divine Augustus, the author still puts it into a context that was comprehensible for a Roman audience.



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To listen or to answer someone’s prayer was in the Roman world exclusively within a god’s discretion.47 Whatever symbolic baggage it may carry with it, the prayer still conveys that the worshipper is asking a god for help because he or she believes that an entity is being addressed with power to intervene in the material world.48 One needed to have internalized the belief that gods answer prayers before believing that any particular prayer or offering could attract the attention of any particular deity. Any prayer whose stated aim is to request a divine power to initiate some action assumes an underlying belief in the existence, powers, and responsiveness of the deity.49 The same is true for dedications and sacrifices. Still, there is uncertainty regarding the role of the emperor in prayers, dedications, and sacrifices. As we have seen in Caligula’s speech to the Jewish delegation, he complains about the addressee of the sacrifices: “You have offered sacrifices. But it was to another God, even if it was on my behalf […] You have not sacrificed to me.”50 This issue is also on the mind of Aelius Aristides, who delivered an encomium before the imperial court in 155 CE where he mentions a two-fold prayer offered to the emperor: No one is so proud that he can fail to be moved upon hearing even the mere mention of the ruler’s name, but, rising, he praises and worships him and breathes two prayers in a single breath, one to the gods on the ruler’s behalf, one for his own affairs to the ruler himself.51

So Aelius Aristides refers to a two-fold prayer, but still he says that a broad community of believers is united in prayer to the emperor. That the emperor had a place not only within an official context of prayers but also within the private sphere can be traced at least in Egypt and Asia Minor in different contexts. Egyptian papyri, for example, mention the emperor in an oath in the private sphere.52 47  Cf. Angelos Chaniotis, “Constructing the Fear of Gods: Epigraphic Evidence from Sanctuaries of Greece and Asia Minor,” in Unveiling Emotions, ed. idem, 205–234 at 205. 48  Imperial miracles of healing clearly serve as evidence that imperial divinity could not only interfere in people’s lives as some kind of abstract power, but could in fact affect people’s lives in concrete and tangible ways (cf. Suetonius, Vesp. 7.2–3). 49 Cf. King, “The Organization,” 281–282. 50 Philo, Legat. 353–357; tr. E. Mary Smallwood. 51 Aristides, Or. 26.32: οὐδεὶς δὲ ἐφ᾽ ἑαυτῷ τηλικοῦτον φρονεῖ, ὅστις τοὔνομα ἀκούσας μόνον οἷός τ᾽ ἐστὶν ἀτρεμεῖν, ἀλλ᾽ ἀναστὰς ὑμνεῖ καὶ σέβει καὶ συνεύχεται διπλῆν εὐχὴν, τὴν μὲν ὑπὲρ αὐτοῦ τοῖς θεοῖς, τὴν δὲ αὐτῷ ἐκείνῳ περὶ τῶν ἑαυτοῦ. Oliver explains the two-fold prayer mentioned by Aelius Aristides as follows: “Prayers ‘ὑπὲρ’ are ordinary prayers for the preservation of living individuals or communities, prayers ‘περὶ’ are ordinarily prayers to obtain something” (James H. Oliver, “The Ruling Power: A Study of the Roman Empire in the Second Century after Christ through the Roman Oration of Aelius Aristides,” TAPHS 43/4 [1953], 871–1003 at 918). For the understanding of Greek theos in comparison with English god cf. Simon F. R. Price, “Gods and Emperors: The Greek Language of the Roman Imperial Cult,” JHS 104 (1984), 79–95; and Versnel, Coping with the Gods, 465–470. 52  Already in 30/29 BCE, one of the Oxyrhynchus papyri (P. Oxy. 1453) mentions lamplighters swearing in the name of the emperor (Καίσαρος [sic!] θεὸν ἐκ θεοῦ). Cf. Fergus Millar, “The Imperial Cult and the Persecution,” in Le Culte des souverains dans l’Empire romain, ed.

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The name of the emperor is also included in an oath of allegiance in Miletus,53 and there are some (admittedly not completely clear) hints from Asia Minor that religious mysteries were performed in connection with the worshipping of emperors.54 Taking together these examples from the East and the West of the empire, it seems possible that the alleged line between traditional gods and divinized emperors did not exist – at least for some people. It seems even harder to get a hold on the proclaimed differences between divine cult and ruler cult. The above mentioned examples indicate that belief as a category of understanding emperor cult can be traced not just in public discourse, but also in the perception of individuals. Very often we can only trace the effects of such an emotional and/or cognitive perception; Suetonius, for example, tells us of Augustus encountering a ship from Alexandria and its crew near Puteoli shortly before he died: As he sailed by the gulf of Puteoli, it happened that from an Alexandrian ship which had just arrived there, the passengers and crew, clad in white, crowned with garlands, and burning incense, lavished upon him good wishes and the highest praise, saying that it was through him that they lived, through him that they sailed the seas, and through him that they enjoyed their liberty and their fortunes.55

The crew and the passengers react to meeting the emperor by putting on white festive clothes, wearing wreaths and offering sacrifices. Suetonius’s words, fausta omina et eximias laudes congesserant, are particularly striking, because they refer to a common act carried out by the sailors and passengers that hailed the emperor in a kind of chorus prayer (laudes): “Thanks to you we live, by you we sail securely, by you enjoy our liberty and our fortunes.” Similar religious attitudes among the population can be found in a partially fragmented dedicatory inscription from Acerrae in Italy: This shrine is dedicated to the heirs. The name of Augustus that they bear should continue to be felicitous for his children, so that their father [Augustus] might rejoice in the growth of his heirs. And when time should summon you, Caesar [Augustus], as a god, and when you return to that seat in the heavens from which you will rule the world, let these be Willem den Boer (Entretiens sur l’Antiquité classique 19; Vandœuvres and Geneva: Fondation Hardt, 1972), 145–175 at 146; Price, “Gods and Emperors,” 89–90. 53  Cf. Peter Herrmann, “Der Kaiser als Schwurgott. Ein Inschriftenfragment aus Milet,” in Peter Herrmann, Kleinasien im Spiegel epigraphischer Zeugnisse. Ausgewählte Schriften, ed. Wolfgang Blümel (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2016), 377–383 (firstly published in Römische Geschichte, Altertumskunde und Epigraphik. Festschrift für Artur Betz zur Vollendung seines 80. Lebensjahres, ed. Ekkehard Weber and Gerhard Dobesch [Vienna: Österreichische Gesellschaft für Archäologie, 1985], 303–314). 54 Cf. Harland, “Honours and Worship,” 331–332. 55 Suetonius, Aug. 98.2: Forte Puteolanum sinum praeteruehenti uectores nautaeque de naui Alexandrina, quae tantum quod appulerat, candidati coronatique et tura libantes fausta omina et eximias laudes congesserant: per illum se uiuere, per illum nauigare, libertate atque fortune per illum frui; tr. John C. Rolfe (LCL).



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the ones who shall rule the earth as your destiny, and guide us by means of their happy prayers.56

What we see here is an expression of the deep conviction that Augustus was only sojourning on earth, later to return to the heavenly fields. His apotheosis, his divinization was ordinarily considered a simple fact. Roman ruler cult was thus more than just political or communicatory options, it in some ways offered a belief system.

5. Conclusion With these examples in mind it seems reasonable to question the usual view that Roman religion in general and ruler cult in particular were exclusively performative. There surely was a strong focus on ritual in Greek and Roman pagan cults. However, traditional commitment to the model of polis-religion, statecult, and collective religious events has certainly overemphasized the point to the neglect of other evidence.57 Concentration on the nature of the ruler and his/her representation has likewise led to a one-sided view.58 At the same time – and all too willingly – scholars have underplayed the evidence for individual emotional commitment to ruler cult. All this was based on the virtually unquestioned assumption that ancient Greek as well as Roman religion was fundamentally different from modern Christian religion – an attitude discussed at the beginning of this essay. As a result, the role of the individual in ancient religion has been thoroughly neglected. Moreover, ruler cult has been mainly interpreted as a political or communicative phenomenon. Evidence implying faith-contexts has even on occasion been actively denied. This article is therefore to be understood 56  CIL 10.3757: Templum hoc sacratum her[edibus est] / quod ger[unt] Augusti nomen felix [gnateis] / remaneat stirpis suae laetetur u[t auctu] / parens nam quom te Caesar tem[pus] / ex­ poscet deum caeloque repetes sed[em qua] / mundum reges sint hei tua quei sorte ter[rae] / huic imperent regantque nos felicibus / vot{e}is su{e}is / L(ucius) Aurelius L(uci) f(ilius) Pal(atina) Rufu[s] primopilaris l[eg(ionis?)] / XVI militans st[atuam(?) 3] / Imp(eratoris) Caesaris […]; tr. according to Koortbojian, The Divinization; cf. the discussion of her[edibus] (heirs) or her[oibus] (demigods), ibid., 269 n. 15. 57  The focus on polis-religion was recently questioned; cf., e. g., Esther Eidinow, “Networks and Narratives: A  Model for Ancient Greek Religion?,” Kernos 24 (2011), 9–38; Julia Kindt, Rethinking Greek Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012); Thomas Harrison, “Review Article: Beyond the Polis? New Approaches to Greek Religion,” JHS 135 (2015), 165–180. Cf. also the results of the “Lived Ancient Religion” project at the Max Weber Centre of Erfurt University (2012–2017). 58  The debate has often been fixated on the issue of the ruler’s nature, reduced to the false binary ‘divine’ versus ‘human’, and quite often shrugged off with a formula such as: “there existed an uncertainty about the status of those divinized” (Bendlin, “Rituals or Beliefs?” 206). See also Matthias Peppel, “Gott oder Mensch? Kaiserverehrung und Herrschaftskontrolle,” in Die Praxis der Herrscherverehrung in Rom und seinen Provinzen, ed. Hubert Cancik and Konrad Hitzl (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 69–96.

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as a plea for an unbiased and new perspective on the sources – something that now seems within reach, especially in the light of renewed interest in individual religiosity and alternative models of ancient religious practice.59

59  Cf., e. g., Jörg Rüpke and Wolfgang Spickermann, Reflections on Religious Individu­ ality: Greco-Roman and Judaeo-Christian Texts and Practices (Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche und Vorarbeiten 62; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2012); John Scheid, The Gods, the State, and the Individual: Reflections on Civic Religion in Rome, tr. and with a foreword by Clifford Ando (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015); Jennifer Larson, Understanding Greek Religion (New York: Routledge, 2016).

Plutarch als Apologet des Orakels von Delphi Kai Trampedach „Niemals wäre jenes Orakel in Delphi so beansprucht und so angesehen gewesen, niemals vollgestopft mit so vielen Gaben von Völkern und Königen aller Länder, wenn nicht jede Generation die Wahrheit jener Orakel erfahren hätte. Schon lange freilich übt es nicht mehr die gleiche Wirkung aus.“1 Diese Worte legte Cicero seinem Bruder Quintus in den Mund, um die Glaubwürdigkeit der in Delphi praktizierten Orakelmantik zu rechtfertigen. Die Apologie war notwendig, denn die Wahrheit der Orakel, sogar der delphischen Orakel, wurde seit geraumer Zeit vor allem in philosophischen Kreisen angezweifelt. Quintus’ ‚historisches‘ Argument lässt sich nicht einfach von der Hand weisen, doch es versagt vor der ‚systematischen‘ Aufgabe, die Funktionsweise des mantischen Verfahrens zu erklären, also die Wahrheit der Orakel aus der Art und Weise ihrer Entstehung und Übermittlung abzuleiten. Für Cicero und seine Zeitgenossen war es kaum einfacher als für moderne Gelehrte, eine Antwort auf diese Frage zu finden, denn obwohl das Orakel noch existierte und konsultiert werden konnte, hatte es längst jegliche politische Bedeutung eingebüßt und befand sich nach den Heimsuchungen des Mithridatischen Krieges und des römischen Bürgerkrieges offenbar in einem kläglichen Zustand.2 Den Kontrast zwischen einstigem Glanz und gegenwärtiger Tristesse betonte einige Jahrzehnte nach Cicero auch Strabon, der sich in seiner Beschreibung Delphis schon Mühe geben musste, seinen Lesern die frühere Bedeutung des Heiligtums zu veranschaulichen: „Auch das Heiligtum ist ziemlich vernachlässigt. Früher dagegen hat es in überaus hohem Ansehen gestanden: das zeigen die von Städten und Machthabern gebauten Schatzhäuser – in die geweihtes Geld und Werke der besten Künstler gestiftet wurden –, der Pythische Wettkampf und die große Menge der Orakel, von denen berichtet wird.“3 1 Cicero, Div. 1.37 (Übers. Christoph Schäublin): numquam illud oraclum Delphis tam celebre et tam clarum fuisset neque tantis donis refertum omnium populorum atque regum, nisi omnis aetas oraclorum illorum veritatem esse experta. Idem iam diu non facit. 2  Vgl. Herbert W. Parke und Donald E. W. Wormell, The Delphic Oracle, Vol. 1: The His­ tory; Vol. 2: The Oracular Responses (Oxford: Blackwell, 1956), 2.283; Saul Levin, „The Old Greek Oracles in Decline“, ARNW II.18 (1989), 1599–1649: 1603 f.; Michael Scott, Delphi: A History of the Center of the Ancient World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014), 197–200; Philip A. Stadter, „Plutarch and Apollo of Delphi“, in Gott und Götter bei Plutarch, Hg. Rainer HirschLuipold (Berlin / New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2005), 197–214: 210: „The condition of Greece after Sulla was miserable, and Delphi was reputed to be a ghost town at that time“. 3 Strabon 9.3.4 (Übers. Stefan Radt): ὠλιγώρηται δ’ ἱκανῶς καὶ τὸ ἱερόν, πρότερον δ’

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Wiederum einige Jahrzehnte später – wir befinden uns inzwischen am Ende des 1. nachchristlichen Jahrhunderts – betrat mit Plutarch der bei weitem wichtigste nachklassische Berichterstatter über Delphi die literarische Bühne. Plutarch verdient diese Auszeichnung nicht nur wegen der Quantität der auf Delphi bezogenen Aussagen in seinem Werk oder wegen der allgemeinen Qualität und Gelehrsamkeit seiner Schriftstellerei, sondern vor allem wegen seiner engen persönlichen Beziehungen zum Heiligtum von Delphi. Denn bekanntlich war er, wie er selbst andeutet und wie delphische Inschriften bestätigen, Priester (ἱερεύς) und Wohltäter (εὐεργέτης) in Delphi und hat nach eigener Aussage „dem pythischen Gott viele Pythiaden lang Dienst geleistet“,4 – „also, beim vierjährigen Abstande der Pythiaden, doch wohl“, so Walter Burkert, „etwa 20 Jahre lang, und zwar gewiß unter erheblichem finanziellen Aufwand. Plutarch erwähnt auch den äußerlich sichtbaren Aufschwung, den Delphi in seiner Zeit noch einmal nehmen konnte (Pyth. or. 408F ff.), und er war daran mit seinem Prestige und auch mit seinem Vermögen zweifellos selbst entscheidend beteiligt“.5 Angesichts dieser persönlichen Nähe verwundert es nicht, dass Plutarchs delphische Dialoge, insbesondere De defectu oraculorum und De Pythiae oraculis, in verschiedener Weise auf eine Apologie des Orakels von Delphi hinauslaufen.6 Dabei geht es Plutarch nicht um die Etablierung einer delphischen Orthodoxie. Die delphischen Schriften sind ὑπερβαλλόντως [ἐτιμήθη]. δηλοῦσι δ’ οἵ τε θησαυροὶ οὓς καὶ δῆμοι καὶ δυνάσται κατεσκεύασαν, εἰς οὓς καὶ χρήματα ἀνετίθεντο καθιερωμένα καὶ ἔργα τῶν ἀρίστων δημιουργῶν, καὶ ὁ ἀγὼν ὁ Πυθικὸς καὶ τὸ πλῆθος τῶν ἱστορουμένων χρησμῶν. 4 Syll.3 829A, 843 (= CID 4,150.151); Plutarch, E Delph. 385A; An seni 792F: τῶι Πυθίωι λειτουργοῦντα πολλὰς Πυθιάδας. 5 Walter Burkert, „Plutarch: Gelebte Religion und philosophische Theologie“ (1996), in ders., Kleine Schriften, Bd. VIII: Philosophica, Hg. Thomas A. Szlezák und Karl-Heinz Stanzel (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008), 222–239: 223; vgl. Konrat Ziegler, Plutarchos von Chaironeia (2. Aufl. Stuttgart: Druckenmueller, 1964; 1. Aufl. 1951: RE XXI: 636–962), 23–26; Robert Weir, Roman Delphi and its Pythian Games (Oxford: BAR Publishing, 2004), 158–163; Stadter, „Plutarch and Apollo of Delphi“, 212–213; Andreas Bendlin, „On the Uses and Disadvantages of Divination: Oracles and their Literary Representations in the Time of the Second Sophistic“, in The Religious History of the Roman Empire: Pagans, Jews, and Christians, Hg. John A. North und Simon Price (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 175–250: 195–196; Rainer Hirsch-Luipold, „Plutarch“, RAC 27 (2016), 1010–1038: 1011–1012. 6  Den apologetischen Zweck betont jetzt auch Elsa Giovanna Simonetti, A Perfect Medi­ um? Oracular Divination in the Thought of Plutarch (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2017), 13–14, 59–60. Die Datierung der beiden Dialoge, die, auch in ihrem Verhältnis zueinander, umstritten ist (vgl. Ziegler, Plutarchos, 75–76, 199–200; Frederick E. Brenk, In Mist Apparelled: Religious Themes in Plutarch’s Moralia and Lives [Leiden: Brill, 1977], 87 Anm. 3, 118–119; Andrea Re­s cigno, Plutarco: L’eclissi degli oracoli. Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e com­ mento [Neapel: D’Auria, 1995], 10–21), spielt in unserem Zusammenhang keine Rolle. Stephan Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift De Pythiae Oraculis. Text, Einleitung und Kommentar (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1990), 59–72, hat in Auseinandersetzung mit Robert Flacelière („Plutarque et la Pythie“, REG 46 [1943], 72–111) überzeugend gezeigt, dass sich die unleugbaren Unterschiede der Inspirationstheorien beider Schriften ohne weiteres aus den jeweils verschiedenen Beweiszielen erklären lassen und dass daher „nicht auf einen Wandel der Auffassungen des Autors zu diesem Thema zu schließen ist“ (71).



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Dialoge, die verschiedene Meinungen über das Orakel zum Ausdruck bringen. „Nicht er selbst“, betont Konrat Ziegler sehr zurecht, „spricht an irgend einer Stelle – auch in den anderen Schriften – seine Meinung über diese Fragen aus, sondern Theon, Kleombrotos, Lamprias usw. läßt er die ihm bekannten Theorien über die Mantik vortragen und diskutieren […]. Nicht Wahrheit, sondern εἰκότα sind es, die Plutarch vorträgt oder vortragen läßt. Nach seiner wahren Meinung dürfen wir nicht fragen, weil sowohl religiöse Scheu wie skeptische ἐποχή ihn abhielten, eine solche zu haben“.7 Trotzdem sind natürlich nicht alle Ansichten, die in den Dialogen vertreten werden, gleich überzeugend. Durch seine Dialoggestaltung und die Charakterisierung der auftretenden Personen, von denen Lamprias als Bruder, Theon als Freund und Ammonios als Lehrer ihm besonders nahestehen, lässt Plutarch Sympathien für die eine oder andere Theorie erkennen.8 Plutarch tritt als Autor dadurch klar hervor, denn ungeachtet einer jeweils etwas anderen Fragestellung erscheinen die pythischen Dialoge nicht nur durch den Ort, sondern auch durch verwandte Themen und eine ähnliche Gesprächsführung und Tendenz miteinander verbunden.9 Einerseits zeugen die auf das Orakel von Delphi bezogenen Schriften von dem Bestreben Plutarchs, „den frommen Väterglauben nicht preiszugeben“ (τὴν δ’ εὐσεβῆ καὶ πάτριον μὴ προίεσθαι πίστιν).10 Andererseits sollte man sich durch den zur Schau gestellten Traditionalismus nicht in die Irre führen lassen. Plutarch kann sich den Argumenten philosophischer Rationalität und theologischer Dignität nicht entziehen. Er versucht alte Erklärungen religiöser Bräuche, die dem philosophisch-theologischen Maßstab nicht standhalten, durch neue Begründungen zu ersetzen. Diese Reflexionen bringen zum Ausdruck, dass Plutarch keine ungebrochene Kontinuität mit der glorreichen Vergangenheit des Heiligtums verband. Insbesondere die mantische Praxis in Delphi erschien Plutarch und seinen philosophisch interessierten Zeitgenossen 7 

Ziegler, Plutarchos, 200–201. Brenk, In Mist Apparelled, 85–87, 114–118, 143; Kristin M. Heineman, The Decadence of Delphi: The Oracle in the Second Century AD and Beyond (Abingdon / New York: Routledge, 2018), 41–42. 9  Vgl. Daniel Babut, „La composition des Dialogues pythiques de Plutarque et le problème de leur unité“, Journal des savants (1992), 189–234. Die Gegenposition von Flacelière, „Plutarque et la Pythie“, und ders., Plutarque, Dialogue sur les oracles de la Pythie. Édition, introduction et commentaire (Paris: Presses Université de France, 1962), 18–19, hat nur wenige Forscher überzeugt. 10  So der Stoiker Serapion in Pyth. orac. 18.402E; vgl. Robert Flacelière, „La théologie selon Plutarque“, in Mélanges de philosophie, de littérature et d’histoire ancienne offerts à Pierre Boyancé (Collection de l’ École française de Rome 22; Rom: École Française de Rome, 1974), 273–280; Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, „Plutarco e la religione Delfica: Il dio ‚filosofo‘ e il suo esegeta“, in Plutarco e la religione, Hg. Italo Gallo (Neapel: D’Auria, 1996), 157–188; Dominique Jaillard, „Plutarque et la divination: la piété d’un prêtre philosophe“, RHR 224 (2007), 149– 169: 158–162. Allerdings tendieren diese Autoren dazu, die kritische Grundhaltung Plutarchs zu unterschätzen. 8 Vgl.

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nicht mehr selbstverständlich, sondern in hohem Maße fragwürdig. Wie sich zeigt, erstreckte sich der Zweifel auch und gerade auf die Glanzzeit des Orakels. Plutarchs Apologien zeugen daher implizit, aber unüberhörbar von einem grundsätzlichen insider doubt.11 Im Folgenden möchte ich drei bei Plutarch diskutierte Einwände besprechen, von denen sich der erste auf die Gegenwart, der zweite zusätzlich auf die Vergangenheit und der dritte sich ausschließlich auf die Vergangenheit bezog, bevor ich meine Ausführungen viertens mit einem kurzen Fazit abschließe.

1.  Der Niedergang der Orakel Um den Kontrast zwischen der glanzvollen Vergangenheit und der kläglichen Gegenwart zu erklären, hatte bereits Cicero seinen Quintus auf ein zu seiner Zeit beliebtes Theorem zurückgreifen lassen, wonach die Pythia ihre Fähigkeit zur Weissagung einer vis terrae verdankt (Div. 1.38). Die Kraft aus der Erde, die den Sinn der Pythia mit göttlichem Anhauch (divino adflatu) in Erregung zu versetzen pflegte, sei womöglich infolge des Alters gleichsam verdunstet  – wie Flüsse, die ihren Lauf ändern oder verschwinden. An anderer Stelle lässt Quintus die vis terrae, die die Pythia in Erregung versetzt, von der ungleichen Ausdünstung der Erde (ex disparili adspiratione terrarum) abhängig sein (Div. 1.79). Im zweiten Buch von De divinatione hält Cicero in eigenem Namen dagegen: Eine vis terrae, die von Gott kommt, kann nicht einfach verdunsten oder sonstwie verschwinden. Auch die aus alter Zeit überlieferten Orakel  – Cicero verweist ausdrücklich auf Herodot – verdienen daher keinen Glauben. Aus Demosthenes’ Bemerkung über das angebliche φιλιππίζειν der Pythia leitet Cicero ab, dass die Pythia nicht nur von Philipp bestochen worden sei, sondern dass auch den anderen delphischen Orakeln unlautere Anteile beigemischt waren. Was angeblich verdunstet und erloschen sei, habe, so Cicero (Div. 2.115–118), in Wirklichkeit niemals existiert. Zur Zeit von Plutarch, über hundert Jahre nach Cicero, hat sich dank der Stiftungen und Spenden des Kaisers Domitian der Zustand des Heiligtums offenbar deutlich verbessert,12 ohne dass freilich das Orakel von dieser Entwick11  Burkert, „Plutarch“, 226, zufolge „ist Plutarch alles andere als unkritisch gegenüber den religiösen Bräuchen“. Ebenso wahrt er zu Mysterien und Orakeln eine grundsätzliche Distanz: „Das Göttliche wird nicht direkt erlebbar“ (ibid., 230). Nach Hirsch-Luipold, „Plutarch“, 1017, „plädiert er für ein vertieftes, theologisch u. philosophisch gereinigtes Verständnis Gottes u. der religiösen Tradition“. 12 Vgl. Weir, Roman Delphi, 146–168. Demnach war Domitian „the first emperor to sponsor Delphi consistently, as opposed to the seemingly spontaneous nature of Nero’s benefactions. Domitian and his agents built up the Delphic sanctuary and its religious life, which included the Pythian Games. These actions laid the basis for the Roman efflorescence of Delphi



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lung profitieren konnte.13 In De defectu oraculorum lässt Plutarch die Frage nach den Ursachen für den Niedergang in einem über Delphi hinausweisenden Kontext diskutieren und setzt sich dabei ohne direkte Bezugnahme auch mit den Argumenten Ciceros auseinander; zwar spielt der Dialog in Delphi, doch wird der Verfall der Orakel gerade nicht an Delphi, das ja nach wie vor in Betrieb war, festgemacht, sondern am Ammonsorakel in der Libyschen Wüste und an boiotischen Orakeln.14 Folgende Gründe für den Rückgang der Orakel werden von Plutarch erwogen: 1. die vor allem an schimpflichen und unwürdigen Orakelanfragen ablesbare Schlechtigkeit der Menschen, denen die Götter deshalb die Gunst der Weissagung entzogen haben; 2. die Entvölkerung Griechenlands, die auch die Götter zum Rückzug veranlasste, damit die Weissagung nicht ungenutzt wie das Wasser einer einsamen Quelle davonflösse; 3. das Verschwinden der örtlichen Dämonen, durch deren Vermittlung die Orakelsprüche gegeben worden waren; 4. das Aufhören des mantischen Hauchs (πνεῦμα) und der prophetischen Ausdünstung (ἀναθυμιάσις) aus der Erde. Der erste Grund, den Plutarch einem kynischen Choleriker namens Didymos Planetiades in den Mund legt (Def. orac. 7.413A–D), überzeugt die Gesprächsrunde in keiner Weise, sondern wird als oberflächliche ‚Kulturkritik‘ zurückgewiesen, denn warum sollte der Gott den Menschen von seinen vielen Gaben nur die Weissagung vorenthalten? Ernstzunehmender ist die zweite Überlegung, die Ammonios, der Leiter der Athener Akademie und Lehrer Plutarchs, vorträgt, wonach der Gott mit dem Erlöschen der Orakel nur der Verödung Griechenlands Rechnung trage.15 Doch setzt sich im weiteren Gespräch die Meinung von Lamprias, dem Bruder Plutarchs, durch, dass Orakel nicht durch die Tätigkeit eines Gottes aufgehoben werden, sondern dass trotz eines göttlichen Ursprungs physische oder materielle Ursachen dafür verantwortlich sein müssen. An dieser Stelle des Dialogs bringt Plutarch eine Dämonenlehre ins Spiel, vertreten insthat one reads in Plutarch’s Pythian dialogues, but which is commonly assigned to the time of Hadrian“ (146). 13 Vgl. Heineman, The Decadence of Delphi, 45–60, bes. 60: „From the examination of Plutarch’s essays, a contradictory picture of Delphi in the second century AD emerges: a perceived decline of the oracle alongside a bustling revival of the sanctuary“. 14  Zum Niedergang der alten griechischen Orakel in der römischen Kaiserzeit vgl. Levin, „The Old Greek Oracles in Decline“; zu den Gründen des wahrgenommenen „Niedergangs“ vgl. Bendlin, „On the Uses and Disadvantages of Divination“, 209–212. 15 Plutarch, Def. orac. 8.414C: „Jetzt aber müßten wir uns umgekehrt darüber wundern, wenn der Gott es ruhig geschehen ließe, daß die Weissagung ungenützt wie Wasser davonflösse oder wie die Felsen in der Einöde nur von den Stimmen der Hirten und Herden widerhallte“. Ich verwende hier und in allen weiteren Zitaten aus Plutarch die Übersetzung von Konrat Ziegler.

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besondere durch Kleombrotos von Lakedaimon und Demetrios von Tarsos, die zu Beginn des Dialogs als weitgereiste heilige Männer vorgestellt worden waren. Vergängliche Dämonen mit besonderer Zuständigkeit für Weissagungen, Mysterien und Opfer fungieren demnach als Zwischenträger zwischen Göttern und Menschen. Wenn, so Kleombrotos (15.418CD), die Dämonen, die über die Orakel und Weissagungsstätten gesetzt sind, vergehen oder fliehen, vergehen diese ganz und gar mit und verlieren ihre Kraft; wenn die Dämonen darauf nach langer Zeit wiederkommen, erklingen sie wieder wie Musikinstrumente, sofern Künstler hinzutreten und sie spielen.16 Die Dämonenlehre weist in die Zukunft; sie sollte bekanntlich von den Kirchenvätern aufgegriffen und zur Erklärung des heidnischen Orakelwesens verwendet werden,17 zumal Plutarchs Dämonen (im Gegensatz zu seinen Göttern) eben sterblich sind und unheilvoll wirken können. Die Pneumatheorie, die Plutarchs Gewährsmann Lamprias als Teil einer Inspirationstheorie am Ende des Dialogs (40.432C–F) vorträgt, greift dagegen das gleiche stoische Gedankengut auf, das uns bereits bei Cicero begegnet ist. Aus der Erde steigt der mantische Hauch empor, „ob nun allein für sich in Luftform oder mit einem feuchten Naß“, dringt in den Körper des Mediums ein und erzeugt in der Seele den ἐνθουσιασμός, der im alltäglichen Zustand zumeist verschüttet ist. Die Seele geht dabei mit dem mantischen Hauch eine Verbindung ein wie das Auge mit dem Licht. Ohne Licht sieht das Auge nicht. Ebenso müssen Orakel verstummen, wenn das πνεῦμα oder die ἀναθυμίασις aufhört. Hinsichtlich der Erdkräfte aber sei es natürlich, dass bald ein Erlöschen derselben, bald ein neues Entstehen, bald ein Abwandern von einem Ort und Auftreten an einem andern stattfinde und dass derartige Umwälzungen sich während der ganzen Zeit wiederholten. Lamprias (40.432D) nennt ähnlich wie Quintus Cicero als Beispiele Seen, Flüsse und warme Quellen, „die an manchen Orten ausgeblieben und am Ende ganz verschwunden, an anderen Orten gleichsam davongegangen und untergetaucht sind, um dann nach einer gewissen Zeit entweder am selben Ort wiederzuerscheinen oder in der Nähe hervorzusprudeln“. Als physikalische Phänomene sind die πνεύματα Veränderungen unterworfen und können durch natürliche Ursachen wie Regengüsse, Blitze oder Erdbeben enden (433F–434C). 16  Brenk, In Mist Apparelled, 89–112, führt die Dämonenlehre auf Xenokrates, den dritten Leiter der Akademie, zurück und stellt fest, dass sie nicht einfach als Plutarchs eigene Meinung gelten sollte: „At any rate Cleombrotos’ theories are considered by the company to be rash and unorthodox. We should not be led into making the misleading generalization that they are characteristic either of Plutarch or of the mentality of the Second Century A. D.“ (111). Vgl. auch Friedrich Pfeffer, Studien zur Mantik in der Philosophie der Antike (Meisenheim am Glan: Anton Hain, 1976), 96–104. 17  Vgl. Eusebius, Praep. ev. 5.4; 5.17; Theodoret, Gr. aff. cur. 10.1–11; Parke und Wormell, The Delphic Oracle, 2.288–289; Marcello La Matina, „Plutarco negli autori cristiani greci“, in L’eredità culturale di Plutarco dall’antichità al rinascimento, Hg. Italo Gallo (Neapel: D’Auria, 1998), 81–110: 84–85, 108–109.



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Der Einwand Ciceros liegt jetzt auf der Hand; Plutarch legt ihn Ammonios in den Mund (46.434F–435E): Je enger die Argumentation mit physikalischen Begründungen verknüpft sei, desto mehr lenke sie die Gedanken von den Göttern ab. Warum sollten wir bei den Orakeln opfern und beten, wenn die Seelen die prophetische Kraft schon in sich selber tragen und es irgendeine Mischung der Luft oder eines Hauches ist, die diese Kraft sich regen lässt? Zur Antwort will Lamprias unter Berufung auf platonische Konzepte die Medien (wie die innerseelische prophetische Kraft und das πνεῦμα) vom Schöpfer (dem Gott) unterscheiden: „Denn wir machen“, so sagt er (48.436F), „die Weissagung nicht zu etwas, was ohne Gott und ohne Vernunft ist, wenn wir ihr als Materie die Seele des Menschen und dazu den prophetischen Hauch und die Ausdünstung wie einen Schlegel zum Musikinstrument zuweisen (οὐ γὰρ ἄθεον ποιοῦμεν οὐδ’ ἄλογον τὴν μαντικήν, ὕλην μὲν αὐτῇ τὴν ψυχὴν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου τὸ δ’ ἐνθουσιαστικὸν πνεῦμα καὶ τὴν ἀναθυμίασιν οἷον ὀργάνῳ [ἢ] πλῆκτρον ἀποδιδόντες). Denn erstens gilt nämlich die Erde, die die Dünste erzeugt, und die Sonne, die in der Erde jegliche Kraft zur Mischung und Veränderung hervorbringt, uns nach dem Glauben der Väter als Gott. Wenn wir sodann Dämonen dem Orakel als Vorsteher, Hüter und Wächter belassen, die in dieser Mischung wie in einer Harmonie die Saiten im rechten Augenblick bald nachlassen, bald anziehen, die allzu heftige Entrückung und Verwirrung verhüten und die Erschütterung so mäßigen, daß sie den Ergriffenen kein Leid noch Schaden bringt, so wird man, denke ich, sagen dürfen, daß wir nichts Unmögliches noch Unvernünftiges tun.“ Die zugrundeliegende Metapher lässt sich versuchsweise wie folgt nachzeichnen: In der mantischen Praxis gleicht die menschliche Seele (beim delphischen Orakel etwa die der Pythia) einem Musikinstrument, sagen wir: einer Lyra, das πνεῦμα entspricht einem Plektron, die Dämonen sorgen für das rechtzeitige Stimmen der Lyra, doch der Urheber der Musik ist und bleibt der Gott! Umgekehrt formuliert: Ohne ein geeignetes Instrument oder ein begabtes Medium kann das Konzert bzw. die Weissagung nicht gelingen; ohne Plektron oder πνεῦμα ist das Instrument oder Medium nicht zu bespielen; ohne die innere Harmonie des Instruments oder die εὐδαιμονία des Mediums endet das Konzert oder die Weissagung in der Kakophonie. Die Kraft des Hauches, so schließt Lamprias den Dialog (51.438C–D), „ist wahrhaft göttlich und dämonisch, aber nicht gefeit gegen Erlöschen und Vergehen noch ewig jung und fortdauernd durch die unendliche Zeit, der alles erliegt, was zwischen Erde und Mond ist, nach unserer Überzeugung“ (ἔστι δὲ θεία μὲν ὄντως καὶ δαιμόνιος [sc. ἡ τοῦ πνεύματος δύναμις], οὐ μὴν ἀνέκλειπτος οὐδ’ ἄφθαρτος οὐδ’ ἀγήρως καὶ διαρκὴς εἰς τὸν ἄπειρον χρόνον ὑφ’ οὗ πάντα κάμνει τὰ μεταξὺ γῆς καὶ σελήνης κατὰ τὸν ἡμέτερον λόγον). Damit ist das Beweisziel erreicht, nämlich die Konjunkturen Delphis und den Niedergang der Orakel auf natürliche Weise zu erklären, d. h. ohne auf epikureische Abwege zu geraten und die Götter verantwortlich zu machen, etwa

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indem ihnen eine nachlassende oder überhaupt fehlende Zuwendung gegenüber den Menschen unterstellt wird. Zu diesem Zweck konstruiert Plutarch einen philosophischen Gott, der so gut wie nichts mehr mit jenem Apollon zu tun hat, dem zur Glanzzeit des Orakels in Delphi gehuldigt wurde, sondern der ein abstraktes Wesen ist, das nach platonischem Vorbild mit der Weltvernunft gleichgesetzt wird. Dass eine Theologie, die ihr Höchstmaß an Konkretion mit der Feststellung erreicht, dass Sonne und Erde den bekannten Gottheiten Apollon und Ge entsprechen (42–43.433D–E), Dämonen als Vermittler zwischen Gott und den Menschen benötigt, verwundert nicht. Den traditionellen Anspruch Delphis hat Plutarch jedenfalls aufgegeben: Dass Delphi ein Ort ist, an dem Apollon den Menschen die Ratschlüsse des Zeus durch den Mund eines ausgewählten Mediums verkündet, kann er nicht mehr glauben.

2.  Göttliche Dichtung oder menschliche Verse? Plutarchs Dialog De Pythiae oraculis erörtert, warum die Pythia nicht mehr in Versen weissagt. Die Frage verweist auf eine allgemeine Erwartung, dass nämlich ‚richtige‘ Orakelsprüche in Versen abgefasst sein müssen. Dieser Erwartung konnte die Pythia allerdings schon lange nicht mehr entsprechen, so dass sich Plutarch zu einer Rechtfertigung veranlasst sah. Dies kam nicht von ungefähr: Bereits Cicero und Strabon lassen erkennen, dass die überwiegende Verwendung von Alltagssprache dem Renomée des Orakels abträglich war. Wenn man Strabon (9.3.5) glauben darf, haben zu seiner Zeit Dichter, die im Auftrag des Heiligtums tätig wurden, Prosaantworten der Pythia in Versform gebracht  – offenbar als zusätzliche Dienstleistung, welche die Verantwortlichen glaubten anbieten zu müssen, um den Bedürfnissen und Erwartungen des Publikums wieder besser gerecht zu werden und die Attraktivität des Orakels wieder zu steigern. Zur Zeit Plutarchs war die nachträgliche Versifikation anscheinend wieder außer Gebrauch gekommen, offenbar weil man in der Zwischenzeit erkannt hatte, dass diese Praxis der Glaubwürdigkeit des Orakels schadete.18 Nach Plutarch, etwa gleichzeitig mit den Erneuerungsversuchen des Orakels in der hadrianischen Epoche, bemühte man sich in Delphi, dem Wunsch nach Poesie wieder unmittelbar gerecht zu werden, wie eine erneute Häufung, ja man kann sagen, eine Renaissance von Versantworten im 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr. verrät.19 18  Vgl. Plutarch, Pyth. orac. 25.407B: „Viele konnte man auch sagen hören, es säßen poesiebegabte Männer beim Orakel, welche die Stimmen auffingen und aufnähmen und auf der Stelle die Orakelsprüche mit Versen, Silbenmaßen und Rhythmen wie mit Gefäßen umflöchten“. Diese Aussage weist einen unklaren Vergangenheitsbezug auf. Für delphische Orakelverse, die nicht aus dem Munde der Pythia kamen, ist Strabon die früheste Quelle. 19 Vgl. Parke und Wormell, The Delphic Oracle, 2.285; Joseph Fontenrose, The Delphic Oracle (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 193–195.



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Warum war die Versform so wichtig? Nach traditioneller Vorstellung kommunizierten die Götter mit den Menschen in gebundener, poetischer Sprache, vorzugsweise in Hexametern.20 Apollon galt als Urheber des Hexameters; folgerichtig soll die erste Pythia namens Phemonoë („die das göttliche Wort kennt“), angeblich eine Tochter Apollons, den ersten Hexameter gesungen haben. Wenn die Pythia aufgehört hat, in Versen zu weissagen, dann könnte dies daher bedeuten, dass sie keinen Zugang mehr zu göttlicher Inspiration hat;21 in diesem Fall wäre aber die Konsultation des delphischen Orakels nur noch ein leeres Schauspiel. Dieser fatalen Schlussfolgerung tritt Plutarch entgegen, indem er seinem Gewährsmann im Dialog Theon folgende Argumente in den Mund legt:22 1.  Die gebundene Sprache gehöre eben nicht nur zu einer bestimmten Art der Äußerung, sondern sei zu einem gewissen Grad auch ein zeittypisches Phänomen. Früher – wir würden sagen: in archaischer Zeit – sei ja auch Philosophie, ja sogar Astronomie in Versform vorgetragen worden. Es habe eine Zeit gegeben, da man alles, was man erlebte und tat und was eines gehobenen Ausdrucks bedurfte, in Dichtung und Musik umsetzte. Die Mode habe sich geändert, ohne dass Theon darin ein Verfallssymptom erkennen möchte: Vielmehr habe inzwischen der Sprachstil den Prunk abgelegt. Glaubwürdigkeit sei heute eher an Verständlichkeit gebunden und würde durch Prosa vermittelt, zumal Poesie im Zusammenhang mit Mantik durch Scharlatane diskreditiert worden sei. Orakelanfragen zu alltäglichen Problemen, wie sie heute gestellt würden: ‚ob man heiraten‘, ‚ob man eine Seereise antreten‘, ‚ob man ein Darlehen geben soll‘ oder die den Ernteertrag, das Gedeihen des Viehs, die Gesundheit der Menschen betreffen  – solche Fragen mit hochgestochenen Versen zu beantworten, wäre lächerlich und der Pythia nicht angemessen.23 2.  Die Pythia habe auch früher schon häufig, wenn nicht sogar überwiegend, in Prosa geweissagt, auch zu bedeutenden Themen; außerdem würden auch heute noch Orakel in Versen gegeben, wenngleich selten. Theon führt eine Reihe von mehr oder weniger prominenten Beispielen aus der Vergangenheit für die erste Behauptung an, um sodann einen zeitgenössischen Fall anzusprechen, mit dem er seine zweite Behauptung zu belegen versucht.24 Doch zeigt die weitere 20  Vgl., auch für das Folgende, Kai Trampedach, Politische Mantik. Die Kommunikation über Götterzeichen und Orakel im klassischen Griechenland (Heidelberg: Verlag Antike, 2015), 206–212. 21  Demnach hätte die Pythia die erhabene Form ihrer Sprüche aufgegeben, etwa weil, wie besprochen, das der Erde entströmende πνεῦμα erloschen ist; oder vielleicht weil, wie in Pyth. orac. 17.402C–D erwogen wird, der Musenkult in Delphi versiegt ist (vgl. aber die Einwände von Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 310–312, gegen diese Lesart). 22 Vgl. Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 24. 23  Pyth. orac. 18.402E–403A; 24.406B–F; 28.408B–C. 24  Pyth. orac. 19–20.403A–404A: Theons Argumentation überzeugt an dieser Stelle nicht, weil er sich auf Quellen beruft, die nur Paraphrasen bieten und keine Rückschlüsse auf den ursprünglichen Wortlaut des Orakels erlauben; andere Quellen, die er anführt, wie Herodot, Philochoros, Istros und Theopomp, bestätigen wider Willen die Normativität der Versform.

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Argumentation, dass sich Theon nicht auf die These vom Fortleben der Vers­ orakel versteifen will. Entscheidend ist vielmehr anderes: 3.  Die Inspirationstheorie, welche die traditionelle Sprachrohrtheorie erset­ zen soll, ist für Plutarch (bzw. Theon) der Schlüssel zum Verständnis des Orakels von Delphi.25 Anders als in De defectu oraculorum kommt Plutarch in diesem Dialog ohne Dämonen oder πνεῦμα und ἀναθυμιάσεις aus. Trotzdem deckt sich die Argumentation im Kern: Die richtige und reine Gottesvorstellung verbiete es anzunehmen, Gott selbst habe ehedem die Verse verfasst und würde jetzt der Pythia die Orakelsprüche in Prosa einflüstern, „als ob er durch den Mund von Schauspielern spräche“.26 Zwar bediene sich der Gott der Seele der Pythia als Werkzeug (ὄργανον) für seine Weissagung, doch das bedeute, dass sich der göttliche Impuls mit einem sterblichen Körper und einer menschlichen Seele mischen müsse (20–21.404B–C). Plutarch versteht demzufolge den Enthusiasmus als Zusammentreffen von zwei Bewegungen, der einen (göttlichen), die auf die Seele einwirkt, und zugleich der anderen (menschlichen), die der Seele von Natur aus eigen ist. Die jetzigen Pythien hätten eben keine literarische Bildung und könnten daher nicht wie Dichter sprechen (22.405C–D). Die Argumentation Plutarchs läuft also zunächst einmal darauf hinaus, einen radikalen Wandel zwischen der Vergangenheit und der Gegenwart abzuleugnen. Grundsätzlich wurden früher wie heute Orakel sowohl in Versform als auch in Prosa erteilt. Graduelle Veränderungen werden nicht bestritten, sondern zu einer Frage der Mode und des Geschmacks erklärt und der Pythia zugerechnet. Überhaupt rückt Plutarch die Person der Pythia, ihre individuelle Begabung, ins Zentrum des mantischen Prozesses. Von ihrer Fähigkeit, den göttlichen Impuls aufzugreifen und weiterzugeben, hängt die Qualität der Weissagung ab.27 Plutarchs Inspirationstheorie rechtfertigt auf diese Weise nicht nur den prosaischen Charakter der gegenwärtigen Antworten, sondern erweist sich außerAußerdem müsste man hier die Konsultationen nach Anlässen und Themenfeldern (wie res divinae; res publicae; res domesticae et profanae) differenzieren. 25 Plutarchs Inspirationstheorie beruht auf philosophischen Quellen, deren Herkunft umstritten ist: Während Jens Holzhausen, „Zur Inspirationslehre Plutarchs in De Pythiae Oraculis“, Philologus 137 (1993), 72–91, sie auf Platon zurückführt, identifiziert Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 21–51, und ders., „Platon oder Chrysipp: Zur Inspirationstheorie in Plutarchs Schrift ‚De Pythiae Oraculis‘“, WJA 20 (1994/1995), 233–256, den Stoiker Chrysipp als Vorbild. 26  Pyth. orac. 20.404B; vgl. die Parallelstelle in Def. orac. 414E; Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 64–71 (s. o. Anm. 6). 27  Holzhausen, „Zur Inspirationslehre Plutarchs“, 86: „Auch das Werkzeug ‚Pythia‘ kann sich nur nach Maßgabe ihrer eigenen Natur dem göttlichen Wirken anpassen, und ihr ‚Werk‘, die Orakelsprüche, trägt auch ihr Gepräge. Das Göttliche wird in ihren Sprüchen nicht rein und unvermischt sichtbar“. Vgl. Bendlin, „On the Uses and Disadvantages of Divination“, 198–202, der die diskursive Strategie der delphische Dialoge wie folgt charakterisiert: „As priest and philosopher, Plutarch deals with the contemporary criticism of the workings of the Delphic oracle and of divinatory practice in general by employing a ‚positive theology‘ based on a MiddlePlatonist position. This theology does not see itself as a deconstruction of traditional religious knowledge but rather as a defence of it […]“ (201).



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dem als geeignet, einen auf die glorreiche Vergangenheit bezogenen ästhetischen Einwand abzufangen, den Diogenianus zu Beginn des Dialogs vorgebracht hatte. Dieser Gesprächspartner, der uns als vielversprechender und gebildeter Jüngling aus gutem Hause vorgestellt wird,28 äußerte nämlich seine Verwunderung über die Mittelmäßigkeit vieler altüberlieferter Orakelverse: „Dabei“, so führte er aus (5.396C–D), „ist der Gott doch der Führer der Musen, und es wäre wohl das Rechte für ihn, nicht weniger auf die Schönheit der Rede als auf den Wohlklang der Melodien bedacht zu sein und in der Schönheit der Versform Hesiod und Homer bei weitem zu übertreffen. Aber die meisten Orakel sehen wir sowohl in der metrischen wie in der sprachlichen Form voll von Fehlern und Geschmacklosigkeiten“. Schon in dieser Debatte ist es schließlich Theon, der Apollon mit Hilfe der Inspirationstheorie von der Verantwortung für die schlechten Verse freispricht und diese vielmehr auf das Konto der Pythia bucht (7.397C): „Denn weder ist die Stimme noch der Laut noch die Worte noch die Verse von dem Gott, sondern von der Frau. Er erweckt nur die Vorstellungen in ihr und zündet das Licht in ihrer Seele an, das in die Zukunft leuchtet. Denn etwas von der Art ist der Enthusiasmus“. Hat Plutarch sein Beweisziel erreicht? Fraglos erfüllt die Inspirationstheorie ihren apologetischen Zweck in der philosophischen Debatte. Den Historiker kann Plutarchs Argumentation allerdings nicht überzeugen. Denn in den Quellen der archaischen und klassischen Zeit wird niemals auch nur der leiseste Zweifel am Sprachrohrcharakter der Pythia geäußert. Dass die Pythia als autonome Persönlichkeit in dieser Zeit gar nicht existiert, belegt schon der Sprachgebrauch während der Konsultation. Der Fragesteller spricht die Pythia im Adyton als „Gott“ oder „Herr“ (ἄναξ) an; er richtet seine Frage also an Apollon, der wiederum meistens in der ersten Person antwortet und sich damit ausdrücklich als Urheber des Orakels identifiziert. Bis in die hellenistische Epoche hinein wurden delphische Orakelsprüche als unverfälschte, durch das Medium nicht kontaminierte Botschaften des Gottes betrachtet.29 Ob der Gott sich dabei des Hexameters oder der Alltagssprache bediente, hing demzufolge von der Situation (bzw. von der Laune des Gottes) oder dem thematischen Zusammenhang der Frage ab, nicht jedoch von der Pythia. Außerdem wäre dem Publikum der Blütezeit die ästhetische Kritik an der poetischen Qualität der Orakelsprüche absurd erschienen. Die im Kern richtige Antwort legte Plutarch dem stoischen Dichter Serapion in den Mund (6.396F–397B): Wenn wir glauben, dass die Orakel von Gott stammen, dann müssen wir wohl eher unser Geschmacksurteil überprüfen. Der Gott will nicht gefallen, sondern er sagt, mit Heraklit zu sprechen, die Wahrheit „ohne Lachen, ohne Schminke, ohne Parfüm“.30 Es ist aber bezeichnend für Plutarchs Dia28 Vgl.

Simonetti, A Perfect Medium?, 18–19. Trampedach, Politische Mantik, 186 (mit zahlreichen Belegen). 30  Bezeichnenderweise zitiert Serapion in diesem Zusammenhang (Pyth. orac. 6.397A) die 29 Vgl.

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logregie, dass Theon diese Erklärung ironisch als Ausdruck einer naiven und unkritischen Weltanschauung abfertigen darf (7.397B–E). Einmal mehr wird deutlich, dass Plutarch nicht mehr an die Präsenz eines anthropomorphen Gottes in Delphi glaubt.

3.  Die Ambiguität früherer Orakelsprüche Kaum eine andere Eigenschaft der Orakelmantik, speziell der in Delphi, hat mehr zu ihrer Delegitimierung beigetragen als die semantischen Dunkelheiten und Zweideutigkeiten vieler berühmter Sprüche. Die Kritik beginnt bei Aristoteles,31 und sie kulminiert, nicht selten im Gewand ätzenden Spottes, bei kaiserzeitlichen Autoren wie Lukian von Samosata, Diogenes von Oinoanda und Oinomaos von Gadara, bei denen sich dann wiederum antike christliche Kirchenväter ohne Hemmungen bedienten.32 Einen prominenten Platz in dieser Reihe kann auch Cicero (Div. 2.115) beanspruchen: „Mit Orakeln aus deinem Mund“, so erwidert er seinem Antipoden Quintus, „hat Chrysipp ein ganzes Buch gefüllt: teils sind sie erfunden, wie ich glaube; teils zufällig wahr (wie das bei jeder Art von Äußerungen sehr oft vorkommt); teils verdreht und dunkel, so daß der Deuter (des Götterwillens) des Deuters bedarf und man das Orakel selbst einem Orakel unterbreiten muß; teils zweideutig und so, daß man sie vor einem Dialektiker ausbreiten muß“. Nach Cicero verdienen die berühmten Orakel aus alter Zeit keinen Glauben: entweder weil die Überlieferung, etwa eines Herodot, nicht stimmig ist, oder weil die Obskurität und Ambiguität der Sprüche, die den Klienten häufig geschadet hätten, nicht göttlichen Ursprungs seien, sondern vielmehr als Mittel eingesetzt würden, um das eigene Unwissen zu verschleiern. Diese funktionalistische Perspektive setzt voraus, dass die Medien bewusst und kalkuliert unklar bleiben und damit nur vorgeben, etwas zu sagen, obwohl sie eigentlich nichts zu sagen haben. Selbst Plutarch kommt nicht umhin, diesem Vorwurf eine gewisse Berechtigung einzuräumen. Er verteidigt die poetische Mehrdeutigkeit der Orakelsprüche in der alten Zeit nicht nur, wie gesagt, mit dem damaligen Zeitgeschmack, dem die Pythia durch die Art ihrer Antworten Aussage von Heraklit (DK 22) B 92 über die Sibylle: Σίβυλλα δὲ μαινομένωι στόματι ἀγέλαστα καὶ ἀκαλλώπιστα καὶ ἀμύριστα φθεγγομένη χιλίων ἐτῶν ἐξικνεῖται τῆι φωνῆι διὰ τὸν θεόν. 31 Aristoteles, Rhet. 1407 a31–b6; vgl. Trampedach, Politische Mantik, 435–437. 32  Vgl. William B. Stanford, Ambiguity in Greek Literature: Studies in Theory and Li­ terature (Oxford: Blackwell, 1939), 120–123; Parke und Wormell, The Delphic Oracle, 2.286; Jürgen Hammerstaedt, Die Orakelkritik des Kynikers Oenomaos (Frankfurt a. M.: Athenäum, 1988); ders., „Zum Text der epikureischen Inschrift des Diogenes von Oinoanda“, Epigraphica Anatolica 39 (2006), 1–48; Bendlin, „On the Uses and Disadvantages of Divination“, 178–185, bes. 181–182, und 229–232; Jürgen Hammerstaedt und Martin F. Smith, The Epicurean In­ scription of Diogenes of Oinoanda: New Discoveries and Research (Bonn: Habelt, 2014), 38–42; Scott, Delphi, 233.



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entgegengekommen sei, sondern betont die Notwendigkeit eines diplomatischen Stils im Umgang mit einer Vielzahl von Städten, Königen und Tyrannen. Diese teilweise mächtigen Klienten zu verärgern und durch unerwünschte Ratschläge zur Feindschaft zu reizen, hätte den Dienern des Orakels nicht von Nutzen sein können. Denn der Gott trage Sorge für seine sterblichen Diener und Propheten, damit sie nicht, wenn sie ihren heiligen Dienst versehen, von bösen Menschen zugrunde gerichtet würden. „Damit will er die Wahrheit zwar nicht ganz unterdrücken, aber er gestaltet ihre Verkündigung so um, daß sie in der poetischen Form wie ein Lichtstrahl viele Brechungen erleidet und vielfach gespalten wird, und nimmt ihr so das Anstoß Erregende und Schroffe. Es gab ja auch Dinge, bei denen es gut war, daß Tyrannen sie nicht wußten und Feinde sie nicht vorweg erfuhren. Diese hüllte er in Umschreibungen und Doppeldeutigkeiten, die Fernstehenden den wahren Sinn verbargen, den Fragenden selbst aber, wenn sie sich um das Verständnis bemühten, nicht unklar blieben und sie nicht irreführten. Darum ist der ein großer Tor, der, nachdem die Verhältnisse ganz anders geworden sind, den Gott tadelt und ihm Vorwürfe macht, wenn er uns nicht mehr auf dieselbe, sondern auf andere Art meint helfen zu sollen“ (Pyth. orac. 26.407D–E). Das Argument trägt der Tatsache Rechnung, dass das Orakel einerseits die hochgesteckten Erwartungen teils mächtiger Klienten befriedigen, andererseits aber in der Vielfalt der griechischen Staatenwelt seine Unabhängigkeit und Unparteilichkeit wahren musste.33 Demnach wäre die Mehrdeutigkeit nicht ein Mittel gewesen, um Unwissenheit zu verschleiern, sondern vielmehr eine politisch-diplomatische Einkleidung von Wissen. Allerdings wäre dann letztlich nicht der Gott für die Mehrdeutigkeit verantwortlich gewesen, sondern die Pythia. Da aber die Pythia nicht über den politischen Durchblick verfügen konnte, der es ihr erlaubt hätte, die Orakelsprüche in ein diplomatisches Gewand zu hüllen, kommen als Einflüsterer und eigentliche Urheber nur die Diener oder Hüter des Orakels – οἱ περὶ τὸ χρηστήριον, wie Plutarch sagt – in Frage. Damit hat Plutarch zwar denjenigen ein Einfallstor geöffnet, die hinter den Orakelsprüchen vor allem die politischen und ökonomischen Interessen der delphischen Priester- oder Bürgerschaft vermuten.34 Gleichzeitig gibt ihm jedoch dieser Rückzug die Möglichkeit, eine effektive Verteidigungsstellung einzunehmen, weil er einerseits die zeitgenössische Kritik am dunklen Orakelstil ihrer Durchschlagskraft beraubt und andererseits – ungeachtet der veränderten 33  Obwohl die Argumentation hier nicht besonders stringent ist, macht es sich Schröder, Plutarchs Schrift, 13–14, jeweils Anm. 1, mit seiner Kritik zweifellos zu leicht. Da dem Orakel etwa auch zugemutet wurde, Kriegsentscheidungen zu sanktionieren, konnte die durch poetische Einkleidung geförderte Mehrdeutigkeit der Sprüche sehr wohl dazu dienen, den Anschein von Parteilichkeit zu vermeiden. 34  Bis heute wird diese Annahme, dass das Orakel von Delphi durch die delphischen „Priester“ oder „Notablen“ manipuliert wurde, von unzähligen Altertumswissenschaftlern vertreten; eine Gegenposition: Kai Trampedach, „Die Legitimität des delphischen Orakels“, in Delphi. Apollons Orakel in der Welt der Antike, Hg. Balbina Bäbler (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2020).

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Redeweise der Pythia – Delphi als Ort immer noch authentischer Orakel zu pro­ pa­gieren erlaubt. Außerdem folgt Plutarch damit seiner philosophisch geprägten Inspirationstheorie, die, wie bereits erwähnt, den Anteil der Pythia an der Orakelproduktion aufwertete. Plutarch erklärt überzeugend, welche Funktion die Vieldeutigkeit von Orakelsprüchen erfüllte und warum vieldeutige Orakelsprüche in Delphi unter den Bedingungen der pax Romana außer Gebrauch gekommen waren.35 So effektiv sich diese Apologie im zeitgenössischen Kontext ausnehmen mag, so wenig überzeugend erscheint sie wiederum in historischer Hinsicht. Natürlich widerspricht die funktionalistische Erklärung dem konventionellen Orakelglauben in archaischer und klassischer Zeit. Denn in diesem Kontext ist es gerade die Mehrdeutigkeit, die das echte Gotteswort auszeichnet.36 Nicht von ungefähr führte Apollon den Beinamen „Loxias“, von λοξός  – „krumm“, „schief “, „schräg“.37 Der Beiname bringt zum Ausdruck, dass die λοξότης als Wesenseigenschaft des Λοξίας angesehen und selbstverständlich hingenommen wurde. Die Schwierigkeiten, die Orakel dem menschlichen Verständnis bereiteten, bekräftigten ihre göttliche Herkunft.38 Natürlich kennt auch Plutarch diese Eigenschaft Apollons, und er weiß sie gelegentlich ins Positive zu wenden. In dem Dialog De E apud Delphos legt er Theon in den Mund – als wolle er Ciceros Empörung über zweideutige Orakel, die man vor einem Dialektiker ausbreiten muss, aufgreifen  –, dass der Gott selbst der größte Dialektiker sei und dass er durch zweideutige Orakel die Dialektik fördern und sie empfehlen wolle als eine Wissenschaft, die denen vonnöten ist, die ihn richtig verstehen wollen.39 Doch lässt Plutarch hier nur im Scherz sprechen, denn im Ernst ist ein apollinisches ἀμφίβολα λέγειν mit seiner Gottesvorstellung nicht vereinbar.

35 Vgl.

Simonetti, A Perfect Medium?, 33–38. Trampedach, Politische Mantik, 418–442. Allerdings ist auch schon in klassischer Zeit das Bewusstsein sehr wohl verbreitet, dass die Mehrdeutigkeit der Orakelsprache als Mittel der Manipulation eingesetzt werden kann, vor allem durch korrupte und geldgierige Chresmologen; dies zeigen vor allem die Parodien des Aristophanes: Eq. 194–209; 997–1111; Pax 1023–1126; Av. 958–990; Lys. 762–780; vgl. Trampedach, Politische Mantik, 493–495. 37 Cornutus, Theologiae Graecae Compendium 32.7 (67.14–15; Lang); Plutarch, Garr. 511B; Pyth. orac. 407A. Die Etymologie wird zwar erst bei späteren Autoren überliefert, ist aber so naheliegend, dass ihr Bewusstsein in früherer Zeit ohne weiteres vorausgesetzt werden kann. 38  Der Gott spricht zwar griechisch, ist aber, um ein Wort der Kassandra aus Aischylos’ Agamemnon (1254–1255) abzuwandeln, gleichwohl (zumindest gelegentlich) schwer verständlich: vgl. Trampedach, Politische Mantik, 197–199. 39  E Delph. 6.386E: διαλεκτικώτατος ὁ θεός ἐστιν, οἱ πολλοὶ τῶν χρησμῶν δηλοῦσιν· τοῦ γὰρ αὐτοῦ δήπουθέν ἐστι καὶ λύειν καὶ ποιεῖν ἀμφιβολίας […] οὕτως ἄρα χρησμοὺς ἀμφιβόλους ἐκφέρων ὁ θεὸς αὔξει καὶ συνίστησι διαλεκτικὴν ὡς ἀναγκαίαν τοῖς μέλλουσιν ὀρθῶς αὐτοῦ συνήσειν. Vgl. Adv. Col. 1118C; Jan Opsomer, „Divination and Academic ‚Scepticism‘ according to Plutarch“, in Plutarchea Lovaniensia: A Miscellany of Essays on Plutarch, Hg. Luc van der Stockt (Leuven: Studia Hellenistica, 1996), 165–194, hier 187–191. 36 Vgl.



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4. Fazit Tatsächlich finden sich unter den Reflexionen und Spekulationen, denen Plutarch in seinen delphischen Dialogen Ausdruck verleiht, fast alle Argumente, die eine historische Apologie der delphischen Orakelmantik anführen könnte. Die meisten dieser Argumente werden jedoch von Plutarch verworfen, weil sie seiner Gottesvorstellung widersprechen. Den Orakelglauben von einst teilt er nicht mehr. Dass der Gott in den Körper der Pythia eingeht und aus ihrem Munde spricht, weist er ausdrücklich zurück. Zumindest zweifelhaft erscheint ihm, dass der Gott selbst im Heiligtum anwesend ist und bedeutungsvolle Zeichen wirkt. In De Pythiae oraculis will Philinus, Plutarchs Freund, glauben, dass unzurechenbare Beschädigungen an berühmten delphischen Weihgeschenken wie der Eurymedon-Palme der Athener und dem Nauarchen-Monument der Spartaner, die mit wichtigen politisch-militärischen Ereignissen koinzidieren, die Präsenz des Gottes bezeugen und zeigen, „daß auch die hier aufgestellten Weihgeschenke in stärkstem Maße in Verbindung mit der Seherkraft des Gottes sich bewegen und Zeichen geben, daß kein Teil von ihnen leer und empfindungslos, sondern alles von Göttlichkeit erfüllt ist“.40 Plutarch (Pyth. orac. 8.398A–B) lässt Boethos, einen epikureischen Philosophen, mit Sarkasmus auf diese Annahme reagieren: „Es genügt wohl nicht“, sagt dieser, „den Gott einmal jeden Monat in einen sterblichen Körper [sc. die Pythia] einzuschließen, sondern wir werden ihn auch noch in jedes Stück Marmor und Bronze hineinmengen, als ob wir nicht im Zufall und Ungefähr einen hinreichenden Urheber für solche Ereignisse hätten!“ Obwohl Boethos wegen seiner philosophischen Haltung normalerweise keine plutarchische Position vertritt, entspricht seine Kritik offenbar weitgehend Plutarchs Zweifeln. Denn Plutarchs philosophischer Gott ist nicht nur vollkommen gut und gerecht, sondern auch erhaben.41 Daher, so sagt er durch Lamprias in De defectu oraculorum (9.414E), „ist es einfältig und geradezu kindisch zu glauben, daß der Gott selbst, wie die Bauchredner, in die Körper der Propheten eingehe und aus ihnen spreche, indem er sich ihres Mundes und ihrer Stimme als Werkzeuge bediene. Wer so den Gott in die menschlichen Angelegenheiten hineinmischt, vergreift sich an seiner Erhabenheit und wahrt ihm nicht die Würde und Größe seiner Vollkommenheit.“ 40  Vgl. Kai Trampedach, „Götterzeichen im Heiligtum: das Beispiel Delphi“, in Griechische Heiligtümer als Erinnerungsorte. Von der Archaik bis in den Hellenismus, Hg. Matthias Haake und Michael Jung (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2011), 29–43; ders., Politische Mantik, 339–347, 367–368, 388–390. 41  Zu Plutarchs theologischen Anschauungen vgl. Reinhard Feldmeier, „Philosoph und Priester: Plutarch als Theologe“, in Mousopolos Stephanos. Festschrift für Herwig Görgemanns, Hg. Manuel Baumbach, Helga Köhler, Adolf Martin Ritter (Heidelberg: Winter, 1998), 412–425; Burkert, „Plutarch“.

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Nicht nur die Behandlung der Mantik zeigt, wie sehr sich Plutarch von der traditionellen Wahrnehmung Delphis entfernt hat. Auch an den prächtigen Weihgaben aus der Glanzzeit kann Plutarchs philosophischer Gott keine Freude haben. Als sich Diogenianus darüber entrüstet, dass Hetären wie Rhodopis und Phryne durch berühmte Weihgeschenke im Heiligtum repräsentiert sind, hält Theon ihm sinngemäß entgegen (14–15.400F–401D): Du willst ein Weibchen, das von seiner Schönheit allerdings keinen feinen Gebrauch gemacht hat, aus dem Heiligtum ausschließen, aber wenn du den Gott mit Erstlingen und Zehnten von Mordtaten, Kriegen und Plünderungen rings umgeben siehst und den Tempel angefüllt mit Raub- und Beutestücken von Griechen, da entrüstest du dich nicht? (…) Weihgaben der Gerechtigkeit, der Besonnenheit, der Großmut sucht man dagegen fast vergeblich in dem Heiligtum! Diese Sätze machen das Dilemma deutlich, vor dem Plutarch als Apologet des Orakels von Delphi steht. Um die Erhabenheit (σεμνότης) des Gottes, so wie er sie begreift, wahren zu können, beschreitet er neue Wege, die freilich durch Platon und die hellenistische Philosophie vorgebahnt waren. Deshalb denkt er den Vorgang der mantischen Inspiration anders, und daher kommen wahlweise Dämonen oder das πνεῦμα und die ἀναθυμίασις ins Spiel, mithin Faktoren, von denen die archaische und klassische Berichterstattung über Delphi nichts wusste.

Belief and Doubt in Aelius Aristides’s Isthmian Oration: To Poseidon Janet Downie In his essay On Superstition, Plutarch takes aim at ignorance of the gods, which at its extreme, he says, may take one of two forms: either superstition or atheism.1 Of the two, superstition – δεισιδαιμονία – is worse because, as its Greek etymology reveals, it involves emotion. Fear (δεισ-) of the daemonic (δαιμόνια), Plutarch maintains, arises from an incorrect understanding of the world, and it fans the flame of this ignorance with emotion that ravages the soul.2 While Plutarch does not, of course, recommend the other extreme of atheism, his critique of superstition shows that he believed some measure of rational doubt was necessary for a healthy religious attitude. We can see this process of reasoned criticism at work in his discussion of traditional poetry and myth. For Plutarch, as for many of his contemporaries, one aspect of religious tradition that provoked reasonable scepticism was the repertoire of mythological stories passed down from Homer and other poets. So, in his essay How to Read Poetry, he proposes that questionable stories about the gods should be discarded, unless they can be corroborated and reinforced by rational thought.3 For Plutarch, correct belief in the gods – pistis – cannot be founded on myth alone. It must be grounded in philosophy and social practice.4 Greeks had critiqued their own mythological stories for centuries by Plutarch’s time. Stories about gods behaving badly had provoked, for example, Xenophanes’s philosophical critique of anthropomorphism and Euhemerus’s theory 1  I would like to thank Tobias Nicklas and Babett Edelmann-Singer for their invitation to contribute to the conference in Regensburg at which I delivered an early version of this paper. I would also like to thank Christopher Faraone and Bill Race for their detailed and substantial comments on a later draft. I am grateful as well to Janet Spittler for getting me involved, and for assistance in the editorial process. 2 Plutarch, Superst. 164e–166b. 3 Plutarch, Aud. poet. 35e–f. 4 George van Kooten, “A Non-Fideistic Interpretation of ΠΙΣΤΙΣ in Plutarch’s Writings: The Harmony Between ΠΙΣΤΙΣ and Knowledge,” in Plutarch in the Religious and Philosophical Discourse of Late Antiquity, ed. Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta and Israel Muñoz Gallarte (Studies in Platonism, Neoplatonism, and the Platonic Tradition 14; Leiden: Brill, 2014), 215–233, shows that for Plutarch, as for other ancient thinkers, belief (πίστις) was not isolated from other forms of knowledge, but could be strengthened in various ways by myth, law, and rational explanation. Plutarch’s ideal, van Kooten argues, was to move from “unskillful faith” (ἄτεχνος πίστις) to a “strengthened faith” (217). Cf. Plutarch, Amat. 763b–c.

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that behind tales told about gods lay the traces of human history. Plutarch and his Imperial-era contemporaries thus drew on a long tradition of rational doubt that resulted sometimes in the outright rejection of myth, sometimes in efforts to accommodate it by way of philosophical and allegorical interpretation. In this essay, I  examine a slightly different attempt at accommodation by the second century CE writer Aelius Aristides, who takes what I would like to call a narrative approach: he adjusts the plot of a problematic story, rewriting the motivations and emotions of the divine characters involved. I focus specifically on the final section of one of his prose hymns, the Isthmian Oration: To Poseidon (Or. 46), in which Aristides expresses doubt about the traditional story of Ino-Leucothea and her rape by Poseidon. As I outline later, the story of Ino-Leucothea had long served as a touchstone for theological scepticism in the ancient world. Aristides introduces this story into his hymn deliberately in order to explore the problems it poses – but also the promise it holds – for what he views as a proper understanding of divine nature. Valuing the story, while also acknowledging the limitations of its traditional form, he expresses a combination of doubt and belief that he resolves in his own way, by transforming a narrative of rape into one of romance.5 The narrative process by which Aristides creates meaning in this passage – theological meaning to which he can assent – is a practical application of a theoretical stance he outlines elsewhere, in the prologue of his hymn to Sarapis (Or. 45). There, Aristides sets out three criteria by which to judge writing about the gods: truth (ἀλήθεια), credibility (πιθανά), and coherence (σύστασις). This third term  – “coherence” (σύστασις) – reflects, I argue, Aristides’s view that literary expression is a form of theology, and that narrative is a process through which doubt and belief are worked out.

5  The tension between rape and romance in mythological accounts of divine-human couplings is already a theme in classical writers including Pindar, one of Aristides’s most important models. In Pindar’s ninth Pythian Ode, when Apollo is deliberating about whether it is right to lay hands upon Cyrene (χέρα οἱ προσενεγκεῖν), Chiron recommends he use the techniques of “wise Persuasion” (σοφᾶς/Πειθοῦς) in order to obtain his desire. Pindar’s version of the mythological episode thus explores the relationship between forcible seizure (ἅρπασ’, l. 5) and a marriage of mutual consent (ξυνόν […] γάμον, l. 13), suggesting that they are not fully separate categories. Pindar offers Aristides a model for the revision of myths explicitly in Olympian 1, where he asserts that the story of Pelops being cut up, boiled in a cauldron, and feasted upon by his father Tantalus and his divine guests is one of those myths that “deceive by means of elaborate lies” (ψεύδεσι ποικίλοις/ἐξαπατῶντι μῦθοι, 29). Pindar rewrites the story as follows: Poseidon fell in love with the boy (ἐράσσατο, 25) and, overcome with desire (δαμέντα φρένας ἱμέρῳ, 41) carried him away to Olympus to be his cupbearer. Francesca Modini, “Converting Epinician into Epideictic: Aristid. Or. 46 and Pind. O. 13” (unpublished paper, 2017), argues that Olympian 1.28–34 has directly influenced the language of Aristides’s critique of poetic license in his hymn to Sarapis.



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1.  Belief in Aristides’s Prose Hymns Aristides’s ten extant prose hymns, collected as Orations 37–46, constitute the richest body of rhetorical praise orations we have from the Greco-Roman world.6 Addressed to a range of major divinities and heroes – Zeus, Athena, Poseidon, Dionysus, Heracles, Asclepius, Sarapis  – as well as to a few lesser figures or divinized objects, they were written both for public performance and for literary posterity.7 The texts follow conventional hymnic structure and modes of address, yet they are also creative and wide-ranging in their intertextual and stylistic affiliations.8 The hymn To Dionysus, for example, is in close dialogue with Plato’s Symposium. The hymn To Zeus is philosophizing  – but it also has the divine succession myth of Hesiod’s Theogony in view. Like many of Aristides’s writings, the hymns are frequently imbued with Pindaric language and thought, and he draws on the Homeric Hymns as well.9 The hymns range, stylistically, from compositions that feature highly poetic language, anaphora, and short, balanced cola, 6 Johann Goeken, “Le corpus des hymnes en prose d’Aelius Aristide (Or. 37–46),” in Ælius Aristide écrivain, ed. Laurent Pernot, Giancarlo Abbamonte, and Mario Lamagna (Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), 283–303 at 286. These probably represent just a fraction of Aristides’s output in this genre, since he refers to other hymns in prose and verse (Johann Goeken, Aelius Aristide et la rhétorique de l’hymne en prose [Turnhout: Brepols, 2012], 61–73). The Greek text of Orations 37–46 may be found in Keil’s 1898 edition (which comprises Orations 17–53): see Bruno Keil, ed., Aelii Aristidis Smyrnaei quae supersunt omnia (Berlin: Weidmann, 1958 [1898]). Keil provides the basis for Johann Goeken’s revised text of the hymns, from which he removes many of Keil’s corrections and conjectures (Goeken, Aelius Aristide, 19). Goeken provides a French translation and detailed study of the hymns both individually and as a group – arguing that they were recognized as a coherent corpus by Aristides as well as by later readers in antiquity (Goeken, Aelius Aristide, 25–39) – with full bibliography, including references to existing annotated editions and translations of individual hymns. Charles A. Behr, ed. and tr., P. Aelius Aristides: The Complete Works, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1981–1986), offers an English translation of all the hymns. 7  On Aristides’s literary aspirations to an audience in posterity, see Goeken, Aelius Aris­ tide, 56–61. Lesser divinities addressed in the hymns include the sons of Asclepius (Or. 38); divinized objects include the well in the temple of Asclepius at Pergamum (Or. 39) and the Aegean Sea (Or. 44). 8  Within each text, Aristides uses the language of ὕμνος, or closely related terms. Robert Parker, “Religion in the Prose Hymns,” in In Praise of Asclepius: Aelius Aristides, Selected Prose Hymns, ed. Donald A. Russell, Michael Trapp, and Karl-Heinz Nesselrath (SAPERE 29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 67–88 at 70, tracks the hymns’ traditional language of reciprocity (χαρι-) between human and divine. On the generic context overall, see Goeken, “Le corpus des hymnes,” 293–294; idem, Aelius Aristide, 25–31; Laurent Pernot, “Hymne en vers ou hymne en prose? L’usage de la prose dans l’hymnographie grecque,” in L’Hymne antique et son public, ed. Yves Lehmann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), 169–188; idem, La Rhétorique de l’éloge dans le monde gréco-romain, 2 vols. (Paris: Institut d’ Études Augustiniennes, 1993), 2.216–237. 9  Pindar: Ekaterini Vassilaki, “Réminiscences de Pindare dans l’‘Hymne à Sarapis’ d’Aelius Aristide (Or. XLV),” Euphrosyne 33 (2005), 324–339; Homeric Hymns: Athanassios Vergados, “The Homeric Hymns in the Prose Hymns of Aelius Aristides,” in Hymnic Narrative and the Narratology of Greek Hymns, ed. Andrew Faulkner and Owen Hodkinson (Mnemosyne Suppl. 384; Leiden: Brill, 2015), 165–186.

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to pieces that display more periodic structure and other characteristics of formal epideictic style.10 Their literary sophistication and heterogeneity have prompted some scholars to question the nature of the religious commitment Aristides expresses in these texts: Did Aristides really believe in this variety of pagan divinities, or should we think of these as hymns in a formal sense only? The question is not usually whether Aristides believed in gods at all  – for most scholars, the relationship with Asclepius he describes in the Hieroi Logoi provides ample evidence of his close engagement with the divine. In that first-person account of long-term illness, healing, and his professional development as a rhetor, Aristides credits Asclepius as his divine saviour in every aspect of his life – a claim he underscores, too, in his hymn to Asclepius and other orations relating directly to his sojourn at the god’s temple in Pergamon.11 Given this enthusiastic embrace of Asclepius’s divine protection, the real question is whether Aristides’s religiosity was polytheistic in a traditional sense, or whether his conception of the divine reflects the monotheistic or henotheistic tendencies of religious and philosophical thinking in the early centuries CE.12 If Aristides’s devotion to Asclepius was exceptional, or exclusive, then what would it mean for him to compose hymns to other gods of the pagan tradition? Is his investment in gods such as Athena or Poseidon of a sort that would allow us to speak in terms of belief and doubt? Dimitrios Karadimas has made a compelling case that Aristides’s religiosity is in tension with traditional polytheism and reflects contemporary developments in monotheistic theology.13 Aristides’s tendency towards something like monotheism takes its final form in his attachment to Asclepius, but Karadimas sees earlier versions of this totalizing outlook in his hymns to Zeus and to Sarapis. In 10 André Boulanger, Aelius Aristides et la sophistique dans la province d’Asie au IIe siècle de notre ère (Paris: Boccard, 1923), 321–323, was scathing about the hymns’ stylistic features, judging harshly the combination of oratorical qualities and religious fervour. Donald A. Russell, “Aristides and the Prose Hymn,” in Antonine Literature, ed. idem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 199–216, is more appreciative. 11  Russell, Trapp, and Nesselrath, In Praise of Asclepius, present texts and contextual essays for a selection of prose hymns that relate directly to the temple context at Pergamum. 12  Goeken, Aelius Aristide, 253–335. Parker, “Religion in the Prose Hymns,” 82–83, outlines the “problem” of henotheism in the prose hymns, arguing that what we see in Aristides’s texts is not “full-blown henotheism” (83), in which one god is regarded as all powerful, but rather “brief moments where the foundations of conventional polytheism are shaken” (84). The outlier exception is the hymn to Sarapis, which Parker does regard as “a henotheistic whole” – but he thinks this is because it was rhetorically appropriate to the aretalogical tradition surrounding this particular god (86–87). 13 Dimitrios Karadimas, “Aelius Aristides’ Hymn to Sarapis: Rhetoric and Religion in a Changing World,” Archaiognôsia 15 (2007–2009), 25–40 at 27, describes monotheism as “a tendency of the age, at least in circles of the educated” and, without making Aristides categorically a monotheist, argues that what emerges from Aristides’s critique of the traditional religious orthodoxy is “ultimately closer to the ‘new mood’ than to the old one” (30). In the hymns to Zeus and Sarapis, specifically, “religious orthodoxy is not preserved intact in either of them” (27).



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both texts, Aristides rejects or sidelines popular mythology, approaching the deity instead in abstract terms. In the hymn to Zeus (Or. 43), Aristides transforms the traditional notion of the “father of the gods” into a philosophical conception of the supreme deity as self-begotten creator of the cosmos. In the hymn to Sarapis (Or. 45), he removes the god almost completely from his (Greco-Egyptian) polytheistic context, making him a figure for divine singularity and omnipotence. These are not merely aesthetic or rhetorical choices. Rather, the idea of a single divine origin and controlling order for the cosmos  – a divine ἀρχή  – is a key intellectual commitment for Aristides. We can see this, as Karadimas argues persuasively, from the fact that the same idea anchors his conception of a divine λόγος to which all his literary and rhetorical efforts are connected. As Karadimas puts it, Aristides has “a frame of mind predisposed to adopt the existence of a coordinating power which unites and harmonizes the diverse elements of his world. On one level this power is rhetoric; on another higher, metaphysical level, this power could be one god.”14 In the hymns to Zeus and to Sarapis, which focus on notions of divine unity and self-sufficiency, other gods appear as either subordinate or irrelevant to a supreme divine being. This could make it seem that the traditional stories of Greek polytheism are for Aristides mere stories – matters neither of belief nor of doubt, but of indifference. Yet, from another perspective, every god in his or her own right offers different possibilities for reflecting on and celebrating divinity. Aristides does conceive of the divine as singular in an abstract sense; nonetheless, he also celebrates its diverse manifestations in various divine entities. For his part, Aristides does not seem to see this as a contradiction, or even a tension. The opening lines of the Isthmian Oration: To Poseidon show that for him, a correct view involves both abstract notions of “the divine” and the particular gods of polytheism, as he asserts it would be impious (οὐδὲ εὐαγές) if “I, who constantly recall the divine (τοῦ θείου), and whose work in words is almost entirely concerned with this, should seem to have omitted my contribution (ἔρανον) of words to this god [Poseidon] alone” (46.3).15 Aristides frames his speech in honour of Poseidon in the traditional language of piety and of communal celebration. He rarely speaks explicitly of belief or faith (πίστις) in relation to the gods – even Asclepius – and when he does it is a matter of observation and evidence: πίστις is a response to some manifestation of 14  Karadimas, “Aelius Aristides’ Hymn to Sarapis.” Parker, “Religion in the Prose Hymns,” on the other hand, does see the apparent henotheism of a text like the hymn to Sarapis as a purely rhetorical choice on Aristides’s part. Janet Downie, At the Limits of Art: A Literary Reading of Aelius Aristides’ Hieroi Logoi (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 127–134, argues that rhetoric and religion are closely entangled in Aristides’s worldview. 15  Or. 46.3: εἶναι γὰρ οὐδὲ εὐαγὲς ἴσως ἐμὲ πανταχοῦ τοῦ θείου μεμνημένον – καὶ σχεδὸν τῆς πλείστης μοι διατριβῆς τῶν λόγων περὶ ταῦτα οὔσης – παρεορακέναι δοκεῖν τὸν ἀπὸ τῶν λόγων ἔρανον πρὸς μόνον θεῶν τοῦτον […].

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divine order in the world.16 In his oration On the Well in the Temple of Asclepius (Or. 39) – a text generally grouped with the prose hymns – Aristides praises this monument, which played a central role in the cult of healing at the temple at Pergamum: water from the well, he says, has such powerful healing effects that it furnishes “expectation” (δόξα) and “faith” (πίστις) to all “that it comes from a place that is healthy and from the provider of health – rising, that is, from the temple and from the feet of the saviour” (39.6). “Faith” (πίστις) here describes the process of confirming one’s sense of divine power through personal experience of the material world. This sense of personal connection to the gods is something Aristides values highly  – the Hieroi Logoi (Or. 47–51), for example, are full of stories of the interventions of Asclepius and others in Aristides’s own life. Likewise, it is a distinctive feature of his hymns that Aristides consistently frames them in terms of his personal connection with the deity in question.17 He presents the hymns to Zeus and to Sarapis as votive offerings for survival at sea, and in his Address to Asclepius (Or. 42), he refers to the many gifts he has enjoyed from the god, “whom we have invoked often and for many causes, by day and by night, in private and in public” (42.1); other texts are presented as offerings made in response to divine oracles, generally in dreams.18 Even so, while he foregrounds his personal experience and direct connection to the gods, explicit language of belief (πίστις) is rare in the hymns. This in itself is not surprising. In the world of Greek polytheism, most rituals and ceremonies celebrating the gods were driven by civic, more than personal or intellectual interests. In this context, hymns were on the whole conservative, their form and content guided by public need and ceremonial tradition. As Nicole Belayche has pointed out, the public occasion of hymnic performance was neither the place to debate theology nor to introduce ideas that were out of step with commonly held expectations.19 Since many of Aristides’s hymns were intended for public performance – before small groups of devotees at the temple of Asclepius in Pergamum; on ceremonial occasions in Smyrna and other imperial cities – it is appropriate that they follow this pattern to a large extent: 16  Most of the references to pistis in Aristides’s oeuvre appear not in a religious or cult context, but in contexts where the issue is one of trust between human individuals, or in the Platonic orations, where he is interested in confirmations of philosophical truth. 17 Janet Downie, “Götterlob zur Zeit Lukians. Die Prosa-Hymnen des Aelius Aristides,” in Griechische Götter unter sich: Lukian, Göttergespräche, ed. F. Berdozzo and H.-G. Nesselrath (SAPERE Scripta Antiquitatis Posterioris ad Ethicam REligionemque pertinentia 33; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019), 167–186. 18  In the manuscript tradition, Or. 37–38 and 40–41 are titled with the name, in the nominative, of the god who is described in each text as having inspired the speech. 19 Nicole Belayche, “Les performance hymniques, un ‘lieu’ de fabrique de la représentation du divin,” in Fabriquer du divin. Constructions et ajustements de la représentation des dieux dans l’Antiquité, ed. eadem and Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge (Liège: Presses Universitaires de Liège, 2015), 167–182.



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even the more philosophical pieces of the group are, fundamentally, virtuosic elaborations of the panoply of qualities, powers, and stories traditionally attributed to the divine figures being celebrated.20 In Robert Parker’s estimation, the public quality of the hymns, and their conformity to rhetorical occasion, is their most important, and most revealing, feature. As Aristides periodically insists, he is dealing with material that belongs to the common repertoire. So, for Parker this collection of prose hymns is best viewed as a compendium of contemporary religious lore and attitudes and of the rhetorical possibilities for divine celebration.21 Yet, precisely because Aristides insists on his adherence to tradition, we should be on the lookout for moments in which he departs from that shared horizon of expectation – which he sometimes marks very deliberately as well. The rare moments in which Aristides does express belief or doubt about aspects of the traditional discourse about the gods are a sign of how seriously he takes this inheritance of images and narratives that explore the connection between divine and human worlds. These stories are not a matter of indifference for him: he has something at stake.

2.  Doubt in the Isthmian Oration: To Poseidon A surprising and vehement expression of doubt comes in the final section of Aristides’s Isthmian Oration: To Poseidon (Or. 46). As the title suggests, this is one of Aristides’s most clearly public performances, prepared for a major stage: he offered it by official invitation, at the panegyric celebration of the Isthmian games, near Corinth.22 As we would expect in this context, the oration is something more than a hymn. Framed by a moderate prologue (1–4) and a brief peroration (42), the body of the speech is in three parts of roughly equal length – 20  This is not to say that Aristides’s hymns were integrated into cult ritual, merely that he shows an awareness of the religious context and sensibility that was associated with the genre and addresses his (various) audiences in this spirit. See Goeken, Aelius Aristide, 45 and 40–55. Parker, “Religion in the Prose Hymns,” 67–68, describes the prose hymns as “forms of religious action” that do not, nevertheless, take the place of the choral hymns of traditional religion. 21  Parker, “Religion in the Prose Hymns,” 74–75 surveys Aristides’s references to and framing of Homeric and other myths. 22  In an elaborate opening sentence, Aristides says that by requesting his presence at this celebration, the eminent hosts (ἐμφανέστατοι) who made the invitation have honoured not only Aristides and his speeches, but also the occasion itself and its long history (1–2). Although there is no external evidence for the original performance of the speech or for its date, every indication within the oration itself suggests that the speech was delivered on the festival occasion to which Aristides alludes throughout. Goeken argues persuasively that the speech dates to the 170s, and makes an attractive argument for more a more precise performance date of 175–177 (Goeken, Aelius Aristide, 590–94). A date in the mid-170s would make the speech contemporary with the renovation of the temple and cult of Palaemon at Isthmia (ibid., 594), on which see further below.

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praise of Poseidon (5–19); praise of Corinth and the Isthmian region (20–31); praise of Leucothea and Palaemon (32–41).23 The speech was performed within the sanctuary at Isthmia – perhaps in the theatre, perhaps in front of the temple of Poseidon itself – before an audience of locals and eminent visitors who had gathered for what was probably, in the mid-second century CE, the most elaborate of the four major Panhellenic competitions.24 From beginning to end, Aristides is highly aware of his audience and, more precisely, of the probable distance between his own views and theirs. In the first section of the speech, his praise of Poseidon takes a philosophical turn, as he identifies the god of the sea with “the so-called watery nature.”25 Homer too, he says, shares this cosmic view, describing Ocean as “the origin of the gods” and water as the material element to which (along with earth) all beings return.26 But as he develops this expansive, cosmic perspective, he pulls himself back with a reminder that this is not the occasion for philosophical speculation: “all other things of this sort that have been said and discovered by men and wise poets, these we must entirely omit (παρείσθω), or leave it at that at least for the time being. But what is common (κοινά) to all, and known (γνώριμα) and before everyone’s eyes, these things it would be appropriate to recall now” (7). His own broadly philosophical and deeply literary approach to the gods, Aristides says, is not for everyone, and it is not, apparently, what the panegyric occasion calls for. Aristides widens the gulf between his own views and those of his public in the final section of the speech, devoted to Leucothea and Palaemon. In a belaboured, rhetorical transition, he turns his attention – with feigned reluctance – to these two gods of local cult, dramatizing his discomfort in handling the topic. He explains that he fears his audience’s reaction:27 These, then, are our remarks and our hymn, after a fashion, to Poseidon himself – free from blame, it seems to me; and I see that this is your feeling as well. And also, by Zeus, 23  Pernot, Rhétorique, 2.274–275, notes that while such combinations are common in epideictic, especially in panegyric orations, Aristides offers a particularly complex example. 24  Goeken, Aelius Aristide, 586 discusses the brilliance of the festival in this period and the possible venues for Aristides’s performance (589). 25  46.5: τὴν ὑγρὰν οὐσίαν οὕτω κληθεῖσαν. The phrase is reminiscent of the cosmologies of early Greek natural philosophers, but distant from philosophical hymns in the Stoic tradition such as, for example, Cleanthes’s Hymn to Zeus. On the genre of Cleanthes’s hymns, with further bibliography on philosophical hymns, see Johan C. Thom, Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus (Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christianity; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 9–11. Menander Rhetor writes that the category of what he calls “scientific hymns” (τῶν φυσιολογικῶν [ὕμνων]) may be further subdivided depending upon the proportion (συμμετρίας) of a text’s scientific content, from brief, enigmatic pieces to fully explanatory treatments (1.337.17–19). 26 46.5: Ὠκεανόν τε θεῶν γένεσιν (Il. 14.201 and 302); 46.6: ἀλλ’ ὑμεῖς γε πάντες ὕδωρ καὶ γαῖα γένοισθε (Il. 7.99). 27 As Pernot, Rhétorique, 2.316–317, comments, Aristides’s transitions, in this oration and elsewhere, are very sure-footed. The self-consciousness here is deliberate  – especially in light of the fact that he has forecast his treatment of Leucothea and Palaemon several times by the time he reaches this point in the speech.



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about the city, to put it as briefly as possible. But I see that it remains for us to speak about the two gods, the child [Melicertes-Palaemon] and his mother [Ino-Leucothea] – whether this part of the speech should be called a tale or a myth. I fear this part, and I am very frightened and uncertain how I  should handle it in your presence: whether we should believe in the sufferings of the gods (θεῶν παθήματα συμπεισθῆναι), along with most men, including Homer.28

Aristides’s feeling that this is a topic he must address reflects the performance context of his speech: both Leucothea and Palaemon had a substantial presence at the Isthmus, including in the sanctuary of Poseidon, where Palaemon had his own dedicated temple.29 Aristides hesitates, however, using the loaded logos/ mythos opposition to signal that he has doubts about the stories that connected these figures to the local cult landscape. The ἀπορία motif of hesitation was a topos in Greek hymns, frequently taking the form of a direct question addressed to the deity him- or herself: “How should I hymn you?”30 In this case, however, Aristides articulates his uncertainty in the form of an indirect question, and the fear he expresses has to do not with the god’s judgement, but the judgement of his human audience. They accept stories about the sufferings of the gods, but Aristides is uncertain whether he can share this belief (συμπεισθῆναι). Divine suffering was at the heart of the legend of Ino-Leucothea and Melicertes-Palaemon. According to tradition Ino, a daughter of King Cadmus of Thebes, was caught up in the exchange of jealous retribution between Hera and Zeus: when she and her husband Athamas agreed to nurse Dionysus, Semele’s child by Zeus, Hera punished the couple with madness – in some versions of the story, just Athamas, in other versions, Ino too. This madness, the curse of Hera, precipitated what would become the iconic scene of Leucothea leaping to her death from the sea-cliff with her young son Melicertes in her arms – either trying to flee Athamas’s mad rage, or in a homicidal/suicidal act of her own.31 The unexpected end result of this suffering and madness was immortality: received by the Nereids, Ino became the immortal Leucothea; Melicertes became the marine deity Palaemon, associated with Poseidon.32 28 46.32: τὰ μὲν δὴ περὶ αὐτοῦ τοῦ Ποσειδῶνος εἴρηται τρόπον τινὰ καὶ ὕμνηται, οὐ μεμπτῶς, ὥς γ’ ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ – ὁρῶ δὲ καὶ ὑμᾶς οὕτω διακειμένους – καὶ νὴ Δία γε καὶ περὶ αὐτῆς τῆς πόλεως, ὡς ἐν βραχυτάτῳ τις εἴποι· ὁρῶ δὲ λοιπὸν ὄντα ἡμῖν τὸν περὶ τοῖν θεοῖν, τοῦ τε παιδὸς καὶ τῆς μητρὸς αὐτοῦ, εἴτε καὶ λόγον εἴτε καὶ μῦθον χρὴ φάναι. ὃν ἐγὼ δέδοικα καὶ πάνυ ὀρρωδῶ τε καὶ ἀπορῶ ὅπη ποτὲ χρή με διαθέσθαι μεθ’ ὑμῶν, πότερα ὡς τοῖς πολλοῖς δοκεῖ καὶ Ὁμήρῳ δὲ συνδοκεῖ, θεῶν παθήματα συμπεισθῆναι καὶ ἡμᾶς. 29 Palaemon’s presence is clearly stronger at Isthmia itself than Ino-Leucothea’s, but Pausanias and other writers show that she too was connected with the region. See further below. 30  William H. Race, “Aspects of Rhetoric and Form in Greek Hymns,” GRBS 23 (1981), 5–14 at 6–8. 31  Its iconic nature is suggested by the fact that Leucothea’s leap is the subject of one of Philostratus’s Eikones (16). 32 Elizabeth Gebhard, “Rites for Melikertes-Palaimon in Early Roman Corinth,” in Urban Religion in Roman Corinth: Interdisciplinary Approaches, ed. Daniel N. Schowalter and

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Leucothea’s connection with the sea and the motif of her apotheosis appear already in Homer and throughout Greek literature thereafter. Palaemon, too, is regularly associated with sea divinities and named as a “protector of ships.”33 In a fragmentary Isthmian Ode of Pindar, one of the earliest texts to suggest a connection with localizable cult practice, Sisyphus is ordered to “raise up (ὄρσαι) a far-shining honour (γέρας) / for his (ᾧ) dead son, Melicertes.”34 Because Sisyphus is named, the fragment suggests some early connection between Melicertes and Corinth and perhaps, as Elizabeth Gebhard has argued, with early versions of the founding myth of the Isthmian games.35 It is only in the Roman period, however, that both literary and archaeological sources forge a strong connection between the two gods and the cult landscape of the Isthmus.36 From first-century CE scholia to Lycophron, to the extended narratives offered by Ovid in his Metamorphoses and Fasti, from Statius’s Thebaid to Plutarch’s Life of Theseus, writers locate the deaths and the cult celebration of Ino-Leucothea and Melicertes-Palaemon at the Isthmus.37 So, for example, when Pausanias traces the route from Megara to Corinth in his Periegesis, he frames his account primarily in terms of landmarks associated with this story.38 Beginning from Ino’s tomb at Megara (1.42.8), he notes the cliffs from which Leucothea jumped into the sea (1.44.6), the spot at which Palaemon Steven J. Friesen (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Theological Studies, 2005), 165–204 at 168–169. Timothy Gantz, Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 176–179 and 478, also surveys the tradition on Athamas and Ino. 33 Euripides, Iph. taur. 270. 34  Fr. 5 S‑M. Translation by William H. Race, Pindar: Olympian Odes. Pythian Odes (LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997). The description of Sisyphus as Melicertes’s father is unusual: elsewhere, Melicertes is the son of Athamas. 35 Elizabeth Gebhard and Matthew Dickie, “Melikertes-Palaimon: Hero of the Isthmian Games,” in Ancient Greek Hero Cult: Proceedings of the Fifth International Seminar on Ancient Greek Cult, Organized by the Department of Classical Archaeology and Ancient History, Göteborg University, 21–23 April 1995, ed. Robin Hägg (Stockholm: Skrifter utgivna av Svenska Institutet i Athen, 1999), 159–165. In the Hypothesis to the Isthmian Odes, the ancient scholiast writes that the Nereids (who now included the divinized Ino-Leucothea among their number) “appeared to Sisyphus and commanded him to conduct the Isthmian games in honor of Melicertes” (Σ 3.192.13 Drachmann). 36  While the Roman cult was framed as a “rediscovery,” there is no evidence for continuity from pre-Roman times (on this point, see Marcel Piérart, “Panthéon et Hellénisation dans la Colonie Romaine de Corinthe: La ‘redécouverte’ du culte de Palaimon à l’Isthme,” Kernos 11 [1998], 85–109). John G. Hawthorne, “The Myth of Palaemon,” TAPA 89 (1958), 92–98, argues that the surge in interest dates to the Augustan period. Gebhard and Dickie, “Melikertes-Palaimon,” argue for the existence of an earlier cult to Palaemon, associated with the Isthmian games. 37  It is noteworthy that the Latin sources for the myth that Hawthorne, “The Myth of Palaemon,” surveys – including, for example, Ovid’s Metamorphoses – develop extensively the part of the story that concerns Leucothea’s suffering. 38 Elizabeth Gebhard, “Pausanias at the Isthmian Sanctuary: The Principles Governing his Narrative,” in The Corinthia and the Northeast Peloponnese: Topography and History from



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was carried to shore on the back of a dolphin to be received by Sisyphus – still marked by a pine tree and altar honouring him as hero-founder of the Isthmian games (2.1.3). Pausanias’s narrative reaches its end not simply at the Isthmian temple of Poseidon but, more precisely, at the shrine dedicated to Palaemon within its precinct (2.2.1). Excavation at the site has produced architectural and artefactual evidence for a Roman-era cult that can be connected to Palaemon on the basis of inscriptions – and one that was significant enough to feature on local coins.39 All in all, the picture that emerges suggests a cult space that was active and popular – and one that was, in fact, renovated and elaborated in the imperial period, perhaps around the time Aristides visited.40 When Aristides refers, at the end of the final section of his oration, to the mysteries and rites of Palaemon celebrated in the Isthmian precinct, he indicates general approval: “It is good,” he says, “to speak of Palaemon, to pronounce his name, to swear his oath and to take part in his mysteries (τελετῆς) and rites (ὀργιασμοῦ)” (46.40).41 He also approves of how Leucothea is “spoken of and celebrated” in general (36).42 He objects, however, to certain pictures and stories. In the case of Palaemon, he objects to certain images in the cult context that he finds “terrible” and “impious” (φοβερά τε καὶ ἀσεβῆ γράμματα) saying he is “amazed that the first people who saw them put up with them and did not immediately take action against those who created and executed them” (46.41).43 Prehistoric Times until the End of Antiquity, ed. Konstantin Kissas and Wolf-Dietrich Niemeier (Athenaia 4; Munich: Hirmer, 2013), 263–274. 39  Archaeological evidence for several construction phases of the cult building and associated features was dated by Broneer to the second half of the second century CE. Daniel J. Geagan (“The Isthmian Dossier of P. Licinius Juventianus,” Hesperia 58/3 [1989], 349–360) discusses the inscriptions and coins that indicate contemporary interest in the cult and its material provision: local coins dating from as early as Hadrian depict an architectural setting with Palaemon lying on the back of a dolphin (359), and an inscription records gifts to the sanctuary by one P. Licinius Priscus Iuventianus, including a “Palaimonion,” an “enagistêrion” (a pit for offerings to the dead), and a “sacred portal.” Gebhard, “Rites for Melikertes,” provides an overview and synthesis of the conclusions drawn from excavation research. 40  Goeken, Aelius Aristide, 590–594, makes a plausible case for dating Aristides’s visit and oration to 175–177, based in part on an attractive reading of Aristides’s reaction to paintings in the sanctuary of Palaemon (ibid., 593–594; see below). Cf. Jason König, “Favorinus’ Corinthian Oration in its Corinthian Context,” The Cambridge Classical Journal 47 (2001), 141–171 at 155–156. 41  Pausanias (2.1.3 and 2.2.1), Plutarch, and Philostratus (Eik. 16) also describe the cult as a mystery cult. Archaeological evidence strongly indicates that the cult was chthonic in nature, so it is noteworthy, as Parker, “Religion in the Prose Hymns,” 77–79, observes, that while he exercises the “writer’s traditional privilege” in changing the legend, Aristides leaves the cult practices “untouched.” He raises problems with Ino-Leucothea’s ambiguous mortal-immortal status, but ignores these issues when it comes to Palaemon’s chthonic hero cult. 42  Her place in cult ritual at the Isthmian sanctuary is, however, not evident. It is Palaemon’s cult that comes through clearly in the sources. 43  46.41. Evoking the whole process of design and construction, Aristides seems to be weighing in on recent renovations to Palaemon’s cult space, as Goeken, Aelius Aristide, 594, suggests. While, as Parker, “Religion in the Prose Hymns,” 79, points out, we cannot be sure

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And he devotes considerable time to the theological problem raised by Leucothea’s story: divine suffering and apotheosis inappropriately blurs the boundary between mortal and immortal. Aristides mounts his case against the traditional story – at length – in two ways: first, by way of a theological argument; second, through narrative.44 Aristides’s theological argument has deep roots in Greek thought, since Leucothea’s apotheosis had been a touchstone of religious scepticism from Xenophanes forward. According to an anecdote in Aristotle’s Rhetoric, the people of Elea put the question to Xenophanes whether they should make sacrifices to Leucothea or sing dirges. It would depend, Xenophanes replied, on what they believed her to be: if they considered her a goddess, he said, then they should offer sacrifice; if they considered her a human being, then dirges, as to someone deceased.45 The view imputed to Xenophon is that the people of Elea cannot have it both ways; mortals and immortals belong to separate, incommensurate worlds. Of course, the division was blurred frequently in Greek polytheism – in various myths of apotheosis, and in chthonic and heroic cult rituals. Against this backdrop, Aristides’s theological statement on the matter is, perhaps surprisingly, as categorical as Xenophanes’s: either Leucothea was not divine, or none of these things happened to her as they are told in the traditional story (34).46 Aristides’s second and more distinctive mode of engagement with Leucothea’s story is narrative. He builds a case for her fully divine status through a close reading of the Homeric passage in which Ino-Leucothea makes her first appearance in Greek literature. In Book 5 of the Odyssey, Odysseus is shipwrecked by Poseidon, risking death as he clings to the scraps of his raft at sea, when Leucothea intervenes: The daughter of Cadmus saw him, slender-ankled Ino, Leucothea, who once was a mortal woman (βρωτός) with a human voice (αὐδέεσσα), But now lives in the salt seas and has gained her share of honour from the gods.47

Ino/Leucothea – given her two names, here, in the Homeric poem – intervenes and guides Odysseus to a safe landing on the shores of Phaeacia, protecting him, that Aristides is reacting to paintings in this very sanctuary, the vagueness of the reference could be interpreted as another pointed hesitation reflecting his sense of local context. 44  Pernot, Rhétorique, 2.358, comments on the “agonistic” style of Aristides’s refutation of the myth in this section: “Aristide adopte un style de discussion vif et véhément, marqué par des déductions qui s’enchaînent rapidement et par une apostrophe à un contradicteur anonyme.” 45 Aristotle, Rhet. 2.23 (1400b7). Xenophanes Fr. VS A 13. 46  The story continued to be told in the Imperial period. Plutarch, for example, refers in the Apophthegmata Laconica to some unattributed advice to the Thebans regarding the performance of sacrifices (hierourgias) and mourning (penthous) for Leucothea (Apoph. Lac. 228e). Cf. On Superstition 12 (171e), where Plutarch refers to a version of Xenophanes’s story that sets sacrifice to the gods in opposition to mourning for mortal men, but locates the story in Egypt. 47  Od. 5.333–335.



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famously, with her powerful veil.48 When he recalls this story, Aristides refers directly to the Odyssey, echoing its key terms as he rejects outright the Homeric description of Leucothea as mortal (βρωτός) but accepts the description of the goddess as “speaking with a human voice” (αὐδέεσσα): “and even if she did speak with a human voice, as he puts it who says this, nevertheless she certainly was not mortal.”49 The story that, as tradition has it, lies behind Leucothea’s ambiguous status is, Aristides says: […] neither a holy nor a pious story, especially when one is speaking about the gods [… and] we must banish (ὑπεροριστέον) this tale (λόγον) not only from the Isthmus and the Peloponnesus, but also from all of Greece. And if it should be necessary, we must even go to both seas and purify (ἀποκαθαρτέον) ourselves of the story of Athamas […]50

Referring here to the madness of Athamas and to Leucothea’s persecution by Hera, Aristides insists that narratives about gods have theological implications and, as a result, religious and social consequences. Suffering, which is inconsistent with the nature of divinity, should be excluded from the political and ritual community of the Isthmus and, indeed, of the wider Hellenic world. “Banishing” the story of Leucothea, however, is precisely what Aristides does not do. Instead, he rewrites it, reinterpreting this figure in her broader Homeric context. First, he points out that Homer represents many gods and goddesses – including Athena, Hermes, and Poseidon himself – as speaking with human beings, advising and helping them. This ability to communicate across the mortal/ immortal divide by means of a “human voice” does not mean, however, that Leucothea is mortal herself – any more than Athena is (34). Second, he offers his own alternative narrative of Leucothea’s journey from Boeotia to Corinth, proposing that it was motivated not by the madness or fear she is supposed to have suffered at the hands of Hera, but by romantic feelings on Poseidon’s part (35): And about these things, it would perhaps be well for us and pleasing to the gods to speak and to hear in this company that Poseidon loved (ἐρασθῆναι) Leucothea, and kept her by him because he had fallen in love (ἐρασθέντα) with her – after the fashion of Tyro, the daughter of Salmoneus and Amymone and all the other beauties – and that he hid her under the waves; and that her journey here from there, if we should accept these stories, was not the act of one fleeing to escape, but of one going across the sea as if to her bridal chamber (ἐπὶ θάλαμον). Nor did she snatch up and carry off her child from another union, 48  Leucothea’s veil was frequently interpreted symbolically, including by Aristides (46.38) and by his contemporary Maximus of Tyre (11.10), as representing philosophy’s protection of the shipwrecked soul. 49  46.34: εἰ δὲ καὶ “αὐδήεσσά” γε ἦν, ὡς ἔφη ὁ τοῦτο εἰπών, ἀλλὰ “βροτός” γε οὐκ ἦν. 50 46.33: ἢ τοῦτο μὲν οὔτε ὅσιον οὔτε εὐσεβὲς εἰπεῖν, ἄλλως τε καὶ περὶ τῶν θεῶν τὸν λόγον ποιούμενον, ἀλλὰ τοῦτον μὲν τὸν λόγον ὑπεροριστέον ἡμῖν οὐ μόνον ἔξω τοῦ  Ἰσθμοῦ καὶ τῆς Πελοποννήσου, ἀλλὰ καὶ ξυμπάσης τῆς  Ἑλλάδος· καὶ ἀποκαθαρτέον γε καὶ ἐπ’ ἄμφω ταῖν θαλάτταιν ἐλθόντας, εἰ δέοι, τὸν Ἀθάμαντα.

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but he was made a ward of Poseidon and a source of joy and a gift to him (παρακαταθήκην καὶ ἄθυρμα καὶ δῶρον Ποσειδῶνι).51

Here, divine suffering and divine violence are rewritten as romance (ἐρασθῆναι, ἐρασθέντα) – a romance that Aristides describes as being like marriage, and which promotes values of protection and trust, joy, and generosity.52 This rewriting, he proposes, should be more fitting for the panegyric occasion, and more pleasing not only to him, but to those ultimate arbiters of hymnic success – the gods. Then, to support this version of Leucothea’s romance, Aristides returns to the Odyssey to demonstrate that Homer’s plot in fact requires the backstory he has created. A romantic liaison between Leucothea and Poseidon is structurally necessary, he argues, in order to make sense of the key role Homer has given Leucothea in the epic. How could she have so effectively protected Odysseus had she not enjoyed full divine status and, with it, power over Poseidon? Since Poseidon’s anger and his desire to avenge his son Polyphemos are the reasons for Odysseus’s shipwreck, when Leucothea saves Odysseus from drowning, she claims the upper hand over the god of the sea himself. Aristides concludes: Now since we must believe Homer’s story (πείθεσθαι τῷ Ὁμήρου λόγῳ), there is likely to be embodied in her person a kind of supreme rule (μοναρχία τις) over the kingdom of the sea and for Poseidon himself to have no power (αὐτῷ ἐξεῖναι οὐδὲν), except with her consent (46.38).

Leucothea’s fully divine status should be clear, Aristides argues, from the fact that she successfully opposes Poseidon – and this proposition, he maintains, is what merits assent. So, while he began by suggesting that the story should be banished, what Aristides really has done is to rewrite the backstory of Homer’s narrative, re-imagining the relationship between Leucothea and Poseidon and its emotional qualities in such a way that he can claim to have made Homer’s narrative believable (πείθεσθαι). 51  46.35: τὸ δ’ἐπὶ τούτοις καλῶς ἂν ἡμᾶς ἴσως ἔχοι καὶ φίλως τοῖς θεοῖς λέγειν τε καὶ ἀκούειν ἐν ἀλλήλοις, ἐρασθῆναι μὲν Ποσειδῶνα Λευκοθέας καὶ ἐρασθέντα γε ἔχειν αὐτὴν παρ’ ἑαυτῷ – ὃν τρόπον καὶ Τυροῦς τῆς Σαλμωνέως καὶ Ἀμυμώνης καὶ ἄλλης τινὸς καλῆς – καὶ κρύψαι [γε] καὶ ταύτην ὑπὸ τῷ κύματι· τὰς δὲ ὁδοὺς αὐτῆς τὰς δεῦρο ἐκεῖθεν, εἰ ἄρα καὶ ταύτας παραδέξασθαι ἡμᾶς χρή, οὐ φυγῇ φευγούσης γενέσθαι, ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ ἐπὶ θάλαμον ἰούσης τὴν θάλατταν, οὐδὲ τὸν παῖδα, ὃς ἦν ἐξ ἑτέρου λέχους ἄρα αὐτῇ, φέρειν ἁρπάσασαν, ἀλλὰ παρακαταθήκην τε καὶ ἄθυρμα καὶ δῶρον Ποσειδῶνι. Poseidon’s love affair with Tyro is narrated at Od. 11.235–45. There Poseidon makes love to the mortal woman while disguised as her beloved, the divine river Enipeus, hiding their encounter under the wave. In this Homeric version of the story, Tyro participates willingly, but in the belief that she is with Enipeus, not Poseidon. 52 Cf. Pindar’s similarly romanticized versions of the stories of Cyrene and Pelops in Pythian 9 and Olympian 1, respectively (see n. 5, above). Modini, “Converting Epinician into Epideictic,” argues that Aristides’s handling of the story of Melicertes and Leucothea here may be inspired by Pindar’s treatment of the Pelops myth in Olympian 1. Modini points to several similarities in the mythic traditions of Pelops and Melicertes, and notes that the parallels may have been appreciated by Imperial writers. Philostratus, for example, links the two figures (VA 3.31.3).



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While Aristides may have felt obligated to address the legend of Leucothea in the context of the Isthmian festival, he was certainly not required to give it such close attention in the context of a wide-ranging panegyric hymn to Poseidon. Furthermore, had he wished to minimize the problem of Leucothea’s apotheosis, he could have compared her with deified heroes like Heracles and Asclepius, who offered a positive precedent.53 Instead, drawing attention to the violence, compulsion, madness and suffering that were part of her traditional story, he sets Leucothea next to other gods whose divine dignity is clearly compromised in myth: Ares, caught in bed with Aphrodite; Apollo, enslaved to a mortal man; and Hephaistos, hurled out of Olympus by Zeus who was offended by Hera’s independence (46.33). The lengths to which he goes, both to expose the problem and to solve it, suggests that his intellectual investment is substantial. By the end of his discussion Aristides makes clear what the nature of this investment is (39): […] my speech has done well to arrive at this point, especially because a benefit for us has been revealed (ἀνεφάνη) through it  – that Leucothea is a sort of lover of wisdom (φιλοσοφός τις), not just inclined to pity but in fact loving the Hellenes. For she was the one who saved Odysseus, much the wisest of the Hellenes and the best […]

Leucothea matters because of her protective relationship to Odysseus, whom Aristides fashions as a model for his own intellectual heroism at various points in his oeuvre. Tossed on the turbulent waves of illness and professional challenges, Aristides frequently imagines himself as a latter-day Odysseus, “swimming in the midst of a sea” of troubles (37.23), “clinging to his raft like a kind of Odysseus” (33.18), but guided and protected by the gods – including, especially, Athena.54 Here, he casts Leucothea in Athena’s role, as a divine sponsor of philosophy making himself one of the “Hellenes” who enjoys her support. When he uses the language of disbelief and belief to frame his discussion of Leucothea, he does so pointedly, taking the theological implications of myth not only seriously, but also personally.

3.  Narrative Coherence and Ethical Synopsis Bringing his discussion of Leucothea to a close, Aristides draws attention to the distance he has covered to “arrive at this point” – from Ino-Leucothea as a figure of human tragedy, to the divine Leucothea, sponsor of philosophy. He claims to have worked something out, to have completed a trajectory moving from his initial, sceptical response to the traditional legend, towards a story to which he 53 

As Cicero does, for example, in his De Natura Deorum (3.15). O. Schröder, “Das Odysseusbild des Aelius Aristides,” Rheinisches Museum 130 (1987), 350–356, discusses these and other passages in which Aristides invokes specific scenes from Homer’s Odyssey – including the Leucothea episode – as models for his own experience. 54  Heinrich

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can give his assent. This notion of narrative analysis, and the idea of narrative itself as a tool for reasoning about divine subjects, is one that Aristides presents more explicitly in the prologue of his hymn to the Greco-Egyptian god Sarapis (Or. 45). There, he proposes that qualities of narrative coherence endow writing about the gods with distinct theological possibilities. At the beginning of the hymn to Sarapis, Aristides presents narrative coherence – the word he uses is σύστασις – as one of the primary criteria for adequate thinking and writing about the gods. He makes this claim in the course of a lengthy, polemical prologue in which he argues for the superiority of prose writers over poets, especially when it comes to composing hymns to the gods. Hymns, he maintains, require particular care in the choice of topics, their organization, and accurate execution.55 In this effort, he claims, prose writers have the edge, because poets lack the requisite care and propriety and are inclined to tell stories about the gods that make them at once all-powerful and strangely human, “not only sitting together with humans, if it so chance, but also drinking with them and carrying torches to bring them light.”56 This discomfort with what Aristides seems to regard as excessively anthropomorphic depictions of the gods echoes his reservations about the traditional story of Leucothea. The gods may be humanized, but care must be taken with how this is done, so that the essence of the divine nature is respected: in the case of Leucothea, as we have seen, romance is appropriate; rape is not. In the prologue to the hymn to Sarapis, Aristides elaborates on what he characterizes as poets’ careless approach to narrative construction: Fortunate is the tribe of poets and free from hindrance on every side. For not only can they introduce whatever subjects (ὑποθέσεις) they wish at any time – things neither true (ἀληθεῖς), nor even credible (πιθανάς) sometimes, but lacking any coherence (σύστασιν) at all, if one’s to be honest – but they also handle these in whatever way suits them as far as the concepts and ideas (νοήμασί τε καὶ ἐνθυμήμασιν), so that in some cases if one were to remove what comes before and after it would be impossible to understand what their words mean in and of themselves.

In this set of criteria for writing and speaking about the gods  – truth, credibility, and coherence  – the final term, “coherence,” or “structure” (σύστασις) stands out, because it highlights Aristides’s concern with not the contents but the verbal architecture of a text.57 Poets, Aristides goes on to argue, claim the 55  45.4: ὑποθέσθαι καὶ διαχειρίσαι […] καὶ διὰ πάσης ἐλθεῖν ἀκριβείας. As Keil, Aelii Aris­ tidis Smyrnaei, ad loc., suggests, this seems to echo the three conventional tasks of the orator: εὕρεσις, τάξις, λέξις. 56  45.1–2. For further discussion of the prologue of the hymn to Sarapis, see Downie, “Götterlob zur Zeit Lukians.” 57  There are about 15 occurrences of the cognate verbal and substantive forms of this word across Aristides’s orations. In his commentary on the passage, Anton Höfler translates systasis as “straffe Ordnung” and suggests, given its reappearance in other orations, that it is an idiosyncratic, key term for Aristides: see Anton Höfler, Der Sarapishymnus des Ailios Aristeides



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license to write exactly as they wish about the gods, without any clear thinking (ἐνθυμήματα) or reasoning (νοήματα) – and this sense of license makes them, as he puts it, “tyrants of words” (τύραννοί τινες τῶν ὀνομάτων).58 Writers of prose, by contrast must choose their subjects (ὑποθέσεις, 45.1) correctly, handle the material of the investigation appropriately, and work through their intellectual propositions with precision (45.4), in ways that reflect divine symmetry and order on a cosmic scale.59 The order of a text, its verbal arrangement, the construction of its plot, should in Aristides’s view hold a mirror to the divine. Poetic license, a cavalier attitude towards truth, and careless composition may have been topoi of critique in the imperial period. Aristides’s point here recalls Dio Chrysostom’s criticism of Homer in his eleventh oration, when he argues that one way that poets like Homer get away with lying is by entangling their stories and refusing to make the sequence of events clear – in other words, by deliberately violating narrative coherence.60 But whereas Dio Chrysostom approaches this critique of Homer and the poets with a sense of humour, the context for Aristides’s discussion of narrative structure is serious: σύστασις matters in the prose hymns because it expresses a relationship between logos and divinity.61 We have seen this idea  – that literary composition has theological consequences – at work in the Isthmian oration when Aristides criticizes the Homeric story of Leucothea and presents his own version with a different narrative trajectory – one that is, to his mind, more coherent because it respects her essential divinity. Narrative accomplishes theological work, and it does so by devising a coherent structure in which mythic depictions of the gods may be combined with philosophical notions of divinity.62 (Stuttgart and Berlin: W. Kohlhammer, 1935), 21. Here, systasis seems a surprising echo of Aristotle’s Poetics, where systasis is a key word for the construction of an epic or tragic plot (cf., e. g., Aristotle, Poet. 1455a22, 1451a29, 1452a18, 1453a31, 1450a55); see Giovanni Brancato, La “systasis” nella Poetica di Aristotele (Naples: Libreria Scientifica Editrice, 1963). 58  45.1: ὥσπερ τύραννοί τινες τῶν ὀνομάτων ὄντες. Goeken, Aelius Aristide, 562, maintains the manuscript reading ὀνομάτων, against Keil, Aelii Aristidis Smyrnaei, ad loc., who follows Canter in amending to νοημάτων. Cf. 45.13 where poets are described as αὐτοκράτορες. 59  These ideas of order, measure, and structure provide the conceptual orientation for his praise of Sarapis in the body of the hymn; see Downie, At the Limits of Art; eadem, “Götterlob zur Zeit Lukians”; Karadimas, “Aelius Aristides’ Hymn to Sarapis.” 60  According to both Dio (Or. 11.24–25) and Aristides, poets pay no regard to proper beginnings and ends of stories. As Pernot, “Hymne en vers ou hymne en prose?” 180–183, discusses, also in Plutarch’s essay Why Oracles Are No Longer Written in Verse, poetry is associated with obscurity, prose with clarity. 61  The noun σύστασις appears elsewhere in Aristides’s corpus, where it is used to describe coherent political structures, both imperial and civic. In the oration To the Cities, On Concord, for example, he urges his listeners to “remember the whole political structure (σύστασις) to which we all belong” (i. e., the Roman Empire), and in one of his Smyrna orations he speaks of the wondrous “construction (σύστασις) of the city” at its second founding (Aristides, Or. 23.8 and 21.10). 62  Parker, “Religion in the Prose Hymns,” 82, describes this (specifically in relation to the hymn To Zeus) as “a plain man’s version of the Stoic compromise between the need for a

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I want to emphasize, in closing, that Aristides’s concept of narrative coherence cannot be reduced simply to allegory. Aristides does not set out to interpret Homeric stories or Homeric divinities allegorically, nor does he construct, or reconstruct, fictional worlds in order to provide tangible support for philosophical concepts. In Aristides’s prose hymns, narrative is not subordinate to philosophy  – as it is in Plutarch’s writings about the gods, for example, or in a text like Cleanthes’s Stoic Hymn to Zeus. Rather, Aristides engages narrative as an intellectual process that stands on equal footing with philosophical abstraction. Some context for this vision of equality between narrative and philosophical reasoning in the hymnic context is offered, I  propose, by the later theoretical writer Menander Rhetor in the first treatise of his taxonomic guide to epideictic oratory. Menander outlines seven kinds of hymns to the gods, subdivided according to type and occasion: cletic hymns, apopemptic hymns, scientific or philosophical hymns, mythical hymns, genealogical hymns, precatory, deprecatory hymns – and he reserves a special category for what he calls “fictive hymns” (πεπλασμένοι, 333.21–24). As Menander explains briefly at the beginning of the treatise, what he means by a “fictive hymn” is one in which “we personify (σωματοποιῶμεν) a god or the births of gods and daemons, as when Simonides speaks of the daemon To-morrow, and others of Hesitation (Oknos) and so on.”63 Texts, in other words, in which writers give anthropomorphic form to abstract concepts. However, when he comes to discuss “fictive hymns” in more detail later in the treatise, he offers a few examples that, in fact, mix personified concepts with traditional, anthropomorphic deities: This license [to invent hymns of great variety] proceeds from poets to writers of prose: for they craft texts in which Fear and Terror are the servants of Ares, while Flight is the beloved of Fear, and Sleep the brother of Death. Indeed, we too have imagined Logos as the brother of Zeus, as if in an ethical synopsis.64

central controlling intelligence and traditional polytheism” and describes Aristides’s hymns in general as “post-Homeric” for the combination of myth and philosophy (76–81). On the mixed quality of the “narrative” sections of Aristides’ hymns, in relation to uses of narrative elsewhere in the hymnic tradition, see Owen Hodkinson, “Narrative Technique and Generic Hybridity in Aelius Aristides’ Prose Hymns,” in Hymnic Narrative and the Narratology of Greek Hymns, ed. Andrew Faulkner and Owen Hodkinson (Mnemosyne Suppl. 384; Leiden: Brill, 2015), 143–164 at 144–145. 63  As Donald A. Russell and Nigel G. Wilson, Menander Rhetor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), explain in their comment on the passage, this reference to Simonides is not easy to trace meaningfully in the extant fragments. For the personification of Hesitation Menander may have in mind a familiar story about Oknos in Hades. 64 Men. Rhet. 1.341.11–17: ἥκει καὶ αὕτη ἡ ἐξουσία παρὰ τῶν ποιητῶν [παρὰ] τοῖς συγγραφεῦσιν. Ἄρεως μὲν γὰρ θεράποντας Δεῖμον καὶ Φόβον ἀναπλάττουσι, τοῦ δὲ Φόβου τὴν Φυγὴν φίλην, καὶ τοῦ Θανάτου τὸν Ὕπνον ἀδελφόν ἤδη δὲ καὶ ἡμεῖς τὸν Λόγον Διὸς ἀδελφὸν ἀνεπλάσαμεν, ὡς ἐν ἠθικῇ συνόψει.



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Poetic references to Fear and Terror as children or attendants of the war-god Ares can be found in Homer and Hesiod65 – allegorical moments in what is (at least in the case of Homer) a fully narrative world inhabited by gods as characters and not, primarily, as representatives of philosophical abstractions. Nothing is known of the text of his own to which Menander refers – a piece in which he makes Logos the brother of Zeus – but what is striking here is that by pairing the divine character Zeus with the concept of Logos, he suggests a flexible combination of the embodied and the abstract: bringing a figure of traditional mythology (Zeus) together with an abstract concept (Logos) as “brothers” Menander aims at a synoptic view. From Menander Rhetor’s slightly later perspective, it was possible to delineate a category of “fictive hymns” characterized by the kind of creative combination of story and abstraction that Aristides theorizes in his hymn to Sarapis and puts into practice in the Leucothea section of his Isthmian Oration: To Poseidon.66

4. Conclusion Summing up a detailed study of Homeric presences in Aristides’s oeuvre, J. Kindstrand characterized the writer’s engagement with the traditional gods as “capricious.”67 Indeed, as we have seen, at some moments Aristides embraces Homeric stories about the gods; at other moments, he rejects them, adopting a variety of perspectives and postures that have led many scholars, including Robert Parker, to conclude that Aristides’s sense of rhetorical occasion provides the primary motivation for each hymn’s shape. While I agree with Parker, and others, that Aristides is finely attuned to literary tradition and rhetorical context, 65  E. g., Il. 11.37. For further examples and discussion, see Russell and Wilson, Menander Rhetor, ad loc. 66  The phrase “as if in an ethical synopsis” appears to underscore this point, as it suggests not a double construction of surface narrative and hidden meaning, but rather a unified field of vision. Russell and Wilson, Menander Rhetor, ad loc., translate this phrase “as in Summary of Ethics,” as if Menander is referring to one of his own works by title. I instead follow William H. Race, ed. and tr., Menander Rhetor, Dionysius of Halicarnassus: Ars Rhetorica (LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2019), who translates “as in an ethical synopsis.” Both reject Friedrich Jacobs’s conjecture συνάψει (for συνόψει) – which, as Race comments, would mean “as in an ethical connection,” and “would imply an allegorical affinity” – and both conclude that the passage remains obscure (cf. Friedrich Jacobs, “Variae Lectiones, Cap. IV,” All­ gemeine Schulzeitung 5/2, Nr. 80 [1828], 649–653; idem, “Variae Lectiones, Cap. V,” Allgemeine Schulzeitung 5/2, Nr. 81 [1828], 657–662). Russell and Wilson also note that the phrase “reads like an addition to the text rather than the author’s words” (241). Whether the words are Menander’s own, or were added by a later commentator, the phrase seems to me to be an attempt to explain or to understand the literary move illustrated by these examples. 67  Jan Fredrik Kindstrand, Homer in der Zweiten Sophistik. Studien zu der Homerlektüre und dem Homerbild bei Dion von Prusa, Maximos von Tyros und Ailios Aristeides (Uppsala: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, 1973), 203.

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I have argued that his engagement with the traditional gods is, nevertheless, not capricious. Rather, it reflects an encounter with the stories of polytheism that we can productively consider in terms of a dynamic process of reasoned belief and doubt because Aristides tests these stories against a conception of divinity as singular source and origin that, as Karadimas has shown, we can see is an underlying commitment in much of his oeuvre. Like Plutarch, Aristides subjects stories about the gods to a process of examination, aiming at what we might describe as an artful, intellectual πίστις. In Aristides’s case, distinctively, this reasoning process involves re-writing received narratives. His aim is not to reduce the stories themselves to the status of allegorical, coded representations of abstract values – and in that sense, he is not the philosopher that Plutarch, ultimately, is.68 Rather, I have argued, Aristides is committed to the idea that abstract and embodied notions of divinity should be viewed together, in a kind of “ethical synopsis” that bridges the gap between mortal and immortal realms and gives narrative its distinctive theological possibilities.

68 Both Kindstrand, Homer in der Zweiten Sophistik, 209, and Parker, “Religion in the Prose Hymns,” 76, writing from very different perspectives, agree that Aristides’s approach to traditional mythology cannot be characterized as thoroughly allegorical, nor as demythologizing.

Loukianos Atheos? Humour and Religious Doubt in Lucian of Samosata Inger N. I. Kuin Many premodern scholars viewed Lucian of Samosata, the second century CE orator, as a bona fide atheist. Their depiction shaped Lucianic reception for centuries to come. Since the 1980s alternative interpretations of the author’s stance towards religion have come to the fore. In current scholarship he is understood alternately as holding sceptic, agnostic, or even pious views. In this chapter I will diverge from these biographical attempts to characterize Lucian’s own religious attitude, which for the most part remains hidden behind his sophisticated authorial masks, to investigate how the orator’s diverse audiences might have responded to his seemingly irreverent humour instead. I focus on Lucian’s representation of characters that explicitly critique one or more aspects of ancient religion. How does Lucian depict such critics and doubters? And, how was the audience – who for the most part would have been active in religious practice – meant to respond to them? I start out by briefly discussing when and why Lucian himself was considered a critic of ancient religion or even an atheos. Second, I  turn to Lucian’s own, sparse use of the designation atheos. The remainder of the chapter will consist of a study of four critics of ancient religion in Lucian, respectively: the anonymous speaker of On Sacrifices, Demonax from the Life of Demonax, Cyniscus from Zeus Refuted, and Damis from Zeus the Tragic Actor. I will suggest that in these pieces sceptical attitudes towards religion are displayed, yet not necessarily confirmed. Lucian’s destabilizing humour prevents a straightforward interpretation: Cyniscus, it seems, is ridiculed just as much as Zeus. The author gave his listeners and readers an opportunity to explore their religious doubts through laughter, but ultimately allowed them to make up their own minds about the gods.

1.  Loukianos Atheos The second oldest mention of Lucian’s name outside of his own works comes from the Christian author Lactantius, who wrote in the early fourth century CE. Lactantius discusses the story of Heracles’s serving Omphale as a slave, to attack

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Heracles as a licentious god and a poor example for humans. Someone might challenge him on this, thinks Lactantius, saying that one cannot believe what the ancient poets write about the gods. Lactantius’s response to this imagined criticism is that the poets, unlike the satirists, are reliable when it comes to myth: non enim ista Lucilius narrat, aut Lucianus, qui diis et hominibus non pepercit; sed hi potis­ simum, qui deorum laudes canebant. It is not Lucilius who tells such stories, nor Lucian, who spared neither gods nor men, but rather those men who sang praises to the gods.1

Lactantius’s reasoning is that critics of the gods would have a clear motive to invent false slanders about them. If the same information comes from the poets, it must actually be true. Lactantius’s brief discussion of Lucian is interesting for a few reasons. First, Lucian does tell the story of Heracles’s enslavement to Omphale. He has Asclepius make fun of Heracles for wearing Omphale’s dress, and for letting him beat him with a golden sandal (Dial. D. 15); elsewhere an unnamed first person speaker describes in detail a painting of the same scene (Hist. 10). If Lactantius read any Lucian, he must have missed these passages. Given the size of Lucian’s corpus this would not be so strange. Alternatively, Lactantius includes Lucian here based on his reputation alone, without having read any of his works. He mentions Lucian simply because he knows him as a satirist of a similar bend as Lucilius. Lactantius cites Lucilius repeatedly and mentions one of his works entitled Concilium Deorum, a comic divine assembly (Inst. 4.3; 4.15); Lucian has a piece on the same subject and by the same title (in Greek: Θεῶν Ἐκκλησία), though we cannot be sure if the title is his. For Lactantius, then, pieces like the Concilia Deorum that Lucian and Lucilius wrote amounted to (humorous) criticism of the gods, whether he knew Lucian’s version or not.2 The image of a god-slaying Lucian would outlast Lactantius by many centuries. Long before he was popular with humanists like Thomas More and Erasmus, Lucian was enlisted, surprisingly, as an ally by Christian commentators. 1 Lactantius,

Inst. 1.9. Ogilvie reads the Lucian comment in Inst. 1.9 as a spurious interpolation, without giving an explicit reason, but perhaps on account of the similarity of the authors’ names: see Robert M. Ogilvie, The Library of Lactantius (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), 82; contra Barry Baldwin, “The Church Fathers and Lucian,” Patristica 17/2 (1982), 627–630. The connection between the two authors, through their composition of Concilia deorum, makes it possible that Lactantius knew (of) Lucian’s works and included him intentionally. We cannot assume that Lucianic titles are his (for De sacrificiis there are strong arguments to the contrary: see Fritz Graf, “A Satirist’s Sacrifices,” in Ancient Mediterranean Sacrifice, ed. Jennifer Wright Knust and Zsuzsanna Varhelyi [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011], 203–215; cf. also Nicole Belayche, “Entre deux éclats de rire. Sacrifice et représentation du divin dans le De Sacrificiis de Lucien,” in Nourrir les dieux? Sacrifice et représentation du divin, ed. Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge and Francesca Prescendi [Liège: Presses Universitaires de Liège, 2011], 165–180), but in this case there are no clear signs that the title postdates Lucian. 2 



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Photius, in the ninth century CE, praises Lucian’s description of “the error and folly in their (i. e., the pagans’) invention of the gods.”3 Several other scholiasts, including the tenth-century bishop Arethas, express appreciation for Lucian’s playful irreverence towards the gods of Greeks and Romans. At the same time, they find Lucian’s positions confusing. How, for instance, can he fault the Christians in On the Death of Peregrinus – about Lucian’s contemporary Peregrinus, a Christian holy man turned Cynic philosopher who immolated himself – for not recognizing the gods of the Greeks, while he so often ridiculed the pagan gods himself? Arethas asks Lucian: ἔτι θεοὺς ὀνομάζεις, οὓς ὀλίγον ἔμπροσθεν, ἓν γοῦν τοῦτο καλὸν ποιῶν, ἀρκούντως διέπαιξας; Do you still call them gods, whom you just prior, and rightly so, made fun of abundantly?4

Another scholiast calls Lucian a “wretched brute” for suddenly turning the tables, wondering with exasperation how the author can think that gods whom he just depicted as eagles and bulls are worthy of sacrifice.5 Indignation takes the place of confusion among the scholiasts when they perceive Lucian as slighting Jesus (in The Lover of Lies; in fact the passage has nothing to do with Jesus), as casting doubt on the existence of divine providence (in Tragic Zeus) or on the existence of the divine (in Alexander the False Prophet). These are also the only passages that earn Lucian the epithets atheos and dyssebēs (impious) in the scholia.6 Finally, the Suda entry for Lucian famously describes him as: ὁ ἐπικληθεὶς βλάσφημος ἢ δύσφημος, ἢ ἄθεος εἰπεῖν μᾶλλον, ὅτι ἐν τοῖς διαλόγοις αὐτοῦ γελοῖα εἶναι καὶ τὰ περὶ τῶν θείων εἰρημένα παρατίθεται. The one called blasphemer or slanderer, or, better still, atheos, because in his dialogues he presented the things people say about the gods as being laughable.7

Here Lucian is painted as an outright enemy of the gods, with blasfēmos, dysfēmos, and atheos almost functioning as an ascending tricolon (I will discuss the connotations and development of the adjective atheos below). In the premodern reception of Lucian, his perceived personal attitude towards religion is clearly central. Furthermore, Lucianic humour about religion – whether it concerns pagans or Christians, and whether the commentator approves of it or not – is consistently understood as sceptic mockery. The aporia 3 Photius,

Bibl. 128: τήν τε τῆς θεοπλαστίας αὐτῶν πλάνην καὶ μωρίαν. R ad Peregr. 13. Cf. Hugo Rabe, Scholia in Lucianum (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1971), 218; Giuseppe Russo, Contestazione e conservazione. Luciano nell’esegesi di Areta (Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 297; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2011), 14, 18. 5  Σ V ad Peregr. 13: μιαρὰ κεφαλή. 6  Respectively, Σ Vat. 1325 ad Philops. 16, where Lucian is called ἄθεος (cf. Rabe, Scholia, 163); Σ Mosq. 315 ad Jupp. trag. 47, where Arethas calls Lucian δυσσεβής (ibid., 78); and Σ B ad Alex. 60, where Lucian is again ἄθεος (ibid., 185). 7 Suda Λ 683. 4  Σ

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of the scholiasts, at a loss to understand how Lucian can ridicule the pagan gods and consider them worthy of worship, is a precursor of the lack of consensus in modern scholarship on Lucian’s attitude towards religion. The scholiasts’ disappointment in Lucian as an ally for Christians is instructive, in that it illustrates the mutability and elusiveness of the authorial perspective in the Lucianic corpus. As the subsequent reception history shows, constructing a coherent vision of the historical Lucian is exceedingly difficult for any reader, because he has obscured himself by means of an elaborate structure of authorial masks. In modern prewar scholarship we find, again, the image of Lucian as an enemy of the gods. Allinson called him a “sincere crusader against […] the pagan gods […] and, above all, the superstitions, major and minor, of his time.”8 Caster, at the end of his monograph on Lucian and religion, similarly concludes that religion was absolutely foreign to Lucian, causing him to “rail against it without pity.”9 Both scholars understand Lucian’s humour as an expression of the author’s personal distaste for all religion. Highet, in his standard work on satire, still followed this view a few decades later, scathingly comparing Lucian with a “freshman preaching atheism.”10 In postwar Lucian scholarship the interest in the author’s personal attitude to religion remained strong, and he was viewed, still, as a sceptic, but sometimes also as agnostic.11 Even in the last decade evaluations of Lucian’s religious attitudes have continued to vary widely. It has been argued that the author satirizes religion out of a frustration over not having any real religious experiences in his own life,12 that he had a Platonic view of the divine,13 that he rejected all ancient religious ritual,14 and, in one and the same article, that he denied the existence of any transcendental beings while still believing in astrology and temple medicine.15 These divergent conclusions illustrate amply how problematic it is 8 Francis G. Allinson, Lucian: Satirist and Artist (Boston: Marshall Jones Company, 1926), 7. 9 Marcel Caster, Lucien et la pensée religieuse de son temps (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1937), 366. 10 Gilbert Highet, Anatomy of Satire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963), 42. 11  Agnostic: Barry Baldwin, Studies in Lucian (Toronto: Hakkert, 1973), 118; cf. also Jennifer Hall, Lucian’s Satire (New York: Arno Press, 1981), 204. Skeptic: Christopher P. Jones, Culture and Society in Lucian (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1986), 45. 12 Fabio Berdozzo, Götter, Mythen, Philosophen. Lukian und die Paganen Göttervor­ stellungen seiner Zeit (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2011); cf. Orestis Karavas, “La religiosité de Lucien,” in A Lucian for Our Times, ed. Adam Bartley (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars, 2009), 137–144. 13  Matthew W. Dickie, “Lucian’s Gods: Lucian’s Understanding of the Divine,” in The Gods of Ancient Greece: Identities and Transformations, ed. Jan N. Bremmer and Andrew Erskine (Edinburgh Leventis Studies 5; Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2010), 348–361. 14  Belayche, “Entre deux éclats de rire.” 15 Wofgang Spickermann, “Lucian of Samosata on Oracles, Magic and Superstition,” in Divination in the Ancient World: Religious Options and the Individual, ed. Veit Rosenberger (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2013), 139–151.



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to construct Lucian’s view of religion from his corpus, in which he rarely, if ever, speaks in his own voice. The common denominator of the prewar and postwar scholarship is that Lucian’s corpus is approached as a unified whole on the basis of which it is possible to delineate the author’s attitude towards religion. The writing of Robert Bracht Branham on Lucian’s Dialogues of the Gods stands out as an exception. My own work is greatly indebted to his approach of focusing “not on the question ‘What did Lucian really believe?’ but rather on the prior question of how his mythological dialogues produce their peculiar brand of meaning.”16 The fact that biographical approaches have been so influential in modern Lucian reception is due in large part to his frequent use of quasi-authorial masks. The complexity of Lucian’s employment of first-person narrators and provocatively named protagonists suggests that the author purposely wanted to confuse the audience about his own involvement. In the past, scholars have been particularly ready to identify the views of first-person narrators named “Lucian,” anonymous first-person narrators, and of the interlocutors Tychiades, Parrhesiades, the Syrian, and Lycinus, with those of the author.17 Additionally, interlocutors like Demonax, Menippus, Cyniscus, the Epicurean Damis, and even Charon and Momus, have also sometimes been understood to express views held by Lucian himself. There has been much criticism on the larger issue of reading the historical Lucian into his authorial masks in recent years,18 but in scholarship 16 

Robert B. Branham, Unruly Eloquence: Lucian and the Comedy of Traditions (Revealing Antiquity 2; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1989), 129. 17  Narrators named ‘Lucian’: Alex., Ver. Hist. Fictive letters written by ‘Lucian’: Nigr. and Peregr. Anonymous first person narrators: Luct., Sacr., and Astr. 18 Suzanne Saïd, “Le ‘je’ de Lucien,” in L’Invention de l’autobiographie d’Hésiode à Saint Augustin, ed. Marie-Françoise Baslez, Philippe Hoffmann, and Laurent Pernot (Études de Littérature Ancienne 5; Paris: Presses de l’ École Normale Supérieure, 1993), 253–270; Diskin Clay, “Lucian of Samosata: Four Philosophical Lives (Nigrinus, Demonax, Peregrinus, Alexander Pseudomantis),” ANRW II/36.5 (1992), 3406–3450; Sandrine Dubel, “Dialogue et autoportrait. Les masques de Lucien,” in Lucien de Samosate. Actes du colloque international de Lyon organisé au Centre d’études romaines et gallo-romaines, les 30 septembre–1er octobre 1993, ed. Alain Billault (Lyon: Centre d’études romaines et gallo-romaines, 1994), 19–26; Tim Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 248–254; Simon Goldhill, Who Needs Greek? Contests in the Cultural History of Hellenism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 60–73; Keith Sidwell and Noreen Humble, “Dreams of Glory: Lucian as Autobiographer,” in The Limits of Ancient Biography, ed. Brian McGing and Judith Mossman (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2006), 213–225; Mark J. Edwards, “Was Lucian a Despiser of Religion?” in Uluslararası Samsatlı Lucianus sempozyumu = International Symposium on Lucianus of Samosata, ed. Mustafa Çevik (Adiyaman: Adiyaman University, 2008), 145–154; Karen ní Mheallaigh, Reading Fiction with Lucian: Fakes, Freaks, and Hyperreality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 121–132; Daniel S. Richter, Cosmopolis: Imagining Community in Late Classical Athens and the Early Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 146–147; Alberto Camerotto, Gli occhi e la lingua della satira. Studi sull’eroe satirico in Luciano di Samosata (Milan: Mimesis, 2014), 17–40; Manuel Baumbach and Peter von Möllendorff, Ein literarischer Prometheus.

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specifically on religion in Lucian this has not been the case. In this chapter I will take a closer look at four of these “masks,” Damis, Cyniscus, Demonax, and an anonymous first-person speaker, in order to show not only that they should not be equated with the historical author, but also for what purposes Lucian enrolled these critics in his performances.

2.  Atheoi in Lucian’s Works It would seem that translating atheos should be relatively straightforward, since there appears to be a close etymological connection with the English atheism-terminology. Unfortunately things are a bit more complicated: in Europe the Latin atheus was derived from the Greek only in the 15th century.19 Furthermore, atheos in Greek initially means nothing like what we today understand under “atheist.” The adjective atheos at first referred to someone “abandoned by the gods” (LSJ A3), who might therefore be considered “godless” or “depraved” (LSJ A2). The first instance of atheos referring to someone denying the existence of the gods occurs in Plato’s Apology – dramatic date 399 BCE, written probably sometime in the early fourth century BCE – where Socrates vehemently denies the charge of being atheos in this specific sense.20 From the late fourth or early third century BCE onwards, lists of names of atheoi start circulating, usually in the context of philosophical polemic. For this very reason such lists are problematic. Many individuals on these lists clearly were not atheoi in the strict sense that they explicitly denied the existence of the gods, some rather were what we would now call “agnostics,” and some believed that the gods exist but do not care about us, most notably the Epicureans. It seems that atheos could be used in a broad, colloquial sense: aside from Epicurus, Critias, Diagoras, and Xenophanes were also known as atheoi because of their (alleged) provocative views of the divine. Whether or not they actually denied the existence of the gods might have been Lukian aus Samosata und die Zweite Sophistik (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2017) 13–57. 19  Jan N. Bremmer, Review of Tim Whitmarsh, Battling the Gods: Atheism in the Ancient World (New York: Alfred Knopf, 2015), Classical Philology 113/3 (2018), 373–379; cf. Concetta Bianca, “Per la storia del termine ‘atheus’ nel Cinquecento. Fonti e traduzioni greco-latine,” Studi Filosofici 3 (1980), 71–104. 20 Plato, Apol. 26c: ἐγὼ γὰρ οὐ δύναμαι μαθεῖν πότερον λέγεις διδάσκειν με νομίζειν εἶναί τινας θεούς  – καὶ αὐτὸς ἄρα νομίζω εἶναι θεοὺς καὶ οὐκ εἰμὶ τὸ παράπαν ἄθεος οὐδὲ ταύτῃ ἀδικῶ – οὐ μέντοι οὕσπερ γε ἡ πόλις ἀλλὰ ἑτέρους, καὶ τοῦτ᾽ ἔστιν ὅ μοι ἐγκαλεῖς, ὅτι ἑτέρους, ἢ παντάπασί με φῂς οὔτε αὐτὸν νομίζειν θεοὺς τούς τε ἄλλους ταῦτα διδάσκειν. Cf. C. David C. Reeve, “Socrates the Apollonian?” in Reason and Religion in Socratic Philosophy, ed. Nicholas D. Smith and Paul Woodruff (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 24–39 at 27–29; David N. Sedley, “The Atheist Underground,” in Politeia in Greek and Roman Philosophy, ed. Verity Harte and Melissa Lane (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 329–348 at 347.



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less important to the ancients in terms of their qualifying for this label than it is to modern scholars. Jewish and Christian authors used the adjective atheos in yet another sense. In the first century CE the Jewish author Philo of Alexandria applies atheos to the Egyptians, whose (from his perspective) outlandish religion earns them this label.21 From the second century CE onwards Christian sources report that Christians are being called atheos and even atheotatos by Greeks,22 which would mirror Philo’s usage in its implication of honouring radically different god(s). Similarly, Christians later appropriate the term atheos to refer to Christians of opposing creeds and to traditional polytheists.23 In Second Sophistic oratory atheos is not a particularly common term. Two of the more prolific (extant) authors from the movement, Aelius Aristides and Dio Chrysostom, do not use the term at all.24 Among Lucian’s works there are four texts in which the adjective atheos occurs. The first text is On Slander. The anonymous speaker explains that if you want to slander someone, the prospective audience of the slander should be taken into account. A good way of discrediting someone with a pious individual is to denounce that person for being impious and godless: To a pious and god-loving man the charge is made that his friend is an atheist and impious, that he rejects the divine and denies providence. Then the man, as if stung in the ear by a gadfly, gets thoroughly angry, as can be expected, and turns his back on his friend without awaiting accurate proof.25

The passage is remarkable for its full account of what, for a skilled slanderer, being atheos entails: to reject the divine and to deny providence. It is expected that a god-loving man would not want to associate with an atheos, but perhaps the reaction of someone with an average enthusiasm for religion would be less harsh. 21 

E. g., Philo, Post. 2.4. ad Gr. 29. 23  Cf. Marek Winiarczyk, “Methodisches zum antiken Atheismus,” Rheinisches Museum 133/1 (1990), 1–15; Jan N. Bremmer, “Atheism in Antiquity,” in The Cambridge Companion to Atheism, ed. Michael Martin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 11–26 at 19–22; idem, Review of Whitmarsh, Battling with Gods; Sedley, “The Atheist Underground,” 329–332; Whitmarsh, Battling with Gods, 116–117, 165–167, 238–242. 24  Plutarch, in contrast, uses the term a lot to describe (alleged) disbelievers of various stripes: see Inger N. I. Kuin, “Deaf to the Gods: Atheism in Plutarch’s  Peri deisidaimonias,” in  Plutarch: The Religious Landscape. Brill’s Plutarch Studies, ed. Rainer Hirsch-Luipold and F. Lautaro Roig-Lanzillotta (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming). 25 Lucian, Cal. 14: πρὸς δὲ τὸν εὐσεβῆ καὶ φιλόθεον ὡς ἄθεος καὶ ἀνόσιος ὁ φίλος διαβάλλεται καὶ ὡς τὸ θεῖον παρωθούμενος καὶ τὴν πρόνοιαν ἀρνούμενος: ὁ δ᾽ ἀκούσας εὐθὺς μύωπι διὰ τοῦ ὠτὸς τυπεὶς διακέκαυται ὡς τὸ εἰκὸς καὶ ἀπέστραπται τὸν φίλον οὐ περιμείνας τὸν ἀκριβῆ ἔλεγχον. Lucian’s mention of the gadfly is a clear reference to Plato, Apol. 30e, which, to the best of my knowledge, has so far gone unnoticed. 22 Tatianus,

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Our second text is Toxaris, a dialogue between a Greek and a Scythian about friendship. The discussion starts with Mnesippus, the Greek, asking why Pylades and Orestes are honoured in Scythia with sacrifices. When Toxaris, the Scythian, replies that the Scythians give cult to men of high achievement after they have died in order to inspire others to emulate them, Mnesippus responds that in general this might be sound, but not with regards to Pylades and Orestes. They, about to be sacrificed to Artemis by the Scythians, overpowered their guards, killed king Thoas (this element in the story is otherwise unattested),26 carried off the priestess – Orestes’s sister Iphigeneia – and kidnapped the goddess Artemis herself, that is, her statue and in this case thereby her cult. Honouring Pylades and Orestes, and inspiring others to emulate them, will have disastrous consequences, argues Mnesippus: I think that in this way you will become impious and without gods / atheists, once the rest of your gods has been shipped out of the country to foreign parts in the same way. Then, I suppose, in place of all the gods you will deify the men who came to obtain them for export and will sacrifice to the robbers of your temples as gods!27

This rather humorous passage seems to play on the ambiguous meaning of atheos, invoking, on the one hand, the sense of “without gods,” and, on the other hand, the sense of “god-denying” and thereby “impious.” The dialogue quickly moves on from this topic: Toxaris says that even though Pylades and Orestes should be revered for these courageous deeds, the real reason why the Scythians honour them is their faithful friendship. Our third text is Alexander the False Prophet, a pseudo-biography in letterform. The protagonist of this well-known piece, the charlatan-prophet Alexander of Abonuteichos, tries to scare the people of Pontus by saying that their country is full of Christians and atheists. If they do not expel the disbelievers by casting stones at them, the god Glycon will retaliate against their country.28 They are also excluded from Alexander’s mysteries, alongside the Epicureans, who, as I mentioned above, had a reputation for being atheoi as well: On the first day [of the mysteries], as at Athens, there was a proclamation, worded as follows: “If any atheist or Christian or Epicurean has come to spy on the rites, let him be off, and let those who believe in the god be initiated under the blessing of Heaven.” Then straightaway, at the very beginning, there was an expulsion in which he took the lead, 26  See Emeline Marquis, ed. and tr., Lucien: Œuvres. Tome XII – Opuscules 55–57 (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2017), 477–478. 27 Lucian, Tox. 2: ἐμοὶ μὲν γὰρ δοκεῖτε τάχιστα ἂν οὕτως ἀσεβεῖς αὐτοὶ καὶ ἄθεοι γενέσθαι, τῶν περιλοίπων θεῶν τὸν αὐτὸν τρόπον ὑμῖν ἐκ τῆς χώρας ἀποξενωθέντων: εἶτ᾽, οἶμαι, ἀντὶ τῶν θεῶν ἁπάντων τοὺς ἐπ᾽ ἐξαγωγῇ αὐτῶν ἥκοντας ἄνδρας ἐκθειάσετε καὶ ἱεροσύλοις ὑμῶν οὖσιν θύσετε ὡς θεοῖς. 28 Lucian, Alex. 25: λέγων ἀθέων ἐμπεπλῆσθαι καὶ Χριστιανῶν τὸν Πόντον, οἳ περὶ αὐτοῦ τολμῶσι τὰ κάκιστα βλασφημεῖν οὓς ἐκέλευε λίθοις ἐλαύνειν, εἴ γε θέλουσιν ἵλεω ἔχειν τὸν θεόν.



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saying: “Out with the Christians,” and the whole multitude chanted in response, “Out with the Epicureans!”29

It is of course remarkable that these three groups are lumped together, and it might serve to underscore Alexander’s dislike for the Epicureans, seeing as the low, outcast status of Christians and atheists is taken for granted here.30 This marginality also makes it easy for the ambitious holy man to target them as scapegoats. All three groups would have been indifferent to Alexander’s oracle cult. Our final text is On the Death of Peregrinus, Lucian’s second pseudo-biography in letterform of an ambitious holy man from the second century CE. This text is best known for its brief discussion of Peregrinus’s dealings with a Christian or possibly Judeo-Christian community, which has been discussed in detail by Jan Bremmer in a 2007 article.31 Here I will only look at the text’s single reference to atheists. Most of the first half of the text consists of a speech about Peregrinus (Peregr. 7–31) attributed by the letter writer “Lucian” to an anonymous man in Elis. Our passage is part of this speech, and concerns Peregrinus’s plans to be burned alive on the pyre: He will roast himself in front of a full crowd at Olympia all but on a stage, and, by Heracles, he is not undeserving of it, if parricides and atheists indeed must receive punishment for their deeds.32

This passage is difficult to interpret. Earlier in the text we have heard about the accusations that Peregrinus murdered his own father (Peregr. 10), so this explains why he is called a parricide. But why does Lucian have the speaker call him atheos here? Even if there is no parallel for this usage in Lucian, atheos may refer to Peregrinus’s (brief) life as a Christian; if we read the passage in this way, it would be a unique example of a non-Christian source applying atheos to a Christian (see above). However, this interpretation also requires the speaker to assume that being a Christian would clearly be grounds for execution. This assumption may go too far for the second century CE, since large-scale persecutions of Christians 29 Lucian, Alex. 38: καὶ ἐν μὲν τῇ πρώτῃ πρόρρησις ἦν ὥσπερ Ἀθήνησι τοιαύτη: “εἴ τις ἄθεος ἢ Χριστιανὸς ἢ  Ἐπικούρειος ἥκει κατάσκοπος τῶν ὀργίων, φευγέτω: οἱ δὲ πιστεύοντες τῷ θεῷ τελείσθωσαν τύχῃ τῇ ἀγαθῇ.” εἶτ᾽ εὐθὺς ἐν ἀρχῇ ἐξέλασις ἐγίγνετο καὶ ὁ μὲν ἡγεῖτο λέγων “ἔξω Χριστιανούς,” τὸ δὲ πλῆθος ἅπαν ἐπεφθέγγετο “ἔξω  Ἐπικουρείους.” 30 Ulrich Victor, ed. and tr., Lukian von Samosata  – Alexandros oder der Lügenprophet (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 132; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 154–157. 31  Jan N. Bremmer, “Peregrinus’ Christian Career,” in Flores Florentino: Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Early Jewish Studies in Honour of Florentino García Martínez, ed. Anthony Hilhorst, Émile Puech, and Eibert Tigchelaar (JSJSup 122; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007), 729–747; now also in idem, Maidens, Magic and Martyrs in Early Christianity: Collected Essays, Vol. 1 (WUNT 379; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 65–79. 32 Lucian, Peregr. 21: ὁ δὲ ἐν Ὀλυμπίᾳ τῆς πανηγύρεως πληθούσης μόνον οὐκ ἐπὶ σκηνῆς ὀπτήσει ἑαυτόν, οὐκ ἀνάξιος ὤν, μὰ τὸν Ἡρακλέα, εἴ γε χρὴ καὶ τοὺς πατραλοίας καὶ τοὺς ἀθέους δίκας διδόναι τῶν τολμημάτων.

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were still some time off. The speaker could also be referring to Peregrinus’s more recent Cynic leanings, which could be interpreted as atheos in the broad sense, but this reading is also hard to reconcile with such harsh legal repercussions.33 Finally, the speaker may be using atheos here in the older, moral sense of “godless”: from the speaker’s point of view Peregrinus’s accumulated deeds, including killing his father, point to an irredeemable depravity meriting painful execution. In this case parricides and atheoi simply function as a pairing of two kinds of scoundrels equally deserving of punishment; it is probably the most straightforward, economical explanation. The four Lucianic texts in which the term atheos occurs clearly illustrate its polyvalence, and our significant difficulties in interpreting it. This stands in sharp contrast with the moments where the adjective is applied to the author himself  – for the scholiasts and the Suda Lucian is atheos because they think he wants to deny the existence of any and all gods, and of divine providence. In Lucian’s texts the figure of the atheos is unstable, and can both seem positive (enemies of Alexander), negative (Peregrinus), or neutral (objects of slander; the Scythians robbed of their statues). I now turn to characters in Lucian’s texts who, even though they do not carry this label in the works, appear to be atheos in the broad sense of the term, on account of their criticism of religious ritual and the gods, or their doubts about divine providence.

3.  The Speaker of On Sacrifices The text On Sacrifices is unambiguous in its rejection of sacrificial ritual. Such a rejection fits the phenomenon of being atheos in its broad sense. Participating in sacrifice and partaking of sacrificial meat was one of the most important elements of traditional religion, well-illustrated by the emphatic rejection of the ritual by early Christian communities. What is very ambiguous about this piece, however, is the way we are to read Lucian’s representation of this critic of sacrifice. In a particularly evocative passage, which seems to fit the so-called theatre of innocence-theory of Burkert and Meuli remarkably well,34 an unnamed narrator draws a compelling contrast between the supposed piety and purity of the ritual and the spectacle of bloodshed it entailed: And although the notice says that no one is allowed to enter the grounds sprinkled with holy water who does not have clean hands, the priest stands there all bloody, just like the 33 Peter Pilhofer et al., ed. and tr., Lukian: Der Tod des Peregrinos. Ein Scharlatan auf dem Scheiterhaufen (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft Darmstadt, 2005), 72, quotes Wilhelm Nestle (ed. and tr., Der Tod des Peregrinos, griechisch und deutsch [Tusculum-Bücher 7; München: Heimeran, 1925], 21 n. 34) to explain atheos as referring either to Peregrinus as a Christian or as a Cynic; it was “höchst selten” for anyone to not participate in cult. 34 Cf. Graf, “A Satirist’s Sacrifices,” 204.



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Cyclops, cutting and pulling out the entrails, grabbing the heart, and pouring the blood on the altar. What pious act, indeed, does he leave undone?35

The speaker uses vivid language to highlight the dissonance between the preparatory purification undergone by all participants before the sacrifice and the priest’s bloody appearance during the ritual. Fritz Graf and Nicole Belayche have, independently from each other, recently written about On Sacrifices, and both scholars attribute the views of the first-person speaker directly to the author Lucian.36 I disagree with this interpretation for several reasons. Already in the short passage cited there are several clues suggesting that the piece cannot be taken at face value. First, the comparison of the priest to the Cyclops who devoured Odysseus’s friends is overly dramatic, and seems to push the speech into the realm of pathos.37 Second, the rhetorical question at the end of the passage seems to be a play on a topos from legal oratory. Instead of “What crime did he leave undone?” the speaker sarcastically asks “What pious act did he leave undone?”38 In my view, On Sacrifices may be better understood as a pastiche on a philosophical attack, perhaps with a Cynic bent, on sacrifice, which playfully employs the technique of ethopoieia (speech in character). As such it can be fruitfully compared to Lucian’s On Astrology, which McNamara has convincingly shown to be an ethopoieia of a Stoic philosopher who is overly fond of astrology.39 Even though On Sacrifices is probably reflective of real philosophical concerns some of Lucian’s contemporaries had about animal sacrifice, our author presents these views in a satirical framework.40

4.  Demonax, the Friendly Critic Our second critic is the philosopher Demonax, of Lucian’s Life of Demonax, in which he gives an account of a man who was his contemporary and, most likely, his teacher. Up until recently many doubted Demonax’s historicity, be35 Lucian, Sacr. 13: καὶ τὸ μὲν πρόγραμμά φησι μὴ παριέναι εἰς τὸ εἴσω τῶν περιρραντηρίων ὅστις μὴ καθαρός ἐστιν τὰς χεῖρας: ὁ δὲ ἱερεὺς αὐτὸς ἕστηκεν ᾑμαγμένος καὶ ὥσπερ ὁ Κύκλωψ ἐκεῖνος ἀνατέμνων καὶ τὰ ἔγκατα ἐξαιρῶν καὶ καρδιουλκῶν καὶ τὸ αἷμα τῷ βωμῷ περιχέων καὶ τί γάρ οὐκ εὐσεβὲς ἐπιτελῶν; 36  Graf, “A Satirist’s Sacrifices,” points to the philosophical language of Sacr., and notes the discrepancy with the treatment of sacrifice in other Lucianic pieces, e. g., Icar., but still insists on attributing the views of Sacr. to Lucian. Belayche, “Entre deux éclats de rire,” reads Sacr. as Lucian’s sincere rejection of pagan religion as such and sacrifice specifically. 37  In its vivid language, the passage is reminiscent of Euripides’s Cyclops; for an even clearer reference compare Plutarch, Def. orac. 435B. 38 Lucian, Sacr. 13: τί γάρ οὐκ εὐσεβὲς ἐπιτελῶν; – The most famous example of the topos is probably Cicero, Cat. 1.6: quod facinus a manibus umquam tuis […] afuit? 39 Charles McNamara, “Stoic Caricature in Lucian’s De astrologia: Verisimilitude as Comedy,” Peitho 1/4 (2013), 235–253. 40  Although Porphyry’s On Abstinence postdates Lucian, similar arguments against animal sacrifice may well have circulated already in the second century CE.

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cause of the paucity of evidence about him in other sources. But in the past few years several scholars have declared themselves strongly in favour of the view that Demonax was a historical philosopher, and that Lucian’s biography of him reflected real events, even if they have been moulded for the sake of Lucian’s literary objectives.41 Lucian tells us that Demonax was born in Cyprus. He was an older contemporary of Lucian, and studied with Epictetus. It appears that he spent most of his life in Athens, but he may have travelled for his studies. Demonax participated in public life, and was well trained in oratory. Modern scholars more often than not refer to Demonax as a Cynic philosopher. Yet, Lucian writes that Demonax did not want to be confined to any particular philosophical school: “He did not isolate a single form of philosophy for himself, but mixed together many of them, and never revealed much about which one he preferred” (Demon. 5). Lucian explains this statement by saying that Demonax was “probably” most similar to Socrates, while he followed “the man from Sinope,” that is, Diogenes, in his dress and “ease of living” (Demon. 5). Like Socrates, Demonax fell afoul of the Athenians (at least in part) for religious reasons. Lucian describes the episode as follows: Most of them had at first been offended with him, and hated him as vehemently as their ancestors had Socrates for his candor and independence. Also some Anytuses and Meletuses stood up to repeat the same charges that the earlier generation had made against Socrates: that he had never been seen making a sacrifice, and that he alone among everybody had not been initiated in the Eleusinian mysteries. On this occasion he showed his courage by appearing crowned and in a clean cloak […] On the count of never having sacrificed to Athena he said, “Men of Athens, do not wonder at this. If I have not made sacrifice to her before, it was because I  did not suppose she needed anything from my sacrifices.” And concerning the mysteries, his reason for not sharing in the rites with them was this: if the mysteries turned out to be bad, he would never be able to keep quiet about it to the uninitiated, but would turn them away from the rites, but if they were good, he would expose them to everybody on account of his humanity. The Athenians, stone in hand already, were at once disarmed, and from that time onwards paid him honour and respect, which ultimately rose to admiration.42 41 Both Clay, “Lucian of Samosata,” 3425–3429, and Branham, Unruly Eloquence, 236 n. 84 (cf. idem, “Authorizing Humor: Lucian’s Demonax and Cynic Rhetoric,” Semeia 64 [1994], 33–48 at 39), are agnostic on the issue. Jones, Culture and Society, 90–98, thinks that Demonax existed, but considers Lucian’s Demonax part biography, part autobiography. In favor of authenticity of the man and the work are Pedro Pablo Fuentes González, “Le Démonax de Lucien entre réalité et fiction,” Prometheus 35/2 (2009), 139–158; Tomas Hägg, The Art of Biography in Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 294–300; Mark Beck, “Lucian’s Life of Demonax: The Socratic Paradigm, Individuality, and Personality,” in Writing Biography in Greece and Rome: Narrative Technique and Fictionalization, ed. Koen De Temmerman and Kristoffel Demoen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 80–96. 42 Lucian, Demon. 11: καίτοι ἐν ἀρχῇ προσέκρουε τοῖς πολλοῖς αὐτῶν καὶ μῖσος οὐ μεῖον τοῦ πρὸ αὑτοῦ παρὰ τοῖς πλήθεσιν ἐκτήσατο ἐπί τε τῇ παρρησίᾳ καὶ ἐλευθερίᾳ, καί τινες ἐπ’ αὐτὸν συνέστησαν Ἄνυτοι καὶ Μέλητοι τὰ αὐτὰ κατηγοροῦντες ἅπερ κἀκείνου οἱ τότε, ὅτι



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Lucian presents Demonax’s trial as a repeat of Socrates’s trial, but with the opposite outcome. Demonax builds a defense on wittiness and wins over the Athenians. He distances himself from sacrifice just as the previous critic in On Sacrifices, but in an entirely different manner, namely by underhandedly praising the goddess. This praise, moreover, ties in to an existing philosophical argument about sacrifice: how can it be that the immortal gods need something from us? Or, if they do not need anything, what can be the meaning of sacrificial offerings?43 Demonax invokes these difficult questions, but gets out of answering them through a smart joke. We cannot at all be sure whether Demonax would have denied the existence of the gods, or of divine providence, or that he was only critical of ritual practices. Nonetheless, the passage does highlight how the dangers arising – real or imagined  – from diverging from mainstream religion in actions or in words could be deflected through humour and laughter. In this sense the passage can be understood as programmatic: if Lucian questions or challenges certain aspects of ancient religion he, too, will do so through humour, rather than through a diatribe like On Sacrifices. Demonax shows that laughter is a good way to engage religious topics, since it diffuses conflict and animosity.

5.  A Conversation between Cyniscus and Zeus My final two examples concern fictional philosophers, the aptly named Cynic philosopher Cyniscus in Zeus Refuted and the Epicurean philosopher Damis in Tragic Zeus. The first piece is a tense interrogation of Zeus by Cyniscus about the problem of the precise workings of divine agency. If the Fates and Destiny decide everything that happens, where lies the power of the other gods? Zeus defends himself and the other Olympians, saying that they are the instruments through which Destiny works (Jupp. conf. 11), that they communicate with humans through prophecies (Jupp. conf. 12), and that they are in charge of punishing the wicked and rewarding the good in the afterlife (Jupp. conf. 17–18). Cyniscus calls the gods slaves on account of their service to the Fates (Jupp. conf. 7), disputes the accuracy of their prophecies (Jupp. conf. 12–14), and argues that, if all the οὔτε θύων ὤφθη πώποτε οὔτε ἐμυήθη μόνος ἁπάντων ταῖς  Ἐλευσινίαις: πρὸς ἅπερ ἀνδρείως μάλα στεφανωσάμενος καὶ καθαρὸν ἱμάτιον ἀναλαβὼν καὶ παρελθὼν εἰς τὴν ἐκκλησίαν […] πρὸς μὲν γὰρ τὸ μὴ τεθυκέναι πώποτε τῇ Ἀθηνᾷ, Μὴ θαυμάσητε, ἔφη, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, εἰ μὴ πρότερον αὐτῇ ἔθυσα, οὐδὲν γὰρ δεῖσθαι αὐτὴν τῶν παρ’ ἐμοῦ θυσιῶν ὑπελάμβανον. πρὸς δὲ θάτερον, τὸ τῶν μυστηρίων, ταύτην ἔφη ἔχειν αἰτίαν τοῦ μὴ κοινωνῆσαι σφίσι τῆς τελετῆς, ὅτι, ἄν τε φαῦλα ᾖ τὰ μυστήρια, οὐ σιωπήσεται πρὸς τοὺς μηδέπω μεμυημένους, ἀλλ’ ἀποτρέψει αὐτοὺς τῶν ὀργίων, ἄν τε καλά, πᾶσιν αὐτὰ ἐξαγορεύσει ὑπὸ φιλανθρωπίας: ὥστε τοὺς Ἀθηναίους ἤδη λίθους ἐπ’ αὐτὸν ἐν ταῖν χεροῖν ἔχοντας πράους αὐτῷ καὶ ἵλεως γενέσθαι αὐτίκα καὶ τὸ ἀπ’ ἐκείνου ἀρξαμένους τιμᾶν καὶ αἰδεῖσθαι καὶ τὰ τελευταῖα θαυμάζειν. 43  Cf., e. g., Plato, Euthyphr. 14a–15e.

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deeds of humans are fated, punishments and rewards for them in the underworld are unjust (Jupp. conf. 18). Zeus, exasperated, calls Cyniscus “an arrogant sophist” and leaves.44 In his final response, Cyniscus seems to cede victory to Zeus, though he may well be insincere: If it is not easy for you to respond to these things, Zeus, never mind. I will be content with the answers you have already given; they have quite cleared up the issue about destiny and providence. As for the rest, perhaps I was not destined to hear it.45

The last phrase is a joke, a pun on the topic of the whole conversation: destiny. The rest of the passage seems to be sarcastic; it is hard to believe that Cyniscus really thinks that the difficult issues he raised have been “quite cleared up.” Zeus Refuted appears to be a flippant treatment of the exceedingly complex relation between different forms of divine causation in ancient religion, which was an important and difficult debate already in antiquity.46 Cyniscus uses the framework of human power relations (the gods are slaves to Fate) to strengthen his argument. Zeus’s desperate attempts to counter Cyniscus seem to underline the power of the Fates: Zeus is destined to lose the argument, nothing he does will change that. Cyniscus certainly “wins” in the context of the fictional debate, but does this also mean that the piece as a whole, Zeus Refuted, espouses the Cynic worldview? This interpretation is problematic, because Cyniscus is not only doubtful about the power of the gods over human affairs, but also about the power of the Fates. He asks, for instance, how just the three of them could ever manage to be in charge of all of human and divine existence (Jupp. conf. 19). Another issue is the characterization, which makes it unlikely that audience members would be inclined to side with Cyniscus en masse. Surprisingly – and this is a large part of the humour of the piece  – Cyniscus is a petulant bully throughout, while Zeus comes across as a much weaker but also much more sympathetic figure. The debate of Zeus Refuted does not provide the audience with a solution to the question of (multiple) divine causation. It shows Zeus stumbling through this complex issue, while Cyniscus keeps asking unanswerable questions. Ultimately the piece shows how difficult it is to really understand what makes the world go round. Even Zeus cannot explain it to us.

44 Lucian,

Jupp. conf. 19: θρασὺς γὰρ εἶ καὶ σοφιστής. Jupp. conf. 19: εἰ δὲ μὴ ῥᾴδιόν σοι ἀποκρίνασθαι πρὸς ταῦτα, ὦ Ζεῦ, καὶ τούτοις ἀγαπήσομεν οἷς ἀπεκρίνω: ἱκανὰ γὰρ ἐμφανίσαι τὸν περὶ τῆς Εἱμαρμένης καὶ Προνοίας λόγον τὰ λοιπὰ δ’ ἴσως οὐχ εἵμαρτο ἀκοῦσαί μοι. 46  For an in-depth treatment of this issue see Hendrik S. Versnel, Coping with the Gods: Wayward Reading in Greek Theology (RGRW 173; Leiden: Brill, 2011), 151–237, who starts with the locus classicus: Agamemnon’s denunciation of responsibility at Il. 19.86–96. 45 Lucian,



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6.  Damis the Epicurean In Tragic Zeus Zeus relates an argument that he has overheard to the other gods, between an Epicurean (Damis) and a defender of divine providence (Timocles). Zeus found out about the debate when he visited the Stoa dressed up as a philosopher to listen in on them (Jupp. trag. 16). Since the Epicurean had the upper hand in the debate, Zeus ended the conversation by making night fall early. As in other Lucianic texts, Zeus is exceedingly worried about the influence of the Epicureans; if they convince humankind that either the gods do not exist at all or that they have no care for men, says Zeus, there will be no more sacrifices.47 While the gods are arguing among one another about what they should do, a report comes in that the same philosophers have resumed their debate. The second half of the dialogue is taken up by the second debate between Damis and Timocles, with the gods listening in and commenting from up on high. I will quote a slightly longer passage to illustrate the tone of the discussion: Ti. – What, you miscreant, no gods, no providence? Da. – No, no, you answer my question first. What makes you believe in them? Ti. – None of that, now you have to answer, you cheat. Da. – Nope, it is your turn. Ze. – At this game our man is much better, he has the stronger voice, and he is tough. Good, Timocles! Stick to invective, that is your strong suit. Otherwise he will hook and hold you up like a fish. Ti. – By Athena, I will not answer you first. Da. – Well, ask away then. This much you gain by swearing your oath. But no abuse, please. Ti. – Done. Tell me, then, wretched man, do you deny that the gods exercise providence? Da. – Entirely. Ti. – What are you saying? Is everything undetermined, then? Da. – Yes. Ti. – And the regulation of the universe is not under any god’s care? Da. – No. Ti. – And everything just moves? Da. – Yes. Ti. – Gentlemen, can you stand this? Stone the offender! Da. – Why are you inciting them against me? Who are you to protest on behalf of the gods? They are not protesting these things themselves. They have sent no punishment down to me, having heard me for a long time. If they hear me. Ti. – They do hear you, Damis, they do. Some day they will go after you. Da. – And when would they have time to go after me? They have so many things to do, according to you, with all the infinite concerns of the universe on their hands. That is why they have never punished you for your perjuries and, well, for the rest, not to break our 47  Jupp. trag. 18: εἰ δ’ οὗτοι πεισθεῖεν ἢ μηδὲ ὅλως θεοὺς εἶναι ἢ ὄντας ἀπρονοήτους εἶναι σφῶν αὐτῶν, ἄθυτα καὶ ἀγέραστα καὶ ἀτίμητα ἡμῖν ἔσται τὰ ἐκ γῆς καὶ μάτην ἐν οὐρανῷ καθεδούμεθα λιμῷ ἐχόμενοι, ἑορτῶν ἐκείνων καὶ πανηγύρεων καὶ ἀγώνων καὶ θυσιῶν καὶ παννυχίδων καὶ πομπῶν στερούμενοι.

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agreement about abuse myself. And yet I cannot think of any more convincing proof they could have given of their providence, than if they had destroyed you as badly as you deserve.48

As in the case of Cyniscus, Damis is clearly the better rhetorician in this debate. He starts out by skilfully dodging the thorny question of whether he actually denies the existence of the gods, or merely their providence. He goes on to marshal a still common criticism of religion: if the gods are just and powerful, how come bad deeds go unpunished in this world? Yet, at the same time, the narrative of the piece shows how wrong Damis is in thinking that the gods do not care about humans, and ridicules him for it. Lucian’s audience knows fully well that – at least in this comic scenario – the gods are listening, as emphasized by the brief interjections from Zeus himself, seated up on high. The central paradox of divine discussions on philosophical ideas about religion is that by their very occurrence they negate the Epicurean position that the gods do not care about humans and their offerings, or, alternatively, that they do not exist at all. This comic paradox results from the incongruity of the notion of the gods entering this arena in the first place. Their engagement with human philosophers breaks down because by engaging they assert their own divine existence in a way that is incommensurate with asking philosophical questions about religion. The philosopher Zeus struggles with questions that Lucian’s audience members may have struggled with, and his discussions playfully extend and elucidate the serious debates of human philosophers. Tragic Zeus and Zeus Refuted ultimately do not solve these debates, and philosophers are made fun of at least as much as the gods. The comic debates end in what seems to be intentional aporia, and the audience is left to make up their own minds.49 48 Lucian, Jupp. trag. 35–37: Τιμοκλῆς  – τί φής, ὦ ἱερόσυλε Δᾶμι, θεοὺς μὴ εἶναι μηδὲ προνοεῖν τῶν ἀνθρώπων; Δάμις – οὔκ: ἀλλὰ σὺ πρότερος ἀπόκριναί μοι ᾧτινι λόγῳ ἐπείσθης εἶναι αὐτούς. Τιμοκλῆς – οὐ μὲν οὖν, ἀλλὰ σύ, ὦ μιαρέ, ἀπόκριναι. Δάμις – οὐ μὲν οὖν, ἀλλὰ σύ. Ζεύς  – ταυτὶ μὲν παρὰ πολὺ ὁ ἡμέτερος ἄμεινον καὶ εὐφωνότερον τραχύνεται. εὖ γε, ὦ Τιμόκλεις, ἐπίχει τῶν βλασφημιῶν ἐν γὰρ τούτῳ σοι τὸ κράτος, ὡς τά γε ἄλλα ἰχθύν σε ἀποφανεῖ ἐπιστομίζων. Τιμοκλῆς  – ἀλλά, μὰ τὴν Ἀθηνᾶν, οὐκ ἂν ἀποκριναίμην σοι πρότερος. Δάμις  – οὐκοῦν, ὦ Τιμόκλεις, ἐρώτα: ἐκράτησας γὰρ τοῦτό γε ὀμωμοκώς: ἀλλ’ ἄνευ τῶν βλασφημιῶν, εἰ δοκεῖ. Τιμοκλῆς  – εὖ λέγεις: εἰπὲ οὖν μοι, οὐ δοκοῦσί σοι, ὦ κατάρατε, προνοεῖν οἱ θεοὶ. Δάμις – οὐδαμῶς. Τιμοκλῆς – τί φής; ἀπρονόητα οὖν ταῦτα ἅπαντα; Δάμις – ναί. Τιμοκλῆς – οὐδ’ ὑπό τινι οὖν θεῷ τάττεται ἡ τῶν ὅλων ἐπιμέλεια; Δάμις – οὔ. Τιμοκλῆς – πάντα δὲ εἰκῆ φέρεται; Δάμις – ναί. Τιμοκλῆς – εἶτ’ ἄνθρωποι ταῦτα ἀκούοντες ἀνέχεσθε καὶ οὐ καταλεύσετε τὸν ἀλιτήριον; Δάμις – τί τοὺς ἀνθρώπους ἐπ’ ἐμὲ παροξύνεις, ὦ Τιμόκλεις; ἤ τίς ὢν ἀγανακτεῖς ὑπὲρ τῶν θεῶν, καὶ ταῦτα ἐκείνων αὐτῶν οὐκ ἀγανακτούντων; οἵ γε οὐδὲν δεινὸν διατεθείκασί με πάλαι ἀκούοντες, εἲ γε ἀκούουσιν. Τιμοκλῆς  – ἀκούουσι γάρ, ὦ Δᾶμι, ἀκούουσι, καί σε μετίασί ποτε χρόνῳ. Δάμις – καὶ πότε ἂν ἐκεῖνοι σχολὴν ἀγάγοιεν ἐπ’ ἐμέ, τοσαῦτα, ὡς φής, πράγματα ἔχοντες: καὶ τὰ ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ ἄπειρα τὸ πλῆθος ὄντα οἰκονομούμενοι; ὥστε οὐδὲ σέ πω ἠμύναντο ὧν ἐπιορκεῖς ἀεὶ καὶ τῶν ἄλλων, ἵνα μὴ βλασφημεῖν καὶ αὐτὸς ἀναγκάζωμαι παρὰ τὰ συγκείμενα. καίτοι οὐχ ὁρῶ ἥντινα ἂν ἄλλην ἐπίδειξιν τῆς ἑαυτῶν προνοίας, μείζω ἐξενεγκεῖν ἐδύναντο ἢ σὲ κακὸν κακῶς ἐπιτρίψαντες. 49 Cf. Branham, Unruly Eloquence, 176–177; Peter van Nuffelen, Rethinking the Gods:



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7. Conclusions We have seen that Lucian was viewed as a harsh critic of the Greek gods by most generations of readers, with the exception only of some recent interpretations. In the earlier reception, the term atheos and related designations were often used. In Lucian’s own usage being atheos is a flexible concept: it can denote moral depravity, being literally bereft of one’s gods, denying divine providence, or a fundamental denial of the existence of the gods. The critics of religion we find in Lucian similarly represent a range of attitudes. The speaker of On Sacrifices is harshly critical of religious practices, most notably animal sacrifice, but we do not learn what his view of the divine is. Demonax coyly defends his not making sacrifices to Athena, and not being initiated into the Eleusinian Mysteries, without revealing whether or not he believes the gods exist. Cyniscus is clearly sceptical of divine control over human life, but he does not go so far as to say that there are no gods – this would be difficult to do to Zeus’s face, in any case. Finally, Damis the Epicurean is introduced as one of those Epicureans who want to convince people either that the gods do not exist, or that they do not care for humans. Whether he espouses the former or only the latter remains ambiguous in the text, in keeping with the Epicureans’ contested reputation as “atheists” in the modern sense, or merely as atheoi in the broader, ancient sense. But what were these rhetorical pieces, featuring various types of religious sceptics, actually meant to do? First of all, they bring several kinds of questions that any active participant in religion might have asked him- or herself out into the open. Do the gods really delight in the bloodshed of the sacrifice? What is the balance of power, so to speak, between the Fates and the gods? And, if the gods punish wrongdoing, how come we see so many bad people prosper? Lucian takes these questions and doubts and makes comedy out of them. Frequently the gods themselves are brought into the conversation – aside from Tragic Zeus and Zeus Refuted also in Icaromenippus and Assembly of the Gods – which at least on the level of the narrative contradicts any radical scepticism: the gods are shown to be alive and well, and caring about humans quite a bit. The tension between the serious doubts to which Lucian is willing to give voice, and the traditionalist, Homeric divine landscape that he uses to stage them ultimately allows audience members to make up their own minds. Some would perhaps have identified with a Cyniscus or Damis, and would have enjoyed Zeus’s denouement. Others, in contrast, might conclude that their harsh and radical criticism ultimately provides no solutions: the philosophers think they know everything, but Zeus’s looking over their shoulder demonstrates that they do not. Precisely because both the gods and the philosophers are undercut by Philosophical Readings of Religion in the Post-Hellenistic Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 197–198.

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being represented in comic fashion, Lucian allows the audience to pick their own winners and losers. He creates a space for doubts and questions about the gods and rituals to be investigated, without giving away the answers.

Skepsis und Christusglaube Funktionen, Räume und Impulse des Zweifels bei Paulus Tobias Nicklas Am 13. September 2017 erschien, einen Tag nach dessen Tod am 12. September, in der Süddeutschen Zeitung ein ganzseitiges Interview mit dem großen deutschen Politiker Heiner Geißler. In diesem Text äußerte Geißler seine Hoffnung, noch einmal mit katholischen Professoren über eine Frage zu streiten, die ihn seit langer Zeit bewege: „Kann man noch Christ sein, wenn man an Gott zweifeln muss?“1 Er schreibt: Es muss Streit geben über das Gottesbild der katholischen und protestantischen Theologie. Solch einen Gott kann es nicht geben. Auf der einen Seite erschafft er die Welt so, wie sie ist, was ja im Glaubensbekenntnis betont wird. Gleichzeitig hat er solch einen Pfusch geschaffen, dass er seinen eigenen Sohn in einem etwas komplizierten Manöver mit Hilfe einer Jungfrau auf die Welt gebracht hat, der dann in solidarischem Auftreten und Handeln sich an die Seite der leidenden Menschheit gestellt und alle Mühen und Leiden durchlitten hat, die auch andere erleiden, und dadurch die Welt erlöst hat. Was soll das für ein allmächtiger Gott sein, der erst eine Welt erschafft, die dann aber so schlecht ist, dass sie vom eigenen Sohn wieder erlöst werden muss?2

Geißlers Äußerung zeigt nicht nur, wie aktuell und bedeutsam das Thema „Skepsis“ bzw. „Zweifel“ gegenüber der eigenen religiösen Tradition auch heute noch ist, sie bietet auch Anlass, den ersten Teil meiner These zu formulieren: Der berechtigte Zweifel Geißlers verlangt, gerade weil er polemisch formuliert ist, die theologische Auseinandersetzung – und es ist geradezu tragisch, dass diese offensichtlich nicht oder nicht in angemessener Weise stattgefunden hat. Es ist im Folgenden nicht mein Anliegen, auf die konkrete theologische Anfrage Geißlers zu antworten. Das ihr zugrundeliegende Problem – „Welche Rolle darf der Zweifel in christlichem Denken spielen?“ – führt jedoch mitten in mein Thema. Was Geißler in seinem Interview bedauert – dass es ihm offenbar nicht möglich war, in eine ernsthafte Auseinandersetzung mit katholischen und evangelischen Theologen über seine Zweifel zu kommen –, lässt sich mit der grundsätzlichen Anfrage, die Tim Whitmarsh in seiner faszinierenden Monographie „Battling 1  Vgl. auch sein zum Lutherjahr 2017 erschienenes Buch Heiner Geissler, Kann man noch Christ sein, wenn man an Gott zweifeln muss? (Berlin: Ullstein, 2017). 2  Süddeutsche Zeitung vom 13. September 2017, 11.

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the Gods“ an das Christentum stellt, in Verbindung bringen.3 Die Geschichte des Atheismus beginne nicht erst in der Neuzeit, vielmehr sei dieser geschichtlich mindestens so weit zurückzuverfolgen wie der Monotheismus. Während der griechisch-römische Polytheismus jedoch recht großen Raum für Atheisten bzw. Atheismus gelassen habe,4 sei dieser mit dem Sieg des Christentums in der Spätantike verloren gegangen. Whitmarsh schreibt: In this book I seek to tell the story of Greek atheism over a thousand-year period, against the backdrop of huge historical changes: the emergence of Greece from its ‚dark ages‘ into the world of literate city-states; the development of citizenship and democracy; the conquests of Alexander the Great and the fragmentation of his empire, the subsuming of the Greek-speaking world into the Roman Empire; and, finally, the arrival of Christianity. The Christianization of the classical world did not happen overnight, nor was it a uniform process. There were many different varieties of Christianity, each with its own (conflicted) relationship to the Greek intellectual tradition that preceded it. Even so, despite this fluidity, the Christian Empire did change things fundamentally. Christianity marked the end of a long period during which many respectable thinkers had explored radical ideas about the nature of the gods, even to the point of dismissing them altogether. Pre-Christian atheism was certainly not uncontroversial, and there were periods of severe repression. But as a rule, polytheism – the belief in many gods – was infinitely more hospitable toward disbelievers than monotheism. Under Christianity, by contrast, there was no good way of being an atheist. Atheism was the categorical rejection of the very premise on which Christians defined themselves.5

Obwohl ich nicht ganz davon überzeugt bin, dass polytheistische religiöse Systeme grundsätzlich offener und toleranter agieren als monotheistische,6 glaube ich, dass der erste Teil der These Whitmarshs im Kern stimmt: Die Skepsis gegenüber der eigenen religiösen Tradition bis hin zu verschiedensten Formen der Ablehnung wichtiger Aspekte des eigenen Kults, ja bis hin zu verschiedensten Spielarten des Atheismus mag bis in früheste Zeiten, ja wohl weiter zurückreichen als die ältesten Zeugnisse, die uns von dieser Skepsis erzählen. Vielleicht ist sie ein Phänomen, das schon deswegen zum Mensch-Sein gehört, weil dem Menschen die Fähigkeit zur Selbstdistanzierung zukommt. Gerade deswegen jedoch bin ich auch skeptisch gegenüber der These, dass das Christentum an sich Skepsis nicht zulässt bzw. Skepsis in ihm keine Rolle spielt oder gar spielen darf. Die spannende Frage, die sich hieraus ergibt, ist jedoch: Wie weit darf Skepsis gehen und welche Felder darf sie berühren, dass sie noch 3 Tim Whitmarsh, Battling the Gods: Atheism in the Ancient World (New York: Alfred Knopf, 2015). 4  Zur Problematik antiker Begriffe von „Atheismus“ und ihrer Bedeutung vgl. die Beiträge von T. Whitmarsh und J. N. Bremmer im vorliegenden Band. Vor allem letzterer betont dabei auch den Unterschied, dass antiker Atheismus nie zu grundsätzlichen Anfragen an Strukturen der Gesellschaft geführt habe. 5  Whitmarsh, Battling the Gods, 11. Vgl. auch das Fazit des Buches auf S. 241–242. 6  Vgl. hierzu etwa die Beispiele bei Jan N. Bremmer, „Religious Violence and its Roots“, Asdiwal 6 (2011), 71–79.



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immer im Christentum akzeptiert wird, ja vielleicht sogar als positiv produktiv eingeordnet werden kann? Diese Frage ist natürlich, so wie sie hier gestellt ist, nicht zu beantworten: Dies liegt alleine schon daran, dass der Begriff „Christentum“ so breit ist, dass er verschiedenste Gruppen (und Individuen!) umfasst, die über bestimmte Fragen (und in unterschiedlichen Kontexten) höchst unterschiedlicher Meinung sein konnten (oder können). Ich möchte den Begriff „Christentum“, auch wenn er für die im Folgenden diskutierten Schriften einen Anachronismus darstellt, aus Mangel an besseren Möglichkeiten beibehalten.7 Auch der Begriff der „Skepsis“ ist nicht ganz einfach zu deuten; ich werde ihn im Folgenden synonym mit „Zweifel“ anwenden. Entscheidend ist mir (a) die Voraussetzung einer erst ein Urteil ermöglichenden inneren Distanz zum Gegenstand von Skepsis und Zweifel (wie sie im griechischen διακρίνω erkennbar wird) und (b) die auch im griechischen Verb διστάζω („zweifeln“; wörtlich: „auf zwei Seiten stehen“) erkennbare uneindeutige Haltung gegenüber dem Gegenstand von Skepsis und Zweifel. Skepsis und Zweifel bedeuten so nicht einfach die Ablehnung eines Gegenstands oder Inhalts, sondern beschreiben eine Haltung in Distanz, welche zwischen Zustimmung (oder Annahme) und Ablehnung steht. Doch selbst da, wo Begriffe geklärt sind, ist es unmöglich, einen Gesamtüberblick auch nur über die verschiedenen Ebenen, in denen Skepsis und Zweifel in den Schriften des Neuen Testaments begegnen, zu geben. Ich werde mich deswegen auf einen Autor konzentrieren, den man üblicherweise kaum als „Skeptiker“ und „Zweifler“ bezeichnen würde, der aber schon deswegen interessant sein mag, weil seine Schriften uns an die Wurzeln dessen führen, was man heute christliche Theologie nennt: Paulus. Auch wenn es kaum gelingen wird, bei Paulus selbst Momente des Zweifels an seiner eigenen Verkündigung dingfest zu machen, sind seine Texte auf verschiedenen Ebenen interessant: Sie sprechen Probleme und Fragen an, von denen sich manche als Spiegel von Zweifel und Skepsis in den entsprechenden Gemeinden verstehen lassen. Diese Skepsis wiederum richtet sich, wie wir sehen werden, gegen verschiedene Ebenen paulinischer Autorität und Verkündigung. Andere Passagen wiederum thematisieren wenigstens knapp, aber doch explizit das Thema „Zweifel“ – und sind deswegen für unsere Frage besonders wichtig. Vor diesem Hintergrund möchte ich folgende doppelte These formulieren: (1) Bereits in den allerfrühesten „christlichen“ Quellentexten finden sich Beispiele 7  In der Realität würde ich von sehr unterschiedlichen Gruppen von Christus- bzw. Jesusanhängern ausgehen, deren Zueinander sich erst mit recht komplexen Modellen erfassen lässt. Sehr schön dargestellt sind diese z. B. bei David Brakke, The Gnostics: Myth, Ritual, and Di­ versity in Early Christianity (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2010), 1–18; vgl. aber auch das Modell bei Tobias Nicklas, „Jenseits der Kategorien: Elchasai und die Elchasaiten“, in Joseph Verheyden, Tobias Nicklas, Elisabeth Hernitscheck (Hg.), Shadowy Characters and Fragmentary Evidence: The Search for Early Christian Groups and Movements (WUNT 388; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 177–199.

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dafür, dass entscheidende Gedanken christlicher Theologie sich Formen der Reflexion und Selbstreflexion verdanken, die wenigstens zum Teil durch Skepsis und Zweifel auch unter Anhängern der eigenen Bewegung ausgelöst wurden. (2) Tatsächlich gibt es viele Kontexte, an denen bereits in frühesten Schriften Skepsis, die ja eine Haltung „zwischen den Positionen“ voraussetzt, abgelehnt (oder als problematisch empfunden) wird, weil sie der geforderten Grundhaltung, die man bei Paulus vielleicht am besten mit den Worten „Trauen auf Christus“ beschreiben könnte,8 entgegen zu stehen scheint. Doch lassen sich bereits bei Paulus Orte erkennen, in denen Skepsis – und zwar selbst gegenüber Phänomenen der eigenen Bewegung – offenbar sogar als sehr wichtig verstanden wird. Damit ist Whitmarsh in einem zweiten Punkt Recht zu geben: Das Christentum geht in der Entwicklung einer intellektuellen theologischen Tradition einen Weg des Umgangs mit Skepsis und Zweifel gegenüber der eigenen religiösen Tradition, der wenigstens in entscheidenden Zügen anders aussehen mag als in den polytheistischen griechisch-römischen Kulten.9 Es kann dabei sicherlich bereits auf entsprechenden Traditionen des Judentums aufbauen, von denen sich christliches Denken in seinem besten Sinn nie voll losgelöst hat.10 Dieser Weg besteht darin, Skepsis und Zweifel wenigstens in vielen Fällen nicht gleichgültig zu begegnen. Auch wenn er im Verlauf der Geschichte bis heute zu Formen der Intoleranz, Gewaltanwendung und Unterdrückung geführt hat, die zutiefst zu verurteilen sind, muss aus dem Versuch, Skepsis und Zweifel bzw. den hinter 8 

So (sehr knapp zugespitzt) die These von Norbert Baumert, Der Weg des Trauens. Über­ setzung und Auslegung des Briefes an die Galater und des Briefes an die Philipper (Paulus neu gelesen; Würzburg: Echter, 2009), 5–6, der sich dabei auf Thomas Schumacher, „Der Begriff ΠΙΣΤΙΣ im paulinischen Sprachgebrauch. Beobachtungen zum Verhältnis von christlicher und profangriechischer Semantik“, in Udo Schnelle (Hg.), The Letter to the Romans (BETL 226; Leuven et al.: Peeters, 2008), 487–501, bezieht. Dass diese Form des Glaubens jedoch keineswegs komplett das Denken ausklammert und in einer unkritischen Christusmystik aufgehen lässt, zeigt Benjamin Schliesser, „Glauben und Denken im Hebräerbrief und bei Paulus: Zwei frühchristliche Perspektiven auf die Rationalität des Glaubens“, in ders., Jörg Frey, Nadine Ueberschaer (Hg.), Glaube. Das Verständnis des Glaubens im frühen Christentum und in seiner jüdischen und hellenistisch-römischen Umwelt (WUNT 373; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 503–560. 9  Dass man griechisch-römischer „Religion“ nicht unterstellen sollte, so etwas wie „Theologie“ oder „theologisches Nachdenken“ überhaupt nicht entwickelt zu haben, zeigen jedoch die Beiträge in Esther Eidinow, Julia Kindt, Robin Osborne (Hg.), Theologies of Ancient Greek Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 10  Mir ist voll bewusst, wie schwierig und problematisch es ist, mit Blick auf die Antike die beiden Kategorien „Christentum“ und „Judentum“ ohne größere Reflexion differenzierend zu verwenden. Hierzu z. B. auch meine eigenen Gedanken in Tobias Nicklas, Jews and Chris­ tians? Second Century ‚Christian‘ Perspectives on the „Parting of the Ways“ (Annual Deichmann Lectures 2013) (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014). Eine für die vorliegende Frage wichtige Unterscheidung besteht sicherlich darin, dass das nichtchristliche Judentum kaum missionarisch tätig war. Auseinandersetzung mit der Skepsis von außen, ja antikem Antijudaismus jedoch sind belegt. Vgl. z. B. Peter Schäfer, Judenhass und Judenfurcht. Die Entstehung des Antisemitismus in der Antike (Berlin: Verlag der Weltreligionen, 2010).



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ihnen liegenden Argumenten kritisch zu begegnen, noch nicht zwingend eine intolerante, zu Gewalt und Unterdrückung neigende Haltung folgen. Stattdessen wären einige der Höchstleistungen christlicher Theologie nicht ohne die kreative Kraft, die Herausforderung der Skepsis  – und zwar auch der Skepsis „von innen“11 – entstanden.

1.  Grundlegende Gedanken Der Paulus der Briefe ist sicherlich kein Skeptiker; er tritt uns stattdessen als streitbarer Zeuge des auferweckten Christus, als Leiter einer Gruppe von „Missionaren“,12 als Charismatiker von prophetischem Selbstverständnis13 und sicherlich kaum als eine Figur, die wir in heutigem Sinne als tolerant bezeichnen würden, entgegen. Wie sollte sich ausgerechnet mit ihm die These untermauern lassen, dass Skepsis bereits für das früheste Christentum eine wichtige Rolle spielt? Und doch denke ich, dass die Briefe des Paulus uns Argumente für die Bedeutung von Zweifel und Skepsis innerhalb der frühchristlichen Bewegung, aber auch für die kreative Kraft, die daraus erwachsen konnte, bieten. Bedeutsam für die folgenden Gedanken ist sicherlich bereits die Tatsache, dass Paulus sich in Briefen äußert, also weder Erzählungen, die die Jesusgeschichte (oder die Geschichte der Anfänge der eigenen Bewegung) für neue Generationen weitergeben, noch prophetische oder apokalyptische Schriften verfasst.14 Obwohl seine Briefe (wie auch Briefe unter seinem Namen) bereits ab einem nicht mehr ganz sicher bestimmbaren Zeitpunkt vielleicht schon gegen Ende des 1. Jh.s unserer Zeitrechnung gesammelt wurden,15 entstanden sie zunächst als Reaktionen auf 11  Natürlich ist die Differenzierung zwischen „innerer“ und „äußerer“ Skepsis bis zu einem gewissen Grade künstlich, nimmt doch der Skeptiker immer eine distanzierte Perspektive ein. Von „innerer“ Skepsis spreche ich jedoch, wenn eine sich grundsätzlich als „Christ“ verstehende Person sich in Distanz zu einem Inhalt oder einem Aspekt christlicher Lehre bzw. christlichen Denkens setzt oder sieht. Dass das „innen“ und „außen“ je nach Perspektive wechseln kann, zeigt sehr deutlich die Frage Geißlers. Obwohl er sich trotz seiner Zweifel am christlichen Gott offenbar als Christ verstand, würden dies viele Vertreter der offiziellen Kirchen wohl nicht so sehen – und seine Perspektive als „Außenperspektive“ deuten. 12  Natürlich sollte man den Begriff „Mission“ im Zusammenhang mit dem antiken Christentum nicht zu anachronistisch sehen. Hilfreich hierzu z. B. Bert J. Lietaert Peerbolte, Paul the Missionary (Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 34; Leuven at al.: Peeters, 2003). 13  Hierzu z. B. die Beobachtungen in Tobias Nicklas, „Paulus – der Apostel als Prophet“, in Joseph Verheyden, Korinna Zamfir und ders. (Hg.), Prophets and Prophecy in Jewish and Early Christian Literature (WUNT/2 286; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 77–104. 14  Dies bedeutet natürlich nicht, dass solche Erzählungen oder Prophetien nicht doch schon vor der Niederschrift der Evangelien oder der Apokalypse des Johannes bereits existierten und eine Rolle spielten. Ich halte es für undenkbar, dass es je eine Christus-Nachfolge-Bewegung ohne Christuserzählung und ohne prophetisches Element gegeben haben mag. 15  Früheste Zeugnisse finden sich bereits im Neuen Testament, so bekanntlich in 2 Petr

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Krisen innerhalb dieser Gemeinschaften. So antwortet der erste Brief des Paulus an die Korinther wenigstens in Teilen auf Berichte von „Leuten der Chloe“ (1 Kor 1,11)16 über schwerwiegende Auseinandersetzungen, die die Gemeinde in die Gefahr bringen, auseinander zu fallen. Der Brief an die Galater reagiert auf eine Situation, in der der Kern der paulinischen Botschaft gefährdet scheint.17 Gerade im Galaterbrief, in dem es für Paulus und sein Erbe um alles oder nichts geht, begegnen wir deswegen einem Paulus, der alles andere als „tolerant“ auftritt, sondern stattdessen die Thesen der Gegner aufs Schärfste verurteilt: „Wenn einer euch ein anderes Evangelium als das verkündigt, was wir euch verkündigt haben, der sei verflucht (ἀνάθεμα ἔστω), auch wenn wir selbst oder ein Engel vom Himmel es wären“ (Gal 1,8).18 So betrachtet, müssen wir Whitmarsh zustimmen: Paulus inszeniert sich hier als Autorität, die dem Denken der Anderen keinen Raum lässt, sich wenigstens im unmittelbaren Kontext nicht einmal auf dieses Denken argumentativ einlässt, sondern es verurteilt. Doch damit ist sicherlich noch nicht alles gesagt: Als Antworten auf Krisen der angesprochenen Gemeinden lassen sich wenigstens einige Passagen der Paulusbriefe (mit der gebotenen methodischen Vorsicht) auch „gegen den Strich“ lesen  – und zwar als Zeichen dafür, dass, falls Paulus die Situation auch nur einigermaßen angemessen einschätzt, es in den angesprochenen Gemeinden zu einer Bandbreite von Reaktionen gegenüber wichtigen Aussagen des Apostels gekommen sein muss. Bei reiner Zustimmung wäre ein Brief nicht nötig gewesen; bei kompletter Ablehnung sicherlich kaum sinnvoll. Wir können dabei nicht immer trennscharf zwischen Zeichen der Ablehnung und solchen von Skepsis und Zweifel unterscheiden. Wo Ablehnung befürchtet, Zustimmung aber weiterhin für möglich gehalten wird, ist vielleicht zuallererst (oder zumindest auch) mit Skepsis zu rechnen. Hier ist zusätzlich daran zu denken, dass wir uns die junge Bewegung der Anhängerinnen und Anhänger Jesu von Nazaret nicht einfach als einheitliche Gruppe von Menschen meist unterer Schichten vorstellen sollten,19 3,15–16. Dass vielleicht schon der 2. Thessalonicherbrief eine erste Sammlung von Paulusbriefen voraussetzt, habe ich in Tobias Nicklas, Der zweite Thessalonicherbrief (KEK; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2019), 28–29 gezeigt. Wie und wann bzw. aufgrund welcher Impulse es konkret zur Sammlung der Paulusbriefe gekommen ist, wird weiterhin diskutiert. Einführend z. B. Peter Arzt-Grabner, „Das Corpus Paulinum“, in Friedrich W. Horn (Hg.), Paulus Hand­ buch (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 6–16 (mit weiterführender Literatur). 16  Wer hier genau gemeint ist, bleibt unklar. Dieter Zeller, Der erste Brief an die Korinther (KEK 5; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010), 91 n. 3 meint: „Eher Sklaven als sonstige Familienangehörige“. 17  Auch hier wird die Frage, warum denn die Gegner des Paulus von den Gemeinden Galatiens die Beschneidung erwarteten und was sie dem Paulus dabei persönlich vorgeworfen haben mögen, weiterhin kontrovers diskutiert. 18  Die Tatsache, dass die Passage zudem anstelle des Proömiums rückt, Paulus hier also gegen alle Konventionen des Briefeschreibens verstößt, zeigt die Dramatik der zugrundeliegenden Kommunikationssituation in besonders drastischer Weise. 19  Gerade der alten Vorstellung, das frühe Christentum sei in erster Linie als Unterschichtenbewegung zu verstehen, ist heute immer wieder und mit guten Argumenten widersprochen



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die blind und ohne nachzudenken ein ihnen von charismatischen Missionaren oktroyiertes Denksystem übernahmen und von nun an vollkommen distanzlos ihr Leben darauf ausrichteten. Auch wenn im Letzten offenbleiben muss, ob und inwiefern Paulus, der sich ja nur auf Nachrichten aus zweiter Hand berufen kann, die jeweilige Situation korrekt beurteilt, wird deutlich, dass ihm eine Bandbreite von Reaktionen zwischen Ablehnung und gleichzeitig offenbar bleibender Zustimmung auf verschiedenen Ebenen, die ohne die Zwischentöne von Skepsis und Zweifel kaum verstehbar sind, entgegenschlägt.

2.  Skepsis gegenüber paulinischer Autorität Der Galaterbrief etwa lässt sich als Antwort auf ein Problem auffassen, das auf zwei Ebenen liegt:20 Reicht auch für Menschen aus den Völkern die Taufe allein, um vor Gott gerechtfertigt zu werden (und am Heil teilzuhaben)? Oder ist es doch (wenigstens für Männer) notwendig, sich beschneiden zu lassen und damit auch offiziell Teil des vom Gott Israels gespendeten Bundes zu werden? Die Zweifel am Evangelium des Paulus scheinen auch mit Zweifeln an der Integrität seiner Person und, damit zusammenhängend, seiner apostolischen Autorität geschürt worden zu sein. Nur so lassen sich die ausführlichen autobiographischen Teile in Gal 1–2 erklären, in denen Paulus zwar zugeben muss, dass er in der Vergangenheit die „Versammlung Gottes verfolgt und versucht habe, sie zu vernichten“ (Gal 1,13), die aber darauf hinauslaufen, seine auf Gott selbst zurückgehende Berufung zum Apostel der Völker und sein Wirken im Einklang mit den entscheidenden Autoritäten, den „Säulen“ von Jerusalem, darzustellen (Gal 2,1–10). Gal 2,11–21 geht schließlich sogar noch weiter. Die Erzählung vom Antiochenischen Zwischenfall begründet, dass wegen ihrer gemeinsamen Verpflichtung auf das gleiche Evangelium Paulus selbst Kephas/Petrus kritisieren darf, ja muss, wenn dieser sich gegen das Evangelium zu stellen droht. Paulus selbst kann die ihm entgegenschlagenden Anfragen gegenüber seiner Autorität natürlich nicht einfach stehen lassen. Unklar bleibt jedoch, ob und inwiefern die damit erkennbare Distanz gegenüber seiner Person und der durch sie vertretenen Autorität in den von ihm gegründeten Gemeinden selbst möglich war und blieb, ohne dass diese dadurch schon gespaltet wurden. Sicherlich dürfen worden. Vgl. hierzu z. B. Andreas Merkt, „‚Eine Religion von törichten Weibern und ungebildeten Handwerkern.‘ Ideologie und Realität eines Klischees zum frühen Christentum“, in Ferdinand R. Prostmeier (Hg.), Frühchristentum und Kultur (KfA Erg. 2; Freiburg et al.: Herder, 2007), 293–309; Udo Schnelle, „Das frühe Christentum und die Bildung“, NTS 61 (2015), 113–143, sowie Alexander Weiss, Soziale Elite und Christentum. Studien zu den Ordo-­Angehörigen unter den frühen Christen (Millennium-Studien 52; Berlin/Boston: Walter de Gruyter, 2015). 20  Ich versuche so konsensfähig wie möglich zu formulieren und meine Überlegungen auf so wenig umstrittenen Aspekten des Briefes aufzubauen wie möglich.

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wir nicht schon allzu früh von einer Zentralinstanz ausgehen, die bestimmen konnte, was als „christlich“ akzeptabel war und was nicht; wahrscheinlich jedoch erscheint es, dass innerhalb einzelner Gemeinden, dann aber ad hoc und ohne die Möglichkeit eines Rückschlusses auf andere Fälle, schon früh Grenzen des Tolerierbaren gezogen wurden.21 Eine Antwort auf die Frage, wie weit Kritik und die damit einhergehende Ablehnung der Autorität einer wichtigen Führungsgestalt der ersten Generation „innerchristlich“ möglich und toleriert war, ist deswegen nicht einfach zu geben: Selbst das Neue Testament mit dem Matthäusevangelium, dem Jakobusbrief, der Apokalypse und – in lobenden Worten verpackt – dem 2. Petrusbrief zeigt eine große Bandbreite von Stimmen, die der Figur, der Mission oder auch Aspekten der Theologie des Paulus kritisch oder zumindest vorsichtig distanziert gegenüber standen, ohne sie komplett abzulehnen.22 Zum Teil offen scharfe, z. T. vorsichtig verpackte Ablehnung des Paulus zeigt sich in späteren, üblicherweise als „judenchristlich“ eingeordneten (oder mit einem jüdischen Christentum verbundenen) Pseudoclementinen.23 21  Vgl. hierzu z. B. der in 1 Kor 5 diskutierte Fall von „Blutschande“, in dem Paulus den Ausschluss eines Mannes fordert, der mit seiner Stiefmutter zusammenlebt (1 Kor 5,1). Wie schwierig und differenziert das Problem der „Grenzziehung“ sich im Zusammenhang mit den paulinischen Texten darstellt, zeigt das Regensburger Post-Doc Projekt von Julia Snyder über „Christian Identities according to Paul“. 22  Dies ist in jedem der genannten Fälle umstritten. Wer will, kann etwa in Mt 5,19 (und anderen Passagen) Polemik gegen Paulus lesen, dessen Umgang mit der Tora in den christlichen Gemeinden sicherlich anders war, als hier vorgeschrieben wird. Zur Diskussion vgl. z. B. Gerd Theissen, „Kritik an Paulus im Matthäusevangelium? Von der Kunst verdeckter Polemik im Urchristentum“, sowie David C. Sim, „Polemical Strategies in the Gospel of Matthew“, beide in Oda Wischmeyer und Lorenzo Scornaienchi (Hg.), Polemik in der frühchristlichen Literatur. Texte und Kontexte (BZNW 170; Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2011), 465–490 sowie 491–517, hier 499–503 [mit weiteren Literaturangaben]. Ähnliches gilt auch für manche Aussagen in den Sendschreiben der Johannesapokalypse. Intensiv diskutiert wurde das Verhältnis von Jakobusbrief zu Paulus selbst (oder bereits zu Rezeptionen paulinischer Lehre). Hierzu z. B. Dale C. Allison, Jr., „Jas 2:14–26: Polemic against Paul: Apology for James“, in Tobias Nicklas, Andreas Merkt, Joseph Verheyden (Hg.), Ancient Perspectives on Paul (NTOA 102; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 123–149 [mit einem Überblick über verschiedene Positionen]. Demgegenüber aber stellt z. B. Oda Wischmeyer, „Jak 3,13–18 vor dem Hintergrund von 1 Kor 1,17–2,16: Frühchristliche Weisheitstheologie und der Jakobusbrief “, ASE 34/2 (2017), 403–430, die Gemeinsamkeiten zwischen Paulus und dem Jakobusbrief heraus. Umstritten ist auch das Verhältnis zwischen 2 Petr und dem Corpus Paulinum. Ich gehe selbst eher von einem distanzierten Verhältnis aus: Vgl. Tobias Nicklas, „Der ‚geliebte Bruder‘? Zur Paulusrezeption im zweiten Petrusbrief “, in Wolfgang Grünstäudl, Uta Poplutz und ders. (Hg.), Der zweite Petrusbrief und das Neue Testament (WUNT 397; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017) 133–150. 23 Der Antipaulinismus der Pseudoclementinen wird seit langer Zeit diskutiert. Vgl. z. B. Jürgen Wehnert, „Antipaulinismus in den Pseudoklementinen“, in Tobias Nicklas, Andreas Merkt, Joseph Verheyden (Hg.), Ancient Perspectives on Paul (NTOA 102; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 170–190. – Interessant ist auch der Gedanke, dass die Taufszene des Evangeliums der Ebionäer (EvEb frg. 4; Epiphanius, Pan. 30.14.3–4) (polemisch) auf



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Die Antwort auf die Frage, was „innerhalb des Christentums“ tolerabel und akzeptabel war, hängt jedoch vom jeweiligen Standpunkt des Antwortenden ab. Unter der Voraussetzung einer breiten Definition von „Christentum“, die im Grunde jede Form von Anhängerschaft Christi einschließt, und aus heutiger historischer Perspektive zeigt sich hier einfach eine große Bandbreite von Antworten und Reaktionen auf die Figur des Paulus und seine Theologie. Aus der Sicht mancher „mehrheitskirchlicher“ Gemeinden rückten Stimmen wie die der eben genannten Pseudoclementinen aus verschiedenen Gründen (und dabei kaum in erster Linie aufgrund ihrer Haltung gegenüber Paulus) so sehr an den Rand, dass sie mehr und mehr als „häretisch“ wahrgenommen wurden, während sie sich selbst sicherlich als die wahren Nachfolger Christi verstanden haben dürften. Wie auch immer: Wenigstens in den Anfängen und in Zeiten noch unklarer Organisation scheint eine große Bandbreite an Haltungen gegenüber verschiedenen Personen und ihren Autoritätsansprüchen zumindest leichter möglich gewesen zu sein als später. Dies muss aber kaum als Zeichen einer größeren Toleranz „der“ Kirche in ihren Anfängen gedeutet, sondern kann mit einem Vakuum an allgemein anerkannter Autorität begründet werden, dem gegenüber einzelne Personen, die ihre Autorität verteidigten, sogar besonders entschieden auftreten mussten. Die Reaktionen des (echten) Paulus im Galaterbrief sind ein deutliches Zeichen dafür.24

3.  Die kreative Kraft der Skepsis: Aussagen paulinischer Briefe als Antworten auf Zweifel und Skepsis Spannender ist aber wohl die Frage, inwiefern uns die Briefe des Paulus auch Zeichen der Skepsis gegenüber Aspekten seiner Lehre spiegeln. Bereits die (wohl) älteste uns überlieferte Schrift des frühen Christentums, der erste Brief an die Thessalonicher, zeigt m. E. Anhaltspunkte dafür:25 Bewusst erinnert Paulus die Gemeinde, die ganz offensichtlich wenigstens z. T. aus Christusanhängern „aus den Völkern“26 besteht, d. h. aus Menschen, die von einem nichtjüdischen Hintergrund her zur Christusbewegung gestoßen sind, an ihre Ursprünge. Dabei erwähnt er entscheidende Punkte, die die jetzige Identität der Angesprochenen ausmachen sollen:27 „Denn diese verkünden über uns, […] wie ihr euch von das Damaskuserlebnis des Paulus anspielen könnte, der mir bei der Jahrestagung der Irish Biblical Association im Februar 2018 nahegelegt wurde. 24  In den paulinischen Pseudepigraphen sieht dies unterschiedlich aus; hier wird bereits die Figur eines allgemein anerkannten, unumstrittenen Paulus vorausgesetzt. 25  Bei der Datierung und historischen Einordnung des 1 Thess folge ich den Standardeinleitungswerken, so z. B. Ingo Broer und Hans-Ulrich Weidemann, Einleitung in das Neue Testament (Würzburg: Echter, 42016 [2006]), 315–333. 26  Ich versuche damit den problematischen Begriff „Heidenchristen“ zu umgehen. 27  Zur Bedeutung dieser Passage für die Identitätsbildung der Gemeinde von Thessalonich

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den Götterbildern zu Gott gewandt habt, um dem lebendigen und wahren Gott (wie Sklaven) zu dienen 10 und seinen Sohn aus den Himmeln zu erwarten, Jesus, den er von den Toten auferweckt hat und der uns vor dem kommenden Zorn errettet“ (1 Thess 1,9–10). Mit der gebotenen Vorsicht lässt sich daraus wenigstens in Grundzügen rekonstruieren, was Paulus und seine Begleiter den Thessalonichern verkündet haben: Der von ihnen verkündete Gott sei nicht tot wie die Götterbilder der Völker. Sein Kommen zum Zorngericht, das die Unglaubenden vernichten wird, sei in Kürze zu erwarten. Rettung wiederum sei durch den Glauben an Jesus, den auferweckten und zum Himmel erhöhten Gottessohn, möglich.28 Auch wenn wir nicht mehr genau sagen können, worin denn die „große Bedrängnis“ bestanden haben mag, von der 1 Thess 1,6 spricht und wie konkret die Verfolgungen gewesen sein mögen, die 1 Thess 2,14–16 vorauszusetzen scheint, die ersten Mitglieder der Gemeinde von Thessalonich dürften mit ihrer „Bekehrung“ einiges riskiert haben.29 Immerhin sind sie nun in ein neues Beziehungssystem eingegliedert, das sie zu „Brüdern“ und „Schwestern“ macht und welches sie (zunächst wenig attraktiv) als „Diener“ (oder wörtlich sogar „Sklaven“) einer ihnen bisher vielleicht nur ansatzweise bekannten Gottheit beschreibt. Zu erwarten sind einerseits der Zorn dieses Gottes und andererseits das Erscheinen seines in den Himmel entrückten Sohns, der die Seinen vor diesem Zorn bewahren kann. Natürlich können wir aus diesen dürren Angaben nicht folgern, wie viel mehr an „Gerüst“ hinter all dem steht, was die Thessalonicher als „paulinisches Evangelium“ erhalten und angenommen oder gar, wie sie das alles verstanden haben mögen. Dass der Anfangserfolg aber noch nicht bedeutet haben kann, dass sich gefestigte Organisations- wie Denkstrukturen vgl. Tobias Nicklas und Herbert Schlögel, „Mission to the Gentiles, Construction of Christian Identity, and its Relation to Ethics according to Paul“, in Jacobus Kok, Tobias Nicklas, Dieter T. Roth und Christopher M. Hays (Hg.), Sensitivity towards Outsiders: Exploring the Dynamic Relationship between Mission and Ethics in the New Testament and Early Christianity (WUNT/2 364; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 324–339, bes. 326–328. 28 Zu den mit 1 Thess verbundenen Gerichtsvorstellungen ist z. B. an Matthias Konradt, Gericht und Gemeinde. Eine Studie zur Bedeutung und Funktion von Gerichtsaussagen im Rahmen der paulinischen Ekklesiologie und Ethik im 1 Thess und 1 Kor (BZNW 117; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003), 39–72, zu erinnern; ich halte es zudem für durchaus wahrscheinlich, dass Paulus in Thessalonich bereits von der Auferweckung Christi gesprochen haben mag. Dass aus der Auferweckung Christi nun auch die Auferweckung aller Toten bzw. der verstorbenen Christusanhänger folgt – alles andere als eine theologische Selbstverständlichkeit – dürfte für die Thessalonicher m. E. jedoch nicht einfach auf der Hand gelegen haben. 29  Vgl. z. B. die Überlegungen von Hanna Roose, Der erste und zweite Thessalonicherbrief (Botschaft des Neuen Testaments; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2016), 21: „Deutlich wird […], wie einschneidend die Bekehrung das Leben eines Menschen veränderte. Er nahm an bestimmten sozialen (gesellschaftlichen und kultischen) Zusammenkünften nicht mehr teil. Dieser Rückzug aus dem gesellschaftlichen Leben verursachte bei den Heiden Befremden und provozierte üble Nachrede. Einen ähnlichen Hintergrund dürfen wir wohl auch für 1Thess 1,6 annehmen“.



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entwickelten, zeigt sich bereits in 1 Thess 3,1–5, wo Paulus davon spricht, wie er Timotheus nach Thessalonich geschickt habe, um die Gemeinde „zum Besten eures Glaubens zu stärken und zu trösten, damit keiner in diesen Bedrängnissen wanke“ (1 Thess 3,2–3a). Die Aussendung des Timotheus wie auch der Brief des Paulus machen keinen Sinn, wenn wir nicht selbst in der Gemeinde der Neubekehrten aus Thessalonich Skeptiker und Zweifler voraussetzen dürfen. Wir sollten nicht so weit gehen, aus dem Brief selbst zu schließen, wo diese Skepsis der Thessalonicher ansetzte, wir können jedoch eine sehr tief gehende Krise beobachten, die zumindest manchen vielleicht weniger an der Lehre des Paulus, so doch daran zweifeln ließ, dass das Warten auf den Gottessohn Sinn machte, wenn man doch vorher bereits sterben könnte. Gerade in diesem Punkt scheinen nicht mehr ganz exakt fassbare, aber doch vorauszusetzende Zweifel der Thessalonicher auch dazu geführt zu haben, dass Paulus selbst seine Verkündigung um entscheidende Punkte präzisiert hat. In 1 Thess 4,13 lesen wir: „Wir wollen aber nicht, Brüder, dass ihr in Unkenntnis seid über die Entschlafenen, damit ihr nicht trauert wie die übrigen, die keine Hoffnung haben“. Dieser Satz ist am besten dann verstehbar, wenn in der Phase zwischen der paulinischen Erstverkündigung und der Niederschrift des Briefes Mitglieder der Gemeinde verstorben sind, ohne dass sich ihre Hoffnung auf Rettung aus dem Zorngericht (und auf die damit verbundene Teilhabe an Christi endzeitlicher Herrschaft) erfüllt hat.30 Ob sie nun bereits an die spätere Auferweckung ihrer Toten glaubten oder nicht, die Situation muss unter den „Völkerchristen“ in Thessalonich eine große Krise hervorgerufen haben:31 Hat sich all das Risiko, das man für die neue Bewegung auf sich genommen hat, vielleicht gar nicht gelohnt? Werden die uns lieben Verstorbenen an der Parusie und der Christusherrschaft teilhaben? Könnte es sein, dass vielleicht auch wir sterben, bevor es zu Gericht und Parusie kommt? Damit ist noch keine Ablehnung der paulinischen Lehre zu verbinden. Solche Fragen können als Ausdruck tiefster Skepsis und größten Zweifels verstanden werden. Bedeutsam ist die Wendung „die keine Hoffnung haben“ (μὴ ἔχοντες ἐλπίδα). Paulus zieht hier eine Trennlinie: Wer z. B. aufgrund seines Zweifels daran, dass „die Lebenden 30 

Umstritten ist, ob Paulus hier einen neuen Gedanken entwickelt oder, wie etwa Abraham J. Malherbe, The Letters to the Thessalonians (AB 32B; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 262, vermutet, hier ein den Adressaten bereits bekannter Satz wiederholt, nun aber erst in seiner Bedeutung für die Situation herausgestellt wird. Eine sichere Entscheidung ist kaum möglich; doch auch im (mir eher unwahrscheinlicher scheinenden) zweiten Fall ermöglicht die Skepsis eine Neukonstellation und Neubewertung bereits bekannter Gedanken. 31  Die präzise Rekonstruktion der hinter 1 Thess 4,13–15 liegenden Probleme ist kaum mehr möglich. Ich halte es für durchaus möglich, dass für viele der angesprochenen Thessalonicher sehr unklar war, ob mit dem Tod vor der Parusie noch ein neues Leben und eine Teilhabe an der versprochenen Christusgemeinschaft möglich sei. Übersichten über die verschiedenen konkreten Lösungsvorschläge zur Situation hinter dem Text bieten die einschlägigen Einleitungswerke, so z. B. Broer und Weidemann, Einleitung, 324–326.

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den Verstorbenen nichts voraushaben“ (vgl. 1 Thess 4:14) werden, „keine Hoffnung“ (zumindest für die Verstorbenen, vielleicht aber auch für sich selbst) „hat“, ist damit durch Paulus subtil nach außen gerückt, steht in einer Gemeinde, für deren Identitätskonstruktion Glaube, Hoffnung und Liebe konstitutiv sind (vgl. 1 Thess 1,3), aus Sicht des Textes offenbar außen. Wie sehr die Zweifelnden sich weiterhin als „innerhalb“ verstanden und inwiefern gerade die Ziehung der Linie dazu führen soll, sie wieder zurückzuführen, können wir nicht sicher entscheiden. Wie auch immer: Der Text lässt einerseits an einem wichtigen Punkt auf Skepsis unter Glaubenden schließen, Paulus aber tut alles, um dieser Skepsis gegenüber einem entscheidenden Aspekt seiner Botschaft keinen Raum zu geben. Gleichzeitig wird auch klar, dass Paulus hier nicht gleichgültig bleiben kann, wenn er nicht Menschen tiefsten existenziellen Krisen ausliefern will, die noch dazu durch seine Botschaft hervorgerufen sind. Seine Antwort liegt für ihn als Christusanhänger und gleichzeitig pharisäischem Juden, der an die Möglichkeit endzeitlicher Auferstehung glaubt,32 nahe: Auch die Toten sind nicht verloren, da dem lebendigen Gott Möglichkeiten zugetraut werden können, die über die Grenzen des Todes hinaus gehen: „Denn wenn wir glauben, dass Jesus gestorben und auferstanden ist, dann wird Gott durch Jesus auch die Verstorbenen mit ihm zusammenführen“ (1 Thess 4,14). Damit jedoch reißt Paulus ein Thema an, bei dem er auch an anderen Stellen einer Bandbreite von Ablehnung, Zurückhaltung, Zweifel, offenbar aber auch Annahme begegnet, der mit seiner Botschaft von der Auferweckung Jesu verbundenen Lehre von der Auferweckung der Toten. Dies wird sehr deutlich auch in der Apostelgeschichte thematisiert, wo wir als Reaktion auf die berühmte Areopagrede des Paulus lesen: „Als sie aber von einer Auferstehung der Toten hörten, spotteten die einen, die anderen aber sagten: Darüber wollen wir dich ein andermal hören“ (Apg 17,32). Wie viel von den in Apg 17 geschilderten Ereignissen als historisch zutreffend zu beurteilen ist, mag dabei zunächst uninteressant sein; die Passage lässt sich zumindest als eine Art von „idealer Szene“ lesen, die paulinisches und griechisches Denken zu konfrontieren sucht und dabei auch zugibt, an welche Grenzen die Argumentation des Paulus in bestimmten Kontexten stößt.33 Die bei den Athenern erkennbare Mischung aus Ablehnung 32 Einen noch immer sehr hilfreichen Überblick über die Entwicklung frühjüdischen Auferstehungsglaubens bietet George W. E. Nickelsburg, Resurrection, Immortality, and Eternal Life in Intertestamental Judaism and Early Christianity (Harvard Theological Studies 26; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, ²2006). Zur Diskussion um die Leiblichkeit dieser Auferstehung vgl. z. B. die Beiträge in Tobias Nicklas, Friedrich V. Reiterer, Joseph Verheyden (Hg.), The Human Body in Death and Resurrection (DCLY 2009; Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2009). 33  Detaillierter zur Funktion von Apg 17 für das Gesamtwerk Apostelgeschichte vgl. Vitor Hugo Schell, Die Areopagrede des Paulus und Reden bei Josephus: Eine vergleichende Studie zu Apg 17 und dem historiographischen Werk des Josephus (WUNT/2 419; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 125–131.



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und Skepsis ist jedoch nicht Skepsis von Glaubenden. Eine solche Skepsis aber scheint der Argumentation des Paulus im 15. Kapitel des ersten Korintherbriefes zugrunde zu liegen. Natürlich lässt sich über die Interpretation auch dieser Passage in vielerlei Hinsicht trefflich streiten:34 Die paulinische Vorstellung einer Auferweckung der toten Christusanhänger in einer Form verwandelter Leiblichkeit scheint aber zumindest zwei sehr grundlegenden Anfragen (aus den Reihen Glaubender) ausgesetzt gewesen zu sein, deren konkreter religionsgeschichtlicher wie geistesgeschichtlicher Hintergrund bis heute kontrovers diskutiert wird:35 (1) Inwiefern folgt aus dem Bekenntnis zur Auferweckung des gekreuzigten Christus die Hoffnung auf eine Auferweckung der Christen? Und (2) wie ist eine leibliche Auferweckung der Toten denk- und vorstellbar? Diese Fragen mögen von außen in die Gemeinde gedrungen sein, sie müssen aber bei Mitgliedern der Gemeinde solche Dringlichkeit erlangt haben, dass ihnen Paulus ein ganzes Kapitel gewidmet hat. Ich denke zudem, dass sie sich als „skeptische“ Fragen verstehen lassen. Noch wird das paulinische „Evangelium“ damit nicht abgelehnt; sonst könnte Paulus in 1 Kor 15,3–5 nicht auf der gemeinsamen Basis aufbauen. Was es konkret bedeutet und was aus ihm folgt, ist jedoch umstritten. Wir können davon ausgehen, dass dies Anfragen sind, die so tief gehen, dass sie das gesamte Denksystem des Paulus in Frage stellen – und damit seine Idee des „Trauens auf Gott“.36 Um es auf den Punkt zu bringen: Die Skepsis, d. h. der Glaube, dass etwas womöglich nicht so sein kann, wie man es gehört hat, trifft hier auf den Anspruch eines Glaubens, der sich als vollkommenes „Trauen“ bzw. „Vertrauen auf Gott“ umschreiben lässt. Erneut ist Paulus offenbar geradezu gezwungen zu antworten – und erneut wissen wir nicht, inwiefern die Skeptiker sich aufgrund seiner Antwort überzeugen ließen, sich weiter als Teil der Gemeinde verstehen konnten oder nicht. Ohne die skeptische Anfrage aber, die Mitglieder der Gemeinde beeinflusst und bewegt, lässt sich 1 Kor 15 – immerhin einer der wichtigsten theologischen Texte des Corpus Paulinum überhaupt und eine der Grundlagen des christlichen Auferstehungsglaubens37 – nicht verstehen. 34  Eine hilfreiche Übersicht über derzeit vertretene Deutungen bietet Zeller, 1. Korinther, 455–459. Ich selbst halte es für wahrscheinlich, dass die Gegner des Paulus den Glauben an eine (wie immer geartete) „Auferweckung“ Jesu nicht mit der Auferstehung der Toten in Verbindung brachten. 35  Für eine erste Information vgl. z. B. Zeller, 1. Korinther, 454–529 (mit Übersicht zur Sekundärliteratur auf S. 460). 36  Ich übersetze mit Norbert Baumert, Der Weg des Trauens. Übersetzung und Auslegung des Briefes an die Galater und des Briefes an die Philipper (Paulus neu gelesen; Würzburg: Echter, 2009) das paulinische πιστεύειν gerne mit „trauen“, um den damit zum Ausdruck gebrachten Beziehungscharakter hervorzuheben, der jedoch nicht ohne Bezug auf Inhalte gedacht werden sollte. Differenziert zur Bedeutung des Glaubens bei Paulus darüber hinaus die Beiträge von Michael Wolter, „Die Wirklichkeit des Glaubens. Ein Versuch zur Bedeutung des Glaubens bei Paulus“, sowie Schliesser, „Glauben und Denken im Hebräerbrief “, beide in Frey, Schliesser, Ueberschaer (Hg.), Glaube, 347–368 sowie 503–560. 37  Dass es neben 1 Kor 15 auch weiterhin unpaulinische Vorstellungen von Auferstehung

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4.  Skepsis und Zweifel als Thema des Paulus Wenigstens an einigen Stellen seiner Briefe schließlich thematisiert Paulus tatsächlich auch ganz explizit Aspekte von Skepsis und Zweifel. Er verwendet dabei das Verb διακρίνω,38 was zunächst für einen Akt des Unterscheidens und damit Beurteilens steht, aber auch „zweifeln“ bedeuten kann. Nicht in jedem Falle trifft eine Übersetzung im letzteren Sinne auch das Gemeinte. Trotzdem aber wird klar, dass mit der Verwendung des Verbs eine Haltung angesprochen ist, die Distanz und Urteilsvermögen voraussetzt und so der des Skeptikers entspricht. Während die Vorkommen des Verbs in 1 Kor 4,7 („für sich selbst einen Unterschied machen“) und 1 Kor 6,5 („einen Streit zwischen Brüdern beurteilen“ [und damit schlichten]) kaum für unser Thema relevant scheinen, lassen sich an allen anderen spannende Beobachtungen zum Thema machen. Unter den Passagen, in denen Paulus von einer διάκρισις (d. h. zunächst, einer „Trennung, Unterscheidung, Beurteilung“) spricht, scheint mir zudem 1 Kor 12,10 bedeutsam zu sein. Die erste relevante Passage, Röm 4,17–21, liegt genau auf der Ebene, die wir bei Paulus aufgrund des bisher Gesagten erwarten.39 Abraham wird als Beispiel einer Haltung absoluten Gottvertrauens gezeichnet, der gegenüber der ihm von Gott geschenkten Verheißung auch dann nicht zweifelt, als sie nach menschlichem Ermessen unmöglich scheint. Abraham hält auch da treu fest an der Hoffnung, „Vater vieler Völker“ (Röm 4,17) zu werden, als er „zur Einsicht kam, dass sein eigener Leib wie auch der der Mutter Sarra [schon] erstorben war“ (Röm 4,19). Selbst rationale Einsicht, die im paulinischen Konzept des Glaubens keineswegs ausgeblendet werden darf, bringt ihn, den Hundertjährigen (Röm 4,19), nicht dazu, an der Verheißung des Gottes zu zweifeln, „der die Toten lebendig macht“ (Röm 4,17) und so auch aus dem, was an ihm und seiner Frau tot scheint, neues Leben hervorzubringen. Als Typos einer idealen Haltung, die Gott aufgrund der Verheißung entgegen aller rational begründbaren Wahrscheinlichkeiten alles zutraut, ist Abraham gleichzeitig derjenige, in dessen „Trauen auf Gott“ trotz der Wahrnehmungen des Verstandes (Röm 4:19: κατανοέω)40 kein Raum für den und Leben im antiken Christentum gab, habe ich gezeigt in Tobias Nicklas, „Auferstehung zu Tod und Strafe: Unpaulinische Auferstehungsvorstellungen im frühen Christentum“, in Joseph Verheyden, Andreas Merkt, Tobias Nicklas (Hg.), ‚If Christ Has Not Been Raised …‘ Studies on the Reception of the Resurrection Stories and the Belief in the Resurrection in the Early Church (NTOA 115; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2016), 105–121. 38  Das oben erwähnte διστάζω wird im Neuen Testament nur bei Mt 14,31 und 28,17 verwendet. 39  Die entscheidende Studie zum Konzept des Glaubens Abrahams, wie es sich in Röm 4 (in Bezug zu Röm 3,21–31 sowie 1,16–17) zeigt, hat Benjamin Schliesser, Abraham’s Faith in Romans 4: Paul’s Concept of Faith in Light of the History of Reception of Genesis 15:6 (WUNT/2 224; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007) vorgelegt (mit ausführlicher Interpretation der hier interessanten Passage auf S. 364–386). 40  Die Passage ist allerdings textkritisch uneindeutig. Sollte hier anstatt κατενόησεν ein



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Zweifel an der (rational unmöglich erscheinenden) Verheißung Gottes bleibt. Eine solche Haltung  – so Paulus in Röm 4,22  – wurde „ihm als Gerechtigkeit angerechnet“ (vgl. Gen 15,6 LXX); sie steht damit geradezu idealtypisch für die auch von den Adressaten erhoffte Haltung. Heißt dies nun, dass im Denken des Paulus keinerlei Raum für Skepsis besteht? Sobald es um die aus der grundlegenden Lebenshaltung des Trauens erwachsende Beziehung zu Gott und Christus geht, ist das wohl wirklich der Fall. Paulus ist jedoch weder so naiv, dies bei allen seinen Adressaten voraussetzen zu können, noch so wenig distanziert gegenüber Phänomenen, die in seinen Gemeinden auftreten, dass er der Skepsis nicht doch einen wichtigen Raum zugestehen kann: Röm 14,23 kommt am Ende eines längeren Abschnitts zu stehen, in denen Paulus ein Problem anspricht, welches auch die Gemeinde von Korinth betrifft (vgl. 1 Kor 8–9; 10,14–11,1). Am Beispiel der Frage, ob und unter welchen Umständen es erlaubt sein kann, „Götzenopferfleisch“ zu essen, zeigt sich, dass es in der Gemeinde „Starke“ und „Schwache“ gibt. Selbst wenn es dem Starken bewusst sein mag, dass „alle Dinge rein sind“ (Röm 14,20) und das Essen des Fleisches ihm deswegen nichts anhaben kann, kann dieses Verhalten beim Schwachen Anstoß erregen. Gleiches Verhalten kann aber nicht immer gleich beurteilt werden: Wenn der Starke im festen Vertrauen darauf, dass der Verzehr von Fleisch aus einem Tempel ihm nichts anhaben kann, es isst, ist dies für ihn kein Problem. Problematisch wird dies erst, wenn sein Vorbild den Schwachen dazu anregt, dasselbe zu tun, obwohl er an der Richtigkeit seines Handelns zweifelt: „Wer aber zweifelt (διακρινόμενος), wenn er isst, ist gerichtet (Pf: κατακέκριται),41 weil es nicht aus Glauben ist. Alles aber, was nicht aus Glauben ist, ist Sünde“ (Röm 14,23): Die Passage liegt also im Grunde auf der gleichen Ebene wie die erstgenannte.42 „Zweifel“ wird hier als etwas Negatives angesehen, dessen Existenz jedoch innerhalb der Gemeinde nicht geleugnet werden darf. Zweifel und Pistis, d. h. die bereits genannte Haltung des „Trauens“ bzw. „Glaubens“ aber stehen auch hier in einer Weise gegeneinander, dass es Ziel sein muss, dem Zweifel möglichst wenig Raum zu schenken; gleichzeitig spielt der Text natürlich mit der im Begriff des Zweifels ausgedrückten Offenheit (wahrscheinlich sekundäres) οὐ κατενόησεν zu lesen sein, betont der Text, dass Abraham aufgrund seines Glaubens es gar nicht erkannte, wie rational unmöglich es war, noch Vater zu werden. Zur textkritischen Frage vgl. auch Schliesser, Abraham’s Faith, 381 n. 1159, der (auf S. 381–382) schreibt: „Being in faith means not overlooking the human condition, means believing against hope and ‚set[ting] at deviance all known canons of probability‘; being empowered through the power of faith allows for a rational […] and critical dealing with the actual conditions, averting the danger of falling prey to illusions. In Paul’s wording, the strength received in faith is even presupposed as the proper background of Abraham’s critical considerations“. 41  Der Text bietet hier natürlich ein im Deutschen nicht leicht wiederzugebendes Wortspiel. 42  Vor allem der zweite Teil der Aussage ist hoch kontrovers diskutiert worden, aber für den bestehenden Kontext nicht entscheidend. Weiterführend z. B. die Diskussion bei Robert Jewett, Romans (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), 872–873.

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zwischen zwei Möglichkeiten, welche, als Unentschiedenheit verstanden, bereits eine Entscheidung im Gericht (Gottes) voraussetzt. Interessanterweise sind wir jedoch auch damit noch nicht am Ende unserer Überlegungen angelangt. Ganz offensichtlich gibt es für Paulus doch Räume, in denen die kritische Distanz, die den Zweifel hervorbringt und nur so zum angemessenen Urteil befähigt, als durchaus wichtig, ja unverzichtbar empfunden wird: Interessant ist bereits 1 Kor 11,31, gegen Ende des bekannten Abschnitts über die Eucharistie. V. 31 liegt im Horizont von V. 29: „Denn wer isst und trinkt, isst und trinkt für sich das Gericht, wenn er den Leib nicht unterscheidet (διακρίνων)“. Nicht zu beurteilen (bzw. zu würdigen), was ich im Herrenmahl esse (bzw. was ich mit der Feier des Herrenmahls tue), steht so wieder im Horizont des Urteils Gottes (und liegt damit auf ähnlicher Ebene wie das zu Röm 14,23 Gesagte).43 1 Kor 11,31 formuliert stattdessen: „Würden wir selbst mit uns ins Gericht gehen (διεκρίνομεν),44 würden wir nicht verurteilt (οὐκ ἂν ἐκρινόμεθα)“. Trotz der hier verwendeten Übersetzung „ins Gericht gehen“45 ist die Passage für unser Thema relevant. Paulus fordert von den Angesprochenen eine Form der kritischen Selbstdistanz, die auch zu einem negativen Urteil über sich selbst führen kann. Der deutsche Begriff „Selbstzweifel“ ist zu negativ besetzt, um dies angemessen zu beschreiben – es geht aber um eine Form der Skepsis gegenüber sich selbst und dem eigenen Verhalten, die es ermöglicht, sich selbst und das eigene Verhalten in angemessener Weise zu beurteilen. Ein noch einmal weiteres Feld eröffnen zwei weitere Passagen aus dem 1. Korintherbrief, die ebenfalls normalerweise nicht mit dem Problem des Zweifels oder der Skepsis in Verbindung gebracht werden, die aber, soweit ich sehe, im selben Horizont stehen: 1 Kor 12–14 beschäftigt sich mit einem Problem, das viele heutige Gemeinden gerne hätten – der Vielzahl der in Korinth erkennbaren Geistesgaben und ihrem Zueinander.46 Das Problem des Paulus besteht in erster Linie darin, Bilder und Modelle zu finden, die es ermöglichen, bei all dieser Vielfalt Einheit zu erhalten und gleichzeitig keine Hierarchien entstehen zu lassen, die Mitglieder mit weniger spektakulär klingenden Begabungen in den Hintergrund drängen. Unter der in 1 Kor 12,10 zu findenden Liste von Geistesgabe finden sich „Kräfte zu Machttaten“, „Prophetie“ oder „Zungenrede“, daneben aber auch διακρίσεις πνευμάτων, was üblicherweise als die Gabe, Geister zu unterscheiden, 43  Sehr ähnlich auch Zeller, 1. Korinther, 377; allerdings ist nicht ganz eindeutig, was hier mit „Leib“ gemeint ist: Der im Herrenmahl geschenkte Leib Christi, die Kirche als Leib Christi (vgl. 1 Kor 12) oder aber den in den Tod gegebenen Leib Jesu (hierzu auch Hans Klein, Der erste Korintherbrief [Hermannstadt: Honterus, 2013], 180). 44  Zeller, 1. Korinther, 378: „Leider ist das in der gegenwärtigen Lage ein Irrealis“. 45  Hans G. Conzelmann, Der erste Brief an die Korinther (KEK 5; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1981), 247, sieht das διακρίνειν hier nahe an δοκιμάζειν. 46  Zu Gesamtstruktur und Argumentationsgang der Passage vgl. Soeng Yu Li, Paul’s Teach­ ing on the Pneumatika in 1 Corinthians 12–14 (WUNT/2 455; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018).



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verstanden wird.47 Diese Deutung ist sicherlich richtig – und doch bietet uns die Passage einen neuen Mosaikstein für unser Thema. Die hier als Charisma verstandene Diakrisis setzt voraus, dass nicht allen „Geist-Phänomenen“ in gleicher Weise getraut werden kann, sondern dass sie unterschieden, beurteilt und in ihrem Verhältnis zum Christusglauben betrachtet werden müssen. Geister zu unterscheiden aber ist nur da möglich, wo eine entsprechende Grundhaltung der Skepsis gegenüber der Fülle von Geistphänomenen in der Gemeinde vorherrscht. Ganz ähnliches findet sich ähnlich knapp in 1 Kor 14,29. Hier spricht Paulus über die von ihm geschätzte Gabe der Prophetie. Doch auch hier heißt es: „Propheten aber sollen zwei oder drei sprechen, und die anderen48 beurteilen (διακρινέτωσαν)“. Auch hier können wir für die Übersetzung nur ein deutsches Wort setzen – doch auch hier ist klar, dass Prophetie ohne das kritische Urteil der Gemeinde nicht geben kann. Dieses kritische Urteil aber, dessen konkrete Kriterien hier nicht explizit genannt sind, ist ohne Skepsis nicht möglich. Bei allem „Christusglauben“, bei allem „Trauen“ bieten die Paulusbriefe also wenigstens hier den Raum für eine sehr gesunde, ja notwendige Skepsis – eine Haltung zwischen Zustimmung und Ablehnung, die entscheidend wird, wenn die Gemeinde nicht (wie im Rückblick auf die Vergangenheit in 12,2 angedeutet) von falschen Geistern fehlgeleitet werden soll.

5.  Skepsis bei Paulus selbst? Die Beispiele ließen sich sicherlich fortsetzen. Können wir uns jedoch auch Paulus selbst als Menschen vorstellen, der mit Zweifel und Skepsis ringt? So sehr wir in den Briefen des Paulus Passagen finden, in denen er – wie etwa in Röm 9–11 vor dem Hintergrund der Frage nach dem Schicksal des Teils Israels, der nicht zum Christusglauben kommt – seine Antwort über verschlungene argumentative Wege nur mit größter Mühe aufbaut – so wenig lassen die Briefe selbst Paulus als Menschen erkennen, der selbst von Skepsis oder Zweifel angefochten oder gar getrieben ist. Dies mag mit einem Grund zu tun haben, der bereits angedeutet wurde: Gegenüber den in den Gemeinden erkennbaren Krisenphänomenen muss er sich geradezu als der Apostel, welcher für das unverrückbare „Trauen“, den „Christusglauben“ steht, inszenieren. So eröffnen uns auch die Briefe – wie natürlich jede Art von Text – keinen unverstellten Blick auf die Persönlichkeit des Paulus, sondern nur auf Bilder, die er selbst von sich entwirft und die den 47  Dabei muss jedoch, wie auch Zeller, 1. Korinther, 393, betont, keine Dämonenlehre vorausgesetzt werden. 48  Wer hier gemeint ist, ist unklar; möglicherweise geht es um die anderen anwesenden Propheten, wie Jakob Kremer, Der Erste Brief an die Korinther (RNT; Regensburg: Pustet, 1997), 311 vermutet, während Zeller, 1. Korinther, 441 (mit Hinweisen auf die Sekundärliteratur), die Entscheidung offenlässt.

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Situationen, für die und in die hinein er schreibt, zu entsprechen suchen. An manchen Stellen immerhin lassen sich Verschiebungen und Entwicklungen seines Denkens erkennen.49 Ist derjenige, der noch in 1 Thess 4 ganz offenbar davon ausgeht, sich bei der Parusie Christi unter das „Wir“ der dann noch Lebenden einordnen zu können (1 Thess 4,15), noch ganz der gleiche wie der, der sich in 2 Kor 5,1 Gedanken über das Abbrechen seines „irdischen Zeltes“ macht?50 Ist eine solche Entwicklung ohne die Selbstdistanzierung möglich, die im Zweifel an wenigstens einem Aspekt der eigenen Zukunftshoffnung ansetzt? Wir sollten, wenn wir historisch denken, nicht zu schnell in die Figuren, die uns begegnen, hineinsehen. Ein „Ja“ ausschließen sollten wir aber auch im Falle des Paulus nicht.

6. Fazit Der konkrete Blick in die Schriften des Paulus hat gezeigt, wie schwer es ist, eine Antwort auf die Frage nach dem Verhältnis „des“ Christentums zur Skepsis zu geben: Wir haben gesehen, wie sehr Anfragen aus ablehnender, wohl aber häufig auch aus skeptischer Perspektive zu Reaktionen des Paulus führen, die sein Selbstverständnis, v. a. aber die konkrete Formulierung wichtiger Aussagen seiner Theologie beeinflusst haben mögen. Gleichzeitig macht schon die Tatsache, dass für Paulus der „Christusglaube“, das vollkommene Trauen auf Christus (und damit auf die Möglichkeiten Gottes), zentral ist, es schwierig, der Skepsis Raum zu geben. Wo Skepsis und Zweifel dieses Trauen einschränken oder zu reduzieren scheinen, ist für Paulus die rettende Christusbeziehung bedroht – Skepsis und Zweifel sind, auf dieser Ebene gesehen, Haltungen, die zu überwinden sind. Und doch heißt dies nicht, dass bestimmte Formen der Skepsis im Leben der Gemeinde keine Rolle spielen dürften. Dies beginnt bei der Aufforderung zur angemessenen Selbstdistanz, die es erst ermöglicht, sich selbst (skeptisch) zu beurteilen, zeigt sich aber auch bei der angemessenen Beurteilung von Phänomenen in der Gemeinde, der Unterscheidung der Geister und der Beurteilung der Prophetie, ohne die für Paulus der Unterschied zwischen der „Versammlung Gottes“ (1 Kor 1,2) und den Kulten der Völker nicht gewahrt ist 49  Ich halte Paulus – trotz der vielen in seinen Briefen erkennbaren Argumente ad hoc – für einen insgesamt weitgehend kohärenten Denker, der sich aber entwickelt hat. Dies muss nicht heißen, dass Paulus von der Basis eines entwickelten theologischen Systems her argumentierte. Ich halte es stattdessen für wahrscheinlich, dass einige entscheidende narrative Strukturen, die sich in konkreten Situationen unterschiedlich aktualisieren lassen, im Hintergrund seines Denkens liegen, glaube auch nicht, dass weder ein komplett inkohärenter, noch ein vollkommen unflexibler Denker Menschen auf Dauer überzeugen kann, seinem Weg zu folgen. 50  Eine m. E. sehr hilfreiche Deutung von 2 Kor 5,1–10 bietet Manuel Vogel, Commentatio mortis: 2Kor 5,1–10 auf dem Hintergrund antiker ars moriendi (FRLANT 214; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006).



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(vgl. 1 Kor 12,2). Daraus lassen sich noch keine allgemein gültigen Folgerungen für das Gesamt des Neuen Testaments oder gar für das Christentum an sich ziehen. Ein paar Gedanken lassen sich jedoch zusammenfassen: Zumindest da, wo Skepsis als eine Einschränkung der vom Glaubenden geforderten Haltung in Bezug zu Gott gesehen wird, tut sich Paulus (und mit ihm vielleicht auch „das Christentum“) schwer mit ihr. Vielleicht aber gerade weil und wo sie zur Herausforderung wurde, hat Skepsis das Christentum zu Höchstleistungen seines theologischen Denkens herausgefordert. Gleichzeitig darf nicht übersehen werden, dass selbst das früheste Christentum die Haltung der Skepsis nicht vollkommen ausgeschlossen hat: Die für das angemessene Urteil notwendige kritische Distanz ist bis heute entscheidend, um Geist von Ungeist zu unterscheiden.

Luke as Sceptical “Insider” Re-configuring the “Tradition” by Re-figuring the “Synoptic” Plot David P. Moessner The author of the Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles challenges the tradition shaped by Mark by changing its epistemological contours.1 Luke, a non-apostle, non-eyewitness follower, dares to re-configure this Markan organization, which at an early stage had already become known as a recounting closely aligned with Peter’s own memory and authority.2 We shall limit evidence for our claim by drawing directly only upon Luke’s two prologues, which, nevertheless, already make manifest Luke’s intent to produce something very new. The explicit critique of Mark’s narrative ordering that surfaces no later than the early second century in the Papias traditions on Mark and Matthew3 had already taken root some years earlier in Luke’s agenda to “write a new narrative sequence” (Luke 1:3b). For this tradent of the tradition had determined to “arrange a narrative” quite different from “many” such attempts of which he was aware and which undoubtedly included a narrative version close to the later canonical text known as “Mark” (πολλοὶ ἐπεχείρησαν ἀνατάξασθαι διήγησιν […] καθεξῆς σοι γράψαι, Luke 1:1a–3b).4 The third evangelist, the “Luke” identified 1  Revised version of “Luke as Sceptical ‘Insider’,” first presented at “Test Everything”: Sceptic and Believer in Ancient Mediterranean Religions. A  Jointly Sponsored Conference on “Insider Doubt,” Faculties of Philosophy, Art, History, Sociology, and of Catholic Theology, University of Regensburg (18–20 October 2017), on 19 October 2017. My thanks to all the participants and the hosts for their perceptive feedback and suggestions for clarification. 2  Cf. Eusebius, Hist. Eccl. 2.15.2 in Kirsopp Lake, ed. and tr., Eusebius: The Ecclesiastical History, Vol. 1: Books 1–5 (LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1926). Eusebius cites Papias as confirming Clement of Alexandria’s claim from the latter’s Hypotyposes that Mark had been a “follower” of Peter in Rome and was importuned by “hearers of Peter” to write up Peter’s teachings which Peter would eventually “validate” (κυρῶσαι). Irenaeus (Haer. 5.33.4), introduces Papias’s five-volume Exēgēgis of the Sayings/Oracles Concerning the Lord as from “a man of the ancients/beginning days” who was “a hearer” of John the apostle in Asia Minor. 3 Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 2.15.2; cf. Victorinus of Pettau, Comm. Rev. 4.4 [“Mark, the interpreter of Peter, having remembered the things that he taught in his duty wrote it down, but not in order”], in Johannes Haussleiter, ed. and tr., Victorini Episcopi Petavionensis Opera (CSEL 49; Vienna: F. Tempsky, 1916). Since Victorinus died in 304 CE, Mark’s association with Peter but not “writing Peter’s teachings in order,” must predate Eusebius’s highlighting of this criticism. 4  See esp. Eusebius’s remarks on Luke’s intent to remediate the incompetent, even haphazard narrative connections in those previous attempts (Hist. eccl. 3.24.14–16).

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in second century tradition,5 undertakes this major endeavour by asserting “upfront” his special credentials which, to his mind, justify his bold move to alter radically the Galilee-to-Jerusalem scheme of Mark’s Gospel. What would in time become labelled the synoptic tradition – and form the epitome of the Synoptic Gospels, Matthew/Mark/Luke – is what Luke himself (ἔδοξε κἀμοί, 1:3a) set out to re-shape by breaking the Markan mould. In an opening prologue which serves as the formal introduction for both of his volumes (cf. Luke 1:1–4; Acts 1:1–8), Luke claims “insider” status by disclosing two sets of circumstances that locate his own position within the burgeoning streams of early traditions concerning Jesus of Nazareth: 1) Luke divulges two contexts through which it becomes clear that he has special access to a large compass of oral and written traditions purporting to depict what “Jesus did and taught […] until he [Jesus] was taken up” (Acts 1:1; cf. Luke 1:1–2, 4 [λόγοι]). Moreover, 2) he asserts that he is a participant in a movement that constitutes and distinguishes itself by re-aligning and transposing many earlier scriptural matters or events into a new whole  – in fact, traditions concerning Jesus of Nazareth that “bring to fruition” a longer series of events, both old and new, toward their intended goal (Luke 1:1, πεπληροφορημέναι ἐν ἡμῖν πράγματα → ἔδοξε κἀμοὶ παρηκολουθηκότι ἄνωθεν πᾶσιν ἀκριβῶς, 1:3; cf. 22:37, τοῦτο τὸ γεγραμμένον δεῖ τελεσθῆναι ἐν ἐμοί […] γὰρ τὸ περὶ ἐμοῦ τέλος ἔχει [i. e., events/traditions in scripture concerning Jesus of Nazareth]).

1.  Luke Distances Himself from “the Many” 1. Though the inscribed author, “me” (Luke 1:3), in his opening prooimion does not employ the language of Deity or Hellenistic notions of divine agency such as πρόνοια/γνώμη (“providence”) or of less coherent, more impersonal forces such as εἱμαρμένη/τύχη (“fate”),6 Luke does describe the gathered harvests of oral and written traditions (λόγοι) as coming to fruition among an “us” (πεπληροφορημένων ἐν ἡμῖν πραγμάτων, 1:1). This use of the perfect passive participle πληροφορέω (“to be filled fully,” “to be brought to full complement”) does at least hint at forces that have steered human agents and circumstances to converge in certain outcomes, if not the use of the “divine passive” itself to imply divine providential guiding of the events. Further, with his “among us,” Luke’s presumption is that at least some of his intended audience is already familiar with some of the traditions Luke will configure (καθεξῆς σοι γράψαι, 1:3b) so 5 Irenaeus,

Haer. 3.1.1; 3.14. See, e. g., David P. Moessner, Luke the Historian of Israel’s Legacy, Theologian of Israel’s ‘Christ’: A New Reading of the ‘Gospel Acts’ of Luke (BZNW 182; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2016), esp. 35–38, 193–198; cf. John T. Squires, The Plan of God in Luke-Acts (SNTSMS 76; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), esp. 15–77, 164–171. 6 



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that he not only can improve upon their understanding of these, but also that his hearers, in principle, would be able to challenge some or much of his account whenever it might be at odds with their own “remembering” (e. g., Theophilus: Luke 1:3b, κράτιστε θεόφιλε; Acts 1:1, ὦ θεόφιλε).7 This audience familiarity must be, in part, behind his addressing of Theophilus, a real person of at least “retainer” if not higher status in the Roman class and status cultural registers (κράτιστε, Luke 1:3 [“your excellency”]; cf. the “governors” Felix, Acts 23:26; 24:3; and Festus, Acts 26:25). It is his “excellency Theophilus” who apparently needs a “firmer” or more “confident” grounding in the traditions (λόγοι) in which he has already received instruction (Luke 1:4). Luke writes, in measure, to give Theophilus and others of like ilk “a firmer grasp” of those teachings (ἵνα ἐπιγνῷς περὶ ὧν κατηχήθης λόγων τὴν ἀσφάλειαν, Luke 1:4). It would appear that Luke is an insider to the extent that others are already ascribing to him the knowledge, ability, and authorized status to re-configure the “many” other oral and written accounts already “at hand” or completed (πολλοὶ ἐπεχείρησαν ἀνατάξασθαι διήγησιν […], 1:1). 2. Still, this self-introduction would hardly appear adequate in persuading outsiders of Luke’s credentials, particularly as he separates himself from “the eyewitnesses and attendants” who “handed down to us” traditions that go back to a “beginning point” (ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς, Luke 1:2). Rather it is his subsequent use of the perfect participle of παρακολουθέω (Luke 1:3) that underscores Luke’s qualifications to write: i)  Contrary to the idola theatri of the past half century or more, παρακολουθέω in ancient Greek literature does not mean “to investigate” and it remains unattest­ ed in the sense of “to go back over something,” “to research,” or “to inquire” into something not already known, “to discover” or “to trace back over” something to gain knowledge etc.8 The perfect participle possesses almost the opposite significance, namely, “someone or something that has followed” an event, text, persons, movement, discipline, regulations etc. as those persons or matters or movements or written texts unfold or develop. Hence παρηκολουθηκότι refers to one who is already familiar or knowledgeable in the events, persons, movements, texts etc. since that person or thing has accompanied or kept abreast of the persons or movements or happenings as they have developed. This informed status or training in particular developments or texts or traditions is critical to presenting the proper authority to compose yet another version of accounts already available to a wider audience. 7  Whether of instruction in some of the traditions they had already received (Luke 1:4), or experiences of some of the “all” of the traditions that Luke summons (Luke 1:1b, 3), particularly those later events of the second volume. 8  David P. Moessner, “Luke as Tradent and Hermeneut: ‘As One Who Has a Thoroughly Informed Familiarity with All the Events from the Top’ (παρηκολουθηκότι ἄνωθεν πᾶσιν ἀκριβῶς, Luke 1:3),” NovT 58 (2016), 259–300.

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ii)  Luke styles himself as a qualified tradent and hermeneut of the “word” or “message” (ὁ λόγος, 1:2) which harks back to traditions “handed on” by both “eyewitnesses” and a group designated “attendants” or “servants” of this word and that is stamped “from a beginning” point or period (οἱ ἀπ᾽ ἀρχῆς αὐτόπται καὶ ὑπηρέται γενόμενοι τοῦ λόγου, Luke 1:2). This “beginning” (ἀρχή) is characteristic of Hellenistic multi-volume narrative and is not to be confused with the start or formal beginning of the actual text such as a prooimion or initial episode per se. Rather, as exemplified before the Hellenistic period, as for instance in Thucydides, and later articulated in detail by narrative composers such as Polybius or Diodorus Siculus or Dionysius of Halicarnassus, et al., the ἀρχή is a seminal period or perhaps signal event which functions as the source and even cause of a series of subsequent events that become consequential or define a movement or rise of political power, or a cluster of developments that brook a war between hostile parties etc. The ἀρχή is a function of proper “partitioning” or “division” (ἡ διαίρεσις), a critical rhetorical category (ἡ ἰδέα) of organization requisite for an audience properly to “follow” (παρακολουθέω, pres.) or apprehend the meanings and messages the author is intending.9 At strategic places within his two volumes, Luke specifies an ἀρχή for the whole work, namely, the period of John the Baptist’s baptizing which climaxes in the baptism of Jesus (Luke 3:3–22): “from the baptism of John” marks a critical epistemological organizer and point of departure for understanding the rest of the “partitioning” of the ποίησις of Luke and the sequel volume Acts. The remainder of the plot of Luke as well as the Acts must be interpreted by and through this “beginning” in order to comprehend what the author wishes to convey.10 For instance, in Acts 1:22, among those qualified to replace Judas the Iscariot, the candidate must have been with Jesus “the whole time the Lord Jesus went in and out among us from the baptism of John to the day he was taken up from us” in order to be designated a “witness with us” [from the apostolic circle] (Acts 1:22). Luke does not qualify as a “witness” by this definition. Indeed by this standard Luke is neither “eyewitness” nor “attendant” “from the beginning.” All the more striking that Luke would dare to propose his own version! iii)  Notwithstanding, παρηκολουθηκότι provides the sine qua non of qualifications for authors who could not claim first-hand or contemporary or unmediated participation and information and yet attempt to signify events in writing (Luke 1:2–3). As “one who has become thoroughly familiar with” or “steeped” in 9  For narrative-rhetorical compositional techniques in Dionysius of Halicarnassus, see his On Thucydides, esp. §§ 9–13; cf., e. g., Robert S. Reid, “Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ Theory of Compositional Style and the Theory of Literate Consciousness,” Rhetoric Review 15 (1996), 46– 64; George M. A. Grube, “Dionysius of Halicarnassus on Thucydides,” The Phoenix 4 (1950), 95–110; David P. Moessner, “The Triadic Synergy of Hellenistic Poetics in the Narrative Epistemology of Dionysius of Halicarnassus and the Authorial Intent of the Evangelist Luke (Luke 1:1–4; Acts 1:1–8),” Neot 42 (2008), 289–303. 10 See Moessner, Luke the Historian, esp. chap. 4 (108–123) and chap. 7 (172–199).



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the traditions and texts stamped by this beginning before he himself sets out to write – whether through direct training from credentialed witnesses, receiving instruction from others, or even through first-hand experience in some of the events from the “among us” articulated in the opening verse of the prologue (1:1)  – παρηκολουθηκότι grounds Luke in that ἀρχή. Indeed, as credentialed tradent and hermeneut, Luke ventures to render yet another “narrative account” (διήγησις) of momentous occurrences to which he himself could not “bear witness,” nor discuss firsthand  – traditions conditioned “by/from that beginning” that he would eventually receive from those who had received and “passed them on” – “from the baptism of John to his [Jesus’s] taking up” (1:2; Acts 1:22). Consequently, the perfect participle qualifies Luke to re-open, re-construe, and thereby re-construct the whole scheme of an historical movement from its origins up to the time of its re-formation in Luke’s alternative two-volume “deconstruction” of the incipient “synoptic outline” of Mark.

2.  Luke Privileges an Interpretive Voice that Sounds from the Risen Christ to Create a New Narrative “Organization” “of Events among Us that Have Come to Fruition” (Luke 1:1b) 1. An obvious discrepancy between Luke’s Gospel and Mark’s is the opening προοίμιον (prologue) of the former that follows conventional προοίμια of Hellenistic Greek narrative, whether of biography or especially historiography.11 Though Luke’s prologue is much shorter than most Greek προοίμια, the topics (τόποι) are familiar from history prefaces  – including what previous writers have done with the same subject or period (Luke 1:1), the author’s credentials to compose a new text that will improve upon his predecessors (1:3), the scope of the new work (1:2b–3a), and perhaps also the author’s more specific purpose in promoting yet another version of what others have already performed (1:4) – and mark Luke 1:1–4 as a discrete Hellenistic προοίμιον.12 Many of the words and phrases are iterations of standard rhetorical terms that pile up in Hellenistic prologues: ἀνατάξασθαι, ἄνωθεν, ἀκριβῶς, ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς, ἀσφάλεια, αὐτόπται, διήγησις, ἐπιχείρω, παρακολουθέω, πολλοί, πράγματα, ὑπηρέται.13 But it is equally clear from his brevity that Luke is at pains to place his bid as a credentialed writer of 11  The literature on Hellenistic προοίμια has become vast; for helpful summaries from specialists and bibliographies concerning the issues of Luke’s two προοίμια, see David ­P. Moess­ ner, ed., Jesus and the Heritage of Israel: Luke’s Narrative Claim Upon Israel’s Legacy (Luke the Interpreter of Israel 1; Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 1999), Part I, 1–123. 12 Tessa Rajak, “Josephus and Justus of Tiberias,” in Josephus, Judaism, and Christianity, ed. Louis H. Feldman and Gohei Hata (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1987), 81–94. 13  For an important analysis of the forms and τόποι of Hellenistic προοίμια, see Loveday Alexander, The Preface to Luke’s Gospel: Literary Convention and Social Context in Luke 1.1–4 and Acts 1.1 (SNTSMS 78; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993).

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narrative rather than to follow a stricter, genre-specific rubric in validating his contribution. 2.  Luke’s pithy prologue presages his secondary prologue to anticipate, even while it predicates, his substantial makeover of the Markan plot. 2.1. Most striking is the significant overlap between the events in the final chapter of Luke 24 and their summary recasting in Acts 1:1–8, 9–14. It would appear that Luke is nudging his readers to link the two volumes such that they must discern one larger story. “All that Jesus began to do and to teach” (Acts 1:1) must continue on in some plotted fashion. But what is the plotted story of Acts? Does it build on and, in some fundamental fashion, complete the Gospel’s account of Jesus’s actions and teachings? Is Acts to be read in sequel to Luke as one work in two volumes? The intersecting poetics may be illustrated, utilizing Gérard Genette’s “levels of narration”:14 Acts 1:1–4a: Inscribed narrator, “I,” of second level, first person narration, summarizes vol. 1 and adds a 40-day period after the resurrection up to the ascension 1:3: “Kingdom of God announced” to apostles for “40 days” after Jesus’s “suffering”; first person narration continues 1:4a: At a meal, apostles told indirectly by resurrected Jesus to “stay in this city” (Jerusalem) *1:4b–5: Jesus speaks directly out of narrator’s mouth as diegetic first level narration of Acts: “Await the promise which you heard from me” (cf. “through the Holy Spirit,” narrator in Acts 1:2)

Luke

≈ 3:21–24:53: “from the baptism of John to the day he was taken up” (cf. Acts 1:22a) ≈ 24:13–43: Emmaus and Upper Room ≈ 24:36–49: Upper Room Meal

≈ 24:49: Jesus will “send” the “promise of my father” so must “stay in this city”

1:6–11: “Witness” to “end of the earth”; the answer ≈ 24:50–51: Jesus’s blessing them to “restoring the Kingdom to Israel?” through enabled by his “taking up” Jesus’s ἀναλήμψις 1:12–14: Apostles/disciples, “women,” Mary and kin re-gather in “upper room,” devoted to prayer in a new “whole”

≈ 24:52–53: Apostles/group in Temple praising God after worshipping Jesus

1:15ff: resumption of “the narrated” narrative time from Luke 24:53

14 Gérard Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method, tr. Jane E. Lewin (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1980), esp. 232 ff., for definitions of narrative “levels” of the narrating, developed primarily from the modern novel (but Genette finds its impetus in Homer and ancient Greek narrating techniques more generally).



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Prima facie Luke must want his audience to recognize quickly that the crucifiedrisen Jesus himself directs his apostles along their next stage of discipleship, appearing, teaching – and most importantly – connecting all that had happened in his public activity and had climaxed in crucifixion and resurrection to the activity that his “witnesses” must continue to perform (Acts 1:1–8). From this vantage point of reading the continuity between Luke and Acts, Jesus’s voice is already being privileged in his direct speech explanations and commands to his followers right from the beginning of the sequel (Acts 1:4b–5, 7–8). What is emphasized from the outset by the crucified-risen Christ is the significance that his past “suffering” and being “taken up” has for the launching of the apostles as continuing “witnesses” to and for “the Kingdom of God,” a commissioning to Israel and to the nations through the special empowerment of “the Holy Spirit” (1:2, 3–4a [μετὰ τὸ παθεῖν αὐτόν, v. 3a], 8). Acts 1:2 ↔ 1:8 form an inclusio of Jesus’s initial “selection of the apostles” for his own public sending together with his sending of the apostles for their public “witness” all the way “to the end of the earth” (διὰ πνεύματος ἁγίου ↔ λήμψεσθε δύναμιν ἐπελθόντος τοῦ ἁγίου πνεύματος ἐφ’ ὑμᾶς καὶ ἔσεσθέ μου μάρτυρες).15 A “narrative” unity is clearly announced. 2.2.  The interweaving, intra-textual connections between the two prologues provide both pro-lepses of the “witnesses” in Acts as well as seminal glimpses back to Jesus’s activity in Luke’s Gospel. Our scope allows only a couple of examples illustrating rhetorical terms that “catch” another text and stitch it into a new text fabric:16 2.2.1. “Pre-views” and commentary on coming actions: Ἀσφαλ-ές/εια in Luke 1:3–4 → Acts 21:34 → 25:20a, 26; 26:25. The “tribune” in Jerusalem, “unable to know the true facts/the truth due to the rioting” against Paul (μὴ δυναμένου δὲ αὐτοῦ γνῶναι τὸ ἀσφαλὲς διὰ τὸν θόρυβον, Acts 21:34), wants to know more about the charges against the renegade Jew and so decides to turn Paul over to the Sanhedrin for their more “secure” knowledge of the situation. Luke has already told his readers that he desires to write up an account that will insure that the κράτιστος Theophilus have a more secure grasp (ἡ ἀσφάλεια) of the circumstances and significance of Jesus (cf. Luke 1:4 ἐπιγνῷς […] τὴν ἀσφάλειαν). Even more aptly, procurator “κράτιστε Festus” (Acts 26:25) in the 15  Luke 3:14 indicates that the “power of the Spirit” remains with Jesus as he begins his teaching and healing in Galilee and that he is able to assure his followers of the “granting of the Holy Spirit” by his “Father” to those who ask God in prayer (11:13). In 6:12, before Jesus “chooses” twelve among his disciples to be designated “apostles,” he is on a mountain “at prayer with God the whole night.” 16 See esp. David P. Moessner, “Luke’s ‘Witness of Witnesses’: Paul as Definer and Defender of the Tradition of the Apostles – ‘From the Beginning’,” in Paul and the Heritage of Israel: Paul’s Claim upon Israel’s Legacy in Luke and Acts in the Light of the Pauline Letters, ed. idem et al. (LNTC 452 / Luke the Interpreter of Israel 2; London: T&T Clark, 2012), 117–147.

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trial of Paul in Acts 25–26, must adjudicate the charges brought by the Jewish leaders by putting Paul on the witness stand so that he might secure “firmer” or “more certain facts” “so as to be able to write Lord” Caesar of his judgment (περὶ οὗ ἀσφαλές τι γράψαι τῷ κυρίῳ οὐκ ἔχω, Acts 25:26; cf. Luke 1:3: καθεξῆς σοι γράψαι, κράτιστε Θεόφιλε; Acts 25:20a). In sum, Luke’s choice of the ἀσφαλ-ές/ εια lexical grouping as a metaphor for his own narrative writing ability17 opens an unusual “window” into his own confidence to produce a very different structuring of “events come to fruition.” 2.2.2. Narrative-rhetorical markers which choreograph the major actors and events into a well-orchestrated plotted performance: καθεξῆς in Acts 10:1–48 → 11:1–18 → 1:4–5 → Luke 24:49 → Luke 3:15–23. Another prominent term in the Gospel prologue linked to narrative-rhetorical arrangement is καθεξῆς, Luke 1:3. What does Luke mean more precisely by “to write to you in a narrative sequence” (καθεξῆς σοι γράψαι)? Is he simply alleging that his narrative will be “orderly,” in fact, more sequentially correct than those of the “many?” And if so, what does “more orderly” refer to within a narrative? More chronologically correct? More reader-friendly in the ability to follow the story? A narrative arrangement that is both easy to follow but also configured in a way that renders greater understanding of the events depicted, especially according to the author’s own intention?18 In Acts 11:1–4 when Peter in Jerusalem confronts the “murmuring” “members from the circumcision” and “lays out καθεξῆς” his whole understanding of what had taken place through his Cornelius visitation,19 it becomes evident that this offering of hospitality and sharing of meals by a Gentile family with a “Jewish” man signals a consummate act of “bringing to fruition” an overarching “plan of God” (βουλὴ [τοῦ] θεοῦ)20 that Luke is orchestrating through his new ensemble. Peter’s attaching his disgust at lodging with the Gentile Cornelius to his vision of “unclean food,” on the one side (Acts 10:9–16), to the impact of his preaching upon Cornelius’s household, on the other (11:15–18), reveals more than at first blush: i) Addressing the “grumbling” critique “from those of the circumcision” in Acts 11:2–3, who are appalled that Peter “had entered into the house of an uncircumcised man and had eaten with them!”,21 Peter claims that precisely at 17 

ἡ ἀσφάλεια in Acts 5:23 refers to “the securely locked” prison gates. more thorough analysis in light of ancient Greek narrative rhetoric, see David P. Moessner, “The Meaning of ΚΑΘΕΞΗΣ in Luke’s Two-Volume Narrative,” in idem, Luke the Historian of Israel’s Legacy, 108–123. 19  Acts 11:4–18, Peter’s account interpreting the narrator’s, 10:1–48, within Luke’s narrative-rhetorical arrangement. 20  “You yourselves know that I, a Jewish male, am not allowed to associate with or to enter the household of a person of another race/a Gentile,” Acts 10:28; cf. “Plan/Will/Counsel of God” in Luke 7:30; Acts 2:23; 4:28; 5:38; 13:36; 20:27 [27:42–43]. 21  Cf. (δια-)γογγύζω in Luke 5:30; 15:2; 19:7 and the same “disgruntlement” of Luke 7:34 and expressed by forms of διακρίνω in Acts 10, 11, and 15. 18 For



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the very moment when he began to address Cornelius’s gathered kinsfolk – to Peter’s chagrin and great befuddlement – “the Holy Spirit came upon them just as the Spirit had come upon us at the beginning” (ὥσπερ καὶ ἐφ’ ἡμᾶς ἐν ἀρχῇ, 11:15b). More than that, at that same moment he heard echoing in his mind “the word of the Lord, how he had said, ‘John baptized with water, but you shall be baptized with the Holy Spirit.’” Where does this “word of the Lord” occur earlier in Luke or Acts, and how, particularly in the middle of Acts, does this reciting of Jesus’s words possibly possess any relevance? Luke’s audience will recognize the voice cited by Peter as the very same voice of the first character to speak in Acts, namely, Jesus himself. Following the inscribed author’s narrator’s short introduction (Acts 1:1–3), Jesus intrudes: “While eating with them, he [Jesus] charged his apostles not to leave Jerusalem but rather to ‘wait for the promise of the Father which you have heard from me, for John bap­ tized with water, but you shall be baptized with/by the Holy Spirit not after many days as these’” (1:4b–5). Peter is recalling how crucial the presence of the Spirit would be not only in empowering but also in legitimating their ongoing roles as witnesses as stressed by the resurrected Jesus himself at their new beginning: “If then God had given to them the same gift as indeed God had given to us when we came to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, who was I to be able to obstruct God?” (Acts 11:17). Now it would appear that Luke is narrating Peter’s experience to broadcast as loudly as possible a major goal of his two-volume message: the “anointed one” of Israel, Jesus of Nazareth, spans both Israel’s long history of the “saving acts of God,” as well as consummates Messiah’s eschatological, saving presence to all the nations of the world, “even to the end of the earth.”22 ii) This peculiar link is corroborated by Peter’s lingering upon the conviction that Cornelius’s empowerment by the Spirit was “just the same” as “upon us at the beginning” (ὥσπερ καὶ ἐφ’ ἡμᾶς ἐν ἀρχῇ). This “beginning” can only refer to Pentecost and subsequent scenarios in Acts 2–5 of the powerful “signs and wonders” performed by the apostles through the Spirit’s presence. Thus as late in the narrative as Acts 10–11, the initial voice sounding already in the prologue (Acts 1:4b–5) – the command of the suffering, resurrected Christ (cf. Luke 24:46–49) – has gone unheeded by the twelve apostles who were the primary “witnesses” to “the resurrection of Jesus.” iii)  Acts 1:4–5 forms, in fact, an epitome of both volumes, functioning as a metonymic prompt back to the last scene in Luke 24:36–49 where, at table, the resurrected Christ commanded them to await the “clothing of power from 22  “[Up] to the end of the earth” (Acts 1:8b) is a metonymic sounding box back to the Isaiah 40–55 prophecies in particular (e. g., Isa 49:6); cf., e. g., Luke 3:6 “all flesh shall see the saving actions of God” (Isa 40:5); cf. also “There is no other name under heaven among human beings through which we must be saved” (Acts 4:12b) and the unparalleled “name” in Isaiah 40–55 (e. g., “there is no other, besides me there is no god,” Isa 45:5, and that repeated emphasis throughout Isaiah 45 and passim).

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the Exalted Place” (Luke 24:49). This “word of the Lord” that Peter invokes in Acts 11 actually echoes nearly verbatim John the Baptist’s words at the critical “beginning” as Jesus comes out to John’s baptizing in solidarity with the people (ὁ λαός, Luke 3:15–22). Yet all the fanfare of John’s prophecy is now funnelled into the climax of Jesus’s baptism by the Holy Spirit (cf. the prolepsis or “flash forward” of Luke 3:20). Thus in tandem, the end of Luke 24 and the beginning of Acts in 1:3–8 point back to “the beginning” (ἡ ἀρχή) of Jesus’s calling in the first volume when John the Baptist himself prophesies, “I baptize with water, but the mightier one who comes after me will baptize you with Holy Spirit and fire” (Luke 3:16). Now Peter “under criticism” (cf. διακρίνομαι, Acts 11:2) perceives the “falling of the Spirit” of Pentecost upon believing Jews as a second ἀρχή that connects back to, elaborates, and extends the primary ἡ ἀρχή of both volumes. iv)  It is this double fulfilment of both John’s and Jesus’s words featured in Jesus’s eating and drinking that most exposes Peter’s turn-about regarding “unclean Gentiles” (Acts 10:14, 28; 11:8–9). Peter himself furnishes the lynchpin to this chain of causality. His “remembering the word of the Lord” comes as he begins to address the gathered kinsfolk of Cornelius, proclaiming “the message of peace that God had sent to Israel” through “anointing Jesus Messiah with the Holy Spirit and power” (Acts 10:37–38; cf. Luke 3:16). More than that, God had chosen not all the disciples nor any or all of the λαός of Israel to be Messiah’s witnesses, but rather only the apostles, “to us who had eaten and drunk with Jesus after he had risen from the dead” (Acts 10:41b → Acts 1:4b!). Only those who had had table fellowship with the risen Jesus could qualify as Messiah’s witnesses to “everyone who has faith/loyalty in him” (10:41–42). The ἀρχή “from the baptism of John” thus demarcates, sorts, elaborates, and integrates all of the narrative material of the two volumes. As late as the middle of volume two, John’s prophecy of the “mightier one” links Peter’s essential “change of mind”/μετάνοια vis-à-vis “unclean” Gentiles to the Baptist’s clairvoyance regarding the “true children of Abraham” (even “from stones”!) who will be baptized by the Holy Spirit through the anointed Christ of Israel (Luke 3:7–22). Instead of “going before them to Galilee,” as Mark brings “resolution”/λύσις to his mysterious Galilee → Passion “reversal” (μεταβολή, Mark 16:7), Luke emplots “the message sent throughout the whole of Judea, beginning in Galilee after the baptism that John preached” (Acts 10:37), to which “we [the apostles] are witnesses to all that he did in the land of the Jews and in Jerusalem” (10:39). To sum up, καθεξῆς operates as a rhetorical semaphore to conduct Luke’s audiences along the right narrative track to the defining primary “beginning” and to its greater development or fulfilment in the derivative beginning, the Spirit upon the Gentiles through Pentecost. Hence, καθεξῆς becomes at the same time a luminous lantern lighting the overarching narratological landscapes of both volumes. Luke’s two interlocking, interactive prologues draw the attention of his audiences with sufficient curiosity to stir their expectations toward a revisionist



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narrative construal, while simultaneously situating the author Luke at the crossroads of quality Hellenistic narrative production.

3.  Luke Claims an “Informed Familiarity” with the Voice of the Risen Jesus (Acts 1:4b–5, 7–8): Authoritative Commentary or “Accidental” Accommodation? A New Solution for an Age-old Conundrum If Luke defuses Mark’s Galilee-to-Jerusalem dynamic by deconstructing Mark’s narrative arc, he does so with little to no applause by modern and postmodern historical critics. Many of these have judged Acts to be a strange “add-on,” confusing the sequences of apostolic events, diffusing Paul’s radical gospel of “justification by grace through faith,” and misconstruing the contribution of Paul by recounting Paul’s journeys without so much as a “whisper” concerning the great apostle’s epistolary legacy. In short, for many from the Enlightenment on, Acts forms an alien rather than an alternative terrain. 1.  Much of the more recent history of the reception of Acts, particularly in the West, has been plagued with a two-headed conundrum. On the one hand, it is painstakingly evident that Luke intends his audience to continue reading the Acts as a sequel volume to the first, especially as he addresses Theophilus a second time, summarizes the scope and content of his first volume, and indicates that “all that Jesus began to do and to teach” (Acts 1:1) will now continue in the sending of his apostolic agents as “witnesses.” The overlap of the end of Luke with the opening prologue of Acts is a virtual poetic “tour de force” of lectio continua, spiralling into an unprecedented global impact and conjuring up Luke’s opening assertion that a number of “events” or “actions” (τὰ πράγματα) colored by a “beginning” have “among us” “come to a new stage of fruition” (Luke 1:1). It would seem, then, that Acts should be regarded as fundamentally the blooming of those earlier events of Jesus’s public activity into a world-wide, trans-national phenomenon. On the other hand, there is no substantial evidence either prior to or post Enlightenment in the exegesis of Luke’s “second” volume that Acts was ever read as a sequel to Luke, whether in the churches or by scholarly assessments and commentaries. A telling example is Chrysostom who complains, just before he leaves Antioch to become bishop in Constantinople (399–400 CE), that Acts is altogether neglected and even unknown – “a strange new dish” as he calls it!23 So he writes and preaches a commentary on the opening prologue of Acts, and, instead of linking those words with the Gospel of Luke as a follow-up volume (and 23  John Chrysostom, In principium Actorum 3.54, tr. in Henry J. Cadbury, The Book of Acts in History (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1955), 159.

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thus ideal commentary for the first volume), the “golden-tongued orator” relates Acts to all four Gospels and to the Pauline and catholic letters, as well.24 This angle for viewing Acts is augmented even more in his own sequel commentary, Homilies on Acts, writing in the first decade of the fifth century CE.25 Now the Bishop of Constantinople regards Acts, to an even greater extent, as apostolic teaching deriving from Jesus and therefore a critical hermeneutical lens for interpreting the rest of the incipient collection of writings that would eventually be acknowledged as “canonical.” Chrysostom’s work would become emblematic of much of Christian tradition until post-Enlightenment construals would turn Acts almost into the opposite: Acts lumbers as an awkward appendage that neither adequately comprehends the apostolic tradition nor fully appreciates the radical “gospel” of Paul. 2.  A possible solution to this conundrum is prompted by the “default setting” of Chrysostom’s assumptions for reading Acts. For him there is not the slightest suggestion that Luke was motivated to provide a sequel volume that would fill out his telling of a larger story and thus “fulfil” the events of the first volume. Luke and Acts is not one work of one human author to be read in two volumes. Instead, according to Chrysostom “the real author” of Acts is the risen Christ himself, who continues to act and to teach as he did in the Gospel accounts of his public words and deeds.26 Since the risen Christ is the Christ depicted in the four Gospels, Luke’s sequel volume is not about the discrete “Gospel” “according to Luke,” but rather about the risen Christ who speaks and acts for himself as he did in all four Gospels. Consequently, the Jesus who speaks in Acts 1:4b–5, 24  In principium Actorum [Commentary on the Beginning of Acts] PG 51:65–112 [5 homilies on the opening prologue of Acts (1:1–8), one of which was lost]. See esp. Michael B. Compton, Introducing the Acts of the Apostles: A Study of John Chrysostom’s “On The Beginning of Acts” (Dissertation, University of Virginia, 1996): these homilies were intended to introduce Chrysostom’s congregation in Antioch to the vital moral, hortative character of the Acts of the Apostles when the book had become “neglected,” even “unknown” (Compton provides his own translation of Homily 1 at 248–263); Chrysostom’s custom was “to prepare his congregation for later homilies on a particular book” (ibid., 3). The full commentary (55 homilies), however, followed only after Chrysostom became bishop of Constantinople in 400 CE. 25  Homilies on the Acts of the Apostles; cf., e. g., vol. 11 of The Nicene and Post Nicene Fathers (NPNF1): The Homilies of St. John Chrysostom: On the Acts of the Apostles and the Epistle to the Romans, gen. ed. Philip Schaff, ed. and tr. Joseph Walker, John Sheppard, and George B. Stevens (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1994). 26  “There can be no mistake in attributing this work to him [Luke]: and when I say, to him, I  mean, to Christ (ὥστε οὐκ ἄν τις ἁμάρτοι τὴν πραγματείαν ταύτην αὐτῷ ἀναθείς  – Ὅταν δὲ εἴπω, τούτῳ, τῷ Χριστῷ λέγω). And the reason is, that the author of this Book, that is, the blessed Luke, was his companion: a man whose high qualities, sufficiently visible in many other instances, are especially shown in the firm adherence to his Teacher [Paul] whom he constantly followed (Καὶ τὸ αἴτιον, ὅτι αὐτοῦ φοιτητὴς ἦν ὁ τὸ βιβλίον τοῦτο συνθεὶς Λουκᾶς ὁ μακάριος· οὗ τὴν ἀρετὴν πολλαχόθεν μὲν καὶ ἄλλοθεν ἔστιν ἰδεῖν, μάλιστα δὲ ἐκ τοῦ πρὸς τὸν διδάσκαλον ἀδιασπάστως ἔχειν, καὶ διαπαντὸς αὐτῷ παρακολουθεῖν)” (NPNF1 11.2 [PG 60.15]).



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7–8 is not the Jesus of Luke’s rendition, but rather the Christ himself, the chief character – actor-and-speaker – who was born and appeared in the time of the Principate of the Roman Empire when Quirinius was “governor of Syria”27 and becomes the subject of the church’s Gospels. 3.  We saw above that in the midst of the narrator’s opening address in Acts 1:1– 4a the voice of the risen Jesus breaks in to take over the narrator’s voice; this slipping from one voice to another without announcement or direct citation is most unusual in a secondary prologue. As a literary trope in Greek, moving from indirect to direct speech is not in itself noteworthy, as Luke does in several other places such as Luke 5:14 or Acts 14:22; 23:22 etc. But the voiceover of the narrator by the leading character of the previous volume in a sequel prologue is unparalleled. The Gospel of Luke has already reached a conclusive “end” (τελευτή): “The days of Jesus’s ‘taking up’” (ἀναλήμψις) announced as far back as in Galilee (Luke 9:51), have already been realized in 24:51 when Jesus “is carried up to heaven” (ἀνεφέρετο εἰς τὸν οὐρανόν). In Acts 1:1–5 this same, main character of the first volume, already ascended to the exalted Place of the Deity of Israel (Luke 24:50–51), suddenly, unexpectedly, almost eerily appears out of nowhere to speak out of the mouth of the narrator. (Narrator speaking) – “And while he was eating with them, he commanded them not to depart from Jerusalem (narrator still speaking) but to await the promise of the Father which you heard from me (Jesus speaking!).” But what does this sudden shift – from a second level narration that speaks from “outside” the story narrated and “slides” to the primary level of the events narrated with the characters speaking “inside” the story  – mean for the interpretation of Acts? Does this unexpected, often imperceptible change of the identity of the narrator hold the clue to “cracking” the conundrum?28 27  Luke 2:2; cf., e. g., Justin, 1 Apol. 34 (addressed to Emperor Antoninus Pius, ca. 156 CE): “Now there is a village in the land of the Jews, thirty-five stadia from Jerusalem, in which Jesus Christ was born, as you can ascertain also from the registers of the taxing made under Cyrenius, your first procurator in Judaea” (Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson, ed., The AnteNicene Fathers, Vol. 1: The Apostolic Fathers, Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, rev. ed. A. Cleveland Coxe [New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1913], 174). Cf. Dial. 78: “He [Joseph] was afraid, and did not put her away; but on the occasion of the first census which was taken in Judea, under Cyrenius, he went up from Nazareth, where he lived, to Bethlehem, to which he belonged, to be enrolled” (Roberts and Donaldson, The Ante-Nicene Fathers, 1.237). Though Chrysostom’s thinking is not completely unlike the modern “Jesus of history” / “Christ of faith” dichotomy, Chrysostom does not think in terms of dichotomy but rather of differing accounts of the same person by different composers whose poetic skills vary, and more importantly, whose poetic license in selecting and arranging narrative accounts is not narrowly restricted to the “accuracy” (ἀκριβεία) required in post-Enlightenment notions of history reporting that also demand precision of detail. While for Chrysostom the four canonical Gospels report actual events, the rhetorical venues for depicting them are far more tolerant of varying formats and assortments of selection. 28  Modern translations often miss this transition by rendering Jesus’s words as direct speech:

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This unannounced transition in levels of ancient Greek ποίησις is a form of μετάληψις or “transfer” from one “world of the text” to another. Quintilian observes, “Metalepsis provides a transition (transumptio) from one trope to another […] It is the nature of μετάληψις to form a kind of intermediate step between the term transferred and the thing to which it is transferred, having no meaning in itself, but providing a transition.”29 He adds that metalepsis is more of “a Greek thing,” rarely used in Latin except in “comedy.” We are suggesting that Luke employs the rhetorical trope metalepsis which, in longer narrations, such as epic or historiography, may facilitate the sudden, often unnoticeable shift from one narrator to another. One of the more famous of such metalepses occurs in Homer’s Odyssey (8.266–270), where the passage begins with the primary narrator Homer and ends with the legendary ­“story-teller” Demodocus’s song, followed by the shift back to (presumably) Homer: αὐτὰρ ὁ φορμίζων ἀνεβάλλετο καλὸν ἀείδειν ἀμφ’ Ἄρεος φιλότητος ἐϋστεφάνου τ’ Ἀφροδίτης ὡς τὰ πρῶτ’ ἐμίγησαν ἐν Ἡφαίστοιο δόμοισι λάθρῃ πολλὰ δ’ ἐδῶκε […] (Od. 8.266–270) ταῦτ’ ἄρ’ ἀοιδὸς ἄειδε περικλυτός (8.367) Thus plucking his lyre he began to sing beautifully about the love-affair of Ares and the fair-crowned Aphrodite how they mingled in love for the first time in Hephaestus’s house in secret. And he [Ares] gave many gifts […] This song the famous minstrel sang.30

As Irene de Jong has highlighted, it is only some hundred lines later that Demodocus’s song ends with the reminder, “This song the famous minstrel sang” (ταῦτ’ ἄρ’ ἀοιδὸς ἄειδε περικλυτός, 8.367). Thus at the narrative-performative level, it is not clear whether a bard like a Demodocus “forms an image of Homer himself such that the ancient singer performs Homer’s singing, or whether Demodocus is allowed to intrude, even if discreetly, into the performance itself to become in effect at that point, the song of the Odyssey.” De Jong, I think rightly, opts for both, concluding that this metalepsis is a conscious move for Homer to fuse the voice of a venerable poet of the past with his own, and thereby embellish “he said, ‘Wait for the promise […]’” [NRSV]; cf. Lutherbibel, “Und als er mit ihnen zusammen war, befahl er ihnen, Jerusalem nicht zu verlassen, sondern zu warten auf die Verheissung des Vaters, die ihr, so sprach er, von mir gehört zu haben.” – The introductory words specifying the speaker are not present in the Greek text. 29 Quintilian, Inst. 8. 6. 37–38; in Harold E. Butler, ed. and tr., Quintilian: The Orator’s Education, 4 vols. (LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1920–1922), 3.323. 30  Translation adapted from Irene J. F. de Jong, “Metalepsis in Ancient Greek Literature,” in Narratology and Interpretation: The Content of Narrative Form in Ancient Literature, ed. Jonas Grethlein and Antonios Rengakos (Trends in Classics Suppl. 4; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2009), 87–115.



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his own authority to sing the tale (“his own song is just as good as a song of the heroic past”).31 As Jesus takes over the voice of the narrator in Acts 1:4b, does his prophecy to the apostles in Acts 1:5 – that they “will be baptized by the Holy Spirit not after many days as these” – function in a similar way to lead Luke’s audiences to hear the voice of the risen Jesus as blending with the telling of the story that follows of the Acts of those apostles? But perhaps even more telling than the merger of narrators is the collapse of the two worlds of Luke and Acts into the one realm of the newly fulfilled Kingdom of God that emerges from it: through Jesus’s direct address-charge to the apostles in Acts 1:4b, the author-narrator transports the audience back to that first level narration of the Gospel volume to hear again, re-configure, and thus re-signify the entirety of Jesus’s acting and speaking in the public arena, “all that Jesus began to do and to teach.” At the same time, however, this metaleptic slide into Jesus’s own voice provides new “hearing aids” to discern and follow the newly launched first level or intra-diegetic narration of Acts. As audience, we are in effect to continue hearing and seeing Jesus act and teach, as our author-narrator begins to blend the world narrated in volume one with the world that continues to be narrated in the ongoing volume. Accordingly, when in Acts 1:6–8 both Jesus and the disciples speak directly to each other at the level of “what is narrated,” it is now clear that the “world of narrating” has shifted from the direct interaction in the first volume of the same characters to the new “orb of narrating” from the point of view of the crucified, resurrected, exalted one of “heaven” (“Lord, will you at this time restore the Kingdom to Israel?” in 1:6b). “At this time” (ἐν τῷ χρόνῳ), Jesus will no longer be present with them as the hidden presence that goes before them, appears incognito “on the way” to accompany them, or even enters their “room” mysteriously to eat with them (Luke 24:1–49). The whole world of time and space has been altered, re-calibrated, re-signified. Jesus’s ongoing presence with his followers creates a new world of acting and teaching where the divide between heaven and earth is replaced by the somatic presence of his “flesh and bones” mediated through the “baptism of the Holy Spirit” that Jesus himself effects (σάρκα καὶ ὀστέα, Luke 24:39; ὑμεῖς δὲ ἐν πνεύματι βαπτισθήσεσθε ἁγίῳ, Acts 1:5; ἐξέχεεν [Jesus] τοῦτο ὃ ὑμεῖς [καὶ] βλέπετε καὶ ἀκούετε, Acts 2:33b). This transfigured presence of Jesus of Nazareth constitutes the new reality of the “Kingdom of God” that presents Jesus the suffering, crucified Christ as “the living one” who himself bespeaks and enacts the Kingdom of God. Consequently, the crucified-resurrected One has become himself the primary tradent and hermeneut of all that he – through his chosen witnesses – continues to do and to teach. The main reason, therefore, that there is absolutely no evidence 31 

de Jong, “Metalepsis,” 101.

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to suggest that Luke and Acts were read and studied as one “book” in two sequel volumes by early Christian communities is simply because the author himself has made this point evident in his carefully crafted overlap of the beginning of Acts with the ending of Luke.32 The suffering-risen Christ who speaks, acts, and takes over the voice of the continuing narrator of the first volume is himself the primary narrative-story voice, the hermeneutical “microphone” of broadcasting to later generations. The collapse or transumption of metalepsis privies the church to the hermeneutics of Jesus himself, the Risen, Crucified One, exalted in Heaven, somatically present with the church on earth in “flesh and bones!” (Luke 24:39). So when Peter “opens the scriptures” to interpret what is happening on the Day of Pentecost (Acts 2), Luke’s Greek-hearing audiences know that the voice of Peter and that of the narrator derive from and echo the voice of the risen one whose baptism of the Holy Spirit upon the apostles vouchsafes their authoritative interpretation of the Kingdom of God’s presence through the presence of Jesus himself “in/through/by” the power of the Holy Spirit. As the broken one at table with the twelve (“he broke the bread […] my body which is being given for you,” Luke 22:19), Jesus the suffering-exalted one had already anticipated and celebrated the passage of this new realization of God’s reign33 in a new universe of narrating where his disciples as “witnesses to all these things” would journey “to the ends of the earth” (Luke 24:48; Acts 1:8).

4. Conclusions The author of the Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles challenges the traditional template impressed by Mark by changing the epistemological contours of Mark’s narrative construal. What has become the fundamental plotted movement in contemporary historical-critical scholarship for “the synoptic tradition” – and thus the epitome of the trifecta of “Synoptic” Gospels, Matthew/ Mark/Luke  – actually runs counter to Luke’s attempt to break this “synoptic” mould. Luke not only registers his dissatisfaction with the Markan narrative, but he also re-arranges the whole of the received tradition into an entirely new narrative hermeneutic for the emerging Christian traditions of the late first and early second centuries CE (cf. Luke 1:1–4; Acts 1:1–8). Luke’s “Gospel” and his “Acts” that follow re-configure the Markan dy-namic into a tri-namic diorama of the Messiah of Israel’s enactment of salvation for the whole world. By re-figuring Mark’s biographical silhouette of Jesus of Nazareth, Luke drafts a new, more comprehensive narrative arc of multiple actors through 32 

As Chrysostom put it, “Christ is the real author of Acts” (Hom. Act. 1.1, PG 60:13). Luke 22:16, ἕως ὅτου πληρωθῇ ἐν τῇ βασιλείᾳ τοῦ θεοῦ; Luke 22:18b, ἕως οὗ ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ ἔλθῃ. 33 



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multiple periods of Israel’s history – patriarchs, prophets, saints, holy women, apostles, witnesses and counter-witnesses – all co-figured around the Anointed One who was pre-announced, predictably rejected, and pre-eminently enthroned as the Lord and Christ of God’s final “reign” for all peoples. Acts does much more than interpret the “teaching and acting” of Jesus in Luke’s Gospel. Acts creates the full flowering of the hermeneutical environment that will open up the meanings of Paul’s re-conceptualizations and applications of Israel’s scriptures to Israel’s “Christ.” Acts engenders the interpretive dialogue between “witnesses” of and about this Christ with their Jewish scriptures to transform exegetical discoveries in and between a number of passages in the HB/LXX and the writings of Christian “witnesses” into an unprecedented whole, now much greater than the sum of individual exegetical insights and applications. Now the “catholic” epistles make greater sense in the larger Mediterranean studio of teaching and enacting the fulfilled and still filling Kingdom of God. In short, Luke and Acts do not equal Luke-Acts of modern construals. Together the two volumes pull the Jewish scriptures into the words and deeds of Jesus – both earthly and resurrected – as well as bind Jesus’s public impact to the “word(s) of the Lord” of these same scriptures. We can even suggest that Luke and Acts, whether read separately or together, were the chief catalysts for the formation and eventual coalescing of the Christian Bible of two Testaments. In this sense, Luke is “the first biblical theologian.” Luke sorts the various pieces of tradition into a colourful mosaic to clarify as well as to construct both the earthly and “resurrected” activity of Jesus into a new unity anticipating the “Christian scriptures.” In sum, Luke’s new “noetic divide” between Luke and the Acts engulfs the nearly 50 % of Markan material as well as Luke’ many other traditions into a new plotted arc to parade the fulfilled and fulfilling Kingdom of God through the voice of the crucified-resurrected Christ, the Messiah of Israel, in Luke’s revisionist narrative agenda for the whole world.

The Gospel for Sceptics Doubting Thomas (John 20:24–29) and Early Christian Identity Formation Benjamin Schliesser Introduction: Processes of Identity Formation and the Character of Thomas The Gospel of John is a text with a plethora of narrative gaps and lacunae, a wealth of explicit and implicit questions, and countless ambiguities. Such gaps, questions, and ambiguities call for a creative and productive reading, for an aesthetic response of the addressees.1 Involvement of the reading community includes not only a cognitive dimension, but also an emotional and evaluative dimension.2 The productivity of the Johannine “strategy of ambiguity” is evidenced in the plethora of “apocryphal” narratives and other literary developments, and also in the growing exegetical and homiletical literature of early Christianity. In the critical era of biblical scholarship, the numerous commentaries of the 19th century prove particularly instructive, as they exploit the narrative potential of John’s Gospel with acumen and erudition, even if they oftentimes reveal historicizing and psychologizing tendencies. In an analogous manner, current narratological approaches and “character studies” endeavour to unveil the narrative possibilities of the text by means of a more nuanced methodological repertoire.3 Literary 1  Cf. the groundbreaking work of Wolfgang Iser, The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978). Biblical citations are generally taken from the NSRV, with occasional modifications. Throughout, chapter and verse numbers without further specification refer to the Gospel of John. I wish to thank Dr. Jan Rüggemeier for his valuable comments and Dr. Christina Harker for improving the English style of this article. 2  On these three dimensions – cognitive, emotional, and evaluative – in processes of identity formation, see the classic study by Henri Tajfel, Differentiation between Social Groups: Studies in the Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations (London: Academic Press, 1978), 28. Throughout the present essay, they will recur and reinforce the perception of an efficient and creative scheme of Johannine identity construction. For a recent social identity reading of John, see Raimo Hakola, Reconsidering Johannine Christianity: A  Social Identity Approach (New York: Routledge, 2015). 3  Among monograph treatments, see especially Colleen M. Conway, Men and Women in the Fourth Gospel. Gender and Johannine Characterization (SBLDS 167; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 1999); Peter Dschulnigg, Jesus begegnen. Personen und ihre Bedeutung im Johannesevangelium (2nd edition; Münster: LIT, 2002); Judith Hartenstein, Charakterisie­

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openness requires and inspires engaged reading and, as a consequence, fosters processes of identity formation and stabilization.4 The programmatic openness of John by no means correlates with a vague purpose. Rather, he pursues an unambiguous and determined “strategy of faith,” as Jean Zumstein perceptively noted.5 In the end of his work, he reveals the goal of his literary efforts, namely, to write a “book (βιβλίον) of faith,” which leads its readers to faith: “The narrative is concluded by 20:30–31, which on a metatextual level formulates the theological goal and its pragmatic function: to call believers to faith.”6 Reflections on doubt and scepticism are part of his “strategy of faith”. In his decision to place the symbolic encounter between “Doubting Thomas” and the Risen One immediately before the meta-textual conclusion of his gospel, he attaches great importance to the tension between faith and disbelief. Thomas is an exemplar of how faith can be acquired in spite of severe obstacles and objections. For good reasons, John 20 has been called “the climax of John’s Christological narrative.”7 It is obvious that Thomas’s attitude to Jesus rung im Dialog. Maria Magdalena, Petrus, Thomas und die Mutter Jesu im Johannesevangelium im Kontext anderer frühchristlicher Darstellungen (NTOA 64; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007); Susan Hylen, Imperfect Believers: Ambiguous Characters in the Gospel of John (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2009); Steven A. Hunt, D. Francois Tolmie, and Ruben Zimmermann, ed., Character Studies in the Fourth Gospel: Literary Approaches to Sixty-Seven Figures in John (WUNT 314; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013); Christopher W. Skinner, ed., Characters and Characterization in the Gospel of John (LNTS; London: T&T Clark, 2013); Cornelis Bennema, Encountering Jesus: Character Studies in the Gospel of John (2nd edition; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2014). 4  It is not possible to delve into the intricacies of narratological analyses. One aspect should be highlighted at the outset: my focus is not so much the “implied reader” in terms of a thin textual structure, but the “intended reader/reading community,” having prior knowledge about the characters in the narrative (such as Thomas), and with community-specific as well as culture-specific knowledge. Their identity is formed and stabilized not primarily by their attending to all details and all open spaces, but by attending to elements that are repeated (such as Thomas’s name), that are inconsistent and ambivalent (such as Thomas’s attitude to Jesus), and that are emotionally charged (such as the autopsy of Jesus’s body by Thomas). Questions asked by later readers are not necessarily the questions asked by the intended readers, though differentiating both sets of questions proves utterly challenging. 5  Cf. Jean Zumstein, “L’évangile johannique. Une stratégie du croire,” in Miettes exégé­ tiques (MdB 25; Geneva: Labor et Fides, 1991), 237–252. 6 Jean Zumstein, Das Johannesevangelium (KEK 2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015), 34 (my translation; all other translations from non-English secondary literature are mine). On Jesus’s questions, see Douglas Estes, The Questions of Jesus in John: Logic, Rhetoric and Persuasive Discourse (BibInt 115; Leiden: Brill, 2013), 165–166. Estes concludes his survey on the questions of Jesus in John with the observation that they keep coming back to two fundamental questions: “Whom do you seek?” and “Do you believe in me?” “Almost all of the questions of Jesus in John are a part of John’s persuasive discourse scheme. An alert and experienced reader understands this because the narrator makes the purpose of the scheme relatively clear: I, John, wrote these ‘so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name’ (John 20:31).” 7 William Bonney, Caused to Believe: The Doubting Thomas Story as the Climax of John’s Christological Narrative (BibInt 62; Leiden: Brill, 2002).



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should not be conflated into one single character trait, such as doubt; on the contrary, he appears to be an intricately crafted, ambiguous character in the narrative world of the evangelist. As will be seen in the first section of this essay (1), Thomas figures in the Johannine narrative three times (and once in the later addition John 21), and his convoluted journey towards the Christological confession (20:28) includes his unenlightened focus on inner-worldly logic (11:16), his lack of insight into the mission of Jesus (John 14:5), and his brash demand to validate the resurrection through physical means of proof (20:25). In a next step (2), I ask why it is Thomas who was picked by John to illustrate a specific sceptical stance towards Jesus. One decisive clue, it seems, is his cognomen Didymos, purposefully employed by the evangelist to express the duality of Thomas’s character and, possibly, to provoke a self-identification of the reader with his/her twin “Doubting Thomas.” In the final section (3), I gather seven characteristic elements of the Johannine presentation of the disciple, which illustrate both his role within the narrative and his intended impact in the process of Christian identity formation. Overall, I propose that John is a gospel for sceptical believers, and that Thomas embodies their stance.

1.  Thomas and His Encounters with Jesus 1.1.  The Ambiguity of Thomas It is only in the Gospel of John that Thomas appears as an acting character. In the Synoptic tradition he is only mentioned in the lists of the apostles. In John, he first enters the literary stage of the narrative in the highly symbolic Lazarus episode. Obviously, the author assumes that his readers are aware that he is one of the disciples, as he is not properly introduced. When Jesus expresses his intention to go to Bethany and to Lazarus, who was already dead by that time, Thomas responds with enigmatic words: “Let us also go, that we may die with him (sc. Jesus or Lazarus?)” (ἄγωμεν καὶ ἡμεῖς ἵνα ἀποθάνωμεν μετ’ αὐτοῦ) (11:16). He is presented as ignorant and defeatist, but loyal. Thomas’s second appearance takes up the semantic field of the “way” and portrays his lack of understanding in an even stronger manner. With his objection, which belongs to the few interruptions of the Farewell Speeches in John, he admits openheartedly that he and his fellow disciples are unaware of the goal of Jesus’s mission. “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” (14:5). The encounter with Jesus at the end of the gospel finally marks the climax of the literary miseen-scène of the Johannine character of Thomas, indeed the climax of the gospel as a whole. While John keeps the tone of the previous section (the encounter of the Risen One with the ten disciples in 20:19–23) strangely restrained,8 the 8 

There is no dialogue between Jesus and the disciples. The reader’s attention is steered to

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Thomas episode reveals a remarkable sensual and narrative imagination. Also, the tension between Thomas’s severe affirmation “I will not believe” (20:25) and his solemn confession “My Lord and my God!” (20:28) is taken to extremes. The disciples’ announcement that they have seen the risen Lord – and, by implication, his hands and his side – provokes Thomas’s response, and he insists fiercely that he cannot base his faith on hearsay evidence, but only on his own seeing and touching.9 In line with his critical mind-set, Thomas requests a valid foundation for his faith based on personal experience rather than the experience of others. His doubt in the resurrection, which confirms for the readers his lack of understanding of Jesus’s way (cf. 14:5–6), can only be removed if his palpable encounter with the Risen One will prove the incredible to be credible. His doubt does not reflect the disposition of every disciple, but the doubt of a critically probing character who requires compelling – i. e., tangible – evidence. Certainly, he is confronted with the problem of all later generations (i. e., Jesus’s absence), but he faces the problem in his own manner, with thorough scepticism. Moreover, the manner in which Jesus responds to Thomas’s request is paradigmatic (in this gospel) for an empathetic and effective reaction to doubt and scepticism. As the Gospel of John ends its “strategy of faith” by referring to a paradigmatic sceptic, the label “gospel for sceptics” seems justified. Questions, open spaces, and ambiguities abound – both inner-textual and extra-textual – with respect to the character of Thomas and his appearances in John.10 What role does Thomas and Thomas tradition play in the Johannine community and, possibly, in rival early Christian groups? Is the authority of Thomas being questioned in the Gospel of John?11 Is Thomas presented as “the dour, dogged disciple,”12 as a believer with “weak faith,”13 or rather as a “courageous and loyal follower of Jesus”14 or even as a prime example of an enlightened faith?15 questions of the materiality of Jesus’s resurrection body transcending a locked door, the gift of the spirit, and the command to forgive sins (potestas clavium). 9  The impression of a “sudden, drastic violence of his reply” (Glenn Most, Doubting Thomas [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2005], 45) is caused by the double, categorical negative οὐ μὴ πιστεύσω (cf. John 4:48). 10  These are all questions asked and answered, both implicitly and explicitly, in the course of the history of reception and interpretation. Some of them are significant for the “intended readers” and for their critical self-assurance, others have only become relevant in the later exegetical reflection. 11  Thus, e. g., Hartenstein, Charakterisierung. 12 Nicholas Thomas Wright, John for Everyone, Part 2: Chapters 11–21 (London and Louisville: SPCK and Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 153. 13 Rudolf Schnackenburg, Das Johannesevangelium. Einleitung und Kommentar zu Kap. 13–21 (6th edition; HTKNT 4/3; Freiburg: Herder, 1992), 396. 14  Sunny Kuan-Hui Wang, Sense Perception and Testimony in the Gospel According to John (WUNT/2 435; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 191. 15 Cf. Dschulnigg, Jesus begegnen, 232: “Er erscheint fast schon wie ein verfrühtes Kind der Aufklärung, er will sich des eigenen Verstandes bedienen, an Fakten orientieren und nicht unausgewiesenen Worten vertrauen.”



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Is his call, “Let us also go!” (11:16), a sign of integrity or one of resignation? Who is the referent of the prepositional phrase μετ’ αὐτοῦ in Thomas’s rejoinder to the request of Jesus to go to Bethany – Lazarus, Jesus, or both (11:16)?16 What is the reason for Thomas’s obliviousness regarding “the way” and the identity of Jesus as the way (14:5)? How could Thomas be absent when Jesus appeared for the first time on the Easter evening (20:19)? Did he, being absent, receive the spirit? Why is it that Thomas phrases his request to touch the wounds in such a drastic tone? What happened in the eight days after the first appearance, which the evangelist passes over in silence (20:26)? Did Thomas touch Jesus or was he overwhelmed by his presence and/or his words (20:28)? What is the form and subtext of Jesus’s reply to Thomas (Ὅτι ἑώρακάς με πεπίστευκας): is it a question with an implied critique or simply a neutral statement of the obvious? And what is the intention of the subsequent macarism (20:29): is it a critique of Thomas’s yearning for signs17 or rather a comfort to those generations of Christians who do not see and cannot claim to be eyewitnesses?18 Such questions arising from the presentation of Thomas could easily be multiplied. They witness to John’s predilection for ambiguous characters, who oscillate between faith and unbelief.19 “Again and again, the characters are constructed in ways that pull the reader in multiple directions,”20 and Thomas is a case in point for this composition strategy, which dovetails with John’s “strategy of faith.” A  particularly intriguing ambiguity, which in fact tosses readers in rather different directions, concerns the seamless transition from Jesus’s invitation to touch his wounds to Thomas’s Christological confession. Arguably, this is the most striking and productive textual lacuna in a passage with a “number of ‘open spaces.’”21 Was Thomas’s doubt overcome 16 Hugo Grotius (Annotationes in Novum Testamentum, Vol. 4: Annotationes ad Iohan­ nem, [2nd edition; Groningen: Zuidema, 1828], 169) reasoned that Lazarus, not Jesus, is in mind. In this sense also Theodor Zahn, Das Evangelium des Johannes (6th edition; KNT 4; Leipzig: Deichert, 1921), 480–481. 17  Cf. Margaret M. Beirne, Women and Men in the Fourth Gospel: A Genuine Discipleship of Equals (JSNTSup 242; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 2003), 205: “Thomas is gently chided with the lesson that, profound as it is, his personal faith is not more blessed than that of future believers who will require no such sign of Jesus’s physical presence in order to believe.” 18 Folker Siegert, Das Evangelium des Johannes in seiner ursprünglichen Gestalt. Wieder­ herstellung und Kommentar (Schriften des Institutum Judaicum Delitzschianum 7; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008), 613: “Trost einer Generation von Christinnen und Christen, die weder Jesus persönlich kennt noch die Augenzeugen seines Lebens.” 19  Hylen, Imperfect Believers, passim, highlights the ambiguity of several of John’s characters and claims against much of previous scholarship that the ambiguity need not be resolved. Her book, however, sidelines Thomas, whose ambiguity is dissolved into a crystal-clear Christological confession. 20  Colleen M. Conway, “Speaking through Ambiguity: Minor Characters in the Fourth Gospel,” BibInt 10 (2002), 324–341 at 330. 21  Christopher M. Tuckett, “Seeing and Believing in John 20,” in Paul, John, and Apoca­ lyptic Eschatology: Studies in Honour of Martinus C. de Boer, ed. Jan Krans et al. (NovTSup 149; Leiden: Brill, 2013), 169–185 at 169. Tuckett proceeds: “[O]ne can fill the ‘gaps’ in the individual

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by tactile evidence or (just) by the overwhelming presence and/or the powerful words of the Risen One? 1.2.  A Corporeal Experience of Faith The history of interpretation from the Church Fathers to the Counter-Reformation has been amply documented and analysed in Glenn Most’s acclaimed study Doubting Thomas.22 Most reaches a remarkable conclusion: “In the whole of late ancient and medieval Christian exegesis, there seem to be only four moments when the possibility that Thomas might not have touched Jesus after all emerges briefly, only to be suppressed at once.”23 Most has Augustine in mind, who recognizes that Jesus did not say “You have touched me,” but “You have seen me” (20:29). Only in a fleeting comment does he affirm “that the disciple did not dare to touch” (Tractates on John 121.5), despite Jesus’s offer. The idea seems too unimportant to be dealt with in greater detail, and he comments: “He saw and touched the man, and acknowledged the God whom he neither saw nor touched; but by the means of what he saw and touched, he now put far away from him every doubt, and believed  …” (121.5). Augustine’s brief exegetical detour was followed by Albertus Magnus and Thomas Aquinas, who would eventually align themselves with his final conclusion, though for different reasons. At the turn of the 12th century, Euthymius Zigabenus reasoned: “When [Thomas] saw the signs of the nails in his [Jesus’s] hands, and his pierced side, he believed immediately and did not wait to touch him.” And he immediately adds, “But others say that after he had touched him he cried out, ‘My Lord and my God!’”24 His final remark that Thomas deemed touching more reliable than seeing, appears to be his own thought, as it is not found in any of the patristic authors.25 Hence, almost all interpreters until Reformation times presuppose explicitly or tacitly that the physical verification of the fact of resurrection overcame Thomas’s doubt. Only in Reformation times would alternative views increase in number and slowly gain the upper hand. However, Most’s judgement that we witness “a new and quite different interpretation,” which could be traced to “a new willingness, indeed an eagerness, to break with the Catholic interpretative tradition and the stories in different ways with resulting different interpretations of the pericopes where they occur, as well as of the overall story of the gospel as a whole.” 22  Most, Doubting Thomas, draws on the dissertation of Ulrich Pflugk, Die Geschichte vom ungläubigen Thomas (Johannes 20,24–29) in der Auslegung der Kirche von den Anfängen bis zur Mitte des sechzehnten Jahrhunderts (Dissertation, Hamburg University, 1965). My own article (Benjamin Schliesser, “To Touch or not to Touch: Doubting and Touching in John 20:24–29,” Early Christianity 8 [2017], 69–93) substantially expands the evidence cited by Most and Pflugk, refining and correcting some of Most’s conclusions. 23  Most, Doubting Thomas, 139. 24 Euthymius Zigabenus, Expositio in Joannem (PG 129.1489) (tr. in Most, Doubting Thomas, 140–141). 25 Cf. Pflugk, Die Geschichte vom ungläubigen Thomas, 83.



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hermeneutic monopoly of the church,”26 is no more than sensational. In fact, most Reformers are actually quite traditionalist when it comes to the question of Thomas’s touching, and the shift of emphasis is rather gradual. Occasionally, even Post-Reformation writers continued to enter the debate, though they did so in a rather non-polemical way, mostly in passing, and even the CounterReformation can hardly be said to display aggressiveness. Most’s contention that “the Catholic Counter-Reformation responded vigorously and polemically to the Protestant challenge within the tiny field of the exegesis of John 20,”27 seems like a problematic overstatement. The most emblematic illustration of the two paradigms of interpretation is not found in written commentaries, but in two works of art depicting the Thomas episode: the shockingly graphic painting The Incredulity of Saint Thomas (1601/1602) of Baroque painter Caravaggio shows a disciple whose doubt vanishes and gives way to utter astonishment when his finger penetrates the wound in Jesus’s side. In contrast, Rembrandt’s depiction of the scene, Doubting Thomas (1634), presents Jesus with his hand pointing at his side and the disciple shying away in dismay; neither his posture nor his facial expression allow for a touching of the signa crucis.28 The two artistic patterns, it seems, do not represent controversial theological rivalry but rather a symbolic self-revelation of the two painters and, in a wider sense, a creative approach to the interrelation of faith, doubt, and empirical evidence.29 From the 18th century, we can observe a trend in the historical-critical exegesis of the chapter, which deems Thomas’s physical verification of Jesus’s wounds as improbable or inappropriate.30 These thinkers 26  Most, Doubting Thomas, 145, 148. See, however, the statement at 149: “We must of course not exaggerate the caesura produced by the Reformation within the history of the Christian interpretation of the story of Doubting Thomas.” It should be noted that, compared to patristic literature, medieval exegesis placed little emphasis on the idea that Thomas really did touch Jesus, though it is uniformly presupposed (cf. the summaries in Pflugk, Die Geschichte vom ungläubigen Thomas, 180, 223). 27  Most, Doubting Thomas, 149. 28  Studies in the history or art dealing with the Thomas motif and, in particular, Caravaggio’s representation, abound. Cf., apart from Most, Doubting Thomas, 160–214, Lisa M. Rafanelli, “To Touch or Not to Touch: The ‘Noli Me Tangere’ and the ‘Incredulity of Thomas’s in Word and Image from Early Christianity to the Ottonian Period,” in To Touch or Not to Touch? Inter­ disciplinary Perspective on the Noli Me Tangere, ed. Reimund Bieringer, Karlijn Demasure, and Barbara Baert (Annua Nuntia Lovaniensia 67; Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 139–177; Erin E. Benay, “Touching is Believing: Caravaggio’s Doubting Thomas in Counter-Reformatory Rome,” in Caravaggio: Reflections and Refractions, ed. Lorenzo Periocolo and David M. Stone (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), 59–82; Erin E. Benay and Lisa M. Rafanelli, Faith, Gender, and the Senses in Italian Renaissance and Baroque Art: Interpreting the Noli Me Tangere and Doubting Thomas (Farnham: Ashgate, 2015). 29  Cf. on the latter aspect Benay and Rafanelli, Faith, Gender, and the Senses, 7. 30  While Most in his monograph reviews relevant works from the Church Fathers to the Counter Reformation in quite some detail, he hardly recognizes Johannine exegesis of subsequent centuries. One effect of this procedure is that his findings appear more groundbreaking than they actually are.

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are guided by a shared theological viewpoint rather than differing denom­ inations. According to them, Thomas was convinced by Jesus’s overwhelming presence and/or efficacious word. No touching is necessary.31 It is hardly surprising that the preeminent “Word of God”-theologian Karl Barth highlights particularly Jesus’s word: “Be not faithless, but believing” (20:27). Barth states, “This is not just pious exhortation, but a word of power. And to this Thomas gives the appropriate answer: ‘My Lord and my God.’”32 Other leading twentieth century commentators on John concur with Barth’s position, including Rudolf Bultmann, Charles H. Dodd, Rudolf Schnackenburg, and Raymond E. Brown.33 With only a few exceptions, this view also prevails in present-day Johannine exegesis with the same rationale.34 Glenn Most concludes: “[T]o suppose that Thomas might actually have touched Jesus, and thereby have been brought to belief in his divinity, is to misunderstand not just some detail of John’s account, but its deepest and most fundamental message.”35 In retrospect we can maintain that whoever sharpens his anti-gnostic or anti-docetic knife with the biblical texts in his fight against heresy – one could think of Tertullian or Origen36 – will take for granted physical contact with the resurrected body. Whoever looks out in mystical inclination for an abode of his soul  – like the Moravian Nicolaus Zinzendorf  – will contemplate Jesus’s side wound: “Seitenhölgen, Seitenhölgen, du hist mein!” (“Little side hole, little side 31 Already Friedrich Adolph Lampe, Commentarius analytico-exegeticus in Evangelium secundum Joannem, 3 vols. (Amsterdam: Schoonenburg, 1683–1729), 3.707: “Glowing grace dissolved the gloom of Thomas instantly and completely, and he was overwhelmed with admiration, shame, love, joy – all at once.” 32 Karl Barth, The Doctrine of Creation, Vol. 3.2 of Church Dogmatics, ed. Geoffrey W. Bromiley and Thomas F. Torrance (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1960), 449. 33 Rudolf Bultmann, The Gospel of John: A  Commentary, tr. George R. Beasley-Murray (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1971), 694; Charles H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953), 443 n. 1; Schnackenburg, Johan­ nesevangelium, 396; Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel according to John XIII–XXI (AB 29A; New York: Doubleday, 1970), 1046. 34  Cf., for the few exceptions, Udo Schnelle, Das Evangelium nach Johannes (THKNT 4; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1998), 306–307; Hartwig Thyen, Das Johannesevangelium (HNT 6; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 770; Gerald L. Borchert, John 12–21 (NAC 25B; Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 2002), 314. On the opinio communis, see the numerous references in Schliesser, “To Touch or not to Touch,” 84 n. 66. 35  Most, Doubting Thomas, 58. 36  Tertullian holds against Marcion that Christ’s body was no “phantasm” (phantasma) (An. 17.14): “it was trustworthy when he was seen and heard on the mountain, and trustworthy when he tasted the wine […] and then it was trustworthy when he was touched by believing Thomas” (CCSL 2.806; tr. in Most, Doubting Thomas, 131). Like many later interpreters, Tertullian appeals to 1 John 1:1. According to Origen (Cels. 2.61), the Middle Platonist philosopher Celsus thought that after his death Jesus “used to produce only a mental impression (φαντασία) of the wounds he received on the cross, and did not really appear wounded in this way” (Miroslav Marcovich, ed., Origen: Contra Celsum libri VIII [VCSup 54; Leiden: Brill, 2001], 132; tr. in Henry Chadwick, ed. and tr., Origen: Contra Celsum [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980], 113).



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hole, you are mine!”).37 Whoever recognizes an anti-docetic slant of the Gospel of John – as does, e. g., Udo Schnelle – will consider a corporeal dimension probable in the encounter scene.38 The argumentative foundations of such nowadays marginalized positions are all extra-textual or meta-textual and based on the postulation of hypothetical opponents (e. g., docetists) or a specific theological or spiritual concern (e. g., Christ mysticism). There are, however, intra-textual clues that support this minority view. A second look at the narrative style and theology of John’s Gospel as a whole and at the place of “Doubting Thomas” in its overall arrangement will uncover several aspects that make physical contact between Thomas and Jesus probable. I will make five brief points:39 (1) An examination of Jesus’s imperatives and commands to both his intimate and more distant followers reveals that, without exception, they follow the command immediately. This is clarified at times by the further course of the narrative and other times it is stated explicitly.40 There is no reason to assume that Jesus’s invitation to Thomas constitutes the one exception to this pattern.41 Certainly, the rule that Jesus’s commands are carried out instantly not only describes a facet of John’s narrative technique, but is rather exemplary for a theological concept: when the characters of the gospel comply with the will of Jesus, they understand a new facet of Jesus’s identity and mission. They (and, together with them, the readers of the gospel) see another glimmer of his glory (cf. 1:14). (2) The motif of physical closeness structures the parallelism between the “gender pair”42 Mary and Thomas, which has regularly caught the attention of John’s interpreters. The links between the two encounter stories with Jesus are evident – despite the fact that the meaning of Jesus’s enigmatic response to Mary 37  On the quite bizarre features of Moravian “side hole” piety, cf. Craig D. Atwood, Com­ munity of the Cross: Moravian Piety in Colonial Bethlehem (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004), 203–221 (“Living in the Side Wound of Christ”). 38 Udo Schnelle, Antidoketische Christologie im Johannesevangelium. Eine Untersuchung zur Stellung des vierten Evangeliums in der Johanneischen Schule (FRLANT 144; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987), 157 n. 355. 39  A more extensive argument is found in Schliesser, “To Touch or not To Touch,” 85–89. 40  Explicitly in John 1:39 (ἔρχεσθε καὶ ὄψεσθε – ἦλθαν […] καὶ εἶδαν); 6:10 (ποιήσατε […] ἀναπεσεῖν – ἀνέπεσαν); 7:8, 10 (ἀνάβητε – ἀνέβησαν); 11:39, 41 (ἄρατε – ἦραν); [cf. 21:6], and presupposed by the context in all other instances (1:43; 11:44; 14:31; 18:11; cf. 13:37). Other addressees of Jesus’s imperatives also follow suit: the servants at the Wedding at Cana (2:7–8: γεμίσατε – ἐγέμισαν; φέρετε – ἤνεγκαν); the royal official (4:50: πορεύου – ἐπορεύετο); the sick man at the pool of Bethesda (5:8–9: ἔγειρε […] καὶ περιπάτει – ἦρεν […] καὶ περιεπάτει); the man born blind (9:7: ὕπαγε νίψαι – ἀπῆλθεν […] καὶ ἐνίψατο). Also the Samaritan woman is assumed to have followed Jesus’s command δός μοι πεῖν (4:7), because the course of the story implies that Jesus received water from her (cf. 4:13: ὁ πίνων ἐκ τοῦ ὕδατος τούτου). 41 Cf. Tuckett, “Seeing and Believing,” 172 n. 9: “Given the very high status that Jesus has in John, an ‘invitation’ by Jesus to do something may almost have the force of a command.” 42 Cf. Beirne, Women and Men, 195–218.

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μή μου ἅπτου (20:17) is highly contested.43 Jesus prohibits Mary from holding on to him and answers Thomas’s scepticism by commanding him to touch him. Both Mary and Thomas follow the directive of Jesus with the consequence that Mary’s grief and Thomas’s doubt are overcome, and both come to “see” the Lord (20:18, 29).44 (3) The Johannine strategy of comparison and contrast also features in the opposition of Thomas and the soldiers at the cross (19:33–34).45 After realizing that Jesus was already dead, one of the soldiers pierces Jesus’s side with a spear in order to verify his death. By contrast, Thomas reaches with his hand into Jesus’s side in order to verify his resurrection and life. The soldiers see Jesus (cf. 19:33: εἶδον) without recognizing who he is, and they spear his dead body with a sterile instrument of death. Thomas, however, sees and touches his friend and acknowledges his true identity. Ironically, the soldiers open the side of Jesus, from which blood and water – symbols of the spirit – flow out.46 Thomas reaches into the wounded side of Jesus as the place of pneumatic presence and receives the spirit, which bestows faith. (4) John 20 is composed of four distinct Easter scenes that epitomize a sequential intensification of corporeality.47 Peter and the Beloved Disciple see only the linen wrappings in the empty tomb (20:3–10); Mary encounters Jesus in a peculiar liminal stage, does not recognize him by sight, and is prohibited from touching him (20:11–18); the ten disciples are privileged to see the signa crucis and receive the Spirit through the breath of Jesus’s mouth (20:19–23); Thomas, finally, not only sees the wounds, but is invited to touch them in order

43  See the survey of interpretative options in Harold W. Attridge, “‘Don’t Be Touching Me.’ Recent Feminist Scholarship on Mary Magdalene,” in Essays on John and Hebrews (WUNT 264; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 137–159. 44  Cf. R. Alan Culpepper, The Gospel and Letters of John (IBT; Nashville: Abingdon, 1998), 243: “There is no inconsistency between Jesus’ admonition to Mary, ‘Do not hold on to me’ (20:17) and his invitation for Thomas to touch him. In both cases he was inviting each one to do what he or she needed to do to take the next step in faith and understanding.” Incidentally, commentaries unanimously recognize Mary’s compliance to Jesus’s will, but not Thomas’s. 45  On this pattern, see Raymond F. Collins, “‘Who Are You?’ Comparison/Contrast and Fourth Gospel Characterization,” in Characters and Characterization in the Gospel of John, ed. Christopher W. Skinner (LNTS; London: T&T Clark, 2013), 79–95. 46 On the pneumatological symbolism of Jesus’s side and hands, see Thomas Popp, “Thomas: Question Marks and Exclamation Marks,” in Character Studies in the Fourth Gospel: Literary Approaches to Sixty-Seven Figures in John, ed. Steven A. Hunt, D. Francois Tolmie, and Ruben Zimmermann (WUNT 314; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 504–529 at 517 (cf. John 3:34–35; 19:34; 20:20); Sandra M. Schneiders, “Touching the Risen Jesus: Mary Magdalene and Thomas the Twin in John 20,” in Jesus Risen in Our Midst: Essays on the Resurrection of Jesus in the Fourth (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2013), 34–60 at 52. 47  Cf. especially the section “Von Magdalena zu Thomas: Steigernde Intensität der Berührung in Joh 20” in Margareta Gruber, “Berührendes Sehen. Zur Legitimation der Zeichenforderung des Thomas (Joh 20,24–31),” BZ 51 (2007), 61–83 at 74–76.



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to experience the identity of the Crucified and Risen One by means of physical verification (20:24–29).48 (5) Finally, for the composition of the gospel as a whole, the corporeal and sense-dimensions are of pivotal narrative and theological significance.49 Based on this alone, one should not necessarily assume that Thomas’s doubt has been overcome merely through the powerful word of Jesus or through his overpowering presence. In the symbolic world of the evangelist, seeing – as both a sensual and spiritual perception! – is rather more significant in the process of coming to faith than mere words, and undoubtedly the other senses of human nature play an essential role as well: taste (2:9), smell (12:3; cf. 11:39), and touch (20:27).50

2.  Why Thomas? Pre-Johannine Thomas Traditions and Johannine Imagination 2.1.  Pre-Johannine Thomas Traditions Why is it that Thomas obtained a leading part on the Johannine stage? Why and how was he styled a symbol of doubt? In the following I  present a few, eclectic approaches and propose that his name – “Thomas, the so-called twin” – shows the way to his characterization. It has been argued that the presentation of Thomas in the Gospel of John presupposes a foreknowledge of his readers, 48 Cf. Schnelle, Johannes, 322. See also the modification and clarification of Schnelle’s thesis in Jörg Frey, “‘Ich habe den Herrn gesehen’ (Joh 20,28). Entstehung, Inhalt und Vermittlung des Osterglaubens nach Johannes 20,” in Studien zu Matthäus und Johannes, ed. Andreas Dettwiler and Uta Poplutz (FS Jean Zumstein; ATANT 97; Zürich: TVZ, 2009), 267–284. 49  Cf. Dorothy A. Lee, “The Gospel of John and the Five Senses,” JBL 129 (2010), 115–127; Jörg Frey, “Leiblichkeit und Auferstehung im Johannesevangelium,” in Die Herrlichkeit des Gekreuzigten. Studien zu den Johanneischen Schriften, Vol. 1, ed. Juliane Schlegel (WUNT 307; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 699–738; Wang, Sense Perception; Rainer Hirsch-Luipold, Gott wahrnehmen. Die Sinne im Johannesevangelium (WUNT 374; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017). Notably, all these studies on the senses in John either consider the question of a physical verification irrelevant from a literary or theological perspective, or assert – for different reasons – that upon seeing the risen Jesus, the Johannine Thomas no longer needed to touch him. 50 One should not fail to mention the earliest reflexes of the passage, in particular 1 John 1:1–4, Ignatius’s Letter to the Smyrneans (3.2), the Epistula Apostolorum (12), and, most intriguingly, the Infancy Gospel of James (20.1). On the correlation between the midwife Salome’s examination of Mary’s virginity and Thomas’s inspection of Jesus’s wounds, see Gregor Emmenegger, “Reflections on Salome’s Manual Inspection of Mary,” in The Protevangelium of James, ed. Jan N. Bremmer, Tobias Nicklas et al. (Studies on Early Christian Apocrypha; Leuven: Peeters, 2019) in press: “As Thomas does with Jesus after His death and resurrection, so too does a doubting woman check and confirm the indisputable with her finger after the miraculous birth.” An alternative view holds that Salome’s punishment – “[her] hand falls away from me in fire” – might indicate that Thomas in fact did not go so far as to touch Jesus. A detailed analysis of the mentioned passages will be given in my forthcoming monograph on the phenomenon of doubt in early Christianity.

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which transcends the Synoptic traditions, e. g., the abrupt mention of the name (11:16) and the multiple references to his cognomen Didymos. Gregory J. Riley, April DeConick, and Elaine Pagels postulate a conflict between the theological position of the Johannine School and the Syrian Thomas tradition represented by the Gospel of Thomas. By vilifying or monopolizing Thomas, the evangelist seeks to secure victory in this conflict.51 Judith Hartenstein refutes the conflict theory, presupposes merely “a literary pre-existence [of Thomas] in the widest sense,” and regards the Gospel of John – also “in the widest sense” – as part of the Thomas tradition.52 James Charlesworth takes the position of an outsider, as he also assumes a relationship between the Syrian Thomas tradition and the Gospel of Thomas, but at the same time infers that John’s primary raison d’être is to identify Thomas with the Beloved Disciple.53 For our purposes this debate is only of minor importance, as it remains notoriously difficult to correlate the Gospel of John to the Gospel of Thomas and to other Thomas traditions. In addition, his role as witness and sceptic does not resonate in those Thomas writings that have come down to us – which itself is a remarkable fact. One plausible element of pre-Johannine Thomas tradition is the epithet Didymos, which would be taken up in a distinct manner in the apocryphal Thomas texts. In the Acts of Thomas and the Book of Thomas (= Book of Thomas the Contender) Thomas is described as Jesus’s twin brother. Whether or not this identification is also presupposed in the Gospel of Thomas, it cannot be said with certainty.54 Also, it remains unclear whether John adheres to a traditional characterization of the disciple or whether he is in critical distance. Methodologically, firmer ground is attained when John’s account of Thomas is compared to the Synoptics’. To be sure, there is no Synoptic parallel with the Thomas episode, but the motif of doubt connects with the Synoptic Easter narratives ([Mark 16:9–14;] Matt 28:17; Luke 24:11, 21–24, 25, 37–38, 41), above 51  Gregory J. Riley, Resurrection Reconsidered: Thomas and John in Controversy (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995); April D. DeConick, Voices of the Mystics: Early Christian Dis­ course in the Gospels of John and Thomas and Other Ancient Christian Literature (JSNTSup 157; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001); Elaine Pagels, Beyond Belief: The Secret Gospel of Thomas (London: T&T Clark, 2003). See the discussion in Christopher W. Skinner, John and Thomas – Gospels in Conflict? Johannine Characterization and the Thomas Question (PTMS 115; Eugene: Pickwick, 2009). 52  Hartenstein, Charakterisierung, 265, 267. Ismo Dunderberg (The Beloved Disciple in Conflict? Revisiting the Gospels of John and Thomas [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006]), rejects the view that the Gospel of John and the Gospel of Thomas are engaged in a direct conversation, although the appearance of Thomas in John might point to a similar early Christian milieu. 53  James H. Charlesworth, The Beloved Disciple: Whose Witness Validates the Gospel of John? (Valley Forge: Trinity 1995). For a critique, see Dunderberg, The Beloved Disciple in Conflict?, 149–164. 54  On this and the apocryphal Didymos-tradition, see, e. g., Hartenstein, Charakterisie­ rung, 230–246.



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all with the idea that looking at and touching the hands and feet of the Risen One will overcome doubt (Luke 24:39–41: ἰδεῖν and ψηλαφᾶν).55 Within the framework of his source theory Bultmann assumes that John 20:24–29 is part of an independent Passion Source, as is the previous section 20:19–23. However, “it can only have been a secondary appendix, even for the source; for in vv. 19–23 the continuation in vv. 24–29 is not presupposed, though certainly the latter fragment does presuppose the former.”56 Not least because of such multilayered hypotheses – and even more because of the underlying theological agenda – the difficulties of Bultmann’s literary-historical reconstruction are patent. 2.2.  Johannine Imagination: Didymos, the Doubting Twin More recent scholarship assumes that the Thomas episode as a whole goes back to the evangelist, who drew on (a) Synoptic pre-text(s).57 Glenn Most writes: “In the Gospel of John, all the issues of doubt and belief that, in different ways, haunt the three synoptic Gospels converge to form an unsettling climax.”58 Even the respective contribution to the “John, Jesus, and History”-project labels the story a “midrashic work” of the evangelist, in which he uses older gospel tradition with exegetical creativity.59 Hartwig Thyen identifies one specific text as inspiring pretext, which the evangelist chose in a deliberate play with the Synoptics and used as a basis of his composition: the one disciple Thomas represents the doubting disciples, who are mentioned in Matt 28:17 (οἱ δὲ ἐδίστασαν).60 According to Thyen this follows a common literary strategy of the author, by means of which he elevates a named narrative character and renders him or her as representative and spokesperson of a specific disposition.61 Thyen’s proposition is quite plau55 Cf.

Bultmann, John, 693. Bultmann, John, 693–694. The evangelist added the reference to the side wounds (John 20:25, 27) and the confession of Thomas (20:28) as well as the macarism. 57  For a comprehensive survey of 20th century scholarship on the relationship between John and the Synoptics, see Michael Labahn and Michael Lang, “Johannes und die Synoptiker. Positionen und Impulse seit 1990,” in Kontexte des Johannesevangeliums. Das vierte Evangelium in religions- und traditionsgeschichtlicher Perspektive, ed. Jörg Frey and Udo Schnelle (WUNT 175; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 443–515. 58  Most, Doubting Thomas, 28. 59  Jeffrey P. Garcia, “See my Hands and my Feet: Fresh Light on a Johannine Midrash,” in John, Jesus, and History, Vol. 2: Aspects of Historicity in the Fourth Gospel, ed. Paul N. Anderson, Felix Just, and Tom Thatcher (ECIL 2; Atlanta: SBL, 2009), 325–333 at 333. 60  According to Hartwig Thyen (“Noch einmal. Johannes 21 und ‘der Jünger, den Jesus liebte’” [1995], in Studien zum Corpus Iohanneum [WUNT 214; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007], 252–293, 258; cf. idem, Johannesevangelium, 757), John “specifically span out the story of Thomas from the succinct note οἱ δὲ ἐδίστασαν of Matt 28:17.” On Matt 28:17, see Benjamin Schliesser, “Doubtful Faith? Why the Disciples Doubted until the End (Mt 28:17),” in Treasures New & Old: Essays in Honor of Donald A. Hagner, ed. Carl S. Sweatman and Clifford B. Kvidahl (GlossaHouse Festschrift Series 1; Wilmore: GlossaHouse, 2017), 165–180. 61 Cf. Thyen, Johannesevangelium, 765–766. Mary (John 20:11–18), too, represents “for dramaturgical reasons the women of the pre-texts” (esp. Matt 28:9). 56 

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sible, though he – like the majority of interpreters – fails to answer the question why it is precisely Thomas who is singled out from the group of disciples and selected to become the representative doubter. The view that the meaning of his name might have predestined Thomas, the Twin, for this role is discarded by Thyen as a “baroque idea.”62 In my opinion, it is by no means unlikely that in the Johannine reworking of the Synoptic material the construed dispositional character of the disciple connects with his name. It is not by accident that the evangelist notes in the context of his first appearance – and later on two more times (11:16; 14:5; 20:24; [cf. 21:2]) – that Thomas is called the twin (ὁ λεγόμενος Δίδυμος). The meaning of the addition Δίδυμος is not limited to the mere linguistic information that it translates the Aramaic name ‫תאומא‬. Why would it appear more than once?63 More importantly, the function of the addition differs from the attribute Πέτρος in relation to Kephas (1:42), the only other passage which elucidates a Semitic personal name with its Greek rendition.64 The verb ἑρμηνεύειν clearly expresses that Aramaic Κηφᾶς is translated Greek Πέτρος: Κηφᾶς, ὃ ἑρμηνεύεται Πέτρος.65 For the Greek speaking Christians the translated name Peter was at the same time his common proper name. Now, it is utterly unlikely that Thomas had been called Didymos among Greek speaking Christians, considering the lists of the apostles in the Synoptics and in Papias.66 Furthermore, it is not plausible that the apposition Δίδυμος was intended to identify Thomas unequivocally, since in the Gospel of John no other Thomas is mentioned. There is reason to believe that the cognomen Didymos acquires symbolic significance. This view is by no means new. In the 11th century, Theophylact supposed that the apposition reflects a character trait of Thomas: “He [sc. the evangelist] recalls the meaning of the name to show us that he [sc. Thomas] was a doubter (διστακτικός) and had this character trait (τρόπον) from the beginning, 62  Thyen, Johannesevangelium, 520. Thyen picks up Bultmann’s phrase, who disparagingly called Zahn’s suggestion to refer the phrase μετ’ αὐτοῦ (John 11:16) to Lazarus a barocke Idee. A symbolic meaning of the name is also excluded in Marie-Joseph Lagrange, Évangile selon Saint Jean (5th edition; Études Bibliques; Paris: Gabalda, 1936), 517; Bultmann, John, 694; more recently, apart from Thyen, Bennema, Encountering Jesus, 287. 63  This is not acknowledged, for instance, by Wang, Sense Perception, 190 n. 25; Bonney, Caused to Believe, 137 n. 20: “John’s reference to Thomas as ‘the Twin’ […] serves no special purpose in the narrative.” Why would John insist on repeating the cognomen? In the reading/ hearing process one can expect this peculiarity to raise attention and call for further reflection. 64  Cf. also John 1:41: ὁ Μεσσίας, ὅ ἐστιν μεθερμηνευόμενον χριστός. Other Semitic names like Nathanael, John, Lazarus, Mary or Martha are not translated. 65 Apart from John 1:42, the verb ἑρμηνεύειν is also used in 9:7, the composite verb μεθερμηνεύειν in 1:41. See also 4:25: Μεσσίας […] ὁ λεγόμενος χριστός. 66  Cf. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 3.39.4. Against, e. g., Heinrich August Wilhelm Meyer, Critical and Exegetical Handbook to the Gospel of John, tr. William Urwick (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1884), 342: “Thomas […] after the Greek translation of his name (twin), was called among the Gentile Christians Didymus.”



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as shown by his name.”67 I am not aware of an earlier proponent of the view that the cognomen refers to Thomas’s personality. Origen, by contrast, argued in view of the apocryphal Thomas tradition that Thomas – just like Jesus (μιμητὴς Χριστοῦ) – reserved secret teachings for his followers, while using parables for outsiders, and that his name Δίδυμος referred to this kind of duality.68 By means of the Greek explanation of the name – this is my thesis, in line with Theophylact – John points at the symbolic meaning of the name. Etymologically, the adjective δίδυμος most probably derives from a reduplicated δύο, meaning “double” or “twofold.”69 The word therefore is equivalent to the Aramaic stem ‫תאם‬.70 The “twin” is marked by the duality of his conduct in relation to Jesus; in no other disciple is the spectrum of individual faith as wide as in Thomas.71 In the 19th and 20th century, this interpretation was widespread, and occasionally the duality of Thomas is related to the “doublemindedness” of the ἀνὴρ δίψος in James (Jam 1:8; 4:8).72 However, rather than comparing Thomas’s attitude of faith and the “doubleminded” man in a speculative and Biblicist manner, one should note that both authors – John and James – reflect early Christian “identity management” in the face of the struggle of faith, which is confronted with obstacles and detrimental influences. While apocryphal Thomas tradition might speculate as to who the other “physical” or “symbolic” twin (e. g., Jesus) was, and while recent scholarship occasionally ponders the historical question of whether and where the cognomen Didymos was used for the apostle,73 John’s question was this: in what respect is Thomas to be called “twin”? Starting from the observation that the most prominent Thomas episode is a Johannine creation, there is no reason to dispute a priori the idea that the evangelist also introduced a specific character trait into the figure of Thomas on grounds of his name, a character trait which comes to expression, allusively at first, in John 11:16 and 14:5, then highly effectively in 20:24–29. The semantics of Thomas’s name had productive capacity 67 Theophylact,

In Joannis Evangelium (PG 124.300). Catena Fragments 106 (GCS 11/4, 561–562 [Preuschen]). 69 Cf. Wilhelm Pape, Handwörterbuch der griechischen Sprache. Griechisch-deutsches Handwörterbuch, ed. Maximilian Sengebusch (3rd edition; Braunschweig: Vieweg, 1914), 1.616. 70 Cf. Zahn, Johannes, 483 note 74: “Now the stem ‫ תאם‬not only means geminus, but also duplex, and the verb in the hiphil to double, in the passive voice: to be placed between two, to be divided, separated. John connects with the name Thomas the idea of someone who doubts, which otherwise is expressed by δίψυχος (Jam 1:8; 4:8), διστάζων (Matt 14:31; 28:17), διακρινόμενος (Jam 1:6; Rom 4:20; 14:23).” 71 Cf. Christoph Ernst Luthardt, Das johanneische Evangelium nach seiner Eigenthümlichkeit, 2 vols. (2nd edition; Nürnberg: Geiger, 1876), 1.191–192. Already Friedrich Adolf Lampe (Commentarius, 3.699) concludes from the triple mention of the cognomen that the δίδυμος is also ambivalent and unbelieving (anceps, incredulus), and he offers an extensive argument for this view. 72  Cf., e. g., Carl Friedrich Keil, Commentar über das Evangelium des Johannes (Leipzig: Dörffling und Franke, 1881), 385. 73 Cf. the rather unconvincing deliberation in Hartenstein, Charakterisierung, 214: “Möglich wäre, dass so ein zweiter Name des Thomas eingeführt wird.” 68 Origen,

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for the author of the gospel, who personified the concept of doubt in Thomas, the Twin, and epitomized the force of doubt in his words and actions, until it would be overcome by an “autopsy of faith” and lead to a Christological confession. It is possible that the author envisioned another, secondary effect of choosing Thomas. His doubt is the doubt of those born after, his desire represents their desire, and his encounter with the Risen One stands vicariously for the experiences of later (sceptical) believers. They are not unified by their physical seeing and touching – this is Thomas’s advantage over all following generations – but by their being “contemporar[ies] in the autopsy of faith” (S. Kierkegaard).74 Thomas is the “firstborn” twin, symbolic twin brother of those who are born later. In the faith of those born after, the experience of the presence of Christ multiplies and culminates in the confession “my Lord and my God.” The symbolic name of Thomas, the duplicated appearance narrative, and the implied fraternal relationship of believers with the doubting confessor – all reflect the author’s concern to give space to doubts in the resurrection and to reinforce individual affirmation.

3.  The Gospel for Sceptics: The Characterization of Thomas and Christian Identity Formation John crafts the figure of Thomas as a multilayered personality, whose convoluted path of faith includes impasses and blind alleys, but in the end heads towards the highest confession of Christ. The evangelist’s characterization of Thomas appears consistent, though certainly it cannot be reduced to one single trait:75 Thomas misunderstands, questions, challenges, doubts, scrutinizes, crosses boundaries, and  – finally  – believes. The appearances of Thomas are emblematic of the narrative design of the Gospel of John with its numerous gaps and lacunae, questions, and ambiguities. With these elements, the author creates an inescapable dynamic, which draws his readers into reflecting about these open spaces, about their own stance towards Jesus, about their own ambiguities and their own identity as a “twin” believer.76 Thomas stands for the sceptical readers of the gospel, 74 Søren Kierkegaard, Philosophical Fragments, ed. and tr. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), 102. 75 Cf. Siegert, Johannes, 613. Against, e. g., Bultmann, John, 694 n. 2; R. Alan Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1983), 102. 76  As has been seen, the transparency of Thomas’s character traits for the “implied readers” and their identity formation encompasses several dimensions, such as ideological (e. g., 11:16: application of inner-worldly rationality), cognitive (e. g., 14:5: ignorance of the mission of Jesus), emotional (e. g., 20:25: offensive request for a “higher” goal), evaluative (e. g., 20:28: confession). See the analytical tools provided in Sönke Finnern and Jan Rüggemeier, Methoden der neutestamentlichen Exegese: Ein Lehr- und Arbeitsbuch (UTB 4212; Tübingen: Francke, 2016), 195–210, partly based on Jens Eder, Figur im Film: Grundlagen der Figurenanalyse (Marburg: Schüren, 2008).



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as Ludger Schenke recently pointed out: “For them, the author has presented the scene. In the doubt of Thomas their doubt is given voice. The confession of the disciple may become their confession, even if they will never have the opportunity to overcome their doubt by means of their own examination of the Risen One.”77 John intentionally placed the Thomas scene at the climax of his gospel and, by this, shaped his “gospel for sceptics.” The most significant aspects of the Johannine presentation of the disciple and his role in the intended process of Christian identity formation will be collated in the following.78 1.  The inner dynamics of the figure of Thomas corresponds to the author’s “strategy of faith.”79 Thomas appears on stage in the context of the final and greatest sign of Jesus, the resurrection of Lazarus; moreover, his other two appearances directly relate to passion and resurrection.80 It is within this horizon that his role in the narrative is developed, from the symbolic Lazarus episode in the centre of the gospel to the encounter narrative at the end. “At the same time, [the evangelist] responds to the question ‘When will the disciples really believe?’ The question arose due to the fact that in John 11:15 faith was declared to be the goal of Jesus’s dealing with Lazarus but has not been detected in the course of the narrative.”81 Thomas speaks and acts in place of those (implied readers) who have not yet been able to situate themselves in the Easter light, and therefore still struggle with existentially understanding the meaning of the cross. Therefore, John gives room to Thomas’s doubt, allows for his “impious” request (without criticizing it!), illustrates the empathy of Jesus, has Thomas grasp the meaning of Jesus’s death – both literally and metaphorically – and puts into his mouth the confession that Jesus is “Lord and God.” If the goal of John’s narrative is a call to believe, Thomas’s individual journey and expression of faith is neither superfluous nor anomalous,82 but rather climactic. The “revelatory dynamic” of the gospel, which expresses itself in dualistic paradigms of thought, reaches its goal.83 77 Ludger Schenke, Das Johannesevangelium: Vom Wohnen Gottes unter uns (Freiburg: Herder, 2018), 217. 78  Some elements of this section are adapted from Schliesser, “To Touch or not to Touch,” 89–93. 79  Cf. again Zumstein, “L’évangile johannique.” 80 Cf. Skinner, John and Thomas, 75. 81 Klaus Wengst, Das Johannesevangelium, 2 vols. (2nd edition; TKNT 4/1–2; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2004–2007), 2.26–27. 82  Against, e. g., John A. Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 485 (“superfluousness of the resurrection stories”); Harold W. Attridge, “From Discord Rises Meaning: Resurrection Motifs in the Fourth Gospel,” in The Resurrection of Jesus in the Gospel of John, ed. Craig R. Koester and Reimund Bieringer (WUNT 222; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 2–19 at 15 (“The very existence of the chapters [20 and 21] is something of an anomaly.”). 83  On the concept of a “revelatory dynamics” in John, cf. Jörg Frey, “Zu Hintergrund und Funktion des johanneischen Dualismus,” in Die Herrlichkeit des Gekreuzigten. Studien zu den

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2.  By means of his typical, subtle irony, the evangelist keeps Thomas in a doubtful shadow until he penetrates to the light and believes. Thomas stubbornly lags behind the course of the unfolding story; what has been disclosed to the readers in bright light from the overall perspective of the gospel still remains in the dark for Thomas. His fatalistic request to go with Jesus in order to die “with him” (11:16) shows that he did not understand two things: for one, Lazarus will not remain in death, but will be resurrected for the sake of the glory of God (cf. 11:4) and, for another, he unwittingly pronounces the truth that the path to Bethany will ultimately lead to death (cf. 11:47–53).84 Johannine irony also figures when the sentence “Let us also go” (11:16) is placed next to the question, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” (14:5). Thomas’s courageous appeal grasps at nothing, since he does not know where to go. The second utterance of Thomas underscores for the readers the fact that he has missed the point: the “way” he inquiries about stands before him, in person. The subliminally ironic portrait of Thomas is completed when the evangelist declares him absent at the most central event of Jesus’s epiphany – thus provoking his “own Easter.”85 Once more, he is late, and once again, he seems to miss what is most decisive. In the end, however, the Johannine play with the ambiguity of the disciple is dissolved as he arrives at the gospel’s most distinct confession. 3.  Thomas lives up to his symbolic cognomen Didymos and embodies a “twin” attitude to Jesus. The tradition and even the proverbial designation “Doubting Thomas” proves right, even if the terminology of “doubt” is lacking in the narrative. Thomas’s doubt dissuades him from succumbing to the perspective of glory, and at the same time his doubt has him attached to the one who personifies this glory. As his name insinuates, he is in between, of two minds, lacking understanding. He reveals this duality, moreover, in his utterances, which are, from the perspective of the narrative logic, “inappropriate.” The “inappropriate,” defeatist appeal at his first appearance, “Let us also go” (11:6), expresses doubt despite the prospect of a “good end,” which had just been offered by Jesus. The clause “so that you may believe” (ἵνα πιστεύσητε, 11:15) is ineffective; the faith of Thomas remains absent, as does the faith of all disciples. The “inappropriate” rhetorical question regarding the “way” in Thomas’s second appearance reflects doubts in the eschatological picture painted by Jesus; his request “Believe in God, believe also in me!” (14:1) is falling on deaf ears, and Thomas is the first who steps forward and confesses his ignorance. Finally, the “inappropriate,” harsh tone of the Johanneischen Schriften I, ed. Juliane Schlegel (WUNT 307; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 409–482 at 437–477. 84  Cf. Jörg Frey, “Der ‘zweifelnde’ Thomas (Joh 20,24–29) im Spiegel seiner Rezeptionsgeschichte,” Hermeneutische Blätter 1 (2011), 5–21 at 12. 85 Georg Rubel, Erkenntnis und Bekenntnis: Der Dialog als Weg der Wissensvermittlung im Johannesevangelium (NTA 54; Münster: Aschendorff, 2009), 292 (cited in Popp, “Thomas,” 518 n. 80).



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conditional clause in the midst of the disciples (20:25) exposes his fundamental doubt in the truth of Easter. Thomas remains in between faith and disbelief until faith prevails, abruptly, when Jesus complies with the condition uttered by Thomas. Only now the demand “Do not be unbelieving but believing” (μὴ γίνου ἄπιστος ἀλλὰ πιστός) (20:27) receives an answer. The ambivalence of Thomas, his indecisive “being in between” transforms into an unambiguous expression of faith. 4.  Jesus’s interaction with the disciple gives an impression of the coping strategies in the Johannine circle in relation to doubt and scepticism. At the first appearance of Thomas, Jesus silently ignores his questionable and ambivalent objection. There is no conversation, for Thomas turns to his fellow disciples, not to Jesus: “Let us go with him …” (11:16). In the Lazarus scene, Jesus makes the disciples aware of his divine identity and mission. While Thomas, like the other disciples, remains an observer of a symbolic miracle, Jesus reveals himself as the personified “way” and widens his constricted view by means of the metaphor of the way, again without putting to shame his ignorance. Thomas interacts directly with Jesus and receives a personal, albeit enigmatic, response (14:6). In the final scene of the gospel, Jesus turns to the doubter quite sympathetically, appreciates his desire, and consents to his request. The reader is surprised by the manner in which Jesus reacts to the rough demeanour of Thomas. He takes the initiative, addresses Thomas and complies. No criticism, reproach or abashment is involved, either in Jesus’s immediate response (20:27) or in his statement on the correlation of seeing and believing (20:29a) and the subsequent macarism (20:29b).86 In the end there is the answer of Thomas (20:28: ἀπεκρίθη Θωμᾶς) and his confession. The “unbelief of the believer”87 encounters the Risen One and is convicted by attending to the signs (notably not in private but amidst the community of 86  From the early Church to the turn of the 20th century, readers – almost unanimously – think John’s portrayal of Thomas is critical. At times it appears that the interpreters’ own stance towards doubt enters their exegesis via mirror-reading. While Bernhard Weiss (Das Johan­ nesevangelium als einheitliches Werk: Geschichtlich erklärt [Berlin: Trowitzsch & Sohn, 1912], 353), for instance, detects in Jesus’s command (20:27) a “humiliating” repetition of Thomas’s words, Joachim Ringleben (Das philosophische Evangelium. Theologische Auslegung des Johan­ nesevangeliums im Horizont des Sprachdenkens [HUTh 64; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014], 405) finds in them an affectionate reaction to Thomas and his doubts. Cf. Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 478: “Note that Thomas’s demand to see the nail marks and touch Jesus’ wounds is in fact answered positively by Jesus’ appearance and invitation to Thomas to do just what he demanded.” Even the following statement of Jesus and the macarism (20:29) have often been understood in a disparaging sense – especially when ὅτι ἑώρακάς με πεπίστευκας is taken as a question, as in Nestle-Aland (e. g., Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2.10–46). Overall, it is interesting to observe a shift in recent scholarship that regards Thomas’s doubt more sympathetically, possibly also taking up the Zeitgeist. 87  Cf. Louis Walter, L’incroyance des croyants selon Saint Jean (LiBi 43; Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1976).

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believers), by giving room to incomprehension and doubt, and finally by interacting with and obeying the words of Jesus.88 5.  The realism of Thomas’s seeing and touching enables a solid identification of later believers with his experience and with his ensuing confession. The encounter between Jesus and Thomas arrives at a turning point when Jesus offers himself to Thomas in a corporeal manner and deprives Thomas’s doubt of its basis. Just as the enigmatic absence of Thomas in the encounter scene “alerts implied readers that an important element of the story is at hand”89 and thus increases the significance of his appearance, the perplexing silence regarding the finger and the hand of Thomas directs the readers’ eyes to his touching gesture. John insinuates that not only Thomas’s seeing was real, but also his bodily encounter with the resurrection body. John made his gospel “vivid to draw his readers in, so that, through the characters’ physical encounter with Jesus, they can also encounter Jesus through their imaginations and be more convinced about their faith.”90 Thomas does not represent, as Rudolf Bultmann has famously claimed, “the common attitude of men, who cannot believe without seeing miracles (4:48).”91 Seeing is neither linked by John to a deficient faith nor to the “weakness of man.”92 The meta-textual conclusion about the Thomas episode and the book as a whole (20:30–31) does not devaluate the faith of those who have seen signs with their physical eyes; rather, the signs are written precisely for the purpose of evoking faith.93 Those who are inclined to criticize Thomas for requesting signs  – whether first readers of the gospel or present-day interpreters  – must deal with the concluding word of the Evangelist, who wrote down many signs “so that you may come to believe (ἵνα πιστεύ[σ]ητε)” (20:31). On the narrative 88  As has been argued above, Thomas not only obeyed the “emphatic pneumatologicalperformative call” μὴ γίνου ἄπιστος ἀλλὰ πιστός (20:27) (Popp, “Thomas,” 518), but also the emphatic invitation φέρε; ἴδε; φέρε; βάλε (20:27). 89 Nicolas Farelly, The Disciples in the Fourth Gospel: A Narrative Analysis of Their Faith and Understanding (WUNT/2 290; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 122; cf. Robert Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic Books, 1981), 66. 90  Wang, Sense Perception, 199. Sunny Wang sees at work a rhetoric of ἐνάργεια (“vividness”) in John, which serves the purpose “to bring before the eyes the events described and thereby make listeners into witnesses by working on their emotions” (ibid., 93). 91  Bultmann, John, 696. At the root of this assessment is not so much John’s theology of faith, but rather Bultmann’s presupposed clear-cut antagonism of seeing and believing: “ὁρᾶν […] and πιστεύειν are radical opposites” (ibid., 695 note 5). The relationship between seeing and believing is rather complex in John; “to see” can refer to sense perception (e. g., 1:38; 6:22; 13:22; 19:6) as well as to an act foundational for confession and faith (e. g., 1:32–34; 2:23; 3:11; 6:14; 19:35; 20:8; 20:25). Bultmann’s and many other interpreters’ assumption that 4:48 criticizes both signs and seeing as deficient “miracle-faith” overlooks the fact that Jesus grants the official’s request (just as he grants Thomas’s request), so that “he himself believed, along with his whole household” (4:53) (cf., correctly, Schnelle, Antidoketische Christologie, 157). 92  Thus, however, Bultmann, John, 696. 93  Cf. Kelli S. O’Brien, “Written That You May Believe: John 20 and Narrative Rhetoric,” CBQ 67 (2005), 284–302.



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level, Thomas’s encounter with Jesus, seeing and touching him, evoked genuine faith. In the world of the readers, it is the signs set out in writing that call for and manifest faith.94 6.  Thomas represents the supreme culmination of the time of signs and sight. He is not a “borderline case”95 in the sense that he would be the last to see signs and the first whose faith is evoked by the word of the witnesses. Rather, in the character of Thomas the tension between the era of Jesus’s presence and the era of all later believers is carried to extremes: Thomas sees and touches. To him – the inquisitive doubter – more is granted than to the other disciples and to the intended readers. They, by contrast, are dependent on the testimony of the Easter witnesses (17:20), the testimony of the written book (20:30), and the testimony of the Holy Spirit (14:17, 25–26). Thomas complied with Jesus’s invitation in the literal sense, not merely in the spiritual, metaphorical sense.96 A spiritual reality has been disclosed to him in his seeing with his bodily eyes and touching with his finger. His coming to faith via physical seeing and touching separates him most starkly from those who will later believe; his proven testimony and confession of faith, however, establishes a close link to believers of later generations, particularly those who doubt and wish to see and touch. It is, however, a complete misunderstanding of John’s purpose to assume that for him the disciples are in a disadvantageous position compared to later generations. John is not concerned with two types of faith – “the traditional requirement of needing to see in order to be able to believe is attributed to those of little faith, and a nobler status is reserved for those people who are capable of achieving faith without having been eye-witnesses themselves”97 – but with two times of faith; in other words, the “time of signs and sight” and the “time of the absence of the son.” No judgment on either time is intended; the macarism is not a (backward-looking) 94  Cf., against Bultmann, Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Glory of the Lord: A Theological Aesthetics, Vol. 1: Seeing the Form, ed. John Riches, tr. Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1982), 316: “What is […] real is sensory, whether it is perceived directly through the human senses or whether it is witnessed to as having been perceived. The proton pseudos, the ‘primal lie’, of theology and spirituality is the naïve or reflected equation (or confusion) of the human ‘spirit’ with the Holy Spirit, of ‘abstraction’ with the resurrection of the flesh.” 95  So Marinus de Jonge, “Signs and Works in the Fourth Gospel,” in Miscellanea Neote­ stamentica 2 (NovTSup 48; Leiden: Brill, 1978), 107–125 at 119. Approvingly cited, e. g., in Hirsch-Luipold, Gott wahrnehmen, 338. 96  A distinctly metaphorical interpretation of Thomas’s seeing and touching is prominent already in early church interpretation, and also in more recent studies. Cf., e. g., Schneiders, “Touching the Risen Jesus,” 52: “The invitation is not to see physically but to grasp what cannot be seen with the eyes of flesh.” 97  Most, Doubting Thomas, 59. See also, with quite different literary and theological agendas, Robert T. Fortna, The Fourth Gospel and its Predecessor (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 246; Andreas J. Köstenberger, John (BECNT; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2004), 565 (“faith apart from seeing is superior”).

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critique of Thomas and the other disciples, but a (forward-looking) promise to the sceptical addressees of the gospel.98 7.  Thomas is a principal witness to the sceptical among the believers and a par­ adigm for Jesus’s turning to them. The Easter scene does not present Thomas’s path to faith as exemplary for all readers, that is, for all those born after. Rather, Thomas stands out due to his direct, exclusive contact with Jesus, which is not mediated by the testimony of the eyewitnesses. His special role is also evidenced by several extremes in the portrayal of his character.99 Both his unbelief and his confession correspond in terms of their unparalleled intensity, and his encounter with Jesus is indeed extraordinary, as it includes a tangible dimension, requested by Thomas and granted by Jesus. Nevertheless, Thomas’s intense Easter experience benefits all those whose time is characterized by Jesus’s absence (cf. 14:18), who arrived “too late” (cf. 20:24), but who – in their sceptical attitude – want to see and feel more. Attending to the testimony of the physical hearing, seeing, and touching of Jesus’s followers, particularly of “Doubting Thomas,” establishes κοινωνία between the first and later generations of faith (cf. 1 John 1:1–3), who will hear, see, and touch with the help of the Spirit.100 In the Paraclete, Jesus is active and turns to those who, like Thomas, doubt; and the manner in which Jesus meets this challenge is both model and promise for those who can no longer see, but still desire to believe.101 Thomas’s scepticism is theirs, and the Gospel of John is addressed to their ambivalent faith, as a gospel for sceptics.102 98 

Against, e. g., Tuckett, “Seeing and Believing,” 174–175, 185. If it were a devaluation of the past, the entire testimony, the written (and unwritten) signs would fall under the same verdict (cf. Theo K. Heckel, Vom Evangelium des Markus zum viergestaltigen Evangelium [WUNT 120; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999], 156). 99 Cf. Hartenstein, Charakterisierung, 221. 100  There is no reason to assume that for John all later, “post-apostolic” believers think along the lines of Thomas. Rather, he is highlighted as sceptic and therefore he is a transparent stand-in for sceptical believers. Against, e. g., Michael Theobald, “Der johanneische Osterglaube und die Grenzen seiner narrativen Vermittlung (Joh 20),” in Studien zum Corpus Iohanneum (WUNT 267; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 443–471 at 468, who sees Thomas as Sprachrohr for all later generations: “[Thomas] spricht […] nur aus, was die Nachgeborenen durchweg zu denken geneigt sind, denen jene anscheinend überwältigenden Beweise für Jesu österliche Wirklichkeit eben nicht mehr gewährt werden” (my emphasis). In this sense also Craig R. Koester, Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel: Meaning, Mystery, Community (2nd edition; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), 72 (“ideal spokesperson for people in later generations”); Frey, “‘Ich habe den Herrn gesehen’ (Joh 20,28),” 280; Hirsch-Luipold, Gott wahrnehmen, 337–338. This view is based on the assumption that Thomas’s problem is the problem of all those who are dependent on the testimony of others and have to believe their experiences to be valid. This would in fact render the physical seeing (and touching) “superfluous” and not require the encounter scene. 101 Cf. Koester, Symbolism, 73; Frey, “Der ‘zweifelnde’ Thomas,” 32. 102  The interrelationship between the two sceptics Nathanael and Thomas at the beginning and at the end of the gospel strikes the eye (cf. 21:2). A closer analysis of the passages would reveal a narrative pattern, according to which the encounter with Jesus overcomes doubt; common themes include the initial scepticism of the characters regarding the testimony of a



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With Thomas as their figure of identification they are drawn to reflect on how they relate sense perception and spiritual experience, personal authentication and external testimony, doubting and believing.

third party, an imperative to verify and “see” the reported, disputed fact (1:46 [Philippus]: ἔρχου καὶ ἴδε; 20:27 [Jesus]: φέρε καὶ ἴδε […] καὶ φέρε […] καὶ βάλε), their compliance to the command, the supernatural insight of Jesus into things concealed (1:48; cf. 20:27), the culmination of the scene in a confession of faith that surpasses the testimony of the witnesses (cf. 1:45 with 1:49; 20:25 with 20:28), and finally, a statement on the emergence of their faith in terms of conditional structure from the mouth of Jesus (1:50: ὅτι εἶπόν […] πιστεύεις; 20:29: ὅτι ἑώρακάς με πεπίστευκας), which does not downgrade their respective faith, but rather includes a promise. On the “sceptical pair” Nathanael and Thomas, see Fredrik Wagener, Figuren als Handlungs­ modelle: Simon Petrus, die samaritische Frau, Judas und Thomas als Zugänge zu einer narrativen Ethik im Johannesevangelium (WUNT/2 408; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 535. According to Wagener, Nathanael symbolizes prejudiced sceptics, who had never been followers of Jesus, and Thomas stands for those believers who doubt in the resurrection. It is a sign of hope for the community that both sceptics are found among the seven fishermen in the (secondary) conclusion of the gospel (21:2); their testimony can be believed as they came to believe the testimony of others and encountered Jesus.

“Why Do You Doubt?”1 Scepticism and Some Nag Hammadi Writings Anna Van den Kerchove Various recent publications have dealt with the presence of “scepticism” in the work of authors who do not adhere to this philosophical “school.”2 In such research, studies focus more on the way in which these thinkers take sceptical argumentation or sceptical rhetoric and adapt it to their ideas, without necessarily being part of the sceptical school. This would be the case of the Platonist Plutarch3 in the second century as well as of Christians such as Lactantius4 or Augustine5 in the third and fourth centuries, even the Manicheans, in particular those residing in North Africa.6 In the context of the renewal of research on scepticism, it might be worthwhile to widen the study to “Gnostic” writings 1 

Ap. John (BG 8502.2), 21.15. Because of the absence of dogmas, it is difficult to speak of scepticism as a philosophical school. However, to quote Sextus Empiricus, scepticism is a school “if you count as a school a persuasion which, to all appearances, coheres with some account, the account showing how it is possible to live correctly (where ‘correctly’ is taken not only with reference to virtue, but more loosely and extends to the ability to suspend judgement)” (Pyr. 1.16; tr. in Julia Annas and Jonathan Barnes, ed. and tr., Sextus Empiricus: Outlines of Scepticism [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000]). Sextus’s definition of hairesis – which is used by Pierre Hadot to speak of philosophy as a way of life (cf. Pierre Hadot, Qu’est-ce que la philosophie antique? [Paris: Gallimard, 1995], 160–161) – is present, in a different form, in the prologue of the Lives and Opinions of Eminent Philosophers of Diogenes Laertius. The definition could come back to Aenesidemus. It is known to Clement of Alexandria, who mentions it in Strom. 8.5 (16.2), while he criticizes the Pyrrhonian epochè; cf. Alain Le Boulluec, La Notion d’hérésie dans la littérature grecque. IIe–IIIe siècles, 2 vols. (Paris: Études augustiniennes, 1985), 2.265. 3 Mauro Bonazzi, À la recherche des idées. Platonisme et philosophie hellénistique d’Anti­ ochus à Platon (Paris: Vrin, 2015); idem, “Le platonisme de Plutarque de Chéronée entre scepticisme, théologie et métaphysique,” in Scepticisme et religion. Constantes et évolutions, de la philosophie hellénistique à la philosophie médiévale, ed. Anne-Isabelle Bouton-Touboulic and Carlos Lévy (Monothéismes et philosophie; Turnhout, Brepols, 2016), 75–88. 4 Gábor Kendeffy, “L’appropriation des arguments néoacadémiciens par Lactance,” in Scepticisme et religion. Constantes et évolutions, de la philosophie hellénistique à la philosophie médiévale, ed. Anne-Isabelle Bouton-Touboulic and Carlos Lévy (Monothéismes et philosophie; Turnhout, Brepols, 2016), 137–155. 5 Anne-Isabelle Bouton-Touboulic, “Scepticisme et religion dans le Contra academicos d’Augustin,” in Scepticisme et religion. Constantes et évolutions, de la philosophie hellénistique à la philosophie médiévale, ed. Anne-Isabelle Bouton-Touboulic and Carlos Lévy (Monothéismes et philosophie; Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), 171–192. 6 Jason BeDuhn, “A Religion of Deeds: Scepticism in the Doctrinally Liberal Manichaeism 2 

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transmitted by the codices discovered near Nag Hammadi in Upper Egypt at the end of the 1940s.7 The main purpose of this chapter is to prospect the eventual links between some of the Nag Hammadi writings and scepticism. First, we will consider the place of scepticism in Gnostic studies. Then we will move on to see if there could be any references to sceptical concepts or thinkers. The third point will consider the place of scepticism in the polemic against Gnostics. The last point will focus on some punctual “links” between scepticism and some Gnostic writings.

1.  Gnostic Studies and Scepticism The thirteen Nag Hammadi codices transmit Coptic texts written mainly by Christians, more particularly by some Christian thinkers who can be referred to as “Gnostics”;8 most of these writings must have been composed – in Greek – during the second half of the second century or during the third century.9 Studies relating to these Coptic texts have already revealed how their authors, like other Christians, resort to philosophical concepts and argumentation, particularly to Platonic as well as Stoic and Pythagorean ones.10 of Faustus and Augustine,” in New Light on Manichaeism: Papers from the Sixth International Congress on Manichaeism (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2009), 1–28. 7  Concerning the discovery of the codices, cf. James M. Robinson, The Nag Hammadi Story, 2 vols. (Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 86; Leiden et al.: Brill, 2014); and Éric Crégheur, James M. Robinson, and Michel Tardieu, ed., Histoire des manuscrits coptes. La correspondance Doresse-Puech 1947–1970 (Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi, Études 9; Québec et al.: Les Presses de l’Université Laval and Peeters, 2015). English translation: James M. Robinson, ed., The Coptic Gnostic Library: A Complete Edition of the Nag Hammadi Codices, 5 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 2000). French translation: Jean-Pierre Mahé and Paul-Hubert Poirier, ed., Écrits gnos­ tiques. La bibliothèque de Nag Hammadi (Bibliothèque de la Pléiade; Paris: Gallimard, 2007). 8  The term “Gnostic” has been debated for more than twenty years: Michael A. Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism”: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996); Karen L. King, What is Gnosticism? (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003); David Brakke, The Gnostics: Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Chris­ tianity (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2010); Roelof van den Broek, Gnostic Religion in Antiquity, tr. Anthony Runia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013; or Gnosis in de Oudheid: Nag Hammadi in Context [Amsterdam: In de Pelikaan, 2010]). Even if we agree this term cannot refer to a social reality of that time, we think “Gnostic” is not useless, at least on the heuristic level. The term can be used to designate the specificity of some Christian groups besides other Christian groups. However, the use of “Gnostic” does not mean the differences within groups and texts qualified as “Gnostics” are erased. It is the same for some other “global” designations such as “philosophers” or “Christians.” 9  For a general presentation of the Gnostic writings: Nicola Denzey Lewis, Introduction to “Gnosticism”: Ancient Voices, Christian Worlds (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Michel Tardieu and Jean-Daniel Dubois, Introduction à la littérature gnostique, Vol. 1: Collections retrouvées avant 1945 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1986). 10 Concerning the Valentinians: Einar Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed: The Church of the “Valentinians” (Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 60; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 270–291,



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Indeed, some authors think that their teaching is the philosophical route par excellence, the one that extends or even transcends all other philosophies. Yet, in modern studies, treatment of scepticism is extremely limited. This can be seen from a rapid consultation of the indexes from which the terms “sceptic” or “scepticism” are regularly absent.11 The name of Sextus Empiricus is more often mentioned, not to account for parallels between the writings of Nag Hammadi and those of Sextus, but to use his own testimony to comment on other philosophical schools.12 What could there be in common between scepticism on the one hand and the Gnostic writings on the other? Scepticism is the philosophy of doubt which Lucretius negatively qualifies as the philosophy of “someone who thinks that we know nothing,”13 while it is positively qualified by Sextus as the philosophy of those who “are still investigating.”14 In this vein, it is also opposed to the philosophers who think they have found truth and whom sceptics call “Dogmatists,”15 because they are able “neither to posit nor to reject anything because of the equipollence of the matters being investigated.”16 On the contrary, the Gnostic about the affinities between the Valentinian protology and Neopythagorean physics. The introductions to French translations of the Nag Hammadi writings published in the collection “Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi” give some place to the philosophical heritage; in particular, see Bernard Barc, ed. and tr., Le Livre des secrets de Jean. Recension Brève (NH III, 1 et BG, 2) (Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi, Textes 35; Québec et al.: Les Presses de l’Université Laval and Peeters, 2012), 32–34; Catherine Barry et alii, ed. and tr., Zostrien (NH VIII 1) (Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi, Textes 24; Québec et al.: Les Presses de l’Université Laval and Peeters, 2000), 157–210; Michel Tardieu and Pierre Hadot, Recherches sur la formation de l’Apocalypse de Zostrien et les sources de Marius Victorinus / “Porphyre et Victorinus”. Ques­ tions et hypothèses (Res Orientales 9; Bures-sur-Yvette: Groupe pour l’étude de la civilisation du Moyen-Orient, 1996); Jean-Daniel Dubois, “Les gnostiques et la philosophie ancienne,” in Philosophie et théologie dans la période antique, Vol. 1: Anthologie, ed. Jérôme Alexandre (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2009), 129–144; Stephen Emmel, “Not Really Non-Existent? A Suggestion for Interpreting and Restoring Zostrianos (Nag Hammadi Codex VIII, 1) 117,11–15,” in Gnose et manichéisme. Entre les oasis d’Égypte et la route de la soie. Hommage à Jean-Daniel Dubois, ed. Anna Van den Kerchove and Luciana Soares Santoprete (Bibliothèque de l’École des Hautes Études, Sciences religieuses 176; Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), 35–50. 11  The terms “scepticism” and “sceptic” are rare, with no occurrence most of the time or only one or two occurrences in some rare books: cf. Brakke, The Gnostics, and Ismo Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism: Myth, Lifestyle, and Society in the School of Valentinus (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008). 12  See, e. g., Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed, 270–291: in a section speaking about the affinities between the Valentinian protology and Neopythagorean physics, Thomassen refers in different occasions to Sextus as a source for Neopythagorism. 13  Lucr. 4.469–470; see Carlos Lévy, “Lucrèce et le scepticisme,” Vita Latina 152 (1998), 2–9 at 6. 14 Sextus, Pyr. 1.3 (tr. Annas and Barnes). 15 Sextus, Pyr. 1.3 (tr. Annas and Barnes). 16 Sextus, Pyr. 1.196 (tr. Annas and Barnes). For a resume of this sceptical position – that is, that we must go on investigating when we neither have found the truth nor have found that the truth cannot be discovered –, see Harald Thorsrud, Ancient Scepticism (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2009), 126–136; and Alan Bailey, Sextus Empiricus

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authors insist that they always teach or tell the truth, that they “know the truth,” as proclaimed by the author of The Treatise on the Resurrection,17 a writing qualified by Louis Painchaud as a “dogmatic celebration”.18 Mention should be also made of Eugnostos the Blessed which aims to learn the truth while “the wisest (ⲥⲁⲃⲉⲉⲩⲉ) among them [those who inquire about God] have speculated about the truth from the ordering of the world. And the speculation has not reached the truth.”19 Whereas Sceptics, according to Sextus, wonder “how shall we be able to acquire a conception of god if we possess neither an agreed substance for him nor a form nor a place in which he is,”20 Gnostic authors expound on God and the Divine and teach what God is and what he is not.21 Sceptics criticize the concept of “demonstration” on the grounds that any demonstration must ultimately be based either on 1) premises that have themselves been demonstrated (in which case the moment of “demonstration” is moved backwards ad infinitum), or 2) on premises which do not need demonstration. The existence of something that requires no demonstration, however, must itself be demonstrated (and thus “demonstration” again recedes into an infinite regress).22 In stark contrast, many Gnostic authors view demonstration as entirely possible. In On the Origin of the World, which aims to prove a thesis, the author starts his text with the words: Seeing that everybody, gods of the world and mankind, says that nothing existed prior to chaos, I in distinction to them shall demonstrate that they are all mistaken, because they are not acquainted with the origin of chaos, nor with its root. Here is the demonstration (ⲁⲡⲟⲇⲓⲝⲉⲓⲥ).23

and Pyrrhonean Scepticism (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 119–122. Both scholars relate the story of the painter Apelles, as it is mentioned by Sextus. See also Carlos Lévy, “De l’epochè sceptique à l’epochè transcendantale. Philon d’Alexandrie fondateur du fidéisme,” in Scepticisme et religion. Constantes et évolutions, de la philosophie hellénistique à la philosophie médiévale, ed. Anne-Isabelle Bouton-Touboulic and Carlos Lévy (Monothéismes et philosophie; Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), 57–73. 17  Treat. Res. (NH I 4) 44.1–2. 18 Louis Painchaud, “Eugnoste  – notice,” in Écrits gnostiques. La bibliothèque de Nag Hammadi, ed. Jean-Pierre Mahé and Paul-Hubert Poirier (Bibliothèque de la Pléiade; Paris: Gallimard, 2007), 573–585 at 574. 19  Eugnostos (NH III 3) 70.8–12 (tr. Douglas M. Parrot, in Robinson, The Coptic Gnostic Library, Vol. 3). 20 Sextus, Pyr. 3.3 (tr. Annas and Barnes). 21 See Tri. Trac. (NH I 5) or Zost. (NH VIII 1). 22  Diog. Laert. 9.90; Sextus, Pyr. 2.134–192; Math. 8.299–481. Cf. Jacques Brunschwig, “Livre IX,” in Diogène Laërce: Vies et doctrines des philosophes illustres, ed. Marie-Odile GouletCazé (Paris: Le livre de poche, 1999), 1027–1145 at 1125 n. 6. See Bailey, Sextus Empiricus, 243–255; and Thorsrud, Ancient Scepticism, 167–171. 23  Orig. World (NH II 5) 94.24–27 (tr. Hans-Gebhard Bethge and Bentley Layton, in Robinson, The Coptic Gnostic Library, Vol. 2).



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Because of the author’s insistence on the demonstrative aspect of his writing, Louis Painchaud has qualified On the Origin of the World as a “treatise of propaganda.”24 In spite of these differences, it is worth considering the explicit question of possible connections or affinities between Sceptics and Gnostics on particular points. On the one hand, a number of Gnostic texts must have been composed during the second half of the second or during the third century. During that period scepticism was part of the philosophical trends in the Roman Empire, particularly in Rome where many Christians, in particular Gnostics, studied and taught. They frequently went to the same places (such as the neighbourhood of the booksellers) as non-Christians did – let us mention in this regard the comment of Galen, who tells about his encounter with Martianos in that neighbourhood.25 Apart from these encounters and possible exchanges which left very rare traces, there is the frequenting of the same teachers and the same courses, not to mention the reading of doxographic writings or manuals. These texts enabled Christians in general and Gnostics in particular to acquire a certain knowledge of other philosophical thought with their proper concepts, their argumentation, and rhetoric, even if this knowledge was not thorough. On the other hand, Platonism is at the heart of a debate about the alleged sceptical attitude of Plato and of the New Academy.26 The debate was initiated by some non-Platonists  – Epicureans, or Sceptics like Sextus  – as well as by Platonists themselves.27 Whereas the majority of Platonists tried to demonstrate that the New Academy28 had nothing to do with Plato, some of them, like Plutarch,29 wished to draw the New Academy within the platonic tradition. Lastly, several studies have shown that scepticism had a real influence on middle Platonism and Neoplatonism.30 24 Louis Painchaud, “Écrit sans titre  – Notice,” in Écrits gnostiques. La bibliothèque de Nag Hammadi, ed. Jean-Pierre Mahé and Paul-Hubert Poirier (Bibliothèque de la Pléiade; Paris: Gallimard, 2007), 403–417. 25  About this encounter, see Galen, De praecognitione 4; in Vivian Nutton, ed. and tr., Galen: De praecognitione (CMG V, 8,1) [Berlin: Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1979], online at the address: (last accessed on May 21, 2019). 26 Sextus, Pyr. 1.22. Cf. Bonazzi, À la recherche des idées, 71, 77, and 81. 27 Emidio Spinelli, “Sextus Empiricus, the Neighbouring Philosophies and the Sceptical Tradition (again on Pyr. I 220–225),” in Ancient Scepticism and the Sceptical Tradition, ed. Juha Sihvola (Acta Philosophica Fennica 66; Helsinki: Societas Philosophica Fennica, 2000), 35–61. 28  Concerning the New Academy: Jacques Brunschwig, “Le scepticisme et ses variétés,” in Philosophie grecque, ed. Monique Canto-Sperber (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1997), 564–574; and Carlos Levy, Les Scepticismes (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2008), 22–53. 29  Bonazzi, À la recherche des idées, 69–115. 30 Brigitte Pérez-Jean, “Ne pas dire le principe. Usage sceptique et usage théologique de la négation,” in Scepticisme et religion. Constantes et évolutions, de la philosophie hellénistique à la philosophie médiévale, ed. Anne-Isabelle Bouton-Touboulic and Carlos Lévy (Monothéismes

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2.  References to Sceptical Concepts and Philosophers? One of the first ways to approach this theme is to pinpoint the explicit references to the sceptical “school” or to one of its followers. No such references have been found. That said, the same conclusion applies to the Platonists whom we know exerted a certain influence on Gnostic authors’ thoughts. Another approach is to search for key concepts borrowed from the Sceptics, such as ἐποχή (“suspension of judgement”) or ἀταραξία (“tranquillity”); both concepts are found in Sextus’ definition of scepticism: Scepticism is an ability to set out oppositions among things which appear and are thought of in any way at all, an ability by which, because of the equipollence in the opposed objects and accounts, we come first to suspension of judgement and afterwards to tranquillity.31

In the Nag Hammadi writings, as well as in the heresiological testimonies on the Gnostic groups, neither of these two concepts is mentioned. Furthermore, there seems to be no allusion to any of the sceptical phrases, a list of which was compiled by Sextus Empiricus.32 There is no mention of οὐ μᾶλλον (“no more”), for example. However, two remarks should be made: 1)  Quotations, in particular those of the philosophers, are not frequent in Gnostic writings.33 2)  These writings have often been transmitted in an indirect way either via a Coptic translation or a summary compiled by a third party, generally a heresiologist. Both modes of transmission can impose a barrier to such a lexical study. This study should also take into account the fact that the technical sceptical terms and characteristic phrases may have not been considered as such by the Coptic translator and therefore have not been transliterated in Coptic scripture – as this sometimes happens.34 In the absence of explicit quotations of scepticism, of Sceptics, and sceptical concepts, the second step consists in listing the non-nominative implicit allusions. A number of texts effectively make mention of “philosophers” (ⲫⲓⲗⲟⲥⲟⲫⲟⲥ). et philosophie; Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), 119–135 at 120; cf. Wilfried Kühn, Quel savoir après le scepticisme? Plotin et ses prédécesseurs sur la connaissance de soi (Paris: Vrin, 2009), on selfknowledge. 31 Sextus, Pyr. 1.8 (tr. Annas and Barnes); on this passage: Lévy, Les Scepticismes, 71. Concerning both concepts, cf. Bailey, Sextus Empiricus, “Index,” s. v. ἐποχή and “tranquillity”; Thorsrud, Ancient Scepticism, “Index,” s. v. “suspension of judgement (epoche)” and “tranquillity.” 32 Sextus, Pyr. 1.188–205. See also Diog. Laert. 9.74–76. 33  An exception would be Zostrianos (NH VIII 1) 64–66: see Tardieu and Hadot, Re­ cherches; Dubois, “Les gnostiques et la philosophie ancienne.” 34  This is the case for some occurrences of Logos or Monogenes. Cf. Anna Van den Kerchove, “Les gnostiques et la richesse de la langue copte: quelques remarques lexicales à propos de l’Apocryphon de Jean et de Melchisédek,” in Vérité(s) philologique(s). Études sur les notions de vérité et de fausseté en matière de philologie, ed. Pascale Hummel and Frédéric Gabriel (Paris: Philologicum, 2008), 107–113.



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This is particularly the case in Eugnostos the Blessed, where the author criticizes the attitude of philosophers which consists in dialectic that leads nowhere, or in any case not to the truth.35 The different mentions of “philosophers” do not seem to refer to any precise philosophical school. The same remark applies to the term “wise” (ⲥⲟⲫⲟⲥ); used in the plural36 it systematically refers back to Greek philosophers without specifying to which school they belong.37 In both cases the terminology is global. In some rare cases the generic mentions of “philosophers” and “wise men” are completed with a doxography. Because the doxography lists philosophical opinions, it thus allows a better picture of the philosophical schools aimed at. This is the case in The Tripartite Tractate, with a list of five items, and in Eugnos­ tos the Blessed (NH III 3, rewritten as NH V 1), with a list of three items, as well as in The Sophia of Jesus Christ, which is a rewriting of Eugnostos (with two variants: NH III 4 and BG 8502.3). The Tripartite Tractate (NH I 5) 109.5–2138

Eugnostos the Blessed (NH III 3) 70.12–2439

Therefore, they have introduced other types (of explanation) [1] some saying that it is according to providence (ⲡⲣⲟⲛⲟⲓⲁ) that the things which exist have their being. These are the people who observe the stability and the conformity of the movement of creation. [2] Others say that it is something alien (ⲁⲗⲟⲧⲣⲓⲟⲛ). These are people who observe the diversity (ⲛⲧⲁϣⲣⲙⲓⲛⲉ) and the lawlessness of the powers and what is evil (ⲧⲙⲛⲧ  ⲁⲧϩⲉⲡ ⲛⲛⲓϭⲟⲙ ⲙⲛ ⲡⲉⲧⲑⲁⲩ).40 [3] Others say that the things which exist are what is destined to happen [i. e., fate]. These are the people who were occupied with this matter. [4] Others say that it is something in accordance with nature (ⲟⲩⲕⲁⲧⲁ ⲫⲩⲥⲓⲥ ⲡⲉ). [5] Others say that it is a self-existent (ⲡⲉⲧϣⲟⲟⲡ ⲟⲩⲁⲉⲉⲧϥ).

The wisest among them have speculated about the truth from the ordering of the world. And the speculation has not reached the truth (ⲡⲉⲩⲧⲟⲛⲧⲛ  ⲇⲉ ⲙⲡⲉϥⲧⲁϩⲉ ⲧⲙⲉ). For the ordering is spoken in three (different) opinions by all the philosophers, (and) hence they do not agree (ⲛⲥⲉⲥⲩⲙⲫⲱⲛⲓ ⲁⲛ). [a] For some of them say about the world that it was directed by itself. [b] Others that it is providence (ⲡⲣⲟⲛⲟⲓⲁ) (that directs it). [c] Others, that it is fate (ⲟⲩⲡⲉⲧⲏⲡ). But it is none of these. Again, of the three voices I have just mentioned, none is true.

35 

Eugnostos (NH III 3) 7.15. term is more frequently used in the singular; it then refers negatively to one of the Archons or, positively, to the one who knows God and is pious. 37 Cf. Eugnostos (NH III 3) 70.8 and its rewriting in NH V 1, 1.9–10; Wis. Jes. Chr. (NH III 4) 92.14 and (BG 8502.3) 80.14; Gos. Truth (NH I 3) 19; Trip. Trac. (NH I 5) 109.24; Exeg. Soul (NH II 6) 127.19. 38  Tr. Harold W. Attridge and Elaine Pagels, in Robinson, The Coptic Gnostic Library, Vol. 1. 39  Tr. Douglas M. Parrott, in Robinson, The Coptic Gnostic Library, Vol. 3. 40  I modify here the translation of Attridge and Pagels, in Robinson, The Coptic Gnostic Library, Vol. 1; they indeed translate ⲧⲙⲛⲧⲁⲧϩⲉⲡ ⲛⲛⲓϭⲟⲙ ⲙⲛ ⲡⲉⲧⲑⲁⲩ as “the lawlessness and the evil of the powers.” 36  The

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The similarities between these two lists have already been underlined.41 Both are cosmological with three items in common from one list to another (item 1 // item b, item 3 // item c, item 5 // item a) and probably originate from the same doxographical source.42 With its three items, the list of Eugnostos the Blessed seems the oldest. The author of the Tripartite Tractate (or its source) adopts these same items to which he adds two more (items 2 and 4). The three common items concern the Stoics and/or the Platonists (item 1 // item b),43 astrological beliefs44 or the Stoics45 (item 3 // item c) and the Epicureans46 (item 5 // item a). One of the two items added by the author of the Tripartite Tractate also makes reference to the Stoics and/or the Platonists (item 4).47 As for the second item (item 2) added on, its identification is not unanimously recognized. Thomassen thinks that the suggestion made by Kasser et alii48 according to which this item makes reference to the Epicureans “is probably right.”49 Dunderberg challenges this connection, on the basis that the commentary by the author – “the lawlessness of the powers and what is evil” – is not in line with Epicurean conceptions.50 He then reminds us that “it has been suggested that this opinion could be an allusion to Carneades and the sceptical Academy,”51 making reference to the information that Kasser et alii have added to the Epicurean suggestion, but without elaborating on it.52 Dunderberg discards this hypothesis on the basis that Carneades neither mentions the lawless powers nor evil powers. He suggests thus a third hypothesis: the author makes an allusion to Sethian ideas.53 Dunderberg’s hypothesis is very likely, but we would like to come back to the sceptic hypothesis. As Kasser et alii point out, the Epicureans are not the only philosophers who criticize providence; 41  Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism, 178–181; Einar Thomassen, ed. and tr., Le Traité tripartite (NH I, 5) (Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi, Textes 19; Québec et al.: Les Presses de l’Université Laval and Peeters, 1989), 410–412. 42  Thomassen, Le Traité tripartite, 411. 43 Rodolphe Kasser et alii, ed. and tr., Tractatus Tripartitus, Pars II: De creatione hominis (Bern: Francke Verlag, 1975), 203; and Thomassen, Le Traité tripartite, 411: Stoic; Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism, 179: Stoic and Platonist. 44  Kasser et alii, Tractatus Tripartitus, 203; Thomassen, Le Traité tripartite, 411–412. 45  Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism, 179. 46  Kasser et alii, Tractatus Tripartitus, 203; Thomassen, Le Traité tripartite, 412; Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism, 179. 47  Kasser et alii, Tractatus Tripartitus, 203; Thomassen, Le Traité tripartite, 412; Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism, 179. 48  Kasser et alii, Tractatus Tripartitus, 203. 49  Thomassen, Le Traité tripartite, 411. 50 Cf. Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism, 178–181. 51  Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism, 180. 52  Kasser et alii, Tractatus Tripartitus, 203, commenting on item 2 in the following way: “Contre les Stoïciens, les Épicuriens soulignaient l’absurdité de la vie et niaient l’existence d’une Providence logique et démontrable. Plus tard, Carneades le sceptique et son école dirigèrent leurs attaques contre les thèses des Stoïciens.” It is not sure if Kasser et alii consider the possibility of an allusion to Sceptics in the Coptic text. Thomassen does not mention Kasser’s hypothesis. 53  Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism, 180.



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the Sceptics do so too but for different reasons. Sextus writes a whole section on this point in his Outlines of Scepticism,54 which he concludes as follows: From this we deduce that those who firmly state that there are gods are no doubt bound to be impious: if they say that the gods provide for everything, they will say that they are a cause of evil; and if they say that they provide for some things or even for none at all, they will be bound to say either that the gods are malign or that they are weak – and anyone who says this is clearly impious.55

The questioning of divine providence is based on the existence of evil on earth; this link is probably behind the statement: “These are people who observe the diversity (ⲛⲧⲁϣⲣⲙⲓⲛⲉ) and the lawlessness of the powers and what is evil (ⲧⲙⲛⲧⲁⲧϩⲉⲡ ⲛⲛⲓϭⲟⲙ ⲙⲛ ⲡⲉⲧⲑⲁⲩ).” There is certainly no question of “lawlessness of powers” in the different sceptical testimonies. However, the question of the law plays an important part in scepticism, especially for Sextus who takes account of the wide range of the laws which are human and have no divine origin.56 Furthermore we find references in which Sextus does “oppose law to belief in myth: the poets represent the gods as committing adultery and indulging in homosexual acts, while with us the law forbids these things.”57 A  superficial reader might conclude that as regards the Sceptics, the gods are lawless. Finally, the “diversity” (ⲛⲧ  ⲁϣⲣⲙ  ⲓⲛⲉ) mentioned by the author of the Tripartite Tractate could be linked to the diversity which the Sceptics talk about regularly as regards animals (corresponding to Aenesidemus’s first mode or trope of suspension of judgement), humans (Aenesidemus’s second mode), organs (Aenesidemus’s third mode), as well as laws, customs, beliefs, and dogmatic concepts (Aenesidemus’s tenth mode).58 We are aware that what we have just written above does not fully give justice to the hypothesis of an allusion to the Sceptics in item 2 of the 54 Sextus,

Pyr. 3.9–12.

55 Sextus, Pyr. 3.12 (tr. Annas

and Barnes), to complete with Pyr. 1.32. This does not prevent Sextus from introducing his statement on God by claiming (3.2): “let us first consider god, remarking by way of preface that, following ordinary life without opinions, we say that there are gods and we are pious towards the gods and say they are provident.” There is no opposition: in this case, it is not a dogmatic position, as Sextus only wants to conform himself to human customs. About this distinction, cf. Pyr. 1.155. See also Simo Knuuttila and Juha Sihvola, “Ancient Scepticism and Philosophy of Religion,” in Ancient Scepticism and the Sceptical Tradi­ tion, ed. Juha Sihvola (Acta Philosophica Fennica 66; Helsinki: Societas Philosophica Fennica, 2000), 125–144 at 132–136; and Emidio Spinelli, “‘Le Dieu est la cause la plus active’: Sextus Empiricus contre la théologie dogmatique,” in Scepticisme et religion. Constantes et évolutions, de la philosophie hellénistique à la philosophie médiévale, ed. Anne-Isabelle Bouton-Touboulic and Carlos Lévy (Monothéismes et philosophie; Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), 89–102 at 99–102. 56 Cf. Annas and Barnes, Sextus Empiricus, “Index,” s. v. “Law.” 57 Sextus, Pyr. 1.159 (tr. Annas and Barnes); see also Pyr. 1.154 and 3.215. 58  About the list of the ten modes or tropes: cf. Pyr. 1.36–37 (without the name of Aenesidemus mentioned) and also Diog. Laert. 9.78–79. The texts on the ten modes are gathered by Julia Annas and Jonathan Barnes, The Modes of Scepticism: Ancient Texts and Modern Interpre­ tations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 19–30, with a commentary on the lists.

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doxography of the Tripartite Tractate. In any case, such a hint is not incompatible with a mention of the “Sethian” attitude. The two could have been amalgamated.

3.  Gnostics, their Opponents, and Scepticism A third trail of investigation consists in listing the links that the opponents of the Gnostics established between the tenets of the latter and those of the Sceptics. A first survey shows that such links have rarely been established. Irenaeus does not explicitly make any.59 Clement of Alexandria, especially in his Stromateis, has some knowledge of the Sceptics. A whole section of Strom. 8 is dedicated to them.60 This knowledge seems to have been used as a basis for his criticism of the “heretics” which includes the Gnostics in all of his Stromateis. In Strom. 6. 7. 56.2–58.3, he criticizes the φιλαυτία of the “heretics,” their self-satisfaction, which Clement links to their claim of having perfect understanding of Truth; however, the notion of the φιλαυτία is one of the criticisms addressed by the Sceptics to the Dogmatics.61 In Strom. 7, Clement answers the objection made by philosophers who point to the diversity of Christian groups. Before showing that the “heretics” are posterior to Truth and deprived of any criteria of Truth, he “met sur le même plan les écoles philosophiques grecques, les sectes juives et les ‘hérésies’ chrétiennes,”62 claiming that they all disagree. Here Clement adopts the sceptical argument of the διαφωνία63 to justify his idea according to which those different groups, including the “heretics,” are deprived of Truth; he thinks that the disagreement among the “heretics” is a sign of their choice to divert from Truth.64 Again, according to the same book of the Stromateis, against the Gnostics, Clement takes advantage of the debate which opposes the Stoics and the Sceptics regarding the conditions of knowledge. Indeed, Clement aims to attack what he considers to be a renouncement of the effort of discovery on the part of the “heretics.”65 Finally, as on the one hand Clement criticizes what he considers to be the φιλαυτία of the “heretics,” on the other hand he estimates that the “heretics” are searching endlessly, that is to say they are no more than ἐριστίκοι – “people fond of arguing” – who multiply difficulties. He addresses also this same reproach to the Sceptics,66 who, as Le Boulluec remarks, Clement 59 

See, however, Le Boulluec, La Notion d’hérésie, 1.122. Strom. 8. 5. 16. 61  Le  Boulluec, La Notion d’hérésie, 2.377 n. 54 and, more generally, 374–378. About philautia, cf. Sextus, Pyr. 1.90. 62  Le Boulluec, La Notion d’hérésie, 2.366. 63 See infra. 64  Le Boulluec, La Notion d’hérésie, 2.380. 65  Cf. the analysis by Le Boulluec, La Notion d’hérésie, 2.378–379. 66  Strom. 8.1.1–2.2. 60 



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never qualifies with the terms σκεπτικοί or ζητητικοί.67 The background to this criticism is the Christian debate which develops at the end of the second century with regard to the interpretation of Mt 7:7, “Seek and you will find,” with the emphasis put either on “seek” or on “find.”68 Clement considers that there should be a limit to the research69 and he reproaches the “heretics” – as well as the Sceptics – with pushing back this limit. To conclude on Clement, the Alexandrian takes up some sceptical arguments against “heretics” while establishing some links between “heretics” and Sceptics. However, these links are essentially based on the condition of knowledge, not on doctrinal or theological points; and Clement does not really try to assimilate “heretics” and Sceptics. Later, in the course of the third century, the author of the Elenchos does not explicitly make any link, neither does Epiphanius in his Panarion compiled in 374.70 As for the philosophers, Plotinus, in his Against the Gnostics (Enn. 2.9), in which he explicitly develops a controversy against some Gnostics, criticizes the interpretation that the Gnostics make of Plato. He considers that his opponents are rasher than Epicurus: indeed, while they do not renounce providence as does the latter, they offend it as well as the laws of the universe.71 He does not mention the Sceptics in this text as in other writings, where he criticizes the same opponents.72 From this rapid panorama which needs to be completed it appears that the opponents to the Gnostics have made few links with the Sceptics. This result gives the impression that the Gnostics did not incite such a comparison.

4.  Some Punctual Links These three approaches described above apparently confirm that, if scepticism is part of the philosophic landscape in which the Gnostics lived, it does not enter into their immediate intellectual horizon of reference, either negatively or positively. If there are links, these can only be established on particular aspects of the Gnostic developments. For the moment, we will only consider two points. 67 

Le Boulluec, La Notion d’hérésie, 2.384. Le  Boulluec, La Notion d’hérésie, 2.382–386. In this debate, the verse is disconnected from its immediate context, which is one of prayer; see Irenaeus, Haer. 2. 13. 10; 2.30.2; Tertullian, Praescr. 8. On the debate: Antonio Orbe, Parábolas evangélicas en San Ireneo, 2 vols. (Madrid: BAC, 1972), 1.34–74; and Norbert Brox, “Suchen und Finden. Zur Nachgeschichte von Mt 7,7b/Lk 11,9b,” in Orientierung an Jesus. Zur Theologie der Synoptiker (Festschrift für J. Schmid), ed. Paul von Hoffmann (Freiburg: Herder, 1973), 17–36. 69 Cf. Strom. 1. 11. 51.4. 70 Within De Fide, which concludes the Panarion, Epiphanius speaks of many philosophers, among them some Sceptics – such as Pyrrho (9.22), Arcesilas (9.33) and Carneades (9.34) – but he does not link them to any “heretic sect.” 71 Plotinus, Enn. 2. 9. 33.15. 72  See Plotinus, Enn. 32. 68 

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As we have said above, Clement reproaches the “heretics”  – as well as the Gnostics – for seeking without defining the scope of their search, and he concludes that they are only eager to argue, just as the Sceptics are. Several Gnostic texts indeed insist on investigation, inviting us to go beyond appearances without taking the senses into account. On this point, there is a possible affinity with the Sceptics who define themselves as those who “are still investigating”73 as opposed to the Dogmatics. Furthermore, in both cases, this research is related to the notion of doubt, an attitude which is adopted by several philosophers at the end of the second century.74 A  number of Nag Hammadi texts implicitly or explicitly evoke doubt and take it as a starting point of the intrigue. This is particularly the case of The Apocryphon of John75 and of The Sophia of Jesus Christ (BG 8502.3). This doubt originates from fruitless investigation and from the awareness of the lack of reliability of the senses. It is also testified by the comparison of different teachings, as is the case at the beginning of The Apocryphon of John: John begins to doubt about the teaching of his master after a Pharisee declares that this master is misleading him.76 This latter idea is more explicit in the Gnostic texts which mention the lack of συμφωνία between the philosophers and the wise men. This is particularly the case of the three texts mentioned above, the Tripartite Tractate, Eugnostos the Blessed, and its rewritten version, the Sophia of Jesus Christ. The doxographic lists of these writings testify, according to the authors, that “philosophers” and the “wise” do not agree with each other: “For the ordering is spoken in three (different) opinions by all the philosophers, (and) hence they do not agree (ⲛⲥⲉⲥⲩⲙⲫⲱⲛⲓ ⲁⲛ),” the author of Eugnostos explicitly insists.77 This diversity is seen as negative; the Gnostic authors consider it to be a sign that the “wise” and “philosophers” are ignorant, “are not instructed,”78 and that “the speculation has not reached the truth (ⲡⲉⲩⲧⲟⲛⲧⲛ ⲇⲉ ⲙⲡⲉϥⲧⲁϩⲉ ⲧⲙⲉ).”79 The author of the Tripartite Tractate adds that the philosophers “spoke in a likely, arrogant and imaginary way.”80 These remarks are in line with what we can read in Paul in 1 Cor 1:18–25 and in other Christian authors at the end of the second century and the third century. Despite the fact that some of them admit a certain 73 Sextus,

Pyr. 1.3 (tr. Annas and Barnes). Le Boulluec, La Notion d’hérésie, 2.365. Doubt is criticized by some other philosophers, such as Clement; for Clement, doubt is dangerous because the intellectual research may be endless. 75  There are four versions of this text in the Nag Hammadi codices, two of the short and older recension, two of the long recension. Short recension: BG 8502.2 and NH III 1; long recension: NH II 1 and NH IV 1. 76  BG 8502.2, 19.6–20.18 // NH III 1, 1.1–24. 77 Cf. supra. 78  Tri. Trac. (NH I 5) 109.5. 79  Eugnostos (NH III 3) 70.13–14. 80  Tri. Trac. (NH I 5) 109.32–33. 74 



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doctrinal συμφωνία between philosophers and Christians, the same authors and others take note of the diversity of Greek philosophical opinions. According to them, this testifies that these philosophers have not reached Truth.81 Our Gnostic authors seem to proceed much further as they put the emphasis essentially on the absence of συμφωνία. It may be that there is a philosophical idea behind this and in particular an adaptation of the trope of the διαφωνία of the Sceptics. The διαφωνία is the first of the five “modes of suspension of judgement, resulting from the possibility of errors arising in sense perception and reasoning,”82 according to the list furnished by Agrippa.83 This mode of the διαφωνία is recurrent with Sextus,84 and according to what the sceptical doctor reports in Pyr. 1.165, it concerns any subject and draws the conclusion that reason alone does not suffice in the process of knowledge – that it may misinform, especially as regards the representations of what is perceptible. The Gnostics, much like the Sceptics and other philosophers, therefore conclude that there are diverging opinions – a fact which incites them to pursue their investigations and to doubt, with the same idea that human reasoning is not sufficient. From this starting point, the solutions proposed to the divergences and resulting doubts also diverge. On an ethical level, the philosophers aim for peace of the soul and quietness.85 The solution of the Sceptics is to suspend their judgment, that is to say, according to the definition of Sextus himself, “a standstill of the intellect, owing to which we neither reject nor posit anything.”86 Doubt is then not accompanied by distress. Other philosophers, Platonists like Plutarch, adopt a different solution; it consists also in suspending judgement but only in respect to what is perceptible. Indeed the Platonists reverse the criterion of reality with respect to the Sceptics. The latter think that the perceptible representations are not faulty but their interpretation is. The Platonists, for their part, think that the perceptible representations are wrong. Thus, as opposed to the Sceptics, they consider that “le vrai philosophe sait qu’il faut toujours remonter aux vrais principes, c’est-à-dire aux principes intelligibles,”87 that they have to go beyond the 81 

Cf. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 1 and 6. Niiniluoto, “Scepticism, Fallibilism, and Verisimilitude,” in Ancient Scepticism and the Sceptical Tradition, ed. Juha Sihvola (Acta Philosophica Fennica 66; Helsinki: Societas Philosophica Fennica, 2000), 145–169 at 157. 83  On this list, see Diog. Laert. 9.88–89; and Sextus, Pyr. 1.164–167, which is more detailed but does not mention the name of Agrippa. Cf. Annas and Barnes, The Modes of Scepticism, 28–30. 84 Jonathan Barnes, “La διαφωνία pyrrhonienne,” in Le scepticisme antique. Perspectives historiques et systématiques. Actes du colloque international sur le scepticisme antique, Université de Lausanne, 1–3 juin 1998, ed. André-Jean Voelke (Cahiers de la Revue de théologie et de philosophie 15; Lausanne: Faculté de Théologie, 1990), 97–106 at 97–98. 85 Cf. Hadot, Qu’est-ce que la philosophie antique? 86 Sextus, Pyr. 1.10 (tr. Annas and Barnes). 87  Bonazzi, À la recherche des idées, 95–96. 82 Ilkka

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perceptible, not by exceeding reason, but by applying reasoning to intelligible principles. However, they pretend neither to have understood everything nor to have the last word. That is the reason why with respect to Plutarch, some scholars speak of “scepticisme métaphysique.”88 Plutarch admits human weakness and the idea that research is constant, but he does not reject the idea of proclaiming assertions concerning the divine; modern scholars can qualify such knowledge as “asymptomatique.”89 What about the Gnostics? Like the Platonists, the Gnostics wish to go beyond the perceptible, which is only apparent, towards the intelligible. They wish to go back as far as possible in what is intelligible – an attitude that Christians like Irenaeus or Clement contest, because they consider it impious not to recognize God as the creator.90 They adopt this position but at the same time they emphasize human weakness and the idea that human reasoning alone is not sufficient; thus, for them, a priori, there is no such notion of an asymptomatic knowledge. Hence the emphasis on doubt, the discomfort caused by the conscious erroneous character of the perceptible and the impossibility of going back to what is considered to be true, and the necessity of further study. Zostrianos (NH VIII 1) could be a characteristic example and the most developed one.91 Indeed, the main character, Zostrianos, describes a discomfort caused by becoming conscious of an opposition between the quality of his birth and the physical surrounding world. This leads him to do a personal study on beings and the divine, but without result. Despite his questioning of the reality of the perceptible world, he continues to live normally and to adhere to the customs of the community.92 This attitude may be interpreted as a conventional accommodation to the laws which we encounter with the Sceptics.93 However, contrary to what we can read in Sextus, this attitude does not bring any peace or tranquillity, but enhances the feeling of doubt and increases discomfort. Zostrianos does not suspend his judgment, and this leads him to suicidal tendencies as he wishes to throw himself to the wild beasts in the (Egyptian?) desert.94 Salvation comes from the intervention of the “angel of the knowledge of eternal light” who will offer 88 

Bonazzi, À la recherche des idées, 100. Bonazzi, À la recherche des idées, 102. 90  Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 7.91.3–4. 91  On the prologue of Zostrianos, see Anna Van den Kerchove, “Rhétorique de la véracité. Le prologue ‘autobiographique’ de Zostrien (NH VIII,1),” in Nag Hammadi à 70 ans. Qu’avons-nous appris? / Nag Hammadi at 70: What Have We Learned?, ed. Éric Crégheur, Louis Painchaud, Tuomas Rasimus (Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi, Études 10; Québec et al.: Les Presses de l’Université Laval and Peeters, 2019), 265–285. 92  Zostrianos (NH VIII 1) 3.14 ff. 93 Stéphane Marchand, “Religion et piété sceptiques selon Sextus Empiricus,” in Scepticisme et religion. Constantes et évolutions, de la philosophie hellénistique à la philosophie médiévale, ed. Anne-Isabelle Bouton-Touboulic and Carlos Lévy (Monothéismes et philosophie; Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), 103–117. 94  Zostrianos (NH VIII 1), 3.25–28. 89 



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him a salvific revelation.95 Zostrianos’s “autobiography” testifies to the solution adopted by some Gnostics in order to obtain peace of mind: not a solution which depends on human capacities but a revelation which can only come from the divine, through mediators96 who bring a wholesome knowledge, finally leading to peace and quietness. Therefore, contrary to the Sceptic, the Gnostic is one who neither questions any more nor doubts any more but who knows and is capable of having judgment. Furthermore, contrary to what Clement of Alexandria wrote in a controversial manner, the “research” of the Gnostic is not unlimited, it should have an end; this border is pushed back as far as possible and the main consequence is that this limit is only accessible to a minority, the “elected” or the “pneumatics.”97

5. Conclusion So, even if at the beginning there is a renewal of a sceptical argument, particularly as regards the criticism of the reliability of the senses, the result is not the sceptical “suspension of judgment,” not fideism,98 and not a “metaphysical scepticism,” but the idea that a certain and absolute knowledge is possible due to divine intervention – whatsoever the modalities of the revelation are. This result may explain why the connections with scepticism seem to be only visible on the borderline and more specifically at the beginning of the education of the future Gnostic. Concerning Plutarch and his dualism, Mauro Bonazzi observes that “l’interprétation dualiste […] ne parvient pas à éradiquer complétement le scepticisme: il arriverait à déraciner toute forme de scepticisme si la prise de position en faveur du dualisme s’accompagnait sans hésitation de la conviction que nous avons une connaissance certaine et incontestable du domaine intelligible.”99 It seems that it is what is happening with the Gnostics: their conviction that “une connaissance certaine et incontestable du domaine intelligible” is possible eradicates all form of scepticism, but by founding this possibility on the necessity of a divine intervention.

95 

96 

Zostrianos (NH VIII, 1), 3.28–4.20. They can be either divine or human beings which have benefited from a previous reve-

lation. 97  This restriction is negatively perceived by the heresiologists. 98  See Daniel Babut, “Du scepticisme au dépassement de la raison: philosophie et foi religieuse chez Plutarque,” in Choix d’articles de Daniel Babut (1974–1994) (Lyon: Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranée, 1994), 549–581, criticized by Bonazzi, À la recherche des idées; Lévy, “De l’epochè sceptique à l’epochè transcendantale.” 99  Bonazzi, À la recherche des idées, 93.

Evading Doubt Astrology and Magic in the Greco-Roman Period Richard L. Gordon Judgements about doubt and scepticism in the religious field are inextricably linked to theological positions. In traditional forms of Christianity, especially Roman Catholic Christianity, belief was considered to have three main aspects. It involved intellectual appreciation of the truth of revelation; an act of will in accepting revealed doctrine; and the action of God’s grace. Doubt was thus seen as something wholly negative, a threat to faith, the outcome of human arrogance and indeed wilful disobedience over against the Church.1 In Umayyad Islam, however, at any rate among more sophisticated thinkers, it was conceded that scepticism might indeed be a route to new theological insights and arguments, even if one might end up in an agnostic position in relation to particular theological conundrums, such as whether God’s speech in the Quran is created or uncreated.2 The trend to re-value and re-appreciate doubt, of which the conference in Regensburg was surely a symptom, seems to stem from two modern concerns. On the one hand, doubt has come to be understood as a kind of protective, even creative, measure against both fundamentalism and indifference;3 on the other, especially in the light of Charles Taylor’s expressive individualism,4 the issue has shifted from salvation and eschatology to the construction of personal identity, a fresh discovery of the “festive,” and the “optionalization” of belief, where optionalization is not necessarily the same as “fragilization,” especially in social orders where Pentecostalism has struck root.5 In many ways Taylor’s “master narrative” 1 Veronika

Hoffmann, “Einleitung,” in Nachdenken über Zweifel. Theologische Perspek­ tiven, ed. eadem (Ostfildern: Matthias Grünewald Verlag, 2017), 1–3. 2  Paul L. Heck, Skepticism in Classical Islam: Moments of Confusion (London: Routledge, 2014), 1–23. 3  E. g., Joachim Reger, “Vom Segen des Zweifels. Über die Notwendigkeit der Religionskritik,” TTZ 118 (2009), 85–94; Pierre Bühler, “À l’épreuve du doute. Condition fondamentale du travail théologique,” RTP 143 (2011), 355–370. 4  Charles M. Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap, 2007). Taylor uses the word “unbeliever” in a fully neutral sense, “exclusively immanentist,” as opposed to a more or less transcendalist orientation, his key binary being “immanence/transcendence.” 5  On “fragilization” see Veronika Hoffmann, “Bedingungen des (Un)Glaubens im ‘säkularen Zeitalter’ (Ch. Taylor),” Theologie der Gegenwart 59 (2016), 47–60 at 52.

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is deeply impressive, yet his starting point was the convenient, though to my mind largely romantic, notion of a medieval Catholic verzauberte Welt, in which (Christian) belief was merely a given and not exposed to doubt. The successive waves of Christianization and re-Christianization in the early medieval period, the “twelfth-century Renaissance,” and the recurrent foundations of coenobitic orders constitute the other side of this romantic picture, to say nothing of religious violence: for some there can never be enough (of the right kind of) belief, for others, there is all too often far too much.

1.  Excess and Deficiency in Religious Practice Mutatis mutandis, we find much the same in Greek and Roman antiquity. In his thumb-nail sketches of character-types in Athens, written towards the end of the fourth century BCE, the best of Aristotle’s pupil’s, Theophrastus of Eresus, wonderfully imagined a man whose obsequiousness, whose fawning subservience, towards the other world knew no bounds: “Oh, a cross-roads, I must pour out some oil on the stones and pray to them ‒ there might be wicked spirits here in the house, I need to have it purified ‒ a mouse has gnawed into my grain-sacks, what am I to do? ‒ ah! I saw an owl, was that a bad sign? ‒ or a good one? ‒ oh dear, oh dear, a dream: I must consult a diviner on that …”6 On the side of too little belief, he also imagined a “man of petty ambition” who, after sacrificing an ox, would have the skull and horns nailed up in the courtyard of his house precisely opposite the entrance, so that every passer-by could say, “Aha, he’s sacrificed an ox!”7 In Republican Rome, M. Claudius Marcellus, five times consul and a hero of the Second Punic War (218–202 BCE), was refused permission by the College of Pontiffs in 208 to dedicate a temple jointly to Honos and Virtus on the grounds that, were a portent to occur in the temple, it would be impossible to decide to whom an expiatory sacrifice would need to be offered. Valerius Maximus introduces this example in the following terms: It is not surprising that the gods have constantly watched over us, and have had the kindness to protect and expand our empire, since we seem to pay careful attention to the tiniest details of religious observance. It must not be imagined that our state ever allowed its eyes to wander from the strictest observance of religious ceremonies (quia numquam remotos ab exactissimo cultu caerimoniarum oculos habuisse nostra civitas existimanda est).8 6 Theophrastus,

Char. 28 (= 16 Jebb). Char. 7 (= 21 Jebb). 8  Valerius Maximus 1.1.8; tr. in Henry J. Walker, ed. and tr., Valerius Maximus: Memo­ rable Deeds and Sayings. One Thousand Tales from Ancient Rome (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2004). Cf. Jörg Rüpke, “Knowledge of Religion in Valerius Maximus’ Exempla: Roman Historiography and Roman Memory Culture,” in Memory in Ancient Rome and Early Christianity, ed. Karl Galinsky (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 89–112 at 101–102. 7 Theophrastus,



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In this case the pontifices managed to kill two birds with one stone: when it comes to casuistry there never can be sufficient scrupulosity; and they taught the proud Marcellus a lesson in humility. As for deficiency, the Younger Seneca in the mid-first century CE claimed one only has to enter the temple of Capitoline Jupiter at Rome to witness scenes of the most wretched superstition (dementia): One is announcing the names (of the worshippers) to Jupiter (alius nomina deo subicit); another is telling him the time of day; another reads to him; another pretends to be giving him a massage. Some women are arranging the hair of Juno and Minerva, some a good way from their images, others actually outside the temple, moving their fingers as hairdressers do. Others hold up a mirror (for them). Some people are calling on the gods to help them in court, holding documents up to them, and explaining their cases […] Some of the women sitting in the temple think Jupiter is in love with them (sedent quaedam in Capitolio, quae se a Iove amari putant).9

Here “excessive” piety is claimed to be a deficiency in true religious feeling, for of course the gods ‒ Seneca, as a New Stoic, is comfortably sure ‒ neither want nor need any such attention. Whereas traditional emphasis on the collective nature of Greek and Roman religious practice tended to minimize such strategic differentiations, in assuming, implicitly at least, that all full members of the polity were somehow equally pious and equally observant,10 it has recently become more common to question the so-called “polis- or civic-religion” model, focused more or less exclusively on public festivals and shared theological concepts, by deliberately looking for individual appropriations, strategies and narratives within these larger constructions, and emphasizing individual innovations and understandings.11 Without being a total chimera, polis-religion is often now viewed as a modern academic echo of the interest-driven choices and priorities of ancient civic elites, compounded by those of ancient antiquarians and scholars, who 9 Seneca, De superstitione, apud Augustine, Civ. 6.10; cf. Jörg Rüpke, Religious Deviance in the Roman World: Superstition or Individuality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 45–64. 10  A view recently defended by John Scheid, The Gods, the State, and the Individual: Re­ flections on Civic Religion in Rome (tr. Clifford Ando; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 2016). 11  E. g., Esther Eidinow, “Networks and Narratives: A Model for Ancient Greek Religion,” Kernos 24 (2011), 9–38; Julia Kindt, Rethinking Greek Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2012). On the Erfurt KFG “Religiöse Individualisierung in historischer Perspektive” (2008–2017) and the related ERC-project “Lived Ancient Religion,” see, e. g., Jörg Rüpke, “Introduction: Individualisation and Individuation as Concepts for Historical Research,” in The Individual in the Religions of the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. idem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 3–28; idem, “Ancient Lived Religion and the History of Religion in the Roman Empire,” in Studia Patristica 74, ed. Markus Vinzent and Allen Brent (Leuven: Peeters, 2016), 1–20; idem and Christopher Degelmann, “Narratives as a Lens into Lived Ancient Religion, Individual Agency and Collective Identity,” Religion in the Roman Empire 1/3 (2015), 289–296; Janico Albrecht et al., “Religion in the Making: The Lived Ancient Religion Approach,” Religion 48/4 (2018), 568–593.

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provided much of the evidence for it, especially in the case of Classical Greece. In other words, it is a model, in this case an unconscious model, which historically served to ignore or bracket off the full spectrum of historical religious practices and beliefs in any given social formation in antiquity in order to measure up to essentially modern ideas of “national religion.” A typical mode of representation of polis-religion was thus to follow the sequence of public ­festivals through the year, a mode whose corollary was an over-emphasis on performativity and a corresponding reduction of interest in structures of belief.12 Whatever the case with the Christianity of the so-called Great Church and its invention of heresies and its rationalizations of why early Christians did not sacrifice (at any rate after 70 CE),13 in a polytheistic religious system “doubt” necessarily appears as something so general as to be fairly uninteresting, in that no one was obliged to believe any specific assertion about any individual deity or practice, or has to be limited to what one can loosely call “policing,” whether by official bodies, such as the pontifices at Rome, as illustrated by the case of Marcellus and his temple, or as expressions of opinion ‒ no doubt widespread in specific social groups ‒ such as Theophrastus’s amusement at the Superstitious Man. Adherence to specific theoretical position, such as a philosophical school with its own teaching about “theology” (τὰ θεῖα  – “matters pertaining to the gods”; sacra, religiones, caerimoniae ‒ “religion”) might well produce criticism or scepticism of aspects of public religion, as portrayed in Cicero’s late dialogues on religion between representatives of the different schools, De natura deorum and De divinatione.14 No one was obliged to attend religious performances ‒ indeed at Rome it is clear that only a handful of persons was present at many rituals in the public sphere ‒ and there were evidently very many people who neither cared for the gods nor feared their actions. The prosperity of such people from early times required special pleading in order to fit it into the always rather ragged scheme of “the reward of piety is prosperity,” best seen in the positions articulated by Plutarch’s interlocutors in his On the Delays of Divine Justice (De sera numinis vindicta). In Classical Athens one could be prosecuted, if anyone could be found to play the injured party, for asebeia, “impiety,” but this term had no definition except in triangulation with eusebeia, “the practice of maintaining satisfactory relations with the other world,” and 12  Cf. Esther Eidinow, Julia Kindt, and Robin Osborne, ed., Theologies of Ancient Greek Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 13  Daniel C. Ullucci, The Christian Rejection of Animal Sacrifice (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 65–118. 14  See esp. Jerzy Linderski, “Cicero and Roman Divination,” Parola del Passato 36 (1982), 12–38; Malcolm Schofield, “Cicero for and against Divination,” JRS 76 (1986), 47–65; Joseph G. DePhilippo, “Cicero vs. Cotta in De natura deorum,” Ancient Philosophy 20/1 (2000), 169–187.



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deisidaimonia, “excessive religiosity/fear of the other world.”15 The party or parties fancying themselves wronged had to work very hard to prove anything concrete, but fortunately at Athens there were no trained judges, so emotional rhetoric stood one in good stead.16 Moreover, the intellectual content of asebeia was minimal: Socrates for example was charged with introducing new gods unknown to the city and misleading the youth. There was no similar action in Roman law: the archaic Twelve Tables, for example, envisaged only actions for damage to property by magical means. Far more important throughout antiquity was religious action that could be connoted as somehow deviant, ranging from attempts by individual charismatics to introduce new rituals to cope with outbreaks of severe epidemic illness (“‘we’ have never done that sort of thing before”) to the most lurid actions of a literary Medea gathering potent herbs on her Colchian hillside, waving her bronze sickle, and horribly shrieking (religious power in the wrong hands).17

2.  Two Problematic Dispositifs: Astrology and Greco-Egyptian Magic My task in this contribution is to consider the case of two forms of discursive religious practice that were themselves usually considered by outsiders at least problematic if not actually harmful, namely astrology and magic. Now in modern academic discussion, they are generally treated as entirely distinct: scholars who interest themselves in the one are rarely concerned with the other, unless they happen to be papyrologists editing collections in which both types of document are found. This is partly a matter of skills: the acquisition of even a modest competence in ancient astrology is so arduous that one scarcely has time for anything else; but also of temperament: whereas Otto Neugebauer could claim that ancient astrology is truly scientific in its procedures, and has for at least three-quarters of a century received adequate recognition and research-effort, until quite recently magic was considered a phenomenon unfit for study by proper classicists.18 In the Roman Empire, by contrast, persons termed magi were often thought of as scarcely distinguishable from Chaldaei; for example the baleful senator Firmius Catus was accused in 16 CE of having pushed the foolish 15  On the triangulation, cf. Louise Bruit Zaidman, Le commerce des dieux. Eusebeia, essai sur la piété en Grèce ancienne (Paris: La Découverte, 2001), 163–172. 16  Cf. Robert Parker, Polytheism and Society at Athens (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 116–135; Esther Eidinow, Envy, Poison, & Death: Women on Trial in Ancient Athens (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 37–63. 17  Illness: e. g., Livy 4.30.8–11 (supposed events in 429 BCE, sickness caused by drought); Medea: Ovid, Metam. 234–293. 18 Otto Neugebauer, “The Study of Wretched Subjects,” Isis 42/2 (1951), 111; repr. in idem, Astronomy and History: Selected Essays (New York: Springer, 1983), 3.

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young Libo Drusus into his conspiracy by urging upon him Chaldaeorum prom­ issa, magorum sacra, somniorum etiam interpretes, “the forecasts of astrologers, the rites of magi, the interpreters of dreams.”19 Deliberate confusion of this kind was helped by the spread of a pseudo-historical narrative, best known from Pliny, Historia Naturalis 30.1–18, according to which magic, invented by the Persian magus Zoroaster, has spread all over the oikoumene from Persia to the very ends of the earth, namely Britannia, while Chaldaea, the supposed home of astrology, was itself part of the Achaemenid Empire. For all its vanity, he declares, the art of magic (magica ars) takes on the face of three kinds of useful knowledge, starting with medicine, then religion, and finally divination ‒ and by this last he means astrology (mathematicas artes).20 There is nevertheless some justification for taking astrology and magic together in the present context, at least if by “magic” we understand not the scattered homespun efforts represented by the majority of defixiones, which I call “indigenous,” which show no knowledge of Greco-Egyptian techniques,21 but the more or less coherent discursive practices we can loosely label on the one hand ta physika, namely the lore, partly derived from Babylonia in the Hellenistic period, and disseminated under a variety of names, Zoroaster, Ostanes, Empedocles, Pythagoras, Democritus, in short Pliny’s magi or “Magian writers,”22 and on the other the ritual texts now known as the Greco-Egyptian magical papyri.23 Taking both these as representatives of “high magic,” which self-consciously attempted to differentiate itself from prescriptively “lower” practices,24 we can treat both it 19 Tacitus,

Ann. 2.27.2. Nat. 30.2. 21  The majority of discussions unfortunately fail to observe this fundamental distinction, e. g., Magali Bailliot, Magie et sortilèges dans l’Antiquité romaine (Paris: Hermann, 2010); Michaël Martin, Sois maudit! Malédictions et envoûtements dans l’antiquité (Paris: Errance, 2010); Daniela Urbanová, Latin Curse-Tablets of the Roman Empire, tr. by Natália Gachallová (Innsbrucker Beiträge zur Kulturwissenschaft 17; Innsbruck: Institut für Sprachen und Literaturen der Universität Innsbruck, 2018). 22  See briefly, Roger L. Beck, “Thus Spake not Zarathuštra: Zoroastrian Pseudepigrapha of the Greco-Roman World,” in A History of Zoroastrianism, Vol. 3, ed. Mary Boyce (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 491–656 at 532–534; Matthew W. Dickie, “The Learned Magician and the Collection and Transmission of Magical Lore,” in The World of Magic: Papers from the First S. Eitrem Semi­ nar at the Norwegian Institute at Athens, 4–8 May 1997, ed. David R. Jordan, Hugo Montgomery, and Einar Thomassen (Bergen: Norwegian Institute at Athens, 1999), 163–193. 23  Briefly: Kyle A. Fraser, “Roman Antiquity: The Imperial Period,” in Magic and Witch­ craft in the West, ed. David J. Collins (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 115–147 at 116–123, 136–139; in more detail: Christopher A. Faraone and Sofía Torallas Tovar, ed., The Greek and Demotic Magical Handbooks: Libraries, Books and Recipes (Ann Arbor: forthcoming 2020); eidem, ed., The Graeco-Egyptian Magical Texts, 2 vols. (SBLTT; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, forthcoming). 24  Richard L. Gordon, “The Religious Anthropology of Late-antique ‘High’ Magical Practice,” in The Individual in the Religions of the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. Jörg Rüpke (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 163–186. The term leans on the distinction between learned and “creeping” magic made by the priest Kalasiris in Heliodorus’s novel Aithiopika; cf. Fraser, 20 Pliny,



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and astrology as, in Foucauldian terms, dispositifs, namely as organized bodies of discourse and practice, with their own axioms, assumptions, rules of argument, aims and standards, in which the types of questions that can meaningfully be asked, and the types of answers that can meaningfully be given, are limited or framed by the discursive practice itself.25 It is precisely because practitioners of each dispositif saw their art as a superior knowledge-practice resting upon revealed truths that I have entitled this contribution “Evading doubt.”26 In my view both astrologers and writers on/practitioners of “high” magic saw themselves as the exponents of a special type of privileged practical knowledge, and with very few exceptions, never allowed themselves explicitly to consider possible theoretical objections to their practice. Yet there is a major difference between astrologers and magicians in the Greco-Egyptian tradition: at any rate in the ritual prescriptions, the latter never indulge in explicit criticism, the issue being avoided by, as it were, parataxis; several recipes for the same end, above all divination, may be set down in the same formulary. Among writers on astrology, on the other hand, as we shall see, criticism of others is frequent, which implies doubt, yet it is merely “tactical” doubt, since the nominal aim is the improvement of the system as a whole, not to attack its credentials as a knowledge-practice. Here we are of course talking exclusively about what Wilhelm Gundel called “zünftige Astrologen,” the pseudonymous Magian writers, and the somewhat mysterious figures, loosely or perhaps only ideologically connected to the Egyptian templetradition, who composed, re-edited, and exchanged the recipes of the magical papyri, and at any rate on occasion prepared and sold activated versions of them to clients.27 At the same time, both practices, but especially astrology, reveal a number of what we might call semi-institutionalized strategies to forestall or side-step doubt – not the doubts of possible opponents or gainsayers outwith the practice but at most their own fleeting intuitions of the fragility of the “discursive “Roman Antiquity,” 122; Ian Rutherford, “Kalasiris and Setne Khamwas: A Greek Novel and Some Egyptian Models,” ZPE 117 (1997), 203–209. 25  For a succinct account of Foucault’s notions of “dispositif,” which includes objects and non-discursive practices, cf. Siegfried Jäger, “Dispositiv,” in Michel Foucault: Eine Einführung in sein Denken, ed. Marcus S. Kleiner (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2001), 72–89. 26  On the relation between astrology and religion, especially close in its early history, see Wolfgang Hübner, “Religion und Wissenschaft in der antiken Astrologie,” in Zwischen Wahn, Glaube und Wissenschaft: Magie, Astrologie, Alchemie und Wissenschaftsgeschichte, ed. JeanFrançois Bergier (Zürich: Verlag der Fachvereine, 1988), 9–50. 27  On the practitioners of “high” Greco-Egyptian magic, see Gordon, “The Religious Anthropology,” 168–172; Svenja Nagel, “‘Was im Tempel passiert, bleibt nicht (mehr) im Tempel’. Transformationen von ägyptischem Tempelritual und rituellem Raum in den Praktiken der demotischen und griechischen magischen Papyri,” in Tempel als ritueller Raum. Theologie und Kult in ihrer architektonischen und ideellen Dimension, ed. Stefan Baumann and Holger Kockelmann (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2017), 508–536; Joachim F. Quack, “Wer waren die gräkoägyptischen Magier und was trieben sie?” in Zwischen Schein und Sein. Die Magieproblematik aus der Perspektive früher Hochkulturen, ed. Hubert Röder and Frank Röpke (Ägyptologie und Kulturwissenschaft 3; Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, in press).

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canopy” ‒ in short, implicit strategies for coping with possible or claimed disconfirmation. Since the dispositif of astrology was far more developed and socially far more significant than that of magic, I devote the great majority of my space to it, devoting only a page or two at the end to the Greco-Egyptian magical papyri.

3. Astrology 3.1.  Claiming Veridicality At first sight, the astrological writers make no concessions, insisting on what Tony Long usefully dubbed “hard” astrological theory.28 This view of course came in various versions; for example, Manilius, writing in the second decade of the first century CE, claims that a divine spirit, vis animae divina, rules the entire universe, regulating all its component parts in harmony with one another and linking every part with every other in conformity with its hidden purpose (tacita ratio): Hoc opus immensi constructum corpore mundi membraque naturae diversa condita forma aeris atque ignis, terra pelagique iacentis, vis animae divina regit, sacroque meatu conspirat deus et tacita ratione gubernat mutuaque in cunctas dispensat foedera partes. This fabric which forms the body of the boundless universe, together with its members composed of nature’s diverse elements, air and fire, earth and level sea, is ruled by the force of a divine spirit; by sacred dispensation the deity brings harmony and governs with hidden purpose, arranging mutual bonds between all parts.29

Firmicus Maternus, on the other hand, writing under Constantine, explains that the stars have their own mind and prudentia divina, such that, directly animated by the deity, they collaborate ceaselessly in realizing God’s divine plan and upholding his creation: Habent enim stellae proprium sensum divinamque prudentiam; nam, puro divinitatis ani­ matae conceptu, summo illi ac rectori deo, qui omnia perpetua legis dispositione composuit ad perennis procreationis custodiendum ordinem, infatigabilibus consensionibus obsequuntur.

28 Anthony Long, “Astrology: Arguments pro and contra,” in Science and Speculation: Studies in Hellenistic Theory and Practice, ed. Jonathan Barnes et al. (Cambridge and Paris: Cambridge University Press and Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, 1982), 165–192. 29  Astron. 1.247–252; tr. in George P. Goold, ed. and tr., Manilius: Astronomica (LCL; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1977); cf. also 2.60–81. On Manilius’s debts to astrological tradition, see Wolfgang Hübner, “Tropes and Figures: Manilian Style as a Reflection of Astrological Tradition,” in Forgotten Stars: Rediscovering Manilius’ Astronomica, ed. Steven J. Green and Katharina Volk (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 141–164.



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The heavenly bodies have their own mind and divine intelligence: moved by the unmediated stimulus of the deity, they obey the supreme god and guide with unerring fidelity, who has arranged everything according to the disposition of his eternal law so as to ensure the due order of reproduction in perpetuity.30

Although such a model resembles the mechanical cosmology of deism, in reality it views the cosmos as a superior kind of living body all of whose parts depend upon one another – totum […] vivere mundum, as Manilius puts it elsewhere (2.63). The great majority of astrological texts, however, do not even attempt to explain their basic cosmological assumptions, taking them as read, and simply start off with their technical exposé. Thus the Arabic translation of Dorotheus of Sidon, whose verse Apotelesmatika in five books was composed somewhat later than Manilius, though still in the first century CE, launches straight into an account of the planets and the triplicities (i. e., the trigona): Always, my son, before everything [else] understand the seven [planets] in longitude and latitude, divide the four cardines by their degrees, and know with this the triplicities of the signs. As for the triplicities: Aries, Leo and Sagittarus are a triplicity; Taurus, Virgo and Capricorm are a triplicity; Gemini, Libra, and Aquarius are a triplicity […]31

Vettius Valens, in the second century CE, begins his Anthologiae no less uncompromisingly: First of all, the Sun, which beholds all, (is) blazing fire and intelligent light (and) the vehicle of spiritual perception; in a nativity, it signifies royalty, authority, intelligence, wisdom, beauty, social prestige, divine revelations, judgement, reputation, action, control of the masses […]32

Again Hephaestion of Thebes, in the fifth century, after a brief preface emphasizing the difficulty of the art, starts straight off with an account of the names and effects of the fixed dodekatêmoria, the twelve notional sub-divisions of the zodiacal signs, each of which is assigned to one of the signs in the usual order, starting with itself.33 Such nice efforts at subdivisions may appear complicated, but complexity was precisely the condition that guaranteed the value of the astrologer’s expertise. Three other schemes for the dodekatêmoria are known, all based on different principles and two of them mentioned just once in the entire literature.34 30 

Firmicus Maternus, Math. 1.5.7. of Sidon, Apotelesm. 1.1.1–2 (Arabic version by ῾Umar al-Tabari, translated from a Pahlavi translation of the Greek); tr. David Pingree. For the scheme of the triplicities (trigona), generally considered positive, see Auguste Bouché-Leclercq, L’Astrologie grecque (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1899), 169–170 with fig. 19. 32  Vettius Valens, Anthol. 1.1 (the planets). 33  Hephaestion 1.1. For this scheme, see Bouché-Leclercq, Astrologie, 299–302. 34  See Wolfgang Hübner, “Δωδεκατημόριον,” in Corona coronaria: Festschrift für HansOtto Kröner zum 75. Geburtstag, ed. Sabine Harwardt and Johannes Schwind (Spudasmata 102; Hildesheim: Olms, 2005), 189–217. 31  Dorotheus

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♏ ♎ ♍ ♌ ♋ ♊ ♑ ♐ 20 15 ♉ 10 ♒ 25 ♈ 5 ♓ ARIES 0

30

♏ ♎ ♍ ♌ ♑ ♐ ♋ ♊ 15 10 20 ♓ ♒ ♉ 5 5 2 ♈ TAURUS 0

30

Fig. 1: One version of the dodekatêmoria of Aries and Taurus (2½º sub-divisions of each sign, which further affect the value of the planet which happens to occupy them).

3.2.  Struggling for Mastery The salient feature of the astrological dispositif, as in medicine and rhetoric, is competition between self-styled experts.35 Manilius declaims: Nostra loquar, nulli vatum debebimus orsa, nec furtum sed opus veniet, soloque volamus in caelum curru, propria rate pellimus undas. My own theme shall I sing, my words shall I owe to none amongst bards, and there shall emerge no stolen thing, but work of my own contriving; in a lone car I soar to the heavens, in a ship of my own I sweep the seas.36

Such competition was the rule not just in relation to expository handbooks but evidently also in practical astrology. In this regard, a literary and a documentary text are instructive. The first is Propertius 4.1b, where a Chaldaean astrologer named Horus buttonholes the poet and spends 45 lines expatiating on his genealogy in Babylon and his successful forecasts, before turning his attention to the present case: Hoc neque harenosum Libyae Iovis explicat antrum, aut sibi commissos fibra locuta deos, aut si quis motas cornicis senserit alas, umbrave quae magicis mortua prodit aquis: auspicienda via est caeli verusque per astra trames, et ab zonis quinque petenda fides.

35  On competition between knowledge-practitioners, see esp. Geoffrey Lloyd, The Revo­ lutions of Wisdom: Studies in the Claims and Practice of Ancient Greek Science (Sather Classical Lectures 52; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 109–173; Georgia Petridou, “Contesting Religious and Medical Expertise: The Therapeutai of Pergamum as Religious and Medical Entrepreneurs,” in Beyond Priesthood: Religious Entrepreneurs and Innovators in the Roman Empire, ed. Richard L. Gordon, Georgia Petridou, and Jörg Rüpke (Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche und Vorarbeiten 66; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2017), 185–215. 36 Manilius, Astron. 2.57–59; tr. Goold.



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These things are not expounded in the desert cave of Jupiter Ammon, or by entrails that speak what the gods commit to them, or by him who interprets the crow’s wing-beats, or by the shade of a dead man produced from mystic waters. No: watch the celestial pathways; take the right road by the stars; and then from the five zones seek the certain truth.37

No traditional forms of divination, not even necromancy, can hold the candle to astrology. As for the documentary examples, a papyrus found at Oxyrhynchus bears a horoscopus for someone born in 223 CE.38 It consists of three different versions of the same information: the first is written in large crude capitals with spelling mistakes; in the second version, 3 cm lower on the page, an experienced hand has copied out the same data correctly; while the third text, written in a different, upright hand, has ticked some of the information but used different signs for moon, Mars and Venus, and re-calculated all the values. The native had evidently decided to consult a more accomplished expert, as well as a scribe. There are several similar cases.39 Among writers of handbooks, competition took two main forms, the development of complexity both for its own sake and to protect the claims of the project as a whole, and criticism of other writers. Both furthered the continuing development of the dispositif while at the same time veiling from the experts an awareness both of the arbitrariness of their procedures and of the gap between their practice and any observable natural phenomena, despite the fact that the whole project was ostensibly based upon observed positions of heavenly bodies. An example of the elaboration of distinctions for their own sake is offered by Manilius’s list of ten ways of classifying the signs of the zodiac. Eight of these occur elsewhere but two, introduced with a flourish over 20 lines (Astron. 2.244– 264), are unique to Manilius, namely posture (running, standing erect, sitting, lying flat  – Pisces here appears as a pair of flat-fish) and disfigurement (e. g., Taurus is lame, Cancer has no eyes, Sagittarius has only one eye because he is shown in profile etc.). Yet after all this, he never mentions them again.40 Many of 37 Propertius 4.1b. 33–38; tr. adapted from Ronald Musker, ed. and tr., The Poems of Pro­pertius (London: Dent, 1972). On the ominous Horus, see Wolfgang Hübner, “Maghi e astrologi in Properzio,” in I personaggi dell’elegia di Properzio. Atti del convegno internazionale, Assisi 26–28 maggio 2006, ed. Carlo Santini and Francesco Santucci (Assisi: Accademia Pro­ perziana del Subasio, 2008), 335–363; cf. also Steven J. Green, Disclosure and Discretion in Roman Astrology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 174–187. 38 Alexander Jones, Astronomical Papyri from Oxyrhynchus: POxy 4133–4300a (Memoirs of the American Philosophical Society 233; Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1999), no. 4247. 39  E. g., Otto Neugebauer and Henry B. Van Hoesen, Greek Horoscopes (Memoirs of the American Philosophical Society 48; Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1959), no. 137a, b, c (Dec. 4, 137 CE). 40  On these and other classifications of the signs of the zodiac, see Bouché-Leclercq, Astrologie, 149–157; and esp. Wolfgang Hübner, Die Eigenschaften der Tierkreiszeichen in der Antike. Ihre Darstellung und Verwendung, unter besonderer Berücksichtigung des Manilius (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1981).

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the loci (the so-called “temples”) presented by Vettius Valens at Anthol. 4.12 are diametrically opposed to their commonly-accepted positions, even though elsewhere he adopts the standard ones.41 Again, the second-century CE Michigan melothesia, whose first section sets out in great detail the relation between planets and various parts of the human body, makes extensive use of calculations of the angular distances of the radii of the planetary epicycles, a procedure unparalleled elsewhere.42 An astrological calendar from Oxyrhynchus, of the late second century, which uses a 5-day week corresponding to one-sixth of a zodiacal sign, lists in each case the presiding deity, its meaning, a detailed account of its typos, its modelled figure or form, part-human, part-animal, followed by a long account of the omens, portents and influences characteristic of that week, and ending with its typical illness.43 Again, so far as we know, this document is unique in its time, though it bears a family resemblance to a much later text now in Munich. The second form of competition is criticism of other writers, which is the only legitimate form of the expression of doubt in this dispositif. Despite the overall claim to be part of a continuous and exemplary tradition, criticism is pervasive in astrological documents, both as regards choices of method and matters of judgement. Just to take one or two examples: the Michigan melothesia explicitly criticizes a method of arranging the loci (temples) in an enquiry advocated by another melothesia under the name of Asclepius: “We however seek from the horoscopus length of life and peculiarities of soul, from the Sun father, patrimony, leaders and the senses, from the Moon mother, maternal endowments and body etc.”44 In discussing the so-called “terms” (horia), namely the sections of each sign assigned to one of the five “wandering” planets, each having the value of 6º, Ptolemy criticizes the Egyptian system, because its proponents disagree among themselves regarding their number and their order, and anyway the system is full of inconsistencies, yet he still prefers it to the “Chaldaean” system on account of its antiquity.45 The Hermetic apotelesmatika that survives in a mediaeval Latin translation criticizes one of the earliest astrologers, Kritodemus, several times on account of his over-complication.46 A late-antique katarchic response dated July 18, 484 CE, criticizes an earlier effort by another astrologer, claiming that he was misled by the location of Sun, Jupiter and Mars at the horoscopus and some other indications, but failed to note that Mercury, the current chronocrator, had fallen into passivity, indicating violent death.47 41 

Neugebauer and Van Hoesen, Greek Horoscopes, 8. P. Mich inv. 1, edited as P. Mich III no. 149 (= TM 63547); cf. Frank E. Robbins, “A New Astrological Treatise: Michigan Papyrus No. 1,” CP 22 (1927), 1–45. 43  P. Oxy III no. 465, ed. Grenfell and Hunt (= TM 63514). 44  P. Mich. III no. 149, col. xi, 20–27 (tr. p. 112). 45 Ptolemy, Apotel. 1.21–1–19 Hübner. 46  E. g., Wilhelm Gundel, Neue astrologische Texte des Hermes Trismegistos (2nd edition; Hildesheim: Gerstenberg, 1978), 39 l. 24; 45 l. 1; etc. 47  Neugebauer and Van Hoesen, Greek Horoscopes, no. L484. 42 



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I would maintain that both the striving for complexity and the pervasiveness of criticism were essential to the maintenance of astrology’s ability to represent itself as a vibrant discursive practice. At the same time, we may view both features as implicit strategies that provided Gundel’s “zünftige Astrologen” with a measure of insulation against the doubts potentially raised by disconfirmation. Given the unlimited complexity of astral phenomena and the under-determination of possible schemes, the invention of new distinctions provided perpetual reassurance of the meaningfulness of one’s investment of time and effort. Criticism of others not only indicated one’s superior competence but, and this was of course for the dispositif as a whole far more important, implicitly underwrote the claim that truth was available within the terms of the discourse. Once one begins to think along these lines, however, a number of other features of the discourse become salient. We can divide these into technical means and incidental practices. 3.3.  Maintaining Viability 3.3.1.  Technical Aids First, technical means. One of the most interesting outcomes of Alexander Jones’s splendid publication of the astrological material from Oxyrhynchus is the revelation of the sheer number of astronomical papyri found there and their variety.48 Of course there are references to handy tables in Ptolemy’s Apotelesmatika, and papyrologists were familiar with one or two epoch tables, but no one before had examined the papyrological material from one site before. Jones found seven main types of tables, almost all dating from the period 100–300 CE:49 (1)  Epoch tables, which list “successive occurrences of a specific kind of event in the motion of a heavenly body over a number of years,” for example the phases of a “wandering” planet, the slowest motion of the moon, or the solstices and sometimes perigee of the sun (i. e., its nearest point to the earth). These seem to have been adapted pretty straightforwardly from cuneiform models. (2)  Templates, a tabulation of the day-by-day progress of a heavenly body during an anomalistic period. These are a special type of epoch table. (3)  Kinematic tables, which break apparent motion, say of eclipses or planetary stations, down into mean motions and equations, of which the type is Ptolemy’s Handy Tables, the full version of which would occupy 30 metres of papyrus roll, so it is usually broken up into codices. The most common types of text however are:

48 

Jones, Astronomical Papyri. follows is a simplified selection from the information provided by Jones, As­ tronomical Papyri, 35–47. 49  What

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(4)  Ephemerides, tables that provide the day-by-day positions of some or all of the significant heavenly bodies for a range of dates according to calendar months. These involved creating 31 columns for a wide variety of information, whose precise nature varies from case to case, and were often used for calculations relating to katarchic astrology.50 No less than nineteen such texts are known from Oxyrhynchus. (5)  Sign-entry almanacs are tables that record the dates on which planets cross from one zodiacal sign to the next, usually arranged year by year and planet by planet. Twenty-four such tables are known from Oxyrhynchus. (6)  Monthly almanacs are lists that record at least one position for each planet for each month, and often include notes of special events on that day; others record planetary positions at fixed moments, such as phases or entry into a new sign. Finally, (7) five-day almanacs record planetary longitudes at five-day intervals for a whole year, usually starting at the beginning of the year. There are twentytwo examples from Oxyrhynchus. Quantitative lists of this kind were not produced by direct observation of astronomical phenomena but by calculation according to a variety of methods known to us, at any rate partly, from the mediaeval versions of Ptolemy’s Handy Tables. The fact that codices appear more frequently and earlier for astronomical purposes than for most other sub-literary categories clearly suggests that they were constantly consulted by practising astrologers. This means that the primary materials used by such practitioners were already significantly divorced from empirical observation, while the entries in the serried columns provided a reassuring sense of objectivity, consistency and reliability.51 Consequently, ancient horoscopal charts or nativities are full of errors, which often makes the calculation of the true date of birth (or the date of consultation) very difficult for modern researchers, quite apart from disqualifying the nativity itself. But since in antiquity they were hardly ever checked, that did not matter to the dispositif as a whole. Moreover, the availability of such tables encouraged the routinization 50 Katarchic astrology is concerned with decision-making in concrete circumstances regarding future intentions, “Shall my son marry X?”, “Shall I go on a journey to Y?” etc. The standard treatment of Greek katarchic astrology on the basis of the horoscopal scheme crossed with the doctrine of “houses,” “places” or “temples,” is Wolfgang Hübner’s brilliant Raum, Zeit und soziales Rollenspiel der vier Kardinalpunkte in der antiken Katarchenhoroskopie (Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 194; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003). For the examples of arranging a banquet and thinking about taking a journey by ship, see Aurelio Pérez Jiménez, “Περὶ δεῖπνου: a propósito de Heph. III. 36,” MHNH 2 (2002), 237–254; idem, “La comida y la astrología lunar antigua,” in Ilu  – Anejo 12 (2004), 79–88; idem, “Dodecátropos, zodíaco y partes de la nave en la astrología antigua,” MHNH 7 (2007), 217–236; other journeys: Wolfgang Hübner, “Das Thema der Reise in der antiken Astrologie,” in Mélanges J. Soubiran = Pallas 59 (2002), 27–54. 51  Like Napier’s logarithm tables used when I was at school.



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of the process of drawing up a horoscopic chart, thus directly affecting the cost. Reduction of costs in turn encouraged the proliferation of nativities, giving rise to a wide spectrum of services, from the most elaborate, the so-called deluxe horoscopes, furnished with a mass of largely decorative technical information, but also a justificatory or explanatory narrative,52 down to the most elementary, a mere scheme or list of planetary positions within the zodiac, with a cursory explanation or narrative provided orally (see fig. 2). Cancer Leo Sun Venus

Ascendent Gemini

Virgo (Mercury)

Aries Pisces

Libra Scorpio Satur Moon

Taurus Jupiter

Sagittarius

Aquarius Mars Capricorn

Fig. 2: A typical horoscopal diagram showing the distribution of the planets within the zodiacal circle, from which the astrologer would create his narrative.

As is the case with all divinatory systems viewed as a totality in any given social formation, the very existence of such a hierarchy of forms was itself a protection against doubt, since failure in any given case can always be referred to lack of care, knowledge or skill, on the understanding that the system, if properly applied, will deliver a correct answer. 3.3.2.  Incidental Practices What I call incidental practices can be viewed in the same light. These include the provision of alternative possibilities within the forecast, as in another Michigan papyrus concerned with lunar conjunctions, where we read: Let [the native] however be on his guard against the attack of foreigners or robbers; for as the times are perilous he will either fall into the hands of pirates and be stripped of all his possessions or his son will be taken prisoner and he will expend all his property for a ransom.53 52  On deluxe horoscopes, of which only c. 26 have survived, see, e. g., Jones, Astronomical Papyri, 47. There are ten examples from Oxyrhynchus (P. Oxy nos. 4276–4285). The finest examples are P. Lond I nos. 98 and 130 and the new P. Berol. 9825 of 319 CE (= TM 101331), with many unique or unusual features. 53  P. Mich. 148, col. i, 10–19.

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Another incidental practice is arbitrarily changing the basis of calculation, for example by using an allegedly “ancient method” or an “ancient manuscript,” or referring quite generally to “traits that are generally present,” or emphasising, as Ptolemy does, the need for the practitioner to use his judgement, so as to avoid suggesting that an Italian will marry his sister, or an Egyptian his mother, or a very old man will have children.54 Very occasionally, too, we find a practitioner explicitly stating that he was mistaken: for example, a late-antique katarchic response concerning distressing letters received by the native admits that the practitioner was misled at first by the configuration of the signs and planets, “and as a result I said that the letter had a fine appearance, but (in fact) they meant the opposite. For afterwards investigating the katarchê accurately, I found that Venus, house-ruler of the katarchê, had no claim (μηδένα λόγον ἔχουσαν) with respect to the horoscopus, and the moon and Jupiter and the Lot of Fortune […] etc.” After more technical discussion, including a reference to searching the earlier literature, namely Dorotheus of Sidon and Antigonus of Nicaea, texts by now respectively 300 and 200 years old, the author concludes with a general observation: “Therefore it is necessary in every katarchê to observe the interception of the sun and the stars and the hemming in of the horoscopus and of the moon and of the star that has a claim to the rulership of the katarchê.”55 Here again, the admission of error in fact reinforces the validity of the system as a whole, inasmuch as it affirms the possibility of self-rectification and thus the existence of a normative standard of correctness, which by implication approximates to validity. A final form of incidental practice, which is in fact so common as effectively to constitute standard practice in antiquity, can conveniently be illustrated by means of another late-antique katarchic response, dated 483 CE, this time concerning the question of whether a lion-cub that has been given to the consul of the West, Anicius Acilius Aginatius Faustus, by an un-named magnate in the western Empire, himself destined to be consul, will be successfully tamed.56 The practitioner first used his tables to work out the positions of the planets in relation to the zodiac at the time of the enquiry, drawing or imagining in his mind a figure similar to fig. 3. He then worked out his narrative, producing the following prediction: The Horoskopos (Leo: ♌) indicated the kind of animal; also the dodekate­ moria of the Horoskopos (= ♌ 26º), sun (in Libra: ♎ [but in fact on this date in Pisces: ♋]) and Moon (in Aquarius: ♒) and Mars (in ♎) falling in four-footed signs showed that the katarchê was about animals. And Venus being in the Horoskopos (♌) and Jupiter (in Gemini: ♊) in the Agathos Daimon (i. e., the XI house), about to receive the contact of the moon, indicated tameness; […] – all 54 Ptolemy,

Apotel. 4.10.3 Hübner. Neugebauer and Van Hoesen, Greek Horoscopes, 149–150 no. L487 (their translation). 56  Neugebauer and Van Hoesen, Greek Horoscopes, 146–147 no. L483.

55 



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M Taurus Aries

Gemini

♃

Pisces

Cancer

LF

☾

☿ Hor

Aquarius Leo

♀

Capricorn

Virgo

Libra

♂

☉

♄

Sagittarius

Scorpius IM

Fig. 3: Corrected diagram of the katarchic horoscope of 483 CE.

this showed that it would be tamed and brought up with human beings. And that the moon and the Lot of Fortune happened to be in the setting sign (♒) showed that it would go abroad on a ship, because the setting sign was watery. And that the moon (in ♒) had left contact with Venus (in ♌) to make contact with Jupiter (in ♊) joined the fortunes of the sender and the receiver for the sender was to become consul and the receiver was consul. The aim of all this switching about, employing a variety of different principles, is to create a narrative that will provide a plausible outcome for the enquirer. The fact that the constellation rising in the east at dawn (i. e., the horoscopus) is Leo is simply too good to be true, since Leo is of course a lion, so the practitioner tries to find more subtle confirmations. His first choice is the scheme of the dodekatemoria (cf. fig. 1), according to which each shifting dodekatemorion is 13º from the original sign; since he must start with ♌ 2°, this gives him ♌ 26º, namely “another,” confirmatory Leo.57 The next reinforcement is to consider the 57 The dodekatemorion of ♌ 1º is ♌ 13°, of ♌ 2º is ♌ 26° (i. e., 13 + 13), of ♌ 3º is ♍ 9º (i. e., 13º from ♌ 26º), ♌ 4º is ♍ 22º (i. e., 13º from ♍ 9º and so on all through the zodiac).

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nature of the relevant zodiacal signs. Since a lion is a quadruped, he looks for four-footed signs, and finds the sun in Libra (♎), the Moon in Aquarius (♒) and Mars again in ♎. Now at first sight this is mystifying, since by normal reckoning the four-footed signs are ♈ ♉ ♌ ♐ (Aries, Taurus, Leo, and Sagittarius). But our practitioner has arrived as his deviant list by continuing to work with the do­ dekatemoria: the dodekatemorion of ⊙ at Libra 18º would fall in Taurus (♉), for ☾ at Aquarius 10º in Gemini (♊), and for ♂ at ♎ 6º in Sagittarius (♐). And although the twins of Gemini are anthropomorphic, taken together they have four feet and can thus be counted as quadrupeds. The second issue was whether the cub would turn out to be tame (using the nominal form ἡμερότης). Here binary gender roles provided a set of easy implications. According to Ptolemy, if Venus rules an action (for example, if she is near the horoscopus, as in this case, where she is in ♌) she produces perfumeworkers, flower-sellers, dealers in goods used for pleasure or adornment, which all together suggests a feminine ambience.58 In terms of relationships, Jupiter, at any rate in connection with women, makes for dignity and care with money;59 the real reason for switching from Venus to Jupiter, however, is to prepare for the later discussion of the status of the donor. Jupiter’s location at ♊ 19º means that it is in the beneficent lot of the Agathos Daimon (“house” or “temple” XI) and therefore acquires special influence. The practitioner then seeks to confirm the ideas of “femininity,” “dignity,” and “beneficence” by using the scheme of the tetragonon, which provides a schematic link between Gemini and Pisces (♓ ♐ ♏ ♊), and allows him to include the moon, though only by sleight of hand.60 This enables him to imply redoubled wateriness, itself linked to the feminine, and so back to the implications of Venus in the horoscopus. Since he has now introduced the western or “setting” side of the theme, which in katarchic astrology is often connected with goals or ends, the practitioner stays with the moon in Aquarius, which obviously stimulates the idea of water, suggesting ships or a sea-voyage. This inference is compounded by the fact that the Lot of Fortune (house or temple VII, which represents the end or completion of an action) is likewise in ♒. The same collocation permits inferences about the recipient of the gift, in the Latin West, and so about the other aspect of that binary, the donor in the Greek East. Since the moon in ♒ 10º is diametrically opposite to Venus in ♌ 7º, namely the diametron, it can be said to “leave” it, thus confirming the idea of a journey to be undertaken by the lion-cub; the link to Jupiter (via the tetragonal “contact” to ♓) has already been established, and Jupiter is connected to high office, which permits the inference that, since the re58 Ptolemy,

Apotel. 4.4.4 Hübner. Apotel. 4.5.3 Hübner. 60  He uses the term συναφή, “conjunction,” presumably taking into account that the moon in one day moves 13º, so that it will then be practically in Pisces, although at the moment in Aquarius, cf. Bouché-Leclercq, Astrologie, 246. 59 Ptolemy,



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cipient is the holder of high office, the donor too will himself accede to a similar position.61 The practitioner’s most necessary faculty is his ability to deploy astrological principles with such adroitness as to make the narrative appear fluent and to that degree in keeping with the raw information with which he started. In achieving this purpose, admission of doubt was undesirable, even though it is clear that there was almost invariably a good deal of skating over thin ice. Moreover, as is obvious in the present case, many possible leads were simply ignored, for example that Leo (♌) is generally a negative sign that would prima facie have suggested a negative outcome, as in Aeschylus’s famous image in Agam. 717–736.62 Again nothing whatever is done with a number of details of the theme, such as Mars in ♎ or Saturn in ♏, both of which might have produced a quite different narrative. In other words, all horoscopal narratives could be different: in fact every theme was capable of producing many different accounts, presenting the practitioner with perpetual uncertainties that had to be navigated. Yet such uncertainty was never understood as a stimulus to doubt but simply as a management problem to be resolved as well as might be ‒ in other words a challenge not a threat. 3.4.  Beyond the Dispositif Before leaving astrology and turning briefly to magic, it is just worth mentioning that the philosophical tradition critical of astrology, which we know of mainly through Cicero’s discussion in De div. 2.87–99, a passage largely dependent on Panaetius with additions from Carneades, never focuses upon what for us are the weakest points of astrology, namely the artificial calibration of all the signs at 30º, the creation of associations between the planets and the fixed stars (i. e., the zodiacal signs, selected solely because the sun “passes through them”) and the completely arbitrary scheme of the dodekatropos and its variations, such as the athla and the octotropos), which was crucial to the entire enterprise of attributing human meanings to the movements of the heavenly bodies.63 Instead, it focused upon a narrow set of issues, the different fate of twins, the relativity of terrestrial locations, and the different nativities of people who share endowments such as cleverness or qualities such as bravery. This surely implies, as Tony 61  For an analogous analysis of a late-antique katarchic “prediction,” see Richard L. Gordon, “‘Will My Child Have a Big Nose?’: Uncertainty, Authority and Narrative in Katarchic Astrology,” in Divination in the Ancient World: Religious Options and the Individual, ed. Veit Rosenberger (Potsdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 46; Stuttgart: Steiner, 2013), 124–128. 62  Cf., e. g., Bernard Knox, “The Lion in the House,” CP 47 (1952), 17–25; and Christopher Nappa, “Agamemnon 717–36: The Parable of the Lion Cub,” Mnemosyne 47/1 (1994), 82–87. 63  On the dodekatropos and its dependent schemes, see, e. g., Wolfgang Hübner, Die Do­ dekatropos des Manilius (Manil. 2.856‒2.970) (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1995 = Abh. Mainzer Akad. der Wiss. und Literatur, Geistes- und Sozialwissenschaftl. Kl., Jahrg. 1995.6).

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Long pointed out many years ago in his essay on these arguments, that in fact philosophers knew very little about the technicalities of astrology, and simply re-cycled familiar arguments.64 There seem to me to be three main reasons for the lack of doubt regarding astrology in antiquity, and during the imperial period in particular. The first, and surely most important, is the conviction by Roman emperors, and indeed by late-Republican generals and magnates, that astrology provided a powerful means not only of forecasting future outcomes of great importance but also of anticipating threats to their own lives. In his study of Augustus’s adroit use of his nativity in establishing monarchical power, which even prompted him to publish and celebrate his own horoscope, Alfred Schmid showed how this allowed him to represent himself as a representative of cosmic order and rationality, as fatalis princeps, whose success was destined by the cosmos itself.65 Tacitus’s gossipy account of how the learned astrologer Thrasyllus became a confidant of Tiberius, Augustus’s stepson and eventual successor, from the time of his selfimposed exile on Rhodes, by warning him of a plot on his life, is well-known, as is Tiberius’s own skill as an astrologer, attested by his supposed forecast of Galba’s brief enjoyment of the purple in 69 CE, the year of the four emperors.66 Theres Fögen has followed the process whereby successive emperors attempted, especially but not only in late antiquity, to monopolize legitimate access to divination, and astrological prediction in particular, insofar as it concerned affairs of state.67 Even Augustine, who devoted the first seven chapters of De civitate Dei (book 5) to a second-hand attack upon astrology, mainly directed at the oldest favourite of all  ‒ twins with different life-experiences ‒, ended up by agreeing that astrological predictions are often surprisingly true (cum astrologi mirabiliter multa vera respondent).68 This can only be due to inspiration, occultus instinctus, not of course by God, but by naughty spirits determined to mislead mankind.69 The second reason is that astrology was the sole form of divination that fully exploited the Eudoxan-Callippean cosmology, canonized by Plato’s Timaeus and the prestige of the supposedly 470,000 years of Babylonian study of the stars. Whereas other forms of divination, such as oionoscopy, or oneiromancy, even dendromancy or palmomancy, could be formalized, inventorized and so to some extent rationalized, the link established between observational astronomy 64 Cf.

Long, “Astrology,”.

65 Alfred Schmid, Augustus und die Macht der Sterne. Antike Astrologie und die Etablierung

der Monarchie in Rom (Cologne: Böhlau, 2005). 66 Tacitus, Ann. 6.21; 6.20.3. 67  Marie Theres Fögen, Die Enteignung der Wahrsager (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1995). 68 Augustine, Civ. 5.7; cf. Augustine, Acad. 1.20 with Karin Schlapbach, ed., Augustin: contra Academicos (vel De Academicis), Vol. 1: Einleitung und Kommentar (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003), 178–179. 69  On Augustine’s arguments, cf. Tim Hegedus, Early Christianity and Ancient Astrology (Patristics Studies 6; New York: Peter Lang, 2007), 43–85.



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and astrology was capable of generating entire libraries of speculative and interpretative work,70 and was thus fully in keeping with the emergence in the Greco-Roman world of a learned, book-reading public, eager to take advantage of the grand measurement of the world provoked by Alexander’s conquests.71 Thirdly, astrology was the only type of divination that, to use the traditional distinction, was neither artificial nor inspirational, but could claim to be based upon a divinely-ordered, empirically-observable and extremely complicated set of non-arbitrary signs. As such, even if, like Ptolemy, one did not believe in the fatality of the stars (i. e., hard astrology), the grand schemes of chorography and melothesia seemed unquestionably true. In other words, astrology, if well-understood, proved the truth of religion. The asset side of astrology was thus simply too valuable to dispense with.72

4.  Greco-Egyptian Magic As I have pointed out, we can distinguish two main types of learned magic, one represented by a fusion between Babylonian astral and natural magic (i. e., the Lithika) and the Greek tradition of natural magic invented by Bolos of Mendes in the late second century BCE – in short the tradition of ta physika, familiar from the Christianized Byzantine Physiologus –, and the other by the Greco-Egyptian magical papyri. Both sub-dispositifs had to work hard to establish some sort of status on the margins of dominant discourses: Pliny the Elder, as I  have said, treats the learned magica ars as fraudulentissima, “utterly deceptive,” for all its pompous history in the East, and repeatedly cites Magian claims expressly for their extravagance or absurdity. “Thessalus of Tralles” claimed in the introduction to his De virtutibus herbarum (2nd century CE?) that it was almost impossible to find a temple-priest even in Egypt who still knew how to summon up the living presence of a god for the purposes of divination, the kind of practice that the recipes in the magical formularies treat as a completely straightforward albeit fairly difficult ritual of “high” magic.73 This type of claim has of course its 70  On the ancient astrological publishing industry, see still Wilhelm Gundel and HansGeorg Gundel, Astrologumena. Die astrologische Literatur in der Antike und ihre Geschichte (Sudhoffs Archiv 6; Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1966); cf. Hilario J. B. Ruiz, “Los escritos astronómicos y astrólogicos: su circulación en el mundo grecorromano y bizantino,” Estudios Clásicos 133 (2008), 51–72. 71  On the limitations of ancient distinctions made between what we call astronomy and astrology, see Wolfgang Hübner, Die Begriffe “Astrologie” und “Astronomie” in der Antike. Wortgeschichte und Wissenschaftssystematik (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1990 = Abh. Mainzer Akad. der Wiss. und Literatur, Geistes- und Sozialwissenschaftl. Kl., Jahrg. 1989.7). 72 As an account of the pervasiveness of the astrological dispositif within late learned paganism, André-Jean Festugière, La Révélation d’Hermès Trismégiste, Vol. 1: L’astrologie et les sciences occultes (2nd edition; Paris: Gabalda, 1944) remains unsurpassed. 73  See Hans-Veit Friedrich, ed. and tr., Thessalus of Tralles: De virtutibus herbarum (Beiträge zur klassischen Philologie 28; Meisenhaim am Glan: Hain, 1968).

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own rhetorical aims and goals, but it does reflect a sense of the evanescence of a great temple tradition celebrating the powers inherent in the cosmos, and in the ritual word (viz. heka and akh) dating back to the days of the Pharaohs.74 Moreover, although in the late first to the late third centuries CE there must have been thousands of papyrus sheets bearing magical recipes being written out and circulated among practitioners, some at least of which must have been realized performatively, the practice was largely confined to the Nile Valley: granted that other types of materials, especially papyrus, may well have been used, which only survive in very dry conditions, relatively few phylacteries on metal lamellae or curse-tablets on lead stemming from this tradition outside Egypt have survived.75 For all its supposed status, “Egyptian” learned magic was in fact rather insignificant in the wider Mediterranean world, on present showing confined, at any rate until very late antiquity, to a small number of cities such as Athens, Antioch, Rome, Carthage and a few others, such as Amathous in Cyprus. In the tradition of marvellous stones, despite its intimate connection with the genre of mirabilia, I can find no trace of any doubt. The genre operates solely on the basis of constatives. Thus Socrates and Dionysius write: “Another stone is the onyx. If you engrave an egg on it, and a scarab in the middle of the egg, you will be unassailable (ἄληπτος) in your life, and you will enjoy great wealth and means.”76 In the Cyranides one reads of the kingfisher: “Its heart if carried about on the person makes the bearer handsome and sexy and universally popular and peaceable. Even if he falls over in the midst of battle, he will not be harmed, nor in winter, nor by a lightning-bolt, but will be agreeable and safe. It should be sewn up in its own skin and carried in a gold phylactery-case.”77 The rules for composition within this genre exclude any reference to experience, critical or other. Insofar as there is a system here, we can say that the meaningfulness of such claims lies in their very arbitrariness: they serve only to make the point, over and over again, that Nature is itself irrepressibly and providentially full of marvels.78 Each claim is designed to push the frontier of the impossible further and further back. The case with the Greco-Egyptian magical papyri is analogous, inasmuch as the recipes for different praxeis derive their authority proximately 74 On the “deep context” of pseudo-Thessalus’s alleged consultation, which he claims revealed to him that he had used the wrong ingredients for his medicaments, see Ian S. Moyer, Egypt and the Limits of Hellenism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 208–272. 75  For the phylacteries on precious metals found outside Egypt (mainly in the eastern Mediterranean), see Roy Kotansky, ed., Greek Magical Amulets: The Inscribed Gold, Silver, Copper and Bronze Lamellae, Vol. 1: Published Texts of Known Provenance. Text and Commentary (Papyrologica Coloniensia 22.1; Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1994). There exists no separate publication of curse-tablets in the Greco-Egyptian tradition found outside Egypt. 76  Socrates and Dionysius, Peri lithon 34 (= p. 170 Halleux-Schamp). 77  Cyranides III.2 (= p. 193 Kaimakis). 78  Cf. Richard L. Gordon, “Hellenistic Magic and Astrology,” in Conventional Values of the Hellenistic Greeks, ed. Per Bilde, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, and Jan Zahle (Studies in Hellenistic Civilization 8; Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1997), 128–158.



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from highly specialized, esoteric theological knowledge, and ultimately from the frequent claim that the texts are copies of recipes found in the Egyptian temple, the “house of life.”79 The fundamental assumption is that of high ritual realism: correct performance of the exemplar achieves eo ipso real changes in the world. The frequent injunction to secrecy underwrites this claim to privileged insight. We can, however, distinguish three strategies for evading doubt. The first is the extravagant puff, “you will be amazed at its power,” “an amazing compulsive erotic praxis,” “amazing onomata,” etc.80 A fine example that actually uses the Roman emperor as external guarantor runs: Pachrates the prophêtês of Heliopolis revealed it to the emperor Hadrian, revealing the power of his own divine magic, for it attracted in one hour, made someone fall sick in two, killed in seven, sent the emperor himself dreams as he thoroughly tested the whole truth of the magic within his power. And astonished at the priest, he ordered him to be given a double sportula.81

A second, analogous, device is the claim that a recipe has actually been tested or put to the proof.82 Finally, there is the device of the “compulsive conjuration,” ὁ ἐπάναγκος λόγος, which is to be employed in those cases in which the deity summoned does not appear,83 for which one expression is ἐάν πῶς βραδύνει, “if he hesitates at all, if he is somehow slow.”84 In one or two cases this hesitation is even imagined as occurring twice. But the possibility of total failure is of course never envisaged: as we know from cook-books, recipes are not in the game of envisioning total failure. What might appear to be openings for doubt thus turn out to be re-assertions of the validity of the dispositif. Given the genre within which these texts were written, which was based on absolute commitment to high ritual realism, this is not at all surprising. We can find exactly the same commitment to the efficacy of specialized magical practice in the self-descriptions of modern mananambals in the Philippines, or aduras in Sri Lanka.85

79 See Gordon, “The Religious Anthropology,” 167–170. The acronym PGM in the following notes refers to the texts reprinted in Karl Preisendanz, Papyri Graecae Magicae. Die griechischen Zauberpapyri (Leipzig, 1928–1931); cited from the second edition, revised by Albert Henrichs (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1973–1974; then Munich and Leipzig: K. G. Saur, 2001). 80  PGM IV 775; VII 439, 643, 919; XIII 549, 560, 738. 81  PGM IV 2446–2455. 82  E. g., PGM XIa40, cf. I 247; IV 161; 3007; XII 39. 83  E. g., PGM II 63; IV 1436; 2574–2577; 2684; 2896; 3310; V 435; XII 114; XIII 36, 55, 382; 426, 752 etc. 84  PGM IV 918, 1035–1036, 1480, 2096, 2915; LXII 28, 32. 85  Richard W. Lieban, Cebuano Sorcery: Malign Magic in the Philippines (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967); Bruce Kapferer, A Celebration of Demons: Exorcism and the Aesthetics of Healing in Sri Lanka (Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 1983).

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5.  Concluding Thoughts Throughout this contribution I have stressed the importance of the distinction between insiders and outsiders in relation to both these problematic dispositifs. This is a major issue in connection with doubt regarding complex discursive programmes, where competence involves an often long process of apprehension and learning, in the course of which the initiate acquires not just “knowledge” but also, as I pointed out earlier, a set of beliefs, explicit or implicit, regarding “the types of questions that can meaningfully be asked, and the types of answers that can meaningfully be given.” The crucial issue is thus the relation between competence, self-definition, and the judgement of one’s reference-group. In connection with the writers of astrological handbooks, it is notable that the only authors even to consider the possible limits of and objections to astrology are Ptolemy and Firmicus Maternus: the first was anything but a professional astrologer and wrote his handbook because it seemed relevant to his wider work on astronomy, and rejected the claims of hard astrology in favour of an analogy with the uncertainties and possibilities of medical diagnosis;86 whereas Firmicus Maternus, as a former lawyer and now functionary in the imperial administration, while painstaking, was no expert practitioner and could not avoid numerous misleading simplifications and incoherencies, due to the complexity of the material and his reliance upon different and incompatible sources.87 The other surviving authors were more or less professional, pragmatic practitioners working within a complex and ever-expanding historical tradition for whom the expression of doubt, beyond the specific forms of “internal” criticism I have alluded to, was irrelevant to their conception of their task. If anything, the point holds even more in the case of the loosely-organized practitioners of Greco-Egyptian “high” magic, focused as they were on a nostalgic reverence for the glories of Pharaonic Egypt, even though they were theoretically no less exposed to disconfirmation than practical astrologers, in those cases in which they moved from writing and studying ritual texts to pragmatic application. We can, however, raise a further question regarding insiders and outsiders vis-à-vis “Roman religion” in the Empire. How is the latter to be conceptualized? Is it to be limited to the issues debated by the Senate? To the state festivals? To the practices of the population of Rome? To Italy? To the public religion of coloniae? Are we to call the Gauls who hailed the burning of the temple of Capitoline Jupiter in 69 CE as a presage of the collapse of the Empire “sceptics” regarding this religion? At most we can speak of slivers or shards of Roman religious institutions, including deities, slipped into the public religious practices 86  See esp. Joanna Komorowska, “Astrology, Ptolemy and ‘Technai Stochastikai’,” MHNH 9 (2009), 191–204. 87  See Pierre Monat, ed. and tr., Firmicus Maternus: Mathesis, 1: Livres 1 et II (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1992, repr. 2002), 36–47.



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of municipia in the Western provinces. Were the Mysians who refused, sometimes for years, to acknowledge the local temple’s diagnosis of their illness as god-sent punishment for an infringement of divine rules “sceptics” of religion?88 Such questions are obviously meaningless. In relation to doubt and scepticism in that world, we should rather be thinking of vastly different types and degrees of personal investment in the various religious conglomerates – to avoid using the word “system” ‒ heavily dependent on circumstance, context, class-status, degree of literacy, social role, and gender. We can only think of using a term such as “scepticism” or “doubt” in the case of those whose social status meant that they were deemed to represent in some sense positions commonly held within their social class ‒ certainly a requirement so vague that it could virtually never be called out.89 In the context of a conference about the character, motivation, and expression of religious doubt and scepticism, it is surely worth thinking about rather different strategies, namely those that inhibit or limit doubt in such systems, since it is clearly not enough to take “belief ” for granted, as though it were a natural or self-evident category. Are there in a given religious culture areas effectively insulated from doubt? If so, are they diagnostic? What are the characteristic strategies for avoiding doubt  – the secondary and tertiary claims that protect those that are truly central to the conglomerate? Given the conventionality of religious systems, strategies of “resistance to doubt” are surely at least as worth investigating as forms of scepticism.

88 Cf. Richard L. Gordon, “Raising a Sceptre: Confession Narratives from Lydia and Phrygia,” JRA 17 (2004), 177–196. 89  Cf. Zsuszanna Varhélyi, The Religion of Senators in the Roman Empire: Power and the Beyond (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); see also the contribution to this volume by Babett Edelmann-Singer.

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List of Contributors Clifford Ando is David B. and Clara E. Stern Professor of Classics, History and Law at the University of Chicago and Research Fellow in the Department of Classics and World Languages at the University of South Africa. Jan Assmann is honorary Professor of Cultural Studies at the University of Konstanz and Emeritus Professor of Egyptology at the University of Heidelberg, Germany. Jan N. Bremmer is Emeritus Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Groningen, The Netherlands. Janet Downie is Associate Professor of Classics at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Babett Edelmann-Singer is Heisenberg Fellow and Visiting Associate Professor at the Institute of Ancient History at the Ludwig Maximilian University in Munich, Germany. Matthew A. Fox is Professor of Classics at the University of Glasgow, UK. Richard L. Gordon is honorary Professor at the Department of Religious Studies and Associate Fellow of the Max Weber Centre for Advanced Cultural and Social Studies at the University of Erfurt, Germany. Inger N. I. Kuin is Assistant Professor of Classics General Academic Faculty at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, Virginia. David P. Moessner is A. A. Bradford Chair and Professor of Religion at Texas Christian University, Fort Worth, Texas; Honorary Research Associate at the Deptartment of Biblical Studies, Faculty of Theology, University of Pretoria, South Africa; and Faculty Associate in New Testament at the Department of Theology, Radboud University, Nijmegen, The Netherlands. Tobias Nicklas is Professor of New Testament Studies and Director of the Centre of Advanced Studies “Beyond Canon” at the University of Regensburg,

304

List of Contributors

Germany; Research Associate at the Department of New Testament, University of the Free State, Bloemfontein, South Africa; and Adjunct Ordinary Professor at the Catholic University of America, Washington, DC. Benjamin Schliesser is Professor of New Testament at the Theological Faculty of the University of Bern, Switzerland. Kai Trampedach is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Heidelberg, Germany. Anna Van den Kerchove is Vice-Rector and Professor of History of Ancient Christianity and Patristics at the Theological Faculty of the Protestant Institute of Theology in Paris, France. Tim Whitmarsh is A. G. Leventis Professor of Greek Culture at the University of Cambridge, UK, and a research associate at the University of Pretoria, South Africa.

Index of Ancient Sources Hebrew Bible / Old Testament Genesis 5:16

40:5 40–55 45 45:5 49:6

179

Numbers 11:21–23 16 20:2–12 16 20:10 16

193 n. 22 193 n. 22 193 n. 22 193 n. 22 193 n. 22

Ecclesiastes (Qoheleth) 9 31 9:7–10 31 n. 19

Isaiah 7:9 11–12

Ancient Near Eastern Texts Book of the Death 175 27 n. 14

Tale of the Eloquent Peasant B1.338 – 342 25 n. 8

Dialogue between a Man and his Ba 56–68 26–27 142–143 27

Teaching of Ani 17.11–18.4

Gilgamesh Si 3.1–15

30–31

Pyramid Texts 459a 22 Instruction for Merikare P 53–57 23 P 127–128 25

24 n. 6

Teaching of Hordjedef 2 24 n. 5 Teaching of Ptahhotep 186–193 32 n. 22 Theban Tomb 50 131 296

30 n. 17 26 n. 10 33 n. 23

New Testament Matthew 5:19 7:7 14:31 28:9

172 n. 22 10, 237 217 n. 70 215 n. 61

28:17

214–215, 217 n. 70

Mark 16:7 194 16:9–14 214

306

Index of Ancient Sources

Luke 1:1 186–187, 189, 195 1:1b 187 n. 7, 189 1:1–2 186 1:1a–3b 185 1:1–4 186, 189, 200 1:2 187–188 1:2–3 188 1:2b–3a 189 1:3 186–187, 189, 192 1:3b 185–187 1:3–4 191 1:4 186–187, 189 2:2 197 n. 27 3:3–22 188 3:6 193 n. 22 3:7–22 194 3:14 191 n. 15 3:15–22 194 3:15–23 192 3:16 194 3:20 194 3:21–24:53 190 5:14 197 5:30 192 n. 21 6:12 191 n. 15 7:30 192 n. 20 7:34 192 n. 21 9:41 16 9:51 197 11:13 191 n. 15 15:2 192 n. 21 19:7 192 n. 21 22:16 200 n. 33 22:18b 200 n. 33 22:19 200 22:37 186 24 190, 194 24:1–49 199 24:11 214 24:13–43 190 24:21–24 214 24:25 214 24:36–49 190, 193 24:37–38 214 24:39 199–200 24:39–41 215 24:41 214

24:46–49 193 24:48 200 24:49 190, 192 24:50–51 190, 197 24:51 197 24:52–53 190 24:53 190 John 1:14 211 1:32–34 222 n. 91 1:38 222 n. 91 1:39 211 n. 40 1:41 216 n. 64–65 1:42 214, 216 n. 65 1:43 211 n. 40 1:45 225 n. 102 1:46 225 n. 102 1:48 225 n. 102 1:49 225 n. 102 1:50 225 n. 102 2:7–8 211 n. 40 2:9 213 2:23 222 n. 91 3:11 222 n. 91 3:34–35 212 n. 46 4:7 211 n. 40 4:25 216 n. 65 4:48 206 n. 9 4:53 222 n. 91 5:8–9 211 n. 40 6:10 211 n. 40 6:14 222 n. 91 6:22 222 n. 91 7:8 211 n. 40 7:10 211 n. 40 9:7 211 n. 40, 216 n. 65 11:4 220 11:6 220 11:15 219–220 11:16 205, 207, 214, 216–217, 218 n. 76, 220–221 11:39 211 n. 40, 213 11:41 211 n. 40 11:44 211 n. 40 11:47–53 220 12:3 213 13:22 222 n. 91



New Testament

13:37 211 n. 40 14:1 220 14:5 205, 207, 216–217, 218 n. 76, 220 14:5–6 206 14:6 221 14:17 223 14:18 224 14:25–26 223 14:31 211 n. 40 17:20 223 18:11 211 n. 40 19:6 222 n. 91 19:33–34 212 19:34 212 n. 46 19:35 222 n. 91 20 204, 209, 212 20:3–10 212 20:8 222 n. 91 20:11–18 212, 215 n. 61 20:17 212, 212 n. 44 20:18 212 20:19 207 20:19–23 205, 212, 215 20:20 212 n. 46 20:24 216, 224 20:24–29 203, 213, 215, 217 20:25 205–206, 218 n. 76, 221, 222 n. 91, 225 n. 102 20:26 207 20:27 210, 213, 221–222, 225 n. 102 20:28 205–207, 218 n. 76, 221, 225 n. 102 20:29a 221 20:29 207, 212, 221 n. 88, 225 n. 102 20:30–31 204, 222 20:31 204 n. 6, 222 21 205 21:2 216, 224–225 n. 102 21:6 211 n. 40 Acts 1:1 186–187, 190, 195 1:1–3 193 1:1–4a 190, 197 1:1–5 197

1:1–8 186, 190–191, 200 1:2 189, 191 1:3 190 1:3a 191 1:3–4a 191 1:3–8 194 1:4a 190 1:4b 194, 199 1:4b–5 190–193, 195, 196 1:4–5 192–193 1:5 199 1:6b 199 1:6–8 199 1:6–11 190 1:7–8 191, 195 1:8b 193 n. 22 1:8 191, 200 1:12–14 190 1:15–16 190 1:22 188–189 1:22a 190 2 200 2:23 192 n. 20 2:33b 199 2–5 193 4:12b 193 n. 22 4:28 192 n. 20 5:23 192 n. 17 5:38 192 n. 20 7–8 197 9–14 190 10 192 n. 21 10:1–48 192 10:9–16 192 10:14 194 10:28 192 n. 20, 194 10:37 194 10:37–38 194 10:39 194 10:41b 194 10:41–42 194 10–11 193 11:1–4 192 11 192 n. 21 11:1–18 192 11:2 194 11:2–3 192 11:4–18 192 n. 19

307

308

Index of Ancient Sources

11:8–9 194 11:15b 193 11:15–18 192 11:17 193 13:36 192 n. 20 14:22 197 15 192 n. 21 17 176 17:32 176 20:27 192 n. 20 21:34 191 23:22 197 23:26 187 24:3 187 25:20a 191–192 25:26 192 25–26 192 26 191 26:25 187, 191 27:42–43 192 n. 20 Romans 4:17–21 178 4:20 217 n. 70 4:22 179 4:17 178 4:19 178 9–11 181 14:23 179–180, 217 n. 70 1 Corinthians 1:2 182 1:11 170 1:18–25 238 1:17–2:16 172 n. 22 4:7 178 5 172 n. 21 5:1 172 n. 21 6:5 178 8–9 179 10:14–11:1 179 11:29 180 11:31 180 12 180 n. 43

12:10 178, 180 12 – 14 180 12:2 181, 183 14:29 181 15 177 15:3–5 177 2 Corinthians 5:1 182 5:1 – 10 182 n. 50 Galatians 1:8 170 1:13 171 1–2 171 2:1–10 171 2:11–21 171 1 Thessalonians 1:3 176 1:6 174 1:9–10 174 2:14–16 174 3:1–5 175 3:2–3a 175 4 182 4:13 175 4:13–15 175 n. 31 4:14 176 4:15 182 James 1:6 217 n. 70 1:8 217 2:14–26 172 n. 22 3:13–18 172 n. 22 4:8 217 2 Peter 3:15–16

170 n. 15

1 John 1:1 210 n. 36 1:1–3 224 1:1–4 213 n. 50



309

Ancient Christian Literature

Ancient Christian Literature (incl. Nag Hammadi writings) Acta Cypriani 3.4 15 Apocryphon of John (BG 2) 19.6–20.18 238 21.15 227 Apocryphon of John (NH III, 1) 1.1–24 238 Augustine Contra Academicos 1.1.3 9 1.20 262 n. 68 1. 7. 19 9 2.3.9 9 2. 5. 12 10 2. 8. 20 10 3. 9. 42–20.43 11 Confessionum libri XIII 6.4.6–5.7 11 De civitate Dei 4.27 72 n. 10 5.7 262 6.5 72 n. 10 6.10 245 n. 9 8.24 17

8. 5. 16

236

Epiphanius Panarion 9.22 9.33 9.34 30.14.3–4

237 n. 70 237 n. 70 237 n. 70 172 n. 23

Epistula apostolorum 12 213 n. 50 Eugnostos the Blessed (NH III, 3) 70.8 233 n. 37 70.8–12 230 n. 19 70.12–24 233 70.13–14 238 n. 79 Eugnostos the Blessed (NH V, I) 1.9–10 233 n. 37 7.15 233 n. 35 Eusebius Historia ecclesiastica 2.15.2 185 n. 2, 185 n. 3 3.24.14–16 185 n. 4 3.39.4 216 n. 66

In Evangelium Johannis tractatus 121.5 208

Praeparatio evangelica 5.4 116 n. 17 5.17 116 n. 17

Quaestiones in Heptateuchum 4.19 16

Exegesis of the Soul (NH II, 6) 127.19 233 n. 37

Clement of Alexandria Stromateis 1 239 n. 81 1. 11. 51.4 237 n. 69 6 239 n. 81 6. 7. 56.2–58.3 236 7 236 7.91.3–4 240 n. 90 8 236 8.1.1–2.2 236 8.2 227 n. 2

Gospel of the Hebrews 4 172 n. 23 Gospel of Truth (NH I, 3) 19 233 n. 37 Ignatius To the Smyrnaeans 3.2 213 n. 50 Infancy Gospel of James 20.1 213 n. 50

310

Index of Ancient Sources

Tatian Oratio ad Graecos 29 153 n. 22

Irenaeus Adversus haereses 2. 13. 10 237 n. 68 2.30.2 237 n. 68 3.1.1 186 n. 5 3.14 186 n. 5 5.33.4 185 n. 2

Tertullian De anima 17.14

John Chrysostom Homiliae in Acta apostolorum 1.1 200 n. 32 In principium Actorum 3.54 195 n. 23 11.2 196 n. 26 Justin Martyr Apologia I 34

De praescriptione haereticorum 8 237 n. 68 Theodoret De Graecarum affectionum curatione 10.1–11 116 n. 17 Theophylact In Joannis Evangelium (PG 124.300) 217 n. 67

197 n. 27

Treatise on the Resurrection (NH I, 4) 44.1–2 230 n. 17

Dialogus cum Tryphone 78 197 n. 27 Lactantius Divinarum institutionum libri VII 1.9 148 4.3 148 4.15 148 On the Origin of the World (NH II, 5) 94.24–27 230 n. 23 Origen Contra Celsum 2.61

210 n. 36

210 n. 36

Fragmenta in Evangelium Joannis 106 Preuschen 217 n. 68

Tripartite Tractate (NH I, 5) 109.5 238 n. 78 109.5–21 233 109.24 233 n. 37 109.32–33 238 n. 80 Wisdom of Jesus Christ (BG 3) 80.14 233 n. 37 Wisdom of Jesus Christ (NH III, 4) 92.14 233 n. 37 Zostrianos (NH VIII, 1) 3.14–15 240 n. 92 3.25–28 240 n. 93 3.28–4.20 241 n. 95

Greek-Roman Literature (incl. Philo of Alexandria) Aelius Aristides Orationes 21.10 143 n. 61 23.8 143 n. 61 26.32 107 n. 51 33.18 141 37.23 141

37–38 132 n. 18 37–46 129 40–41 132 n. 18 39 132 39.6 132 42 132 42.1 132



43 131 45 128, 131, 142 45.1 143, 143 n. 58 45.1–2 142 n. 56 45.4 142 n. 55, 143 45.13 143 n. 58 46 128, 133 46.1–2 133 n. 22 46.1–4 133 46.3 131, 131 n. 15 46.5 134 n. 25, 134 n. 26 46.5–19 134 46.6 134 n. 26 46.7 134 46.20–31 134 46.32 135 n. 28 46.32–41 134 46.33 139 n. 50, 141 46.34 139 n. 49 46.35 140 n. 51 46.36 137 46.38 139 n. 48, 140 46.39 141 46.40 137 46.41 137, 137 n. 43 46.42 133 47–51 132 Aeschylus Agamemnon 717–736 261 1084 47 n. 36 1254–1255 124 n. 38 Choephoroe 957

311

Greek-Roman Literature

47 n. 36

Anaxagoras T1.23 45 T1.60 45 T1.86 45

Florida 15.15

13 n. 38

Metamorphoses 2.12

13 n. 38

Aristophanes Aves 690 62 958–990 124 n. 36 961 50 988 50 1382 45 Equites 30–34 61 194–209 124 n. 36 997–1111 124 n. 36 Lysistrata 762–780

124 n. 36

Nubes 247–248 62 250–251 50 n. 57 265 46 360–361 62 816–821 62 830 66 1469–1471 62 1480 64 n. 44 Pax 1023–1126 1045–1126

124 n. 36 50 n. 55

Plutus 497

50 n. 54

Ranae 936 61 Tagenistae F 506 K/A

64

Anthologia Palatina 7.95 45 n. 30

Thesmophoriazusae 450–451 61 668–674 59 n. 25

Apuleius Apologia 47

Aristoteles Poetica 1450a55

13 n. 38

143 n. 57

312

Index of Ancient Sources

1451a29 1452a18 1453a31 1455a22

143 n. 57 143 n. 57 143 n. 57 143 n. 57

Rhetorica 1400b7 1407a31–b6

138 n. 45 122 n. 31

Aristoxenus F 45 Wehrli

66 n. 57

Cicero De divinatione 1.4.7 77 n. 22 1.5.9 78 n. 29 1.37 111 n. 1 1.38 114 1.79 114 2.87–99 261 2.115 122 2.115–118 114 2.148–149 79 n. 30 De legibus 1.58–62

5 n. 12

De natura deorum 1.1.1 76 n. 21 1.1.1–2 77 n. 22 1.1.2 63, 77 n. 24 1.3 3 n. 9, 78 n. 26 1.3.6 75 1. 6. 13–14 75 1. 6. 14 75 n. 19 1.10 4 n. 7 1. 17. 44–45 79 1.19 5 n. 11 1.23.63 79 1.27.77 79 n. 32 1.42.117 79 n. 33 1.42.118 79 n. 31 1.43.121 80 n. 34 1.61 4 n. 10 2.4 5 n. 13 2.28.71–72 79 n. 30 3.5 6 n. 15 3.6 6 n. 16 3.7 7 n. 17

3.10 3.15 3.77

7 n. 18 141 n. 53 83 n. 41

In Catalinam 1.6

157 n. 38

Codex Theodosianus 16. 8. 19 17 n. 51 Craterus 342 F16 (FGrH) 66 n. 53 Cratinus F 167 K/A

67

Critias B 25 DK

45 n. 29

Cyranides 3.2

264 n. 77

Dio Cassius 44.51.1–2 51.20.6–7 60.35.2–3 62.2

106 n. 46 95 n. 9 96 n. 12 98 n. 16

Dio Chrysostom Orationes 11.24–25 143 n. 60 Diodorus Siculus 1.51 25 Diogenes Laertius 2.12 45 n. 30 2.15 45 n. 30 9.74–76 232 n. 32 9.78–79 235 n. 58 9.88–89 239 n. 83 9.90 230 n. 22 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Antiquitates Romanae 2.19.1–2 71 n. 7 De Thucydide 9–13

188 n. 9



313

Greek-Roman Literature

Dorotheus of Sidon Apotelesmatica 1.1.1–2 251 n. 3

Supplices 731–732

59 n. 25

Firmicus Maternus Matheseos libri VIII 1.5.7 251 n. 30

Eupolis F 157 K/A F 386 K/A F 388 K/A

67 64 n. 44 64 n. 44

Euripides Andromache 439

48 n. 44

Hecataeus of Miletus 1 F 305 (FGrH) 44 n. 26

Bacchae 1325–1326

59 n. 25

Heraclitus B 92 (DK 22)

122 n. 30

Hermippus F 43 K/A

65

Hephaestion 1.1

251 n. 33

Bellerophon F 286 Kannicht 48 F 304a Kannicht 60 Electra 583–584

59 n. 24, 59 n. 25

Helena 13 922

48 n. 44 48 n. 44

Hercules furens 62 841 772

48 n. 44 59 n. 24 59 n. 25

Hippolytus 1102–1103

60 n. 31

Iphigenia Taurica 270 270 n. 33 547 50 n. 53 572 48 n. 44 Melanippe sophe F 484 Kannicht 54 Oenomaos F 577 Kannicht 59 n. 25 Phrixos A F 912b Kovacs

61

Phrixos B F 820b Kannicht 60–61 Scyrii F 684 Kannicht 60 n. 31

Gorgias 12.53.1–3 DS

67

Herodotus Historiae 2.78 32 7.188 44 n. 26 9.65.2 48 n. 42 Hippocrates De morbis mulierum 68 44 n. 26 110 44 n. 26 Homer Ilias 7.99 11.37 14.201 14.301

134 n. 26 145 n. 65 134 n. 26 134 n. 26

Odyssea 5 138 5.333–335 138 n. 47 8.266–270 198 8.367 198 11.235–45 1 40 n. 51 24.351 59 n. 25

314

Index of Ancient Sources

Juppiter tragoedus 18 161 n. 47 35–37 162 n. 48 47 149 n. 6

Horace Carmina 4. 5. 31–36

103 n. 37

Isaeus 8.15–16

55 n. 8

Livy 4.30.8–11

Philopseudes 16

149 n. 6

247 n. 17

Toxaris 2

154 n. 27

Lucian Alexander (Pseudomantis) 25 154 n. 28 38 155 n. 29 60 149 n. 6 Calumniae non temere credendum 14 153 n. 25 De luctu 21

32 n. 20

De morte Peregrini 13 149 n. 4 f. 21 155 n. 32 7–31 155 De sacrificiis 13

157 n. 35, 157 n. 38

Demonax 5 158 11 158 n. 42 Deorum concilium 4–5 99 n. 21 5 99 n. 22 Dialogi deorum 15 148 Icaromenippus 7.20

45 n. 29

Juppiter confutatus 7 159 11 159 12 159 12–14 159 17–18 159 18 160 19 160 n. 44, 160 n. 45

Vera historia 10 148 Lucretius 1.62–79 82 n. 38 1.83 82 4.469–470 229 n. 13 Manilius Astronomica 1.247–252 250 n. 29 2.57–2.59 252 n. 36 2.60–2.81 250 n. 29 2.63 251 2.244–264 253 Maximus of Tyre 11.10 139 n. 48 Melanthius 326 F3 (FGrH)

66 n. 53

Menander Rhetor 1.337.17–19 134 n. 25 1.341.11–17 144 n. 64 333.21–24 144 Ovid Epistulae ex Ponto 2.8.1–4 103 n. 38 4. 9. 105–110 103 n. 39 Metamorphoses 1.21 84 n. 42 1.33 84 n. 42 1.79–83 84 n. 42 1.89 84 1.94 84 1.113 84 n. 42



1.161 84 1.199–208 84 n. 43 1.200–201 84 1.220 84 1.222 84 1.225 84 5.551 85 n. 46 7.234–293 247 n. 17 10.238–242 85 10.222–237 85 n. 47 Tristia 3. 8. 13–14 5. 2. 45–46

103 n. 37 103 n. 37

Pausanias Graeciae descriptio 1.42.8 136 1.44.6 136 2.1.3 137 n. 41 2.2.1 137 n. 41 Philo of Alexandria De aeternitate mundi 47 45 n. 29 De posteritate Caini 2.4 153 n. 21 De somniis 1.22

315

Greek-Roman Literature

45 n. 29

Legatio ad Gaium 353–357 101 n. 31 f., 107 n. 50 367 102 n. 33 Philodemus De pietate 525 Obbink

66 n. 56

Philolaus F 11.20 F 11.30

48 n. 42 50 n. 53

Photius Bibliotheca 128

149 n. 3

Pindar Isthmionica F 5 S/M

136 n. 34

Olympionica 1 1.25 1.28–34 1.29 1.41

128 n. 5, 140 n. 52 128 n. 5 128 n. 5 128 n. 5 128 n. 5

Pythionica 9 9.5 9.13

128 n. 5, 140 n. 52 128 n. 5 128 n. 5

Plato Apologia 10–11 46 n. 31 23c 56 26c 152 n. 20 26c–d 45 n. 28 30e 153 n. 25 Cratylus 401b

64 n. 46

Charmides 163d

63 n. 40

Euthyphro 5a

41 n. 1, 46 n. 32

Hippias major 282c

63 n. 40

Leges 10 885c7 898c6–8

5 n. 10 13 n. 39 5 n. 13

Minos 96d

63 n. 40

Philostratus Imagines 16

135 n. 31, 137 n. 41

Vita Apollonii 3.31.3

Phaedrus 260a

64 n. 46

140 n. 52

Protagoras 316a

63 n. 40

316 341a

Index of Ancient Sources

63 n. 40

Respublica 2.377a 56 Symposium 187e

50 n. 53

Theaetetus 151b

63 n. 40

Pliny the Elder Naturalis historia 2.3 13 n. 40 2.14 14 n. 41 30.1–18 248 30.2 248

15.418c–d 116 40.432 116 40.432c–f 116 40.432d 116 43–44.433f–434c 116 42–43.433d–e 118 46.434f–435e 117 46.435b 157 n. 37 48.436f 117 51.438c–d 117 De E apud Delphos 385a 112 386e 124 n. 39 De garrulitate 511b

124 n. 37

Pliny the Younger Panegyricus 11.2 102 n. 35

De Iside et Osiride 17 32 n. 20 23 89

Plotinus Enneades 2.9 237 2. 9. 33.15 237 n. 71 32 237 n. 72

De Pythiae oraculis 5.396c–d 121 6.397a 121 n. 30 7.397 122 7.397c 121 8.398a–b 125 17.402 119 n. 21 18.402e 113 n. 10 18.402e–403a 119 n. 21 19–20.403a–404a 119 n. 24 20.404b 120 n. 26 20–21.404b–c 120 22.405c–d 120 25.407a 124 n. 37 25.407b 118 n. 18 26.407d 123 29.408f 112

Plutarch Adversus Colotem 1118c 124 n. 39 Agesilaus 3.3

50 n. 55

Amatorius 763b–c

127 n. 4

An seni respublica gerenda sit 792f 112 n. 4 De audiendis poetis 35e–f 127 n. 3 Apophthegmata Laconica 228e 138 n. 46 De defectu oraculorum 7.413a–d 115 8.414c 115 n. 15 9.414e 125 14–15.400f–401d 125

De superstitione 164e–166b 127 n. 2 171e 138 n. 46 Nicias 23.4

45 n. 28

Quaestiones Graecae 292c 44 n. 27 Pericles 5.1

45 n. 28



32.2

42 n. 15, 59 n. 27

Septem sapientium convivium 2.148a–b 32 n. 20 Polybius 6 71 6.56.6 71 6.56.9 71 6.56.6–15 70 n. 5 Propertius 4.1b 252 4.1b 33–38 253 n. 37 Pseudo-Plato Sisyphus 389a

44 n. 26

Ptolemy Apotelesmata 1.21 4.4.4 4.5.3 4.10.3

254 n. 45 260 n. 58 260 n. 59 258 n. 54

Res Gestae Divi Augusti 3 97 n. 14 20 97 n. 14 Quintilian Institutio oratoria 8. 6. 37–38 198 n. 29 Seneca (the Younger) Apocolocyntosis 10.1–2 96 n. 14 11.3 96 n. 13 11.3–4 96 n. 15 De clementia 1.10.3

317

Greek-Roman Literature

102 n. 34

Epistulae morales 95.50 14 n. 42 117 14 117.6 14 n. 43

Sextus Empiricus Adversus mathematicos 8.299–481 230 n. 22 Pyrrhoniae hypotyposes 1.3 229 n. 14, 229 n. 15, 238 n. 73 1.8 232 n. 31 1.10 239 n. 86 1.16 227 n. 2 1.22 231 n. 26 1.154 235 n. 57 1.155 235 n. 55 1.159 235 n. 57 1.164–167 239 n. 83 1.165 239 1.188–205 232 n. 32 1.196 229 n. 16 2.134–192 230 n. 22 3.3 230 n. 20 3.9–12 235 n. 54 3.12 235 n. 55 3.215 235 n. 57 Socrates and Dionysius De lapidis (Peri lithon) 34 264 n. 76 Sophocles Oedipus coloneus 1537 50 Oedipus tyrannus 857–858 49 899–911 49 n. 46 Philoctetes 452 49 Strabo 9.3.4 111 9.3.5 118 Suetonius Divus Augustus 52 98.2

95 n. 9 108 n. 55

Divus Julius 85

106 n. 46

318

Index of Ancient Sources

Divus Vespasianius 7.2–3 107 n. 48 Suda Λ 683

149 n. 7

Tacitus Annales 1.54.2 106 n. 46 1.73.2 101 n. 29 2.27.2 248 n. 19 4.37.3 95 n. 9 4.52.2 106 n. 46 6.20.3 262 n. 66 6.21 262 n. 66 14.12.1 100 n. 25 14.44.3 15 n. 44 16 100 16.21–35 100 n. 23 16.22 100 n. 26 16.22.3 100 n. 27 16.31.2 101 n. 28 Thales F 1.137

Theophrastus Characteres 7 28

244 n. 7 244 n. 6

De fato 571b

44 n. 27

Vettius Valens Anthologia 1.1

251 n. 32

Virgil Aeneis 8.184–189

82 n. 38

Xenophanes VS A 13

138 n. 45

Xenophon Memorabilia 1.1.1 46 n. 31 F 913 Kannicht 64

47 n. 37

Inscriptions, Papyri, and Coins CIL 10.3757 109 n. 56 13.1366 104–105 CIL II2 5.900

101 n. 29

P.Berl. 3024 9825

26 n. 11 257 n. 52

P.Chester Beatty IV, 2.5–3.11 v 28 PGM I 247 II 63 IV 161 IV 775

265 n. 82 262 n. 83 265 n. 82 265 n. 80

IV 918 IV 1035–1036 IV 1436 IV 1480 IV 2096 IV 2446–2455 IV 2574–2577 IV 2684 IV 2896 IV 2915 IV 3007 IV 3310 V 435 VII 439 VII 643 VII 919 XIa 40 XII 39 XII 114

262 n. 84 262 n. 84 262 n. 83 262 n. 84 262 n. 84 265 n. 81 262 n. 83 262 n. 83 262 n. 83 262 n. 84 265 n. 82 262 n. 83 262 n. 83 265 n. 80 265 n. 80 265 n. 80 265 n. 82 265 n. 82 262 n. 83



P.Mich. III 148 III 149

257 n. 53 254 n. 42 and n. 44

P.Oxy. III 465 XII 1453

254 n. 43 107 n. 52

P.Prisse 7.9–10

32 n. 22

29

RPC I 1, 377–379

95 n. 9

63 n. 42

SEG II 718

106 n. 45

257 n. 52 257 n. 52

SIG / Syll.3 IV 829A IV 843

112 n. 4 112 n. 4

XIII 36 XIII 55 XIII 382 XIII 426 XIII 549 XIII 560 XIII 738 XIII 752 LXII 28 LXII 32

262 n. 83 262 n. 83 262 n. 83 262 n. 83 265 n. 80 265 n. 80 265 n. 80 262 n. 83 262 n. 84 262 n. 84

P.Harris 500, 6.2–7.3 r P.Herc. 1428.19 P.Lond. I 98 I 130

319

Inscriptions, Papyri, and Coins

Index of Modern Authors Albrecht, J. 245 Alexander, L. 189 Allen, J. P. 26, 27 Allinson, F. G. 150 Allison, D. C. Jr. 172 Alter, R. 222, Ando, C. vii, viii, 2, 3, 7, 8, 11, 12, 17, 18, 69, 72, 74, 78, 110, 245 Annas, J. 74, 77, 227, 229, 230, 232, 235, 238, 239 Arzt-Grabner, P. 170 Ashton, J. A. 219 Assmann, J. vii, ix, x, xi, 1, 2, 3, 7, 23, 26, 27, 30, 33 Atkins, J. W. 87 Attridge, H. W. 74, 77, 212, 219, 233 Atwood, C. D. 211 Auffarth, C. 54, 66 Babut, D. 113, 241 Bailey, A. 229, 230, 232 Bailliot, M. 248 Baker, E. 86 Baldwin, B. 148, 150 Balthasar, H. U. von 223 Banfi, A. 41 Barc, B. 229 Bardon, H. 85 Barnes, J. 63, 227, 229, 230, 232, 235, 239 Baronowski, D. W. 70 Barry, C. 229 Barth, K. 210 Barton, C. A. viii, 38, 40, 53, 93 Baumbach, M. 125, 151 Baumert, N. 168, 177 Beard, M. 27, 76, 94 Beaumont, L. A. 55 Beck, M. 158 Beck, R. L. 248 BeDuhn, J. 227 Behr, C. A. 129

Behr, E. 8 Beirne, M. M. 207, 211 Belayche, N. 132, 148, 150, 157 Benay, E. E. 209 Bendlin, A. 94, 109, 112, 120, 122 Bennema, C. 204, 216 Berdozzo, F. 150 Berti, S. 88 Bierl, A. 97 Biron, I. 106 Bömer, F. 84, 85 Bonazzi, M. 227, 231, 239, 240, 241 Bonney, W. 204, 216 Bontempi, M. 57 Borchert, G. L. 210 Borromeo, G. E. 104 Boschung, D. 104 Bouché-Leclercq, A. 251, 253, 260 Boulanger, A. 130 Boulogne, J. 73 Bourdieu, P. 56 Bouton-Touboulic, A.‑I. 227, 230, 231, 235, 240 Bowersock, G. W. 94 Bowie, A. M. 63 Boyarin, D. viii, 1, 38, 40, 53, 93 Brakke, D. 167, 228, 229 Brancato, G. 143 Branham, R. B. 151, 158, 162 Braund, S. 102 Bremmer, J. N. ix, xi, 4, 37, 54, 56, 64, 65, 67, 152, 153, 155, 166 Brenk, F. E. 112, 113, 116 Brickhouse, T. C. 46 Broek, R. van den 228 Broer, I. 173, 175 Brown, C. G. 72 Brown, R. E. 210, 221 Brox, N. 237 Bruit Zaidman, L. 247 Brulé, P. 55

322

Index of Modern Authors

Brunschwig, J. 230, 231 Brunt, P. A. 97 Buddeus (Budde), J. F. 78, 89 Bühler, P. 243 Bultmann, R. 210, 215, 216, 218, 222, 224 Burkard, G. 32 Burkert, W. 58, 112, 114, 125, 156 Butler, H. E. 198 Caballos, A. 101 Cadbury, H. J. 195 Camerotto, A. 151 Canart, P. 41 Cancik, H. 69, 73, 109 Cancik-Lindemaier, H. 37 Capelle, W. 44, 45 Casevitz, M. 62 Caster, M. 150 Chadwick, H. 210 Chaniotis, A. 98, 107 Charlesworth, J. H. 214 Chaudhuri, P. 85 Clauss, M. 94, 104, 106 Clay, D. 151, 158 Coady, C. A. J. (Tony) 19 Cohen, D. J. 42 Cole, S. 98 Collins, R. F. 212 Compton, M. B. 196 Conway, C. M. 203, 207 Conybeare, C. 8 Conzelmann, H. G. 180 Corradi, M. 63 Cottrell, E. 66 Crégheur, É. 228, 240 Cudworth, R. 89, 90 Culpepper, R. A. 212, 218 Curtius, L. 104 Dawe, R. D. 49 Decharme, P. 37 DeConick, A. D. 214 DeFilippo, J. G. 77 Degelmann, C. 245 Denzey Lewis, N. 228 DePhilippo, J. G. 246 Derenne, E. 41

Descamps-Lequime, S. 106 Di Benedetto, V. 63 Dickie, M. W. 136, 150, 248 Dixon, D. W. 60 Dodd, C. H. 210 Donaldson, J. 197 Dorival, G. 37 Dover, K. J. 42, 43, 44, 45, 50, 59 Downie, J. x, 131, 132, 142, 143 Drachmann, A. B. 37, 136 Dschulnigg, P. 203, 206 Dubel, S. 151 Dubois, J.‑D. 228, 230, 232 Dunderberg, I. 214, 229, 234 Durkheim, É. 40 Dziobek, E. 26 Eck, W. 101 Edelmann, B. 99 Edelmann-Singer, B. ix, 95, 267 Eden, P. T. 96, 97, 98 Eder, J. 218 Edwards, M. J. 151 Eidinow, E. 59, 109, 168, 245, 246, 247 Ellis, B. A. 58 Emde Boas, E. van 56 Emmel, S. 229 Emmenegger, G. 213 Erdas, D. 42 Estes, D. 204 Fahr, W. 47, 49 Faraguna, M. 42 Faraone, C. A. 348 Farelly, N. 222 Feeney, D. 83 Feldmeier, R. 125 Fernández, F. 101 Festugière, A.‑J. 263 Filonik, J. 59 Finglass, P. 48, 49 Finnern, S. 218 Fishwick, D. 94, 103, 104, 106 Flacelière, R. 112, 113 Fögen, M. T. 262 Fontenrose, J. 118 Forster, E. S. 55 Fortna, R. T. 223



Index of Modern Authors

Fosl, P. S. 87 Foucault, M. 38, 249 Fowler, R. L. 54 Fox, M. xii, ix, 76, 87 Fraser, K. A. 248 Frey, J. 57, 93, 168, 177, 213, 215, 219, 220, 224 Friedrich, H.‑V. 263 Friesen, S. J. 94, 95, 136 Fuentes González, P. P. 158 Fuhrmann, M. 98 Galinsky, K. 94, 95, 244 Gantz, T. 136 Garcia, J. P. 215 Garland, R. 41 Gartenschläger, R. 87 Gawlick, G. 87 Geagan, D. J. 137 Gebhard, Elizabeth 135, 136, 137 Geißler, H. 165, 169 Genette, G. 190 George, A. 31 Giglioni, G. 89 Giuliani, A. 43 Goeken, J. 129, 130, 133, 134, 137, 143 Golden, M. 55 Goldhill, S. 73, 151 Goold, G. P. 250, 252 Gordon, R. L. xi, 93, 248, 249, 252, 261, 264, 265, 267 Gothóni, R. 79 Gradel, I. 96 Graf, F. 65, 148, 156, 157 Graziosi, B. 74, Green, P. 103 Green, S. J. 250, 253 Grotius, H. (Huig de Groot) 207 Grube, G. M. A. 188 Gruber, M. 212 Gummere, R. 14 Gundel, H.‑G. 263 Gundel, W. 254, 263 Hacking, I. 18, 19 Hadot, P. 227, 229, 232, 239 Haensch, R. 71 Hägg, T. 158

323

Hakola, R. 203 Hall, J. 151 Hammerstaedt, J. 122 Harland, P. A. 94, 108 Harrison, T. 47, 57, 109 Hartenstein, J. 203, 206, 214, 217, 224 Haug, C. 88 Haussleiter, J. 185 Hawthorne, J. G. 136 Heckel, T. K. 224 Hegedus, T. 262 Heidel, A. 32 Heineman, K. M. 113, 115 Henrichs, A. 49, 63, 64, 265 Herrmann, P. 108 Higbie, C. 42 Highet, G. 150 Hirsch-Luipold, R. 111, 112, 114, 153, 213, 223, 224 Hodkinson, O. 129, 144 Hoffmann, V. 243 Höfler, A. 142 Hölscher, F. 65 Holzberg, N. 98 Holzhausen, J. 120 Hornblower, S. 65, 66 Horsfall, N. M. 54 Hose, M. 56 Hübner, W. 249, 250, 251, 253, 254, 256, 258, 260, 261, 263 Humble, N. 151 Hunt, S. A. 204, 212, 254 Hurtado, L. W. 221 Hylen, S. 204, 207 Iser, W. 203 Jacobs, F. 145 Jäger, S. 249 Jaillard, D. 113 Jakubiec, A. 58 Jenkyns, R. 69 Jewett, R. 179 Jim, T. 66 Jones, A. 253, 254, 257 Jones, C. P. 150, 158 Jong, I. J. F. de 198, 199 Jonge, M. de 223

324

Index of Modern Authors

Kahlos, M. 79 Kapferer, B. 265 Karadimas, D. 130, 131, 143, 146 Karavas, O. 56, 150 Kasser, R. 234 Kaufmann, F.‑X. 18 Kaufmann-Heinemann, A. 71 Keil, B. 129, 142, 143 Keil, C. F. 217 Kendeffy, G. 227 Kierkegaard, S. 218 Kindstrand, J. F. 145, 146 Kindt, J. 57, 109, 168, 245, 246 King, C. 96, 107 King, K. L. 228 Klein, H. 180 Klöckner, A. 65 Knox, B. 261 Knuuttila, S. 78, 235 Koester, C. R. 219, 224 Komorowska, J. 266 König, J. 73, 137 Konradt, M. 174 Koortbojian, M. 98, 101, 109 Kooten, G. van 127 Kors, A. C. 77 Köstenberger, A. J. 223 Kotansky, R. 264 Kotwick, M. E. 62, 67 Kremer, J. 181 Kühn, W. 232 Kuin, I. ix, 99, 153 La Matina, M. 116 Labahn, M. 215 Lagrange, M.‑J. 216 Lake, K. 185 Lampe, F. A. 210, 217 Lang, M. 215 Langlois, J. 106 Larson, J. 110 Le Boulluec, A. 227, 236, 237, 238 Lee, D. A. 213 Lefkowitz, M. R. 60 Levin, S. 111, 115 Levinson, J. viii Lévy, C. 227, 229, 230, 231, 232, 235, 240, 241

Ley, H. 37 Li, S. Y. 180 Lichtheim, M. 28, 29 Lieban, R. W. 265 Lieberg, G. 72 Lietaert Peerbolte, B. J. 169 Linder, M. 94 Linderski, J. 246 Lloyd, G. 252 Lloyd-Jones, H. 49 Lohfink, N. 31 Long, A. 250, 262 Luthardt, C. E. 217 MacCormack, Sabine 7 MacKendrick, P. L. 87 MacRae, Duncan xii Mahé, J.‑P. 228, 230, 231 Malherbe, A. J. 175 Mandouze, A. 8 Mansfeld, J. 44 Marchand, S. 240 Marcovich, M. 210 Marquis, E. 154 Marrou, H.‑I. 11 Martin, M. 248 Matytsin, A. M. 87 Mayer, F. 88 Maystre, C. 35 McNamara, C. 157 Meert, A. 65 Meid, W. 57 Meißner, N. 288 Merkt, A. 171, 172, 178 Meyer, H. A. W. 216 Mheallaigh, K. ní 151 Millar, F. 107 Modini, F. 128, 140 Moede, Katja 71 Moessner, D. P. xi, xii, 186, 187, 188, 189, 191, 192 Möllendorff, P. von 151 Monat, P. 266 Montet, P. 32 Moore, J. M. 97 Morgan, T. 12, 57 Moser, P. K. 72 Most, G. 206, 208, 209, 210, 215, 223



Index of Modern Authors

Moyer, I. S. 264 Mulroy, D. 81 Mulsow, M. 88 Murphy, E. 25 Murray, O. 65 Musker, R. 253 Muth, R. 71 Nagel, S. 249 Naiden, F. S. 59 Nappa, C. 261 Nauerth, C. 32 Nesselrath, K.‑H. 129, 130, 132 Nestle, W. 156 Neugebauer, O. 247, 253, 254, 258 Nickelsburg, G. W. E. 176 Nicklas, T. vii, x, 167, 168, 169, 170, 172, 174, 176, 178, 213 Niehoff, M. R. viii, 101 Niiniluoto, I. 239 Nongbri, B. viii, 38, 39, 40, 51, 53 North, J. 94 Notomi, N. 64 Nutton, V. 231 O’Brien, K. S. 222 O’Daly, G. 72 O’Meara, J. J. 8 O’Sullivan, P. 64 Ogilvie, R. M. 148 Oikonomopoulou, K. 73 Oliver, J. H. 107 Olson, S. D. 61 Opsomer, J. 124 Orbe, A. 237 Osborne, C. 89 Osborne, R. 65, 168, 246 Osing, J. 33 Ostwald, M. 41 Paganini, G. 88 Pagels, E. 214, 233 Painchaud, L. 230, 231, 240 Pape, W. 217 Parke, H. W. 111, 116, 118, 122 Parker, R. 41, 42, 43, 55, 56, 57, 58, 64, 66, 67, 129, 130, 131, 133,137, 143, 145, 146, 247

Parker, S. 88 Parkinson, R. B. 25 Parmeggiani, G. 44 Pecorella Longo, C. 42 Peppel, M. 109 Pérez Jiménez, A. 256 Pérez-Jean, B. 231 Pernot, L. 129, 134, 138, 143, 151 Petersen, A. K. 53 Petridou, G. 252 Pfeffer, F. 116 Pflugk, U. 208, 209 Philipps, J. T. 88, 90 Piérart, M. 136 Pilhofer, P. 156 Podlecki, A. J. 43 Poirier, P.‑H. 228, 230, 231 Popp, T. 212, 220, 222 Posener, G. 24, 25 Pralon, D. 37 Preisendanz, K. 265 Preston, R. 73 Price, S. F. R. 93, 94, 101, 107, 108, 112 Quack, J. F. 23, 24, 249 Race, W. H. 135, 136, 145 Rackham, H. 3, 14 Radice, B. 102 Rafanelli, L. M. 209 Rajak, T. 189 Reeve, C. D. C. 152 Reger, J. 243 Reid, R. S. 188 Reimann, J. F. 88, 89 Reiser, L. A. 88, 89 Reiterer, F. V. 176 Reitzenstein-Ronning, C. 97 Rescigno, A. 112 Reymond, E. A. E. 35 Richter, D. S. 151 Riedweg, C. 48, 60, 61 Riley, G. J. 214 Ringleben, J. 221 Robbins, F. E. 254 Roberts, A. 197 Robinson, J. M. 228, 230, 233 Romer, F. E. 66

325

326

Index of Modern Authors

Roose, H. 174 Rosenberger, V. 80, 150, 261 Rosenthal, F. 66 Rubel, A. 42, 65 Rubel, G. 220 Rudich, V. 100 Rüggemeier, J. 203, 218 Ruiz, H. J. B. 263 Rüpke, J. viii, 71, 73, 80, 83, 110, 244, 245, 248, 252 Russell, D. A. 129, 130, 144, 145 Russo, G. 149 Rutherford, I. 249 Sachot, M. 79 Saïd, S. 151 Sánchez, A. V. 59 Schäfer, P. 168 Schaff, P. 196 Schaffer, S. 19 Schaper, J. xii Scheid, J. 69, 79, 81, 94, 110, 245 Scheidel, W. 55 Schell, V. H. 176 Schenke, L. 219 Schlapbach, K. 8, 262 Schliesser, B. x, xi, xii, 57, 93, 168, 177, 178, 179, 208, 210, 211, 215, 219 Schlögel, H. 174 Schmid, A. 262 Schnackenburg, R. 206, 210 Schneider, B. 104 Schneiders, S. M. 212, 223 Schnelle, U. 168, 171, 210, 211, 213, 215, 222 Schofield, M. 76, 246 Schrimm-Heins, A. 18 Schröder, H. O. 141 Schröder, S. 112, 119, 120, 123 Schröder, W. 70, 78, 87, 88, 89 Schumacher, T. 168 Schwitzgebel, E. 57 Scott, J. W. 74 Scott, M. 111, 122 Sedley, D. N. 37, 152, 153 Sfameni Gasparro, G. 113 Shapin, S. 18, 19 Sharpe, M. 87 Sidwell, K. 151

Siegert, F. 207, 218 Sihvola, J. 78, 231, 235, 239 Sim, D. C. 172 Simonetti, E. G. 112, 121, 124 Sizgorich, T. N. 1 Skinner, C. W. 204, 212, 214, 219 Smallwood, E. M. 101, 107 Smith, M. F. 122 Smith, N. D. 46, 152 Smith, W. C. 38 Sofroniew, A. 103 Solmsen, F. 79 Sommerstein, A. H. 56 Speyer, W. 72 Spickermann, W. 110, 150 Spinelli, E. 231, 235 Spittler, J. E. vii Spitzel, G. 88 Squires, J. T. 186 Stadter, P. A. 59, 111, 112 Stanford, W. B. 122 Stock, B. 8 Strauss, B. S. 67 Stroumsa, G. G. xii Syme, R. 100 Tajfel, H. 203 Taplin, O. 49 Tardieu, M. 228, 229, 232 Tatum, W. J. 81 Taylor, C. M. 72, 243 Telò, M. 60 Theißen, G. 172 Theobald, M. 224 Thom, J. C. 134 Thomassen, E. 228, 229, 234, 248 Thorsrud, H. 229, 230, 232 Thyen, H. 210, 215, 216 Todd, S. C. 65 Tolmie, D. F. 204, 212 Torallas Tovar, S. 248 Trampedach, K. xi, 119, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125 Trapp, M. 129, 130 Tuckett, C. M. 207, 211, 224 Turcan, R. 69 Ullucci, D. C. 246



Index of Modern Authors

Ueberschaer, N. 57, 93, 168, 177 Urbanová, D. 248 Vaahtera, J. E. 70 Vaan, M. de 57 Van Camp, J. 41 Van den Kerchove, A. xi, 229, 232, 240 van der Horst, P. W. 64 Van Hoesen, H. B. 253, 254, 258 Van Nuffelen, P. 72, 73, 162 Varhélyi, Z. 148, 267 Vassilaki, E. 129 Vergados, A. 129 Verheyden, J. 167, 169, 172, 176, 178 Versnel, H. S. 13, 47, 48, 58, 60, 65, 94, 95, 96, 99, 101, 107, 160 Victor, U. 155 Vogel, M. 182 Volk, K. 73, 98, 250 Wagener, F. 225 Walker, H. J. 244 Walter, L. 221 Wang, S. K.‑H. 206, 213, 216, 222 Watts, J. W. xii Wehnert, J. 172 Weidemann, H.‑U. 173, 175 Weir, R. 112, 114 Weiß, A. 171

327

Weiss, B. 221 Weltecke, D. 58 Wengst, K. 219 Wesele Scholten, B. P. van 87 Whitmarsh, T. viii, ix, 4, 38, 39, 48, 60, 64, 67, 68, 70, 74, 91, 151, 153, 165, 166, 168, 170 Wielema, M. R. 88 Willey, H. 41 Willi, A. 56, 62, 67 Williams, J. 71 Williams, M. A. 228 Wilson, N. G. 144, 145 Wimbush, V. L. xii Winiarczyk, M. 65, 78, 153 Wischmeyer, O. 172 Wolter, M. 177 Wormell, D. E. W. 111, 116, 118, 122 Wright, N. T. 206 Zahn, T. 207, 216, 217 Zecharya-Giordano, M. 47 Zedelmaier, H. 88 Zeller, D. 170, 177, 180, 181 Ziegler, K. 112, 113, 115 Zimmermann, J. J. 89 Zimmermann, R. 204, 212 Zumstein, J. 204, 213, 219

Index of Names, Places, and Subjects Abraham 178−179, 194 Academia/Academician 4, 6, 8, 75, 77 n. 23, 78−80, 87, 115, 116 n. 16, 231, 234 Accerae 108 Achaemenid Empire 248 Acts of the Apostles 176, 185, 196 n. 24, 199−200 Aelius Aristides x, xi, 107, 128−146, 153 Aeneas 82−83 Agrippina the Younger 100, 106 Akhenaten xi, 33, 34 Albertus Magnus 209 Alexander of Abonuteichos 149, 151, 154, 156 Alexander the Great 42, 166 Alexandria 108 Allegory 144 Al-Mubashshir ibn Fātik 66 Amarna xi, 29, 33 Ambiguity 47, 55, 70, 122, 137, 139, 154, 156, 163, 203–207, 218, 220 Ammonios 113, 115, 117 Anaxagoras 42–46, 51, 59 Antigonus of Nicaea 258 Antioch 171, 195, 196 n. 24, 264 Apocalypse of John 172 Apollodorus 66 Apostles 93, 186, 190–191, 193–194, 196, 199–201, 205, 216 Apotheosis 98−99, 109, 136, 138, 141 Apuleius 13, 17 Arabic 251 Arachne 85 Aramaic 216–217 Arethas 149 Aristophanes 43−45, 50−51, 60−64, 66−67, 124 n. 36 Aristotle 122, 138, 143, 244 Aristoxenus 66 Asia (Roman province) 95 n. 9 Asia Minor 107−108, 185 n. 2

Astrology 150, 157, 243–267 Atespatus 106 Athamas 61, 135, 136 ns. 32 and 34, 139 Athens/Athenians viii, ix, xi, 37, 41−45, 47, 51, 53, 56, 57−58, 59 n. 26, 60, 62−67, 115, 125, 154, 158−159, 176, 244, 246−247, 264 Atum 27–28, 33 Augustine viii, 3−4, 7−12, 16−17, 19, 72, 86, 208, 227, 262 Augustus (emperor) 82−84, 86, 94, 95 n. 9, 96, 97 n. 14, 98−100, 101 n. 29, 102−106, 108−109, 262 Auspicia 75, 81, 252 Atheism/Atheist viii, ix, xii, 4, 37−51, 53−68, 69, 70, 72, 74, 77−82, 85−90, 127, 147, 150, 152−155, 163, 166 Babylonia 30, 248, 252, 262–263 Balbus (Quintus Lucilius Balbus) 4−7, 9−10 Baptism 171, 188−190, 193−194, 199−200 Beloved disciple 212, 214 Bethany 205, 207, 220 Boethos 125 Bolos of Mendes 263 Book of Revelation, see Apocalypse of John Borea Soranus 100 Britannia 248 Bruno, Giordano 89 Cadmus 135, 138 Caelicolism 17 Caligula (emperor) 101−102, 107 Caravaggio 209 Cassiciacum 7 n. 20, 8−9 Cassius Dio 95 n. 9, 96 n. 12, 98, 101 Chaldaean 13, 247−248, 252, 254 China 88 Chiron 128 n. 5

330

Index of Names, Places, and Subjects

Christianity ix, xii, 1, 15−18, 5−58, 69, 86, 89, 134, 155, 166−167, 174, 176, 189, 203, 208−209, 213, 221, 228, 243−244, 246, 262 Christology 204–205, 207, 218 Cicero viii-x, 3−8, 10, 15 n. 56, 37 n. 1, 63, 72, 74−81, 83, 86−87, 89−91, 111, 114−118, 122, 124, 141 n. 53, 157 n. 38, 246, 261 Claudius (emperor) ix, x, 96−99, 244 Claudius Marcellus 244 Cleanthes 134 n. 25, 144 Clement of Alexandria 185, 227, 236–238, 239 n. 81, 240–241 Clodius (Publius Clodius Pulcher) 80−81 Comedy, see Humour Constantinople 195–196 Consul 97, 100, 244, 258−259 Coptic 228, 230, 232–234 Corinth 13, 43, 133−137, 139 Cotta (Gaius Aurelius Cotta) 4−7, 10−12, 15, 77 n. 23, 78−79, 246 n. 14 Cotta (Marcus Aurelius Cotta Maximus Messalinus) 103 n. 38 Counter-Reformation 208–209 Craterus of Macedon 42−43, 45 Critias 45 n. 23, 64, 66, 152 Ctesias 41 Cudworth, Ralph 89−90 Cynics/Cynicism 49, 156–160 Cyprian 15 Cyprus 158, 264 Cyranides 264 Cyrene 128 n. 5, 140 n. 52 Dämonen/Dämonenlehre, see Demons Daimonion, see Demons Death 15, 17, 21–28, 30, 33–34, 49, 61, 89, 100, 106, 135–136, 138, 144, 149, 155, 210 n. 36, 212, 213 n. 50, 219–220, 254 Demons 115−118, 120, 126, 181 n. 47 Dedication 95 n. 9, 103−107 Defixiones 248, see also Lamellae Deisidaimonia, see Superstition Delphic Oracle xi, 111−126 Demetrius of Phalerum 43 Demetrius Poliorketes 99 Democritus 14, 63, 248

Demodocus 198 Demonax 147, 151–152, 157–159, 163 Demosthenes 61, 114 Demotic 35 Descartes 19, 87 Destiny, see Fate Diagoras of Melos 48 n. 43, 65−66, 68, 77, 79, 152 Dialectic 45, 80, 91, 122, 124, 233 Didymos (Thomas) 205, 214−217, 220 Didymos Planetiades 115 Dio Chrysostom 143, 153 Diodorus Siculus 25 n. 9, 43−44, 66 n. 55, 188 Diogenes of Apollonia 45 Diogenes of Oinoanda 122, 158 Diogenes of Sinope 157 Diogenes Laertius 227 n. 3 Diogenianus 121, 126 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 71 n. 7, 145 n. 66, 188 Diopeithes 41−44, 46−48, 50−51, 59 Disbelief vii−xi, 1−19, 21−35, 69−91, 102, 141, 204, 221 Divinity ix, 13, 47, 57, 59, 85, 89, 94, 96, 99−102, 106 n. 44, 107 n. 48, 129−131, 136, 139, 143−144, 146, 210 Divinization 96, 99, 101, 109 Divus/Divi 95−96, 98−101, 106 Docetic, Docetism 210–211 Domitian (emperor) 114 Dorotheus of Sidon 251, 258 Doxography 4 n. 8, 8, 231, 233–234, 236, 238 Dreams 9, 30, 132, 244, 248, 265 Durkheim, Émile 40 Education 53−57, 67, 75, 91, 241 Egypt ix, xi, 1 n. 1, 13, 21−35, 40, 107, 131, 138 n. 46, 142, 153, 228−229, 240, 247−250, 254, 258, 263−266 Elea 138 Eleusis, Eleusinian mysteries 65, 158, 163 Elysium 23, 26, 27 Emotion 71, 93, 95, 98 n. 18, 108−109, 127−128, 140, 203, 222 n. 90 Empedocles 248 Emperor cult ix, 93−96, 98, 102, 108−109



Index of Names, Places, and Subjects

Enlightenment ix, x, 38−40, 70, 72, 74, 77 n. 23, 78, 86, 87 n. 52, 91, 195−196, 97 n. 27, 205−206 Ennius 83 Ephorus of Cyme 43−44 Epictetus 158 Epicurus/Epicurean/Epicureanism 4−5, 7, 66, 78−80, 82, 117, 151−152, 154−155, 159, 161−163, 231, 234, 237 Epiphanius 172 n. 23, 237 Epistemology 1−19, 74 Esther 31 Eucharisty 180 Euhemerus 89, 99, 127 Eupolis 67 Euripides 48, 54, 56, 59 n. 24, 60−61, 64, 157 n. 37 Euthymius Zigabenus 208 Euthyphro 41 Evander 82−83 Eyewitness 185, 187–188, 207, 223–224 Fate, the Fates 27, 29, 109, 159–160, 163, 186, 216, 233, 258, 261–262 Fides/Pistis 12−13, 57, 75, 127, 132 n- 16, 179, 252 Fides Christianorum 17 Firmicus Maternus 250, 251 n. 30, 266 Firmius Catus 247 Foucault, Michel 38, 249, 279, 284 Funerary cult 21–24, 26, 27, 35 Galba 262 Galen 62−63, 231 Galilee 186, 191, 194–195, 197 Gallia 104 Gilgamesh 30–31 Giordano Bruno 89 Glycon 54 Gnostic, Gnosticism 167 n. 7, 210, 227–241 Gods (Egyptian, Greek, and Roman) − Ammon 115 − Aphrodite 40, 141, 198 − Apollon 49, 111 n. 2, 112 n. 5, 118−119, 121, 124, 128 n. 5, 141, 152 − Ares 141, 144−145, 198 − Artemis 154

331

− Asclepius 129, 129 n. 7 and 8, 130, 130–132, 141, 148, 254 − Athena 129–130, 139, 141, 158, 161, 163 − Bona Dea 80−81 − Dionysus 129, 135 − Fortuna 70, 108, 258 − Ge 118 − Hephaistos 41, 198 − Hera 135, 139, 141 − Hermes 65, 139 − Jupiter/Jove 84−85, 245, 254, 257−260, 266 − Jupiter Ammon 253 − Mars 253−254, 257−258, 260−261 − Minerva 245 − Momos 99 − Osiris 21–23, 27–28, 33, 35 − Poseidon x, 54, 127−146 − Ptah 34 − Re 21 − Sarapis 128–132, 142–143, 145 − Seth 27 − Tyche 70 − Venus 85, 253, 257−260 − Zeus 46, 49, 55, 62, 66, 106 n. 45, 118, 129−132, 134−135, 141, 143 n. 62, 144−145, 147, 149, 159−163 Gorgias 67 Gregory the Great 18 Gymnasion 56 Hades 25, 144 n. 63 Hadrian 106 n. 45, 155 n. 12, 118, 137 n. 39, 265 Hecataeus of Abdera 25, 30, 44 Heliopolis 265 Heracles, see Hercules Heraclitus 121, 122 n. 30 Hercules 82−84, 129, 141, 147–148, 155 Heresy/Heretic 173, 236−238 Hermetic literature 254, 263 n. 72 Hermippus 65 Herodotus 31, 32 n. 20, 40, 44, 47 n. 39, 48 n. 42, 57 n. 20, 58 n. 21, 114, 119 n. 24, 122 Hesiod 83, 121, 129, 145 Hexameters 119, 121 Hippocratic Corpus 41, 44

332

Index of Names, Places, and Subjects

Hippolytus 83 Hippon (sophist) 67 Historiography 38−39, 43, 67, 83, 189, 198 Homer 59, 65, 121, 127, 129, 133 n. 21, 134−136, 138−141, 143 −146, 163, 190 n. 14, 198 Honorius 17 Horace 103, 106 Horoscope xi, 253–262 Hume 87 Humour 61, 64–65, 67, 143, 147–150, 154, 158 n. 41, 159–160, 163, 198 Hymns 128–137, 140–146 Immortality 22–23, 26, 28, 31, 89, 135 Impietas/Impiety/Impious 4, 6, 44, 59−60, 82, 84, 89, 131, 137, 149, 153−154, 219, 235, 240, 246 Incredulitas 15−17 Ino-Leucothea 128, 134–143, 145 Iphigeneia 154 Irenaeus 185–186, 236, 237 n. 68, 240 Irony 41, 51, 220 Isaeus 55, 279 Islam ix n. 12, xii, 1, 243 Israel 171, 181, 186, 189−194, 197, 199−201 Ius Iurandum 75 Jerusalem 171, 186, 190−195, 197, 198 n. 28 Jesus x, 149, 167 n. 7, 169, 174, 176, 177 n. 34, 180 n. 43, 186, 188−191, 193−197, 199−201, 204−213, 215−225, 233, 237−238 Jews xii, 2 n. 4, 16, 101−102, 107, 153, 191−192, 194, 201 John the Baptist 188, 194 John Chrysostom 195–197, 200 n. 32 Josephus 177, 189 n. 12 Judaism ix, 1, 17 Judas Iscariot 188, 125 n. 102 Judea 194, 197 n. 27 Julio-Claudian Dinasty 99 Julius Caesar 75, 81−82, 84, 86, 95 n. 9, 99 Justice 25, 59, 235, 246 Kephas, see Peter

Kleombrotos 113, 115−116 Kritodemus 254 Lactantius 89 n. 59, 147–148, 27 Lamellae 264 (see also Defixiones) Lamprias 113, 115−117, 125 Lararium 103−104 Late Antiquity 1, 8, 11, 18, 32, 127, 166, 262, 264 Laughter, see Humour Lazarus 205, 207, 216 ns. 62 and 64, 219–221 Livia (empress) 103−106 Locke 87 Logos 135, 143–145, 232 n. 34 Lucian of Samosata ix, x, 99, 122, 147−164 Lucilius 148 Lucius 13 Lucretius 72, 81−82, 84−87, 91, 229 Lycaon 83−85 Lycophron 136 Magic ix, 101, 150 n. 15, 155, 243, 247−250, 251, 261, 263−266 Magician xi, 101, 249 Manicheans 227 n. 6, 228 n. 7 Manilius 250–253, 261 n. 63 Mantic 113, 116, 119, 121−122, 124−126 Mary 211–212, 213 n. 50, 215 n. 61, 216 n. 64 Maximus of Tyre 139 Medea 247 Medicine 41, 150, 248, 252 Megara 136 Melanippe 54, 56 Meletus 41, 46 Melicertes 135–136, 140 n. 52 Menander Rhetor 134 n. 25, 144–145 Metalepsis 198–200 Metaphor 5, 9, 103 n. 40, 192, 219, 221, 223 Metaphysics 7, 10−12, 18−19, 40, 45, 50, 89, 131, 241 Miletus 108 Mnesippus 154 Monotheism 1, 130, 166 Mortuary Cult, see Funerary Cult Moses 1, 16



Index of Names, Places, and Subjects

Muses 119, 121 Mysia 267 Mysteries 10−11, 17, 65−66, 108, 114 n. 11, 116, 137, 154, 158, 163 Mysticism 22, 210–211, 253 Neoplatonism 127 n. 4, 231 Nereids 135–136 Nero (emperor) 98, 100, 103−104, 140 New Academy, see Plato, Platonism New Kingdom 28 Nile 21, 264 Niobe 85 North Africa 227 Oath 60, 62, 75, 100, 107−108, 137, 161 Octavian, see Augustus Odysseus 138–141, 157, 198 Oedipus 48−50 Oinomaos of Gadara 122 Oknos 144 Old Kingdom 21, 24 Olympus 128 n. 5, 141 Omphale 147–148 Orestes 154 Origen 210, 217 Orphics 67 Orthodoxy 50, 82, 86, 88−89, 130 n. 13 Orthopraxy 70, 82 Ostanes 248 Ovid x, 81, 83−86, 91, 103, 106 n. 46, 136, 247 Oxyrhynchus 107 n. 52, 253–257 Paganism 3, 86, 90−92 Palaemon 133–137 Palmomancy 262 Pantheon 83, 96, 98, 99, 136 Papias 185, 216 Parousia 175, 182 Paul x, xii, 9 n. 26, 93, 165, 167−183, 191−192, 195−196, 201, 238 Pausanias 135–137 Pax Romana 124 Peloponnesian War 42−43, 65, 67 Peloponnesus 139 Pelops 28 n. 5, 140 n. 52 Peregrinus (non-citizen) 106

333

Peregrinus (the person) 149, 155−156 Pergamon 95 n. 9, 129 n. 7, 130, 132, 252 n. 35 Pericles 41−44 Peripatetics 43 Persia/Persian 40, 248 Pesach 31 Peter 171, 185, 192−194, 200, 209, 212, 216 Petronius 32 Phaeacia 138 Phaeton 83 Phemonoë 119 Philinus 125 Philipp II. (Macedonian King) 114 Philo of Alexandria 101, 153 Philodemus 63, 66 Philosophy 3–10, 18, 41, 45 n. 28, 46, 50–51, 53, 57 n. 19, 59, 63–64, 66–67, 71–81, 83, 86–90, 98 n. 16, 111–113, 114 n. 11, 118–121, 127–135, 139 n. 58, 141, 143–146, 149, 152, 157–159, 161–163, 210 n. 36, 227–241, 246, 261–262 Philostratus 135 n. 31, 37 n. 41, 140 n. 52 Photius 149 Phryne 56, 126 Physiologus 263 Pietas/Piety/Pious 4, 15 n. 46, 19, 70, 71 n. 6, 74−75, 79, 80 n. 33, 82, 84−86, 89, 103 n. 39, 131, 156, 245−246 Pindar 28–129, 136, 140 n. 52 Pistis, see Fides Plague 48, 67, 195 Platon/Platonism 5, 7, 10−11, 18−19, 41, 46−47, 56, 63−64, 75, 89−90, 117−118, 120 ns. 25 and 27, 126, 127 n. 4, 129, 132 n. 16, 150, 152, 153 n. 25, 210 n. 36, 227−228, 231−232, 234, 237, 239−240, 262 Pliny the Elder 13, 14 n. 41, 248, 263 Pliny the Younger 102 Plotinus 237 Plutarch x, xi, 41−46, 59, 73, 89, 111−126, 127−128, 136, 137 n. 41, 138 n. 46, 143 n. 60, 144, 146, 153 n. 24, 157 n 37, 227, 231, 239−241, 246 Polybius 70−73, 76, 80, 188

334

Index of Names, Places, and Subjects

Polyphemos140 Polytheism 1, 49 n. 52, 130−132, 138, 144 n. 62, 146, 166 Pontus154 Poppaea 100 Porphyry 66, 157 n. 40 Prayer 35, 54, 103, 106−109, 190, 191 n. 15, 237 n. 68 Priest/Priesthood 156−157 − College of Quindecimviri 100 − Delphic 112, 120, 123, 125 − Egyptian 13, 28, 35, 248, 263, 265 − in emperor cult 103, 106 − of Artemis 154 − of Ptah 34 − of Zeus in Pednelissos 106 − Pontifex 4, 6, 15 − Pontifex Maximus 81 Princeps 96, 100, 262 Principate 81, 98, 197 Proconsul 15 Prodicus of Keos 63−64, 66−67 Proof 7, 55, 75, 98, 106, 153, 162, 205, 262 Propertius 252–253 Prophecy/Prophet xii, 41, 49, 51, 115, 117, 123, 125, 149, 154, 159, 169, 180−182, 193 n. 22, 194, 199, 201, 265 Protagoras 63, 67, 77, 79 Protestantism 69−70, 72, 86, 165, 209 Providence 149, 153, 156, 159−163, 186, 233−235, 237 Ptolemy 254–256, 258, 260, 263, 266 Purim 31 Puteoli 108 Pylades 154 Pythagoras/Pythagoreanism 73, 228–229, 248 Pythia 112, 114−115, 117−121, 123−125, 128, 136, 140, 283, 293, 297, 301 Quintus 111, 114, 116, 122 Quirinius 197 Quran 67, 243 Reformation 86, 208–209 Religion/Religio 15, 39 n. 6, 53, 75−76, 79−80, 81 n. 37, 82 Rembrandt 209

Res Publica/Roman Republic 37, 70, 80−81, 93 n. 4, 96, 244, 262 Resurrection 174−178, 190−191, 193, 205−206, 208, 212−214, 218−219, 222, 223 n. 94, 225 n. 102, 230 Revelation (book), see Apocalypse of John Rhetoric 41, 131, 138, 204, 227, 231, 247, 252 Rhodopis 126 Ritual 26, 31, 33, 41, 47, 49, 50 n. 54, 55−56, 69−70, 73, 81−82, 93−94, 98−99, 101−103, 109, 132, 133 n. 20, 137−139, 150, 156−157, 159, 164, 246−249, 263−266 Ruler cult, see Emperor cult Ruth 31 Sacrifice 54−55, 75, 82−84, 93 n. 4, 100−101, 103, 106−108, 116−117, 138, 147−149, 154, 156−159, 161, 163, 179, 244, 246 Sanctitas 75, 246 Sarra 178 Satire 43–44, 50 n. 55, 96–99, 148, 150, 157 Scythia 154, 156 Self-doubt (Selbstzweifel) 180 Semele 135 Senate/Senator 97, 100−101, 247, 266−267 Seneca the Younger ix−x, 13−14, 93, 96−99, 102, 245 Serapion 113, 121 Sethians 234, 236 Sextus Empiricus 77 n. 25, 227 n. 2, 229–232, 235–240 Sicily 65 Sisyphus 136–137 Socrates 41, 45−47, 50, 56, 58 n. 21, 62−63, 65, 152, 158−159, 247, 264 Sophocles 48 Sparta 50, 125 Spinoza, Baruch 87 Statue/Statuette 61, 65, 74, 103−104, 106, 154, 156 Statius 136 Stoa/Stoic/Stoicism 4−5, 7, 10, 73, 78, 87, 88−90, 98, 100, 134 n. 25, 143 n. 62, 144, 157, 161, 228, 234, 236, 245



Index of Names, Places, and Subjects

Strabon 111, 118 Suetonius 98, 108 Superstition 70–71, 79, 82, 87, 90, 93 n. 4, 127, 138, 150, 153 n. 24, 245, 247 Syracuse 65 Tacitus 15, 98, 100, 262 Tertullian 17, 210, 237 n. 68 Thebes 135, 251 Theion/Theia 40−42, 46−51, 117, 153, 246 Theodorus of Cyrene 77, 79 Theodosius II (Eastern Roman Emperor) 17 Theology x, xii, 4, 7, 47, 69−70, 72, 75, 78−79, 81, 85−87, 89, 99, 113, 118, 120 n. 27, 125 n. 41, 128, 130, 132, 165, 167−169, 172−173, 174 n. 28, 182, 211, 222 n. 91, 223 n. 94, 246 Theon 113, 119−122, 124, 126 Theophrastus 44 n. 27, 244, 246 Theophylact 216–217 Thomas Aquinas 208 Thrasea Paetus 100−102 Thucydides 43, 66, 188

335

Tiberius (emperor) 103, 106 n. 46, 262 Timotheus 175 Toland 87 Torah 67 Truth xi, 6–7, 9–11, 14, 23, 25, 38, 49–50, 72, 85–87, 90, 128, 132 n. 16, 142–143, 191, 220–221, 229–230, 233, 236, 238–239, 243, 249, 253, 255, 263, 265 Trygetius 9−10 Twelve Tables 247 Valentinus, Valentinians 228 n. 10 Valerius Maximus 244 Varro 7, 72−73, 81−83, 86 Velleius (Gaius Velleius) 4−6, 9−10, 78−80 Vettius Valens 251, 254 Virgil 81−83, 91 Voltaire 87 Xenophanes 138, 152 Zoroaster 248 Zostrianus 229 n. 10, 232 n. 33, 240–241