Studia Patristica: Papers Presented at the Eighteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 2019; The Cappadocian Writers (12) (Studia Patristica, 115) 9789042947627, 9789042947634, 9042947624

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STUDIA  PATRISTICA VOL. CXV

Papers presented at the Eighteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies held in Oxford 2019 Edited by MARKUS VINZENT Volume 12:

The Cappadocian Writers

PEETERS

LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT

2021

STUDIA PATRISTICA VOL. CXV

STUDIA PATRISTICA Editor: Markus Vinzent, King’s College London, UK and Max Weber Centre, University of Erfurt, Germany Board of Directors (2019): Carol Harrison, Lady Margaret Professor of Divinity, Faculty of Theology and Religion, University of Oxford, UK Mark Edwards, Professor of Early Christian Studies, Faculty of Theology and Religion, University of Oxford, UK Neil McLynn, University Lecturer in Later Roman History, Faculty of Classics, University of Oxford, UK Philip Booth, A.G. Leventis Associate Professor in Eastern Christianity, Faculty of Theology and Religion, University of Oxford, UK Sophie Lunn-Rockliffe, Lecturer in Patristics, Faculty of Divinity, University of Cambridge, UK Morwenna Ludlow, Professor, Theology and Religion, University of Exeter, UK Ioannis Papadogiannakis, Senior Lecturer in Patristics, Department of Theology and Religious Studies, King’s College London, UK Markus Vinzent, Professor of the History of Theology, Department of Theology and Religious Studies, King’s College London, UK Josef Lössl, Professor of Historical Theology and Intellectual History, School of History, Archaeology and Religion, Cardiff University, UK Lewis Ayres, Professor of Catholic and Historical Theology, Department of Theology and Religion, Durham University, UK John Behr, Regius Chair in Humanity, The School of Divinity, History, Philosophy & Art History, University of Aberdeen, UK Anthony Dupont, Research Professor in Christian Antiquity, Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies, KU Leuven, Belgium Patricia Ciner (as president of AIEP), Professor, Universidad de San Juan-Universidad Católica de Cuyo, Argentina Clayton Jefford (as president of NAPS), Professor of Scripture, Seminary and School of Theology, Saint Meinrad, IN, USA

STUDIA  PATRISTICA VOL. CXV

Papers presented at the Eighteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies held in Oxford 2019 Edited by MARKUS VINZENT Volume 12:

The Cappadocian Writers

PEETERS

LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT

2021

© Peeters Publishers — Louvain — Belgium 2021 All rights reserved, including the right to translate or to reproduce this book or parts thereof in any form. D/2021/0602/149 ISBN: 978-90-429-4762-7 eISBN: 978-90-429-4763-4 A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. Printed in Belgium by Peeters, Leuven

Table of Contents Emily Chesley The Mercy of Macrina the Younger: A Portrait of a Way of Life....1 Nathan Howard Epistolary Agōn in the Cappadocian Fathers.......................................11 Gabrielle Thomas ‘Robes of Glory’ – Revisiting Theosis in the Theology of Saint Gregory of Nazianzus..........................................................................19 Georgiana Huian The Human Being in the Poetry of Gregory of Nazianzus.................29 Alessandro De Blasi Gregory Nazianzen’s Canon in Verse: The Poem I 1, 12, On the Genuine Books of the Holy Scripture..................................................41 Kyriakoula Tzortzopoulou The Conceptualization of Envy in Gregory of Nyssa.........................57 Jared R. Bryant Cosmological Trinitarian Polemics in Gregory of Nazianzus’ Theological Orations....................................................................................69 Brendan A. Harris The Spirit as Creator in Gregory Nazianzen’s Or. 41.14....................77 Taylor C. Ross ‘Reformulating’ Gregory of Nyssa’s Reception of Origen.................89 Olympe De Backer Struggling for the Divine Crown: Agonistic Imagery and Perfection in Gregory of Nyssa’s In inscriptiones Psalmorum............................99 Ty Monroe Toward Unity: On the Christology of Gregory of Nyssa...................107 Andrej Kutarňa Light and Likeness in Gregory of Nyssa.............................................125

VI

Table of Contents

Liang Zhang Follow the Guide According to the De vita Moysis of Gregory of Nyssa....................................................................................................133 Ann Conway-Jones Negotiating between Exodus and Paul: Moses’ Transformation in Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Moses 2.217-8..........................................145 Joost van Rossum The ‘Heavenly Bread’ in Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Moses: A Eucharistic or Non-Eucharistic Interpretation?.............................................155 Gabriel Jaramillo El proceder teológico de Gregorio de Nisa en De Vita Moysis e In Canticum Canticorum..........................................................................161 Michael Motia ‘Language is the Author of All these Emotions’: Greek Novels and Christian Affect in Gregory of Nyssa’s Homilies on the Song of Songs.....................................................................................................177 Marion Pragt Organizing Exegetical Knowledge in Syriac Christianity: Extracts from Gregory of Nyssa’s Homilies on the Song of Songs in the London Collection (BL Add. 12168).........................................................187 James F. Wellington Love Intensified: Exploring Gregory of Nyssa’s Noetic-Erotic Revolution.....................................................................................................199 Anthony Vella Gregory of Nyssa’s Understanding of Humility and Poverty in his First Homily on the Beatitudes.....................................................................211 Francisco Bastitta Harriet Compassion to Become Equal: The Shaping of a Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa’s De Beatitudinibus V..........................................................219 Alexander L. Abecina Power in Weakness: Pneumatology in Gregory of Nyssa’s De virginitate, Chapters 7-13............................................................................231 Valentina Marchetto ‘One Heart and One Soul’ (Acts 4:32). Past and Present Unity in Basil of Caesarea...........................................................................................243



Table of Contents

VII

Thomas D. Tatterfield Sympatheia and the Body of Christ in Basil of Caesarea...................255 Sergey Trostyanskiy Units, Limits and the Order of Nature: Basil the Great’s Theory of Time and Creation................................................................................261 Colten Cheuk-Yin Yam Basil on the Souls.................................................................................283 María Alejandra Valdés García La thesis en las homilías De invidia y Adversus eos qui irascuntur de Basilio de Cesarea...........................................................................295 Arnaud Perrot Basil and Amelius................................................................................305 Lillian I. Larsen Evagrius in the Classroom...................................................................313 Rubén Peretó Rivas Attention (προσοχή) in Evagrius of Pontus........................................333 Stuart E. Parsons The Coherence of Evagrius’ Scholia on Proverbs..............................341 Kelly E. Harrison Recipes for Passion: Understanding the Role of Representations, Thoughts and Demons in the Event of Passion in Evagrius Ponticus...353 Daniel G. Opperwall Chained to Grievance, Rotten to the Roots: Evagrius and John Cassian on Sadness............................................................................................367

Abbreviations AA.SS AAWG.PH AB AC ACL ACO ACW AHDLMA AJAH AJP AKK AKPAW ALMA ALW AnalBoll ANCL ANF ANRW AnSt AnThA APOT AR ARW ASS AThANT Aug AugSt AW AZ BA BAC BASOR BDAG BEHE BETL BGL BHG BHL

see ASS. Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen Philolo­ gisch-historische Klasse, Göttingen. Analecta Bollandiana, Brussels. Antike und Christentum, ed. F.J. Dölger, Münster. Antiquité classique, Louvain. Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum, ed. E. Schwartz, Berlin. Ancient Christian Writers, ed. J. Quasten and J.C. Plumpe, Westminster (Md.)/London. Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge, Paris. American Journal of Ancient History, Cambridge, Mass. American Journal of Philology, Baltimore. Archiv für katholisches Kirchenrecht, Mainz. Abhandlungen der königlichen Preußischen Akademie der Wissen­ schaften, Berlin. Archivum Latinitatis Medii Aevi (Bulletin du Cange), Paris/Brussels. Archiv für Liturgiewissenschaft, Regensburg. Analecta Bollandiana, Brussels. Ante-Nicene Christian Library, Edinburgh. Ante-Nicene Fathers, Buffalo/New York. Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, ed H. Temporini et al., Berlin. Anatolian Studies, London. Année théologique augustinienne, Paris. Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament in English, ed. R.E. Charles, Oxford. Archivum Romanicum, Florence. Archiv für Religionswissenschaft, Berlin/Leipzig. Acta Sanctorum, ed. the Bollandists, Brussels. Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments, Zürich. Augustinianum, Rome. Augustinian Studies, Villanova (USA). Athanasius Werke, ed. H.-G. Opitz et al., Berlin. Archäologische Zeitung, Berlin. Bibliothèque augustinienne, Paris. Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, Madrid. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research, New Haven, Conn. A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature, 3rd edn F.W. Danker, Chicago. Bibliothèque de l’École des Hautes Études, Paris. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium, Louvain. Benediktinisches Geistesleben, St. Ottilien. Bibliotheca Hagiographica Graeca, Brussels. Bibliotheca Hagiographica Latina Antiquae et Mediae Aetatis, Brussels.

X BHO BHTh BJ BJRULM BKV BKV2 BKV3 BLE BoJ BS BSL BWAT Byz BZ BZNW CAr CBQ CChr.CM CChr.SA CChr.SG CChr.SL CH CIL CP(h) CPG CPL CQ CR CSCO CSEL CSHB CTh CUF CW DAC

Abbreviations

Bibliotheca Hagiographica Orientalis, Brussels. Beiträge zur historischen Theologie, Tübingen. Bursians Jahresbericht über die Fortschritte der klassischen Altertums­ wissenschaft, Leipzig. Bulletin of the John Rylands Library, Manchester. Bibliothek der Kirchenväter, ed. F.X. Reithmayr and V. Thalhofer, Kempten. Bibliothek der Kirchenväter, ed. O. Bardenhewer, Th. Schermann, and C. Weyman, Kempten/Munich. Bibliothek der Kirchenväter. Zweite Reihe, ed. O. Bardenhewer, J. Zellinger, and J. Martin, Munich. Bulletin de littérature ecclésiastique, Toulouse. Bonner Jahrbücher, Bonn. Bibliotheca sacra, London. Bolletino di studi latini, Naples. Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten Testament, Leipzig/Stuttgart. Byzantion, Leuven. Byzantinische Zeitschrift, Leipzig. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft, Berlin. Cahiers Archéologique, Paris. Catholic Biblical Quarterly, Washington. Corpus Christianorum, Continuatio Mediaevalis, Turnhout/Paris. Corpus Christianorum, Series Apocryphorum, Turnhout/Paris. Corpus Christianorum, Series Graeca, Turnhout/Paris. Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina, Turnhout/Paris. Church History, Chicago. Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, Berlin. Classical Philology, Chicago. Clavis Patrum Graecorum, ed. M. Geerard, vols. I-VI, Turnhout. Clavis Patrum Latinorum (SE 3), ed. E. Dekkers and A. Gaar, Turnhout. Classical Quarterly, London/Oxford. The Classical Review, London/Oxford. Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium, Louvain. Aeth =  Scriptores Aethiopici Ar =  Scriptores Arabici Arm =  Scriptores Armeniaci Copt =  Scriptores Coptici Iber =  Scriptores Iberici Syr =  Scriptores Syri Subs = Subsidia Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, Vienna. Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae, Bonn. Collectanea Theologica, Lvov. Collection des Universités de France publiée sous le patronage de l’Asso­ ciation Guillaume Budé, Paris. Catholic World, New York. Dictionary of the Apostolic Church, ed. J. Hastings, Edinburgh.

DACL DAL

Abbreviations

XI

see DAL Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie, ed. F. Cabrol, H. Leclercq, Paris. DB Dictionnaire de la Bible, Paris. DBS Dictionnaire de la Bible, Supplément, Paris. DCB Dictionary of Christian Biography, Literature, Sects, and Doctrines, ed. W. Smith and H. Wace, 4 vols, London. DHGE Dictionnaire d’histoire et de géographie ecclésiastique, ed. A. Baudrillart, Paris. Did Didaskalia, Lisbon. DOP Dumbarton Oaks Papers, Cambridge, Mass., subsequently Washington, D.C. DOS Dumbarton Oaks Studies, Cambridge, Mass., subsequently Washington, D.C. DR Downside Review, Stratton on the Fosse, Bath. DS H.J. Denzinger and A. Schönmetzer, ed., Enchiridion Symbolorum, Barcelona/Freiburg i.B./Rome. DSp Dictionnaire de Spiritualité, ed. M. Viller, S.J., and others, Paris. DTC Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, ed. A. Vacant, E. Mangenot, and E. Amann, Paris. EA Études augustiniennes, Paris. ECatt Enciclopedia Cattolica, Rome. ECQ Eastern Churches Quarterly, Ramsgate. EE Estudios eclesiasticos, Madrid. EECh Encyclopedia of the Early Church, ed. A. Di Berardino, Cambridge. EKK Evangelisch-Katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament, Neukirchen. EH Enchiridion Fontium Historiae Ecclesiasticae Antiquae, ed. Ueding-Kirch, 6th ed., Barcelona. EO Échos d’Orient, Paris. EtByz Études Byzantines, Paris. ETL Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses, Louvain. EWNT Exegetisches Wörterbuch zum NT, ed. H.R. Balz et al., Stuttgart. ExpT The Expository Times, Edinburgh. FC The Fathers of the Church, New York. FGH Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Berlin. FKDG Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte, Göttingen. FRL Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments, Göttingen. FS Festschrift. FThSt Freiburger theologische Studien, Freiburg i.B. FTS Frankfurter theologische Studien, Frankfurt a.M. FZThPh Freiburger Zeitschrift für Theologie und Philosophie, Freiburg/Switzerland. GCS Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller, Leipzig/Berlin. GDV Geschichtsschreiber der deutschen Vorzeit, Stuttgart. GLNT Grande Lessico del Nuovo Testamento, Genoa. GNO Gregorii Nysseni Opera, Leiden. GRBS Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, Cambridge, Mass.

XII GWV HbNT HDR HJG

Abbreviations

Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht, Offenburg. Handbuch zum Neuen Testament. Tübingen. Harvard Dissertations in Religion, Missoula. Historisches Jahrbuch der Görresgesellschaft, successively Munich, Cologne and Munich/Freiburg i.B. HKG Handbuch der Kirchengeschichte, Tübingen. HNT Handbuch zum Neuen Testament, Tübingen. HO Handbuch der Orientalistik, Leiden. HSCP Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, Cambridge, Mass. HTR Harvard Theological Review, Cambridge, Mass. HTS Harvard Theological Studies, Cambridge, Mass. HZ Historische Zeitschrift, Munich/Berlin. ICC The International Critical Commentary of the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments, Edinburgh. ILCV Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae Veteres, ed. E. Diehl, Berlin. ILS Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, ed. H. Dessau, Berlin. J(b)AC Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum, Münster. JBL Journal of Biblical Literature, Philadelphia, Pa., then various places. JdI Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Berlin. JECS Journal of Early Christian Studies, Baltimore. JEH The Journal of Ecclesiastical History, London. JJS Journal of Jewish Studies, London. JLH Jahrbuch für Liturgik und Hymnologie, Kassel. JPTh Jahrbücher für protestantische Theologie, Leipzig/Freiburg i.B. JQR Jewish Quarterly Review, Philadelphia. JRS Journal of Roman Studies, London. JSJ Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period, Leiden. JSOR Journal of the Society of Oriental Research, Chicago. JTS Journal of Theological Studies, Oxford. KAV Kommentar zu den apostolischen Vätern, Göttingen. KeTh Kerk en Theologie, ’s Gravenhage. KJ(b) Kirchliches Jahrbuch für die evangelische Kirche in Deutschland, Güters­ loh. LCL The Loeb Classical Library, London/Cambridge, Mass. LNPF A Select Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace, Buffalo/New York. L(O)F Library of Fathers of the Holy Catholic Church, Oxford. LSJ H.G. Liddell and R. Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon, new (9th) edn H.S. Jones, Oxford. LThK Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche, Freiburg i.B. LXX Septuagint. MA Moyen-Âge, Brussels. MAMA Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua, London. Mansi J.D. Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, Florence, 1759-1798. Reprint and continuation: Paris/Leipzig, 1901-1927. MBTh Münsterische Beiträge zur Theologie, Münster.

MCom MGH ML MPG MSR MThZ Mus NA28 NGWG NH(M)S NIV NKJV NovTest NPNF NRSV NRTh NTA NT.S NTS NTTSD OBO OCA OCP OECS OLA OLP Or OrChr OrSyr PG PGL PL PLRE PLS PO PRE PS PTA PThR PTS PW QLP QuLi RAC RACh

Abbreviations

XIII

Miscelanea Comillas, Comillas/Santander. Monumenta germaniae historica. Hanover/Berlin. Mediaevalia Lovaniensia, Louvain. See PG. Mélanges de science religieuse, Lille. Münchener theologische Zeitschrift, Munich. Le Muséon, Louvain. Nestle-Aland, Novum Testamentum Graece, 28th edition, Stuttgart. Nachrichten der Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen. Nag Hammadi (and Manichaean) Studies, Leiden. New International Version. New King James Version. Novum Testamentum, Leiden. See LNPF. New Revised Standard Version. Nouvelle Revue Théologique, Tournai/Louvain/Paris. Neutestamentliche Abhandlungen, Münster. Novum Testamentum Supplements, Leiden. New Testament Studies, Cambridge/Washington. New Testament Tools, Studies and Documents, Leiden/Boston. Orbis biblicus et orientalis, Freiburg, Switz., then Louvain. Orientalia Christiana Analecta, Rome. Orientalia Christiana Periodica, Rome. Oxford Early Christian Studies, Oxford. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, Louvain. Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica, Louvain. Orientalia. Commentarii editi a Pontificio Instituto Biblico, Rome. Oriens Christianus, Leipzig, then Wiesbaden. L’Orient Syrien, Paris. Migne, Patrologia, series graeca. A Patristic Greek Lexicon, ed. G.L. Lampe, Oxford. Migne, Patrologia, series latina. The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, ed. A.H.M. Jones et al., Cambridge. Migne, Patrologia, series latina. Supplementum ed. A. Hamman. Patrologia Orientalis, Paris. Paulys Realenzyklopädie der classischen Alterthumswissenschaft, Stuttgart. Patrologia Syriaca, Paris. Papyrologische Texte und Abhandlungen, Bonn. Princeton Theological Review, Princeton. Patristische Texte und Studien, Berlin. Paulys Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, ed. G. Wissowa, Stuttgart. Questions liturgiques et paroissiales, Louvain. Questions liturgiques, Louvain. Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana, Rome. Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, Stuttgart.

XIV

Abbreviations

RAM Revue d’ascétique et de mystique, Paris. RAug Recherches Augustiniennes, Paris. RBen Revue Bénédictine, Maredsous. RB(ibl) Revue biblique, Paris. RE Realencyklopädie für protestantische Theologie und Kirche, founded by J.J. Herzog, 3e ed. A. Hauck, Leipzig. REA(ug) Revue des études Augustiniennes, Paris. REB Revue des études byzantines, Paris. RED Rerum ecclesiasticarum documenta, Rome. RÉL Revue des études latines, Paris. REG Revue des études grecques, Paris. RevSR Revue des sciences religieuses, Strasbourg. RevThom Revue thomiste, Toulouse. RFIC Rivista di filologia e d’istruzione classica, Turin. RGG Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart, ed. Gunkel-Zscharnack, Tübingen RHE Revue d’histoire ecclésiastique, Louvain. RhMus Rheinisches Museum für Philologie, Bonn. RHR Revue de l’histoire des religions, Paris. RHT Revue d’Histoire des Textes, Paris. RMAL Revue du Moyen-Âge Latin, Paris. ROC Revue de l’Orient chrétien, Paris. RPh Revue de philologie, Paris. RQ Römische Quartalschrift, Freiburg i.B. RQH Revue des questions historiques, Paris. RSLR Rivista di storia e letteratura religiosa, Florence. RSPT, RSPh Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques, Paris. RSR Recherches de science religieuse, Paris. RTAM Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale, Louvain. RthL Revue théologique de Louvain, Louvain. RTM Rivista di teologia morale, Bologna. Sal Salesianum, Roma. SBA Schweizerische Beiträge zur Altertumswissenschaft, Basel. SBS Stuttgarter Bibelstudien, Stuttgart. ScEc Sciences ecclésiastiques, Bruges. SCh, SC Sources chrétiennes, Paris. SD Studies and Documents, ed. K. Lake and S. Lake. London/Philadelphia. SE Sacris Erudiri, Bruges. SDHI Studia et documenta historiae et iuris, Roma. SH Subsidia Hagiographica, Brussels. SHA Scriptores Historiae Augustae. SJMS Speculum. Journal of Mediaeval Studies, Cambridge, Mass. SM Studien und Mitteilungen zur Geschichte des Benediktinerordens und seiner Zweige, Munich. SO Symbolae Osloenses, Oslo. SP Studia Patristica, successively Berlin, Kalamazoo, Leuven. SPM Stromata Patristica et Mediaevalia, ed. C. Mohrmann and J. Quasten, Utrecht.

SQ SQAW SSL StudMed SVigChr SVF TDNT TE ThGl ThJ ThLZ ThPh ThQ ThR ThWAT ThWNT ThZ TLG TP TRE TS TThZ TU USQR VC VetChr VT WBC WUNT WZKM YUP ZAC ZAM ZAW ZDPV ZKG ZKTh ZNW ZRG ZThK

Abbreviations

XV

Sammlung ausgewählter Quellenschriften zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte, Tübingen. Schriften und Quellen der Alten Welt, Berlin. Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense, Louvain. Studi Medievali, Turin. Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae, Leiden. Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta, ed. J. von Arnim, Leipzig. Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, Grand Rapids, Mich. Teologia espiritual, Valencia. Theologie und Glaube, Paderborn. Theologische Jahrbücher, Leipzig. Theologische Literaturzeitung, Leipzig. Theologie und Philosophie, Freiburg i.B. Theologische Quartalschrift, Tübingen. Theologische Rundschau, Tübingen. Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament, Stuttgart. Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Neuen Testament, Stuttgart. Theologische Zeitschrift, Basel. Thesaurus Linguae Graecae. Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association, Lancaster, Pa. Theologische Realenzyklopädie, Berlin. Theological Studies, New York and various places; now Washington, DC. Trierer theologische Zeitschrift, Trier. Texte und Untersuchungen, Leipzig/Berlin. Union Seminary Quarterly Review, New York. Vigiliae Christianae, Amsterdam. Vetera Christianorum, Bari (Italy). Vetus Testamentum, Leiden. Word Biblical Commentary, Waco. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, Tübingen. Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, Vienna. Yale University Press, New Haven. Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum, Berlin. Zeitschrift für Aszese und Mystik, Innsbruck, then Würzburg. Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, Giessen, then Berlin. Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins, Leipzig. Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte, Gotha, then Stuttgart. Zeitschrift für katholische Theologie, Vienna. Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche, Giessen, then Berlin. Zeitschrift für Rechtsgeschichte, Weimar. Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche, Tübingen.

The Mercy of Macrina the Younger: A Portrait of a Way of Life Emily Chesley, Princeton University, Princeton, NJ, USA

Abstract Famed as a woman philosopher and teacher, Macrina the Younger’s philosophy never­ theless encompassed more than intellectual ideas. Throughout the Vita sanctae macrinae, Gregory lauds his sister’s life practices, depicting her engaged in community acts of mercy. From meeting the needs of the hungry and the sick, to giving largesse to the impoverished and taking on voluntary poverty, and even to abolishing hierarchy for equality, Macrina embodies the life practices Gregory had advocated earlier in De beatitudinibus. Reading Macrina’s Vita in light of Gregory’s understanding of mercy reveals a way life (πολιτεία or διαγωγή) replete with social compassion and actively engaged with the needs of the world. This underscores the living practice expected from philosophy in late ancient Christianity.

Introduction Φιλοσοφία for late ancient Christians encompassed theoretical wisdom and enacted practice – both one’s intellectual teachings and one’s way of life.1 But when it comes to Macrina the Younger, academic discussions of her as a philosopher have traditionally focused on her intellectual pedagogy, diminishing her manner of living. The scholarly chorus consistently hymns Macrina’s asceticism, virginity, and especially philosophical teaching.2 It chimes, for instance, that Macrina’s monastic chastity was a model of the philosophical life, namely, a ‘life ordered according to a philosophical regimen which separates the soul 1   For an explanation of this phenomenon within Stoic and Epicurean philosophy, see Pierre Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life, ed. Arnold I. Davidson, trans. Michael Chase (Oxford, 1995), 264-70. I am grateful to Nathan Hardy for this reference. 2   See, for example, Anna M. Silvas, Macrina the Younger, Philosopher of God (Turnhout, 2008); J. Warren Smith, ‘A Just and Reasonable Grief: The Death and Function of a Holy Woman in Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Macrina’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 12 (2004), 57-84; Philip Rousseau, ‘The Pious Household and the Virgin Chorus: Reflections on Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Macrina’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 13 (2005), 165-86, 176-7; Joyce E. Salisbury (ed.), Encyclopedia of Women in the Ancient World (Santa Barbara, 2001), 201-2.

Studia Patristica CXV, 1-10. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

2

E. Chesley

from the desires of the body’.3 It emphasizes that Macrina was a ‘virgin ascetic, a teacher, and a spiritual mother’.4 Even when her ‘multiple identities’ are catalogued in some detail – ‘daughter, sister, wife, virgin, widow, mother, ascetic, teacher, illiterate, servant, lady’ – her life practices are generally omitted.5 Nowhere do scholars mention social action, unless one considers ‘ascetic’ somewhat within in that realm. I suspect contemporary writers do so not out of a belief that Macrina lacked a politeia, but out of a well-intentioned enthusiasm at discovering a woman named as ‘teacher’ and ‘philosopher’ in the early Christian movement. That being said, in the fourth century, a Christian teacher’s way of life was at least as important as their philosophical teaching. In Gregory’s first recorded line about his sister he says she was ‘a teacher of life’ (τοῦ βίου διδάσκαλος), one who modelled how to live.6 Later in her biography Gregory describes Macrina’s way of life (πολιτεία and διαγωγή) as generous, sacrificial, and filled with practical deeds of service for the marginalized – as a socially-engaged practitioner of mercy. She had such a ‘high level of philosophy (τοσοῦτον τὸ ὕψος τῆς φιλοσοφίας) and … holy conduct of living (ἡ σεμνὴ τῆς ζωῆς πολιτεία) … that it exceeds the power of words to describe’.7 He makes clear that the character Macrina was to be lauded for her life practices as much for her teaching. An examination of Macrina’s way of life as portrayed by Gregory in the Vita sanctae macrinae will demonstrate that her social actions are primarily the practices of mercy that had been promoted by her bishop brother in his homilies on the Beatitudes (De beatitudinibus). Gregory portrays his sister as an exemplary practitioner of mercy through meeting the needs of the hungry and the sick, voluntary poverty and largesse for those in need, and abolishment of social hierarchy between her and her servants. This brief exploration will, it is hoped, nuance the historiographical conversation on Macrina by reminding of her social engagement emphasized by Gregory. In no way does this deny the teacher motif pervading Gregory’s portrait.

3   J. Warren Smith, ‘The Body of Paradise and the Body of the Resurrection: Gender and the Angelic Life in Gregory of Nyssa’s De hominis opificio’, Harvard Theological Review 92 (2006), 207-28, 224. 4   A. Silvas, ‘Introduction’, in ead., Macrina the Younger, Philosopher of God (2008), 48. 5   Fotis Vasileiou, ‘At a “Still Point of a Turning World”: Privacy and Asceticism in Gregory of Nyssa’s “Life of St. Macrina”’, Byzantion 82 (2012), 451-63, 463. 6   Gregory of Nyssa, The Letters: Introduction, Translation and Commentary, trans. Anna M. Silvas, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 83 (Leiden, 2007), Ep. 19.6. 7   Grégoire de Nysse, Vie de Sainte Macrine, ed. and trans. Pierre Maraval, Sources Chrétiennes 178 (Paris, 1971), 11.13-6; The Life of Saint Macrina, trans. Kevin Corrigan (Toronto, 1997), 28. Hereafter, the critical edition will be abbreviated to ‘VSM’, followed by chapter and line numbers. Where used, the English translation is referenced with page numbers.



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Preliminary notes It is worth noting at the outset that this paper takes as a given the work of feminist theorists and poststructuralists like Elizabeth A. Clark, thus assuming that the Macrina of Gregory’s writings is not identical with the Macrina who lived in the fourth century.8 While traces of the historical Macrina have no doubt found their way into Gregory’s treatises, the historian has little way of determining which details those are, absent extratextual information. This paper makes no attempt to analyze the lived actions of the historical Macrina, only the character Macrina in Gregory’s literary works. Sequentially, the Vita was most likely written after De Beatitudinibus and before De anima et resurrectione. Using Gregory’s correspondence with Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nazianzus, Jean Daniélou dated his ascendancy to the bishopric of Nyssa to AD 372,9 and placed Macrina’s death in December 379.10 Some scholarly disagreement remains over the date of composition of Gregory’s two longer works on Macrina, yet consistent agreement that the Vita was written prior to De anima. The biography must have been completed no later than AD 383 and the treatise by 385.11 Scholars cannot date the homilies precisely, but Stuart George Hall concluded those on the Beatitudes were most likely preached during the first part of his episcopacy, between AD 372 and his exile that lasted from AD 376-378.12 8   Elizabeth A. Clark, ‘The Lady Vanishes: Dilemmas of a Feminist Historian after the “Linguistic Turn”’, Church History 67 (1998), 1-31; ead., ‘Holy Women, Holy Words: Early Christian Women, Social History, and the “Linguistic Turn”’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 6 (1998), 413-30; Hayden White, ‘The Question of Narrative in Contemporary Historical Theory’, History and Theory 23 (1984), 1-33; id., ‘The Fictions of Factual Representation’, in ​Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore, 1978), 121-34; Alan Megill, ‘Objectivity for Historians’, in Historical Knowledge, Historical Error: A Contemporary Guide to Practice (Chicago, London, 2007), 107-24; Ellen Muehlberger, ‘Salvage: Macrina and the Christian Project of Cultural Reclamation’, Church History 81 (2012), 273-97, 275; Morwenna Ludlow, Gregory of Nyssa, Ancient and (Post)modern (Oxford, 2013), 206-14. 9   Jean Daniélou, ‘Grégoire de Nysse à travers les lettres de Saint Basile et de Saint Grégoire de Nazianze’, Vigiliae Christianae 19 (1965), 31-41, 32. 10   J. Daniélou, ‘Grégoire de Nysse à travers les lettres de Saint Basile et de Saint Grégoire de Nazianze’ (1965), 39. 11   Pierre Maraval dates the Vita sanctae macrinae to between late-380 and 383 (Pierre Maraval, ‘Introduction’, in Vie de Sainte Macrine, par Grégoire de Nysse [Paris, 1971], 67). Fabio Gasti estimates it was written towards the end of 380, though possibly as late as 382 or 383 (Fabio Gasti, ‘La Vita Macrinae: note di Lettura’, Athenaeum 79 [1991], 161-83, 161). Muehlburger simply states the VSM must have been written after Letter 19 and prior to 383 (E. Muehlberger, ‘Salvage’ [2012], 274-5). Daniélou dates De anima et resurrectione to AD 381, while Muehlberger estimates a slightly later date of 384 or 385 (Jean Daniélou, ‘Le traité “Sur les enfants morts prématurément” de Gregoire de Nysse’, Vigiliae Christianae 20 [1966], 159-82, 181; E. Muehlberger, ‘Salvage’ [2012], 275). 12   Stuart George Hall, ‘An Introduction to the Text and Translation’, in Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Beatitudes: an English Version with Commentary and Supporting Studies; Proceedings of the Eighth International Colloquim on Gregory of Nyssa (Paderborn, 14-18 September

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Gregory on mercy Throughout his homilies, particularly on the Beatitudes and Ecclesiastes, Gregory reveals a deeply-rooted concern for social engagement – in today’s language, social justice. He repeatedly urges his parishioners to cultivate empathetic hearts and practical responses to human need, which, collectively, he calls ‘mercy’.13 In sermons 1, 3, and 5 on the Beatitudes, he defines and describes three aspects to practicing mercy. First, mercy means responding with compassion and giving practical help to those in need – who include widows, orphans, prisoners, the sick, the one unjustly accused in court of law, and the socially disgraced.14 True mercy requires compassion and then a response with action. Gregory says, ‘Mercy is a voluntary sorrow that joins itself to the sufferings of others’, which must be followed by taking steps to ameliorate those sufferings.15 Second, mercy involves voluntarily donating one’s wealth for the poor and even choosing poverty oneself, following the example of Christ.16 To those who would guard their wealth instead of spending it on those in need, Gregory warns: ‘You have shut up in the safes mercy along with your riches. You have relinquished mercy on earth’.17 Drawing on the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, he defines largesse as mercy and warns of a divine punishment for failing to practice it.18 Showing mercy involves choosing not to waste one’s resources on pleasures but spending them for the poor, and then actually becoming poor. Thirdly, and this seems the most crucial practice in Gregory’s characterization, mercy requires levelling differences to establish equality within society – between rich and poor, free and enslaved, powerful and disempowered.19 He preaches evocatively in sermon 5: Life is in many ways divided up into opposites, since it may be spent as slave or as master, in riches or poverty, in fame or dishonour, in bodily infirmity or in good health – in all such things there is division. Therefore, the creature in need should be made 1998), ed. Hubertus R. Drobner and Albert Viciano, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 52 (Leiden, 2000), 15. 13   I am grateful for Francisco Bastitta Harriet and his work on Gregory’s concept of compassion, which has confirmed my own reading of the homilies (Francisco Bastista Harriet, ‘Compassion to Become Equal: The Shaping of a Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa’s De Beatitudinibus V’, in this volume, p. 219-30). 14   Gregory of Nyssa, The Lord’s Prayer. The Beatitudes, trans. Hilda C. Graef, Ancient Christian Writers 18, ed. Johannes Quasten and Joseph C. Plumpe (Westminster, London, 1954), Sermon 3, pp. 106-7; Sermon 5, pp. 132-3. 15   Ibid., Sermon 5, pp. 132-3. 16   Ibid., Sermon 5, pp. 136 and 141; Sermon 1, pp. 95-6. He supports his call to give one’s wealth away by citing Matthew 19:21 and 19:27, and Psalm 111:19 (Sermon 1, pp. 95-6). 17   Ibid., Sermon 5, p. 141. 18   Ibid. 136. 19   Ibid., Sermon 1, p. 87; Sermon 5, pp. 132-4.



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equal to the one who has a larger share, and that which goes short should be filled by what has abundance; this is the law mercy gives men in regard to the needy.20

Mercy seems to form the Christian’s basic response to the world. Each of these three merciful practices Gregory urges upon his parishioners, and each of these three practices Gregory later describes in the Vita pervading Macrina’s life. Gregory elevates Macrina’s social actions alongside praising her philosophical teaching. The merciful life of Macrina The history of Macrina and her brothers is well-known, so a repetitive narrative may be omitted. It will suffice to emphasize one biographical point that is crucial to grasping the extent of her merciful life in Gregory’s portrayal: namely, their family’s privilege and wealth. Gregory places details about her family’s position in society throughout the narrative. Like all her siblings, Macrina was born into a household surrounded by servants and wealth.21 The family was, if not patrician, certainly of high status: ‘according to the standard of this world ... well born and from noble stock’.22 Their father was ‘very well thought of’ for his level of education and known throughout Pontus.23 The family was so wealthy they owned property in three provinces and thus paid taxes to three governors.24 They had enough resources to send their eldest son, Basil, to Constantinople and Athens for higher education, where he studied with the future emperor, Julian.25 And although the family had nine children, their parents amassed such a fortune that upon their deaths, even splitting the inheritance nine ways every child, claims Gregory, was more prosperous than their parents.26 He describes his family’s situation throughout the text, their wealth and privilege underscoring Macrina’s personal sacrifice and generosity in her acts of mercy. Meeting Practical Needs of the Hungry, the Sick, and the Widow We turn now to an analysis of these merciful practices in Macrina’s life. Throughout the Vita, as a recurring theme, Gregory depicts her feeding the   Ibid., Sermon 5, p. 132.   VSM 7.2-5. Gregory terms their lifestyle κομπωδεστέραν (7.3). 22   VSM 5.7-9; Life of Macrina (1997), 38. Daniélou calls theirs a ‘senatorial’ family belonging to the ‘Cappadocian aristocracy’ (J. Daniélou, ‘Le traité “Sur les enfants morts prématurément” de Gregoire de Nysse’ [1966], 159). 23   VSM 21.9-10; Life of Macrina (1997), 38. 24   VSM 5.38-9. 25   Rosemary Radford Ruether, Gregory of Nazianzus: Rhetor and Philosopher (Oxford, 1969), 19 n. 7, 23-4. 26   VSM 20.14-20. 20 21

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hungry, healing the sick, and caring for widows. This is the first aspect of practicing mercy. Gregory claims she ‘never stopped working her hands in the service of God’ and ostensibly never asked a human being for aid or sought luxuries.27 Using one’s own hands seems symbolically important to him; throughout the Vita he stresses when characters – including his mother, Basil, Naucratius, Peter, the ascetic women Lampadion and Vestiana, Macrina, and even he himself – perform actions with their own hands.28 Gregory refers to life in the community of Basil and Macrina as filled with work done by one’s own hands (τὸν ἐργατικὸν τοῦτον καὶ αὐτόχειρα βίον).29 Through such language, Gregory emphasizes the physicality of service. Macrina herself served rather than merely delegating service to someone else. Gregory states she never turned away anyone who asked for aid.30 Macrina tended to the ill, both by bringing them into her house and by performing healing miracles.31 During a famine, we are told, Macrina travelled through the countryside, finding women ‘who had been left prostrate along the roadways … and she had picked them up, nursed them, brought them back to health…’32 These women were starving or ill or both, and Macrina intentionally sought them out to care for their physical needs. Reporting two miracles of healing that Macrina effected through prayer, Gregory further illustrates her concern for the sick.33 He comments that Macrina performed miracles providing never-ending food during a time of famine and curing illnesses.34 Though Gregory’s main authorial focus here is on the miraculous, likely intending to shore up her saintly portrayal, the miracles’ content connects to an essential aspect of practicing mercy: meeting people’s practical needs for healing and sustenance. Macrina also devoted herself for years to caring for her widowed mother, Gregory narrates.35 She carried out practical tasks of administration and household duties like baking bread.36 Gregory describes Macrina’s involvement as offering both practical help and emotional support. He writes, ‘Macrina was a partner to her [mother] in all these tasks, taking an equal share in her worries and alleviating the burden of her sufferings (τὸ βαρὺ τῶν ἀλγηδόνων ἐπικουφίζουσα)’.37 She assumed practical tasks of running an estate and offered personal   VSM 20.24-6; Life of Macrina (1997), 37.   See, for example, VSM 3.2-3; 4.1-3; 5.29-35; 8.22-26; 17.3-8; 38.2-3, 27-8. 29   VSM 6.11-2. 30   VSM 20.28-9. 31   For a discussion of Macrina’s ascetic community as more ‘pious household’ than institutional convent, see P. Rousseau, ‘The Pious Household and the Virgin Chorus’ (2005), 165-86. 32   Life of Macrina (1997), 44. 33   VSM 31.1-33 and 37.1-38.36. 34   VSM 39.1-13. 35   VSM 5.16-43. 36   VSM 5.27-30. 37   VSM 5.41-3; Life of Macrina (1997), 24. 27 28



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comfort to her widowed mother. Besides demonstrating her filial piety, Gregory forefronts Macrina as a merciful caretaker of a widow, in so doing further following biblical guidelines. By her deeds, prayers, and administration, Macrina fed the hungry, healed the sick, cared for her widowed mother, and helped local community members in want. The merciful practice of meeting physical needs that Gregory had earlier promoted in his homilies, he here describes pervading his sister’s life. Voluntary Poverty & Donation of Wealth Gregory also presents Macrina as practicing mercy through largess and caring for the poor, a second theme of his homilies. She voluntarily entered into a life of poverty, living below her station and fortune. Gregory recounts, ‘Macrina persuaded her mother to give up their accustomed way of life (κομπωδεστέραν διαγωγή), their rather ostentatious life-style and the services she had previously been accustomed to receive from her maids…’38 On the daughter’s influence, the two women surrendered their wealth and formed a community of ascetic women. Macrina took on poverty to such a degree that when Gregory arrived at her deathbed some years later, he found her lying on a plank of wood resting on the ground and covered in rough sackcloth, with another piece of wood for a pillow.39 At the same time as Gregory’s portrait ties to tropes of self-abasement in ascetic literature, it also serves to provide concrete evidence for the extent of Macrina’s financial generosity. This was a far cry from the ‘ivory-inlaid beds and couches’ which were an option for the ultrarich of Cappadocia at the time.40 According to Gregory, Macrina donated all of her massive inheritance to be used for the poor, following the example of the early church found in Acts 4.41 Upon her death, she is said to have owned only the clothes on her back and a small necklace with an iron cross and ring.42 She had not even set aside nicer clothes for her burial, which concerned Gregory.43 Testifying to Macrina’s obedience to the biblical pattern, Gregory reports a conversation with a deaconess Lampadion, wherein she informs him the storage closets are   VSM 7.3; trans. Corrigan, Life of Macrina (1997), 25.   VSM 16.13-9. 40   St Basil the Great, ‘To the Rich’, in On Social Justice, trans. C. Paul Shroeder, Popular Patristics Series 38 (Crestwood, 2009), 49. Both Basil and Gregory decried the ostentatious buildings and lifestyles of the wealthy in their sermons. As bishops of urban centers they would have had plenty of opportunities to view lavish displays of wealth, but one wonders how much they experienced in their own upbringings. Basil, ‘To the Rich’ (2009), 45 and 49; Gregory of Nyssa, ‘The Third Homily’, in Homilies on Ecclesiastes, Proceedings of the Seventh International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa, ed. Stuart George Hall, trans. Stuart George Hall and Rachel Moriarty (Berlin, 1993), 319.11-322.16, 62-4. 41   VSM 20.20-33. See also Acts 4:35. 42   VSM 29.12-8. 43   VSM 28.10-29.29. 38 39

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literally bare because Macrina kept no personal possessions. She explains, ‘there is nothing laid by in hidden chests or chambers in reserve. She [Macrina] knew of only one repository for her own wealth, the treasury of heaven. There she stored everything, and left nothing behind on earth’.44 In multiple vignettes throughout the Life, Gregory describes complete generosity and detachment from wealth. In this regard, too, Macrina incarnates his model of extending Christ’s mercy to society. Abolishing Hierarchy The last and most crucial aspect of mercy in Gregory’s social theology is levelling of societal differences, and this too, emerges in Macrina’s portrait. Besides rejecting her inherited wealth and donating it to the poor, Macrina made choices that actively eliminated differences in status within her household. After the death of their father, Macrina ‘persuaded her [mother] to put herself on an equal footing with the many in spirit and to share a common life with all her maids (καταμῖξαι τὴν ἰδίαν ζωὴν τῇ μετὰ τῶν παρθένςν διαγωῇ), making them sisters and equals instead of slaves and servants’.45 At Macrina’s prompting they abolished all differences between the family and their servants, and all lived together in equality, sharing responsibilities around the estate, which eventually evolved into a kind of ascetic community.46 Macrina may have prompted an official ‘process of manumission’.47 The whole community dwelt as equals, eating the same food, sharing the same sleeping quarters, ‘with every difference of rank eliminated from their lives’.48 Here, at the climax of Gregory’s narrative – and the nadir of Macrina’s station in the eyes of the world – Gregory specifies that her philosophy and life practices were the reasons for her spiritual prestige: τοσοῦτον τὸ ὕψος τῆς φιλοσοφίας καὶ ἡ σεμνὴ τῆς ζωῆς πολιτεία ἐν τῇ ... διαγωγῇ.49 Through their philosophy and equalizing way of life, they were ‘removed from all of life’s vanity and fashioned in harmonious imitation of the life of the angels’ (πρὸς μίμησιν τῆς τῶν ἀγγέλων διαγωγῆς ἐρρυθμίζετο).50 This was not the first time Gregory had connected holy living with reflecting the divine image. In the concluding lines of De Beat. VI, he urged his audience to pursue the life of virtue, take up the divine image, and become pure in heart, ‘so that that we might become blessed, with the divine image shaped in us by a pure way   VSM 29.17-21; trans. Corrigan, Life of Macrina (1997), 45.   VSM 7.2-8; Life of Macrina (1997), 25. 46   VSM 7.1-11 and 11.1-48; Nyssa later pairs Macrina’s ascetic community with Basil’s monastery (VSM 16.1-6). 47   P. Rousseau, ‘Pious Household and the Virgin Chorus’ (2005), 183. 48   VSM 11.9-13; Life of Macrina (1997), 28. 49   VSM 11.13-5. 50   VSM 11.20; Life of Macrina (1997), 28. 44 45



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of life…’ (ἵνα γενώμεθα μακάριοι, τῆς θείας εἰκόνος ἐν ἡμῖν μορφωθείσης διὰ τῆς καθαρᾶς πολιτείας).51 Macrina’s way of life was one of equalizing mercy. When Gregory also praises his sister’s community for their spiritual practices of prayer, meditation, and singing, calling them the community’s ‘work’ (ἔργον), the reader cannot help but remember that this vision of communal spirituality was only made possible by Macrina’s liberating choices.52 Her choice to equalize differences of status is so significant to Gregory’s understanding that he repeats it several pages apart, adamant that his readers remember this fact about Macina.53 This episode of attaining equality with her servants is the only story Gregory tells twice in the biography, emphasizing just how crucial this point is for him. He had stressed this aspect of mercy in his sermons, and here again he underscores Macrina’s commitment to equality. Beyond simply caring for the poor with her resources, she also associated herself with them. She rejected hierarchy and chose to live in equality with her former servants. At the end of her life, Macrina had nothing in the eyes of the world. No wealth, no special social standing. She dwelt in a ‘remote place’ in the countryside,54 far from the center of society. Yet, we are told, no fewer than the bishop of the region, ‘the full complement of his clergy’, ‘two other distinguished clergy’, and ‘a large group of deacons and attendants’ participated in her funeral.55 Gregory reports there was such a crowd of people come to mourn Macrina that it took a full day to transport her body about one-and-a-half kilometers.56 What could have prompted this outpouring of passion? To ascribe it to Macrina’s philosophical prowess – Gregory’s most enduring portrait of his sister to judge by academic discussion – seems unlikely. Would πάντες οἱ περιοικοῦντες, to use his phrase, have flooded in in recognition of her philosophical teachings?57 Would they have come to laud a teacher of asceticism? Or might they have revered her far more for her acts of mercy for the sick and the poor in their midst, for her miracles, and for her compassion? The final vignette recounted by Gregory again stresses her merciful participation in society. On his return from the funeral, Gregory is met by a military man who had come   Gregorii Nysseni De Oratione Dominica. De Beatitudinibus, ed. Johannes F. Callahan, Gregorii Nysseni Opera VII/2 (Leiden, 1992), Oratio VI, p. 148, lines 19-20; Gregory of Nyssa, The Beatitudes, trans. H.C. Graef (1954), adapted. 52   VSM 11.27-33. 53   VSM 7.1-8 and 11.13-4. 54   VSM 33.20-1. Gregory twice calls her monastery remote (ἐσχατιάν), but he says in the same breath that it was a mere seven or eight stadia from the church in which his parents were buried. As Corrigan says, this was only 1.5 kilometers, hardly a remote distance from town (Nyssa, Life of Macrina [1997], 69 n. 85). 55   VSM 33.23-4, 34.2-4, 9-11; Life of Macrina (1997), 49. This would be two bishops, if one counts Gregory himself. 56   VSM 34.15-8. 57   VSM 33.4. 51

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to pay his respects and told Gregory through tears that Macrina had miraculously healed his daughter of a serious eye infection.58 The episodes Gregory chooses to recount in her Vita suggest that Macrina’s beloved status in the community was due to her acts of healing and service, to her practices of mercy. One of Gregory’s messages seems to be that even women ascetics, whose asceticism, according to Kimberly D. Bowes, was grounded in the socially acceptable private locale of a home, were still expected to demonstrate their spirituality through incursions into the public sphere – through public acts of mercy.59 Furthermore, in describing her life of consistent mercy, filled with practices Gregory expects of all Christians, Macrina is elevated as a pattern for all. Unlike her philosophical teachings, which guide learned elite like Gregory into truth in De anima, her way of life stands open to all. Through her merciful deeds, Macrina enters and impacts the public realm. Conclusion Throughout his sermons on the Beatitudes, Gregory urges his listeners to lives of active mercy. He defines that mercy as meeting the physical needs of the hungry, the ill, the sick, and the widowed; as giving away one’s wealth for the poor and assuming voluntary poverty; and as abolishing hierarchy and differences of status. He preaches that, filled with compassion and prompted by a concern for equality, all people should practice mercy or risk being denied mercy in the final divine judgement. When viewed against the backdrop of this summons to practice mercy, the Macrina in Gregory’s Vita stands out as a paradigm for the Christian. She cares for the physical needs of the sick and the hungry as well as of her widowed mother. She gives away her enormous wealth for the poor and voluntarily assumes poverty, ostensibly preserving nothing for herself. She even actively eliminates class differences within her community. Point for point, the character of Macrina matches Gregory’s definition of what practicing mercy entails. While the figure Macrina undoubtedly remains a philosopher and spiritual teacher throughout his writings, Gregory also celebrates her manner of life. Another harmony line should be added to the song about Macrina: in addition to teaching philosophy and doctrine, Macrina exemplifies for Gregory a socially-engaged Christian woman active with community-changing mercy.

  VSM 38.1-36.   Kimberly D. Bowes, Private Worship, Public Values, and Religious Change in Late Antiquity (Cambridge, 2008), 204-12. 58 59

Epistolary Agōn in the Cappadocian Fathers Nathan Howard, University of Tennessee at Martin, TN, USA*

Abstract In a perspective inherited from second sophistic predecessors, fourth-century pepaideumenoi (individuals trained in paideia) believed that aretē (manly virtue) had to be earned and it had to be proven repeatedly. This article shows how epistolary discourse provided literati a venue for circulating such social signals. In letters addressed to select addressees, the Cappadocian Fathers appealed to two timeless truths: first, that leading men (agathoi) emanated from settings of contest. And second, that classical Greece provided episodes of agōnes (‘contests’ or ‘struggles’) that illustrated ideal virility. A cross-section of letters by Basil, Nazianzen, and Nyssen (the Cappadocian Fathers) illustrates that these clergymen used epistolary composition to identify with ideals of manhood from classical Greece such as courage and resolve. With an emphasis on the Greek past as the crucible of masculinity, I argue, the Cappadocians staged letter exchange as a discourse analogous to the feats of warfare, athleticism, and oratory. Through such parallels, the Cappadocians re-inscribed the heritage of agōnes as their own, subsequently integrating the ideals of elite manhood into the collective consciousness of the church and identifying the proNicene episcopacy with classical notions of aretē.

In 382 Gregory of Nyssa composed an epistle for the Cappadocian sophist Stagirius, who had previously sent a letter asking Gregory, in his capacity as bishop, to order rafters for a house.1 Stagirius had jested that bishops ‘are difficult to catch in a net’; shifty, that is, and difficult to obtain favors from. 2 Gregory replied with ridicule. First he pretended to applause Stagirius, praising him for extracting the phrase of ‘catching in a net’ from some ‘secret sanctuary of Plato’.3 Gregory was mocking him for applying such an obscure term. Similar improprieties had been specified by famous rhetoricians such as Lucian of *  Research for this article was made possible by funding from the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and the Marco Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Studies at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville. 1   Stagirius’ letter is found in the corpus of Gregory’s epistles as GNy, Ep. 26; On Stagirius’ identity, Anna Silvas, Gregory of Nyssa: The Letters (Leiden, 2006), 202; PLRE 1: 851; MarieMadeleine Hauser-Meury, Prosopographie zu den Schriften Gregors von Nazianz (Bonn, 1960), 157-8. 2  GNy, Ep. 26 (Silvas); for the meaning of this phrase, from the word δυσγρίπισον, see Silvas, Gregory (2006), 202 n. 416. 3  GNy, Ep. 27 (Silvas).

Studia Patristica CXV, 11-17. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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Samosata (ca. 120-180), who criticized the use of ambiguous words.4 Gregory then quipped that the art of sophists ‘consists of levying a toll upon words’ and he indicted such teachers for ‘putting up their own wisdom as merchandise just as the harvesters of honey do with their honey-combs’.5 Gregory was insinuating that Stagirius pandered his craft. Such antics did not authorize him (according to Gregory) to demean ‘slippery’ bishops. Gregory continued by accusing Stagirius of ‘making a parade of your Persian declamations’.6 The implication was that Stagirius was writing in Asiatic verse, an overly theatrical style that some literati associated with eastern decadence.7 Gregory completed his response by stating that he had ordered rafters of equal number to the soldiers who fought at Thermopylae – an allusion to the number ‘300’ as chronicled by Herodotus.8 The rafters, he stated, were of good length and they ‘cast a long shadow’ (δολιχόσκιος), a Homeric epithet drawn from the Iliad that referred to the powerful spears hurled in combat between Paris and Menelaus.9 Thus Gregory countered the sarcasm in Stagirius’ petition by answering that he would fulfill the request with his patronage, which he likened to a weapon. Whereas Stagirius had approached him with flamboyance, he was implying, Gregory was satis­ fying the entreaty with a supply of durable materials. And he was equating the provisions to the courage of hoplites at Thermopylae against a larger Persian force. The metaphor issued a contrast to Stagirius’ display of affectation and underscored Gregory’s use of Atticism, a manner of writing that represented the antithesis to Asianism.10 In this exchange, Gregory was one-upping his competitor. The interchange between Gregory and Stagirius recalled the verbal sparring prevalent in the Second Sophistic (ca. 100-250), a cultural movement of the first three centuries in which public displays of erudition entertained audiences and garnered fame or dishonor depending on the merits of the performance.11 The   E.g. Lucian, Lexiphanes 24 and Rhetorum praeceptor 17. See discussion of Lucian on oratory in Erik Gunderson, Staging Masculinity: The Rhetoric of Performance in the Roman World (Ann Arbor, 2000), 149-73. Also see the emphasis on clarity in letters by Philostratus of Lemnos, de Epistulis 2.257.29 and Pseudo-Libanius, Epistolary Styles 47-8. 5  GNy, Ep. 27 (Silvas). The phrases are reminiscent of an account in which a Cynic philosopher at Athens commented on a chair of rhetoric: ‘Lollianus does not sell bread but words’. Philostratus, Vitae Sophistarum 1.23 (Wright). 6  GNy, Ep. 27 (Silvas). 7   Tim Whitmarsh, The Second Sophistic (Oxford, 2005), 50-4. 8  GNy, Ep. 27 (Silvas). 9  GNy, Ep. 27 (Silvas); Herodotus, Histories, 7.60 and 8.24-5; Iliad 3.346, 355. 10   T. Whitmarsh, The Second Sophistic (2005), 50-4. 11   See the ancient work Philostratus, Vitae; modern works Simon Goldhill, ‘Rhetoric and the Second Sophistic’, in Cambridge Companion to Ancient Rhetoric, ed. Erik Gunderson (Cambridge, 2009), 228-41; Thomas Schmitz, Bildung und Macht: Zur sozialen und politischen Funktion der zweiten Sophistik in der griechischen Welt der Kaiserzeit (Munich, 1997); Maud Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome (Princeton, 1995); Graham Anderson, The Second Sophistic: A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire (New York, 1993). 4



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encounter thus re-enacted the agonistic setting of the classical polis, where years of strenuous mental and physical training singularized the agathoi (best citizens).12 Here, athletes, soldiers, and orators from the past presented models of aretē (manly virtue) for fourth-century audiences.13 As pepaideumenoi, products of elite Greek education, Gregory and Stagirius commanded an arena to highlight aretē, the courage that stood out in their ancient forebears. Epistolary exchange represented one such context, where the Cappadocians re-contextualized agōnes, competitions associated with conspicuous display. The Cappadocians framed epistolary discourse as a form of contest, thus identifying themselves with a select group of correspondents that circulated honor through reenactments of classical performance. Consequently, these clergy reinforced the habitus14 – the values, dispositions, and expectations – of a provincial aristocracy that identified itself with cultural preeminence in eastern Roman communities.15 In a worldview inherited from their Second Sophistic predecessors, fourthcentury pepaideumenoi believed that aretē had to be earned and it had to be proven an indefinite number of times. Epistolary discourse provided literati a venue for circulating social signals that united the educated elite in a collective 12   Martin Bloomer, ‘Schooling in Persona: Imagination and Subordination in Roman Education’, Classical Antiquity 16 (1997), 57-78; Bloomer states that such exercises ‘with their projection of idealized social and family order are a kind of social comfort, a reassurance to and from the elite as well as linguistic training of that elite’, 58. In addition to education, athletics also delineated the best citizens and provided a context to exhibit superiority. See Nigel Nicholson, Aristocracy and Athletics in Archaic and Classical Greece (Cambridge, 2005), 2. 13   A practice they shared with non-Christians like Libanius, who ‘found some comfort in commiserating with “the best of the Greeks”’, referring to the fifth-century BC rhetorician Aristides. See Raffaella Cribiore, ‘Vying with Aristides in the Fourth Century’, in Aelius Aristides between Greece, Rome, and the Gods, ed. W.V. Harris and Brooke Holmes (Leiden, 2009), 263-78. L. Stephanie Cobb, Dying to Be Men: Gender and Language in Early Christian Martyr Texts (New York, 2008), 33-59. Karen Bassi describes a similar dynamic in her study of ancient Greek drama, which she characterizes as nostalgia for ‘a reunion with the normative masculine subject of antiquity’. Karen Bassi, Acting Like Men: Gender, Drama and Nostalgia in Ancient Greece (Ann Arbor, 1998), 4. Kristoffel Demoen, Pagan and Biblical Exempla in Gregory Nazianzen: A Study in Rhetoric and Hermeneutics (Turnhout, 1996); Demoen tracks the use of exempla across a wide range of Nazianzen’s texts and examines them according to genre. 14   Pierre Bourdieu, Language and Symbolic Power, ed. and intro. John B. Thompson, trans. Gino Raymond and Matthew Adamson (Cambridge, MA, 1991); see Introduction by John Thompson, 14ff. 15   Raymond Van Dam, Kingdom of Snow: Roman Rule and Greek Culture in Cappadocia (Philadelphia, 2002), 77-156; Peter Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire (Madison, WI, 1992), 3-70; Sophie Métivier, La Cappadoce (IVe-VIe siècle): Une histoire provinciale de l’Empire romain d’Orient (Paris, 2005), 77-108; Chantal Vogler, ‘L’Administration Impériale dans la Correspondance de Saint Basile et Saint Grégoire de Naziance’, in Michel Christol, Ségolène Demougin, Yvette Duval, Claude Lepelley and Luce Pietri Vogler (eds), Institutions, Société et vie politique dans l’Empire romain au IVe siècle ap. J.-C., Actes de la table ronde Autour de l’œuvre d’André Chastagnol (Paris, 20-21 janvier 1989) (Rome, 1992), 447-64.

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sense of nobility. In letters addressed to a select coterie of elites, the Cappadocians appealed to two timeless truths: first, that great persons are born out of conflict. And second, that ancient Greece provided episodes of agōnes that illustrated authentic manhood. The courage evident in figures from the past, therefore, was to be celebrated and relived in the words and deeds of correspondents. Harking back to settings of struggle from the Greek past, the Cappadocians managed epistolary exchange as an exertion born out of rivalry. Written words emanated, therefore, from the same lineage as feats of warfare, athleticism, and oratory. Each of these activities involved physical strain that pervaded contests of virtue. Ancient Greek athletes manifested aretē through corporeal demonstrations of strength. Fourth-century literati, by analogy, spoke of composition as a laborious regimen. The Cappadocians depicted epistolary exchange as bodily duress, similar to how second sophistic writers had personified public speaking as corporeal labor. The ideal male of classical Greece had accrued status not only through mental distinction, but also through physical feats. Intellectual and corporeal discipline, that is, went hand in hand. Gregory of Nazianzus thus called to mind the ‘sweat proper to eloquence’ when he reminisced to his friend Philagrius about their studies in rhetoric at Athens.16 Gregory responded to Basil in similar fashion after receiving a letter from him: ‘O eloquence! Athens! Virtues! The sweat from eloquence!’.17 Gregory was acknowledging their shared education and praising Basil for the epistle, a clear demonstration of Basil’s power with words. The famous rhetorician Libanius similarly praised one of his students, who ‘on hearing Aeschylus’ remark that in mortals virtues are born from toils … considered sweating over his books more pleasant than carousing’.18 For pepaideumenoi, the exacting nature of literary sophistication deemed the intelligentsia worthy of glory. The trope of struggle had deep-seated roots in the Greek intellectual sphere.19 In Gorgias Plato indicated that the virtue of a thing – tool, body, soul, or animal – came about through structure and correctness.20 The proper use of rhetoric, he insinuated, was attainable only through rigorous testing. Eloquence could be acquired only at great cost. The telos of manhood likewise was dependent on having risen to the challenges that confronted him. As Gregory repeated refrains about sweating and toiling, he was prompting readers to remember the sacrificial nature of their positions. Illustrations of bodily strain, in particular, conveyed the severity that delineated truly great persons.   On ‘sweat of eloquence’, see GNy, Ep. 30.  GNy, Ep. 46, from Bradley Storin, Gregory of Nazianzus’s Letter Collection: The Complete Translation (Berkeley, 2019). 18  Libanius, Ep. 92 (Bradbury). 19   In Greek mythology, moreover, climactic conflicts gave rise to gods, goddesses, and humanity. E.g. Hesiod, Theogony and Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound. 20  Plato, Gorgias 506d. 16 17



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In an epistle from the late 360s or early 370s Basil similarly penned his thoughts about rulers and the benefits of education: ‘If a man has sweated much for eloquence, if he has directed the government of nations and cities … I consider it right and proper that his life be placed before us as an example of virtue’.21 For Basil, fluency of speech involved hardships that qualified a man for the confrontations of public office. His notion of strict pedagogy, ‘sweating for eloquence’ (λόγων ἱδρῶν), corresponded to the theme of severity in his Address to Young Men, a text in which Basil instructed young Christian men on the merits and challenges of studying ancient non-Christian literature.22 Basil stated that the path to excellence was ‘rough at first and hard to travel, and full of abundant sweat and toil…’23 Basil took his cue from Hesiod, who had famously personified Badness as near to humanity and within easy access. Goodness, on the other hand, was separated from mankind by ‘the sweat of our brows’, yet easy to approach ‘when a man has reached the top’.24 Hesiod’s portrayal of the Good and Bad suggested that moral rectitude comes through labor. Basil replayed this sentiment as he reminded students of the story of Heracles. This Greek hero, at the same age as these young men were, had to choose between two roads, one easy (leading to Vice) and one hard (Virtue). Heracles chose the latter, which was full of ‘countless sweating toils and labors’, but by following it, he became a god.25 Keying off of Hesiod, Basil deployed this taxonomy to distinguish the seasoned intellectual from his untried counterpart. He was calling attention to the long-held dichotomy that linked manliness to harshness and femininity to softness. His world of pepaideumenoi belonged to men who had proven themselves by overcoming tribulations. Scholarship in the past twenty-five years has emphasized similar correlations between gender and rhetorical training in ancient oratory. For Maud Gleason, the regimen that went into succeeding as a speaker was ‘a calisthenics of manhood,’ while Rafaella Cribiore described paideia as a mental versus physical askēsis. Cribiore cites a number of references to Libanius talking about pedagogues as ‘gymnasts of the mind’ and ‘athletes of the logoi’.26 Such epithets reflect the literary and compositional exercises of epistolary writers. Years of laborious preparation had earned literati the right and duty to show off their  Basil, Ep. 24 (slight alteration of Deferrari).   This text is notoriously difficult to date. See discussion in P.J. Fedwick, ‘A Chronology of the Life and Works of Basil of Caesarea’, in Basil of Caesarea: Christian, Humanist, Ascetic: A SixteenHundredth Anniversary Symposium, ed. P.J. Fedwick. vol. 1 (Toronto, 1981), n. 100, 18-9. 23  Basil, Ad adul. 5.3-4 (Deferrari); Hesiod, Works and Days 287-92. 24  Hesiod, Works and Days, 287-92 (Evelyn-White). 25  Basil, Ad adul. 5.12-3 (Deferrari); Xenophon, Memorabilia 2.1.21. 26   M. Gleason, Making Men (1995), xxii and 159-68; Raffaela Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton, 2005), 128, 222. Cribiore cites references to this terminology in Libanius’ Ep. 140.2; Or. 23.24.2-4, 11.187, 12.54; Ep. 548.3, 1020.3, and 309.1. 21 22

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superior craft. If training for oral performances enabled second sophistic speakers to manifest virility, composing epistles offered occasions for clergy to assert their own literary expertise and to validate their credibility by celebrating epistles from well-versed writers. Sporting imagery underscored the contested setting in which the Cappadocians participated. ‘For who is such a coward and so unmanly, or so inexperienced in an athlete’s labours, that he is not strengthened for the struggle’, Basil wrote to a colleague. ‘For you were the first to strip for the noble course of piety’.27 In classical Greece, the gymnasium provided the setting for the strict regime that cultivated athletes and soldiers.28 Through writing and receiving epistles, pepaideumenoi proved their worthiness as successors to these former heroes, thus linking themselves with paragons of manhood from a celebrated past.29 The epistolary agōn, that is, served as their gymnasium and stadium; a crucible of masculinity unsullied by the gender fluidity attendant to performance sites such as the classical theatre. Textual fluency became a measure of individual excellence, simulating the corporeal splendor attributed to Greek athletes. The aesthetics of eloquence were mimetic and, according to Basil, required constant fashioning by ‘good artists who trained their students with many demonstrations’.30 Metaphors of exertion worked well because writing at the sophisticated level of these individuals represented a struggle both with others and within oneself. The conventions of the epistle made it a most personal form of writing, mimicking the face-to-face interaction of wrestlers, debaters, or warriors. Like the agōn of warfare, sport, or oratory, epistolary exchange depended on training, determination, and risk. Fellow literati shared, discussed, and evaluated the texts, thus holding letters up to scrutiny. Above all, composition called for an active role on the part of the writer and demanded that he respond to complex circumstances through a vast repertoire of models while using the encoded language of the elite. Through such epistolary exchanges, the Cappadocians re-inscribed the heritage of agōnes as their own, subsequently integrating the ideals of elite manhood into the collective consciousness of the church and identifying the pro-Nicene episcopacy with classical notions of aretē. By compelling pepaideumenoi to compose letters, and by holding up certain values embedded in Greek lore, the bishops were forging a convergence of clerical authority and elite social status. The ideal of eloquence as a mark of manhood, moreover, derived from their  Basil, Ep. 222 (Deferrari).   Debra Hawhee, Bodily Arts: Rhetoric and Athletics in Ancient Greece (Austin, 2005), 30-9, 110-3. 29   For examples of performative literature rooted in classical Greece, see Rosalind Thomas, ‘Performance and Written Literature in Classical Greece: Envisaging Performance from Written Literature and Comparative Contexts’, in Frank Korom (ed.), The Anthropology of Performance: A Reader (Malden, MA, 2013), 26-35. 30  Basil, Ep. 71 (Deferrari). 27 28



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years of training in paideia: from the curriculum and oratorical displays of the second sophistic that informed their conceptions of contest; to the exertions and competitive zest through which they composed letters. The Cappadocians prompted others to write, judged on style, and celebrated letters with the same spirit of honor that characterized physical exertion in classical Greece. Having been prompted to exhibit classical ideals of manliness, correspondents were expected to uphold standards expected of noble men: sacrifice, courage, and justice. While refashioning the aretē that was visible in virile figures of the past, therefore, the Cappadocians were legitimizing themselves among provincial and imperial elites.

‘Robes of Glory’ – Revisiting Theosis in the Theology of Saint Gregory of Nazianzus Gabrielle Thomas, Yale Divinity School, New Haven, CT, USA

Abstract Discussions concerning Saint Gregory Nazianzen’s doctrine of theosis have come to the fore in recent decades with commentators disputing both the interpretation of theosis and the doctrine’s principal source of inspiration. Some scholars argue that theosis is ‘real’ (Susanna Elm and Christopher Beeley) or ‘ontological’ (John McGuckin), whilst others contend for a metaphorical interpretation (Norman Russell and Donald Winslow), or else, argue that Nazianzen’s use of theosis is ‘rhetorical’ (Vladimir Kharlamov). Added to this, commentators dispute whether Nazianzen appropriates to his doctrine of theosis the Platonic notion of imitation (Norman Russell), the Stoic depiction of kinship with the divine (Boris Maslov, Susanna Elm), or Neo-Platonic thought (Dayna Kalleres). Torstein Tollefsen and Philippe Molac, on the other hand, explore biblical sources of inspiration. This study aims to contribute to this debate by arguing that as well as his extensive use of philosophical concepts, and biblical sources, Gregory draws on the exegetical tradition, ‘robes of glory’ to inform his account of theosis. Added to this, supporting Elm and Beeley, the study will argue that Gregory’s adaption of the tradition suggests that he intended theosis literally.

Introduction Over the past few decades, scholars have focused their attention on Nazianzen’s account of theosis, offering varied interpretations of the doctrine. Arguments include interpreting theosis as a ‘metaphor’,1 a ‘rhetorical’ device,2 or as Susanna Elm and Christopher Beeley argue, theosis is ‘not a metaphor’ but rather is 1  Norman Russell, The Doctrine of Deification in the Greek Patristic Tradition (Oxford, 2004), 213-25; Jules Gross, translated by Paul Onica, The Divinization of the Christian According to the Greek Fathers (Anaheim, 2002), 197; Paul M. Collins, ‘Between Creation and Salvation: Theosis and Theurgy’, in Vladimir Kharlamov (ed.), Theosis: Deification in Christian Theology Vol. 2 (Cambridge, 2012), 192-204, 67; Donald F. Winslow, The Dynamics of Salvation: A Study in Gregory of Nazianzus (Cambridge, MA, 1979), 179-200. 2   Vladimir Kharlamov, ‘Basil of Caesarea and the Cappadocians on the Distinction between Essence and Energies in God and its Relevance to the Deification Theme’, in Vladimir Kharlamov (ed.), Theosis: Deification in Christian Theology. Vol. 2 (Cambridge, 2012), 100-45, 120.

Studia Patristica CXV, 19-28. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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‘real’.3 Theosis is also described as an ‘ontological transformation’ of humankind,4 or even as ‘an extraordinary kind of being in a state of blessedness’.5 These diverse interpretations are in part a result of further debates over the principal sources which inspire Gregory’s theosis. In these discussions scholars identify different streams of philosophical thought as the primary reference points for Gregory’s development of the doctrine. These vary between Platonic,6 Neo-platonic,7 or Stoic.8 Philippe Molac and Torstein Tollefsen explore biblical sources, although not with a view to contributing to the ‘metaphorical’ or ‘literal’ debate. This study aims to contribute to the debate by exploring theosis against the backdrop of the first three chapters of Genesis, which describe the creation of the human being (Gen. 1), the creation of Adam and Eve (Gen. 2) and their subsequent banishment from the Garden of Eden (Gen. 3). By attending to Gregory’s account of the human being in paradise along with his description of the sequence of the fall and its affect upon Adam and Eve, this study will argue that Gregory draws on the exegetical tradition, ‘robes of glory’ to inform his account of theosis. Gregory’s use of this tradition, along with his description of the qualitative transformation of the human person through the fall, suggests that he intended theosis literally, supporting claims made by Elm and Beeley. In focusing upon the first chapters of Genesis, I follow Gregory’s own approach in On Holy Pascha, in which he writes: ‘Come into paradise with Jesus in order to understand from what you have fallen’.9 For Gregory, the most effective way to describe to his reader, how to move forward on the journey of theosis, is to revisit the human person as s/he is described in Genesis 1; namely, an image of God, to which we will return shortly.10 3   Susanna Elm, Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome (Berkeley, 2012), 180; Christopher A. Beeley, Gregory of Nazianzus on the Trinity and the Knowledge of God: In Your Light We Shall See Light (Oxford, 2008), 119. 4  John A. McGuckin, ‘The Strategic Adaptation of Deification in the Cappadocians’, in Michael J. Christensen and Jeffery A. Wittung (eds), Partakers of the Divine Nature: The History and Development of Deification in the Christian Traditions (Madison, 2007), 95-114, 95. 5   Torstein Theodor Tollefsen, ‘Theosis According to Gregory’, in Jostein Børtnes and Tomas Hägg (eds), Gregory of Nazianzus: Images and Reflections (Copenhagen, 2006), 257-70, 259. 6   N. Russell, The Doctrine of Deification (2004), 217; Andrew Louth, ‘The Fathers on Genesis’, in Craig A. Evans, Joel N. Lohr and David L. Petersen (eds), The Book of Genesis: Composition, Reception, and Interpretation (Leiden, 2012), 561-78, 573. 7   Dayna Kalleres, ‘Demons and Divine Illumination: A Consideration of Eight Prayers by Gregory of Nazianzus’, Vigiliae Christianae 61 (2007), 157-88, 169. 8   Boris Maslov, ‘The Limits of Platonism: Gregory of Nazianzus and the Invention of Theosis’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 52 (2012), 440-68; S. Elm, Sons of Hellenism (2012), 180. 9   Oration 45.24 (PG 36, 656C). Translations are my own unless otherwise noted. 10   Gabrielle Thomas, The Image of God in the Theology of Gregory of Nazianzus (Cambridge, 2019).



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Gregory’s Account of Theosis Despite being renowned for his neologism ‘theosis’, Gregory uses theosis on only nine occasions in his forty-five orations and once in over seventeen thousand lines of poetry.11 Why then, given his relatively infrequent use of theosis, is this the precise word which continues to be used in contemporary Christian theology to describe the process through which a human becomes god? One answer to this is that whilst Gregory uses theosis reservedly, he weaves the theme throughout his corpus. Gregory’s development of theosis is just one example of the influence he exerted upon both his contemporaries and later Christian theologians. That there is little agreement over how to interpret theosis is not wholly surprising since Gregory himself wonders on the mystery of humans becoming god, asking ‘Who was I at first? And who am I now? And who shall I become?’ Gregory’s own answer to this is ‘I don’t know clearly’.12 Across his corpus, Gregory provides a comprehensive account of theosis, including beliefs about God,13 the Holy Spirit,14 baptism,15 confession of correct doctrine,16 the Eucharist,17 mystery,18 immortality,19 the Christian life,20 participation,21 Christ’s sufferings,22 doing good,23 spiritual warfare,24 knowledge of God,25 pastoral responsibility,26 and eschatology.27 For Nazianzen, as for the Christian theologians writing before him, humans becoming divine is possible through the incarnation, for it is Christ, who is the “image of the invisible God” (Col. 1:15) in the proper sense. Nazianzen interprets Colossians by describing Christ as the “identical Image” on no less than 11   Contra Russell, The Doctrine of Deification (2004), 214. He argues that Gregory employs theosis frequently. 12   Carm. 1.2.14 (PG 37, 757, 17). 13   Carm. 1.1.10 (PG 37, 469, 56-61); Oration 23.12 (SC 270, 304). 14   Orations 31, 40, 41, passim. 15   Carm. 1.1.9 (PG 37, 464, 90-4); Oration 40 (SC 358, passim). 16   Oration 23.12 (SC 270, 304); 31.4 (SC 250, 282); 34.12 (SC 318, 218). 17   Oration 25.2 (SC 284, 160). 18   Oration 38.11 (SC 358, 124-6). 19   Oration 38.13 (SC 358, 134); Carm. 1.1.8 (PG 37, 452, 75). 20   Carm. 1.1.2 (PG 37, 622, 555-64). 21   Oration 7.23 (SC 405, 240); Frederick W. Norris, ‘Deification: Consensual and Cogent’, Scottish Journal of Theology 49 (1996), 411-28, 413. 22   Carm. 2.1.34 (PG 37, 1313, 83). 23   Oration 17.9 (PG 35, 976B-D). 24   Oration 2.22-5 (SC 247, 118-24); 11.5 (SC 405, 338-40); 17.9 (PG 35, 976B-D); 40.10 (SC 358, 216-8). 25   Oration 14.23 (PG 35, 887A); 28.17 (SC 250, 134-6); 38.5 (SC 358, 110-2). 26   Oration 2.22 (SC 247, 118-20); 2.73 (SC 247, 186). 27   Oration 4.121 (SC 309, 286-8); 14.20 (PG 37, 881D-884B); 20.1 (SC 270, 56-8); 43.48 (SC 384, 226-8).

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twenty occasions throughout his orations and poetry, thus securing the incarnation as the possibility for theosis.28 On at least eight occasions, Gregory draws on the work of earlier theologians such as Irenaeus and Athanasius, whose interpretation of Scripture led them to understand the incarnation as a divine exchange.29 He writes: ‘Let us become like Christ, since Christ became like us. Let us become gods for his sake, since he became human for our sakes’.30 Moreover, he cites explicitly texts such as Exodus 7:1, Psalm 82:6 (81:6 LXX), in which humans are described as gods.31 It is notable that on some occasions Gregory accompanies talk of theosis with the phrase ‘dare I say’ – implying that he understands that theosis is a bold claim.32 Scholars, who argue that theosis should be interpreted metaphorically, do not appear to take into account Gregory’s own awe at his claim. Instead, they draw conclusions from a singular statement in Oration 42: Let us say then, on the one hand, that a creature is ‘of God’ (κτίσα δέ, θεοῦ μὲν λέγεσθω) for even this is a great thing to be said about us, but ‘God’, not at all (θεὸς δὲ μηδαμῶς). Only then will I accept graciously that a creature is God, whenever even I become literally God. It is like this: If it is God, it is not a creature, for the creature is classed with us who are not god. But if it is a creature it is not God, for it began in time’.33

Gregory’s comment follows his resignation from his role as Archbishop of Constantinople. He resigned because of his failure to persuade the members of the Council of Constantinople to recognise explicitly in the creed the Holy Spirit as consubstantial with the Father and the Son.34 In this ‘Farewell’ oration Gregory lays out the doctrine of the Trinity for the last time in office; he is not speaking about human deification, but rather the deity of the Holy Spirit. Gregory’s argument is that the Holy Spirit deifies the human person precisely because the Holy Spirit is God and not a creature, therefore it is precisely because the Holy Spirit, who is God, deifies the human being at baptism that theosis should be taken literally. Earlier, in this same oration, Gregory argues 28   ἡ ἀπαράλλακτος εἰκών, Oration 38.13 (SC 358, 132); 1.4 (SC 247, 76); 2.98 (SC 247, 216); 4.78 (SC 309, 200); 14.2 (PG 35, 860C); 14.7 (PG 35, 865C); 29.17 (SC 250, 212); 30.3 (SC 250, 230); 30.20 (SC 250, 268); 45.9 (PG 36, 633C); Carm. 1.1.2 (PG 37, 402, 8-10); 1.2.1 (PG 37, 533, 145); Ep. 101.32 (SC 208, 50); et al. 29   Haer. 5, Praef.; De Incarn. 54. 30   Oration 1.5 (SC 247, 78); 29.19 (SC 250, 218); 30.14 (SC 250, 256); 32.14 (SC 318, 114); Carm. 1.1.11 (PG 37, 471, 9-10); 1.2.14 (PG 37, 762, 92). 31   Oration 40.6 (SC 358, 206) and Epistle 101.44 (SC 208, 54). See Carl Mosser, ‘The Earliest Patristic Interpretations of Psalm 82, Jewish Antecedents, and the Origin of Christian Deification’, Journal of Theological Studies 56 (2005), 30-74, 58; Torstein Theodor Tollefsen, ‘Theosis According to Gregory’, in Jostein Børtnes and Tomas Hägg (eds), Gregory of Nazianzus: Images and Reflections (Copenhagen, 2006), 257-70, 259. 32   Oration 14.23 (PG 35, 887A); 36.11 (SC 318, 264); 38.7 (SC 358, 116). 33   Oration 42.17 (SC 384, 86). 34   Carm. 2.1.11 (PG 37, 1839-50).



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that baptism is fulfilled in ‘name’ and ‘reality’ through the Trinity. This suggests that the ‘reality’ of theosis is just that:‘real’.35 How then, should we understand the doctrine? Let us turn next to the interpretation of the first three chapters of Genesis and to the ‘robes of glory’, which I argue, will contribute to current discussions. ‘Robes of Glory’ The exegetical tradition ‘robes of glory’ takes its inspiration from the angelic and kingly identity of the human being who, in Genesis 1:26-8, is made according to the image of God.36 This is read alongside Psalm 8:4-8, which draws on Genesis 1:26-8 to wonder at God’s care for the human being and to proclaim that God has crowned her with glory and honour.37 The tradition appears in a wide range of sources such as Rabbinic, Gnostic, Islamic, Manichaean, and the Syriac Christian tradition.38 Eastern Christian monks read and copied such traditions, which describe ‘progressive illumination and transformation, increasing godlikeness’.39 ‘Robes of glory’ has a complex reception, taking numerous twists and turns which are beyond the scope of this study; relevant to this study is the way it describes human beings at creation and the events surrounding the fall. In Genesis the sequence moves through these phases: Adam and Eve are naked and without shame (Gen. 2:25); Adam and Eve perceive their sin and feel shame (Gen. 3:7); the Lord gives to them robes of skin (Gen. 3:21). Due to its particular exegesis of Genesis 1-3 and by reading it together with Psalm 8, ‘robes of glory’ draws the conclusion that God gave Adam and Eve a glorious covering at creation. They lost this through the fall, after which they were given ‘robes of skin’.40 Important to this reading is the way in which Adam and Eve   Oration 42.16 (SC 384, 84).   Stephen N. Lambden, ‘From Figleaves to Fingernails: Some Notes on the Robes of Adam and Eve in the Hebrew Bible and Select Early Postbiblical Jewish Writings’, in Paul Morris and Deborah Sawyer (eds), A Walk in the Garden: Biblical, Iconographical and Literary Images of Eden (Sheffield, 1992), 74-90. The tradition is also referred to as ‘garments of glory’. 37   James L. Kugel, Traditions of the Bible: A Guide to the Bible as it was at the Start of the Common Era (New York, 2009), 113. 38   Saint Ephrem, Hymns on Paradise, trans. Sebastian P. Brock (Crestwood, NY, 1990). For further explanation, see Ross Shepherd Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph: A Late Antique Tale of the Biblical Patriarch and His Egyptian Wife, Reconsidered (Oxford, 1998), 266-7; Hannah Hunt, ‘Clothed in the Body: the Robe of Flesh and the Robe of Glory in Syrian Religious Anthropology’, SP 64 (2013), 167-76. 39   Bogdan G. Bucur, ‘From Jewish Apocalypticism to Orthodox Mysticism’, in Augustine Casiday (ed.), The Orthodox Christian World (Oxford, 2012), 466-80, 477. 40   Erik Peterson describes the effects of the robes of skin upon the human person as a metaphysical change in, ‘Theologie des Kleides’, Benediktinische Monatsschrift zur Pflege religiösen und geistigen Lebens 16 (1934), 347-56. 35 36

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experience shame because of their loss of glory and the addition of their robes of skin. Rather than covering up their shame, the robes of skin are the cause of shame because they have replaced the gloriously luminous covering given by God at creation. The only way for the glorious robe to be restored is through baptism, during which the baptised ‘put on’ Christ, whose body is the ‘robe of glory’. Gregory does not name the ‘robes of glory’, which has led some scholars to contend that he does not draw on the tradition.41 Contrary to this, Donald Sykes argues that Gregory does use the tradition but provides no evidence for his conclusion.42 I will argue that Gregory’s adaption of the tradition is revealed in three ways; firstly, in his description of human beings as angelic at creation; secondly, the depiction of theosis with respect to ‘robes of incorruption’; and thirdly, Gregory’s allegorical reading of the fall. Firstly, in his account of creation Gregory describes the human being as ‘another angel’, connecting this directly to theosis: God placed upon the earth … another angel … overseer of visible creation, an initiate of the spiritual (creation), king of that which is on earth … A living being, provided for here and being transferred elsewhere, and, to cap the mystery off, being made god by her inclination towards God.43

Since angels are ‘closest to God’ and are ‘second lights’, the depiction of the human being as ‘another angel’ is significant.44 For example, Gregory states, ‘the mortal human is your glory anew, whom you placed here as an angel, composing songs of praise of your splendour, O Light’.45 By consistently comparing humans to angels – prior to the fall or post-baptism – Gregory reminds his readers that humans are glorious and luminous also, and thus echoes the ‘robes of glory’. This relates directly to the way in which Gregory describes the devil’s jealousy at the splendour of humankind: ‘The purer he sees you, the 41   Peter Bouteneff, Beginnings: Ancient Christian Readings of the Biblical Creation Narratives (Grand Rapids, 2008), 174. 42   Claudio Moreschini and Donald A. Sykes, St Gregory of Nazianzus: Poemata Arcana (Oxford, 1997), 248. 43   Oration 38.11 (SC 358, 124-6). οἷόν τινα κόσμον δεύτερον, ἐν μικρῷ μέγαν, ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς ἵστησιν, ἄγγελον ἄλλον, προσκυνητὴν μικτόν, ἐπόπτην τῆς ὁρατῆς κτίσεως, μύστην τῆς νοουμένης, βασιλέα τῶν ἐπὶ γῆς, βασιλευόμενον ἄνωθεν, ἐπίγειον καὶ οὐράνοιον, πρόσκαιρον καὶ ἀθάνατον, ὁρατὸν καὶ νοούμενον, μέσον μεγέθους καὶ ταπεινότητος. Note that this differs from Origen, who depicts humans becoming like angels at the eschaton in Cels. 4.29; Benjamin P. Blosser, Become Like the Angels (Washington, DC, 2012), 2; Mark J. Edwards, Origen Against Plato (Aldershot, 2002), 100-2. Gregory presents humans as ‘angelomorphic’, a term which Mueller defines as ‘someone or something [who] is depicted as angelic’; Elijah N. Mueller, ‘Temple and Angel: An Outline of Apocalyptic Themes in John of Damascene’, in Robert J. Daly (ed.), Apocalyptic Thought in Early Christianity (Grand Rapids, MI, 2009), 240-9, 241 n. 6. 44   Oration 22.14 (SC 270, 252). 45   σὸν βροτὸς αὖ κλέος ἐστιν, Carm. 2.1.38 (PG 37, 1327, 25-6); 2.1.45 (PG 37, 1366, 186); Oration 39.7 (SC 358, 162).



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more he is eager to stain you for the stains on a brilliant robe are all the more visible’.46 Added to this, angels and humans share a common feature: they are both ‘divine’.47 Secondly, Gregory’s initial use of theosis refers to ‘the robe of incorruptibility’. It occurs just over halfway through his first invective against the emperor Julian. In this, Gregory explains why men and women of the early church, such as Paul, Stephen, and Thecla, were worthy of admiration; they were committed to truth even when this commitment put them in great danger. Gregory’s description of the theosis of these Christian philosophers is noteworthy. He explains that ‘the spring of light’ and ‘angelic hymns’ belong to them and that their ascension and theosis is limitless. They not only purify themselves but others also and are naked like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, whilst wearing a ‘robe of incorruptibility’.48 In short, Gregory depicts the Christian philosophers as clothed in ‘robes of glory’, restored to the former glory which humans were given at creation. In a further oration, On Baptism, Nazianzen takes up a similar theme.49 He draws together different images of garments and clothing. As well describing baptism as the ‘garment of incorruption’,50 he echoes Saint Paul who, in his letter to the Galatians, writes: ‘As many of you as were baptised into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ’ (Gal. 3:27). Similarly, Nazianzen writes about the recently baptised, ‘I am clothed in Christ; I have been remodelled Christ by baptism’.51 This is relevant to his doctrine of theosis because, both in this oration and elsewhere, he declares that the Holy Spirit deifies believers through baptism: If I was still worshipping a creature, or I was baptised into a creature, I would not be being made god nor would I have transformed my first birth.52

Thus, Nazianzen presents baptism as the significant moment in the journey of theosis, and it is directly connected to being clothed in Christ. This means that the baptized believer is given garments of incorruption, which in turn, is another way of describing the deification of the human by the Holy Spirit.   Or. 37.12 (SC 318, 296).   Carm. 1.1.7 (PG 37, 439-40, 13-7). See On Spiritual Beings (Carm. 1.1.7, PG 37, 438-46), which Gregory dedicates to the subject of angels. To date, Rousse has paid the most detailed attention to Gregory’s angelology; see Jacques Rousse, ‘Les anges et leur ministère selon Saint Grégoire de Nazianze’, Mélanges de science religieuse 22 (1965), 133-52. 48   Oration 4.71 (PG 35, 593B). 49   For treatments of Nazianzen’s appropriation of baptism, see Susanna Elm, ‘Inscriptions and Conversions: Gregory of Nazianzus on Baptism (Or. 38-40)’, in Conversion in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Kenneth Mills and Anthony Grafton (New York, 2003), 1-35; Everett Ferguson, ‘Gregory’s Baptismal Theology and the Alexandrian Tradition’, in Re-Reading Gregory of Nazianzus, ed. Christopher A. Beeley (Washington DC, 2012), 67-84. 50   Oration 40.25 (SC 358, 256). 51   Oration 40.10 (SC 358, 218). 52   Oration 40.42 (SC 358, 296). 46 47

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Thirdly, Gregory’s interpretation of the sequence of the fall in Genesis 2-3 is comparable to the sequence in the ‘robes of glory’ tradition: … immediately, on account of the evil, all at once (ὁμοῦ) he was expelled from the tree of life and from paradise (Gen. 3:23-4) and from God and he was clothed in robes of skin (χιτῶνες δερματίνους, Gen. 3:20), probably the more earthly, duller flesh (παχύτης), both mortal (θνητός) and obstinate (ἀντίτυπος). And this first thing he knew was his own shame, and he hid from God (Gen. 3:7-8).53

After Adam and Eve have eaten from the tree of knowledge, Gregory describes a number of actions occurring simultaneously: Adam is expelled from paradise, expelled from God’s presence and clothed in robes of skin, after which he experiences shame for the first time. The author of Genesis 3 describes Adam’s shame as a response to his nakedness,54 whereas for Gregory nakedness (ἁπλότης) is positive because it means that humans resemble angels.55 In other words, nakedness is like a ‘luminous’ robe, which follows the ‘robes of glory’ tradition. Gregory moves on to explain that Adam experiences shame because he is wearing robes of skin; these are an earthly, dull flesh (παχύτης), which is mortal and resistant to theosis.56 Gregory’s use of παχύτης to describe the robes of skin is key to my argument because, accompnaying this kind of flesh is mortality and a resistance to God. However, παχύτης is not straightforwardly translated. Daley and Harrison both opt for ‘coarse’ noting that this does not fully convey the meaning.57 Lampe translates it as ‘grossness’ or ‘materiality’,58 and Liddell, Scott and Jones add to this ‘dullness’.59 Thus, it is very possible that Gregory pictured Adam and Eve wearing glorious robes, which once they have been taken off and replaced by robes of skin, are no longer luminous, but ‘dull’. If we turn to the Septuagint we see that παχύνω describes not only that which is physically dull but also that which is mentally dull.60 This is important because at creation Gregory describes Adam and Eve as being able to ‘see and experience the radiance of God’.61 The fall affects   Oration 38.12 (SC 358, 130).   Gen. 3:10, γυμνός. 55   Oration 38.12 (SC 358, 128). 56   The same order appears in In Praise of Virginity (Carm. 1.2.1, PG 37, 531, 119-22), but differs from On the Soul (Carm. 1.1.8, PG 37, 455, 112-8), where the coats of skin are worn before departure from the garden. Since Gregory does not mention shame in On the Soul, the change in sequence does not imply a change in the object of shame being earthly flesh rather than nakedness. 57   Brian Daley, Gregory of Nazianzus (London, 2006), 123; Nonna Verna Harrison, Gregory Nazianzen: Festal Orations, Popular Patristics Series (Crestwood, NY, 2008), 50. 58   Geoffrey W.H. Lampe, Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford, 1961), 1054. 59   Henry George Liddell, Robert Scott and Henry Stuart Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon, 9th with supplement ed. (Oxford, 1940; repr., 1973), 1351. 60   Is. 6:10; Takamitsu Muraoka, A Greek-English Lexicon of the Septuagint (Leuven, 2009), 541. 61   Oration 38.11 (SC 358, 126). 53 54



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them in such a way that the earthly, dull flesh renders them mentally ‘dull’. Subject to this gloomy flesh, Adam and Eve now struggle to apprehend God. Said another way, instead of wearing the robes of glory, they are shrouded in robes of skin which appear to function as ‘spiritual cataracts’, as Gregory describes in his oration on the priesthood: ‘Heaven is high, but the earth is deep.’ And who of those who have been cast down by sin shall ascend? Who, still being enshrouded by the gloom below and the dullness of the flesh (τῆς σαρκὸς τὴν παχύτητα) will meditate on the whole spiritual intellect purely with the whole spiritual intellect, and gaze upon that which is stable and invisible, whilst mingled with that which never stands still?62

Furthermore, Gregory explains that παχύτης causes mortality.63 This is radically different from the human being as ‘another angel’ at creation who has the potential to become a god.64 After the fall, humans are stuck in patterns of sin (ἀντίτυπος), ashamed, compelled to hide from God, and unable to apprehend God to the same degree. In sum, the fall describes the antithesis of theosis and depicts a process which Gregory takes quite literally. Likewise, the reverse applies: theosis is ‘becoming god’ literally. Conclusion Following Gregory’s advice in On Holy Pascha, we have traversed into the Garden of Eden in order to understand further the nature of theosis at creation and the effect of the fall upon human beings.65 I have argued that scholars are mistaken when they maintain theosis is metaphorical and ‘not real’, because they both over-emphasise and read out of context the only occasion upon which Gregory says that humans are not literally God. Rather, supporting claims made by Elm and Beeley, I have argued that Gregory does indeed intend theosis quite literally and that Gregory’s comment in his Farewell oration refers to the very different concern of the deity of the Spirit and the unity of the Trinity. This study has aimed to redress the lack of biblical reflection with respect to Gregory’s theosis by investigating theosis against the backdrop of the first three chapters of Genesis, arguing that Gregory draws on the exegetical tradition, ‘robes of glory’ to inform his interpretation and consequently to inform his account of theosis. Gregory’s use of this tradition, along with his description of the qualitative transformation of the human person through the fall, suggests a literal interpretation of theosis and points to its reality. At creation, wearing   Oration   Oration 64   Oration 65   Oration 62 63

2.74 (SC 247, 186); 28.4 (SC 150, 108). 38.12 (SC 358, 130). 38.11 (SC 358, 126); 45.7 (PG 36, 635C); Carm. 1.2.15 (PG 37, 777, 156). 45.24 (PG 36, 656C).

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the robes of glory, the human being is like an angel, incorruptible, divine, a king, pure, and an overseer who is able to apprehend God. Through the fall which results in the loss of the robes of glory and the addition of the robes of skin, human beings experience a notable qualitative change for the worse; they become stuck in patterns of sin, experience mortality, and become spiritually dull. A result of this is that it is a struggle to know God. Moreover, the fall is catastrophic precisely because it threatens theosis. Theosis, then also depicts a real and dynamic movement of the human being towards becoming god, but one which is as positive as the fall is negative, and through which the human being mysteriously participates in the life of God.

The Human Being in the Poetry of Gregory of Nazianzus Georgiana Huian, Bern, Switzerland

Abstract The poems of Gregory of Nazianzus are meant to bring together the desire for beauty emerging from contemplation (θεωρία) and the progress towards the good. They express the pedagogical intention to lead young people to more useful teachings, echoing the attitude towards Greek poetry in Plato’s Republic, Plutarch’s De audiendis poetis, and Basil’s Ad adolescentes. The article investigates how the verses considered as a pleasant medicine (φάρμακον) depict the human condition in its present fragility, as well as in its journey to deification. It analyses metaphors attached to human vulnerability (e.g. swan, ant, ship, shadows, dream, dust, the movement in circle) in contrast with the motif of light reflecting the participation in the divine. Moreover, I approach the notion of ‘image of God’ imprinted in the human being, and I analyse how the divine image makes possible the ascent (return) from ‘misery’ and ‘mortal condition’ to resplendence, spiritualisation and incorruption.

Introduction The present study aims to bring to light in a concise manner the anthropology depicted in the poems of Gregory the Theologian.1 It also intends to show that the Cappadocian Father had a theologically and philosophically articulated view on the human being, which was conveyed also in the genre of poems. I will analyse some Platonic motifs relating to contemplation, the ascension to beauty and the role of poetry as useful medicine, and then turn to a spectrum of metaphors that define the vulnerability of the human beings. I devote an important part of this article to investigate the topics of ascension to light and deification, and conclude with some remarks on the central role of the image of God in Gregory’s literary depiction of the human. 1   For the place of poetry in Gregory’s biography and work, see John McGuckin, Saint Gregory of Nazianzus. An Intellectual Biography (Crestwood, NY, 2001): ‘The Twilight of a Poet’, especially 371-6; Christos Simelidis, ‘Introduction’, in Selected Poems of Gregory of Nazianzus. I.2.17, II.1.10, 19, 32. A Critical Edition with Introduction and Commentary (Göttingen, 2009), especially 21-30.

Studia Patristica CXV, 29-39. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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1.  Beauty and contemplation In poem 2.1.39, In suos versus, Gregory explains why he has adopted the literary way to express his thoughts and even to describe his ‘own afflictions’.2 One of the four arguments aimed to justify the choice of the poetic discourse3 concerns a possible comparison with the literary skills of the ‘strangers’ (ξένοι). Gregory wishes that ‘strangers have no advantage over us in literature’,4 in other words, that Christian poetry will supersede in beauty the highest forms of pagan literature. In fact, this is more than the expression of a literary aspiration, and more than the setting of a high goal for any endeavor in writing Christian poetry: Gregory thinks that true godly Beauty should be chanted in beautiful words. Thus, Christian poetry should give a testimony of its experience of Beauty. Moreover, Gregory distances himself from worldly ambitions: if theological wisdom can adopt the adorned way of literature, it is not for the sake of ‘the empty fruit of glory’5 and not in order to elevate poetry above ‘godly labors’.6 By godly labors we may understand the way of theology – therefore, in the next verse God’s Logos is called upon in order not to let such an inversion of the hierarchy of discursive modes happen.7 Nevertheless, poetry, ‘this other literary road’,8 has been chosen because of its accessibility and its propaedeutic mission. This choice does not exclude the awareness that the adorned speech, the ‘highly-colored language’9 is not the real source of beauty, for beauty lies for the Theologian ultimately in ‘contemplation’ (θεωρία): τὸ κάλλος … ἐν θεωρίᾳ.10 2.  The ‘pharmacy’ of the theologian Among the reasons for composing poetry, Gregory mentions also the possibility to address young people, especially those who love reading.11 The ideas 2   Carm. 2.1.39, v. 24, PG 37, 1331, trans. Peter Gilbert, On God and Man. The Theological Poetry of St Gregory of Nazianzus (Crestwood, NY, 2001), 154. 3   The four arguments are described and analysed by C. Simelidis, ‘Introduction’, in Selected Poems of Gregory of Nazianzus (2009), 24-30 (‘The case for Christian Poetry’). 4   Carm. 2.1.39, v. 49, PG 37, 1333, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 154. 5   Carm. 2.1.39, vv. 26-7, PG 37, 1331, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 154. 6   Carm. 2.1.39, v. 31, PG 37, 1331, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 154. 7   Carm. 2.1.39, v. 32, PG 37, 1331, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 154. 8   Carm. 2.1.39, v. 22, PG 37, 1331, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 154. 9   Carm. 2.1.39, v. 50, PG 37, 1333, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 154. 10   Carm. 2.1.39, v. 51, PG 37, 1333, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 154. For detailed reflections on the relationship between contemplation and Beauty, between knowledge and aesthetics, see Frederick W. Norris, ‘Gregory contemplating the beautiful: Knowing human misery and divine mystery through and being persuaded by images’, in Jostein Børtnes and Tomas Hägg (eds), Gregory of Nazianzus: Images and Reflections (Copenhagen, 2006), 19-35. 11   Carm. 2.1.39, vv. 37-8, PG 37, 1332.



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crystallised in poetic form are like ‘some kind of cheering medicine’ (τι τερπνὸν … φάρμακον).12 On the one hand, they guide the young souls to things that are closer to the truth; on the other hand, they sweeten the ‘harshness of commandments’.13 Through this pedagogical intention to lead young people to more useful teachings (τὰ χρησιμώτηρα), Gregory echoes the attitude towards Greek poetry in Plato’s Republic,14 Plutarch’s De audiendis poetis,15 and Basil’s Ad adolescentes.16 If the philosopher had ‘writing’ in his pharmacy,17 the theologian has sweet poetry. The ultimate goal of giving this medicine is to support the ascent towards the good: ‘so nothing hinders you in the progress towards the good’ (πρὸς τὸ καλόν).18 Ultimately, Gregory uses poetry to express, in beautiful images and analogies,19 the human ‘longing for incorruption’.20 In this sense poetry might be directed not to youthful and naïve spirits, but to ‘godly minds’, whereas the ‘profane souls’ are invited to close their ears (‘place doors upon your years’).21 Poetry seems to be able to assume not only a an educational role as ‘sweet medicine’ for the spirits that need to be initiated in the mysteries of the divine Beauty and to come closer to the Truth, but also for those minds which have received the divine illumination. With Gregory of Nazianzus, poetry and the poetic approach of the truth seem to find their place inside a ‘theology of Beauty, one of the great jewels in the Byzantine mystical tradition’.22

  Carm. 2.1.39, v. 39, PG 37, 1332, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 154.   Carm. 2.1.39, vv. 40-1, PG 37, 1332, my trans. 14  Plato, Republic 392c-403c, for the forms of music and poetry considered acceptable and useful for the education of the members of the imagined ideal city. 15  Plutarch, De audiendis poetis 15-6, trans. Babbitt: ‘Wherefore poetry should not be avoided by those who are intending to pursue philosophy, but they should use poetry as an introductory exercise to philosophy, by training themselves habitually to seek the profitable in what gives pleasure, and to find satisfaction therein; and if there be nothing profitable, to combat such poetry and be dissatisfied with it’. Plutarch, How to Study Poetry, Moralia, vol. 1, trans. Frank Cole Babbitt (Cambridge, MA, London, 1960), 81. 16  Basil, Ad adolescentes (leg. lib. gent.) 1. 24-8, in N.G. Wilson (ed.), Saint Basil on the Value of Greek Literature (London, 1975), 20. 17   See the Myth of Teuth in Plato’s Phaedrus (274c5-275b2), and the essay of Jacques Derrida, ‘La pharmacie de Platon’, in La dissémination (Paris, 1972), 71-197. 18   Carm. 2.1.39, v. 46, in Gregory of Nazianzus, Autobiographical poems, ed. and trans. Caroline White (Cambridge, 1996), 4-5. 19   On the use of images, such as metaphors, alongside ‘vague generalisations’ and ‘gnomic statements’ in his autobiographical poems, see C. White, ‘Introduction’, in Gregory of Nazianzus, Autobiographical poems (1996), xxviii. 20   Carm. 2.1.45, v. 230, PG 37, 1369, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 165. 21   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 203-4, PG 37, 1367, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 164. 22   John Anthony McGuckin, Standing in God’s Holy Fire. The Byzantine Tradition (London, 2001), 35. 12 13

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3.  Human fragility in metaphors It is interesting that the adorned speech had been chosen to express not only the ultimate godly beauty, but also human fragility.23 If Gregory’s Orations depict human nature, in its feebleness and instability, in contrast to divine nature, ‘like in the negative of a photography’,24 his poems frequently use images to suggest the same features of the human life. I will present some of the images which enjoy vivid descriptions and complex literary constructions, and which are repeatedly mentioned in the poetic creations of Gregory the Theologian. 3.1.  The ship According to the poem On the soul, when the human being understands itself as being ‘so far fallen from the great God’,25 it also sees its own condition as comparable to that of a ship, which adjusts its means to conduct a journey on sea to the weather and to the (un)favourability of the winds. In winter times, ‘a seaworthy ship veers around and heads for shore’, while in times of ‘fairer winds’ it can sail further.26 Gregory stresses not only the vulnerability of the ship on sea, but also the efforts to return, the struggles involved in such a voyage.27 Thus, the fragility of the human is not a reason of lamentation and despair, but a call for ascetic efforts and awareness of the exigencies posed by our itinerant identity. In another poem, On his own Verses, Gregory compares the words inspired by God with a ‘calm harbour for those who flee the storm’.28 23   See C. White, ‘Introduction’, in Gregory of Nazianzus, Autobiographical poems (1996), xxviii: ‘His frequent reflections on the human nature, and in particular on the human tendency to evil, allow us to feel that we can look into Gregory’s heart and see life from his point of view’. When speaking about fragility in Gregory’s poetry, my intention is to go beyond the autobiographical ‘poems’ seductive exhibition of emotions’, as well as beyond the debate raised by the question of ‘the separation between the author as a “real” man and his textual identity’ (Suzanne Abrams Rebillard, ‘Historiography as Devotion. Poemata de seipso’, in Re-Reading Gregory of Nazianzus: Essays on History, Theology, and Culture, ed. Christoper A. Beeley [Washington, DC, 2012], 125-42, 126). My interest is to see how Gregory highlights fragility as universal trait of the human constitution in its relationship to the divine. 24   Philippe Molac, Douleur et transfiguration. Une lecture du cheminement spirituel de saint Grégoire de Nazianze (Paris, 2006), 51, with reference to the following passages: Or. 7, 1, in Grégoire de Nazianze, Discours 6-12, trans. Marie-Ange Calvet-Sebasti, SC 405 (Paris, 1995), 183; Or. 40, 17, in Grégoire de Nazianze, Discours 38-41, trans. Paul Gallay, SC 358 (Paris, 1990), 235; Or. 9, 2, SC 405 (1995), 305; Or. 39, 18, SC 358 (1990), 189; Or. 23, 1, in Grégoire de Nazianze, Discours 20-23, trans. J. Mossay, SC 270 (Paris, 1980), 107. 25   Carm. 1.1.8, De anima, v. 126, PG 37, 456, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 67. 26   Carm. 1.1.8, vv. 123-5, PG 37, 456, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 67. 27   Carm. 1.1.8, v. 127, PG 37, 456. 28   Carm. 2.1.39, In suos versus, v. 11, PG 37, 1330, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 153. Trans. C. White, in Gregory of Nazianzus, Autobiographical poems (1996), 3: ‘as those who flee the storm seek the harbour’s calm’.



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The ultimate refuge from the dangers and torments of the storms of the sea of life is in the words of the Scripture. Moreover, in his Lamentation concerning the Sorrows of his own Soul, Gregory prays to the Trinity not to fall in the deceits of the enemy – he considers himself as a ‘ship’ which, even when ‘running straight’ towards the shore, can be at any time taken by ‘a hurricane of fearsome winds’ and be sent again on the ‘open sea of life’, full of temptations and evils.29 The image of the ship which can be pushed to crush on ‘unseen rocks’ is a favourite depiction of human vulnerability in its earthly life and condition.30 3.2.  The ant The rolling of the world comes also into question in order to determine better the human condition, compared with an ant. The image of the rolling world is developed in Conversation with the World, where the human person asks the world: ‘And how do you revolve me, like a wheel that carries an ant?’31 The image of the ant is not so much used to minimize the size of the human in comparison with the world, but to show the ‘unsteady’32 nature of the human, moved by the ‘wheel’ of the world. 3.3.  The movement in circle The circular movement becomes an image of the ‘instability’ of everything man could gain in his earthly life, including sufferings or pleasures, successful moments or failures.33 The sense of circularity resides precisely in the fact that it can turn everything into its opposite, at any time. It is not the productive circularity around a centre where God is placed. The circle of the world is the circle of troubles that mortals should endure;34 it has no connection to the transcendence. It is a sterile circularity, with no internal destination, ‘a stillrolling circle, turning all alike’.35 The only purpose of this instability, assaulting the human being in all possible experiences of the world, is to wake in his soul the longing for stability, a love for divinity as ‘a love for what is stable’.36

  Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 317-23, PG 37, 1375-6, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 168.   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 322-3, PG 37, 1376, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 168. 31   Carm. 1.2.11, Dialogus cum mundo, v. 3, PG 37, 752, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 129. 32   Carm. 1.2.11, v. 7, PG 37, 753, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 129. 33   Carm. 1.2.16, vv. 21-5, PG 37, 780, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 146. 34   Carm. 1.2.16, v. 22, PG 37, 780, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 146. 35   Carm. 1.2.16, v. 25, PG 37, 780, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 146. 36   Carm. 1.2.16, v. 30, PG 37, 780, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 146. 29 30

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3.4.  Shadows, dreams and dust Furthermore, in the same poem On the Different Walks of Life, circularity is associated to other images of inconsistence, lack of essence, lack of reality, ephemerity, fluidity and instability. The human life is thus associated to shadows, dream and dust or powder. The transiency and volatileness of all things in life approach the common poetic motif with biblical root in Ecclesiastes 1:2, vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas: ‘All’s laughter, / powder, shadows, illusions, dew, a breath, a wing, a puff, a dream, / a wave’s heave, a river’s flow, a schooner’s trail, a breeze, fine dust, / a still-rolling circle, turning all alike’.37 Turning Sophocles’ identification of the human being with the δεινόν38 into a superlative of human frailty, Gregory concludes this series of images from De vitae itineribus with the statement: ‘I’ve surveyed everything on wings of mind, both things ancient and new; and nothing is as feeble as us humans’ (Πάντα νόου πτερύγεσσιν ἐπέδραμον, ὅσσα παλαιὰ, / Ὅσσα νέα· θνητῶν δ’ οὐδὲν ἀκιδνότερον).39 3.5.  The swan An interesting motif to be associated with illness and composition of poetry alike is that of the ‘aged swan’: Gregory compares himself to a swan who sings a farewell song40, and this song (the poetry) allows him to enjoy some consolation in times of illness. This image is mentioned as the fourth reason to turn to poetry in the poem On his own Verses.41 The swan contrasts with the ape and the lion, which make visible the ‘desire for glory’.42   Carm. 1.2.16, vv. 22-5, PG 37, 780, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 146.   Antigone 332: πολλὰ τὰ δεινὰ κοὐδὲν ἀνθρώπου δεινότερον πέλει. ‘Numberless are the world’s wonders, but none more wonderful than man’. Martin Heidegger sees a threefold meaning of the deinon, covering the ‘terrible’ (frightful), the ‘violent’ and the ‘un-canny’ (unfamiliar, unheim­ lich), an interpretation that he introduces in his Introduction to Metaphysics, trans. Gregory Fried and Richard Polt (New Haven, London, 2000), 159-61. See also Robert Bernasconi, ‘“I Will Tell You Who You Are.” Heidegger on Greco-German Destiny and Amerikanismus’, in From Phenomenology to Thought, Errancy and Desire, ed. Babette Babich (Dordrecht, 1995), 301-13, 303. 39   Carm. 1.2.16, v. 31-2, PG 37, 780, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 146. The underlining of human feebleness in the Orations lead P. Molac to conclude that Gregory sometimes has pessimistic tones in his consideration of the complex human nature, in Douleur et transfiguration (2006), 51. P. Molac cites in this sense Or. 2, 12 (Grégoire de Nazianze, Discours 1-3, trans. Jean Bernardi, SC 247 [Paris, 1978], 107) and Or. 13, 4 (PG 36, 856). 40   This song is in itself a motif of fragility caused both by solitude (the absence of other listeners) and the closeness to disease and death. See Suzanne Abrams Rebillard, Speaking for Salvation: Gregory of Nazianzus as Poet and Priest in his Autobiographical Poems (Providence, RI, 2003), 105. She also proposes an interesting comparison between the swan song attributed by Gregory to himself and the swan image in Callimachus’s Hymn to Apollo (Speaking for Salvation [2003], 182, n. 131). 41   Carm. 2.1.39, vv. 54-7, PG 37, 1333, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 155. 42   Carm. 2.1.39, vv. 80-1, ed. and trans. C. White, Gregory of Nazianzus, Autobiographical poems (1996), 6-7. 37 38



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4.  Light and deification In order to explain how the human soul has suffered a ‘mixture of heavenly and earthly’, Gregory names it ‘a light hidden in a cave’ (φάος σπήλυγγι καλυφθέν).43 We may ask whether the body or the material part of the human constitution is called ‘cave’ or, in a larger sense, the world that can fall under the governance of the darkness. Is the cave the correspondent of the soma-sema metaphoric known in Platonic circles?44 Is the cave understood as a prison, ­echoing Plato’s description in the simile of the cave,45 or as a sheltering space, in more Christological terms, as a modest space where Divinity can come in human shape? Or is the ‘cave’ precisely hinting at the challenge of the human life and the specificity of the human person as visible eikôn of the invisible God? The destiny of the human being is to bear its cross, with the mind (νοῦς) attached to divine realities, which will bring ‘a light from the heavenly Trinity mingling with the pure’ (Τριάδος λάμψις ἐπουρανίης μιγνυμένης καθαροῖσι) and the ‘release from senseless dust’ (χοὸς λύσις ἀφραδέοντος).46 Purity can mean not mixing with the earthly realities, and even leading a solitary life, ‘not at all mixing with worldly folk’.47 Only purity allows the illumination, which comes from the Trinitarian Light48 and, consequently, the way of divinisation which embraces mind and heart alike. Thus, in the first beatitudes listed in the poem Blessings of Various Lives (Variorum vitae generum beatitudines), Gregory speaks of the one who ‘has divinised the mind’ (ἐθέωσε νόον) and who has directed ‘his whole heart to God’ (Θεῷ πέμψεν ὅλην κραδίην).49 The starting point of deification is the mind or, more precisely, the contemplative (spiritual) intellect (νοῦς/νόος), and the vehicle of deification is the heart (καρδία/ καρδίη/κραδίη). Gregory presents here a double-articulated anthropology, crossing the noetic-Platonist tradition with the heart-oriented biblical insight and ascetical anthropology of the desert fathers. In addition, Gregory’s anthropology is prone to follow another duality, of Pauline inspiration: that of spirit and flesh, depicting two opposing laws – one driving the human towards the good, the other one, towards evil things.50 But   Carm. 1.1.8, De anima, v. 1-2, PG 37, 446, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 62.   The analogy that conceives the body (σῶμα) as ‘prison’ (σήμα) for the soul is found in Plato: Phaedrus 250c, Cratylus 400c, Phaedo 61e-62c, Gorgias 493a, Republic IX 586a. The analogy has Egyptian and Pythagorean roots. See Cornelia J. de Vogel, ‘The Sôma-Sêma Formula: its Function in Plato and Plotinus Compared to Christian Writers’, in Rethinking Plato and Platonism (Leiden, 1986), 233-48. 45  Plato, Republic 514a-520a. 46   Carm. 1.2.16, vv. 36-7, PG 37, 781, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 146. 47   Carm. 1.2.17, vv. 1-2, PG 37, 781, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 147. 48   Carm. 1.2.16, vv. 36-7, PG 37, 781, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 146. 49   Carm. 1.2.17, vv. 2.4, PG 37, 781-2, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 147. 50   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 71-3, PG 37, 1358, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 159. For an alternative translation of this poem, see S. Abrams Rebillard, Speaking for Salvation (2003), 369-93. 43 44

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Gregory tends to oppose to the flesh (σάρξ), the spiritual mind (νοῦς), instead of the expected term for spirit (πνεῦμα). The struggle takes place between the readiness to follow Christ and to approach the light, on the one hand, and the eagerness to ‘entertain Belial’ and ‘be dragged headlong to darkness’, on the other hand. The part of the human being that approaches the light is the mind (νοῦς/νόος), whereas the part of flesh and blood (σάρξ καὶ αἵμα) can be attracted to fall into darkness.51 The first delights in heavenly things, the second in fleeting and unstable ones, therefore ‘in self-destruction’.52 Only when the ‘dust is conquered by the mind’ (νόῳ χοῦς δάμναται),53 the entire human being takes on the journey towards divine light. Towards the end of the poem Lamentation concerning the Sorrows of his own Soul, Gregory speaks of a vision of illumination and ‘shining incorruption’ (φαενῆς ἀφθορίης),54 retold in images of ‘torch’ (δαῖς), ‘light’ (σέλας), ‘flame’ (φλόξ) and ‘fire’ (πῦρ). In this vision, Chastity and Temperance, two personifications of virtues, invite the theologian to mix his spiritual mind (νοῦς/νόος) with their understanding (πραπίδες55), his torch (δαῖς) with their torches (δαῖδα), so that he becomes ‘a light (σέλας) beside the immortal Trinity’.56 The human being can thus be transformed just like a ‘hidden spark’ which becomes first a ‘tiny flame’ and finally turns to ‘unspeakable fire’.57 The flame of love is no longer hidden in the ‘depths of the soul’, but visible in a total ignition: ‘so I too, kindled by the apparition, swiftly am ignited in love (ὑπέλαμπον ἔρωτα), and the blaze is visible to all (σέλας δέ τε πᾶσι φαάνθη)’.58 God the ‘all-luminous’, the pure light, ‘bestows lights to mortals’ and makes his servants be like him, as he makes them able to share in his ray of light.59 The sharing in the divine light is another way of expressing the dynamics of theosis, bridging creation and eschatology in order to ‘illuminate’ the present human condition.60   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 73-6, PG 37, 1358-9, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 159.   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 80-4, PG 37, 1359, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 160. 53   Carm. 2.1.45, v. 95, PG 37, 1360, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 160. 54   Carm. 2.1.45, v. 266, PG 37, 1372, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 166. 55   πραπίδεσσι (Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 259-62, PG 37, 1371) is the dative plural form of πραπίδες (pl., ‘midriff’) which stands for ‘mind’, ‘understanding’. In Gregory’s vocabulary, the term πραπίδες belongs to a constellation of notions with spiritual and epistemic dimensions (νοῦς, φρήν, πραπίδες, καρδία), the last three of them functioning as corporeal seat of spiritual activities. See S. Abrams Rebillard, Speaking for Salvation (2003), 40 (n. 28) and 152-65. 56   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 259-62, PG 37, 1371, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 166. 57   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 271-4, PG 37, 1372, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 166. 58   Carm. 2.1.45, v. 275, PG 37, 1372, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 166. 59   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 287-90, PG 37, 1373-4, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 167. 60   See Christopher A. Beeley, Gregory of Nazianzus on the Trinity and the Knowledge of God. In Your Light We Shall see Light (Oxford, 2008), 119: ‘The definition and goal of our existence, as established in creation, is thus to be increasingly illuminated with the divine light, to partake of God’s own being more and more, beginning in this life and continuing in the life to come. Theosis 51 52



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5.  The return to resplendence and incorruption Gregory speaks at the end of Poem 1.1.8 of the return voyage that humanity has to undergo, not without struggle, in order to reach God again. The struggle is compared to ‘rowers’ labours’, as the voyage is imagined as a voyage on sea.61 Adam’s condition, the ‘new-sown ruin’, and the ‘miserable humanity’ describe the space from which man has to return.62 The destination is God, and the way is the process of becoming god, theosis: ‘so that, in the last days, leaving the earth, man might journey from here to God (Θεῷ), as god (θεός)’.63 This process is characterised by the imitation of God, which is the definition of the spiritual life, according to the statement within a personification: ‘God is my father, and onto God I’ve been yoked; I desire the imitation of that form from which I’ve flowed (Μορφῆς ποθῶ μίμησιν ἧς ἀπεῤῥύην)’.64 It means striving for another life than the earthly one, ‘free from bondage and corruption’.65 The real nobility is ‘to imitate God’ (μίμησις Θεοῦ)66 and the real richness is ‘to possess the principles of all things visible, or else be high above all visible things’,67 which is possible only when God becomes the sole wealth of someone.68 The imitation of God has of course connections to the notion of likeness, ὁμοίωσις from Genesis 1:26, but it also has a long Platonic history known in the formula ὁμοίωσις θεῷ.69 In the earthly life, with its fugacity, the only good thing is ‘the incorruption of the image received from God’.70 The way of deification means taming the flesh by the spirit and following Christ as a guide for one’s own life.71 The purpose of the human life, the telos, is defined in terms of seeing the Lord and becoming spirit.72 The vision of God, which requires a purified eye of the mind, is possible in a festal atmosphere, thus represents at the same time our original definition, our present nature and our eschatological destiny’. 61   Carm. 1.1.8, vv. 125-7, PG 37, 456, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 67. 62   Carm. 1.1.8, vv. 128-9, PG 37, 456, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 67. 63   Carm. 1.1.8, vv. 98-9, PG 37, 454, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 66. 64   Carm. 1.2.8, Comparatio vitarum, vv. 14-5, PG 37, 650, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 119. 65   Carm. 1.2.8, v. 21, PG 37, 650, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 120. 66   Carm. 1.2.8, v. 43, PG 37, 652, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 121. 67   Carm. 1.2.8, vv. 53-4, PG 37, 653, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 121. 68   Carm. 1.2.8, v. 61, PG 37, 653, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 121. 69   See Plato’s Theaetetus 176b: ὁμοίωσις θεῷ κατὰ τὸ δυνατόν. This ‘assimilation to God as far as possible’ is understood as the end (telos) of life which is to be attained by knowledge (gnosis). See also other relevant places in Plato for the formula. Phaedon 80 a3-b7; Phaedrus 252c3-253c5; Republic 613a7-b1; Timaeus 90b6-e8; Laws 716c1-717a. See, for the meanings of this formula in Plato and Early Imperial Platonism, Paolo Torri, Homoiōsis theōi. A Study of the Telos in Middle Platonism, PhD Thesis (Milano, Leuven, 2017), 7. 70   Carm. 1.2.16, v. 38, PG 37, 781, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 146. 71   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 11-2, PG 37, 1354, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 157. 72   Carm. 2.1.45, v. 19, PG 37, 1355, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 157.

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like a continuous liturgical celebration: ‘but beholding the unchanging one, with purified mind’s eye, where all mouths celebrate with festal song. This is the purpose of human life’.73 6.  The ‘divine image’ In his poetry, as in his whole theological work, Gregory’s anthropology is marked by the idea that the human being has been made in the divine image, and that his destiny is to make resplendent again, in Christ, the beauty of this eikon.74 The human person bears in the ‘divine and imperishable’ soul the divine eikon, because ‘it would not be right for the great God’s image to disintegrate in formlessness’.75 Brought by the sin to the mortal condition, the human person cannot lose any form of the divine image, and the image of God cannot reach dissolution in an unorderly (a-cosmic) manner. The guarantee of the preservation of the image is therefore in the immortality of the soul, but the restauration of the image is possible and accomplished only in Christ. Only the kenosis (emptying) of Christ allows for human salvation from the ‘gangrene of sin’: the soul then ‘harmonizes with the spiritual realities (noumena)’, in a ‘psalmody’ that is better than all music played with instruments.76 The divine image establishes a spiritual connection between the intelligible and the sensible, between the earthly and the heavenly part of the human. It assumes the material and transforms, transfigures it: so even ‘the dirt’ is ‘made spiritual by the divine image’.77 Looking at earthly part of the human being, called in different ways in the poem De vita humana (‘dirt’, ‘mud’, ‘dust’, ‘earth’), Gregory adopts a sombre tone, underlines the ‘earthly tragedies’ and compares the human earthly life with a ‘joke’.78 However, nothing causes more suffering than the perspective of deforming or losing the heavenly image belonging to the soul, as the frightening vision of the destruction of the eikon: ‘For truly man is the great God’s creature and image, / from God proceeding and to God returning again’.79 The attack on the image of God, situated in the soul, happens in the attraction to wickedness, which assaults the flesh (σάρξ) and, through the flesh, the soul (φυχή), and finally the entire human being.80 But the dynamics   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 25-7, PG 37, 1355, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 158.   See the comprehensive study of Gabrielle Thomas, The Image of God in the Theology of Gregory of Nazianzus (Cambridge, 2009). 75   Carm. 1.1.8, vv. 3-4, PG 37, 447, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 62. 76   Carm. 1.2.8, vv. 104-8, PG 37, 656, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 123 (revised trans.). 77   Carm. 1.2.18, De vita humana, v. 14, PG 37, 787, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 150. 78   Carm. 1.2.18, vv. 15-6, PG 37, 787, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 150. 79   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 9-10, PG 37, 1354, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 157. 80   Carm. 2.1.45, vv. 65-8, PG 37, 1358, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 159: ‘Therefore I wage an unending battle of war, with flesh and soul opposed to one another. I am the image of God, and I am drawn to wickedness. The worse attacks its better with irreverence’. 73 74



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can be reverted, the hierarchy restored, and the soul can be the one lifting the earthly and visible part of the human to the beauty of the divine eikon. The material part of the human person (the ‘dust’) can be touched and transformed by the spirit, like ‘cheap wax devoured by the flame’.81 The fiery metaphor is anticipated by the image of the flight, creating a movement in which the whole human person is engaged in an ascension to the perfection of the eikon: ‘but the dust (χοῦν), on wings of spirit (πνεύματι πτερόεντι), might be raised up also to the image (εἰκόνι)’.82 In the battle against the passions, in the human struggle for the purity, it is essential that ‘the dust is conquered by the mind’.83 Concluding remarks Gregory presents in his poems a complex anthropology, correlating spiritual mind and heart (νοῦς-καρδία) and opposing soul and flesh (ψυχή-σάρξ), in a dynamics that has to elevate itself to the order brought by the spirit (πνεῦμα).84 Pythagorean and Platonic elements are read with Pauline and Johaninne lenses, underlining the opposition between the law of spirit (for Gregory: of the spiritual mind) and the law of flesh, on the one hand, and the opposition light-darkness, on the other hand. The imitation of God and return to God have Platonic echoes, but they are reinterpreted in terms of divinisation, and in metaphors of fire and flame: the human being can become a light sharing in the light of the Trinity. Nevertheless, the way (back) to God is not without dangers and struggles: the metaphors of fragility (ship, swan, ant, shadows, dream, dust, the movement in circle) make it clear that the human being, as image of God, is always in danger of losing its clarity and beauty. All these anthropologic traits revolve around the central idea that the human being is the image of God. In this sense, the human composite of soul and body, mind and dust, spirit and flesh, has to be elevated to the beauty and incorruption of the eikon of God.

  Carm. 2.1.45, v. 120, PG 37, 1362, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 161.   Carm. 2.1.45, v. 119, PG 37, 1362, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 161. 83   Carm. 2.1.45, v. 95, PG 37, 1360, trans. P. Gilbert, On God and Man (2001), 160. 84   For the relationships between the human νοῦς, ψυχή, σῶμα and the divine Πνεῦμα in Gregory’s anthropological picture, see P. Molac, Douleur et transfiguration (2006), 449. 81 82

Gregory Nazianzen’s Canon in Verse: The Poem I 1, 12, On the Genuine Books of the Holy Scripture Alessandro De Blasi, Padova, Italy

Abstract Gregory of Nazianzus stands out as a remarkable exception: he is one of the few Christian authors in Byzantine cursus studiorum, and not only his famous sermons but his poems as well were part of the school curriculum. Indeed, some of his verses were purposely composed with an eye to Christian pupils. One of the poems where this is the case is I 1, 12, On the Genuine Books of the Holy Scripture, a polymeter work of 39 verses containing a canon list of the Bible. The poem this article is focused on actually belongs to a group of 16 compositions devoted to Christian topics and conceived with a didactic aim. Gregory’s canon list in verse should arouse interest for both its contents and its literary form, a striking feature which it shares only with the Iambi ad Seleucum of Amphilochius of Iconium. A reconstruction of Gregory’s Bible – if possible – passes through a thorough analysis of this text: after warning his addressee against ‘foreign books’, Gregory proceeds in listing canonical books. In many respects, he is in line with other Canon lists, but some of his choices, such as the order of the Books of Solomon, might be due to the poetic form. Moreover, if compared to Amphilochius’ canon, Gregory’s one is strict and narrow, without any mention of or debate about spurious books. Why is it so? Does he really stick to such a closed canon? The case study of Esther’s omission, taken into account in the second part of the article, reveals possible reasons behind Gregory’s choice, but also the partial inconsistency of the list presented in I 1, 12: Esther does appear within Gregory’s oeuvre, despite her exclusion from his canon. The poem I 1, 12 and its canon have to be framed within the historical context of the 4th century: Gregory stays at the edges of a material change of the Bible, from scrolls through gradually bigger codices all the way to the comprehensive pandects, and this affects the very idea of canon too. Furthermore, one should recall that these verses were composed in view of pedagogic purposes, which means that they had to be easy to memorize for pupils, and debates about disputed books had little space. Finally, in the Appendix, I present a proecdosis of the Paraphrasis B to the poem I 1, 12, according to the codex Vat. gr. 497. It is further proof of the success of Gregory’s poems: even centuries later, they were still read and studied.

Studia Patristica CXV, 41-55. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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μὴ μέταιρε ὅρια αἰώνια, ἃ ἔθεντο οἱ πατέρες σου. (Prov. 22:28)

In the 15th century Giovanni de’ Medici, the soon-to-be Pope Leo X, reported a tale heard in Florence from the Greek teacher Demetrios Chalkokondyles. According to him, in order to please Greek priests, Byzantine emperors had much ancient Greek poetry burnt and replaced it with Gregory Nazianzen’s poems, which, though imbued with religious worship, did not teach proper Attic style nor the true elegance of Greek language.1 Even though one could be dismissive of the story itself, it shows, nonetheless, that, as long as Byzantine school curriculum existed, Gregory’s verses were read and studied at school. Indeed, ‘many of the pieces were didactic memory verses written for children in grammatical schools’, as John McGuckin has rightfully highlighted.2 The poem I 1, 12 has come to us under the title περὶ τῶν γνησίων βιβλίων τῆς θεοπνεύστου γραφῆς, On the Genuine Books of the Holy Scripture, and sometimes, within the manuscript tradition, it also appears as ὅσαι ἐνδιάθετοι βίβλοι τῆς παλαιᾶς τε καὶ νέας διαθήκης, How Many Canonical Books of the Old and New Testament there are.3 The essence does not change: with these 1   See Pietro Alcionio, Medices legatus de exsilio, Venice, in aed. Aldi, 1522, ff. ciiiv-civ: Audiebam etiam puer ex Demetrio Chalcondyla graecorum rerum peritissimo Sacerdotes Graecos tanta floruisse auctoritate apud Caesares Byzantios, ut integra illorum gratia complura de ueteribus graecis Poemata combusserint, in primisque ea ubi amores, turpes lusus, et nequitiae amantum continebantur, atque ita Menandri, Diphili, Apollodori, Philemonis, Alexis fabellas, et Saphuus, Erinnae, Anacreontis, Mimnermi, Bionis, Alcmanis, Alcaei carmina intercidisse. Tum pro his substituta Nazanzeni (sic) nostri poemata, quae etsi excitant animos nostrorum hominum ad flagrantiorem religionis cultum, non tamen uerborum atticorum proprietatem, et graecae linguae elegantiam edocent. Turpiter quidem Sacerdotes isti in ueteres graecos maleuoli fuerunt, sed integritatis, improbitatis, et religionis maximum dedere testimonium. The story is mentioned by Christos Simelidis, Selected Poems of Gregory of Nazianzus, Hypomnemata 177 (Göttingen, 2009), 78, in turn from Nigel G. Wilson, Scholars of Byzantium (London, 19831, 19962), 276, but see also the remarks of Anna Meschini Pontani, ‘La Filologia’, in Luciano Canfora et al., Lo spazio letterario della Grecia antica, vol. 2: La ricezione e l’attualizzazione del testo (Roma, 1995), 307-51, 323, n. 40. However, N.G. Wilson, Scholars of Byzantium (1996), 12, underlines also that ‘the idea that the church at an early stage of its history determined to censor or destroy classical poetry’ is ‘unfounded’. 2   John A. McGuckin, Saint Gregory of Nazianzus: An Intellectual Biography (Crestwood, NY, 2001), 376 and n., with explicit reference to the group of Biblica, and Roberto Palla, ‘Ordinamento e polimetria delle poesie bibliche di Gregorio Nazianzeno’, Wiener Studien 102 (1989), 169-85, 177: ‘Difficile avere dubbi sui fini catechetici della composizione’. With regard to his prose oeuvre, Nigel G. Wilson, ‘The Church and classical studies in Byzantium’, Antike und Abendland 16 (1970), 68-77, 70, also mentions Gregory as a noteworthy Christian exception within Byzantine educational program (strictly classical): scholia and commentaries to his sermons certify his importance in school curriculum, and so paraphrases and scholia to his poems. 3   A good introduction to the poem is offered by Kristoffel Demoen, Pagan and biblical exempla in Gregory Nazianzen: a study in rhetoric and hermeneutics, CChr.SGLP 3 (Turnhout, 1996), 234-7, 286. According to Demoen’s opinion too, biblical poems ‘have been conceived by Gregory



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thirty-nine verses, Gregory of Nazianzus meant to provide the reader with a canonical list of the Holy Scripture. The poem, which one has still to read in Gregory’s Maurist edition – as well as a great part of his poetry – belonged to a wider collection, where Gregory versified the main Christian teachings in view of pedagogical and catechetic purposes. To these so-called Carmina biblica, Gregory alluded also in his better known poem II 1, 39, a sort of preface to his Carmina, where at vv. 66-7 he speaks of τομαὶ λόγων / μνήμην ἔχουσαι τῇ δέσει τοῦ γράμματος.4 According to the study of Roberto Palla,5 the Biblica were a collection of sixteen poems dealing with various topics: the list of canonical books opens the series, followed by the list of the Egyptian plagues (I 1, 14), the Decalogue (I 1, 15), the names of the patriarchs (I 1, 13), those of the Apostles (I 1, 19), Jesus’ genealogy (I 1, 18abc) and Jesus’ miracles and parables according to each Gospel (I 1, 20; 24; 23; 22; 26; 21; 25; 27). The original order of the poems, which is based on the sequence (ἀκολουθία) of the group, was reconstructed by Palla thanks to the comparison of about thirty witnesses including a Syriac translation, where unfortunately I 1, 12 is lacking (a major issue that would perhaps deserve more attention). The renown of the poem I 1, 12 is furthermore testified by a vast indirect tradition and even by paraphrases in support of the text: this is, for instance, the case of cod. Vat. gr. 497, 13th cent., which transmits the text of a paraphrasis (type B) to the poem I 1, 12. In the appendix below, I provide a proecdosis based on this witness to give a sample of this kind of texts, which still are largely unpublished.6 as one whole, probably with didactic purposes, in which the use of verses might have had a mnemotechnical function’ (ibid. 61). With reference to the poem I 1, 12, see Henry B. Swete, An Introduction to the Old Testament in Greek (Cambridge, 1902), 205; Theodor Zahn, Geschichte des Neutestamentlichen Kanons, vol. 2 (Leipzig, 1890), 212-9; Périclès-Pierre Joannou, Discipline générale antique, vol. 2: Les canons des Pères Grecs (Grottaferrata, 1963), 229-31 (with critical edition); Edmond L. Gallagher and John D. Meade, The Biblical Canon Lists from Early Christianity. Texts and Analysis (Oxford, 2017), 141-8; Brian P. Dunkle, Gregory Nazianzen’s Poems on Scripture, M.A. Diss. (Boston, 2009), 34-5 and 65-9 (translation and commentary), and the fundamental study of Guillaume Bady, ‘Bibles et canons de Basile de Césarée, Grégoire le Théologien et Jean Chrysostome’, in Smaranda M. Badilita and Laurence Mellerin (eds), Le miel des Écritures (Turnhout, 2015), 121-47, esp. 126-33, where Gregory is put in the context of the Cappadocian biblical canon. 4   PG 37, 1329-36, trans. Carolinne White, Gregory of Nazianzus. Autobiographical Poems, Cambridge Medieval Classics 6 (Cambridge, 1996), 7: ‘sections of speeches / that are memorable because they are bound fast in writing’. A detailed analysis of these verses is offered by K. Demoen, Pagan and biblical exempla (Turnhout, 1996), 61-3. 5  See R. Palla, ‘Ordinamento e polimetria’ (1989), 169-85, and especially id., Studi sulla tradizione manoscritta dei carmi di Gregorio Nazianzeno, parte I (Galatina, 1990), 35-79, who relies on Werhahn’s subdivision into Gedichtgruppen. Biblical poems belong to Gruppe 3. 6   See the Appendix below. On this miscellaneous manuscript see Robert Devreesse, Codices Vaticani Graeci, vol. 2 (Vatican City, 1937), 323-30: foll. 212-325 contain Gregory’s poems, a terminus ante quem for the dating is provided by an inscription at fol. 326v, which seems to allude to an eclipse occurred in 1267. See also Norbert Gertz, Die handschriftliche Überlieferung der

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As most of such verses, however, the poem is nothing more than a mere list of names, and, furthermore, Gregory’s use of metre is rather awkward and unpolished. No wonder, then, that, though being so well known among scholars dealing with the biblical canon, it has received little attention among Gregory’s experts. As a matter of fact, however, it should spark the interest of both, by reason of two main aspects I am going to deal with throughout this article. Firstly – as it is well known – it preserves one of the oldest canonical lists among Church Fathers, and, secondly, it transmits it through poetry, which is indeed a striking and unique feature that has to be taken into account, especially while discussing contents and coherence of Gregory’s canon. Only another similar example is known to us. Gregory’s cousin, Amphilochius, bishop of Iconium, wrote a long iambic poem (333 trimeters plus some additional verses: a number which clearly alludes to the Holy Trinity) to his nephew Seleucus, and vv. 251-319 are devoted to the listing of canonical books as well. Despite some differences with the poem I 1, 12, Amphilochius’ Iambi had long been wrongly ascribed to Gregory as well.7 In order to examine Gregory’s canon in verse, analyses of the structure of these verses have already been attempted. Many scholars, however, mostly endeavoured to identify Gregory’s Bible in this poem, rather than looking to its contents through the literary form it was conveyed by. I believe that a new approach might be fruitful: therefore, in the first part of this article, I will, step by step, dwell on the most relevant passages of the poem, providing some interpretative suggestions and looking at the contents of the poem together with its literary form and context, which seem to me tightly interlaced. In the second part, I will take the exclusion of the book Esther from Gregory’s list as a case study to test the consistency of this canon within his oeuvre, yet keeping in mind Gregory’s educational goals in this kind of composition. The poem is a polymeter, where hexameters, elegiac couplets, and trimeters merge according to patterns rather unclear, yet somehow meaningful.8 At the Gedichte Gregors von Nazianz, vol. 2: Die Gedichtgruppe I, Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des Altertums 4 (München, 1986), 88-90; Martin Sicherl, ‘Handschriftenforschung und Philologie’, in Dietrich Harlfinger and Giancarlo Prato (eds), Paleografia e codicologia greca: atti del II Colloquio internazionale (Alessandria, 1991), 485-508, 491. Gregory’s poems are accompanied by the so-called ‘Paraphrasis B’, on its value and peculiarity see Ch. Simelidis, Selected Poems (2009), 79-88, esp. 84-7, and Lucia Bacci, Gregorio Nazianzeno. Ad Olimpiade: carm. 2, 2, 6, Poeti Cristiani 2 (Pisa, 1996), 141-3. Furthermore, a shorter paraphrasis to the poem I 1, 12 is also furnished by Cosmas of Jerusalem (see Cosma di Gerusalemme. Commentario ai Carmi di Gregorio Nazianzeno, ed. Giuseppe Lozza, Storie e Testi 12 [Napoli, 2000], 142-3). 7   Part of the manuscript tradition transmitted the poem under the name of Gregory, and he still appeared to be the author of Iambi in the Maurist edition (PG 37, 1577-1600), see Amphilochii Iconiensis Iambi ad Seleucum, ed. Eberhard Oberg (Berlin, 1969), 1-4, and Elena Rossin, ‘Anfilochio di Iconio e il canone biblico “Contra Haereticos”’, Studia Patavina 43/2 (1996), 121-57. 8   See the careful analysis of R. Palla, ‘Ordinamento e polimetria’ (1989), 176-7, who concludes: ‘[I] cambiamenti di metro [volevano] anche fornire un aiuto a chi doveva imparare a memoria’.



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beginning of I 1, 12, Gregory placed a hexametric proem (vv. 1-5) to the whole biblical group: Θείοις ἐν λογίοισιν ἀεὶ γλώσσῃ τε νόῳ τε Στρωφᾶσθ’· ἢ γὰρ ἔδωκε Θεὸς καμάτων τόδ’ ἄεθλον, Καί τι κρυπτὸν ἰδεῖν ὀλίγον φάος, ἢ τόδ’ ἄριστον, Νύττεσθαι καθαροῖο Θεοῦ μεγάλῃσιν ἐφετμαῖς· Ἢ τρίτατον, χθονίων ἀπάγειν φρένα ταῖσδε μερίμναις. Ὄφρα δὲ μὴ ξείνῃσι νόον κλέπτοιο βίβλοισι (Πολλαὶ γὰρ τελέθουσι παρέγγραπτοι κακότητες), Δέχνυσο τοῦτον ἐμεῖο τὸν ἔγκριτον, ὦ φίλ’, ἀριθμόν.9

Whereas the first five verses should be regarded as an introduction to the group itself, vv. 6-8 concern the poem.10 Here, Gregory invites his reader to distrust ‘foreign books’, for there are many ‘spurious’, which he calls παρέγγραπτοι βίβλοι, a term which is never attested in canonical lists, as far as I know. At vv. 9-10, an elegiac couplet, introduces the proper list (vv. 11-3 in iambic trimeters, while vv. 14-5 are an elegiac couplet on their own), which starts with the twelve ‘historical books’: Ἱστορικαὶ μὲν ἔασι βίβλοι δυοκαίδεκα πᾶσαι    Τῆς ἀρχαιοτέρης Ἑβραϊκῆς σοφίης.       Πρώτη Γένεσις, εἶτ᾽ Ἔξοδος, Λευιτικόν.11       Ἔπειτ’ Ἀριθμοί. Εἶτα Δεύτερος Νόμος.       Ἔπειτ’ Ἰησοῦς, καὶ Κριταί. Ῥοὺθ ὀγδόη. Ἡ δ’ ἐνάτη δεκάτη τε βίβλοι, Πράξεις βασιλήων,    Καὶ Παραλειπόμεναι. Ἔσχατον Ἔσδραν ἔχεις.12

9   The only available edition still remains the Maurist one, in PG 37, 472-4, trans. B.P. Dunkle, Poems on Scripture (2009), 34-35: ‘O let your mind and tongue dwell among divine / phrases. For God has given this reward for the effort, / a little light even to see some hidden thing, or, best, / to be spurred on by the pure God’s awesome commands, / or third, by these concerns you draw your heart from earthly things. / And that your mind might not be stolen by strange books / (for they are all full of interpolated evils) / receive, my friend, this list of mine of the approved number’. 10   See R. Palla, ‘Ordinamento e polimetria’ (1989), 176-7. According to the interpretation of G. Bady, ‘Bibles et canons’ (2015), 130-1 (likely to be true, in my view), the poem is a ‘dialogue catéchétique’, and these last verses of the proem (vv. 6-8) and v. 30 are pronounced by another speaker. 11   To restore the original trimeter, it seems reasonable to correct the Maurist text: Πρωτίστη, Γένεσις, εἶτ’ Ἔξοδος, Λευιτικόν τε (τε being sometimes omitted in the manuscript tradition), according to Palla’s suggestion, see R. Palla, Studi sulla tradizione (1990), 58, and G. Bady, ‘Bibles et canons’ (2015), 131, n. 40. 12   Trans. B.P. Dunkle, Poems on Scripture (2009): ‘For there are together twelve books of history / that treat the more ancient Hebrew wisdom. / The first is Genesis, then Exodus, then Leviticus’, etc.

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Twelve is a symbolic number.13 Gregory’s way of counting the historical books and making them one of the three parts of the Bible complies with an older belief one can find already in Cyril of Jerusalem’s Catecheticon, and apparently earlier affirmed in Jewish tradition.14 To obtain the books’ number of twelve, besides the traditional sequence of Pentateuch, Joshua, Judges, and Ruth, he counts the four ‘Books of the Kingdoms’ (βασιλείων α´ – δ´, according to the LXX) as two (1-2Samuel + 1-2Kings), and further adds Chronicles and Ezra (regarding the latter as only one book, the so-called Ἔσδρας  β´). With regard to this matter, Guillaume Bady has recently observed the originality of the expression βασιλέων πράξεις referred to Samuel and Kings, which apart from this passage, can be found only in Athanasius and in the authors of the Synopses of the Scripture.15 Moreover, the absence of Esther is noteworthy: I will make some remarks on it later. Gregory proceeds in listing ‘poetic books’ (Job, Psalms, and Solomon’s Ecclesiastes, Song of Songs, and Proverbs): Αἱ δὲ στιχηραὶ πέντε, ὧν πρῶτός γ’ Ἰώβ· Ἔπειτα Δαυΐδ· εἶτα τρεῖς Σολομωντίαι· Ἐκκλησιαστής, Ἆισμα καὶ Παροιμίαι.

As one may see here, once more Gregory agrees with Cyril and Amphilochius about the placement of Job before the other books of Wisdom, but it must be said that there is general disagreement about Job’s position in canonical lists, depending on whether it is regarded as a poetic or historical book.16   Twelve are the tribes of Israel, the minor prophets and obviously the Apostles: on the symbolism of the number ‘twelve’ see, for example, Karl H. Regenstorf, ‘δώδεκα’, in TWNT, vol. II 321-8. 14  See Cyrilli Hierosolymarum archiepiscopi opera quae supersunt omnia, ed. Wilhelm C. Reischl and Joseph Rupp (Hildesheim, 19672), Catecheticon 4, 35, Gilles Dorival, Marguerite Harl and Olivier Munnich, La Bible grecque des Septante (Paris, 1988), 328-9, and Albert C. Sundberg, ‘The Old Testament of the Early Church (A Study in Canon)’, Harvard Theological Review 51 (1958), 205-26, 209, 219. On the tripartition, see Gilles Dorival, ‘L’apport des Pères de l’Église à la question de la clôture du Canon de l’Ancien Testament’, in Jean-Marie Auwers and Henk J. de Jonge (eds), The Biblical Canons (Leuven, 2003), 81-110, 87-90. 15   See G. Bady, ‘Bibles et canons’ (2015), 129 and n. 33: ‘On trouve βασιλέων πράξεις au sens du genre littéraire pour designer toutes sortes d’écrits historiques profanes’. A new edition of the Synopsis Sacrae Scripturae attributed to John Chrysostom has recently been prepared by Francesca P. Barone (see her ‘Le livre d’Esther dans la Synopsis Scripturae Sacrae attribuée à Jean Chrysostome’, SP 128 [2021], 321-36), on these complex works see Gilles Dorival, ‘L’apport des Synopses transmises sous le nom d’Athanase et de Jean Chrysostome à la question du corpus littéraire de la bible’, in id., Qu’est-ce qu’un Corpus Littéraire ? Recherches sur le corpus biblique et les corpus patristiques (Paris, 2005), 53-93, and Francesca P. Barone, ‘Pour une édition critique de la Synopsis Scripturae Sacrae du Pseudo-Jean Chrysostome’, RPh 83 (2009), 7-19. 16   Respectively, see Cyrilli Hierosol. opera, ed. W.C. Reischl and J. Rupp (19672), Catecheticon 4, 35, and Amphilochii Iambi, ed. E. Oberg (1969), vv. 272-5. On the shifting placement of Job in Canon lists, see again G. Dorival, M. Harl and O. Munnich, La Bible grecque (1988), 328-9: ‘[L]a séquence Psaumes, Proverbes, Ecclésiaste, Cantique, Job est attestée chez Méliton, Athanase 13



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The mention of the Psalms by their alleged author, David, might be more interesting and raises some questions. Although it may sound somehow traditional, ‘David’ does not usually refer to the proper Book of Psalms in Gregory’s poetry, nor does he usually in Greek canonical lists: in this regard, the sole parallel is to be found in the Synopsis spuriously attributed to John Chrysostom.17 On the one hand, it might be inferred that the explicit presence of David here is justified by his seminal role as mythical ‘Christian poet’ (Gregory recalls this point in various passages of his poetry, presenting David as a new patron opposed to the pagan Orpheus).18 On the other, however, here David might additionally be regarded as the true author of the Psalms, opposed to those Psalms (and perhaps the so-called Odes)19 which were ascribed to Solomon and others, and were actually sung, despite being rejected as spurious. Indeed, if one looks up the list of the Synod of Laodicea (can. 59), a reference to other psalms that worshippers were prevented from singing during service seems to confirm this assumption:20 et le Vaticanus. Mais Cyrille de Jérusalem, Épiphane, Grégoire de Nazianze et Amphiloque mettent Job en tête de la séquence, l’Alexandrinus le met en deuxième position; enfin Origène met Job en vingt et unième position de sa liste et le Sinaiticus en dernière position’. 17   Of course, in Gregory’s oeuvre quotations from the Psalms are often introduced as if David himself, their author, is speaking, but the very ‘personification’ of the book seems uncommon (compare also with Amphilochii Iambi, ed. E. Oberg [1969], v. 273: ψαλμῶν τε βίβλον, ἐμμελὲς ψυχῶν ἄκος). Despite E.L. Gallagher and J.D. Meade, The Biblical Canon Lists (2017), 144, n. 366, the text of the Protheoria, which opens the Synopsis Sacrae Scripture attributed to Chrysostom, also mentions David as the author of the Psalter (PG 56, 316). As matter of fact, there seems to be some agreement between Gregory’s canon and the (Antiochian) canon of the Protheoria, at least on the mention of David (instead of the Psalms) and Esther’s exclusion; see also Robert Carter, ‘The Antiochene Biblical Canon, 400 AD’, OCP 72 (2006), 417-31, esp. 428-30. 18   For example, Gregory plays the kinnor of king David, e.g., in II 1, 39, 88-9, but see especially a famous passage of his theological letters, Grégoire de Nazianze. Lettres théologiques, ed. Paul Gallay, SC 208 (Paris, 1974), 101, 1, 73: Εἰ δὲ οἱ μακροὶ λόγοι καὶ τὰ νέα ψαλτήρια καὶ ἀντίφθογγα τῷ Δαυῒδ καὶ ἡ τῶν μέτρων χάρις ἡ τρίτη Διαθήκη νομίζεται, καὶ ἡμεῖς ψαλμολογήσομεν καὶ πολλὰ γράψομεν καὶ μετρήσομεν. 19   For a general introduction to the Psalmi Salomonis, see esp. Jan Joosten, ‘Reflections on the original language of the Psalms of Solomon’, in Eberhard Bons and Patrick Pouchelle (eds), The Psalms of Solomon: Language, History, Theology, Early Judaism and its Literature 40 (Atlanta, 2015), 31-7. The critical edition The Psalms of Solomon. A Critical Edition of the Greek Text, ed. Robert B. Wright, Jewish and Christian Texts in Context 1 (New York, 2007), 1-11, has recently been surpassed by Psalmi Salomonis, ed. Felix Albrecht, Septuaginta Vetus Testamentum Graecum 12, 3 (Göttingen, 2018), see esp. 236-59 (with F. Albrecht, ‘Zur Notwendigkeit einer Neuedition der Psalmen Salomos’, in Wolfgang Kraus and Siegfried Kreuzer [eds], Die Septuaginta – Text, Wirkung, Rezeption, WUNT 325 [Tübingen, 2014], 110-23). 20   See E.L. Gallagher and J.D. Meade, The Biblical Canon Lists (2017), 132, R.B. Wright, The Psalms of Solomon (2007), 3, n. 15, and can. 59 of Laodicea in P.-P. Joannou, Discipline générale antique, vol. 1/1: Les canons des Synodes particuliers (Grottaferrata, 1962), 154 (compare also with the coeval Testamentum Domini, ed. Ignatius E. Rahmani [Mainz, 1899], 1, 26); T. Zahn, Geschichte, vol. 2 (1890), 202, and François Martin and Joseph Viteau, Les Psaumes de Salomon, Documents pour l’étude de la Bible (Paris, 1911), 178-91, who rejected this theory as

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Ὅτι οὐ δεῖ ἰδιωτικοὺς ψαλμοὺς λέγεσθαι ἐν τῇ ἐκκλησίᾳ, κτλ.

It may be a mere conjecture, but, centuries later, Nicetas Balsamon and Zonara will read here a hint at Solomon’s Psalms. Be it as it may, there is still enough evidence that some Psalms (other than David’s) were spreading in east-Christianity. Little below, at v. 18, one may remark that Gregory’s order of Solomon’s books is unique as well. I suggest that it be due to metric reasons: since the poet has barely any choice with Biblical titles, he might be led to change their order, placing the Proverbs at the end, instead of the beginning, of his list.21 Even though – as Christos Simelidis wrote22 – ‘before the King or the Holy Cross all tremble and prosody does not matter; it has to ὑποείκειν [surrender]’, the poetic urgency must have prevailed, in this case. The five ‘prophetic books’ follow to the five ‘poetic books’: Καὶ πένθ’ ὁμοίως Πνεύματος προφητικοῦ. Μίαν μέν εἰσιν ἐς γραφὴν οἱ δώδεκα·23

Once more, Gregory complies with a well-attested tradition in counting Minor Prophets as a single book, and the order in which they appear almost overlaps to that of the Septuagint. The Old Testament’s list is closed by another quite interesting elegiac couplet: Ἀρχαίας μὲν ἔθηκα δύω καὶ εἴκοσι βίβλους,   Τοῖς τῶν Ἑβραίων γράμμασιν ἀντιθέτους.24 implausible, by also adding that ‘les écrivains grecs chrétiens, anciens, ne nous offrent aucun témoignage réel relatif aux Psaumes de Salomon.’ Lastly, however, see F. Albrecht’s introduction to the Pss. Sol. (2018), 240: ‘Die Beschlüsse des Konzils von Laodicea (IV. Jh.) äußern das Verbot nichtkanonischer Psalmen. Der Kanoniker Johannes Zonaras (XII. Jh.) – und von ihm abhängig Theodorus Balsamon – bezieht dies auf die Psalmen Salomos. Diese Deutung hat viel für sich, da sie den überlieferungsgeschichtlichen Befund zu erklären vermag: Während die Psalmen Salomos ursprünglich unter den deuterokanonischen Weiseitsbüchern liefen, wie die griechische Primärüberlieferung zeigt, wanderten sie sukzessive an den Rand des Kanons: Zunächst zu den ἀντιλεγόμενα […] und am Ende zu den ἀπόκρυφα’. It should be further recalled that some of these Psalms and Solomon’s Odes were also included at the end of cod. Alexandrinus. 21   An awkward iambic trimeter as παροιμίαι, ἐκκλησιαστὴς καὶ ᾆσμα would have caused many problems (e.g. two annoying hiatuses, and, above all, an unacceptable trochee at the end), see also E.L. Gallagher and J.D. Meade, The Biblical Canon Lists (2017), 144, n. 367. 22   Ch. Simelidis, Selected Poems (2009), 36, see also Carmelo Crimi, ‘Il problema delle “false quantities” di Gregorio Nazianzeno alla luce della tradizione manoscritta di un carme: I 2, 10, De virute’, Siculorum Gymnasium 25 (1972), 1-26. A similar viewpoint is expressed by Donald Sykes, ‘Gregory Nazianzen as a Didactic Poet’, SP 16 (1985), 433-7, 436: ‘As a writer of didactic verse Gregory had to give attention not only to the choice of words but to their placing within the line’, and G. Bady, ‘Bibles et canons’ (2015), 130: ‘[L]e Nazianzène emploie des procédés mnémotechniques où les nombres non seulement ont la part belle, mais informent la composition même des poèmes et leur acolouthie’. 23   Trans. B.P. Dunkle, Poems on Scripture (2009): ‘Likewise there are five books of the prophetic spirit, / twelve together are in a single text, etc.’ 24   Ibid.: ‘I have set down twenty-two Old books, / equal in number to the Hebrews’ alphabet.’



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The number of twenty-two books is already attested in Jewish tradition and explicitly mentioned by Flavius Josephus. Likewise, a similar allusion can be found in Athanasius, Cyril of Jerusalem, and in the Acts of the Synod of Laodicea.25 Its roots must probably lie in Origen, who links the number to that of the letters of the Hebrew alphabet, perhaps also induced by the comparison with the analogous alphabetical subdivision of Homer. Gregory himself must have drawn the ‘holy number’ from Origen.26 Henceforth, it should be clear enough that Gregory is here resorting to a wide-spread tradition, a fact which does not imply, on the other hand, that the way of grouping the books is always the same.27 Gregory goes on listing the books of the New Testament:       Ἤδη δ’ ἀρίθμει καὶ νέου μυστηρίου.28 Ματθαῖος μὲν ἔγραψεν Ἑβραίοις θαύματα Χριστοῦ·    Μάρκος δ’ Ἰταλίῃ, Λουκᾶς Ἀχαϊάδι· Πᾶσι δ’ Ἰωάννης, κήρυξ μέγας, οὐρανοφοίτης.29       Ἔπειτα Πράξεις τῶν σοφῶν ἀποστόλων.       Δέκα δὲ Παύλου τέσσαρές τ’ ἐπιστολαί.       Ἑπτὰ δὲ καθολικαί, ὧν Ἰακώβου μία,       Δύω δὲ Πέτρου, τρεῖς δ’ Ἰωάννου πάλιν·       Ἰούδα δ’ ἐστὶν ἑβδόμη. 25  See Josephus. Against Apio, LCL (London, New York, 1926), 8, 38: οὐ μυριάδες βιβλίων εἰσὶ παρ’ ἡμῖν ἀσυμφώνων καὶ μαχομένων, δύο δὲ μόνα πρὸς τοῖς εἴκοσι βιβλία τοῦ παντὸς ἔχοντα χρόνου τὴν ἀναγραφήν, τὰ δικαίως πεπιστευμένα, although it seems rather unclear which books were included in Josephus’ computing, and there is no doubt that many books were still excluded from Jewish canon at his time. See also Athanasius’ Ep. fest. 39, 17 in P.-P. Joannou, Discipline générale antique, vol. 2 (1963), 72-3, the can. 59 Laodicea in id., Discipline générale antique, vol. 1/1 (1962), 154-5 (implicitly), and Cyrilli Hierosol. opera, ed. W.C. Reischl and J. Rupp (19672), Catecheticon 4, 35. 26  See Origène, Philocalie, ed. Marguerite Harl, SC 302 (Paris, 1983), cap. 3, 6-8: οὐκ ἀγνοητέον ὅτι καὶ τὸ εἶναι τὰς ἐνδιαθήκους βίβλους, ὡς Ἑβραῖοι παραδιδόασι, δύο καὶ εἴκοσι, οἷς ὁ ἴσος ἀριθμὸς τῶν παρ’ αὐτοῖς στοιχείων ἐστίν, οὐκ ἄλογον τυγχάνει. In each of his three lists, Epiphanius also speaks, however, of 27 books (and letters), on the basis of the additional ending forms of five letters of the Hebrew alphabet. With regard to Homer’s subdivision, see Rudolf Pfeiffer, History of Classical Scholarship (Oxford, 1968), 115-6. The analogy was also evoked by Edmond J. Gallagher, Hebrew Scripture in Patristic Biblical Theory. Canon, Language, Text, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 114 (Leiden, Boston, 2012), 87-8, and Peter Katz, ‘The Old Testament Canon in Palestine and Alexandria’, ZNTW 47 (1956), 191-217, 101. 27   On the whole question see E.J. Gallagher, Hebrew Scripture (2012), 85-92, rightfully against P. Katz, ‘The Old Testament’ (1956), 196-7. See also Éric Junod, ‘La formation et la composition de l’Ancien Testament dans l’Église grecque des quatre premiers siècles’, in Jean Daniel Kaestli and Otto Wermelinger (eds), Le canon de l’Ancien Testament. Sa formation et son histoire (Geneva, 1984), 105-51, 126, and G. Dorival, ‘L’apport des Pères’ (2003), 93-8. 28   Trans. B.P. Dunkle, Poems on Scripture (2009): ‘Come then and number [the books] of the new mystery.’ 29   Ibid.: ‘Matthew wrote the marvels of Jesus for the Jews. / Mark for Italy, Luke for Greece, / John, the great herald, heaven-haunting, wrote for all.’

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He frames the four Evangelists into elegiac verses (1 elegiac couplet + 1 hexa­ meter), despite some wrong scanning.30 By doing so, perhaps, Gregory wanted to remark once more the ‘holy number’ of the books since it seems no coincidence that the poem has 22 iambic trimeters as a whole (just as Amphilochius’ 333 trimeters were not accidental either!).31 Unlike the list of the Old Testament, Gregory’s canon of the New one reveals no discrepancy with the canon accepted today, except for the absence of the Revelation of John, which was indeed under suspicion at the time. According to Thielman’s hypothesis, however, the Revelation could be alluded to through the adjective οὐρανοφοίτης used for John.32 One last warning closes the poem and makes clear the author’s purpose of legitimating his list as canonical:                      Πάσας ἔχεις. Εἴ τι δὲ τούτων ἐκτός, οὐκ ἐν γνησίαις.33

None of the books omitted by Gregory, as a consequence, should be accepted. Gregory’s canon has various similarities with coeval or previous lists. Yet, it stands out as particularly strict and narrow. Even a comparison with Amphilochius’ verses reveals that, though being very close, the two lists distinguish in that Gregory was way more selective. Although the order followed by Gregory resembles that of Cyril and his list basically agrees with Athanasius’ and – as it might be expected – with Amphilochius’, in the poem I 1, 12 the reader finds no discussion about spurious books, nor does Gregory even mention them. They are merely erased. One major issue in this respect remains the absence of Esther, which can actually date back to Jewish tradition. We learn from the Talmud of some arguing about Esther’s canonicity among rabbis.34 No agreement can be apparently   See B.P. Dunkle, Poems on Scripture (2009), 35, and PG edition.   If one agrees with Palla’s correction of v. 11, which seems reasonable and supported by evidence. 32   Frank Thielman, ‘The Place of the Apocalypse in the Canon of St. Gregory Nazianzen’, Tyndale Bulletin 49 (1998), 155-7. 33   Trans. B.P. Dunkle, Poems on Scripture (2009): ‘You have them all. / If it’s anything else, then it’s not genuine.’ 34   G. Dorival, M. Harl and O. Munnich, La Bible grecque (1988), 325-6, E.L. Gallagher and J.D. Meade, The Biblical Canon Lists (2017), 270-1. The Talmud, Meg. 7a, reports that: ‘Rav Yehuda said that Shmuel said: The book of Esther does not render the hands ritually impure [verb ‫’]טמא‬, hence the debate in the Gemara: ‘Is this to say that Shmuel maintains that the book of Esther was not stated with the inspiration of the Divine Spirit?’ It is noteworthy that, among all the books of the Hebrew Bible, Esther alone did not emerge from Qumran, despite the claims of Józef T. Milik, ‘Les modèles araméens du livre d’Esther dans la grotte 4 de Qumrān’, Revue de Qumran 15 (1992), 321-99 (see Shemarayahu Talmon, ‘Was the Book of Esther Known at Qumran?’, Dead Sea Discoveries 2/3 [1995], 249-67; Sidnie White Crawford, ‘Has “Esther” been found at Qumran? “4QProto-Esther” and the “Esther” Corpus’, Revue de Qumran 17 [1996], 307-25, and esp. Kristin De Troyer, ‘Once more, the so-called Esther Fragments of Cave 4’, Revue 30 31



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traced in Christian lists: Esther was sometimes included within canonical books (so is it in Bryennios’ List, in Origen and Cyril, whose order is almost identical to Gregory’s, and in the Synod of Laodicea), whereas sometimes it was excluded, which led scholars to ascribe such an omission to material mistakes, in some cases (Esther is omitted by Melito in Eusebius, and formally excluded by Athanasius and Amphilochius).35 What is perhaps more surprising and what has maybe led critics to infer material corruption in this case too (rather unlikely, in my view),36 is the fact that Gregory does not even examine Esther’s absence. On the contrary, both Athanasius and Amphilochius had problematized it, the former labelling Esther as an ἀπόκρυφος to be read by catechumens, the latter still seemingly refusing it, even though some added it to the canon.37 Gregory’s attitude towards Esther seems to reflect a tendency to ignore the Jewish heroine among the Cappadocian Fathers, and a general concern about her canonicity in East-Christianity, as shown by her alleged exclusion from the Antiochian Canon.38 Yet, as I said above, the case of Esther may also help laying the question as to which canon Gregory adheres to.39 Despite his silence about Esther in the poem I 1, 12, Gregory’s use of Esther is undeniable at least in one passage of his poem I 2, 29, Against Women who Excessively Adorn themselves, vv. 289-94:40 de Qumran 19 [2000], 401-22). As underlined by Claudine Cavalier in her introduction to Esther, La Bible d’Alexandrie 12 (Paris, 2012), 120: ‘Les difficultés rencontrées par Esther pour devenir canonique en milieu juif trouvèrent un écho en milieu chrétien’; for a general overview see also Kristin De Troyer, ‘Das Buch Esther’, in Siegfried Kreuzer (ed.), Einleitung in die Septuaginta, Handbuch zur Septuaginta 3 (Gütersloh, 2016), 271-8; Roger Beckwith, The Old Testament Canon of the New Testament Church and its Background in Early Judaism (Grand Rapids, 1985), 291, 295-7, 322-3, and G. Dorival, ‘L’apport des Pères’ (2003), 102-4 (for an introductory survey on the Jewish debate, from a Jewish perspective, see Michael J. Broyde, ‘Defilement of the Hands, Canonization of the Bible, and the Special Status of Esther, Ecclesiastes, and Song of Songs’, Judaism 37 [2006], 65-79). 35   In both the case of Melito (see E.L. Gallagher and J.D. Meade, The Biblical Canon Lists [2017], 82) and of Gregory (see below). 36   See A.C. Sundberg, ‘The Old Testament’ (1958), 221, n. 79. 37   Respectively, see Athanasius’ Ep. fest. 39, 17 in P.-P. Joannou, Discipline générale antique, vol. 2 (1963), 75, 16-23, and Amphilochii Iambi, ed. E. Oberg (1969), v. 288: τούτοις προσεγκρίνουσι τὴν Ἐσθήρ τινες. 38   See C. Cavalier’s introduction to Esther (2012), 120: ‘Il semble donc que le statut du livre ait été douteux pour certains auteurs, en Orient au moins, car toutes les listes occidentales l’incluent, jusqu’au IXe siècle de notre ère’; R. Carter, ‘The Antiochene Biblical Canon’ (2006), 428-9, and F.P. Barone, ‘Le livre d’Esther dans la Synopsis Scripturae Sacrae’ (2021) : the only Antiochian reference to Esther, which is in John Chrysostom’s De statuis (PG 49, 50.9-25), introduces her as a Biblical character unknown to the public. 39   On this point, see K. Demoen, Pagan and biblical exempla (1996), 233-5, and id., ‘Saint Pierre se régalant de lupins. À propos de quelques traces d’apocryphes concernant Pierre dans l’œuvre de Grégoire de Nazianze’, SE 32 (1991), 96-106, esp. 101-6. 40   Gregor von Nazianz, Gegen die Putzsucht der Frauen, ed. Andres Knecht (Heidelberg, 1972), 34-5: ‘Wenn du aber dermaßen mit deiner künstlichen Schönheit prunkst, kannst du wohl

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εἰ δὲ σὺ κάλλεϊ τόσσον ἐπιπλάστῳ βλεμεαίνεις, οὔ ποτ’ ἂν ἀπλάστῳ σώφρονα θυμὸν ἔχοις. ‘Ἐσθὴρ εἶδος ἔτευξεν ἐράσμιον’. ἀλλὰ τί κείνης ἔργον ἀριπρεπίης; ἔθνος ἔμεινεν ὅλον. γράψε ποτ’ ὄμματα πόρνα Ἰεζάβελ ἀγριόθυμος, λοῦσέ γε μὴν πόρνας αἵματι πορνιδίῳ.

One may at first glance notice that here Esther is not openly presented as part of the Scriptures, nor is she introduced by Gregory himself, but rather by his counterpart in the literary fiction (if we stick to Knecht’s edition). Even more, Gregory seems to put Jezebel’s example, from 2Kings 9:30, just after Esther’s, in order to strengthen it: the two female characters are not viewed as thoroughly positive here, but they somehow legitimate female vanity for higher purposes.41 Anyways, this is the sole occurrence of Esther within Gregory’s work (and one of the few among Cappadocian Fathers). So, was Gregory indeed consistent with the canon he described in our poem? As proved in this case by the mention of Esther and further witnessed by echoes of deuterocanonical books like Sirach and Solomon’s Wisdom, in various passages of his oeuvre, the answer should be no.42 But I am not even sure whether such a question is really meaningful. ‘A canon list was not a comprehensive list of valuable religious books’43 and early-Christian ‘effective canon’ must have been wider than Gregory’s. The 4th century saw an increasing need nie in Schlichtheit tugendsam sein. – “Esther gab ihrem Aussehen doch Liebreiz.” – Ja, aber was war die Aufgabe jenes Hervorstrahlens? Ein ganzes Volk blieb am Leben, Es schminkte sich ja einst auch die wilde Isebel ihre dirnenhaften Augen; freilich, sie ließ in ihrem Dirnenblut Dirnen baden’, see also ibid. 125 ad loc., and Clément d’Alexandrie, Le Pédagogue, livre III, ed. Marguerite Harl and Henri-Irénée Marrou, SC 158 (Paris, 1970), 3, 2, 12. On Esther’s quotations by the Cappadocians, see BiPa, vol. 5, 246. 41   Similar praises of Esther are already found in 1Clem., ed. Annie Jaubert, SC 167 (Paris, 1971), 55.3-6. 42   E.L. Gallagher and J.D. Meade, The Biblical Canon Lists (2017), 142, n. 354. Gregory’s inconsistency had already been noticed by Paul Gallay, ‘La Bible dans l’œuvre de Grégoire de Nazianze le Théologien’, in Claude Mondésert (ed.), Le monde grec ancien et la Bible (Paris, 1984), 313-34, 318: ‘[I]l y a donc un certain décalage entre le canon que Grégoire proclame et l’usage qu’il fait des livres saints’. Guillaume Bady, ‘Le miel des Écritures: la fréquence des références bibliques chez Jean Chrysostome et les trois Cappadociens’, in S.M. Badilita and L. Mellerin, Le miel des Écritures (Turnhout, 2015), 149-78, offers an up-to-date survey on biblical references in Gregory Nazianzen and the other Cappadocians (and John Chrysostom). Gregory’s attitude towards apocryphal literature somehow reminds his silent approach to pagan authors, see, e.g., Martin Steinrück, Der neue Iambos: Studien zu den Formwegen eines griechischen Diskurses im Hellenismus und der Kaiserzeit, Spudasmata 124 (Hildesheim, 2009), 147. 43   E.L. Gallagher and J.D. Meade, The Biblical Canon Lists (2017), xviii, and John Barton, Holy Writings, Sacred Text: The Canon in Early Christianity (Louisville, KY, 1997), 31-2, who affirms that ‘lists bear no exact relation to what may be called the “effective” canon of most Christian writers’, because ‘for most of the patristic period such terms are more or less meaningless and anachronistic’. On the attitude towards deuterocanonical books see G. Dorival, ‘L’apport des Pères’ (2003), 107-8.



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for canonization; many of the parallels mentioned in this article so far are drawn from coeval authors who compiled, in turn, their lists of the Holy Scripture. Yet, what is by far more striking, is that the comparison of Gregory’s canon with order and contents of the codices vetustissimi of the Bible reveals several discrepancies: indeed, none of those ancient manuscripts mirrors Gregory’s or Athanasius’ lists.44 One should maybe recall that the 4th century was also the age of the gradual and final success of the miscellaneous codex, and that, despite all, τὰ βιβλία were still perceived as a plural: ‘the books’. The birth of ‘the Bible’ as a ‘book’ under one set of covers (or perhaps in multiple volumes under one title) comes about in connection with the technological development of the large scale codex. This was a gradual process, as far as we can tell.45

In other words, Gregory – as many of these Fathers – stays at the edges of a material change, which is also a conceptual revolution: the story of the book’s shape almost overlaps with that of the canon itself.46 Hence, perhaps the need to canonize, but also, e.g., the inconsistent organization of Gregory’s canon. On the other hand, the degree of self-consciousness of Gregory’s didactic task has to be taken into consideration as well. The canon list in the poem I 1, 12 has to be framed within the development of a new Christian παιδεία Gregory of Nazianzus, together with his friend Basil, took a great part in. These verses were directed towards one specific addressee, the pupil approaching Christian teachings, who needed a list easy to understand and memorize, where debates had limited space. Things had to be clear to him, even at the cost of some simplification.

44   On the influence of Athanasius on the Cappadocian Fathers, see É. Junod, ‘La formation et la composition’ (1984), 131-2. 45   Robert A. Kraft, ‘Seeking “the Septuagint” in a scroll dependent world’, in Kristin De Troyer, T. Michael Law and Marketta Liljeström (eds), In the Footsteps of Sherlock Holmes: Studies in the Biblical Text in Honour of Anneli Aejmelaeus (Leuven, 2014), 573-82, 576, he also adds: ‘[U]ntil the technological development of the printing press […] there were few such “pandects”, even of the separate “New Testament” scriptures, much less of the Jewish scriptures or the entire Christian “Bible”.’ The viewpoint is expressed by Kristin De Troyer, Rewriting the Sacred Text, SBL Text-Critical Studies 4 (Leiden, Boston, 2004), 13-4: ‘I even doubt whether a “complete” Greek Bible existed before […] the codex-system was applied to the biblical text […] The oldest codices, however, seem to have been single volumes’; for an updated overview on the Septuagint Canon, see Jan Joosten, ‘The Origin of the Septuagint Canon’, in Siegfried Kreuzer, Martin Meiser and Marcus Sigismund (eds), Die Septuaginta – Orte und Intentionen, WUNT 361 (Tübingen, 2016), 688-99. 46   On this turning-point and the role played by Christendom, see Martin Wallraff, Kodex und Kanon: das Buch im frühen Christentum, Hans-Lietzmann-Vorlesungen 12 (Berlin, Boston, 2013), esp. 25-37. Many of these ideas I owe to Luciano Bossina, The Manuscripts of the Septuagint: An Introduction and Critical Overview [forth.], on the manuscripts of the LXX. See also the eyeopening and brief study of R.A. Kraft, ‘Seeking “the Septuagint”’ (2014), 573-82.

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Appendix The paraphrasis of the Poem I 1, 12 according to the cod. Vat. gr. 497 (= Vb) As said above, the success of Gregory’s poetry in Byzantine school curriculum is proved by a conspicuous apparatus of scholia and commentaries transmitted together with it. Even mnemonic verses as those of the Carmina biblica deserved a paraphrasis: here I present a pro-ecdosis of the text of the paraphrasis (type B) to the poem I 1, 12, based on the sole cod. Vat. gr. 497 (Vb). The paraphrasis B is not restricted to the explanation of the text but shows a specific tendency to expand it into an autonomous work. Rather than providing a critical edition, the aim is to shed some light on the reception of Gregory’s poetry.47 Ad Gregorii Nazianzeni Carmen biblicum I 1, 12 De veris Scripturae libris

Anonymi Paraphrasis iuxta cod. Vat. gr. 497

Καλὸν καὶ λόγοις ἐνασχολεῖσθαι πνευματικοῖς καὶ διανοίᾳ καὶ γλώσσῃ τούτους ἐπεντρυφᾶν καὶ τῶν νόμων κυρίου διαπαντὸς ἐμμελετᾶν. τριῶν γὰρ ἕν γέ τι πάντως κερδαίνειν ἐπάναγκες ἐκ τῆς φιλοπόνου καὶ ἐπιμόνου τῶν γραφῶν ἐρεύνης· ἢ γὰρ τῶν πόνων ἔπαθλον ἐκ θεοῦ λαμβάνομεν τὴν  5 τῶν κεκρυμμένων ἀποκάλυψιν, ἢ τοῦτο λυσιτελὲς τὸ κεντρίζεσθαι πρὸς ἀρετὴν θείοις προστάγμασιν, ἢ κατὰ τρίτον λόγον ἀπαγόμεθα τῶν γειήνων τῇ περὶ τὰ πνευματικὰ μερίμνῃ καὶ σχολῇ. ἐπειδή, ὥσπερ τῷ σίτῳ συναφύονται ζιζάνια | καὶ τοῖς ῥόδοις συνανατέλλουσιν ἄκανθαι, οὕτω δὲ 282r καὶ τοῖς γνησίοις τῶν ἱερῶν βίβλων νόθοι συναναφαίνονται καὶ παρέγ10 γραπτoι· ἵνα μὴ τὸν νοῦν παρεκλάπης καὶ ἀνθέξῃ τῶν ξένων ὡς ἡμετέρων, τὸν ἔγκριτον ἀριθμόν, ὦ φίλος, ἐξ ἐμοῦ μάνθανε, καὶ τοῦτον δεχόμενος καὶ ὡς οἰκεῖον περιέπων, ἀποποιοῦ τὸ ἀλλότριον. Ἱστορικαὶ μέν εἰσιν αἱ πᾶσαι βίβλοι τῆς παλαιᾶς τῶν Ἑβραίων σοφίας δύο πρὸς ταῖς δέκα· πρώτη Γένεσις, Ἔξοδος μετέπειτα, μεθ᾽ ἃ τὸ Λευιτι15 κὸν καὶ ἐφεξῆς οἱ Ἀριθμοί, εἶθ᾽ ἡ καλουμένη Ἐπινομὴ ἤτοι τὸ Δευτερονόμιον, Ἰησοῦς μετὰ ταῦτα, μεθ᾽ ὃν οἱ Κριταὶ καὶ ἡ ἱστορία Ῥοὺθ ὀγδόη. 47   See L. Bacci, Ad Olimpiade (1996), 142, and Ch. Simelidis, Selected Poems (2009), 79-88, who speaks of ‘occasional literary bursts’ and ‘addition by the paraphraser’. Simelidis too decided to publish a ‘transcription from one manuscript’ (ibid. 81). Indeed, the text of this paraphrasis can also be read in PG 38, 843-6, based on another manuscript, the Mosquensis Bibl. Synod. 156 (see also R. Palla, Studi sulla tradizione [1990], 79). As noted by R. Palla, Studi sulla tradizione (1990), 61, Vb provides a specific type of paraphrasis which is not even the only one attested within the manuscript tradition of the Biblica. Another example has recently been provided by M. Settecase, ‘Gregorio Nazianzeno, Carm. I.2.26: edizione critica, commento testuale e parafrasi bizantine inedite’, Prometheus 45 (2019), 223-46, 241-2 (edition of the paraphrasis secunda).



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βίβλοι δύο τῶν Βασιλεύων τὸν ἔνατον καὶ δέκατον ἀποπληροῦσιν ἀριθμόν, μεθ᾽ ἃς τὰ Παραλειπόμενα καὶ ὁ Ἔσδρας ἔσχατος. Εἰσὶ δὲ καὶ στιχηραὶ καλούμεναι βίβλοι κατὰ μέτρον Ἑβραϊκὸν συγκείμεναι πέντε, ὧν ἡ πρώτη τὰ τοῦ Ἰὼβ ἀθλήματα, ἡ δευτέρα Δαυῒδ ψαλτήριον καὶ Σολομώντειαι τρεῖς, ὁ τὰ φυσικὰ φιλοσοφῶν Ἐκκλησιαστής, τὸ θεολογικὸν Ἆισμα τῶν ᾀσμάτων καὶ αἱ ἠθικαὶ Παροιμίαι. ὡς δὲ καὶ τοῦ προφητικοῦ χαρίσματος ἕτεραι πέντε· ὁμοῦ μὲν εἰς μίαν συγκεφαλαιούμενοι βίβλον οἱ δώδεκα, λέγω δὲ τὸν Ὠσηέ, τὸν Ἀμῶς, τὸν Μιχαίας, τὸν Ἰωήλ, τὸν Ἰωνᾶν, τὸν Ἀβδίου, Ναούμ, Ἀμβακοὺμ καὶ Σοφονίας ἔνατον, Ἀγγαῖον, Ζαχαρίας καὶ Μαλαχίας μετέπειτα· αἳ τῇ μὲν βίβλος μία προφητική, δευτέρα δ᾽ Ἡσαίας ὁ μέγιστος, ἔπειθ᾽ ὁ ἀπὸ βρέφους Ἱερεμίας κληθείς, μετ᾽ αὐτὸν Ἱεζεκιὴλ καὶ Δανιὴλ ὕστερον. παλαιὰς μέν σοι ταύτας ἐξεθέμην βίβλους δύο πρὸς ταῖς εἴκοσι τοῖς τῶν Ἑβραίων ἰσαρίθμους γράμμασιν. ῞Ηδη δέ μοι δέχου καὶ ὅσα τῆς καινῆς διαθήκης· πρῶτος Ἑβραίοις συνεγράψατο Ματθαῖος ὁ ἱερὸς τὸ κατ᾽  αὐτὸν εὐαγγέλιον, δεύτερος ἐν Ἰταλίᾳ Μάρκος ὁ θειότατος, τρίτος ἐν Ἀχαίᾳ Λουκᾶς ὁ πάνσοφος, ὁ δέ γε τὰ οὐράνια βρωντήσας Ἰωάννης κοινῇ πᾶσιν εὐηγγελίσατο. μεθ᾽ οὓς αἱ θεοσημεῖαι καὶ Πράξεις τῶν ἀποστόλων καὶ Παύλου τοῦ θεοκήρυκος ἐπιστολαὶ δέκα καὶ τέσσαρες καὶ καθολικαὶ ἑπτά, ὧν μία μὲν Ἰακώβου τοῦ ἀδελφοθέου, δύο δὲ Πέτρου τοῦ κορυφαίου καὶ Ἰωάννου πάλιν τοῦ εὐαγγελιστοῦ τρεῖς, ἑβδόμη δ᾽ ἐστὶν Ἰούδα τοῦ ζηλωτοῦ. πάσας ἔχεις τὰς ἐγκεκριμμένας καὶ δεκτάς· εἰ δέ τις εὑρεθείη τούτων ἐκτὸς οὐ μετὰ τῶν γνησίων τέτακται. 1     καὶ2] tit. παράφρασις Vbmg |   7     ἐπειδή] ἐπεὶ δέ Vb |   9     παρέγγραπτοι] παρεγγέγραπται  Vb |   10     παρεκλάπης] παρακλαπῆς  Vb |   17     βασιλεύων] βασιλείων Vbac |   22     ᾆσμα] ἄσμα Vb |   23     προφητικοῦ] προφήτου Vb |   26     αἳ τῇ] αὕτη malim.

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The Conceptualization of Envy in Gregory of Nyssa* Kyriakoula Tzortzopoulou, King’s College London, London, UK

Abstract The aim of this article is to offer a detailed analysis of the ways in which the emotion of envy is conceptualized by Gregory of Nyssa. Envy, which Gregory considers the most destructive emotion, figures prominently in his discussion of emotions. As salient as envy is for Gregory, and despite recent work on other emotions in Gregory’s works, it has yet to be subjected to sustained scholarly examination. In this article, I will show how Gregory conceptualizes envy through the lens of the Christian anthropology harnessing in the process the classical emotional knowledge in his understanding of this emotion. Through a survey of his works, I will show how he draws both on a great number of ideas about envy as developed in the philosophical texts of Greek authors, but also on a wide range of beliefs that pervade the scriptural texts and are an essential part of the Christian cognitive model about emotions. Last but not least, through analysis of key passages, I will explore how metaphors are implicated in the conceptualization of envy, building on modern scholarships’ views about the significant role of metaphor in the formation of emotion concepts.

The study of human emotions is one of the emerging areas of research in the field of humanities over the last decades, including the field of Patristics.1 The examination of human emotions as agents of moral judgment and attitude dates back to ancient philosophers and intellectuals and is still being continued by modern philosophers and psychologists. However, Christianity, in a unique development, associated emotions with the utmost purpose of life, salvation. Emotions are discussed in patristic texts as determinants of moral behavior that can either facilitate or even impede the salvation of human soul.2 In other words, *  This contribution develops out of my PhD thesis ‘The conceptualization of human emotions during the Imperial Period (1st-4th c. AD)’, at King’s College London. I am grateful for the financial support of the Foundation for Education and European Culture (IPEP) and A.G. Leventis Foundation, during my doctoral studies. 1   The bibliography is substantial. For indicative studies on emotions in patristic texts, see Martin Hinterberger, Phthonos. Missgunst, Neid und Eifersucht in der byzantinischen Literatur, Serta Graeca 29 (Wiesbaden, 2013); Yannis Papadogiannakis (ed.), Emotions = SP 83 (2017); Yannis Papadogiannakis, ‘Homiletics and the History of Emotions: The Case of John Chrysostom’, in Chris de Wet and Wendy Mayer (eds), Revisioning John Chrysostom: New Approaches, New Perspectives, Critical Approaches to Early Christianity 1 (Leiden, 2019), 300-33. 2   It is a common view among the Christian Fathers to attribute to a specific emotion both a positive and a negative role in human salvation. A characteristic example of this position is John

Studia Patristica CXV, 57-68. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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the discourse of Christian authors about psychology is inextricably linked with their discourse on morality and soteriology. A prime example of this approach to emotions is Gregory of Nyssa.3 In his works Περὶ κατασκευῆς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου (De hominis opificio, DHO) and Περὶ ψυχῆς καὶ ἀναστάσεως (De anima et resurrectione, DAR), he discusses the role of human emotions in the achievement of virtue.4 Gregory defines emotions as movements of the soul (κινήματα τῆς ψυχῆς) and more specifically as derivatives of desire and spiritedness, two impulses that – according to him – were added to human nature after the Fall from Paradise (DAR, PG 46, 56; DHO, PG 44, 192; DHO, PG 44, 232).5 Although the arousal of emotions was attributed

Chrysostom’s distinction of sadness into ‘sadness for earthly matters’ (λύπη κατὰ κόσμον) and ‘sadness according to God’ or ‘sadness for repentance’ (λύπη κατὰ Θεόν and λύπη εἰς μετάνοιαν). In his commentary on Paul’s Second Epistle to the Corinthians (PG 61, 503), Chrysostom recognizes only the sadness for our sins as a virtue, while he stigmatizes any kind of sadness for worldly goods as burdens for achieving a spiritual life. 3   For the emotions in Gregory’s thought see the exemplary study of J. Warren Smith, Passion and Paradise: Human and Divine Emotion in the Thought of Gregory of Nyssa (New York, 2004), 60-103. He investigates how the passions function in Gregory’s teachings on God, human creation, and salvation. See also Sandra Leuenberger-Wenger, Ethik und christliche Identität bei Gregor von Nyssa, Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum 49 (Tübingen, 2008), 285-315, who in the framework of analyzing the Christian ethics and identity gives a concise study on Gregory’s psychology. Another important study on passions is that of Kevin Corrigan, Evagrius and Gregory: Mind, Soul and Body in the 4th Century, Studies in Philosophy and Theology in Late Antiquity (Farnham, Burlington, 2009), 47-8 and 140-5, who treats the emotions from the perspective of the dynamic relationship between body/mind/soul. 4   In his treatise On the Creation of human (Περὶ κατασκευῆς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου), which was written at the beginning of 379 AD, Gregory initiates his audience or readership to the anthropological theme of human creation. He also pays particular attention to the relationship of body-soul and the origin of matter. See Giorgio Maturi, ‘OP HOM. De hominis opificio’, in Lucas Francisco Mateo-Seco and Giulio Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 99 (Leiden, Boston, 2010), 544-5. On the soul and resurrection (Περὶ ψυχῆς καὶ ἀναστάσεως) is a work dedicated to the Christian ideas about the essence of the human soul, its immortality and the resurrection. It is possibly composed at the end of 379 AD in the literary form of the philosophical dialogue that takes place at Annesi of Pontus between Gregory and his sister Makrina, while she is on her deathbed. She is the one that articulates and explains to Gregory the doctrine of soul and at the same time rebukes several Greek philosophical ideas on the same topic. See id., ‘AN ET RES. De anima et resurrectione’, in ibid., 27-9. 5   The concept of emotions in Gregory’s thought is interwoven with the broader category of passions (πάθη) that includes specific movements, which occur within the human psychosomatic entity. The semantic category of passions encompasses impulses of the body and impulses, whose generation is due to the compound nature of humans, i.e. the synthesis of human intellect, the faculty of sense-perception and body. These impulses can be either emotions, e.g. rage and envy, or traits of the human character, e.g. hypocrisy and cowardice. This kind of conceptualization, present from the ancient times, seems to be perpetuated in late antique times and be central to the Christian discourse. For the concept of πάθη in Antiquity in general see David Konstan, The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature, Robson Classical Lectures (Toronto, 2006), 3-4.



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to the posterior affinity of humanity to irrational nature and the alienation from God, the human intellect can surpass this situation by transmuting the impulses to virtuous emotions. For Gregory, the human passions have a double essence, either positive or negative, dependent on the intervention of the mind to the impulses of desire and spiritedness.6 They can either cause severe evils in human life, when the mind transforms the bequeathed impulses to a series of passions or make a contribution to the possession and exercise of virtue and, thus, bring to the fore the human likeness to God.7 Such positive examples of emotions that can lead to salvation are found on Scripture, as Gregory observes in his dialogue On the Soul (DAR; PG 46, 57): ‘The desire became praise to Daniel and through spirit Phineas appeased God. And we learnt that fear of God is the principle of wisdom and we heard from Paul that the aim of sadness against God is our salvation. The Gospel legalizes the contempt of misfortunes, while the fearlessness for discouragement is nothing else than audacity that is included among the goods’. The same idea is additionally expressed in On the creation of the human (DHO; PG 44, 193B): ‘Anger produces courage, terror caution, fear obedience, hatred aversion from vice, love the desire for what is truly beautiful’. On the other hand, the ‘fall of intellect’ results in the generation of vicious emotions and other evils, as Gregory states characteristically: ‘The rising of spirit in us is indeed akin to the impulse of the brutes; but it grows by the alliance of thought: for thence come malignity, envy, deceit, conspiracy, hypocrisy; all these are the result of the evil husbandry of the mind’ (DHO; PG 44, 193A). One emotion, which, for Gregory, gets in the way of attaining virtue and ultimately salvation, is envy. It is for that very reason that Gregory’s detailed references to envy are found in works that concern the Christian spiritual struggle for perfection, union with God and, thus, salvation. The pathology of envy is thoroughly examined on Λόγοι εἰς τοὺς Μακαρισμούς (On the Beatitudes) and Εἰς τὸν βίον τοῦ Μωυσέως (Life of Moses). However, although Gregory devoted considerable attention to envy, this fact has not received the scholarly attention that it deserves.8 As follows, I will underscore how Gregory conceptualizes envy and how he incorporates his ideas on envy into his discourse for soteriology.

6   For this idea see the analysis of S. Leuenberger-Wenger, Ethik und christliche Identität (2008), 288-305, who compares the Gregorian thought about passions as leading to vice or virtue with the Aristotelian ethics. 7   J.W. Smith, Passion and Paradise (2004), 21-47. 8   With the exception of Hinterberger’s analysis, M. Hinterberger, Phthonos (2013), 72-5.

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On the beatitudes, Sermon 7 This treatise, dating from 379 AD, offers a hermeneutic view of the eight sermons on the Beatitudes as were articulated by Jesus (Matt. 5:3-11).9 The goal of this exegetical work was to exhort the Christian believers to take up an ‘upward journey toward God’ in order to reach beatitude, namely happiness that results from every concept of goodness.10 This pursuit is presented as the ascension to a ladder of eight rungs, each of them representing different blessed virtues and their opposed vices that lead consecutively to the top, i.e. the beatitude.11 The order of the presentation is not accidental, but each virtue seems to be a prerequisite for the following, a fundament for the ascension to the others up to the top, where the ultimate state of beatitude situates.12 The discourse on envy is included in the seventh beatitude about the peacemakers, in which beatitude is seen as the action of making peace: ‘Blessed (μακάριοι) are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God’. More specifically, peace is praised both as a state opposed to war and primarily as the peaceful state of the human soul. As such, it is defined as the disposition of love towards the other human beings (ἡ ἀγαπητική τις πρὸς τὸ ὁμόφυλον συνδιάθεσις), with the passions of hatred, wrath, anger, resentment, hypocrisy and envy presented as opposites to it (Beat. 7; PG 44, 1284). It is very important, since it leads to the ultimate goal of beatitude and in the same time ensures the restoration of the primal unity of being in humans that is called man’s imitation of God (μιμητὴς τοῦ Θεοῦ) and sonship (υἱὸς τοῦ Θεοῦ) (Beat. 7; 9   For the chronology of this work see Jean Daniélou, ‘La chronologie des œuvres de Grégoire de Nysse’, SP 7 (1966), 159-69; Stuart George Hall, ‘Gregory of Nyssa, On the Beatitudes. An Introduction to the text and translation’, in Hubertus Drobner and Albert Viciano (eds), Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Beatititudes. An English Version with Commentary and Supporting Studies, Proceedings of the Eighth International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (Paderborn, 14-18 September 1998) (Leiden, Boston, Köln, 2000), 3-19; Pierre Maraval, ‘Chronology of works’, in L.F. Mateo-Seco and G. Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary (2010), 159. 10   For the Gregorian definition of beatitude, see De beat. 1, PG 44, 1196: Μακαριότης τίς ἐστι, κατά γε τὸν ἐμὸν λόγον περίληψις πάντων τῶν κατὰ τὸ ἀγαθὸν νοουμένων. For a deep analysis of the concept see Scot Douglass, ‘BEAT. De beatitudinibus’, in L.F. Mateo-Seco and G. Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary (2010), 99-100. 11   The pairs of virtues and vices that are mentioned in the process of the exegesis of the beatitudes encompass not only permanent psychic and behavioral states, but also emotions that are conceptualized as equal states to the permanent ones. Thus, humility is opposed to pride, gentleness to the emotion of anger, grief over sins to grief over mundane misfortunes, constant desire for justice to worldly desires for transient things, pity to hatred, purity of heart to general passions, peace of soul to anger and envy, pain of persecution to pain and loss. 12   The progressive presentation of ideas is a specific method that Gregory regularly uses when interpreting the scriptural texts, called ‘akolouthia’. For the interpretation of the ladder of virtuesvices as an application of this method see Claudio Moreschini, ‘Gregorio di Nyssa, De Beatitudinibus, Oratio VII: “Beati gli operatori di pace, perché saranno chiamati figli di Dio” (MT 5,9)’, in H.R. Drobner and A. Viciano (eds), Gregory of Nyssa (2000), 229-42, 230. For the application of akoulouthia as a means of investigation in the whole corpus of Gregory see J. Daniélou, ‘Akolouthia chez Grégoire de Nysse’, Revue des sciences religieuses 27.3 (1953), 219-49.



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PG 44, 1289-92).13 The significance of this is also indicated by the order of the beatitude, one step before the eighth step of the ladder, and by the characterization of it as ‘Holy of the holies’ (Ἅγιον ἁγίων) (Beat 7; PG 44, 1277), a term drawn upon Septuagint and being of great religious value for Christians.14 In the same vein, the placement of envy in the seventh beatitude is not negligible but taking into consideration the idea of Gregory on the ‘akolouthia’ of the beatitudes, we can understand the extent to which it was considered by Gregory to be a negative emotion and an obstruction to reach beatitude. In the process of examining the destructiveness of envy for the Christian soul, Gregory analyses the inner-experiential quality of envy, its eliciting conditions, the behavior of envious people and the embodied characteristics of the emotion in terms reminiscent of classical traditions on emotions. A great number of commonplace ideas that are developed in the philosophical texts of Greek authors are intertwined with a wide range of beliefs that pervade the Scriptural texts and are part of the established by the Christian Fathers cognitive model about the emotion. Gregory conceptualizes envy as a kind of sadness generated by the welfare of one’s neighbor, such as the beauty of the body, rhetorical skills, noble origin, and affluence (Beat. 7; PG 44, 1288). This description coincides with the definitions provided by classical authors, such as Aristotle and Plutarch, as well as other Christian Fathers.15 Another motif relating to envy that is predominant in Christian references is the hidden character in terms of the emotion’s deliberate concealment due to shame, the hypocritical behavior of envious people and envy’s latent impact on their soul (Beat. 7; PG 44, 1288-9). This aspect of envy is the more emphasized and condemned by Gregory for the consequences that the emotion has both for the envied and the envious people.16 The idea that envy is most horrible than other emotions, since the hidden is always most dreadful than the obvious, is reinforced by two analogies. First, envious and hypocritic people are likened to dogs that do not bark, biding their time to attack 13   For Gregory’s ideas on the ‘sonship’ see Lucian Turcescu, ‘Blessed are the Peacemakers, for they will be called Sons of God (MT 5,4): Does Gregory of Nyssa have a Theology of adoption?’, in H.R. Drobner and A. Viciano (eds), Gregory of Nyssa (2000), 397-406. 14   The Holy of Holies in the Bible refers to the inner sanctuary of the Tabernacle where God’s presence appeared (Exodus 28 and 30). In the Christian tradition, this name is used for the sanctuary of a church. See Paul, Hebrews 8 and 9. 15   For ancient definitions see Andronicus περὶ παθῶν 2 (p. 12 Kreuttner) = fr. 414 SVF, Arist., Rhet. 1387 b 22f, Eud. Eth. 1233b 19f, Top. 109 b 30f; Cic., Tusc. Disp. 4.17; Nem., De nat. hom. 19: PG 40, 683, Plato, Phileb. 47e; Plut., De cur. 6, 518c, De Stoic. Repugn. 25, 1046b; Xen., Memor. 3.9.8. [I am indebted to Ernst Milobenski, Der Neid in der griechischen Philosophie (Wiesbaden, 1964) and Theodoros Nikolaou, Der Neid bei Johannes Chrysostomos unter Berücksichtigung der griechischen Philosophie, Abhandlungen zur Philosophie, Psychologie und Pädagogik 56 (Bonn, 1969) for all the above citations]. For Christian definitions see Basil, De inv., PG 31, 373A; Chrys., In Genes. Hom. 52, PG 54, 456. 16   Similarly, the hidden character is commented by Plutarch (Plut., De inv. et od. 537e) and is denounced by Basil (Bas., De inv., PG 31, 373B).

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us when we are unsuspecting. Secondly, the hypocritic character of envious people is parallelized with fire that smolders under the straw, without being manifested by any sparkling flame, while it burns simultaneously the adjacent fodders secretly. This idea is further elaborated by the biblical example of Cain who killed his brother out of envy, although he tried to cover his emotion under a friendly mask for a long time.17 According to Gregory, even though envy is a hidden emotion, there are several occasions when the feelings of the envious persons can be revealed. For instance, the feeling of resentment that accompanies envy can be uncovered with expressions of joy and pleasure, when the envied persons confront sudden misfortunes. This reaction recalls ἐπιχαιρεκακία (happiness for one’s misfortunes), an emotion very often related to envy by classical authors.18 Apart from this reaction, envy can also be disclosed through the bodily, mostly facial, alterations. Thus, Gregory mentions a set of reactions by which envy is displayed and that are parallelized with signs of sick and dying persons, i.e. dry and hollow eyes, dropping eyebrow with drooping eyelashes, bones seen through the flesh (PG 44, 1288). It is very interesting that all these facial reactions were typical descriptions of people who were habitually envious (φθονεροί) in the Physiognomic treatises of Antiquity.19 It is possible that Gregory knew these stereotypical descriptions and was inspired by them in his treatise. A similar description can be found also on the homily Περὶ φθόνου of Basil of Caesarea (PG 31, 380), evidence that confirm the stereotypical character of the description.20 Finally, after having highlighted the negative aspects of envy – in terms of the feelings and the behaviors that encompass its experience –, Gregory underscores the necessity of eradicating the passion of envy from human life (ἐκβάλλων τῆς ἀνθρωπίνης ζωῆς), by imitating God’s virtues and aiming at peace. This idea recalls the Christianized view of ‘apatheia’ that indicates the achievement of participation in the divine goods and the restoration of the lost conditions by the soul’s purity.21  See Gen. 4:15.   The idea of envy being connected to joy is also present in the thought of Plutarch (De inv. et od. 538e); Basil (De inv. PG 31, 373) and John Chrysostom (e.g. PG 61, 262). Aristotle refers to a similar concept with the term ἐπιχαιρεκακία, differentiated from envy (NE 2.71107b). A similar concept, that of ‘Schadenfreude’ exists in the modern German language; ‘Schadenfreude’ is defined in a similar way, see Wilco W. van Dijk and Jaap W. Ouwerkerk (eds), Schadenfreude: Understanding Pleasure at the Misfortune of Others (Cambridge, 2014). 19  See e.g. Adamantius Sophist, Physiogn. A 324.6, 12; 345.1; 378.9,18 and Pseudo-Polemo, Physiogn. 428.12: 75. 20   A similar stereotypical description of bodily alterations with obvious association with Physiognomic passages is also found on Basil of Caesarea’s On Anger (PG 31, 356), see Martin Hinterberger, ‘Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nazianzus speaking about Anger and Envy: Some remarks on the Fathers’ Methodology of treating emotions and modern emotion studies’, in Y. Papadogiannakis (ed.), Emotions (2017), 313-42. 21   For ‘apatheia’ in Gregory see K. Corrigan, Evagrius and Gregory (2009), 54-7. 17 18



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Life of Moses or On Virtue The conceptualization of envy by Gregory can be also detected in his work Life of Moses or On virtue, dated between 390 and 392 AD.22 This work is an allegorical exegesis of the life of Moses and his achievement in reaching the ultimate Christian goal of perfection (τελειότης), as presented in the biblical book of Exodus.23 Gregory treats the topic by tracing the events of a historical person as example for the itinerary that the human being must follow in the progressive practice of virtue. Passions, like envy, are mentioned as an impediment to the upward tendency of the soul to meet and unite with God, while Moses’ paradigmatic virtuous life functions as the absolute example for all Christians who pursue virtue and perfection. The way Gregory analyses the specific emotional phenomenon depends primarily on his aim to show the means for achieving the virtue as Moses did. For that reason, the aspects of envy that constitute his cognitive model are confined to its soteriological dimension and its biblical conceptualization. A specific envy episode against Moses, displayed by his siblings, enables Gregory to present the destructive impact of envy on one’s salvation and to prescribe the exemplary way with which one shall confront envious behaviors. At the beginning of his analysis, Gregory deploys the biblical and Christian view about the post-lapsarian appearance of passions due to humans’ disobedience to God by the intervention of the Devil. In an extensive asyndeton, he presents the principal Christian belief about envy as the cause and the first principle of all evils (Vit. Mos. 2; PG 44, 409): envy is the passion from which wickedness began, the father of death, the first intrusion of sin, the root of evil, the cause of sadness, the mother of misfortunes, the cause of disobedience, the beginning of shame.

The juxtaposition of these ideas is followed by their interpretation given in a rhetorical way. The explanations issue from several biblical episodes that constitute an inextricable part of the Christian model of the passion (PG 44, 409). The first one comes from Genesis 3 and concerns the attribution of the original sin and fall from Paradise to the evil of the Devil that seduced Eve in the form of a snake.24 This sin led to human death – a state figuratively given with   P. Maraval, ‘Chronology of works’ (2010), 158.   For the exegetical approach of Gregory, see Abraham J. Malherbe, Everett Ferguson and John Meyendorff, Gregory of Nyssa. The life of Moses. Translation, Introduction and Notes (New York, 1978), 4-5. 24   It is remarkable, as Paul Blowers noticed, in ‘Envy’s Narrative scripts: Cyprian, Basil, and the Monastic sages on the anatomy and cure of the invidious emotions’, Modern Theology 25 (2009), 21-43, 28, that in Genesis there is no clear reference to the label “envy” in the narration about the Devil, even though all exegetes of Scripture interpreted his attitude as display of this specific emotion. However, we find the relation of the Devil with envy in Wisdom 2:24 (φθόνῳ 22

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the expression ‘envy walled mankind off from the Tree of Life’ –, but also to the emotion of embarrassment for the naked human body. Moreover, envy is associated with murder, a connection arising from the biblical narrative of Cain’s evil against his brother Abel (Gen. 4:15), while the characterization of envy as the mother of misfortunes points to the biblical narration of Joseph’s misfortunes, due to his siblings’ envy (Gen. 37). All these biblical paradigms are cited without details and explanation, since they were very common biblical examples for the passion of envy, found on several Christian Fathers, like Basil of Caesarea and John Chrysostom.25 Finally, after having recalled the connection of envy with the Devil and condemning the emotion, Gregory presents Moses as a virtuous example to imitate, thanks to his paradigmatic confrontation of envious people. The evaluation of envy as an impediment to moral perfection is described in metaphorical terms and more precisely with the adoption of the imagery of a conflict between the passion and the self. Moses’ ability to remain untouched by the emotion is attributed to his virtues (state of impassiveness and beatitude) and is praised repetitively through various images that liken this ability to a victory against the enemy, namely envy that is conceptualized as a thrown clay pot and hurled darts. The metaphorical conceptualization oth in his work On the beatitudes and the Life of Moses, Gregory of Nyssa incorporates a wide range of metaphors in his discourse on envy. These metaphors constitute an inextricable part of Gregory’s understanding of envy and are underlaid by concepts that were well-established and, thus, familiar to his congregation. Occasionally scholars of patristic texts have interpreted the use of metaphorical discourse as a mere rhetorical device that aims at giving aesthetic value and vividness, as well as persuading by the arousal of emotions through visualization. However, a closer analysis of metaphors in Gregory’s texts showcases that metaphors are primarily significant for their contribution to the conceptualization of the emotion as deterrent to salvation. δέ διαβόλου θάνατος εἰσῆλθεν εἰς τὸν κόσμον). Gregory does not cite this biblical locus classicus, since Christians were very familiar with it and other passages from New Testament that refer to the Devil’s attitude towards humans. For the archetypical envy in other Christian authors see Bas., De inv., PG 31, 371 and 376; Chrys., Hom. 31, 1 Cor, PG 61, 258-64; Eus. Caes., Praep. Ev. 7.10.15.3 For an analysis of this concept see Andrew Louth, ‘Envy as the Chief Sin in Athanasius and Gregory of Nyssa’, SP 15 (1984), 458-60. 25   For Cain’s envy see also Bas., De inv., PG 31, 376. For Joseph’s envy see Bas., De inv., PG 31, 377; Chrys., In Genes. Hom. 51, PG 54, 525-32. For these stories as exemplary for the emotion of envy see P. Blowers, ‘Envy narrative scripts’ (2009), 29-31; Angela Kim, ‘Cain and Abel in the Light of Envy: A Study in the History of the Interpretation of Envy in Genesis 4:116’, Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 12 (2001), 71-7.



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Indeed, cognitive scientists have argued that metaphor plays a central role in the formation of our concepts about emotions.26 According to them, metaphors are not mere linguistic expressions, but a cognitive mechanism of perceiving abstract ideas (for that reason metaphors are called ‘conceptual’).27 This is also the case for emotions, as we can see from our conversational language; we tend to conceptualize them metaphorically and subsequently to talk about them using metaphorical expressions. Having this in mind, we can approach Gregory’s metaphors from that perspective and highlight their unique role in conceptualizing specific aspects of the emotions that cannot be understood otherwise. As the following analysis will show – with indicative examples from the Life of Moses –, the metaphors used by Gregory are unique concepts which structure the generic scheme that pervades his conceptualization. Going back to the passage about envy, after the association of the emotion with the original sin, Gregory juxtaposes nine conceptual metaphors, linked in an asyndeton and expressed by the same grammatic form of a noun and an adjective placed side by side (Vit. Mos. 2; PG 44, 409): Envy is the death-dealing sting, the hidden weapon, the sickness of nature, the bitter poison, the self‐willed emaciation, the bitter dart, the nail of the soul, the fire in the heart, the flame burning on the inside.28

All the above metaphors were familiar to Gregory’s audience, since they realize well-established concepts about emotions in Antiquity. Their familiarity along with the concatenation of the meanings, which aims at emphasizing the disastrous consequences of the emotion both to the envious persons and the envied ones, contribute to the consolidation of the ideas and result in their imprinting on human mind. This rhetorical technique is associated with the unique conceptual power of metaphors and has an important role in argumentation and persuasion. Their cognitive value can be better understood by reading them in parallel with the extensive asyndeton that precedes the chain of metaphors, and where Gregory emphasizes that envy is the archetypal passion that caused the entrance of sin in the human nature. 26   See the paradigmatic studies of Zoltan Kövecses, Metaphor and Emotion. Language, Culture and Body in Human Feeling (Cambridge, New York, 2000); id., Metaphor in Culture: Universality and Variation (Cambridge, 2005). For the application of this approach to classical texts see Douglas Cairns, ‘Mind, Body, and Metaphor in Ancient Greek Concepts of Emotions’, L’Atelier du Centre de recherches historiques 16 (2016), 1-18; id., ‘Metaphors for Hope in Archaic and Classical Greek Poetry’, in Ruth Caston and Robert Kaster (eds), Hope, Joy, and Affection in the Classical World (New York, 2016), 13-44; Arda Harms, The Metaphorical Conceptualization of Emotions in Plutarch, PhD Thesis (Calgary, 2011). 27   This idea was first articulated by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson in their book Metaphors we live by (Chicago, 1980). Thus, they are the founders of the Conceptual Metaphor Theory. 28   The translation is taken from A.J. Malherbe, E. Ferguson and J. Meyendorff, Gregory of Nyssa (1978).

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The first metaphor (τὸ θανατηφόρον κέντρον) unfolds the concept of envy’s feeling as a sting on the heart, and simultaneously the Christian concept of envy as cause of death.29 The adjective θανατηφόρος permits a free interpretation of the kind of death, since in the Christian context death does not only refer to the common death, but also to the spiritual death, caused by the indulgence to passions and worldly things. Therefore, the phrase accumulates several concepts related to envy that can be summarized as follows: envy is accompanied by a painful feeling, like that of a sting, that bears ‘spiritual’ death to the envious self, while in the same time can cause the real death of the envied persons, as the biblical stories evidence. The passion is secondly conceptualized as hidden weapon (τὸ κεκρυμμένον ὄπλον), a hint for the hidden and devious character of the emotion that is posed against the others like a weapon to harm them. This concept leads again connotatively to the biblical concept of envy as source of murders, but also to the universal concept of emotions as weapons. This concept is very usual in Greco-Roman thought for the whole of negative emotions. It derives from another entrenched concept, that of the emotion as enemy of one’s self and more particularly one’s reason, combined with the sense of the negative emotions as something damaging and coming from outside the essential self as external force.30 Gregory invokes additionally the metaphor of envy as disease of the human nature (ἡ τῆς φύσεως νόσος), a metaphor that in Gregory’s conceptual model about envy leads to the idea of emotions as additive, external impulses, responsible for the decay of the human nature after the disobedience in Paradise. This metaphor is one of the commonest ways of understanding the whole array of negative emotions by drawing parallels between passions of the soul and passions of the body. As the most frequent way of talking about emotions in Greco-Roman culture, it reflects the suffering from emotional agitation, and the negative evaluation of them in terms of morality.31 Ἡ ἑκούσιος τηκεδών is another very common way of thinking about envy that recalls the correspond  This is an indirect reference to the Devil’s envy that caused the Fall from Paradise and the subsequent intrusion of death in humanity, as well as to the biblical deaths because of envy (e.g. Abel’s death). 30   For a similar metaphor for envy see Bas., De inv. PG 31, 380.50; PG 31, 380.52 and for anger see Sen., De ira 2.35.1. For this concept of emotion as enemy see Z. Kövecses, Metaphor and Emotion (2000), 37. 31   A. Harms, The metaphorical conceptualization (2009), 346-7. For this metaphor see also Wendy Mayer, ‘Medicine and Metaphor in Late Antiquity: How Some Recent Shifts are Changing the Field’, Studies in Late Antiquity 2.4 [Rethinking Medical Metaphors in Late Antique Christianity] (2018), 440-63. For the same modern conceptualization of envy see Z. Kövecses, Metaphor and Emotion (2000), 38; Anna Ogarkova, ‘Green-Eyed Monsters: A Corpus-Based Study of Metaphoric Conceptualizations of JEALOUSY and ENVY in Modern English’, Metaphorik.de 13 (2007), 103, 111. For other emotions see Kövecses, Metaphor and Emotion (2000), 38. 29



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ence of envy’s effects to melting caused by disease.32 This metaphor, by mapping the bodily consumption to the moral weakening, pinpoints the responsibility of the envious person for both the painful feeling and the negative impact on her morality. The two metaphors χολώδης ἰός and πικρὸν βέλος rest on the idea that the emotion generates the feeling of resentment to the envious persons, a feeling that can be parallelized with the bitter sense of venom (χολώδης) and the sharp/penetrating (πικρόν) feeling of a dart. In the same time, these metaphors realize the harmful effects of the emotion when displayed to others, a manifestation that is conceptualized either as the assault of a sharp dart or as the injection of venom to the others’ soul. Both metaphors were very well rooted to the ancient Greek conceptualization of envy, but also to the Christian one.33 The conceptualization of envy as nail of the soul (ἧλος ψυχῆς) is another vivid way of describing the annoyance caused by the enviable things; the painful sensation from a nail is projected onto the unpleasant feeling of envy. This metaphor is also used in DAR, where Gregory expresses the idea that the human soul interacts with the human body through the senses. He says characteristically that the sentient faculty of the soul sticks human nature to somatic pleasure like a nail (DAR; PG 46, 97). If the metaphor in Life of Moses is seen in relation to the one in On the Soul, then it is probable that this reflects the view that envy doesn’t only hurt the soul, but also is stuck on it inescapably.34 The psychosomatic and moral effects that the emotion causes to envious people are finally conceptualized as the effect of fire on the human body, the heart and the viscera. With the metaphorical expressions τὸ ἐγκάρδιον πῦρ and ἡ τοῖς σπλάχνοις ἐγκαιομένη φλόξ, Gregory emphasizes again the painful feelings caused by envy and the destructive effect on one’s soul.35 These metaphors are built on the feeling of heat caused by envy, while they simultaneously reflect the folk idea that heart is the locus of emotions.36 32   For several paradigms drawn upon Greek and Latin texts see Katherine Dunbabin and Matthew W. Dickie, ‘Invidia rumpantur pectora: The Iconography of Phthonos/Invidia in Graeco-Roman Art’, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 26 (1983), 7-37, 8, 15-6. Indicatively: Bas., De inv. PG 31, 380.53; Men. Fr. 540; Ov., Met. 2.780-1. 33   For envy as venom see e.g. Aesch., Ag. 834-5; Alex., Aphr. Pr. 2.53; Ev., Tract. Ad Eul. 79.1116.42 / 79.1148.51; Greg. Naz. 1007.4. This concept is still present in modern languages, as specific studies on envy have shown, see A. Ogarkova, ‘Green-Eyed Monsters’ (2007), 113. For envy as dart see Bas., De inv. PG 31, 380.50. 34   It is also very likely that Gregory is inspired for this metaphor by Plato, who explores the idea that the pleasurable and non-pleasurable things are like nails that keep the soul nailed onto the body (Phaedo 83D). 35   The source domain of fire and heat is commonly applied to the conceptualization of emotions. For the same metaphor in other authors see Plutarch, An seni 787c; De frat. am. 485b; Bas., De inv. PG 31, 373.45; PG 31, 376.45; PG 31, 377.50; Chrys. PG 54, 525; PG 60, 448. 36   The lay view that the conceptualization of envy as fire is built on the physiological sensation of body heat that accompanies the appearance of the emotion is also revealed in the etymological

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Conclusion The concept of envy as the cause of sin’s intrusion to humanity and as an impediment to the ultimate goal of perfection is prominent in Gregory’s thought. This idea is developed in his works by various means; by accentuating the painful feeling that envious people experience, by condemning their hypocritical behavior, by emphasizing the devastating effects on the Christian soul and consequently its future salvation. In the development of these ideas, he combines the biblical narratives about envy with his classical knowledge and commonplace ideas for the emotion. He also deploys various conceptual metaphors, familiar to his audience and intrinsically connected with lay ideas about envy. These metaphors point out the devastating effects of envy on one’s morality, the harmful effect on the envied persons, and the painful feeling of envy conceptualized as somatic pain and the sensations felt by wasting, melting, stinging, biting, burning and piercing. All these concepts are presented with great economy and in a such accumulative way by Gregory as to bring to the fore the unique nuances, which structure his cognitive model for the most elusive of the emotions. Therefore, paying closer attention to the specific metaphorical expressions deployed by Gregory to illustrate the workings and detrimental effects of envy can contribute not only to a better appreciation of Gregory’s conceptualization but also enhance our understanding of the ways in which envy was put in a new spiritual context that involved a struggle against its destructive effects in quest for salvation.

interpretation of the word ζῆλος in the Greek lexicon of pseudo-Zosimus (956.11-4): παρὰ τὸ ζέω καὶ τὸ λίαν γέγονε ζέλος καὶ ζῆλος· ὁ γὰρ ζῆλος θερμός ἐστιν. ἢ παρὰ τὸ ζέειν, ὁ φλεγμαίνειν καὶ ἐκκαίεσθαι τὴν ψυχὴν ἐμποιῶν.

Cosmological Trinitarian Polemics in Gregory of Nazianzus’ Theological Orations Jared R. Bryant, Cairn University, Langhorne, PA, USA

Considering all of Gregory of Nazianzus’ orations, letters, and poems, the Theological Orations contain the greatest volume of theological elaboration, and Gregory writes these five polemical orations (Ors. 27-31) during the summer of 380, the year before the Council of Constantinople (381), and they are historically authentic.1 Because 380 and 381 are very contentious years in Gregory’s life, his external pressures often lead to an inveterate offensiveness in Gregory’s writings that mark his theology. Chief among his theological opponents in these orations are the Eunomians and the Macedonians, though he occasionally directs his writing towards the Apollinarians. The order and content of the orations is as follows: Or. 27: An Introductory Sermon Against the Eunomians; Or. 28: On the Doctrine of God; Or. 29: On the Son; Or. 30: On the Son; Or. 31: On the Holy Spirit. These orations are written as a theological polemic rather than as a positive doctrinal exposition.2 While reflection   The five Theological Orations are today contained as a unit. While there is some discussion regarding the original chronology of the sermons, or if the sermons as they appear today are identical as to when they were delivered, the general consensus is that the present ordering is the best ordering, and that Gregory is indeed the author, even though the written sermons are undoubtedly edited versions of the original, oral deliveries. See Gregory of Nazianzus, Faith Gives Fullness to Reasoning: The Five Theological Orations of Gregory Nazianzen, ed. Frederick W. Norris; trans. Lionel Wickham and Frederick Williams (Leiden, 1991), 71-82, for a discussion of the authenticity of these orations. For an alternative although eccentric view of the authorship of these sermons, see Reinoud Weijenborg, ‘Les cinq Discours théologiques, attribués à Grégoire de Nazianze, en partie œuvre de Maxime Héron le Cynique, alias Évagre le Pontique d’Antioche’, Anton 48 (1973), 476-50, where Weijenborg challenges the authenticity of these orations by claiming that they are written by Maximus the Cynic. Elena Cavalcanti treats Weijenborg’s work uncritically in Studi Eunomiani, OCA 202 (Rome, 1975), xiii-xiv. Paul Gallay, however, disputes Weijen­ borg’s claims in Gregory of Nazianzus, Grégoire de Nazianze: Discours Théologiques 27-31, ed. and trans. Paul Gallay and Maurice Jourjon, SC 250 (Paris, 1978), 7, n. 2. Norris concludes that Weijenborg claims twenty-one examples pertain to another author, but that only one is a valid example in Frederick W. Norris, ‘The Authenticity of Gregory of Nazianzen’s Five Theological Orations’, VC 39 (1985), 331-9. 2   Christopher A. Beeley writes that the Theological Orations are polemical and notes that Ors. 20, 23, and 34 contain theological exposition in a positive frame in Gregory of Nazianzus on the Trinity and the Knowledge of God: In Your Light We Shall See Light (New York, 2008), 39. Orations 20, 23, and 34 have different contexts, and Gregory becomes increasingly more polemic in 380 and especially in Or. 34. Verna E.F. Harrison restates this proposition when she 1

Studia Patristica CXV, 69-76. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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on the Theological Orations abounds, in this article I discuss each of the Theological Orations, not by way of an exhaustive exposition, but rather in terms of arguing for Gregory’s polemical Trinitarianism only as it is expressed in creation language against Gregory’s opponents.3 One should exercise caution to avoid studying the Theological Orations in isolation if one intends to gain a fuller theological picture of Gregory’s thought. This paper does not express the entire spectrum of Gregory’s Trinitarian theology. While many of the other orations are immensely conducive in determining Gregory’s Trinitarian rhetoric in creation language, the Theological Orations are most essential in providing an extended and collective discourse on the Trinity. Because they were composed as a unit, one finds in Gregory a place where he engages in relatively lengthy discussions which aid in understanding his thought, albeit in a polemical tone. Gregory delivers these sermons from his cousin, Theodosia’s, small villa and residence, named Anastasia.4 Oration 27, the shortest of the Theological Orations, is an introduction to the four orations that follow. In this oration Gregory outlines the proper parameters for the study and discussion of theology, over against his adversaries. He warns his congregation against his antagonists, whom Gregory writes are hostile to the doctrine of the Trinity and instead teach of the generation of the Son, by which they mean the creation of the Son.5 Gregory clearly refers to the Eunomians here, who teach that while the Son is the firstborn of all creation and glorified before the ages, he is at one time existing without that glory which is received from the Father. This oration, then, serves to prepare the reader (or listener) to the theological discourse that will follow in Ors. 28-31. writes that Beeley suggests that Gregory’s Trinitarian theology is articulated most fully outside of the Theological Orations, in ‘Illumined from All Sides by the Trinity: Neglected Themes in Gregory’s Trinitarian Theology’, in Re-Reading Gregory of Nazianzus: Essays on History, Theology, and Culture, ed. Christopher A. Beeley (Washington, DC, 2012), 14. Harrison’s sentiments are stated earlier when she correctly writes that had Gregory never produced his Theological Orations that he would still have been a monumental figure, in her introduction in Gregory of Nazianzus, Festal Orations, trans. Nonna Verna Harrison (Crestwood, 2008), 13. 3   For the most comprehensive introduction to the Theological Orations see Gregory of Nazianzus, Faith Gives Fullness to Reasoning (1991), 1-82. 4   For a short background on the Anastasia, and its possible location in the center of the city, see John A. McGuckin, Saint Gregory of Nazianzus: An Intellectual Biography (Crestwood, 2001), 241-3. The tone of some of Gregory’s sermons from the Anastasia is sometimes more in line with the form of invective, though they are delivered in a church to the members of that Christian community. 5   Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 27.6, in On God and Christ: The Five Theological Orations and Two Letters to Cledonius, trans. Frederick Williams and Lionel Wickham (Crestwood, 2002), 29. See Eunomius of Cyzicus, Eunomius: The Extant Works, Expositio Fidei 3 (New York, 1987), 153: “We also believe in the ‘Son of God’, ‘the Only-begotten God’, ‘the First-born of all creation’: a genuine ‘son’, so not unbegotten; genuinely ‘begotten’ before the ages, so not without an act of begetting prior to his own existence to be called ‘Son’; ‘born’ before ‘all creation’, so not uncreated”.



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Gregory writes Or. 28, On the Doctrine of God, from the vantage point of a theologian.6 Gregory describes God as the Creator, sustainer, and cause of all, who creates and moves all things in the universe. This may appear insignificant, but when viewed together, Gregory demonstrates that he views God and the Son and Spirit with reference to the created order, and that he uses this to his advantage while promoting his own theology against his opponents. Gregory writes that when humans discover objects that are complex, her or his response must include the conclusion that God is the Creator of that object, because of its complex arrangement and constitution.7 While at first glance this appears like a cosmological argument from complexity for the existence of God, Gregory’s purpose is to set up his readers for the view that his opponents espouse – that God exists as the ingenerate and uncaused God and is the Creator, and that all that comes from God, including the Son and the Spirit, are created beings.8 But God, according to Gregory’s perspective, exists as Father eternally, and the Son and Spirit are likewise eternal. Gregory raises the hypothetical query regarding the existence of God in terms of whether God is materially part of the universe or above it. The solution is that God is not part of the universe, because the universe is created. God exists prior to the universe because God is eternal and God creates the universe, and God must therefore exist, as Creator, outside of creation.9 Gregory mentions this as part of an extended discussion on the existence and reality of God, without going into the specifics of Trinitarian existence. Of all the created things in the world, Gregory writes, none of them could have come into existence by chance.10 Gregory is involved in a drawn-out disclosure of the Christian God, revealed in Gregory’s oration through creation and existence, without bearing in mind distinctive Trinitarian characteristics and attributes. The reason for this is because Or. 28, like the previous oration, serves as a prelude to the categorical and distinctly Trinitarian orations to follow, and so this provides the theological and cosmological base from which to work and explain in detail the Son and the Spirit in Ors. 29-31. 6   While the English title of the oration, On the Doctrine of God, is appropriate, it carries with it the idea that this discourse is about theology. While the title, Περὶ θεολογίας, is only traced back in the manuscripts to the ninth century, it could also be translated as Concerning Theology or On Theology. The appropriateness of the present title is an interpretive decision, and it is correct. The reason is because θεολογία carries with it the idea that it is theology about God. Gregory describes this, as well as the ‘economy’, in Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 45.4, Festal Orations (2008), 164. Theology, for Gregory, is the doctrine of God, and the doctrine of God is, broadly speaking, Trinitarianism – that is, theology proper (today, the doctrine of God), Christology, and pneumatology. Gregory reaffirms the content of θεολογία in Or. 28.1, On God and Christ (2002), 37. For more on the manuscript tradition of the Theological Orations, as well as the place of Or. 28 within that tradition, see Faith Gives Fullness to Reasoning (1991), 71-80. 7   Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 28.6, On God and Christ (2002), 40-1. 8   Id., Or. 28.9, On God and Christ (2002), 43. 9   Id., Or. 28.10, On God and Christ (2002), 44. 10   Id., Or. 28.16, On God and Christ (2002), 49.

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As Gregory incorporates the minutiae of Trinitarian relationships in Or. 29, he writes that there is never a time when the Father is not in existence, and the same is said about the Son and the Spirit. Gregory writes regarding the Father that the same phrase is applied to the Son and the Spirit: οὐκ ἦν ὅτε οὐκ ἦν (“There has not been a ‘when’ when the Father has not been in existence”).11 Gregory’s reference is directed against the conclusions of Arius and his followers, as he understood them. The idea of creation always carries with it time, and while the Son and the Spirit ontologically come forth from the Father before creation, their generation and procession are non-temporal. For the Eunomians, the generation is always temporal, and the persons are neither eternal nor do they possess the same essence as the Father. Although the Son and the Spirit are eternal, writes Gregory, neither are unoriginated, for they come forth from the Father eternally, and are themselves eternal.12 Eternality does not necessitate that one is ingenerate or unoriginated.13 However, Gregory assumes that if one is created that equality with God is not possible, since God is not a creature. Likewise, the very act of creating by the Father of the Son would therefore make the Father a proprietor of change, but God cannot change.14 Yet God the Father is not like human fathers for two reasons: the Father is eternally a father, and the Father is never a son, though all human fathers are sons, and can only possibly become fathers in time.15 Gregory is providing sufficient detail on the relationships because he states that they are responses to the many objections of the Eunomians regarding the Son. Gregory uses this as an opportunity, as he writes above, as his purpose for this speech, to defend his view and to demonstrate that his view is superior, and at many points uses examples regarding the timing of creation. Gregory engages in an imagined face-to-face argument in order to devalue the Eunomian position and to advocate for his own. When Gregory entertains the objection by the Eunomians that the Son must have been begotten by the Father’s will, Gregory responds that the will is not something that is independent of the Father; if that were the case then the Son would be begotten not of the Father but by will. Likewise, will is not the creator of the world, God is. The will is not something that has a beginning or an end. Just as God always 11   Id., Or. 29.3, On God and Christ (2002), 71. This follows Lionel Wickham’s translation. Undoubtedly Gregory is providing the reciprocal of the phrase attached to Arius regarding the Son’s existence, which is included in the Creed of Nicea (325), upon which is pronounced an anathema for any who make such a declaration: ἦν ποτε ὅτε οὐκ ἦν (There was a time when he was not). Gregory returns to this concept later in the sermon: οὐ γὰρ ἦν ὅτε ἄλογος ἦν, οὐδὲ ἦν ὅτε οὐ πατήρ, οὐδὲ ἦν ὅτε ἀληθής (“It was never the case that he was without his Word, that he was not Father, that he was not true…”) – following Lionel Wickham’s translation of Or. 29.17, On God and Christ (2002), 85. 12   Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 29.17, On God and Christ (2002), 85. 13   See Eunomius of Cyzicus, Apol. 12, Eunomius: The Extant Works (1987), 49. 14   Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 29.4, On God and Christ (2002), 72. 15   Id., Or. 29.5, On God and Christ (2002), 72-3.



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exists and does not change, God always possesses a will, including the eternal will to beget the Son outside of time, and the eternal will to create the universe, which happens in time.16 Gregory makes an effort to explain how and when the Son is begotten, and concludes that the Eunomians are unwilling to listen to or understand Gregory’s rationale. Because of this, Gregory removes himself from the secondary purposes of God and dissolves the point by stating that instead of answering the question of how and when, the pious person should simply remain in reverent silence. They are to confess that the Son is begotten, and not to worry about how, but simply to believe it, to which he writes that the Eunomians are unable to do. For Gregory, this is tantamount to their downfall.17 In Gregory’s second oration on the Son, Or. 30, he continues his hypothetical conversation with his opponents regarding the divinity of the Son while explaining his own Christology. Like many of Gregory’s previous efforts in defending the concept of the Trinity over against his opponents, he uses creation language in this sermon to bolster his argument against those he believes obfuscate the realities of the Trinity. He begins his oration by noting that the very discussion against the Eunomians is grounded in Christ, to whom he refers as the “New Adam”.18 Gregory demonstrates the rationale for using the illustration in that Adam is the first created human who brings sin and death into the created world; Christ, however, through death and resurrection, reverses the effects of sin and death which Adam brought, and instead brings grace, righteousness, and eternal life. The purpose of the christological use of the second Adam as Christ is to establish the connection between the first human, who is part of creation yet is a creature himself, possessing all of the attributes of humanity, and the second Adam, who is part of creation in that Christ is born to the Virgin Mary in the first century, yet is not a creature, since Christ experiences a divine conception, and is not considered a creature in this sense. Athanasius describes the same exchange in that because Adam sins in the human body, Christ needs to take on a human body, from the Virgin Mary, and suffer death.19 His anti-Arian writings seek to attack, according to Athanasius, the false teachings of Arius and his followers. Since Gregory addresses similar kinds of Arianism in his own writings, Athanasius becomes a model for which Gregory uses in his own arsenal as he seeks to defend his own faith. Gregory’s   Id., Or. 29.6-7, On God and Christ (2002), 73-5.   Id., Or. 29.9, On God and Christ (2002), 76-7. 18   Id., Or. 30.1, On God and Christ (2002), 93; Or. 30.5, On God and Christ (2002), 96. Gregory is here referring to Christ as the second Adam, which he takes from Paul the apostle in Rom. 5:12-21; 1Cor. 15:22; 45; this is not the first time Gregory refers to Christ as the second, or new, Adam; see also id., ‘On the Testaments and the Coming of Christ’, in Poemata Arcana 45 (Carm. I.1.9, PG 37, 460-1), ed. Claudio Moreschini; trans. D.A. Sykes (New York, 1997); and again in id., Ep. 101.8 in On God and Christ (2002), 160-1. 19   In Athanasius of Alexandria, On the Incarnation 9, trans. John Behr (Yonkers, 2011), 69. 16 17

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affinity for Athanasius’ examples from creation is evident in Gregory’s Trinitarian arguments against the Eunomians. In linking the person of Christ, who is both divine and human, with the Father, and then declaring the Son (and the Father) as the Maker of the world, Gregory maintains that there is only one creation. The Son did not create one world and the Father another; the Father and the Son, together with the Spirit, create the one universe. While Gregory usually reserves the language of Creator and Maker for the Father, Gregory writes that the Son is ‘Wisdom, the worlds’ maker’.20 The Father and the Son share equal responsibility over the creation, and the Father and the Son share a continual role in sustaining the creation.21 Gregory provides the illustration of one Creator juxtaposed with the one ­creation in order to respond to the supposed claim by the Eunomians that if the Son is the one who creates the world, then there are two or more creations. This line of thinking by the Eunomians is consistent with their view that the Son and the Father lack a unity of essence, since the Son comes forth from the Father (in Eunomian perspective), as a created being necessarily unlike the Father. In his human nature Christ is from the line of Adam – a human who has, like all humans, been passed down genealogically from the first human – yet is the fashioner of Adam. Gregory attacks the logic of the Eunomians and makes his own case for consistency, while highlighting the supposed inconsistency of the Eunomians. Here Gregory, at the end of Or. 30, forms a relationship that the Eunomians are unwilling to make.22 In Or. 31 Gregory takes up cosmological language when he writes that the Spirit is understood in similar ways to the Father and the Son when confessing the timing of their existence. He provides a negative example that if the Son does not exist at a period in time, then neither do the Father nor the Son exist, at a period in time. Athanasius makes a similar argument and Gregory likely seizes this opportunity to once again adopt the tactics of Athanasius.23 Addressed in the positive, Gregory’s argument for the eternal presence and uncreated existence of the Son becomes the same argument for that of the Spirit.24 If the Spirit is created, however, one must not make a comparison between the Spirit with humanity as a created being; instead, Gregory argues, the Spirit exists before creation and is not ranked amongst the created order.25 Gregory acknowledges that there are at least two ways of thinking along the oppositional line – first, those who describe the Spirit as an activity of the   Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 30.15, On God and Christ (2002), 106. Sophia, who is the Maker of the world: σοφία, ὁ ποιητὴς τῶν αἰῶνων. 21   Id., Or. 30.11, On God and Christ (2002), 10-2. 22   Id., Or. 30.20, On God and Christ (2002), 110; Or. 30.21, On God and Christ (2002), 111. 23   Id., Or. 31.4, On God and Christ (2002), 119. See Athanasius of Alexandria, Four Discourses Against the Arians 39, 415 in Select Writings and Letters, vol. 4 of The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Series 2, ed. Philip Schaff and Henry Wace, trans. Archibald Robinson (Peabody, 2004). 24   Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 31.4, On God and Christ (2002), 119. 25   Ibid. 20



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Father (the Eunomians), and refer to the Spirit as a creature. Others, like the Macedonians, remain agnostic on the matter and view the Spirit as a co-worker with the Father – they did not disrespect the Spirit, as Gregory writes, but did not confess the Spirit as divine.26 Thus, the discussion of the Spirit as eternal as opposed to a creature speaks directly to the Eunomians in this oration, while the Macedonians are addressed for the purposes of convincing them to view the Spirit as they view the Son, eternal and of the same essence as the Father. Gregory demonstrates that this oration does have at least a two-fold audience, as far as his opponents are concerned, when he affirms that the Spirit is not considered as a creature or as a product of the Father.27 Against the Eunomians Gregory writes that the Spirit is neither ingenerate, like the Father, nor begotten, like the Son. Instead, the Spirit must proceed from the Father alone. The Spirit is not ingenerate; otherwise two ingenerates would exist, and the Spirit is therefore not from the Father in any sense. Neither is the Spirit begotten of the Father, since the Son is the only-begotten Son, and Jesus declares that the Spirit proceeds from the Father in John’s Gospel, and because he proceeds, he is not, for that reason, a creature.28 Thus, the relationship of the Father to the Spirit is distinguished from the relationship between the Father and the Son, since the Spirit is not understood as a ‘brother’ or a ‘grandson’. However, for Gregory, ‘brother’ becomes an innocuous designation, if the Eunomians insist upon it, since Gregory can defend why that language is used (namely, since both come forth from) without at the same time confessing Eunomian beliefs.29 Gregory admits the complexity of this theology when he states: ‘What, then, is “proceeding”? You explain the ingeneracy of the Father and I will give you a biological account of the Son’s begetting and the Spirit’s proceeding – and let us go mad the pair of us for prying into God’s secrets’.30 Gregory hints at the intended recipients of this analogy when he asks them to cease their fighting against the Spirit: παύσῃ οὖν ἀπομαχόμενος πρὸς τὸ πνεῦμα (those ‘fighting desperately against the Spirit’).31 It should be noted, however, that Athanasius’ ‘fighters against the Spirit’ are to be distinguished from Gregory’s Spirit fighters, the Macedonians.32 The Theological Orations function as a unit, not merely because of their content, but also because of the timing of their delivery. These are the most   Id., Or. 31.5, On God and Christ (2002), 119-20.   Id., Or. 31.6, On God and Christ (2002), 120-1. 28   Id., Or. 31.8, On God and Christ (2002), 122; John 15:26. 29   Id., Or. 31.7, On God and Christ (2002), 121. 30   Id., Or. 31.8, On God and Christ (2002), 122. 31   Id., Or. 31.11, On God and Christ (2002), 125. Gregory previously mentions the Pneumato­ machians when he refers to the ‘enemies of the Spirit’ (πολεμίους τοῦ Πνεύματος), in Or. 11.6, Select Orations, in vol. 107 of FC, trans. Martha Vinson (Washington, DC, 2003), 35. 32   In Athanasius of Alexandria, Letters to Serapion on the Holy Spirit 1.32.1-2, in Works on the Spirit: Athanasius and Didymus, trans. Mark DelCogliano, Andrew Radde-Gallwitz and Lewis Ayres (Yonkers, 2011), 103. 26 27

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polemical of Gregory’s orations regarding the Trinity, and each sermon here contains arguments against Apollinarian, Eunomian, and Macedonian Trinitarianism and Christology. In Or. 28 Gregory focuses on God as the Creator and the cause of all and describes the created order and its relationship to the Creator. Orations 29-30 are substantial sermons on the Son of God in which Gregory writes against the Eunomians and chronicles the eternal relationships of the persons of the Trinity, and he does so with reference to time – that is, the Son and the Spirit emanate from the Father before creation and outside of time, and therefore are not creatures. Gregory also writes at length on the human and divine natures of Christ, and concludes, as he does elsewhere, that the incarnation represents a mystery in that Christ is the one through whom the world is created yet one who takes part in the creation by becoming a human, yet remains fully divine. In this move Gregory links Trinitarianism with Christology. Gregory’s intense rhetorical style, including his extreme disregard for theological opponents whose views contrast with his own to a high degree, is likely exacerbated by the turmoil surrounding the ecumenical council, both theological and political. Gregory does not merely combat Eunomian thought with Nicene theology; instead, he couches his own theological conclusions in cosmological language to disparage Eunomian theology which, Gregory believes, incorrectly relates the persons of the Trinity to the created world, and the act of creation itself. To this end Gregory writes the Theological Orations by continually returning to the creation, to combat, in his mind, erroneous views of God related to creation. Gregory employs the strategy of Athanasius, who writes theologically and polemically against the Arians when he discusses the creation of the world, but not the strategy of Basil of Caesarea who, when discussing the creation specifically in his Hexaemeron, does not engage in distinctively Trinitarian discussions against any theological opponents. Instead, Basil discusses creation without Gregory’s necessarily Trinitarian association. Finally, in Or. 31 Gregory provides his most complete exposition on the Holy Spirit against the Eunomians and the Macedonians. Gregory contends that the Spirit is not a creature who comes forth from the Father but rather is one who eternally proceeds from the Father. He holds that the Spirit is of the same essence as the Father, a step that Basil was not willing to take publicly. Gregory seeks to assure the Macedonians that the Spirit is not a lesser god but rather is worthy of worship, together with the Father and the Son. Although Gregory does not name the Spirit as Creator, he names the Spirit as one who is alongside the Father and the Son at creation and one who is absolutely necessary in the activity of creation.

The Spirit as Creator in Gregory Nazianzen’s Or. 41.14 Brendan A. Harris, University of Oxford, Oxford, UK

Abstract Previous discussions of Gregory Nazianzen’s Pneumatology have portrayed Gregory as sharing Basil’s understanding of the Spirit’s creative role as limited to that of ‘perfecting cause’ (Ayres [see n. 1]; Alfeyev [see n. 3]). This article will challenge this characterisation of Gregory’s Pneumatology by showing that, first, Gregory also holds a broader understanding of the Spirit’s creative activity, viewing the Spirit as co-operating with the Father and the Son in the original creation of all things and, second, Gregory diverges from Basil on this point due to his engagement with other pro-Nicene Pneumatological traditions of which Basil was either unaware or chose not to use when developing his account of the Spirit’s creative function. I will establish these two contentions through a close reading of Gregory’s discussion of the Spirit’s creative activity in Or. 41.14. There, Gregory cites Psalm 32:6 and Job 33:4 in support of his contention that the Spirit is active in the creation of all things. In so doing, he departs from Basil’s interpretation of these passages, according to which Psalm 32:6 indicates the Spirit’s sanctification of the angels, while Job 33:4 refers to the moral perfection of human beings. Gregory’s divergent interpretation of these passages, I contend, reflects his engagement with broader currents in pro-Nicene Pneumatology. Specifically, I will show that Gregory learns his interpretation of Psalm 32:6 from Epiphanius’ exegesis of the same passage in the Ancoratus, while his interpretation of Job 33:4 follows that found in PseudoBasil’s Against Eunomius IV-V, which may stem from the hand of Didymus the Blind.

Introduction In his 2004 monograph, Nicaea and its Legacy, Lewis Ayres argued that Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nyssa, while both affirming the common activity of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, hold different conceptions of how the three act as one. He describes this difference thus: In Nyssa … the three ‘persons’ are presented as all involved in each unitary action which ‘flows’ from Father, through the Son, and is completed in the Spirit. In On the Holy Spirit, however, Basil presents the peculiar action of the Spirit, completing or sanctifying, as a constant part or aspect of God’s activity. The actions of Father and Son in creating and saving intrinsically involve an action of perfecting and (where appropriate) sustaining in existence or perfection that is the work of the Spirit.1 1   Lewis Ayres, Nicaea and its Legacy: an Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford, 2004), 216.

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Ayres’ briefly addresses Gregory Nazianzen’s teaching in a footnote, suggesting that he follows Basil in identifying the activity of ‘perfecting’ as the peculiar contribution of the Spirit to the creative act.2 A couple of years later, Hilarion Alfeyev offered the same view, arguing that Gregory follows Basil’s account of the Spirit’s creative activity when he identifies the Spirit as the ‘perfecting cause’ of creation.3 These two readings are in line with older discussions of Gregory’s pneumatology. For instance, in his 1979 monograph on Gregory’s soteriology Donald Winslow argued that Gregory identifies the Spirit’s creative function with his salvific function as ‘perfecter, fulfiller, and sanctifier’.4 The suggestion that Basil and Gregory Nazianzen share a similar conception of this shortly followed, with R.C.P. Hanson asserting that, in spite of their terminological differences, ‘Gregory Nazianzen’s conception of the Spirit’s function is … much the same as that of Basil’.5 Recently, however, Christopher Beeley has challenged this characterisation of Gregory’s pneumatology. Beeley details several aspects of Gregory’s pneumatology which distinguish it from that of Basil.6 He briefly addresses the question of Basil’s and Gregory’s respective accounts of the Spirit’s creative activity, arguing that ‘although the language of perfecting is similar [to Basil’s account], Gregory takes the Spirit to be the perfecter of all that God does, rather than limiting the Spirit to the harmonization and sanctification of the things that the Father and the Son have brought into existence’.7 Beeley’s remarks indicate that a reconsideration of Gregory’s account of the Spirit’s creative function – and its relation to that of Basil – is in order. This article provides such a reconsideration. I will challenge the older characterisation of Gregory’s account of the Spirit’s creative activity by showing that, first, Gregory holds a broader understanding of the Spirit’s creative activity than that espoused by Basil, viewing the Spirit as co-operating with the Father and the Son in the original creation of all things and, second, Gregory diverges from Basil on this point due to his engagement with other proNicene Pneumatological traditions of which Basil was either unaware or chose not to use when developing his account of the Spirit’s creative function. I will establish these two contentions through a close reading of Gregory’s discussion of the Spirit’s creative activity in Or. 41.14. Before I proceed to this task,   L. Ayres, Nicaea and its Legacy (2004), 216, n. 93.   Hilarion Alfeyev, Le Chantre de la Lumière: Introduction à la spiritualité de saint Grégoire de Nazianze (Paris, 2006), 238. 4   Donald Winslow, The Dynamics of Salvation: a Study in Gregory of Nazianzus, Patristic Monograph Series 7 (Cambridge, MA, 1979), 130. 5   R.C.P. Hanson, The Search for the Christian Doctrine of God: the Arian Controversy, 318381 (Edinburgh, 1988), 782. 6   Christopher Beeley, ‘The Holy Spirit in the Cappadocians: Past and Present’, Modern Theology 26 (2010), 90-119. 7   C. Beeley, ‘The Holy Spirit in the Cappadocians’ (2010), 100. 2 3



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however, a brief discussion of Basil’s account of the Spirit’s creative function will be helpful. Basil of Caesarea and the Spirit as ‘Perfecting Cause’ According to Basil, the Spirit’s creative function is limited to perfecting that which the Son creates.8 In a famous passage in his treatise On the Holy Spirit (Spir.), Basil distinguishes the creative functions of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, identifying the Father as the ‘originating cause’ (προκαταρκτικήν αἰτίαν) of creation, the Son as the ‘creative cause’ (δημιουργικήν), and the Spirit as the ‘perfecting cause’ (τελειωτικήν): … the pure, intellectual and super-cosmic powers both are and are called holy (ἁγίαν), because they have received holiness (ἁγιασμόν) as a gift imparted by the Holy Spirit… And in the creation (κτίσει) of these, consider for me [that there is] the originating cause of their coming-into-being (τὴν προκαταρκτικήν αἰτίαν τῶν γινομένων) – the Father – the creative cause (δημιουργικήν) – the Son – and the perfecting cause (τελειωτικήν) – the Spirit. Just as the ministering spirits exist by the will of the Father (βουλήματι … τοῦ Πατρὸς), so they are brought into being by the activity of the Son (ἐνεργείᾳ … τοῦ Υἱοῦ) and are perfected (τελειοῦσθαι) by the presence of the Spirit (παρουσίᾳ … δὲ τοῦ Πνεύματος). For the perfection (τελείωσις) of the angels is holiness (ἁγιασμός) and their persisting in this state.9 8   See, for instance, Basil of Caesarea, Eun. 3.4; Spir. 16.38. On Basil’s understanding of the Spirit’s creative function, see Anthony Meredith, ‘The Pneumatology of the Cappadocian Fathers and the Creed of Constantinople’, Irish Theological Quarterly 48 (1981), 196-211, 201; see also L. Ayres, Nicaea and its Legacy (2004), 216. A word of caution is necessary here. While Basil severely delineates the Spirit’s creative function in his earlier writings, it is possible, as Meredith argues (p. 200), that his understanding of the Spirit’s role in creation underwent a development late in his career. In his Hexameron, which was composed perhaps as late as 378, Basil argues for the Spirit’s role in the creation of the world on the basis of Genesis 1:2: ‘How then did the Spirit of God move upon the waters? (Gen. 1:2) The explanation that I am about to give you is not an original one, but that of a Syrian, who was as ignorant in the wisdom of this world as he was versed in the knowledge of the Truth. He said, then, that the Syriac word was more expressive, and that being more analogous to the Hebrew term it was a nearer approach to the scriptural sense. This is the meaning of the word; by “was borne” the Syrians, he says, understand: it cherished the nature of the waters as one sees a bird cover the eggs with her body and impart to them vital force from her own warmth. Such is, as nearly as possible, the meaning of these words – the Spirit was borne: let us understand, that is, prepared the nature of water to produce living beings: a sufficient proof for those who ask if the Holy Spirit took an active part in the creation of the world’; Basil of Caesarea, Hexameron 2.6 (SC 25, 168, 170; trans. Jackson, NPNF II/8). This passage may suggest a broader notion of the Spirit’s creative activity than is evinced in Basil’s other writings. On the Syriac tradition to which Basil appeals in this passage, see Sebastian Brock, ‘The Holy Spirit as Feminine in Early Syriac Literature’, in After Eve: Women, Theology, and the Christian Tradition, ed. Janet Martin Soskice (London, 1990), 73-88; id., ‘The Ruah Elohim of Genesis 1.2 and its Reception in the Syriac Tradition’, in Fire From Heaven: Studies in Syriac Theology and Liturgy (Aldershot, 2006), 327-49; and Susan Harvey, ‘Feminine Imagery for the Divine: the Holy Spirit, the Odes of Solomon, and Early Syriac Tradition’, SVTQ 37 (1993), 111-20. 9   Basil of Caesarea Spir. 16.38 (SC 17b, 376, 378; trans. is my own).

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For Basil, the Spirit’s creative activity is narrowly circumscribed both terms of its function within creation as whole – the Spirit does not create ex nihilo but perfects and sanctifies what the Son has created – and in its scope – the Spirit’s perfecting activity is limited to the angels and holy human beings.10 Specifically, the Spirit sanctifies and perfects creation by being present to it. Thus, for Basil there is no substantial difference between the Spirit’s creative function and the perfection and sanctification wrought by the Spirit’s indwelling of creation. A couple of passages in Gregory’s writings suggests he holds a similar understanding of the Spirit’s creative activity. In Or. 34.8, for instance, Gregory distinguishes the creative roles of the Father, Son and Spirit as (respectively) ‘cause’ (αἴτιος), ‘creator’ (δημιουργός), and perfecter’ (τελειοποιός),11 while in Or. 38.9, he identifies the Son’s and Spirit’s creative roles as, respectively, that of ‘fulfilling’ (συμπληρούμενον) and ‘perfecting’ (τελειούμενον) that which the Father conceived.12 Yet the presence of similar terminology alone does not indicate that Gregory understands the Spirit’s creative activity in the same manner as Basil. For instance, Gregory of Nyssa, while using the same terminology to distinguish the creative functions of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, appears to have understood the notion of ‘perfecting cause’ in terms of the Spirit’s bringing every divine act to completion, and not just to the Spirit’s role in perfecting and sanctifying that in which it dwells.13 In fact, Gregory Nazianzen’s discussion of the Spirit’s creative function elsewhere in his corpus indicates a much more robust Creator-Pneumatology than is found in the writings of Basil. This more robust Creator-Pneumatology is particularly evident in his discussion of the Spirit’s creative activity in his oration On Pentecost (Or. 41.14). To this text we now turn. Gregory Nazianzen’s Or. 41.14 Gregory provides his most extensive discussion of the Spirit’s creative function in his oration On Pentecost (Or. 41). There, he provides a series of proof texts from scripture in order to show that the Spirit is creator of both the initial creation and the resurrection: 10   This feature of Basil’s account most likely reflects the influence of Origen, who, in PA 1.3.7, distinguishes the universal creative activity of the Word, who ‘upholds the universe’, from the more narrowly circumscribed activity of the Holy Spirit, who is active in ‘the saints alone’, and whose function is limited to the activity of sanctification; see A. Meredith, ‘The Pneumatology of the Cappadocian Fathers and the Creed of Constantinople’ (1981), 196-212, esp. 200-1, 203-20. 11   Gregory of Nazianzus Or. 34.8 (SC 318, 213; trans. is my own). 12   Gregory of Nazianzus Or. 38.9 (SC 358, 120; trans. is my own). 13   Andrew Radde-Gallwitz, Gregory of Nyssa’s Doctrinal Works: a Literary Study, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford, 2018), 52-3.



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The Spirit co-creates (συνδημιουργεῖ) with the Son both the creation (κτίσιν) and the resurrection (ἀνάστασιν). Believe the words: ‘By the Word of the Lord were the heavens established, and by the Spirit of his mouth all their power’ (Ps. 32:6 [LXX]); ‘the divine Spirit made me: the breath of the Almighty taught me’ (Job 33:4). And again: ‘You send forth your Spirit and they are created, and you renew the face of the earth’ (Ps. 103:30 [LXX]).14

In this passage, Gregory cites Psalm 32:6 and Job 33:4 as proof of the Spirit’s role in the initial act of creation, before citing Psalm 103:30 as evidence of the Spirit’s creative role as creator of the resurrection. The use of Psalm 32:6 to establish the Spirit’s role in creation is traditional: in the second century, Theophilus and Irenaeus both appeal to this text as evidence of the Spirit’s creative activity, and similar appeals are to be found in fourth-century pro-Nicene thinkers such as Athanasius and Basil.15 Similarly, appeals to the Spirit’s role in the renewal of creation as evidence of its creative power are a hallmark of pro-Nicene Pneumatologies.16 Gregory’s account of the Spirit’s creative activity, then, reflects broader patterns of pro-Nicene exegesis. Yet we can be more precise. For, I suggest, Gregory here diverges from Basil’s account of the Spirit’s creative activity and follows instead a different strand of pro-Nicene thought – one which, in contrast to Basil, emphasises the closeness of the Spirit’s creative activity with that of the Son, and the universal scope of this activity in the creation of all beings.   Gregory of Nazianzus Or. 41.14 (SC 358, 344, 346; trans. is my own).   Theophilus of Antioch, Autol. 2.7; Irenaeus, Proof of the Apostolic Preaching 5; Athanasius, ep. Serap. 1.31.2-3, 2.14.1; Basil of Caesarea, Hom in. Ps. 32.4. Theophilus and Irenaeus’ affirmation of the Spirit’s creative function has its roots in Jewish Pneumatological traditions, which accord God’s ruach or πνεῦμα a creative role on the basis of these scriptural texts; see Michel R. Barnes, ‘The Beginning and End of Early Christian Pneumatology’, Augustinian Studies 39.2 (2008), 169-86, 171-2, 177-8. As Barnes notes, the references to the Spirit’s creative activity in Second Temple texts such as Isaiah 42:5, Judith 16:14 and 2Baruch 21:4 points to ‘a continuing tradition of midrash on Psalm 33 [32], characterized by parallel statements of the Word’s and Spirit’s role in creating’. See also Abraham J. Malherbe, ‘The Holy Spirit in Athenagoras’, JTS 20 (1969), 538-42; Anthony Briggman, Irenaeus of Lyons and the Theology of the Holy Spirit, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford, 2012), 97-147. While this motif largely drops out of Christian Pneumatological reflection in the third century, with thinkers such as Tertullian and Origen applied the scriptural texts previously used to establish the Spirit’s creative function to the person of the Son (a move which reflects the anti-Monarchian concerns of these authors) the identification of the Spirit as creator recurs once more in the mid to late-fourth century, where it functions as one of a variety of tools used by pro-Nicene theologians such as Athanasius, Didymus and Basil to secure the divinity of the Holy Spirit. The literature on pro-Nicene appropriations of the Spirit as creator motif is extensive. For a brief summary of this development, see Lewis Ayres, ‘Innovation and Ressourcement in Pro-Nicene Pneumatology’, Augustinian Studies 39 (2008), 187-205, 193-7. 16   See, for instance, Athanasius, Ep. Serap. 1.24.5-6; Basil, Spir. 19.49; Ambrose, Spir. 33-4; Nicetas, Instr. 3.2.26-7; see L. Ayres, ‘Innovation and Ressourcement in Pro-Nicene Pneumatology’ (2008), 195. 14 15

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Gregory’s Creator Pneumatology and Pro-Nicene Exegesis of Psalm 32:6 and Job 33:4 We may gain insight into Gregory’s account of the Spirit’s creative activity in relation to that of Basil by comparing their interpretations of Psalm 32:6 and Job 33:4. Gregory’s understanding of the creative activity attributed to the Spirit in these passages is indicated by his use of the verb συνδημιουργέω – ‘to co-create’. Gregory’s use of this verb is significant for two reasons. First, by using this verb, Gregory emphasises the unity of action between the Spirit and the Son in the initial act of creation: the Spirit, Gregory says, ‘co-creates’ (συνδημιουργεῖ) the initial creation (κτίσιν) with the Son. Second, by using this verb in conjunction with Job 33:4, Gregory indicates the broad scope of the Spirit’s creative activity: the Spirit creates all things that the Son creates – including human beings. We turn, then, to Basil’s interpretation of these scriptural texts. Like Gregory, Basil appeals to Psalm 32:6 to affirm the Spirit’s role in creation.17 However, his interpretation differs from that of Gregory by reading this passage as denoting the Spirit’s role as the agent of sanctification, who causes the angels to be holy by his presence, in contrast to the Son who, as the ‘Creator-Word’ (ὁ δημιουργὸς Λόγος), causes all things to exist: ‘By the Word of the Lord were the heavens established, and by the Spirit of his mouth all their power’. For, nothing is sanctified (ἁγιάζεται), except by the presence (παρουσίᾳ) of the Spirit. The Creator-Word (ὁ δημιουργὸς Λόγος), the maker (ποιητής) of all that comes into being, then, brought the angels into being (ἀγγέλων … εἰς τὸ εἶναι πάροδον), while the Holy Spirit gave them holiness (ἁγιασμόν).18

For Basil, the Spirit does not co-operate with the Son in causing creatures to exist. Rather, the Spirit’s role in creation is to perfect that which the Son creates by its presence, causing it to become good and holy. In a similar vein, Basil denies that Job 33:4 should be read as indicating the Spirit’s role in causing human beings to exist, arguing instead that this text refers to Spirit’s role in the moral perfection of the human being: ‘By the Word of the Lord were the heavens established, and by the Spirit of his mouth all their power’. So, as God the Word is the creator of the heavens, so too the Holy Spirit bestows firmness and steadfastness upon the heavenly powers. Again, when Job said: ‘The Spirit of the Lord made me’ I do not think he was referring to when he was created, but to when he was perfected in human virtue.19   Basil of Caesarea, Hom in. Ps. 32.4; Spir. 16.38.   Basil of Caesarea, Hom in. Ps. 32.4 (PG 29, 333; trans. is my own). 19   Basil of Caesarea, Eun. 3.4 (SC 305, 156, 158; trans. DelCogliano and Radde-Gallwitz, FC 122, alt.). Timothy McConnell argues that Basil provides a more developed interpretation of Job 33:4 in Spir. 19.48, which allows the Spirit a role in the initial creation of human beings; Timothy McConnell, Illumination in Basil of Caesarea’s Doctrine of the Holy Spirit, Emerging 17 18



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By limiting the Spirit’s creative function to that of sanctifying and perfecting creation, Basil distinguishes the creative activity of the Spirit from that of the Son, while simultaneously circumscribing its scope. For, since he does not cause creatures to exist, but only to be holy and morally good, the Spirit is active in the angels and saints alone. Thus, while Basil and Gregory both interpret these passages as indicating the Spirit’s role in creation, each understands this role in different ways. For, while Basil limits the Spirit’s creative role to that of perfecter and sanctifier, and views the Spirit as active in the angels and saints alone, Gregory uses these passages to argue for the Spirit’s role as ‘co-creator’ with the Son of the entirety of the initial creation, including human beings. Gregory’s different reading these passages, I argue, reflects his engagement with pro-Nicene exegetical traditions of which Basil was either unaware or chose not to use when developing his Pneumatology.20 First, Gregory’s interpretation of Psalm 32:6 is similar to that provided by Athanasius in his Letters to Serapion (Ep. Serap.). Athanasius, like Gregory, interprets this passage as indicating the Spirit’s co-operation with the Son in the creation of all things: ‘For there is nothing which is not brought into being (γίνεται) and actualised (ἐνεργεῖται) through the Word in the Spirit. This is sung in the Psalms: “By the Word of the Lord were the heavens established, and by the Spirit of his mouth all their power”’.21 Closer still to Gregory’s interpretation is that which Epiphanius provides in his Ancoratus. There, Epiphanius cites Psalm 32:6 in support of his claim that the plural ‘Let us make’ of Genesis 1:26 refers to the co-operation of the Son and the Spirit in the creation of all things: For whenever it [scripture] should say ‘Let us make humankind’ (Gen. 1:26) – for ‘in the beginning God made the heaven and the earth’ (Gen. 1:1) – to indicate the voice of the Father, it names them together in the act of creation (δημιουργίαν), saying ‘Let us make’ rather than ‘I shall make’ so as to indicate that it speaks concerning the Son and the Spirit as well. For, it speaks thus: ‘By the Word of the Lord were the heavens established, and by the Spirit of his mouth all their power’. Therefore, the Word co-creates (συνδημιουργεῖ) with the Father, and the Holy Spirit also co-creates (συνδημιουργεῖ) with them.22 Scholars (Minneapolis, MN, 2014), 123-4. However, Basil there makes no reference to the Spirit’s creative activity, instead merely citing the passage to show that the Spirit ‘shares in the titles’ of the Father and the Son. 20   This is not to say that Gregory does not also draw upon Basil’s Pneumatology, including his account of the Spirit’s creative activity. Rather, my point here is simply that Gregory’s account of the Spirit’s creative activity goes beyond that of Basil, and that it does so because he had access to exegetical traditions of which Basil was either unaware or chose not to use when developing his Pneumatology. 21  Athanasius, Ep. Serap. 1.31.2-3 (Athanasius Werke I/1/4, 526-7; trans. DelCogliano, RaddeGallwitz and Ayres, PPS 43, alt.) 22  Epiphanius Ancoratus 15.7-8 (GCS 10/1, 24; trans. is my own).

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Epiphanius’ interpretation of Psalm 32:6 in this passage parallels Gregory’s in three ways. First, Epiphanius interprets this passage as indicating the unity of action between the Spirit and the Son in the creation of all things. Second, he uses συνδημιουργέω to speak of this unity of action. Third, he uses this passage with Genesis 1:26 to support the Spirit’s role in the initial creation of human beings. These parallels alone allow us to locate Gregory’s interpretation of this passage within a particular pro-Nicene exegetical tradition. However, we may go further, and posit Epiphanius’ interpretation of this passage as an immediate source for Gregory’s account of the Spirit’s creative activity. The case for direct dependence is rendered plausible when we consider the setting and audience of the Ancoratus. Epiphanius composed this text in 374 at the request of the church in Syedra, a city in the region of Pamphylia on the southern coast of Asia Minor, in response to the outbreak of the Pneumatomachian controversy in that region.23 Gregory had begun responding to the controversy a few years earlier,24 and in the subsequent years both Gregory and Epiphanius were engaged in correspondence with Basil on this subject.25 It is possible, then, that Gregory may have encountered Epiphanius’ work on the subject. Furthermore, McGuckin’s dating of Gregory’s Ep. 28 to 373/374 gives us grounds for positing that Gregory was in the vicinity of Syedra at the time of Epiphanius correspondence with the church there.26 For, in this letter, Gregory relates that he had recently travelled through the cities and mountains of Pamphylia.27 It is certainly plausible, then, that Gregory had access to Epiphanius’ Ancoratus at some point in the years prior to his delivery of Or. 41 in Constantinople in 380. That Epiphanius is the source for Gregory’s interpretation of Psalm 32:6 is rendered highly probable when we consider the distinctive use of συνδημιουργέω by both of these authors. Epiphanius’ use of this term in the Ancoratus is the earliest extant use of this verb to speak of the co-operation of the persons of the Trinity in the act of creation.28 Further, no author other than Epiphanius 23   On the date and setting of the Ancoratus, see Young Kim’s introduction to his translation of the text: Epiphanius, Ancoratus, trans. Y. Kim, FC 128 (Washington, DC, 2015), 5-7. 24   John McGuckin, Gregory of Nazianzus: an Intellectual Biography (Crestwood, NY, 2001), 196-7. Gregory’s reference to ‘enemies of the Spirit’ (πολεμίους τοῦ Πνεύματος) in Or.11.6 (SC 405, 344), delivered in 372, seems to be his earliest reference to the controversy. 25   Gregory of Nazianzus, Epp. 58-9 (to Basil), composed in 372/373, and Basil, Ep. 253 (to Epiphanius), composed in 377; see J. McGuckin, Gregory of Nazianzus (2001), 214-9; Epiphanius, Ancoratus, trans. Y. Kim (2015), 5. The Epiphanius to whom Gregory’s Ep. 239 is addressed appears to be a different individual to the bishop of Salamis, and Gregory’s junior; Marie-Madeleine HauserMeury, Prosopographie zu den Schriften Gregors von Nazianz (Bonn, 1960), 64. 26   J. McGuckin, Gregory of Nazianzus (2001), 198. 27   Gregory of Nazianzus, Ep. 28.1 (Gallay I: 35); see Carm. 2.1.11.490-1. 28   According to a TLG search for the lemma συνδημιουργέω conducted on November 27th, 2018. This search produced five occurrences of the term prior to the composition of the Ancoratus, of which three are attestations of the same fragment of the second century Christian author



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uses συνδημιουργέω when interpreting Psalm 32:6 prior to Gregory.29 Given the close parallels between their exegesis of this passage, and the absence of other possible candidates which would explain these parallels Gregory’s interpretation of Psalm 32:6 is best explained as resulting from his direct engagement with Epiphanius’ interpretation of this passage.30 Gregory’s appeal to Job 33:4 as evidence of the Spirit’s role in the initial creation of human beings also stems from his engagement with a pro-Nicene exegetical neglected by Basil. As I noted earlier, Basil interpreted this passage as referring to the moral perfection of the human being, rather than their creation. Neither Athanasius nor Epiphanius make use of this passage to support their conceptions of the Spirit’s creative activity.31 However, we do witness a tradition which uses Job 33:4 in this way in the anonymous pro-Nicene text in Pseudo-Basil’s Against Eunomius IV-V, the work of a pro-Nicene thinker, writing in the latter half of the fourth century.32 Maximus. In this fragment, Maximus who uses the term when arguing against the view that God is contained within matter, and matter within God, arguing that, if this were the case, God would have to ‘co-create’ (συνδημιουργεῖν) himself simultaneously with the creation of matter. The two other attestations to this term, found in Iamblichus’ De anima and in Julian the Apostate’s oration On the Mother of Gods, are closer to Epiphanius’ usage. Iamblichus uses the term to speak of the co-operation of liberated souls with the angels in the creation of the universe, while Julian uses the term to speak of the co-operation of Corybas and the Mother of the gods in the creation of all things. 29   The only other instance in which this term is used to interpret Psalm 32:6 prior to Gregory’s Or. 41.11 is in Epiphanius’ Panarion 74, in which Epiphanius repeats verbatim his earlier discussion of the Spirit’s creative role from the Ancoratus. 30   Christopher Beeley is sceptical of the possibility that Epiphanius is a source for Gregory’s Trinitarian thought, noting the absence of many of Epiphanius’ anti-heretical arguments found in the Panarion; Christopher Beeley, Gregory of Nazianzus on the Trinity and the knowledge of God, Oxford Studies in Historical Theology (Oxford, 2008), 219, n. 102. However, it is possible that Gregory chose to make use of some aspects of Epiphanius’ thought while neglecting others, or that he was familiar with only Epiphanius’ shorter Ancoratus, and not the Panarion. 31   Based on the survey of references to this passage recorded in Biblia Patristica 4-5 (Paris, 1987 and 1991). 32  Pseudo-Basil, Against Eunomius IV-V (PG 29, 713). The precise date of this text is uncertain, as is the identity of its author. Franz Risch has made a plausible case for dating this treatise to the early 360s, arguing that is was composed as a response to Eunomius’ Apology shortly after its publication in 360; see Franz Xavier Risch, Pseudo-Basilius Adversus Eunomium IV-V: Einleitung, Übersetzung und Kommentar, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 16 (Leiden, 1992). Several individuals have been posited as the author of Pseudo-Basil’s Against Eunomius IV-V. Karl Holl, for instance, argued for the authorship of Amphilochius of Iconium, while, John Dräseke and, more recently, Franz Risch both suggested Apollinarius as the author: Karl Holl, Amphilochius von Ikonium in seinem Verhältnis zu den grossen Kappadoziern (Tübingen, 1904); John Dräseke, ‘Des Apollinarios von Laodicea Schrift Wider Eunomios’, ZKG 11 (1890), 22-61; F. Risch, Pseudo-Basilius Adversus Eunomium IV-V (1992). Perhaps the most likely candidate is Didymus the Blind. Anatolii Spasskii and Franz Xaver Funk first argued for Didymean authorship in the late 19th century; Anatolii Spasskii, Apollinaris von Laodikea (Sergiev Posad, 1985); Franz Xaver Funk, Die Zwei Letzten Bücher der Schrift Basilius des Grossen gegen Eunomius (Paderborn, 1899). The case for Didymean authorship was subsequently strengthened by the discovery

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The passage in question comprises part of a lengthy defence of the Spirit’s identity as the creator of all things. In it, the author seeks to show that when scripture refers to God creating the universe and human beings with his ‘hands’, it is referring to the creative work of the Word and the Spirit, which together comprise the ‘creative hands’ of God.33 In support of this claim, the author cites several passages of scripture, including Psalm 32:6, Job 33:4 and Psalm 103:30: ‘The heavens declare the Glory of God, the firmament the work of his hands’ (Ps. 18:1 [LXX]). And in another place, it says: ‘and the heavens are the work of your hands’. Indeed, it was the incorporeal hands of the incorporeal God which created (δημιουργήσασαι) the firmament and the heavens, as the same prophet explains: ‘By the Word of the Lord were the heavens established, and by the Spirit of his mouth all their power’. But just as the Word was not a thing uttered (προφορικός) by God, but something living (ζῶν) and really subsistent (ὑφεστηκώς) and wholly active (ὅλων δραστήριος), so too the Spirit was not an exhalation (διαχεόμενον) or dispersion of air (διαλυόμενος ἀήρ), but a sanctifying power (δύναμις ἁγιαστικὴ): substantial (ἐνούσιος), really-existing (ἐνύπαρκτος) and personal (ἐνυπόστατος). ‘Your hands made me and formed me’ (Ps. 118: 43 [LXX]). And this passage from the prophets has the same meaning: for, ‘the divine Spirit’, says Job, ‘made me’. And Solomon tells us about the other hand, saying: ‘God of my fathers and Lord mercy, you made all things in your Word, and by your Wisdom you established humankind’ (Wisd. 9:1-2). Christ, the Power of God and the Wisdom of God, is the creative hand (ἐστὶ χεὶρ δημιουργική), according to this explanation of the tropological expression. And scripture says that not only this one, but the Spirit also by its activity (ἐργασίᾳ) both established our entire nature and renews (ἀνακαινωτικὸν) that which it has created unto immortality: ‘You take away their spirit and they die, and they are returned unto dust. You send forth your Spirit and they are created, and you renew the face of the earth’.34 by Joseph Lebon of a 7th-century Syriac manuscript which named Didymus as the author, and was subsequently defended by a number of scholars, most notably Alasdair Heron; Joseph Lebon, ‘Le Pseudo-Basile est bien Didyme d’Alexandrie’, Le Muséon 50 (1937), 61-83; Alasdair Heron, Studies in the Trinitarian Writings of Didymus the Blind (PhD Diss., Tübingen, 1972). A second text likewise attributed to Didymus the Blind – the anonymous treatise On the Trinity (Trin.) – also appeals Job 33:4 as proof of the Spirit’s role in the creation of human beings; Trin. 2.10 (PG 39, 632). I have omitted discussion of this text from the present article, however, since it most likely post-dates Gregory’s Or. 41; see Jonathan Douglas Hicks, Trinity, Economy and Scripture: Recovering Didymus the Blind, Journal of Theological Interpretation Supplements 12 (Winona Lake, IN, 2015), 21-39. 33   The identification of God’s Word and Spirit with the ‘hands’ of God is traditional: both Theophilus and Irenaeus make this identification, using it to support their Creator-Pneumatologies; see A. Briggman, Irenaeus of Lyons and the Theology of the Holy Spirit (2012), 104-26. Unlike Theophilus and Irenaeus, however, the author of Against Eunomius IV-V does not use this identification in conjunction with a Wisdom-Pneumatology, instead identifying the Word as ‘the Wisdom of God’ (Θεοῦ σοφία). While Briggman asserts that this tradition ended with Novation (p. 215), this passage indicates that the tradition had an (albeit brief) afterlife in pro-Nicene Pneumatology. 34  Pseudo-Basil, Against Eunomius IV-V (PG 29, 713; trans. is my own).



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In this passage, the author uses precisely the same combination of passages (Ps. 32:6; Job 33:4; Ps. 103:30) to establish the Spirit’s role in the creation of the universe, the creation of human beings, and the renewal of human beings, as Gregory uses in Or. 41.14. This passage, then, provides precedent for the exegetical moves we see Gregory making in Or. 41.14, and most notably for his interpretation of Job 33:4 as proof of the Spirit’s role in the creation of human beings. While this does not necessarily indicate that Gregory drew directly on this text, it does illustrate that Gregory was, once again, drawing upon a pre-existing pro-Nicene tradition to develop his account of the Spirit’s creative activity. Conclusion For Gregory, then, the Spirit co-operates with the Father and the Son in the creation of all things, a view he learns from pro-Nicene contemporaries such as Epiphanius and possibly the author of Pseudo-Basil’s Against Eunomius. In this regard, he departs from Basil’s conception of the Spirit as the perfecting cause of creation, who is active only in those intellectual creatures whom he indwells and sanctifies.

‘Reformulating’ Gregory of Nyssa’s Reception of Origen Taylor C. Ross, Duke University, Durham, NC, USA

Abstract Scholars of early Christianity are no strangers to the phenomenon of reception. Indeed, the majority of Christian literary production in late antiquity involved the re-reading of earlier texts in light of historical developments far-flung from their original Sitz im Leben. Most often, of course, such texts were scriptural, and their reception went hand in hand with a whole complex of theological deliberations we have come to call ‘biblical interpretation’. Over the last century or so, scholars have mapped these many intricacies of the Bible’s reception in late antiquity, and increasingly attuned their own theoretical perspectives to the subtlety of their subjects. The present article makes a brief bid for exercising the same hermeneutical discernment in our study of the reception history of patristic texts themselves, and it does so by taking Gregory of Nyssa’s reception of Origen as a case in point. Positivist methods of the kind most familiar to historians are inadequate, I argue, to the task of tracking the relationship between two authors as speculatively subtle as Origen and Gregory. Direct quotations, verbal allusions, philological parallels, and the like, that is, do not exhaust Gregory’s debts to Origen’s genius. Rather, I argue, with Gregory we are dealing with an author who just as often rejects the letter of Origen’s thought to honor its spirit; which is to say, Gregory’s reception of Origen is something more like allegory than not. In which case, Gregory’s most profound debt to Origen may, in fact, be the way he reads the Alexandrian’s own work.

It’s a matter of some consensus that Gregory of Nyssa holds the honorific ‘most Origenist’ among the Cappadocian Fathers – whatever that means.1 It might mean any number of things: Gregory’s unrivaled commitment to apokatastasis,2 1   As ever, let Adolf von Harnack’s appraisal stand in for a whole host of such judgments: ‘Gregory of Nyssa … an Origenist and speculative Trinitarian…’ (History of Dogma, Vol. IV, trans. Neil Buchanan [New York, 1961], 116). 2   Ilaria Ramelli has devoted a great deal of pages to proving Gregory’s debt to Origen in matters eschatological. She dubs Gregory ‘the most insightful and faithful follower of Origen’s true thought, in very many respects, and in particular … in relation to the doctrine of apokatastasis’. Ilaria L.E. Ramelli, The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis: A Critical Assessment from the New Testament to Eriugena, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 120 (Leiden, 2013), 373. Cf. ead., ‘Christian Soteriology and Christian Platonism: Origen, Gregory of Nyssa, and the Biblical and Philosophical Basis of the Doctrine of Apokatastasis’, Vigiliae Christianae 61 (2007), 313-56.

Studia Patristica CXV, 89-98. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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for example; or his peculiar rendition of ‘double creation’3; maybe even his subtle but often question-begging Christology.4 But, then again, by Gregory’s ‘Origenism’ maybe we mean something more nebulous than his adherence to any specific theologoumenon, something more like a ‘style’ of thinking they both share – as, for instance, when scholars describe each as a ‘speculative theologian’.5 In that case, their convergence on particular topics – eschatology, say – will be owed less to Gregory’s bare repetition of Origen’s teachings and more to a mutual form of thought. Yet even if we sense this sort of affinity better describes their relationship, it’s a bond much more difficult to demonstrate with the tools of historical research than, say, philological parallels or verbal allusions. Perhaps this is why, as Anthony Meredith observed less than a decade ago, there are still ‘no full-length studies of the relationship between Origen and Gregory’, and this in spite of our consensus that Gregory is among Origen’s closest disciples.6 But why think this latter sort of data – philological parallels and the like – can tell the full story about a relationship as complex as that of Gregory of Nyssa to Origen? It may indeed be difficult to justify an intuition of influence in the absence of explicit citations and such, but, from my vantage, it is harder still to shake the suspicion that our standard organon of academic objectivity is finally capable of perceiving the often subterranean ties that bind a given writer’s reception history – let alone an author as influential as Origen. Indeed, as Werner Beierwaltes remarks, while a ‘crude positivism’ may be content to ‘superficially lay certain findings down next to one another’ and let the ‘viability’ of a comparison between two authors ‘hang in the balance of an impression’, this approach inevitably ‘misleads’, no matter how successful it seems by the 3   Cf. Johannes Zachhuber, Human Nature in Gregory of Nyssa: Philosophical Background and Theological Significance (Leiden, 2014), 179-80; Paul Blowers, Drama of the Divine Economy: Creator and Creation in Early Christian Thought and Practice (Oxford, 2012). 4   So Anthony Meredith: ‘Gregory’s somewhat divisive Christology as in Eun III,3, and in his Antirrh – he was cited in later florilegia by for example Theodoret of Cyrrhus – may owe something to Origen…’ (‘Origen’, in The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa, ed. Lucas Francisco Mateo-Seco and Giulio Maspero, trans. Seth Cherney, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 99 [Leiden, 2010], 554-5). Cf. John Behr, ed. and trans., Origen: On First Principles, Vol. 1 (Oxford, 2017), lxix-lxxi. 5   Cf. Philip Schaff, ‘Speculative Theology’, in Religious Encyclopædia: Or, Dictionary of Biblical, Historical, Doctrinal, and Practical Theology, Vol. III, ed. Philip Schaff, Samuel M. Jackson and D.S. Schaff (New York, 1883), 2345-6, who names Origen and Gregory (alongside Clement and, perhaps more surprisingly, Athanasius) as early Christian practitioners of ‘speculative theology’. For representative designations of Gregory’s theology as ‘speculative’, see A. von Harnack, in History of Dogma, Vol. IV (1961); Werner Jaeger, Two Rediscovered Works of Ancient Christian Literature: Gregory of Nyssa and Macarius (Leiden, 1954), 22; Andrew Louth, The Origins of the Christian Mystical Tradition: From Plato to Denys, 2nd ed. (Oxford, 2007), 78-9, who describes Gregory as a ‘speculative theologian’, the ‘pattern’ for whose ‘treatment of mystical theology’, presumably synonymous with speculative theology, ‘is, inevitably, Origen’. 6   A. Meredith, ‘Origen’, in BDGN, 555.



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criteria of scholarly method. For, by proceeding ‘in the manner of a process of elimination from supposedly related entities’, he warns, comparative work of this kind risks ‘leaving aside the problem of the actual content of both discourses’.7 It leaves unthought, that is, the larger shape of each writer’s system, and mistakes formal correspondence for the truth of the matter. Beierwaltes, for his part, favors a ‘history of effects’, the Wirkungsgeschichte of Hans-Georg Gadamer,8 and this since hermeneutics is at least self-conscious enough of its own limitations to know how it might overcome them.9 Leaving aside, though, a lengthier discussion of Gadamer’s involved concept and its purchase for the study of patristics, it should suffice here to heed Beierwaltes’ advice that treating the relationship between authors under the aspect of a ‘reception history’ will unavoidably involve a subjective contribution on the part of the historian: ‘taking up different elements into a single horizon of thought [Origenism, for instance] requires a productive and, at the same time, destructive reformulation of those elements which are being taken up’.10 Our ‘historical’ reconstruction of the relationship between various authors, in other words, will always bear the mark of our own understanding of the history we take them to represent. This is that ineliminable feature of interpretation Gadamer calls ‘prejudice’ or ‘fore-judgement’, which, so far from hindering understanding, is its enabling condition.11 This is especially so, I’d suggest, in the case of Origen’s Wirkungsgeschichte. His theological legacy has been such a fiercely contested topic, since his own lifetime, that Origen’s history of reception, right on through his rehabilitation among theological readers over the last century, has been marked by a series of efforts to interpret him as representative of competing traditions, and thereby position oneself, as his interpreter, within these traditions. The very text of the De principiis bears witness to this ‘effective history’, as do, in their own way,   Werner Beierwaltes, Platonismus und Idealismus (Frankfurt am Main, 1972), 1.   Cf. Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method, trans. Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall (London, 2013), esp. 278-398. 9   Which is to say, Gadamer’s philosophical hermeneutics is a deeply Hegelian enterprise – or so I argue in the opening chapter of my dissertation, “Gregory of Nyssa, Hans Urs von Balthasar, and the Hermeneutics of Historical Theology” (Duke University). But, then again, historical theology’s origins in the mid-19th century also boast deep Hegelian roots. On Gadamer’s debts to Hegel, see Hans-Georg Gadamer, Hegel’s Dialectic: Five Hermeneutical Studies, trans. P. Christopher Smith (New Haven, 1982); Robert J. Pippin, ‘Gadamer’s Hegel’, in The Cambridge Companion to Gadamer, ed. Robert J. Dostal (Cambridge, 2002), 225-46; Kristin Gjesdal, Gadamer and the Legacy of German Idealism (Cambridge, 2009); Anders Odenstedt, Gadamer on Tradition – Historical Context and the Limits of Reflection (Lulea, 2017), 153-216. On historical theology’s Hegelian hinterland, see, inter alia, Peter C. Hodgson, The Formation of Historical: A Study of Ferdinand Christian Baur (New York, 1966); Lewis Ayres, Nicaea and its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford, 2004), 384-429. 10   W. Beierwaltes, Platonismus und Idealismus (1972), 1. Emphasis mine. 11   Cf. H.-G. Gadamer, Truth and Method (2013), 289-96. 7 8

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the writings anthologized in the Philocalia and many of his homilies and biblical commentaries, especially those preserved in Rufinus’ Latin. For better or worse, Origen is mediated to us by his late antique readers, and not only them. Which means, quite often, understanding Origen requires attention to ways the ‘meaning’ of his thought has changed over time by virtue of who is interpreting it and for which purposes.12 Indeed, Origen’s reception, I’m tempted to say, has always been a history of reading him otherwise – which is to say, of reading him allegorically. Gregory of Nyssa belongs to this tradition of reading just as much as Rufinus, Eusebius, Evagrius, or Maximus. And we, too, insofar as we attempt to track Origen’s reception history in late antiquity and beyond,13 involve ourselves in this long tradition of re-interpretation – lest, that is, we leave unheeded Beierwaltes’ warning that Wirkungsgeschichte, like every work of history, requires ‘a productive and, at the same time, destructive reformulation (Umformung)’ of who we take the authors in question to be. * * * If it’s true, as I said above, that Origen’s reception, from the very start, has been efforts to claim him for often conflicting traditions – and this not least because of the frequent but likely fundamental ambiguities of his thought – then we shouldn’t necessarily expect writers like Gregory to signal their allegiance to the Alexandrian master solely by way of explicit reference or even unattributed citation. In fact, I think it’s quite possible to read (at least some) arguments we usually take us refutations of Origen as, instead, struggles to safeguard what the author in question takes to be the true theological insight of his system – and this even as, or perhaps because, certain features of his thought became untenable in light of later doctrinal development. That something like this hermeneutic   If this smacks too readily of an anachronistic imposition of ‘theory’ onto patristic texts, consider the example of Maximus the Confessor’s Ambigua, which offers a long series of interpretations of ‘difficulties’ in the texts of theological authorities, especially Dionysius the Areopagite and Gregory of Nazianzus. There is no good reason to think Maximus was innocent of the fact that his were revisionist readings of the Fathers in light of post-Chalcedonian developments, nor reason to suspect he lacked theological rationale for taking their texts to mean otherwise than their surface reading suggests. Neither, for that matter, ought we think this practice of reading earlier authorities otherwise – or, to state it plainly, of reading the Fathers themselves allegorically – was a novel development of the 7th century, even if the Ambigua was the first text to thematize explicitly this theological mode of reading. For Maximus’ own defense of his interpretations, see especially his comment in the Prologue to the Ambigua ad Thomas that the passages from Gregory and Dionysius ‘cited hereinafter were authored, not by them, but by Christ, who by grace has exchanged places with them’. Amb. ad Thom., Prol. 3; ET: On Difficulties in the Church Fathers: The Ambigua, Vol. I, ed. and trans. Nicholas Constas, Dumbarton Oaks Medieval Library 28 (Cambridge, MA, 2014), 5. 13   The relatively recent series Adamantiana: Texte und Studien zu Origenes und seinem Erbe, ed. Alfons Fürst (Münster, 2011-) has already published eleven volumes treating various facets of Origen’s surprisingly diverse legacy, especially in the modern period. 12



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mechanism determined Origen’s legacy on nearly every side of the debate over ‘trinitarian theology’ during the fourth century seems obvious enough. But I would suggest it’s also the dynamic at play in the reception of more ‘controversial’ and characteristically ‘Origenist’ teachings, of which Gregory’s subtle reworking of Origen’s ‘double creation’ doctrine in the De hominis opificio is perhaps the preeminent example. Much the same, I add, could be said for Maximus Confessor’s more famous ‘refutation’ of the Origenist system in texts like Ambiguum 7.14 With Gregory and Maximus, I suggest, we are dealing with theologians who seek to honor the spirit of Origen’s theology even as they’re sometimes compelled to reject its letter.15 We can see this ‘allegorical’ mode of critical reception even in the one area of Gregory of Nyssa’s thought wherein he signals his debt to Origen by name, viz. biblical exegesis.16 Indeed, Gregory’s ‘reformulation’ of Origen’s scriptural interpretation might provide us a kind of test case for understanding the 14   On Maximus’ ‘refutation’ of Origenism, the 6th-century version of which may or may not reflect the teachings of Origen of Alexandria, see still the classic studies of Polycarp Sherwood, O.S.B., The Earlier Ambigua of Saint Maximus the Confessor and his Refutation of Origenism, Studia Anselmiana 36 (Rome, 1955); Hans Urs von Balthasar, Cosmic Liturgy: The Universe According to Maximus the Confessor, trans. Brian Daley (San Francisco, 2003). But, now, see also Jordan Daniel Wood’s recent dissertation, which argues decisively that Maximus’ critique of Origenism, far from scorning its intentions, aims instead at setting the Alexandrian’s system on surer Christological footing: ‘That Creation is Incarnation in Maximus Confessor’ (Ph.D. diss., Boston College, 2018). For a still trenchant study of 6th-century Origenism, see Antoine Guillaumont, Les ‘Képhalaia gnostica’ d’Évagre le Pontique et l’histoire de l’origénisme chez les Grecs et chez les Syriens, Patristica Sorbonensia (Paris, 1962), 124-70. For representative studies of Maximus’ critical but constructive reception of Gregory of Nyssa, see Paul M. Blowers, ‘Maximus the Confessor, Gregory of Nyssa, and the Concept of “Perpetual Progress”’, Vigiliae Christianae 46 (1992), 151-71; H.U. von Balthasar, Cosmic Liturgy (2003), 137ff. 15   For something of a modern parallel to this mode of reception I’m calling allegorical, consider F.W.J. Schelling and Hegel’s relationship to Baruch Spinoza. It’s fairly well known that Hegel and Schelling benefited from the revival of interest in Spinoza following the series of so-called Pantheismusstreiten in the late 18th century. For them, Spinoza’s philosophy offered a means of remembering the unity of a world dismembered by Enlightenment rationalism. And yet both Hegel and Schelling were often and openly critical of Spinoza, especially for his dogmatic commitment to ‘substance’ as the organizing principle of his system. To make good on Spinoza’s ultimately theological intentions, they thought, required subjecting the letter of his system to the refining fires of Kant’s critical philosophy. Indeed, in his late lectures on the History of Modern Philosophy, Schelling even draws a suggestive comparison between Spinoza’s thought and the texts of the Old Testament: ‘Spinoza, whose system … is capable of higher development even as a system of mere necessity and even within its limit … represents in the history of philosophy the whole hermeticism of the Old Testament (he was himself Jewish)’. Schelling then adds that ‘the sealed bud can still unfold into the flower. One might say Spinoza’s philosophy is, like Hebrew, a script without vowels, the vowels were only added and made explicit by a later age’, viz. Schelling’s own. Cf. F.W.J. von Schelling, On the History of Modern Philosophy, trans. Andrew Bowie (Cambridge, 1994), 69. 16   Gregory of Nyssa, In Cant. Prol. (GNO VI, 13; Norris, 10-1). Cf. Ronald Heine, ‘Gregory of Nyssa’s Apology for Allegory’, Vigiliae Christianae 38 (1984), 360-70.

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Nyssen’s ‘hermeneutics of reception’ vis-à-vis Origen. At the very least, I think, Gregory’s willingness to place himself in Origen’s line while also revising very basic features of his thought demonstrates that Gregory’s ‘Origenism’, whatever its exact parameters, was far from credulous. On the contrary, I’m suggesting, Gregory’s critical reformulation of Origen’s biblical interpretation reflects a larger attempt to preserve the latter’s theology in terms more amenable to the intellectual climate of the fourth century – without, however, completely suppressing the speculative elements of the Alexandrian’s system.17 I lack the time here I’d need to make good on this almost recklessly promissory note, but I would like to suggest, however briefly, how Gregory’s view of scripture might be seen as neither a rejection nor repetition but reformulation of Origen. The difference between Gregory and Origen’s biblical interpretation, says the scholarly consensus, concerns the status of scripture’s ‘letter’. While Origen tends to disregard or, indeed, reject the literal sequence (ἀκολουθία) of the text in favor of a deeper sense beneath its surface,18 Gregory thinks ‘the way the words run’ (to borrow a phrase from Eugene Rogers)19 reveals the divine ‘purpose’ 17   By way of confessing my own hand in this ‘reformulation’ of the relationship between Gregory and Origen, allow me to say I see a family resemblance between this ‘allegorical’ mode of critical reception among patristic authors and the Hegelian Aufhebung. In much-too-abbreviated defense of that almost reckless assertion, I offer two citations, one on Hegel’s affinity for allegory and the other on historical theology’s Hegelian beginnings in the hands of F.C. Baur, both of which, taken together, go at least some way in intimating how the concept of allegory might provide a means of both critique and commendation, annulling and preserving: ‘If the dialectic uses the letter to give rise to the spirit, and if the Spirit is the meaning of history, as Hegel holds, then the Hegelian philosophy is an allegory of history’. Kevin Hart, The Trespass of the Sign: Deconstruction, Theology and Philosophy (New York, 2000), 59; ‘By employing the historical–critical method under the influence of idealism’s basic impulse, Baur prompted the Aufhebung (the annulling and preserving) of idealism for another age – that of our own time’. Martin Wendte, ‘Ferdinand Christian Baur: A Historically Informed Idealist of a Distinctive Kind’, in Ferdinand Christian Baur and the History of Early Christianity, ed. Martin Bauspiess, Christof Landmesser and David Lincicum, trans. Robert F. Brown and Peter C. Hodgson (Oxford, 2017), 67-79. 18   So, for instance, Frances Young: ‘Origen was happy to decode symbols without worrying about textual or narrative coherence, and the symbols were tokens. His procedures were not entirely arbitrary, for two reasons: the symbols were consistent, each metaphor having a scriptural reference which could be consistently decoded; and there was an underlying spiritual coherence, guaranteed by the unity of scripture, and unveiled by allegory. But this meant the wording of the text found its significance in jots and tittles over-exegeted, rather than in context and flow’ (Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture [Cambridge, 1997], 184). See also the critical discussion of Young’s reading of Origen in Peter Martens, ‘Revisiting the Allegory/Typology Distinction: The Case of Origen’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 16 (2008), 283-317. 19   Cf. Eugene F. Rogers, Jr., ‘How the Virtues of an Interpreter Presuppose and Perfect Hermeneutics: The Case of Thomas Aquinas’, Journal of Religion 76 (1996), 64-81. See also Lewis Ayres’ use of Rogers’ phrase to describe how patristic authors like Augustine understood the ‘plain sense’ of Scripture in L. Ayres, Nicaea and its Legacy (2004), 32.



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(σκοπός) inherent to individual books within the canon.20 As Morwenna Ludlow has shown, their divergence on this point is ultimately symptomatic of a broader disagreement over scripture’s unity, which points up still more fundamental discrepancies between their ‘wider theological projects’.21 Ludlow summarizes the difference thus: ‘Origen’s approach is predominantly synchronic, viewing the text as a whole from an apparently timeless perspective, while Gregory’s method is thoroughly diachronic, reading the complete text as a journey of meaning in which the reader is thoroughly immersed’. Accordingly, Origen’s ‘ideal interpreter’22 is someone intimate enough with the whole of Scripture to discern the hidden connections between its many parts; Gregory, by contrast, encourages patient study of how a given tract of biblical text unfolds its meaning in sequence, word by word.23 Ludlow concludes that Gregory’s attention to the ακολουθία of Scripture reflects his oft-celebrated emphasis on the temporal structures of creation, including God’s providential ordering of history in and as divine οἰκονομία,24 and suggests, further, that these typical ‘diachronic’ emphases may represent efforts on his part ‘to rule out’ the more ‘synchronic’ or ‘timeless’ tendencies born of Origenist ‘speculation’ about ‘infinite series of worlds’ and the lingering liability of ‘further Falls’.25 Ludlow assays with characteristic insight that and how patristic authors’ philosophical convictions shape their theological judgments, and vice versa. She is surely right, for instance, that the way Gregory and Origen practice biblical interpretation is ultimately of a piece with their wider theological projects, and that their respective reading habits reflect more basic metaphysical   Gregory’s conviction that each text aims at an overall σκοπός the interpreter must discern in order to understand its individual parts may reflect the influence of Iamblichus. Cf. Ronald Heine, ed. and trans., Gregory of Nyssa’s Treatise on the Inscriptions of the Psalms (Oxford, 1995), 39-49; M.-J. Rondeau, ‘D’où vient la technique exégétique utilisée par Gregoire de Nysse dans son traité «  Sur les titres des psaumes  »’, in Mélanges d’histoire des religions offerts à HenriCharles Puech (Paris, 1974), 263-87. 21   Morwenna Ludlow, ‘Theology and Allegory: Origen and Gregory of Nyssa on the Unity and Diversity of Scripture’, International Journal of Systematic Theology 4 (2002), 45-66. 22   See Peter Martens’ groundbreaking ‘biographical’ approach to Origen’s theology of Scripture in Origen and Scripture: The Contours of the Exegetical Life (Oxford, 2012). 23   Ludlow marshals a telling quotation from Marguerite Harl to support her point: ‘… l’exégète s’efforcera de retrouver la cohérence invisible non pas d’une partie du texte, mais de la totalité des textes bibliques, abordés comme un seul texte: chaque morceau s’expliquera par la découverte de ses connexions avec son contexte, qui est l’ensemble de la Bible, livre unique…’ (Origène : Philocalie 1-20: Sur les Écritures, SC 302 [Paris, 1983], 74). 24   Indeed, Jean Daniélou notes the close relationship between ἀκολουθία and οἰκονομία in Gregory’s usage: ‘On remarquera ici le rapprochement d’οἰκονομία et d’ἀκολουθία. La seconde expression tend à prendre chez Grégoire la place de la première qui appartient à la patristique archaïque d’Irénée’ (L’Être et le Temps chez Grégoire de Nysse [Leiden, 1970], 34). On Gregory of Nyssa’s ‘economic’ approach to theology, see Paul M. Blowers, ‘Beauty, Tragedy and New Creation: Theology and Contemplation in Cappadocian Cosmology’, International Journal of Systematic Theology 18 (2016), 7-29. 25   M. Ludlow, ‘Theology and Allegory’ (2002), 65-6. 20

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differences between them.26 But, again, I wonder whether, at least in the case of Origen and Gregory, it’s possible to resituate the Nyssen’s characteristic departures from the Alexandrian, which Ludlow articulates with typical acumen, as moments of differentiation in a broader narrative of reception. In which case, Gregory’s attention to the individual σκοποί of scripture, say, or his tireless attention to scripture’s ‘salutary sequence’ (ἀκολουθία), could be read not simply as criteria distinguishing him from Origen but also as means of accentuating and thence extending aspects of the latter’s thought less emphasized by interpretations of Origen’s thought Gregory likely saw as caricatures of his theological insights, viz. the divine intention behind creation’s multiplicity; or again, the Logos’ re-orientation of the cosmos toward an unprecedented end, despite its initial lapse from fullness, through the providential ‘throwing down’ (καταβολή) of seminal principles which flower at their appointed time in the divine economy.27

26   Indeed, Ludlow’s article confirms Paul Blowers’ comment, in another context, ‘that we cannot understand the hermeneutical enterprise’ of a patristic author ‘simply by identifying his exegetical techniques (grammatical, rhetorical, etc.) or his map of variant scriptural “senses”’, but must first study ‘his theological engagement of the very conditions under which divine revelation is even possible, in which case interpreting Scripture and contemplating creation require at once an adjustment to these conditions and a disciplined testing of their constraints and opportunities – this because the larger οἰκονομία of divine revelation subsumes also its reception, interpretation, and performance’. Paul Blowers, ‘The Interpretive Dance: Concealment, Disclosure, and Deferral of Meaning in Maximus the Confessor’s Hermeneutical Theology’, in Knowing the Purpose of Creation Through the Resurrection: Proceedings of the Symposium on St Maximus the Confessor, Belgrade, October 18-21, 2012, ed. Maxim Vasiljević (Belgrade, 2013), 253-9. For a longer version of this argument, see id., ‘The Transfiguration of Jesus Christ as “Saturated Phenomenon” and as a Key to the Dynamics of Biblical Revelation in Saint Maximus the Confessor’, in What is the Bible? The Patristic Doctrine of Scripture, ed. Matthew Baker and Mark Mourachian (Minneapolis, 2016), 83-101. 27   For a re-reading of Origen’s own texts along these (manifestly Nyssenian) lines, see P. Blowers, Drama of the Divine Economy (2012), 92: ‘Origen’s portrait of the origins and destiny of the world appears at first quite distinct from that of Irenaeus [or Gregory, we might say], for on the face of it the dynamic of history seems to be one of resolving essentially spiritual creatures into primeval bliss – in other words, a quite literal apokatastasis as expeditious ‘return to stasis’ – rather than patient growth toward an unprecedented perfection. In fact, however, Origen, who strongly repudiated the Stoic doctrine of deterministic ‘world cycles’, and who admitted the possibility of successive ‘worlds’ – called ‘aeons’ or ‘ages’ in the Bible (cf. Wis. 13:9) – only as hypothetical scenarios in which free will would endure, shares Irenaeus’ sense that the ultimate telos or restoration of creation must transcend its beginning lest the Creator’s providential oikonomia be reduced merely to correcting cosmic setbacks’. To some extent, I think, Blowers’ long study of Maximus Confessor has shaped the trajectory of his reading of Origen – and Gregory of Nyssa, too, for that matter. But, in view of the hermeneutic I’ve sketched here, this by no means discounts his interpretation of Origen’s texts; on the contrary, it is a mark of its true legitimacy. A similar dynamic, I reckon, shapes John Behr’s recent re-reading of Origen, to which much of the present argument adverts. Cf. John Behr, ed. and trans., Origen: On First Principles, Vol. 1 (Oxford, 2017), xv-lxxxviii.



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Indeed, their respective usage of the key term καταβολή is emblematic of this shift. As Charlotte Köckert has shown, Origen takes καταβολή to imply creation’s culpable ‘descent from higher conditions’,28 while Gregory draws out its agricultural dimension in order to stress God’s ‘sowing’ or ‘throwing down’ of creation’s good seeds.29 But the point here, I’d argue, is not just that Gregory uses the term differently, but that he exploits the semantic ambiguity of a pivotal concept in Origen’s system to reformulate the latter’s entire cosmological narrative, such that the weight now lands not on creation’s calamitous lapse into multiplicity but on the Creator’s providential ‘re-constitution’ of a mutability inherent to creation from the very start. In other words, by exploiting the multiple senses of a word Origen had already used, Gregory accentuates with even greater force than his predecessor that history’s procession into exponential diversity only ever takes place in view of Christ’s desire, from eternity, to ‘build up by successive stages’ his ‘one body’ made of ‘many parts’ (1Cor. 12:12), each of which are thereby elected to bear the ‘death of Jesus’ (2Cor. 4:10) within their own members so that they, too, might be ‘sown in weakness’ but ‘raised in power’ (1Cor. 15:43).30 In turn, this broader cosmological shift is ‘mirrored’ in the ‘literary microcosm’31 both Origen and Gregory take scripture to be, such that the multiplicity of scripture, for Gregory, is no longer just a provocation for the spiritual exegete to re-gather its many membra into one body, as Origen sometimes suggests, but the result of God’s good ‘intention’ or ‘purpose’ (σκοπός) for the individual sections of scripture. If, therefore, Gregory attends with closer scrutiny to its ‘sequence’ (ἀκολουθία), this should not necessarily be seen as a departure from Origen’s ‘synchronic’ tendency toward the timeless but instead an exegetical insistence that ‘diachronic’ detour through diversity is the true path of Christian perfection. With such modifications, I’d argue, we are indeed well on our way to Maximus Confessor’s own reformulations of Origen’s theology in his celebrated doctrine of the natural/scriptural logoi – the καταβολή of which is coterminous with the ‘mystery of Christ’32 (Col. 1:26; 1Pet. 1:20), so that our descent into the multiplicity of creation is identical with our ascent unto union with God.33  Origen, De prin. 3.5.4 (Behr, 2:431).   Charlotte Köckert, ‘The Concept of Seed in Christian Cosmology: Gregory of Nyssa, Apologia in Hexaemeron’, SP 47 (2010), 27-32. See also ead., Christliche Kosmologie und kaiserzeitliche Philosophie. Die Auslegung des Schöpfungsberichtes bei Origenes, Basilius und Gregor von Nyssa vor dem Hintergrund kaiserzeitlicher Timaeus-Interpretationen, Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum 56 (Tübingen, 2009). 30   Gregory of Nyssa, In illud: Tunc et ipse Filius (GNO III/2, 19-20). 31   Cf. James A. Coulter, The Literary Microcosm: Theories of Interpretation of the Later Neoplatonists (Leiden, 1976). 32   Maximus the Confessor, Quaestiones ad Thalassium 60 (FC 136, 427-33). Cf. Pascal MuellerJourdan, ‘The Foundation of Origenist Metaphysics’, in The Oxford Handbook of Maximus Confessor, ed. Pauline Allen and Bronwen Neil (Oxford, 2015), 149-63. 33   Maximus the Confessor, Ambiguum 7 (DOML 28, 75-143). 28

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Much more could be said, obviously. But the fact that Origen, Gregory, and Maximus’ most basic metaphysical convictions are reflected in their respective hermeneutics suggests an affinity between them far closer than any of their various divergences might suggest. Whether we wish to call this shared ‘horizon of thought’ Origenism is another question. It will depend, I suspect, on how willing we are to take responsibility for our own part in the ‘reformulation’ of any such historical tradition, bearing in mind that our efforts are liable to ‘destruct’, or deconstruct, just as much they produce. Thus, the point I wish to stress in closing is twofold: first, if we choose to read Gregory and Maximus as representing an authentic tradition of interpreting Origen – which has become a common enough impulse following the rehabilitation of Origen among ressourcement theologians over the last century – we ought not dissemble about the fact that our own ‘fore-judgement’ of the continuity between these authors will render us liable us to see certain aspects of Origen’s texts and see through others; but, second, it’s not at all clear that this wasn’t how Gregory and Maximus themselves understood their relationship to Origen, nor that this mode of reading his texts and their relation to them wasn’t something they learned from Origen’s own example. Which means, finally, that the ‘allegorical’ hermeneutic of historical theology for which I’ve advocated here, however schematically, does not mean to supplant the apparatus of scholarly method. For it was Origen, after all, who first pioneered philological study among patristic authors, and anyone who wishes to follow in his footsteps with their own interpretive practice, whether concerning scripture or tradition, will be hard pressed to attend the details of texts more diligently than he did. But it does mean such historical scholarship ought to be subordinated – if not sequentially then certainly logically – to the task of speculative theology. As Origen himself knew, this requires re-interpreting history in reverse.

Struggling for the Divine Crown: Agonistic Imagery and Perfection in Gregory of Nyssa’s In inscriptiones Psalmorum Olympe De Backer, KU Leuven, Leuven, Belgium

Abstract In my doctoral research, I examine how late antique Greek authors between 200 and 400 AD utilised agonistic imagery taken from the world of the stadium to create an attractive discourse on Christian perfection. This article will specifically focus on the use of agonistic imagery in the context of virtue ethics. Late antique Christian authors frequently drew on this repertoire of metaphors and comparisons to incite their audience to strive for perfection on a daily basis. However, the existing studies on Christian athletic imagery, which offer a mostly descriptive approach, only seldom elaborate on the connection between these images and the rise of a Christian discourse on perfection. The article will investigate this multifaceted connection by means of Gregory of Nyssa’s In inscriptiones Psalmorum, since the rich agonistic metaphors in this work have never been analysed. In accordance with cognitive-linguistic metaphor theory, the agonistic metaphors will not be considered as mere rhetorical icing on the cake, but as essential elements of Gregory’s discourse. The following questions will be answered: (1) Which agonistic metaphors does Gregory use and how do the different metaphors relate to one another; (2) How does this network of metaphors both reflect and shape Gregory’s thinking on virtue; (3) What is the function and importance of these metaphors in the treatise? Special attention will be paid to the different athletic characters in the metaphors, such as the gymnastic trainer and the opponent, and to their role in the pursuit of Christian perfection.

The ideal of a perfect life is a tantalizing fantasy that already captivated late antique authors and that continues to fascinate people to this day. In order to attain this blissful ideal, one must overcome many obstacles, including one’s own flaws. Perfection has therefore often been linked with the idea of struggle and even of athletic contest. This connection is not there by accident, since competitive values were of the utmost importance in late antique society and games and contests were part and parcel of the social fabric.1

1   See for instance the following publications: Norman E. Gardiner, Athletics of the Ancient World (Chicago, 1980); Mark Golden, Sport and Society in Ancient Greece (Cambridge, 2000);

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In my doctoral research,2 I focus on the use of agonistic metaphors from the world of the stadium to create an attractive discourse on Christian perfection. I concentrate on the period between 200 and 400 AD, as the significant societal and cultural shift that occurred at that time provided a fertile ground for the development of the literary connection between agonism and perfection. This article will look into a late antique Christian work that clearly shows this connection and demonstrates its significance: Gregory of Nyssa’s In inscriptiones Psalmorum is a fine example of how athletic vocabulary shaped the discourse of Christian perfection. While there are some studies on the Christian use of athletic imagery,3 most of them are descriptive and do not deal with the purpose and impact of the imagery.4 Moreover, most studies focus on the use of this imagery in martyr literature, and other genres have been neglected. Even though Gregory’s In inscriptiones Psalmorum has been studied in depth in recent years,5 the frequent use of agonistic metaphors in this work has so far been overlooked. This article aims to bridge this gap by analysing some of the most relevant passages concerning agonism and perfection. This way, it hopes to provide a better understanding of Gregory of Nyssa’s ideas on the pursuit of Christian perfection. The Psalter has always played an important part in the liturgy of the Church. However, the chronological disorder of the Psalms and their apparent disunity make it very difficult to discern a coherent structure. Moreover, the titles of the individual Psalms are often confusing. While Gregory’s exegetical method shows some similarities with that of other commentators, his approach to the Debra Hawhee, ‘Agonism and Aretê’, Philosophy and Rhetoric 35 (2002), 185-207; David S. Potter, The Victor’s Crown: A History of Ancient Sport from Homer to Byzantium (Oxford, 2012). 2   Struggling for the Divine Crown: Agonistic Imagery and the Christian Discourse of Perfection in Greek Late Antiquity (200 to 400 A.D.), KU Leuven (ongoing). 3   Isobel H. Combes, ‘Nursing Mother, Ancient Shepherd, Athletic Coach? Some Images of Christ in the Early Church’, in Stanley E. Porter, Michael A. Hayes and David Tombs (eds), Images of Christ: Ancient and Modern (Sheffield, 1997), 113-26; Manfred Kertsch, ‘Der Ringbzw. Faustkampf mit dem Sparringpartner oder auch mit dem Punchingball: ein bildersprach­ liches Motiv in der griechischen Patristik’, Nikephoros 12 (1989), 231-41; Alois Koch, Johannes Chrysostomus und seine Kenntnisse der antiken Agonistik im Spiegel der in seinen Schriften verwendeten Bilder und Vergleiche (Hildesheim, 2007); Reinhold Merkelbach, ‘Der griechische Wortschatz und die Christen’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 18 (1975), 101-48; John A. Sawhill, The Use of Athletic Metaphors in the Biblical Homilies of St. John Chrysostom (Princeton, 1928); Zeph Stewart, ‘Greek Crowns and Christian Martyrs’, in Enzo Lucchesi and Henri D. Saffrey (eds), Mémorial André-Jean Festugière: antiquité païenne et chrétienne (Genève, 1984), 119-24; Engelbert Winter, ‘Die Stellung der frühen Christen zur Agonistik’, Stadion 24 (1998), 13-29. 4   A notable exception is Frauke Krautheim, Das öffentliche Auftreten des Christentums im spätantiken Antiochia, Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum 109 (Tübingen, 2018). 5   See the new translation and commentary by Augustinus F. Weber (ed.), Der Psalter als ein Weg des Aufstiegs in Gregor von Nyssas “In inscriptiones Psalmorum” (Frankfurt am Main, 2017).



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Psalter is highly idiosyncratic: he ascribes one main purpose (σκόπος) to the entire Psalter and subsequently interprets the whole Psalter in light of this purpose. Furthermore, on the basis of this sole purpose he discerns a logical succession (ἀκολούθια) within the Psalter. The supreme goal of the Psalter, according to Gregory, is indicated by the first word of the first Psalm: blessed (μακάριος). This idea of blessedness is closely associated with the idea of perfection through virtue (ἀρετή). Blessedness can only be attained by living a virtuous life, as it is the reward for virtue. In this context, the order of the Psalms has to be viewed, not as a chronological order, but as a spiritual order: through the succession of Psalms, the Holy Spirit shows us how to progressively attain perfection through virtue. The Psalter then becomes a manual that guides us through this process. I will study three passages in detail with the following questions in mind: (1) Which agonistic metaphors does Gregory use and how do the different metaphors relate to one another; (2) How does this network of metaphors both reflect and shape Gregory’s thinking on virtue; (3) What is the function and importance of these metaphors in the treatise  ? The first passage comes from the first part of the treatise, where Gregory explains the titles of the individual Psalms:6 Since the end of every contest is victory, […] it seems to me that the text, through ‘the end’, […] excites towards eagerness those who contend through the virtues in the stadium of life, […] Showing forth the crown to those who are engaged in a close fight with one another in the stadium rather strengthens their eagerness for victory, for the sufferings of the close fight that happen to them are disguised by the hope for honour. Now that the stadium is opened for all for the contest (for the common life of men is a stadium), in which the only opponent is evil who, in various ways and by deceitful wrestling tricks, fights against the opponents in wrestling, because of this the good gymnastic trainer of souls shows you the end of the toils and the ornament of the crowns and the proclamation upon victory […]. For it is clear that, as many as there 6   GNO V. In inscriptiones Psalmorum. In sextum Psalmum. In Ecclesiasten Homiliae, ed. Jacobus Mc Donough and Paulus Alexander (Leiden, 1962), 72-3. Translation my own. ἐπεὶ οὖν τέλος παντὸς ἀγῶνος ἡ νίκη γίνεται, […] δοκεῖ μοι διὰ τοῦ τέλους ὁ λόγος […] ἐπεγείρειν εἰς προθυμίαν τοὺς διὰ τῶν ἀρετῶν ἀθλοῦντας ἐν τῷ σταδίῳ τοῦ βίου, […] προδεικνύμενος γὰρ τοῖς πρὸς ἀλλήλους ἐν τοῖς σταδίοις συμπλεκομένοις στέφανος ἐπιρρώννυσι μᾶλλον αὐτῶν τὴν ὑπὲρ τῆς νίκης σπουδήν, τῶν γινομένων αὐτοῖς διὰ τῆς συμπλοκῆς πόνων ὑπὸ τῆς ἐλπιζομένης εὐδοξίας ἐκκλεπτομένων. πᾶσι τοίνυν ἠνεῳγμένου τοῦ σταδίου πρὸς ἄθλησιν (στάδιον δὲ ὁ κοινὸς τῶν ἀνθρώπων βίος ἐστίν), ἐν ᾧ εἷς ἀντίπαλός ἐστιν ἡ κακία πολυτρόπως τοῖς δολεροῖς παλαίσμασι καταγωνιζομένη τοὺς προσπαλαίοντας, διὰ τοῦτο ὁ ἀγαθὸς τῶν ψυχῶν παιδοτρίβης προδείκνυσί σοι τῶν ἱδρώτων τὸ τέλος καὶ τὸν ἐκ τῶν στεφάνων κόσμον καὶ τὴν ἐπὶ τῇ νίκῃ ἀνάρρησιν· […] δῆλον γὰρ ὅτι ὅσα τῆς ψυχῆς πάθη ἐστίν, τοσαῦτα κρατήματα τῶν ἐχθρῶν γίνεται καθ’ ἡμῶν καὶ παλαίσματα, δι’ ὧν καθάπερ τι μέλος τῆς ψυχῆς ὁ λογισμὸς ἐξαρθροῦται πολλάκις καὶ ἐξαρμόζεται, εἰ μή τις παρεσκευασμένος διὰ μελέτης τὸ ἀσφαλές τε καὶ ἀκατάπτωτον ἐν τοῖς τοιούτοις ἀγῶσιν ἑαυτῷ κατορθώσειε διὰ τῆς νομίμου ἀθλήσεως, καθώς φησιν ὁ ἀπόστολος, τὴν νίκην ἑαυτῷ κατακτώμενος, ἥτις ἐστὶν τῶν ἀγώνων τὸ τέλος·

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are passions of the soul, as many there are grasps and tricks in wrestling of the enemies towards us, through which, just like a limb, they often dislocate and displace reason from the soul, if someone has not, after preparing himself through practice, accomplished steadfastness and unwaveringness in these contests through ‘the lawful contest’, like the apostle says, winning victory for himself, which is the end of the contests.

Gregory here tries to explain the title Towards the end (Εἰς τὸ τέλος). In his opinion, this title refers to victory, and he therefore speaks of an athletic victory. The passage contains a wealth of agonistic metaphors which present a coherent picture.7 The over-arching conceptual metaphor can be formulated as follows: [The pursuit of virtue is an athletic contest].8 The various metaphors highlight different aspects of this contest. Firstly, the different characters are named: [Christians are athletes], [evil is the only opponent] and [the titles of the Psalms are gymnastic trainers]. The place of the contest is also mentioned: [Christian life is a stadium]. Preparation and knowledge of the rules are important: [spiritual exercises in virtue are likened to physical athletic exercises], while [the rules of Christian virtue are compared to the rules of the stadium] (cf. 2Tim. 2:4-5). The contest itself is described in a graphic way: [the passions of the soul are grasps and tricks in wrestling], [not falling for the passions and being morally upright is not falling and staying upright in the contest] and [the separation of reason from the soul is the dislocation of a limb from the body]. Finally, the end of the contest, and more specifically victory, is also described metaphorically: [becoming virtuous or perfect is victory] and [virtue or perfection is a wreath]. All of these metaphors together paint a vivid picture of a stadium in which Christians must fight against a tough opponent to win the glorious crown of perfection. However, they are much more than mere rhetorical flourish.9 Firstly,   I analyse all metaphors in accordance with the general rules of cognitive-linguistic metaphor theory. Two major works here are George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago, 1980) and Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind’s Hidden Complexities (New York, 2002). 8   In metaphor theory, metaphors are usually spelled out in small capitals. However, as some of the metaphorical statements identified in Gregory’s text are quite long, I have chosen to use normal characters for all metaphors for the sake of readability. In order to delineate the metaphors, I have chosen to enclose them in [square brackets]. 9   I use Krautheim’s metaphor classification in six functions. Even though such a classification is always artificial and overlap may occur between the different categories, it is nevertheless useful to help understand the significance of the metaphors in the text. The six functions Krautheim discerns are the following: the authoritative function (metaphors give an argument authority and consequently more persuasive power), the argumentative function (metaphors are an argument by themselves), the illustrative function (metaphors clarify and explain abstract ideas), the cognitiveheuristic function (metaphors create a new and innovative meaning), the appellative function (metaphors lead people to accept a new perspective on reality) and the paraenetic function (metaphors incite people to adopt a certain behaviour). See F. Krautheim, Das öffentliche Auftreten des Christentums (2018), 142-9. 7



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the metaphors fulfil an illustrative function. They help to explain the obscure titles of the Psalms and to make them more concrete and appealing. However, they do more than just illustrate; they also transform the titles of the Psalms by giving them a new meaning. They therefore perform a cognitive-heuristic function. The titles are no longer obscure phrases, but become friendly guides in our quest for perfection. Next, they also fulfil a paraenetic function: by characterising the titles as gymnastic trainers, Gregory asks his audience to heed these trainers’ exhortations and to start practising for virtue. Lastly, they fulfil a crucial appellative function. They prompt the audience to view reality in a new way: their life becomes the stage on which they can take part in the cosmic battle between good and evil. The metaphors exhort them to view the difficulties in life and their sinful passions as tricks from the devil, which may be overcome given a proper training. By using agonistic metaphors, Gregory appeals to his audience and changes their views on the titles of the Psalms – and on their own life. With the help of the Psalms, they can hope to overcome their flaws and thereby get closer to perfection. In the second part of the treatise, Gregory endeavours to explain the absence of correspondence between the order of the Psalms and the historical order of events. He does so by looking into three different subsections of Psalms: 1-11, 40-8 and 50-8. We will focus on 50-8:10 For the fight against the lord of this darkness […] is incessant for us during life. Since we have one single method of resistance against every attack of a temptation, namely repentance, he who has accomplished this successfully within himself becomes the permanent victor of the one who is permanently attacking him. […] having learned the mysteries in the fiftieth [Psalm], […] consider how I progressively move forward towards the next ascent, exchanging victory for victory.

Striving for perfection also means fighting against evil, which time and again tries to impede us from growing more perfect and therefore closer to God. In this passage, Gregory brings up the theme of a never-ending fight against evil, under the guise of temptations. He specifies the method we can use to overcome these temptations: repentance. David then acts as a kind of gymnastic trainer showing us how to repent. The agonistic metaphor is used to explain the succession of the Psalms. Just like a worldly athlete who wins one victory then more easily wins other victories, a Christian athlete of piety who wins one victory by means of a Psalm will then more easily win other victories. Moreover, 10   GNO V. In inscriptiones Psalmorum. In sextum Psalmum. In Ecclesiasten Homiliae, ed. Jacobus Mc Donough and Paulus Alexander (Leiden, 1962), 132-3. Translation my own. ἀδιαλείπτου γὰρ ἡμῖν οὔσης ἐν τῷ βίῳ τῆς πάλης τῆς γενομένης πρὸς τὸν κοσμοκράτορα τοῦ σκότους τούτου […] ἐπειδὴ ἓν μόνον ἀντιπάλαισμα καὶ πρὸς πᾶσαν πειρατηρίου προσβολὴν ἔχομεν τὴν μετάνοιαν, ὁ τοῦτο ἐν ἑαυτῷ κατορθώσας διὰ παντὸς νικητὴς γίνεται τοῦ ἀεὶ προσπαλαίοντος. […] εἰ δὲ μαθὼν τὰ ἐν τῷ πεντηκοστῷ μυστήρια, […] σκόπησον ὅπως προσβαίνω κατὰ τὸ ἀκόλουθον τῇ ἐφεξῆς ἀνόδῳ, νίκην ἐκ νίκης μεταλαμβάνων.

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as the battles will grow more and more difficult, so will the victories grow increasingly brighter. Something similar happens in the following passage:11 Just like, in the physical contests, the athletes do not stay with the same opponents over whom they prevailed in the palestra in their youth, but, their strength being increased, they strip for greater and stronger antagonists, and if they prevail over them, rub themselves with dust for even superior opponents, always fighting, in correspondence with the increase of their strength, against stronger opponents; the same way also, he who has been trained through so many contests by his victories on his opponents gets himself more remarkable victories by engaging in close fight with more remarkable and greater antagonists.

In this passage, Gregory compares David’s fights against increasingly strong enemies with an athlete’s contest against increasingly strong opponents. He in turn implicitly compares this to the daily fights Christians have to face with the help of the Psalms. These two passages, then, teach us something about Gregory’s opinion on perfection through virtue: the contest for perfection is not one single life-determining contest leading to a definitive victory, but consists of a lot of smaller contests, where each victory brings you closer and closer to perfection through virtue. To Gregory, virtue is not a black-and-white story, but something that requires a long process. Just like the athlete has to keep on training and to keep on fighting to secure new victories, so do Christians have to continuously strive for virtue in daily life. This is a fairly positive and encouraging message towards his audience: by means of agonistic metaphors, Gregory shows them that they can undertake small steps in everyday life – by learning to overcome their vices and to become more virtuous – to strive for perfection. He also tells them that they are not alone in this contest, for God is by their side and the Psalms are there to help them. Gregory, then, makes perfection an achievable goal for his audience.12 The metaphors in these two passages all portray David’s fight against evil, and consequently all Christians’ fight against evil, as an athletic contest. This contest requires preparation: [purifying oneself of all evil is preparing oneself for victory]. [The Psalms and David, who teaches us how to repent, are 11   GNO V. In inscriptiones Psalmorum. In sextum Psalmum. In Ecclesiasten Homiliae, ed. Jacobus Mc Donough and Paulus Alexander (Leiden, 1962), 142. Translation my own. ὥσπερ δὲ κατὰ τοὺς σωματικοὺς ἀγῶνας, οὐ τοῖς αὐτοῖς ἀντιπάλοις οἱ ἀθληταὶ παραμένουσιν, ὧν ἂν ἐν νεότητι κατὰ τὴν παλαίστραν κρατήσωσιν, ἀλλ’ αὐξηθείσης αὐτοῖς τῆς δυνάμεως πρὸς μείζονάς τε καὶ ἰσχυροτέρους ἀνταγωνιστὰς ἀποδύονται, κἂν ἐκείνων κρατήσωσιν, κατὰ τῶν ὑπερεχόντων κονίζονται, πάντοτε τῇ προσθήκῃ τῆς δυνάμεως καταλλήλως πρὸς τοὺς δυνατωτέρους τῶν ἀντιπάλων ἀγωνιζόμενοι· κατὰ τὸν αὐτὸν τρόπον καὶ ὁ διὰ τοσούτων ταῖς κατὰ τῶν ἐχθρῶν νίκαις ἐγγυμνασθεὶς ἐπισημοτέρας τὰς νίκας ἑαυτῷ ποιεῖ, πρὸς τοὺς ἐπισημοτέρους τε καὶ μείζονας τῶν ἀνταγωνιστῶν συμπλεκόμενος. 12   This is of course human, not divine, perfection: the ultimate state of blessedness a human being can hope to attain.



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gymnastic trainers]. [God is styled as the president of the games].13 The contest itself is also clearly described: while [temptations are attacks], [repentance is a defensive method in wrestling and the key to victory]. [The tribulations and sufferings we have to endure are portrayed as grasps in wrestling]. The prize for all of this hard fighting is also named: it is salvation. By his victory, David calls forth the Christians to engage in the contest as well in order to win this glorious prize. All of these metaphors generally fulfil the same purposes as the metaphors in the previous passage. They have an illustrative function: they explain something difficult, namely the order of the Psalms, in more concrete and understandable terms. Next, they fulfil a cognitive-heuristic and appellative function. The strange order of the Psalms is explained as an order that leads to virtue through increasingly difficult battles against evil. Accordingly, the audience is invited to reconsider their thoughts about the way to attain virtue. Gregory asks them to start viewing virtue as a continuous fight against evil, where victory follows upon victory, and where the opponents grow increasingly tougher. In this fight, the Psalms become our guides and our trainers helping us to fight evil. The toughness of our opponents should not depress us, for they only grow tougher as we grow stronger and more capable of taking them down. The agonistic metaphors also portray David as the ultimate athlete and example to follow; they therefore fulfil a paraenetic function as well. It is striking that Gregory’s line of thought entirely rests on the metaphors, and more specifically on the agonistic notion of successive victories against an ever-regenerated evil. The metaphors are fundamental to the way he thinks and talks about perfection in virtue. The question now arises as to which picture of the pursuit of perfection is painted by the agonistic metaphors throughout the treatise. It is therefore necessary to look into the different agonistic themes that are brought forward by the metaphors. The first part of an athletic competition which comes up in the metaphors is the preparation for the contest. Gregory emphasizes the importance of spiritual preparation. However, he does not deal with this at length. What he does describe in detail, however, are the different characters participating in the contest. Christians are styled as athletes whose untrained souls are in dire need of coaching. The trainers of the soul are either David, who is an athlete himself, Christ, who is also the president of the games, or the Psalms and their titles. The only opponent is evil, which can take many guises: demons and temptations. The angels are spectators who are ready to reward victorious Christians with a choral dance. Next, the contest itself is called a wrestling match against evil. The opponent attacks the Christians by means of the temptations, the passions of the soul and tribulations and sufferings. Moreover, he 13   See Johan Leemans, ‘God and Christ as Agonothetae in the Writings of Gregory of Nyssa’, Sacris Erudiri 43 (2004), 5-31.

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endeavours to separate reason from the soul like someone would dislocate a limb. In order to win the contest, Christians must avoid to fall for the passions; they must stay morally upright. Contrarily to a real wrestler, a Christian fighting the devil will not use any offensive techniques, but only defensive ones. The main technique to defend oneself is repentance. Gregory hereby implies that even someone who has done wrong and fallen for the passions can still be crowned a victor if he repents. Another important point for Christians is that they must compete according to the rules – they must follow the Christian laws. As their opponents grow increasingly stronger, so do they, and their victories become increasingly glorious. Lastly, the nature of the rewards they will receive is also revealed: it is salvation. By winning numerous victories, man can rise up again and once more take his place in the choral dance of the angels as was the case before the fall. Moreover, man will then live in a state of ultimate perfection in blessedness – as indicated by the first word of the first Psalm, this is the goal of the entire Psalter. The agonistic metaphors fulfil several rhetorical purposes: they serve to illustrate Gregory’s argument, to exhort his audience to strive for perfection through virtue, and to appeal to his audience so that they view the pursuit of perfection in a new light. However, the metaphors are far more than rhetorical ornaments. They carry the entire argument: Gregory envisions the pursuit of perfection through virtue as an athletic contest. The form and the content of the text clearly influence each other. Gregory formulates his opinions by means of agonistic metaphors, and the agonistic metaphors in turn shape and colour his views on perfection. Moreover, the metaphors offer a fresh perspective on the titles and the order of the Psalms and therefore bring about a transformation of reality for Gregory’s audience as well. By talking about the Psalter as a handbook for perfection through virtue, Gregory effectively turns the Psalter into such a handbook and gives his audience the necessary explanations on how to use this handbook. In Gregory’s mind, and in the audience’s mind, then, the concept of perfection becomes inextricably connected with the idea of athletic struggle and contest.

Toward Unity: On the Christology of Gregory of Nyssa Ty Monroe, Assumption University, Worcester, MA, USA

Abstract The Christology of Gregory of Nyssa has been subjected to various scholarly assessments. While many have sought either to exonerate him or indict him in view of later conciliar standards, others have protested that such judgments are anachronistic. This article dives into the fray, but with more than Chalcedon in view and with less than ‘orthodoxy’ at stake. That is, Gregory’s Christology is assessed in view not merely of Chalcedon, but of the radical unity-in-distinction evident within the canons of Constantinople II. Yet the goal is neither to exonerate or indict, since Gregory cannot meaningfully be expected to meet later dogmatic standards, even if evaluating his views in this way proves beneficial. So, Gregory’s Christological statements are sorted, interpreted, and assessed, with an eye to their soteriological motivations and implications. It is shown that Gregory’s theology of the historical life of Christ tends to be divisive with respect to the divine and human natures, while his theology of the resurrected Christ tends to be unitive – nearly to the point of monophysitism – and the rationale for both tendencies is explained. Yet it is also made clear that his theology of universal salvation complicates such a straightforward interpretation and so proves that Gregory’s Christology and soteriology remain fruitful in their own right.

1. Introduction Proper retrieval of the history of Christological thought demands our reception of the conciliar tradition in its broader scope – specifically, in often neglected climaxes in conceptual precision present within the councils of the sixth and seventh centuries.1 For, it’s here that the soteriological rationale of Christology finds its clearest expression of unity and distinction – of the single   This point was made aptly by Khaled Anatolios (‘The Soteriological Grammar of Conciliar Christology’, The Thomist 78 [2014], 165-88). However, I do not wish to suggest that Fr. Anatolios’ argument necessarily entails my particular reading of those conciliar statements. It is enough merely to say that my claim here finds at least formal corroboration in Anatolios’ assessment: ‘It can also be argued that the modern tendency in Western theology to rely on Chalcedon as the only “Christological” council has resulted in the inclination toward just such a Christology of juxtaposition, which is much clearer in affirming the two distinct natures than the location and dynamism of the union’ (ibid. 174). 1

Studia Patristica CXV, 107-124. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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subjectivity of the one Christ – especially in the case of the theopaschite formula of Constantinople II’s tenth canon.2 It is from this perspective, then, that we ought to assess the deliverances of earlier patristic Christologies. In this brief essay, I intend to undertake such an assessment with respect to the Christology of Gregory of Nyssa. I cannot afford the space needed to address sufficiently the concern over anachronistic judgments about earlier thinkers in light of later standards of orthodoxy. Worries about evaluating earlier thinkers in light of later conciliar strictures are, to my mind, often vaguely formulated and betray deeper ideas about doctrinal development, most of which I find at best uninteresting and at worst problematic.3 It is enough to say here that I think it possible to offer critical evaluation of earlier thinkers in light of later dogmatic standards, yet without expecting that they ought to have known better and without calling into question their orthodoxy within the limits of their own time periods. In the case of Christology, then, whatever else we say about Christological developments in subsequent centuries, the minimal thresholds provided by later councils require a clear conceptual distinction between hypostasis and ousia, such that there can be shared personal or subjective identity between two natures amid their ongoing distinction. That’s to say, the one subject of the Word must be seen to contain in his person two natures, to both of which he, qua hypostasis and singular subject, grants a shared identity. It is only such unity of identity which can do full justice to Cyrillian insight concerning a single subject who ‘suffers impassibly’,4 an insight clarified and codified in the Canons of the Fifth Ecumenical Council.5 Valuable as they are in their own 2   ‘If anyone does not confess his belief that our Lord Jesus Christ, who was crucified in his human flesh, is truly God and the Lord of glory and one of the members of the Holy Trinity: let him be anathema’ (Norman P. Tanner, SJ, The Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils I [Washington, DC, 1990], 118). 3   Though, Cappadocian scholarship is hardly the only place wherein these worries crop up. For one (rather modest) example of hand wringing over anachronistic judgments, see Andrew Radde-Gallwitz’ otherwise lucid and helpful commentary on Eun. III 3 (‘Contra Eunomium III’, in Johan Leemans and Matthieu Cassin (eds), Gregory of Nyssa: Contra Eunomium III, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 124 [Leiden, 2014], 299). Of course, I have no way of knowing his own motives and intentions. However, for some it seems worries over the critical appraisal of an otherwise orthodox thinker in light of later dogmatic developments betray strong (if unformulated) commitments to dogma’s development which would require an earlier thinker to hold, even if implicitly or vaguely, the view ultimately codified by a later council or other dogmatic formulation. Given that I do not think continuity amid development entails such strict requirements within the flow the Church’s acts of assent and reasoning about such matters, I harbor fewer worries that such critical appraisal would inadvertently besmirch the orthodoxy of such an earlier thinker. 4   De Recta Fide Oratio Altera, 163 (PG 76, 1393B). 5   ‘If anyone declares that the [Word] of God who works miracles is not identical with the Christ who suffered, or alleges that God the Word was with the Christ who was born of a woman, or was in him in the way that one might be in another, but that our lord Jesus Christ was not one and the same, the Word of God incarnate and made man [...] let him be anathema’ (Constantinople II, Canon 3; N. Tanner, Decrees [1990], 114-5).



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right, Gregory’s views do not fully meet these thresholds, either in terms of conceptual precision or substantive meaning. And his apparent vacillation between a monophysitism and a kind of proto-Nestorianism is evidence of his struggle to sort out that unity and distinction, simply because he struggles to unite consistently the identity and difference that exists in the one Christ. However, this does not mean that Gregory fails to help point the way forward in important and even daring ways. I proceed with this short exposition by sequentially treating the three ways in which Gregory does attempt to speak unitively about Christ as a subject: in Christ’s historical life, in his resurrected and ascended (and so, also, transhistorical life), and in the eschatological fulfillment of the apokatastasis. Of course, to highlight individual features of Gregory’s Christological and soteriological views is by no means to divulge breaking news. However, it is my hope that in bringing them together here with the express purpose of seeing each of them as complementary aspects of Gregory’s Christology, and not merely of his soteriology and eschatology, we can rightly account for his legitimate deficiencies and strengths. Act I:  The Historical Life of Christ I need not recount here the checkered reception history of Gregory’s treatments of the Son’s historical life. That life, of course, is the dramatic stage on which occur the events that most consistently spark Christological dilemmas: the human development, suffering, and death of Jesus Christ. It’s in this context that Gregory’s statements have earned him the ambivalent assessment of multiple readers, who find in Gregory both monophysite language and Antiochene or proto-Nestorian statements.6 True, some ground here has been made up by the careful work of Brian Daley and those who champion a soteriologicallykeyed interpretation of Gregory’s Christology.7 On this reading, it’s Gregory’s 6   So, J. Tixeront, who finds both a tendency toward dual subjectivity and monophysitism: ‘Lui [Grégoire] aussi parâit, en certains passages, distinguer deux personnes en Jésus-Christ: l’homme, dans le Sauveur, est un tabernacle où le Verbe habite; la divinité est dans celui qui souffre. Cependant la tendance monophysite est plus marquée et parfois inquiétante’ (Histoire des dogmes dans l’antiquité chrétienne II [Paris 1912], 128). In various ways, this view is shared by Aloys Grillmeier, SJ (Christ in the Christian Tradition I, trans. John Bowden, 2nd ed. [Atlanta, 1975], 370-7) and even more recently by Peter Bouteneff (‘Soteriological Imagery in Gregory of Nyssa’s Antirrheticus’, SP 32 [1996], 81-6). As will become clear, I am sympathetic to these interpretations while thinking they fall short of explaining when, how, and why the two tendencies come to the fore in Gregory’s thinking. 7   See B. Daley, ‘“Heavenly Man” and “Eternal Christ”: Apollinarius and Gregory of Nyssa on the Personal Identity of the Savior’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 10 (2002), 469-88; id., ‘Divine Transcendence and Human Transformation: Gregory of Nyssa’s Anti-Apollinarian Christology’, SP 32 (1996), 87-95; John Behr, The Nicene Faith II (Crestwood, NY, 2004), 436ff.

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‘Christology of transformation’8 unto divinization which serves as a means to account for the singularity of Christ’s subject. And this transformation applies first to the human nature in Christ and then, as an effect, for the rest of humanity. Yet it is difficult to reject Johannes Zachhuber’s more recent assessment that for all of Gregory’s vacillating between the two extremes, he fails to account fully for such singularity.9 However, it must also be noted, this evaluation only applies, without remainder, to Gregory’s account of Christ in his historical life. It is not that Gregory fails to feel the initial force of charges raised against him and his brother, Basil, by the likes of Eunomius,10 Apollinarius,11 and their followers concerning a duality of Sons as implied by Cappadocian teaching. In Gregory’s attempt to avoid such charges and unify the predications in a single subject, he deploys a few distinct but related exegetical and speculative tools. The first of these tools to which I call our attention is Gregory’s version of the communicatio idiomatum. To some of his modern interpreters, Gregory’s mere use of this ‘exchanging of properties’ serves as proof12 of his Christological proto-orthodoxy.13 But it is essential to account for the logic and aims of Gregory’s deployment of this tool. At times, Gregory’s use truly does refer to a sharing or exchanging of idioms and/or names, as in Antirrh.: As a result of the mystic initiation the Virgin received from Gabriel, the man in Christ is given an individual name in the human fashion; his human element, as has been said, was called Jesus; His divine nature, on the other hand, cannot be confined by a name, but the two elements became one, through the mixture, so, by virtue of the human element, even God is given a name. (Antirrh. §13)14

8   B. Daley, ‘“Heavenly Man”’ (2002), 479. Sarah Coakley’s terminology for the approach is a ‘progressivist Christology’ (‘“Mingling” in Gregory of Nyssa’s Christology: A Reconsideration’, in Andreas Schuele and Günter Thomas (eds), Who is Jesus Christ for Us Today: Pathways to Contemporary Christology [Louisville, 2009], 72-84, 75). 9   ‘Gregory tends to respond to this [Christological] problem by means of what Aloys Grillmeier has called a ‘divisive Christology’ (Trennungschristologie)’ (Johannes Zachhuber, ‘From First Fruits to the Whole Lump: the Redemption of Human Nature in Gregory’s Commentary on the Song of Songs’, in Giulio Maspero, Miguel Brugarolas and Ilaria Vigorelli [eds], Gregory of Nyssa: In Canticum Canticorum, Analytical and Supporting Studies, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 150 [Leiden, 2018], 233-55, 247). 10   Radde-Gallwitz has helpfully catalogued these charges on the part of Eunomius, as reported by Gregory himself at Eun. III 3.30ff, 4.1-23, et al. (‘Contra Eunomiium III 3’ [2014], 295). 11   Antirrh. §24; trans. Robin Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings, FC 131 (Washington, DC, 2015), 208-9 (GNO II, 201); see Theoph.; trans. R. Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 260 (GNO II, 120). 12   A. Radde-Gallwitz suggests Gregory’s use of the exchange of names is the latter’s ‘justification of a strict notion of unity’ (‘Contra Eunomium III 3’ [2014], 304), but without noting that this stronger form of communication applies only to the resurrected Christ (see below). 13   By this I mean his adherence to later standards of orthodoxy ahead of time, so to speak. 14   Trans. R Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 139-40 (GNO III/I, 161.14-9).



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Of course, a tool is only as worthy as its operator, and while one might pick up on Gregory’s seemingly divisive tendencies in exchanging the name, this is exacerbated when he exchanges the experiences of Christ. So, in Eun. III 3.66. Gregory states: the beatings belong to the slave in whom the Master is, and the honours to the Master enclosed in the slave, in such a way that by the bond and conjunction both belong to each, as the Master takes to himself the bruises of the slave, and the slave is glorified with the honour of the Master. That is why crucifixion is attributed to the Lord of glory (1Cor. 2:8), and every tongue confesses that ‘Jesus Christ is Lord to the glory of God the Father’ (Phil. 2.10).15

While here the two natures and their respective actions and passions are related, there emerges a clear duality of predication on whose logic I will comment further on below. As Miguel Brugarolas readily recognizes, this kind of usage allows Gregory primarily to protect divine transcendence.16 Yet as the teachings of Cyril’s opponents will later show,17 this in itself is not a laudable goal. For, it’s this same overwhelming impetus that bars those thinkers from discerning the novum18 of the Incarnation, the unity of a single subject to whom all predications, human and divine, equally belong. And it is to that end that an exegetical and conceptual tool such as the communicatio idiomatum (or nominum) can be utilized.19 15   Trans. Stuart G. Hall, in J. Leemans and M. Cassin (eds), Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium III 4 (2014), 120 (GNO II, 131.10-6). 16   ‘[I]n this sense, the more ‘diophysite’ language in Gregory’s works against Ap. underscores the transcendence of God and the completeness of human nature so as to prevent the ambiguity of Apollinarism from blurring the boundaries between God and human nature’ (‘Theological Remarks on Gregory of Nyssa’s Christological Language of “Mixture”’, SP 84 [2017], 39-58, 47). It is not my task here to defend Apollinarius in any general sense; however, as my appropriation of Constantinople II may already suggest, what Brugarolas lauds in Gregory’s remarks hardly seems to me a desideratum. In Christ, a distinction of natures one to another nevertheless coincides with a radical identification between the Word and both of his natures. Whether or not we term it ‘ambiguity’, the later conciliar tradition brooks no strict boundary between the person of the Word and his humanity. 17   For a recent assessment of the concept of transcendence on both sides of the Nestorian controversy, see Charles M. Stang, ‘The Two ‘I’s’ of Christ: Revisiting the Christological Controversy’, Anglican Theological Review 94 (2012), 529-47. Still, I do not think Stang’s gesturing toward possible solutions to the question of unity and distinction take sufficient note of later conciliar norms. Among Stang’s primary interlocutors is Paul Gavrilyuk, who treats in detail the place of transcendence in the controversy (The Suffering of the Impassible God [Oxford, 2006], 141ff.). 18   ‘After all, the distinction between the divine and human natures was completely established in the act of creation and did not require the Incarnation. The heart of the gospel and its novum is rather the supreme mystery that human nature was united with the divine nature in a single hypostasis without impairment to the integrity of either nature’ (K. Anatolios, ‘Soteriological Grammar’ [2014], 179). Though, for an argument that these two acts of God – creation and incarnation – are ultimately one, see now Jordan D. Wood, That Creation is Incarnation in Maximus, PhD Dissertation, Boston College (2018). 19   For a discussion of Nestorius’ use of this exegetical tool in a merely logical mode, see John A. McGuckin, St. Cyril of Alexandria: The Christological Controversy: Its History, Theology,

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A second tool of Gregory’s reveals more clearly his views in the order of being as well as the order of speaking. Here I refer to Gregory’s scattered discussions of the way that the two natures present within the union extend beyond their normal limits. This approach follows an Athanasian precedent20 of calling into question received ideas about creaturely weakness and divine power and foregrounding the capacity of human nature for god-likeness. Sometimes, Gregory speaks of both natures extending beyond their real or perceived limits, as in Or. cat. 24.3, when he discusses the divine nature’s condescension by analogy with the wonder of fire moving downward, not upward.21 Still, while this language might appear to underwrite a shared identity of the two natures in the one hypostasis of the Word, in Gregory’s usage it fails to do so in a straightforward way. On the one hand, he places the overwhelming emphasis upon the way that the human nature exceeds its natural bounds. On the other hand, even when he grants due consideration to the divine nature’s ‘extension’ beyond its perceived limitations, this does not amount to affirming a singularity of shared identity between the natures. This is so for a few important and closely related reasons, each of which also serves as the backdrop for Gregory’s use of the communicatio idiomatum noted above. First, as Johannes Zachhuber has briefly noted, for Gregory, the relation of the two natures is to be understood in the manner of a strictly hierarchical active-passive relationship.22 This hierarchical duality establishes a relation between the two, but hardly one of shared identity. Gregory is thus more comfortable speaking in terms of the contact that the divine nature (the active) has with the human (the passive): I mean something like this: the Word was before the ages, the flesh was born in the last times; but no one would reverse this, and say either that the flesh is pretemporal, or that the Word was born recently. The flesh is of a passive nature, while the Word is active; the flesh does not design the existence of things, nor is the godhead able to be passive. In the beginning the Word was with God, in the experience of death is the Man; the human is not eternal, nor the divine mortal. (Eun. III 3.64)23

Taking this tack allows him, unsurprisingly, to avoid predicating Christ’s sufferings of the divine nature, which elsewhere he compares to a doctor who, and Texts (Leiden, 2004), 153-5. I do not mean to suggest that Gregory himself uses it only in this loose way; rather, Nestorius’ use simply goes to show that the presence of a communicatio does not itself signify much, specifically. This is especially evident when its deployment is primarily aimed at safeguarding divine transcendence. 20  See Inc. §22. 21   GNO III/4, 61.15ff.. 22   J. Zachhuber, ‘First Fruits’ (2018), 247-8; id., ‘Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium III 4’, in J. Leemans and M. Cassin (eds.), Gregory of Nyssa (2014), 327-8. Zachhuber cites Stoic precedent for this schema, though one can also see how Neoplatonism incorporated this aspect of Stoicism into its own account of hierarchical causality. 23   Trans. S. Hall (2014), 120 (GNO II, 130).



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in his health, can come into contact with the wounds of the ill, provide an active and healing benefit, and avoid contracting the deficiency himself.24 The medical metaphor is standard patristic fare; however, for Gregory the result is that he also stops short of predicating these historical human attributes directly to the Word, qua personal subject. This is because for Gregory it is not merely the case that the divine nature is higher or even more active than its passive, creaturely counterpart; rather, it’s also that the active element of the pair, the divine nature, is the primary site of the Word’s personal identity. This lopsided or asymmetrical account of identity and subjectivity25 becomes even more evident when one considers a third and final tool of Gregory’s, his use of what I would call the logic of possession or of instrumental relation.26 At times it can seem that Gregory’s propensity to speak of Christ’s human nature as a possession, instrument, or property27 of the Word is actually his means for predicating the most daring (and thus the most proto-orthodox) statements about Christ: “And we say God has come to be in each change of our nature, through which soul meets body, and body is separated from soul, and mixing with each of these [...] through that ineffable and inexpressible commingling.”28 Note, however, in the very next passage, how Gregory’s commitment to the logic of a unilateral, active-passive relationship further grounds a lopsided account of identity in which Christ subject resides firmly with his divine nature. This becomes clear both when Gregory is speaking about the positive effects of the divine nature’s union and contact with the human, as well as when Gregory is seeking to avoid predicating Christ’s suffering and death of the Word: when on the other hand we hear of pain, sleep, want, distress, bonds, nails, spear, blood, wounds, burial, tomb, and other such things, even though they are contrary to the previous conclusions, we accept that these are no less credible and true, looking at the 24   Or. cat. 16.2 (GNO III/4, 46-7). This is different than, for example, comparing the Word to a friend who takes on your ailment and suffers along with you (though remaining innocent of sin). 25   ‘Within this model it makes sense to identify the thing itself with the active principle – all that can be said about it is what God has made of it; the passive principle has to be presumed there but is otherwise nothing’ (J. Zachhuber, ‘Contra Eunomium III 4’ [2014], 328). On Theo­ dore of Mopsuestia’s similar problem, see R.A. Norris, Manhood and Christ: A Study in the Christology of Theodore of Mopsuestia (Oxford, 1963), 199: ‘Indeed [Theodore] observes in one place that the expression ‘the divine nature’ means nothing more or less than simply “God” and by the same token, that “Jesus” is the name of the assumptus homo’. 26   ‘“The man in whom he dwelt” appears to be scarcely more than an instrument that was used by the Godhead for its universal purpose of salvation’ (J. Zachhuber, Human Nature in Gregory of Nyssa: Philosophical Background and Theological Significance [Leiden, 2014], 214). While it can be considered as conceptually distinct from the active-passive dynamic highlighted by Zachhuber and taken up again in this inquiry, the instrumental relation follows from the strictly asymmetrical, hierarchical relationship already noted. 27   Antirrh. §7; trans. R. Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 109 (GNO III/1, 140). 28   Or. cat. 16.6; trans. I. Green, Catechetical Discourse (Crestwood, NY, 2019), 101 (GNO III/4, 48.2-5). On Gregory’s use of mixture language, see B. Daley, ‘Divine Transcendence and Human Transformation: Gregory of Nyssa’s Anti-Apollinarian Christology’, SP 32 (1996), 87-95.

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flesh, which we have received by faith as accompanying the Word. For just as we may not ascribe the peculiar properties of the flesh to the Word who is in the beginning, so conversely we may not observe the peculiarities of the deity in the fleshly nature. The teaching of the Gospel about the Lord being a mixture of the exalted and divine with the lowly and human, we attach each kind of idea to one or other of the elements observed in the mystery, as appropriate, the human to the human, the exalted to the Godhead; and we say that, inasmuch as the Son is God, he is of course impassible and pure, but if any suffering is attributed to him in the Gospel, he carried out such an act through the humanity, which was of course susceptible of suffering. The Godhead truly carries out the salvation of the world through the body it wears, so that the suffering belongs to the flesh, the action to God (Eun. III 4.7-9)29

  While at face value these statements may seem unimpeachable to some readers, we must note that it implies a personal subject of the aforementioned change who is not, strictly speaking, the one hypostasis of the Word. Rather, that ultimate subject, ‘He’, the Word, is present with the changing nature for the purpose of redeeming it. This language subtly implies that during his historical life, the Word has a human nature but is, in terms of his identity, his divine nature.30 At various points in Gregory’s writings, one senses his impulse to overcome the limits of this kind of instrumental relationality, such as when compares the human nature united to Christ to the fingernail of a typical human: When by taking “the form of a slave” he united himself to it and became one with it, he made the sufferings of the slave his own. Then it is like when some accident happens to the tip of a nail. Because of the connection between the parts of our body, the effect is extended to the sufferer’s whole body as the sensation runs through it. So he who is joined to our nature makes our sufferings his own. (Antirrh. §13)31

It is certainly true that this relationship between one part of the body (the fingernail or toenail) to the whole of the body forms a stronger analogy of the union between the human nature and the divine nature, and so also to the Word whose identity, in Gregory’s understanding, rests asymmetrically with the ­latter. It speaks of a greater union than, for example, Gregory’s propensity to compare the Word’s human nature to his ‘house’32 or his tendency to split the predications neatly between the Word and the humanity which he assumed, the latter of which can be said to have suffered death33 but cannot be said to   Trans. S. Hall (2014), 123 (GNO II, 136.5-24).   ‘How can he who made all ages be born and anointed in some moment of time? The implication is that the divinity is raised up, even though it did not die. It did not die because what is not formed by composition cannot be dissolved; it was raised because it was present in what was dissolved, in him who had fallen in accordance with the law of human nature’ (Antirrh. §28; trans. R. Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 247 [GNO III/1, 225.27-226.2]). 31   Trans. R. Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 138 (GNO III/1, 160.15-21). 32   Eun. III 1.44-5; trans. S. Hall (2014), 51 (GNO II, 19). 33   Antirrh. §26; trans. R. Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 235 (GNO III/1, 218). It is interesting to note that Gregory is here at pains to refute what he reports to be Apollinarius’ charge – namely, ‘The death of a man does not do away with death’ (ibid.). Apollinarius’ own 29 30



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have raised Lazarus from the dead. Yet it is also true that here Gregory has chosen to compare the Word’s humanity to perhaps the most extraneous component of the body.34 While we need not accuse Gregory of a full-blown proto-Nestorianism,35 it seems clear he is careful to protect divine transcendence not by referring certain predications to a hypostasis whose one identity is simultaneously human and divine, but by making Christ’s human nature the instrumental subject of the most challenging predications. The Word is present to, manifests himself through,36 and comes into contact with the sufferings of the human nature, and in that extended sense they are ‘his’.37 We might call this an associative union, rather than a personal union. But in truth they belong primarily to him as to a passive instrument he possesses actively,38 while his identity resides with what Gregory calls in Eun. III his “primary hypostasis (πρώτην ὑπόστασιν)”39 – that is to say, with his divine nature.40 problematic views aside, it seems clear in this case that in his own way the bishop of Laodicea saw somewhat more clearly than Gregory the necessity of being able to say that the person of the Word died. For a much stronger defense of this and other of Apollinarius’ intuitions, see Sergius Bulgakov, The Lamb of God, trans. Boris Jakim (Grand Rapids, MI, 2008), 2ff. 34   If you lacerated my arm, I would instinctively say that you cut ‘me’, whereas if you gave me a hangnail (or trimmed my hair), I would likely not make the same claim. 35   Though, it must be pointed out that Nestorius himself utilized the language of instrumentality with respect to Christ’s human nature. See his ‘First Sermon Against the Theotokos’, in R.A. Norris, The Christological Controversy (Philadelphia, 1980), 125, 129. 36  See Antirrh. §24 (trans. R. Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 208 [GNO III/1, 201]); ibid. §25 (trans. R. Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 230 [GNO III/I, 215]); Or. cat. 12.1 (trans. I. Green, Catechetical Discourse (2019), 93 [GNO III/4, 40]. 37   As Ekkehard Mühlenberg points out: ‘Irgendeine Vorsicht bewahrt Gregory davor, mehr als “durch sein Menschliches” zu sagen’ (‘Die Gottheit des inkarnierten Christus erwiesen durch seine Selbstmächtigkeit - Freiheit der Selbstbestimmung [In S. Pascha 247,26-248,27]’, in Andreas Spira and Christoph Klock (eds), The Easter Sermons of Gregory of Nyssa: Translation and Commentary, Proceedings of the Fourth International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa [Philadelphia, 1981], 123-37, 129). 38   Though, this claim must be clarified and so also qualified: Christ’s humanity is a ‘passive’ instrument considered in relation to its active agent, the divinity, and, most importantly, this activity entails the seat of identity or personal subjectivity. However, the humanity cannot be considered passive in an absolute sense, given that it plays a distinct role in contributing uniquely human actions and passions to the overall mission of the one Christ. Indeed, Gregory at least once implicitly affirms the presence of a human will in Christ (Antirrh §19 [GNO II, 181]; see R. Orton, ‘“A Very Bad Book”? Another Look at St Gregory of Nyssa’s Answer to Apolinarius’, SP 72 (2014), 171-89, 185). But the problem arises inasmuch as the humanity qua instrument can be the subject of predications to which the (divine) Word is not and cannot be subject, such as death, suffering, and the like. 39   Eun. III 4.12; trans. S. Hall (2014), 124 (GNO II, 138.1); ibid. 4.18 (GNO II, 140.21-2). Note that these passages call into question the claim that Gregory simply does not use the term hypostasis in his Christology (see S. Coakley, ‘Mingling’ [2009], 73). Though he does not do so consistently and to the same effect as later thinkers, he does so in this lopsided and so somewhat divisive manner, identifying it primarily with the divine nature of the Word as such. 40   Thus I side with with Reinhard M. Hübner over R. Orton. The former claims that the prime mover of the incarnation and its salvific effects is the divine Logos, rather than Christ as human

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Again, without faulting Gregory, we can recognize that these statements indicate a theological disposition somewhat remote from the claim that ‘our Lord Jesus Christ, who was crucified in his human flesh, is truly God and the Lord of glory and one of the members of the Holy Trinity’.41 This is a statement made possible by the clear distinction between hypostasis and ousia which allows Christ’s personal subject to bear both sets of predications in his one person42 – the natures and their properties remain unconfused, but they can also be united and inseparable because neither nature is saddled with the task of serving as the fundamental locus of personal subjectivity. Though, one thing should be made clear: in the passages which most notably feature Gregory’s ‘divisive’ tendencies, his statements show themselves to be divisive not because they explicitly posit a second ‘personal’ subject. Rather, they are divisive because while avoiding the obviously mistaken charge of a two-son Christology, Gregory resorts to an instrumentalized view of Christ’s human nature which nonetheless produces the same result – namely, a separate (quasi-) subject. Instrumentality is, after all, not identity.43 Act II:  The Resurrected and Ascended Christ All of this being said, summary judgments about Gregory’s Christology as divisive fall flat insofar as they fail to specify that these divisive statements proliferate only in Gregory’s discussion of Christ’s historical life, from birth to passion. Again, among the merits of the transformative or progressivist soteriological reading of Gregory is its capacity to check such flat judgments, even though these correctives cannot entirely make up for Gregory’s inability to unify the predications concerning the Word’s historical life. As Gregory moves from discussing that historical life – rife with its experiences of human suffering and weakness as well as the divinely miraculous – his characterization shifts from the language of a close yet still divided union to (Die Einheit des Leibes Christi bei Gregor von Nyssa [Leiden, 1974], 161-5), an assessment that accords with my account of lopsided or asymmetrical identity in Gregory’s depiction of Christ. In his rebuttal, R. Orton rejects the idea that Gregory only fully accounts for Christ’s unity in his soteriological and eschatological assessment of the resurrected and glorified Christ, a claim I aim to substantiate below (R. Orton, ‘“Physical” Soteriology in Gregory of Nyssa: A Response to Reinhard M. Hübner’, SP 67 [2013], 69-75). Though, it seems he may be more amenable to this interpretation in a later article (R. Orton, ‘“A Very Bad Book”? Another Look at St Gregory of Nyssa’s Answer to Apolinarius’ [2014], 186). 41   Constantinople II, Canon 10; N. Tanner, Decrees (1990), 118. 42   At the risk of redundancy, I reaffirm that this is not necessarily something we should expect Gregory to overcome, as if he ought to have foreseen the strong distinction between hypostasis and ousia which would be forged in the sixth century and most fruitfully exploited Leontius of Byzantium and Maximus the Confessor. 43   Even while I might possibly say that my fingernail is ‘me’, I would hardly say this in any substantive way of my house or something I wear.



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one of more complete identity. This shift takes various forms. The predominant language of contact, presence, and manifesting seen in his description of Christ’s historical life gives way to a predominance of the stronger language of conjunction (συνάπτω).44 When speaking of the resurrected and glorified Christ, Gregory also replaces of the communication or sharing of names with a strict application of a single name: ‘After the Passion he makes the man whom he has united with him into Christ, making him beautiful with the same chrism’.45 And it is here that Gregory makes his (in)famous assertions about the absorption of humanity into the Godhead, statements which he makes at times about the whole of divinized humanity but which he also applies directly to the person of Christ.46 And, in a way, it is precisely the instrumentality of the human nature that makes possible this advancement toward a more unified mode of predication in the second movement of his Christological and soteriological thought – that is, with respect to the resurrected and ascended Christ. For, Gregory’s commitment to thinking of the human nature as an instrument has as its consequence that in his resurrection Christ is no longer to be understood as ultimately as a human.47 Striking though the claim may be, the logic is at least consistent: the human nature was not integral to the Son’s identity during his historical life, nor is it meaningfully associated with his Person before the Annunciation (contra Apollinarius’ heavenly man) or after the ascension. Moreover, Gregory’s goal in making these statements stands at the heart of his soteriology and his entire theological endeavor: the deification of the human race writ large. What culminates in Christ’s historical life in the time of his passion makes possible the ultimate moment of transformation within the person of Christ and so paves the way for the transformation of the remainder of humanity. But let us return to the bigger question concerning the unity of Christ’s subject. Does this advertence to the resurrection and ultimately trans-historical existence represent a cutting of the Gordian knot caused by Christ’s historical 44   ‘And this is the destruction of death, to take away the power of decay; it disappears in the vivifying nature of Christ. What acts on these two parts of our nature becomes a grace and a benefit to both. Thus he who is in both knits together through his resurrection that which has been separated’ (Antirrh. §11; trans. R. Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 129 [GNO III/1, 153.14-5). 45   Trans. R. Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 241-2 (GNO III/1, 222.7-9); Theoph. ‘So the crucified one is called the Lord of glory by Paul, and he who is worshiped by all creation, by those ‘in heaven and on earth and under the earth’, is called Jesus’ (R. Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 267 [GNO III/1, 127.19-128.3]). 46  See Eun. III 3.63-4 (GNO II, 130). Pace Orton (‘“Physical” Soteriology’ [2013], 73), these statements pertaining to the profound unity of the human and divine in Christ do appear directed at the fulfillment of the incarnation – namely, the glorification of the Word (and the humanity in him) after the resurrection. 47   Antirrh. §28: ‘As man he existed neither beforehand nor afterwards, but only at the time of the dispensation’ (trans. R. Orton, Anti-Apollinarian Writings (2015), 242 [GNO III/1, 222-223.25-6]). On this, see B. Daley, ‘“Heavenly Man”’ (2002), 473.

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weakness, limitations, suffering, and death? It would appear that way, insofar as here the price paid for unified predication is simply the eventual overcoming of the very cause for difficulty – namely, the human nature existing in a mode that could undergo experiences which are seemingly at odds with divine transcendence, i.e. in a single subject who is simultaneously and equally God and human. Seen from this vantage, one might say Gregory does not vacillate between monophysitic and divisive statements aimlessly or merely due to the issue at hand. Rather, he meaningfully leverages a divisive Christology based upon Christ’s primary hypostatic identity as divine, but united to humanity as an instrument, in order ultimately to embrace a functional monophysitism for soteriological purposes. Though, to be fair, Nyssens’s rejoinder here would perhaps be that the most ‘human’ thing is likeness to God: it is human nature’s unique dynamic potential to be assimilated into divinity.48 But we should be clear: assimilation toward divinity for humanity united personally to the Word in the three decades of his historical life is not quite the final goal. The final goal for all of humanity – and its Christological implications – can only be considered in light of Gregory’s short but potent treatise, Tunc et ipse. Act III:  The Eschatological Christ, in toto Gregory’s treatment of the Son’s ultimate subjection to the Father is a theological tour de force.49 Here a breathtaking vision of theosis and apokatastasis50 converge to address concerns in the order of Trinitarian theology, and the upshot is Nyssen’s trademark anthropology. But precisely because the text features his synthetic, holistic perspective, we ought not to discount the text as also a locus of Christological reasoning. While eschatology and soteriology come to the fore as Gregory aims to counter to subordinationist-Eunomian 48   See the reflections of Hans Urs von Balthasar in Presence and Thought, trans. Mark Sebanc (San Francisco, 1995), 65-9. 49   For recent rhetorical and structural analyses of Tunc et ipse, see Morwenna Ludlow, ‘In illud: Tunc et ipse filius’, in Volker Henning Drecoll and Margitta Berghaus (eds), Gregory of Nyssa: The Minor Treatises on Trinitarian Theeology and Apollinarism, Proceedings of the 11th International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2011), 413-25 and Judit D. Tóth, ‘Interpretation and Argumentation in In illud: Tunc et ipse filius’, in ibid. 427-43. 50   While Ludlow’s study is quite helpful, I do not concur with her claim that Gregory ‘inserts the idea of the ἀποκατάστασις into a treatise’ from Paul, since Gregory is ‘wrong in claiming that Paul was a universalist’ (M. Ludlow, ‘In illud’ [2011], 424). Of course, both Gregory and his primary theological forebearer, Origen, would disagree with this reading of St Paul. For a recent and compelling (if brief and pugnacious) re-reading of Paul, see David Bentley Hart, That All Shall Be Saved (New Haven, CT, 2019), 92ff. For a helpful analysis of Gregory’s close adherence to Origen in his interpretation of 1Cor. 15 and of Paul more generally, see Ilaria Ramelli, ‘Gregory of Nyssa’s Trinitarian Theology in In Illud: Tunc et ipse filius. His Polemic against “Arian” Subordinationism and the ἀποκατάστασις’, in V. Drecoll and M. Berghaus (eds), Minor Treatises (2011), 445-79.



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exegesis with Nicene trinitarian biblical interpretation, his reading of the Son’s ultimate subjection also entails figuring out how to sort predications about Christ, in particular. At turns, this treatise might seem simply to reproduce the divisive Christology seen earlier in Gregory’s other treatises. Nyssen claims avers plainly that the Son’s subjection, of which Paul speaks, applies not to the ‘Only Begotten God’,51 but to the Word considered as a whole, specifically his ecclesial body (including all of human nature). Is this not a further instance of the kind of partitive exegesis which he applied to the historical humanity of Christ? Can it produce any better, more unified a result when applied to us, even considered as destined for ultimate unification or identification with the Word? Again, certain passages in the treatise may suggest that the prospects are dim.52 And yet we cannot deny that the text also reveals Gregory’s capacity to predicate a genuine shared identity, not merely between the human nature as united to the historical Christ but also between the word and the entirety of humanity 53 understood most fully within the completion of salvation – namely, the transformation and divinization of all humanity. As in the case of the historical Christ’s associative union of divine and human (most notably in ‘Act I’) turned trans-historical and transformed union unto a single subject (‘Act II’), the correlative transformation of humanity finds its catalyst in the resurrection of the particular man, Christ Jesus. While the unification of the Word with human nature in his historical life is the precondition for his rescuing it from sin and death, that endeavor reaches its culmination in his resurrection. Expanding, then, upon Paul’s words about both Christ’s resurrection and the general resurrection, Gregory states: since the first human being was dissolved into earth by sin […] and those sprung from such a one are mortal [...] in a similar way the good has sprung up for human nature 51   Tunc et ipse; trans. Rowan A. Greer, in One Path for All (Eugene, OR, 2015), 120 (GNO III/2, 6.16). 52   Such as when there appear further signs of Gregory’s use of the instrumental relationship existing between a primary subject and his quasi-subjective human nature, which he uses and is present to: ‘Yet neither would anyone say that the Only Begotten God will be subjected to the Father for the purpose of being saved, since it was by him that salvation from God was accomplished through the one in human likeness’ (διά τούτου καθ᾽ ὁμοιότατα τῶν ἀνθρώπων)’ (Tunc et Ipse; trans. R. Greer, One Path for All [2015], 120 [GNO III/2, 7.2-3]). 53   This raises the question of Christ’s assumption of all of humanity and/or ‘universal’ humanity, on which see the careful treatment of J. Zachhuber, ‘Once Again: Gregory of Nyssa on Universals’, JTS 56 (2005), 75-98. Zachhuber is careful to attend to the simultaneously idealist and particular-aggregate conception of ‘universal’ human nature which Gregory exhibits. As with questions over Gregory’s ‘physicalist’ soteriology, the scholarly worries about Gregory’s soteriology being ‘automatic’ (because it is universal and physicalist) seem to overlook the fact that Gregory can make these daring claims without undermining the place of human cooperation in the work of salvation, precisely because he is convinced eventually all will come to cooperate with the Good.

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flowing from one to all, just as also the evil flowed from one to a multitude [...] Therefore, with these and similar reasonable considerations Paul confirmed his argument about the resurrection, and by many others he bound the heretics hand and foot with syllogisms by which he demonstrated that anyone who fails to believe the resurrection of humans neither accepts the resurrection of Christ. By the interweaving of their connection with one another, he fashioned something inescapable by his conclusions. (Tunc et ipse)54

What occured in the particular case of the human nature of the man Jesus Gregory foresees in the general case of all humanity, which is none other than all human persons. This does not mean that the historical and particular union of Christ with human nature was an incidental means to the ‘real’ moment of transformation, the resurrection. Rather, the final status of deified humanity is necessarily effected by the prior process of humanity’s mixture with the divine. For, while the that goal is a simple, unmixed union with the divine, the prior commingling of divine with the human is what can cure the deleterious mixture of humanity with evil.55 The question remains, however, whether in this usage of the analogies of mixture and of intimate union Gregory goes beyond the similar language of mixture he used when speaking of the associative union of the human and divine in Christ’s historical life. As I showed above, in those instances Gregory’s explanations fell short of clearly signifying a real shared union of identity within the human and divine in the historical person of Christ. This was primarily because those discussions of Christ’s close union with human nature through mixture were coupled with divisive statements in which Gregory employed the language of an instrumental relation in order to protect the transcendence of the Word. The latter’s personal identity, recall, Gregory located in the divine nature, per se, rather than allowing that each nature shared in the same identity, equally. And, to reiterate, here in Tunc et ipse, Gregory does claim that the subjection of which Paul speaks ‘is said to be the subjection of the Son himself (λέγεται εἷναι τοῦ υἱοῦ)’,56 not that it is that of the Son himself. This could be seen as merely reproducing the associative union commonly seen in his treatment of Christ’s historical life (‘Act I’), but now applied to the rest of humanity united to Christ at its final historical moment – namely, all humanity’s subjection to the Father and subsequent exaltation into fully deifying union (of the sort predicated of Christ in ‘Act II’). Yet I maintain that in its soteriological and ultimately eschatological application, Gregory’s explication here does curb the divisive tendencies exemplified in the associative union language, and for at least two reasons.   Trans. R. Greer, One Path for All (2015), 122-3 (GNO III/2, 11.10-1, 16-7; 12.5-9).   See Gregory’s discussion of the Word purifying the evil mixed into Creation through sin by mixing himself with whole lump of humanity (Tunc et ipse; trans. R. Greer, One Path for All [2015], 123-4 [GNO III/2, 14.2-13]). 56   Tunc et ipse; trans. R. Greer, One Path for All (2015), 126 (GNO III/2, 18.21). 54

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First, it’s in conjunction with these statements about the Church, qua all of saved humanity, that Gregory considers how the identity of Christ is one that can be shared. This becomes evident when Gregory explains the extension of Christ’s identity into his body, the Church, by reference to Paul’s various statements in which he, the Apostle, blurs the line between his own identity and that of Christ’s. These include Paul’s statement to the Colossians that in his flesh he is ‘completing what is lacking in afflictions on behalf of Christ’, as well as his words to the Galatians, upon which Gregory comments: The argument may become still clearer for us on the basis of some other apostolic ­concepts, of which I shall mention only one [...] Somewhere Paul says in his own words, ‘I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me’ (Gal. 2:19-20).57 Therefore, if Paul, who was crucified to the world (Gal. 6:14), no longer lives, but Christ lives in him, then everything Paul did and said is rightly attributed to Christ, who lives in him. Moreover, it says that Paul’s words were spoken from Christ; Paul says, ‘Do you desire proof that Christ is speaking in me?’ [...] therefore, Paul’s subjection which took place to God has reference to the one living in him, who both speaks good words and does good works in him. (Tunc et ipse)58

Yet he also supplements these striking statements with analogical explanations which are both similar to and different from analogies noted above. Whereas in other passages Gregory likened the humanity of Christ to as extraneous a part of the body as a nail, here Gregory allows the Pauline statements about the Body of Christ to resonate with somewhat more profound implications of shared identity. The most noteworthy of these is his claim that ‘even we by some custom reckon to the soul what happens through our body’.59 Gregory cites as proof the parable of Luke 12: ‘Just as that man, who in dialogue with his own soul concerning the abundant produce of his field and who said, “eat, drink, and be merry” attributes the surfeit of his flesh to his soul. So here the subjection of the church’s body is attributed to the one dwelling in the body’.60 On the one hand, it must be admitted that even this statement seems in keeping with the hierarchical relationship between body and soul, and so reproduces the asymmetrical kind of identity present in various active-passive relationships. That is, here the identity of the soul clearly resides firmly in the soul, over 57   I have yet to locate a usage of Gal. 2:20 in Gregory’s corpus that features such a clear case of shared identity as the usage in Tunc et ipse. The biblical citation does occur in In Cant. vii, § 207 and in De perfectione. The latter usage is somewhat in keeping with the statements treated here, while the former likens the human who is united to God as a palanquin in which God resides. 58   Trans. R. Greer, One Path for All (2015), 129 (GNO III/2, 23.19-24.16). Interestingly, Greer’s translation continues, ‘if, therefore, Christ living in him is said by analogy to act and speak for him’; however, the Greek for which Greer appears to give ‘by analogy’ is ‘κατὰ τὸ ἀκόλουθον λέγεται’, and there is nothing in the critical apparatus to suggest a discrepancy among manuscript evidence (see GNO III/2, 24.10). 59   Tunc et ipse; trans. R. Greer, One Path for All (2015), 127 (GNO III/2, 20.18-9). 60   Tunc et ipse; trans. R. Greer, One Path for All (2015), 127 (GNO III/2, 20.19-24).

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against its body, and so also the same is true with respect to Christ and his body. On the other hand, it is also true that within these statements Gregory goes so far as to say that Christ, in uniting himself to us (humanity), ‘in all respects became one with us’ and ‘makes all that is ours his own’.61 In these most strikingly unitive statements Gregory does appear to privilege, if not isolate, the goods experienced by humanity, including ‘the chief of our good [which] is subjection to the divine’.62 This is decidedly different than explicitly making such statements about the sufferings and other negative experiences of humanity and asserting clearly that these, too, the Word makes his own. And it is perhaps equally telling that Gregory states that it was necessary for human flesh ‘through its mixture with the Word to become what the Word is’ (ἔδει [δὲ] καὶ τὴν σάρκα διὰ τῆς πρὸς τὸν Λόγον ἀνακράσεως ἐκεῖνο γενέσθαι ὅπερ ὁ Λόγος ἐστίν).63 As unitive as the characterization may be, it does follow the transformative, progressivist pattern of Gregory’s Christology and soteriology according to its active-passive logic.64 This is in some contrast to the later conciliar tradition’s sharp focus on the question of identity makes possible a straightforward interpretation of the scriptural claim that the Word became flesh and so concludes also that flesh became (i.e. shares in the identity of) the Word. For Gregory, the achievement of identical unity follows the unilateral movement of transformative logic. Still, there remains the second reason for noting the uniqueness of Gregory’s claims in the Tunc et ipse, especially as it complements his treatment of the particular instance of the historical Christ transformed – and, so, unified more completely – by his resurrection (“Act II”). As I suggested above, the latter approach to making sense of Christ’s single subject can appear to cut the Gordian knot simply by finding full unity in Christ only when the most difficult situation have been left behind in the ‘past’ of his historical life. For, the movement from the historical life of Christ to his resurrected state appear to follow a chronological sequence. Yet I have here consistently called that resurrected state ‘transhistorical’. There are reasons for this internal to Gregory’s own presentation of this matter.65 For, the way Gregory treats to the salvific efficacy of the resurrected Christ amounts to a disruption of sequential, metronomic time.66   Tunc et ipse; trans. R. Greer, One Path for All (2015), 127 (GNO III/2, 20.8-10).   Tunc et ipse; trans. R. Greer, One Path for All (2015), 127 (GNO III/2, 20.10-1). 63   Tunc et ipse; trans. R. Greer, One Path for All (2015), 128 (GNO III/2, 22.9-11). 64   This is a tendency exhibited by Theodore of Mopsuestia as well (see P. Gavrilyuk, Impassible God [2006], 142-3). 65   Though the notion of the resurrection as occurring at (or serving as the grounds for) the liminal space between time and eternity – or between fallen time and its redeemed state – is not limited to Gregory. For just one notable case in modern Catholic theology, see Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Introduction to Christianity, 2nd ed., trans. J.R. Foster (San Francisco, 2004), 310-8, 20. 66   I borrow this evocative term for time in the fallen world from Paul J. Griffiths (see Decrea­ tion [Waco, TX, 2014], 91ff.). 61 62



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This is to say that Gregory’s willingness to predicate the experiences of Christ’s body, the church – which ‘is the entire human nature into which [the Son] has been mixed’67 – suggests that our human history, including everything up to the consummation of our history in that final subjection and reconciliation, is somehow attributable to the personal subject of the Word. If it is possible to consider the sharing of Christ’s identity in this way, it would also suggest that Christ’s own resurrected state (‘Act II’) is not merely a sequential stage in between his historical life (‘Act I’) and the eschatological consummation and fulfillment of the apokatastasis (‘Act III’), such that the Gordian knot is cut because the historical existence of Christ, with its motivations to divide his single subject, has been left behind. Rather, it implies that the resurrected Christ can serve as the unique catalyst for all of humanity’s resurrection and reconciliation precisely because it opens up the identity of the one Christ in a transhistorical manner. And in this way, Christ can become radically historical, extending beyond his initial historical existence to share his identity eventually with the whole history of the created order,68 ‘so that God may be all in all’ (1Cor. 15:28).69 Conclusion Gregory of Nyssa’s discussions of the Word made flesh do not meet every standard for Christological thought and speech set by later councils, nor should they be expected to do so. But neither is it fair to say that Gregory’s Christology ‘swings from anthropological maximalism to anthropological minimalism’,70 or we might say from divisive to monophysitic. Rather, as I have shown, there is a logic to these seemingly conflicting tendencies: while his characterizations of Christ’s own historical life exhibit dual-subjective predication strategies, his treatment of Christ’s resurrected state foregrounds the transformation of the humanity in Christ unto its deified state, perhaps to the point of absorption. Never­ theless, by considering the Christological implications of Gregory’s soteriology   Tunc et ipse; trans. Greer, One Path for All (2015), 127 (GNO III/2, 21.10-1).   Of course, Gregory’s focus is largely on God’s mixing himself with human nature for the salvation of human nature, in particular. However, Gregory does attend to the cosmic dimension of God’s creative governance and redemptive work. Evil has mixed itself into and so must be removed from not only human nature but also ‘existing things (τοῖσ οὖσιν)’ (Tunc et ipse; trans. R. Greer, One Path for All (2015), 125 [GNO III/2, 17.15-7]), for whom the divine will became their ‘matter and being’ (Tunc et ipse; trans. R. Greer, One Path for All (2015), 122 [GNO III/2, 11.6-7]) when God gratuitously called them into existence. For a more speculative attempt to resource Nyssa’s thought, see Doru Costache, ‘The King, the Palace, and the Kingdom: Anthropic Thinking in Gregory of Nyssa, John Chrysostom, and Other Witnesses’, in Doru Costach and Mario Baghos (eds), John Chrysostom: Past, Present, Future (Sydney, 2017), 235-65. 69  See Tunc et ipse; trans. R. Greer, One Path for All (2015) (GNO III/2, 17.12). 70   P. Bouteneff, ‘Soteriological Imagery’ (1996), 83. 67 68

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and eschatology as it arises within his Trinitarian theology, one can see a logic in Gregory’s explanations. In his discussion of humanity’s salvation as Christ’s own subjection to the Father, we see Gregory expanding his understanding of identity insofar as it is shared between Christ and his Body, and in a way that disrupts a simple understanding of time in the order of Christ’s person and work.71 This may suggest that the apparent monophysitism seen in his treatment of the transformed humanity within the resurrected Christ does not simply replace the divisive forms of predication in regard to Christ’s historical life; rather, the transformative logic of his soteriology advances toward unity in a manner that has repercussions for his Christology. True, Gregory does not explicitly leverage his insights concerning the shared identity between Christ and his body in order to better understand the unity between Christ and his own historical humanity. But Gregory does challenge us to rethink the eschatological and temporal status of Christ’s person and his Church. In this way, Gregory both falls short of what will become the dogmatic strictures of Constantinople II (as well as Chalcedon), and yet also points beyond them.

71   Commenting on Tunc et ipse, R. Hübner notes ‘daß die Theologie des Leibes Christi von der Eschatologie her ihren Ort zugewiesen erhält: die Endgestalt der Kirche enthüllt ihr eigentliches Wesen’ (Einheit [1974], 28). I only wish also to say that perhaps we can properly understand not only the Church but also the Christ whose identity he gives to his body by interpreting it ‘retroactively’, i.e. through his eschatological fulfillment.

Light and Likeness in Gregory of Nyssa Andrej Kutarňa, University of South Bohemia, České Budějovice, Czech Republic

Abstract St Gregory of Nyssa is often considered one of the most influential early authors describing the ‘mysticism of darkness’ – the three-fold way of the soul proceeding from light through shadow to the divine darkness, even though in recent years scholars have begun to question such one-sided approach. Many now argue that in St Gregory’s thought the image of light plays a highly significant role. He speaks of the importance of light e.g. in the discussion on the Incarnation and he also describes the original state of mankind – before the Fall – using the imagery of light. Similarly, when he speaks of baptism, he considers it as return to light for those darkened by sin. Light for St Gregory also plays role in the spiritual progress of the soul – not only what might be called the ‘light of truth’ in the early stages of soul’s ascent towards God, but even in later stages the ‘light of deification’ emerges from his writings as running parallel with the cloud and darkness. In this article my aim is to explore how Gregory employs the notion of light throughout his writings (but especially in the Vita Moysis and in his commentary on the Canticum Canticorum) with regard of man’s deification – his return to the original state and attaining the likeness of God – both through his own struggle as well as God’s grace.

The bishop of Nyssa is often noted as the first or one of the most influential patristic authors to develop the theme usually described as the mysticism of darkness, mostly based on his exegesis of the book of Exodus and the theophanies experienced by Moses. However, as some authors have pointed out in recent years, this is only a part of the story.1 Gregory in his writings also deals with light; and even ‘darkness’ – as he describes it – is filled with light or indeed ‘luminous’, as he himself puts it.2 In a similar way, his teaching about man being created ‘after the image and likeness of God’ has been well explored in the past.3 While the perception of Gregory as the one who has laid foundations of 1   For example Martin Laird, ‘Gregory of Nyssa and the Mysticism of Darkness: A Reconsideration’, The Journal of Religion 79 (1999), 592-616, or Philip Kariatlis, ‘Dazzling Darkness: The Mystical or Theophanic Theology of St Gregory of Nyssa’, Phronema 27 (2012), 99-123. 2   Gregory of Nyssa, De vita Moysis II 163, ed. Herbert Musurillo, GNO VII/1 (Leiden, 1964), 87.10. 3   For example, Joseph T. Muckle, ‘The Doctrine of St. Gregory of Nyssa on Man as the Image of God’, Mediaeval Studies 7 (1945), 55-84.

Studia Patristica CXV, 125-132. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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the so called ‘mysticism of darkness’ has been mitigated by the illuminating works of Martin Laird and others, I would venture to argue that an attempt may be made to find Gregory’s language of light even in other areas of his teaching. My aim in this article will be to look at the writings of the Nyssen in the light of this recent scholarship and try to explore the possibility of finding common points between the notion of light and likeness in Gregory’s teaching. In the first part I will briefly look at his teaching about human nature created after the image and likeness of God and also recall his ‘triadic’ way of man’s approach to God. After this I will attempt to trace and analyse Gregory’s ‘language of light’ in the context of speaking about the image and likeness and in this way to try to focus on the possible common points between these two teachings. The event of Creation is one of the key moments which plays a significant part in the structure Gregory’s teaching. For him the creative act of God is not some sort of emanation from a demiurge, but he understands it as a fully willed act of God who created everything not out of any necessity, but out of the fullness of his goodness, wisdom and love. And even though Gregory is aware of the Trinitarian aspect of creation, it is the Divine Logos through whom the universe was created – both visible and invisible, both kosmos and hyperkosmos – who is present in all things and governs everything, as we read in the fifth chapter of his Catechetical Oration.4 In the same chapter we already detect what might be called a ‘language of light’ when Gregory accentuates that it was ‘not right that light should remain unseen, glory unwitnessed or goodness unenjoyed […] with no one to share and enjoy them’. This leads him to the notion that the purpose of the creation of humankind was to make him a ‘participant (metochos) of the divine goods’.5 It is notable here that Gregory counts ‘light’ as one of the terms to describe divinity by its attributes, next to goodness or wisdom. Gregory – similarly to many of the Fathers – views the creation of humankind as the crown or fulfilment of creation. But for him man is not only a simple part of the created world – the bishop of Nyssa understands man as a creature which stands as if in between the created and uncreated. It is something completely new introduced into the created order – the image of the Creator himself. In the De opificio hominis Gregory describes the created human being as a ‘living image’, ἔμψυχος εἰκών, partaking in the characteristics of the Creator, clothed in virtue.6 Man shares the bodily aspect with the animal realm – even though he is as if elevated (both metaphorically as well as literally, on two legs, in contrast with the beasts) and at the same time he is endowed 4   Gregory of Nyssa, Oratio catechetica 5, GNO III/4, ed. Ekkehard Mühlenberg (Leiden, 1996), 16-7; see also Lucas Francisco Mateo-Seco, ‘Creation’, in Lucas Francisco Mateo-Seco and Giulio Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2010), 183-90, 183. 5   Oratio catechetica 5, GNO III/4, 17.9; see also David L. Balás, ‘Μετουσία Θεοῦ: Man’s Participation in God’s Perfections According to Saint Gregory of Nyssa’ (Roma, 1966), 144. 6   Gregory of Nyssa, De hominis opificio 4, PG 44, 136C.



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with the gift of likeness to his Creator: ‘purity, freedom from passion, blessedness, alienation from all evil…’7 It is not, however, a given ontological static8 thus described, which makes him similar to the Creator, but the fact that this state is dependent on the exercise of virtue, or more precisely, his free will or liberty (proairesis). It is exactly in this notion of liberty – in the sense of man not having any dominion over him and being free to choose the course of his actions – that Gregory found the meaning of the biblical expression from Gen. 1:26 that man was created ‘after the image and likeness’ of God.9 It is true that in the Nyssen’s writings we do not find any distinction between the ‘image’ and the ‘likeness’ – the ὁμοίωσις was fully realized in the original created εἰκών,10 even though it had been lost, or – as reading some places in Gregory would suggest – covered by Adam’s voluntary free choice not to participate in divine perfections in the Fall.11 The free will was the key characteristic common to both the uncreated Archetype as well as the created human φύσις, but it was also the point of rupture and the beginning of losing the similarity: it was precisely through the use of his liberty that first Adam fell and lost his primordial likeness to God. And it was this liberty that appeared again in Christ, the incarnated Logos, the true Image of the Father and at the same time truly human, complete with human will,12 in the imitation (mimesis) of whom man is now able to regain this lost likeness – if he freely chooses to imitate this divine model through a life of virtues13 and thus to achieve union (ἕνωσις) with God and transformation (μεταποίησις) to his former glory.14 We are able to detect a pattern that is often found throughout Gregory’s writings: his use of the metaphor or image of a mirror (κάτοπτρον). In this case he employs the image of a mirror in the context of speaking about human nature – the original or primordial human nature, common for all individuals15   De hominis opificio 5, PG 44, 137B.   John Behr, ‘The Rational Animal: A Rereading of Gregory of Nyssa’s De hominis opificio’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 7 (1999), 219-47, 226. 9   De hominis opificio 4, PG 44, 136BC; see also De hominis opificio 16, PG 44.184B; Oratio catechetica 5, GNO III/4, 18.6, see also D. Balás, ‘Μετουσία Θεοῦ’ (1966), 148. 10   J. Behr, ‘The Rational Animal’ (1999), 225. 11   D. Balás, ‘Μετουσία Θεοῦ’ (1966), 149. 12   Gregory of Nyssa, Antirrheticus, ed. Fridericus Müller, GNO III/1 (Leiden, 1958), 151.14-20 and GNO III/1, 181.14-22. 13   It would seem that Gregory insists on the necessity of a personal appropriation of Redemption instead of an ‘automatic’ salvation of the whole humankind, see D. Balás, ‘Μετουσία Θεοῦ’ (1966), 148. See also Giampietro Dal Toso, ‘Proairesis’, in Lucas Francisco Mateo-Seco and Giulio Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2010), 647-9, 648. 14   D. Balás, ‘Μετουσία Θεοῦ’ (1966), 151. 15   The question of φύσις in Gregory, whether he adheres to the teaching of a single human nature common to all individuals or not, has been widely discussed. Probably the most comprehensive treatment of this topic is found in Johannes Zachhuber, Human Nature in Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2014). 7 8

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and which Gregory calls the prototypos or the protoplasmatos – and which mirrors the liberty of the Creator. This liberty means that man is free to determine or constitute himself. The image of a mirror also helps Gregory avoid the danger of identifying the image in man with the archetype, that is, God. In this way the bishop of Nyssa accentuates differentiating between the uncreatedness of the Creator and created human nature. At the same time according to Nyssen the ‘original’ archetype and the mirrored likeness or ‘reflection’ (ὁμοίωσις) are not disconnected entities. As has been pointed out by other commentators, Gregory recognizes a true and genuine participation of the reflected likeness in the archetype itself.16 It is this participation that for Gregory is the basis of ὁμοίωσις. Even though Gregory clearly considers human beings as composite beings, characterized by the unity of mind and body, he locates the reflected likeness (ὁμοίωσις), which makes man what he is, in the mind (νοῦς) only – as long as it ‘partakes as far as possible in the likeness of the archetype’.17 It is worth noting the ‘as far as possible’ (καθόσον ἐνδέχεται) that points us to the key difference between the infiniteness of the archetype and the limited reality of the reflecting νοῦς, which is only capable of approaching infiniteness by participation in the archetype – by turning to God.18 The way towards the union with God was described by the bishop of Nyssa in the well-known triad of light – shadow (or cloud) – darkness, illustrated with the images of the theophanies experienced by Moses as described in the book of Exodus. It is probably the reason why he was often referenced as the key proponent of the so called ‘mysticism of darkness’. It could be argued, however, that the way towards God, which starts with the Divine illumination, is not necessarily only associated with knowledge and the ‘ascent into darkness’ usually connected with the epistemological aspect – growing in the knowledge of the unknowable God19 – being probably not the only aspect of the path towards the ἕνωσις. Even the encounter at the burning bush and the corresponding first stage of man’s ascent towards God or epektasis should probably not to be considered only in epistemological terms. When Gregory describes the encounter with the ‘awe-inspiring Theopahy’ he speaks of the ‘light’s grace’ (του φωτος μερισθείσα χάρις), by which is Moses provided not with ‘undefiled teachings’ (ἀκηράτοις. 16   Hans Boersma, Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa. An Anagogical Approach (Oxford, 2015), 224, especially note 64. 17   De hominis opificio 12, PG 44, 161C, cit. in H. Boersma, Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa (2015), 103. 18   Giulio Maspero, ‘Anthropology’, in Lucas Francisco Mateo-Seco and Giulio Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2010), 37-47, 38. 19   For a summary of this reading see for example Liviu Petcu, ‘The light (φῶς) or the return from the false reality towards God: Ἀπάθεια and παρρησία in St Gregory of Nyssa’, Classica et Christiana 7 (2012), 221-34.



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δόγμασιν) but also ‘empowered by the theophany which he had seen’ (δυναμωθεὶς τῆ ὀφθείσῃ θεοφανείᾳ).20 With the help of divine illumination man is not only able to gain knowledge and recognize his natural state21 but at the same time he is – by the illuminating power of God – transformed and enabled to start the process of regaining his original likeness and thus begins again to participate in the abundance of God,22 ‘strengthened by the illumination of the light’, by which he has received ‘strength and power against his enemies’.23 This idea of man striving towards perfection or finally re-gaining the likeness of God – as far as humanly possible – is something inherent in Gregory’s anthropology – the notion that humans are ‘by nature’ changeable and yet naturally disposed to change for the better, i.e., for final fulfilment in the infinite goodness, which is God.24 It is possible to discern from various places in Gregory’s work that in his eyes the most important event for man’s re-gaining the likeness was the Incarnation. When he describes the Divine Logos becoming man, he frequently does so in terms of light. Thus he writes about Christ illuminating the Gentiles as ‘the grace of God’ which ‘was revealed and Wisdom shone forth and the true light transmitted its radiance’ to ‘those who sat in darkness and the shadow of death’25 and who then ‘having washed off their darkness’ offer themselves – their knowledge and virtues to God. Elsewhere he writes of Christ coming as a ‘ray of divinity hidden in a form of a slave’, illuminating his bride who ‘was dark and became bright’ and ‘rendered beautiful by communion with Him’.26 Similarly in the Homilies on the Song of Songs when discussing the primordial human nature – the image of God, as it was created – and it’s disrupted ‘wingless’ state after the fall he alludes to Christ’s Incarnation by saying ‘the grace of God was manifested (ἐπεφάνη) and illumined us’ and gave man wings again.27 In the Life of Moses he seems even more clear about this when he first identifies the light of the burning bush with God himself28 who ‘made himself visible to us in the flesh’ – a light which has ‘reached down even to human nature’.29 Here it is worth noting that elsewhere, in his Christological antiapollinarian writings, Gregory explicitly states that this theophany in the form   De vita Moysis I 20-1 (GNO VII/1, 9-10).   D. Balás, ‘Μετουσία Θεοῦ’ (1966), 94. 22   Ibid. 23   De vita Moysis II 36 (GNO VII/1, 43). 24   De vita Moysis I 10 (GNO VII/1, 5.1-4). See also Brian E. Daley,‘The Human Form Divine: Christ’s Risen Body and Ours According to Gregory of Nyssa’, SP 41 (2006), 301-18, 305. 25   Gregory of Nyssa, In Canticum Canticorum VII, ed. Hermannus Langerbeck, GNO VI (Leiden, 1986), 205. 26   In Canticum Canticorum II (GNO VI, 49-50). 27   In Canticum Canticorum XV (GNO VI, 448.14); cit. in Martin Laird, ‘Gregory of Nyssa and the Mysticism of Darkness’ (1999), 601. 28   De vita Moysis II 19 (GNO VII/1, 39.3-5). 29   Ibid. II 20 (GNO VII/1, 39.9-16). 20 21

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of light at the burning bush was indeed the same λόγος, the Only-begotten Son who appeared in flesh.30 This light, this ‘supernatural illumination’ has lifted Moses up to ‘the greatest virtue of soul’31 – but the Nyssen at the same time points out that the light itself is as if not sufficient: what is (was) also necessary was his great effort – thus stressing once more the key role of man’s liberty (προαίρεσις). In his treatise On Virginity he offers a somewhat less allegorical explanation of this interdependence of God’s illuminating power and man’s liberty by saying that the illumination gives light to man’s will to choose good over evil and thus directly contributes to his ability to gain the likeness of the prototype.32 In the Homilies on the Song of Songs Gregory draws the picture of the beauty of the original condition of humankind as full of radiance, and this radiance appeared again in Christ ‘shaded by a garment of the body’33 and the same radiance is shining through those who have been illuminated by the Spirit34 and are living in purity and (other) virtues.35 Similarly in the closing chapters of the Life of Moses he emphasizes the necessity of keeping oneself separated from the darkness to stay in the light and to achieve incorruption by every means so that one ‘who has truly come to be in the image of God and who has in no way turned aside from the divine character bears in himself its distinguishing marks and shows in all things his conformity to the archetype’.36 We have so far observed that for Gregory the original or primordial state of human nature and therefore the ‘original’ mirrored likeness of God is one filled with light and this image was newly revealed in Christ, the second Adam. In him – by his incarnation, death and resurrection – humanity has been reunited to the Divine and under the ‘ontological solidarity of the human nature’ all humanity is now given the opportunity to access this unity.37 The way for individual man to regain his lost likeness is through the imitation of the εἰκών of the Father as seen in Christ that is the likeness towards which man ought to aspire – the authentic τέλος of the human being. Gregory explains this in his treatise On perfection, where he describes human salvation as the process of becoming ‘like Christ’ through both knowledge and imitation.38 He also confirms in the last Homily on the Song of Songs, stating that the bride ought to be ‘conformed to Christ’ in order to be able to recover ‘her very own beauty, 30   Ad Theophilum adversus Apollinaristas, J.121-2, English translation in Roy J. Deferrari et al. (eds), St. Gregory of Nyssa: Anti-Apollinarian Writings, FC 131 (Washington, DC, 2016), 262. 31   De vita Moysis II 43 (GNO VII/1, 45.8-13). 32   Lucas Francisco Mateo-Seco, ‘Eschatology’, in Lucas Francisco Mateo-Seco and Giulio Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2010), 274-88, 276. 33   In Canticum Canticorum IV (GNO VI, 108.6-7). 34   In Canticum Canticorum V (GNO VI, 169.11-4). 35   In Canticum Canticorum XIII (GNO VI, 398.21). 36   De vita Moysis II 320 (GNO VII/1, 1-4). 37   See D. Balás, ‘Μετουσία Θεοῦ’ (1966), 150-1. 38   Gregory of Nyssa, De perfectione, ed. Wernerus Jaeger, GNO VIII/1 (Leiden, 1952), 205-6, see also Bryan E. Daley, ‘Divine Transcendence and Human Transformation: Gregory of Nyssa’s Anti-Apollinarian Christology’, Modern Theology 18 (2002), 497-506.



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the primordial blessedness of the human race, that is, to be arrayed in a beauty that conforms to the image and likeness of the first, the sole, and the true beauty’.39 Finally let us concentrate on the conditions necessary to achieve this unity and restore the original likeness. These, according to the bishop of Nyssa, are the sacraments of the Church – especially the sacrament of baptism – and a life of virtues, which together establish what could be called the ‘Christian life’. Baptism for Gregory is a new creation,40 an effective imitation of the death and resurrection of Christ41 establishing ‘a kind of affinity and likeness between him who follows and Him Who leads the way’.42 We witness Gregory using the language of light again at the end of Chapter 32 of his Catechetical oration he sets the words Baptism (βάπτισμα) and Illumination (φώτισμα) as synonyms43 – as was not uncommon in his day. He further clarifies that it is not just a question of simply following Christ’s teaching, but there is a need of mirroring the deeds that he has done for humankind by submitting himself to communion (κοινωνία) with us and assuming the flesh – that is, our likeness – by imitating and actualizing it in the μυστήριον of Baptism.44 In Nyssen’s Christological writings we also find supportive evidence for this call for mirroring – as in the Christ, the Incarnated Logos, his human nature was not annihilated but transformed with the ‘luminous vigour of God’ in the union with his Divinity45 so similarly the rest of the human race can participate in the same process through baptism – as imitation of the death of Christ46 and imitation of his virtues.47 In the ninth Homily on the Song of Songs we also find an emphasis not just on the importance of living as ‘children of light’, that is, in purity and other virtues, but also on the necessity of imitating Christ’s death: ‘no one becomes a participant in the divine glory without first being conformed to the likeness of death’.48 It would seem clear, therefore, that for the bishop of Nyssa the rite of three-fold immersion in water of Baptism is only the beginning of a process of imitation (μίμησις) or indeed ὁμοίωσις. As Daniélou has written, the ‘entire spiritual life 39   In Canticum Canticorum XV (GNO VI, 439.16-20); see also Giulio Maspero, ‘Anthropology’ (2010), 41-2. 40   Giulio Maspero, ‘Baptism’, in Lucas Francisco Mateo-Seco and Giulio Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2010), 90-2, 90. 41   D. Balás, ‘Μετουσία Θεοῦ’ (1966), 151. 42   Oratio catechetica 35 (GNO III/4, 86.14-5). 43   Oratio catechetica 32 (GNO III/4, 82.2-3). 44   Oratio catechetica 35 (GNO III/4, 86.11). 45   B. Daley, ‘Divine Transcendence and Human Transformation’ (2002), 501. For more detailed discussion on the topic of union in Gregory’s writing see Jean René Bouchet, ‘Le vocabulaire de l’union et du rapport des natures chez saint Grégoire de Nysse’, Revue Thomiste 68 (1968), 533-58, especially 534-8. 46   Antirrhetikos 55 (GNO III/1, 226-7). 47   De perfectione (GNO VIII/1, 210-4). 48   In Canticum Canticorum IX (GNO VI, 290.6).

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will be nothing other than the realization, through mortification of the old man and the vivification of the new man, of the initial grace of Baptism’.49 We have noted in the beginning that the likeness of Divinity in man is closely connected with the freedom of will: it is also noteworthy that in the fourth Homily on the Song of Songs Gregory draws a picture of the restoration of the beauty of the likeness through a process of likening or mirroring (ἔμφασις) in which the virtues play a crucial part. He speaks of the ‘mirroring’ capability of human will in a broader sense as an inclination of man to ‘become alike’, receiving in itself the image of whatever he is ‘looking at’, meaning on whatever his will is set – be it good or evil, virtue or vice.50 In all of this it is notable that the attaining of likeness is not understood by Gregory as an ‘act’ but rather as a process – the notion of infinite progress or ascent towards God – the ἐπέκτασις is indeed one of the most important terms of his anthropology. In a similar way as the mystery of Baptism is the ‘beginning’ of this ascent, it is the continuing or indeed, literally, the nourishing of this ascent that for Gregory lies in the mystery of the Eucharis. In the Eucharist is fulfilled the union and participation with the Incarnated Divine Logos – the true Image of the Father who brings about the reality of the likeness to God in man. Gregory’s language is very clear (and rather visual) about the transformative power of the Eucharist in his Catechetical Oration: using various images to deliver the message that the immortal Body of Christ – when entering human bodies and becoming ‘part of them’ – is transforming them into himself.51 In the fifteenth Homily on the Song of Songs he makes the connection between this indwelling presence of the Beloved – which is possible only in a pure and undefiled Bride – with a notion of perfection which makes her conformed to Christ and ‘made beautiful according to the image and likeness of the original beauty in which she was created’.52 From what we have seen so far, the connection or relationship between light and likeness in Gregory is not always easily recognizable, yet I would argue that considering these two notions side by side may help us to deepen our understanding of both. Recognizing the elements his language of light and illumination both in the exegetical as well as theological and devotional writings might help to understand more fully his teaching on the image or likeness of God in human nature in both its anthropological as well as its soteriological context.

49   Jean Daniélou, Platonisme et théologie mystique. Doctrine spirituelle de saint Grégoire de Nysse (Paris, 1944), 34; cit. in Giulio Maspero, ‘Christian initiation’, in Lucas Francisco Mateo-Seco and Giulio Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2010), 133-6, 135. 50   In Canticum Canticorum IV (GNO VI, 104.4-9). 51   Oratio Catechetica 37 (GNO III/4, 93.21-94.1). 52   In Canticum Canticorum XV (GNO VI, 439.17-20).

Follow the Guide According to the De vita Moysis of Gregory of Nyssa Liang Zhang, Metz, France

Abstract Gregory of Nyssa often speaks of the importance and necessity of following the guide, especially in one’s spiritual path to perfection which is endless. This article aims to explore some aspects of this notion according to his work De vita Moysis. By examining the figure Moses presented by Gregory as a guide, I will briefly describe the characteristics of the guide, and the conditions for being/becoming a guide. I will then focus on exploring Gregory’s discussion of the true guide, God Himself, the triune God – the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Finally, I will reflect on the following questions: How to understand Gregory’s idea that to follow God is to see God (Vit Moys II 252)? Moreover, since for Gregory, to see God is to possess God (Beat VI), to follow God is also to possess God. In other words, what is the relationship between following, seeing and possessing God? This article tries particularly to gain a better understanding of Gregory’s paradoxical but harmonious thought.

‘Someone who does not know the way cannot complete his journey safely in any other way than by following behind his guide (Οὐ γὰρ ἔστιν ἄλλως τὸν ἀγνοοῦντα τὴν ὁδὸν ἀσφαλῶς διανύσαι, μὴ τῷ καθηγουμένῳ κατόπιν ἑπόμενον)’.1 In his many works, Gregory of Nyssa speaks of the importance and necessity of following the guide which has a considerable and sometimes decisive role, especially in the practice of Virtue and in the spiritual path to Perfection. Not intending to systematically analyse the notion of guide,2 this article, which consists of three parts, tries to explore some aspects of Gregory’s concept essentially according to his work De vita Moysis, and in particular Vit Moys II 1   Gregory of Nyssa, Vit Moys II 252. The Greek text is taken from Jean Daniélou, Grégoire de Nysse: La Vie de Moïse ou Traité de la perfection en matière de vertu, 3rd ed., SC 1bis (Paris, 2000), 280. The English translation is from Abraham J. Malherbe and Everett Ferguson, Gregory of Nyssa: The Life of Moses, Classics of Western Spirituality (New York, 1978). In this article, the references to Gregory’s Greek texts are, when available, from the collection SC, if not, from the edition Gregorii Nysseni Opera (GNO), and the abbreviations of his works follow the suggestions by Lucas Francisco Mateo-Seco and Giulio Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa, trans. Seth Cherney (Leiden, 2010), xix-xxii. 2   I recognize that it is impossible to do this here for the following reasons: The limitation of the subject and the length of the article; the complexity and depth of Gregory’s thought and the abundance of his works.

Studia Patristica CXV, 133-143. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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219-255, the main text for this article.3 Firstly, a general presentation of the meaning of the guide, who is the guide and how to become a guide. Secondly, the article will focus on the true Guide – the triune God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Finally, the article will reflect on the following questions: How to understand Gregory’s idea that to follow God is to see God (ἀκολουθεῖν τῷ θεῷ … βλέπειν ἐστὶ τὸν θεόν)?4 Moreover, since, for Gregory, to see God is to possess God (τὸ ἰδεῖν ταὐτὸν σημαίνει τῷ σχεῖν),5 to follow God is also to possess God. In other words, what are the relationships between seeing, following and possessing God? General presentation of the guide There are many documents concerning the ‘guide’, religious or non-religious, from antiquity until today, in the East as in the West and in every culture. The guide, generally, refers to 1) the one who accompanies and leads someone to show him the way as a tourist guide does, and to 2) the one who leads others in the daily life or concrete actions as the supervisor for the research does. In this sense, the word ‘guide’ does not have a specific religious meaning. However, this term may also refer to 3) a moral and spiritual guidance as a spiritual guide.6 Gregory of Nyssa, because of his dual Christian and pagan culture, and his theological and philosophical knowledge,7 gives us numerous and profound reflections on the ‘guide’ which has different meanings. Gregory uses this term not only 1) in the ordinary sense, as ‘he who leads the way to the one following (ὁ οὖν ὁδηγῶν τῷ προηγεῖσθαι τῷ ἑπομένῳ τὴν ὁδὸν ὑποδείκνυσιν)’,8 but also 2) in the moral and religious sense as, for example, shown by the designation of Moses ‘the guide of virtue (ὁ τῆς ἀρετῆς καθηγούμενος)’.9 Already in his first book De virginitate in 371, Gregory shows the importance and necessity for those who are still young in the state of virginity, meaning the state of virtue, to above all ‘search out a fitting guide and master (ἀγαθὸν 3  Although De vita Moysis has been well analyzed and studied by many, it remains a living and rich source for understanding Gregory’s thought and for developing this knowledge. 4   Vit Moys II 252 (SC 1bis, 280). 5   Beat VI (GNO VII/2, 138). 6   For a general understanding, see Émile Bertaud, ‘Guides spirituels’, in André Rayez and Charles Baumgartner (eds), Dictionnaire de Spiritualité, Ascétique et mystique, Doctrine et histoire, t. VI (Paris, 1967), 1154-69; Pierre Hadot, ‘The Spiritual Guide’, in A.H. Armstrong (ed.), Classical Mediterranean Spirituality, World Spirituality: An Encyclopedic History of the Religious Quest 15 (New York, 1986), 436-59; R. Valantasis, Spiritual Guides of the Third Century: A Semiotic Study of the Guide-Disciple Relationship in Christianity, Neoplatonism, Hermeticism, and Gnosticism, Harvard Dissertations in Religion 27 (Minneapolis, 1991). 7   Moreover, he is not only bishop, pillar of the true faith and defender of the orthodox doctrine, but also rhetorician, expert in culture and science of his time. 8   Vit Moys II 252 (SC 1bis, 280). 9   Vit Moys II 115 (SC 1bis, 174).



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καθηγεμόνα τε καὶ διδάσκαλον)’10 to follow. However, Gregory goes further 3) in giving a mystical meaning: ‘Moses guided (καθηγεῖτο) them in a most secret initiation (ἀπορρητοτέρας μυήσεως). The divine power itself by marvels (θαυμάτων) beyond description initiated (μυσταγωγούσης) all the people and their leader (καθηγεμόνα) himself’.11 Who is the guide? Gregory gives many examples, such as biblical figures like Abraham, David, Saint Paul12 … the saints in the history of the Church like the precedent Fathers, Gregory the Thaumaturge … and also some personalities of his time, especially his sister Macrina and his brother Basil. In De virginitate, Gregory already considers Basil, ‘our bishop and father’, as the guide (ὁδηγίαν) in search of the virtuous life.13 Also we must not forget that De vita Moysis is the response to a monk who asks for guidance to reach perfection, Gregory himself is indeed a guide. However, the most excellent model is Moses whom Gregory describes with care. ‘Moses led (ἐκβάλλει) the people out of Egypt, and everyone who follows (ἑπόμενος) in the steps of Moses in this way sets free from the Egyptian tyrant all those guided (καθηγῆται) by his word’.14 It is Moses, the guide to freedom, who leads the People out of the slavery and to the Promised Land. It is Moses, ‘the guide to virtue (τῷ πρὸς ἀρετὴν ἡγουμένῳ)’,15 who establishes the rules to the people who are ‘those who already look to virtue and follow the lawgiver in life…’,16 and who leads the People to the perfection of virtue. It is still Moses, the guide in the most secret initiation,17 who leads the people to the knowledge of God, to the divine mystery and to God Himself. Questions arise: why these examples, especially Moses? What are the characteristics of a guide and what are the conditions to be or to become a guide? The question is broad and may have many possible responses. This paper gives only one reflection. On the human side, faith, love, virtue, righteousness … are required, and also a human capacity, a sufficient education and a certain knowledge…, as shown in the article by Marguerite Harl18 who, by analysing the three periods of the life of Moses, namely the learning of Egyptian culture, the solitude in the desert with the Revelation of the ‘burning bush’ and the guidance 10   Virg XXIII 3 (SC 119, 530-2). I used the edition of Michel Aubineau, Grégoire de Nysse, Traité de la virginité, SC 119 (Paris, 1966), and the English translation of H. Wace and P. Schaff (eds), A Selected Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers (NPNF) V (London, 1893). 11   Vit Moys I 42 (SC 1bis, 78). 12   Paul is also a very important guide figure. For instance, Paul is taken by Gregory as guide in De perfectione. See Perf, GNO VIII/1 (Leiden, 1952), 173-214. I give here only one example: ‘οὐκοῦν τὸν ἅγιον Παῦλον … καθηγεμόνα ποιούμενοι ἀσφαλεστάτην ἕξομεν ὁδηγίαν πρὸς τὴν τῶν ζητουμένων σαφήνειαν’ (GNO VIII/1, 175). 13   Virg Pr 2 (SC 119, 250-2). 14   Vit Moys II 112 (SC 1bis, 172). 15   Ibid. 16   Vit Moys II 117 (SC 1bis, 176). 17   Vit Moys I 42 (SC 1bis, 78-80). 18   Marguerite Harl, ‘Les trois quarantaines de la vie de Moïse. Schéma idéal de la vie du moineévêque chez les Pères Cappadociens’, Revue des Études Grecques 80 (1967), 407-12.

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of the people, considers the three Cappadocians as models of the pastor who also lived these three moments in a similar way as Moses, that is, a profane education, a contemplation and solitude period as a monk, and an episcopal mission. Although, as noted Marguerite Harl herself, the life of the three Cappadocians, especially Gregory of Nyssa, is hard to be totally defined according to this pattern, it remains an ideal pattern which includes a combination of education, contemplation and action. At the beginning of his treatise De perfectione, Gregory explains why he takes Saint Paul as guide (ὁδηγίαν). ‘For he (Paul) has understood better than anyone who Christ is, and he has shown by his life how to be the one who bears his name. He imitated Christ in such a visible way that he could show his master formed in himself, transforming the figure of his soul by the most exact imitation of the model’.19 Thus, to become a guide, one must imitate Christ and let himself be transformed by this imitation, a total transformation, in the soul and in actions. However, it must be noted that to be a guide is first of all the divine will and divine grace and also God’s invitation20 since the first and true guide is God Himself. True Guide – the Triune God ‘How it is so great a thing to learn how to follow God (ὅσον ἐστὶ τὸ μαθεῖν ἀκολουθῆσαι τῷ θεῷ)’,21 declares Gregory. Already in the beginning of De vita Moysis, Gregory clearly expresses his thought to ‘take God as our guide (θεὸν καθηγεμόνα) in our treatise’.22 The guide Moses himself is enlightened and guided by God who ‘had shown him his back as a safe guide to virtue (τὴν ἀσφαλῆ τῆς ἀρετῆς ὁδηγίαν)’.23 Indeed, God leads and accompanies Moses throughout his life. Let’s take one example. When the infant Moses was thrown into the Nile, the basket in which he was carefully put by his parents was found by the Pharaoh’s daughter. Apparently, it is the Pharaoh’s daughter who saved Moses’ life, but in reality, it is God who saved him as the basket was ‘guided (κυβερνώσης) by some divine power’.24 Apparently (and it is true), it is Moses who directs the Exodus of the Israelites and who guides them to freedom,25 but in reality, it is the divine action. Moreover, Gregory, like other Fathers of the Church, considers Moses as a representative of Christ, the Son of God, who repeatedly teaches that it is necessary   Perf (GNO VIII/1, 175).   For example, Moses is chosen and called by God to be the guide of the people, likewise the Apostles chosen and called by Christ who guides them become guides for others. 21   Vit Moys II 255 (SC 1bis, 280). 22   Vit Moys I 3 (SC 1bis, 46). 23   Vit Moys II 263 (SC 1bis, 286). 24   Vit Moys I 17 (SC 1bis, 56). 25   Vit Moys I 29 (SC 1bis, 66-8). 19 20



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to follow him: He called his disciples by addressing them ‘follow me (ἀκολούθει μοι)’ (Matt. 9:926); he told the crowd that, in order to save life, one must take his own cross to follow him (Mark 8:34-827); he promised the disciples who had left everything to follow him to obtain eternal life (Mark 10:28-3128). Additionally, the different names of Christ, according to Gregory, constitute the surest guide to the virtuous life (ἀσφαλεστάτην ὁδηγίαν εἰς τὸν βίον τὸν κατ᾽ ἀρετήν).29 For example, as the ‘head’, Christ is also the guide of the members of the body which should follow the guidance of the head.30 As the ‘bridegroom’, Christ is also the guide of the bride who always desires to follow her beloved and to be one with him.31 Christ is therefore the master and guide to life (διδασκάλῳ καὶ ὁδηγῷ πρὸς τὸν βίον),32 to perfection and to God for he himself is ‘the Way, the Truth and the Life’ (John 14:6). While it is obvious that Gregory designates God (the Father) and Christ (the Son) as guide, he has not neglected the Holy Spirit. In De vita Moysis, Gregory considers the cloud as guide: ‘By divine power a cloud led the people (νεφέλης δὲ τοῦ λαοῦ θείᾳ δυνάμει καθηγουμένης)’.33 This cloud, which plays a very important role during the Exodus, is not an ordinary cloud, but is the transcendent being, the divine nature itself (τῆς ὑπερκειμένης φύσεως).34 In this crossing (of the Red Sea) the cloud served as guide (εἰς ἣν καθηγεῖται ὁ ὁδηγὸς ἡ νεφέλη). Those before us interpreted the cloud well as the grace of the Holy Spirit (τὴν τοῦ ἁγίου Πνεύματος χάριν), who guides toward the Good (ἡ πρὸς τὸ ἀγαθὸν ὁδηγία) those who are worthy. Whoever follows him passes through the water, since the guide makes a way through it for him. In this way he is safely led to freedom, and the one who pursues him to bring him into bondage is destroyed in the water.35

Let’s first note the different terms of guide used by Gregory. As we know, many Greek terms exist to mean ‘guide’.36 Gregory is not limited to a single term and uses the varying terms as καθηγέομαι, ὁδηγός, ὁδηγέω, ὁδηγία,   See also Matt. 4:19; 10:3; Mark 2:14; 3:18; Luke 5:27; 6:15.   See also Matt. 16:24-8; Luke 9:23-7; Vit Moys II 251 (SC 1bis, 278). 28   He also invited the rich young man to follow him in order to obtain eternal life (Mark 10:1722; see also Matt. 19:16-22; Luke 18:18-23). 29   Perf (GNO VIII/1, 181). 30   Perf (GNO VIII/1, 199-200): ἐπεὶ οὖν ἡ κεφαλὴ τὰ ἄνω βλέπει, καὶ τὰ μέλη δεῖ πάντως τὰ ὑφηρμοσμένα τῇ κεφαλῇ ἕπεσθαι τῇ τῆς κεφαλῆς ὁδηγίᾳ καὶ πρὸς τὰ ἄνω τὴν ῥοπὴν ἔχειν. 31   This point is particularly described in his In Canticum canticorum, GNO VI (Leiden, 1960). 32   Perf (GNO VIII/1, 174). 33   Vit Moys I 30 (SC 1bis, 68). 34   Vit Moys II 119 (SC 1bis, 178). See also Vit Moys I 30 (SC 1bis, 68). 35   Vit Moys II 121 (SC 1bis, 178-80): εἰς ἣν καθηγεῖται ὁ ὁδηγὸς ἡ νεφέλη· τοῦτο γὰρ ὄνομα τῷ ὁδηγοῦντι, ὅπερ καλῶς τοῖς πρὸ ἡμῶν εἰς τὴν τοῦ ἁγίου Πνεύματος μετελήφθη χάριν, παρ’ οὗ γίνεται τοῖς ἀξίοις ἡ πρὸς τὸ ἀγαθὸν ὁδηγία, ᾧ τις ἑπόμενος τὸ ὕδωρ διέξεισιν, ὁδοποιοῦντος αὐτῷ τὴν δι’ αὐτοῦ πορείαν τοῦ ἡγεμόνος, δι’ οὗ γίνεται τὸ ἀσφαλὲς τῇ ἐλευθερίᾳ, τοῦ ἐπὶ δουλείᾳ καταδιώκοντος ἐναφανιζομένου τῷ ὕδατι. 36   For instance, the term ἀγεῖν, its compounds and derivatives like ἀγωγεύς, ἀγωγή, ἀγωγός; the terms ἄρχω, ἀρχός; the compounds and derivatives of ὁδός as ὁδηγός, ὁδηγία, ὁδηγεῖν. 26 27

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ὁδοποιέω, ἡγεμών, six different terms in this one passage, and also ἀγωγεύς, ἀγωγός, εἰσάγω, etc. in others. Moreover, the terms with a meaning of ‘following and walking behind’ also have an important place in Gregory’s thought, like ἕπω in this passage, and especially ἀκολουθέω. It is therefore the Holy Spirit, and more precisely here the grace of the Holy Spirit,37 taking the figure of the cloud, that truly guides the people to freedom. The cloud often represents in some way a mysterious dimension and sometimes the Holy Spirit. For example, at the moment of Christ’s Transfiguration, the Gospel teaches us that ‘a bright cloud (νεφέλη φωτεινὴ) overshadowed them’ and ‘a voice from the cloud said, “this is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him”’ (Matt. 17:1-938). Even Moses, the guide of the people, not only remained under the cloud39 and was illuminated by it,40 but also ‘watched the cloud and taught the people to keep it in sight’.41 ‘Whoever looks to Moses and the cloud, both of whom are guides (ὁδηγία) to those who progress in virtue (Moses in this place would be the legal precepts, and the cloud which leads (προκαθηγουμένη), the proper understanding of the Law)…’.42 Gregory affirms, on the one hand, the role of Moses and all that he has done as a guide, but on the other hand, he confirms that Moses himself is under the guidance of the cloud. The guide Moses therefore has his guide – the cloud, meaning the Holy Spirit. Saying that the cloud ‘guides toward the Good those who are worthy’ and leads ‘those who progress in virtue’, Gregory shows at the same time the role of the Holy Spirit as the guide in the spiritual life. Already in his De virginitate, Gregory speaks of ‘the guidance of the Spirit (τὴν ὁδηγίαν τοῦ πνεύματος)’.43 The same idea is found in In Canticum canticorum. In interpreting the phrase ‘His eyes are as doves’ (Cant 5:11), Gregory considers the dove as also being a figure of the Holy Spirit, that John the Baptist has seen, in this form, flying from heaven to remain on Jesus Christ (John 1:32). Gregory encourages to possess, to live in and walk in (and behind) the Holy Spirit (ζῶντές τε καὶ στοιχοῦντες τῷ πνεύματι) who is virtue itself and perfection.44 Moreover, Gregory considers it is necessary to have the Holy Spirit as guide for those who are capable to search the depths of God, to speak about the mysterious elements,45 and to really understand 37   A similar expression τὴν διὰ τοῦ Πνεύματος ἐπανθοῦσαν χάριν is found a little further on in the same work. See Vit Moys II 187 (SC 1bis, 230-2). 38   See also Mark 9:2-9; Luke 9:28-36. 39   Vit Moys II 229 (SC 1bis, 264). 40   Vit Moys II 315 (SC 1bis, 320). 41   Vit Moys I 31 (SC 1bis, 70). 42   Vit Moys II 153 (SC 1bis, 152). 43   Virg VII 1 (SC 119, 350). 44   Cant XIII (GNO VI, 395). The English translation is from R.A. Norris Jr., Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Song of songs. Writings from the Greco-Roman World 13 (Atlanta, 2012). 45   Vit Moys II 173 (SC 1bis, 173). See also Vit Moys II 110-1 (SC 1bis, 170-2).



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and interpret the Holy Scriptures that Gregory himself takes as guide and counselor (συμβούλῳ).46 Gregory also shows another role of the guide who protects those who follow as the cloud protects the Israelites by separating them from the Egyptians. Thus, God (the Father), Christ (the Son) and the Holy Spirit are clearly described by Gregory as guides. The true guide is therefore the triune God. Seeing – Following – Possessing God To see God is always man’s strongest desire, including Moses who, after so much progress in divine knowledge and in perfection, is not content with the satiety he has had for he always desires to advance in the divine journey, and asks to see God as He is. Indeed, Moses had in some ways seen God as he himself taught and like Gregory describes that he had seen God in the light of the ‘burning bush’ (Exod. 3-4), τῇ ὀφθείσῃ θεοφανείᾳ,47 and also in the darkness, the divine darkness (Exod. 20:21), τὸν θεὸν ἐν γνόφῳ ἰδεῖν.48 Τοτὲ μὲν γὰρ ἐν φωτὶ, νῦν δὲ ἐν γνόφῳ τὸ θεῖον ὁρᾶται.49 Furthermore, Moses had seen God not only in the divine manifestations, but also by his unsatisfied desire to see God: ‘This truly is the vision of God: never to be satisfied in the desire to see him’.50 But what Moses asks now is to see God as He is, that is the Divine nature itself, but the Holy Scriptures teach us that it is impossible for human beings to see God (Exod. 33:20; John 1:18). So what is God’s reaction? ‘The divine voice granted what was requested in what was denied’.51 On the one hand, God grants the request by manifesting himself to Moses, but on the other hand, He refuses to show his face by only showing his back to Moses. Here, seeing God is not seeing his face but his back. Gregory also taught that ‘seeing God consists in not seeing Him, τὸ ἰδεῖν ἐν τῷ μὴ ἰδεῖν’.52 How to understand the paradoxical expressions? According to Gregory, it is possible for human beings in some way to see God but impossible to see Him totally or to see his nature which is transcendent, infinite and incomprehensible. In other words, Gregory refuses the possibility for human beings to totally understand the divinity. In De perfectione, towards the greatness of Christ’s names, Gregory proposes two attitudes: either to imitate Him, if it is possible for human beings, by living exactly according to his names, or, if it is impossible   Vit   Vit 48   Vit 49   Vit 50   Vit 51   Vit 52   Vit 46 47

Moys Moys Moys Moys Moys Moys Moys

I 11 (SC 1bis, 53). I 21 (SC 1bis, 60). II 164 (SC 1bis, 212). II 162 (SC 1bis, 210). II 239 (SC 1bis, 270). II 232 (SC 1bis, 266). II 163 (SC 1bis, 210).

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to imitate, to worship Him without always seeking to totally understand Him.53 These are also attitudes towards God. Rather than seeking to understand God, Gregory invites to follow God. Even if the notion of ‘follow God’ has its pagan philosophical source, Gregory gives it a new dimension.54 This is Gregory’s originality: ‘To follow God wherever He might lead is to behold God (ἀκολουθεῖν τῷ θεῷ, καθ´ ὅπερ ἄν καθηγῆται, τοῦτο βλέπειν ἐστι τὸν θεόν)’.55 To follow God is to see his back, ὁ δὲ ἀκολουθῶν τὸ ὄπισθεν βλέπει.56 Furthermore, as already noted, Gregory considers that seeing God consists in the fact that the one who beholds God never ceases in that desire.57 To see God is to infinitely desire Him. In addition, in the sixth homily of De beatitudinibus, Gregory teaches that to see God is to possess God since according to the Holy Scriptures ‘seeing means possessing (τὸ γὰρ ἰδεῖν ταὐτὸν σημαίνει τῷ σχεῖν)’.58 So what are the relationships between possessing, desiring, seeing and following God? Apparently, there are contradictions. How is it possible to have in oneself the one who precedes him since following is normally an external gesture and possessing in the soul is an inner act? How to understand to possess and to desire at the same time since the desire normally stops when one possesses what he seeks? However, through these contradictory expressions, it is Gregory’s harmonious and coherent thought which is manifested. According to Gregory, the Christian’s life consists of three elements: action, word and thought/consciousness (πρᾶξις/ἔργον, λόγος, ἐνθύμιον). The thought dominates the word and the action. It is the action that realizes what has been conceived in the soul.59 That means, one should be a real Christian not only in thought or in word or in action, but in all three as a whole. Likewise, to follow God, one must follow Him completely through all his being, thoughts, words and works. Accordingly, to follow God consists in a triple movement: to desire God infinitely, to possess God in soul and to walk behind God in seeing his back. Or in a double movement, namely inside (to desire and to possess God) and outside (to walk behind God in seeing his back). In fact, this is the same reality: Follow God totally and completely.60 In De vita Moysis, Gregory talks   Perf (GNO VIII/1, 178; 181-2).   It is a (Neo-) Pythagorean idea based on the Phaedrus of Plato. See J. Daniélou, ‘Note 1’, in Grégoire de Nysse: La Vie de Moïse, SC 1bis (2000), 281; A.J. Malherbe and E. Ferguson, ‘Note 362’, in Gregory of Nyssa: The Life of Moses (1978), 188-9; A. Delatte, Études sur la littérature pythagoricienne (Paris, 1915), 75-6. 55   Vit Moys II 252 (SC 1bis, 280). 56   Vit Moys II 251 (SC 1bis, 278). 57   Vit Moys II 233 (SC 1bis, 266). 58   Beat VI (GNO VII/2, 138). 59   Perf (GNO VIII/1, 210): τρία τὰ χαρακτηρίζοντα τοῦ Χριστιανοῦ τὸν βίον ἐστί· πρᾶξις, λόγος, ἐνθύμιον ... ἢ τὸ ἔργον ἢ ὁ λόγος ἢ τὸ ἐνθύμιον. 60   Gregory also teaches that it is necessary ‘to follow the divine words (ταῖς θείαις ἀκολουθοῦντες φωναῖς)’ (Virg XII 1 [SC 119, 398]). But how? Is it not listening to and meditating his words in the heart, and then carrying them out in word and deed? 53 54



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about the guide inside the heart. Facing the pursuit of the Egyptians who have regretted letting the Israelites go, Moses ‘did two distinctly separate things at once: By spoken word he encouraged the Israelites and exhorted them not to abandon high hopes, but inwardly, in his thoughts, he pleaded with God on behalf of those who cowered in fear and he was directed (ὁδηγεῖσθαι) by counsel from above how to escape the danger’.61 There is also a double movement here in Moses: to encourage the people through his spoken words and to plead God in his heart where he is guided by God. This shows the importance of the prayer and especially the confidence and the faith that are necessary not only in front of difficulties and dangers, but also for incomprehensible things, in particular the divine nature. The divine Nature transcends the mind’s grasp … Thus all our thinking is inferior to the divine understanding, and every explanatory word of speech seems to be an abbreviated tracery mark that is unable to embrace the breadth of the act of understanding. Hence Paul says that the soul that is led by such intuitions to awareness of things that cannot be grasped must bring the Nature that transcends all intellect within herself by faith alone.62

The faith is necessary facing the incomprehensible divine Nature. Hans Urs von Balthasar considers that the ‘luminous darkness, λαμπρὸς γνόφος’ where Moses has stayed, and also the ‘divine night, θεία νύξ’ have a meaning of faith, in which all knowledge completes itself.63 In order to follow the guide, it is necessary for the one who follows to imitate the guide exactly. This is what Moses and the people did. They stayed at the same place when the cloud did not move. ‘When the cloud which led (καθηγεῖτο) the people in their journey continued to remain at the same place, the people could not move on, since there was no one to lead (καθηγουμένου) them to depart’.64 ‘As the cloud moved forward, the Israelites followed their guide (ὁδηγοῦντος) closely. They always rested from their march wherever the cloud indicated by stopping, and they departed again whenever the cloud led the way on’.65 But it also happened sometimes that the people no longer wished to advance along the path especially when they considered the place where they were to be comfortable. In this case,66 ‘their guide (ὁδηγός), the cloud, rose up   Vit Moys I 29 (SC 1bis, 68).   Cant III (GNO VI, 87). See also Cant VI (GNO VI, 183-5). 63   Hans Urs von Balthasar, Présence et Pensée : Essai sur la philosophie religieuse de Grégoire de Nysse (Paris, 1988), 73-4. See also Martin Laird, Gregory of Nyssa and the Grasp of Faith. Union, Knowledge and Divine Presence (Oxford, 2004), 15-8. 64   Vit Moys I 41 (SC 1bis, 78). 65   Vit Moys I 34 (SC 1bis, 72). 66   Even if it is the cloud who leads them here: ‘By following this guide, they arrived at a place irrigated with drinkable water. It was watered all around by twelve bountiful springs and shaded by a grove of date palms. There were seventy date palms which, even though few in number, made a great impression on those who saw them, because of their exceptional beauty and height’ (Vit Moys I 34 [SC 1bis, 72]). 61 62

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and led them forth to another place’.67 According to Gregory, the true guide, God Himself, does not let the one who follows stay in a stable place, even if this place is ideal for living, but leads him further on. This has a spiritual and even mystical meaning. Different from the uncreated Being, God the Creator, who is immutable and infinite, the reality of a created being is that he is subject to movement and is limited. However, the created being possesses, or rather receives a gracious gift of God, the freedom and the infinite desire with the ability to always progress towards Good and towards Perfection which is God Himself. In the twelfth homily of In Canticum canticorum, where Moses’ request to see God as He is is presented, Gregory talks about, as in De vita Moysis, the relationship between desiring, following and seeing God. ‘He who desires to see God catches sight of the One he seeks by always following after him and that the contemplation of God’s face is an unceasing journey towards him that is brought to fulfillment by following behind the Word’.68 Following God is indeed a dynamic and incessant movement, which corresponds well to Gregory’s fundamental notion – ἐπέκτασις, which means there is no end in the path to perfection in virtue since it consists in progress itself. Conclusion The necessity to follow the guide. The guide not only leads the one who follows, but also protects him as we have mentioned. So too is the spiritual life. The guide not only helps to advance towards a virtuous life and to progress to perfection, but also protects the one who follows when the temptations or dangers occur as in the case of what Moses (and God) did. ‘Whenever someone … is terrified by the assaults of temptation, the guide produces unexpected salvation from on high. Whenever the enemy with his army surrounds the one being pursued, the guide is forced to make the sea passable for him’.69 However, the guide cannot do anything in the place of the one who follows. He must, using his freedom, walk behind the guide and imitate his movement.70 Paradoxical expressions, harmonious thought. Even if Gregory gives some examples as an ideal guide, the true guide is the triune God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. To follow God is not to understand God. On the contrary, the very act of ‘following’ already requires an inner recognition and a deep trust. To follow God requires a continuous transformation, like Moses and   Vit Moys I 35 (SC 1bis, 74).   Cant XII (GNO VI, 356). 69   Vit Moys II 120 (SC 1bis, 178). 70   This article has not exploited this question about the relationship between following God and exercising human freedom which deserves deeper and further study. 67 68



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Paul who transform and progress infinitely in perfection. To follow God is to see God, not face to face, but his back, since he who follows must not walk in the opposite direction of the guide. To follow God is to possess God: the inhabitation of the triune God in the soul. To follow God is to imitate God: a complete inner and outer imitation, as Paul (Gal. 2:20) testifies and Gregory underlines that ‘it seems that the man who lived and spoke was no longer Paul, but Christ Himself who lived in him’.71

  Perf (GNO VIII/1, 175).

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Negotiating between Exodus and Paul: Moses’ Transformation in Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Moses 2.217-8 Ann Conway-Jones, University of Birmingham, Birmingham, UK

Abstract According to Exodus, when Moses descended Mount Sinai with the second set of tablets, ‘the appearance of the skin of his face was charged with glory’ (LXX Ex. 34:29). Gregory of Nyssa comments on this in Life of Moses 2.217-8, but there are a number of oddities to his account.  Firstly, he does not include it in part one of the treatise, the historia. Secondly, he disrupts the biblical sequence, placing Moses’ glorification before, not after, his request that God might appear to him. Thirdly, Gregory says that ‘Moses was transformed to such a degree of glory that the mortal eye could not behold him’, which is not an accurate representation of the story in Exodus. Fourthly, there is a jarring reference to ‘the Judaizing heresy’, more suited to a polemical work. And fifthly, rather than relating the light on Moses’ countenance to his personal growth in virtue, Gregory construes Moses as a type of Christ.  Might Paul’s influence explain these features? This article argues that the sequence of 2Corinthians 3 lies behind Gregory’s exposition of Exodus 33-4: tablets compared to hearts; Moses’ glorified face; the hardening of the Israelites’ minds; and transformation ‘from glory to glory’, which becomes Gregory’s doctrine of epektasis. There are, however, aspects to Paul’s interpretation which Gregory rejects. He does not suggest that Moses’ glory was fading – quite the contrary. And whereas Paul opens up Moses’ experience to all Christians, Gregory focuses on Moses’ uniqueness. Moses is God’s servant par excellence, worthy even to be regarded as a type of Christ.

In Homilies on the Song of Songs, Gregory of Nyssa describes how the purified soul must ‘so cleanse herself of every material concern and thought that she is entirely, in her whole being, transposed into the intelligible and immaterial realm and makes of herself a supremely vivid image of the prototypical Beauty’.1 Martin Laird has explored the language of beauty and light in Gregory’s depiction of the soul’s ascent in virtue, an ascent which is ‘fundamentally a return to and an intensification of that luminous state which characterized the

1   Cant. 15 (GNO VI, 439); Richard A. Norris, Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Song of Songs, Writings from the Greco-Roman World 13 (Atlanta, 2012), 467.

Studia Patristica CXV, 145-154. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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human condition before it was obscured by sin’.2 To give a couple more examples from Homilies on the Song of Songs: When the soul has been transposed from error to truth, the dark form of her life is transformed into radiant beauty.3 Having … put evil behind it, the soul purified by the Word has taken the sun’s orb within itself and has been gleaming in company with the light that appears within it…4

The episode in Moses’ life which would seem ideally suited to developing this theme of radiant transformation is Exodus 34:29-35. After God’s promise to reveal the divine back (33:18-23), Moses ascends Mount Sinai with a second set of tablets ready to be written on. When he comes down again, his face has changed. The difficulties of translating the Hebrew verb ‫ קרן‬need not detain us, as Gregory reads the Bible in Greek.5 According to the Septuagint, ‘the appearance of the skin of his face was charged with glory (δεδόξασται)’ (Ex. 34:29).6 Moses has spent forty days and nights on the summit of Sinai, without eating or drinking (Ex. 34:28), and God has descended in a cloud to pass by in glory, as promised (Ex. 33:19, 34:5-6). Moses returns to the Israelites with ‘his facial skin radiating the afterglow of God’ – the culmination and climax of his Experiences on Sinai.7 In Homilies on the Song of Songs 12, Gregory lists the stages in Moses’ growth, ending, ‘he becomes a sun, flashing unapproachable light from his countenance upon those who draw near him’.8 Laird uses this list to illustrate the dialectical relationship in Gregory’s writing between union in the darkness of unknowing and progressive deification through virtue: ‘Moses enters the darkness where God is but becomes luminous; he moves ever deeper in unknowing but grows increasingly in light’.9 When we turn to Life of Moses, however, Gregory seems reluctant to exploit the imagery of Exodus 34 in this way. Gregory comments on Exodus 34:29-35 in Life of Moses 2.217-8; but there are a number of oddities to his account of Moses’ transformation. Firstly, the 2   Martin Laird, Gregory of Nyssa and the Grasp of Faith: Union, Knowledge, and Divine Presence (Oxford, 2004), 185. 3   Cant. 2 (GNO VI, 48); R.A. Norris, Homilies on the Song of Songs (2012), 53. 4   Cant. 4 (GNO VI, 104); ibid. 115. 5   For discussion of the verb ‫קרן‬, and its possible relationship to the noun ‫‘( ֶק ֶרן‬horn’), see William Henry Propp, ‘The Skin of Moses’ Face – Transfigured or Disfigured?’, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 49 (1987), 375-86; and Seth Sanders, ‘Old Light on Moses’ Shining Face’, Vetus Testamentum 52 (2002), 400-6. 6   Unless indicated otherwise, quotations from Exodus are taken from the LXX, since this is what Gregory read. The translation used is Albert Pietersma and Benjamin G. Wright, A New English Translation of the Septuagint and the Other Greek Translations Traditionally Included under That Title (Oxford, 2007). 7   Thomas B. Dozeman, ‘Masking Moses and Mosaic Authority in Torah’, Journal of Biblical Literature 119 (2000), 21-45, 21. 8   Cant. 12 (GNO VI, 355); R.A. Norris, Homilies on the Song of Songs (2012), 375. 9   M. Laird, Gregory of Nyssa and the Grasp of Faith (2004), 204.



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episode is not mentioned in part one of the treatise, the historia. Gregory moves straight from Moses’ forty days living beyond nature, during which the second set of tablets were engraved by divine power (1.60), to the building of the tabernacle (1.61). Secondly, in the theōria he disrupts the biblical sequence, placing Moses’ glorification before the episode of the cleft in the rock.10 He does the same in Homilies on the Song of Songs 12 – after the list of stages in Moses’ growth comes a paragraph expounding Exodus 33:12-23.11 Thirdly, Gregory says that ‘Moses was transformed to such a degree of glory that the mortal eye could not behold him’.12 This is not an accurate representation of the story in Exodus, in which Moses calls the frightened Israelites to come near and relays God’s commandments to them. Only once he has finished speaking does he cover his face with a veil.13 Fourthly, there is a jarring reference to ‘the Judaizing heresy’, which might seem more suited to a polemical work.14 Fifthly, and most importantly, rather than relating the light on Moses’ countenance to his personal growth in virtue, and transformation into friend of God – as he does in Homilies on the Song of Songs 12 – Gregory takes Moses to be a type of Christ. Philip Kariatlis has argued that for Gregory ‘Moses was ultimately an image or “type” (τύπος) of Christ himself’, and that the glory of Christ being prefigured in his shining face is consistent with ‘the general Christo-soteriological 10   Gregory deviates from the biblical order only three times in his treatise. The other two occasions are Vit. Moys. 1.35-8 / 2.135-46, where the miracle of water from the rock (Ex. 17:1-6) comes before the arrival of manna (Ex. 16:2-10); and Vit. Moys. 1.67-9 / 2.272-83, where the poisonous snakes (Num. 21:4-9) come before Korah’s revolt (Num. 16:1-35). See Ronald E. Heine, Perfection in the Virtuous Life: A Study in the Relationship Between Edification and Polemical Theology in Gregory of Nyssa’s De Vita Moysis (Cambridge, MA, 1975), 99 n. 1. 11   Cant. 12 (GNO VI, 355-6). 12   Vit. Moys. 2.217; Abraham J. Malherbe and Everett Ferguson, Gregory of Nyssa: The Life of Moses, Classics of Western Spirituality (New York, 1978), 111. 13   This is certainly the case when Moses first descends from Sinai (Ex. 34:33). Verses 34-5 refer to Moses’ ongoing practice, and here there is ambiguity. The first half of verse 34 reads, ‘whenever Moses went in before the Lord to speak with him, he would take the veil off, until he came out’. This could be taken to mean that Moses replaced the veil immediately on leaving the divine presence. But that does not fit with 34b-35, which states that as Moses relayed God’s commandments, the Israelites could see his shining face. It is therefore best to take ‘until’ in 34a as referring right up to the end of the verse: ‘until his coming out and he came out and spoke to the people of Israel…’. See Menahem Haran, ‘The Shining of Moses’ Face: A Case Study in Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Iconography’, in W. Boyd Barrick and John R. Spencer (eds), In the Shelter of Elyon: Essays on Ancient Palestinian Life and Literature in Honor of G.W. Ahlström, Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 31 (Sheffield, 1984), 159-73, 160-3. Haran suggests that Moses wears the veil not as a cultic functionary, but once he has returned to being a private individual. Thomas Dozeman argues that the story is ‘about two masks, not one – namely, Moses’ shining skin and his veil’, and that the interaction of these two masks creates the paradigm of Mosaic authority in the Pentateuch. See T.B. Dozeman, ‘Masking Moses and Mosaic Authority in Torah’ (2000), 23. 14   Vit. Moys. 2.218; A.J. Malherbe and E. Ferguson, Life of Moses (1978), 111.

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framework’ of the treatise.15 However, although Life of Moses does indeed have a Christocentric focus, Moses is usually encountering figures of Christ, not becoming one himself. According to Gregory, the radiance coming from the burning bush represents ‘the mystery of the Virgin: The light of divinity which through birth shone from her into human life did not consume the burning bush, even as the flower of her virginity was not withered by giving birth’.16 The transformation of Moses’ right hand and the rod changing into a snake both signify ‘in a figure the mystery of the Lord’s incarnation’.17 The wood thrown into the bitter waters should be understood as the cross.18 Manna – bread ‘that does not come from the earth’ – is the Word.19 The rock from which came water is Christ, as is the rock on which Moses was later invited to stand.20 In the battle with Amalek, it is Joshua, Moses’ successor, who prefigures Jesus, with whom he also shares a name.21 The tabernacle is a type of Christ; and the bunch of grapes brought back from Canaan, suspended from a wooden pole, represents the saving passion. 22 Other than 2.216-8, the only episodes where Moses himself becomes a symbol of Christ involve him stretching out his hands, taken to symbolise the cross.23 Throughout most of the treatise, Moses represents the ultimate in human virtue. He is ‘the ardent lover of beauty’, who ‘although receiving what is always visible as an image of what he desires, yet longs to be filled with the very stamp of the archetype’.24 In the theōria of Life of Moses, Gregory frequently refers to Paul, ‘that divine Apostle, great and lofty in understanding’.25 Richard Zaleski has recently suggested that Gregory incorporates Pauline elements into his narrative of the burning bush theophany.26 Might Paul’s use of Exodus 34 in 2Corinthians 3-4 explain some or all of the oddities in Gregory’s account of Moses’ transformation? Paul’s argument is highly complex and puzzling, the subject of much debate. Joseph Fitzmyer, for example, asks ‘how Paul can begin with such a trivial 15   Philip Kariatlis, ‘“Dazzling darkness”: The Mystical or Theophanic Theology of St Gregory of Nyssa’, Phronema 27 (2012), 99-123, 102. 16   Vit. Moys. 2.22; A.J. Malherbe and E. Ferguson, Life of Moses (1978), 59. 17   Vit. Moys. 2.26-7; ibid. 61. 18   Vit. Moys. 2.132. 19   Vit. Moys. 2.139-40; A.J. Malherbe and E. Ferguson, Life of Moses (1978), 88. 20   Vit. Moys. 2.136, 244; see 1Cor. 10:4. 21   Vit. Moys. 2.148. 22   Vit. Moys. 2.174; 2.268. 23   Vit. Moys. 2.78, 151. 24   Vit. Moys. 2.231; A.J. Malherbe and E. Ferguson, Life of Moses (1978), 114. 25   Vit. Moys. 1.5; ibid. 30. In the theōria, Gregory refers to ‘Paul’ eight times: 2.140, 174, 184, 192, 194, 244, 248, 275; and to ‘the Apostle’ twenty times: 2.63, 73, 79, 86, 110, 130, 136, 140, 173, 178, 182, 184, 193, 215, 225, 243, 245, 246, 289, 296. 26   Richard A. Zaleski, ‘Moses’s Damascus Road Theophany: Rewriting Scripture in Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Moses’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 26 (2018), 249-74.



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matter as a letter of recommendation and pass from it to the involved discussion about the veil on Moses’ face, and from that to the sublime theology of the glory of the creator-God reflected on the face of Christ’.27 We shall not therefore be attempting to decipher Paul, but to assess his influence on Gregory. This influence begins as Gregory contemplates the second set of tablets. Unlike the first set, which were supplied and written on by God (Ex. 24:12, 31:18, 32:16), these were provided by Moses (34:1, 4). In Exodus 34:1 God promises to write on them. In Exodus 34:28, however – ‘he wrote these words on the tablets of the covenant, the Ten Words’ – the subject of the verb would seem to be Moses, not God.28 Gregory draws attention to the difference between the two sets of tablets: The tables were not wholly the same, only the writing on them was the same. Having made the tables out of earthly matter, Moses submitted them to the power of the one who would engrave his Law upon them.29

He interprets this difference thanks to 2Corinthians 3:3, saying that the divine Apostle ‘calls the tables “hearts,” that is, the foremost part of the soul’.30 (In fact, of course, Paul contrasts tablets of stone with human hearts!) This enables Gregory to equate the tablets with human nature, and develop a typology of the incarnation: It is possible to learn from this that human nature at its beginning was unbroken and immortal. … When the sound of sin struck our ears, … the tables fell to the earth and were broken. But again the true Lawgiver, of whom Moses was a type, cut the tables of human nature for himself from our earth. … he became the stonecutter of his own flesh, which was carved by the divine finger, for the Holy Spirit came upon the virgin and the power of the Most High overshadowed her.31 27   Joseph A. Fitzmyer, ‘Glory Reflected on the Face of Christ (2 Cor 3:7-4:6) and a Palestinian Jewish Motif’, Theological Studies 42 (1981), 630-44. More recent articles include G. Anthony Keddie, ‘Paul’s Freedom and Moses’ Veil: Moral Freedom and the Mosaic Law in 2 Corinthians 3.1-4.6 in Light of Philo’, Journal for the Study of the New Testament 37 (2015), 267-89; George H. van Kooten, ‘Why Did Paul Include an Exegesis of Moses’ Shining Face (Exod 34) in 2 Cor 3? Moses’ Strength, Well-being and (Transitory) Glory, according to Philo, Josephus, Paul, and the Corinthian Sophists’, in George Brooke, Hindy Najman and Loren T. Stuckenbruck (eds), The Significance of Sinai: Traditions about Sinai and Divine Revelation in Judaism and Christianity (Leiden, 2008), 149-81; and Paul B. Duff, ‘Transformed “From Glory to Glory”: Paul’s Appeal to the Experience of His Readers in 2 Corinthians 3:18’, Journal of Biblical Literature 127 (2008), 759-80. 28   Moses is the subject of the three previous verbs, and no change of subject is indicated. Benjamin Sommer argues that ‘the contradiction between 34.1 and 34.28 is not surprising within E. … E repeatedly complicates the relationship between the words of the Decalogue and God’. Benjamin D. Sommer, Revelation & Authority: Sinai in Jewish Scripture and Tradition (New Haven, 2015), 52. 29   Vit. Moys. 2.214; A.J. Malherbe and E. Ferguson, Life of Moses (1978), 110. 30   Vit. Moys. 2.215; ibid. 110. 31   Vit. Moys. 2.215-6; ibid. 110-1.

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In 2Corinthians 3:3, Paul contrasts ink (on letters of recommendation) with the Spirit of the living God (writing on the tablets of human hearts). Gregory equates the Spirit with the finger of God, which in Exodus 31:18 is said to have written on the first set of tablets – Gregory assumes that the same is true of the second set. He thus develops a Trinitarian image. This use of the second set of tablets to symbolise the incarnation – the joining of human and divine, and the restoration of what was broken – requires Moses to be a type of Christ. It also solves the discrepancy between Exodus 34:1 and 34:28 – if Moses is a type of Christ, who is fully God, then Moses writing on the tablets symbolises divine activity. Having used Moses as a type of Christ to interpret the second set of tablets, thanks to 2Corinthians 3:3, Gregory proceeds to 2Corinthians 3:7 – ‘the people of Israel could not gaze at Moses’ face because of the glory of his face’.32 As already mentioned, this is not an accurate reflection of Exodus 34, where Moses only places a covering over his face once he has stopped speaking to the people. Commentators assume that Paul is relying on Exodus 34:30, which says that people ‘were afraid to come near to him’.33 Gregory follows Paul’s lead and maintains his Moses as Christ typology: For when he ‘had restored the broken table of our nature to its original beauty … the eyes of the unworthy could no longer behold him. In his surpassing glory he becomes inaccessible to these who would look upon him’.34 Gregory does not elaborate on this inaccessibility, and there is some ambiguity as to whether it is only the ‘unworthy’ who cannot behold Christ, or any who would try to look upon him. The same ambiguity reoccurs in the next paragraph, which says both that ‘he is scarcely bearable and visible to the righteous’ and ‘let the impious be removed … he shall not see the glory of the Lord’. But Gregory condemns those who follow ‘the Judaizing heresy’, no doubt referring to those who do not recognise the full divinity of Christ, and thus his inaccessibility and incomprehensibility, such as Eunomius.35 This element too is a reflection of 2Corinthians 3 – Gregory has moved on to Paul’s condemnation of the Israelites, whom Paul characterises as having a veil over their minds. Gregory does not mention the veil, but he does talk about ‘how the contemplation of the spiritual sense agrees with the literal account’.36 Elsewhere he associates the spiritual sense of scripture with the lifting of a veil, referring to 2Corinthians 3:12-6: The divine intention is hidden under the surface of the text, as it were by a screen, as some commandment or story is set before the intelligent student. This is exactly the reason why the Apostle says that those who look to the bodily aspect of scripture have   The NT translation used is the NRSV.   E.g. Victor Paul Furnish, II Corinthians, Anchor Bible 32A (New York, 1984), 203. In the MT, it is ‘Aaron and all the Israelites’ who are afraid; in the LXX, it is ‘Aaron and all the elders of Israel’. 34   Vit. Moys. 2.217; A.J. Malherbe and E. Ferguson, Life of Moses (1978), 111 . 35   Vit. Moys. 2.218; ibid. 111. 36   Vit. Moys. 2.217; ibid. 111. 32 33



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a veil over their hearts, and are unable to see through to the glory of the spiritual law, being restrained by the veil covering the facial aspect of the lawgiver.37

He also attacks Eunomius for his literalism, saying that ‘he sticks to the mere letter, and to that extent follows the Jewish opinion, and has yet to learn that the Christian is not a disciple to the letter, but to the spirit (2Cor. 3:6)’.38 If, as I am arguing, Gregory is moving through the structure of 2Corinthians 3, he next comes to the transformation from glory to glory (2Cor. 3:18). But he does not reference Paul’s epistle, moving back instead to interpret Exodus 33:18-23. As he does so, he drops the idea of Moses as a type of Christ, and returns to delineating Moses’ own progress in virtue. Ronald Heine argues that the order of events ‘is obscure in the Biblical text’, and that Gregory’s departure from the sequence in Exodus ‘appears to have no significance for (his) interpretation’.39 On the contrary, this move ensures that Moses’ transformation is not depicted as the end of his journey. In both Life of Moses and Homilies on the Song of Songs, Gregory uses God’s reply to Moses’ request for a divine epiphany to expound what has become known as the doctrine of epektasis.40 He emphasises that Moses is on a never-ending quest, each achievement succeeded by a higher one.41 He relates the infinity of God, and the consequent relentless expansion of human desire, to the ‘place’ mentioned in Exodus 33:21 – the place with God, he says in Life of Moses, ‘is so great that the one running in it is never able to cease from his progress’.42 Similarly, in Homilies on the Song of Songs 12, he concludes that ‘the contemplation of God’s face is an unceasing journey’.43 At no point in Life of Moses does Gregory allude to 2Corinthians 3:18; he does not even employ the verb μεταμορφόω.44 In other 37   Contra Eunomium 3,5.9 (GNO II, 163); Stuart George Hall, ‘Gregory of Nyssa, Against Eunomius Book Three (Translation)’, in Johan Leemans and Matthieu Cassin (eds), Gregory of Nyssa: Contra Eunomium III: An English Translation with Commentary and Supporting Studies, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 124 (Leiden, 2014), 42-233, 138. 38   Contra Eunomium 2.199 (GNO I, 283); Stuart George Hall, ‘The Second Book against Eunomius (Translation)’, in Lenka Karfíková, Scot Douglass and Johannes Zachhuber (eds), Gregory of Nyssa: Contra Eunomium II, Supplements to Vigiliae christianae 82 (Leiden, 2007), 59-201, 101-2. See Ronald E. Heine, ‘Gregory of Nyssa’s Apology for Allegory’, Vigiliae Christianae 38 (1984), 360-70, 365. 39   R.E. Heine, Perfection in the Virtuous Life (1975), 99 n. 1. 40   Vit. Moys. 2.219-55; Cant. 12 (GNO VI, 355-6). 41   Gregory summarises Moses’ life more than once, and the details are not the same each time; but what matters to him is the unrelenting sequence, and lack of finality. See Vit. Moys. 2.228-30; 308-14; 315-7; Cant. 12 (GNO VI, 354-7); and Inscr. 1.7.51-6 (GNO V, 43-5). 42   Vit. Moys. 2.242; A.J. Malherbe and E. Ferguson, Life of Moses (1978), 117. For further details of how Gregory relates Exodus 33:18-23 to epektasis see Ann Conway-Jones, ‘“The Greatest Paradox of All”: The “Place of God” in the Mystical Theologies of Gregory of Nyssa and Evagrius of Pontus’, Journal of the Bible and its Reception 5 (2018), 259-79, 262-7. 43   Cant. 12 (GNO VI, 356); R.A. Norris, Homilies on the Song of Songs (2012), 377. 44   He doesn’t use it in Homilies on the Song of Songs 12 either; but does use it elsewhere in that work (e.g. Cant. 4 (GNO VI, 104); Cant. 8 (GNO VI, 253).

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works, however, he does quote that verse in connection with his ideas on endless growth: Let no one be grieved if he sees in his nature a penchant for change. Changing in every­ thing for the better, let him exchange ‘glory for glory,’ becoming greater through daily increase, ever perfecting himself, and never arriving too quickly at the limit of perfection. For this is truly perfection: never to stop growing towards what is better and never placing any limit on perfection.45 When the Word commands the soul in its newfound goodness to come to him, she is instantly empowered by the command and comes to be what the Bridegroom willed. She is changed into something more divine and on account of her glad alteration she is transformed from the glory that she had already reached to a higher glory …46

Indeed, Jean Daniélou and Herbert Musurillo entitled their anthology of Gregory’s mystical writings From Glory to Glory; and Marguerite Harl calls this theme ‘l’idée maîtresse de la mystique de Grégoire’.47 So it is not far-fetched to see the continuing hidden influence of Paul in Gregory’s convoluted exposition of epektasis in Life of Moses 2.219-55. He makes one reference to Moses’ glorification in his own right: He shone with glory. And although lifted up through such lofty experiences, he is still unsatisfied in his desire for more. He still thirsts for that with which he constantly filled himself to capacity, and he asks to attain as if he had never partaken, beseeching God to appear to him, not according to his capacity to partake, but according to God’s true being.48

Thanks to ever-expanding desire, Moses’ progress never ceases. In other words, he is transformed ‘from glory to glory’. Of the five oddities to Life of Moses 2.217-8, most are explained by Gregory’s use of 2Cor. 3:3-18 in this spiritual commentary on Exodus 34. It is still not clear why he does not mention Moses’ transformation, or indeed the episode of the cleft in the rock, in the historia; but once he has embarked on explaining the second set of tablets in the theōria, they flow naturally from the sequence of 2Corinthians 3: tablets, shining face, veiled minds, ‘from glory to glory’. This results in Moses’ transformation in Exodus 34 coming before his standing on the paradoxical place of God in Exodus 33. Gregory reflects Paul in saying that Moses’ face was too bright to be gazed at, in contradiction of Exodus 34: 45   On Perfection (GNO VIII/1, 213-4); Virginia Woods Callahan, Saint Gregory of Nyssa: Ascetical Works, Fathers of the Church 58 (Washington, DC, 1967), 122. 46   Cant. 8 (GNO VI, 253); R.A. Norris, Homilies on the Song of Songs (2012), 267. See also Cant. 5 (GNO VI, 160) and Cant. 6 (GNO VI, 186). 47   Jean Daniélou and Herbert Musurillo, From Glory to Glory: Texts from Gregory of Nyssa’s Mystical Writings (New York, 1961); Marguerite Harl, ‘»From Glory to Glory«: L’interprétation de II Cor. 3, 18b par Grégoire de Nysse et la liturgie baptismale’, in Patrick Granfield and Josef A. Jungmann (eds), Kyriakon: Festschrift Johannes Quasten 2 (Münster, 1970), 730-5, 730. 48   Vit. Moys. 2.230; A.J. Malherbe and E. Ferguson, Life of Moses (1978), 114.



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32, 35. Gregory’s Judaizers are equivalent to the Israelites in Paul’s argument. Paul talks of Moses’ glory as but a shadow of what is to come. He construes Moses as an inferior type, firstly of his own ministry (2Cor. 3:7-11), and then of all believers (2Cor. 3:16-8).49 Gregory, however, makes Moses a type of Christ, which enhances rather than devalues Moses’ status. For despite following Paul’s structure, there are aspects to Paul’s interpretation that Gregory rejects. He does not characterise Moses’ ministry as a ministry of death or condemnation (see 2Cor. 3:7, 9). Nor does he suggest that Moses’ glory was fading or destined to be set aside (2Cor. 3:7)50 – quite the contrary. Moses ‘never ceased from growth toward the better’.51 And whereas Paul opens up Moses’ experience to all followers of Christ – ‘all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another’ – Gregory’s exposition of epektasis focuses on Moses’ uniqueness. To him alone did God speak ‘face to face, as if someone should speak to his own friend’ (Ex. 33:11, quoted in Life of Moses 2.219). Patrick O’Connell comments, The radiant Moses is identified with the glorified Christ, and, consequently, with the original beauty of human nature: through the Incarnation, passion and resurrection of Christ, that nature is restored to wholeness. Yet no attempt is made to extend this experience of restoration to the Israelites: whereas Moses shares in the glory of Christ, of a renewed nature, those who have remained below merely look upon that glory, and are scarcely able to do that. This is all the more surprising in that the emphasis of the passage from 2 Corinthians on which Gregory is basing his interpretation is the locus classicus for the transformation of the soul ‘into his likeness from one degree of glory to another’ (2 Cor 3.18). Here we find the beginning of a distinction between Moses, who ‘becomes’ Christ, and the people, who only look upon that glory but do not participate in it, who settle for a much less intense relationship with God based on external authority rather than personal experience.52

In order to understand Gregory’s commentary, we need not only to appreciate his philosophical predilections, but also to pay close attention both to the text of Exodus, including such puzzles as the discrepancy over who wrote on the second set of tablets, and to his use of the New Testament, particularly Paul, 49   For Paul establishing the ‘glory’ of his own apostolic ministry, see Margaret E. Thrall, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians, Volume 1: Commentary on II Corinthians I–VII, International Critical Commentary (Edinburgh, 1994), 239-40; for Moses as a type for all believers, see P.B. Duff, ‘Transformed “From Glory to Glory”’ (2008), 767, or G.H. van Kooten, ‘Why Did Paul Include an Exegesis of Moses’ Shining Face (Exod 34) in 2 Cor 3?’ (2008), 162-3. 50   There is some discussion as to the meaning of the verb καταργέομαι in 2Cor. 3:7. See V.P. Furnish, II Corinthians (1984), 203. 51   Cant. 12 (GNO VI, 354); R.A. Norris, Homilies on the Song of Songs (2012), 375. 52   Patrick F. O’Connell, ‘The Double Journey in Saint Gregory of Nyssa: The Life of Moses’, Greek Orthodox Theological Review 28 (1983), 301-24, 317-8.

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noting the tensions between them, which Gregory has to negotiate. Why, in Life of Moses, does Gregory not exploit Exodus 34:29 to talk of Moses’ return towards prelapsarian beauty? Firstly, because he has embarked on treating Moses as a type of Christ in his commentary on the second set of tablets, and he carries on from there. Secondly, because this typology enables him to put a positive spin on Paul’s characterisation of Moses as but a shadow of what is to come. Given Paul’s use of Exodus 34 to devalorise Moses, however, Gregory is not tempted to linger. Thirdly, and most importantly, because he does not want Moses’ transformation to be seen as an end in itself – Gregory wants to stress the unceasing nature of Moses’ journey. It is Moses’ transformation from glory to glory which is his real interest. Moses is God’s servant and friend par excellence, who demonstrates that ‘the continual development of life to what is better is the soul’s way to perfection’.53 His progress leads him to becoming ‘the image of God’, for he ‘who has in no way turned aside from the divine character bears in himself its distinguishing marks and shows in all things his conformity to the archetype’.54

  Vit. Moys. 2.306; A.J. Malherbe and E. Ferguson, Life of Moses (1978), 133.   Vit. Moys. 2.318; ibid., 136.

53 54

The ‘Heavenly Bread’ in Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Moses: A Eucharistic or Non-Eucharistic Interpretation? Joost van Rossum, Institut de théologie orthodoxe Saint-Serge, Paris, France

Abstract One does not find a direct reference to the Eucharist in Gregory of Nyssa’s commentary on the episode of the manna (Ex. 16) in his Life of Moses. One reason must be that he was influenced by the Alexandrian exegesis of Origen and Philo, which was based on the theme of ‘Wisdom as nourishment’ in early Jewish literature, and which finally goes back to the Old Testament itself. But is it indeed possible to find some allusions to the Eucharist in this text of Gregory? A comparison with the relevant verses in chapter six of the Gospel of John is included in the discussion.

In the second part of his Life of Moses, which deals with the spiritual meaning (θεωρία) of the events of the Exodus from Egypt, Gregory of Nyssa says the following about the episode of the manna which came down from heaven (Ex. 16): You understand of course that this event is a figure (αἴνιγμα) of the true nourishment: ‘the bread that has come down from heaven’ [John 6:51] is not something incorporeal (ἀσώματον). For how could something which is incorporeal be nourishment for the body? That which is not incorporeal is completely body (σῶμα). However, neither seed nor labour have produced the body (σῶμα) of this bread, but the earth remains untouched, and is seen to be filled with this divine nourishment of which those who are hungry participate (μετέχουσι). Through this miracle they are taught in advance the mystery of the Virgin. This bread which is not produced by the earth is also (καί) word (λόγος)…1

The question arises: why does Gregory use here the words ‘body’ and ‘bodiless’? Does he have in mind the Eucharistic Bread, which is the ‘Body of Christ’? It is true, one could interpret this text of Gregory in a sacramental way and as an implicit reference to the Eucharist. The word μετέχειν is often used for the participation in the Holy Gifts. However, one could also argue that he speaks about ‘nourishment’ and ‘bread’ in a non-sacramental way and that the term ‘bread’ is seen by him as just another metaphor for Christ. Elsewhere it is 1   Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Moses II (Θεωρία), §139-40, SC 1, ed. J. Daniélou, 3rd ed. (Paris, 1968), 192.

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mentioned besides other titles of Christ, like ‘door’, ‘way’, ‘light’, etc.2 In what follows Gregory says that the heavenly bread is also (a symbol of) ‘word’. And a little further on he writes (§41): ‘All the wonderful teachings which this history tells about this nourishment are related to the spiritual life (τὸν κατ᾽ ἀρετὴν βίον). Thus the accent is not on the sacrament of the Eucharist. Gregory emphasizes rather that this biblical text concerns advancement in spiritual life. The term ‘body’ could be interpreted as a reference to the ‘mystery of the Virgin’ who has given birth to Christ. Spiritual life is based on the mystery of the incarnation of the Word. Or is it possible that both interpretations, a sacramental one and a ‘spiritual’ one, are intended and that one interpretation does not necessarily exclude the other? The manna as Word and Wisdom In order to get a better understanding of the manna as ‘word’, we have to look at the exegesis of Origen. According to Origen, in his Sermon on Exodus, the manna signifies the ‘Word of God’: But today, too, I tell you that the Lord is pouring down manna from heaven. For these great things which have been read [the scriptural readings during the Liturgy] come from heaven, and the words which have been recited have come down from God. Therefore, as for us who have received such manna, it is always given to us from heaven … If you want to eat the manna, that is to say if you desire to accept the word of God, know that it is very fine and very subtle, like the grain of coriander [Ex. 16:31].3

In this passage of Origen, any reference to the Eucharist is absent. The reason must be that his exegesis was inspired by Philo, who interpreted the manna allegorically as the divine ‘wisdom’ or ‘word’. The theme of ‘wisdom’ as ‘nourishment’ was widespread in ancient Jewish literature.4 Philo of Alexandria explains the manna both as the ‘words of God’ and as the ‘Heavenly Wisdom’: De mutatione nominum § 259: ‘It has been said: “Behold, I will rain breads from heaven [Ex. 16:4]”. Which food does He rightly say rains from heaven: is it not the Heavenly Wisdom?’5

  Gregory of Nyssa, Ad Simplicium de Fide, ed. F. Mueller, in Werner Jaeger et al. (eds), Gregorii Nysseni Opera, vol. III/1 (Leiden, 1958), 62; Contra Eunomium II, §294-5; § 303, ed. W. Jaeger, GNO I (Leiden, 1960), 313, 315; Contra Eunomium III, tom. 1, § 127, ed. W. Jaeger, GNO II (Leiden, 1960), 46. 3  Origen, Homilies on Exodus, VII, § 5, ed. M. Borret, SC 321 (Paris, 2011), 222-4. 4   See Karl-Gustav Sandelin, Wisdom as Nourisher, Acta Academiae Aboensis, Ser. A. Humaniora, 64/3 (Åbo, 1986). 5   Les œuvres de Philon d’Alexandrie, vol. 18, ed. R. Arnaldez (Paris, 1964), 152. 2



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Legum allegoriae § 162: ‘You see that the soul is not fed with earthly and perishable things, but with the words which God will rain from the high and pure nature which He has called heaven’.6 De somniis I, § 50: ‘Blessed indeed are those to whom it is granted to have joy of the love-charms of Wisdom, and to sit at her table where she offers her insights and doctrines; and after revelling in these delights, still to be at thirst, having a craving for knowledge which knows no fullness nor satiety’.7

In the Wisdom of Sirach ‘Wisdom’ invites the God-fearing to be filled with her fruits. She is like a Mother and a Bride. She invites one to eat the Bread of Knowledge and to drink the water of Wisdom: 1:16: ‘To fear the Lord is the fullness of Wisdom and she satiates them [i.e. the Godfearing] with her fruits’. 15:2: ‘She will come to him [i.e. the person who fears the Lord] as a Mother, and she will admit him into her presence as a Bride [ὡς γυνὴ παρθενίας, ‘as a virgin-woman’]’. 15:3: ‘She will feed him with the Bread of Knowledge and give him water of Wisdom to drink’.

In the Book of Proverbs, chapter 9:1-5, Wisdom appears again as a welcoming householder who has prepared a table for her guests, saying ‘Come and eat my bread, drink the wine which I have drawn’. Also the Book of Enoch knows this ancient conception of ‘Wisdom’ as food.8 Christ as the Heavenly Wisdom In chapter six of the Gospel of John, it is Jesus who appears as the Heavenly Wisdom, and who offers Himself as ‘food’ and ‘drink’.9 As the manifestation of the Divine Wisdom, He not only offers the heavenly food, but He is Himself this heavenly nourishment. The identification between Wisdom and the heavenly food she offers is found already in Sirach 24:21, where she says: ‘Those who eat me shall still hunger, and those who drink me shall still thirst’. However, there is a slight difference here with the Johannine Wisdom in John 6:35, where Christ says: ‘I am the Bread of Life; whoever comes to Me will no longer   Ibid., vol. 2, ed. C. Mondésert (Paris, 1962), 262.   Ibid., vol. 19, ed. P. Savinel (Paris, 1962), 44. 8   (Ethiopian Apocalypse of) Enoch 82,3: ‘ … that they may learn this Wisdom, and it shall please those who feast on it better than good food’, translation E. Isaac, in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, vol. 1, ed. James H. Charlesworth (London, 1983), 60. 9   Peder Borgen, Bread from Heaven: An Exegetical Study of the Concept of Manna in the Gospel of John and the Writings of Philo (Leiden, 1965), 154: ‘Just as the bread from heaven was identified with the Torah, or rather replaced the Torah in John, so also is it identified with another term for the Torah, namely Wisdom’. 6 7

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hunger; whoever believes in me will no longer thirst’. Likewise He says (4:14): ‘Whoever drinks from the water I give will never thirst’. Sirach on the contrary writes that ‘those who eat me shall still hunger’. And Philo, too, says that those ‘who feast on the truths which Wisdom has discovered’ will still be thirsty and will continue to have a ‘craving for knowledge’ which will not be satisfied. But is this difference that radical as Sandelin suggests?10 The context in Sirach and Philo is different: here the emphasis is put on the fact that the nourishment of Wisdom knows no end, and that eating and drinking Wisdom is thus an endless process. In the Gospel of John, however, it is said that the Divine Wisdom manifests herself fully in the Person of Christ, who is the accomplishment of the divine revelation which had been given until then. There is no break or discontinuity between the Wisdom of Sirach and Philo on the one hand, and the Johannine Wisdom on the other hand. Rather there is perfect continuity. In patristic exegesis and in modern scientific exegesis, John 6:53-6 is generally understood to express a Eucharistic theme.11 I have found one text in Gregory where he holds that John 6:54 (‘He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life’) refers to the Eucharist. He writes, attacking the Arians and extreme Arians: We are persuaded that through the confession of the Divine Names, that is, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, the mystery of the Orthodox faith is confirmed, and that through communion with the mystical traditions and symbols (τῇ τῶν μυστικῶν ἐθῶν τε καὶ συμβόλων κοινωνίᾳ), salvation is guaranteed.12

I understand the word ‘symbols’ here to mean the liturgical rites, that is in this case the Eucharist. Therefore, it seems likely that in writing this passage in his De vita Mosis Gregory had in mind the broader context of John 6, including the Eucharistic understanding of verses 53-6. Moreover, the text itself quotes John 6:51: ‘The Bread that came down from Heaven…’ It is indeed possible to consider the words σῶμα and μετέχειν as implicit references to the Eucharist, as we have suggested. Jean Daniélou observed a similar implicit allusion with regard to the sacrament of Baptism in Gregory’s exegesis of the Burning Bush. 10   K.-G. Sandelin, Wisdom as Nourisher (1986), 185  : ‘In the Gospel of John, Jesus as nourisher and bread of life does not incarnate the Wisdom of early Judaism but supersedes her. It is not Wisdom, but the Son of Man, who gives nourishment that endures to eternal life. In the Gospel of John the resemblance between Jesus and Wisdom as nourisher has the effective purpose of supplanting the latter’. 11   Maarten Menken, however, though not denying the ‘Eucharistic undertones’ in John 6:51-8, concludes that it does not mean that the passage is primarily about the Eucharist: Maarten Menken, ‘John 6:51c-58: Eucharist or Christology?’, in Critical Readings of John 6, ed. R. Alan Culpepper (Leiden, 1997), 183-204. 12   Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium III, tom. 9, § 56, ed. W. Jaeger, GNO II (Leiden, 1960), 285.



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The theme of ‘light’ reminds one of the Sacrament of Illumination (Φωτισμός). And the divine command to Moses to ‘take off your shoes’ can be seen as an implicit reference to the rite of discalceatio at the baptism of adults in the Early Church.13 We may add here as support for Daniélou’s insightful remarks that the term φωταγωγία, which occurs in the same passage, could be considered as an implicit reference to the procession of the neophytes from the Baptistery to the Church in the Paschal night.14 Gregory says here that spiritual enlightenment is based on the Sacrament of Illumination. Moreover, we notice here a striking parallel with Gregory’s exegesis of the manna. Also in the theophany of the Burning Bush Gregory sees a type of the ‘mystery of the Virgin’ and the virgin birth of Christ. The incarnation is thus the basis of the sacraments of Baptism and Eucharist. The use of the word καί in Gregory and Origen A closer look at the text indicates that Gregory makes a distinction between two meanings which he attributes to the event of the manna, indicated by the word ‘also’ (καί). The first meaning concerns the mystery of the incarnation. The ‘true nourishment’ is Christ, born from the Virgin. Gregory emphasizes the reality of this Heavenly Bread, saying that this manna is destined to be eaten. That means that He who was born from the Virgin had a real and physical body. And, as implicitly indicated (‘reading between the lines’), it is given to us in the Eucharist. In what follows, Gregory goes on to say: ‘Moreover (καί), it is Word’  ; that is, Christ is also given to us in the spiritual reading of Holy Scripture. Indeed, in the celebration of the Eucharist Christ comes to us in His Word and in Holy Communion. This is exactly what Origen is saying in his Homily on Numbers: ‘We are told to “drink the blood of Christ”, not only in the rite of the mysteries (non solum sacramentorum ritu), but also (et) when we receive His words that contain life’.15 It seems that with Origen the accent is placed on the spiritual interpretation of John 6:53-4, just as it is with Gregory. Using the word καί, Gregory and Origen say that a still more profound meaning can be found in this episode of the manna. In his commentary on the Gospel of John Origen writes, speaking about the Last Supper: Know that for the more simple people (τοῖς ἁπλουστέροις) the Bread and the Cup refer in a general sense to the Eucharist, but for those who have learned to understand more   Jean Daniélou, Platonisme et théologie mystique (Paris, 1944), 30-1.   Life of Moses II (Θεωρία) §19, ed. J. Daniélou, 116: ‘God is the Truth which then was manifested to Moses through this inexpressible manifestation of Light’ (διὰ τῆς ἀρρήτου ἐκείνης φωταγωγίας). See G.W.H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford, 1976), s.v. φωταγωγία. 15  Origen, Homilies on Numbers, XVI 9,2, ed. M. Borret et al., SC 442 (Paris, 1999), 262. 13 14

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profoundly (τοῖς δὲ βαθύτερον μεμαθηκόσι), they refer also to the nourishing word of truth, according to the divine command of the Word.16

The sacraments of Baptism and Eucharist are considered to be the basis of spiritual life. It should be noted that there is no ‘superiority’ of the latter over the former, as Daniélou suggests with regard to Origen.17 Neither Origen nor Gregory should be seen as ‘Gnostics’ or ‘Messalians’. Therefore, it seems to me that the word ἁπλοῦς in this text of Origen should not be understood in a pejorative way. It is true that there are those who are advanced in γνῶσις, as Gregory emphasized in an impressive way in the same book, using the figure of Moses ascending the mountain. But Origen and Gregory do not say that those who are able to receive a deeper ‘knowledge’ no longer have to receive holy communion and may separate themselves from the Church. That is what the word and indicates in the text of Gregory and in the last two texts quoted from Origen. The word καί should not be overlooked. It indicates that there is no separation to be made between sacramental and spiritual nourishment. The latter is to be seen as a development of the former that provides a deeper ‘knowledge’ according to the spiritual level of the one who meditates on the treasures contained in the text of the Sacred Word. The Church as Mother and Nourisher ‘Wisdom’ is given in the Church, that is, in the celebration of the Word and the sacrament of the Eucharist. That becomes evident when in the same book Gregory uses the image of the Church as a ‘Mother’. Moses, growing up at the court of Pharaoh, was nourished by his biological mother. The daughter of Pharaoh, who raised him, represents the profane culture. That means, he says, that ‘during our education [i.e. when we study the Greek philosophers] we should not separate ourselves from the nourishing milk of the Church’.18 In other words, this ‘nourishing milk’ is Christ who is present in the Church as Word and as Sacrament, or better, who is present in the sacraments of the Word and the Eucharist.

16  Origen, Commentary on John, tom. 32, ed. A.E. Brooke, The Commentary of Origen on St John’s Gospel, vol. 2 (Cambridge, 1896), 196. 17   Jean Daniélou, Origène (Paris, 1948), 77: ‘Le culte visible et les sacrements semblent nécessaires seulement pour les simples. Il y a une affirmation claire de la supériorité de la manducation spirituelle’. 18   Life of Moses II, § 12, ed. J. Daniélou, 112.

El proceder teológico de Gregorio de Nisa en De Vita Moysis e In Canticum Canticorum Gabriel Jaramillo, Pontificia Universidad Javeriana, Bogotá, Colombia

Abstract In the two most important mystical works of Nysenus’ theological maturity, several elements can be perceived in common that reveal a very profound synthesis of the author, as well as his particular way of proceeding theologically. The present article proposes the possibility of presenting the theological work of Gregory of Nyssa in De Vita Moysis and In Canticum Canticorum within a conceptual framework by means of the categories: μυστικά, μυσταγωγία, μυστήριον, ἐπέκτασις, γνόφος and ἀκολουθία. This work is part of the doctoral research that the same author is carrying out at the Pontificia Universidad Javeriana de Bogotá (Colombia), entitled: Quehacer teológico de Gregorio de Nisa y renovación del quehacer teológico hoy, aportes desde De Vita Moysis e In Canticum Canticorum.

Luego de haber planteado la vida y el contexto de Gregorio de Nisa, en el cual se identificó a un teológo que devela su corazón por medio de sus obras escritas y que al mismo tiempo, tuvo la habilidad literaria para mostrar la profundidad de su experiencia de fe, se pasó a analizar los textos desde la hermenéutica de Paul Ricoeur, teniendo como base la edición griega de la colección Gregorii Nysseni Opera. El análisis de los textos en cuestión, permitió iden­ tificar las categorías más importantes de la manera de hacer teología por parte de Gregorio, así como la elaboración de un círculo hermenéutico de comprensión de su pensamiento, para luego poder trazar un puente con el presente y las riquezas que todavía puede aportar en la comprensión del quehacer teológico contemporáneo. Establecida la intencionalidad, en lo que sigue de la exposición se abordará en un primer momento, algunas conclusiones del análisis y el desafío de estructurar el proceder Niseno por categorías (1), en un segundo momento, se expondrá una propuesta de estructuración de las categorías por dimensiones del quehacer teológico (2) y finalmente, se describirá a modo de conclusión, un marco conceptual del quehacer teológico de Gregorio en De Vita Moysis e In Canticum Canticorum (3).

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1.  La forma teológica de proceder de Gregorio por categorías El análisis de las dos obras permitió identificar las distintas categorías en las cuales se expresa el quehacer teológico1 del Niseno, como un ejercicio centrado en la Sagrada Escritura, abierto al misterio con una actitud apofática2 y desde una disposición de seguir a Cristo en un camino progresivo de conformación con Él3. El mundo que los textos abren al lector devela un teólogo sistemático y a-sistemático al mismo tiempo, en cuanto que por un lado se percibe una concatenación ordenada de ideas y, por otro lado, existe una profundidad relacional que escapa a un intento de esquematización, porque todo parece estar conectado dentro del mundo ontológico del Niseno4. Si bien es cierto que hablar de una categoría en Gregorio, significa al mismo tiempo considerarla en su relación con las otras como si formaran una misma red conceptual, es posible identificar ciertos niveles de comprensión entre las categorías y agruparlas de una manera tentativa. En coherencia con lo anterior y reconociendo la importancia de comprender a Gregorio dentro del tejido relacional de las distintas categorías identificadas, se quiere proponer un círculo de comprensión que permita identificar las particularidades del quehacer teológico de Gregorio desde la apropiación hermenéutica que se ha hecho de las obras analizadas. Para tal efecto, se agruparon las categorías más importantes que se encontraron en los textos según seis dimensiones de aproximación teológica, a saber: relacional, litúrgica, revelada, antropológica, epistemológica y exegética. La distribución de las categorías según las dimensiones se hizo de la siguiente manera:

1   Quehacer teológico se comprende en un doble sentido: como ‘ejercicio vital … gimansia’, Ángel Cordovilla, El ejercicio de la teología, Introducción al pensar teológico y a sus principales figuras (Salamanca, 2007), 9 y ‘necesidad y tarea por realizar’ (Olegario González, El quehacer de la teología. Génesis. Estructura. Misión [Salamanca, 2008], 16). 2   El apofatismo de Gregorio según Maspero, es una “condición epistemológica esencial del mismo acto teológico”, Giulio Maspero, Miguel Brugarolas e Ilaria Vigorelli (ed.), Gregory of Nyssa: In Canticum Canticorum. Analytical and Supporting Studies. Proceedings of the 13th International Colloquium (Leiden, Boston, 2018), 3. 3   La conformación con Cristo según Moutsoulas, “constituye una de las ideas de base del ensamble del pensamiento teológico de Gregorio … estudiando la noción de santidad en Gregorio entramos en la substancia de su teología”, Elias Moutsoulas, ‘La “sainté” dans les œuvres biographiques de Grégoire de Nysse’, en Andreas Spira (ed.), The Biographical Works of Gregory of Nyssa, Patristic Monography Series (Philadelphia, 1984), 221-40, 221. 4   Véase: Salvatore Taranto, Gregorio di Nissa, un contributo alla storia dell’interpretazione (Brescia, 2009), 17-40.



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Dimensión Relacional

Litúrgica

Revelada

Antropológica Epistemológica

Exegética

Categorías μετουσία διάθεσις ἐπιθυμία αἴσθησις ἅπτεται ἀνιπταμένῃ ἔκστασις ἄδυτον ἐνοικείωσις ἀνάκρασις κοινωνία σχέσις μυστικά

χειραγωγία ὁδηγία φωταγωγία ἁγιότης βαπτίσμα πνεῦμα μέθην μίμησις ὁμοίωσις ἄνοδον καθαρότης μετανοία μεταποίησις συμμεμορφῶσθα μυσταγωγία

θεολογία θεοφανεία οἰκονομία σταυρός ἱστορία φιλανθρωπία φιλόχριστος παρουσία θαῦμα κατάβασις μυστήριον

φύσις συνεργία κίνησις διάστημα προαίρεσις παρρησία τρέχει παράδοξον ἀρετή βίος καρδία ἀπάθεια ἐρωτικῆ ἀνάβασις ἐπέκτασις

σκοπός θεωρία συμφωνία ἑρμηνεία εὐκτικός ἀκολουθία

ἀπόρρητον θεογνωσία ὑπερκείμενα κατανόησις εὐσέβεια ἀληθεία πίστις γνόφος

Al tratarse de dimensiones, se quiere expresar como en la figura de un poliedro, seis aspectos del quehacer teológico del Niseno que conforman una misma manera de proceder vital, la cual exige ser contemplada de manera holística y en su dinamismo existencial. Las seis dimensiones, constituyen un círculo de comprensión en el cual cada dimensión se entiende desde su relación con las otras, porque se encuentran interconectadas, así como para el funcionamiento del cuerpo necesitan estar unidos los diferentes sistemas: nervioso, linfático, esquelético, muscular, etc. La primera dimensión expresa la interconexión de cada una de las dimensiones del quehacer teológico del Niseno en la relación, porque la constelación de su pensamiento y su manera de proceder como teólogo giran en torno a la ontología relacional trinitaria. En la relación se unen las dimensiones litúrgica y revelada, en cuanto que en la ontología trinitaria se establece un vínculo con la humanidad gracias a la revelación de Dios en la historia y, este vínculo implica una participación real del misterio en el dinamismo litúrgico. Las dimensiones relacional, litúrgica y revelada, conforman un triángulo de comprensión al que orienta constantemente la reflexión del Niseno. Dicho triángulo se conecta al mismo tiempo con el otro triángulo, el cual está constituido por las dimensiones antropológica, epistemológica y exegética. Por medio de estas tres últimas dimensiones, se acentúa la posición del teólogo ante el misterio revelado y su deseo de entrar en relación con él por medio de la interpretación espiritual de la Sagrada Escritura, el cultivo de la vida virtuosa y la disposición epistemológica de corte apofático que transparenta Gregorio en sus textos. Considerando estas dimensiones como punto de referencia, se ha intentado agrupar las categorías de la siguiente manera:

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La distribución de categorías en grupos y dimensiones teológicas, responde a un afán de sistematización del quehacer teológico Niseno en las dos obras analizadas. Una propuesta de comprensión que ciertamente coincide con la hipótesis que ha guiado el σκοπός de esta investigación, en cuanto que las categorías que fueron planteadas al principio en forma de pregunta, ahora son presentadas como una propuesta de comprensión en consonancia con las dimensiones que caracterizan el quehacer teológico de Gregorio. En este sentido, las categorías: μυστικά, μυσταγωγία, μυστήριον, ἐπέκτασις, γνόφος y ἀκολουθία, ahora están enriquecidas por el análisis de los textos, en los cuales fue posible ver su conexión con otras categorías y los diferentes sentidos que éstas expresan sobre la forma de proceder del autor. En este orden de ideas, la integración entre las categorías y las dimensiones sería la siguiente: μυστικά como dimensión relacional, μυσταγωγία como dimensión litúrgica, μυστήριον como dimensión revelada, ἐπέκτασις como dimensión antropológica, γνόφος como dimensión epistemológica y ἀκολουθία como dimensión exegética. Una propuesta de agrupamiento de las categorías que sigue siendo coherente con el universo ontológico relacional del Niseno, porque al considerar cada una de las categorías anteriores, se está haciendo referencia a las demás categorías que la integran y la explican según las dimensiones teológicas que se encontraron en los textos, así como en el conjunto de la cosmovisión del autor.



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2.  Estructuración de las categorías por dimensiones del quehacer teológico Cada una de las seis dimensiones y las respectivas categorías que la conforman, posee un significado especial dentro del pensamiento del Niseno. Al usar el lenguaje propio del autor, no solo se expresa un rasgo esencial del proceder del Niseno según las dimensiones mencionadas, sino que también se revela el propio horizonte simbólico del autor, su mundo interpretativo y la manera particular como lo nominaba, apropiaba y relacionaba. Es por este motivo que las seis categorías de análisis que han acompañado la investigación, no se restringen a la dimensión que se les asignó, sino que la superan. Como se verá a continuación, las categorías del Niseno poseen una amplitud de sentidos muy concretos que se van superponiendo unos a otros, así como pasa con los hilos que configuran un tejido. Estructurar las categorías por dimensiones significa un intento por identificar los distintos hilos y como se entretejen. 2.1.  Μυστικά como dimensión relacional La categoría mística en Gregorio está concatenada con las categorías μυστηρίον y μυσταγωγία, así como con su interpretación espiritual de la Escritura y la concatenación de sentidos que surgen del diálogo con la filosofía y la cultura de su tiempo5, las cuales le sirvieron para expresar su apofatismo por medio de un colorido discurso teológico6. En este orden de ideas, cuando Gregorio habla de mística7, lo hace en relación al misterio que se revela en la historia y a su connotación mistagógica en la que el ser humano participa de la vida divina (μετουσία8). Es clara la conexión entre μυστικά, μυστήριον y μυσταγωγία, en cuanto que comparten la misma raíz terminológica y expresan una misma realidad inefable de la cual se puede tener experiencia (αἴσθησις) por medio de la relación (σχέσις). Con la categoría μυστικά se enfatiza de manera especial la experiencia de encuentro con el misterio de Dios, que el Niseno explica con la intensidad de un beso (διὰ τοῦ μυστικοῦ ἐκίνου φιλήματος9) por medio del cual Dios entra en   Véase: Walther Völker, Gregorio di Nissa, filosofo e mistico (Milán, 1973), 9-38.   Véase: Claudio Moreschini, Gregorio di Nissa, Opere dogmatiche (Milán, 2014), 73. 7   Véase: Lucas Mateo-Seco, ‘Mística’, en Diccionario de Gregorio de Nisa (Burgos, 2006), 627-43. 8   Esta es una categoría muy importante que esta fuertemente relacionada con la ontología y la antropología Nisena en cuanto que se trata de la participación de la creatura finita en la infinitud de Dios. Aparece treinta y siete veces en los textos y haciendo alusión a la participación en la vida divina, véase: David Balas, ‘Metousia (Participación)’, en Diccionario de Gregorio de Nisa (2006), 616-8, 617. 9   Gregorii Nysseni In Canticum Canticorum VI, ed. Hermannus Langerbeck (Leiden, 1960), 323.19. De ahora en adelante se citará como GNO VI. 5 6

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relación amorosa con el alma10. Dicha relación está caracterizada por la realidad bautismal en la que el creyente se une íntimamente con Cristo y por la manifestación de su presencia en la Sagrada Escritura11. La relación de unión (ἀνάκρασις/κοινωνία12) con Dios, ciertamente es proporcional a la propia disposición relacional (διάθεσις13), por medio de la cual el alma entra en el santuario de la presencia divina (ἄδυτον14), se deja habitar (ἐνοικείωσις) por ella y toma conciencia de como la toca interiormente (ἅπτεται15). La fuerza amorosa (τὴν ἐρωτικὴν διάθεσιν16) que surge de esta relación, ordena los deseos del alma (ἡ ἐπιθυμία τὴν πρὸς τὸ θεῖον17) y la impulsan fuera de sí (ἔκστασις) en un vuelo ascensional (ἀνιπταμένῃ) según el dinamismo de permanencia y despliegue discipular que presentan los textos. La mística se convierte en una condición de posibilidad del quehacer teológico, en cuanto que este supone una experiencia viva de encuentro con Cristo, en la que el teólogo se siente impulsado a salir en éxtasis hacia las periferias existenciales y hacia una mayor comprensión del misterio de Dios por medio de la relación de intimidad con Él. La actitud relacional que implica el quehacer teológico Niseno, es una invitación a acercarse a la revelación con una actitud apofática arrodillada y abierta a seguir creciendo en esa relación per­ sonal con Dios en la epéctasis, porque dejar de avanzar no es otra cosa que perder la disposición mística de estar encendido en deseos de buscar al amado del alma. 10   “Per Gregorio (come per Origene, Filone e altri antichi) mystikós definisce soltanto il senso di mistero che circonda Dio e il contatto che in vario modo si può avere con lui”, Manlio Simonetti, ‘Introduzione’, en La Vita di Mosè (Bologna, 1984), IX-XL, XXXVII. 11   De las diecinueve veces que aparece el término en los dos textos, una corresponde al beso místico, ocho recurrencias están relacionadas con la realidad bautismal y diez con el sentido místico de la Sagrada Escritura. 12   κοινωνίας indica una participación relacional que implica discernimiento, en cuanto que el hombre está en libre disposición de hacerse partícipe de Dios o del mal, así como de participar su experiencia con sus hermanos. Mientras que ἀνάκρασις aparece solo en cuatro ocasiones y se usa solo para designar la relación de unión mística con Dios y la unión de naturalezas en Cristo, κοινωνία posee un significado más amplio según la relación a la cual se incline la persona y aparece cuarenta veces en los textos. 13   Esta categoría relacional aparece treinta y dos veces en los textos, especialmente en In Canticum donde aparece en veintidos oportunidades. Como se puede ver en los textos, la διάθεσις guarda una conexión muy especial con αἴσθησις, ἐπιθυμία, καρδία y σχέσις, en cuanto que la relación implica una disposición cordial para poder sentir espiritualmente a Dios y poder orientar los deseos hacia un progreso constante en el bien. 14   La referencia al santuario del conocimiento divino también hace referencia a lo íntimo del corazón donde tiene lugar el encuentro del alma con Dios. 15   Esta es una categoría relacional muy importante que usa el Niseno para designar la dimensión de encuentro con Dios, así como la necesidad de discernir si se trata de un toque de Dios o del enemigo del alma. Aparece en los textos unas veinte veces. 16   Véase: GNO VI, 264. 17   GNO VI, 313.24-314.1.



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2.2.  Μυσταγωγία como dimensión litúrgica Con la categoría mistagogía18 se expresa el camino de la experiencia mística, como una relación personal que implica un proceso que va del bautismo a la eucaristía19, por medio del cual Dios va llevando de la mano al creyente (χειραγωγία20) hacia ascensos (ἄνοδον) cada vez más elevados. La mistagogía implica un itinerario espiritual guiado por el Espíritu (πνεῦμα), a través del cual se va viviendo un proceso de transformación en Cristo, en el cual el discípulo se va haciendo semejante (ὁμοίωσις) a la divinidad a través de la imitación (μίμησις) de sus virtudes. En coherencia con lo anterior, la mistagogía es entendida como una conformación (συμμεμορφῶσθα) del alma y de la Iglesia con Cristo, en cuanto que supone adquirir la forma del arquetipo de una manera personal y encarnada, de manera que se avance siempre hacia la meta de la santificación (ἁγιότης) o divinización (θεοποίησις21), que como se vió, su límite consiste en no tenerlo. Ser santo para Gregorio, consiste en el desarrollo de la Gracia bautismal por medio de una transformación de gloria en gloria (ἀπὸ δόξης εἰς δόξαν μεταμορφοῦσθαι22) en la que se va logrando una mayor participación de la vida divina (τοῦ θεοῦ μετουσία23) y en la cual el teólogo se convierte en amigo de Dios así como Moisés (τοῦ θεοῦ φίλος). En la epéctasis, la mistagogía es entendida como una continua iniciación en el misterio en el que todo avance es tan solo un peldaño para continuar la carrera hacia la santidad. La teología entendida en este dinamismo, dispone el corazón del teólogo a través de la vivencia de un itinerario sacramental en el cual Gregorio relaciona las tres etapas de la vida espiritual con los sacramentos de iniciación cristiana, como un proceso continuo de conversión (μετανοία). De esta manera, quien comienza su camino por la iluminación del bautismo (βαπτίσμα) y va avanzando   Véase: G. Maspero, ‘Iniciación cristiana’, en Diccionario de Gregorio de Nisa (2006), 544-9.   Véase: Jean Daniélou, Platonisme et Théologie Mystique, doctrine spirituelle de Saint Grégoire de Nysse (Paris, 1944), 17-32. 20   Esta categoría está estrechamente relacionada con la mistagogía y es más frecuente que esta última. En los dos textos μυσταγωγία aparece doce veces, μυηθεὶς cinco veces y χειραγωγία veintiun veces. Mientras χειραγωγία expresa el sentido pedagógico del proceso en el que Dios va guiando al alma, μυσταγωγία y μυηθεὶς se usan en relación directa con el misterio y su connotación litúrgica. Las antedichas categorías son aplicadas a Dios, al iniciado y al proceso por el cual son conducidos. Otras categorías que están relacionadas con el sentido pedagógico del proceso que se está enunciando, son φωταγογία y ὁδηγία. 21   Si bien esta categoría no es explicíta en los textos, está presente de forma implícita como la meta última de la perfección en la virtud, porque como afirma David Balas a próposito del término θεοποίηεσις: ‘This is evident especially in his latest two major works, De vita Moysis and In Canticum canticorum, both stressing humanity’s calling for endlessly progressive participation in God. It would be easy to show how these and other similar doctrines imply more or less clearly the deification of human beings’, D. Balas, ‘Deification’, en G. Maspero y L. Mateo-Seco (ed.), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, Boston, 2010), 210-3, 212. 22   GNO VI, 160.3. 23   GNO VI, 280.4-11. 18 19

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por medio de la purificación (καθαρότης) de su mente y corazón con la ayuda de la plenitud de la Gracia recibida en la confirmación, va siendo fortalecido para seguir avanzando hacia el culmen de la vida cristiana en el sacramento de la eucaristía. En la unión eucarística tiene lugar la plenitud del encuentro místico que el Niseno expresa con el oxymoron de la sobria ebriedad (νηφάλιον μέθην24). La mistagogía ciertamente es una pedagogía para el misterio25, en la cual se integran el estudio26, la vida espiritual, la formación virtuosa, la celebración comunitaria de la fe, la capacidad de explicar los misterios divinos al pueblo y convertirse en guía (ὁδηγία) para que otros también puedan avanzar en el camino virtuoso. Una pedagogía que está inspirada en la ontología trinitaria y, busca hacerla concreta en la comunidad eclesial y la teología del cuerpo místico de la Iglesia. Un cuerpo que celebra el misterio en los sacramentos y en comunión con Cristo cabeza, con quien al mismo tiempo está unido a toda la humanidad que ya fue redimida en el misterio pascual de Cristo y está aguardando la manifestación gloriosa de su identidad en su segunda venida. 2.3. Μυστήριον como dimensión revelada La relación mística a la que introduce la mistagogía gira en torno al misterio de Dios, el cual ha sido revelado a plenitud en la Encarnación del Logos. Se trata del misterio del amor de Dios por la humanidad (φιλανθρωπία), que lo lleva a abajarse (κατάβασις) haciéndose semejante a la condición humana excepto en el pecado (Hb 4,15) y cargarla sobre sus hombros para elevarla a la participación en la vida divina. En la filantropía divina, Cristo quiere hacerse amigo (φιλόχριστος) de todo aquel que lo busca en la epéctasis por medio del camino mistagógico ya mencionado. El misterio27 es el contenido del quehacer teológico, en cuanto que se trata de la persona de Cristo en su unidad con el Padre y el Espíritu, así como en su unidad hipostática. Un misterio al que solo se puede acceder gracias a la revelación de Dios (θεοφανεία) y su presencia en la historia (ἱστορία) por medio del plan salvador que tiene su culmen en la encarnación (οἰκονομία). Μυστήριον es   GNO VI, 362.12.   Leemans realiza un estudio interesante sobre las estrategias pedagógicas que utiliza el Niseno en sus homilías ad populum, que se podría aplicar tanto en In Canticum Canticorum como en De Vita Moysis por su fuerte orientación parenética, Véase: Johan Leemans, ‘Bible, Rhetoric and Theology: Some Examples of Mystagogical Strategies in St. Gregory of Nyssa’s Sermons’, en Paul Van Geest (ed.), Seeing Through the Eyes of Faith. New Approaches to the Mystagogy of the Church Fathers (Leuven, 2016), 105-25. 26   ‘La historia te grita que no te atrevas a proponer una enseñanza o un consejo a los oyentes, si antes no has adquierido autoridad en eso mismo a través del mucho estudio’, L. Mateo-Seco, Sobre la Vida de Moisés (Madrid, 1993), II 55; Gregorii Nysseni Opera VII/1, ed. Herbertus Musurillo (Leiden, 1964), 48.22-49.3. De ahora en adelante se citará como GNO VII/1. 27   Para una comprensión más amplia de esta categoría, véase: G. Maspero, ‘Misterio’, en Diccionario de Gregorio de Nisa (2006), 623-7 y Friedhelm Mann, Lexicon Gregorianum VI (Boston, 2007), 492-502. 24

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la categoría más recurrente de todas las que comparten su misma raíz terminológica con un total de noventa y cinco apariciones, en las cuales están incluidas todas las fuentes del misterio cristiano (αἱ τοῦ μυστηρίου πηγαί28) que brotan del Evangelio (τὸ εὐαγγελικὸν μυστήριον29). El misterio constituye el centro de la teología (θεολογία), la cual gira entorno al misterio trinitario y el conocimiento que de Él se puede tener por medio de la relación personal con Cristo. Una relación que pasa por el dinamismo litúrgico sacramental en el cual el teólogo se va conformando con la cruz (σταυρός30) de Cristo desde una actitud de humildad y asombro ante su misterio. Desde la actitud de asombro ante las maravillas de Dios (θαῦμα31) y ante su presencia, el teólogo está llamado a contemplar el misterio virginal de la Madre de Dios32, así como el misterio de la unión mística del alma y de la Iglesia con Cristo que pasa por los sacramentos, así como los demás misterios de salvación (τὰ τῆς σωτηρίας μυστήρια33) en los que se unen historia y economía. Una contemplación que implica una actitud de fe y de acogida apofática de su presencia (παρουσία), porque el misterio está muy por encima de la comprensión humana, pero poco a poco se va desvelando en el dinamismo mistagógico. 2.4.  Ἐπέκτασις como dimensión antropológica Hablar de la epéctasis34 como la dimensión antropológica, tal vez pueda parecer un poco reductivo en cuanto que ella forma parte de la aproximación ontológica que inspira el quehacer teológico del Niseno. En este sentido, la epéctasis orienta también su epistemología35 y la concatenación de sentidos que entran en juego en la interpretación espiritual del Niseno, porque ella constituye el hilo conductor de su pensamiento36. No obstante, según la inspiración paulina de la cual proviene (Flp 3:13) y el uso que de esta categoría hace el Niseno en las dos obras analizadas, se podría proponer la ἐπέκτασις como la expresión de una actitud antropológica del quehacer teológico del Niseno. Dicha actitud se caracteriza por un movimiento (κίνησις) que es impulsado por el deseo (ἐπιθυμία) de correr (τρέχει) ascensionalmente (ἀνάβασις) hacia la perfección en la vida virtuosa (τοῦ κατ’ ἀρετὴν βίου τὴν τελειότητα37).   GNO VI, 250.18.   GNO VI, 436.4. 30   GNO VI, 81.19. 31   Esta es una categoría muy importante que acompaña la categoría misterio y en la cual se expresa la grandeza de la revelación divina, así como la actitud de asombro de quien lo reconoce presente en la propia historia. Aparece cuarenta y seis veces en los textos. 32  ‘τὴν παρθένον μυστήριον’ (GNO VII/1, 77.23-4), ‘πῶς ἐν παρθενίᾳ τόκος’ (GNO VI, 338.10). 33   GNO VI, 378.2-3. 34   L. Mateo-Seco, ‘Epéctasis’, en Diccionario de Gregorio de Nisa (2006), 349-52. El término como tal aparece trece veces en los textos. 35   GNO VI, 352. 36   J. Daniélou, Platonisme et Théologie Mystique (1944), 273. 37   GNO VI, 418.5-6. 28 29

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El fundamento ontológico de la ἐπέκτασις, tiene su base en la diferenciación que hace el Niseno entre la infinita (ἀόριστος) naturaleza de Dios (ἡ θεία φύσις38) y las limitadas capacidades humanas (ἡ ἀνθρωπίνη δύναται φύσις39). En medio de la finitud creatural y la infinitud divina, existe un abismo (διαστηματική40) en el cual se da el encuentro entre Cristo y el deseo infinito de perfección que anida en el corazón humano por ser creado a imagen y semejanza de la belleza divina. En medio del encuentro paradojal (παράδοξον) entre la creatura y el creador, se da un proceso sinérgico entre la Gracia divina41 y la libre cooperación humana (προαίρεσις) que se deja atraer por la belleza infinita de Dios. La dinámica sinérgica entre Gracia y libre cooperación, está caracterizada a su vez por un doble movimiento que es expresado en la misma composición de la palabra, porque ἐπι significa: ‘estar sobre, ir hacia sobre, de ahí’42, lo cual indica algo de lo cual se participa pero no del todo, porque se está en tránsito hacia ello y, ἐκ hace alusión a algo que está afuera, lejos y que implica cambio43. A este propósito afirma Daniélou, que ‘por un lado, se trata de un cierto contacto con Dios, una participación real, una divinización (ἐπί) […] Pero, Dios al mismo tiempo permanece siempre más allá y el alma debe salir siempre de sí misma (εκ)’44. Se trata de un movimiento de inspiración paulina, en el que se busca permanecer en lo que ya se es desde el bautismo: ‘Cristo vive en mí … mi vida está afianzada en la fe del Hijo de Dios’ (Gal 2,20) y, al mismo se aspira a un despliegue continuo: ‘olvido lo que dejé atrás y me lanzo a lo que está por delante’ (Flp 3,13)45. En la epéctasis, la mística es presentada como un deseo ardiente (ἐρωτικῆ46) e impasible (ἀπάθεια) que saca al alma fuera de sí, impulsándola a buscar a su amado en un continuo progreso en el doble movimiento de permanencia y despliegue, el cual es graficado por el Niseno en las alas que Dios le da al corazón (καρδία) en la unión mística47. De esta manera, se unen contemplación y acción en el quehacer del teólogo capadocio, ojos y manos48, porque la mirada amorosa de Dios (τῆς φιλανθρωπίας ὀφθαλμοῖς ὁ θεός49) le devuelve las alas al alma50,   GNO VII/1, 4.9-10.   GNO VI, 26.2-27.5. 40   GNO VI, 458.20. 41  ‘ἐπεκτείνουσα οὔτε ὁ λόγος συνεργῶν αὐτῇ πρὸς τὴν ἄνοδον’ (GNO VI, 291.17). 42   Amador García, ‘ἐπί’, en Diccionario del griego bíblico, setenta y nuevo testamento (Navarra, 2016), 321-2, 322. 43   A. García, ‘ἐκ’, en Diccionario del griego bíblico (2016), 256-7, 256. 44   J. Daniélou, From Glory to Glory, texts from Gregory of Nyssa’s mystical writings (New York, 2001), 59. 45   Véase: GNO VII/2, 122-3. 46   GNO VII/1, 114.5. 47   GNO VII/1, 117-8. 48   Véase: GNO VI, 393.19-394.4. 49   GNO VI, 449.2. 50   Véase: Gregorio, ‘Omelie sul Cantico dei Cantici’, en Vito Limone y Claudio Moreschini (ed.), Origene, Gregorio di Nissa, Sul Cantico dei Cantici (Milán, 2016), 752-1533, 1497. 38 39



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de manera que cuanto más firme permanezca esta en la roca de Cristo, ‘tanto más veloz corre su carrera’51. En la epéctasis, el alma no sólo recupera las alas que tenía al principio de la creación, sino que además recupera la confianza filial (παρρησία) para dirigirse a Dios en la oración y para hablar con valentía de Él (Hch 26:26). 2.5. Γνόφος como dimensión epistemológica Según el itinerario mistagógico que propone el Niseno, la γνόφος52 es el lugar en el que se aprende a ver a Dios en el no ver, porque se tiene contacto con aquella realidad inefable (ἀπόρρητον) que está por encima (ὑπερκείμενα) de las capacidades humanas. Una realidad que solo alcanza a ser percibida (κατανόησις) en comunión con la fe (πίστις) y la búsqueda de la verdad (ἀληθεία), la cual está envuelta en tinieblas. La tiniebla según lo que develan los textos analizados, refleja la intimidad de la relación mística con Dios y el carácter apofático del conocimiento divino (θεογνωσία). Dicho apofatismo es participación en el misterio divino, la posibilidad de nominarlo en la relación y a través de su acción creadora (δύναμις), pero, al mismo hace referencia a la negación de la pretensión de encerrar a Dios en un concepto y fabricar un ídolo (εἴδωλον53) a la medida del propio razonamiento, porque ‘el conocimiento de la esencia divina (τῆς θείας οὐσιας54) es inaccesible … a toda naturaleza intelectual’55. En la tiniebla, quien desea conocer el misterio de Dios aprende a ensanchar su horizonte epistemológico por medio de la fe y la piedad (εὐσέβεια), las cuales van acompañadas del crecimiento en la vida virtuosa, porque se trata de un conocimiento desde la experiencia de Dios en el corazón. Dicha experiencia supone dejarse habitar para sentir como Dios ‘toca la puerta de nuestra mente por medio de alegorías y de símbolos, y dice “ábreme”’56. La tiniebla impulsa el recurso al lenguaje metafórico como medio de expresión del carácter inefable de la teología, como se puede ver en la metáfora de las manos de Dios. A través de ellas, Gregorio representa los dos sentidos de su apofatismo, porque la mano expresa potencia creadora de Dios (ἡ ἐνεργητικὴ αὐτοῦ δύναμις)57 y, por otro lado, ‘la mano constituye para el alma el límite del conocimiento de aquel que es inexpresable’58, porque su naturaleza (θείαν φύσιν59) está por encima de la comprensión humana (ἡ κατανόησις ὑπερκειμένη60).   En L. Mateo-Seco, Sobre la Vida de Moisés (1993), II 244.   Véase: J. Daniélou, From Glory to Glory (2001), 23-33. 53   GNO VII/1, 88.4. 54   GNO VII/1, 87.12. 55   En L. Mateo-Seco, Sobre la Vida de Moisés (1993), II 163. 56   Gregorio, ‘Omelie sul Cantico dei Cantici’, en V. Limone y C. Moreschini (ed.), Origeno, Gregorio di Nissa, Cantico dei Cantici (2016), 1285. 57   Ibid. 1305. 58   Ibid. 59   GNO VI, 339.6. 60   GNO VI, 337.1-7. 51 52

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2.6.  Ἀκολουθία como dimensión exegética Finalmente la ἀκολουθία representa el método que le permite al Niseno sistematizar de cierta forma su quehacer teológico eminentemente relacional61. Esta es la categoría más recurrente en las obras con ciento seis recurrencias y al mismo tiempo, la más amplia en sus significados, por ser empelada no solo como método exegético para encadenar causalmente los diferentes sentidos que aparecen en la Escritura, sino también para unir lógicamente: Escritura y filosofía, la concatenación de pensamientos diversos, así como el orden cosmológico y el orden de la historia de la salvación. El término también lo usa el Niseno para el seguimiento discipular (ἀκολουθεῖν62) que está intrínseco en su manera de proceder teológica. Como método exégetico, la ἀκολουθία le permite al Niseno entender la armonía de los textos del Antiguo Testamento, entender su orden y estructura, e interpretarlos (ἑρμηνεία) desde el misterio de la Encarnación revelado en Cristo y de la mano de la teología paulina. En este sentido, la ἀκολουθία acompaña de inicio a fin el quehacer teológico presente en De Vita Moysis e In Canticum Canticorum a través de un σκοπός virtuoso al cual se dirige y en sinfonía (συμφωνία) con su método de interpretación espiritual (θεωρία). En la ἀκολουθία, el quehacer teológico del Niseno se entiende como un “movimiento que lleva de la vida al misterio”63, del sentido literal al espiritual, según las circunstancias lo requieran. La ἀκολουθία se presenta dentro del análisis, como un método espiritual a través del cual Gregorio se aproxima a la Sagrada Escritura y a la historia en clave de salvación, para integrarlas y enlazarlas en su reflexión apofática. En una lectura atenta de los textos, se puede percibir entre líneas, como Gregorio ha saboreado los textos en la oración (προσεύχομαι), ora con sus fieles para pedir la iluminación del Espíritu cuando el sentido resulta particularmente oscuro64, se dispone en oración antes de tomar el timón del disurso65 y encuentra en las mismas palabras de la Escritura un significado de oración (εὐκτικήν66). En la ἀκολουθία, Gregorio concatena las categorías y dimensiones de su quehacer teológico como una sola realidad y, al mismo tiempo, ella le permite distinguir las conexiones y acentos particulares que existen entre ellas. Por medio de la ἀκολουθία se conectan la teología paulina con el itinerario espiritual de Moisés y el correr apasionado de la esposa tras los perfumes del amado, como si fuesen los acordes de fondo de la sinfonía que se encuentra en los textos. 61   ‘Nos encontramos así ante un término clave de una teología preocupada sobre todo por marcar las relaciones entre todos los ámbitos de la realidad, y en este sentido el pensamiento de Gregorio representa uno de los esfuerzos más importantes realizados por lograr una auténtica sistematización teológica’, Gil-Tamayo, “Akolouthia”, en Diccionario de Gregorio de Nisa (2006), 54-63, 63. 62   GNO VI, 356.13. 63   G. Maspero, ΘΕΟΛΟΓΙΑ, ΟΙΚΟΝΟΜΙΑ Ε ΙΣΤΟΡΙΑ: La Teologia della Storia di Gregorio di Nissa (Pamplona, 203), 395. 64   Véase: GNO VI, 295.1ss. 65   Véase: GNO VI, 342.2-3. 66   GNO VI, 304.10-6.



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3. Conclusión Gracias a las riquezas encontradas en los textos, la identificación de las categorías y su agrupamiento por dimensiones, es posible presentar ahora a modo de conclusión, un marco conceptual del quehacer teológico de Gregorio, que permita sintetizar su quehacer teológico en De Vita Moysis e In Canticum Canticorum. El intento de sistematización, responde a un deseo de facilitar su comprensión y resaltar ciertos acentos presentes en las categorías encontradas, porque si bien todas poseen un trasfondo común en el cual están conectadas según el modo de proceder del Niseno, a su vez expresan énfasis particulares. En la ἀκολουθία se puede sistematizar de cierta forma el pensamiento de Gregorio, según el énfasis particular que él expresa en sus textos. De esta manera, se percibe un énfasis especial en los primeros tres grupos de categorías por estar conectadas más estrechamente con el misterio de Dios y su deseo de entrar en relación con la humanidad a través de la revelación; y, del mismo modo, se encuentra un acento particular en los últimos tres grupos, por tener su polo gravitacional en la actitud humana ante el misterio67. Dos grupos que a su vez conforman las dos caras de una misma realidad, como se puede apreciar en la siguiente gráfica:

67   Dado lo suscinto de este análisis no es posible detenerse en el estudio de algunos textos que soportan estas afirmaciones. Para la conexión de las tres primeras dimensiones, véase la relación explícita que hace el Niseno en: GNO VI, 308.5-15 y para la conexión de las últimas tres, veáse: GNO VI, 352.6-4, donde si bien no aparece explícitamente la categoría γνόφος, el contexto apofático y la alusión al tercer grado de la unión con Dios en la tiniebla son bastante claros.

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Los dos grupos o triángulos de categorías, conforman el marco conceptual desde el cual se propone acercarse a la comprensión del quehacer teológico del capadocio, como un diálogo entre Dios y la humanidad. En ellos se explicita de cierta manera el dinamismo constante entre Gracia divina y libre cooperación humana, el cual caracteriza a la teología Nisena como un continuo ejercicio espiritual por cooperar libre y activamente con la χειραγωγία divina que lo va conduciendo con amor. Los dos triángulos conceptuales tienen su punto de intersección en el culmen de la revelación que tiene lugar en el misterio de la Encarnación del Logos, en el cual se encuentran a su vez el movimiento de κατάβασις y ἀνάβασις por el que Dios se hace uno con la humanidad para elevarla. En Cristo se integran las diferentes dimensiones y categorías del quehacer teológico Niseno como un todo armónico y coherente con el plano ontológico en el que se mueve su pensamiento, como se puede ver en la siguiente gráfica:

En Cristo, plenitud de la revelación del misterio trinitario y plenitud de la humanidad, se expresa la teología como un λόγος de Dios (θεοῦ), en la dinámica constante de κατάβασις y ἀνάβασις, por medio del cual el teólogo acoge el abajamiento del Hijo por medio de su inmersión con Él en el Bautismo, para ser elevado con Él (Flp 2:6-10) en un vuelo ascensional infinito. En la unión de estos dos triángulos acontece el quehacer teológico como un ejercicio encarnado en la historia y abierto al misterio. De esta manera, se llega a un círculo hermenéutico de comprensión del quehacer teológico del Niseno como un sistema relacional, dinámico, apofático y en progreso constante, como se puede ver en esta última grafica:



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Con el círculo se quiere expresar el quehacer teológico de Gregorio como un movimiento constante, que de alguna manera implica un volver una y otra vez sobre la historia y los textos con un ritmo un tanto repetitivo, pero en el que se va enriqueciendo, como si fuese en realidad un espiral. Un espiral que según Daniélou, hacen del pensamiento Niseno no una mera repetición sino siempre algo nuevo y fresco68, porque se trata de un constante volver a nacer en las aguas del bautismo y en él, un continuo volver a las fuentes para encontrar la frescura para seguir avanzando. En el círculo-espiral, se quiere sintetizar de alguna manera el proceder de Gregorio, en cuanto que en él se pueden incluir el poliedro, los triángulos y las demás líneas con sus respectivos polos gravitacionales. El análisis del De Vita Moysis e In Canticum Canticorum, así como las categorías más relevantes que se lograron identificar y el esfuerzo por agruparlas en dimensiones, permiten ahora proponer el quehacer teológico Niseno en el círculo hermenéutico que conforman las categorías: μυστικά, μυσταγωγία, μυστήριον, ἐπέκτασις, γνόφος y ἀκολουθία. Un círculo de comprensión, en el que se puede percibir un fondo común que permite sintonizar con la forma de proceder de Gregorio ante el misterio de Cristo en la historia y su acción trans­ formativa por medio del Espíritu Santo. Dicho círculo hermenéutico se quiere presentar con la esperanza de que dicha sintonía con el autor pueda seguir inspirando la forma de proceder teológica contemporánea. 68

  J. Daniélou, From Glory to Glory (2001), 69.

‘Language is the Author of All these Emotions’: Greek Novels and Christian Affect in Gregory of Nyssa’s Homilies on the Song of Songs Michael Motia, Boston, MA, USA

Abstract Gregory of Nyssa framed Christian perfection as an intensification (epitasis) and expansion (epektasis) of desire for God. While much work has been done on the philosophical and medical sources for Gregory’s theory, this article contextualizes Gregory with Achilles Tatius’s Platonic novel Leucippe and Clitophon and its discussion of language, eros, and affect. Tim Whitmarsh recently argued that Greek novels emphasize ‘dirty love’, or a union that transcends traditional Greek identity. The novels, that is, meditate on how desire can break and reform bonds of community. This mixing of desire and remaking of traditional social bonds was also central to Gregory’s project. More specifically, Tatius’s discussion of the way ‘language’ authors affective states, I argue, is central to Gregory’s project of shaping the proper forms of desire. ‘Bloodless is [affect’s] lacerations, though deep their penetration’, Tatius writes. Gregory’s sermons on the Song of Songs picked up this line of thinking and transformed it into a series of ascetic practices aimed at Christian perfection. By invoking, theorizing, and transforming tropes found in Leucippe and Clitophon, Gregory provided his audience a vivid image of Christian perfection theorized as a ‘purified’ erotic relationship. He produced what Sara Ahmed called a new ‘affective economy’.

In From Shame to Sin, Kyle Harper marks the difference that Christianity makes in sexual ethics like this: ‘Shame is a social concept, instantiated in human emotions; sin is a theological concept. They represent different categories of moral sanction. That is the point: the transition from a late classical to a Christian sexual morality marked a paradigm shift, a quantum leap to a new foundational logic of sexual ethics, in which the cosmos replaced the city as the framework of morality’.1 I think Harper’s narrative is right. In this article, 1   Kyle Harper, From Shame to Sin: The Christian Transformation of Sexual Morality in Late Antiquity, Revealing Antiquity 20 (Cambridge, MA, 2013), 7­-8. Pudicitia, derived from pudor [or in Greek, Sōphrosynē], described the quality of sexual modesty. It meant something different in the case of men and women, free persons and slaves (for whom it had virtually no meaning).… It implied, simultaneously, both the intentional, mental state of sexual propriety and the objective state of bodily sexual integrity.… What is notable about the moralizing literature of the Roman period is a heightened awareness of this duality. (7) Harper’s work continues in a line of work on Christianity and sexuality. See esp. Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, vol. 2, The Use of Pleasure, trans. Robert Hurley (New York,

Studia Patristica CXV, 177-186. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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however, I want to think through those emotions. The imaginative frameworks might have shifted, but Christian moral formation continued to depend on the training and transmission of affect, the moods and feelings, informed by but not reducible to discourse.2 The shift from the city to the cosmos is not exactly the same as a shift from emotion to theology. How does theology teach people to feel? Gregory of Nyssa is a helpful example in that he frames Christian perfection as an intensification (ἐπίτασις) and expansion (ἐπέκτασις) of desire for God. Affect – yearning, anger, fear, grief – is everywhere in Gregory. I will not cover it all here. Instead, I have two goals for this article. First, I want to increase our attention on the circulation of shared, cultivated affects.3 Early Christians are not simply ‘playing with emotions’ to achieve an ideological end; the production of affects is a goal. To ‘feel like a Christian’ is to habituate to ‘structures of feeling’.4 Second, as a way of thinking about Gregory’s creation of ‘Christian’ affect, I want to move beyond the usual suspects of comparison: Plato, Plotinus, Galen, Libanius, Iamblichus, and so on.5 The novel – especially Achilles 1985); id., The History of Sexuality, vol. 3, The Care of the Self, trans. Robert Hurley (New York, 1986); and Peter Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity, Columbia Classics in Religion (New York, 1988). For an influential critique of Foucault, see Simon Goldhill, Foucault’s Virginity: Ancient Erotic Fiction and the History of Sexuality, The W.B. Stanford Memorial Lectures (Cambridge, 1995). 2   That is, I pair Harper’s insights with the work on affect from scholars such as Maia Kotrosits, Rethinking Early Christian Identity: Affect, Violence and Belonging (Minneapolis, 2015). 3   Donovan Schaefer, Religious Affects: Animality, Evolution, and Power (Durham, 2015), 119. Schaefer argues that whereas the ‘rhetorical approach’ sees ‘strategic actors’ evoking emotions for an ideological end, affect theory encourages people to ask: ‘How are discourses, ideologies, material forms, and other elements of religion generated to produce affects?’ 4   For a subtle discussion of emotion and body in Byzantium, see Susan Ashbrook Harvey and Margaret Mullett (eds), Knowing Bodies, Passionate Souls: Sense Perceptions in Byzantium, Dumbarton Oaks Byzantine Symposia and Colloquia 9 (Washington, DC, 2017), esp. Ruth Webb’s analysis of the affective work of rhetoric, ‘Virtual Sensations and Inner Visions: Words and the Senses in Late Antiquity and Byzantium’, 261-70. See also Blake Leyerle, The Narrative Shape of Emotion in the Preaching of John Chrysostom, Christianity in Late Antiquity (Oakland, forthcoming). I borrow the phrase ‘structures of feeling’ from Raymond Williams; see, e.g., his The Long Revolution (London, 1961), esp. 69-126. 5   Byzantine tradition would even claim that Achilles Tatius became a Christian bishop after writing the novel. For more on the ancient novel, see K. Harper, From Shame to Sin (2013), 78: ‘Achilles has no doctrine, other than eros and its compatibility with the narrative arc of human life. It is the genius of his art to raise romance to heights of self-awareness that allow it to compete with philosophy. Achilles does not argue for eros. He, unlike Plato, unlike the Stoics, embraces the world, with its ceaseless cycle of rebirth and death in which eros finds its natural place. And he laughs at anyone who believes it might be otherwise’. There’s good reason for emphasizing Plato’s influence on Gregory. Gregory stages some of his writings as Plato’s dialogues. Readers of Gregory, myself included, therefore, often assume that the Symposium or the Phaedo are the backdrops against which to set Gregory. But this strategy of signaling to readers familiar settings only to upend them is a common rhetorical move in antiquity. That is, it does not limit the context



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Tatius’s Platonic novel Leucippe and Clitophon6 and its discussion of language, eros, and affect – was also part of what Susan Choi calls the ‘archive of feelings’.7 The novel taught late Romans one way to feel their way through an erotic life; Gregory was looking for a different way.8 The Ancient Novel The first three centuries of the Common Era produced what we now call the ‘ancient novel’.9 The seven extant texts – two in Latin, five in Greek – are largely characterized by young, heterosexual couples instantly falling desperately in love, overcoming some kind of hardship (pirates and shipwrecks are common) and ending up getting married, remaining good, and supposedly living happily ever after.10 By the second century, the ancient novel became a rival genre with philosophy.11 Authors like Achilles might not have coined ‘doctrines’, but like Stoicism or Platonism the novel could tell a coherent story about the entire arc of a life, what was worth pursuing, and how to organize ideals and cultural values to achieve goodness.12 Erotic literature, then, was one for Gregory’s writings. Achilles’s novel is set just outside Athens in the shade of plane trees, and its lead character’s name, Leucippe, literally means ‘white horse’. It is a literary dare to Plato’s Phaedrus. 6   Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon, trans. Tim Whitmarsh, Oxford World’s Classics (Oxford, 2001). Greek in E. Vilborg, Achilles Tatius. Leucippe and Clitophon (Stockholm, 1955), 1-161. All translations of Leucippe and Clitophon are from Whitmarsh unless noted otherwise. 7   Susan Choi, Trust Exercise (New York, 2019), 54. 8   By putting Gregory in conversation with the novel, moreover, we can see how Gregory ‘intensifies’ love and turns agape into eros, which he says is central to his Homilies on the Song of Songs. I am choosing a loaded example of Gregory’s attempt to create a kind of Christian affect: his focuses on desire – embodied, structured, disciplined habits of yearning, craving, and love. His understanding of desire, like so many culturally created habits, never comes from one place: it’s not ‘biblical’ or ‘Platonic’ or ‘medical’ as much as, like the novel, it is an improvised bricolage. And the novel, too, I argue, should be included in that archive. 9   Helen Morales, ‘The History of Sexuality’, in Tim Whitmarsh (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel, Cambridge Companions to Literature (Cambridge, 2008), 39-55, 42: Morales argues that, in the Greek novel, ‘the young men and women do not so much choose to fall in love as are zapped into an altered state from on high’. What is odd is that ‘sexual agency is portrayed so erratically in the novels, given that they are narratives much concerned with responsibility, with trials and tests that assume active agents’ (42). Eros has the power to overtake people, and yet these novels still praise and show commitment to growth in virtue. 10   For the emphasis on uneasy racial and cultural hybridity, see Tim Whitmarsh, introduction to The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel (2008), 4. 11   K. Harper, From Shame to Sin (2013), 78: ‘Achilles’, Harper writes, ‘has no doctrine, other than eros and its compatibility with the narrative arc of human life. It is the genius of his art to raise romance to heights of self-awareness that allow it to compete with philosophy’. 12   These stories formulate how eros was a ‘positive, constitutive source of the self’ (K. Harper, From Shame to Sin [2013], 71), making it a rejection of stoicism, where virtue alone could usher in happiness.

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particularly important moral ‘training ground’.13 Harper calls it ‘the germ of a new ideology … whose rules would reorder the experience of sexuality’.14 In the Greek novel, Helen Morales notes, ‘the young men and women do not so much choose to fall in love as are zapped into an altered state from on high’.15 But what is odd is that erotic power is couched in narratives ‘much concerned with responsibility, with trials and tests that assume active agents’. Eros overwhelms its subjects, and souls are constantly ‘wounded’, and yet the central question of these novels is not: Will the protagonists regain stability? but: Will they remain good even when they are overwhelmed and wounded?16 Feelings intensify and then protagonists must learn to channel those affects into virtuous action.17 That move from intensity to action also leads to discussions of categories or coding of emotions. One of the most explicit passages reflecting on affect comes from Leucippe and Clitophon. The novel is a romance told from the perspective of Clitophon, who falls in love with his beautiful cousin Leucippe, who is promised to someone else. After Leucippe’s mother finds her in bed with her new lover and reprimands her, Leucippe becomes a kind of canvas on which Achilles can paint what he calls ‘the full range of emotions’. Finding herself alone and overburdened with her mother’s words, Leucippe felt the full range of emotions: distress, shame, fury. She was distressed at having been found out, she felt ashamed at being reproached, she was furious at being mistrusted. Shame, grief and anger are the soul’s three waves: shame pours in through the eyes and washes away 13   Even within Leucippe and Clitophon there is an acknowledgement that the way characters are trained to use words creates specific affective responses. ‘Language is the author of all these emotions’. Whitmarsh’s translation emphasizes that these are ‘emotions’, although we know ‘emotions’ is a notoriously difficult thing to define. The word pathē doesn’t appear in the passage, but the terms ‘shame’, ‘grief’, and ‘anger’ make ‘emotion’ as good a word as any, as long as we have the proper cautions in place. 14   K. Harper, From Shame to Sin (2013), 79. 15   H. Morales, ‘History of Sexuality’ (2008), 42. See also Tim Whitmarsh’s Dirty Love: The Genealogy of the Ancient Greek Novel (Oxford, 2018), which argues that Greek novels emphasize ‘dirty love’, or a union that transcends traditional Greek identity. The novels, that is, meditate on desire; specifically, they meditate on the way desire can break and reform bonds of community. This mixing of desire and remaking of traditional social bonds is also central to Gregory’s project. 16   E.g., Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon 1.6 (T. Whitmarsh 8): But wounds of the soul are much more traumatic when the body is still. For, while by day the eyes and the ears are encumbered by multiple distractions and mitigate the full force of the disease, diverting the soul and depriving it of the leisure to suffer, when the body is restrained in rest, the soul, now alone, is tossed on the waves of ruin. All the emotions hitherto dormant burst out: the woes of the grieving, the cares of the troubled, the fears of the endangered, the fire of lovers. 17   Maturing into an erotic life requires learning how to feel. The couple in Longus’s Daphnis and Chloe burns with desire, but they don’t know how to transition intensity of affect into bodily action. (Daphnis needs a teacher to show him how sexual intercourse works.) See Helen Morales (ed.), Greek Fiction: Callirhoe, Daphnis and Chloe, Letters of Chion, Penguin Classics (New York, 2011), 135-210.



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their freedom, grief ranges around the breast and quenches the fire that animates the soul, while anger, barking around the heart, floods our reason with the foaming waves of mania.

To tell a love story does not require a whole anthropology, but it does require a detailed explanation of affective states. The passage continues to tell us how these waves of emotion crash on a soul. Language is the author of all these emotions [λόγος δὲ τούτων ἁπάντων πατήρ]: it seems to fire a missile towards its mark and hit, causing wounds and all sorts of arrowmarks in the soul [καὶ ἔοικεν ἐπὶ σκοπῷ τόξον βάλλειν καὶ ἐπιτυγχάνειν καὶ ἐπὶ τὴν ψυχὴν πέμπειν τὰ βλήματα καὶ ποικίλα τοξεύματα]. One of its arrows is abuse, and the wound thereby caused is anger; another is exposure of accidents, and from this arrow grief ensues; and the final one is castigation of immoralities, and this wound they call shame.18 (2.29, T. Whitmarsh 36-7)

Words are measured here not by the information they convey, but by the impact they have on bodies. Like arrows, words puncture the surface of the body, and, especially if one cannot shoot back, Achilles writes, the waves swell. The arrow gets inside and the wound swells, remaking Leucippe’s affective state.19 How does language do this? Affect theorists such as Lauren Berlant and Donovan Schaefer argue that affects can circulate between bodies and discourse. These characters in the ancient novels feel their way into consciousness, and discourse participates in a larger ‘affectsphere’.20 Reflections on the relationship between words and emotions, here, also include a discussion of this ‘union without contact’ (1.9, T. Whitmarsh 11). The first meeting of Leucippe’s and Clitophon’s gaze imprints on their souls. ‘You see’, the narrator theorizes, ‘when two pairs of eyes reflect in each other, they forge images of each other’s body, as in a mirror. The effluxion of beauty floods down through the eyes to the soul, and effects a kind of union without contact. It is a 18   The quote goes on: All these arrows share something in common: bloodless is their laceration, though deep their penetration. And there is but one remedy for all of them, namely, to retaliate against one’s assailant with the same weapons. Language, the arrow of the tongue, is counteracted by the arrow of another’s tongue: it checks the heart’s ardour and withers the soul’s dolour. If, however, one is forced by inferior station to retaliate in silence, the silence makes the wounds more painful: the wave-pangs brought on by the waves that are stirred by language, since they have failed to spit forth their foam, become dilated and swell up around one another. Troubles of this magnitude, then, filled Leucippe – and she was unable to sustain their assault. 19   A teenage girl has fallen in love. Her mother rebukes her for falling for the wrong man and seeming to lose her virginity to him. And that rebuke stirs up a range of emotion. The rebuke has a point – it makes sense within the novel’s social world. 20   Lauren Berlant, Cruel Optimism (Durham, 2011), 69-79, 223-63. See also D. Schaefer, Religious Affects (2015), 124-5 and 56-9: affects are ‘intransigent’ even if everyone experiences grief, shame, anger, and pain; the words that incite them also in some way gives them form. Words matter as they produce feelings and, in turn, feelings create discourses of love, as Achilles reproduces for readers the sensations he describes.

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bodily union in miniature, a new kind of bodily fusion’ (1.9, T. Whitmarsh 11). Union, however, is also a kind of wound: ‘as soon as I saw [her], I was done for: beauty pricks sharper than darts, and floods down through the eyes to the soul (for the eye is the channel of the wounds of desire). All kinds of reactions possessed me at once: admiration, awe, terror, shame, shamelessness’ (1.4, T. Whitmarsh 7).21 And when they kiss, that too touches the soul: ‘When lips meet and mingle, when they loose forth pleasure down below, they draw souls up towards the kisses’ (2.8, T. Whitmarsh 24).22 Bodily contact, like words and sight, awakens and affects a change in the soul, and if these souls will forever be wounded, they also carry felt attachments. The novels teach the kinds of wounds appropriate to late Romans as well as their proper unions. Gregory of Nyssa The way ‘language’ authors affective states is central to the novel, and also to Gregory of Nyssa’s project of shaping the proper forms of desire. Gregory too sees eros causing a series of wounds of desire, which continue to draw the soul toward a kiss – ‘let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth’ (Song 1:2).23 When Gregory of Nyssa discusses how the Song of Songs teaches, he says that the Song ‘philosophizes by means of things not spoken’. It provides a mediating picture that channels affects toward perfection.24 And it emphasizes erotic love because eros is ‘the most intense of pleasurable activities’. Only that intensity, he says, can heat the mind to ‘boil with love’ so that an image of God can imprint on the soul (HSS 1, 26-7).25 21   Achilles describes that attraction as like a ‘magnet desires iron’ (Leucippe and Clitophon 1.17, T. Whitmarsh 17). 22   Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon 2.8, T. Whitmarsh 24: ‘I know not of any time before when my heart had been so joyous: then it was that I first learned that nothing can rival for pleasure the kiss of desire’. 23   By invoking, theorizing, and transforming tropes found in Leucippe and Clitophon, Gregory provides his audience a vivid image of Christian perfection theorized as a ‘purified’ erotic relationship. How can desire for an unknown God reverberate in an embodied virtuous life? How can an ordered society be held in place when forces as powerful as eros destabilize subjects and make any straight line between intention and virtue difficult to establish? 24   All translations of Gregory’s Homilies on the Song of Songs (HSS) are from Richard Norris (Atlanta, 2012) unless noted otherwise. Gregory of Nyssa, HSS 1, 23-4, trans. altered: ‘It does not bring you an explicit word of counsel … it philosophizes by means of things not spoken, that is, by setting before our minds, with a view to establishing these teachings, a picture of the pleasurable things of this life. The picture in question is an account of a marriage, which mediates to our yearning a desire for Beauty [ἐν ᾗ κάλλους ἐπιθυμία μεσιτεύει τῷ πόθῳ]’. Perhaps, then, the Song is akin to the novel, and the homily is something like literary criticism? 25   Gregory of Nyssa, HSS 1, 26-7: Human nature can neither discover nor entertain anything greater than [the mystery contained in] this [the Song of Songs]… This is why, moreover, the most intense of pleasurable activities



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Erotic ‘passion’ (pathos) in the technical sense of being rendered ‘passive’ and out of control, as is common in the novels, runs counter to the life of Christian perfection.26 But, Gregory notes, ‘passion’ in its everyday sense of ‘feeling’ is part of the human condition.27 He does not want to let go of that everyday sense; he turns those moments of ecstasy – what Morales describes as getting ‘zapped’ – into epektasis.28 Gregory then does not disagree with Achilles about erotic love being ‘the most intense of the pleasurable activities’. Instead, Gregory asks his audience to feel differently about this intensity. A kiss stirred Clitophon’s soul; and so it did for Moses. [Moses] became more intensely desirous of such kisses after these theophanies, praying to see the Object of his yearning as if he had never glimpsed him. In the same way, all of the others in whom the divine desire was deeply lodged never ceased from desire; everything that came to them from God for the enjoyment of the Object of yearning they made into the material and fuel for a more ardent desire. (HSS 1, 31-2)29 (I mean the passion of erotic love) is set as a figure at the very fore of the guidance that the teachings give: so that by this we may learn that it is necessary for the soul, fixing itself steadily on the inaccessible beauty of the divine nature, to love that beauty as much as the body has a bent for what is akin to it and to turn passion into impassibility, so that when every bodily disposition has been quelled, our mind within us may boil with love, but only in the Spirit, because it is heated by that ‘fire’ that the Lord came to ‘cast upon the earth’. 26   See Gregory of Nyssa, HSS 8, 260: ‘For in everyone who has been without discipline there are many souls; in such a person the passions, because they have taken control, occupy the soul’s territory, and so the character of the soul is altered to become pain and pleasure or anger and fear and cowardice and rashness’. 27   Gregory of Nyssa, CE 3.4.27-9 in Contra Eunomium III: An English Translation with Commentary and Supporting Studies. Proceedings of the 12th International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (Leuven, 14-17 September 2010), ed. Johan Leemans and Matthieu Cassin, trans. Stuart G. Hall, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 124 (Leiden, 2014). For analysis, see Andrew Radde-Gallwitz, Gregory of Nyssa’s Doctrinal Works: A Literary Study, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford, 2018), 216-7. For a broader conversation about Gregory and emotion, see Rowan Williams, The Wound of Knowledge: Christian Spirituality from the New Testament to St. John of the Cross (London, 1990), 62-77; R. Williams, ‘Macrina’s Death Bed Revisited: Gregory of Nyssa on Mind and Passion’, in Lionel R. Wickham and Caroline P. Bammel with Erica C.D. Hunter (eds), Christian Faith and Greek Philosophy in Late Antiquity: Essays in Tribute to George Christopher Stead, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 19 (Leiden, 1993), 227-46; Sarah Coakley, ‘Introduction – Gender, Trinitarian Analogies, and the Pedagogy of The Song’, in Re-thinking Gregory of Nyssa (Oxford, 2003), 1-13; J. Warren Smith, ‘The Body of Paradise and the Body of the Resurrection: Gender and the Angelic Life in Gregory of Nyssa’s De hominis opificio’, HTR 99 (2006), 207-28; John Behr, ‘The Rational Animal: A Rereading of Gregory of Nyssa’s De hominis opificio’, JECS 7 (1999), 219-47; Kevin Corrigan, Evagrius and Gregory: Mind, Soul, and Body in the Fourth Century, Ashgate Studies in Philosophy and Theology in Late Antiquity (Burlington, 2009), 53-72; Virginia Burrus, ‘Begotten, Not Made’: Conceiving Manhood in Late Antiquity, Figurae: Reading Medieval Culture (Stanford, 2000), esp. 113-30. 28  For ekstasis and epektasis, see my ‘Three Ways to Imitate Paul’, HTR (forthcoming). 29   The quote continues: ‘And just as now the soul that is joined to God is not satiated by her enjoyment of him, so too the more abundantly she is filled up with his beauty, the more vehemently her longings abound’.

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For Gregory, an infinite God cannot be contained in language, only longed for and desired. Language, therefore, must have a different function. And this theological point requires a kind of affective training. Gregory too is looking for what Achilles called a different kind of ‘bodily union’. ‘A kiss comes about through the sense of touch’, but, Gregory says: ‘There is also … a “touch” that belongs to the soul, one that makes contact with the Word and is actuated by an incorporeal and intelligible touching’ (HSS 1, 34). Placing our attention on affect also helps us consider how desire, for Gregory, is something, at once, internal and external, something given that does not quite render subjects passive. Lauren Berlant writes: ‘Desire visits you as an impact from the outside, and yet, inducing an encounter with your affects, makes you feel as though it comes from within you; this means that your objects are not objective, but things and scenes that you have converted into propping up your world, and so what seems objective and autonomous in them is partly what your desire has created and therefore is a mirage, a shaky anchor’.30 In Gregory’s words, again, ‘everything that came to them from God for the enjoying of the Object of yearning, they made into the material and fuel for a more ardent desire’ (HSS 1, 32). In homily 12, we see a series of these ‘shaky anchors’ that continually give way to wonder at an unknown God. Gregory starts the homily with an aside about how the audience is about to go on a sea journey – the setting, remember, for many ancient novels. And from that start, Gregory guides his audience through a series of affects: delight, hopelessness, grief, longing. Doctrine is not the driving force of the homily, nor is virtuous action; instead Gregory scripts how Christians ought to feel about names.31 The bride begins with a clearing of herself that makes room for the Word (HSS 12, 352). That clearing makes her ‘strain forward’, which is where the real affective training is required. She, like David, called out ‘the Divine by a thousand names’ and yet confesses that they have all ‘fallen short of the truth’. Unlike Eunomius, Gregory says, Christians see God’s names “not” as something to be “known … but rather wondered at” [οὐχὶ γινώσκεται ἀλλὰ θαυμάζεται] (HSS 12, 358). Getting the feeling right is the point. These words author affects.   Lauren Berlant, Desire/Love (Brooklyn, 2012), 6.   When we marvel from afar at the beauty of the stars, we are unable to conceive any method [μηχανὴν, machine?] for laying hold on them [πρὸς τὴν κτῆσιν αὐτῶν, for taking possession of them?], but our one way of delighting in their beauty is to be seized with wonder at their appearance [τὸ θαυμαστικῶς περὶ τὸ φαινόμενον ἔχει]. Yet the sparklings and shinings of these divine oracles truly are, after all, stars of a sort, which shine out in a way that, in the words of the prophet, transcends the eyes of the soul ‘as the height of the heaven is high above the earth’ [Ps. 102:11]. (καὶ γὰρ ἐκείνων πόρρωθεν τὸ κάλλος θαυμάζοντες οὐδεμίαν μηχανὴν πρὸς τὴν κτῆσιν αὐτῶν ἐπινοῆσαι δυνάμεθα, ἀλλὰ μία τοῦ κάλλους αὐτῶν ἐστιν ἡμῖν ἡ ἀπόλαυσις τὸ θαυμαστικῶς περὶ τὸ φαινόμενον ἔχειν. ἀστέρες γάρ τινές εἰσιν ἀτεχνῶς αἱ τῶν θείων τούτων λογίων μαρμαρυγαί τε καὶ λαμπηδόνες τῶν τῆς ψυχῆς ὀμμάτων ὑπερλάμπουσαί τε καὶ ὑπερκείμεναι Κατὰ τὸ ὕψος τοῦ οὐρανοῦ ἀπὸ τῆς γῆς, ὥς φησιν ὁ προφήτης) (HSS 10, 295). 30 31



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Wonder then opens into a certain kind of shared pain, the ‘wounds of desire’ [τραυματίζεται … τοῦ ποθουμένου]. This desire for language to reach some kind of target, however, means that ‘her ability does not match her aim. She seeks more than she is capable of’ (HSS 12, 358-9). And this induces a felt ‘hopelessness’, and grief that comes in the unattainableness of its object (HSS 12, 369-70). Hopelessness and grief, he says, are not failings but are part of human nature when they move toward the divine (HSS 12, 348, Gen. 1). This grief, however, ‘is removed when she learns that the true fruition of what she seeks is ever to make progress in seeking and never to halt on the upward path, since her fulfilled desire ever generates a further desire for what is beyond her’. The wounds ‘are the utterances of a person who is glorying [μεγαλαυχουμένης – boasting, bragging] in things of the greatest beauty’. Wounds are the result of wonder and remain even in this new union, as the Bride realizes that she has ‘received in herself God’s chosen arrow and [that she] has been struck in the heart by receiving love’s shot in her vital part [καιρίῳ]’ (HSS 12, 359, 370).32 New arrows for new affects. There is doctrinal content in these homilies – e.g., naming and Eunomius – but much of the desired work of persuasion happens at a level of affect. Words at best shape not just the minds of his readers, but what Berlant calls ‘instincts’, the trained ways of feeling that will allow them to hear the divine in his words.33 Conclusion Gregory’s project in his Homilies on the Song of Songs, then, involved reshaping what Sara Ahmed calls an ‘affective economy’.34 ‘In such affective economies’, 32   Even this wounding – a physical image – comes with a series of affective states. ‘She is struck and wounded by the hopelessness of what she seeks, judging that her desire for the good is imperfect and falls short of its fruition. But the veil her of grief is removed when she learns that the true fruition of what she seeks is ever to make progress in seeking and never to halt on the upward path, since her fulfilled desire ever generates a further desire for what is beyond her. As, then, the veil of hopelessness is lifted and she sees the infinite and unlimited beauty of her Beloved, a beauty that for all the eternity of the ages is ever and again discovered to be greater, she is pulled by a yet more intense yearning, and through the daughters of Jerusalem she discloses the state of her heart to her Beloved: how in the sting of faith she has received in herself God’s chosen arrow (cf. Isa. 49:2) and has been struck in the heart by receiving love’s shot in her vital part.’ (HSS 12, 369-70) 33   Lauren Berlant, Cruel Optimism (Durham, 2011), 52-3. Berlant calls this ‘training intuition’ (53). ‘Our visceral response’, she writes, ‘is a trained thing, not just autonomic activity. Intuition is where affect meets history, in all of its chaos, normative ideology, and embodied practices of discipline and invention’ (52). 34   Sara Ahmed, ‘Affective Economies’, Social Text 79 (2004), 117-39. There is general agreement within affect theorists on some kind of break between language and sensation; the question is about how sharp that break is or what kinds of circuits connect them. The field is new enough that even the key term, ‘affect’, is still up for debate. Brian Massumi discusses it as a kind of

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she writes, ‘emotions do things, and they align individuals with communities – or bodily space with social space – through the very intensity of their attachments. Rather than seeing emotions as psychological dispositions, we need to consider how they work, in concrete and particular ways, to mediate the relationship between the psychic and the social, and between the individual and the collective’.35 Especially in light of Jack Tannous’s recent emphasis on discussing doctrine with what he calls ‘simple believers’, seeing these sermons as functioning at the level of affect helps us account for the force that Gregory’s technical homilies had on a largely illiterate audience.36 Historical forces and culturally patterned relations shape bodies to move in particular ways. Words, rituals, and imaginative practices need to be seen as part of that affective training. This article is just the beginning of that kind of work, but I hope to have shown how Gregory, drawing on tropes from the ancient novel, works to produce a new affective economy.

bodily intensity that is later ‘channeled’, pushed, edited, or condensed into emotion, which is the culturally and linguistically coded ‘qualification’ of that intensity. ‘It is intensity owned and recognized’ (B. Massumi, Parables for the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation, Post-Contemporary Interventions [Durham, 2002], 28). That sharp distinction between affect and emotion is hard to maintain, but it’s a helpful heuristic device to see how emotions are created. Eugenie Brinkema, for example, has argued that rather than seeing affect as ‘some magical mysterious intensity X that escapes signification’, scholars need to focus on the formal dimension of affect, a focus that (ironically) requires close reading (E. Brinkema, The Forms of the Affects [Durham, 2014], xiv). The turn to affect was often seen as an attempt to escape the straitjacket of slow, methodical reading in favor of bodily sensations, but the methodological way forward is to see those bodily sensations produced through the forms of the art studied, not through something unrelated to it. For a helpful review of the literature especially as related to the study of early Christianity, see Donovan Schaefer, ‘The Codex of Feeling: Affect Theory and Ancient Texts’, Ancient Jew Review (Jan 16, 2019), http://www.ancientjewreview.com/articles/2019/1/11/the-codex-of-feeling-affect-theoryand-ancient-texts, and M. Kotrosits, Rethinking Early Christian Identity (2015). 35   S. Ahmed, ‘Affective Economies’ (2004), 119. 36   Jack Tannous, The Making of the Medieval Middle East: Religion, Society, and Simple Believers (Princeton, 2018).

Organizing Exegetical Knowledge in Syriac Christianity: Extracts from Gregory of Nyssa’s Homilies on the Song of Songs in the London Collection (BL Add. 12168) Marion Pragt, KU Leuven, Leuven, Belgium1

Abstract Gregory of Nyssa’s Homilies on the Song of Songs were translated into Syriac in the sixth century. Besides their full translation, the Homilies were also transmitted in Syriac compilations, as abbreviated versions which summarize Gregory’s interpretations and in the form of extracts excerpted from his work. This article focuses on one compilation in particular, known as the London Collection, a Syriac exegetical collection that was created in the seventh century. The article studies the use of three extracts from Gregory’s Homilies on the Song. It is examined what interpretations were taken over from Gregory, how they were rearranged and what function they fulfilled. It is shown that the three extracts were included in the commentaries on 1Kings/3Kings, Isaiah and the Song of Songs in the London Collection. In their new contexts, the extracts served a variety of purposes, from reading biographical traditions about Solomon in the light of Christ to supporting a christological interpretation of Isaiah 66:7 and interpreting the Greek version of Song 1:14. In this way, the article aims to show that the London Collection provides valuable insight into how the thought of Greek Christian authors was received, selected, organized and transferred among Syriac-using Christians.

In Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Syriac compilers collected interpretations of scripture in exegetical collections, bringing together material from diverse authors and time periods. This article explores the organization of exegetical knowledge in a West Syrian collection dated to the seventh century but transmitted in a manuscript from the eighth or ninth century (Ms. British Library Add. 12168). This so-called London Collection contains extracts and abbreviated texts on the interpretation of scripture and related subjects attributed to Greek Christian authors.2 Copied by the scribe Thomas and collated by 1   The research on which this article is based was funded by the FWO – Research Foundation Flanders. 2   For a description of the manuscript and studies of the collection, see William Wright, Catalogue of Syriac Manuscripts in the British Museum Acquired Since the Year 1838, Vol. 2 (London, 1871), 904-8; Bas ter Haar Romeny, ‘The Identity Formation of Syrian Orthodox Christians as Reflected in Two Exegetical Collections. First Soundings’, Parole de l’Orient 29 (2004), 103-21, 106; id., ‘The Greek vs. the Peshitta in a West Syrian Exegetical Collection’, in id. (ed.), The

Studia Patristica CXV, 187-197. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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the deacons Abraham and Joseph,3 but otherwise anonymous, the manuscript was part of the works collected by Moses of Nisibis and was preserved in Deir al-Surian.4 This article concentrates on the use of Gregory of Nyssa’s Homilies on the Song of Songs in the London Collection. Apart from an abridged version of Gregory’s Homilies, the London Collection also contains three separate extracts from this work.5 The article takes these three extracts as its subject, investigating what is taken over from Gregory and in what different ways his Homilies were used by the compilers of the London Collection. As such, this article approaches the exegetical collection as a work in its own right, in the light of the increasing scholarly attention for compilation literature as well as for the study of manuscripts as material objects and reception artefacts.6 1.  Solomon and Christ: The London Collection on 1Kings/3Kings The section on the Four Books of Kings in the London Collection contains the following extract from Gregory’s Homilies on the Song of Songs: ̈ ̄ ‫ ܡܢ �ܡܐܡܪܐ‬:‫ܕܓܪܝܓܘܪܝܘܣ ܕܢܘܣܐ‬ :‫ܬܫܒܚܬܐ‬ ‫ܚ ܕܦܘܫܩܐ ܕܬܫܒܚܬ‬ ̇ ‫ܚܙܝ ܕܝܢ ܕܐܦ ܕܝ ̣ܢܗ ܟܐܢܐ ܕܫܠܝܡܘܢ܆ ܥܠ ܗܘ ܕܝ ̣ܢܐ ܫܪܝܪܐ ܕܥܠ�ܡܐ ܟܠܗ‬ Peshitta: Its Use in Literature and Liturgy. Papers Read at the Third Peshitta Symposium (Leiden, 2006), 297-310, 297-8; id., ‘Greek or Syriac? Chapters in the Establishment of a Syrian Orthodox Exegetical Tradition’, SP 41 (2006), 89-96; id., ‘Les Pères grecs dans les florilèges exégétiques syriaques’, in A. Schmidt and D. Gonnet s.j. (eds), Les Pères grecs dans la tradition syriaque, Études syriaques 4 (Paris, 2007), 63-76, 70-3; id., ‘The Formation of a Communal Identity among West Syrian Christians. Results and Conclusions of the Leiden Project’, Church History and Religious Culture 89 (2009), 1-52, 13-20. 3   According to the two colophons of f. 255: ‘Let everyone who reads this book pray for the poor Thomas who wrote according to his power, that he will be spared on the day of the judgment. Amen’ and ‘The deacons Abraham and Joseph collated this book. Let everyone who reads this book pray for them, that they will be spared on the day of the judgment like the robber on the right hand. Amen’. 4   Hugh G. Evelyn White, The Monasteries of the Wadi ‘n Natrun. The History of the Monasteries of Nitria and of Scetis, Vol. 2 (New York, 1932), 337-8; Sebastian Brock, ‘Without Moses of Nisibis, Where Would We Be? Some Reflections on the Transmission of Syriac Literature’, Journal of Eastern Christian Studies 56 (2004), 15-24. 5   In this article, the term extract is used to indicate a passage taken over from a longer work. 6   Recent studies of compilations mainly focus on ancient, late antique and medieval Greek and Latin texts and include Marietta Horster and Christiane Reitz (eds), Condensing Texts – Condensed Texts, Palingenesia 98 (Stuttgart, 2010); Reinhart Ceulemans and Pieter De Leemans (eds), On Good Authority. Tradition, Compilation and the Construction of Authority in Literature from Antiquity to the Renaissance, LECTIO 3 (Turnhout, 2015); Sébastien Morlet (ed.), Lire en extraits. Lecture et production des textes, de l’Antiquité à la fin du Moyen (Paris, 2015); Stephan Dusil, Gerald Schwedler and Raphael Schwitter (eds), Exzerpieren – Kompilieren – Tradieren. Transformationen des Wissens zwischen Spätantike und Frühmittelalter, Millennium-Studien 64 (Berlin, 2017).



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̇ ̇ .‫ܡܘܕܥ‬ ̇ ‫ܕܐܢ܇ ܐ�ܠܐ ܟܠܗ ܕܝ ̣ܢܐ ܝܗܒܗ‬ ‫ ܕܐܒܐ �ܠܐܢܫ �ܠܐ‬:‫ܕܐܡܪ‬ ‫ܗܘ‬ ̇ ‫ܕܫܡܥ‬ ‫ ܘܐܝܟ‬.‫ܠܡܥܒܕ‬ ‫ܐܢܐ ܡܕܡ ܡܢ ܨܒܘܬ ܢܦܫܝ‬ ̣ ‫ ܘܕ�ܠܐ‬.‫ܠܒܪܐ‬ ̣ ‫ܡܨܐ‬ ̣ ̇ ‫ ܗܢܘ ܓܝܪ ܬܚܘ�ܡܐ ܓܡܝܪܐ ܕܕܝ ̣ܢܐ‬.‫ ܘܕܝ ̣ܢܝ ܟܐܝܢ ܗܘ‬.‫ܐܢܐ‬ ̣ ‫ܢܐ ܕܐܢ‬ ̣ ‫ܐ‬ ̣ ̈ ̈ ‫ܟܐܢܐ܆ ܕ�ܠܐ ܐܢܫ ܡܢ ܨܒܘܬ ܢܦܫܗ ܟܕ ܡܬܬܙܝܥ ܡܢ ܚܫܐ ܕܚܘܫܒܘܗܝ܇‬ ‫ ܐ�ܠܐ ܢܗܘܐ ܠܘܩܕܡ ̇ܫܡܥ‬.‫ܢܦܩ ܦܣܩܐ ܥܠ ܐܝܠܝܢ ܕܩܕܡܘܗܝ ܡܬܬܕܝܢܝܢ‬ ̈ .‫ܡܠܝܗܘܘܢ܆ ܘܟܢ ܢܗܘܐ ̇ܓܙܪ ܕܝ ̣ܢܐ ܕܥܠܝܗܘܢ‬ By Gregory of Nyssa,7 from the eighth memra of the commentary on the Song of Songs. See that also the just judgment of Solomon points to the true judge8 of the whole world, who says: ‘The father does not judge anyone, but gives all judgment to the son’9 and ‘I am not able to do anything of my own accord and I judge according to what I hear and my judgment is just.’10 For this is the perfect definition of just judgment: that someone does not pass a decree of his own accord against the ones before him who are to be judged, while he is excited by the agitations of his thoughts, but will first listen to their words and then pass judgment on them.11

This extract, which corresponds to the complete Syriac translation of Gregory’s Homilies, is one example in a series of demonstrations which Gregory lists to argue that Solomon is the true type of Christ.12 As Song 3:7 and 3:9 mention Solomon, Gregory describes the king’s significance at the beginning of his seventh homily (or eighth, according to the Syriac numbering). Gregory mentions Solomon’s peacefulness, his building of the temple, his great wisdom, and his kingship and also notes that he was a descendant of David and was visited by the Queen of Sheba.13 In his view, all these things are said in the way of types, as they point forward to the power of the gospel (ταῦτα γὰρ πάντα καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα περὶ αὐτοῦ μὲν λέγεται τυπικῶς, προδιαγράφει δὲ τοῦ εὐαγγελίου τὴν δύναμιν).14 Likewise, he argues that Solomon’s quality of righteous judgment points to Christ, the true judge. 7   Whereas Gregory’s name is usually spelled as ‫ ܓܪܝܓܪܝܘܣ‬in the London Collection, here it appears as ‫ܓܪܝܓܘܪܝܘܣ‬, with an extra waw. 8   Although the manuscripts here again reads ‫ ܕ ̣ܝܢܐ‬with a dot below, meaning ‘judgment’, ̇ ‘judge’, based on Gregory’s Greek text, which reads I have translated as though it reads ‫ܕܝܢܐ‬, ̇ Vat. Syr. 106 f. 111r. κριτής and the full Syriac translation of the Homilies, which has ‫ܕܝܢܐ‬. 9   John 5:22. 10   John 5:30. 11   Add. 12168 f. 50r. The Syriac text is given as it appears in the manuscript, following its punctuation. Abbreviations have been normalised. 12   Vat. Syr. 106 f. 111r. A minor difference between Vat. Syr. 106 and the London Collection is that ‫ ܐܝܟܢܐ‬is lacking before ‫ ܥܠ‬in the London Collection. The abbreviated version of Gregory’s Homilies in the London Collection notes that Solomon can be understood in many respects as a type of Christ, but does not contain the passage on judgment. Add. 12168, f. 127r. 13   Gregory of Nyssa, Gregorii Nysseni Opera VI, In Canticum Canticorum, ed. Hermannus Langerbeck (Leiden, 1960) and Richard A. Norris Jr., Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies on the Song of Songs, Writings from the Greco-Roman World 13 (Atlanta, 2012), 214-6. 14   R.A. Norris, Gregory of Nyssa (2012), 214.

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In the London Collection’s section on 1Kings/3Kings, Gregory’s extract appears instead as part of a description of Solomon’s life and works, surrounded by discussions of the wisdom he received by the grace of God and his building of the temple.15 This shows that the compilers of the London Collection did not only use Gregory’s Homilies for his interpretations of the Song, but also as a source of historical and theological information about Solomon, which could be reused in a new context. 2.  A Birth unlike all Others: The London Collection on Isaiah The section on Isaiah, which concludes the London Collection’s interpretation of the Old Testament, also contains an extract from Gregory.16 The section consists of scriptural lemmata and summaries of the biblical text as well as brief extracts from different authors. Isaiah 66:7, cited according to the SyroHexapla,17 is followed by an extract from Gregory in which he refers to this verse: ̈ ‫ ܐܝܟܢܐ ܓܝܪ‬.‫ܬܫܒܚܬܐ‬ ‫ܕܓܪܝܓܪܝܘܣ ܕܢܘܣܐ܆ ܡܢ ܦܘܫܩܐ ܕܬܫܒܚܬ‬ ̇ ̇ ‫ ܕܐܝܟܢܐ ܒܓܘ ܡܪܒܥܗ ܐܬܓܒܠ ܦܓܪܐ‬:‫ܝܕܥܬ ܒܬܘܠܬܐ ܩܕܝܫܬܐ‬ ‫ܕ�ܠܐ‬ ̇ ̇ ̣̈ ‫ ܘܣܗܕܐ‬.‫ܕܡܘܠܕܗ ܐܪܓܫܬ ܒܟܐܒܐ‬ ‫ܒܚܒ�ܠܐ‬ ‫ܗܘ ܩܕܝܫܐ܆ ܗܟܢܐ ܐܦ�ܠܐ‬ ̇ ̈ ̈ ̇ ̈ ‫ ܐܡܪ ܓܝܪ ܛܘܒܢܐ‬.‫ܠܗ ܢܒܝܘܬܐ܆ ܕܕ�ܠܐ ܟܐܒܐ ܗܘܘ ܗܠܝܢ ̣ܚܒ�ܠܐ ܩܕܝܫܐ‬ ̈ ̈ ̣ ‫ܟܐܒܐ‬ ‫ ܘܡܛܠ‬.‫ܕܚܒ�ܠܐ܆ ̣ܦܠܛܬ ܘܝܠܕܬ ܕܟܪܐ‬ ‫ܐܫܥܝܐ܆ ܕܥܕ�ܠܐ ܢܡܛܘܢ‬ .‫ ܡܢ �ܡܐܡܪܐ ܕܝܕ‬.‫ܓܒܐ ܡܢ ̈ܖܒܘܬܐ ܗܘ‬ ‫ܗ ̣ܢܐ‬ ̣ By Gregory of Nyssa from the commentary on the Song of Songs. For just as the holy virgin did not know how the holy body18 was formed inside her womb, so also she did not feel the pains of her giving birth in sorrow. And the prophecy testifies to her that these holy contractions were not painful. For the blessed Isaiah says: ‘Before the pain

15   Besides Gregory, the authors cited by name in the section on Kings, according to Wright, are John Chrysostom, Cyril of Alexandria, Gregory of Nazianzus (referred to not by name but by his epithet of the Theologian), Proclus of Constantinople, Severus of Antioch and, as the only Syriac author, Ephrem. W. Wright, Catalogue (1871), 905. To this list of names, Josephus should also be added. See Add. 12168 f. 51r. 16   W. Wright, Catalogue (1871), 907. 17   Antonio Maria Ceriani, Codex Syro-Hexaplaris Ambrosianus photolithographice editus, Monumenta sacra et profana 7 (Milan, 1874), f. 192v. 18   Both the full Syriac translation of Gregory’s Homilies and the extract cited here use the term ‘holy body’, instead of Gregory’s ‘God-receiving body’ (τὸ θεοδόχον σῶμα). R.A. Norris, Gregory of Nyssa (2012), 410-1. This may have been a deliberate change, perhaps to avoid an expression which did not fit a Miaphysite view on the incarnation and the nature of Christ.



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of labour came, she brought forth and gave birth to a male child.’19 And because of this he was ‘chosen from multitudes’.20 From the fourteenth memra.21

This extract, which corresponds exactly to the Syriac translation of Gregory’s Homilies, is taken from his interpretation of Song 5:10.22 There, the female protagonist of the Song first describes her beloved as white and red and then calls him ‘chosen from multitudes’ (ἐκλελοχισμένος ἀπὸ μυριάδων).23 According to Gregory, the colours refer to the body of Christ, as whiteness indicates flesh and redness blood. Moreover, he relates the aspect of being chosen or set apart to the birth of Christ.24 In contrast to all other humans, only Christ came into the world in a special way. Gregory finds support for this view in Isaiah’s prophecy of Zion giving birth to a male child without suffering. Whereas Eve by her sin brought death to all and received the punishment of having to give birth in pain, this was reversed through Mary by the birth of Christ, who neither originated in pleasure nor came forth through pain (οὔτε ἀρξάμενος ἐξ ἡδονῆς οὔτε προελθὼν διὰ πόνων).25 In the London Collection, Gregory’s reading of Song 5:10b therefore is taken over in order to illustrate the correct understanding of Isaiah 66:7. Gregory is used to show that Isaiah’s prophetic statement about Zion should be taken as a foretelling of Mary’s painless delivery of Christ.

  Isaiah 66:7. The Greek version of Gregory’s Homilies follows the Septuagint, reading ἐξέφυγεν καὶ ἔτεκεν ἄρσεν for the last part of the verse. The Septuagint thus uses the verb ἐκφεύγω, to flee or to escape. However, the Masoretic text of Isaiah 66:7 reads ‫המליטה‬, using the hiph῾il, which may be understood as ‘she caused to escape’ and in the present context refers to childbirth. On ‫ מלט‬and the Septuagint translation of the verse, see Jan L. Koole, Isaiah III, Historical Commentary on the Old Testament (Leuven, 2001), 493; Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56-66. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, The Anchor Bible 19B (New York, London, 2003), 303; Shalom M. Paul, Isaiah 40-66. Translation and Commentary, Eerdmans Critical Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI, 2012), 618. As Syriac ‫ ܦܠܛ‬can mean to escape as well as to deliver or to bring forth, another possible translation of Add. 12168, in line with Gregory’s reference to the Septuagint, would therefore be ‘she escaped and gave birth to a male child’. 20   Song 5:10b. 21   Add. 12168 f. 166v. 22   Vat. Syr. 106 f. 141v. The abbreviated version of Gregory’s Homilies in the London Collection refers to Song 5:10, but does not contain an equivalent of our extract. See Add. 12168 f. 132v-133r. 23   R.A. Norris, Gregory of Nyssa (2012), 408-11. 24   Norris has commented on Gregory’s association of ἐκλελοχισμένος with childbirth, as he seems to have related ἐκλοχίζω with λοχεύω. R.A. Norris, Gregory of Nyssa (2012), 409 n. 25-6. 25   R.A. Norris, Gregory of Nyssa (2012), 410-1. For an overview of different ideas on the special nature of Christ’s birth and the virginity of Mary, see Julia Kelto Lillis, ‘Paradox in Partu: Verifying Virginity in the Protoevangelium of James’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 24 (2016), 1-28 and Brian K. Reynolds, ‘Marian Typological and Symbolic Imagery in Patristic Christianity’, in Chris Maunder (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Mary (Oxford, 2019), 78-92. 19

192

M. Pragt

3.  A Cluster of Blossom: The London Collection on the Song of Songs The section devoted to the Song of Songs in the London Collection presents diverse material. In contrast to the sections on Kings and Isaiah, which present brief extracts from various authors, it consists for a large part of an abbreviated version of Gregory’s Homilies on the Song.26 The abridged version is introduced ̈ as a collection in short (‫ܕܒܙܥܘܖܝܬܐ‬ ‫)ܟܘܢܫܐ‬, covering the Song up to 6:9, and is based on the full Syriac translation of Gregory’s work.27 The collection presents short versions of each of the Homilies, in which the narrative structure developed by Gregory, which describes the bride’s ascent to the divine, is to some extent retained. The abbreviated Homilies also contain paratextual notes.28 These notes, which indicate homily numbers and the subjects they address, seem to have functioned as reading aids, guiding users through the abridged version of the Homilies and enabling them to navigate to a section or subject of particular interest. In this way, the compilers made Gregory’s main arguments and interpretations accessible in a shorter and more manageable form.29 Besides Gregory, the section on the Song also includes the interpretations of a certain Symmachus covering Song 6:10-8:14,30 fragments from John bar   Add. 12168 f. 118r-135r.   As has been shown by Ceslas Van den Eynde, La version syriaque du Commentaire de Grégoire de Nysse sur le Cantique des Cantiques. Ses origines, ses témoins, son influence (Louvain, 1939), 50-6. The Syriac Homilies are extant in three manuscripts – Vat. Syr. 106, Sinai Syr. 19 and olim Diyarbakir 20, dated to the sixth, eighth and twelfth centuries – and several fragments which belong to the Sinai manuscript. For an overview of the manuscripts, see C. Van den Eynde, La version syriaque (1939), 4-16 and, more recently and with a focus on the fragments belonging to the Sinai manuscript, Paul Géhin, Les manuscrits syriaques de parchemin du Sinaï et leurs membra disjecta, CSCO 665, Subsidia 136 (Leuven, 2017), 58-60. For the Syriac translation of Gregory’s references to scripture and the reception of his Homilies in Syriac exegetical collections, see Marion Pragt, ‘Sacred Spices. The Syriac Translation of Gregory of Nyssa’s Homilies on the Song of Songs’, in Dan Batovici and Madalina Toca (eds), Caught in Translation. Versions of LateAntique Christian Literature, Texts and Studies in Eastern Christianity 17 (Leiden, 2020), 104-21 and ead., ‘Love for Words in a Ninth-Century Syriac Commentary on the Song of Songs’, in Pierre Van Hecke (ed.), The Song of Song in its Context. Words for Love, Love for Words, BETL 310 (Leuven, 2020), 509-22. 28   This article follows the recent definition of paratexts developed by Patrick Andrist, who explored the uses of Gérard Genette’s term for manuscript studies, as ‘a piece of content whose presence in the manuscript-book is thematically dependent on one or several other pieces of content in the same book, or the book itself’. Patrick Andrist, ‘Toward a Definition of Paratexts and Paratextuality: The Case of Ancient Greek Manuscripts’, in Liv Ingeborg Lied and Marilena Maniaci (eds), Bible as Notepad. Tracing Annotations and Annotation Practices in Late Antique and Medieval Biblical Manuscripts, Manuscripta Biblica 3 (Berlin, 2018), 130-49, 146. 29   On the selection and transmission of biblical exegesis in Syriac abridged versions of Greek Christian works, including Gregory of Nyssa for the Song of Songs, Athanasius for Psalms and Cyril of Alexandria for the Pentateuch, see B. ter Haar Romeny, ‘The Greek vs. the Peshitta’ (2006), 303-5 and 308-10. 30   Add. 12168 f. 135r-137v. Regarding the material ascribed to Symmachus, see C. Van den Eynde, La version syriaque (1939), 34-42. 26

27



Organizing Exegetical Knowledge in Syriac Christianity

193

Aphtonia,31 an additional extract from Gregory’s fourth homily,32 an extract from a letter by Severus of Antioch to the church in Antioch,33 and a list of onomastic explanations of several of the Songs proper names.34 This section focuses on the additional extract from Gregory, which has not only been transmitted in the London Collection, but also in the margin of the Syro-Hexapla. It will be asked what the extract’s function may have been and for what reason it may have been included in the London Collection. The extract reads as follows: Extract Gregory Syro-Hexapla

Extract Gregory London Collection

‫ ܡܢ �ܡܐܡܪܐ‬.‫ܕܩܕܝܫܐ ܓܪܝܓܪܝܘܣ ܕܢܘܣܐ‬ ‫ ܣܓܘ�ܠܐ‬.‫̄ܕ ܕܦܘܫܩܐ ܕܝܠܗ ܕܟܬܒܐ‬ ‫ ܗܪܟܐ‬.‫ܕܡܣܡܕܪܬܐ ܒܪ ܚܬܐ ܕܝܠܝ ܠܝ‬ ̇ ̇ ‫ܕܡܗܒܒ‬ ‫ܡ ̇ܩܪܒܐ‬ ‫ܟܠܬܐ ܥܕܟܝܠ ܠܣܓܘ�ܠܐ‬ ̇ ‫ ܟܕ ܡܣܡܕܪܬܐ‬.‫ܦܐܖܐ‬ ̈ ‫ܠܦܪܥܐ ܕܣܬܐ‬ ̇ ̇ ‫ ܗܘ‬:‫ ܛܠܝܐ ܓܝܪ ܝܫܘܥ ܕܐܬ ̣ܝܠܕ ܠܢ‬.‫ܡܫܡܗܐ‬ ̇ ̇ :‫ܕܒܗܠܝܢ ܕܩܒܠܘܗܝ ܡܫܚܠܦܐܝܬ ܡܫܬܘܫܛ‬ ‫ܒܚܟܡܬܐ ܘܒܩܘܡܬܐ ܘܒܛܝܒܘܬܐ܆ ܠܘ‬ ‫ܗܘ ܐܝܬܘܗܝ܆ ܐ�ܠܐ ܠܦܘܬ‬ ̣ ‫ܗܘ ܟܕ‬ ̣ ‫ܒܟܠܢܫ‬ ̇ ̇ ‫ܕܗܘ ܕܒܗ‬ ̇ ‫ܕܗܘ‬ ‫ ܐܝܟܢܐ ܕܝܢ‬.‫ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ܡܫܘܚܬܐ‬ ̇ ‫ܕܥܪܐ ܠܗ ܣܦܩܐܝܬ ܢܗܘܐ ܐܝܬ ܠܗ܆ ܕܐܝܟ‬ ‫ ܐܘ ܟܕ ܫܒܪ ܐܘ ܟܕ‬.‫ܗܢܐ ܡܬܚܙܐ‬ ̇ ̇ ‫ ܐܝܟ ܟܝܢܐ‬.‫ܡܫ ̇ܬܡ�ܠܐ‬ ‫ܘܫܛ ܐܘ ܟܕ‬ ‫ܡܫܬ‬ ̣ ̇ ‫ܕܣܓܘ�ܠܐ܇‬ ‫ܗܘ ܕܠܘ ܒܟܠܙܒܢ ܥܡܗ ܕܝܠܗ‬ ̇ ‫ܡܬܚܙܐ܇ ܐ�ܠܐ ܡܫܚܠܦ‬ ‫ܕܐܕܫܐ ܒܓܦܬܐ‬ ̣ ̇ ‫ܥܡ ܙܒܢܐ �ܠܐܕܫܗ܇ ܟܕ‬ ‫ ܟܕ ܡܣܡܕܪ܇‬.‫ܡܗܒܒ‬ ̇ ‫ ܟܕ ܚܡܪܐ‬.‫ܡܫ ̇ܬܡ�ܠܐ܇ ܟܕ ̇ܒܫܠ‬ ̇ .‫ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ܟܕ‬

̈ ‫ ܕܩܕܝܫܐ‬.‫ܫܐܖܝܢ‬ ‫ܡܢ ܦܘܫܩܐ ܕܫܐܪܬ‬ ‫ ܡܢ �ܡܐܡܪܐ‬.‫ܓܪܝܓܪܝܘܣ ܕܢܘܣܐ‬ ̈ ‫ ܣܓܘ�ܠܐ ܕܡܣܡܕܪܬܐ ܒܪ ܚܬܐ‬.‫ܕܐܖܒܥܐ‬ ‫ ܗܪܟܐ ܟܠܬܐ ܥܕܟܝܠ ܠܣܓܘ�ܠܐ‬.‫ܕܝܠܝ ܠܝ‬ ̈ ̇ ̇ ‫ܕܡܗܒܒ‬ ‫ ܟܕ ܡܣܡܕܪܬܐ‬.‫ܦܐܖܐ‬ ‫ܡܩܪܒܐ‬ ‫ ܛܠܝܐ ܓܝܪ ܝܫܘܥ‬.‫ܠܦܪܥܐ ܕܣܬܐ ܡܫܡܗܐ‬ ̣ ‫ܗܘ ܕܒܐܝܠܝܢ ܕܩܒܠܘܗܝ‬ ̣ .‫ܕܐܬܝܠܕ ܠܢ‬ ‫ ܒܚܟܡܬܐ‬:‫ܡܫܚܠܦܐܝܬ ܡܫܬܘܫܛ‬ ‫ܗܘ ܟܕ‬ ̣ ‫ܘܒܩܘܡܬܐ ܘܒܛܝܒܘܬܐ܆ ܠܘ ܒܟܠܢܫ‬ ̇ ‫ܕܗܘ‬ ‫ ܐ�ܠܐ ܠܦܘܬ ܡܫܘܚܬܐ‬.‫ܗܘ ܐܝܬܘܗܝ‬ ̣ ̇ ̇ ‫ܕܒܗ‬ ̇ ‫ܕܥܪܐ ܠܗ‬ ‫ܕܗܘ‬ ‫ ܐܝܟܢܐ ܕܝܢ‬.‫ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ܣܦܩܐܝܬ ܢܗܘܐ ܐܝܬ ܠܗ܆ ܕܐܝܟ ܗܢܐ‬ ̣ ‫ ܐܘ ܟܕ ܫܒܪܐ ܐܘ ܟܕ ܡܫܬܘܫܛ‬.‫ܡܬܚܙܐ‬ ̇ .‫ ܐܝܟ ܟܝܢܐ ܕܣܓܘ�ܠܐ‬.‫ܡܫܬܡ�ܠܐ‬ ‫ܐܘ ܟܕ‬ ̇ ‫ܗܘ ܕܠܘ ܒܟܠܙܒܢ ܥܡܗ ܕܝܠܗ ܕܐܕܫܐ‬ ̇ ‫ ܐ�ܠܐ ܡܫܚܠܦ ܥܡ ܙܒܢܐ‬.‫ܒܓܦܬܐ ܡܬܚܙܐ‬ ̇ ‫ ܟܕ‬.‫�ܠܐܕܫܗ‬ ‫ ܟܕ ܡܣܡܕܪ ܟܕ‬.‫ܡܗܒܒ‬ ̇ ̇ ̇ .‫ ܟܕ ܚܡܪܐ ܗܘܐ‬.‫ ܟܕ ܒܫܠ‬.‫ܡܫܬܡ�ܠܐ‬

31   Add. 12168 f. 137v-138r. The notes from John bar Aphtonia were studied by Paul Krüger, ‘Johannes bar Aphtonaja und die syrische Übersetzung seines Kommentars zum Hohen Liede’, Oriens Christianus 50 (1966), 61-71 and Raimund Köbert, ‘Syrische Fragmente eines griechischen Kommentars zum Hohen Lied’, Biblica 48 (1967), 111-4. 32   Add. 12168 f. 138r. 33   Add. 12168 f. 138r-138v and W. Wright, Catalogue (1871), 906. 34   Add. 12168 f. 138v Jean-Marie Auwers has shown that the onomastic list has a Greek background and has a parallel in the fourth prologue to the catena of Pseudo-Eusebius. Jean-Marie Auwers, L’interprétation du Cantique des cantiques à travers les chaînes exégétiques grecques (Turnhout, 2011), 432-8. See, however, the detailed review of Auwers’ work by M.A. Barbara in Adamantius 23 (2017), 463-99. Furthermore, on f. 136v-137v, the material on the Song is interrupted by a series of fragments from the Wisdom of Solomon. Moreover, the onomastic list is followed on f. 138v-139r by brief extracts describing the months and seasons of the year and various other topics. These would seem, perhaps, to pertain to Wisdom rather than the Song, but their exact connection remains a matter for further research.

194

M. Pragt

By the holy Gregory of Nyssa from the fourth From the commentary on Song of Songs by the holy Gregory of Nyssa from the fourth homily.36 homily of his commentary on the book. ‘My beloved is to me a cluster of blossom.’ Here the bride still bears (as) fruit the cluster which flourishes, as she calls the bud of the vine ‘blossom’. For the child Jesus, who was born for us, who advances differently in those who receive him in wisdom and stature and grace, is not the same in everyone. Yet according to the state of the one in whom he is, just as is fitting for the one who contains him, according to this he appears. Either as a young child or while progressing or when brought to perfection, like the nature of the cluster, which does not always appear in the same form on the vine but changes its kind over time as it flourishes, blossoms, is fully formed, ripens, becomes wine.35

‘My beloved is to me a cluster of blossom.’ Here the bride still bears (as) fruit the cluster which flourishes, as she calls the bud of the vine ‘blossom’. For the child Jesus, who was born for us, he who advances differently in the ones who receive him in wisdom and stature and grace, is not the same in everyone. Yet according to the state of the one in whom he is, just as is fitting for the one who contains him, according to this he appears. Either as a young child or while progressing or when brought to perfection, like the nature of the cluster, which does not always appear in the same form on the vine but changes its kind over time as it flourishes, blossoms, is fully formed, ripens, becomes wine.37

This extract presents Gregory’s explanation of Song 1:14, in which the bride compares her beloved, Christ, to a cluster of henna (κύπρος), understood by Gregory as vine blossom. According to Gregory, just as a cluster of grapes on a vine does not remain in one state but changes as it blossoms, the fruit grows and ripens and is eventually used to make wine, so also Christ grows in different ways in the people who receive him, according to their spiritual state.38 The bride is here presented as still being at an early stage, hence her reference to the blossom, which in Gregory’s view contains the promise of many good things to come. Unlike the two extracts part of Kings and Isaiah studied above and the abbreviated version of Gregory’s Homilies, the current extract does not go back to the full Syriac translation of the Homilies, but seems to have been translated into Syriac independently.39 This becomes clear when the extract is compared to the corresponding passage in the full Syriac version of the Homilies, based on its oldest manuscript, Vat. Syr. 106: This holy bride bore fruit on the cluster which flourishes in its blossoming, as she calls its blossoming ‘henna’. For the child Jesus who was born for us, according to the word 35   Cod. Ambr. f. 70r. The extract closely represents the elements of Gregory’s underlying Greek text, for example rendering ἀδελφιδός with ‫( ܒܪ ܚܬܐ ܕܝܠܝ‬son of my sister), instead of the Peshitta reading of ‫( ܕܕ‬uncle). 36   This heading could already suggest a background different than the Syriac translation of ̈ Gregory’s Homilies, as it refers to the Song with the title ‫ܣܐܖܝܢ‬ ‫ܫܐܪܬ‬, instead of ‫ܬܫܒܚܬ‬ ̈ ‫ܬܫܒܚܬܐ‬, which is used in the heading to the abbreviated Homilies in the London Collection. 37   Add. 12168 f. 138r. The London Collection differs in two minor aspects from the SyroHexapla as it reads ‫ ܕܒܐܝܠܝܢ‬for ‫ ܕܒܗܠܝܢ‬and ‫ ܫܒܪܐ‬for ‫ܫܒܪ‬. 38   R.A. Norris, Gregory of Nyssa (2012), 106-7. 39   This was also noted by Van den Eynde, La version syriaque (1939), 47 n. 12.



Organizing Exegetical Knowledge in Syriac Christianity

195

of the prophet,40 receives growth in all kinds of ways in the ones who receive him as he grows in stature, wisdom and grace,41 yet he is not in like manner in everyone, but according to the state of the one in whom he dwells and according to what fits the one who accepts him, thus he is seen in someone: either as a young child or a youth or a man,42 like the nature of the cluster, which does not always appear equally in one way on the vine but over time also changes its appearance at the time when it flourishes, when it has become a blossom, when it completes its growth, when it ripens, when it becomes wine.43

In the abridged version of Gregory’s Homilies, this interpretation is also taken over, following the full Syriac translation of the Homilies quite closely, although it speaks more explicitly about virtue: Because the child Jesus who was born for us, according to the word of the prophet, received growth in all kinds of ways in the ones who receive him, when he grew in stature, wisdom and grace, he is not in like manner in everyone, but according to the state of the one in whom he dwells. So also the cluster of virtue does not appear in one equal form on the vine on which it is cultivated, but over time also its appearance changes, when it flourishes, when it has become a blossom, when it completes its growth, when it ripens, when it becomes wine.44

As the London Collection thus already contains Gregory’s interpretation of Song 1:14, it is not immediately apparent what the additional extract outside of the abridged Homilies would add. In order to understand its function, it is necessary to take into account its role in the Syro-Hexapla. There, the extract from Gregory appears to have been incorporated, perhaps on the basis of Greek catenae or other exegetical texts, in order to help explain Song 1:14, especially the meaning of τῆς κύπρου, added in Greek letters next to the Syro-Hexaplaric translation.45 Whereas βότρυς τῆς κύπρου may be understood as a cluster of henna (κύπρος),46 it came to be interpreted as a cluster of blossom in the Greek tradition, perhaps through association with the verb κυπρίζω.47 ‘Cluster of   This phrase is absent in the Greek and Syro-Hexapla.   In the Greek, the additional extract in the London Collection and the Syro-Hexapla, these characteristics are listed in a different order: wisdom, stature and grace. 42   The Greek, the additional extract in the London Collection and the Syro-Hexapla do not refer explicitly to youth and maturity, but to the processes of progression and perfection. 43   This text is taken from the oldest manuscript in which Gregory’s Syriac Homilies have been preserved, Ms. Vat. Syr. 106 f. 93v-94r. Differences between Vat. Syr. 106 on the hand and the additional extract and the Syro-Hexapla on the other hand are indicated in italics. 44   Add. 12168 f. 121r-121v. Elements in which the London Collection differs from Vat. Syr. 106 are indicated in italics. 45   Cod. Ambr. f. 70r. 46   Like Peshitta of Song of Songs, which rendered Hebrew ‫ אשכל הכפר‬with ‫ܣܓܘ�ܠܐ‬ ‫ܕܟܘܦܪܐ‬. 47   R.A. Norris, Gregory of Nyssa (2012), 107 n. 30. Furthermore, the image of Christ as the true vine in John 15 may have been at the background of Gregory’s association of Christ with vine blossoms. 40 41

196

M. Pragt

blossom’ also is the translation offered by the Syro-Hexapla (‫ܣܓܘ�ܠܐ‬ ‫)ܕܡܣܡܕܪܬܐ‬.48 Moreover, in the Syro-Hexapla the extract from Gregory is followed by an anonymous note which explains that clusters of henna were associated with blossoms because of their pleasant fragrance: He calls the vine a ‘blossom’ (‫)ܡܣܡܕܪܬܐ‬, as it flourishes with blossoms. Because in a Greek version he calls the cluster of blossom (‫ )ܡܣܡܕܪܬܐ‬the ‘cluster of henna’ (‫)ܩܘܦܪܘܣ‬, people say that there is a plant which is called henna and (that) it bears clusters pleasing of fragrance like vine-blossoms.49

Thus, when taking into account the context in which the extract from Gregory appears in the Syro-Hexapla, it seems likely that it was part of an effort to translate and offer interpretations of Song 1:14 and especially to support the understanding of κύπρος as meaning blossom. This textual and exegetical sense is still visible in the London Collection, even though no variant interpretations of Song 1:14 are recorded and only part of the note following Gregory’s extract is cited: Scholion. He calls the vine a ‘blossom’ as it flourishes with blossoms.50

Now that the correspondences between the Syro-Hexapla and the London Collection with regard to this extract have become clear, it remains to be explained how it ended up in the London Collection. The most likely explanation seems to be that the compilers of the London Collection took over Gregory’s extract from the Syro-Hexapla.51 Throughout the London Collection, citations of scripture have often been brought into accordance with the Syro-Hexapla.52 Furthermore, the London Collection has appended comments by John bar Aphtonia and onomastic explanations to its section on the Song which also appear in the margins of the Syro-Hexapla.53 Also, the London Collection introduces the extract from Gregory in between of comments from John bar Aphtonia,   Likewise, the East Syriac bishop and biblical interpreter Isho῾dad of Merv – who was familiar with the Syro-Hexapla and whose commentary on the Song of Songs partly depends on Gregory’s Homilies – also lists different interpretative possibilities of Song 1:14, ranging from a cluster of henna to a fragrant plant different from henna, as well as grape blossoms. Ceslas Van den Eynde, Commentaire d’Isho῾dad de Merv sur l’Ancien Testament III, Livres des Sessions, CSCO 229 (Leuven, 1962), 221. 49   Cod. Ambr. f. 70r. ̈ 50   Add. 12168 f. 138r ‫ܒܣܡܕܖܐ‬ ‫ ܡܣܡܕܪܬܐ ̇ܩܪܐ ܠܣܬܐ �ܡܐ ܕܡܗܒܒܐ‬.‫ܣܟܘܠܝܘܢ‬. 51   The possibility cannot be excluded that the extract from Gregory in the Syro-Hexapla and London Collection goes back to a passage which already circulated in abbreviated form in Greek. However, both the Syro-Hexapla and the London Collection introduce the extract as coming from Gregory’s fourth homily. In doing so, they reflect the numbering of the Homilies common in Syriac, where Gregory’s introduction is counted as homily one, resulting in a total number of sixteen homilies. 52   On biblical citations in the London Collection, see B. ter Haar Romeny, ‘The Greek vs. the Peshitta in a West Syrian Exegetical Collection’ (2006), 297-310. 53   Reinhart Ceulemans in his study of marginal Syro-Hexaplaric notes also discusses the comments of John bar Aphtonia and the onomastic explanations found in the Syro-Hexapla and the 48



Organizing Exegetical Knowledge in Syriac Christianity

197

reflecting the arrangement of the Syro-Hexapla in which the extracts appear in the order of the parts of the Song they explain. This suggests that the compilers were motivated by a desire not only to cite scripture according to the SyroHexapla, but also to include the additional exegetical material it contains, even if with regard to content the extract did not add anything new to their collection. Conclusion This article aimed to show in what ways exegetical knowledge was organized in the London Collection (Add. 12168) by focusing on three extracts from Gregory of Nyssa’s Homilies on the Song of Songs. The Collection transmits abridged texts from single authors (Gregory of Nyssa in the case of Song 1-6:9) as well as, for other books, citations from mainly Greek Christian authors in the form of selected extracts which are sometimes structured around scriptural lemmata. The three extracts studied in this article are examples of the latter practice. In the seventh century, the compilers of the London Collection or their predecessors selected extracts from the full Syriac translation of Gregory’s Homilies which they added to their explanations of 1Kings/3Kings and Isaiah. Moreover, they took over material from the Syro-Hexapla, including an extract from Gregory on Song 1:14. In this way, Gregory’s Homilies were not only used to expound the Song, but also for the information they contain about Solomon, for interpreting Isaiah 66:7 as foretelling the birth of Christ as well as for the elucidation of verses of the Song that were read differently in the Syriac and Greek biblical versions. This shows that the excerpting of Gregory could lead to different results in which the interests of the compilers, for example in the textual and exegetical tradition of the Greek Bible, become visible.

London Collection. See Reinhart Ceulemans, ‘The ὁμοίως Notes in the Syro-Hexapla Version of the Song of Songs’, Orientalia Christiana Periodica 79 (2013), 5-36.

Love Intensified: Exploring Gregory of Nyssa’s Noetic-Erotic Revolution James F. Wellington, Nottingham, UK

Abstract The last quarter of a century has witnessed some important presentations on the relationship between desire and the rational faculty in Gregory of Nyssa’s ascetical theology. The purpose of this article is to move the focus of the discussion away from the anthropological issue and to take up the challenge contained within Hans Boersma’s Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa to explore Gregory’s understanding of love, longing and desire from the perspective of anagogical transposition. This exploration will involve an analysis of the triad, ἔρως, πόθος, ἐπιθυμία and their derivatives in those Gregorian works in which they appear most frequently. These include, most strikingly, In canticum canticorum, but also De virginitate, De oratione dominica, De beatitudinibus, De anima et resurrectione, De vita Moysis, In Ecclesiasten homiliae and De institutio Christiano. It will draw parallels between this triad and an antecedent in pagan mythology. It will compare and contrast the deployment of the three words in the Gregorian corpus with their usage in the Septuagint and the New Testament. It will move from the opening salvo of De virginitate (‘the aim of this discourse is to create in the reader a desire for the life of virtue’) to the climax of In canticum canticorum (‘for ἀγάπη when intensified is called ἔρως’). And it will demonstrate how Gregory’s appropriation of overtly erotic terminology is driven by his determination to lead his readers into a more vibrant and dynamic devotion to Christ.

Writing in the second century, the geographer Pausanias describes a temple to Aphrodite in Megara which houses three statues created by Scopas. These are representations of Ἔρως, Πόθος and Ἵμερος, three gods who in classical mythology are known as the Ἔρωτες or ‘loves’ of Aphrodite.1 They function as courtiers of the love-goddess, and they are tasked with assisting her in her goal to promote sexual desire and union. Desire features prominently in the ascetical theology of Gregory of Nyssa. However, modern scholarship has been mainly focused on the relationship of desire to the rational faculty of the soul.2 There has been rather less exploration  Pausanias, Attica I 43, 6.   See, for example, Mark Dorsey Hart, ‘Reconciliation of Body and Soul: Gregory of Nyssa’s Deeper Theology of Marriage’, Theological Studies 51 (1990), 450-67, and ‘Gregory of Nyssa’s 1 2

Studia Patristica CXV, 199-209. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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of the overtly erotic nature of the terminology employed by Gregory in his promotion of the life of virtue, though the reflections of Sarah Coakley in God Sexuality and the Self: An Essay ‘On the Trinity’,3 and Raphael Cadenhead’s references to ‘erotic transformation’ in The Body and Desire: Gregory of Nyssa’s Ascetical Theology,4 are among the exceptions. What Martin Laird has referred to as Gregory’s ‘noetic eroticism’ has inevitably been discussed in relation to his In canticum canticorum.5 However, seven additional works of his, written at different times in his career, reveal his widespread use of a triad which bears some resemblance to the Ἔρωτες of classical mythology. Thus in De virginitate, De beatitudinibus, De oratione dominica, In Ecclesiasten homiliae, De anima et resurrectione, De vita Moysis, and De institutio Christiano, as well as in In canticum canticorum. we encounter the recurring presence and interplay of ἔρως, πόθος, ἐπιθυμία and their derivatives: three words strongly associated with sexual desire in classical Greek, and two of them being the proper names of pagan love-gods.6 It is impossible to overstate the boldness with which Gregory approaches this subject. The appearances of these three words within the texts of the Septuagint and the New Testament present us with a very ambiguous picture. It is a picture which manifests the great reluctance of biblical writers and translators to afford any sacred significance to words which, in classical Greek, are commonly related to carnal love, longing and desire. Ἔρως and its derivatives are almost entirely shunned within the texts of the Septuagint. Its miserly total of four references are located in three passages from Proverbs,7 and one from Wisdom.8 Two of these relate to a love of wisdom, Ironic Praise of the Celibate Life’, Heythrop Journal 33 (1992), 1-19; John Behr, ‘The Rational Animal: A Rereading of Gregory of Nyssa’s De hominis opificio’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 7 (1999), 219-47; Rowan Williams, ‘Macrina’s Deathbed Revisited: Gregory of Nyssa on Mind and Passion’, in Lionel Wickham and Caroline Bammel with Erica C.D. Hunter (eds), Christian Faith and Greek Philosophy in Late Antiquity: Essays in Tribute to George Christopher Stead, SVigChr 19 (Leiden, 1993), 227-46; and Morwenna Ludlow, Universal Salvation: Eschatology in the Thought of Gregory of Nyssa and Karl Rahner (Oxford, 2000), 56-64. 3   Sarah Coakley, God Sexuality and the Self: An Essay ‘On the Trinity’ (Cambridge, 2013), 30834. 4   Raphael A. Cadenhead, The Body and Desire: Gregory of Nyssa’s Ascetical Theology (Oakland, CA, 2018), 6-7, 62 and 70. 5   Martin Laird, ‘Under Solomon’s Tutelage: The Education of Desire in the Homilies on the Song of Songs’, in Sarah Coakley (ed.), Re-Thinking Gregory of Nyssa (Oxford, 2003), 77-95. 6   It is not part of the argument of this article that there is a direct link between Pausanias and Gregory, but that the three words were widely used in classical Greek literature in the context of pagan deities and sexual union. However, Gregory may have been aware of Pausanias and also of such passages from Plato in Cratylus 419B-420B, and Phaedrus 253C-256E. 7   Prov. 4:6-8; 7:18; and 24:51 (30:16). 8   Wis. 8:2.



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and, by contrast, one to adultery. Furthermore, not a single New Testament writer is prepared to follow even this meagre example. New Testament authors are unanimous in their refusal to employ a word which might be confused with one of the Ἔρωτες. Πόθος and its derivatives provide a somewhat more complex representation within biblical Greek. Within the Septuagint, its seventeen references consist of some passages which reach out towards higher realities and others whose object is disreputable. Thus, on the one hand, one psalmist rejoices, ‘Just as the doe longs for (ἐπιποθεῖ) the springs of water, so my soul longs for (ἐπιποθεῖ) you, O God’.9 However, on the other hand, another counsels, ‘Put no hope in wrong, and do not long for (μὴ ἐπιποθεῖτε) what is robbed’.10 With regard to the twelve New Testament references for the derivatives of πόθος, two points are worthy of note. Firstly, the word is used uniformly in a positive sense, where the longing is directed towards worthy objectives. Here, pride of place goes to Paul’s greeting to the Philippians: ‘How I long for (ἐπιποθῶ) all of you with the compassion of Christ Jesus’.11 The ambiguity of the testimony of the Septuagint is set aside. Secondly, πόθος is never used in the New Testament without the prefix, ἐπι-. The most probable explanation for this is that the writers see this as a means of distancing the word from the Ἔρωτες. Ἐπιθυμία is employed far more widely in the biblical texts than are the other two. However, of the 182 references to ἐπιθυμία and its derivatives in the Septuagint and the New Testament only one in six relate to such positives as a desire for God or for the things of God, while more than half relate to such negatives as lust and covetousness. Thus, in the Septuagint, passages such as, ‘Isaachar desired (ἐπεθύμησεν) the good, resting between the allotments’,12 and ‘If you desire (ἐπιθυμήσας) wisdom, keep the commandments, and the Lord will furnish her abundantly to you’,13 are greatly outnumbered by such texts as, ‘And at The Burning also and at The Temptation and at The Graves of Lust (τοῖς Μνήμασιν τῆς ἐπιθυμίας), you were provoking the Lord your God’,14 and ‘For the fascination of wickedness obscures the things that are good, and roving desire (ῥεμβασμὸς ἐπιθυμίας) undermines an innocent mind’.15 Again, in the New Testament, texts such as, ‘I have eagerly desired (ἐπιθυμίᾳ ἐπεθυμήσα) to eat this Passover with you before I suffer’,16 and ‘my desire   Ps. 41:2.   Ps. 61:11. 11   Phil. 1:8. 12   Gen. 49:14. 13   Sir. 1:26. 14   Deut. 9:22. 15   Wis. 4:12. 16   Lk. 22:15. 9

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(ἐπιθυμίαν) is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better’,17 are similarly outstripped by such passages as, ‘You are from your father, the devil, and you choose to do your father’s desires (ἐπιθυμίας)’,18 and ‘Live by the Spirit, I say, and do not gratify the desires of the flesh (ἐπιθυμίαν σαρκὸς)’.19 As this brief survey indicates, the triad of ἔρως, πόθος, ἐπιθυμία and their derivatives are regarded by the biblical writers and translators as, at best, problematic and, at worst, taboo as expressions of love, longing and desire for God and for the things of God. It would appear that these words constitute an odd terminology for a Christian writer in his quest to promote devotion to Christ and the life of virtue. This raises the intriguing question as to why Gregory should choose to use language which so clearly presents difficulties for the writers and translators of sacred texts. The answer to this question is to be found in the thesis put forward by Hans Boersma in Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa: An Anagogical Approach. Arguing that Gregory’s overall theology should be characterized as ‘anagogical’,20 Boersma goes on to conclude: ‘for Gregory the purpose of theology is to “lead upward” into the life of God. The implication with regard to embodied, created realities is that they function positively to the degree that they can be pressed into the service of ascent into heavenly realities’.21 An exploration of the selected works will show how Gregory takes the intensity of the human experience of sexual love, longing and desire and transposes it from the world of the flesh to the world of the spirit, from the lower realities of earthly existence to the higher realities of the heavenly. In this context, ἔρως, πόθος, ἐπιθυμία and their derivatives are pressed into the service of ascent into heavenly realities. For Gregory, they assist in the promotion of the life of virtue (ἀρετή), and hence in the participation in the life of Christ, for whom the word ‘virtue’ is a synonym.22 Let us now proceed to an examination of how each of these three words and their derivatives are used in the selected works. Following Origen’s lead, Gregory uses ἔρως as well as ἀγάπη for the Christian’s love for God. However, unlike Origen, he does not regard the former simply as a synonym for the latter. Instead, he contends in In canticum canticorum, ‘for ἀγάπη when intensified is called ἔρως’.23

  Phil. 1:23.   Jn. 8:44. 19   Gal. 5:16. 20   Hans Boersma, Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa: An Anagogical Approach (Oxford, 2013), 3. 21   Ibid. 247. 22   Ibid. 4. 23   GNO VI, 383.8-9; Richard A. Norris Jr (trans.), Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Song of Songs (Atlanta, 2012), 403. 17 18



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This statement provides the key to understanding the driving force behind Gregory’s decision to employ such overtly sexual language in his quest to create in his readers a desire for the life of virtue. For it should be noted that Gregory’s concern is not simply with an education of desire which teaches humanity to seek after the eternal rather than the transitory. He is also aiming for an intensification of desire which ignites and enflames what he describes as ‘impassible passion’, as in this passage from In canticum canticorum: Therefore since it is Wisdom who speaks, love (ἀγάπησον) her as much as you are able, with your whole heart and strength; desire her (ἐπιθύμησον) as much as you can. To these words I am bold to add, Be in love (ἐράσθητι), for this passion, when directed towards things incorporeal, is blameless (ἀνέγκλητον) and impassible (ἀπαθὲς), as Wisdom says in Proverbs when she bids us to be in love with (ἔρωτα) the divine Beauty.24

It would be wrong to regard Gregory’s definition of ἔρως as ‘ἀγάπη intensified’ as something belonging entirely to a later work which is full of sexual imagery, such as In canticum canticorum. Rather, it should be seen as a summary of the same noetic-erotic thrust which may be detected throughout the works under consideration. Gregory employs the word ἔρως and its derivatives fifty-four times in this selection, of which ninety percent relate to a love for God or for the things of God. Forty-four percent of these references are to be found in In canticum canticorum. At first glance, it might seem to be something of a paradox that Gregory chooses to employ ἔρως as many as twelve times in De virginitate, one of his earliest works. However, this only serves to underline the force behind his anagogical commitment. All but one of these texts relate to a love which has a godly objective. Of particular note is a passage which refers explicitly to the anagogical transposition from a carnal to a noetic eroticism: Whereas if the soul, quite free and relaxed, looks up to the divine and blessed pleasures, it will never turn itself back to any of the earthly things, nor will it exchange them for what are commonly considered pleasures, but will transfer its power to love (τὴν ἐρωτικὴν δύναμιν) from the body to the intelligible and immaterial contemplation of the beautiful.25

In another passage, further on in the same treatise, where he refers to ‘spiritual marriage’, Gregory describes this noetic eroticism in terms reminiscent of his In canticum canticorum: It is clear that the eagerness for this kind of marriage is common to men and women alike, for since, as the apostle says: ‘There is neither male nor female’, and Christ is all things for all human beings, the true lover of wisdom (ὁ τῆς σοφίας ἐρασθεὶς) has 24   GNO VI, 23.6-10; Richard A. Norris Jr, Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Song of Songs (2012), 25. 25   GNO VIII/1, 277.21-278.1; Virginia Woods Callahan (trans.), St Gregory of Nyssa: Ascetical Works, Fathers of the Church 58 (Washington, DC, 2017), 28.

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as his goal (τῆς ἐπιθυμίας σκοπόν) the divine One who is true wisdom, and the soul, clinging to its incorruptible Bridegroom, has a love (τὸν ἔρωτα) of true wisdom which is God. Now, what spiritual marriage is (τί μὲν ὁ πνευματικός ἐστι γάμος) and towards what goal the pure and divine love (ὁ καθαρός τε καὶ οὐράνιος ἔρως) looks has been sufficiently revealed in what we have said before.26

Another work in which ἔρως and its derivatives is well represented is De institutio Christiano, with thirteen references in total. This work was rediscovered by Werner Jaeger, who recognized it as the common source of two works in Migne’s Patrology.27 In contrast to De virginitate, Jaeger suggests this may be Gregory’s last work.28 Like the earlier work, it is addressed to those committed to a life of monastic celibacy, while at the same time making full use of erotic terminology. Again, like the earlier work, it is a treatise which resonates with Gregory’s vision of noetic eroticism. In a passage which recalls the ‘blameless and impassible passion’ of In canticum canticorum, and which also includes the combination of ἔρως with ἐπιθυμία, Gregory directs his readers’ attention away from the fleshly and towards the essential noetic nature of humanity: Reflecting in this manner, he will discover as essential and natural to man an impulse of his will (καὶ ἄριστον τῆς ἐπιθυμίας ὁρμὴν) towards the beautiful and the best, and connected with his nature a passionless and blessed love (τὸν ἀπαθῆ καὶ μακάριον ἔρωτα) of that intelligible and blessed image of which man is the imitation.29

In another passage from De institutio Christiano, Gregory combines the fire of the Spirit with the fire of passion, and, this time, ἔρως with πόθος. He does so in order to promote a heightened intensity of devotion, and thereby a greater zeal for God: Taking the Spirit as companion and ally, one is inflamed (φλέγεται) towards a love of the Lord and seethes with longing (καὶ ζέει πόθῳ), not finding satiety (κόρον) in prayer, but always inflamed towards a love of the good (πρὸς τὸν ἔρωτα του ἀγαθοῦ ἐκκαιόμενος) and enkindling the soul with desire (καὶ ἄρδων τῇ προθυμίᾳ τὴν ψυχήν).30

As with ἔρως, Gregory’s use of πόθος is overwhelmingly positive. Of the ninety-seven appearances of the word and its derivatives in the selected works, ninety percent are directed towards godly and worthy objectives. Fifty-nine percent of these references are to be found in In canticum canticorum. In many of these latter references πόθος is used as a synonym for ἐπιθυμία, often in  GNO VIII/1, 328.4-12; V. Woods Callahan, St Gregory of Nyssa: Ascetical Works (2017), 64.   Werner Jaeger, Two Rediscovered Works of Ancient Christian Literature: Gregory of Nyssa and Macarius (Leiden, 1954). 28   Ibid. 118-9. 29   GNO VIII/1, 40.7-10; V. Woods Callahan, St Gregory of Nyssa: Ascetical Works (2017), 127. 30   GNO VIII/1, 78.13-9; V. Woods Callahan, St Gregory of Nyssa: Ascetical Works (2017), 152. 26 27



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combination with that word. This interplay only serves to reinforce the erotic overtones of Gregory’s noetic endeavours. It also displays a considerable degree of fluidity in Gregory’s understanding of the terms. It is worth noting that in his description of the statues of the Ἔρωτες in the temple of Aphrodite, Pausanias was led to observe sardonically, ‘if indeed their functions are as different as their names’.31 In a significant passage from De vita Moysis, we find Gregory indulging in a prolonged interplay between πόθος and its derivatives and ἐπιθυμία, and also with the derivative of ἔρως, with regard to the ascent of the soul. This interplay demonstrates the interchangeability of the three words in his anagogical reflections: Such an experience seems to me to belong to the soul which loves (ἐρωτικῇ) what is beautiful. Hope always draws the soul from the beauty which is seen to what is beyond (τὸ ὑπερκείμενον), always kindles the desire (ἐπιθυμίαν ἐκκαίουσα) for the hidden through what is constantly perceived. Therefore, the ardent lover (ὁ σφοδρὸς ἐραστὴς) of beauty, although receiving what is always visible as an image of what he desires (ποθουμένου), yet longs (ἐπιποθεῖ) to be filled with the very stamp of the archetype (αὐτοῦ τοῦ ἀρχετύπου χαρακτῆρος). And the bold request which goes up the mountains [sic] of desire (τοὺς ὅρους τῆς ἐπιθυμίας) asks this: to enjoy the Beauty not in mirrors and reflections, but face to face. The divine voice granted what was requested in what was denied, showing in a few words an immeasurable depth of thought. The munificence of God assented to the fulfillment of his desire (τὸ μὲν γὰρ πληρῶσαι τὴν ἐπιθυμίαν), but did not promise any cessation or satiety (κόρον) of the desire (ποθουμένου). He would not have shown himself to his servant if the sight was such as to bring the desire (ἐπιθυμίαν) of the beholder to an end, since the true sight of God consists in this, that the one who looks up to God never ceases in that desire.32

Furthermore, in sharp contrast to the use, or lack of use, of πόθος in the New Testament, Gregory sees no general need to conceal the pagan and sexual associations of the word by clothing it with the prefix, ἐπι-. He shamelessly records both the noun, πόθος, and the verb, πόθεω, in their naked forms. Particularly in In canticum canticorum, but also in other works, Gregory regularly uses the derivative ποθουμένος to refer to Christ as the true object of human desire. In a passage in In canticum canticorum, Gregory combines the story of the divine bridegroom in the canticle with the story of Moses. Here again, we see the interplay between πόθος and its derivatives and ἐπιθυμία, and also the two references to Christ as ποθουμένος. However, we also see a recurring tendency on the part of Gregory to reinforce the intensity of the love, desire or longing through qualifying the word of passion with such words as μείζονος and σφοδροτέρος:  Pausanias, Attica I, 43, 6.   GNO VII/1, 114.5-24; Abraham J. Malherbe and Everett Ferguson (trans.), Gregory of Nyssa: The Life of Moses (New York, 1978), 114-5. 31 32

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The bride Moses kissed the Bridegroom in the same way as the virgin in the Song who says Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, and through the face-to-face converse accorded him by God (as the Scripture testifies [cf. Num. 12:8]), he became more intensely desirous (ἐν ἐπιθυμίᾳ μείζονι) of such kisses after these theophanies, praying to see the Object of his yearning (ποθούμενον) as if he had never glimpsed him. In the same way, all of the others in whom the divine desire (ὁ θεῖος πόθος) was deeply lodged never ceased from desire (ἐπιθυμίας); everything that came to them from God for the enjoyment of the Object of yearning (ποθουμένου) they made into the material and fuel (ὑπέκκαυμα) for a more ardent desire (τῆς σφοδροτέρας ἐπιθυμίας).33

The interplay between πόθος and its derivatives and ἐπιθυμία, and the christological use of ποθουμένος is also on display in an earlier work, De beatitudinibus, which shows how divine justice can be an object of holy longing. In a passage which relates to a longing for food and drink rather than intimacy, we see again how Gregory emphasizes the intensity of the desire and longing in question, this time through recourse to the words, ἔνθερμος and διακαής: For if a man has desired the justice of God (ὁ γὰρ τὴν δικαιοσύνην τοῦ θεοῦ ποθήσας), he has found what is truly to be desired. And he satisfies this desire (ἐπιθυμίαν) not only in one of the forms this appetite can take; for He wants (ἐπόθησεν) us to partake of justice not only as food. If the desire took only this form, it would be but half complete. Now, however, He has disposed that this good thing can also be drunk, so that the intense fervour of the desire (ἵνα τὸ ἔνθερμόν τε καὶ διακαὲς τῆς ἐπιθυμίας) should be represented by the passion of thirst… Therefore the Word expresses thus the highest desire for the Good (τὸ ἀκρότατον τῆς πρὸς τὸ ἀγαθὸν ἐπιθυμίας) and calls blessed those who suffer both hunger and thirst for justice. For the coveted object (ποθουμένου) is great enough to meet the desire in both ways: grace becomes solid food to the hungry, and drink if a man be drawn to it by thirst.34

Gregory’s use of ἐπιθυμία in these works is by no means universally positive. Exactly half of the references relate to a desire for God or the things of God, whereas just over a quarter relate to ungodliness. This, however, represents a significant marking up from the biblical record regarding the word. Furthermore, where Gregory uses ἐπιθυμία in a derogatory sense he often does so in order to contrast ‘fleshly’ or ‘worldly’ desire with holy desire. Alternatively, his negative use of ἐπιθυμία is revealed when it is accompanied by πάθος, as in the following passage from In canticum canticorum, which also speaks directly of anagogical transposition: For a person who is dead to passions and desires (τοῖς παθήμασι καὶ τῆς ἐπιθυμίας) will transpose the outward meaning of the words into the key of what is pure and undefiled, setting his mind on ‘things that are above (τὰ ἄνω), where Christ is seated at the 33   GNO VI, 31.8-32.5; R.A. Norris Jr, Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Song of Songs (2012), 33. 34   GNO VII/2, 117.9-26; Hilda C. Graef (trans.), The Lord’s Prayer, The Beatitudes, Ancient Christian Writers 18 (New York, Mahwah, 1954), 124.



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right hand’ of the Father. In him there is no passion, because he has been made forgetful of low and earthly thoughts.35

On the other hand, his use of ἐπιθυμία without an accompanying adjective is generally to be interpreted in a positive sense. This serves to reinforce the view that he works from the assumption that desire as such is good and belongs to the human esse. The importance of ἐπιθυμία for Gregory may be seen in the opening line of his early treatise, De virginitate. Here we find him spelling out the purpose of the work in question, and also, it might be argued, the purpose of the whole of his ascetical corpus. He writes, ‘The aim (σκοπὸς) of this discourse is to create in the reader a desire for the life of virtue’ (ἐπιθυμίαν τῆς κατ’ ἀρετὴν ζωῆς).36 This usage of ἐπιθυμία helps to set the tone for Gregory’s treatment of the word throughout the selected works. From this beginning, the word and its derivatives are used a further 323 times in the selected works, of which twenty-eight per cent are located in In canticum canticorum. As has been noted, ἐπιθυμία is often employed in tandem with ἔρως and πόθος, thus serving to underline the erotic overtones of Gregory’s noetic endeavours. Such reinforcement is also evident in Gregory’s frequent use of the fire metaphor in his writings. Scholars have rightly associated this with a Trinitarian theology which emphasizes the power and the reality of the Holy Spirit, in accordance with the teaching of his brother, Basil. However, we should also see in this usage the writer’s determination to intensify a love for Christ within the hearts of his readers at a time when the zeal of the martyrs is a distant memory and the ardour of monasticism is still in its early stages. Through a use of such words as εκκαίω, διάπῦρος, διακαής, φλέγω, and so on, Gregory deliberately raises the temperature of ecstatic devotion. In a passage from In Ecclesiasten he writes daringly of longing flourishing with enjoyment, and of desire flaming up with delight: But I, he says, sought the true Good, which is equally good at any age and every time of life, and of which satiety (κόρος) is not expected, nor fullness found. Appetite for it and partaking of it are exactly matched, and longing (πόθος) flourishes together with enjoyment, and is not limited by the attainment of what is desired (ἐπιθυμητοῦ); the more it delights in the Good, the more desire flames up with delight (ἡ ἐπιθυμία τῇ τρυφῇ συνεκκαίεται); the delight matches the desire (ἐπιθυμίᾳ) and at each stage of life it is always a lovely thing to those who partake of it.37

  GNO VI, 262.14-8; R.A. Norris, Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Song of Songs (2012),

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277.

  GNO VIII/1, 247.1-2; V. Woods Callahan, St Gregory of Nyssa: Ascetical Works (2017), 6.   GNO V, 313.8-16; Stuart G. Hall (ed.), Gregory, Bishop of Nyssa: Homilies on Ecclesiastes: An English Version with Supporting Studies: Proceedings of the 10th International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (St Andrews, 5-10 September, 1990) (Berlin, 1993), 58. 36 37

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Again, in a passage from In canticum canticorum, which once more displays the anagogical thrust of his writing, he describes how ‘inflamed desire’ is the route for the ascent of the soul: But she is not yet deemed worthy of the voice of the Bridegroom, since God foresees something better for her: that delay of fruition will inflame (ἀναφλέξειεν) her desire (ἐπιθυμίαν) to a higher point of yearning (εἰς μείζονα πόθον), and joy will be increased along with yearning (πόθῳ).38

Throughout the corpus, but particularly with regard to In canticum canticorum and De vita Moysis, the fire metaphor plays an important role in Gregory’s determination to refute Origen’s teaching on the satiety (κόρος) of souls. In the light of such texts as De principiis II, 8, 3, Marguerite Harl, argues that the concept of κόρος was used by Origen to explain the fall of souls.39 Similarly, Henry Chadwick outlines Origen’s thinking in this way: The rational beings so created were not self-sufficient, but were turned towards God in adoration. But they came to neglect their love for God. Following an idea suggested by Philo Origen says that they became ‘sated’ and so fell. By falling from the divine love they cooled and so perhaps became ‘souls’.40

In opposition to Origen, Gregory argues that ‘there can never be any “satiety” in one’s contemplation of God’.41 He insists not only on the possibility but on the necessity of ‘rekindling desire’ in order to attain spiritual advancement. Indeed, the soul’s progress is wholly dependent upon the insatiability of her ἐπιθυμία. This is evident from a passage from De vita Moysis, where Gregory once again employs the verb ἐκκαίω: But every desire (ἐπιθυμία) for the Good which is attracted to that ascent constantly expands as one progresses in pressing on to the Good. This truly is the vision of God: never to be satisfied (κόρον) in the desire (ἐπιθυμίας) to see him. But one must always, by looking at what he can see, rekindle his desire (ἐπιθυμίαν ἐκκαίεσθαι) to see more. Thus, no limit would interrupt growth in the ascent to God, since no limit to the Good can be found nor is the increasing of desire (ἐπιθυμίας) for the Good brought to an end because it is satisfied (κόρῳ).42

Among the words which Gregory employs regarding the fire metaphor, ἐκκαίω is worthy of particular note. Of its fifty-eight appearances in the Septuagint,   GNO VI, 63.4-8; R.A. Norris Jr, Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Song of Songs (2012), 71.   Marguerite Harl, ‘Recherches sur l’origénisme d’Origène: la “satiété” (κόρος) de la contemplation comme motif de la chute des âmes’, SP 8 (1966), 373-405. 40   Henry Chadwick, Early Christian Thought and the Classical Tradition (Oxford, 1984), 84-5. 41   Ronald E. Heine, Perfection in the Virtuous Life: A Study in the Relationship between Edification and Polemical Theology in Gregory of Nyssa’s De Vita Moysis, Patristic Monograph Series 2 (Cambridge, MA, 1975), 77. 42   GNO VII/1, 116.15-23; A.J. Malherbe and E. Ferguson, Gregory of Nyssa: The Life of Moses (1978), 116. 38 39



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twenty-four relate to the ferocity of divine wrath.43 Its sole appearance in the New Testament is used by Paul to denounce both the depravity and the power of homoerotic passion.44 Nowhere in the biblical literature is this word used to convey a zeal for God or for the things of God. Once more, as with ἔρως, πόθος, ἐπιθυμία and their derivatives, we find Gregory venturing boldly into problematic territory in order to evoke a more fervent devotion in his readers. In conclusion, it is clearly of value, in studying the works of Gregory of Nyssa, to continue to wrestle with the question of the relationship of desire to the rational faculty of the soul. However, it is also profitable to explore the noetic-erotic revolution which, through his use of ἔρως, πόθος, ἐπιθυμία and their derivatives, Gregory initiates in the realm of ascetical theology, and which plots a course which is to be followed by a number of fathers in the later Greek ascetical tradition, who find, at least in ἔρως and πόθος, words which summon their contemporaries to a deeper yearning for God. These include works attributed in the first two volumes of the Philokalia tōn Ierōn Nēptikōn to Hesychius the Priest,45 Diadochus of Photice,46 Maximus the Confessor,47 Thalassius,48 and Theognostus.49 In classical mythology, Ἔρως, Πόθος and Ἳμερος were cast as courtiers of Aphrodite, tasked with assisting her in promoting sexual desire and union. In the works of Gregory of Nyssa, ἔρως, πόθος and ἐπιθυμία are cast as servants of virtue, tasked with promoting a desire for her and participation in her as she is incarnated in the person of Christ. Through this casting, Gregory, as an anagogical theologian, demonstrates that he sees that the ‘purpose of theology is to “lead upward” into the life of God’.50

43  See Deut. 29:20, 32:22; 2Kgs. 22:9, 13, 17, 24:1; 4Kgs. 22:13, 17; 2Chr. 34:21, 25; Pss. 2:12, 77:38, 78:5, 88:46, 105:18; Ob. 1:18; Nah. 2:18; Is. 50:11; Jer. 1:14, 4:4, 15:14, 51:6; Ezek. 20:48, 24:10, 11. 44   Rom. 1:27. 45   Philokalia tōn Ierōn Nēptikōn Vol. I (Athens, 1957), 158, 173. 46   Ibid. 240, 258. 47   Philokalia tōn Ierōn Nēptikōn Vol. II (Athens, 1959), 4, 20, 70, 94, 96, 121, 137, 186. 48   Ibid. 205, 212. 49   Ibid. 259, 260. 50   H. Boersma, Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa (2013), 247.

Gregory of Nyssa’s Understanding of Humility and Poverty in his First Homily on the Beatitudes Anthony Vella, Liverpool Hope University, Liverpool and Maryvale Institute, Birmingham, UK

Abstract The aim of this article is to investigate the notion of spiritual poverty in Gregory of Nyssa’s First Homily on the Beatitudes. The study will focus, more specifically, on Gregory’s understanding of the relationship between voluntary humility and poverty. This will be done, firstly, by identifying the Cappadocian’s interpretation of Jesus’ teaching on poverty. In the expression: ‘poor in spirit’ (Matt. 5:3), Gregory defines Jesus’ call to follow him, leading to a perfection that is manifested in love towards God and neighbour. The study will then assess Gregory’s concepts of voluntary humility and poverty within their historical context and in conversation with current scholarship, giving special attention to Jacques Dupont’s contributions. Focusing on the phrase ‘poor in spirit’, this study will delve into some of the insights of the early Christian Church concerning voluntary humility and poverty. It will conclude that Gregory emphasised the importance of the imitation of Christ’s life of humility and poverty. This is because it is a way leading to genuine Christian discipleship towards participation in the divine blessedness.

Introduction According to Gregory one can answer to Jesus’ call to follow him through the virtue of a humble heart that is detached from worldly wealth.1 Gregory taught his listeners that all this leads to participation (μετουσία) in the essential beatitude, the Divinity itself.2 This study is to investigate the relationship between voluntary humility and poverty in Gregory of Nyssa’s First Homily on the Beatitudes, bringing forth the participation in the divine blessedness.3 1   Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2, ed. John F. Callahan (Leiden, 1992), 89.12-5; id., ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. Stuart G. Hall, in Hubertus R. Drobner and Albert Vinciano (eds), Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Beatitudes, Proceedings of the Eighth International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (Paderborn, 14-18th September 1998) (Leiden, 2000), 31. 2   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 80.21-3; 81.13-6; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 25; David L. Balás, ‘Participation’, in Lucas F. Mateo-Seco and Giulio M. Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2010), 582. 3   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2, (1992), 75-170; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 21-90.

Studia Patristica CXV, 211-218. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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The first section of the study focuses on Gregory’s understanding of humility and poverty, shedding light on Gregory’s interpretation of Jesus’ words ‘poor in spirit’ (Matt. 5:3). The second part of this study examines voluntary humility and poverty through an analysis of their interrelationship with Gregory’s concepts found in his First Homily on the Beatitudes, such as imitating God in Christ, the life of virtue as spiritual wealth, and divine blessedness. Gregory’s Understanding of Voluntary Humility and Poverty in the First Homily on the Beatitudes In his book Le Beatitudini, Jacques Dupont emphasised that the early Fathers of the Church linked the notions of humility and material poverty.4 Dupont argued that for Gregory of Nyssa, ‘poor in spirit’, humility, and poverty express the same thing.5 In urging his listeners to imitate God’s humility in his First Homily, Gregory made clear that Jesus’ words ‘poor in spirit’ mean a voluntary humility in which one recognises one’s own needs and opens one’s hands to receive help from God. This attitude also involves voluntary poverty.6 Gregory invited the Christian to be free from the disease of pride and to be detached from all earthly riches even if one still possesses them.7 This contrasts with the attitude of people who are inflated by pride and thus shape their personality as if they are ‘no longer within the bounds of human nature’, assuming they are above life and death.8 To all of this, Gregory asked how it was possible that a person could be ‘sovereign over a life, which does not belong to him, when his own, does not belong to him?’9 In answer, Gregory urged his listeners to embrace the blessedness of true poverty through humility, imitating Jesus Christ ‘who willingly became poor because of us’.10 In a practical approach, Gregory emphasised the need to observe ‘equal respect’ towards one another, not inflicting harm on any person through the abuse of power.11   Jacques Dupont, Le Beatitudini, III. Gli Evangelisti, vol. II (Milano, 1977), 644-55.   Ibid. 630-1. 6   Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 83.6-7; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 26. 7   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 87.16-20; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 29. 8   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 87.32-88.4; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 29-30. 9   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 88.11; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30. 10   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 88.12-3; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30. 11   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 88.14-5; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30. 4 5



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Furthermore, Dupont emphasised the fact that Gregory understood the nature of true poverty in the words ‘poor in spirit’ as an alternative to poverty in a literal sense and interior impartiality towards wealth, even though did give weight to the former.12 For Gregory, the strength of the Gospel message was lessened if ‘poor in spirit’ was interpreted as an interior attitude of poverty only, while at the same time one could possess wealth.13 Gregory kept to the literal meaning of material poverty through his understanding the way to follow Jesus’ call (Matt. 19:21), which involves finding the poverty that Christ has called blessed.14 Like his brother, Basil of Caesarea,15 Gregory understood that the words ‘poor in spirit’ point to the importance of renouncing earthly riches in order to follow Jesus Christ.16 At the same time, Gregory highlighted the fact that the Apostle Paul affirms the model for this unity between voluntary humility and poverty, when he speaks of the humility of God through our Lord Jesus Christ, ‘though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich’ (2Cor. 8:9).17 Gregory’s Christo-Centric Doctrine in the First Homily on the Beatitudes Gregory’s main link between humility and poverty in his First Homily on the Beatitudes is Jesus Christ. Lucas Francesco Mateo-Seco, in the Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa, affirmed: ‘Christ occupies the central position in Gregory’s theology and spirituality’.18 In his book L’être et le temps chez Grégoire de Nysse, Jean Daniélou stated that Gregory, reinterpreting Platonism in a Christian way, placed Jesus Christ as the only answer to the human quest and 12   J. Dupont, Le Beatitudini (1977), 655-6; Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 88.26-89.3; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30. 13   J. Dupont, Le Beatitudini (1977), 646, 708; Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 89.3-6; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30. 14   J. Dupont, Le Beatitudini (1977), 649. 15   Basil the Great, Question 125, in trans. Anna M. Silvas, The Rule of St Basil in Latin and English (Collegeville, 2013), 214-5; see Klaus Zelzer (ed.), Basili Regula, A Rufino Latine Versa, CSEL 86 (Vienna, 1986), 154-5; Basil the Great, Shorter Rules of the Great Asketikon (SR), Regulae Brevius Tractatae 205 (PG 31, 1217C-D); Graham E. Gould, ‘Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nyssa on the Beatitudes’, SP 23 (1989), 14-22; Anthony Meredith, ‘Gregory of Nyssa, De Beatitudinibus, Oratio I: “Blessed Are the Poor in Spirit, For Theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven” (Mt. 5:3)’, in Hubertus R. Drobner and Albert Vinciano (eds), Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Beatitudes, Proceedings of the Eighth International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (Paderborn, 14-18th September 1998) (Leiden, 2000), 93-109. 16   J. Dupont, Le Beatitudini (1977), 649. 17   Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 83.7-10; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 26. 18   Lucas F. Mateo-Seco, ‘Christology’, in Lucas F. Mateo-Seco and Giulio M. Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2010), 139-52.

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Saviour of degraded humanity after the original sin.19 Indeed, for Gregory, in the First Homily on the Beatitudes, the main and foremost link between voluntary humility and poverty is his Christo-centric doctrine. Mateo-Seco argued that for Gregory, ‘being Christian signifies following Christ’ and also ‘imitating the divine nature’.20 Thus, the Christian disciple, being one with Christ, ‘is also united to the divinity’.21 Gregory uniquely expressed the notion of the virtue of voluntary humility and poverty within the concept of imitating God because of our ‘image and likeness to God’ (Gen. 1:27) and through our likeness to Christ (see Phil. 2:5).22 For Gregory, the mysteries of Christ’s whole earthly life – his words and deeds – draw the Christian to follow and imitate Jesus’ humility and poverty, thus attributing a deep meaning to the First Beatitude.23 In all this, Christ’s disciple is called to participate and share God’s blessedness in his ‘image and likeness’ (Gen. 1:27).24 Furthermore, Gregory affirmed this idea to ‘let the standard of your humility’… ‘observe this model’, that is of Jesus Christ, the ‘King of kings and Lord of lords (see Rev. 19:16)’, who humbled himself to ‘share our impoverishment’.25 At the same time, highlighting the notion of salvation, Gregory invited his listeners not to be afraid of poverty, because Christ, ‘who for us became poor, reigns over all creation’.26 Therefore, the individual who shares ‘poverty with the impoverished’, like Jesus Christ, will also participate in sharing ‘his kingdom when he reigns’.27 Thus, through the interpretation of ‘poor in spirit’ as voluntary humility and poverty linked together, Gregory defined the meaning of Christian discipleship by living a virtuous life, imitating Christ’s own merciful love. 19   Jean Daniélou, L’être et le temps chez Grégoire de Nysse (Leiden, 1970), 165-6; Giam­pietro Dal Toso, ‘La Nozione di Προαιρεσις in Gregorio di Nissa’, in Hubertus R. Drobner and Albert Vinciano (eds), Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Beatitudes, Proceedings of the Eighth International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (Paderborn, 14-18th September 1998) (Leiden, 2000), 569-80. 20   L.F. Mateo-Seco, ‘Christology’ (2010), 145. 21   Ibid. 22   Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 84.9-13; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 27; A. Meredith, ‘Gregory of Nyssa, De Beatitudinibus, Oratio I: “Blessed Are the Poor in Spirit, For Theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven” (Mt. 5:3)’ (2000), 104-5. 23   Anthony Vella, The Poor in Spirit ‘oἱ πτωχοὶ τῷ πνεύματι’ (Mt. 5:3): The Contribution of Gregory of Nyssa to our Understanding of How to Live Spiritual Poverty (unpublished MA Catholic Applied Theology [Spirituality] thesis) (Birmingham, 2017), 39; L.F. Mateo-Seco, ‘Christology’ (2010), 140. 24   Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 84.3-9; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 27. 25   Ibid. 26   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 89.13-6; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 31. 27   Ibid.



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The Life of Virtue in the First Homily on the Beatitudes Gregory of Nyssa also linked voluntary humility and poverty by making use of the notion of the life of virtue. Mateo-Seco observed that for Gregory, Jesus Christ is the model of every virtue.28 Virtue is thus an instrument to render the human being more like God.29 Thus, for Gregory, the virtues of voluntary humility and poverty are a way that lead to the participation in the divine life. i)  Humility as Virtue In his First Homily on the Beatitudes, Gregory emphasised the importance of humility as the starting point of Jesus’ Beatitudes, contrasting it with the ‘folly of pride’.30 Mateo-Seco argued that Gregory, while keeping in mind that every virtue is a gift of God, nevertheless emphasised the need for human toil in order to live a virtuous life.31 Gregory affirmed the idea that it is difficult to amass the spiritual wealth of virtues because of the ‘weed-seed’ of pride ‘planted by the enemy of our life’.32 Nevertheless, he recalled that even though ‘the divine nature exceeds the limit of human littleness’ and every human being will end in dust, ‘humility has a natural affinity with us’.33 Thus, in what is ‘natural and possible’ Christ’s disciple is able to ‘imitate God and put on the blessed shape’.34 Gregory encouraged his listeners to ‘restrain by reason the vain swelling of arrogance’ that will be ‘blown up like a bubble’ and be open instead to ‘the path of humility’.35 ii)  Poverty as Virtue In examining virtuous Christian discipleship through poverty, Gregory distinguished between material and spiritual wealth (earthly riches and virtue).36   Lucas F. Mateo-Seco, ‘Virtue’, in Lucas F. Mateo-Seco and Giulio M. Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2010), 784-7. 29   Ibid.; Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 82.23-5; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 26; id., Canticum Canticorum, ed. Hermannus Langerbeck, GNO VI (Leiden, 1960), (IX), 271-2; id., De vita Moysis, ed. Herbert Musurillo, GNO III/1 (Leiden, 1964), (II), 101-2. 30   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 84.3-6; 85.21-5; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 27-8. 31   L.F. Mateo-Seco, ‘Virtue’ (2010), 785. 32   Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 83.19-22; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 27. 33   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 83.10-4; 85.1-4; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 27-8. 34   De oratione Dominica, De neatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 83.12-6; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 27. 35   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 85.6-9; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 28. 36   Anthony Meredith, ‘Gregory of Nyssa, De Beatitudinibus, Oratio I’ (2000), 101. 28

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Gregory commented that Scripture teaches us to seek the imperishable ‘wealth of the virtues’ and condemned the deceitfulness of material and earthly things, which were ‘exposed to eating by moths’ (see Matt. 6:19-20).37 Gregory urged his listeners to shake off earthly riches so as to be ‘borne aloft’ by means of the spiritual wealth of the virtues, citing Saint Paul: ‘to be caught up in the clouds … to meet the Lord in the air’ and to be with him forever. (1Thess. 4:17).38 The one who is ‘willingly poor’ in the ‘devil’s treasures’, but ‘ardent in spirit’ (see Rom. 12:11), as the Apostle Paul teaches, is chosen by the Word, Jesus Christ, in a blessed ‘state of poverty’, where the kingdom of heaven is the treasured reward.39 Gregory said that virtue becomes real only when one is voluntarily poor of worldly possessions,40 bringing about the treasure of heaven through the participation in the divine blessedness. Divine Blessedness in Relation to Voluntary Humility and Poverty in the First Homily on the Beatitudes In the First Homily, Gregory related voluntary humility and poverty with divine blessedness, while he linked blessedness with the participation in God who alone is truly blessed.41 Graham Gould observed that: ‘Gregory’s emphasis on reward for one’s cultivation of virtue and detachment from possessions and worldly distractions, was maintained consistently throughout his sermon’.42 Gregory asserted that ‘treasure in the heavens’ was achieved by living the words of Jesus Christ who taught to his disciples to let go of attachment to possessions, give their possessions to the poor and follow him (see Matt. 19:21, Lk. 18:22, Mk. 10:21).43 In this way, human nature displays ‘the features proper to the characteristics of blessedness’, having an excellent beauty which is ‘an image of the transcendent blessedness’ of the divine itself.44 Contemplating the Paschal mystery of Christ, 37   Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 81.2382.3; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 25-6. 38   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 88.27-89.3; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30. 39   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 82.13-9; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 26. 40   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 89.3-5; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30. 41   David L. Balás, ‘Deification’, in Lucas F. Mateo-Seco and Giulio M. Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2010), 210-3. 42   Graham E. Gould, ‘Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nyssa on the Beatitudes’ (1989), 21. 43   Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 88.21-4; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30. 44   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 80.9-10; 80.26-81.3; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 24-5.



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Gregory clearly defined the idea that the reward for living the Beatitude ‘poor in spirit’ by God’s grace and by one’s own toil is salvation. Furthermore, Gregory stated that the First Beatitude was Jesus’ answer to his disciples’ question ‘Lo, we have left everything and followed you. What then shall we have?’ (Matt. 19:27).45 If the Christian becomes willingly ‘poor in spirit’, imitating Jesus Christ’s poverty and respecting one’s neighbour with dignity, then one is truly blessed ‘by having exchanged temporary humility for the kingdom of the heavens’.46 In the phrase ‘poor in spirit’ Gregory seemed to reflect the idea that one can gain spiritual wealth in exchange for material wealth.47 Gregory emphasised that Christ’s disciple can achieve God’s blessedness by renouncing, with a humble heart, the riches of the earth, which are nothing more than a load and a burden.48 Gregory described gold as a weight that keeps us bound to earth, while charity towards others makes us soar towards the participation in God’s blessedness.49 Conclusion To conclude, this study shows that in the First Homily on the Beatitudes, Gregory described a Christological way of participation (μετουσία) in God through hard work and determination to live a virtuous life of voluntary humility and poverty. Gregory made his own Paul’s understanding of Christ, as the one who became deliberately poor for our sake (2Cor. 8:9) and ‘who humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross’ (Phil. 2:6-9).50 For Gregory, one can understand the value of humility and poverty in Jesus Christ, who is the model for the Christian to imitate.51 Gregory emphasised that by imitating Christ in his virtuous life of humility and poverty one could participate in the divine blessedness, leading to the likeness of God.52 45   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 88.21-6; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30. 46   Ibid. 47   A. Vella, The Poor in Spirit (2017), 45; J. Dupont, Le Beatitudini (1977), 649. 48   A. Vella, The Poor in Spirit (2017), 45-6; Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 88.27-89.3; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30. 49   A. Vella, The Poor in Spirit (2017), 46; Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 89.4-8; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30-1. 50   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 83.7-10; 84.5-12; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 26-7. 51   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 83.7-10; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 26. 52   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 82.23-5; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 26.

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Furthermore, Gregory taught that the virtues of humility and poverty have to be at the heart of one’s spiritual life. Gregory affirmed that the virtuous life is the sharing of spiritual wealth in its fullness without being diminished, behaving ‘like the sun [and] sharing itself between all those who see it and at the same time [being] totally available to all’.53 At the end of the First Homily on the Beatitudes, Gregory described how the soul is free from the weight of all riches by being detached from them and thus being open to the participation in divine eternal wealth, the blessedness of true poverty.54 Thus, this study identifies in Gregory’s First Homily on the Beatitudes that participation in the divine beatitude can be achieved when one chooses to live spiritual wealth through the virtues of voluntary humility and poverty. Emphasising Gregory’s Christo-centricity, this divine blessedness is attained by imitating God in Jesus Christ’s humility and poverty.

53   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 79.22-6; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 24. 54   De oratione Dominica, De beatitudinibus, GNO VII/2 (1992), 88.26-89.3; ‘On the Beatitudes’, trans. S.G. Hall (2000), 30.

Compassion to Become Equal: The Shaping of a Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa’s De Beatitudinibus V* Francisco Bastitta Harriet, UBA, UCA, CONICET, Buenos Aires, Argentina

Abstract This article intends to analyse philosophically the theory of compassion and its practical corollaries in Gregory of Nyssa’s fifth homily on the Beatitudes, particularly in its first section. The author tries to assimilate the Jewish and Christian biblical tradition with the classical conception of the Greeks, and for that he challenges some of the main assumptions of the Platonist, Peripatetic and Stoic philosophical schools. Gregory describes compassion as a fundamental human attitude that springs from love and is capable of transforming the framework of society by restoring equality, justice and communion among human beings. Beginning with the traditional Greek understanding of ἔλεος, with all its rich literary references, philosophical significance and dramatic power, Nyssen slowly pours it into the mould of the Judeo-Christian language of mercy and love, more intimate, more far-reaching, filled with the zeal for justice and redemption. The result is a profound, theoretically complex and socially challenging speculation. From a private emotion to a bond of communion, from a passive reaction to an active and free commitment, from a disordered passion to the highest of human virtues, from requiring social distance to erasing all differences of dignity and honour, from being restricted to those around us to reaching out towards each and every human being: compassion truly emerges in a new form.

At the time of Christ’s birth, the Jewish and biblical conception of compassion and mercy had gone through centuries of interchange with Greek and Roman theories and practices of love. In the first centuries of Christianity, this reciprocal influence continued with great intensity, resulting in attempts of assimilation and agreement between different perspectives, but also in sharp contrasts and mutual resistance.1 *  The present article was written as part of the interdisciplinary research project: ‘Theories and Practices of Mercy among Pagans, Jews and Christians in the Roman Empire, 1st-5th Centuries AD’, hosted by the Institute of Theological Research (ININTE) at the Pontificia Universidad Católica Argentina. I thank my sister Gaiana for revising and improving my English. 1   On the history of the concept of ἔλεος in Antiquity, apart from the already classical study by David Konstan, Pity transformed (London, 2001), see also Françoise Mirguet, An Early History of Compassion: Emotion and Imagination in Hellenistic Judaism (Cambridge, 2017). A more general perspective on emotions in Ancient Greece and Rome may be found in Richard Sorabji, Emotion and Peace of Mind: From Stoic Agitation to Christian Temptation (Oxford, 2000);

Studia Patristica CXV, 219-230. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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This article intends to analyse philosophically the theory of compassion (ἔλεος) and its practical corollaries in Gregory of Nyssa’s fifth homily on the Beatitudes, particularly in its first section.2 By presenting compassion as a virtue, and even as a social bond, the author tries to assimilate the Jewish and Christian biblical tradition with the classical conception of the Greeks, and for that he challenges some of the main assumptions of the Platonist, Peripatetic and Stoic philosophical schools. Gregory describes compassion as a fundamental human attitude that springs from love and is capable of transforming the framework of society by restoring equality, justice and communion among human beings. To begin with, Gregory wants to make clear that compassion is one of the attributes of the Divine. Actually, all of the Beatitudes, he says, have their source and perfection in God, the truly Blessed. Hence, he refers to several passages from the Scriptures that describe God as compassionate or merciful (ἐλεήμων).3 He seems to imply that if compassion is indeed a peculiarity (ἰδίωμα) and a power (δύναμις) of the Godhead, if it signifies God’s own activity, then our concept of that emotion needs to be somewhat purified. In fact, according to Stoic philosophy, ἔλεος was considered a passion, that is, an irrational and unnatural (ἄλογος καὶ παρὰ φύσιν) movement of the soul, an excessive impulse (ὁρμὴ πλεονάζουσα).4 A few centuries before the Cappadocians, an author like Philo of Alexandria opposed that negative view of compassion based on the rich conception and terminology of loving-kindness in the Jewish Scriptures. To be sure, both Platonists and Peripatetics usually held more positive views on the passions and appetites than Stoics.5 But Philo went further. Apart from relating ἔλεος to goodness and to love of humankind (φιλανθρωπία), as some other Platonists Martha C. Nussbaum, Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions (Cambridge, 2001); David Konstan, The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto, 2006); Douglas Cairns and Laurel Fulkerson (eds), Emotions between Greece and Rome (London, 2015). 2   Gregorii Nysseni De oratione dominica, De beatitudinibus, ed. John F. Callahan, Gregorii Nysseni Opera (GNO) VII/2 (Leiden, 1992), 123-30. For an introductory analysis of the entire discourse and its possible philosophical sources, see Thomas Böhm, ‘Gregor von Nyssa, De beatitudinibus, oratio V: “Selig sind die Barmherzigen, denn sie werden Barhmherzigkeit erlangen”’, in Hubertus R. Drobner and Albert Viciano (eds), Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies on the Beatitudes: An English Version with Commentary and Supporting Studies, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 52 (Leiden, 2000), 165-83. 3   See Gregory of Nyssa, Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 124.18-24). I have followed in general the English translation by Hilda C. Graef (ed.), St. Gregory of Nyssa. The Lord’s Prayer, The Beatitudes, Ancient Christian Writers 18 (New York, 1954), 85-175, although I opted for a more literal rendering in several passages. I also consulted S.G. Hall’s translation in H.R. Drobner and A. Viciano (eds), Gregory of Nyssa (2000), 23-90. 4  See e.g. Diogenes Laertius, Lives VII, 110. 5  One may begin, for example, with the rich catalogue of emotions described in Aristotle, Rhet. II 2-11, which includes his famous treatment of ἔλεος in chapter 8. Platonists like Alcinous and Plutarch opposed the Stoic view of the passions and developed a complex theory of emotions as constitutive elements of nature, which must be governed by reason, but not eradicated. The



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did,6 he described it as ‘the passion most akin and necessary to the rational soul (τὸ ἀναγκαιότατον καὶ συγγενέστατον λογικῇ ψυχῇ πάθος)’.7 Now, by stressing that God himself is compassionate, Gregory goes as far as concluding that the Beatitude of ἔλεος invites human beings to ‘be transformed into the specific property of the Godhead’ (μορφωθέντα τῷ τῆς θεότητος ἰδιώματι), to ‘a sort of deification’ (θεοποιεῖν τρόπον τινά).8 And this can be achieved only by continuously approaching God and by tending to the things above with unceasing desire. So the deeper meaning of ἔλεος becomes an issue of the utmost importance. Before beginning the analysis of various definitions of the word, Gregory makes an intriguing reference to the nature of the Trinity. Ignorance of the true nature of God, he says, contemplated in the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, may lead astray to absurd ideas. In the same way, we need to grasp the ‘true understanding’ (ἀληθὴς διάνοια) of this Beatitude or else we can be easily deceived.9 As we shall see, this association of compassion to the Trinity may be one of the keys to understand Nyssen’s stance on this subject. Towards the ‘true understanding’ of compassion Instead of delving into the depths of the individual consciousness and the psychological experience of compassion directly, first Gregory wants to situate it in a social context. The primary, most obvious meaning of compassion, according to him, ‘calls humans to mutual affection and sympathy’.10 Even the most ordinary use of the word presupposes the deep inequality and disparity (τὸ ἄνισόν τε καὶ ἀνώμαλον) in life’s conditions among different people. Their way of living (βίος), says Gregory, is ‘divided up into opposites’ (μεμέρισται διὰ τῶν ἐναντίων), having been severed into slavery and mastery, riches and poverty, fame and dishonour, bodily infirmity and good health.11 While reading this harsh account of the present reality of humankind we may recall, by way of contrast, the idyllic description of human life before the Fall in Gregory’s In Ecclesiasten: Then there was no death, disease was absent, ‘mine’ and ‘yours’, those wicked words, were banished from the life of the first humans. As the sun was shared (κοινός), and emperor Marcus Aurelius may be considered an exception in the Stoic school for his approval of compassion in certain circumstances; see his Meditations II 13; VII 26. 6   See Alcinous, Didask. XXXII; Plutarch, Virt. eth. 12. 7   See Philo of Alexandria, De virtutibus 144; id., De Josepho 82; D. Konstan, Pity (2001), 120-1; F. Mirguet, An Early History (2017), 57-60. 8   Gregory of Nyssa, Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 124.16,26). See also id., Benef. (GNO IX, 103.8-12). 9  See ibid. (GNO VII/2, 125.8-29). 10   Ibid. (GNO VII/2, 126.3-5): πρὸς τὸ φιλάλληλόν τε καὶ συμπαθὲς προσκαλεῖται τὸν ἄνθρωπον. 11  See ibid. (GNO VII/2, 126.8-11).

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the air was shared, and above all the grace and praise of God were shared, so too participation in everything good (ἡ παντὸς ἀγαθοῦ μετουσία) was freely available on equal terms (ἐν ἴσῳ). Neither was the disease of greediness (ἡ νόσος τῆς πλεονεξίας) known to anyone, nor was there any resentment (μῖσος) over inferiority against superiors, for there was no superiority whatsoever (οὐδὲ γὰρ ὅλως τὸ ὑπερέχον ἦν). And there were thousands of other things besides these, which no one could describe in words, since they utterly exceed in magnificence those mentioned.12

The text is very instructive to our analysis. As we shall see, Nyssen is not only depicting here the blessed state of the first creation, which is expected to be reinstated by God in the end of the world, but he is also formulating what will become the concrete object and purpose of human compassion. According to Gregory, the origin of the tragic changes in the fate of humanity lies in the disease of greediness (πλεονεξία), what he calls in our homily and elsewhere the ‘desire for more’ (ἡ τοῦ πλείονος ἐπιθυμία), a craving that ends up weakening the balanced harmony of nature, isolating the individuals and setting them against each other.13 For that reason, when he comments on the fourth Beatitude, regarding those who hunger and thirst after justice (Matt. 5:6), Gregory complains about the traditional definition of justice (δικαιοσύνη),14 because although it is supposed to distribute to each what is equal and according to their value (ἀπονεμητικὴν τοῦ ἴσου καὶ τοῦ κατ’ ἀξίαν ἑκάστῳ), in reality the power to govern and administer justice and riches belongs to a few, while the great majority are among those subdued and regulated (τὸ δὲ πλῆθος ἐν τοῖς ὑποχειρίοις τε καὶ οἰκονομουμένοις ἐστίν).15 ‘How then – he inquires – can one accept as true justice (τὴν ἀληθῆ δικαιοσύνην) one that is not meant for our entire nature in equality of honour (ὁμοτίμως)?’16 12   Id., Eccl. VI 9 (GNO V, 386.9-18): τότε θάνατος οὐκ ἦν, νόσος ἀπῆν, τὸ ἐμὸν καὶ τὸ σόν, τὰ πονηρὰ ταῦτα ῥήματα, τῆς ζωῆς τῶν πρώτων ἐξώριστο. ὡς γὰρ κοινὸς ὁ ἥλιος καὶ ὁ ἀὴρ κοινὸς καὶ πρὸ πάντων τοῦ θεοῦ ἡ χάρις καὶ ἡ εὐλογία κοινή, οὕτως ἐν ἴσῳ καὶ ἡ παντὸς ἀγαθοῦ μετουσία κατ’ ἐξουσίαν προέκειτο, καὶ ἡ νόσος τῆς πλεονεξίας οὐκ ἐγνωρίζετο, καὶ τὸ πρὸς τὸ ἐλαττοῦσθαι μῖσος κατὰ τῶν ὑπερεχόντων οὐκ ἦν (οὐδὲ γὰρ ὅλως τὸ ὑπερέχον ἦν) καὶ μυρία ἐπὶ τούτοις ἄλλα, ἃ οὐδ’ ἂν παραστῆ σαί τις δυνηθείη τῷ λόγῳ παμπληθὲς τῶν εἰρημένων κατὰ τὸ μεγαλεῖον προέχοντα. With minor changes, I follow the translation by S.J. Hall and R. Moriarty in Stuart George Hall (ed.), Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on Ecclesiastes: an English Version with Supporting Studies. Proceedings of the Seventh International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (Berlin, New York, 1993), 108. 13   See, for example, id., Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 127.28-128.7); id., Or. Dom. I (GNO VII/2, 11.2-12). 14  See Beat. IV (GNO VII/2, 112.1-3): φασὶ τοίνυν τῶν ἐξητακότων τὰ τοιαῦτά τινες δικαιοσύνην εἶναι ἕξιν ἀπονεμητικὴν τοῦ ἴσου καὶ τοῦ κατ’ ἀξίαν ἑκάστῳ. Gregory seems to be merging two typical Stoic definitions: apud Stobaeus, Anth. II 7, 7-8, 22-3 and III 9, 54, 3-4. See also Aristotle, Nich. Eth. V 3-4, 1131a-1132b; id. Pol. III 9, 1-7, 1280a-b; Plato, Rep. IV 433d-435b. 15  See id., Beat. IV (GNO VII/2, 111.23-113.7). 16   Id., Beat. IV (GNO VII/2, 112.26-7). πῶς ἄν τις δέξαιτο τὴν ἀληθῆ δικαιοσύνην ἐκείνην εἶναι, εἰ μὴ πάσῃ πρόκειται ὁμοτίμως τῇ φύσει; (trans. H.C. Graef, St. Gregory of Nyssa [1954], 120, with changes).



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In Nyssen’s eyes, all social asymmetries – as we argued elsewhere – are neither natural nor caused by God nor an inevitable consequence of sin; they are painful fractures created and sustained by human free decisions alone. 17 That is why, in order to reconnect what has been divided and to restore equality (τὸ ἴσον), Gregory calls for a free initiative of each person, not just a passive response of pity or grief. This new ‘drive’ (ὁρμή), as he calls it, requires a softening of the soul, and the sympathetic and compassionate person is said to become – quite paradoxically – somehow coalesced (κατακιρνᾶταί πως) by this disposition with the one in need.18 Nyssen thus brings to the fore his well-known theory of the communion of human nature or essence, developed in his anthropological and trinitarian treatises.19 The unity of the human element is considered both intensively and extensively, that is, including all the properties that define its nature and the totality of its individuals. Strictly speaking, as Gregory affirms in Ad Graecos, there are many persons but only one human being.20 However, as we have seen, this original communion was severed by sin. What was once shared is now tragically divided. Those who were united and equal in the beginning are at present sundered from each other, even opposed to one another. Compassion, then, is initially defined by Nyssen as ‘a voluntary pain (ἑκούσιος λύπη) that joins itself to the harms of others (ἐπ’ ἀλλοτρίοις κακοῖς συνισταμένη)’.21 According to Aristotle and the early Stoics, ἔλεος was also a type of pain (λύπη), one arising on account of an evil suffered undeservedly.22 In the case of the Stoics, it was deemed as disordered because it was caused by a misperception, a false judgement. On the contrary, Nyssen’s compassion is awakened as a result of a real anomaly in human society, and it is called to assume that disorder and to alleviate it. Its voluntary character (ἑκούσιος) is also very significant. Voluntariness and choice were among the main differences between a passion and a virtue, according to Aristotle.23 Nyssen is very insistent, as his predecessor Clement 17   See my ‘Filiación divina, dignidad y tolerancia: de Epicteto a Gregorio de Nisa’, in Ruben Peretó Rivas (ed.), Tolerancia: teoría y práctica en la edad media, Textes et Études du Moyen Âge 64 (Porto, 2012), 13-27. 18   Gregory of Nyssa, Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 126.14-21). 19   See, for example, id., Eun. III 1, 73-6; id., Op. hom. 16; Johannes Zachhuber, Human Nature in Gregory of Nyssa: Philosophical Background and Theological Significance, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 46 (Leiden, 2000); Francisco Bastitta Harriet, ‘Human Communion and Difference in Gregory of Nyssa: from Trinitarian Theology to the Philosophy of Human Person and Free Decision’, in Volker H. Drecoll and Margitta Berghaus (eds), Gregory of Nyssa. The Minor Treatises on Trinitarian Theology and Apollinarism, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 106 (Leiden, 2011), 337-49. 20  See, id., Graec. (GNO III/1, 22-5). 21   Id., Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 126.22-3). 22   See Aristotle, Rhet. II 8, 1, 1385b; Diogenes Laertius, Lives VII 110-1. 23   See Aristotle, Nic. Eth. II 5, 1105b28-1106a13; III 1, 1109b30-5.

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of Alexandria, on the free and autonomous character of compassion, clearly stating that it resides in the faculty of choice (ἐν προαιρέσει), and that it is praiseworthy even if one is willing but has no means to carry it out.24 Immediately after his first attempt, Gregory rehearses a much more elaborate definition of the term: ‘Compassion is a shared disposition of love (ἀγαπητικὴ συνδιάθεσις) towards those suffering due to painful circumstances’.25 In the first place, we may notice that now the object of ἔλεος is no longer the harm itself but the people who suffer it. And more importantly, compassion is not described as an emotion, but as a disposition (διάθεσις), which is precisely the Stoic notion that defines virtue.26 Years before, Aristotle had notably affirmed: ‘We are said to be moved by the passions (κατὰ μὲν τὰ πάθη κινεῖσθαι), whereas by virtues and vices we are not moved, but disposed in a certain way (διακεῖσθαί πως)’.27 The word συνδιάθεσις, which is here translated as ‘shared disposition’, is one of Gregory’s favourites. It also appears in the seventh homily on the Beatitudes, where it defines his notion of peace (εἰρήνη).28 In other exegetical treatises, Nyssen uses it to describe the subtle ‘combination’ of rhythm and meanings of words in a literary piece; or the psychosomatic contrivance that bonds together the intensity of shame with the immediate blush of the bodily response.29 In De opificio hominis it also designates the intimate ‘correlation’ among the parts of the body or among the levels of the soul, as well as the mysterious union of body and soul; not to mention the ‘mixture’ of good and evil in the forbidden tree of Genesis 3.30 So this shared disposition is clearly not an individual feature. It may be characterized as a kind of relation or systemic arrangement, which in the case of ἔλεος requires a voluntary readiness to connect. Gregory discloses its general meaning as follows: ‘The whole shares the disposition with the part (τὸ ὅλον τῷ μέρει συνδιατίθεται)’.31 In this sense, thanks to compassion, whatever affects each member of the human family will affect the whole of humanity. Moreover, this second definition relates compassion to charitable love (ἀγάπη). In order to distinguish it once more from some of the traditional connotations of ἔλεος as plain pity, as fear of suffering the same evil which we see in others, 24   See Gregory of Nyssa, Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 127.12-6); Clement of Alexandria, Stromata IV 6, 38. 25   Id., Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 126.25-7): ἔλεός ἐστιν ἡ ἐπὶ τῶν δυσφορούντων ἐπί τισιν ἀνιαροῖς ἀγαπητικὴ συνδιάθεσις. 26   See Diogenes Laertius, Lives VII 98; Stobaeus, Anth. II 60. 27  Aristotle, Eth. Nic. II 5, 1106a4-6. 28   See Gregory of Nyssa, Beat. VII (GNO VII/2, 154.7-9). 29  See id., Inscr. I 3, 8 (GNO V 34.11-3); Id., Eccl. III 2 (GNO V, 316.5-11). 30  See id., Op. hom. XIII 7 (ed. George H. Forbes [Burntisland, 1855-61] I/2, 180); XX 3 (ed. G.H. Forbes I/2, 228); id., Epist. 13, 1 (GNO VIII/2, 44.18-23). 31   Ibid.



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Gregory says that compassion ‘springs from love’ (ἐκφύεταί τῆς ἀγάπης) and is inseparable from it. For earlier Greeks and Romans, as David Konstan neatly puts it: ‘pity begins where love leaves off’.32 The contrast could not be more straightforward. Indeed, if one could more carefully examine the distinctive feature (ἰδίωμα) of compassion, Gregory suggests: ‘one would find that it is an intensification of a loving disposition (ἐπίτασιν εὑρήσει τῆς ἀγαπητικῆς διαθέσεως), commingled (συμμεμιγμένη) with the passion of pain’.33 Now, what does this intensification mean? Gregory uses the same verb ἐπιτείνω in his In Canticum canticorum to relate passionate love, ἔρως, to charitable love, ἀγάπη.34 In this case, he probably implies that ἔλεος is love in action, the divine charity expressed in the extension of created time and space. Or, more precisely, that it is love’s own reaction in the face of the wounds and capricious divisions of humanity. Compassion, therefore, cannot be in any way a flaw or a weakness, because love is for Gregory the most powerful and excellent thing (ἡ ἀγάπη τὸ κράτιστον εἶναι).35 And so, he concludes, rooted in love and conceived as intensified love, ἔλεος reaches the very summit of virtue (ἀκρότατος κατὰ τὴν ἀρετὴν).36 We can see that ἔλεος is no longer considered a passion, but still it is said to be commingled with the emotion of pain. This is surely the pain of the oppressed, which the compassionate persons share because they somehow coalesce with them, as we have seen. Gregory affirms: ‘For all, friends and foes alike, seek a share in a man’s good luck; whereas to be willing to share (κοινωνεῖν ἐθέλειν) in someone’s griefs pertains only to those ruled by love’.37 And this brings us back to the social reality Gregory puts forward right from the beginning. Social transformation through ἔλεος In relating compassion with the ending of oppression, the defense of the poor and the weak and the restoration of justice, Nyssen is clearly drawing from the venerable tradition of the Jewish Scriptures, the Law and the Prophets – so   D. Konstan, Pity (2001), 59.   Gregory of Nyssa, Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 126.29-127.2): καὶ εἴ τις ἀκριβῶς ἐξετάσειε τὸ τοῦ ἐλέου ἰδίωμα, ἐπίτασιν εὑρήσει τῆς ἀγαπητικῆς διαθέσεως τῷ κατὰ τὴν λύπην πάθει συμμεμιγμένην. 34  See id. Cant. XIII (GNO VI, 383.9). 35  See id., Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 127.5-7). 36  See ibid. (GNO VII/2, 127.7-9). 37   Ibid. (GNO VII/2, 127.3-5): ἡ μὲν γὰρ τῶν καλῶν κοινωνία πᾶσιν ὁμοίως καὶ ἐχθροῖς καὶ φίλοις σπουδάζεται· τὸ δὲ τῶν ἀνιαρῶν κοινωνεῖν ἐθέλειν μόνων ἴδιον τῶν τῇ ἀγάπῃ κεκρατημένων ἐστίν. The phrase could be echoing the spirit of these verses from Euripides’ Orestes: ‘They turn out to be friends in name, not in deed, those who are not friends in misfortunes (ὄνομα γάρ, ἔργον δ᾽ οὐκ ἔχουσιν οἱ φίλοι / οἱ μὴ ‘πὶ ταῖσι συμφοραῖς ὄντες φίλοι)’ (454-5). 32 33

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beautifully conveyed in Mary’s Magnificat (Luke 1:46-55) –, and also from the renewed conception of ἔλεος in the Gospels, the Pauline Epistles and the Christian tradition. In like manner, he is evidently formulating his theory of compassion in dialogue with all the philosophical traditions. He makes use of a whole array of technical terms and conventional definitions, which he tries again and again to elaborate, to correct, to model anew. We could say that Gregory mirrors and enhances Philo’s concern and speculative effort to defend the rationality and excellence of compassion. As with his condemnation of slavery in the fourth homily on Ecclesiastes, here Gregory is not doing an exercise of empty rhetoric.38 This discourse is not a purely intellectual cogitation, either. It is a call to action. In fact, according to Gregory, God himself is called merciful ‘on account of his acting’ (ἐκ ποῦ ποιεῖν).39 So he tries to inspire and motivate his audience to embrace this attitude by evoking the prospective vision of a compassionate society. We may notice the significant verbal shift from the optative mood in the first phrase to the future indicative in what follows. Without question, Nyssen wants to move from the mere possibility of such a change to a hoped-for and attainable reality. If – let us suppose (καθ’ ὑπόθεσιν) – such a relationship of the soul (τῆς ψυχῆς σχέσις) to those who suffer loss emerged in all, there would be no more superiority and inferiority (οὐκέτ’ ἂν εἴη τὸ ὑπερέχον καὶ ἐλαττούμενον). Life’s conditions will no longer be differentiated in oppositions of names. The human being will not be distressed by poverty, nor reduced by slavery, nor afflicted by dishonour. For all things will be common to all, and legal and political equality (ἰσονομία καὶ ἰσηγορία) will be held as civic rights (ἐμπολιτεύσεται) in the lives of the people, the ones who abound (τοῦ περιττεύοντος) voluntarily making themselves equal to the rest (ἑκουσίως πρὸς τὸ λεῖπον ἐξισουμένου).40

Evidently, as stated by Nyssen, human inequality not only implies an uneven distribution of resources and civil rights – although this appears to be also essential –, it also consists in a way of perceiving and labelling one another. Whereas by compassion one is said to become familiarized, united and coalesced with the other, the dynamics of greed and the craving for more involve a sort of estrangement. The phrase ‘oppositions of names’ (τὰ ἐναντία τῶν ὀνομάτων) is very revealing, I think. It certainly reminds us of Gregory’s previously quoted reflexions on the text of Ecclesiastes: on the one hand, the  See id. Eccl. IV 1 (GNO V, 334-8).   Id., Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 125.4-6). 40   Id., Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 127.20-7): εἰ γὰρ πᾶσι καθ’ ὑπόθεσιν ἡ τοιαύτη τῆς ψυχῆς ἐγγένοιτο πρὸς τὸ ἐλαττούμενον σχέσις, οὐκέτ’ ἂν εἴη τὸ ὑπερέχον καὶ ἐλαττούμενον· οὐκέτι πρὸς τὰ ἐναντία τῶν ὀνομάτων ὁ βίος διενεχθήσεται· οὐκ ἀνιάσει πενία τὸν ἄνθρωπον· οὐ ταπεινώσει δουλεία· οὐ λυπήσει ἀτιμία· πάντα γὰρ ἔσται πᾶσι κοινά, καὶ ἰσονομία καὶ ἰσηγορία τῷ βίῳ τῶν ἀνθρώπων ἐμπολιτεύεται, ἑκουσίως τοῦ περιττεύοντος πρὸς τὸ λεῖπον ἐξισουμένου (trans. H.C. Graef, St. Gregory of Nyssa [1954], 120, with changes). 38 39



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disdainful pride of the powerful; on the other, the anger and resentment of the impoverished.41 Both groups project these distorted images towards each other. Hence they become truly divided up into opposites (μεμέρισται διὰ τῶν ἐναντίων).42 Interestingly, Nyssen refers to this same ‘opposition of names’ in his Trinitarian controversy with Eunomius. The phrase appears to have been a key to one of the logical arguments of the Anomoean, who tried to prove that the opposing denominations of ‘Unbegotten’ and ‘Begotten’ for the Father and the Son revealed a diversity (διαφορά) or deterioration (τὸ παρηλλαγμένον) of the divine essence, and thereby a subjugation (ὑπεζεύγμενον) of the Son to the Father.43 Just as in this erroneous theological doctrine, Gregory suggests, human beings who share a unique and equal nature have come to be, by way of the antagonism of names, strangers to one another, secluding themselves, judging their own worth above or below their own kin. So, we seem to have found here the reason for that intriguing reference to the nature of the Trinity, associated with the true meaning of compassion at the beginning of Gregory’s discourse. Apparently, it rests on the fact that the equality and unity of essence between human persons mirrors the perfect communion of nature shared by the divine hypostases. Therefore, any understanding of ἔλεος that requires the division of humanity and approves or justifies the asymmetries in life’s conditions must be challenged, exactly in the same manner as Gregory refutes Eunomius’ logic of subordinationism. Possible philosophical sources In other respects, the idea of a social bond uniting a community of human beings may remind us of Plato’s theory of love, Aristotle’s notion of friendship (φιλία) and the Stoic or Neo-Platonist theories of natural familiarity or appropriation (οἰκείωσις), sympathy (συμπάθεια) and concord (ὁμόνοια).44 However, according to Aristotle, in contrast with Nyssen’s compassion, perfect friendship occurred only between equals, free and virtuous citizens who shared an admiration and affection for each other. On the other hand, universal sympathy was normally conceived as an all-pervading order in which each individual being was assigned its place and inevitably fulfilled its destiny. This often included social roles, sufferings and calamities, which were expected to be indifferent to the wise.  See id., Eccl. VI 9 (GNO V, 386.9-18).  See id., Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 126.8-11). 43  See id., Eun. II 21 (GNO I, 232.26-233.1); Ref. Eun. 155 (GNO II, 378.11-25). 44   See, for example, the discourses of Eryximachus and Aristophanes in Plato, Symp. 186a-193d; Aristotle, Nich. Eth. VII; Cicero, De off. I 11-2; Plotinus, Enneads III 2 (47), 2. 41 42

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Nevertheless, the resonances of late Stoic theories are particularly evident in Gregory’s account of compassion. I will briefly mention two authors on this regard: Hierocles and Epictetus. From the first philosopher we preserve a beautiful and intriguing fragment that describes a series of concentric circles around the individual self, each representing different levels of proximity and familiarity of relatives, and the last one encompassing the entire race of human beings (ὁ τοῦ παντὸς ἀνθρώπων γένους).45 Hierocles affirms that we should strive ‘to bring together, so to say, the circles, as though towards the centre (τὸ ἐπισυνάγειν πως τοὺς κύκλους ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ κέντρον)’, and to transfer (μεταφέρειν) the people in the outer circles towards the ones closer to ourselves.46 Then, he adds: ‘We must make an effort about assimilating them (περὶ τὴν ἐξομοίωσιν), for it would arrive at fairness (τὸ μέτριον) if, through our own initiative, we cut down the distance (ἐπιτεμνόμεθα τὸ μῆκος) in our relationship toward each person’.47 The correspondence of this ethical exhortation with the function Gregory attributes to ἔλεος is indeed remarkable. Hierocles’ notion of proportion or fairness (τὸ μέτριον) resembles Gregory’s account of equality (τὸ ἴσον), whereas the latter’s description of the act of commingling and becoming equal (ἐξισάζω) to other humans is likely reinforcing the Stoic philosopher’s process of shortening distances and becoming similar (ἐξομοιόω) to one another. They are both reframing the early Stoic conception of οἰκείωσις and the old Cynic understanding of cosmic citizenship. Epictetus also urged his contemporaries to acknowledge their kinship with every human being, including the socially subordinate – women or slaves – and to act accordingly, with respect and care, because they proceeded from the same seeds (ἐκ τῶν αὐτῶν σπερμάτων), they were their brothers by nature (ἀδελφοί φύσει), the offspring of Zeus.48 Assuming, then, that Gregory’s philosophical influence regarding our issue is mainly Stoic, we will try to point out the main difference between their approaches. Firstly, none of the ethical advices we find in Hierocles or Epictetus involves altering the order of things. Although there is in them a recognition of a certain ‘inner equality’ – at the level of the soul, the ‘divine spark’ or the ruling principle – between humans of different social classes, there is no claim for an ‘outer equality’, there is no call to change the concrete situation of the other people. Rather, it seems to be quite the opposite. For example, in the third book of the Discourses, one of Epictetus’ disciples worries about his mother’s anguish. Although the teacher does allow him to   See Hierocles apud Stobaeus, Anth. IV 27, 23.  See ibid. 47   Ibid. I quote David Konstan’s translation and the Greek text from Ilaria Ramelli (ed.), Hierocles the Stoic. Elements of Ethics, Fragments and Excerpts, Writings from the Greco-Roman World 28 (Atlanta, 2009), 90-3. 48   See Epictetus, Diss. I 13, 3-4; Seneca, Ad Lucilium 47. 45 46



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take some care of his mother, he warns him that the pain of others is no concern of theirs, but their own grief is (ἡ λύπη ἄλλου ἀλλότριόν ἐστιν, ἡ δ’ ἐμὴ ἐμόν).49 He is obviously referring to the danger of falling from impassibility (ἀπάθεια). But afterwards he adds: ‘Or else, I would be fighting against God (θεομαχήσω), I would be setting myself against Zeus (ἀντιθήσω πρὸς τὸν Δία), I would be opposing his order in every respect (ἀντιδιατάξομαι αὐτῷ πρὸς τὰ ὅλα)’.50 Therefore, trying to change his mother’s fate could involve for the disciple an opposition to the gods. Nyssen appears to have read these lines, because he literally overturns their conception using a very similar language. In the fourth section of In Ecclesiasten, in the midst of his bold condemnation of slavery, Gregory reproaches the slaveowners precisely with the same indictments Epictetus had used to advise his disciples. The fact of submitting a person to the yoke of slavery, he says, implies by itself a legislation against God (ἀντινομοθετεῖς τῷ θεῷ), who made human nature free and self-governed (ἐλευθέρα ἡ φύσις καὶ αὐτεξούσιος).51 The slave-owner is then held to be withstanding and fighting against the divine ordinance (ἀντιβαίνων τε καὶ μαχόμενος τῷ θείῳ προστάγματι).52 As we can see, while Epictetus seems to call adversaries of God the ones who want to change the state of affairs, Gregory reserves the same accusation for those who will not change it, who are not willing to renounce their undue dominion and superiority over others. What is, therefore, in Nyssen’s eyes, the fight worth fighting? The same battle God is fighting. It is no surprise to find it clearly related to the virtue of ἔλεος: ‘For the crowning of virtue is to fight alongside God (ἡ τοῦ θεοῦ συμμαχία), of which are deemed worthy those who appropriate (οἰκειούμενος) by their own lives the divine compassion (τὸν θεῖον ἔλεον)’.53 The inversion of the Stoic notion of compassion is almost complete. Far from transgressing nature (παρὰ φύσιν), Gregory’s godlike ἔλεος tries to recover the fullness and integrity of nature. Instead of an excessive impulse (ὁρμὴ πλεονάζουσα), it is a drive to end with every excess and superiority in human relations.54 As far as I know, none of the ancient philosophical doctrines involves the radical and universal equality of Nyssen’s ἔλεος. What is more, we have remarked his insistence on the civil rights attributed to every human being. All these new   See Epictetus, Disc. III 24, 23-4.   Ibid. I follow the translation in W.A. Oldfather (ed.), Epictetus. The Discourses as Reported by Arrian, The Manual and Fragments, Loeb Classical Library (London, 1952), 191-3, with some changes. 51   See Gregory of Nyssa, Eccl. IV 1 (GNO V, 335.5-11). 52  See ibid. 53   Gregory of Nyssa, Inscr. II 14, 70 (GNO V, 148.25-149.1): ἀρετῆς δὲ κεφάλαιον ἡ τοῦ θεοῦ συμμαχία, ἧς ἀξιοῦται ὁ τὸν θεῖον ἔλεον ἑαυτῷ διὰ τῆς ζωῆς οἰκειούμενος. See Giulio Maspero, ‘Life’, in Lucas F. Mateo-Seco and Giulio Maspero (eds), The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 99 (Leiden, 2010), 444-5. 54   See Diogenes Laertius, Lives VII 110; Stobaeus, Anth. II 6, 47. 49 50

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features clearly arise from Gregory’s own interpretation of the divine image in humanity as a plenitude of God’s perfections, enjoying dignity and freedom, recognized primarily in human nature as a whole, and including in a way the physical and historical dimensions of humankind. Free personal choice is given once again a central role. In Nyssen’s dynamics of compassion, the rich and the powerful are not deprived of anything against their will. Rather, reconnected to the love and familiarity with others and to the universal communion of their nature, they are willing to share resources, restore rights and level opportunities. We could say that they actually regain their full humanity through compassion. *** Lastly, we may notice the way in which Gregory guides his audience towards the true meaning of compassion. It is a step by step ascension, just as in the image of Jacob’s ladder mentioned in the prologue to his homily. Beginning with the traditional Greek understanding of ἔλεος, with all its rich literary references, philosophical significance and dramatic power, Nyssen slowly pours it into the mould of the Judeo-Christian language of mercy and love, more intimate, more far-reaching, filled with the zeal for justice and redemption. The result is a profound, theoretically complex and socially challenging speculation. From a private emotion to a bond of communion, from a passive reaction to an active and free commitment, from a disordered passion to the highest of human virtues, from requiring social distance to erasing all differences of dignity and honour, from being restricted to those around us to reaching out towards each and every human being: compassion truly emerges in a new form. Gregory sums it up in the elegant rhythm of his prose: ‘Our discourse has shown what compassion (ἔλεος) is: the parent of goodwill, the pledge of love, the bond of all friendly disposition (εὐνοίας πατήρ, ἀγάπης ἐνέχυρον, σύνδεσμος πάσης φιλικῆς διαθέσεως)’.55

  Gregory of Nyssa, Beat. V (GNO VII/2, 128.14-6): οὐκοῦν ἐστιν ὁ ἔλεος, ὥς γε ὁ λόγος ὑπέδειξεν, εὐνοίας πατὴρ, ἀγάπης ἐνέχυρον, σύνδεσμος πάσης φιλικῆς διαθέσεως (trans. H.C. Graef, St. Gregory of Nyssa [1954], 134, with changes). 55

Power in Weakness: Pneumatology in Gregory of Nyssa’s De virginitate, Chapters 7-13 Alexander L. Abecina, University of Cambridge, Cambridge, UK

Abstract This article focuses on the role of pneumatology in Chapters 7-13 of Gregory of Nyssa’s De virginitate. I show that Gregory’s teaching on the Holy Spirit is central to his denouncement of the ‘extreme’ ascetical virgins in Chapter 7, whom he labels demonic. Via his redefinition and reversal of his opponents’ views on spiritual strength and weakness, Gregory demonstrates in Chapters 8-13 the necessity of the Holy Spirit’s life-giving power to overcome the power of death and hence lead the naturally weak virgin in the life of virtue and towards the beatific vision of God.

Introduction This article offers a fresh reading of Gregory of Nyssa’s De virginitate by bringing to the foreground a key aspect of this work largely ignored by contemporary scholarship, namely Gregory’s pneumatology.1 While much attention has been devoted to unearthing a supposed hierarchical ordering of married and celibate life in this treatise, as in the work of Mark D. Hart and Valerie A. Karras, a notable lack of attention has been given to Gregory’s teaching on the Holy Spirit, despite its importance for understanding Gregory’s views on both marriage and virginity, or so I shall argue.2 Beginning with an analysis of Chapter 7 of De virginitate, I show that Gregory denounces his opponents and 1   Greek text of De virginitate is taken from W. Jaeger, J. Cavarnos and V.W. Callahan (eds), Gregorii Nysseni Opera Ascetica, GNO VIII/1 (Leiden, 1952); English translations of De virgini­ tate, with occasional adjustments, are taken from ‘On Virginity’, in Virginia Woods Callahan (trans.), Saint Gregory of Nyssa: Ascetical Works, FC 58 (Washington, 1967), 1-75. Henceforth referred to as Woods Callahan. 2   Mark D. Hart, ‘Reconciliation of Body and Soul: Gregory of Nyssa’s Deeper Theology of Marriage’, Theological Studies 51 (1990), 450-78; id., ‘Gregory of Nyssa’s Ironic Praise of the Celibate Life’, Heythrop Journal 33 (1992), 1-19; Hans Boersma, Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa: An Anagogical Approach (Oxford, 2013), 117-45; Valerie A. Karras, ‘A Re-evaluation of Marriage, Celibacy, and Irony in Gregory of Nyssa’s On Virginity’, Journal for Early Christian Studies 13 (2005), 111-21; Raphael A. Cadenhead, The Body and Desire: Gregory of Nyssa’s Ascetical Theology (Oakland, 2018), 33-44.

Studia Patristica CXV, 231-241. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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their extreme form of the virgin life as failing to follow the Holy Spirit’s lead. I proceed to show that, in Chapters 8-11, Gregory subverts his opponents’ views on spiritual strength by casting the virgin ascetic as weak by nature, but gaining strength to love God with heart, mind and soul through the life-giving power of the Spirit. Finally, I analyse Gregory’s exegesis of Genesis 2-3 where he outlines the ‘method’ by which one is initiated into the life of virginity in emphatically baptismal, and hence pneumatological, terms. The Spirit, Demons and Extreme Virginity: Chapter 7 While Gregory spends the first six chapters of his treatise extolling the life of virginity, and warning against the pitfalls of marriage because of its material attachments and associations with the threat of death, he clearly does not reject marriage per se. For, as he says, marriage is ‘not deprived of God’s blessing’.3 In Chapter 7 Gregory offers some brief comments on the good of marriage, yet, as he makes clear, this is only necessary because of a rival group of virgin ascetics who ‘tamper with the teachings of the Church on marriage’.4 While it is not made explicit in the text, it is likely that Gregory believes these ‘extreme virgins’ have, in some sense, become overly concerned with the status of the body. Instructive are his comments in Chapter 22, where Gregory speaks of a group (possibly the same group of ‘extreme virgins’) who have adopted a strict diet, and who through ‘excessive discipline, achieve the opposite effect of what they are aiming for’.5 These, argues Gregory, descend into ‘lowly thoughts’ and the ‘wearing out of the flesh’ due to their extreme attention to ‘bodily mortifications’.6 Further, they ‘concentrate on the suffering of the body’.7 Gregory’s highly polemical discourse on the good of marriage in Chapter 7 should therefore be read not as a defence of marriage but as a critique of certain extreme views about virginity. Crucially, Gregory frames the problem of ‘extreme virginity’ in terms of the choice to follow either the lead of the Holy Spirit or of demons. We therefore ought not to overlook the force of Gregory’s allusion to 1Tim. 4:1-2 whereby those who denigrate marriage in pursuit of an extreme form of the virgin life are ‘forsaking the lead (ὁδηγίαν) of the Holy Spirit because of the teaching of demons’ and thus ‘make cuts (ἐγχαράσσουσι) and brands (ἐγκαύματα) upon   De virg. VII 282.1-5; Woods Callahan, 31.   De virg. VII 282.12-3; Woods Callahan, 31. Some have suggested that Gregory is alluding to a Messalian faction, possibly associated with the followers of Eustathius of Sebaste, with whom his brother Basil and sister Macrina were closely associated. However, the scant evidence we possess leaves the matter inconclusive. 5   De virg. XXII 330.21-2; Woods Callahan, 66. 6   De virg. XXII 330.23-5; Woods Callahan, 66. 7   De virg. XXII 333.9; Woods Callahan, 68. 3 4



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their hearts’.8 The original text of 1Tim. 4:1-2, to which Gregory has alluded here, is a Pauline prophetic insight, which refers only to what ‘the Spirit expressly says (Τὸ δὲ πνεῦμα ῥηττῶς λέγει)’ about errors that will plague the Church in the future. However, Gregory evidently foregrounds the present and active role of the Spirit in the virgin’s life by making the dispute over ‘extreme virginity’ a matter of failing to follow the Spirit’s ‘lead’ (ὁδηγίαν). The unusual reference to ‘cuts’, which seems out of place in the context of 1Tim. 4:1-2, is a likely reference to the Gerasene demoniac of Mark 5:5 who ‘cuts’ himself (κατακόπτων), evidence for which I will give shortly. That Gregory has glossed 1Tim. 4:1-2 by replacing the reference to ‘conscience’ (συνείδησιν) with a reference to the ‘heart’ further suggests that he is not citing the verse as a mere passing proof text, but uses it as an important piece in a carefully formulated response, wherein the Holy Spirit’s operation upon the human ‘heart’ will play a central role. In addition to pointing out a failure to follow the Spirit’s lead, Gregory’s denunciation of the ‘extreme virgins’ is expressed in terms of the classic Aristotelian view that virtue is ‘the mean’ between two evils. Those ‘extreme virgins’ who see marriage as ‘disgusting’ have failed to recognise that ‘evil is the turning to extremes’ of either ‘deficiency’ or ‘excess’.9 The relevant virtue in the present discussion of marriage is that of ‘moderation’ (σωφροσύνη) which Gregory suggests is a certain ‘strength of soul’.10 Regarding a deficiency of strength (of moderation), Gregory says, ‘the person who is deficient in the strength of his soul (ἐλλείπων κατὰ τὸν τῆς ψυχῆς τόνον) is an easy prey to the passion of pleasure, and, because of this, he does not go near the path of the pure and moderate (σώφρονος) life, being sunk down in the passions of dishonor’.11 But, with regard to an excess of strength (of moderation), he says, ‘the person who … goes beyond the mean of this virtue is thrown down by the treachery of demons as if from a steep bank (κρημνῷ)’.12 Here, Gregory alludes to the account of demon possession in Mark 5:1-20, specifically the demon-possessed pigs who were driven off a ‘steep bank (κρημνοῦ)’ and drowned (see Mark 5:13).13 In light of his earlier reference to both ‘incisions’ (suggestive of extreme treatment of the body) and ‘demons’ it appears that Gregory associated the ‘extreme virgins’ of Chapter 7 with the Gerasene demoniac himself, and his self-inflicted wounding and inhuman strength (see Mark 5:4). In his view, they   De virg. VII 282.15-7; Woods Callahan, 31.   De virg. VII 282.24-6; Woods Callahan, 32. 10   De virg. VII 283.17; Woods Callahan, 32. 11   De virg. VII 283.19; Woods Callahan, 32. 12   De virg. VII 283.24; Woods Callahan, 32. 13   Gregory’s appeal to demonic teachings is likely to be genuine, and not merely a rhetorical strategy. On demons in Gregory’s works see Morwenna Ludlow, ‘Demons, Evil, and Liminality in Cappadocian Theology’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 20 (2012), 179-211. 8 9

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shun married life because, in wandering from the Spirit’s lead, they have fallen under the influence of an excessive ‘demonic’ strength of soul. Rather than defeat the demons by their strength, a feat achieved by the most admired Christian ascetics of Gregory’s day, Gregory implies that they have instead been ruled, and ultimately destroyed, by them.14 Alluding to 2Tim. 2:26, he pushes the allusion to demon possessed swine even further naming the ‘extreme virgins’ captives ‘in the stable (ἐν τῇ μάνδρᾳ) of the wicked one’.15 Thus, to follow the Holy Spirit’s lead toward a life lived at the ‘mean’ of virtue – that is the life of ‘moderation’ – even if that should lead to the married life and all its associations with mortality and death, is, in Gregory’s estimation, yet the truer show of spiritual strength. Weak Virgins and the Power of the Spirit: Chapters 8-11 At the conclusion of Chapter 7 Gregory has contrasted the way of the Holy Spirit with the way of demons, and defined virtue as the mean of moderation which one may fail to achieve either through a deficiency or an excess of spiritual strength. While Gregory clearly associates moderation with the way of the Holy Spirit, and while spiritual deficiency is clearly judged to fall short of virtue, it is only spiritual excess that he associates with the demonic. Therefore, although both deficiency and excess deviate from the mean of virtue, excess is destructive in a manner in which deficiency is not. To anticipate what I will argue below, we might say that, for Gregory, deficiency with respect to virtue is humanity’s default state brought about by the fall into sin, while excess of the kind found amongst the extreme virgins results from the misguided attempt to overcome the fall independently of the Spirit through a perverted notion of spiritual strength. This observation, I suggest, is the key to understanding Gregory’s subsequent reversal and redefinition of his opponents’ notions of spiritual strength and weakness in Chapters 8-11. To preview the argument that I will develop shortly, Gregory suggests that marriage is best suited to those who are not spiritually too weak, but rather spiritually strong enough to undertake it, where true spiritual strength is now redefined as moderation (i.e. the way of the Spirit). Conversely, the life of virginity will be suited not to the strong, as Gregory’s opponents understand strength, but to those who are in reality too weak to undertake marriage. Yet, although such persons are, in their natural state, weak in heart, mind, soul and strength as a result of humanity’s fall, and hence are incapable of following the ‘great command’ to love God with an   See David Brakke, Demons and the Making of the Monk: Spiritual Combat in Early Chris­ tianity (Cambridge, 2006). 15   De virg. VII 282.22-3; Woods Callahan, 30. 14



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undivided self (see Mark 12:30), Gregory will show in Chapters 8-11 how they might come to attain true strength; not of the excessive kind which is demonic and hence ultimately ruinous, but the strength of virtuous moderation which comes only from the Spirit. That this suggestion of mine has not been pursued in scholarly literature on De virginitate arises from the fact that lack of attention has been given in general to Gregory’s pneumatology, and hence Gregory’s use of the categories of the Spirit, the demonic, strength, and weakness in Chapters 7 have not adequately informed scholarly analyses of his argument in Chapters 8-11. Thus, in Chapter 8, Gregory argues that ‘the one who is weak (ἀσθενῶς) by disposition’ should stay away from marriage ‘rather than enter a contest which is beyond his strength’.16 Further, ‘because of the weakness (ἀσθενὲς) of nature, it is not possible for everyone to arrive at such a point of balance [ie. marriage]… it would be profitable, as our treatise suggests, to go through life without the experience of marriage’.17 Such a person is liable to ‘turn his mind (νοῦν)’ toward fleshly pleasure, and to allow the passions to enter ‘against the soul (ψυχῆς)’.18 In Chapter 9, Gregory builds upon his portrayal of the weak person in Chapter 8 by outlining how the human ‘weakness’ for worldly pleasure is also affected by the great power of ‘habit’ (συνήθεια), resulting in a person ‘dividing his heart’ between love for God and love for the world.19 Thus, habit may lead even the ‘lover of moderation’ to delve into living a ‘sordid life’.20 Since one is prone to form worldly habits from within the married state, Gregory concludes that it is ‘advantageous for the very weak (τοῖς ἀσθενεστέροις) to flee for refuge to virginity as to a safe fortress’.21 This summons to a life of virginity ultimately gains its support from the first and great command of God (see Mark 12:30) to love God with the ‘whole heart and power (ἐξ ὅλης καρδίας καὶ δυνάμεως)’, which Gregory claims is virtually impossible for the weak person to achieve from within the married state.22 Importantly, Gregory connects the ‘great command’ to Paul’s teaching in 1Cor. 7:32-3 on the undivided devotion that only the unmarried can give to the Lord, a subject to which Gregory will return in Chapter 20. The present focus on Mark 12:30, however, begins a chain of other references not only to ‘the heart’, but, fittingly, also ‘the mind’ and ‘the soul’ throughout Chapters 10-13, wherein Gregory will provide a solution to the weak person’s inability to fulfil the ‘great command’.   De   De 18   De 19   De 20   De 21   De 22   De 16 17

virg. virg. virg. virg. virg. virg. virg.

VIII 285.18-20; Woods Callahan, 34. VIII 286.1-8; Woods Callahan, 34. VIII 285.25; 286.8; Woods Callahan, 34. IX 288.5; Woods Callahan, 36. IX 287.4-9; Woods Callahan, 35. IX 287.17-8; Woods Callahan, 35. IX 288.6-7; Woods Callahan, 36.

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With this in view, Gregory, in Chapter 10, portrays the problem of weakness as universal, viewing it in terms of humanity’s fall. Here we see that while Gregory’s exhortation to the weak is targeted at a particular readership, namely those who are contemplating virginity, this exhortation is an adaptation of a more fundamental theology of sin that applies to all people in principle. Having identified the difficulty of obeying the ‘great command’ to love God with the ‘whole heart’ in Chapter 9, Gregory now draws attention to the weakness of ‘the heart’ once again, this time in order to emphasise humanity’s inability to comprehend either by word or thought ‘what is promised by the Lord in His beatitudes (see Matt. 5:8)’ by which he means the beatific vision of God by those who are pure in heart.23 Therefore, just as a ‘verbal explanation’ of light is useless for a person born blind, so a verbal explanation of God’s beauty and light is useless for those whose ‘purity of mental vision’ is blinded by their fallen state.24 Hence, he asks, ‘what intellectual power (ἐπίνοια) can possibly indicate the enormity of the loss (τὸ μέγεθος τῆς ζημίας) for those who incur it?’.25After establishing humanity’s weakness of mind, Gregory introduces, in Chapter 10, the ‘solution’ to humanity’s inherent weakness via an extended discussion of the need of the Holy Spirit’s power. David, who was not a virgin himself, serves as the prime example of one whose mind was lifted to glimpse the divine beauty: ‘when he was once lifted up in mind (τὴν διάνοιαν) by the power of the Spirit (τῇ δυνάμει τοῦ πνεύματος), he was, as it were, divorced from himself and saw that incredible and incomprehensible beauty in a blessed ecstasy’.26 Yet, after David’s brief heavenly vision is over, he is once again limited by ‘the weakness (ἀσθενείᾳ) of his description’ to account for what he had seen.27 Gregory notes that while it is ‘within our power (αὐτάρκης ἡμῶν ἡ … δύναμις)’ to describe mere ‘perceptible beauty’ by the senses, divine beauty is well beyond our grasp.28 Gregory asks, in Chapter 11, how we might, despite the characteristic human ‘weakness (ἀσθενείας) of knowing things’, yet ‘direct our mind (τὴν διάνοιαν) to the unseen.’29 Human weakness is further demonstrated by the fact that ‘the sense faculties of the soul (τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς αἰσθητήρια) are not sufficiently trained to distinguish between the beautiful and the not beautiful’.30 As a result, human beings ‘squander [their] power of desire’ on merely ‘ephemeral’ beauty.31   De virg. X 288.22-4; Woods Callahan, 36.   De virg. X 288.23; Woods Callahan, 36. 25   De virg. X 289.27; Woods Callahan, 37. In Chapter 23, Gregory will speak explicitly of ‘the intellectual power (ἐπιπνοίᾳ) of the Holy Spirit’ (De virg. XXIII 341.3-5; Woods Callahan, 73). 26   De virg. X 290.3; Woods Callahan, 37. 27   De virg. X 290.14; Woods Callahan, 37. 28   De virg. X 290.17-8; Woods Callahan, 37-8. 29   De virg. XI 291.15-7; Woods Callahan, 38-9. 30   De virg. XI 292.21-3; Woods Callahan, 39. 31   De virg. XI 293.17; Woods Callahan, 39. 23

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In light of fallen humanity’s various weaknesses of heart, mind and soul, Gregory naturally asks how a redirection of desire and ascent toward God is possible at all. Just as he has already suggested in the case of David in Chapter 10, so Gregory reiterates once more that this only becomes possible for the weak human mind and soul through the ‘power of the Spirit’: How could anyone fly up to heaven (ἀναπταίη) unless, equipped with heavenly wings (πτερωθεὶς τῷ οὐρανίῳ πτερῷ), he be borne upwards because of his lofty way of life? Who is so removed from the mysteries of the Gospel, that he does not know that there is one vehicle for the human soul for the journey to the heavens, and that is by likening itself to the cowering dove (περιστερᾶς) whose wings the prophet David longed for. It is customary for Scripture to use this symbol in referring to the power of the Spirit (τὴν τοῦ πνεύματος δύναμιν).32

The imagery of ‘wings’ that Gregory employs is borrowed directly from Plato’s Phaedrus and finds direct points of connection with contemporary Neoplatonic teachings on the ‘vehicle of the soul’.33 Whatever we might conclude   De virg. XI 294.8-16; Woods Callahan, 40.   Gregory refers to the vehicle of the soul several times in his works. In In inscriptiones psalmorum, Gregory again points to the life of virtue as the ‘vehicle’ of the soul’s union with God. First, Gregory notes, citing Ps. 72:24, the soul being led to union with God ‘saw the glory in virtue (τὴν ἐν ἀρετῇ δόξαν)’. A little later, he contrasts one’s ‘glory’ with one’s ‘shame’. Hence, alluding once again to the Phaedrus, he cites Ps. 72:24 noting that ‘Glory becomes a vehicle and a wing (ὄχημά τι καὶ πτερόν), as it were, of the one who is received by the divine hand, whenever one separates himself from the works of shame’. See J. McDonough and P. Alexander (eds), Gregorii Nysseni In inscriptiones Psalmorum, In Sextum Psalmum, In Ecclesiasten Homiliae, GNO V (Leiden, 1962), 24-175, 42.9, 42.23-4; English translation by Ronald E. Heine (trans.), Gregory of Nyssa’s Treatise on the Inscriptions of the Psalms: Introduction, Translation and Notes, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford, 1995), 81-213, 99-100. In In ascensionem Christi Oratio Gregory speaks of salvation in Christ in terms of the ‘vehicle’: ‘What then was the reason for his coming? It was so that, after releasing you from the pits of sin, he might lead you to the mountain of the kingdom, provided that you employ the virtuous way of life as a vehicle (ὀχήματι) for the ascent’. The virtuous way of life of which Gregory speaks here naturally follows the anointing by the Holy Spirit. See Ernesto Gebhardt (ed.), In ascensionem Christi Oratio, GNO IX/1 (Leiden, 1967), 323-7, 325.7-10. In De anima et resurrectione Gregory asks what will happen to the soul when the dead body is dissolved into its constituent elements. There, the ‘vehicle’ refers simply to the body: ‘what will happen to the soul once its vehicle (ὀχήματος) is dispersed on all sides?’ See A. Spira and H. Mühlenberg (eds), De anima et resurrectione, GNO III/3 (Leiden, 2014), 1-123, 29.8; This confirms that while Gregory was familiar with the Neoplatonic teaching on the ‘vehicle of the soul’, and could appropriate the term for his own purposes, he understood the vehicle to be the material body itself (rather than an intermediary quasi-material substance characteristic of Neoplatonic teaching) which could, by the Holy Spirit’s power, assist the soul’s ascent toward God through the virtuous life. On the philosophical background, see Robert Christian Kissling, ‘The ΟΧΗΜΑ-ΠΝΕΥΜΑ of the Neo-Platonists and the De insomniis of Synesius of Cyrene’, The American Journal of Philology 43 (1922), 318-30; Abraham P. Bos, ‘The “Vehicle of the Soul” and the Debate over the Origin of this Concept’, Philologus 151 (2007), 31-50; Ilinca Tanaseanu-Döbler, ‘Synesius and the Pneumatic Vehicle of the Soul in Early Neoplatonism’, in Donald A. Russell and Heinz-Günther Nesselrath (eds), On Prophecy, Dreams and Human Imagination: Synesius, De insomniis, Scripta Antiquitatis ad Ethicam Religionemque 32

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about Gregory’s interweaving of (Neo-)Platonic philosophical sources with his theology, it is clear that Gregory intends his pneumatology to play the central role in depicting the elevation of the weak and incompetent person to a position of true spiritual strength. Just as he had done previously in Chapter 7, Gregory employs pneumatology in Chapter 8-11 to expound a rival form of virginity that reverses and redefines the notions of spiritual strength and weakness espoused by his opponents. The Power of Death and the Power of the Spirit: Chapters 12-13 So far, we have seen that Gregory, in Chapters 8-11, has outlined how the naturally weak and fallen person may be empowered by the Spirit to fulfil the great command to love God with the whole heart, mind, and soul (see Mark 12:30) and reach the final goal of virginity, the beatific vision of God (see Matt. 5:8). Up till now, however, he has not sufficiently offered a solution to the problem that occupied all of his attention in Chapters 3-6, namely death. Beginning at Chapter 12, and continuing to the conclusion of the treatise, therefore, Gregory addresses the problem of death explicitly by outlining the ‘method (μέθοδον) and guidance (ἀγωγήν)’ that overcomes death and leads to the vision of God.34 In doing so, I suggest that Gregory continues to pursue the skopos of his treatise: to produce in his reader a desire for the life of virtue now cast as a desire for the baptismal life actualised by the power of the Spirit.35 Gregory’s account of baptismal life in the Spirit begins with the creation of man as outlined in the Genesis narrative. Of prime importance is man’s creation as a “living being” (ζῷον) (see Gen. 2:7), who, ‘from his first generation’ (παρὰ τὴν πρώτην γένεσιν) was without ‘passion’ (παθητικόν) or ‘subjection to death’.36 Gregory echoes his previous discussion of humanity’s fall in Chapter 10 by noting that, as the image of God, man was endowed with ‘choice’ pertinentia 24 (Tübingen, 2014), 125-56 (= De ins.); Andrew Smith, Porphyry’s Place in the Neoplatonic Tradition: A Study in Post-Plotinian Neoplatonism (The Hague, 1974), 152-8; E.R. Dodds (ed.), Proclus: The Elements of Theology, 2nd ed. (Oxford, 1963), 313-21; John F. Finamore, Iamblichus and the Theory of the Vehicle of the Soul, American Classical Studies 14 (Atlanta, GA, 1985); H.S. Schibli, ‘Hierocles of Alexandria and the Vehicle of the Soul’, Hermes 121 (1993), 109-17; id., ‘Origen, Didymus, and the Vehicle of the Soul’, in Robert J. Daly (ed.), Origeniana quinta (Louvain, 1992), 381-91; Mark J. Edwards, ‘Origen’s Two Resurrections’, Journal of Theological Studies 46 (1995), 502-18, 517-8. 34   De virg. XII 297.13; Woods Callahan, 42. 35   Gregory’s treatment of death in this treatise is discussed by Hans Boersma, but since he only takes parts of the treatise into consideration, he makes no mention of the centrality of the Spirit’s life-giving power in the overcoming of death. See H. Boersma, Embodiment and Virtue (2013), 117-45. 36   De virg. XII 298.4-6; Woods Callahan, 42.



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(τῆς προαιρέσεως) and by choosing evil instead of good, fell into sin.37 Man, as ‘the inventor of evil’, chose to ‘shut off the perception of light’ and thereby ‘cut himself off from the sun’s rays’ so as to ‘make no provision for the rays of light to enter’.38 Consequently, the godlike image of the soul became darkened.39 Importantly, however, this darkening is not essential to man, and is able to be removed so as to bring about the ‘restoration to the original state (εἰς τὸ ἀρχαῖον ἀποκατάστασις) of the divine image’.40 Hence, ‘if, purified by water (τινι ὕδατι τῷ καθαρῷ), as it were, of his way of life, the earthly covering can be stripped off, the beauty of the soul may reappear again’.41 Here, more clearly than anywhere else in the entire treatise, Gregory evokes the language of baptism, anticipating that the work of the Holy Spirit will be central to the restoration of the original state of the divine image in the virgin.42 The reference to baptism also serves to show that human restoration is a divine, not human, work. Alluding to the Genesis creation narrative, he claims it is ‘not possible to achieve unless one be created from the beginning (ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἐκτίσθη), so as to be born again (πάλιν γενόμενον)’.43 Further, ‘being like the divine is not our work (ἔργον), nor is it a product of human power (δυνάμεως ἀνθρωπίνης), but it is part of the generosity of God (τῆς τοῦ θεοῦ μεγαλοδωρεᾶς)’.44 Indeed, Gregory consciously limits the scope of human effort by stating that ‘human zeal (σπουδῆς) extends only to this: the removal of the filth which has accumulated through evil and the bringing to light again the beauty in the soul which we had covered over’.45 In other words, the virgin’s preparation for baptism is only the first step, and not even a particularly impressive one, on the way to regeneration through the Spirit’s power. With the narrative sequence of Genesis 2-3 as his guide, Gregory suggests, in Chapter 13, that the virgin must therefore begin to ‘undo’ in reverse-order the initial sequence of events by which death entered into the world in the first place. For Gregory, this offers a justification for forgoing marriage. He argues that ‘since the point of departure from the life in paradise was the married state (see Gen. 4:1), reason suggests to those returning to Christ (i.e. the virgins) that   De virg. XII 298.11-21; Woods Callahan, 43.   De virg. XII 299.4-5; Woods Callahan, 43. 39   De virg. XII 299.5; Woods Callahan, 44. 40   De virg. XII 302.6; Woods Callahan, 45. 41   De virg. XII 300.3; Woods Callahan, 44. 42   Gregory appears to have modelled much of his theology of the life of virginity on his theology of baptism and the post-baptismal life. On Gregory’s theology of baptism see: Ilaria L.E. Ramelli, ‘Baptism in Gregory of Nyssa’s Theology and its Orientation to Eschatology’, in David Hellholm, Tor Vegge, Øyvind Norderval and Christer Hellholm (eds), Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism: Late Antiquity, Judaism, and Early Christianity, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche (Berlin, 2011), 1205-31. 43   De virg. XII 300.7; Woods Callahan, 44. 44   De virg. XII 300.8-10; Woods Callahan, 44. 45   De virg. XII 300.13-5; Woods Callahan, 44. 37 38

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they, first, give this up as a kind of early state of the journey’.46 Gregory proceeds to outline further additional steps in the recovery of the divine image, once the married life has been given up, closely following the Genesis narrative. The virgin is to: (1) forego marriage (see Gen. 4:1). withdraw (ἀναχωρῆσαι) from the regular use (ταλαιπωρία) of the land (see (2)  Gen. 3:23). (3) put off the garments of skin (see Gen. 3:21). (4) reject the concealments of their shame … the ephemeral leaves of life (see Gen. 3:7). (5) disdain the deceptions of taste and sight (see Gen. 3:6). (6) cease to follow the lead of the serpent (see Gen. 3:1-5). (7) follow only the command of God (see Gen. 2:16-7).47

If we suppose that Gregory’s retracing of the Genesis narrative ends at point (7), we miss the significance of the immediately following statements regarding the life-giving power of the Spirit. Gregory in fact appears to have retraced the narrative sequence back to Gen. 2:7, where God first breathes life into the lifeless human.48 He asks, ‘since paradise is a dwelling place of living beings (ζώντων) which does not admit those who are dead (νεκρωθέντας) because of sin, and we are “carnal and mortal, sold to sin” (see Rom. 7:14), how is it possible for one who is ruled by the power of death (τῇ δυναστείᾳ τοῦ θανάτου) to dwell in the land of the living (τῇ χώρᾳ τῶν ζώντων)?’49 Restoration to the original paradisal state, Gregory will soon make clear, cannot depend on the human will, but upon the life-giving power of the Spirit, a term that Gregory has already utilised twice in this treatise. Therefore: The advice of the Gospel is altogether sufficient also for this. We have heard the Lord telling Nicodemus: ‘That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit (γεγεννημένον ἐκ τοῦ πνεύματος) is spirit (see John 3:6)’, and we know that the flesh because of sin is subject to death, whereas the Spirit of God is incorruptible (ἄφθαρτον), life-giving (ζωοποιόν), and immortal (ἀθάνατον). Therefore, just as the power (δύναμις) which destroys what is born [ie. death] is begotten along with physical birth, so it is clear that the Spirit bestows a life-giving power (τὴν ζωοποιὸν … δύναμιν) upon those born through it (τοῖς δι᾽ αὐτοῦ γεννωμένοις).50

Here we see that Gregory has most likely read the Genesis creation narrative (specifically Gen. 2:7) in light of John 3:6. Just as the first man in paradise was brought to life by God’s ‘breath of life’ (πνοὴν ζωῆς) so as to become a   De virg. XIII 303.9-12; Woods Callahan, 46.   De virg. XIII 300.9-14; Woods Callahan, 46-7. 48   καὶ ἔπλασεν ὁ Θεὸς τὸν ἄνθρωπον, χοῦν ἀπὸ τῆς γῆς, καὶ ἐνεφύσησεν εἰς τὸ πρόσωπον αὐτοῦ πνοὴν ζωῆς, καὶ ἐγένετο ὁ ἄνθρωπος εἰς ψυχὴν ζῶσαν (Gen. 2:7 LXX). 49   De virg. XIII 304.15-21; Woods Callahan, 47. 50   De virg. XIII 304.21-305.6; Woods Callahan, 48. 46 47



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‘living soul’ (ψυχὴν ζῶσαν) (see Gen. 2:7 LXX), so sinful man overcomes death, and returns to the paradisal state, by the life-giving power of the Spirit of God. It is almost certainly the case, given Gregory’s previous comments about ‘purification by water’ in the previous chapter, that his quotation of John 3:6 has baptism closely in view, while the retracing of steps 1-7 of the Genesis narrative leading up to regeneration by the Spirit has a liturgical shaping.51 Thus, baptismal life in the power of the life-giving Spirit clarifies what Gregory meant earlier by the necessity for man to be ‘created from the beginning’ (ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἐκτίσθη) and to be ‘born again (πάλιν γενόμενον)’ so as to overcome death and attain the goal of the beatific vision of God. Chapters 12-13 therefore round off the notion Gregory introduced in Chapter 7 that true virginity consists in following the Spirit’s lead. Further, Chapters 7-13 offer the ‘solution’ to the problem of death which Gregory introduces in Chapters 3-6, underlining the fact that Gregory’s pneumatology does more significantly more work in De virgini­ tate than is often noted. Conclusion This article has shown that Gregory’s pneumatology is crucial to understanding Gregory’s argument in Chapters 7-13 of the De virginitate. Gregory’s teaching on the need to follow the Holy Spirit’s guidance to a position of moderation is what differentiates his understanding of virginity from the excessive and, in his view ‘demonic’, form of virginity pursued by his opponents. By paying attention to Gregory’s comments on the Holy Spirit in Chapter 7, and his subversive redefinition of what counts as spiritual strength and weakness, we can see how this chapter functions as a direct bridge into Chapters 8-11, where Gregory outlines how the weak virgin can be strengthened to follow the great commands to love God with an undivided self through the life-giving power of the Spirit. This point is reinforced by what I have called Gregory’s baptismal exegesis of Genesis 2-3 in Chapters 12-13, where restoration of the virgin to the paradisal state is only possible through the regenerative work of the Spirit expressed in emphatically baptismal terms. This brief study not only lays the groundwork for further investigation into the role of pneumatology in De virignitate as a whole but within his ascetical works more broadly.

51   Compare with Gregory’s list of liturgical ceremonies attached to baptismal regeneration in Contra Eunomium III: ‘Among these ceremonies are the sealing, the prayer, the confession of sins, the willing consent to the commandments, the correction of conduct, the modest way of life, the quest for what is right, not being upset by the passions nor overcome by pleasure nor leaving off virtue’ (GNO I/3, 285-6.57-8).

‘One Heart and One Soul’ (Acts 4:32). Past and Present Unity in Basil of Caesarea Valentina Marchetto, Dipartimento di Filologia Classica e Italianistica, Alma Mater Studiorum – Università di Bologna, Bologna, Italy

Abstract This article aims at presenting the results of a double inquiry on two NT verses about unity, i.e. Acts 4:32 and John 17:21, in Basil of Caesarea’s corpus asceticum. Both texts are strictly related to the self-definition and self-representation of the group of disciples, and, consequently, of the future believers in Christ. Basil emerges as a privileged casestudy, not only because the communitarian background of his writings, but because it is precisely the coexistence of the verses in question which shapes his ecclesiological insights. If John 17:21 gives a particular nuance to Acts 4:32, shifting the high conceptualization of heavenly oneness between God and Christ to a more concrete and earthly unity, Basil, by referring to Acts’ narrative, bases the unity and harmony of his monastic community on the ‘mythical’, past unity realised by the Apostolic Church. However, this retrospective attitude must not be interpreted as a nostalgic reaction: the eschatological and a-historical dimension of John 17:21 grants to Basil’s contemporaries that unity can be restored.

In the history of early Christian interpretation of the Bible, it is barely unique to find the presence of two or more Scriptural quotations without the author wanting to express a particular message. Acts 4:321 and John 17:212 do not escape this trend. Origen was the first to introduce this couple in his writings;3 and after him a considerable group of Fathers used it in different ways.4 Above all, it is particularly interesting to study the coexistence of these verses in the corpus asceticum of Basil of Caesarea. In fact, both the NT quotations and Basil’s rules deal with the issues of community, identity, and unity. 1   Acts 4:32: Τοῦ δὲ πλήθους τῶν πιστευσάντων ἦν καρδία καὶ ψυχὴ μία, καὶ οὐδὲ εἷς τι τῶν ὑπαρχόντων αὐτῷ ἔλεγεν ἴδιον εἶναι, ἀλλ’ ἦν αὐτοῖς πάντα κοινά. 2   John 17:20-1: Οὐ περὶ τούτων δὲ ἐρωτῶ μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ περὶ τῶν πιστευόντων διὰ τοῦ λόγου αὐτῶν εἰς ἐμέ, ἵνα πάντες ἓν ὦσιν, καθὼς σύ, πάτερ, ἐν ἐμοὶ κἀγὼ ἐν σοί, ἵνα καὶ αὐτοὶ ἐν ἡμῖν ὦσιν, ἵνα ὁ κόσμος πιστεύῃ ὅτι σύ με ἀπέστειλας. Note that Basil uses the Alexandrian variant of the texts, which adds an ἓν in the second ἵνα clause. 3   See Orig., hom. Ez. IX 1 (GCS 33, 406.1-15); Cels. VIII 12 (GCS 3, 229.15-20). 4   See Hil., in Psalm. 67(68),8 (CSEL 22, 282.11-2,16-9); 121(122),5 (CSEL 22, 573.6-16); trin. I 28 (CChr.SL 62, 25.1-26.22); VIII 5 (CChr.SL 62, 317.1-319.23); Aug., ep. CCXXXVIII 2,13 (CSEL 57, 542.19-20); Ambr., Isaac VII 59 (CSEL 32, 683.7-18).

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This research, therefore, aims at presenting how Basil founded the unity and harmony of his community by referring to Acts’ narrative. In addition, following the investigation of Pier Cesare Bori on Acts 4:32 as ‘founding-myth’ for the early Church,5 it re-opens the debate on Basil’s attitude towards the past, which, from my perspective, is enriched by the particular contribution of John 17:21. 1.  Acts 4:32 and John 17:21: Who we are Without a sense of commonality, collective identity could not exist. At the same time, similarity cannot occur apart from difference; to say ‘we are alike’ necessarily entails the idea that others are unlike us. This sense of similarity and differences arises as a result of social interaction. Through the give and take inherent in social engagement, similarities and differences become the stuff defining the ‘boundaries’ between groups, those factors that enable those involved on both sides of the divide to distinguish who ‘we’ are as opposed to ‘them’.6

Both NT texts try to answer to the same need of establishing the features of the community, and of building its boundaries, as James Miller and David Stanley suggest.7 From a lexical point of view, they share a similar terminology emphasizing the oneness of the believers (Acts 4:32: τοῦ δὲ πλήθους τῶν πιστευσάντων ἦν καρδία καὶ ψυχὴ μία), and of the believers, the Son, and the Father (John 17:21: ἵνα πάντες ἓν ὦσιν, καθὼς σύ, πάτερ, ἐν ἐμοὶ κἀγὼ ἐν σοί, ἵνα καὶ αὐτοὶ ἐν ἡμῖν ὦσιν). In particular, using the numeral ἕν rather than the abstract nouns ἑνότης or ἕνωσις, the Johannine verse leaves an ambiguous nuance to the nature of unity.8 Another peculiar aspect both of the Lukan and the Johannine self-representation of the community consists of designating its members with the present participle of πιστεύω (Acts 4:32: τοῦ δὲ πλήθους τῶν πιστευσάντων; John 17:20: περὶ τῶν πιστευόντων διὰ τοῦ λόγου αὐτῶν εἰς ἐμέ), while other Pauline statements about unity refer to a wider perspective.9 In addition, both the verses confer a leading role on   Pier C. Bori, Chiesa primitiva. L’immagine della comunità delle origini – Atti 2,42-47; 4,3227 – nella storia della chiesa antica, Testi e ricerche di scienze religiose 10 (Brescia, 1974). 6   James C. Miller, ‘Communal Identity in Philippians’, ASE 27 (2010), 11-23, 12-3. 7   See David Stanley, ‘Koinōnia as symbol and reality in the primitive Church’, in Giuseppe D’Ercole and Alfons M. Stickler (eds), Comunione interecclesiale – Collegialità – Primato – Ecumenismo. Acta Conventus Internationalis de historia sollicitudinis omnium ecclesiarum (Romae 1967), Communio 12 (Roma, 1972), 83-99, 88: ‘for the Jerusalem members of “the Way”, as the Church of the earliest years was called (Acts 9:2), all of whom were of Jewish origin, the quest for self-identity was the principal project: how to create a truly Christian sense of koinonia?’. 8   See Mark L. Appold, The Oneness Motif in the Fourth Gospel. Motif Analysis and Exegetical Probe into the Theology of John, WUNT 2/1 (Tübingen, 1976), 12, 281. 9  See Gal. 3:26-8; Eph. 4:3-6, 13. 5



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the apostles, whose teaching and witness ‘produce a profounder sense of unity amongst the faithful’.10 In Acts’ passage,11 which is part of the second report12 about the life of the first Christian community in Jerusalem,13 the believers are characterized also by the allusion to an Old Testament expression which shapes clearly their identity.14 Beyond the OT nuance, the reference to the sharing of properties does not sound strange to Luke’s Hellenistic audience.15 However, Acts’ verse does not state a utopian ideal, nor describe a mere ‘community of friends’ willing to ‘share material wealth with each other’,16 but rather a unity that has been fulfilled in a specific historical moment, and that bears the sign of God’s power and action.17 The centrality of God is even more emphasized in John 17:21: as Raymond Brown underlines, unity is not a reality that the apostles and the future believers achieve on the basis of their own efforts,18 but is strictly tied to the gift of the glory (see John 17:22), and to the divine protection (John 17:11). If the perfect model for earthly unity is the relationship of the Father and the Son, Christ stands as mediator and revealer – i.e., another peculiarity of John.19 Following James L. Martyn’s insight, according to whom the protagonist of the Gospel of John is not Jesus but the Johannine community,20 several scholars tried to offer an historical contextualization of Jesus’ prayer in the Farewell Discourse, and in particular of his petition for the unity of the disciples.21 The 10   D. Stanley, ‘Koinōnia’ (1972), 88; for the role of the apostles (and above all, of Peter), see also Sijbolt J. Noorda, ‘Scene and Summary. A Proposal for Reading Acts 4, 25-5, 16’, in Jacob Kremer (ed.), Les Actes des Apôtres. Traditions, rédaction, théologie, BETL 48 (Gembloux, Leuven, 1979), 475-83, 482. 11   See Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles, The Anchor Bible 31 (New York, London, Toronto, Sydney, Auckland, 1997), 313. 12   S.J. Noorda, ‘Scene and Summary’ (1979), 480-1. 13   According to the commentators, Acts 4:32 has to be related with the first summary, Acts 2:42-7. See S.J. Noorda, ‘Scene and Summary’ (1979), 481; J.A. Fitzmyer, The Acts (1997), 312. 14  See Deut. 13:3: ‘to know whether ye love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul’. 15   For the history of the proverbial sentence κοινὰ τὰ τῶν φίλων, see Renzo Tosi, Dizionario delle sentenze latine e greche (Milano, 2017), v1701. 16   S.J. Noorda, ‘Scene and Summary’ (1979), 480. 17   Ibid. 481: ‘an enterprise of divine character’. 18   Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2 vol., The Anchor Bible 29 (Garden City, 1977), II 776: ‘Any approach that places the essence of unity in the solidarity of human endeavor is not really faithful to John’s insistence that unity has its origins in divine action. The very fact that Jesus prays to the Father for this unity indicates that the key to it lies within God’s power’. 19   Ibid. II 776. 20   James L. Martyn, The Gospel of John in Christian History. Essays for Interpreters (New York, Ramsey, Toronto, 1978), 90-1. 21   Urban C. von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, Eerdmans Critical Commentary (Grand Rapids, 2010), II 740-1; Harold W. Attridge, ‘Johannine Christianity’, in Margaret M. Mitchell and Frances M. Young (eds), The Cambridge History of Christianity, 1: Origins to Constantine (Cambridge, 2006), 125-44, 132.

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signs of an internal and/or external conflict are palpable,22 but it seems almost impossible to situate precisely in the development of the community. Mark L. Appold suggests an interesting interpretation – and most Patristic exegetes go in this direction – that does not solve the problem, but helps to approach the Johannine perspective. It is noteworthy, in fact, that, while the Church was growing and establishing its early institutions, as also Acts witnesses, John seems to take another path. In a word, John’s ‘Church is not conceived of structurally but eschatologically’.23 These two aspects of the verses – for Acts, history and realized unity, for John, eschatology and future unity – are the key to disclose Basil’s interpretation. 2.  Basil facing the Apostolic Church As previously stated, John 17:21 and Acts 4:32 occur three times in Basil’s work. It is particularly remarkable that the presence of the two verses is limited to his so-called corpus asceticum. Despite the name, they do not aim at representing the handbook for a perfect monastic life, or at establishing the legislation for the communities of his competence.24 On the contrary, Basil is confident that those who are ‘in the training school of piety’,25 both monks and laymen,26 are subjected to the single rule, i.e. ‘the imitation of Christ’.27 Thus, the whole Gospel28 is the focal point for the Christian life, or rather, for the ‘common exercise of life according to God’.29 The pivotal place of the Scripture is not only confined in its prescriptive function, but also in its pervasive presence in the whole corpus.   Jean Zumstein, Il Vangelo secondo Giovanni, 2 vol., Strumenti 72-3 (Torino, 2017), II 722.   M.L. Appold, The Oneness (1976), 256. 24   Mario Girardi, ‘‘L’amore carattere proprio del cristiano’. Le origini della spiritualità identitaria di S. Basilio’, Classica et Christiana 1 (2006), 127-44, 128. 25  Bas., reg. fus. XIX 1 (PG 31, 968A): Ὥστε ἑνὶ μὲν κανόνι πάντας περιλαμβάνεσθαι τοὺς ἐν τῇ γυμνασίᾳ τῆς εὐσεβείας ἀδύνατον. 26   See Bas., inform. 2 (PG 31, 1512C): Ἔπειτα τῶν τῆς Γραφῆς ἡμῖν διεσταλμένων τὴν γνῶσιν, ὅσων ἀπέχεσθαι χρὴ, καὶ περὶ ἃ μάλιστα ἐσπουδακέναι, τοὺς αἰωνίου ζωῆς καὶ βασιλείας οὐρανῶν ἐφιεμένους· καὶ τὰ ἑκάστον δὲ βαθμοῦ ἣ τάγματος ἐξαίρετα κατ’ ἰδίαν ὁμοίως παραθήσεται. See Anna M. Silvas, The Asketikon of St Basil the Great (New York, 2005), 23: ‘The rationale for the existence of dedicated ascetic communities is derived from no other source than that the vocation proposed to all the baptized […]. The term ‘philosophy’ or ‘to philosophize’ as a synonym for Christian ascetic life never appears in the Small Asketikon. […] Other specialist terms, such as ‘monk’ are also studiously avoided. […] the Small Asketikon addresses ‘Christians’ who mean to embrace all the implications of baptism and the commandments of the Lord in their entirety’. 27  Bas., reg. fus. XLIII 1 (PG 31, 1028B): μίμησις Χριστοῦ. 28   M. Girardi, ‘L’amore’ (2006), 128: ‘Il vangelo nella sua interezza, compiuto codice di comportamento e via maestra alla salvezza per tutti, semplici battezzati e asceti’. 29  Bas., inform. 2 (PG 31, 1512D): πρὸς τὴν συζήτησιν τῆς κατὰ Θεὸν ζωῆς. 22 23



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In fact, according to Johan Leemans,30 the numerous biblical quotations – about 1927 references only in the Great Asketikon – must be considered as originals of Basil himself, even if Jean Duplacy classifies them as a later textual intervention.31 His thesis stands out for its accuracy; nevertheless, it is likewise manifest that Basil regards the Gospels as ‘conversation partners’,32 the only ones which can provide the theological basis for the communitarian life.33 Perhaps the biblical florilegia of the Moralia can be treated as not authentic, but this is not valid for those passages where Basil firmly declares the central importance of the Scripture.34 In particular, the Bible represents the favoured lens through which the bishop of Caesarea observes his present time, hoping to find in it the signs of a past, but still lively harmony. As a famous, autobiographical passage of the Prologus de judicio Dei35 proves, he seems to be well conscious of the condition of his Church.36 The outrage of disagreement and divisions appears in all its gravity when compared not only with the alleged harmony among pagan artists, but also with the pureness and blessed simplicity of the past, as described in Basil’s Letter 172.37 30   Johan Leemans, ‘Biblical Interpretation in Basil of Caesarea’s Asketikon’, in Hans-Ulrich Weidemann (ed.), Asceticism and Exegesis in Early Christianity. The Reception of New Testament Texts in Ancient Ascetic Discourses, Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus/Studien zur Umwelt des Neuen Testaments 101 (Göttingen, Bristol, 2013), 246-67. 31   Jean Duplacy, ‘Les Regulae Morales de Basile de Césarée et le texte du Nouveau Testament en Asie-Mineure au IVe siècle’, in Martin Brecht (ed.), Text – Wort – Glaube. Studien zur Überliefe­ rung, Interpretation und Autorisierung biblischer Texte, Arbeiten zur Kirchengeschichte 50 (Berlin, New York, 1980), 69-83, 81-2. 32   J. Leemans, ‘Biblical Interpretation’ (2013), 261. 33   David Amand, L’ascèse monastique de Saint Basile. Essai historique (Namur, 1948), 82: ‘La source la plus obvie et la plus importante de la doctrine ascétique et monastique de Basile, c’est la Bible, en particulier, le Nouveau Testament’. 34  Bas., moral XXVI (PG 31, 744CD): Ὅτι δεῖ πᾶν ῥῆμα ἢ πρᾶγμα πιστοῦσθαι τῇ μαρτυρίᾳ τῆς θεοπνεύστου Γραφῆς εἰς πληροφορίαν μὲν τῶν ἀγαθῶν, ἐντροπὴν δὲ τῶν πονηρῶν; reg. brev. I (PG 31, 1080C-1081C): Εἰ ἔξεστιν ἢ συμφέρει τινὶ ἑαυτῷ ἐπιτρέπειν, καὶ ποιεῖν ἢ λέγειν ἃ νομίζει καλὰ, ἄνευ τῆς μαρτυρίας τῶν θεοπνεύστων Γραφῶν. […] Ἐπειδὴ δὲ τῶν ἐν ἡμῖν στρεφομένων πραγμάτων ἢ ῥημάτων τὰ μέν ἐστιν ὑπὸ τῆς ἐντολῆς τοῦ Θεοῦ ἐν τῇ ἁγίᾳ Γραφῇ διεσταλμένα, τὰ δὲ σεσιωπημένα· περὶ μὲν τῶν γεγραμμένων οὐδεμία ἐξουσία δέδοται καθόλου οὐδενὶ, οὔτε ποιῆσαί τι τῶν κεκωλυμένων, οὔτε παραλεῖψαί τι τῶν προστεταγμένων, τοῦ Κυρίου ἅπαξ παραγγείλαντος, καὶ εἰπόντος· Καὶ φυλάξῃ τὸ ῥῆμα ὃ ἐντέλλομαί σοι σήμερον· οὐ προσθήσεις ἐπ’ αὐτῷ, καὶ οὐκ ἀφελεῖς ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ (Deut. 4:2). For example, in the first lines of the Prologus de fide, Basil describes his teachins as ‘what I learned from the divine Scripture (Bas., fid. [PG 31, 677A]: ἅπερ ἔμαθον ἐκ τῆς θεοπνεύστου Γραφῆς)’, and the work itself is almost entirely devoted to Basil’s exegetical principles rather than to the meaning of the profession of faith. 35   For the dating of the Prologus de iudicio Dei, see D. Amand, L’ascèse (1948), 152. 36  Bas., jud. (PG 31, 653AB). 37  Bas., ep. CLXXII (ed. Yves Courtonne, II 107.22-108.23): εἰς τὴν ἀρχαίαν μακαριότητα τῶν Ἐκκλησιῶν. Later in the Prologus de judicio Dei, he quotes 1Cor. 12:25-6, in order to affirm the necessity of obedience to Christ as to the legitimate head of the body. But when it does not happen, ‘it would be a great piece of audacity to call such persons ‘members of Christ’ or to say that they are

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His lonely and retrospective attitude – the ‘nostalgie de l’Église naissante’, according to David Amand38 –, must be contextualized in a moment of deep divergence and fracture between the Church and the Empire, caused by the short but shocking reign of Julian. In addition, scholars describe the Fourth Century as a period of deep changes in society, and also in the Church’s internal and external organization.39 Facing the palpable fragility of the Christian empire, as well as the indiscriminate increase of the number of the believers, Basil takes refuge not in the most recent past, but in the highly idealized image of the first Jerusalem community. In his depiction of what the Church is, what it was and moreover, what it should return to be, the biblical roots gradually emerge. In fact, Scripture itself gives Basil the key to interpret his present: through the Pauline image of the members, of the head and body, he suggests that Christians have to emerge for their mutual care, since ‘charity, the greatest of all goods’ is ‘the distinguishing mark of the Christian’.40 Besides, charity consists also of the true obedience to God, the only who can guarantee harmony and peace to the Church. Presenting in the Prologus de judicio Dei a considerable slot of quotations on the theme of submission,41 Basil’s emphases on the one hand the negative character of being subject to the flesh, and stresses, on the other hand, the importance of divine obedience as described by some Johannine verses.42 Through these, it is evident that the unity of will which links the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit is the paradigm for the earthly community. Is there not a far greater obligation, then, upon the whole Church of God to be zealous in ‘maintaining the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace’,43 fulfilling those words in the Acts: ‘The multitude of believers had but one heart and one soul’.44 That is, no individual put forward his own will, but all together in the one Holy Spirit were seeking the will of their one Lord Jesus Christ, who said: ‘I came down from heaven not to do my will but the will of Him that sent me’,45 the Father to whom He says: ‘Not for them only do I pray, but for them also who through their word shall believe in me, that they all may be one’46.47 ruled by Him; but it would be the expression of an honest mind to say openly that the wisdom of the flesh is master there and wields a royal sovereignty’; trans. in Monica M. Wagner (ed.), Saint Basil. Ascetical Works, The Fathers of the Church. A New Translation 9 (Washington, 1962), 41. 38   D. Amand, L’ascèse (1948), 128. 39   Paul J. Fedwick, The Church and the Charisma of Leadership in Basil of Caesarea (Toronto, 1979), 12-3, 18-9. 40  Bas., fid. (PG 31, 688C): μάλιστα τὴν μείζω πάντων ἀγάπην, τὴν χαρακτηρίζουσαν τὸν Χρισ­τιανόν. 41   Rom. 6:16; 8:7; Matt. 6:24. 42   John 1:3; 6:38; 8:28; 12:49. 43   Eph. 4:3. 44   Acts 4:32. 45   John 6:38. 46   John 17:20-1. 47  Bas., jud. (PG 31, 657C-661A): Πῶς οὐ πολλῷ μᾶλλον ἀνάγκη πᾶσαν τὴν Ἐκκλησίαν τοῦ Θεοῦ σπουδάζουσαν τηρεῖν τὴν ἑνότητα τοῦ πνεύματος ἐν τῷ συνδέσμῳ τῆς εἰρήνης, πληροῦν



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Despite the predominance of Pauline quotations, the presence of John 17:21 has not to be underestimated, since it reveals Basil’s main interest. In fact, he seems to give more prominence to John 17:20 rather than to the following verse, by breaking it off after the first ἵνα clause. Thus, if Acts 4:32 establishes a secure, fulfilled example of realized unity, the quotation of John 17:20-1, with its mentions of the future believers, could represent the promised goal. The couple of Acts 4:32 and John 17:21 occurs in the Shorter Response 183 of the Great Asketikon. Despite the complexity of the writing itself,48 and its division in Shorter and Longer Responses,49 the presence of Scripture is overwhelming in both parts, and it cannot be reduced to a mere embellishment.50 To defend this view, both Leemans and Silvas stress how gradually Scripture became part of Basil’s life and theology, and how this process impacts on the shape and the function of the biblical quotations,51 as the following example shows. Q: If it happens that some living in the community are in dispute with each other, is it without a danger to tolerate such as these for the sake of love? R: Since the Lord said: ‘Grant, Father, that as I and you are one, so they may also be one in us’;52 and the Apostle wrote: ‘being of one accord, of one mind’;53 and in the history of the Acts, ‘those who believed were of one hearth and soul’,54 the disputants are estranged from these sayings. But love that accords with the word observes the saying: ‘he who loves is diligent in discipline’,55 whereas love that does not accord with the word, whatever be the case, is unacceptable, for the Lord said: ‘Whoever loves Father and Mother more than me, is not worthy of me’56.57 ἐκεῖνο τὸ ἐν ταῖς Πράξεσιν εἰρημένον, ὅτι Τοῦ πλήθους τῶν πιστευσάντων ἦν ἡ καρδία καὶ ἡ ψυχὴ μία; οὐδενὸς μὲν δηλονότι τὸ ἴδιον βούλημα ἱστῶντος, πάντων δὲ κοινῇ ζητούντων ἐν ἑνὶ τῷ ἁγίῳ Πνεύματι τὸ τοῦ ἑνὸς Κυρίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ θέλημα, τοῦ εἰπόντος· Καταβέβηκα ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ, οὐχ ἵνα ποιῶ τὸ θέλημα τὸ ἐμὸν, ἀλλὰ τὸ θέλημα τοῦ πέμψαντός με Πατρός· πρὸς ὅν φησιν· Οὐ περὶ τούτων δὲ ἐρωτῶ μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ περὶ τῶν πιστευόντων διὰ τοῦ λόγου αὐτῶν εἰς ἐμὲ, ἵνα πάντες ἓν ὦσιν; trans. M.M. Wagner (ed.), Saint Basil (1962), 42-3. 48   See J. Leemans, ‘Biblical Interpretation’ (2013), 247-52; but better, A.M. Silvas, The Asketikon (2005). 49   This division is quite arbitrary, since there are some Longer Responses which are actually shorter, and viceversa. According to A.M. Silvas, what differentiates them is the content, therefore the Longer Responses have a more general feature, while the Shorter ones examine some specific issues. See A.M. Silvas, The Asketikon (2005), 130. 50   J. Leemans, ‘Biblical Interpretation’ (2013), 252-3. 51   Ibid. 253; A.M. Silvas, The Asketikon (2005), 134-7. 52   John 17:21. 53   Phil. 2:2. 54   Acts 4:32. 55   Prov. 13:24. 56   Matt. 10:37. 57  Bas., reg. breu. (PG 31, 1204C-1205A), trans. in A.M. Silvas, The Asketikon (2005), 373-4: ΕΡΩΤΗΣΙΣ ΡΠΓʹ. Ἐὰν συμβῇ τινας ἐν ἀδελφότητι ζῶντας διαφωνῆσαι πρὸς ἀλλήλους, εἰ ἀκίνδυνόν ἐστιν ἀγάπης ἕνεκεν συμπεριφέρεσθαι τοῖς τοιούτοις. ΑΠΟΚΡΙΣΙΣ. Τοῦ Κυρίου εἰπόντος, Δὸς, Πάτερ, ἵνα, ὥσπερ ἐγὼ καὶ σὺ ἕν ἐσμεν, οὕτω καὶ αὐτοὶ ἓν ὦσιν ἐν ἡμῖν· καὶ τοῦ

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In this case, the group of quotations – organized according to the ‘stock motifs’58 technique – is far from being defined ‘a kind of secondary ornamentation’,59 rather, the Scriptural passages are the pillars of Basil’s answer to the issue of the division in his ἀδελφότης.60 As Paul Fedwick noted, Basil employs this term simultaneously to designate both the ascetic community and the local Church;61 even if, during the fourth century, its use is increasingly limited only to monastic groups.62 In addition, Basil himself declares that, differently from the Morales, he composed the Asketikon to encourage the brethren to persevere in ‘the common exercise of the life according to God’.63 The structure of the answer clearly presents John 17:21, Phil. 2:2, and Acts 4:32 as points of reference for Basil’s ἀδελφότης, whose mark is being ἕν, in imitation of the relationship of obedience between the Father and the Son, and of the apostolic community.64 Those members who disagree – Basil says – place themselves outside this relationship,65 and for this reason they are also outside that special bond of love which deeply characterized the Christian community. Just as the love for Christ cannot accept divisions, so does the true Christian brotherhood.66 The last text presented belongs to the Moralia,67 the first writing of the corpus Basil wrote, and addressed in the first instance to monks.68 With its 1500 NT verses, it can be easily confused for a modest anthology; however, as Umberto Neri recognises, it is the work to which Basil refers more often in his prologues, Ἀποστόλου γράψαντος, Σύμψυχοι, τὸ ἓν φρονοῦντες· καὶ τῶν Πράξεων ἱστορουσῶν, ὅτι, Ἦν τῶν πιστευσάντων καρδία καὶ ψυχὴ μία· οἱ μὲν διαφωνοῦντες ἀλλότριοι τῶν εἰρημένων εἰσίν. Ἀγάπη δὲ ἡ μὲν κατὰ λόγον φυλάσσει τὸ εἰρημένον· Ὁ δὲ ἀγαπῶν ἐπιμελῶς παιδεύει· ἡ δὲ μὴ κατὰ λόγον, οἵα δ’ ἂν ᾖ, ἀδόκιμος, τοῦ Κυρίου εἰπόντος ὅτι, Ὁ ἀγαπῶν πατέρα ἢ μητέρα ὑπὲρ ἐμὲ οὐκ ἔστι μου ἄξιος. 58   J. Leemans, ‘Biblical Interpretation’ (2013), 254-5. 59   Ibid. 252. 60   M. Girardi, ‘L’amore’ (2006), 132. 61   P.J. Fedwick, The Church (1979), 23 n. 124. 62  See ibid. 23-4; M. Girardi, ‘L’amore’ (2006), 132-3. 63  Bas., reg. fus. prol. (PG 31, 892A; 900A-B; 900C); reg. breu. prol. (PG 31, 1080A-B); inform. 2 (PG 31, 1512D): τούτοις ἀκολούθως ἐπισυναφθήσεται ἡμῖν, ὅσα πρὸς τὴν συζήτησιν τῆς κατὰ Θεὸν ζωῆς ἀπὸ τῶν ἀδελφῶν ἐπερωτηθεὶς ἀπεκρινάμην. 64   See P.J. Fedwick, The Church (1979), 24; M. Girardi, ‘L’amore’ (2006), 133, 144. 65   For the meaning of ἀλλότριος, see Geoffrey W.H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford, 1961), 77. The term does not denote a generic otherness, but an otherness relative to the orthodox faith. 66   See A.M. Silvas, The Asketikon (2005), 374: the scholar underlines how Basil, quoting Matt. 10:37, replaces the most neutral φιλῶν with ἀγαπῶν. This can be a deliberate choice or a memory error. The comparison with other passages (for example, reg. br. CCXLII) show how Basil’s idea of ἀγάπη has already merged those of φιλία, ἔρως etc. 67   The dating is still uncertain, from 360 AD to the last years of Basil’s life. 68  Bas., jud. (PG 31, 676A): τοὺς τὸν … ἀγῶνα τῆς θεοσεβείας ἀνειληφότας; see Jean Gribomont, ‘Les Règles Morales de saint Basile et le Nouveau Testament’, in Kurt Aland and Frank L. Cross (eds), Studia Patristica II (Berlin, 1957), 416-26, 418.



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and where he displays his original and meticulous though.69 Furthermore, even at this initial stage, it is possible to discern how the Scripture shapes Basil’ style and teaching.70 In the Rule 60, the bishop of Caesarea deals once more with the issue of dissention. Even if every community,71 according to 1Cor. 12, is identified with the body of Christ, and within it everyone is a member of Christ’s body,72 the individual differences remain an unavoidable fact. Indeed, diversity itself must be regarded as a positive element, since the Holy Spirit, as the first architect of the brotherhood,73 accords peculiar χαρισμάτα to everybody.74 Fedwick interprets the various gifts as κοινωνία τοῦ πνεύματος (2Cor. 13:13), ‘participation or communion … of and in the Holy Spirit’,75 a way to assist and support the various members. On the other hand, as the text shows, the conflict can arise not only in the case of schism and heresies, but, more daily, when the brethren put pride before the spirit of service in the use of their gifts. That, inasmuch as the gifts of the Spirit are varied and one individual cannot receive them all, nor all receive the same gift, everyone should soberly and thankfully remain content with the gift granted to him and all should be in accord with one another in the charity of Christ, as are the members of the body. Thus, he who is less richly endowed with gifts will not suffer discouragement by comparison with his superior in this regard; nor, indeed, should the more gifted be disdainful of his 69   Umberto Neri, in Basilio di Cesarea. Opere ascetiche. Classici delle religioni, Sezione Quarta (Torino, 1980), 15. 70   J. Leemans, ‘Biblical Interpretation’ (2013), 253. 71  Bas., reg. fus. VII (PG 31, 928B-933C). 72   D. Amand, L’ascèse (1948), 135: ‘Basile veut que, dans son monastère, règnent cette concorde unanime dans la charité, cette solidarité et cette paix dans l’amour du Christ. Les moines sont les membres du Christ; le monastère, dans son unité organique, est, en réduction, le corps même du Christ. Cette doctrine du ‘corps du Christ’, σῶμα Χριστοῦ, comme d’ailleurs celle des dons spirituels, est à prendre tout à fait au sérieux. Basile en est intimement persuadé: tous les moines d’un monastère constituent vraiment les membres différenciés d’un même corps dont la tête est le Christ. Par conséquent, ces membres doivent maintenir entre eux les relations vitales, la bonne harmonie et l’unité organique qui règnent entre les membres d’un corps vivant’. 73   P.J. Fedwick, The Church (1979), 24. 74  Bas., reg. fus. VII 2 (PG 31, 928D-932B): Εἶτα καὶ ἑνὸς μὴ ἐξαρκοῦντος ὑποδέξασθαι πάντα τὰ πνευματικὰ χαρίσματα, ἀλλὰ κατὰ τὴν ἀναλογίαν τῆς ἐν ἑκάστῳ πίστεως, τῆς ἐπιχορηγίας τοῦ Πνεύματος γινομένης, ἐν τῇ τῆς ζωῆς κοινωνίᾳ, τὸ ἑκάστου ἴδιον χάρισμα κοινὸν τῶν συμπολιτευομένων γίνεται. ᾯ μὲν γὰρ δίδοται λόγος σοφίας, ἑτέρῳ δὲ λόγος γνώσεως, ἄλλῳ πίστις, ἄλλῳ προφητεία, ἄλλῳ χαρίσματα ἰαμάτων, καὶ τὰ ἑξῆς· ὧν ἕκαστον οὐ μᾶλλον δι’ ἑαυτὸν ἢ διὰ τοὺς ἄλλους ὁ λαμβάνων ἔχει. Ὥστε ἀνάγκη ἐν τῷ κοινωνικῷ βίῳ τὴν ἐν τῷ ἑνὶ τοῦ ἁγίου Πνεύματος ἐνέργειαν εἰς πάντας ὁμοῦ διαβαίνειν. Ὁ μὲν οὖν καθ’ ἑαυτὸν ζῶν ἓν τυχὸν ἔχει χάρισμα, καὶ τοῦτο ἄχρηστον ποιεῖ διὰ τῆς ἀργίας, κατορύξας ἐν ἑαυτῷ·ὅπερ ἡλίκον ἔχει κίνδυνον, ἴστε πάντες οἱ ἀνεγνωκότες τὰ Εὐαγγέλια· ἐν δὲ τῇ τῶν πλειόνων συμβιώσει καὶ τοῦ ἰδίου ἀπολαύει, πολυπλασιάζων αὐτὸ τῇ μεταδόσει, καὶ τὰ τῶν ἄλλων ὡς ἑαυτοῦ καρποῦται. 75   P.J. Fedwick, The Church (1979), 25.

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inferior. For they who are divided and at variance with one another are worthy of destruction.76

Basil’s severity77 marks the end of the passage: as in the previous Response 183, he dissuades the brothers from readmitting those who sowed discord among the community, and condemns to the κατάλυσις those who broke the unity by misusing their χάρισμα. This attitude, moreover, is perfectly consistent with Basil’s shocked reaction towards the shameful division of the Church, state that he perceives as incompatible with the exemplum of the first apostolic Church and with the teachings and hopes of the Lord.78 In order to provide a basis for the rule, Basil accompanies it with a set of Scriptural quotations. If the discourse starts from acknowledging the difference 76  Bas., moral. LX (PG 31, 793A-796A): ΟΡΟΣ Ξʹ.Ὅτι, τῶν χαρισμάτων τοῦ Πνεύματος διαφόρων ὑπαρχόντων, καὶ οὔτε ἑνὸς δυναμένου τὰ πάντα ὑποδέξασθαι, οὔτε πάντων τὸ αὐτὸ, δεῖ σωφρόνως καὶ εὐχαρίστως ἕκαστον ἐμμένειν τῷ δεδομένῳ, καὶ συμφωνεῖν ἀλλήλοις τοὺς πάντας ἐν ἀγάπῃ Χριστοῦ, ὥσπερ μέλη ἐν σώματι· ὥστε τὸν ὑποβεβηκότα ἐν τοῖς χαρίσμασι συγκρίσει τοῦ ὑπερέχοντος αὐτῷ μὴ ἀπογινώσκειν, μήτε μὴν τὸν μείζονα καταφρονεῖν τοῦ ἐλάττονος. Οἱ γὰρ διαμεμερισμένοι καὶ διαστασιάζοντες καταλύσεως ἄξιοι. ΜΑΤΘΑΙΟΣ. Πᾶσα βασιλεία, μερισθεῖσα καθ’ ἑαυτῆς, ἐρημοῦται· καὶ πᾶσα πόλις ἢ οἰκία, μερισθεῖσα καθ’ ἑαυτῆς, οὐ σταθήσεται (Matt. 12:25). ΠΡΟΣ ΓΑΛ. Εἰ δὲ ἀλλήλους δάκνετε, καὶ κατεσθίετε, βλέπετε μὴ ὑπὸ ἀλλήλων ἀναλωθῆτε (Gal. 5:15). ΙΩΑΝΝΗΣ. Οὐ περὶ τούτων ἐρωτῶ μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ περὶ τῶν πιστευόντων διὰ τοῦ λόγου αὐτῶν εἰς ἐμέ· ἵνα πάντες ἓν ὦσι, καθὼς σὺ, Πάτερ, ἐν ἐμοὶ, κἀγὼ ἐν σοί· ἵνα καὶ οὗτοι ἐν ἡμῖν ἓν ὦσι (John 17:20-1). ΠΡΑΞΕΙΣ. Τοῦ δὲ πλήθους τῶν πιστευσάντων ἦν ἡ καρδία καὶ ἡ ψυχὴ μία, καὶ οὐδὲ εἷς τι τῶν ὑπαρχόντων αὐτῷ ἔλεγεν ἴδιον εἶναι, ἀλλ’ ἦν αὐτοῖς ἅπαντα κοινά (Acts 4:32). ΠΡΟΣ ΡΩΜ. Λέγω γὰρ διὰ τῆς χάριτος τῆς δοθείσης μοι παντὶ τῷ ὄντι ἐν ὑμῖν, μὴ ὑπερφρονεῖν παρ’ ὃ δεῖ φρονεῖν, ἀλλὰ φρονεῖν εἰς τὸ σωφρονεῖν· ἑκάστῳ ὡς ὁ Θεὸς ἐμέρισε μέτρον πίστεως. Καθάπερ γὰρ ἐν ἑνὶ σώματι μέλη πολλὰ ἔχομεν, τὰ δὲ μέλη πάντα οὐ τὴν αὐτὴν ἔχει πρᾶξιν· οὕτως οἱ πολλοὶ ἓν σῶμά ἐσμεν ἐν Χριστῷ, ὁ δὲ καθεὶς ἀλλήλων μέλη· ἔχοντες δὲ χαρίσματα κατὰ τὴν χάριν τὴν δοθεῖσαν ἡμῖν διάφορα (Rom. 12:3-6), καὶ τὰ ἑξῆς. ΠΡΟΣ ΚΟΡ. αʹ. Παρακαλῶ δὲ ὑμᾶς διὰ τοῦ ὀνόματος τοῦ Κυρίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, ἵνα τὸ αὐτὸ λέγητε πάντες, καὶ μὴ ᾖ ἐν ὑμῖν σχίσματα· ἦτε δὲ κατηρτισμένοι ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ νοῒ, καὶ ἐν τῇ αὐτῇ γνώμῃ (1Cor. 1:10). ΠΡΟΣ ΚΟΡ. αʹ. Καθάπερ γὰρ τὸ σῶμα ἕν ἐστι, μέλη δὲ ἔχει πολλὰ, πάντα δὲ τὰ μέλη τοῦ σώματος, τοῦ ἑνὸς πολλὰ ὄντα, ἕν ἐστι σῶμα· οὕτω καὶ ἐν Χριστῷ. Καὶ γὰρ ἐν ἑνὶ Πνεύματι ἡμεῖς πάντες εἰς ἓν σῶμα ἐβαπτίσθημεν, εἴτε Ἰουδαῖοι, εἴτε Ἕλληνες, εἴτε δοῦλοι, εἴτε ἐλεύθεροι (1Cor. 12:12-3), καὶ τὰ ἑξῆς. ΠΡΟΣ ΦΙΛΙΠ. Ἵνα τὸ αὐτὸ φρονῆτε πάντες, τὴν αὐτὴν ἀγάπην ἔχοντες, σύμψυχοι, τὸ ἓν φρονοῦντες, μηδὲν κατ’ ἐριθείαν, ἢ κενοδοξίαν, ἀλλὰ τῇ ταπεινοφροσύνῃ ἀλλήλους ἡγούμενοι ὑπερέχοντας ἑαυτῶν· μὴ τὰ ἑαυτῶν ἕκαστος σκοποῦντες, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὰ ἑτέρων ἕκαστοι (Phil. 2:2-4); trans. M.M. Wagner (ed.), Saint Basil (1962), 144-5. 77   M. Girardi, ‘L’amore’ (2006), 130: ‘Quale che sia il giudizio sul rigorismo di Basilio, resta vero che l’‘esatta conformità al vangelo’ e la gnosi che ne deriva, rendono perfetto il cristiano. Sono le promesse battesimali ad esigerlo. Il rinnegamento di sé e la sequela di Cristo devono giungere alla crocifissione con lui perché ci si possa rivestire dell’uomo nuovo […], modellato su ciò che il cristiano vede nel Cristo e da Lui ascolta’. 78  Bas., jud. (PG 31, 653B-C); see also P.C. Bori, Chiesa primitiva (1974), 99 n. 46.



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of the gifts and the unity in the Holy Spirit as members of Christ’s body, and ends with describing the consequences of divisions, the passages take the opposite direction. First, Matt. 12:27 and Gal. 5:15 deal with the harmful effects of dissension; second, John 17:20-1 and Acts 4:32 are the paradigm to which the community is invited to conform; and then, the four Pauline quotations reintroduce the images of body, members, and the role of the Holy Spirit. 3. Nostalgy? The previous passages show that Basil’s focus on Scriptures makes his corpus asceticum a veritable ressourcement for Christian life.79 The bishop of Caesarea offers both to the ascetic communities and laymen the Bible not as a pure and simple handbook for the realization of the perfect life. In the case of Acts 4:3280 and John 17:21, in fact, the meaning of the biblical reference is much deeper. ‘The Scriptures are opening an horizon’, Leeman says. ‘They seem not belonging to the past but appear as a source of inspiration in the present with an eye on the future’.81 Therefore, is it still possible and appropriate to speak of a ‘nostalgie de l’Église naissante’?82 According to Bori, Church Fathers are not familiar with any attitude of retreat to the past, especially because they perceive themselves as part of the same, apostolic Church.83 Thus, the community of Acts 4:32 appears as a reality floating between the past and present,84 and, through the same Spirit which continues to act in it, can be the paradigm for the future, especially when the primitive purity of the Church is clouded by division and worldliness.85   A.M. Silvas, The Asketikon (2005), 22: the Small Asketikon is ‘an exercise of the intense ressourcement of the Christian life in the Scriptures’. See also P.C. Bori, Chiesa primitiva (1974), 101-2. 80   Ibid. 97-106. 81   J. Leemans, ‘Biblical Interpretation’ (2013), 261. 82   D. Amand, L’ascèse (1948), 128. 83   P.C. Bori, Chiesa primitiva (1974), 186: ‘Nonostante le profonde trasformazioni che subisce l’assetto della chiesa dinanzi all’Impero, nonostante la vivace dialettica interna, le divisioni e i conflitti su problemi dogmatici e disciplinari, nonostante gli imponenti sviluppi della dottrina e della prassi cristiana, i Padri sono convinti di appartenere alla stessa chiesa delle origini. La chiesa cui appartengono è apostolica’. 84   Ibid. 12. 85   Ibid. 186, 188: ‘Ciò non esclude che, a livello di vita ecclesiale, i Padri percepiscano una sorta di distacco qualitativo dalle origini. Questa percezione è assai acuta nei momenti di crisi: sia alla metà del secondo secolo, che nella seconda metà del quarto secolo e all’inizio del quinto. In ambedue i momenti, il problema dinanzi a cui si trovano gli autori cristiani è quello di una mondanizzazione della chiesa, di uno scadimento morale dei cristiani, di un traviamento in rapporto alla purezza originaria. E dinanzi a questa immagine di purezza, in entrambi i casi 79

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Furthermore, the idea of Basil’s alleged nostalgic attitude could be weakened also by a rapid glance to the other texts where Acts 4:32 occurs without John 17:21. Except few cases where the exemplary role of the first community continues to emerge,86 the bishop of Caesarea prefers to focus on the ‘material’ effects of the κοινωνία, i.e. the partaking of properties.87 On the other hand, the three pieces examined here shows an unique and deeper attention to the concept of unity, understood not only as a purely ‘economic’ sharing, and this nuance can be gained only thanks to the Johannine quotation. Through its focus on the divine roots of earthly unity, and on eschatology, Basil confers to the ‘historical’88 Acts the value of a veritable prophecy,89 and makes the Jesus’ prayer for the whole Church his own.

la reazione non è puramente ‘nostalgica’ […], ma si esprime in un movimento di conversione e di ‘riforma’’. 86   See Bas., reg. fus. VII 4 (PG 31, 933C); XXXV 3 (PG 31, 1008A). 87  Bas., reg. breu. LXXXV (PG 31, 1144A); CLXXXVII (PG 31, 208C); hom. VIII (PG 31, 325B); hom. I in ps. 14,6 (PG 29, 264A). 88  Bas., reg. breu. CLXXXIII (PG 31, 1204D). 89  Bas., jud. (PG 31, 657C).

Sympatheia and the Body of Christ in Basil of Caesarea Thomas D. Tatterfield, Chestnut Hill, MA, USA

Abstract It is no secret that Basil of Caesarea utilizes the Stoic philosophical concept of sympatheia in his cosmology. This article’s point of departure is an article on the subject by N. Joseph Torchia in which various Plotinian parallels are discussed. Once sympatheia is understood in its broader usage, Basil’s unique treatment of it is revealed. This article argues that Basil’s use of sympatheia is integrated in to his treatment of the unity of the Church. More specifically, he places it at the heart of his explanation of the Pauline image of the Church as the Body of Christ and describes the Holy Spirit as the cause of its sympatheia. In the process, Basil employs sympatheia in his Biblical exegesis, chiefly 1Corinthians 12:26.

Since Karl Gronau identified the presence of Stoic sympatheia in the work of Basil of Caesarea, ensuing discussion has concerned whether or to what extent this concept was mediated to Basil by the Stoics directly or later sources such as Philo.1 N. Joseph Torchia has argued, for instance, that Basil’s reception of the concept of sympatheia came through Plotinus and not directly from the Stoics.2 This theory seems tenable and as strong of a hypothesis as we have available on this particular subject, even though Torchia is right to remind us ‘such a claim must remain highly tentative in the absence of more explicit internal evidence’.3 Speculation concerning Basil’s philosophical source material is a valuable but extremely difficult task. The goal of this article is to build upon insights gleaned from Torchia’s argument while recognizing the unsettled nature of this discussion.4 When Basil appeals to sympatheia it is not always as an explanation of cosmic unity, as is common in the Stoics, Philo, or Plotinus. 1   Karl Gronau, Posidonius und die jüdisch-christliche Genesisexegese (Leipzig, Berlin, 1914). For a brief overview of the topic see Lewis Ayres and Andrew-Radde-Gallwitz, ‘Basil of Caesarea’, in Lloyd P. Gerson (ed.), The Cambridge History of Philosophy in Late Antiquity 1 (Cambridge, 2010), 462-3. 2   N. Joseph Torchia, ‘Sympatheia in Basil of Caesarea’s Hexameron: A Plotinian Hypothesis’, JECS 4 (1996), 359-78. 3   Ibid. 376. 4   While his article is a point of departure, the validity of my suggestion is not ultimately dependent on his belief that Plotinus is the source of sympatheia for Basil. If Philo is the source of Basil’s account, my argument is not jeopardized.

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Basil, I contend, does not accept sympatheia passively but integrates it into his account of ecclesial unity. Basil’s uniquely Christian theological application of sympatheia has received little attention and warrants a closer examination if only because he appeals to it in concert with Scripture and in reflection on the Pauline image of the Church as the Body of Christ. Cosmic Sympatheia Whatever Basil’s proximate source, The Stoics introduced sympatheia as a philosophical concept. They developed the concept in the process of building upon Plato’s conviction that the world is a living being with possession of both Soul and reason.5 In the Stoic tradition, pneuma, which pervaded all things, bound substance to a unity characterized by sympathy and tension.6 Chrysippus, for example, taught that ‘the whole of substance is unified because it is totally pervaded by a pneuma (πνεύματος) through which the whole is held together, is stable, and is sympathetic (σύμπαθες) with itself’.7 This cosmic bond helped explain how diverse parts of the universe could be acted upon and be influenced by changes that occur in other parts of the world. Plotinus and others critically adopted sympatheia, adapting it to their unique cosmologies. Plotinus identified the immaterial Soul as the principle of unity, which causes a sympathetic cosmic bond.8 That all things shared a single Soul explained not only activities like divination, but how it is that two people could experience the same feeling despite the spatial distance between them. Torchia suggests that it was Plotinus’s account of sympatheia which Basil received and integrated into both his cosmology and account of bodies as such. One of the observations he used to support this claim was the likeness between musical terminology in both Basil and Plotinus’s use of sympatheia. In Hexaemeron 2.2, Basil describes cosmic unity, proclaiming, ‘the whole world, which consists of diverse parts, [God] bound together by an unbroken bond of attraction into one fellowship and harmony (εἰς μίαν κοινωνίαν καὶ ἁρμονίαν), so that objects which are farthest apart from each other in position seem to have been made one through sympathy (συμπαθείας)’.9 When considered alongside Basil’s 5  Plato, Timaeus, 30B; See Eyjólfur K. Emilsson, ‘Plotinus on sympatheia’, in Eric Schliesser (ed.), Sympathy: A History (Oxford, 2015), 36-60, 38-9. 6   See Hanz Friedrich August von Arnim (ed.), Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta 2 (Leipzig, 1924), 450-57, 773-89. 7   Alexander of Aphrodisias, De mixtione III.14-6. The translation and Greek text are from Robert B. Todd (ed. and trans.), Alexander of Aphrodisias on Stoic Physics: A Study of the De Mixtione with Preliminary Essays, Text, Translation and Commentary (Leiden, 1976), 114-5 with slight alterations. 8   E.K. Emilsson, ‘Plotinus on sympatheia’ (2015), 40. 9   Basil of Caesarea, Hexaemeron 2.2. I have used the translation from Sister Agnes Clare Way, C.D.P. (trans.), Saint Basil: Exegetical Homilies, The Fathers of the Church 46 (Washington, DC,



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musically related imagery he uses for cosmic unity,10 Plotinus’s account exhibits a striking similarity. Plotinus also connects harmonia and sympatheia describing the unity of the Heavens and their parts: ‘Just as strings on a lyre moving in sympathy with each other – they would sing a song which is in natural harmony (ὥσπερ χορδαὶ ἐν λύρᾳ συμπαθῶς κινηθεῖσαι μέλος ἂν ᾄσειαν ἐν φυσικῇ τινι ἁρμονίᾳ)’.11 However, Plotinus is not the only potential source associating sympatheia with musical terminology. Philo described the World’s ‘perfect symphony (συμφωνίαν) as existing … by the fellowship and sympathy (κοινωνίᾳ καὶ συμπαθείᾳ) of the parts for one another’.12 It is not important to establish whether the source is Plotinus or Philo, as musical terminology was frequently united with cosmic sympatheia. The Body of Christ and Sympatheia In tracing Plotinus’s influence, Torchia makes passing speculation, based on Epistle 29, that Basil applies a Plotinian rationale of the Soul’s unicity and the ‘universal sympathy’ it causes in an ‘appeal for ecclesiastical concord’.13 While adequate for the aims of his argument, this citation points toward Basil’s creative application of sympatheia to the Church, a point that goes unnoticed. That Torchia does not see the full ecclesial implications of this use of sympatheia is evident from his citation of a line from On the Holy Spirit 26.61 from which he concludes that ‘Basil … applies this [sympathetic] understanding of cosmic order to the human body alone: in this case, the organization of bodily parts reflects the same part-to-whole relationship that is discernible on a universal scale’.14 But in this passage and others, Sympatheia and its related musical terminology (harmonia and symphonia) regularly occur when Basil appeals to the unity of the ecclesial Body of Christ and not just to bodies as such: Already the Spirit (Πνεῦμα) has been considered as the whole that exists in the parts, according to the distribution of gifts, for we are all members (μέλη) of each other, ‘having gifts that differ according to the grace of God given to us’ (Rom. 12:5). 1963), 24 with slight alterations and the Greek text from Stanislas Giet (ed. and trans.), Basile de Césarée. Homélies sur L’hexaéméron, 2nd ed., SC 26 (Paris, 1968), 86-522. 10  See Hex. 3.9, 4.5. 11  Plotinus, Ennead IV 8.56-8. My translation. The Greek text is from A.H. Armstrong (trans.), Plotinus: Enneads IV.1-9 (Cambridge, 1984), 156. 12  Philo, On the Migration of Abraham 32.178. The Translation is from C.D. Yonge (trans.), The Works of Philo: Complete and Unabridged (Peabody, 1993), 270 with slight alteration and the Greek text is from Paulus Wendland (ed.), Philonis Alexandrini opera quae supersunt 2 (Berlin, 1897), 268-314. 13   N.J. Torchia, ‘Sympatheia in Basil of Caesarea’s Hexameron’ (1996), 370. 14   Ibid.

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On account of this, ‘the eye cannot say to the hand, “I have no need of you”’ (1Cor. 12:21). Rather, all things together fill up the body of Christ in the unity of the Spirit (τὸ σῶμα τοῦ Χριστοῦ ἐν τῇ ἑνότητι τοῦ Πνεύματος), and from their gifts they exchange with each other a necessary help, for God has placed the members of the body (τὰ μέλη ἐν τῷ σώματι), each one of them, as he wished; and yet the members (μέλη) have the same care for each other, according to the Spiritual communion and sympathy that exists among them (κατὰ τὴν πνευματικὴν κοινωνίαν τῆς συμπαθείας αὐτοῖς ὑπαρχούσης). On account of this, ‘if one members suffers, all the members suffer together; if one member is glorified, all the members rejoice together’ (εἴτε πάσχει ἓν μέλος, συμπάσχει πάντα τὰ μέλη, εἴτε δοξάζεται ἓν μέλος, συγχαίρει πάντα τὰ μέλη) (1Cor. 12:26). As the part is in the whole, we are one in the Spirit (οἱ καθ’ ἕνα ἐσμὲν ἐν τῷ Πνεύματι), because we all were baptized in one body into one Spirit (εἰς ἓν Πνεῦμα ἐβαπτίσθημεν).15

That Torchia cites of an isolated line from this passage and does so separate from his suggestion that sympatheia is used to encourage ecclesial unity in Epistle 29 demonstrates that Basil’s theological application of sympatheia has yet to be sufficiently examined. Basil does not just receive sympatheia as a philosophical concept, but he puts it to theological work. Basil places this comment on the sympathetic union of the body within a discussion on how the Holy Spirit unifies the Church as the Body of Christ through its dispensing of gifts to its members. Engaging both Rom. 12 and 1Cor. 12, sympatheia is used by Basil in three fascinating ways. First, sympatheia in the Body of Christ is caused not by the World-Soul, but by the Holy Spirit in which all the members of Christ’s Body were baptized.16 Second, Basil uses sympatheia exegetically to explain the nature of Paul’s statement in 1Cor. 12:26 on communal suffering. How is it that ‘all the members suffer together’ (συμπάσχει πάντα τὰ μέλη) and ‘all members rejoice together’ (συγχαίρει πάντα τὰ μέλη)? Basil explains that it is by virtue of the ‘Spiritual communion and sympathy’ (κατὰ τὴν πνευματικὴν κοινωνίαν τῆς συμπαθείας) they share. Finally, the sympatheia caused by the Holy Spirit involves the dispensing of unique gifts among the body and, therefore, the mutual need of each member for the other. Given this context, there is more to the ‘ecclesial concord’ in Epistle 29. Basil is not only describing sympatheia based on the unity of the Church’s soul, but he is subtly alluding to the unity of the Body of Christ and its Spiritual bond when he says, ‘assuredly the limbs of the Church (μέλη τῆς Ἐκκλησίας) knitted together by his superintendence as by a soul (ψυχῆς), and joined into a union of sympathy and true fellowship (συμπάθειαν καὶ ἀκριβῆ κοινωνίαν), 15   Basil of Caesarea, On the Holy Spirit 26.61. I have used the translation from Stephen Hildebrand (trans.), On the Holy Spirit (New York, 2011), 100 and the Greek text from Benîot Pruche (ed. and trans.), Basile de Césarée: Sur le Saint-Esprit, 2nd ed., SC 17 (Paris, 1968), 250-530. 16   See E.K. Emilsson, ‘Plotinus on sympatheia’ (2015), 41 where Emilsson explains that for Plotinus the unity of all souls is derived solely from the unity of the World-Soul.



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are not only steadfastly preserved by the bond of peace for the Spiritual (πνευματικὴν) communion, but will also be preserved forever’.17 Once we see how sympatheia has an explanatory function in his description of the Body of Christ and recognize the terminology and Scriptural passages to which Basil links it, its implicit presence in other passages is increasingly visible. In Longer Response 7 of the Great Asketikon, Basil responds to those questioning whether solitary or communal monasticism is preferable. Basil encourages communal living, employing a familiar constellation of terminology and allusions to Scripture in his warning to those who wish to live apart from the community: Moreover … we are one body (ἓν σῶμά ἐσμεν) having Christ as head (κεφαλὴν ἔχοντες τὸν Χριστόν) and we are each members of the other (ὁ δὲ καθεὶς ἀλλήλων μέλη). But if we are not fitted together through our symphony into the solitary of one body in the Holy Spirit (ἐὰν μὴ ἐκ συμφωνίας πρὸς ἑνὸς σώματος ἁρμολογίαν ἐν Πνεύματι ἁγίῳ συναρμοσθῶμεν), and each of us chooses the solitary life, not serving the common good in that dispensation which accords with God’s good pleasure, but satisfying one’s private passion of self-pleasing – how could we, thus split off and divided, preserve … that … relation and service of the members (τῶν μελῶν) towards each other, or the subjection to our head, which is Christ? For in a life thus separated … it is impossible either to rejoice with the joyful or suffer with those who suffer (Οὔτε γὰρ τῷ δοξαζομένῳ συγχαίρειν, οὔτε συμπάσχειν δυνατὸν τῷ πάσχοντι) because each cannot … ascertain the needs of his neighbor.18

The concept of sympathy, even if not explicitly stated, is implicit in Basil’s description of the Church. Basil appeals to the same terminology, images, and Scriptural passages seen above with his appeal to sympatheia. He describes the Church as the Body of Christ whose members are joined in symphonia by the Holy Spirit. Immediately following this passage, Basil appeals to Rom. 12 and 1Cor. 12, reminding his audience of their need for other members of Christ’s Body so that the diversity of Spiritual gifts will result in their edification. Most interestingly, Basil alludes to suffering and rejoicing by using the words of 1Cor. 12:26, a passage which, as shown in On the Holy Spirit 26.61, he explained through appealing to sympatheia. If Basil is consistent, it is not outlandish to suggest sympatheia as a concept is implied in his reading of Paul’s use of sumpasco. If this is true, then Basil has exegetically fused sympatheia as a philosophical concept into 1Cor. 12:26. 17   Basil of Caesarea, Epistle 29.1 The translation is from Roy J. Deferrari (trans.), Saint Basil: The Letters 1 (Cambridge, 1926), 172-3 with slight alteration and the Greek text is from Yves Courtonne (ed.), Saint Basile. Lettres, 3 vol. (Paris, 1957-1966). 18   Basil of Caesarea, Great Asketikon, Longer Rules 2.9-12. The translation is from Anna M. Silvas (trans.), The Asketikon of St Basil the Great (Oxford, 2005), 182-3 with slight alterations and the Greek text is from PG 31, 929.

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Conclusion I have argued that Basil does not just apply sympatheia to his cosmology, but integrates it into his Body of Christ ecclesiology. In attempting to move beyond Torchia’s insights, I hope to have both expanded our general understanding of how Basil uses sympatheia and provided a modicum of evidence that he has creatively adapted it to his purposes. Whether or not one agrees that Basil exegetically unites 1Cor. 12:26 with sympatheia will likely be influenced by how one conceives of the reception of philosophical source material into Christian theology. At very least, I believe we can confidently say Basil has paired sympatheia with his account of the unity of Christ’s ecclesial Body.

Units, Limits and the Order of Nature: Basil the Great’s Theory of Time and Creation* Sergey Trostyanskiy, Union Theological Seminary, New York, NY, USA

Abstract This article aims to elucidate certain aspects of Basil the Great’s philosophy of nature. In particular, it endeavors to scrutinize the issues clustering around the notion of time. Basil’s creative attempt to introduce Christian philosophy of nature is presented as being firmly rooted in the prior philosophical tradition especially that of Aristotle, the Stoics and Philo of Alexandria. His philosophical exegesis of the creation narrative appears unique and innovative in that he arrived at a new understanding of time and creation. His careful and subtle scrutiny of the notion of one day is the focal point of this study. It demonstrates that Basil’s one day is the unit of measure and the principle of order of created things which provides a new explanatory framework for the natural phenomena. It also links Basil’s cosmology with his ethics and eschatology.

Basil the Great in the late fourth century wrote the homilies on the Book of Genesis (the Hexaemeron). This book contained a subtle cosmological theory. He aimed to shed light on the origins of the visible world, on its foundational constituents, etc. We may think of Plato’s Timaeus and Philo’s De opificio in this context as Basil’s predecessors. Basil’s account, however, had some very particular features, pointing in a direction of an explicitly Christian understanding of creation. Thus, first and foremost the Hexameron was a treatise on what we now understand as philosophy of nature. Basil makes it clear that what is discussed pertains to the origins of this visible world. Thus, the creation narrative exhibits the issues of physics and does not represent theology or metaphysics in disguise.1 He tells us about the error of turning cosmology into theology or *  The article presents some results of the author’s research carried out in collaboration with members of the project ‘Neochalcedonian Philosophical Paradigm’, which was financed by Poland’s National Science Centre (grant UMO-2016/22/M/HS1/00170) in the context of its ‘Harmonia’ Funding Scheme aimed at fostering international research cooperation. 1   For instance, Basil gives his exegesis of the notion of the separation of the waters, thus exclaiming: ‘I am obliged to contest the opinion of certain writers in the Church who, under the shadow of high and sublime conceptions, have launched out into metaphor, and have only seen in the waters a figure to denote spiritual and incorporeal powers’, Basil of Caesarea, Homiliae in Hexaemeron, ed. Stanislas Giet, in Homélies sur l’Hexaéméron, 2e édition revue et augmentée, SC 26 (Paris, 1968), 3.9.1-5. Hereafter cited as Hex. English translation here and hereafter from

Studia Patristica CXV, 261-281. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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metaphysics thus improperly reweaving the visible and the invisible and applying an erroneous scale to the subject at hand. It is, indeed, right to distinguish between various meanings imbedded in the fabric of scriptural utterance which at times shifts from the material or historical planes and redirects our gaze to mystical truths. However, he exclaims, it is fallacious to reduce significant parts of scriptural narrative to theology and see Scripture as depicting heavenly truth and neglecting the visible and the sensible. In this he remains faithful to Origen of Alexandria’s scriptural exegesis, assuming the existence of ‘stumbling blocks, offences and impossibilities’ indicative of a shift in scriptural narrative, however, also allowing for certain historical truth to be depicted.2 The creation of the world and of time are such historical events. In the Hexaemeron Basil’s exegesis was focused on creation, nature, change, time and things that move being subject to time. In particular, the subject of time was well articulated by Basil in this treatise. Not unexpectedly, he found time crucial for his investigation of the visible world. This was not his first effort to discern the issues associated with time. It is interesting to note that Basil’s first attempt to lay hold on the subject was made during his contest with the Neo-Arians. A very subtle theory of time presented in the Contra Eunomium came out as a result of his polemics.3 However, at that time a study of the visible world was not the core interest of Basil, the entire treatise being framed within more general concerns of theologia. There his scrutiny of time was premised on the agenda of demonstrating that the Word of God in his bare (pre-incarnate) state is not subject to change and time. It aimed to clearly delineate a proper approach to the subject by consistently persuading the reader that a theological analysis of the Word of God must not include time in its domain, whereas the oikonomic investigations of the Word made flesh, speak of the subject as part of this sensible reality in the incarnate state. No confusion of the levels of analysis (theologia and oikonomia) is permissible. The generation of the Word of God is neither temporal nor simpreternal.4 However, this treatise, again, gave little attention to the sensible and visible world. Basil of Caesarea, Letters and Select Works, trans. Blomfield Jackson, A Select Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, Second Series, vol. 8 (Oxford, 1895; repr. Grand Rapids, MI, 1960). 2  Origen, Philocalia, ed. J. Armitage Robinson, in The Philokalia of Origen (Cambridge, MA, 1893), 16. 3   For more information see M. DelCogliano’s discussion of the subject, ‘Basil of Caesarea versus Eunomius of Cyzicus on the Nature of Time: A Patristic Reception of the Critique of Plato’, VC 68 (2014), 498-532. 4   Eunomius argued that ‘it is due to order and to superiorities based on time that the one [i.e., the Father] is a first and the other [i.e., the Son] a second’ (τάξει δὲ καὶ τοῖς ἐκ χρόνου πρεσ­ βείοις ὁ μὲν ἔστι πρῶτος, ὁ δὲ δεύτερος). Basil of Caesarea, Adversus Eunomium, ed. Bernard Sesboüé, Georges-Matthieu de Durand and Louis Doutreleau, in Contre Eunome suivi de Eunome Apologie, SC 299, 305 (Paris, 1982-83), 1.19.1-2. Hereafter cited as AE. English translation from



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He revisited this same topic to give it a new rendering within his Hexaemeron. It was a Christian attempt to offer an account of creation, of the nature and order of visible things, now the issue of time having been reviewed within the scope of investigations of this visible realm. Basil defends the Genesis’ account as a genuine discourse on nature and not a kind of metaphorical description of some spiritual occurrences. It is not theology in disguise but natural philosophy. Thus, the reductive procedure that brings all to theology or metaphysics is totally erroneous. Basil indeed speaks about things that preexisted the creation of this world. He mentions intelligible natures. These are not cosmological but hyper-cosmic (or whatever term we may use to create a demarcation line between the visible and the invisible, between the material and the immaterial) realities. Now things like motion, place, time, the infinite, etc. are the proper objects of cosmology or philosophy of nature. The origins of the cosmos (this beautiful body), its destiny, its elements, its causal structure thus stand out as subjects of investigation. In respect of things of this realm Basil makes a few intricate observations. He tells us that when we consider a particular thing, for instance the earth, we should: not to torment ourselves by trying to find out its essence, not to tire our reason by seeking for the substance which it conceals. Do not let us seek for any nature devoid of qualities by the conditions of its existence, but let us know that all the phenomena with which we see it clothed regard the conditions of its existence and complete its essence. Try to take away by reason each of the qualities it possesses, and you will arrive at nothing. Take away black, cold, weight, density, the qualities which concern taste, in one word all these which we see in it, and the substance vanishes. (Hex. 1.8.16-23)

This passage may, again, suggest some sort of a Neoplatonic-fashioned affirmation about the non-substantial character of sensible particulars. The meaning of this passage is just an opposite. Here Basil implores us to look at the phenomenal world and its characteristics without trying to find some essence that can be explanatory of the phenomena but is situated somewhere above and beyond them. He insists on the necessity of making inquiries into this visible world through the means proper to it. In order to investigate its origins and constitution, we need to analyze its foundational parameters, such as motion, time, etc. Is this world uncreated or created? If it is created, is it created in time or not? Is the creative impulse or energy of the maker subject to time? Does the creation follow the sequence of days? What kind of relations is depicted in the six days creation narrative? In order to answer these questions, Basil makes inquiries into foundations of this visible world. Among other things, he aims to study time. Let us look at how he approached this topic. Basil of Caesaraea, Against Eunomius, trans. Mark DelCogliano and Andrew Radde-Gallwitz, FC 122 (Washington, DC, 2011).

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Right at the outset we notice a very interesting shift of Basil’s discourse associated with his analysis of time if compared with the Contra Eunomium. Whereas in the latter treatise Basil defined time5 and clearly delineated its characteristics, his approach to the subject at hand in the Hexaemeron was different, marked off by a scrutiny of the unit and measure of time to the extent of it becoming the sole focus of research without leaving out of picture time per se but de-emphasizing its definitional aspects. He does not define time. He rather enquires into its constituents and approaches it through the comparative analysis of time and sensible things. The issue of time is thus run through the lenses of some other notions. Basil also focuses on the act of creation trying to investigate whether it is timeless or timed, whether the days of creation depicted in Genesis signify consecutive steps of God’s creative activity or whether they merely indicate logical and a-temporal links between different stages of God’s intelligible design ascending from the simple to the complex. What is time? Speaking of time, Basil makes various allusions to classical theories and paradoxes of time. ‘Is not this the nature of time, where the past is no more, the future does not exist, and the present escapes before being recognized?’6 This passage seems to be making direct reference to Aristotle’s Phys. 4.10, thus restating the paradox of the non-existence of time. It may also suggest a typical Aristotelian approach to be pursued by Basil. We then can expect Basil to tell us something about how the nonexistence of parts of time affects the whole of time. Then we may expect Basil to find out the best solution to the paradox of non-existence perhaps by presenting time as a non-substantial but still real existence (as, for instance, a quantifiable aspect of motion). This is, however, not how Basil decided to proceed. Right from the beginning Basil’s account exhibits clear differences from Aristotle’s approach. It should be noted that Basil assumes an ancient understanding of the division of time, similar to that featured in the Timaeus 37e. According to this understanding, there are two kinds of division of time – lesser and greater, one associated with the partition into days, months, etc., and another one concerning the ‘forms’ of time such as past, present and future. The issue of wholes and parts in relation to time is then also apprehended accordingly. Consequently, we can see the two parallel arguments, one assuming the greater division, and one – making an emphasis on the lesser one. We must firstly note that Basil makes the following statement in relation to parts and wholes: ‘A whole, of which the parts are subject to corruption and change, must of necessity end by itself submitting to the fate of its parts’ 5   ‘Time is the interval coextensive with the existence of the cosmos’ (Χρόνος δέ ἐστι τὸ συμπαρεκτεινόμενον τῇ συστάσει τοῦ κόσμου διάστημα), AE 1.21.28-30. 6   Ἢ οὐχὶ τοιοῦτος ὁ χρόνος, οὗ τὸ μὲν παρελθὸν ἠφανίσθη, τὸ δὲ μέλλον οὔπω πάρεστι, τὸ δὲ παρὸν πρὶν γνωσθῆναι διαδιδράσκει τὴν αἴσθησιν; Hex. 1.5.23-5.



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(Hex. 1.3.30-1). In respect of the allusion to Aristotle’s greater division, one may perhaps infer that if parts are non-existing then the whole must also be non-existing, time thus being an illusion. Or one may understand it as an affirmation of mutability. Then the statement would read the following: as the parts of time as mutable, the whole of it must necessarily be so. This inference can be applied to the greater division, since Basil’s time is itself subject to change (it moves and changes). On the other hand, this will only concern the present as it is really difficult to conceive of past and future as mutating. Basil’s statement concerns rather the lesser division of time. In this case, the statement can signify that in a serial order parts come into being and cease to exist. Then the whole must eventually lose its parts and get exhausted; it might end up ceasing to exist.7 What kind of parts are discussed here? One may also conceive of the statement as referring to time as it becomes complete thus reaching its eschaton when its last part (e.g., a day or a month) joins the others at the end point.8 However, just another interpretation which concerns the greater division seems appropriate: time as the whole is subject to corruption if it represents a finite series. Then the now must eventually reach the limit of the future thus turning all parts into the past which is non-existent and, consequently, making the whole non-existent. According to Aristotle, motion and time represent infinite series uncircumscribed by beginning and terminating points. He thus sees no issue in the mode of existence of the parts of time, as they do not affect the whole. In respect of things in time, those that represent finite series, Basil’s statement would hold true for Aristotle. Finally, the statement may also entail that the whole can lose its parts turning into a whole with no parts. This statement pertains first and foremost to the world as subject to change. However, it also concerns time itself. Basil’s stance is clearly anti-Aristotelian since, according to Aristotle, motion and thus time are unoriginated and everlasting (Phys. 8.1). They are infinite not only in respect of divisibility but also in respect of their existence. Basil, on the contrary, argues that this material world and its foundational constituencies are not unoriginated. The world is a continuous whole made of parts, divisible and originated in time by God. ­Perhaps here Basil had in mind the Stoic argument on the perishability of the world: οὗ τε τὰ μέρη φθαρτά ἐστι, καὶ τὸ ὅλον· τὰ δὲ μέρη τοῦ κόσμου φθαρτά· εἰς ἄλληλα γὰρ μεταβάλλει· φθαρτὸς ἄρα ὁ κόσμος (SVF 2.589.2). This seems to be one of Basil’s strategies to play competing theories and arguments against one another. He clearly prefers the Stoic theory of creation and regeneration of the world to that of Aristotle. 7   As Aristotle argued, the time can be exhausted by the subtraction of its parts. See Aristotle, Physics, trans. R.P. Hardie and R.K Gaye, ed. William D. Ross, in Aristotelis Physica (Oxford, 1966), 10.7. Hereafter cited as Phys. 8   Cf. Aristotle, Metaphysics, ed. William D. Ross, 2nd ed., 2 vol. (Oxford, 1953), Δ16. Hereafter cited as Met.

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This line of reasoning is also premised upon a particular understanding of parts and wholes. Here Basil assumes that parts condition the whole and vice versa. He seems to be arguing about the existence of essential parts, those that subsume characteristics of the whole. Hence, a part of time is time. If parts (i.e., essential parts) are subject to change, the whole must be essentially changeable. A type of change (or mutation) under consideration is coming into being and passing away. The argument would be that if a part is changeable, the whole must be so. However, one may also assume that the parts are subject to change and the whole is not. Thus, the subject may lose as many parts as possible without itself being affected. This was Aristotle’s silent conjecture in respect of the lesser division. Then there will be a whole immune from the destiny of its parts. It can be an unchanging whole with changing parts or a changing whole with changing parts. Parts, however, will not belong to the subject constitutively or essentially, not being synonymously predicated of the whole. They will not subsume characteristics of the whole. Hence, a part of time will not be time proper. For instance, a day will not represent time proper. Parts are subject to change and then destruction. There will then be a whole that can exhaust its parts and perhaps keep sustaining its existence as a whole without parts. Does this mean a continuous and unified whole will turn into a discrete unit, a whole without parts? This seems impossible. Or perhaps there will be a whole above and beyond parts. Basil will further develop this thread and will speak of a quasi-part as the unit and measure of time, arguing that it is above and beyond the whole and that it sustains the whole’s stability in some ways by linking it with eternity. Or, he could also mean a kind of the Stoic incomplete whole. In any case, this would concern the lesser division of time into days and not into part, present and future. Secondly, the notion of ‘the escaping present’ is a kind of innovation. There is a subtle distinction between a discrete (constantly changing) instant which is not part of time and ‘the escaping now’. Basil’s affirmation apparently contradicts the basic Aristotle’s premise concerning the mind capable of registering its own motion and instants of time (Phys. 218b21-19a1). Does Basil tell us that we seem not to be able to register (be sensible of, or aware of) motion and instants properly? Apparently, Basil conceives of Phys. 4.10 through the lenses of Phys. 4.11 where the sleeping heroes of Sardinia are discussed. They are not able to sense (or register in mind) the two nows and the interval between them while being asleep, their mind not experiencing any motion. Consequently, they fuse the two instants making them simultaneous and deleting the interval that they contain (or delimit). Basil, on the other hand, tells us that this failure is perhaps due to the speed of the moving now (or instant). Thus, while the failure to sense (ἀναισθησία) the change is, according to Aristotle, due to a sleep, this same failure, according to Basil, results from the swiftness of the moving now. Indeed, this passage may also be interpreted along the lines of Stoicism perhaps



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suggesting that Basil is making a subtle reference to the fleeting nature of things subject to time which tend to disappear before we stabilize their image in mind.9 It is not immediately clear to me what this distinction may entail. Perhaps the latter interpretation is correct and Basil might be telling us that what we register in mind (or what we sense) is neither the limits of motion nor, by extension, temporal limits (instants), but, rather, some (continuous) chunk of time in the present (which combines some small parts of past and future)10 in its swift flow. This would then clearly indicate that the general account of Basil does not revolve arousnd the axis of Aristotle’s theory. He indeed was well acquainted with it. We see multiple allusions to Aristotle throughout the treatise. However, they are always inserted through a critical eye. Not all things are subject to time. Basil clearly distinguishes between things that are and things that are not subject to time. He tells us about the supercosmic world marked off by the presence of intellectual and invisible natures (τὰς λογικὰς καὶ ἀοράτους φύσεις) or supernatural powers (ταῖς ὑπερκοσμίοις δυνάμεσι) super-temporal (ἡ ὑπέρχρονος), eternal (ἡ αἰωνία) and everlasting (ἡ ἀΐδιος). We may also infer that souls belong to this super-cosmic world. These natures are subject to eternity. They ‘fill the essence of the invisible world’ (Hex. 1.5.11-2). This may suggest that certain intelligible entities are discussed, they being archetypal models for sensible realities in which sensible things participate and become what they are through participation, being consequently named (homonymously) after these intelligible natures. So, a kind of paradigm (the world of forms) may be suggested by this discourse. However, Basil immediately rules out this interpretation and identifies these natures with thrones, dominions, principalities, powers, virtues, angels and archangels. They are, thus, not the paradigms for sensible things (or, perhaps the link cannot be established with clarity). The sensible and visible world, on the other hand, is subject to time. It was then created by God as ‘a school and training place where the souls of men should be taught and a home for beings destined to be born and to die’ (Hex. 1.5.32-4). Aiming to shed light on the origin of this world Basil classifies time as a thing made. It has its origin in God’s creative impulse. ‘Thus was created, of a nature analogous to that of this world (συμφυὴς ἄρα τῷ κόσμῳ) and the animals and plants which live thereon, the succession of time’ (Hex. 1.5.20-2). Time and things of this world are isomorphic in some respect. They are impermanent. They lack ontological stability (καὶ στάσιμον οὐκ ἐπίδηλον ἔχουσα) 9   Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, ed. and trans. Charles Reginald Haines, in The Communings with Himself of Marcus Aurelius, Emperor of Rome: Together with His Speeches and Sayings, rev. ed., LCL 58 (Cambridge, MA, 1970), 4.48. Cf. John M. Rist, Stoic Philosophy (Cambridge, 1969), 286. 10   Karlheinz Hülser, Die Fragmente zur Dialektik der Stoiker: Neue Sammlung der Texte mit deutscher Übersetzung und Kommentar, 4 vol. (Stuttgart, Bad Cannstatt, 1987), fr. 809.

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(Hex. 1.5.27-8). In what sense? Firstly, their existence is chopped into bits, i.e., successive parts. By implication, they do not exist as simultaneous wholes. Secondly, they are subject to change. However, here we find a difference. Whereas the mode of change of things is irregular, time, on the contrary, has a degree of regularity. Basil speak of time in the language of flowing and passing. He tells us about ‘the succession of time for ever pressing on and passing away and never stopping in its course (ἡ τοῦ χρόνου διέξοδος ὑπέστη, ἐπειγομένη ἀεὶ, καὶ παραῤῥέουσα, καὶ μηδαμῶς παυομένη τοῦ δρόμου)’ (Hex. 1.5.21-3). It is always following a sort of current (ῥεύματι). He spoke of the ‘movement of time (τοῦ χρόνου τὴν κίνησιν)’ and of our capacity to count it (Hex. 2.8.48). The meaning of this flowing and passing nature needs to be specified. It should be noted in this context that Basil did not go as far as to suggest that time is absolutely impermanent. It lacks stability because it is flowing, divided into parts and is not given as an instantaneous whole. But it has a degree of permanence. It is the quality of its flow that defines its more permanent character (in comparison with other moving things). Firstly, we may recall an earlier definition of time from the Contra Eunomium where the notions of swiftness and slowness are determined by time which gives a permanent and stable measuring scale to the velocity to motion (καθὸ λέγομεν ταχύτερον ἢ βραδύτερον ἕτερον ἑτέρου, AE 1.21.31-2). Now he also says that ‘every time that, in the revolution of the sun, evening and morning occupy the world, their periodical succession never exceeds the space of one day’ (Hex. 2.8.40-1). Hence, time is arranged accordingly in a relatively stable pattern as far as its unit of measure and the duration it contains are concerned. This stability is indeed compromised by solstices. They exceed the length of the day. However, one must not deny a kind of stability to time either. To conclude: whereas the impermanence of sensible things due to their flow determines their total lack of ontological stability made manifest in their incomplete presence and irregular motions (marked off by the lack of well-measured intervals), the impermanence of time is not absolute as its motion is relatively stable. Finally, what Basil’s discourse also connotes is the permanent change or mutation of sensible things. All things of this world are constantly ‘carried away by the motion which leads them to birth and death’ (καὶ τῇ πρὸς γένεσιν ἢ φθορὰν ἀγούσῃ κινήσει συνεχομένοις, Hex. 1.5.30). This intrinsic mutability makes their being unstable. The cause seems to be their irregular motion. Basil does not speak to us in the language of essential mutability of sensible particulars. However, his discourse clearly approximates it. It is a thing’s mutability which ultimately leads it to destruction that constitutes its radical instability, being subject to irregular change. Time, on the other hand, is not subject to this kind of change. Even though temporal limits or instants come into being and cease to exist, they do not experience similar mutation (increase / diminution). Time has a relatively regular pattern of change.



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Intelligible natures are not subject to time and the flow of existence. Basil contrasts them with temporal entities, saying that their nature is such as to live in time, meaning to be ‘condemned to grow or to perish without rest and without certain stability’ (Hex. 1.5.26-8). Change and time are thus responsible for the destruction of things.11 He tells us that ‘that which was begun in time is condemned to come to an end in time’ (τὰ ἀπὸ χρόνου ἀρξάμενα πᾶσα ἀνά­ γκη καὶ ἐν χρόνῳ συντελεσθῆναι) (Hex. 1.3.20-1). Thus, ‘if there has been a beginning do not doubt of the end’ (Εἰ ἀρχὴν ἔχει χρονικὴν, μὴ ἀμφιβάλῃς περὶ τοῦ τέλους) (Hex.1.3.21-2). Temporal boundaries thus circumscribe or delimit the existence of all visible things since they all come into being in time. This also concerns the intermediary entities, such as souls whose being extends beyond temporal limits but whose pilgrimage in this visible world signifies a transitional state which must be accompanied by regeneration or restoration. For them the end is not a total annihilation but the limit of their incarnate subsistence. Consequently, the cosmological argument on the perishability of all things subject to time is supplemented by another, i.e., ethical, argument: The just Judge who rewards all the actions of life according to their merit. They have not known how to raise themselves to the idea of the consummation of all things, the consequence of the doctrine of judgment, and to see that the world must change if souls pass from this life to a new life. (Hex. 1.4.14-8)

The whole will be judged and reset by God. Hence, the world must have a definitive end. Basil speaks of the ‘completion of age or consummation of things and of the regeneration of the age’ (περὶ συντελείας τοῦ κόσμου τούτου καὶ παλιγγενεσίας αἰῶνος ἀπαγγελλόντων) (Hex.1.4,23-4). Here the cosmological argument from restoration goes hand in hand with the ethical argument from judgment and punishment / reward. The visible world thus has a beginning. It is limited in respect of its existence. ‘In the beginning God created’ indicates ‘in the beginning of time’ (ἐν ἀρχῇ ταύτῃ τῇ κατὰ χρόνον) (Hex. 1.5.35). So, God created in the beginning of time. But what is beginning? Does time consist of beginnings? Basil goes on to investigate the meanings of the beginning, basically following Aristotle’s Met. Δ1. He then infers: The beginning, in effect, is partless and inextended (ἐπειδὴ ἀμερές τι καὶ ἀδιάστατον ἡ ἀρχή). The beginning of the road is not yet the road, and that of the house is not yet the house; so, the beginning of time is not yet time and not even the smallest part of it (οὕτω καὶ ἡ τοῦ χρόνου ἀρχὴ οὔπω χρόνος, ἀλλ’ οὐδὲ μέρος αὐτοῦ τὸ ἐλάχιστον). (Hex. 1.6.18-23)

What does this mean? The beginning must be indivisible and inextended. Hence, it cannot be part of a continuous entity. Following Aristotle’s thread, 11

  Cf. Aristotle, Phys. 4.13.

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we may say that a continuous and divisible whole, such as time, cannot be formed out of indivisible and discrete particles or include them as parts.12 They represent mere limits or boundaries. Basil speaks about the infinite regress of the beginning: If some objector tells us that the beginning is a time, he ought then, as he knows well, to submit it to the division of time – a beginning, a middle and an end. Now it is ridiculous to imagine a beginning of a beginning. Further, if we divide the beginning into two, we make two instead of one, or rather make several, we really make an infinity, for all that which is divided is divisible to the infinite. (Hex. 1.6.23-8)

This thread goes back to Aristotle: ‘The primary when in which that which has changed effected the completion of its change must be indivisible’ (ἄτομον or ἀδιαιρέτων) (Phys. 235b32-3). Interesting here is the presence of a new kind of division: beginning, middle and end. This perhaps signifies the two limits and the interval they delimit. Here indeed the whole of time must somehow include the limits. The limits will then turn into parts of time. However, in order for them to be parts of time (which is continuous) they must themselves be continuous and infinitely divisible. But this is impossible. The beginning thus must be incomposite, simple and indivisible, a whole without parts. If we assume that discrete limits of time are parts of time, we must also assume them to be either continuous or in contact with one another. However, one thing can be in contact with another only if a whole is in contact with a whole or a part with a part or a part with a whole. But since indivisibles have no parts, they must be in contact with one another as a whole with a whole. And if they are in contact with one another as a whole with a whole, they will not be continuous. (Phys. 231b1-4)

Neither can they be in succession to one another. The first term proper must not be deconstructed into further constituents; it must be a mere limit, a whole without parts. As such it cannot be part of time. Consequently, there can be no primary part of time. It must be an instant in its stead. Basil seems to analyze the issue using Aristotle’s approach. Otherwise, the argument will not be coherent: Since in an infinite series there is no first term (τι πρῶτον), here there will be no first stage and therefore no following stage either. On this hypothesis, then, nothing can become or be moved or changed. (Phys. 225a.4-5)

Then the argument will not be immune from Zeno’s paradoxes and nothing will ever be subject to change and time. So, a continuous whole (i.e., magnitude,   Aristotle gives us the reason why this is the case: ‘[n]othing that is continuous can be composed of indivisibles: e.g. a line cannot be composed of points, the line being continuous and the point indivisible. For the extremities of two points can neither be one (since of an indivisible there can be no extremity as distinct from some other part) nor together (since that which has no parts can have no extremity, the extremity and the thing of which it is the extremity being distinct)’, Phys. 231a26-9. 12



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motion and time) must have the first indivisible term. Such is the limit or beginning.13 This solution is a compromise. It was found unsatisfactory by Sextus (Adv. Math. 10.121-3). However, if we assume that there is no first term in a continuous (συνεχής) and infinitely divisible series, if we understand it as divisible through and through, we must arrive at a nonsense. Here Basil clearly rejects the Stoic solution in respect of limits as subsisting in thought alone (SVF 2.488) because limits, according to them, are incorporeal and thus cannot be in contact with body.14 Having scrutinized the notion of beginning Basil applies it to time and creation. You may know the epoch when the formation of this world began, it, ascending into the past, you endeavor to discover the first day. You will thus find what was the first movement of time (Εὑρήσεις γὰρ οὕτως, πόθεν τῷ χρόνῳ ἡ πρώτη κίνησις); then that the creation of the heavens and of the earth were like the foundation and the groundwork, and afterwards that an intelligent reason, as the word beginning indicates, presided in the order of visible things. (Hex. 1.6.2-10)

The first day and the first movement of time constitute such a beginning. They delimit the history of the world. The implication that follows is that time is itself timed. It does not represent an infinite and unlimited series but it is limited, having a beginning and end. However, Basil notes, Scripture tells us nothing about the first day. Rather it uses ‘one day’ in order to designate the beginning. The distinction is important for Basil. He persuasively argues that the beginning is called ‘one day’ because Scripture wished to determine ‘the measure of day and night, and to combine the time that they contain’ (Hex. 2.8.32-3). Here he seems to follow Philo and ultimately the Aristotelian tradition in linking oneness with measure.15 He tells us that ‘one day’ initiates the series and 13   Aristotle wrote: ‘We call a limit the last point of each thing, i.e. the first point beyond which it is not possible to find any part, and the first point within which every part is; it is applied to the form, whatever it may be, of a spatial magnitude or of a thing that has magnitude, and to the end of each thing […] and to the substance of each thing, and the essence of each; for this is the limit of knowledge; and if of knowledge, of the thing also. Evidently, therefore, “limit” has as many senses as “beginning”, and yet more; for the beginning is a limit, but not every limit is a beginning’, Met. 1022a4-13. 14   For a discussion on the subject matter see Anthony A. Long and David N. Sedley, The Hellenistic Philosophers, vol. 1, Translations of the Principal Sources with Philosophical Commentary, vol. 2, Greek and Latin Texts with Notes and Bibliography (Cambridge, New York, 1988), vol. 1, 301-2; Paul Scade, ‘Plato and the Stoics on Limits, Parts and Wholes’, in Alex Long (ed.), Plato and the Stoics (Cambridge, 2013), 85-7; Michael J. White, ‘Stoic Natural Philosophy (Physics and Cosmology)’, in Brad Inwood (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics (Cambridge, New York, 2003), 150-2. 15   The following quote from Philo well exemplifies such an understanding: ‘[a] measure of time was forthwith brought about, which its Maker called Day, and not “first” day but “one” […] [because of] a natural kinship to the number “One”’. Philo of Alexandria, De opificio mundi, ed. Leopold Cohn, in Philonis Alexandrini opera quae supersunt, ed. Leopold Cohn, Siegfried Reiter, and Paul Wendland, vol. 1, De opificio mundi; Legum allegoriarum lib. I-III; De cherubim; De sacrificiis Abelis et Caini; Quod deterius potiori insidiari soleat (Berlin, 1896; reprint

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set out the basic interval or duration, one that constitutes the measure of time. Although ‘one day’ was followed by the second and third, etc. days (ἡμέρα δευτέρα, τρίτη, etc.), those that comprise a sequence, ‘one day’ does not functions as a member of the series. It is the unit of measure of time which stands apart from the series of days. We also know that a measure must have limits. ‘That which is definitely limited constitutes a measure’ (Phys. 226b33-4). As we learn from Aristotle, ‘to be one is to be a beginning of number; for the first measure is the beginning, for that by which we first know each class is the first measure of the class’ (Met. 1016b17-20). As far as the number one is concerned, we learn from Aristotle that it is not a number proper, because the notion of number first and foremost designates multitude and oneness appears to be its opposite. This is the reason why Aristotle would persuasively argue that the minimal natural number is two.16 More important is the fact that there is just another sense of beginning associated with measure. In order to avoid confusion, the homonymy of beginning must be taken into account. In the first place it is a limit, but also it can be a thing delimited. As a limit the beginning is partless and indivisible, but as a measure it can be indivisible in kind or perception alone. In the realm of quantities, we have that which is countable and that which is measurable. We know that the part is the measure of a whole. So, in order for anything to be a measure it must be a part. Moreover, a whole is the collection of parts and a number is the collection of units. Hence, a unit must be a part of the whole. On the other hand, we also learn from the ancients that the one or monad is not a part of a number since a number stands for multitude and a multitude is contrary to the monad as one is contrary to the many. However, the common convention at the time was that the measure must be homogeneous with a thing measured. Thus, a multitude is measured by a number and magnitudes are measured by magnitudes of some minimal lengths chosen conventionally and being indivisible either in perception or in kind. The smallest unit or the swiftest motion of the heaven (Met. 1053a11). However, with multitudes the situation is such as not to allow the number one to be a multitude (the many) as it is its contrary. In cases of magnitudes, on the other hand, no such restriction exists. The unit or oneness here is conventional since any magnitude is infinitely divisible. The unit of measure itself appears to be ‘the many’, so to say. One day, the interval of time properly delimited, can function as both measure and part. However, it is not merely measurable, it is also countable. Berlin, 1962), 9.38-41. Hereafter cited as De opif. English translation from Philo of Alexandria, On the Creation. Allegorical Interpretation of Genesis 2 and 3, trans. George Herbert Whitaker and Francis Henry Colson, vol. 1 of the edition Philo: In Ten Volumes (and Two Supplementary Volumes), LCL 226 (Cambridge, MA, 1929). 16   Thus, ‘[t]he smallest number, in the strict sense of the word number, is two. But of number as concrete, sometimes there is a minimum, sometimes not: e.g. of a line, the smallest in respect of multiplicity is two (or, if you like, one), but in respect of size there is no minimum; for every line is divided ad infinitum’, Phys. 220a27-31.



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The issue of incommensurability here is bridged by the introduction of the quantifiable in magnitude and in continuous quantities in general (time included). Since any quantity is numerically assessible and any continuous quantity contains quantifiable contents, it can be numerically assessed.17 Any magnitude thus contains a number in itself. This number, according to Aristotle, is not an abstract number but a number individuated, tied to a particular unit of measure of magnitude and properly individuated in a particular numerable collection of units. Thus, this number is not discrete. It is not a number with which we measure or count, but one that is measured or counted (Phys. 4.11). Basil speaks of one day of creation. He clearly states that this one day is such as to have limits, to be definitely delimited thus constituting a measure of time. ‘And the evening and the morning were one day’. Evening is then the boundary (ὅρος) common to day and night; and in the same way morning constitutes the approach of night to day. […] Thus were created the evening and the morning. Scripture means the interval of a day and a night (ἡμερονύκτιον), and afterwards no more says day and night, but calls them both under the name of the more important: a custom which you will find throughout Scripture. Everywhere the measure of time is counted by days, without mention of nights. (Hex. 2.8.8-20)

So, the beginning of time is one day – the first measure of the class properly delimited. Basil classifies the evening and the morning as limits. Measure is indivisible with qualifications (as the measure) but divisible as having magnitude and thus parts. This indivisibility entails the impossibility of further dividing it at the extent of losing the form. It is indivisible in perception (Met. 1053a23-9). Hence, ‘the one is indivisible just because the first of each class of things is indivisible’ (Met. 1053a23). Here we have the paradox of the partless (ἀμερές) and inextended (ἀδιάστα­ τον) but limited one day. What would that entail? Perhaps, Basil prefers to stick with Aristotle’s convention and remove the unit of measure from the measured quantity, one day entailing oneness, and to speak of one day as being totally separated. The measure is not a limit but a thing limited. Whereas the notion partlessness necessitates simplicity, the notion of indivisibility allows for that which is ‘indivisibly divisible’. One day here is indivisible as the first of each class of things is indivisible. It can be indivisible in kind or in perception but further divisible in magnitude. Such is Aristotle’s measure. However, to be inextended it must be a kind of entity, similar to the numerical monad, point or instant. But time is a continuous quantity. And the unit of measure must be continuous, isomorphic or homogeneous with the thing measured. Hence, it must be extended. Can this paradox be solved? A possible solution is to assume that in this respect Basil’s argument is less akin to Aristotle and 17   A very enlightening discussion of the subject can be found in Stephen Gaukroger, ‘The One and the Many: Aristotle on the Individuation of Numbers’, CQ 32/2 (1982), 312-22.

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more in line with the spirit of Philo and the Pythagoreans. This aptitude is also marked off by Basil’s presentation of one day as not a conventionally chosen measure of time, but a unit created by God, one that sustains and perhaps causes the flow of time, assures its perpetuity and continuity. The closest to Basil’s description of one day that we can find in Aristotle is in Metaphysics. What comes to mind where he speaks of the eternal mover and describes it as a substance which is eternal and unmovable and separate from sensible things. It has been shown also that this substance cannot have any magnitude, but is without parts and indivisible. For it produces movement through infinite time, but nothing finite has infinite power. (Met. 1073a13-6)

Basil speaks of it as unique (μοναχός), and not shared with or communicated to others (ἀκοινώνητος) (Hex. 2.8.56-7). In another place he called it ‘without successor’ (ἀδιάδοχος) and ‘without end’ (ἀτελεύτητος). It is not a member of a series of days. It lasts forever. Speaking of ἀκοινώνητος, a term used by Philo and Gregory of Nyssa, among others, we may point out that the meaning of this word is very close to that of ‘unparticipated’. As such it also must be quasi-eternal and unmovable. Does one day itself move? Since it is properly delimited and thus compounded it must be divisible and thus capable of moving. As partless and indivisible, on the other hand, it is not.18 One way of resolving the issue is to argue that everything that changes may not necessarily be divisible. One day is partless and inextended; hence, it cannot be divisible. However, perhaps it can still be subject to change. It is limited. But perhaps it is limited but inextended in a mathematical fashion as a discrete quantity, similar to the monad or the number one? And evening and morning represent its intelligible boundaries. Will it then be capable of motion? Or perhaps one day is time potentially? One may recall in this context Nicomachus’ argument on the monad, nicely summarized by F.E. Robbins and L.C. Karpinski: Just as the point is not part of the line (for it is indimensional, and the line is defined as that which has one dimension), but is potentially a line, so the monad is not a part of multitude nor of number, though it is the beginning of both, and potentially both. ‘The monad is unity’, absence of multitude, potentiality; out of it the dyad first separates itself and ‘goes forward’ and then in succession follow the other numbers.19 18   As Aristotle pointed out, ‘since every change is from something to something, and when a thing is at the goal of its change it is no longer changing, and when both it itself and all its parts are at the starting-point of its change it is not changing (for that which is in whole and in part in an unvarying condition is not in a state of change); it follows, therefore, that part of that which is changing must be at the starting-point and part at the goal: for as a whole it cannot be in both or in neither’, Phys. 234b10-13. Hence, it must have parts and be divisible into parts. 19   Nicomachus of Gerasa, Introduction to Arithmetic: With Studies in Greek Arithmetic by Frank Egleston Robbins and Louis Charles Karpinski, trans. Martin Luther D’Ooge, ed. Frank Egleston Robbins and Louis Charles Karpinski (New York, 1926), 116.



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One may then argue that one day is such as to be time potentially. Then the second day may separate itself somehow from one day and go forward to be followed by other units of time so as to give birth to a series of temporal processions. This is one possible interpretation. One can also retrieve Theon’s writings to see the distinction between the number and the numerable quantity. He gives us the following argument: That which is one, being tangible, can most assuredly be divided to infinity, not so far as it is number or the principle of number, but in so far as it is tangible, so that the monad which is intelligible does not admit of division, but that which is one, being tangible, can be divided to infinity. Numbered things again differ from numbers in that they are corporeal, while the numbers are incorporeal.20

This may perhaps explain Basil’s rational to juxtapose one day to any particular day. Based on this rendering of Basil’s discourse, one may understand one day as intelligible. It then becomes individuated in a particular quantifiable set of days, those that constitute the world’s history. Indeed, Basil’s description indicates that one day is too far removed, so to say, from any actual temporal series. There is indeed a layer in Basil’s theory that arguably exhibits some traits of Basil’s Pythagorianism. He clearly juxtaposes one day to actual days. Their seemingly regular but imperfect interval (διάστημα) is tied to the motion of the Sun. Basil argued that ‘in reality a day is the time that the heavens starting from one point take to return there’ (Hex. 2.8.42-3). But this motion is quasi-regular. It entails the possibility of variations and interruptions. In the Contra Eunomium Basil gives us examples of the suspended celestial clock. For instance, a biblical story of Joshua the son of Nun tells us that both the sun and the moon remained unmoved, having been constrained by divine command in order to assure victory in the battle against the Gibeonites. The celestial bodies stopped rotating and the interval of the day was extended in order to assure the victory of the elect nation over its enemy. (AE 1.21).21 Hence, an actual day is tied to the rotation of the celestial clock/s and is imperfect. We also learn from Basil that the interval of days is distorted by solstices which extend the boundaries of the day (Hex. 2.8.30-45). Hence, actual days do not possess a perfect measuring scale. They have certain degree of instability. The inextended and unique ‘one day’, on the contrary, represents a perfect unit of measure. But as such it is totally removed from any temporally-ordered series. Perhaps Basil also 20   Theon of Smyrna, De utilitate, ed. Eduard Hiller, in Theonis Smyrnaei philosophi Platonici expositio rerum mathematicarum ad legendum Platonem utilium (Leipzig, 1978), 20.1-5. English translation in Theon of Smyrna, Mathematics Useful for Understanding Plato, trans. Robert Lawlor and Deborah Lawlor (San Diego, 1979). 21   For an excellent discussion of the subject see Richard Sorabji, Time, Creation, and the Continuum: Theories in Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY, 1983), 70.

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makes a subtle allusion to the Iamblichian distinction between the static time and the moving time.22 One day is partless and inextended. It is unique and unparticipated. In this sense it seems to be rather eternal. Indeed, Basil tells us that ‘[i]f then the beginning of time is called one day rather than the first day, it is because Scripture wishes to establish its relationship with eternity’ (Hex. 2.8.54-6). Basil further develops his argument by saying that ‘whether you call it day, or whether you call it eternity, you express the same idea. Give this state the name of day; there are not several, but only one. If you call it eternity still it is unique and not manifold’ (Hex. 2.8.70-3). Eternal things, one may assume, are not subject to motion proper (i.e., coming to being and ceasing to exist, alteration, increase / diminution and local motion). Hence, they are immovable. However, Basil also tells us something about eternity: ‘The character of eternity, to revolve upon itself and to end nowhere (or to have no limits, be unlimited: μηδαμοῦ περατοῦσθαι) (Hex. 2.8.52-4). This is indeed quite interesting as eternity (and not merely eternal things) here is presented as subject to motion. Indeed, one may also translate αἰών as age or epoch instead of eternity. Then the meaning of the sentence will be that the uniqueness and oneness of one day is first linked to an extended epoch but then immediately contrasted with it by highlighting its uniqueness with the epoch’s manifoldness. Consequently, eternity and eternal things will not be compromised by motion. Perhaps is it the instantaneity of one day that links it with eternity? It should be noted in this context that, according to Aristotle, ‘all intermediates are in the same genus as the things between which they stand’ (Met. 1057a29). The question indeed is whether time and eternity belong to the same genus and what that genus is. Perhaps the genus is the ordered sequence with the differentiae of motion and interval (moving vs. unmoved, with vs. without interval). This is the solution found in Basil’s Contra Eunomium. However, we will soon learn that the notion of eternity does not necessitate the presence of an ordered (numerically or temporally) series. Basil speaks of creation as neither timeless, nor properly timed. It is instantaneous. So, the creation is not timeless but is not in time either. It is in the instant which is not part of time. Basil thus, following Philo, advocates for the instantaneous creation, instant as something that belong to time as an attribute. He thus allows for an allegorical interpretation of the creation narrative as far as it pertains to a depiction of the consecutive stages of creation (first this, then that). The world is created at an instant of time. However, the world is formed as subject to time, which is created simultaneously with the world.23 Then the 22   See Samuel Sambursky and Salomon Pines, The Concept of Time in Late Neoplatonism: Texts with Translation, Introduction and Notes (Jerusalem, 1971). 23   Indeed, there is a philosophical thread that makes applicable the issue of time not only to becoming but also to being. Time, especially the now, thus may have, under certain considerations,



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meaning ‘in the beginning God created’ becomes clear: ‘perhaps these words […] signify the a-temporal (ἄχρονος) and rapid moment (ἀκαριαῖος) of creation’ (Hex. 1.6.19-20). Here the meaning of a-temporality must be discerned. Blomfield Jackson normally translates it as ‘instantaneous’.24 I think this is the right approach. Timelessly means instantaneously. If we go back to Basil’s definition of time as featured in the Contra Eunomium we can find the notion of διάστημα, meaning extension or interval which marks off time. We may then suggest that if something lacks an interval it is timeless. Instant is a limit. It in itself does not have any extension as we have seen above. Hence, it is not time. It does not belong to time as a part. However, it belongs to time as perhaps an attribute. Also, the notions of briefness and instantaneity clearly indicate that the creation is not alien to time. But the continuum, a series of temporal processions, must have its starting point or moment. Otherwise nothing will move or come into being. Here the Zenonian paradox again finds its resolution. We find some further support for this conjecture in Basil’s narrative when he talks about aether and tells us that it is ‘such a subtle substance and so transparent that it needs not the extension of time (παρατάσεως χρονικῆς) for light to pass through it’.25 As a result, ‘it carries our sight a-temporally (ἀχρόνως, i.e., instantaneously) to the object of vision’, without any interval, ‘with a rapidity that thought cannot conceive’ (ὡς οὐδ’ ἂν ἐπινοήσειέ τις ἐλάττονα χρόνου ῥοπὴν) (Hex. 2.7.15-7). This is a clear allusion to Aristotle’s De anima 2.7. Seeing is thus complete and self-sufficient. We thus have an instantaneous awareness of the objects of sight through seeing. Similarly, we must have an instantaneous awareness of motion, kinetic cuts,26 and of instants even if the mind cannot be as swift in registering it as our sense of vision. The conclusion is that the ‘a-temporal’, coupled with the rapidity of motion, designates what is ‘instantaneous’. However, this seems paradoxical as there appears to be no motion of the instant. But as we know ‘that which is without parts cannot be in motion except accidentally’. We also learn that ‘it can be in motion only in so far as the body or the magnitude is in motion and the partless is in motion by inclusion therein’ (Phys. 240b8-9). This does not seem to apply to time of Basil’s rendering since time appears to be totally independent, i.e., not attached to any moving things. relation to being. As such it can be studied theologically or metaphysically. We may indeed recall Parmenides and Plato’s Timaeus, along with Numenius’ Fragments. However, Basil never made an attempt to dwell on this tread. Hence, the issue of time is featured as clearly belonging to the sensible and visible world. 24   In the aforementioned translation in Basil of Caesarea, Letters and Select Works (1895). 25   ὥστε μηδεμιᾶς παρατάσεως χρονικῆς προσδεῖσθαι τὸ φῶς δι’ αὐτοῦ πορευόμενον, Hex. 2.7.13-4. 26   An introduction of this term in Tony Roark’ monograph Aristotle on Time: A Study of the Physics (Cambridge, 2011), along with a very subtle discussion of Aristotle’s theory of time makes a significant contribution to the studies of the subject at hand.

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He then continues by saying that the phrase ‘in the beginning God created’ indicates that at the will of God the world arose a-temporally (ἀχρόνως). He says that in order to better expresses the meaning of creation we may say that ‘God made collectively’ or ‘in sum’ (Ἐν κεφαλαίῳ) ‘that is to say suddenly (ἀθρόως) and quickly (ἐν ὀλίγῳ)’ (Hex. 1.6.32-3). Basil speaks about the order of creation, i.e., first there are heaven and earth but without bodies. This perhaps indicates the structure of space and its directions: up and down. In saying ‘in the beginning God created the heavens and the earth’, the sacred writer passed over many things in silence, water, air, fire and the results from them, which, all forming in reality the true complement of the world, were, without doubt, made at the same time as the universe. (Hex. 2.3.14-7)

Basil tells us that as the act of creation does not imply the presence of a temporal sequence, the days of creation do not indicate a successive series. If we assume that they do, we then will fall into the bottomless pit of nonsense trying to work out the paradoxes of creation where the earth and heaven are not themselves bodily at first, and where the day and night are not generated by the light emitted by celestial bodies, etc. However, at times Basil also tried to explain things according to the idea of natural succession of the days of creation: ‘And God called the light Day and the darkness he called Night’. Since the birth of the sun, the light that it diffuses in the air, when shining on our hemisphere, is day; and the shadow produced by its disappearance is night. But at that time, it was not after the movement of the sun, but following this primitive light spread abroad in the air or withdrawn in a measure determined by God, that day came and was followed by night. (Hex. 2.8.1-5)

This explanation through the interposition of the primitive light aims to restore coherence in the sequential narrative. It entails the order of natural progression and evolution. However, at other times he seems to prefer to talk about an ordered sequence of steps in the intelligible design alone. Indeed, it is perhaps possible to reconcile the idea of instantaneous creation, the world with all its natural kinds coming into being simultaneously, with the idea of natural progression. The creation exhibits a certain order and complexity associated with the ascent from the simple to the complex. This order can be either numerical or temporally-bound. Basil’s discourse indeed breaks at times exhibiting both traits. However, for the most part Basil seems to prefer to talk about the entire creation as contained in the instant. We can also go back to the Contra Eunomium and recall the distinction between the ordered series with and without interval. The former is timeless whereas the latter is timed. It is interesting to observe that Basil’s discourse is explicitly indebted to Philo’s De opificio. However, there are significant differences between the two. On the one hand we earn from Philo that ‘In the beginning God made the heaven and the earth’, taking ‘beginning’ not, as some think, in a chronological sense, for time there was not before there was a world […] it would seem likely that the numerical order is indicated. (De opif. 7.1-5)



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Basil, on the other hand, takes beginning to be quasi-temporal and instantaneous, signifying a mere limit or boundary. The limit belongs to time not as a part but perhaps as an attribute. Perhaps the difference lies in their understanding of the instant, whether it belongs or does not belong to time. Basil argues that it belongs to time, whereas Philo denies it. However, Basil agrees with Philo on the logical or numerical nature of a successive series of the intelligible design. Then the six days of creation are altogether presented a being compressed within an instant, representing the implicit logical order of steps of creation (simple – complex). It constitutes the octad, an archetypical number which contains complexity yet to be instantiated. Perhaps one days is the octad potentially. The notion of order is indeed crucial for Basil. The Hexameron clearly shows various threads also present in Philo’s thought. Philo tells us the following about order and the ordered world: For, even if the Maker made all things simultaneously, order was none the less an attribute of all that came into existence in fair beauty, for beauty is absent where there is disorder. Now order is a series of things going on before and following after, in due sequence, a sequence which, though not seen in the finished productions, yet exists in the designs of the contrivers. (De opif. 28.1-7)

Hence, order belongs first to the intelligible design which then is imposed upon the chaotic multitude. Basil, in turn, presents Moses as showing us ‘the finger of the Supreme Artisan taking possession of the substance of the universe, forming the different parts in one perfect accord, and making a harmonious symphony result from the whole’ (Hex. 1.7.12-7). The whole properly arranged. Basil tells us that the creation is structured and ordered. The notions of structure (σύστασις) and order (τάξις) are well featured in the treatise. He speaks of beauty and harmony in Hex. 4.2 and explains the notion of order in 5.5. The notion of succession in Basil’s argument is the key to explaining the natural sequence of the steps of development. It has two aspects, i.e., intelligible and temporal. There exists an order constitutive of a logical progression from the simple to the complex (e.g., germ-seed-organism). The introduction of one day is thus logically prior to setting up the celestial bodies in motion. The measure of time is thus introduced before the measured sequence of material entities come into being. This order can be a-temporal. A temporal order, on the other hand, defines priority and posteriority for things that come into being and cease to exist, those that are confined without the limits of time and whose existence is chopped into temporal bits. One may suggest that Basil’s one day is also an ordering principle of the world. It can hold moving things together by ordering their motion in giving a sequence of priority and posteriority to the moving things and defining the duration of their existence. It does not allow time to fail. It seems to have a causal power to produce time. Basil’s theory of time is thus elucidated through the notions of ordered succession and motion. Any actual sequence must be ordered so as to become countable. All things are ordered and, by implication,

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contain ratios of various kinds. The nature of time is transient and impermanent as it is not a simultaneous whole and is chopped off into successive series. However, its unit of measure and principle or beginning is such as to either causally determine and sustain the entire flow of time and to give it a relatively stable pattern. However, it is not counted in the same order.27 The time that we experience, on the other hand, is tied to the motion of the celestial bodies. It flows. Finally, one may also note that, at times, Basil speaks of time in a linear fashion, so to say. It thus has its starting and terminating limits. It is ordered in respect of prior and posterior. It flows according to a relatively stable pattern. However, there is also the notion of the cyclical motion of time present in Basil’s discourse. There are passages where the notion of order which is linear breaks and the notions of circularity and recurrence takes its stead. They exhibit the idea of a lack of order, of unordered series of temporal processions. He tells us that Εἰ δὲ πολλοὺς ἡμῖν αἰῶνας παρίστησιν ἡ Γραφή, αἰῶνα αἰῶνος, καὶ αἰῶνας αἰώνων πολλαχοῦ λέγουσα, ἀλλ’ οὖν κἀκεῖ οὐχὶ πρῶτος, οὐδὲ δεύτερος, οὐδὲ τρίτος ἡμῖν αἰὼν ἀπηρίθμηται· ὥστε μᾶλλον καταστάσεων ἡμῖν καὶ πραγμάτων ποικίλων διαφο­ ράς, ἀλλ’ οὐχὶ περιγραφὰς καὶ πέρατα καὶ διαδοχὰς αἰώνων ἐκ τούτου δείκνυσθαι. If Scripture speaks to us of many ages, saying everywhere, age of age, and ages of ages, we do not see it enumerates them as first, second, and third. It follows that we are hereby shown not so much limits, ends and succession of ages, as distinctions between various states and modes. (Hex. 2.8,58-64)

The passage tells us that in certain instances Scripture does not give us the idea of limits and terminating points necessary for an ordered series. It does not enumerate things or periods. It merely tells us about the difference of a state. It does not tell us about motions and the intervals of time. Does it designate a logical order of some kind? No, it does not. It seems to juxtapose recurrence with ordered succession. It tells us about things that move in cycle thus mimicking eternity. Eternity, on the other hand, is infinite. It is not ordered. It does not have limits and ends. The ordered succession is not to be traced there. As such, it is not countable. Basil also seems to juxtapose an ordered quantity with a multitude of things that does not comprise a definitive set. This immediately reminds us of Aristotle Problems: If then human life is a circle, and a circle has neither beginning nor end, we should not be prior to those who lived in the time of Troy nor they prior to us by being nearer to the beginning.28 27   μὴ γὰρ οὖν ἀφελώμεθα αὐτῆς τὸ ἀξίωμα, ὃ ἐν τῇ φύσει ἔχει, παρὰ τοῦ κτίσαντος καθ’ ἑαυτὴν ἐκδοθεῖσα, οὐκ ἐν τῇ πρὸς τὰς ἄλλας συντάξει ἀριθμηθεῖσα – ‘Far be it from me indeed, to take from it the privilege it enjoys of having been for the Creator a day apart, a day which is not counted in the same order as the others’, Hex. 3.1.2-3. 28  Aristiotle, Problems XVII.2, 916a36-8. English translation by Edward Seymour Forster in Aristotle, The Complete Works of Aristotle: The Revised Oxford Translation, ed. Jonathan Barnes, 2 vol., Bollingen Series 71 (Princeton, NJ, 1984), 1426.



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One may also recall Phys. 6.10 where Aristotle tells us that no single motion can be infinite in respect of time with the exception of rotatory locomotion. This also means being perpetual and perhaps eternal. So, we must look for a different genus that can combine both time and eternity and set aside the genus of an ordered (numerically or temporally) series. In this context Basil also speaks about reconstitution, resetting of the world, about apokatastasis. Perhaps Basil leans towards the ancient theory of the great year (annus magnus) and of the ages, periods of time followed by the reconstitution of the world, consistently propagated by the Stoics. Important in this context is Basil’s effort to link physics with ethics and eschatology. He speaks of restoration and new life of the redeemed souls. The restoration of the world has a significant moral and eschatological ramification. It is also a very Christian conceptual element of Basil’s thought. However, this thread may also exhibit certain debt to Neoplatonism as it presents one day and the collection of ages as cyclical, proceeding and reverting upon itself and thus being both generative (demiurgic) and paradigmatic causes of time. To conclude: Basil’s philosophy of nature in general and his philosophy of time represents a very subtle and well thought of theoretical construct. It clearly exhibits its debt to the prior philosophical traditions. It also features many unique and fascinating arguments. They all come as a result of Basil’s creative effort to interpret Scripture in order to present it and the context it contains as a full-fledged philosophical account of nature and cosmos. What also makes it unique is a consistent effort to link cosmology with eschatology (and perhaps soteriology) so as to give a new rendering to Christian dogmatics.

Basil on the Souls Colten Cheuk-Yin Yam, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Hong Kong

Abstract In his Homiliae in hexaemeron, Basil provides an exegesis of Gen. 1:1-31 and, in several instances, discloses his view of the nature of the souls in creatures: plants have no souls at all (cf. Homiliae in hexaemeron 7,1), animal souls are irrational (cf. Homi­ liae in hexaemeron 8,1), and human souls are superior to all because they are endowed with reason (cf. Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,2). This way of defining and classifying souls reflects the ancient philosophical debates on animal intelligence. Indeed, defining the souls of plants and animals in terms of their degree of rationality has a long tradition in Greek philosophy, beginning at least with Empedocles (frg. 117). Plato (e.g., Phaedo 78b-80b; Timaeus 77 A-B) and Aristotle (e.g., De anima 2,2, 413b1-10), of course, continue this and shape this tradition. Basil’s denial of souls to plants, however, shows that he is not completely following this Greek tradition, but could have adopted views from other sources, in particular the Alexandrian, Judeo-Christian tradition through Philo (e.g., De animalibus 16; 20; 61) and Origen (e.g., De principiis 3,1). By comparing Basil’s view with the aforementioned sources, this article will demonstrate which sources have influenced Basil, and how this Cappadocian father appropriates these sources to address his own theological concerns in his Homiliae in hexaemeron. This article, therefore, seeks to contribute to the Quellenforschung of Basil and to explain the rationale behind Basil’s conception of the soul, an area that has not yet been adequately explored in scholarship.

This article examines Basil’s conception of souls – a theme that is significant but has not been adequately explored in scholarship.1 The primary text for this topic is Homily 8 of Basil’s Homiliae in hexaemeron.2 During his discussion of the biblical account of the creation of birds and animals (i.e., Gen. 1:24), Basil treats this account of creation as also covering the creation of souls in animals, which he says are different from human souls.3 In analyzing   I have not found any study in the literature dedicated to this topic.   The critical edition used is the GCS edition, namely: Emmanuel Amand De Mendieta and Sitg Y. Rudberg (eds), Basilius von Caesarea. Homilien zum Hexaemeron, GCS Neue Folge, Band 2 (Berlin, 1997). References to the Homiliae henceforth with pagination and lines of this edition. For example, Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,1 (GCS NF 2, 126.1 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg) refers to the chapter 1 of Homily 8, page 126 of the GCS edition, line 1. 3   This is manifest in his interpretation of Gen. 1:24 in Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,1 (GCS NF 2, 128.15-6 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg): Ἐξαγαγέτω ἡ γῆ ψυχὴν ζῶσαν. Διὰ τί 1 2

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Basil’s arguments on this topic in Homily 8, we see that Basil’s conception of souls has a strong association with the philosophy of his time and with Jewish and Christian traditions before him. In short, Basil’s conception of souls is characterized by two features, namely: 1) anti-Platonic (especially anti-Plotinian) concerning the materiality of the soul,4 and 2) highly Philonic concerning the rationality of the soul. In the following, I will substantiate my argument by delineating how these two features can be seen in Homiliae in hexaemeron 8. I) Anti-Platonic In Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,2, Basil says that his account of animal souls is against some proud philosophers (cf. φῦγε φληνάφους τῶν σοβαρῶν φιλοσόφων)5 who are not ashamed to regard their own soul and that of dogs as the same (οἳ οὐκ αἰσχύνονται τὰς ἑαυτῶν ψυχὰς καὶ τὰς κυνείας ὁμοειδεῖς ἀλλήλαις τιθέμενοι).6 Who are these philosophers? The GCS edition refers us to Empedocles.7 Sister Agnes Clare Way, the English translator of Homiliae in hexaemeron, also points to this pre-Socratic philosopher.8 Of course, this reference is not without evidence. According to Basil, these philosophers have mentioned that they were at some time women, or bushes, or fish of the sea (οἱ λέγοντες ἑαυτους γεγενῆσθαί ποτε καὶ γυναῖκας καὶ θάμνους καὶ ἰχθῦς θαλασσίους).9 Clearly Basil is here talking about metempsychosis (reincarnation), a doctrine which is indeed found in Empedocles. It is striking that Empedocles also mentioned that he had once been a girl (κόρη), bush (θάμνος), and ἡ γῆ ψυχὴν ζῶσαν ἐξάγει; Ἵνα μάθῃς διαφορὰν ψυχῆς κτήνους καὶ ψυχῆς ἀνθρώπου. ‘“Let the earth bring forth a living creature”. Why does the earth bring forth a living creature? In order that you may learn the difference between the soul of a beast and that of a man’. Translation follows Saint Basil: Exegetical Homilies, trans. Sister Agnes Clare Way, FC 46 (Washington, DC, 1963). Hereafter: trans. Way [1963]. 4   Thus against John Rist who argues that the Plotinian influence on Basil is very limited (and only to De spiritu and De spiritu sancto). See John Rist, ‘Basil’s “Neoplatonism”: Its Background and Nature’, in Paul Jonathan Fedwick (ed.), Basil of Caesarea: Christian, Humanist, Ascetic: A Sixteen-Hundredth Anniversary Symposium 1 (Toronto, 1981), 137-220, 211. Rist’s conservative view has been widely accepted in the English scholarship as accurately describing the extent of Basil’s reception of Neoplatonism. His view has recently been challenged by David DeMarco, ‘The influence of Plotinus on Basil of Caesarea’s Homiliae in hexaemeron’ (forthcoming), who opens up a wider horizon in understanding the Plotinian influence on Basil. 5  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,2 (GCS NF 2, 129.5-6 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). 6  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,2 (GCS NF 2, 129.6-7 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). 7   See GCS NF 2, 129 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg. In the critical apparatus we read ‘5-8 Cf. Empedocles apud Diog. Laërt. VIII 77’. 8  See Saint Basil: Exegetical Homilies, trans. Sister Agnes Clare Way, FC 46 (Washington, DC, 1963), 119 note 6. 9  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,2 (GCS NF 2, 129.7-8 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg).



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fish (ἰχθύς).10 Nevertheless, Empedocles should not be treated as an exclusive reference, not only because of the discrepancies between Basil’s statement and that of Empedocles,11 but also because Basil certainly has a group of people in mind when he says ‘philosophers’ (τῶν σοβαρῶν φιλοσόφων) here. I argue that these ‘philosophers’ are, in fact, Platonists in essence and Basil’s argument reveals an anti-Platonic polemic, as I explain below. First, Basil’s anti-Platonic polemic is shown in the way he conceives of souls. He makes use of many platonic elements in his own arguments but rejects them in some fundamental points, which implies that he is highly engaged with Platonic philosophy in his conception. This is a critical engagement because he ‘corrects’ the Platonic ideas wherever it is contradictory with the biblical account. This feature can be seen at least in the following places: a)  Basil’s critique of the philosophers’ regarding animal souls and human souls as being the same (ὁμοειδεῖς ἀλλήλαις)12 is equally valid for Platonism since this philosophical school holds that souls of all classes are the same in nature, be it plants, animals, or human beings.13 b)  Basil understands human souls as immaterial and immortal, a view which agrees with Platonism. Admittedly, he does not state this view explicitly in Homiliae in hexaemeron. Even in homily 9, where the creation of humans is discussed, he does not mention the nature of human soul.14 Nevertheless, in his Homily on the Words ‘Be Attentive to Yourself’,15 which is regarded as authentic, he clearly states that the human soul is immaterial and immortal. He says: ‘Know your own nature, that your body is mortal but your soul is immortal 10   See Empedocles, Fragment 117 (ed. H. Diels and W. Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokra­ tiker, Thesaurus Linguae Graecae Online Version): ἤδη γάρ ποτ’ ἐγὼ γενόμην κοῦρός τε κόρη τε θάμνος τ’ οἰωνός τε καὶ ἔξαλος ἔλλοπος ἰχθύς. This fragment is rearranged as Fragment 108 in Empedocles: The Extant Fragments, ed. M.R. Wright (London, 1995), 139. Wright also offers a good translation of this fragment, as follows: ‘For before now I have been at some time boy and girl, bush, bird, and a mute fish in the sea.’ (trans. Wright [1995], p. 275). 11   Note that Empedocles’ fragment also states ‘boy’ and ‘bird’, which are missing in Basil. 12  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,2 (GCS NF 2, 129.6-7 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). 13   See for instance, the explanation in Heinrich Dörrie and Matthias Baltes, Die philosophische Lehre des Platonismus. Von der  »Seele«  als der Ursache aller sinnvollen Abläufe. Bausteine 169181: Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar, Der Platonismus in der Antike 6,2 (Stuttgart, Bad Cannstatt, 2002), 358. 14   Basil begins to discuss the creation of man only at the very last chapter of homily 9 of this work, namely Homiliae in hexaemeron 9,6 (GCS NF 2, 157.15-161.16 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg), where he focuses on explaining the Trinitarian implication of Gen. 1:26. 15   The name of Homily on the Words ‘Be Attentive to Yourself’: (Latin) Homilia in illud: Attende tibi ipsi. The critical edition used here is Stig Y. Rudberg, L’homélie de Basile de Césarée sur le mot ‘Observe-toi toi-même’: Édition critique du texte grec et étude sur la tradition manuscrite, Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis, Studia Graeca Stockholmiensia 2 (Stockholm, 1962), 23-37. I follow the abbreviation proposed in Paul Jonathan Fedwick (ed.), Basil of Caesarea: Christian, Humanist, Ascetic: A Sixteen-Hundredth Anniversary Symposium (Toronto, 1981), xix-xxxvii, xxvii, hence: HAtt. [3].

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(ἀθάνατος ἡ ψυχή), and that our life is twofold in kind’.16 And also: ‘Look down on the flesh, for it is passing away; take care of the soul, for it is something immortal (ἐπιμελοῦ ψυχῆς, πράγματος ἀθανάτου)’.17 And also: ‘Understand that God is incorporeal from the incorporeal soul (ψυχῆς ἀσωμάτου) existing in you, not circumscribed by place’.18 c)  Basil understands animal souls as material in nature. This is the most interesting part in Basil’s conception of souls since this assertion makes Basil’s view immediately different from Platonism. For Platonism, all souls are immaterial in nature, and this is true in all forms of life, be it plants, animals and human beings. By asserting that animal souls are material, Basil demonstrates a notable contrast to the wholly immaterial interpretation of souls in Platonism,19 although he agrees with Platonism on the immateriality of human souls. Why are animal souls material in nature? This is so because, according to Basil, the statement of Gen. 1:24 ‘Let the earth bring forth all kinds of living creatures: cattle, crawling creature, and wild animals’ clearly implies that animals come from the earth (cf. γεηρά τίς ἐστιν εἰκότως ἡ ψυχὴ τῶν κτηνῶν).20 In other words, he cannot accept animal souls as immaterial because he takes a literal interpretation of Gen. 1:24: animals come from the earth, so animals are earthly in nature. Indeed, Basil has devoted much time to making his argument on this point. He claims that the soul of every creature is its blood (παντὸς ζῴου ἡ ψυχὴ τὸ αἷμα αὐτοῦ ἐστιν).21 Note that this statement is based on Leviticus 17:1122 in which ψυχὴ, following the meaning of ‫ ֶ֫נ ֶפׁש‬in the Old Testament tradition, bears the meaning of both ‘soul’ and ‘life’.23 He then claims that blood, 16  Basil, HAtt. [3], 3 (ed. Rudberg, 27.9-12): γνῶθι σεαυτοῦ τὴν φύσιν· ὄτι θνητὸν μέν σου τὸ σῶμα, ἀθάνατος δὲ ἡ ψυχή, καὶ ὅτι διπλἤ τίς ἐστιν ἥμῶν ἡ ζωή. Translation follows Nonna Verna Harrison, St Basil the Great, On the Human Condition. Translation and Introduction (New York, 2005), 96. Hereafter: trans. Harrison [2005]. 17  Basil, HAtt. [3], 3 (ed. Rudberg, 27.15-6): ῾Υπερόρα σαρκός, παρέρχεται γάρ· ἐπιμελοῦ ψυχῆς, πράγματος ἀθανάτου. Trans. Harrison [2005], 96. 18  Basil, HAtt. [3], 7 (ed. Rudberg, 35.16-7): Ἀσώματον ἐννόει τὸν θεὸν ἐκ τῆς ἐνπαρχούσης σοι ψυχῆς ἀσωμάτου, μὴ περιγραφόμενον. Trans. Harrison [2005], 103. 19   On how Platonists argue against the materiality of soul see Heinrich Dörrie and Matthias Baltes, Die philosophische Lehre des Platonismus. Von der  »Seele«  als der Ursache aller sinn­ vollen Abläufe. Bausteine 151-168: Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar, Der Platonismus in der Antike 6,1 (Stuttgart, Bad Cannstatt, 2002), 12-31 and 145-88. 20   See Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,2 (GCS NF 2, 128.20-1 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). Trans. Way [1963], 119: ‘Reasonably, the soul of animals is something earthly’. 21  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,2 (GCS NF 2, 128.18-9 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). 22   Leviticus 17:11 [LXX]: ἡ γὰρ ψυχὴ πάσης σαρκὸς αἷμα αὐτοῦ ἐστιν, καὶ ἐγὼ δέδωκα αὐτὸ ὑμῖν ἐπὶ τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου ἐξιλάσκεσθαι περὶ τῶν ψυχῶν ὑμῶν· τὸ γὰρ αἷμα αὐτοῦ ἀντὶ τῆς ψυχῆς ἐξιλάσεται. (RSV: ‘For the life of the flesh is in the blood; and I have given it for you upon the altar to make atonement for your souls; for it is the blood that makes atonement, by reason of the life’). 23   For the meaning of ‫ ֶ֫נ ֶפׁש‬in the Old Testament of and ψυχή in the LXX see the detailed survey in Martin Rösel, ‘Die Geburt der Seele in der Übersetzung: Von der hebräischen näfäsch über die psyche der LXX zur deutschen Seele’, in Andreas Wagner (ed.), Anthropologische Aufbrüche:



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when congealed, will change into flesh, and that this flesh will later decompose to earth (αἷμα δὲ παγὲν εἰς σάρκα πέφυκε μεταβάλλειν, ἡ δὲ σὰρξ φθαρεῖσα εἰς γῆν ἀναλύεται).24 The biological cycle is thus formed: from soul to blood, from blood to flesh, from flesh to earth, and then, in creation, from earth to soul again. Note that a similar pattern between blood and flesh can also be found in Plato’s Timaeus 82Cff.25 In other words, Basil combines both biblical and Platonic elements to make his argument, but he takes side with the Bible for his conclusion. For him, the Platonic view is subject to revision when it is contradictory to the biblical doctrine. Second, Basil’s anti-Platonic polemic is shown in the statement which he makes at the beginning of Homiliae in hexaemeron 8: ‘Is the earth possessed of a soul?’ (Ἔμψυχος ἄρα ἡ γῆ;).26 Basil’s answer to this statement is in the negative and he attributes the claim that the earth possesses soul to Manichaeism. Here in Homiliae in hexaemeron 8, he says two times27 that the Manichaeans hold this heretical view which is self-refuting (cf. εἰς τὸ ἐναντίον αὐτοῖς ὁ λόγος περιτραπήσεται).28 Is Basil here purely anti-Manichaean, however? I do not think so. I have tried to look for this claim (earth possesses soul) in the extant Manichaean text,29 in both the Coptic Kephalaia30 and the Latin Codex Tebessa,31 but cannot find a perfect match. Of course, we can find Manichaean texts saying that the soul is present in the materials like in plants, in bread and in wine, etc.32 – a panpsychist view which may imply that the earth Alttestamentliche und interdisziplinäre Zugänge zur historischen Anthropologie (Göttingen, 2009), 151-70, especially 153-4 and 160-9. 24  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,2 (GCS NF 2, 128.19-20 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). 25   For the background of this text see Francis M. Cornford, Plato’s Cosmology. The Timaeus of Plato. Translation, with a running commentary, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, 1997), 336-7. 26  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,1 (GCS NF 2, 126.7 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). 27  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,1 (GCS NF 2, 126.7-8 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg) and (GCS NF 2, 127.4-5 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). 28  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,1 (GCS NF 2, 127.5 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). 29   For an excellent introduction to the extant Manichaean texts and their relationship see Manfred Hutter, ‘Manichäismus’, Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum 23 (2010), 6-48 6-16. 30   I use Alexander Böhlig and Wolf-Peter Funk, Kephalaia (Stuttgart, Berlin, Köln, 2018) for the original coptic text and German translation. I also reference Iain Gardner, The Kephalaia of the Teacher: The Edited Coptic Manichaean Texts in Translation With Commentary (Leiden, 1995) for the English translation and the author’s informative introduction. Hereafter: trans. Gardner [1995]. 31   See Markus Stein, Manichaica Latina 3,1 & 3,2 (Opladen, Paderborn, 2004-2006), which contains the scanned copy of the manuscript, the Latin text with critical apparatus, and a German translation. 32   See, for instance, Kephalaia 80 ‘The Chapter of the Commandments of Righteousness’ (trans. Gardner [1995], 201-2); 85 ‘Concerning the Cross of Light’ (trans. Gardner [1995], 216-24); 91 ‘Also concerning the Catechumen’ (trans. Gardner [1995], 235-41); 93 (trans. Gardner [1995], 242-5). See also Augustine’s Epistula 236 and De haeresibus 46 in which the bishop of Hippo provides a good summary of the Manichaean doctrine in the North Africa of the fourth century. For a detailed exposition of Augustine’s Epistula 236 and De haeresibus 46 see Volker Henning Drecoll and Mirjam Kudella, Augustin und der Manichäismus (Tübingen, 2011), 166-81. For a

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possesses soul. Yet the focus on the earth’s soul does not appear to be a distinctive Manichaean feature. Moreover, when we look at other texts where Basil mentions Manichaeism,33 it is remarkable that Basil usually mentions Manichaeism alongside such other heresies as Gnosticism and Valentinianism.34 This means Manichaeism is seldom to be a single target in Basil’s polemic, and his statement ‘earth possesses a soul’ could refer to other group that Basil associates with Manichaeism. Indeed, the idea of ‘earth possessing soul’ is a vivid theme in Plotinus who mentions this in several places of Enneads (e.g., Enn. 3.4.2, 4.4.22 and 5.2.1 etc.). Enn. 4.4.22 is particularly relevant to our discussion since the text shows explicitly that Plotinus holds this view. Here he examines the relationship between soul and body in plants, and explores what kind of soul is present in earth: In the case of plants, is the sort of faint echo of soul in them one thing and what provides for them another, that is, what in us is indeed the faculty of appetite but in them the faculty of growth; or is this in the earth, since there is soul in the earth (ἐν μὲν τῇ γῇ τοῦτο ψυχῆς ἐν αὐτῇ οὔσης), and a derivative of this in plants? One might first consider what soul is in the earth (τίς ψυχὴ ἐν τῇ γῇ), whether it comes from the sphere of the universe, to which alone Plato seems to have given soul in the first place (μόνην … ψυχοῦν) as a kind of illumination directed to the earth. (Enn. 4.4.22; ed. Gerson [2018], 439-40)35 succinct account of the Manichaean doctrine on food see V.H. Drecoll and M. Kudella, Augustin und der Manichäismus (2011), 146-52; I. Gardner, ‘Introduction’, in The Kephalaia of the Teacher (1995), xi-xxxvi, xxxiv; Alexander Böhlig, ‘Manichäismus’, Theologische Realenzykopädie 22 (1992), 25-45, 31-4. 33   In the whole corpus, Basil has mentioned Manichaeism 6 times: Contra Eunomium 2,34; the shorter monastic rule 258; Epistula 188; the homily Adversus eos qui per calumniam dicunt dici a nobis tres deos (Homily on not three Gods); Homiliae in hexaemeron 2,4 and 8,1. 34   See for instance: Epistula 188,1 (Yves Courtonne, Saint Basile. Lettres, 3 vol. [Paris, 1957-1966], lines 20-4): Σχίσμα δὲ τὸ περὶ τῆς μετανοίας διαφόρως ἔχειν πρὸς τοὺς ἀπὸ τῆς Ἐκκλησίας Αἱρέσεις δὲ οἷον ἡ τῶν Μανιχαίων, καὶ Οὐαλεντίνων, καὶ Μαρκιωνιστῶν, καὶ αὐτῶν τούτων τῶν Πεπουζηνῶν· εὐθὺς γὰρ περὶ αὐτῆς τῆς εἰς Θεὸν πίστεως ἡ διαφορά. ‘And heresies are, for example, those of the Manichaeans, of the Valentinians, and of the Marcionites, and of these very Pepuzeni; for here at once regarding faith in God itself disagreement exists’ (trans. Defferrari, LCL, p. 11-3); Homiliae in hexaemeron 2,4 (GCS NF 2, 27.6-8 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg): Οὐχὶ Μαρκιῶνες; οὐχὶ Οὐαλεντῖνοι ἐντεῦθεν; οὐχ ἡ βδελυκτὴ τῶν Μανιχαίων αἵρεσις ‘Have not the Marcionites? And have not the Valentinians come from the same source? Has not the abominable heresy of the Manichaeans?’ (trans. Way [1963], 27). 35   Enn. 4.4.22 (Plotini Opera II, 77,1-78,7 Henry/Schwyzer): Ἐπὶ δὲ τῶν φυτῶν ἆρα ἄλλο μὲν τὸ οἷον ἐναπηχηθὲν τοῖς σώμασιν αὐτῶν, ἄλλο δὲ τὸ χορηγῆσαν, ὃ δὴ ἐπιθυμητικὸν μὲν ἐν ἡμῖν, ἐν ἐκείνοις δὲ φυτικόν, ἢ ἐν μὲν τῇ γῇ τοῦτο ψυχῆς ἐν αὐτῇ οὔσης, ἐν δὲ τοῖς φυτοῖς τὸ ἀπὸ τούτου; Ζητήσειε δ’ ἄν τις πρότερον, τίς ψυχὴ ἐν τῇ γῇ πότερα ἐκ τῆς σφαίρας τοῦ παντός, ἣν καὶ μόνην δοκεῖ ψυχοῦν πρώτως Πλάτων οἷον ἔλλαμψιν εἰς τὴν γῆν. The translation follows Plotinus: The Enneads, ed. Lloyd P. Gerson, trans. George Boys-Stones, John M. Dillon, Lloyd P. Gerson, R.A.H. King, Andrew Smith and James Wilberding (Cambridge, 2018), 439-40. This English translation is superior to the previous two (Stephen MacKenna and A.H. Armstrong) as it is based on the critical edition of the Greek text – the edition minor of the Enneads by Henry and Schwyzer. I also found its translation of this passage the best among the three.



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It is noteworthy in this passage that Plotinus is not arguing whether the earth possesses a soul, but rather what kind of soul the earth possesses (τίς ψυχὴ ἐν τῇ γῇ). In other words, the premise ‘earth possesses a soul’ is taken for granted in Plotinus’ argument. This idea emerges, as Plotinus has also implicitly mentioned, from Plato himself. It is, therefore, clear that the view ‘earth possesses a soul’ has not only been held by Plotinus, but also widely among Platonists. But Plotinus is in particular pertinent to Basil’s context here since he is nearly the only one after Empedocles who accepts the reincarnation of the souls into plants,36 which is expressed more clearly in Enn. 3.4.2.37 This also fits very well to Basil’s description of the proud philosophers in Homily 8. In view of all this, I am convinced that Plotinus is an implicit target here in Basil’s criticism of Manichaeism. 2)  Highly Philonic Philo has long been recognized as one of Basil’s sources in the Homiliae in hexaemeron. The French scholar, Jean Levie, argued in 1920 that Homiliae in hexaemeron 7 and 8 is a mixture of Aristotelian and Philonic materials: Aristotle for Basil’s examples of animals and Philo for Basil’s introductions to these two homilies.38 This view has largely been followed by such scholars as David Amand de Mendieta, Stanislas Giet, and Mario Naldini.39 Despite the many virtues of Levie’s article, it has missed the point that Basil’s examples of animals do not come from Aristotle alone, but also from Philo. Indeed, Basil’s 36  See Enn. 3.4.2 (Plotini Opera I, 284,21-24 Henry/Schwyzer): Εἰ δὲ μηδ’ αἰσθήσει μετὰ τούτων, ἀλλὰ νωθείᾳ αἰσθήσεως μετ’ αὐτῶν, καὶ φυτά· μόνον γὰρ τοῦτο ἢ μάλιστα ἐνήργει τὸ φυτικόν, καὶ ἦν αὐτοῖς μελέτη δενδρωθῆναι. ‘For this reason, we also live as beings that use our faculty of sense-perception; for we have organs of sense-perception. And in many respects we live like plants’ (ed. Gerson [2018], 285). 37   For a good commentary on this see H. Dörrie and M. Baltes, Die philosophische Lehre des Platonismus (2002), 364: ‘Das Auffälligste an der Lehre Plotins ist allerdings etwas anderes: Kaum ein anderer Platoniker vor und nach Plotin hat angenommen, die Seele könne auch in Pflanzen wandern. Vor Plotin können wir außer Empedokles nur noch Kronios namentlich benennen, der diese Lehre vertreten hat’. I am also indebted to Volker Henning Drecoll for telling me this information. 38   Jean Levie, ‘Les Sources de la septième et de la huitième Homélies de Saint Basile sur l’Hexaeméron’, Le Musée belge: Revue de philologie classique 24 (1920), 113-49, 118: ‘Dans ce passage, qui fait le fond des deux introductions, saint Basile insère tantôt des classifications zoologiques, qu’il puis également dans son manuel, tantôt certains développements inspirés d’une page du Du mundi opificio de Philon d’Alexandrie (éd. Cohn, 1896, vol. 1, p. 20,1.10 – p. 21,1.7)’. 39   See Emmanuel Amand de Mendieta, ‘Neuf Homélies de Basile de Césarée: Recherches sur le genre littéraire, le but et l’élaboration de ces homélies’, Byzantion 48 (1978), 337-68, especially 360-1. Stanislas Giet, Basile de Césarée. Homélies sur l’Hexaémeron. Texte grec, introduction et traduction, SC 26bis, 2nd revised ed. (Paris, 1968), 65, 391. Mario Naldini, Basilio di Cesarea, Sulla Genesi (Omelie sull’Esamerone), edition, translation and commenatary (Milano, 1990), 378.

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way of discussing insects and birds is highly parallel in three respects to Philo’s De animalibus,40 a work which has largely been neglected in the Basilian scholarship. The negligence is probably due to the fact that the original Greek text of this work is no longer extant (we now only have an Armenian translation of the 6th century41), which makes a strictly literal comparison impossible. Nevertheless, the following three parallels are visible even without the original Greek text since they are based on thematic parallels. First, the characters and moral applications of the examples of animals are highly similar. Both works mention, in a similar manner, the kingship of bees,42 the care of the storks for their old,43 and the inventiveness of swallows44; further examples can also be listed. Moreover, the themes of animals’ self-preservation,45 foresight,46 justice,47 and care for their family48 are prominent in both works. Second, both authors emphasize that, although animals are irrational, they can demonstrate certain exemplary moral behaviours because nature has granted 40   The edition I use here is Abraham Terian, Philonis Alexandrini De Animalibus: The Armenian Text. With an Introduction, Translation, and Commentary (Chico, CA, 1981). Hereafter: trans. Terian [1981]. 41   On the background of Philonic Armenian Corpus, see A. Terian, Philonis Alexandrini De Animalibus (1981), 3-14. I follow the view of Terian who points out that the terminus ad quem for the Armenian translation of Philo is determined by the appearance period of the historian Eliseaus who uses this Armenian translation (p. 6-7). Terian also corrects Aucher’s view of the early 5th century (p. 7 note 12). 42   See Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,4 (GCS NF 2, 133.10-134.11 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). Philo, De animalibus 20 (trans. Terian [1981], 75): ‘There is that which not only peasants but also great kings keep – the bee’. Philo, De Animalibus 65 (trans. Terian [1981], 96): ‘Doubtlessly a swarm of bees designates a king, under whose guidance it serves with fear and trembling’. 43   See Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,5 (GCS NF 2, 136.15-23 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg); Philo, De animalibus 61 (trans. Terian [1981], 94-5): ‘Among the birds the stork exhibits supreme justice by feeding its parents in return … The storks that feed their parents and give due consideration to the old, also punish’. 44   See Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,5 (GCS NF 2, 137.1-14 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg); Philo, De animalibus 22 (trans. Terian [1981], 76): ‘What about swallow? Is not this creature prudent in exercising foresight?’ 45   See, for instance, Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 9,3 (GCS NF 2, 150.10-9 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg) and 9,4 (GCS NF 2, 152.13-23 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg); Philo, De animalibus 33 (trans. Terian [1981], 82): ‘Some are so concerned about self-preservation that they turn away not only from the snares of other animals but also from the ingenious designs of man’. Philo, De animalibus 80 (trans. Terian [1981], 103): ‘The providing of food, the healing of diseases, the hidden power of self-preservation which each of them receives in order to inflict injury on those who attack, and all similar provisions are also designs of nature’. 46   For example: Philo, De animalibus 22 (trans. Terian [1981], 76): ‘What about swallow? Is not this creature prudent in exercising foresight?’ Philo, De animalibus 22 (trans. Terian [1981], 96): ‘Thus several demonstrated in their household management. There are obvious arguments for judgment and foresight’. 47   For example: Philo, De animalibus 60 (trans. Terian [1981], 94): ‘Besides the mentioned virtues, some of the swimming, terrestrial, and aerial animals exercise justice’. 48   For example: Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,5 (GCS NF 2, 136.15-137.9 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg); Philo, De animalibus 61 (trans. Terian [1981], 94-5) and 74 (trans. Terian [1981], 100).



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them these virtues. That is to say, rationality and irrationality and the role of nature are two prominent themes that can be found in both works. Basil mentions three times that the souls of animals are irrational (Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,1; 8,2; 9,3).49 This is precisely the same view that Philo maintains in De animalibus, where he refutes the arguments of his nephew (Alexander) that animals can care for themselves because they are endowed with reason.50 Indeed, the topic of the rationality or irrationality of the animals was quite popular in antiquity. We can also find this in Platonists,51 for example Plutarch or later authors,52 and in the Christian Origen.53 Nevertheless, Philo’s view demonstrates the closest parallel to Basil. It should be noted that Basil holds a three-tier hierarchy in classifying souls in terms of their degree of rationality. To him plants are the lowest level and have no soul at all, as he says: ‘Plants and trees, even if they are said to live because they share the power of nourishing themselves and of growing, yet are not living beings nor are they animated (ἀλλ’ οὐχὶ καὶ ζῷα, οὐδὲ ἔμψυχα)’.54 The second level is animals which have souls, but only irrational souls.55 It is only in the highest level, the human beings, the souls are rational.56 As such, Basil’s classification makes him distinct from 49   Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,1 (GCS NF 2, 127.23 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg): ἄλογα μὲν γὰρ καὶ τὰ χερσαῖα (‘Indeed, even land animals are irrational’, trans. Way [1963], 118). Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,2 (GCS NF 2, 128.17-8 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg): νῦν δὲ ἄκουε περὶ τῆς τῶν ἀλόγων ψυχῆς (‘now hear about the soul of the irrational animals’, trans. Way [1963], 119). Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 9,3 (GCS NF 2, 127.23 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg): Μία δὲ ψυχὴ τῶν ἀλόγων. Ἓν γὰρ αὐτὴν τὸ χαρακτηρίζον ἐστὶν, ἡ ἀλογία (‘But there is only one soul of brute beasts, for, there is one thing that characterizes it, namely, lack of reason’, trans. Way [1963], 138). 50   The view of Alexander is reported by Lysimachus in De animalibus 10-72 (trans. Terian [1981], 70-99), in which Alexander argues that the moral and social behaviors of animals demonstrate the very fact that animals are rational. This point is manifest in his concluding statement in De animalibus 71 (trans. Terian [1981], 99): ‘It is obvious that not only men but also various other animals have inherited the faculty of reason. Furthermore, it is believed that they possess both virtues and vices’. 51   On this topic see the good survey in Richard Sorabji, Animal Minds and Human Morals: The Origin of the Western Debate (Ithaca, NY, 1993), 198-201. 52   For example: Plutarch, De sollertia animalium (On the Intelligence of Animals). 53   See, for example, Origen, De principiis 1.4.1; 1.8.4; Contra Celsum 8.30. See also R. Sorabji, Animal Minds (1993), 198-202. 54  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 7,1 (GCS NF 2, 112.9-11 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg): Φυτὰ γὰρ καὶ δένδρα κἂν ζῆν λέγηται διὰ τὸ μετέχειν τῆς θρεπτικῆς καὶ αὐξητικῆς δυνάμεως, ἀλλ’ οὐχὶ καὶ ζῷα, οὐδὲ ἔμψυχα. English translation: Way [1963], 106, with alterations. 55   As said above, Basil has mentioned three times that animal souls are irrational (ἄλογα). For details see note 49. 56   Basil does not explicitly say that human beings are rational in homilies 8 and 9. There are, however, a lot of instances that imply Basil holding this view. For instance: 1) Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 7,5 (GCS NF 2, 121.6-7 Amand De Mendieta/ Rudberg), where Basil says we human beings are honored with reason (λόγῳ τετιμημένοι). 2) Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,1-2, where he says the animal soul is irrational (ἄλογα μὲν γὰρ καὶ τὰ χερσαῖα, GCS NF 2, 127.23 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg) and that the human soul is different from the animal soul (διαφορὰν ψυχὴς κτήνους καὶ ψυχῆς ἀνθρώπου, GCS NF 2, 128.16 Amand De Mendieta /

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Platonism since the latter holds that plants also have souls – here, referring back to our first section, we see again Basil’s anti-Plotinian trend since Plotinus is the most expressive advocator on this view after Plato.57 Basil is also different from that of Plutarch, who thinks that aquatic animals are more intelligent than, or at least of equal intelligence to, terrestrial animals.58 Both Basil and Philo, however, think the exact opposite, namely, that terrestrial animals are more intelligent (e.g., Basil’s Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,2 and Philo’s De opificio mundi 65).59 Third, Basil’s conception of φύσις (nature) is highly influenced by Philo.60 Similar to Philo, Basil attributes the ‘intelligence’ or ‘civilization’ of the animals to nature. In one place, Basil says ‘Indeed, even land animals are irrational; nevertheless, each one through the voice of nature (τῇ ἐκ τῆς φύσεως φωνῇ) indicates many of the dispositions of its spirit’.61 In his description of the king of bees, he says: ‘the king of bees holds the first place among all by nature (ἐκ φύσεως), differing in size and appearance and in the gentleness of his disposition,’62 and he further describes this as an ‘unwritten law of nature Rudberg). 3) Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 9,3, where he emphasizes that human beings are different from irrational beasts (ἤ ἐπιπλέον κατακριθησόμεθα, ὅταν εὑρεθῶμεν καὶ τῆς μιμήσεως τῶν ἀλόγων ἀπολειπόμενοι, GCS NF 2, 150.12-4 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). 57   See H. Dörrie and M. Baltes, Die philosophische Lehre des Platonismus (2002), 364. 58   See Plutarch, De sollertia animalium in Moralia XII (Cambridge, MA, 1957) in which the author gives a lot of examples of sea-animals to demonstrate their intelligence in preservation. He also argues that, for instance, sea-bass is braver than elephant. 59  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,1 (GCS NF 2, 127.9-11 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg): Λογιζόμεθα τοίνυν, ὅτι τῶν μὲν νηκτῶν ἡ φύσις ἀτελεστέρας πως δοκεῖ ζωῆς μετέχειν, διὰ τὸ ἐν τῇ παχύτητι τοῦ ὕδατος διαιτᾶσθαι. ‘Well, we conclude that swimming animals seem to share in a life that is rather imperfect, because they live in the dense element of water (trans. Way [1963], p. 118)’. Philo, De opificio mundi 65 (Philonis Opera I, 17,6-11 Cohn / Wendland): ψυχῆς γὰρ ἡ μὲν ἀργοτάτη καὶ ἥκιστα τετυπωμένη τῷ γένει τῶν ἰχθύων προσκεκλήρωται, ἡ δ’ ἀκριβεστάτη καὶ κατὰ πάντα ἀρίστη τῷ τῶν ἀνθρώπων, ἡ δ’ ἀμφοῖν μεθόριος τῷ τῶν χερσαίων καὶ ἀεροπόρων· αὕτη γὰρ αἰσθητικωτέρα μέν ἐστι τῆς ἐν ἰχθύσιν, ἀμυδροτέρα δὲ τῆς ἐν ἀνθρώποις. ‘For of the forms of animal life, the least elaborately wrought has been allotted to the race of fish; that worked out in greatest detail and best in all respects to mankind; that which lies between these two creatures that tread the earth and travel in the air. For the principle of life in these is endowed with perceptions keener than that in fishes, but less keen than that in man’. (trans. Colson and Whitaker [1929], 51). 60   Basil’s use of φύσις in Homiliae in hexaemeron 7-9 in GCS NF 2, 111.11; 112.13; 114.1,5,16; 116.2; 117.4; 119.6,11,23; 120.11; 122.6,15,20; 123.7; 127.1,10,23; 133.4; 134.3,6; 137.8; 139.13,15; 140.21; 141.14; 142.3; 146.14; 148.4,10; 149.18,21; 150.2,7,15; 152.6,12,13,14,19,20,25,26; 153.2,17,24; 156.19; 157.24; 159.12; 161.5. For Philo’s views of φύσις see Charles A. Anderson, Philo of Alexandria’s Views of the Physical World (Tübingen, 2011), 103-54. 61  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,1 (GCS NF 2, 127.23-4 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg): Ἄλογα μὲν γάρ, καὶ τὰ χερσαῖα· ἀλλ’ ὅμως ἕκαστον τῇ ἐκ τῆς φύσεως φωνῇ πολλὰ τῶν κατὰ ψυχὴν παθημάτων διασημαίνει. Trans. Way [1963], 118. 62  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,4 (GCS NF 2, 134.3-4 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg): ἀλλ᾽ ἐκ φύσεως ἔχων τὸ κατὰ πάντων πρωτεῖον, καὶ μεγέθει διαφέρων καὶ σχήματι καὶ τῇ τοῦ ἤθους πραότητι.



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(νόμοι τινές εἰσιν οὗτοι τῆς φύσεως ἄγραφοι)’.63 A bit earlier, Basil also attributes the apparent intelligent behaviour of fish to nature. He says that fish can migrate unitedly from one place to another because they are roused by ‘the common law of nature (τῷ κοινῷ τῆς φύσεως νόμῳ)’.64 He also says: ‘the fish do not have reason of their own, but they have the law of nature (τὸν τῆς φύσεως νόμον) strongly established and showing what must be done,’65 and that this ability is not learned from somewhere else.66 In Philo, we can find a strikingly similar description of nature. Philo says: ‘Birds fly, aquatics swim, and terrestrials walk. Is this done by learning? Certainly not. Each of the abovementioned creatures does it by nature (De animalibus 78)’67 Indeed, Philo reiterates this point several times, emphasizing that the apparent intelligent actions of creatures are done neither by learning (De animalibus 81)68 nor by thinking (De animalibus 80)69 nor by ‘innate reason’ (De animalibus 77),70 but ‘by the peculiar designs of nature which enables everyone to carry on its suitable work’. (De animalibus 80).71 Here we may go further and ask if there is also any linkage to Origen, who has also mentioned some animals and the role of nature in ordering the animals.72 But since the parallel in the examples and mention of nature in Origen is far less than that in Philo, and since Origen himself has also certainly been influenced by Philo, it would be more secure to identify the ultimate source as Philo. Conclusion Let me conclude by adding one more remark. The anti-Platonic and proPhilonic features of Basil’s conception of soul is biblically driven. Indeed, he uses many Platonic ideas in his exegesis but deviates in his understanding of animal souls because of Gen. 1:24 and 1:26. Likewise, Basil adopts Philo’s  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 8,4 (GCS NF 2, 134.5-6 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg).  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 7,4 (GCS NF 2, 119.23 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). 65  Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 7,4 (GCS NF 2, 120.10-2 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg): Οὐκ ἔχουσιν ἴδιον λόγον, ἔχουσι δὲ τὸν τῆς φύσεως νόμον ἰσχυρῶς ἐνιδρυμένον καὶ τὸ πρακτέον ὑποδεικνύντα. Trans. Way [1963], 112. 66   See Basil, Homiliae in hexaemeron 7,5 (GCS NF 2, 121.23-122.4 Amand De Mendieta / Rudberg). 67  Philo, De animalibus 78 (trans. Terian [1981], 101). 68  Philo, De animalibus 81 (trans. Terian [1981], 103). 69  Philo, De animalibus 80 (trans. Terian [1981], 102). 70  Philo, De animalibus 77 (trans. Terian [1981], 102). 71  Philo, De animalibus 80 (trans. Terian [1981], 102). 72   For instance, in Origen, Contra Celsum 83 (trans. Chadwick, p. 250): ‘we ought not to suppose that the reason for this is any rational process in ants. It is due to nature, the mother of all, which also orders the irrational animals, not even forsaking the smallest which bears any trace of the law of nature’. 63 64

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conception of nature probably because it fits well with Basil’s understanding of biblical account of creation. In his description of the creation of fish and animals, Basil emphasizes that it is the command of God that makes fish come out of the water and animals come out of the earth. This command of God is used interchangeably with nature in Basil’s account,73 which shows that Basil attempts to use the Philonic conception of nature to explain the Bible.

  A case which is similar to Philo. See C.A. Anderson, Philo of Alexander’s Views (2011), 148-

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La thesis en las homilías De invidia y Adversus eos qui irascuntur de Basilio de Cesarea María Alejandra Valdés García Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Ciudad de México

Abstract Many of Saint Basil’s Homiliae morales are elaborated as deliberative discourses. After the description of the vice as koinos topos in the homilies De invidia (PG 31, 372B-385C) and Adversus eos qui irascuntur (PG 31, 353A-372B), Basil presents the solution for these passions under the argumentation of a thesis. The focus of this work lies on topoi more than on stylistic aspects of the homilies.

El corpus de las Homiliae diversae1 de Basilio el Grande consta de veintidós obras, si se toman en cuenta solo las tenidas por auténticas.2 El género de la homilía es susceptible de incluir una gran cantidad de temas a tratar y existen varias propuestas de agrupación dependiendo de su temática. El conjunto de estas homilías, escritas entre los años 363 y 378,3 puede ser dividido en cinco grupos: 1) Homilías morales: Destr. [6], Div. [7], Fam. [8], Ira. [10], Inv. [11], Ebr. [14], Hum. [20], Mund. [21]. 2) Homilías a los mártires: Iul. [5], Gord. [18], Mart. [19], Mam. [23]. 1   Para las obras de Basilio seguimos las abreviaturas y la numeración indicadas en Paul Jonathan Fedwick, ‘The Works of Basil of Caesarea’, en id. (ed.), Basil of Caesarea: Christian, Humanist, Ascetic. A Sixteen-Hundredth Anniversary Symposium, vol. 1 (Toronto, 1981), XIXXXXI. Sobre cómo llegó a establecerse este corpus cual lo conocemos actualmente, cf. Mark DelCogliano, On Christian Doctrine and Practice. St. Basil the Great (New York, 2012), 21-5. 2   No incluyo Barl. [17], Lac. [26], Chr. [27] y Trin. [29], por ser consideradas en la CPG espurias o dudosas, sin embargo, hay trabajos que reivindican las dos últimas como auténticas: Luigi Gambero, ‘L’Omelia sulla generazione di Cristo di Basilio di Cesarea. Il posto della Vergine Maria’, Marian Library Studies, N.S. 13-4 (1981-2), 1-220 y Mark DelCogliano, ‘Basil of Caesarea’s Homily On Not Three Gods (CPG 2914). Problems and solutions’, Sacris erudiri 50 (2010), 87-132. Litt. [22], aunque auténtica, no es considerada homilía. Ya que por su contenido ha gozado siempre de un lugar especial, sólo especifico aquí que Elena Cavalcanti, ‘Dall’etica classica all’etica cristiana: il commento al Prologo del Libro dei Proverbi di Basilio di Cesarea’, Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 56 (1990), 370 considera este opúsculo de tipo protréptico. 3   Paul Jonathan Fedwick, ‘A Chronology of the Life and Works of Basil of Caesarea’, en id. (ed.), Basil of Caesarea: Christian, Humanist, Ascetic, vol. 1 (1981), 3-19.

Studia Patristica CXV, 295-304. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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3) Homilías exegéticas: Att. [3], Grat. [4], Prov. [12],4 Verb. [16]. 4) Homilías dogmáticas o teológicas:5 Mal. [9], Fide [15], Sab. [24]. 5) Homilías de circunstancia: Ieiun. 1 [1], Ieiun. 2 [2], Bapt. [13].6 Existen estudios que abordan de manera genérica los recursos retóricos utilizados por Basilio en su producción homilética: Hengsberg y Campbell,7 por ejemplo; otros estudios que abordan algún conjunto de homilías, como es el caso de las relativas a la riqueza: Holman y Rivas Rebaque;8 sobre los panegíricos a los mártires y las obras exegéticas baste citar las excelentes monografías de M. Girardi: Basilio di Cesarea e il culto dei martiri nel IV secolo. Scrittura e tradizione y Basilio di Cesarea interprete della Scritura. Lessico, principi ermeneutici, prassi.9 Pero la gran mayoría de los estudios se centra en un solo opúsculo: Limberis para Inv., Troiano para Mam., Quacquarelli para Att., Lilla para Fide, Gribomont y Ferguson para Bapt.,10 y un larguísimo etcétera, que busca despejar los distintos aspectos contenidos en cada una de las homilías del corpus ya mencionado. En cuanto al tipo de discurso, y según los escritos hasta ahora publicados sobre las Homilías diversas, no plantean duda, evidentemente, los panegíricos 4   E. Cavalcanti, ‘Dall’etica classica all’etica cristiana’ (1990), considera Prov. [12] de tipo moral; Mario Girardi, ‘L’esegesi dei Proverbi’, en id., Basilio di Cesarea, interprete della Scrittura. Lessico, principi ermeneutici, prassi, Quaderni di ‘Vetera Christianorum’ 26 (Bari, 1998), 41-68, de tipo exegético. 5   Aunque, estrictamente, Sab. [24] es dogmática, usaré el término ‘teológicas’ para agrupar estas tres homilías. 6   División sugerida por Jean Bernardi, La prédication des Pères cappadociens: le prédicateur et son auditoire (Paris, 1968), 68-73. 7   Wilhelm Hengsberg, De ornatu rhetorico quem Basilius Magnus in diversis homiliarum generibus adhibuit (Bonn, 1957); James Marshall Campbell, The Influence of the Second Sophistic on the Style of the Sermons of St. Basil (Washington, 1922). 8   Susan R. Holman, The Body of the Poor in Fourth Century Cappadocia: Seven Sermons on Hunger, Sickness and Penury (Providence, 1998); Fernando Rivas Rebaque, Defensor pauperum. Los pobres en Basilio de Cesarea, Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos 657 (Madrid, 2005). 9   Mario Girardi, Basilio di Cesarea e il culto dei martiri nel IV secolo. Scrittura e tradizione, Quaderni di ‘Vetera Christianorum’ 21 (Bari, 1990) e id., Basilio di Cesarea, interprete della Scrittura (Bari, 1998). 10   Vasiliki Limberis, ‘The Eyes Infected by Evil. Basil of Caesarea’s Homily on Envy’, HTR 84 (1991), 163-84; Marina Silvia Troiano, ‘L’Omelia XXIII in Mamantem Martyrem di Basilio di Cesarea’, Vertera Christianorum 24 (1987), 147-57; Antonio Quacquarelli, ‘Sull’omelia di Basilio Attende tibi ipsi’, en Basilio di Cesarea. La sua età, la sua opera e il basilianesimo in Sicilia. Atti del congresso internazionale (Messina, 1983), 489-502; Salvatore Lilla, ‘Le fonti di una sezione dell’omelia De fide di S. Basilio Magno’, Augustinianum 30 (1990), 5-19; Jean Gribomont, ‘S. Basile. Le Protreptique au baptême’, en Gerard J. Békés y Giustino Farnedi (eds), Lex orandi, lex credendi. Miscellanea in onore di P. Cipriano Vagaggini (Roma, 1980), 71-92 [= S. Basile. Évangile et église. Mélanges, vol. II (Maine, 1984), 391-412] y Everett Ferguson, ‘Basil’s Protreptic to Baptism’, en John Petruccione (ed.), Nova et vetera. Patristic Studies in Honor of Thomas Patrick Halton (Washington, 1998), 70-83.



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a los mártires y Bapt. [13] que son del género epidíctico;11 las homilías contra la riqueza: Destr. [6] y Div. [7] son consideradas por F. Rivas Rebaque de tipo judicial,12 con lo cual, el resto de este corpus sería de factura deliberativa.13 El estudio completo de las Homiliae morales abarcaría varios escritos debido a los distintos recursos de que Basilio hace uso. En éste menciono sólo el recurso retórico de la thesis que he hallado en las homilías de carácter moral, cuyo objetivo generalizado podríamos afirmar que es eliminar las pasiones y practicar la virtud.14 Los pasajes hallados bajo este esquema son: Fam. [8] PG 31, 304D-328C; Ira. [10] PG 31, 365A-372B; Inv. [11] PG 31, 381B-385C; Hum. [20] PG 31, 525A-540B; Mund. [21] PG 31, 540C-556B. De acuerdo a la teoría retórica, que por su sencillez y claridad se ha tomado de los manuales de Progymnasmata,15 ‘una tesis es un examen lógico de un hecho sometido a observación, desprovisto de toda circunstancia particular’,16 según la definición de Ps. Hermógenes, y puede tener la siguiente estructura: Teón 121-128

Ps. Hermóg., Prog. 24-26

Proemio: Sentencia o proverbio Hecho Chreia Encomio o vituperio del hecho

Aftonio 41-46

Quint., Inst. 5, 10, 94-9917

Insinuación (ἔφοδος)

11   La estructura de Bapt. [13] ya nos ha sido proporcionada en dos estudios por parte de J. Gribomont, ‘S. Basile. Le Protreptique au baptême’ (1980) y E. Ferguson, ‘Basil’s Protreptic to Baptism’ (1998), respecto a esta composición, como su título indica, se trata de un protréptico elaborado con la siguiente disposición retórica: Exordium (424A-425A), narratio (425A-428A), argumentatio I. Exempla et hypotheseis (428A-433B), argumentatio II. Refutatio (433B-440A), argumentatio III. Conclusio et confirmatio (440A-444B), peroratio (444B-C). 12   Defensor pauperum, 30. 13   Las homilías exegéticas Att. [3], Grat. [4], Verb. [16] siguen, a mi parecer, los esquemas de una γνώμη con elaboración. Manuel Alexandre Júnior, ‘The Chreia in Greco-Roman Education’, Ktèma 14 (1989), 167 proporciona un cuadro muy claro para apreciar la relación entre la thesis y la ergasía de la sentencia. 14   W. Hengsberg, De ornatu rhetorico (1957), 246, las denomina homiliae ad emendationem morum spectantibus. 15   Sobre el progymnasma de la thesis: Theo 120-128; Ps. Hermog., Prog. 24-26; Aphth. 41-46; Quint., Inst. 2, 4, 24 ss.; 3, 8 y 5, 10. Ediciones utilizadas: Michel Patillon y Giancarlo Bolognesi (eds), Aelius Theo. Progymnasmata (Paris, 1997); Hugo Rabe (ed.), ‘Aphthonius. Progymnasmata’, en id., Rhetores Graeci, vol. 10 (Lipsiae, 1926); Jean Cousin (ed.), Quintilien. Institution oratoire, 7 vol. (Paris, 1975-1980). 16   Ps. Hermog., Prog. 24: Τῆς θέσεως ὅρον ἀποδεδώκασι τὸ τὴν θέσιν εἶναι ἐπισκέψίν τινος πράγματος θεωρουμένου ἀμοιροῦσαν πάσης ἰδικῆς περιστάσεως. 17   Incluyo a Quintiliano en este cuadro por la gama de argumentos que menciona.

298 ἀνωτάτω κεφάλαια: necesidad belleza conveniencia placer

M.A. Valdés García

τελικὰ κεφάλαια: justicia conveniencia posibilidad adecuación

τελικὰ κεφάλαια: legalidad justicia conveniencia posibilidad loci: personas causas lugares tiempo (anterior,    simultáneo,    posterior) posibilidad (instrumento    o medio) modo definición género especie diferencias propiedades exclusión disposición principio, desarrollo,    culminación semejanza, desemejanza contrario consecuencia actos efectos resultados comparación (mayor,    menor, igual) suposición (cualidad,    amplificación,    personificación) objeción

τόποι: posibilidad de conformidad con la    naturaleza de acuerdo a la    costumbre facilidad no son los únicos no son los primeros adecuación piedad necesidad mérito utilidad / inutilidad conveniencia origen de bienes causa de placer omisión difícil de    reparar vergüenza no es grato lo contrario semejanza relación de la parte con     el todo o del     todo con la parte finalidad contenido circunstancias    temporales consecuencias testimonios exempla Exhortación

Ejemplifico la estructura y argumentación utilizadas por Basilio en dos tesis incluidas en sendas homilías (Inv. [11] PG 31, 381B-385C e Ira. [10] PG 31, 365A-372B), dejando de lado la mención de los recursos estilísticos de los que ya se ocupan otros estudios.



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1. Si es posible no padecer el mal de la envidia o alejarse de él una vez contraído18 (Inv. [11] PG 31, 381B-385C) Πῶς ἂν μὴ πάθοιμεν ἐξ ἀρχῆς τὴν νόσον, ἢ ὑπαχθέντες ἐκφύγοιμεν; La extensión de esta thesis permite reproducir el texto completo de Basilio para luego proceder con el análisis: ¿Cómo podremos no padecer la enfermedad desde un principio, o cómo podremos escapar de ella una vez contraída? Primero, si no tenemos por grande ni por extra­ ordinaria ninguna cosa humana: ni la abundancia de recursos, ni la gloria pasajera, ni el vigor del cuerpo, puesto que no limitamos nuestro bien a las cosas pasajeras, sino que estamos llamados a participar de los bienes eternos y verdaderos. De modo que, de ninguna manera ha de ser envidiable el rico por su riqueza, ni el gobernante por el esplendor de su dignidad, ni el fuerte por el vigor de su cuerpo, ni el sabio por su facilidad de palabra. Todos estos son instrumentos de virtud para los que usan bien de ellos, aunque no contienen en sí mismos la felicidad. El que los usa mal es digno de compasión, como el que se mata voluntariamente con la espada que tomó para vengarse de sus enemigos. Pero si administra bien y según la recta razón sus posesiones y es administrador de las que ha recibido de Dios y no las atesora para goce propio, es justo que sea alabado y amado por su modo de ser caritativo y humanitario. Si alguien, a su vez, sobresale por su inteligencia y ha sido honrado con el don de la palabra de Dios y es exégeta de las Sagradas Escrituras, no le envidies por ello ni desees que alguna vez calle el intérprete de las Escrituras si lo acompaña el favor y la alabanza de sus oyentes por la gracia del Espíritu Santo; pues el bien es para ti y el don de esta enseñanza te ha sido enviado por medio de tu hermano, si quieres recibirlo. Además, nadie obstruye la fuente que brota en abundancia y, si brilla el sol, nadie cubre sus ojos, ni tiene envidia, sino que también desea para sí ese placer. Cuando la palabra del Espíritu brota en la Iglesia y empapa los corazones piadosos con sus dones, ¿no escuchas con gozo? ¿No recibes con agradecimiento ese favor? Sin embargo, te hiere el aplauso de los oyentes y quisieras que no hubiera quien lo aprovechara ni lo alabara. ¿Qué excusa tendrán estas cosas ante el Juez de nuestros corazones? Es necesario, por tanto, que se considere el bien del alma hermoso por naturaleza. A quien abunda en riqueza, se enorgullece de su poder y de la salud de su cuerpo, y usa debidamente de los bienes que tiene, hay que estimarlo y respetarlo como poseedor de recursos comunes para la vida, siempre que maneje esas cosas según el recto juicio, siendo generoso con los necesitados en la repartición de bienes, procurando socorro corporal a los enfermos y sin pensar que todo lo demás que le sobra es más suyo que de cualquiera que lo necesite. Y a quien no toma esa actitud en esas circunstancias, hay que considerarlo desgraciado más que envidiable, si es que tiene mayores ocasiones para ser malo, pues eso es perderse con mayor propósito y diligencia.

  Con toda intención formulo las afirmaciones de Basilio como tesis, proporcionando la proposición en su lengua original: ¿Cómo podríamos no padecer esta enfermedad desde el principio o alejarnos de ella una vez contraída? 18

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Si la riqueza es pasaporte para la injusticia, compasión merece el rico, y si es ayuda para la virtud, no tiene cabida la envidia, puesto que la utilidad que de ella deriva es común para todos; a menos que, por exceso de malicia, alguno envidie también sus propios bienes. En resumen, si elevas tu pensamiento sobre las cosas humanas y miras hacia lo verdaderamente noble y loable, estarás lejos de considerar envidiables y deseables las cosas perecederas y terrenas. Al que es así y no se impresiona por los honores mundanos, difícilmente le sobrevendrá la envidia; pero si anhelas la gloria de cualquier manera y pretendes sobresalir entre todos y por ello no soportas estar en segundo plano (pues también esto es ocasión de envidia), cambia tu ambición, como un torrente, hacia la adquisición de la virtud.19

Ps. Hermógenes recomienda en su capítulo de la thesis que se exponga primero el hecho en sí mismo y, posteriormente, el examen de los aspectos propios de éste.20 En la Homilía sobre la envidia, Basilio toma el motivo diatríbico de la asimilación de los vicios a las enfermedades21 para hacer el análisis de este ‘mal’, el cual es expuesto mediante una amplificación (Inv. 372B-381B),22 a la que sigue el ‘examen’ (τὸ ζήτημα) sobre la posibilidad de evitar el mal de la envidia. Se trata de una tesis de tipo práctico, según la clasificación de Teón,23 cuyo objetivo, como anuncia el orador en la propositio, es demostrar que es posible no padecer la ‘enfermedad’ de la envidia desde un principio o ponerle remedio una vez que ha sido contraída (Inv. 381B-C). Vemos que, como Teón aconseja, Basilio comienza la argumentación con los argumentos comunes y generales a todos los hombres,24 pues el no desear cosas pasajeras es siempre origen de bienes,25 lo que conducirá a los bienes eternos y verdaderos, meta anhelada por todo cristiano, lo que constituye el argumento de finalidad.26 A continuación, argumenta a partir del mérito27 (Inv. 381C384A), pues, según se haga uso de los instrumentos de virtud proporcionados por Dios, es decir, riqueza, dignidades, bienes corporales o sabiduría, el poseedor será digno de compasión o de alabanza. Enseguida, se basa en el argumento de relación de la parte con el todo28 (Inv. 384A-B), pues, si alguien ha tenido la fortuna de recibir del Espíritu la facultad de interpretar las Escrituras, el bien es común, ya que por medio de la enseñanza del hermano también los demás 19   María Alejandra Valdés García, Basilio de Cesarea. Panegíricos a los mártires. Homilías contra las pasiones, Biblioteca de Patrística 73 (Madrid, 2007), 140-3. 20   Ps. Hermog., Prog. 25. 21   André Oltramare, Les origines de la diatribe romaine (Genève, 1926), 145. 22   Cf. María Alejandra Valdés García, La paideia en Basilio de Cesarea, Colección Vítor 168 (Salamanca, 2005), 156-8, 168. 23   Theo 121 y 128. Teón clasifica las tesis en teóricas y prácticas. 24   Theo 125. 25   Theo 122. 26   Ibid. 27   Theo 122 y 124. 28   Theo 122.



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participan y gozan con ese don, por lo que más que envidiar al poseedor, hay que agradecer que goce de ese favor. En una sola pregunta queda explícito el argumento de consecuencia, pues, si se siente envidia por un bien como ese, ‘¿qué excusa se dará ante el Juez?’ (Inv. 384B). Continúa con otros argumentos que cree necesarios (Inv. 384B-C), como es el considerar el bien del alma hermoso por naturaleza, lo que sirve de apoyo para insistir en que las posesiones son ‘origen de bienes’; con ellas el poseedor gozará de mérito o, por el contrario, si la riqueza es motivo de injusticias, el rico entonces será considerado miserable. Sobre este punto es necesario recordar que para Basilio el rico es considerado únicamente administrador de la riqueza que posee.29 Esta tesis sobre la posibilidad de evitar el mal de la envidia concluye, como aconseja Ps. Hermógenes,30 con exhortaciones: ‘Mejor sé justo, sobrio, prudente, valeroso y paciente ... obedezcamos al Apóstol: no seamos ambiciosos, provocándonos, envidiándonos unos a otros,31 sino mejor benignos, entrañables, perdonándoos mutuamente como también Dios nos perdonó en Cristo’.32 2.  Si es posible extirpar el mal de la ira (Ira. [10] PG 31, 365A-372B) Μὴ δὴ κακῷ τὸ κακὸν ἰᾶσθε Esta homilía, igual que la anterior, está dividida en dos partes: la primera es una amplificación (Ira. 353A-365A),33 donde se analiza esta pasión siguiendo nuevamente la prescripción de Ps. Hermógenes para la thesis de analizar primero el hecho y después hacer el examen de sus aspectos;34 y la segunda es la thesis propiamente dicha (Ira. 365A-372B),35 que es comenzada una vez que el autor establece el principio de argumentación general basado en la posibilidad, al que siguen otros lugares de argumentación que ha considerado oportuno incluir. La propositio es hecha a la manera aconsejada por el rétor Teón en forma de sentencia36 disuasoria: ‘No curéis un mal con otro mal’, con su respectiva elaboración o ergasía37 (Ira. PG 31, 357B-360A).   Cf. Destr. 19, 9-10; 23, 7; 35, 12; 35, 17 y Div. 49, 20.   Ps. Hermog., Prog. 26. 31   Gal. 5:26. 32   Ef. 4:32. Inv. 385C. 33   Cf. M.A. Valdés García, La paidea en Basilio (2005), 158-9, 168. 34   Ps. Hermog., Prog. 25. 35   No reproduzco el texto de la tesis completo por ser de extensión considerable. La traducción castellana puede consultarse en M.A. Valdés García, Basilio de Cesarea. Panegíricos a los már­tires (2007), 147-57. 36   Theo 120-1. 37   Sobre la ἐργασία: Ps. Hermog., Prog. 8-10; Aphth. 7-10. 29 30

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El principio de argumentación final (τελικὰ κεφάλαια), que será el eje del resto de los argumentos, es nuevamente el de posibilidad. La idea de erradicar este mal la encontramos también en el tratado de Séneca sobre el mismo tema, así como en Epicteto:38 ‘Reprimamos el mal desde su comienzo, expulsando por todos los medios la ira de nuestras almas. Pues así podremos exterminar, junto con este padecimiento, la mayoría de los males como desde su raíz y principio’.39 Basilio sugiere arrojar el mal ‘por cualquier medio’: recordemos que para Quintiliano el argumento de posibilidad comprende tanto el instrumento como el modo.40 Los lugares de argumentación son muy variados. Comienza haciendo una synkrisis por contraste (Ira. 360A-D) entre las actitudes del iracundo y las del pacífico, que resume con un epifonema:41 ‘Él se arrepentirá de lo que dijo, tú nunca te arrepentirás de tu virtud’. De donde también se intuye el argumento mencionado por Teón como ‘origen de bienes’.42 A continuación recurre a un argumento necesario: el de la justicia (Ira. 360D-361C). Para este lugar de argumentación el autor se apoya en varias citas bíblicas y apela a la conciencia del oyente, preguntando si la ira merece perdón o si aquel que es provocado es menos digno de condena, por lo que aconseja no imitar a los iracundos, pues considera que es justo condenar al que no da ejemplo de autocontrol, ya que imita lo que reprueba siendo consciente de que la ira es un mal. Para el argumento de ‘conformidad con la naturaleza’ (Ira. 361C-364B), también mencionado por Teón,43 Basilio se apoya en Job 1:21: Desnudo llegaste al mundo y desnudo te marcharás, invitando a no enfadarse por los insultos: ‘Y ¿por qué te turba la denominación de pobre? Recuerda tu propia naturaleza… ¿quién hay más necesitado que un hombre desnudo?’ Por eso exhorta a reconocer la verdad; apela al ejemplo de Cristo, que se hizo pobre por nosotros, y habla de cómo, aun siendo él la verdadera sabiduría, fue insultado, abofeteado, escupido, calumniado, afirmando que nos falta mucho para poder imitarlo. En resumen, nos invita a tomar conciencia llana de nuestra naturaleza. Desarrolla después el topos de conveniencia (Ira. 364B-365A) a través de las palabras del salmo de David: estoy preparado y no estoy perturbado,44 con las que expone su conducta ejemplar y la ventaja de ‘calmar ese frenético y terrible movimiento del alma’.   Cf. Sen., Ira 2, 12, 6; 3, 42, 1; Epict., Diss. 1, 11, 35.   Ira. 360A. 40  Quint., Inst. 5, 10, 51-2. 41   Un epifonema, según Theo 91, es ‘epilogar con una sentencia’. Quint., Inst. 8, 15, 11 lo llama summa acclamatio; Demetr., Eloc. 106 lo denomina λέξις ἐπικοσμοῦσα. 42   Theo 122. 43   Theo 121. 44   Sal. 118:60. Esta cita cuenta con elaboración o ergasía. 38 39



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El principio de argumentación general sobre la posibilidad, anunciado al comienzo de la tesis, será desarrollado en este sitio con mayor precisión (Ira. 365A-D). Dentro de este argumento incluye muchos factores, cada uno apoyado por una comparación para dejar clara la exposición, gracias a los cuales es posible evitar el daño que conlleva enfadarse. El primer método es no anticipar la cólera a la razón, tenerla sujeta como el caballo a un freno, pues la cólera unida a la razón es muy útil, ya que infunde energía para hacer buenas obras; y el segundo es tener el mismo celo en cuanto al amor a la virtud que en cuanto al odio al pecado para reaccionar debidamente contra el maligno. Esa es la mejor colaboración de la cólera a la parte racional del alma, así no se tendrá trato con lo que pueda dañar. Este pensamiento da paso al siguiente argumento sobre la utilidad de esta pasión (Ira. 365C-369A) basándose en otra cita de Salmos: Irritaos mas no pequéis,45 en cuya elaboración se incluyen varios exempla de personajes bíblicos: Moisés, Finés y Elías, cuyas obras demuestran que se puede sacar provecho de la ira si es usada correctamente. A continuación se sirve del argumento por definición (Ira. 369A-B), que no es mencionado por Teón, pero que hallamos en Quintiliano,46 en el que expone la diferencia que hay entre cólera (θυμός) e ira (ὀργή),47 e indica que debemos guardarnos de ellas, pues ambas son un error. Concluye trayendo de nueva cuenta el argumento final bajo el cual dispuso su demostración, el de posibilidad (Ira. 369B-372A): ‘¿De qué modo no ha de alcanzar la pasión lo que no debe?’ Esto se logra, en resumen, con el instrumento de la humildad, cuyo mejor ejemplo son las actitudes y las palabras de Cristo: El que quiera ser el primero entre vosotros, sea el último de todos.48 Ps. Hermógenes es el único rétor que incluye en su desarrollo de thesis, para finalizar, una exhortación sobre el asunto debatido.49 Éstos se corresponden con el epílogo de la homilía (Ira. 372A-B), en el que Basilio hace una recapitulación de los males que conlleva el dejarse dominar por la ira, antes de recordar que los mansos heredarán la tierra.50 Las tesis que han servido de ejemplo corresponden al modelo prescrito por Ps. Hermógenes.51 En pro de la claridad proporciono el esquema de ambas:   Sal. 4:5. También elaborado como sentencia.  Quint., Inst. 5, 10, 54-64. Cf. Ruf. Rh. 404, 29: οὐσία δὲ καὶ τὰ θετικά. 47   Para los términos referidos a la ira cf. Renato Laurenti y Giovanni Indelli, Plutarco. Sul controllo dell’ira (Napoli, 1988), 7-13. 48   Mc. 9:35. Cita con ergasía. 49   Ps. Hermog., Prog. 26. 50   Cf. Mt. 5:4. 51   Una tesis de distinta factura en Basilio la encontramos en Iul. [5]. Cf. María Alejandra Valdés García, ‘La estructura progimnasmática de una tesis basiliana (PG 31, 245 A-261 A)’, en José Antonio Fernández Delgado, Francisca Pordomingo Pardo y Antonio Stramaglia (eds), Escuela y Literatura en Grecia Antigua. Actas del Simposio Internacional Universidad de Salamanca 17-19 de noviembre de 2004 (Cassino, 2007), 701-9. 45 46

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Tesis 1:  Si es posible no padecer el mal de la envidia o alejarse de él una vez contraído (Inv. PG 31, 381B-385C). Análisis del hecho:

Inv. 372B-381B

Proposición y principio Πῶς ἂν μὴ πάθοιμεν ἐξ ἀρχῆς τὴν νόσον, ἢ ὑπαχθέντες de argumentación final: ἐκφύγοιμεν; (Inv. 381B) Argumentación:

(Inv. 381B-384C) Origen de bienes Finalidad Mérito Relación de la parte con el todo Consecuencias Necesidad (origen de bienes y finalidad)

Exhortación:

Epílogo (Inv. 384C-385C)

Tesis 2:  Si es posible extirpar el mal de la ira (Ira. PG 31, 353A-372B). Análisis del hecho:

Ira. 353A-365A

Proposición –como sentencia disuasoria–:

Μὴ δὴ κακῷ τὸ κακὸν ἰᾶσθε

Principio de argumentación final:

Posibilidad

Argumentación:

(Ira. 365A-372A) Synkrisis Justicia Conformidad con la naturaleza Conveniencia Posibilidad Utilidad Por definición Posibilidad y exemplum

Exhortación:

Epílogo (Ira. 372A-B)

Conclusión Apreciamos en nuestro autor el nivel de creación que reviste la teoría retórica a secas. En esta comunicación se ha presentado sólo la parte argumentativa de las theseis, elaboradas, como hemos comprobado, bajo el mismo esquema, quizá por tratar ambas un tema de tipo moral. También valdría la pena ver el análisis de las partes correspondientes a la propositio en que el hecho – según los ejemplos analizados en De invidia y Adversus eos qui irascuntur –, es presentado como amplificatio, pues se trata de la parte básica sobre la que se cimienta el resto de los argumentos coadyuvando con ello al éxito de la demostración.

Basil and Amelius Arnaud Perrot, Université François-Rabelais, Centre d’études supérieures de la Renaissance, Tours, France

Abstract Basil’s Homily on the word: ‘In the beginning was the Word (John 1:1)’ alludes to the admiration of the pagans for the prologue of the Gospel of John and to how pagans are supposed to have made use of this text in their own writings. Behind these words, one can easily recognize an allusion to the Neoplatonist Amelius, Plotinus’ senior disciple. Basil’s Neoplatonism has been the subject of much debate, especially as far as his direct knowledge of Plotinus is concerned. In this article, I will show that Basil has certainly not read Amelius, but, exactly like the other Christian writers who referred to Amelius’ testimony, is dependent here on Eusebius’ Evangelical Preparation and the way the Palestinian bishop had more or less coined Amelius’ testimony on the value of John’s Prologue.

Basil’s Homily On the word: ‘In the Beginning was the Word (John 1:1)’, of uncertain date,1 deals, in a few lines, with the alleged pagan admiration for 1   The critics, following Jean Bernardi, La prédication des Pères Cappadociens: le prédicateur et son auditoire, Publications de la Faculté des Lettres et Sciences humaines de Montpellier 30 (Paris, 1968), 86-7, usually date the homily from the early years of Basil’s episcopacy. The reason can be summed up as follows: preaching the doctrine, Basil does not give a special place to the Spirit, which would constitute a clue for a dating before the Pneumatomachian crisis or before the liturgical incident of St Eupsychios, thus before September 372. However, this argument cannot be regarded as indisputable, inasmuch as the commented lemma does not require an elaborate discourse on the third Person of the Trinity. Therefore, Basil could have preached this homily at almost any time, even at a time when his pneumatological doctrine was no less developed than in other texts, such as the homily On Faith, often interpreted as a ‘final synthesis’ of Basil’s Trinitarian doctrine. A study of the exegesis does not prove to be of great help for the dating. Indeed, if it is true that Basil uses John 1:1 in Contra Eunomium, published ca. 364/365, the presence of an antisabellian theme in our homily does not necessarily mean that our homily shows an enrichment of the polemical potentialities of John’s exegesis. Such an ‘evolutionist’ point of view is supported by Volker H. Drecoll, Die Entwicklung der Trinitätslehre des Basilius von Cäsarea: Sein Weg vom Homöusianer zum Neonizäner, Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte 66 (Göttingen, 1996), 165. But, here again, one can object that antimodalist arguments were strictly useless against Eunomius and, therefore, it is possible to imagine that the Contra Eunomium, in order to fit with its only target, has reduced the range of attacks allowed by this verse. On the other hand, the antiarian use of John 1:1 cannot be used as a proof that the homily was performed towards the time of composition of Basil’s Contra Eunomium – for such a position, see Jean Gribomont, ‘In Tomum 31 Introductio’, Patrologia Graeca cursus completus XXXI (repr. Turnhout,

Studia Patristica CXV, 305-311. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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the Prologue of the Gospel of John and how pagans are supposed to have made use of this text in their own writings. These words, I know that many who are outside the doctrine of truth and pride themselves on the wisdom of the world have admired (θαυμάσαντας) them and have dared to mix (ἐγκαταμίξαι) them with their own compositions. For the devil is a thief (κλέπτης) and divulges our mysteries to his interpreters. (PG 31, 472C)

Basil makes this statement at the beginning of the homily. The Cappadocian thus seeks to arouse the attention of the audience for difficult and controversial matters, the Theology of the Son (τὰ περὶ τῆς θεολογίας τοῦ Υἱοῦ τοῦ Θεοῦ, 473A), by creating a competition between Christians and pagans, an attitude familiar to him in a homiletical context.2 Neither Celsus nor Porphyry can, of course, be identified as these admirers of John’s words since, as far as we know, their approach consisted in contesting, in one way or another, the status of Logos attributed to Jesus.3 Behind these words, one can however recognize an allusion to the famous case of the Neoplatonist Amelius, Plotinus’ senior disciple. It is well known that Basil’s Neoplatonism has caused much debate, especially as far as Plotinus is concerned. Some critics, such as Paul Henry in the 1930s, have tried to demonstrate that, at every step of his career, Basil shows direct knowledge of Plotinus’ work.4 But it is far from clear that Basil has always directly used Plotinus’ writings, when a Plotinian influence can be suggested.5 What is clearer, however, is that Basil had certainly never read Amelius, but is here dependent, just like the other Christian authors who have used Amelius’ commentary on John, on Eusebius’ Evangelical Preparation and the way Eusebius has framed the so-called ‘testimony’ of the Platonist. 1965), 5 – since the antiarian controversy is a constant of the Corpus basilianum. To sum up, this both antiarian and antisabellian homily does not contain any guiding elements that would allow us to situate it precisely in a chronology of Basil’s works. For a commentary on this homily, see Arnaud Perrot, ‘Basile de Césarée’, in Matthieu Cassin (ed.), Histoire de la littérature grecque chrétienne, IV (Paris, 2019), 309-16. 2   Emmanuel Amand de Mendieta, ‘The Official Attitude of Basil of Caesarea as a Christian Bishop towards Greek Philosophy and Science’, in Derek Baker (ed.), The Orthodox Churches and the West, Studies in Church History 13 (Oxford, 1976), 25-49. 3   Note Celsus’ polemics against Christ as Logos: Jesus should have illuminated everything, like the sun; moreover, he is not a pure and holy Logos, but a man ignominiously led to punishment. See Robert Bader, Der Alethes Logos des Kelsos, Tübinger Beiträge zur Altertumswissenschaft 33 (Stuttgart, Berlin, 1940), fragment 2, 30 and fragment 2, 31. Porphyry in the treatise Against the Christians states, drawing upon stoic concepts, that if Jesus is Logos uttered, he cannot be substantial, and if he is Logos internal to God, he has not descended from the divinity. See Adolf von Harnack, Porphyrius, Gegen die Christen: 15 Bücher: Zeugnisse, Fragmente und Referate, Abhandlungen der Königlich Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse 1 (Berlin, 1916), fragment 86. 4   Paul Henry, Études plotiniennes, I. Les états du texte de Plotin (Paris, 1938), 159-96. 5   See John M. Rist, ‘Basil’s Neoplatonism: Its Background and Nature’, in Paul J. Fedwick (ed.), Basil of Caesarea, Christian, Humanist, Ascetic. A Sixteen-Hundredth Anniversary Symposium (Toronto, 1981), I 270-325.



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The fragment of Amelius cited by Eusebius is as follows: And it was this Word, the eternal being to whom all that exists owes its origin, as Heraclitus himself would have said (see fr. B1 Diels-Kranz), of which, yes by Zeus! (νὴ Δία), the Barbarian says that, placed in the rank and dignity of principle, he is turned to God and that he is God himself, that through him absolutely everything has entered into existence, […] and that he falls (πίπτειν) into the bodies and that, having clothed (ἐνδυσάμενον) himself in flesh, takes on the appearance of man (φαντάζεσθαι ἄνθρωπον),6 thus showing the greatness of his nature; and that, evidently, once destroyed, is again deified and God, as he was before descending into the body, the flesh, the man.7

Amelius’ text is neither a quotation from John 1:1-4, nor a commentary, but a paraphrase which consists in a re-reading of the contents of the first verses of John in Platonic terms. According to the interpretation of Hermann Dörrie8 and Luc Brisson,9 which is accepted by John Dillon,10 the ‘Barbarian’ is meant to describe the procession of the Soul (Logos), instrument of the Intellect (God), down to the level of the individual human souls who participate in it and who are associated, in the material realm, with bodies, and then return to their higher state, after the destruction of the bodies. The process of fall and rise, or procession and conversion, appears as a cycle, or a succession of ‘moments’, in which the unique, historical character of the event of the Incarnation has clearly disappeared. In this context, the reading of the Prologue does not specifically deal with Jesus alone. Even if one can note some unusual stylistic traits in the paraphrase – such as the interjection νὴ Δία – which is a vigorous, but ambiguous, manifestation of the Platonist, it is unclear whether Amelius’ reading was favorable or unfavorable to Christians (and what sort of Christians?), and we have no clue about the precise context in which Amelius had to quote it, directly or indirectly. At least, it can easily be accepted that it is absolutely not an orthodox reading of the Prologue of John, whether it is inspired by the reading of Christians Amelius was fighting against, as some critics have postulated,11 or distorted by the philosopher’s own system. 6   It is not my purpose, in the present article, to discuss Amelius’ so-called ‘Docetism’. This heresiological category has very little meaning in a Greek context, but it is worth notice that Eusebius does not fear to use, as a proof-text, a text that could be regarded as docetic by Christians. 7  Eusebius, Evangelical Preparation XI 19, 1. 8   Hermann Dörrie, ‘Une exégèse néoplatonicienne du Prologue de l’Évangile de S. Jean (Amélius chez Eusèbe, Prep. ev. 11, 19.1-4)’, in Jacques Fontaine and Charles Kannengiesser (eds), Epektasis. Mélanges patristiques offerts au cardinal Jean Daniélou (Paris, 1972), 75-8. 9   Luc Brisson, ‘Amélius. Sa vie, son œuvre, sa doctrine, son style’, in Hildegard Temporini and Wolfgang Haase (eds), Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung II 36.2 (Berlin, 1987), 793-860. 10  John Dillon, ‘St. John in Amelius’ Seminar’, in Panayiota Vassilopoulou and Stephen R.L. Clark (eds), Late Antique Epistemology: Other Ways to Truth (New York, 2009), 30-43. 11   L. Brisson has postulated that it was an excerpt from Amelius’ anti-Zostrian (NH VIII, 1) writings.

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At any rate, Eusebius, deliberately ignoring this aspect of the problem, has cut the quotation from its context and has diverted it to serve his own ends by means of the commentary within which he has framed it. Amelius ‘thought it proper, according to Eusebius, to mention John the Evangelist’ (ἠξίωσε τοῦ εὐαγγελιστοῦ Ἰωάννου μνήμην ποιήσασθαι).12 Amelius quotes him ‘highly’ (ἄντικρυς) and ‘with an uncovered head’ (γυμνῇ τῇ κεφαλῇ) (Eusebius alludes, with a good deal of literary irony, to the attitude of Socrates in Phaedrus, 243b).13 He ‘gives a testimony in favor of his words’ (ἐπιμαρτυρεῖ […] ταῖς φωναῖς αὐτοῦ)14. Eusebius is, indeed, responsible for the favourable impressions associated with this Platonic use of John 1:1-4. He has isolated and, in doing so, almost coined the testimonium of Amelius. This is, indeed, the literary origin of the feeling of admiration shared by ‘many’ pagans to whom Basil alludes in front of his listeners, with a little bit of rhetorical exaggeration. One pagan was probably not enough to create a real spirit of zeal for the Johannine prologue.15 That Basil deals with the famous excerpt from Amelius seems to me confirmed by a short literary appreciation, conveyed through the word ἐγκαταμίξαι, which may be a way to express metaphorically the process of paraphrase as a phenomenon of fraudulent incorporation. In Eusebius’ work, the quotation from John’s Prologue is a proof that Plato and his followers were preceded on the path of truth by the Hebrew sages and that the Greeks agree with the Hebrews on the essential points of their philosophy. Amelius, if he is indebted here to Numenius’ doctrine and symphonic exegesis, more surely thought the exact opposite: the ‘Barbarian’, in his own language, agreed with the results of Greek philosophy. Basil rewrites and hardens Eusebius’ perspective. Basil now evokes the apologetic motive of the diabolic larceny, without quoting, as usual, his intermediary literary source. Indeed, he has the same attitude, for example, when portraying Josephus’ cannibal mother in a Homily pronounced in a time of famine and drought, quoted from Origen or Eusebius, but with a less antijuidaic and a more pathetic, social, point of view. Basil’s remark on John 1:1 thus evidences an interesting phenomenon of successive deformations as well as a case of amplification drawing upon the memory of a distorted excerpt.   Evangelical Preparation XI 18, 26.   Ibid. 19, 2. 14   Ibid. 18, 26. 15   The Platonist to whom Augustine refers to in The City of God (X 29, 2), reporting that he had said that the first lines of the Prologue of John should be written in golden letters on the pediment of all the churches, is in all likelihood not Amelius: everything (and in particular the Platonicus’ interest for churches in a Milanese context) suggests that the Platonicus in question is a Christian Platonist, who may be identified as Marius Victorinus. See Pierre Hadot, Marius Victorinus, Recherches sur sa vie et ses œuvres (Paris, 1971), 237 and Goulven Madec, ‘Si Plato viveret… (Augustin, De Vera Religione, 3.3)’, in Néoplatonisme  : mélanges offerts à Jean Trouillard, Les Cahiers de Fontenay 19-22 (Fontenay-aux-Roses, 1981), 233. 12 13



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The same phenomenon is observed at various levels among the other alleged Christian witnesses of Amelius. Eusebius is, as already demonstrated by many critics, the source of Theodoret of Cyrrhus and Cyril of Alexandria’s comment on Amelius, each of them using Eusebius’ decontextualized excerpt according to his own views. Just like Basil, Theodoret underlines Amelius’ admiration for John. ‘A man who has been nourished by the eloquence of Plato and other philosophers admires so much the theology of the Barbarian’, Οὕτως ἄρα τὴν τοῦ βαρβάρου θεολογίαν τεθαύμακεν ὁ τῇ Πλάτωνος καὶ τῶν ἄλλων φιλοσόφων ἐντραφεὶς εὐεπείᾳ (Therapy II 89). After giving the same quotation as Eusebius, Theodoret rewrites it as if Amelius had made an orthodox exposition on the doctrine of Logos, appropriating the paraphrase through his own paraphrase. ‘And he confessed with us (ξυν-) that the Logos was in the beginning, that He was God, that He was with God, that He created everything, that He is the cause and the chorege of life for all beings, that for the salvation of the world he has hidden in a flesh the greatness of his divinity, and yet unveiled even in the small and thick cloud the nobility of his Father’, Καὶ ξυνωμολόγησε τὸν λόγον καὶ ἐν ἀρχῇ εἶναι καὶ θεὸν εἶναι καὶ πρὸς τὸν θεὸν εἶναι καὶ τὰ πάντα πεποιηκέναι καὶ ζωῆς τοῖς ἅπασιν αἴτιον ὑπάρχειν καὶ χορηγὸν καὶ τῆς τῶν ὅλων ἕνεκα σωτηρίας σαρκὶ μὲν ξυγκρύψαι τὸ μεγαλοπρεπὲς τῆς θεότητος, ἀποκαλύψαι δὲ ὅμως κἀν τῇ σμικρᾷ καὶ παχείᾳ νεφέλῃ τὴν πατρῴαν εὐγένειαν (ibid.). Theodoret has truly ‘re-johannized’ and ‘christianized’ Amelius. Against Julian, Cyril of Alexandria, showing that some Greek philosophers have known and accepted the mystery of the Incarnation, talks about Amelius as a philosopher who ‘knows a Logos which became man and agrees with it’, οἶδεν ἐνανθρωπήσαντα λόγον καὶ τοῦτο ὁμολογεῖ (Against Julian VIII 44), ignoring, deliberately or not, that the Platonic procession is not a ‘historical’ and unique event. Eusebius, Theodoret and Cyril, because of the agreement which they claim to find between the Scriptures and Platonism, think to prove the rationality of the Christian faith. By contrast, Basil seems to be the poorest. He has used Eusebius’ excerpt neither as a proof-text, nor as a text; neither has he put forward Amelius’ name as an argument from authority – Amelius here has absolutely no authority –, reducing it instead to a pastoral tool, able to excite the ζῆλος of the audience. If pagans inspired by the devil have paid attention to John’s words, how much more must Christians, inspired by the Spirit, listen to and study the words ‘In the Beginning was the Word’. At this point, it is however worth picking up on a little philological irony. Before examining with extreme care the theological content of the first two verses of John’s Prologue, Basil, following a method he often favors when dealing with theological doctrine, practices a form of Platonic excusatio on the unattainable character (ἀνέφικτον) of God, a variant of the ἀξίως λέγειν of eulogy rhetoric, so to speak. At the very moment when pagans are accused of

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being thieves, Platonic rhetoric, mixing accents that ultimately go back to the Symposium and the Republic, is itself retrieved by the Christian speaker. Καὶ τίς οὕτως ἀναισθησίαν νοσῶν, ὥστε τοιοῦτον κάλλος ἐννοίας καὶ βάθος δογμάτων οὕτως ἀνέφικτον μὴ οὐχὶ καταπλαγῆναι, καὶ ἐπιθυμῆσαι αὐτῶν τῆς ἀληθοῦς καταλήψεως; Ἀλλὰ γὰρ οὐχὶ τὸ θαυμάσαι τὰ καλὰ δύσκολον, ἀλλὰ τὸ ἐν ἀκριβεῖ κατανοήσει γενέσθαι τῶν θαυμασθέντων, τοῦτο χαλεπὸν καὶ δυσέφικτον. Ἐπεὶ καὶ τὸν ἥλιον τοῦτον τὸν αἰσθητὸν οὐδεὶς μέν ἐστιν ὃς οὐχ ὑπερεπαινεῖ, τὸ μέγεθος αὐτοῦ καὶ τὸ κάλλος, καὶ τῶν ἀκτίνων τὴν συμμετρίαν, καὶ τὸ ἀποστίλβον αὐτοῦ φῶς κατασπαζόμενος· ἐὰν μέντοι βιαιότερον φιλονεικήσῃ τῷ κύκλῳ ἀντεξάγειν ἑαυτοῦ τὰς τῶν ὀμμάτων βολάς, οὐ μόνον οὐ κατόψεται τὰ περισπούδαστα, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν ἀκρίβειαν τῆς ὄψεως προσδιαφθείρας οἰχήσεται. Τοιοῦτόν τί μοι δοκῶ τὴν διάνοιαν πάσχειν, τὴν φιλονεικοῦσαν ἀκριβῆ ποιεῖσθαι τῶν προκειμένων ῥημάτων τὴν ἐξέτασιν. And who suffers from insensibility to the point of not being struck by such beauty of thought and so unattainable a depth of doctrine, and of not desiring their true understanding? But admiring beautiful things is not difficult; having a precise understanding of what we have admired, however, is difficult and hard to achieve. For if there is no one who does not praise this sensitive sun, charmed by its greatness and beauty, the equality of its rays and the luminous brilliancy of its light, if, however, a man wishes to fix with more effort his looks on the disk, not only will this man not see the much desired object, but in addition his visual acuity will be severely impaired! That is almost what my thought suffers, in my opinion, when I wish to offer the precise exegesis of the words in question. (PG 31, 472C-473A)

In this rhetorical context, the effort to unfold the content of the proposed ῥήματα is assimilated to the pain caused by the contemplation of the sun (472C-473A). While ordinarily Basil qualifies the properties of the scriptural λέξις in terms of utility, lack of literary elaboration and brevity, through the initial Platonic eulogy of John, whose words are ‘too great (μείζονα) for the ear’, just like the Good according to Socrates in the famous analogy of the Sun in the Republic, and ‘too sublime (ὑψηλότερα) for any spirit’ (472B), Basil intersects, in a very condensed way, with Origen’s Commentary on John who considers that the theological depth of John’s beginning is exceptional, even in comparison with the other Gospels. However, precisely when rejecting the Platonic appropriation of John, Basil appropriates Platonic language and rhetoric. There is a correct, even silent, form of cultural appropriation, as well as an illegitimate one, as it seems! This reversal of situation has nonetheless given rise to an interesting posterity: the first anonymous scholia preceding the Dionysian corpus, the so-called scholia De philosophis paganis whose author may be none other than John Philoponus,16   See Beate R. Suchla, Corpus Dionysiacum: Pseudo-Dionysius Areopagita. IV/I, Ioannis Scythopolitani prologus et scholia in Dionysii Areopagitae librum ‘De divinis nominibus’, cum additamentis interpretum aliorum, Patristische Texte und Studien 62 (Berlin, Boston, 2011), 43. 16



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explicitly makes use of this passage as an argument from authority to overthrow the real relationship between the writings of Proclus the philosopher and those of the ‘Blessed Dionysius’. It must be known that some of the pagan philosophers, and Proclus in particular, frequently make use of the doctrines of the blessed Dionysius, and even literally of some of his own expressions. This suggests that the most ancient philosophers of Athens, having appropriated Dionysius’ treatises, as the author relates in this book, kept them hidden to appear themselves as the fathers of Dionysius’ divine discourses. And it is by a providential disposition of God that the present work appeared to accuse them of vain glory and laziness. And that it is a habit of the pagans to appropriate our doctrines, the divine Basil teaches it in his homily on ‘In the beginning was the Word’, where he says in express terms: These words, I know that many who are outside the doctrine of truth and pride themselves on the wisdom of the world have admired them and have dared to insert them in their own writings. For the devil is a thief and divulges our mysteries to his interpreters.17

Here, Proclus is, to the Christian scholiast’s eye, a thief, because, as saint Basil said, philosophers are frequently thieves. So what have we learnt from this story? First: preaching is one thing, philology is another. Second: the thief is not always the one we initially suspected.

17   For a French translation see Henri-Dominique Saffrey, ‘Le lien le plus objectif entre le Pseudo-Denys et Proclus’, in Roma, magistra mundi. Itineraria culturae medievalis: Mélanges offerts au Père L.E. Boyle à l’occasion de son 75e anniversaire, Textes et études du Moyen Âge 10 (Louvain-la-Neuve, 1998), 791-810, reprinted in H.-D. Saffrey, Le néoplatonisme après Plotin, Histoire des doctrines de l’Antiquité classique 24 (Paris, 2000), 239-52.

Evagrius in the Classroom Lillian I. Larsen, Redlands, CA, USA

Abstract In introducing his summative collection of Progymnasmata – a spectrum of school compendia that flowered in late antiquity (Atlanta, 2003), George Kennedy argues that in order to understand the structural character of emergent ancient literature, one must begin in the classroom. Following Kennedy, this presentation examines the gnomic sentences attributed to Evagrius within a wider didactic and rhetorical frame. Highlighting the integral role accorded gnomic content in ancient education, it argues the particular merits of reading extant compilations of Evagrian source material through a classroom lens. Identifiable trajectories that link Evagrius with particular students will frame a locus of inquiry for engaging and testing this premise. The technical parameters that govern classroom structures and development of gnomic articulation will serve as tools of analysis. Finally, the common conduits that connect gnomic sentences with more complex literary forms will invite further consideration of the implications inherent to reading some range of Evagrian, and broader monastic source material in an explicitly pedagogical light.

‘On Learning a New Alphabet…’ One would be hard put to find even one reader of early monastic texts who is unfamiliar with the Athanasian portrayal of Antony, the ‘founder’ of early Egyptian monasticism, as not only ‘unlettered’, but explicitly uninterested in becoming so. Many could recite the pertinent lines of Athanasius’ Vita by heart:1 Καὶ παιδίον μὲν ὤν, ἐτρέφετο παρὰ τοῖς γονεῦσι, πλέον αὐτῶν καὶ τοῦ οἴκου μηδὲν ἕτερον γινώσκων· ἐπειδὴ δὲ καὶ αὐξήσας ἐγένετο παῖς, καὶ προέκοπτε τῇ ἡλικίᾳ, γράμματα μὲν μαθεῖν οὐκ ἠνέσχετο, βουλόμενος ἐκτὸς εἶναι καὶ τῆς πρὸς τοὺς παῖδας συνηθείας· τὴν δὲ ἐπιθυμίαν πᾶσαν εἶχε … ὡς ἄπλαστος οἰκεῖν ἐντῇ οἰκίᾳ αὐτοῦ. [Antony was] cognizant of little else besides [his parents] and his home. As he grew and became a boy, and was advancing in years, he could not bear to learn letters, wishing also to stand apart from friendship with other children. All his yearning … was for living, an unaffected person, in his home.2 1   Warm thanks to Robin Darling Young and Luke Dysinger, OSB, who generously spearheaded the organization of what emerged as a rich and productive workshop on Evagrian pedagogy. 2   VAnt 1 [Gregg]; David Brakke’s Athanasius and Asceticism (Baltimore, 1995), offers what is perhaps the most enduring assessment of Athanasius’ political and ecclesial agendas. With

Studia Patristica CXV, 313-331. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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Although later in this same Vita, one encounters Antony counseling his disciples to ‘write down their thoughts … as if reporting them to each other’,3 it is the literary caricature of an a-literate Antony that has insistently captured interpretive imagination.4 In discussions of monastic literacy, two apophthegmata featuring the famously literate monks, Evagrius and Arsenius, are as familiar.5 In one account, Evagrius queries Arsenius: Quomodo nos excitati eruditione et scientia nullas virtutes habemus, hi autem rustici in Aegypto habitantes tantas virtutes possident? ‘How is it that we educated and learned men have no goodness, and the Egyptian peasants have a great deal?’6 others, he raises critical questions about the historical value assigned to Athanasius’ rendering of Antony as ἀγράμματος. Samuel Rubenson’s published dissertation, Letters of St. Antony: Monasticism and the Making of a Saint (Minneapolis, 1995), engages similar debates. Each of these critical re-framings has been widely affirmed, however neither has effectively dislodged interpretive emphases that depict the abbas and ammas of the Egyptian desert as shadowy ciphers of an a-literate Antony. Despite compelling arguments to the contrary, in subsequent work, the Egyptian monks have remained fictively framed as ‘uninterested in learning letters’ and ‘taught only by God’ [see, for example, Robert Wilken, The First Thousand Years: A New Global History of Christianity (New Haven, 2012)]. In more contemporary work, Lisa Agaiby offers a welcome alternative, examining Athanasius’ portrayal in light of depictions of Antony included in the Arabic Life of Antony attributed to Serapion of Thmuis (Leiden, 2019). 3   VAnt 55 [Gregg]: … οὕτως, ἐὰν ὡς ἀπαγγέλλοντες ἀλλήλοις τοὺς λογισμοὺς γράφωμεν, μᾶλλον τηρήσομεν ἑαυτοὺς ἀπὸ λογισμῶν ῥυπαρῶν, αἰσχυνόμενοι γνωσθῆναι. Ἔστω οὖν ἡμῖν τὸ γράμμα ἀντὶ ὀφθαλμῶν τῶν συνασκητῶν· ἵνα, ἐρυθριῶντες γράφειν ὡς τὸ βλέπεσθαι, μήθ’ ὅλως ἐνθυμηθῶμεν τὰ φαῦλα. In ‘Antony as Teacher in the Greek Life’ [Thomas Hägg and Phillip Rousseau (eds), Greek Biography and Panegyric in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, 2000), 89-109], Philip Rousseau usefully calls attention to the inherent contradiction that remains endemic to the Vita. The practice – here attributed to Antony – is first encountered in the writings of Plato. It likewise forms a recurring motif in subsequent philosophical discourse. This, in turn, finds echo in monastic sources. For example, in step four of John Climacus’ sixth century Ladder of Divine Ascent, a monk/cellarer is depicted wearing a small notebook on his belt to keep track of his thoughts. 4   The most noted early testimony to the Vita’s influence is included in Augustine’s Confessions (8.6.15). See Peter Gemeinhardt, Antonius, Der erste Mönch: Leben, Lehre, Legende (Munich, 2013), for complementary exploration of the Vita’s trajectory as it moves to the West. 5   See, for example, Douglas Burton-Christie, The Word in the Desert: Scripture and the Quest for Holiness in Early Christian Monasticism (New York, 1993), 59; Jean-Claude Guy, ‘Educational Innovation in the Desert Fathers’, Eastern Churches Review 6 (1974), 44-51, 45; William Harmless, Desert Christians: An Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism (New York, 2004), 71; et al. 6   Apoph. Patr. Alph. Arsenius 5 [Ward]. The Latin compilation of sayings, attributed to Pelagius and John, is thought to be one of the earliest extant compilations. Benedicta Ward’s readily available translations of the Latin Systematic and the Greek Alphabetic collections have likewise made these the most routinely referenced by English-speaking scholars. Of late, John Wortley’s translations have also gained a broad following. However, the theological inflection that governs Wortley’s linguistic choices renders these editions critically uneven.



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Arsenius responds: Nos quia mundanae eruditionis disciplinis intenti sumus, nihil habemus; hi autem rustici Aegyptii ex propriis laboribus acquisierunt virtutes. ‘We have nothing because we go chasing after worldly knowledge. These Egyptian peasants have got their goodness by hard work’.7

In a complementary narration, Arsenius is challenged while consulting an Egyptian γέρων about his thoughts. Here, an unidentified monk queries: Ἀββᾶ Ἀρσένιε, πῶς τοσαύτην παίδευσιν Ῥωμαϊκὴν καὶ Ἑλληνικὴν ἐπιστάμενος, τοῦτον τὸν ἀγροῖκον περὶ τῶν σῶν λογισμῶν ἐρωτᾷς; ‘Abba Arsenius, how is it that you with such a good Latin and Greek education, ask this peasant about your thoughts?’8

Arsenius replies: Τὴν μὲν Ῥωμαϊκὴν καὶ Ἑλληνικὴν ἐπίσταμαι παίδευσιν· τὸν δὲ ἀλφάβητον τοῦ ἀγροίκου τούτου οὔπω μεμάθηκα. ‘I have indeed been taught Latin and Greek, but I do not know even the alphabet of this peasant’.9

Evagrius is not explicitly named in this latter exchange. However, in popular (and scholarly) imagination, a caricatured melding of Evagrius and Arsenius’ disavowing the merits of their exceptionally literate status has served to bolster the normative weight assigned Antony’s studied a-literacy.10 The ‘Missing Chapter’ of Monastic Education The same figures have likewise played a determinative role in shaping the broader history of ancient education. In his epic Histoire de l’éducation dans l’antiquité, Henri Marrou cites the exceptional literacies assigned Antony, Arsenius and Evagrius as evidence in deeming resistance to literate pursuits ‘one of the most characteristic features of “Eastern” monasticism’.11 Framing 7   Apoph. Patr. Syst. 10.5 [Ward]; See also: Ἡμεῖς ἀπὸ τῆς τοῦ κόσμου παιδεύσεως οὐδὲν ἔχομεν· οὗτοι δὲ οἱ ἀγροῖκοι καὶ Αἰγύπτιοι ἀπὸ τῶν ἰδίων πόνων ἐκτήσαντο τὰς ἀρετάς (Apoph. Patr. Alph. Arsenius 5). 8   Apoph. Patr. Alph. Arsenius 6 [Ward]. 9   Apoph. Patr. Alph. Arsenius 6 [Ward]. 10   A broader range of less well-worn Apophthegmata depict monks reading, writing, and commenting on scripture. In fact, Evagrius himself commends routinized reading of scripture ‘to strengthen a wandering mind’. See more detailed discussion in Lillian I. Larsen, ‘Redrawing the Interpretive Map: Monastic Education as Civic Formation in the Apophthegmata Patrum’, Coptica 12 (2013), 1-34. 11   Henri Irénée Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity, trans. George Lamb (Madison, 1956), 333.

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Athanasius’ caricature of Antony’s a-literacy as representative, Marrou introduces his discussion of ‘the monastic school in the East’ with the premise that the earliest monks would have received ‘a kind of training that was ascetic and moral, spiritual rather than intellectual’.12 Pairing this with oblique reference to Evagrius and Arsenius’ disavowal/re-valuing of literate pursuits, he asserts that a ‘fundamental feature of Eastern monasticism’ was its emphasis not on ‘learning … [but] forgetting … poetry and secular knowledge’.13 The breadth of Marrou’s influence in shaping subsequent educational history is easy to map. First published in France in 1948, the Histoire de l’éducation dans l’antiquité saw five further editions in French. Between 1950 and 1969, it was translated into Italian (1950), English (1956), German (1957), Greek (1961), Spanish (1965), Polish (1969), and Portuguese (1969).14 Marrou’s influence in shaping monastic history is more subtle. However, the address of ‘Christian Education’ included in an early twenty-first century anthology – explicitly devoted to ‘re-thinking … Marrou’s totalizing narrative’ – is suggestive. Published roughly fifty years post Marrou’s seminal study, the essays included in this commemorative re-examination of Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity,15 bear the names of an impressive cast of scholars. Jointly, these individuals re-considers almost every aspect of Marrou’s early analyses. Essays range from the question of ‘Public’ and ‘Private’ in early Greek institutions of education,16 to consideration of ‘Schools of Platonic Philosophy’ in the Late Roman Empire.17 The volume’s penultimate treatise comparatively explores the inclusion and subtraction of ‘Pagan Elements in Christian education’.18 12   H.I. Marrou writes: ‘St. Antony, the great founder of monasticism, was an illiterate Coptic peasant who was able to get on quite well without any books, as he soon proved to any philosophers who came and argued with him. This was a fundamental feature of Eastern monasticism and it was never lost: these desert people were less concerned with learning than with forgetting the poetry and secular knowledge they had picked up in the schools before conversion. Monasticism brought back into the Christian tradition the virtues of the simple and unlettered, as against the intellectual pride fostered by the old culture, which, as is clear from the Gnostics and the Alexandrians, was in the third century threatening to destroy the original simplicity of the Gospels’ (History of Education [1956], 330). 13   H.I. Marrou, History of Education (1956), 330. 14   See discussion in Pierre Riché, ‘In Memoriam Professeur Henri-Irénée Marrou’, Pedagogica Historica 17 (1977), 491-515, 493. See, more recently, Thomas E. Hunt, ‘The Influence of French Colonial Humanism on the Study of Late Antiquity: Braudel, Marrou, Brown’, International Journal of Francophone Studies 21 (2018), 255-78. 15   Yun Lee Too (ed.), Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity (Leiden, 2001). 16   Mark Griffith, ‘“Public” and “Private” in Early Greek Institutions of Education’, in Y.L. Too (ed.), Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity (2001), 23-84. 17   Robert Lamberton, ‘The Schools of Platonic Philosophy of the Roman Empire: The Evidence of the Biographies’, in Y.L. Too (ed.), Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity (2001), 433-58. 18   Sara Rappe, ‘The New Math: How to Add and to Subtract Pagan Elements in Christian Education’, in Y.L. Too (ed.), Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity (2001), 405-32.



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The bulk of this essay traces a predictable trajectory through the writings of the early Church Fathers. However, a final segment is devoted to ‘re-thinking’ the question of monastic education. Re-analysis begins with immediate reference to the ‘desert fathers’, and more loosely, the figures of Evagrius, Arsenius and Antony. With some promise, the author identifies Evagrius’ pedagogical preoccupations as ‘a kind of absent chapter’ in the history of education. However, she simultaneously preserves Marrou’s broader framing of monasticism as a type of Christian school ‘that was wholly devoted to religion and had none of the features of the old classical school’.19 Even as Evagrius is presciently deemed ‘one of the most original thinkers and radical teachers in the tradition’, his literate investments are divorced from their monastic milieu. Mirroring Marrou’s mid-century binaries, he is depicted ‘pitted against the fathers’, an urban intellectual ‘facing off’ with ‘desert wisdom’.20 Along a career trajectory that bears rough chronological alignment with the earliest English translation of Marrou’s epic history, and Yun Lee Too’s commemorative ‘re-thinking’ of Marrou’s work, George Kennedy’s less explicit address of ancient/late-ancient classroom settings offers a provocative countervoice.21 Eschewing models of an emergent Christian curriculum ‘wholly devoted to religion’ and retaining ‘none of the features of the old classical school’,22 Kennedy marshals a broader range of ancient/late-ancient pedagogical evidence, which demonstrably challenges the assertions articulated by Marrou and echoed by Rappe. In introducing his summative collection of Progymnasmata – a spectrum of school compendia that flowered in late antiquity – Kennedy instead premises that in order to understand the underlying character of any body of ancient/ late-ancient texts, one must begin in the classroom.23 He simultaneously likens the pedagogical models that governed a common core of ancient/late-ancient textual production to the ‘structural features of classical architecture’.24 Per Kennedy, ‘not only the secular literature of the Greeks and Romans, but the writings of the early Christians beginning with the gospels and continuing through the patristic age … were molded by the habits of thinking and writing learned in schools.’25   H.I. Marrou, History of Education (1956), 330.   S. Rappe, ‘New Math’ (2001), 423. Spanning more than half a century, the scholarly assumptions that link Marrou and Rappe’s binaried refractions of the monastic ‘school’ landscape can only give pause. 21   Kennedy graduated from Harvard, with a doctoral degree in Classics, in 1954. His compendium of Progymnasmata was published in 2003. 22   H.I. Marrou, History of Education (1956), 330. 23   George Kennedy (trans.), Progymnasmata: Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric (Atlanta, 2003), ix. 24   Ibid. 25   Ibid. 19

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Following Kennedy, the present essay explores a small segment of the ‘absent chapter’ that is the history of monastic education. Eschewing claims of exceptionality, it instead adopts a classroom lens to jointly examine both the ‘simple wisdom’ of desert ammas and ammas, and the ‘radically original’ thought and teaching of the ‘urban intellectual’, Evagrius Ponticus. It then identifies trajectories that link Evagrius with a Palestinian community of teachers and students, a constituency comprised of both well-known ‘urban intellectuals’ and less readily recognizable, garden variety ‘monks’. After exploring the integral role accorded common use of sentences and ‘sayings’ in both elite and less than elite classroom settings, the essay concludes with assessment of the interpretive implications inherent to reading both Evagrius, and his ‘desert’ counterparts, within a pedagogical frame. It simultaneously invites further consideration of the common conduits and tensions, which link rather than distinguish monastic texts and their broader contexts. (1)  Donning a Classroom Lens In introducing Evagrius’ Greek Ascetic Corpus, Robert Sinkewicz observes that the ‘works of Evagrius … are composed of short sentences grouped around individual themes or of more detailed and extended discussions of particular topics’.26 Sinkewicz suggests that this is the result of an absence of clear systematization in Evagrius’ presentation of ‘teaching on the ascetic life’.27 If one dons a classroom lens, however, it is impossible to overlook the central role accorded work with maxims and sentences, in ancient school settings. Teresa Morgan notes that ‘more texts of gnomic sentences survive [in schoolhands] than fragments of any other literature or any other kind of exercise’. Displaying a full range of expertise, they ‘appear to have been used at every stage [of learning] … from elementary reading and writing to rhetorical exercises’.28 Students first encountered short maxims in exercises of penmanship and memorization. The same sentences were rehearsed at every succeeding level of education. Raffaella Cribiore observes that: ‘A pupil’s initial taste … gained by copying a short text as an exercise in penmanship, was enriched when he [or she] attempted to read the same text with words and syllables separated’.29 In something of an iterative cycle, students ‘chew[ed]’ gnomic   Robert E. Sinkewicz, Evagrius of Pontus: The Greek Ascetic Corpus (Oxford, 2003), xxi.   Ibid. 28   Teresa Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds (Cambridge, 1998), 122. 29   Raffaella Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton, 2001), 179. 26 27



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maxims and sentences ‘over and over, making collections of them and expanding their content … until’ they could (at an opportune moment or in a well-turned phrase) incorporate them into everyday speech and writing.30 Maxims At the most basic levels of classroom composition, students were introduced to cryptic injunctions like those attributed to the seven sages of Delphi: γνῶθι σεαυτόν (know thyself). θεοὺς σέβου (fear the gods). γονεῖς αἰδοῦ (honor [your] parents/elders).31

Likewise in literary source material, reference to the Delphic maxims is persistently pedagogical. Plato suggests that the ‘commandments of the seven’ formed a basis for Athenian education even prior to the rule of Pisistratus – that is before 514 BC.32 Elsewhere, while discussing pedagogical form and function in the Protagoras, he identifies versatile command of Delphic wisdom as the marker of a ‘perfect education’ (τελέως πεπαιδευμένου).33 Sentences While tracing a pedagogical trajectory from Plato to late-antiquity lies beyond the scope of a single essay, recurrent re-use in late-ancient classroom settings attests the degree to which such content retained its pedagogical currency. In deployment that spans both simple and elite circles, maxims re-surface in a range of combinations.34 For example, among the Bouriant papyri one finds a fourth century student copybook exercise, which introduces two Delphic maxims that have been combined to create a simple sentence: γέροντα τίμα, τοῦ θεοῦ τὴν εἰκόνα. ‘Honor elders [as] the image of God’.35   R. Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind (2001), 179.   Although these sentences survive solely as legend, even a cursory survey of their subsequent material and literary footprint affirms a chronological and geographical spectrum of iterative re-use. Both geographical dissemination and association with pedagogical settings is persistent. For example, a subset of the Delphic maxims survives on the fragments of a third century BC stele, identified during excavations at Ai-Khanoum in Afghanistan. Roughly commensurate in date, is a collection of fifty-five maxims that decorated a town gymnasium at Miletopolis; cf. Nikos Oikonomides, ‘Lost Delphic Inscriptions’, ZPE 37 (1980), 179-83. 32  Plato, Hipparchus 228c-229. 33  Plato, Protagoras 343a-c. 34   By late antiquity, these combinations are frequently encountered in burgeoning collections, loosely attributed to Menander. 35   Paul Collart, Les Papyrus Bouriant (Paris, 1926), 17-8. 30 31

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One encounters a slight variation of the same two maxims in a collection of sententiae attributed to the elite, Gregory Nazianzen: Θεὸν φόβου πρώτιστα, καὶ γονεῖς τίμα. ‘First fear god, and [then] honor [your] parents’.36

Evagrius, expands the brief maxims into more detailed admonition: Ἀγάπα τὸν κύριον καὶ ἀγαπήσει σε, καὶ δούλευε αὐτῷ καὶ φωτιεῖ τὴν καρδίαν σου. ‘Love the Lord and he will love you, serve him and he will illumine your heart’.37 Τίμα τὴν μητέρα σου ὡς μητέρα Χριστοῦ, καὶ μὴ παροξύνῃς πολιὰν τεκούσης σε. ‘Honour your mother as you would the mother of Christ, and do not vex the grey hairs of she who bore you’.38

In turn, a sixth century school ostracon from the Monastery of Epiphanius in Thebes re-articulates a simple paraphrase of the original maxims: γονεῖς τιμῶν μάλιστα θεὸν φοβοῦ. ‘Honor your parents, [but] fear God most of all’.39

Dispersed throughout the Mediterranean, extant re-formulations blur long instantiated boundaries between advanced and elementary, urban and desert, ‘new’ and ‘old’ alphabets. Alphabetika More structured parallels demonstrated the classroom methods that governed work with ‘short sentences’. In fact, countering the notion of absent systematization, the degree to which large swathes of the Evagrian corpus align with established forms is difficult to ignore. For example, a routine exercise, iteratively enlisted both students and teachers in the task of ordering gnomic sentences into highly structured alphabetika. Like the maxims examined above, such collections might be loosely or more specifically focused. Simultaneously, relatively static characteristic features balance ever-shifting variety, with respect to content. In classroom compendia, it is not unusual that the alpha position be introduced by ἀρχή, followed by a second clause which identifies the particular emphases of a collection’s broader thread. As is apparent from examining the four alphabetika included in the chart below, subsequent sententiae meld both focused and general content. In turn, to particularize, more general content, one   Gregory Nazianzen, Carmina Moralia 2.7.  Evagrius, Sententiae ad Virginem 1 [Sinkewicz]. 38  Evagrius, Sententiae ad Virginem 2 [Sinkewicz]. 39   O.MMA 14.1.210 (= Mon. Epiph. 615), as published in Herbert E. Winlock and Walter E. Crum, The Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, 2 vol. (New York, 1926), II 320-1. 36 37



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need only change the grammar in order to accommodate structural and contextual shifts in emphasis: Gregory Nazianzen Student Copybook Teacher’s Model Capita Paraenetica P. Bouriant 1 Mon. Epiph. 615 (4th c.) (4th c.) (6th c.)

Evagrius Gnomai A (4th c.)40

[Ἀρχὴ μεγίστη τοῦ φρονεῖν] φοβὸς θεοῦ.41

Ἀρχὴ σωτηρἰας ἡ ἑαυτοῦ κατάγνωσις.

Know G_d to be the The beginning of beginning of all great wisdom is things. learning letters.

[The beginning of great wisdom] is fear of G_d.

The beginning of salvation is condemnation of yourself.

Βέβαιον οὐδὲν ἐν βίῳ δόκει πέλειν.

Β[ί]ον αίου Βέλτιον λίθον γίνετ[αι] εἰκῆ βαλεῖν ἢ καλόν. λόγον.

Ἀρχὴν νόμιζε τῶν ὅλων εἶναι Θεόν.

Ἀρχὴ μεγίστη τοῦ φρονεῖν τὰ γράμματα.

Βίος βῖου δεόμενος οὐκ ἔστιν βίος.

It seems to be [that] A life lived in A righteous life Better to throw a nothing in life is bondage is not life. begets a good end. stone at random sure. than a word. Γονεῖς τιμῶν μάλιστα Θεὸν φοβοῦ.

Γέροντα τίμᾳ, τοῦ θεού τὴν εἰκόνα.

Honor parents but fear G_d most of all.

Honor your parents A righteous for they are the woman is the image of God. savior of life.

Γυνὴ δικαί]α τοῦ βίου σωτηρία.

Γίνου τοῖς πᾶσιν ὡς σὺ θέλεις τοὺς πάντας. Be to all as you wish all to be to you.

Δίδασκε σαυτὸν μὴ Δένδρον παλαιὸν λαλεῖν ἃ μὴ θέμις. μεταφυτεύειν δύσκολον.

[Δένδρο]ν παλαιὰ μετάψεται (sic).

Δικαιοσύνην μᾶλλον ἔργῳ ἢ λόγῳ ἄσκει.

Teach yourself not to speak in anger.

An old tree is not [easily] moved.

Practice righteousness more in deed than in word.

An old tree is not easily replanted.

As is readily apparent, continuity and variation are simultaneously endemic to the genre. A sentence included in three alphabetika, respectively attributed to Pythagoras, Sextus and Evagrius, offers a useful case in point.42 In the philosophically  Evagrius, Capita Paraenetica 1-4 [Sinkewicz].   Marking what is arguably a predictable shift in emphasis, the second sentence in this sequence mirrors the introductory sentence of P. Bouriant 1 [Collart]. 42   Extensive documentation included in Paul Géhin, ‘Les collections de kephalaia monastiques. Naissance et succès d’un genre entre creation’ [in Antonio Rigo, Pavel Ermilov and Michele 40

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focused alphabetika variously attributed to Pythagoras and Sextus, one encounters a sequenced sentence which claims a Cynic philosopher as its subject: Κυνικοῦ μὴ τὸ σχῆμα ἀποδέχου ἀλλὰ τὴν μεγαλοψυχίαν ζήλου. ‘Accept not the outward appearance of the Cynic philosopher, but rather emulate his greatness of soul’.43

In an alphabetikon attributed to Evagrius, one meets the same sentence, slightly revised: Χριστιανοῦ ἀνδρὸς μὴ τὸ σχῆμα ἀποδέχου, ἀλλὰ τὸ τῆς ψυχῆς φρόνημα. ‘Accept not the outward appearance of a Christian man, but rather the purpose of [his] soul’.44

By identifying ‘a Christian man’ as his protagonist, Evagrius shifts the sentence’s alphabetical sequencing from κ to χ. However, the established premise remains the same. Beyond a change in position (and communal ethos), truly only the names have changed. As collected sententiae might be purposefully structured around individual themes, or even words, they potentially offer insight into concrete interactions and/or communal investments. Granting this frame, a collection of Evagrian sentences – and accompanying correspondence – associated with a women’s monastery in Palestine, offers a particularly rich lens for examining both emergent classroom practice, and sometimes tensive interaction between teachers and students. (2)  Teachers and Students Evagrius’ correspondence (and close rapport) with Melania the Elder – founder and overseer of a Palestinian women’s monastery – is well documented. As one of a small group of women included in the Historia Lausiaca of Palladius, her story is likewise more detailed and more familiar than most of her late ancient counterparts.45 In Palladius’ narrative recounting of Medi­ terranean monasticism, the details of Melania’s learned investments are also carefully enumerated.46 Here, he calls particular attention to Melania’s elite Trizio (eds), Theologica Minora: The Minor Genres of Byzantine Theological Literature (Turnhout, 2013), 1-50], likewise underscores the broader currency of such collections. 43   Sextus 462 = Pythagoras 54 (in Henry Chadwick [ed.], The Sentences of Sextus [Cambridge, 1959]). 44  Evagrius, Capita Paraenetica 22 [Sinkewicz]. 45   In their co-edited volume, Melania: Early Christianity through the Life of One Family (Berkeley, 2017), Catherine Michael Chin and Caroline T. Schroeder include a rich bibliography of both established and emergent scholarship. 46  The Historia Lausiaca of Palladius devotes two chapters to sketching the contours of Melania’s life and investments. Per Palladius, Melania was the daughter of a Roman consul, Marcellinus, ‘and wife of some man of high rank’ (Historia Lausiaca 46.1 [Meyer]). Upon being left a widow



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‘erudit[ion]’ (λογιωτάτη) and ‘fond[ness] for the word [sentence/literature]’ (καὶ φιλήσασα τὸν λόγον). In fact, Palladius reports that Melania ‘turned night into day going through every writing of the ancient commentators’. He additionally notes that ‘she did not read them once only and in an offhand way, but … worked on them, dredging through each work seven or eight times’.47 Melania’s investments are often assigned to interactions with Rufinus, a close friend and colleague. However, as pedagogically interesting is a corpus of correspondence that links Evagrius, Melania and Rufinus to a group of women, who are members of Melania’s monastic community. Comprised of four Evagrian letters (and an attendant collection of sententiae), the compendium addresses investments of one Deacon Severa – and a cadre of unnamed sisters referenced simply as φιλομαθεῖς (‘lovers of lessons/learning’).48 Lovers of Lessons/Learning Early discussion of the letter corpus is included in Gabriel Bunge’s Briefe aus der Wüste.49 Subsequent analysis has been undertaken by Susanna Elm.50 While the recipients of Evagrius’ respective letters are not explicitly named, Bunge and Elm premise that discrete documents are directed to various members of Melania’s community. As identified, one of the letters, appears to be addressed to Melania, herself; 51 a second and third to Melania’s co-worker, Rufinus.52 It is, however, a fourth letter – and an accompanying compendium of sententiae – that connects the documents. This fourth missive is directed to the Deacon Severa, a member of Melania’s community, of whom little else is known.53 at the age of twenty-two, Melania ‘had a trustee named for her son, and taking every movable piece of her property … put it on board ship and set off for Alexandria at full speed’ (Historia Lausiaca 46.1 [Meyer]; See also Jerome, Ep. 39.5). After arriving in Alexandria, Melania ‘sold her possessions and changed her holdings into gold’. She spent her initial months visiting the monks at Nitria, then made ‘the rounds of the desert … seeking all of the holy men’ (Historia Lausiaca 46.2 [Meyer]). When a group of the most learned of these were ‘banished … to Palestine’, she followed them – providing for their needs ‘from her own private treasury’ (Historia Lausiaca 46.3 [Meyer]). In the end, Melania’s Palestinian peregrination appears to have outlasted that of the monks. When these learned men returned to Egypt (or journeyed elsewhere), Melania remained in Palestine. After investing additional resources to build a monastery in Jerusalem, she led a ‘company of fifty virgins, for the next twenty-seven years’ (Historia Lausiaca 46.5 [Meyer]). 47   Historia Lausiaca 55.3 [Meyer]. 48  Evagrius, Ep. 20. 49   G. Bunge, Evagrios Pontikos Briefe aus der Wüste (Trier, 1986; repr. Beuron, 2013), 148-9, 183-5, and 199-200. 50   S. Elm, ‘The Sententiae ad Virginem by Evagrius Ponticus and the Problem of the Early Monastic Rules’, Augustinianum 30 (1990), 393-404; ead., ‘Evagrius Ponticus’ “Sententiae ad Virginem”’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 45 (1991), 97-120. 51  Evagrius, Ep. 8. 52  Evagrius, Ep. 7 and 19. 53  Evagrius, Ep. 20.

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Read in isolation, Evagrius’ correspondence with Severa preserves a record of warm interaction between a male and a female monk. In his greeting, Evagrius addresses his recipient in congratulatory prose. After expressing admiration for Severa’s φιλομαθεῖς (‘love of learning/lessons’), Evagrius affirms that he is ‘rejoic[ing] at her progress’.54 The tenor of related correspondence with Melania and Rufinus, however, is less sanguine. In his first letter to Rufinus, rather than voicing warm affirmation of Severa and her sisters’ studious engagement, Evagrius expresses concern over Severa’s imminent plans to journey to Egypt for a visit.55 He also asks Rufinus’ assistance in dissuading the Deacon (and arguably, her retinue of sisters), from undertaking the proposed journey.56 The request is reiterated in Evagrius’ letter to Melania.57 Sententiae ad Virginem In his initial letter to Rufinus, Evagrius seeks to counter the sisters’ anticipated travel to Egypt, by promising ‘in the Lord’ to deliver ‘whatever [Severa] and those with her are lacking’.58 In his second letter to Rufinus, Evagrius’ revises his earlier promise, expressing regret that, on account of necessary haste, he did not have time to compose new content. Here, he indicates that instead he has forwarded that ‘which … had previously [been] said [in] the Lord’, in hopes that the ‘virgin’ would find the same τὴν ζωήν ... σύμφερον (‘profitable for life’).59 Simultaneously, the tenor of this subsequent missive suggests that Evagrius’ earlier offer has had its desired effect. Although Evagrius never identifies the character of his promised ‘deliverable’, both Bunge and Elm argue that a collection of fifty-six sententiae – addressed Ad Virginem – remains key to understanding the oblique references that texture Evagrius’ correspondence.60 In foundational work on the corpus, Elm has premised that the included sentences may form the kernel of an early monastic rule.61 However, both  Evagrius, Ep. 20.  Evagrius, Ep. 7. 56  Evagrius, Ep. 7. 57  Evagrius, Ep. 8. 58  Evagrius, Ep. 7. 59  Evagrius, Ep. 19. 60   There is relative consensus that the fifty-six sententiae, addressed ‘ad Virginem’, preserve the promised content referenced in Evagrius’ correspondence. There is less agreement, however, in identification of the collection’s prior addressee. Elm premises that the original document may have been prepared for Melania the Elder (‘Problem of the Early Monastic Rules’ [1990], 399; see also S. Elm, ‘Evagrius Ponticus’ Sententiae Ad Virginem’ [1991], 116); Augustin Casiday, Evagrius Ponticus (New York, 2006), in turn, suggests that the text may as readily have been directed to the female leader of an alternate community of women (165-6). The sententiae are additionally referenced in the writings of Jerome, Ep. 133; Socrates, Historia Ecclesiastica 4.23; and Gennadius, De Viris Illustribus 11. 61   S. Elm, ‘Problem of the Early Monastic Rules’ (1990); S. Elm, ‘Evagrius Ponticus’ “Sententiae ad Virginem”’ (1991). 54 55



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form and content also commend examining of this compendium through a classroom lens.62 Here, Evagrius’ affirmation of the sisters’ ‘love of learning’, and praise for the virgins’ purported ‘progress’,63 is supported by a series of injunctions framed in ‘classroom friendly’ form. Included is an ‘exhortation to the virgin[s]’ (παραίνεσις πρὸς παρθένον): Ἀνατέλλων ὁ ἥλιος βλεπέτω τὸ βιβλίον ἐν ταῖς χερσί σου, καὶ μετὰ δευτέραν ὥραν τὸ ἔργον σου. ‘Let the rising sun see the book in your hands, and after the second hour your work’.64

A companion collection of sententiae, addressed ad Monachos, suggests commensurate investment. In turn, a sixth century ostracon requesting delivery of Evagrian sententiae to the ‘desert’ Monastery of Epiphanius in Thebes, affirms broader networks of ‘commerce’ in such classroom friendly content.65 (3)  Sayings and Stories as School Texts Extant ‘elementary exercises’ (Progymnasmata) affirm that, within a classroom setting, once students had learned the definition of a particular gnomic sentence, its etymology, and differentiation from related forms, they turned to reworking this content in a series of increasingly complex manipulations.66 As noted above, to the end of gaining greater dexterity with the spoken and written word, students ‘learned how to recite a [gnomic maxim], to paraphrase it, to elaborate it, to confirm or refute its message, [and] to change its inflection through various cases and numbers’.67 It was also widely understood that this work was doubly useful. Whether explicitly or by allusion, with each iteration, grammatical manipulation of a maxim’s ‘wise’ content retained implicit capacity to shape character, and thus promote virtue.68 62   Put simply examining the compendium ‘in light of the literary genre to which such texts belong’, adds important nuance; cf. Pierre Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life (Oxford, 1995), 65. 63  Evagrius, Ep. 20. 64  Evagrius, Sententiae ad Virginem 4 [Sinkewicz]. 65   W.E. Crum, CO 252. See also H.E. Winlock and W.E. Crum, Monastery of Epiphanius (1926), II 393 no. 1. 66   Cf. G. Kennedy, Progymnasmata (2003). 67   Edward N. O’Neil, ‘The Chreia in Greco-Roman Literature and Education’, in Marvin W. Meyer (ed.), Institute for Antiquity and Christianity Report: 1972-1980 (Claremont, 1981), 19-22, 20. While this group of sententiae is not shaped as an alphabetikon, both form and content reflect pedagogical emphases. 68   For example, Pseudo-Isocrates suggests that: Οὕτω δὲ τὴν γνώμην οὐ δυνατὸν διατεθῆναι τὸν μὴ πολλῶν καὶ καλῶν ἀκουσμάτων πεπληρωμένον· τὰ μὲν γὰρ σώματα τοῖς συμμέτροις πόνοις, ἡ δὲ ψυχὴ τοῖς σπουδαίοις λόγοις αὔξεσθαι πέφυκε…, ‘noble behavior results from a mind ‘fraught with many noble maxims; for, as it is the nature of the body to be developed by appropriate exercises, it is the nature of the soul to be developed by moral precepts’ (Ad Demonicum

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The flexibility of classroom forms likewise effaces the binaries long used to differentiate between ‘urban’ and ‘desert’, ‘intellectual’ and ‘monk’. Following Kennedy, it invites examining the sequenced ‘sentences’ attributed to an urbane Evagrius, and the ‘wise sayings’ of ‘desert monks’, through a common classroom lens. Thus framed, each articulation is best understood as one step in an infinitely malleable series of exercises, commended for work within classroom settings.69 However, whether framed as an Evagrian sentence, a simple maxim, a comparison, or a repository of ‘desert wisdom’, the formative premise remains persistent. Likewise, the re-purposing of common content across diverse loci is particularly suggestive. For example, at the δ position in the carefully penned alphabetikon of the Bouriant student copybook, one finds the simple statement: Δένδρον παλαιὸν μεταφυτεύειν δύσκολον. ‘An old tree (δένδρον παλαιόν) is not easily replanted’.70

A fragmentary segment of what appears to be a still simpler version of the same maxim also appears on a sixth century ostracon provenanced to the Monastery of Epiphanius in Thebes. Δένδρο]ν παλαιὰ μετάψεται (sic). ‘An old tree should not be moved’.71

Here, the maxim fills one line in a loosely alphabetized group of classroomfriendly, ‘Sentences of Menander’. In both the Greek and Latin collections of the Apophthegmata Patrum, a paraphrase of the same injunction is iteratively rendered as a series of ‘sayings’. These are variously attributed to a range of protagonists. The most succinct articulation appears among the topically (or ‘systematically’) organized compendium of sayings collected by Pelagius and John: Dixit senex: Sicut arbor fructificare non potest, si saepius transferatur, sic nec monachus frequenter migrans potest fructificare. ‘A hermit said, “A tree cannot bear fruit if it is often transplanted. So it is with the monk”’.72 12 [Norlin]). See also L.I. Larsen, ‘On Learning a New Alphabet: The Sayings of the Desert Fathers and the Monostichs of Menander’, SP 55 (2003), 59-77; L.I. Larsen, ‘Monastic Paideia: Textual Fluidity in the Classroom’, in Liv Ingeborg Lied and Hugo Lundhaug (eds), Snapshots of Evolving Traditions (Berlin, Boston, 2017), 146-77; L.I. Larsen, ‘School Texts’, in Bradley Storin and Edward Watts (eds), A Companion to Late Antique Literature (Malden, 2018), 471-90. 69   See further discussion in L.I. Larsen, ‘On Learning a New Alphabet’ (2003); ead., ‘Redrawing the Interpretive Map’ (2013); ead., ‘Textual Fluidity in the Classroom’ (2017); ead., ‘School Texts’ (2018). 70   P. Bouriant 1 [Collart]. 71   O.MMA 14.1.210 = Mon. Epiph. 615 [Winlock and Crum]. 72   Apoph. Patr. Syst. 7.36 [Ward].



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A more elaborate ‘cousin’, is included in the Greek anonymous collection: Εἶπεν γέρων· ὥσπερ δένδρον καρποφορῆσαι ἀδύνατον συνεχῶς μεταφυτευόμενν,οὕτως οὐδὲ μοναχὸς μεταβαίνων ἐκ τόπου εἰς τόπον ἀρετὴν ἐπιτελέσαι δύναται. ‘An old man said, “Just as a tree cannot bring forth is always being transplanted, so the monk who is always going from one place to another is not able to bring forth virtue”’.73

In each, the sentence is aptly attributed to an anonymous ‘elder’. The Greek alphabetical collection includes an expanded paraphrase of the same core maxim. It appears in the collection of ‘desert wisdom’ attributed to Amma Syncletica: [Εἶπεν ἡ ἀμμᾶς Συγκλητική]· Ἐὰν ἐν κοινοβίῳ τυγχάνῃς, μὴ μεταλλάξῃς τὸν τόπον· βλαβήσῃ γὰρ μεγάλως. Ὥσπερ γὰρ ὄρνις, ἐξανισταμένη τῶν ὠῶν, οὔρια ταῦτα καὶ ἄγονα παρασκευάζει· οὕτως καὶ μοναχὸς ἢ παρθένος ψύγεται καὶ νεκροῦται τῆς πίστεως, τόπον ἐκ τόπου περιερχόμενος. ‘[Amma Syncletica] said, “If you find yourself in a monastery do not go to another place, for that will harm you a great deal. Just as the bird who abandons the eggs she was sitting on prevents them from hatching, so the monk or the nun grows cold and their faith dies, when they go from one place to another”’ (Apoph. Patr. Alph. Syncletica 6).74

In this re-counting, the ‘saying’ incorporates elements of the ergasia, a classroom sequence of set exercises, designed to build agile grammatical and literary conversance. Using ‘textbook’ application of established forms, the expanded ‘saying’ moves from ‘statement’ to ‘cause’ to ‘exemplar’ to ‘comparison’ to ‘re-statement’.75 Evagrius offers an alternate reworking, framed as a prose exhortation. Traditionally categorized as the erudition of an ‘urban intellectual’, the passage is included in a treatise addressing the ‘Foundations’ of monastic life: [Ἐὰν δὲ καὶ συνεχῶς ἔξω τοῦ κελλίου σου θεάσῃ σεαυτὸν προσκαλούμενον, παραιτοῦ.] Ἔστι γὰρ ἐπιζήμιος ἡ ἔξω τοῦ κελλίου σου συνεχὴς διατριβή· ἀφαιρεῖται τὴν χάριν, σκοτοῖ τὸ φρόνημα, μαραίνει τὸν πόθον. Ἴδε μοι κεράμιον οἴνου πλεῖστον ἐγχρονίσαν ἐν τῷ τόπῳ, καὶ κείμενον ἀσάλευτον, πῶς παρασκευάζει τὸν οἶνον λαμπρὸν, καθιστάμενον, εὐώδη· ἐὰν δὲ ὧδε κἀκεῖσε περιφέρηται, τεταραγμένον, στυγνὸν, πάσης ὁμοῦ τῆς ἐκ τῆς τρυγίας κακίας τὴν ἀηδίαν ἐπιδεικνύμενον. Τοιγαροῦν τούτῳ παραπλησιάσας σεαυτὸν, πειρῶ τῆς ὠφελείας, κόπτε τῶν πολλῶν τὰς σχέσεις, μή σου ὁ νοῦς περισπαστικὸς γένηται, καὶ τὸν τῆς ἡσυχίας ταράξῃ τρόπον.   Apoph. Patr. Anon. 204 [Wortley]; See also Apoph. Patr. Syst. 7.43 [Ward].   Apoph. Patr. Alph. Syncletica 6 [Ward]. 75   The most explicit discussion of this form appears in the Progymnasmatic handbook of Aphthonius. See additional discussion in L.I. Larsen, ‘School Texts’ (2018); L.I. Larsen, ‘Excavating the Excavations of Monastic Education’, in ead. and S. Rubenson (eds), Monastic Paideia in Late Antiquity (Cambridge, 2018), 101-24. 73 74

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‘A prolonged stay outside the cell is harmful [statement]: it deprives you of grace, darkens your thinking, extinguishes your longing [cause]. Note how a jar of wine left in its place for a while to lie unmoved renders the wine clear, settled, and perfumed. But if it is carried about here and there, it leaves the wine troubled, cloudy, and showing evidence at the same time of the unpleasantness and badness coming from the lees [exemplar]. Compare yourself then to this example and draw benefit from the experience. Break off relationships with a multitude of people, lest your mind be distracted and disturb the way of stillness [confirmation]’.76

Originally composed in Greek, Evagrius’ re-formulation is likewise preserved in Syriac. Affirming the versatility (and portability) of both content, context and form, a condensed paraphrase of the original maxim also surfaces in the collection of Evagrian Sententiae, addressed Ad Virginem.77 Ἐπιθυμία περιπάτων καὶ πόθος οἰκιῶν ἀλλοτρίων ἀνατρέπει κατάστασιν ψυχῆς καὶ διαφθείρει προθυμίαν αὐτῆς. ‘The desire to walk about and the longing for houses of strangers upsets the soul and destroys its zeal’.78

As conversation comes full circle, each iteration of the early copy book maxim offers rich elucidation of the flexible character that Kennedy assigns classroom ‘architectural’ forms. Conclusions A monastic landscape premised solely in notions of a- and exceptional literacy has rendered the variation that characterizes such gnomic reformulation something of riddle. However, viewed through a classroom lens, this malleable textuality is pro forma. From the Classical period to Late-Antiquity and beyond, affirmation of the qualitative ‘usefulness’ of maxims, sentences, gnomic sayings and exhortations echoes a recurring refrain. Emphatic rehearsal links city and desert, sophisticated and simple, elementary and advanced education. As demonstrated, across disparate settings and demographics, verbal agility was uniformly displayed in adept re-shaping of a common corpus of core foundational ‘wisdom’.79 Whether drawn from Delphic maxims, the Bible or classical literature, (or by late antiquity, some melding of the same), the combinations that characterize  Evagrius, Foundations 8 [Sinkewicz]; Edits mine.   This parallels attributed musings on the inverse connection between “evil thoughts” and “prayer”. 78  Evagrius, Ad Virginem 26 [Sinkewicz]. 79   This might involve reciting the same content as a different ‘type’ of articulation. More advanced iterations of ‘expansion’ and ‘condensation’ imbued the form with still greater fluidity; See discussion in L.I. Larsen, ‘School Texts’ (2018). 76 77



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this (and broader) monastic curricula fostered foundational acquisition of literate skills. As insistently, however, work with ‘wise’ maxims and sentences turned instructional media into conduits for transmitting moral content (and monastic mores), insuring that ‘the impression made on [an] unformed mind [might also] contribute to the formation of … character’.80 With a view to such molding, this material was iteratively employed in teaching elementary grammar and rhetoric because of its inherent capacity to ‘arouse and catalyze virtue’ and to ‘strengthen judgment concerning good and evil’.81 As demonstrated here, these aims were characteristically enduring. Such multi-faceted pedagogical purpose raises troubling questions about long reliance on face-value readings of the persuasively vivid vignettes with which discussion began.82 In counterpoint, Teresa Morgan’s consideration of the formative aspects of ancient education, and more recently, the interface between gnomic maxims/sentences and moral philosophy, is provocative. Morgan argues that the ancient/late-ancient social landscape is most accurately construed as a ‘patchwork [of] multicultural’ ethics and social structures, of ‘multiple overlapping communities with overlapping moralities’.83 She suggests that just as ‘the degree of common moral ground between socially and geographically different groups is considerable’,84 so the range of positions captured in collections of simple sentences, sayings and apophthegmatic stories is a measure of the diversity of constituent authors and audiences. 80  Quintilian, Inst. 1.1.36 [Russell, LCL]; see also L.I. Larsen, ‘The Apophthegmata Patrum and the Classical Rhetorical Tradition’, SP 39 (2007), 409-15; ead., ‘Rustic Rumination or Rhetorical Recitation?’, Meddelanden från Collegium Patristicum Lundense 23 (2008), 21-30; ead., ‘Redrawing the Interpretive Map’ (2013). 81   John S. Kloppenborg, Formation of Q: Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Traditions (Harrisburg, 1987), 304; see also Seneca, Ad Lucilium 94.28-9, 32, 34. 82   In a provocative summary, Ronald Hock and Edward O’Neil rehearse the challenges inherent to gleaning historical information from gnomic material. They suggest that: ‘… each part of [a maxim or saying] – the character, the prompting circumstance (if any), and the [statement] or action – [could] be manipulated in ways that [might] do little to preserve historical reminiscence. … [A]ttribution to a character, needing only to be apt, [could] vary, so that [one could] not be sure who said or did something. The prompting question or circumstance [could] also vary according to the freedoms permitted in recitation and expansion or they [could] simply reflect … conventional setting[s] … [F]inally, the saying itself [could] be recited in different words, so that [one] cannot be sure of the exact words in [a given] saying, only the general sentiment’ (The Chreia in Ancient Rhetoric [Atlanta, 1986], 46). Hock and O’Neil also observe that if the flexibility implicit to classroom skills mitigates against re-capturing the ‘exact’ words or circumstances that attend a gnomic articulation, the ‘apt’ circumstances woven into a particular narrative framework afford a rich rubric for re-imagining the general contours of the historical settings from which a given body of gnomic material derives. Here, descriptive detail, and the range of ‘conventional circumstances’ that occur and recur in respective accounts may be understood as reflexively ‘historical’ in representing a normative spectrum of praxis. 83   Teresa Morgan, Popular Morality in the Early Roman Empire (Cambridge, 2007). 84   Ibid. 2.

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Asserting that as a genre, such iterative re-formulations do not seek to explicitly delineate ‘what is right or wrong, good or bad’, but rather ‘to raise questions and possibilities – to problematize … [and] provoke’, Morgan argues that the essence of foundational maxims and sentences lies not in their ‘simplicity’ but ‘multivalency, not in the resolution of moral dilemmas but the expression of probably insoluble tensions’. She additionally premises that ‘the appearance and distribution of topics in gnomic sayings and stories reflect[s] neither their social importance nor their marginality nor their disputability, [nor I might add, their historical accuracy,] but what one might call their ponderability: [that is] the degree to which they are felt to require ethical advice and consideration’.85 Mapping ‘a landscape which can be read from many directions in many configurations’, emergent content reflects ‘communities commit[ed] … to engage, not to agree with one another’.86 So situated, the well-rehearsed details that texture depictions of Antony, Evagrius, and Arsenius, as a- and begrudging literates, in some sense, bring conversation full circle. Reading generously, in a diverse social landscape, comprised of a range of literacies, the impulse to relativize the value implicit to an elite education perhaps should not surprise. Then as now, such depictions render patent, the tensions associated with variable degrees of access. While having the iconic founder of monasticism disavow all interest in such investment might prove persuasive, scenarios depicting two illustrious literati discounting the advantages of pedagogical privilege, appear inversely prescriptive. As striking is the degree to which this landscape is mirrored in the tiered negotiation that textures Evagrian correspondence with a group of female φιλομαθεῖς.87 The recurrent threads that link these texts simultaneously invite more complex assessment of larger-than-life caricatures, while productively elucidating ‘life-sized’ shadows.88 It is difficult to over-emphasize the influence of a-critical readings of monastic gnomic material in shaping both the history of monasticism and the history of   Ibid. 18.   Ibid. 20. 87  Evagrius, Ep. 20. 88   The tensive character of the scenarios with which our discussion began invites examining both caricatured and non-caricatured refraction in an alternate light. Challenging a historiographical trajectory in which scholars of both monasticism and education have taken monastic disdain for ‘learning letters’ as their starting point, one might wonder whether such interpretive distinctions are wholly arbitrary. Just as James Goehring invites radically re-reading of the Egyptian desert landscape in ‘The Dark Side of Landscape: Ideology and Power in the Christian Myth of the Desert’ [in Dale B. Martin and Patricia Cox Miller (eds), The Cultural Turn in Late Ancient Studies: Gender, Asceticism, and Historiography (Durham, London, 2005), 136-49], so closer analysis commends closer scrutiny. Here, what is perhaps most patent is the degree to which scholarly assessment that separates Egypt and Palestine, city and desert, lettered and rustic, has effectively obscured more particular and more nuanced intersections that characterize and link the spectrum of diverse texts and communities, which attach to these settings. See complementary discussion in L.I. Larsen, ‘Redrawing the Interpretive Map’ (2013). 85 86



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education. However, the place that critical engagement of monastic texts must hold in re-writing and/or amending this history, is more nuanced. Resisting the impulse to simply replace one a-dimensional construct with its inverse, it is significant that in ancient rhetorical handbooks, maxims, gnomic sentences, sayings, and reminiscences consistently constitute the most elementary stages of the ‘elementary exercises’. This makes the sheer density of monastic gnomic and apophthegmatic material, suggestive (repeatedly, I have argued that it is, in fact, more akin to an elephant in the living room). In preserving and reconfiguring widely practiced received traditions, the texts examined here affirm that teaching any ‘alphabet’ remains reliant on the civic pre-occupations that structure the conventional curriculum. It is as clear that teaching a ‘new alphabet’ requires deft navigation of the structural and civic tensions inherent to emergent monastic life. As the ‘missing chapter’ of monastic education is re-written, extant classroom corpora – maxims, sentences and sayings – bely idealized binaries. They simultaneously elucidate the cracks and fissures that texture a polis comprised of both ‘urban intellectuals’ and desert dwellers, men and women, wealthy and poor, young and old, elite and rustic. Perhaps predictably, the textual production that emerges from this re-envisioned cosmopolis melds urban intellectualism with communal/practical wisdom. As pedagogical forms pragmatically mirror the scaffolding introduced in the Vita Antonii, they also provide the essential structure for building, and sustaining, a ‘city of G_d … in the desert’.

Attention (προσοχή) in Evagrius of Pontus Rubén Peretó Rivas, UNCuyo – CONICET, Mendoza, Argentina

Abstract Basil of Caesarea gave an important place to attention both as a way to stay faithful to the Lord’s commandment and as a barrier to prevent the assault of the demons through the evil thoughts. Evagrius of Pontus, a disciple of Basil, is well known for his psychological approach to Christian asceticism in which the logismoi or wicked thoughts that are instilled by the demons in the mind play an important role. In this article, I want to discuss the place of attention in Evagrius’ teachings, how it is essential for keeping the soul free from the demon’s temptations and particularly the psychological meaning that the author assigns to this concept. In the conclusion, I argue that attention as well as other Evagrian concepts could be useful for today’s psychological therapies.

One of the best known homilies of Basil of Caesarea, is the one on the biblical words Πρόσεχε σεαυτῶ (Dt. 9:15), that is to say, on attention.1 Basil stresses the importance of attention to oneself, in order to achieve self-knowledge, but he goes further and presents attention as a medicine intended to prevent a concrete evil: to flee from the present moment, that happens as a result of thoughts that distracts a person and leads one astray from concrete reality of oneself, from the world that surrounds one and from God. In this article, I would like to explore the place of the concept of attention in the works of Evagrius Ponticus, a disciple of Basil and a Desert Father particularly interested in the psychology of the monks. The relevance of attention, in Evagrius as in Basil, arises from its connection with prayer. The man who wants to pray and go further in his spiritual progress, must be attentive, otherwise the distraction provoked by the demons will make his prayer sterile, preventing him from knowledge and contemplation of God. Evagrius asserts this point in several passages but the most relevant and intriguing is paragraph 149 of his De oratione, where he plays with the similar greek words προσοχή, attention, and προσευχή, prayer: ‘Attention in search of prayer will find prayer, for if anything else follows attention it is prayer, and   See Basil of Cesarea, L’Homélie de Basile de Césarée sur le mot ‘Observe-toi toi-même’ I, ed. S. Rudberg, Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis, Studia Graeca Stockholmiensia II (Stockholm, 1962). 1

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one must ever seek it earnestly’.2 The reasoning is simple: anyone who wants to pray, first and foremost must seek attention, or must be attentive. There is no prayer without attention, and attention leads to prayer. But what does Evagrius mean with attention? The concept must be placed and understood in the wide field of his psychology, particularly in his theory of thoughts. As is known, thoughts are the weapons that the demons have to hinder the return of the nous to God; consequently man must be attentive to thoughts that appear in his conscience that, like swords, are killers. ‘… be attentive (πρόσεχε) to the sharp thoughts like swords […] so these killers work with killer treachery […]’.3 For Evagrius, the nous is defended by an intelligible barrier that prevents the logismoi,4 intelligible arrows,5 that seep into it and wreck it: ‘[They] rip the soul apart as a dog would kill a fawn’.6 But it is not always easy to realize that an arrow is approaching, and this is the reason why Evagrius is constantly on the alert to be attentive or to be vigilant about the movement and changes with which the logismoi try to hide and not be discovered by the nous. There are many examples of this in several of his works. In the Praktiké he writes: ‘The thought of vainglory is a most subtle one and readily insinuates itself within the virtuous person with the intention of publishing his struggles and hunting after the esteem that comes from people’.7 The logismos of vainglory is subtle and does not show itself openly but only insinuates itself, so the nous must be attentive to find it out. The demon of acedia is, for Evagrius, the most dangerous and skillful to disguise itself. The acedia or ‘noonday demon is accustomed to envelop the entire soul and strangling the mind’.8 The soul becomes numb and suffocated and in this state of weakness all the other logismoi are able to come and find a place in it. In this case as well, attention is crucial not only to prevent the acedia from settling in the nous but also to cure it, alongside with the hypomoné or endurance: ‘Perseverance is the cure for acedia, along with the execution of all tasks with great attention [and the fear of God]’.9   Evagrius of Pontus, On Prayer 149, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus, ed. Robert Sinkewicz (Oxford, 2003), 209. 3   Evagrius of Pontus, À Euloge 10, ed. Charles-Antoine Fogielman, SC 591 (Paris, 2017), 312. 4   Evagrius of Pontus, Kepahalaia gnostica V 80, in Antoine Guilleaumont (ed.), Les six centuries des Képhalaia Gnostica d’Évagre le Pontique, Patrologia Orientalis 28 (Turnhout, 1968), 211. 5   Evagrius of Pontus, Képhalaia gnostica VI 83, 253. 6   Evagrius of Pontus, The Monk. A Treatise on the Practical Life 23, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 102. 7   Evagrius of Pontus, The Monk. A Treatise on the Practical Life 13, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 100. 8   Evagrius of Pontus, The Monk. A Treatise on the Practical Life 14, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 104. 9   Evagrius of Pontus, Eight Thoughts 17, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 85. 2



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Evagrius establishes a close relation between attention and discernment, proseche and diakrisis, and he conceives his Antirrhêtikos as a weapon to be used in a true inner war of which the monk should begin to learn its cunning, or ‘easily recognize the artifices of the enemies’.10 In order to do this he must acquire discernment, that is to say, to learn how to recognise demoniacal thoughts or logismoi, and so be able to reject them when they come. This is what the ‘the heart’s custodian’ consists of, a subject greatly appreciated in Byzantine spirituality, Evagrius being one of its first representatives.11 The criterion that Evagrius contributes for this diakrisis, or discernment is the following: ‘A peaceful state follows upon the former thoughts [the thoughts inspired in us by the angels], but a troubled one follows upon the latter [the thoughts inspired by the demons]’.12 This instruction, found in other patristic texts, in Evagrius has an ulterior motive because his real interest is to identify the different demons suggested in each of these thoughts.The monk should thus learn to know the different demons, their conducts and ruses, having recourse to observation, since each of them has different habits: ‘It is necessary to recognize also the differences among demons and to make note of their attendant circumstances’.13 The demon once identified is unmasked and thus already vanquished. The necessity that Evagrius proposes to begin the strategies of battle by clearly discerning the enemy that confronts the soul is the reason why throughout his work so many types of demons are identified that, far from being a curious anecdote, are manifested as different facets of a psychological character. Some of his disciples, like Joseph Hazzaya, delve deeply into this subject insisting on the necessity for this previous analysis.14 The inner war that Evagrius claims is already shown in the very beginning of the Antirrhêtikos which says: From the rational nature that is ‘beneath heaven’, part of it fights; part assists the one who fights; and part contends with the one who fights, strenuously rising up and making war against him. The fighters are human beings; those assisting them are God’s angels; and their opponents are the foul demons.15

10   Evagrius of Pontus, The Monk. A Treatise on the Practical Life 83, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 111. 11   See Antoine Guillaumont, Un philosophe au désert. Évagre le Pontique (Paris, 2009), 243. 12   Evagrius of Pontus, The Monk. A Treatise on the Practical Life 80, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 110. 13   Evagrius of Pontus, The Monk. A Treatise on the Practical Life 43, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 105. 14   See Rubén Peretó Rivas, ‘El demonio errante en Evagrio Póntico y José Hazzaya’, Salmanticensis 66/3 (2019), 311-29. 15   Evagrius of Pontus, Talking Back. Antirrhêtikos Prologue 1, ed. David Brakke (Collegeville, 2009), 49.

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The Antirrhêtikos is inscribed in Evagrius’ cosmology, inherited from Origen, according to which angels, demons and men share the same nature, the nous, and are differentiated by the depth of the fall they experienced from the original unity. There arises, then, a situation of constant conflict provoked by the intention of the demons to prevent men from returning to the lost unity, and that of the angels that look for ways of helping men to achieve that objective. And this lost unity is reached fundamentally through prayer. It is for this motive that the demons concern themselves with preventing this task of the monks through the logismoi. ‘Why do the demons want to produce in us gluttony, fornication, avarice, anger, and resentment, and the other passions? So that the mind becomes thickened by them and unable to pray as it ought’.16 The logismoi or evil thoughts that continuously tempt the soul of the monk, also darken it and obstruct prayer. Deprivation of this great good must provoke an energetic reaction in which the monk’s thymic dimension is also involved, that is to say his irascible appetite. Anger is precisely the passion to be used in view of this holy objective: to drive out the demons. In the Praktikos he explains that this is the way kata physim, or according to nature, of using irascibility, in opposition to the way para physim, or contrary to nature, which is when anger is used against other human beings: The nature of the irascible part is to fight against the demons and to struggle over any sort of pleasure. And so the angels, on the one hand, suggest to us spiritual pleasure and the blessedness that will come from it, and they urge us to turn our irascibility against the demons. These latter, on the other hand, drag us toward worldly desires and compel the irascible part, contrary to its nature, to fight with people, so that with the mind darkened and fallen from knowledge it may become the traitor of the virtues.17

The aim of an Evagrian monk is not only to avoid bad actions but also to try to avoid the experience of the first movements that might incite him to sin. This is why Evagrius encourages his readers to convert themselves not merely into monastic men, that is to say that they have stopped commiting sinful actions, but rather into monastic intellects, that is to say that they are free including from sinful thoughts. A monk of these characteristics enjoys complete clarity of mind, and ‘at time of prayer sees the light of the Holy Trinity’.18 The ultimate aim is to eliminate thoughts themselves and so pray to and contemplate only God, what Evagrius calls ‘pure prayer’, without intermediaries, not even images. That’s why all the Biblical texts proposed in the Antirrhêtikos are destined to wrench off thoughts as a first measure. Evagrius uses the verb τέμνω (temno), meaning to wrench off, extirpate or eradicate, in his theory of mental operations that are closely related to the practice   Evagrius of Pontus, Chapters on Prayer 50, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 198.   Evagrius of Pontus, The Monk. A Treatise on the Practical Life 24, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 102. 18   Evagrius of Pontus, Talking Back. Antirrhêtikos, Prologue 5, 51. 16 17



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of antirrhêsis. In his treatise On Thoughts he further elucidates with respect to this concept: Among thoughts some serve to cut off others (τέμνουσιν), while some are themselves cut off (τέμνονται): evil thoughts cut off good ones, and in turn evil ones are cut off by good ones. The Holy Spirit therefore pays attention to the thought that was posited first and condemns or approves us with respect to it. What I mean is something like this: I get a thought of offering hospitality and this I have thanks to the Lord, but this gets cut off when the tempter comes along and suggests offering hospitality for the sake of esteem. Another example: I get a thought of offering hospitality for the sake of being seen by people, but then this is cut off when a better thought intervenes, which directs our virtue more towards the Lord and compels us not to do this for the sake of people. If then we stay with the former thoughts by our works even while tempted by the latter ones, we will receive the reward only of those thoughts posited first, because, being human and occupied in the fight with the demons, we do not have the strength always to hold onto the right thought intact, nor in turn are we able to keep the evil thought unchallenged, for we possess the seeds of virtue. However, if one of the thoughts that cuts off others stays for awhile, it becomes established in the place of the one that is cut off, and then the individual will be moved to act according to that thought.19

This passage provides a wider context to the antirrhêsis. Each of the monk’s thoughts, good or bad, can be wrenched off by its corresponding opposite, and Evagrius suggests that practically every one of our thoughts possesses its opposite. In his opinion, conflicting thoughts within the intellect are endemic to the fallen nature proper to the human condition. Even if man may possess the seeds of virtue, he is human and not an angel, therefore, a fighter against the demons. In the antirrhêsis the monk thus deliberately sets in motion a process that consists in opposing the good thoughts taken from the Bible in order to cut the bad ones induced by the demons, and this task requires attention and vigilance. Attention is then close to watchfulness and with the task of the sentry, the soldier that is posted at the watchtower to alert his army when the enemy is approaching. ‘Watch out lest the evil demons deceive you through some apparition…’,20 says Evagrius in The Chapters on Prayer. The devil wants to deceive man, and sometimes he dips into visions that frightens the monk or stimulates his passions. Διὸ προσεκτέον νουνεχῶς (‘therefore, one must pay attention with mindfulness’).21 The lack of attention not only opens the door of the citadel to the logismoi but also weakens the soul that becomes depressed because of the absence of vigor (τόνος).22 This weakness is the opportunity for the demons to tie the   Evagrius of Pontus, On thoughts 7, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 157-8.   Evagrius of Pontus, Chapters on Prayer 94, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 203. 21   Evagrius of Pontus, Chapters on Prayer 137, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 207. 22   ‘Take a firm stand, pray vigorously, and turn aside the concerns and considerations that come upon you, for they trouble and disturb you so as to slacken your intensity’, Evagrius of 19 20

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thoughts to the passions, and a passionate thought hinders prayer: ‘One who loves God is ever communing with him as with a father, while turning away any mental representation tied to the passions’.23 The perfect prayer then, is reached after a long way of ascesis, of detachment from the passions in order to achieve freedom from them, or apatheia. This concept, apatheia, is essential in Evagrius’ teaching; it is the state that the nous reaches after the first step of spiritual progress, the praktiké, allowing him natural contemplation.24 Therefore, in Evagrius’ complex anthropology attention plays an important role in the achievement of apatheia. The importance of attention towards spiritual progress is explicitly pointed out by Evagrius when he writes: It is necessary to know these things, so that when the thoughts begin to set their proper matter in motion and before we are cast out of our own state we may pronounce some word against them and denounce the one at hand. In this way we may readily make progress with God’s help and set them to flight in amazement and consternation over us.25

We must be attentive to thoughts that arrive to our mind so that, when they start to bother us with appetitive and emotional matters, we are ready to cast them out. And Evagrius adds: with ‘some words’, with reference to the antirrhétikos, or the practice to talk back the insinuation and temptations of the demons with the words from Scripture. And in the antirrhesis attention is essential to analyze the specific temptation suggested by the thought, in all its nuances and in every detail. Once again, Evagrius warns and points out the necessity of attention. In a scholium on Proverbs, he advises the monk Πρόσεχε σεαυτῶ, in order ‘to correctly lead your virtues’, and the priest who ‘must pay attention not to the appearances but to the hearts (καρδίας προσέχειν)’.26 In On thoughts he describes the νοήματα or mental representations as a flock, and advises the monk to defend it because it could be a prey of the logismoi: Therefore, the anchorite must guard (φυλακή) this little flock night and day, lest any of the mental representations be taken by a wild beast or fall prey to thieves; and if ever something like this should happen in the wooded glen, he must immediately snatch it from the mouth of the lion and the bear.27

Pontus, Chapters on Prayer 9, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 194. See Rubén Peretó Rivas, ‘La eutonía en la dinámica psicológica de Evagrio Póntico’, SP 76 (2017), 59-66. 23   Evagrius of Pontus, Chapters on Prayer 54, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 198. 24   See Monica Tobon, ‘The Health of the Soul: Apatheia in Evagrius Ponticus’, SP 47 (2010), 187-202 and Rubén Peretó Rivas, Evagrio Póntico y la acedia (New York, 2017), 57-9. 25   Evagrius of Pontus, The Monk. A Treatise on the Practical Life 43, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 105. 26   Evagrius of Pontus, Scholies aux Proverbes 27, 23, ed. Paul Géhin, SC 340 (Paris, 1987), 429. 27   Evagrius of Pontus, On thoughts 17, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 164.



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In this paragraph, Evagrius uses the word φυλακή, or guard instead of ­ ρόσεχε but keeps the same meaning: the necessity and importance of close π attention to the soul’s own internal activity. At this point, a question arises. Is attention in Evagrius only directed to the inner self? Or does it have other objectives too? In other words, must the monk be mindful or attentive only to himself, or also to the external reality? In spite of the demons being the masters of the logismoi, external to the monk, their activity is interior so, from this point of view, they are not part of the external reality. If so, are the things that stand in front of man also objects of his attention? Evagrius does not speak about attention regarding the external reality, which makes sense. He speaks to the monks who live in the desert, in solitude, devoid of most of the external things that the common man has at hand. The monk is alone, in his little cell, with a Bible, a sleeping mat and some pots. That is all. Beyond that, there is only the desert, the sand and the sun, and his mind. The fight takes place there, in his mind, when the demons and the logismoi try to prevent the monk from progress in contemplation. The monks do not have external things to be distracted with; their universe is an inner one. However, there are some references in Evagrius’ work where he makes allusions to attention to the external world. In the Praktiké, he writes: ‘When we have to stay for a while in cities or villages, then especially we should hold vigorously to the practice of abstinence while in the company of seculars, lest, with our mind grown thick and without taking the usual care in the occasion at hand, it do something ill-considered and become a fugitive under the blows of the demons’.28 Evagrius places the monks – the μοναχοί – in the middle of the secular men – the κοσμικοί – on occasion when they have to travel to the cities. The wordly things appear again; the external reality is again populated by objects that claim the monks’ attention. The inner glance begins to be distracted from the outside; the mind begins to wander all around; it becomes a fugitive pushed by the demons. The mind flees from itself; it is no more mindful of the world of thoughts, the representation and the logismoi, while he is required by the external stimulus. It is in this dangerous circumstance when the monk must practice ἐγκράτεια, self control or abstinence, and must try to go back to himself. The two key ideas in this paragraph are self control and warning against escape. The first one, the ἐγκράτεια, means that the monk must be the master of his own attention, avoiding his mind to be lost amid a variety of external things. He must remain seated in the internal cell, in his own inner desert, and must not let himself be carried away by the coming and going of the world that 28   Evagrius of Pontus, The Monk. A Treatise on the Practical Life 41, in The Greek Ascetic Corpus (2003), 105.

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surrounds him. If the monk does not practice the ἐγκράτεια, then he will flee. It means the dispersion of the mind, that hinter the faithfulness to himself and makes him prefer to flee from the inner cell to the attractions of the world. Conclusion Attention has a place in the Evagrian spirituality and psychology. It is essential for prayer and is the way to prevent the assault of thoughts and the resulting loss of freedom. Without attention the nous cannot walk along its spiritual progress and cannot achieve its goal, contemplation. Finally, attention regards mainly to the monk’s self but it also must be directed to external things of the world in order to avoid the dispersion of the self. Arrived at this point, I wonder if the prominent place assigned to attention by Basil and Evagrius means something for the psychology of our times; if we can go beyond the specific spiritual goals of their writings and find in them some keys that might be helpful to cure some conditions and disorders of today’s man. Jean-Claude Larchet and Alexis Trader, between others, have extensive studies on the benefit of the Church Fathers’ teaching in the healing process of some mental deseases like depression and anxiety.29 I believe Evagrius teaching could also be a great help for the wounded man of our times.

  See Jean-Claude Larchet, Thérapeutique des maladies spirituelles (Paris, 2000), and Alexis Trader, Ancient Christian Wisdom and Aaron Beck’s Cognitive Therapy. A Meeting of Minds (New York, 2012). 29

The Coherence of Evagrius’ Scholia on Proverbs Stuart E. Parsons, Trinity College of Florida, New Port Richey, FL, USA

Abstract Scholarship has not yet discovered the structure of Evagrius’ Scholia on Proverbs at a detailed level. Indeed, Paul Géhin, one of the foremost Evagrius scholars of the twentieth century and editor of our standard Greek text of the Scholia, finds Evagrius’ selection of proverbs upon which to comment to be curious. But this curiosity is explained by an ascetic-salvific, conceptual structure that underlies the Scholia, determining not only the commentary but even Evagrius’ very selection of individual proverbs, a structure owing not as much to a unique philosophical system encoded in his mystical writings, but rather to more widely held views and to his exegetical convictions recorded in his Gnostikos. This underlying structure embodies thematic chains of remarks punctuated typically by explainable gaps in commentary. While most of these chains address practical virtue, the aim of the initial stage of the journey to the Holy Trinity, as one might expect given Evagrius’ recommendation of Proverbs for those in this initial stage, we also find these practical virtue chains tightly intertwined with significant numbers of thematic chains devoted to the subsequent two stages of progress.

Introduction Paul Géhin remarks that in Evagrius’ Scholia on Proverbs, the choice of proverbs upon which to comment is curious.1 In this present article, I want to explain much of this curiosity.2 A helpful initial step is to situate this investigation among the currents of Evagrian scholarship. A recent stream of Evagrian scholarship seeks to unify the divide between those who focus on the Kephalaia gnostika and the Letter to Melania and see him mainly as a speculative mystic and those who focus on his exegetical and 1   Paul Géhin, ‘Introduction’, in Évagre le Pontique, Scholies aux Proverbes. Introduction, Texte Critique, Traduction, Notes, Appendices et Index, trans. and ed. P. Géhin, SC 340 (Paris, 1987), 14. 2   This study develops an earlier version presented in Chicago at the 2018 annual meeting of the North American Patristics Society. For overviews of Evagrius, his thought, and his afterlife, see J. Gribomont and D. Hombergen, ‘Evagrius of Pontus’, in A. Di Berardino (ed.), Encyclope­ dia of Ancient Christianity (Downers Grove, IL, 2014), I 889-90; Antoine Guillaumont, Les ‘Kephalaia Gnostica’ d’Évagre le Pontique et l’histoire de l’Origénisme chez les Grecs et chez les Syriens (Paris, 1962), 37-9; Frances M. Young and Andrew Teal, From Nicaea to Chalcedon: A Guide to the Literature and Its Background (Grand Rapids, 2010), 101-15; Columba Stewart, ‘Imageless Prayer and the Theological Vision of Evagrius Ponticus’, JECS 9 (2001), 176-80.

Studia Patristica CXV, 341-352. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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ascetical works and see him mainly as an ascetic master.3 Representative of this recent unifying stream are Linge, Stewart, Driscoll, Darling Young, Dysinger, and Konstantinovsky.4 I also enter this unifying stream. Paul Géhin in his acclaimed study of Evagrius’ exegesis observes that Evagrius’ interpretation was completely determined by his three-fold vision of the spiritual life.5 I heartily agree. And since scholarship has noticed that his vision of the spiritual life as a journey to the Holy Trinity also lies at the center of his theological vision, we can correlate his theology with his exegesis here.6 Thus, this present study can help bridge the divide between scholarship focused on his speculative thought and scholarship focused on his ascetic and exegetical practices. To this end, I want to explain much of Géhin’s curiosity by demonstrating that an ascetic-salvific, conceptual structure underlies Evagrius’ Scholia on Proverbs, determining not only the commentary but even his very selection of individual proverbs, a structure owing not as much to a unique philosophical system encoded in his mystical writings, but rather to more widely held views and to exegetical convictions recorded in his Gnostikos.7 3   This approach is analogous to that of Martens demonstrating that Origen’s doctrine of preexistence owes less to his philosophical convictions than typically thought and more to his exegetical ones. See Peter W. Martens, ‘Origen’s Doctrine of Pre-Existence and the Opening Chapters of Genesis’, ZAC 16 (2013), 516-49. 4   See David E. Linge, ‘Leading the Life of Angels: Ascetic Practice and Reflection in the Writings of Evagrius of Pontus’, JAAR 68 (2000), 537-68, C. Stewart, ‘Imageless Prayer’ (2001), 173-204, esp. 174-5; Jeremy Driscoll, Evagrius Ponticus: Ad Monachos, ACW 59 (New York, 2003); Robin Darling Young, ‘Appropriating Genesis and Exodus in Evagrius’ On Prayer’, in Paul M. Blowers et al. (eds), In Dominico Eloquio. In Lordly Eloquence: Essays on Patristic Exegesis in Honor of Robert Louis Wilken (Grand Rapids, 2002), 242-58; Luke Dysinger, Psalm­ ody and Prayer in the Writings of Evagrius Ponticus, Oxford Theology and Religion Monographs (Oxford, 2005); Julia Konstantinovsky, Evagrius Ponticus: The Making of a Gnostic, Ashgate New Critical Thinking in Religion, Theology and Biblical Studies (Farnham, 2009). 5   See P. Géhin, ‘Introduction’ (1987), 18. 6   For Evagrius’ theological focus on the journey of minds to the Trinity, see A. Guillaumont, Kephalaia Gnostica et l’Origénisme (1962), 37-9; C. Stewart, ‘Imageless Prayer’ (2001), 174-5. 7   This is not improbable. Ancient observers such as Babai the Great as well as modern ones such as Harmless, Fitzgerald, and Driscoll remind us that Evagrius habitually gathered self-contained maxims together into a coherent web joined by thematic strands. However, the details of such a web running through the Scholia on Proverbs have not yet been discovered. See William Harmless and Raymond R. Fitzgerald, ‘The Sapphire Light of the Mind: The Skemmata of Evagrius Pontus’, TS 62 (2001), 504; J. Driscoll, Ad Monachos (2003), 69-71, 75-6; C. Stewart, ‘Imageless Prayer’ (2001), 184. For Evagrius’ exegetical conventions, see his Gnostikos 10, 16-21, 34; Scholia on Proverbs 247. Bunge, Driscoll, and Darling Young remind us of their centrality to his exegetical practices. See R. Darling Young, ‘Appropriating Genesis and Exodus’ (2002), 248-9; J. Driscoll, Ad Monachos (2003), 190. Regarding venerable cultural ideas supporting Evagrius’ thought, my observations of an ascetic hermeneutic that stood on foundations older than Origen harmonizes with the case of Linge that Evagrius’ tripartite view of the soul and even the very core of his thought owes more to Neo-Platonism than to Origen. See D.E. Linge, ‘Life of Angels’ (2000), 543-5.



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Tightly Linked Chains Evagrius produced hundreds of remarks on Proverbs, the subject of a larger project. Its research demonstrates that the same pattern that we will see below extends indeed through all of Evagrius’ Scholia on Proverbs. Because of limited space, we can examine here only one of the explanations of Evagrius’ selection of proverbs upon which to comment discovered in the above-mentioned project, and only the first eleven scholia, uncovering a little corner of the underlying structure. We will find tightly woven thematic chains of scholia punctuated typically by explainable gaps in commentary. And given that Evagrius recommended Proverbs for those engaged in πρακτική,8 we might expect to find most of his scholia focused on this initial stage of Christianity, but we will actually find many also addressing φυσική and θεολογική. I will build my case by exposing successive layers of evidence. And so we begin. Scholia 1-3 on Prov. 1:1-2a:  Evagrius began with the initial word of Proverbs, παροιμίαι.9 He likely took παροιμία in the sense of ‘parable’, viewing the biblical proverbs as parables pointing past the literal. He explained: ‘A parable is a saying meant to signify mental matters using perceptible affairs’.10 His comment would have raised absolutely no qualms in his day, since allegory was a standard discipline of the philosophical life, as Kolbet reminds us.11 We will see below that the ‘mental matters’ behind these proverbs are mainly those mental matters of πρακτική and φυσική, the initial stages in Evagrius’ mental journey to the Holy Trinity. This helps explain the next remark: ‘The kingdom of Israel is knowing that words about God and incorporeal things and corporeal things and judgment and encompassing providence are spiritual, which is contemplation about moral and physical and theological revelation’.12 While Prov. 1:1 and 2a mention David, Solomon, and Israel, they say nothing explicit about God, judgment, providence, and incorporeal things. But the three stages of Evagrius’ vision of a mind’s journey to God has everything to do with these realities.13 The first stage tames passions. Dysinger shows that judgment and providence epitomize the   Scholia 247.   Scholia 1. 10   Unless noted, translations in this study are my own. 11   Paul R. Kolbet, ‘Rethinking the Rationales for Origen’s Use of Allegory’, SP 56 (2013), 41-50, 42. 12   Scholia 2. 13   Dysinger concludes that for Evagrius, judgment and providence are essential for contemplative exegesis, since he introduced these concepts in both his initial scholion on Ecclesiastes and his second scholion on Proverbs, even though neither Eccl. 1:1 nor Prov. 1:1 explicitly mention them. The typical Evagrian formula, ‘the logoi of providence and judgement’, encompasses in Scholia on Ecclesiastes 1 the discipline of φυσική itself. See L. Dysinger, Psalmody and Prayer (2005), 172. 8 9

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second.14 The final stage enters the incorporeal by contemplating the Holy Trinity.15 The phrase, ‘moral and physical and theological revelation’, summarizes this journey, its adjectives naming its three stages.16 Reading Proverbs by reference to these stages, he followed the exegetical principle of his Gnostikos 13, 18 and Scholia on Proverbs 247. This exegetical principle harmonized easily with his overall conception of Christianity, which he expressed quite elegantly and concisely in his Praktikos 1-3. However, this same exegetical principle floated in a long-standing cultural current. The idea of three stages of ascent certainly came to Evagrius from Origen through the Cappadocians. But Origen was not his only source, for there are indications of an underlying awareness of a threefold stage of ascent already in the culture. While not conclusive, and while the earlier cultural ideas of a threefold ascent do not carry exactly the same three stages as that of Evagrius, we can yet trace some indications of them. These include for example in early Platonism, Plato’s famous analogy of the cave (Republic 7.514a-518b) where Plato presented indeed an ascent with two stages: the freed prisoner ascending towards the Good while perceiving it quite unclearly and in need of habitation to the light, which Plato explicitly named in 7.517b as the soul’s ascent to the realm of the intellect; secondly, the prisoner having ascended and whose eyes finally are habituated to see the light of the Good. But we could also speak of a preliminary stage prior to these two in which a person through moral training turns not away from what is good but turns his vision towards good, which turning Plato explicitly calls in 7.518c-d ‘virtues’ and a turning of the body from darkness to light, and a conversion of the soul and which he claims in 7.518e is gained through moral habit and practice. This turning lies kindred to the turning of the freed prisoner of the cave analogy just a few sections earlier. After his chains drop free, the cave prisoner turns around towards the light and sees a new perception – direct vision of the light rather than a mere illuminated cave wall. These two depictions of turning, first in the cave analogy in 7.515c, and shortly later in the discussion of moral habits in 7.518d-519b, suggest each other by means of their close proximity and their shared intertextual features of turning one’s body and consequently seeing direct light. Thus we have here   Ibid. 184-5, 198.   Regarding the mind, contrary to modern perspectives but in accord with ancient ones, ­Evagrius understood the mind (νοῦς) to operate through direct and immediate perception of realities kindred to its own nature, intuitively rather than deductively. Thus, for him the mind is the highest region of the soul, able to perceive God and made in the image of God. And its fitting activity is prayer. See W. Harmless and R.R. Fitzgerald, ‘Sapphire Light’ (2001), 513-4. 16   In both the ancient philosophical way of life and in Evagrius’ experience, disciples never terminated their practice of earlier stages as they entered upper stages of ascent. Rather, mature disciples performed all three stages simultaneously. See Jeremy Driscoll, ‘The “Circle of Evagrius”: Then and Now’, in Maciej Bielawski and Daniel Hombergen (eds), Il monachesimo tra eredità e aperture, Analecta Monastica 8 (Rome, 2004), 68. 14

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in Plato initial moral advancement by means of turning one’s vision towards what is good and building habits of virtue, then a process of learning to perceive not shadows but the true realities themselves and thus ascending towards the Good and the intellectual realm, finally habitation to the intellectual realm, enabling contemplation of the Good in a third stage at the end of the ascent. We find in Plato other traces of threefold stages of ascending in his Sym­ posium 210-1. Here, as also in the above-discussed Republic 7.514a-519b, Plato never explicitly identified the ascent as progressing in three stages. Rather, the stages in both texts are more implied than explicit. Yet also in Symposium 210-1, we may discern these. Admittedly, the implicit stages in the Symposium differ than those in the Republic.  Plato described the ascent in Symposium 210a in terms of beauty, beginning with the contemplation of a particular beautiful body. Then in 210b, other beautiful bodies are contemplated until the one contemplating is able to turn attention away from the sensible realm toward the insensible realm of the Forms so as to discern the Form of human beauty which leaves traces in the physical bodies that have already been seen. Here the ascent passes from the sensible into the insensible, we might say entering a second stage. And indeed, this is clearly a second stage, since at this point the one ascending passes through the essential division of reality for Plato, the division between the sensible realm and that of the insensible. But in 210e-211e, Plato revealed the culmination of this ascent into its ultimate third stage. The entrance into this third stage is quite noticeable. Plato described in 210e a sudden revelation of a marvelous vision. This ultimate vision is imperishable and unchanging (211a), in a sort of singularity rather than collection of particular forms (211a-b). Furthermore, it is the final secret (211b), even the essence of beauty (ὅ ἔστι καλόν, 211c-d). This Platonic ascent in the Symposium is not too different from Evagrius’ threefold ascent. Both begin with attention to the physical realm and the human experience of love. Admittedly, Plato did not denote here a moral imperative to love, and thus a focus on morality. Next, the second stage for both writers involved discerning unseen realities by means of contemplation of physical realities, Evagrius’ φυσική stage and Plato’s discernment of the insensible Form of human beauty through contemplation of physical human bodies. Likewise for both authors, the third stage is a marvelous and striking contemplation of the ultimate insensible goal. In Neo-Platonism, we have for example, Porphyry’s arranging the Enne­ ads of his master Plotinus into a threefold scheme beginning with ethics in the first stage and ending on the highest metaphysical level with reflections on the One. Porphyry explicitly affirmed his arrangement as a threefold one.17 Lest we think the aforementioned scheme of Porphyry was merely a tidy arrangement for presenting intellectual concepts, we must read this historically, in view  Porphyry, On the Life of Plotinus and the Arrangements of his Works 25-6.

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of the attitude of his culture about the utility of philosophy. In contrast to the common modern notion that philosophy is a purely intellectual activity, by contrast, even fairly uneducated people in Greco-Roman culture regarded philosophy as a life to be lived just as much as they regarded it as a way of understanding. For instance, Porphyry in his treatise On Abstinence 4.1-6 commended abstinence, moderation, generosity, justice, and overall moral purification. He asserted particularly in 4.6 that ethical purity is the necessary prerequisite for contemplation of divine things. Moreover, this is representative of the entire GrecoRoman tradition, which saw philosophy as a life to be lived and not simply a body of ideas, as both Cooper and Hadot have shown in monograph-length treatments.18 Since Neo-Platonism set the particular cultural expectations about the philosophical life for Evagrius, we should not be surprised that Evagrius followed Porphyry in presenting a three-stage progression from ethics into physics and finally into metaphysics. Where Porphyry arranged the ethical Enneads before those focused on physics, and both before the final one focused on metaphysics, Evagrius followed Origen in recommending the sequence of Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and Song of Songs. Specifically, he explicitly advised the contemplation of Proverbs first of all, for disciples in πρακτική, practical ethics. Then for those entering Evagrius’ second stage of ascent, he recommended contemplation of Ecclesiastes with its revelation of heavenly wisdom concerning souls as is disclosed through close observation of physical life, for those in the second stage of φυσική. Thirdly for those in the final stage of ascent, θεολογική, Evagrius advised contemplation of the Song of Songs.19 As Géhin has noted, Evagrius developed Clement’s and Origen’s ideas about the utility of these biblical wisdom books into something new, a full-fledged hermeneutical theory.20 When the ancients encountered these texts in these particular arrangements, it was not merely for the sake of establishing tidy mental frameworks of mere concepts. Rather, they encountered these texts in these ancient arrangements for the sake of actually experiencing stages of progression in venerable sequences set by their masters.

18   Pierre Hadot and Michael Chase, trans., What is Ancient Philosophy? (Cambridge, MA, 2002); John M. Cooper, Pursuits of Wisdom: Six Ways of Life in Ancient Philosophy From Socrates to Plotinus (Princeton, 2012). 19   For Evagrius on this Solomonic trilogy and his three stages, see his Scholia on Proverbs 247. 20   P. Géhin, ‘Introduction’ (1987), 29-30. It would go too far to claim, as many do, that Evagrius’ thought is essentially Greek philosophy in Christian dressing. Louth reminds us that while early Christianity grew in a largely Platonic cultural setting and often used Platonic language, their predominant endeavor was to demonstrate to their culture that the best of the philosophers perceived only dimly what God has revealed through his apostles and prophets. See Andrew Louth, The Origins of the Christian Mystical Tradition: From Plato to Denys (Oxford, 1981), 52-3.



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Of course, Evagrius was not the only Christian to follow this long-standing cultural pattern. His own theological teacher, Gregory of Nazianzus, knew full well that theology is no mere intellectual activity and that personal purification is its prerequisite, and indeed that it is more than a body of knowledge. Rather, it is a life, just as his culture knew that philosophy is similarly a kind of life.21 And Linge shows that although ancient philosophy was a way of life rather than a merely intellectual system, it was typically a rather moderate ‘gentlemen’s way of life’ and that Evagrius opposed this moderate practice with a radical asceticism. However, his radical asceticism was more than an emotionally and relationally arid philosophical lifestyle. Rather, in its fight against passions and demons and its journey towards God, it aimed for love of humanity and love of the Holy Trinity.22 Evagrius explained that a prominent word in the biblical phrase, παιδεία, or ‘teaching’, restrains passions. Restraint of passions, first physical ones and then non-physical ones, is indeed the aim of his first two stages of spiritual progress.23 Again, the journey to the Trinity is in view. Scholia 4 on Prov. 1:3c:  Evagrius skipped a verse. What in Prov. 1:3c was so attractive to him that he passed over 1:2b-3b? Much indeed. For one thing, he understood the phrase in 1:3c, κρίμα κατευθύνειν, ‘to make judgment upright’, to imply that the words of Proverbs may be wielded to restore the three human capacities of judgment which engage the three stages of progress. As Columba Stewart observes, while earlier Christians held a Platonic tripartite view of the soul, Evagrius was the first to place it at the center of his conception of the Christian life.24 So it is no surprise to find it also here.25 He enfolded it with his tripartite vision of progress. Thus far, he explained every proverbial phrase according to this spiritual vision and passed over biblical phrases which did not serve it. Scholia 5 on Prov. 1:7c:  Evagrius skipped over Prov. 1:4-7b in order to remark on 1:7c-d, which explicitly addresses the beginning of discernment. By   For this conviction in Gregory of Nazianzus, see Brian E. Daley, Gregory of Nazianzus, The Early Church Fathers (New York, 2006), 43-4. 22   E. Linge, ‘Life of Angels’ (2000), 549-51, 564. 23   This logic is even easier to follow in the Codex Iviron 555 text of the Scholia on Proverbs, where the order of σοφία and παιδεία is reversed in Evagrius’ quotation of Prov. 1:2a. 24   Columba Stewart, ‘Evagrius Ponticus and the “Eight Generic Logismoi”’, in Richard Newhauser (ed.), In the Garden of Evil: The Vices and Culture in the Middle Ages (Toronto, 2005), 19-26. 25   See Evagrius, Praktikos 89; J. Driscoll, Ad Monachos (2003), 8-9. Evagrius conceived the highest part of human nature to be the νοῦς, the mind, that portion able to enjoy knowledge of the Holy Trinity. Below νοῦς in his view of human nature is the irascible portion, able to harness anger for both good and evil. Where this middle portion is subject to incorporeal passions, the lowest portion is vulnerable to corporeal ones. On this, see his Scholia 127. 21

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passing over these verses, Evagrius immediately faced his central concern, ignoring rather vague and generalized purpose statements for Proverbs as it were. After all, he had already commented on the biblical purpose statements of Prov. 1:1-2a, 3c, in healthy detail. Thus, he read Prov. 1:7c in connection with the initial stage of spiritual progression. By attention to the stages of ascent, his comment here on Prov. 1:7c then, indeed links with his immediately prior comment on Prov. 1:3c. Right from the very start at Scholia 1, he asserted that Proverbs signify mental affairs by means of perceptible (αἰσθητός) ones. Here was his first use of a cognate of αἴσθησις, ‘sense-perception’. He dealt with this term or concept in every single scholion thus far. Since Prov. 1:7c, declares what is explicitly the beginning of αἴσθησις, there was further reason to jump from Prov. 1:3c to 1:7c.26 So αἴσθησις formed for Evagrius a bridge linking Prov. 1:3c and 1:7c and paving his route from Prov. 1:1 to 1:7c. Scholia 6 on Prov. 1:7d:  He explained that λόγῳ δέ, ‘but by means of reason’, that is, human reason as he clarifies here, no one will nullify wisdom and teaching.27 He thus referred to the human capacity that he mentioned only two scholia prior. Here then is yet another bridge spanning the gap of his silence on Prov. 1:4-7b.28 Scholia 7 on Prov. 1:9:  Evagrius passed over Prov. 1:8, on obeying parents, for the following verse with its mention of νοῦς, mind, and γνῶσις, knowledge. Through mention of νοῦς here and of λόγος, reason, in Scholia 6, he recalled the same capacities of judgment which he named three comments earlier, thus bridging yet another gap. 26   The only intervening verse that includes a cognate of αἴσθησις is Prov. 1:4. But as we have observed, Evagrius seems to have passed over the vague and generalized purpose statements for Proverbs composing these intervening verses. 27   When he commented here on Prov. 1:7d, he initially paraphrased the phrase by asserting that those who acquire evil nullify wisdom and teaching. 28   The absence of the definite article before the term λόγος, albeit in the dative in his expression, denotes not the second person of the Trinity or a particular entity but rather that human capacity mentioned above in his comment on verse 3c. For the grammar, see David Alan Black, It’s Still Greek to Me: An Easy-to-Understand Guide to Intermediate Greek (Grand Rapids, 1998), 77; and fuller discussion in F. Blass, A. Debrunner and Robert W. Funk, trans., A Greek Grammar of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature (Chicago, 1961), 134-5 and Daniel B. Wallace, Greek Grammar Beyond the Basics: An Exegetical Syntax of the New Testament (Grand Rapids, 1996), 108-13. Although λόγος, human reason, performs only a minor role in Evagrius’ theological anthropology, it nevertheless indeed plays a role. In O’Laughlin’s judgment, λόγος is not significant in Evagrius’ overall theological anthropology. See Michael O’Laughlin, ‘The Anthropology of Evagrius Ponticus and Its Sources’, in Charles Kannengiesser and William L. Petersen (eds), Origen of Alexandria: His World and His Legacy (Notre Dame, 1988), 357 n. 2. Yet, we know that λόγος held at least some place in the anthropology of Evagrius, since he explicitly asserted here in Scholia on Proverbs 4 that it is one of three mental faculties of judgment in us, along with νοῦς, mind and αἴσθησις, sense-perception.



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Scholia 8-11 on Prov. 1:13, 14a-b, 17: These scholia all concern demons who rob the godly of knowledge, specifically knowledge of God.29 Evagrius thus moved seamlessly from the prior string of comments focused on knowledge itself to this next string addressing demons who steal knowledge. Accordingly, he skipped Prov. 1:15-6, about evil men rather than demons. Again his substructure explains a gap. Commenting on Prov. 1:13, he quoted Prov. 4:5 and 19:8. The mention of wisdom and knowledge appears not only in the opening breath of the Scholia on Proverbs but also in the next line in the quotation of Prov. 4:5. The phrase, σοφία καὶ σύνεσις, ‘wisdom and knowledge (or sagacity)’, here in Scholia 8, is not too different from a similar phrase appearing just earlier in Scholia 3 and 6 in the accusative, σοφίαν καὶ παιδείαν, ‘wisdom and teaching’. While Prov. 1:13 seems to speak only of seizing someone’s possession, Evagrius actually did not stray far from the biblical text. He used here the term κτῆμα, which Homer frequently used in the plural to specify ‘heirlooms’. And we know from numerous places in Evagrius’ writings that words denoting ‘inheritance’ and ‘heir’ symbolized ‘knowledge’.30 This delicate symbolism explains why he claimed here that the inheritance of the righteous is wisdom and knowledge. Thus, he built a robust overpass focused on knowledge that spans gaps formed by his silence on Prov. 1:2b-3b, 4-7b, 8, 10-2, and 15-6.31 His attention to knowledge first appeared at Scholia 3 in his comment on Prov. 1:2a where 29   Scholia 8. While English translations of LXX Prov. 1:17 render πτερωτοῖς as ‘for birds’, the term πτερωτός is strictly speaking an adjective that can denote either ‘feathered’ or ‘winged’. But used as a substantive as in this proverb, the term could denote any winged creature. Evagrius interpreted πτερωτός as an evil winged creature as indicated at the end of his comment where he described the eternal chastisement by God of those who ‘bear their wings wickedly’. We find similar evil winged creature imagery elsewhere in his writings, including his Ad Monachos 125 where he called the words of heretics ‘angels of death’ or ‘messengers of death’, and his mention in his On Prayer 95 of demons who disguise themselves as angels. And he explicitly called demons birds in his Kephalaia gnostika 1.53. Regarding the text of Prov. 1:17, Géhin determines that Evagrius’ text of Proverbs was a Septuagint text closer to the Alexandrinus codex than to the other major codices. See P. Géhin, ‘Introduction’ (1987), 23-5. 30   See examples of this symbolism in his In Ps. 2:8; 5:1; In Prov. 13:22; 19:14; Kephalaia gnostika 1.8; 2.6-7; 3.72; 4.4, 9. 31   Occasionally, such as in the Scholia 129-31 chain where Evagrius passed over Prov. 11:25 and its words quite in line with the ‘progression’ chain theme, the reason for the gap in commentary is not obvious. At such points, we must consider Robin Darling Young’s suggestion that Evagrius skipped over some proverbs to withhold esoteric teaching or else to give opportunity for student exercises (Id., ‘The Scholia in the Work of Evagrius: Christ in Psalms, Proverbs and Ecclesiastes’, paper presented at the XVIIIth International Conference on Patristic Studies, Oxford, 22 August 2019). While Evagrius’ gaps in commentary are typically explainable in light of theological and cultural outlooks as argued above, surveys of the entire Scholia on Proverbs indeed indicate structural nuances beyond the scope of the present analysis of Scholia 1-11, as well as additional explanations beyond the scope of this brief paper.

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he explained what it is to know wisdom and teaching. He subsequently discussed the beginning of knowledge in Scholia 5 in his remark on Prov. 1:7c. In the following scholion, he asserted that the ungodly nullify wisdom and teaching. As he had previously used the mention of wisdom and teaching at the beginning of this chain of knowledge remarks at Scholia 3 to champion the first two stages of spiritual progression, the assertion in Scholia 6 that the ungodly nullify wisdom and teaching can be understood in this light to imply that the ungodly sabotage these initial stages of progression. Implied here too is that this sabotage undercuts knowledge. In Scholia 3, he revealed that wisdom is knowing perceptible and imperceptible things and teaching is perceiving the restraint of passions. Accordingly, if wisdom and teaching in Scholia 3 is knowing and perceiving, then in Scholia 6, Evagrius considered how the ungodly nullify knowing and perceiving. This chain of knowledge scholia thickens in the next scholion where knowledge adorns the mind in the final stage of spiritual progression like a crown on the head and a gold chain around the neck. This chain of knowledge scholia extends next into Scholia 8 in his remark on Prov. 1:13. This remark concludes by considering a mind blinded by sin which is deprived τῶν ἁγίων τούτων κτημάτων, ‘of these holy possessions/heirlooms’. As we have seen, Evagrius viewed terms denoting ‘heir’ or ‘inheritance’ as symbols of knowledge. So knowledge appears symbolically here at the end of this scho­ lion and explicitly at the beginning. By so remarking on Prov. 1:13, Evagrius ignored Prov. 1:10-2, but his focus here on knowledge explains this, for the bypassed verses make no explicit or even suggestive reference to knowledge whatsoever. The prior conceptual chain emphasizing knowledge then runs through this present chain focused on demons, so that we have at Scholia 9 a double attention to both demons and knowledge. This continuation of the knowledge motif emerges when we consider Evagrius’ symbolic understanding of the breast and breastplate, both mentioned here. In his writings, the breast often symbolizes knowledge and the breastplate represents the knowledge of the mysteries of God, as indicated later in his Proverbs Scholia as well as in his Kephalaia gnostika.32 In a wider sense, he used all of these remarks concerning knowledge to facilitate the journey to the Holy Trinity, for he leveraged them to help disciples acquire a knowledge that was far warmer and richer than our modern, merely conceptual idea of knowledge. In his community, this knowledge was the mystical and relational knowledge of God.33

  Scholia 152; Kephalaia gnostika 4.66.   See J. Driscoll, ‘Circle of Evagrius’ (2004), 64-6; D. Linge, ‘Life of Angels’ (2000), 564-5; A. Louth, Christian Mystical Tradition (1981), 103. 32 33



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Conclusion Scholarship has not yet discovered the structure of the Scholia on Proverbs at a detailed level. Yet, what Géhin regards curious is perhaps not so curious after all. We have begun to see a conceptual structure underling Evagrius’ Scholia on Proverbs. If space had allowed, we could follow this tightly woven structure beneath the entire commentary and also discuss additional mechanisms explaining Géhin’s curiosity. We have seen that this sub-structure embodies thematic chains of remarks punctuated typically by explainable gaps in commentary. Modern biblical scholars tend to read Proverbs fairly atomistically, observing that individual proverbs either stand completely alone or else allowing for thematic pairs and the rare larger cluster, at least beyond the extended discourse on wisdom in the initial chapters.34 By contrast, Evagrius linked his remarks on select proverbs together into extended literary chains throughout virtually his entire Scholia. This underlying structure determined not only the commentary but even much of Evagrius’ very selection of individual proverbs. It owes not as much to a unique philosophical system encoded in his mystical writings, but rather to more widely held views about the philosophical life and to his exegetical convictions recorded in his Gnostikos. It was completely devoted to the journey to the Holy Trinity. These literary chains find themselves tightly and densely intertwined. For one thing, the theme of a chain of scholia sometimes re-appears in the first scholion or two of the following thematic chain. Consider for example the ‘knowledge of God’ theme of Scholia 42-5 reappearing in the initial scholion of the following chain, that addresses demons.35 Imagining physical chains by way of analogy, we might picture Evagrius’ literary chains not as crude industrial chains, but rather as more beautiful, sophisticated, and intricately intertwined necklace jewelry chains in complex ‘rope’ or even ‘Byzantine’ styles. Interestingly, we have seen the initial chains focusing mainly on φυσική and θεολογική, the final stages of the journey to the Trinity, rather than πρακτική, the initial stage, this despite Evagrius’ recommendation of Proverbs for those in the initial stage. But this completely accords with his Gnostikos 20, where he recommended such flexibility and illustrated it by mentioning a πρακτική text that also addresses θεολογική.36 Further research beyond this short paper 34   See for example, R.B.Y. Scott, Proverbs Ecclesiastes: Introduction, Translation, Notes, The Anchor Bible (Garden City, NY, 1965), 8; Michael V. Fox, Proverbs 10–31: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, The Anchor Yale Bible (New Haven, 2009), 477-80; James D. Martin, Proverbs (Sheffield, 1995), 52. 35   Scholia 46-8. Many more examples of the phenomena could be given. 36   This also accords with his Scholia 4 where Evagrius recommended Proverbs for restoring the three human capacities of judgment which engage in three stages of progress, as we have seen.

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shows that Evagrius addressed these three stages fairly equally in his Scholia on Proverbs, although with a slight preference for πρακτική. As one indication of this, we discover in the Scholia on Proverbs not only fifteen instances of the term πρακτική, but also seven instances of the term φυσική and four of θεολογική.37 Evagrius’ healthy attention to φυσική and θεολογική, even in this text devoted to πρακτική, emphasizes that he desired advanced disciples to maintain ethical basics. But also, he wanted even novices to remember always their ultimate goal of beholding the Holy Trinity.

37   Another indication that he remained faithful to his recommendation of Proverbs for those in πρακτική is that he reserved for other writings his deeper insights about the latter two stages of spiritual progress. For example, his Skemmata goes more deeply into θεολογική than does his Scholia on Proverbs.

Recipes for Passion: Understanding the Role of Representations, Thoughts and Demons in the Event of Passion in Evagrius Ponticus Kelly E. Harrison, University of Fribourg, Switzerland

Abstract The notions of representation (νόημα, φαντασία), thought (λογισμός) and demon (δαίμων, πνεῦμα) are at the heart of Evagrius’s anthropology and understanding of passion (πάθος). Yet they are nowhere defined in his works, nor is their role made clear in the advent of passion. In addition, Evagrius often uses these notions interchangeably, without explaining why. With such freedom of interpretation, scholars have offered varied views of these concepts, including that of πάθος. This article seeks to grasp how passions come about in beings that are by nature free of passion. It shows that representations, thoughts and demons – which should almost always be clearly distinguished, contrary to what some contemporary scholars have claimed – play a key role in this process. More precisely, I argue that Evagrius puts forward two non-mutually exclusive causal chains to explain the emergence of passion in the human soul: the first causal chain sees demons as its principle, whereas the second concentrates on sensible perception. In both cases however, representations and thoughts lay the foundations of passion. But passion can only ever arise when another condition has been met, for without the voluntary neglect of the soul, the monk wouldn’t be vulnerable to demons and sensible objects. All in all, when it comes to explaining why we can become passionate, Evagrius draws a fine line between what does and does not depend on us. But as in the rest of his anthropological thought, his main emphasis is on individual responsibility. Thus, so long as one accepts one must take action, passions can always be both prevented and cured.

Introduction The notions of representation (νόημα, also φαντασία), thought (λογισμός) and demon (δαίμων, also πνεῦμα) are at the heart of Evagrius’s anthropology and theory of passion. Yet nowhere does he provide us with a clear definition of these notions. Besides, he often uses νόημα, φαντασία, λογισμός, δαίμων and πνεῦμα interchangeably, without explaining why. Thus, he appears to trust his readers with the task of deducing their meaning and understanding their function in human nature and in the advent of passion. Contemporary scholars have generally understood νόηματα and φαντασίαι as images of sensible objects that imprint the intellect. Interpretations start to

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diverge with respect to the role that the intellect or soul play in these representations, as choices in translation show. Antoine and Claire Guillaumont, for instance, translate φαντασία as ‘imagination’, which suggests that the soul plays an active part in the emergence of φαντασίαι.1 Fogielman favours the French représentation, which still highlights the visual nature of the φαντασία but leaves aside the question of psychological activity or passivity.2 As regards νόημα, that he translates as ‘concept’ or ‘depiction’, Stewart understands it as ‘the means by which the mind processes information’3 and associates it with φαντασία, ‘fantasy’, and εἴδωλον or εἰκών, ‘image’.4 Corrigan refers to νόημα as a ‘concept or representation’5 and believes the νόηματα – a notion Evagrius borrows from Aristotle – to be ‘not so much the concepts of mind itself, as conceptual imprints of perceptible objects, more like Stoic phantasiai, which are imprints in the soul’.6 The Evagrian νόημα is also said to be ‘the conceptualized form of the [Aristotelian] phantasma in the mind’, the phantasma being ‘the image produced by the perception of the sensible object’.7 As regards the concept of λογισμός, there appears to be no true consensus over its meaning, despite its translation being less problematic. To take a few examples, Tobon8 believes Evagrius has three ways of defining λογισμός. It can be (1) an intellectually constructed image of the anchorite’s body that suggests passion; (2) an image of the anchorite’s body that is generated by the intellect on the basis of representations of sensible objects that have been stored in the memory. This kind of λογισμός entices the monk to act in a certain way; (3) an impassioned representation, that is ‘a noêma of a sensible object that is charged with pathos due to the person having been in a state of pathos in respect of its object when the noêma imprinted his nous’.9 But Tobon also puts forward a metaphorical reading of λογισμός, which excludes the intellect as its source and attributes it to demons. The absence of human activity in the case of λογισμοί is also argued for by Harmless, who regards them as hallucinations that stem from demonic attacks, for instance.10 O’Laughlin defines λογισμοί as evil impulses 1   Antoine and Claire Guillaumont, ‘Étude historique et doctrinale’, in Évagre le Pontique. Traité pratique ou Le moine (Paris, 1971), 121-5. 2   Charles-Antoine Fogielman, ‘Introduction’, in Évagre le Pontique. À Euloge. Les vices opposés aux vertus (Paris, 2017), 9-83. 3   Columba Stewart, ‘Imageless Prayer and the Theological Vision of Evagrius Ponticus’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 9 (2001), 173-204, 187. 4   Ibid. 188. 5   Kevin Corrigan, Evagrius and Gregory. Mind, Soul and Body in the 4th Century (Farnham, 2009), 78. 6   Ibid. 79. 7   Ibid. 8   Monica Tobon, Apatheia in the Teachings of Evagrius of Pontus (PhD, 2010), 96-101. 9   Ibid. 100. 10   William S.J. Harmless, Desert Christians. An Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism (Oxford Scholarship Online, 2005), 322 and 329.



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that trouble the intellect11 as well as intellectual attitudes that the demons inspire and that invade the monk’s consciousness,12 while Sorabji argues for a semantic equivalence between Evagrian λογισμοί and Stoic προπάθειαι.13 Gibbons hardly distinguishes between λογισμός and νόημα, the former being a kind of the latter or depending upon the latter,14 and Graiver identifies λογισμοί with πάθη as the former serve as a kind of prop for passion.15 Konstantinovksy understands λογισμοί and φαντασίαι to be harmful, deceptive and demonic images that are opposed to the beneficial νόηματα and εἰκόνες,16 while she argues elsewhere that thoughts, or ‘harmful persuasions’, are the result of the merging of irrational movements of the soul and sensory data. Λογισμοί are therefore ‘misguided, irrational cognitive responses both to the outer and inner realities’,17 which bring about ‘evil inclinations, vices, which Evagrius calls passions’.18 Most of the time, scholars have understood demons as independent beings and as metaphors of internal forces. Stewart, for instance, argues that Eva­ grius’s indifferent use of the terms ‘thoughts’ and ‘demons’ is a way for him ‘to keep in play both an external (i.e., non-human) origination of disturbing suggestions and an internal (i.e., human and personal) responsibility for harboring them’.19 A similar view can be found in Linge.20 Guillaumont is known for having claimed that thoughts and demons should be considered synonymous in Evagrius’s works, as all thoughts are sent by demons.21 The same reading can 11   Michael Wallace O’Laughlin, Origenism in the Desert. Anthropology and Integration in Evagrius Ponticus (PhD, 1987), note 107, 220. 12   Ibid. 227. 13   Richard Sorabji, ‘From First Movements to the Seven Cardinal Sins: Evagrius’, in id., Emotion and Peace of Mind: From Stoic Agitation to Christian Temptation (Oxford Scholarship Online, 2007), 357-71. 14   Kathleen Gibbons, ‘Passions, Pleasures, and Perceptions: Rethinking Evagrius Ponticus on Mental Representation’, Zeitschrift für antikes Christentum 19 (2015), 297-330, 314. 15   Inbar Graiver, ‘Possible Selves in Late Antiquity: Ideal Selfhood and Embodied Selves in Evagrian Anthropology’, The Journal of Religion 98 (2018), 59-89, 74. 16   Julia Konstantinovsky, Evagrius Ponticus. The Making of a Gnostic (Farnham, 2009), 35. 17   Ead., ‘Evagrius Ponticus and Maximus the Confessor: The Building of the Self in Praxis and Contemplation’, in Joel Kalvesmaki and Robin Darling Young (eds.), Evagrius and his Legacy (Notre Dame, 2016), 128-53, 135. 18   Ibid. For additional definitions of λογισμός, see A. and C. Guillaumont, ‘Étude historique et doctrinale’ (1971), 56-84; Antoine Guillaumont, ‘Un philosophe au désert: Évagre le Pontique’, Revue de l’histoire des religions 181 (1972), 29-56, 37; id., ‘La conception du désert chez les moines d’Égypte’, Revue de l’histoire des religions 188 (1975), 3-21, 19-20; id., Un philosophe au désert. Évagre le Pontique (Paris, 2004), 212 and 222-32; C.-A. Fogielman, ‘Introduction’ (2017), 39-41. 19   Columba Stewart, ‘Evagrius Ponticus and the Eastern Monastic Tradition on the Intellect and the Passions’, Modern Theology 27 (2011), 263-75, 268. 20   David E. Linge, ‘Leading the Life of Angels: Ascetic Practice and Reflection in the Writings of Evagrius of Pontus’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 68 (2000), 537-68, 553. 21   A. Guillaumant, ‘Un philosophe au désert’ (1972), 19; id., ‘La conception du désert’ (1975), 37; id., Un philosophe au désert (2004), 212, 221 and 237; A. and C. Guillaumont, ‘Étude historique et doctrinale’ (1971), 57.

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be found in Ainalis22 as well as Watson, for whom thoughts are ‘represented as demons’.23 O’Laughlin believes that Evagrius can at times ‘interiorize […] and psychologize […]’ demons.24 And for Harmless, thoughts are ‘the most common mechanism by which desert solitaries encountered demons’.25 Other scholars, however, such as Fogielman, have claimed that demons and thoughts should always be considered separately as they refer to different realities.26 My primary intention is not to solve the major definitional issues of νόημα, φαντασία, λογισμός, δαίμων and πνεῦμα, but to establish their role as best as possible in the emergence of πάθος. To my knowledge, although most commentators have emphasized the importance of these notions in Evagrian anthropology, few have tried to identify the relation between them and with passion. In this paper, I argue that Evagrius brings into play two non-mutually exclusive scenarios, although he does not himself explicitly refer to any ‘two explanations’ but instead provides clues toward such a possibility. On three separate occasions, namely in chapters 141, 174 and 179 of Disciples, he singles out two causes of passion, namely demons and humans by way of perception. Although both causes do not appear together elsewhere among the five works that this paper considers, both appear separately in many chapters. While the first explanation insists on demons and the effects they have on the anchorite, the second focuses on the faculties of the soul and body. Both scenarios make use of νόημα/φαντασία, λογισμός and δαίμων/πνεῦμα and share several common features such as the assumption that the non-rational parts of the soul are in poor health due to prior neglect and the idea that humans should always be held responsible for their passions, which can be both prevented and cured. Demons as triggers for passion The first causal chain identifies demons as the principle of passion. Demons insert (εἰσφέρω, εἰσάγω, ἐντίθημι, ἐμβάλλω) a representation or thought that depicts a passionate act into the human intellect via the human body, which acts as its medium.27 They introduce thoughts of vainglory into the anchorite’s 22   Zissis D. Ainalis, De l’éros et d’autres démons. Les représentations littéraires du tabou et de la transgression dans la société tardo-antique de l’Orient chrétien (IVe-VIIe siècles) (PhD, 2014), 57 and 59. 23   Anthony J. Watson, ‘Evagrius. East of the Euphrates’, in Joel Kalvesmaki and Robin Darling Young (eds), Evagrius and his Legacy (2016), 237. 24   M.W. O’Laughlin, Origenism in the Desert (1987), 227. 25   W.S.J. Harmless, Desert Christians (2005), 327. 26   See for instance C.-A. Fogielman, Les deux traités à Euloge d’Évagre le Pontique. Introduction, édition critique, traduction, commentaire et notes (PhD, 2015), 34-36; id., ‘Introduction’ (2017), 42-4. 27   Disciples 152.



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intellect,28 for instance, inject thoughts of anxiety,29 ‘throw representations of vainglory or pride or envy or censoriousness in us’30 as well as hatred in the neophyte as regards his new life.31 The verbs δέχομαι (to receive) and πέμπω (to send) indicate and highlight again the exterior nature of representations and thoughts that are associated with demons. Evagrius speaks, for instance, of a demon who sends a thought of avarice to an intellect that doesn’t appear to be in a position to refuse it.32 The passivity of the intellect in this process is also expressed through grammatical and lexical choices: demons are depicted as the initiators of actions and the anchorites as their objects. In this sense, Evagrius describes, for example, the demon of fornication who, after having ‘introduce[d into the intellect] men and women fooling around with each other, […] makes the anchorite a voyeur of shameful acts and gestures’.33 The monk is at the mercy of demonic will that is communicated to him by way of suggestive representations and thoughts, just like the chained spectators are forced to gaze at the shadows that appear before them in Plato’s allegory of the cavern. The verbs ὑποβάλλω and ὑποτίθημι (to suggest) also point to the exterior origin of demonic representations and thoughts. Demons are referred to by Evagrius as the ‘authors of suggestions’.34 The demon of vainglory is characterized as a ‘tempter [that] comes along and suggests offering hospitality for the sake of esteem’.35 Chapters 15 and 129 of Disciples as well as chapter 134 of Prayer attribute the suggestion of thoughts and bad deeds to demons, as does chapter 10 of Prayer that focuses on demons who ‘suggest representations of certain apparently necessary objects’. In other places, Evagrius spells out the possible consequences of the performance of good deeds for the monk: pride can subsequently arise because demons ‘suggest you attribute the virtuous action to the horse and not the charioteer, to yourself and not to God’.36 Demons can influence human will and they do so by way of suggestions that underlie the representations and thoughts that they insert in us. Despite requiring the monk’s cooperation in order to bear their fruit – an idea I shall come back to   Thoughts 21.   Thoughts 6. 30   Thoughts 18, trans. adapted from Sinkewicz. All translations are by Robert Sinkewicz (Oxford, 2006) unless specified. I adapted the translation of ἐμβάλλω in Thoughts 18 so as to emphasize the demon’s action. In addition, the adjective ‘mental’ in the translation of νόημα as ‘mental representation’ has been removed in this paper. The adjective is absent from the original text and suggests that the intellect plays an active role in representations, which I don’t believe is the case. Lastly, the notions of θυμός and ἐπιθυμία have been left in Greek. 31   Praktikos 12. See also Praktikos 76. For another example of the use of ἐντίθημι, see e.g. Disciples 152. 32   Thoughts 19. 33   Thoughts 16. 34   Thoughts 5. See also Thoughts 2. 35   Thoughts 7. See also Thoughts 30 and 35. 36   Disciples 50, my translation. 28 29

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–, these suggestions are as effective as the introduction of representations and thoughts in turning the monk away from virtue, the good and God. Upon their implantation in the intellect, the representation and thought imprint (τυπόω) it. They leave their mark on it because of the sensory data they contain, a theory that Evagrius primarily borrows and adapts from the Stoics. For although demonic representations and thoughts are produced by demons, they are made up of sensible realities such as food, money or reputation, to which humans are naturally receptive. Seemingly echoing the Stoics’ understanding of φαντασία, Evagrius speaks of νόημα in the following way in chapter 25 of Thoughts: ‘Whatever may be the form of the object, such is necessarily the image that the mind receives, whence the representations of objects are called copies because they preserve the same form as them’. Just as the Stoic φαντασία consisted in a pneumatic image created by the impression of sensible objects on the soul, Evagrian representations are images of sensible objects that imprint the intellect as a result of bodily activity. Λογισμοί consist for their part in the combination of several representations with the representation of one’s own body. The specificity of demonic representations and thoughts lies in the fact that they necessarily taint the images they contain with passion. In this sense, demonic νόηματα and λογισμοί offer illusions or mirages of the sensible world. The introduction of demonic representations and thoughts arouses the nonrational parts of the soul, i.e. the θυμός and ἐπιθυμία. But at this stage, demons can no longer be held responsible for what happens, for the representations and thoughts now operate independently inside the human soul. Because they are sensible and demonic by nature, the νόημα and λογισμός irritate the soul and especially its non-rational faculties, which appear to be particulary receptive to them. Evagrius describes this irritation with a series of verbs (ἐρεθίζω, ταράσσω, ἐκταράσσω, συνταράσσω, προταράσσω, ἀνάπτω, κυκάω, παρενοχλέω, ἐκφλογόω, ἐκθερμαίνω, ἐξάπτω) and nouns (ζέμα, ταραχή, φλογμός). He mentions demons tormenting37 and troubling the anchorite,38 troubling both his ἐπιθυμία and θυμός39 or only his θυμός.40 Demons are also said to heat the anchorite’s ἐπιθυμία by way of shameful thoughts.41 And when a demon doesn’t succeed in ‘imped[ing] the prayer of the zealous person’, then it either ‘inflames him with anger and wipes out the excellent state formed within him through prayer or he rouses him to some non-rational pleasure’.42 The representations that occur during sleep, i.e. dreams, aggravate the monk’s inner trouble thanks to the ‘terrifying and lustful visions’43 they convey.   Thoughts 12 and Praktikos 39.   Eulogios 4, 6 and 7; Thoughts 18 and 19; Praktikos 46 and 80. 39   Prakitkos 54 and Thoughts 27. 40   Disciples 94. See also Praktikos 21. 41   Thoughts 16. 42   Prayer 47, transl. adapted from Sinkewicz. 43   Thoughts 29. 37 38



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At this point, Evagrius is careful to turn his readers’ attention from demons to humans and to emphasize human agency and responsibility: Our irascibility cooperates very much with the goal of the demons when it is moved contrary to nature, and it renders itself most useful to their every wicked design. Therefore, by night and by day not one of them refuses to trouble it; but when they see it bound to gentleness they immediately find just pretexts for setting it loose so that when it has become more impulsive it may serve their bestial thoughts. Thus it is necessary not to provoke it over either just or unjust things, nor to give an evil sword to the authors of suggestions. I know many people who often do so, and more than is necessary, when they get inflamed with anger over trivial pretexts.44

Although the anchorite cannot reduce the number of demonic attacks that he is subjected to, he can choose to become more or less vulnerable to them, for whether his soul is in good or bad health either enables or impedes the intended effects of the demons’ actions. When it is ill, that is when it has been voluntarily ‘moved contrary to [its] nature’, the θυμός assists the demons45, for instance by directing its powers against fellow brothers46 or enabling the demons to ‘suggest to us that anachoresis is a fine thing, lest we resolve the causes of our sadness and free ourselves from the disturbance’.47 The nonrational parts of the soul are also more sensitive to demonic attacks the day after they have been disturbed,48 as they react contrarily to how they would have had they been healthy. Furthermore, Evagrius remarks that, once passion has settled in the soul, both the ἐπιθυμία and θυμός tend to be more welcoming of demonic representations and thoughts,49 which indicates again that the soul is more receptive to demonic activity when it is or has been excited. Thus, although demons are to be blamed for the presence of demonic νόηματα and λογισμοί in the intellect, they are not responsible for the soul’s reaction to them, which depends entirely on the anchorite, that is on the decisions he has made prior to their introduction. The help that the θυμός and ἐπιθυμία offer to the demons is the result of their inflammation, which is due to the monk’s prior neglect (παραμελέω, ἀμέλεια, ῥᾳθυμία, ὀλιγωρία) as regards the good and virtue.50 It is ‘from our supineness (ῥᾳθυμία) [that] the thoughts get power against us’,51 warns Evagrius. Any lack of care empowers the demons.   Thoughts 5.  See Praktikos 22 for a similar example. 46   Praktikos 24 and Eulogios 20. 47   Praktikos 22. 48   Thoughts 27. 49   Praktikos 54. 50   Praktikos 5 and 44; Thoughts 34; Disciples 133 and Prayer 76 and 81. 51   Eulogios 12. I adapted Sinkewicz’ translation of ῥᾳθυμία as ‘laziness’ so as to emphasize the notion of choice. 44 45

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The troubled state of the θυμός and ἐπιθυμία allows the demons to set them in motion (κινέω)52 ‘in a manner contrary to nature’53 and reason.54 The demons can also move our representations55 and thoughts56 as well as our memory so as to cause memories of sensible objects to resurface.57 More importantly, passions are put in motion58 as the demon boils the passion ‘that is dear to him’59 and inflames (ἐξάπτω)60 it. These examples show that the stirring of irritated non-rational parts of the soul releases the passions they contain, an idea that Evagrius makes clear in Disciples, as he notes that ‘passion is underlying in the soul’,61 that is in the sick soul. The released passions correspond to the images of the sensible objects that make up demonic νόηματα and λογισμοί. If they portray us angrily shouting at a fellow brother, for instance, then the θυμός will release the passion of anger. Passion is not handed over to us by the demons, but it is unleashed from the troubled θυμός and ἐπιθυμία in which it remains latent until these parts have been moved by the demons. The released passions impassion the intellect as well as its representations and thoughts. Passion is consequently ‘at the root of the passionate thought’62 and it is the passionate thought that the demon seeks to instigate in the anchorite.63 Passion anchors the intellect to the sensible world by way of the sensible representations, thoughts and memories that it infuses. ‘The mind could not see the place of God within itself, […] it will not rise up, if it has not put off the passions that bind it to sensible objects through representations’,64 explains Evagrius. ­Passion attaches the intellect to realities that it shouldn’t be attached to and maintains the intellect’s gaze on the sensible, thereby preventing its ascension. It is in this precise context that Evagrius can substitute πάθος for λογισμός, λογισμός for δαίμων/πνεῦμα or νόημα/ φαντασία for λογισμός, for instance. Perception as a trigger for passion The second scenario Evagrius uses to explain the advent of passion puts aside the demons and gives way to human faculties. Perception (αἴσθησις)   Praktikos 71 and Disciples 75.   Thoughts 18. See also Thoughts 2. 54   Thoughts 18. 55   Prayer 47. See also Prayer 69. 56   Praktikos 51. 57   Prayer 69. 58   Disciples 94 and 154. 59   Thoughts 34. 60   Disciples 152. 61   Disciples 49, my translation. 62   Disciples 49, my translation. 63   Disciples 61. 64   Thoughts 40, trans. adapted from Sinkewicz. 52 53



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plays a primordial role in this causal chain. It is the medium by which sensible objects imprint the intellect in the form of representations or images65 that give us access to the sensible realm and allow for the construction of knowledge of sensible realities.66 The reception of sensible objects is a natural faculty of the intellect, as indicated in chapter 25 of Thoughts:67 ‘[…] the mind naturally receives the representations of sensible objects and their impressions through the instrumentality of this body of ours’. However, the intellect cannot receive more than one representation at a time,68 as in the first scenario. These representations, with the representation of the body, serve as the basis for the production of a thought that becomes a memory as time passes: With this figure [of our body] then our mind does everything interiorly – it sits and walks, gives and receives in its intellect. It does and says all that it wishes due to the quickness of its representations: sometimes it assumes the figure of its own body and extends its hand to receive something it is given, sometimes after casting off this figure it quickly puts on the form of its neighbour as if it were giving something with its own hands. Without such forms a mind could do nothing, for it is both incorporeal and deprived of any such movement.69

To fabricate a thought, the intellect associates different representations in the form of a narration in which it plays through the figure of its own body. It pictures itself acting with and among sensible realities. Representations, thoughts and memories of sensible objects trouble (παρενοχλέω) the non-rational parts of the soul as well as the intellect70 because of their sensible nature. Thus, the ‘thought of a sensible object’71 tears away (ἀποσπάω) the intellect from prayer, for instance, and the senses are said to naturally set in motion the passions.72 The sensible nature of the νόηματα, λογισμοί and μνῆμαι troubles the soul, and above all the θυμός and ἐπιθυμία which, in response, set loose the passions they contain.73 Evagrius does however express doubts as regards the order of causality here. In chapter 37 of Praktikos, he asks if it is representations that move passions or the opposite and concludes that ‘some people have held the first opinion, others the second’. In Eulogios, he claims   Thoughts 4.   Disciples 9 and 126. 67   See also Thoughts 4. 68   Thoughts 24. 69   Thoughts 25. 70   Praktikos 6 and Disciples 94. 71   Disciples 131. 72   Praktikos 38. 73   Thoughts 3. Although Evagrius holds that most passions are produced by the θυμός and ἐπιθυμία, his wording sometimes suggests that they could come from the intellect. However, I believe that this assignation has more to do with the definition he gives of certain passions – such as vainglory and pride, which are more obviously related to the intellect than fornication or anger – than with the fact that they are an actual product of the intellect. 65 66

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that ‘sometimes the thoughts bring on the passions and sometimes the passions the thoughts’.74 Evagrius’s position is nonetheless clear in chapter 6 of Praktikos that notes that thoughts ‘stir up the passions’. In either case though, sensible representations, thoughts and memories are harmful to the soul and presuppose, either as cause or consequence, the presence of passion. But just as in the first scenario, the production of passions by the θυμός and ἐπιθυμία only happens in the first place if these parts are sick, which occurs when they have been neglected. Consequently, not all sensible representations, thoughts and memories lead to passion. This is what distinguishes human or simple thoughts from passionate thoughts. A human thought ‘neither seeks the acquisition of gold nor is concerned with investigating what gold symbolizes; rather, it merely introduces in the intellect the simple form of gold separate from any passion of greed’.75 Because it is foreign to passion, a human thought correctly reflects the sensible realm. The same can be said of the ‘simple movement of the memory’76 which implies that we remember water without thirst and gold without greed. Thus, Evagrius once again focuses his and our attention on human agency after having spelled out what does not depend on us. He insists on our responsibility as regards the healthy or diseased state of our soul. And in order for the soul to remain in good health, our θυμός, ἐπιθυμία, body and senses should always be under the authority of the intellect. By choosing to care for our soul and distance ourselves from what is harmful to us, we protect ourselves from the potentially damaging effects of sensible objects. This means that we should avoid exciting and irritating the non-rational parts of the soul and at least make sure we don’t aggravate their irritation if we have been neglectful. For the risk is always that we eat or drink ‘until repleteness’77 or that we pursue glory, wealth or fornication.78 This slavish pursuit of the sensible makes us ill and vulnerable to sensible representations. It equally leads the θυμός and ἐπιθυμία to produce passions. Let us now come back to chapter 49 of Disciples, where Evagrius states that Passion is underlying in the soul and it is at the root of the passionate thought. Before it arises, the thoughts are assembled so that there is sin in spirit. Likewise, before sin in action, many objects are assembled. Once sin has been committed, the media fall away and only the images of sin remain in the intellect of the soul as well as the passion that begets the thought.79

Passion remains dormant in the sickened soul until its release, when it impregnates the νόηματα, λογισμοί and μνῆμαι.80 The thought referred to at   Eulogios 11, my translation.   Thoughts 8. 76   Thoughts 4. 77   Thoughts 43, my translation. 78   Disciples 15. 79   My translation. 80  See Prayer 72 for representations and Praktikos 34 as well as Disciples 32 for memories. 74 75



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the end of chapter 49 is not a human thought but a passionate thought,81 which Evagrius equates with sin in spirit. When sin has been carried out, i.e. when sin in spirit has been put into practice and becomes sin in action, accessibility to sensible objects is no longer required because the images of what we accomplished with these objects remain in the intellect. The image of a charming woman in the case of fornication stays with us even if the woman is no longer visible or present. We can still picture the appearance of a tasty cake in the case of gluttony or the fury of the brother who ‘has done [us] harm or dishonoured [us]’82 in the case of resentment. In addition to this image, what remains is the passion that generates passionate thoughts, or taints the thoughts with passion. The intellect is left to face the product of its own combination of sensible representations, i.e. thoughts, which have been soiled by passions such as fornication, gluttony or resentment. Evagrius speaks of this process differently in Disciples, where he contrasts the ‘exterior human’ with the ‘interior human’.83 This opposition overlaps the one he establishes between sin in spirit and sin in action: ‘Just as in the exterior human, the soul sins through the activity of the body, in the interior human, that is to say the intellect, the soul sins through the impassioned representations’.84 Just as sin in spirit, which takes place in the interior human, signals the accomplishment of a vice portrayed in passionate representations, thoughts or memories, sin in action, which concerns the exterior human, implies that one carries out, by way of one’s body, the narrative one interiorily produced by way of passionate representations, thoughts and memories. Evagrius defines the notion of passionate thought (ὁ εμπαθής λογισμός) in Thoughts. It is an ‘image of the sensible person constituted in the intellect, wherewith the mind, stirred by passion, says or does something impious in secret with regard to the images it forms in succession’.85 Consequently, a passionate act (or a sin in action) is the concretisation of impassioned representations, thoughts and memories. The previous section mentioned the fact that, because of passion, the intellect ‘could not see the place of God within itself, [that] it will not rise up, if it has not put off the passions that bind it to sensible objects through representations’.86 Elsewhere, Evagrius does however emphasize that ’it is neither against objets nor against representations, but against the passions that are coupled with them that we must fight’.87 He reiterates this idea in chapter 165 of Disciples,  See e.g. Disciples 57 for the same idea.   Thoughts 2. 83   Disciples 58. 84   Ibid., my translation. 85   Thought 25. I adapted Sinkewicz’ translation so as to underline the fact that the intellect is negatively affected by passion (which the verb ‘motivated’ does not indicate) and opted for a more literal translation of εἴδωλον as ‘image’ rather than ‘phantom’, which has other connotations. 86   Thoughts 40. 87   Disciples 64, my translation. 81 82

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which considers ‘evil [to be] neither the intellect nor the object nor the representation of the object, but the passion that is coupled with the representation’.88 Passion is evil in that once it has risen and affected the νόηματα, λογισμοί and μνῆμαι, it also affects the intellect, prompting it, through freedom of choice (αὐτεξούσιος, προαίρεσις), to allow the impassioned representations, thoughts and memories to linger (χρονίζω).89 And the intellect that ‘does not move on, clinging to the object, […] is submerged in the passion’,90 which can lead to sin in action. Chapter 162 of Disciples completes this idea by claiming that ‘the intellect settles in the objects or representations it has a passion for and it is hard to root it out from them’.91 The same idea can be found in chapter 74 of Disciples as well as 22 of Thoughts: All the impure thoughts that linger within us on account of the passions bring the mind down to ‘ruin and destruction’ (1Tim. 6:9). For just as the representation of bread lingers with the hungry person on account of the hunger, and the representation of water in the thirsty person because of the thirst, so too the representations of wealth and possessions linger on account of greed and the representations of food and shameful thoughts begotten by food linger with us because of the passions. And the same will appear to be the case with thoughts of vainglory and other representations.

Because of passion as well as the impassioned νόηματα, λογισμοί and μνῆμαι, the intellect is anchored to the sensible world. Passion incites the intellect to act sinfully, affecting its health and impeding its salvation. It is, as the above chapter shows, in this precise context that Evagrius can use λογισμός and νόημα, for example, interchangeably. Conclusion Although Evagrius does not explicitly provide us with two theories to explain how passions arise in human beings, a close look at his works demonstrates the existence of two separate but not mutually exclusive causal chains. Despite their differing principles – either demons or sensible perception –, both explanations share several common features, starting with the use of the notions of νόημα/φαντασία, λογισμός and μνήμη. In both cases, the monk runs the same risks and is responsible for the outcome of the situation. Just as he cannot put a stop to the demons’ existence and their attacks, he cannot allay the irritation caused by sensible representations, thoughts and memories. Nevertheless, all humans are equipped with ways to reduce the effects of demonic attacks and to avoid the inflammation of their soul, and these strategies can be applied   My translation.   Thoughts 16. 90   Thoughts 24. 91   My translation. 88 89



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either on a proactive or reactive basis. The monk’s prime focus should be on the care of his soul, for passions will only ever arise as a result of his neglect. Besides making sure that the intellect reigns over the rest of the soul and body, the monk is offered a variety of prophylactic treatments by Evagrius, such as fasting and detaching from sensible objects, as well as remedies for when the disease has already developed: When the mind wanders, reading, vigils, and prayer bring it to a standstill. When [the ἐπιθυμία] bursts into flame, hunger, toil, and anachoresis extinguish it. When the [θυμός] becomes agitated, psalmody, patience, and mercy calm it. But these practices are to be engaged in at the appropriate times and in due measure, for what is done without due measure or not at the opportune moment lasts but a little while; and what is short-lived is more harmful than it is profitable.92

Evagrius adds to these remedies gentleness as regards the θυμός and exhaustion by hunger and thirst for the ἐπιθυμία,93 for instance. Other treatments are adjusted to specific passions, such as exhaustion of the body, fasting, vigils and retreat for the passion of fornication, or disregard for matter, glory and infamy for the passion of anger.94 For Evagrius, the monk is consequently always able to avoid passion. It is up to him to take action, preferably before passions arise. Ultimately, each monk’s aim should be to master himself95 in order to free his gaze from the sensible and uncover the divine and pure light that lies within.

  Praktikos 15.   Thoughts 27. 94   Disciples 62. 95   Disciples 43. 92 93

Chained to Grievance, Rotten to the Roots: Evagrius and John Cassian on Sadness Daniel G. Opperwall, Trinity College, University of Toronto, Toronto, Canada

Abstract Both Evagrius and John Cassian emphasize sadness (λύπη in Evagrius, tristitia in Cassian) among their eight principle forms of vice. For both authors, sadness serves as a broad, flexible, and even contradictory category with no direct English equivalent. Each author describes experiences resembling melancholy, depression, annoyance, grief, irritability, disappointment, tranquility, and even joy under the heading. Cassian follows Evagrius closely in his definition of sadness, and in identifying three root causes thereof (frustrated desire, personal grievance, and unexplained sadness). Perhaps most notably, sadness is both a vice and a potential virtue for both writers, a problem that they each wrangle with at some length. Evagrius and Cassian, however, diverge quite notably in how they discuss the effects of sadness. Evagrius most often presents sadness on the metaphor of chains, casting it as an experience that binds the monk to unrealized desires. Cassian, in a subtle but important gloss, compares sadness especially to rotting wood, focusing on its effect on relationships and its communal ramifications. The shift is not superficial, but rather marks a notable turn in the understanding of sadness as a spiritual and psychological phenomenon. Observing the fluidity of the concept of sadness between Cassian and Evagrius thus offers a case study into the ever-shifting emotional culture of early Christianity.

Modern commentators are often puzzled by the presence of sadness (λύπη in the Greek and tristitia in the Latin) on the list of eight principle vices presented by Evagrius of Pontus and John Cassian.1 Sadness, much more than the other categories on Evagrius’ and Cassian’s lists, appears to have little connection to sin or vice from the point of view of modern Western thought wherein it is a primarily emotional rather than spiritual (or even psychological) concept. The subject of sadness in Evagrius has gained some attention over the last fifteen years, and a solid working understanding of his use of the term has emerged.2 The topic of sadness has received quite a bit less attention when it 1   For example, see Kevin Corrigan, Evagrius and Gregory: Mind, Soul, and Body in the 4th Century (London, 2016), 75. 2   See Douglas Burton-Christie, ‘Evagrius on Sadness’, Cistercian Studies Quarterly 44 (2009), 395-409; David Brakke, Demons and the Making of the Monk: Spiritual Combat in Early Christianity (Cambridge, 2006), 63-5; George Tsakridis, Evagrius Ponticus and Cognitive Science: A Look

Studia Patristica CXV, 367-374. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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comes to Cassian’s writings, though there are a few short discussions available.3 While this foundational work has given modern scholars a good picture of sadness as it is used by each of these authors individually, a comparison between them has so far been lacking. Yet, as I will show, Evagrius and Cassian present a surprising degree of divergence when it comes to their understanding of sadness, the observation of which divergence allows us to make some headway in tracing the dynamic history of the concept on its path from a spiritual vice (among at least some ancients) to a morally neutral emotional experience (as it is usually framed today) as well as an aspect of certain psychological disorders like depression (a subject I will touch on below). In turn, such a comparative reading of Evagrius and Cassian provides a small case study of how approaches to certain of what we would call emotional concepts can and do change as they are glossed, revised, and re-deployed in new contexts by early Christian writers, shedding light on some of the problems in comparing ancient emotional concepts and their modern equivalent (or apparently equivalent) categories.4 For Evagrius, the term that I will refer to consistently as ‘sadness’ is λύπη.5 His most extended discussion of it is in Eulogios 7, where he begins by noting that it has three basic forms: first, sadness that arises for no apparent reason,6 second (and most important for Evagrius), sadness that arises due to frustrated desires or interpersonal anger, and third, godly sadness, which is centred on the memory of death and judgement and thus actually benefits the monk.7 Sadness, Evagrius goes on to say, is a problem of both the body and the soul, and either follows or leads to anger in the chain of the eight key vices (depending on the at Moral Evil and the Thoughts (Eugene, 2010), 26-8; Robert E. Sinkewicz, Evagrius of Pontus: The Greek Ascetic Corpus (Oxford, 2003), xxviii-xxix; and K. Corrigan, Evagarius (2016), 75-7. 3   Most notably, Kenneth C. Russell, ‘John Cassian on Sadness’, Cistercian Studies Quarterly 38 (2003), 7-18. 4   For the seminal work in this area, see Barbara Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages (Ithaca, 2006). More recently, see Susan Broomhall, Jane W. Davidson and Andrew Lynch (eds), A Cultural History of the Emotions (London, 2019). 5   Alternative translations of λύπη might include ‘pain’, ‘suffering’, or ‘grief’. 6   The notion that sadness or pain can occur with or without an apparent external reason traces back to the medical analysis of Hippocrates. See G. Kazantzidis, ‘Medical and Scientific Understandings’, in Susan Broomhall, Jane W. Davidson and Andrew Lynch (eds), A Cultural History of the Emotions, Vol. 1 (London, 2019), 31. 7   This is an area in which Evagrius finds himself in some tension with the Stoic tradition from which he typically draws wherein sadness generally appears to have no beneficial aspect. The tension is perhaps owing to the differences between the scriptural versus Stoic framing of sadness, especially with respect to 2Corinthians in which Paul describes a godly sadness. See John Gavin, ‘The Grief Willed by God: Three Patristic Interpretations of 2Cor 7:10’, Gregorianum 91 (2010), 427-42. For some more background on the influence of Stoic and Aristotelean thinking on Evagrius, Cassian and early Christian monasticism see Daniel Anlezark, ‘Religion and Spirituality’, in Susan Broomhall, Jane W. Davidson and Andrew Lynch (eds), A Cultural History of the Emotions, Vol. 2 (London, 2019), 31-7.



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text).8 Importantly, for Evagrius sadness (like all the vices, really) is the result of demonic temptation – the activity of real and conscious, though unseen beings.9 The essential practical antidotes of sadness, for Evagrius, are prayer and charity, and its spiritual opposite is joy.10 Evagrius will deploy this basic understanding throughout his corpus.11 Almost whenever he brings up sadness, Evagrius makes note that it can arise out of interpersonal anger, but he virtually never expands on this topic.12 Instead, by far the biggest focus for him is on sadness arising from unmet desires. Unsurprisingly, such desires are often vicious or sinful in themselves from Evargrius’ point of view. Thus, for example, he says that clinging to wealth leads to sadness.13 Yet, quite notably, the thwarted desires that Evagrius describes as leading to sadness can also be morally neutral, even by his standards. The most often observed cause of sadness in his writings are a monk’s memories of his family and past life. When [sadness comes] through the frustration of one’s desires, it occurs this way. When certain thoughts gain the advantage, they bring the soul to remember home and parents and one’s former life. And when they observe that the soul does not resist but rather follows right along and disperses itself among thoughts of pleasures, then … they plunge it into sadness with the realization that former things are no more and cannot be again because of the present way of life.14

Now, Evagrius makes no insinuation here (or elsewhere, from what I can tell) that love of one’s family is something wrong in itself (as avarice would be). Family connections are incompatible with monastic life not in being evil, but insofar as the anchorite’s lifestyle demands that he have solitude and be separated from earthly cares.15 Thus, it is the fact that the monk is dwelling on something he cannot have that is the problem. It is the empty, unfilled nature   Sadness follows anger in Eight Thoughts and Eulogios, but precedes it in the lists from Antirrhetikos and Praktikos. 9   Thoughts 12; Eulogios 7. 10   Eulogios 7. 11  The Antirhetikos may be an exception, as argues D. Brakke, Demons (2006), 63-4. A survey of the Antirhetikos, however, shows sadness playing only a small role in the text, and it is not entirely clear whether Evagrius is being inconsistent in his use of the term between this and his other writings (as Brakke asserts), or whether the unique purpose of the Antirhetikos has caused Evagrius to make a shift in emphasis. More investigation on this topic would be necessary to draw a final conclusion. My thanks to Jonathan Zecher for bringing the problem to my attention. 12   Eulogios 28; Praktikos 25. 13   Monks/Virgins 57. 14   Praktikos 10. Trans. Sinkewicz. Evagrius brings up thoughts of family in connection with sadness in numerous other texts, including Antirrhetikos 4.42; Thoughts 28; Vices 4. 15   This is most evident insofar as Evagrius connects sadness arising from dreams of the monk’s family with vainglory arising from dreams of performing miracles of healing, or leading the faithful as a priest, which he does in Thoughts 28. The problem, in all cases, is the sense of attachment to these activities which, though potentially virtuous in themselves, are not a part of the monastic life. 8

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of the desire that is the driving force of sadness, and emptiness becomes its hallmark. Kevin Corrigan puts it beautifully. ‘In its general form, sadness [for Evagrius] is an existential state of nostalgia that can be particularized by individual memories or things, but is in fact profoundly empty of them’.16 Indeed, this runs even deeper for Evagrius than Corrigan himself observes. Evagrius, in fact, teaches that sadness can be caused by ideas and visions that are completely fabricated by the demons that place them in the mind of the monk. Family appears to be an issue again. Often [the demons] cast anchorites into an inconsolable sadness by showing them members of their families in sickness or in danger on land or at sea … one must pay them no attention, but rather expose them with a vigilant thought when they do these things to deceive and mislead souls.17

Whether dwelling on something morally culpable, like avaricious desire, or something neutral but incompatible with monastic life like family relationships, or entirely fabricated in the imagination, the monk drawn into sadness finds himself stuck in the nonreal. For this reason, Evagrius makes much of how sadness tears the monk away from prayer, contemplation, and real joy.18 This is natural within his system: the monk in a state of sadness cannot possibly contemplate or attend to prayers,19 for his mind is focused on his unfulfilled desires, his fears, and his fantasies – dwelling in the nonreal world and neglecting his work in the present moment. So deep does this neglect of reality run that the saddened monk loses touch also with genuine earthly and created joy according to Evagrius. Specifically, he notes that a monk in a state of spiritual sadness cannot even enjoy the pure created beauty of a sunset, a lamentable state indeed, as Evagrius himself emphasizes.20 The connection between sadness and what is not real, it must be noted, is also the reason for which Evagrius teaches that it can, at times, do some good for a monk. All the demons teach the soul to love pleasure; only the demon of sadness refrains from doing this … If his warfare is moderate, [the demon of sadness] renders the anchorite tried and tested, for he persuades him to approach none of the things of this world and to avoid all pleasure.21

If the fundamental emptiness of sadness causes the monk to see the emptiness of earthly pleasure, it has a positive impact. Still, Evagrius immediately reminds 16   K. Corrigan, Evagrius and Gregory (2016), 87. Emphasis original. See also Antirrhetikos 4.35, where Evagrius makes the rather cryptic and somewhat paradoxical observation that sadness, unlike any other vice, is often entirely empty of thoughts and ideas. 17   Thoughts 28. Trans. Sinkewicz. 18   For example, Eight Thoughts 5.5. 19   Eight Thoughts 5.6, 5.21, 5.22; Monks/Virgins 56. 20   Eight Thoughts 5.23. 21   Thoughts 12. Trans. Sinkewicz.



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us that should the demon of sadness persist too long the monk may find himself once again overwhelmed. ‘The viper is the symbol of this demon: this animal’s nature, administered in a manner beneficial to humans, destroys the venoms of other animals, but when taken without control it destroys the living creature itself’.22 In sum, for Evagrius sadness is not a feeling of melancholy or even despair – at least not primarily. Indeed, it is really not a feeling of any kind, nor is it mainly behavioral in nature (though it tends to result in monks becoming argumentative and so forth). Rather, sadness for Evagrius is the very mental chain itself that binds the monk to what is not real or present and thus what he cannot have. It therefore, in turn, binds him to all the other passions. A prisoner of barbarians is bound in irons; a prisoner of the passions is bound with sadness. Sadness has no strength unless the other passions are present, as a fetter is without strength unless there is someone to attach to it … for sadness is constituted by the frustration of an appetite, and an appetite is joined to every passion.23

Sadness, for Evagrius is the binding glue, the fetter, the chain, and the lashing strap (he uses all these images himself) that keeps the monk stuck in emptiness, desire, and passions. Sadness thus leaves the monk devoid of prayer, contemplation, and real joy. John Cassian builds his own list of the eight principle vices from the Evagrian root. His raw list (his commentary on which makes up a large part of the Institutes) is, in fact, simply a copy and Latin translation of Evagrius’, yet Cassian often alters the details. In the case of sadness, there are a number of subtle shifts that have a substantial impact on its role in Cassian’s system. In his Institutes Cassian presents a similar list of three causes of sadness to that of Evagrius (once again these are sadness for no reason, interpersonal anger and conflict, and not getting what one wants).24 Yet, where Evagrius is most concerned with the lone anchorite bound to unfulfilled desire, Cassian focuses throughout his corpus much more on sadness as a divisive experience, something that cuts the monk off not just from contemplation and prayers, but especially from his brothers in the monastery.25 Arguments between brothers, bad advice from an elder, and other interpersonal conflicts are all noted as key causes and results of sadness, and Cassian dwells on them much more than Evagrius in both the Institutes and the Conferences. Sadness, in this context, is marked especially by irritability and annoyance. ‘There is another common type of sadness … [where brothers] may become saddened or angered, and for

  Thoughts 12. Trans. Sinkewicz.   Eight Thoughts 5.7-8. Trans. Sinkewicz. See also Reflections 60, 61. 24   Inst. 9.4. 25   See especially Inst. 9.5-8. 22 23

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that reason obstinately refuse food … since they have become sated with sadness as well as rage.’26 There are other shifts in Cassian’s definition of sadness from that of Evagrius. When it comes to sadness Cassian spends much less time on literal demons. Rather, he tends to trace the roots of sadness to lived experiences and internal thought patterns, virtually never pointing (as Evagrius often does) to the intervention of unseen powers. Only when discussing totally unexplained sadness does Cassian refer back to literal demons as its cause, and this he does only once.27 Unfortunately, like Evagrius, Cassian offers very little detail about what he means by sadness that strikes the monk for no apparent reason. Perhaps most notably, Cassian spends much more time than Evagrius on the connection between sadness and despair. He begins his analysis in the institutes with the following summary of the effects of sadness. Sadness … does not suffer [the soul] to be peaceable and gentle with the brothers, makes it impatient and abrupt with regard to every duty of work and worship, and, having destroyed all salutary counsel and driven out steadfastness of heart, crazes as it were and stupifies the intellect, breaking and overwhelming it with a punishing despair.28

Sadness is linked to despair on numerous other occassions throughout Cassian’s writings, and despair appears to be its greatest pastoral risk from Cassian’s point of view. He advises brother monks to ‘pour out abundantly the joy of spiritual knowledge … for those who are cast down with bitterness and sadness and restore them … lest perchance, overcome by constant bitterness and deathly [despair], people of this sort “be swallowed up by too much sadness” (2Cor. 2:7)’.29 Just as with Evagrius, Cassian sees some benefit to sadness in certain circumstances. For Cassian, however, the potential value of sadness is not in creating detachment from the world, but rather comes when sadness is born of repentance. ‘Sadness is to be judged beneficial for us in one instance alone – when we conceive it out of repentance for our sins and are inflamed by a desire for perfection, and by contemplation of future blessedness’.30 Cassian’s description gives positive sadness a much more dynamic character than does Evagrius’. ‘[Repentant sadness] stretches itself out tirelessly, in its desire for perfection, to every bodily pain and to contrition of spirit’.31 Remarkably, for Cassian the opposite of sadness is usually presented not as joy, but as better sadness. ‘Once the vices have been overcome … a beneficial sadness and one that is full of joy will take over from what death-dealing sadness   Conf. 16.19.1. Translation mine.   Inst. 9.4. 28   Inst. 9. Trans Ramsey. 29   Conf. 14.17.3. Trans. Ramsey. 30   Inst. 9.10. Trans. Ramsey. 31   Inst. 9.11. Trans. Ramsey. 26 27



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had occupied’.32 Unfortunately, he does not expand much on the nature of the joy-filled sadness to which he refers here and elswhere, and it is difficult to determine how different his picture is from that of Evagrius’ image of venom. All told, Cassian’s preferred metaphors for sadness are quite distinct from those of Evagrius. Rather than chains, Cassian speaks of sadness in terms of spiritual rot and other kinds of deterioration. For a moth-eaten garment no longer has any value or good use, and likewise worm-eaten wood deserves to be consigned to the flames rather than be used for furnishing even an insignificant building. In the same way, then, the soul that is eaten away and devoured by sadness … [cannot] be a part of the structure of furnishing of [the] spiritual temple.33

Rot, despair, annoyance, bad relationships – this is a picture of sadness that resembles more closely our modern emotional assumptions than does that of Evagrius, though Cassian’s tristitia is still certainly not directly equivalent to modern English sadness, and remains in line with Evagrius on a number of fronts. Cassian and Evagrius are separated by a few decades worth of time, by writing their major works in two different languages, by geography, and most notably by differences in their intended audiences, with Cassian writing primarily for monks living in community, and Evagrius focused on the lone eremitic monk. Cassian, moreover, is a consciously critical reader of Evagrius, owing in large part to the Origenist controversy, and is far more than a copyist of the latter’s teachings. When it comes to sadness the two provide closely related approaches couched in an apparently identical taxonomy and definition of sadness, yet which approaches begin to differ upon close examination. I wish to suggest, then, that already between Evagrius and Cassian we can observe one of the early phases in the long march of a single emotional concept (sadness) from a place in which it could easily be conceived of as spiritually vicious by an author like Evagrius, to a world like ours in which we struggle to understand how there could be any relationship at all between sadness and sin. Evagrius, concerned with lone monks, and influenced by stoicism and perhaps Greek medical thought, sees the problem of sadness in its binding quality, and its attachment to the unreal. For him it is a problem of the thoughts, and a work of demons. However, as Cassian brings Evagrius’ vices into the context of community life, the key problems surrounding sadness appear to change; the question of a given brother’s disposition and attitude toward others when he is in the state of sadness becomes the focus for Cassian, and the effect of sadness on the community becomes his biggest concern. With this shift in context, the very definition of sadness thus begins to shift to something more transparently emotional – a question of feeling and relationship, rather than of thoughts and demons.   Conf. 5.23.3. Trans. Ramsey.   Inst. 9.3. Trans. Ramsey.

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There is a lot more to the story of sadness, of course, as we traverse many more centuries, and several more languages. It is of no small consequence, for instance, that Gregory IX’s tenth-century revision of the eight principle vices into the familiar seven deadly sins drops sadness altogether in favour of envy (while combining vanity and pride).34 Nonetheless, those changes in the understanding of sadness that are already apparent between Evagrius and Cassian provide a good demonstration of how fluid any emotional concept can be as it move across even small changes in cultural, social, and intellectual frameworks. This fluidity will continue to be a problem for those wishing to study Evagrius or Cassian on sadness. Indeed, what I have shown above puts a fine point on the challenge facing translators of these authors,35 most of whom have continued (as I have) to emphasize the term ‘sadness’, even when conscious of the limitations of the term. Yet more, numerous modern commentators have been drawn (quite understandably) into pondering the potential impact of Evagrius’ and Cassian’s thought on modern psychology, most notably discussing the relevance of their approach to sadness for the modern treatment of clinical depression.36 Though most of this scholarship makes appropriate concessions to the differences between modern and ancient emotional and psychological culture, the dynamism of sadness as a term of art for Cassian and Evagrius ought (I think) to give us very serious pause about the complex relationship between any two emotional and psychological concepts from the ancient and modern worlds; we ought not to assume too quickly that there is any connection at all between something like tristitia and, for instance, clinical depression – appearances can be deceiving. Still, it is heartening to see continued growth in attention to ancient emotional cultures and categories, and ongoing study of the history of specific concepts like sadness. The dynamism of these concepts even across authors as closely related as Evagrius and Cassian certainly highlights the importance of continued careful work in the area.

34   The effects of sadness are, for Gregory, largely folded into acedia; the positive impact of sadness is also deemphasized. See the still relevant description in Stanly W. Jackson, ‘Acedia the Sin and it Relationship to Sorrow and Melancholia in Medieval Times’, Bulletin of the History of Medicine 55 (1981), 172-81, 175-6. 35   For instance, Boniface Ramsey, John Cassian: The Conferences, Ancient Christian Writers 57 (Mahwah, 1997) chooses to translate tristitia as either sadness or annoyance depending on context. See also D. Burton-Christie, ‘Evagrius on Sadness’ (2009), 408. 36   See especially D. Burton-Christie, ‘Evagrius on Sadness’ (2009), 406-408, and K.C. Russell, ‘John Cassian on Sadness’ (2003), 13-8.

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