Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus' Followers in the First Two Centuries: First Annual Meeting of ... ... 10) (English, French and Italian Edition) 9782503569017

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TEXTS, PRACTICES, AND GROUPS

Judaïsme ancien et origines du christianisme Collection dirigée par Simon Claude Mimouni (EPHE, Paris) Équipe éditoriale: José Costa (Université de Paris-III) David Hamidovic (Université de Lausanne) Pierluigi Piovanelli (Université d’Ottawa)

TEXTS, PRACTICES, AND GROUPS MULTIDISCIPLINARY APPROACHES TO THE HISTORY OF JESUS’ FOLLOWERS IN THE FIRST TWO CENTURIES First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2‑5 October 2014)

Edited by

Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce With Mara R escio, Luigi Walt, Emiliano Rubens Urciuoli and Andrea A nnese

2017

© 2017, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. D/2017/0095/127 ISBN 978-2-503-56901-7 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper

I NTRODUCTION Mauro Pesce 1. In a research institution in which little space is given to creativity, innovation and experiment, it is unlikely that something relevant from the point of view of knowledge can be born. Paul Laverty, who wrote the script for Ken Loach’s film “Jimmy’s Hall”, recently affirmed: “sometimes an idea for a story can land in your lap like some benign present from on high.” One might therefore think that it is enough just to have intelligence, talent and a lot of experience to produce, at a certain time, a good script. In reality, things are not so. Laverty himself explains that the film is “a long distant ripple from Nicaragua” in a time when “the United States was busy making carnage of the Sandinista revolution and its people.” He then explains also that a couple of actors and scriptwriters were suggesting him to set up a show in County Leitrim to represent the “plight of asylum seekers in Ireland.” 1 In essence, this script would have never been born if Laverty had not shared the dramatic living conditions in Nicaragua and had not been in contact with political problems in Ireland equally dramatic with fights and bloody repressions. Laverty had close relations with many other scriptwriters in different parts of the world with whom he engaged in a continuous exchange of assumptions, projects and realizations. It is this wealth of experience and this collaboration with other filmakers that allowed the emergence of the screenplay for “Jimmy’s Hall.” Similarly, research on the origins of Christianity is conditioned by the living conditions of the researcher. Within the restricted area of an institution that is focused on its own internal needs, creative research can hardly be born. Dialogue with the human sciences, international contexts, enlargement of the documentary basis for reconstructing the cultural climate of the first two centuries, awareness of the enormous distance and discontinuity which separates us from the Jewish groups of the time of Jesus: these are some of the conditions that allow real knowledge to be created. In some international circles, progress occurs in the study of the historical figure of Jesus and Christian origins, which is in constant dialogue with the most recent results of the human sciences. From these sciences 1.  P. L averty, “Writer,” in Jimmy’s Hall. Written by P. Laverty. Directed by Ken Loach (London, 2014).

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come multidisciplinary stimuli that every scholar uses in her or his own way, responding to a system of questions and methodologies that is somewhat common. In this context, themes and methods of investigation are the product of the mechanism of scientific knowledge itself. It is the multidisciplinary scientific structure that raises questions and requires new solutions. Scientific discoveries are certainly the result of brilliant insights. They would, however, be impossible if the individual researcher were not deeply rooted in the methods, findings and issues of the ongoing research. The progress of knowledge is not the result of an isolated individual. It is rooted in constant communication and in the constant practice of multidisciplinary and multipolar cognitive structures. There is a second essential aspect. Jesus and Christian origins are no longer considered autonomous sectors, as if they were substantially unique and not comparable phenomena. The historical analysis of Christianity has become part of a general scholarly progress. It is the product of developments and refinements of philology and historical methods but is also part of comparative religion. It is conditioned by social sciences like sociology and cultural anthropology, and recently by cognitive studies as well. The object of all these sciences is also the study of socio-religious phenomena, and therefore of Judaism and Christianity. In this way, Christian origins are submitted to historical and socio-anthropological analysis, like any other religious fact. They are not something so radically different or in itself so heterogeneous that only insiders can understand it and only concepts and assumptions exclusively valid for their analysis would give access to it. The main reason for these changes is probably the fact that the birth of modern science, of modern historical method and (at the end of nineteenth century) of social sciences are the result of a new phase in the history of mankind. 2 The first characteristic of this new era is the progressive mutual knowledge between cultures and peoples of the planet that began in the early modern period. From the end of the fifteenth century Christian Europe experienced an extended and more in-depth meeting with cultures and religions of the Americas, Africa, Oceania and Asia. 3 This process is now culminating in the complex dialectic of globalizations and local reactions where peoples and cultures come together and hybridize constantly.

2.  M. Pesce , “La modernità ha costruito un sistema simbolico alternativo a quello cristiano antico?,” in Ch. Dipper – P. Pombeni,  ed., Le ragioni del moderno (Bologna, 2014) 387‑422. 3. See G. Stroumsa, A New Science: The Discovery of Religion in the Age of Reason (Cambridge, 2010).

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The second feature is that the epistemological and methodological foundations of the modern sciences of nature 4 (consider, for example, physics, astronomy, geology, anatomy, medicine and now scientific investigation on the human brain) never assume traditional cultural data as the starting point of knowledge. The basis for the cognitive process is offered only by methods of analysis applied mathematically to certain particular and measurable sectors of nature. Modern science manifests itself through a radical critical review of traditional and cultural data, of which religion is a part. What is now happening is a rapprochement between humanities and natural sciences thanks to cognitive studies. 5 This is really a new fact. The scientific study of the brain permits understanding of which cerebral activities produce those human thoughts and actions that are traditionally the subject of sociology, anthropology and comparative history of religions. That’s why the study of the historical figure of Jesus and Christian origins cannot do without cognitive studies. The scientific explanatory structures, produced by modern science and humanities, have expanded and continue to expand like waves in the spacetime. They take, however, different speeds and receive different receptions in different societies. They sometimes quickly overcome prior knowledge, though often hitting the resistance of strenuous and somehow desperate defenders of previous cognitive structures. We can remember, for instance, the representatives of the sacred Ptolemaic cosmology against Copernicanism, some Calvinist theologians against Cartesianism, Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet against Richard Simon, the Pontifical Biblical Commission of the first and second decades of the twentieth century against Modernism. Today, where defense of a certain theology prevails over full participation in the advances in knowledge of human sciences, the exegetes do not appear as a united front. Many scholars are close to fundamentalist positions. Others who seriously confront the new exegetical proposals are trying to accept anything that does not come into direct conflict with what they consider to be a truth of faith. The fact is that new perspectives arise mostly from new perceptions of reality, new methods, new questions and new situations. In some environments the need to defend the past cognitive structure, the past doctrinal and institutional frameworks, prevails. This attitude creates a climate in 4.  I refer especially to the experimental method elaborated by Galileo Galilei, see M. Pesce , L’ermeneutica biblica di Galileo e le due strade della teologia cristiana (Roma, 2005); K. Jaspers , Der philosophische Glaube (München, 2012 [1947]). 5.  V.S. R amachandran, The Emerging Mind (London, 2003); I d., Encyclopedia of the Human Brain. 4 volumes (New York, 2002); Eric R. K andel , In Search of Memory. The Emergence of a New Science of Mind (New York, 2006); I. Czachesz – R. Uro, ed., Mind, Morality and Magic. Cognitive Science Approaches in Biblical Studies (Durham, 2013).

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which active participation within the new frontiers of research tends to be marginal. A sign of the need for renewal was the creation of Departments of Religious Studies that do not belong to faculties of Theology. This fact is particularly relevant in the United States, where hundreds of departments have been established in universities since the early sixties. The number of such departments increased in the seventies and in the eighties in relation to the growing importance of Asian immigration. 6 But an absolute contrast between departments of Religious Studies and theological faculties would be misleading because adherence to new scientific models (or, on the contrary, defense of past scientific structures) is often present in both institutions. The opposition of which I speak is not one between “science” and “faith”. I am focusing on the difference between scholars participating in epistemological models and new research methods and scholars that instead defend outdated methods and old forms of knowledge. For many scholars belonging to a church is not at all inconsistent with a search that takes into account the epistemological demands of modern humanities and sciences. 7 Indeed, Christianity is characterized in modern times by a continuous dialogue with the demands of modern knowledge, which makes it distinct from any non-rational fundamentalism. Richard Simon, for example, was a Catholic scholar and did not deny “faith”; the “modernists” proposed doctrinal and institutional reforms of Catholicism, not its annihilation. Similar considerations can be made for many present-day scholars. Obviously, adherence to cognitive models of contemporary sciences often involves some hermeneutical changes, perhaps even radical reforms of theological and confessional positions. However, I only refer to histo6. In 1963 a decision of the United State Supreme Court stated that it was constitutionally permissible to teach about religion in a state setting. At Yale, for example, where an old important Divinity Faculty already existed, the Department of Religious Studies was established in 1963, and another at the University of California, Santa Barbara, in 1964. It is true that in France the fifth section of the École Pratique des Hautes Études was founded in 1886 and that a Department of Religious Studies was established at the Freie Universität of Berlin in 1949. But the difference consists in the number of institutions and the impact on the study of Early Christianity. I want to thank Markus Vinzent for reminding me that the decision of Ninian Smart to leave the Department of Theology of the University of Birmingham to create the first Department of Religious Studies in the United Kingdom at the new University of Lancaster in the year 1967 had an enormous impact around the globe. A second department was created in the United Kingdom at the Open University in 1971. 7.  The relation between Christianity and modernity is far more complex that an opposition between “faith” and “science”: M. Pesce , “La modernità ha costruito un sistema simbolico alternativo a quello cristiano antico?,” in Ch. Dipper – P. Pombeni, ed., Le ragioni del moderno (Bologna, 2014) 387‑422.

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riographically concrete and identifiable questions that can involve some fundamental modifications in the construction of Christian theology. 8 For example, the relation between the Jewishness of Jesus and the birth of Christianity; or the discontinuity between the historical Jesus (and the first groups of his followers) and the early churches; or a theological vision for which “Judaism” would necessarily culminate in Christianity; or even the plurality of the beginnings and the divergence among early groups of Jesus’ followers. 2. In the renewal of the exegetical and historical research on Jesus and early Christianity, I especially emphasize a wider knowledge of the social and cultural context of the first two centuries, thanks to a systematic research of documentary materials and archaeological data (epigraphs and the documentary papyri). Second, I recall the increasingly perceived need to use all the existing literary material for the reconstruction of the historical Jesus and the first groups of his followers. Thirdly, I consider the close connection with the new epistemological and methodological perspectives in the field of human sciences. Finally, it is important to underline the increasing awareness of the connection of contemporary research with the interpretations of Jesus and early Christianity developed in the modern age. Regarding the first point, a considerable enlargement of the social and religious documentary basis against which Jesus and the first groups of his followers are to be interpreted seems to have emerged today. Here documentary papyri and archaeological and epigraphic data are used to reconstruct the basic social structures, the economic, the civil and political organization, the political rituals and the so-called religious practices, in which the Jewish Jesus and his followers were involved. 9 It is this vast field of research that is changing, day by day, our knowledge of the context. Of course, it is still essential to refer to the ancient literary sources. The liter8.  The question of a reform of Christian theology in the modern and contemporary age is particularly complex and presents different agendas in the different churches. See H. Küng, Credo. La fede, la chiesa e l ’uomo contemporaneo (Milano, 2003); G. Theissen, Argumente für einen kritischen Glauben (München, 1978). 9.  J.S. K loppenborg, The Tenants in the Vineyard (Tübingen, 2006); I d., Synoptic problems (Tübingen, 2012) 222‑266; 409‑433; 490‑511; 577‑599; J.S. K loppenborg – R. A scough, Greco-Roman Associations. Texts, Translations, and Commentaries. I. Attica, Central Greece, Macedonia, Thrace (Berlin, 2011); Ph. H arland, Greco-Roman Associations, vol. 2: North Coast of the Black Sea, Asia Minor (Berlin, 2014); P. A rzt-Grabner , Philemon (Papyrologische Kommentare zum Neuen Testament 1) (Göttingen, 2003); F. Troche , Il sistema della pesca nel lago di Galilea al tempo di Gesù. Indagine sulla base dei papiri documentari e dei dati archeologici e letterari, unpublished Dissertation (Bologna, 2015). G.B. Bazzana, Kingdom of Bureaucracy. The Political Theology of Village Scribes in the Sayings Gospel Q (Leuven, 2015).

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ary texts, however, must be read together with the documentary materials and in the light of special socio-anthropological and historical perspectives, in order to rebuild the urban and rural environments, to highlight all the conditions of life (from birth to burial) and to examine the inseparable relationship between social practice and development of ideas and symbolic systems. The expansion of our knowledge of the historical and cultural context enables us to perceive more and more the emerging Christianity as a phenomenon strongly interrelated with its surrounding cultures. The perception of the relationship of early groups of Jesus’ followers within their context also allows a critical reconsideration of Christian identity. The essentialist and exclusive concept of identity has been criticized in the humanities especially since the late eighties. Since then social sciences and social history have been more attentive to the issues of cohabitation and coexistence of different cultures and groups. They focus on exchanges and hybridisations, and not just on conflicts and oppositions. Studies on globalisation-localisation highlight the local reactions to universalising processes. 10 Attention is given to the “cultural traffic” 11 and the encounters among cultures. Anthropology emphasises “cultural complexity”. 12 In other words, the processes of identity construction of a group always involve hybridization and exchange. It always depends on a profound relation with other groups. Identity is always porous, discursive and not ontological or essentialist. For these reasons social sciences are in search of conceptual tools and terms suited to understand the phenomena of “contact” (both in time and space) among cultures. Instead of the concept of identity they prefer to use “hybridization”, “métissage” and “connections”. 13 From this point of view, which tends to show the limits of the concept of identity, the social groups are to be studied while taking into account that “they exist from a certain point of view, but from another point of view disappear.” 14 Social Network Analysis15 tries to show the variety of 10.  See A. Destro, Antropologia dei flussi globali (Roma, 2006). 11.  H.J. Elam – K.A. Jackson, ed., Black Cultural Traffic. Crossroads in Global Performance and Popular Culture (Ann Harbor, 2005). 12.  F. Barth, ed., Ethnic Groups and Boundaries. The Social Organization of Culture (Bergen-London, 1969); F. R emotti, Contro l ’identità (Roma-Bari, 1996); I d., L’ossessione identitaria (Roma-Bari, 2010); G. Baumann, L’enigma multiculturale. Stati, etnie, religioni (Bologna, 2003). 13. J.-L. A mselle , Logiche meticce. Antropologia dell ’identità in Africa e altrove (Torino, 1999); I d., Connessioni. Antropologia dell ’universalità delle culture (Torino, 2001); H.K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London, 1994); N.G. Canclini, Culture ibride. Strategie per entrare e uscire dalla modernità (Milano, 1998). 14.  Th.H. Eriksen, “What is Cultural Complexity,” in H. Moxnes – W. Blanton – J.C. Crossley, ed., Jesus Beyond Nationalism (London-Oakville, 2009) 9‑24; See also: A. Destro – M. Pesce , “From Jesus Movement to Christianity: A Model for the Interpretation. Cohabitation and Separation of Jews and Christians,” in

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relationships that characterize individuals and groups, and deconstructs concepts such as “community” that seem to define a group through clear boundaries that separate it artificially from its surroundings. 15 In past decades, criticism of the concept of exclusive and essentialist identity has also affected the particular sector of the study of religion in the ancient world. A shift took place from the concentration on identity as distinctive of groups, towards an emphasis on coexistence, hybridisation, “middle ground”, co-existence, sharing and exchanges among religious groups. An example of this change in emphasis is the fact that an international research team organized in Paris at the École Pratique des Hautes Études has passed from the issue of “identity” of religious communities in the Greco-Roman world (2003) to the theme of “Lignes de partage et territoires de passage” (2009) and then to the theme of “Cohabitations religieuses dans les Mondes et Grec et Romain” (2011). In an article published in the volume Religious Rivalries in the Early Roman Empire and the Rise of Christianity, edited by Leif E. Vaage (Waterloo, WLU Press, 2006) Stephen G. Wilson recognized that the concept of “rivalry” “does not cover all the evidence for social relations between different ancient Mediterranean religious groups in the world, so that some scholars prefer such terms as ‘competition’, ‘interaction’.” Symptomatic of the same widespread atmosphere is also a collective volume, published in 2008, that focuses on the encounter among cultures and coexistence. 16 As for the second point, an increasing need seems to emerge to use in the historical reconstruction all the literary sources produced by the followers of Jesus without an artificial preference for canonical texts. The S.C. M imouni – B. Pouderon, ed., La Croisée des chemins revisitée. Quand l ’Église et la Synagogue se sont-elles distinguées? Actes du colloque de Tours 18‑19 juin 2010 (Paris, 2012) 21‑49: 22‑23. 15. On Network Analysis see: S. Wasserman – C. Faust, Social Network Analysis. Methods and Applications, (Cambridge, 1994); M. E mirbayer – J. Good win, “Network Analysis, Culture, and the Problem of Agency,” AJS 99/6 (1994) 1411‑1454. See also: G. A nzera, L’analisi dei reticoli sociali: problematiche di acquisizione dei dati e strategie metodologiche nella network analysis (Roma, 1999); A.-L. Barabasi, Linked. How Everything Is Connected to Everything Else and What It Means (New York, 2003); C. H aythornthwaite , “Social network analysis: An approach and technique for the study of information exchange,” Library & Information Science Research 18/4 (1996) 323‑342; J. Galaskiewicz – S. Wasserman, “Social Network Analysis. Concepts, Methodology, and Directions for the 1990s,” Sociological Methods Research 22 (1993) 3‑22; I. M astropasqua, Architettura delle reti sociali. Teorie, luoghi, metodi (Roma, 2004); Ch. P rell , Social Network Analysis: History, Theory and Methodology (Los Angeles – London, 2011); J. Scott, Social Network Analysis (London, 2000); J. Skoveretz , “Complexity Theory and Models for Social Networks,” Complexity 8 (2002) 48‑56; A. Trobia – V. M ilia, Social Network Analysis : approcci, tecniche e nuove applicazioni (Roma, 2011). 16.  P. Guldager Bilde – J.H. P etersen, ed., Meetings of Cultures in the Black Sea Region. Between Conflict and Coexistence (Aarhus, 2008).

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great task is that of assembling a historical picture of all the single groups of Jesus’ followers and the distinctive literary productions of each of them. The goal is also the reconstruction of the transmission lines of information about Jesus and the earliest groups of his followers after his death. It is an immense task which is producing very stimulating results. The current situation of the research on the Gospels is characterized by a comparison (practiced in different parts of the world) of all the existing material and by a profound reconsideration of the theories on the formation of the Gospels, their mutual relations and their dating. I refer, for example, to the proposals for new datings by Pier Franco Beatrice, Dennis MacDonald, Markus Vinzent and Matthias Klinghardt, 17 on which I will return at the end of this introduction. Enrico Norelli has published a major book on the fragments of Papias of Hierapolis, to which much space is dedicated also in the book of MacDonald. Norelli has repeatedly defended the need for a new paradigm in the use of available sources that finally exceeds the canonical prejudice and recognizes the possibility of using non-canonical sources for the reconstruction of the historical figure of Jesus and the history of the earliest groups of his followers. Here too the research is divided between those who seek a complete reconstruction of Christian origins using all existing materials and many other scholars that defend a vision that they consider “traditional”. Some of these defenders often argue that the “apocryphal” Gospels would all be chronologically later and dependent on the canonical gospels. But we must be aware that the dating of a text is not the main issue. All the Gospels used texts and materials, namely information about Jesus, which had a long history of previous transmission. A later text may use a range of relevant information that a text written before ignores. Other scholars propose the almost exclusive use of a (non-historical) literary and narrative exegesis of the canonical Gospels. Literary and narrative exegesis, in fact, often keep away from historical questions. In this way these scholars avoid calling into question the reliability of the canonical text, the truth of which they accept a priori on the assumption of a particular theological divine revelation. On the contrary, the reconstruction 17.  D. M acDonald, Two Shipwrecked Gospels. The Logoi of Jesus and Papias’s Exposition of Logia about the Lord (Atlanta, 2012); M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels (Leuven, 2014); I d., Christ’s Resurrection in Early Christianity and the Making of the New Testament (Farnham, 2011); I d., Die Auferstehung Christi im frühen Christentum (Freiburg i. Br., 2014); P.F. Beatrice , “The ‘Gospel According to the Hebrews’ in the Apostolic Fathers,” Novum Testamentum 48 (2006) 145‑195; M. K linghardt, Das älteste Evangelium und die Entstehung der kanonischen Evangelien. Band I. Untersuchung. Band II. Rekonstruktion, Übersetzung, Varianten (Tübingen, 2015). For a new dating of Revelation, see Th. Witulski, Die Johannesoffenbarung und Kaiser Hadrian. Studien zur Datierung der neutestamentlichen Apokalypse (Göttingen, 2007).

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of different transmission lines (seen all together and compared amongst themselves) allows a deeply rich and diversified picture of the figure of Jesus and of the first two centuries of the history of his followers, their groups, their experiences, and the impact they had in their environments. This is why the studies collected in the third and fourth sections of the first part of this volume are dedicated to the texts not contained in the canonical collection of the New Testament, along with those which were canonized in the third century. In the first of these two sections (Early Texts of Jesus’ Followers and Their Groups) we present the contributions of Luigi Walt, Vernacular Reve(i)lations: Paul and the Veil Controversy in Corinth; Mauro Belcastro, Conflits d’intention: Paul, 1 Corinthiens et la pratique de l ’ἐκκλησία; Mara Rescio, A Little Lesson in Faith and Prayer: The Sayings Cluster of Mark 11:22‑25; Andrea Annese, The Temple in the Gospel of Thomas. An Interpretive Perspective on Some Words Attributed to Jesus; Giulio Michelini, The Gospel of Matthew and the Gospel of John: Intertextual Connections in Three Case Studies (Matt 27:49 // John 19:34; Matt 27:55‑56 // John 19:25‑27; Matt 5:32 // John 7:53–8:11); Carlo Broccardo, Pantheist, Equilibrist, Opportunist? Luke and the Spirituality of the Gentiles in Acts 17:16‑34; Cora Presezzi, Vasi e concubine. Tracce di un conflitto tra carismi in Samaria secondo Gv 4,7‑30; Francesco Berno, Inauguratio quaedam dividendae doctrinae Valentini: Inconsistencies about Valentinianism’s Split into duae cathedrae between Adversus Valentinianos and De Carne Christi. The section on Religious Practices is devoted to the social practices of the early Jesus’ followers, and contains the following articles: Luca Arcari, Visionary Experiences and Communication in the Revelation of John. Between Selective Memories and Individual Authority; Daniele Tripaldi, Lots, Cups, and Ecstasy: Towards a Reconstruction of the “Thiasoi” of Marcus, Disciple of Valentinus; Maria Dell’Isola, Montanism and Ecstasy: The Case of Theodotus’ Death (Eus. HE V,16,14‑15); Laura Carnevale, Et de caseo quod mulgebat dedit mihi quasi buccellam. On Charismatic Power, Prophetic Authority and Ritual Practice in Perpetua’s First Vision; Carmine Pisano, The Visionary’s Body as a Dialectical Space of Tradition. The Case of the Pythia; Donatella Tronca, Dancing in Ancient Christianity: Initial Research. For a dialogue with other disciplines, the first Annual Meeting of Bertinoro gave a special space to cultural anthropology and archeology. Cultural anthropology and sociology from the late nineteenth century to the present day have contributed substantially to the understanding of the Gospels and Christian origins in general. The exegesis of the early Jesus’ followers would not be what it is without sociology and anthropology. We cannot do here a history of the influence of anthropology on exegetical studies. Die Geschichte der synoptischen Tradition of Rudolf Bultmann would never have been written if an anthropological discipline like the history of popular traditions had not existed for a long time. Die Formge-

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schichte des Evangeliums of Martin Dibelius, which takes into account the so-called Sitz im Leben, could not have been written without the stimulus of sociology. This obviously applies also to the research of G. Theissen. It is in the second half of the eighties that the first systematic studies of anthropology of Judaism appear, namely those of H. Eilberg Schwartz and Adriana Destro. In 1985 the Context Group was founded, which is one of the research groups involved in the use of cultural anthropology. In the current exegetical studies in English, the influence of the anthropological perspective is normal. The significant fact of the turn of the eighties is that cultural anthropology is no longer considered a cognitive tool suitable only for the cultures colonized by European and North-American countries. Judaism and Christianity are religious phenomena like any other and should be subject to the same investigation methods. To this is connected another key issue: that of the need to redefine the concepts and explanatory categories used for the description of Judaism and Christianity. Historical and cultural analysis are needed to understand the Jewish and Christian religious phenomena within the general explanatory categories produced by the comparative history of religions, cultural anthropology or psychology of religion. All that implies, however, a theoretical reflection on how to use these disciplines in the study of the first two “Christian” centuries. On the one hand, the historian and the exegete should know and practice directly disciplines such as anthropology, sociology or cognitive studies. On the other hand it is rare for two or more specializations to be present in the same researcher. As for the use of social sciences, such as sociology and anthropology, the question is somewhat easier. Groups of scholars who have practiced sociological and anthropological methodologies have long existed. I think of French historical anthropology or the Context Group. However, the “application” to early Christianity of models or general theories that sociologists and anthropologists have produced for other fields always involves dangers of dilettantism and misunderstanding. More important than a scholastic “application” of models is to observe and imitate sociologists and anthropologist in their concrete practice of research. It is that practice that must be transferred to the analysis of early Christianity. What is needed is to think anthropologically. It is the anthropological research on the field that is capable of stimulating other disciplines, not a scholastic recycling of models, a kind of parasitic use of the products of anthropology. For this reason we have asked a number of anthropologists to present their current research, not to “apply” anthropology. The anthropological studies published in the second part of this book are the following: Adriana Destro, Narrating the Execution of Jesus. Followers, Buriers and Witnesses Confronting the Violent Death of the Leader; Zelda Alice Franceschi,

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Testimonios as Autobiography. Daily Life and Beliefs among the Wichí in the Argentine Chaco; Maria Chiara Giorda, Contemporary Monastic Studies. First Sketches on Two Case Studies: Dominus Tecum and Notre-Dame; Francesca Sbardella, Objects Tell Another Story. Gifts Given to the Monastery in Fara in Sabina by Cardinal Barberini. In the case of cognitive studies, the application to Christian origins is much more complex than in the case of cultural anthropology and sociology, because it involves a long series of scientific methodologies and knowledge which are extraneous to historical and social sciences. Vilayanuri S. Ramachandran affirms that after the Copernican, Darwinian and Freudian revolutions, “now we are poised for the greatest revolution of all – understanding the human brain. This will surely be a turning point in the history of the human species for, unlike those earlier revolutions in science, this one is not about the outside world, not about cosmology or biology or physics, but about ourselves, about the very organ that made those earlier revolutions possible.” However, participation in this cognitive revolution cannot mean applying to the texts of Christian origins the conclusions of scholars who in turn used cognitive studies not through direct practice, but summing up the work of specialists. Pascal Boyer has used cognitive studies to elaborate a theory of religious concepts, but has not practiced cognitive studies directly. Most of the affirmations of Pascal Boyer on the birth of religious concepts are particularly interesting, but I do not find a cogent reason that demonstrates their foundation in cognitive or evolutionary studies. More than a demonstration, I find in them the presentation of an intuition or a possibility. This applies also to archaeology. In this first meeting we asked for contributions in the field of ancient Jewish and Christian archaeology and epigraphy. The book by Carlo Carletti of 2008, Epigrafia dei Cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo, 18 for example, offers an indispensable access to non-literary sources on early Christianity and clearly demonstrates the lack of a “Christian” epigraphy before the end of the second century. The book also introduces to the study of the important and neglected area of funerary epigraphy. On the other hand, it is necessary that archaeologists have direct knowledge of the most recent exegetical studies, otherwise they end up applying to the data in their possession outdated criteria and evaluations that come sometimes from old theological conceptions. In the second part of this volume, a section is dedicated to Christian archaeology: Carlo Carletti, Origin of Christians’ Epigraphy: An Integration between Different Sources; Paola De Santis, Committenze e funzionalità di un “ immaginario figurativo” protocristiano; Antonio E. Felle, Documenti epigrafici di committenza ebraica. Omologazione e alterità; Maria Amodio, 18.  C. Carletti, Epigrafia dei Cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi (Bari, 2008).

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Tracce archeologiche dei primi credenti in Cristo a Neapolis: le pitture delle catacombe. In the same second part of the volume, two articles are devoted to the current methodological debate on the history of early Christianity: 19 a contribution of Fabrizio Vecoli (La comparaison peut-elle servir à l ’histoire? Réflexions méthodologiques à partir de Drudgery Divine de Jonathan Z. Smith) and a methodological essay of Emiliano Rubens Urciuoli (Religious Vicissitudes of Political Desires. A Bourdieu-Driven Approach to Early Christian Political Subjectivation). Finally, as regards the fourth point, the teaching of great masters of history of Christianity, such as Franco Bolgiani and Giuseppe Alberigo, has made us aware of the need to have an in-depth view of all Christian history. It is an illusion to think to have access to the knowledge of Christian origins if one has no knowledge of subsequent historical changes. The changes that have occurred in the modern and contemporary age are now affecting historians and exegetes in their interpretation of early Christianity. It is in the modern age that we rediscover the historical figure of Jesus and of the first groups of his followers. The evolution of our knowledge of these phenomena is somewhat parallel to the modern discovery of the structure of the universe, and to the evolution and progress of modern physics. The major current issues in the research about the historical figure of Jesus, the difference between Jesus and the theology and the organizational forms of his first followers, the non-political nature of the first churches, the discontinuity between Christianity of the fourth to sixth centuries with the earlier Christian groups, the Jewishness of Jesus, the irreducible plurality of the first groups of Jesus’ followers, all these issues were developed since the beginning of the fifteenth century. The current conservative and confessional responses to the historical exegesis sometimes substantially repeat the arguments and attitudes of the Christian theologians who resisted in the modern age to the birth and development of historical exegesis and history of early Christianity. In the second part of this book we publish a series of articles on the modern interpretation 19. Symptoms of new tendencies in the history of early Christianity are R. Aguirre , ed., Así empezó el cristianismo (Estella, 2010); E. Norelli, La nascita del cristianesimo (Bologna, 2014) and the new vision proposed by S.C. M imouni in a series of contributions: S.C. M imouni – P. M araval , Le Christianisme des origines à Constantin (Paris, 2006); S.C. M imouni, Le judaïsme ancien du VIe siècle avant notre ère au IIIe siècle de notre ère: des prêtres aux rabbins (Paris, 2012); I d., Jacques le Juste, frère de Jésus de Nazareth et l ’histoire de la communauté nazoréenne / chrétienne de Jérusalem du Ier au IVe siècle (Paris, 2015); I d., “Le Judaïsme à l’époque de la naissance du Christianisme. Quelques rémarques et réflexions sur les recherches actuelles,” Religions & Histoire 22 (2008) 28‑33; I d., “Les origines du christianisme: Nouveaux paradigmes ou paradigmes paradoxaux? Bibliographie sélectionnée et raisonnée,” Revue Biblique 115 (2008) 360‑382.

INTRODUCTION

19

of Jesus: Miriam Benfatto, Il Gesù del Ḥizzuk Emunah. Fra ricostruzione critica e costruzione polemica; Franco Motta, A Tale of History, Dogma, and Tradition. Jesus in Caesar Baronius’ Annales ecclesiastici (c. 15601588); Pina Totaro, Continuity and Discontinuity in Spinoza’s Approach to the Historical Jesus; Alessandro Santagata, Sur la continuité de la « crise moderniste »: de la Lamentabili à la lettre d’Ottaviani sur les erreurs post-conciliaires; Raffaella Cavallaro, Le Jésus d’Antonin Artaud. Based on these considerations, it is clear that the characterization of the contemporary state of research on Jesus and early Christianity as a period after the “third quest” is misleading. It is important to realize that the concept of the “third quest” is not a historiographical concept, but an apologetic defense mechanism with which some conservatives tried and still try to neutralize the innovative power of a well articulated archipelago of scholars that can hardly be reduced to a homogeneous entity. Some conservative North Americans authors (the concept of a third quest was popularized by Tom Wright) have erected a defensive wall that we can define as the “invention of the third search”, to defend themselves from the results of the Jesus Seminar in the eighties. At the same moment in which (at the Society of Biblical Literature) the Jesus Seminar was running in its most creative phase, there were in fact a number of other seminars and research units with quite different issues and orientations. The Jesus Seminar represents by no means the whole of exegetical research in the eighties. It is some of the conservative Christian theologians that isolated it from the general situation because it constituted a danger for their conservative theology. It is from the point of view of those who feel compelled to defend certain theological tenets that it is possible to individuate as “third quest” certain exegetical contributions. Not all exegetical and historical researches in the eighties (and in the following decades), however, constitute an attack on certain theological tenets. The use of the concept of “third quest” means embracing the defensive point of view of certain theological positions and prevents scholars from a historiographical understanding of the different orientations of contemporary early Christian studies. These different research orientations, in fact, have a significant impact on the research on Jesus and the Gospels because they are characterized not by an anti-conservative attitude but by a multiplicity of different perspectives. A small picture of it is offered in the first two sections of this book. The first had to be necessarily dedicated to a relevant aspect of the critical review of the Gospel sources: the new dating proposals. Markus Vinzent (Marcion of Sinope and the Synoptic Question) resumes its proposal for a late date for the Gospel of Luke. Claudio Gianotto (Redating Early Christian Texts) discusses the proposals of the late dating of the Gospels presented by Pier Franco Beatrice and the same Vinzent.

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Also the studies on Jesus published here in the section on the Historical Jesus reflect the research orientations discussed above. Facundo Daniel Troche (Fishing in the Lake of Galilee and the Socio-Economic Context of the Jesus Movement) shows how many new aspects of Jesus’ activity and that of his disciples may come to light from analytical research on the system of fishing in the Lake of Galilee based on documentary papyri and epigraphic material. Simone Paganini’s article on Historischer Jesus und eschatologischer Messias. Bemerkungen zu 4Q521 und Lk 7,22 (//Mt 11,5) is an expresssion of the new research on Jesus in light of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Federico Adinolfi, in his article Una redazione piena di memoria. L’indispensabile contributo di Mt 21,31c-32 alla conoscenza storica di Gesù e Giovanni il Battista, supports the dependence of a large part of Jesus’ teaching from that of John the Baptist. During the first Annual Meeting of Bertinoro were also discussed two books dedicated to the historical figure of Jesus. Claudio Gianotto and Dario Garribba were discussing a book on Jesus by Giorgio Jossa. 20 Enrico Norelli and Claudio Gianotto presented a monograph of Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce 21 on the death of Jesus. In the section about History of Jews and Judaism in the Roman-Hellenistic Period, Dario Garribba writes an original contribution about the vexata quaestio of the relevance of 70 C.E. as a crucial moment of evolution in Jewish History. Marco Vitelli presents an important contribution about the images of Jesus and James in Josephus’ Antiquitates Iudaicae. Laura C. Paladino writes on the Acta Alexandrinorum and Maurizio Marcheselli proposes an evaluation of Daniel Boyarin’s view of the relations between Christianity and Judaism. 3. In September 2013 Adriana Destro and I proposed to a group of young scholars (Dario Garribba, Matteo Grosso, Mara Rescio, Daniele Tripaldi, Emiliano Rubens Urciuoli and Luigi Walt) to organize a series of annual conferences on Early Christianity. Their enthusiasm and creativity gave birth to the first meeting that took place in Bertinoro under the general and invaluable coordination of Mara Rescio. The First Annual Meeting took place in Bertinoro from 2 to 5 October 2014 and was organized by the following committee: Mara Rescio (direction and organization); Adriana Destro, Dario Garribba, Mauro Pesce, Daniele Tripaldi, Emiliano Rubens Urciuoli, Luigi Walt. The decision to give life to the Annual Meetings of Bertinoro stems from the appreciation of the existence of a large number of young scholars who are dedicating their research primarily to the historical Jesus 20.  G. Jossa, Sei tu il re dei Giudei? (Roma, 2014). 21.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù. Indagine su un mistero (Milano, 2014).

INTRODUCTION

21

and the first two centuries of the history of Jesus’ followers (and not to the traditional areas of history of Ancient Christianity and the so-called Fathers). Most of them conduct their research with attention to the disciplines and methodologies of the humanities, social sciences and cognitive studies, as well as on the basis of the traditional and essential philological and historical methodologies. This fact indicates a new situation in early Christian studies. The annual meetings of Bertinoro intend to constitute a space for this search where new perspectives can talk to each other and create an environment of mutual fertilization and scientific development. To the younger generation is entrusted much of the direction of the thematic units of the meetings. There can be no progress in the knowledge of Christian origins except in a climate where the research hypotheses will be communicated and discussed in their formative moments. The topics of the annual conferences are the historical Jesus, the story of the groups of the early followers of Jesus, their Jewish and HellenisticRoman context, the exegesis of all the documents produced by the followers of Jesus without distinction of canonicity (a criterion, this one, anachronistic for the first two centuries), and the study of non-literary sources (e.g.: archaeological data, epigraphical materials, documentary papyri). A special space is dedicated to new methodologies and theoretical questions, as well as to a direct dialogue with the social sciences and humanities. Constant attention is given to the history of the research starting from the early modern age. The first Annual Meeting is the result of the scientific creativity of all the responsibles of the eighteen units of research in which the conference was organized. The two editors of present book have ordered the main contributions of these units in the two parts of the volume. The first, dedicated to “Texts and Groups”, is divided into several areas: Dating Early Christian Texts; Historical Jesus; Early Texts of Jesus’ Followers and Their Groups; Religious Practices; History of Jews and Judaism in the RomanHellenistic Period. The second part, dedicated to “Anthropology, Methodologies and Modern Historical Perspectives”, is divided into four sections: Anthropology of Religious Forms and Identities; Methodological Questions about the Birth of Christianity; Archaeology and Christian Origins; History of the Modern Research on the Historical Figure of Jesus. We want to thank Dr. Rajiv Bhola and Dr. Robert Edwards (University of Ottawa) for their revisions of the translations of the articles in English, and Mrs. Loraine Dandiran (University of Geneva) for her revisions of the French translations. We want also to thank Emiliano Rubens Urciuoli, Mara Rescio, and Luigi Walt (who also is responsible for the web site of the meetings) for their collaboration in some stages of the editorial work of this volume.

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From a certain moment the typographical preparation of the book has been done by Dr. Andrea Annese. 22 He has followed the preparation of the first proofs and the successive process until the final publication of the book. We want to thank him for his invaluable work. We want to express to Simon C. Mimouni our gratitude for his very generous offer to publish this volume in the prestigious JAOC series directed by him. A particular thanks also to Brepols Publishers for accepting the book and their assistance in the editing process.

22.  We want to thank Dr. Federico Adinolfi for a first critical reading of the pre-proof text.

Part I Texts

and

Groups

Dating Early Christian Texts

M ARCION OF SINOPE AND THE SYNOPTIC QUESTION Markus Vinzent I. N ew

inter est in

M a rcion

of

S i nope

After Adolf von Harnack had published his masterpiece on Marcion, 1 it looked for a very long time as if he had dug out all, or at least almost all of the sources, said the last word on this topic, and given the final verdict. 2 Yet, while over the following decades only occasional attempts were made to engage with Marcion, mostly on the back of Harnack, recent years have seen an enormous resurfacing of Marcion with new interpretations, criticisms of both Harnack’s source reconstitutions and his interpretations of them and an intensive debate on the history of reception of Marcion. Moreover, Marcion as a reader of Paul as well as editor, redactor or even author of the gospel has been discussed. 3 As one can see from the enormous output just over the past very few years, research on Marcion has come back into full swing, and it will be interesting to see, how far we 1.  A. von H arnack , Marcion: Das Evangelium vom fremden Gott (Leipzig, 1923. 21924 = Darmstadt, 1960 incl. Neue Studien zu Marcion, 1923). 2. See the overview in S. Moll , The Arch-Heretic Marcion (Tübingen, 2010) 5‑10. 3.  Without being comprehensive, here simply follows a list of major articles and monographs: B. A land, “Marcion: Versuch einer neuen Interpretation,” Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 70 (1973) 420‑447; Joseph Hoffmann, Marcion: On the Restitution of Christianity (Chico, 1984); G. M ay – K. Greschat, ed., Marcion and his Impact on Church History (Berlin, 2002); W. K inzig, Harnack, Marcion und das Judentum (Leipzig, 2004); D. Roth, Towards a New Reconstruction of the Text of Marcion’s Gospel: History of Research, Sources, Methodology, and the Testimony of Tertullian, PhD (The University of Edinburgh, 2009), now in a slightly revised version published as The Text of Marcion’s Gospel (Leiden a.o., 2015); my own Christ’s Resurrection in Early Christianity and the Making of the New Testament (Farnham, 2011); J.D. Beduhn, The First New Testament: Marcion’s Scriptural Canon (Salem, 2013); U.M.S. Röhl , Der Paulusschüler Markion. Eine kritische Untersuchung yum Antijudaismus im 2. Jahrhundert (Marburg, 2014); my own work Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels (Leuven, 2014), my Die Auferstehung Christi im frühen Christentum (Freiburg i. Br., 2014); M. K linghardt, Das älteste Evangelium und die Entstehung der kanonischen Evangelien, 2 vols (Tübingen, 2015); J. Lieu, Marcion and the Making of a Heretic: God and Scripture in the Second Century (Cambridge, 2015). Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 27–62 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111697 ©

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can get in the re-assessment of his position in second century Christianity. What I am suggesting in the following builds on my first insights which I published in my 2011 monograph on Christ’s Resurrection in Early Christianity and the Making of the New Testament which has been complemented in the meantime by my books Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels (2014) and Tertullian’s Preface to Marcion’s Gospel (2016). As the latest publication on the topic, Matthias Klinghardt’s Das älteste Evangelium und die Entstehung der kanonischen Evangelien (2015) makes a preliminary reference to my position, I’d like to engage with his appreciation and criticism at the end of the article. One of the positive outcomes of the recent works on Marcion is the cross-disciplinarity between New Testament scholars, scholars of Judaism, church history and Patristics. It defies the rather recent division between Patristics and New Testament Studies. Already the late Martin Hengel, in his “A Young Theological Discipline in Crisis,” 4 had noted that as a discrete discipline, “‘New Testament Studies’ is still a young discipline. This subject has only had its own chairs since the last third of the nineteenth century.” 5 And in his inaugural lecture of 1999, Larry Hurtado had pointed out that most contributions to NT studies, well into the early twentieth century, “were by scholars in OT, Systematic Theology,” 6 and, as Hengel remarked, “above all [by] church historians.” 7 A good example is my own place, King’s College London. At King’s the Professor of Ecclesiastical History in the 1920, for example, Claude Jenkins, also lectured on Patristic Texts and when, in 1930, Randolph Vincent Greenwood Tasker taught Patristics, he had already been Lecturer in Exegesis of the New Testament for four years, a combined job which he maintained even after WWII when Tasker was promoted Professor in both fields, as did Professor Robert Victor Sellers who in 1948 became Professor of both Biblical and Historical Theology. 8 Another example of the interdisciplinarity 4. M. H engel , “A Young Theological Discipline in Crisis,” in M.F. Bird – J. M aston,  ed., Earliest Christianity: History, Literature, and Theology. Essays from the Tyndale Fellowship in Honor of Martin Hengel (Tübingen, 2012) 459‑471. 5.  Ibidem, 459. 6.  L.W. Hurtado, “New Testament Studies At the Turn of the Millennium: Questions for the Discipline,” Scottish Journal of Theology 52 (1999) 158‑178. 7. M. H engel , “A Young Theological Discipline in Crisis,” in M.F. Bird – J. M aston,  ed., Earliest Christianity: History, Literature, and Theology (Tübingen, 2012) 459. 8.  The history of King’s Department of Theology has not been written, yet, but it would be a fascinating journey to unearth the development of Theology here, and specifically that of the relation between Patristics, New Nestament Studies and other disciplines. When Graham Gould who taught Patristics there from 1990 to 2003 left, the position had remained vacant until my arrival in 2010. The position in Patristics was not for the first time vacant, however. Already during the years 1976 to 1978 nobody taught Patristics, while colleagues in Ecclesiastical History also lectured on early Church History. Past Professors in Historical Theology were

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that is asked for when approaching the beginnings of Christianity was the recent Biblical Colloquium of Bertinoro in October 2014 from which this article originally derived. When I prepared my 2011 book on Christ’s Resurrection in Early Christianity which only in the last minute was given the subtitle And the Making of the New Testament I had only started to scratch the surface of the interdisciplinary nature of our topic: what was more an intuition then has, in the meantime, become a major research project, namely to re-write the history of the beginnings of Christianity, based on a re-evaluation of Marcion, this Roman teacher from the second century. The separation of NT and Patristic Studies was the result not only of a romantic turn of scholarship in the mid-nineteenth century, but at that time, also of a fundamentalist, non-historical reading of the New Testament itself and the growing dominance of such reading, manifested by the systematic rather than historical new discipline of New Testament Studies. Of course, since then, the new discipline has enormously developed, but only very recently scholars are trying to overcome its systematic circularity of being a canon-based subject. Although I am not suggesting to abolish either Patristics or New Testament Studies, I’d like to advocate a full reunification of New Testament and Patristic Studies in the future which in my view is the best way to resolve longstanding problems like that of the Synoptic Question and to allow for a re-assessment of the early history of Christianity. Of course, such a broad claim cannot be substantiated in a short article like this one, but I wish at least to outline the ideal future. To indicate where I see this future going, I’d like to take the opportunity to highlight a few Patristic aspects while I need to leave the NT approach – except for a few examples – to a forthcoming publication. When we read the latest introductions, school books or overviews 9 – with only few deviating voices10 – early Christianity and its writings developed according to the following condensed chronology:11 Eric Lionel Mascall (appointed in 1962) and his predecessor Dennis Eric Nineham (appointed in 1954). He like is predecessor Robert Victor Sellers (appointed in 1948) were Professor not only of Historical but also of Biblical Theology, assisted by Maurice Valentine Mandeville as Lecturer in Patristic Texts. That this combination had tradition in King’s can be seen from Randolph Vincent Greenwood Tasker, promoted in 1946/1947 to Professorship in Patristic Texts and Exegesis of the New Testament, after having been at King’s already from 1926 as Lecturer in Exegesis of the New Testament and from 1930 Lecturer in Patristic Texts. When he became Professor, he was assisted by Eric George Jay as Lecturer in Patristic Texts, before Jay moved on to become Professor of Systematic Theology at McGill University. Prior to this time, the longstanding Lecturer in Patristic Texts and later Professor of Ecclesiastical History was Claude Jenkins who taught at Kings from 1920. 9. See for good recent summaries D.A. De Silva, An Introduction to the New Testament (Downers Grove and Leicester, 2004), 31‑36, 148‑179; D.R. Burkett, An Introduction to the New Testament and the Origins of Christianity (Cambridge,

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c. 30/33

Jesus’ death and Resurrection

40s – 50s

Paul’s letters

60s – 80/90s

Mark, Matthew, Luke

90s – 100s

Acts, most canonical letters, John, Revelation

100‑200

Apostolic Fathers

Jesus’ death in the early 30s was a major challenge for his followers as we hear from the Gospels. But because of the Resurrection of Christ, experienced in various ways at different times, locations and by different people during an unknown length of time, his previously anxious disciples were infused with spirit and confidence. Under the Great Commission by the risen Christ, encouraged by the Pentecost experience, they began their missionary activity. Christianity spread from town to town, from country to country to the ends of the world beginning with Jerusalem, but already by the end of the first century it was present in Judea, Galilee, Palestine, Damascus and Antioch, Alexandria and Rome and in cities throughout the Hellenistic world. What we have got is a line of first century writings stretching from Paul in the 40s and 50s to John and Revelation in around ad 100. The respectable scholar of New Testament Studies and its Papyri, J.K. Elliott, summarizes the situation as follows: “All the twenty seven books of the New Testament which we find within a copy of the bible were composed and originally written down (‘published’ if you wish) in the first century.” 12 After this first set of Christian writings follows that second series of what Pope Benedict XVI calls the second generation of Christian authors, and who in the seventeenth century 13 were given the summary name of the so-called Apostolic Fathers. The series begins in Schaff ’s order with Clement of Rome and ends with Irenaeus of Lyon towards the end of the

2002) 105‑111; an older structuring in V. Taylor , The Formation of the Gospel Tradition (London, 1964), 168‑189. 10.  The latest of which are that of K. Jaroš – U. Victor , Die Synoptische Tradition (Köln a.o., 2010) 14 who date the synoptic Gospels to the years 40‑62 AD. 11.  See for example, A. Jülicher , Einleitung in das Neue Testament (Freiburg i.Br. and Leipzig, 1894); A. H arnack , Geschichte der altchristlichen Litteratur bis Eusebius, 2 vols (Leipzig, 1893/1897) II 717‑722; J. Finegan, Handbook of Biblical Chronology (Princeton, 1964) 298‑301, 304‑325. 12. J.K. Elliott, New Testament Textual Criticism (Leiden and Boston, 2010) 13. He later (ibidem, 24) suggests, however, that “we ought to work more systematically on the writings of Marcion and Irenaeus to learn what they can reveal about the Biblical texts.” 13. http://www.vatican.va/holy _father/benedict_xvi/audiences/2007/documents/hf_benxvi_aud_20070307_ge.html

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second century, the catholic author who already binds together the bunch of canonical writings of the New Testament. This almost uninterrupted list of early Christian witnesses gives us a coherent picture of the development of early Christian beliefs: Paul’s message was further developed and enriched by the Gospel authors Mark, Matthew and Luke, also by John and the early Apostolic Fathers refer to Paul and to the same oral traditions on which also the Gospel authors relied. All the apostolic witnesses and their supporting fellows of the second century fall into place. Hundreds of introductions to and commentaries on Paul, Mark, Matthew, Luke, Acts, John, non-canonical Gospels and the Apostolic Fathers teach us this consistent picture of the development of early Christianity and its writings, so why question it? When I did my research for my book on Christ’s Resurrection in Early Christianity, rather accidentally I came across some fundamental questions which had not been answered in the hundred and fifty years of New Testament scholarship. 14 Let me only mention the one which I call asymmetric reception: while Paul and some of his letters from the first century were known, quoted, and he himself mentioned by name in the so-called Apostolic Fathers and other literature from the first two centuries – the stories from the Gospels and the Gospels themselves are simply unknown, not referred to, never quoted – all that we have got is, what Paul, although rarely, refers to, the sayings of Jesus. 15 Even the Didache and the testimony of Papias of Hierapolis are no counter-examples. As I have stated in my Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels (2014), the critical apparatus of both the Nestle-Aland and the United Bible Societies’ Greek New Testament hand editions bare witness for the absence of parallels (with the exception Nestle-Aland of Did. 8,2 // Matth. 6:9: The Our Father, of course, is a saying, not a narrative). Hence, these Greek New Testaments ignore even the very few citations which were “A”-rated by the famous Oxford Society of Historical Theology which exhibited the passages of early Christian writers that ‘indicate, or have been thought to indicate, acquaintance with any of the books of the New Testament’ [Barn., Did., 1Clem., Ign., PolPhil., Herm., 2Clem.]. […] The 1905 researchers ranked the likelihood that a specific Father demonstrated knowledge of a given book in the New Testament by assigning each possible intersection a letter grade from ‘A’ to ‘D.’ ‘A’ designated ‘books about which there can be no reasonable doubt’ that the Father knew it. […] and six As [were given]. […] The most remarkable aspect of 14.  See, for example, E. Schillebeeckx, Christ the Sacrament of the Encounter with God (New York, 1963). 15. See for details my Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels (2014) 224‑255.

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the 1905 volume is the fact that now, a century later, the significance of the ‘formal’ results achieved by the committee […] pale into insignificance when compared with the notes the researchers offered on the passages they examined. […] The 1905 researchers […] were well aware of the multiplicity of possible explanations for the evidence they found in the Apostolic Fathers; they were also acutely aware of their inability to reach definitive judgements on the basis of the evidence. All they could do was follow the via negativa: the source(s) used in about three-quarters of the passages in the Apostolic Fathers with a parallel in the New Testament […] ‘affords no evidence for the use of either of our Gospels in its present form’; that being the case, one had to consider […] ‘the direct use of another [viz. noncanonical (W.L. Petersen)] source altogether, whether oral or written.’ 16

As Christopher M. Tuckett has shown, the Didache is certainly the most likely writing from the “Apostolic Fathers” that shows closest acquaintance with New Testament material, if not with the writings themselves, which would accord to the dating of this text not “much later than the middle of the second century CE.” 17 Moreover, David E. Aune gives a good recent summary of the state of research on the Didache’s use of “gospel”, which highlights that the textual differences between the references in the Didache and any known Gospel text, including that of Matthew, are in need of explanations: 18 There are three passages in the Didache in which τὸ εὐαγγέλιον is linked to quotations or allusions that are arguably derived from the Gospel of Matthew: Did. 8:2; 15:4; 11:3. In Did. 8:2, the author introduces the Lord’s Prayer in a version similar to Matt 6:9–13, with the phrase ὡς ἐκέλευσεν ὁ κύριος ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ (‘as the Lord commanded in the gospel’). Similarly, in Did. 15:3-4, the phrases ὡς ἔχετε (‘as you have [in the gospel]’) and ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν (‘in the gospel of our Lord’), with surrounding allusions to the kind of material found in Matthew (cf. Matt 18:15–16). For Helmut Koester, Did. 8:2 is best understood as a reference to the (oral) preaching of the Lord, but he concedes that the reference can be construed as referring to the written gospel. 19 He also 16.  W.L. P etersen, “Textual Traditions Examined,” in A.F. Gregory – Ch.M. Tuckett, The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford, 2005) 29‑46: 29‑32. 17.  Ch.M. Tuckett, “The Didache and the Writings that later formed the New Testament,” in A.F. Gregory – Ch.M. Tuckett, The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford, 2005) 83‑127: 8618. 18. Further literature can be found in James A. K elhoffer , “‘How Soon a Book’ Revisited: EUAGGELION as a Reference to ‘Gospel’ Materials in the First Half of the Second Century,” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 95 (2004) 1‑34. 19.  Here Aune refers to H. Koester , Synoptische Überlieferung bei den apostolischen Vätern (Berlin, 1957) 10‑11, 203.

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maintains that Did. 11:3 is based on oral tradition, while with regard to Did. 15:3-4 he considers 15:3 to refer to instruction drawn from a written source, though not the Gospel of Matthew. In evaluating 15:4, Koester follows W. Michaelis that a specific, written gospel is not in view, even though such books existed at the time. 20 Similarly, Kurt Niederwimmer hesitates between whether the Didachist means ‘either the viva vox evangelii or a written gospel’ for Did. 8:2, 11:3. 21 He thinks that Did. 15:3 and 15:4 may refer to a written gospel book, though it is not clear which one. Gundry argues persuasively, in my view, that while the phrase ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ in Did. 8:2, 15:3-4 and 11:3 indicates that the Didachist has drawn material from a written copy of the Gospel of Matthew, he is not referring to Matthew as a written gospel; rather he refers to material orally preached and taught by Jesus and now by those who use Matthew as a source for the sayings of Jesus […]. 22 It seems that the phrase ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ can refer to the teaching of Jesus, whether drawn from a written or oral source. 23

Above all, we need to critically reflect the textual status of what we call Didache. The fundamental problem, as I see it with the Didache, is given by the fact that we are still missing a major critical edition. All that we have got are editiones minores. These pretend to give a text which, in fact, is only mirroring fourth-century recensions of it. As all editors admit, the existing recensions that we have are so divergent that an editio maior would need to put side by side the various recensions so that one can recognise the parallels, differences and variations (much as we have it now with the Apology of Aristides). Before answering the question of origin and date of the Didache and its potential relation to New Testament texts and Marcion’s Gospel one would first need to establish the relation between the various recensions, to date and locate them, before one moves into hypotheseis about the potential earlier versions or even the assumed original. The strong differences between the recensions underline, indeed, that this text was heavily revised, being a non-authored, partly catechetical, liturgical, practical, juridicial document which, as one can see from the re-use in the Apostolic Constitutions, has been seen as a building block for further use. The question of the proper text of the Didache has an enormous bearing. When one looks, for example, at the so-called “gospel insertion” (Did. 20. The latter is, of course, an assumption for which there is no evidence; Koester is supported by R.H. Gundry, “EUAGGELION: How Soon a Book,” Journal of Biblical Literature 115 (1996) 321‑325. 21. K. Niederwimmer , The Didache (Minneapolis, 1998) 173; see also ibidem, 135, 203‑205. 22.  Aune refers to R.H. Gundry, “EUAGGELION: How Soon a Book,” Journal of Biblical Literature 115 (1996) 322‑323. 23.  D.E. Aune , “The Meaning of Εὐαγγέλιον in the Inscriptiones of the Canonical Gospels,” in E.F. M ason, ed., A  Teacher for All Generations: Essays in Honor of James C. VanderKam, 2 vols (Leiden, 2012) II 857‑882: 865‑866.

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1,3‑6, Sources Chrétiennes) which is almost entirely taken from Matthew 5 (Luke 6 par.), yet this first “Christian” part is present in the sources Hierosolymitanus 54, the Apostolic Constitutions, the Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 1782 and the Georgian translation of the Didache, but it is missing in the Apostolic Church Order, in its Epitome and the Doctrina apostolorum, neither is there a parallel in Barn. 18‑20, and therefore, for example, the passage is left out of the edition of the Didache by Klaus Wengst. 24 B. Layton has already pointed out that the Didache, as we have it (also with this insertion), is a harmonised version, where Matthew and Luke have contaminated the text of the Didache. 25 The main argument against this text passage as being part of the earlier version of the Didache is that there cannot be given a reason why the Apostolic Church Order would have left out the most Christian sounding passage of the Didache. On such difficult grounds, a careful dating is given by Wengst: terminus post quem is Matthew, terminus ante quem is Clement of Alexandria. 26 Then, however, the typical circular argument sets in: on Wengst’s assumption of an early dating of Matthew, he opts for the beginning of the second century, yet, scholars who are critical of a later dating of the Gospels use precisely the Didache to come up with an early dating of Matthew. As a result, we only know of relative datings (which is even more dubious, as we do not know to what extent our versions of the Didache that all date from the fourth century and later, are not already harmonised versions): Didache after Matthew and before Clement. In addition, as the Didache assumes already a certain separation between Jews and Christians and seems to be prior to Justin (all with huge caveats reg. text basis), it seems that anything that claims a date earlier than the mid second century is loaded with the burden of a heavy hypothesis. The Didache can certainly not provide the basis for a first century dating of Matthew and the other Gospels. Similar it is with Papias of Hierapolis. I have also tried to engage with him in my recent Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, especially with the long neglected fragment taken from the Incipit argumentum secundum Iohannem. 27 The text has been disputed and especially the second half of the fragment been questioned, as already done by our early Christian authors who seem to have been acquainted with the informa24.  Didache, ed. K. Wengst, Schriften des Urchristentums (Munich, 1984). Ibidem, 5‑14 there are also detailed descriptions of the source writings which are used for the re-creation of the Didache. 25.  B. L ayton, “The Sources, Date and Transmission of Didache 1,3b-2,1,” Harvard Theological Review 61 (1968) 343‑383. 26.  Didache, ed. K. Wengst, Schriften des Urchristentums (Munich, 1984) 61‑63. 27. See E. Norelli, in Papia di Hierapolis, Esposizione degli oracoli del Signore. I frammenti. Introduzione, testo, traduzione e note di Enrico Norelli (Milano, 2005) 452‑471: 461.

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tion in this text, like the Acta Timothei, the Corderius Catena on John, Eusebius’ Church History III 24,5-17. 28 Modern editors, however, did not have less difficulties. Some “corrected” the text against the numerous manuscripts which all provide Marcion’s name and replaced it by others, such as “Cerinthus” (so D. Aberle); 29 B.W. Bacon called the information a “curious anachronism” 30, D. de Bruyne believed it to be “not the right text,” 31 E. Norelli stated that it is “ancora più inaccettabili,” 32 while A. v. Harnack disqualified the fragment as “a chronological and material nonsense,” something “unbearable,” and together with D. de Bruyne deleted “ab Iohanne” as “a thoughtless addition.” 33 The main stumbling block for these scholars is the critical relation between John, the Gospelwriter, and Marcion which Papias comments on.  3 4 If we do neither alter this text nor cut it into two separate pieces, but take it as it stands (something, historians and textual scholars should always start with before tampering the sources according to their assumptions), Papias refers to John being a reaction to Marcion. And even if one wants to see in this text “a free play of phantasy” 35 of a later author, it may preserve some historical memories which “are best understood as a programmatic reflection of a New Testament collection of writings which was directed against Marcion and related ‘heretics’,” be it “as reminiscences of a contemporary counter-‘Bibel’ 28. See E. Norelli, in Papia di Hierapolis, Esposizione degli oracoli del Signore. I frammenti. Introduzione, testo, traduzione e note di Enrico Norelli (Milano, 2005) 469: “Il contenuto del frammento è tardivo e non apporta nulla alla nostra conoscenza dell’opera di Papia.” This text is taken up by O. Zwierlein, Die antihäretischen Evangelienprologe und die Entstehung des Neuen Testaments (Mainz and Stuttgart, 2015) 23-30. 29.  D. A berle , “Beiträge zur neutestamentlichen Einleitung,” Theologische Quartalschrift 46 (1864) 3‑47: 21. 30.  B.W. Bacon, “The Anti-Marcionite Prologue to John,” Journal of Biblical Literature 48 (1930) 43‑54: 48; in this he follows D. de Bruyne , “Les plus anciens prologues latins des Evangiles,” Revue Bénédictine 40 (1928) 193‑214: 208 : “the anachronism is violent” (trans. Bacon); see also Id., “Prologues Bibliques d’Origine Marcionite,” Revue Bénédictine 24 (1907) 1‑16. 31.  D. de Bruyne , “Les plus anciens prologues latins des Evangiles,” Revue Bénédictine 40 (1928) 208. 32.  E. Norelli, in Papia di Hierapolis, Esposizione degli oracoli del Signore. I frammenti. Introduzione, testo, traduzione e note di Enrico Norelli (2005) 461: “Ancora più inaccettabili sono le frasi seguenti relative a Marcione.” 33.  A.v. H arnack , “Die ältesten Evangelien-Prologe und die Bildung des Neuen Testaments,” Sitzungsberichte Berlin Akademie (1928) 322‑341: 327, 329; now in I d., Kleine Schriften zur Alten Kirche (Leipzig, 1980) II 803‑822: 808, 810. 34.  See my Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels (Leuven, 2014) 12‑26. 35. So O. Zwierlein, Die antihäretischen Evangelienprologe und die Entstehung des Neuen Testaments (Mainz and Stuttgart, 2015) 74-76: “es scheint sich um spätere Erfindungen zu handeln [...] einer spielerisch [...] herausgesponnenen Erfindung [...] freies Spiel der Phantasie.”

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to that of Marcion around the mid of the second century, be it as later antiheretical polemic,” 36 as it harmonises with Tertullian’s report about Marcion’s Antitheses and his Gospel. According to Papias’ text as we have it in our manuscripts, John must have known of Marcion’s Gospel, must have read the Antitheses (the “contraria”) and, as a result of the latter, must have reacted against them and rejected Marcion. 37 Conversely, Marcion, when publishing his Gospel with these Antitheses, must already have known of John’s Gospel (which perhaps was still in the making), as he makes reference to it in these Antitheses, which is reported by Papias here and supported by Tertullian, when the latter informs us about Marcion criticizing John’s Gospel in his Antitheses: [IV 2,2] From among the apostles the faith is introduced to us by John and by Matthew, while from among apostolic men Luke and Mark give it renewal […] [IV 3,2] […] Marcion has got hold of Paul’s epistle to the Galatians, in which he rebukes even the apostles themselves for not walking uprightly according to the truth of the gospel [see Gal. 2:14 which he referred to his own gospel], and accuses also certain false apostles of perverting the gospel of Christ [which was preserved in his own]: and on this ground Marcion strives hard to overthrow the credit of those gospels which are the apostles’ own and are published under their names [hence John and Matthew, as mentioned before], or even the names of apostolic men [hence Luke and Mark], with the intention no doubt of conferring on his own gospel the repute which he takes away from those others. [IV 3,3] And yet, even if there is censure of Peter [as the source for Mark] and John [taken as the author of John] and James, who were esteemed as pillars (see Gal. 2:9), the reason is evident […]. 38

36. So O. Zwierlein, Die antihäretischen Evangelienprologe und die Entstehung des Neuen Testaments (Mainz and Stuttgart, 2015) 77: “[...] die sich am besten als der programmatische Niederschlag einer gegen Markion und verwandte ‘Ketzer’ gerichteten neutestamentlichen Schriftensammlung verstehen lassen. Dabei kann es sich teils um Reminiszenzen an einen zeitgenössischen Gegenentwurf zur ‘Bibel’ Markions um die Mitte des 2. Jh.s handeln, teils auch um spätere antihäretische Züge.” 37. See also Filastrius, Haer. 45: “Marcion devictus atque fugatus a beato Iohanne evangelista et presbyterio de civitate Effesi.” 38. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 2,2; 3,2‑3: “[2,2] Denique nobis fidem ex apostolis Ioannes et Matthaeus insinuant, ex apostolicis Lucas et Marcus instaurant […] [3,2] Sed enim Marcion nactus epistulam Pauli ad Galatas, etiam ipsos apostolos suggillantis ut non recto pede incedentes ad veritatem evangelii, simul et accusantis pseudapostolos quosdam pervertentes evangelium Christi (cf. Gal 2:14), connititur ad destruendum statum eorum evangeliorum quae propria et sub apostolorum nomine eduntur, vel etiam apostolicorum, ut scilicet fidem quam illis adimit suo conferat. [3,3] Porro etsi reprehensus est Petrus et Ioannes et Iacobus, qui existimabantur columnae (cf. Gal 2:9), manifesta causa est.”

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37

As one can see in comparing Papias with Tertullian, the so-called inacceptable, chronological nonsense starts making sense: (1) Marcion, as one can deduce from Tertullian, did not produce his Gospel in one go, but in two stages, first he had provided a draft that, against the will of Marcion, found its way to the public, was copied and altered, and second in a published version (with the Antitheses and Paul’s letters attached) which takes critical notice of these alternative version; (2) the Gospel-writing of our Synoptics and John happened almost simultaneously with that of Marcion’s. Papias’ chronology, therefore, makes sense and John can have disapproved of Marcion’s Antitheses. 39 Looking through all our early evidence, even if we add Ignatius (who together with many others I date after the mid second century), IgnPhld. 5,1‑2; 8,2; 9,2; IgnSm. 5,1; 7,2, the Martyrdom of Polycarp (4,1) and 2Clement (8,5),  4 0 it becomes clear that we have exclusively references to sayings of the Lord or “the teachings of Jesus,” 41 but do not find a single quote of any wonder, biographical story or any other narrative from the Gospels. When Ignatius comes closest to the latter with his reference to the Lord’s death and his resurrection (IgnPhld. 8,2; see 9,2; IgnSm. 7,2), he gives less than Justin, who “generally seems to avoid using εὐαγγέλιον of written texts” 42 and who assembles material, especially from the Old Testament and other sources, which, again, cannot simply be related directly to any of our known Gospels. Hence, Aune, for example, con39. See B.W. Bacon, “The Anti-Marcionite Prologue to John,” Journal of Biblical Literature 48 (1930) 49. A further indication of John being a reaction to Marcion’s Antitheses can be found in Tert., De carne Christi III: “If you had not rejected the Scriptures which were against your own opinion (opinioni tuae resistentes) the Gospel of John would have confounded you.” Pace E. Norelli, in Papia di Hierapolis, Esposizione degli oracoli del Signore. I frammenti. Introduzione, testo, traduzione e note di Enrico Norelli (2005) 462: “un confronto diretto tra Marcione e lui è comunque inaccettabile già dal punto di vista cronologico.” What is and what is not acceptable cannot be benchmarked against a hypothetical framework of dating of undatable text, but the evidence has to be the bases of our datings, and if our textual evidence disputes our common dating, than we have to alter this, but not our evidence, yet see the many attempts to make the evidence fit an assumed dating and Norelli’s question: “al di là di tutte queste proposte, però, ci si deve chiedere se è metodologicamente appropriato cercare di correggere il testo per ottenere una formulazione che sembri accettabile” (ibidem, 462-464). 40. See O. Zwierlein, Die Urfassungen der Martyria Polycarpi et Pionii und das Corpus Polycarpianum, 2 vols (Berlin and Boston, 2015), II 321-407, and now M. Theobald, Israel-Vergessenheit in den Pastoralbriefen: Ein neuer Vorschlag zu ihrer historisch-theologischen Verortung im 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr. unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Ignatius-Briefe (Stuttgart, 2016) 252-332. 41.  D.E. Aune , “The Meaning of Εὐαγγέλιον in the Inscriptiones of the Canonical Gospels,” in E.F. M ason, ed., A  Teacher for All Generations: Essays in Honor of James C. VanderKam, 2 vols (Leiden, 2012) 869. 42.  Ibidem, 859.

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cludes: “Marcion was one of the first to use the singular form εὐαγγέλιον to refer to a written gospel,” 43 but he could have stated that Marcion was not only “one of the first,” but was indeed the first to use “εὐαγγέλιον to refer to a written gospel.”  4 4 Given this state of affairs, one must wonder where these Gospels were hidden, if they had been in existence for decades? The Gospel authors of Mark, Matthew and Luke somehow must have known each other, because they are literarily dependent in some way – but how could it be that only Gospel writers knew of each other’s works, but nobody else took any notice of them? If, as it became assumed in the nineteenth century – a fundamental basis for the creation of New Testament Studies –, these Gospels were written in the first century, perhaps Mark in Rome, Matthew according to most scholars in Antioch in Syria, Luke perhaps on the Peleponnese in Greece – how could these Gospel manuscripts travel without being acknowledged, recognized and quoted by any other author prior to the mid second century? And why did the first authors who work with these texts all teach in Rome (Marcion, Justin, Tatian)? My view differs, in the meantime, from our standard assumption, and therefore removes the rationale for the division of New Testament and Patristic Studies. Having studied the few, extremely thin-iced arguments that were given for a first-century dating of our canonical Gospels, I am not only convinced that the later canonical Gospels have all been written shortly before the mid second century and are therefore part of the so-called Second Sophistic, urban literature, but I also suggested in my Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels that the very first witness for our canonical Gospels, Marcion of Sinope, who from around ad 140 lived and taught at Rome, was not only a witness as all previous scholars have thought, but that he was the very first author who wrote a Gospel and created this literary genre. When some time ago, I first mentioned this hypothesis to my then Head of Department Paul Janz, he asked me who of my colleagues would share this view – and I had to answer: nobody. In the meantime, it seems, at least some are prepared to test the hypothesis. 45 43.  Ibidem. 44.  A. Yoshiko R eed, “Εὐαγγέλιον: Orality, Textuality and the Christian Truth in Irenaeus’ Adversus Haereses,” Vigiliae Christianae 56 (2002) 11‑46: 18, 19, 47. 45.  It is interesting to note that in her most recent book, J. Lieu, Marcion and the Making of a Heretic (Cambridge, 2015) also reckons with the possible hypothesis not only “that canonical Luke is the outcome of redactional additions to an earlier stratum,” but even that “such potential additions might be subsequent to Marcion or to some hypothetical earlier Gospel also available to him” (ibid. 201); that she sees this potential solution makes it difficult to understand why in a short note (ibid. 183) she states that she “is not persuaded” by my suggestion of Marcion’s authorship in Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels (2014).

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II. M a rcion ’s G ospe l –

39

a los t t r a di t ion

One of the main reasons why nobody so far, including myself for a very long time, had never thought about this possibility results from Marcion’s Gospel having been a lost tradition, although this is now radically changing. Unfortunately, few New Testament and Patristic scholars have read Marcion’s Gospel, even specialists in the field had rarely taken notice of it.  4 6 Unlike many other Gospels of early Christianity outside the canon of our four, and we know of at least 39 Gospels from Patristic sources, until very recently Marcion’s Gospel has never been critically edited from its Greek and Latin sources to provide us with its contours and, as far as possible, with its Greek wording. Even the new edition of the famous Hennecke-Schneemelcher, published in 2012 in its 7th edition by Christoph Markschies and Jens Schröter, with their 1,400 pages of “Gospels and Related Texts” does not provide the text of the Gospel of Marcion, but only a short introduction to it. 47 Out of my own ignorance I co-contributed the Gospel of Peter only. 48 People of German tongue had been left without access at all, unless one went back to the Greek and Latin sources and to the relevant secondary literature. For English speaking people, there was at least the translation provided by James Hamlyn Hill, published in the year 1891. 49 Yet, Hill’s text is based on the very basic Greek text of 1823 by the famous August Hahn (1792‑1863), one of the Patristic scholars who formed the anti-Tuebingen Lutheran basis for the creation of New Testament Studies. The Online-Version of Hill’s translation has been checked against the suggestions, made by Theodor Zahn in the year 1888, 50 but one misses a comparison with Adolf Harnack’s appendix in his monograph on Marcion of 1921 and 1923. 51 All this is changing now, as mentioned in the opening. In the year 2009, Dieter Roth in his PhD 46.  Compare, for example, the missing of it in B. L ayton, The Gnostic Scriptures (New York u.a., 1987); it is also missing in the online-collection http://www. newadvent.org/fathers/; yet, one finds it in http://www.earlychristianwritings.com. 47.  Ch. M arkschies , “Das Evangelium des Marcion,” in C. M arkschies – J. Schröter , ed., Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung I (Tübingen, 2012) 466‑470. 48.  Th.G. K raus – T. Nicklas , “Das Petrusevangelium,” in C. M arkschies – J. Schröter , ed., Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung I (Tübingen, 2012) 683‑695. 49.  Reprint J.H. Hill , The Gospel of the Lord (New York, 1978). 50.  Cf. http://www.marcionite-scripture.info/Marcionite_Bible.htm; http://www.gnosis.org/library/marcionsection.htm; https://sites.google.com/site/inglisonmarcion/Home/marcion/marcion-s-gospelcompared-verse-by-verse-with-luke (16.5.2012). 51.  A. von H arnack , Marcion: Das Evangelium vom fremden Gott (Leipzig, 1923. 21924 = Darmstadt, 1960 incl. Neue Studien zu Marcion, 1923).

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dissertation of Edinburgh University provided us with a textcritical commentary on Marcion’s Gospel, and in 2013 Jason David BeDuhn published The First New Testament: Marcion’s Scriptural Canon in which he gives an English translation also of Marcion’s Gospel, as he re-constructed it. 52 And while I had created my own version of Marcion’s Gospel to write a synoptic commentary, independently Matthias Klinghardt has produced his own reconfiguration of Marcion’s Gospel and kindly shared and discussed his draft with me. 53 It turned out that he approached the reconstruction from the same assumptions which lead to similar results. From his work on Marcion’s Gospeltext and through comparing it with the Synoptics, eventually Klinghardt changed his view on the question of priority: while he had assumed in earlier publications that Mark was the earliest Gospel, he now advocates that Marcion’s Gospel is the oldest of its kind and genre, although he believes that it was neither written nor adapted, but only adopted by Marcion (such is also the opinion of J.D. BeDuhn 54), a question which needs to be taken up below. First, however, we may ask, why has Marcion’s Gospel remained obscure for such a long time? 55 If I am not mistaken, it is due not to the fact that this Gospel is more difficult to unearth from its sources as has been done with other Gospels, but it is down to the negative judgement of scholars about its non-originality, its plagiarising character and, perhaps even more impacting, because of the label “heretic” that Marcion was given in later times. 56 In rejecting the critical appreciation of Marcion’s Gospel during the enlightenment of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, most scholars (including D. Roth) based their views on Irenaeus of Lyon’s anti-Marcionite claims that Marcion did not write his own text, but made use of the existing Gospel of Luke which he only circumcised. Marcion, so Irenaeus, mutilates the Gospel according to Luke, removing all that is written respecting the generation of the Lord, and setting aside a great deal of the teaching of the Lord, in which the Lord is recorded as most dearly confessing that the Maker of this universe is His Father. According to Irenaeus Marcion “likewise persuaded his disciples that he himself was more worthy of credit than are those apostles who have handed down the 52.  D. Roth, Towards a New Reconstruction of the Text of Marcion’s Gospel: History of Research, Sources, Methodology, and the Testimony of Tertullian, PhD (The University of Edinburgh, 2009); J.D. Be Duhn, The First New Testament: Marcion’s Scriptural Canon (Salem, 2013) 65‑200 (the Gospel). 53.  The work has recently been published: M. K linghardt, Das älteste Evangelium und die Entstehung der kanonischen Evangelien (Tübingen, 2015). 54.  J.D. Be Duhn, The First New Testament (Salem, 2013) 9. 55.  F.C.Burkitt, The Gospel History and its Transmission (Edinburgh, 31911) 314. 56. See S. Moll , The Arch-Heretic Marcion (Tübingen, 2010).

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Gospel to us, furnishing them not with the Gospel, but merely a fragment of it. In like manner, too, he dismembered the Epistles of Paul, removing all that is said by the apostle respecting that God who made the world, to the effect that He is the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, and also those passages from the prophetical writings which the apostle quotes, in order to teach us that they announced beforehand the coming of the Lord.” 57 Tertullian follows Irenaeus 58 and claims that Marcion used Luke together with Paul’s letters and corrected both on the basis of his theology. 59 In order to achieve his goals, he cut down four elements of his sources. From Luke he omitted: 1) Jesus’ birth story and 2) the sayings where Jesus used the Jewish Scriptures to claim his Father to be the creator. From Paul’s letters he omitted 1) the same relation of Christ to his Father as creator and 2) the prophetic references that foretold his coming. When in 1921, the over 70 year old and highly respected Adolf von Harnack published his last big monograph, Marcion: Das Evangelium vom fremden Gott, he rejected any criticism of Irenaeus’ judgement: “That the Gospel of Marcion is nothing else than what the primitive church judged it to be, namely a falsified Luke, there is no need to spend one word on it.” 60 Harnack closed the vital debate of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and provided the Patristic basis that cemented New Testament Studies. III. M a rcion –

au t hor , r e dactor or cor rup tor of

Lu k e?

Several reasons that go beyond of what has been voiced in the nineteenth century have led me to doubt the traditional position of Irenaeus and Tertullian, the early Christian and the modern judgement about Marcion’s Gospel that he was either somebody who simply adopted an older text, or a redactor and corruptor of Luke. Let me begin with Irenaeus. Although the bishop of Lyon is writing a good 40 years after Marcion, and certainly after the latter’s death in the 60s of the second century, he reveals that Marcion’s views had attracted not only the attention of many, but also persuaded “his disciples.” That Marcion had a large following is reported in older and younger witnesses. More important however is that we know of Marcion living and undisputedly teaching within the Roman community for several years until he decided to leave it and create its own. 57. Iren., Adv. haer. I  27,2 (trans. ANF). 58. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 4,2. 59.  See now my study Tertullian’s Preface to Marcion’s Gospel (Leuven, 2016). 60.  A. von Harnack, Marcion (21924=1966) 240*; another exponent is T. Zahn, Geschichte des neutestamentlichen Kanons (1888) I 681, 713.

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Around the year ad 177, it is Irenaeus who in his Against the Heresies tries to downplay the authority of Marcion, while at the same time being the first Christian author to advocate apostolic authority of our four Gospels. No other teacher in the history of the Church until Martin Luther than Marcion received already during his lifetime and still after his death a comparable literary response. 61 Here follows a list of these responses in the order of their appearance during the second century only: – Justin Martyr (Rome), To Marcion (πρὸς Μαρκίωνα σύνταγμα) (before 151) 62 – An unknown Asian Presbyter of Rome – Dionysius of Corinth, Letter to Nicomedia (c. 171) 63 – Philippus of Gortyna (Crete), Against Marcion (κατὰ Μαρκίωνος λόγος) (c. 171/172)  6 4 – Theophilus of Antioch, Against Marcion (κατὰ Μαρκίωνος λόγος) (c. 169‑183) 65 – Irenaeus of Lyon, Against Marcion (κατὰ Μαρκίωνος λόγος) (before 177) 66 – Rhodo (Rome), To (or) On Marcion’s School (πρὸς τὴν Μαρκίωνος αἵρεσιν) (180‑192) 67 – Modestus, Against Marcion (κατὰ Μαρκίωνος λόγος) 68 – Bardesanes of Syria, On Marcion’s dialogues (πρὸς τοὺς κατὰ Μαρκίωνα […] διαλόγους σύγγραμμα) 69 – Hippolytus of Rome, To Marcion (πρὸς Μαρκίωνα) 70 As this impressive list shows, many of the theologians of the second century of standing engaged with Marcion. As one would expect the earliest responses derived from where he taught, Rome. Taken their titles, these earliest, the one by Rhodo and even a late one of Hippolytus from the same city of Rome, seem to have been directed not against Marcion, but were writings to or about him. Only starting with Dionysius of Corinth and his Letter to Nicomedia, a harsh criticism against Marcion – remind61. See B.D. Ehrman, The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture (Oxford 1993; 2011) 216: “No other heretic evoked such vitriol or, interestingly enough, proved so instrumental for counterdevelopments within orthodoxy.” 62.  See Euseb., Hist. eccl. IV 18,9. Interestingly, and guided by his view of Justin’s position with regards to Marcion in ibidem IV 11,8 he alters the title to κατὰ Μαρκίωνος σύγγραμμα. 63.  See Euseb., Hist. eccl. IV 23,4. 64.  See Euseb., Hist. eccl. IV 25. 65.  See Euseb., Hist. eccl. IV 24. 66.  See Euseb., Hist. eccl. IV 25; V 8,9. 67.  See Euseb., Hist. eccl. V 13. 68.  See Euseb., Hist. eccl. IV 25. 69.  See Euseb., Hist. eccl. IV 30,1. 70.  See Euseb., Hist. eccl. VI 22,1.

2

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ing of the later writings of Justin – sets in. Interestingly Dionysius quotes our later canonical Acts, by the way the very first evidence for the existence of Acts. And there seems to be a relation between the first quote of Acts and the sharp criticism of Marcion on which I cannot elaborate here. Marcion’s name spread from Rome to Corinth, Nicomedia, Antioch in Syria, Crete and Gaul, and with the exception of Egypt, he was well known in the Mediterranean. Only few of the teachers we know from this time do not, or at least not openly, discuss Marcion. Amongst those we find implicit and sometimes explicit hints at Marcion in Ptolemy of Rome, Polycarp of Smyrna, Papias of Hierapolis and Melito of Sardis to name a few. According to these authors who wrote to, about or against Marcion, he must have made the most important single contribution to theology during the second century. Adolf Harnack even states in a letter to Hans Lietzmann that “between the years 150 and 180 the entire development of Christianity and Church were determined by Marcionitism and anti-Marcionitism.” 71 Yet one wonders how Marcion could have had such an impact if he had written nothing at all, or very little, indeed, with the exception of a letter, only a preface to the Gospel and reworked the writings of others, Luke and Paul’s letters? Unfortunately, we can no longer draw on the mentioned writings of the listed second century authors, as most of the works have been lost and only from very few of them we have tiny quotes in later authors. 72 This is especially problematic, as the earlier works seem to have been non- or less polemical, while only the most hostile ones have been transmitted to posterity, beginning with the later works of Justin, 73 Irenaeus (Against the Heresies), 74 and from the third century Tertullian, especially his five books Against Marcion, and then later works, amongst them Epiphanius’ Panarion. If Marcion had only shortened an already existing Gospel, why did he set such a wave of literature in motion with the rescinding of a text that nobody else had quoted or even referred to before him and not many after him chose as their preferred Gospel? Shortly after Marcion, we hear of Tatian and Theophilus of Antioch who both not only shortened one Gospel, but brought our four Gospels together into single narrative lines of Gospel-harmonies, hence they reworked them all, but no dispute or debate 71.  A. Harnack to H. Lietzmann (11.12.1923), in K. A land,  ed., Glanz und Niedergang der deutschen Universität: 50 Jahre deutscher Wissenschaftsgeschichte in Briefen an und von Hans Lietzmann (1892‑1942) (Berlin and New York, 1979) 473 (Nr. 500). 72.  In my Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels (2014) 1-158 I provide a critical reading of most of these sources. 73.  Justin, 1Apology  I 26. 58, Dialogue with Tryphon. 74. Iren., Adversus haereses I 27,2; II 1,2‑4. 3,1. 28,6. 30,9. 31,1; III 2,1. 3,4. 4,3. 11,7-9. 12,5.12. 14,3. 25,2-3; IV 2,2. 6,4 8,1. 13,1. 33,2. 34,1.

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ensued. Moreover, many new Gospels were produced which, as shown in Serapion of Antioch with the Gospel of Peter in the later second century, were initially accepted without suspicion. Marcion’s work must have been of a different calibre, and cannot simply have been the redaction of another spurious work. IV. M a rcion –

t h e fi r s t

G ospe lw r i t e r ?

The text of Marcion’s Gospel has not come down to us in direct transmission, but we gain insight into its content, structure and wording, first because our sources relate a close literary relationship between this Gospel and Luke, then we have two extant works that discusss Marcion’s Gospeltext in detail, first Tertullian’s fourth book Against Marcion and Epiphanius’ Panarion, and we have additional quotes. Moreover, as soon as we distrust Irenaeus and Tertullian and reckon with this text being the source of all other Gospels, the Synoptics and their manuscript witnesses particularly become witnesses for Marcion’s Gospel, too. Yet, to avoid a potential circularity in the reconstruction of Marcion’s Gospel, Klinghardt (and me) started as all other scholars who tried to reconstruction this Gospel, with Tertullian and Epiphanius. To these, however, one has to add many variant Marcionite readings of the mentioned Gospel manuscript, amongst which the famous NT Codex Bezae, and other variant readings, preserved in early NT papyri and codices. 75 Tertullian’s commentary in his fourth book Against Marcion is the outstanding witness – the longest book he ever wrote, so technical and detailed that the German translator gave up after the introduction and stated that what followed was nothing but a mosaic of bible quotes. 76 He missed, however, that this commentary leads us towards the origins of Gospel-writing. Let me give you a closer reading of Tertullian. Tertullian undertook to challenge

75.  See for the rationale of the reconstruction of Marcion’s Gospel M. K ling Das älteste Evangelium und die Entstehung der kanonischen Evangelien (Tübingen, 2015). 76.  Tertullians sämtliche Schriften, trans. K. Adam – H. Kellner (Köln, 1882): “Hiermit ist Inhalt und Aufgabe des IV. Buches gegen Marcion dargelegt. Von nun an beginnt der detaillirte Nachweis der aufgestellten These an der Hand des von Marcion gekürzten Lucas-Evangeliums und der echten hl. Schrift. Die ganze folgende Auseinandersetzung ist daher, sozusagen, eine Mosaik von Bibelstellen, die nur selten durch eine kurze Erörterung von allgemeinem Interesse unterbrochen ist.” (http://www.tertullian.org/articles/kempten_bkv/extra_11_adversus_marcionem_4.htm; acc. 4.11.2014) hardt,

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every sentence, indeed the whole structure, arising from Marcion’s impiety and profanity, on the basis of that gospel which he has by interpolation made his own. 77

This first introductory description raises already questions, because what we have got here is the apologetic mixture of a rhetorician who is neither telling lies nor distorting the truth, but provides us with his biased view. Tertullian, as he states, had Marcion’s Gospel in front of him, also its preface, the Antitheses, as he will add. More pronounced than Irenaeus, Tertullian notes that every sentence (omnem sententiam) of the Gospel, and “indeed the whole structure” of it (omnem paraturam) arouse from Marcion’s thinking. The critical reader must be astonished, as in the same sentence Tertullian had continued that only “by interpolation” Marcion had made the Gospel “his own.” How can it be that Tertullian speaks of only interpolations or even manipulations as the English translator Evans broadens already the text, if at the same time he first stated that in this Gospel everything, every sentence and its structure, reflected Marcion’s theology? One of the two statements seems to be wrong. Tertullian possibly followed Irenaeus in whom the same tension is already present, but as Irenaeus only compared a few elements between Marcion’s Gospel and Luke the discrepancy is more obvious in Tertullian who, indeed, went through every passage in Marcion’s Gospel and, consequently, concluded that what he had in front of him was a thoroughly Marcionite text. Immediately after the aforementioned quote, Tertullian adds information about Marcion’s preface, the Antitheses: Besides that, to work up credence for it he has contrived a sort of commentary, a work entitled Antitheses because of its juxtaposition of opposites, a work strained into making such a division between the Law and the Gospel as thereby to make two separate gods, opposite to each other, one belonging to one instrument (or, as it is more usual to say, testament), one to the other, and thus lend its patronage to faith in another gospel, that according to the Antitheses. 78

The short quote reveals that Marcion’s text had been criticized and needed “credence.” Tertullian will soon explain why. Here, however, he tells us that the preface, a sort of commentary on the Gospel, separated this Gospel from the Law and attributed on the one side the Gospel to one God, and on the other side the Law which, as we learn is the Jewish Law, the 77. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 1,1: “Omnem sententiam et omnem paraturam impii atque sacrilege Marcionis ad ipsum iam evangelium eius provocamus quod interpolando suum fecit.” 78. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 1,1: “Et ut fidem instrueret, dotem quandam commentatus est illi, opus ex contrarietatum oppositionibus Antitheses cognominatum et ad separationem legis et evangelii coactum.”

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Torah and the Prophets, to another God. For Marcion, the “New Testament” had as Patron none other than the highest God. Tertullian correctly reports: “Marcion attaches to his gospel no author’s name.” 79 We are given further information by Tertullian about Marcion’s Gospel, its publishing, date, nature and authority and its relation to Luke, elements which not all have received attention in scholarship. Moreover, we can compare how Tertullian sees Marcion with regard to the Gospel and the function he gives him with regard to Paul’s letters. And here, we discover how different Tertullian describes Marcion as the redactor of Paul in his book five of Against Marcion to Marcion being the author of the Gospel in his book four. Book IV

Book V

author of his Gospel, evangelizator, reports that Marcion called the Gospel “his own”

redactor of Paul’s letters

Benchmarked against Matthew, not Luke

infer Paul’s authority against Marcion

no complaints about missing passages

alters the wording of Paul

Literary innovator in form and content (nova forma sermonis: similitudes and dialogues)

Reproduces and shortens Paul

This novelty already foretold in the OT

Paul does not endorse novelty, but OT

Writing about Marcion’s letters of Paul, Tertullian stylises him as redactor of the Epistles of Paul and he does not fail to infer Paul’s authority time and again against the redactor Marcion who alters the original argument and wording of Paul, while only once does Tertullian use Luke’s original to argue against Marcion’s opinion and Gospeltext. He does not complain at all about Marcion not displaying Luke’s birthstories of Jesus, says nothing about the missing out of the story of the compassionate Father and his two sons (Luke 15:11‑32), nothing about the shortening of the end of the Gospel. The only time that Tertullian blames Marcion of omitting a verse (Luke 23:34b), it is in contradiction to Epiphanius who quotes this verse as being present in Marcion’s Gospel. 80 Instead, shortenings that Tertullian notices in Marcion are regularly benchmarked against readings of Matthew, not of Luke. While Tertullian, therefore, sees Marcion clearly as redactor of Paul’s letters, he deals with him not as redactor, but in fact as an author of his Gospel. Time and again Tertullian refers to Marcion as the writer of the 79. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 2,3: “Marcion evangelio, scilicet suo, nullum adscribit auctorem, quasi non licuerit illi titulum quoque affingere.” 80.  See Epiph., Pan. XLII 11,6(71).

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text of this Gospel which, as he states, is not a Judaic, but a Pontic product, written by Marcion, born in Pontus. 81 He even terms Marcion the “gospel-author,” or as E. Evans translates evangelizator as “gospel-maker” and the German translator V. Lukas renders it as “Evangelien-­Schreiber.” 82 Consistently, when Tertullian discusses Paul’s concepts of the “new covenant” and of “newness,” he asserts that Marcion introduced with his Gospel a nova forma sermonis, 83 a literary innovation, that “there is in Christ a novel style of discourse, when he sets forth similitudes, when he answers questions.” 84 Tertullian implies that Marcion had not made use of preforms of this kind of writings, but suggests that Marcion put together for the first time the Lord’s sayings with narratives, hence he brands him a literary innovator. The only criticism Tertullian has: Marcion should have credited this literary innovation not to his ultimate God, but to the God of the Old Testament, but he fully acknowledges that Marcion’s Gospel was a new product with regards to form and content. Tertullian gives us a lively rhetorical debate where he voices Marcion’s view that this Gospel was his own, 85 saying: I [Tertullian] say that mine [Gospel] is true: Marcion makes that claim for his. I  say that Marcion’s is falsified: Marcion says the same of mine. Who shall decide between us? 86

There can be hardly a clearer statement that according to Tertullian Marcion had claimed this Gospel to be his own. In the ensuing rhetoric, Tertullian does not recur to content, but sets out the question of chronological priority. Which of the Gospels was produced first, that of Marcion or the ones that Tertullian used? In reporting Marcion’s own arguments for his claim of priority, set out in his Antitheses, Tertullian reveals how his opponent, 60 years earlier, saw the course of events, namely that Marcion by his Antitheses accuses [our Gospel]: to be an interpolation by the defenders of Judaism. 81.  See, for example, Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 2. 82.  V. Lukas , Rhetorik und literarischer ’Kampf ’. Tertullians Streitschrift gegen Marcion als Paradigma der Selbstvergewisserung der Orthodoxie gegenüber der Häresie (Frankfurt a.M., 2008) 224. 83. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 11,12 and 19,1. 84. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 11,12: “forma sermonis in Christo nova, cum similitudines obicit, cum quaestiones refutat” (trans. here and elsewhere E. Evans, where necessary altered). 85.  What we know from Papias of Hierapolis, preserved in an anonymous Latin preface to John’s Gospel, complements this picture: Marcion seems to have attacked the Gospel of John as being not the true one. 86. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 4,1: “Ego meum dico verum, Marcion suum. Ego Marcionis affirmo adulteratum, Marcion meum. Quis inter nos determinabit?”

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Their aim was to combine [Marcion’s Gospel] into one body with the Law and the Prophets to pretend that Christ had been fashioned from that place [namely Judaism and the OT] 87

Tertullian adds Marcion’s further opinion: 88 How absurd it would be that when we have proved ours the older, and that Marcion’s has emerged later, ours should be taken to have already been false, before it had from the truth material, and Marcion’s be believed to have suffered plagiarism through ours, before it [= Marcion’s 89] was even published; and in the end that that which is later should be reckoned more true, even after the publication to the world of all those great works and evidences of the Christian religion which surely could never have been produced except for the truth of the gospel – even before the gospel was true. 90

This passage provides vital information about Marcion’s own position. According to Marcion – whether right or wrong needs to be seen – 1. the authors who wrote Matthew and John, Luke and Mark had taken their material from Marcion’s Gospel which he believed to be the true one, hence, according to Marcion the false ones came later and derived from his foregoing true one. 87. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 4,4: “Si enim id evangelium quod Lucae refertur penes nos (viderimus an et penes Marcionem) ipsum est quod Marcion per Antitheses suas arguit ut interpolatum a protectoribus Iudaismi ad concorporationem legis et prophetarum, qua etiam Christum inde confingerent, utique non potuisset arguere nisi quod invenerat. Nemo post futura reprehendit quae ignorat futura. Emendatio culpam non antecedit.” 88. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 5,4. 89. “Quam et editum” could also be referred to Tertullian’s Gospel, but the following sentence makes more sense, if it is referred to Marcion’s Gospel – as Tertullian wants to underline that his was earlier and Marcion’s later – hence the absurdity arises in his eyes, that Marcion’s should have suffered plagiarism through a published Gospel even before it was published itself. In addition, the grammatical structure of the sentence aligns itself to this interpretation, as we have Tertullian’s Gospel as subject of the first part of the passive sentence (“Tertullian’s should be taken […] before it [Tertullian’s] received […]”), while Marcion’s directs the next part of the still passive sentence (“Marcion’s be believed […], before it [Marcion’s] was even published”). 90. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 4,2: “Alioquin quam absurdum, ut, si nostrum antiquius probaverimus, Marcionis vero posterius, et nostrum ante videatur falsum quam habuerit de veritate materiam, et Marcionis ante credatur aemulationem a nostro expertum quam et editum; et postremo id verius existimetur quod est serius, post tot ac tanta iam opera atque documenta Christianae religionis saeculo edita, quae edi utique non potuissent sine evangelii veritate, id est ante evangelii veritatem.”

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2. As they had borrowed their material from his, Marcion’s, the false Gospels were seen by him as aemulationes of his own (Marcionis! 91), as copies, plagiarisms or attempted betterings. The betterings consisted in combining Marcion’s Gospel with the Law and the Prophets, hence, with what Marcion called the Old Testament, to prove against him that Christ did not come from an entirely transcendent God in heaven, but from Judaism and that he was predicted by their prophets. 3. The taking of material from Marcion has taken place, before Marcion’s had “even” been “published” (editum). In Tertullian editum, indeed, means authored and published by an author. It follows from this information that Marcion’s own Gospel was taken by several people, excerpted, copied, reworked, interpolated and made public, even before Marcion himself as author had published his original version. In De praescriptione, Tertullian refines Marcion’s accusation, according to which Marcion’s plagiarisers had introduced of their own by omission or addition or alteration things contrary to what they had found in his work. Or in short, they had introduced what Marcion regarded “a corrupt text into the Scriptures,” while Marcion himself claimed that he “should be thought to have introduced” nothing but the Gospel (illos  […] intulisse). Marcion must have pointed to the fact that he was the one who wrote it (stilo usus est), at which others laid their naked hands with knifes to falsify his Gospel to suit their arguments. 92 91.  not: Marcionite, as the German translater Kellner in the BKV translates. 92. Tert., De praescr. 38: “XXXVIII. [1] Illic igitur et scripturarum et expositionum adulteratio deputanda est ubi diuersitas doctrinae inuenitur. [2] Quibus fuit propositum aliter docendi, eos necessitas institit aliter disponendi instrumenta doctrinae. [3] Alias enim non potuissent aliter docere nisi aliter haberent per quae docerent. Sicut illis non potuisset succedere corruptela doctrinae sine corruptela instrumentorum eius, ita et nobis integritas doctrinae non competisset sine integritate eorum per quae doctrina tractatur. [4] Etenim quid contrarium nobis in nostris? Quid de proprio intulimus ut aliquid contrarium ei et in Scripturis deprehensum detractione uel adiectione uel transmutatione remediaremus? [5] Quod sumus, hoc sunt scripturae ab initio suo. Ex illis sumus, antequam nihil aliter fuit quam sumus; quid denique fuit, antequam a uobis interpolarentur? [6] Cum autem omnis interpolatio posterior credenda sit, ueniens utique ex causa aemulationis quae neque prior neque domestica unquam est eius quod aemulatur, tam incredibile est sapienti cuique ut nos adulterum stilum intulisse uideamur scripturis qui sumus et primi et ex ipsis, quam illos non intulisse qui sunt et posteri et aduersi. [7] Alius manu scripturas, alius sensus expositione interuertit. [8] Neque enim si Valentinus integro instrumento uti uidetur, non callidiore ingenio quam Marcion manus intulit ueritati. [9] Marcion enim exerte et palam machaera, non stilo usus est, quoniam ad materiam suam caedem scripturarum confecit. [10] Valentinus autem pepercit quoniam non ad materiam scripturas sed materiam ad scripturas excogitauit. Et tamen plus abstulit et plus adiecit, auferens proprietates singulorum quoque uerborum et adiiciens dispositiones non comparentium rerum” (trans. T.H. Bindley).

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4. We have to reckon with two stages of Marcion going public with his Gospel, perhaps even with two different recensions of his text: 4.1. A first draft of the Gospel, probably for his class-room (without Antitheses and perhaps without Paul’s letters). This text provided the basis for Matthew and John and Mark and Luke. This first recension is only accessible for us today via those later canonical Gospels. 4.2. A second edition of this text, perhaps in a second recension, now published by Marcion, prefaced by his Antitheses and with the added Epistles of Paul under the title “New Testament.” Only the published version of Marcion’s New Testament was available to Tertullian, and it is this recension which was hitherto the only one known to scholarship. Perhaps the one which instigated Acts to be written. 5. In this sense, Tertullian is correct, when he calls Marcion’s Gospel “that which is later” than “all those great works and evidences of the Christian religion,” namely the Gospels he used, but as is now clear, this does not contradict Marcion’s draft version being earlier. Tertullian simply remained almost silent about Marcion’s earlier recension, an information that only lurked through Tertullian’s report about Marcion’s own opinion. And according to this, Marcion did not refer to, or made use of an earlier Gospel, but he himself produced the first draft and the second version which he himself published. 6. Marcion’s views give us a first-hand insight into the making of the first Gospel and Gospels in Rome around the years 140/145 ad. It is an irony of history, of course, that Marcion himself had drawn the attention to the unauthorised publications of his Gospels. However, his literary innovation of the new “genus” of a Gospel sparked an enormous literary output, both in copying and altering him as well as discussing with him his apparently sole literary work. Despite a soon ensuing hardened debate between so many authors who tried to make up their minds of the validity and truthfulness of the accounts of either of these texts which can still be seen from the preface to Luke’s Gospel, people embraced many of Marcion’s principle ideas. But, why should we trust Marcion’s view more than that of Tertullian (or Irenaeus)? The preliminary answer in this article is mainly historical, but I will also add a short insight into the current project on the Synoptic commentary of Marcion’s Gospel. The historical argument first: we have in Marcion an eyewitness testimony which fits the historical situation against a two generation later

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rhetorician Tertullian arguing, not always consistently, as we have seen, against him. Moreover, none of the many authors prior to Irenaeus who deal with Marcion indicate that he was corrupting or even using a Gospel. Gospels, instead, are known of, discussed, quoted and gradually recognized only since Marcion wrote his draft. The first further initiatives after the copying and editing of Marcion’s Gospel seem to be the harmonization attempts, already undertaken during Marcion’s lifetime and soon after when perhaps Justin, then Tatian and Theophilus created Gospelharmonies. Interestingly, none of these drastic redacting activities provoked any debate, the only author who remains discussed during these decades is Marcion as one does not debate epigones, but forerunners. Let me add a few insights from the Synoptic commentary project of Marcion’s Gospel: when one adds Marcion to the Synoptics, and Irenaeus was the first to do this, 93 one makes extraordinary findings. The commonly accepted assumption is that our three Synoptics, Mark, Matthew and Luke are literally related, and that because of the many parallels between Matthew and Luke, these two are based on Mark, the oldest Gospel, and because of the parallels that Matthew and Luke share, they had also one further potential source, internationally abbreviated Q, sayings of Christ, a witness which is no longer extant. On that basis, however, it is difficult to explain, how, both based on the same two foundations of Mark and Q, in which no birth-stories are present, the unrelated Matthew and Luke developed birth-stories of Jesus, indeed very different ones. Luke with his over 2000 words story agrees in only less than 20 words with the much shorter roughly 900 words account of Matthew in the following concise passage: Luke 1:26‑2:7 1:26   Ἐν δὲ τῷ μηνὶ τῷ ἕκτῳ ἀπεστάλη ὁ ἄγγελος Γαβριὴλ ἀπὸ τοῦ θεοῦ εἰς πόλιν τῆς Γαλιλαίας ἧ ὄνομα Ναζαρὲθ, 1:27  πρὸς παρθένον ἐμνηστευμένην ἀνδρὶ ᾧ ὄνομα Ἰωσὴφ ἐξ οἴκου Δαυίδ, καὶ τὸ ὄνομα τῆς παρθένου Μαριάμ. […]

Luke 1:26‑2:7 1:26 In the sixth month of Elizabeth’s pregnancy, the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town of Galilee called Nazareth, 1:27 to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, a descendant of David, and the virgin’s name was Mary […]

93. Iren., Adv. haer. IV 6,1.

Matthew 1:18‑2:11   Τοῦ δὲ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ ἡ γένεσις οὕτως ἦν. μνηστευθείσης τῆς μητρὸς αὐτοῦ Μαρίας τῷ Ἰωσήφ, πρὶν ἢ συνελθεῖν αὐτοὺς εὑρέθη ἐν γαστρὶ ἔχουσα ἐκ πνεύματος ἁγίου. 1:19 Ἰωσὴφ δὲ ὁ ἀνὴρ αὐτῆς, δίκαιος ὢν καὶ μὴ θέλων

1:18

Matthew 1:18‑2:11 1:18 Now the birth of Jesus Christ happened this way. While his mother Mary was engaged to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be pregnant through the Holy Spirit. 1:19 Because Joseph, her husband to be, was a righteous man,

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  καὶ εἶπεν ὁ ἄγγελος αὐτῇ· Μὴ φοβοῦ, Μαριάμ· εὗρες γὰρ χάριν παρὰ τῷ θεῷ· 1:31 καὶ ἰδοὺ, συλλήμψῃ ἐν γαστρὶ καὶ τέξῃ υἱόν, καὶ καλέσεις τὸ ὄνομα αὐτοῦ Ἰησοῦν […] 1:35  καὶ ἀποκριθεὶς ὁ ἄγγελος εἶπεν αὐτῇ· Πνεῦμα ἅγιον ἐπελεύσεται ἐπὶ σέ […] 2:4   ἀνέβη δὲ καὶ Ἰωσὴφ ἀπὸ τῆς Γαλιλαίας ἐκ πόλεως Ναζαρὲθ εἰς τὴν Ἰουδαίαν εἰς πόλιν Δαυὶδ ἥτις καλεῖται Βηθλέεμ, διὰ τὸ εἶναι αὐτὸν ἐξ οἴκου καὶ πατριᾶς Δαυίδ, 1:30

  ἀπογράψασθαι σὺν Μαριὰμ τῇ ἐμνηστευμένῃ αὐτῷ, οὔσῃ ἐγκύῳ. 2:6 ἐγένετο δὲ ἐν τῷ εἶναι αὐτοὺς ἐκεῖ ἐπλήσθησαν αἱ ἡμέραι τοῦ τεκεῖν αὐτήν, 2:7   καὶ ἔτεκεν τὸν υἱὸν αὐτῆς τὸν πρωτότοκον· καὶ ἐσπαργάνωσεν αὐτὸν καὶ ἀνέκλινεν αὐτὸν ἐν φάτνῃ, διότι οὐκ ἦν αὐτοῖς τόπος ἐν τῷ καταλύματι. 2:5

MARKUS VINZENT

1:30 So the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God! 1:31 Listen: You will become pregnant and give birth to a son, and you will name him Jesus […] 1:35 The angel replied, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you […]” 2:4 So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and family line of David. 2:5 He went to be registered with Mary, who was promised in marriage to him, and who was expecting a child. 2:6 While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. 2:7 And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in strips of cloth and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

αὐτὴν δειγματίσαι, and because he did ἐβουλήθη λάθρᾳ not want to disgrace her, he intended to ἀπολῦσαι αὐτήν. divorce her privately. 1:20   Ταῦτα δὲ 1:20 When he had αὐτοῦ ἐνθυμηθέ- contemplated this, ντος ἰδοὺ, ἄγγε- an angel of the λος κυρίου κατ᾿ Lord appeared to ὄναρ ἐφάνη αὐτῷ, him in a dream and λέγων· Ἰωσὴφ, said, “Joseph, son υἱὸς Δαυίδ, μὴ of David, do not be φοβηθῇς παραλα- afraid to take Mary βεῖν Μαρίαν τὴν as your wife, because γυναῖκά σου, τὸ γὰρ the child conceived ἐν αὐτῇ γεννηθὲν ἐκ in her is from the πνεύματός ἐστιν Holy Spirit. 1:21 ἁγίου· 1:21  τέξεται She will give birth δὲ υἱὸν, καὶ καλέ- to a son and you σεις τὸ ὄνομα will name him Jesus, αὐτοῦ Ἰησοῦν, because he will save αὐτὸς γὰρ σώσει his people from τὸν λαὸν αὐτοῦ their sins.” 1:25 but ἀπὸ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν did not have marital αὐτῶν. […] relations with her 1:25   καὶ οὐκ ἐγίνω- until she gave birth σκεν αὐτὴν ἕως οὗ to a son […] ἔτεκεν υἱόν· […] 2:2 saying, “Where is the one who is 2:2   λέγοντες· Ποῦ born […]” ἐστιν ὁ τεχθεὶς […] 2:10 When they saw the star they shouted joyfully. 2:11 As 2:10   ἰδόντες δὲ τὸν they came into the ἀστέρα ἐχάρησαν house and saw the χαρὰν μεγάλην child with Mary […] σφόδρα. 2:11  καὶ ἐλθόντες εἰς τὴν οἰκίαν εἶδον τὸ παιδίον μετὰ Μαρίας

Without knowing any Greek, one can discover the minimal overlapping information. Information in parallel between Luke and Matthew is set in bold. And yet, even within this small fragments from the two

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varying birthstories, most of the text is entirely different. So far, scholars have referred the discrepancy between the two accounts to the lack of a common source, pointing to Mark’s lack of a birthstory, no birthstory was assumed to be in the saying’s source Q (and none was present in Marcion’s Gospel). But still, how could Luke and Matthew overlap without knowing each other, one of the assumptions of the two-sources-hypothesis? Let us adduce another story of the Gospels, the so-called Transfiguration, and introduce this sample text to show the Marcionite character of this Gospel. To Marcion whose Gospel did not provide the birth and youth stories of Jesus, as mentioned, but in which Jesus as an adult came down from above, from God, Jesus is and remains from the start through to his resurrection an angelic divine figure. Jesus only appears in human form, but in truth he is the transcendent God himself. This was the reason, as Tertullian explains to us, why Marcion called this text “gospel,” “eu-angelion,” namely the good message of an angel. 94 It is the same reason, why early Christian authors after Marcion were rather reluctant in picking up this title. The entire Gospel, therefore, serves to show the antithesis of flesh and spirit and the impossibility for the flesh to grasp the spirit. One of the most typical narratives which highlights the middle-platonic spirituality of this new cult, called Christianismus, is the following story of the transfiguration of Jesus. Mcn 9:28-36 9:28 Now about eight days after these sayings, Jesus took with him Peter, John, and James, and went up the mountain. 9:29 As he was praying, the appea­rance of his face was altered, and his clothes became very bright, a brilliant white. 9:30 Then two men, Moses and Elijah, both talked to him.

9:28 καὶ παραλαβὼν Πέτρον καὶ ᾿Ιωάννην καὶ ᾿Ιάκωβον ἀνέβη εἰς τὸ ὄρος. 29 καὶ ἐγένετο ἐν τῷ προσεύχεσθαι αὐτὸν ἡ ἰδέα τοῦ προσώπου αὐτοῦ ἠλλοιώθη καὶ ὁ ἱματισμὸς αὐτοῦ λευκὸς ἐξαστράπτων. 30 καὶ ἰδοὺ δύο ἄνδρες συνελάλουν αὐτῷ, ᾿Ηλίας καὶ Μωϋσῆς,

94. Tert., Adv. Marc. IV 4,5.

Luke 9:28‑36 Ἐγένετο δὲ μετὰ τοὺς λόγους τούτους ὡσεὶ ἡμέραι ὀκτὼ [καὶ] παραλαβὼν Πέτρον καὶ Ἰωάννην καὶ Ἰάκωβον ἀνέβη εἰς τὸ ὄρος προσεύξασθαι. 29 καὶ ἐγένετο ἐν τῷ προσεύχεσθαι αὐτὸν τὸ εἶδος τοῦ προσώπου αὐτοῦ ἕτερον καὶ ὁ ἱματισμὸς αὐτοῦ λευκὸς ἐξαστράπτων. 30καὶ ἰδοὺ ἄνδρες δύο συνελάλουν αὐτῷ, οἵτινες ἦσαν Μωϋσῆς καὶ Ἠλίας, 31οἳ ὀφθέντες ἐν δόξῃ 28

9:28 Now about eight days after these sayings, Jesus took with him Peter, John, and James, and went up the mountain to pray. 9:29 As he was praying, the appearance of his face was transformed, and his clothes became very bright, a brilliant white. 9:30 Then two men, Moses and Elijah, began talking with him. 9:31 They appeared in glorious splendor and spoke

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9:33 In glory Peter said to Jesus, ‘Master, it is good for us to be here. Let us make three shelters, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah’ – not knowing what he was saying. 9:34 As he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them, and they were afraid as they entered the cloud. 9:35 Then a voice came from the cloud, saying, ‘This is my Son, my Beloved One. Listen to him’ 9:36 After the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. So they kept silent and told no one at that time anything of what they had seen.

MARKUS VINZENT

31/32 ἐν δόξῃ εἶπεν ὁ Πέτρος πρὸς τὸν ᾿Ιησοῦν, ᾿Επιστάτα, καλόν ἐστιν ἡμᾶς ὧδε εἶναι, καὶ ποιήσωμεν ὧδε τρεῖς σκηνάς, μίαν σοὶ καὶ Μωϋσεῖ μίαν καὶ ᾿Ηλίᾳ μίαν, μὴ εἰδὼς ὃ λέγει. 34 ταῦτα δὲ αὐτοῦ λέγοντος ἐγένετο νεϕέλη καὶ ἐπεσκίαζεν αὐτούς· ἐϕοβήθησαν δὲ ἐν τῷ εἰσελθεῖν αὐτοὺς εἰς τὴν νεϕέλην. 35 καὶ ϕωνὴ ἐκ τῆς νεϕέλης Οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ υἱός μου ὁ ἀγαπητός, αὐτοῦ ἀκούετε. 36 καὶ ἐν τῷ γενέσθαι τὴν ϕωνὴν εὑρέθη ᾿Ιησοῦς μόνος. καὶ αὐτοὶ ἐσίγησαν καὶ οὐδενὶ ἀπήγγειλαν ἐν ἐκείναις ταῖς ἡμέραις ὧν ἑώρακαν.

ἔλεγον τὴν ἔξοδον αὐτοῦ ἣν ἤμελλεν πληροῦν ἐν Ἰερουσαλήμ. 32ὁ δὲ Πέτρος καὶ οἱ σὺν αὐτῷ ἦσαν βεβαρημένοι ὕπνῳ: διαγρηγορήσαντες δὲ εἶδον τὴν δόξαν αὐτοῦ καὶ τοὺς δύο ἄνδρας τοὺς συνεστῶτας αὐτῷ. 33 καὶ ἐγένετο ἐν τῷ διαχωρίζεσθαι αὐτοὺς ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ εἶπεν ὁ Πέτρος πρὸς τὸν Ἰησοῦν, Ἐπιστάτα, καλόν ἐστιν ἡμᾶς ὧδε εἶναι, καὶ ποιήσωμεν σκηνὰς τρεῖς, μίαν σοὶ καὶ μίαν Μωϋσεῖ καὶ μίαν Ἠλίᾳ, μὴ εἰδὼς ὃ λέγει. 34 ταῦτα δὲ αὐτοῦ λέγοντος ἐγένετο νεφέλη καὶ ἐπεσκίαζεν αὐτούς: ἐφοβήθησαν δὲ ἐν τῷ εἰσελθεῖν αὐτοὺς εἰς τὴν νεφέλην. 35 καὶ φωνὴ ἐγένετο ἐκ τῆς νεφέλης λέγουσα, Οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ υἱός μου ὁ ἐκλελεγμένος, αὐτοῦ ἀκούετε. 36καὶ ἐν τῷ γενέσθαι τὴν φωνὴν εὑρέθη Ἰησοῦς μόνος. καὶ αὐτοὶ ἐσίγησαν καὶ οὐδενὶ ἀπήγγειλαν ἐν ἐκείναις ταῖς ἡμέραις οὐδὲν ὧν ἑώρακαν.

about his departure that he was about to carry out at Jerusalem. 9:32 Now Peter and those with him were quite sleepy, but as they became fully awake, they saw his glory and the two men standing with him. 9:33 Then as the men were starting to leave, Peter said to Jesus, ‘Master, it is good for us to be here. Let us make three shelters, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah’ – not knowing what he was saying. 9:34 As he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them, and they were afraid as they entered the cloud. 9:35 Then a voice came from the cloud, saying, ‘This is my Son, my Chosen One. Listen to him!’ 9:36 After the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. So they kept silent and told no one at that time anything of what they had seen.

The contrast of Marcion’s original version to that of Luke highlights the different nature of their Gospels. For Marcion, the scene of the transformation not only follows immediately after the pericope that outlined

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the condition of following Jesus (“who wants to save his soul will loose it, but who lost it because of me, will be saved” and that “some will not taste death unless they have seen the Son of Man coming in his glory”), but also delivers its content. Jesus takes the three mentioned followers, Peter, John and James up the mountain – and while he is praying, the appearance of his face was altered and his clothes shine white. Two men, Moses and Elijah – hence the lawgiver and a prophet – both speak to him. The glorious scene makes Peter also talk to Jesus and ask him to built three shelters, one for Jesus, one for Moses and one for Elijah – as if the Master could settle in glory together with the lawgiver and the prophet. The narrator’s comment, however, is drastic and states about Peter’s suggestion: He was “not knowing what he was saying.” And if this was not enough, the narration carries on that even while Peter was saying this, “a cloud came and overshadowed” Jesus’ followers, hence they were not only not knowing, but they also lost sight – and the only thing that was left was what they could hear. And “a voice came from the cloud, saying: ‘This is my Son, my Beloved One. Listen to him!’” And, indeed, “Jesus was found alone.” In Marcion’s version, it becomes clear why Peter’s wish to bring Jesus together with the lawgiver and the prophet was radically denied by the heavenly voice which adviced Peter, John and James only to listen to the “Son.” Hence, neither to Moses nor to Elijah, neither to the law nor to the prophecies should the leading Apostles listen. In harsh repudiation, the voice uttered this verdict with Moses and Elijah being present. The message was clear: there is only one Beloved, only the “Son,” his message, not that of the law or the prophets should one hear and embrace. While in this non-transformed world one might built shelters for all three, the spiritual world is only made for one – the one that goes beyond physicality, beyond seeing and being seen, a spiritual world where only the heavenly voice gives instructions. Luke who has picked up this story and follows it almost slaveshly, introduces a few, but crucial changes, changes that twist this story to make it almost incomprehensible. With his redactional addition in the middle section he turns the story upside down. First he revises in 9:31 that not only did Jesus appear transformed with whom the two men, Moses and Elijah talked, but he asserts that also these two men “appeared in glorious splendor” – Luke makes them looking similar to Jesus, and he gives the impression that the three men were in conversation with each other. Moreover, the content of this conversation is filled in by Luke. He mentions that Mose and the Prophet knew of Jesus’ departure “that he was to carry out at Jerusalem,” stating exactly what Marcion rejected in his Antitheses when he criticized the altered copies of his Gospel, which were done by Luke, Matthew and others, in which they claimed against Marcion that the law and the prophets foretold what would happen to Jesus.

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Luke also brings in a – rather awkward, poor and little convincing – excuse for Peter that he did not know, and mentions that Peter and “those with him” “were quite sleepy.” Subsequently he lets them be “fully awake,” and makes them even see Jesus’ glory with whom the two men stood together, before he mentions the two men’s departure. That Mose and Elijah are leaving the scene when the heavenly voice gives its admonition is an important redactional alteration and gives the story an entirely different spin. Peter saw the three men in conversation, then they are departing, and only now is Peter asking for the three shelters. Instead of the radical ignorance of Peter that Marcion had in mind, namely him not willing to recognize the difference between Jesus on the one side and Mose and Elijah on the other, in Luke the apocalyptic exclusivity of the Jesus of Marcion has been replaced by a Jesus who is accomodating the Law and the Prophets – hence would have been prepared to build three shelters on the mountain and therefore contradicting the entire drive of this story. Luke’s revision and redaction shows, how deeply he has adopted Marcion’s view of a spiritualized religion, while it also demonstrates, how he adapted the story to accomodate the Jewish past and heritage in moderating and smoothening Marcion’s antithetical position to one that introduces a hierarchy between the law, the prophets and Jesus, a change that led to an inconsistent narrative. If Marcion did not create himself the entire pericope with its outspoken Marcionite content, who could have been this Marcion before Marcion? Which triggers the other question, what could have been pre-marcionite material used by Marcion here? Was it the endorsement oracle of the voice from the cloud? The ending of the story that Peter and the Zebedees kept silent “at that time […] of what they had seen” indicates that it might have been an oral tradition which Marcion had come across and which he sub­ stantially reworked into a narrative of his own. Let us do a further test digging into the Passion Narratives – a possibility to see the wider impact that Marcion had beyond the Synoptics, into John and the Gospel of Peter. In his recently published PhD Timothy P. Henderson gives us five synoptical lists of the following Gospels: Gospel of Peter (GP), Mark, Matthew, Luke and John, and he picks literaly parallel verses, put into columns on the basis of GP, hence a synopsis of the four canonicals plus GP. 95 Now, a careful look at his lists will strike any reader, as one discovers something that even Henderson has not seen: despite the various parallels, all five texts, even in these selected verses, are in many places and elements at variants, but, then, there are several verses, where all, or almost all these witnesses converge and are either much closer than in all the other selec95. T.P. H enderson, The Gospel of Peter and Early Christian Apologetics (Tübingen, 2011).

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ted verses or even literally identical. The list of these peculiar verses follows here: Gospel of Peter

Matthew

Mark

Luke

John

Marcion

2:2.5

27:26b

15:15

23:25b

19:16

19:25b

2:3

27:57‑58

15:42‑44

23:50‑52

19:38

19:50‑52

3:7

27:28

15:17a

23:11

19:2b

19:11

4:10

27:38

15:26

23:38

19:19

19:38

4:12

27:35

15:24

23:34b

19:23

19:34b

5:15

27:45

15:33

23:44

-

19:44

5:19

27:50

15:37

23:46b

19:30b

19:46b

5:22

27:45

15:33

23:44

-

19:44

5:23

27:58.57

15:43.45.43a

23:52.50.51

19:38

19:52.50.51

5:24

27:59‑60a

15:46a

23:53

19:40‑41

19:53

9:35‑36; 12:50

28:1‑2; 26:12

14:8; 16:2.5

24:1.4

19:40; 20:1a.12

20.1‑2

13:55

-

16:5

24:3

20:11

20:3

13:56‑57

28:5‑6.8

16:6.8

24:5‑6a.9

20:2.13a

20:3‑5

As one can see from the last row which we have added here to Henderson’s columns all (!) these verses correspond with verses that are attested for the Gospel of Marcion. Conversely, and this is as important as the positive evidence, without exception the literal parallelism between the five witnesses stops where Marcion’s text is inexistent. The same cannot be said for either Mark, Luke, Matthew or John. When Marcion is missing, there are at best the one or the other of these witnesses parallel to each other (as, for example, in GP 1:1 and Matth. 27:24, or GP 1:5 and John 19:31a). This is even true for the relation between GP and Luke. A marvellous example is GP 4:13 and Luke 23:39‑43. In this case, we know from Epiph., Pan. 42.11.6(72) that the last verse is certainly missing in Marcion’s Gospel, but also the immediate verses before are not attested for it, unsurprisingly, there is nothing but a faint relation between Luke and GP, and, correctly, none of the other witnesses is listed by Henderson. A similar phenomenon exists in GP 8:28 and Luke 23:48. There is only a slight parallel between these two texts (στήθη), but none of the other witnesses is listed – and no surprise to us that this verse is not attested for Marcion. Henderson’s entire synopsis number 3 only lists parallels between GP 8:29‑9:34 and Matth. 27:60b-66 (with one short parallel in Mark 15:46b), as there is no John, no Luke, we cannot provide Marcion. Similarly indicative is GP 5:24a // Matth. 27:59‑60a // Mark 15:46a // Luke 23:53 // John 19:40‑42 // Marcion 19:53 – the only parts were all witnesses agree is not what we read in Matthew, or Mark or John as these

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all have variances in surplus, but only the short text that is provided by Luke = Marcion = (almost identical with) GP. If Mark had been the source of our Synoptics (and therefore to Marcion, had he copied Luke), why does none of the witnesses follow Mark 16:1 – but all have Mark 16:2 as being parallel? The verse is attested for Marcion. Why did they not follow Mark 16:3‑4, but only pick up Mark 16:5 again? Why, if Luke followed Mark, did he – like the other witnesses pick up exactly and only these verses of Mark 16:2.5, but jumped over verses 16:3‑4? When we look at Marcion, only he produces exactly these verses as a continuous text (Mcn 24:1.4) which are present as parallels in all other witnesses. If Mark were the source of these witnesses, they would either have needed to know each other or be dependent of one of the others, as it would be a sheer impossibility that all four independent witnesses, having left out the first verse in Mark, pick all the second verse up, all leave aside verses three and four, and all pick up again verse five of Mark. When we add Marcion’s Gospel – the explanation is simple. All witnesses, including Mark have integrated the one source Marcion, hence the parallelism in exactly these verses which were present in Marcion. Whether they copied the verses directly or through intermediaries would need further detailed studies, but the comparison speaks strongly in favour of Marcion as their common source. By the way, the same phenomenon can be seen with the following verses in Luke 24:3‑6a.9 which are attested in Marcion and, therefore, have parallels in the other four witnesses, not, however Luke 24:8 which is missing in Marcion. This comparison may suffice as an indicator that in a further study of a Synoptic commentary, a detailed comparison of Marcion as part of the Synoptic tradition and even the wider gospel tradition of the second century has to be undertaken. This study will conclude with a last textual comparison between Luke and Marcion to highlight, again, the likely priority of Marcion’s Gospel to that of Luke. This time, we look at the narrative lines which in Marcion’s Gospel are rigorous and consistent, while those of his plagiarizers are often distorted due to their attempt to accept his text, but correct his dissociation of Judaism and Christianity: Mcn 5:36‑39

Luke 5:36‑39

5:37 “No one pours new wine into old wineskins. If he does, the new wine will burst the old skins and will be spilled, and the skins will be destroyed. 5:38 Instead one pours new wine into new wineskins 5:39

5:36 He [Jesus] also told them a parable: “No one tears a patch from a new garment and sews it on an old garment. If he does, he will have torn the new, and the piece from the new will not match the old. 5:37 And no one pours new wine into old wine-

MARCION OF SINOPE AND THE SYNOPTIC QUESTION

5:36 And no one tears a patch from a new garment and sews it on an old garment. If he does, he will have torn the new, and the piece from the new will not match the old.”

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skins. If he does, the new wine will burst the skins and will be spilled, and the skins will be destroyed. 5:38 Instead new wine must be poured into new wineskins. 5:39 No one after drink-

ing old wine wants the new, for he says, ‘The old is good enough.’”

In this parable, we have a literally identical text (except for the opening and the order of its elements) for Marcion’s Gospel and Luke except for the last two verses (5:38‑39). 96 We all know the story. New wine cannot be poured into old wineskins, as the fermenting wine would crack and burst the skins and both the wine and the skins would perish, while when wine is being put into new wineskin, they both will be preserved. So far the logical conclusion. Luke must have adopted this story, but changed its structure and the core of its meaning. As we are (correctly) told by Tertullian, Marcion used this story, in order to show that the novelty of Christianity makes the new religion distinct from Judaism, the New Testament cannot be put together or even worse cannot be set into the old Jewish frame, the wineskins of the Old Testament. The crucial point, present in Adamantius and D (“and both will be preserved”), must have been a stumbling block for Luke and all those Christians that wanted to remain within their Jewish tradition, even if in principle they accepted Marcion’s idea of novelty and that Christianity, the new wine, would only be preserved within a new container. In Marcion’s order of the story, the second part with the image of the patch of a garment makes an important statement giving the reason why he thought that the New Testament should not only not be included into the frame of the Jewish Scriptures, but also kept apart from it. If his “New Testament” were “sown” to the “Old Tes96. U. Schmid, “How Can We Access Second Century Gospel Texts? The Cases of Marcion and Tatian,” in Ch.-B. A mphoux – J.K. Elliott, ed., The New Testament Text in Early Christianity/Le texte du Nouveau Testament au debut du christianisme (Lausanne, 2003) 139‑150: 143 claims that no source makes any mention of either the presence or its absence of 5:39, and concludes from this that to posit the absence of 5:39 in Marcion’s Gospel would be “simply creating positive evidence (in this very case positive negative evidence) out of no evidence at all.” He is uncritically followed in this by D.T. Roth in his guest blog entry to Larry Hurtado’s blog (https://larryhurtado.wordpress.com/2015/2003/2011/roth-on-vinzenton-marcion/#_ednref4 acc. 11.05.2015). Yet, rhetoric is not always persuasive. In this case the fact is overlooked that both Adamantius, Dial. II 16 together with Codex Bezae (D) have an alternative version of verse 5:39 “and both will be preserved.” This version, therefore, has been taken both by myself and by M. K ling hardt, Das älteste Evangelium (Tübingen, 2015) 502 with very good reasons to stem from Marcion’s Gospel, all the more that this alternative makes perfect sense to the entire story.

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tament,” the novel writing would be “torn” and could “not match the old.” Marcion did not care about what would happen to the Jewish Scriptures, whether they would be destroyed or be further existing with their own pattern, but he cautioned his readers that the content of the “New Testament” would be spilled, lost and torn, as it would not fit the “Old Testament.” In contrast, Luke wanted to retain that Christianity should be associated with the old garment and contained in the old wineskins, the Jewish heritage. To soften the strong antithetical message, connected with the idea of newness in this pericope, Luke alters the two images, cuts short the most pronounced statement of Marcion’s Gospel 97 and replaces it with his verse 5:39 that even the most traditional New Testament scholars have felt to be a radical breakdown in the logic of this pericope. After having endorsed that a new patch cannot be sown to an old garment and that new wine can only go into new wineskins, Luke adds, almost conster­ nating the reader: “No one after drinking old wine wants the new, for he says, ‘The old is good enough.’” The turn is even sharper than with his alteration of the story of the Transfiguration. So – why the story about the new wine and the wineskins at all? Is the novelty of Christianity not what one wants, because the traditional religion, Judaism with its Scriptures, “is good enough”? Indeed, nobody before Marcion with the exception of Hebrews has picked up Paul’s notion of novelty, expressed, for example in the sole direct quote of the Lord from 1Cor. 11 about his blood being “the new covenant” – people who were called Christians had remained in their old religious tradition of Judaism, as it was “good enough” without feeling the need to seeing themselves or Christ’s message as “new wine” in “new wineskins,” new forms of literature, new sacraments, new liturgical rites,  etc. I cannot outline here all arguments that speak in favour of Marcion giving us the right account of how Gospels came into being, and that Irenaeus and Tertullian are apologetical distortions, but like to discuss one recent alternative, put forward by Matthias Klinghardt. In his outlook he relates my “exciting and really astonishing” hypothesis of Marcion’s authorship of that gospel which Klinghardt takes to be the very first one, but which he himself does not attribute to Marcion whom he only thinks of its user. 98 Rightly, however, he outlines our agreements: “1) The marcionite Gospel is the oldest of all gospels; 2) the canonical gospels are literally dependent on this one; 3) in a series of content related aspects, the canonical gospels, particularly Luke, shows anti-marcionite tendencies; 4) there are no reasons to date the canonical gospels to the first century ad, from 97. Hence, interpreting this pericope, I am not making an argument out of nothing, pace D.T. Roth. 98.  M. K linghardt, Das älteste Evangelium (Tübingen, 2015) 383‑388.

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which follows that, in principle, Marcion could have been the author.” 99 Klinghardt, then, marks the differences between our approaches. First he mentions the existence of pre-canonical versions of the gospels. And although I would not deny these, I only differ in the interpretation of Justin’s evidence which Klinghardt takes to determine the terminus ante quem for what he calls (with David Trobisch) the “canonical redaction” of the New Testament. 100 As all instances in Justin which Klinghardt takes as proof for Justin being aware of the canonical redaction of the New Testament, are borrowings of Lukan redactional elements (1Apol. 15,8: Luke 5:32; 1Apol. 16,1: Luke 6:29; Dial. 105,5: Luke 23,46; 1Apol. 50,12: Luke 24), Justin, in my opinion, is not proof for the existence of the canonical redaction of the New Testament, but for that of the post-marcionite version of Luke, which harmonises with the fact that according to Tertullian Marcion had already complained about this version of Luke (and that of the other canonical Gospels) in his Antitheses. In this respect, Marcion’s Antitheses (like Justin for Luke) is, in my view, witness for the existence of post-marcionite and pre-canonical versions of these gospels, including that of Luke. 101 Conversely, Justin is not a witness for the canonical redaction, but for the anti-marcionite version of Luke. The existence of the canonical redaction which I do not negate would need to be dated slightly later than Justin and before Irenaeus. With this, Klinghardt’s main argument against Marcion’s authorship is overcome. The first, if I am not mistaken, who had combined the protocanonical gospels of Matthew, John, Mark and Luke was Marcion in his Antitheses, and the canonical redaction only seems to have given credence of these writings, in order to defend them against the accusations Marcion raised in his Antitheses against them, very similar as Irenaeus will do in his Adversus haereses. 102 I conclude that 1. until the times of Marcion, those who read the Jewish Torah, the Prophets and the Jewish writings in the light of Jesus’ interpretation of them did so while they regarded themselves as Jews, perhaps as God-fearers, but at least as sympathizers of the Synagogue, whereas other Jews (like initially 99.  Ibidem, 387 (own trans.). 100.  Ibidem, 387‑392; see D. Trobisch, Die Endredaktion des Neuen Testaments, (Fribourg and Göttingen, 1996); I d., “The Need to Discern Distinctive Editions of the New Testament in the Manuscript Tradition,” in K. Wachtel – M.W. Holmes , ed., The Textual History of the Greek New Testament. Changing Views in Contemporary Research, (Atlanta, 2011) 43‑48. 101.  Strangely enough, Klinghardt only reckons with non-marcionite precanonical versions of Mark, Matthew and John, while identifying the precanonical version of Luke with Mcn, the gospel Marcion used. 102. See my Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels (Leuven, 2014) 73‑76.

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Paul himself) and gradually the outside world saw in these Jesus-oriented Jews a Jewish branch of its own. 2. Only after the end of the Bar Kokhba war (132‑135 ad), did the business man and ship-owner Marcion turn (Jesus-)Jews, proselytes, God-fearers, and sympathizers of the Synagoge, as Tertullian claims, into “Godlovers,” re-discovered Paul and collected his letters, probably also collected the sayings of Jesus, and came up with the new literary genre of combining those sayings with narratives to create the Euaggelion, the new angelic edict or law. With the arrival of the new Master and his New Testament, one saw the Old Law of the Creator God replaced, the prophets and their writings no longer valid. For the first time Marcion coined the technical terms “Gospel” for a written document, the “New Testament” (namely the Gospel plus Paul’s letters) as opposed to the Old Testament, termed the movement “Christianity” as opposed to “Judaism” and introduced liturgical rites such as “baptism” to replace Jewish “circumcision” and other liturgical praxis to form a separate religion. 3. The decades of his teaching in Rome and those of the second century after his death became the formative years to develop this separate “Christian” identity, although not as a radically antithetical-Jewish positioned as Marcion had suggested. And yet, despite the re-judaizing of Marcion’s Gospel through what was credited to Apostles other than Paul, the Synoptics, Acts and despite the balancing of Paul’s message with what was credited to Peter, James and John, the Marcionite basis of the Gospel, its institutional concept of a new religion with non-Jewish rites, hierarchical leadership and distinct identity that was conceived as antithesis to the old and in contradistinction to its Roman environment was broadly accepted even by those who soon started to criticize Marcion’s rigorous views. 4. Marcion, however, not only created the basis for the growing new race of the Christians, inspired them with the narratives of Jesus and endowed them with Paul’s letters, he also became the one target with and against whom Christian theology developed, although it took until Irenaeus that the four Gospels were fully credited with Apostolic authority and harmonized with Paul on the basis of Acts. 5. If this were so, Marcion was the initiator and cult-founder of Christianity. He also provided the basis for modern New Testament Studies, while his contribution, on the basis of plagiators and heresiologists, became obscured already during Patristic times. 6. The beginnings of Christianity, its identity formation and early history, therefore, has to be re-assessed in the light of a combined field of New Testament and Patristic studies.

R EDATING E ARLY CHRISTIAN T EXTS.

A PROPOS DE DEUX NOUVELLES HYPOTHÈSES POUR LA DATATION DES ÉVANGILES CANONISÉS Claudio Gianotto I. I n t roduct ion Le problème de la datation des évangiles canonisés, aussi bien que celui des rapports historiques et littéraires existant entre eux, en particulier pour ce qui concerne les évangiles dits « synoptiques », est l’un des plus discutés par les exégètes du Nouveau Testament et les historiens des origines chrétiennes ; il fait l’objet d’un débat serré, où s’opposent des hypothèses et des opinions très différentes, sans qu’on puisse envisager, du moins à l’heure actuelle, une perspective de solution partagée. Et pourtant, depuis plus d’un siècle et demi – si on voulait indiquer une date symbolique, on pourrait se référer à la publication du livre de H.J. Holzmann, Die synop­ tischen Evangelien, Leipzig 1863 – malgré toutes les discussions et les nombreuses objections avancées par les savants au fil des années, on peut dire qu’une sorte d’opinio communis s’est imposée, sans jamais avoir été vraiment remise en discussion, qui fixe dans la deuxième moitié du premier siècle la datation aussi bien des trois évangiles synoptiques que du quatrième évangile, ce dernier étant placé en général quelques décennies plus tard que les trois autres. Pour ce qui concerne plus précisément le problème des rapports historiques et littéraires qui existeraient entre les évangiles canonisés, et en particulier entre les synoptiques, il me semble que la gamme des hypothèses avancées par les savants au cours des derniers cent cinquante ans est un peu moins homogène 1 ; mais, même à propos de la question synoptique, on peut dire que l’hypothèse de la priorité de Marc s’est imposée et est aujourd’hui la plus suivie ; hypothèse qui, accompagnée d’un autre présupposé, celui de l’existence de la source Q, concourt à former l’architecture 1.  A ce propos, je renvoie au panorama, très utile, que M. Vinzent a consacré à ces problèmes dans son volume : Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, Leuven, 2014, chap. 2 : Dating the Synoptic Gospels – the Status Quaestionis, p. 159‑214.  Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 63–78 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111698 ©

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de celle que nous connaissons comme l’ « hypothèse des deux sources » ; cette circonstance est confirmée, entre autres, par la prolifération des études sur Q ces dernières années. Bien que décrite d’une façon sommaire, telle est la situation – me semble-t-il – de la recherche aujourd’hui. Et pourtant, tout au long du chemin que les études néotestamentaires ont parcouru depuis l’affirmation de la méthode historico-critique au XIXème siècle, nombre de savants ont fait remarquer que les différentes propositions de datation des évangiles canonisés sont en réalité très fragiles et reposent sur des fondations dépourvues de toute solidité. Je reprends ici, à titre d’exemple, la conclusion tirée par J.A.T. Robinson, l’un des rares savants ayant abordé de façon globale le problème de la datation des écrits du Nouveau Testament, dans son livre de 1976 intitulé : Redating the New Testament, en formulant de nouvelles hypothèses, qui s’opposaient à celles dominantes à l’époque : « The chronology of the New Testament rests on presuppositions rather than on facts […]. What seemed to be firm datings based on scientific evidence are revealed to rest on deduction from deductions. The pattern is self consistent but circular » 2 . Malgré son scepticisme, J.A.T. Robinson n’a pas résisté à la tentation d’avancer, pour la datation des évangiles canonisés, de nouvelles hypothèses, qui tendaient à reculer la date de composition par rapport à l’opinio communis, mais qui, au fond, ne mettaient pas en cause le dogme fondamental de la production des textes au Ier siècle. Le livre a suscité beaucoup de débats et de discussions à l’époque, mais sans conséquences durables. En effet, on se rend compte, même par un examen très sommaire, qu’il n’existe aucun élément solide et sûr qui nous permette de dater avec précision les évangiles canonisés : toute proposition ne peut que rester hypothétique. Parmi les arguments de critique interne, le plus utilisé est celui de l’identification possible de références à la destruction du temple de Jérusalem en 70 par les Romains, qui représenterait une sorte de ligne de partage nous permettant de dater les textes avant ou après cet événement ; mais, tout le monde le sait, il s’agit d’un argument plutôt ambigu, qui prête à des utilisations intéressées : il faut identifier ces références à partir des descriptions plus ou moins vagues qu’on trouve dans les textes. Des descriptions très semblables peuvent être considérées, à la fois, générales et dépourvues de renvois précis aux événements de 70, comme on a tendance à le faire, par exemple, dans le cas de l’évangile de Marc ; ou bien comme des références voilées à ces événements sous forme de la prophétie post eventum, ce qu’on a tendance à faire, par contre, dans le cas des évangiles de Matthieu ou de Luc. En ce qui concerne la critique externe, c’est-à-dire la datation des supports matériaux de la tradition manuscrite et l’évaluation des citations des 2.  J.A.T. Robinson, Redating the New Testament, London, 1976, p. 341 ; cité par M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, Leuven, 2014, p. viii.

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textes dans la littérature successive, la situation n’est pas meilleure. Les codes onciaux les plus anciens contenant les évangiles canonisés remontent au IVème siècle ; et s’il est vrai que cette circonstance rapproche les premiers témoins manuscrits survécus des originaux davantage que pour n’importe quel autre texte de l’antiquité, la distance reste tout de même encore trop grande et ne nous aide guère dans l’effort de fixer une datation précise pour la composition des textes en question. Quant aux témoignages, très fragmentaires, des papyrus, il faut reconnaître que dans plusieurs cas ils permettent de pousser encore plus en arrière la datation des premiers manuscrits des évangiles canonisés. Par exemple, P64 (Magdalen College, Oxford), qui contient des passages de Matthieu, a été daté par C. Thiede 3 à la fin du Ier siècle (mais la liste des papyrus de Nestle-Aland suggère comme date vers 200) ; P52 (J. Rylands Library, Manchester), qui contient un passage de Jean, est daté par Nestle-Aland du IIème siècle 4 ; on pourrait y ajouter encore le fragment qumranien qui porte le sigle 7Q5, daté évidemment du Ier siècle, avant la destruction du site par les Romains, qui aurait dû contenir – au moins, c’est ainsi que pensaient les premiers éditeurs – un passage de Marc ; mais la plupart des savants n’ont pas retenu cette identification ; en effet, dans les années suivantes, d’autres identifications ont été proposées, attribuant le fragment à des écrits du judaïsme hellénistique et considérées plus vraisemblables 5. En tout cas, il ne faudrait pas oublier que les datations paléographiques des fragments de papyrus sont nécessairement approximatives (il faut toujours prévoir une fenêtre d’au moins cent ans) et que, par conséquent, elles ne peuvent être décisives pour fixer une date précise 6. La situation n’est pas meilleure pour ce qui concerne les citations dans la littérature chrétienne des premiers siècles : aucune citation n’est attestée pour les parties narratives des évangiles canonisés avant la moitié du 3.  C.P. Thiede , Rekindling the Word. In Search of Gospel Truth, Valley Forge, PA, 1995, cité par M. Vinzent, Marcion, p. 220. 4.  Dans Nestle-A land, Novum Testamentum Graece (Stuttgart, 1979), 26. Auflage, P52 est le seul payprus de la liste à être daté au IIème siècle (p. 687) ; dans la 27. Auflage (1993) la liste s’allonge et inclut P 90 (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford), qui contient, lui aussi, un passage de Jean et P 98 (IFAO, Cairo), qui contient un passage de l’Apocalypse (p. 689) ; dans la 28. Auflage (2013) on y ajoute encore P104 (Sackler Library, Oxford), qui contient un passage de Mt. 5.  Voir, par exemple, J. Vanderkam – P. Flint, The Meaning of the Dead Sea Scrolls, San Francisco, 2002, p. 311‑320. 6.  A propos de P52 le papyrologue B. Nongbri écrit : « Palaeography is not the most effective method for dating texts, particularly those written in a literary hand […] Any serious consideration of the window of possible dates for P52 must include dates in the later second and early third centuries » : cf. B. Nongbri, « The Use and Abuse of P52 », Harvard Theological Review 98 (2005), p. 23‑48, spéc. 46, cité par M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, Leuven, 2014, p. 223.

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IIème siècle. Le premier volume de Biblia patristica 7, consacré aux citations bibliques dans la littérature chrétienne depuis les origines à Clément d’Alexandrie (pour le grec) et Tertullien (pour le latin), signale des centaines de citations des quatre évangiles canoniques dans les écrits postérieurs à la moitié du IIème siècle, mais aucune avant cette date 8. Il est vrai que des références plus ou moins explicites à des paroles de Jésus sont attestées dans la littérature chrétienne antérieure à 150 (et même dans des écrits inclus plus tard dans le canon du Nouveau Testament) ; mais la fluidité de la transmission des paroles de Jésus ne nous permet pas, là où il y aurait des parallèles, d’affirmer automatiquement que ces paroles proviennent des évangiles qui seront plus tard canonisés. En effet, ce sont les éléments narratifs qui caractérisent d’une façon plus précise ces évangiles et les premières références à de tels éléments dans la littérature chrétienne ne sont attestées qu’à partir de Justin, voire d’Aristide 9. Cette absence de références aux quatre évangiles canonisés avant la moitié du IIème siècle est d’autant plus surprenante si on la compare avec la réception des écrits de Paul, qui est mentionné, cité, loué ou critiqué déjà dans la seconde moitié du Ier siècle, sans compter qu’une première collection de ses lettres est connue par l’auteur de la Deuxième épître de Pierre (3,15‑16), que l’on peut dater au plus tard du début du IIème siècle. Cette situation est connue depuis longtemps ; et pourtant, il ne semble pas qu’elle ait jamais vraiment suscité de graves doutes chez les exégètes (sauf quelques rares exceptions 10), au point de les amener à mettre en discussion tout le système des datations traditionnelles. Quelles sont les raisons qui ont permis aussi longtemps le maintien du status quo ? Je n’ai pas de réponse satisfaisante ; mais je peux avancer quelques hypothèses. La canonicité reconnue aux quatre évangiles de Matthieu, Marc, Luc et Jean présuppose leur apostolicité ; et la possibilité de survie des premiers disciples de Jésus, en particulier des Douze, peut difficilement être poussée au-delà de la fin du Ier siècle. Et encore, la canonicité de ces écrits demande de les séparer nettement d’autres écrits semblables, mais qui n’ont pas été accueillis dans le canon des écritures chrétiennes justement parce qu’ils ne pouvaient pas être rattachés aux apôtres : cela vaut, en particulier, pour les évangiles qu’on appelle « apocryphes », mais aussi pour les écrits des plus anciens auteurs chrétiens, par exemples les pères apostoliques ; ces écrits sont considérés radicalement différents des écrits canoniques, puisqu’ils 7.  Biblia patristica : index des citations et allusions bibliques dans la littérature patristique, vol. 1 : Des origines à Clément d ’Alexandrie et Tertullien, Paris, 1975. 8.  Cf.  M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, Leuven, 2014, p. 224. 9.  Ibidem, p. 227. 10.  Pour plus de détails, je renvoie à M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, Leuven, 2014, p. 159‑214.

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ne sont pas inspirés, et cette différence doit nécessairement être marquée aussi par leur postériorité chronologique. Si l’on se souvient que, dans le contexte du monde occidental, les études sur les évangiles canoniques ont été développées presque exclusivement à l’intérieur des facultés de théologie, qui à leur tour étaient conditionnées par leur appartenance confessionnelle, on comprend comment les présupposés de type théologique que j’ai mentionnés (référence à l’inspiration, l’apostolicité et la canonicité des écrits en question) ont pu jouer un rôle très important dans l’effort de conservation de la datation traditionnelle. Non seulement cela ne mettait pas en discussion ces présupposés, mais d’une certaine façon les favorisait et en confirmait la validité. Un autre facteur, cette fois plutôt de type académique, doit avoir contribué à l’acceptation passive de la datation traditionnelle : le statut des études néotestamentaires comme domaine tout à fait séparé. L’organisation des études dans les facultés de théologie a favorisé, à l’intérieur des recherches sur la production littéraire du christianisme, une distinction très nette entre, d’une part, les études bibliques, concernant des écrits considérés inspirés et devenus normatifs suite à leur canonisation, et par conséquent largement soumis au contrôle des théologiens systématiques ; et, d’autre part, l’étude de la littérature patristique, à laquelle on reconnaissait une valeur ancillaire ou, de toute façon, subordonnée. Cette situation a contribué à circonscrire les études du Nouveau Testament à l’intérieur d’une section rigidement délimitée (le corpus des 27 écrits canonisés), ce qui permet tout au plus aux exégètes quelques excursions en amont, c’est-à-dire vers la production littéraire juive antérieure ou contemporaine (domaine non couvert par la discipline « Ancien Testament »), à la recherche d’influences, de parallèles, de modèles ; mais les excursions en aval, dans les territoires de la plus ancienne littérature chrétienne non canonique, sont très rares, d’autant plus que ce domaine est couvert par les disciplines « Patristique/ Patrologie » ou « Histoire de la théologie » et rentre dans les compétences d’autres savants. Cette séparation rigide a amené les exégètes du Nouveau Testament à se concentrer d’une manière exclusive sur le corpus des écrits canonisés, et même à se spécialiser sur quelques-uns en particulier (les synoptiques, la littérature johannique ou paulinienne, etc.), et par conséquent à négliger les thèmes et les problèmes de caractère plus général, qui se situent au tournant des frontières entre les disciplines, comme par exemple celui de la formation de la collection des écrits néotestamentaires et de sa datation. Cette situation est changée depuis quelques décennies grâce à des facteurs différents, parmi lesquels le changement de perspective adopté dans le domaine des études sur le Jésus historique par la Third Quest (à partir des années 70 et 80 du siècle dernier) a joué, je pense, un rôle important. Ce changement a contribué à déthéologiser, si je puis dire, les études sur Jésus et les évangiles, qui avaient été fortement conditionnées et orientées par

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des présupposés dogmatiques pendant la période de la New Quest, brisant ainsi le monopole exclusif des théologiens : d’une part, à travers l’introduction de nouvelles méthodologies et de nouveaux instruments d’enquête, en particulier ceux des sciences anthropologiques et sociales ; d’autre part, à travers l’élargissement du corpus documentaire jusqu’à inclure toute la production littéraire d’une certaine période, sans distinction entre écrits canonisés et écrits apocryphisés. Ce tournant dans les études a abattu, ou du moins rendu plus flexibles, les barrières entre les disciplines académiques, ouvrant de nouveaux chemins et de nouvelles perspectives à la recherche. Ce cadre, bien qu’avec quelques nuances différentes, est présupposé par M. Vinzent aussi, qui rappelle, dans le premier chapitre de son volume 11, l’exigence que les exégètes du Nouveau Testament et les patristiciens travaillent l’un à côté de l’autre, renvoyant à un souhait que F. Bovon avait formulé en 1988 12 , quelques années avant de quitter l’Université de Genève pour Harvard (1993), où il aurait justement enseigné New Testament et Early Christian Literature. C’est bien dans ce nouveau climat que l’on peut situer les hypothèses inédites de datation des évangiles synoptiques que je voudrais discuter ici et qui ont été formulées en 2006 par Pierfranco Beatrice (« The ‘Gospel According to the Hebrews’ in the Apostolic Fathers », Novum Testamentum 48 [2006], p. 147‑195) et en 2014 par Markus Vinzent (Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels) 13. Le fait que ces deux auteurs ne soient pas à proprement parler des exégètes du Nouveau Testament et que leur principal domaine de recherche concerne les études patristiques n’est pas dû au hasard (M. Vinzent est aussi historien de la théologie et a travaillé sur des auteurs de l’époque médiévale). Leurs hypothèses présentent, à mon avis, de fortes analogies, moins du point de vue du contenu que de celui de l’architecture et de l’organisation de l’argumentation. II. L’ h y pot h è se

de

P.F. B e at r ice (2006)

Dans son article, P.F. Beatrice part d’un passage de la Lettre aux Smyrniens 3 d’Ignace d’Antioche 14 , où l’auteur cite, en perspective anti-docète, 11.  Ibidem, p. 1‑4. 12.  F. Bovon, « The Synoptic Gospels and the Noncanonical Acts of the Apostles », Harvard Theological Review 81 (1988), p. 19‑36. 13.  M. Vinzent avait déjà avancé son hypothèse dans un ouvrage publié quelques années auparavant (Christ’s Resurrection in Early Christianity and the Making of the New Testament, Farnham [Surrey], 2011). 14.  P.F. Beatrice , « The ‘Gospel According to the Hebrews’ in the Apostolic Fathers », Novum Testamentum 48 (2006), p. 147‑154 ; ce passage a aussi été étudié par M. Vinzent, « Ich bin kein körperloses Geistwesen. Zum Verhältnis von Kerygma Petri, ‘Doctrina Petri’ und IgnSm III », dans R.M. Hübner (ed.), Der

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une parole apocryphe de Jésus (« Prenez, touchez-moi et constatez que je ne suis pas un démon sans corps »), sans en indiquer l’origine ; selon Beatrice, la citation d’Ignace serait plus longue et s’étendrait au-delà de la parole de Jésus, incluant aussi quelques renvois au contexte, et remonterait à l’Evangile des hébreux, comme le dit Jérôme en De vir. inl. 16, en rappelant la citation d’Ignace (que d’ailleurs il attribue par erreur à la Lettre à Polycarpe du même Ignace) ; toujours d’après le témoignage de Jérôme 15, cet évangile apocryphe aurait été écrit à l’origine en araméen et par la suite traduit par lui même en grec et en latin 16. Dans l’étape suivante, Beatrice analyse les témoignages concernant Papias de Hiérapolis repris par Eusèbe (Hist. Eccl. 3,39,16) 17 et conclut que les logia de Jésus (non les logoi, comprenant donc potentiellement aussi des éléments narratifs) mis en ordre par Matthieu ἑβραίδι διαλέκτῳ seraient à identifier avec l’Evangile des hébreux 18. Pour contester la possibilité de cette identification, on renvoie d’habitude à un témoignage d’Eusèbe en Hist. Eccl. 4,22,8, où l’historien raconte qu’Hégésippe reprendrait dans son œuvre quelques informations provenant de l’Evangile selon les hébreux et de l’évangile syrien (ἐκ τε τοῦ καθ᾽ἑβραίους εὐαγγελίου καὶ τοῦ συριακοῦ) ; ce témoignage est brillamment neutralisé par Beatrice par le recours à une petite correction du texte d’Eusèbe, supportée d’ailleurs par la traduction latine de Rufin : au lieu de καὶ τοῦ συριακοῦ il propose de lire τοῦ καὶ συριακοῦ, une leçon variante qui confirmerait explicitement l’identité des deux titres 19. En plus, cet Evangile des hébreux aurait été traduit en grec non seulement par Jérôme, mais aussi bien avant lui 20. Le témoignage de Papias cité plus haut concernant la mise en ordre des logia de Jésus en araméen par Matthieu se termine en disant que, par la suite, chacun les traduisit selon ses propres capacités (ἡρμήνευσεν δ᾽αὐτὰ ὡς ἤν δύνατος ἕκαστος). Beatrice justement remarque qu’en grec ἕκαστος renvoie à plus que deux (autrement on aurait Paradox Eine. Antignostischer Monarchianismus im zweiten Jahrhundert, Leiden, 1999, p. 241‑286. 15.  Hier., Comm. in Mich. 7,5‑7 ; De vir. inl. 2 ; ces passages sont présentés et commentés en C. Gianotto (ed.), Ebrei credenti in Gesù. Le testimonianze degli autori antichi, Milano, 2012, n. 193c et 207. 16.  P.F. Beatrice , « The ‘Gospel According to the Hebrews’ in the Apostolic Fathers », Novum Testamentum 48 (2006), p. 154‑158. 17.  Pour une analyse très détaillée du passage de Hist. Eccl. 3,39,1‑17, cf. Papia di Hierapolis, Esposizione degli oracoli del Signore. I frammenti, ed. E. Norelli, Milano, 2005, p. 230‑335. 18.  P.F. Beatrice , « The ‘Gospel According to the Hebrews’ in the Apostolic Fathers », Novum Testamentum 48 (2006), p. 158‑163. 19.  Ibidem, p. 174‑175 ; la traduction latine de l’Histoire ecclésiastique d’Eusèbe par Rufin lit : disseruit autem (scil. Hegesippus) et de euangelio secundum Hebraeos et Syros. 20.  P.F. Beatrice , « The ‘Gospel According to the Hebrews’ in the Apostolic Fathers », Novum Testamentum 48 (2006), p. 176‑181.

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employé ἑκάτερος) et pense à plusieurs traductions de l’œuvre en araméen de Matthieu, identifiée avec l’Evangile des hébreux, et il y inclut les évangiles, par la suite canonisés, de Matthieu, Luc et Jean (non l’évangile de Marc, qui ne dépendrait pas des logia du Matthieu araméen, mais des mémoires de Pierre). En résumant, les quatre évangiles ensuite canonisés se seraient formés à partir non seulement de traditions transmises oralement, mais aussi de deux sources remontant à deux témoins oculaires : les mémoires de Pierre, mis en ordre par Marc (qui correspondraient à un apocryphe pétrinien transmis sous des titres différents : Doctrina Petri ; Kerygma Petrou ; Euaggelium Petri) et réélaborés successivement jusqu’à former l’Evangile de Marc canonique ; et les mémoires de Matthieu, rédigés à l’origine en araméen et successivement traduits en grec en plusieurs versions, parmi lesquelles on devrait compter celles des évangiles de Matthieu, Luc et Jean, plus tard canonisés 21. Beatrice n’aborde pas directement le problème de la datation des évangiles canoniques ; mais si l’on prend au sérieux son hypothèse, les conséquences sont surprenantes. Le Matthieu araméen/Evangile des hébreux remonterait, selon Beatrice, non pas au IIème siècle, comme on le pense généralement, mais à la deuxième moitié du Ier siècle. En tout cas, puisque Papias parle au passé (ἡρμήνευσεν), on devrait supposer que les quatre évangiles canoniques ont été rédigés avant lui (c’est-à-dire avant 110/120 selon la datation de l’œuvre de Papias proposée E. Norelli 22) ; mais quand plus précisément ? Evidemment, si l’on présuppose qu’ils dépendent de quelques documents écrits préexistants (le Marc canonique dépendant d’un ou plusieurs apocryphes pétriniens, et les évangiles de Matthieu, Luc et Jean du Matthieu araméen/Evangile des hébreux) et en circulation déjà depuis quelque temps, pour leur rédaction on ne peut vraisemblablement remonter plus haut que les dernières années du Ier siècle ou les premières du IIème. Dans la dernière étape de son enquête, Beatrice s’interroge sur les raisons qui pourraient avoir amené à la rédaction des évangiles de Matthieu, Luc et Jean ; ceux-ci ne seraient pas une simple traduction en grec du Matthieu araméen, mais plutôt une véritable révision, réélaboration et réinterprétation, dont les motivations seraient moins de nature linguistique que théologique 23. Dans un passage de sa Lettre aux Philippiens (7,1) l’évêque Polycarpe lance une réprimande contre ceux qui nient que Jésus est venu dans la chair et mésinterprètent les logia du Seigneur pour favoriser leurs propres convoitises (καὶ ὃς ἄν μεθοδεὐῃ τὰ λόγια τοῦ κυριοῦ πρὸς τὰς 21.  Ibidem, p. 185‑191. 22.  Cf. Papia di Hierapolis, Esposizione degli oracoli del Signore. I frammenti, ed. E. Norelli, Milano, 2005, p. 48‑54. 23.  P.F. Beatrice , « The ‘Gospel According to the Hebrews’ in the Apostolic Fathers », Novum Testamentum 48 (2006), p. 181‑185.

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ἰδίας ἐπιθυμίας) ; Beatrice y voit immédiatement une référence au témoignage de Papias affirmant que Matthieu aurait précisément mis en ordre en langue araméenne les logia de Jésus et en conclut que les destinataires de la réprimande de Polycarpe auraient interprété en un sens docète le Matthieu araméen/Evangile des hébreux, déformant ainsi son sens originaire. C’est précisément dans le contexte de cette polémique anti-docète, qui parcourt de façon persistante pendant plus d’un siècle les premiers développements du mouvement de Jésus après la mort violente du chef charismatique, que les évangiles de Matthieu, Luc et Jean auraient été rédigés, justement pour contraster et corriger les mésinterprétations des logia de Jésus opérées par les docètes. L’Evangile de Marc canonisé aurait connu un sort analogue, puisqu’il aurait été rédigé pour corriger les tendances docètes présentes dans l’apocryphe Doctrina Petri/Kerygma Petrou/Evangile de Pierre (qui pour Beatrice ne seraient qu’un seul et même ouvrage), que Marc aurait ébauché en y disposant sans ordre les mémoires de Pierre, ainsi que nous le raconte Papias. Il faut préciser tout de suite que la reconstruction de Beatrice ne se fonde pas sur des preuves incontestables, mais plutôt sur des indices ; mais ces indices sont si nombreux et liés entre eux à l’intérieur d’un réseau complexe de rapports qu’à la fin ils acquièrent un certain poids, à mon avis pas du tout moindre par rapport à celui des indices – en effet, en ce cas aussi il ne s’agit que d’indices – sur lesquels se fondent les hypothèses de datation traditionnelle. Chacune des solutions proposées, y compris les deux cas où l’on suggère une correction du textus traditus (la Lettre aux Smyrniens d’Ignace et l’Historie ecclésiastique d’Eusèbe, livre IV) se présentent toujours comme plausibles, jamais comme nécessaires ; toutefois, elles ne sont pas avancées comme des possibilités abstraites, mais s’appuient toujours sur des éléments concrets : une traduction ancienne, une glose marginale, une leçon variante de la tradition manuscrite, etc., ce qui renforce la vraisemblance de la reconstruction globale. Malgré la nouveauté de l’approche et l’importance du sujet traité, à ma connaissance la critique a presque complètement ignoré l’article de Beatrice : Vinzent le connaît 24 ; en d’autres volumes, où je m’attendais à le voir cité, je n’en ai pas trouvé trace, et là où il a été cité, ses hypothèses ont été refusées sans aucune argumentation détaillée, mais de façon tout à fait générique 25 ; et dans ce cas spécifique on ne peut même pas trouver une justification en faisant appel à l’allégation : 24.  L’article de P.F. Beatrice est cité en M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, Leuven, 2014, p. 62 n. 241 et p. 190 n. 278. 25.  Cf. par exemple J. Frey, « Die Fragmente judenchristlicher Evangelien », dans Ch. M arkschies – J. Schröter (ed.), Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung, I. Band : Evangelien und Verwandtes, Tübingen, 2012, p. 560‑592, spéc. 571, n. 47 : « zu unkritisch » ; par contre, J.R. Edwards , The Hebrew Gospel & the Development of the Synoptic Tradition, Grand Rapids, 2009, prend sérieusement en considération l’hypothèse de P.F. Beatrice.

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italicum est, non legitur, puisque l’article a été écrit en anglais et publié dans l’une des plus importantes revues d’études néotestamentaires. III. L’ h y pot h è se

de

M. V i n z e n t (2014)

Dans son livre, M. Vinzent aborde d’une façon plus directe le problème de la genèse et de la formation des trois évangiles synoptiques (mais aussi du quatrième évangile, si l’on doit croire au témoignage d’un des prologues anti-marcionites, celui qui concerne l’Evangile de Jean 26) et présuppose lui aussi qu’ils ont été rédigés en réaction à un « évangile » préexistant, dans ce cas l’euaggelion de Marcion. Mais, comme on le sait, à partir d’Irénée de Lyon, repris par Tertullien et plus tard par Epiphane de Salamine 27, la tradition hérésiologique affirme que Marcion aurait contrefait, en le mutilant, un évangile préexistant, en ce cas celui de Luc, et non pas le contraire. C’est pourquoi Vinzent réexamine avec les outils de la critique toutes les sources du IIème siècle (jusqu’à Origène) qui s’occupent de quelque façon de Marcion et de son évangile 28. Il arrive à conclure que l’évangile de Marcion aurait connu une double rédaction : une première à l’usage des élèves, produite vraisemblablement dans le contexte de l’activité d’enseignement que Marcion exerçait à Rome ; et une deuxième en fonction d’une véritable publication, qui devait comprendre aussi les Antithèses et l’Apostolikon, c’est-à-dire les lettres de Paul. La première rédaction aurait connu, même sans avoir été véritablement « publiée », un certain succès et aurait suscité de nombreuses réactions ; par conséquent, elle aurait été copiée, résumée, réélaborée, interpolée par de nombreuses mains différentes et enfin publiée manifestement en fraude sous les noms d’apôtres ou de personnages de l’époque apostolique (ce serait le cas des quatre évangiles plus tard canonisés) ; cette circonstance aurait poussé Marcion à réagir, en publiant une nouvelle version de son euaggelion, cette fois précédée par les Antithèses et accompagnée par les lettres de Paul, intitulée Nouveau Testament, pour démasquer les plagiaires qui avaient altéré et falsifié son œuvre originaire. Les hérésiologues n’auraient connu que la deuxième version de l’euaggelion, ce qui expliquerait leur reproche adressée à Marcion pour avoir mutilé l’Evangile de Luc, qui par conséquent l’aurait précédé. Après l’analyse des témoignages externes, Vinzent passe à quelques comparaisons plus rapprochées entre les textes de l’évangile de Marcion et 26.  M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, Leuven, 2014, p. 14‑20. 27.  Cf. Irenaeus, Aduersus haereses 1,27,3 ; 3,11,7.9 ; 3,12,12 ; 3,14,3 ; Tertullianus, Aduersus Marcionem 4,2,4 ; Epiphanios, Panarion 42,9,1‑2. 28.  Cf.  M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, Leuven, 2014, p. 1‑158 (ch. 1 : Marcion, his Gospel and the Gospels in the Sources).

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celui des évangiles canoniques, avec des résultats très intéressants et d’une certaine façon surprenants, qui apporteraient de nouveaux arguments en faveur de l’hypothèse d’une dépendance renversée par rapport à ce que nous témoigne la tradition hérésiologique. Dans le contexte de cette comparaison textuelle, Vinzent nous offre un échantillon d’analyse des récits évangéliques concernant la naissance de Jésus et sa passion 29. En ce dernier cas, où l’on peut ajouter aux quatre évangiles canoniques l’Evangile de Pierre, Vinzent remarque que les cinq récits suivent généralement des parcours assez différents et divergents (à l’exception peut-être des évangiles de Marc et Matthieu), mais qu’ils concordent tous et se correspondent presque à la lettre là où il y a un parallèle avec l’évangile de Marcion, tandis que les correspondances cessent, sans exception, là où le texte de Marcion se tait. En voulant être méticuleux, il faut reconnaître que la comparaison ne montre pas obligatoirement la dépendance des évangiles canoniques et de l’Evangile de Pierre de l’euaggelion de Marcion, parce qu’elle pourrait aussi bien fonctionner dans la direction inverse. Les problèmes concernant la direction de la dépendance, que soulève la comparaison proposée par M. Vinzent entre les évangiles canoniques et l’évangile de Marcion, nous rappellent de près le cas analogue de l’Evangile selon Thomas. Quand cet évangile fut publié en entier en 1959 d’après le code II de Nag Hammadi 30, on s’est tout de suite aperçu des nombreux parallèles qui existaient entre les paroles de Jésus contenues dans la collection du codex copte de Nag Hammadi et celles transmises dans les évangiles synoptiques (et en partie aussi dans celui de Jean) ; à la suite de la nouvelle découverte, les exégètes ont été amenés à s’interroger sur le problème des rapports entre l’EvTh et la tradition synoptique. Dans un premier temps, sur la base de présupposés largement acceptés, mais pas véritablement argumentés et démontrés (l’EvTh est un texte gnostique ; par conséquent, on peut le dater au plus tôt vers la moitié du IIème siècle ; donc, il doit être postérieur aux évangiles synoptiques), on est arrivé à la conclusion que sans doute l’EvTh dépendrait des synoptiques 31 ; mais bientôt la faiblesse de cette conclusion est apparue évidente : puisque le texte des logoi de l’EvTh ayant des parallèles dans les synoptiques dans la plupart des cas ne suggère pas un glissement du sens en direction de la pensée gnostique, on se demande pourquoi un 29.  Cf.  ibidem, p. 255‑276. 30.  A. Guillaumont – H.-Ch. P uech – G. Quispel – W.C. Till – Y. ‘A bd al-M asih, The Gospel According to Thomas. Coptic Text Established and Translated, Leiden – Paris, 1959. 31.  Cf. par exemple W. Schrage , Das Verhältnis des Thomas-Evangeliums zur synoptischen Tradition und zu den koptischen Evangelienübersetzungen : zugleich ein Beitrag zur gnostischen Synoptikerndeutung, Berlin, 1964 ; les petites différences entre EvTh et les synoptiques s’expliqueraient, selon Schrage, comme des « mosaik­ artige Kombinationen » ou bien des « Mischzitate » (cf. Th. Z ockler , Jesu Lehren im Thomasevangelium, Leiden, 1999, p. 37).

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auteur ou un rédacteur aurait reformulé des paroles de Jésus par le moyen de citations mixtes, puisant ici et là dans les trois synoptiques, s’il n’avait pas l’intention d’en changer ou du moins d’en nuancer le sens. Par conséquent, on a cherché à préciser les critères pour établir la dépendance d’un texte envers l’autre : pour affirmer que l’EvTh dépend des synoptiques, il ne suffit pas de constater la présence, d’un côté et de l’autre, des mêmes mots, concepts, expressions, constructions syntactiques, mais il faut que l’EvTh reprenne des traits rédactionnels, qui manifestent visiblement l’intention de tel ou tel évangéliste ; et ce critère plus restrictif a eu comme conséquence un bouleversement complet des résultats 32 . La question n’est pas encore tout à fait réglée, mais aujourd’hui, après quelques décennies d’études et de recherches, beaucoup de savants reconnaissent que l’EvTh représente, à l’intérieur de la tradition des paroles de Jésus, une ligne indépendante par rapport à celle des évangiles synoptiques. Pour revenir aux rapports entre les évangiles canonisés et celui de Marcion, il serait nécessaire ici aussi, pour arriver a des conclusions définitives et convaincantes, de procéder à une comparaison systématique entre les textes, pour pouvoir en évaluer la cohérence interne et la faire jouer dans les décisions à prendre à propos de la direction de la dépendance ; mais pour cela, il serait souhaitable de pouvoir s’appuyer sur une nouvelle édition de l’évangile de Marcion (celle qu’Harnack a proposée en annexe à sa fameuse monographie sur ce personnage étant largement insuffisante 33), un travail qui, je suppose, fait partie des projets en cours ou futurs de M. Vinzent. De toute façon, même si l’on s’en tient aux quelques exemples analysés par Vinzent, il y a de quoi réfléchir. La reconstruction de Vinzent se fonde, elle aussi, moins sur des preuves incontestables que sur une série d’indices, déduits d’une relecture critique des témoignages externes et d’une comparaison serrée entre les textes, pour le moment, limitée à quelques échantillons. J’avoue que je n’ai pas toujours été d’accord avec les traductions de Vinzent, qui me semblent forcer, en certains cas, le texte latin  3 4 ; et cela affaiblit certainement son argumenta32.  Cf. par exemple J.H. Sieber , A  Redactional Analysis of the Synoptic Gospels with Regard to the Question of the Sources of the Gospel According to Thomas, Claremont, CA, 1966 ; S.J. Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Jesus, Sonoma, CA, 1993. 33.  A. von H arnack , Marcion : das Evangelium vom fremden Gott. Eine Monographie zur Geschichte der Grundlegung der katholischen Kirche, Leipzig, 21924, Beilage  IV : Das Evangelium Marcions, p. 177*-255*. Je signale aussi, à propos de l’euaggelion de Marcion, J.D. Be Duhn, The First New Testament. Marcion’s Scripural Canon, Salem, OR, 2013 (traduction anglaise de l’euaggelion avec commentaire). 34.  Par exemple, la traduction de l’expression « eo quod contraria sentiebat » dans le prologue antimarcionite à l’évangile de Jean par « because he [John] noticed the Antitheses against him » que propose M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, Leuven, 2014, p. 15‑16, en y voyant une allusion aux Antithèses de Marcion, me semble forcée, malgré les exemples de Tertullianus, Adv. haer. (sic !

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tion. De toute façon, il est clair que les deux reconstructions de Beatrice et de Vinzent, si elles sont prises en bloc, sont incompatibles ; mais ce qui les rend incompatibles est peut-être une des raisons majeures de leur faiblesse : c’est à dire la présomption d’identifier une circonstance précise qui, à elle seule, aurait déclenché la production des évangiles ensuite canonisés : pour Beatrice, l’Evangile des hébreux ; pour Vinzent, la diffusion, informelle et non autorisée de l’euaggelion de Marcion. Mais il faut reconnaître que les deux auteurs expriment des opinions assez nuancées ; Vinzent, par exemple, si j’ai bien compris, n’exclurait pas qu’avant Marcion des collections de paroles et de faits de Jésus puissent circuler sous le nom d’apôtres ou de personnages du cercle des apôtres : plutôt, il souligne que la réaction de Marcion aurait été déclenchée par la publication, pendant les années de son activité d’enseignement à Rome, d’évangiles intitulés précisément κατὰ Μαθθαίον, Μάρκον, Λούκαν, Ἰοάννην etc. ; cela l’aurait amené à publier, cette fois de façon formelle, son Nouveau Testament, pour montrer que ces écrits n’étaient que des plagiats et des déformations de son euaggelion originaire ; et Beatrice aussi, me semble-t-il, n’exclut pas formellement que les évangiles canoniques, produits pour contraster l’usage en un sens docète de l’Evangile des hébreux à l’intérieur de certains milieux, puissent avoir subi des révisions et des reformulations successives. Il y a toutefois un point que Vinzent laisse dans l’ombre : celui des sources dans lesquelles aurait puisé Marcion pour la première rédaction de son euaggelion, celle produite à l’usage des étudiants de son école. Ce n’est pas une question de moindre importance. On s’imagine, selon une opinion très répandue, que les évangiles se sont formés à partir de traditions orales, accompagnées sporadiquement de quelques documents écrits, accueillies et élaborées à l’intérieur de certains milieux ou groupes plus ou moins homogènes établis sur un territoire ou dans une région géographique particulière ; à un certain moment, un rédacteur/auteur aurait fixé par écrit ces matériaux de la mémoire en produisant un texte qui s’adressait en première instance aux membres de ces groupes, et seulement plus tard aurait atteint d’autres milieux. C’est ce qu’on présuppose quand on parle de « la communauté de l’Evangile selon Matthieu » ou du « milieu mais Aduersus Marcionem) 1,19,4 ; 2,29 ; 4,1,1 et Iraeneus, Aduersus haereses 4,28,1, cités à la note 91, p. 19 ; encore, à propos de Tertullianus, Aduersus Marcionem 4,4,4 (« Si enim id euangelium quod Lucae refertur penes nos (uiderimus an et penes Marcionem) ipsum est quod Marcion […] »), en traduisant : « If that Gospel which among us is ascribed to Luke – may it also be ascribed to Marcion – is the same that Marcion […] », Vinzent (M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, Leuven, 2014, p. 94) me semble mal comprendre le texte de Tertullien, où l’opposition se situe entre l’attribution de l’évangile à Luc penes nos vs penes Marcionem (l’évangile attribué chez nous à Luc – peu importe s’il l’est aussi chez Marcion) et non, comme le voudrait Vinzent, entre l’attribution de l’évangile à Luc vs à Marcion (the Gospel ascribed to Luke – may it also be ascribed to Marcion).

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de composition de l’Evangile selon Luc ». Mais si l’on pense aux difficultés de la production matérielle des textes dans le monde antique, il faut distinguer entre le moment de la rédaction d’un texte en quelques exemplaires pour l’usage interne à un certain groupe et le moment de la publication de ce même texte pour la diffusion et la circulation dans un territoire plus vaste. Pour cette dernière opération, il fallait passer par les grandes villes, où des scriptoria étaient actifs et pouvaient assurer la production d’un plus grand nombre d’exemplaires destinés à une circulation plus importante. L’exemple de la ville de Rome comme centre de production et de publication des évangiles (celui de Marcion et les autres) que cite M. Vinzent dans le dernier chapitre de son livre 35 est assez suggestif, mais ne concerne que le dernier stade du processus ; il reste à expliquer à partir de quelles sources et comment Marcion est arrivé à rassembler, sélectionner et élaborer les informations et les autres éléments des différentes traditions sur Jésus pour en faire un euaggelion bien structuré. Malheureusement, sur ce point décisif Vinzent ne dit pas un mot. En revanche, Beatrice est plus explicite à ce propos, puisqu’il arrive à avancer l’hypothèse, dans la partie finale de son article 36 , que Marcion lui-même aurait puisé à l’Evangile des hébreux ; témoigneraient en ce sens, d’une part, le cadre commun où sont insérés les événements racontés et, d’autre part, la présence, dans l’évangile de Marcion, du terme φάντασμα, une des traductions en grec du terme araméen repris dans l’Evangile des hébreux et rendu en Luc 24,39 par πνεῦμα 37 et en Ignace d’Antioche, Smyrn. 3 par δαιμόνιον ἀσώματον. IV. Q u e lqu e s

r e m a rqu e s e n gu i se de conclusion

L’examen des deux travaux de Beatrice et Vinzent sur le problème de la formation des évangiles canonisés, même si l’on n’en partage pas complètement les thèses, a ouvert toute une série de questions qui méritent, à mon avis, d’être prises sérieusement en considération. A la suite d’une analyse attentive des témoignages patristiques, les deux auteurs ont avancé l’hypothèse que les évangiles canoniques ont croisé, au cours de leur processus de formation, d’autres textes écrits et ont de quelque façon interagi avec eux. Cela me semble une acquisition certaine, abstraction faite de l’identification de ces écrits, qui est différente chez les deux auteurs. L’idée que, pour ce qui concerne les paroles et les faits de Jésus, dans la 35.  M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, Leuven, 2014, p. 277‑282. 36.  P.F. Beatrice , « The ‘Gospel According to the Hebrews’ in the Apostolic Fathers », Novum Testamentum 48 (2006), p. 192. 37.  Il faut signaler que le texte occidental – codex de Bèze – reprend le terme φάντασμα attesté par Marcion.

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seconde moitié du Ier siècle n’auraient circulé sous forme écrite que les quatre évangiles par la suite canonisés (tout au plus accompagnés par la source Q, si elle a jamais existé) et que ces textes auraient interagi exclusivement entre eux, sans laisser aucune trace de leur réception dans les documents littéraires du christianisme naissant avant la moitié du IIème siècle apparaît, selon les études les plus récentes, tout à fait invraisemblable. Les écrits en circulation sur ce thème, quel que soit leur titre ou leur paternité littéraire, devaient être assez nombreux. La discussion commencée à l’intérieur de la third quest sur le Jésus historique avait déjà introduit dans le débat l’Evangile selon Thomas, ou du moins son noyau originaire ; il faut maintenant y ajouter l’Evangile des hébreux/Matthieu araméen (Beatrice) et l’euaggelion de Marcion (Vinzent), et peut-être d’autres encore. Il s’agit d’écrits devenus apocryphes 38, que nous ne connaissons que sous des formes pour ainsi dire altérées, que ce soit à cause de leur réélaboration successive (l’Evangile selon Thomas) ou de leur état très fragmentaire (l’Evangile des hébreux) ou encore de leur reconstitution à partir de témoignages patristiques indirects (l’euaggelion de Marcion). Je comprends la réticence à accepter cette donnée, qui met en discussion des axiomes théologiques consolidés ; certes, la solution traditionnelle, qui considère la production des quatre évangiles par la suite canonisés comme le résultat d’une réélaboration de traditions orales, remontant au témoignage des apôtres ou de personnages liés aux apôtres et pas encore corrompues par des matériaux étrangers (d’où la nécessité d’en dater la rédaction écrite pas trop loin des faits) et de l’interaction de ces évangiles exclusivement entre eux, sans aucun contact avec d’autres textes antérieurs ou contemporains, pose beaucoup moins de problèmes, ou mieux elle a été formulée ainsi justement pour ne pas en poser du tout. Mais, comme je viens de le dire, cette solution est peu vraisemblable, à moins de ne pas vouloir ignorer complètement les témoignages patristiques, qui sur ces problèmes ont sûrement quelque chose à nous dire, même s’il est souvent difficile d’établir quoi exactement. Il est temps d’abandonner l’idée que les évangiles canoniques ont été produits d’un seul jet par leurs auteurs sous une forme aussitôt définitive dans la seconde moitié du Ier siècle. Le processus doit avoir été beaucoup plus long et complexe. Je voudrais conclure en reprenant du livre de M. Vinzent la citation d’un passage tiré d’un article du regretté W.L. Petersen, qui remonte à 2005, peu avant sa mort prématurée (2006), passage avec lequel je me sens profondément en accord : « In the first half of the second century – that is in the age of the Apostolic Fathers – and even later, into 38.  Sur le concept de « canonisation » et d’ « apocryphisation » des textes du christianisme naissant, cf. Ch. M arkschies , Haupteinleitung, in Ch. M arkschies – J. Schröter (Hrsg.), Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung, I. Band : Evangelien und Verwandtes, Tübingen, 2012, p. 1‑180.

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the time of Tatian and Clement of Alexandria (near the end of the second century), there was neither a fixed canon nor a fixed text of any of the New Testament documents. Rather, ‘clusters’ of sayings/episodes/parts of (what later became our canonical) gospels and epistles circulated, initially (for the gospels, at least) probably without a title, and then, later, with a title. But the contents of the ‘cluster’ bearing the title ‘Marc’ or ‘Romans’ was still very much in flux and subject to change. Additions were still being made, as were deletions ; the sequence of the text was still being modified… Subscribing to this model has certain consequences. It means that scholars must be very circumspect about attributing anything to the first-century church » 39. Il me semble que le modèle à suivre est justement celui-ci. Il faut repenser complètement le processus de formation des évangiles canoniques, sans se borner à en étudier les relations réciproques, comme on l’a fait jusqu’à présent de façon presque exclusive, mais en étendant la confrontation avec d’autres textes : ceci a déjà été fait, ou moins en partie, pour l’Evangile selon Thomas ; mais il est nécessaire de continuer cette opération et l’appliquer aussi à l’Evangile de Pierre, à l’Evangile des Hébreux (même si nous ne disposons que de peu de fragments) et surtout à l’euaggelion de Marcion. Le travail commencé par M. Vinzent, dont il nous a donné quelques exemples dans son livre, pourrait produire des résultats très intéressants.

39.  W.L. P etersen, « Textual Traditions Examined », dans A.F. Gregory – C.M. Tuckett, The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers, Oxford, 2005, p. 29‑46, spéc. 43‑45.

H istorical Jesus

F ISHING IN THE L AKE OF GALILEE AND THE SOCIO-ECONOMIC CONTEXT OF JESUS’ MOVEMENT Facundo Daniel Troche Fishing activity played a very important role in the economic and social life of Galileans in the first century. According to the synoptic Gospels, many of the villages visited by Jesus were fishing centers, four of the most famous disciples were fishermen, and the Gospels contain both fishing scenes and parables. Yet, as K.C. Hanson states: “Scholars of the Jesus traditions have seriously underplayed the role and significance of the physical and social geography of Galilean fishing on Jesus’ development of his network.” 1 In fact, in contemporary research about the historical Jesus there is little work that has been done on this subject. When scholars do discuss fishing, very often we find the literary topos of the poor fisherman who lives at a subsistence level, operating in a sort of economic “vacuum,” and being free to fish when and wherever he wants. This image is sometimes portrayed by the gospels themselves. If we read the scene in John 21, for example, we find that Peter spontaneously decides to go fishing; the other disciples say they will join him and in the next verse they are all already in a boat fishing. Clearly the author of the text was not interested in explaining all of the bureaucratic procedures that needed to be followed in order to engage in fishing activity: acquiring fishing rights, making contracts, paying taxes, and the like. This was, however, a part of the everyday life of Galilean fishermen, and as such, it is important to keep the organizational and bureaucratic aspects in mind when reconstructing the everyday historical situation in antiquity or doing exegetical studies on the fishing scenes in the gospels. The goal of this paper is to shed some light on the organizational aspects of the fishing industry, and reflect on how those socio-economic activities affected the context in which Jesus and his first disciples lived. We have little information regarding fishing in Galilee: some archaeological remains (i.e. the boat found near Migdal, some net-weights and hooks found in several sites) and a few mentions of the fishing industry in the Talmud and Josephus works. However, there are many sources 1.  K.C. H anson, “The Galilean Fishing Economy and the Jesus Tradition,” Biblical Theology Bulletin: A Journal of Bible and Theology 27, no 3 (August 1, 1997) 99‑111. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 81–107 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111699 ©

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which address fishing activities from other areas. Among the regions of the ancient Mediterranean, Egypt stands in a unique position: thanks to the particularly dry weather an enormous number of documentary papyri were preserved, thus offering us an exceptional amount of data regarding the organization of the fishing industry. During the Hellenistic period, the entire Koile-Syria, including Galilee, followed the Ptolemaic and Seleucid administration systems. 2 The Zenon papyri demonstrate that agricultural revenues were managed in this area just as they were in Egypt: they mention the employment of tax-farmers, 3 we read of an estate owned by Apollonios in Bethanath (Baitanata), in the upper Galilee, 4 and in P.Cair.Zen. I 59004 and P.Cair.Zen. I 59017 we even find the mention of Kedesh (Kydisios), which seems to be an administrative center in the Galilee. 5 Thus, considering that the information concerning the organization of the fishing industry in Galilee is very scarce and that the Egyptian documentary papyri could be used to produce a viable model for comparison, I propose to begin by analyzing the sources which address fishing activities in other areas for which we are better informed. My analysis of fishing documents from Egypt does not suppose that the administrative system used in Egypt was identical to the one employed in Galilee, but simply that the analysis of the papyrological data will allow us to read the sources that we have about Galilean fishing from a different, more nuanced perspective. 6 2.  On taxation during the Hellenistic period see V. Baesens , “Royal Taxation and Religious Tribute in Hellenistic Palestine,” in P.F. Bang – M. I keguchi – H.G. Ziche , ed., Ancient Economies, Modern Methodologies: Archaeology, Comparative History, Models and Institutions (Bari, 2006) 179‑199. 3. E.g. in P.Cair.Zen. V 59804 (Palestine – Gaza, 258 BCE) a man called Philotas writes to Zenon regarding some taxes and agreements made with a taxcollector named Herod. Cf. X. Durand, Des Grecs en Palestine au iii e siècle avant Jésus-Christ: le dossier syrien des archives de Zénon de Caunos, 261‑252 (Paris, 1997) 224‑225 n. 44; J.L. White , Light from Ancient Letters (Philadelphia, 1986), 9; C. Orrieux, Les Papyrus de Zénon: L’horizon d ’un Grec en Egypte au iii e siècle avant J.-C. (Paris, 1983) 46. 4.  P.Cair.Zen.I 59011, P.Cair.Zen. I 59004, P.Lond. VII 1948, PSIV 594. See also X. Durand, Des Grecs en Palestine au iii e siècle avant Jésus-Christ: le dossier syrien des archives de Zénon de Caunos, 261‑252 (Paris, 1997) 27, 67‑68. 5.  Some even suggest that it was the residence of the governor of the eparchy of Galilee. See S.C. H erbert – A.M. Berlin, “A New Administrative Center for Persian and Hellenistic Galilee: Preliminary Report of the University of Michigan/University of Minnesota Excavations at Tel Kedesh,” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 329 (2003) 13‑59. But according to Hannestad the suggestion remains highly speculative. See L. H annestad, “Koile-Syria: An Archaeological Contribution,” in Z.H. A rchibald – V. Gabrielsen – J.K.Davies ,  ed., The Economies of Hellenistic Societies, Third to First Centuries bc (New York, 2011) 256. 6. A similar method has been proposed by Rostovtzeff, Hanson, and many other scholars. See M.I. Rostovtzeff, The Social & Economic History of the Hellenistic World (Oxford, 1941); K.C. H anson, “The Galilean Fishing Economy and

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I. Pa py r i

and

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O s t r aca

In the Greco-Roman world the right to fish in inland water was generally controlled by states, temples, or individuals and was subject to regulations. 7 The papyrological evidence shows that there were several different systems for the collection of the fishing revenues in Roman and Ptolemaic Egypt. 8 Due to the fragmentary nature of the documents and the fact that they contain very particular details, which usually regard a specific part or step within a larger and more complex system (and we do not have documents concerning every single part of the administration of fishing revenue), it is very difficult to perform a comprehensive and complete reconstruction of the fishing industry in Ptolemaic or Roman Egypt. It gets even more complicated when we consider that the system changed over time and could vary from one place to another. Therefore, the papyrological documents on fishing that we will be examining here will be grouped according to the system of administration that they reflect or to related contents, indicating the dating and place of origin for each case in order to properly contextualize them.

the Jesus Tradition,” Biblical Theology Bulletin: A Journal of Bible and Theology 27, no 3 (August 1, 1997); J.S. K loppenborg, The Tenants in the Vineyard: Ideology, Economics, and Agrarian Conflict in Jewish Palestine (Tübingen, 2006); J.S. K loppenborg – S.G. Wilson, Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World (London – New York, 1996). Cf. A. Destro – M. Pesce , “The Colour of the Words,” in P. A rzt-Grabner – C.M. K reinecker , ed., Light from the East. Papyrologische Kommentare Zum Neuen Testament (Wiesbaden, 2010) 27‑46. 7. Bresson argues that fishing was not an activity exercised without the city control because it produced profit: “La pêche n’était donc pas une activité exercée sans contrôle de la cité car cette dernière en tirait bénéfice.” A. Bresson, L’économie de la Grèce des cités, vol. 1 (Paris, 2007) 190. According to the Greek and Roman laws sea fishing was not restricted, however, this does not mean that it was not regulated, as Ephraim Lytle has demonstrated in his study of ancient fishing regulations: “Greek fishermen, much like their Roman counterparts, had the right to harvest the produce of the sea, and they legally owned their catch, but these rights in no way guaranteed that their catch would have free access to the marketplace or even that fishermen would have free access to the regulated space of the harbor itself: the evidence suggests that fishing vessels would, like other commercial craft, have faced harbor fees distinct from duties.” E. Lytle , “Ἠ θάλασσα κοινή  : Fishermen, the Sea, and the Limits of Ancient Greek Regulatory Reach,” Classical Antiquity 31, no 1 (2012) 1‑55. 8. See M.I. Rostovtzeff, The Social & Economic History of the Hellenistic World (Oxford, 1941) 297.

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II. Ta x at ion

a n d col l ect ion of r ev e n u e s

Different types of payments are attested for the Ptolemaic and Roman periods. There were proportional taxes and/or fixed rents for obtaining fishing rights, 9 there was a tax for owning boats, 10 there were taxes for imports (which could apply to imported fishing gear), 11 for exporting fish products, 12 and of course, there were also poll-taxes and property taxes that had to be paid regardless the profession. 13 During the Ptolemaic period, the tax on fishing was one quarter (25 percent) of the catch, as attested in several receipts from Thebes and Elephantine dating between 175 bce and 82 bce . 14 The tax receipts generally indicate the date, the name of the person doing the payment (sometimes clarifying that the person repre-

9. Wallace states: “A complete monopoly of the fishing industry on the lake Moeris was held by the Ptolemies. Elsewere, since all the waterways belonged to the king, fishermen were obliged to pay as a licence-tax 25 percent of their catch. […] There is no proof that any of the payments made in the Fayûm in the Roman period corresponded to the τετάρτη of the earlier period. […] It is possible, however, that the tax of 25 percent of the catch was continued elsewhere in Egypt, but evidence is yet lacking.” S.L. Wallace , Taxation in Egypt from Augustus to Diocletian (Princeton, 1938) 219. This seems to be supported by Diodorus Siculus, who mentions that “[t]he income accruing from the fish taken from the lake he gave to his [the king’s] wife for her unguents and general embellishment, the value of the catch amounting to a talent of silver daily.” Diod. History 1.52. Translation from Siculus Diodorus, Diodorus of Sicily: With an English Translation, trans. C.H. Oldfather et al., vol. 1 (Cambridge, 1933) 185 (1:52). 10.  For example, SB VI 9545 (34) (Elephantine, 192 CE). 11. O.Heid. 260 (Thebes 199 CE) see also SPP XXII 183 and P.Louvre I 4 commented below. 12.  As attested in P.Cair.Zen. I 59012, see comments in C. Orrieux, Les Papyrus de Zénon: L’horizon d ’un Grec en Egypte au iii e siècle avant J.-C. (Paris, 1983) 56‑57. Also see P.Tebt. III pt.I 701. 13.  Two documents, P.Tebt. II 347 (Tebtunis, 2nd century CE) and P.Oxy. XII 1517 (Oxyrhynchus, 278/278 CE), mention taxes paid by fishermen among other professionals. It is not clear if these taxes are production taxes or other kind of tributes, but they do offer us the possibility to compare fishermen with other workers. In P.Oxy.XII 1517, a fisherman pays 56 drachmas for taxes, almost half of what a carpet merchant is paying (120 dr.). A donkey driver and an oil broker are paying almost the same (60 dr.), while a leather worker, a spices dealer and some others pay a little less (about 40 drachmas). 14.  Some of the documents mentioning the quarter tax on fishing are: from the Thebes area, BGU VI 1312, BGU VI 1313, O.Leid. 11, O.Wilck. 326, O.Wilck. 337, O.Wilck. 339, O.Wilck. 340, O.Wilck.346, O.Wilck. 349, O.Wilck. 1029, O.Wilck. 1233, O.Wilck. 1348, O.Wilck. 1522; from Hermonthis, P.Rein. II 125; from Elephantine or Syene, BGU VI 1314, BGU VI 1315, BGU VI 1316, BGU VI 1317, BGU VI 1318.

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sents also his associates 15), the name of the person receiving the payment and his office (in most of our cases the bank of Diospolis Magna) and the amount of money paid. A quarter tax on fishing may have been applied in other areas and may have continued to exist during the Roman period as well, but there is no evidence in support of this. S. Wallace suggests that “fishermen were obliged to pay as a license-tax 25 per cent of their catch. The τετάρτη, 25 per cent, was a common rate for taxes in kind in the Ptolemaic period, and it is quite probable that the rate was an inheritance from the Pharaonic system of taxation in kind. The tax on fishing was commuted to a payment in money in the Ptolemaic period after the system of coinage was established.” 16 During the Ptolemaic period the collection of taxes normally followed a complex system that involved private contractors and public officials. The oikonomos together with (or maybe supervised by) the basilikos grammateus conducted an auction in which tax-farmers could offer bids to adjudicate a tax contract. In a document from Thebes, dated to the 131 bce (Chrest.Wilck. 167), we find a letter from the basilikos grammateus that refers to part of the process in which contractors adjudicated the tax-farming rights for the fishing industry. Even though the purpose of the letter is somewhat unclear, 17 it indicates undoubtedly that the collection of the quarter tax was farmed out to contractors. From it we learn that the taxfarmers offered a fixed amount of money to the state and that the contract was done with the local officials. They had to make a partial deposit of money in advance or to offer securities. In the previous year, apparently the collection did not reach the promised sum because the fishermen had stopped working during some riots, and the contract then passed to a new contractor. The tax-farmers had promised twenty-two talents for the collection of the quarter tax on fishing, but it seems that the tax-farming contract released by the oikonomos did not respect the established regulations, and now a higher bid was requested (27½ talents). In any case, it is worth noting that on an investment of this size the contractors were probably expecting high profits. The total of the revenues of the 25% tax in that place must have been much higher than 27½ talents, implying that the gross fishing revenue must have been well in excess of 100 talents per year. Analyzing the papyri known as the Revenue Laws 18 and P.Paris 62, G.M. Harper offers a fairly comprehensive explanation of how the tax15.  Like in the case of O.Wilck. 326 16.  S.L. Wallace , Taxation in Egypt from Augustus to Diocletian (Princeton, 1938), 219. Cf. M.I. Rostovtzeff, The Social & Economic History of the Hellenistic World (Oxford, 1941), 297. 17.  See discussion in M. Talamanca, “Osservazioni Su U.P.Z. 218‑226,” Bullettino dell ’Istituto Di Diritto Romano 2, no 63 (1960) 239‑261. 18.  B.P. Grenfell – J.P. M ahaffy, ed., Revenue Laws of Ptolemy Philadelphus (Oxford, 1896).

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collection functioned in the Ptolemaic Egypt. 19 First, a technical distinction needs to be made between the tax-collectors and tax-farmers or contractors. For taxes in general, tax collectors were employed by the state (their number was established in agreement with the contractor) and had fixed salaries that were paid from the proceeds of the tax. Tax-farmers controlled the collectors’ operations and “any surplus of the tax realized above the sum contracted was payable to the contractor and his associates (after the collectors’ salaries were deducted).” 20 The tax collection system was managed by the oikonomos who “was obliged to supervise with scrupulous care the activities of all tax contractors and tax collectors within his nome.” 21 In the case of the apomoira tax on wine production and orchards, it seems that the contractors’ responsibility was only to assess the taxes to be paid and inform both the payer and the public officials; and the payer would then pay the taxes directly in a public office, store, or bank. The aforementioned documents regarding fishing seem to reflect a similar system, since we see that the quarter-tax on fishing was put to auction, but at the same time, the tax receipts show that taxes were paid by the fishermen in the banks. Therefore, it seems that the tax assessors would only supervise the fishermen work and assess the taxes to be paid later. Another interesting detail that we see also applied to the fishing industry is that “the apomoira in wine was paid in kind while on orchards was paid in money: The distinction of course depended on the fact that fruit is perishable, whereas wine keeps well.” 22 In the fishing industry, as will be shown, taxes on fresh fish seem to be all in currency while payments regarding processed fish (salted, pickled, tarichos) are usually in kind. From the Roman period there are other types of fishing tax-receipts that do not mention the percentage of the tax. Four documents, dated

19.  G.M. H arper , “Tax Contractors and Their Relation to Tax Collection in Ptolemaic Egypt,” Aegyptus 14, no 1 (1934) 49‑64. 20.  G.M. H arper , “Tax Contractors and Their Relation to Tax Collection in Ptolemaic Egypt,” Aegyptus 14, no 1 (1934) 54. Harper also explains that “[a] lthough the tax contractor did not employ the tax collectors, he carefully supervised their activities, assisted by an antigrapheus. The tax collectors were required to notify the contractor’s antigrapheus of all payments that they received, and for failure to do so were liable to a fine equal to fifty times the sum the have neglected to report, and in the same way the contractor had to inform the oikonomos of all the sums reported to him as collected. The contractor watched the collectors closely to assure himself that all payments made were duly credited to him” (ibidem). 21.  G.M. H arper , “Tax Contractors and Their Relation to Tax Collection in Ptolemaic Egypt,” Aegyptus 14, no 1 (1934) 54. 22.  G.M. H arper , “Tax Contractors and Their Relation to Tax Collection in Ptolemaic Egypt,” Aegyptus 14, no 1 (1934) 55.

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between 190 and 203 ce , all from the Arsinoites nome, 23 mention a tax for fishermen-on-foot that was paid for the entire year to the nomarch through an assistant (βοηθός). In two cases (P.Louvre  I 36, 190  ce and BGU I 220, 203 CE) the amount is 16 drachmas and 16 obols, and the other two documents, BGU III 756 and BGU I 221, mention 80 and 163 drachmas respectively. We do not know if these represent a proportional tax (in which case the repetition of 16 drachmas and 16 obols would be a very unprovable coincidence) or if these are actually fixed taxes (or rents) that maybe differed according to the fishing grounds or the size of the fishing enterprise. The amounts suggest that these were small fishing activities, carried out on an occasional basis by single fishermen without the use of boats. However, their taxes were accounted for and they seem to have had a dedicated tax-collection system. Two other tax receipts, from the Arsinoites nome in 127 ce , are found in P.Tebt. II 359 (the last part of the second receipt is missing). In this case, the superintendent, inspector, or supervisor produced the receipt for the fishing taxes (called ἐπιτηρητής). A  group of 5 fishermen 24 paid 336 drachmas for one month, and again we do not know if it is a percent tax being paid but in this case the profits should be considerable. 25 These documents seem to indicate a change in the system, and in fact, Augustus introduced a more uniform system of taxation and tried to avoid the use of publicani, “altering the whole basis of taxation from a proportional levy, where yield was unpredictable, to a fixed levy based on assessed property […] Other taxes whose yield could not be determined in advance, notably the customs, were still sold to publican, but their operations were controlled by imperial procurators.” 26 While the tax-receipts show that taxes were paid to supervisors or assistants who seem to be public officials, tax-farming of fishing revenues continued to exist. P.Tebt. II 329 (Tebtunis, 139 CE) refers to the securities for the fishing tax-collection rights (τέλος ἰχθυηρός) in the Arsinoites nome. It is a letter addressed to the strategos from a woman who lodged 1 talent and 1100 drachmas into the public bank as a security deposit for Herakleides, who, in association with Theon, received the concession of 23.  BGU I 220, BGU I 221, BGU III 756, P.Louvre I 36. At least three of them are from Soknopaiu Nesos, the provenance of BGU I 220 is unknown, but it is from the same area. 24. B.P. Grenfell and A.S. Hunt suggest that the five persons mentioned are independent fishermen rather lessees of the marshes from the state. 25.  If we suppose a 25% tax, that would leave a profit of over a thousand drachmas, and if they were working under a 50% share system with the government, as attested in state monopolies, the profits would be close to the 700 hundred drachmas, still a good profit for five persons in one month. 26.  A.H.M. Jones , The Roman Economy. Studies in Ancient Economic and Administrative History (Totowa, 1974) 165.

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the fishing tax collection for two years. In the second year, Theon took over the entire activity and gave the woman the amount that she had deposited. The last part of the letter is missing so its purpose is not clear, but it is likely that since Theon had already paid the lodged sum to the woman, the security deposit now belonged to him and thus the woman requested to be liberated from all of the previous agreements. 27 But, we do not know if the security deposit represented the entire bid or just part of it. Also, it seems that the sums mentioned are only Herakleides’ security, and thus, it should represent only 50% of the total lodged for the concession. Since the total amount of the bid and the taxation rate are not mentioned (although a 25% tax seems most likely), it is impossible to perform any quantitative calculation concerning the size of the industry. Nevertheless, we can safely conclude with Johnson that “from the sum involved it would appear that the concession was of considerable value, not only to the state but also to the holder of the concession.” 28 An actual lease contract for the fishing taxes would probably have offered much more information about the specific roles of the contractors, collectors, assistants, supervisors and other figures involved, but sadly the only document that seems to contain one is too fragmentary, and no other useful details can be read. 29 P.Oxy. XLIX 3495 (Oxyrhynchus, second century ce) offers a good example of how tax-collectors or fishing supervisors could have operated in a practical sense. The text begins with a simple wish of good fortune followed by a precise list of fishing revenues. The list covers approximately one month of activity, recording the number of times that the net was cast into the water on a daily basis, as well as the amount of money produced by each throw, and total daily production. The net was thrown as many as ten times a day, and the total production for each day varied from less than twenty to over one hundred drachmas. In some cases the records even specify if a net was cast during the night. Within the first five days there are also seven entries for ὀψολόγιον that are not enumerated as casts and are not subtracted but rather, added to the total, therefore indicating that it was considered to be part of the income. According to Wallace 27.  Johnson’s interpretation is that the woman wants to recover the lodged sum. Since the document mentions that Theon already paid the deposited sum to the women, Johnson’s supposition seems illogical. A.C. Johnson, “Roman Egypt to the Reign of Diocletian,” in T. Frank , ed., An Economic Survey of Ancient Rome, vol. II (Baltimore, 1936) 377. Rather, instead of recovering the security deposit and having Theon lodging the same sum again, Theon paid directly to the woman, taking over the activity and the security; thus Theon is now the only responsible. 28.  A.C. Johnson, “Roman Egypt to the Reign of Diocletian,” in T. Frank , ed., An Economic Survey of Ancient Rome, vol. II (Baltimore, 1936) 377. 29. SB XXII 15630 (Oxyrhynchites, 152 CE). Some keywords such as μισθώσασθαι, ἰχθυηρᾶς, ἐπιτηρήσεως give us a hint of the content but the remaining parts do not offer any new information.

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the ὀψολόγιον was a tax of one-twelfth assessed on the export of pickled fish. 30 If that were the case then the fact that it is accounted as part of the income would suggest that the document was written by tax-gatherers or by administrators who charged the fishermen for the ὀψολόγιον. 31 Later, we also find four casts designed for pickling and in these instances the cast number is followed by εἰς ταριχίαν or an abbreviation for the same product, but the amount of money is not provided. This suggests that the fish were not being sold to a tarichos producer, but instead were probably produced by the fishermen themselves or by someone belonging to the same organization, and were going to be accounted for only when the final product was sold. A payment or tribute to a temple is also recorded for almost every day, and finally the total for each day was calculated adding up all the casts (and the occasional ὀψολόγιον) and subtracting the priest’s payment. To produce these types of accounts on a day-by-day basis, we must imagine that the government supervisors or tax-farmers stood on the shore, counted the catch as it was brought in, and recorded the value of each catch. Since the results of every catch were expressed in currency, and fresh fish is highly perishable, it is highly likely that the fish were being sold immediately, probably as wholesale, and that the supervisor was able to record the exact amount of money produced, or at least evaluate the catch and establish its price on the spot. 32 In addition to the supervisor posted at the harbor, there would likely have been others controlling different areas of the shore to prevent the fishermen from unloading their boats in unauthorized places so as to avoid the payment of the taxes or the state/temple shares. This is a well-known practice in customs offices and it is supported by the number of supervisors mentioned in the documents. A group of six papyri from Theadelphia, also in the Arsinoites nome, dated between the 138 ce and the 149 ce , 33 contain the accounts of a group of fishing inspectors or supervisors (ἐπιτηρητής) that were sent to the strategos and to the royal secretary (βασιλικός γραμματεύς). These documents show that the supervisors of a specific area (i.e. the village and marsh of Theadelphias and Polydeukias) were sending periodical reports to the officials every 5 days. There are minor variations from one document to another, but in general they start by addressing the corresponding 30.  S.L. Wallace , Taxation in Egypt from Augustus to Diocletian (Princeton, 1938) 270. 31.  The ὀψολόγιον is also mentioned in P.Turner 25. 32.  There are a couple other fish lists that could be also related to fishing production, the control and taxation, or to the fish commerce. Both documents are very short and fragmentary but mention specific types of fish followed by numbers indicating quantity of fish, not values. See PSI Congr. XXI 11, and P.NYU II 5. 33.  i.e. P. Oslo III 89, P. Oslo III 90, P. Oslo III 91, P.Wisc. I 37, PSI III 160, PSI VII 735.

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official, they contain a list of the names of the supervisors, the specific dates of the accounts indicating the revenues for each day, and the total amount for the 5 day period. All of the accounts were presented by the same person, Ptolemaios son of Diodoros (also called Dioskoros), probably the head of the supervisor’s office, and in the some cases it indicates the person who received the accounts, the assistant of the official to whom the report is submitted. P. Oslo III 91 and PSI III 160 also specify that half of the revenues collected went to the fishermen as payment, but this detail is not mentioned in the other documents. Since the documents are addressed to public authorities, and it seems that the supervisors are the ones who pay the fishermen their share of the total (and not vice-versa), it is likely that the fisheries in that place where managed directly by the state. Nevertheless, the boundary between a hired worker receiving a share of the catch and an “independent” fisherman leasing fishing rights and paying taxes can be difficult to distinguish. Regardless, public administrators and tax-farming contractors were similarly controlled by the state authorities and this kind of report would have been required in any case.  3 4 The revenue from processed fish imports was also accounted for and reported in a similar manner every five days. P.Coll.Youtie I 31 follows the exact same format as the aforementioned documents with the sole difference being that this report specifies that the ships were importing tarichos. There is also a similar report from Theadelphia and Polideukias in 148 ce , but in this case the supervisor indicates that from the 26th to the 30th of the month of Thoth nothing was caught in the assigned area. Thus, besides keeping daily records, the fishing supervisors also had to keep monthly and yearly accounts tracking the collection of revenue, profits, and when payments were due, in addition to sending periodical reports to the corresponding authorities. The government, temples, and large estates all had central offices that controlled their affairs, and kept accounts of the fishing revenues. An example can be seen in a document from the Ptolemaic period, P.Tebt III pt. II 868 (Tebtunis, second century bce). The upper part of the papyri is missing so we do not know who wrote the list, even so, while there are significant lacunae, the document clearly contains a list of revenues in which different fishing techniques are specified. Fish-traps, sagene, and cast nets are mentioned followed by an amount of money. The second part contains the record of the revenues by month, specifying the production 34.  In these cases the letters were sent to the strategos and copies were sent to the βασιλκὸς γραμματεύς. Taubenschlag asserts (regarding the sub-lease of land) that tax-farmers were controlled by the οἰκονόμος and the βασιλκὸς γραμματεύς. R. Taubenschlag, The Law of Greco-Roman Egypt in the Light of the Papyri : 332 B.C.-640 A.D. (New York, 1944‑1948) 386.

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for each of the twelve months of the Egyptian calendar. At the end, the total for the entire year was calculated but the numbers are missing due to a lacuna. The revenues for each month fluctuate between 1200 and 2800 (drachmas?), but it is not clear what monetary unit the numbers represent. Judging by the content of the first part they seem to be related to the fishing revenues, but we do not know if these amounts refer to a specific technique, all of them, or to something else. This kind of document could belong to a tax-collector’s office that managed fishing in public waters or to some kind of administrative office that controlled public, private, or temple estates. III. P u bl ic

and

Te mpl e E s tat e s

P.Tebt. III pt. I 701 (139‑138/139‑138 bce) offers plenty of information regarding state affairs. It is a register of correspondence for a public administration office, arranged by days, and containing copies of business letters regarding the wholesale of grain and fish among other things. Between lines 38‑49 there are three letters regarding the wholesale of different fish species (θρίσσας, ἀλλάβης, κεστρεύς). The number of fish sold varies from 600 to 10,000 and different qualities are mentioned. It seems that the proportion of different species and qualities was calculated in such a way that they could be sold at the same price, probably to simplify the wholesale process. The Θρίσσας and ἀλλάβης are both sold at 70 for 20 drachmas. The κεστρεύς are sold at 5 obols each, and there is a mention of male and females being sold at the same price. 35 Lines 86‑90 offer some other interesting details: in a brief letter Architimos is asked to give 50 drachmas to two fishermen for some nets. According to my interpretation, this text refers to a loan given to two fishermen to buy the required tackle. The fishermen will then repay their debt with thrissae (a type of fish) at a rate of 200 fish for 20 drachmas. This means that to repay a debt of 50 drachmas the fishermen would have to supply 500 fish. We already know that the office was reselling them at a rate of 70 for 20 drachmas, which means that the 500 fish would be sold later for about 142 drachmas in total, generating a profit of about 92 drachmas for the office giving the loan. 36 In lines 150‑153 there is also an order to pay one fisherman the “wages” of the “fishermen on the rafts” for the month of Phaophi. This makes it seem as though the fishermen were giving their catches to the “office” 35.  Another order to give thrissas at a 70 to 20 drachmas rate is found in lines 229‑230. 36.  There is also another reference to nets and fishermen in lines 113‑117 but the part is too fragmentary.

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and then receiving a salary or share of the earnings once a month. 37 Later, in lines 195‑218, there is a detailed list of revenues and expenses related to fish exports. From this part of the document we learn that the fish, processed as tarichos, 38 were being exported to Memphis, Alexandria, and other areas. The exports produced more than 17 talents, of which about 6 talents were spent on transportation and taxes (a tax on tarichos in Alexandria is mentioned in lines 206‑207), leaving a net profit of about 11 talents. But, the production costs still had to be deducted from this preliminary net total. In the following lines the nome internal transport, the salaries (or fish purchase), possibly the cost for fishing implements, and other expenses are accounted for, leaving a total of more than 9 talents. Thus, after all of the expenses, the total earnings for the month of Ἐπεὶφ are 1 talent and 1.111 tetrobols. Near the bottom, between lines 221 and 224 there are payment orders regarding the freight of the tarichos to Alexandria and the fishermen’s salaries/fish acquisition but the papyri becomes too fragmentary and all of the details are missing. As A.S. Hunt and J.G. Smyly comment: [This papyri] brings welcome evidence concerning the fishing industry, confirming […] that that industry was a government monopoly; cf. especially ll. 113‑117, 150‑152, 214‑215. What is here said leaves no longer room for doubt that the fishermen worked for the State as owner of the fishing rights, receiving a share of the fish […] as well as a wage. The State provided loans for the purchase of gear (ll. 88‑89), which was subject to occasional inspection (ll. 116‑117), and wards (l. 214) were also active. There is no mention of contractors, and the fishermen seem to have been under direct control of the administration. 39

If we consider the supervisors’ reports from the same area (mentioned above) during the Roman period, we can get good overview of how the fishing industry was administered in areas where it was directly managed by the state. Inspectors managed fishermen and recorded the production on a day-by-day basis, probably accounting for every catch. Regular reports were sent to the administrative offices which kept monthly, or even yearly, accounts. The fish was sold fresh or made into tarichos and exported 37.  The word ὀψώνιον can be translated as “salary” or “wage” suggesting that fishermen were working as employees. But ὀψωνία could also mean purchase of fish and in that case it would suggest that the fishermen were independent workers selling their products. Nevertheless, if the fishermen’s wages were actually proportional to the catch, then the difference between being an employee or an independent worker who pays taxes becomes fuzzy. 38.  Made explicit in line 209. 39.  A. Hunt – G. Smyly, ed., The Tebtunis Papyri, vol. 3.1 (London, 1933) 60. Also see: J. Dumont, “La Pêche Dans Le Fayoum Hellénistique: Traditions et Nouveautés D’après Le Papyrus Tebtynis 701,” Chronique d ’Egypte (1977) 138‑139.

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to other regions, which required paying freight and customs taxes (also properly recorded). The fishermen were hired directly by the state administration and could ask for loans to buy the required fishing gear. They received a percentage of the catch (50% in the roman documents) and also a wage (at least during the Ptolemaic administration). Direct state control is attested in more than one district of the Arsinoites nome during both the Ptolemaic and Roman periods, but some areas seem to have had different regulations. A short letter from Tebtunis dated to 193 bce (P.Tebt. III pt. I 721) contains orders to deduct payment from the fishermen, for the month of Phaophi, and to give the payments to a priest on the usual day. A.S. Hunt and J.G. Smyly,  4 0 mention that “owing to the mutilation of line 3 the occasion of this transaction is obscure; and the nature of the payment also remains uncertain.” The most probable context for this document, however, is that of an area were the fishing revenues belonged to a temple and a supervisor/tax-farmer’s office was controlling the industry, collecting the payments and paying the temple the proper shares. This seems to contradict the data presented in the previous documents regarding the state monopoly in Tebtunis, but as I mentioned before, diverse regulations could apply to different areas of the same lake or river. Many documents of temple control are attested in the Roman period, and P.Tebt. III pt. I 721 suggests that this was true also during the Ptolemaic period. In the lists of temple expenses from Soknopaiou Nesos, SPP XXII 183 and P.Louvre I 4, 41 the first of which is dated to 138 ce while the second is a few years later, there is a tax/fee on the fishing boats paid to the nomarch that in both cases amounts to 625 drachmas and a few obols annually. This implies that the temple was somehow involved in the fishing industry. One possibility is that it had exclusive rights for the use of fishing boats, which could explain why the “fishermen on-foot” distinction was made in the receipts of fishing taxes paid directly to the nomarch (as seen above). The second possibility is that the temple was renting the boats from the state (without any exclusive rights involved) and was then subletting them to the fishermen. 42 Johnson explains that “there is no evidence that these were managed directly by the temple. The (fishing) rights may have been sublet to others.” 43 40.  Assisted by B.P. Grenfell, E. Lobel and M. Rostovtzeff. 41.  Published also as Chrest.Wilck. 92 and as BGU I 1 plus BGU I 337. 42.  Wallace comments that “it is uncertain whether this represents a rent upon boats leased from the state or a payment for an exclusive concession to use boats (owned by the temple) for fishing on the waterways of the state, in this case Lake Moeris”; S.L. Wallace , Taxation in Egypt from Augustus to Diocletian (Princeton, 1938) 219. 43.  A.C. Johnson, “Roman Egypt to the Reign of Diocletian,” in T. Frank , ed., An Economic Survey of Ancient Rome, vol. II (Baltimore, 1936) 655.

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Both documents also mention a decanicon of fishing boats of about a tenth of the total (60 dr.): A tax evidently for the support of δέκανοι, who seem to be police officials supervising the waterways of the state and who may have acted as fishwardens, since fishing must have been forbidden for those who had not leased concession from the state or paid license taxes.  4 4

This is very interesting when we consider alongside it another list of temple revenues, P.David 1, also from Soknopaiu Nesos in 138 ce , presents us with a text in which there are entries regarding the fishing boats in some cities and villages: from Nilopolis 400 dr., from Euhemereia 440 dr., from Berenikis Thesmophorou 500 dr., from Karanis… (lacuna). Since this document comes from the same place and period as those previously mentioned, it is very likely that the incomes in question are related to the previously mentioned fishing boats. E. Boswinkel, B.A. van Groningen and P.W. Pestman theorize that the priest held the fishing rights in these places and leased them for a percentage of the catch (perhaps 25% as in the Ptolemaic period). 45 On the other hand, Johnson suggests that these revenues represent the income from the lease of the boats.  4 6 Again, it is not clear if all these documents concern the lease of fishing boats, the right to operate them, or both. In any case, the temple was involved in the fishing industry and, considered the sums mentioned, it produced substantial profits. The temple would then control the activity through tax-farmers or hired supervisors who would probably account every catch on a day-byday basis, as in Oxyrhynchus (like P.Oxy. XLIX 3495 mentioned above). This document is in fact related to a temple: the phrase ἀφ᾿ ὧν θεαγῷ followed by an amount of money appears almost every day after the revenues. The amounts are clearly being subtracted from the total as a payment, but they do not represent a share of the catch since there is no proportional relationship between the numbers. Some days the revenues are high but the priest payments are low, sometimes it is the opposite. It seems that the fishing rights belonged to a temple and there were some fees to be paid. They were likely leased for a fixed price, either to tax-farmers or directly to fishermen (who were controlled by hired supervisors). In any case, both figures would have worked in similar ways. Their job would require them to control the fishermen and produce records in order to keep track of the production, payments, and profits. Moreover, this document demonstrates 44.  S.L. Wallace , Taxation in Egypt from Augustus to Diocletian (Princeton, 1938) 219‑220. 45.  See comments on P.David 1. 46.  A.C. Johnson, “Roman Egypt to the Reign of Diocletian,” in T. Frank , ed., An Economic Survey of Ancient Rome, vol. II (Baltimore, 1936) 655‑656.

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that even when there were no proportional payments required, there were rigid controls and every single catch was accounted for. A list of sacred sagene fishermen (ἱεροσαγηνιτῶν) (P.Oxy. LXIV 4440, Oxyrhynchus, I CE) provides a list the names of fishermen, and also indicates that there were records kept regarding the fishermen who leased the fishing rights in temple waters, allowing the supervisors or fish wardens to control who could and could not fish in a given area. IV. P r i vat e E s tat e s Large estates in Egypt had irrigation canals with dykes, and could also include ponds and marshes, in which fishing was possible. Normally an oikonomos or bailiff would manage the estate with several assistants and overseers. Since the fishing rights belonged to the landowner they could be leased to “tenant-fishermen” or fishermen could be hired directly, just as in the case of state monopolies or temples. For example, a certain man is asked about the number of fishermen under contract, including their wives and children, in order to calculate the total amount of their grain allowances in a document from Philadelphia in the Arsionites (PSI V 498) in 257 bce These types of grain allowances (σιτομετρία) were given on a day-by-day basis to employees working regularly in large estates, normally in addition to their wages in currency (ὀψώνιον). 47 Many documents from the famous Zenon archive mention fish as well. Zenon was the manager of a large estate in Philadelphia held by Apollonius, the financial minister (διοικητής) of Ptolemy  II Philadelphus. 48 In P.Col. IV 71, possibly from Philadelphia and dated to 255 bce , a man called Eutychides writes a letter to Zenon about a fish dispatch. The letter specifies the species of fish and the quantities sent (in total 153 coracini, 5 choeri, and 5 lati). Four boats are mentioned (the boats of Petos, Eranouphi, Philon and Pasis) and Eutychides is able to indicate the exact number of each species collected from each boat. 49 This suggests that the writer of the letter controlled the fishing activities and clearly that his office kept records of the production for each of the boats operating on the estate. 50 It seems that the estate 47. As it is well attested in the Zenon papyri. See E. Grier , “The Accounts of Wages Paid in Kind in the Zenon Papyri,” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 63 (1932) 230‑231. 48.  E. Grier , “Accounting in the Zenon Papyri,” Classical Philology 27, no 3 (1932) 222‑231. 49.  A similar list is found in P.Cair.Zen. IV 59616, but the text is too fragmentary.  50.  It also kept records of all the estate property including work tools. In P.Cair. Zen. IV 59783 there is a list of tools which includes four πελέκεις  ἁλιευτικοὶ.

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was also producing and exporting tarichos. P.Cair.Zen. I 59006 contains a list of persons to whom fish was sold or given from a store in Palestine. Many other documents related to Zenon simply mention fish being sent, received, sold or bought from fish merchants, but these do not offer much other information regarding the estate administration. 51 Other references to fishing on private estates are found in documents regarding the sale of land, wills, and property division. In P.Flor. II 127 (also printed in P.Flor. I 76), from Theadelphia, dated to the 266 ce , the owner of an estate called Alypios writes to the bailiff Heronion communicating that he will soon visit the property. Many requests are advanced regarding food, hot baths, and other things that have to be prepared for his arrival; and among these, we find an order to tell the fishermen to provide fish, implying that there were also fishermen working on his estate. Moving to the first century ce , we have contracts for the sale of vineyards, such as P.Mich. V 274 (Tebtunis, 46‑47 CE) and P.Fam.Tebt. 3 (Ptolemais Euergetis – Arsinoites, 92 CE), which include shares of stone wells and stores, as well as fishing rights in irrigation canals and dykes, or in the case of the latter, maybe a public reservoir. In the same way, fishing rights are mentioned in P.Mich. V 322 (Tebtunis, 46/51 CE), a will in the form of a contract in which properties are divided among sons. These documents demonstrate that fishing was also practiced on private estates, and usually administrated by a bailiff or manager, who could hire fishermen or lease the fishing rights through contracts. This parallels the practices of ancient farming wherein the land was leased to tenant farmers in exchange for a share of the production or sometimes a fixed sum in currency and/ or in kind. V. F i sh i ng

l e a se s a n d con t r acts

Some applications to lease the fishing rights have survived, all from the Roman period and, in most cases, coming from Oxyrhynchus. This is likely an indication that the quarter tax on fishing was no longer required, and instead public fishing grounds were leased in exchange for fixed rents that could also include payment in kind. This is similar to the way that agricultural land was leased, thus creating an arrangement in which there were something like “tenant fishermen.” The rent could be a fixed amount of money combined with payments in kind.

51.  See P.Cair.Zen. I 59040, P.Cair.Zen. I 59065, P.Cair.Zen. I 59066, P.Cair. Zen. I 59082, P.Cair.Zen. I 59083, P.Cair.Zen. II 59261, P.Cair.Zen. III 59508, P.Cair.Zen. IV 59680, P.Mich. I 2, P.Mich. I 72.

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In P.Oxy. XLVI 3268 (dated to the second century ce) we find a letter addressed to Dionysios and his fellow fishing-supervisors (ἐπιτηρητής) of the city and nome of Oyrhynchus. 52 The writers agree to fish in a previously agreed upon location (the canal of Themothis with the discharge basin and the doors of the sluice at Phoboou) 53 secured by the payment of a rent in currency and in kind, but the specific details are illegible. A similar example is found in P.Oxy. XLVI 3270 (309 ce), a letter addressed to the μισθωτής ἰχθυηρᾶς, in which the lessees agree to catch the fish between the doors of Tanureos and Matrinos, paying a rent of 14 silver talents and 3000 drachmas, in this case also specifying that the lessees will provide the nets and the laborers (fishermen). Another similar application is found in SB XII 11234, 54 this time the title of the recipient is missing, and the payment is of 100 drachmas plus 2 jars of thrissas and 6 jars of garum. Leases, or other similar contracts, could also be established on private estates. SB XVIII 13150 55 regards the lease of the fishing rights on the land of a gymnasiarch, where the rent is 240 drachmas a year plus a payment in kind of 30 vases of garum, 2 vases of thrissas, and 4 more vases of different fish types. 56 The document also specifies that the lessor will provide the καταπήγας (maybe anchorage stakes?) while the lessees will furnish their own nets and the other necessary implements. A complete contract for the lease of fishing rights from a private estate is found in 52. P.Harr. II 194 (from Oxyrhynchus, dated to 183‑184 or 215‑216 CE) is addressed to Διονυσίῳ ἀσχολουμέν[ῳ -ca.?- ] \σὺν ἀλλοῖς/ ὠνὴν ἰχθυηρᾶς. Probably the same person, suggesting that the term “supervisor” or “inspector” could be exchanged with other terms such as “engaged in the collection of the fish-taxes” or possibly “contractor of the fishing taxes” as attested in other documents, e.g P.Leid. inst.60 (published also in P.Lugd.Bat.25.60, from Oxyrhynchus, 309 CE), and P.Oxy. XLVI 3270 (309 CE) mentioned below. 53.  In the original edition it is translated as: “from the canal of Themothis? Together with the fish-traps? And doors of the sluice at Phoboou.” J.R. Rea translates ὑποχεύς as “fish-trap” recognizing that it is a mere guess, but considers that it is probably related to ὑποχή, around fishing net. I  think it is more likely that in this context the term refers to the place where the fishing was performed. The term ὑποχεύς is translated to the latin word trulla (a basin) and the term ὑποχέω means to “pour out.” Thus, it might refer to the area were the waters were poured before or after the doors in the canal, probably the discharge area or sluice basin. The fishing-net mentioned by Rea might be a type of net used in this areas, hence the related name. See comments in J.R. R ea, ed., The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, vol. 46 (London, 1978) 3269. 54. Also published in P.Wisc. I 6 (Oxyrhynchus, 210‑211 CE). Cf. J.R. R ea, “P. Wisc.6 Revised,” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 12 (1973) 262‑264. Cf.  G.M. Parássoglou, “A Lease of Fishing Rights,” Aegyptus 67, no 1/2 (January 1, 1987) 89‑93. 55.  Also from Oxyrhynchus, dated to the second century CE. 56.  i.e. 2 vases of kollion, 1 vase abramidon and 1 vase sunodontidon.

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P.Turner 25 (Oxyrhynchus, 161 CE). In that document Sarapion, son of Hierax and Arsinoe from the city of Oxyrhynchus, leases the fishing rights for the current year in the ponds of his property to three men for a rent of 172 drachmas, plus 8 drachmas for a tax on pickled fish exports called ὀψολόγιον. P.J. Parsons, J.R. Rea et al noticed that “8 drachmas form no manageable fraction of the 172 dr. (2/43), nor the 180 dr. (2/45), and it is therefore unlikely to be a charge on the value of the lease. The most likely interpretation is that the ὀψολόγιον was a tax payable by the owners of fishing waters, who passed the burden of the tax to the lessees when the right to exploit these waters was leased.” 57 Furthermore, the document mentions that the taxes for the land around the pond were to be paid by the owner (the lessor). The total of 180 drachmas was paid on the spot and receipts for both the lessor and the lessees are produced with copies attached at the bottom of the text. 58 The only document concerning fishing leases that does not come from Oxyrhynchus is the contract P.Giss.Univ. I 12 (Theadelphia in the Arsinoites, 87‑88 CE). It details the lease of the marshes of Theadelphia and Polydeukias for one year. The contract refers not only to the fishing rights but also to hunting, papyrus gathering, and other productive activities that could be performed in the marsh. The total rent is of eleven thousand drachmas and it seems to include production rights for more than one property. For the aforementioned marshes the yearly rent is 1,348 dr. and 1 ob, followed by a sum for the rent of Dionysios’ estate that has been lost. It is possible that it contained a list of other estates included in the lease, contributing to the total of eleven thousand drachmas. 59 We see another probable lease of fishing rights in P.Strasb.6.569 (unknown provenance, 162 CE) but only the last part of the document was preserved. A woman called Flavia Antonina is the lessor and the rent is 740 drachmas, of which 200 were paid in advance with the remainder to be paid at a later specified date. In P.Oxy. XLVI 3267 (c. 37‑41 CE) the lessor and lessees’ names are missing, but it is specified that the fishing tackle was to be furnished by 57.  See note 16 in E.G. Turner – P. Turner , ed., Papyri, Greek & Egyptian: Edited by Various Hands in Honour of Eric Gardner Turner on the Occassion of His Seventieth Birthday (London, 1981) 126. Receipts would have also been produced for the payments in kind. P.Giss. 1.98 might be an example, a man called Krates writes to the fishermen confirming that he received the 4 κολοφωνία (a measure unit) that corresponded to him were received without delay and fault. 58. Cf. translation in L. M igliardi Zingale , Vita privata e vita pubblica nei papiri d ’Egitto: silloge di documenti greci e latini dal I al IV secolo d.C. (Torino, 1992), 69. (Papyri n. 33) 59.  Translation and comments in A.C. Johnson, “Roman Egypt to the Reign of Diocletian,” in T. Frank , ed., An Economic Survey of Ancient Rome, vol. II (Baltimore, 1936) 361.

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the lessor, and that the lessees were to pay with 50% of the catch. Since the lessor is receiving a percentage of the income and is participating in the investment, this kind of document could be considered as a business agreement between private individuals, in the form of a lease. A similar case is found in P.Oxy. XLVI 3269, dated to the third century ce . Although the form is very similar to the other lease documents, it seems that a fisherman or somebody who is already involved in fishing activity is hiring more people. The contractor (or lessor) will furnish the nets, boats, and even fishermen in exchange for 75% of the catch; while the lessee or hired partner will receive 25% of the catch, presumably in exchange for his labor. A letter regarding partnership between fishermen is found in P.Oxf. 12 (Arsinoites, 153‑154 CE). In this document we read that three men are lessees of the fishing rights in two reservoirs in the village of Karanis, and were urging a fourth person to join their partnership. The writer of the document is the fourth person and the letter communicates his acceptance of the offer. A quarter of the rent will be paid by the new partner and he will receive a quarter share of the earnings. The document also mentions that the partners will not be able to denounce or exclude each other from the lease contract. The lease of the ponds extends over five years while the lease of the fishing rights covers only four, a difference that is understandable if, at the time of the lease, there were no fish available due to the dry season after the Nile flood. 60 It is important to notice that since the Greek term φόρος can refer to any kind of payment or tribute, and the “line of demarcation between the φόρος of monopolies and the τέλος of taxation was probably vague,” 61 the nature of the payments mentioned in all of these documents is somewhat unclear. In the aforementioned documents the term obviously refers to rents, and given the changes made by Augustus, it is possible that taxes were supplanted by a leasing system in which public fishing grounds were simply leased to “tenant fishermen.” But the possibility remains that the fishermen also paid proportional taxes independently. The only document regarding fishing that mentions other taxes is the aforementioned P.Turner 25 which specifies that the owner will pay the land taxes and that the tax on pickled fish is charged to the lessees, while proportional taxes for fresh fish, like the quarter tax attested during the Ptolemaic period, are not mentioned. E.P. Wegener suggests that since in this case the new partner had to pay his share of the φόροι they were not deducted from the income of the catch and therefore the φόροι in the document refer only to the rent, and other taxes would have to be deducted from the catch later. The “surplus” 60.  As commented by E.P. Wegener in P.Oxf. 12, p. 52. 61.  See comments in P.Oxf. 12. Cf. P.Ryl. 98a

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divided between the partners, according to the editor of the document, implies “the income from the fishing minus the taxes.” 62 But, it seems more likely to me that a proportional tax was no longer levied. There is no mention of any similar tax in Roman documents, while it was explicitly mentioned in those from the Ptolemaic period, so it seems that it was supplanted, and thus public waters were leased at that time. However, some of the documents mentioned above demonstrate that taxes were still levied for owning boats, processing fish, exporting, and maybe even commercializing fish, and these could be the taxes implied by the “surplus” mentioned in P.Oxf.12. In summary, the documents discussed above show that in order to lease fishing rights, fishermen had to apply by sending a letter to the fisheries’ supervisors or the owner of the rights. Afterwards, if the lease was confirmed, a proper contract was stipulated and occasional receipts for advance deposits and rent payments were produced. Nevertheless, it seems that there was a further step in the process of acquiring fishing rights, at least in the places where the fisheries were controlled by the state. P.Athen. 35 (Theadelphia, 154 CE) is a letter to the strategos from three fishermen who swear by the fortune of the emperor that they will undertake the fishing in a determined marsh, and if they do not comply they will pay the rent/taxes with their own properties. The letter also specifies that one of their sons will sell the fish while the other fishermen will work at the marsh. The text does not represent a lease contract since there is no mention of the rent total or other details found in such documents. Rather, the whole point of the letter seems to be, first, to inform the authorities about who is allowed to catch and sell the fish; and second, to make them officially responsible for the lease. By swearing that the activity will be performed and the rent will be paid, the fishermen also acknowledge that if, for whatever reason, they stop fishing or fail to pay the established sums, they will respond with their own properties. Clearly, the authorities needed to keep track of the people to whom the fishing rights were conceded in order to control access to the resources and prevent unauthorized fishing. But also, since fishing was a considerable source of income, it was important to ensure that the lessees would have fulfilled their duties and paid their rents. There were also special fishing regulations that applied either to all of Egypt or to specific areas. For example, the Oxyrhynchus fish was considered sacred and therefore fishermen were not allowed to catch it. An edict from Ptolemy X Alexander I and Berenice (P.Yale I 56, provenance unknown, 100 bce) prescribes the death penalty for those that catch the Oxyrhynchus fish and possibly other species of fish or animals, as well as the χοιρόγυνος (unknown), and probably something else whose name is missing due to a lacuna. 62.  See comments in P.Oxf. 12.

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In addition to acquiring the fishing rights, signing contracts swearing to perform their duties and paying rents and taxes, fishermen had to swear through their guild representatives that they would not catch the sacred animals. In an oath to the agents of the nomarch (PSI VIII 901, Tebtunis, 46 CE), who also serves as supervisor of the public revenues and the assessments of the Arsinoites nome, thirteen men are described as elders of the fishermen 63 and the fishermen’s scribe swears that they have not and will not catch the Oxyrhynchus and the Leptidotes fish with their sagene and cast-nets.  6 4 We should also note that other species of fish were also considered sacred in particular areas, and therefore there might have been local regulations that varied from one place to another. 65 Summarizing, the right to fish in the Nile, in Lake Moeris, in marshes, in public irrigation canals and reservoirs belonged to the King. In such areas the state could manage the fisheries directly through administrators, in a manner that was comparable to the management of public estates. Fishing rights could be conceded to fishermen in exchange for proportional taxes (attested in the Ptolemaic period) or fixed rents (attested in the Roman period), or fishing rights could be donated to temples or individuals that would manage them as they saw fit. But, in any of those cases, the industry was usually controlled by supervisors or tax-farmers. 66 VI. Th e

org a n i z at ion of t h e

G a l i l e a n F i sh e r i e s

The administrative system in Galilee did not change much after the Egyptian and Seleucid domination, 67 and even if Herod reorganized the previous fiscal system, he did not introduced major changes. There were “taxes 63.  The first part of the documents contains a list with their names and the name of their fathers, their ages (which ranges from 30 to 65) and their particular traits (normally scars and in one case it is said that the elder was bald). 64.  See Italian translation in PSI VIII 901 and English translations and comments in D. Braund, Augustus to Nero: A Sourcebook on Roman History, 31 bc-ad 68 (Totowa, N.J., 1985), 275‑276; A.C. Johnson, “Roman Egypt to the Reign of Diocletian,” in T. Frank ,  ed., An Economic Survey of Ancient Rome, vol. II (Baltimore, 1936) 376; K.C. H anson, “The Galilean Fishing Economy and the Jesus Tradition,” Biblical Theology Bulletin: A Journal of Bible and Theology 27, no 3 (August 1, 1997). 65.  Regarding the sacred fish and fish consumption restrictions see D.J. Brewer , Fish and Fishing in Ancient Egypt (Warminster, 1989) 17‑19. 66. See R. Taubenschlag, The Law of Greco-Roman Egypt in the Light of the Papyri: 332 B.C.-640 A.D. (New York, 1944‑1948) 664‑665. 67. Regarding the organization of the Judea see A. Momigliano, “Ricerche sull’organizzazione della Giudea sotto il dominio Romano (63 a.C.-70d.C.),” Annali della R. Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa II 3 (1934) 183‑221/347‑396. Also in

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levied directly, on products of the soil, though payment of proportional or fixed quota and indirectly, on sales and certain trade, particularly transit trade activities, by means of exercise duty and tolls.” 68 But Herod also extended his wealth by participating in commercial activities and tax-collection concessions in areas outside his territory. 69 The above analyzed sources demonstrate that fresh-waterbodies produced great income from fishing and other activities, and were usually regarded as the ruler’s property. Considering that the Herodian kings inherited an administrative system similar to the one we find in the Egyptian papyri it is most likely that the commercial fishing rights in the Galilean Sea belonged to them. This seems to be supported by the only reference to fishing regulations in Galilee that comes from a passage in the Babylonian Talmud. Baba Kama 81a-b mentions that everyone was permitted to fish with hooks in the lake of Tiberias as long as the kela was not spread for this would “detain” boats. The interpretation of the passage is widely discussed, particularly since different translations of the term kela have been proposed. Some translate it as “sail,” so it is possible that the passage refers to navigation. 70 It would then mean that angling was permitted to everyone while fishing from boats was restricted. However, according to Nun’s translation, the term refers to a specific type of net, 71 while the following phrase about “detaining boats” refers to the phase of the sagene fishing method in which the boat was anchored to let the fishermen pull the nets from the shore. According to this interpretation, then, it was fishing with a type of cast-net and with the sagene (or other methods that “detained” boats) that were restricted, and which were the exclusive rights of the tribe of Naphtali. Other interpretations sugA. Momigliano, Nono contributo alla storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico (Roma, 1992) 227‑323. 68.  E. Gabba, “The Finances of King Herod,” in A. K asher – G. Fuks – U. R appaport, ed., Greece and Rome in Eretz-Israel: Collected Essays (Jerusalem, 1990) 161. According to Momigliano’s calculations based on Josephus accounts, Herod collected around 1050 talents from taxes annually. Flavius Josephus, Jewish Antiquities, trans. H.St. J. Thackeray et al. (London, 1998), 17.318‑320 and 19.352; Flavius Josephus, The Jewish War (Cambridge, Mass., 1997), 2.94‑98. Cf. A. Momigliano, Nono contributo alla storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico (Ed. di Storia e Letteratura, 1992) 275‑282. S. Dar , “The Agrarian Economy in the Herodian Period,” in N. Kokkinos ,  ed., The World of the Herods (Stuttgart, 2007) 305‑311. 69.  E. Gabba, “The Finances of King Herod,” in A. K asher – G. Fuks – U. R appaport,  ed., Greece and Rome in Eretz-Israel: Collected Essays (Jerusalem, 1990). 70.  I. Epstein, ed., The Babylonian Talmud, Sefer Nezikin, trans. E.W. Kirzner, vol. 1 (London, n.d.) 459‑461. 71.  According to Nun, even though the term may be translated as “sail” as a verb, it indicates the action of “casting” and refers to a particular type of net. M. Nun, The Sea of Galilee and Its Fishermen in the New Testament (Ein Gev, 1999).

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gest that the kela was a fishing method, possibly using fixed fishing traps, that obstructed navigation, so it was forbidden for everyone. Fishing with nets and small traps was an exclusive right of the owner of the lake, but angling was unrestricted. 72 Even though the translation and interpretation of the passage is unclear, and the text comes from and refers to different time periods, it certainly demonstrates the existence of a tradition regarding the regulation of the Galilean fisheries. However the word kela is translated, the text shows that angling, and maybe fishing with small traps or nets that did not obstructed navigation, was not regulated and could be performed by anyone. On the other hand, the right to fish with other techniques that involved boats and specific types of nets (or maybe nets large enough to represent an obstacle to navigation) was the exclusive right of the owner of the lake, who in this period would have been the Herodian rulers. In other words, occasional non-commercial fishing would have been open to everybody, while professional fishing was regulated, with taxes being collected or the right to exploit the fisheries resources most likely being leased by the king, later the tetrarch, just as they would have leased royal land. 73 Another factor that must be taken into consideration, for our period of interest, is the foundation of Tiberias along the lake’s western shore. In founding a new capital by the lake, Herod Antipas brought the royal administrative offices much closer to the fishing grounds, which would have led to the improvement of fiscal control in the area. As Rocca states, “it had the character of a royal city as well as that of a polis with it boule” 74 and other officials. We read of an archon, 75 a committee of decemprimi, 76 an hyparch 77 or strategos, and an agoranomos, 78 thus we would expect 72.  See comments regarding Baba Kama 81a – 81b in Shlomo Luria, Yam Shel Shlomo. 73.  Taxed about a third to one half of the product. See S. Dar , “The Agrarian Economy in the Herodian Period,” in N. Kokkinos ,  ed., The World of the Herods (Stuttgart, 2007) 308. 74.  S. Rocca, Herod ’s Judaea: A Mediterranean State in the Classical World (Tübingen, 2008) 325. 75.  Flavius Josephus, The Jewish War, 3.599; Flavius Josephus, Life, trans. W. Whiston – C.F. Pfeiffer (Grand Rapids, Mich., 1974), 78,94. 76.  Flavius Josephus, The Jewish War, 2.649; Id., Life, 69. 77.  Flavius Josephus, The Jewish War, 2.615. 78.  Flavius Josephus, Jewish Antiquities, 18.149. Cf. M. Avi-Yonah, “The Foundation of Tiberias,” Israel Exploration Journal 1, no 3 (51‑1950) 160‑169; M. Sigismund, “Small Change? Coins and Weights as a Mirror of Ethnic, Religious and Political Identity in First and Second Century C.E. Tiberias,” in J. Z angenberg – H.W. Attridge – D.B. M artin,  ed., Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee, ed. (Tübingen, 2007) 315‑336; A. K asher – G. Fuks – U. R appaport,  ed., Greece and Rome in Eretz-Israel: Collected Essays (Jerusalem, 1990) 222 ff.

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that the administration worked in a way that was similar to other Hellenistic cities. Finally, we also hear of publicans around the Kinneret in the gospels of Mark, Matthew and Luke. 79 In Roman Palestine, only the customs, tolls, and similar taxes were farmed out to publicans, while poll-taxes and land taxes were collected directly by officials. In light of this evidence, Heichleheim concludes that these publicani were probably only responsible for customs, small port duties and fishing tolls. 80 Also, the term telonai seems to be used in a broad sense, in reference to any tax-collector, and Badian asserts that technically they “were not real publicans at all,” but merely their local employees. 81 Since the specific sources from Galilee reflect a similar system to the one found in the Egyptian papyri, we may argue that it is probable that during Antipas’ reign all fishermen would have had to register with the fishing supervisors, they would have had to negotiate a lease for the fishing rights, and they would have had to pay taxes for owning boats, processing fish, and importing or exporting fish products. The lease would most likely have been a fixed sum, which seemed to be the common practice after the Augustus. The fishermen could form associations in order to divide the burden of the lease and would have to have sworn in front of public officials that they would perform their activities and pay their rents. In cases of non-compliance they would have responded with their property although guarantors or securities could be required to ensure the payments. The styling of Jesus’ first disciples (in Mark and Luke) as associated fishermen, owning boats, has some implications concerning the economic level of these disciples. Wuellner proposed a distinction between day-worker-fishermen and boat owners who were in a better economic situation. 82 However, more recently K.C. Hanson argued that boat owners should not be considered to be entrepreneurs or some sort of middle-class, concluding that both hired workers and boat owners “were peasants in the broad sense, since they both live from their work in the boats,” and he considers that all such peasants existed at a subsistence economic level. 83 Hanson comes to this conclusion by applying a sociological model based 79.  e.g. Mt 9:9‑13, 21:32; Mk 2:13‑17; Lk 5:27‑32, 7:29, 15:1. 80.  F.M. H eichelheim, “Roman Syria,” in T. Frank , ed., An Economic Survey of Ancient Rome, vol. 4 (New York, 1975) 234. 81.  E. Badian, Publicans and Sinners. Private Enterprise in the Service of the Roman Republic (Ithaca, 1972) 11. 82.  W.H. Wuellner , The Meaning of “Fishers of Men” (Philadelphia, 1967). 83.  K.C. H anson, “The Galilean Fishing Economy and the Jesus Tradition,” Biblical Theology Bulletin: A Journal of Bible and Theology 27, no 3 (August 1, 1997). See also K.C. H anson – D.E. Oakman, Palestine in the Time of Jesus: Social Structures and Social Conflicts (Minneapolis, 1998).

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on a completely different context. This model simply does not allow for the possibility of a well-to-do peasant, or in our case fisherman. 84 Certainly the term “middle-class” can sound anachronistic, but the overall picture that emerges from documentary papyri does not seem to support Hanson and Oakman’s view. In the partnership contracts, like P.Oxf. 12, we find that the earnings and investments were equally divided between partners, but it does not include the employees; and in the cases were there were other employees they received lower earnings. The fishing rights contracts such as SB XVIII 13150 and P.Oxy. XLVI 3270 clearly indicate who had to furnish the boats, nets or other materials and P.Oxy. XLVI 3269 mentions that who furnishes the nets and boats received a much larger part of the incomes than those offering only their labour. Other documents also demonstrate that there were internal hierarchies within fishermen associations. 85 We do not have ancient data regarding the shares distribution, but it is reasonable to assume that the owner of the net and boat, who invested his capital, received a larger profit. We do know that this practice was normal among fishermen in the Kinneret in the nineteenth century. M. Nun mentions that the owner of the boat normally kept 40% of the profits, the rest was divided among the crew, the “skipper” received 2 shares, the second in command 1.5 share, the menders also 1.5 share, and the rest would receive one share each. 86 Hanson and Oakman also argue that fishermen were poor because the high taxes but the fishermen economic level depends more on the profit margins than on taxation. Certainly taxes play an important role, but hypothetically even highly taxed industry can be profitable. 87 In other words, what matters is if the product’s value and the available quantities were large enough to allow good earnings after costs and taxes were detracted, and the analyzed documents suggest so. Furthermore, it seems that Hanson and Oakman confuse the different exploitation systems mentioned in the papyri. As shown, in the case of public fisheries (and maybe also in temple fisheries) most of the surplus ended in the state (or temple) treasure. In those cases fishermen were employees who did not own the required tackle, they rented boats and/or 84.  For a discussion regarding the use of sociological models for the study of the Galilean economy see D.A. Fiensy – R.K. H awkins , ed., The Galilean Economy in the Time of Jesus (Atlanta, 2014). 85.  IGSK 25.25 and the papyri PSI VIII 901. Cf. Dissertation E. Lytle , Marine Fisheries and the Ancient Greek Economy (Duke University, 2006) 83ff. 86.  M. Nun, “Ports of Galilee,” Biblical Archaeology Review 25, no 4 (August 1999) 19. 87.  The taxes mentioned in the papyri do not seem too high, however we can not draw conclusions regarding the taxation rates in Galilee from them.

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need loans to buy the nets, 88 so clearly their earnings were low. However, in most areas fishermen were “independent” and this seems to be the case in Galilee. 89 These fishermen were also closely controlled, they needed licenses and had to pay taxes, but if they owned the activity, the boats, the tackle and even hired other fishermen, they also received a considerable part of the surplus. The leading positions within the crew were usually occupied by the owner’s family members, therefore most of the earnings would have remained within the household. This lead us to some implications regarding Jesus’ requests. In Luke 5:1‑11 it is also mentioned that Simon and the sons of Zebedee were partners. Considering what emerges from the papyrological data, this would imply that they had a contract and held a fishing lease. If that was the case, Jesus’ request to abandon everything and follow him would be even more radical. The partners would not only have lost the source of their income, but by quitting their jobs they would have violated the contract, risking the loss of their properties, unless other family members could continue with the activity. In fact, in Mark’s version in 1:16‑20, it is specified that Zebedee remained in the boat with his employees. All Galilean fishermen were probably considered poor compared to the ruling class and the urban elites. Thus, boat owners and hired fishermen may have shared the same “social status.” Nevertheless, the boat owners, skippers and specialized workers earned much more than the simple laborers. Those who invested their capital, formed partnerships, signed contracts and hired employees, had a higher income and could reach an economic level well above subsistence. 90 As Thomas Corcoran states “even though classical authors never conceived of a fisherman enriched by his occupation, they reported fish sold for high prices. Thus, the literary representation of the fisherman’s life should not be accepted as entirely true to real conditions.” 91 The papyrological data offers a good model to base our thoughts on when we read the fishing narratives in the gospels. We should imagine a very complex industry, highly bureaucratized and more controlled than the informal system that is assumed in much of the literature. The regulations, and the ways in which the payments were exacted, varied according to the place, the time, and the fishing techniques. Since the industry 88.  As seen in P.Tebt. III pt.I 701 and P.David 1. 89.  Nothing suggests the existence of public fisheries in the region and there were no temple fisheries since the entire lake belonged to the Galilee, a Jewish area without temples during this period. 90.  On the economic level of boat owners in antiquity see J.V. Lissaropoulos , Les naucleres grecs: recherches sur les institutions maritimes en Grèce et dans l ’Orient hellenisé (Lille, 1980). 91.  T.H. Corcoran, “Roman Fishermen,” The Classical World 56, no 4 (1963) 97‑100, 102.

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produced great income, every part of the production process was subject to surveillance, but this does not imply that fishermen were poor. Dayworkers could have had a low income, but associates holding a fishing contract, and owning boats and nets were certainly in a much better economic position, 92 and this opens very interesting interpretive possibilities for the study of the Jesus movement.

92.  Regarding ancient boat owners see J.V. Lissaropoulos , Les naucleres grecs: recherches sur les institutions maritimes en Grèce et dans l ’Orient hellenisé (Lille, 1980).

H ISTORISCHER JESUS UND ESCHATOLOGISCHER M ESSIAS. BEMERKUNGEN ZU 4Q521 UND L K 7,22 (//MT 11,5)* Simone Paganini Der Versuch, 1 die historische und literarische Gestalt Jesus, 2 die Evangelien, 3 die jesuanische Bewegung mit den Dead Sea Scrolls oder sogar mit der hypothetischen Essener-Gemeinde von Qumran in Verbindung zu bringen, hat fast vier Jahrzehnte lang die Forschung zu den Handschriften aus der jüdäischen Wüste mit unterschiedlichen Schlussfolgerungen stark geprägt. 4 Diese Problematik war am Beginn der Forschung zu den Hand*  Der Autor ist research associate am Department of Old Testament of the University of Pretoria (SA). 1.  Dank an Dr. Steffen Jöris für wertvolle Hinweise in der Fertigstellung des Aufsatzes. 2.  B. Thiering, Jesus and the Riddle of the Dead Sea Scrolls (New York, 1992). 3. Die These einer fragmentarischen Evangelienhandschrift unter den Manuskripten der siebten Höhle wurde bereits in den frühen 1970er Jahren vorgeschlagen – J. O’Callaghan, “¿Papiros neotestamentarios en la cueva 7 de Qumrân?,” Biblica 53 (1972) 91‑100 – und mehr als zwanzig Jahre später von C.P. Thiede , “7Q – Eine Rückkehr zu den neutestamentlichen Papyrusfragmenten in der siebten Höhle von Qumran,” Biblica 65 (1994) 538‑559, wieder aufgenommen. Heute ist diese Theorie weitgehend verworfen worden. Dazu siehe die ausführliche Diskussion in J. Frey, “Die Bedeutung der Qumranfunde für das Verständnis des Neuen Testaments,” in M. Fieger et al., ed., Qumran – die Schriftrollen vom Toten Meer (Freiburg, 2001) 129‑208. Für eine knappe Präsentation der unterschiedlichen Hypothesen siehe S. Paganini, Qumran, le rovine della luna (Bologna, 2011) 145‑147. Am ausführlichsten in S. E nste , Kein Markustext in Qumran: Eine Untersuchung der These: Qumran-Fragment 7Q5 = Mk 6,52‑53 (Göttingen, 2000). 4.  Als die Standard-Hypothese von R. De Vaux immer mehr ins Wanken geriet, entwickelten sich im Laufe der Forschungsgeschichte zwei unterschiedliche Denk­ richtungen. Die eine plädiert für eine mehr oder weniger strikte Trennung zwischen den Handschriften und der Siedlung. Yizhar Hirschfeld und Jürgen Zangenberg sind die prominentesten Vertreter dieser Schule, welche die Aktivitäten der Bewohner von Qumran völlig unabhängig von den Inhalten der (sektiererischen) Manuskripte interpretierten. Die zweite Position hingegen vertritt eine Meinung, die bereits der Dominikanerpater verteidigte. Es tauchen natürlich immer wieder neue Argumente auf, aber grundsätzlich wird daran festgehalten, dass Siedlung und Rollenfragmente zusammengehören. In Qumran lebte demnach eine “essenische” Gemeinde, welche die Schriften verfasste und verwendete. Weltberühmte Forscher, wie Jodi Magness, Heinz-Josef Fabry und in den letzten Jahren auch der DominikaTexts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 109–128 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111700 ©

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schriften in den 1950er Jahren extrem unbedeutend, sie wurde jedoch im Laufe der Zeit immer zentraler. Vor allem durch die verspätete Veröffentlichung vieler Schriftrollen wurden vermehrt Spekulationen über die Rolle des Vatikans geäußert, die ab den 1970er Jahren sowohl die Forschung zu den Dead Sea Scrolls als auch die zur Qumran-Siedlung maßgeblich beeinflussten. 5 Eine nicht unwesentliche Rolle spielte in diesem Zusammenhang die fragmentarische Handschrift 4Q521. Diese Handschrift wurde bereits seit den ersten Editionen als ein eschatologischer ja gar messianischer Text identifiziert. 6 Émile Puech, der Herausgeber der editio princeps hat ihn etwa als eine “Apokalypse messianique” definiert. 7 In diesem relativ kurzen Aufsatz erfolgt zunächst eine Einführung zu der Beziehung zwischen den Handschriften, den Höhlen und der Siedlung (1.), wobei der literarische und historische Hintergrund des Fragments geklärt werden soll. Im Anschluss findet sich eine knappe Analyse von 4Q521 unter Berücksichtigung des literarischen Kontexts des neutestamentlichen Texts (2.). Zum Schluss wird die eschatologische Perspektive von Lk 7,22 mit der von 4Q521 verglichen (3.). Dabei werden nicht nur die Ähnlichkeiten, sondern vor allem die theologischen und literarischen Unterschiede beleuchtet, woraus eine präzisere Interpretation der Handschrift unter Berücksichtigung der jeweils verschiedenen Kontexte resultiert, ohne die messianischen Erwartungen zur Zeit Jesu zu pauschalisieren. Nur dann ist ein Vergleich zwischen dem messianischen Verständnis von 4Q521 und dem neutestamentlichen Text in der Perspektive des Judentums des Zweiten Tempels möglich. Die Schlussfolgerungen sind zwar aus der Analyse eines einzelnen Textes gezogen, sie liefern dennoch grundsätzliche Elemente, die helfen können, das jesuanische Selbstvernerpater Jean Baptiste Humbert, Nachfolger von De Vaux als Professor der Archäologie an der École Biblique in Jerusalem, machen sich für diese Theorie stark. 5.  Einen diesbezüglichen Forschungsüberblick darzulegen, würde den Umfang dieses Aufsatzes zweifelsohne sprengen. Es ist allerdings bezeichnend, wie eine gewisse sensationshungrige Publizistik und vor allem touristische Überlegungen – man braucht nur das kurze Video, das den Besuchern der archäologischen Stätte von Qumran am Toten Meer gezeigt wird, anzuschauen – maßgeblich dazu beigetragen haben, dass der Mythos eines essenischen Jesus – oder zumindest eines essenischen Johannes des Täufers – immer stärker wuchs. Trotz des Professorentitels mancher Autoren, die jedoch sowohl philologische als auch historische Fehler begangen, sind diese absolut unbegründeten Theorien extrem bekannt geworden und beeinflussen heute noch bei vielen Bibel- und Archäologieinteressierten das Verständnis von Siedlung, Handschriften und Neuem Testament. 6. U.a. R.H. Eisenman, “A messianic vision,” Biblical Archeological Rewiev 6/18 (1992) 60‑65. 7.  É. P uech, “Une Apocalypse Messianique (4Q521),” Revue du Qumran 15 (1992) 475‑517 und É. P uech, ed., Qumrân Grotte 4. XVIII. Textes Hébreux (4Q521‑4Q528, 4Q576‑4Q579) (Oxford, 1998) 1‑38.

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ständnis in Bezug auf seine Rolle als eschatologischer Messias näher zu bestimmen. I. H a n dsch r i f t e n , H öh l e n u n d da s J ude n t um g eg e n E n de Z e i t de s Zw e i t e n Te mpe l s : F r age n u n d P e r spe k t i v e n

de r

Dieser einleitende Paragraph ist sicherlich nicht der geeignete Ort, um die komplexe Problematik der möglichen Beziehung zwischen der Qumran-Siedlung, den Handschriften und dem Essenismus als einer philosophischen-sozialen-kulturellen-religiösen Strömung innerhalb des Judentums kurz vor der Zeitenwende ausführlich darzustellen. Die wenigen Beobachtungen, die folgen, wollen lediglich die hermeneutische Grundlage dieses Aufsatzen im Zusammenhang mit dem Verständnis der literarischen Rolle der Dead Sea Scrolls präsentieren und beschreiben. 8 Die Handschriften sind notwendigerweise im Kontext des zeitgenössischen Judentums zu verstehen. Dieses bietet den sozio-kulturellen und theologisch-religiösen Hintergrund der jüdischen Strömungen, die sich erst später entwickelt haben. Zu ihnen ist zweifelsohne auch das frühe Christentum zu zählen. 9 Wenn man die Ergebnisse der archäologischen Forschung in Qumran beachtet, ist es schwierig – wenn nicht unmöglich – ein entscheidendes Argument zu finden, um die Essener oder eine essenisch-geprägte Gruppierung als Bewohner der Siedlung am Nord-West Ufer des Toten Meers auszumachen. Auch wenn die definitive Veröffentlichung der Ergebnisse der Untersuchungen zu Keramik, Glas und organischen Materialien noch nicht fertiggestellt worden ist, ist es einigermaßen verblüffend, dass alle Forscher – oder zumindest alle Forscher, die nicht dem Dominikaner-Orden angehören –, die in den vergangenen drei Jahrzehnten die Möglichkeit gehabt haben, die zahlreichen Funde, die in Jerusalem aufbewahrt werden, zu analysieren, der Meinung sind, die Essener-Theorie von De Vaux müsse relativiert werden. 10 Einige Forscher tendieren dazu, manche Handschriften doch als Gebrauchsgegenstände der antiken Bewohner von Qumran anzusehen; aber die große Mehrheit plädiert für eine radikale Differenzierung. Dem8.  Für weitere Details und zusätzliche Informationen siehe S. Paganini, Gesù, Qumran e gli esseni. Le prime comunità cristiane e l ’essenismo (Milano, 2013) 21‑87. 9.  Diese Perspektive zwingt auch zu einer besonderen Aufmerksamkeit für die ersten jesuanischen Gemeinden in Jerusalem und in Judäa. 10.  Das heißt noch lange nicht, dass diese Forscher eine einheitliche Vorstellung über die Siedlung von Qumran und dessen Bewohner haben. Für einige interessante Details innerhalb einer überblicksartigen Darstellung über die Forschungsgeschichte und über die unterschiedlichen Interpretationsversuche der Qumran-Siedlung siehe S. Paganini, Qumran. Le rovine della luna (Bologna, 2013) 11‑52 und 79‑112.

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nach gehören die Qumran-Siedlung und die Handschriften zu zwei unterschiedlichen Forschungsfeldern und sollten getrennt voneinander analysiert und nicht im Lichte einer Theorie, die sie von vorne herein verbinden will, betrachtet werden. Ein erster Einwand gegen die Standard-Hypothese von de Vaux ist die Fragwürdigkeit der Relation zwischen Schriftrollen und Essenern. Die Charakterisierung der Essener in den Texten von Philo, Plinius dem Älteren und Josephus lassen auf einen asketischen Lebensstil ohne Kontakte mit der Außenwelt und eine utopisch-apokalyptische Grundeinstellung sowie Ehelosigkeit, Gütergemeinschaft und Abgeschiedenheit schließen. Diese Eckdaten stimmen mit dem tatsächlichen archäologischen Befund von Khirbet Qumran aber ganz und gar nicht überein. Auf der einen Seite wurden nämlich deutliche Spuren einer wirtschaftlichen Tätigkeit sowie Waren gefunden, die für den Handel produziert wurden; ferner Münzen, die als Zahlmittel für die gekauften Produkte interpretiert werden könnten. Auf der anderen Seite fehlen Hinweise auf eine religiös asketisch orientierte Gemeinschaft. Neben diesen Argumenten sprechen noch die folgenden Beobachtungen gegen die Standard-Hypothese: Keiner der Texte aus den Höhlen kann unmittelbar mit der Anlage von Qumran in Verbindung gebracht werden. Obwohl in der Siedlung Qumran reichlich organisches Material erhalten geblieben ist, wurde kein einziges Pergament- oder Papyrusfragment gefunden. Es fehlt ein Wegenetz zwischen Höhlen und Siedlung, das notwendig gewesen wäre, hätten die Höhlen als ständiger Ort der Aufbewahrung von Schriftrollen gedient. Die Schriftbild-Analyse der Manuskripte hat ergeben, dass nur sehr selten ein und derselbe Schreiber mehrere Dokumente kopiert hat: Sofern Qumran eine Kopistenwerkstatt gewesen sein sollte, müsste das Umgekehrte der Fall sein, dann nämlich hätten geübte Schreiber im Laufe ihres Lebens vielleicht viele, vielleicht nur einige Schriftrollen verfasst, mit Sicherheit aber nicht bloß eine einzige. Darüber hinaus ist die Anlage von Qumran nachweislich von den Hasmonäern und nicht von den Essenern errichtet worden: Für eine Besiedelung unmittelbar vor 130 v. Chr. – wie sie Roland de Vaux annimmt – gibt es keine archäologischen Beweise. Die Strukturen der Siedlung boten Arbeits- und Wohnräume für ca. 40‑50 Menschen. Weitere Bewohner lebten möglicherweise in Zelten außerhalb der Siedlungsgrenzen – wobei die archäologische Forschung bis heute keine Beweisstücke geliefert hat, um die Annahme einer ständigen Existenz von Zeltlagern außerhalb der Siedlungseinfriedung zu rechtfertigen. Die offensichtliche Präsenz zahlreicher Becken für rituelle Reinigungen lässt natürlich und selbstverständlich bei den Bewohnern der Siedlung auf gläubige Juden schließen, bei denen Reinigungsriten eine ganz wichtige Rolle spielten. Es ist allerdings fraglich – und aufgrund der Nachlässigkeit der ersten archäologischen Kampagne nicht mehr nachweisbar –, ob alle diese Mikwaot gleichzeitig im Betrieb waren und wel-

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che Funktion sie wirklich hatten. Manche dieser Becken kommunizieren direkt mit Abflussvorrichtungen, was auch auf einen anderen Gebrauch zutreffen könnte. In manchen Becken wurden gar Reste von Tonbeständen gefunden. Ihre Funktion als Mikwaot ist zwar unbestreitbar, aber vielleicht wurden in irgendeiner Phase der Besiedlung einige dieser Becken gebraucht, um Ton aufzubewahren und Utensilien aus Keramik zu produzieren. Gerade die Produktion von Ton- und Keramik-Gegenständen war eine der Hauptaktivitäten der Bewohner von Qumran. 11 Die Handschriften vom Toten Meer haben sehr wahrscheinlich nichts mit der Produktionstätigkeit der Bewohner der Qumran-Siedlung zu tun. Zählt man alle Fragmente und Rollen zusammen, die gefunden wurden, und addiert dazu die Anzahl der Rollen, die ursprünglich noch in den Höhlen gewesen sein dürften und im Laufe der Jahrhunderte entfernt wurden (wie z. B. aus den Höhlen 3, 4, 8 und 9) bzw. unwiederbringlich zerstört wurden, kommt man auf eine Größenordnung von rund 1.000/1.200 Schriftrollen und Dokumenten, die zwischen 66 und 68 n. Chr. in den Höhlen am Toten Meer eingelagert wurden. Von etwa 900 dieser Rollen sind Teile bzw. ist ein Teil erhalten geblieben. Etwa 660 Schriften können inhaltlich bestimmt werden; in zehn Fällen ist mehr als die Hälfte des Textes noch lesbar. Nur zwei Rollen sind beinahe vollständig erhalten. 12 Bei der inhaltlichen Analyse der Dokumente lässt sich feststellen, dass diese zum Teil gänzlich unterschiedliche theologische Auffassungen vertreten. Dies ist durchaus nicht ungewöhnlich. Denn zum einen bestand die jüdische Gesellschaft aus einer ganzen Reihe von – meist von Priestern geleiteten – Gruppierungen, welche die für alle geltenden Gesetze individuell auslegten, entsprechende Texte verfassten und z.T. sogar kleinere Bibliotheken anlegten. Zum anderen besteht und bestand im Judentum durchaus eine lange Tradition des religiösen Diskurses, bei dem eben nicht nur die eigenen Ansichten präsentiert, sondern auch gegensätzliche Anschauungen bespro-

11.  Eine diesbezügliche Diskussion ist noch im Gange. Es ist wenig zielführend, die unterschiedlichen Positionen in einem relativ kurzen Aufsatz präsentieren zu wollen. Eine ähnliche Position zu der, die in dieser Untersuchung vertreten wird, ist zu lesen bei J. Z angenberg, “Zwischen Zufall und Einzigartigkeit. Bemerkungen zur jüngsten Diskussion über die Funktion von Khirbet Qumran und die Rolle einiger ausgewählter archäologischer Befunde,” in J. Frey – C. Claussen,  ed., Qumran und die Archäologie. Texte und Kontexte (Tübingen, 2011) 121‑146, und J. Z angenberg, “Von Texten und Töpfen. Überlegungen zum Verhältnis von literarischen und materiellen Relikten antiker Kulturen bei der Interpretation des Neuen Testaments,” in M. Küchler – K.M. Schmidt, ed., Texte, Fakten, Artefakte. Beiträge zur Bedeutung der Archäologie für die neutestamentliche Forschung (Fribourg, 2006) 1‑24. 12. 1QIsa a und 11Q19.

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chen wurden. 13 Daher ist es durchaus denkbar, dass in der großen Tempelbibliothek von Jerusalem sogar Schriften gesammelt wurden, die dem offiziellen Priestertum kritisch gegenüber standen. Solche konträren Meinungen waren insbesondere für die Ausbildung von Bedeutung. Gerade deswegen ist es naheliegend, dass der Tempel – als Ausbildungsstätte schlechthin – Ort der ursprünglichen Sammlung zumindest eines großen Teils der Schriftrollen gewesen sein dürfte. Ähnliches gilt für Jericho, das ebenfalls stark von Priestern dominiert war und eine eigene Bibliothek besaß. 14 Mit der Herstellung und Nutzung der Schriften hatten die Bewohner von Qumran jedoch kaum bis gar nichts zu tun. Sie bieten vielmehr eine repräsentative Vision der jüdischen Gesellschaft in der Zeit unmittelbar vor der Entwicklung des Christentums. Vor der Entdeckung der Rollen konnte die jüdische Gesellschaft nur anhand der Schriften von Josephus und später anhand rabbinischer Werke beschrieben werden. Die phari13. Ein paradigmatisches Beispiel betrifft den Prozess der Autorisierung der Torah in den unterschiedlichen Texten. Während in der Tempelrolle (11Q19) die Autoren mit der Vorstellung eines in der ersten Person sprechenden Gottes arbeiten und die Gestalt des Mose, der in der Torah stets als Mittler zwischen Gott und Volk auftritt, auslassen, wird im Jubiläenbuch eine komplexere Variante angeboten: Gott spricht zu einem Engel, der seinerseits dem Mose die Inhalte diktiert. Moses spielt lediglich die Rolle eines Schreibers. Mit 4QMMT präsentiert sich hingegen eine Gruppe von priesterlich-orientierten Menschen, welche die Autorität der schriftlichen Torah keineswegs in Frage stellt, wohl aber ihre Interpretation durch Mose. Eine ähnliche Vorstellung, wenngleich mit ganz unterschiedlichen Ergebnissen, bildet die hermeneutische Basis sowohl von 1QS als auch von CD. Siehe dazu S. Paganini, “Gesprochen, gehört, verschriftet. Zum Legitimationsprozess pentateuchischer Gesetztestexte in der Zeit des zweiten Tempels,” in R. Achenbach – M. A rneth, ed., «  Gerechtigkeit und Recht zu üben » (Gen 18,19). Studien zur altorientalischen und biblischen Rechtsgeschichte, zur Religionsgeschichte Israels und zur Religionssoziologie (Wiesbaden, 2009) 266‑280 und – in Zusammenhang mit dem Prozess der Gesetzesinterpretation im Neuen Testament – S. Paganini, “«  Ich aber sage euch », Beobachtungen zum Gesetzesverständnis in der Zeit des Zweiten Tempels,” in S. Paganini – W. Guggenberger , Jesus nachfolgen. Auf der Suche nach christlichen Lebensformen (Innsbruck, 2010) 10‑33. Wenn man bedenkt, dass unter den DSS einige Fragmente der Henochbücher gefunden worden sind, wo nicht nur die Gestalt des Mose, sondern auch die gesamte Torah eliminiert wird, wird noch deutlicher, dass diese Schriften keineswegs von einer einzigen Gruppe verfasst worden sein können. Dazu S. Paganini, “Ein Judentum ohne Mose? Beobachtungen zum Buch Henoch und zu den Schriften vom Toten Meer,” in F. R eiterer et al., ed., Gesellschaft und Religion in der spätbiblischen und deuterokanonischen Literatur (Berlin, 2014) 295‑310. 14.  Diese These ist von mehreren Autoren mit unterschiedlichen Argumentationen präsentiert worden. Für weitere Details sowie weitere bibliographische Hinweise siehe K. Galor – J. Z angenberg, “Qumran archaeology in search of a consensus,” in K. Galor – J.-B. Humbert, Qumran, the site of the Dead Sea scrolls: Archaeological interpretations and debates. Proceedings of a conference held at Brown University, November 17‑19, 2002 (Leiden, 2006) 1‑15.

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säische Komponente wurde immer wichtiger, die anderen von Josephus genannten Gruppierungen – Sadduzäer, Essener, Zeloten –, von denen man keine Schriften besaß, wurden zu Nebenerscheinungen degradiert. Man verstand das Judentum als eine monolithische Religion, mit einer starken normativen Komponente, deren Mitglieder in präzisen Kategorien von Rein und Unrein dachten und diese nie in Frage stellten. Auf diesem Hintergrund könnte man ziemlich problemlos Gestalten wie Johannes den Täufer oder Jesus als einmalige revolutionäre Erscheinungen ansehen. Diese Darstellung kann aufgrund der Dead Sea Scrolls nicht mehr aufrechterhalten werden. Die Schriften beschreiben nicht nur bis dato unbekannte jüdische Gruppierungen, sie machen auch klar, dass die “heiligen” Texte nicht nur interpretiert, sondern auch umgeschrieben, korrigiert und überarbeitet werden konnten. Es gibt im 1. Jh. v.Chr. weder einen biblischen Kanon noch Sammlungen autoritativer Texte, die für die Gesamtheit des Judentums galten. Die Dead Sea Scrolls bezeugen eine sehr breite literarische Produktion. Die theologischen Diskurse der Zeit “zwischen den Testamenten” behandeln bekannte Themen – Heilsgeschichte, Eschatologie, Messianismus, Heiligkeit und Reinheit des Volkes, Interpretation des Gesetzes, Rolle des Tempels, etc. –; diese werden allerdings in einer Breite und Weite behandelt, die schlicht und einfach ohne den Fund der Schriftrollen vor 1947 unvorstellbar war. 15 Die Vorstellung, dieser theologische Reichtum käme aus der Reflexion einer einzigen Gruppe, die in einer relativ kleinen Siedlung am Toten Meer lebte, ist extrem reduktiv. Eine mehr oder weniger enge Beziehung zwischen Siedlung und Handschriften ist zweifelsohne möglich, diese Beziehung kann dennoch nicht mit vollständiger Sicherheit bewiesen werden. Die Tatsache, dass einige Handschriftenfragmente in Höhlen gefunden worden sind, die nur durch die Siedlung erreichbar waren, zeigt zumindest, dass die Bewohner von Qumran von den oder einigen Handschriften wussten. Der einzige richtige Kontaktpunkt, Höhlen und Siedlung in Verbindung bringt, ist nicht die Produktion der Handschriften, sondern die Produktion der Gefässe aus Ton, in denen manche Rollen aufbewahrt wurden. Die Handschriften beweisen keinesfalls die Existenz einer Essener-Bewegung, sie zeigen jedoch eindrucksvoll den Reichtum und die Vielfalt des Judentums in der Zeit des Zweiten Tempels. In diesem Sinn kann der Vergleich zwischen einer einzigen – außerdem fragmentarischen – Handschrift und einer neutestamentlichen Perikope keine endgültigen Schlüsse über die Beziehung zwischen Jesus – oder der 15.  Für die literarische Produktion und die Einflüsse auf die jüdische Gesellschaft ist das Einleitungswerk J. M aier , Zwischen den Testamenten. Geschichte und Religion in der Zeit des zweiten Tempels (Würzburg, 1990) 249‑300 sehr hilfreich.

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frühen Jesusbewegung – und einer besonderen jüdischen Gruppierung zulassen. Ein solcher Vergleich kann jedoch hilfreich sein, wenn es darum geht, Jesus und die erste Generation seiner Jünger im zeitgenössischen Judentum zu verorten. 16 Der “Sitz im Leben” der Jesus-Bewegung wird deutlicher, ohne dass man dafür die Eigenständigkeit der jüdischen Traditionen preisgeben muss. II. 4Q521

Z usa mm e n h a ng Tät igk e i t

u n d de r h i s tor i sch e n i sch e n

de r j e sua -

Ein weiterer Aspekt, der in diesem Aufsatz nicht wirklich berücksichtigt werden kann, 17 ist die Diskussion über die Rekonstruktion des Textes von 4Q521. 18 Einige Fragmente sind klein, andere beinhalten eine deutlich größere Textportion; die unterschiedlichen Textteile sind dennoch voneinander getrennt. In keinem Fall sind die Verbindungsteile erhalten geblieben. Aufgrund dieses Zustands des Textes ist es auch unmöglich, den Hauptinhalt der Gesamtkomposition definitiv und jenseits jeden Zweifels zu bestimmen. 19 Für unsere Fragstellung ist jedoch wichtig festzuhalten, dass die einzelnen Passagen, wo ein “Messias” bzw. ein “Gesalbter” (‫ )משיח‬vorkommt, auch in ihren wechselseitigen Beziehungen analysiert und ausgewertet werden können. Es fehlen zwar die Verbindungsstücke zwischen den einzelnen Abschnitten, der Text ist dennoch einheitlich und kann als solcher analysiert werden. Als erste Konsequenz ergibt sich, dass gleiche Worte

16.  Siehe dazu S. Paganini, Gesù, Qumran e gli esseni. Le prime comunità cristiane e l ’essenismo (Milano, 2013) 98‑147. 17.  Die Rekonstruktion von Puech und ihre Aufnahme ohne wesentliche Änderungen im Text von D.W. Parry – E. Tov, The Dead Sea Scrolls Reader. Additional Genres and unclassified Texts (Part 6) (Leiden, 2005) 158‑161, ist ohne weiteres zu unterstützen. 18.  Eine knappe Diskussion der Problematik mit zusätzlichen bibliographischen Angaben ist in M. Becker , “Die ‘messianische Apokalypse’ 4Q521 und der Interpretationsrahmen der Taten Jesu,” in J. Frey – M. Becker , ed., Apokalyptik und Qumran (Paderborn, 2007) 237‑303, zu finden. Das Thema der Auferstehung, das in 4Q521 angedeutet wird, wird in dieser Studie nicht angesprochen. Dazu É. P uech, “Messianisme, eschatologie et résurrection dans les manuscrits de la mer morte,” Revue du Qumrân 18/2 (1997) 255‑298 und H. Lichtenberger , “Qumran-Messianism,” in S.M. Paul – R.A. K raft, ed., Emanuel. Studies in Hebrew Bible, Septuagint and Dead Sea scrolls in honor of Emanuel Tov (Leiden, 2003) 323‑333. 19.  Vor allem bereitet das Fehlen von Anfang und Ende des Manuskripts reichlich Probleme. Die Unmöglichkeit, die Passagen zwischen der zweiten und dritten Kolumne zu definieren, stellt ebenfalls eine große Herausforderung für die Interpretation der Gesamtkomposition dar.

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und gleiche Wendungen möglicherweise die gleiche Bedeutung aufweisen müssen. Das Alter des Originalstückes kann dagegen nur schwer ermittelt werden. Die paläographische Untersuchung weist auf die hasmonäische Zeit hin, eine präzisere Datierung ist leider unmöglich. Unmöglich ist auch ein definitiver Rückschluss, ob 4Q521 eine Kopie von einem älteren Schriftstück darstellt oder nicht. Eine Entstehung zur hasmonäischen Zeit ist zwar wahrscheinlicher, absolute Sicherheit ist dennoch nicht gegeben. Auch der Inhalt lässt hier keine weiteren Rückschlüsse zu. Es handelt sich zweifelsohne um einen poetischen, zum Teil sehr kunstvoll gestalteten Text. Die Sprache ähnelt der von späteren Psalmen. 20 Aber auch eine stilistische oder gar rhetorische Analyse liefert keine weiteren Hinweise, um den Text präziser zu datieren. Im Vergleich zu den neutestamentlichen Texten lässt sich jedoch eines festhalten: 4Q521 ist deutlich älter. A. 4Q521 4Q521 weist zahlreiche inhaltliche Schwerpunkte auf. Ein zentrales Element ist mit Sicherheit die Beschreibung der ‫משיח‬-Gestalt(en). Es werden Handlungen und Merkmale beschrieben, wenngleich die Zusammenhänge, in denen der Terminus vorkommt, unterschiedlich und auch die möglichen Interpretationen relativ uneinheitlich sind. Es ist daher notwendig vor der eigentlichen Analyse, sich mit dem Text und mit seiner Übersetzung zu beschäftigen. Die angebotene Wiedergabe der Abschnitte, in denen ‫ משיח‬vorkommt, versucht dabei die größtmögliche Nähe zum Hebräischen Originaltext zu bewahren. 21 Fragment 2 II 1‑14 1 [Denn die Himm]el und die Erde werden zuhören auf seinen Messias (seine Messiasse) 2 [und alles wa]s ist in ihnen, wird nicht weggehen von den Befehlen des Heiligen (des Heiligtums). 3 Ihr, die sucht den Herrn in seinem Dienst, seid entschlossen vacat 4 Finden nicht den Herrn, alle, die sich trauen in ihrem Herzen? 5 Ja, der Herr kümmert sich um die Frommen und die Gerechten und ruft ihre Namen,

20.  Vor allem die Bezugnahme zu den Armen und den Frommen spielt in diesem Zusammenhang eine wesentliche Rolle, dazu M. Becker , “Die ‘messianische Apokalypse’ 4Q521 und der Interpretationsrahmen der Taten Jesu,” in J. Frey – M. Becker , ed., Apokalyptik und Qumran (Paderborn, 2007) 243. 21. Zwischen eckigen Klammern « [] » wird eine mögliche Rekonstruktion vorgeschlagen. Zwischen runden Klammern « () » finden sich hingegen mögliche Übersetzungsvarianten bzw. Erklärungen zum hebräischen Text.

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6 und über den Armen schwebt sein Geist und bekräftig seine Gläubige mit seiner Kraft, 7 verherrlicht die Frommen auf einem Thron der ewigen Herrlichkeit, 8 befreit die Gefangenen, öffnet (die Augen) den Blinden, erhebt die Gefa[llenen], … 12 [Ja] er wird heilen die Durchbohrten und die Toten wird er lebendig machen, und er wird verkünden die gute Nachricht den Armen, 13 und die [Elen]den wird er sättig[en und die Verlass]enen wird er leiten und die Hungrigen wird er rei[ch machen] … Fragment 8 5‑12 5 …] wird erscheinen [… 6 …] der Mensch (Adam) [… 7 …Segnu]ngen Jakobs [… 8 …] und alle Geräte seines Heiligen (seines Heiligtums) [… 9 …] und alle ihrer Messiasse (von) [… 10 …] und das Wort des Herrn […] und er wird (sie werden) reden [… 11 …prei]set den Herrn [… 12 …] Augen von [… Fragment 9 1‑4 1 …] und es wird nicht sein [… 2 …] und im Knecht des Her[rn… 3 …] du wirst ihn übergeben in die [Ha]nd des Messias (der Messiasse) […

Das vielleicht schwierigste Problem für die Interpretation der drei Passagen hängt mit der Bestimmung der Anzahl der Messiasse zusammen. Wenn es sich in Frg. 8 (Zeile 9) ganz klar um eine Pluralform handelt, die mit dem enklitischen Personalpronomen der dritten Person feminin verbunden ist und sich auf den Tempel, Jerusalem, die Gemeinde oder sogar auf die heiligen Geräte der davorhergehenden Zeile 22 beziehen kann, sind die anderen Vorkommen keineswegs mit Deutlichkeit zu bestimmen. Im Frg. 9,3 ist der Text leider so beschädigt, dass nach ‫ משיח‬kein weiteres Wort erkennbar ist, eine Pluralform ist rein formal möglich. Auch in Frg. 2 II,1 kann, je nach Vokalisierung, sowohl ein Singular als auch ein Plural (defektiv) in Frage kommen.

22. In der Forschung zu dieser Passage sind alle dargestellten Positionen zu finden, ohne dass die vorgeschlagenen Argumente für eine bestimmte Theorie eindeutig sprechen. Hypothetisch und dennoch wahrscheinlich ist die Interpretation, die in ‫ משיח‬ein status constructus sieht, wobei die Genitiv-Spezifizierung auf die prophetischen Gestalten hinweist. Dazu J. Zimmermann, Messianische Texte aus Qumran (Tübingen, 1998) 375.

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Dadurch dass der Text von 4Q521 keine wesentlichen Differenzen im Laufe seiner Entwicklung aufzeigt und Frg. 8 mit Sicherheit eine Pluralform aufweist, kann man mit gutem Grund die Bezeichnung ‫ משיח‬stets als Pluralform verstehen. 23 4Q521 wäre demnach eine Beschreibung der Werke, welche die Tätigkeit einer Gruppe von Messiassen vollbringt. Die Pluralform kann aber natürlich auch ein Kollektiv im Blick haben. Diese Diskussion über die Anzahl der Messiasse ist allerding eher zweitrangig. In den Fragmenten von 4Q521 geht es nämlich nicht um die Frage nach der Menge, sondern um die Merkmale des ‫משיח‬. Ziel der Schrift ist eben nicht der Versuch, die Gestalt mit einer konkreten Person zu identifizieren, sondern – wie in dieser Studie gezeigt wird – die Rolle, die dem ‫ משיח‬zugesprochen wird, zu beschreiben. Dennoch hängt die Interpretation dieser Rolle unweigerlich mit der Person des Messias zusammen. Wenn die Pluralform nämlich verbietet, den ‫ משיח‬mit einer politischen Einzelperson, eventuell sogar davidischer Abstammung, 24 zu identifizieren, sind auch alle möglichen Versuche, in diesen Gestalten den Repräsentant bzw. die Repräsentanten einer priesterähnlichen 25 oder gar prophetischen Institution 26 wahrzunehmen, zum Scheitern verurteilt. Sie vermögen nicht, die Intention des Textes zu erkennen. Wahrscheinlich fehlen nicht nur aufgrund des fragmentarischen Zustandes des Textes in 4Q521 auch Elemente, die auf eine konkrete Funktion des ‫ משיח‬hinweisen. Frg. 2 ist der längste und stellt eine Reihe von Handlungen dar, die einige Merkmale der ‫ משיח‬beschreiben. Frg. 8 zeigt hingegen die Beziehung zwischen (den) ‫ משיח‬und dem Tempel, wäh23. Auch wenn 4Q521 kein zusammengehörender Text, sondern eine Sammlung voneinander unabhängiger Psalmen wäre, könnte man trotzdem mit einem relativ einheitlichen Verständnis von ‫ משיח‬rechnen. Diese hypothetische Sammlung war mit Sicherheit keine zufällige Komposition. Die in ihr enthaltenen Texte mussten Gemeinsamkeiten aufweisen; wahrscheinlich ging es gerade um das Verständnis der Pluralbildung von ‫משיח‬. Ein Beispiel eines derart zusammengebauten Textes unter den DSS ist 4Q174 (Florilegium). Zusätzliche Argumente für diese Theorie – sowie zahlreiche weitere bibliographische Informationen sind zu finden in M. Becker , “Die ‘messianische Apokalypse’ 4Q521 und der Interpretationsrahmen der Taten Jesu,” in J. Frey – M. Becker , ed., Apokalyptik und Qumran (Paderborn, 2007) 248‑249. 24.  O. Betz , “The Messianic Idea in the 4Q Fragments, its Relevance for the Christology of the New Testaments,” in Z.J. K apera, ed., Mogilany 1993: Papers on the Dead Sea Scrolls offered in memory of Hans Burgmann (Kraków, 1996) 61‑75. 25.  Der erste und stärkste Vertreter dieser Idee ist der Herausgeber der Editio Princeps Émile Puech. Siehe dazu die bibliographischen Hinweise in der 7. Fussnote. 26. Siehe u.a. J.J. Collins , “Jesus, Messianism and the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in J.H. Charlesworth et al., ed., Qumran Messianism. Studies on the Messianic Expectations in the Dead Sea Scrolls (Tübingen, 1998) 112‑113.

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rend Frg. 9, das auch den am schlechtesten erhaltenen Text darstellt, ‫משיח‬ mit einer Knechtengestalt zu verbinden scheint. 27 B. 4Q521 und die Evangelien Trotz der Schwierigkeit oder vielleicht gerade deswegen, sogar die Anzahl der messiansichen Gestalten präzis zu definieren, hat sich die wissenschaftliche Diskussion über 4Q521 vor allem darauf konzentriert, diesen Text mit ähnlichen Formulierungen aus den Evangelien zu vergleichen. Insbesondere hat man wiederholt versucht, die messianischen Tätigkeiten aus 4Q521 mit den Handlungen und vor allem mit dem Selbstverständnis Jesu von Nazareth in Verbindung zu bringen. Es geht nun jedoch nicht darum, eventuelle historische Begebenheiten mit Jesus als Protagonisten rekonstruieren zu wollen, 28 sondern darum, Texte aus den Evangelien mit 4Q521 zu vergleichen. Die messianische bzw. eschatologische Interpretation ist dabei nur sekundär. In erster Linie geht es darum, eventuelle gemeinsame Hintergründe zu entdecken, um die Interpretation der späteren Texte der Evangelien zu präzisieren bzw. besser zu verstehen. 29 In Zusammenhang mit den jesuanischen Traditionen spielen vor allem die Erzählungen von Dämonenaustreibungen und Heilungen eine wesentliche Rolle. Dabei – wenn man sich 4Q521 vor Augen führt – muss man als erstes die sog. “Frage des Täufers” und die darauffolgende Antwort Jesu beachten (Lk 11,18‑23 // Mt 11,2-6). Die Frage an Jesus – unabhängig von ihrer Historizität 30 – scheint nur indirekt messianische Implikationen mit sich zu führen. Sie deutet in beiden Evangelien, wo sie vorkommt, nur 27.  Dieser Aspekt ist sehr interessant; er hilft allerdings wenig, wenn es darum geht, die richtige Bedeutung des Begriffes ‫ משיח‬zu verstehen. Die Funktion des “Knechtes” wird nämlich nicht weiter definiert, und jeglicher Parallelismus mit der jesajanischen Gestalt – die allerdings erst viel später messianisch verstanden wurde – ist in diesem Zusammenhang lediglich spekulativ. 28. In Zusammenhang mit 4Q521 spielen vor allem die Wundererzählungen eine wichtige Rolle. Diese Narrationen sind jedoch meistens keine historischen Darstellungen und müssen daher mit großer Vorsicht herangezogen werden. Dazu W. K ahl , New Testament Miracle Stories in their Religious-Historical Setting (Göttingen, 1994). 29.  Auch in diesem Fall kann man nicht von einem allgemeinen Konsens innerhalb der internationalen Forschungsgemeinschaft reden. Die mannigfaltigen Bilder, die entwickelt worden sind, um die Gestalt Jesu zu beschreiben, sind meist schwer miteinander in Einklang zu bringen. Zu diesem Prozess siehe auch D.S. du Toit, “Redefining Jesus: Current Trends in Jesus Research,” in M. L abahn, ed., Jesus, Mark and Q. The teaching of Jesus and its earliest records (Sheffield, 2001) 82‑124. Einige innovative Ideen sind bei M. Pesce – A. Destro, L’uomo Gesù. Giorni, luoghi, incontri di una vita (Milano, 2008), zu finden. 30. Die Meinungen sind diesbezüglich nicht einheitlich. Eine knappe Präsentation findet sich bei M. Becker , “Die ‘messianische Apokalypse’ 4Q521 und der Interpretationsrahmen der Taten Jesu,” in J. Frey – M. Becker , ed., Apokalyptik und

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indirekt auf eine messianische Gestalt hin. Angesprochen ist vielmehr die – nicht näher definierte – Figur des ὁ ἐρχόμενος (Lk 7,20), die nur eine indirekte messianische / eschatologische Valenz aufweist. 31 Im Lukasevangelium wird zunächst auf Jesu Heilungstätigkeit Bezug genommen (Lk 7,21), während im Matthäusevangelium Jesus möglicherweise als ein Wanderprediger beschrieben wird (Mt 11,2). Auch die Perspektive einer späteren – durchaus glaubwürdigen – Auseinandersetzung zwischen der jesuanischen Gemeinde und Anhängern des Täufers bringt keine wesentlichen Elemente ins Spiel, wenn es darum geht, die Problematik, welche die Frage des Täufers aufwirft, zu verstehen. Es ist sofort ersichtlich, dass die evangelischen Formulierungen zunächst Motive aber auch Wendungen übernehmen – wenngleich nicht wortwörtlich – die aus der jesajanischen Tradition stammen: zunächst Jes 35,5-6 und 61,1, aber auch Jes 26,19; 29,18-19 e 42,18. Sowohl in Jes 35 als auch in Jes 61 bezieht sich der Text nicht auf die Aktivitäten eines Einzelnen, sondern auf die möglichen Merkmale einer eschatologischen Zeit. Es fehlen aber auch jegliche Pluralformulierungen, die auf irgendeine kollektive Interpretation hinweisen könnten. Auch die Aufnahme der gleichen Motive in die Evangelien – wenngleich die Anspielung auf Jesu Tätigkeit mehrfach explizit gemacht wird (Lk 7,21 und Mt 11,1) 32 – verwendet lediglich passivische Formulierungen, die eigentlich an Formen des passivum divinum erinnern. Der Hauptunterschied zwischen den Texten aus dem Jesajabuch und Lk 7,22 besteht in der zeitlichen Dimension des Geschehens. Während das Jesajabuch eine klare Zukunftsperspektive eröffnet und sowohl eine eschatologische als auch prophetische Dimension aufweist, vermitteln die evangelischen Sätze vielmehr eine Sicht von Ereignisse, die in der Vergangenheit stattgefunden haben. Mit Sicherheit spielen in dieser Art der Übernahme Elemente des frühen Judaismus eine Rolle, die in den Texten des Jesajabuches öfters messianische Züge erkannten. 33 Und trotzdem ist es notwendig, sich mit den Parallelen zwischen 4Q521 und Lk 7,22 auseinanderzusetzen, denn gerade die frühe Rezeption der Jesaja-Prophezeiung in 4Q521 kann das Bindeglied sein, um die Rolle des ‫ משיח‬in Bezug auf die Gestalt Jesus, wie diese in Lk 7,22 dargestellt wird, zu verstehen. Qumran (Paderborn, 2007) 287‑292. Dort werden auch zahlreiche bibliographische Angaben geliefert. 31.  Siehe später unter III.B. 32.  Es fehlt einerseits in der Vorlage ein Hinweis auf die Heilung von Leprakranken. Andererseits ist auch auffällig, dass im Evangelium kein direkter Bezug auf Dämonenaustreibungen gemacht wird. 33.  Dieser Aspekt kommt nicht nur in der Rezeption dieser Texte innerhalb der synoptischen Tradition, sondern auch in der griechischen Übersetzung des Jesajabuches vor. Dazu ausführlicher J. Frey, “Der historische Jesus und der Christus der Evangelien,” in J. Schröter – R. Brucker , ed., Der historische Jesus. Tendenzen und Perspektiven der gegenwärtigen Forschung (Berlin, 2002) 273‑336.

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III. 4Q521

und

L k 7,22

Das jesuanische Selbstverständnis, das sich aus der Antwort an die Frage des Täufers ergibt, stellt das zentrale Element dar, um die zwei Texte miteinander in Verbindung zu bringen. Wenn man aber die Schlussfolgerung der bisherigen Analyse betrachtet, ergeben sich keine klaren Antworte. Weder die interpretatorischen Rahmen von 4Q521, wo unterschiedliche Möglichkeiten offen bleiben, noch die Antwort Jesu auf die Frage des Täufers, deren Valenz nicht definitiv geklärt werden kann, liefern dezisive entscheidende Elemente, um eine definitive Lösung . Eine inhaltliche und stilistische Ähnlichkeit ist zwar gegeben; dennoch ist es fraglich, ob diese Ähnlichkeit ausreichend ist, wenn es darum geht, eine direkte Beziehung zwischen beiden Texten herzustellen, um eine entsprechende Interpretation zu gestalten. Es ist vielmehr notwendig, die Ähnlichkeiten näher zu untersuchen, bevor man auf eine eschatologische Funktion der Texte und in der Folge auf ein jesuanisches messianisches Selbstverständnis schließen kann. Die Elemente der Diskontinuität dürfen dabei nicht unbeachtet bleiben. A. Parallelismen, Unterschiede, Tendenzen In einer synoptischen Aufstellung liefert die folgende Tabelle die Übersetzung der beiden zu untersuchenden Texte.  3 4 4Q521 2 II 6‑8.12‑13

Lk 7,22

6 und über den Armen (‫ )ﬠנוים‬schwebt sein Geist und bekräftig seine Gläubigen mit seiner Kraft 7 verherrlicht die Frommen auf einem Thron der ewigen Herrlichkeit 8 befreit die Gefangenen, öffnet die Augen (‫ )פקח‬den Blinden, erhebt die Gefallenen (‫)כפופים‬,

Und antwortend sagte er ihnen: gehend sagt Johannes, was ihr gesehen und gehört habt:

…

12 Ja, er wird heilen die Durchbohrten und die Toten wird er lebendig machen (‫)חיה‬, und er wird verkünden die gute Nachricht (‫ )בשׂר‬den Armen (‫)ענוים‬ 13 und die Elenden (‫ )דלים‬wird er sättigen und die Verlassenen wird er leiten und die Hungrigen wird er reich machen

die Blinden sehen (ἀναβλέπω), die Hinkenden (χωλοὶ) gehen, die Aussätzigen werden rein gemacht und die Tauben hören, die Toten stehen wieder auf (ἐγείρω), den Armen (πτωχοὶ) wird die gute Nachricht verkündet (εὐαγγελίζονται)

34.  Um die Lesung nicht unnötig zu belasten, wurde der Text von 4Q521 ohne die Rekonstruktion aufgenommen. Die lineare Unterstreichung zeigt die gemeinsamen Elemente, die wellige Unterstreichung zeigt die Wiederaufnahme von ähnlichen Motiven an.

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Auf einer rein sprachlichen Ebene sind die im Text unterstrichenen Gemeinsamkeiten zwischen 4Q521 und Lk 7,22 nicht genug, um eine literarische Abhängigkeit der lukanischen Perikope vom Text aus der vierten qumranischen Höhle zu rechtfertigen. 35 Ohne die Details einer derartigen diachronen Fragestellung diskutieren zu wollen, ist es auch nach einem summarischen Überblick ersichtlich, dass weder der Wortschatz, noch die jeweiligen Kontexte ausreichen, um eine eindeutige literarische Abhängigkeit festzustellen. Die Ähnlichkeiten sind vielmehr auf die Verwendung ähnlicher traditioneller Motive – eine jesajanische Überlieferung (?) – und auf eine gemeinsame sozio-kulturelle Tradition zurückzuführen. 36 Die Idee einer literarischen Abhängigkeit ist jedoch sehr inspirierend und aufgrund der inhaltlichen Gemeinsamkeiten auch nachvollziehbar. Formal gesehen handelt es sich in beiden Fälle um eine Auflistung; diese vermeidet Details und Erklärungen und unterstreicht vielmehr eine Reihe von Aktivitäten. In dieser relativ trockenen Aufzählung spielt vor allem die Aneinanderreihung der Elemente eine große Rolle. Nach dem Hinweis auf die Heilung von Blinden, 37 folgt in beiden Texten ein Paar in der gleichen Reihenfolge. Die Verbindung zwischen einer Auferstehung der Toten – 4Q521 verwendet dabei den gleichen Wortschatz wie Ez 37,1-10, wo ‫ חיה‬mit der Bedeutung “wieder lebendig werden / auferstehen” gleich fünfmal vorkommt – und der Verkündigung der Frohen Botschaft an die Armen ist eine einmalige Verknüpfung zwischen diesen beiden Texten im Kontext der jüdischen Literatur in der Zeit des Zweiten Tempels. 38 Diese singuläre Übereinstimmung ist sicherlich nicht zufällig und kann nicht nur 35. Eine detaillierte Analyse der beiden Texte ist in L. Novakovic , Messiah, the Healer of the Sick. A Study of Jesus as the Son of David in the Gospel of Matthew (Tübingen, 2003) 177 zu finden. Natürlich gibt es mehrere Forscher, die in 4Q521 die Vorlage des Evangelientexts erkennen wollen: J.J. Collins , “The Works of the Messiah,” Dead Sea Discoveries 1 (1994) 98‑122. Wie auch in diesem Aufsatz gezeigt wird, ist eine solche These jedoch nicht haltbar. 36.  Der kulturelle Zusammenhang der Evangelienperikopen bezieht sich sowohl auf seine Autoren/Redaktoren als auch auf die Gestalt des historischen Jesus. Die fast zwei Jahrhunderte Zeitverschiebung zwischen beiden Texten ist wenig problematisch, da der religiöse und soziale Hintergrund vergleichbar ist. So auch M. Becker , “Die ‘messianische Apokalypse’ 4Q521 und der Interpretationsrahmen der Taten Jesu,” in J. Frey – M. Becker , ed., Apokalyptik und Qumran (Paderborn, 2007) 237‑303: 295. 37. Dieses Element kommt relativ häufig vor und ist keineswegs singulär in 4Q521. 38.  Dieser Aspekt wurde von mehreren Auoren bereits beobachtet. Die Schlussfolgerungen sind dennoch ganz unterschiedlich: J.D. Tabor – M.O. Wise , “4Q521 ‚On Resurrection‘ and the Synoptic Gospel Tradition: A Preliminary Study,” Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 10 (1992) 149‑162; F. García M artínez , “Messianische Erwartungen in den Qumranschriften,” Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie 8 (1993) 171‑208 und auch J. Becker , Jesus von Nazaret (Berlin, 1996) 137.

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durch die Übernahme der gleichen jesajanischen Vorlage erklärt werden. Der Zusammenhang erlaubt jedoch einige andere Beobachtungen, die eine unterschiedliche Valenz beider Aussagen erkennen lässt. Während im Lukasevangelium die zwei Elemente praktisch die Klimax der Auflistung bilden, die als Antwort den Jüngern von Johannes dem Täufer mitgegeben wird, sind die beiden Tätigkeiten in 4Q521 lediglich zwei Glieder innerhalb einer breiteren Reihung ohne eine besondere Relevanz. Eine weitere Differenz betrifft das Verständnis der beiden Auflistungen. 4Q521 stellt mit dem Verweis auf den Messias eine zukunftsorientierte Perspektive dar und übernimmt somit ohne große Veränderungen einen Aspekt, der bereits in Jes 61,1 zu beobachten ist. 39 Der Text aus dem Jesajabuch beginnt mit der Nennung einer Salbung und öffnet sich in eine Zukunftsvision. Es ist allerdings fraglich, ob Jes 61,1-3 vor der Wiederaufnahme in den neutestamentlichen Schriften bereits als Darstellung einer messianischen Zeit verstanden wurde.  4 0 Die Antwort Jesu an die Jünger des Täufers ist außerdem präsentisch formuliert und setzt somit ein klares Selbstverständnis seitens Jesu voraus. Der Perspektivenwechsel zwischen Zukunftshoffnung und gegenwärtiger Realisierung ist nur erklärbar, wenn die Darstellung von Jes 61 unmittelbar an die Handlungen Jesu gekoppelt wird. Während Jes 61 und 4Q521 die Perspektive eines zukünftigen Heils anbieten, könnten Lk 7,22 – und der Paralleltext Mt 11,5 – aufzeigen, wie dieses Heil bereits mit Jesu Tätigkeit realisiert wird. 41 Eine oberflächige Analyse könnte Lk 7,22 durchaus in diesem Sinn verstehen. Wenn man aber genau hinschaut, findet man in der lukanischen Auflistung keinen konkreten Bezug zu Jesus als Protagonisten des Geschehens. Im Gegenteil, die Verwendung des passivum divinum und die Wiederaufnahme der alttestamentlichen jesajanischen Tradition zeigen vielmehr, dass die jesuanische Antwort weder sein Selbstverständnis als Messias ausdrücken will noch seine Aktivität erklärt oder darstellt. Lk 7,23 bezieht zwar das Gesagte auf die Person Jesu, der Text nimmt allerdings nirgends Stellung zu seiner möglichen Messianität. Lk 7,22 liefert eher den hermeneutischen 39.  In Jes 61 wird natürlich nicht auf die Auferstehung angespielt. Die drei Elemente von Jes 61,4 können dennoch in Verbindung mit Ez 37 verstanden werden. In diesem Text wird zunächst nicht die Auferstehung des Einzelnen, sondern des gesamten Volkes dargestellt. Is 61,4 bezieht sich nicht auf das Volk, sondern auf die Städte, die wiederaufgebaut werden (und somit wieder lebendig werden). Der verwendete Wortschatz und das Motiv sind ganz unterschiedlich, die vermittelte Botschaft ist dennoch identisch. 40.  Die angesprochene Situation scheint eine breitere Eschatologie im Blick zu haben und kann nicht auf eine messianische Verengung reduziert werden. M. Becker , “Die ‘messianische Apokalypse’ 4Q521 und der Interpretationsrahmen der Taten Jesu,” in J. Frey – M. Becker , ed., Apokalyptik und Qumran (Paderborn, 2007) 237‑303: 299. 41.  In diesem Zusammenhang ist es nicht notwendig, Q 7,22 gesondert zu analysieren.

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Horizont, um die Tätigkeit Jesu in einer eschatologischen Perspektive zu verstehen. Es geht demnach jedoch nicht um Jesus als Messias, sondern vielmehr um das Anbrechen der eschatologischen Zeit, die nicht auf die Tätigkeit Jesu beschränkt bleibt. In diesem Sinn sind die Aussichten von 4Q521 und Lk 7,22 sehr ähnlich. Das ist aber – wie bereits gesagt – nicht gerade verwunderlich, wenn man deren Sitz im Leben bedenkt. 42 Der sozio-religiöse Hintergrund ist sehr ähnlich und die messianische / eschatologische Erwartung war deutlich verbreitet. 43 Ausgehend von dieser Beobachtung kann 4Q521 keineswegs als eine Art literarische Vorlage gesehen werden, welche die messianische Erwartung des Judentums aus der Zeit des Zweiten Tempels und dem in den Evangelien präsentierten Jesusbild zugrundeliegt. Die traditionelle Sicht der messianischen Erwartung sieht in der Messiasgestalt drei mögliche Funktionen: Der Messias kann ein Priester, ein Prophet oder ein (davidischer) König sein.  4 4 Aufgrund dieser relativ reduzierten Perspektive bleibt zu fragen, welche Hoffnung Lk 7,22 bei seinen Zuhörern wecken möchte. Die priesterliche Funktion kann relativ schnell ausgeschlossen werden, da die beschriebenen Handlungen nichts mit den Tätigkeiten eines Priesters zu tun haben. Im Gegenteil, die genannten Kategorien von Menschen sind als unrein einzustufen und entsprechen nicht einer priesterlichen Vorstellung, wenn es um eine messianische Perspektive geht. 45 Auch eine königliche Perspektive kann ausgeschlossen werden.46 Die einzige Funktion, die übrig bleibt, ist folglich die prophetische. 42.  Das ist auch evident, wenn man bedenkt, wie die Schriften verwendet werden: C.A. Evans , “Appendix: The Recently Published Dead Sea Scrolls and the Historical Jesus,” in B. Chilton – C.A. Evans , ed., Studying the historical Jesus. Evaluations of the state of current research (Leiden, 1994) 547‑565: 552 und M. Becker , “Die ‘messianische Apokalypse’ 4Q521 und der Interpretationsrahmen der Taten Jesu,” in J. Frey – M. Becker , ed., Apokalyptik und Qumran (Paderborn, 2007) 237‑303: 296. 43. H.-W. Kuhn, “Qumran Texts and the Historical Jesus: Parallels in Contrast,” in L.H. Schiffman et al., ed., The Dead Sea scrolls. Fifty years after their discovery. Proceedings of the Jerusalem congress, July 20‑25, 1997 (Jerusalem, 2000) 573‑580. 44.  Siehe zum Beispiel die Klassifizierung bei W. Horbury, Messianism among Jews and Christians. Biblical and Historical Studies (London, 2003) und die sehr gute Untersuchung von M. K arrer , Der Gesalbte (Göttingen, 1990). 45.  Die Nennung der Reinigung der Aussätzigen, die im Lk hinzugefügt wird, scheint vielleicht doch die priesterliche Komponente ins Spiel zu bringen. Macht, über Reinheit und Unreinheitszustände zu entscheiden, hatten de facto lediglich die Priester. Und dennoch, wenn man diese Aussage im Kontext des gesamten Evangeliums liest, sieht man deutlich, dass die Bedeutung eine andere sein muss. In Lk 17,11‑19 wird nämlich die Heilung von zehn Aussätzigen erzählt. Dabei verwendet der Text das gleiche Verb wie in Lk 7,22 (καθαρίζω). In Lk 17 ist jedoch die an die Heilung anknüpfende Aussage Jesu eindeutig. Er übernimmt nicht die priesterliche Tätigkeit, den Reinheitsstatus vor dem Gesetz festzustellen, sondern schickt

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Dies verbindet dennoch keineswegs die historische Gestalt Jesu von Nazareth mit einer konkreten messianischen Typologie. 4Q521 kann dabei nicht wirklich herangezogen werden, um Lk 7,22 besser zu verstehen, aber der Vergleich zwischen 4Q521 und Lk 7,22 erlaubt trotzdem zumindest einige Präzisierungen und vielleicht einen Lösungsansatz, wenngleich die Bilder, die über Jesus in den Evangelien vermittelt werden, extrem vielfältig sind. B. Jesus als Prophet und eschatologischer Messias? Die einzigen Texte, in denen die Gestalt Jesus in einen direkten Zusammenhang mit dem Prädikat ‫ משיח‬innerhalb einer biographischen Erzählung gebracht wird, sind diejenigen, die im Kontext des Petrus-Bekenntnisses in Caesarea Philippi stehen (Mk 8,28‑29; Mt 16,14‑16 und Lk 9,19‑20). Gerade diese Texte zeigen allerdings, dass die Aussage “Du bist der Christos (ὁ χριστός)” eine deutliche Überbietung der reinen prophetischen Rolle darstellen soll. Die Schwierigkeit der ersten jesuanischen Gemeinden, die praktisch nur aus Juden bestanden haben, wird deutlich spürbar, wenn diese versuchen ein Jesusbild zu präsentieren, das mit den antiken jüdischen messianischen Vorstellungen im Einklang stehen soll. Ob diese Schwierigkeiten auch mit der konkreten historischen Tätigkeit Jesu zusammenhängen, kann man heute nicht mehr mit absoluter Sicherheit feststellen, wenngleich die Jesusforschung davon ausgeht, dass sein Selbstverständnis nur bedingt mit der Rolle eines ‫ משיח‬zu erklären sei. Und wenn dies dann wirklich der Fall sein sollte, wird auch klar, dass die Position des ‫ משיח‬nicht auf traditionelle Einstellungen reduziert wird bzw. werden kann. In diesem Sinn präsentiert die Liste der Tätigkeiten desjenigen, der “kommen wird” (ὁ ἐρχόμενος in Lk 7,20), im Bezug auf die jesajanische Vorstellung von Jes 61 ein Element der Diskontinuität in dieser Tradition. Jes 61,1 dient als Brückentext zwischen der eschatologischen Idee des Gesalbten Gottes und der Vorstellung von Lk 7,22. 4Q521 stellt wahrscheinlich ein zusätzliches Element innerhalb dieser Entwicklung dar, die ihren Ursprung in der jüdischen Reflexion der späten Zeit des Zweiten Tempels hat. 47 die zehn Geheilten zu den Priestern, damit diese die wiedergewonnene kultische Reinheit bestätigen können. 46.  Natürlich ist es möglich auf die Tradition des davidischen königlichen Messianismus hinzuweisen. Der königliche Messias muss zum Beispiel die Sicherheit des Volkes garantieren. Und trotzdem bleibt dieser Aspekt innerhalb der gesamten Evangelientradition praktisch unerwähnt. Für zusätzliche Details dazu siehe S. Schreiber , Gesalbter und König. Titel und Konzeptionen der königlichen Gesalbtenerwartung in frühjüdischen und urchristlichen Schriften (Berlin, 2000). 47.  G.J. Brooke , “Shared exegetical traditions between the scrolls and the New Testament,” in T.H. Lim – J.J. Collins , ed., The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea

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4Q521 – zusammen mit 11Q13 (Melchisedek) 48 – ist zweifelsohne ein wesentlicher Text. Zum ersten Mal werden darin die Idee der Salbung mit der eschatologischen Erwartung von Jes 61,1 und Ps 146,7-8 verbunden. Und trotzdem ist sehr viel Vorsicht geboten, will man das Selbstverständnis Jesu verstehen und es damit verbinden. In seiner Antwort auf die Frage des Täufers verwendet Jesus Formen des passivum divinum; und lediglich die Wahrnehmung, dass er als Wunderheiler tätig war, reicht keineswegs aus, die vorgetragene Auflistung von Handlungen als Ausdruck seiner messianischen Tätigkeit zu sehen. Die Auflistung aus Lk 7,22 zeigt unmissverständlich, dass Jesus sich als Werkzeug Gottes versteht. Gott ist eigentlich derjenige, der die Heilungen und die Wunder bewirkt, während Jesus dabei keine ausdrückliche messianische Funktion verkörpert. Die Verbindung zwischen Salbung und Geist kann jedoch nur realisiert werden, wenn Jesus selber als Handelnder agiert. Somit kommt er in eine prophetische Rolle, die in einem eschatologischen Kontext auch eine messianische Funktion einnehmen kann. Die Antwort Jesu zeigt, dass ein solches Selbstverständnis durchaus möglich gewesen ist. Er übernimmt eine alttestamentliche Tradition in einem Sinn, der – wie 4Q521 beweist – im Judentum seiner Zeit durchaus geläufig war. Er nutzt eine eschatologische Tradition und er breitet sie auf eine aktualisierende Weise aus, um eine klare und präzise Botschaft zu vermitteln. Die Aussagen Jesu zeigen Elemente einer messianischen Zeit, die er vermittelt und mitteilt. Er bezieht sich auf traditionelle Elemente (Jes 61) wobei diese frei übernommen, verändert und uminterpretiert werden. Dank der Verbindung zu Jes 61 wird die Idee eines Messias, der vom Geist bewegt wird, so wie in 4Q521, in einem eschatologischen und prophetischen Sinne präzisiert, wie Lk 7,22 verdeutlicht. 49 Die unmittelbare Reaktion auf die Frage des Täufers zeigt wiederum die eschatologische Komponente. Die Antwort Jesu ist – genau genommen – keine Antwort, und dennoch wird die Perspektive, die aus ihr hervorgeht, weiter verfolgt. 50 Scrolls (Oxford, 2010) 565‑591. 48. 11Q13 müsste in diesem Zusammenhang tiefgreifender analysiert werden. Hier sei vorläufig auf folgende Sekundärliteratur verwiesen: M. Navon, “Von Melchisedek zu Jesus: Der Ewige Hohepriester in der Literatur des Zweiten Tempels,” Freiburger Rundbrief 18,1 (2011) 2‑12 und auch U. Dahmen – H.-J. Fabry, “Melchisedek in Bibel und Qumran,” in E. Gass – H.-J. Stipp, ed., « Ich werde meinen Bund mit euch niemals brechen! » (Ri 2,1). Festschrift für Walter Groß zum 70. Geburtstag (Freiburg, 2011) 377‑398. 49. Es ist de facto ein erster Versuch einer christologischen Reflexion! Dazu M. Becker , “4Q521 und die Gesalbten,” Revue de Qumrân 18 (1997) 73‑96: 92‑96. 50.  Im letzten Buch des Neuen Testamentes nämlich wird ὁ ἐρχόμενος unmiss­ verständlich mit der Figur der verherrlichten Gottheit identifiziert (Offb 1,4.8; 4,8). Ähnlich auch in Heb 10,37.

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IV. S ch lus sfolg e ru ng e n

und

A usbl ick

Die Rolle, die Jesus in Lk 7,22 zukommt, ist die eines messianischen und eschatologischen Propheten. Diese Beschreibung – oder dieses Selbstverständnis, wobei an dieser Stelle die Diskussion zum historischen Wert von der Erzählung in Lk 7,22 die Grenze dieses Aufsatzes sprengen würde – eröffnet ganz andere Möglichkeiten, die ganz klar über die naive Übernahme alter Traditionen hinausgehen. In seiner Antwort verwendet Jesus nämlich die Formen des Indikativ Präsens und überbietet somit die Perspektive von Jes 61, indem er die Heilung von Aussätzigen mitbedenkt. Die Erzählungen von Wunderheilungen, die im Kontext dieser Aussage zu lesen sind, zeigen unmissverständlich, dass die Besonderheit von Lk 7,22 nicht darin besteht, dass Jesus die Realisierung der messianischen Zeit in seiner Gegenwart proklamiert, sondern dass er die eschatologische Hoffnung des Täufers – ὁ ἐρχόμενος – mit eschatologischen Werken verbindet. Diese Werke sind dennoch in erster Linie keine messianischen Tätigkeiten, sondern Handlungen Gottes. In diesem Sinne geht Jesu Selbstverständnis deutlich über ein prophetisches Amt hinaus. Das ist nur verständlich, wenn man die aktualisierende Wiederaufnahme von Jes 61 und die Bedeutungsverschiebung von 4Q521 mitbedenkt. Trotz der Unterschiede und der notwendigen Präzisierungen und des Perspektivenwechsels in der Beziehung zwischen 4Q521 und Lk 7,22 besteht kein Zweifel, dass die Handschrift aus der judäischen Wüste ein ganz wichtiger Text bleibt, will man die Gestalt des historischen Jesus und seine Aktivität besser verstehen. 51

51.  J. Vanderkam – P. Flint, The Meaning of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Their Significance for Understanding the Bible, Judaism, Jesus and Christianity (London, 2002) 332.

UNA REDAZIONE PIENA DI MEMORIA. L’INDISPENSABILE CONTRIBUTO DI MT 21,31C-32 ALLA CONOSCENZA STORICA DI GESÙ E GIOVANNI IL BATTISTA Federico A dinolfi Nel presente articolo intendo riesaminare il detto di Gesù sui pubblicani e le prostitute che credettero a Giovanni (Mt 21,31c-32) e mostrare il notevole contributo che esso è in grado di offrire alla nostra conoscenza storica su entrambi i personaggi. Il fatto di considerare congiuntamente i vv. 31c-32 può certo apparire singolare, dal momento che l’attenzione degli studiosi s’indirizza di norma al solo v. 31c – «un logion che, a motivo del suo contenuto sconvolgente, è stato considerato, quasi unanimemente, un detto autentico di Gesù» 1 –, vuoi come tradizione autonoma, vuoi – più di rado – come conclusione originaria della parabola dei due figli; laddove il v. 32 viene attribuito interamente a Matteo oppure considerato una versione redazionale della tradizione Q riportata in Lc 7,29‑30 2 . Contrariamente a questi diffusi giudizi, argomenterò che esistono fondati motivi per ritenere che il detto includesse sin dall’origine il riferimento al Battista e alla sua venuta «nella via della giustizia», per quanto il v. 32, nella forma attuale, sia innegabilmente editoriale. Si tratta di uno di quei casi in cui, come vedremo, lo storico ha buone ragioni per impugnare la sentenza dell’analisi redazionale. Siccome però un discorso del 1.  J. Gnilka, Il Vangelo di Matteo. Parte seconda, Brescia, 1991, p. 332. Similmente J. Schlosser , Le règne de Dieu dans le dits de Jésus, Paris, 1980, p. 461. In realtà anche il v. 31c risulta sorprendentemente trascurato nella letteratura degli ultimi anni. Sfogliando molte recenti monografie su Gesù, si può constatare come sovente esso non compaia affatto o venga citato in modo alquanto cursorio. 2.  L’unità di Mt 21,31c-32 è tuttavia mantenuta da una minoranza di studiosi: E.P. Sanders , The Historical Figure of Jesus, London, 1993, p. 227, 229, 232; J.E. Taylor , The Immerser: John the Baptist within Second Temple Judaism, Grand Rapids, 1997, p. 119‑123, 305‑309; A.J. Hultgren, Le parabole di Gesù, Brescia, 2004, p. 221‑222; K. Snodgrass , Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus, Grand Rapids, 2008, p. 271‑273; C.L. Blomberg, «The Authenticity and Significance of Jesus’ Table Fellowship with Sinners», in D.L. Bock – R.L. Webb (ed.), Key Events in the Life of the Historical Jesus, Tübingen, 2009, p. 237‑238; M. Casey, Jesus of Nazareth, London-New York, 2010, p. 312, 364. Per Taylor, Hultgren, Snodgrass e Blomberg i vv. 31c-32 costituiscono un’unità originaria non solo tra loro, ma anche con la parabola dei due figli ai vv. 28‑31ab. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 129–150 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111701 ©

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genere potrebbe dar adito a equivoci, sarà bene spendere prima qualche parola su alcune discusse questioni di metodo. I. D i scl a i m e r

m etodologico

Forse come comprensibile reazione ad una certa “esuberanza autenticatrice” che ha caratterizzato la ricerca su Gesù negli anni ‘90 3, oggi l’idea che sia necessario, possibile e desiderabile decostruire le pericopi evangeliche, cercando di tracciarne la storia della tradizione, conta sempre meno estimatori. La ricerca sul Gesù storico sta attraversando attualmente una fase molto delicata di profonda revisione delle sue procedure. Particolarmente sotto accusa è l’assunto secondo cui la figura storica di Gesù sia raggiungibile solo scavando al di sotto delle rappresentazioni che ne danno i vangeli – ovvero liberandola dai vari accrescimenti depositatisi parallelamente agli sviluppi teologici e storico-sociali attraversati dai gruppi che ne coltivarono la memoria – e che tale obiettivo sia praticabile mediante l’applicazione di alcuni appositi “criteri di autenticità” 4 . I sintomi di insoddisfazione nei confronti di questa ricerca del Gesù “sepolto” al di sotto dei vangeli, si sono manifestati in forme differenti e con una pluralità di proposte alternative: dalla posizione conservatrice sulla storicità generale dei vangeli (compreso quello di Giovanni) in ragione della presunta affidabilità mnemonica dei testimoni oculari che ne sarebbero all’origine 5, alla posizione più moderata e leggermente scettica secondo cui l’unico Gesù realmente accessibile è il “Gesù ricordato/interpretato” attestato nei motivi più ricorrenti della tradizione sinottica 6, fino 3.  Eloquenti al riguardo i titoli delle seguenti pubblicazioni: R.W. Funk – R.W. Hoover & the Jesus Seminar (ed.), The Five Gospels: The Search for the Authentic Words of Jesus, San Francisco, 1993; B.D. Chilton – C.A. Evans (ed.), Authenticating the Words of Jesus, Boston-Leiden, 1999; B.D. Chilton – C.A. Evans (ed.), Authenticating the Activities of Jesus, Boston-Leiden, 1999; G. Lüdemann, Jesus After 2000 Years: What He Really Said and Did, London, 2000; G. Vermes , The Authentic Gospel of Jesus, London, 2003. 4.  Per alcune critiche all’impiego dei criteri di autenticità, vedi R. Rodriguez , «Authenticating Criteria: The Use and Misuse of a Critical Method», Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 7 (2009), p. 152‑167; D.C. A llison, «How to Marginalize the Traditional Criteria of Authenticity», in T. Holmén – S.E. Porter (ed.), Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus. Vol. 1: How to Study the Historical Jesus, Leiden-Boston, 2011, p. 3‑30; C. K eith – A. L e Donne (ed.), Jesus, Criteria and the Demise of Authenticity, London-New York, 2012. 5.  Vedi R. Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, Grand Rapids, 2006. 6.  Vedi J.D.G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered, Grand Rapids, 2003; D.C. A llison, Constructing Jesus: Memory, Imagination, and History, Grand Rapids-London, 2010. Essendo nota la fiducia di Dunn nella stabilità della tradizione orale, è naturalmente per Allison che si può parlare di una certa venatura “scettica”. Essi conver-

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agli approcci che tentano una rifondazione storiografica complessiva della ricerca su Gesù in accordo con le teorie sulla memoria sociale o culturale 7, oppure in prospettiva socio-antropologica 8. Evidentemente, non può essere questa la sede per un confronto con un dibattito di così vasta portata. Mi limiterò quindi ad esprimere alcune osservazioni di carattere generale su ciò che mi sembra potersi accogliere, e cosa no, di questo processo di ripensamento metodologico tutt’ora in corso. Credo anzitutto che si possa essere d’accordo con il ridimensionamento delle nostre pretese conoscitive su cui insistono le voci di orientamento più scettico 9. Ciò a cui possiamo ragionevolmente ambire è individuare i livelli più antichi nell’intreccio di ricordi, impressioni e interpretazioni di Gesù e della sua vicenda, per lo più testimoniati dalla tradizione sinottica, nella rassegnata consapevolezza che in molti casi non vi è modo di distinguere ciò che plausibilmente può essere attribuito a Gesù da ciò che altrettanto plausibilmente può essere sorto nel contesto della vita e dell’attività dei gruppi di seguaci in Terra d’Israele nei primi decenni dopo la sua morte (cioè in una situazione di forte continuità sociale e culturale con la missione di Gesù). Anche la tesi che il Gesù storico debba essere ricercato in primo luogo nelle impressioni e nei motivi più ricorrenti attestati nelle fonti (quelle più antiche e ritenute affidabili), anziché dietro e contro di essi 10, mi sembra gono, tuttavia, nel ritenere che il Gesù storico sia da ricercare nel Gesù “caratteristico” o “ricorrente” della tradizione sinottica. 7.  Vedi A. L e Donne , The Historiographical Jesus: Memory, Typology, and the Son of David, Waco, 2009; I d., The Historical Jesus: What Can We Know and How Can We Know It?, Grand Rapids, 2011; R. Rodriguez , Structuring Early Christian Memory: Jesus in Tradition, Performance and Text, London-New York, 2009; C. K eith, Jesus’ Literacy: Scribal Culture and the Teacher from Galilee, LondonNew York, 2011. 8.  Vedi P.F. Craffert, The Life of a Galilean Shaman: Jesus of Nazareth in Anthropological-Historical Perspective, Eugene, 2008. 9.  Allison in particolare, seguito ora anche da Crossley: «we should be content with generalizations about the early tradition that we might reasonably associate with the social upheavals of Galilee and Palestine roughly around the time Jesus was growing up […] making claims about the earliest tradition which are likely to have been in proximity to where Jesus was said to be active. Beyond this, who knows what actually happened?» (J.G. Crossley, Jesus and the Chaos of History: Redirecting the Life of the Historical Jesus, Oxford, 2015. Vedi inoltre le conclusioni di Eric Eve nella sua rassegna del dibattito corrente su memoria e oralità: E. Eve , Behind the Gospels: Understanding Oral Tradition, London, 2013, p. 181‑183. 10.  «One must quest for the historical Jesus by accounting for the interpretations of the Gospels, not by dismissing them» (C. K eith, Jesus’ Literacy: Scribal Culture and the Teacher from Galilee, London-New York, 2011, p. 66); «[Historical-critical Jesus research] its goal cannot be to reach the one Jesus behind texts but to reach a conception grounded on the weighing of plausibilities, which as an

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un correttivo potenzialmente benefico 11: a patto però che tale ricognizione del “Gesù ricordato” o “caratteristico” avvenga sempre prestando speciale attenzione a tutte quelle tracce di contro-memorie 12 e di memorie residuali che giacciono a margine o al di sotto delle memorie dominanti presentate dai vangeli. Mi sembra opportuno, a questo riguardo, citare quanto scrivono Adriana Destro e Mauro Pesce a proposito dell’importanza di riconoscere ciò che le rappresentazioni evangeliche veicolano involontariamente o loro malgrado: nei testi esistono tracce nascoste di eventi passati, a volte minime o tenui […]. È qualcosa che sembra del tutto diverso da quello che il testo sta raccontando. È il residuo di una vita o il riflesso di un passato scomparso che la narrazione porta in sé solo implicitamente […]. Una decostruzione delle rappresentazioni dei testi, delle loro varianti da scritto a scritto, è perciò essenziale per impedire che vengano corrose le tracce storiche che contengono. 13

Si tratta di una questione cruciale. Il richiamo a procedere di fronte ai testi ha senso solamente all’interno di un processo interpretativo che coordini l’attenzione alle rappresentazioni che i vangeli ci danno di Gesù con l’attenzione per ciò che essi lasciano trasparire sotto la superficie, l’ascolto abstraction from the sources always moves in front of the sources» (J. Schröter , Jesus of Nazareth: Jew from Galilee, Savior of the World, Waco, 2014, p. 17). Similmente anche P.F. Craffert, The Life of a Galilean Shaman, Eugene, 2008, p. 89. 11.  La preoccupazione di pervenire ad un profilo storico di Gesù che risulti sostanzialmente compatibile con le rappresentazioni che di lui offrono le fonti migliori, dovrebbe impedire la costruzione di modelli altamente problematici come, ad esempio, il “Gesù cinico” e non-escatologico di recente memoria. 12.  Le Donne ha mostrato efficacemente la proficuità di “triangolare” memorie divergenti, al fine di individuare la posizione in cui collocare plausibilmente Gesù. Ad es. Mc 14,56‑59 e Gv 2,18‑21 suggeriscono una profezia o perfino una pretesa storica di Gesù in ordine alla distruzione e ricostruzione del tempio. Non citata da Le Donne, ma del tutto coerente con la sua proposta, è la possibile “triangolazione” di un’antica memoria di Giovanni il Battista come taumaturgo alla luce di Mc 6,14b; Lc 1,17; Q 7,33; Gv 10,41. 13.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , Il racconto e la scrittura, Roma, 2014, p. 76‑77. Per un buon esempio di questo genere di “tracce”, mi permetto di rimandare a J.E. Taylor – F. A dinolfi, «John the Baptist and Jesus the Baptist», Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 10 (2012), p. 247‑284, dove sosteniamo la tesi che l’autore del Vangelo di Marco conoscesse un’attività battezzatrice di Gesù in Galilea, di cui resta traccia negli scenari ricorrenti di “acqua, deserto e folle” (del tutto simili a quelli associati a Giovanni) in cui egli colloca l’attività di Gesù, oltre che in tradizioni quali Mc 1,17 e 6,14‑15. Tale memoria venne da Marco in parte accantonata e in parte riconfigurata in ordine alla sua presentazione di Gesù quale “più forte” che battezza in spirito santo attraverso esorcismi e guarigioni (a loro volta un ricordo storico di un’attività purificatoria interiore originariamente complementare a quella esteriore battesimale).

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simpatetico delle loro voci con uno sguardo critico che sappia cogliere quanto esse tacciono o vorrebbero mettere a tacere. Da questo punto di vista non solo mantengono tutto il loro valore le procedure classiche volte a individuare le tendenze editoriali degli evangelisti, e, muovendo da lì, tentare eventualmente anche la decostruzione storico-tradizionale delle pericopi evangeliche, ma resta a mio avviso valido anche il ricorso ai tanto contestati “criteri di autenticità” (eventualmente da rinominare, più modestamente, come “indici di plausibilità storica”), tanto più che alcuni degli stessi critici dell’approccio tradizionale continuano a farne uso 14 . È senz’altro possibile, dunque, accogliere l’invito a fare del confronto con il Gesù “caratteristico” dei vangeli (sinottici) il primo momento (orientativo) e l’ultimo (di verifica) del processo di elaborazione di un’ipotesi storica. Ma perché questo dovrebbe comportare una rinuncia a svolgere anche un esame diacronico del materiale gesuano, a discernere i diversi strati di memoria in esso depositati, a valutarne il differente peso specifico, nonché a concedersi di tanto in tanto il lusso di investire su alcuni singoli elementi particolarmente cruciali per l’ipotesi storica stessa (siano essi singoli hard facts o singoli detti), sostenendone la plausibilità anche mediante il ricorso ai vecchi “criteri”? II. R e da z iona l e …

qu i n di s tor ico

Fatta questa precisazione, vorrei ora soffermarmi su un paio di casi che reputo interessanti, in quanto vi si può constatare un tendenziale conflitto tra ragioni per attribuire un certo passo al redattore del testo e ragioni contrarie che inducono a ritenere che esso possieda nondimeno un consistente spessore storico. Si tratta di due esempi praticamente opposti: da una parte un sommario di sicura formulazione redazionale, alle cui spalle si ritiene comunemente stia una tradizione antica e storica (Mc 1,15); dall’altra un’introduzione palesemente redazionale, per la quale di norma non si suppone alcun fondamento tradizionale e storico (Lc 19,11). Mc 1,14‑15. Benché in passato questo sommario sia stato considerato interamente editoriale, oggi l’opinione prevalente è che l’evangelista abbia composto la prima parte (v. 14), verosimilmente attingendo a notizie tradizionali, mentre per quanto riguarda la formulazione del messaggio di Gesù 14.  Con qualche riserva, i criteri continuano ad essere applicati da Anthony Le Donne. Lo stesso mi sembra si possa dire di Crossley che, pur dichiarando a parole la propria disillusione circa la loro efficacia e orientandosi piuttosto a produrre argomenti di tipo cumulativo, continua di fatto a impiegare di volta in volta la logica che governa i criteri di plausibilità storica, imbarazzo/dissomiglianza dal cristianesimo, molteplice attestazione e aramaismi.

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(v. 15), vi si rifletterebbe in parte il linguaggio missionario delle prime comunità (cfr. Q 10,9; 1 Cor 15,1-2; Gal 4,4) oppure una formula battesimale (cfr. Rm 13,12), dove in ogni caso i due stichi centrali preserverebbero un ricordo storico della predicazione gesuana (ἤγγικεν ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ· μετανοεῖτε) 15. Gli studiosi sono pertanto generalmente inclini a considerare Mc 1,14‑15 una testimonianza sostanzialmente affidabile, sia per quanto riguarda l’annuncio che il regno di Dio si è fatto vicino (mentre si registra qualche incertezza riguardo alla storicità dell’appello al pentimento) 16, sia in riferimento alla contestualizzazione (redazionale) dell’inizio dell’attività di Gesù in Galilea successivamente all’arresto di Giovanni 17. Vi è tuttavia anche chi ha sostenuto che, proprio in ragione della sua forma complessivamente redazionale (senza curarsi troppo dei dettagli) Mc 1,15 dovrebbe al contrario essere depennato dall’inventario dei detti di Gesù e assegnato alla teologia apocalittica del Vangelo di Marco 18. Ed è proprio a questo genere di obiezione che sembrano particolarmente dirette 15.  Vedi J. Gnilka, Marco, Assisi, 1987, p. 72‑73; J. M arcus , Mark 1‑8, New York, 1999, p. 174; E. Trocmé , L’évangile selon Saint Marc, Genève, 2000, p. 39‑40; C. Focant, L’évangile selon Marc, Paris, 2004, p. 79; R.H. Stein, Mark, Grand Rapids, 2008, p. 69‑70. 16.  Vedi J. Schlosser , Le règne de Dieu dans le dits de Jésus, Paris, 1980, p. 91‑109; J.P. M eier , A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Vol. 2: Mentor, Message, and Miracles, New York, 1994, p. 430‑434; J. Becker , Jesus of Nazareth, New York-Berlin, 1998, p. 118‑119; J.D.G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered, Grand Rapids, 2003, p. 407‑408, 437‑438, 498‑500; M. Casey, Jesus of Nazareth, LondonNew York, 2010, p. 218‑219, 282‑284. 17.  E questo nonostante la solidarietà, possibilmente sospetta, di questo dato temporale sia con il piano narrativo di Marco, interessato a evocare nel prologo il compimento delle profezie (da Isaia a Giovanni e da questi a Gesù), sia con la sua tendenza a inquadrare Giovanni come colui che precede Gesù lungo la comune via di “annuncio-e-consegna”. A ciò si aggiunge anche la verosimiglianza storica, suggerita dal Quarto Vangelo, di una precedente attività pubblica di Gesù in Giudea nel quadro della missione del Battista. Tutto questo non squalifica la correttezza dell’informazione cronologico-causale di Mc 1,14: vedi la proposta di Murphy O’Connor, secondo cui Gesù, in seguito all’arresto del Battista, si recò in Galilea precisamente per proseguire in quella regione la missione riformatrice e battezzatrice di Giovanni a cui aveva già collaborato in Giudea. Cfr.  J. Murphy O’Connor , «John the Baptist and Jesus: History and Hypotheses», New Testament Studies 36 (1990), p. 359‑374. L’ottima intuizione di Murphy O’Connor è stata sviluppata in modo più convincente (cioè abbandonando l’inverosimile tesi di una successiva rottura di Gesù nei confronti del programma di Giovanni) prima in G. Twelftree , «Jesus the Baptist», Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 7 (2009), p. 103‑125, poi in J.E. Taylor – F. A dinolfi, «John the Baptist and Jesus the Baptist: A Narrative Critical Approach», Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 10 (2012), p. 247‑284. 18.  Vedi le ripetute osservazioni a riguardo in M.J. Borg, Jesus in Contemporary Scholarship, Harrisburg, 1994, p. 16, 38, 86‑87.

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le recenti considerazioni di Dale Allison (che hanno stimolato in misura significativa il presente articolo): even if they are [the words in Mark 1:14‑15] Mark’s redactional work, they are full of memory. Jesus taught in Galilee, announced the imminent coming of the kingdom of God, spoke of the time of Satan’s rule was coming to its end, and associated his ministry with Deutero-Isaiah (the language which Mark reflects). So, from one point of view the origin of Mark 1:14‑15 does not matter. If Jesus did not utter it, it nonetheless rightly informs us about him. 19

Un ragionamento alquanto persuasivo, per quanto la premessa sia forse un po’ troppo generosa – ovvero la possibilità che il sommario sia al 100% una composizione redazionale dell’evangelista, anziché avere un riconoscibile nucleo tradizionale. Vediamo perciò ora il caso diametralmente opposto, dove la plausibilità storica entra in collisione con la palese origine redazionale. Lc 19,11. Questo straordinario versetto, che attribuisce al gruppo dei discepoli 20, giunto in prossimità di Gerusalemme, la convinzione che «il regno di Dio stesse per manifestarsi all’istante» (παραχρῆμα μέλλει ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ ἀναφαίνεσθαι), è incontestabilmente una composizione redazionale 21 con cui l’evangelista ha costruito una transizione tra l’episodio di Zaccheo (19,1-10, dal materiale speciale “L”) e la parabola del pretendente al trono (19,12‑27, probabilmente da Q), impostando così la prospettiva corretta entro cui leggere gli eventi gerosolimitani (e ulteriori), a partire dall’ingresso regale che segue subito dopo (19,29‑40) 22 .

19.  D.C. A llison, «It Don’t Come Easy: A History of Disillusionment», in C. K eith – A. L e Donne (ed.), Jesus, Criteria and the Demise of Authenticity, London-New York, 2012, p. 196. 20.  Il pronome αὐτούς va riferito specificamente ai discepoli, e non genericamente alla folla della scena precedente. Luca infatti ha evidenziato poco sopra l’incapacità dei discepoli di comprendere il destino di sofferenza che attende Gesù (Lc 18,31‑34; cfr. 9,43‑45): conseguentemente, sono proprio i discepoli che, entrando in Gerusalemme, proclamano la regalità di Gesù (Lc 19,37‑38) ed è sempre a loro che viene attribuita una prematura aspettativa escatologica in Lc 24,21 e At 1,6. Vedi R.C. Tannehill , The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts. Vol. 1, Philadelphia, 1986, p. 258‑259. 21.  Così praticamente tutti i commentatori. Vedi in particolare J. Jeremias , Die Sprache des Lukasevangeliums, Göttingen, 1980, p. 277‑278; C.F. Evans , Saint Luke, London, 1990, p. 670. 22.  L’interpretazione della parabola è controversa. Sicuramente, attraverso l’introduzione, si intende ridefinire il timing dell’avvento del regno. Nell’economia complessiva del racconto lucano, riecheggiano inoltre i temi della regalità osteggiata di Gesù che sarà riconosciuta solo a seguito del suo viaggio/ascensione celeste, l’intraprendenza missionaria che deve animare nel frattempo i discepoli e il tragico destino che attende Gerusalemme.

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Eppure, a dispetto della manifesta origine editoriale, negli ultimi anni questo passo è stato significativamente rivalutato 23. Con tutta la prudenza del caso, Allison lo prende in considerazione insieme alla domanda circa la prossima restaurazione d’Israele in At 1,6, quale prova che, per lo meno nella mente di Luca, i seguaci di Gesù erano animati da un’intensa attesa escatologica già prima di Pasqua: con questo esplicito negare la vicinanza della fine – si domanda Allison – l’evangelista non sta protestando un po’ troppo? 24 Per lo storico danese Per Bilde, la risposta è decisamente affermativa: la ragione per cui l’autore del Vangelo di Luca è così ansioso di correggere l’equivoco circa la venuta immediata del regno di Dio è che precisamente questa era la reale aspettativa storica con cui Gesù e i discepoli si erano messi in viaggio verso Gerusalemme. Tale ipotesi troverebbe sostegno decisivo in due ulteriori testi “correttivi” lucani, Lc 24,21 e At 1,6‑8: Based on the information of these three texts there can be little doubt that […] the historical Jesus and his followers headed for Jerusalem, because they expected that during the upcoming Passover, by the force of the Jewish god himself, Jesus would be inaugurated and enthroned as the Messiah in power and glory in the holy city, perhaps at Mount Zion, and that he would then drive out the Romans, restore the twelve tribes of Israel, bring about the kingdom of god and build the new temple. 25

Ora, è evidente che sostenere un’ipotesi storica così importante facendo leva su tre passi redazionali di un autore che scrive intorno al 90 e.v. con una chiara percezione del problema del ritardo della parusia, è un’operazione che pone serie riserve di ordine metodologico. E tuttavia credo che valga la pena notare il considerevole potere esplicativo che una notizia come quella di Lc 19,11 possiede in rapporto all’epilogo della vicenda gesuana. Ipotizzare infatti che Gesù e il suo gruppo fossero giunti a Gerusalemme avendo in testa delle aspettative escatologiche così intense circa l’avvento del regno di Dio, consentirebbe di spiegare molto bene sia la morte politica del leader – dato l’ovvio impatto destabilizzante di un simile annuncio nel delicato contesto simbolico della festa, con la città gremita di pellegrini 26 23.  D.C. A llison, Constructing Jesus: History, Memory, and Imagination, Grand Rapids, 2010, p. 65‑67; P. Bilde , The Originality of Jesus: A Critical Discussion and Comparative Attempt, Göttingen, 2013, p. 33, 149‑152. Cfr. G. Vermes , The Authentic Gospel of Jesus, London, 2003, p. 382. 24.  Vedi D.C. A llison, Constructing Jesus: History, Memory, and Imagination, Grand Rapids, 2010, p. 65‑67. 25.  P. Bilde , The Originality of Jesus: A Critical Discussion and Comparative Attempt, Göttingen, 2013, p. 152. 26.  Vedi P. Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, New York, 1999, p. 241‑259. Pur adattandosi perfettamente alla sua ricostruzione degli eventi finali

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–, sia il fatto che le apparizioni di Gesù siano state interpretate attraverso una categoria prettamente escatologica come quella di risurrezione (generale) dai morti (cfr. 1 Cor 15,20) 27. Il risultato è paradossale: per quanto Lc 19,11 sia un passo redazionale composto in epoca relativamente tarda e in pieno accordo con le tendenze editoriali dell’autore, nondimeno esso offre un’informazione storicamente plausibile e dal notevole potere esplicativo 28. Prendendo atto dell’esistenza di questi casi-limite, dove analisi redazionale e valutazioni strettamente storiche forniscono responsi tendenzialmente contrari, ci accostiamo ora a Mt 21,31‑32. III. Mt 21,32:

versione redazionale di un logion proveniente da

Q?

Per prima cosa è necessario dire una parola sull’ipotesi che Mt 21,32 possa rappresentare la versione matteana di un detto tradizionale proveniente dalla fonte Q, la cui collocazione originaria sarebbe riprodotta in Lc 7,29‑30. Mt 21,32

Lc 7,29‑30

ἦλθεν γὰρ Ἰωάννης πρὸς ὑμᾶς ἐν ὁδῷ δικαιοσύνης, καὶ οὐκ ἐπιστεύσατε αὐτῷ, οἱ δὲ τελῶναι καὶ αἱ πόρναι ἐπίστευσαν αὐτῷ· ὑμεῖς δὲ ἰδόντες οὐδὲ μετεμελήθητε ὕστερον τοῦ πιστεῦσαι αὐτῷ

καὶ πᾶς ὁ λαὸς ἀκούσας καὶ οἱ τελῶναι ἐδικαίωσαν τὸν θεὸν βαπτισθέντες τὸ βάπτισμα Ἰωάννου· 30 οἱ δὲ Φαρισαῖοι καὶ οἱ νομικοὶ τὴν βουλὴν τοῦ θεοῦ ἠθέτησαν εἰς ἑαυτοὺς μὴ βαπτισθέντες ὑπ᾽ αὐτοῦ 29

del ministero di Gesù, Fredriksen sviluppa la propria argomentazione senza fare ricorso a Lc 19,11. 27.  «Stories of an empty grave and Resurrection appearances had to have been made in a highly charged apocalyptic context where the end was imminent […] Only in such an atmosphere would appearances and an empty tomb be interpreted in an unparalleled way as resurrection» (H.K. Bond, The Historical Jesus: A Guide for the Perplexed, London-New York, 2012, p. 173). Bond riprende qui un’argomentazione su cui Dale Allison ha insistito in numerose pubblicazioni. 28.  Dal punto di vista dei criteri di autenticità, Lc 19,11 potrebbe quindi soddisfare il criterio di “rifiuto ed esecuzione” e quello più generale di “intelligibilità storica”, secondo cui un certo elemento può essere considerato autentico nella misura in cui consente di spiegare e di comprendere in modo soddisfacente un altro elemento la cui storicità è solida; vedi T. Holmén, «Criteria of Authenticity», in C.A. Evans (ed.), Encyclopedia of the Historical Jesus, New York, 2008, p. 50‑51. A questi si potrebbe infine aggiungere il criterio di “coerenza”, dal momento che la prospettiva di una fervente attesa escatologica a brevissimo termine appare anche in Q 22,28.30 (giudicare/governare le 12 tribù riunite) e Mc 10,37 (sedere alla destra e sinistra di Gesù nella sua gloria). La ragione per cui mi esprimo al condizionale è che, a rigore, materiale di chiara origine redazionale come Lc 19,11 andrebbe messo da parte preliminarmente all’applicazione dei criteri di autenticità.

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Gli specialisti sono notevolmente divisi intorno al problema se sia possibile o meno vedere al di sotto di questi due passi una tradizione comune 29. L’autorevole Critical Edition of Q opta per l’inclusione (seppur con grande incertezza) senza riuscire a proporre una ricostruzione soddisfacente del testo (ἦλθεν γὰρ ᾿Ιωάννης πρὸς ὑμᾶς .. οἱ .. τελῶναι καὶ … ἐ…σαν… δὲ … αὐτ…) – cosa che in effetti praticamente nessuno è riuscito a fare. Non essendovi spazio qui per affrontare in modo approfondito la questione, e avendo già scritto sull’argomento altrove 30, basterà dire che mi trovo d’accordo con gli studiosi che reputano le concordanze verbali troppo esigue per giustificare una ragionevole derivazione comune (᾿Ιωάννης/᾿Ιωάννου, οἱ τελῶναι, δικαιοσύνης/ἐδικαίωσαν, insieme ad una generica affinità tematica e strutturale). In aggiunta a ciò, esiste anche il serio problema che un’ipotetica tradizione Q collocata questo punto (tra Q 7,24-28 e 7,31-35) sarebbe in tensione tanto con ciò che precede (l’elogio di Giovanni di fronte alle folle amiche) quanto con ciò che segue (la parabola dei bambini con la polemica contro «questa generazione») e questo sia che si provi a ricostruire il testo lungo le linee della versione lucana – ovvero una parentesi editoriale che in quanto tale sarebbe un unicum in Q e che costituirebbe comunque una conclusione decisamente anti-climatica rispetto all’efficace crescendo retorico di Q 7,24‑28 –, sia che si opti invece per una ricostruzione prossima alla versione di Matteo, ossia che includa ἦλθεν γὰρ Ἰωάννης πρὸς ὑμᾶς, nel qual caso ci ritroveremmo con un contrasto pressoché intollerabile tra il «voi» amico delle folle ai vv. 24‑28 e l’improvviso «voi» ostile immediatamente dopo nell’ipotetico Q 7,29. La mia opinione è quindi che Lc 7,29‑30 rappresenti un raccordo redazionale 31 con cui Luca ha cercato di addolcire una discontinuità originaria29.  Favorevoli: W. Schenk , Synopse zur Redenquelle der Evangelien, Düsseldorf, 1981, p. 45‑46; H. Schürmann, Il Vangelo di Luca. Parte prima, Brescia, 1983, p. 676‑677; D.R. Catchpole , The Quest for Q, Edinburgh, 1993, p. 66 n. 28; C.S. Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity, Edinburgh, 1996, p. 116 n. 33; J. L ambrecht, Out of the Treasure: The Parables in the Gospel of Matthew, Leuven, 1998, p. 95‑97 (forse preceduto da Mt 21,31c); J.M. Robinson – P. Hoff­ mann – J.S. K loppenborg (ed.), The Critical Edition of Q, Leuven-Minneapolis, 2000, p. 138‑139. Contrari: P. Hoffmann, Studien zur Theologie der Logienquelle, Münster, 1972, p. 194‑195; J.A. Fitzmyer , The Gospel according to Luke I-IX, New York, 1981, p. 671; M. Sato, Q und Prophetie. Studien zur Gattungs- und Traditionsgeschichte der Quelle Q, Tübingen, 1988, p. 20, 55 (recensione lucana di Q); J.P. M eier , A  Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Vol. 2: Mentor, Message, and Miracles, New York, 1994, p. 167‑169; H.T. Fleddermann, Q: A Reconstruction and Commentary, Leuven, 2005, p. 361‑363; D.R. Burkett, Rethinking the Gospel Sources. Vol. 2: The Unity and Plurality of Q, Atlanta, 2009, p. 210 (da “L”); U. Luz , Vangelo di Matteo. Vol. 3, Brescia, 2013, p. 267. 30.  Vedi F. A dinolfi, «The Displaced Baptism: Luke 7:29 as the Original Conclusion to Luke 3:10‑14 (L)», Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 29 (2012), p. 119‑132. 31.  Per la precisione, la mia ipotesi è che Lc 7,29 costituisse in origine la conclusione del brano di Sondergut lucano “L” in Lc 3,10‑14 (καὶ οἱ στρατευόμενοι καὶ οἱ

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mente presente nel testo di Q, ovvero il passaggio dall’elogio di Giovanni in Q 7,24‑28 alla polemica contro «questa generazione» in Q 7,31‑35 – una pericope quest’ultima che con buone ragioni Migaku Sato ha considerato di origine secondaria rispetto alla prima parte di Q (aggiunta apportata dalla Redaktion C), appunto in ragione del suo acceso carattere polemico lontano dal tono esortativo che domina il resto della prima parte del documento (Redaktion A), oltre che per la presenza ai vv. 31 e 35 dei motivi teologici tipici della redazione principale di Q («questa generazione», il rifiuto della Sapienza e dei suoi messaggeri) 32 . A conferma di ciò, si può constatare come una misura analoga a quella che ipotizzo per Luca sia stata adottata anche da Matteo, il quale ha cercato di colmare il salto esistente tra i due blocchi inserendovi un detto su Giovanni (Mt 11,12‑13 = Q 16,16) importato da un’altra sezione di Q (Lc/Q 16,13.16‑18) e aggiungendovi un’ulteriore precisazione redazionale sull’identità elianica di Giovanni (Mt 11,14‑15) 33. Scartata quindi l’ipotesi che Mt 21,32 rifletta un logion di Q, possiamo ora passare ad analizzare Mt 21,31c-32 nel suo attuale contesto matteano. IV. M t 21,28‑32:

u na pe r icope composi ta ?

Τί δὲ ὑμῖν δοκεῖ; ἄνθρωπος εἶχεν τέκνα δύο. καὶ προσελθὼν τῷ πρώτῳ εἶπεν· τέκνον, ὕπαγε σήμερον ἐργάζου ἐν τῷ ἀμπελῶνι. 29 ὁ δὲ ἀποκριθεὶς εἶπεν· οὐ θέλω, ὕστερον δὲ μεταμεληθεὶς ἀπῆλθεν. 30 προσελθὼν δὲ τῷ ἑτέρῳ εἶπεν ὡσαύτως. ὁ δὲ ἀποκριθεὶς εἶπεν· ἐγώ, κύριε, καὶ οὐκ τελῶναι ἐδικαίωσαν τὸν θεὸν βαπτισθέντες ὑπ᾿ αὐτοῦ [oppure: ὑπὸ ᾿Ιωάννου]), che Luca avrebbe dislocato a questo punto, sostituendo a οἱ στρατευόμενοι (inadatto, a differenza di οἱ τελῶναι, al nuovo contesto di Lc/Q 7,31‑35) il suo favorito πᾶς ὁ λαὸς, attraverso cui si rimanda alla precedente narrazione del battesimo di massa in Lc 3,21 (ἐν τῷ βαπτισθῆναι ἅπαντα τὸν λαόν) da lui stesso composto in sostituzione del battesimo finale dei soldati e dei pubblicani originariamente riportato da “L”. Da ultimo, l’evangelista avrebbe composto di propria mano il v. 7,30 (lucanismi: ἀθετέω, βουλή τοῦ θεοῦ, forse anche νομικός), così da completare la transizione a Lc/Q 7,31‑35, di modo che popolo e pubblicani esemplificano i figli della Sapienza, mentre farisei e dottori della legge precisano il troppo generico «questa generazione». 32.  Vedi M. Sato, Q und Prophetie. Studien zur Gattungs- und Traditionsgeschichte der Quelle Q, Tübingen, 1988, p. 33‑36, 45‑46. 33.  Le due transizioni costruite dagli evangelisti sono curiosamente complementari: Mt 11,12‑15 guarda principalmente indietro ai vv. 7‑11, con i temi di Giovanni, Elia e il regno, pur preparando al contempo il tema del rifiuto che caratterizza i vv. 16‑19. All’inverso, Lc 7,29‑30 guarda soprattutto in avanti ai vv. 31‑35, con il contrasto tra «questa generazione» e «figli della Sapienza» che riflette il tema a lui caro della divisione verificatasi in Israele, pur riagganciandosi indietro all’atteggiamento positivo delle folle (ora divenute «tutto il popolo») verso Giovanni sotteso ai vv. 24‑28.

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ἀπῆλθεν. 31 τίς ἐκ τῶν δύο ἐποίησεν τὸ θέλημα τοῦ πατρός; λέγουσιν· ὁ πρῶτος. λέγει αὐτοῖς ὁ Ἰησοῦς· ἀμὴν λέγω ὑμῖν ὅτι οἱ τελῶναι καὶ αἱ πόρναι προάγουσιν ὑμᾶς εἰς τὴν βασιλείαν τοῦ θεοῦ. 32 ἦλθεν γὰρ Ἰωάννης πρὸς ὑμᾶς ἐν ὁδῷ δικαιοσύνης, καὶ οὐκ ἐπιστεύσατε αὐτῷ, οἱ δὲ τελῶναι καὶ αἱ πόρναι ἐπίστευσαν αὐτῷ· ὑμεῖς δὲ ἰδόντες οὐδὲ μετεμελήθητε ὕστερον τοῦ πιστεῦσαι αὐτῷ.  3 4

La collocazione attuale della pericope 21,28‑32 nel Vangelo di Matteo è certamente redazionale, inframmezzata com’è tra due blocchi marciani: la controversia sull’autorità di Gesù (Mt 21,23‑27 // Mc 11,27‑33) e la parabola dei vignaioli omicidi (Mt 21,33‑46 // Mc 12,1-12). Non è quindi più possibile sapere chi fossero i destinatari originali della polemica, se cioè si trattasse dell’establishment gerosolimitano, piuttosto che di farisei, di scribi di villaggio o di altri anonimi antagonisti (da qui in avanti parlerò pertanto genericamente di “autorità religiose”). Analoga incertezza riguarda anche l’origine e l’unità della pericope. Due sono le domande fondamentali: 1) la parabola dei due figli è una creazione di Matteo, oppure è di origine tradizionale? 2) Il legame tra parabola (vv. 28‑31ab) e applicazione (vv. 31c-32) è secondario o può essere invece originario? Rispondere alla prima domanda è difficile. Il lessico matteano della parabola è molto evidente 35, e tuttavia diversi tra i più autorevoli commentatori ritengono che Matteo abbia qui riformulato nel proprio stile una parabola che ha ricevuto dalla tradizione orale 36. Quanto invece alla questione se il legame tra la parabola e il nostro detto sia originale o meno, gli esegeti ritengono per lo più che sia stato Matteo a realizzare l’accosta-

34.  Riguardo alla confusa trasmissione testuale dei vv. 29‑31 e sulle ragioni in favore del testo qui adottato, vedi B.M. M etzger , A  Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament, Stuttgart, 1994, p. 44‑45. 35.  Vedi J. Schlosser , Le règne de Dieu dans le dits de Jésus, Paris, 1980, p. 458‑460; W.D. Davies – D.C. A llison, The Gospel according to Saint Matthew. Vol. 3, Edinburgh, 1997, p. 166‑168; U. Luz , Vangelo di Matteo. Vol. 3, Brescia, 2013, p.  267 n.  3. Matteanismi: τί ὑμῖν δοκεῖ, προσέρχομαι + dat. + λέγω, ὁ δὲ ἀποκριθεὶς εἶπεν, θέλω, ὕστερον, μεταμέλομαι (forse), ἐποίησεν τὸ θέλημα τοῦ πατρός. Non tipici di Matteo invece, secondo Luz, sono: δύο in posizione finale, τέκνον, σήμερον senza articolo, ἐγώ nel senso di “sì”. 36.  Vedi J. Gnilka, Il Vangelo di Matteo. Parte seconda, Brescia, 1991, p. 327; W.D. Davies – D.C. A llison, The Gospel according to Saint Matthew. Vol. 3, Edinburgh, 1997, p. 165; U. Luz , Vangelo di Matteo. Vol. 3, Brescia, 2013, p. 267‑269. Luz, in particolare, ritiene che Matteo non inventi mai parabole. Egli osserva inoltre che l’aspetto relativamente “incolore” della parabola e la sua conformità alla tradizione giudaica non costituiscono buone ragioni per negarla a Gesù: un rilievo condivisibile, seppure un po’ paradossale a fronte del sorprendente scetticismo dell’autore circa la possibilità di dire alcunché circa l’origine del v. 31c.

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mento 37. L’applicazione, infatti, non corrisponderebbe alla parabola sotto due aspetti essenziali: A) mancherebbe il contrasto tra il dire e il fare; B) non si riscontra alcun cambiamento di idea, in quanto le autorità religiose non hanno mai dato il loro “sì” al Battista, esattamente come i pubblicani e le prostitute non gli hanno mai opposto un iniziale “no” 38. Contro la prima obiezione, mi sembra evidente che parabola e applicazione esibiscono il medesimo contrasto tra uno stato di apparente osservanza che però non si traduce in fatti, e uno stato di apparente non-osservanza che invece dà frutti concreti: l’ufficio delle autorità religiose “dice” in se stesso qualcosa che la loro effettiva condotta smentisce; al contrario, la condotta di pubblicani e peccatori è la fattiva smentita di quanto esteriormente “dice” la loro condizione. Quanto alla seconda obiezione, essa si regge su un’implicita identificazione tra il Battista e il padre della parabola. Ma è un assunto sbagliato: il padre rappresenta Dio 39, mentre Giovanni corrisponderebbe casomai al ripensamento che induce il primo figlio ad andare a lavorare nella vigna. Il punto è che la corrispondenza tra parabola e applicazione verte sul fare la volontà di Dio (v. 31ab), e questa volontà non comincia certo ad esistere con il Battista. Piuttosto, non accettando il messaggio di Giovanni, le autorità religiose hanno cambiato idea rispetto al loro assenso iniziale alla volontà di Dio: come il secondo figlio, non hanno dato seguito al loro impegno. All’inverso, accettando il messaggio di Giovanni, i peccatori hanno cambiato idea rispetto al loro rifiuto iniziale della volontà di Dio: come il primo figlio, non hanno perseverato nella loro negligenza. Il solo elemento veramente nuovo nell’applicazione è dato dall’aggravante, introdotta al v. 32c, del mancato ravvedimento delle autorità religiose alla vista dei peccatori che incedono sulla via verso il regno – ovvero laboriosamente intenti a far fruttificare la vigna –, laddove la parabola terminava prima che i figli potessero prendere coscienza del loro reciproco agire. A parte quest’ultimo aspetto, dal punto di vista del contenuto la pericope 21,28‑32 appare sostanzialmente omogenea, sicché non sembre-

37.  Così, tra gli altri, H. Weder, J. Gnilka, U. Luz, J. Lambrecht. Alcuni studiosi vedono tuttavia nel v. 31c l’applicazione originaria della parabola, in seguito espansa mediante l’aggiunta del v. 32 ad opera dell’evangelista (R. Bultmann, The History of the Synoptic Tradition, Oxford, 1968, p. 177) o della tradizione pre-matteana (J. Jeremias , Le parabole di Gesù, Brescia, 1973, p. 97). 38.  Vedi J. L ambrecht, Out of the Treasure: The Parables in the Gospel of Matthew, Leuven, 1998, p. 95; U. Luz , Vangelo di Matteo. Vol. 3, Brescia, 2013, p. 267‑268. 39.  Così, giustamente, W.D. Davies – D.C. A llison, The Gospel according to Saint Matthew. Vol. 3, Edinburgh, 1997, p. 166; K.R. Snodgrass , Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus, Grand Rapids, 2008, p. 272.

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rebbe esservi ragione di pensare che Matteo possa aver qui cucito insieme materiale di provenienza diversa  4 0. Il problema si complica, tuttavia, allorché la questione della conformità tra parabola e applicazione viene considerata dal punto di vista linguistico. A questo riguardo è necessario fare una distinzione all’interno dell’applicazione stessa: mentre infatti il v. 31c mostra evidenti segni di vocabolario non matteano che ne garantiscono l’origine tradizionale 41, nel v. 32 la mano dell’evangelista è certamente intervenuta in modo pesante (come, del resto, nella parabola). Ciò salta particolarmente all’occhio al v. 32c, che costituisce un’ovvia ripresa del v. 29 (μεταμέλομαι, ὕστερον); ma è altrettanto evidente che l’intero v. 32 (a,b,c) appare segnato, nella forma attuale, dal motivo del “credere/non credere” a Giovanni, attraverso cui la pericope viene legata alla precedente disputa nel tempio (Mt 21,25=21,32a: οὐκ ἐπιστεύσατε αὐτῷ). A  ragione, perciò, si riconosce comunemente che con il v. 32 Matteo ha ripreso le fila dello scambio di battute in Mt 21,25‑27, portandolo ad una conclusione più soddisfacente, nella quale la reale opinione dei sacerdoti e degli anziani viene infine smascherata. Solamente rispetto alla locuzione ἐν ὁδῷ δικαιοσύνης sarei incline a lasciare aperta la possibilità di un residuo pre-matteano 42 . Non sono infatti 40.  Così anche A.J. Hultgren, Parabole di Gesù, Brescia, 2004, p. 222; K.R. Snodgrass , Stories with Intent, Grand Rapids, 2008, p. 273. 41.  La coppia οἱ τελῶναι καὶ αἱ πόρναι è un hapax legomenon nel NT, mentre πόρναι appare altrove nei vangeli solo in Lc 15,30. Matteo predilige βασιλεία τῶν οὐρανῶν rispetto a βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ, che compare in appena quattro casi, metà dei quali ereditati dalla tradizione (Mt 12,28 [Q]; 19,24 [Mc]). Solamente in Mt 21,43 abbiamo una sicura inserzione redazionale, a mio avviso da spiegarsi in rapporto alla specifica idea che Matteo voleva qui esprimere, ossia la revoca all’attuale leadership d’Israele del “governo di Dio” affidatole. Anche il verbo προάγω non è qui redazionale, dato che in tutte le sue occorrenze (2,9; 14,22; 21,9; 26,32; 28,7 – salvo la prima, tutte riprese da Marco) ha il normale significato di precedere qualcosa che poi arriva al suo seguito. Ma che i peccatori semplicemente entrino prima delle autorità religiose nel regno di Dio, senza preclusione verso un loro eventuale ingresso successivo, stride con la radicale condanna delle guide d’Israele da parte dell’evangelista. Mentre Matteo può certamente aver riletto questo προάγουσιν ὑμᾶς in senso esclusivo, difficilmente avrebbe composto lui stesso una formulazione così ambigua. 42.  L’espressione è un hapax legomenon nei vangeli (nel NT solo in 2 Pt 2,21), mentre è tradizionale nella letteratura giudaica, dove indica il tipo di condotta conforme ai comandamenti di Dio. Vedi J. Dupont, Le beatitudini. III. Gli evangelisti, Alba, 1977, p. 335‑345; B. P rzybylski, Righteousness in Matthew and His World of Thought, Cambridge, 1980, p. 95‑97, i quali, relativamente al problema di come intendere l’espressione in rapporto al Battista, pensano rispettivamente alla giustizia praticata da Giovanni nella sua vita (Dupont) e al messaggio di giustizia che egli andava predicando (Przybylski). Entrambi gli autori, tuttavia, concludono che in definitiva i due aspetti si implicano a vicenda.

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convinto che ogni singola occorrenza di δικαιοσύνη, per il solo fatto di essere un termine e un concetto favorito dell’evangelista (Mt 7x; Mc 0x; Lc 1x), debba automaticamente essere considerata redazionale 43. Oltre alla costruzione stessa ἐν ὁδῷ δικαιοσύνης – che risalta nettamente rispetto alle altre occorrenze del termine in Mt 3,15; 5,6.10.20; 6,1.33 – non è forse distintivo il modo in cui il concetto appare qui completamente centrato sulla persona di Giovanni? Benché Matteo abbia un’evidente tendenza a sottolineare l’accordo e la somiglianza tra Gesù e Giovanni, mi sembra però significativo che il passo più vicino al nostro, ossia Mt 3,15, si distingua non solo per la sfumatura storico-salvifica che viene associata (tramite πληρόω) al concetto della giustizia, ma soprattutto per il fatto che il coinvolgimento di Giovanni nel «compiere ogni giustizia» appare legato e subordinato alla persona di Gesù, il cui primato trova espressione sia nello status di Veniente/Più Forte con cui Giovanni lo identifica all’istante (da qui la sua reticenza a battezzarlo), sia nell’atto ultra-meritorio di sottoporsi ad un battesimo di pentimento di cui non ha alcun bisogno. Nulla di ciò in Mt 21,32, dove la giustizia è pacificamente rappresentata dal solo Giovanni. Riepilogando, l’analisi di Mt 21,28‑32 evidenzia, da un lato, una buona corrispondenza tra parabola e applicazione, dall’altro, una pervasiva presenza della redazione matteana dall’inizio alla fine, nel mezzo della quale emerge l’iceberg tradizionale del v. 31c. Ma allora si dovrà vedere quest’ultimo come un logion isolato che non aveva in origine nulla a che fare né con la parabola dei due figli né con Giovanni? Molti sono di questo parere e certo non è difficile immaginare che un detto esplosivo come il v. 31c potesse avere forza sufficiente per conservarsi autonomamente nell’oceano della tradizione. Sono tuttavia dell’avviso che in tale versetto si debba piuttosto vedere la punta di un iceberg sommerso, che certamente comprendeva il riferimento al Battista nel v. 32ab (e forse anche la parabola, ma è più difficile a dirsi), dove, guardando attraverso la sua superficie redazionale, è possibile intravedere nella locuzione ἐν ὁδῷ δικαιοσύνης riferita (unicamente) a Giovanni, un livello storico-tradizionale pre-matteano. V. M t 21,31c -32:

ci nqu e r agion i pe r non se pa r a r e

ciò ch e

G e sù

h a u n i to

Siamo infine giunti al cuore della questione: quella che, stando all’analisi critico-redazionale del testo, si direbbe un’ipotesi possibile ma fragile, 43.  Per un’altra voce fuori dal coro secondo cui ogni occorrenza matteana di δικαιοσύνη sarebbe ipso facto redazionale, vedi S.H. Brooks , Matthew’s Community: The Evidence of His Special Sayings Material, Sheffield, 1987, p. 46 (a proposito dell’origine tradizionale di Mt 6,1).

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appare in una luce completamente diversa una volta che si guardi ai vv. 31c-32 indossando le lenti dello storico. Vi sono infatti cinque importanti ragioni che, in prospettiva storica, suggeriscono di non accogliere il giudizio per lo più negativo a cui perviene l’esame redazionale. 1) La descrizione di Giovanni come uno venuto «nella via della giustizia» non può non ricordare la nobile immagine che ne dà Flavio Giuseppe in Ant. 18,117, presentandolo come «uomo buono» (ἀγαθὸν ἄνδρα) e guida di persone (tornate ad essere) dedite alla virtù, alla pietà e, appunto, alla giustizia (τοῖς Ἰουδαίοις κελεύοντα ἀρετὴν ἐπασκοῦσιν καὶ τὰ πρὸς ἀλλήλους δικαιοσύνῃ καὶ πρὸς τὸν θεὸν εὐσεβείᾳ χρωμένοις)  4 4 . Nella medesima direzione puntano le notizie sulla fama di «uomo giusto e santo» (ἄνδρα δίκαιον καὶ ἅγιον) del Battista e la sua critica all’illegalità delle seconde nozze di Antipa che troviamo in Mc 6,17‑29 (racconto che, pur con i suoi evidenti aspetti leggendari e folcloristici, viene solitamente considerato di origine tradizionale 45), la sua caratterizzazione come maestro su questioni etiche e sociali in Lc 3,10‑14 (da “L”  4 6), a cui possiamo certamente aggiungere l’appello a fare frutto degno di pentimento in Q 3,8. La nostra tradizione matteana s’inserisce dunque in un quadro eccezionalmente ricco di fonti e linee di trasmissione indipendenti (ben cinque!) che convergono intorno all’immagine di Giovanni quale “maestro di giustizia” 47. 44.  Troppo spesso si è contestato l’affidabilità del brano di Flavio Giuseppe su questo punto (e riguardo alla sua presentazione del battesimo quale immersione purificatoria), sostenendo che egli, a beneficio dei suoi lettori, avrebbe dipinto il Battista nei panni di un filoso morale ellenistico, analogamente al modo in cui presenta farisei, sadducei ed esseni. Si tratta di un giudizio esageratamente scettico. Il tema del praticare la giustizia e la pietà è perfettamente giudaico, denotando l’osservanza integrale della Torah (incluso quanto concerne il culto templare), e si accorda senza difficoltà alle rappresentazioni di Giovanni nella tradizione evangelica (certo più orientate in senso profetico). Vedi J.E. Taylor , The Immerser: John the Baptist within Second Temple Judaism, Grand Rapids, 1997, p. 95; G. Theissen, «Das Doppelgebot der Liebe. Jüdische Ethik bei Jesus», in I d., Jesus als historische Gestalt, Göttingen, 2003, p. 70‑72; D.R. Catchpole , Jesus People, London, 2006, p. 9‑13. Theissen suggerisce inoltre l’ipotesi intrigante (seppur non provabile) che Gesù abbia ereditato dal Battista l’insegnamento sul “doppio comandamento”. 45.  Vedi G. Theissen, The Gospels in Context, Edinburgh, 1992, p. 81‑97; J. M arcus , Mark 1‑8, New York, 1999, p. 397‑398; J.G. Crossley, Jesus and the Chaos of History, Oxford, 2015, p. 158‑159. 46.  Vedi soprattutto K. Paffenroth, The Gospel according to L, Sheffield, 1997. Diffusa tra i commentatori (H. Schürmann, I.H. Marshall), ma meno convincente, l’ipotesi che il brano provenga da Q. 47.  Riguardo alla “indispensabilità” del nostro logion, è significativo che Josef Ernst, il quale considera l’espressione «la via della giustizia» un’aggiunta redazionale alla Vorlage di Mt 21,32 // Lc 7,29, ricorra proprio ad essa allorché difende il nucleo di verità storica soggiacente alla presentazione ellenizzante che Flavio Giuseppe dà del Battista: «Johannes der Täufer hat nicht nur das Gericht ange-

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2) Il secondo aspetto d’interesse è che a Giovanni venga attribuita la riforma morale di categorie di persone come i pubblicani e le prostitute. Ciò si accorda perfettamente con la tradizione speciale lucana secondo cui Giovanni impartiva particolari istruzioni a pubblicani e soldati (Lc 3,12‑14). Al centro della sua preoccupazione stavano coloro che, per ragioni differenti, conducevano una vita in aperta contraddizione con le esigenze della Torah: i peccatori veri e propri 48. Anche il Battista, come Gesù, si sentiva investito del compito specifico di recuperare «le pecore perdute della casa d’Israele» (Mt 15,24) 49, di occuparsi dei malati, e non dei sani (Mc 2,17) che già osservassero in modo adeguato la Legge. Ed è proprio questa la ragione per cui Gesù può richiamarsi a Giovanni, e al successo della sua opera riformatrice tra i peccatori, quale arma dialettica in riferimento all’orizzonte fondamentale della propria proclamazione: l’ingresso nel regno di Dio. Perché si tratta dello stesso lavoro: la missione dell’uno è la missione dell’altro. Si vede quindi come Mt 21,31c-32 contribuisca in misura notevole non solo alla nostra conoscenza del Battista, ma anche ad una migliore comprensione della continuità tra la sua missione e quella di Gesù. 3) Una terza importante implicazione che risulta dalla considerazione congiunta dei vv. 31c-32 è la relazione che essi stabiliscono tra l’aver creduto a Giovanni ed entrare nel regno di Dio. Questa inusuale connessione si spiegherebbe nel modo migliore se l’annuncio del regno fosse stato parte già del messaggio di Giovanni – ipotesi certamente controversa, dato il silenzio delle (ridottissime) informazioni di cui disponiamo sulla sua predidroht, sondern auch Umkehr mit allen ethischen Konsequenzen gepredigt und den Weg der Gerechtigkeit gelehrt» (J. Ernst, Johannes der Täufer. Interpretation – Geschichte – Wirkungsgeschichte, Berlin, 1989, p. 257). 48.  «John called the disobedient to repent and follow the Law, but at no point does he insist that only those who come to him will be counted as God’s servants […]. If they were righteous, then they did not need immersion» (J.E. Taylor , The Immerser: John the Baptist within Second Temple Judaism, Grand Rapids, 1997, p. 203). Una tesi questa che si situa agli antipodi di una certa vulgata secondo cui il Battista avrebbe considerato Israele una nazione irrimediabilmente traviata, decaduta dall’alleanza e votata quindi alla distruzione, salvo un’ultima chance di salvezza individuale sottoponendosi – tutti e ciascuno – al battesimo di Giovanni. 49.  Mentre a livello del racconto di Matteo l’espressione va probabilmente intesa in senso esplicativo (le pecore perdute che sono la casa d’Israele, ossia: il popolo che soffre a causa della leadership farisaica negligente con cui la comunità matteana polemizza), a livello pre-matteano è del tutto plausibile l’accezione di genitivo partitivo: le pecore perdute all’interno d’Israele. Per una discussione sulla possibile origine tradizionale di Mt 15,24 vedi W.D. Davies – D.C. A llison, The Gospel accord­ ing to Saint Matthew. Vol. 2, Edinburgh, 1991, p. 550‑551, che peraltro ritengono la lettura qui adottata verosimile a livello del Gesù storico. Essa è inoltre adottata da Casey (rispetto a Mt 10,6): «a classic definition of the object of Jesus’ ministry: those Jewish people who had fallen away from God» (M. Casey, Jesus of Nazareth, London-New York, 2010, p. 219).

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cazione, ma verso cui propende nondimeno un certo numero di studiosi 50. Non essendo qui possibile approfondire la questione, mi limito a elencare brevemente in nota le ragioni che mi portano a rispondere in modo affermativo. Si tratta, credo, di un argomento cumulativo di un certo peso, a cui Mt 21,31c-32 aggiunge un’ulteriore e preziosa testimonianza 51. 4) Ma se l’avvento del regno di Dio costituiva l’orizzonte della «via della giustizia» praticata e offerta da Giovanni, allora il nostro logion consente di integrare precisamente quella dimensione escatologica della sua attività riformatrice che, come si riconosce universalmente, Flavio Giuseppe ha rimosso di proposito, in quanto non idonea ai suoi scopi apologetici. Da questo punto di vista, Mt 21,31c-32 si rivela essere addirittura l’anello di congiunzione mancante tra l’immagine del Battista riportata dallo storico ebreo e le rappresentazioni dei vangeli 52 . 50.  Vedi C.R. K azmierski, John the Baptist: Prophet and Evangelist, Collegeville, 1996, p. 37‑41, 67‑71; J.E. Taylor , The Immerser: John the Baptist within Second Temple Judaism, Grand Rapids, 1997, p. 138, 149‑154; P. Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, New York, 1999, p. 184‑191; D.R. Catchpole , Jesus People, London, 2006, p. 44-45; E. Noffke , Giovanni Battista. Un profeta esseno?, Torino, 2008, p. 35, 44-45. 51.  In ordine più o meno crescente di forza: i) un annuncio del genere viene attribuito al Battista in Mt 3,2 e, in modo più indiretto, in Lc 3,18, per quanto entrambi siano passi redazionali. ii) È possibile intendere l’introduzione lucana al Padre Nostro in Lc 11,1b (καθὼς καὶ ᾿Ιωάννης ἐδίδαξεν τοὺς μαθητὰς αὐτοῦ) nel senso di una richiesta riferita all’insegnare precisamente quella preghiera che Giovanni ha insegnato ai suoi discepoli. iii) Il cosiddetto “logion dei violenti” (Q 16,16) fa del Battista il compimento a lungo atteso della Legge e dei Profeti, e associa alla sua persona l’inizio del regno di Dio. In che senso? Forse la sua sofferenza ha inaugurato il regno nella sua forma conflittuale e caotica (la tribolazione)? O forse ciò che con Giovanni ha iniziato ad essere ostracizzato non è il regno stesso, ma la sua proclamazione? La seconda lettura implica che Giovanni ha annunciato il regno, la prima potrebbe comunque presupporlo. iv) L’intera tradizione evangelica assegna un posto centrale a Is 40,3 LXX quale cifra del ministero del Battista: tale citazione evoca la prospettiva di salvezza e liberazione dell’intero capitolo 40 del Deutero-Isaia (cfr. Targum di Is 40,10a: «il regno del vostro Dio è rivelato»). È possibile che Giovanni stesso abbia valorizzato il testo isaiano (oltre a Mal 3,1) in rapporto alla sua missione. v) Come riporta Flavio Giuseppe, Antipa fece arrestare il Battista a motivo della straordinaria eccitazione causata dai suoi discorsi. Ma sarebbe davvero difficile comprendere sia l’entusiasmo popolare sia i timori di Antipa, se il repertorio retorico di Giovanni non fosse consistito che in cupi moniti di pentimento e giudizio, mentre essi si spiegano benissimo nell’ipotesi che avesse parlato del regno o della prossima restaurazione d’Israele. vi) Se si ritiene che Gesù sia stato discepolo e collaboratore di Giovanni, ci si dovrebbe stupire piuttosto se Giovanni non avesse mai parlato del regno di Dio. 52.  In realtà il nesso tra escatologia di restaurazione e concreta preoccupazione per la giustizia, è presente anche in Q 3,7‑9.16‑17: un insieme di detti dal tenore esortativo, in cui il duplice destino di distruzione o raduno – passando attraverso la purificazione nello spirito infuocato della tribolazione – viene fatto dipendere dal fare frutto degno di pentimento ad imitazione della giustizia esemplare di Abramo.

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5) L’aspetto più notevole che consegue alla considerazione unitaria dei vv. 31c-32 non riguarda tuttavia Giovanni, bensì Gesù. La cosa davvero straordinaria è cioè che sia proprio Gesù ad associare l’ingresso dei peccatori nel regno di Dio al fatto di aver dato ascolto a Giovanni. Tutto ciò è in palese controtendenza rispetto alla sensibilità cristologica dei vangeli – ma anche rispetto alla nostra. Una delle tesi più inossidabili che si incontrano nella letteratura (anche nell’era della cosiddetta Third Quest post-teologica) è infatti quella secondo cui Gesù legava strettamente la presenza del regno di Dio alla sua persona – affermazione a sostegno della quale si cita puntualmente (talvolta ad nauseam) il detto di Q 11,20 («Ma se io scaccio i demoni con il dito [o lo spirito] di Dio, allora è giunto a voi il regno di Dio»), e su questa base si passa poi a parlare di cristologia implicita nell’annuncio stesso del regno… Ora, non è mia intenzione affrontare, né tanto meno liquidare semplicisticamente, una problematica complessa e affascinante come quella del ruolo che Gesù assegnava a se stesso nell’economia di quel processo escatologico e salvifico, la cui maturazione egli certamente riteneva di poter scorgere tutt’intorno a sé, ancorché in forma nascosta, ambigua e opponibile. Occorre tuttavia prudenza. Mt 21,31c-32 ci dice infatti qualcosa di molto diverso. Ci mostra cioè un Gesù che punta l’attenzione su Giovanni e che indica nell’aver creduto a lui, convertendosi e praticando la giustizia secondo le sue istruzioni, la condizione sufficiente per accedere al regno di Dio. Punto. In un certo senso, è come se qui Gesù si facesse da parte, tant’è che si potrebbe parlare di un caso particolare del criterio di dissomiglianza: una sorta di “indice di decentramento”, secondo cui sono da accogliersi come probabilmente storici quei detti di forte tenore escatologico e soteriologico in cui Gesù assegna un ruolo decisivo a qualcun altro, senza alcun riferimento a sé 53. E ciò che colpisce maggiormente è che di queste tradizioni Tutto questo purtroppo risulta occultato da una lunga tradizione interpretativa interessata a perpetuare un’immagine alienata del Battista quale profeta unicamente di giudizio, sacerdote ostile al tempio, battezzatore di israeliti come proseliti pagani, inflessibile castigatore di chiunque confidi nelle promesse ad Abramo o nella possibilità di ritornare alla Torah. Insomma, il bulldozer perfetto per spianare la via al “lieto annuncio”… 53.  Su questa linea si vedano anche le osservazioni di Wedderburn sul rapporto tra la salvezza escatologica, la persona di Gesù, e quella di altri soggetti che sembrano giocare un ruolo analogo – in primis i discepoli – nell’ottica di quel Gruppenmessianismus su cui ha puntato l’attenzione Theissen (cfr. Q 22,28.30): «Indeed Jesus seems to claim that something greater than what had gone before was happening in his ministry but […] it was happening in his ministry, in what he believed God was doing in and through him, rather than in himself. And […] Jesus seems to have ascribed to others a role and a part in that work that God was doing through him, sharing with them his place in God’s work and in the coming of God’s kingly reign» (A.J.M. Wedderburn, Jesus and the Historians, Tübingen, 2010, p. 319‑320).

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“decentrate” se ne possono contare altre tre che hanno per protagonista Giovanni: Mc 11,27‑33, dove Gesù devia la domanda circa la sua autorità, reindirizzandola sulla questione dell’origine umana o divina della missione del Battista 54; Q 7,24‑26.28a, dove Giovanni viene esaltato come più che profeta e più grande uomo di sempre 55, e Q 16,16, che fa di Giovanni il compimento della Legge e dei Profeti e, di conseguenza, l’inizio del regno di Dio (seppur in una forma osteggiata e sofferente, alla luce del suo martirio) 56. Tale concentrazione sul significato decisivo della persona e della missione del Battista rappresenta certamente un livello arcaico e verosimilmente storico della tradizione, sia perché differisce notevolmente dalla prospettiva cristologica degli evangelisti e di tutti i gruppi di seguaci di Gesù, sia perché appare in materiale diversificato quanto al possibile Sitz 54.  «Questo appello di Gesù all’autorità di Giovanni non è un’invenzione dell’evangelista, ma dietro alla scena […] vi è probabilmente una memoria storica» (E. Lupieri, Giovanni e Gesù. Storia di un antagonismo, Roma, 2013, p. 28). Ciò che purtroppo passa regolarmente inosservato sono le implicazioni di questo appello di Gesù all’autorità di Giovanni nel cuore simbolico-istituzionale della nazione e nel momento climatico della sua missione. Un Gesù che fa questo può mai essersi lasciato alle spalle il Battista? 55.  Sulle importanti, ma complesse, ragioni per considerare Q 7,28b (insieme a 7,27) un innesto cristologico della redazione Q, devo limitarmi a rimandare a D.R. Catchpole , The Quest for Q, Edinburgh, 1993, p. 67‑72. Vedi inoltre: P. Hoffmann, Studien zur Theologie der Logienquelle, Münster, 1972, p. 215-224; W. Schenk , Synopse zur Redenquelle der Evangelien, Düsseldorf, 1981, p. 18‑19, 42‑43; J. Ernst, Il vangelo secondo Luca. Vol. 1, Brescia, 1985, p. 340-342; M. E bner , Jesus von Nazaret. Was wir von ihm wissen können, Stuttgart, 2007, p. 80‑81. 56.  Rispetto alla ricostruzione testuale del logion in Q, esiste un vasto consenso sulla seguente Vorlage: ὁ νόμος καὶ οἱ προφῆται μέχρι [ἕως] Ἰωάννου· ἀπὸ τότε ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ βιάζεται καὶ βιασταὶ ἁρπάζουσιν αὐτήν. Sebbene la prima parte sia stata meglio conservata da Luca, la versione di Matteo offre comunque una preziosa guida all’interpretazione. Anche se è stato l’evangelista a supplire il verbo προφητεύω («tutti i Profeti e la Legge hanno profetato fino a Giovanni»), esso rivela nondimeno il senso corretto della frase ellittica di Q: l’idea cioè che la Legge e i Profeti puntavano verso (ciò che si è compiuto in) Giovanni – ovvero, parafrasando: che la volontà divina, le esigenze di giustizia e le promesse salvifiche inscritte nella Legge e nei Profeti hanno atteso fino a Giovanni per trovare realizzazione. Qui non si tratta affatto di una successione di eoni o di epoche storico-salvifiche di cui il Battista sarebbe un mero spartiacque cronologico, una sorta di “dogana” tra l’era regolata dalla Legge e dai Profeti e la nuova era del regno e del vangelo – una lettura questa possibile forse per Luca, ma non certo per Matteo, per Q… e per Gesù. Il punto capitale è che l’espressione «la Legge e i Profeti» denota le scritture ebraiche e non un’epoca: «If ‘the law and the prophets’ in 16:16a was a standard phrase for the authoritative Israelite tradition […] then Q 16:16 suggests simply that beginning with John the kingdom as the fulfillment of that tradition is suffering violence, not that the kingdom has superseded ‘the law and the prophets’» (R.A. Horsley – J.A. Draper , Whoever Hears You Hears Me, Minneapolis, 1999, p. 115‑116).

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im Leben Jesu (predicazione pubblica in Q 7,24‑26.28a; polemica con avversari in Mc 11,27‑33 e Mt 21,31c-32; insegnamento esoterico ai discepoli in Q 16,16; cfr. Mc 9,13) e attestato da tre rami indipendenti della tradizione (Q, Mc, MtS). C onclusion e Si è visto dunque come la considerazione congiunta di Mt 21,31c-32 offra una ricca quantità di informazioni storicamente plausibili sul Battista e sulla continuità tra la sua attività riformatrice e quella di Gesù, evidenziando inoltre un clamoroso esempio di “decentramento cristologico” che consente di apprezzare in modo chiarissimo l’enorme importanza che la missione di Giovanni rivestì agli occhi di Gesù. Da qui, il nostro discorso potrebbe ampliarsi in più direzioni: dalla revisione di quell’assunto predefinito secondo cui la missione di Gesù rispondeva ad un progetto assolutamente originale, distintivo e inderivabile 57, alla riconsiderazione di come le varie rappresentazioni secondarie all’insegna del parallelismo e della somiglianza tra Giovanni e Gesù (la comune via dell’Elia sofferente e del Figlio dell’uomo sofferente in Marco, la “battistolalìa” del Gesù matteano, il dittico del racconto dell’infanzia lucano) potrebbero rappresentare differenti riconfigurazioni della memoria storica della forte continuità che esisteva tra i due, fino ad una rivalutazione dell’importanza del Vangelo di Matteo come fonte storica su Gesù 58. Questo contributo avrà tuttavia raggiunto il suo scopo se riuscirà anche solo ad infondere maggiore esitazione a separare il v. 32 dal v. 31, o a depennarlo come meramente redazionale. Perché di redazione si tratta, certo, ma davvero piena di memoria.

57.  La messa in questione di tale default setting è al centro della mia tesi di dottorato: F. A dinolfi, Gesù continuatore di Giovanni. Studio storico-esegetico sulla relazione tra Gesù di Nazaret e Giovanni il Battista, Università di Bologna, 2014. Appare chiaro che il rapporto tra Gesù e Giovanni rappresenta l’ultima roccaforte del vecchio criterio di dissomiglianza dal giudaismo. Su questo, vedi anche F. Bermejo -Rubio, «Why is John the Baptist Used as a Foil for Jesus? Leaps of Faith and Oblique Anti-Judaism in Contemporary Scholarship», Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 11 (2013), p. 170‑196. 58.  In questa direzione, vedi già D.C. Sim, «Matthew and Jesus of Nazareth», in D.C. Sim – B. R epschinski (ed.), Matthew and His Christian Contemporaries, London-New York, 2008, p. 155‑172; U. Luz , «Matthew’s Interpretive ‘Tendencies’ and the ‘Historical Jesus’», in J.H. Charlesworth (ed.), Jesus Research: New Methodologies and Perceptions, Grand Rapids, 2014, p. 577‑599.

Early Texts of Jesus’ Followers and T heir Groups

VERNACULAR R EVE(I)LATIONS: PAUL AND THE VEIL CONTROVERSY IN CORINTH* Luigi Walt It is an act of native exegetical ingenuity, a process of native work. (J.Z. Smith, A Pearl of Great Price and a Cargo of Yams)

I If there is a concept often used by scholars to describe the backstage situation of Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians, it is certainly that of misunderstanding. The Corinthians, many argue, did not understand Paul’s message, 1 they misunderstood the apostle, or they turned upside-down this or that point of his preaching. 2 All these arguments, in hindsight, are the exact opposite of what Jonathan Z. Smith, in the wake of Clifford Geertz, would define as a “thick description” or “re-description” of a cultural situation. 3 In the just mentioned sentences, indeed, scholars seem *  This paper has been prepared during a research period at the University of Catania, as part of the FIRB 2012 research project on “The Construction of Space and Time in the Transmission of Collective Identities: Religious Polarizations and/ or cohabitations in Ancient World (1st-6th Cent. ce).” I wish to thank Dr Arianna Rotondo for her generous support and invaluable friendship. 1.  See for example D.A. Ackerman, Lo, I Tell You a Mystery: Cross, Resurrection, and Paraenesis in the Rhetoric of 1 Corinthians (Eugene, OR, 2006) 113. 2. This is a commonplace in many introductions to the epistle, as noted by W.E. A rnal , “Bringing Paul and the Corinthians Together? A Rejoinder and Some Proposals on Redescription and Theory,” in R. Cameron – M.P. M iller , ed., Redescribing Paul and the Corinthians (Atlanta, GA, 2011) 75‑104: 80‑81. Scholars, very often, limit themselves to “eticise” the “emic” language of Paul, starting from the analysis of passages such as 1 Cor 2:6‑3:2. 3.  For the concept of “thick description” (borrowed from G. Ryle), see at least C. Geertz , “Thick Description: Toward an Interpretative Theory of Culture,” in The Interpretation of Culture: Selected Essays (New York, 1973) 3‑30. As for the notion of “re-description,” see J.Z. Smith, “Sacred Persistence: Toward a Redescription of Canon,” in W.S. Green, ed., Approaches to Ancient Judaism: Theory and Practice (Missoula, MT, 1978) 11‑28; now in Smith, Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown (Chicago – London, 1982) 36‑52: esp. 36 (cf. also 141, n. 2); see also Smith, “When the Chips Are Down,” in Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion (Chicago – London, 2004) 1‑60: 28‑32. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 153–171 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111702 ©

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to limit themselves to paraphrasing what is written in Paul’s text, without considering that “a theory, a model, a conceptual category – as observed by Smith – cannot be simply the data writ large.” 4 The problem, for Smith, arises with particular urgency in the analysis of religious texts or phenomena, because of the need not to confuse the scientific study of religion with an analysis that moves from religious premises and purposes. 5 To complicate the work of the interpreter, in our case, there is also the fact that over the centuries texts like 1 Corinthians ended up acquiring a normative character, becoming keystones not only for the understanding – and management – of situations of contact and conflict between cultures (just think about the Chinese Rites controversy, which exploded at the time of the first Jesuit missions, and where references to 1 Corinthians played a prominent role), but also for the interpretation of ethnographic materials that would be subsequently used, in a circular manner, for reading the text itself (with reference to 1 Corinthians, one might consider modern studies on glossolalia or on the liberation and salvation movements described by the Italian scholar Vittorio Lanternari). 6 Personally, I am convinced that most of the work that remains to be done on 1 Corinthians ought to start from here, namely from the awareness of a double cultural distance: the one that opposed the apostle to his immediate addressees, in the first century, and the one that still separates his text from us, modern readers. Considering both cases, however, it goes without saying that a careful analysis of the Pauline text should imply an equally accurate reflection on the notion of misunderstanding to be put (or re-put) in the field. What I aim to offer in these pages, therefore, is a first contribution in this direction. The thesis that I will seek to defend is very simple: we can no longer be satisfied to repeat the accusation of misunderstanding Paul hurled at his opponents; but we cannot even, in retaliation, break a lance in favour of the Corinthians, so unfairly accused of being as thick as bricks. Actually, at least from a historical point of view, we are called to take sides neither to one nor the other (as so often, even unintentionally, too many commentators continue to do): the task

4. J.Z. Smith, “Bible and Religion,” in Bulletin of the Council of Societies for the Study of Religion 29 (2000) 87‑93; now in Smith, Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion (Chicago – London, 2004) 197‑214: 209 (author’s italics). 5.  On this problem, let me refer to a paper delivered at the first CISSR Annual Meeting in Bertinoro (2014), now published as L. Walt, “L’origine delle origini. Jonathan Z. Smith e la storia naturale del cristianesimo,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 32/1 (2015) 283‑300. 6. The point has been discussed by J.Z. Smith, “Re: Corinthians,” in Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion (Chicago – London, 2004) 340‑361: 340‑343 (cf. also 352‑355, nn. 1‑13, with some bibliographic references on the Chinese Rites controversy at n. 2).

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ahead, rather, is to try to better define the contours and substance of their relationship. A good case in point may be offered by the passage of 1 Cor 11:2‑16, where Paul addresses the problem of the clothing that men and women should wear in important moments of the group’s life (“while praying or prophesying,” as writes the apostle). Paul’s speech, as we shall see, is directed not just to women, but also to men, so it is wrong to present it as a speech on the “women’s veil.” 7 Here again, many scholars argue for a possible misunderstanding on the part of the Corinthians, but there are good reasons to think that if there was a misunderstanding, it involved both parties, and was probably an inescapable misunderstanding, due to a fundamental clash between different “vernacular” conceptions of the meaning of head covering during prayer. 8 II No matter how trivial this may sound, it is important to bear in mind that for all the events involving the proto-Christian groups in Corinth between the years 50 and 60 of the first century, besides the few scattered pieces of information we find in the Acts of the Apostles or in some other later texts, we have no relevant evidence except Paul’s. 9 Yet we know that 7.  Among the (few) commentators who emphasize this point, see C.K. Barrett, A  Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians (London, 1971; I ed. 1968) 246; and A.C. Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text (Grand Rapids – Cambridge – Carlisle, 2000) 805 and 825‑826. 8.  I speak of “vernacular” conceptions following I. I llich, Gender (New York, 1982); see L. Walt, Paolo e le parole di Gesù. Frammenti di un insegnamento orale (Brescia, 2013) 109, n. 87. Illich gave the term a broader meaning, defining as vernacular any cultural and social form of a “home-made, homespun, and homegrown” nature, as opposed to symbolic languages, ways of life, or standard rules imposed from above. 9.  Regrettably, we are still far from having an overall reconstruction of the history of the early Christian groups in Corinth even remotely comparable to the work done for Rome by P. L ampe , Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries: From Paul to Valentinus, ed. M.D. Johnson (Minneapolis, MN, 2003; Engl. revised edition of Die stadtrömischen Christen in den ersten beiden Jahrhunderten: Untersuchungen zur Sozialgeschichte [Tübingen, 1987]). For an overview of the main problems that such a reconstruction would entail, see the preliminary observations of B.W. Winter , After Paul Left Corinth: The Influence of Secular Ethics and Social Change (Grand Rapids, MI, 2001) 1‑28; and M.M. M itchell , “Paul’s Letters to Corinth: The Interpretative Intertwining of Literary and Historical Reconstruction,” in D.N. Schowalter – S.J. Friesen, ed., Urban Religion in Roman Corinth: Interdisciplinary Approaches (Cambridge, MA, 2005) 307‑338; for a summary of the research history (with rich selection of texts), cf. instead E. A dams – D.G. Horrell , ed., Christianity at Corinth: The Quest for the Pauline Church (Louisville, KY, 2004). On the social history of the Pauline groups in Corinth,

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the correspondence between Paul and the Corinthians was much broader (and more complex) than what has come down to us through the New Testament, 10 and we also know that their epistolary communication was by no means one-sided: various clues disseminated in the letters, on the contrary, enable us to establish that the Corinthians themselves wrote to Paul (cf. 1 Cor 7:1). Unfortunately, the vortex of history has come to swallow all their messages, 11 and this puts us in front of a first methodological difficulty, since in the absence of other sources we are forced to appeal only to the outline of events that we are offered by Paul. 12 I referred above to the good reasons that should make us assume the possibility of a mutual misunderstanding between the apostle and his addressees. The idea of evaluating 1 Corinthians 11:2‑16 in these terms derives from some observations of J.Z. Smith about the criteria that should guide an overall assessment of the Pauline text. 13 Following his standard hermeneutical procedure, Smith compares the Corinthian situation with are always indispensable G. Theissen, Studien zur Soziologie des Urchristentums (Tübingen, 1979); and W.A. M eeks , The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven, 1983); but cf. also T.D. Still – D.G. Horrell , ed., After the First Urban Christians: The Social-Scientific Study of Pauline Christianity Twenty-Five Years Later (London, 2009); and D.G. Horrell , The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence: Interests and Ideology from 1 Corinthians to 1 Clement (Edinburgh, 1996). 10.  It is the apostle himself who informs us of a (now lost) previous message sent to the Corinthians: see 1 Cor 5:9. For a recent discussion about the complex weave of visits, reports, and written communications between Paul and the Corinthian groups, see D.A. Campbell , Framing Paul: An Epistolary Biography (Grand Rapids – Cambridge, 2014) 56‑98. 11. Unless we want to defend, of course, the unlikely authenticity of a letter that the Corinthians would have sent to Paul, and to which the apostle would have responded with what is now called the Third Epistle to the Corinthians, giving rise to the apocryphal correspondence reported by the Acts of Paul (II c.). 12. The situation is not so different from that of Abraham Yehoshua’s novel Mar Mani [Mr Mani] (Tel Aviv, 1990), constructed in the form of dialogue between different pairs of characters: the author reports the lines of only one of the characters, leaving the reader to guess the thoughts, feelings, and emotions of the other. However, as the game is conducted with remarkable skill, the narrator wisely avoids referring to situations of mutual misunderstanding: their decipherment would have weighed negatively on the pleasure of reading, and Yehoshua is not so much postmodern as to inflict this kind of tortures. 13.  I am referring again to J.Z. Smith, “Re: Corinthians,” in Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion (Chicago – London, 2004) 340‑361. In an earlier version, the text of this essay was read by Smith during a session of the “Ancient Myths and Modern Theories of Christian Origins” research group, which has been active since 2000 at the annual meetings of the Society of Biblical Literature. See the collective volumes edited by R. Cameron – M.P. M iller , Redescribing Christian Origins (Atlanta, GA, 2004), and Redescribing Paul and the Corinthians (Atlanta, GA, 2011; the text of “Re: Corinthians” appears also here, at p. 17‑34).

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that of the Atbalmin (or Nalumin), a small tribe from the border between today’s West Papua and Papua New Guinea. From the 1950s, while their territory continued to remain virtually unknown to explorers and anthropologists, the Atbalmin began to suffer a slow and difficult process of Christianization, which reached its climax when the first white missionaries (Baptists coming from Australia), given the initial failure of their preaching, decided to send on-site some native ministers, after picking them up among nearby tribes. The success was immediate, and led to a large number of conversions, despite (or maybe because) this second generation of missionaries presented the transition to Christianity as a parting from a previous condition of “sin,” which involved ipso facto the need to abandon indigenous religious practices. Ancestor worship, which had been until then the heart of the Atbalmin social system, was thus relegated to the shadows, and could survive only through a complex symbolic reformulation. The situation became further complicated in the late 80s, with the appearance of two religious movements: a revivalist movement, focussed on the mythical memory of one of the past missionaries and marked by the massive presence of phenomena of female possession (all interpreted as a manifestation of the “Holy Spirit”); and a nativistic movement, born after the forced relocation of some refugees from the region of Irian Jaya, and characterized by a programme of political and religious opposition to any change introduced by “foreigners,” in the hope of returning to the ancestral indigenous practices. 14 Both these movements, rivals on paper, presented themselves as different answers to the same problem, that of dislocation and symbolic intrusion. In both cases, though, it was the cult of the dead to catalyse their answers: for revivalists, with the connection between the descent of the Holy Spirit and the healing from the fathers’ “sin;” for nativists, with the continuous call to the memory of the ancestors, whose imminent return on the earth would have led them to “reign” with the living. The comparison between this situation and that of Corinth is made by Smith on the basis of some common elements. The first consists of the “ability of a small relatively homogenous community to absorb a stunning series of situational changes within a brief span of time through strategies 14.  On nativism, retained by Smith as “the creation of new traditionalisms in the context of social and cultural change” (J.Z. Smith, “Re: Corinthians,” in Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion [Chicago – London, 2004] 340‑361: 355, n. 13), see the entry “Nativistic Movements” in J.Z. Smith, ed., The HarperCollins Dictionary of Religion (London, 1996) 763; cf. also W.E. A rnal , Jesus and the Village Scribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q (Minneapolis, MN, 2001) 199‑203, for an attempt to apply this category to the study of the earliest followers of Jesus in Galilee.

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of incorporation and resistence [sic].” 15 The second element is the corresponding capacity of the group “to experiment, simultaneously, with multiple modes of religion.” 16 All this, contends Smith, […] makes more plausible the presumption of the coexistence of multiple experiments by early ‘Christian’ communities as well as their localism. […I]n a locale such as Corinth, the clear presence of face-to-face communication networks, and the relative prominence of ‘households’ suggest the existence of analogous communities within the larger urban landscape that served as the primary sites of early Christian experimentations. This suggests the possibility of thinking of Paul (and others) as intrusive on the native religious formations of the Corinthians addressed in 1 Corinthians, analogous, to some degree, to intrusions on the Atbalmin. 17

I cannot dwell, for obvious reasons, on the conclusions that Smith draws from his comparison, because this would force me to deal with the passages of 1 Corinthians the scholar relies upon, which are different from the one that interests us here. I will only observe that the overall framework reconstructed by Smith can be confirmed not only by the information we can discern from Paul, but also by the historical and archaeological evidence at our disposal today. 18 As we know, one of the central events in the history of ancient Corinth was its re-establishment as a Roman colony around 44 bce , almost a century after the brutal siege (perpetrated by the troops of the consul Lucius Mummius in 146 bce) that ravaged the city, putting an end to the conflict between Rome and the poleis of the Achaean League. 19 Historians and archaeologists have long wondered about the period of desolation of the city, 20 as well as about what followed the time of its re-establishment. 21 15.  For some warnings against the use of “community” with reference to early Christian groups, see S.K. Stowers , “The Concept of ‘Community’ and the History of Early Christianity,” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 23/3-4 (2011) 238‑256; cf. also E.R. Urciuoli, “La comunità ubiqua. Considerazioni sull’onnipresenza comunitaria nella storia del cristianesimo antico,” Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 79/2 (2013) 557‑583. 16. J.Z. Smith, “Re: Corinthians,” in Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion (Chicago – London, 2004) 340‑361: 347. 17.  Ibidem, 347. 18.  For a reasoned repertoire of literary and archaeological sources on the history of Corinth, still useful is J. Murphy O’Connor , St. Paul ’s Corinth: Texts and Archaeology (third edition, Collegeville, PA, 2003; first edition, 1983). 19.  On the details of Corinth’s destruction, we are mainly informed through Pausanias (Descr. 7.16.7-10), Strabo (Geogr. 8.6.23), and Cassius Dio (Hist. 21 = Zonaras 9.31). Cicero visited Corinth before its rebuilding, leaving a portrait painted with melancholy (cf. Tusc. 3.53). 20. For over a hundred years, Corinth was deprived of the honour of hosting the Isthmian games, the return of which began to be claimed as early as 40 bc , for obvious economic reasons: on this problem, see especially E.R. Gebhard,

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First of all, who was called to repopulate Corinth? To this question, until recently, it was customary to give a clear answer. As in the case of other Roman colonies (for example Carthage), the population of Corinth would have been almost entirely Roman, that is, composed of Roman citizens, mainly veterans and freedmen. 22 In support of such a vision, scholars were used to referring to the impressive result of the calculations conducted by John Harvey Kent on the epigraphs of Corinth: “[…] of the 104 texts which are prior to the reign of Hadrian [ce 117‑138] 101 are in Latin and only three in Greek, a virtual monopoly for the Latin language.” 23 Recent studies, however, have contributed to overturning this assumption—along with many other that Paul’s commentators still tend to take for granted. 24 For instance, it has been observed that data such as those reported by Kent cannot be read without considering the importance of the original context of inscriptions. The vast majority of them, in fact, are of a public nature, and appear to come from areas adjacent to the forum and the theatre, thus from the symbolic heart of the Roman polis. But we must also consider the purpose for which these inscriptions were written, which often coincided with the desire of clients to emphasize their loyal relationship to the civil authorities. It is quite understandable, then, that euergetic, funerary, or monumental inscriptions, within a colony, appear in the language of the rulers; and if we move to the analysis of written  21

“The Isthmian Games and the Sanctuary of Poseidon in the Early Empire,” in T.E. Gregory, ed., The Corinthia in the Roman Period (Ann Arbor, MI, 1993) 78‑94: 78‑82. 21. The city, reborn with the official title of Colonia Laus Julia Corinthiensis, maintained its role as a rich and important commercial hub, also because of its favourable geographic location: situated in an isthmus between two seas, goods arrived from the Aegean Sea at the southern port of Cenchreae, and were then charged to the northern port of Lechaeum, towards the Ionian Sea (this allowed ships to avoid the circumnavigation of the Peloponnese); from 27 ce onwards, Corinth served as the administrative headquarters of the Roman province of Achaia, proclaimed senatorial province in 44. 22.  See Strabo, Geogr. 8.6.23; 17.3.15; Appian, Pun. 136; and Plutarch, Caes. 57.8. 23. J.H. K ent, Corinth, vol. 8, The Inscriptions 1926‑1950 (Princeton, NJ, 1966) 66. 24. See the various contributions collected in D.N. Schowalter – S.J. Frie­ sen, ed., Urban Religion in Roman Corinth: Interdisciplinary Approaches (Cambridge, MA, 2005); S.J. Friesen – D.N. Schowalter – J.C. Walters , ed., Corinth in Context: Comparative Studies on Religion and Society (Leiden – Boston, 2010); and S.J. Friesen – S.A. James – D.N. Schowalter , ed., Corinth in Contrast: Studies in Inequality (Leiden – Boston, 2014). The first volume contains the proceedings of a conference held at Harvard in 2002, and organized by the Archaeology of Greek-Roman Religion research team of the Society of Biblical Literature; the other two report the results of meetings held at the University of Texas in 2007 and 2010.

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materials of a private nature, or at least less tied to officialdom, it is significant that the linguistic percentages become reversed, yielding to a sharp predominance of Greek, as in the case – albeit small from a quantitative point of view – of curse tablets and mural or ceramic graffiti. 25 Further pieces of evidence come from the examination of inscriptions relating to the Isthmian games (probably restored just before Paul’s supposed arrival in town): in this case, the lists of winners are always in Greek, which is shown to be the official language of the games, whereas commemorative inscriptions of individual athletes appear in Latin. 26 The portrait of Corinth that emerges from these data is that of a plural and multifaceted environment, “an interesting mix of continuity and discontinuity.” 27 Its political structure, renewed appearance, and relationship network were totally Roman, whilst most of the population, both for provenance and customs, remained Greek and Oriental (as is shown also from prosopography). In addition, there are many cults attested to in Corinth at the time of Paul, from the cult of Asclepius to that of Isis (a goddess revered in two forms, as Isis Pelagia and Egyptian Isis), from the cult of Demeter and Kore to that of Aphrodite and Poseidon, up to the imperial cult, even this one often expressed in an Oriental manner. 28 All this gave rise 25. For a thorough discussion of these data, see the remarkable article by B.W. M illis , “The Social and Ethnic Origins of the Colonists in Early Roman Corinth,” in S.J. Friesen – D.N. Schowalter – J.C. Walters , ed., Corinth in Context: Comparative Studies on Religion and Society (Leiden – Boston, 2010) 13‑35. In the case of graffiti, the context is decisive; a large number have been found, for example, among the remains of a sanctuary devoted to Demeter: on this, see C.M. Thomas , “Greek Heritage in Roman Corinth and Ephesos: Hybrid Identities and Strategies of Display in the Material Record of Traditional Mediterranean Religions,” in S.J. Friesen – D.N. Schowalter – J.C. Walters , ed., Corinth in Context: Comparative Studies on Religion and Society (Leiden – Boston, 2010) 117‑147 (esp. 118). 26. See J. Murphy O’Connor , St. Paul ’s Corinth: Texts and Archaeology (Collegeville, PA, 2003) 12‑15; and M. K ajava, “When Did the Isthmian Games Return to the Isthmus? (Rereading Corinth 8.3.153),” Classical Philology 97 (2002) 168‑178. 27. Thus C.M. Thomas , “Greek Heritage in Roman Corinth and Ephesos: Hybrid Identities and Strategies of Display in the Material Record of Traditional Mediterranean Religions,” in S.J. Friesen – D.N. Schowalter – J.C. Walters , ed., Corinth in Context: Comparative Studies on Religion and Society (Leiden – Boston, 2010) 117‑147: 119. 28.  Concerning the latter, see M. Walbank , “Evidence for the Imperial Cult in Julio-Claudian Corinth,” in A. Small , ed., Subject and Ruler: The Cult of the Ruling Power in Classical Antiquity (Ann Arbor, MI, 1996) 201‑214. On Oriental cults, cf. instead D.E. Smith, “The Egyptian Cults at Corinth,” Harvard Theological Review 70 (1977) 201‑231 (we should not forget that it is at Corinth that begins and ends the story of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses). As for the Jews, archaeological evidence is rather scarce and late (for an overview, see G. Foerster , “Remains of a Synagogue at Corinth,” in L.I. L evine , Ancient Synagogues Revealed [Jerusalem,

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to phenomena of conflict and hybridization that are rarely attested with the same force in other cities of the Roman Empire. An eloquent example is provided by the modes that guided the reconstruction of some existing sanctuaries, like those dedicated to Asclepius and Demeter. Rebuilt on the same land where they were before the destruction of Corinth, they underwent a radical symbolic and architectural reorganization, in order to fit to the renewed needs of the elite. It is on a background of this kind, therefore, that we are invited to re-read the passage of 1 Cor 11:2‑16. III This Pauline passage belongs to the second major section of the letter body of 1 Corinthians, which runs from chapter 7 to chapter 14. There Paul responds to some requests received by the Corinthians (cf. 1 Cor 7:1), often introducing his answers with the formula περὶ δὲ, “now concerning…” (1 Cor 7:1.25; 8:1.4; 12:1). The subsection that interests us is so embedded between a discussion on the freedom to participate in banquets in honour of the gentile gods (1 Cor 8:1‑11:1) and an extended discussion of issues related to liturgical meetings, such as the Lord’s supper (1 Cor 11:17‑34) or what Paul defines as “gifts of the Spirit” (1 Cor 12:1‑14:40). Actually, it is precisely in this last section that we can see an important clue for understanding the topic of our passage. I refer in particular to vv. 22‑25 of chapter 14, where Paul focusses quickly on the difference between speaking in tongues and prophecy: Speaking in tongues, then, is a sign not for believers but for unbelievers, while prophecy is not for unbelievers but for believers. 23 If, therefore, the whole assembly comes together and all speak in tongues, and ordinary persons or unbelievers enter (εἰσέλθωσιν δὲ ἰδιῶται ἢ ἄπιστοι), will they not say that you are out of your mind (ὅτι μαίνεσθε)? 24 But if all prophesy, an unbeliever or ordinary person who enters (εἰσέλθῃ δέ τις ἄπιστος ἢ ἰδιώτης) is reproved by all and called to account by all. 25 After the secrets of the unbeliever’s heart are disclosed, that person will bow down before God and worship him, declaring, “God is really among you” (1 Cor 14:22‑25). 29 22

1981] 185). Beyond evidence from early Christian sources, we can infer the presence of Jewish communities in the first century Corinth thanks both to Philo, who includes the city in a list of diaspora sites (Legat. 281), and Josephus, who reports the decision of Vespasian to employ a good number of Jewish slaves for the construction of a canal on the isthmus, wanted by Nero (Bell. 3.540). In addition, 1 Macc. 15:23 tells us of the presence of Jews in Sicyon, around 140 bce: probably refugees from Corinth, where they could have returned after the re-foundation. 29.  All Biblical passages, here and henceforth, are quoted from the New Revised Standard Version, when necessary with slight modifications.

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As we can see, the problem behind these lines seems to be of public order, concerning the reactions that outsiders could have (and possibly had) before certain spiritual manifestations of the group. Among the various pieces of information that can be drawn from this handful of verses, 30 I would like to emphasize the use of the verb εἰσέρχομαι to indicate the arrival of “non-believers” or “ordinary persons” (whatever those terms are supposed to mean: second category followers, visitors, outsiders, etc.) within the spaces shared by the group. The verb implies, apparently, a separation between inside and outside, inner spaces and outer spaces, but this separation is not absolute, and can be broken precisely by the sudden irruption of strangers. What seems worthy of note is the fact that Paul signals as a pure possibility, and not as something that usually happens, the gathering of the “whole assembly” in one single place: we must then imagine the presence of small groups gathering in different private contexts, probably domestic spaces, but whose activities do not remain impenetrable to the eye and judgment of the outsiders. 31 This reinforces the hypothesis, advanced in recent years by Richard S. Ascough and William E. Arnal, that Paul’s preaching initially focussed on pre-existing groups, perhaps professional associations (as in the case of Thessalonica) or worship groups (as in Corinth), often composed of individuals who found themselves transplanted from one city of the Empire to another. 32 The main problems these subgroups were facing, according to Ascough and Arnal, were “translation” problems: in particular, considering the case of the Corinthians, translation of domestic cults, based on the “here” of the household, into the peculiar form of diasporic Judaism represented by Paul (which was also a result, in a specular way, of translations and negotiations). 33 30. For a recent treatment, see S.J. Chester , “Divine Madness? Speaking in Tongues in 1 Corinthians 14.23,” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 27/4 (2005) 417‑446. 31.  Patronage dynamics, by the way, were probably at the heart of the controversy between Paul and the Corinthians about the Lord’s Supper, as shown by G. Theissen and W.A. Meeks: for an evaluation of this hypothesis, see P. Coutsoumpos , Paul and the Lord ’s Supper: A Socio-Historical Investigation (Bern – New York, 2005); and Community, Conflict, and the Eucharist in Roman Corinth: The Social Setting of Paul ’s Letter (Lanham, MD, 2006). 32.  See R.S. A scough, “The Thessalonian Christian Community as a Professional Voluntary Association,” Journal of Biblical Literature 119/2 (2000) 311‑328; and W.E. A rnal , “Bringing Paul and the Corinthians Together? A Rejoinder and Some Proposals on Redescription and Theory,” in R. Cameron – M.P. M iller , ed., Redescribing Paul and the Corinthians (Atlanta, GA, 2011) 75‑104: 83‑89. 33. This is a point emphasized also by G. van den Heever, in his review of J.C. H anges , Paul, Founder of Churches: A Study in Light of the Evidence for the Role of “Founder-Figures” in the Hellenistic-Roman Period (Tübingen, 2012): see G.A. van den H eever , “Introduction: Paul, Founder of Churches. Cult Founda-

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IV Let us finally turn, then, to the text of 1 Cor 11:2-16:   ἐπαινῶ δὲ ὑμᾶς ὅτι πάντα μου μέμνησθε καὶ καθὼς παρέδωκα ὑμῖν τὰς παραδόσεις κατέχετε. 3  θέλω δὲ ὑμᾶς εἰδέναι ὅτι παντὸς ἀνδρὸς ἡ κεφαλὴ ὁ χριστός ἐστιν, κεφαλὴ δὲ γυναικὸς ὁ ἀνήρ, κεφαλὴ δὲ τοῦ χριστοῦ ὁ θεός. 4  πᾶς ἀνὴρ προσευχόμενος ἢ προφητεύων κατὰ κεφαλῆς ἔχων καταισχύνει τὴν κεφαλὴν αὐτοῦ· 5  πᾶσα δὲ γυνὴ προσευχομένη ἢ προφητεύουσα ἀκατακαλύπτῳ τῇ κεφαλῇ καταισχύνει τὴν κεφαλὴν αὐτῆς· ἓν γάρ ἐστιν καὶ τὸ αὐτὸ τῇ ἐξυρημένῃ. 6 εἰ γὰρ οὐ κατακαλύπτεται γυνή, καὶ κειράσθω· εἰ δὲ αἰσχρὸν γυναικὶ τὸ κείρασθαι ἢ ξυρᾶσθαι, κατακαλυπτέσθω. 7   ἀνὴρ μὲν γὰρ οὐκ ὀφείλει κατακαλύπτεσθαι τὴν κεφαλήν, εἰκὼν καὶ δόξα θεοῦ ὑπάρχων· ἡ γυνὴ δὲ δόξα ἀνδρός ἐστιν. 8  οὐ γάρ ἐστιν ἀνὴρ ἐκ γυναικός, ἀλλὰ γυνὴ ἐξ ἀνδρός· 9  καὶ γὰρ οὐκ ἐκτίσθη ἀνὴρ διὰ τὴν γυναῖκα, ἀλλὰ γυνὴ διὰ τὸν ἄνδρα. 10  διὰ τοῦτο ὀφείλει ἡ γυνὴ ἐξουσίαν ἔχειν ἐπὶ τῆς κεφαλῆς διὰ τοὺς ἀγγέλους. 11   πλὴν οὔτε γυνὴ χωρὶς ἀνδρὸς οὔτε ἀνὴρ χωρὶς γυναικὸς ἐν κυρίῳ· 12   ὥσπερ γὰρ ἡ γυνὴ ἐκ τοῦ ἀνδρός, οὕτως καὶ ὁ ἀνὴρ διὰ τῆς γυναικός· τὰ δὲ πάντα ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ. 13  ἐν ὑμῖν αὐτοῖς κρίνατε· πρέπον ἐστὶν γυναῖκα ἀκατακάλυπτον τῶ θεῶ προσεύχεσθαι; 14  οὐδὲ ἡ φύσις αὐτὴ διδάσκει ὑμᾶς ὅτι ἀνὴρ μὲν ἐὰν κομᾷ ἀτιμία αὐτῶ ἐστιν, 15  γυνὴ δὲ ἐὰν κομᾷ δόξα αὐτῇ ἐστιν; ὅτι ἡ κόμη ἀντὶ περιβολαίου δέδοται [αὐτῇ]. 16 εἰ δέ τις δοκεῖ φιλόνεικος εἶναι, ἡμεῖς τοιαύτην συνήθειαν οὐκ ἔχομεν, οὐδὲ αἱ ἐκκλησίαι τοῦ θεοῦ. 2 I commend you because you remember me in everything and maintain the traditions just as I handed them on to you. 3 But I want you to understand that the Messiah is the head of every man, and man is the head of woman, and God is the head of the Messiah. 4 Any man who prays or prophesies with something on his head disgraces his head. 5 And any woman who prays or prophesies with her head unveiled disgraces her head: it is one and the same thing as having her head shaved. 6 For if a woman will not veil herself, then she should cut off her hair; but if it is disgraceful for a woman to have her hair cut off or to be shaved, she should wear a veil. 7 For a man ought not to have his head veiled, since he is the image and glory of God; but woman is the glory of man. 8 Indeed, man was not made from woman, but woman from man; 9 neither was man created for the sake of woman, 2

tions and the Comparative Study of Cult Origins,” Religion & Theology 20/3‑4 (2014) 259‑283. The distinction between religions of the “here,” “there,” and “anywhere” derives from J.Z. Smith, “Here, There, and Anywhere,” in S.B. Noegel – J. Walker – B.M. Wheeler , ed., Prayer, Magic, and the Stars in the Ancient Late Antique World (University Park, PA, 2003) 21‑36; now in J.Z. Smith, Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion (Chicago – London, 2004) 323‑339.

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but woman for the sake of man. 10 For this reason the woman ought to have (a sign of) authority on her head, because of the angels. 11 Nevertheless, in the Lord woman is not apart from man or man apart from woman. 12 For just as woman came from man, so man comes through woman; but all things come from God. 13 Judge for yourselves: is it proper for a woman to pray to God with her head unveiled? 14 Does not nature itself teach you that if a man wears long hair, it is a dishonour to him, 15 while if a woman has long hair, it is her glory? For her hair is given to her for a covering. 16 But if anyone is disposed to be contentious, we have no such custom, nor do the assemblies of God.

Firstly, we can immediately observe how Paul begins with a praise of the Corinthians, because they preserve the “traditions” (παραδόσεις) just as he handed them on to them.  3 4 It is not necessary to emphasize the nativistic character of these words, if following J.Z. Smith we intend nativism as the creation of a new traditionalism in response to a sudden socio-cultural change. The praise, however, is promptly followed by a correction, introduced by the adversative formula of v. 3: “But I want you to understand that…” (θέλω δὲ ὑμᾶς εἰδέναι ὅτι…). Here Paul exposes a theoretical principle that will be used as a basis of argument, presenting a sort of hierarchical order into which every element has a “head”: the man (ἀνήρ), woman (γυνή), and Messiah (χριστός). 35 The order Paul has in mind is the following: God is the head of the Messiah, the Messiah is the head of the man, and the man is the head of the woman. Paul’s sentence plays on the ambivalence of the term “head” (in Greek, κεφαλή), which can indicate both a head in the physical sense, as a part of the human body, and a head in the metaphorical sense, that is someone to whom we owe obedience, such as a chief or a master, but also a source or principle of authority, which we have to respect. While the plain sense of the term is not questioned (since it allows the play on words of the following verses), scholars debate on which of the two metaphorical senses is to be preferred, whether that of chief/master or source/principle. The two meanings, in Greek, can certainly co-exist, but it would not make much sense to try to defend at all costs the second, perhaps hoping

34.  I do not think that these words are to be understood as ironic, nor that they are a sort of captatio benevolentiae, as suggested by, among others, G. Fee , The First Epistle to the Corinthians (Grand Rapids, MI, 1987) 500; and W. Schrage , Der erste Brief an die Korinter, II (Neukirchen-Vluyn – Zürich – Düsseldorf, 1995) 499. Against this view, see R.B. H ays , First Corinthians (Louisville, KY, 1997) 181‑184. 35.  The article preceding χριστός is omitted from some witnesses (B*, D*, F, G), but can count on a solid manuscript tradition (P46 , ‫ א‬, A, Bc, C, D2 , Ψ, 33, 1739). Remarkable, more than anything else, is the fact that Paul describes the Messiah as a “head,” i.e. as a pater familias.

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to soften the phrasing of Paul, adjusting it to our sensitivity on egalitarian relationships between men and women. 36 The apostle is now reflecting on what he supposes to be the order of creation and, as a consequence, on the strategies of maintenance and management of such an order. Within this perspective, the metaphor of the head is to be counted among what Mary Douglas rightly defined as natural symbols, for the human body is always seen as an image of society, a sort of “portable map.” The human body, in short, is an area susceptible to reflections and meanings, always alluding to a precise vision of cosmos and society. 37 From this point of view, there is nothing particularly Pauline in considering a woman’s head as a symbolic place, expressing her subordination to man (genuinely Pauline, instead, is the idea that a man’s head should represent and be identified with the Messiah). 38 At the basis of such a statement, there is a principle common to all the ancient world, namely that gender separation is something determined by “nature,” which cannot be eliminated at all, but at most suspended or overthrown in particular social situations. Verses 4‑6 provide a perfect example of this separation: “Any man who prays or prophesies with something on his head disgraces his head” (v. 4), and “any woman who prays or prophesies with her head unveiled disgraces her head” (v. 5). The two subjects are rather clear, and I would tend to exclude that Paul is referring to men and women in the restrictive sense of husbands and wives; otherwise, among other things, one could not understand v. 12, where Paul states that “man comes (into existence) through woman.” Unless we wish to make Paul a precursor of Freud, it is hard to attribute to the apostle the curious idea that husbands might come into existence through their wives. As for the key expressions of these two verses, particularly problematic is the one related to the man: κατὰ κεφαλῆς ἔχων, literally “having (something) down from the head.” Two interpretations have been proposed: (a) having long hair and (b) having something coming down from the head. The two meanings, as shown by v. 14, are not mutually exclusive, but the reference of v. 7 to κατακαλύπτεσθαι τὴν κεφαλήν (“to have the head veiled”) recalls the custom of veiling one’s head with the upper edge of 36.  For a quick but comprehensive overview of the various options discussed by scholars, see A.C. Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text (Grand Rapids – Cambridge – Carlisle, 2000) 802‑823; cf. also J. Fitzmyer , First Corinthians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (New Haven – London, 2008) 409‑411. 37.  See M. Douglas , Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology (Harmondsworth, 1973). 38. See D.B. M artin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven, 1995), especially chapters 1 (“The Body in Greco-Roman Culture,” 3‑37) and 9 (“Prophylactic Veils,” 229‑248).

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the garment, which in the case of rituals officiated by males was a typical Roman custom. We could not imagine a more direct attack towards the imperial cult, whose propaganda, since the age of Augustus, had been spreading a large number of statues and portraits representing the emperor in traditional styles and with a veiled head, often portrayed in the act of offering a sacrifice or leading a procession. 39 More than to the Roman practices, however, Paul was probably referring to those who were their practitioners within the Corinthian gatherings, probably the same people reproached in the subsequent section of the letter (1 Cor 11:17‑34): those “wealthy and noble born persons” in the Corinthian group, actually a minority, who apparently loved to stress their superior social status even when praying. In the case of women, Paul’s reasoning refers by contrast to the perception of gender differences common in the Greek world. As the apostle says in vv. 14‑15, it is “nature” itself that teaches us it is normal for men to cut their hair and for women to let it grow. The opposite would have been interpreted as a sign of disorder or social subversion. Therefore, Paul writes, “if a woman will not veil herself (οὐ κατακαλύπτεται), then she should cut off her hair (κειράσθω); but if it is disgraceful for a woman to have her hair cut off or to be shaved (τὸ κείρασθαι ἢ ξυρᾶσθαι), she should wear a veil (κατακαλυπτέσθω)” (v. 6). A similar argument is found in a passage of Plutarch’s Roman Questions, where the author wonders why, at the funeral of their parents, the Romans’ sons are used to keeping “their heads covered, while the daughters go bareheaded and with loose hair” (Quaest. rom. 14). Plutarch offers three possible explanations. The more interesting for us is the second, which states that “what is outside the customary suits to mourning; and it is standard practice that women proceed in public with their heads covered, while men go bareheaded. In fact, in Greece, when an accident happens, the women cut their hair and the men let it grow, since it is customary for men to cut their hair and for women to have theirs long.” Even that of Plutarch is somehow an example of “translation.” But the analogies with Paul stop at a surface level. Just think of what we can consider the most important part of the Pauline discourse, represented by vv. 39.  One of the most famous portraits that have survived comes from Corinth: for a reproduction, see P. Z anker , The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Engl. transl. by A. Shapiro, Ann Arbor, MI, 1988; or. München, 1987) 301, fig. 232. For a detailed analysis of the Roman custom of head-covering, which takes account of this and other iconographic evidence for the interpretation of 1 Corinthians 11, see D.W.J. Gill , “The Importance of Roman Portraiture for Head-Coverings in 1 Corinthians 11:2‑16,” Tyndale Bulletin 41/2 (1990) 245‑260. It is rather curious that one can argue, “there is almost no evidence (paintings, reliefs, statuary, etc.) that men in any of the cultures (Greek, Roman, Jew) covered their heads,” as writes G. Fee , The First Epistle to the Corinthians (Grand Rapids, MI, 1987) 507.

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7‑10. Here we find two normative injunctions, expressed in the form of inclusion through a double occurrence of the verb ὀφείλω: “A man ought not to have his head veiled” (v. 7), whereas “a woman ought to have (a sign of) authority on her head” (v. 10).  4 0 The rationales provided by Paul to require women to cover their heads during prayer – leaving aside, for the moment, what this meant in practice 41 – are at least three, and all depend on scriptural arguments concerning the order of creation. The first two arguments are as follows: (a) “man is the image and glory of God; but woman is the glory of man” (v. 7); (b) “man was not made from woman, but woman from man” (v. 8). The reference text, in both cases, is Genesis, especially the so-called Yahwist version of the creation tale (Gen 2:7.15‑24), where the Hebrew term ʾādām (Gk. ἄνθρωπος), contrary to what is usually thought, clearly indicates a primordial male individual, in whose body the woman is only potentially included. Even where there are traces of sexual differentiation at the time of creation, as in the formula of the Elohist account, “Male and female he created them” (Gen 1:27), the outlook is irreducibly androcentric, and this will affect in a subtle way the various subsequent speculations about human beings as “created in God’s image.” In these verses, Paul proves to be in line with the Jewish conceptions of his time, which will be inherited later by Christians, and which assume the secondary character of woman (both from a chronological and ontological point of view): as man is the image of God, so the woman is the glory of man. Lest you want to delete Genesis, Paul seems to say, sexual difference is inscribed in the plan of creation, and this (of course!) plays in favour of males. One can think to a glaring contradiction between this view of the creation order and the order of the “new creation in Christ,” to which the apostle alludes in vv. 11‑12, introducing his sentence with an emphatic πλὴν: “Nevertheless, in the Lord woman is not apart from man or man apart from woman…” Yet 40.  These two dispositions do not derive from the apostle, as one can infer from v. 16, so it is absurd that we continue to present Paul as the “father of Christian misogyny,” who imposed the veil on women as a sign of submission (on this, see P. Eisenbaum, “Is Paul the Father of Misogyny and Antisemitism?” Cross Currents 50.4 [2000‑2001] 506‑524). Equally absurd, however, would it be to subtract these verses from Paul’s authority, for reasons of convenience (in this regard, see J. Murphy O’C onnor , “The Non-Pauline Character of 1 Cor 11:2‑16?” Journal of Biblical Literature 95 [1976] 615-621; cf. G. Beattie , Women and Marriage in Paul and His Early Interpreters [London – New York 2005] 38), as well as to persist in denying the androcentric principle that informs the entire reasoning of this passage (see below). 41.  That it is not an issue of hair length, as claimed by many interpreters, is clear from the comparison established by Paul at v. 15, between wearing long hair and head-covering (literally, wearing a wrap or a cloak: in Greek, περιβολαίον). Were he talking about the same thing, the comparison would make no sense.

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Paul, unfortunately, did not feel this as a contradiction, and it will take enormous theological efforts – efforts that continue today – to remove it from the attention or to domesticate it. The third argument comes in v. 10, and is fully consistent with what has been said so far: “The woman ought to have (a sign of) authority on her head, because of the angels” (διὰ τοὺς ἀγγέλους). The verse has always been a real headache for the exegetes. 42 First, who are these angels? The most likely hypothesis is to see in them another reference to the Genesis (and Enochic) account of the fallen angels who had sexual intercourse with the daughters of men (Gen 6:1‑4; 1 En. 6:1‑3; cf. also 2 Pet 2:4; Jude 6). 43 After all, it is Paul himself who introduces his phrase with διὰ τοῦτο, “for this reason,” linking it to the foregoing. Once again Paul justifies the veiling of the female head on the basis of a cosmic order, an order which has to be preserved through a sophisticated system of visible signs. But there is another element that reinforces this hypothesis, namely the implicit equation between angels and gentile gods, which we can infer in the passage thanks to two important clues. The first is the reflection on the “idols” developed by Paul in chapters 8‑10 of 1 Corinthians, and the emergence on the scene, in this same period, of angelic or daemonic re-interpretations of the “pagan” gods in Jewish and proto-Christian 42.  Paul’s wording can be compared with a similar expression that we find in Diodorus (1.47.5), who speaks of a statue “having three (signs of) kingship on its head.” The Greek word for ‘kingship’ (βασιλεία) precisely indicates a sign of kingship, and alludes to the presence of a veil on the head of the figure described. 43. Others scholars argue for angels present at sacred gatherings (as in the conceptions widespread in Qumran: see for instance 1QM 7:4‑6; 1QSa 2:5‑9) or human agents sent by Roman or synagogue authorities to check the order of liturgical meetings. The latter hypothesis can be rejected without much difficulty, being founded on what would be a lexical anomaly in Paul’s writings (where the word ἄγγελος refers generally to heavenly figures). The other hypothesis is more plausible, but clashes with the fact that, according to Paul, judging the angels is to be counted among the faculties of believers (cf. 1 Cor 6:3). Another hypothesis has been suggested by M.L. R igato, “Paolo imita Gesù nella promozione della donna,” in J. Murphy O’Connor et al., Paolo e le donne (Assisi, 2003) 109‑180: esp. 154‑159. According to Rigato, the Pauline reference to angels alludes to an event of Jesus’s story, “well known to the Corinthian community,” namely the announcements of the resurrection made by the angels to the women (as reported by the Gospels). Within this perspective, the veil would have become a sign of special authority, located on the head of woman, that is, metaphorically, over man. A little bit “eisegetical” is also the contribution of J. Murphy O’Connor in the same volume of Rigato’s article (p. 9‑57). Murphy O’Connor believes that Paul intended to oppose the emergence of a (male and female) homosexual movement in Corinth. But what Murphy O’Connor qualifies as hallmarks of homosexuality, that is being shaved (for women) and wearing long hair (for men), is indicated by Paul as objectively disgraceful, nothing that the addressees would have accepted to claim for themselves.

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circles (in 1 Cor 10:20‑22, for instance, Paul identifies the gentile gods with demons, while in Gal 4:8, speaking of the “elements of the world,” he probably refers to “those who by nature are not gods,” mentioned in Gal 4:8).  4 4 The second clue is provided by another passage of Plutarch’s Roman Questions, where the author compares the Roman and Pythagorean customs by saying that protecting the head during prayer is not only a sign of respect for the gods, but it is also a form of spiritual protection from external influences (Quaest. rom. 10). Dale B. Martin, in his pathbreaking volume The Corinthian Body, has shown that the perception of sexual vulnerability of women runs parallel, in Antiquity, with the idea of woman’s spiritual vulnerability, being the woman exposed “by nature” to the risk of being penetrated and possessed, not just physically (therefore imposing a veil to women responds chiefly to prophylactic needs, as a protection of sexuality). It has been widely argued that the Corinthian women would have claimed perfect gender equality by referring to the preaching of Paul, for example to sentences such as those of Galatians 3:28: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” 45 From these words, they would have drawn some reasons to get rid of the traditional symbols of female sexuality, which until then had meant and entailed inferiority and submission.  4 6 If so, however, it would have made no sense for Paul to refer to the Genesis account in the manner that we have seen. In fact, at the very moment in which early Christian groups will appeal to the eschatological principle that “there is no (longer) male and female,” in the direction of an ideal overcoming of sexes, they will always do so through the androcentric conception underlying the idea of androgyny, because the androgynous, in this kind of speculation, is never “male and female.” If male, it is male incorporating the female; if female, it is female becoming male, as in the famous saying reported by the Gospel of Thomas: “Because every woman who will make herself male will enter 44. In the mind of the apostle, the elements of the world probably included also the angels through whom God commanded the Law (Gal 3:19). On the background of these conceptions, see at least W. Carr , Angels and Principalities: The Background, Meaning and Development of the Pauline Phrase hai Archai kai hai Exousiai (Cambridge, 1981), esp. 41. 45. On this passage, the study of D.R. M acDonald, There Is No Male and Female: The Fate of a Dominical Saying in Paul and Gnosticism (Philadelphia, PA, 1987) remains important. Notice how a phrase similar to that of Gal 3:28 (probably a pre-Pauline baptismal formula) recurs also in 1 Corinthians, but without the reference to the last pair of opposites: “For in one Spirit we were all immersed (= baptized) into one body: Jews or Greeks, slaves or free” (1 Cor 12:13). 46.  It is the thesis taken to extremes by studies such as A.C. Wire , The Corinthian Women Prophets: A Reconstruction through Paul ’s Rhetoric (Minneapolis, MN, 1990).

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the kingdom of heaven” (Gos. Thom. 114). 47 Such “becoming male for the kingdom of heaven,” too often viewed as a secondary (read “Gnostic”) accretion of the Thomasine text, is an idea on which Paul would have agreed, even though on an ideal level only, and not in practice: that’s why he bothers to maintain active and present all the gender differences. These can be transcended on a social level, but not abolished on the ontological (and demanding otherwise would mean asking too much of the apostle). The gist of Paul’s speech to the Corinthian women, definitively, can be reconstructed as follows: “If you really want to stop covering your head, you might as well cut your hair, that is, to become men…” But was this really what the Corinthian women wished for themselves? And above all: was this really what the Corinthian women wanted to say, refusing to cover their heads during the act of praying or prophesying? We can readily assume that it was not. V Interpreted in this way, the passage of 1 Corinthians can be understood as a proof of a conflict between different conceptions of gender. Whilst some (but not many) men within the Pauline groups in Corinth probably welcomed with open arms the symbolic language of the Empire, which invited them to conform to Roman customs, some Corinthian women continued to behave as they always did according to their native practices, that is, wearing their hair loose during prayer or worship gatherings. Differently from men, in their case this did not mean adopting Roman standards, but maintaining ancestral practices, probably linked to mystery cults. To identify the exact source of their practice is not one of the immediate goals of these pages, but I think that all the clues may converge towards the hypothesis of an Isiac cult, managed in Corinth by immigrants coming from Egypt. At any rate, that of the Corinthian women was nothing but an act of vernacular resistance: neither desperate, nor hopeless. They had the only “fault” of facing a new traditionalism, promoted by a diasporic 47.  See W.A. M eeks , “The Image of the Androgyne: Some Uses of a Symbol in Earliest Christianity,” History of Religions 13.3 (1974) 165‑208. For an analysis of the Thomasine saying, see at least M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso. Introduzione, traduzione e commento (Roma, 2011) 261‑262; cf. also M. M eyer , “Making Mary Male: The Categories ‘Male’ and ‘Female’ in the Gospel of Thomas,” New Testament Studies 31.4 (1985) 554‑570; E. Castelli, “‘I Will Make Mary Male:’ Pieties of the Body and Gender Transformation of Christian Women in Late Antiquity,” in J. Epstein – K. Straub , ed., Body Guards: The Cultural Politics of Gender Ambiguities (New York, 1991) 29‑49. It is important to note that even in the Pauline (and deutero-Pauline) writings, the “last man,” the “perfect man,” the eschatological Adam (i.e. the Christ) can be understood as a male model to which male and female must conform: see 1 Cor 15:20‑23 and Eph 4:14.

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Jew full of many contradictions. The passage of 1 Cor 11:2‑16 is thus an example of misunderstanding, yet not a Corinthian misunderstanding of Paul, but rather a Pauline misunderstanding of the Corinthians, due to Paul’s attempt to “translating” Corinthian conceptions and practices into his own vernacular terms. However, as evocatively pointed out by the Italian anthropologist Franco La Cecla, misunderstanding cannot be considered simply as the opposite of (reciprocal) understanding. To understand each other means to be in agreement, and to be in agreement means to share the same ideas: what happens between two people sharing common ideas, in terms of communication, is thus preliminary agreement, pre-understanding, whose exact opposite, in fact, is not misunderstanding but pre-judice. 48 Therefore misunderstanding, far from being a failure in communi­ca­ tion, 49 can be better understood as an accident of communication, which affects the relationship between two (or more) communicating subjects: it is an “in-between/understanding” (as expressed by the Italian word fra-intendimento) that has mainly to do with meeting (meeting between people, groups, and cultures). In this sense, as observed by La Cecla, misunderstanding is a situational reality, a trap of meeting, which brings to light the provisional and partial character of any understanding. If translation can be defined as an attempt to managing chaos, misunderstanding appears to be its inescapable price. Nevertheless, as a gap that resists translation and makes us aware of the unbridgeable differences between languages and identities, misunderstanding is to be conceived as a fruitful exchange zone, an area where the incommensurability between persons or cultures comes to terms – whence it derives its enormous cultural force, its ability to shape and guide the contact between different symbolic systems. From this point of view, a text such as 1 Cor 11:2-16 should be regarded as an important test-case for a deeper comprehension of this delicate border area in the process of human communication.

48. See F. L a Cecla, Il malinteso. Antropologia dell ’incontro (Roma – Bari 2003, first edition, 1997) esp. 3‑10. 49. As suggested by C. L évi-Strauss , Anthropologie structurale deux (Paris, 1973) 231‑232.

CONFLITS D’INTENTION: PAUL, 1 CORINTHIENS ET LA PRATIQUE DE L’ἘΚΚΛΗΣΊΑ Mauro Belcastro ἑκάστῳ δὲ δίδοται ἡ φανέρωσις τοῦ πνεύματος πρὸς τὸ συμφέρον (1 Co 12,7)

Je voudrais commencer cette intervention en délimitant le champ d’enquête et en discutant le titre proposé : d’abord, Conflits. Conflits entre qui et qui ? Entre Paul et les croyants-es de Corinthe. Et intentions de qui ? De Paul par rapport aux croyants-es et de ces derniers par rapport à euxmêmes, afin de réaliser (intention commune aux deux agents) la pratique de l’ἐκκλησία. Puis, avec ἐκκλησία je veux me référer aux groupes spécifiques de croyants-es en Jésus réunis autour de la prédication et à l’annonce de Paul 1. En ce qui concerne le champ d’enquête, je vais me concentrer sur

1.  Afin d’examiner de manière approfondie le concept et l’utilisation de ἐκκλησία chez Paul, il faudrait un article entier. J’ai essayé d’aborder cette ques­ tion dans M. Belcastro, « Quelli che Dio ha predestinati ». Il προορίζειν divino in Paolo : esegesi ed indagine di un problema nel suo contesto storico, Torino, 2017. Il suffit ici de mentionner que, à mon avis, avec ἐκκλησία Paul a des intentions qui vont au-delà d’une configuration sociale, vers une connotation de type « théologique » du terme, en se référant au groupe de croyants-es en tant que κλητοί. Cf.  parmi d’autres, l’article καλέω, ThWNT III, 502‑539 ; J.Y. Campbell , « The Origin and Meaning of the Christian Use of the Word ΕΚΚΛΗΣΙΑ », Journal of Theological Studies 49 (1948), p. 130‑142 ; W. Schrage , « “Ekklesia” und “Synagoge” : Zum Ursprung des urchristlichen Kirchenbegriffs », Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 60 (1963), p. 178‑202 ; J. H ainz , Ekklesia. Strukturen paulinischer Gemeinde-Theologie und Gemeinde-Ordnung, Regensburg, 1972 ; on peut aussi ajouter W.A. M eeks , The First Urban Christians. The Social World of the Apostle Paul, New Haven-London, 1983 ; W.O. McCready, « Ekklēsia and Voluntary Associations », dans J.S. K loppenborg – S.G. Wilson (ed.), Voluntary Associations in the Ancient World, London, 1996, p. 59‑73 ; A. Destro – M. Pesce , Antropologia delle origini cristiane, Roma-Bari, 1995 et Forme culturali del cristianesimo nascente, Brescia, 20082 ; R. Penna, Le prime comunità cristiane. Persone, tempi, luoghi, forme, credenze, Roma, 2011 ; M. Pesce , Da Gesù al cristianesimo, Brescia, 2011 ; J. Barclay, Pauline Churches and Diaspora Jews, Tübingen, 2011. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 173–191 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111703 ©

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la Première épître aux Corinthiens 2 que je considère – c’est bien de le dire – comme authentique, unitaire et largement cohérente. I. L e s

con fl i ts

La catégorie de conflit servira de fil rouge à ce qui va suivre. Elle n’a été pas choisie par hasard : je considère en effet, que le conflit est tout à fait remarquable dans la Lettre et que, dans un certain sens, il est déjà à la base de la construction du groupe des croyants-es à Corinthe. Le conflit se manifeste de plusieurs manières connues (c’est-à-dire déclarées, au moins du côté de Paul) et dans d’autres. La très célèbre déclaration paulinienne en 1,10ss. montre comme le conflit entre les croyants-es de Corinthe est le résultat de relations difficiles : Donc, je vous exhorte 3, frères, par le nom de notre Seigneur Jésus-Messie, à tenir tous un même langage (λέγητε, c’est-à-dire que vous êtes d’accord) et qu’il n’y ait pas de divisions (σχίσματα) parmi vous, et que vous soyez bien unis 4 dans une même pensée et dans un même intention 5. En effet, mes frères, les gens de Chloé m’ont appris qu’il y a des disputes (ἔριδες) parmi vous. Je veux dire que chacun de vous dit : Moi, je suis de Paul, et moi, d’Apollos, et moi, de Céphas, et moi, du Messie. [Le] Messie est-il divisé ? Paul n’a pas été crucifié pour vous, ou est-ce au nom de Paul que vous avez été baptisés ? Je rends grâces de ce que je n’ai baptisé aucun de vous, excepté Crispos et Gaïos, afin que personne ne dise que vous avez été baptisés en mon nom. J’ai encore baptisé la maison de Stéphanas, du reste, je ne sais pas si j’ai baptisé quelqu’un d’autre 6.

2.  Il s’agit bien évidemment d’un exemple. On pourrait également analyser les difficultés et les conflits de Paul en Galatie, ceux détectés dans 2 Co ou, au contraire, l’« harmonie » évoquée dans Ph. 3.  παρακαλῶ est l’un des mots par lesquels Paul exprime son autorité, cf. C.J. Bjerkelund, ΠΑΡΑΚΑΛΩ. Form, Funktion und Sinn der παρακαλῶ-Sätze in den paulinischen Briefen, Oslo, 1967 ; B. Holmberg, Paul and Power. The Structure of Authority in the Primitive Church as Reflected in the Pauline Epistles, Lund, 1978, p. 85‑86. 4.  κατηρτισμένοι (καταρτίζω), « parfaitement unis », « put into proper condition » (Bauer-Danker), « mis au point », « remis en ordre », etc. 5.  ἐν τῇ αὐτῇ γνώμῃ, « délibération », « jugement ». 6.  1 Co 1,10‑16 : Παρακαλῶ δὲ ὑμᾶς, ἀδελφοί, διὰ τοῦ ὀνόματος τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν 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. ἐδηλώθη γάρ μοι περὶ ὑμῶν, ἀδελφοί μου, ὑπὸ τῶν Χλόης ὅτι ἔριδες ἐν ὑμῖν εἰσιν. λέγω δὲ τοῦτο ὅτι ἕκαστος ὑμῶν λέγει· ἐγὼ μέν εἰμι Παύλου, ἐγὼ δὲ Ἀπολλῶ, ἐγὼ δὲ Κηφᾶ, ἐγὼ δὲ Χριστοῦ. μεμέρισται ὁ Χριστός ; μὴ Παῦλος ἐσταυρώθη ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν, ἢ εἰς τὸ ὄνομα Παύλου ἐβαπτίσθητε ; εὐχαριστῶ [τῷ θεῷ] ὅτι οὐδένα ὑμῶν ἐβάπτισα εἰ

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L’expression à souligner est justement ἔριδες (nom pluriel de ἔρις, substantif avec une extension sémantique qui va de la lutte ou la discorde jusqu’à la rivalité, de la contention à la course, en lien aux deux verbes presque synonymes ἐριδαίνω et ἐρίζω) 7. Dans l’assemblée corinthienne, il y a des divisions (σχίσματα) qui se manifestent sous des formes conflictuelles (ἔριδες) probablement en raison de la rivalité et des compétitions raidies jusqu’à devenir de réels « partis » opposés. La section me semble très importante parce qu’elle ouvre la discussion sur les niveaux de compréhension (ou de malentendu) du κήρυγμα paulinien dans le groupe croyant. Une fois noté un premier niveau du conflit, le plus évident et immédiat, il faudrait se demander quel est son motif. Au début de l’épître (1 Co 1,1‑3) Paul utilise toute une série d’expressions-clés par lesquelles il nomme les croyants-es : elles tournent autour au verbe καλέω (et de son adjectif), au verbe ἁγιάζω (et de son adjectif et substantif) et enfin, à partir de 1,26, au verbe ἐκλέγω. Le problème est ici de comprendre si les appelés-es, les saints-es, sont compris par Paul comme des « catégories » de croyantses plus élevées que d’autres (au sein du même groupe), s’il y a des degrés de compréhension et/ou d’instruction dans l’assemblée à Corinthe 8 ou s’il faut considérer la section comme purement polémique (et, en même temps, ré-instructive). Le fait que Paul exhorte les Corinthiens-nes (παρακαλῶ ὑμᾶς) à se réinstaller (καταρτίζω remettre en ordre, restaurer, recoudre) 9 dans un même esprit (νοῦς) et intention (γνώμη) pourrait suggérer l’idée μὴ Κρίσπον καὶ Γάϊον, ἵνα μή τις εἴπῃ ὅτι εἰς τὸ ἐμὸν ὄνομα ἐβαπτίσθητε. ἐβάπτισα δὲ καὶ τὸν Στεφανᾶ οἶκον, λοιπὸν οὐκ οἶδα εἴ τινα ἄλλον ἐβάπτισα. 7.  On retrouve ce substantif également à d’autres endroits dans les lettres pauliniennes authentiques : en 1 Co 3,3 (ἔτι γὰρ σαρκικοί ἐστε. ὅπου γὰρ ἐν ὑμῖν ζῆλος καὶ ἔρις, οὐχὶ σαρκικοί ἐστε καὶ κατὰ ἄνθρωπον περιπατεῖτε ;), 2 Co 12,20 (φοβοῦμαι γὰρ μή πως ἐλθὼν οὐχ οἵους θέλω εὕρω ὑμᾶς κἀγὼ εὑρεθῶ ὑμῖν οἷον οὐ θέλετε· μή πως ἔρις, ζῆλος, θυμοί, ἐριθείαι, καταλαλιαί, ψιθυρισμοί, φυσιώσεις, ἀκαταστασίαι), dans le « catalogue » de Rm 1,29 (πεπληρωμένους πάσῃ ἀδικίᾳ πονηρίᾳ πλεονεξίᾳ κακίᾳ, μεστοὺς φθόνου φόνου ἔριδος δόλου κακοηθείας, ψιθυριστάς), en Rm 13,13 (ὡς ἐν ἡμέρᾳ εὐσχημόνως περιπατήσωμεν, μὴ κώμοις καὶ μέθαις, μὴ κοίταις καὶ ἀσελγείαις, μὴ ἔριδι καὶ ζήλῳ), conséquence des τὰ ἔργα τῆς σαρκός en Ga 5,20 (εἰδωλολατρία, φαρμακεία, ἔχθραι, ἔρις, ζῆλος, θυμοί, ἐριθεῖαι, διχοστασίαι, αἱρέσεις), en Ph 1,15 (τινὲς μὲν καὶ διὰ φθόνον καὶ ἔριν, τινὲς δὲ καὶ δι᾽ εὐδοκίαν τὸν Χριστὸν κηρύσσουσιν). La forme verbale n’apparaît jamais (toujours parmi les lettres authentiques). En général, le nom et le verbe sont assez rares aussi bien dans la LXX que parmi les écrits juifs en grec. Parmi les écrits proto-chrétiens, le nom apparaît neuf fois dans 1 Clém et une fois dans Ignace, Ad Eph 8,1. 8.  Est-ce qu’il y avait aussi dans les assemblées de croyants-es des degrés d’entrée dans le mystère du Christ, comme, par ex. dans le cas des cultes à mystères ? 9.  Le verbe, qui peut également avoir le sens de « revenir dans sa propre condition » ou « dans la condition de bien fonctionner », contient ἀρτίζω avec le sens de « préparer ». En ce sens, peut-être le verbe pourrait avoir aussi une extension de signification eschatologique.

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que, au moins dans les intentions, il considère l’assemblée comme une réalité unique. Ces compétitions et divisions doivent être comprises ainsi : σχίσμα désigne une division qui sape l’unité des intentions, de la pensée et de la direction. La mention du baptême (1 Co 1,13ss) suggère une certaine interprétation du parti de Paul de ces disputes : peut-être qu’il s’agit d’un malentendu de la constitution originale du groupe et de son adhésion à la foi. Être de…, appartenir à…, pourrait rappeler l’idée commune à l’époque, essentiellement mystérico-initiatique, d’appartenir à celui qui a initié le postulant. Maintenant, le fait que Paul prenne le baptême comme base, moment concret et manifestation de l’acceptation du groupe du message qui lui a été adressé, est terriblement significatif. Paul demande aux Corinthiens-nes d’être restaurés ἐν τ­ῷ αὐτῷ νοΐ et ἐν τῇ αὐτῇ γνώμῃ 10. Par conséquent, il est possible de penser qu’ici on est face à une sorte de ré-instruction 11 par Paul sur les « fondamentaux » du message prêché par lui-même depuis le début. Cette insistance de Paul sur l’annonce nous permet de comprendre que l’essentiel pour lui est le κήρυγμα et l’attention que le groupe doit avoir par rapport aux effets qu’il produit parmi eux. Il faut, maintenant, mener une brève réflexion sur la présence à Corinthe de ces groupes en lutte, dont Paul fait mention peut-être de façon polémique 12  : même si n’émerge aucune doctrine spécifique qui permette l’identification de tel ou tel groupe, il faut au moins dire qu’il y a eu quelqu’un d’autre, au-delà de Paul lui-même, qui a marqué significativement (bien que dans une mesure pas tout à fait claire) le groupe corin10.  1 Co 1,10. Je partage avec R. Bultmann (« Karl Barth : Die Auferstehung der Toten », dans Glauben und Verstehen. Gesammelte Aufsätze, Bd. I, Tübingen, 1972, p. 38‑64 et H. Conzelmann, Der erste Brief an die Korinther, Göttingen, 198112 , tr. angl. A  Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians (Hermeneia), Philadelphia, PA, 1975) l’hypothèse de voir en νούς et γνώμη deux indications de la même idée, c’est-à-dire propos, intention, conscience des conséquences que ce fondement – indiqué immédiatement après – a entre eux. 11.  Bien que partageant l’approche de M. Pesce , Le due fasi della predicazione di Paolo, Bologna, 1994, où on peut lire : « Le lettere sono parte della seconda fase [della predicazione di Paolo], non sono annuncio del vangelo. Esse infatti – e questo non si può trascurare – sono rivolte a comunità già fondate. Presuppongono nei destinatari la conoscenza, l’accoglimento e la pratica dei principi fondamentali dell’annuncio evangelico. Non sono documenti che costituiscono ex novo, il loro scopo non è presentare l’annuncio a chi non lo conosce e neppure dare le istruzioni fondamentali perché possa essere istituita e possa cominciare a vivere una comunità » (p. 10), je pense, en confirmant ce que Pesce soutient, qu’on peut imaginer une phase de ré-instruction, de re-prédication sur la base de la détection d’une « incompréhension fondamentale » de la part de certains membres de l’ἐκκλησία (l’establishment ?) des idées-clés de Paul, de son message essentiel. Sur la base de cette hypothèse, dans la perspective de Paul, le rituel et l’économie générale du groupe sont secondaires. 12.  Dans ce sens, on n’a aucun moyen de savoir si la liste proposée par Paul est exhaustive.

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thien 13. Apollos 14 et Céphas 15 sont-ils représentants de différents courants de pensée ? On a l’impression que Paul utilise le prétexte de la polémique corinthienne pour dire ce qu’il tient et qu’il expose dans le premier chapitre, le deuxième et une partie du troisième, et qui le mène à la conclusion dans le quatrième. L’idée centrale est contenue dans la série de questions rhétoriques μεμέρισται ὁ Χριστός ? ἢ εἰς τὸ ὄνομα Παύλου ἐβαπτίσθητε ? cette dernière précédée de l’affirmation Παῦλος ἐσταυρώθη ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν 16. Μερίζω est un verbe extrêmement intéressant parce qu’il n’exprime pas seulement l’idée d’une division. Assez rare chez Paul 17, il indique souvent, dans le monde grec, une division résultat du sort et du destin. Maintenant, en tenant compte du contexte biblique d’où surgit l’argumentation paulinienne, je pense que ce n’est pas par hasard que Paul a utilisé ce verbe-là par rapport à la distribution de l’héritage de la part de Dieu à son peuple 18, héritage qui n’est pas non plus divisé mais donné à son peuple tout entier (en effet, l’héritage est le Messie). Cette perspective a, donc, un 13.  D’autre part, il n’est même pas clair si ce sont de véritables contrastes : les « partis » (celui de Paul, d’Apollos, de Céphas, du Christ) sont nommés sans aucune référence explicite à leur « contenu doctrinal ». Cf. aussi E. Norelli, « Déchirements et sectes : un agraphon derrière 1 Corinthiens 11,18‑19 », dans N. Ciola – G. P ulcinelli (ed.), Nuovo Testamento : teologie in dialogo culturale. Scritti in onore di Romano Penna nel suo 70° compleanno, Bologna, 2008. 14.  On sait très peu de choses au sujet d’Apollos : les seules informations le concernant peuvent être tirées du livre canonique des Actes : on retrouve, donc, une première attestation (extra-paulinienne) dans Ac 18,24. On lit ici qu’Apollos était un Juif d’Alexandrie, homme éloquent (λόγιος) et versé dans les Écritures (δυνατὸς ὢν ἐν ταῖς γραφαῖς). Il est allé à Ephèse, puis en Achaïe, juste à Corinthe. Sur Apollos on peut voir au moins P.F. Beatrice , « Apollos of Alexandria and the Origins of the Jewish-Christian Baptist Encratism », ANRW II.26.2, p. 1232-1275 ; J.F.M. Smit, « “What Is Apollos ? What Is Paul ?” in Search for the Coherence of First Corinthians 1 :10-4:21 », Novum Testamentum 44/3 (2002), p. 231-251 ; C. M ahaila, The Paul-Apollos Relationship and Paul ’s Stance Toward Greco-Roman Rhetoric, London-New York, 2005. 15.  On ignore les relations entre l’assemblée de Corinthe et Céphas. Peut-être, dans ce cas comme en Galatie, Céphas a-t-il visité les croyants-es de Corinthe, se révélant aussi prédicateur itinérant comme Paul. Cf. J.H. K romminga, « Paul and Apollos and Cephas », RJ 4/4 (1954), p. 1‑4 ; C.K. Barrett, « Cephas and Corinth », dans Abraham unser Vater, Leiden, 1963, p. 1‑12 ; W.O. Fitch, « Paul, Apollos, Céphas, Christ », Theol 74 (1971), p. 18‑24. 16.  1 Co 1,12‑13. 17.  Cinq récurrences : trois dans 1 Co (1,13 ; 7,17 ; Εἰ μὴ ἑκάστῳ ὡς ἐμέρισεν ὁ κύριος, ἕκαστον ὡς κέκληκεν ὁ θεός, οὕτως περιπατείτω ; 7,34 sur les intérêts divisés des mariés-es), une dans 2 Co 10,13 (ἡμεῖς δὲ οὐκ εἰς τὰ ἄμετρα καυχησόμεθα ἀλλὰ κατὰ τὸ μέτρον τοῦ κανόνος οὗ ἐμέρισεν ἡμῖν ὁ θεὸς μέτρου, ἐφικέσθαι ἄχρι καὶ ὑμῶν) et une dans Rm 12,3 (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 ἐμέρισεν μέτρον πίστεως). 18.  Par ex., Nb 26,55-56 ; Jos 13,7 ;14,5 ;18,6.

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poids historico-théologique énorme : elle indique que, selon Paul, le fait que les Corinthiens-nes appartiennent à Dieu (fait qui correspond à leur propre condition existentielle), n’a pas son origine en eux-mêmes mais est le résultat d’un don, d’un héritage (et non pas d’un droit), qui ne peut pas être « divisé » parce que remis « indivisé » aux destinataires, qui sont tels par élection et appel 19. L’ « indivision » du Messie est tout de suite rendue évidente du fait que les Corinthiens-nes sont implantés ἐν χριστῷ par l’action de la croix et les effets de cette action marqués par le baptême. « Paul n’a pas été crucifié pour vous » 20  : Paul a apparemment développé une « théologie de la croix » par laquelle il est évident que l’action historique de la mort de Jésus en croix doit avoir eu des répercussions concrètes, même sur des gens qui n’ont pas assisté à cet événement et qui n’y ont été impliqués que beaucoup plus tard (par une narration). Le baptême au nom du messie est reconnu comme strictement lié à cet événement-là. Comment ? Je suppose, dans les sens d’un signe extérieur marqué rituellement qui rappelle exactement cet événement avec des implications cosmiques, mais qui doit être compris comme tel (à quel niveau ?) par les individus. La mention de la division et de son impossibilité substantielle, donc du « paradoxe de la division » (vous êtes divisés, mais vous ne pouvez pas vraiment l’être) est une occasion pour Paul de réaffirmer l’essentiel de l’annonce « selon lui-même ». Paul lit le fait d’avoir baptisé peu de gens à Corinthe (mais, combien de « membres » de l’assemblée y avait-il à Corinthe ?) comme une chance, moins de risques de perpétuer le malentendu à l’origine des disputes. Bien qu’il déplace, tout de suite, le problème : οὐ γὰρ ἀπέστειλέν με Χριστὸς βαπτίζειν ἀλλὰ εὐαγγελίζεσθαι 21. La fonction de l’appel de Paul 22 en tant qu’apôtre est affirmée, distincte du baptême (Paul n’est pas été envoyé pour baptiser). Il y a, aussi ici, probablement une allusion à la réalité rituelle-initiatique qui pourrait se vérifier dans autres ἐκκλησίαι. Là, le baptême pourrait être devenu un moyen par lequel on entre finalement dans un groupe très spécial avec certains droits et obligations, mais il est plus probable que Paul ici essaie d’amener les Corinthiens-nes au sens qu’il a donné au baptême conféré. Paul a été envoyé par le Messie pour donner une bonne nouvelle. Peut-être que c’est 19.  Et cela ouvre le deuxième niveau du conflit : Paul exprime tous les verbes du chapitre au passif avec Dieu comme sujet de l’action, en montrant comment pour lui-même le centre de l’argument est précisément l’action souveraine de Dieu. À mon avis, il n’y a aucun doute que l’un des affrontements les plus importants avec l’assemblée a eu lieu à propos du sens théologique à attribuer à cette souveraineté. 20.  1 Co 1,13. 21.  1 Co 1,17. Cf. encore M. Pesce , Le due fasi della predicazione di Paolo, Bologna, 1994, p. 37‑62. 22.  Probablement au niveau polémique, Paul essaie de rétablir le sens de l’Apôtre dans sa fonction et non pas dans son rôle.

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ici que tout se joue : ce n’est pas une question rituelle, mais l’annonce de cette bonne nouvelle par laquelle on entre en contact avec les réalités qui y sont contenues 23. Cela dit, dans ce premier cas, le conflit n’est pas à la base mais au sommet. Il s’agit, dans un certain sens, de la preuve du conflit. On a déjà mentionné des éléments qui me paraissent essentiels et que je résume : le conflit a été généré par un substantiel malentendu (un malentendu essentiel, je dirais). Et cela, sur une double base. Paul a à l’esprit, d’une part, la difficulté de la prédication en tant que telle – une difficulté, en général, rhétorique ou communicative, ou encore de mettre ensemble des pratiques et perspectives différentes ; mais aussi, d’autre part (et il s’agit de la chose la plus importante), la difficulté du contenu de la prédication. En effet, l’événement que Paul doit raconter encore une fois – parce qu’il l’a justement déjà raconté – est réduit, en définitive, à un puissant-absent. Autour de ce point se joue le deuxième niveau de conflit, moins évident, mais non moins chargé de conséquences. II. L e

pu i s sa n t- a b se n t et l e κ ή ρυ γ μ α pau li n i e n

Qui est ce puissant-absent ? Je crois que, sur la base de la réponse à cette question a été généré le conflit/malentendu le plus grand : Je rends toujours grâce à mon Dieu à votre sujet pour la grâce de Dieu qui vous a été accordée en Jésus-Messie, car en lui 24 vous êtes devenus riches 23.  βαπτίζω et εὐαγγελίζομαι sont deux verbes qui rappellent, donc, les fonctions essentielles de la formation et de la vie des groupes de croyants-es : le premier (qui désigne, selon Bauer, un « être mis sous l’eau » ou « être en trempage ») rappelle, comme on le sait, la pratique juive d’ablution, transformée en bain de purification et conversion répétable ou unique (cf.  la pratique du Baptiseur). Différent en cela de ce qui se passe avec Jésus (événement messianique au début de la mission ou investiture), le baptême donné à des groupes de croyants-es devient, en effet, un rite d’initiation qui donne une sorte de sceau confirmant le changement de mentalité et de vie. Voici pourquoi, aux yeux des Corinthiens-nes, il pourrait être difficile de supposer, malgré les explications de Paul, derrière ce geste un sens existentiel et cosmique, le vrai centre de l’évangile. C’est seulement par l’évangélisation que Paul tente cette œuvre de ré-instruction : le sens du verbe est clair et se réfère, au moins chez Paul, à la prédication de l’événement/avènement du Messie. Le fait que la bonne nouvelle s’adresse essentiellement aux non-croyants (donc, Gentils), à ceux qui sont de toute façon en dehors du groupe des croyants-es, ne me convainc pas : je crois en revanche qu’on peut dire ici que l’œuvre de Paul peut être considérée comme une « évangélisation continue ». Elle s’est exprimée, en fait justement, par un recentrage de la question christologique pensée comme l’action définitive de Dieu sur le monde et les hommes. Cela s’éclaire par le fait que Paul ne rapproche pas tout simplement les deux verbes (« baptiser » et « évangéliser ») peut-être au détriment l’un de l’autre ; il place un « moyen » qui qualifie les deux : le verbe σταυρόω et le substantif σταυρός. 24.  ἐν mais qui peut bien avoir une valeur instrumentale.

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de tout, de tout discours et de toute connaissance, quand 25 le témoignage du Messie 26 à été établi (ἐβεβαιώθη) parmi vous, de sorte qu’il ne vous manque 27 aucun don de la grâce 28, en attendant la révélation de notre Seigneur Jésus-Messie : il 29 vous établira (βεβαιώσει) aussi jusqu’à la fin, pour que vous soyez irréprochables au jour de notre Seigneur Jésus-Messie. Dieu est fidèle, lui par qui vous avez été appelés à la communion de son Fils, Jésus-Messie notre Seigneur 30.

La grande richesse des Corinthiens-nes est synthétisée par l’exaltation d’une [leur] totalité de discours et connaissance. Ici Paul est profondément ironique : les Corinthiens-nes (c’est une hypothèse) ont cru que λόγος et γνῶσις étaient des éléments et des données si globaux et absolus qu’ils pourraient les rendre parfaits 31. En ce sens, Paul répond à travers une parodie de cette position extrême, satisfaisante et totalisante des Corinthiens25.  J’ai choisi de traduire la conjonction καθώς dans un sens temporel (bien que son utilisation dans ce sens soit rare et discutée, cf. Bauer-Denker) afin de souligner le fait bien perceptible, du côté corinthien, de la venue du témoignage parmi eux, de manière à pouvoir l’indiquer en un moment précis. En tout cas, il pourrait fonctionner tout aussi bien si on traduisait par « puisque », « car ». 26.  Il y a ici une variante très significative, bien que mal attestée : B* F G 81. 1175 sa ms ; Eus lisent θεου. L’intérêt de cette leçon va, à mon avis, dans le sens de l’ambiguïté suivante du v. 8, cf.  ad loc. 27.  ὑστερεῖσθαι non pas en sens comparatif. 28.  ἐν μηδενὶ χαρίσματι « d’aucun don spirituel ». 29.  ὅς est ambiguë et de difficile attribution. Conzelmann favorise une attribution au niveau du sujet à « Dieu », même si on doit revenir en arrière de quatre versets pour trouver le nominatif correspondant. La même identification par Calvin, Weiss, Bachmann, Baumann, O’Brien et modérément par Thiselton. D’un autre avis sont Origène, qui dans le doute opte toujours pour une attribution christologique, Chrysostome, Friedrich, Barrett qui voient une identification avec Jésus plus consécutive au niveau grammatical (le sujet le plus proche de la particule est précisément Jésus). Schrage (qui problématise bien la question) laisse l’ambiguïté. De la même manière aussi Zeller qui semble se rapprocher de la possibilité d’identification avec le « Christ ». Je partage la première identification. 30.  1 Co 1,4‑9 : Εὐχαριστῶ τῷ θεῷ μου πάντοτε περὶ ὑμῶν ἐπὶ τῇ χάριτι τοῦ θεοῦ τῇ δοθείσῃ ὑμῖν ἐν Χριστῷ Ἰησοῦ, ὅτι ἐν παντὶ ἐπλουτίσθητε ἐν αὐτῷ, ἐν παντὶ λόγῳ καὶ πάσῃ γνώσει, καθὼς τὸ μαρτύριον τοῦ Χριστοῦ ἐβεβαιώθη ἐν ὑμῖν, ὥστε ὑμᾶς μὴ ὑστερεῖσθαι ἐν μηδενὶ χαρίσματι ἀπεκδεχομένους τὴν ἀποκάλυψιν τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ· ὃς καὶ βεβαιώσει ὑμᾶς ἕως τέλους ἀνεγκλήτους ἐν τῇ ἡμέρᾳ τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ [Χριστοῦ]. πιστὸς ὁ θεός, δι᾽ οὗ ἐκλήθητε εἰς κοινωνίαν τοῦ υἱοῦ αὐτοῦ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν. 31.  De mon point de vue, cette « possession » des Corinthiens n’est pas basée sur un hasard ou seulement sur la prédication d’Apollos (comme si « certaines idées » corinthiennes venaient de lui), mais sur un malentendu du discours de Paul qui parle à plusieurs reprises de la connaissance du mystère de Dieu. Par conséquent, la connaissance est assumée par les croyants-es corinthiens-nes comme la réalité de la possession elle-même du Christ et la parole comme une expression concrète de cette connaissance, et cela déjà à partir d’un discours de Paul.

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nes, surtout parce qu’elle n’a pas été rattachée à sa « matrice » originaire 32 . Elle est répétée presque obsessionnellement à travers le rappel à Dieu et à l’être ἐν χριστῷ. Cela exprime un autre niveau de réponse de la part de Paul (au-delà du simple langage polémique) qui s’inscrit dans son processus de ré-instruction. Le mode particulier de réponse paulinienne trouve sa pointe dans l’utilisation de verbes tous à l’aoriste passif 33 qui ont Dieu et son action par sujet. Tous convergent vers la présentification de l’absent, c’est-à-dire du Messie. Paul est forcé (et c’est précisément cela la difficulté de l’annonce, car il en va de sa crédibilité) de dire quelque chose (ou plutôt, de montrer quelque chose) sur l’événement « puissant » qui a impliqué Jésus de Nazareth et ses disciples témoins de l’événement lui-même, à savoir sa mort et sa résurrection. Car, [le] Messie ne m’a pas envoyé pour baptiser, mais pour annoncer la bonne nouvelle, et cela non pas dans la sagesse du discours, afin que la croix du Messie ne soit pas rendue vaine (κενωθῇ vidée de son sens)  3 4 .

Or, Jésus n’est pas non plus présent en chair et en os et ne peut pas être non plus pour les Corinthiens-nes ce communicateur efficace, ce prêcheur subversif qu’il doit avoir été, et ils ne peuvent pas non plus être témoins de sa fin tragique. Donc, Paul a devant lui une tâche difficile : comment ne pas vider cet événement pour lui aussi central, même si on a la nécessité d’en parler ? Alors, ici, il ne s’agit pas du style communicatif persuasif et « charismatique » de Jésus, de ses paroles ou de ses gestes subversifs. Le point, pour Paul, sa difficulté, est de montrer comment l’événement de la croix (et de la résurrection) est efficace envers des gens qui n’ont pas été témoins 35 de cela. Mais, qu’est-ce que ça veut dire que l ’événement de la croix a été « efficace » ? À quel sujet a-t-il été « efficace » ? Dans les intentions de Paul, dans ce que j’ai voulu appeler « technique de l’amour », désignant par technique, d’une part l’art du sage accomplissement (d’un projet) de la part de Dieu envers les siens ; de l’autre, une précision volitive de Dieu-même. Paul, finalement, est en train d’essayer l’herméneutique d’un événement historiquement ponctuel et « régional », mais avec des

32.  Pour Paul le problème est de comprendre le sens, l’horizon et le contenu de cette connaissance et de ce discours, de cette parole. 33.  δοθείσῃ (1,4), ἐπλουτίσθητε (1,5), ἐβεβαιώθη (1,6). Au v. 8 et 9a les verbes sont à l’actif (ὃς καὶ βεβαιώσει ὑμᾶς au v. 8 et le verbe « être » sous-entendu du v. 9 πιστὸς ὁ θεός), tandis qu’en à 9b on retrouve le passif (δι’ οὗ ἐκλήθητε). 34.  1 Co 1,17 : οὐ γὰρ ἀπέστειλέν με Χριστὸς βαπτίζειν ἀλλὰ εὐαγγελίζεσθαι, οὐκ ἐν σοφίᾳ λόγου, ἵνα μὴ κενωθῇ ὁ σταυρὸς τοῦ Χριστοῦ. 35.  La question concerne probablement aussi le fait que (et ici, à mon avis, réside l’une des originalités « théologiques » de Paul) cet événement n’a pas été « efficace », même pour ceux qui ont été témoins.

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effets débordants. Alors qu’il fait cela, il active en même temps un complexe « jeu » de malentendus. Si dans les chapitres 2 et 3 de la Lettre, Paul montre les difficultés de ce malentendu essentiel, c’est seulement dans les chapitres suivants qu’il essaie de clarifier encore une fois sa propre position. Il expose une (ré) instruction qui vise à manifester une pratique, à lire à la lumière de ce qu’il a déjà explicité dans la Lettre, en tenant compte de la spécificité corinthienne. Pointe de son argumentation, à mon avis, le chapitre 13, lieu d’exposition accompli de la « technique de l’amour ». Mon hypothèse est qu’il y a un profond lien sémantique entre la section 1‑4 et ce chapitre 13. La première section montre la ré-instruction de la part de Paul : pour lui, elle s’exprime principalement dans le « recentrage » du sujet de la souveraineté de Dieu manifestée à travers son sage (et prédestiné) projet par rapport au Jésus-Messie ; la deuxième section montre le « but » du plan de Dieu, la participation en lui de croyants-es parmi lesquels-les a déjà commencé à se réaliser l’amour eschatologique de l’ἐκκλησία finale. Pour Paul, la question centrale est que les croyants-es de Corinthe sachent (c’est cela la vraie connaissance) l’origine, le maintien et le but de cet amour parmi eux (qu’évidemment, Paul doit avoir trouvé) et qu’il soit compris comme provenant exclusivement de Dieu. 1 Co 13 est la clarification de cette compréhension basée sur l’idée que ἡ ἀγάπη οὐδέποτε πίπτει 36. Les Corinthiensnes sont tout simplement impliqués dans ce « jeu » de l’amour de Dieu. III. L e

m a l e n t e n du de s

C or i n t h i e ns - n e s

Mais, finalement, qu’est-ce que Paul avait retrouvé dans l’ἐκκλησία de Corinthe ? Quels sont les éléments distinctifs que Paul y a pris pour être en mesure de dire que l’assemblée de Corinthe était une assemblée d’appelés-es (et, auparavant, d’élus) ? Évidemment, cela devait être quelque chose de concret que Paul se sentait obligé de préciser, et pas un « rien » vague et indéfinissable 37. Je suis convaincu que les Corinthiens-nes ont commencé, à partir de la prédication de Paul, à construire une « communauté de sens », bien évidemment en conflit (ou plutôt, en tourmente), mais dans laquelle le « que faire ? » ne devait pas être inessentiel. Connaissance, prophétie, parler en langues, mais aussi comment manger, comment s’habiller, comment prier, comment « administrer la justice », comment se comporter avec les autorités locales et constituées, comment considérer la relation entre hommes et 36.  1 Co 13,8. 37.  Je me réfère ici à la question de savoir s’il faut identifier ou non le groupe des croyants-es de Corinthe avec le terme « communauté ». Cf. le paragraphe 4 suivant.

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femmes… c’est-à-dire, tout ce qui pouvait se rapporter à la pratique quotidienne d’un groupe hétérogène et « relativement nouveau » de croyants-es dans le Messie Jésus. Bref, la forme conflictuelle est utilisée au niveau des intentions : d’une part, l’intention de Paul (caractérisée par une perspective eschatologique) et que j’ai déjà largement essayé de préciser ; de l’autre, celle des Corinthiens-nes incertains-es dans la compréhension du projet de Paul luimême. Cette dernière est plus difficile à définir en raison de l’absence d’un document de la partie corinthienne en mesure de la montrer. Elle ne peut qu’être reconstruite sur la base des réponses de Paul (et c’est précisément pour cela que je me suis autant attardé sur ses explications) : à mon avis, la progression argumentative de Paul est mesurable par les réponses à des questions précises et ponctuelles résultant du groupe lui-même. Cela reste ma position. La pointe de l’intention de Paul (et, indirectement, du problème et du malentendu à Corinthe) pourrait être synthétisée par le passage suivant de 1 Co 12,7 38 : À chacun est donnée la manifestation de l’Esprit pour le bien commun.

et 12,13 : En effet, nous avons tous été baptisés dans un seul Esprit, pour former (εἰς) un seul corps, soit Juifs, soit Grecs, soit esclaves, soit libres, et nous avons tous été abreuvés d’un seul esprit 39.

Cette unité d’intentions n’est pas créée et ne part pas d’une intention commune, mais de ce qui sous-tend la formation de cette intention et que Paul décrit dans 1 Co 13,8-10.13 : L’amour ne tombe (ne tombera) jamais : tandis que les prophéties seront abolies, les langues cesseront, la connaissance sera abolie. Car nous connaissons partiellement et partiellement nous prophétisons ; mais quand ce qui est parfait sera venu, ce qui est partiel sera aboli […] Or maintenant ces trois choses demeurent : la foi, l’espérance, l’amour  4 0 ; mais la plus grande de ces choses c’est l’amour 41.

38.  Cf. l’incipit de mon article. 39.  γὰρ ἐν ἑνὶ πνεύματι ἡμεῖς πάντες εἰς ἓν σῶμα ἐβαπτίσθημεν, εἴτε Ἰουδαῖοι εἴτε Ἕλληνες εἴτε δοῦλοι εἴτε ἐλεύθεροι, καὶ πάντες ἓν πνεῦμα ἐποτίσθημεν. 40.  P46 ; Clément et Origène inversent le texte en laissant le verbe au singulier. 41.  Ἡ ἀγάπη οὐδέποτε πίπτει· εἴτε δὲ προφητεῖαι, καταργηθήσονται· εἴτε γλῶσσαι, παύσονται· εἴτε γνῶσις, καταργηθήσεται. ἐκ μέρους γὰρ γινώσκομεν καὶ ἐκ μέρους προφητεύομεν· ὅταν δὲ ἔλθῃ τὸ τέλειον, τὸ ἐκ μέρους καταργηθήσεται […]. Νυνὶ δὲ μένει πίστις, ἐλπίς, ἀγάπη, τὰ τρία ταῦτα· μείζων δὲ τούτων ἡ ἀγάπη.

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Une fois surmontée la « nuisance » de la lecture de ce texte célèbre à la tonalité poétique – théologisé et spiritualisé jusqu’à rendre méconnaissable son profond, abyssal procédé argumentatif – et afin d’en tirer quelque trace utile des intentions de Paul, il sera bon de penser au fait que l’idée d’amour exprimée ici n’a rien à voir avec une sorte d’éthique, application pratique des principes généraux auxquels les croyants-es de Corinthe peuvent avoir pensé (et auxquels ils ont sûrement pensé) suivre pour la réalisation d’une vie croyante parfaite 42 . Ici Paul montre les cartes sur le « jeu » de Dieu ἐν χριστῷ. À  savoir, tout ce qui est résumé dans une phénoménologie du quotidien (bien que surnaturelle), est tellement temporaire qu’on n’a aucune possibilité de montrer le centre des choses, c’est-à-dire le fait que tout repose sur l’ἀγάπη οὐδέποτε πίπτει, dont le contenu est certainement le projet prédestiné et électif Dieu (selon l’idée de Paul) et non la permanence du groupe des croyants-es dans un état phénoménologiquement détectable. À ce stade, il me paraît essentiel d’entrer, bien que brièvement, en dialogue avec certaines considérations, développées durant ces dernières années, sur la notion de « communauté » dans les origines chrétiennes. Ces enquêtes constituent une part très importante de l’examen des textes proto-chrétiens, mais on a l’impression que certains d’entre eux n’arrivent pas à clarifier le discours de Paul, ses intentions et ses conséquences, malgré un processus d’analyse très approfondi. C’est pour cela que j’ai investigué – et probablement de manière encore insuffisante – dans l’exégèse de petits passages. IV. L a

commu nau t é qu i n ’ e s t pa s l à .

Un e

con fron tat ion

n éce s sa i r e et u n e conclusion prov i soi r e

Un regard sur la conversation entre Paul et les Corinthiens-nes (dont il ne reste qu’une partie), a montré d’importants éléments internes et externes à partir desquels on peut voir, entre autres choses que : 1) Paul, à travers sa lettre, est en train de parler, voire de communiquer quelque chose ; 2) les Corinthiens-nes écoutent, dans leur complexité stratifiée et non pas muette ; 3) puis, j’interviens dans leur conversation avec mes commentaires ; 4) des siècles d’historiographie qui s’intercalent entre les Corinthiens-nes et moi, dont le poids se fait sentir dans la mesure où il devient connaissance consciente ou aussi en restant seulement connaissance inconsciente, en s’exprimant par la précompréhension. Ces personnages 42.  Dans ce sens, le texte ne fonde ni n’a inspiré une sorte de « communauté idéale » reconnaissable par la façon dont ces « principes » sont appliqués, mis en pratique.

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entrent en jeu à travers moi, ma lecture, et ils commencent avec moi un jeu dialectique d’hypothèses et de comparaisons qui, finalement, devraient essayer de redonner une voix à la source, la trace d’un discours auquel je dois redonner la parole par une interprétation stricte. Donc, l’interprétation donne une nouvelle voix à quelque chose qui s’exprime ici à travers le conflit : le fait est que parce qu’il y a un conflit, il y a aussi quelque chose à étudier. Faisant encore un pas en avant, je voudrais remarquer l’importance de la division méthodologique entre la recherche sociologique et la perspective historico-théologique : la première, même si elle doit être présente, doit être clarifiée. Qui a la charge de distinguer la perspective théologique de l’enquête sociologique ? Je crois que c’est la tâche de celui qui lit le texte dans une perspective sociologique, un historien, etc. Mais ce n’est pas la tâche de Paul. Et certainement pas non plus des Corinthiens-nes. Je viens d’entrer en dialogue avec trois textes très différents (pour la méthode, l’approche, les objectifs et l’époque de composition) : il s’agit d’un texte d’Adriana Destro et Mauro Pesce 43, d’un texte de Stanley Stowers  4 4 et d’un dernier de Rudolf Bultmann 45. Bien que différents, tous ces textes traitent de sujets similaires et liés à mon intervention ; ils sont ici discutés afin de montrer comment différentes approches engagent l’indispensable prémisse exégétique, implication herméneutique avec le texte dont on entreprend l’analyse  4 6. Je commence par le texte de Destro/Pesce : le but de l’étude concerne les différences constatées au sujet du rôle de la femme par rapport au mouvement de Jésus et aux ἐκκλησίαι primitives 47. La compréhension de ce rôle est insérée dans le contexte plus large 43.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , « Dentro e fuori le “case”. Trasformazione dei ruoli femminili dal movimento di Gesù alle chiese primitive », dans M. Navarro – M. Perroni (ed.), La bibbia e le donne. I vangeli narrazioni e storia, Trapani, 2011. 44.  S. Stowers , « The Concept of “Community” and the History of Early Christianity », Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 23 (2011), p. 238‑256. 45.  R. Bultmann, « Formen menschlicher Gemeinschaft », dans Glaube und Verstehen. Gesammelte Aufsätze, bd. II, Tübingen, 1968, p. 262‑273. 46.  Je tiens à préciser que mon intention est l’analyse des textes. Toute discussion théorique (j’en suis toujours plus convaincu), en particulier aujourd’hui vu son abondance, doit avoir le courage de revenir en arrière pour réécouter la voix des textes. Ainsi, avant même d’essayer de comprendre comment je comprends certains mots, la façon dont ils sont compris par les chercheurs aujourd’hui, ou comment la précompréhension du lecteur (toujours présent et en action) affecte la lecture du texte, j’ai mis sur le terrain les agents de cette discussion en donnant la priorité au texte (c’est-à-dire, le fait lui-même de toutes possibles lectures). Je suis bien conscient de la difficulté, aujourd’hui souvent détectée, de donner du crédit au texte : mon approche là-dessus n’est pas naïve et, sans tomber dans la naïveté d’une approche « immédiate » du texte, je l’interroge quand même. Seulement à la fin de ce « commerce » avec le texte, une considération théorique appropriée me semble praticable. 47.  « Noi sosteniamo una discontinuità tra le primissime chiese e il movimento di Gesù [par rapport au rôle majeur ou mineur des femmes] », A. Destro –

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de la signification du regroupement des croyants-es autour de Jésus et, plut tard (relativement) en autonomie par rapport à lui. La création d’un groupe interstitiel 48 est déterminée, en définitive, par la relation avec Jésus lui-même. C’est lui qui éradique les relations en en créant de nouvelles, non prédéterminées. Donc, à juste titre Destro/Pesce soulignent le changement entre la « forme » du mouvement de Jésus 49 et l’οἶκος suivant et, ensuite, entre le prédicateur itinérant (ἐκκλησία itinérante) et les formes « stables » d’ἐκκλησία domestique 50. Parmi les principaux « points tournants » il y a Paul, dont Destro/Pesce disent à juste titre qu’il ne suit pas le « modèle de vie de Jésus » 51. Certes, Paul travaille en ville durant sa prédication à l’ἐκκλησία, mais il est aussi un prédicateur itinérant ; c’est vrai qu’il a « fondé » des ἐκκλησίαι (Jésus n’a jamais rien fondé), mais aussi qu’elles ont, en tout cas, une valeur temporaire et pas seulement parce que les hommes et les femmes qui la composent mourront, mais aussi parce que le temps de la fin est arrivé. S’agissant, en ce qui concerne les fondations pauliniennes, d’« églises » connotées de manière eschatologique, je me demande si les différences entre le(s) groupe(s) de Jésus et les groupes pauliniens (au moins, au niveau des intentions) ne sont pas plus faibles qu’on ne pourrait le penser 52 . M. Pesce , « Dentro e fuori le “case”. Trasformazione dei ruoli femminili dal movimento di Gesù alle chiese primitive », dans M. Navarro – M. Perroni (ed.), La bibbia e le donne. I vangeli narrazioni e storia, Trapani, 2011, p. 290. 48.  « Quest’associazione [la forma sociale scelta da Gesù] non è un’istituzione riconosciuta ed influente come la sinagoga e il tempio, né una comunità autonoma cha abbia una propria sede, come la comunità qumranita, ma è caratterizzata dall’interstizialità, cioè da un insieme di rapporti che si situano e operano fra o ai confini di aree sociali dominanti e ben organizzate », ibidem, p. 291. Encore sur le concept d’interstitiel : « Con questo termine ci riferiamo a tutto ciò che non ha una posto sociale definito e che deve perciò collocarsi nelle situazioni residuali, negli spazi che rimangono per così dire vuoti, non occupati dalle istituzioni », ibidem, p. 293. 49.  « Gesù aveva abbandonato la propria casa, il lavoro, la famiglia, non possedeva nulla e viveva in una situazione di costante spostamento, da villaggio a villaggio, alla ricerca di una rapporto personale ed immediato con la gente », ibidem. 50.  « Solo nei decenni successivi alla morte di Gesù nascono le cosiddette chiese (ekklesiai). Il rapporto personale con Gesù, ormai scomparso, viene sostituito da un culto e da un’organizzazione comunitaria con un corpo di credenze e pratiche », ibidem, p. 301. 51.  Ibidem. 52.  Et cela les caractérise clairement au-delà du temps de formation, du lieu et des formes sociales (les unes agricoles/pastorales, les autres urbaines). En effet, « l’esame accurato della strategia retorica dei testi protocristiani ci permette, in primo luogo o soprattutto, di conoscere le idee dei loro autori e non la realtà sociale di cui scrivono. Spesso non parlano della vita reale com’è, ma come vorrebbero che fosse », ibidem, p. 291. D’autre part, la stratégie rhétorique permet également l’accès au monde de la pensée des auteurs et, dans le cas de Paul, aux intentions « théologiquement » connotées par lesquelles il cherche à investir les groupes de croyants-es auxquels il se réfère.

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Si, ainsi, « si riguadagn[ano] e si impo[ngono] i valori che da sempre tengono insieme l’oikos » 53, il est probable que, suite à la prédication, le modèle d’οἶκος a lui-même changé ; ont changé aussi – par rapport à la prédication de Jésus – le milieu, le lieu de la prédication, certainement aussi l’objet de la prédication (non plus le Royaume, mais Jésus lui-même en tant qu’accomplissement des promesses de Dieu et, encore, lui-même « royaume » à prêcher), mais non pas (au moins chez Paul) le but ou la signification finale de cette prédication. Paul, finalement, change radicalement « le signe » de la prédication jusqu’au paradoxe : dans un certain sens, par la prédication de Jésus, le Royaume n’était pas aussi proche que par la prédication de Paul 54 . Dans ce cadre délimité par Destro/Pesce et que je partage absolument, je me demande, quand même, s’il y a effectivement, comme le soutient cette étude, une sorte d’ἐκκλησία qui « voyage » en parallèle et au sein de l’οἶκος : Gli studi degli ultimi decenni hanno ampliamente sottolineato il fatto che il luogo principale in cui si sviluppa il primo cristianesimo sono le abitazioni così come sono organizzate per la vita familiare. Questo fatto non è in discussione, anzi costituisce il presupposto necessario del nostro discorso 55.

Et la chose ne peut qu’être souscrite. Mais ensuite le texte continue : Nelle chiese però, il momento religioso corrisponde a una ‘azione rituale’ che, pur svolgendosi nell’oikos, agisce al di fuori della prospettiva intradomestica. L’ekklesia non ha una rapporto di tipo interstiziale ma di carat-

53.  Ibidem, p. 302 : « Il cambiamento da Gesù alle chiese non avviene senza gradualità. Il collegamento con la prassi di vita di Gesù rimane in qualche modo per il fatto che i predicatori itineranti continuano per un certo tempo a esistere prima di essere soppiantati da un’organizzazione comunitaria stanziale (cfr. 3Gv e Didachè 12,1-13,3). Quando ciò avverrà, si passerà dal paradigma “senza casa, senza lavoro, senza famiglia” al paradigma “stanziamento in case, impegno nel lavoro, rispetto dell’architettura parentale/familiare”. Si riguadagneranno e si imporranno, così, i valori che da sempre tengono insieme l’oikos ». 54.  Le paradoxe est clair ici. Certainement que pour Paul il ne pouvait en aller autrement. Je me demande si la seule insistance sur la prédication de Jésus (c’està-dire, sur le contenu de sa prédication) n’est pas une forme d’appauvrissement de l’événement messianique. Paul, avec son insistance sur la mort (qui apparemment a eu lieu) et la résurrection (bien sûr présupposée) du Messie, n’aurait-il pas développé (personnellement) un kérygme circulant parmi les croyants-es, mais fondé sur une certaine prise de conscience de Jésus lui-même ? Mais je me rends compte qu’il s’agit d’une pente glissante. 55.  Ibidem.

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tere ‘aggiuntivo’ rispetto all’oikos, e perciò non ne penetra e altera la struttura tradizionale […]. E qualcosa di autonomo che si aggiunge all’oikos 56 .

Je pense qu’on retrouve ce qu’on a indiqué dans la partie exégétique, à savoir ce que Paul lui-même a dit (voir en plus, par ex., 1 Co 7ss, mais aussi la question de la θλῖψις dans 1 Th,  etc.) permet une perspective un peu plus complexifiée de la situation des groupes de croyants-es auxquels Paul s’est adressé : l’οἶκος « traditionnel » pourrait avoir en fait, déjà « explosé » et s’être reconfiguré à partir de la nouvelle situation intentionnelle des croyants-es (en tant que tels). Le poids éthique que le dialogue entre Paul et les croyants-es a fait émerger, montre, à mon avis, une tension qui va bien au-delà de la réalité cultuelle « simple ». J’ai insisté sur le texte de Destro/Pesce parce qu’il argumente de manière très approfondie les dynamiques existant entre les croyants-es dans les ἐκκλησίαι pauliniennes et propose, à mon avis, une alternative à la perspective de S. Stowers. Ce dernier soulève une question importante : en substance, l’idée actuelle de la communauté écrase (jusqu’à la substituer) l’idée ancienne correspondante 57. Il s’agit de comprendre ce qu’est une communauté par rapport aux communautés (présumées) pauliniennes et comment elles fonctionnent dans le contexte antique, dans lequel (éventuellement) elles se sont développées. Même si je crois pouvoir comprendre ses idées, je voudrais remarquer également que, dans le dialogue avec Paul, Stowers ne tente jamais de savoir s’il parle de « communautés », ou ce qu’il entend par ἐκκλησία. 56.  Ibidem. On pourrait ajouter : « In sostanza, la riunione collettiva dell’ek­ klesia avviene in uno spazio fisico domestico, ma lo supera. Consiste in un’attività extradomestica, di tipo aggregativo-cultuale, che in fondo non infrange o non fa esplodere le logiche domestiche. Le utilizza. La conseguenza è che le regole dell’oikos, della parentela, del lavoro riacquistano valore e spazio. Non sono più sospese come avveniva durante l’incontro ‘faccia a faccia’ con Gesù. Sono attive e parallele alle attività assembleari che non si concentrano sul governo delle case », ibidem, p. 302. 57.  « In contemporary English, ‘community’ has a number of senses connected to uses developed in nineteenth- and twentieth-century Europe and North America. One sense of the word is territorial or features place as in ‘rural communities’ and ‘flooding affected many households in the community.’ A neighborhood in this sense can be called a community even if its inhabitants have almost no social interaction with one another. We also speak of a ‘linguistic community,’ although there may be enormous cultural and political differences among those speakers. The range of meanings that has been important for scholarship on ancient Christianity, however, has a different history not only in Christian thought, but also in European and American social and political thought. This is the idea of community as a deep social and mental coherence, a commonality in mind and practice. Although Enlightenment traditions sometimes approached the idea as in the French Revolution’s fraternity in ‘liberty, equality and fraternity,’ it has been the anti-Enlightenment and Romantic traditions that have featured community in this sense », S. Stowers , « The Concept of “Community” and the History of Early Christianity », Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 23 (2011), p. 238‑239.

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Ainsi, « the theological or ideological origins of the totalizing role of community in Christian imagination about early Christianity can be pinned on Paul and his letters » 58. En résumant la perspective de Stowers, on peut voir que : Paul ne dit jamais aux « siens » qu’ils doivent devenir une communauté, mais qu’ils sont déjà essentiellement, « ontologiquement » une communauté 59 ; cette perspective est une déduction de nombreux chercheurs et est vue comme une « formation » par conversion miraculeuse 60 ; il n’y a aucune « communauté » et Paul utilise tout simplement des formes argumentatives rhétoriques 61. Dans une tentative de procéder à une analyse socio-historique très attentive du regroupement ancien qui évidemment se forma autour de Paul 62 , je me demande si Stowers a suffisamment considéré la dimension eschatologique de l’ἐκκλησία paulinienne et, par conséquent, la dynamique concrète que la prédication de Paul pouvait avoir engendré parmi des gens très différents (ou peut-être pas trop) 63. 58.  Ibidem, p. 242. 59.  « Paul did not merely try to persuade those whom he wanted as followers that they ought to become a very special kind of community. He told them that they had in their essence already become such a community », ibidem. Sur la question de l’ontologie communautaire, cf. ibidem les considérations de Stowers au sujet de l’idée d’être ἐν χριστῷ et concernent Ga 3,27‑28. 60.  « For scholars, these ideas and often the idea of ‘the Pauline communities’ are correlates of an equally miraculous idea of ‘conversion.’ Paul came to Corinth, preached the gospel and the Corinthians in question converted and became a Christian community. Paul, then, long before Acts turned the idea into a narrative, created a central idea of the Christian myth of origins that the new movement grew in a miraculous way », ibidem, p. 243. 61.  « But the interpreter should not get caught up in the oppositions. There never was a social body, a congregation, a community, on the one hand, nor were there defilements of a social purity, rifts and defections from such a nonexistent social miracle of harmony and unity of mind, on the other hand, except in Paul’s imagination and rhetoric », ibidem, p. 244. 62.  Dans ce sens, je ne me réfère pas seulement à la « mythomanie » paulinienne considérant la communauté de Corinthe comme « communauté », mais aussi à l’évidente discussion que déclencha à Corinthe ce que Paul avait dit. 63.  En cela, je reste totalement d’accord avec la nécessité de relire les textes dans une constante dialectique avec la sociologie et l’anthropologie historique, qui doit rester dialectique. C’est pourquoi que je trouve quelque peu problématique l’affirmation qui suit : « The letters are often, but not always, read as responding in intricate detail to particular communities that—except perhaps for Romans—Paul supposedly knew very well. A perceived note of sarcasm, the use of a particular word, and always allusive language that rarely spells out particular and concrete details about the supposed community are taken as corresponding to a social reality. There are at least three problems here. First, the audiences who potentially could have or actually did hear Paul’s letters may have never consisted of anything nearly so coherent as a community. Second, Paul’s knowledge of and understanding of the potential audience may not have been so perfect. At Corinth, he may have known Crispus and Gaius (1 :14) well, but not the slaves and women in another household

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Je conclus en discutant brièvement la perspective de R. Bultmann dans « Formen menschlicher Gemeinschaft ». Il déclare, dans son texte, un intérêt non sociologique, mais anthropologique, c’est-à-dire (selon le sens qu’il y donne) existentiel, de la communauté humaine. Pour Bultmann il y a quatre formes de communauté humaine : 1) communauté naturelle ; 2) communauté née de l’histoire ; 3) communauté fondée sur le monde spirituel de l’art et de la science ; 4) communauté établie pour des motifs religieux  6 4 . Or, si pour Bultmann toutes ces formes « communautaires » who had been present for some of Paul’s meetings. Paul says that he baptized the whole household of Stephanas (1 :16). Did he understand the dynamics and individuals in what could have been a large, complex and highly disunited household well ? Third, the approach robs Paul of the creativity and known tendencies of writers and speakers to produce writings that have a rhetorical and artistic semi-autonomy and that respond to imagined audiences in broadly creative rather than narrowly specific ways », ibidem, p. 248. 64.  Pour le point un : « Echt menschliche Gemeinschaft ist, kurz gesagt, die zwischen Mensch und Mensch ; d. h. diejenige Gemeinschaft, in der der Mensch durch die Hingabe seiner selbst an den anderen zu sich selbst kommt […]. Der Wille zum Selbst ist die Voraussetzung echter Gemeinschaft ; denn nur Menschen, die Personen, d. h. je ein Selbst sind, können in echter Gemeinschaft stehen. Das bedeutet aber : Voraussetzung echter Gemeinschaft ist der Wille zu Freiheit und Verantwortung, zur Wahrheit und die Bereitschaft zu Opfer und Hingabe, – und der Humor als die Kraft, Distanz zu sich selbst zu gewinnen », R. Bultmann, « Formen menschlicher Gemeinschaft », dans Glaube und Verstehen. Gesammelte Aufsätze, bd. II, Tübingen, 1968, p. 263‑264 ; deux : « Auch die Geschichte stiftet Gemeinschaft durch das gemeinsame Erleben, durch die Arbeit an gemeinsamen Aufgaben, durch die gemeinsame Erfahrung guter und böser Zeiten, gemeinsame Freude und gemeinsames Leid, durch die Tradition, in der die geschichtlichen Erfahrungen bewahrt und vermittelt werden, durch die aus der Geschichte erwachsende jeweilige Gestalt von Recht und Sitte », ibidem, p. 264 ; trois : « Die durch die Kunst gestiftete Gemeinschaft findet ihren Höhepunkt im Feste, und eigentlich ist jede musikalische Aufführung ein Fest, und oft empfindet man ihre gemeinschaftsbildende Kraft und hat beim Hören der Klänge das Bedürfnis, sich ins Auge zu blicken oder sich die Hand zu drücken. Begeisterung sucht Gemeinschaft », ibidem, p. 267 ; quatre : « Alle echte menschliche Gemeinschaft letztlich im Religiösen verwurzelt, dass sie eine Gemeinschaft des Glaubens ist […]. Das ist deshalb so, weil echte Gemeinschaft nur zwischen Menschen bestehen kann, die Personen sind, die sie selbst oder auf dem Wege zu sich selbst sind, und weil der Mensch er selbst nie in einem abgeschlossenen Fertigsein ist, weil sein Selbst nicht ein Besitz ist wie erarbeitete Qualitäten, wie erworbene Kenntnisse und Fähigkeiten, sondern weil es immer vor ihm steht und er er selbst nur wird in der ständigen Offenheit für das ihm Begegnende, in der ständigen Bereitschaft sich selbst, so wie er jeweils in sein Jetzt kommt, preiszugeben, sich an nichts festzuhalten, was er schon hat und ist », ibidem, p. 270. Lue sous cet angle, l’histoire de Paul pourrait être : Paul va à Corinthe et il y retrouve évidemment déjà une forme « associative » au sens large, une communauté humaine fondée sur la simple prise de conscience d’une identification réciproque et d’une coappartenance à un espace commun, peut-être en raison de la participation commune à la vie de la ville, la reconnaissance réciproque, la participation commune à des fêtes ou à l’écoute des mêmes chants… Ce que fait

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sont problématiques, la dernière est intéressante dans la mesure où elle résulte d’une forme sociale non disponible, constituée sur la base de la foi qui génère un paradoxe : Die Gemeinschaft mit Gott, die echte menschliche Gemeinschaft begründen soll, reißt den Menschen zunächst aus jeder menschlichen Gemeinschaft heraus und stellt ihn in die radikale Einsamkeit vor Gott. […] Der Weg zu Gott bedeutet Entweltlichung. 65

Ce que je trouve intéressant dans la perspective bultmannienne, c’est l’effort de comprendre le contenu des intentions pauliniennes et, de plus, d’imaginer l’impact de ces idées sur les gens qui se confrontèrent à sa prédication. Vu l’importance du sujet, il faudrait une enquête plus approfondie à laquelle je ne peux m’attaquer maintenant. L’idée était de réussir à élaborer une réflexion sur les ἐκκλησίαι pauliniennes en tenant compte de la sociologie, de l’anthropologie, de l’histoire sociale, mais également repensée au niveau de l’exégèse dans le contexte de l’argumentation théologique de Paul lui-même. Il s’est agi de parvenir à détecter un conflit entre les intentions : d’une part, l’intention de Paul caractérisée par une perspective eschatologique, de l’autre celle des Corinthiens-nes, incapables de saisir complètement le projet de Paul, mais sans être pour autant inertes dans la construction d’un groupe de croyants-es à la recherche d’une identité. Les intentions de Paul (essentiellement son idée sur Dieu et son action, sa « théologie ») ont été reformulées dans cette Lettre parce que (selon lui) elles étaient à l’origine de malentendus de la part du groupe, montrant une sorte de « jeu impossible » dans le « jeu ». Les attentes très élevées de Paul se sont clairement heurtées à une réalité qui rendait évident l’écart entre ferme conviction et pratique quotidienne, mais qui, montrait à Paul un élément sur lequel il était nécessaire d’insister.

Paul, c’est une sorte de décodage de quelque chose qui existe déjà, non une simple création (réelle ou imaginaire) d’une nouvelle forme agrégative ; elle n’est pas fondée sur un « rien » qui n’existe pas, mais sur des formes de socialité préexistantes. Dans ce sens, l’excellente catégorie de Destro/Pesce d’interstitielle, peut, à mon avis, également être appliquée ici. 65.  Ibidem, p. 270‑271.

A L ITTLE L ESSON IN FAITH AND P RAYER : T HE SAYINGS CLUSTER OF M ARK 11:22-25 Mara R escio Scholars today are much more inclined than their predecessors to recognize the narrative skill and rhetorical sophistication of the Gospel of Mark. Mark is no longer perceived as a mere collector of existing traditions, but as an independent author endowed with an extensive – and often provocative – writing ability and authorial presence. The composition of the sayings in Mk 11:22‑25 is a striking example, for at least three reasons: (a) Mark’s re-arrangement of the material, that is the combination of four different sayings of Jesus which are found scattered among other early Christian sources; (b) its placement and rhetorical re-structuring at the end of the enigmatic episode of the cursed fig tree; (c) and the special issue it addresses, the only instance throughout the Gospel of an explicit instruction on prayer given by Jesus. In itself, the creation of this cluster of sayings, together with its inclusion within the framework of teachings reserved for the disciples alone, represents a perfect test-case of how the words of Jesus were modified and reinterpreted (sometimes even invented) during the various phases of their transmission. I. C ommu n icat i ng w i t h G od : J e sus ’ P r ay e r i n t h e G ospe l of M a r k Before embarking on a thorough analysis of the passage, it may be useful to briefly reflect on the role that prayer, and especially Jesus’ prayer, plays within Mark’s narrative strategy. Regrettably, this aspect has never received much attention from specialists of the Second Gospel, for reasons that are not difficult to guess. There are a relatively small number of Markan references to prayer compared with the other two Synoptic Gospels, particularly in Luke who is unsurprisingly referred to as “the Evangelist of prayer.” 1 This, combined with the absence (whether deliberate or 1.  For instance, the terms προσευχή  / προσεύχομαι (“prayer”  / “pray”) occur twelve times in Mark, seventeen in Matthew, and twenty-two in Luke. Luke seems particularly interested in associating prayer with the most decisive moments of Jesus’ life: Jesus prays at his baptism (Lk 3:21); after a day of healing miracles (Lk 5:16); before choosing the Twelve (Lk 6:12); before Peter’s confession (Lk 9:18); before Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 193–226 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111704 ©

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inadvertent) of a distinctive prayer such as the Lord’s Prayer, has often led scholars to assume that the theme of prayer had no special relevance for Mark. The only exception perhaps, is found in a study by S.E. Dowd (1986), who in an attempt to move against the tide, expressly started with a reassessment of the importance of Mk 11:22‑25. 2 Dowd’s essay certainly makes no claim to having exhausted the subject and there is still a need for a comprehensive re-examination of the Gospel – along with a reconstruction of the role of Jesus in the text in reference to this particular line of inquiry. Filling this gap is not among the main objectives of the present work. My aim is merely to offer a few guidelines that might serve to reopen the debate on Mk 11:22‑25, extending it to embrace contributions from different disciplines such as social-anthropological and communication studies. The first point to clarify, not made explicit by analyses such as Dowd’s, concerns the actual definition of prayer, which cannot be restricted purely to a phenomenological or descriptive approach. The operative definition proposed by B.J. Malina, which considers prayer primarily as an act of communication, seems particularly effective in presenting this view:

his transfiguration (Lk 9:29); after the mission of the Seventy (Lk 10:21‑21); before the teaching of the Lord’s Prayer (Lk 11:1); for the disciples (Lk 22:32, Simon) before his arrest; during his agony on the Mount of Olives (Lk 22:39-46); during his crucifixion (Lk 23-34-46). Significantly, in most of these cases, the reference to prayer is omitted in the parallel passages of Mark and Matthew. Luke alone reports two special parables on prayer (Lk 11:5-11, the friend at midnight; Lk 18:1-8, the unjust judge) and the story of the Pharisee and the Publican at prayer in the Temple (Lk 18:9-14). Of the numerous studies devoted to the role of prayer in Luke’s writings, see at least the recent work of G.O. Holmås , Prayer and Vindication in Luke-Acts: The Theme of Prayer Within the Context of the Legitimating and Edifying Objective of the Lukan Narrative (London, 2011), which includes a review of previous studies at pages 4‑15. More generally, bibliography on prayer abounds: there are a number of relevant studies on prayer in the Bible, in the New Testament, in the early Church, in Second Temple Judaism, in the Greco-Roman world, etc. For an overview, see: R.N. L ongenecker , ed., Into God ’s Presence: Prayer in the New Testament (Grand Rapids, MI, 2001) with contributions on specific related topics such as “Prayer in the Greco-Roman World” (D. Aune), “Prayer in Jewish Life of the First Century as Background to Early Christianity” (A. Finkel), “Jesus — Example and Teacher of Prayer in the Synoptic Gospels” (H. Marshall), “Prayer in Pauline’s Letters” (R.N. Longenecker), “Prayer in the Book of Revelation” (R. Bauckham), and others. More recently, see M. Nygaard, Prayer in the Gospels: A Theological Exegesis of the Ideal Pray-er (Leiden – Boston, 2012). Always useful: J.H. Charlesworth, The Lord ’s Prayer and Other Prayer Texts from the GraecoRoman Era (Valley Forge, PA, 1994); M. K iley, ed., Prayer from Alexander to Constantine: A Critical Anthology (New York, 1997). 2. Cf. S.E. Dowd, Prayer, Power, and the Problem of Suffering: Mark 11:22‑25 in the Context of Markan Theology (Atlanta, GA, 1986).

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Prayer is a symbolic and socially meaningful act of communication, bearing directly upon persons perceived as somehow supporting, maintaining, and controlling the order of existence of the one praying, and performed with the purpose of getting results from or in the interaction of communication. 3

The definition is clear enough and allows us to identify with extreme precision the five foremost elements of prayer from a communicative viewpoint: 1. The 2. The 3. The 4. The 5. The

sender of the prayer (a person or a group) message (petition, adoration, contrition, thanksgiving, etc.) medium of the message (verbal, substantive, or both) receiver (or the interlocutor) of the prayer purpose of the prayer

Taking the Bible as example, Malina also proposes a classification of seven different types of prayer, based on the desired results. Thus, we find: 1. Petitionary (‘I want…’): prayers to obtain goods and services for individual and social needs; 2. Regulatory (‘Do as I tell you’): prayers to control the activity of God, commanding God to order people and things about on behalf of the one praying; 3. Interactional (‘Where are you when I need you?’): prayers to maintain emotional ties with God […]; 4. Self-focused (‘I gave them your word… I kept them safe’): prayers that identify the self – individual and social – to God; prayers of confession, as well as boasting and superiority; 5. Heuristic (‘Tell me why…?’ ‘Should I marry?’): prayers that explore the world of God and God’s working within us individually and collectively; meditative prayers, perceptions of the spirit in prayer; 6. Imaginative/Contemplative (‘I was caught up to the second heaven’): prayers to create an environment of one’s own with God; prayers in tongues and those recited in languages unknown to prayer; 7. Acknowledgment (‘I have something to tell you’): in this category we place all speech that (1) 3.  B.J. M alina, “What is Prayer?,” The Bible Today 18/4 (1980) 214-220: 215. As J.H. Neyrey has pointed out, Malina’s prayer model clearly relies on the assumptions of communication theorists such as D.K. Berlo, E.M. Rogers and F. Floyd Shoemaker. Values of this model, according to Neyrey, include: “(1) comprehensive identification of five distinct elements in prayer; (2) sensitivity to other verbal as well as written material media of communication; (3) definition of the recipient of prayer, which excludes potentates, popes, and presidents; and (4) broad description of the function of prayer as seeking ‘results’ and ‘interaction,’ which invite a generous expansion of types of prayers beyond petition and praise.” Cf. J.H. Neyrey, Give God the Glory: Ancient Prayer and Worship in Cultural Perspective (Grand Rapids, MI – Cambridge, UK, 2007) 10. See also Neyrey’s previous article: J.H. Neyrey, “Prayer, In Other Words: A Social Science Model for Interpreting Prayers,” in J.J. P ilch, ed.,  Social Scientific Models for Interpreting the Bible: Essays by the Context Group in Honor of Bruce J. Malina (Leiden, 2001) 349‑380.

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acknowledges God’s sovereignty or glory, (2) praises and honours God, and (3) expresses gratitude and appreciation for divine benefaction. 4

An exegetical reading using Malina’s basic model as a starting point would enable different levels of meaning to be drawn from the text of the Gospel that might otherwise remain unexplored. Concentrating on the figure of Jesus as the “sender” of prayer, and on God as the “receiver,” we can for example, identify all the passages where Mark makes explicit or implicit reference to the act or gesture of prayer. Essentially there are five questions to be considered: 1. Where did Jesus pray? — Location 2. When (and how long) did Jesus pray? — Timing 3. How did Jesus pray? — Modes or methods 4. What did Jesus pray? — Message 5. Why did Jesus pray? — Ultimate purpose We could also make note of particular contexts or the presence of possible co-senders: Does the prayer take place in a public or private context? Is it individual or collective prayer? That is, did Jesus usually pray alone? If not, with whom did Jesus pray? Examining prayer as an act of communication – either to thank the divinity for something received or to ask a favour – also extends the terminological range of investigation. Within this perspective, the analysis is no longer restricted to terms directly linked to prayer (such as προσευχή  / προσεύχομαι, “prayer”  / “pray”), 5 but can be more broadly extended to include verbs such as “ask” (δέομαι, αἰτέω), “bless” (εὐλογέω, κατευλογέω), “thank” (εὐχαριστέω), “sing” (ὑμνέω) or “shout” (βοάω), which can be seen as signalling different types of prayer. 6 However, we should not neglect all those passages which do not contain these terms, but where the theme is nonetheless present, perhaps involving nonverbal or silent forms of prayer with absolutely unequivocal gestures such as “raise the eyes to heaven” and “prostrate oneself on the ground.” Thus, in the episode of the healing of a deaf-mute (Mk 7:31‑34), Mark’s reference to Jesus looking up to heaven (Mk 7:34) should be understood as a reference to prayer, and more specifically as a form of silent prayer. It is not by chance that the same gesture appears connected to a specific act of prayer in the previous episode of the feeding of the multitudes (Mk 6:41). 4. Cf. B.J. M alina, “What is Prayer?,” The Bible Today 18/4 (1980) 214‑220: 217‑218. 5.  In Mark, we find three explicit references to Jesus praying: Mk 1:35; Mk 6:46; and Mk 14:32-42. 6. A more comprehensive analysis should also include: Jesus’ blessing in Mk 6:41 and Mk 14:22; Jesus’ thanksgiving in Mk 8:6 and Mk 14:23; Jesus’ singing in Mk 14:26; Jesus’ shouting in Mk 15:34.

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A similar combination between verbal form and gesture also occurs in Mk 14:35‑36, where Jesus prays throwing himself to the ground (Mk 14:35; but cf. Mk 11:25, where prayer is connected to the more usual standing position). 7 Viewed in this light, the text of Mark appears anything but unconcerned with prayer, revealing on several occasions the various aspects of Jesus’ praying. Consider, for example, locations. The image of Jesus that emerges from the text is that of a constantly on the move, “out of place” individual, who decides to escape from ordinary village life, remaining outside the whole network of relationships based on the oikos and distancing himself from the institutional religious centres of the time (synagogue and Temple). 8 This picture is clearly reflected in the prayer of Jesus, which Mark always locates in alternative and isolated spaces: in a lonely place (Mk 1:35), on a mountain (Mk 6:46), in a garden (Mk 14:32‑42: the Gethsemane). Significantly, Jesus is never portrayed in the act of prayer in a synagogue or within the Temple. 9 Another easily identified aspect is timing. There is no doubt that for Jesus, as for every devoted Jew of the time, prayer was a normal practice of everyday life. 10 From this point of view, however, Mark draws attention to Jesus’ custom of praying at unusual times, generally late in the night (Mk 1:35, “when it was still dark,” thus very early in the morning; Mk 6:47.48, “when the evening came,” “about the fourth watch of the night”; Mk 14:32‑42, after having supped, probably in the middle of the night). By doing so, the Evangelist emphasises what appears to be the rationale of Jesus’ personal practice of prayer: the need for a constant contact with God that goes beyond established and conventional times. Timing can also refer to the duration of time spent in prayer. We can deduce from Mark’s few comments that Jesus would pray for lengthy periods of time. 7.  On the meaning of such aspects, see the recent contribution of U. Ehrlich, The Nonverbal Language of Prayer: A New Approach to Jewish Liturgy (Tübingen, 2004). In particular, on the silent prayer, cf. P.W. van der Horst, “Silent Prayer in Antiquity,” Numen 41/1 (1994) 1‑25. 8.  Attention to spatial dimension is such a distinctive trait of the Markan text that it might be read entirely in this key: on this point, see E.S. M albon, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark (San Francisco, 1986); and, more recently, E.C. Stewart, Gathered around Jesus: An Alternative Spatial Practice in the Gospel of Mark (Eugene, OR, 2009). For further discussion on the Markan Jesus as a “marginal leader,” see also M. R escio, La famiglia alternativa di Gesù. Discepolato e strategie di trasformazione sociale nel Vangelo di Marco (Brescia, 2012) 82‑87. 9. The sole exception might be that of Mk 11:29-30, where Jesus answers a scribe’s question by reciting the Shema (Deut 6:4). But this is not a real act of prayer. 10. On the origins and development of Jewish daily prayer practices, see the recent work of J.J. Penner , Patterns in Daily Prayer in Second Temple Period Judaism (Leiden, 2012).

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For example, according to Mk 6:48, Jesus remains on the mountain to pray almost until dawn; similarly, in Mk 14:37, Jesus rebukes Peter (and with him James and John) for not being able to “watch even one hour,” a clear sign that the master had been praying for longer. 11 Another possible allusion is in Mk 9:29, where Jesus’ request to pray and fast at the same time clearly requires a prolonged regime of prayer (as fasting itself is not a matter of a few hours!). 12 With regard to the modes of prayer, we have already noted how the text provides information on Jesus’ gestures, and therefore on the appearance and physicality of his praying (cf. Mk 6:41; 7:34; 14:35), which sometimes involved the use of specific symbolic indicators, such as clothing (Mk 6:56, the fringe of the cloak). There is also no shortage of references to the inner state that Jesus considered appropriate to prayer: to have absolute faith in God (Mk 11:22‑24), 13 to be at peace with one’s neighbours (e.g. forgiveness, 11:25), and the need to avoid hypocrisy (e.g. the importance of a perfect correspondence between “external” actions and “internal” wholeness, Mk 12:40). In terms of the contexts and the co-senders, the Evangelist’s insistence on the fact that Jesus favoured solitary prayer is particularly significant. This is a point that Mark does not fail to stress whenever he has the opportunity, probably with the intention of underlining the exclusivity of the relationship between Jesus and God – an exclusivity which affects not only the crowds (including mere sympathizers), but also the disciples, even the most intimate, who are never involved in the master’s moments of prayer. 14 Thus, in Mk 1:35‑37, Jesus is portrayed in the act of abandon11.  Evidently, Jesus expected the disciples to follow his example in prayer. As shown by Dowd, Markan material on prayer can be easily divided into “teaching” (Mk 9:29; Mk 11:17; Mk 11:22‑25; Mk 12:40; Mk 13:18; Mk 14:38) and “example” (Mk 1:35; Mk 6:46; 14:32‑42; 15:34). In the Evangelist’s view, Jesus’ disciples are called to learn as much from their master’s teaching as from his example: in this sense, Mark would be perfectly in line with the conception of teacher in the ancient world; cf. S.E. Dowd, Prayer, Power, and the Problem of Suffering: Mark 11:22‑25 in the Context of Markan Theology (Atlanta, GA, 1986) 26. 12.  On the possibility that the additional variant καὶ νηστείᾳ (“and fasting”) was originally part of the Markan text, cf. my recent article: M. R escio, “Demons and Prayer: Traces of Jesus’ Esoteric Teaching from Mark to Clement of Alexandria,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 31/1 (2014) 53‑82: 69‑72. 13.  On the topic of faith in Mark, see particularly C.D. M arshall , Faith as a Theme in Mark’s Narrative (Cambridge, 1989); cf. also the suggestive short essay by M.A. Beavis , “Mark’s Teaching on Faith,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 16 (1986) 139-142. 14.  The sole examples of Jesus’ prayers involving other people are the blessing and thanksgiving in the episodes of the feeding of the multitude (Mk 6:33‑44; 8:1‑10), in which we find the disciples and the crowd, and the thanksgiving and singing during the Last Supper (Mk 14:17‑26), in which the disciples alone are present.

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ing his first followers, leaving the house of Simon and Andrew in order to retreat to a deserted place to pray; a similar situation occurs in Mk 6:45‑48, where Jesus dismisses both the disciples and the crowd so as to be able to pray alone on a mountain. More notably, in the famous scene of the agony in Gethsemane (Mk 14:32‑42), the same need for isolation is expressed by Jesus’ progressive distancing, first from the larger circle of the disciples, and then from the more restricted group of the Three (Peter, James, and John). Generally speaking, the motif of isolation seems to have a double function in Mark. On the one hand, when it implies the withdrawal from the crowds, it serves to highlight the distinction between insiders and outsiders and to display the esoteric dimension of Jesus’ teaching (e.g. in Mk 3:9; 4:36; 6:31‑33; 7:17); on the other, when it explicitly involves a separation from the disciples, it becomes a narrative device to place emphasis on Jesus’ prayer as a sign of his special relationship with God. 15 This special relationship also emerges if we consider the specific purposes of Jesus’ prayer. Why did Jesus pray, according to Mark? Obviously, there is not just one answer to the question. What we can immediately observe, however, is that the Evangelist appears to be particularly concerned with emphasizing the close connection between the missionary activity of Jesus and his personal practice of prayer. It is no mere coincidence therefore, that Mark always shows Jesus at prayer when confronting the key moments of his public career: at the beginning, before deciding to preach in a wider area (Mk 1:35‑38), and during his final days, before being arrested (Mk 14:35‑39). In both cases, Jesus seems to use prayer to know how to carry out his mission (or to ask for approval of his works: cf. also Mk 6:46) and receive knowledge of God’s will (even for changing it: cf. Mk 14:35‑36). But there is more. On different occasions Mark alludes to Jesus’ prayer as a powerful means to increase spiritual potency, in order to perform healings (Mk 7:31‑37) 16 or cast out demons (Mk 15.  On this point, see also E.S. M albon, In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville, KY, 2000) 79‑81. 16.  In the case of Mk 7:34, as we noted above, a silent form of prayer is implied: “Then looking up to heaven, he sighed…” The additional reference to sighing (in Greek, ἐστέναξεν) can be understood in the light of what M. Dibelius defined as “mystical magic” (the verb στενάζω, never occurring again in New Testament miracle stories, is a sort of technical term frequently attested in magical papyri, e.g. in PGM XIII.942‑946). As pointed out by A.Y. Collins, “this interpretation fits the immediate context better than the hypothesis that the sigh is a gesture of prayer or an expression of an emotion like compassion”: see A.Y. Collins , Mark: A Commentary (Minneapolis, MN, 2007) 372; contra J.P. M eier , A  Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus, vol. 2: Mentor, Message, and Miracles (New York, NY, 1994) 713 and 758, n. 158; cf. also M. Dibelius , From Tradition to Gospel (Engl. transl. by B.L. Woolf, Cambridge, UK, 1971 [Germ. ed. 1933]) 85‑86;

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9:14‑29). 17 God is perceived by Jesus as a source of such potency, a potency which can effectively intervene in the life of human beings, so as to heal them, purify them, or transform them. Jesus’ prayer, in other words, relies upon an unwavering trust in the certainty of God’s intervention, up to the point that “whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours” (Mk 11:24). II. Th e Te mpl e

and

F ig Tr e e : M k 11:22‑25

in

C on t e x t

The small sayings cluster on faith and prayer of Mk 11:22‑25 is inserted within the section of the Gospel that precedes the story of the Passion. The literary unity of this section, which includes the chapters from the eleventh to the thirteenth, consists of the two references to the Mount of Olives which, one placed at the opening and the other at the end, form an obvious inclusion. At the beginning, Jesus leaves the Mount of Olives, enters Jerusalem, and goes into the Temple (Mk 11:1-11). 18 At the end, Jesus leaves the Temple (Mk 13:1), predicts its destruction (Mk 13:2), and returns to the Mount of Olives (Mk 13:3) – where, sitting right in front of the sanctuary, he issues to the group of the Three a special instruction about the end of times (Mk 13:3-37). 19 The material set within this

C. Bonner , “Traces of Thaumaturgic Technique in the Miracles,” Harvard Theological Review 20/3 [1927] 171‑181. 17.  Despite their common reference to Jesus’ blessing, we cannot mention here the two Markan tales about the multiplication of loaves and fishes (cf. Mk 6:41 and 8:6; in Mk 6:41, we also find the prayer-like gesture of “looking up to heaven”). In both cases, indeed, Jesus’ prayer is merely a thanksgiving, and the miracle cannot be seen as an immediate result of it. For a discussion on this point, see G. Theissen, The Miracle Stories of the Early Christian Tradition (English transl. by F. McDonagh, Minneapolis, MN, 2007 [Germ. ed. 1974]) 65. 18.  The avoidance of (or the hostility against) the cities appears as a distinctive feature of the Markan Jesus. This can also be inferred by Jesus’ attitude towards Jerusalem: according to Mark, Jesus seems to be firmly determined to avoid any contact with the city, except for the Temple area. Thus, it is not by chance that for the Evangelist, Jesus’ entering into Jerusalem in fact coincides with his entry into the Temple: Καὶ εἰσῆλθεν εἰς Ἱεροσόλυμα εἰς τὸ ἱερόν καὶ περιβλεψάμενος πάντα […] (Mk 11:11; in Matthew and in Luke the two moments are clearly separated). 19. The Gospel of Mark is characterised by a foregrounding of the esoteric aspects of Jesus’ teaching. This trait corresponds to the isolation of the group of the Three (Peter, James, and John, here named together with the “intruder” Andrew: see Mk 13:3). In this regard, it is revealing that Matthew, while following Mark in setting the discourse on the end of times (esoteric topic par excellence) outside the Temple and far from the crowd, omits the references to this restricted group, transforming it into a teaching addressed to all the disciples (Matt 24:1). In Luke it seems to take the form of a public teaching: the teaching takes place while still

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scheme is unified by the central role played by the Temple, which dominates the whole section. 20 The short teaching of Jesus that interests us here is closely collocated with the controversial episode known as the “purification” of the Temple (Mk 11:13‑19). 21 The next day on the road to Jerusalem, Peter sees that a curse on a fig tree made by the master the previous day (Mk 11:12‑14) has taken effect, so much so that the tree has completely dried up (Mk 11:20‑21). 22 This provides the background (as well as the opportunity) in the Markan version to frame four different sayings of Jesus one after the inside the Temple, with the potential involvement of the crowd (Lk 20:45); Jesus is questioned not by the disciples but by an unidentified “some” (Lk 21:5.7). 20.  Of the nineteen episodes that Mark sets in Jerusalem (or its surroundings) before Jesus’ arrest, more than half take the Temple as a reference scenario: for a list, see M. R escio, La famiglia alternativa di Gesù. Discepolato e strategie di trasformazione sociale nel Vangelo di Marco (Brescia, 2012) 208, n. 44. On the role of the Temple in Mark, see at least T.C. Gray, The Temple in the Gospel of Mark: A Study of Its Narrative Role (Tübingen, 2008). 21. Although today there is broad consensus on the symbolic character of Jesus’ action against the Temple, scholars continue to strongly disagree about its interpretation. Was Jesus’ action a symbolic act of the purification or the destruction of the Temple? The two opposing interpretations have been supported respectively by C.A. Evans (C.A. Evans , “Jesus’ Action in the Temple: Cleansing or Portent of Destruction?,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 51 [1989] 237‑270) and E.P. Sanders (E.P. Sanders , Jesus and Judaism [London – Philadelphia, 1985]), both followed by others. Given the ongoing debate, it would be preferable to refer to the episode with the more neutral expression “demonstration,” as the term “cleansing” (or “purification”) implies in itself an interpretation. As is known, the historicity of the episode (attested also by John 2:13‑22) is almost undisputed; for a different opinion, cf. G.W. Buchanan, “Symbolic Money-Changers in the Temple?,” New Testament Studies 37 (1991) 280‑290; D.R.J. M iller , “The (A)historicity of Jesus’ Temple Demonstration: A Test Case in Methodology,” Society of Biblical Literature 1991 Seminar Papers (ed. E.H. L overing, Atlanta, GA, 1991) 235‑252; and D. Seeley, “Jesus’ Temple Act,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 55 (1993) 263‑283. 22.  According to J.P. Meier, since the optative appears as the proper mood for curses in classical Greek but is rare in Mark, its use in Mk 11:14 identifies Jesus’ statement as a curse: “Mark (or his source) seems at pains to make clear that this is a curse, a point which Peter then dutifully underlines in 11:21: ‘…the fig tree that you cursed (hē sykē hēn katērasō)…’” (J.P. M eier , A  Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus, vol. 2: Mentor, Message, and Miracles [New York, NY: 1994] 979‑980: note 39). Along the same lines, R.T. France argues for a “negative wish” but admits that the effect is not much different from a curse (especially considering the significance of the expression εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα): see R.T. France , The Gospel of Mark: A Commentary on the Greek Text (Grand Rapids, MI, 2002) 443. Although S.E. Dowd is certainly correct in observing that it is only Peter who designates Jesus’ words as a “curse” (see S.E. Dowd, Prayer, Power, and the Problem of Suffering: Mark 11:22‑25 in the Context of Markan Theology [Atlanta, GA, 1986] 58), nothing in the text suggests that Jesus did not accept such a designation (otherwise, he would not have hesitated in rebuking Peter for his erroneous interpretation, as happens elsewhere throughout the Gospel).

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other: the first on the necessity of faith in God (Mk 11:22), the second on the strength of faith (Mk 11:23), the third on the power of the faithfilled prayer (Mk 11:24), and the fourth on the bond between prayer and forgiveness (Mk 11:25). The positioning of these sayings seems to suggest that the Evangelist intended to present the episode of the fig tree, particularly the image of its drying up, as a metaphorical illustration of Jesus’ teaching on the strength of faith and efficacy of prayer. Consequently, Jesus’ words against the tree should be taken as nothing but an example of prayer (or, at least, that seems to be Mark’s intention). 23 Since antiquity however, the passage has constituted a real crux interpretum, and has often been read in a symbolic key, above all in an attempt to mask unease when faced with an apparently incomprehensible or at least ambiguous gesture on Jesus’ part. 24 Unlike the other miracles of this type (namely the so-called “nature miracles” such as feeding the multitude, calming storms, or walking on water), 25 the cursing of the fig tree appears to be an act without any immediate purpose, and essentially negative in connotation. The words of the master against the tree even seem to express a personal disappointment, and Mark further aggravates the situation by pointing out that it is not fig season (Mk 11:13d). Why on earth would Jesus punish a tree that could not yield fruit at that time? It is hardly surprising that the author of Luke, one of 23. D.B. Wallace proposes to identify it as a sort of “imprecatory prayer” (D.B. Wallace , Greek Grammar beyond the Basics: An Exegetical Syntax of the New Testament [Grand Rapids, MI, 1996] 482, n. 88). As C. Whalen has rightly pointed out, it might not be useful for modern interpreters to distinguish too sharply between curses, prayers, and wishes: “For the Biblical writers, curses seem to have been considered little more than a negative form of prayer. […] Of the 68 instances of the optative in NT, Mark 11:14 and Acts 8:20 are the only clear examples of imprecation. However, other prayer-like expressions using the optative are frequent. Sometimes it seems to be used as circumlocution, indirectly appealing to God to act. Frequently it appears in the form of epistolary ‘wish-prayers.’ Use of the optative in the LXX is decidedly more common, totalling 558. Perusal of these occurrences shows that the difference between prayers and curses is principally the prayer’s expected outcome rather than the formulation itself. The line between prayers, curses, and wishes is more in terms of direction and degree than kind” (C. Wahlen, “The Temple in Mark and Contested Authority,” Biblical Interpre­ tation 15/3 [2007] 248‑267: 251‑252). 24.  The image employed by W.J. Cotter is apt: “Mark’s account of the cursing of the fig tree (Mk 11:12‑14) is much like a chronic disorder: the patient is always on treatments and never cured” (W.J. Cotter , “For it was not the season of Figs,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 48 [1986] 62‑66: 62). Incidentally, we are also dealing with the only miracle performed by Jesus in Jerusalem (or, more accurately, its surroundings). 25. For a critical discussion of this questionable category, see J.P. M eier , A  Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus, vol. 2: Mentor, Message, and Miracles (New York, NY, 1994) 874‑880.

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the first users of Mark, decided to omit the entire episode; or that Victor of Antioch, considered to be the earliest commentator of our Gospel (towards the late fifth century), 26 sought to explain this curious gesture of Jesus as a sort of symbolic act. In the opinion of this author, Jesus used the example of the fig tree to allude to the imminent judgment of Jerusalem. The origin and literary genre of the passage has been widely discussed: (a) some scholars believe that it might have originated as a real incident, even though some details of the story may have been altered during transmission; 27 (b) others have opted for an etiological explanation: the presence of a withered fig tree in the vicinity of Jerusalem that gave rise to a legend attributing the phenomenon to Jesus; 28 (c) others have concluded that the anecdote must have derived from the transformation of one of Jesus’ parables, like that of Lk 13:6-9, into a realistic narrative, or from the adaptation of an apocalyptic saying of Jesus; 29 (d) others have classified the episode among the miracle stories, as belonging to the sub-type of curses, or punishment miracles; 30 (e) others have instead suggested that the story could derive from the combination of scriptural motifs used by 26. The work attributed to this otherwise unknown presbyter of Antioch is not strictly a commentary, but an early catena (collection) of Markan texts, based on the exegetical writings of other authors; in this regard, still useful is the relatively old article by H. Smith, “The Sources of Victor of Antioch’ Commentary on Mark,” Journal of Theological Studies XIX (1918) 350‑370; more recently, see J. Verheyden, “A Puzzling Chapter in the Reception History of the Gospels: Victor of Antioch and his So-called ‘Commentary on Mark’,” Studia Patristica 63 (2013) 17‑28. For an English translation of the text, with an extensive critical introduction, see W.R.S. L amb , The Catena in Marcum: A Byzantine Anthology of Early Commentary on Mark (Leiden – Boston, 2012). On the problem of identifying the first actual commentary on Mark (which would date back to the seventh century), see instead the contributions of M. Cahill , “The Identification of the First Markan Commentary,” Revue Biblique 101 (1994) 258‑268; I d., “Is the First Commentary on Mark an Irish Work? Some New Considerations,” Peritia 8 (1994) 35‑45; cf. also I d., The First Commentary on Mark: An Annotated Translation (Oxford, 1998). 27.  See, among others, R. Pesch, Das Markusevangelium, vol. 2 (Freiburg i.B., 1980) 195‑196; and W.L. L ane , The Gospel according to Mark (Grand Rapids, MI, 1984) 399‑400 (although Lane attributes a symbolic meaning to the story). 28. See E. Schwarz , “Der verfluchte Feigenbaum,” Zeitschrift für die neu­tes­tamentliche Wissenschaft 5 (1904) 80‑84, followed by many authors (cf., more recently, Ph. E sler , “The Incident of the Withered Fig Tree in Mark 11: A New Source and Redactional Explanation,” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 28/1 [2005] 41‑67). 29. The first hypothesis has been advanced by M. Dibelius , From Tradition to Gospel (Engl. transl. by B.L. Woolf, Cambridge, UK, 1971 [Germ. ed. 1933]) 106; the second has been defended by H.W. Bartsch, “Die ‘Verfluchung’ des Feigenbaums,” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 53 (1962) 256‑260. 30.  See R. Bultmann, The History of the Synoptic Tradition (Engl. transl. from the 2nd Germ. ed. 1931, New York, NY, 1963) 218.

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early Christian authors to convey the idea of God’s punishment of Israel; 31 (f) others, finally, have defined it as a parable in action or as a symbolic prophetic act. 32 Actually, the symbolic meaning of the episode, as well as its problematic interpretation, appears to be a result of the way Mark has arranged his material in chapter 11. We can easily identify three sections, which his Evangelist organizes over a time span of three days, alternating between morning and evening:    11:1-10   First Day            11:11a   11:11b

Morning Evening

   11:12-14     11:15a Second Day     11:15b-18    11:19

Morning

   11:20‑21       11:22‑25 Third Day        11:27a    11:27b-33

Morning

 

 

 

Evening

Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem Inspection of the Temple Back to Bethany On the road to Jerusalem: cursing of the fig tree Re-entry into Jerusalem Cleansing of the Temple Back to Bethany On the road to Jerusalem: drying up of the fig tree On the road to Jerusalem: teaching on prayer Re-entry into Jerusalem In the Temple: dispute about Jesus’ authority

This type of arrangement clearly fits the intercalation model, a specific type of compositional technique that is characteristic of the Markan style. 33 It basically consists of interweaving two storylines, one sandwiched inside the other, according to an A-B-A’ scheme, as is the case in the collocation of the episodes of the fig tree and the cleansing of the Temple:  3 4 31. See for example W. Telford, The Barren Temple and the Withered Tree: A Redaction-Critical Analysis of the Cursing of the Fig-Tree Pericope in Mark’s Gospel and its Relation to the Cleansing of the Temple Tradition (Sheffield, 1980) 233‑237. 32.  See respectively C. Blomberg, “The Miracles as Parables,” in D. Wenham  C. Blomberg, ed., Gospel Perspectives, vol. 6: The Miracles of Jesus (Sheffield, 1986) 327‑359; and M.D. Hooker , The Signs of a Prophet: The Prophetic Actions of Jesus (London, 1997) 44. 33. On Mark’s use of intercalation, see the recent work of D.B. Deppe , The Theological Intentions of Mark’s Literay Devices: Markan Intercalations, Frames, Allusionary Repetitions, Narrative Surprises, and Three Types of Mirroring (Eugene, OR, 2015). Cf. also J.R. Edwards , “Markan Sandwiches: The Significance of Interpolations in Markan Narratives,” Novum Testamentum 31 (1989) 193‑216; T. Shepherd, Markan Sandwich Stories: Narration, Definition, and Function (Berrien Springs, MI, 1993); I d., “The Narrative Function of Markan Intercalation,” New Testament Studies 41 (1995) 522‑540; G. Van Oyen, “Intercalation and Irony in the Gospel of Mark,” in F. van Segbroeck et al., ed., The Four Gospels 1992: Festschrift Frans Neirynck (Leuven, 1992), vol. 2, 949‑974. 34.  Here, as in other cases of intercalation present in Mark, it is difficult to determine whether the disposition of the material may derive from the Evangelist or his source. Some scholars, such as V. Taylor and J.P. Meier (see V. Taylor , The Gospel according to St Mark [London, 1952] 459; J.P. M eier , A  Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus, vol. 2: Mentor, Message, and Miracles [New York,

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A Cursing the fig tree    B Jesus’ action in the Temple A’ Drying up of the fig tree

The intention is dual. On a narrative level, the external story is separated into two segments (A and A’), conveying the impression of a time interval and giving rise to increased expectations in the reader/listener, making for a far more effective narration. On the interpretative level, the sandwich structure reinforces the thematic connection between the two stories (A–A’ and B), which are now to be read one in the light of the other. By creating a mood of suspense, Mark makes the implications of the withering of the tree more striking. Yet he also exploits the symbolic image of the fig tree to create a parallel between the fate of the tree and that of the Temple. 35 The outcome is a sort of “dramatized irony” 36 based on parallelism and contrast: (a) the fig tree has leaves, but is without fruit, while the Temple should be a house of prayer, but has become a den of thieves; (b) Jesus curses the fig tree, and perhaps in a parallel manner has the Temple “cleared”; (c) the fig tree will become dry forever, while the Temple will cease to perform its function of worship (even if only for a short time). As noted by A.Y. Collins, these contrasts “are overcome by the fact that the action of Jesus in the temple leads to a plot to kill him, which leads to the destruction of the temple.” 37 The coupling of the two stories translates therefore into a negative judgment against the Temple, or better against the Temple authorities (i.e. the chief priests, the scribes, and the elders of NY, 1994] 892), have argued in favor of a pre-Markan origin of this particular intercalation, but their opinion remains in the minority: for a brief discussion, see C. Wahlen, “The Temple in Mark and Contested Authority,” Biblical Interpretation 15/3 [2007] 248‑267: 256‑266. Be that as it may, the possible existence of a preMarkan intercalation cannot be invoked to deny its conscious use by Mark: whether deriving from a source or created by the Evangelist himself, the presence of such a rhetorical device reveals the hand of an author with a full control over his narrative matter. 35. As pointed out by many scholars, the Temple/fig tree parallelism cannot be extended to include Israel as a whole. The parallels cited in support of this hypothesis in fact turn out to be rather unconvincing: the context of Isa 34:4, for example, is that of an oracle against the nations, and not against Israel; in Jer 5:17, the fig trees do not have a symbolic value, even though they are mentioned within an oracle against Israel and Judea; finally, the comparison in Hos 9:10 between the patriarchs of Israel and the first fruits of the fig tree cannot be extended to Israel in general (and this also holds for Mic 7:1: cf. A.Y. Collins , Mark: A Commentary [Minneapolis, MN, 2007] 525‑526). 36. Thus T. Shepherd, Markan Sandwich Stories: Narration, Definition, and Function (Berrien Springs, MI, 1993) 217‑219; I d., “The Narrate Function of Markan Intercalation,” New Testament Studies 41 (1995) 522‑540: 538‑540. 37. A.Y. Collins , Mark: A Commentary (Minneapolis, MN, 2007) 524.

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Israel: cf. Mk 11:18 and 27; 12:12). 38 That the judgment specifically refers to the religious leaders and not to the Temple itself (or to the whole people of Israel), 39 it can be seen from the double intercalation present in the passage, which displays both a topographical and thematic organization:  4 0 A In the Temple : Jesus’ inspection (Mk 11:11) — Theme: Jesus’ authority    B On the road: Jesus’ cursing the fig tree (Mk 11:12‑14) — Theme:    Prayer A’ In the Temple: Jesus’ symbolic action (Mk 11:15‑19) — Theme: Jesus’ authority and (the house of) prayer    B’ On the road: the fig tree cursed by Jesus is dried up (Mk    11:20‑21) — Theme: Prayer

      Jesus’ teaching on prayer (Mk 11:22‑25) A’’ Again in the Temple: dispute on Jesus’ authority (Mk 11:27‑12:12) — Theme: Jesus’ authority

Whether the passage is taken to present a single or a double intercalation, 41 the symbolic nexus between the fig tree and Temple remains an undeniable assumption, recognized by the overwhelming majority of exegetes. 38.  On this point, and its implications for the social setting of Mark, see recently E. M iquel , “The Impatient Jesus and the Fig Tree: Marcan Disguised Discourse against the Temple,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 45/3 (2015) 144-154. 39.  That the reference to “this mountain” (τῷ ὅρει τούτῳ) in v. 23 may allude to the Temple Mount (the Zion) is not so obvious. Besides the possibility of alternative identifications, the proverbial character of the saying makes it highly unlikely that Mark had a specific mountain in mind. Moreover, the prediction of the Temple’s destruction in Mk 13:2 in no way refers to the image of “moving the mountains.” For a discussion, see at least A.Y. Collins , Mark: A Commentary (Minneapolis, MN, 2007) 535; C. Wahlen, “The Temple in Mark and Contested Authority,” Biblical Interpretation 15/3 (2007) 248‑267: 256‑259 (against, among others, W.R. Telford, The Barren Temple and the Withered Tree: A RedactionCritical Analysis of the Cursing of the Fig-Tree Pericope in Mark’s Gospel and its Relation to the Cleansing of the Temple Tradition [Sheffield, 1980] 58). 40.  From this point of view, see also the scheme proposed by C. Wahlen, “The Temple in Mark and Contested Authority,” Biblical Interpretation 15/3 [2007] 248‑267: 258. 41.  For the hypothesis of double intercalation, see especially S.E. Dowd, Prayer, Power, and the Problem of Suffering: Mark 11:22‑25 in the Context of Markan Theology (Atlanta, GA, 1986) 38 (the intercalation structure is supposed to end at Mk 11:33); and C. Wahlen, “The Temple in Mark and Contested Authority,” Biblical Interpretation 15/3 [2007] 248‑267: 258‑261 (for him the structure ends at Mk 12:12). Some scholars even suggest recognizing a triple intercalation: cf. S.G. Brown, “Mark 11:1–12:12: A Triple Intercalation?” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 64 (2002) 78‑89: 82‑86.

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Yet the recognition of this particular compositional technique, which here almost seems to attain its maximum potential, does not do away with all the problems of interpretation. In particular, most commentators continue to consider the brief instruction on faith and prayer in vv. 22‑25 as a mere secondary appendage, clumsily added by Mark just to make sense of an otherwise incomprehensible story, 42 or even as a later, wholly incidental addition, probably made by some copyist. 43 In both cases, the tendency is to underestimate Mark’s authorial presence, either considering him as a mere collector of stories (mainly interested in somehow preserving his material), or neglecting his ability to manoeuvre between multiple levels of meaning. The Evangelist, however, might have deliberately chosen to leave open two different and not necessarily irreconcilable interpretations of the fig tree episode: one “structural,” linked to the Temple; and the other “admonitory,” linked to prayer.  4 4 If that were the case, there would be no 42. This is, for example, the hypothesis advanced by Ph. Esler, according to whom Mark would have found the two-stage story of the fig tree in a Jerusalemite source (reporting of Jesus’ daily journeys from Bethany to Jerusalem), and decided to retain it as the only miracle performed by Jesus in his final days; then he would have “struggled in his redaction to make sense of it,” opting for the interpretative insertion of Jesus’ little instruction on faith and prayer: see Ph. E sler , “The Incident of the Withered Fig Tree in Mark 11: A New Source and Redactional Explanation,” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 28/1 (2005) 41‑67. 43.  As suggested by W.R. Telford, The Barren Temple and the Withered Tree: A Redaction-Critical Analysis of the Cursing of the Fig-Tree Pericope in Mark’s Gospel and its Relation to the Cleansing of the Temple Tradition (Sheffield, 1980) 49 (especially for the case of vv. 24‑25: “if Mark himself either found these sayings already attached to the story and did not remove them, or, conversely, himself connected them to the story, then it is hard to see how he himself could have intended that the story be understood as a specific commentary on the cleansing account”). 44. See S.E. Dowd, Prayer, Power, and the Problem of Suffering: Mark 11:22‑25 in the Context of Markan Theology (Atlanta, GA, 1986) 40. I only partially agree, on this point, with J.P. Meier, who contends that Mark’s addition of vv. 22‑25 to the (for him pre-Markan) intercalation would have served “to give the basically ‘dogmatic’ message of the curse miracle (Jesus prophesies the destruction of the temple with a word-and-deed of power) a parenetic application as well” (J.P. M eier , A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus, vol. 2: Mentor, Message, and Miracles [New York, NY, 1994] 890). But I cannot follow J. Lambrecht, who sees a contradiction between the supposed “dogmatic” sense of the original story and the “parenetic” interpretation which would result from Mark’s later insertion: “Mark’s addition is not just ‘slightly’ disrupting the train of thought; it interrupts the previous flow of thought […T]his brings us to the surprising insight that the pre-Markan text was only ‘dogmatic’ and the Markan text is now only ‘parenetic’” (J. L ambrecht, “Faith, Prayer and Forgiveness in Mark 11,22‑25,” Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses 89/1 [2013] 107‑112: 112). Even if Mark had drawn the intercalation from a source (which one can doubt), it is rather difficult to think that he wanted to preserve a story with a sense with which he disagreed. It would

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need to pile hypotheses on hypotheses to explain the supposed inconsistency of Mark. The text would reflect more simply the absolute originality of his operation. Of course, we must bear in mind the caution expressed by A.Y. Collins, who warns against overestimating the refinement of literary methods used by the Evangelist, interpreting them as an indication of complex ideological stances. 45 Nevertheless, we cannot fail to notice the impoverishment that Mark’s chapter 11 has undergone in the re-workings of the other two Synoptics. If Luke, as we have said, completely eliminates the fig tree episode, Matthew dampens the parallelism between the tree and the Temple, removing any possibility of their intercalation (Matt 21:18‑22). Why did Mark not act the same way? The most plausible answer is that his firm intention was to give the reader/listener a text open to a double interpretation. III. M a r k 11:22‑25: Th e C r e at ion

of a n

A phor i s t ic C lus t e r

The simple fact that Mk 11:22‑25 contains sayings that are found scattered among other sources, makes the hypothesis highly probable that the Evangelist himself was responsible both for their positioning in the context of chapter 11 and for their combination. To better understand the ways in which Mark connected this material, it is useful to start from the theoretical framework of J.D. Crossan’s famous study on the aphorisms of Jesus.  4 6 Generally, the term “aphorism” refers to a brief, self-contained utterance of a general truth or principle which expresses a personal vision of reality (or of a particular reality). As such, it differs from the “proverb,” particularly in its innovative character and its attribution to a specific authority. have been easier for him to eliminate either the episode or the intercalation. On this point, see also L. Gasparro, Simbolo e narrazione in Marco. La dimensione simbolica del secondo Vangelo alla luce della pericope del fico di Mc 11, 12-25 (Roma, 2012) 460-463. 45. See A.Y. Collins , Mark: A Commentary (Minneapolis, MN, 2007) 524‑525: “Modern literary critics should then be cautious about exaggerating the degree to which the intercalated stories are intended to interpret one another. The discernment of complex literary designs may indeed be illuminating of the Markan text, but they probably should not be attributed to the author’s intention.” 46. Cf. J.D. Crossan, In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco, CA: 1983) esp. 3‑66 (definition of the aphoristic genre and methodological issues) and 330‑341 (list of 133 aphorisms of Jesus discussed in the book); a more comprehensive inventory of 291 aphorisms of Jesus is found in J.D. Crossan, Sayings Parallels: A Workbook for the Jesus Tradition (Philadelphia, PA, 1986). Another reference study is that of D.E. Aune , “Oral Tradition and the Aphorisms of Jesus,” in H. Wansbrough, ed., Jesus and the Oral Gospel Tradition (London – New York, 2004) 211‑265, which critically discusses Crossan’s work and presents a catalogue of 167 aphorisms of Jesus.

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As is well known, Crossan assumes that each aphorism has a basic conceptual nucleus (aphoristic core) that, during different stages of oral transmission and/or in the course of writing down, may undergo various transformations of both a performative (performancial variations: contraction, expansion, substitution, transposition and conversion), and interpretative type (hermeneutical variations: transformations affecting the meaning of the conceptual core). 47 An aphorism may appear alone or in pairs, forming an aphoristic compound, or also within a group of three or more aphorisms, thus generating an aphoristic cluster. From the aphoristic clusters (like the one we are concerned with here), Crossan distinguishes at least four modes of composition, which, in turn, may be combined in different ways, depending on whether the combination takes place on a structural, formal, thematic, or verbal level. We can, therefore, identify: 1. Structural clusters: the cluster is based on an external construction (for example, the repetition of “Jesus said…”) that encloses the originally independent aphorisms so as to form an integrated and unified complex. 2. Formal clusters: the cluster is created due to a simple juxtaposition of sayings which have similar forms. 3. Thematic clusters: the cluster is created by associating sayings with related themes. 4. Verbal clusters: this is the minimal combination, where the different units are linked only by the use of certain catchwords. 48 In terms of this classification, Mk 11:22‑25 can be viewed as an example of a mixed combination, specifically a thematic/verbal cluster, where the individual sayings are merged through the use of one or more catchwords, but also in such a way as to obtain a thematic continuity. From this point of view, we can only agree with Crossan when he argues that the Evangelist’s first intervention seems to have been that of adding the more fundamental theme of faith (or belief) to the theme of prayer. In this direction, according to Crossan, the first step taken by Mark would have been that of creating the saying of v. 22 and setting it at the beginning of his composition. As a second step, he would have inserted the theme of faith at v. 25 (“believes that”). This is a theme that is absent in the other versions of the saying (not to mention that the insertion, in the form “does not doubt… but believes,” is a typically Markan construction). As a third step in the composition, he is likely to have taken the introductory phrase of v. 24 (“I tell you…” without the particle ὅτι) and re-proposed it at v. 23, reformulating it in the expression dear to him, of “Amen, I tell you” (with 47.  For more details and some examples, see J.D. Crossan, In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco, CA, 1983) 37‑66. 48.  See J.D. Crossan, In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco, CA, 1983) 153‑157.

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ὅτι). Finally, he seems to have added the theme of praying already present in the saying of v. 25, at v. 24. In schematic terms, the way in which Mark links the sayings could be represented as follows: 49 saying 1:

11:22

saying 2:

11:23

ἀμὴν λέγω ὑμῖν ὅτι

πίστιν

saying 3:

11.24

διὰ τοῦτο λέγω ὑμῖν

saying 4:

11:25

προσεύχεσθε

πιστεύῃ ὅτι

ἔσται αὐτῷ

πιστεύετε ὅτι

ἔσται ὑμῖν

προσευχόμενοι

The created cluster was then inserted by Mark within a story (the sandwich narrative of the fig tree / Temple), employing a clear dialogue format (Address / Response), that is, as a Jesus’ response to Peter’s observation in Mk 11:21: “Rabbi, look! The fig tree that you cursed has withered.” 50 IV. M a r k 11:22‑25: Th e F ou r S ay i ngs

of t h e

C lus t e r

Let us now proceed to a brief analysis of the individual sayings that make up the cluster. A. Having Faith in God Mk 11:22 καὶ ἀποκριθεὶς ὁ Ἰησοῦς λέγει αὐτοῖς, ἔχετε πίστιν θεοῦ

And Jesus answering says to them, “Have faith in God”

As we have already mentioned, it seems very likely that Mark invented this saying in order to provide a programmatic premise to the whole composition. Most scholars agree that the attempts to transform the sentence into an interrogative or conditional clause adding the εἰ present in some witnesses is not convincing. 51 On the other hand, the context suggests the interpretation of ἔχετε as an imperative clause rather than as an indica49.  The scheme basically reproduces that of J.D. Crossan, In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco, CA, 1983) 158. 50.  On aphoristic dialogues and aphoristic stories, I refer again to the analysis of J.D. Crossan, In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco, CA, 1983) 227‑312. 51. The addition of the particle may be explained as a gloss based on Lk 17:6. For a detailed discussion, see S.E. Dowd, Prayer, Power, and the Problem of Suffering: Mark 11:22‑25 in the Context of Markan Theology (Atlanta, GA, 1986) 59.

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tive one (cf.  Mk 9:50: ἔχετε ἐν ἑαυτοῖς ἅλα), and of θεοῦ as an objective genitive, despite the absence of a preposition to support it (such as εἰς). 52 If so, the saying should be read as proposed above, “Have faith in God.” B. Faith that Moves Mountains Mark 11:23 ἀμὴν λέγω ὑμῖν ὅτι

Truly I tell you that

ὃς ἂν εἴπῃ τῷ ὄρει τούτῳ, Ἄρθητι καὶ βλήθητι εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν,

whoever should say to this mountain, “Be taken up and thrown into the sea,”

καὶ μὴ διακριθῇ ἐν τῇ καρδίᾳ αὐτοῦ ἀλλὰ πιστεύῃ ὅτι ὃ λαλεῖ γίνεται,

and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that what he is saying will come to pass,

ἔσται αὐτῷ

it will be (done) for him.

We have two synoptic versions of this saying: the one quoted above, attested in Mk 11:23; and that reported by Matt 17:20 and Lk 17:5-6, clearly sourced from Q. With regard to the second Matthean attestation of the saying, which we find in Matt 21:21, it is to be considered as dependent on Mk 11:23, due its insertion in a Markan-like context: Matt 21:21: ἀποκριθεὶς δὲ ὁ Ἰησοῦς εἶπεν αὐτοῖς, Ἀμὴν λέγω ὑμῖν, ἐὰν ἔχητε πίστιν καὶ μὴ διακριθῆτε, οὐ μόνον τὸ τῆς συκῆς ποιήσετε, ἀλλὰ κἂν τῷ ὄρει τούτῳ εἴπητε, Ἄρθητι καὶ βλήθητι εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν, γενήσεται· Jesus answering said to them, “Truly I tell you, if you have faith and do not doubt, not only will you do what has been done to the fig tree, but even if you say to this mountain, ‘Be taken up and thrown into the sea,’ it will come to pass.”

As pointed out by Crossan, Matthew worked on the Markan text by changing the following features: (a) Externally, he has united Mark 11:20‑21 (fig tree) more closely with 11:22‑23 (mountain) by having the fig tree infiltrate into the aphorism (‘not only… but even…’), possibly helped by the ‘tree’ in Q/Luke 17:6. (b) Internally, he reformulated Mark 11:22‑23 to (i) a single and initial mention of faith, (ii) an immediate mention of ‘never doubt,’ (iii) then the ‘mountain,’ and (iv) directly, ‘it will be done (genēsetai).’ 53 52.  For a critique of other interpretations, cf. again S.E. Dowd, Prayer, Power, and the Problem of Suffering: Mark 11:22‑25 in the Context of Markan Theology (Atlanta, GA, 1986) 60‑63. The formula with πίστις + θεοῦ is part of the debated “faith in/of Christ” question, which appears in many Pauline passages. 53. J.D. Crossan, In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco, CA, 1983) 297.

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If one considers the diversity in both context and wording, the relationship between Matt 17:20 and Lk 17:5-6, in the Q version of the saying, appears more problematic. Matthew stages this second version in a previous episode: a private (but not esoteric, as in Mark) discussion between Jesus and his disciples about the latter’s failure to perform an exorcism (Matt 17:14‑20[21]; cf. Mk 9:14‑29). Luke, in turn, omits the private discussion about the failed exorcism (Lk 9:37-43) and positions Jesus’ short saying as a reply to his disciples’ request to “increase” their faith: Matt 17:20 (from Q): ὁ δὲ λέγει αὐτοῖς, Διὰ τὴν ὀλιγοπιστίαν ὑμῶν· ἀμὴν γὰρ λέγω ὑμῖν, ἐὰν ἔχητε πίστιν ὡς κόκκον σινάπεως, ἐρεῖτε τῷ ὄρει τούτῳ, Μετάβα ἔνθεν ἐκεῖ, καὶ μεταβήσεται· καὶ οὐδὲν ἀδυνατήσει ὑμῖν. He says to them, “Because of your little faith. For truly I tell you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you.” Lk 17:6 (from Q): εἶπεν δὲ ὁ κύριος, Εἰ ἔχετε πίστιν ὡς κόκκον σινάπεως, ἐλέγετε ἂν τῇ συκαμίνῳ [ταύτῃ] Ἐκριζώθητι καὶ φυτεύθητι ἐν τῇ θαλάσσῃ· καὶ ὑπήκουσεν ἂν ὑμῖν. The Lord said, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this sycamine tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”

The most striking differences between the two versions concern on one side the central image – in Matthew it is a mountain, in Luke a tree (a sycamine tree); on the other, the omitted reference to the sea in Matthew, which appears instead in the Lukan version. Most scholars argue that Luke’s use of the image of a tree instead of the (more common) image of the mountain suggests a closer proximity to the original wording of Q, since there is no reason why Luke should replace a mountain with a sycamine tree. 54 On the other hand, Matthew’s version in 17:20 could be easily explained as the result of a conflation: Matthew would have taken the reference to the mustard seed from Q and the mountain from Mark. Starting from these data, H.T. Fleddermann has instead come to suggest a dependence of Mark on Q, arguing that the differences between the two versions might be well explained as redactional changes by Mark. 55 A number of aspects of his analysis are problematic though. In particular, 54.  See, among others, J.S. K loppenborg, Q Parallels: Synopsis, Critical Notes & Concordance (Sonoma, CA, 1988) 186‑187. 55. See H.T. Fleddermann, Mark and Q: A Study of the Overlap Texts (Leuven, 1995) 178‑182. Fleddermann’s hypothesis has been recently revived by

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F. Neirynck noticed that Fleddermann did not even take into account (a) the hypothesis of the image of the mountain as original, thus disregarding a priori the possibility of Matt 17:20 being the closest version to Q – an hypothesis endorsed by few scholars, but not to be dismissed or ignored; 56 and (b) the possibility that Luke too – not only Matthew – could have combined his two sources (Mk and Q), taking the reference to the sea from Mark: 57 Mk 11:23: Ἄρθητι καὶ βλήθητι εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν Lk 17:6: Ἐκριζώθητι (καὶ φυτεύθητι ἐν τῇ θαλάσσῃ)

This means that an initial circulation of two independent versions of the “strength-of-faith” saying – one relying on the comparison between the mustard seed and the sycamine tree; and the other one on the metaphoric image (known to Mark) of the moving of the mountain – cannot be ruled out. This hypothesis seems to be confirmed by Paul’s sentence in 1 Cor 13:2: 1 Cor 13:2: καὶ ἐὰν ἔχω προφητείαν καὶ εἰδῶ τὰ μυστήρια πάντα καὶ πᾶσαν τὴν γνῶσιν, κἂν ἔχω πᾶσαν τὴν πίστιν ὥστε ὄρη μεθιστάναι, ἀγάπην δὲ μὴ ἔχω, οὐθέν εἰμι. And if I have (the gift of) prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.

It is true that given the proverbial character of the mountain image, its use in 1 Cor 13:2 may have an independent origin. Apart from Mk 11:23 and J. L ambrecht, “Faith, Prayer and Forgiveness in Mark 11,22‑25,” Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses 89/1 (2013) 107‑112: 109‑110. 56.  See at least F. H ahn, “Jesu Wort vom bergversetzenden Glauben,” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 76 (1985) 149‑169: 158; and D. Lührmann, Das Markusevangelium (Tübingen, 1987) 195. 57. Cf.  F. Neyrinck , “Assessment,” in H.T. Fleddermann, Mark and Q: A Study of the Overlap Texts (Leuven, 1995) 289‑290; I d., “The Sayings of Jesus in 1 Corinthians,” in F. Neirynck ,  ed., Evangelica III (Leuven, 2001) 93‑128 (formerly published in R. Bieringer , ed., The Corinthian Correspondence [Leuven, 1996] 141‑176). In fact, in his reconstruction of the original saying in Q, D.R. Catchpole reads Ἐκριζώθητι without καὶ φυτεύθητι ἐν τῇ θαλάσσῃ, and deems that originally the saying played with the comparison of the size of the mustard seed and that of the tree, “bringing together in a single saying the proverbially tiny mustard seed and the extremely deep rooted sycamine tree” (D.R. Catchpole , “The Centurion’s Faith and its Function in Q,” in C.M. Tuckett, F. Van Segbroeck , G. Van Belle , J. Verheyden, ed., The Four Gospels 1992: Festschrift Frans Neirynck [Leuven, 1992] 517‑540: 517).

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Matt 17:20 though, the image never occurs in connection with faith. 58 It may be merely a coincidence, but it is more likely that Paul is intentionally alluding to our Jesus’ saying. 59 Any attempt to determine whether the apostle knew of the saying in a pre-Matthean or pre-Markan version, however, remains purely conjectural, 60 although we deem noteworthy R.H. Gundry’s suggestion, who links Paul’s phrase “all faith” with Mk 11:23, “…and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that what he is saying will come to pass, it will be (done) for him.” 61 The absence of any reference to faith is a distinctive feature of both sayings which contain the image of the moving of the mountain in the Gospel of Thomas: Gos. Thom. 48 (NHC II 2.41.24‑27): ⲡⲉϫⲉ  ϫⲉ ⲉⲣϣⲁ ⲥⲛⲁⲩ  ⲉⲓⲣⲏⲛⲏ ⲙ ⲛⲟⲩⲉⲣⲏⲩ ϩ ⲡⲉⲓⲏⲉⲓ ⲟⲩⲱⲧ ⲥⲉⲛⲁϫⲟⲟⲥ ⲡⲧⲁⲩ ϫⲉ ⲡⲱⲱⲛⲉ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ⲁⲩⲱ ϥⲛⲁⲡⲱⲱⲛⲉ Gos. Thom. 48 (Greek retroversion): Λέγει Ἰησοῦς· ἐὰν δύο εἰρηνεύσωσιν ἐν ἀλλήλοις ἐν ταύτῃ τῷ οἰκίᾳ μιᾷ, ἐροῦσιν τῷ ὄρει· μετάβα καὶ μεταβήσεται. 62 Jesus said: “If two make peace with each other in this one house, they will say to the mountain ‘Move away,’ and it will move away” 63 58.  Cf. J.M. Robinson, “Kerygma and History in the New Testament,” in J.M. Robinson and H. Koester , Trajectories through Early Christianity (Minneapolis, MN, 1971) 20‑70: 41, n. 29. 59.  This view is shared by Ch.-B. A mphoux, “Toute la foi jusqu’à déplacer les montagnes (1Cor 13,2), une parole de Jésus citée par Paul?,” in A. M archadour , ed., L’Évangile exploré. Mélanges offerts à Simon Légasse à l ’occasion de ses soixantedix ans (Paris, 1996) 333‑355; M. Pesce , Le parole dimenticate di Gesù (Milano, 2004) 517; L. Walt, Paolo e le parole di Gesù. Frammenti di un insegnamento orale (Brescia, 2013) 281‑283; contra V.P. Furnish, Jesus According to Paul (Cambridge, 1993) 60‑61; cf. also F. Neirynck , “The Sayings of Jesus in 1 Corinthians,” in I d., Evangelica III (Leuven, 2001) 93‑128: 102‑105. 60. See F. Neirynck , “The Sayings of Jesus in 1 Corinthians,” in I d., Evangelica III (Leuven, 2001) 93‑128: 104; see also M.W. Yeung, Faith in Jesus and in Paul: A Comparison with Special Reference to ‘Faith that Can Remove Mountains’ and ‘Your Faith Has Healed/Saved You’ (Tübingen, 2002), which discusses faith in Jesus and Paul, and refers in particular to the present saying on p. 21‑52. 61. Gundry himself thinks that the differences between Q 17:6 and Mk 11:23 could favour the hypothesis of two distinct sayings, each one for a specific circumstance: the first is about a beneficial use of faith (the tree planted again), the second about a destructive use of faith (the mountain lifted up and thrown); see R.H. Gundry, Mark: A Commentary on His Apology for the Cross (Grand Rapids, 1993), vol. II, 652. 62.  Taken from K. A land, ed., Synopsis Quattuor Evangeliorum. Locis parallelis evangeliorum apocryphorum et patrum adhibitis (Stuttgart, 199715) 531. 63. Taken from B. L ayton,  ed., Nag Hammadi Codex II,2‑7: Together With XIII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or. 4926(I), And P.Oxy I, 654, 655. With Contributions

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Gos. Thom. 106 (NHC II 2.50.18‑22): ⲡⲉϫⲉ  ϫⲉ ϩⲟⲧⲁⲛ ⲉⲧⲉⲧϣⲁ ⲡⲥⲛⲁⲩ ⲟⲩⲁ ⲧⲉⲧⲛⲁϣⲱⲡⲉ ϣⲏⲣⲉ ⲡⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲉⲧⲉⲧϣⲁⲛϫⲟⲟⲥ ϫⲉ ⲡⲧⲟⲟⲩ ⲡⲱⲱⲛⲉ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ϥⲛⲁⲡⲱⲱⲛⲉ Gos. Thom. 106 (Greek retroversion): Ὅταν ποιήσητε τοὺς δύο ἕν, υἱοὶ τοῦ ἀνθρώπου γενήσεσθε. καὶ ὅταν εἴπητε· ὄρος μετάβα, μεταβήσεται.  6 4 Jesus said: “When you make the two one, you will become the sons of men, and when you say ‘Mountain moves away,’ it will move away.” 65

This is a clear example of duplication, a typical phenomenon in the fifth Gospel, which elsewhere has two similar sayings that look like copies of each other. 66 In this case, according to the “rolling corpus” theory proposed by A. DeConick, Gos. Thom. 48 would represent the saying originally found in the so-called Kernel Gospel, while Gos. Thom. 106 would be nothing more than a secondary accretion, probably “a prime example of modification at the hands of a teacher in the community of an earlier Kernel saying in order to reflect the beliefs of a later constituency.” 67 In other words, the image of “the two people making peace with each other in one house” contained in the Kernel saying of Gos. Thom. 48 would have been taken up and rearranged in Gos. Thom. 106 in order to convey the idea of a return to the original unity and to the indifferentiation of the opposites. This idea is likely to be a clue to the affirmation of a later encratic theology. 68 by Many Scholars, 2 vols (Leiden, 1989), vol. I, Gospel According to Thomas. Gospel According to Philip. Hypostasis of the Archon. And Index, 73. 64.  Taken from K. A land, ed., Synopsis Quattuor Evangeliorum. Locis parallelis evangeliorum apocryphorum et patrum adhibitis (Stuttgart, 199715) 544. 65. Taken from B. L ayton,  ed., Nag Hammadi Codex II,2‑7: Together With XIII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or. 4926(I), And P.Oxy I, 654, 655. With Contributions by Many Scholars, 2 vols (Leiden, 1989), vol. I, Gospel According to Thomas. Gospel According to Philip. Hypostasis of the Archon. And Index, 91. 66.  Similar duplications also occur in Gos. Thom. 21:5-7 // 103; 38 // 92; 39 // 102; 51 // 113; 55 // 101; 68 // 69:1; 74 // 75. 67.  A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation: With a Commentary and New English Translation of the Complete Gospel (London – New York, 2007) 285. 68. See A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation: With a Commentary and New English Translation of the Complete Gospel (London – New York, 2007) 284‑285; cf. also E ad., Seek to See Him: Ascent and Vision Mysticism in the Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 1996) 179‑180. Contra G. Quispel, who thinks that the presence of duplications in Thomas may be attributed to the coexistence of two distinct sources: one of Judaeo-Christian origin (identified with the Gospel of The Hebrews/Nazoreans), and the other one leaning to encratism (probably the Gospel of the Egyptians): see G. Quispel , “Some Remarks on the Gospel of Thomas,” New Testament Studies 5 (1958‑1959) 276‑290: esp. 288‑290; and I d., “The Gospel of Thomas Revisited,” in B. Barc , ed., Colloque international sur les textes de Nag Hammadi. Quebec, 22‑25 août 1978 (Louvain, 1981) 218‑266: esp. 224.

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According to some interpreters, Gos. Thom. 48 would arise from the combination of two different synoptic sayings, namely Matt 17:20 (unlike Matt 21:21 // Mk 11:23, the reference to the sea is missing: an omission shared by both sayings 48 and 106) and Matt 18:19, the latter containing a phrase that closely resembles the first part of the Thomasine saying: Matt 18:19: Πάλιν λέγω ὑμῖν ὅτι ἐὰν δύο συμφωνήσωσιν ἐξ ὑμῶν ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς περὶ παντὸς πράγματος οὗ ἐὰν αἰτήσωνται, γενήσεται αὐτοῖς παρὰ τοῦ πατρός μου τοῦ ἐν οὐρανοῖς. Again, I tell you, if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask for, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven.

Other scholars, however, do not rule out that Thomas could have drawn on an earlier Gospel harmony, where both texts would have been already coupled together. 69 Yet the presence of a similar saying in Didascalia Apostolorum  XV (an instruction to widows as to how they should conduct themselves) speaks in favour of a tradition independent from the Synoptic Gospels. 70 In the Didascalia it exists in two forms: the Latin version transmits it in just one stich, while the Syriac does it in two stichs. Both are introduced by the phrase “for it is written in the Gospel” (without further specification): Didascalia  XV: Duo si convenerint in unum et dixerint monti huic: Tolle et mitte te in mari, fiet. 69.  Cf. R.M. Grant, The Secret Sayings of Jesus (Garden City, NY, 1960) 160; and R.McL. Wilson, Studies in the Gospel of Thomas (London, 1960) 79. 70.  The parallel was pointed out also by W.D. Stroker , Extracanonical Sayings of Jesus (Atlanta, GA, 1989) 103. The relationship between the Thomasine text and the Synoptic Gospels is still a hotly debated issue. If in the past the prevailing opinion was to consider the Gospel of Thomas as a sort of “Gnostic” reinterpretation of Synoptic material, in the last decades scholars have increasingly emphasized the opportunity to re-evaluate Thomas as a primary and important source, conveying traditions as old as (or even older than) the synoptic ones: see for example H. Koester , Ancient Christian Gospels: Their History and Development (Harrisburg, PA, 1990) 75‑128; and J.-D. K aestli, “L’utilisation de l’Évangile de Thomas dans la recherche actuelle sur les paroles de Jésus,” in D. M arguerat, E. Norelli, J.-M. Poffet, ed., Jésus de Nazareth. Nouvelles approches d ’une énigme (Genève, 1998) 373‑395. The previous opinion, however, has been recently relaunched by studies such as S. Gathercole , The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas: Original Language and Influences (Cambridge, 2012); and M. Goodacre , Thomas and the Gospels: The Case for Thomas’s Familiarity with the Synoptics (Grand Rapids, MI – London, 2012); for a first critical response, see J.S. K loppenborg, “A New Synoptic Problem: Mark Goodacre and Simon Gathercole on Thomas,” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 36/3 (2014) 199‑239; and S.J. Patterson, “Twice More— Thomas and the Synoptics: A Reply to Simon Gathercole, The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas, and Mark Goodacre, Thomas and the Gospels,” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 36/3 (2014) 251‑261.

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If two shall agree together and shall say to this mountain: ‘Take and cast yourself in the sea, it will happen.’ Didascalia  XV (translation from the Syriac version): If two shall agree together and shall ask concerning anything whatsoever, it shall be given them. And if they shall say to a mountain that it be removed and fall in to the sea, it shall be done. 71

In agreement with the arguments earlier offered by J.J.Ch. Cox, 72 Crossan doubts that Didascalia  XV depends on the Synoptic Gospels. If the Syriac version can be seen as a conflation of Matt 18:19 and Matt 21:21, the same does not hold for the short form of the Latin version. In Crossan’s view, the latter would reproduce the original core of Jesus’ saying on the moving of the mountain, a saying initially tied to the motif of communal prayer rather than that of faith (later introduced by Mark). 73 According to Crossan, the fact that also in 1 Cor 13:2 is faith, and not prayer, to be linked with the mountain, does not constitute a problem: if one considers the possible spread of proto-Gnostic ideas in Corinth, Paul’s phrasing might allude to a “gnosticising” version of the saying, as any version of this type “would have to avoid the emphasis on double or combined prayer either as in Gos. Thom. 48 and 106 or, more simply, by replacing double prayer by personal and individual faith.” 74 Crossan’s arguments, however, do not seem entirely convincing to C.W. Hedrick, who leans towards the dependence of the Didascalia on the Synoptics, while acknowledging the independence of Thomas. In Hedrick’s opinion, the Syriac version would originate from the combination of two different sayings, which would have been originally independent (i.e. before their use in the Synoptics), while the Latin version would be noth71. For the text of the Didascalia Apostolorum XV, we relied on the work of R.H. Connolly, Didascalia Apostolorum: The Syriac Version Translated and Accompanied by the Verona Latin Fragments with an Introduction and Notes (Oxford, 1969; 1st ed. 1929). 72. Cf. J.J.Ch. Cox, “Prolegomena to the Study of the Dominical logoi as Cited in Didascalia Apostolorum,” in Andrews University Seminar Studies 13/1.2 (1975) 23-33.249-259, and 15/1.2 (1977) 1‑15.97‑113. 73.  According to Crossan, then, Mk 11:23, Matt 18:19, the Syriac Didascalia and the sayings of the Gospel of Thomas would be nothing more than contractions, expansions, and re-significations of the very same aphoristic core: see J.D. Crossan, In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco, CA, 1983) 298‑300 and 302‑303. 74. J.D. Crossan, In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco, CA, 1983) 301. As already noted by J.M. Robinson, “In that case Paul’s allusion to the saying would be remarkable, in that the word of the Lord is not used as final authority settling the issue. Rather, Paul criticizes it; or, more exactly, he criticizes the use made of it” (J.M. Robinson, “Kerygma and History in the New Testament,” in J.M. Robinson – H. Koester , Trajectories through Early Christianity [Philadelphia, PA, 1971] 20-70: 41).

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ing more than a mere filiation from the Syriac one, a contraction based on Mk 11:23 and Matt 21:21. 75 Finally, it remains to assess the possibility that the warning Ignatius addresses to the Ephesians, in which he exhorts them to unite with the bishop in the practice of communal prayer, could allude to our saying: Ign. Eph. 5:2:  […] Εἰ γὰρ ἑνὸς καὶ δευτέρου προσευχὴ τοσαύτην ἰσχὺν ἔχει, πόσῳ μᾶλλον ἥ τε τοῦ ἐπισκόπου καὶ πάσης τῆς ἐκκλησίας; […] For if the prayer of one and another possesses such power, how much more that of the bishop and the whole Church?

We cannot exclude the possibility that Ignatius was actually referring to a saying of Jesus about the power of prayer, though it is almost impossible to determine exactly what sort of saying he would have had in mind, and in which form it would have been handed down from the tradition he knew. There is no way of knowing whether or not the saying in question would have contained an explicit reference to the image of the moving of the mountain, as the power mentioned by Ignatius might also reflect a statement similar to Matt 18:19b. A certain closeness to the Matthean text can be inferred from the use of the expression ἑνὸς καὶ δευτέρου, through which Ignatius seems not to refer to individual prayer, but rather to communal prayer, that is, a prayer made by “one + a second,” namely by two people together. 76 This is, in reality, the literal meaning of the expression, the use of which is probably due to Ignatius dismantling an original “two,” so as to stress the parallelism between the “one” and the bishop, and the “second” and the whole church. The more or less free translations proposed by some commentators inevitably lead astray by rendering the expression with “one or two.” This is because the Greek text (which corresponds to the Latin unus et alter), however one wants to understand it, cannot refer to the contrast between a single person, on the one hand, and two people who come together, on the other. This is the error of Crossan, who accepts K. Lake’s translation “one or two,” 77 and ascribes an attempt to emphasize the primacy of the bishop to Ignatius. In Crossan’s view, Ignatius would have dismantled the “two” into “one or two,” “lest the bishop, as ‘one’, be undermined by ‘two’ non-epis75. Cf. C.W. H edrick , “On Moving Mountains: Mk 11:22b-23/Matt 21:21 and Parallels,” in Foundations and Facets Forum 6 (1990) 217‑237, favoured by A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation: With a Commentary and New English Translation of the Complete Gospel (London – New York, 2007) 177‑179. 76.  Cf. M. Pesce , Le parole dimenticate di Gesù (Milano, 2004) 648. 77. Cf. K. Lake , ed., The Apostolic Fathers, 2 vols (Cambridge, MA, 1977; original translation 1912-1913).

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copal prayers. Ignatius would prefer the bishop to move the mountain.” 78 One may agree with Crossan that it was Ignatius who modified the saying, but his interpretation is clearly untenable, being based on a translation error. If Ignatius dismantled the “two” into “one and another,” it was because this allowed him to say that, in addition to the “one,” there is only one other. Hence the argument a fortiori: if the prayer of one + another is sufficient to obtain anything, how much more effective would “one + many” (the bishop and the whole Church) be? This is not an opposition, but an a minori ad maius argument. In a certain measure the word of Jesus seems to be used in support of Ignatius’ ecclesiology, but not in the sense that Crossan suggests. 79 C. Pray and Ask, Believe and Receive Mark 11:24 διὰ τοῦτο λέγω ὑμῖν, πάντα ὅσα προσεύχεσθε καὶ αἰτεῖσθε, πιστεύετε ὅτι ἐλάβετε, καὶ ἔσται ὑμῖν

Therefore I say to you, all things whatsoever you pray and ask for, believe that you have received it, and it will be (done) for you

We turn now to the third of our sayings. Crossan places it among the legion of those that could be traced to an aphoristic core formed by three stichs, which he calls “Ask, Seek, Knock” (in addition to Mk 11:24 // Matt 21:22, see at least Matt 7:7‑8 // Q/Lk 11:9-10; John 15:7; Gos. Thom. 2, 92, and 94). 80 But according to D.E. Aune, the hypothesis is extremely forced given the enormous range of variations that all these formulations present. It would be difficult to bring them back to a single matrix (and even more so, to recover their original conceptual core!). 81 The most likely hypothesis is that the Evangelist would have known an originally independent saying, focused on ask/receive. Then he would have added a brief reference to prayer and faith (προσεύχεσθε and πιστεύετε), inserting the

78.  Thus J.D. Crossan, In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco, CA, 1983) 301. 79. I am very grateful to Professor Enrico Norelli for his helpful suggestions and for discussing this point with me. On this same line of interpretation, see P. Trebilco, The Early Christians in Ephesus from Paul to Ignatius (Tübingen, 2004) 648-649 (even if Trebilco accepts the ‘one or two’ translation, his reading appears much more cautious and persuasive). 80.  Cf. J.D. Crossan, In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco, CA, 1983) 95ff. 81. Cf. D.E. Aune , “Oral Tradition and Aphorisms of Jesus,” in H. Wans­ brough, ed., Jesus and the Gospel Oral Tradition (London – New York, 1991) 211‑265: 247.

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saying in his composition through the use of some catchwords (such as λέγω ὑμῖν and ἔσται ὑμῖν). The most immediate parallel is certainly that of Matt 21:22: Matt 21:22: καὶ πάντα ὅσα ἂν αἰτήσητε ἐν τῇ προσευχῇ πιστεύοντες λήμψεσθε. And all things whatsoever you ask for in prayer with faith, you will receive.

In this case the derivation from Mark is evident, and does not need clarification. Matthew’s reworking consists essentially of the elimination of the catchwords used by Mark, in particular in both the opening and ending formulas (λέγω ὑμῖν and ἔσται ὑμῖν). There is still a problem created by the hypothesis suggested by W.R. Telford, who saw Mk 11:24‑25 as the result of an interpolation (as it is generally assumed for v. 26, omitted by a number of manuscripts). 82 The main reason for this assumption lies in the lack of consistency between these two verses compared to the unambiguous interpretation of the episode of the fig tree. But having already said that we consider this episode as bivalent in the intentions of the Evangelist, we believe that there are grounds not to endorse Telford’s conjecture. Particularly if the only argument offered by the scholar, in addition to inconsistency, is that it lacked Markan features. 83 On the possible parallels to Mk 11:24 that we find in the Gospel of John, of particular interest are the observations of R.E. Brown, who identifies four basic variant patterns: 1. “I will do whatever you ask in my name” (John 14:13), and “If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it” (John 14:14): the prayer is addressed to Jesus (with no doubt in v. 14, and presumably in v. 13), and he grants it. 2. “The Father will give you whatever you ask him in my name” (John 15:16), and “If you ask anything of the Father in my name, He will give it to you” (John 16:23): the prayer is addressed to the Father and He grants it in the name of Jesus; 3. “Ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you” (John 15:7), and “Ask and you will receive” (John 16:24): neither the addressee nor the donor is mentioned, but in the context which follows the Father is always indicated; 82.  Mk 11:26 is omitted by ‫ א‬Β L W Δ Ψ 565. 700. 892. 2427 pc k l sys sa bopt; and attested in A (C D) Θ ( f 1.13, 33) 𝔐 lat sy p.h bopt e Cyp. 83.  See W.R. Telford, The Barren Temple and the Withered Tree: A RedactionCritical Analysis of the Cursing of the Fig-Tree Pericope in Mark’s Gospel and its Relation to the Cleansing of the Temple Tradition (Sheffield, 1980).

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4. “On that day you will ask in my name. I do not say to you that I will ask the Father on your behalf ” (John 16:26; cf. 1 John 3:21‑22 and 5:14‑15): the prayer is satisfied by God with no mention of Jesus’ name. 84 As far as the relationship with the synoptic parallels, Brown highlights some similarities, especially with Matthew; however, the existence of many variations and combinations, and the fact that none of the Johannine sayings look the same as a synoptic saying, induces us to think that John and the Synoptics preserve echoes of older, independent traditions. 85 D. Prayer and Forgiveness Mark 11:25 καὶ ὅταν στήκετε προσευχόμενοι, ἀφίετε εἴ τι ἔχετε κατά τινος,

And whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against someone, ἵνα καὶ ὁ πατὴρ ὑμῶν ὁ ἐν τοῖς οὐρανοῖς in order that your father who is in heaven ἀφῇ ὑμῖν τὰ παραπτώματα ὑμῶν also might forgive you your trespasses.

In the case of v. 25, Telford’s argument does at least deserve to be considered. According to the scholar, the hypothesis of a scribal gloss could be supported by considering the absence of this saying in the parallel passage of Matthew, and the strong similarities—this is Telford’s opinion— between such a “pseudo-Markan” formulation and the text of Matthew 6:14 (in fact, the omitted Mk 11:26 would correspond to Matt 6:15 from this point of view): Matt 6:14‑15: 14. Ἐὰν γὰρ ἀφῆτε τοῖς ἀνθρώποις τὰ παραπτώματα αὐτῶν, ἀφήσει καὶ ὑμῖν ὁ πατὴρ ὑμῶν ὁ οὐράνιος· 15. ἐὰν δὲ μὴ ἀφῆτε τοῖς ἀνθρώποις, οὐδὲ ὁ πατὴρ ὑμῶν ἀφήσει τὰ παραπτώματα ὑμῶν. 84. See R.E. Brown, The Gospel According to John: Introduction, Translation and Notes, 2 vols (Garden City, NY, 1979), vol. II, 633‑636: esp. 634. 85.  Differently from the synoptic ones, five of the Johannine statements insist on asking (or giving: cf. John 16:23), “in my name.” According to Brown, such a motif, though widespread throughout the fourth canonical Gospel, would be not have originated with John. Brown discusses the case of Matt 18:19, which “is immediately followed by a statement that supplies the basis for confidence that the request will be granted: ‘For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there I am in the midst of them’ [οὖ γάρ εἰσιν δύο ἢ τρεῖς συνηγμένοι εἰς τὸ ἐμὸν ὄνομα, ἐκεῖ εἰμι ἐν μέσῳ αὐτῶν: cf.  also Mk 9:41]. In prayer the Jews frequently recalled the Patriarchs in the hope that God would be touched by the remembrance of those holy men, and prayer in Jesus’ name may have originated in a similar manner” (R.E. Brown, The Gospel According to John: Introduction, Translation and Notes, 2 vols [Garden City, NY, 1979], vol. II, 635).

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14. For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; 15. but if you do not forgive men, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.

Between these two formulations, however, there are substantial differences, and in Matthew there are no distinctive Markan traits, such as the phrase “and whenever you stand praying,” or the expression “if you have anything against someone.” According to Telford, this could be explained by attributing the character of a “hybrid citation” to Mk 11:25, based on a number of Matthean prayer texts. 86 But once again the premise of the argument is to emphasize the non-Markan character of the saying. It is a circular reasoning, especially if we bear in mind that the Evangelist did not create a composition ex nihilo, but through recasting existing material. Among the other parallels that might be mentioned, we can include the following: Matt 5:23‑24: 23. ἐὰν οὖν προσφέρῃς τὸ δῶρόν σου ἐπὶ τὸ θυσιαστήριον κἀκεῖ μνησθῇς ὅτι ὁ ἀδελφός σου ἔχει τι κατὰ σοῦ, 24.  ἄφες ἐκεῖ τὸ δῶρόν σου ἔμπροσθεν τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου, καὶ ὕπαγε πρῶτον διαλλάγηθι τῷ ἀδελφῷ σου, καὶ τότε ἐλθὼν πρόσφερε τὸ δῶρόν σου. 23. Therefore if you bring your gift to the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, 24. leave there your gift before the altar, and go first be reconciled with your brother, and then come and offer your gift.

As in the preceding case, this passage is also inserted into the Matthean Sermon on the Mount. While there is a connection through prayer, we are told about a different religious act, an offering to the altar. There is a recurrence of similar expressions in Mk 11:25 (τι ἔχετε κατά τινος) and Matt 5:23 (ὁ ἀδελφός σου ἔχει τι κατὰ σοῦ). In Mark, however, the one who prays has “something against” someone, whereas in Matthew we find the opposite. It is the “brother” who has “something against” the one who brings his gift to the altar. 87 H. Koester also finds a different formulation of the saying in the Didache: 88 86.  Telford underlines the use of παραπτώματα to indicate “sins” (hapax in Mark, but also in Matthew) and the recurrence of the expression ὁ πατὴρ ὑμῶν ὁ ἐν τοῖς οὐρανοῖς, which is typical of Matthew (this does not necessarily mean, however, that he has invented it); see W.R. Telford, The Barren Temple and the Withered Tree: A Redaction-Critical Analysis of the Cursing of the Fig-Tree Pericope in Mark’s Gospel and its Relation to the Cleansing of the Temple Tradition (Sheffield, 1980) 53. 87.  Cf. the text of the Lord’s prayer in Lk 11:2‑4. 88. Cf. H. Koester , Synoptische Überlieferung bei den Apostolischen Vätern (Berlin, 1957) 134‑135. More generally, on the relationship between the Didache and the New Testament writings, see at least C.M. Tuckett, “The Didache and

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Did. 4:14: ἐν ἐκκλησίᾳ ἐξομολογήσῃ τὰ παραπτώματά σου, καὶ οὐ προσελεύσῃ ἐπὶ προσευχήν σου ἐν συνειδήσει πονηρᾷ· αὕτη ἐστὶν ἡ ὁδὸς τῆς ζωῆς. Confess your unlawful acts in church, and do not come to your prayer with an evil conscience. This is the path of life. 89

M. Pesce is of the same opinion and in turn emphasizes the strong proximity to a passage in the Epistle of Barnabas: 90 Barn. 19:12c:  […] οὐ προσήξεις ἐπὶ προσευχὴν ἐν συνειδήσει πονηρᾷ […] […] Do not come to prayer with an evil conscience […] 91

A similar saying is attested in the First Epistle of Clement to the Corinthians, and also in Polycarp’s Letter to the Philippians, as the second of a composition containing, respectively, seven and four “statements of reciprocity.” 92 The literary form of Clement’s and Polycarp’s saying, however, is very different from Mk 11:25, and shows no reference to prayer. It is likely, then, that both authors rely on an independent tradition, close to the one occurring in the Apostolic Constitutions: 93 the Writings that Later Formed the New Testament,” in A.F. Gregory and C.M. Tuckett, ed., The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford – New York, 2005) 83‑127. 89. English translation from B. Ehrman, ed., The Apostolic Fathers, vol. I (Cambridge, MA – London, 2003) 425. 90.  See M. Pesce , Le parole dimenticate di Gesù (Milano, 2004) 597. On the relationship between the Epistle of Barnabas and the New Testament texts, see J. Carleton-Paget, “The Epistle of Barnabas and the Writings that Later Formed the New Testament,” in A.F. Gregory and C.M. Tuckett, ed., The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford – New York, 2005) 229‑249. 91. English translation from B. Ehrman, ed., The Apostolic Fathers, vol. II (Cambridge, MA – London, 2003) 79. 92.  The label is used by D.E. Aune to identify, in a more neutral way, the type of sayings usually described as “sentences of holy law” (relying upon the work of E. K äsemann, “Sentences of Holy Law in the New Testament,” in New Testament Questions of Today [Philadelphia, PA, 1969] 66-81): see D.E. Aune , “Oral Tradition and the Aphorisms of Jesus,” in H. Wansbrough, ed., Jesus and the Oral Gospel Tradition (London – New York, 2004) 211-265: 234-236. 93. See H. Koester , Synoptische Überlieferung bei den Apostolischen Vätern (Berlin, 1957) 12‑16; and I d., Ancient Christian Gospels: Their History and Development (Harrisburg, PA, 1990) 66‑69; M. Pesce , Le parole dimenticate di Gesù (Milano, 2004) 637‑638 and 676; M. R escio, “I doppi detti sulla lampada e la misura. La composizione di Mc 4,21‑25,” in M. Pesce and M. R escio, ed., La trasmissione delle parole di Gesù nei primi tre secoli (Brescia, 2011) 119‑142: 133‑134 (esp. nn. 45‑46). For a more thorough discussion, cf. also A.F. Gregory, “1 Clement and the Writings that Later Formed the New Testament,” and M.W. Holmes , “Polycarp’s Letter to the Philippians and the Writings that Later Formed the New Testament,” in A.F. Gregory and C.M. Tuckett, ed., The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford – New York, 2005) 129‑157 and

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1 Clem 13:1-2: 1. […] μάλιστα μεμνημένοι τῶν λόγων τοῦ κυρίου Ἰησοῦ, οὓς ἐλάλησεν διδάσκων ἐπιείκειαν καὶ μακροθυμίαν· 2. Οὕτως γὰρ εἶπεν· “Ἐλεᾶτε, ἵνα ἐλεηθῆτε· ἀφίετε, ἵνα ἀφεθῇ ὑμῖν· ὡς ποιεῖτε, οὕτω ποιηθήσεται ὑμῖν· ὡς δίδοτε, οὕτως δοθήσεται ὑμῖν· ὡς κρίνετε, οὕτως κριθήσεσθε· ὡς χρηστεύεσθε, οὕτως χρηστευθήσεται ὑμῖν· ᾧ μέτρῳ μετρεῖτε, ἐν αὐτῷ μετρηθήσεται  ὑμῖν […]” 1. […] We should especially remember the words the Lord Jesus spoke when teaching about gentleness and patience. 2. For he said: “Show mercy, that you may be shown mercy; forgive, that it may be forgiven you. As you do, so it will be done to you; as you give, so it will be given to you; as you judge, so you will be judged; as you show kindness, so will kindness be shown to you; the amount you dispense will be the amount you receive. […]” 94 Pol. Phil. 2:3: μνημονεύοντες δὲ ὧν εἶπεν ὁ κύριος διδάσκων· “Μὴ κρίνετε, ἵνα μὴ κριθῆτε· ἀφίετε, καὶ ἀφεθήσεται ὑμῖν· ἐλεᾶτε, ἵνα ἐλεηθῆτε· ᾧ μέτρῳ μετρεῖτε, ἀντιμετρηθήσεται ὑμῖν· […].” But remembering what the Lord said when he taught: “Do not judge lest you be judged; forgive and it will be forgiven you; show mercy that you may be shown mercy; the amount you dispense will be the amount you receive in return […]” 95 Apos. Cons. II.21:5: Ὁδὸς δὲ εἰρήνης ἐστὶν ὁ σωτὴρ ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦς ὁ Χριστός, ὃς καὶ ἐδίδαξεν ἡμᾶς λέγων· Ἄφετε, καὶ ἀφεθήσεται ὑμῖν· δίδοτε, καὶ δοθήσται ὑμῖν […] The way of peace is our Saviour Jesus Christ, who also taught us saying: “Forgive and you will be forgiven; give and it will be given to you […]” 96

Finally, we cannot exclude that even Ignatius of Antioch may implicitly refer to an analogous saying of Jesus: Ign. Trall. 8:2: Μηδεὶς ὑμῶν κατὰ τοῦ πλησίον ἐχέτω. Let none of you hold a grudge against your neighbour.  9 7

The expression “hold a grudge (literally, ‘have [something]’) against your neighbour” clearly brings to mind Mk 11:25 and Matt 5:23. 98 187‑227; S.E. Young, Jesus Tradition in the Apostolic Fathers: Their Explicit Appeals to the Words of Jesus in Light of Orality Studies (Tübingen, 2011) 107‑175. 94. English translation from B. Ehrman, ed., The Apostolic Fathers, vol. I (Cambridge, MA – London, 2003) 57‑59. 95. English translation from B. Ehrman, ed., The Apostolic Fathers, vol. I (Cambridge, MA – London, 2003) 335‑337. 96.  English translation by A. Roberts and J. Donaldson (ANF). 97. English translation from B. Ehrman, ed., The Apostolic Fathers, vol. I (Cambridge, MA – London, 2003) 263. 98. See again M. Pesce , Le parole dimenticate di Gesù (Milano, 2004) 650. On Ignatius and the New Testament writings, see P. Foster , “The Epistles of

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V. C oncludi ng R e m a r k s From our analysis it clearly emerges that it was Mark who created the short composition of four sayings found in Mk 11:22-25. Having sketched out the transmission history of the individual sayings on the basis of available sources, not only is their heterogeneous character now clear, but also the extraordinary skill with which they were rearranged. If we exclude the saying of Mk 11:22 (on having faith in God), probably invented by the Evangelist to offer a programmatic premise to his composition, we can also presume that all these sayings originally circulated in an independent form. Some of them, in a short time, lent themselves to being included in collections of sayings of different types, drawn up together according to criteria of literary structure and content. Thus, for example, a saying such as that attested in Mk 11:25, on the necessity of mutual forgiveness, will be found within sayings clusters that reproduce the same binary scheme: human action in the first part, divine reaction in the second (see the version of the saying in 1 Clem 13:2 and Pol. Phil. 2:3). The redactional operation of the second Gospel is far from neutral, however. First, the Evangelist deliberately creates his composition, reworking his material to obtain a “little lesson” in faith and prayer. Second, he intentionally places Jesus’ teaching within an intercalation structure, which includes the episode of the cursed fig tree (Mk 11:12-14.20-21) and that of the cleansing of the Temple (Mk 11:15-19). Episodes and teaching illuminate each other, and the puzzling episode of the fig tree particularly reveals itself to be open to two different but not necessarily irreconcilable interpretations: a structural one, linked to the fate of the Temple; and an admonitory one, related to the theme of prayer. Third, he underlines the esoteric dimension of Jesus’ teaching, reporting it as part of a private instruction reserved for the disciples alone (set not by chance outside the Temple, thus suggesting a contrast between Jesus’ lesson on prayer and the “house of prayer” par excellence). But what can be said on the connection between faith and prayer? An answer can be found looking at the previous account of the possessed boy, in Mk 9:14-29 (cf. Matt 17:14-20[21]; Lk 9:37-43). As I have tried to show elsewhere, in the Markan version of this story Jesus’ disciples “had faith,” but this faith was not enough for them to successfully perform an exorcism: they needed to pray (cf. Mk 9:29). 99 The composition of Mk 11:2225 exactly serves to stress this point, that is, the necessity of integrating Ignatius of Antioch and the Writings that Later Formed the New Testament,” in A.F. Gregory and C.M. Tuckett, ed., The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford – New York, 2005) 159‑186. 99.  See M. R escio, “Demons and Prayer: Traces of Jesus’ Esoteric Teaching from Mark to Clement of Alexandria,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 31/1 (2014) 53‑82.

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faith in the perspective of prayer. If faith does move mountains and makes the seemingly impossible possible, the combination of prayer and faith, as well as faith in prayer, increases the power of both. Yet how should one pray? And what is required for prayer to be effective? In Mk 9:28-29, Jesus gave no instructions on this. Mk 11:25 fills the gap by showing that the unique condition for successful prayer is mutual forgiveness and coming before God in a state of peace (see also Mk 9:50).

Andrea A nnese

T HE T EMPLE IN THE G OSPEL OF T HOMAS. A N I NTERPRETIVE P ERSPECTIVE ON SOME WORDS ATTRIBUTED TO JESUS The issue of Jesus’ and early Christian communities’ attitudes towards the temple is one of the most addressed in the field of early Christianity. However, new perspectives and suggestions may be provided, especially starting from the Gospel of Thomas (hereafter Th). This can be observed considering the most important and recent studies, which can be divided into two groups: the studies specifically focused on the issue “Jesus and the temple” (which present the analysis of the logia about destruction and rebuilding in particular, as well as the “Cleansing” of the temple) and those ones about Th. The former ones, in the majority, seem to be affected by a long time widespread opinion: that in order to reconstruct the historical Jesus Th provides a lacking contribution or no contribution at all, because it is considered a too late text, whose formulations are dependent on previous sources. 1 Furthermore, the idea that Th would be a Gnostic or a “Gnos1.  See e.g. J. Å dna, “Jesus and the Temple,” in T. Holmén – S.E. Porter , ed., Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus, III (Leuven, 2010) 2635‑2675: 2646, 2648‑2649; D.R. M acDonald, Two Shipwrecked Gospels. The Logoi of Jesus and Papia’s Exposition of Logia about the Lord (Atlanta, 2012) 296, 301; N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple (Grand Rapids, 2010) 49. Some studies about the temple logia (or about the “Cleansing” of the Temple) do not mention Th at all: e.g. E. Lupieri, “Fragments of the Historical Jesus? A Reading of Mark 11,11-[26],” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 28/1 (2011) 289‑311; M. Tiwald, “Jewish-Christian trajectories in Torah and Temple theology,” in T. Holmén, ed., Jesus in Continuum (Tübingen, 2012) 385‑409; M.P. Barber , “Jesus as the Davidic Temple Builder and Peter’s Priestly Role in Matthew 16:16‑19,” Journal of Biblical Literature 132/4 (2013) 935‑953. J.H. Charlesworth, ed., Jesus and Temple. Textual and Archaeological Explorations (Minneapolis, 2014), one of the last volumes published about Jesus and temple, devotes just one, very short reference (albeit important for our theme) to Th 71, in the essay of H.W. Attridge , “The Temple and Jesus the High Priest in the New Testament,” ibidem, 213‑237. Attridge interprets the original Jesuanic logion (in his view “the most primitive form of the saying” is John 2:19) as a “prophetic aphorism” referred to the destruction of the old temple and its rebuilding as community (exploiting the polysemy of bayit). This has to be understood as “If you destroy this House of God, I’ll quickly rebuild God’s House” (215). Attridge adds: “There is […] one other attestation of something like [emphasis mine] the saying in the Fourth Gospel. It appears in Gospel of Thomas 71, which reports an explicit Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 227–245 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111705 ©

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ticizing” text, is still accepted or, at least, this interpretation is applied to logion 71 (that is considered the equivalent of the Synoptic temple logia). 2 However, it is possible to go further, following two research lines: the one that does not interpret Th as Gnostic (shared by the leading contemporary Th interpreters) and the one that considers it a “layered” text (see April DeConick’s theories) including very early material and therefore also useful to approach the historical Jesus. Here, though, I will propose a reading that considers Th in its final redaction, trying to grasp the interpretive perspective of the “community” which performatively composed and used it. 3 I will link the logion that is usually related to the temple (Th 71) with other logia in this text. In this case, I move away from the majority of previous studies on Th 71 and the temple sayings. Th could be read according to its inner consistency, despite its stratifications. Not even specific studies on Th (essays and commentaries) examine in depth the relationship between logion 71 and other logia or suggest the kind of interpretation I would like to try: to identify the conception of the community as the new temple (often recognized in other early Christian texts) threat: ‘Jesus said: Destroy this house and no one will be able to build it […]’”. But Attridge does not examine in depth the reference to Th. Moreover, in Th 71 he translates “Destroy” in the second-person just as we find in John, whilst the text is usually translated in the first-person (“I will destroy”). 2. See J. Å dna, “Jesus and the Temple,” in T. Holmén – S.E. Porter , ed., Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus, III (Leuven, 2010) 2649: in Th 71 “house” stands for the body; D.R. M acDonald, Two Shipwrecked Gospels (Atlanta, 2012) 296, 301: it stands for the material world. 3. The concept of “Thomasine community” is widely debated: for a recent focalization on the problem see M. Grosso, “Norme etiche e formazione comunitaria nel Vangelo secondo Tommaso: quali regole per quale comunità?,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 28/1 (2011) 59‑76: 70‑75; cf. P. Sellew, “Thomas Christianity: Scholars in Quest of a Community,” in J.N. Bremmer , ed., The Apocryphal Acts of Thomas (Leuven 2001); see also below, n. 48. This paper is not the proper context to verify the possibility of reconstructing the social reality behind Th. I am primarily interested in what Th communicates or could communicate to the community or group who read (and interpreted) it in its final redaction and so as complete text. This does not exclude the possibility that the community played also a creative role, in the sense – as A. DeConick pointed out in her studies – that it could reinterpret and re-elaborate some sayings throughout critical moments. So, bearing in mind this dual level (creation/reception), for “Thomasine community” I mean basically that of the historical level of Th in its definitive redaction. Having said that, I use the expression “Thomasine community,” adopted by various scholars as well (who will be cited: e.g. K. King, A. DeConick, D.W. Kim) – which is not to claim that there is a “School of Thomas” that would have produced Th, the Acts of Thomas and the Book of Thomas. As stated by R. Uro, Thomas. Seeking the Historical Context of the Gospel of Thomas (London-New York 2003) 26, it is legitimate “to seek signs of communal language and setting of each Thomasine writing.” Cf. 77 for Uro’s shareable definition of “community”: “By ‘community’ I mean here the primary ‘readers’ of the gospel and their reconstructed social situation.”

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in Th as well. 4 I believe not only that logion 71 does not deny the bipartite pattern destruction/rebuilding of the temple, but also that the Thomasine community could indeed interpret itself as that new temple, founded on the “cornerstone” Jesus; this perspective might occur with increasing belief in the final redactional stage of Th, when eschatology is actualized and interiorized and the Kingdom becomes a reality that is already present, or suspended between the already and the not yet. I  will make reference to the issue of divine presence (Shekhinah) and its localization. 1. With respect to the analysis of texts, 5 we have to start from Th 71. As is known, this passage has a final lacuna; the text has been reconstructed in various ways, essentially three: 6 I.

ⲡⲉϫⲉ  ϫⲉ ϯⲛⲁϣⲟⲣ[ϣ ⲡⲉⲉ]ⲓⲏⲉⲓ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲙ ⲗⲁⲁⲩ ⲛⲁϣⲕⲟⲧϥ […] (Layton). 7

4.  According to many interpreters, it is a Jesuanic conception already. Among recent works proposing this thesis see N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple (Grand Rapids, 2010); M. Tiwald, “Jewish-Christian trajectories in Torah and Temple theology,” in T. Holmén, ed., Jesus in Continuum (Tübingen, 2012) esp. 404; M.P. Barber , “Jesus as the Davidic Temple Builder and Peter’s Priestly Role in Matthew 16:16‑19,” Journal of Biblical Literature 132/4 (2013); H.W. Attridge , “The Temple and Jesus the High Priest in the New Testament,” in J.H. Charlesworth, ed., Jesus and Temple (Minneapolis, 2014). 5.  It is not possible, within the limits of this paper (focused on Th), to deal with a comparison between all the texts reporting Jesus’ sayings about destruction and possibly rebuilding of the temple. I just point out the key texts: Matt 26:61 (cf. 27:40); Mark 14:58 (cf. 15:29); John 2:19; cf. Acts 6:13‑14. See also the “eschatological discourse”: Matt 24:1-2; Mark 13:1-2; Luke 21:5-6. Cf. Luke 13:35a (Q), par. Matt 23:38. See at last the “Cleansing” of the temple (Matt 21:12-15; Mark 11:15-17; Luke 19:45-48; John 2:13-17). One cannot exclude that some Pauline texts might contain some traces of traditions conveying Jesus’ words about the temple: an example could be 2 Cor 5:1. Scholars often neglected the comparison with this passage (as well as with Th): for a recent exception see L. Walt, Paolo e le parole di Gesù (Brescia, 2013), who connects e.g. 1 Cor 3:16-17 to Jesus’ logia about the temple, considering also the testimony in Th (p. 208‑209); then he links 2 Cor 5:1 to Mark 14:58 (p. 297). 6. I provide the text with some translations. As for other logia of Th, translations are from A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation. With a Commentary and New English Translation of the Complete Gospel (LondonNew York, 2006), unless otherwise noted. 7. B. L ayton, “The Gospel According to Thomas,” in I d., ed., Nag Hammadi Codex II, 2‑7 together with XIII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or. 4926(1), and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655, I (Leiden, 1989) 52‑93. This text is followed by A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (London-New York, 2006) (see also the 2007 edition, with some slight modifications, but not in the Coptic text of this logion); M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso. Introduzione, traduzione e commento (Roma, 2011); S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas. Introduction and Commentary (Leiden, 2014). Layton supposes a final lacuna of 6½-8 letters; DeConick of 8‑9 letters.

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Jesus said, ‘I shall [destroy this] house, and no one will be able to build it […]’ (Lambdin). 8 Jesus said, ‘I will destroy [this] temple, and no one will be able to build it […]’ (DeConick). 9 II.

ⲡⲉϫⲉ  ϫⲉ ϯⲛⲁϣⲟⲣ[ϣⲣ ⲙⲡⲉⲉⲓ]ⲏⲉⲓ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲙ ⲗⲁⲁⲩ ⲛⲁϣ ⲕⲟⲧϥ [ⲁⲛ ⲛⲕⲉⲥⲟ]ⲡ (Guillaumont). 10 Jesus said: ‘I shall de[stroy this] house and no one will be able to build it [again]’ (Guillaumont). 11 Dice Gesù: ‘Distruggerò questa casa e nessuno potrà riedificarla […]’ (Grosso). 12

III. ⲡⲉϫⲉ  ϫⲉ ϯⲛⲁϣⲟⲣ[ϣ ⲡⲉⲉ]ⲓⲏⲉⲓ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲙ ⲗⲁⲁⲩ ⲛⲁϣⲕⲟⲧϥ [ⲥⲁⲃⲗⲁ] (Bethge; Schenke). 13 Jesus says, ‘I will [destroy this] house, and no one will be able to rebuild it [except me]’ (Plisch). 14 Jesus says: ‘I will [destroy this] house, and no one will be able to build it (again) – [except me]’ (Bethge). 15

8. T.O. L ambdin, “The Gospel According to Thomas,” in B. L ayton, ed., Nag Hammadi Codex II, 2‑7 together with XIII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or. 4926(1), and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655, I (Leiden, 1989) (it is the parallel-text translation of the text edited by Layton). Similar S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 2014). 9. A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (LondonNew York, 2007); the first edition (2006) translated “‘no one will build it […]’”. 10. A. Guillaumont – H.-Ch. P uech – G. Quispel – W.C. Till – Y. ‘A bd A l M asih, The Gospel According to Thomas. Coptic Text Established and Translated (Leiden, 1959). 11.  Ibidem. 12. M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso (Roma, 2011) (Grosso actually follows Layton’s Coptic text, but he chooses this translation). Similar R. Nordsieck , Das Thomas-Evangelium (Neukirchen-Vluyn, 2004); C. Gianotto, “Évangile selon Thomas,” in F. Bovon – P. Geoltrain, ed., Écrits apocryphes chrétiens, I (Paris, 1997) 23‑53. 13.  H.-G. Bethge , “Evangelium Thomae copticum,” Appendix I in K. A land, ed., Synopsis Quattuor Evangeliorum. Locis parallelis evangeliorum apocryphorum et patrum adhibitis, Editio quindecima revisa (Stuttgart, 4. korrigierter Druck 2005 [19961]) 517‑546 (adopting this reconstruction Bethge modified the text of 1996 edition, that was similar to version II); H.-M. Schenke , “Bemerkungen zu # 71 des Thomas-Evangeliums,” Enchoria 27 (2001) 120‑126. This text is followed also by U.-K. Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas (Stuttgart, 2008). 14. U.-K. Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas (Stuttgart, 2008). 15.  This is the english translation in H.-G. Bethge , “Evangelium Thomae copticum,” in K. A land, ed., Synopsis Quattuor Evangeliorum. Locis parallelis evangeliorum apocryphorum et patrum adhibitis (Stuttgart, 2005). Thus also P. Pokorný, A  Commentary on the Gospel of Thomas. From Interpretations to the Interpreted (New York-London, 2009).

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Jesus says, ‘I will destroy this house, and no one will be able to build it [except me]’ (Goodacre). 16

In the first reconstruction the final lacuna has not been completed: it has been chosen to not attempt a restoration. In the second one, the end has been read “to build [again],” and the possibility of rebuilding is denied: so this logion is seen as related just to the destruction of the temple. The third one, that seems to spread increasingly in recent studies, rather makes explicit the possibility of a rebuilding of the temple. We may notice that this text can be read in slightly different ways, depending on the insertion of word “again,” for the sake of meaning, or not. Here I will follow this third reconstruction, since I take Schenke’s argumentations into account, 17 but first of all – because it is impossible to be sure about the original text – on the basis of the connection with other logia and the consistency with the perspective of the Thomasine community. Then, one should consider that even some advocates of the first or the second reconstruction do not exclude the chance that the saying might end with a reference to the rebuilding of the temple, somehow. 18 As for the interpretation of the saying, I first analyze the term “house” (ⲏⲉⲓ). Some scholars have thought it was related to the earthly body or the material world: they interpreted Th as a Gnostic or proto-Gnostic text; 19 others have suggested the word meant “house of Herod,” royal house; 20 Riley refers “house” to Jesus’ body, arguing that the Thomasine and

16. M. Goodacre , Thomas and the Gospels. The Case for Thomas’s Familiarity with the Synoptics (Grand Rapids, 2012). 17. Cf. H.-M. Schenke , “Bemerkungen zu # 71 des Thomas-Evangeliums,” Enchoria 27 (2001). According to Schenke, logion 71 can fall within the category of sayings showing the pattern “none (can/will be able to)… except (for)…”: there is a starting denial and a following exception. Among the examples, John 14:6 and various texts exactly in Nag Hammadi Codex II; cf. also Matt 12:39. Moreover, Coptic versions of the New Testament passages about temple sayings do not contain the adverb ⲕⲉⲥⲟⲡ. Schenke refers also to a hint by A. DeConick: see the following note. 18.  Cf. A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (London-New York, 2006) 227; M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso (Roma, 2011) 214. DeConick indeed explicitly denies the reconstruction ⲕⲉⲥⲟⲡ, because it does not fill in the missing letters in the page correctly. In A.D. DeConick , Voices of the Mystics. Early Christian Discourse in the Gospels of John and Thomas and Other Ancient Christian Literature (Sheffield, 2001) 106 n. 48, she had already stated that the end “might have contained the words ‘except for me’, using a construction with ⲥⲁⲃⲏⲗ.” However, this hypothesis had not been scrutinized. 19.  See above, n. 2. 20.  S.J. Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Jesus (Sonoma, 1993) 53; cf. Id., The Gospel of Thomas and Christian origins. Essays on the fifth Gospel (Leiden-Boston, 2013) 231.

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Johannine communities were debating; 21 others, lastly, see a reference to the Jerusalem Temple. 22 The last theory seems to be the most likely one, since in many biblical texts (cf. Ps 69:10; Isa 56:7; Zech 14:21; Mark 11:17; Matt 21:13; Luke 19:46; John 2:16‑17) 23 “house” stands for the temple. Another controversial detail, as said above, is whether the logion talks about the rebuilding of the temple or not. Here I argue that there may be a reference to the rebuilding; 24 according to reconstruction III, it can be understood that no one will rebuild the temple “except Jesus,” who is said to found the eschatological temple. But if we accept the reconstruction “except me,” we have a reference to the rebuilding of the temple; therefore, we have to understand how the community could interpret the “new temple.” If we go one step further, we might deem that the community identified itself as this new temple. Scholars have identified this conception in many early Christian texts, of different communities: Mark, Matthew, Pauline texts (1 Cor 3:16‑17; 2 Cor 6:16‑18; Eph 2:19‑22), 1 Peter (2:4‑10), Hebrews (especially 3:6; 12:18‑24), Barnabas (4.11; 6.15; cf. 16.110); 25 it has been repeatedly applied to the Qumran community as well. 26 21. G.J. R iley, Resurrection Reconsidered. Thomas and John in Controversy (Minneapolis, 1995) 147‑156. 22.  Cf. A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (London-New York, 2006); M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso (Roma, 2011); R. Nordsieck , Das Thomas-Evangelium (Neukirchen-Vluyn, 2004); S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 2014). U.-K. P lisch, The Gospel of Thomas (Stuttgart, 2008), lists both this interpretation and another one, referred to the “house of David.” 23.  Cf. also Luke 13:35 (Q), which could refer to the Jerusalem Temple. 24. In agreement with H.-M. Schenke , “Bemerkungen zu # 71 des ThomasEvangeliums,” Enchoria 27 (2001); U.-K. Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas (Stuttgart, 2008) (more cautiously); P. Pokorný, A  Commentary on the Gospel of Thomas (New York-London, 2009); pace J.D. Crossan, The Historical Jesus. The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (Edinburgh, 1991) 356, 359; J. Å dna, “Jesus and the Temple,” in T. Holmén – S.E. Porter , ed., Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus, III (Leuven, 2010) 2648‑2649; S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 2014). As mentioned, DeConick and Grosso also do not completely exclude that Th 71 could contain a reference to the rebuilding, although they prefer to follow the other interpretation. 25.  Cf. also Ignatius, To the Ephesians 9.1; 15.3; Hermas, Similitude 9. About all these texts see B. Gärtner , The Temple and the Community in Qumran and the New Testament (Cambridge, 1965); L. Gaston, No Stone on Another. Studies in the Significance of the Fall of Jerusalem in the Synoptic Gospels (Leiden, 1970); N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple (Grand Rapids, 2010); H.W. Attridge , “The Temple and Jesus the High Priest in the New Testament,” in J.H. Charlesworth, ed., Jesus and Temple (Minneapolis, 2014). Attridge attributes this conception also to the Johannine writings; Perrin also to these and to Luke and Acts. 26. See 1Q28 (1QS) V,5‑6; VIII,4‑10; IX,3‑6; 4Q174 (4QFlor) 1 I,21,2; cf.  4Q164 (4Q pIsad); 4Q500 (4Q papBened). 11Q19 (11QTa) XXIX,7‑10 speaks maybe of a material temple too. About these texts cf. B. Gärtner , The Temple and

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So we have to understand whether this conception could be observed in the Thomasine community. In order to do this, we must extend our viewpoint moving from logion 71 to other passages in Th. 2. The parable of the vineyard, also attested in Th (logion 65), according to various interpreters might contain possible references to the temple, especially in the Synoptic versions. Think about Mark (12:1-12) in particular: many scholars referred to this parable as evidence that the Marcan community interpreted itself as a “new temple,” that replaced the old one. 27 Mark here quotes Isa 5:1‑2, with a reference to the “tower,” 28 that according to some interpretive traditions stands for “temple” (cf. 1 En. 89.56,66b-67,73; 4Q500; 29 t. Me‘ ilah 1.16; t. Sukkah 3.15; Tg. Isa. 5:1‑7; Barn. 16.1-2,4-5); then Mark closes with the quotation from Psalm 118, about the rejected “cornerstone.” 30 Matthew (21:33‑46) makes reference explicitly to the Kingdom that is taken away to those who rejected it and given to others (v. 43). 31 The tradent community (in this case, Mark’s one or Matthew’s one) identified itself indeed with these “others”; the new temple-community is founded on the “cornerstone” Jesus. Here we also touch upon the connection with the topic of the Kingdom: according to Gaston the Community in Qumran and the New Testament (Cambridge, 1965); N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple (Grand Rapids, 2010); L.H. S chiffman, “The Importance of the Temple for Ancient Jews,” in J.H. Charlesworth, ed., Jesus and Temple (Minneapolis, 2014) 75‑93; P. Swarup, The Self-Understanding of the Dead Sea Scrolls Community. An Eternal Planting, A House of Holiness (London-New York, 2006). 27.  Of course this is related to the interpretation of the “other temple” of Mark 14:58. See e.g. R. Bultmann, The Gospel of John. A Commentary (Oxford, 1971) 126, n. 1, trans. of Das Evangelium des Johannes (Göttingen, 1941); M. Hooker , “Traditions about the Temple in the Sayings of Jesus,” Bulletin Of The John Rylands University Library Of Manchester 70/1 (1988) 7‑19; J.S. K loppenborg, The Tenants in the Vineyard. Ideology, Economics, and Agrarian Conflict in Jewish Palestine (Tübingen, 2006) 227; T.C. Gray, The Temple in the Gospel of Mark. A Study in its Narrative Role (Tübingen, 2008), esp. 71‑77; 91‑92; 171‑180. Cf. above, n. 4. 28.  “A man planted a vineyard, put a fence around it, dug a pit for the wine press, and built a watchtower; then he leased it to tenants and went to another country” (Mark 12:1). 29.  It is not clear whether a reference to the tower, in this fragmentary text, is present or not. Certainly, the vineyard is related to the temple. 30.  “What then will the owner of the vineyard do? He will come and destroy the tenants and give the vineyard to others. Have you not read this scripture: ‘The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; this was the Lord’s doing, and it is amazing in our eyes’?” (Mark 12:9-11). 31.  “The kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom” (Matt 21:43). Among the other most significant variations compared to Mark, Matthew provides a different description of the sending of the servants, and the son is not called “beloved.” Cf. also Luke 20:918: an important variation is the absence of references to the press and the tower (see v. 9).

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(whose theory evokes Lohmeyer) there is a close correlation between the concepts of temple, community and Kingdom 32 (the issue will be resumed below). For the moment, focusing on the connection between the parable of the vineyard and the temple logia, it is appropriate to invoke Morna Hooker’s thesis that the quotation from Psalm 118 after the parable is not a Marcan addition, precisely since it is in the same place in Th; the proof text links the new community, which takes over the vineyard of Israel, with the new temple built on the resurrected Lord. 33 This parable is present in Th as well, in logion 65.  3 4 The interpretation of this text is widely debated, for three reasons in particular: the reconstruction of a lacuna, 35 the independence from the Synoptics or the depen32.  See L. Gaston, No Stone on Another (Leiden, 1970); cf. E. L ohmeyer , Kultus und Evangelium (Göttingen, 1942). 33.  Cf. M. Hooker , “Traditions about the Temple in the Sayings of Jesus,” Bulletin Of The John Rylands University Library Of Manchester 70/1 (1988) 9. 34.  “He said: A […] man had a vineyard. He leased it to farmers so that they would work it, and he would receive its produce from them. He sent his servant so that the farmers might give him the produce of the vineyard. They seized his servant and struck him, nearly killing him. The servant went and told his master. The master said, ‘Perhaps (they) did not recognize (him).’ He sent another servant. The tenants struck this one too. Then the owner sent his son and said, ‘Perhaps they will respect my son.’ Since those tenants knew that he was the heir to the vineyard, they seized him and killed him. He who has ears, let him hear” (Th 65, trans. Gathercole). Th 66 immediately follows: “Jesus said, ‘Show me the stone which the builders rejected – that is the corner-stone’.” 35.  The reconstruction of the lacuna at line 1 (“A […] man”), obviously, determines the interpretation of the whole text: scholars disagree about the characterization of the vineyard owner as ⲭⲣⲏⲥⲧⲏⲥ (lectio difficilior), “usurer/creditor” (see H.-G. Bethge , “Evangelium Thomae copticum,” in K. A land, ed., Synopsis Quattuor Evangeliorum. Locis parallelis evangeliorum apocryphorum et patrum adhibitis [Stuttgart, 2005]; A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation [London-New York, 2006]; U.-K. Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas [Stuttgart, 2008]) or ⲭⲣⲏⲥⲧⲟⲥ, “good” (see A. Guillaumont et alii, The Gospel According to Thomas. Coptic Text Established and Translated [Leiden, 1959]; B. L ayton, “The Gospel According to Thomas,” in I d., ed., Nag Hammadi Codex II, 2‑7 together with XIII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or. 4926(1), and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655, I [Leiden, 1989]; J.D. Crossan, “The Parable of the Wicked Husbandmen,” Journal of Biblical Literature 90/4 [1971] 451‑465; R. Nordsieck , Das Thomas-Evangelium [Neukirchen-Vluyn, 2004]). Those who support the “usurer/creditor” reconstruction tend to base their reading not only on the hypothesis that logion 65 should be interpreted in terms of criticism of wealth, but also on the thesis that this version of the parable has to be interpreted as a realistic narrative, as a description of the oppressive behavior carried out by landowners in the first-century Galilee. Jesus, then, “avrebbe anche potuto stare dalla parte dei vignaioli” (C. Gianotto, “Il Vangelo secondo Tommaso e il problema storico di Gesù,” in E. P rinzivalli, ed., L’enigma Gesù. Fonti e metodi della ricerca storica [Roma, 2008] 68‑93: 77). S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 2014) 458‑460 examines the arguments of both interpretations, without lining up, but presenting arguments against the reconstruc-

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dence on them, and the overall meaning; there is no agreement about the characterization of the vineyard owner (positive or negative) and the tenants’ reaction. Here I focus on the fact that, although explicit references to Isa 5 and emphasized allegorical features seem to lack in Th, compared to the Synoptics (thesis debated anyway), 36 this does not seem sufficient to exclude a possible interpretation in terms of references to the temple. The positioning of the quotation from Psalm 118 (logion 66: “Jesus said, ‘Show me the stone which the builders rejected – that is the cornerstone’”), indeed, is pivotal, as underlined by Hooker. Many scholars, even among those who interpret Th 65‑66 stressing the difference in meaning compared to the Synoptics, concede that the juxtaposition of the biblical quotation with the parable occurred early, and that there was a similar interpretation to that of the Jerusalem community (Jesus as the rejected cornerstone) even at the kernel level of Th: 37 this might lead to the idea of the “new temple.” In addition, the vineyard is traditionally a metaphor for Israel (besides Isa 5:1‑7, cf. Hos 10:1; Jer 2:21; 5:10; 6:9; 12:10; Ezek 15:1‑8; 17:3‑10; 19:10‑14; Isa 27:2‑5; Ps 80:9‑19), and there was a Jewish exegesis that connected the image of the vineyard to that of the temple, even without explicit reference to the “tower” (cf. 1 En; 4Q500 and other texts quoted above). 38 Moreover, among those significant theoretical cores shared by Th with Isaiah (and the Synoptics), there is both the image of tion ⲭⲣⲏⲥⲧⲏⲥ; the fact that “there is nothing to suggest in the parable that the protagonist – even if a villain – is specifically a usurer at all” (460) is particularly important; he is neither a “creditor,” nor a “usurer,” nor a “debtor,” but “a landlord.” Moreover, in Th 65 there is nothing clearly negative about the owner (459). Cf. below, n. 41. 36. G. Quispel , “Das Thomasevangelium und das Alte Testament,” in Neo­ testamentica et Patristica. Eine Freundesgabe, Herrn Professor Dr Oscar Cullmann zu seinem 60. Geburtstag überreicht (Leiden, 1962) 243‑248: 245, sees in Th 65 a reference to Isa 5:1. 37.  Thus A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (London-New York, 2006) 214 and 218, who accepts the reconstruction ⲭⲣⲏⲥⲧⲏⲥ but provides a “traditional” interpretation of Th 65‑66 (rejection of Jesus, negative view of the tenants); thus also M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso (Roma, 2011), who maintains the negative definition of the vineyard owner, however. S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 2014) 464‑465 also claims that the “stone” is Jesus. Cf. U.-K. Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas (Stuttgart, 2008) 163. 38. Cf. J.H. Charlesworth, “Jesus and the Temple,” in I d., ed., Jesus and Temple (Minneapolis, 2014) 168‑169; J.S. K loppenborg, The Tenants in the Vineyard (Tübingen, 2006) 88‑99, esp. 99: “At least as early as the mid-first century bce , selected elements of the Isaian parable had been interpreted with reference to the temple, at least in the sectarian exegesis of Qumran.” On the parable and Is 5 cf. also M.P. Barber , “The New Temple, the New Priesthood, and the New Cult in Luke-Acts,” Letter&Spirit 8 (2013) 109‑114; M.P. Barber , “Jesus as the Davidic Temple Builder and Peter’s Priestly Role in Matthew 16:16‑19,” Journal of Biblical Literature 132/4 (2013) 942‑943.

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the vineyard and the expectation that it will produce fruit (karpos) – whose theological significance is clear (cf. Th 45) – and the demand for this fruit that is disregarded; 39 it also shares the consequent “tragic” ending. Coming back to Psalm 118, finally, the “cornerstone” is an element that can be interpreted as a reference to the temple.  4 0 It should also be noted that the temple is the context of Psalm 118 itself, as is clear by v. 26 (“We bless you from the house of the Lord”: note also the use of the term “house”, cf. Th 71). Referring to this psalm meant evoking themes related to the cult and the temple. Hence, I hypothesize that there may be a possible “temple perspective” as background of Th 65‑66 as well, at least for the final redaction: here I do not want to analyze the identification of this version of the parable with the original (Jesuanic) one, but understand how this text might be interpreted and used by the community. Even conceding that Th transmits an archaic and almost original, non-allegorical, version of the parable, once the (early) Christological interpretation of Th 66 and its juxtaposition with Th 65 is acknowledged, it cannot be denied that – especially at the level of the ultimate redaction of the corpus – the tradent community might “activate” or recognize those allegorical mechanisms and connections I have outlined. With respect to the interpretation of this parable, it seems hard for Th to represent an unicum inside the early Christian milieu; the parable should not be confined to the “socioeconomic realism.” 41 In addition, the Thomasine community should not be alienated from the background of the Hebrew Bible and other Jewish and Christian exegetical traditions. 3. Logion 30, translating from the Greek text of POxy 1 recto,23‑30, states: “[Jesus said], ‘Where there are [three], gods are there. And where there is one alone, [I say] that I am with him. Lift [ἔγειρον: erect/raise? (parenthesis mine)] the stone and you will find me there. Split the piece of wood 39.  Cf. T.C. Gray, The Temple in the Gospel of Mark (Tübingen, 2008) 91, who connects the curse of the fig tree to the parable of the vineyard, both symbolizing the temple’s fate. 40. Cf. M.P. Barber , “The New Temple, the New Priesthood, and the New Cult in Luke-Acts,” Letter&Spirit 8 (2013), esp. 110‑111. Barber also reminds us that the psalm was associated with the Feast of Tabernacles (cf. m. Sukkah 4.5), a feast linked to the expectations for an eschatological temple. In addition, note that R. Nordsieck , Das Thomas-Evangelium (Neukirchen-Vluyn, 2004) 260, analyzing Th 66, invokes Mark 14:58 and parallels, talking about a possible relationship between these traditions of Jesuanic words. 41.  Although Kloppenborg reads the parable through a realistic point of view, and accepts the reconstruction ⲭⲣⲏⲥⲧⲏⲥ, nevertheless he (analyzing Patterson’s reading) expresses doubts about an interpretation of Th’s parable in terms of “economic exploitation” and “Marxist analysis of capital” (J.S. K loppenborg, The Tenants in the Vineyard [Tübingen, 2006] 255‑256). Kloppenborg also thinks it “unlikely that the parable ever took the tenants’ side” (275).

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and I am there.’” The first part, very enigmatic, should be understood as “Where there are three people, Elohim is there” (“gods” comes from a mistranslation of the Semitic plural). The second part has a Coptic parallel in logion 77, in a different context. It is noteworthy that Walls interpreted the verb ἐγείρειν as an allusion to the raising of temples (cf. John 2:19‑21; Josephus, Ant. 15.391; 20.228) and σχίζειν as a reference to the preparation of the wood of sacrifices (cf. Gen 22:3; 1 Kgs 6:14 LXX). 42 It does not seem that the majority of scholars follow Walls, who however seems to maintain the “Gnostic” interpretation of Th: the meaning of this logion would be an invitation for the Gnostic to offer the true spiritual sacrifice. Nevertheless, Wall’s suggestions must be taken seriously, since ἐγείρειν is indeed used in the Johannine version of the Jesuanic temple logion (John 2:19), precisely with the intent to exploit its double value, as a reference to a building or an allegorical meaning. Moreover, even the “stone” can be identified as an allusion to the temple. Think about the above-mentioned conception of Jesus as cornerstone, or about Peter as rock/stone on which the ekklesia has to be built (according to Matt 16:18). 43 I insist on the fact that the presence of God – both in the community and in the single believer – is the main theme of the first part of logion 30. So, it seems consistent that the community could interpret itself as the spiritual building, the new temple where the Shekhinah dwelt. One must also refer to the conception expressed in Matt 12:6 (“something greater than the temple is here”) and in Matt 18:20 (“where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them”).  4 4 4. See Th 32: “Jesus said, ‘A city built on a high mountain and fortified cannot fall nor be hidden’.” “City” could indicate the community; 45 “mountain” could also be interpreted as a reference to the temple (about the Temple Mount cf. Exod 15:17‑18; Isa 2:2; 4:5; 11:9; 65:25 and 25:2-12, in connection with the eschatological banquet). Already some Jewish texts

42.  A.F. Walls , “‘Stone’ and ‘Wood’ in Oxyrhynchus Papyrus I,” Vigiliae Christianae 16/2 (1962) 71‑76, esp. 73. 43.  On this passage, in a temple-oriented perspective, see M.P. Barber , “Jesus as the Davidic Temple Builder and Peter’s Priestly Role in Matthew 16:16‑19,” Journal of Biblical Literature 132/4 (2013); L. Gaston, No Stone on Another (Leiden, 1970) 241; N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple (Grand Rapids, 2010) 60. 44.  Cf. A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (London-New York, 2006) 137: “L. 30 would have been understood by Christian Jews to mean that Jesus is the Shekhinah, the presence of God that rested upon them whenever they gathered together and studied as well as whenever they were alone.” Among the parallels, here DeConick refers precisely to Matt 18:20. 45. Thus R. Valantasis , The Gospel of Thomas (London, 1997) 45, 107. Cf. M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso (Roma, 2011) 164.

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linked on the one hand city-community-temple,  4 6 and on the other hand the stone/rock imagery with the temple. 47 5. Another text to be analyzed is logion 48: “Jesus said, ‘If two people make peace with each other in the same house [literally: this one house], they will say to the mountain: Go forth!, and it will move’.” Some scholars read “house” as a reference to the community: 48 this reasoning could be extended to logion 71 as well. Moreover, in the whole Th, logia 48 and 71 are the only two passages where the word ⲏⲉⲓ (house) is used figuratively: it could indicate the community in one of them, and it refers to the temple in the other one; maybe it is possible to hypothesize a connection. According to Karen King, in Th the term “kingdom” is a code word for community: 49 even without going as far as this, if we think about possible connections between the concepts of house (temple)-communityKingdom 50 – taking inspiration also from Lloyd Gaston’s insights (as we shall see below) – we may get some useful elements that help to reread logia 48 and 71. 51

46. Cf. R. Schnackenburg, Das Johannesevangelium, 4 Bde. (Freiburg-BaselWien, 1965‑1984) I, 365 (19723 [1965]), who quotes as examples the Qumran texts and 1 En. 47.  Cf. M.P. Barber , “Jesus as the Davidic Temple Builder and Peter’s Priestly Role in Matthew 16:16‑19,” Journal of Biblical Literature 132/4 (2013) 940: he quotes Jewish traditions which typically linked stone/rock imagery with the temple (Gen 28:10‑22; Isa 8:14‑15; 28:16; Zech 4:7‑9; m. Yoma 5.2; b. Yoma 54a-b, etc.). See especially Zech 4:7‑9, on the building of the temple. Matt 7:24 (maybe the parallel of Th 32) would also be an allusion to this imagery: thus also according to N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple (Grand Rapids, 2010) 60. 48. Cf. D.W. K im, “What Shall We Do? The Community Rules of Thomas in the ‘Fifth Gospel’,” Biblica 88/3 (2007) 393‑414: 411. M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso (Roma, 2011) 182 states that the reference to “this house” “potrebbe indicare la comunità”; however M. Grosso, “Norme etiche e formazione comunitaria nel Vangelo secondo Tommaso: quali regole per quale comunità?,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 28/1 (2011) 59‑76: 65‑66, n. 38, prefers to refer “house” to the domestic space, though recalling the “community” interpretation. On the conception of the community in Th, in addition to the works just mentioned, see K. K ing, “Kingdom in the Gospel of Thomas,” Forum 3/1 (1987) 48‑97; see also above, n. 3. 49. K. K ing, “Kingdom in the Gospel of Thomas,” Forum 3/1 (1987) esp. 50, 53, 95. In addition, King speaks of a baptismal rite that would be associated to the entry into the community (and into the Kingdom) (see 68 and 95). 50.  On the connection between community, new temple and Kingdom cf. also M. Tiwald, “Jewish-Christian trajectories in Torah and Temple theology,” in T. Holmén, ed., Jesus in Continuum (Tübingen, 2012) 404: he does not quote Th but he refers to Jesus and to Jewish and early Christian traditions. 51.  “Mountain” might be a reference to the temple in Th 48 as well. T.C. Gray, The Temple in the Gospel of Mark (Tübingen, 2008) 177 reminds us that in many texts “mountain” stands for the temple, by synecdoche. Moreover, consider that

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6. Further suggestions can come from a comparison with the Johannine texts, in which is usually observed a theology of “replacement” of the earthly temple with Jesus as the new temple, as the localization of the divine presence on earth (cf. John 1:14, about the Incarnation, with the verbal form ἐσκήνωσεν which refers to the Shekhinah; John 2:19‑22; 4:4‑26). 52 In analyzing John 4, with the reference to Jacob’s well, 53 and above all 7:37‑38, related to the Feast of Tabernacles (Jesus as the source of life-giving water), 54 Nicholas Perrin invokes the Jewish texts about the eschatological vision of Jerusalem and the temple as sources from which the “living water” flows (Zech 14:8: “On that day living waters shall flow out from Jerusalem”; 14:16-21, with reference to the temple; and Ezek 47:1 in particular: “Then he brought me back to the entrance of the temple; there, water was flowing from below the threshold of the temple toward the east”; cf. Rev 21:22; Joel 4:18), 55 in order to argue that the Johannine Jesus is affirming to be the new temple (the same applies to his followers). 56 In Th there are two crucial references to Jesus as source of life-giving water: logia 13 and 108. The former deals with a Christological theme; Thomas, among all the disciples, recognizes the ineffability of Jesus’ identity, and Jesus says him: “After you drank, you became intoxicated from the bubbling fount which I had measured out” (trans. DeConick; Gianotto: “que j’ai fait jaillir”). 57 Various scholars recall here John 4:14 and 7:38, but it seems that little consideration has been given to the background formed by Zech and Ezek and therefore to the temple. 58 Logion N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple (Grand Rapids, 2010) 103 reads Mark 11:23 and par. as a possible reference to the destruction of the temple. 52.  Here I refer only to R.E. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2 vols (Garden City, N.Y., 1966‑1970); cf. A.D. DeConick , Voices of the Mystics (Sheffield, 2001); A. Destro – M. Pesce , Come nasce una religione. Antropologia ed esegesi del vangelo di Giovanni (Roma-Bari, 2000). 53. See especially John 4:14: “Those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” 54.  John 7:37‑38: εἱστήκει ὁ Ἰησοῦς καὶ ἔκραξεν λέγων· ἐάν τις διψᾷ ἐρχέσθω πρός με καὶ πινέτω. ὁ πιστεύων εἰς ἐμέ, καθὼς εἶπεν ἡ γραφή, ποταμοὶ ἐκ τῆς κοιλίας αὐτοῦ ῥεύσουσιν ὕδατος ζῶντος. 55. See also Zech 13:1: “On that day a fountain [a spring of water] shall be opened for the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem, to cleanse them from sin and impurity.” In reference to the temple, the issue of purity is obviously crucial. 56.  Cf. N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple (Grand Rapids, 2010) 53‑54. 57. C. Gianotto, “Évangile selon Thomas,” in F. Bovon – P. Geoltrain, ed., Écrits apocryphes chrétiens, I (Paris, 1997). 58. W. Clarysse , “Gospel of Thomas Logion 13: ‘The bubbling well which I myself dug’,” in A. Schoors – P. van Deun, ed., Philohistôr. Miscellanea in Hono­ rem Caroli Laga Septuagenarii (Leuven, 1994) 1‑9, sees here a reference to John 4:14 and neither recalls Ezek and Zech nor the issue of the temple, except for a

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108 states that who will drink from Jesus’ mouth will become like him: the believer who draws on his wisdom will be similar to him. In the whole Th, indeed, salvation is described as drawing on this wisdom, the correct interpretation of Jesus’ words. We could say that there is consistency with the surpassing of the temple as mediator of salvific practices and/or the contact with the divine. In any case, it seems possible to extend the linkage of Ezek and Zech also to Th, as well as to John. 7. Among Th’s logia that may contain reference to the temple it should be added, in my view, the ending of logion 64 (Th’s version of the parable of the banquet): “Buyers and merchants [will] not enter the places of my Father.” There could be here a connection with John 2:16 (“Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace! [μὴ ποιεῖτε τὸν οἶκον τοῦ πατρός μου οἶκον ἐμπορίου]”), that refers implicitly to Zech 14:21 (“And there shall no longer be traders/Canaanites in the house of the Lord of hosts on that day”). 59 The terminological correspondences seem clear. In a recent essay on Jesus and the temple, Klyne Snodgrass seems to dismiss too quickly logion 64, referring it to the criticism of wealth and commerce (as many scholars do) 60 and denying that it is related to the Cleansing of the temple. 61 But the two things, actually, are not mutually reference to M. Lelyveld (see below); E.W. Saunders , “A Trio of Thomas Logia,” Biblical Research 8 (1963) 43‑59: 47‑48, instead recalls John 7:38, that has to be interpreted as a reference to Christ as the embodiment of the New Jerusalem from whom “flow rivers of living water.” Saunders had previously quoted Zech 14:8 and Ezek 47:1 with reference to John. Also A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (London-New York, 2006) and M. Grosso, Vangelo se­condo Tommaso (Roma, 2011), refer to the two Johannine passages (but not to Zech or Ezek), without mentioning the temple; thus also S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 2014), about logion 108. But it would be worthwhile to reflect on Th and John precisely from the viewpoint of a trajectory of “interiorization” and “spiritualization” of the temple. M. L elyveld, Les Logia de la vie dans l ’Évangile selon Thomas. A la recherche d ’une tradition et d ’une rédaction (Leiden, 1987) 147 provides an interesting hint stating that in Th 13 “Jésus lui-même apparaît comme l’ange, l’homme à l’aspect d’airain une canne à mesurer dans la main (Ez 40,3) qui a mesuré cette eau descendant de dessous le Temple Ez 47,3ss, c’est-à-dire qui a précédé Thomas dans cette connaissance [the ‘eschatological knowledge’].” 59.  The word for “Canaanite” (khena‘ani) must be understood here as “trader”: see C.H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge, 1970 [1953]) 300; E. Lupieri, “Fragments of the Historical Jesus? A Reading of Mark 11,11[26],” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 28/1 (2011) 297. Also S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 2014) 456, analyzing Th 64,12, refers to Zech 14:21. 60.  Cf. e.g. U.-K. Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas (Stuttgart, 2008); A.D. DeCo ­ nick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (London-New York, 2006). 61.  K.R. Snodgrass , “The Temple Incident,” in D. Bock – R.L. Webb , ed., Key Events in the Life of the Historical Jesus: A Collaborative Exploration of Contexts & Coherence (Tübingen, 2009) 429‑480: 445.

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exclusive. I believe that this saying could be a form in which Th transmits a word spoken by Jesus on the occasion of the “temple act.” 62 Furthermore, the connection with the parable of the banquet might not be extrinsic at all. If we think of the references to the eschatological banquet and the Kingdom, as well as to the temple (see the manifold value of the expression “places of [the] Father”), and the positioning of this text just before logia 65‑66 (parable of the vineyard and reference to the cornerstone), we might get another text to be read considering those themes concerning the temple, the Kingdom, the divine presence. 8. The concepts of “Kingdom” and “temple” may be correlated. From the perspective of the (re)localization of the Shekhinah, the coming of the Kingdom and the establishment of the new temple are closely linked, and both are situated in the tension between presence of the eschaton and its future fulfillment. 63 According to some traditions, the community indeed represents this new temple. Lloyd Gaston suggested some very interesting insights about the issue; he attributed already to Jesus the conception of the community as new temple.  6 4 However, here I am interested in understanding whether the Thomasine community could interpret itself in that way. Then I will start from the arguments applied to the New Testament writings by Gaston and I will identify some useful interpretive guidelines through which one may reason about Th. The key point is that, according to Gaston, in the preaching of Jesus the image of the Kingdom is not temporal (reign), but spatial (realm): many passages speak of “entering” the Kingdom; 65 it has a “door/gate” 66 (which is Jesus himself), there are “keys”; 67 some parables speak of a “ban62.  Cf. M. L owe , “From the Parable of the Vineyard to a Pre-Synoptic Source,” New Testament Studies 28 (1982) 257‑263: 259. 63.  As summarized by N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple (Grand Rapids, 2010) 181: “Where the now-present eschatological temple is, there one finds the Kingdom of God – and vice versa. While, like the kingdom, this temple is already dynamically present, it is not yet fully present.” 64.  See L. Gaston, No Stone on Another (Leiden, 1970) 228: the image of the community as temple is already in Qumran texts, then it was adopted by early Christians (Gärtner hypothesized that former members of the Qumran group or other sects of Essenes, converted, brought the image into Christian communities). However, Gaston wonders: “why should that conception have been so easily adopted, if there was nothing analogous in the teaching of Jesus?”. According to Gaston, then, the image was mediated and reinforced through the teaching of Jesus. See 229‑241. Cf. also M. Tiwald, “Jewish-Christian trajectories in Torah and Temple theology,” in T. Holmén, ed., Jesus in Continuum (Tübingen, 2012) 405. 65.  Cf. L. Gaston, No Stone on Another (Leiden, 1970) 229‑234. See e.g. Mark 9:43‑48 and par.; Mark 10:23‑25 and par.; Matt 23:13, etc. 66.  Cf. e.g. Luke 13:24. 67.  Cf. Matt 16:19; 23:13; Luke 11:52, etc.

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quet” (often a marriage banquet) inside this “house”, and so on. By virtue of the spatial conception, Gaston can state that the Kingdom would be equivalent to the temple. He attributes those passages about “entering the Kingdom” to the psalm category that Sigmund Mowinckel called “les ‘li­turgies de l’entrée’”: 68 good examples are Psalms 15 and 24, in which the procession of worshippers asks who may enter the temple, and the priest answers with a series of commandments, which the worshippers confess that they have kept (and these commandments can be found in Jesus’ words). 69 The Synoptics sayings about entering the Kingdom show indeed the features indicated by Gaston: they speak about conditions for entry, based on ethical teachings (cf. Matt 25:46); there are also issues similar to liturgical ones. We may note, then, that the image of the keys is present also in Th (logion 39, quoted below). 70 Gaston also cites the parable of the vineyard, as linked to the temple. 71 Hence, Gaston concludes that for Jesus all of the functions of the Jerusalem temple were fulfilled in the new temple which he had come to found, namely the community: 72 it is where the Shekhinah dwells, as Matt 18:20 would state 73 (think of Th 30, discussed above). So the statement in Matt 12:6 would mean that the Kingdom of God is the “something” more important than the temple; it is the new temple, which Jesus will “build.” 74 The Kingdom is something which Jesus announces and into which he calls his followers to enter, just as the new temple. The Kingdom would be directly connected with the temple in Matt 10:25b; 12:6; Mark 11:17; 15:29, and presumably in many other passages as well. Even Matt 68. Cf. S. Mowinckel , Le Décalogue (Paris, 1927) 141‑156 (Les décalogues cultuels et la «tora de l ’entrée»). L. Gaston, No Stone on Another (Leiden, 1970) 230‑231 reminds us that Ernst Lohmeyer, basing on those sayings, already theorized the equivalence between Kingdom of God and temple. 69.  See Isa 26:1-4 as well, which also contains a reference to the “rock” (cf. Isa 33:14‑16). 70. On the connection between image of the keys and temple cf. M.P. Barber , “Jesus as the Davidic Temple Builder and Peter’s Priestly Role in Matthew 16:16‑19,” Journal of Biblical Literature 132/4 (2013) 944‑947. 71.  See L. Gaston, No Stone on Another (Leiden, 1970) 237. 72.  Perrin has recently expressed a similar thesis: see N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple (Grand Rapids, 2010), esp. 79, 179‑182. 73.  Cf. L. Gaston, No Stone on Another (Leiden, 1970) 240. 74. M. Pesce , Da Gesù al cristianesimo (Brescia, 2011) 117, considers Matt 12:6 a Matthean creation and not an original word of Jesus, as well as the anti-sacrificial use of Hos 6:6. According to Pesce, Jesus never questioned the sacrificial cult; however, he had a “duttile” attitude towards sacrifices because of his view about the atonement of voluntary sins (119). Jesus and John the Baptist “rifiutavano certi riti del tempio” (181). Jesus’ flexibility gave origin to the different trends of early communities: some definitely rejected the temple rituals, while others accepted and combined them with the new conception of atonement; subsequently, the first trend prevailed. On this issue, see below, n. 80.

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16:17‑19 should be read from this viewpoint, in terms of the establishment of the community as the new temple. The same applies to Mark 14:58. 75 Returning to Th, it should be noted that the concept of entering the Kingdom 76 (and the necessary requirements) may be found in this text as well, explicitly in logia 22; 99; 114; other logia show a spatial conception of the Kingdom, 77 even without an explicit reference to “entering”: Th 27; 49; 113 78 (cf. also logion 50, without explicit reference to the Kingdom). On “entering,” with implicit references to the Kingdom, see logia 39; 64; 75. With regard to the issue of cultual practices, logion 39 is pivotal: “Jesus said, ‘The Pharisees and the scribes have taken the keys of knowledge. They have hidden them. Neither have they entered nor have they permitted those people who want to enter (to do so)’” (cf. Luke 11:52 and Matt 13:11; 23:13). 79 As for what I called “(re)localization” of the divine presence, see the following passages in Th about its “place” (some are connected to the theme of the Kingdom): Th 3; 24; 30 (quoted above); 51; 77 (quoted above); 82; 91; 113 (“[…] the Kingdom of the Father is spread out over the earth, but people do not see it”). These texts may provide further suggestions towards my line of interpretation. 9. Moreover, in Th there are many passages about the “surpassing,” as reconfiguration, of cultic rules and traditional Jewish practices; so, Th fits into a trajectory that could derive from some Jesuanic statements (see e.g. Mark 7). 80 See logia 6; 14 (“Jesus said to them, ‘If you fast, you will give 75.  For these conclusions see L. Gaston, No Stone on Another (Leiden, 1970) 240‑241. 76.  It is true that in Th the Kingdom is often represented through anthropological metaphors, but this does not exclude the importance of the spatial ones. The plurality of representations must be explained by the search for the best performative efficacy. Gathercole also hints at entering the Kingdom (S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 2014) 146), referring to logia 22; 99; 114; cf. 39; 64; 75. 77.  Consider also that in Th topos has a technical, salvific meaning: cf. M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso (Roma, 2011) 44, 53 (n. 86), 119, 156‑157. 78. M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso (Roma, 2011) 260 asserts that in this logion “lo statuto del regno viene concettualizzato in termini spaziali.” 79.  The connection with the Kingdom is confirmed by a comparison with Luke 8:10, which speaks of “to know the secrets of the Kingdom.” 80.  Jesus’ attitude towards the Law and the temple is open to various interpretations. While it seems unlikely that Jesus was radically opposed to the temple and sacrifices, it should be noted that in the Gospels (and other sources) there is no attestation that he offered sacrifices, and that some statements concerning a criticism or a relativization of the sacrifices or ritual practices are also attributed to him. Texts such as Mark 7 and Matt 5‑7 seem to contain traces of a Jesus who is moving towards a shift in respect to some traditional rules, carrying on a prophetical tradition which opened the way for a more “interiorizing” understanding of sacrifices and purity. He stresses the internal, moral purity, not the ritual purity.

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birth in yourselves to sin. And if you pray, you will be condemned. And if you give alms, you will harm yourselves. When you enter any district and walk around the countryside, if they take you in, whatever they serve you, eat! […] For what goes into your mouth will not make you unclean, rather what comes out of your mouth. It is this which will make you unclean!’”); 27; 39 (quoted above); 42; 43; 53 (about the surpassing of physical circumcision, advocating a “true circumcision in the spirit”); 89 (about the purity of containers); 104; cf. also 102, with the criticism of “Pharisees.” 81 Clearly, that trajectory is related to the theme of the temple: this is the linchpin of the previous cultic system, which is reassessed because of the faith in the coming of the Kingdom. Sacrifices and old practices are spiritualized, interiorized (in line with a prophetic tradition); 82 it is noteworthy that, in different communities and periods, various interpretations related to the “spiritualization” or the “replacement” of the temple were developed, even before its destruction in 70 ce (which, however, may have affected some texts). If we consider the whole theological perspective of Th, we may note a coherence with a possible view of the community as the new temple. According to Perrin, Jesus does not abrogate the Law, but redefines it; the cultic dimension is still important, in the sense that it is transferred from the temple into the community and its activities, but it remains. 83 What changes is the localization of the divine presence, but not the general religious conception. However, without dealing here with Jesus’ historical stance, I would like to point out that the attitude (and the interpretation) of the Thomasine community seems to pertain clearly to this perspective, even more so as the decades passed and with the stratified development of Th. 84 Even the gradual development of the conception Cf. M. R escio – L. Walt, “‘There is Nothing Unclean’: Jesus and Paul against the Politics of Purity?,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 29/2 (2012) 53‑82: 68, 73‑74; G. L ettieri, “Note storico-critiche sul parallelismo sacramentale tra tempio e ‘persona’ dalle origini cristiane alle teologie patristiche,” in F.V. Tommasi, ed., Tempio e persona. Dall ’analogia al sacramento (Verona, 2013) 153‑197: 159‑162; G. Theissen – A. M erz , The Historical Jesus. A Comprehensive Guide (Minneapolis, 1998), 359‑372 and 394‑400, esp. 370‑372, trans. of Der historische Jesus: Ein Lehrbuch (Göttingen, 1996). Cf. G. L ettieri, “‘Fuori luogo’. Topos atopos dal Nuovo Testamento allo Pseudo-Dionigi,” in D. Giovannozzi – M. Veneziani, ed., Locus-Spatium. XIV Colloquio internazionale del Lessico Intellettuale Europeo. Roma, 3‑5 gennaio 2013 (Firenze, 2014) 81‑148: 87, 88, 92. 81.  Cf. M. Pesce , Le parole dimenticate di Gesù (Milano, 2004) 560, on logion 6: “il Gesù di Tommaso sembra più incline a svalutare queste pratiche [fasting, etc.] e a sottolineare, più che la pratica della Legge, l’intenzione morale nel praticarla.” 82.  Cf. Isa 1:11; Jer 7; Hos 6:6; 8:13; Amos 5:21‑25; 1 Sam 15:22, etc. 83.  Cf. N. Perrin, Jesus the Temple (Grand Rapids, 2010) 185-186. 84.  About the surpassing of Jewish practices in Th see D.W. K im, “What Shall We Do? The Community Rules of Thomas in the ‘Fifth Gospel’,” Biblica 88/3 (2007) 399-406. M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso (Roma, 2011) 235 speaks

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of an immanent and interiorized Kingdom could contribute to redefine it as (proleptically) realized in the community which is the new temple. 85 10. We may get another element on which to reflect, if we consider that the Thomasine community was an “esoteric” community: since from its beginning Th speaks of Jesus’ “secret words” of which one must find the meaning (Th, Incipit). This opens up the possibility that at least some sayings should be interpreted allegorically (without, however, proposing again the “Gnostic” interpretation of Th). Furthermore, the hypothesis that an esoteric and ascetic community could conceive of itself as “pure body”, as new temple, could be corroborated by the parallel with some Qumran texts, where this idea was explicitly asserted. In conclusion, the possible presence in Th of the idea of the community as the new temple seems to be supported not only by all the internal textual elements identified above, but also by its coherence with other early Christian writings and its consonance with some Qumran texts. 86 It may be appropriate to read Th from this viewpoint, connecting the text to a wider background, and to analyze logion 71 also in the light of those interpretations of Jesuanic temple logia provided by other traditions. As is well known, Jesus’ relationship to the temple was a central issue that his followers of various communities/groups had to deal with, sometimes reinterpreting the temple. The centrality of the temple theme emerges in Th as well, if one also analyzes passages which seem to be less explicit.

of “interiorizzazione delle norme di purità,” as those on fasting, circumcision, etc. S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 2014), sees in Th a sharp criticism of Jewish practices: see p. 163-164 and the commentary to the logia in question. It is significant that Gathercole interprets from this viewpoint also logion 71 (see p. 479): the material Jerusalem temple must be overcome, as well as other cultic practices. 85.  Cf. the commentary on logion 13 by A.D. Deconick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (London-New York, 2006) 52: “The community appears to have conceived of its Church and encratic praxis as the actualization of the Kingdom.” 86. With “coherence” I do not mean direct relationships between the various traditions, but possible interpretive trajectories that may be shared on the basis of widespread and common elements. Moreover, I might answer to the possible objection concerning the lack of an absolutely explicit theorization of the “community as new temple” in Th recalling, e.g., Mark and Matthew, in which many scholars see that theorization, although an explicit statement seems to lack.

T HE G OSPEL OF M ATTHEW AND THE G OSPEL OF JOHN: I NTERTEXTUAL CONNECTIONS IN THREE C ASE STUDIES (M ATT 27:49 // JOHN 19:34; M ATT 27:55‑56 // JOHN 19:25‑27; M ATT 5:32 // JOHN 7:53–8:11)

Giulio Michelini This paper focuses on an issue that is of great importance for researches on biblical pragmatics, i.e. intertextuality and, more specifically, intertextuality between New Testament books. Though the relationship between New Testament texts has already been addressed from several different perspectives, such as literary dependencies between Synoptic Gospels, the connections between the letters of Paul and James, 1 or, again, the intertextual connection between Matthew’s Gospel and the Pauline writings, 2 we shall focus on three situations that do not seem to have received sufficient attention, which could shed some light on the link between the First and the Fourth Gospels (Matt 27:49 // John 19:34; Matt 27:55‑56 // John 19:25‑27; Matt 5:32 // John 7:53–8:11). I. J oh n

and the

S y nop t ic G ospe l s

The relationship between the Fourth Gospel and Synoptics has represented since antiquity a topic of interest for exegetes and historians of 1.  Consider, for example, the well-known issue of the figure of Abraham in the Letter of James and in Paul’s letter to the Galatians. D.C. A llison, “Jas 2:14‑26: Polemic against Paul, Apology for James,” in T. Nicklas – A. M erkt – J. Verheyden, ed., Ancient Perspectives on Paul (Göttingen, 2013) 123‑149, gives at least six possible solutions for the intertextual relationship between the two writings (James and Paul deal independently with the same topic; Paul replies to James, criticizing his argument; Paul approves James; James replies polemically to Paul; James replies to Paul, defending his own arguments, without refuting Paul’s; James does not react directly to Paul’s thesis, but to its antinomistic radicalization). 2. The relation between Matthew’s Gospel and the letters of Paul has been once again taken into consideration, starting from David Sim’s position, according to which Matthew is attacking Pauline ideas. See K.R. Iverson, “An Enemy of the Gospel? Anti-Paulinisms and Intertextuality in the Gospel of Matthew,” in C.W. Skinner – K.R. Iverson, ed., Unity and Diversity in the Gospels and Paul (Atlanta, GA, 2012) 7‑32. Iverson sees an intertextual relation between the Pauline and Matthean texts in the form of a “dialogue” amongst different theologies. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 247–267 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111706 ©

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early Christianity. This tie in antiquity 3 has led to the acceptance of the differences between the four gospels, as well as the characterization of one of them as “more” spiritual (Clement of Alexandria on John’s Gospel; see Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 6.14.7) than others (that therefore had to be – as a result – “less” spiritual). The interpretation of Clement became what was called the “standard solution” or the “consensus” that endured to the twentieth century: John knew the other Gospels and presupposed that his readers knew them. With Benjamin Wisner Bacon, at the beginning of the last century, the situation changed. He maintained again that John depended on the other gospels, 4 but he was probably the one to start, in 1910, the history of the modern critical discussion on the topic. In his perspective, John ignored Matthew and was essentially dependent on Mark. “The details that the author [John] adds to the Marcan framework are, in Bacon’s opinion, not the observations of an eyewitness, but apologetic and doctrinal additions,” 5 made through arrangements of the Second Gospel’s order, adding passages as the Prologue, and creating the famous Johannine discourses. John’s reworking is evident, for example, in the episode of the Samaritan woman that, according to Bacon, the evangelist had created by combining material from Mark 7:24‑30 with information on Jesus’ mission to Samaria taken from Luke’s Gospel (9:51‑56, etc.). Discourses such as the one to Nicodemus, again, are a creation taken from Mark 10:13‑22, 12:28‑34, 15:42‑46, with Luke 18:18, and so on. A similar view was held by B. H. Streeter, who concluded that John knew Mark and also the other two gospels, but made little use of Matthew because he did not accept its Judaic and apocalyptic tendencies. 6 After Bacon’s proposals the tide turned significantly, however, with Percival Gardner-Smith (1888‑1985), Dean of Jesus College, Cambridge until 1956, who in 1938 came up with the hypothesis that the author of 3.  Two excellent summaries of the situation in the patristic age and the solutions regarding differences between John and the Synoptics may be found in J. Becker , “Das vierte Evangelium und die Frage nach seinen externen und internen Quellen,” in I. Dunderberg – C. Tuckett – K. Syreeni, ed., Fair Play. Diversity and Conflicts in Early Christianity (Leiden – Boston – Köln, 2002) 203‑241, and in M.F. Wiles , “The Four Gospel and the Synoptic Gospels,” in The Spiritual Gospel. The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel in the Early Church (Cambridge, 1960) 13‑21. A good treatise and history of the different modern hypotheses can be found in W. Carter , John. Storyteller, Interpreter, Evangelist (Grand Rapids, MI, 2006) 140‑151. 4. See B.W. Bacon, The Fourth Gospel in Research and Debate (New York, 1910). For an analysis of Bacon’s perspective, see D. Moody Smith, “B.W. Bacon on John and Mark,” Perspectives in Religious Studies 8 (1981) 201‑218. 5. W. Baird, History of New Testament Research, 2. From Jonathan Edwards to Rudolf Bultmann (Minneapolis, MN, 2003) 303. 6. B.H. Streeter , The Four Gospels (London, 1924) 424.

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the Fourth Gospel, without knowing the Synoptics, had composed his writing autonomously. His most famous work, Saint John and the Synoptic Gospels, 7 influenced greatly, among others, one of the most important scholars of the Johannine tradition, Charles Harold Dodd, according to whom John had been inspired by an ancient oral tradition with elements in common with the Synoptics. Gardner-Smith – while undermining the hypothesis that the author of the gospel of John knew the Synoptics – reopened a discussion that seemed to have come to an end, and tried to demonstrate that the Fourth Gospel was independent from the others. The effect that Gardner-Smith had on the research was important, but his proposal (and the one by Dodd) – although accepted by scholars such as Bultmann (1955), Schnakenburg (1965), Brown (1966), Dauer (1972) and Haenchen (1980) – did not impose itself permanently. 8 At some point, the hypothesis that emphasized the connections between John and the Synoptics returns with other scholars following in the footsteps of Bacon. Amongst them Charles Kingsley Barrett, who in 1955, while studying the “Christian Background of the Gospel” of John, found at least ten events narrated by John that are similar to events in Mark, which are even narrated in the same order, from the work and witness of the Baptist, to the Passion and Resurrection. 9 Barrett thinks that he has found a striking chain of very significant events, the sequence of some of which – such as the feeding of the multitude and Jesus’ walking on the lake – are not explicable except on the hypothesis of literary dependence (John 6:1‑13.16.21, depending on Mark 6:34‑44.45.52). Moreover, in several of the passages common to the two gospels there are close verbal resemblances, all of which leads to the conclusion that John knew Mark and, if not using it as a real source, had at least read it. Barrett thought that it contained a good outline and often “perhaps involuntarily – echoed Mark’s phrases when writing about the same events.” 10 As we shall see, Barrett’s opinion is quite important for our argument, since we shall underline some events that John – following Barrett’s thought – could not have read in Mark’s gospel or in any other New Testament writing, 11 7.  P. Gardner-Smith, Saint John and the Synoptic Gospels (Cambridge, 1938). 8. P. Borgen, The Gospel of John. More Light from Philo, Paul and Archaeology: The Scriptures, Tradition, Exposition, Settings, Meaning (Leiden, 2014), is the most recent publication that considers the Fourth Gospel as independent from the Synoptics. 9. C.K. Barrett, The Gospel According to St. John (London, 1955) 42‑54. 10. C.K. Barrett, The Gospel According to St. John (London, 1955) 45. 11.  We refer to the recent interpretation of B. A damczewski, The Gospel of the Narrative “We”: The Hypertextual Relationship of the Fourth Gospel to the Acts of the Apostles (Frankfurt am Main, 2010). According to the author the Fourth Gospel, much like the Gospel of Matthew, is a systematic hypertextual reworking of the Acts of the Apostles. The Fourth Evangelist followed the particular sequence

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since they can be found only in the First Gospel. If the evangelist did not depend on an oral tradition, he has therefore been inspired by Matthew. In most recent researches a “consensus” is no longer common, and much interest has been devoted to the exegesis of specific texts seen from the Synoptic and Johannine perspectives. The more studied texts are the so called “multiplication” of the loaves and the fishes, 12 Jesus’ farewell speeches, 13 the passion narratives, 14 and others. 15 Only a few works are dedicated, on the contrary, to the theoretical study of the relation between John’s Gospel and the Synoptics, amongst which is the one of 2012 by Zbynĕk Garský that we shall comment on at the end of this paper. Since it is not our aim to refer to all the literature on the argument, which is of themes and motifs of the Acts of the Apostles in his creative reworking of all three Synoptic Gospels, and in this reworking one may find the main causes of the differences between the Fourth Gospel and the Synoptics. 12. S.A. Hunt, Rewriting the Feeding of Five Thousand: John 6.1‑15 as a Test Case for Johannine Dependence on the Synoptic Gospels (New York – Bern – Berlin – Bruxelles – Frankfurt am Main – Oxford – Wien, 2011); I.D. M ackay, John’s Relationship with Mark. An Analysis of John 6 in the Light of Mark 6‑8 (Tübingen, 2004); A. Fuchs , “Das Verhältnis der synoptischen agreements zur johanneischen Tradition, untersucht anhand der messianischen Perikope Mk 6,32-44 par Mt 14,13‑21 par Lk 9,10‑17; Joh 6,1‑15,” Studien zum Neuen Testament und Seiner Umwelt 27 (2002) 85‑115. John 5:31‑47 in comparison with other Jesus’ teachings has been studied by P.F. Bartholomä, “John 5,31‑47 and the Teaching of Jesus in the Synoptics. A Comparative Approach,” Biblica 92 (2011) 368‑391. 13. J. Beutler , “Synoptic Jesus Tradition in the Johannine Farewell Discourse,” in Neue Studien zu den johanneischen Schriften. New Studies on the Johannine Writings (Göttingen, 2012) 89‑99 = in R.T. Fortna – T. Tatcher , ed., Jesus in Johannine Tradition (Louisville, KY, 2001) 165‑173. 14.  Concerning the relation between John and the Synoptics for the passion narratives, see: S.E. Porter , The Criteria for Authenticity in Historical-Jesus Research. Previous Discussion and New Proposals (Sheffield, 2000) 205‑207; J.F. Coakley, “The Anointing at Bethany and the Priority of John,” Journal of Biblical Literature 107 (1988) 241‑256 (priority of John with respect to other gospels, at least for this episode, which then has been modified by other gospels), and P. Borgen, “John and the Synoptics in the Passion Narrative,” New Testament Studies 5 (1959) 246‑259. 15. See, for example, P.F. Bartholomä, “John 5,31‑47 and the Teaching of Jesus in the Synoptics. A Comparative Approach,” Biblica 92 (2011) 368‑391. A.J. Köstenberger thinks that John has taken a minor motif in the Synoptics (but only from Mark and Luke) – that of a “sign”, in the form of “miracle” – and has theologically developed and transposed it into a major Johannine theme (i.e., the Johannine “sign”). See A.J. Köstenberger , “John’s Transposition Theology: Retelling the Story of Jesus in a Different Key,” in M.F. Bird – J. M aston, ed., Earliest Christian History: History, Literature, and Theology. Essays from the Tyndale Fellowship in Honour of Martin Hengel (Tübingen, 2012) 191‑226. For a brief explanation of that thesis and the idea that John transposed Synoptic material, see also A.J. Köstenberger , “Johannine Fallacies: Ten Common Misconceptions Regarding John’s Gospel,” in L.D. Chrupcała, ed., Rediscovering John. Essays on the Fourth Gospel in Honour of Frédéric Manns (Milano, 2013) 1‑25; 6‑9.

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very extensive (and for which one can see the definitive presentation of the state of the discussion, until 2001, in Dwight Moody Smith’s John Among the Gospels 16), we want only to recall the researches of the group called “John, Jesus and History Project.” A research program unit of the Society of Biblical Literature, centered on the topics involving the Fourth Gospel and the Historical Jesus, it has published many studies in order to emphasize the historicity of the Fourth Gospel, proposing that it should “be reconceived at least in part as a complementary presentation for readers and hearers of Mark.” 17 Let us now address the issue of the relation between the first and the last gospels. II. J oh n

and

M at t h ew

A few researches on the relationship between the First and the Fourth Gospels dates back to the 1960s. Frans Neirynck in 1968 dedicated an article to the relationship between the resurrection narratives in Matthew and John 18 (research that he proposed again with several of his subsequent investigations, 19 including one published in 1992). 20 When Anton Dauer some years later published his doctoral thesis investigating several parallels between John 18:1-19:30 and the Matthean texts, 21 Neirynck himself gave a thorough overview on the several attempts to connect Matthew and John, especially when reworking the case of women at the tomb in

16. D. Moody Smith, John among the Gospels (Columbia, SC, 2001). Another excellent treatise and history of the different modern hypothesis is W. Carter , John. Storyteller, Interpreter, Evangelist (Grand Rapids, MI, 2006) 140‑151. 17. P.N. A nderson, “Why This Study Is Needed, and Why It Is Needed Now,” in P.N. A nderson – F. Just – T. Thatcher , ed., John, Jesus and History. I. Critical Appraisals of Critical Views (Leiden – Boston, 2007) 13‑73; 18. 18. F. Neirynck , “Les femmes au tombeau. Étude de la rédaction matthéenne (Matt. XXVIII.1‑10),” New Testament Studies 15 (1968‑1969) 168‑190. Recently an article has returned to the argument: J.H. O’Connell , “John Versus the Synoptic Gospels on Mary Magdalene’s Visit to the Tomb,” Conspectus (South African Theological Seminary) 14 (2012) 123‑131. But the author – who tries to conciliate the different versions of the narratives about the women at the tomb – does not know the critical discussion on the argument and ignores Neirynck’s researches. 19.  See F. Neirynck , Evangelica III: 1992‑2000. Collected Essays (Leuven, 2001) 74, n. 37. 20. F. Neirynck , “John and the Synoptics: 1975‑1990,” in A. Denaux, ed., John and the Synoptics (Leuven, 1992) 3‑62 (in particular pages 16‑35). 21. A. Dauer , Die Passionsgeschichte im Johannesevangelium. Eine traditionsgeschichtliche und theologische Untersuchung zu Joh 18,1‑19,30 (München, 1972). On Dauer’s thesis see F. Neirynck , “John and the Synoptics: 1975‑1990,” in A. Denaux, ed., John and the Synoptics (Leuven, 1992) 16.

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the two gospels. 22 Considering the redactional character of Matt 28:9-10, which has been written following the narrative of Mark and not reworking an oral tradition, Neirynck concluded that John must have borrowed from Matthew, because the opposite is impossible and other sources, at this point, become superfluous. The role of primacy that John gives to Mary Magdalene, therefore, is a Johannine choice, but based on elements found in the First Gospel. Others 23 have also recently worked to find points of contact between John and Matthew – among them, significantly, are Benedict Thomas Viviano, Thomas L. Brodie, and Paul N. Anderson. The former, in an article published in 2004, 24 argues for the dependence of the Gospel of John on the First Gospel through an intertextual use that was conscious, critical, and at times even inner-canonically polemical. Viviano explores twelve instances of John’s knowledge of Matthew’s gospel and his reaction to Matthew, which concern Emmanuel, the light of the world, Elijah and John the Baptist, the transfiguration, the messianic secret, the Sabbath, the role of Peter, the logion of turning the other cheek, the use of Old Testament, Christology, judgment, and discipleship. Thomas L. Brodie, in his The Quest for the Origin of John’s Gospel, has suggested that “in simplified terms, Mark supplied the fundamental ingredients of John’s narrative framework, and Matthew the fundamental ingredients of his discourses.” 25 He maintains, for instance, that the Sermon on the Mount – as well as the other discourses of Jesus in Matthew – is reshaped and relocated, so that part of it is to be found in Jesus’ discourses in the temple (John 7‑8). According to Brodie this procedure, “rather startling”, corresponds “to the oldest testimony concerning the origin of the fourth gospel – Clement of Alexandria’s report that John decided to move gospel composition into a new spiritual form.” 26 22. F. Neirynck , “John and the Synoptics: 1975‑1990,” in A. Denaux, ed., John and the Synoptics (Leuven, 1992) 34. 23.  See now the chapters on the literary dependence of the Fourth Gospel on one, two, or all three Synoptics in B. A damczewski, The Gospel of the Narrative “We”: The Hypertextual Relationship of the Fourth Gospel to the Acts of the Apostles (Frankfurt am Main, 2010) 22‑32. See also: G. Van Belle – D.R.M. Godecharle , “C.H. Dodd on John 13:16 (and 15:20): St John’s Knowledge of Matthew Revisited,” in T. Thatcher – C. Williams , ed., Engaging with C.H. Dodd on the Gospel of John: Sixty Years of Tradition and Interpretation (Cambridge, 2013) 86‑106; J. Painter , “Matthew and John,” in D.C. Sim – B. R epschinski, ed., Matthew and His Christian Contemporaries (London – New York, 2008) 66‑86. 24. B.T. Viviano, “John’s Use of Matthew: Beyond Tweaking,” Revue Biblique 111 (2004) 209‑237 (= in B.T. Viviano, Matthew and His World. The Gospel of the Open Jewish Christians. Studies in Biblical Theology [Freiburg, 2007] 245‑269). 25.  See T. Brodie , The Quest for the Origin of John’s Gospel. A Source-Oriented Approach (New York, 1993) 31. 26. T. Brodie , The Quest for the Origin of John’s Gospel. A Source-Oriented Approach (New York, 1993) 32.

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Paul Anderson, 27 on the other hand, sees the Matthean and Johannine traditions in dialogue only in their later stages – probably not engaging written texts, but reflecting some familiarity with each other’s traditions. He also sees a couple of places where Matthew follows John, but mainly thinks that distinctive contacts between them are meager, and it is impossible to know for sure which way the influence might have gone. According to him similarities and differences between the Matthean and Johannine traditions do not prove direct literary influence in one direction or another; they reflect intertraditional engagement, probably in the oral stages of their traditions. After this brief presentation of different positions on the relation between John and Matthew, we can now concentrate on three situations that do not seem to have received sufficient consideration. The first and second texts come from the passion narratives, and tell about the death of Jesus and the flow of water and blood from his side, as well as the women’s presence at Jesus’ crucifixion. The third and last text is the Pericope adulterae, which will be carefully considered also for the well-known issues of its transmission and reliability. III. Wat e r ,

blood , a n d spi r i t :

M at t 27:49 // J oh n 19:34

According to major uncials such as Sinaiticus (‫)א‬, Vaticanus (B), Ephraemi (C), Regius (L), Tischendorfianus (Γ), some Vulgate manuscripts, Schøyen 2650 (a Middle Egyptian Coptic fourth-century Gospel translation), 28 and some other manuscripts, in Matt 27:49, after “Let’s see if Elijah will come to save him” one we find the sentence ἄλλος δὲ λαβὼν λόγχην ἔνυξεν αὐτοῦ τὴν πλευράν, καὶ ἐξῆλθεν ὕδωρ καὶ αἷμα (“[…] another one, then, 27.  We refer here to the position of Anderson as presented in the Excursus “A Bi-Optic Hypothesis – A Theory of Gospel Relations,” in his book: P.N. A nderson, From Crisis to Christ. A Contextual Introduction to the New Testament (Nashville, TN) 2014 (especially pages 137‑140). On the relation between John 6:67‑71 and Matt 16:17‑19, see P.N. A nderson, The Christology of the Fourth Gospel. Its Unity and Disunity in the Light of John 6 (Tübingen, 1996) 221‑251, as well as P.N. A nderson, “Mark, John, and Answerability. Interfluentiality and Dialectic between the Second and Fourth Gospels,” Liber Annuus 63 (2013) 197‑245 (especially pages 213‑215, on contacts between Matthew and John). On the relation between the two gospels, see also: P.N. A nderson, “‘You Have the Words of Eternal Life!’. Is Peter Presented as Returning the Keys of the Kingdom to Jesus in John 6:68?,” Neotestamentica 41 (2007) 6‑41; P.N. A nderson, “Petrine Ministry and Christocracy. A Response to Ut Unum Sint,” One in Christ 40 (2005) 3‑39; P.N. A nderson, “The Having-Sent-Me Father. Aspects of Agency, Encounter, and Irony in the Johannine Father-Son Relationship,” Semeia 85 (1999) 33‑57. 28.  See J.M. L eonard, Codex Schøyen 2650. A Middle Egyptian Coptic Witness to the Early Greek Text of Matthew’s Gospel: A Study in Translation Theory, Indigenous Coptic, and New Testament Textual Criticism (Leiden, 2014) 250. See also J.M. L eonard, “Codex Schøyen 2650,” Tyndale Bulletin 65.1 (2014) 153‑156.

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after having taken a spear, pierced his side, and blood and water flowed out”). Bruce Metzger, 29 the 28th Nestle-Aland NT critical edition, and many Matthew commentators 30 consider this variant reading to be an early intrusion derived from John 19:34. Others, with them Bart Ehrman, tried to find out other solutions in order to explain its presence in the Matthean text, but also consider it an interpolation. 31 The sentence is very close to the one in John 19:34 (ἀλλ᾽ εἷς τῶν στρατιωτῶν λόγχῃ αὐτοῦ τὴν πλευρὰν ἔνυξεν, καὶ ἐξῆλθεν εὐθὺς αἷμα καὶ ὕδωρ), but according to the First Gospel, the spear thrust occurs before Jesus’ death – not after it, as in John’s Gospel. Moreover, the words ὕδωρ καὶ αἷμα are in a different order, with respect to the version in John, 32 though in several Matthean manuscripts the word order is the same as that in the Fourth Gospel. 33 29. B.M. M etzger , A  Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament (London – New York, 1994) 59: “It might be thought that the words were omitted because they represent the piercing as preceding Jesus’ death, whereas John makes it follow; but that difference would have only been a reason for moving the passage to a later position (perhaps at the close of ver. 50 or 54 or 56, or else there would have been some tampering with the passage in John, which is not the case. It is probable that the Johannine passage was written by some reader in the margin of Matthew from memory (there are several minor differences, such as the sequence of ‘water and blood’), and a later copyist awkwardly introduced it into the text.” 30.  See, for example: R.T. France , The Gospel of Matthew (Grand Rapids, MI, 2007) 1073; J. Nolland, The Gospel of Matthew. A Commentary on the Greek Text (Grand Rapids, MI, 2005) 1201; D.A. H agner , Matthew 14‑28 (Dallas, TX, 1998) 842; R.E. Brown, The Death of the Messiah. From Gethsemane to the Grave. A Commentary on the Passion Narratives in the Four Gospels, 1 (New York – London, 1994) 1066. 31. B. Ehrman, Studies in the Textual Criticism of the New Testament (Leiden, 2006) 82, thinks that “the spear thrust of Matthew 27:49 serves to show that Jesus had a real body that could really bleed and die,” and therefore served anti-docetistic purposes. John Dominque Crossan considers the text an interpolation as well, but proposes a different solution: “One might still wonder if the glosser or copyist was recalling some connection between ‘reed’ and ‘piercing’ and thus inserted it here because there was a mention of a ‘reed’ in Matthew 27:48‑49. That deserves no more than a very slight maybe”: J.D. Crossan, The Cross That Spoke. The Origins of the Passion Narratives (Eugene, OR, 1988) 155‑156. 32.  But in some manuscripts of John’s Gospel, such as P66 (200 d.C.), word order for verse 19:34 is “water and blood.” For a discussion on these variant readings and relative testimonies, see M. Daly-Denton, “Drinking the Water that Jesus Gives. A Feature of the Johannine Eucharist?,” in Z. Rodgers – M. Daly-Denton – A. Fitzpatrick Mckinley, ed., A  Wandering Galilean. Essays in Honour of Seán Freyne (Leiden, 2009) 345‑366 (Daly-Denton contends that the Johannine text originally contained only a reference to water – which would be indicated by the singular form of the verb ἐξῆλθεν – and that blood was later inserted in the text). 33.  See J.M. L eonard, Codex Schøyen 2650. A Middle Egyptian Coptic Witness to the Early Greek Text of Matthew’s Gospel: A Study in Translation Theory, Indigenous Coptic, and New Testament Textual Criticism (Leiden, 2014) 250, n. 52.

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From the perspective of internal narrative logic, the sentence “another one, then, after having taken a spear, pierced his side, and blood and water flowed out” is perfectly consistent with the situation described by Matthew: different from John’s Gospel, Jesus according to Matthew cries out because of extreme pain. For this reason, William D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, for example, as well as others before them,  3 4 take the variant seriously and are moved in the direction of considering it authentic. 35 We might do the same, not merely because Matthew would be describing a plausible historical situation, 36 but mainly because this episode would be perfectly consistent with Matthean theology of the blood shed for sinners, according to what we read at Matt 26:28 (“For this is my blood of the new covenant, which will be poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins”). The main purpose of the words of Jesus over the cup in this gospel is precisely in relation to the forgiveness of sins. Matthew is in fact the only evangelist to associate, through the words of 26:28, the blood for the remission of sins. In this way, he can succeed in explaining the meaning of the name of Jesus to which he had alluded in Matt 1:21 (“he will save his people from their sins”). The reader has already learned that the very name of Jesus has something to do with the sins of Israel (the “many” of Matt 26:28, i.e. the same word for “people” that occurs in Matt 1:21). Only inside the passion narrative, and only with such words over the cup, does the reader finally see the whole picture clearly: liberation from sin will take place with the pouring out of blood. Since the death of Jesus is for the sake of sinners, Matthew gives it the distinct meaning of atonement, connected with the theology of Kippur. Matthew, in fact, in his Gospel depicts Jesus in connection with the Kippur rituals, as Daniel Stökl Ben Ezra had already noted in 2003 not for the First Gospel, but for other New Testament writings. 37 Stökl Ben Ezra concluded his argument by assuming that “most Christian Jews continued to observe the fast of Yom Kippur. Only gradually did they cease 34.  J.P. van K asteren, “Der Lanzenstich bei Mt 27:49,” Biblische Zeitschrift 12 (1914) 32‑34, considers the reading as authentic. 35.  W.D. Davies – D.C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew. III (New York, 2004) 626: “We are almost moved to think the line original.” 36. G. Samuelsson, Crucifixion in Antiquity (Tübingen, 2013) 251: “The reading is usually reckoned as intrusion from John 19:34. However, it might be worth a second thought considering the diverse methods that are described in the studied suspension accounts. If there was not fixed punishment form called crucifixion in the time of Jesus, a reading that Jesus died by the spear instead of a ‘cross’ is more plausible […]. Such a reading would, e.g., contextualize the death cry […], which becomes less surprising if it is read as a reaction to a spear thrust.” 37.  See D. Stökl Ben Ezra, The Impact of Yom Kippur on Early Christianity. The Day of Atonement from the Second Temple to the Fifth Century (Tübingen, 2003) 330.

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to do what they were accustomed to observing. Unlike previous investigators, who often deduced from the use of temple typology in a Christian author his rejection of the temple service, I assume such a conclusion to be only partially valid (definitely so in Barnabas and Hebrews; perhaps also in Matthew and 1John).” 38 As we have tried to demonstrate in one of our works, 39 Jesus in the First Gospel is represented by the goat in the sacrifice of Kippur, whose blood – proleptically announced in Matt 26:28 (blood that “will be shed  4 0”) is eventually poured out during Jesus’ crucifixion. The Temple theology, therefore, far from being rejected, is assumed also by Matthew as the theological background in which the drama of Jesus’ death is to be understood. If we focus again on the variant reading in Matt 27:49b (“another one, then, after having taken a spear, pierced his side, and blood and water 38. D. Stökl Ben Ezra, The Impact of Yom Kippur on Early Christianity. The Day of Atonement from the Second Temple to the Fifth Century (Tübingen, 2003) 330‑331. 39.  For a thorough explanation of this argument, see G. M ichelini, Il sangue dell ’alleanza e la salvezza dei peccatori. Una nuova lettura di Mt 26‑27 (Roma, 2010), especially 443‑457. 40.  The Greek verb ἐκχυννόμενον at Matt 26:28 is in the form of a present passive participle, which might imply, in our view and that of many exegetes, future action. L.C. Boughton, “‘Being Shed for You/Many’. Time-Sense and Consequences in the Synoptic Cup Citations,” Tyndale Bulletin 48 (1997) 249‑270, concludes as follows: “Although most modern vernacular translations, by rendering ἐκχυννόμενον in the present tense, suggest that the Greek text of the Synoptic cupcitations denotes a pouring out taking place in the supper room, modern linguistic research undertaken apart from translation decisions or historical-critical analysis has pointed out that, both lexically and contextually, ἐκχυννόμενον denotes an action that does not coincide with the drinking of a cup-offering. In other words, linguistic studies of the verbal aspect of present participles indicate that ἐκχυννόμενον was intended by those who transmitted a cup-citation in Greek as denoting the bloodshed of the crucifixion. Early Hebrew, Latin, and Coptic transmissions of the cup-citations reveal by their use of a future time-sense that Patristic-era Christians understood the pouring out as a reference to sacrifice rather than to libation” (p. 270); see also, by the same author and reaching the same conclusions, “Transubstantiation and the Latin Text of the Bible: A Problem in the Nova Vulgata Bibliorum,” Gregorianum 83 (2002) 209‑224. For the presence of the future in the testimonies of Irenaeus and other Church Fathers, see P.F. Bradshaw, “Did Jesus Institute the Eucharist at the Last Supper?,” in M.E. Johnson, ed., Issues in Eucharist Praying in East and West. Essays in Liturgical and Theological Analysis (Collegeville, MN, 2010) 1‑20; 6‑9. Future is also the verbal aspect in the Hebrew Shem Tov version of the Gospel, where the Hebrew verb is in the imperfect (a verbal tense which in Hebrew refers to an action not yet completed); see the Matthean Hebrew text in G. Howard, The Gospel of Matthew according to a Primitive Hebrew Text (Macon, GA, 1987), and in G. Howard, Hebrew Gospel of Matthew (Macon, GA, 2005). Lastly, it may be noted that the official translation of Matt 26:28 of the USA Bishops Conference, the New American Bible, is “this is my blood of the covenant, which will be shed on behalf of many for the forgiveness of sins.”

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flowed out”), we note that the weight of the witnesses and their quality lead us to believe the phrase is not only present in the ancient texts of the Gospel of Matthew, but could also be at the origin of the text preceding the Vatican and Sinaiticus. Stephen Pennells already in the 1980s came to the conclusion that this phrase, proven by many witnesses and transmitted as commonly accepted into the Middle Ages 41 (and in those times considered authentic and defended by the Spiritual Franciscans, among whom was Ubertino da Casale), 42 would then be finally expunged from the Gospels. The reasons for that obliteration are numerous, but the idea that Jesus died because he was killed by a spear and not by the torture of crucifixion was probably considered as contrary to the most common teaching of the Church, which was based, among other things, on John’s version of the episode. Philip W. Comfort gives other reasons to the fact that the long reading of Matt 27:49 was not preserved: The general consensus among scholars about the variant is that it was interpolated from John 19:34 (see Metzger’s assessment in TCGNT). However, the variant cannot be easily dismissed, for the following reasons: (l) The manuscript evidence for its inclusion is strong; indeed, the testimony of ‫א‬ B C has far more often refuted that of A D W than vice versa in the NU text – why not here? The scribes of B (especially) and ‫ א‬usually refrained from being gospel harmonists. (2) If it was taken from John 19:34, why was it not taken verbatim? As it is, the order of the last words in Matthew is ‘water and blood,’ whereas in John it is ‘blood and water,’ and there are four other words used in Matthew that do not appear in John (ἄλλος δὲ λαβὼν and ἐξῆλθεν). (3) The reason scribes would want to delete it from the text is because the spearing (according to John) happened after Jesus’ death, whereas here it occurs just before his death (see 27:50). Thus, the deletion was made in the interest of avoiding a discrepancy among the Gospels. Such harmonization was done full-scale in manuscripts like A D W. (4) Another reason for scribes to delete it is that it appears to present a jarring contradiction to what was just described: While many of the bystanders were waiting to see if Elijah would come and save Jesus, a Roman soldier (in complete opposition to this sentiment) lances Jesus with his spear. Therefore, the longer text should not be easily dismissed because, in fact, it is the harder reading and has excellent documentary support. At the least, it should be included in the text with single brackets (WH includes it with double brackets). 43

41. S. Pennells , “The Spear Thrust (Mt 27:49b, v.l. / Jn 19:34),” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 19 (1983) 99‑115. 42.  See F.C. Burkitt, “Ubertino da Casale and a Variant Reading,” The Journal of Theological Studies 23 (1921‑1922) 186‑188. 43. P.W. Comfort, New Testament Text and Translation Commentary (Carol Stream, IL, 2008) 87.

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In conclusion, there are good reasons to imagine that the author of John’s Gospel found the detail of Jesus’ death about blood and water coming from the spearing in the Gospel of Matthew. Making a change in word order, the reason for which we do not yet know, John took the opportunity to enhance the idea further, building a theology similar to – albeit, not on all points – the Matthean one of the blood for the forgiveness of sins, but centered rather on water. As has been pointed out recently,  4 4 the idea of water and blood streaming from the side of Christ in the Gospel of John is not simply an isolated incident, but the conclusion of a long prepared narrative. However, this does not contradict the possibility that John found the episode already narrated by another Gospel, which can be only Matthew’s, by which John would be inspired. The same process could have taken place, among other things, in the reference to the “Spirit” given by Jesus at his death: while Mark and Luke do not transmit this data (in Luke 23:46 there is a more generic verb, “expiry,” ἐκπνέω), John and Matthew are identical 45 in this respect (with only a small variant verb; Matt 27:50: ἀφῆκεν τὸ πνεῦμα; John 19:30: παρέδωκεν τὸ πνεῦμα). If Matthew sees in Christ the goat of Kippur, and therefore the blood poured out from his side performs its theological function in relation to sins, John sees the water and the blood from the cross similarly (evoked through the prophecy of Zechariah 12:10; 13:1 and 14:8) to speak of Jesus as the new Temple, from which the water for the purification of sins flows.  4 6 IV. M a ry of N a z a r et h at J e sus ’ cros s : M at t 27:55‑56 // J oh n 19:25‑27 The issue of the presence of Mary under the cross of Jesus does not start from the passion narrative of Matthew, but from a verse at the end of chapter 13, when the evangelist describes the scene of Jesus’ teaching in Nazareth: “Is not this the carpenter’s son? And is not his mother called Mary, and his brothers, James, and Joseph, 47 Simon and Judas?” (Matt 13:55). The most striking fact is that two of the four names of Jesus’ brothers 44. See now the interpretation in S.A. Carnazzo, Seeing Blood and Water. A Narrative-Critical Study of John 19:34 (Eugene, OR, 2012). 45. U. Luz , Matthew 21‑28. A Commentary (Minneapolis, MN, 2005) 542: “Noteworthy is an agreement between Matthew and John in their reference to ‘the spirit’ (Matthew 27:50 // John 19:30).” 46.  See S.A. Carnazzo, Seeing Blood and Water. A Narrative-Critical Study of John 19:34 (Eugene, OR, 2012). 47.  The name Ἰωσήφ at Matt 13:55 is replaced by two other names in a few important manuscripts, possibly influenced by Mark 6:3. See B.M. M etzger , A  Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament (London – New York, 1994) 28.

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return in the Matthean passion narrative (Matt 27:56: “Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of the sons of Zebedee”), and this is the reason why some have seen Jesus’ mother herself in the anonymous woman who stands under Jesus’ cross together with Mary Magdalene and Zebedee’s mother. Some exegetes ignore the question or do not express an opinion, even if they know about it, such as W.F. Albright and C.S. Mann: 48 “Though Matthew informs us in 13:55 that two of Jesus’ brothers were named James and Joseph, it is quite impossible to determine whether Matthew’s second Mary is meant to imply the mother of Jesus.” Even one of the most well known commentaries of Matthew are aware of the conundrum: she has also often been identified as Jesus’ mother, for in 13:55 Jesus’ brothers include a ‘James’ and a ‘Joseph’; and John’s Gospel [preserving tradition?] has Jesus’ mother at the crucifixion. It is, however, odd that Jesus’ mother would be identified by something other than her relationship to her son Jesus, or that the woman of chapters 1‑2 would be called ‘the other Mary’ in v. 61 and 28:1. Further, ‘James’ and ‘Joseph’ were common names, so a first-century reader could easily suppose that two different women had sons with those names. 49

Against this hypothesis are some well-known scholars like U. Luz (“She was certainly not the mother of Jesus, even though according to 13:55 he had two brothers named James and Joseph; otherwise she would have been called ‘Jesus’ mother’”) 50 and J. Nolland (“Jesus’ mother is also the mother of ‘James and Joseph’, along with ‘Simon and Judas’ and their sisters. Because Jesus’ mother is at the cross in John’s Gospel, the second Mary in Matthew’s list is sometimes identified with her. But it is hardly likely that Matthew would introduce Jesus’ mother in this indirect manner. While to identify a woman in relation to her husband was common enough, to identify a woman in relation to her sons is much less so”). 51 But other scholars maintain that in that verse Matthew is implicitly referring to Jesus’ mother, such as D.A. Carson, 52 or D.R.A. Hare: “She is probably Jesus’ mother, in view of 13:55, but it is puzzling that she is not so identified here and that she is subsequently referred to simply as 48.  W.F. A lbright – C.S. M ann, Matthew. Introduction, Translation, and Notes (New Haven – London, 2008) 353. 49.  W.D. Davies – D.C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew, III (New York, 2004) 638. 50. U. Luz , Matthew 21‑28. A Commentary (Minneapolis, MN, 2005) 574. 51. J. Nolland, The Gospel of Matthew. A Commentary on the Greek Text (Grand Rapids, MI, 2005) 1225. 52. D.A. Carson, “Matthew,” in F.E. Gaebelein – D.A. Carson – W.W. Wessel – W.L. L iefeld, ed., The Expositor’s Bible Commentary. Matthew, Mark, Luke, VIII (Grand Rapids, MI, 1984) 583.

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‘the other Mary’ in verse 61 and in 28:1.” 53 Other exegetes are possibilists, such as R.T. France: ‘Mary the mother of James and Joseph’ could be an oblique way of referring to Jesus’ mother (see 13:55 for her sons’ names), but few interpreters believe that Matthew would deliberately obscure her relationship to Jesus in that way, or would refer to Jesus’ mother simply as ‘the other Mary’ in v. 61 and 28:1. Nor does the earlier mention of Jesus’ mother in 12:46‑50 suggest that she was among those who followed Jesus in Galilee. James and Joseph were common names, and there were two Jameses among the Twelve (10:2-3). 54

Of the same opinion is D.L. Turner: “Mary the mother of James and Joseph may be the wife of Clopas (John 19:25) or even Mary the mother of Jesus (cf. 13:55).” 55 Others, such as J.K. Chamblin, are tempted by the identification of Mary with Jesus’ mother, but then decide for its implausibility: This Maria is “the mother of James [Iakōbou] and Joseph [Iōsēph].” Mark 15:40 surnames the first son tou mikrou (“the younger”) and calls the second Iōsēs (“Joses”), an alternative spelling for Iōsēph. We know from John 19:25 that Mary, the mother of Jesus, was present at the cross; and from Matthew 13:55 that she had sons named James and Joseph (Iakōbos and Iōsēph, as here). Yet if she is the Mary of 27:56, why are only two of Jesus’ brothers named (four are mentioned in 13:55)? More importantly, why is she not called Jesus’ mother (as in 2:11; 12:46; 13:55, and John 19:25)? And in light of chapters 1‑2, could Matthew conceivably refer to Jesus’ mother as “the other Mary” (27:61; 28:1)? So 27:56 almost certainly speaks of a different person. 56

But what is more important is that the identification is ancient and is well attested in the Homilies on Matthew’s Gospel by Chrysostom, even if his interpretation is simply considered by some to be an overinterpretation: “These women were first to be attentive to Jesus at his death and burial. The sex most likely to be disparaged was first to enjoy the sight of his resurrected blessings. They most steadily showed their courage. Even when the disciples had fled in the darkness, these women were still pres-

53. D.R.A. H are , Matthew (Louisville, KY, 1993) 324. 54.  R.T. France , The Gospel of Matthew (Grand Rapids, MI, 2007) 1087. See the same author in Matthew. An Introduction and Commentary, I (Downers Grove, IL, 1985) 408: “‘Mary the mother of James and Joseph’ could be a description of Jesus’ mother (see 13:55 for his brothers’ names), but ‘the other Mary’ (27:61; 28:1) seems an unlikely way to refer to Jesus’ mother.” 55. D.L. Turner , Matthew (Grand Rapids, MI, 2008) 671. 56.  J.K. Chamblin, Matthew. A Mentor Commentary (Tain, 2010) 1435.

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ent. Among these women was his mother. She is called Mary the mother of James” (PG 58:777‑778). 57 If one can accept that the reference to “Mary the mother of James and Joseph” is an implicit allusion to Jesus’ mother, we still have to understand why Matthew chose such ambiguous language, while in the same Johannine passage the narrative is plain: “Standing beside Jesus’ cross were his mother (ἡ μήτηρ αὐτοῦ), his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene” (John 19:25). Gail Paterson Corrington gives a possible solution to the riddle, imagining that Matthew is simply using a literary and rhetorical strategy, either in Matt 13:55 or in 27:56, when he refers to Jesus’ mother with a circumlocution: “its very circumlocutory nature serves subtly to further dissociate from her. This dissociation is reinforced by the acclaim of Jesus as ‘God’s son’ by the centurion in 27:54. If Jesus is the Son of God, he is at this point in the narrative no longer designated the son of Mary.” 58 In other words, there might be theological reasons for Matthew’s choice that would not have gone unnoticed by the author of John’s Gospel. As in the First Gospel, Mary at some point is not simply Jesus’ mother anymore, so, a fortiori in the ecclesiological vision of John, for whom she might represent collectively “that part of Israel that is receptive to messianic salvation” 59 or, mainly for the Catholic interpretation, the Church. V. Th e “ pe r icope

a du lt e r a e ”:

J oh n 7:53–8:11 // M at t 5:32

We finally come to one of the most discussed pages and issues of the New Testament, concerning adultery and divorce, that we left to the end for textual criticism reasons. Before connecting the two situations in John 7:53–8:11 and Matt 5:32, we make clear that with respect to our argument we are proceeding from the assumption that the pericope adulterae 60 is not only ancient, 61 but well attested by witnesses such as the Codex Bezae. 57. M. Simonetti, Matthew 14‑28 (Downers Grove, IL, 2001) 298: “Chrysostom wrongly identifies Mary mother of James and Joseph (Matt 27:56) with the mother of Jesus.” 58.  G. Paterson Corrington, Her Image of Salvation. Female Saviors and Formative Christianity (Louisville, KY, 1992) 155‑156. 59. G.R. Beasley-Murray, John (Dallas, TX, 2002) 350. 60.  It is impossible to list all of the titles on the text; see now M.A. Robinson, A  Comprehensive Bibliography of Material relating to the Pericope Adulterae (John 7:53‑8:11): Various Entries Annotated (Wake Forest, NC, 2014; unpublished bound volume), and at least C. K eith, The Pericope Adulterae, the Gospel of John, and the Literacy of Jesus (Leiden, 2009). 61.  These are the main hypotheses on the reliability of the so called “pericope adulterae”. (A): the pericope is not Johannine, but possibly of Lukan origin. This is

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Therefore the story of Jesus and the Adulteress “has all the earmarks of historical veracity. It is obviously a piece of oral tradition which circulated in certain parts of the Western church and which was subsequently incorporated into various manuscripts at various places.” 62 Moreover, we should not forget that Papias – according to Eusebius (Ecclesiastical History 3.39.17) – relates a story of a woman who was accused of many sins before the Lord, which is contained in the Gospel according to the Hebrews, one of those gospels which presents close affinities with the one of Matthew. 63 As Raymond Brown writes, “if this is the same story as that of the adulteress, the reference would point to early Palestinian origins; but we the opinion of most common commentaries, such as Brown, Moloney, and Barrett. (B): According to J. Rius-Camps (J. R ius-Camps , “The Pericope of the Adulteress Reconsidered. The Nomadic Misfortune of a Bold Pericope,” New Testament Studies 53 [2007] 379‑405), the story was originally in the Gospel of Mark, who inserted it immediately after Mark 12:12, and later copied by Luke, who put it at 20:19, following Mark. However, because of the apparent excessive generosity of Jesus toward sinners, the story would eventually be expunged from both Mark and Luke by the end of the first century, instead resurfacing later in other manuscripts, but in different places, and eventually being included in John’s Gospel. The (C) third hypothesis, which goes against the most common opinion, comes from John Paul Heil (J.P. H eil , “The Story of Jesus and the Adulteress [John 7,53‑8,11] Reconsidered,” Biblica 72 [1991] 182‑191), according to which the passage is integrated perfectly in its context. Starting from internal criticism and lexical arguments, he concludes that the story was originally in John where it is now or has been interpolated, but well adapted in order to be connected to the context. In 1993, Daniel B. Wallace replied to the thesis of Heil, pointing out as that the passage contains 14 hapax legomena, which leads him to the conclusion that the text is not Johannine (D.B. Wallace , “Reconsidering ‘The Story of Jesus and the Adulteress Reconsidered’,” New Testament Studies 39 [1993] 290‑296). A year later Heil reaffirmed all its arguments, refuting some of the criticism of Wallace and claiming that the passage is originally from John 8. (D): Bart Ehrman represents the last position on the pericope adulterae (B. Ehrman, “Jesus and the Adulteress,” New Testament Studies 34 [1988] 24‑44; see also B. Ehrman, Misquoting Jesus. The Story Behind Who Changed the Bible and Why [New York, 2007] 63‑68). Ehrman believes that the story was not part of any of the Gospels, for it is not present in the best and most ancient manuscripts, and the style and lexicon are very different from that of John. It might be an anecdote that was part of the oral tradition about Jesus, added in some manuscripts by certain scribes that thought it was original. A similar position is retained by all those exegetes of John’s Gospel that do not insert the page in their commentaries, as well as by, for example, the scholars (like Michael W. Holmes) of the Society of Biblical Literature who have published a new edition of the NT in which, coherently, the “pericope” is only in the critical apparatus; see M.W. Holmes , The Greek New Testament SBL Edition (Atlanta, GA – Bellingham, WA, 2010). 62. B.M. M etzger , A  Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament (London – New York, 1994) 188. 63.  For the relation between Matthew’s canonical Gospel and a Gospel of the Hebrews, or a Hebrew Matthew Gospel, or other Judeo-Christian gospels, see G. M ichelini, Matteo. Introduzione, traduzione e commento (Cinisello Balsamo [MI], 2013) 36‑39.

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cannot be certain that our story is the one meant.”  6 4 Those Palestinian origins, according to James R. Edwards, might point to a Hebrew Gospel: “Whether Ecclesiastical History 3.39.17 and John 8 refer to the same event cannot be decided with certainty. What can be said with greater certainty is that the story, whatever its history of transmission, appears originally to have derived from the Hebrew Gospel.” 65 We can now come to the connection between the pericope adulterae and Matthew’s gospel, which has been noted only recently. It starts from a logion of Jesus attested only in Matt 5:32a, ἐγὼ δὲ λέγω ὑμῖν ὅτι πᾶς ὁ ἀπολύων τὴν γυναῖκα αὐτοῦ παρεκτὸς λόγου πορνείας ποιεῖ αὐτὴν μοιχευθῆναι (“But  I say to you that everyone who divorces his wife, except for immorality, makes her commit adultery”). This specific comment of Jesus is complicated, but it is at least clear that in Jesus’s eyes the divorcée is equivalent to an adulteress (5:32a). The idea is quite strange, since the bill of divorce had precisely the aim of limiting male arbitrariness and was written to grant to the woman, after the separation, the possibility of a remarriage without being accused of adultery (Mishna, Gittin 9.11). It is not completely clear, therefore, what Jesus means in saying that divorcing one’s wife makes her an adulteress (ποιεῖ αὐτὴν μοιχευθῆναι) and, even if many explanations have been advanced, we understand only that for Jesus divorce is always an act against love. According to Allison this logion of Jesus could be related to the resistance of Joseph to repudiate Mary, mentioned only by Matthew, among the evangelists, at Matt 1:19. The fact that he was deciding to divorce (ἀπολύω, the same verb in Matt 5:31‑32) Mary, but eventually did not, might even be at the origin of Jesus’ teaching on marriage’s indissolubility. 66 In 1999 Alan Watson has advanced an interpretation for the case in John’s Gospel of the adulteress presented to Jesus “to be stoned” that might also illuminate the text of Matt 5:32a, and vice versa. 67 His main 64. R.E. Brown, The Gospel according to John (I–XII). Introduction, Translation, and Notes (New Haven – London, 2008) 335. 65. J.R. Edwards , The Hebrew Gospel and the Development of the Synoptic Tradition (Grand Rapids, MI, 2009) 9. 66. D.C. A llison, “Divorce, Celibacy, and Joseph (Matt. 1.18‑25 and 19.1-12),” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 49 (1993) 3‑10. 67. A. Watson, “Jesus and the Adulteress,” Biblica 80 (1999) 100‑108. Various exegetes have favourably accepted Watson’s interpretation; for example F.T. Gench, Back to the Well. Women’s Encounters with Jesus in the Gospels (Louisville, KY, 2004) 150‑151 (“The fascinating aspects of Watson’s argument is that it does explain many of the troubling features of the story. For example, why the woman has not been formally tried or condemned for her crime; why Jesus accepts that she is guilty; why no evidence or witnesses are produced, nor a partner in crime; and why the woman is brought by the scribes and Pharisees to Jesus”). So also W.R.G. L oader , Sexuality and the Jesus Tradition (Grand Rapids, MI, 2005) 116, n. 155; W.R.G. L oader , Sexuality in the New Testament: Understanding the

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argument is that the woman presented to Jesus was a remarried divorcée, who, according to what we are saying, if not rejected by the Pharisees (according to the Law in Deuteronomy 24:1-4), for Jesus would be a real adulteress. The Pharisees and Scribes of the First Gospel, in short, are in agreement that some were aware of this new hermeneutics on the law of divorce and go to Jesus in order “to test him” (John 8:6 // Matt 19:3). They take him a woman in “flagrant” adultery, which is a sin in Jesus’ eyes: since he had declared that a woman whose husband had divorced her and who remarried committed adultery, and since that woman was remarried (not with the previous husband), 68 by Jesus’ claim she was an adulteress. If this hypothesis – which is based mainly on an argument ex silentio – corresponds to the intention of text, we have here an additional point of contact between the Gospel of Matthew and John, since only Matthew, as already referred above, transmits at Matt 5:32a the teaching of Jesus that a divorced woman remarrying is adulterous. C onclusion Dwight Moody Smith in his 1999 commentary on John, 69 starting from the assumption that the Fourth Gospel as it stands seems to presuppose that the reader is not ignorant of who Jesus is (“Christians have long read the Gospel of John as if it were intended to be studied alongside or after the other three” 70), left unanswered a fundamental issue. If the “canonical” reader of the Gospel of John had to know what preceded it, how could its author ignore the Synoptics? Moody Smith’s statement, as a matter of fact, takes into consideration the point of view of the “implicit” or “ideal” reader of the Fourth Gospel, but not the one of its author. Evidently, Moody Smith did not change his fundamental setting of ideas (John

Key Texts (London, 2010), though Loader criticizes Watson in W.R.G. L oader , The New Testament on Sexuality (Grand Rapids, MI, 2012) 135, n. 96. See also S. Grasso, Il Vangelo di Giovanni. Commento esegetico e teologico (Roma, 2008) 365, n. 4, who simply reports Watson’s hypothesis without any evaluation. 68.  Lisa Grushcow completely misses the point, interpreting Watson’s hypothesis as if “the ‘adulteress’ in question was in fact a divorcée who had remarried her husband, something which is prohibited in Jewish law”; L. Grushcow, Writing the Wayward Wife. Rabbinic Interpretations of Sotah (Leiden, 2006) 235, n. 8. The remarriage of a previous husband is explicitly the issue of Deuteronomy 24:4 (“her first husband who divorced her is not permitted to remarry her after she has become ritually impure”), and Jesus would be neither so naïve as to be ignorant of that law nor so antinomistic as to consider that woman sinless. 69. D.M. Smith, John (Nashville, TN, 1999). 70. D.M. Smith, John (Nashville, TN, 1999) 29.

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wrote his gospel independently from the Synoptics), in order to defend the historicity of John’s Gospel, 71 as we read, for example, in this passage: If the Gospel of John were, on the one hand, wholly dependent upon the Synoptics for its portrayal of Jesus and his ministry, any deviation from them would imply a diminution of John’s historical accuracy. Accordingly, the Gospel would be deemed of no value as an independent source. On the other hand, to the degree that John is independent of the Synoptics, the question of its historical value becomes worth pursuing. […] While independence itself does not imply historical value, the attribution of historical plausibility to the distinctive Johannine material does not imply independence, although if, of course, does not prove it. At the same time, neither independence nor possible historicity of a particular item, narrative, or episode necessarily implies total ignorance of Mark or the Synoptics generally. 72

What is really at stake here, therefore, if not the historicity of the Fourth Gospel? To pose the question with the words of an exegete who strongly supported the case that John’s Gospel was written by one of the apostles, should we really decide between two alternatives, namely, (1) that John’ redactional work is “the result of his vivid imagination, working of the Marcan account” or (2) that “the Fourth Gospel is credible as the work of a first-century ad Christian author, or Christian authors, writing from knowledge of the life and times of a Jewish prophet living in the Roman province of Syria in the first half of that century, and published in the second half of that century?” 73 We are not so sure that imagining John as inspired by Mark, and by Matthew, would necessarily lead to a devaluation of the Fourth Gospel: it would still remain “credible.” Moreover, accepting or not the influence that the Synoptics might have had for John is a choice that should not be biased by dogmatic or preconceived stances. We prefer, therefore, the general interpretation put forward by Zbynĕk Garský, who wrote the most recent comprehensive research on the relation of John’s Gospel to the Synoptics, analyzing it through text linguistics methodology. 74 Studying Jesus’ ministry in Galilee in the Fourth Gospel, and taking especially into consideration the inter-texts that are common to John and the Synoptics, he shows that the fourth evangelist is a true exegete of them. John wrote his gospel knowing the Synoptics, entering into

71.  See S. Grasso, Il Vangelo di Giovanni. Commento esegetico e teologico (Roma, 2008) 832. 72. D. Moody Smith, John among the Gospels (Columbia, SC, 2001) 200. 73. J. R edford, Who was John? The Fourth Gospel Debate after Pope Benedict XVI’s Jesus of Nazareth (Mumbai, 2009) 141; 146. 74. Z. Garský, Das Wirken Jesu in Galiläa bei Johannes. Eine strukturale Analyse der Intertextualität des vierten Evangeliums mit den Synoptikern (Tübingen, 2012).

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a literary dialogue with them. He re-read them allegorically, with a special intertextual technique that he describes – employing a term used by U. Eco – as “intertextual irony” (“johanneische intertextuelle Ironie”). 75 Garský states that the reader of the Fourth Gospel does not need to turn to allegory for correct interpretation; he simply must read the Story narrated by John, rather than looking to History. Our analysis of three episodes in the Fourth Gospel brings us to the conclusion that John may have read information that was accessible only in the Gospel of Matthew, 76 with which, therefore, there is a strong intertextual relation. The exact determination of that connection is more difficult to define. Even if it is difficult to state whether it took place during the oral transmission of information about Jesus and his sayings or through written documents, we cannot aprioristically exclude that we are in the presence of a real intertextual relation based on written sources. Without trying to resolve overcomplicated questions, we can say that the three situations we have examined from Johns’ Gospel (the water and blood from Jesus’ side, Mary under the cross, and the woman presented to Jesus) can be seen as the reworking of elements already present in the First Gospel. Of the possible sources suggested by scholars in order to explain the relation between John and the other gospels (the Synoptic Gospels, independent written sources, oral tradition about Jesus), 77 sources that John might have known and used in writing his own, we understand that our

75. Z. Garský, Das Wirken Jesu in Galiläa bei Johannes. Eine strukturale Analyse der Intertextualität des vierten Evangeliums mit den Synoptikern (Tübingen, 2012) 297‑307. 76.  The male name Ἰακώβου τοῦ μικροῦ mentioned as the son of Mary under the cross, according to Mark 15:40 (“Mary the mother of James the younger”), is slightly different from that in Mark 6:3 (“the son of Mary and brother of James, Joses, Judas, and Simon”). On the other hand, there is a more exact correspondence between Matt 27:56 (“Mary the mother of James and Joseph”) and Matt 13:55 (“And aren’t his brothers James, Joseph, Simon, and Judas?”). However, the connection between the situations has been noted also for the gospel of Mark. See, for example, R.H. Gundry, Mark. A Commentary on His Apology for the Cross (Grand Rapids, MI, 1933) 977: “Since Mark 6:3 also gives the name Mary to Jesus’ mother, it seems likely that one and the same Mary was mother to Jesus, James, and Joses (and in 6:30 to Jude [not Iscariot] and Simon [not Peter or the Cananaean; cf. 3:16-9] as well. Mark identifies her as the mother of Jesus’ first two brothers rather than of Jesus himself […] probably because the centurion has just identified Jesus as God’s son and Mark does not want Mary’s being the mother of Jesus to lessen the emphasis in this passage on his divine sonship.” 77.  See W. Carter , John. Storyteller, Interpreter, Evangelist (Grand Rapids, MI, 2006) 141.

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exegetical proposal does not lead to a “mediating” position, 78 but to the first one. Not only could John have read Mark, but he could also have known the Gospel of Matthew and entered into dialogue with it.

78.  We refer to J.D. D vorak , “The Relationship between John and the Synoptic Gospels,” Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society 41/2 (1998) 201‑213: 213: “It seems best to view John’s relationship to the Synoptics as mediating. This argument seems to make the most sense theologically and historically. It proposes that John perhaps read Mark and Luke (and maybe Matthew) but wrote his own gospel, not consulting or making verbatim use of any of the synoptic gospels.”

PANTHEIST, EQUILIBRIST, OPPORTUNIST? LUKE AND THE SPIRITUALITY OF THE GENTILES IN ACTS 17:16‑34 Carlo Broccardo I. S tat us

qua e s t ion i s a n d m et hodology

For a long time it has been an unquestionable datum that within Judaism of the Hellenistic period there were different ways of thinking about and relating to the so-called “pagan world”; there is not much in common between Aristobulus’ conciliatory line and the hard line of the Sibyllines Oracles. The question which prompts the present essay is, where is the author of Luke-Acts situated in this context? Possibly he was of Judaic origin, or he was perhaps coming from the world of those Gentiles who were sympathizing with the Mosaic Law. Regardless of what the answer might be, what we are asking ourselves is this: in what relationship does Luke place himself with the horizon of sense that was proposed by Hellenism, and specifically by its spirituality? We shall look for an answer in the text of Acts 17:16‑34, the famous Areopagus speech. However, we shall not be taking into consideration a comparison between the book of Acts and Paul’s Letters: this aspect has been widely explored already in the last few decades. 1 Therefore we shall not investigate whether Luke’s Paul is the same of Paul’s Letters. We are not interested in Paul, we are interested in Luke. So, taking for granted that the Athens’ speech, like all of the other speeches of Acts, is at least a reworking – if not even a fabrication – of the third evangelist, we are asking: how does Luke situate himself with respect to Gentile religiosity? What emerges from the speech that Luke has his character Paul deliver before the Areopagus? In the history of the interpretation the answers have been so varied that they are often to be placed in opposition to each other. Since the second century some similarities have been noticed between this speech and texts and figures of the Greco-Roman world (see, for instance, the references in Justin, Clement of Alexandria, and Origen). 2 Modern inter1.  For a classic formulation of this question, see R. M addox, The Purpose of Luke-Acts (Edinburgh, 1982) 68, 83‑84, n. 7. 2.  See C.K. Rowe , “The Grammar of Life: The Areopagus Speech and Pagan Tradition,” New Testament Studies 57 (2010) 32‑33. Rowe quotes also E. Beurlier , Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 269–291 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111707 ©

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preters deepen the comparison, in that they acknowledge commonalities in language and conceptions between Hellenism and the Athens’ speech. They offer a lot of quotations, but disagree as to the significance to be given to them: “They range from seeing it as a placid pantheistic sermon on natural theology, all the way to seeing it as a scathing demonization of Gentile religion.” 3 Famous and emblematic is the judgement that M. Dibelius expressed in 1939: “So erweist sich die Areopag-Rede in ihrem – auf das Ganze gesehen – rationalen Charakter als ein Fremdling im Neuen Testament.” 4 Even in its extremism, such a statement is not at all outdated in recent publications; it has been taken again in toto and almost literally in the commentary by J. Jervell of 1998. 5 Two recent essays returned to this discussion: C.K. Rowe (2010) argues that Paul and the philosophers, even they have a common “vocabulary”, have indeed a vision of life very different from each other. Paul makes use of their “vocabulary”, in order to show that since Jesus’ advent it is necessary to change one’s own “life’s philosophy”, that we cannot know God without Jesus. 6 J.W. Jipp (2012), however, contends that in Paul’s words we have an anti-idolatrous polemic that serves to show how the best of GrecoRoman religiosity (i.e. the theology of philosophers) is expressed by faith in Jesus. 7 The difference between these two authors is about this point: “Saint Paul et l’Aréopage,” Revue d ’histoire et de littérature religieuses 1 (1896) 344‑366. 3. J.W. Jipp, “Paul’s Areopagus Speech of Acts 17:16‑34 as Both Critique and Propaganda,” Journal of Biblical Literature 131 (2012) 567. For an history of the quest until the 1970s, see V. Gatti, Il discorso di Paolo ad Atene (Brescia, 1982) 17‑64. 4. M. Dibelius , “Paulus auf dem Areopag,” in Aufsätze zur Apostelgeschichte (Göttingen, 1951[1939]) 55. “Es hat sich gezeigt, dass die Theologie der AreopagRede der des Paulus schlechterdings fremd, ja im ganzen Neuen Testament ein Fremdkörper ist” (65). 5. “Die Areopag-Rede ist ein Fremdkörper sowohl im Neuen Testament als auch in den Lukanischen Werken. Das gilt sowohl inhaltlich, theologisch, als auch formal, also sprachlich und stilistisch. Wir haben keine Parallele. Die Rede ist die einzige Rede an Heiden in der Apg, d.h. an ‘reine’ Heiden, also solche, die nicht eine Verbindung mit den Synagogen haben, anders als die Gottesfürchtigen. Und diese Rede ist keine Missionsrede, keine Predigt”; J. Jervell , Die Apostelgeschichte (Göttingen, 1998) 452. 6. C.K. Rowe , “The Grammar of Life: The Areopagus Speech and Pagan Tradition,” New Testament Studies 57 (2010) 49: “What Luke says is that there is a very different way to understand the cosmos and humanity’s place therein. The end of human life is now to be seen in terms or the rhythm of existence that is repentance and in light of the eschatological reality of the coming Judge.” 7. J.W. Jipp, “Paul’s Areopagus Speech of Acts 17:16‑34 as Both Critique and Propaganda,” Journal of Biblical Literature 131 (2012) 568‑569: “Luke hellenizes Jewish traditions of monotheism, anthropology, and anti-idol polemic to show that the best and most consistent Greco-Roman philosophical religion is contained within the Christian movement […]. The speech is a bold attempt to claim as its

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according to Rowe, Luke’s Paul shares the vocabulary of the philosophers, but not their underlying values system; while according to Jipp he shares both of them. In his essay, Jipp makes this objection to Rowe: why does he make so many references to a values system that is not shared? 8 To Jipp however we can object by asking, why the final invitation to conversion, if philosophers are already on the right path? (He solves the question, thus invoking irony, but does not convince.) Differences in interpretation are often explained because the statements of one or another verse of the Old Testament are taken separately, independently from the context in which they are found, and then are compared with the same number of arguments by some ancient philosopher or other. What I would like to show in this paper is that such an approach is not sufficient. Luke has indeed inserted such statements in what is an articulate and lengthy speech, which itself is part of a larger text. In making a list of similarities, we must ask what role the parallels play in the argumentation of Acts 17 and what role this speech plays in the whole of Luke-Acts. After these methodological explanations, we should be able to formulate the question that leads the present research: why does Paul use Gentile allusions and vocabulary? Is it only bait in order to bring the listeners to Jesus’ announcement? Or is it because he thinks that within the “nonbelieving” (from his point of view) world a dialogue may be possible, and perhaps there is something to learn? We shall proceed in three stages: first (a) an analysis of the main points of contact between Acts 17 and Gentile religiosity; then (b) a glance to the entirety of the speech, with a special attention to its argumentation; and finally (c) a comparison between Acts 17 and the other speeches by Paul within Acts. II. S om e

of t h e m a n y poi n ts of con tact

The lexical and thematic points of contact between Paul’s statements in Athens and the Hellenistic world are numerous; some recent studies include plenty of references and offer a rich abundance of data. While referring to those works for a wider list of texts, quoted here will be only those statements that Luke reports verse after verse, with an Hellenistic or biblical reference as an example. Among the passages from the Old Testament, I prefer those from Torah or Prophets, which were more commonly accepted as canonical by Luke’s time. own the superior aspects of Greco-Roman philosophical traditions. In so doing, Luke simultaneously exalts his movement and criticizes competing movements.” 8.  Ibidem, 568, n. 2.

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A. Acts 17:24‑25 At vv. 24‑25 we have the statement that God made the world and he does not need temples or human offerings for his survival: ὁ θεὸς ὁ ποιήσας τὸν κόσμον καὶ πάντα τὰ ἐν αὐτῷ, οὗτος οὐρανοῦ καὶ γῆς ὑπάρχων κύριος οὐκ ἐν χειροποιήτοις ναοῖς κατοικεῖ οὐδὲ ὑπὸ χειρῶν ἀνθρωπίνων θεραπεύεται προσδεόμενός τινος, αὐτὸς διδοὺς πᾶσι ζωὴν καὶ πνοὴν καὶ τὰ πάντα. That God is the one who made the world is a biblical datum that is repeated in many texts from Gen 1:1 onward. For the similarity with Acts 17:24, let us take the passage of Is 42:5a: οὕτως λέγει κύριος ὁ θεὸς ὁ ποιήσας τὸν οὐρανὸν καὶ πήξας αὐτόν ὁ στερεώσας τὴν γῆν καὶ τὰ ἐν αὐτῇ; while from the Hellenistic world we can take Epictetus who affirms: ὁ θεὸς πάντα πεποίηκεν τὰ ἐν τῷ κόσμῷ καὶ αὐτὸν τὸν κόσμον (Dissertationes 4,6,7). 9 Therefore, the statement that God requires nothing, whether temples or other things from human beings, is a shared opinion: δόγμα Ζήνωνος· ἱερὰ θεῶν μὴ οἰκοδομεῖν· ἱερὸν γὰρ μὴ πολλοῦ ἄξιον καὶ ἄγιον οὐκ ἔστιν (Plutarch, Moralia 6 [1034b]); 10 ὅτι εἰ ἀληθῶς κατοικήσει ὁ θεὸς μετὰ ἀνθρώπων ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς; εἰ ὁ οὐρανὸς καὶ ὁ οὐρανὸς τοῦ οὐρανοῦ οὐκ ἀρκήσουσίν σοι, πλὴν καἰ ὁ οἶκος οὗτος, ὃν ᾠκοδόμησα τῷ ὀνόματί σου (3 Kgdms 8:27). B. Acts 17:26 At v. 26 we find two other statements: that God has made from one being all the nations that live in the whole earth, and that for them he allotted with order all things: ἐποίησέν τε ἐκ ἑνὸς πᾶν ἔθνος ἀνθρώπων κατοικεῖν ἐπὶ παντὸς προσώπου τῆς γῆς, ὁρίσας προστεταγμένους καιροὺς καὶ τὰς ὁροθεσίας τῆς κατοικίας αὐτῶν. The first statement is clearly present in Gen 1: from Adam then comes Eve and all their offspring; see Adam’s genealogy in Gen 5 and the table of peoples in Gen 10 that ends with a reference to the whole earth: Αὗται αἱ φυλαὶ υἱῶν Νωε κατὰ γενέσεις αὐτῶν κατὰ τὰ ἔθνη αὐτῶν· ἀπὸ τούτων διεσπάρησαν νῆσοι τῶν ἐθνῶν ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς μετὰ τὸν κατακλυσμόν (Gen 10:32). It is more difficult finding references in the Hellenistic literature. According to Barrett “there was no clear parallel to this in Greek thought and mythology,” 11 but we should not neglect the remark by Jipp that reminds us how “the interpreter may interpret the 9.  Text quoted by C.K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles. Volume II: Introduction and Commentary on Acts XV-XXVIII (Edinburgh, 1998) 840. 10.  Ibidem. 11.  Ibidem, 842.

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phrase in the Stoic sense whereby all humanity originates in and is a part of Zeus. The unity of humanity was certainly a significant doctrine of the Hellenistic philosophers.” 12 Beyond the exact quotation, which is impossible to find, we can see here an allusion to the common feeling about the unity of humankind. As for the order of the cosmos, the idea of a God who gave borders to the elements, so that the earth could be habitable, is again borrowed from Gen 1. In the Greek world, however, references to a God who does everything with order are in plenty, from Plato (Filebo 28c.30c) until Aratus of Soli (who shall be later quoted at v. 28): ὁ δ᾽ἤπιος ἀνθρώποισι δεξιὰ σημαίνει, λαοὺς δ᾽ἐπὶ ἔργον ἐγείρει μιμνήσκων βιὸτοιο λέγει δ᾽ὅτε βῶλος ἀρίστη… λέγει δ᾽ὅτε δεξιαὶ ὧραι…. 13 C. Acts 17:27‑28 Vv. 27‑28 are syntactically the continuation of the previous phrase: the world’s order allows men to devote themselves to the research of God. It cannot be said that we are experts about God, but finding God is not impossible: he is near us, indeed, we are in Him. The syntax of these two verses is not among the easiest: ζητεῖν τὸν θεόν, εἰ ἄρα γε ψηλαφήσειαν αὐτὸν καὶ εὕροιεν, καί γε οὐ μακρὰν ἀπὸ ἑνὸς ἑκάστου ἡμῶν ὑπάρχοντα. ἐν αὐτῷ γὰρ ζῶμεν καὶ κινούμεθα καὶ ἐσμέν, ὡς καί τινες τῶν καθ’ὑμᾶς ποιητῶν εἰρήκασιν· τοῦ γὰρ καὶ γένος ἐσμέν. Let us start from the research of God: “in Greek philosophy seeking is rational (Plato, Apology 19b; 23b; Gorgias 457d); in the OT it is wider and more existential (Amos 8.12 Ps. 14[13].2; 53[52].3; Rom. 3.11; 10.20; et al.)”. 14 However, there is ground that is common to the two worlds (philosophical and biblical): on the one hand a great part of ancient philosophy is de facto a theo-logy; on the other hand the invitation to search for God resounds many times in the Scripture’s texts. In the biblical field very often quoted is Is 55:6, but on this occasion we may perhaps refer to a Judaic Hellenistic text, such as the Book of Wisdom, which begins exactly so: Ἀγαπήσατε δικαιοσύνην, οἱ κρίνοντες τὴν γῆν, φρονήσατε περὶ τοῦ κυρίου ἐν ἀγαθότητι καὶ ἐν ἁπλότητι καρδίας ζητήσατε 12. J.W. Jipp, “Paul’s Areopagus Speech of Acts 17:16‑34 as Both Critique and Propaganda,” Journal of Biblical Literature 131 (2012) 581‑582. 13.  For the text of the Filebo, see V. Gatti, Il discorso di Paolo ad Atene (Brescia, 1982) 142‑143; at p. 255, Aratus’ text quoted above. 14. C.K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles. Volume II: Introduction and Commentary on Acts XV-XXVIII (Edinburgh, 1998) 846. The quotation continues on the same page: “But we do well to ask whether Luke had seen as clearly as modern students the difference between the biblical and the philosophical search. All used (more or less) the same words; must they not mean the same? To analyze the distinctions too sharply may mean missing Luke’s point.”

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αὐτόν. ὅτι εὑρίσκεται τοῖς μὴ πειράζουσιν αύτόν, ἐμφανίζεται δὲ τοῖς μὴ ἀπιστοῦσιν αὐτῷ (Wis 1:1‑2). The incipit of Wisdom is very useful for us, because not only does it repeat the invitation for seeking the Lord, but immediately after a specification is added: it is not a simple endeavour. So, in Timaeus Plato too says first that seeking God is a supreme work, but then he warns about its efficacy: τὸν μὲν οὖν ποιητὸν καὶ πατὲρα τοῦδε τοῦ παντός εὐρεῖν τε ἔργον καὶ εὐρόντα εἰς παντὸς ἀδύνατον λέγειν (Timaeus 28c). 15 Paul’s speech continues by affirming that God is not so far from us, since we are in Him. The quotation, as is well known, comes from Aratus of Soli, who lived between the fourth and third century bc: μεσταὶ δὲ θεοῦ πᾶσαι μὲν ἀγυιαί, πᾶσαι δ’ἀνθρώπων ἀγοραί, μεστὴ δὲ θάλασσα καὶ λιμένες… τοῦ γὰρ καὶ γένος ἐσμέν (Phaenomena, 2‑3.5). 16 It is possible to find an echo of an hymn to Zeus by Cleanthes, who was successor to Zeno as the head of the Stoic school in Athens, or of some passages from the Orphic Fragments. 17 It is important to note not only the part quoted in Acts 17:29, but also the previous lines of the Phaenomena, because it becomes clear how Aratus’ text is pantheistic: all road, all squares of the mankind, seas and harbours, are full of God, […] “for we too are his offspring.” On the other hand, it is not difficult to find biblical texts about God’s nearness or the point that humankind is created in His image: ποῖον ἔθνος μέγα, ᾧ ἐστιν αὐτῷ θεὸς ἐγγίζων αὐτοῖς ὡς κύριος ὁ θεὸς ἡμῶν ἐν πᾶσιν, οἷς ἐὰν αὐτὸν ἐπικαλεσώμεθα; (Deut 4:7); καὶ εἶπεν ὁ θεός Ποιήσωμεν ἄνθρωπον κατ’εἰκόνα ἡμετέραν καὶ καθ’ὁμοίωσιν […] καὶ ἐποίησεν ὁ θεὸς τὸν ἄνθρωπον, κατ’εἰκόνα θεοῦ ἐποίησεν αὐτόν, ἄρσεν καὶ θῆλυ ἐποίησεν αὐτούς (Gen 1:26a-27). D. Acts 17:29 V. 29 is a practical conclusion (introduced by οὖν), which is similar to that of vv. 24‑25; if we are the offspring of God, it is nonsense to confuse the divinity 18 with handmade materials that portray it: γένος οὖν ὑπάρχοντες 15. V. Gatti, Il discorso di Paolo ad Atene (Brescia, 1982) 168‑169. 16.  Ibidem, 255. Regarding the use of “pagan” texts in NT, cf. B.S. Billings , “«As Some of Your Own Poets Have Said»: Secular and Non-Canonical Literature in the New Testament and Some (Post)modern Parallels,” Expository Times 123 (2012) 479‑485. 17.  References and texts in C.K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles. Volume II: Introduction and Commentary on Acts XV-XXVIII (Edinburgh, 1998) 849. 18.  It is not important that Luke passes from θεός to θεῖος; with regard to this, Barrett’s argument is convincing: “We have just heard of the relation between God and men, so that there is no question of the personality of God; τὸ θεῖον refers to the property of being divine, divinity contrasted with an implicit τὸ ἀνθρώπειον, that which is human, and τὸ ὑλικόν, that which is material” (C.K. Barrett, The

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τοῦ θεοῦ οὐκ ὀφείλομεν νομίζειν χρυσῷ ἢ ἀργύρῳ ἢ λίθῳ, χαράγματι τέχνης καὶ ἐνθυμήσεως ἀνθρώπου, τὸ θεῖον εἶναι ὅμοιον. The reproof of every form of expressing the divine through images is typical in the biblical and Judaic world, in all its expression. Among all of the texts, we may take Is 40,18‑20: τίνι ὡμοιώσατε κύριον καὶ τίνι ὁμοιώματι ὡμοιώσατε αύτόν; μὴ εἰκόνα ἐποίησεν τέκτων, ἢ χρυσοχόος χωνεύσας χρυσίον περιεχρύσωσεν αὐτόν, ὁμοίωμα κατεσκεύασεν αὐτόν; ξύλον γὰρ ἄσηπτον ἐκλέγεται τέκτων καὶ σοφῶς ζητεῖ πῶς στήσει αὐτοῦ εἰκόνα καὶ ἵνα μὴ σαλεύηται. This motive can be found also in Hellenistic philosophy; see for instance Seneca, Epistulae morales ad Lucilium 31,11: finges autem non auro vel argento; non potest ex hac materia imago Deo exprimi similis. 19 III. Th e

r e a son for so m a n y bi bl ica l a n d ph i losoph ica l echoe s i n t h e w hol e of t h e spe ech

Even if it is incomplete, this summary has given an idea of how Paul’s speech in Athens, from v. 24 to v. 29, is filled with echoes of texts and ideas of the Old Testament (let us say, of the shared Judaic heritage), as well texts and ideas of Hellenistic philosophy (particularly, Stoic and Epicurean). Commentators often insist on this affirmation, sometimes with colourful images: “God thus is described, in terms that would be familiar to both Jews and Greeks”; 20 “his [Paul’s] criticism of popular polytheism and idolatry is at once philosophical and biblical”; 21 “his compressed sentences represent something of a sample of the far more sustained efforts at negotiating the religious and philosophical perceptions of the Greek world and those of Torah that could be found, for example, in the writings of Hellenistic Jews like Philo Judaeus (see Special Laws 1:32‑44) and Aristobulus (frag. 4)”; 22 “anyway one has to admire this skilful dosage of issues and formulations that intersect with references to both cultural worlds”; 23 “Luke has crafted this sentence [At 17:26b] in such a manner as to resonate with both biblical and philosophical traditions.” 24 As a philosopher Acts of the Apostles. Volume II: Introduction and Commentary on Acts XV-XXVIII [Edinburgh, 1998] 850). 19.  Text quoted in C.K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles. Volume II: Introduction and Commentary on Acts XV-XXVIII (Edinburgh, 1998) 850. 20.  Ibidem, 840 21.  Ibidem, 842. 22. L.T. Johnson, Acts of the Apostles (Collegeville MN, 1992) 319. 23. R. Fabris , Atti degli Apostoli (Roma, 1977) 530. 24. J.W. Jipp, “Paul’s Areopagus Speech of Acts 17:16‑34 as Both Critique and Propaganda,” Journal of Biblical Literature 131 (2012) 582.

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reading the speech of Acts 17, A. Peratoner speaks of “Biblical-Judaic and Greek-Hellenistic simul-valences of the text.” 25 Beyond the open or concealed enthusiasm for the hermeneutic work by Luke, the question remains: does the evidence that shows that Paul/ Luke shares the terminology of the Hellenistic world indicate also that he approves of its theology (i.e. its vision of the world and the role of God in it)? This question demands a shift from text to the context: in the whole of the speech made in Athens, what is the role that those simul-valences previously quoted play? More simply put: why does Paul quote so many ideas and texts of the Hellenistic world in his speech? What is the point? A. A  shared criticism of polytheism It is beyond doubt that Acts 17 includes a tight criticism of polytheism. The arguments are those already made classic in the Judaic world: it is enough to think on the Book of Wisdom (chapters 13‑14) or Philo and his De Decalogo or De vita contemplativa. 26 Men – this is the criticism – even when they have seen the many “marks” God left in his creation, have not acknowledged them as such; they have lost themselves, following false idols, the fruit of their imagination and work of their hands. In this argument, as we have seen previously, there is great resonance with the philosophical world. “Philosophers, of course, from Xenophanes and Plato to the time of the NT and beyond, were critical of Homer’s anthropomorphism of the gods, crudely interpreted”; 27 generalising, we may say that the Greco-Roman philosophical world labelled polytheism as a superstition, 28 even if, in practice, philosophers did not get out of it completely. In the same way the Judaic world considers it unacceptable to acknowledge a lot of deities, as well their representations and worship, as is clear from the commandment of Exod 20:3 and still more in its version of Deut 5:7‑9a:

25. A. Peratoner , “Un primo affioramento dell’incipiente integrazione tra Cristianesimo e riflessione filosofica. Il discorso di S. Paolo all’Areopago (At 17, 16‑34),” Marcianum 5 (2009) 393. 26. Cf. C.K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles. Volume II: Introduction and Commentary on Acts XV-XXVIII (Edinburgh, 1998) 850. Litwak, in his 2004 article, puts special emphasis on the prophets’ criticism against idolatry: “At every turn, Paul echoes the traditional, scriptural concepts that are used by Israelite prophets in their condemnation of idolatry”; K.D. Litwak , “Israel’s Prophets Meet Athens’ Philosophers: Scriptural Echoes in Acts 17,22‑31,” Biblica 85 (2004) 211. 27. C.K. Rowe , World Upside Down. Reading Acts in the Graeco-Roman Age (New York, 2010) 19; cf. the bibliographical references quoted at note 17, p. 183. 28.  Cf. the many texts quoted by C.K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles. Volume II: Introduction and Commentary on Acts XV-XXVIII (Edinburgh, 1998) 850.

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οὐκ ἔσονταί σοι θεοὶ ἕτεροι πρὸ προσώπου μου. οὐ ποιήσεις σεαυτῷ εἴδωλον οὐδὲ παντὸς ὁμοίωμα, ὅσα ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ ἄνω καὶ ὅσα ἐν τῇ γῇ κάτω καὶ ὅσα ἐν τοῖς ὕδασιν ὑποκάτω τῆς γῆς. οὐ προσκυνήσεις αὐτοῖς οὐδὲ μὴ λατρεύσῃς αὐτοῖς, ὅτι ἐγώ εἰμι κύριος ὁ θεός σου.

We can well understand Paul’s reaction in Luke’s narration when he arrives in the town that by all accounts was the most religious of all the old cities, Athens: 29 παρωξύνετο τὸ πνεῦμα αὐτοῦ ἐν αὐτῷ θεωροῦντος κατείδωλον οὖσαν τὴν πόλιν (Acts 17:16).

To define this as simply an “irritation” would be to misrepresent the extent of Paul’s revulsion. So Paul criticizes polytheism without hesitation and does it by referring to concepts and expressions that were shared by the philosophical world of that time, particularly by Stoic and Epicurean philosophers. From Acts 17:19 we know indeed that Paul is no longer in the market place, but before the Areopagus and his interlocutors are τινὲς δὲ καὶ τῶν Ἐπικουρείων καὶ Στοϊκῶν φιλοσόφων (v. 18). He is speaking with philosophers and, together with them, he distances himself from a certain way of thinking God – one which was considered insufficient by both of them. About this, there is no doubt. B. Only in search of legitimation? But we have to ask: why does he do this? Why does he seek such an alliance with philosophers in the common criticism against polytheism (or at least against its practical consequences: idols, temples, offerings, etc.)? According to Jippthere is an underlying propagandistic intention, in the sense that Luke wants to present the rising Christianity as a legitimate (and even superior) form of philosophical knowledge of God. Let us read his words: “The speech has been construed as a form of legitimation or propaganda. The Christian movement is not only not a crude superstition but is a superior form of philosophical knowledge of God. Do the Stoics and Epicureans challenge superstition? So does the early Christian move-

29. See Flavius Josephus , Contra Apionem II, 130: “Non enim convenit stultitiam nos indocti Apionis imitari, qui neque causa Atheniensium neque Lacedaemoniorum animo suo concepit, quorum alios quidem fortissimos, alios vero piissimos Graecorum omnes affirmant” (C. Boysen, Flavii Iosephi opera ex versione latina antiqua. Pars VI: De Iudaeorum vetustate sive contra Apionem [Wiesbaden, 1964] 100).

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ment. But these philosophers do not live out these beliefs in practice; the early Christians, Luke suggest, live them out and do so consistently.” 30 In other words, Luke would present the rising Christianity as a faith typology not only acceptable in the Hellenistic philosophical milieu, but stimulating even because it is superior from a practical point of view: the believers in Jesus indeed “live” the criticism to those superstitions that philosophers limit themselves to censure theoretically. I think that such an explanation is not sufficient to catch the core of the speech delivered by Paul in Athens, and also that this is a risky interpretation from an exegetic point of view. The risk I see in such an explication is that it reduces the difference between Paul/Luke and the Greek philosophers to a simple practical question, while on the other hand the differences in conceptualisation are not minor. Paul indeed uses the same vocabulary as philosophy, but with a different signification. About this Rowe is categorical: “Luke’s appropriation is not translation. It is, rather, a transformation of preexisting tradition at the most fundamental level of the unity between thought and life. In truth, the Gentile philosophical grammar is sufficiently reorganized to the point that it speaks a different language.” 31 Let us consider, for instance, the fragment of Aratus of Soli, which the Acts narration quotes explicitly with a solemn introduction at v. 28: it is clearly pantheistic. It says absolutely that of God are full the roads, the squares of men, the seas and the harbours […] and we too are his offspring. Secondly, when Paul, at the beginning of his speech, refers to a unknown god, Ἀγνώστῳ θεῷ, there is in these words a clear trace of polytheism, “due to anxiety lest any gods should be inadvertently left without due honour.” 32 We must say the same, in the third place, when v. 28 echoes the hymn to Zeus by Cleanthes, which is obviously polytheistic.

30. J.W. Jipp, “Paul’s Areopagus Speech of Acts 17:16‑34 as Both Critique and Propaganda,” Journal of Biblical Literature 131 (2012) 588. 31. C.K. Rowe , “The Grammar of Life: The Areopagus Speech and Pagan Tradition,” New Testament Studies 57 (2010) 44. “Common vocabulary is in itself never more than common vocabulary. The crucial question is rather about the larger grammar in which particular words or phrases occur. In the case of the Areopagus speech, meticulous attention to the narrative logic of the scene reveals a fundamentally Christian grammar – one in which words gain their meaning from their embeddedness in a linguistic pattern whose ordering syntactical principles derive from the coordination of a specific human being’s life history with an eschatological conception of the world” (ibidem, 49). 32. C.K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles. Volume II: Introduction and Commentary on Acts XV-XXVIII (Edinburgh, 1998). As many exegetes remind, “there is no independent evidence for such an inscription to a single god, but a fairly impressive collection of literary references to a practice in Athens of erecting altars to unknown deities (see especially Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers

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Dibelius, and many authors after him, have rejected the whole Areopagus speech for this reason: if Paul agrees with his interlocutors, i.e. if he quotes their texts and recalls their ideas, this means that he is proposing a real natural theology that reduces Christianity to a kind of pantheism. This is the conclusion to which one comes, affirming that the difference between Paul and the philosophers with whom he is confronted is only of practical order. It is a conclusion that, using again the expressions by Jervell, should be an extraneous element not only within the book of Acts and the work by Luke, but even in the ancient Judaism, which could not accept either polytheism or pantheism. 33 What shall we say? Theoretically there are two hypotheses: either the speech by Paul in Athens is an exception for the Judaic world of his time, the New Testament writings, and the rest of the Acts; or the purpose of the speech is not to compare himself with the philosophical world presupposed by the “commonplaces” which are often quoted. The whole of the speech, and particularly its rhetorical strategy, goes toward the second direction. C. The argumentation of Acts 17:22‑31 Until now we have been lingering over the central part of the speech, vv. 24‑29; now we have to take into consideration also the introduction (vv. 22‑23) and the final peroration (vv. 30‑31). Vv. 22‑23 draw our attention because of two details. The first refers to the adjective δεισιδαίμων, which is used here as comparative: ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, κατὰ πάντα ὡς δεισιδαιμονεστέρους ὑμᾶς θεωρῶ (v. 22). Such an adjective is ambivalent and it owes much of its significance to the context in which it is used; as a matter of fact, its significance can be “religious, practising” as well as “superstitious, bigot.”  3 4 Taking into consideration the context, it is more likely that Paul’s intention was one of captatio benevolentiae. He is indeed before the Areopagus of Athens: it is true that he does not have to defend himself from accusations which could lead to his death (as happened with Socrates); it is true that he is not being tried before judges, but conversing with a group of philosophers; 1:110; Philostratus, Life of Apollonius of Tyana 6:3)”; L.T. Johnson, Acts of the Apostles (Collegeville MN, 1992) 315. 33. Cf. supra, note 5. 34.  For the entry δεισιδαίμων Bauer notes that it “can, like δεισιδαιμονία, be used in a denigrating sense ‘superstitious’”, but that the original significance of the word δεισιδαιμονία is neutral: “In the ancient Mediterranean world δ. refers to concern about one’s relations to the transcendent realm […] Because such concern is ordinarily expressed in observance of specific religious rites or customs, δ. can denote ‘rite’ or ‘ceremony’.” Cf. F.W. Danker , A  Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature (Chicago, 2000) 216.

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but it would, nevertheless, not be the best strategy to begin the speech with insults directed at the city whose attention he wishes to draw. The second detail refers to the famous inscription to the unknown god, at v. 23: διερχόμενος γὰρ καὶ ἀναθεωρῶν τὰ σεβάσματα ὑμῶν εὗρον καὶ βωμὸν ἐν ᾧ ἐπεγέγραπτο· Ἀγνώστῳ θεῷ. Introduced by γάρ, it means that Paul acknowledges the excellent religiosity of the Athenian people: among thousands of expressions of worship there is also that one which intends to invoke a god not yet known. In this case too, Paul moves himself along a razor’s edge, since it is about an implicitly polytheistic inscription. 35 The use of the adjective δαισιδαίμων, instead of another word which would have indicated the Athenians’ religiosity without misunderstanding (for instance εὐσεβής, an adjective that the same author of Acts uses when he speaks about the “pagan” Cornelius in Acts 10:2), as well as the reference to the unknown god, are ways for the orator leave open two possibilities of interpretation. For the philosophers’ ears, there is nothing out of place: Paul’s words can be heard as a praise of Athenian religiosity; for the ears of a Judaic reader, Paul’s words are equally acceptable as an ironic criticism of Athenian religiosity. It is indeed admitted that their devotion could be defined as a superstition and that towards God there is something they do not know; they do not know God thoroughly, so then Paul proposes to them not a discussion, but an announcement: ὅ οὖν ἀγνοοῦντες εὐσεβεῖτε, τοῦτο ἐγὼ καταγγέλλω ὑμῖν (v. 23). 36 Therefore, from the beginning of the speech we can only guess what could be its tenor, and in a way not at all clear. Which of the two ways will Paul choose? A praise of religiosity or a criticism of superstition? The peroration concluding the speech is more explicit; it states, at vv. 30‑31: τοὺς μὲν οὖν χρόνους τῆς ἀγνοίας ὑπεριδὼν ὁ θεός, τὰ νῦν παραγγέλλει τοῖς ἀνθρώποις πάντας πανταχοῦ μετανοεῖν, καθότι ἔστησεν ἡμέραν ἐν ᾗ μέλλει κρίνειν τὴν οἰκουμένην ἐν δικαιοσύνῃ, ἐν ἀνδρὶ ᾧ ὥρισεν, πίστιν παρασχὼν πᾶσιν ἀναστήσας αὐτὸν ἐκ νεκρῶν.

In these words we have two main affirmations that are definitely peremptory and stand as the logical conclusion of the whole Paul’s speech (introduced by that οὖν). 35. C.K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles. Volume II: Introduction and Commentary on Acts XV-XXVIII (Edinburgh, 1998) 838. In support of a polytheistic reading of the inscription, Barrett quotes the Adversus Marcionem by Tertullian: “invenio plane ignotis deis aras prostitutas, sed Attica idolatria est”. 36.  “The term δεισιδαιμονεστέρους functions for Luke as a double-edged sword – it showed that the Athenian’s religiosity was in some way genuine while at the same time it leaves room that in spite of their sincerity their belief was wrong”; D.S. Morlan, Conversion in Luke and Paul: an Exegetical and Theological Exploration (London – New York, 2013) 105.

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The first affirmation: until today (νῦν, v. 30), from a religious point of view, there have been times of ignorance (ἄγνοια); Paul says this now, but implicitly the Athenians too admit this as a matter of fact, because they have dedicated an inscription to an unknown god (ἄγνωστος). But this ignorance has not been on the Athenians’ account: God has decides to wait; the verb ὑπεροράω can indicate two actions: watching from upabove down below, expressing despise or “looking down and not at, thus ignoring, overlooking.” 37 The context suggests the second meaning; the logic of the reasoning goes towards a direction that says, “until now God has not taken it on your account, but from now on you need to change.” From today onward, continues Paul, one cannot invoke any longer the ignorance as extenuating; it is necessary to repent. The second affirmation is an invitation to conversion. Paul does not dwell upon defining conversion’s requirements, i.e. what his listeners have to do, in what sense they must change. It is evident that they must go from ignorance to true knowledge of God, but in what lies this knowledge it is not said. Rather Paul repeats that conversion does not admit exception: God commands that all men in all places have to convert (also in Greek we can note an alliteration in the expression πάντας πανταχοῦ, which highlights even more the greatest extension of the command). Moreover, to the command is added a note of urgency: God has fixed a day on which the whole world shall be judged (once more an emphasis on the universality of the question: τὴν οἰκουμένην). There is nothing to joke about. Finally, as a further addition to the same invitation to convert, Paul points out that God has not only fixed the day of judgment, but established also the court: it shall be a man that pronounces the sentence, who will have authority as universal judge, because God has raised this man from the dead. This reference to the resurrection is necessary, because “that one who has been a man should be exalted to the role of universal judge is unheard of and needs proof. God proved this by raising him from the dead.” 38 Concluding this long section on the argumentation of Acts 17:22‑31, we can say that the purpose of Paul’s speech is dual (it is just the concluding peroration that allows us to affirm this with certainty): on the one hand, it is an invitation to convert aimed however at absent people (philosophers do not need to convert from idolatry); on the other hand, it 37. C.K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles. Volume II: Introduction and Commentary on Acts  XV-XXVIII (Edinburgh, 1998) 851. Cf. also the two significances listed by F.W. Danker , A  Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature (Chicago, 2000) 1034: “To disregard as not worthy of one’s notice, disdain, despise,” or “to indulgently take no notice of, overlook, disregard.” 38. C.K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles. Volume II: Introduction and Commentary on Acts XV-XXVIII (Edinburgh, 1998) 853.

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is the announcement of the risen Christ that is intended for the listeners, because the word “resurrection” alone produces trouble among the audience chosen by Paul. “These words about ‘judgment day’ do not provoke a reaction. Resurrection does it.” 39 D. Philosophers and resurrection Before we go on, let us recover the data at our disposal about the listeners of Paul’s words. Verse 18 tells us that some Stoic and Epicurean philosophers were interested in this strange fellow who, like Socrates, was holding debates in the market place of Athens, the famous Agora; they lead him to the Areopagus and ask him to speak. Paul’s audience is then exclusively formed by philosophers, but Paul associates them with the rest of population: in his speech’s incipit he does not say “You, philosopher…,” but he calls them ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι (v. 22); and when he refers to the altar of the unknown god, he includes the philosophers in the group of those who worship such a deity (the pronoun and the verb are at the second plural person and not at the third: τὰ σεβάσματα ὑμῶν and εὐσεβεῖτε). During his speech, Paul relies on their philosophical opinions, which he expresses in a way that could be acceptable also by a Jew of that time, as he was, in order to make a definite criticism against the drifts of the polytheism that the Stoic and Epicurean philosophers too labelled as a useless superstition. We have seen in the first part of this essay how Paul does insist very much on this last point; now we can look at v. 29: γένος οὖν ὑπάρχοντες τοῦ θεοῦ οὐκ ὀφείλομεν νομίζειν χρυσῷ ἢ ἀργύρῳ ἢ λίθῳ, χαράγματι τέχνης καὶ ἐνθυμήσεως ἀνθρώπου, τὸ θεῖον εἶναι ὅμοιον. Having already arrived to the rhetorical apex with the quotation of Aratus of Soli, why should he “descend” again to the level of criticism against polytheism? Why reaffirm the absurdity of a such worship? This absurdity was already asserted and many times repeated in the previous verses. Verse 29 serves Paul as a way of going toward the conclusion of vv. 30‑31: according to what we believe (I, Paul, and you philosophers), it is obvious that a conversion is needed; we cannot continue in such a situation. Even more so, if we think that God’s judgement is forthcoming. Let us pause for a moment to note the communicative strategy that Paul is effecting: he has filled his speech with many elements that were accepted and even central in the teachings of his listeners. We could almost say that the whole speech has been a continuous captatio benevolentiae. Since the beginning of his speech, Paul immediately brought the philosophers over to himself; he made them close to him with references and quotations; he put them on the platform on his side, so that it was 39. R.I. Pervo, Acts. A Commentary (Minneapolis MN, 2009) 441.

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possible to express – together, he and they – a judgement towards those who still believe that gods need food and beverages, or that they are to be identified with material images, products of human hands. Certainly, if Paul had made a definite analysis of pantheistic or even polytheistic ideas of his listeners (we shall not forget that the hymn to Zeus, to which there is perhaps an allusion at v. 28a, was composed by Cleanthes, who was successor to Zeno as head of the Stoic school…), an agreement would not be possible. But Paul did not take into consideration this aspect and even, as we have seen, many times he avoided intentionally any passages that could have complicated the dialogue. This is Paul’s style within the book of Acts. When he spoke at Antioch in Pisidia (Acts 13), he did not recount the entire history of Israel, but skilfully avoided any reference to the Law of Moses (this is not properly an insignificant detail in Israel’s faith experience, but it did not enter into the logic of the speech…), in order to arrive at speaking about the risen Jesus. Similarly also in Athens he skilfully avoided all possible points of conflict between himself and the philosophers in front of him, put himself “in the middle of them,” criticizing together the drifts of polytheism, and then added – as en passant – that the judgment shall be administered by a man whom God has established by raising him from dead. The many references to the philosophers’ theology are therefore functional for the criticism against polytheistic drifts: Paul is not confronting himself directly with these references; he does not want to discuss whether the pantheistic substratum of Aratus of Soli is compatible with his own monotheistic faith and he does not ask the philosophers to convert (even if indirectly they are also included in the group of the ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, the worshippers of an unknown god). He limits himself to reminding them what is shared in philosophical thought and does so in order to describe an unbearable situation, but such a criticism offers Paul the possibility of introducing an element of newness in the philosophical thought that he is expressing: a man is risen from dead. It is an affirmation that Paul makes as it were normal, but it is not, absolutely! And indeed in the face of such an announcement the philosophers react, in large part negatively. The dialogue with the philosophical world about what we could call a “common platform” is not then the centre of Paul’s speech at the Areopagus in Athens; it forms quantitatively its larger part, but it is not its main purpose. Paul highlights only what he has in common with Stoics and Epicureans in Athens, and does so only in order to criticize the drifts of polytheism and then to speak of Jesus’ resurrection.  4 0 Therefore we may 40.  Rediscovering a long neglected mode of interpretation, that of Epimenides and the so-called Epimenidea, C.K. Rothschild brings up for discussion again not the single detail, but the whole of the interpretation of Acts 17. There are truly links of a philosophical kind between this speech of Paul and his world, but what

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affirm that the purpose of the speech was just to arrive at and speak about that man and of the event that – from a philosophical point of view – was very difficult to face: the resurrection. All the rest, is functional to the purpose. A quick glance at other Paul’s speeches will help us to better outline the contours of such an affirmation. IV. L uk e ’s

v i sion

Following his arrival in Athens, while waiting for Silas and Timothy (whom he had sent back to Thessalonica), Paul “debated in the synagogue with the Jews and with the God-fearing and daily in the public square with anyone who would face him” (v. 17). This image, which begins the episode we are examining in detail, describes well Paul’s style in the Acts of apostles: he is not content to discuss only with Jews in the synagogues, but is approaching and speaking with Gentiles too. In the book of Acts we have at least two of Paul’s speeches to Gentiles: the one in Athens and another at Lystra; we will compare them first with each other and then with the speeches towards the Jews; and, finally, we shall give a quick glance also to speeches that Paul pronounced in front of the Jewish-pagan authorities in the last part of the book of Acts. A. Athens and Lystra: Paul among the Gentiles The speech at Lystra is much shorter than Athens’ speech. It is included within a narration about a wonder: having arrived in the city, Paul heals a paralyzed man saying only: “Stand up, get to your feet,” and as a consequence of this action, οἵ τε ὄχλοι ἰδόντες ὃ ἐποίησεν Παῦλος ἐπῆραν τὴν φωνὴν αὐτῶν λυκαονιστὶ λέγοντες· οἱ θεοὶ ὁμοιωθέντες ἀνθρώποις κατέβησαν πρὸς ἡμᾶς, ἐκάλουν τε τὸν Βαρναβᾶν Δία, τὸν δὲ Παῦλον Ἑρμῆν, ἐπειδὴ αὐτὸς ἦν ὁ ἡγούμενος τοῦ λόγου (Acts 14:11‑12). The priest of Zeus wanted even to offer a sacrifice; in response to such behav-

is discussed is nothing other than a bunch of clichés that were common in Jewish dialogues with the pagan world. See C.K. Rothschild, Paul in Athens. The Popular Religious Context of Acts 17 (Tübingen, 2014), p. 5. On the other hand, many of the main Stoic issues are completely lacking: sometimes it even seems that Paul consciously avoids addressing questions that were central for the philosophical milieu. All this is explained as being because the focus of the speech is not of a philosophical origin, but a religious one: “without denying ‘philosophical’ aspects, the present study focuses on an underappreciated “religious” side (the distinction is modern) of Acts 17” (ibidem, 133).

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iour Paul reacts in two ways, both of which are parallel to what will happen later in Athens. First there is a visceral reaction of dislike: much like in Athens, where Paul is deeply disgusted at seeing how many idols people worship, so in Lystra Paul and Barnabas tear off their clothes when they hear what people are saying and what the priest is ready to do. The expression ταρωξύνετο τὸ πνεῦμα αὐτοῦ ἐν αὐτῷ of Acts 17:16, as well as διαρρήξαντες τὰ ἱμάτια αὐτῶν ἐξεπήδησαν εἰς τὸν ὄχλον κράζοντες of Acts 14:14 show a deep disapproval towards all that they have seen and heard. 41 Then follows a reaction of theological kind: it is the announcement of something that has to do with the idea of God and the invitation to convert, since the theology of the opposite partners has significant gaps. The arguments are the same as those that will later emerge in Athens: on the one hand, the reference to creation, while on the other hand the point that there was a period of ‘tolerance’ regarding incorrect worship. The expression is slightly different: ὃς ἐν ταῖς παρῳχημέναις γενεαῖς εἴασεν πάντα τὰ ἔθνη πορεύεσθαι ταῖς ὁδοῖς αὐτῶν (v. 16); it means that God in a certain sense has allowed each people to go their own way – even if it was not the right way –, but now the time has come in which conversion is needed. The basis of the argumentation is very similar to that which shall be later used in Athens, but the strategy is different because the listeners of the speech now are not philosophers, but the “polytheists” themselves. With them Paul has nothing in common about which he can begin a dialogue; so on the one hand he attacks immediately (you must convert from this wrong behaviour), while on the other hand he does not need to find roundabout locutions, gathering common ideas and expressions. Moreover, just because he is directly addressing those who must convert, Paul makes clear the requirements of such conversion: ἀπὸ τούτων τῶν ματαίων ἐπιστρέφειν ἐπὶ θεὸν ζῶντα (v. 15). The speech’s substance changes because the addressees have changed. In Lystra Paul has to “defend himself ” from the inhabitants’ behaviour and the purpose of his words is to bring the listeners to conversion from polytheism or at least not to offer sacrifices in his and Barnabas’ honour. This allows us to see better how Paul in Athens does not need to defend himself against philosophers; they do not have to convert from idolatry, a behaviour that they do not already 41. “The phrase diarregnuein himatia occurs frequently in the LXX as a response of extreme emotion (see Gen 37:29, 34; Num 14:6; Josh 7:6; Judg 11:35; 2Sam 1:2, 11; 3:31; 1Macc 2:14; 3:47), usually as a gesture of sorrow and mourning (see also m.Moed Kat. 3:7). In Matt 26:65 and Mark 14:63, it is the gesture employed by the chief priest to signal the ‘blasphemy’ of Jesus, according to the protocol of m.Sanh. 7:5 (see also Acts 22:23)”; L.T. Johnson, Acts of the Apostles (Collegeville MN, 1992) 248‑249.

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share. What in Lystra is the centre of the speech, in Athens is only a pretext, an opportunity for drawing the philosophers’ attention and speaking to them about a man who is risen from dead. B. Athens and Antioch: Paul among the Jews During the same journey that will bring them to Lystra – so relates Luke – Paul and Barnabas had made a stop in Antioch of Pisidia. Since it was the Sabbath, they went to the synagogue and after the reading of the Law and of Prophets the community presidents gave them the word. The occasion is favourable and Luke puts on Paul’s lips one of his longest speeches (Acts 13:16‑41). At verses 16 (ἄνδρες Ἰσραηλῖται καὶ οἱ φοβούμενοι τὸν θεόν, ἀκούσατε), 26 (ἄνδρες ἀδελφοί, υἱοὶ γένους Ἀβραὰμ καὶ οἱ ἐν ὑμῖν φοβούμενοι τὸν θεόν), and 38 (ἄνδρες ἀδελφοί) we have three appeals to his listeners, that, besides reaffirming who the addressees are and what bond exists between them and Paul, allow us to distinguish in Paul’s oration three stages. The first stage (vv. 16‑25) is a synthesis of the history of salvation: the patriarchs, exodus, the judges, Saul, David, etc. As we have already seen previously, any reference to the Law that God gave to Moses on Mount Sinai is skilfully avoided; Paul’s narration shows how God guided step by step the history of his people, highlighting the promise made to David and concluding with Jesus: τούτο ὁ θεὸς ἀπὸ τοῦ σπέρματος κατ’ἐπαγγελίαν ἤγαγεν τῷ Ἰσραὴλ σωτῆρα Ἰησοῦν (v. 23). The second stage (vv. 26‑37) is a demonstration of the reason why Jesus is the one who achieves the promise made to David. First of all Paul tells of the passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus; then, with a particular emphasis on the resurrection, he proves through combining Ps 2:7, Isa 55:3 and Ps 16:10 that it is truly the risen Christ, whose body did not know corruption, that achieves what God has promised to David. The third stage (vv. 38‑41) is an invitation, an appeal to welcome the message of salvation: if Jesus is the fulfilment of the promise, he is then the saviour; Luke uses words that are typically Pauline (even if not so much exact): salvation is justification through faith and not through the Law. At vv. 40‑41, the appeal instead becomes a warning: God’s project is that the promise will be accomplished in Jesus, and faced by this fact either one accepts it or he is cut off, as says prophet Habakkuk. The emphasis on the addressees goes together with the method Paul uses in this long speech: he has before himself people who are believers in Abraham’s God and, by means of biblical echoes and quotations, he proves that the risen Jesus is the fulfilment of the history of salvation. Reading together Acts 13, 14, and 17 we can see a clear difference among the three speeches. In Lystra there is no trace of Jesus’ announcement; in Athens the news of the resurrection comes at the end, almost as a marginal note, and

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alters the tonality of the speech; in Antioch of Pisidia, on the contrary, from the beginning this is the centre of the announcement: the risen Jesus is the one who achieves the promises. This aspect is important because it points out the difference between Athens and Antioch: while the faith of people who are in the synagogue is strictly linked with Jesus’ announcement, the philosophers’ faith is outside with respect to that announcement. The risen Jesus is not the accomplishment of the Stoic and Epicurean philosophers’ waiting (or perhaps it should be better to say, of their research); the entirety of the portion of the speech that aims to criticize polytheism’s drifts, i.e. everything that concerns the common ground between Paul and his listeners, is only a captatio benevolentiae. Their religiosity is not a text about which it is possible to establish the announcement of the risen Jesus (as on the contrary it was with the history of salvation in Acts 13): it is merely an opportunity, a pretext. C. Athens, Jerusalem, and Caesarea: Paul among Jewish and Gentile authorities While Paul is a prisoner in chains, the book of Acts reports three official speeches (besides the words he pronounces before the Sanhedrin, at c. 23): the first is set in Jerusalem in front of some Roman soldiers and a crowd of many Jews who rushed up (cf. Acts 22); the second is set in Caesarea, before Festus and the king Agrippa II (cf. Acts 26); and the third is set in Rome and is directed to many members of the Judaic communities that were present in the town (cf. Acts 28). The situation in Jerusalem is critical: as soon as Paul arrives, οἱ ἁπὸ τῆς Ἀσίας Ἰουδαῖοι θεασάμενοι αὐτὸν ἐν τῷ ἱερῷ συνέχεον πάντα τὸν ὄχλον καὶ ἐπέβαλον ἐπ’αὐτὸν τὰς χεῖρας κράζοντες· ἄνδρες Ἰσραυλῖται, βοηθεῖτε· οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ ἄνθρωπος ὁ κατὰ τοῦ λαοῦ καὶ τοῦ νόμου καὶ τοῦ τόπου τούτου πάντας πανταχῇ διδάσκων (Acts 21:27‑28).

They try to lynch him, accusing him of having betrayed all that is dearest to Judaism; only a timely intervention of the cohort commander saves him from a certain death (Luke’s narration highlights many times, towards the end of chapter 21, the crowd’s violence). While the commander is escorting Paul into the fortress, the latter asks for and obtains the opportunity to speak to the people, i.e. those who were about to kill him. Paul pronounces a speech of self-defence (that begins at chapter 22), in which he tells of his encounter with Christ and emphasizes on several occasions that in him there is nothing against the faith of the fathers: it is not his education, which was one of the best within Judaism; it is not his past life, which was a tight cooperation with the high priests; it is not the encounter with Christ that happened through the mediation of Ananias, ἀνὴρ εὐλαβὴς κατὰ τὸν νόμον, μαρτυρούμενος ὑπὸ πάντων τῶν

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κατοικούντων Ἰουδαίων (Acts 22:12), and by means of a vision that Paul received προσευχομένου μου ἐν τῷ ἱερῷ (22:17). Nothing in Paul’s life is against the Law and the Temple; the accusation against him is therefore groundless. But the crowd protests when, in telling of his vision in the Temple, Paul says that he has received a mission for Gentiles, εἰς ἔθνη (v. 21). The purpose of this speech in Jerusalem is then to show how joining Jesus does not conflict with the Judaic membership of Paul. The same can be said about the words he pronounces before Agrippa II at chapter 26. In this circumstance too the speech is autobiographical and recounting the events of the past (the persecution he has inflicted), as well present events (the persecution he has suffered), Paul underscores how his life is in line with Judaism. Let us read, for example, the words he addresses to the king at vv. 6‑7: καὶ νῦν ἐπ’ ἐλπίδι τῆς εἰς τοὺς πατέρας ἡμῶν ἐπαγγελίας γενομένες ὑπὸ τοῦ θεοῦ ἕστηκα κρινόμενος, εἰς ἣν τὸ δωδεκάφυλον ἡμῶν ἐν ἐκτενείᾳ νύκτα καὶ ἡμέραν λατρεῦον ἐλπίζει καταντῆσαι, περὶ ἧς ἐλπίδος ἐγκαλοῦμαι ὑπὸ Ἰουδαίον, βαισλεῦ.

He repeats twice that it is because of the hope of Israel that he finds himself in chains! At chapter 23, speaking before the Sanhedrin, Paul had explained the content of that hope (obviously for the purpose of making those present argue with each other): ἄνδρες ἀδελφοί, ἐγὼ Φαρισαῖός εἰμι, υἱὸς Φαρισαίων, περὶ ἐλπίδος καὶ ἀναστάσεως νεκρῶν [ἐγὼ] κρίνομαι (v. 6). 42

Also, in concluding the speech before Agrippa Paul makes reference to the resurrection, the one of Jesus, joining it to the Law and the prophets: οὐδὲν ἐκτὸς λέγων ὧν τε οἱ προφῆται ἐλάλησαν μελλόντων γίνεσθαι καὶ Μωϋσῆς, εἰ παθητὸς ὁ χριστός, εἰ πρῶτος ἐξ ἀναστάσεως νεκρῶν φῶς μέλλει καταγγέλλειν τῷ τε λαῷ καὶ τοῖς ἔθνεσιν (Acts 26:22‑23).

Just as in the speech to the philosophers, finally he arrives at the news of resurrection. Only one speech is still lacking, the one that Paul delivers in Rome which concludes the book of Acts. In order to introduce this speech, we must remark also that in both the Jerusalem and Caesarea speeches Paul does not restrict himself to his own defence, but takes advantage of the opportunity to insert a reference to the Gentiles. Additionally, in the last 42.  “We can translate [this] as ‘because of the hope (to be understood, ‘messianic’) and of the resurrection of the dead’; or ‘because of the hope also in the resurrection of the dead’; or also as an hendiadys  […]: ‘because of the hope in the resurrection’: the qualification of hope is the resurrection of the dead”; G. Rossé , Atti degli Apostoli. Commento esegetico e teologico (Roma, 1998) 783.

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speech, the one in Rome, we see this insertion, which is new as regards to Acts 13‑17; even better, in this case the reference to the Gentiles is really central! Chapter 29 of Acts narrates two meetings: the first with the leaders of the Roman-Judaic community (οἱ ὄντες τῶν Ἰουδαίων πρώτοι, v. 17), in which the apostle tells again that he has nothing against his people and the customs of their fathers; the second meeting happens some time later with many other people. Concerning this second meeting Luke does not relate Paul’s words, but says in a summary that ἐξετίθετο διαμαρτυρόμενος τὴν βασιλεῖαν τοῦ θεοῦ, πείθων τε αὐτοὺς περὶ τοῦ Ἰησοῦ ἀπό τε τοῦ νόμου Μωϋσέως καὶ τῶν προφητῶν, ἀπὸ προῒ ἕως ἑσπέρας (v. 23). But afterwards, before the refusal of a portion of his listeners, Paul makes a pronouncement that accomplishes the entire journey of Acts (and also of Luke): γνωστὸν οὖν ἔστω ὑμῖν ὅτι τοῖς ἔθνεσιν ἀπεστάλη τοῦτο τὸ σωτήριον τοῦ θεοῦ· αὐτοὶ καὶ ἀκούσονται (28:28). The last speeches by Paul are useful to our research because they point out a style. At the beginning they are a self-defence, in which Paul claims to not be absolutely against the Law and the tradition of the fathers as a believer in the risen Christ; but in all the three cases, to the apology is joined the announcement, when he introduces – furtively in the first two speeches, and openly in the third – the reference to the Gentiles. The defence of his own person, which was a fact of primary importance (his life was at risk), in Paul’s words becomes also a pretext, or perhaps it is better to say an opportunity for announcing something – in this case that his Gospel is for the Gentiles. C onclusions The intention of investigating Acts 17 is born from a study of Lk 7:1‑10, i.e. the episode of the Capernaum centurion. There is a grammatical particularity that draws one’s attention: at v. 9, after the soldier explains to Jesus why it is not necessary for him to come to his house to heal his servant, it is written, ἀκούσας δὲ ταῦτα ὁ Ἰησοῦς ἐθαύμασεν αὐτὸν καὶ στραφεὶς τῷ ἀκολουθοῦντι αὐτῷ ὄχλῳ εἶπεν· λέγω ὑμῖν, οὐδὲ ἐν τῷ Ἰσραὴλ τοσαύτην πίστιν εὗρον. Among the twelve occurrences of the verb θαυμάζω in the Gospel according to Luke, only two of them have the accusative (ἐθαύμασεν αὐτόν here and θαυμάζων τὸ γεγονός in Lk 24:12); typically the verb is reflexive and it is used in a simple form (without complement) or it is followed by ἐπί. 43 This is a grammatical particu43.  Both forms, however, are attested; cf. K.W. Danker , A  Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature (Chicago, 2000) 444‑445.

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larity, a possible construction, but it is not so usual in the gospels and so it draws our attention to a narrative singularity: this is the only time in the entire Gospel according to Luke in which Jesus is the subject of the verb θαυμάζω. Usually Jesus is the object of this verb or its cause: in front of something performed by him, people are astonished; here, on the contrary, it is the centurion who arouses Jesus’ wonder, because of what he says. But this narrative singularity draws attention to the most disconcerting aspect of the whole episode: commenting on the words of the soldier, Jesus declares that not even in Israel has he found so great faith! Within this passage we have several elements that allow us to say that this man was neither Jew nor proselyte, but simply a Gentile. From a certain point of view he was a non-believer, and yet Jesus perceives in him alone such great faith that no one before him had expressed; a peak, that nobody after him shall be able to reach. Luke is a man of an open mentality, a believer who does not close himself within the reassuring borders of the tradition to which he belongs. Reading Paul’s speech before the Areopagus, I hoped to find the same perspective: perhaps Stoic and Epicurean philosophers have something to teach, like Cornelius? On the other hand, Paul quotes several elements of their philosophy, showing that he is accepting them. This was the first impression. There are some that exaggerate this datum, so as to transform Paul (i.e. Luke) into a pantheist who has denied his own faith (maybe in order to obtain the agreement of the “secular” world?). There are also some who prefer to consider the evangelist as a skilful equilibrist who, in order to not displease anybody, does not take up any position. This accusation is repeated on several fronts of the Lucan theology, which is not as “solid” as Matthew’s theology, for instance. The present research has shown how Luke’s Paul is rather an opportunist, in the positive sense of the term; i.e. he is able to catch every occasion, to exploit every narrow opening for bringing the announcement of what he has at heart (Jesus resurrection or the Gospel to Gentiles). In Athens he had in mind the resurrection: already before being led to the Areopagus, what he was doing in the Agora is described in a simple way at v. 18: τὸν Ἰησοῦν καὶ τὴν ἀνάστασιν εὐηγγελίζετο. Finally he arrives in actuality to announce the resurrection (and not the unknown god): it is not a logic consequence of the philosophers’ “theology,” inasmuch as it is taken into consideration, but as the proper insertion of their criticism against polytheism. Many interpretations have been given to Paul’s words in Acts 17, interpretations which, as we have seen at the beginning, are not seldom conflicting with one another. The greater problem, in my opinion, is that too often the single affirmations are read by comparing them with one or another ancient philosopher. Sometimes the comparison is widened, calling into question some phrases taken from chapter 1‑2 of the Letter to the

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Romans, but equally without putting them in its context. It is right to ask if Luke’s Paul is in tune or not with the Paul of Romans as regards his vision about the Gentile world, but it is misleading to do this without taking into consideration the individual affirmations in their context! In our case we have seen, for instance, that Acts 17 has no intention of opening a dialogue with ancient philosophy, arguing neither conflict nor sameness, and perhaps also the purpose of Rom 1‑2 is not to express criticism against the Gentile world per se.

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T RACCE DI UN CONFLITTO TRA CARISMI IN SAMARIA SECONDO GV 4,7‑30* Cora Presezzi I. «N on

è t uo m a r i to »

Oggetto del mio contributo è l’episodio del Vangelo di Giovanni (Gv) sull’incontro tra Gesù e una donna samaritana presso il pozzo di Giacobbe (Gv 4,7‑30). Vorrei stringere il fuoco su una figura a cui il testo dedica solo un rapido accenno. A cosa fa riferimento il Gesù giovanneo quando dice che la samaritana ha un uomo che non è il suo ἀνήρ 1 (Gv 4,16‑18)? Incastonato in una catena di riferimenti sponsali 2 , il dialogo evoca, nel luogo per eccellenza nuziale della tradizione biblica 3, una figura dell’unione illegittima, antitetica a quella dello sposo-Cristo. Chi è il falso marito della samaritana? A partire da questa domanda, intendo mettere in relazione alcuni dati emersi dall’approfondimento del rapporto tra samaritanesimo e gruppo di Giovanni 4 con una tesi (proposta da G. Lettieri) che iscrive il passo in una triangolazione con altre due notizie del I secolo relative alla Samaria: Ant. Iud. XVIII, IV, 85‑89 (sui disordini samaritani che, stando a Flavio Giuseppe, precedettero la deposizione di Pilato dalla carica di prefetto); e At 8 (sulla doppia missione filippino-petrina in Samaria e l’incontro con il “mago” locale Simone). Secondo Lettieri, se lette in riferimento a uno *  Ringrazio i Proff. Gaetano Lettieri, alle cui ricerche devo molto, Enrico Norelli ed Emanuela Prinzivalli per le loro indicazioni. Ringrazio Maurizio Mottolese per la revisione delle traduzioni dall’ebraico. 1.  Il termine ἀνήρ è, nel greco della LXX, la traduzione corrente di ish: marito. 2.  Cf.  Gv 2,1‑11; 3,29; 20,15‑17. 3.  Si tratta del pozzo di Giacobbe che, nella storia dei patriarchi, è topos nuziale: cf. Gen 24,10‑14; 29,12; Es 2,16‑21; sul parallelismo tra Gv 4 e Gen 24 cf.  M.-E. Boismard, Moïse ou Jésus. Essai de christologie johannique, Leuven, 1988, p. 151‑154. 4.  Cf.  O. Cullmann, «La Samarie et les Origines de la Mission Chrétienne», Annuaire 1953‑1954, École Pratique des Hautes Études, Paris, p. 3‑12, anche in I d., The Early Church, London, 1956, p. 185‑192; O. Cullmann, Der johanneische Kreis. Zum Ursprung des Johannesevangeliums, Tübingen, 1975; G. Gaeta, «Il culto “in spirito e verità” secondo il Vangelo di Giovanni», Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 12/1 (1995), p. 33‑47. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 293–316 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111708 ©

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stesso scenario, le tre notizie aprirebbero un circuito ermeneutico fornendosi reciproci elementi di lettura: Gv 4 e At 8 farebbero cioè riferimento a una stessa figura, coincidente con l’anonimo profeta di Ant. Iud. XVIII 5. Ricorrendo all’immagine polemica del concubino, l’autore di Gv 4 si starebbe così riferendo a un evento teologico-politico importante per la storia del samaritanesimo di inizio I secolo: un fatto legato tanto al Garizìm quanto a un personaggio investito di un particolare carisma che, intorno alla metà degli anni 30, aveva riscosso in Samaria un ampio successo 6. Nel dialogo al pozzo dunque sarebbe in questione non solo un generico culto samaritano del Garizìm 7, ma una sua specifica attualizzazione messianico-profetica. L’ipotesi si chiarisce all’interno d’una tradizione di studi che (con Martyn, Richter, Boismard e Brown 8) ha proposto letture complessive di Gv accomunate dall’intento di restituire al “più teologico” dei vangeli il suo valore di documento storiografico. Seppur con differenze metodologiche e interpretative, questi studiosi hanno indicato in Gv la sovrapposizione di due piani narrativi: narrazione della vita, dell’opera e del messaggio di Gesù e insieme quella della vita, dell’opera e del messaggio di un particolare gruppo di fedeli per i quali Gv rappresenta un’autobiografia – dove βίος è da intendersi come un insieme di contenuti teorici, pratiche ed 5.  Cf. G. L ettieri, «Il corpo di Dio. La mistica erotica del Cantico dei Cantici dal Vangelo di Giovanni ad Agostino», in R.E. Guglielmetti (ed.), Il Cantico dei Cantici nel Medioevo, Firenze, 2008, p. 3‑90, che – a mia conoscenza – è il primo ad aver indagato sistematicamente la connessione tra le tre notizie, di cui sono state segnalate connessioni parziali. Lettieri rinviene inoltre uno stretto nesso terminologico tra At 8 ed Ez 28,2-19 sul re di Tiro (che dipende da Is 14 sull’abbattimento del re di Babilonia connesso al precipizio di Lucifero e da Is 23 sulla prostituta di Tiro): la figura di Simone catalizzerebbe già a questa altezza attributi che nella tradizione successiva saranno funzionali alla descrizione del nemico escatologico, recuperando i tratti idolatrici/demoniaci dell’arconte di Tiro e la simbolica della prostituzione come figura del tradimento del patto tra Dio e il suo popolo. 6.  La corrispondenza cronologica tra la notizia di Ant. Iud. e quella di At 8 permetterebbe di collocare l’episodio a ridosso della fine della prefettura di Pilato (26‑36 d. C.). Sull’eventuale dipendenza di At e dell’opera di Flavio Giuseppe da fonti comuni o dei primi dalla seconda cf. R.I. Pervo, Dating Acts: Between the Evangelists and the Apologists, Santa Rosa, 2006. 7.  Cf. A. Destro – M. Pesce , Come nasce una religione. Antropologia ed esegesi del Vangelo di Giovanni, Roma-Bari, 2000, p. 13‑15. 8.  J.L. M artyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel, New York, 1968; G. R ichter , «Präsentische und futurische Eschatologie in 4. Evangelium», in P. Fiedler – D. Zeller , Gegenwart und kommendes Reich: Schülergabe Anton Vögtle zum 65. Geburtstag, Stuttgart, 1975, p. 117‑152; M.-E. Boismard, Moïse ou Jésus, Leuven, 1988; M.-E. Boismard – A. L amouille , Un évangile pré-johannique, Paris, 1993‑1994; R.E. Brown, The Community of Beloved Disciple, New York, 1979, p. 230‑232 e I d., An Introduction to the Gospel of John, edited, updated, introduced, and concluded by F.J. Moloney, New York, 2003.

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eventi determinanti per la storia politico-religiosa di un soggetto collettivo 9. In questa ottica Gv 4 ha attirato particolare attenzione: avvio del primo contro-movimento nell’originale itinerario geografico che il vangelo orchestra come scenografia della vita e predicazione di Gesù 10, il percorso di ritorno del gruppo gesuano in Galilea introduce la più ampia pericope evangelica dedicata a un contesto marginale rispetto ai luoghi “canonici” della vita di Gesù. La Samaria, sorta di comparsa nella letteratura coeva, in Gv 4 irrompe sulla scena ponendosi come nodo teorico importante nell’economia del testo. Uno dei motivi che caratterizza Gv è infatti un interesse specifico per i samaritani 11, assente o più marginale negli altri 9.  Sulla proiezione di vicende cronologicamente successive sulla figura di Gesù cf. A. Destro – M. Pesce , Come nasce una religione, Roma-Bari, 2000, p. 3‑5; cf. anche I dd., «Lo Spirito e il mondo “vuoto”. Prospettive esegetiche e antropologiche su Gv 4,21‑24», Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 12/1 (1995), p. 9‑32. La narrazione di Gv potrebbe esser definita simbolica nella misura in cui, attraverso la figura di Gesù, vengono inscenati e descritti episodi, pratiche e contenuti ideologici relativi alla biografia del soggetto collettivo narrante. E ciò con la specifica consapevolezza che caratterizza questo testo: la sovrapposizione tra vita di Gesù e autobiografia del gruppo trova una giustificazione teorica nella dichiarazione di unità tra Gesù e i suoi, enunciata in Gv 14. Non ignoro che proprio nel passo in questione emerga il lavorio di composizione operato da un redattore a una certa altezza dello sviluppo dell’ideologia e della storia del gruppo. Ciononostante, si può supporre che lo stesso redattore-portavoce sia l’autore consapevole di una sintesi che dovette a lui sembrare coerente dal punto di vista narrativo, contenutistico e ideologico. 10.  Come nota P. K aswalder , «I luoghi: Giudea, Galilea e Samaria in Giovanni», in D. Garribba – A. Guida (ed.), Giovanni e il Giudaismo. Luoghi, tempi, protagonisti, Trapani, 2010, p. 39‑55, p. 43‑44, l’attraversamento della Samaria è introdotto da un verbo che esprime una necessità che da un punto di vista geografico non si dà: Gesù stesso, in altre occasioni, compie il tragitto passando per la Perea. 11.  Gli elementi samaritani in Gv sono numerosi: cf. Gv 4,1‑42; 11,54; 3,23; 8,48‑49; cf. J. P urvis , «The Fourth Gospel and the Samaritans», Novum Testamentum 17 (1975), p. 161‑198, che approda a una tesi a mio avviso discutibile: prima della stesura di Gv, sarebbero stati attivi in Samaria due predicatori (Simone e Dositeo) che avrebbero compiuto segni e promesso la vita eterna, rivendicando un’origine divina, un rapporto di figliolanza con Dio, un potentissimo carisma di natura divina. La cristologia di Gv si configurerebbe dunque come un tentativo di superamento di quella che viene presentata come una corrente samaritana di tipo gnostico. Tra le ipotesi avanzate per spiegare l’interesse di Gv per la Samaria si veda: a) R. Schnackenburg, Das Johannesevangelium, Freiburg-Basel-Wien, 1971, che ipotizza la storicità dell’episodio samaritano (cf. infra, n. 17); b) le tesi di scuola bultmanniana, che lo connettono alla critica verso i Giudei e alla cristologia alta, caratteristiche di Gv, ipotizzando l’esistenza di uno gnosticismo samaritano influente sul testo: cf. E. H aenchen, «Gab es eine vorchristliche Gnosis?», Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 49 (1952), p. 316‑349; I d., John. A Commentary, Philadelphia, 1984 (Tübingen, 1980); G. Quispel , Gnosis als Weltreligion, Leiden, 1951, p. 69 e ss.; c) M.-E. Boismard, Moïse ou Jésus, Louvain, 1988, su un originario nucleo del vangelo rivolto ai samaritani che presenterebbe Gesù secondo Deut 18,18 come “profeta pari a Mosè”, figura chiave della soteriologia samaritana (su cui cf. J.

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vangeli 12 . Brown ipotizza che gli elementi samaritani di Gv siano riferibili a un evento decisivo per la biografia del gruppo: il momento in cui accolse al suo interno convertiti di origine samaritana 13. Nel nostro brano, Gv farebbe dunque riferimento al piano storico della biografia comunitaria attraverso un uso figurale della biografia di Gesù: la donna samaritana è allora un simbolo della terra di Samaria e/o di un gruppo religioso samaritano. È in tal senso che, seguendo Lettieri, sarebbe possibile registrare in Gv 4 una posizione critica, presente nelle altre due fonti ed espressa tramite appellativi di discredito, nei confronti di un leader samaritano: mentitore e demagogo nella versione di Flavio Giuseppe; un certo Simone dedito alla magia in At 8 14; falso marito in Gv 4. Tra le righe della polemica e in tre varianti si profila così quel movimento che avrebbe preso corpo durante la prefettura di Pilato e che in almeno un’occasione si sarebbe riconosciuto nella guida di un uomo carismatico, scontrandosi poi con la repressione del potere romano. La scommessa dell’autore di Gv 4 risulta della M acDonald, The Theology of the Samaritans, Philadelphia, 1964); d) W. Buchanan, «The Samaritan Origin of the Gospel of John», in J. Neusner , Religions in Antiquity, Leiden, 1968, p. 149‑175, che indica un’origine cristiano-samaritana del testo; cf. anche E.D. Freed, «Samaritan Influence in the Gospel of John», Catholic Biblical Quarterly 30 (1968), p. 580‑587 e I d., «Did John write his Gospel partly to win Samaritan Converts?», Novum Testamentum 12 (1970), p. 241‑256. 12.  Secondo J. Bowmann, «Samaritan Studies I. The Fourth Gospel and the Samaritans», Bullettin of the John Rylands Library 40 (1958), p. 298‑329, p. 299, l’oscillazione dei testi rispecchierebbe la non definizione del rapporto tra Giudea e Samaria nel composito mondo giudaico del tempo; cf. anche J. Z angenberg, «Between Jerusalem and Galilea. Samaria in The Time of Jesus», in J.H. Charlesworth (ed.), Jesus and Archaeology, Grand Rapids, 2006, p. 393‑432, che insiste sul fatto che la Samaria del I secolo non possa esser considerata un contesto monolitico; cf. anche J. Z angenberg, Frühes Christentum in Samarien: topographische und traditionsgeschichtliche Studien zu den Samarientexten im Johannesevangelium, Tübingen, 1998, p. 181‑191; si vedano inoltre A. Lindemann, «Samaria und die Samaritaner in Neuen Testament», Wort und Dienst 22 (1993), p. 51‑76; R.J. Cog gins , «Issues in Samaritanism», in J. Neusner – A.J. Avery-P eck , Judaism in Late Antiquity, 1, Leiden, 1999, p. 63‑80; S. Freyne , «Behind the Names: Galileans, Samaritans Ioudaioi», in I d., Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays, Tübingen, 2000, p. 114‑131; J.P. M eier , «The Historical Jesus and the Historical Samaritans: What Can Be Said?», Biblica 81 (2000), p. 202‑232; R. P ummer , Early Christian Authors on Samaritans and Samaritanism. Texts, Translations, and Commentary, Tübingen, 2002. 13.  R.E. Brown, The Community of Beloved Disciple, New York, 1979, p. 230‑232; R.E. Brown, An Introduction to the Gospel of John, edited, updated, introduced, and concluded by F.J. Moloney, New York, 2003. 14.  Si noti il generale atteggiamento di At nei confronti della magia (su cui cf. G.H. Twelftree , «Jesus and Magic in Luke-Acts», in B.J. Oropeza – C.K. Robertson – D.C. Mohrmann, Jesus and Paul. Global Perspectives in Honor of James J.D. Dunn, New York, 2009, p. 46‑58), argomento polemico assente invece in Gv.

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massima criticità: a parità di sorte sul piano materiale, a cosa è dovuta la rivendicazione dei fedeli in Gesù di contro a coloro che credettero in un messia differente? Lettieri accennava un’ulteriore corrispondenza interna alla triangolazione di notizie: quella tra il riferimento di Ant. Iud. XVIII ai vasi sacri (ἱερὰ σκεύη) di Mosè e la presentazione giovannea di Gesù come dispensatore di acqua viva (Gv 4) e nuovo pane del cielo/manna (Gv 6,30‑35): due dei doni divini contenuti nei leggendari vasi mosaici. Accogliendo l’impianto generale della tesi e sulla falsariga di quest’ultima indicazione, ho tentato un’analisi della sceneggiatura complessiva di Gv 4, valorizzando il ricorrere di elementi che paiono collegabili alla leggenda dei vasi che, nel I secolo, conosce una fortuna metamorfica. A ben vedere, sia in ambito giudaico che nel samaritanesimo del I secolo si riscontra un ruolo importante dei vasi sacri in quanto oggetti semiofori legati alla sacralità del luogo cultuale, all’identificazione messianica e al tempo “escatologico” in varie forme a quelle connesso 15. La mia proposta è allora di identificare in Gv 4 un accenno alla leggenda dei vasi all’interno della critica al falso marito/profeta samaritano. Potrebbe cioè la presentazione di Gesù qui orchestrata esser letta (anche) come una critica a quella rivendicazione messianica samaritana che attribuiva ai vasi di Mosè un fondamentale ruolo identificativo? Certo, facendo fede a una lettura lessicale, il dettaglio dei vasi è isolato alla sola notizia di Ant. Iud. D’altra parte, anche in Gv 4 si dà un riscontro tematico, sebbene con una differenza terminologica che non preclude l’ipotesi di un consapevole slittamento di senso – e dunque di lessico – da parte del narratore. La donna della Samaria si reca al pozzo per compiere un’azione precisa, ovvero prendere acqua con un vaso (ἀντλῆσαι ὕδωρ); un’azione che però non porta a termine: dopo il dialogo con Gesù, che le offre un’acqua viva attinta senza alcun recipiente (ἄντλημα), la donna abbandona il suo vaso (ἀφῆκεν οὖν τὴν ὑδρίαν αὐτῆς) e torna in città per cercare conferma all’intuizione messianica dischiusa dal dialogo con Gesù 16. Determinante è qui il tema generale del brano su cui i riferimenti 15.  Al di là del Pentateuco Samaritano (S), i documenti testuali relativi a questa area geografica e religiosa sono o polemici o successivi al periodo della cosiddetta rinascita samaritana (IV sec.), cf. I. Hjelm, The Samaritans and Early Judaism. A Literary Analysis, Sheffield, 2000, p. 13‑61; G.N. K noppers , «Aspects of Samaria’s Religious Culture during the Early Hellenistic Period», in P. Davies – D. Edelman (ed.), The Historian and the Bible. Essays in Hounor of Lester L. Grabbe, New York, 2010, p. 159‑174; J. Z sengellér (ed.), Samaria, Samarians, Samaritans: Studies on Bible, History and Linguistics, Berlin-Boston, 2011. 16.  Nel brano ricorre il termine ἄντλημα, cui si aggiungono due occorrenze del verbo derivato (Gv 4,7.15), e il termine ὑδρία (una occorrenza in questo brano e diverse occorrenze in altri luoghi del vangelo). Il termine σκεῦος compare invece in Gv 19,29 a denotare il vaso ai piedi della croce.

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vascolari si innestano: il luogo dell’adorazione, il tempo dischiuso da colui che deve venire e la forma di vita religiosa connessa al riconoscimento del suo carisma. Il vangelo narrerebbe così il contatto tra gruppo giovanneo e un modello messianico samaritano; la critica rivolta a quest’ultimo prenderebbe la forma di una sconfessione da parte di Gesù stesso e di una complessiva rimodulazione del rapporto tra presenza, carisma e culto. Del conflitto e dell’intreccio mitologico attraverso cui esso viene colto e restituito, restano forse alcune tracce fossilizzate nella narrazione di Gv 4: sono questi i cocci che mi propongo di ricomporre. II. S a m a r i a :

luog o e topos

Situata nel centro geografico dell’antica Palestina, la Samaria è luogo di mezzo per eccellenza, luogo di passaggio e ambiguità, che nella letteratura biblica costituisce un topos complesso: in endiadi con Giuda o individualmente, questa terra è coinvolta nel topos del patto con YHWH come patto nuziale e, dunque, in quello del tradimento come prostituzione. A seconda dell’ispirazione generale dei libri che vi ricorrono, il topos della prostituzione di Samaria ha caratteri differenti: dalla contaminazione idolatrica irrimediabile, allo status dialettico della creatura e del popolo di fronte a un intervento divino che si configura come trasformazione della prostituta in moglie fedele, della donna/terra sterile in grembo fertile/terra edenica. Dal punto di vista della tradizione giudaica di inizio I secolo, il tradimento di Samaria − a qualsiasi altezza cronologica le fonti ne collochino l’avvio − è restituito in termini di commistione con i pagani a vari livelli, dall’idolatria rivolta alle loro divinità fino al matrimonio misto. In ambito neo-testamentario la questione samaritana è piuttosto marginale. In Mc non c’è alcun riferimento al tema; in Mt invece si trova un brano in cui Gesù istruisce in senso negativo i suoi discepoli sulla questione 17; le occorrenze relative al contesto samaritano sono numerose in 17.  Cf.  Mt 10,5b-6; sulla valutazione del detto si veda A. Destro – M. Pesce , L’uomo Gesù. Giorni, luoghi, incontri di una vita, Milano, 2008, p. 94‑96, che ne ipotizzano la paternità gesuana in forza di un criterio di difficoltà rispetto all’afflato complessivo di Mt. Come notato da J. Z angenberg, «Between Jerusalem and Galilea. Samaria in The Time of Jesus», in J.H. Charlesworth (ed.), Jesus and Archaeology, Grand Rapids, 2006, p. 393‑432, p. 393, è difficile stabilire se Mt si riferisca ai samaritani come abitanti della Samaria o come gruppo religioso. L’endiadi con i gentili farebbe però pensare a uno statuto particolare che da essi li distingue: i samaritani non sarebbero completamente assimilabili ai gentili, costituendo un problema particolare rispetto alla distinzione del vero corpo religioso. Il luogo di Mt è spesso citato a testimonianza da quanti insistono sul valore esclusivamente simbolico del brano di Gv 4: cf. W. Bauer , Das Johannesevangelium, Tü­bingen, 19933, p. 75 ss.; cf., di contro, R. Schnackenburg, Das Johannesevangelium,

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Lc, il cui atteggiamento è generalmente positivo: il Gesù lucano è sostanzialmente consapevole del giudizio del suo ambiente circa i samaritani e tuttavia si distacca nella pratica da esso, concedendo il suo aiuto al lebbroso samaritano così come alla donna pagana 18; in At 1,8, nel contesto della storia apostolica, la Samaria è presentata, secondo il noto intento irenico dell’autore, come una porta tra la Giudea e il mondo 19. Un caso esegeticamente complesso è rappresentato dal l.  60 di Tommaso, in cui Gesù vede un samaritano con un agnello diretto verso la Giudea 20 e intrattiene un dialogo coi discepoli sul “luogo della quiete”. Nella difficoltà di orientare il richiamo di Tm al tema samaritano 21, tengo a indicare l’impiego del termine tecnico topos 22 e della figura dell’agnello (forse riferita ai disceFreiburg-Basel-Wien, 1971, ed. it., Il Vangelo di Giovanni, I, Brescia, 1973, p. 675, secondo il quale la rigidità del comandamento di Mt sarebbe messa in discussione dalle attestazioni di una disposizione già gesuana a oltrepassare i rigidi confini della nozione etnica di Israele. Schnackenburg ipotizza la realtà storica di una predicazione gesuana e una conversione eccezionale di samaritani durante il suo ministero (p. 676‑677). 18.  Si pensi a Lc 9,51‑56; 10,29‑37; 17,12‑19; cf. M. Böhm, Samaria und die Samaritai bei Lukas: Eine Studie zum religionshistorischen und traditionsgeschichtlichen Hintergrund der lukanischen Samarientexte und zu deren topographischer Verhaftung, Tübingen, 1999. 19.  Cf.  At 1,8b. 20.  Cf. M. Grosso, Vangelo di Tommaso. Introduzione, traduzione e commento, Roma, 2011, p. 196‑197, che insiste sull’ambiguità della formula copta; così anche S.J. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas. Introduction and Commentary, Leiden, 2014, p. 438‑440. Al di là dell’interpretazione del participio e dunque dell’individuazione del soggetto diretto verso la Giudea, la critica si è interrogata e divisa sulla valutazione del l.  60 dal punto di vista contenutistico: traccia di una parabola originale di Gesù, o di una discussione sugli idolotiti o sulle pratiche di macellazione? Cf. R. Valantasis , The Gospel of Thomas, London, 1997, p. 136‑137; R. Nordsieck , Das Thomas-Evangelium, Neukirchen-Vluyn, 2004, p. 234‑236; U.K. Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas: original Text with Commentary, Stuttgart, 2008, p. 128‑131, che sottolinea lo stretto legame con il l.  49,2 sul tema del regno; S.J. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas. Introduction and Commentary, Leiden, 2014, p. 440. Sulle ipotesi di datazione cf. A.D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation, London, 2007, p. 198‑199. 21.  Cf. S.J. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas. Introduction and Commentary, Leiden, 2014, p. 439, n. 5, sull’inesistenza di stretti parallelismi con i sinottici e su un’affinità con Heracl. fr. 12 (su Gv 2,13), che l’autore reputa accidentale; si noti che l’aggettivo “samaritano” del l. 60 è il solo riferimento preciso a una provenienza religiosa/culturale in Tm, così come la Giudea qui evocata è l’unica indicazione tommasina di un preciso luogo geografico (p. 440). 22.  In Tm il termine ha connotazione soteriologica, cf. S.J. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas. Introduction and Commentary, Leiden, 2014, p. 441, che indica anche la forte connessione con il l. 59; U.K. Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas: original Text with Commentary, Stuttgart, 2008, p. 130, indica la centralità del tema della quiete nell’orizzonte categoriale gnostico, ma sospende il giudizio sulla valutazione del tema in Tm.

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poli 23): due elementi su cui torneremo rintracciando anche in Gv una connessione tra τόπος e ἀμνὸς che interessa il nostro discorso intorno ai vasi sacri e alla Samaria. In Gv si registra una specificità: i samaritani sono affrontati come gruppo religioso. L’inciso di Gv 4,9b (οὐ γὰρ συγχρῶνται Ἰουδαῖοι Σαμαρίταις), probabile glossa precocemente interpolata 24 , definisce il punto di vista del testo: i Giudei – nell’economia generale del vangelo spesso contrapposti a Gesù e ai suoi – non hanno rapporti con i samaritani. La glossa, per quanto successiva alla prima redazione del brano, interviene a chiarire un aspetto che le è del tutto organico: lo stupore della donna davanti alla richiesta di un uomo che lei chiama Giudeo (Gv 4,9a); e, in modo speculare, lo stupore dei discepoli al vedere Gesù intrattenersi con lei (Gv 4,27). Il Gesù giovanneo si ferma dunque al pozzo di Giacobbe e, in questo luogo denso di storia e tradizione, intrattiene un dialogo con una donna, forse una prostituta, samaritana 25. La semantica nuziale, qui strettamente intrecciata a quella idrica 26, si lega a due episodi che precedono l’incontro: la trasformazione in vino dell’acqua nelle giare per la purificazione dei Giudei (λίθιναι ὑδρίαι ἓξ κατὰ τὸν καθαρισμὸν τῶν Ἰουδαίων) alle nozze di Cana (Gv 2,1-12); e la testimonianza nuziale affidata al Battista in contesto battesimale (Gv 3,22‑35) 27. Il ruolo maritale è quindi forte23.  Cf.  Mt 10,16 e Lc 10,3; secondo R. Valantasis , The Gospel of Thomas, London, 1997, p. 137, seguito da S.J. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas. Introduction and Commentary, Leiden, 2014, p. 439, l’agnello è il centro della scena e sarebbe l’essere umano, mentre la questione del conflitto etnico-religioso resterebbe sullo sfondo. 24.  La glossa è omessa da S*, D e da altri codici; tuttavia gode della testimonianza della maggior parte dei codici, anche i più antichi. 25.  Molti esegeti derivano l’ipotesi che la donna sia una prostituta dall’orario in cui ha luogo l’incontro – per alcuni inconsueto rispetto alle convenzioni; per altri cifra simbolica di imperfezione e pericolo, cf., ad esempio, R. Schnackenburg, Das Johannesevangelium, Freiburg-Basel-Wien, 1971, ed. it., Il Vangelo di Giovanni, I, Brescia, 1973, p. 634. D’altra parte è evidente che nella figura della samaritana si concentrino due livelli ultra-letterali: emblema della sua condizione personale (donna, samaritana, peccatrice e prostituta) e al tempo stesso simbolo della Samaria come terra tradizionalmente considerata impura. Non tratto qui la questione del rapporto, evidentemente dialettico, con le figure femminili di ApGv, per cui rimando a G. L ettieri, «Il corpo di Dio. La mistica erotica del Cantico dei Cantici dal Vangelo di Giovanni ad Agostino», in R.E. Guglielmetti (ed.), Il Cantico dei Cantici nel Medioevo, Firenze, 2008, p. 3‑90. 26.  Si tenga anche presente che nel lessico biblico vetero-testamentario mei-niddah è l’acqua che purifica; niddah è la donna in stato di impurità; nedeh è invece il salario di prostituzione. 27.  Il Battista è una figura fondamentale ma problematica nel contesto di Gv, tra l’altro connessa sia con la dialettica sponsale che con l’ambientazione samaritana; cf. R.E. Brown, An Introduction to the Gospel of John, New York, 2003, p. 54 ss., 62 ss., 79‑81, 169‑173; si veda inoltre A. Destro – M. Pesce , L’uomo Gesù,

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mente connotato in senso messianico, in quanto attributo proprio di Gesù riconosciuto come il Cristo – con varie sfumature e progressione cronologica circa la dimensione pubblica di tale riconoscimento. Da questo punto di vista, l’interpretazione proposta, tra gli altri, da Boismard sui cinque ἄνδρες che la donna ha avuto in passato non pare tener conto della contrapposizione tra questi e il “non marito” presente. Boismard accoglie infatti l’ipotesi di un riferimento alla versione di 2Re 17 sulle divinità straniere che i samaritani avrebbero adorato separandosi dal vero culto e unendosi alle genti. La tesi è sorretta dall’ampiezza del termine baal: “signore”, “proprietario/possessore”, “idolo” (in quanto nome di una divinità cananita) o “marito”. Tuttavia, nota lo stesso Boismard, nell’aramaico del tempo e nel lessico biblico quest’ultimo significato non è in uso 28; inoltre ai cinque uomini del passato è conferito l’attributo che nel testo contrassegna il carisma di Gesù: un attributo di legittimità. Pare allora più convincente ritenere che il racconto voglia sottolineare non già l’idolatria della Samaria così come registrata nei libri storici, ma la sua antica alleanza con Dio, testimoniata dalla fedeltà dei samaritani alla Torah 29. Gv indaga dunque la tensione che insieme divide e unisce Giudea e Samaria, paradossalmente legate in un conflitto: la condivisione, seppur con significative varianti, di una collezione di cinque testi sacri – il Pentateuco – con le conseguenze che una situazione di questo tipo comporta. In Gv 4 è quindi in gioco il problema della rivalità in merito alla tradizione dei patriarchi, situazione di impasse che la verità di Gesù scioglie. Il riferimento ai cinque mariti e a un concubino è letto dalla samaritana come segno profetico: Gesù rivela alla donna una verità che la riguarda, relativa al suo passato e al suo presente e il riconoscimento del carisma di Gesù si dispiega attraverso una catena di rivelazioni che culmina nella verità su Dio e il culto (Gv 4,20‑24). Portando il dialogo sul tema del luogo dell’adorazione e lavorando sul doppio livello narrativo, Gv offre una soluzione originale a un problema centrale tanto in ambito

Milano, 2008, p. 61‑66, sintetico e convincente profilo storico di questa figura marginale resa celebre proprio dal successo di Gesù. 28.  M.-E. Boismard, Moïse ou Jésus, Louvain, 1988, p. 153, n. 19. Cf. anche A. Destro – M. Pesce , «Lo Spirito e il mondo “vuoto”», in P.C. Bori (ed.), In Spirito e verità. Letture di Gv 4,23‑24, Bologna, 1996, p. 21‑41, p. 24, n. 9, che seguono l’argomentazione di R.E. Brown, Giovanni. Commento al Vangelo spirituale, Assisi, 19913, p. 224. 29.  Tesi già origeniana, argomentata da Cullmann e da altri esegeti, è l’ipotesi accolta da G. L ettieri, «Il corpo di Dio. La mistica erotica del Cantico dei Cantici dal Vangelo di Giovanni ad Agostino», in R.E. Guglielmetti (ed.), Il Cantico dei Cantici nel Medioevo, Firenze, 2008, p. 3‑90.

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samaritano 30 quanto in contesto giudaico 31. Presentato in modo figurale attraverso la persona di Gesù, il gruppo dei suoi fedeli, in qualità di prosecutore del culto in Spirito e verità da lui ricevuto in consegna, giunge in Samaria a portare la σωτηρία, forma sostantiva dell’attributo σωτήρ che poco oltre compare, riferito a Gesù, nella confessione dei samaritani (Gv 4,42) 32 . Si può allora ipotizzare che, nella figura del falso marito, Gv non stia indicando il culto del Garizìm (qui equiparato a quello gerosolimitano in un comune carattere terminale dal punto di vista della “verità” del culto 33) ma la predicazione di un uomo che operò all’incirca contempora30.  Cf.  Deut 11,29; 12,18 e 16,11, dove in S il verbo che esprime la scelta del luogo è espresso al passato; Es 20,17bS e il parallelo Deut 5,28bS sul Garizìm come luogo di adorazione che, nella versione del decalogo di S, compare come X (o XI) comandamento. Cf.  A.D. Crown, The Samaritans, Tübingen, 1989, p. 479 ss.; L.M. McDonald, Forgotten Scriptures. The Selection and Rejection of Early Religious Writings, Louisville, 2009, p. 75‑77; J. Bowman – T. Shmarjahu, «Samaritan Decalogue Inscriptions», Bulletin of the John Rylands Library, 33/2 (1951), p. 211‑236; P. Sacchi, «Studi Samaritani», Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 5 (1969), p. 413‑440. 31.  Con particolare accentuazione in periodo post-esilico, si pensi a Esd e Ne (su cui cf. G. Garbini, Storia e ideologia nell ’Israele antico, Brescia, 1986, capitolo XIII e I d., Il ritorno dall ’esilio babilonese, Brescia, 2001, capitolo III; cf. anche P. Sacchi, Sacro/profano-impuro/puro nella Bibbia e dintorni, Brescia, 2007, p. 116‑117) e alla versione dei fatti ricostruita da Flavio Giuseppe (cf. R. Egger , Josephus Flavius und die Samaritaner. Ein terminologische Untersuchung zur Identitätsklärung der Samaritaner, Göttingen, 1986; R.J. Coggins , «The Samaritans in Josephus», in L.H. Feldman – G. H ata, Josephus, Judaism, and Christianity, Detroit, 1997, p. 257‑273; L.H. Feldman, «Josephus Attitude Toward the Samaritans: A Study in Ambivalence», in M. Mor , Jewish Sects, Religious Movement, and Political Parties, Omaha, 1992, p. 23‑45; P ummer , The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, Tübingen, 2009). 32.  I termini σωτηρία e σωτήρ compaiono qui come uniche occorrenze giovannee. Si è ipotizzato che Gv 4,22b sia aggiunta tardiva; mi sembra tuttavia convincente l’ipotesi di G. Gaeta, «Il culto “in spirito e verità” secondo il Vangelo di Giovanni», in P.C. Bori (ed.), In Spirito e verità. Letture di Gv 4,23‑24, Bologna, 1996, p.  9‑20, p.  13, che sottolinea la forza avversativa dello ἀλλὰ del v. 23. Anche l’identificazione del “noi” (giudei o “cristiani”?) ha diviso la critica: A. Destro – M. Pesce , «Lo Spirito e il mondo “vuoto”», in P.C. Bori (ed.), In Spirito e verità. Letture di Gv 4,23‑24, Bologna, 1996, p. 21‑41, p. 27, n. 27, accettano la lezione di R. Schnackenburg, Il Vangelo di Giovanni, I, Brescia, 1973, p. 646, secondo il quale il pronome personale è riferito ai giudei. 33.  Si tenga presente che almeno per il redattore il carattere terminale del Tempio gerosolimitano si è storicamente inverato; si veda però la riflessione sullo sfondo di attualità con cui il dialogo pare impostato in A. Destro – M. Pesce , «Lo Spirito e il mondo “vuoto”», in P.C. Bori (ed.), In Spirito e verità. Letture di Gv 4,23‑24, Bologna, 1996, p. 21‑41, p. 25 e p. 27, n. 28. Secondo alcuni studiosi, dell’illegittimità del Tempio gerosolimitano in base all’argomentazione samaritana si troverebbe attestazione anche nel discorso di Stefano di At 7,2‑4: la ricostruzione che Stefano offre si basa infatti sulla versione di S e l’edificazione del Tempio ad opera di Salomone viene presentata in contraddizione con la tradizione dei patriar-

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neamente o poco dopo Gesù. Il gruppo giovanneo si imbatte in Samaria nella persistente memoria di quell’attività carismatica e/o di quel modello messianico volto alla restaurazione/collocazione del culto, incentrato attorno al Garizìm e – vedremo – ai vasi sacri, e narra così l’incontro e la conversione di alcuni samaritani al differente modello di identificazione cristologica e di adorazione di Dio che ha luogo solo tra coloro che conoscono, praticano e insegnano la verità su Dio, il suo Figlio e il modo di “esser uno” con loro. III. I

va si sacr i : da l l a t e n da a i t e mpl i

Scrive Flavio Giuseppe: Neppure i Samaritani furono esenti da disordini. Un uomo, che teneva la menzogna per cosa di poco conto e si adoperava in ogni modo a compiacere la folla, li radunò invitandoli ad andare con lui al monte Garizìm, che essi tengono per il più sacro dei monti. Li assicurava che, quando fossero giunti, avrebbe mostrato loro i sacri vasi che erano sotterrati colà dove Mosè li aveva fatti deporre. Quelli, convinti dalle sue parole, si armarono e fermatisi in un villaggio di nome Tirathana, accoglievano tutti quelli che in gran numero si stavano radunando coll’intenzione di salire sul monte (Ant. Iud. XVIII, IV, 85‑86).

Nelle opere di Flavio Giuseppe la locuzione ἱερὰ σκεύη indica generalmente i vasi del Tempio di Gerusalemme  3 4 . In questo caso però sembrerebbe trattarsi di altri vasi, connessi alla figura di Mosè. In base all’atteggiamento tendenzialmente negativo dell’autore nei confronti dei samaritani 35, si è ipotizzato che egli metta qui in bocca al sedicente profeta una predicazione di contenuto strampalato. Altra ipotesi: che di tale natura fosse il messaggio, fedelmente registrato dallo storico, di un ciarlatano 36. chi, cf. C.H.H. Scobie , «The Origin and Development of the Johannine Community», New Testament Studies 19 (1976), p. 390‑414. 34.  Cf.  Ant. Iud. XI, I, 8‑18. 35.  Cf.  R. Egger , Josephus Flavius und die Samaritaner. Ein terminologische Untersuchung zur Identitätsklärung der Samaritaner, Göttingen, 1986; R. P ummer , The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, Tübingen, 2009. 36.  Tenendo conto dell’atteggiamento generale di Flavio Giuseppe nei confronti dei samaritani che si evince dalla sua versione dello scisma (Ant. Iud. XI, II, 19 ss.; XI, VIII, 306‑312), si è letta la notizia come segno dell’evidente disprezzo dello storico nei confronti del profeta ciarlatano, cf. I. K alimi – J.D. P urvis , «The Hiding of the Temple Vessels in Jewish and Samaritan Literature», Catholic Biblical Quarterly 56 (1994), p. 679‑685, i quali ritengono sorprendente che questi avesse dei seguaci giacché i samaritani sapevano benissimo che Mosè era stato tumulato sul monte Nebo prima di arrivare a Canaan e che, dunque, non avrebbe mai potuto nascondere i vasi sul Garizìm: si tratterebbe perciò di un clamoroso errore dell’anonimo

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In controtendenza col dibattito sulla notizia di Ant. Iud., M.F. Collins ha proposto una tesi originale: a partire da una possibile corrispondenza tra questa e altre fonti giudaiche, Collins ipotizza che Flavio Giuseppe testimoni fedelmente una variante samaritana della leggenda dei vasi sacri 37. Nella letteratura rabbinica antica, infatti, si trovano alcune notizie, frutto di rielaborazioni di passi scritturali (Es 16,33‑34; Nm 17,25), sui vasi contenenti la manna, l’olio dell’unzione e l’acqua di purificazione: oggetti legati al periodo desertico e sulla cui sorte, dipendente da quella dell’Arca, proliferano diverse ipotesi leggendarie. Collins ritiene che nel samaritanesimo antico fosse diffusa una variante della leggenda, la cui differenza rispetto alle versioni di area giudaica consiste in un particolare ruolo accordato a Mosè, comprensibile in base alla profetologia samaritana e al ruolo preminente della funzione carismatica di Mosè in tale contesto 38. Nel tentativo di ispessire il legame tra Gv 4 e la notizia di Ant. Iud. – in cui il segno particolare dell’anonimo profeta è proprio la promessa di mostrare i sacri vasi –, propongo un percorso testuale volto a mettere in luce la particolare rilevanza ideologica attribuita ai vasi sacri in ambito giudaico. Un primo gruppo di fonti riguarda la sorte dell’Arca dopo la distruzione del Tempio salomonico, argomento a cui – a fronte di una grande acribia sedicente profeta. Anche W.A. M eeks , The Prophet-King. Moses Traditions and the Johannine Christology, Leiden, 1967, p. 250, respinge la notizia come inattendibile, ma a causa di un’imprecisione di Flavio Giuseppe, il quale registrerebbe un fatto relativo a un personaggio associato a Mosè in modo non chiaro che avrebbe tentato di recuperare gli oggetti cultuali del Tempio del Garizìm distrutto da Ircano; J.A. Montgomery, The Samaritans. The Earliest Jewish Sect, Their History, Theology and Literatur, Philadelphia, 1968, si concentra piuttosto sul dato della dura repressione di Pilato e ritiene l’anonimo profeta un fanatico senza pretese teologiche specifiche e senza un seguito degno di suscitare preoccupazioni, ma la cui setta aveva una discreta influenza sugli ufficiali romani. 37.  Cf.  M.F. Collins , «The Hidden Vessels in Samaritan Tradition», Journal for the Study of Judaism 3 (1972), p. 97‑116. Stando alla notizia, i samaritani reputarono la proposta πιθανὸν: perché non ipotizzare che si tratti di un contenuto condiviso quanto ai presupposti tra il predicatore e i suoi interlocutori? Si tenga poi presente la natura della fonte e i suoi destinatari: una storia degli ebrei scritta per gli imperatori romani in cui il brano, che porta l’attenzione su Pilato, fa parte d’un resoconto degli antefatti all’espulsione dei Giudei da Roma; tutte notizie dunque delicate e facilmente verificabili da coloro che, nell’intenzione dell’autore, dovrebbero apprezzarne la veridicità come storico. 38.  L’ipotesi è accolta da R. P ummer , The Samaritans, Leiden, 1987, p. 31; cf. anche R. P ummer , «Hidden Vessels», in A.D. Crown – R. P ummer – A. Tal (ed.), A  Companion to Samaritan Studies, Tübingen, 1993, p. 122‑123; S.P. Weitzman, «Myth, History and Mystery in the Copper Scroll», in H. Najman – J.H. Newman (ed.), The Idea of Biblical Interpretation. Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, Leiden, 2004, p. 239‑256, p. 248‑249; G. Nickelsburg, «Narrative Traditions in the Paralipomena of Jeremiah and 2 Baruc», Catholic Biblical Quarterly 35 (1973), p. 60‑67; F.J. Murphy, «Second Temple Judaism», in J. Neusner – A.J. Avery-Peck , The Blackwell Companion to Judaism, Oxford, 2000, p. 58‑77, p. 71.

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di dettaglio circa i vasi/arredi sacri 39 – la maggioranza dei testi biblici non accenna  4 0. Nei racconti paralleli di 1Re 8 e 2Cr 5 è trattato il trasferimento dell’Arca dopo la costruzione del Tempio salomonico e la sua collocazione nel Santo dei Santi. In 2Cr 35, la presenza dell’Arca in tale luogo è ristabilita da Giosia dopo il restauro del Tempio. Ma quando, poco oltre, è trattata la deportazione di uomini e oggetti a opera di Nabucodonosor, all’Arca non si fa più rifermento 41. In un testo talmudico, indicativo della percezione di un vuoto narrativo, si legge che il re Giosia avrebbe nascosto l’Arca e con essa anche alcuni oggetti: Nel momento in cui l’Arca fu nascosta, con quella [furono nascosti] il recipiente della manna, l’ampolla dell’olio dell’unzione e il bastone di Aronne, le sue mandorle e i suoi germogli […]. Chi li ha nascosti? Giosia (TY Sheqalim 6, 49c).

Prevedendo l’imminenza dell’esilio (Deut 28,36), Giosia avrebbe nascosto l’Arca in un luogo segreto, da cui questa avrebbe garantito la santità del Secondo Tempio. La connessione con il vaso della manna, l’ampolla dell’olio e il bastone di Aronne rimanda al legame che nel periodo desertico si crea tra alcuni oggetti/segni del favore divino e l’Arca: in Es 16,33‑34, Mosè fa raccogliere una porzione di manna in un vaso e ordina che sia deposto «davanti al Signore, perché sia conservato per i vostri discendenti»; in Nm 17,25 anche il bastone di Aronne viene deposto davanti alla Testimonianza e lì conservato. In un testo coevo a Sheqalim, l’episodio del nascondimento è anticipato all’epoca della costruzione del Tempio e l’Arca è connessa alla stessa gamma di oggetti: L’arca e tutti gli arredi della tenda sono stati nascosti al momento dell’edificazione del Tempio, dunque l’olio e la manna e il bastone sono stati nascosti con l’Arca (TB Sotah 9a) 42 . 39.  Il termine keli ha straordinaria ampiezza semantica: significa sia “vaso” in senso stretto, sia “strumento”, dunque utensile e arredo di culto. Nella versione dei LXX è principalmente tradotto con σκεῦος (su 320 occorrenze, solo 50 sono tradotte altrimenti), dunque il significato originariamente oscillante tra “vasi” in senso proprio e “oggetti cultuali” viene ad assumere il meno ampio significato del greco τα σκεύη. 40.  Cf.  S.P. Weitzman, «Myth, History and Mystery in the Copper Scroll», in H. Najman – J.H. Newman (ed.), The Idea of Biblical Interpretation. Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, Leiden, 2004, p. 239‑256, p. 242‑244; M. H aran, Temples and Temple Service in Ancient Israel: an Inquiry into the Character of Cult Phenomena and the Historical Setting of the Priestly School, Oxford, 1978, p. 276‑288. 41.  Cf.  M. Petit, «La Cachette de l’Arche d’Alliance: à partir de la “Vie de Jérémie” 9‑15», in Les Vitae Prophetarum, La Littérature intertestamentaire. Colloque de Strasbourg (17‑19 octobre 1983), Paris, 1985, p. 119‑131. 42.  La versione del passo secondo TY è invece quasi letteralmente coincidente con il brano di Sheqalim, cf. TY Sotah 8, 3, 3. Va notato come, circa il contenuto dell’Arca, la tradizione maggioritaria insista sulla sola Legge, a evitare pro-

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Del nascondimento si trova eco anche in Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishmael, una delle fonti più antiche della tradizione rabbinica di area palestinese (probabilmente risalente al II secolo circa 43). Il dato originale di questa notizia è l’accenno a tre vasi – uno con la manna, uno con l’olio dell’unzione e uno, dato interessante rispetto alla metaforica idrica che abbiamo indicato in Gv, con l’acqua di purificazione (mei-niddah); altro elemento di interesse è la presenza di una figura messianica, Elia, investita del ruolo di restaurare l’Arca e gli altri oggetti nascosti: Questa è una delle tre cose che Elia restituirà a Israele: il vaso della manna, il vaso dell’acqua di purificazione e il vaso dell’olio dell’unzione. E c’è chi dice anche il bastone di Aronne […] (Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishmael, Wa-Yassa 5)  4 4 .

Continuando il percorso a ritroso tra le fonti di area giudaica, 2Mac conserva una delle più antiche versioni della leggenda. Qui il nascondimento dell’Arca è opera di Geremia 45, figura chiave del libro; la restaurazione è invece profetizzata come diretto intervento di Dio (2Mac 2,4‑8)  4 6. babilmente proliferazioni di attributi sacrali ad altri oggetti al di fuori di quella. Secondo TB Baba Bathra 14a-b (II secolo ca.?) che segue la versione di 1Re 8,9 e 2Cr 5,10, nell’Arca ci sono solo le tavole della Legge e i frammenti delle prime tavole. Flavio Giuseppe riporta in due luoghi la notizia delle tavole della legge come solo contenuto dell’Arca: Ant. Iud. III, 6, 5, 138; 4, 1, 104. Anche per Filone, DeVitaMos 2, 95‑97, che ne dà una lettura allegorica, il contenuto dell’Arca è la Legge. Cf.  M. Petit, «Le Contenu de l’Arche d’Alliance, génération et addition de thémes», in Hellenica et judaica. Hommage à Valentin Nikiprowetzky, Louvain-Paris, 1986, p. 335‑346. 43.  Cf., tuttavia, G. Stemberger , Einleitung in Talmud und Midrasch, 8. Auflage, München, 1992, p. 251‑253, che propende per una storia redazionale relativamente lunga (seconda metà del III secolo). 44.  Cf. H.S. Horovitz (ed.), Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishmael, Jerusalem, 1970, II, p. 172. 45.  Il riferimento all’oracolo rimanda a Ger 3,16‑17; S.P. Weitzman, «Myth, History and Mystery in the Copper Scroll», in H. Najman – J.H. Newman (ed.), The Idea of Biblical Interpretation. Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, Leiden, 2004, p. 239‑256, p. 243, suggerisce di leggere l’oracolo come imperativo divino e non come futuro; cf. anche M. Petit, «Vies des Prophètes. Texte traduit, présenté et annoté», in P. Geoltrain – J.-D. K aestli (ed.), Écrits apocryphes chrétiens, II, Paris, 2005, p. 421‑452, p. 432. 46.  Il brano suggerisce che il grado di sacertà dell’attuale Tempio e la sua piena legittimità dipendano da un evento esterno al Tempio e alla sua direzione sacerdotale. La leggenda dell’Arca nascosta risponde all’esigenza di spiegare il vuoto narrativo che riguarda il più importante oggetto dell’Israele desertico e di sganciarne la sorte da quella del Tempio storico. Sui Maccabei e su Giovanni Ircano rimando a W.O.E. Oesterley, «I Maccabees», in R.H. Charles , The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament in English, V. I, Oxford, 1913, p. 59‑131; J.D.D. Moffat, «II Maccabees», in R.H. Charles , The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament in English, V. I, Oxford, 1913, p. 132‑154; A. Momigliano, Prime linee di storia della tradizione maccabaica, Roma, 1930.

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Il tema si rintraccia anche in un testo cronologicamente assai prossimo a Gv. Nella Vita di Geremia (Vite dei Profeti) – la cui redazione greca (forse dipendente da un precedente testo ebraico, aramaico o siriaco) risale al I secolo 47 – si legge: [Geremia], prima della presa del tempio, si impossessò dell’arca della Legge e di quanto in essa contenuto, e dispose affinché fossero calati in una roccia; ed egli disse a quanti erano presenti: ‘Il Signore si è allontanato da Sion per andare verso il cielo e tornerà con potenza. Quando tutte le nazioni si prosterneranno davanti al legno, questo sarà per voi il segno della venuta’. E disse ancora: ‘Nessuno tirerà fuori l’arca di lì, se non Aronne, e nessuno aprirà le tavole che sono al suo interno, non più i sacerdoti, né i profeti, se non Mosè, l’eletto di Dio. Nell’ora della resurrezione, l’arca sarà la prima a sorgere; uscirà dalla roccia e sarà collocata sul monte Sinai […]’ (VProf, 2, 9‑14).

Geremia assume qui il compito di nasconditore dell’Arca, mentre a Mosè e Aronne è tributato un ruolo escatologico connesso a una resurrezione di evidente stampo cristiano 48 preceduta dal risorgere di un’arca come primizia della resurrezione 49. Anche i vasi/arredi del Tempio (kelei), caricati di valore ideologico sin dai libri storici, sono oggetto di numerose tradizioni narrative e vengono infine coinvolti nel tema leggendario del nascondimento. In particolare, il problema del loro destino è strettamente intrecciato a quello del rapporto tra Primo Tempio, esilio e Secondo Tempio: problema avvertito e restituito in modo tutt’altro che univoco nel composito mondo dell’ebraismo antico. In 2Cr 36,6-7.10.18‑19 il tema della sorte dei vasi dopo la distruzione del Tempio salomonico viene trattato con dovizia di particolari e restituito in un racconto in tre stadi. Rielaborando le fonti da cui trae le sue notizie (Ger 28,1-9; 52,17-19 e 2Re 25,8-17), il cronista sottolinea il fatto che i sacri arredi si trovino nel luogo dell’esilio in attesa di far ritorno a Gerusalemme al momento del rimpatrio e della riedificazione del Tem-

47.  Cf.  D.R.A. H are , «The Lives of the Prophets», in J. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, 2, 1985, p. 379‑400. Il contesto di origine dell’opera è discusso; assodato un sostrato giudaico, l’opera fu forse precocemente interpolata da mano “cristiana”, cosa che rese possibile un’amplissima diffusione in contesto cristiano, scarsa in ambito giudaico, cf. M. Petit, «Vies des Prophètes», in P. Geoltrain – J.-D. K aestli (ed.), Écrits apocryphes chrétiens, II, Paris, 2005, p. 421‑452, p. 421‑422. 48.  Cf. tuttavia G. Lusini, «Vite dei Profeti», in P. Sacchi (ed.), Apocrifi dell ’Antico Testamento, VI (Pseudepigrafi), p. 553‑554, n. 11. 49.  Cf.  M. Petit, «Vies des Prophètes. Texte traduit, présenté et annoté», in P. Geoltrain – J.-D. K aestli (ed.), Écrits apocryphes chrétiens, II, Paris, 2005, p. 421‑452, p. 433, commento a 2, 12.

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pio, secondo l’editto di Ciro che chiude il libro (2Cr 36,22‑23) 50, e come profetizzato da Ger 28,1-9. Questa versione è ripresa da Esd 5,13‑15 51, che prosegue il racconto e ne narra l’esito. Nell’intento di Esd, gli arredi/vasi garantiscono la continuità e la pari dignità tra Primo e Secondo Tempio, in funzione della complessiva proposta di restaurazione del culto post-esilico avviata da Esdra e proseguita da Neemia. Bar (seconda metà del II secolo a. C.) registra una versione differente, forse polemicamente ispirata a quella del cronista e di Esd. Nell’opera pseudoepigrafa che porta il suo nome, a restaurare i vasi è Baruc stesso (Bar 1,8‑9). A margine di questa tradizione, se ne sviluppa una alternativa e minoritaria, ed è in questo contesto che il problema della sorte dei vasi viene a fondersi con la tradizione del nascondimento che caratterizza il tema dell’Arca. In 2Bar (I-II secolo d. C.), i vasi/arredi sacri non sarebbero stati trasferiti da Gerusalemme a Babilonia ma tumulati in un luogo segreto da un angelo. Baruc contempla la città circondata dai Caldei, quando uno spirito di potenza lo innalza sul muro di Gerusalemme ed egli vede un angelo: Lo vidi scendere verso il santo dei santi e di lì prese il velo e l’efod santo e il propiziatorio e le due tavole e la veste santa dei sacerdoti e il turibolo e le quarantotto pietre preziose che il sacerdote vestiva e tutti i santi vasi della tenda. E disse alla terra a voce alta: ‘Terra […] ricevi le cose che ti affido e custodiscile fino agli ultimi tempi, per renderle, quando ne sarai comandata, affinché gli stranieri non se ne impadroniscano. È giunto infatti il tempo in cui anche Gerusalemme sarà consegnata per un tempo, finché non si dica: Torna di nuovo. Sii stabile per sempre’. E la terra aprì la sua bocca e le inghiottì (2Bar  VI, 7‑10) 52 .

Anche 4Bar applica il tema del nascondimento ai vasi del Tempio, recuperando il ruolo di nasconditore che 2Mac assegnava a Geremia:

50.  Cf.  I. K alimi – J.D. P urvis , «The Hiding of the Temple Vessels in Jewish and Samaritan Literature», Catholic Biblical Quarterly 56 (1994), p. 679‑685; I. K alimi – J.D. P urvis , «King Jehoiachin and the Vessels of the Lord’s House in Biblical Literature», Catholic Biblical Quarterly 56 (1994), p. 449‑457; cf. anche S. Fraade , Legal Fictions, Leiden, 2011, p. 523‑540. 51.  Cf. anche Esd 1,7‑11; 6,5. 52.  La funzione del nascondimento pare quella di preservare il culto in assenza di un Tempio funzionante. 2Bar è infatti successivo alla distruzione del Secondo Tempio e la leggenda potrebbe voler garantire l’incolumità del centro di culto, sottratto alla catastrofe storica e rimesso all’attesa di una rivelazione salvifica. Cf.  S.P. Weitzman, «Myth, History and Mystery in the Copper Scroll», in H. Najman – J.H. Newman (ed.), The Idea of Biblical Interpretation. Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, Leiden, 2004, p. 239‑256, p. 241‑242, che ritiene l’assenza di un riferimento all’Arca imputabile all’adattamento del tema, al di là della fictio letteraria, alla situazione del Secondo Tempio.

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E Geremia disse: ‘Ecco, Signore, ora noi sappiamo che stai abbandonando la città nelle mani dei suoi nemici, e questi porteranno a Babilonia il popolo. Che cosa vuoi che faccia con i sacri arredi del Tempio?’ E il Signore gli disse: ‘Prendili e consegnali alla terra, dicendo: Ascolta, Terra, la voce del tuo creatore […]. Conserva gli arredi del tempio fino a che il mio (popolo) diletto non sarà radunato’ (4Bar 3, 8‑11) 53.

In area giudaica dunque la leggenda dei vasi si sdoppia. L’Arca con i suoi oggetti e i vasi del Tempio salomonico condividono una sorte, il nascondimento, una funzione immediata, legata a questa cripto-topia, ovvero di conferire in absentia legittimità al luogo di culto, e una funzione seconda di tipo identificativo dell’era escatologica. Sul fronte samaritano la documentazione letteraria del nostro tema è pressoché nulla; mi sembra fondamentale sottolineare però un dato portato all’attenzione da R. Pummer: i vasi sono il solo soggetto di arte figurativa che la tradizione samaritana abbia sviluppato 54 . Anche J.D. Purvis sottolinea il dato archeologico: il motivo dei vasi appare su lampade samaritane e mosaici pavimentali in sinagoga già nel periodo bizantino e queste rappresentazioni costituiscono a tutti gli effetti il solo esempio di arte grafica nella storia del samaritanesimo – con l’eccezione di alcune raffigurazioni che presentano insieme ai vasi anche il Tabernacolo, il bastone di Mosè e di quello di Aronne. C’è ragione di credere, con Purvis, che questi elementi iconografici siano stati accettati nel contesto di una cultura fortemente aniconica sulla base del valore ideologico ed escatologico loro tributato 55. Le raffigurazioni del tabernacolo e dei vasi sarebbero cioè il tramite 53.  Cf.  P. P iovanelli, «Paralipomeni di Geremia e Storia della cattività babilonese», in P. Sacchi (ed.), Apocrifi dell ’Antico Testamento, III, p. 309‑310; cf. anche «Introduzione», p. 264‑265, n. 60. 54.  Cf.  R. P ummer , The Samaritans, Leiden, 1987; A.D. Crown, «Art of the Samaritans», in A.D. Crown – R. P ummer – A. Tal (ed.), A  Companion to Samaritan Studies, Tübingen, 1993, p. 29; R. P ummer , «Hidden vessels», in A.D. Crown – R. P ummer – A. Tal (ed.), A  Companion to Samaritan Studies, Tübingen, 1993, p. 122‑123; R. P ummer , «Samaritan Tabernacle Drawings», Numen. International Review for the History of Religions 45 (1998), p. 30‑68; R. P ummer , «Samaritan Material Remains and Archaeology», in A.D. Crown (ed.), The Samaritans, Tübingen 1989, p. 156; V. Sussman, «Samaritan Lamps of the ThirdFourth Centuries AD», Israel Exploration Journal 28 (1978), p. 238; F. Dexinger , «Der Taheb: Ein “messianischer” Heilsbringer der Samaritaner», Kairos: Zeitschrift fur Religionswissenschaft und Theologie (1985), p. 1‑172, p. 27. 55.  J.D. P urvis , «Two Samaritan Drawings of the Tabernacle in the Boston University Library», Aleph-Beth: Hadshot Shomronim 20 (1992), p. 105‑120; J.D. P urvis , «The Tabernacle in Samaritan Iconography and Thought», in L.M. Hopfe (ed.), Uncovering Ancient Stones: Essays in Memory of H. Neil Richardson, Warsaw, 1994, p. 223‑236. Cf. anche Y. M agen – H. M isgav – L. Tsfania, [English translation by E. Levin – M. Guggenheimer], Mount Gerizim excavations, Jerusalem, 2004. Cf. anche M. Gaster , The Samaritans: Their History, Doctrines and Literature Schweich Lectures 1923, Oxford, 1925, p. 1; E. Robertson,

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di una precisa posizione religiosa. Riprendendo la tesi di Collins, e alla luce del dato archeologico, si può ipotizzare che i samaritani avessero sviluppato una tradizione alternativa a quella giudaica e in polemica con essa, in cui i vasi del periodo desertico assumono valenza identificativa della restaurazione del vero culto. Non è da escludere che la tensione messianico-escatologica connessa ai vasi sia stata mutuata dalle tradizioni giudaiche relative al Secondo Tempio, collocando però il luogo della restaurazione (e dunque, recessivamente, del nascondimento) sul Garizìm 56 – in ottemperanza al X (o XI) comandamento samaritano – assegnando a Mosè il ruolo di nasconditore e al “profeta pari a Mosè” quello di restauratore 57. Anche in contesto samaritano i vasi avrebbero cioè la funzione di garantire continuità di culto: con il culto desertico e conseguentemente legittimando il culto del Garizìm, dove l’Arca e tutti gli oggetti furono stabiliti da Giosuè 58. Flavio Giuseppe avrebbe allora registrato, in modo parco di dettagli ma relativamente fedele, un momento in cui i vasi del periodo desertico,

Catalogue of the Samaritan Manuscripts in the John Rylands Library II. The Gaster Manuscripts, Manchester, 1962, p. 251‑252. 56.  Si tenga presente che il tempio del Garizìm era stato distrutto intono alla prima metà del II secolo a. C. Si può dunque ipotizzare un’ulteriore radicalizzazione delle istanze riposte nella figura di Deut 18,18 durante l’odiata dinastia degli Asmonei, in cui si colloca la distruzione del Tempio del Garizìm ad opera di Giovanni Ircano, che rivendicò un particolare statuto carismatico – il munus triplex – e avanzò la pretesa di incarnare la svolta storica in direzione della salvezza. 57.  Questa l’ipotesi di Collins, che indica un ulteriore dato: nel Midrash Rabbah ricorre quattro volte una disputa tra un maestro e un samaritano circa il culto del Garizìm. In Bereshit Rabbah LXXXI, 4, per confutare il culto sul Garizìm è chiamato in causa l’episodio di Gen 35, 4. Si tratta qui, secondo Collins, di una contro-risposta alla variante samaritana dei vasi nascosti sul Garizìm, cf. M.F. Collins , «The Hidden Vessels in Samaritan Tradition», Journal for the Study of Judaism 3 (1972), p. 97‑116, p. 114‑115. Cf. di contro A. M erx, Der Messias oder Ta’eb der Samariter, Giessen, 1909, che considera Mosè come nasconditore un’imprecisione di Flavio Giuseppe. La figura del taheb come soggetto definito con funzione di restauratore del culto e dell’antico tabernacolo è probabilmente da ascrivere a un periodo più tardo. Memar Marqah mostra che l’attesa del taheb è viva nel IV secolo d. C., e sovrapposta a Mosè stesso. Probabilmente Marquah lavora su un cortocircuito tra Deut 18,18 e Deut 34,10, dove si sostiene che «Non ci sarà più un profeta come Mosè» e dunque il profeta pari a Mosè di Deut 18,18 altri non può essere che Mosè stesso che ritorna. L’esaltazione di Mosè e la sua proiezione come figura escatologica può esser letta, con Collins, come reazione contro le figure profetiche palestinesi, o contro la monopolizzazione del profetismo ad opera delle scuole rabbiniche. Nella tradizione precedente Deut 34,10 era il passo che fondava piuttosto il rifiuto samaritano di accogliere nel novero dei testi sacri libri profetici e sapienziali, senza inficiare la possibilità di attendere un restauratore non identificato direttamente con Mosè, ma a lui legato da una comune missione di compimento della promessa divina. 58.  Cf.  R. P ummer , The Samaritans, Leiden, 1987, p. 3 ss.

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tipico esempio di mythical reality 59, si trovarono al centro di un episodio della storia del samaritanesimo del I secolo, quando un uomo rivendicò il ruolo profetico secondo la promessa di Deut 18,18. IV. Da l Te mpio

a l n uovo

Ta be r nacolo

Torniamo ora al testo giovanneo e riformuliamo l’ipotesi di partenza: è possibile trovare in Gv 4 un’eco della fallimentare impresa del profeta “dei vasi” samaritano, registrata in forma polemica da una rivendicazione rivale interessata a confutarne la legittimità? Come si iscrive l’ipotesi di un’intenzione di questo tipo nella complessiva presentazione di Gesù che il brano propone? E come questa, a sua volta, può illuminare l’auto-presentazione del gruppo nella particolare situazione storica dell’apertura del messaggio di salvezza ai samaritani? Il dialogo al pozzo incappa presto in un confronto istituito dalla samaritana tra Gesù e il grande patriarca Giacobbe: la donna introduce così la questione del carisma rivendicato dal “Giudeo” che le parla: sei tu forse maggiore di Giacobbe che diede al popolo il pozzo 60? Per bocca della samaritana è dunque nominato Giacobbe-Israele, ovvero la stessa identità contesa 61. In una scenografia di densità semantica già tanto alta, voglio portare l’attenzione sulle parole precedenti la domanda della samaritana, che sorge dinanzi all’offerta di acqua viva, un’acqua che Gesù può attingere senza vaso 62: κύριε, οὔτε ἄντλημα ἔχεις. Gli esegeti hanno generalmente sottolineato l’incapacità della donna di cogliere il livello “spirituale” del discorso di Gesù, dando luogo a un equivoco simile a quello sulla nascita dall’acqua e dallo spirito nel dialogo con Nicodemo 63. Saldando però la domanda al contesto in cui viene posta, emerge il suo legame con l’or59.  S.P. Weitzman, «Myth, History and Mystery in the Copper Scroll», in H. Najman – J.H. Newman (ed.), The Idea of Biblical Interpretation. Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel, Leiden, 2004, p. 239‑256, p. 246 ss., inscrive la leggenda nel più ampio contesto dei miti relativi a tesori sepolti nei luoghi di fondazione; su “mythical reality” cf. M. Sahlins , Historical Metaphors and Mythical Realities, Ann Arbor, 1981. 60.  Gv 4,12. 61.  Cf., con richiamo a Gn 32,27‑29 e a Gn 28,12‑22, A. Destro – M. Pesce , «Lo Spirito e il mondo “vuoto”», in P.C. Bori (ed.), In Spirito e verità. Letture di Gv 4,23‑24, Bologna, 1996, p. 21‑41, p. 24‑29, che sottolineano l’aspetto di localizzazione del culto da parte di Giacobbe (la consacrazione della stele dopo il sogno della scala), nel generale contesto del pozzo come indice di un livello rituale implicito alla narrazione. 62.  Gv 4,11. 63.  Gv 3,5. Cf. X. L éon-Dufour , Lecture de l ’Evangile selon Jean, Paris, 1988‑1996, ed. it., Lettura dell ’evangelo secondo Giovanni, Milano, 1990, p. 297‑298; si veda, di contro, lo spettro più ampio attraverso cui la questione è osservata da

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chestrazione generale della narrazione, il cui centro è il culto e l’identità del corpo religioso, entrambi ripensati a partire da una proposta di battesimo pneumatico  6 4 . La (samaritana) Samaria pare dunque chieder conto dell’autorità di chi avanza una tale pretesa insieme identitaria, cultuale e salvifica: tu non hai un vaso (Gv 4,11). E quando chiede di poter ricevere l’acqua viva di cui Gesù parla (Gv 4,15), per non dover più ἀντλεῖν, andare al pozzo ad attingere, l’autore introduce la figura del concubino ovvero il tema biblicamente classico della contrapposizione tra vero e falso profeta 65, tra legittimità e illegittimità del carisma, iscrivendolo in una metaforica sponsale fortemente evocativa dell’immaginario biblico relativo alla Samaria. La nuova topica del sacro e del culto è qui fatta passare attraverso la dialettica tra vero e falso marito a cui corrisponde una radicale trasformazione della donna/terra di prostituzione per antonomasia: il profeta/ marito della samaritana è svuotato della sua legittimità e, attraverso il salvifico riconoscimento, la Samaria può accogliere il messaggio di Cristo, vero profeta e vero marito. La donna infatti, continua Gv 4, abbandona il suo vaso (ὑδρία, Gv 4,28), e ciò di cui esso è emblema, e si fa promotrice di un nuovo culto (Gv 4,29). Concluso il dialogo con la donna, si apre un a parte coi discepoli 66. Gesù indica loro la terra di Samaria che hanno davanti (Gv 4,35‑36): il G. Gaeta (ed.), I Vangeli. Edizione con testo a fronte e commento, Torino, 2006, p. 1130. 64.  Cf. Gv 4,10b. Come nota G. Gaeta, «Il culto “in spirito e verità” secondo il Vangelo di Giovanni», in P.C. Bori (ed.), In Spirito e verità. Letture di Gv 4,23‑24, Bologna, 1996, p. 9‑20, p. 13, si tratta di un passaggio da una forma conoscitivo-cultuale statica a una dinamica. Sul ruolo di Gesù come mediatore dello Spirito in Gv, cf. A. Destro – M. Pesce , Antropologia delle origini cristiane, Roma-Bari, 2008, p. 116‑117 e I dd., «Lo Spirito e il mondo “vuoto”», in P.C. Bori (ed.), In Spirito e verità. Letture di Gv 4, 23‑24, Bologna, 1996, p. 21‑41, p. 31‑33. 65.  Sulla connessione tra Samaria e falsi profeti in tradizioni giudaiche e cristiane, cf. E. Norelli, L’A scensione di Isaia. Studi su un apocrifo al crocevia dei cristianesimi, Bologna, 1994, p. 93‑113, che rintraccia il problema nei libri storici fino alla fissazione del topos della falsa profezia, sempre contrapposto a un modello positivo e che diviene in AI pseudoprofeta di Baal; cf. anche U. Luz , «Stages of Early Christian Prophetism», in J. Verheyden – K. Z amfir – T. Nicklas , Prophets and Prophecy in Jewish and Early Christian Literature, Tübingen, 2010, p. 57‑76; U.C. von Wahlde , «The Role of the Prophetic Spirit in John: A Struggle for Balance», in J. Verheyden – K. Z amfir – T. Nicklas , Prophets and Prophecy in Jewish and Early Christian Literature, Tübingen, 2010, p. 211‑242. Per il tema in contesto veterotestamentario cf. A. Catastini, «Who Were the False Prophets?», Henoch 34 (2/2012), p. 330‑366. 66.  Sugli ἄλλοι (Gv 4,31‑38) cui fa cenno Gesù cf. O. Cullmann, «La Samarie et les Origines de la Mission Chrétienne», Annuaire 1953‑1954, École Pratique des Hautes Études, Paris, p. 3‑12, che stabilisce un’ulteriore rete inter-testuale con At 7 (discorso di Stefano, su cui cf. anche infra n. 44) e At 8, cf. anche R.E. Brown, The Gospel according to John, New York, 1966‑1970, I, p. 241, secondo il quale si tratterebbe invece di un riferimento alla predicazione di discepoli del Battista; così

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mandato gesuano – come già segnalato da Lettieri – pare un controcanto dell’oracolo di Os 2,18‑25 su Samaria. Si dovrà qui notare un ultimo aspetto: elemento caratteristico dell’episodio samaritano di Gv sembra essere una particolare insistenza sull’assenza non solo di un luogo in senso mondano, ma anche di una mediazione affidata a un’autorità mondana: la donna parla direttamente con il Cristo (i discepoli sono infatti assenti per l’intera durata della rivelazione e non ricevono la missione se non quando la conversione di Samaria è già stata avviata dal Cristo stesso), e anche i samaritani chiamati dalla donna sottolineano questo aspetto (Gv 4,42). Gv 4 tratta cioè il problema della mediazione Dio-uomo facendolo passare attraverso lo specifico tema della mediazione messianico-spirituale di tale relazione: svuotamento di legittimità non solo della localizzazione del sacro, ma anche di una – incarnata dal concubino – e, attraverso di essa, di ogni altra rivendicazione di un qualche ruolo mediativo di contro al riconoscimento della “verità” del Cristo/σωτήρ che apre l’ingresso al luogo “spirituale” del vero culto. Il dialogo al pozzo è il prologo alla confessione samaritana di Gesù come figura messianica 67 e all’ingresso dei samaritani nel τόπος ὅπου προσκυνεῖν δεῖ, cioè nel vero culto di cui il gruppo giovanneo stesso si presenta come depositario. Un culto delocalizzato ma non astratto o spiritualizzato nel modo in cui solo più tardi la fede cristiana, e quella di marchio giovanneo in particolare, verrà talvolta intesa. A. Destro e M. Pesce hanno analizzato il brano proprio dal punto di vista della contrapposizione tra localizzazione e delocalizzazione del culto 68. Pur ritenendone convincente l’analisi – che si concentra sulla funzione santificatrice di Gesù, i suoi modi e i suoi tempi scanditi e organizzati da Gv secondo un preciso schema biografico sequenziale – credo si possa specificare la proposta del brano non tanto nel senso d’un culto senza localizzazione, quanto piuttosto d’un culto incarnato dai suoi fedeli, strettamente legato alla verità che essi annunciano e realizzato dallo Spirito. Il Cristo giovanneo non indica luoghi poiché egli stesso è il τόπος/σκηνή, la tenda piantata ἐν ἡμῖν (Gv 1,14), in mezzo a quel noi che in Gv gli rende testimonianza. Il luogo dei veri adoratori, che conoscono e praticano la verità, è il gruppo giovanneo stesso in quanto mandatario di una nuova forma di legame tra uomini e Dio, secondo la parola santificatrice di Gesù 69. All’interno della anche J.A.T. Robinson, «The ‘Others’ of John 4,38», in Twelve New Testament Studies, Naperville, 1962, p. 61‑66 e W.F. A lbright, «Some Observations Favor­ ing the Palestinian Origin of the Gospel of John», Harvard Theological Review 17 (1924), p. 189‑195, p. 193 ss. 67.  Il testo registra una climax nel graduale riconoscimento di Gesù: cf. Gv 4,19.25‑26.28b-29.42. 68.  Cf.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , «Lo Spirito e il mondo “vuoto”», in P.C. Bori (ed.), In Spirito e verità. Letture di Gv 4,23‑24, Bologna, 1996, p. 21‑41, p. 22. 69.  Gv 15,3.

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cornice generale del vangelo, la rivelazione del τόπος del sacro e d’una inedita forma di culto è affidata al destino itinerante (e su più fronti stretto in un conflitto teorico-pratico) d’un gruppo organizzato attorno a una presenza spettrale ma anche alla certezza di aver ricevuto in eredità lo spirito Παράκλητος 70. Vero e spirituale è cioè quel luogo in cui lo Spirito del Cristo agisce, creandolo in quanto luogo spirituale, cioè costituito tale dallo Spirito. Se infatti la scandalosa proposta nuziale del Cristo alla samaritana/ prostituta (quindi la problematica apertura del gruppo a quella particolare categoria etnico-religiosa costituita dai samaritani) viene strutturalmente orchestrata attraverso un richiamo all’acqua – di cui, per un verso, Gv indica la sublimazione in direzione di un battesimo spirituale – si dovrà ricordare che, nella letteratura biblica questo elemento ha un forte legame con il tema del Tempio escatologico 71. Erede di una fonte di acqua viva, il gruppo dei fedeli è allora il luogo vivente del compimento, avvenuto nella santificazione di Cristo e ripetuto nel culto, delle antiche profezie sul Tempio – come quella di Ez 47,12 sulle acque che sgorgano dal santuario o di Zc 13,1‑4 che annuncia, nel contesto di una profonda tensione alla riedificazione del Tempio, il silenzio rivelatore di mendacia d’ogni 70.  G.M. Burge , The Annointed Community. The Holy Spirit in the Johannine Tradition, Grand Rapids, 1987, p. 3‑41; U.C. von Wahlde , «The Role of the Prophetic Spirit in John: A Struggle for Balance», in J. Verheyden – K. Z amfir – T. Nicklas , Prophets and Prophecy in Jewish and Early Christian Literature, Tübingen, 2010, p. 211‑242, p. 214‑215 e p. 221‑224. 71.  In relazione al tema della mediazione emerge un legame contenutistico con Eb 9,1‑28, in cui compare la figura di Gesù come sommo sacerdote. L’autore dell’epistola – alla cui memoria è vivo l’elenco degli oggetti sacri di cui abbiamo trattato (cf.  Eb 9,1‑5) – instaura un rapporto di “superamento” tra il culto e il santuario terreni e il Cristo, «sommo sacerdote dei beni futuri». La funzione espiatoria/purificatrice del «sangue di Cristo» è fortemente accentuata. Si dà qui un processo di proiezione e allegorizzazione, che si risolve in un sostanziale svuotamento dell’una a guadagno dell’altra, tra dimensione terrena e dimensione soteriologico-trascendente. Come in Gv, la morte sacrificale ha un rapporto dialettico con la vita eterna, eppure con notevoli differenze, cf. G. Gaeta, «Il culto “in spirito e verità” secondo il Vangelo di Giovanni», in P.C. Bori (ed.), In Spirito e verità. Letture di Gv 4,23‑24, Bologna, 1996, p. 9‑20, p. 19‑20. Si tenga anche presente il passo di Gv 7,38‑39 su cui richiamano l’attenzione A. Destro – M. Pesce , «Lo Spirito e il mondo “vuoto”», P.C. Bori (ed.), In Spirito e verità. Letture di Gv 4,23‑24, Bologna, 1996, p. 21‑41, p. 30‑31; sul tema sacrificale, si veda anche A. Destro – M. Pesce , «Between Family and Temple: Jesus and Sacrifices», Harvard Theological Studies 58/2 (2002), p. 472‑501. Sul rapporto tra tempio storico e tempio celeste in Gv e Eb cf.  G. L ettieri, «Note storico-critiche sul parallelismo sacramentale tempio/“persona” dalle origini cristiane alle teologie patristiche», in F.V. Tommasi, Tempio e persona. Dall ’analogia al sacramento, Verona, 2013, p. 153‑198; C.H.H. Scobie , «The Origin and Developement of the Johannine Community», New Testament Studies 19 (1976), p. 390‑414, p. 409‑414, sostiene che Eb avrebbe avuto una destinazione samaritana, tesi però difficile da argomentare.

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altro (falso) profeta di fronte all’acqua zampillante nel luogo del tempio. Questa idea profetica torna anche in ApGv, dove l’attributo cristologico ἀμνὸς – oggetto della confessione del Battista in Gv 1,29‑34 72 – occupa il centro della visione escatologica: l’acqua viva che scaturisce dal trono di Dio e dell’Agnello (Ap 22,1); una visione in cui manca il Tempio, giacché «l’Onnipotente […] e l’Agnello sono il suo Tempio» (Ap 21,22). Al riguardo si può segnalare una straordinaria convergenza tematica tra la costellazione giovannea che ho tentato di delineare e l’aneddoto registrato da P.Oxy. 840 73. In questo racconto Gesù, nominato sempre σωτήρ, conduce i suoi discepoli nel Tempio (ἐν τῷ ἱερῷ, P.Oxy. 840, 9) e intrattiene un dialogo con un fariseo sommo sacerdote (φαρισαῖός τις ἀρχιερεὺς, 10); quest’ultimo accusa Gesù d’aver osato accedere nel luogo e vedere i vasi sacri (τὰ ἅγια σκεύη, 29‑30) senza aver fatto le purificazioni 74 . Gesù chiede a sua volta conto dello stato di purità del sommo sacerdote, ed egli elenca la sequenza canonica delle prescrizioni cui ha ossequiosamente adempiuto, ottenendo il diritto di osservare i sacri vasi. Di tutta risposta, Gesù paragona la pratica rituale del sacerdote alla pratica cosmetica delle prostitute (αἱ πόρναι, 36), contrapponendola alla vera purità di Gesù e dei suoi, purificati da acque di vita eterna (ἐν ὕδασι ζωῆς αἰωνίου, 43‑44) 75. V. U na

fug a i n ava n t i

Indagando Gv 4 ho tenuto sullo sfondo un problema più tardo rispetto al campo qui in analisi. Pur risoluta a scartare approcci tendenti a leggere il 72.  Interrogato dagli esperti di riti, culto e purificazioni (Gv 1,19), sulla sua identità e sul valore del suo battesimo (questione ripresa in Gv 3,25 ss.), il Battista si presenta come colui che introduce la missione dell’Agnello (Gv 1,29) sul quale discende e si ferma lo Spirito (Gv 1,33), cf. A. Destro – M. Pesce , Come nasce una religione, Roma-Bari, 2000, p. 8. 73.  La datazione del papiro si colloca a cavallo tra IV e V secolo: cf. Th.J. K raus – M.J. K ruger – T. Nicklas , Oxford Early Christian Gospel Texts, Gospel Fragments, Oxford, 2009, p. 134; il contesto culturale-religioso di provenienza e la data di composizione restano indefiniti, cf. D.A. Bertrand, «Papyrus Oxyrhynque 840», in B. Bouvier – F. Bouvon (ed)., Écrits apocryphes chrétiens, Paris, 1997, p. 407‑409. Per il testo faccio riferimento all’edizione di Ch. Wessely, Les plus anciens monuments du christianisme écrits sur papyrus, 2, Patrologia orientalis, 18, 3, Paris, 1924, p. 488‑490 [264‑266] e a M.J. K ruger (ed.), «Papyrus Oxyrinchus 840», in Th.J. K raus – M.J. K ruger – T. Nicklas , Oxford Early Christian Gospel Texts, Gospel Fragments, Oxford, 2009, p. 123‑203. 74.  Sul tema dei vasi e su quella che è parsa essere una scarsa accuratezza di P.Oxy 840 nel descrivere dettagli templari cf. M.J. K ruger (ed.), «Papyrus Oxyrinchus 840», in Th.J. K raus – M.J. K ruger – T. Nicklas , Oxford Early Christian Gospel Texts, Gospel Fragments, Oxford, 2009, p. 123‑203, p. 147‑150. 75.  Il frammento si interrompe bruscamente a metà di questa frase: «con acque di vita eterna, che sgorgano da…».

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prima come tappa di sviluppi successivi, vorrei sottolineare le potenzialità ermeneutiche della proposta di lettura qui esposta in relazione ad alcune successive riprese. A partire dal II secolo, al personaggio di Simon Mago viene associata Elena di Troia, presentata da Giustino (Apologia prima) e quindi da Ireneo (Adversus haereses) come prostituta riscattata e divenuta sua compagna 76. Esponente a Roma dell’allora minoritaria cristologia del Logos (dunque fortemente incentrata sulla preminenza del testo giovanneo) e forse a conoscenza di alcuni materiali di tradizione giudeo-cristiana che sarebbero poi confluiti nel corpus pseudo-clementino 77, Giustino fu il primo a introdurre il nome di Elena in tale contesto. Difficile stabilire cosa sapesse Giustino (nato a Sichem, in Samaria, attorno all’anno 100) di Simone, e quale fosse la forma della leggenda con cui entrò in contatto e di cui non abbiamo altra traccia documentaria certa precedente alla sua Apologia – fermo restando che probabilmente fosse già in corso il processo di formazione dei primi nuclei narrativi pseudo-clementini, dipendenti da At. Mi sembra interessante segnalare che in testi aramaico-egiziani e targumici di questo periodo emerge il prestito lehene – dall’accadico lhahanatu – con il doppio significato di “vaso” e “utero/concubina” 78. Nell’ipotesi che l’introduzione del nome Elena contenga un evocativo richiamo a questa parola di uso corrente, si registrerebbe qui – tornando dunque a sfiorare la triangolazione di notizie – una sorta di analogia inversa dell’esito positivo rappresentato dalla coppia Gesù-samaritana. Laddove l’unione salvifica di Gv si configura come toglimento del vaso/conversione della concubina in sposa, nella coppia antitetica Simone-Elena (chiamata anche Utero nelle Omelie dello Pseudo-Clemente), la concubina catalizza su di sé il valore identificativo tradizionalmente assegnato al vaso ma con segno rovesciato, denunciando così, con la sua stessa presenza, il falso carisma del nemico 79 . Se dunque l’una concubina, la samaritana, abbandona il suo non-marito e lascia il suo vaso per aprirsi alla nuova alleanza, l’altra assume su di sé lo stigma di prostituta e il nome stesso del falso segno messianico: lehene,῾Ελένη. 76.  Cf.  1Apol. XV, 1‑8; Adv. Haer. I, 23, 1‑4. 77.  Cf. G. L ettieri, Simone mago di Samaria ed Elena prostituta di Tiro. Demonizzazione apocalittica del messia rivale e genealogia della gnosi eretica alle origini del cristianesimo, di prossima pubblicazione. 78. Cf. L. Köhler – W. Baumgartner , Hebräisches Und Aramäisches Lexikon zum Alten Testament, Leiden, 19953, Suppl. 203. 79. D’altra parte, nella versione di Ireneo si legge che Elena «de vase in vas trasmigravat in altera muliebra corpora» (Ireneo, Adv. Haer. I, 23, 3): il passo parrebbe indicare una sorta di incarnazione/demonizzante del vaso-concubina, ulteriore legame oppositivo-analogico laddove nell’ambito della cristologia pseudo-clementina, la trasmigrazione del Cristo attraverso i vari profeti della storia è restituita come una sorta di travaso carismatico-positivo, cf. A. M agris , “Ippolito”. Confutazione di tutte le eresie, Brescia, 2012, p. 317‑318, n. 43. Si tenga poi presente la straordinaria fortuna mitologico-metaforica del tema del vaso-utero, depositario dunque di questa ambiguità semantica, in varie tradizioni gnostiche.

I NAUGURATIO QUAEDAM DIVIDENDAE DOCTRINAE VALENTINI: I NCONSISTENCIES ABOUT VALENTINIANISM’S SPLIT INTO DUAE CATHEDRAE BETWEEN A DVERSUS VALENTINIANOS AND DE C ARNE CHRISTI Francesco Berno After the account of the development of the valentinian pleromatology and of Sophia’s fault, in his Adversus Valentinianos, 1 Tertullian maintains that “these two [Christ and Holy Spirit] have one duty: to stabilize the aeons. From this duty, two schools arise, two pulpits, and the beginning of the division of Valentinian teaching. 2” 3 1.  The work is usually dated between 207 and 212, which is to say in the socalled Tertullian’s half-montanist period. See J.-C. Fredouille , Tertullien. Contres les Valentiniens (Paris, 1980‑1981) 9 and A. M arastoni, Q.S.F. Tertulliani Adversus Valentinianos (Padova, 1971) 10. This dating appears to be the outcome of several factors: in the De Prescriptione Haereticorum, Tertullian makes a copious list of heresies and shows the desire to contest some of them. He does not assert to have done it earlier in any other places. Moreover, in Adversus Valentinianos 16, 3, Tertullian claims that “heac erit materia quae nos commisit cum Hermogene”, in obvious reference to the Adversus Hermogenem. Both the Adversus Hermogenem and the De Prescriptione Haereticorum date about 205‑206. Nevertheless, the Adversus Valentinianos does not disclose a full adhesion to Montanism (even if the montanist Proculus is called noster): “we are branded ‘innocent’ by them, and for that reason they do not consider us ‘wise’” (2,1), “despite their reticence, we ‘innocent’ know all” (3,5), and so on. Nonetheless, we have to note that such an attitude has induced Fredouille to suppose a kind of defense of the Montanism from the charges usually brought against the Valentinians. See J.-C. Fredouille , “Valentiniana. Quelques améliorations au texte de l’Adversus Valentinianos,” Vigiliae Christianae 20 (1966) 45‑79; G. Scarpat, “Una nuova edizione dell’Adversus Valentinianos,” Paideia 26 (1971) 327‑334; M.R. Braun, “Notes de lecture sur une édition récente de l’Adversus Valentinianos de Tertullien,” Revue de Philologie 56 (1982) 189‑200. Finally, cf. M.T. R iley, Q.S.Fl. Tertulliani Adversus Valentinianos: Text, Translation, and Commentary (Ph.d dissertation, Stanford University 1971). See also J.-C. Fredouille , Tertullien et la conversion de la culture antique (Paris, 1972). 2.  Cf. appendix A. 3. Here I will try to examine Tertullian’s evidence in the way he gives it to us, that is to catch it as mightily influential in later heresiology and in modern critic. However it is necessary to immediately underline the mockery that inspires the Tertullian’s antignostic work as a whole: the first valentinian division is the result of an act of sinful pleromatic union! It is an irony that lays on a double Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 317–334 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111709 ©

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The passage is of the utmost importance not only in regard to a proper understanding of Tertullian’s heresiological practice, but, above all, according to an overall rethinking of the internal evolution of the School of Valentinus. This is the specific aim of my work. According to a wide spread opinion, 4 Valentinianism has known a progressive opening to the psychic element, so deep that it has represented a radical conversion of his fundamental theological structures. Thus Valentinus has interpreted the Paul’s charismatic opposition between Spiritus and Littera as the starting point of a dualism between a “natural nature” point of view: on the one hand, the gnostic inability to denote the Beginning and, on the other, the wicked working of the Beginning itself. On the subject, see A. Capone , “Osservazioni sull’ironia di Tertulliano nell’Adversus Valentinianos,” Auctores Nostri 4 (2006) 229‑242. In this introductive context, we need to remind the judgment expressed in J. K alvesmaki, “Italian versus Eastern Valentinianism?,” Vigiliae Christinae 62 (2008), according to which, Tertullian would have oversimplify and quote only two schools exclusively because of a rhetoric amplification of the disagreement. The scholar concludes (89) that “the geography of Valentinianism is too muddled to serve as the starting point for establishing the taxonomy of Valentinianism”. See also K alvesmaki, “The Original Sequence of Irenaeus ‘Against Heresies’ 1: Another Suggestion,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 15 (2007) 407‑417. See C. M arkschies , “Valentinian Gnosticism: Toward the Anatomy of a School,” in J. Turner – A. Mcguire , ed., The Nag Hammadi Library After Fifty Years. Proceedings of the 1995 Society of Biblical Literature Commemoration (New York, 1992) 401‑438: the German scholar highlights – in the wake of Fredouille – how “Tertullian applies the terms schola and cathedra to heretics only in this one place” (435) and asserts that “here there were indeed duae cathedrae, the chair for Greek rhetoric in the city of Roma and the Athenian chair for the same purpose (with a much lower salary). The exact meaning of the passage in Tertullian now becomes clear” (435). Markschies stresses the comprehension of the Valentinism as a “philosophical school” comparable to the various other schools documented in the coeval Rome. See also C. M arkschies , Valentinus Gnosticus? Untersuchungen zur valentinischinen Gnosis; mit einem Kommentar zu den Fragmenten Valentins (Tübingen, 1992). See also I. Dunderberg, “Valentinian Theories on Classes of Humankind,” in C. M arkschies – J. Von Oort , ed., Zugänge zur Gnosis. Akten zur Tagung der Patristischen Arbeitsgemeinschaft vom 02.-05.01.2011 in BerlinSpandau (Leuven-Walpole, 2013) 113‑128. 4.  Among the most significant and explicit essays I would suggest W. Foester , Von Valentin zu Herakleon. Untersuchungen über die Quellen und die Entwicklung der valentinianischen Gnosis (Giessen, 1928); R.P. Casey, “Two Notes on Valentinian Theology,” Harvard Theological Review 23 (1930) 275‑298; A. Orbe , “La Encarnación entre los valentinianos,” Gregorianum 53 (1972) 201‑235; I d. Cristología gnóstica. Introducción a la soteriología de los siglos II y III (Madrid, 1976); J.D. K aestli, “Valentinisme italien et valentinisme oriental: leurs divergences à propos de la nature du corps de Jésus,” in B. L ayton, ed., The Rediscovery of Gnosticism. Vol. I The School of Valentinus (Leiden, 1980) 391‑404; B. L ayton, The Gnostic Scriptures (New York, 1987); G. Quispel , “The Original Doctrine of Valentinus the Gnostic,” Vigiliae Christianae 50 (1996); E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the Valentinians (Leiden, 2006); C. M arkschies , Kaiserzeitliche christliche Theologie und ihre Institutionen (Tübingen, 2007) 88‑109.

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(the hylic matter condemned to the mundane corruption’s logic) and an “over-natural nature” (the pneumatic, gratis datum nonetheless structuring the Gnostic’s intimacy). 5 Such an opposition is viewed as so apocalyptically anchored 6 not to leave any interstitial space between the predestined oblivion of the first and the “automatic” salvation of the latter. On the other side, moving from a renewed self-understanding regarding the Catholic Church, his pupils – among others, Ptolemy and Heracleon – have theorized an achievable (although also relative) salvation for the psychics. This readjustment would have affected the gist of the valentinian reflection about Christ’s soteric function: we are thus assisting to a transition from a form of redemptor redentus’ “mutual participation” of the salvandi elements’ first fruits, to a progressive dislocation of the suffering and death’s σκάνδαλον to the solely christic subject’s psychic component. Four-parted divisive Christology is then interpreted as the landing point of a long evolution and complication of the soteric subject. In this interpretative perspective, the “division of Valentinianism” catches the detachment of the well-known four-parted ptolemean Christology – marker of the psychic salvation (western or italic school) – from the rudimentary and pristine pneumatic Christology of Valentinus. The latter keeps on to represent a rearguard position (oriental or anatholic school) 7 and becomes the retrospective cornerstone in the interpretation of Valentinus’ fragment 3 (Stromata  III 59,3‑7), legitimizing a “pre-gnostic”, “philonian”, biblicalplatonic reading. 8 5.  Cf. F. Sagnard, La gnose valentinienne et le témoignage de saint Irenée (Paris, 1947); M. Simonetti, “ΨΥΧΗ e ΨΥΧΙKΟΣ nella gnosi valentiniana,” Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 2 (1966) 1‑47; A. Orbe , Cristología gnóstica. Introducción a la soteriología de los siglos II y III (Madrid, 1976). 6.  Cf. G. L ettieri, Deus patiens. L’essenza cristologica dello gnosticismo (Roma, 1996). See also M.V. Cerutti, ed., Apocalittica e gnosticismo. Atti del Colloquio Internazionale Roma 18‑19 giugno 1993 (Roma, 1995). 7. J.D. K aestli, “Valentinisme italien et valentinisme oriental: leurs divergences à propos de la nature du corps de Jésus,” in B. L ayton, ed., The Rediscovery of Gnosticism. Vol. I The School of Valentinus (Leiden, 1980) 394 et seq. points out the following fragments as attesting such a Christology: a) Excerpta ex Theodoto 1‑42; b) Adversus Haereses I, 13‑16 e I, 21; c) Gospel of Philip; “[c]es trois textes me semblent témoigner d’une même conception du corps pneumatique de Jésus, qui permet de mieux comprendre les indications fournies par Elenchos 6, 35, 4.7”. 8.  Cfr. C. M arkschies , Valentinus Gnosticus? Untersuchungen zur valentinischinen Gnosis; mit einem Kommentar zu den Fragmenten Valentins (Tübingen, 1992) 113 et seq. I would like to point out that fragment 3 is quoted by Clement in the context of a λόγος περὶ ἐγκρατείας, that is to say in a discussion about the deviations from the proper meaning of enkrateia. This survey absorbs de facto the whole third book of the Stromata. Even though there is no doubt about the attribution of a more or less stressed encratic character to Christ as a fruitful contribution to the reflection on his salvific acting, I would like to underline the uncertainness of the extension of such consideration as a characterizing aspect of Valentinus’ Chris-

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This explanatory system is based on “three and only three ancient sources”: 9 the “pseudo”-clementinian title of the Excerpta ex Theodoto (Ἐκ τῶν Θεόδοτου καὶ τῆς ἀνατολικῆς καλουμένης διδασκαλίας κατὰ τῆς Οὐαλεντίνου χρόνους ἐπιτομαί), the problematic ps. 10 -Hippolytus’ dictate about the nature of Christ’s body for the Valentinians (Κατὰ πασῶν αἱρέσεων ἔλεγχος VI, 35, 5‑7 11) and, finally, the Tertullian’s statement that opens this article (Adversus Valentinianos 11, 2). Kalvesmaki’s fundamental contribution has demonstrated that we cannot establish such a reconstruction upon the first two sources, pointing out: 1a) the arbitrariness of Excerpta’s title with relation to the genre it (should) belongs and the same work it introduces; 12 the fact that 1b) it does not define the actual relation between Valentinus, Theodotus and the Oriental School; 13 2) as Thomassen 14 has noted, the ps-Hippolytus proves to have knowledge of some kind of christological debate within the valentinian school, even though, instead of depicted it, it gives us uneven variations of the solely school he defines “western.” 15 tology. On this topic see G. Quispel , “The Original Doctrine of Valentinus the Gnostic,” Vigiliae Christianae 50 (1996) 334‑337. 9. J. K alvesmaki, “Italian versus Eastern Valentinianism?,” Vigiliae Christianae 62 (2008) 79. 10.  I use this kind of diction only for economical reasons, being aware of the fact it is incorrect since not pseudoepigraphical. See E. Castelli, “Saggio introduttivo. L’Elenchos, ovvero una «biblioteca» contro le eresie,” in A. M agris , ed., Confutazione di tutte le eresie (Brescia, 2012) 21‑56. 11.  Cf. appendix B. 12.  Traditionally, the epitomes do not show hostility toward the sources they collect. Moreover, the title seems to refer to only two sources: τῶν Θεοδότου and τῆς ἀνατολικῆς καλουμένης διδασκαλίας (interpreting καὶ not as epexegetical, but additive), while the whole modern critic agrees upon the identification of four groups of sources at least (A, B, C e D). 13. J. K alvesmaki’s correlative thesis in “Italian versus Eastern Valentinianism?,” Vigiliae Christianae 62 (2008) 82‑83, strongly supports that Valentinus and the “Oriental School” have no other contact but the contemporaneity: “the author of the title states merely that Theodotus and the Eastern Teaching (or possibly only the latter) were both contemporaries of the more famous Valentinus, not that they were Valentinian” (83). 14. E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the Valentinians (Leiden, 2006) 43‑45. 15.  Among the discrepancies Thomassen has already pointed out, Kalvesmaki adds an essential annotation: the figures signaled by the ps.-Hippolytus as representative of the oriental school – Axionicus and Ardesianes – are suspicious. Tertullian himself, in the Adversus Valentinianos 4, 3, gives the one and only other attestation we have about “Axionicus.” Unlike the ps.-Hippolytus, Tertullian depicts Axionicus as an isolated figure: solus ad hodiernum Antiochiae Axionicus memoriam Valentini integra custodia regularum eius consolatur. On the other hand, the first name “Ardesaines” is not attested by any Greek source. This matter of fact contributes to the rising of a hypothesis that claims “Bardesane”’s corruption, setting on fire

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Tertullian’s work – to which Kalvesmaki dedicates only few allusions – remains indeed the one and only guarantee of the interpretation outlined above. The aim of this paper is then to evaluate the possibility we have to find in the Adversus Valentinianos the attestation of a christological evolution within the Valentinus’ school. The source of this account is unknown: what is well known is that the Adversus Valentinianos stands very close and adheres to the Greek Irenaeus, in which is never meant – but this is an extremely vexata quaestio 16 the discussion about his “valentinianity” (cfr. H.J.W. Drijvers , Bardaisan of Edessa [Assen, 1966] 167 and seq. See also A. Camplani, “Note bardesanitiche,” in Mi­scellanea marciana 12 [1997] 11‑43). Kalvesmaki concludes that “[i]t’s seems that Hippolytus knew of Bardesianes’ early interest in Valentinianism, so he inserted the name because he could not think of any other important valentinian teachers from the East” (86). 16.  The recent proposal of a plural-(or at least bi-)compositional writing of the Adversus Haereses discussed in G. Chiapparini, Valentino gnostico e platonico. Il Va­lentinianesimo della ‘Grande Notizia’ di Ireneo di Lione: fra esegesi gnostica e filosofia medioplatonica (Milano, 2012) dislocates the traditional connection between the 1st book of the work and Irenaeus’ designation as bishop of Lyons [we are informed about the date by Eusebius in his Historia Ecclesiastica V, 5,8. Cf. A. von H arnack , Lehrbuch der Dogmengeschichte, 3 voll. (Freiburg, 1897), 320; F. Sagnard, La gnose valentinienne et le témoignage de saint Irenée, (Paris, 1947), 120; R. Grant, Irenaeus of Lyons (New York, 1997) 2; E. Osborn, Irenaeus of Lyons (Cambridge, 2001) 4; E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the Valentinians (Leiden, 2006) 417], anticipating it to the Roman period. This cue allows us to assume a skeptical posture in front of any doctrinally evolutive interpretation of the Adversus Haereses [as a pure example: J.D. K aestli, “Valentinisme italien et valentinisme oriental: leurs divergences à propos de la nature du corps de Jèsus,” in B. L ayton, ed., The Rediscovery of Gnosticism. Vol I The School of Valentinus (Leiden, 1980) 391‑404; E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the Valentinians (Leiden, 2006)], which would recognize in this work the trace of a supposed Valentinus’ originally and purely pneumatic Christology. Basing on the harmonization of the well-known information traced in the Adversus Haereses III, 4, 2 with a conspicuous number of indirect evidences [Even though this is not the place where to extensively discuss these evidences, at least I would like to list them: 1) the need to explain the title’s hendiadys which is not felt but in the II book’s praefatio; 2) the comparison with the structure of the Adversus Valentinianos; 3) the temporal reference ‘νῦν’ in the II book’s praefatio, which is understandable only if related to the aliis – tacit temporibus – of Latin Irenaeus; 4) the allusion, once again in the II book’s praefatio, to the lacking of time occurred because of the bishop’s investiture], Chiapparini stands for a late draft of the Great Notice, namely between the 155 and 166. This dating actually excludes any possibilities to recognize different stages of asymptotic approximation to the Founder’s thought in the Adversus Haereses I. For an “ecclesiological” interpretation of the unique relation between Roma and Irenaeus and the chance to identify the Ptolemy therein martyrized with ours Ptolemy (and, correlatively, for an interesting suggestion about the triangular relation IrenaeusPtolemy-Polycarp) see D. Wanke , “Irenäus und die Häretiker in Rom: Thesen zur

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– any reference to an epochal division within Valentinism. 17 Generally, when Tertullian drifts from Irenaeus, he does it “negatively,” that is to say omitting terms and mentions considered pleonastic or not functional to an agile and pleasant pamphlet that often shows an ironic spirit. 18 Furthermore, it seems improbable that, in this context, Tertullian could use the other sources quoted in Adversus Valentinianos 5.1, since Justin and Miltiades are already mentioned in Irenaeus – neither is verifiable a tertullian use of Justin independent from Irenaeus. Finally, the role of Proculus – reasonably Eusebius’ “Proclus”, montanist, “chief of the

geschlichtlichen Situation von Adversus haereses,” Zeitschrift für antikes Christentum 3 (1999) 202‑240. For a wise – even though not always sharable – analysis of the fundamental Adversus Haereses’ II book’s praefatio see D. Tripp, “The Original Sequence of Irenaeus ‘Adversus Haereses’ I: A Suggestion,” Second Century 8 (1991) 157‑162. 17.  On the other hand, there appears, according to a well-known heresiological praxis, a great quantity of tiny disputes about issues considered specious or of minor importance by Irenaeus. 18.  First of all, I am thinking about the omission of the whole section (chapters III and VIII of the Great Notice) in which Irenaeus analyzes the valentinian New Testament’s exegesis, but also about the permanent reduction of pleromatic figures’ attributes and denominations (I would like to point out that Tertullian translates αἰῶνες as personae. See J. Moingt, La théologie trinitaire de Tertullien [Paris, 1966] mostly 732 et seq.). Secondly, I am referring to the addition (14, 15, parallel of Adversus Haereses I, 4, 1 e I, 4, 2) of some “colorful notes” on roman socio-political costumes. See G. Quispel , “De humor van Tertullianus,” Neederlandisch Theologisch Tijdschrift 2 (1948) 280‑290. It seems reasonable to consider the thirty years passed between the two writings as an important breaking point: a more marked definition of Christian orthodoxy has progressively raised the retrospective awareness of valentinian heretic character, making anachronistic and redundant (where not counter-productive, considering the fineness of gnostic exegesis) the scriptural comparison. On this topic shall be seen M.T. R iley, Q.S.Fl. Tertulliani Adversus Valentinianos: Text, Translation, and Commentary (Ph.d dissertation, Stanford University, 1971) 11 and seq. (“what we have in his treatise against the Valentinians is the transformation of a expository work, Irenaeus’, into a declamation. This transformation, not any original material about the Valentinians, was T.’s contribution”). I would also suggest to look at the sociologically oriented enterprise theories of E. Thomassen, “Orthodoxy and Heresy in Second-Century Rome,” The Harvard Theological Review 97, 30 (2004), that are willing to show the various positions hold by the Roman Church against Valentinus and the montanists (Historia Eccleasiastica 5, 15; 20, 1; 23‑24), and therefore of the non-official condemnation of Valentinus, basing on the recognition of a radical change of the “organizational structures among the Christians in Rome” (246), at the midst of the II century. Such an evolution from fragmentation to union would have been favored by the very same centripetal impulses involved by Hermas, Marcion and Valentinus (p. 251‑256). Cf. P. L ampe , From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Roma in the First Two Century (Minneapolis, 2003).

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catafrigi sect” (Historia Ecclesiastica 3, 31, 4; 2, 25, 6; 6, 20, 3) – appears as totally negligible. 19 As well as the datum according to which Ptolemy has been the first one that has considered the aeons as personal substances determined outside of God (“personales substantias, sed extra deum determinatas”), 20 so the mention of the division into duae cathedrae – namely into two teachings equally influential and normative for the community – has been probably observed for the first time in the Adversus Valentinianos. This datum acquires a leading importance since it collides with the Tertullian’s remark according to which the discord took place protinus, making de facto improbable the hypothesis according to which the division could not be registered by the II century’s heresiologists because posterior to the composition of their works. Nevertheless, besides these difficulties, the account’s dictatum (no matter how complex and difficult to interpret) is quite clear: as a result of the 31st aeon’s mistake, “Monogenes, acting in accordance with the prudent forethought of the Father, gave origin to another conjugal pair, namely Christ and the Holy Spirit, lest any of the Aeons should fall into a calamity similar to that of Sophia (ταυτῃ πάθῃ τις τῶν Αἰώνων).” 21 In lineis desuper, I would like to point out that the Latin Irenaeus (maybe with deliberately trinitarian echoes) contracts the dictatum as it follows: “Monogenen iterum alteram emisisse coniugationem secundum providentiam Patris, Christum et Spiritum Sanctum”. It proves that Tertullian, who adds “ne qua eiusmodi rursus concessio incuteret”, ignoring later on the Latin omission of εἰς πῆξιν καὶ στηριγμὸν τοῦ Πληρώματος, can’t probably count on the Latin translation, which actually seems influenced by Tertullian’s own paraphrase. 22 At this stage, we run into some important issues, which are not directly tied to our argumentation, but nonetheless have to be briefly explored. The complete intellection of the content of Tertullian’s account still remains particularly challenging, especially for the brachylogical nature of the statement: trying to make understandable the syntagma ab eius officii societate, Chiapparini expresses it as “dal fatto che essi compiano insieme o meno questo compito,” 23 while Tommasi Moreschini chooses a much more 19.  As far as we know, it is probable that Proculus has been cited by Tertullian not to suggest a reliable source upon Valentinus, but to point out the spiritual guide’s role he assumed. 20.  Adversus Valentinianos 4, 2. 21. Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses, I, 2, 5 22.  Cf. appendix C. 23. G. Chiapparini, Valentino gnostico e platonico (Milano, 2012) 95. After all, this is the interpretation generally accepted by scholars, and it seems reasonable to agree with it.

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literal but less explicative “a partire dalla loro mansione”, 24 comparable to Riley’s “from the association of these two in this duty.” 25 What seems unquestionable is that Tertullian attributes Valentinism’s division into two schools to a dispute about the role played by the Christ-Holy Spirit syzygy in the reconsolidation of the pleromatic peace after the expulsion, operated by the Limit (ἀποσταυρωθῆναι: allusive hybridation of Horos and Stauros), of Sophia’s Ἐνθύμησις. In this instance, Irenaeus is not helping, just pointing out (Adversus Haereses  I, 2, 5‑6) the combined but differentiated activity of the two aeons emanated by Μονογενής in the attempt to clarify the knowledge of the Father to the personae (Christ) and to teach them how to express gratitude and introduce the true rest (Holy Spirit); neither is helpful looking for any clarifying element in other tertullian writings. We must rising ourselves to the necessity of moving forward only by conjectures. Among the many hypothesis that have been made, I am going to propose that within Valentinianism has raised a debate about the exemplar relation between the pleromatic Christ-Holy Spirit syzygy and her image in the kenoma. If this was the case, the Gospel of John’s exegesis and the ambiguous figure of Paraclete 26 (which Valentinianism traduces as an aeonic entity, partner of Faith), combined with the prematurely attested reflection about the descent of the Holy Spirit on the community after the crucifixion, 27 have led to emphasize the Spirit’s disjointed action – further, complementary and released to the one of Christ – entailing a restoration of valentinian pleromatology. 28 Moreover, Irenaeus’ account 24. C. Tommasi Moreschini, Adversus Valentinianos. Introduzione, 275, in Tertulliano, Opere dottrinali, edited by Micaelli-Moreschini-Tommasi Moreschini (Roma, 2010). 25. M.T. R iley, Q.S.Fl. Tertulliani Adversus Valentinianos: Text, Translation, and Commentary (Ph.d dissertation, Stanford University, 1971) 89‑90. 26.  The ambiguity is increased by the ambivalent use of the term “Paraclete” in the valentinian sources: sometimes – seldom if ever, actually – it is referred to the aeon Paraclete (which, along with Faith, composes the first syzygy emanated by Man-Church); some others it is an attribute of Christ, Sophia’s Comforter (cf. Excerpta ex Theodoto 23). Tertullian often seems to (intentionally?) confuse the two acceptations (cf. Adversus Valentinianos 16.1). 27. See Excerpta ex Theodoto 24, 1. 28. A. Orbe , La teología del Espírito Santo. Estudios Valentinianos – Vol. IV, (Roma, 1966) 205‑208 analyzes in depth the consequences derived by the interaction of two fundamental valentinian assumptions: the exemplarity of Christ’s thirty years of private life (and, consequently, the scripturally deduced nature of the aeons’ number) and the relationship between the emission of the syzygy Christ-Holy Spirit and Christ’s mundane existence: “la distinción entre el Cristo y el Espíritu Santo, masculino y femenino respectivamente, no es gratuita” (206). Especially, Orbe underlines that if on the one hand such emission could not be but further to the complete formation of the Pleroma, on the other it retraces its very same image, placing itself in the same dialectic of the two soteriologically relevant stages of

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shows this tendency, even though not completely developed, toward the temporal deferment of the Spirit’s action with respect of his partner, Christ, “eternizing” and making stable his teaching. It would be plausible to lead back to this debate one of the most meaningful pleromatological variants that Valentinianism has expressed: the existence of one or two Sophia 29 as image of the will (two Sophia systems) or not (one Sophia systems) to grant to the instable element an autonomous personality, a “personal History”, even outside the plenitude of God. Therefore, such a thing induces to interpret the emission of the Limit as crucifixion and expulsion from the Pleroma of the sinning aeon in his entirety, radicalizing it through the deferment of Sophia’s salvation: the tragedy of passion in God is not immediately redeemed, nor immediately restored. 30 Indeed, Sophia’s position is structurally connected to Christ’s one, who – according to this variant – is generated by her. The Excerpta ex Theodoto 23:2, 32‑33 – that, along with the A Valentinian Exposition, 31 represents the most clear Christ’s life (“la etapa antes del Bautismo no es estrictamente soteriológica, y no cuenta en el paradigma del Cristo/E. Santo”): “a) desde su Bautismo a orillas del Jordán, hasta su muerte y resurrección; y b) a partir de la resurrección.” The initial stage of the “Maestro taumaturgo’” – who is preparing “el camino al pneuma” – is followed by the second moment of the Santificador. As a mere interpretative suggestion, I would like to add that the syzygy’s inner relation seems problematic if seen in the valentinian pleromatology’s frame, which proposes the duality masculineactive/feminine-passive at an intradivine level. This kind of relation clearly clashes with John’s narration of the continuity between Christ and Paraclete. 29. Cf. E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the Valentinians, (Leiden-Boston, 2006) 248‑262. See also E. Thomassen, “Saved by nature? The question of human races and soteriological determinism in Valentinianism,” in C. M arkschies – J. Von Oort, ed., Zugänge zur Gnosis. Akten zur Tagung der Patristischen Arbeitsgemeinschaft vom 02.-05.01.2011 in Berlin-Spandau (LeuvenWalpole, 2013) 129‑150. 30.  Therefore, I strongly disagree with A. M agris , La logica del pensiero gno­stico (Brescia, 1997) 269 et seq., where it is said that Ptolemy would have drawn upon that “espediente meccanico ben noto” represented by the doubling of Sophia, trying to drain “l’acutezza estrema del dramma” through the removal of the mistaken aeon from the Father. By contrast, I believe that this mythic event could be functional to highlight the paradoxical transmission of the (perverse) filiality outside the Pleroma, emphasizing the original monism that rules the propagation of the fracture between Kenoma and Pleroma. On the other hand, I agree with Magris to connect (without assuming any dependency) Sophia’s duplicity to the one of the Apocryphon of John’s Woman, even thou I move in an opposite direction to that traced by the scholar: Sophia Achamoth and the second Woman mark the pathological, hemorrhagic leakage of God by himself, thus making close to God both the sin and its consequence: corporeity. 31.  I am not taking into consideration The Tripartite Tractate, which I consider an extremely late work, against the initial enthusiasms of P uech – Quispel , “Le quatrème écrit gnostique du Codex Jung,” Vigiliae Christianae 9 (1955) 65‑102 and of R. K asser , “Les subdivisions du Tractatus Tripartitus,” Le Muséon 82 (1969) 101‑121. Cf. A. Orbe , “En torno a un tratado gnostico (Tractatus Tripartitus,

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attestation of the one Sophia model – describes the ascendant movement of Christ (who, as a product of Sophia instead of the Only-Begotten as in Ptolemy’s account, is the “equivalent” of the superior Sophia in the Great Notice’s system) toward the Pleroma and the election as “adopted Son,” and not “κατὰ φύσιν,” 32 “image of the Pleroma,” since “whatever come out from a syzygy is pleroma and whatever come out from image is image.” Once back in the Pleroma, Christ (re?)joined Paraclete, and nothing is said about his formation (produced in the syzygy along with Faith as in Ptolemy? Emanated as an image waiting to be united with Christ? Other name of the Holy Spirit, release from valentinian orthodoxy and scripturistically deduced?). A passage of the same textual section, Excerpta ex Theodoto 23, 2‑3, 33 seems to confirm the connection between one Sophia Pars I: De Supernis),” Gregorianum 57 (1975) 558‑566; E. Thomassen, Le Traité Tripartite. NH I, 5, (Laval, 1989) 18‑20; M. Simonetti, “Eracleone, gli psichici ed il Trattato Tripartito,” Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 27 (1992) 239‑243; A. Camplani, “Per la cronologia dei testi valentiniani: il ‘Trattato Tripartito’ e la crisi ariana,” Cassiodorus. Rivista di studi sulla tarda antichità 1 (1995) 187‑195, I d., “Sulla trasmissione di testi gnostici in copto,” in I d., ed., L’Egitto cristiano. Aspetti e problemi in età tardo-antica (Roma, 1997) 121‑175 and I d. “Momenti di interazione religiosa ad Alessandria e la nascita dell’élite egiziana cristiana,” in L. Perrone , ed., Origeniana Octava (Leuven, 2003); F. Bermejo Rubio, La escisión imposible. Lectura del gnosticismo valentiniano (Salamanca, 1998) 360 et seq.; J.-D. Dubois , “Le Traité Tripartite (NHC I,5) et l’histoire de l’école valentinienne,” in A. L e Boulluec , ed., La controverse religieuse et ses formes (Paris, 1995) 151‑164, and I d., “Le Traité Tripartite (Nag Hammadi I, 5) est-il antérieur à Origène?,” in L. Perrone , ed., Origeniana Octava, (Leuven, 2003) 303‑316. Moreover, we should notice that the source of the Excerpta ex Theodoto 32‑33 is very likely to be the same used by Irenaeus to build up his account about Valentinus (Adversus Haere­ ses  I,11, 1). 32.  Cf. also Heracleon’s fr. 46 (Origen, Commentary on John XX 24) and the historiographical review proposed in M. Simonetti, “Eracleone, gli psichici ed il Trattato Tripartito,” Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 27 (1992) 239‑243. 33. I relate the fundamental Excerptum ex Theodoto 23, 1‑3 in extenso: Τὸν Παράκλητον οἱ ἀπὸ Οὐαλεντίνου τὸν Ἰησοῦν λέγουσιν ὃτι πλήρης τῶν Αἰὼνων ἐλήλυθεν, ὡς ἀπὸ τοῦ ὃλου προελθὼν. Χριστός γάρ καταλείψας τὴν προβαλοῦσαν αὐτὸν Σοφίαν εἰσελθὼν εἰς τὸ Πλήρωμα ὑπὲρ τῆς ἔξω καταλειφθείσης Σοφίας ἠτήσατο τήν βοήθειαν καί ἐξ εὐδοκίας τῶν Αἰὼνων Ἰησοῦς προβάλλεται παράκλητος τῳ παρελθὸντι αἰῶνι. ἐν τύπῳ δὲ Παρακλήτου ὀ Παῦλος ἀναστάσεως ἀπὸδτολος γέγονεν. αὐτίκα μετά τὸ πάθος τοῦ κυρίου καί αὐτός ἀπεστάλη κηρύσσειν. Here I will only point out – in an ideal continuity with the unequalled studies of Orbe (and, more covertly, with H. M arrou, “La théologie de l’Histoire dans la gnose valentinienne,” in U. Bianchi, ed., Le Origini dello Gnosticismo. Colloquio di Messina 13‑18 aprile 1966 [Leiden, 1967] 215‑229), and openly disagreeing with that prosper tradition that tends to defuse Valentinianism’s eschatological tension in the eternal (eo ipso atemporal) intellectual contemplation of the original Truth [cf. the archetypical work of H.-C. P uech, En quête de la Gnose I. La Gnose et le temps et autres essais, (Paris, 1978)] – that such a constellation of valentinian works, on the one hand forces in a Trinitarian way John’s binitarism, and on the

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pleromatological model and the deferment of Spirit’s action in respect to Christ, defining Paul – clearly referring to 1 Cor 15:12 – “image of the Paraclete,” and highlighting how Paul’s evangelization could not take place but “after the Lord’s Passion.”  3 4 These brief and swift considerations want to shed some light on the plausibility of Tertullian’s account: within the Valentinian School, the Christ-Holy Spirit syzygy has been the topic of a huge debate, which has probably had a primary role in the development of the gnostic pleromatology, as confirmed by Adversus Haereses I, 11, 1 and I, 12, 4. To go back to what is most important to us, we should notice that the Adversus Valentinianos’ section dedicated to the christological reflection exactly follows Adversus Haereses I, 7, 2, 35 without adding anything but other establishes – even though embryonically and “a-technically” – the history of the salvation’s dimension (as the dimension of Man-Church syzygy’s history, producer of the Duodecad) as a moment of dialectic furtherness and differentiation of the intrapleromatic=intratrinitarian’s relations, reflecting them in a vectorially oriented history. In other words, to eternize the history implies to historicize the eternity. 34. We could counterpose/juxtapose this “eschatological” interpretation (as we have expressed it here) of such an hermeneutic difficulty with an “archeological” one, inclined to identify the logic of this pleromatic “split” in the distinction between a portion of divine subordinated to the salvific process and another one embedded ab aeterno in the Father’s rest. This kind of reading – which still highlights the two opposite focuses stained by valentinian system – is nonetheless mined by the “almost-technical” use that valentinian Greek sources make of ἀνάπαυσις -αύεσθαι, present with 18 occurrences (against its total absence in the heresiological works dedicated to the “sethian tradition”). Indeed, to such an exclusive use does not correspond an as much evident doctrinal stability of the semantic sphere: next to some occurrences clearly conditioned by circumstances not fully attributable to the author’s will (e.g. Origen, CommGv  XIX 19: the Jewish pretense to go to God “in the rest,” and not in the corruption as the Saviour), others show the rest as: 1) Father’s original and impersonal condition (Panarion XXXI, 6, 4; Refutatio  VI, 29, 5; CommGv  XIII, 38); 2) Father’s will a) dispatched by himself (Refutatio  VI 31, 2), i.e. b) delegated to Spirit’s action (Adversus Haereses I, 2, 6), of reconstruction of pleromatic aeons’ pathic activity to the original silent. The radical ambiguity that presides over these formulations stands in the amphiboly between the 30th sinner aeon, who falls and splits into an immediately reintegrated Sophia and the world, and the new 30th aeon, the Spirit, emanated in order to bestow scriptural coherence to the extrapleromatic Sophia’s recapitulation in God. Therefore, there is a double eschatological level: one we could define “weak or feminine,” which marks Pleroma’s kenosis; another one “strong or masculine,” which reestablishes the original plenitude. 35.  Rather than I, 6, 1‑2. About this circumstance a lot has been written. Contrary to what is stated in E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the Valentinians (Leiden, 2006) 73 et seq. – where is argued as follow: if in I, 7, 2 we find the canonic articulation “pneumatic element + psychic element deriving from the Demiurge + economic body + Saviour descended as a Dove”, without any allusion

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a pronounced attention – totally recessive in Irenaeus – to the genesis of Christ through Mary (“per virginem non ex virgine editum” 36). Neither it shows any particular divergence: “according to the analogy of the first Tetrad [in figuram principalis Tetradis] they crowd [stipant] him with four substances, the spiritual one from Achamoth, the psychic one from the Demiurge [animali Demiurgina], the bodily which is indescribable [inenarrativa], and the substance of the Saviour, namely of the Dove [illa Sotericiana, id est columbina]”. 37 Unlike the pneumatic feminine element, the psychic one and the psychic visible body, the soteric active element “discessit ab illo in cognitione Pilati, proinde nec Matris semen admisit iniurias”, 38 safeguarding the whole spiritual element from passion. The answers to the questions left open by the Adversus Valentinianos are generally searched in another work by Tertullian, the De Carne Christi.

to the baptism, but with a strong negation of the spiritual suffering; in I, 6, 2 there is no evidence of the tetrad’s last element, while the attention is focused on the elements’ first fruits’ participation to the Saviour, who then, unlike I, 7, 2, “[shares] the condition of humanity by being born,” – I think that the doctrinal coherence between the two passages is granted by various elements: the assumption of the salvandum’s first fruits (both psychic and pneumatic), and the extraneousness of the Saviour from the ilic element, therefore, the salvandum’s concrete participation to the Salvator. Nevertheless, the value Irenaeus attributes to the two christological remarks changes. Indeed, if I, 7, 2 represents the most complete and thorough dissertation about valentinian Christology that we could find in the Adversus Haereses, on the other hand I, 6, 2 is an explicative interlude (although fundamental) among a more vast textual section, which comprehends at least the whole chapter VI of the Great Notice, dedicated to the soteriology of the three natures – and, recessively, to their eschatological doom. In this context, Irenaeus’ choice to limit himself to give back a partial vision of the reflection about Christ’s composition, seems totally coherent and sharable, especially considering that his aim was only to show the pneumatic and psychic elements’ assumption by the Savior, and, consequently, to show the presumed aporias this position involves: the restitution of such a commonality into two eschatologies and two mundane morals completely incompatible. After all, the “absence” of the forth element is so evident that, if it was attributable to its proper source, Irenaeus would have surely taken the opportunity to emphasize the incoherence. 36.  Adversus Valentinianos 27.1. For the “Mariology” of the De Carne Christi – still embryonic (and as such looked askance by Clement, Stromata  VII 16, 97, 7 et seq.), but, nevertheless, historically decisive in the course that will lead to Jerome’s Adversus Helvidium – cf. G.D. Dunn, “Mary’s Virginity in partu and Tertullian’s Anti-docetism in De carne Christi reconsidered,” Journal of Theological Studies 58/2 (2007) 467‑484 and W. Otten, “Christ’s Birth of a Virgin who Became a Wife: Flesh and Speech in Tertullian’s de carne Christi,” Vigiliae Christianae 51 (1977) 247‑260. 37.  Adversus Valentinianos 27.2 38.  Ibidem.

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Dated around 210‑211 39 – therefore certainly later than the Adversus Valentinianos –, it is the first writing of the ancient Christianity fully dedicated to the christological reflection with the aim to contrast the docetism of Valentinus, Marcion, and Apelles, Sadducaeorum propinqui. The real opposition between “Orientals” and “Occidentals”  4 0 is thus believed to be found in the apparently irreconcilable incompatibility between the statement according to which “convertor ad alios aeque sibi prudentes, qui carnem Christi animalem adfirmant”, 41 and the charge moved to Valentinus of “carnem Christi spiritalem comminisci.” 42 This kind of interpretation seems to entail many difficulties. The most evident one can be synthetized in a series of questions: why should Tertullian explicit in the Adversus Valentinianos the existence of such an important division among his polemic target and point out a false cause of the split, to reveal then – in a further work not even explicitly dedicated to the valentinians – the real bone of contention, without even focusing on his historical significance? Why do the two statements appear five chapters apart, without any manifest connection, and without being part of any systematic christological reconstruction? Above all, given such a powerful weapon against Valentinus, why does Tertullian limited himself to such a brief and ineffectual allusion? Moreover, which could be the Tertullian’s source? We have to notice how he strongly persists in qualifying his polemic object (i.e., the ‘Ptolemaeans’ of the Great Notice) as “Valen39.  The structural relation with the De carnis resurrectione (De Carne Christi refers to it in 1,1 and 25, 2, and, in turn, is cited in the De carnis resurrectione 2,5, and mostly 2, 11) makes difficult to hypothesize a significant chronological distance between the two works. We should add that De Carne Christi 7, 1 explicitly refers to the Adversus Marcionem. Cf. R. Braun, “Cronologica Tertullianea: le de carne Christi et le de idolatria,” in Approches de Tertullien (Paris, 1992) 91. Even though it did not get a large amount of attention, we should remember the proposition proposed by J.-P. M ahé , Tertullien. La chair du Christ, (Paris, 1975) to date around 200 the work’s composition, since here Tertullian translates Logos with Verbum as in his more ancient writings, instead of using the term Sermo, as he does in his more recent production. 40.  Cf. as a paradigmatic work the above-mentioned E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the Valentinians (Leiden, 2006). The attempt is to harmonize the heresiology of the second half of the II century (Irenaeus and his sources) and of the first decade of the III century (Tertullian), with the ps.-Hippolytus’ dictate, mostly with the notice presented in Refutatio  VI 35, 5‑7, regarding the “great dispute,” so deep to divide the Valentinism in an italic school, whose main exponents ψυχικόν φασι τὸ σῶμα τοῦ Ἰησοῦ γεγονέναι, καὶ διά τοῦτο ἐπί τοῦ βαπτίσμτος τὸ πνεῦμα ὡς περιστερὰ κατελήλυθε and whose leading figures were Heracleon and Ptolemy, and in an oriental school, represented for us by the names of Axionicus and (B?)Ardesianes, for whom πνευματικόν ἦν τὸ σῶμα τοῦ σωτῆρος. Πνεῦμα γάρ ἃγιον ἦλθεν ἐπί τῆν Μαρίαν. 41.  De Carne Christi 10,1. 42.  De Carne Christi 15,1.

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tinians,” first word of the whole work! This kind of positio princeps highlights Tertullian’s clear awareness of the Founder’s “gnostic” nature, from which his disciples (“examen Valentini”, Valentinus’ spiritual herd) can only extrinsically and superficially get away, since “minime origo deletur et si forte mutetur: testatio est ipsa mutatio.” 43 The doubts about the largely shared interpretation of the above-mentioned passages become a fundamental drag force when we look at the complexity of the argumentation carried on in the De Carne Christi, which, as we have already pointed out, is not a work about Valentinianism. “Fides nominum salus est proprietatum”,  4 4 distinguishing between the visible Flesh of Christ and the flesh of man, since “there was nothing material in him, because matter is totally alien to salvation [utpote salutis alienum]. As if other natures needed Saviour more than those who lack salvation! [Quasi aliis fuerit necessarius quam egentibus salute!].” 45 To Tertullian, who is moving in an Asian perspective,  4 6 the only genuine Christian thesis is the one according to which Christ “animam 47 quoque humanae condicionis ostendit, non faciens eam carneam sed induens eam carne”, 48 maintaining in the induens the distinction between the divine and the human reality, underlined by the virginal born, 49 image of God’s will to show his unchallenged authority over the world. Any kind of thought that does not recognize or that minimizes the originality represented by the assumption in God and the deliverance of the sinful human flesh, lays eo ipso outside 43.  Adversus Valentinianos 5,1. Then the trajectory of Valentinus’ school’s internal evolution traced by Tertullian is not the one that manifests sectarian and radical descendants as from an “orthodox” origin, but the one that sees a progressive dilution (although also ostensible) of fully gnostic theological categories of Valentinus himself, yet strictly incompatible with the theology expressed by the Great Church. 44.  De Carne Christi 13.2. 45.  Adversus Valentinianos 26.2. 46. Cf.  R. Cantalamessa, La cristologia di Tertulliano (Friburgo, 1962) 135‑150; E. Dal Covolo, “La cristologia di Tertulliano. Lo «status quaestionis»,” in A. Strus – R. Blatnicky, ed., Dummodo Christus annuntietur. Studi in onore del prof. J. Heriban (Roma, 1998) 317‑323; F. Gori, “Idee e formule persistenti nella storia della cristologia occidentale da Tertulliano a Leone Magno,” Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 37 (2001) 413‑436; D. House , “The relation of Tertullian’s Christology to pagan philosophy,” Dionysius 12 (1988) 29‑36. 47.  In Tertullian’s opinion, since it exists, the soul cannot be but body. Effectively, according to the well-known stoic thesis, only a body has the δύναμις τοῦ ποιέιν καὶ τοῦ πάσχειν (cf.  525[1] SVF II and, about the specific case of soul, 134 SVF I). Cf. also Adversus Marcionem 5, 15, 8 and De Anima 9. 48.  De Carne Christi 11.5 49.  By the way we should notice that there is no insistence on Mary’s virginity in partu, which would have represent a profitable matter to valentinian reflection. On this subject cf. the above-mentioned G.D. Dunn, “Mary’s Virginity in partu and Tertullian’s Anti-docetism in De carne Christi reconsidered,” Journal of Theological Studies 58/2 (2007) 467‑484.

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Christianity, succumbing to the philosophical tautology (paradoxically optimistic!) to theorize a soteriology of what is already safe – themes that will be reclaimed and examined in depth in the De carnis resurrectione. 50 In the light of these brief considerations, I think it is possible as well as deserved to propose an alternative interpretation of the two cited statements. In fact, there is no evidence that leads us to an “oppositive”, “exclusivist” interpretation of the two passages, which is to say to consider the two doctrines as completely incompatible, uninterpretable within the same doctrinal frame. Actually, it seems that various elements inspire us to suppose quite the opposite. Between the two statements is situated the fundamental chapter 14, in which Tertullian comments the claim according to which “et angelum gestavit Christus”: 51 this et clearly reveals an additional component, a further qualification of what has been said, a supplementary aberration in Tertullian’s eyes, who asks himself qua ratione, in what way Christ could have on him the angelical nature too. Since the angelical nature does not need deliverance, assuming it the valentinian Son of God has proved his incapacity to save the man toward whom he has a mandatum given by the Father, using the angel “ut satellitem fortem” and fall50.  Cf. also Adversus Marcionem I 24 et seq., where valentinian condemnation of martyrdom is stigmatized (about this topic cf. E. Pagels , “Gnostic and Orthodox Views of Christ’s Passion: Paradigmas for the Christian’s Response to Persecution?,” in B. L ayton, ed., The Rediscovery of Gnosticism, Vol. I, The School of Valentinus [Leiden, 1980]), as implicit disacknowledgment of flesh’s dignity (topic reclaimed in Ad martyras 4, 7‑9 and Apologeticum 50, 5‑9); and De Pudicitia 17, 2, where the term caro is released from its negative acceptation and inserted in the dialectic between the “flesh” and the “works of the flesh.” See also De Anima 27. 51.  It seems quite unreasonable the hypothesis that considers a judeo-christian angelic Christology Tertullian’s polemic object. Here Tertullian is clearly describing a high and divisive conception of Christology, in which Christ assumes the angelic component as masculine polarity, active and redemptive. Therefore, we are far away from the archaic and authoritative figure of the angel as it is presented in The Shepherd of Hermas or in the inspired visions of the Ascension of Isaiah. Cf. M. H engel , Der Sohn Gottes. Die Enstehung der Christologie und die jüdischhellenistiche Religionsgeschichte (Tübingen, 1975) 85 et seq., where the area of applicability of the notion of ‘angelic Christology’ is extremely restricted. Furthermore, we should not forget that the De Carne Christi represents a work of pressing newness, not a historical compendium. Cf. A. Orbe , “Introduzione,” in I d., ed., Il Cristo Vol. I (Roma, 1985), XLVIII‑L; M. Simonetti, ed., Testi gnostici in lingua greca e latina (Roma, 1993) 8 et seq. and I d. “Note sulla cristologia dell’A scensione di Isaia,” in M. Pesce , ed., Isaia, il Diletto e la Chiesa. Visioni ed esegesi profetica cristiano-primitiva nella Ascensione di Isaia (Brescia, 1983) 185‑209. To shed light on the attribute “angel” given to Christ by Valentinianism, cf. mostly Excerpta ex Theodoto 22, 6; 25, 1 and 35, 1. It is of primary importance to notice that this passages are among the sources used by Tertullian in his Adversus Valentinianos, so that it seems quite reasonable to consider that Tertullian could not ignore the connection (furthermore, widely attested elsewhere too) between the pneumatic masculine element (the Dove) and the angelic nature (the Name).

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ing in the irreconcilable contradiction according to which they are “duo salutis artifices, et utique alter altero indigens”. Without drawing us out investigating the validity of Tertullian’s observations in respect to the primary sources, it stands to reason how this passage (which will properly fit a modern dissertation about the Salvator salvandus) could be interpreted as a comment to that farsura (i.e. to that culinary stuffing of meat and vegetables 52 suggested as well by the verb ‘stipo’ in Adversus Valentinianos 27, 2), described in Adversus Valentinianos 27.2, in which the same concern that shapes the De Carne Christi forces Tertullian to the desperate exclamation “[q]uasi aliis fuerit necessarius quam egentibus salute!”. 53 Then is the very same logical operation of Tertullian’s argumentation what obliges the interpreter to a reading that safeguards both coherence and doctrinal unity of the polemic aim’s different aspects taken each time into consideration. In summary, in the De Carne Christi Tertullian seems to take valentinian Christology’s divisionism seriously, in accordance with the way he synthetically exposed it few years earlier in Adversus Valentinianos 27. To refute it and to show how valentinian Christology is generally unable to be accountable for the deliverance of who actually needs salvation – that is to say to underline the fact that it does not represent a philosophical pleonasm merely useless to Christian orthodoxy, but an element of perdition and condemnation for the man – Tertullian singularly, “anatomopathologically” analyzes all the layers of this complex system, he “unrolls” it and deconstructs it in front of the reader’s eyes, finally judging it extraneous to Christianity. In this account, I think it would be right and proper to propose a synopsis of valentinian Christology as it is presented by the Adversus Valentinianos and the De Carne Christi: chapter 10 is dedicated to the psychic element (AdvVal 27.1), chapters 11, 12 and mostly 13, to the economic body (AdvVal 27.2), chapter 14 to the masculine spiritual element (AdvVal 27.1-2), and chapter 15 to the feminine one (AdvVal 27.2). Therefore, the De Carne Christi, far from being the place where to find the actual reason of valentinian split, completely confirms and deepens Tertullian’s reflection, which still appears embryonic and framed in

52.  Cf. also Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses I 11, 4: “Nothing keeps another who writes on the same subject from defining the terms thou: There exists a certain royal Pre-principle, pre-unintelligible, pre-insubstantial and pre-prerotund, which I call Gourd. With this Gourd there coexists a Power, which I call Supervacuity. This Gourd and this Supervacuity, being one, emitted without emitting a Fruit visible in all its parts, edible and sweet, which language calls Cucumber. With this Cucumber there is a Power of the same substance, which I call Melon. These Powers, Gourd and Supervacuity and Cucumber and Melon, emitted the whole multitude of Valentinus’ delirious Melon” (tr. R. Grant). 53.  Adversus Valentinianos 26.2

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the Adversus Valentinianos in an extensive polemic scheme about gnostic Christology’s snares. 54 In conclusion, it seems fair to schematically explicit few considerations – which are clearly not a sticking but a starting point – that, deriving from what we have analysed above, situate it in the variable horizon of the “gnostic studies.” We know no heresiological text that could give us a coherent description of the causes, the modalities, and the outcomes of what the modern critic has identified as “Valentinianism’s split into duae cathedrae”: therefore, it looks more as a historiographical construction that objectifies in a geographic and diachronic evolution the soteriological (lato sensu, theological) tensions synchronically incurred in gnostic doctrine. Equivalently, every evidence emerged so far induces us to reorient the investigation from the attempt to draw the valentinian “geography” and its points of asymptotical proximity and major swerve to the Great Church, to the modalities through which Valentinianism had been able to express a theology so dialectically oriented to the complication of its own instances. Therefore, my purpose has been not only to demonstrate – as Kalvesmaki had already done – that it is illicit to find in a vaguely geographical split (east/west) any intravalentinian divergent interpretations of the aeon Holy Spirit (and, consequently, of the nature of Christ’s body), but, on the contrary, to show that such an explanation has removed the inner ambiguity of the unitary tension presented in our sources and of the theology they give us back.

54.  Later reworkings of Tertullian’s notice – for which, then, are valid the same considerations – are ps.-Tertullian’s Adversus Omnes Haereses 5 (“Christum autem missum ab illo prosatore, qui est Bythos […] Hunc autem in substantia corporis nostri non fuisse, sed spiritale nescio quod corpus de caelo deferentem, quasi aquam per fistulam, sic per Mariam uirginem transmeasse, nihil inde uel accipientem uel multuantem. Resurrectionem huius carnis negat, sed alterius”) and Filastrius’s Diversarum haereseon liber 5‑6 (“Dicit autem Christum a Patre, quem Profundum nomine appellat, ad totius mundi salutem fuisse dimissum, deque caelo eum carnem detulisse, nihil autem accepisse de sancta uirgine, sed ut aquam per riuum, ita transisse per eam adfirmat. Animam ergo solam saluari, corpus autem hominis non saluari arbitratur”).

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A ppe n di x A) A dversus Valentinianos 11, 1‑2 [1] Igitur post Enthymesin extorrem et matrem eius Sophiam coniugi reducem ille iterum Monogenes, ille Nus, otiosum plane de Patris cura atque prospectu, solidandis rebus et Pleromati muniendo iamque figendo, ne qua eiusmodi rursus concussio incurreret, novam excludit copulationem: Christum et Spiritum Sanctum, turpissimam putem duorum masculorum. [2] Aut femina erit Spiritus Sanctus et vulneratur a femina masculus? Munus enim his datur unum: procurare concinnationem aeonum et ab eius officii societate duae scholae protinus, due cathedrae, inauguratio quaedam dividendae doctrinae Valentini. Christi era inducere aeonas naturam coniugiorum – vides quam rem plane – et innati coniectationem et idoneos efficere generandi in se agnitionem Patris, quod capere eum non sit neque comprehendere, non visu denique non auditu compotiri eius, nisi per Monogenem. B) Κατὰ πασῶν αἱρέσεων ἔλεγχος VI, 35 5‑7 [5] Περὶ τούτου οὖν ζήτησις μεγάλη ἐστὶν αὐτοῖς καὶ σχισμάτων καὶ διαφορᾶς ἀφορμὴ· καὶ γέγονεν ἐντεῦθεν ἡ διδασκαλία αὐτῶν διῃρημένη, καὶ καλεῖται ἡ μὲν ἀνατολική τις διδασκαλία κατ᾽αὐτούς, ἡ δὲ Ἰταλιωτική. [6] Οἱ μὲν οὖν ἀπὸ τῆς Ἰταλίας, ὧν ἐστιν ῾Ηρακλέων καὶ Πτολεμαῖος, ψυχικόν φασι τὸ σῶμα τοῦ Ἰησοῦ γεγονέναι, καὶ διὰ τοῦτου ἐπὶ τοῦ βαπτίσματος τὸ πνεῦμα ὡς περιστερὰ κατελήλυθε, τουτέστιν ὁ λόγος ὁ τῆς μητρὸς ἄνωθεν τῆς Σοφίας, καὶ γέγωνε τῷ ψυχικῷ, καὶ ἐνήγερκεν αὐτὸν ἐκ νεκρών (…) [7] οἱ δ᾽αὖ ἀπὸ τῆς ἀνατολικῆς λέγουσιν, ὧν ἐστιν Ἀξιόνικος καὶ Ἀρδησιάνης, ὅτι πνευματικὸν ἦν τὸ σῶμα σωτῆρος· πνευμα γὰρ ἅγιον ἦλθεν ἐπὶ τὴν Μαρίαν, τουτέστιν ἡ Σοφία, καὶ ἡ δύναμις τοῦ ὑψίστου, ἡ δημιουργικὴ τέχνη, ἵνα διαπλασθῇ τὸ ὑπὸ τοῦ πνεύματος τῇ Μαριᾳ δοθέν.

C) A dversus H aereses  I, 2, 5 (Greek) Μετὰ δὲ τὸ ἀφορισθῆναι ταύτην ἐκτὸς τοῦ Πληρώματος τῶν Αἰώνων τήν τε μητέρα αὐτῆς ἀποκατασταθῆναι τῇ ἰδίᾳ συζυγίᾳ τὸν Μονογενῆ πάλιν ἑτέραν προβαλέσθαι συζυγίαν κατὰ προμήθειαν τοῦ Πατρὸς, ἵνα μὴ ὁμοίως ταύθῃ πάθῃ τις τῶν Αἰώνων, Χριστὸν καὶ Πνεῦμα ἅγιον. Εἰς πῆξιν καὶ στηριγμὸν τοῦ Πληρώματος ὑφ᾽ὧν καταρτισθῆναι τοῦς Αἰῶνας. Τὸν μὲν γὰρ Χριστὸν διδάξαι αὐτοὺς συζυγίας φύσιν, ἀγεννήτου κατάληψιν. (Latin) Postea vero quam separata sic haec extra Pleroma Aeonum et mater eius redintegrata suae coniugationi, Monogenem iterum alteram eminisse coniugationem secundum providentiam Patris, Christum et Spiritum sanctum; a quibus consummatos dicunt esse Aeonas. Christum enim docuisse eos coniugationis naturam, innati comprehensionem.

Religious Practices

VISIONARY EXPERIENCES AND COMMUNICATION IN THE R EVELATION OF JOHN. BETWEEN SELECTIVE M EMORIES AND I NDIVIDUAL AUTHORITY 1 Luca A rcari I. M et hodologica l

i n t roduct ion

There is a persistent scholarly tradition that continues to underestimate the fact that most ancient texts are grounded on specific personal and/or cultic experiences. 2 Although it is clear that “the ancient Mediterranean world was frequently visited by gods appearing in the visions and dreams of mortals, as well as leaving signs on steles and various written materials, bodies, and natural phenomena,” 3 the canonical dimension of many of these accounts has prevented scholars from approaching such texts as actual first-person accounts of experiences of contact with the other world. It is without question that the literary approach has received the most consideration up to now. As Coleen Shantz pointed out in a recent paper, the experience – in the religious sense of the term – of the people who produced these texts was believed to be a kind of “black box”: authors’ contexts and the texts produced by them could be described, whereas a description of the processes by which contexts were assumed and transformed by texts could not be given. 4 The Revelation of John is not exempt from this heuristic, classifying tendency. The canonical dimension of John’s text entailed the necessity of creating a literary (often also ideo1.  It is my duty to thank Leonardo Ambasciano and Angela Kim Harkins for their invaluable inputs on Cognitive Science Religion’s (CSR) methodology. 2.  According to Fauconnier and Tuner, the imaginary and imaginative otherness of the world described in ancient texts is the powerful result of the conceptual blending of different, counterfactual ontologies (biological, social, physical): see G. Fauconnier – M. Tuner , The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind ’s Hidden Complexities (New York, 2002). 3. D. Tripaldi, Apocalisse di Giovanni. Introduzione, traduzione e commento (Roma, 2012) 12 [English translation is mine]. 4. See C. Shantz , “Opening the Black Box: New Prospects for Analyzing Religious Experience,” in C. Shantz – R.A. Werline , ed., Experientia, vol. 2: Linking Text and Experience (Atlanta, 2012) 1‑17. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 337–359 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111710 ©

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logical and social) platform upon which the intrinsic superiority of the Neo-testamentary text could stand out. The first path taken by exegesis – especially in the Protestant tradition – was the creation of an “apocalyptic” literary genre belonging to a Jewish context, antecedent and/or coeval to the last written work accepted in the canon of the New Testament. It was assumed that such a genre was later ideologically and formally reformulated in light of a pre-supposed Christian proprium. 5 The other path taken was that of prophecy. Clearly, the separation of the concept of apocalyptic literature from that of prophecy, according to which the former constituted a degeneration of the latter, was instrumental in linking the final text of the Christian Bible with the prophetic traditions of the Old Testament. According to such a vision, the Revelation was nothing more than a prophetic text, unveiling the true meaning of earlier “Biblical” prophecy in light of the Christian event. 6

5.  It is known that the term “apocalyptic” is first used to define a certain type of literature in Protestant exegesis, more specifically in the text by F. Lücke , Versuch einer vollständingen Einleitung in die Offenbarung des Johannes oder Allgemeine Untersuchungen über die apokalyptische Litteratur über haupt und die Apokalypse des Johannes insbesondere, 2 vols (Bonn, 1852). See also A. Hilgenfeld, Die jüdische Apokalyptik im ihrer geschichtlichen Entwickelung. Ein Beitrag zur Vorgeschichte des Christenthums nebst einem Anhange über das gnostische System des Basilides (Jena, 1857; repr. Amsterdam, 1966). About Lücke, see A. Christophersen, Friedrick Lücke (1791‑1855). Teil 1: Neutestamentliche Hermeneutik und Exegese im Zusammenhang mit seinem Leben und Werk; Teil 2: Documente und Briefe (Berlin, 1999) and I d., “Die Begründung der apokalyptischen Forschung durch Friedrich Lücke. Zum Verhältnis von Eschatologie und Apokalyptik,” Kerygma und Dogma 47 (2000) 158‑179. On A. Hilgenfeld, see J.M. Schmidt, Die jüdische Apokalyptik. Die Geschichte ihrer Erforschung von den Anfängen bis zu den Textfunden von Qumran (Neukirchen-Vluyn, 1969) 127‑134. I recall also two of my papers on the “invention” of apocalyptic genre in Protestant exegesis between the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries: see L. A rcari, “Apocalisse di Giovanni e apocalittica giudaica da Bousset alle più recenti acquisizioni sulla cosiddetta apocalittica giudaica,” in D. Garribba – S. Tanzarella, ed., Giudei o cristiani? Quando nasce il cristianesimo? (Trapani, 2005) 147‑156; I d., “L’apocalittica giudaica e proto– cristiana tra crisi della presenza e crisi percepita. Il testo apocalittico e la pratica visionaria,” Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 76 (2010) 480‑533. 6.  This aspect is especially present in Christian exegesis or, in any case, in the kind of exegesis that stems from a Catholic background: for instance, see E.-B. A llo, Saint Jean. L’Apocalypse (Paris, 1921) espec. XVIII–XXVI; F.D. M azzaferri, The Genre of the Book of Revelation from a Source–Critical Perspective (Berlin-New York, 1989); U. Vanni, “Il simbolismo nell’Apocalisse,” Gregorianum 61 (1980) 461‑504. In a substantially apologetic key with regard to the final text incorporated into the canon of the New Testament, the distance between the apocalyptic genre and prophecy is also to be found in the commentary by the Catholic scholar A. Wikenhauser , Die Offenbarung des Johannes (Regensburg, 19593).

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On the one hand, new approaches to religious experience 7 benefit from the renewal that has occurred in studies that are concentrated on ancient religious experience; on the other hand, they take advantage of cognitivism-related studies of contacts with the other world and selective memory which allow a reconstruction of the participant’s “visionary” experience. 8 With this paper, I intend to analyse the “passage” from the cognitive experience to its literary account (always considered in its cognitive dimension). In this sense, my aim is to measure the CSR approach in light of socio-anthropological studies about authority and dialectics between groups and the “visionary” individuality with respect to his/her authoritative discourse. 9 This implies the underestimation of a mechanistic or merely the(le)ological vision: the problem is not about how a culture (that is always a dialectic concept, never definable in an abstract sense) affects 7. Besides the group originating within the SBL (“Religious Experience in Early Judaism and Early Christianity,” http://www.sbl-site.org/publications/ article.aspx?ArticleId=469) that has already produced two important Proceedings (cf.  F.F. Flannery – C. Shantz – R.A. Werline , ed., Experientia, vol. 1: Inquiry into Religious Experience in Early Judaism and Christianity [Atlanta, 2008]; C. Shantz – R.A. Werline , ed., Experientia, vol. 2: Linking Text and Experience [Atlanta, 2012]), I want to remind the reader of the series published by De Gruyter, titled Ekstasis. Religious Experience from Antiquity to the Middle Ages. On “tours of heaven” according to CSR perspective, see the recent essay by I. Czachesz , “Tours of Heaven in Light of the Neuroscientific Study of Religious Experience,” Journal of Cognitive Historiography 2 (2015) 33-52. 8.  As for the specific study of the Revelation of John from this perspective, see L. Hongisto, Experiencing the Apocalypse at the Limits of Alterity (Leiden, 2010). As for studies having the same methodological line of thought, see those specifically dedicated to 2 Corinthians 12:1-10 by P.R. Gooder , Only the Third Haven? 2 Corinthians 12:1-10 and Heavenly Ascent (London, 2006), C. Shantz , Paul in Ecstasy: The Neurobiology of the Apostle’s Life and Thought (Cambridge, 2009), and by J.B. Wallace , Snatched into Paradise (2Cor 12:1–10): Paul ’s Heavenly Journey in the Context of Early Christian Experience (Berlin–New York, 2011). On texts from Nag Hammadi, see A. DeConick , Seek to See Him. Ascent and Vision Mysticism in the Gospel of Thomas (Leiden–New York–Köln, 1996), E ad., Voices of the Mystics. Early Christian Discourse in the Gospel of John and Thomas and Other Ancient Christian Literature (London, 2001), and H. Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth. Cognitive Poetics and Transformational Soteriology in the Gospel of Philip and the Exegesis of the Soul (Leiden, 2010). Concerning cosmic travel as a pattern, thus liable to be analysed in the light of cultural anthropology, see A. Destro – M. Pesce, “The Heavenly Journey in Paul: Tradition of a Jewish Apocalyptic Literary Genre or Cultural Practice in a Hellenistic–Roman Context?,” in T.G. Casey – J. Taylor , ed., Paul ’s Jewish Matrix (Roma–Mahwah, 2011), 167‑200, and M. Tubiana, “Il viaggio celeste in Paolo: un pattern per l’interpretazione di un’esperienza?,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 29 (2012) 83‑117. 9. About this matter, see for instance the analysis of shamanic phenomena by L. De H eusch, La transe et ses entours. La sorcellerie, l ’amour fou, saint Jean de la Croix, etc. (Bruxelles, 2006) and I.M. L ewis , Ecstatic Religion. A Study of Shamanism and Spirit Possession (Oxford–New York, 20032).

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the experience of one of its participants but, going back to some considerations carried out by Pierre Bourdieu, it is about paying attention to the interplay that exists between culture and its own participants. 10 A. Communication and Power (according to M. Castells’ analysis) In order to clarify my method and purpose, I believe that it would be useful to provide a brief summary of the important analysis carried out by Manuel Castells. 11 Castells’ new book entitled Communication Power can be seen as a successor to Volume II of his major trilogy about the Information Age. 12 In this new book, Castells focuses on the role played by communication networks in power-making within society, with an emphasis on political power-making. He defines power as “the relational capacity that enables a social actor to influence asymmetrically the decisions of other social actor(s) in ways that favour the empowered actor’s will, interest and values.” 13 Power is not an attribute of individuals and groups but a relationship. According to the approach of this scholar – that is, a sort of revision of the Cognitive Literature (henceforth CL) approach 14 in a cultural 10.  For instance, see P. Bourdieu, Esquisse d ’une théorie de la pratique, précédé de trois études d ’ethnologie kabyle (Genève, 1972). 11.  See M. Castells , Communication Power (Oxford, 20132), espec. 137‑192. 12. Cf. The Power of Identity (Malden Mass., 1997). Communication Power makes the same arguments as the book released 12 years earlier. In two respects Castells has made considerable progress. The earlier book discussed human selves and identities. Now, the author has really discovered psychology. He borrows from the currently popular work of neuropsychologists such as Antonio Damasio (see note 14) that have made the turn from cognition and reasoned action to biology and emotions. 13.  Communication Power (Oxford, 20132), 10. 14.  On CL (also known as Cognitive Poetics), see J. Gavins – G. Steen, ed., Cognitive Poetics in Practice, (London, 2003); P. Stockwell , Cognitive Poetics: An Introduction (London, 2002). On relationships between CL, literary theory and cognitive sciences, see M.H. Freeman, “The Fall of the Wall between Literary Studies and Linguistics: Cognitive Poetics,” in G. K ristiansen et al., ed., Cognitive Linguistics: Current Applications and Future Perspectives (Berlin–New York, 2006), 403‑428; H. Porter A bbott, “Cognitive Literary Studies: The ‘Second Generation’,” Poetics Today 27 (2006) 711‑722; A. R ichardson, “Studies in Literature and Cognition: A Field Map,” in A. R ichardson – E. Spolsky, ed., The Works of Fiction: Cognition, Culture, and Complexity (Aldershot, 2004), 1‑29. A recent application of CL methodology to the study of the Nag Hammadi texts is to be found in H. Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth. Cognitive Poetics and Transformational Soteriology in the Gospel of Philip and the Exegesis of the Soul (Leiden, 2010), also offering a more accurate view of the scientific debate on the topic (21‑64). I recommend the studies by A.R. Damasio since these are based on a solid experimental basis and, at the same time, are provided with a communicative freshness that is not very common in these kinds of investigations:

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(and sociological) perspective, the same approach that has been chosen to investigate the specific object of this paper – the concept of “frame” is the starting point from which to explain the meaning of such terms as communication, power, experience, metaphor and literacy (or the act of writing), which certainly bear their own per se epistemology, but are also undoubtedly linked to the concept of frame as it is established by CL. Starting from cognitivism-related studies, Castells analyses frames as neural networks of mnemonic associations that are accessible to language via analogical connections. 15 As a consequence, framing consists in activating specific neural networks, which cause words to be associated with semantic fields that refer to conceptual frames. Language and computational mechanisms thus interact through frames, which, in turn, structure the narratives by which networks result and are activated in the brain. The theory about frames, as applied to linguistics, is indebted to the work of M.L. Minsky. 16 From this perspective, a frame emerges as a type of data-structure already stored in memory, a set of implicit knowledge through which we represent situations or events. Every frame contains a series of expectations and preconceptions (that can be satisfied or disappointed), which seem to be activated by previous perceptual experiences such as the sight of an environment, the reading of a text, or the narration of a series of events. 17 Structures of frames are not arbitrary. They are based on experience, thus they are derived from the same social organisation that defines cultural roles absorbed by cerebral circuits. A very common example of this is the patriarchal family: founded on the roles of father/patriarch and mother/housewife, and dominated by the gendered division of work. It is thus fixed in cerebral networks through biological evolution and cultural experience. In Castells’ analysis, metaphorical association emerges as the main element that connects language (and communication tout court) with ceresee A.R. Damasio, Descartes’ Error: Emotion, Reason, and the Human Brain (New York, 1994); The Feeling of What Happens: Body and Emotion in the Making of Consciousness (New York, 1999); Looking for Spinoza: Joy, Sorrow, and the Feeling Brain (Orlando, 2003); A.R. Damasio – K. M eyer , “Behind the Looking Glass,” Nature 454/10 (2008) 167‑168. 15.  Concerning the study of the Revelation of John, this aspect has been recently acknowledged also by L. Hongisto, Experiencing the Apocalypse at the Limits of Alterity (Leiden, 2010), 61‑66, although in a perspective that is at odds with that offered in this paper. 16. See M.L. Minsky, “A Framework for Representing Knowledge,” in P.H. Wiston, ed., The Psychology of Computer Vision (New York, 1975), 211‑277. 17.  Concerning this aspect, see also L.W. Barsalou – A.K. Barbey – W.K. Simmons – A. Santos , “Embodiment in Religious Knowledge,” Journal of Cognition and Culture 5 (2005) 14‑57: authors discuss of “Embodied theories of knowledge,” describing both general/mundane knowledge, but also relating it to “religion.”

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bral circuits. 18 It is through metaphors that narrations come to be constituted. Narrations are composed of frames, which become veritable structures of the narration, corresponding to brain structures that are produced through cerebral activities over time. As a consequence, metaphors translate communication into frames by choosing specific associations between language and experience according to cerebral mapping. B. Experiences, Memorial Emotions, and Authoritative Narratives according to cognitivism-related studies What the experiential approach allows us to consider is the function of selective memory and metaphors in the re-proposition of any experience, even the direct contact in the first person that a specific individual believes they have had with the supernatural world. Concerning this aspect, the cognitivist perspective is proven to be even more useful. Since the 1980s, CSR has been highlighting the way in which human beings think and behave with regard to religious priming and contexts. Though the adaptive role of religiosity is still very much discussed, CSR has shown that the computational mechanisms involved in religious and non-religious thinking are the same. CSR has also thoroughly investigated the role of memory in the elaboration, retention, transmission, and/or modification of religious and cultural contents. 19 In the specific case of selective memory, and especially in contexts permeated by orality and dominated by knowledge automatically absorbed 20 as a frame-constraining burden, the 18.  For a study of the metaphor according to CL approach, see the classic work by G. L akoff – M. Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago, 1980). 19.  For a comprehensive overview, see J. Bulbulia – E. Slingerland, “Religious Studies as a Life Science,” Numen 59/5 (2012) 564‑613. 20. About the role of memory in the process of transmission in ancient Christianity and/or Judaism, with respect to those materials which would eventually become the Jewish Bible and the New Testament, thus concerning the cultural production (both oral and written) of that specific context, see J. Crenshaw, Education in Ancient Israel: Across the Deafening Silence (New York, 1998); P.R. Davies , Scribes and Schools: The Canonization of the Hebrew Scriptures (Louisville, 1998); D.W. Jamieson–Drake , Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah: A Socio–Archaeological Approach (Sheffield, 1991); S. Niditch, Oral Word and Written World (Louisville, 1996); S.B. Parker , Stories in Scripture. Comparative Studies in North–West Semitic Inscriptions and the Hebrew Bible (New York–Oxford, 1997); A. Destro – M. Pesce , Il racconto e la scrittura. Introduzione alla lettura dei vangeli (Roma, 2014), 49-78; L. A rcari, “Memorie, flussi di trasmissione, coabitazioni,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 33/1 (2015) 246-257. A particular role was played by W. Ong’s research in the study of the so–called Jewish prophecy and Jewish and Proto–Christian visionary texts: see R.A. Horsley – J.A. Draper , «Whoever Hears You Hears Me». Prophets, Performance, and Tradition in Q (Harrisburg, 1999); R.A. Horsley, ed., Oral Performance, Popular Tradition, and Hidden Transcript in Q (Atlanta, 2005);

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authoritative tradition of a specific context (which can correspond to what cognitivism-related studies define as long-term and short-term memory) represents the main area to look at in order to make any account of life experience communicable. Such a question could be supported by more engagement with emotions and emotional memories. As T.W. Buchanan has recently stressed, 21 “information is first encoded and then consolidated and stored in longterm memory. Within this ‘modal model’ of information processing, information that receives attention and elaboration is more likely to be subsequently available for retrieval.” 22 More important, memories are not believed to be stored in an all-or-none form, “ala a storehouse model, but as a collection of attributes, which may include factors such as the time and place of the experience, the initial phoneme of a word, or the affective valence that a word carries.” 23 Access to these attributes may determine whether a memory is retrieved, and research on phenomena such as tipof-the-tongue has suggested that individual attributes may be sufficient to support successful memory retrieval. Retrieval, then, is a reconstruction of a previous experience, and this reconstruction may be influenced by many variables present at the time of retrieval. Research on memory distortions has highlighted the malleable nature of memory and revealed various factors that contribute to these distortions, showing that many of them play a role during retrieval processing.

T.W. O verholt, Prophecy in Cross–Cultural Perspective (Atlanta, 1986); T.W. O verholt, Channels of Prophecy. The Social Dynamics of Prophetic Activity (Minneapolis, 1989); P. Townsend – M. Vidas , ed., Revelation, Literature, and Community in Late Antiquity (Tübingen, 2011); D.F. Watson, ed., The Intertexture of Apocalyptic Discourse in the New Testament (Atlanta, 2002); D. Tripaldi, Gesù di Nazareth nell ’Apocalisse di Giovanni. Spirito, profezia e memoria (Brescia, 2010). About the role of memorization and the subsequent writing of texts in schools active within ancient Judaism, see the discussion and the bibliography reported in J. Joosten, “Prophetic Discourse and Popular Rhetoric in the Hebrew Bible,” to be found on the following website: http://www.academia.edu/5191258/Prophetic_ discourse_and_popular_rhetoric_in_the_Hebrew_Bible. 21. “Retrieval of Emotional Memories,” Psychology Bulletin 133/5 (2007) 761‑779. Here, I quote this article from the on-line version: http://www.ncbi.nlm. nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2265099/#S1title. With “memory retrieval,” the Author refers to the access, selection, reactivation, or reconstruction of stored internal representations (see Y. Dudai, Memory from A to Z: Keywords, Concepts, and Beyond [Oxford, 2002]). 22. “Retrieval of Emotional Memories,” http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/ articles/PMC2265099/#S1title. 23. “Retrieval of Emotional Memories,” http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/ articles/PMC2265099/#S1title.

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For example, factors such as prior retrieval, cue manipulation, and imagination can impact or even change what is retrieved from memory. 24

The emotional dimension of stories/narratives provides continuity and make the texts compelling, but at the same time, they allow for the selective adaptive modification since what people tend to remember are the strong emotions and not as much the details. 25 Another aspect seems to be relevant for this discussion. Some stories/ narratives exercise power and are constrained by the original social relationships in which their authors were engaged. If we couple this sociological and poststructuralist background to the study of cognition, we can say that narratives define social roles within imagined, modulated, and manipulated social contexts. In this sense, social roles seem to be based on frames which exist both in the brain as well as in social practice. 26 Castells, 27 for example, refers to E. Goffman’s research 28 about role play as the basis of social interactions, which, in turn, are founded on the definition of roles structuring any social organization. As G. Lakoff 29 has pointed out, the use of neural structures, both for what concerns experience and its representation, has “enormous political consequences.” D. Westen better explains the matter when he states that “political persuasion is made of networks and narrations” because “the brain is an emotive brain.” 30 Naturally, in this context the use of terms such as “authority,” 24. “Retrieval of Emotional Memories,” http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/ articles/PMC2265099/#S1title. 25. More generally on this aspect, see P. Boyer , “What are Memories For? Functions of Recall in Cognition and Culture,” in P. Boyer – J.W. Wertsch, ed., Memory in Mind and Culture (Cambridge, 2009), 3‑28. 26.  See M. Castells , Communication Power (Oxford, 20132), 142. 27.  M. Castells , Communication Power (Oxford, 20132), 142. 28. See The Presentation of the Self in Everyday Life (New York, 1959). 29. See The Political Mind: Why You Can’t Understand 21st–Century Politics with an 18th–Century Brain (New York, 2008). Lakoff ’s argument is considered also by M. Castells , Communication Power (Oxford, 20132), 137.142. 30.  Cf. D. Westen, The Political Brain: The Role of Emotion in Deciding the Fate of the Nation (New York, 2007), XV.12. Lakoff ’s statement is also recalled by M. Castells , Communication Power (Oxford, 20132), 142. On the “emotive brain,” see T.W. Buchanan, “Retrieval of Emotional Memory,” http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih. gov/pmc/articles/PMC2265099/#S1title.: “The internal representation of previously experienced emotional stimuli may elicit a transient emotional state, though one that is sufficient to cue the retrieval of an emotional event. […] The retrieval of an emotional event may be cued by direct exposure to a specific reminder of an event or by a partial reminder that initiates the processes required to retrieve the memory for that event. […] Specific reminders of an emotional event are less common than reminders that only partially cue an emotional event. The re-experience of an affective state may serve either as a selective reminder of the original encoding of a particular event or as a reminder of similar affective experiences from the past. Even the attempt to retrieve an emotional memory may establish the affective state

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“power,” or “political” has to be understood in the broadest sense, as an attempt by an individual or a group to influence behaviors or certainties of wider social groups. II. Th e R ev e l at ion

of

J oh n

bet w e e n cog n i t i v i sm - r e l at e d

s t udi e s a n d cu lt u r a l h i s tory

Concerning the cases of direct contact between the ancient world and the other world (both those obtained via what we call “altered states of consciousness” 31 and dysphoric or terror rituals 32), it emerges that these experiences are not only frequent and considered to be reliable in specific contexts, but that they very often constitute a means of establishing authority within, and for, specific human groups. 33 The moment that we try to interpret these phenomena it is important to abandon the ethnocentric and modern dichotomy of rational/irrational, as well as to avoid an analysis based on the contrasting elements of truth/falseness in order to clarify such cultural products. Because their experiences seem to be patterned on frames activated through analogical connections, some ancients seem to be aware of different levels of reality and they do not always (at least not systematically!) assign value to experiences of direct contact with the other world according to the polarization truth/falseness derived from our modern and/or post-modern scientific worldview. With respect to ancient narratives concerning experience, the cognitive approach allows us to consider a further aspect that is incidental to similar representations: communication and how its presentation can influence the behavior of others. In the case of the Revelation of John, we are looking at a text (thus, a cultural product) which explicitly represents itself as an account originatnecessary to influence the cognitive and neurobiological processes of retrieval. A partial reminder of an emotional event, such as a fragment of a conversation, may trigger a search process for an emotional event associated with the context of the conversation. […] The re-experience of an affective state serves as a selective reminder for the original encoding of a particular event, or as a reminder of similar affective experiences from the past.” 31.  On this aspect with relation to Paul, see C. Shantz , Paul in Ecstasy: The Neurobiology of the Apostle’s Life and Thought (Cambridge, 2009). 32. On dysphoric or terror rituals, see H. Whitehouse , “Rites of Terror: Emotion, Metaphor, and Memory in Melanesian Initiation Cults,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 4 (1996) 703‑715; I d., Modes of Religiosity: A Cognitive Theory of Religious Transmission (Walnut Creek, 2004), 166. 33. For what concerns the complex universe of the so-called Proto-Christian Prophecy in this perspective, see. L. Nasrallah, An Ecstasy of Folly. Prophecy and Authority in Early Christianity (Cambridge, MA, 2004).

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ing from a direct experience of contact with the other world. The title of the work as ἀποκάλυψις refers to this dynamic clearly enough. The text’s inception explicitly stresses the process of transmission from which the text that we are familiar with originates. It is worth quoting the passage from which the process of transmission seems to emerge (see Revelation 1:1‑3.10‑11):  3 4 1:1 Ἀποκάλυψις Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ ἣν ἔδωκεν αὐτῷ ὁ θεός δεῖξαι τοῖς δούλοις αὐτοῦ ἃ δεῖ γενέσθαι ἐν τάχει, καὶ ἐσήμανεν ἀποστείλας διὰ τοῦ ἀγγέλου αὐτοῦ τῷ δούλῳ αὐτοῦ Ἰωάννῃ, 1:2 ὃς ἐμαρτύρησεν τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ τὴν μαρτυρίαν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ ὅσα εἶδεν. 1:3 Μακάριος ὁ ἀναγινώσκων καὶ οἱ ἀκούοντες τοὺς λόγους τῆς προφητείας καὶ τηροῦντες τὰ ἐν αὐτῇ γεγραμμένα, ὁ γὰρ καιρὸς ἐγγύς. […] 1:10 ἐγενόμην ἐν πνεύματι ἐν τῇ κυριακῇ ἡμέρᾳ καὶ ἤκουσα ὀπίσω μου φωνὴν μεγάλην ὡς σάλπιγγος 1:11 λεγούσης· Ὃ βλέπεις γράψον εἰς βιβλίον καὶ πέμψον ταῖς ἑπτὰ ἐκκλησίαις, εἰς Ἔφεσον καὶ εἰς Σμύρναν καὶ εἰς Πέργαμον καὶ εἰς Θυάτειρα καὶ εἰς Σάρδεις καὶ εἰς Φιλαδέλφειαν καὶ εἰς Λαοδίκειαν. 1:1 The revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave to him, in order to show to his servants the things that must take place soon, and which he made manifest by dispatch, through the medium of his angel, to his servant John, 1:2 who testified to the word of God and to the testimony of Jesus Christ, that is, to all the things that he saw. 1:3 Blessed is who reads and those who hear the words of the prophecy and keep the things that are written in it, for the moment is near. […] 1:10 I was in spirit on the day of the Lord, and I heard behind me a great voice like that of a trumpet 1:11 which was saying: ‘That which you see write in a scroll and send it to the seven churches, to Ephesus and to Smyrna and to Pergamum and to Thyatira and to Sardis and to Philadelphia and to Laodicea.’

If, in Revelation 1:1‑2, there is a certain insistence on the word and the testimony (clearly oral), this does not have to eclipse another element that is present in the transmission dynamics of John’s account: both in 1:3 (even if less explicitly) and in 1:10‑11 (more clearly), the protagonist of the experience declares that the act of writing is an essential component of the whole visionary experience. 35 John first stresses that the one who reads, 34.  For the text and its translation, I follow E.F. Lupieri, A Commentary on the Apocalypse of John (Grand Rapids, 2006). 35.  On the relationship between orality and writing in John’s Revelation, see the study by D.L. Barr , “The Apocalypse of John as Oral Enactment,” Interpretation 40 (1986) 243‑256. On writing practices documented in the Revelation, see J. H ernández Jr ., Scribal Habits and Theological Influences in the Apocalypse (Tübingen, 2006). An approach in which orality and writing are well connected is the one by L. Hongisto, Experiencing the Apocalypse at the Limits of Alterity

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as well as those who listen to the prophecy’s words and keep the things written in it (τὰ ἐν αὐτῇ γεγραμμένα) are blessed (1:3); later, explaining in detail while he relates the circumstances of his contact experience (defined with the sentence ἐγενόμην ἐν πνεύματι), he reminds his readers about how the great voice that he heard behind him commanded that he write what he saw in a scroll (Ὃ βλέπεις γράψον εἰς βιβλίον) and send it (πέμψον) – just as if it were a letter – to the seven ἐκκλησίαι (1:10‑11). The oral-written dynamic confronts us with a direct-contact experience with the other world that is strongly characterized on a ritual level. Generally, visions of the afterlife followed institutionalized procedures according to which the staging of the experience seemed structured and divided into two parts: in the first, the prevailing characteristic was the description of the material and physical effects of visionary experience; in the second, the act of writing reinforced what the mediator himself seemed to have ritually experienced. 36 A. The Revelation of John as a narrative process based on traditional memorial frames: the case of Zechariah 12:10 in Revelation 1:7 The CL approach allows us to draw further attention to a question on which the intertextual method as applied to the analysis of the Revelation of John as a “finished textual product” has run aground: the nature of the “Biblical” text “used” by the seer of Patmos when he (re-)narrates his experience of contact with the other world 37 in written form. In light of (Leiden, 2010), 41‑53. For writing phenomena in ancient Christianity, according to the CSR perspective, see I. Czachesz , “Rewriting and Textual Fluidity in Antiquity: Exploring the Socio-Cultural and Psychological Context of Earliest Christian Literacy,” in J.H.F. Dijkstra – J.E.A. K roesen – Y.B. Kuiper , ed., Myths, Martyrs, and Modernity. Studies in the History of Religions in Honour of Jan N. Bremmer (Leiden, 2010), 425‑441. 36. On the matter, see some of studies collected in R. Scodel , ed., Orality and Literacy in the Ancient World: Communication and Adaptation in Antiquity (Leiden, 2014). 37.  It has to be said that, with respect to the analysis of the Revelation of John, the inter-textual method has reached such a refined level that it avoided, almost entirely, the intrinsic dangers of a “rigid” vision of “Biblical” texts used by the seer from Patmos. On inter-textual methods as applied to John’s Revelation, the bibliography is very rich: see L. A rcari, “Vision and Tradition. The Son of Man in Rev 1:7.12–20. Authoritative Past in the Reconfiguration of Visionary Experiences according to the Revelation to John,” in S. A lkier – T. Hieke – T. Nicklas , ed., Poetik und Intertextualität der Johannesapokalypse (Tübingen, 2015), 343-366; G.K. Beale , The Use of Daniel in Jewish Apocalyptic Literature and the Revelation of St. John (Lanham MD, 1984); G. Biguzzi, “L’Antico Testamento nell’ordito dell’Apocalisse,” Ricerche Storico–Bibliche 19/2 (2007) 191‑214; S. Moyise – M.J.J. M enken, ed., Isaiah in the New Testament (London–New York, 2005); M. Jauhiainen, The Use of Zechariah in Revelation (Tübingen, 2004); S. Moyise ,

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CL studies, it becomes clear that considering the question as a mere “prearranged” recovery of earlier “texts” would inevitably backdate a much later context to the period in which the Revelation was presumably composed. In fact, during the first century what we now define as “Bible” was a living tradition, fluidly expressed, and connected to practices concerning transmission of memories and thus, in this sense, a means of production of discourses and written narratives. 38 I believe that the debated reference to Zechariah 12:10 in Revelation 1:7 could acquire an emblematic meaning, particularly the phrase “will strike themselves in the mourning for him” (καὶ κόψονται ἐπ’ αὐτὸν). 1:7 Ἰδοὺ ἔρχεται μετὰ τῶν νεφελῶν, καὶ ὄψεται αὐτὸν πᾶς ὀφθαλμὸς καὶ οἵ τινες αὐτὸν ἐξεκέντησαν, καὶ κόψονται ἐπ’ αὐτὸν πᾶσαι αἱ φυλαὶ τῆς γῆς. Ναί, ἀμήν. 1:7 Lo, he is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see him, and all those who pierced him through; and all the tribes of the earth will strike themselves in mourning for him. Yes indeed, amen.

I cannot discuss here all of the exegetical problems that such a debated passage implies. 39 Suffice it to say that when using the classical inter-texThe Old Testament in the New. An Introduction (London, 2001); I. Paul , “The Use of the Old Testament in Revelation 12,” in S. Moyise , ed., The Old Testament in the New Testament. Essays in Honour of J.L. North (Sheffield, 2000), 256‑276; J.–P. Ruiz , Ezekiel in the Apocalypse. The Transformation of Prophetic Language in Revelation 16,17‑19,10 (Frankfurt–Bern–New York–Paris, 1989); J. Van Ruiten, “The Intertextual Relationship between Isaiah 65,17–20 and Revelation 21,1–5b,” Estudios Bíblicos 51 (1993) 473‑510; I d., “Der alttestamentliche Hintergrund von Apokalypse 6:12‑17,” Estudios Bíblicos 53 (1995) 239‑260. On the inter–textual methodology in the light of the cognitivist approach, see Lundhaug’s important observations in Images of Rebirth. Cognitive Poetics and Transformational Soteriology in the Gospel of Philip and the Exegesis of the Soul (Leiden, 2010), 2‑4. 38. On the matter, see the recent background offered by D.M. Carr , The Formation of the Hebrew Bible. A New Reconstruction (Oxford–New York, 2011). Concerning difficulties connected to a more or less univocal textual definition of Biblical texts in Hellenistic–Roman Judaism, see E. Ulrich, “The Bible in the Making: The Scriptures Found at Qumran,” in P.W. Flint, ed., The Bible at Qumran. Text, Shape, and Interpretation (Grand Rapids, 2001), 51‑66. For methodological insights on the use of various fluxes of transmission as authoritative elements in contexts in which orality and writing seem to be parallel elements and, at the same time, different, see M. Pesce , “Funzione e spazio dell’uso della Scrittura nell’attività apostolica paolina. Ipotesi di ricerca,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 1/1 (1984), 75‑108. 39. See L. A rcari, Visioni del figlio dell ’uomo nel Libro delle Parabole e nell ’Apocalisse (Brescia, 2012), 172‑178. See also M. Jauhiainen, The Use of Zechariah in Revelation (Tübingen, 2004), 102‑106 and D. Tripaldi, “Discrepat evangelista et Septuaginta nostraque translatio (Hieronymus, Briefe 57,7,5): Bemerkungen zur Textvorlage des Sacharja–Zitats in Offb 1,7,” in M. L abahn –

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tual approach, scholars have never failed to point out how the Revelation seems to follow the LXX text of Zechariah, which, not accidentally, presents the third person pronoun αὐτός (καὶ κόψονται ἐπ’ αὐτὸν). In this case, MT changes the first-person pronoun to “they shall look at me, the one whom they pierced” (‫אשר את אלי והביטו‬-‫)דקרו‬, although in the manuscript tradition there is also proof of the use of a third-person pronoun (even if it is considered as a clear lectio facilior example  4 0). Despite this fact, more than as a conscious adaptation of LXX (certainly possible but not absolutely certain), the seer of Patmos’ re-proposition has to be read as a selection of memories, thus, as an attempt to re-order tradition so as to confer authority to his experience. In this case, to stress the piercing of the human being seen in his vision. It is not accidental that the verb ἐξεκέντησαν refers to the Hebrew ‫דקר‬, which the Greek text certainly has read as ‫רקד‬, hence the form κατωρχήσαντο found in Zechariah 12:10 LXX . The framing of memories used by the seer of Patmos seems to be directly influenced by the prophetic texts especially in the words καὶ ὄψεται […] καὶ κόψονται ἐπ’αὐτὸν πᾶσαι αἱ φυλαὶ τῆς γῆς. 41 When they refer to the same text, Matthew 24:50 and John 19:37 use the form ὄψονται, meaning the verb “to see,” whereas the LXX uses ἐπιβλέψονται. According to B. Lindars, the presence of the verb ὄψονται should be connected to κόψονται as if it were a wordplay. 42 This probable thesis confirms the importance of memory frames as modalities of construction of authoritative discourses within fluxes of transmission that, being based on “formulaic” and “redundant” memory transmission procedures, can intervene on the authoritative traditio in order to re-structure it in the name of a functional and strictly situational use. B. Emotive Memories of the Visionary Jesus: Revelation 1:4‑7.11.16‑17 and 5:6‑10. In the specific case of the prologue of the Revelation of John, the reference to the piercing does not seem to address the historicising accounts about the crucifixion that are contained in the Gospels; rather, it refers to the slain lamb in Revelation 5:6, and thus, to Jesus’ expiatory death. For this reason, the absence of any reference to the resurrection does not compromise M. K arrer , ed., Die Johannesoffenbarung – ihr Text und ihre Auslegung (Leipzig, 2011), 131‑143. 40.  See discussion and references in L. A rcari, Visioni del figlio dell ’uomo nel Libro delle Parabole e nell ’Apocalisse (Brescia, 2012), 175‑176. 41.  Cf. Zech 12:10.12 TM ‫ ;וטיבהו ]…[ הדפסו ץראה תוחפשמ תוחפשמ‬LXX καὶ ἐπιβλέψονται […] καὶ κόψεται ἡ γῆ κατὰ φυλὰς φυλάς. 42. See New Testament Apologetic. The Doctrinal Significance of the Old Testament Quotations (London, 1961), 124. See also N. Perrin, Rediscovering the Teaching of Jesus (London, 1967), 182.

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the sacrificial interpretation of Jesus’ death. 43 The centrality of the vision of the slain lamb in the Revelation is acknowledged by numerous scholars, though with inevitable exegetical disagreements concerning a literary construction that is certainly hard to consider univocally or very rigidly.  4 4 It is interesting to notice how the lamb is first introduced as a “lion” in Revelation 5:5 (Καὶ εἷς ἐκ τῶν πρεσβυτέρων λέγει μοι Μὴ κλαῖε· ἰδοὺ ἐνίκησεν ὁ λέων ὁ ἐκ τῆς φυλῆς Ἰούδα, ἡ ῥίζα Δαυίδ, ἀνοῖξαι τὸ βιβλίον καὶ τὰς ἑπτὰ σφραγῖδας αὐτοῦ). Hence, the subsequent identification with the slain lamb would seem to mirror a conception that is at once both reversing and explicatory with respect to the entity introduced earlier. E. Lupieri has properly argued that the slain lamb seems to be unexpected after having been introduced as a triumphant lion; the victory of the future lion over an eagle (a symbol representing the Roman Empire) has to be found in 4 Ezra 11.37‑12.3. Hence, the seer of Patmos seems to engage in a dialectical relationship with some Jewish thoughts that were circulating at the end of first century, when the hope of a triumph of the lion of Judah over the Imperial eagle was certainly present, although we do not know if actually common. The term ἀρνίον recurs 29 times in the Revelation, and this element alone is indicative of the central concern for such a being in the visionary text. But, it is not only the statistical element that requires thought. As I have already pointed out, the ἀρνίον is also described as ἐσφαγμένον, that is, slain. This notation refers to the idea of a sacrificial killing, thus to the idea of a death that has value in, and of, itself since it is the animal used in the sacrifice to ensure the desired outcome of the cultural practice. 45 I do not believe that there are decisive elements that allude, even implicitly, to Paul’s theology of death as a path to resurrection. In the Revelation, the participle defining the lamb’s function refers – quite clearly – to the idea of the killing which is effective in itself precisely because of its cruelty.  4 6 43.  On the matter, see M. Vinzent, Christ’s Resurrection in Early Christianity and the Making of the New Testament (Burlington, 2011), 72‑73, 202, 220‑223. 44.  See N. Hohnjec , Das Lamm, τὸ ἀρνίον, in der Offenbarung des Johannes. Eine exegetisch–theologische Untersuchung (Roma, 1980); L.L. Johns , The Lamb Christology of the Apocalypse of John: An Investigation into Its Origins and Rhetorical Force (Tübingen, 2003); D.L. Barr , “The Lamb who Looks like a Dragon? Characterizing Jesus in John’s Apocalypse,” in D.L. Barr , ed., The Reality of Apocalypse. Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation (Atlanta, 2006), 205‑220. 45. About the sacrificial worth of the Lamb in John’s Apocalypse, especially concerning its sacrificial rhetorical dimension, see G. H eyman, The Power of Sacrifice. Roman and Christian Discourses in Conflict (Lanham, 2006), 135‑145. 46.  Is has to be said that the verb σφάζω is just one of the terms which refer to Greek sacrificial practices. On the matter, F.S. Naiden, Smoke Signals for the Gods. Ancient Greek Sacrifice from the Archaic through Roman Periods (Oxford, 2013), 279 argues: “Unlike thuein or hiera rezein, sphazein refers to a single act, throatcutting. It applied to most acts of animal sacrifice, but only as a phase. In animal

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The set of connections with the inaugural vision of the one similar to the son of man emerges from a series of internal references. On one hand, these are useful to emphasise the peculiarity of the vision of the ἀρνίον; on the other hand, such connections work as connective frames, thus as warning signs to clarify the comprehensive meaning of what the seer experiences. We have to bear this in mind, especially if we think of the auditory of the Revelation because it is in such contexts that the recurrence of terms and expressions is an absolutely necessary stratagem for the reception, as well as for the conservation and spread, of the message. I will now schematise the elements found in both sections (5:6‑10 and 1:4‑7.11.16 in particular): Revelation 5:6 Καὶ εἶδον ἐν μέσῳ τοῦ θρόνου καὶ τῶν τεσσάρων ζῴων καὶ ἐν μέσῳ τῶν πρεσβυτέρων ἀρνίον ἑστηκὸς ὡς ἐσφαγμένον, ἔχων κέρατα ἑπτὰ καὶ ὀφθαλμοὺς ἑπτά, οἵ εἰσιν τὰ [ἑπτὰ] πνεύματα τοῦ θεοῦ ἀπεσταλμένοι εἰς πᾶσαν τὴν γῆν

Revelation 1:4 Χάρις ὑμῖν καὶ εἰρήνη ἀπὸ ὁ ὢν καὶ ὁ ἦν καὶ ὁ ἐρχόμενος, καὶ ἀπὸ τῶν ἑπτὰ πνευμάτων ἃ ἐνώπιον τοῦ θρόνου αὐτοῦ

5:6 […] οἵ εἰσιν τὰ [ἑπτὰ] πνεύματα τοῦ 1:16 καὶ ἔχων ἐν τῇ δεξιᾷ χειρὶ αὐτοῦ θεοῦ ἀπεσταλμένοι εἰς πᾶσαν τὴν γῆν ἀστέρας ἑπτά […] 5:7 καὶ ἦλθεν καὶ εἴληφεν ἐκ τῆς δεξιᾶς 1:4 […] καὶ ἀπὸ τῶν ἑπτὰ πνευμάτων ἃ τοῦ καθημένου ἐπὶ τοῦ θρόνου ἐνώπιον τοῦ θρόνου αὐτοῦ […] 1:16 καὶ ἔχων ἐν τῇ δεξιᾷ χειρὶ αὐτοῦ ἀστέρας ἑπτά […] 5:8 Καὶ ὅτε ἔλαβεν τὸ βιβλίον, τὰ τέσ- 1:11 [...] Ὃ βλέπεις γράψον εἰς βιβλίον σαρα ζῷα καὶ οἱ εἴκοσι τέσσαρες πρε- […] 1: 17 Καὶ ὅτε εἶδον αὐτόν, ἔπεσα σβύτεροι ἔπεσαν ἐνώπιον τοῦ ἀρνίου, πρὸς τοὺς πόδας αὐτοῦ ὡς νεκρός [...] […] 5:9 καὶ ᾄδουσιν ᾠδὴν καινὴν λέγοντες· Ἄξιος εἶ λαβεῖν τὸ βιβλίον […]

sacrifice followed by a meal, sphazein applied to the phase that Burkert thought most important, yet it did not give a name to this kind of sacrifice. It more referred to battlefield and oath sacrifices.” The imagery to which the seer of Patmos refers is the Jewish one, where the verb σφάζω refers to the slaying of the animal in the sacrificial practices: see Genesis 22:10, 37:31, 43:16, Exodus 22:1, 34:25, Numbers 11:22, Leviticus 1:5, 14:19, Isaiah 57:5, Ezekiel 21:10, 23:39. It also has to be said that, in the LXX, the term seems to be affected by the representation of Greek sacrifices found in ancient literary sources: for instance, see Iliad 1. 459, Pindar, Pythian Odes 11. 23, Aeschylus, Eumenides 305, Euripides, Phoenissae 913, Helen 813, Orestes 1199). As it is known, these sources cannot be held as representative of the sacrificial practices as they were actually carried out in ancient Greece: on this matter, see essays collected in C.A. Faraone – F.S. Naiden, ed., Greek and Roman Animal Sacrifice. Ancient Victims, Modern Observers (Cambridge, 2012), especially 167‑194.

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5:9-10 [...] ὅτι ἐσφάγης καὶ ἠγόρασας τῷ θεῷ ἐν τῷ αἵματί σου ἐκ πάσης φυλῆς καὶ γλώσσης καὶ λαοῦ καὶ ἔθνους καὶ ἐποίησας αὐτοὺς τῷ θεῷ ἡμῶν βασιλείαν καὶ ἱερεῖς, καὶ βασιλεύσουσιν ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς

1:5b‑7 Τῷ ἀγαπῶντι ἡμᾶς καὶ λύσαντι ἡμᾶς ἐκ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν ἡμῶν ἐν τῷ αἵματι αὐτοῦ, καὶ ἐποίησεν ἡμᾶς βασιλείαν, ἱερεῖς τῷ θεῷ καὶ πατρὶ αὐτοῦ, αὐτῷ ἡ δόξα καὶ τὸ κράτος εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας [τῶν αἰώνων]· ἀμήν. Ἰδοὺ ἔρχεται μετὰ τῶν νεφελῶν, καὶ ὄψεται αὐτὸν πᾶς ὀφθαλμὸς καὶ οἵ τινες αὐτὸν ἐξεκέντησαν, καὶ κόψονται ἐπ’ αὐτὸν πᾶσαι αἱ φυλαὶ τῆς γῆς. ναί, ἀμήν

Just as the throne is a privileged position belonging to him who is, who was and who is to come and it has the seven Spirits before it (see Revelation 1:4), the lamb stands between the throne with the seven horns and the seven eyes explicitly identified with the seven Spirits of God sent out into all earth (5:6). Moreover, the lamb takes the scroll out of the right hand of the one who sat on the throne (in this case, the past tense τοῦ καθημένου indicates that the being from whom the lamb takes the scroll had been sitting on the throne, so the lamb eventually took his place). Besides the scenic notation concerning the throne in the beginning, seven Spirits also appear in the representation of Revelation 1:16, where the being identified as the son of man holds seven stars in his right hand that are later revealed to be the seven angels of the seven Churches (the ones to which the letters of 2:1 and 3:21 seem to be addressed). 47 In Revelation 5:8, the four animals and the 24 elders fall down (ἔπεσαν) before the lamb (a gesture expressing cultual veneration), in the same way that the seer falls down (ἔπεσα) as if he were dead before the feet of the being similar to the son of man. This scene evidently alludes to the emotive effects that the experience of contact with the other world had on the seer. 48 In 5:8, the lamb takes the scroll, since it deserves to take it, and it breaks its seals in exactly the same way that the seer is ordered to write what he sees in a scroll. Due to its being slain, the lamb purchased people from all of these tribes and nations for God with its blood, thus releasing them from their sins. The tribes in question (literally “all tribes on earth”) are those who will strike themselves to the vision of the pierced being coming with the clouds. The expiatory death of the lamb turned the believers into a kingdom of priests for God and this is an element inseparably connected to their supremacy on earth itself. The expression comes 47. On the association angels–stars, see E.F. Lupieri, “Esegesi e simbologie apocalittiche,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 7/2 (1990) 379‑396. 48.  This falling down is a response to a (perceived) theophanic experience. In Biblical traditions, similar verbs appear in many references to such an encounter (for example, see Ezekiel 1:28; 3:23; 43:3; 44:4; Daniel 8:17‑18; 10:9).

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back again with slight differences in 1:6, where the one who loves the believers releases them from their sins by way of his blood, thus turning them into a kingdom of priests to God (for more particulars, see 1:5.6). In the specific case of links between 5:6‑10 and the inaugural vision, the centrality of the pierced lamb involves all or most of the references to the tradition that seem to be re-proposed in order to emphasise that central element. With respect to the inaugural vision, the seer’s memory seems to focus on the verb “to pierce,” which John certainly borrows from the prophetic subtext, while, at the same time, it re-activates the frame concerning what follows. In the context of the introduction, this could explain what the word slain indicates in 5:6: both of the references seem to be reformatted in the light of a “pervasive” mnemonic and visionary association that is, at the same time, symmetrical. 49 Moreover, the symmetries between the two sections do not eclipse, rather, they intensify the differences between the two representations. These differences are due to the fact that the being in the inaugural vision is the one who dictates the seven letters to the seven churches thus acting as a maskyl, whereas the lamb is the one who breaks the seals – thus commencing the vision and projecting the dynamics to which the seven letters refer 50 in a cosmic dimension. III. Th e R ev e l at ion of J oh n a s a n au t hor i tat i v e (a n d/or pow e r fu l) na r r at i v e : bet w e e n “You ” a n d “I” The last socio-cultural aspect that I intend to analyse is the “authoritative posture” intrinsically connected to the account of the contact with the other world conveyed by the Revelation, and more precisely, its relation to the seer’s self and to the groups referred to in the text. I believe that this allows us to reassess the turning point of this study, that is, the 49.  The term indicates that within a mnemonic flux some memories (dreams, for instance) are more pervasive than others and very often, besides being quite recurrent, they acquire a leading function with respect to other memories. For a cognitive approach concerning accounts of dreams, see A.W. Geertz – J.S. Jensen, ed., Religious Narrative, Cognition and Culture: Image and Word in the Mind of Narrative (Sheffield–Oakville, 2011); J. Gottschall , The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human (Boston–New York, 2012). 50.  On this topic, see L. A rcari, “L’Apocalisse di Giovanni nel quadro di alcune dinamiche gruppali proto-cristiane: elementi per una (ri-)contestualizzazione,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 28 (2011) 137‑183. More recently, see also M. Sto ­ wasser , “Die Sendschreiben der Offembarung des Johannes: Literarische Gestaltung, Buchkompositorische Funktion, Textpragmatik,” New Testament Studies 61 (2015) 50‑66.

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recovery of the memorial fluxes deemed as authoritative in activating (culturally speaking) mnemonic frames concerning the direct experience of contact with the other world. I want to recall the “I–we–you” dynamic which the Revelation conveys, especially returning to the text’s incipit (see Revelation 1:1‑5): 1:1 Ἀποκάλυψις Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ ἣν ἔδωκεν αὐτῷ ὁ θεός δεῖξαι τοῖς δούλοις αὐτοῦ ἃ δεῖ γενέσθαι ἐν τάχει, καὶ ἐσήμανεν ἀποστείλας διὰ τοῦ ἀγγέλου αὐτοῦ τῷ δούλῳ αὐτοῦ Ἰωάννῃ, 1:2 ὃς ἐμαρτύρησεν τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ τὴν μαρτυρίαν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ ὅσα εἶδεν. 1:3 Μακάριος ὁ ἀναγινώσκων καὶ οἱ ἀκούοντες τοὺς λόγους τῆς προφητείας καὶ τηροῦντες τὰ ἐν αὐτῇ γεγραμμένα, ὁ γὰρ καιρὸς ἐγγύς. 1:4 Ἰωάννης ταῖς ἑπτὰ ἐκκλησίαις ταῖς ἐν τῇ Ἀσίᾳ· Χάρις ὑμῖν καὶ εἰρήνη ἀπὸ ὁ ὢν καὶ ὁ ἦν καὶ ὁ ἐρχόμενος καὶ ἀπὸ τῶν ἑπτὰ πνευμάτων ἃ ἐνώπιον τοῦ θρόνου αὐτοῦ 1:5 καὶ ἀπὸ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, ὁ μάρτυς ὁ πιστός, ὁ πρωτότοκος τῶν νεκρῶν καὶ ὁ ἄρχων τῶν βασιλέων τῆς γῆς. 1:1 The revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave to him, in order to show to his servants the things that must take place soon, and which he made manifest by dispatch, through the medium of his angel, to his servant John, 1:2 who testified to the word of God and to the testimony of Jesus Christ, that is, to all the things that he saw. 1:3 Blessed is who reads and those who hear the words of the prophecy and keep the things that are written in it, for the moment is near. 1:4 John to the seven churches, those in Asia: Grace to you and peace from him who is and who was and who is coming, and from the seven spirits that are in front of his throne, 1:5 and from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth.

The conveyance chain of the visionary message presents itself as a coming and going between a vertical and a horizontal dimension: Jesus Christ’s ἀποκάλυψις is given by God to indicate to his δοῦλοι things that are soon to happen. Hence, it was God himself who manifested it by sending his angel to δοῦλος John so that he could testify concerning the word of God and the witness of Jesus together with all that he has seen. In this case, the vertical association of the term δοῦλος (which alludes to the subordination of the slave) is identified by the implicit metaphorical association of the term, used both to indicate the recipients of the ἀποκάλυψις message and the mediator who experiences the vision. If we schematise the vertical dimension emerging from the text’s incipit, it would resemble the following diagram:

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God gives the revelation to

Jesus Christ in order to show the things that must soon take place to

makes manifest the revelation through the medium of his angel to

his servants

his servant John who testifies to the word of God and to the testimony of Jesus Christ

Apart from this vertical dimension, it is also possible to observe a fundamental dialectic on a horizontal level (the basis of the diagram) in which the same δοῦλοι quoted in the incipit together with δοῦλος John seems to be involved. The first element emerging from 1:3 is that the ἀποκάλυψις is intended to be expressed on two levels: the reading by a single person (ὁ ἀναγινώσκων) and the collective listening (οἱ ἀκούοντες). At this point, precisely in 1:4, John addresses the seven ἐκκλησίαι located in Asia. He has to inform them that the χάρις and εἰρήνη are coming from the one who is, who was, and who is to come, from the seven Spirits standing before his throne, and from Jesus himself. Schematising once again, it emerges that the horizontal dimension, seeming to be so at least from a truthful perspective, in turn is hierarchically structured according to the following scheme:

John testifies to the word of God and to the testimony of Jesus Christ

who reads

who hears is blessed, as well as

the seven churches, those in Asia the final recipients of the prophecy

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John’s presentation is further clarified in 1:4, where the use of pronouns is particularly enlightening to evaluate the horizontal hierarchical dynamics of the ἀποκάλυψις. 1:9 Ἐγὼ Ἰωάννης, ὁ ἀδελφὸς ὑμῶν καὶ συγκοινωνὸς ἐν τῇ θλίψει καὶ βασιλείᾳ καὶ ὑπομονῇ ἐν Ἰησοῦ, ἐγενόμην ἐν τῇ νήσῳ τῇ καλουμένῃ Πάτμῳ διὰ τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ τὴν μαρτυρίαν Ἰησοῦ. 1:10 ἐγενόμην ἐν πνεύματι ἐν τῇ κυριακῇ ἡμέρᾳ καὶ ἤκουσα ὀπίσω μου φωνὴν μεγάλην ὡς σάλπιγγος 1:11 λεγούσης· Ὃ βλέπεις γράψον εἰς βιβλίον καὶ πέμψον ταῖς ἑπτὰ ἐκκλησίαις, εἰς Ἔφεσον καὶ εἰς Σμύρναν καὶ εἰς Πέργαμον καὶ εἰς Θυάτειρα καὶ εἰς Σάρδεις καὶ εἰς Φιλαδέλφειαν καὶ εἰς Λαοδίκειαν. 1:9 I, John, your brother and partner in the tribulation and kingdom and endurance in Jesus, was on the island called Patmos because of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus. 1:10 I was in spirit on the day of the Lord, and I heard behind me a great voice like that of a trumpet 1:11 which was saying: ‘That which you see write in a scroll and send it to the seven churches, to Ephesus and to Smyrna and to Pergamum and to Thyatira and to Sardis and to Philadelphia and to Laodicea.’

John’s “I” seems to be connected to a “you” through a fraternal (ἀδελφός)/ equal (συγκοινωνός) relationship. Despite the prohibitive admission of this commonality, John’s self inevitably stands out in its dimension at the executive apex because of the space it has been given in the staging of the vision. John is the one who was in the spirit on the day of the Lord in a place which does not coincide with any of the seven cities mentioned and, for this reason, the separation from the recipients in the moment of the ἀποκάλυψις represents a means of exaltation of the individual’s activity. The seer is the one who receives the order to write in a scroll and to send what he sees to the seven ἐκκλησίαι. Besides emerging from the first-person pronoun together with the verbs “to show” or “to speak”, the individual dimension of ἀποκάλυψις, an individuality at the same time linked and measured with relation to a collectivity – a “you” inevitably opposing a “they” (misleading or constructed as such by the seer) – also emerges in the last chapter of the text where the seer reports Jesus’ words to confirm the account of the ἀποκάλυψις as a whole (22:16), like a sort of sphragís to be interpreted in the light of the curse that the seer casts later in 22:18‑19. 51

51.  In the curse of Revelation 22:18‑19, the seer seems to refer particularly to the written expression of ἀποκάλυψις: perhaps, he wants to direct the reader’s attention toward a reading of exactly what is contained in the scroll?

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r e m a r k s : au t hor i t y, i n di v i dua l i t y, a n d v i siona ry e x pe r i e nce s

In a recent volume detailing the findings of a research project carried out at the Max-Weber-Kolleg (University of Erfurt), the problem of individuality in the ancient world is explored in an innovative light, particularly in the attempt to overcome the Cartesian definition of the self that is anachronistic with respect to ancient Mediterranean witnesses. 52 R. Gordon’s essay 53 emphasises five types of individuality: 1. Pragmatic individuality (deriving from the breaking of family bonds) 2. Moral individuality (deriving from the attempt to live according to a series of ethical rules) 3. Competitive individuality (deriving from the competition among elite individuals in order to obtain a leading status) 4. Representative individuality (derived in relation to some individuals who are deemed to be models within a particular tradition) 5. Reflexive individuality (founded on a legitimating discourse) The last three types seem to provide a good context for the “self ” who has experienced a contact with the other world. It is the dialectic emerging between vertical and hierarchical horizontal dimensions in the text – quite a fluid one in the case of John’s Revelation according to which there is a relation of equality (John as ἀδελφός and συγκοινωνός) and verticality (John directly experiencing the other world) – that has led some scholars to define the characteristics of what can be considered as another category of the “self ”, the visionary “self.” 54 If this seems to include many of the elements identified by Gordon, it also appears to be provided with some features connected to the direct experience with the other world. The first aspect concerns the stance/approach emerging from the use of the vision-experiencing self which takes its demonstrative strength from the explicit admission of having had a first person experience of contact with the other world. This is not about choosing a Weberian or interac52. See J. Rüpke – W. Spickermann, ed., Reflections on Religious Individuality: Greco–Roman and Judaeo–Christian Texts and Practices (Berlin–New York, 2012). On the research project “Religiöse Individualisierung in historischer Perspektive,” see also https://www.uni-erfurt.de/max-weber-kolleg/kfg/. 53. See “Representative Individuality in Iamblichus’ De vita pythagorica,” in J. Rüpke – W. Spickermann, ed., Reflections on Religious Individuality: Greco– Roman and Judaeo–Christian Texts and Practices (Berlin–New York, 2012), 71‑74. 54. See the important book by A.K. H arkins , Reading with an ‘I’ to the Heavens: Looking at the Qumran Hodayot through the Lens of Visionary Traditions (Berlin–New York, 2012).

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tionist/charismatic model 55 but, it is about re-evaluating the role of the experience of an individual (a competitive-representative-reflexive individual according to the above-cited categories by Gordon) in order to define and clarify the procedure and the related transmission of the contact with the other world. In order to benefit from social belonging, the ancient rhetorical use of the self – that could be also defined as the language of “incorporation” – can deceptively work as a generating element of a religious experience of transformation and ascent similar to the one reported. This procedure of fulfillment is based on the capacity of being able to reproduce the same experience of contact reported by the one who claims to have lived it in the first person. 56 This may be the effect of the rhetorical first person speech which allows the visions to become experienced as “scripted” experiences for a reader to then re-act. This would then allow for the generation of a predisposition to experience similar types of visions without predetermining that such experiences will happen. 57 Explicitly identified as an account of a non-ordinary experience of contact with the other world, the Revelation of John seems to render, in cultural terms, this experience in harmony with an authoritative traditio, capable of creating authority for those who qualify themselves as its further heirs. John’s visionary self-centeredness seems to be structured as a traditional cesura between the tradition and the visionary experience, re-functionalized in order to make the experience reported in the text credible and communicable. Such a dynamic is the consequence of the first and main level of fulfillment of the visionary account, the oral one, through which the authoritative impact of the message emerges as effectively implemented. If the face-to-face discourse is the primary context through which the Revelation must be understood, we do not have to forget that writing, as we have seen, is extremely relevant in this process. It does not only emerge as a procedure included in the ritual process of contact with the other world, but also as a warning sign capable of identifying dynamics with 55.  On such a matter, see C. Trevett, “Prophets, Economics, and the Rites of Men. Some Issues of Authority in Early Christian Tradition,” in P. Townsend – M. Vidas , ed., Revelation, Literature, and Community in Late Antiquity (Tübingen, 2011), 43‑64. 56. More generally, see A.K. H arkins , Reading with an ‘I’ to the Heavens: Looking at the Qumran Hodayot through the Lens of Visionary Traditions (Berlin– New York, 2012), 25‑68. 57.  On such a question, see A.K. H arkins , Reading with an ‘I’ to the Heavens: Looking at the Qumran Hodayot through the Lens of Visionary Traditions (Berlin– New York, 2012).

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relation to who has spread the message contained in the text. In this sense, the writing-oral dialectic not only enlightens the different perceptive levels of the visionary account in concrete social groups, but it also clarifies the diffusion of the message through its (probable) public reading as well as on the different dynamics which the transmission inevitably triggers via different levels of expression.

L OTS, CUPS, AND ECSTASY: TOWARDS A R ECONSTRUCTION OF THE “ T HIASOI” OF M ARCUS, DISCIPLE OF VALENTINUS Daniele Tripaldi Before the comprehensive work of Niclas Förster came out, Marcus, disciple of Valentinus, whom Irenaeus labeled “the magician,” had been living a shadowy existence at the margins of scholarly debates on Christian origins, being devoted just a few, sketchy remarks within the broader framework of histories and surveys of “Gnosticism” in general, and of “Valentinianism,” in particular. 1 Following as he does in the footsteps of C. Markschies and W.A. Löhr, Förster must be given credit for having made the first – and so far, to my knowledge, still the only – attempt to gain a fresh and deepranging critical look into Marcus’ historical figure and activity on their own: he placed under scrutiny the evidence at our disposal and discussed its reliability; he provided Irenaeus’ report (Haer. I, 13, 1‑16, 2), our old1.  See the introduction in N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) 1‑5. For a critical evaluation of Förster’s work, see J.-D. Dubois , “Review of N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar, Tübingen, 1999,” Apocrypha 12 (2001) 286‑287, and A.  M agris , “Review of N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar, Tübingen, 1999,” Adamantius 7 (2001) 343‑347. E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the «Valentinians» (Leiden-Boston, MA, 2006) 498‑500; J.-D. Dubois , “Gnose et manichéisme. I. Recherches sur le gnostique valentinien Marc le Mage. II. Le manichéens dans l’oasis de Kellis. III. Conférences d’introduction: figures gnostiques de Jésus,” Annuaire EPHE, Sciences Religieuses 115 (2006‑2007) 209‑215, here 209‑211; B.A. Pearson, Ancient Gnosticism. Traditions and Literature (Minneapolis, MN, 2007) 168‑173; I. Dunderberg, “The School of Valentinus,” in A. M arjanen – P. Luomanen, ed., A  Companion to Second Century Christian “Heretics” (Leiden, 2008) 64‑99, here 82‑83, quote and discuss his monograph as well, Thomassen even collecting some more piece of disputed evidence on Marcus which was neglected by Förster (see Thomassen, ibidem, 498 n. 28). N. Förster , “Marcosian Rituals for Prophecy and Apolytrosis,” in A.D. DeConick – G. Shaw – J.D. Turner , ed., Practicing Gnosis. Ritual, Magic, Theurgy and Liturgy in Nag Hammadi, Manichaean and Other Ancient Literature. Essays in Honor of Birger A. Pearson (Leiden, 2013) 433‑448, just summarizes and re-asserts the results of his earlier analysis. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 361–375 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111711 ©

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est source, with an extensive commentary, at the same time integrating into his analysis the supplementary information related by “Hippolytus” (Ref. VI, 39, 1‑54, 2), at least as far as the latter can be shown not to depend on, and even to deliberately ignore the former. 2 Conclusions were then drawn, and results collected, in order to profile Marcus’ theology as well as to bring to the fore the “innersten ‘Antriebskräfte’ der Markosierreligiosität […] und derjenigen Christlichkeit, die sie für sich beanspruchte,” within the context of second- and third-century ce “Gnostic syncretism”: 3 here the limits of his work appear in all their evidence, from here new researches can set out. 4 Moving from Förster’s monograph, in the first part of the article, I shall briefly sketch where we stand now in studying Marcus and the movement he founded and took the lead of; in the second part, I shall make the attempt to give my own contribution to enriching our understanding of their ritual meals and practices, through and despite of Irenaeus’ lenses. I. B ack

to t h e

“ h i s tor ica l M a rcus ”

In order to free the historical figure of Marcus from the heresiological accretions and deformations it has been attracting, it seems appropriate to begin by focusing on the epithets his name was associated with from the start, so as to question the definitions traditionally imposed on him by Irenaeus and his followers as well as by modern scholars. 5 2.  I am summing up the plan of chapters 1 through 5. Cf. N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) 1 (and n. 1!), 5, and the judgment of “Review of N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar, Tübingen, 1999,” Apocrypha 12 (2001) 286. 3. N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) p. v. 4. See J.-D. Dubois , “Review of N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar, Tübingen, 1999,” Apocrypha 12 (2001) 286‑287. A useful criticism of the implications of the concept of “syncretism” presupposed by Förster can be found in A. M agris , “Review of N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar, Tübingen, 1999,” Adamantius 7 (2001) 346. 5.  If a critical point must be made here, Förster does not show much of a critical consciousness in dealing with heresiological texts and representations – at least not as much as C. M arkschies , Valentinus Gnosticus? Untersuchungen zur valentinianischen Gnosis mit einem Kommentar zu den Fragmenten Valentins (Tübingen, 1992) 388‑407, and W.A. L öhr , Basilides und seine Schule. Eine Studie zur Theolo-

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We find ourselves in the privileged position to still have some of Marcus’ own self-definitions to read: before turning into a “magician” and a “gnostic,” teacher of further “gnostics,” in the eyes of others, Marcus “boasted” to be τοῦ διδασκάλου διορθωτής (“corrector of his teacher”) the “teacher” being most probably Valentinus (Irenaeus, Haer. I, 13, 1). 6 Furthermore, on a deeper level, he regarded himself as the μονογενής, the one and only “womb and vessel of Σιγή”: he was invested with such a new identity and special status in the due course of a visionary experience that he had and that he then wrote down to sanction the transformation he had undergone. The autobiographical account relating such experience in the form of a lengthy treatise was intended to expound and legitimize his teachings and eventually came into Irenaeus’ hands who excerpted some passages from it, and summarized others (Irenaeus, Haer. I, 14, 1). 7 By identifying and analyzing the sources and traditions his revelation builds upon, it turns out that Marcus’ teachings and the rituals embodying and actualizing them, as a result of his personal “problematic relationship” with Valentinus, 8 must all be understood against the background of second- ad third-century ce Christian “prophetism” in Asia Minor: the most prominent feature at least of Marcus’ vision and prophetic activity, elements of philosophical education helped him not only shaping his revelatory experience but also recalling and putting its contents into writing. 9 gie- und Kirchengeschichte des zweiten Jahrhunderts (Tübingen, 1996) 324‑337, his models, did contesting older images of Valentinus and Basilides, respectively. 6. N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) 55‑57, reasonably speculates that Irenaeus is depending here on an older Valentinian tradition, most probably going back to Marcus himself. The use of καυχάομαι (“to boast”) as introduction to Marcus’ own claims is obviously Irenaeus’ choice, due to the negative connotations of the verb (Förster , ibidem, 57 and n. 15). 7. N. Förster , ibidem, 165. 8.  C. M arkschies , Valentinus Gnosticus? Untersuchungen zur valentinianischen Gnosis mit einem Kommentar zu den Fragmenten Valentins (Tübingen, 1992) 392, so qualifies the complex interplay of continuity and discontinuity, which can be ascertained between Valentinus’ thought as echoed in his authentic fragments, and its further developments by his disciples (see ibidem, 392‑402). 9.  For a brief survey on the sources of Marcus’ thought, see N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) 391‑399, recapitulating his previous analysis. Further insightful remarks in E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the «Valentinians» (Leiden-Boston, MA, 2006) 499‑500. As far as the penetration of philosophical thinking and language into contemporary “prophetic” and oracular practices is concerned, R. L ane-Fox, Pagani e cristiani (Roma-Bari, 2006 [orig.: Pagans and Christians (London, 1986)] 174‑208 and 254‑263, has collected much of the available evidence and commented on it. Parallels with activity and rites of oracular centers, as well as with ancient theories of ritual action, are hinted at already in Förster , ibidem, 80‑81, 113‑115, 130‑131.

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Subsequent accusations of practicing sorcery and being a “magician” originated probably as a logical consequence as it were of such a search for contact and union with the divine, a search indeed that Marcus and his disciples pursued within a context of marginality and heightened conflict with other groups of Jesus’ followers in the area. Accusations were further “ascertained” and corroborated on the basis of the confessions of women who had formerly belonged to Marcus’ following, had by then repented and charged Marcus with leading them astray from the family and the ekklesia by virtue of strange, “magical” potions and rituals (Irenaeus, Haer. I, 13, 5‑7). 10 After all, if practicing philosophy was intended as ἐξετάζειν περὶ τοῦ θείου (Justin, Dial. 1, 3; cf. Plutarch, Is.Os. 351a-352c) and actively engaging in the communio loquendi cum deis immortalibus (Apuleius, Ap. 25‑27.54‑55), whatever form this might have taken, it follows that “any abnormal interest” in the numinous sphere leading to “abnormal” or competitive ritual practices in the eye of the beholder might theoretically bring the practitioner to incur the suspicion of indulging in “magic” or at least make her/his case suitable for such an accusation. 11 It goes without saying that in Marcus’ case “ab-normal” and competitive means nothing more than deviating from and challenging the very norm which Irenaeus and his informants accepted as authoritative and binding, identifying it as the “apostolic” and ecclesiastical tradition they themselves follow (see Haer. I, 13, 4‑6). Perhaps already drawing on confessions by the penitents, a presbyter of Asia Minor began composing iambs against the newborn “magician” (Haer. I, 15, 6): a first front opposing Marcus had emerged, as well as a first trajectory of rumors, uncontrolled gossips, and accusations. Cf.  A. M agris , “Review of N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar, Tübingen, 1999,” Adamantius 7 (2001) 346. V.-E. Hirschmann, Horrenda Secta. Untersuchungen zur frühchristlichen Montanismus und seinen Verbindungen zur paganen Religion Phrygiens (Stuttgart, 2005) 86‑92 and 98‑123, instead, limits herself to focusing on the relationship between Christian “prophetism” and ancient mantic as exemplified in the case of the New Prophecy. 10. On such a self-defense strategy enacted by women under charge or process for abnormal, often illicit sexual behavior, cf. Ammianus Marcellinus, Hist. XXVIII, 1, 48‑50, and Jerome, Vit. Hilar. 12. 11.  I follow F. Graf, La magia nel mondo antico (Roma-Bari, 1995 [orig.: La magie dans l ’antiquité gréco-romaine. Idéologie et pratique (Paris, 1994)] 85, who paraphrases M. Mauss and refers to the case of Boetius, accused of sacrilegium and maleficium according to De cons. phil. I, 4, 134‑148 (n. 65). Cf. the portraits of Jesus “the magician” sketched by Celsus in Origen, CC I, 6.28.38; Arnobius, Adv. nat. 43, 1; bSanhedrin 43a. D.E. Aune , “Magic in Early Christianity,” Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II/26.2 (1980) 1507‑1557; M. M eyer – P. M irecki, ed., Ancient Magic and Ritual Power (Leiden-New York, NY-Köln, 1995); P. M irecki – M. M eyer ,  ed., Magic and Ritual in the Ancient World (Leiden-Boston, MA-Köln, 2002); P. Busch, Magie in neutestamentlicher Zeit (Göttingen, 2006), offer a more comprehensive perspective on modern study of ancient “magic.”

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The history of Marcus and his followers can still be glimpsed at through this chain of tradents and information: between 160‑180 ce , according to Förster, 12 groups of Marcus’ followers developed as a prophetic movement, at first wandering from town to town and spreading throughout Asia Minor, within or in close proximity to the ekklesiai which Irenaeus acknowledges as “orthodox.” Marcus’ disciples would enter homes in search for hospitality and gain material and economical support from well-off hosts, both men and women (Haer. I, 13, 1); thereafter, thiasoi would start flourishing (ibidem I, 13, 3‑6). 13 A few years later, by the last quarter of the second century ce , we find Marcus’ followers having already made their way into the Rhone valley, once again wedging themselves in the everyday life of the local ekklesiai. As he now gets more and more directly involved, not only does Irenaeus collect personal accounts of “conversion” and repentance, “apostasy” and hesitation on the fringe (ibidem I, 13, 4‑5.7), but he also recalls and reports the iambs of the aforementioned Asian presbyter mocking and rebuking Marcus (ibidem I, 13, 3 and 15, 6). Working on this “evidence,” he then draws the line between two different communities, thereby rhetorically creating them. 14 One is left to wonder whether such a line presupposes an actual process of parting already on its way or embodies just an attempt to impose difference from the outside on a still fluid reality  and a porous boundary. 15 12.  For his part, J. R eiling, “Marcus Gnosticus and the New Testament: Eucharist and Prophecy,” in T. Baarda – A.F.J. K lijn – W.C. van Unnik , ed., Miscellanea Neotestamentica I (Leiden, 1978) 161‑179, here 162, dates Marcus’ floruit “at approximately 160‑170 AD.” 13.  See A. Faivre – C. Faivre , “La place des femmes dans le rituel eucharistique des Marcosiens: déviance ou archaisme?,” Revue des Sciences Religieuses 71/3 (1997) 310‑328; N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) 58, 84‑85, 122‑124, 136‑137; I. Dunderberg, “The School of Valentinus,” in A. M arjanen – P. Luomanen, ed., A  Companion to Second Century Christian “Heretics” (Leiden, 2008) 83. However, Irenaeus’ almost obsessive insistence on Marcus’ success among and fascination on women should be better accounted for as heresiological topos exaggerating and distorting Marcus’ actual intellectual appeal on his hosts (see once and for all Förster , ibidem, 58, 124‑126, 137‑138). 14. On Irenaeus’ knowledge of the Marcosians, cf. succinctly M.J. Joncas , “Eucharist Among the Marcosians: A Study of Irenaeus’ Adversus Haereses I, 13:2,” Questions Liturgiques 71 (1990) 99‑111, here 101‑102. 15. N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) 132‑133, 138, 159, 402‑404, envisages a two phase historical development from Gnostic “Zirkel” within already existing Christian ekklesiai, as Irenaeus relates, to a separated Gnostic “Gemeinde,” as documented by “Hippolytus.” Interesting as it is, his thesis needs further investigation and probably even revision, since it depends too much on Irenaeus’ own categories and polemical topoi, such as

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Be that as it may, at the beginnings of the third century ce , “Hippolytus” had the chance to get in touch with Roman followers of Marcus’ who had evidently read Irenaeus’ report and were contesting its reliability. The informants of “Hippolytus” bear witness to one or more groups of Marcus’ followers where new “converts” were baptized at the outcome of a preliminary catechetical and preparatory phase, and a second immersion, perhaps for internal cohesion’s sake, was possibly practiced. Such (a) group(s) was (were) hierarchically structured: ἐπίσκοποι – whatever the term may here mean and presuppose as underlying social reality – were appointed at the top of the hierarchy in order to grant continuity through time in ritual praxis and transmit esoteric teachings, as exemplified in the account about the ἀπολύτρωσις (Ref. VI, 42, 1 and 41, 2‑5). 16 As a matter of fact, therefore, any attempt to come to terms with the discrepancies between the two notices of Irenaeus and “Hippolytus” on the formula to be recited during the ἀπολύτρωσις should not exclude the possibility of local variants and/or historical developments of one and the same religious practice as well as of the verbal formulas accompanying it. 17 The question of the relationship of our two main sources on Marcus here just hinted at brings me directly to the second part of my contribution. II. Th e

h i s tor ica l

M a rcus

a n d h i s fol low e r s :

ba nqu ets a n d r i t ua l (s) of ec s ta s y

As far as concrete ritual praxis among Marcus’ followers is concerned, Irenaeus, Haer. I, 13, 2‑4, and “Hippolytus”, Ref. VI, 39, 2‑40, still provide the fundamental information for any historical reconstruction: both texts lie at the end of the long, complex and multi-phase process of transmission which I have just attempted to outline, and thus need to be put under scrutiny anew. For his part “Hippolytus” openly confesses that he has read Irenaeus (cf. Ref. VI, 42, 1), but at the same time admits he has made autonomous research in Rome on a few points of Irenaeus’ refutation which Marcus’ the opposition Gnostic-Christian and the theme of the supposed “double life” (402: “Doppelexistenz”) of the elitist “heretics.” 16.  E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the «Valentinians» (Leiden-Boston, MA, 2006) 500 n. 35, advises caution with respect to Förster’s suggestion of growing hierarchisation among Marcosians. 17. N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) 153‑158, reduces the analysis of the two parallels to an a-historical and a-geographical literary model (dependence; contradictoriness; preference accorded to one source against the other).

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followers contested (ibidem). I will then briefly add a few comments on the distinctive tendencies of the two reports, their convergences and their discrepancies. 18 Most strikingly, Irenaeus seems to have deliberately moved the formula to be spoken on the mix of wine and water from the description of the rite (I, 13, 2) and replaced it with a caricatured dialogue between the “magician” and his female victim (I, 13, 3). The latter was evidently staged to target Marcus with charges of circumvention and sexual abuses, as well as to expose the successful propagation of the prophetic activity which he promotes as a mix of astute trickery on his side and overexcitability on his female disciples’. 19 “Hippolytus” instead omits both the formula and the dialogue, and has only one ritual to relate. I wonder then whether Haer. I, 13, 2 and I, 13, 3 might actually reflect not two separate rituals, but rather two complementary stages of one single ritual, consisting of the “transcoloration” and the multiplication of wine – I shall turn to demonstrating such hypothesis in a while. 20 Furthermore: what are we to make of the πολλάκις in “Hippolytus”, Ref. VI, 39, 2, qualifying the single ritual he relates as recurrent, against Irenaeus’ version depicting it as an unrepeatable rite, once and for all valid for any single individual who had undergone it, that is, as a rite of initiation? 21 Are we supposed to regard the assumption of recursiveness in the ritual’s performance and recursiveness as such as a later development, which was a posteriori dated back to the

18.  For a thorough investigation, see N. Förster , ibidem, 26‑31. 19. N. Förster , ibidem 72‑73 and 116‑117. 20.  W. Bousset, Hauptprobleme der Gnosis (Göttingen, 1907) 315‑317, supposed that words and liturgical sections preserved in Haer. I, 13, 2 and I, 13, 3 might have actually belonged to the one single celebration of the sacrament of the bridal chamber. See also M.J. Joncas , “Eucharist Among the Marcosians: A Study of Irenaeus’ Adversus Haereses I, 13:2,” Questions Liturgiques 71 (1990) 109‑111, who advanced the hypothesis of a single Eucharistic rite consisting of a first invocatory section prayed by Marcus (Haer. I, 13, 2), and a second, separate thanksgiving prayed by Marcus’ female followers (Haer. I, 13, 3). Contesting Bousset, J. R eiling, “Marcus Gnosticus and the New Testament: Eucharist and Prophecy,” in T. Baarda – A.F.J. K lijn – W.C. van Unnik , ed., Miscellanea Neotestamentica I (Leiden, 1978) 171, envisaged instead two different ritual actions. He saw nonetheless a connection between them in the fact that “the first Charis-communication is intended for the whole community of πνευματικοί, and the second only for those who will be initiated in prophecy, the πνευματικώτατοι.” N. Förster , ibidem, 84‑85, has no doubts assuming two distinct rituals either. H. Schmid, Die Eucharistie ist Jesus. Anfänge einer Theorie des Sakraments im koptischen Philippusevangelium (NHC II 3) (Leiden-Boston, MA, 2007) 394‑405, here 397, maintains that we are dealing with two versions of the Eucharist. 21.  I present the alternative as N. Förster , ibidem, 66‑69, understands and puts it. Its radicalism has already been questioned by H. Schmid, ibidem, 404‑405.

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master’s lifetime in order to invent a “tradition” and authoritatively found a “new” widespread practice? 22 I shall leave these two last questions unanswered until my hypothesis is demonstrated and conclusions are drawn on that basis. I wish now to focus first on the socio-religious form which the group and its gatherings assumed. Irenaeus’ definitions of the former as thiasos and of the latter as deipna (I, 13, 4) make sure that Marcus’ followers indulged in an intense cult-oriented symposial activity, or were perceived to do so (cf. “Hippolytus”, Ref. VI, 40.4 and 41, 1). 23 So far they do not considerably differ from other early Christian groups. 24 The use of lots to determine who is going to prophesy belongs to such socio-cultural scenario as well: on the one hand, it reminds of the practice of extracting lots in order to choose who was going to drink first at and lead a banquet (see Horace, Carm. I, 4, 18, and II, 7, 25-26; Ovid, Ars I, 581‑583; Plutarch, Cat.Mi. 6, 1-2; Lucian, Sat. 4; Julius Pollux, Onom. 6, 11, 6-8; cfr. also Aristophanes, Ec. 836-841, and Juvenal, Sat. 5, 129-130); on the other hand, it was probably intended to impose some order onto chaotic and uncontrolled bursts of “pneumatic gifts,” manifesting themselves as those already addressed by Paul one century earlier (1 Cor 14:26‑33; on confusion and anarchy spreading during symposia as well as on the attempts to regulate them, see also Lucian, Symp. 17, and SIG3 1109, ll. 108-110). 25 Turning now to the ritual itself, I still find convincing Förster’s impressive demonstration that “das erste Tranksakrament mit dem Farbumwandlung aus Adv. haer. I 13, 2 und die in Adv. haer. I 13, 3 überlieferte Kultformel zusammengehören” and that Irenaeus “die Beschreibung der Zeremonie von der dazugehörigen Anrufung der Charis getrennt tradiert

22. Cf., e.g., 1 Cor 11:23‑26 and Lk 22:14‑20 with Mk 14:22‑25 and Mt 26:26‑30. 23. Irenaeus’ use of the term thiasos has undoubtedly polemical undertones, reflecting as it does the image of a seductive and appealing leader attracting exclusively female followers. Cf. Herodotus, Hist. IV, 79; Euripides, Bacch. 136; Theo­ critus, Id. 26, 2; Plutarch, Quaest. Rom. 291a; Aelius Aristides, Dion. 30, 17 Jebb; Clement of Alexandria, Protr. I, 2, 2, 7. 24. See H.-J. K lauck , Herrenmahl und hellenistischer Kult. Eine religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum ersten Korintherbrief (Münster, 1982); P. L ampe , “Das Korinthische Herrenmahl im Schnittpunkt hellenistisch-römischer Mahlpraxis und paulinischer Theologia Crucis (1Kor 1, 17‑34),” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 82 (1991) 183‑213; D.E. Smith, From Symposium to Eucharist. The Banquet in the Early Christian World (Minneapolis, MN, 2003). 25. N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) 131, pleads for the influence of ancient oracular practices for the choice of the divining priest or priestess as attested, for example, in Didyma and Delphi.

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hat.” 26 However, a more careful synoptic reading of those two paragraphs has in the meantime persuaded me that the comparative analysis could be brought even further and would shed new light on the ritual action as it actually took place: Haer. I, 13, 2 and I, 13, 3 appear to run parallel, if not specular, to each other with respect to themes and structure far beyond Förster’s first findings, such as to almost integrate and fill up one another’s omissions, blanks, and brief hints. I hope the following synopsis will immediately highlight my point: I, 13, 2, 1‑9 Ποτήριον οἴνῳ κεκραμένον προσποιούμενος εὐχαριστεῖν καὶ ἐπὶ πλέον  ἐκτείνων τὸν λόγον τῆς ἐπικλήσεως πορφύρεα καὶ ἐρυθρὰ ἀναφαίνεσθαι ποιεῖ, ὡς δοκεῖν τὴν ἀπὸ τῶν ὑπὲρ τὰ ὅλα Χάριν τὸ αἷμα τὸ ἑαυτῆς στάζειν ἐν τῷ ἐκείνου ποτηρίῳ διὰ τῆς ἐπικλήσεως αὐτοῦ καὶ ὑπεριμείρεσθαι τοὺς παρόντας ἐξ ἐκείνου γεύσασθαι τοῦ πόματος, ἵνα καὶ εἰς αὐτοὺς ἐπομβρήσῃ ἡ διὰ τοῦ μάγου τούτου κλῃζομένη Χάρις.

I, 13, 3, 24‑40 Εἰκὸς δὲ αὐτὸν καὶ δαίμονά τινα πάρεδρον ἔχειν, δι’ οὗ αὐτός τε προφητεύειν δοκεῖ καὶ ὅσας ἀξίας ἡγεῖται γενέσθαι μετόχους τῆς χάριτος αὐτοῦ προφητεύειν ποιεῖ. Μάλιστα γὰρ περὶ γυναῖκας ἀσχολεῖται καὶ τούτων τὰς εὐπαρύφους καὶ περιπορφύρους καὶ πλουσιωτάτας, ἃς πολλάκις ὑπάγεσθαι πειρώμενος, κολακεύων φησὶν αὐταῖς μεταδοῦναί σοι θέλω  τῆς ἐμῆς Χάριτος, ἐπειδὴ ὁ πατὴρ τῶν ὅλων τὸν ἄγγελόν σου διὰ παντὸς βλέπει πρὸ προσώπου αὐτοῦ. Ὁ δὲ τόπος τοῦ Μεγέθους ἐν ἡμῖν ἐστί· δεῖ ἡμᾶς εἰς τὸ ἓν καταστῆναι. Λάμβανε πρῶτον ἀπ’ ἐμοῦ καὶ δι’ ἐμοῦ τὴν Χάριν. εὐτρέπισον σεαυτὴν ὡς νύμφη ἐκδεχομένη τὸν νυμφίον ἑαυτῆς, ἵνα ἔσῃ ὃ ἐγὼ καὶ ἐγὼ ὃ σύ. Καθίδρυσον ἐν τῷ νυμφῶνί σου τὸ σπέρμα  τοῦ φωτός. Λάβε παρ’ ἐμοῦ τὸν νυμφίον καὶ χώρησον αὐτὸν καὶ χωρήθητι ἐν αὐτῷ. Ἰδού, ἡ Χάρις κατῆλθεν ἐπὶ σέ· ἄνοιξον τὸ στόμα σου καὶ προφήτευσον.

In 13, 2, 1‑9 we hear of an invocation to Charis and in 13, 3, 30‑40 we do find one. Both are pronounced in order to bestow Charis (cf.  ἵνα καὶ εἰς αὐτοὺς ἐπομβρήσῃ ἡ διὰ τοῦ μάγου τούτου κλῃζομένη Χάρις with ὅσας ἀξίας ἡγεῖται γενέσθαι μετόχους τῆς χάριτος αὐτοῦ, followed by a γάρ sentence introducing the formula). I  assume with Förster that the two epicleseis are actually one and the same speech act and that 13, 3, 24‑40 is the very text missing in 13, 2, 1‑9: Irenaeus transmits the supposed description of the action apart from the words of the invocation accompanying it, in order both to set the stage for a fake “Eucharist” (13, 2, 1‑19) and to mimic the exchange between the magician and his victim 26. N. Förster , ibidem, 64‑126, here 72. See also ibidem, 400‑401.

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(13, 3, 24‑44). 27 Action and words however originally belonged together as components of a single coherent phase of the rite. The use of the verb lambano and of the prepositions dia and apo in the text of the invocation seems indeed to presuppose some act of reaching and taking as well as the existence of something to be reached and taken respectively, which we could now quite safely identify as the mixed cup of wine and water mentioned in 13, 2, 1‑2. In 13, 2, 9 women appear next on stage as Marcus commands them to eucharistein: such a command evidently reflects and condenses the last two open injunctions addressed to a bystanding woman in 13, 3, 39‑40 (ἄνοιξον τὸ στόμα σου καὶ προφήτευσον) and later on reiterated in 13, 3, 43‑44. 28

27. Despite the objections raised by H. Schmid, Die Eucharistie ist Jesus. Anfänge einer Theorie des Sakraments im koptischen Philippusevangelium (NHC II 3) (Leiden-Boston, MA, 2007) 401‑405, I still find N. Förster , ibidem, 66‑69, 74‑75, persuasive in basically arguing that the Marcosian rite is not to simply equate with a Eucharistic meal, at least as Irenaeus or later “orthodox” authors understood it. See also J.-D. Dubois , “Gnose et manichéisme. I. Recherches sur le gnostique valentinien Marc le Mage. II. Le manichéens dans l’oasis de Kellis. III. Conférences d’introduction: figures gnostiques de Jésus,” Annuaire EPHE, Sciences Religieuses 115 (2006‑2007) 210. M.J. Joncas , “Eucharist Among the Marcosians: A Study of Irenaeus’ Adversus Haereses I, 13:2,” Questions Liturgiques 71 (1990) 104‑111, and H. Schmid, ibidem, 405, plead for assuming a special form of Eucharist being practiced by Marcus and his followers, the former even going so far as to suggest that Marcus and his followers are preserving an alternative, possibly older Eucharistic tradition (Joncas , ibidem, 105 and 109‑111; similarly also A. Faivre – C. Faivre , “La place des femmes dans le rituel eucharistique des Marcosiens: déviance ou archaisme?,” Revue des Sciences Religieuses 71/3 [1997] 326 and 328). It is not out of interest here to note that Schmid actually speaks of Marcus shaping his “Trankrituale” on the Eucharistic tradition of the majority Christians (ibidem, 405), and thus seems to perceive that no perfect correspondence is to be detected – or should be expected – between the two. 28. On eucharistia as “pneumatic” prayer and prophetic utterance, see 1 Cor 14:14‑18 and Did. 10, 7. Marcus and his followers probably attached such a meaning, if any, to the term (cf. the concluding remarks by Joncas , ibidem, 110‑111, and Faivre – Faivre , ibidem, 323‑325), but Irenaeus quite naturally interpreted it in the light of his own use, world-view and the practice which was by then asserting itself among Jesus’ followers of his front. However, his composite formulation in Haer. I, 13, 4 ἐγκελεύεσθαι τὸ προφητεύειν, at the same time echoing and mixing εὐχαριστεῖν ἐγκελεύεται (I, 13, 2) and προφητεύειν ποιεῖ (I, 13, 3), still probably betrays the original use of εὐχαριστέω as a synonym with προφητεύω. Following P. L ampe , “Das Korinthische Herrenmahl im Schnittpunkt hellenis-tisch-römischer Mahlpraxis und paulinischer Theologia Crucis (1Kor 1, 17‑34),” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 82 (1991) 186‑191, H. Schmid, ibidem, 403‑404 n.  108, rightly stresses the analogies between Marcus’ ritual and the χαρίσματα manifesting themselves during meals in Corinth.

LOTS, CUPS, AND ECSTASY

I, 13, 2, 9‑19 πάλιν δὲ γυναιξὶν ἐπιδοὺς ἐκπόματα κεκραμένα αὐτὰς εὐχαριστεῖν ἐγκελεύεται παρεστῶτος αὐτοῦ. καὶ τούτου γενομένου, αὐτὸς ἄλλο ποτήριον πολλῷ μεῖζον ἐκείνου, οὗ ἡ ἐξηπατημένη ηὐχαρίστησε, προσενεγκὼν καὶ μετακενώσας ἀπὸ τοῦ μικροτέρου τοῦ ὑπὸ τῆς γυναικὸς ηὐχαριστημένου εἰς τὸ ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ κεκομισμένον ἐπιλέγων ἅμα οὕτως ἡ πρὸ τῶν ὅλων, ἡ ἀνεννόητος καὶ ἄρρητος Χάρις πληρώσαι σου τὸν ἔσω ἄνθρωπον καὶ πληθύναι ἐν σοὶ τὴν γνῶσιν αὐτῆς, ἐγκατασπείρουσα τὸν κόκκον τοῦ σινάπεως εἰς τὴν ἀγαθὴν γῆν.

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I, 13, 3, 40‑44 τῆς δὲ γυναικὸς ἀποκρινομένης οὐ προεφήτευσα πώποτε καὶ οὐκ οἶδα προφητεύειν, ἐπικλήσεις τινὰς ποιούμενος ἐκ δευτέρου εἰς κατάπληξιν τῆς ἀπατωμένης φησὶν αὐτῇ ἄνοιξον τὸ στόμα σου καὶ λάλησον ὅ τι δήποτε καὶ προφητεύσεις.

Πάλιν in 13, 2, 9 has its immediate counterpart in ἐκ δευτέρου in 13, 3, 42 (cfr. the use of πάλιν in Josephus, B.J. III, 89, and Tatian, Or. 2, 2), both alluding to and introducing a second phase in the ritual. Conversely the brief allusion to some more invocations – I assume, to Charis once again as it was before – is this time fully exploited by the quotation of the very words of a second epiclesis to Charis following ἐπιλέγων in 13, 2, 15. The description in 13, 3 is then most probably to be regarded as expanding on this second part of the liturgy, revolving around the women’s invocation, after the color is transformed and cups are placed in their hands. Given its unmistakable character of artful reduplication for mockery’s sake, the anecdotal dialogue related in 13, 3, 41‑44 has obviously very few chances to be historical. 29 I, 13, 2, 19‑23 καὶ τοιαῦτά τινα εἰπὼν καὶ ἐξοιστρήσας τὴν ταλαίπωρον θαυματοποιὸς ἀνεφάνη, τοῦ μεγάλου πληρωθέντος ἐκ τοῦ μικροῦ ποτηρίου, ὥστε καὶ ὑπερεκχεῖσθαι ἐξ αὐτοῦ.

I, 13, 3, 44‑54 ἡ δὲ χαυνωθεῖσα καὶ κεπφωθεῖσα ὑπὸ τῶν προειρημένων, διαθερμανθεῖσα τὴν ψυχὴν ὑπὸ τῆς προσδοκίας τοῦ μέλλειν αὐτὴν προφητεύειν, τῆς καρδίας πλέον τοῦ δέοντος παλλούσης, ἀποτολμᾷ λαλεῖν ληρώδη καὶ τὰ τυχόντα, πάντα κενῶς καὶ τολμηρῶς, ἅτε ὑπὸ κενοῦ τεθερμαμμένη πνεύματος (καθὼς ὁ κρείσσων ἡμῶν ἔφη περὶ τῶν τοιούτων προφητῶν, ὅτι τολμηρὸν καὶ ἀναιδὲς ψυχὴ κενῷ ἀέρι θερμαινομένη) καὶ ἀπὸ τούτου λοιπὸν προφήτιδα ἑαυτὴν ὑπολαμβάνει καὶ εὐχαριστεῖ Μάρκῳ τῷ ἐπιδιδόντι τῆς ἰδίας χάριτος αὐτῇ.

29.  Faivre – Faivre , ibidem, 321‑323, have shown how radically discourses on true and false prophecy shape Irenaeus’ presentation of the exchange between Marcus and the woman as well as his explanation of the symptomatology of the following oistros.

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The oistros just hinted at in 13, 2, 19 as the actual climax of the ritual finds its full description in 13, 3 44‑49: moving beyond Irenaeus’ misrepresentations and comparing single words and motifs occurring in his report with other ancient literary sources, the description surfaces of symptoms topically associated with ἐξοιστρᾶν. 30 I suspect  and suggest  then that in 13, 3 44-49, Irenaeus is going into greater detail about the preceding ἐξοιστρήσας τὴν ταλαίπωρον. Some of the symptoms that Irenaeus hints at still show fading traces of biblical hypotexts (cf. for example Haer. I, 13, 3, 49-51 with Jer 20, 9 and 23, 9 [God’s words burning up, breaking and shaking the prophet’s heart and bones, as the latter speaks]), therefore, their very presence in his report cannot be ascribed to his polemical intentions and resulting massive redactional interventions; rather, they appear to have somehow survived the latter and made it to us. Such a surviving biblical “flavor” corroborates the hypothesis that Irenaeus might have been working on and deliberately distorting “confessions” of disciples of Marcus’ on Charis’ agency upon their own bodies as the divine source “intoxicating” them. 31 These few comparative remarks on Haer. I, 13, 2 and I, 13, 3 should have by now hopefully shown that the two paragraphs are probably best 30.  Frenzy: cf. Haer. I, 13, 2, 19 with Euripides, Bacch. 32‑33 (τοιγάρ νιν αὐτὰς ἐκ δόμων ὤιστρησ’ ἐγὼ/μανίαις, ὄρος δ’ οἰκοῦσι παράκοποι φρενῶν), 117‑119 (θηλυγενὴς ὄχλος/ἀφ’ ἱστῶν παρὰ κερκίδων τ’/οἰστρηθεὶς Διονύσωι); Or. Sib. 11, 324‑325 (οἶστρον ἀπωσάμενος καὶ ἐτήτυμον ἔνθεον ὀμφήν/καὶ μανίην φοβεράν); Philo, Ebr. 147 (φιλεῖ γὰρ τοῖς θεοφορήτοις οὐχ ἡ ψυχὴ μόνον ἐγείρεσθαι καὶ ὥσπερ ἐξοιστρᾶν); not knowing what is being said: cf.  Haer. I, 13, 3, 48‑49 with Or. Sib. 2, 4‑5 (οὐδὲ γὰρ οἶδα/ὅττι λέγω, κέλεται δὲ θεὸς τὰ ἕκαστ’ ἀγορεύειν); abnormal heart beat and breathing: cf. Haer. I, 13, 3, 44‑51, with Or. Sib. 3, 4 (ἀλλὰ τί μοι κραδίη πάλι πάλλεται) and Dio Chrysostomus, Reg. I, 56 (ἀσθμαίνουσα). On the connection between erotic and mantic enthysiasmos see already J. R eiling, “Marcus Gnosticus and the New Testament: Eucharist and Prophecy,” in T. Baarda – A.F.J. K lijn – W.C. van Unnik , ed., Miscellanea Neotestamentica I (Leiden, 1978) 177‑178. 31. Cf. also Philo, Ebr. 147, explaining the hot flush over the body experienced by θεοφόρητοι upon being filled with intoxicating Charis (146!). N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) 118‑121, speaks of hyperventilation and slight hypnosis. In 2013, he confirmed his previous conclusions, writing: “because of Irenaeus’ polemic, it is difficult to establish what exactly induced the prophetic words and utterances. However, one can assume, that the prophecy was induced by a self-induced state of over-breathing. […] The ‘feverish’ soul mentioned by Irenaeus may allude to the observation that intentionally increased breathing often causes sweating. The prophecy consisted of associations and spontaneous ideas induced by hyperventilation” (N. Förster , “Marcosian Rituals for Prophecy and Apolytrosis,” in A.D. DeConick – G. Shaw – J.D. Turner , ed., Practicing Gnosis. Ritual, Magic, Theurgy and Liturgy in Nag Hammadi, Manichaean and Other Ancient Literature. Essays in Honor of Birger A. Pearson [Leiden, 2013] 438).

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interpreted as literary doublets, which reflect and relate one and the same event from two different perspectives: the first paragraph describes the drinking ritual as a fake Eucharist, the second returns to it to expose its character and meaning of magical séance just mimicking true prophecy (cf. Haer. I, 13, 4, 74: μαντεύεσθαι), but actually involving a paredros demon as a means to practice divination, gain material income and obtain sexual favors (cf. Haer. I, 13, 3, 24‑30.54‑58 and 13, 5, with PGM I, 1‑3.43‑45.96‑105.327‑331, and IV, 2081‑2086). Having thus cleared up the textual basis for my reconstruction, I now finally turn to put all the scattered pieces back together. III. Towa r ds

r econs t ruct i ng a n a nci e n t r i t e :

g oa l s , act ions , a n d spe ech acts

In my view, as I attempted to demonstrate, a single coherent ritual action underlies Irenaeus’ polemical doubling. The rite was intended and performed to produce ecstasy, or, as Marcus’ followers themselves put it, to enable them to “drink up (καταπεπωκέναι) the knowledge of the unspeakable Power in all its greatness” (Irenaeus, Haer. I, 13, 6). The Greek verb used here, καταπίνω (“drink up, swallow up”), undoubtedly sounds like a reference to the drinking ritual; therefore, it seems to imply that those very mixed cups of wine and water being filled, reached and emptied out channeled such an exceeding acquaintance with the divine. 32 With regard to the actual performance and staging of the ritual, the lexical and structural analysis which I undertook in the second part of the article leaves space for the following hypothesis to be formulated: at the outset, Marcus would recite the invocation to Charis preserved in Haer. I, 13, 3 on a cup full of wine mixed with water, and then reach it to a follower of his standing next to him. He would utter the last words of the invocation after she had drunk: “See, now Charis has descended upon you: open your mouth and prophecy!”. The eucharistia of the disciple would follow, closing the first stage of the ritual as well as opening the second one. Marcus would now fill a bigger cup out of the smaller one, on which the follower had just “given thanks,” and pray Charis once again to increase, overflow and fill his disciple with knowledge. Not only do action 32.  As we have already seen before (nn. 19‑21 and 26‑27), N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) 72‑73 and 121, too maintains that the formulas reported in I, 13, 3 and the ritual described in I, 13, 2 are somehow interrelated, but speaks of two distinct “sacraments,” the transcoloration of wine supposedly being a unique initiation ritual, its multiplication instead a recursive practice.

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and verbal utterance occur simultaneously, they are also intrinsically bound to each other: Marcus verbally “creates” the overflowing as he performs the filling of the cup; conversely, performing the filling of the cup enacts on the human level the superhuman process that words describe and actualize as the hoped for aim of the ritual. In some sense, one is tempted to say, actions here work as “signifiers,” verbal utterances as “signified”: in the due course of the properly performed ritual, the overflowing wine, upon which the name Charis had been pronounced and Charis herself has therefore actually descended, turns into that very divine force invoked by Marcus and swallowed up by his followers. Hereby, assuming the form of mixed wine, Charis is believed and expected to overabundantly permeate the latter. I regard as possible but far from certain that the ritual closed with a second, last drink, after the filling of the bigger cup was completed: at least that is what “Hippolytus” expressly reports (Ref. VI, 40, 4). The performative aspect of verbal utterances is pivotal to the staging and “success” of the rite as a whole, 33 investing metaphors and echoes of Jesus’ words  3 4 as well as material substances, in this case wine and water, as we have seen. More specifically, elaborating metaphors and reciting Jesus’ words were surely meant to transfer new properties and ritual power into the liquids and activate them. For their part, the two liquids got absorbed and assimilated into the body of whoever drank them, thereby physically imbuing her with Charis and knowledge. 35 Marcus seems to have shared 33. Developed by J.L. Austin, Come fare cose con le parole (Genova-Milano, 20057 [orig.: How to Do Things with Words (Oxford-New York, NY, 1962, 19752)]), and applied to ritual analysis by S.J. Tambiah, Rituali e cultura (Bologna, 1995) [orig.: Culture, Thought, and Social Action. An Anthropological Perspective, Cambridge, MA, 1985]) 41‑191, the theory of performative verbal acts has already been usefully integrated as heuristic tool into the study of ancient “magic” (see F. Graf, La magia nel mondo antico (Roma-Bari, 1995 [orig.: La magie dans l ’antiquité gréco-romaine. Idéologie et pratique, Paris, 1994]) 15‑16 and 200‑207). N. Förster , ibidem, 72, 78‑79, 84, seems to depend too much on Frazerian concepts (e.g., sympathy and substitution) as well as on theological categories (e.g., sacrament), which in the end prevent him from understanding and explaining correctly the ritual process he is focusing on. See Graf, ibidem, 8‑19, 29‑34, 199‑203, 220‑221, for a consistent critique of still operating Frazerian views on ancient “magic.” 34.  Cf. the exorcisms using ὄνομα Ἰησοῦ μετὰ τῆς ἀπαγγελίας τῶν περὶ αὐτὸν ἱστοριῶν as documented by Origen, Cels. I, 6, correcting the supposed Christian use of δαιμόνων τινῶν ὀνόματα καὶ κατακλήσεις referred to by Celsus. G. Sfameni Gasparro, “Origene e la magia: teoria e prassi,” in L. P errone , ed., Origeniana Octava. Origen and the Alexandrian Tradition. Papers of the 8th International Origen Congress Pisa, 27‑31 August 2001 (Leuven, 2003) 733‑756, here 738‑741, offers an accurate commentary on the passage. 35. See S.J. Tambiah, Rituali e cultura (Bologna, 1995 [orig.: Culture, Thought, and Social Action. An Anthropological Perspective, Cambridge, MA, 1985]) 67‑86 and 104‑109 for terminology and examples. On verbal acts investing things to be swallowed with ritual power and ingestion as means of “incorporating” it into indi-

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himself cultural theories which accorded active, “creative” force to words, names, and verbal acts (cf. Pliny the Older, Nat. Hist. XXVII, 131; Apuleius, Ap. 34; Origen, Cels. I, 6.24): 36 carefully read between the lines, the beginning of his theogony (Irenaeus, Haer. I, 14, 1) clearly presuppose the concept that the very acts of opening the mouth, and then articulating and emitting sounds de facto coincide with coming into being (γίγνομαι), and giving form to (μορφόω) and “pro-ducing” (προίημι), that is, bringing to light, something. 37 Last but not least, I return to the two questions which I left unanswered earlier. As far as I can see from Irenaeus’ notice, the drinking ritual was routinely repeated during Marcus’ and his followers’ deipna, εἰώθασιν […] ἀλλήλοις ἐγκελεύεσθαι τὸ προφητεύειν in Haer. I, 13, 4 (cf. εὐχαριστεῖν ἐγκελεύεται in 13, 2 and προφητεύειν ποιεῖ in 13,3!), which clearly matches with the πολλάκις in “Hippolytus”, Ref. VI, 39, 2: former drinkers would undergo it at every new meal they were participating in and from time to time they would take the role of the ritual specialist leading the rite (I, 13, 4: εἰ οὖν Μάρκος μὲν κελεύει ἢ ἄλλος τις). 38 Against such a new social role can and must the transformative potential of the rite itself be measured and evaluated: every follower turns into a vessel of the Charis, endowed with power and authority to take the lead, reenact the ritual and transmit Charis to others – just what Irenaeus represents as (false) prophetic consciousness contagiously propagating among Marcus’ followers from one individual to another (Haer. I, 13, 3‑4).

viduals as well as on digestion as a “practical” way to knowledge, cf. D. Tripaldi , Gesù di Nazareth nell ’Apocalisse di Giovanni. Spirito, profezia e memoria (Brescia, 2010) 79‑89, with further literature. 36. More material and discussion in F. Graf, La magia nel mondo antico (Roma-Bari, 1995 [orig.: La magie dans l ’antiquité gréco-romaine. Idéologie et pratique (Paris, 1994)]) 200‑207. 37.  As N. Förster , Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (Tübingen, 1999) 181‑192, correctly notes. 38.  On the “prophetic exercises” practiced in Marcus’ community as “a regular activity during meetings,” see E. Thomassen, “Going to Church with the Valentinians,” in A.D. DeConick – G. Shaw – J.D. Turner , ed., Practicing Gnosis. Ritual, Magic, Theurgy and Liturgy in Nag Hammadi, Manichaean and Other Ancient Literature. Essays in Honor of Birger A. Pearson (Leiden, 2013) 183-197, here 189-190.

MONTANISM AND ECSTASY: T HE C ASE OF T HEODOTUS’ DEATH (EUS. HE V,16,14‑15) Maria Dell’Isola I. Th e

cons t ruct ion of

M on ta n i sm

in

t h e h e r e siologica l l i t e r at u r e

In the context of her reflection on the theological effects produced by a heresiological speech animated by a constant and implicit dialogue between the trend towards doctrinal unity and the consequent rhetorical creation of diversity, Karen King explores, in a paper contained in the volume Heresy and Identity, 1 the case of Montanism as an example of a schism, not simply described but actually produced, by a controversy rhetorically constructed by heresiology. 2 Accused of practicing false ecstasy because it was contrary to that of the biblical prophetic tradition, the followers of Montanus, in fact, gradually drew on themselves first the accusation of and then the condemnation for heresy. Yet Epiphanius of Salamis – who presented Montanism as a typical example of heresy – clearly stated that the three Phrygian prophets 3 were not guilty of any doctrinal deviation because they accepted all the Scriptures, both Jewish and Christian.4 1.  K.L. K ing , “Social and Theological Effects of Heresiological Discourse,” in E. I ricinschi – H.M. Zellentin,  ed., Heresy and Identity in Late Antiquity (Tübingen, 2008) 28‑49. 2.  Ibidem, 34‑35: “Another type of case would be Montanism. […] Yet it is hard to say why long fasts, eschewing second marriage, or specifying the exact length of women’s veils would be so problematic as to lead to charges of heresy and exclusion. Moreover, Tabbernee has argued that ‘the attitudes of the Montanists to martyrdom did not differ substantially from those of their orthodox opponents,’ so why was their ‘enthusiasm’ so roundly condemned? Some scholars have suggested that the primary problem may have concerned authority, given that Montanists gave great authority to prophets and allowed women’s leadership, as funerary inscriptions from Phrygia have confirmed. It would, nonetheless, seem that over the years, the rhetorical condemnation of Montanism was extremely effective; Montanists apparently did become increasingly separate from other forms of Christianity. In this case, the rhetorical charge of heresy did not merely describe schism but may have actually produced it.” 3.  Montanus, Prisca and Maximilla, traditionally considered by the heresiological sources as the three founding prophets of the movement in its first stage of birth Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 377–394 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111712 ©

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Their error, which is at the basis of the schism, should instead be identified with the dimension of practices, those ecstatic in this case, and therefore in the context of the definition and theological evaluation to which these practices are subjected in the construction of a tradition whose authority coincides with the acquisition of the status of “truth”: everything that belongs to the biblical tradition is “true,” while whatever, or whoever takes distance from it, inevitably becomes the representation of what is “false.” 5 The establishment of a tradition in fact takes place when the action of a group results in the process of identification, definition and setting up, through detailed standards of authenticity, of a “truth” that describes and regulates its identity, and only after the acquisition of a consensus on the content that identifies tradition, the latter is given the character of “rule” that the idea of authority, together with that of tradition, possesses. In the case of ecstatic practices, and on this occasion with reference to the exclusion of Montanism from the church, true ecstasy, turning to the words of Epiphanius, is characterized by a balance of reason, as in the case of biblical prophets, 6 while παρέκστασις, that is, that “false ecstasy” traditionally attributed to Montanist prophets, is identified with an excess of enthusiasm which results in a loss of control of their own rational faculties. 7 and expansion in Phrygia, Asia Minor, in the second half of the second century. See Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,7-9 and Epiphanius, Pan. 48,1,3. 4. Epiphanius, Pan. 48,1,3-4: “These Phrygians too, as we call them, accept every scripture of the Old and the New Testaments and affirm the resurrection of the dead as well. […] They agree with the holy catholic church about the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, but have separated themselves by ‘giving heed to seducing spirits and doctrines of devils’ and saying ‘We must receive the gifts of grace as well’” (Transl. by F. Williams). 5. Epiphanius, Pan. 48,1,4-7: “[...] but have separated themselves by ‘giving heed to seducing spirits and doctrines of devils’ and saying ‘We must receive the gifts of grace as well.’ God’s holy church also receives the gifts of grace – but the real gifts, which have already been tried in God’s holy church through the Holy Spirit, and by prophets and apostles, and the Lord himself. […] The Phrygians are truly not ‘of ’ the saints themselves. They ‘went out’ by their contentiousness and ‘gave heed’ to spirits of error and fictitious stories.” 6.  See Epiphanius, Pan. 48,3,4: “A prophet always spoke with composure and understanding, and delivered his oracles by the Holy Spirit’s inspiration […]”; Pan. 48,3,6: “Can’t you see that this is the speech of a sober person who is not out of his senses, and that the oracle was not delivered as the speech of a mind distraught? […]”. 7.  See Epiphanius, Pan. 48,3,11-4,3: “[…] Their words are ambiguous and odd, with nothing right about them. Montanus, for instance, says ‘Lo, the man is a lyre, and I fly over him as a pick. The man sleepeth while I watch. Lo, it is the Lord that distracteth the hearts of men and that giveth the heart to man.’ Now what rational person who receives the ‘profitable’ message with understanding and cares for his salvation, can fail to despise a false religion like this, and the speech of someone who boasts of being a prophet but cannot talk like a prophet? For the Holy Spirit

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Yet, that kind of ecstasy which the second-century source used by Epiphanius for the reconstruction of the Phrygian prophetic phenomenon presents almost as a form of “madness,” becomes for Tertullian the fundamental premise of the ecstatic experience. 8 A true exegetical debate was developed around the interpretation of the term ἔκστασις. Such debate is widely reported in Epiphanius’ Panarion 48 and it constitutes an evidence of the difficulty that characterizes the reconstruction of a historicalreligious phenomenon whose description does not appear univocal, but is instead configured as the result of different positions assumed simultaneously by different individuals or groups. The difficulty of reconstruction increases when one of the two items consists of a work belonging to the heresiological genre, 9 therefore aimed – by its own nature – at the condemnation of a group whose positions, both in theological and doctrinal terms, and also in what regards practices, are considered deviant compared to a standard that has instead been invested with authority. In this sense, as recently stressed by Mauro Pesce, 10 heresy cannot be a historiographical concept (“il concetto di eresia e di eretico non è un concetto storiografico, ma uno strumento confessionale di condanna elaborato da un gruppo, da un’autorità o da un autore nei confronti never spoke in him. Such expressions as ‘I fly,’ and ‘strike,’ and ‘watch,’ and ‘The Lord distracteth men’s hearts’ are the utterances of an ecstatic. They are not the words of a rational man, but of someone of a different stamp from the Holy Spirit who spoke in the Prophets.” 8. About this see H.E. M ader , Montanistische Orakel und kirchliche Opposition. Der frühe Streit zwischen den phrygischen “neuen Propheten” und dem Autor der vorepiphanischen Quelle als biblische Wirkungsgeschichte des 2. Jh. n.Chr. (Göttingen, 2012); L. Nasrallah, An Ecstasy of Folly: Prophecy and Authority in Early Christianity (Cambridge, MA, 2003); D.E. Groh, “Utterance and Exegesis: Biblical Interpretation in the Montanist Crisis,” in D.E. Groh – R. Jewett,  ed., The Living Text, Essays in Honor of Ernest W. Saunders (New York-London, 1985) 73‑95. 9.  In this case Epiphanius, or rather the second century source used by him: see the attempts to identify the source in L. Nasrallah, An Ecstasy of Folly: Prophecy and Authority in Early Christianity (Cambridge, MA, 2003) 167‑171, and a more deep discussion about that in H.E. M ader , Montanistische Orakel und kirchliche Opposition. Der frühe Streit zwischen den phrygischen “neuen Propheten” und dem Autor der vorepiphanischen Quelle als biblische Wirkungsgeschichte des 2. Jh. n.Chr. (Göttingen, 2012) 20‑36. The “inner voice” of the movement would be instead that of Tertullian in Adversus Marcionem and in De Anima: see D.E. Groh, “Utterance and Exegesis: Biblical Interpretation in the Montanist Crisis”, in D.E. Groh – R. Jewett,  ed., The Living Text, Essays in Honor of Ernest W. Saunders (New York-London, 1985) 82‑83, and L. Nasrallah, An Ecstasy of Folly: Prophecy and Authority in Early Christianity (Cambridge, MA, 2003) 129‑154 for a detailed list of passages of both the abovementioned works by Tertullian that seem to contain an exegesis of ἔκστασις contrary to that contained in Epiphanius Pan. 48. 10.  M. Pesce , “La relazione tra il concetto di eresia e la storia del cristianesimo,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 31/1 (2014) 151‑168.

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di altri gruppi o persone” 11) and therefore the need – already widely perceived and illustrated by Le Boulluec 12 – to abandon the concept of heresy in order to heed only the notion of “heresiological representation” appears increasingly natural: the use of the category of “heretic” implies the adoption of a value judgment inevitably tied to the very idea of “heresy” which, by its own nature, finds its significance in an antithetic scheme where it is contrasted with the opposite idea of orthodoxy. If instead one should decide to speak of “heresiological representation,” as Le Boulluec writes, the term “heresy” is immediately placed in the horizon of contingent constructions, so as to identify and seize the historical circumstances that led to the appearance of the concept, hence determining its relative nature. 13 The heretic exists, in short, only in the perspective of someone who has every incentive to portray him as such, and consequently employs discursive techniques in order to include him within a described category, that is, a category possessing, by default, fixed characteristics. The negativity of opponents is produced by their caricaturesque deformation which acts at the level of text’s creation, through linguistic mechanisms and rhetorical choices serving a pre-defined interpretative scheme aimed at discrediting enemies by attributing to them the elements of falsehood and error. Thus, the whole refutation of Montanism, whose main sources consist of treatises dating from the end of the second century contained in book V of Eusebius of Caesarea’s Historia ecclesiastica and in chapter 48 of Epiphanius of Salamis’ Panarion, rotates exclusively around the presentation of Montanus who appears as inflamed by the spirit [of evil], who was possessed by a false ecstasy and began to speak in a very strange way, making prophecies completely opposite to those usually handed down by tradition of the Church from the beginning. 14 The accusation is built entirely 11.  Ibidem, 151. 12.  A. L e Boulluec , La notion d ’hérésie dans la littérature grecque IIe–IIIe siècles (Paris, 1985). 13.  Ibidem, 19: “En choisissant de parler de ‘représentations hérésiologiques,’ nous essayons de sortir du cercle des jugements de valeur impliqués par le terme ‘hérésie’ et de l’abstraction de l’antithèse entre ‘hétérodoxie’ et ‘orthodoxie.’ À reprendre ces concepts, on risque de ne pouvoir se défaire des condamnations et des louanges qu’ils portent et de rester prisonnier des artifices de l’hérésiologie. L’un des succès de celle-ci est précisément d’avoir donné à l’hérésie les apparences d’une notion générale et intemporelle et la force d’une appellation dont le seul énoncé suffit à produire la réprobation et l’exclusion. Si l’on s’en tient à l’étude des ‘représentations hérésiologiques,’ on situe d’emblée l’hérésie du côté des constructions contingents et l’on est mieux en état de saisir les circonstances historiques de l’apparition du concept et son être tout relatif.” 14.  See Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,7. See also what the Anonymous adds in Hist. eccl. V,16,8: “Of those who at that time heard these bastard utterances some were vexed, thinking that he was possessed by a devil and by a spirit of error, and was disturbing the populace; they rebuked him, and forbade him to speak, remembering

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around the semantic sphere of deception, and if one bears in mind that such a refutation appears remarkably close to that proposed, for example, by Irenaeus for the valentinian teacher Marcus, 15 that is, for a person belonging to a different Christian group in what regards both doctrine and practices, then it will be evident that the typical tendency of all the heresiological literature is that of reducing opponents to simple deceiving evil spirits. Therefore, in order to go beyond the boundaries imposed by a rhetorical construction of heresy and grasp the specific historical object that underlies it, it will be necessary to compare and contrast the various representations that different literary sources offer of the same religious phenomenon which is at the centre of the heresiological accusation. In this manner, by comparing this phenomenon to other similar practices traceable in the background of other Christian traditions – which express themselves in the correspondent literary texts – it will be possible to attempt a reconfiguration and a historical relocation of the religious phenomenon in question in the landscape of primitive Christianity.

the distinction made by the Lord, and his warning to keep watchful guard against the coming of the false prophets; but others, as though elevated by a holy spirit and a prophetic gift, and not a little conceited, forgot the Lord’s distinction, and encouraged the mind-injuring and seducing and people-misleading spirit, being cheated and deceived by it so that he could not be kept silent” (Transl. by K irsopp L ake). About this see E. Norelli, “Parole di profeti, parole sui profeti. La costruzione del montanismo nei frammenti dell’Anonimo antimontanista (Eusebio di Cesarea, Storia ecclesiastica 5,16-17),” in G. Filoramo,  ed., Carisma profetico. Fattore di innovazione religiosa (Brescia, 2003) 107‑130, in which Norelli, focusing exclusively on the Anonymous’ testimony, aims to “[…] analizzare il modo in cui un determinato scritto costruisce il fenomeno e ne valuta il rapporto con la profezia. Si tratta dunque di concentrare l’attenzione su di uno scritto separatamente dagli altri, cercando di cogliere la sua logica interna e di studiarlo non come documento di una attualità che sta al di là di esso e che si tratta di ricostruire usando quale mezzo dati che si ritiene di poter estrapolare dal testo stesso, bensì di considerare quest’ultimo in sé, in quanto luogo di elaborazione di dati dell’esperienza e di costruzione di un senso” (p. 108). 15. Irenaeus, Haer. I,13,1-7. Even the presentation of Marcus the magician is entirely constructed within the same semantic sphere of deception and prophetic falsehood. See for example, Haer. I, 13,1: “But there is another among these heretics, Marcus by name, who boasts himself as having improved upon his master. He is a perfect adept in magical impostures, and by this means drawing away a great number of men, and not a few women, he has induced them to join themselves to him, as to one who is possessed of the greatest knowledge and perfection, and who has received the highest power from the invisible and ineffable regions above. Thus it appears as if he really were the precursor of Antichrist. For, joining the buffooneries of Anaxilaus to the craftiness of the magi, as they are called, he is regarded by his senseless and cracked-brain followers as working miracles by these means” (Transl. by A. Roberts).

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This paper will focus on the analysis of the episode of Theodotus’ death narrated in Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,14-15: here Eusebius reports the speech of an anonymous author of an anti-Montanist treatise which provides crucial information on the origin and development of Montanism in Asia Minor in the second half of the second century. After having portrayed the figures of the three founding prophets and having briefly described their doctrine, insisting on the issue of the erroneous exercise of prophetic charisma, the anonymous author refers to a certain Theodotus, who is said to be the first administrator of the movement, and whose spectacular death, which took place during an ecstatic practice, is narrated. After the analysis – both linguistically and in what regards its contents – of the Eusebian episode of Theodotus’ ecstasy and death, a comparison will be made with an analogous episode found in the Acts of Peter, which features the main character of Simon the magician, who is said to have died when falling down to earth after having raised to heaven to show Roman people that his faith was stronger than that of Peter. In this way, the caricaturesque deformity that characterizes the heresiological representation of Theodotus will be made evident, by associating his figure to that of Simon the magician, the heretic par excellence. In the following stage, I will analyse other reports of heavenly journeys contained in two works that have become canonical (2 Corinthians and John’s Revelation) and in the Ascension of Isaiah, in an attempt to identify in these texts a number of elements – both of a linguistic nature and belonging to the historical and literary context – that could constitute links to the ecstatic experience described by the Anonymous. The last analysis will consist of comparing and contrasting the traditional description of the ecstatic phenomena contained in three works produced by Christian communities of the first centuries and the representation of the same phenomenon in the heresiological literature, with the aim of identifying those elements of “caricaturesque deformity” that are used to depict the figure of the heretic, in the horizon of the traditional discredit of the opponent operated by Christian polemicists. II. Th eodot us

and

S i mon

t h e m agici a n :

bet w e e n m agica l fl igh t a n d h e av e n ly jou r n ey

As I have just announced, the religious experience that will be taken into consideration here is that of ecstasy, widely practiced by the three prophets who founded the montanist movement but with which also Theodotus was apparently acquainted. Eusebius’ Anonymous informs us about this character: […] So also general report says that a certain Theodotus, that remarkable man, the first steward as it were of their alleged prophecy, was sometimes

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taken up and raised to Heaven, when he fell into a trance and trusted himself to the spirit of deceit, but was hurled down and died miserably. They say, at least, that this happened thus. But not having seen them ourselves we do not claim to have any knowledge of such things, my friend, for perhaps Montanus 16 and Theodotus and the above mentioned woman died in this way, but perhaps they did not. 17

Beyond the uncertainty about the correct version of the reported events, 18 what draws attention the most in this episode is the description of Theodotus’ ecstatic practice. While in fact the presentation of his ecstasy seems to share the same elements of diabolical falsehood previously attributed to the ecstatic experience of Montanus, Prisca and Maximilla (in all these cases the prophetic inspiration appeared to be dictated by a “spirit of error” – as in the case of Montanus 19 and Theodotus 20 – or by a “corrupted spirit” in the case of Prisca and Maximilla 21) this time it manifests itself in a different way. Based on the informations about the Montanist circles provided by the heresiological tradition, only Theodotus’ ecstasy, among all the other forms of ecstatic experiences which are described, seems to have resulted in what could be interpreted as an ascension to heaven. Regarding Theodotus it is indeed said that the “spirit of error” in which he relied during the prophetic inspiration, after having lifted him from earth, raised him to heaven, and thus he “went into ecstasy.” At first sight it seems to be a form of heavenly journey, both because the religious experience belongs to the sphere of the ecstatic practices and because of its nature of “elevation” (physical in this case, but as the lexical choices are not explicit in that regard, we cannot exclude the possibility of a separation and elevation of the soul alone) to heaven.

16. Previously the Anonymous had referred to the death of Montanus and Maxi­milla: “It was a different death that Montanus and Maximilla said to have died; for the story goes that each of them was inspired by a mind-destroying spirit to commit suicide, though not together, and there was much gossip at the time of the death of each. But thus it was that they died, and destroyed their lives like the traitor Judas”, Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,13. 17.  […] καθάπερ καὶ τὸν θαυμαστὸν ἐκεῖνον τὸν πρῶτον τῆς κατ᾽ αὐτοὺς λεγομένης προφητείας οἷον ἐπίτροπόν τινα Θεόδοτον πολὺς αἱρεῖ λόγος ὡς αἰρόμενόν ποτε καὶ ἀναλαμβανόμενον εἰς οὐρανοὺς παρεκστῆναί τε καὶ καταπιστεῦσαι ἑαυτὸν τῷ τῆς ἀπάτης πνεύματι καὶ δισκευθέντα κακῶς τελευτῆσαι· φασὶ γοῦν τοῦτο οὕτως γεγονέναι […] (Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,14‑15). 18.  The main aim of this paper is that of analysing only the literary construction of Christian ecstasy as a religious phenomenon and its reutilisation in the sources in order to construct heretic’s figure. 19. Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,8:  […] ἐν πλάνης πνεύματι […]. 20. Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,14:  […] τῷ τῆς ἀπάτης πνεύματι […]. 21. Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,9:  […] τοῦ νόθου πνεύματος […].

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As a matter of fact, De Labriolle had already glimpsed, in the story of Theodotus’ death, a striking resemblance to the story of Simon the magician’s death narrated in the Acts of Peter. 22 Simon, eager to compete with Peter’s wonders and miracles in order to win over the esteem and confidence of the people of Rome, promised that he would “fly up to God” – to put it in his own words – to prove thereby that his faith in God, of whom he proclaimed himself the force, was true. 23 So, the day after his announcement, the crowd gathered “to see him flying”: And lo and behold, he was carried up into the air, and everyone saw him all over Rome, passing over its temples and its hills; while the faithful looked towards Peter. And Peter, seeing the incredible sight, cried out to the Lord Jesus Christ, ‘Let this man do what he undertook, and all who have believed on thee shall now be overthrown, and the signs and wonders which thou gavest them through me shall be disbelieved. Make haste, Lord, with thy grace, and let him fall down from this height and be crippled, but not die; but let him be disabled and break his leg in three places!’. And he fell down from that height and broke his leg in three places. Then they stoned him and went to their own homes; but from that time they all believed in Peter 24 .

The description above can be interpreted as a magical flight, and indeed the whole section of the apocryphal text under consideration here revolves around the semantic sphere of deception, seduction and magic; it is built around the contrast between true God and false god 25 and, consequently, between true and false inspiration, that is to say around that dichotomy that underlies the whole traditional refutation of the heretic, and therefore, also that of the Montanist prophet, as pointed out before. Getting back to the words of Le Boulluec, it is evident how the enemy is always presented as a magician, as the one who seduces and deceives with illusory skills and whose inspiration comes from an evil spirit that therefore determines the failure of any of his religious practices, from 22.  P. De L abriolle , La crise montaniste (Paris, 1913) 161‑162. 23.  Acts Pet. 31 (2),3: “But all the while Peter followed him and exposed him to the onlookers. And as he was now always out of favour and derided by the people of Rome and discredited, as not succeeding in what he promised to do, it came to such a point that he said to them, ‘Men of Rome, at present you think that Peter has mastered me, as having greater power, and you attend to him rather than me. But you are deceived. For tomorrow I shall leave you, who are utterly profane and impious, and fly up to God, whose power I am, although enfeebled. If then you have fallen, behold I am He that Standeth. And I am going up to my Father and shall say to him, “Even me, thy Son that Standeth, they desired to bring down; but I did not consent with them, and am returned to myself ’” (Transl. by R. McL. Wilson). 24.  Acts Pet. 32 (3),1‑2. 25.  It is sufficient to think about the definition of Simon as an “angel of the devil” that closes the section of Acts of Peter dedicated to him (Acts Pet. 32 [3],4).

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ecstasy to prophecy: 26 this is the case of Irenaeus’ Marcus the magician, of Simon of the Acts of Peter and of the Montanist Theodotus. In the same fashion, Marcus’ prophetesses utter disjointed and incomprehensible sounds during the process of prophetic inspiration 27 just as the two prophetesses of Montanus 28 do, and Theodotus’ ascension to heaven is depicted like a simple prodigy, an illusion, a magic trick exactly like that of Simon. Yet the words used by the Anonymous to describe Theodotus’ ecstatic practices seem to contain no allusion to any kind of flight that could be defined magic, 29 but would rather evoke a more traditional type of ecstatic experience, that of the heavenly journey. 26. See A. L e Boulluec , La notion d ’hérésie dans la littérature grecque IIe‑IIIe siècles (Paris, 1985) 115: “[…] Ces invectives présentent l’adversaire comme ‘rompu aux artifices de l’astrologie et de la magie.’ Manifestement, l’appellation de Marc, ‘le mage,’ reprise par Irénée (I,13,1) et passée dans la tradition, vient de l’‘Ancien.’ Elle s’adapte parfaitement à une répresentation qui fait entrer les hérétiques dans la lignée de Simon ‘le mage’ et qui est déjà illustrée par Justin. Pour le ‘héraut de la vérité’ dont Irénée se réclame, l’insulte est un moyen, comme chez Justin aussi, d’entraîner l’hérétique du côté des démons et de Satan. […] Le plus important, dans la conception de l’‘Ancien,’ c’est l’origine et la nature démoniaques de l’hérésie. Ce trait est prouvé par l’assimilation de l’‘erreur’ aux pratiques païennes. Que l’activité des esprits mauvais s’exerce à travers le culte des dieux et l’idolâtrie, c’est une idée répandue chez les Apologètes chrétiens du II siècle.” 27. Irenaeus, Haer. I,13,3: “It appears probable enough that this man possesses a demon as his familiar spirit, by means of whom he seems able to prophesy, and also enables as many as he counts worthy to be partakers of his Charis themselves to prophesy. He devotes himself especially to women, and those such as are well-bred, and elegantly attired, and of great wealth, whom he frequently seeks to draw after him, by addressing them in such seductive words as these: ‘I am eager to make thee a partaker of my Charis, since the Father of all doth continually behold thy angel before His face. Now the place of thy angel is among us: it behoves us to become one. Receive first from me and by me [the gift of] Chaffs. […] Behold Charis has descended upon thee; open thy mouth and prophesy.’ On the woman replying, ‘I have never at any time prophesied, nor do I know how to prophesy’; then engaging, for the second time, in certain invocations, so as to astound his deluded victim, he says to her: ‘Open thy mouth, speak whatsoever occurs to thee, and thou shalt prophesy.’ She then, vainly puffed up and elated by these words, and greatly excited in soul by the expectation that it is herself who is to prophesy, her heart beating violently [from emotion], reaches the requisite pitch of audacity, and idly as well as impudently utters some nonsense as it happens to occur to her, such as might be expected from one heated by an empty spirit.” 28.  See Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,9: “But by some art, or rather by such an evil scheme of artifice, the devil wrought destruction for the disobedient, and receiving unworthy honours from them stimulated and inflamed their understanding which was already dead to the true faith; so that he raised up two more women and filled them with the bastard spirit so that they spoke madly and improperly and strangely, like Montanus.” 29.  Regarding the episode of Simon the magician in Acts of Peter, we can properly refer to a magical flight, because the description of the experience of being lifted up to heaven does not contain any explicit element that can lead to think of a

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While it is never said that the flight of Simon the magician was some form of ecstatic rapture, because indeed the technical term “ecstasy” is never even used, in the case of Theodotus the exact contrary happens, because it is the same polemicist, the narrator of facts, who presents and describes the lifting of the prophet from earth to heaven as an expression of a religious experience of ecstatic nature. The technical term ἔκστασις (“ecstasy”) is present inside the correspondent verb in the text, 30 and even if the preposition παρά is attached to indicate, in view of the discrediting of the opponent, a kind of ecstasy “which is next” to that which is deemed true, 31 it still remains the recognition of the ecstatic nature of the religious experience in question, especially when the text refers to the reliance on πνεῦμα 32 (“spirit”), thus contributing to outline a traditional prophetic-ecstatic-inspired scene. And even if πνεῦμα acting in this context appears as a spirit of ἀπάτη, that is, a spirit of deception, we know that this clarification is – like that of παρέκστασις – also an integral part in the logic of the charge of prophetic falsehood traditionally attributed to heretics, which in any case does not deny the ecstatic nature of Theodotus’ religious experience. Ultimately, even when deemed false, the ecstasy exists. The two verbs used to describe the effects of a trance, αἴρω 33 and ἀναλαμβάνω,  3 4 evoke the rapture from outside (in the case of αἴρω) and the subsequent lifting (in the case of ἀναλαμβάνω) that are typical conditions of the religious experience of heavenly journey. Moreover, if we consider that ἀναλαμβανόμενον is followed by εἰς οὐρανούς to indicate a rise toward heavens, then this ecstasy will be further contextualized in the category of the ascension to heaven.

form of ascension to heaven corresponding to the traditional heavenly journey. The ascension of Simon the magician is presented rather like a prodigy, as the expression of the will of showing off his own supernatural powers. 30. Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,14:  […] παρεκστῆναι. 31.  The same preposition παρὰ, in conjunction with ἔκστασις, was previously used by the Anonymous, in reference to Montanus’ ecstatic episodes. See Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,7:  […] ἔνθα φασί τινα τῶν νεοπίστων πρώτως, Μοντανὸν τοὔνομα, κατὰ Γρᾶτον Ἀσίας ἀνθύπατον, ἐν ἐπιθυμίᾳ ψυχῆς ἀμέτρῳ φιλοπρωτείας δόντα πάροδον εἰς ἑαυτὸν τῷ ἀντικειμένῳ πνευματοφορηθῆναί τε καὶ αἰφνιδίως ἐν κατοχῇ τινι καὶ παρεκστάσει γενόμενον ἐνθουσιᾶν ἄρξασθαί τε λαλεῖν καὶ ξενοφωνεῖν, παρὰ τὸ κατὰ παράδοσιν καὶ κατὰ διαδοχὴν ἄνωθεν τῆς ἐκκλησίας ἔθος δῆθεν προφητεύοντα. 32. Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V,16,14: […] καὶ καταπιστεῦσαι ἑαυτὸν τῷ τῆς ἀπάτης πνεύματι […]. 33.  Ibidem:  […] ὡς αἰρόμενόν ποτε […]. 34.  Ibidem:  […] καὶ ἀναλαμβανόμενον εἰς οὐρανοὺς […].

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2 C or 12:1-4

In the light of a linguistic description of Theodotus’ ecstatic experience, one is immediately led to think about the narration of the heavenly journey offered by Paul in 2 Cor 12:1-4: It is necessary to boast; nothing is to be gained by it, but I will go on to visions and revelations of the Lord. I know a person in Christ who fourteen years ago was caught up to the third heaven – whether in the body or out of the body I do not know; God knows. And I know that such a person – whether in the body or out of the body I do not know; God knows – was caught up into Paradise and heard things that are not to be told, that no mortal is permitted to repeat. 35

Paul is clearly reporting an example of heavenly journey, a religious phenomenon 36 of ecstatic nature that is visually configured as an episode of ascension to heavenly places in order to acquire knowledge of hidden truths. The description offered by Paul of this religious practice is indeed very clear in this regard: it features, in fact, all the key elements of the detachment and consequent rapture, the ascension to otherworldly places and the revelation of words, and thus a kind of knowledge reserved only to a person able to deal with such a religious experience. It is interesting to notice, however, how Paul uses, in the abovementioned passage, 37 verbs and expressions that draw, at least on a linguistic level, a picture very similar to the one about Theodotus outlined by the Anonymous. Paul, in fact, in order to indicate the act of rapture in ecstasy, uses the verb ἁρπάζω, that must be understood here, as Harris points out, as a “theological passive,” as if it was understood “by God,” thus indicating a physical and sudden rapture from outside. 38 The addition of the spatial specification “to the third heaven,” which evidently refers to the clarification – again of a spatial nature – contained in the description of 35.  Transl. NRSV. 36.  In this regard see A. Destro – M. Pesce , “The Heavenly Journey in Paul: Tradition of a Jewish Apocalyptic Literary Genre or Cultural Practice in a Hellenistic-Roman Context?” in T.G. Casey – J. Taylor ,  ed., Paul ’s Jewish Matrix (Roma, 2011) 167‑200. See this article also for an updated bibliography of the most important works on the heavenly journey in Paul. 37.  Καυχᾶσθαι δεῖ· οὐ συμφέρον μέν, ἐλεύσομαι δὲ εἰς ὀπτασίας καὶ ἀποκαλύψεις κυρίου. Oἶδα ἄνθρωπον ἐν Χριστῷ πρὸ ἐτῶν δεκατεσσάρων —εἴτε ἐν σώματι οὐκ οἶδα, εἴτε ἐκτὸς τοῦ σώματος οὐκ οἶδα, ὁ θεὸς οἶδεν— ἁρπαγέντα τὸν τοιοῦτον ἕως τρίτου οὐρανοῦ. Kαὶ οἶδα τὸν τοιοῦτον ἄνθρωπον —εἴτε ἐν σώματι εἴτε χωρὶς τοῦ σώματος οὐκ οἶδα, ὁ θεὸς οἶδεν— ὅτι ἡρπάγη εἰς τὸν παράδεισον καὶ ἤκουσεν ἄρρητα ῥήματα ἃ οὐκ ἐξὸν ἀνθρώπῳ λαλῆσαι. 38.  M.J. H arris , The Second Epistle to the Corinthians: a commentary on the Greek text (Grand Rapids, MI, 2005).

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Theodotus’ ecstasy, constitutes a further confirmation of the possibility of interpreting the religious experience of Theodotus as an example of heavenly journey. The act of rapture from above, expressed by the verb ἁρπάζω, although semantically does not possess the literal meaning of “elevation,” acquires it in its immediate connection with ἕως τρίτου οὐρανοῦ, to which corresponds then the analogous construction εἰς τὸν παράδεισον, that evokes the physical movement of the subject in ecstasy, more precisely a shift upwards, hence the mention of the third heaven and paradise as a place of destination. And in this sense, then, in light of the overall construction of the period, the meaning or rather the semantic weight of the verb indicating “rapture” would express the same idea of raising evoked by the other two verbs, αἴρω and ἀναλαμβάνω, used by the Anonymous to describe Theodotus’ lifting in the air. The expression εἰς οὐρανούς seems then to recall explicitly the Pauline ἕως τρίτου οὐρανοῦ, both in what regards the grammatical construction and the image that it intends to portray. IV. “A n d t h e r e i n h e av e n a door s tood ope n ”: J oh n ’s h e av e n ly jou r n ey i n R ev 4:1‑2 Another essential instance of a heavenly journey is described by John in chapter 4 of his Revelation: it is announced in the first two verses when the seer fell into an ecstasy, and followed then by an episode of ascension to heaven with ample symbolic visions. John writes: After this I looked, and there in heaven a door stood open! And the first voice, which I had heard speaking to me like a trumpet, said, ‘Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this.’ At once I was in the spirit […]. 39

Unlike the Pauline passage, in which the description of the ecstatic experience in the form of a heavenly journey is immediately confirmed by linguistic choices, in the case of Rev 4:1‑2 the scene evoked, at least according to these two verses, assumes blurred contours as part of an attempt to identify and reconstruct the religious practice that starts mainly from linguistic-lexical data. The ecstatic condition is clearly stressed by the typical expression ἐγενόμην ἐν πνεύματι, that by virtue of the presence of πνεῦμα, a technical term, immediately recalls a process of prophetic-ecstatic inspiration. 39.  Μετὰ ταῦτα εἶδον, καὶ ἰδοὺ θύρα ἠνεῳγμένη ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ, καὶ ἡ φωνὴ ἡ πρώτη ἣν ἤκουσα ὡς σάλπιγγος λαλούσης μετ᾽ ἐμοῦ λέγων, Ἀνάβα ὧδε, καὶ δείξω σοι ἃ δεῖ γενέσθαι μετὰ ταῦτα. Eὐθέως ἐγενόμην ἐν πνεύματι· […].

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The expression ἐγενόμην ἐν πνεύματι is then often understood as an evocation of a real state of trance or possession, and then translated, as does Aune in his commentary on the Revelation,  4 0 as “I fell into a prophetic trance,” or also, this time referring to Rev 21:10, 41 as “he carried me away in the Spirit” or “in a trance,” and the choice of this translation is based on the grounds that, according to Aune, John is having here what might be defined as vision trance or an ecstatic trance, with hallucinations and visions, and also what are called “out of body experiences.” In addition, the imperative of ἀναβαίνω, used to evoke the ascension of the seer, reinforces the idea of a rapture operated from outside, an idea indeed confirmed by the presence in the story of that φωνή (“voice”) which, recalling the prophet from above, contributes to the creation of a spatial dimension of distance and physical separation of the individual who experiences the practice of heavenly journey and which, as we have seen, is at the very basis of the description of the ascension to heaven. And once again there is between the two texts a clear connection created by the presence of verbs (ἀναβαίνω in Revelation and αἴρω and ἀναλαμβάνω in Theodotus’ episode) which belong to the same semantic area that provides the linguistic elements which contribute to the setting of a similar scenario. V. I sa i a h ’s

ec s ta s y i n

A sce nsion

of

I s a i ah 6

When speaking of ecstasy and heavenly journey one cannot forget a text such as the Ascension of Isaiah (=AI), in which the person who experiences the condition of ecstatic trance followed by an ascent to heaven is a prophet, therefore, a figure that inevitably constitutes a link with Montanism, a movement with a clear prophetic nature. 42 40.  D. Aune , World Biblical Commentary. Revelation 1‑5 (Dallas, 1997) 82‑83. 41.  […] καὶ ἀπήνεγκέν με ἐν πνεύματι […]. 42. See P.C. Bori, “L’estasi del profeta: ‘Ascensio Isaiae’ 6 e l’antico profetismo cristiano,” Cristianesimo nella storia 1 (1980) 367‑389, for an identification of contact elements between the Ascension of Isaiah and Montanism, and for the hypothesis that Ascen. Isa. 6 could be contextualized in a premontanist milieu (“[…] l’ipotesi che la redazione E, primaria rispetto a S(L²) secondo il nostro assunto, trovi il suo Sitz im Leben in ambiente asiatico premontanista,” p. 387). On the same issue see also E. Norelli, L’A scensione di Isaia. Studi su un apocrifo al crocevia dei cristianesimi (Bologna, 1994), especially p. 245‑246, in which Isaiah’s ecstasy is compared with that of the soror (probably Montanist) mentioned by Tertullian in De anima 9,4. While acknowledging that De anima 9,4 shows contact elements with Ascen. Isa. 6, that does not mean, according to Norelli, that AI 6 should be contextualized in a montanist or premontanist milieu (“De anima 9,4 presenta notevoli affinità con AI 6, ma ciò non significa comunque […] che quest’ultima rifletta un ambiente montanista o premontanista: la massa degli indizi orienta in altra direzione. Ma

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In AI 6 Isaiah in fact becomes the protagonist of a communitarian prophetic experience, in the sense that his ecstasy, resulting in a vision and a heavenly journey, takes place in the context of a liturgical action, 43 during which it is said that Isaiah, before receiving the vision, went into a trance: […] And the king summoned all the prophets, and all the people who were to be found there, and they came. And Micah, and the aged Ananias, and Joel, and Josab were sitting on his right. And when they all heard the voice of the Holy Spirit, they all worshiped on their knees, and they praised the God of righteousness, the Most High, the One who (dwells) in the upper world and who sits on high, the Holy One, the One who rests among the holy ones, and they ascribed glory to the One who had thus graciously given a door in an alien world, had graciously given it to a man. And while he was speaking with the Holy Spirit in the hearing of them all, he became silent, and his mind was taken up from him, and he did not see the men who were standing before him. His eyes indeed were open, but his mouth was silent, and the mind in his body was taken up from him. But his breath was (still) in him, for he was seeing a vision. And the angel who was sent to show him (the vision) was not of this firmament, nor was he from the angels of glory of this world, but he came from the seventh heaven. And the people who were standing by, apart from the circle of prophets, did [not] think that the holy Isaiah had been taken up.  4 4

The symptoms of the prophet’s trance are obvious. It is said that Isaiah “spoke with the Holy Spirit,” that is, in a prophetic inspiration, and that “his mind was taken up from him,” thus alluding to the loss of rational faculties during the process of prophetic inspiration, a loss of the state of consciousness further emphasized by the loss of the sense of sight and by a condition of physical immobility that led the people to believe that the prophet was dead. They are all obvious clues that traditionally identify entrambi i testi sembrano conservare un tipo antico di prassi profetico-estatica, con una particolare ecclesiologia connessa,” p. 247). In any case, beyond the hypotheses of a direct contact between Montanism and the Ascension of Isaiah, what matters here is the identification of similarities regarding the same ecstatic practices in different Christian groups, and in this sense the Ascension of Isaiah seems to offer important points of contact with both the Montanist ecstatic experience in general and the practice of Theodotus’ likely heavenly journey in particular. 43.  According to Norelli, the liturgical context is precisely the main point of contact between Montanist prophecy and Ascen. Isa. See E. Norelli, L’A scensione di Isaia. Studi su un apocrifo al crocevia dei cristianesimi (Bologna, 1994) 246: “Confrontando la prospettiva di Tertulliano con quella di AI 6, abbiamo: al centro: un visionario (AI: Isaia; Tert.: soror); intorno: un gruppo caratterizzato profeticamente (AI: i profeti [ed Ezechia]; Tert.: i montanisti); ancora più esternamente: un gruppo escluso dalla partecipazione più diretta al fenomeno carismatico e dall’ascolto del racconto (AI: i dignitari e il popolo; Tert.: la plebs).” 44. AI VI,7‑14. Transl. by M.A. K nibb.

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and describe the state of alteration of consciousness that a prophet experiences during the inspiration which determines ecstasy (it is in fact stated in the text that Isaiah was in a state of loss of consciousness because he was having a vision). If we think about Montanism, the prophetic movement that is the focus of this article, it will not be difficult to identify significant points of contact with the traditional description of Montanist ecstasy contained in the heresiological sources. The presence of the Spirit is in fact a constant in the Montanist oracles, 45 as it is also a constant the presentation of the Phrygian prophet’s ecstasy as a total loss of the balance of reason, as reported in Hist.eccl. V and Pan. 48, sources which have been discussed before, in the introduction to this paper. Bori himself had said that ecstasy described in AI 6 is very close to that loss of reason which seems to constitute the main feature of Montanist ecstasy (“l’estasi profetica descritta in AI 6, con la perdita della conoscenza, si può porre in parallelo con l’amentia di cui parla Tertulliano e a quell’ἄγνοια, quella perdita del λογισμός che viene rimproverata ai montanisti dai polemisti cristiani”  4 6), but he points out that in AI 6 there is not any connotation of furor and frenzy: “l’estasi profetica 47 presenta caratteristiche proprie, non c’è in AI furor, mania, convulsione, frenesia (che venivano rimproverati al primo montanismo; ma già recedono in Tertulliano)”. 48 It is also true that in AI 6 there is no negative connotation of ecstasy that can place it on the side of the wrong exercise of prophetic charisma, 49 as it happens instead to the figure of the Montanist prophet. However it is equally true that the available data on Montanism come 45. In two Montanist oracles contained in two different sources (Didymus, Trin. III, 41,1 and Dial. Mont. Orth. III, 1) there is a direct identification of the prophet with the Spirit, in the traditional form of legitimation of his own role of spokesman of the divine (“I am the Father, and the Son and the Paraclete”). See in this regard D.Aune , La profezia nel primo cristianesimo e il mondo mediterraneo antico (Brescia, 1996) 140. 46.  P.C. Bori, “L’estasi del profeta: ‘Ascensio Isaiae’ 6 e l’antico profetismo cristiano,” Cristianesimo nella storia 1 (1980) 367‑389, 386. About the interpretation of the symptoms of Isaiah’s trance, see also what Norelli says in his commentary on the text (p. 341), stating that the Ethiopian term used to indicate the intellect is a translation of διαλογισμός (“rende presumibilmente διαλογισμός che è rimasto in Leg. 2,1”) and that it would indicate “reason” (“la facoltà intellettiva, senza la quale Isaia resta un corpo ridotto alle funzioni vegetative”). 47.  This refers to AI 6. 48.  P.C. Bori, “L’estasi del profeta: ‘Ascensio Isaiae’ 6 e l’antico profetismo cristiano,” Cristianesimo nella storia 1 (1980) 367‑389, 386. 49.  It’s obvious that there is not any negative connotation in Ascen. Isa., because the ecstatic experiences narrated in the text were typical of the group which produced the text itself. It’s basically the same situation that occurs when the Montanist Tertullian defends Montanus’ ecstasy, so sharply criticized instead by Christian polemicists.

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exclusively (with the exception of Tertullian) from heresiological sources, and therefore, by virtue of their location within works by their nature ideologically oriented, they are inevitably “manipulated” in order to elicit those condemnation and exclusion traditionally reserved to the heretic. It is therefore true that Montanus’ ecstasy is always portrayed as “mania, convulsions, frenzy,” but it is equally true that Montanus is considered heretic, and therefore he must fall within those categories of falsehood and error in the exercise of charismas traditionally established by heresiological literature for the identification and classification of the heretic. Proof of this is – as already demonstrated in the introductory part of this work – the attribution of the same accusations to two characters, Montanus and Marcus the magician, each of them belonging to two completely different Christian groups.

VI. C onclusions […] Montanism exemplifies thus the strategies employed in the institutionalization of ‘charismatic movements.’ It furthermore demonstrates methodological approaches used to justify marginalization ex post and, conversely, highlights the difficulties involved in attempting to question the validity of that marginalization. Marginalization or disempowerment is never simply a binary process but a highly complex and consistently evolving task employing a ‘multiplicity of force relations,’ intent on relegating entire groups to the shadows cast by the dominant institution. 50

When Montanism was condemned and added to the traditional list of heresies, the charges pressed by the church in order to secure the condemnation were, at least in what regards primitive Montanism, those of practicing a false prophecy and a false ecstasy. Not even Epiphanius of Salamis was able to identify charges referred to forms of relevant doctrinal deviation: Montanists accepted all Scripture and were in agreement with the Catholic Church on the dogma of Trinity. However, they were guilty of a wrong exercise of charismas, the prophetic one in the first place. Their fault is not that of the normal admission of ecstatic practices within their circles – commonly accepted in the early Christian communities – but instead it consists in practising a type of ecstasy unlike that of the biblical tradition. A false ecstasy, ultimately, because it is characterized by the loss

50.  S. Elm, “Montanist Oracles”, in E. Schussler Fiorenza,  ed., Searching the Scriptures (New York, 1994), 131‑138, 131.

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of rational control, which was not a feature of the typical trance in the biblical tradition. This accusation of falsehood and error then begins to be constantly directed to the Montanist prophets, until it became almost a distinctive quality of the movement. Yet the recurrence of the same charge against other Christian groups, different from Montanism in terms of background and doctrine, shows how it had become a category commonly accepted by the heresiological tradition in order to classify the heretic in an absolute sense, beyond the individual’s membership to a specific group. This mechanism of creation of the heretic’s identity is evident in the consideration, within the various sources – heresiological and not – of a particular ecstatic phenomenon, that of heavenly journey, which may have been practiced also within Montanist circles. Behind the apparent representation of an ecstatic practice in the form of a magical flight (a connection granted by the analogies with the description of Simon the magician’s death contained in Acts of Peter), the story of Theodotus’ death (Eusebius, Hist.eccl. V, 16,14‑15), fallen to the ground after having being lifted up to the sky after a false ecstasy, could instead hide clues of presence of a heavenly journey’s experience also within Montanist circles. In fact, the textual comparison with other accounts of heavenly journeys contained in two works that then became canonical (2 Corinthians and John’s Revelation) and in the Ascension of Isaiah showed the presence of a technical language in common with that used by the Anonymous in the narration of Theodotus’ death: the use of verbs indicating ascension and belonging to the same lexical sphere, as well as the use of similar grammatical constructions and linguistically related key terms, helps to evoke and re-create a unique setting in which we can place the heavenly journey’s religious experience. However, the need to include the figure of the Montanist prophet in the category of “heresy,” forces the heresiologist to submit the depiction of the opponent to a process of “caricaturesque distortion” that ties him to the traditionally established image of the false prophet, with all the features of error and deception that it carries. Hence, therefore, the identification of the figure of Theodotus with that of the heretic par excellence, Simon the magician. Hence, therefore, the presentation of his ecstatic practice in the form of a magical flight, and the narration of his ridiculous death with the purpose of discrediting his character: Scholarly reconstructions of Montanism and its place within early Christianity are rooted in assumptions about the nature of early Christian history, about early Christianity as a monolithic phenomenon, and about Montanism’s role in early Christian history. Does Montanism provide spiritual renewal at a time when routinization is setting in? Does it represent a syn-

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thesis of Christianity with Dionysian or ‘barbarian’ traditions? Scholarship is now engaged in a serious reconsideration of assumptions about Montanism and about ‘heresy’ more broadly. Like other so-called heresies, Montanism is a category manufactured in order to define Christian normativity and thus to construct the boundaries of orthodox Christian identity. 51

51.  L. Nasrallah, An Ecstasy of Folly: Prophecy and Authority in Early Christianity (Cambridge, MA, 2003) 162.

ET DE CASEO QUOD MULGEBAT DEDIT MIHI QUASI BUCCELLAM . ON CHARISMATIC POWER, P ROPHETIC AUTHORITY AND R ITUAL P RACTICE IN P ERPETUA’S F IRST VISION Laura Carnevale In this paper I will examine a number of themes emerging from the first vision in the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis, which covers the topics of women’s charismatic power and prophetic authority. In particular, I will be concentrating on issues raised by Perpetua’s visionary account of ritually eating a mouthful of cheese: a detail that prompted some scholars, particularly in the early twentieth century, to recognize in the text an allusion to a group of Christians labeled by some heresiologists “Artotyrites.” I. Th e Tr a di t ion

of t h e

Te x t

The Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis (hereafter PPF) 1 is a very specific text that continues to evade all attempts at classification. It is quite unani1. The title focuses on the two female figures of the narrative; it was made definitive by the Vatican librarian Lucas Holstenius (Lucas van Holste: 1596‑1661), who discovered in the library of Montecassino the most important testimony of the manuscript tradition of this text: the eleventh century Codex Casinensis 204. The editio princeps was published in Roma in 1663, marking the start of the Passio’s long-term modern-day fortune. The text has come down to us in Latin through a total of nine manuscripts, most of which – and this applies to the Casinensis MS – have no title at all; in some cases the title has survived in a form different from the one chosen by Holstenius, e.g. mentioning all of the martyrs’ names. Henricus Valesius (Henri de Valois: 1603‑1676) published his edition in Paris in 1664, which included both the Passio and the Acta; a few years after that, the Bollandist edition was published (Acta Sanctorum, Martii I, 633‑638, Antverpiae, 1668), followed by that of Theodor Ruinart: T. Ruinart, Acta primorum martyrum sincera et selecta (Paris, 1689). A large number of editions was published in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, including: C.J.M.J. van Beek , Passio sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Nijmegen, 1936); H. Musurillo, The Acts of the Christian Martyrs (Oxford, 1972); A.A.R. Bastiaensen, Atti e passioni dei martiri (Milano, 1987) (text edited by A.A.R. Bastiaensen and translated by G. Chiarini). The number of editions, translations and articles on Perpetua is growing over the last twenty years, indicating a strong interest in the topic. The reference edition for this paper is J. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 395–412 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111713 ©

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mously considered to be a “choral performance” by three voices: a visionary account by the martyr, 2 a visionary account by Saturus, and a reworking by a general editor. The most recent generation of scholars, in particular, show an increasing interest in reappraising this text and its content in a new critical light, investigating how apparently consolidated positions have actually borne up. 3 Both a Latin and a Greek version of the PPF have survived to the present day. The Greek text appears to be more homogeneous than the Latin version on a linguistic and syntactic level. It both features numerous gaps, and contains other elements that are absent in the Latin text, most of them understandable as later annotations. For example, it is the Greek text that refers specifically to the town of Thuburbo Minus (present-day Tebourba), a Roman colony 45 km from Carthage, as the place where Perpetua was born and lived (see PPF II,1; also Acta I-II, I,1). It has been concluded that the original Latin text was composed prior to the Greek one, 4 even if the Greek version we know today is presumably representative of an earlier stage of text tradition. The Latin text should thus be considered as the initial one, due to stylistic and internal reasons. 5 A mat, Passion de Perpétue et de Félicité suivi des Actes. Introduction, texte critique, traduction, commentaire et index (Paris, 1996). 2. Christians in prison approaching martyrdom and writing a diary, letters, and visionary accounts have an authoritative antecedent in Paul of Tarsus. Further examples are the writings of Ignatius of Antioch and Polycarp of Smyrna. More generally, on the connection among visions and martyrdom within the Jewish and Christian traditions, see Jer 2:30 (“devoravit gladius vester prophetas vestros, quasi leo vastator”) or Acts 7:55‑58 (the vision and martyrdom of Stefan). This connection is a complex area to investigate and is particularly interesting from a comparative standpoint: by way of example see R. Berchman, ed., Mediators of the Divine. Horizons of Prophecy, Divination, Dreams and Theurgy in Mediterranean Antiquity (Atlanta, 1998); K. Waldner , “Visions, Prophecy, and Authority in the Passio Perpetuae,” in J.N. Bremmer – M. Formisano, ed., Perpetua’s Passions. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Oxford, 2012), 201‑219 (part. 204‑209). 3.  A good example of such reappraising is, among others, M. Formisano, “Perpetua’s Prisons: Notes on the Margins of Literature,” in J.N. Bremmer – M. Formisano, ed., Perpetua’s Passions. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Oxford, 2012) 331, 333, 335 et passim. 4.  J. Rendel Harris (1852‑1941) discovered the Greek translation in 1889 in a codex found in the library at the Holy Sepulchre Monastery in Jerusalem, which he subsequently published (J.R. H arris – S.K. Gifford, The Acts of the Martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicitas: the original Greek text [London, 1890]). See J. A mat, Passion de Perpétue et de Félicité suivi des Actes. Introduction, texte critique, traduction, commentaire et index (Paris, 1996) 51‑55 and the bibliography therein. 5. J. Bremmer (“Perpetua and Her Diary: Authenticity, Family and Visions”, in W. A meling, ed., Märtyrer und Märtyrerakten [Stuttgart, 2002] 77‑120) highlights that there would have been fewer stylistic discrepancies in the Latin text if it had been a direct translation from a Greek original. It is also to be mentioned

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The narrative stems from the event of the arrest and killing of six Christians at Carthage, five cathecumens (Saturninus, Secundulus, Revocatus, Felicitas and 22-year-old Perpetua) and a catechist (Saturus), 6 in the context of Septimius Severus’ “persecution.” 7 In all likelihood, the date when they were martyred was 7 March 203, 8 and the PPF must have begun to circulate a few years after the events took place. 9 The story has also been transmitted in the form of Acta. 10 Undoubtedly drafted after the Valerian persecution, these Acts are considered to be a that Pio Franchi de’ Cavalieri and Eric R. Dodds, followed by Louis Robert and Glenn W. Bowersock, put forward the hypothesis that Perpetua and Saturus wrote their diaries in Greek, and that the editor’s language was Latin: see P. Franchi de’ Cavalieri, ed., La Passio SS. Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Roma, 1896) 97; E.R. Dodds , Pagani e cristiani in un’epoca d ’angoscia, It. tr. (Florence, 1970) 51 (or. ed. Cambridge, 1965) 50; L. Robert, “Une vision de Perpétue martyre à Carthage en 203,” Comptes rendus de l ’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres (1989) 229‑276; G.W. Bowersock , Martyrdom and Roma (Cambridge, 1995). 6.  In the text, we are told that, although he was not present when the arrest took place, Saturus voluntarily turned himself in to the authorities to join the prisoners; we are also acquainted with the death of Secundulus before the martyrdom, during the transfer from the State prison to the military jail: see PPF IV,5. 7.  Both Eusebius of Caesarea and the Vita Severi inform about the persecution under Septimius Severus: in 202, during a trip to Palestine, he prohibited Jewish and Christian proselytism. See Eusebius, Historia Ecclesiastica VI,1,1 (ὡς δὲ καὶ Σευῆρος διωγμὸν κατὰ τῶν ἐκκλησιῶν ἐκίνει, λαμπρὰ μὲν τῶν ὑπὲρ εὐσεβείας ἀθλητῶν κατὰ πάντα τόπον ἀπετλεῖτο μαρτύρια GCS 9/1, 518); Scriptores Historiae Augustae (Vita Severi XVII,1: “Iudeos fieri sub gravi poena vetuit. Idem etiam de christianis sanxit” ed. Hohl 1927, 194). 8. In PPF VII,9 (see also Acta I-II,IX,1) it is specified that they were martyred during the games held to celebrate the anniversary of Geta (the son of Septimius Severus and Julia Domna). Most scholars link this reference to the appointment of Geta as Caesar, which occurred in 198. As these celebrations were held every five years, this makes 203 the most likely year: see V. Saxer , Afrique latine, in G. Philippart, Hagiographies 1 (Turnhout, 1994) 34. Other scholars share the opinion that the “anniversary” is in fact the birthday of Geta Caesar, born on the 7th of March 189: see T.D. Barnes , Early Christian Hagiography and Roman History (Tübingen, 2010) 67; T.J. H effernan, The Passion of Perpetua and Felicity (Oxford – New York, 2012) 68. 9.  This may be inferred from a quote in Tertullian’s De anima (a quote that in turn is crucial for the dating De anima itself): “Quomodo Perpetua, fortissima martyr, sub die passionis in revelatione Paradisi solos illic commartyres suos vidit” (De anima LV,4). Clearly, the Carthaginian author was very familiar with the story, even if he states that in her vision Perpetua contemplates her companions – a detail that the young woman does not mention within her visions, whereas it does appear in Saturus’ vision. This discrepancy is often quoted to contradict the traditional hypothesis that Tertullian was the redactor of the Passio since, if he had written it himself, he would not have suffered such a confusion: see T.D. Barnes , Early Christian Hagiography and Roman History (Tübingen, 2010) 69‑70. 10.  As noted earlier (footnote 1), the editio princeps of the Acta was published by Valesius in 1664, in addition to Holstenius’ version of the Passio. Hippolyte

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simplified version of the Passio: this could have been composed to suit a community in need of a story being not too complex, and also to produce an easier text for liturgical readings. The autobiographical element is significantly reduced in the Acta, which are focused instead on the legal proceedings. As such, the more complex aspects of the Passio are neutralized, and all that remains of the visionary efflorescence are two saccharine summaries of the first (Acta I-II, III,2‑7) and last visions (Acta I-II, VII,2). The text has survived in two recensions, one maior (Acta A or I) and one minor (Acta B or II). A large number of manuscripts are in circulation, no doubt as a result of their widespread use in liturgical contexts to mark the martyrs’ dies natalis; nor should we be surprised that the Acta, rather than the Passio, were at the origin of most mediaeval Perpetua-related traditions. 11 The widespread circulation of Perpetua’s story is further proven by the existence of iconographic sources. The most important of these is the scene portrayed centrally on the front panel of the sarcophagus of Bureba, which dates to the late fourth/early fifth century, and is conserved at the Archaeological Museum in Burgos (Spain). We can clearly make out a ladder bristling with blades, a snake lying beneath it and, to the sides, a female and a male figure: 12 this scene is perfectly understandable, as we shall see, in the light of one of Perpetua’s visions. II. Th e F i r s t V i siona ry A ccou n t The first visionary experience of Perpetua (PPF IV,3‑10) has an interesting origin. A few days after being baptized in prison with the group of Delehaye had this to say about the Acta: “L’auteur a puisé librement dans les vieux actes, leur a pris le cadre et quelques faits, et en a négligé beaucoup d’autres. Il se sert parfois des termes mêmes du modèle; mais le plus souvent il ne s’est soucié que de rendre le sens, approximativement. Son exemplaire était apparenté à celui qu’a suivi l’auteur de la version grecque”: H. Delehaye , Les Passions des Martyrs et les genres littéraires (Bruxelles, 1921) 68. Paul Monceux and Adolf von Harnack considered the Acta to be a “Catholic version” of the Passio, whose heterodoxy they took for granted: see P. Monceaux, Histoire littéraire de l ’Afrique chrétienne, V. I (Paris, 1901), 78‑82; A. von H arnack , Geschichte der altchristlichen Litteratur bis Eusebius, t. II, vol. 2 (Leipzig, 1904) 373. 11.  The Synod of Hippo (393) and Carthage (397) made the practice of liturgical readings of martyrs’ passions part of the annual celebrations dedicated to them. With regard to the mediaeval traditions be it only sufficient to mention the Legenda Aurea by Jacobus de Varagine (CLXXIII: De sancto Saturnino, Perpetua, Felicitate et aliis sociis). 12. See F. Schlunk , “Zu den Frühchristlichen Sarkophagen aus der Bureba (prov. Burgos),” Madrider Mitteilungen 6 (1965) 139‑166.

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prisoners, her frater begs her to “ask for” a vision, 13 which comes to her that very night. It is not easy to ascertain who the frater actually is: he has been identified as Saturus himself, or as one of the cathecumens, implying that the term – and also the term domina soror used later – reveals a relationship of spiritual fraternity rather than kinship. Nevertheless, I would not rule out the hypothesis that he was one of Perpetua’s blood-related brothers (a third sibling, Dinocrates, died when still a child), explicitly indicated to be a cathecumen in PPF II,2 (“habens patrem et matrem et fratres duos, alterum aeque catechumenum, et filium infantem ad ubera”). In this case, the frater would be the same person to whom, according to an interpretation of the text, Perpetua addresses another exhortation in PPF XX,10 (“Exinde accersitum fratrem suum, et illum catechumenum, adlocuta est dicens: ‘In fide state et invicem omnes diligite, et passionibus nostris ne scandalizemini’”). 14 It should also be noted that in the martyr’s account, the frater points out that the dignatio she has achieved allows her to seek the vision. At first sight, this would seem to be an acknowledgement of Perpetua’s superiority, ascribable to her charismatic power. From another perspective, however, the suggestion made by the frater (regardless of whether or not he is a blood relation of Perpetua’s) may imply the fact that a male figure is needed to act as an intermediary and guarantor of the authenticity and validity of the female seer’s prophetic authority. 15 13.  “Tunc dixit mihi frater meus: ‘Domina soror, iam in magna dignatione es, tanta ut postules visionem et ostendatur tibi an passio sit an commeatus’” (PPF IV, 1). 14.  This is only one of the many ambiguities in the Passio, which the Greek version doesn’t help to clarify. Translators are split on the issue as well: Amat, Formisano and Heffernan, preceded by Musurillo, ascribe a copulative function to the conjunction et, implying that Perpetua is calling both her brother and a certain catechumen (see H. Musurillo, The Acts of the Christian Martyrs [Oxford, 1972] 129; J. A mat, Passion de Perpétue et de Félicité suivi des Actes. Introduction, texte critique, traduction, commentaire et index [Paris, 1996] 175; M. Formisano, ed., La Passione di Perpetua e Felicita [Milano, 2008; digital edition 2013] 126; T.J. H effernan, The Passion of Perpetua and Felicity [Oxford – New York, 2012] 351). Personally, I subscribe to the reading of those who highlight the value of et as an intensifier particle (et = etiam), stressing precisely the fact that Perpetua’s frater was a catechumen: thus, for instance, G. Chiarini, “Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis,” in A.A.R. Bastiaensen (ed.), Atti e passioni dei martiri (Milano, 1987) 145, and J. Farrell – C. Williams , “The Passion of Saints Perpetua and Felicity,” in J.N. Bremmer – M. Formisano, Perpetua’s Passions. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Oxford – New York, 2012) 23. See also E. P rinzivalli, “Perpetua, la martire,” in A. Fraschetti, ed., Roma al femminile (Bari, 1994) 159. It is not necessary to think that this brother was involved in the sweep that led to the imprisonment of the small group of cathecumens, as it would have been possible for him to have avoided it and then to visit his sister in prison. 15.  Taking the lead from Pierre Bourdieu, this would constitute a transfer to the religious sphere of a template of social dominion operating within the family sphere. For an approach to PPF developed in a dialogue with Pierre Bourdieu’s work

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Throughout the account of the vision the verb tenses shift between present and past, reflecting the path to consciousness in the narrative schema, from the immersion in the visionary experience to its recollection and communication, and from orality to the written text. What we have here is a particularly dyscrasic articulation of the complex interconnections between the content and communication/narration typical for visionary accounts. 16 Perpetua recounts that she sees a bronze ladder “that touches the sky,” 17 bristling with weapons and sharp instruments, at the foot of which lies a big dragon/snake (draco ... mirae magnitudinis: IV,4). Using the draco’s head as a step, preceded and exhorted by her catechist Saturus, she manages to ascend to the top of the ladder. She then recounts of having seen a large garden-space (spatium immensum horti) populated by many thousands of people dressed in white (candidati). At the centre of the garden she sees a white-headed man in habitu pastoris who is busy milking ewes. He welcomes her warmly and offers her a mouthful “from the cheese” he was milking (IV,9). The martyr takes the mouthful joining her hands and, with the voiced stimulus of a chorus of “amen” rising around her, declares that she “awoke” to a sensation of chewing on some sweet thing. 18 (together with Roberto Alciati), see Emiliano Rubens Urciuoli’s essay: E.R. Urciuoli, “‘Che non abbia a vergognarmi di fronte alla gente’. Campo religioso e campo familiare nella Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis,” in E.R. Urciuoli – R. A lciati, ed., P. Bourdieu, Il campo religioso. Con due esercizi (Torino, 2012) 133‑182. Urciuoli frames Perpetua’s actions in the “social arena” at the intersection of two conflicting spheres: the religious sphere – sub-divided into the pagan and Christian ones – and the family sphere. 16.  The interplay of orality and writing in all of its manifestations is currently at the core of early Christian studies, giving rise to a dense bibliography. By way of example, see the works quoted by L. A rcari, Visioni del figlio dell ’uomo nel Libro delle Parabole e nell ’Apocalisse (Brescia, 2012) 11‑13; and L. A rcari, “Escatologia, letteratura apocalittica e messianismi nel giudaismo del secondo Tempio e nel cristianesimo delle origini. In margine a un recente volume,” Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 78 (2012) 224‑248. 17.  “Video scalam aeream mirae magnitudinis, pertingentem usque ad caelum, et angustam, per quam nonnisi singuli ascendere possent, et in lateribus scalae omne genus ferramentorum infixum. Erant ibi gladii, lanceae, hami, machaerae, verruta, ut si quis neglegenter aut non sursum adtendens ascenderet, laniaretur et carnes eius inhaererent ferramentis” (PPF IV,3). 18.  “Et ad sonum vocis experta sum, commanducans adhuc dulce nescio quid” (PPF IV,10). Within the framework of a psychoanalytic interpretation of the Passio, a comparison has been made with the famous incipit of Proust’s saga A la Recherche du Temps Perdu (Du côté de chez Swann), in which the taste of a petite madeleine dipped into tea triggers the main character’s involuntary memory associated with the flavour: see M. Bal , “Perpetual Contest,” in J.N. Bremmer – M. Formisano, Perpetua’s Passions. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Oxford – New York, 2012) 141. Historically, it should be pointed out that during the liturgical celebrations in early Christian communities it was common to chant

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The narrative closes in on itself with a reference to the beginning: Perpetua reports what she saw in the vision to her frater and, together, they realize that the group of prisoners is going to be martyred. The fact that the vision is interpreted with the help from the frater is mirrored grammatically in a shift from first person singular to first person plural, 19 tangibly highlighting how the individual’s visionary charisma is destined to become a common asset of the collectivity. 20 This fact may also be interpreted as further evidence that female charismatic power and prophetic authority required male and/or community mediation in order to be effectively decoded. This singular visionary account is without a doubt fed by the universe of biblical symbology, which extends far beyond the texts recognized as canonical. 21 It nevertheless responds to stratified input from the pagan world, in which Perpetua lived for at least twenty years, in which she received her education 22 and which exercised considerable influence on the construction of the young woman’s visionary prophetism. 23 We recognize “amen” at the end of individual rites and/or readings: see L. Deiss , Springtime of the Liturgy. Liturgical Texts of the First Four Centuries (Collegeville, MN, 1979) 17‑19, 29, 291; E. Ronsse , “Rhetoric of Martyrs: Listening to Saints Perpetua and Felicitas,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 14/3 (2006) 295. 19. “Et retuli statim fratri meo, et intelleximus passionem esse futuram, et coepimus nullam iam spem in saeculo habere” (PPF IV,10). 20.  Enrico Norelli emphasizes that prophetic charisma has been considered an ecclesial phenomenon from the origins of Christianity. This was not an element exclusive to Montanists, even if it was particularly important to them. For example, this is clear from the Pauline epistles (1 Cor 14), in the Didaché (X, 7), and in Tertullian, De anima IX,4: see E. Norelli, “Presenza e persistenza dei ruoli carismatici. Il caso delle assemblee sul montanismo nel II secolo,” Ricerche Storico Bibliche 2 (2013) 191‑195. On the topic of Montanism and ectasy, see also M. Dell’ I sola in this book. 21.  By way of example, and by no means exhaustive, note: Genesis 2:8‑9; 3:1; 28:10‑12; Daniel 7:1‑3.9.13‑14; Apocalypse of John 1:14; 4:4; 6:11; 7:9‑14; Apocalypse of Peter 8; 9; 15; 17 (Greek version); Shepherd of Hermas 2,2 and passim. 22.  The catechumenate lasted between one and three years; advanced instruction in the African sphere where Perpetua lived – and she was liberaliter instituta (PPF II,1) – was based on pagan cultural codes: see E. Ronsse , “Rhetoric of Martyrs: Listening to Saints Perpetua and Felicitas,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 14/3 (2006) 295. 23.  It is widely recognized that in late Antiquity pagans and Christians inhabited the same symbolic and cultural universe, in an osmosis perceivable at all levels (textual, monumental, iconographic and ideological). For more on this, see among others F.J. Dölger , Gladiatorenblut und Märtyrerblut. Eine Szene der Passio Perpetuae in kultur- und religionsgeschichtlicher Beleuchtung, in Vorträge der Bibliothek Warburg (Leipzig – Berlin, 1926) 196‑214; F.J. Dölger , “Antike Parallelen zum leidenden Dinokraten in der Passio Perpetuae,” Antike und Christentum 2 (1930) 2‑40; P. Dronke , Donne e cultura nel medioevo: scrittrici medievali dal II al XIV secolo (Milano, 1986), 7; M.-L. von Franz , Passio Perpetuae. Das Schicksal einer

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here interconnected cultural references that were, above all, intimately metabolized by the seer in new, personal representations in an ongoing visionary efflorescence, and which have actually been examined from every possible perspective (historic, literary, phenomenological, social and psychoanalytic). 24 In other words, the message interacts strongly with the dynamic cultural context in which it is displayed. Borrowing once more from Pierre Bourdieu, we could say that the message acts at the intersection between the fields in which it is expressed. This contributes to imbue it with the syncretistic and “disruptive” character it has always been acknowledged to have. With specific reference to the biblical humus that feeds into Perpetua’s visions, it should be noted that in Christian antiquity the Old and New Testament stories were not necessarily known through a direct reading of the Biblical texts – the consistency of which, moreover, it is not easy to assess in third-century Roman Africa. Stories from the Bible were heard, absorbed and reworked through the channels of catechesis, preaching and iconography. Hence, oral transmission, with all the inevitable variations in the texts that it entailed, played a vital role in their reception and circulation. 25 III. Th e “ bucce l l a”

of

C h e e se

Bearing in mind what we have seen thus far, we shall now analyse in more depth the section of the account in which, referring to her vision, Perpetua says she received a mouthful of cheese from the hands of a whitehaired shepherd. Below is the text in all four versions (the Latin Passio, the Greek Passio, Acta I and Acta II): Et vidi spatium immensum horti et in medio sedentem hominem canum in habitu pastoris, grandem, oves mulgentem; et circumstantes candidati milia Frau zwischen zwei Gottesbildern (Zurich, 19822) (1st edition in C.G. Jung, Aïon. Untersuchungen zur Symbolgeschichte [Zurich, 1951]; I read the text in the French translation, which will be quoted in this paper: M.-L. von Franz , La passion de Sainte Perpétue. Un destin de femme entre deux images de dieu [Paris, 1991]). Furthermore, see the essays written by C. Carletti and P. De Santis in this book and their bibliography. 24. For an overview of how the text has been interpreted, I recommend Marco Formisano’s summary in the introduction to his 2008 Italian translation (M. Formisano, ed., La Passione di Perpetua e Felicita [Milano, 2008]; digital edition 2013) and, more recently, the interdisciplinary approach proposed by J.N. Bremmer – M. Formisano, Perpetua’s Passions. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Oxford – New York, 2012). 25.  On the role played by catechesis and sermons in biblical exegesis and, consequently, on how theological consciousness and Christian identities were structured, see by way of example M. Simonetti, “Esegesi biblica e storia del cristianesimo antico,” Vetera Christianorum 41/1 (2004) 9‑11, 14.

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multa. Et levavit caput et aspexit me et dixit mihi: ‘Bene venisti, tegnon.’ Et clamavit me et de caseo quod mulgebat dedit mihi quasi buccellam; et ego accepi iunctis manibus et manducavi; et universi circumstantes dixerunt ‘Amen’ (PPF IV, 8‑10). Καὶ εἶδον ἐκεῖ κῆπον μέγιστον, καὶ ἐν μέσῳ τοῦ κήπου ἄνθρωπον πολιὸν καθεζόμενον, ποιμένος σχῆμα ἔχοντα, ὑπερμεγέθη, ὃς ἤμελγεν τὰ πρόβατα˙ περιειστήκεισαν δὲ αὐτῷ πολλαὶ χιλιάδες λευχειμονούντων. Ἐπάρας δὲ τὴν κεφαλὴν ἐθεάσατό με καὶ εἶπεν˙ Καλῶς ἐλήλυθας, τέκνον. Καὶ ἐκάλεσέν με καὶ ἐκ τοῦ τυροῦ οὗ ἤμελγεν, ἔδωκέν μοι ὡσεὶ ψωμίον˙ καὶ ἔλαβο ζεύξασα τάς χεῖράς μου καὶ ἔφαγον˙ καὶ εἶπαν πάντες οἱ παρεστῶτες˙ Ἀμήν. Acta I, III, 6‑7 Vidi etiam iuxta scalam hortum ingentem, copiosissimum et amoenum, et in medio horto sedentem senem in habitu pastorali et mulgentem oves, et in gyro eius stantem multitudinem candidatorum; et aspiciens ad nos vocavit ad se et dedit omnibus de fructu lactis. Et cum gustassemus, turba candidatorum responderunt: ‘Amen.’ Acta II, III, 6‑7 Iuxta scalam quoque hortum cernit, mira amoenitate conpositum; in eius medio sedentem quendam habitu pastorali, in cuius gyro erant agmina candidata. Qui vocavit nos et dedit nobis de fructibus gregis. Et cum gustassemus, exultans candidatorum turba respondit: ‘Amen.’

The vision is narrated differently in the Passio and the Acta. In the former, the seer is presented as the lead actor, the sole recipient of a sacred repast offered by an elderly male figure in pastoral garb, and given in a communitary context in plain view of a host of candidati. The Greek version essentially appears to overlap with the Latin text. In the Acta’s two recensions, accordingly with the simplified layout of the text and with the substantial reduction of autobiographical elements, the martyr’s subjective view seems to have been downplayed. Although only in the Acta II is the story actually narrated in the third person singular (whereas a first person narrative is retained in the Acta I), Perpetua is in any event moved out of the limelight, and the vision shows the entire group of candidati in the process of receiving a generic fructus lactis / fructus gregis. Evidently, the shepherd image refers to a widely acknowledged category of symbols in the scriptural sphere (canonical and extra-canonical), as well as in the exegetical and iconographic spheres of ancient Christianity. 26 26. Among the various Biblical reminiscences, I recall here Psalm 22; Isaiah 63:11; Daniel 7:3; Matthew 18:12; Luke 5:4; John 10:11; Hebrews 13:20; noteworthy are also the Shepherd of Hermas, passim, and Clem. Alex., Paed. I,VI,37,3.

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Parallels with the figure of the “good shepherd” interpreted in a Christological sense, 27 that are recurrent in both Roman and African protoChristian iconography, are insufficient to fully explain the meaning of the vision. The iconographic attributes of the “good shepherd” are his youth and the fact that he carries a sheep on his shoulders, or is represented with outstretched arms (expansis manibus). 28 All of these features actually derive from an iconographical pattern widespread in the pagan world. 29 On the contrary, the description put forward by Perpetua is original and subjective, clearly imbued with a series of different stimuli that make it difficult to identify the white-haired man with the “good shepherd” of the paleoChristian iconographic repertoire and, generally speaking, with a Christological figure. From a psychoanalytical viewpoint, through the shepherd Perpetua may have expressed an unconscious allusion to her father, though idealized (the complex oppositional role of the pagan father against his Christian daughter in the PPF is well-known). From this perspective, it is not by chance that the shepherd greets the young woman (and, metaphorically, her life and martyrdom choices) with the Greek word teknon, used in the Latin text as well. 30 The acme of the account is the representation of a sequence of gestures configured as a ritual practice. 31 In both versions of the PPF, Perpetua 27.  The Christological interpretation of the shepherd in this vision, associated with the image known as the “good shepherd” in paleo-christian iconography, is proposed among others by Eugenio Corsini: E. Corsini, “Per una lettura della ‘Passio Perpetuae’,” in Forma Futuri. Studi in onore del Cardinale Michele Pellegrino (Torino, 1975) 505. 28. On this topic see, for example, G. Otranto, “Note sul Buon pastore e l’Orante nell’arte cristiana antica (II-III secolo),” Vetera Christianorum 26 (1989) 69‑87 and the bibliography therein. 29. The idyllic and pastoral world has always constituted an inexhaustible source for humanity’s symbolic universe. On the archetypical function of the figure of shepherd – psychopomp, paredros, saviour, ποιμάνδρες of Homerian memory or Hermes κριοφόρος in classical scultpure – see M.-L. von Franz , La passion de Sainte Perpétue. Un destin de femme entre deux images de dieu (Paris, 1991) 48. On the polysemy of bucolic/pastoral symbology in the classical world and its transformation, see F. Bisconti, “Un fenomeno di continuità iconografica: Orfeo citaredo, Davide salmista, Cristo pastore, Adamo e gli animali,” Augustinianum 28 (1988) 429‑436. 30.  See J.E. Salisbury, Perpetua’s passion. The Death and Memory of a Young Roman Woman (New York – London, 1997), 103; A. Carfora, La Passione di Perpetua e Felicita. Donne e martirio nel cristianesimo delle origini (Palermo, 2007) 132, and the bibliography therein. The term teknon takes on a strong affective nuance in the light of the late Antique African “diglossia” whereby, particularly in a familiar context, the Greek language continued to be used among educated people (J. A mat, Passion de Perpétue et de Félicité suivi des Actes. Introduction, texte critique, traduction, commentaire et index [Paris, 1996] 55‑56). 31.  It may be worthwhile remembering that, when placed under the historical microscope, rites are unattainable per se; they can only be reconstructed via the

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describes herself in the act of receiving a mouthful “from the cheese” that the shepherd was milking. Given that cheese is never directly produced through the act of milking, there is an evident incongruity in the literal meaning of the scene. The most immediate way to clear up the incongruity has often been its suppression, by adopting an interpretation of the text in which Perpetua is in fact drinking a sip of milk. 32 This is the approach taken in Acta I and II and, by way of example, this is also the interpretations advanced by Augustine and Quodvultdeus, 33 based in part on the consideration that the topic of mother’s milk plays an important role in the PPF (from Perpetua’s concern about suckling her newborn son to the description of Felicity’s oozing breasts in the arena, after giving birth). Not only is milk a natural and “innocent” foodstuff par excellence, but, because of its nourishing function, it highlights infants’ dependency on their parent and the need to progress along a pathway of growth.  3 4 It also delicate channel of comparativistic studies and/or by reading the texts and images that describe them. On this topic see L. Canetti, “Sogno e terapia nel Medioevo latino,” in A. Paravicini Bagliani, ed., Terapie e guarigioni. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di storia della medicina nel Medioevo, Ariano Irpino, 5‑7 October 2008 (Florence, 2010) 45. 32.  Musurillo translates “a mouthful of the milk he was drawing” (H. Musurillo, The Acts of the Christian Martyrs [Oxford, 1972] 111, 113). See also M. M eslin, “Vases sacrés et boissons d’eternité dans les visions des martyrs africains,” in J. Fontaine – Ch. K anneningesser ,  ed., Epektasis. Mélanges patristiques offerts au Cardinal Jean Daniélou (Paris, 1972) 149. Eugenio Corsini also favours this explanation, referencing the Thesaurus Linguae Latinae II,2227 when he says: “infatti l’ambiguità non riguarda soltanto ‘caseum’, ma anche il termine ‘buccella’, che normalmente vuol dire ‘morso, boccone’ ma può, raramente, significare anche ‘sorso, boccata’ e, quindi, addirittura ‘goccia’” (E. Corsini, “Per una lettura della ‘Passio Perpetuae’,” in Forma Futuri. Studi in onore del Cardinale Michele Pellegrino [Torino, 1975] 498). 33. Aug. sermo 394: “Accepit Perpetua a dulci pastore lac novum, antequam fuderet sanguinem pretiosum” (NBA XXVI, 678); Quodv., sermo de tempore barbarico V,3: “Felicitas parturiebat, Perpetua lactabat. Sed tamdiu haec Perpetua lactavit, quamdiu acciperet ab illo pastore simul et patre buccellam lactis” (CCL 60, 430‑431). 34.  See 1 Cor 3:1 (“Et ego, fratres, non potui vobis loqui quasi spiritualibus, sed quasi carnalibus. Tamquam parvulis in Christo, lac vobis potum dedi, non escam”); 1Pt 2:2 (“sicut modo geniti infantes rationale sine dolo lac concupiscite ut in eo crescatis in salute”); Heb 5:13 (“omnis enim qui lactis est particeps expers est sermonis iustitiae; parvulus enim est”); The Odes of Solomon 19 (“A cup of milk was offered to me,/ and I drank it in the sweetness of the Lord kindness. / The Son is the cup,/ and the Father is he who was milked;/ and the Holy Spirit is she who milked him”). See also Ep. Barn. 6,17 (τὶ οὖν τὸ γάλα καὶ τὸ μέλι; ὅτι πρῶτον τὸ παιδίον μέλιτι καὶ γάλακτι ζωοποιεῖται· οὕτως οὖν καὶ ἡμεῖς τῇ πίστει τῆς ἐπαγγελίας καὶ τῷ λόγῳ ζωοποιoύμενοι ζήσομεν κατακυριεύοντες τῆς γῆς:  ed. Wengst 2004 2 , 154, 156). The “spirtual pedagogy” of Clemens Alexandrinus implied the consideration of Christians as nursing children, spiritually nourished by the milk of Christ: see Clem. Alex., Paed. I,VI,35‑45: ὥσπερ τῷ γάλακτι αἱ τίτθαι

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had a vital role to play in a number of religious traditions and specific dietary regimes, not to mention mystery cults. 35 In some proto-Christian contexts, milk has been ascertained as a specifically baptismal-eucharistic food imbued with strong symbolic values. 36 In De corona, Tertullian recalls that immediately after baptism the faithful completed the sacrament by tasting a blend of milk and honey 37 and, over the following week, received the Eucharist only from the hands of the “presidents” of liturgical assemblies. Another way of resolving the incongruity in Perpetua’s account is to recall that logical links are either absent or condensed in oneiric and visionary states, as are space/time sequentiality and strict relationships of cause and effect. 38 This feature may also be identified in other portions of the seer’s account.

τοὺς παῖδας τοὺς νεογνοὺς ἐκτρέφουσιν, κἀγὼ δὲ οὕτω τῷ Χριστοῦ γάλακτι λόγῳ πνευματικὴν ὑμῖν ἐνστάζω τροφήν (Paed. I,VI,35,3, ed. Marcovich, 23). 35. In mystery rites in Phrygia – the birthplace of Montanism – initiates abstained from meat and gained nourishment preferably from dairy. The pagan Golden Age was connoted by rivers of milk and honey and the drink obtained from the mixture of both of them was used not only as nourishment for little children, but also in some specific libations (Homer, Odyssey  X,519; Euripides, Orestes 115): see A.C. Stewart, s.v. Milch, in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, XXIV (Stuttgart, 2012) 787‑790; A. McGowan, Food and Drink in Early Christian Meals (Oxford, 1999) 110. 36.  See e.g. Traditio Apostolica 21: “Et tunc offeratur oblatio a diaconibus episcopo […] lac et melle mixta simul ad plenitudinem promissionis quae ad patres fuit, quam dixit terram fluentem lac et mel” (ed. Botte, 90, 92); Tert., Adv. Marc. I,14,3: “Sed ille quidem usque nunc nec aquam reprobavit Creatoris, qua suos abluit, nec oleum, quo suos ungit, nec mellis et lactis societatem, qua suos infantat, nec panem, quo ipsum corpus suum repraesentat” (SCh 365, 164). The biblical definition of the Promised Land as the land of milk and honey is well known, even if it doesn’t seem to have exerted a strong influence in Christian practices (Ex 3:8: “et educerem de terra illa in terram bonam et spatiosam, in terram quae fluit lacte et melle”). See E. E ngelbrecht, “God’s Milk: An Orthodox Confession of the Eucharist,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 7/4 (1999) 509‑526. 37. Tert., De cor. 3,3: “Dehinc ter mergitamur amplius aliquid respondentes quam Dominus in euangelio determinavit. Inde suscepti, lactis et mellis concordiam praegustamus, exque ea die lauacro quotidiano per totam ebdomadem abstinemus. Eucharistiae sacramentum, et in tempore uictus et omnibus mandatum a Domino, etiam antelucanis coetibus nec de aliorum manu quam praesidentium sumimus. Oblationes pro defunctis, pro nataliciis, annua die facimus” (CSEL 70,157‑158). 38.  J. A mat, Passion de Perpétue et de Félicité suivi des Actes. Introduction, texte critique, traduction, commentaire et index (Paris, 1996), 206 notes the brachylogous configuration of this passage; along the same lines, T.J. H effernan, The Passion of Perpetua and Felicity (Oxford – New York, 2012) 182 understands it as a condensed form to express the idea that Perpetua is given a mouthful “from the cheese which he was making from the milk he was drawing.” See also E.R. Dodds , Pagani e cristiani in un’epoca d ’angoscia, It. tr. (Firenze, 1970) 51 (or. ed. Cambridge, 1965).

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Further explanations are based on readings of the text that by convention we may differentiate between “symbolic” and “ritualistic.” Interpretations emphasizing the symbolic aspect 39 start with the observation that the cheese, which is derived from curdled milk, is a product that is both natural and “culturally mediated”. It is natural because of its substantial similarity to milk, and it is “culturally mediated” because it is positioned downstream from a procedure of transformation and processing, which implies human intervention, this can also explain the Aristotelian analogy between the conception and the production of cheese.  4 0 From this perspective, the mention of cheese in Perpetua’s vision would indicate the seer’s awareness of being a “mature” and privileged lead player on the pathway of purification and spiritual progress destined to culminate in martyrdom. From the perspective of a “ritualistic” interpretation of the visionary account, I would like to look into an interpretative hypothesis relying on a reference to a specific Eucharistic ritual. Traditionally, this interpretation is based on the opinion of scholars who, particularly in the first half of the twentieth century, endorsed the link between the PPF and the Montanist milieu: these are, by means of example, Paul Monceaux, 41 Adolf von Harnack, 42 Eric Dodds 43 and, more recently, Christine Trevett and Rex Butler.  4 4 In particular, in his Histoire littéraire de l ’Afrique chrétienne (Paris, 1901), Paul Monceaux put forth the conjecture that the Passio was “un livre d’édification et de polemique, destiné à prouver aux fidèles, par 39.  On this topic interesting remarks are made by E. Corsini, “Per una lettura della ‘Passio Perpetuae’,” in Forma Futuri. Studi in onore del Cardinale Michele Pellegrino (Torino, 1975) 498; see also A. Carfora, La Passione di Perpetua e Felicita. Donne e martirio nel cristianesimo delle origini (Palermo, 2007) 135. 40. A. McGowan, Food and Drink in Early Christian Meals (Oxford, 1999) 98. 106. The analogy between conception and the making of cheese arises from the consideration that cheese derives from a process of milk curdling: on this topic see Aristotle, De genesi animalium I,729a; II,739b; Galen, De semine 2,5; Iob 10,10; also O. Schuegraf, s.v. Käse, Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, XIX (Stuttgart, 2001) 919‑929. The use of cheese as a ritual device recalls from afar the practice of tyromancy recorded in the magical papyri; in the fifth century, it was still occasionaly practised in Christian contexts (we know of Sophronius of Tella, said to have used tyromancy to reveal the culprit who had stolen some money: see G. Luck (ed.), Arcana Mundi. Magia, miracoli, demonologia [Milano, 1997]). 41. P. Monceaux, Histoire littéraire de l ’Afrique chrétienne (Paris, 1901) 81. 42. A. von H arnack , Geschichte der altchristlichen Litteratur bis Eusebius. 2. Die Chronologie der altchristlichen Litteratur bis Eusebius, vol. 2 (Leipzig, 1904) 321. 43. E.R. Dodds , Pagani e cristiani in un’epoca di angoscia (Florence, 1970) 47‑51 (or. ed. Cambridge, 1965). 44. Ch. Trevett, Montanism. Gender, Authority, and the New Prophecy (Cambridge, 1996) 176‑184; R.D. Butler , The New Prophecy and ‘New Visions’. Evidence of Montanism in The Passion of Perpetua and Felicitas (Washington, 2006) 127‑132.

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un exemple décisif, la vérité de la doctrine montaniste”. He went on to recognize Perpetua’s first vision as a description of a specific Eucharistic rite that involved cheese, and noted that this element was the identity-marker of a “sect” of Montanists in Asia Minor, who for that reason were named “Artotyrites” by a number of fourth-century heresiologists. Monceaux also argued that these heretical features of the PPF were subsequently toned down in the Acta, shaped as an orthodox response to the Passio and as an official text to be read at liturgical assemblies, given that “les catholiques de Carthage n’avaient point laissé confisquer par leurs adversaires la mémoire de sainte Perpétue et de les compagnons.” 45 IV. P e r pet ua ,

the

E uch a r i s t

and the

A rtot y r i t e s

The attention paid to the “sect” of Artotyrites with regard to Perpetua’s vision requires further investigation on how this group was perceived by heresiologists in antiquity and, if possible, on its identity and historical significance. Records are, however, few and far between. Clearly, the authors themselves who mentioned the Artotyrites knew little of them, and what they did know they knew indirectly. The first to name them is Epiphanius of Salamis who, in the Panarion (written between 375 and 377),  4 6 seems to indicate that the “Quintillians,” “Pepuzians,” “Artotyrites” and “Priscillians” are different names for the same group of “Cataphrygian” heretics (this is how Epiphanius calls the Montanists). The second source is Philastrius of Brescia who, in his Liber de haeresibus (385‑391), 47 specifies why the Artotyrites, who dwelled in Galatia, were known by that name: they offered bread and cheese as their Eucharistic sacrifice, differing from the practice of the ecclesia catholica. Augustine 48 expands on Philastrius by offering an explanation of this practice. It was allegedly a reference to the origins of humanity, at a time when sacrifices were celebrated with the fruits of the earth and of sheep rearing. He further notes that Epiphanius associated them with the Pepuzians and demonstrates that he has no other information to add, referring to Epiphanius’ 45.  About the Acta see above, footnote 10. 46.  Panarion XLIX,1: Κυϊντιλλιανοὶ δὲ πάλιν, οἱ καὶ Πεπουζιανοὶ καλούμενοι, Ἀρτοτυρῖταί τε καὶ Πρισκιλλιανοὶ λεγόμενοι, οἱ αὐτοὶ μὲν ὄντες κατὰ Φρύγας καὶ ἑξ αὐτῶν ὁρμώμενοι (GCS 31/1, 241). 47.  Diversarum hereseon liber LXXIV: “Alii sunt Artotyritae nomine in Galatia, qui panem et caseum offerunt, non illud quod ecclesia catholica et apostolica celebrat offerendo” (CCL 9, 248). 48.  De haeresibus XXVIII: “Artotyritae sunt quibus oblatio eorum hoc nomen dedit. Offerunt enim panem et caseum dicentes a primis hominibus oblationes de fructibus terrae et ovium fuisse celebratas. Hos Pepuzianis iungit Epiphanius” (NBA XII/1, 86).

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authority for an identification of which he was perhaps not completely sure. Jerome mentions the Artotyrites in his commentary on the Epistles to the Galatians, 49 distinguishing them, among others, from the Cataphrygians and indicating that they belonged to a little-known heresy. Unexpectedly, a sixth-century source, Timothy of Constantinople, 50 identifies the Artotyrites with the Marcionites, 51 placing them in a category of heretics who must be baptized anew if they wished to enter the orthodox Church. Timothy reports that both of them rejected the Law, Prophets, and Patriarchs (i.e. the Old Testament), only recognizing the Gospel of Luke. The Artotyrites, however, in contrast to the Marcionites, offered their “initiates” a mixture of “yeast and milk.” One hypothesis in explaination of this singular association of Artotyrites and Marcionites is that the refusal to use sheer milk (which, in turn, could be a way of replacing wine) was motivated by the will of the Artotyrites to avoid a natural product, as a direct fruit of the Demiurge’s creative endeavours. 52 Aside from the reference in Timothy of Constantinople, texts alluding to the Artotyrites date back to the second half of the fourth century and place them in the Eastern Christian World (Galatia). If we exclude the enigmatic account of Perpetua’s first vision, their presence in the West is not supported by any source. Disagreeing here with Monceaux and Harnack, De Labriolle 53 says that one would need to have a particularly “artificieux” mind to spot an allusion to the Artotyrites in Perpetua’s visionary account. It is not my intention to go back over the vexata quaestio of whether or not Perpetua was a Montanist or even an Artotyrite – at least in traditional terms. Evidence in the PPF and the geographical distance separating Carthage from Asia Minor prevent us from asserting that Perpetua (and/or the editor of the PPF) belonged to the “Artotyrite sect.” But there 49.  Commentarius in epistulam ad Galatas II,2: “Scit mecum qui vidit Ancyram metropolim Galatiae civitatem, quot nunc usque schismatibus dilacerata sit, quot dogmatum varietatibus constuprata. Omitto Cataphrygias, Ophitas, Borboritas, et Manichaeos; nota enim iam haec humanae calamitatis vocabula sunt. Quis unquam Passaloryncitas, et Ascodrobos, et Artotyritas, et caetera magis portenta quam nomina in aliqua parte Romani orbis audivit?” (PL 26,382). 50. See F. Carcione ,  ed., Timoteo e Germano di Costantinopoli, Gli scritti (Roma, 1993) 9‑11.36. 51.  Tim. Cost., De iis qui ad ecclesiam accedunt: οἱ οὖν Ἀρτοτυρῖται, ἐκ τῆς αἰρέσεως τούτου τοῦ Μαρκίωνος κατάγονται· παραμείβουσι δὲ τὴν κλήσιν προσθήκαις ἐπινοιῶν. Γάλακτι γὰρ φυρῶντες ζύμην, τοῖς οἰκείοις μύσταις ὀρέγουσιν. Οὗτοι νόμον καὶ προφήτας καὶ πατριάρχας ἀποβάλλονται· δοκήσει μᾶλλον τὸ κατὰ Λουκᾶν εὐαγγέλιον προσιέμενοι (PG 86,16). 52. A. McGowan, Food and Drink in Early Christian Meals (Oxford, 1999) 99‑100. 53. P. De L abriolle , s.v. Artotyrites, in Dictionaire d ’Histoire et de Géographie Ecclésiastiques, IV (Paris, 1930), coll. 826‑827.

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is something even more important to note. Currently, most of the scholars involved with Early Christian History share the idea that at least up until the manifestation of a predominant episcopal authority in Rome, it makes little sense to classify phenomena in terms of a binary heresy/orthodoxy approach. 54 Christoph Markschies recently called attention to the need of suspending the traditional debate over heresy and orthodoxy at least for pre-Constantinian Christianity, suggesting that historians need to move beyond a “heresiological” perspective in considering Montanism. 55 Historically, one might instead legitimately wonder whether, at the beginning of the third century, an African group of cathecumens may have come into contact with particular Eucharistic rites, perhaps celebrated in marginal communities (lest we forget, Perpetua hailed not from Carthage but from Thuburbo Minus), that were characterized by the use of cheese (or something similar) as Eucharistic food. William Tabbernee estimates that some 400 Christians lived in Carthage at the time when the Passio was set, enough for 4‑5 domus ecclesiae. 56 This is not a negligible number, which makes it difficult to assert that all of the faithful shared the same ritual practices and the same theological positions. At the time of their arrest, Perpetua and the whole group of cathecumens had not yet been baptized. She receives the sacrament in prison and seems to experience the rite as a primum movens along a path of prophecy and martyrdom, as a catalyst agent of charismatic power. 57 In her visionary account, she may have transformed the desire to get to the end of the sacramental pathway, metabolizing elements known to her via other means, re-encoding ritual practices that she had actually experienced as a spectator and placing herself at the centre of a Eucharistic rite from which she, as a cathecumen, had been excluded until that time. And even if we assume that the image of eating cheese may be understood as a symbolic 54. See M. Simonetti, “Ortodossia ed eresia tra II e III secolo,” Vetera Christianorum 28 (1992) 359‑389; E. P rinzivalli, “Perpetua, la martire,” in A. Fraschetti, ed., Roma al femminile (Bari, 1994) 177‑178. Walter Bauer already highlighted the anachronism of the traditional approach featuring heretical doctrines as deviations developed from the “monolith” of a stable, atemporal and original orthodoxy: see W. Bauer , Rechtgläubigkeit und Ketzerei im ältesten Christentum (Tübingen, 1934). See also the bibliography cited by M. Dell’I sola in her essay in this book. 55. C. M arkschies , “The Passio Sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis and Montanism?” in N. Bremmer – M. Formisano, Perpetua’s Passions. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Oxford – New York, 2012) 277‑278, 290. See also C. M arkschies , s.v. Montanismus, in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, XXIV (Stuttgart, 2012) 1197‑1220 (particularly 1214‑1218). 56. W. Tabbernee , “To Pardon or not to Pardon? North African Montanism and the Forgiveness of Sins,” Studia Patristica 36 (Leuven, 2001) 375‑386. 57.  PPF III,5: “In ipso spatio paucorum dierum baptizati sumus; et mihi Spirtus dictavit non aliud petendum ab aqua nisi sufferentiam carnis.”

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allusion to completing the initiatory process, in my opinion it is just as plausible that it constitutes a knowing reference to a specific Eucharistic practice. 58 This may still be true even if we don’t attribute a specific Christological value to the “white-haired shepherd.” Within the context of Perpetua’s vision, ideed, this character expresses authority and solidity; he has the role of mediator of an important ritual act. Above and beyond the Christological image, what we have here is maybe a representation of a form of male authority to be related with a ritual practice: a symbolic integration of her father, the catechist and perhaps a sacerdotal figure. Elena Zocca reached on this topic an interesting conclusion in her 1984 work, in which she suggested that the Latin term buccella should be understood as a technical term indicating a consecrated host or a host awaiting consecration. 59 To back this up, she cites an excerpt from Tertullian’s De monogamia in which the Carthaginian author alludes to functions carried out by bishops, presbyters, and deacons – one may infer – in terms of distributing the Eucharistic “mouthful.” 60 This may be confirmed, it would seem, by the Greek version of the PPF which translates buccella as ψωμίον, a word that also appears in the Gospel of John when, during the Last Supper, Jesus reveals the identity of the disciple who will betray him by dipping a “mouthful” into his plate. 61 Above and beyond the semantic value attributed to the term, Zocca rightly underlines the need to recog58.  While a sacramental interpretation of the four visions has been vigourously supported by Eugenio Corsini, it should be pointed out that he downplayed the ritual significance of the first vision: “Vedere in questo (scil. nel riferimento al boccone di formaggio) l’allusione a un rito eucaristico praticato dall’oscura setta degli Artotiriti è spiegazione che non gode più attualmente di molto credito, e del resto è assai dubbio che Perpetua voglia descrivere qui un reale rito di comunione eucaristica, reso superfluo dal contatto diretto con la divinità”: E. Corsini, “Per una lettura della ‘Passio Perpetuae’,” in Forma Futuri. Studi in onore del Cardinale Michele Pellegrino (Torino, 1975) 497‑498. 59. E. Z occa, “Un passo controverso della Passio Perpetuae, IV, 9: ‘de caseo quod mulgebat dedit mihi quasi buccellam’,” Studi e materiali di Storia delle Religioni 50, n.s. VIII, 1 (1994) 148 and passim. See also Thesaurus Linguae Latinae  II, 2227. 60. Tert., De mon. XI,1‑2: “Ut igitur in domino nubas secundum et apostolum, si tamen vel hoc curas, qualis es id matrimonium postulans, quod eis a quibus postulas non licet habere, ab episcopo monogamo, a presbyteris et diaconis eiusdem sacramenti, a viduis, quarum sectam in te recusasti? Et illi plane sic dabunt viros et uxores quomodo buccellas (hoc enim est apud illos: Omni petenti te dabis) et coniungent vos in ecclesia virgine, unius Christi unica sponsa, et orabis pro maritis tuis, novo et vetere?” E. Z occa, “Un passo controverso della Passio Perpetuae, IV, 9: ‘de caseo quod mulgebat dedit mihi quasi buccellam’,” Studi e materiali di Storia delle Religioni 50, n.s. VIII, 1 (1994) 148 and passim. 61.  John 13:26: ἐκεῖνός ἐστιν ᾧ ἐγὼ βάψω τὸ ψωμίον καὶ δώω αὐτῷ  / “ille est, cui ego intinctum panem porrexero.” Augustine’s mention of this is also indiciative (See also Aug., Sermo 266,7: “indigno buccellam Christus Iudae dedit”).

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nize the plurality of meanings in Perpetua’s language, highlighting how her visionary account reveals new aspects depending upon the perspective from which it is examined. The martyr may well have observed ritual practices 62 similar to those that would subsequently be associated with the Artotyrites and/or, according to Timothy of Constantinople, even the Marcionites. Furthermore, expressing herself in a charismatic context associated with incipient martyrdom – rather than in a hierarchical context – she may have manifested the dual need to complete the path of Christian initiation at a sacramental level and, at the same time, to exercise an authoritative role in her group. In late second-century Africa, these ritual practices did not necessarily yet have the “heresiological” nuance of a Montanist flavour; 63 what we can, however, say is that they were a sign of the fluidity and flexibility of the various articulations of the Christian faith in pre-Nicene times, regardless of the antique heresiological demarcations and, even more so, of some later historical interpretations.

62.  Suffice it to recall Traditio apostolica (ed. Botte 6): “similiter, si quis caseum et olivas offeret, ita dicat: sanctifica lac hoc quod quoagulatum est, et nos conquoaglans tuae caritati”, on which see H.R. Seeliger , Käse beim eucharistischen Mahl. Zum historischen Kontext von Traditio apostolica 6, in Vorgeschmack. Ökumenische Bemühungen um die Eucharistie. Festschrift Th. Schneider (Mainz, 1995) 195‑207. 63.  Markschies’ lucid observation is worth recalling here: “The question of Montanist influences in the Passio and Acta requires urgent modification, for example, as follows: which notions of the North African theological koine, as expressed in the Passio or the Acta, were shared between the Church of this region and the separate Montanist groups in Asia Minor? […] How are such analogies to be explained?”: C. M arkschies , “The Passio Sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis and Montanism?” in N. Bremmer – M. Formisano, Perpetua’s Passions. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Oxford – New York, 2012) 290.

T HE VISIONARY’S BODY AS A DIALECTICAL SPACE OF T RADITION. T HE C ASE OF THE P YTHIA Carmine Pisano I. Th e

body a s a

“ dev ice ”

of au t hor i t y

Reflection on the body and on corporality has a long and elaborate supporting history both more in general, in the history of thought, and specifically, in the discipline of anthropological and historical-religious studies. Long considered as a sort of “biological” entity, common to all the individuals of “human” species, marking out man’s salient and distinctive tracts with respect to other animal families and groupings, in the course of the 1900s, in parallel with the development of medicine and surgical techniques, with the study among other civilizations and the spread, within western civilization itself, of social practices aimed at alter a person’s aspect, the body increasingly emerges as a “cultural” construction, mouldable and structurable on the basis of personal taste, of beliefs or of traditions of belonging, or more simply on the basis of “fashion.” 1 The relationships between the body and society, or rather, between the bodies of social agents and the apparatus of power of the group, reveal themselves as central elements in the context of the French sociological and anthropological school. Following the lines of Marcel Mauss’ studies 1.  See P. Bourdieu, “Remarques provisoires sur la perception sociale du corps,” Actes de la recherche en sciences sociales 14 (1977) 51‑54; G. Sissa, Le corps virginal. La virginité en Grèce ancienne (Paris, 1987); M. L ock , “Cultivating the Body: Anthropology and Epistemologies of Bodily Practice and Knowledge,” Annual Review of Anthropology 22 (1993) 133‑155; D. L e Breton, “Dissecting Grafts. The Anthropology of the Medical Uses of the Human Body,” Diogenes 42/3 (1994) 95‑111; F. H éritier , Masculin/feminin: la pensée de la différence (Paris, 1996); M. Godelier – M. Panoff, ed., La production du corps. Approches anthropologiques et historiques (Amsterdam, 1998); M. Featherstone , ed., Body Modification (LondonNew York, 2000); F. R emotti, “Interventions esthétiques sur le corps,” in F. A ffergan – S. B orutti – C. Calame – U. Fabietti – M. K ilani – F. R emotti, ed., Figures de l ’humain. Les représentations de l ’anthropologie (Paris, 2003) 279‑306; G. P izza, Antropologia medica: saperi, pratiche e politiche del corpo (Roma, 2005); M. Fusaschi, Corpo non si nasce, si diventa. Antropologiche di genere nella globalizzazione (Roma, 2013); G. Ruggieri, ed., Il corpo e l ’esperienza religiosa (Catania, 2013). Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 413–431 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111714 ©

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on the “techniques of the body,” 2 scholars like Michel Foucault and Pierre Bourdieu analyse corporality as the interiorisation of specific devices, schemes of thought and action (habitus), that is, as the incorporation of techniques and procedures of authority that help in understanding the dynamics of the social game, starting from “below” and following the method of ascending analysis. 3 The latter notion, which makes the body a “device” of power, forged for the specific needs of self-representation of a determined human group, reveals itself especially functional in the study of what we usually define as “visionary literature,” that is, the set of discoursive practices where the corporality of ritual agents, believed able to communicate with the “other” world, is reconstructed on the basis of behavior patterns that are accepted or rejected by “tradition.” 4 In other words, to the extent that he or she transmits, in one form or another (dream, hearing, vision, celestial voyage) a revelation received from powers belonging to the extra-human setting, the visionary is gifted with what 2.  M. M auss , “Les techniques du corps,” Journal de Psychologie 32 (1936) 271‑293, republished in M. M auss , Sociologie et anthropologie (Paris, 1950) 365‑388. 3. See P. Bourdieu, Esquisse d ’une théorie de la pratique (Genève, 1972); M. Foucault, “Pouvoir et corps,” Quel corps? 2 (1975) 2‑5; M. Foucault, Surveiller et punir. Naissance de la prison (Paris, 1975); M. Foucault, Histoire de la sexualité I. La volonté de savoir (Paris, 1976); P. Bourdieu, La distinction: critique sociale du jugement (Paris, 1979). The term “incorporation” makes reference, on the one hand, to the somatisation of the culture on the part of the social agents, embracing the set of habits and techniques through which individuals “inhabit” their own body, on the other, to the social production of bodies “normalized” to the structures of power of the group and, as such, meant as an expression of historical and cultural phenomena. On the concept of incorporation see also T.J. Csordas , “Embodiment as a Paradigm for Anthropology,” Ethos 18 (1990) 5‑47; T.J. Csordas , ed., Embodiment and Experience. The Existential Ground of Culture and Self (Cambridge, 1994); T.J. Csordas , “Incorporazione e fenomenologia culturale,” Antropologia 3/3 (2003) 19‑42. 4. On the relationship between corporeity and visionary ecstasy see G. Sissa, Le corps virginal. La virginité en Grèce ancienne (Paris, 1987) 66‑75; E. Norelli , “L’«Ascensione di Isaia» nel quadro del profetismo cristiano,” Ricerche Storico Bibliche 5/1 (1993) 123‑148; A.D. DeConick , Seek to See Him. Ascent and Vision Mysticism in the Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 1996); E. Norelli , “Profetismo e profeti cristiani nella «Ascensione di Isaia»,” Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 35/2 (1999) 362‑376; A.D. DeConick , Voices of the Mystics. Early Christian Discourse in the Gospels of John and Thomas and Other Ancient Christian Literature (Sheffield, 2001); A.D. DeConick , ed., Paradise Now. Essays on Early Jewish and Christian Mysticism (Atlanta, 2006); L. A rcari, “Corpo rituale/Corpo visionario. Soggiorni nell’aldilà e autorità competitive nel mondo antico,” in V. Bochicchio, ed., Dal corpo al simbolo. Ermeneutiche della corporeità (Milano, 2011) 17‑42; L. A rcari, “Il corpo ‘eccedente’ del visionario e la sua neutralizzazione polemica tra mondo ellenistico-romano e cristianesimo,” in Il corpo in scena: rappresentazioni, tecniche, simboli. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Padova, 24‑26 settembre 2013, in course of publication.

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the anthropologists call a “performative body,” whose attitudes (posture, tone of voice, gestures) function as semantic indicators that, on the one hand, reveal the ritual function of the agent, and, on the other, guarantee true inspiration/possession/vision or, on the contrary, permit its rejection. The choice of the socio-anthropological approach, in which the gestures of the ritual operator called upon to enter into contact with the supernatural are not simply elements of the apparatus connected to the scenographic aspect of the ceremony but, rather, reveal the incorporation of the cultural norms and forms of specific groups, imposes a double choice of method: on one hand, inviting acceptance of the necessity, often stressed in the last few years, of avoiding rigid classifications between the different forms of contact with the extra-ordinary dimension, 5 today generally traced out in the context of a wider cultural macro-function, regarding access, managed by a socially authorized mediator (the visionary), to the reality believed to be superior to the human condition; 6 on the other hand, creating a need to think of the social dimension of the ritual act, considering the “tradition” not so much as a closed and stable set of practices and rules, almost having its own ontological reality, but as an open and flexible structure, mouldable and remouldable with respect to epochs and contexts, in which the production and the redefinition of the cultural constructs, like “body” and “vision,” reflect the internal and external relational dynamics of a specific group. 7 In this sense, we intend to demonstrate that the construction of the corporality of the visionary circumscribes a well-determined dialectical space, a symbolic place of polemic and debate, in which competing groups project shared cultural codes so as to give credit to their proprium and to define themselves through differences with regard to an appro5.  See, for example, A. Bouché-L eclercq, Histoire de la divination dans l ’Antiquité (Paris, 1879‑1882) and W.R. H alliday, Greek Divination. A Study of its Methods and Principles (Chicago 1913). 6.  L.S. Nasrallah, An Ecstasy of Folly. Prophecy and Authority in Early Christianity (Cambridge, 2003); F. Flannery – C. Shantz – R.A. Werline , ed., Experientia, Volume 1: Inquiry into Religious Experience in Early Judaism and Early Christianity (Atlanta, 2008); D. Tripaldi, Gesù di Nazareth nell ’Apocalisse di Giovanni. Spirito, profezia, memoria (Brescia, 2010) 29‑93; A. Destro – M. Pesce , “Le voyage céleste, tradition d’un genre ou schéma culturel en contexte ?” in N. Belayche – J.-D. Dubois , ed., L’oiseau et le poisson. Cohabitations religieuses dans les mondes grec et romain (Paris, 2011) 359‑384; M.E. Stone , Ancient Judaism: New Visions and Views (Grand Rapids, 2011); C. Shantz – R.A. Werline , ed., Experientia, Volume 2: Linking Text and Experience (Atlanta, 2012). 7.  On the concept of “tradition” see E. Shils , Tradition (London-Boston, 1981); E. Hobsbawm – T. R anger , ed., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge, 1983); P. Boyer , Traditions as Truth and Communication. A Cognitive Description of Traditional Discourse (Cambridge, 1990); R. Guolo, ed., Il paradosso della tradizione. Religioni e modernità (Milano, 1996); C. P randi, La tradizione religiosa. Saggio storico-sociologico (Roma, 2000).

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priately configured “other.” The specific case study that shall be at the centre of our discourse concerns the Christian image of the Pythia, as is delineated in Origen and John Chrysostom. But before entering into the details of such an analysis, it is opportune to take one step backwards, to the period roughly defined between the middle of the first and the beginning of the third centuries ad, when the stereotypes, 8 that later Christian authors will use for constructing the figure of the Delphic prophetess, are delineated and progressively imposed in the context of bitter factional polemics about true and false prophets. II. Th e

t ru e a n d t h e fa l se proph et

The necessity to distinguish between true and false prophets, already present in ancient Israel, 9 was increasingly felt by the groups of followers of Jesus. 10 The criteria used differ notably according to the texts and historical moments, and their variety, like their different influence in individual cultural contexts, allows reconstruction of a genuine “archaeology” (in Foucault’s sense 11) of the topoi that, starting from the third century, will refer to the figure of the false Greek prophetess, of which the Pythia is the model. In the literary production referable to the first groups of followers of Jesus, the oldest author, who speaks of the necessity of “evaluating the spirits” is Paul, 12 and the criteria of evaluation regard the contents of the prophetic message, that is, its coincidence or incongruence with the beliefs and the norms accepted by the group and/or with the teachings of Paul himself: 13 “If anyone thinks himself to be a prophet or otherwise gifted by the Spirit, let him acknowledge that what I am writing to you is the

8.  On the category and the use of stereotypes in processes of self-definition see P.M.E. L orcin, Imperial Identities: Stereotyping, Prejudice and Race in Colonial Algeria (London-New York, 19992). 9. See J.L. Crenshaw, Prophetic Conflict (Berlin, 1971); S.J. DeVries , Prophet against Prophet (Grand Rapids, 1978); J. Blenkinsopp, A  History of Prophecy in Israel (Louisville, 1996). 10.  See in particular Th.W. Gillespie , The First Theologians. A Study in Early Christian Prophecy (Grand Rapids, 1994) and D.E. Aune , Prophecy in Early Christianity and the Ancient Mediterranean World (Grand Rapids, 1983) 217‑230, with a critical discussion in G. Filoramo – C. Grottanelli – E. Norelli – G. Sfameni Gasparro, “La profezia nel primo cristianesimo nel quadro del mondo mediterraneo antico,” Rivista di Storia e letteratura religiosa 35/2 (1999) 347‑401. 11.  M. Foucault, L’archéologie du savoir (Paris, 1969). 12.  1 Corinthians 12:10; 14:29. 13.  1 Corinthians 12:1-3; 2 Thessalonians 2:1‑3; Galatians 1:8‑9.

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Lord’s command. But if anyone ignores this, he will himself be ignored.” 14 The criterion of the content returns in Matthew, with reference to false eschatological prophecies, 15 and in the First Letter of John, in relation to how many do not recognize that “Jesus Christ has come in the flesh.” 16 Already in Matthew however, a second discriminating factor appears, destined to take ever increasing weight: the behaviour of the prophet. False prophets that “come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ferocious wolves,” 17 are recognizable for their “iniquity” (ἀνομία), 18 just as in the Apocalypse the unmasking of “Jezebel,” the false prophetess of Thyatira, comes through a group of reprehensible teachings, extolling corruption and immorality. 19 In certain texts the generic references to iniquity and immorality are substituted by very precise norms that describe the behaviour of the false 14. 1 Corinthians 14:37‑38. On Pauline prophetism see R. Penna, ed., Il profetismo da Gesù di Nazareth al Montanismo. Atti del IV Convegno di studi neotestamentari, Perugia, 12‑14 settembre 1991, Ricerche Storico Bibliche 5/1 (1993) 1‑164; M. Pesce , Le due fasi della predicazione di Paolo. Dall ’evangelizzazione alla guida delle comunità (Bologna, 1994); Ch. Forbes , Prophecy and Inspired Speech in Early Christianity and its Hellenistic Environment (Tübingen, 1995) 218‑250; A. Hunt, The Inspired Body: Paul, the Corinthians, and Divine Inspiration (Macon, 1996); L.S. Nasrallah, An Ecstasy of Folly. Prophecy and Authority in Early Christianity (Cambridge, 2003) 61‑94; G. Filoramo, Veggenti, profeti, gnostici. Identità e conflitti nel cristianesimo antico (Brescia, 2005) 151‑182; M. Pesce – A. Destro , Forme culturali del cristianesimo nascente (Brescia, 20082); M. Pesce , Le esperienze religiose di Paolo (Brescia, 2012). 15. Matthew 24:23‑24: “Then, if anyone says to you ‘Look, here is the Christ!’, or ‘There!’, do not believe it. For false christs and false prophets will rise and show great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect.” On prophetism in the evangelical traditions see M.E. Boring, The Continuing Voice of Jesus: Christian Prophecy and the Gospel Tradition (Louisville, 1991). 16. 1 John 4:1‑3: “Beloved, do not trust every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they belong to God, because many false prophets have gone out into the world. This is how you can know the Spirit of God: every spirit that acknowledges that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh belongs to God, and every spirit that does not acknowledge Jesus does not belong to God. This is the spirit of the antichrist that, as you heard, is to come, but in fact is already in the world.” 17. The image, taken up in Acts of Thomas, 79, serves to stress the deceitful behaviour of those who, though prophesying and performing miracles and exorcisms in the name of Jesus, are unmasked by dishonest and iniquitous behaviour: “Thus, by their fruit you will recognize them” (Matthew 7:15‑23). 18. Matthew 7:15‑23; 24:11‑12. 19. Revelation 2:20‑24. “Jezebel” (naturally a fictitious name, taken from 1 Kings 18:19) is accused of inciting her followers to practice a corrupt sexuality and to eat the flesh of animals sacrificed to idols. Analogous accusations are made against prophetic groups of Pergamon who, according to John, follow the teachings of the biblical pseudo-prophet Balaam (Revelation 2:14‑15). See P.B. Duff, Who Rides the Beast? Prophetic Rivalry and the Rhetoric of Crisis in the Churches of the Apocalypse (Oxford, 2001).

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prophet on the basis of specific actions and requests. In the Didache, every “apostle” that stays for more than three days with a group, 20 that accepts other than board and lodgings or that asks for money for himself rather than for the needy is considered a false prophet. 21 In the Acts of Thomas, datable to the beginning of the third century, the “iniquitous prophets,” uncovered by their hypocritical and lying behaviour, teach avoidance of every form of impiety (prostitution, theft, injustice, avarice), while they themselves live immersed in sin: “Not content with one woman, they will corrupt many; […] not content with their own possessions, they will desire that all the things should minister unto them only; […] with their mouth they will utter one thing, but in their heart they will think another.” 22 The discourse is even more detailed in the Shepherd of Hermas. 23 In this text, returns the topos of the false prophet (also called μάντις) 24 who asks for money for his services, responding privately to client’s requests. 25 If such behaviour unmasks a false prophet, it is because “the Holy Spirit does not speak when a man wishes him to speak, but the man speaks then when God wishes him to speak.” 26 In other words, the spirit of God speaks – through the prophet – not following the questions of the consultant but spontaneously. And this, furthermore, does not occur in the private setting of the paid consultation, but only in the public context of the assembly gathered for the cult, in reply to a common prayer: “When then the man who has the divine Spirit comes into an assembly of righteous men, who have faith in the divine Spirit, and this assembly of men offers up prayer to God, then the angel of the prophetic Spirit, who is attached to him, fills the man and the man, being filled with the Holy Spirit, speaks to the multitude as the Lord wishes.” 27

20. On the aggregation forms and dynamics of the first groups of followers of Jesus see S. Stowers , “The Concept of Community and the History of Early Christianity,” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 23 (2011) 238‑256; E.R. Urciuoli, Un’archeologia del “noi” cristiano. Le «comunità immaginate» dei seguaci di Gesù tra utopie e territorializzazioni (I-II sec. e.v) (Milano, 2013). 21.  Didache, 11,3-12. 22.  Acts of Thomas, 79. 23.  J. R eiling, Hermas and Christian Prophecy. A Study of the Eleventh Mandate (Leiden, 1973); J. Rüpke , “Der Hirte des Hermas: Plausibilisierungs und Legitimierungs strategien im Übergang von Antike und Christentum,” Zeitschrift für antikes Christentum 7 (2003) 362-384. 24.  The Shepherd of Hermas, Mandate 11,2. 25.  The Shepherd of Hermas, Mandate 11,12. See also Irenaeus, Adversus Hae­ reses, IV, 33, 6. 26.  The Shepherd of Hermas, Mandate 11,8. 27.  The Shepherd of Hermas, Mandate 11,9. The false prophet usually avoids community assemblies (11,13); when he participates, he suddenly becomes dumbstruck and unable to speak (11,14).

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But it is not only the spontaneous and public character of the prophecy that distinguishes the μάντις from the “man who has the spirit of God.” A fundamental criterion is that of behaviour: “By his life test the man who has the divine Spirit. In the first place, he who has the Divine Spirit, which is from above, is gentle, tranquil and humble-minded, and abstains from all wickedness and vain desire of this world, and holds himself inferior to all men, and gives no answer to any man when enquired of, nor speaks in solitude.” 28 On the contrary, “he who seems to have the Spirit exalts himself, and desires to have a chief place, and straight-way he is impudent, shameless, talkative, lives in many luxuries and in many other deceits, receives money for his prophesying.” 29 The costumes of the true and the false prophet are radically different not only for the different “ethical” breadth but also because of the different use and control of the body, here more than ever to be understood as somatisation of the behaviour accepted or rejected by a specific human group: the true prophet is “gentle, tranquil and humble-minded,” while the false prophet is “impudent, shameless, talkative.” Such behaviour unmasks and condemns the false prophet, but in Hermas it does not appear in direct connection to the procedure of communication with the “other” world. The first text that associates ecstasy and corporeity of the visionary is the Ascension of Isaiah. 30 In the second part of the work (chapters VI-XI), the oldest one, expression of a prophetic group active perhaps in Antioch in Syria between the end of the first and the beginnings of the second century ad, there is a description, with an abundance of detail, of a ritual of an ecstatic type in the course of which the prophet Isaiah voyages through the seven heavens without his body, obtaining the vision of the divine reality. 31 The celestial voyage is made in the context of a collective prophetic liturgy, in which Isaiah, while he is prophesying, suddenly stops speaking and falls to the ground with his mouth closed and 28.  The Shepherd of Hermas, Mandate 11,7-8. 29.  The Shepherd of Hermas, Mandate 11,12. 30.  P. Bettiolo et al., ed., Ascensio Isaiae (Turnhout, 1995). 31. See P.C. Bori, “L’estasi del profeta: Ascensio Isaiae 6 e l’antico profetismo cristiano,” Cristianesimo nella storia 1 (1980) 367‑389; M. Pesce , ed., Isaia, il Diletto e la Chiesa. Visione ed esegesi profetica cristiano-primitiva nell ’A scensione di Isaia (Brescia, 1983); A. Acerbi, L’A scensione di Isaia. Cristologia e profetismo in Siria nei primi decenni del II secolo (Milano, 1989); E. Norelli , “L’«Ascensione di Isaia» nel quadro del profetismo cristiano,” Ricerche Storico Bibliche 5/1 (1993) 123‑148; E. Norelli , L’A scensione di Isaia. Studi su un apocrifo al crocevia dei cristianesimi (Bologna, 1994); E. Norelli, “Profetismo e profeti cristiani nella «Ascensione di Isaia»,” Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 35/2 (1999) 362‑376; A. Destro – M. Pesce , “Constellations of Texts in Early Christianity. The Gospel of the Savior and Johannist Writings,” Annali di storia dell ’Esegesi 22/2 (2005) 337‑353.

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eyes open, continuing, however, to breathe. 32 The abundant mention of “technical” elements, the significance of which is unclear in the text, and which presuppose that knowledge concerning the ceremony is already in the possession of the reader, induces one to believe that the voyage and the vision of Isaiah reflect a real ecstatic practice known to the writer and to his public. The ritual presupposes, that is, a set of recipients of the work, for whom certain gestures and attitudes of the body (a state of apparent death, mouth closed, eyes open, breath feeble) function as indicators that are called upon to testify, on the basis of ritual conventions recognized by the group, that in that moment the visionary is travelling through the heavens. As Enrico Norelli says, “the ritual context and the physiological phenomena mentioned here must make reference to a model previously accepted by the author and the reader as a guarantee of the authenticity of a visionary experience”: in other words, they must demonstrate that the ritual “takes form within a situation corresponding to the requisites for a celestial voyage and a revelation.” 33 Just as they may guarantee the authenticity of the voyage and the otherworldly vision, the corporal indicators may also permit the unmasking of imposters and charlatans. The anonymous anti-Montanist quoted by Eusebius in the fifth book of the Historia Ecclesiastica (chapters 16‑17) describes Montanus while “suddenly fallen into a sort of excitement and ecstasy (ἐν κατοχῇ τινι καὶ παρεκστάσει), raves, and starts to stammer and to say strange things (ἐνθουσιᾶν ἄρξασθαί τε λαλεῖν καὶ ξενοφωνεῖν), prophesying against every custom passed down in the Church through succession from its very origins.”  3 4 While the authentic spirit – as Eusebius himself says elsewhere – illuminates the true prophets, lightening their soul in a way it becomes “much more penetrating and suitable to contemplation than it was before” (διαυγεστέραν τε καὶ θεωρητικωτέραν πολὺ πλέον νῦν ἢ πρότερον) contemporaneously remaining “sober and alert”

32.  Ascensio Isaiae, VI, 1‑14. 33.  E. Norelli, “Profetismo e profeti cristiani nella «Ascensione di Isaia»,” Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 35/2 (1999) 372. 34. Eusebius, Historia Ecclesiastica, V, 16, 7. See W.H.C. Frend, “Montanism: Research and Problems,” Rivista di storia e letteratura religiosa 30 (1984) 521‑537; G. Visonà, “Il fenomeno profetico del montanismo,” in R. Penna, ed., Il profetismo da Gesù di Nazareth al Montanismo. Atti del IV Convegno di studi neotestamentari, Perugia, 12‑14 settembre 1991, Ricerche Storico Bibliche 5/1 (1993) 149‑164; Ch. Trevett, Montanism. Gender, Authority and the New Prophecy (Cambridge, 20022) 86‑94; 151‑158; L.S. Nasrallah, An Ecstasy of Folly. Prophecy and Authority in Early Christianity (Cambridge, 2003) 155‑196; G. Filoramo, Veggenti, profeti, gnostici. Identità e conflitti nel cristianesimo antico (Brescia, 2005) 191‑204; W. Tabbernee , Fake Prophecy and Polluted Sacraments. Ecclesiastical and Imperial Reactions to Montanism (Leiden, 2007).

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(ὥστε νήφειν καὶ ἐγρηγορέναι), 35 the demonic μανία jolts the soul and, as a consequence, the body of the false prophet, inducing him to stammer strange and incomprehensible phrases. The body, which is overcome by an “involuntary delirium” (ἀκούσιον μανίαν) 36 that compromises the very communication and understanding of the prophetic message, reveals the distorted character of the procedure of revelation and the inauthenticity of the divine inspiration. The control of the body and the voice (or lack of it) is also the factor chosen by Irenaeus for unmasking the prophetic claims of Marcus and of his followers. 37 Irenaeus recalls the “Gnostic” tendency to use incomprehensible and magniloquent formulae, aimed at astonishing the hearers, 38 in opposition to the “concise and rapid” character of the authentic prophetic declaration. 39 Concerning the prophetesses who follow the teachings of Marcus, the bishop of Lyon observes that, having received the invitation to prophesy from the master (a man expert in magic, always ready to trick the slow-witted and ingenuous), they feel “their hearts beat stronger than usual” (τῆς καρδίας πλέον τοῦ δέοντος παλλούσης) and, rapt by the excitation of the supposed revelation, “stammer delirious phrases” (λαλεῖν ληρώδη) “without any sense” (κενῶς).  4 0 Once more, excitation and delirium, accompanied by poor lucidity and a labored voice, 41 are counterposed to the sobriety and the acuteness of the true prophet, illuminated by the gifts of the spirit. Criticizing the Platonic doctrine according to which the 35. Eusebius, Demonstratio Evangelica, V, proemium, 27. At paragraph 26, Eusebius adds, speaking of the Greek prophets, that the demonic spirit “covers their souls with darkness and fog” making them “completely insensitive and irrational.” 36. Eusebius, Historia Ecclesiastica, V, 17, 2. 37. See Ch. Forbes , Prophecy and Inspired Speech in Early Christianity and its Hellenistic Environment (Tübingen, 1995) 156‑160. 38. Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses, I, 21, 3. 39. Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses, III, 11, 8. 40. Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses, I, 13, 1‑7. On female prophetism see A.C. Wire , The Corinthian Women Prophets: A Reconstruction through Paul’s Rhetoric (Minneapolis, 1990); A. Valerio, ed., Donna, potere e profezia (Napoli, 1995); K.L. K ing, “Prophetic Power and Women’s Authority: The Case of the Gospel of Mary (Magdalene),” in B. K ienzle – P.J. Walker , ed., Women Preachers and Prophets through Two Millennia of Christianity (Berkeley, 1998) 21‑41; M. K eller , The Hammer and the Flute: Women, Power, and Spirit Possession (Baltimore, 2002); A. Valerio, “Il profetismo femminile cristiano nel II secolo: bilancio storiografico e questioni aperte,” in A. Carfora – E. Cattaneo, ed., Profeti e profezia: figure profetiche nel cristianesimo del II secolo (Trapani, 2007) 159‑172. 41. See also Tertullian, Apologeticum, XXIII, 5: the author describes “those that pass as inspired by a god” while, “with wide open mouths,” they prophesy “with great shaking” and “breathless voice.” On Tertullian and the prophecy see C.M. Robeck , Prophecy in Carthage. Perpetua, Tertullian, and Cyprian (Cleveland, 1992) and, more recently, L.S. Nasrallah, An Ecstasy of Folly. Prophecy and Authority in Early Christianity (Cambridge, 2003) 95‑154.

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soul, on entering the body, would fall prey to forgetfulness, for which reason the body would represent an obstacle for physical activity, Irenaeus observes: “But even the prophets themselves, who were also on the earth, recall everything that they see spiritually according to the visions of celestial reality, and all that they hear, and, when they return to being men, they declaim it to others.” 42 The prophecy (the authentic one) is certainly a form of ecstasy, but it acts on the soul without obscuring his faculties and without compromising the clarity and the communicability of the declaration. Starting from the half of the second century, the ever increasing proliferation of the Montanist and Marcosian prophetism led Irenaeus and the anonymous polemicist quoted by Eusebius to demolish the claims of revelation of specific groups, putting under accusation and demystifying the procedures of communication with the “other” world and of declamation of the inspired message, through recourse to stereotypes about the behaviour and the corporeity of the visionary in part already testified by the Ascension of Isaiah and by Hermas, even though, in the latter case, only in reference to the lifestyle of the prophet. 43 This context, then, sees the definition of the polemical instruments which later Christian authors will make use of to depict, with a scope of self-representation, the physionomy of the Greek prophecy, embodied by the Pythia. III. F rom

h e a r i ng to v i sion

In the Greek tradition, from Herodotus to Pindar, from Strabo to Plutarch, the Pythia appears essentially as a “voice”: excepting that she sits on a tripod before emitting the prophecy, she does very little other than speak.  4 4 This silence of the sources about the gestures of the prophetess has appeared deafening to many scholars, who have tried to explain it by 42. Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses, II, 33, 3. 43. See G. Jossa, “Sul problema del declino del profetismo cristiano,” in A. Carfora – E. Cattaneo, ed., Profeti e profezia: figure profetiche nel cristianesimo del II secolo (Trapani, 2007) 17‑30. 44.  J.-P. Vernant, “Parole et signes muets,” in J.-P. Vernant et alii,  ed., Divination et rationalité (Paris, 1974) 9‑25; G. Sissa, Le corps virginal. La virginité en Grèce ancienne (Paris, 1987) 40‑50; S. Crippa, “La voce e la visione. Il linguaggio oracolare femminile nella letteratura antica,” in I. Chirassi Colombo – T. Seppilli, ed., Sibille e linguaggi oracolari. Mito, storia, tradizione. Atti del Convegno di Macerata-Norcia, 20‑24 settembre 1994 (Macerata, 1998) 159‑189. In order to illustrate the eminently auditive character of the Greek oracular experience, Crippa recalls the Plutarch’s episode of Tespesius, who wanted to see the oracle but only managed to hear the high-pitched voice of the Sybil (Plutarch, De sera numinis vindicta, 566A).

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hypothesizing that the Pythia was invisible to those consulting her, that only listened to her voice, or that the ancient authors do not describe her comportment believing it obvious to their readers. 45 As I have tried to demonstrate elsewhere,  4 6 neither of these hypotheses is necessary. The representation of the Apollonian inspiration as “vocal possession” appears the result of both a precise cultural choice, that finds ample possibilities for comparison in anthropological documentation of the African area, 47 and of the widespread belief that makes the Pythia the “vocal instrument” (ὄργανον) of Apollo. 48 In other words, since the speech of the Pythia is presented as “delegated word,” as the speech of a human functionary that lends her voice to the god that inspires her, 49 it is normal that the voice and the vocality are, in this case, the indicators chosen to testify whether or not it is the divine power that is speaking through that body and through that mouth. Emblematic in this sense is the case, attested by Plutarch, of a Pythia, who had descended into the adyton with contrary presages to then fall to the ground after having escaped from the oracular cave: “the prophet Nikandros and all the priests present” infer that the prophetess was “possessed by a mute and malign inspiration” not from possible gestures, but “from the bitter tone of her voice” (τῇ τραχύτητι τῆς φωνῆς), 45.  G. Sissa, Le corps virginal. La virginité en Grèce ancienne (Paris, 1987) 49‑50; C. Catenacci, “L’oracolo di Delfi e le tradizioni oracolari nella Grecia arcaica e classica. Formazione, prassi, teologia,” in M. Vetta, ed., La civiltà dei Greci: forme, luoghi, contesti (Roma, 2001) 144. 46.  C. P isano, “La voce della Pizia: tra mito, rito e antropologia,” in M. Bettini – L. Spina, ed., Prestare la voce. Atti del Convegno di Siena, 21‑22 febbraio 2014, I  Quaderni del Ramo d ’Oro on-line 6 (2013/14) 8‑20. 47. See, for example, A. R etel-L aurentin, “La force de la parole. Nzakara. Afrique,” in J.-P. Vernant et alii, ed., Divination et rationalité (Paris, 1974) 285‑319 on the divinatory techniques of the Nzakara in the region of Bangassou (Central African Republic). Speaking of those “possessed by the spirits” (ba do nganga), the scholar observes: “The man who dreams or who dances is a messenger […] He transmits what he has received personally; but if his revelation is not clear, he will be treated as a bad interpreter.” The possessed man “transmits […] the communication he has had with the spirit […] in audible and comprehensible terms”; in the same way, “the lucidity of the wood scraper [ba sa iwa] is the guarantee of his ‘transparency,’ that is, of his accuracy in transmitting the revelation of Iwa [the oracular spirit]”; “his balanced character,” his “sociality and joy” testify the trustworthiness of the divine response, referred in manner that is “clear and without ambiguity.” See also A. Zempleni – A. A dler , Le bâton de l ’aveugle (Paris, 1972) 99‑100: among the Moundang of Chad, the spirits of the place communicate their own responses directly from the beyond through the voices of the prophetesses (“vocal possession”). 48. Plutarch, De defectu oraculorum, 436E-F; 437D. 49. On the category of “delegated speech” see V. P etrarca, “Parola e potere in un’esperienza profetica della Costa d’Avorio,” in S. Beta, ed., La potenza della parola. Destinatari, funzioni, bersagli. Atti del Convegno di Siena, 7‑8 maggio 2002 (Fiesole, 2004) 117‑147; 167‑179.

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accompanied by “a senseless and frightening scream.” 50 As Georges Roux observes: “Everything happens as if the witnesses of the scene noted the state of crisis of the Pythia only on the basis of what they hear, and not on the basis of what they see.” 51 “What they hear” is the semantic indicator chosen by the Greek authors to represent the “vocal possession” of the Delphic prophetess. Against this “image” (if one may call it so) of a markedly acoustic character, the Christian authors choose to describe the Pythia on the basis of “what they see,” or rather, on the basis of what “is said” or “is narrated” as having been seen, using models or representation already present in part in the Greek authors and in particular in the mid-Platonic setting. 52 We read in Origen: Thus, it is narrated (ἱστόρηται) about the Pythia  […] that when she sits down at the mouth of Kastalia, the prophetic Spirit (προφῆτις πνεῦμα) of Apollo enters her private parts; and when she is filled with it, she gives utterance to responses which are regarded as venerable and divine oracles. 53

By his own admission, Origen does not put into discussion the reality of the Pythian oracles and of the Apollonian inspiration, but he uses a certain reconstruction of the mantic procedure, founded, on the one hand, on the ancient idea of an intimate union of the god with his priestess, and on the other, on the rationalist theory of divinatory πνεύματα exhal50. Plutarch, De defectu oraculorum, 438A-B. 51.  G. Roux, Delphes, son oracle et ses dieux (Paris, 1976) 149. 52.  See below, notes 63 and 64. It may also be added that, before the Christian authors, the dialectic between hearing and vision in the experience of mantic communication is the subject of Plutarch’s reflections. Commenting on the famous fragment in which Heraclitus says that Apollo “does not speak, nor hide, but gives signs” (Heraclitus , fr. 93 Diels-Kranz), he claims: “The god serves himself of the Pythia to have his thoughts reach our ears, like the light of the sun must reflect on the moon to reach our eyes” (Plutarch, De Pythiae oraculis, 404D). The similitude used by the author testifies that the revelation of the Pythia may have be represented in the mid-Platonic setting as “verbal manifestation” (S. Crippa, “La voce e la visione. Il linguaggio oracolare femminile nella letteratura antica,” in I. Chirassi Colombo – T. Seppilli, ed., Sibille e linguaggi oracolari. Mito, storia, tradizione. Atti del Convegno di Macerata-Norcia, 20‑24 settembre 1994 [Macerata, 1998] 179), that is, as “an emission of sound that has the same immediacy and effectiveness as the visual signal” (I. Chirassi Colombo, “Pythia e Sibylla. I problemi dell’atechnos mantike in Plutarco,” in I. Gallo, ed., Plutarco e la religione [Napoli, 1996] 445). On the relationship of Plutarch with mid-Platonism see W. Burkert, “Plutarco: religiosità personale e teologia filosofica,” in I. Gallo, ed., Plutarco e la religione (Napoli, 1996) 11‑28; G. Sfameni Gasparro, “Plutarco e la religione delfica: il dio «filosofo» e il suo esegeta,” in I. Gallo, ed., Plutarco e la religione (Napoli, 1996) 157‑188; D. Jaillard, “Plutarque et la divination: la piété d’un prêtre philosophe,” Revue de l ’histoire des religions 224/2 (2007) 149‑169. 53. Origen, Contra Celsum, VII, 3.

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ing from the spring Kastalia, 54 because it shows clearly “the profane and impure nature of that spirit, that enters the soul of the prophetess not through the more becoming medium of the bodily pores which are both open and invisible, but by means of what no modest man would ever see or speak of.” 55 Summarizing, if Origen accepts the reality of the process of possession, this is because its modalities and consequences demonstrate that Apollo is not a god, but a corrupt and dangerous demon: if the Delphic Apollo was the god that the Greeks believe in, Origen sustains, in the first place, he would have chosen a wise man as his prophet or, even more so, a wise woman and not “a common woman” like the Pythia; in the second place, he would have laid advantages on the prophetess, clearing her mind and allowing her to see the truth, rather than darkening her thoughts and casting her “into such a state of ecstasy and madness that she loses control of herself.” 56 As in the cases already examined of “involuntary delirium,” of the “heart that beats stronger than usual,” of the “vain” and “senseless stammering,” of the “bitter voice” and of the “frightening scream,” a prophetic body making indecent and uncontrolled gestures is judged as sign of a malign inspiration, fruit of demonic depravation rather than of divine sanctity. Origen’s representation of the Delphic oracular machine has a notable self-defining value, to the extent that it aims at featuring an “other” practice of divination with respect to which Origen establishes the salient tracts of “true” prophecy, the Judeo-Christian one, that, in the Alexandrian writer’s vision (a truly original vision for his time), programmatically excludes phenomena of possession. 57 However, in the context where it appears, Origen’s description of Apollonian possession has, in the first instance, a clear polemical intention, since it is presented as a reply to 54.  See Diodorus Siculus, XVI, 26; Strabo, IX, 3, 5; Lucan, Pharsalia, V, 86‑ 101. 55. Origen, Contra Celsum, VII, 3. On the body and sexuality see P. Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York, 1988). 56. Origen, Contra Celsum, VII, 3‑6. See also Eusebius, Demonstratio Evangelica, V, proemium, 26, quoted at note 35. 57. See G. Filoramo, “Vero e falso profeta in Origene. Riflessioni in margine alla profetologia cristiana antica,” in R. Barcellona – T. Sardella,  ed., Munera amicitiae. Studi di storia e cultura sulla Tarda Antichità offerti a Salvatore Pricoco (Soveria Mannelli, 2003) 163‑185; G. Filoramo, “Profeti falsi e profeti veri da Plutarco a Celso,” in P. Volpe Cacciatore – F. Ferrari, ed., Plutarco e la cultura della sua età. Atti del X Convegno Plutarcheo, Fisciano-Paestum, 27‑29 ottobre 2005 (Napoli, 2007) 41‑56; A. Monaci, “Il «discernimento degli spiriti» in Origene,” Rivista di Storia del Cristianesimo 6/1 (2009) 9‑20; C. Noce , “La morte del Battista e la fine della profezia,” in T. P iscitelli, ed., Il «Commento a Matteo» di Origene. Atti del X Convegno di Studi del Gruppo Italiano di Ricerca su Origene e la Tradizione Alessandrina, Napoli, 24‑26 settembre 2008 (Brescia, 2011) 318‑332.

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Celsus, 58 or rather to the criticisms made by the Greek philosopher against “the type of divination belonging to Phoenicia and Palestine” (τὸν τρόπον τῶν ἐν Φοινίκῃ καὶ Παλαιστίνῃ μαντείων). 59 According to Origen, Celsus had considered the prophets of Judea on a par with tricksters and possessed men because of the fact of “shaking themselves” (κινοῦνται) while pronouncing oracles, and of using “unknown, incoherent and completely obscure expressions […] lacking clarity and sense.” 60 As one may see, Celsus recurs to the same semantic indicators (clarity opposed to obscurity, composure opposed to lack of control) that Origen uses against the Greeks, completely overturning the terms of the accusation. 61 In the polemic between the Greek and the Christian philosopher the body of the visionary constitutes the symbolic place of a debate, where opposing groups serve themselves, each to his own advantage, of widespread stereotypes concerning the corporality of the prophet. But Origen’s operation is not limited to this alone. The Christian philosopher starts his description of the Pythia in these terms: “Thus, it is narrated (ἱστόρηται).” The word ἱστόρηται is associated with the sphere of the “narration,” of a narration based on the personal vision of the narrator or of witnesses he has interrogated. 62 The use of such a verb, therefore, confirms the intention of building a visual image of the Pythia, confirmed by eye-witnesses accounts which, it is easy to perceive, date back to the Greek authors themselves. Those who “narrate” that the Pythia receives Apollo through her womb are the Hellenic writers who, as in the case of Pseudo-Longinus, describe the Delphic prophetess while she “gives birth” to oracles, “made pregnant” (ἐγκύμονα) by the πνεῦμα exhaling from a crack in the ground. 63 Therefore, the parallel between the Pythia and the “pregnant” woman, present in the Greek

58.  R.J. H auck , The More Divine Proof: Prophecy and Inspiration in Celsus and Origen (Atlanta, 1989); G. Sfameni Gasparro, “Ispirazione delle Scritture e divinazione pagana: aspetti della polemica fra Origene e Celso,” in G. Dorival – A. L e Boulluec , ed., Origeniana Sexta. Origène et la Bible/Origen and the Bible (Leuven, 1995) 287‑302. 59. Origen, Contra Celsum, VII, 8. On the criticisms by Greek intellectuals against Jewish and Christian prophecy see G. R inaldi, “Profetismo e profeti cristiani nel giudizio dei pagani,” in A. Carfora – E. Cattaneo, ed., Profeti e profezia: figure profetiche nel cristianesimo del II secolo (Trapani, 2007) 101‑122. 60. Origen, Contra Celsum, VII, 9‑10. 61.  On this question see L. A rcari, “Il corpo ‘eccedente’ del visionario e la sua neutralizzazione polemica tra mondo ellenistico-romano e cristianesimo,” in Il corpo in scena: rappresentazioni, tecniche, simboli. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Padova, 24‑26 settembre 2013, in course of publication. 62.  The verb ἱστορέω derives from the root *vid-, common to the Greek ὁράω and the Latin video (“to see”). 63. Pseudo-Longinus, De sublimitate, XIII, 2.

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documentation,  6 4 is incorporated into Origen’s system to sustain the demonic and lustful nature of Apollo: “And all this [the union of the god with his prophetess], not once or twice – which could perhaps have appeared more acceptable – but every single time that it is believed that she gives her responses through the inspiration of Apollo.” 65 In the words of Marshall Sahlins, 66 we are faced with one of those cases in which the assimilation (the “indigenization”) of the dominant culture reveals itself the instrument for noting the difference between them and us: they (the Greeks) worship depraved demons, we (the Christians, or at least those of Origen’s “Great Church”) the only true God. John Chrysostom makes reference to the sphere of «what is said», that is, to those corrosive discourses of the authority that the Latins call rumores: 67 Thus, it is said (λέγεται) that this Pythia, a common woman, sits upon the tripod of Apollo, opening her legs; an evil spirit (πνεῦμα πονηρὸν), ascending from beneath and entering the lower part of her body, fills the woman with madness (πληροῦν τὴν γυναῖκα τῆς μανίας), and she, with disheveled hair, plays the bacchanal (ἐκβακχεύεσθαί) and foams at the mouth, and thus, being in a state of drunkenness (ἐν παροινίᾳ), utters the words of the madness (τὰ τῆς μανίας φθέγγεσθαι ῥήματα). 68

Unlike Origen, Chrysostom is writing for a public that no longer has direct experience of the rite of consulting the Pythia 69 (though – with 64. See also Plutarch, De Pythiae oraculis, 405C-D where the Pythia is compared to the bride, who offers her pure and virgin soul to her god. 65. Origen, Contra Celsum, VII, 3. 66.  M. Sahlins , “Goodbye to Tristes Tropes: Ethnography in the Context of Modern World History,” The Journal of Modern History 65/1 (1993) 1‑25. 67. See B. Lincoln, Authority: Construction and Corrosion (Chicago, 1994) 69‑71; 74‑89; M. Bettini, “Weighty Words, Suspect Speech: Fari in Roman Culture,” Arethusa 41/2 (2008) 358‑361. 68.  John Chrysostom, In epistulam I ad Corinthios Homilia XIX, 260B-C, on which see A. Monaci, “Giovanni Crisostomo interprete di 1 Cor 12 e 14: i carismi tra Chiesa apostolica e Chiesa tardoantica,” in L. Padovese , ed., Paolo tra Tarso e Antiochia (Roma, 2008) 125‑137. A useful term of comparison for the Pythia of John Chrysostom is offered by Lucan, Pharsalia, V, 161‑193: the prophetess “outside herself in delirium […] shakes her hair garnished with the bands and the crown of Phoebus […] rolls her oscillating head, upturns the tripods that obstructs her movement, and boils with great fire […] The froth of delirium falls from the mouth of the possessed and from her throat come breathless groans and confused murmurs” intermixed with “dismal wailing.” 69. The last Delphic oracle recorded by tradition, told by the Pythia to the emissaries of the emperor Julian, dates from 362 A.D.: “Tell the emperor that the adorned hall has fallen to the ground. Phoebus no longer has his house here, nor his prophetic laurel, nor his loquacious spring; the speaking water has dried up” (Passio Sancti Artemii, 35D).

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every probability – it is not completely ignorant of the divinatory practices, which, despite repeated prohibitions, continued to have a certain success throughout late Antiquity 70). The different context of the discourse is not without consequences. Certainly, as in Origen, the representation of the Pythia constructed by John Chrysostom intends, first of all, to arouse a vision useful for denouncing the false Greek gods and, at the same time, their moral depravity. 71 However, while Origen’s discourse mainly stresses the demonic nature of Apollo, developing the tradition, witnessed from the time of Diodorus, of vapors exhaling from the ground as justification of the prophetic inspiration, 72 something already connected by the Greek authors to the idea of oracular declamation as “birth through the mouth,” 73 the description of Chrysostom, that appears in an almost identical form in a scholium to Aristophanes’ Plutus, 74 though using the imagine of the Pythia “made pregnant” by the Apollonian πνεῦμα, magnifies beyond measure the hysterical behaviour of the prophetess, reuniting, in a sort of agglutinative practice, a series of cultural models that were probably of separate and independent origins. The position of the Pythia who, sitting on the tripod with her legs apart, receives a gaseous exhalation through her genital organs, recalls, on the one hand, that of women in labour, and on the other, that of the Hippocratic patients with uterine problems, for 70.  On divination in late Antiquity see G. Sfameni Gasparro, Oracoli, profeti, sibille: rivelazione e salvezza nel mondo antico (Roma, 2002); G. Sfameni Gasparro, “Oracoli e teologia: praxis oracolare e riflessioni teologiche nella tarda antichità,” Kernos 26 (2013) 139‑156. 71.  G. Sissa, Le corps virginal. La virginité en Grèce ancienne (Paris, 1987) 49. 72.  For the sources see note 54. 73.  The reference is to the Pythia made “pregnant” by Apollo, on which see the sources given in notes 63 and 64. The “birth through the mouth,” considered by Plutarch, De Iside et Osiride, 381A as “image of the origin of language,” is attributed by the Greek authors (besides the already quoted passage of Plutarch, one should also recall Aelian, De natura animalium, X, 29 and Aristotle, De generatione animalium, 756b) to animals like the ibis and the weasel, called on to represent, through their own reproductive cycles, the different phases of the process of communication. On this question see M. Bettini, Nascere. Storie di donne, donnole, madri ed eroi (Torino, 1998) 162‑172; M. Bettini, Le orecchie di Hermes. Studi di antropologia e letterature classiche (Torino, 2000) 9‑11. 74.  Scholia to Aristophanes, Plutus, 39 Koster: “There was the Pythia, a woman who, as they say, sitting on the tripod of Apollo, and opening her legs, received through her genital organs a malign spirit emerging from below, and thus filled with folly, with her hair untied and foaming at the mouth, carrying out all those actions that the possessed usually do, she spoke the words of the oracular revelation, or rather of the folly.” The description of the Pythia present in the scholium is very similar to the one we find in John Chrysostom. The only difference regards the reference to the prophetess’ ἐκβακχεύεσθαι, probably added by the Christian author, who seems to have interpreted certain actions of the possessed Pythia (the act of untying her hair and that of frothing at the mouth) as symptoms of “drunkenness” (παροινία).

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whom the doctors of the corpus prescribe, in association with procreation and constant and regular sexual activity, the practice of vaginal fumigation. 75 The hysteria of the prophetess is compared to that of a “Bacchant” who, under the influence of “drunkenness,” releases her hair in the air and foams from her mouth, accompanying in this way the articulation of utterances not dictated by clairvoyant illumination, but by pure folly. 76 The unification into a single image of the cultural models just listed has the scope of putting on stage an indecent figure, that would normally be censured, but that, in this case, Chrysostom is “forced” to present with the aim of informing his audience: “I know that you was ashamed and blushed to hear these things” (Οἶδα ὅτι ᾐσχύνθητε καὶ ἠρύθριάσατε ταῦτα ἀκούσαντες). 77 This final declaration, with which the author excuses himself with his destined readers, stresses even more, through reference to the probable reactions of the recipients, the indecorous nature of a prophecy fathered by sexually avid demons, who use the hysterical body of a drunken Bacchant to transmit absurd and foolish prophecies. 78 Once again, and in an even more marked way than in Origen, a body out of control, extraneous to a “normalized” behaviour, socially recognized as decorous, is the semantic indicator chosen to discredit an “other” prophetic practice in the figure of its most authoritative and prestigious representative. C onclusions As in the case of Origen, also in that of John Chrysostom the criticism of Greek prophecy is accompanied by the incorporation of those elements of 75.  Sources and discussion in G. Sissa, Le corps virginal. La virginité en Grèce ancienne (Paris, 1987) 66‑75. On Hippocratic gynecology see V. A ndò, “Modelli culturali e fisiologia della maternità nella medicina ippocratica,” in G. Fiume , ed., Madri. Storia di un ruolo sociale (Venezia, 1995) 33‑44; V. A ndò, “Terapie ginecologiche, saperi femminili e specificità di genere,” in I. Garofalo – A. L ami – D. M anetti – A. Roselli, ed., Aspetti della terapia nel Corpus Hippocraticum. Atti del IX Colloque International Hippocratique, Pisa, 25‑29 settembre 1996 (Firenze, 1999) 255‑270. 76.  On the behaviour and gestures of the Bacchants see A. H enrichs , “Greek Maenadism from Olympias to Messalina,” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 82 (1978) 121‑160; J.N. Bremmer , “Greek Maenadism Reconsidered,” Zeit­ schrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 55 (1984) 267‑286; I. M archal-L ouët, “Enjeux tragiques de la mise en scène du geste dans les ‘Bacchantes’ d’Euripide,” in M.-H. Garelli, ed., Corps en jeu: de l ’Antiquité à nos jours. Actes du Colloque International, Université de Toulouse II-Le Mirail, 9‑11 octobre 2008 (Rennes, 2010) 205‑219. 77.  John Chrysostom, In epistulam I ad Corinthios Homilia XIX, 260B-C. 78. See R. Padel , “Women: Model for Possession by Greek Daemons,” in A. Cameron – A. Kuhrt, ed., Images of Women in Antiquity (Detroit, 1993) 3‑19.

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the rival culture useful for the polemical construction of the “other” on the basis of widespread cultural codes and stereotypes, that mainly concern the body of the visionary. Thus, the debate on inspired prophecy, testified by Origen’s reply to Celsus and, even before, by the anti-Montanist and anti-Marcosian polemics, makes prophetic corporeity a genuine dialectical space, in which the Christian representation of the Pythia, inspired by a behaviour set accepted or condemned by a specific group, emerges as a powerful instrument of self-definition that is not limited to criticism of the different, but that receives elements of the other, adapting them to the representation of self. In particular, the dialectic between hearing and seeing, between a Pythia that is heard and a Pythia that is seen, which is already attested by the Greek image of the prophetess as a pregnant woman about to “give birth” to the oracles of Apollo, is exploited by the Christian authors to define the physionomy of an indecent and sinful body, subject of the lewd desires of corrupt demons, vehicle of lies and falsehoods, with respect to which they establish the character of “true” prophecy. Within such a process, a natural hypothesis is that the Christian construction of the Greek alterum brought about the response of the Hellenic intellectuals occupied with the “saving” of the traditional religion. Even though there is only a trail of clues, perhaps is it not only by chance that Iamblichus, the first Greek author that gives a representation of the Pythia in fully “visual” terms rather than in “acoustic” terms, describes her sitting on the tripod while “she is illuminated by the ray of fire of the god” and “filled by him with a divine splendor.” 79 Iamblichus’ project, aimed at providing a new theoretical foundation to the ancient mantic, seems to define itself in opposition to the criticisms of the Greek intellectuals against divination, 80 but also in reply to the Christian representations of the Alexandrine setting, 81 perhaps mediated by the polemic of Porphyry. 82 Apollo is no longer, as in Origen, a depraved spirit exhaling 79. Iamblichus, De mysteriis, III, 11. 80.  The criticisms against divination are common in the Aristotelian and Epicurean tradition (see at this regard Origen, Contra Celsum, VII, 3). The phenomenon of prophetism, both Greek and Christian, is derided by Lucian of Samosata in two satirical dialogues, Alexander or the false prophet and The Death of Peregrine, on which see G. R inaldi, “Profetismo e profeti cristiani nel giudizio dei pagani,” in A. Carfora – E. Cattaneo, ed., Profeti e profezia: figure profetiche nel cristia­ nesimo del II secolo (Trapani, 2007) 112‑119. 81.  Besides the quoted passages of Origen, see Clement of Alexandria, Stromata, I, 135, 2‑3: the author opposes the Hebrew prophets, inspired by God, to the false Hellenic prophets, “driven by demons or put into a trance by certain waters, or fumes, or a special quality of the air.” 82.  In particular I refer to a fragment (quoted by Eusebius, Praeparatio Evangelica, V, 8, 11‑12) of On the Philosophy of the Oracles, generally interpreted as pars costruens of the Discourse against the Christians, in which the luminous πνεῦμα of god, once penetrated into the body of the prophet, transforms into the voice that

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from the subsoil, but light and splendour. The Pythia is certainly a body, but not that of a common woman waiting to receive into the bosom a lustful demon; she is a body that radiates truth. Credible result of a “war of images”, in which the Greek tradition seems induced to explain itself in the light of the polemical interpretations provided by competing groups, Iamblichus’ Pythia confirms that “no society can give itself a legible figure on the diachrony if it does not institute an intricate plot able both to support the accumulation of collective experiences […] and to reinvent its own rhythms recurring to endogenous and exogenous mechanisms of innovation”; in other words, that what we call “tradition” is not a rigid and monolithic entity, fixed once and for all, but an “anthropological structure […] that produces transmission processes” that, according to the needs and circumstances, reconstruct “the historical-cultural continuity” of a specific human societas at the price of re-initiations, transformations and reformulations. 83

proffers the oracle. As observes H. L ewy, Chaldean Oracles and Theurgy (Paris, 20113) 45‑47: “This metamorphosis is described with anatomical accuracy. The pneuma falls about the head of the recipient, is inhaled by him, and thus enters the stomach; then it ascends and becomes a breath, which makes the vocal tube resound like a flute (αὐλός signifies both vocal tube and flute the musical instrument). Thus the corporal organ of the recipient serve as the instruments of the god. This conception which supposes that the human body is possessed by the god and that the recipient, when in the state of enthusiasm, is entirely passive, conforms to notions that were widely disseminated in later Antiquity […] This pneuma is moved to descend by enchanting songs and ineffable words. These terms designate the hymns and the magical formulae recited by the callers. Some information regarding these conjurations can be drawn from several of the oracles quoted in Porphyry’s work On the Philosophy of the Oracles. The terminology and the tenets of these oracles point once more to a Chaldean origin.” On the reception of Porphyry’s work about divination see A. M agny, Porphyry in Fragments: Reception of an Anti-Christian Text in Late Antiquity (Farnham-Burlington, VT, 2014). 83.  C. P randi, La tradizione religiosa. Saggio storico-sociologico (Roma, 2000) 32.

DANCING IN A NCIENT CHRISTIANITY: I NITIAL R ESEARCH Donatella Tronca Dancing is an essential element of many ancient cultures and is still considered sacred in many Eastern religions. Anthropologists believe that man dances for a wide variety of reasons ranging from honour and worship to creating a link with the supernatural, and that the important role played by dance in many religious practices is provided by its communicative powers, which entertain the senses on a symbolic and emotional level. 1 The ambiguous and at times conflictual attitude of Christianity towards the body has produced some equally ambiguous and conflictual reactions to a practice such as dance. On one hand, the body is seen as the temple of the Holy Ghost, an instrument for honouring God. 2 However, as it is also regarded as the means through which the worst sins can be committed, it needs to be transcended and mortified. At the beginning of the Christian era, the most characteristic elements of the attitude towards dance were the legacies of Judaism and the polytheistic cults. For the Jewish religion, dance is an essential devotional tool: it is seen as an expression of joy for God’s benevolence and a tribute of honour; the Talmud prescribes dancing during wedding ceremonies and describes dance as one of the most important activities carried out by angels. Many early Christian writers were probably influenced by this concept and associated dance with angels in heaven. They thus gave it their seal of approval, as they saw it as a mark of the human desire to enter paradise, a metaphor for the mysteries of the faith. It is therefore highly probable that Christianity – a kind of spin-off of the Jewish faith – also adopted this practice in its early stages, when it was still characterised by abstract and ecstatic practices. 3 After all, as Remo Cacitti notes, there is a substan-

1. J.L. H anna, “Danza e religione,” in M. Eliade – D.M. Cosi – L. Saibene – R. Scagno,  ed., Enciclopedia delle religioni, II, Il rito. Oggetti, Atti, Cerimonie, da un primo progetto di tematizzazione di I.P. Coulianu (Milano, 1994) 124‑135: 124. 2.  1 Corinthians 6:19‑20: “What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?”. 3.  G. Tani, Storia della danza dalle origini ai nostri giorni I (Firenze, 1983) 239. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 433–448 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111715 ©

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tial mystical tradition from The Shepherd by Hermas to the Fathers of the Church which sees dance as a way of participating in celestial joy. 4 The other major influence with regard to dance in early Christianity comes from the polytheistic cults. The Greeks considered dance to be a supreme art form, as men express their emotions through both words and body movements; the latter were transformed into dance, as the gods donated the sense of rhythm and harmony. This bond with the divinities gave rise to the concept that every dance belonged to the spiritual realm. 5 In this paper, I will present an initial outline of the main themes and problems in constructing the cultural and religious history of dance between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, without aiming to analyse individual historical and philological-literary contexts or possible intertextual relations. These aspects will be studied more comprehensively at a subsequent stage of my research. This is also because there are currently no exhaustive monographs on dance in the early centuries. 6 Instead, the study of this topic is generally limited to entries in encyclopaedias that inevitably lack in-depth analysis, although they often carry great scientific weight. 7 The phenomenon has also frequently been addressed in studies on similar subjects, such as theatre, but here too – as one would expect – only somewhat peripherally. 8 In his commentary on the Gospel of Matthew at the end of the IV century, John Chrysostom stated “where dance is, there is the devil.” 9 This expression later re-emerged in thirteenth-century texts by the Dominican 4.  R. Cacitti, “Sepulcrorum et picturarum adoratores. Un’iconografia della Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis nel culto martiriale donatista,” in R. Cacitti, G. L egrottaglie , G. P elizzari, M.P. Rossignani,  ed., L’ara dipinta di Thaenae. Indagine sul culto martiriale nell ’Africa paleocristiana (Roma, 2011) 72‑136: 120. 5.  L. Friedland, “Danza popolare e folcloristica,” in M. Eliade – D.M. Cosi – L. Saibene – R. Scagno,  ed., Enciclopedia delle religioni, II, Il rito. Oggetti, Atti, Cerimonie, da un primo progetto di tematizzazione di I.P. Coulianu (Milano, 1994) 135‑144: 135. 6.  Apart from the work by C. Bermond, La danza negli scritti di Filone, Clemente Alessandrino e Origene: storia e simbologia (Frankfurt, 2001), which in any case only analyses the way that the subject was treated by a few selected authors. 7. See, for example: É. Bertaud, “Danse religieuse,” in Dictionnaire de spiritualité, ascetique et mystique, doctrine et histoire, III, 1957, 22‑37; L. Gougaud, “Danse,” in F. Cabrol – H. L eclercq,  ed., Dictionnaire d ’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie, IV (Paris, 1920) 248‑258; T. Ortolan, “Danse,” in Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, IV/1, 107‑134; O. Pasquato, “Danza,” in A. Di Berardino, ed., Nuovo Dizionario Patristico e di Antichità Cristiane, I (Genova, 2006) 1336‑1337; P. R iché , “Danza,” in A. Vauchez ,  ed., Dizionario enciclopedico del Medioevo, Italian edition by C. L eonardi (Roma, 1998) 542. 8.  See, for example, L. Lugaresi, Il teatro di Dio. Il problema degli spettacoli nel cristianesimo antico (II-IV secolo) (Brescia, 2008). 9.  ἔνθα γάρ ὂρχησις, ἐκεῖ διάβολος, Iohannes Chrysostomus, In Matthaeum homiliae 48,3, Patrologia Graeca 58, 491.

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Guillaume Peyrot and the Canon Regular Jacques de Vitry, 10 and has always been used to summarize the Christian concept of dance without any distinctions, even by many contemporary scholars, as if it had never changed in any respect since the dawn of the religion. However, I feel that more studies need to be conducted and suitable distinctions need to be drawn. The historiographical prejudice is partly due to the fact that studies on the history of dance have thus far focused largely on the analysis of council regulations which restricted or prohibited the practice outright. 11 Although such sources should be considered fundamental, they are not the only texts that need to be analysed; we should turn our focus to other sources to further our understanding of this important aspect of Christian life, especially in the first few centuries, starting from biblical texts and patristic literature. Moreover, the fact that the resolutions of these councils (as well as those of episcopal statutes and penitential books) were repeated throughout the Middle Ages shows that the actual practice of dance never stopped completely, as it was an integral part of folklore and Christian rites such as wedding feasts and funerals. All in all, the negative stance of the Fathers towards dance does not seem too far removed from the earlier attitude of many pagan philosophers towards theatre, mimes and the acting profession in general. By overly simplifying this aspect, we could make the mistake of claiming that dance was excluded from churches simply because it was seen as a pagan practice, sometimes even starting from the premise of placing ritual dances above all in heretical contexts. 12 After all, Bacchic dancing and dances of Nymphs and Satyrs had already been condemned by Plato and excluded from the ideal city, 13 while Cicero associated dancing with madness and drunkenness – characteristics that could not belong to a respectable person – in his oration Pro Murena to defend Lucius Licinius Murena against an accusation by Cato that he had danced in Asia. This classic text had an enormous influence on censors of dancing in the West, also because Ambrose quoted it in De virginibus (3,5). 14

10.  “Chorea est circulus, cuius centrum est diabolus”: A. A rcangeli, “La Chiesa e la danza tra tardo Medioevo e prima età moderna,” Ludica. Annali di storia e civiltà del gioco 13‑14 (2007‑2008) 199‑207: 203. 11.  P. R iché , “Danza,” in A. Vauchez ,  ed., Dizionario enciclopedico del Medioevo, Italian edition by C. L eonardi (Roma, 1998) 542. 12.  O. Pasquato, Gli spettacoli in s. Giovanni Crisostomo. Paganesimo e Cristianesimo ad Antiochia e Costantinopoli nel IV secolo (Roma, 1976) 261. 13.  Laws 814d et seq.; S. Beta, “Introduzione,” in Luciano, La danza, ed. by S. B eta (Venezia, 1992) 15. 14.  A. A rcangeli, Davide o Salomè? Il dibattito europeo sulla danza nella prima età moderna (Treviso – Roma, 2000) 108.

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In our attempt to establish whether dancing was actually carried out, there is an extremely scant range of sources regarding the origins of Christianity and the concept of dance at that time. However, the passage that is present in the Gospels of Luke and Matthew in which Jesus criticizes the way that the Pharisees behave towards John the Baptist and says “we have piped unto you, and ye have not danced” (Luke 7:32, Matthew 11:7) seems to indicate that he himself accepted the practice as a manifestation of joy. In the first few centuries, Christians shared the idea with Jews that dancing was an act of worship, a concept that can be found in numerous literary references to martyrs and angels dancing in heaven. For example, Basil of Caesarea asks who is more blessed on earth than those that can imitate the χορείαν (choral dance) of the angels. 15 The Scriptures provide various examples of dancing, some of which are given a negative connotation, such as the idolatrous dance by the Jews before the Golden Calf 16 and Salome’s dance, which leads to the death of John the Baptist. 17 More often, however, they are dances which celebrate moments of joy or praise God, and sometimes also feature a kind of holy possession on an individual or collective basis. 18 For example, David’s dance before the Ark of the Covenant is an act of worship. 19 15. Basilius Magnus, Epistola II, Basilius Gregorio, Patrologia Graeca, 32, 225‑226: Τί οὖν μακαριώτερου τοῦ τὴν ἀγγέλων χορείαν ἐν γῇ μιμεῖσθαι; 16.  Exodus 32:19: “And it came to pass, as soon as he came nigh unto the camp, that he saw the calf, and the dancing: and Moses’ anger waxed hot, and he cast the tables out of his hands, and brake them beneath the mount.” 17. Matthew 14:6‑8: “But when Herod’s birthday was kept, the daughter of Herodias danced before them, and pleased Herod. Whereupon he promised with an oath to give her whatsoever she would ask. And she, being before instructed of her mother, said, Give me here John Baptist’s head in a charger”; Mark 6:22‑25: “And when the daughter of the said Herodias came in, and danced, and pleased Herod and them that sat with him, the king said unto the damsel, Ask of me whatsoever thou wilt, and I will give it thee. And he sware unto her, Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, I will give it thee, unto the half of my kingdom. And she went forth and said unto her mother, What shall I ask? And she said, The head of John the Baptist. And she came in straightway with haste unto the king, and asked, saying, I will that thou give me by and by in a charger the head of John the Baptist.” 18.  J.-C. Schmitt, Il gesto nel Medioevo (Bari, 1991 [or. ed. 1990]) 71. 19.  2 Samuel 6:14‑16: “And David danced before the Lord with all his might; and David was girded with a linen ephod. So David and all the house of Israel brought up the ark of the Lord with shouting, and with the sound of the trumpet. And as the ark of the Lord came into the city of David, Michal Saul’s daughter looked through a window, and saw king David leaping and dancing before the Lord; and she despised him in her heart.” There are many examples of celebratory dancing in Jewish Scripture: Psalm 149:2‑3 (“Let Israel rejoice in him that made him: let the children of Zion be joyful in their King. / Let them praise his name in the dance: let them sing praises unto him with the timbrel and harp”) and 150:4‑5 (“Praise him with the timbrel and dance: praise him with stringed instruments and

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The apocryphal books Acts of John, which have been dated to between the mid II century and the end of the III century, 20 mention that Jesus himself danced and sang a hymn during the Last Supper, while the Apostles danced around him in a circle. 21 These texts, which were deemed diabolical writings by the second Council of Nicaea (787), 22 could provide us with information that escaped the books that were considered authentic and contain material that might bring us closer to the oral tradition that the earliest Christian teaching was based on. Melody Gabrielle Beard-Shouse writes that the ring dance described in the Acts of John suggests an ecstatic rite that is extremely similar to the concept of the circle in Greek philosophy: Plato says that circular dance is a reflection of the cosmos and the movement of the heavenly bodies, symbolizing the principle of order within the cosmos. 23 The text of the Acts, which is somewhat fragmentary, narrates an event that can be placed chronologically just after or in substitution of the Last Supper of the Synoptic Gospels and before the arrest and crucifixion of Jesus; unfortunately, the section immediately before the episode of the organs. / Praise him upon the loud cymbals: praise him upon the high sounding cymbals”); Judith 15:12‑13 (“Then all the women of Israel ran together to see her, and blessed her, and made a dance among them for her: and she took branches in her hand, and have also to the women that were with her. And they put a garland of olive upon her and her maid that was with her, and she went before all the people in the dance, leading all the women: and all the men of Israel followed in their armour with garlands, and with songs in their mouths”); Jeremiah 31:13 (“Then shall the virgin rejoice in the dance, both young men and old together: for I will turn their mourning into joy, and will comfort them, and make them rejoice from their sorrow”); Ecclesiastes 3:4 (“A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance”). 20.  R. Cacitti, “Οἱ εἰς ἔτι νῦν καί εἰς ἡμᾶς κάνονες. I  Terapeuti di Alessandria nella vita spirituale protocristiana,” in L.F. P izzolato – M. R izzi, ed., Origene maestro di vita spirituale. Origen: Master of Spiritual Life (Milano, 13‑15 September 1999) (Milano, 2001) 47‑89: 82. Regarding the fortunes of the Acta Iohannis and the complex question of dating it, see E. Junod – J.-D. K aestli, L’histoire des actes apocryphes des apôtres du IIIe au IXe siècle: le cas des Actes de Jean (Genève, 1982). 21.  Κελεύσας οὖν ἡμῖν γῦρον ποιῆσαι, ἀποκρατούντων τάς ἀλλήλων χεῖρας, ἐν μέσῳ δὲ αὐτὸς γενόμενος ἒλεγεν· Τὸ ἀμὴν ὑπακούετέ μοι. Ἤρξατο οὖν ὑμνεῖν καὶ λέγειν· Δόξα σοι πάτερ. Καὶ ἡμεῖς κυκλεύοντες ὑπηκούομεν αὐτῷ τὸ ἀμήν: E. Junod – J.-D. K aestli, ed., Acta Iohannis, 94 (Turnhout 1983) (Corpus Christianorum. Series Apocryphorum 1) 199. 22.  M ansi, Sacrorum Conciliorum Nova et Amplissima Collectio, XIII, 170‑175. 23.  M.G. Beard -Shouse , The Circle Dance of the Cross in the Acts of John: an Early Christian Ritual (M.A. thesis conducted under the supervision of Paul A. Mirecki. Submitted to the graduate degree program in Religious Study and the Graduate Faculty of the University of Kansas in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master’s of Arts), 2009, 32‑36. Available online at the following address: https://kuscholarworks.ku.edu/bitstream/handle/1808/6462/ BeardShouse_ku_0099M_10717_DATA_1.pdf?sequence=1 [24.04.2015].

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dance has been lost. The text in question describes Jesus instructing the Apostles to form a circle around him while holding hands and to respond “Amen” to each of his statements. Jesus then starts to sing a hymn. There are a number of surviving fragments of the Acta Iohannis, which is thought to have been written in Greek, that have all been dated to between the X and XV century. 24 Nevertheless, there are various references to this text in patristic writings from the IV century onwards: for example, Eusebius of Caesarea mentions it in a list of apocryphal works contained in his Ecclesiastical History (3,25). Jean-Daniel Kaestli, who edited the critical edition of the Acta Iohannis in 1983 with Eric Junod, described this dance as a rite of initiation for a mystery cult (μυστήριον) and an alternative to the Eucharist; Arthur Dewey classified the hymn in the text as a hyporchema, thereby juxtaposing it with the Hellenistic tradition that included imitative and ecstatic dance. 25 The hyporchema was a hymn in cretic verse, originally used to honour Apollo, which made use of dance and pantomime (from ὑπορχέομαι, which indicates dancing to the rhythm of the song and dance accompanied by moaning). This form of hymn combined song and dance to induce a state of ecstasy and was also mentioned by Lucian of Samosata, the second-century author of a dialogue Περί ὀρχήσεως in favour and in defence of pantomime, which was copied throughout the Middle Ages by members of the same institutions that should have opposed the practice according to the most widespread belief. 26 The text of the Acts of John has been attributed to Valentinian gnostic influences, 27 but there is a lively general debate about its true origin, also because of its fragmentary nature. Rather than becoming involved in the question of attributions, I am more interested in the fact that it seems to be a product of the plural nature of early Christianity and the ways in which it was influenced by cultures that predated it or interacted with it as it became increasingly widespread. Indeed, as Beard-Shouse claims, it is more important to know that it was a written text and was therefore important at least for the author or authors (and those who might have bequeathed it orally), as well as its potential readers, than to classify the text within the context of a group of early Christians. Furthermore, the 24.  M.G. Beard -Shouse , The Circle Dance of the Cross in the Acts of John: an Early Christian Ritual, 10‑11. 25.  A.J. Dewey, “The Hymn in the Acts of John: Dance as Hermeneutic,” Semeia 38 (1986) 67‑80; J.-D. K aestli, “Response,” Semeia 38 (1986) 81‑88. 26.  S. Beta, “Introduzione,” in Luciano, La danza, ed. by S. Beta (Venezia, 1992) 25. 27.  R. Cacitti, “Οἱ εἰς ἔτι νῦν καί εἰς ἡμᾶς κάνονες. I  Terapeuti di Alessandria nella vita spirituale protocristiana,” in L.F. P izzolato – M. R izzi, ed., Origene maestro di vita spirituale. Origen: Master of Spiritual Life (Milano, 13‑15 September 1999) (Milano, 2001) 47‑89: 82.

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fact that the text has survived, albeit in fragmentary and limited form, shows that it was also important for other users, presumably Christians, who must have thought that it deserved to be preserved. In the same way, although we cannot attribute the circular dance to a particular group of Christians with any certainty, it is significant to know that it might have been performed at some time somewhere in the Eastern Mediterranean. 28 With regard to dance as a practice in ancient Christianity and the image of Christus saltans, the relatively recent discovery of the so-called Gospel of the Saviour has a certain importance. It was found in the 1990s by Charles Hedrick and Paul Mirecki and was the subject of a series of articles by the journal Apocrypha in 2013. 29 In this extremely fragmentary text, which is bequeathed in Coptic and has been dated to between the V and VI century, 30 the words spoken by Jesus while surrounded by his disciples suggest a sort of ecstatic and communal dance around the cross. In the aforementioned journal, Paul Dilley links this “dance of the Saviour” to the Christian appropriation of Dionysian and Davidic images in references to celebrations, such as those in the cult of martyrs and imperial rituals. 31 Therefore, instead of seeing the Gospel of the Saviour as an apocryphal book, the author associates it with the variety of rituals in early Christianity. This is a feature shared with the Acts of John. In the text of the Acta Iohannis, dance is linked in some way to a form of awareness: Ὁ μὴ χορέυων  / το γινόμενον ἀγνοεῖ. Ἀμήν. 32 Those who

28.  M.G. Beard -Shouse , The Circle Dance of the Cross in the Acts of John: an Early Christian Ritual, 17‑18. 29.  I am grateful to Daniele Tripaldi for having brought them to my attention. 30.  A. Suciu, Apocryphon Berolinense/Argentoratense (Previously Known as the Gospel of the Savior). Reedition of P. Berol. 22220, Strasbourg Copte 5‑7 and Qasr el-Wizz Codex ff. 12v‑17r with Introduction and Commentary, Thèse Université Laval (Quebec, 2013), available online at the following address: http://theses. ulaval.ca/archimede/meta/30038 [24.04.2015]; C.H. H edrick – P. M irecki, ed., The Gospel of the Savior. A New Ancient Gospel (Santa Rosa, 1999); W. H edrick , “Dating the Gospel of the Savior response to Peter Nagel and Pierluigi Piovanelli,” Apocrypha 24 (2013) 223‑236. See also S. E mmel , “The recently published Gospel of the Savior (“Unbekanntes Berliner Evangelium”): Righting the Order of Pages and Events,” Harvard Theological Review 95 (2002) 45‑72. 31.  P. Dilley, “Christus Saltans as Dionysos and David: The Dance of the Savior in its Late-Antique Cultural Context,” Apocrypha 24 (2013) 237‑254. See also E. Yingling, “Singing with the Savior: Reconstructing the Ritual Ring-Dance in the Gospel of the Savior,” Apocrypha 24 (2013) 255‑279. Regarding dance in The Gospel of the Saviour, see also P. P iovanelli, “Thursday Night Fever: Dancing and Singing with Jesus in the Gospel of the Savior and the Dance of the Savior around the Cross,” Early Christianity 3 (2012) 229‑248. 32.  E. Junod – J.-D. K aestli, ed., Acta Iohannis, 94 (Corpus Christianorum. Series Apocryphorum 1) (Turnhout, 1983) 203: “He who does not dance does not know what happens. Amen.”

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dance with Jesus are party to this awareness, while those who do not dance are excluded from it. The connection between dance and awareness, which is seen, however, as a form of possession by the divinity, is frequently made in sources and to my mind recalls the dance by Miriam, Aaron’s sister, who is described as a prophetess in Exodus. While holding a tympanum, she leads the other women who follow her with the same instrument, forming dancing choruses. 33 In the first-century work The Contemplative Life, Philo of Alexandria describes the rites of song and dance celebrated by the Therapeutae at Pentecost. As he wrote in Greek, the terms he used to indicate dance were those that featured in spoken Greek in Alexandria at that time, the same ones used in the Greek translation of the Septuagint: ὀρχεῖσθαι, χορεύειν, σχιρτᾶν. By translating the eleven Hebrew root words that describe dance in the Scriptures,  3 4 these three terms also translate a religious aspect of dance, moving the semantic axis to a cultural context originally linked to Greek drama (ὀρχεῖσθαι and χορεύειν) and mystery (σχιρτᾶν). 35 The religious community of the Therapeuthae was born in Alexandria, by the shores of Lake Mariout; Philo relates that these ascetics lived in poverty and chastity and celebrated Pentecost. During this gathering, which was held every fifty days and included a vigil, two choirs – one of men and the other of women – moved around using dance steps; they were inebriated just like the Bacchae, but from a state of holy drunkenness. According to Eusebius of Caesarea, who offers a summary of Philo’s work in his Ecclesiastical History, the choreutic and therapeutic practices that form part of the liturgy of this group could be associated with the celebrations of Christians at the time. 36 It is this characteristic of sobria ebrietas 33.  Exodus 15:20: “And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances.” 34.  M.I. Gruber , “Ten Dance-Derived Expressions in the Hebrew Bible,” in D. A dams – D. A postolos-Cappadona,  ed., Dance as Religious Studies (Eugene, Oregon, 2001) 48‑66. 35.  C. Bermond, La danza negli scritti di Filone, Clemente Alessandrino e Origene: storia e simbologia (Frankfurt, 2001) 21. 36.  “And they say that this Mark was the first that was sent to Egypt, and that he proclaimed the Gospel which he had written, and first established churches in Alexandria. And the multitude of believers, both men and women, that were collected there at the very outset, and lived lives of the most philosophical and excessive ascetism, was so great, that Philo thought it worth while to describe their pursuits, their meetings, their entertainments, and their whole manner of life. […] And since he describes as accurately as possible the life of our ascetics, it is clear that he not only knew, but that he also approved, while he venerated and extolled, the apostolic men of his time, who were as it seems of the Hebrew race, and hence observed, after the manner of the Jews, the most of the customs of the ancients.

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(μέθη νηφάλιος), which leads to an ecstatic dance, that makes the Therapeuthae’s symposium solemn with prayers and singing. 37 The corypheuses […] He says that these men were called Therapeutae and the women that were with them Therapeutrides. He then adds the reasons for such a name, explaining it from the fact that they applied remedies and healed the souls of those who came to them, by relieving them like physicians, of evil passions, or from the fact that they served and worshiped the Deity in purity and sincerity. […] Why is it necessary to add to these things their meetings and the respective occupations of the men and of the women during those meetings, and the practices which are even to the present day habitually observed by us, especially such as we are accustomed to observe at the feast of the Saviour’s passion, with fasting and night watching and study of the divine Word. These things the above-mentioned author has related in his own work, indicating a mode of life which has been preserved to the present time by us alone, recording especially the vigils kept in connection with the great festival, and the exercises performed during those vigils, and the hymns customarily recited by us, and describing how, while one sings regularly in time, the others listen in silence, and join in chanting only the close of the hymns”: Eusebius of Caesarea, Ecclesiastical History, II, 16‑17, English translation available at the following address: http://www.documentacatholicaomnia.eu/03d/0265‑0339,_Eusebius_Caesariensis,_Church_History,_EN.pdf [24.04.2015]. 37.  “And after the feast they celebrate the sacred festival during the whole night; and this nocturnal festival is celebrated in the following manner: they all stand up together, and in the middle of the entertainment two choruses are formed at first, the one of men and the other of women, and for each chorus there is a leader and chief selected, who is the most honourable and most excellent of the band. Then they sing hymns which have been composed in honour of God in many metres and tunes, at one time all singing together, and at another moving their hands and dancing in corresponding harmony, and uttering in an inspired manner songs of thanksgiving, and at another time regular odes, and performing all necessary strophes and antistrophes. Then, when each chorus of the men and each chorus of the women has feasted separately by itself, like persons in the bacchanalian revels, drinking the pure wine of the love of God, they join together, and the two become one chorus, an imitation of that one which, in old time, was established by the Red Sea, on account of the wondrous works which were displayed there […]. When the Israelites saw and experienced this great miracle, which was an event beyond all description, beyond all imagination, and beyond all hope, both men and women together, under the influence of divine inspiration, becoming all one chorus, sang hymns of thanksgiving to God the Saviour, Moses the prophet leading the men, and Miriam the prophetess leading the women. Now the chorus of male and female worshippers being formed, as far as possible on this model, makes a most humorous concert, and a truly musical symphony, the shrill voices of the women mingling with the deep-toned voices of the men. The ideas were beautiful, the expressions beautiful, and the chorus-singers were beautiful; and the end of ideas, and expressions, and chorus-singers, was piety; therefore, being intoxicated all night till the morning with this beautiful intoxication, without feeling their heads heavy or closing their eyes for sleep, but being even more awake than when they came to the feast, as to their eyes and their whole bodies, and standing there till morning, when they saw the sun rising they raised their hands to heaven, imploring tranquillity and truth, and acuteness of understanding. And after their prayers they each retired to their own separate abodes, with the intention of again practising the usual phi-

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at the head of these dancing processions embodied the figures of Moses and Miriam (Μαριάμ τῆς προφήτιδος) and the ultimate aim of this corybantic ecstasy was perfect awareness: “Therefore if any desire comes upon thee, O soul, to be the inheritor of the good things of God, leave not only thy country, the body, and thy kindred, the outward of senses, and thy father’s house, that is speech; but also flee from thyself, and depart out of thyself, like the Corybantes, or those possessed with demons, being driven to frenzy, and inspired by some prophetic inspiration”. 38 In another work, De opificio mundi, Philo shows that he was also influenced by the Platonic concept of dance as a reflection of the cosmos and gives further consideration to the sober drunkenness that invades those who devote themselves to stargazing. 39 losophy to which they had been wont to devote themselves. This then is what I have to say of those who are called therapeutae, who have devoted themselves to the contemplation of nature, and who have lived in it and in the soul alone, being citizens of heaven and of the world, and very acceptable to the Father and Creator of the universe because of their virtue, which has procured them his love as their most appropriate reward, which far surpasses all the gifts of fortune, and conducts them to the very summit and perfection of happiness”: Philo of Alexandria, The Contemplative Life, 83‑90, English translation by C.D. Yonge , available at the following address: http://www.deeperstudy.com/link/47-contemplative.html [24.04.2015]. See also R. Cacitti, “Οἱ εἰς ἔτι νῦν καί εἰς ἡμᾶς κάνονες. I  Terapeuti di Alessandria nella vita spirituale protocristiana,” in L.F. P izzolato – M. R izzi, ed., Origene maestro di vita spirituale. Origen: Master of Spiritual Life (Milano, 13‑15 September 1999) (Milano, 2001) 47‑89: 73. 38.  ἀλλὰ καὶ σαυτὴν ἀπόδραθι καὶ ἔκστηθι σεαυτῆς, ὥσπερ οἱ κατεχόμενοι καὶ κορυβαντιῶντες, βακχευθεῖσα καὶ θεοφορηθεῖσα κατὰ τινα προφητικὸν ἐπιθειασμόν; ἐνθουσιώσης γὰρ καὶ οὐκέτ’οὔσης ἐν ἑαυτῇ διανοίας, ἀλλ’ἒρωτι οὐρανίῳ σεσοβημένης κἀκμεμηνυίας καὶ ὑπὸ τοῦ ὂντως ὂντος ἠγμένης: Philo of Alexandria, Quis rerum divinarum heres sit, 69, in Filone d’Alessandria, La vita contemplativa, ed. by P. Graffigna (Genova, 1992), 188; English translation by C.D. Yonge , available at the following address: http://www.deeperstudy.com/ link/16-heir.html [24.04.2015]. R. Cacitti, “Οἱ εἰς ἔτι νῦν καί εἰς ἡμᾶς κάνονες. I Terapeuti di Alessandria nella vita spirituale protocristiana,” in L.F. P izzolato – M. R izzi, ed., Origene maestro di vita spirituale. Origen: Master of Spiritual Life (Milano, 13‑15 September 1999) (Milano, 2001) 47‑89: 84‑85. 39.  “And again, being raised up on wings, and so surveying and contemplating the air, and all the commotions to which it is subject, it is borne upwards to the higher firmament, and to the revolutions of the heavenly bodies. And also being itself involved in the revolutions of the planets and fixed stars according to the perfect laws of music, and being led on by love, which is the guide of wisdom, it proceeds onwards till, having surmounted all essence intelligible by the external senses, it comes to aspire to such as is perceptible only by the intellect: and perceiving in that, the original models and ideas of those thing intelligible by the external senses which it saw here full of surpassing beauty, it becomes seized with a sort of sober intoxication like the zealots engaged in the Corybantian festivals, and yields to enthusiasm (μέθῃ νηφαλίῳ κατασχεθεὶς ὣσπερ οἱ κορυβαντιῶντες ἐνθουσιᾷ), becoming filled with another desire, and a more excellent longing, by which it is

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We need to underline the importance that Philo attributes to the concept of χαρά: this term, which can be etymologically attributed to Χάρις, the Grace that dances in the Acts of John (Ἡ χαρις χορεύει.  / Αὐλῆσαι θέλω, / ὀρχήσασθε πάντες. Ἀμήν),  4 0 and to which Plato attributes an etymology of χορóς at the beginning of the second book of Laws (654a), is the same laetitia that fills the soul by making it smile and rejoice to the point where it is prompted to dance, appearing to those not participating in the worship as delirious and possessed – βεβάκχευται. 41 Alessandro Arcangeli noted that although Plato’s etymology is somewhat notional, the very fact that he was drawn to this phonetic affinity indicates the established link between dancing and happiness in Greek culture. 42 Remo Cacitti identified a pertinent connection in terms of therapeutic mediation between the Christological hymn and dance in the Acts of John and the liturgical dancing of the Jewish ascetic community of Lake Mariout near Alexandria. 43 Could this be the same form of catharsisconducted onwards to the very summit of such things as are perceptible only to the intellect, till it appears to be reaching the great King himself. And while it is eagerly longing to behold him pure and unmingled, rays of divine light are poured forth upon it like a torrent, so as to bewilder the eyes of its intelligence by their splendour”: Philo of Alexandria, De opificio mundi, 70‑71, English translation by C.D. Yonge , available at the following address: http://www.deeperstudy.com/ link/01-creation.html [24.04.2015]. Regarding sobria ebrietas, see also P. M eloni, entry “Ebrietà,” in A. Di Berardino, ed., Nuovo Dizionario Patristico e di Antichità Cristiane, I (Genova-Milano, 2006), 1524‑1526. 40.  E. Junod – J.-D. K aestli, ed., Acta Iohannis, 94 (Corpus Christianorum. Series Apocryphorum 1) (Turnhout, 1983) 203: “Graces dances. I will pipe, Dance, all of you. Amen.” 41.  R. Cacitti, Furiosa Turba. I fondamenti religiosi dell ’eversione sociale, della dissidenza politica e della contestazione ecclesiale dei Circoncellioni d ’Africa (Milano, 2006) 129. As Philo says again in De ebrietate: “But whatever soul is filled with grace is at once in a state of exultation, and delight, and dancing (μειδιᾷ καὶ ἀνορχεῖται); for it becomes full of triumph, so that it would appear to many of the uninitiated to be intoxicated, and agitated, and to be beside itself. […] For in the case of those who are under the influence of divine inspiration, not only in the soul accustomed to be excited, and as it were to become frenzied, but also the body is accustomed to become reddish and of a fiery complexion, the joy which is internally diffused and which is exulting, secretly spreading its affections even to the exterior parts, by which many foolish people are deceived, and have fancied that sober persons were intoxicated. And yet indeed those sober people are in a manner intoxicated, having drunk deep of all good things, and having received pledges from perfect virtue”, Philo of Alexandria, De ebrietate, 146‑148, English translation by C.D. Yonge , available at the following address: http://www.deeperstudy.com/ link/12-drunkenness.html [24.04.2015]. 42.  A. A rcangeli, Davide o Salomè? Il dibattito europeo sulla danza nella prima età moderna (Treviso – Roma, 2000) 219. 43.  R. Cacitti, “Οἱ εἰς ἔτι νῦν καί εἰς ἡμᾶς κάνονες. I  Terapeuti di Alessandria nella vita spirituale protocristiana,” in L.F. P izzolato – M. R izzi, ed., Origene

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based therapy mentioned by Eric R. Dodds with regard to the Korybantes, who had developed a special ritual for treating madness in the V century B.C.?  4 4 In any case, the verb βακχεύω, which is present in sources up to the II-III century to denote a state of divine possession, only takes on a different connotation which we could define as negative in early medieval Latin sources, where the pejorative form obtained with the calque bacchari and its associated gestures is used instead to indicate a state of demonic possession. 45 In the following centuries, Christian sources often refer to the biblical models to come out in favour of or against dancing inside or near places of worship, cemeteries and martyrs’ graves. For instance, in his De paenitentia, Ambrose of Milan writes that one should not copy the hysterical movements of an indecent dance, but rather David’s dance before the Ark of the Covenant, as this can bring one closer to religion.  4 6 In a second example, Augustine of Hippo rages against an uprising of pagans who flouted bans to celebrate their rites by dancing in front of the door of a church. 47 Elsewhere, Augustine makes the following statement with regard to the Christian custom of dancing on tombs: “laetamur, quia de terra laboris ad regionem quietis martyres transierunt: sed hoc non saltando, sed orando; non potando, sed ieiunando; non rixando, sed tolerando meruerunt.” 48 Regarding the Christian custom of dancing on martyrs’ graves in the presence of relics, the first testimony is provided by the anonymous text of a homily spoken in a church in the Orient, probably between 363 and 365. The occasion in question was a celebration in honmaestro di vita spirituale. Origen: Master of Spiritual Life (Milano, 13‑15 September 1999) (Milano, 2001) 47‑89: 86. 44.  E.R. Dodds , I  Greci e l ’irrazionale (Firenze, 2013 [or. ed. 1959]) 122. 45.  L. Canetti, “La danza dei posseduti. Mappe concettuali e strategie di ricerca,” in Il diavolo nel Medioevo. Atti del XLIX Convegno storico internazionale (Todi, 14‑17 October 2012) (Spoleto, 2013) 553‑604: 577. I am extremely grateful to Prof. Luigi Canetti, the supervisor of my PhD in Cultural Heritage Studies at the University of Bologna (Ravenna campus), for suggesting a project on dance. 46. “et ideo cavendum ne qui vulgari quadam sermonis huius deceptus interpretatione putet nobis saltationis lubricae histrionicos motus et scenae deliramenta mandari; haec etiam in adulescentula aetate vitiosa sunt. sed saltationem eam mandavit quam saltavit David ante arcam domini. totum enim decet quidquid defertur religioni, ut nullum obsequium quod proficiat ad cultum et observantiam Christi, erubescamus” (Ambrosius Mediolanensis, De paenitentia 2,6, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum 73, 117). 47.  “contra recentissimas leges, calendis iuniis festo Paganorum sacrilega solemnitas agitata est, nemine prohibente, tam insolenti ausu, ut quod nec Iuliani temporibus factum est, petulantissima turba saltantium in eodem prorsus vico ante fores transiret ecclesiae” (Augustinus Hipponensis , Epistula 91, A. Goldbacher (ed.), in Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum 34.2, 432). 48.  Augustinus Hipponensis, Sermo 326, Patrologia Latina 38, 1449.

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our of the martyr Polyeuctes, who may have been a victim of persecution by Decius: “Today we stand here in memory of his divine anniversary; it is granted to us to appreciate his noble deeds, and it is the duty of the faithful among Christians to proclaim them everywhere. But what can we offer to the martyr that is worthy of him. By what acts of grace can we return the love which he bore for God? If you so wish, then let us in his honour perform our customary dances” (Χορεύσωμεν αὐτῷ, εἰ δοκεῖ, τὰ συνήθη). 49 To my mind, the custom of dancing on graves could be linked to an almost instinctive association between dance and death that is present in many cultures. According to some scholars, this connection led to the birth of the iconographic subject of the so-called “Danse Macabre” or “Dance of Death”, which was typical of the Late Middle Ages. 50 In his renowned World History of the Dance, Curt Sachs outlined this relationship by highlighting some fundamental points, namely the link between the living and the dead in dance, and dance as an expression of the characteristic movement of the dead and liberation from earthly life. The German musicologist noted that in many civilizations every supramundane movement was in some way described as a dance (the stars, the gods, the spirits) and that the establishment of a bond between the dead and the living through dance was a typical concept in every civilization whose religion was based on the cult of ancestors. 51 Accordingly, in one of his sermons Augustine preached against the insolence of certain believers who had danced and sung for an entire night on the grave of the martyr Cyprian in Carthage: “once, not many years ago, the effrontery of dancers infested this extremely holy place, where the body of such a holy martyr lies; the pestilent vice and the effrontery of dancers – I repeat – infested such a holy place. All through the night, they sang impiously and danced to the rhythm of the song.” 52 49.  E.L. Backman, Religious Dances in the Christian Church and in Popular Medicine (London, 1952), 23‑24, citing B. Aubé , “Homélie inédite,” in the appendix of Polyeucte dans l ’histoire (Paris 1882), 79. See also L. Gougaud, “La danse dans les églises,” Revue d ’histoire ecclésiastique, XV (1914), 5‑22: 10; R. Cacitti, “Sepulcrorum et picturarum adoratores. Un’iconografia della Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis nel culto martiriale donatista,” in R. Cacitti – G. L egrottaglie – G. Pelizzari – M.P. Rossignani, ed., L’ara dipinta di Thaenae. Indagine sul culto martiriale nell ’Africa paleocristiana (Roma, 2011), 72‑136: 113. 50.  G. Tani, Storia della danza dalle origini ai nostri giorni I (Firenze, 1983), 264. 51.  C. Sachs , Storia della danza (Milano, 1966 [or. ed. 1933]), 290. 52.  Author’s translation; “dominus dicit in euangelio, cantauimus uobis, et non saltastis. quando hoc ego dicerem, si non legerem? irridet me uanitas, sed iuuat auctoritas. si non praemisissem quis hoc dixerit, quis me uestrum posset ferre dicentem, cantauimus uobis, et non saltastis? numquidnam in hoc loco, etsi psalmus cantandus est, ab aliquo saltandum est? aliquando ante annos non ualde multos etiam

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In another instance, he expressed his disapproval of the celebration of a feast known as Laetitia in Thagast. In 395, he wrote a letter to his friend Alypius, saying that the people did not accept that the feast they called Laetitia was banned, but that in his view it was simply an excuse to get drunk. 53 When the people contested this decision and claimed that he who had allowed these celebrations before Augustine’s time was at least as Christian as he was, the Bishop responded by saying that they had been permitted in order to encourage the Gentiles – who had the custom of worshipping their idols in a drunken state – to convert to Christianity. At this point, it is worth asking ourselves whether the laetitia that Augustine criticizes could be associated with χαρά, namely joy, the pleasure that had previously been celebrated by Philo as practically the best religious experience. Basil of Caesarea also denounced the custom of certain women who danced drunkenly near the basilicas of martyrs on the night of Easter. 54 Similarly, Augustine spoke out against the Donatists when they celebrated the memory of Lawrence the Martyr in the Basilica Restituta on 10 August. He informs us that they danced near martyrs’ graves, ran around and blessed their cups through contact with the tombs. 55 There is another significant source regarding ecstatic dancing that is much later, dating back to the end of the XII century, but which I feel istum locum inuaserat petulantia saltatorum. istum tam sanctum locum, ubi iacet tam sancti martyris corpus, sicut meminerunt multi qui habent aetatem; locum, inquam, tam sanctum inuaserat pestilentia et petulantia saltatorum. per totam noctem cantabantur hic nefaria, et cantantibus saltabatur” (Augustinus Hipponensis, Sermo In natali Cypriani martyris 311,5, Patrologia Latina 38, 1415). 53.  “cum post profectionem tuam nobis nuntiatum esset tumultuari homines et dicere se ferre non posse, ut illa sollemnitas prohiberetur, quam laetitiam nominantes uinulentiae nomen frustra conantur abscondere, sicut etiam te praesente iam iam nuntiabatur” (Augustinus Hipponensis, Epistola 29,2, ed. A. Goldbacher , Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum 34.1, 114). R. Cacitti, “Sepulcrorum et picturarum adoratores. Un’iconografia della Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis nel culto martiriale donatista,” in R. Cacitti – G. L egrottaglie – G. Pelizzari – M.P. Rossignani, ed., L’ara dipinta di Thaenae. Indagine sul culto martiriale nell ’Africa paleocristiana (Roma, 2011) 72‑136: 112. 54.  πᾶσαν νἑων ἀκολασίαν ἐφ’ἐαυτὰς προσκαλούμεναι, ἐν τοῖς πρὸ τῆς πόλεως μαρτυρίοις χοροὺς συστησάμεναι, ἐργαστήριον τῆς οἰκείας ἀυτῶν ἀσχημοσύνης τούς ἡγιασμένους τοπους πεποίηνται (Basilius Magnus, Homilia 14,1 in ebriosos, Patrologia Graeca, 31, 445). 55.  “et nunc consideremus qui sint filii occisorum, et qui sint filii occidentium. et uidetis multos currere ad memorias martyrum, benedicere calices suos de memoriis martyrum, redire saturatos de memoriis martyrum; et tamen discute illos, et inuenies inter persecutores martyrum. per ipsos enim tumultus, seditiones, saltationes, omnes luxuriae, quas odit deus; et modo, quia illos iam coronatos lapidibus non possunt, calicibus persequuntur” (Augustinus Hipponensis, Sermo 305/A, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina 41, 58).

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can be linked to the same type of practices that Augustine and Basil denounced. In his Itinerarium Kambriae, Gerald of Wales recounts that he saw men and women singing and dancing in a circle both inside church and at the cemetery. These dancers first threw themselves to the ground as if they were possessed and remained immobile in a state of ecstasy, before suddenly rising to their feet again to act out work that was banned on Sunday: a man ploughing the land, a shoemaker and a tanner. Women were also involved in the dancing and imitation of jobs, and Gerald notes that he saw some of them move as if they were weavers. Finally, these people were led into church bearing offerings and suddenly regained their senses in a state of astonishment at the altar. 56 Sachs’s brilliant insight leads him to note that these displays should not be explained as residual manifestations of paganism, but rather as the innermost life of ecstasy. 57 Therefore, the general attitude of relative condemnation of dance by men of the Church in the early centuries seems to have been the result of certain highly specific cases of disorder, often also characterized by drunkenness and lust. Augustine feared that some manifestations could constitute the expression of unacceptable religious violence rather than moral disorder. 58 Cacitti notes that in Augustine’s polemic against dancing by the North African Circumcellions, 59 he describes their behaviour with the verb insultare, which is etymologically linked to the motion of jumping

56.  “Illud tamen hoc in loco mihi notabile videtur, quod in omni fere solemnitate hujus Virginis accidere consuevit. Videas enim hic homines seu puellas, nunc in Ecclesia, nunc in coemiterio, nunc in chorea, quae circa coemiterium cum cantilena circumfertur, subito in terram corruere, et primo tanquam in extasim ductos et quietos, deinde statim tanquam in phrenesim raptos exilientes, opera quaecumque festis diebus illicite perpetrare consueverant, tam manibus quam pedibus coram populo repraesentantes. Videas hunc aratro manus aptare illum quasi stimulo boves excitare: et utrumque quasi labore mitigando solitas barbarae modulationis voces efferre. Videas hunc artem sutoriam, illam pellipariam imitari. Item videas hanc, quasi colum bajulando, nunc filum manibus et brachiis in longum extrahere, nunc extractum occando tanquam in fusum revocare; istam deambulando productis filis quasi telam ordiri; illam sedendo quasi jam orditam oppositis lanceolae jactibus, et alternis calamistrae cominus ictibus, texere mireris. Demum vero intra ecclesiam cum oblationibus ad altare perductos, tanquam experrectos et ad se redeuntes obstupescas” (Giraldus Cambrensis, Opera, vol. 6, Itinerarium Kambriae [London, 1868] 32). 57.  C. Sachs , Storia della danza (Milano, 1966 [or. ed. 1933]) 286. 58.  R. Cacitti, “Sepulcrorum et picturarum adoratores. Un’iconografia della Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis nel culto martiriale donatista,” in R. Cacitti – G. L egrottaglie – G. Pelizzari – M.P. Rossignani, ed., L’ara dipinta di Thaenae. Indagine sul culto martiriale nell ’Africa paleocristiana (Roma, 2011) 72‑136: 120. 59.  Augustinus Hipponensis, Enarrationes in Psalmos, 69,2, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 38.

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(saltatio). 60 On the basis of Peter Gerlitz’s classification of the different types of dance, Cacitti defined the choreutic practice of the Circumcellions as the dance of possession, revelation and ecstatic rapture. 61 Furthermore, the fact that statements of condemnation of dance by the Fathers of the Church can be found above all in homiletic texts leads me to believe that their peremptory nature is also due to the language that had to be adopted in the context of pastoral work. The main aim of the Fathers’ preaching about dancing seems to be a desire to regulate and impede certain displays and attitudes rather than an inclination to condemn dancing in itself. 62 After all, Augustine himself invited believers to discipline their lives by taking inspiration from dancers who move their bodies harmoniously when they dance. 63

60.  R. Cacitti, Furiosa Turba. I fondamenti religiosi dell ’eversione sociale, della dissidenza politica e della contestazione ecclesiale dei Circoncellioni d ’Africa (Milano, 2006) 136. 61.  R. Cacitti, “Sepulcrorum et picturarum adoratores. Un’iconografia della Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis nel culto martiriale donatista,” in R. Cacitti – G. L egrottaglie – G. Pelizzari – M.P. Rossignani, ed., L’ara dipinta di Thaenae. Indagine sul culto martiriale nell ’Africa paleocristiana (Roma, 2011) 72‑136: 119. 62.  “Augustine’s warning (c.  394) to keep the sacred dances disciplined is more severe. He is against ‘frivolous or unseemly’ dances. However, he does not object to all dancing at sacred festivals. He can sense the harmony in the dances and the need for spiritual harmony in the participants”: M.F. Taylor , A Time to Dance. Symbolic Movement in Worship (Philadelphia – Boston, 1967) 80. 63.  “Quale canticum, fratres mei? Audistis cantantem, audiamus saltantes: faci­te vos congruentia morum, quod faciunt saltatores motu membrorum” (Augustinus Hipponensis, Sermones 311,7,7, Patrologia Latina 38, 1416).

H istory of the Jews and Judaism in the Roman-H ellenistic P eriod

I L 70 D.C . COME SPARTIACQUE DELLA STORIA GIUDAICA Dario Garribba Il presente contributo prende spunto dalla pubblicazione, nel 2012, del volume D.R. Schwartz – Z. Weiss, in collaboration with R.A. Clements (ed.), Was 70 CE a Watershed in Jewish History? On Jews and Judaism before and after the Destruction of the Second Temple, Leiden – Boston, 2012, frutto di un progetto di ricerca triennale conclusosi nel 2009, presso lo Scholion Center for Interdisciplinary Research dell’Hebrew University di Gerusalemme. È un volume ricco, composto da venti contributi afferenti ad aree disciplinari diverse, suddivisi in cinque sezioni tematiche: la prima, «Sons of Aaron and Disciples of Aaron: Priests and Rabbis before and after 70» è dedicata al ruolo e alle funzioni di sacerdoti e maestri rabbinici prima e dopo il 70 1; la seconda, «‘The Place’ and Other Spaces» riflette sull’influenza e sul significato che il tempio ebbe per le comunità della diaspora 2; la terza, «Art and Magic» si occupa delle conseguenze che la distruzione del tempio ebbe sulle arti figurative e sulle pratiche magiche 3; mentre la quarta, «Sacred Texts: Exegesis and Liturgy», di quelle sulla interpretazione della Scrittura e sulle prassi liturgiche 4; chiude 1.  I contributi di questa prima sezione sono: M. Himmelfarb , «“Found written in the book of Moses”: priests in the era of Torah», p. 23‑41; G. A ran, «The other side of Israelite priesthood: a sociological-anthropological perspective», p. 43‑58; H. Birenboim, «“A kingdom of priests”: did the Pharisees try to live like priests?», p. 59‑68; J. M agness , «Sectarianism before and after 70 CE», p. 69‑89; Z. Weiss , «Were priests communal leaders in late antique Palestine?: the archaeological evidence», p. 91‑111. 2.  I contributi della seconda sezione sono: O. Schwarz , «Place beyond place: on artifacts, religious technologies and the mediation of sacred place», p. 115‑126; J. L eonhardt-Balzer , «Priests and priesthood in Philo: could he have done without them?», p. 127‑153; N. H acham, «Sanctity and the attitude towards the Temple in Hellenistic Judaism», p. 155‑179; M. Tuval , «Doing without the Temple: paradigms in Judaic literature of the diaspora», p. 181‑239. 3.  I contributi della terza sezione sono: N. Vilozny, «The rising power of the image: on Jewish magic art from the Second Temple period to late antiquity», p. 243‑276; G. Bohak , «Jewish exorcism before and after the destruction of the Second Temple», p. 277‑300; L.I. L evine , «The emergence of a new Jewish art in late antiquity», p. 301‑339. 4.  I contributi della quarta sezione sono: P. M andel , «Legal midrash between Hillel and Rabbi Akiva: did 70 CE make a difference?», p. 343‑370; E.G. Chazon, «Liturgy before and after the Temple’s destruction: change or continuity», Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 451–464 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111716 ©

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il volume una sezione tematicamente più libera, «Communal Definition – Pompey, Jesus or Titus: Who made a Difference?», in cui si passano in rassegna aspetti diversi della fine del tempio (gli effetti della perduta sovranità giudaica nel 63 a.C. sulla centralità del tempio; l’influenza della fine del tempio sullo spinoso problema della separazione delle strade tra seguaci di Gesù e mondo giudaico; le reazioni religiose agli eventi del 70; il condizionamento di alcuni scritti cristiani del II secolo, a cominciare da quelli di Giustino, sull’affermarsi dell’idea di una scomparsa definitiva del tempio 5). Il volume non intende sostenere una tesi unitaria e, come lo stesso D. Schwartz precisa nel saggio introduttivo, l’insieme presenta anche posizioni divergenti tra loro (anche se come vedremo c’è una certa unitarietà negli esiti). L’elemento unificante è piuttosto il punto di partenza: «Noi abbiamo chiesto – è Schwartz che scrive – ad esperti in numerosi campi, includendo aree che potevano essere a priori considerate coinvolte nella distruzione ed altre apparentemente estranee all’evento, di esaminare i loro materiali e, ognuno nel proprio campo di appartenenza, confrontare ciò che avevano trovato del periodo pre-70 con quanto avevano trovato del periodo post-70. Inoltre abbiamo chiesto, laddove fossero emersi dei cambiamenti, di considerare ciò che poteva averli determinati» 6. È un approccio interessante: il progetto nasce non semplicemente per essere un’indagine sul giudaismo pre- e post-70 o un invito a riflettere su un singolo importante avvenimento – la distruzione del Tempio – e sui suoi effetti. Esso piuttosto intende verificare se la fine del tempio fu o meno avvertita nel mondo (giudaico) del I e del II secolo d.C. come un fattore di discontinuità per la storia giudaica e, se sì, in che termini. Ma non solo. Interesse dei curatori è comprendere anche, alla luce dell’immagine del giudaismo che la storiografia odierna ricostruisce, se il 70 può essere, per noi moderni, considerato un punto di svolta, uno spartiacque per la storia giudaica, come recita l’efficace e accattivante titolo del volume. È su questi due aspetti che verterà questo lavoro, cercando di entrare in dialogo con p. 371‑392; M.D. Swartz , «Liturgy, poetry, and the persistence of sacrifice», p. 393‑412. 5.  I contributi della quinta sezione sono N. Sharon, «Setting the stage: the effects of the Roman conquest and the loss of sovereignty», p. 415‑445; J. Frey, «Temple and identity in early Christianity and in the Johannine community: reflections on the “parting of the ways”», p. 447‑507; M. Goodman, «Religious reactions to 70: the limitations of the evidence», p. 509‑516; R.A. Clements , «Epilogue: 70 CE after 135 CE: the making of a watershed», p. 517‑536. 6.  D.R. Schwartz , «Introduction: Was 70 CE a Watershed in Jewish History? Three Stages of Modern Scholarship, and a Renewed Effort», in D.R. Schwartz – Z. Weiss , in collaboration with R.A. Clements (ed.), Was 70 CE a Watershed in Jewish History? On Jews and Judaism before and after the Destruction of the Second Temple, Leiden – Boston, 2012, p. 17.

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le diverse posizioni emerse nel libro e di mettere a fuoco alcuni temi o aspetti che sembrano avere rilevanza nell’attuale dibattito storiografico. I. È

il

70

da consi de r a r si , da l pu n to di v i s ta de l l a r ice rca

s tor ica su l gi uda i smo , u no spa rt i acqu e ?

La ricerca storica, come è noto, ha bisogno di periodizzazioni, ha cioè bisogno, per esigenze di semplificazione e classificazione, ma anche per ragioni di sintesi, di individuare dei momenti che permettano di fissare dei punti di riferimento nell’inarrestabile corso del tempo. Da sempre così gli studiosi individuano della date-cardine, legate a eventi significativi delle vicende umane, su cui convenzionalmente fissare le porte che chiudono o aprono nuove stanze della storia. È il 70 d.C. da considerarsi una data-cardine? Come bene evidenzia D.R. Schwartz nel suo contributo introduttivo, «Was 70 CE a Watershed in Jewish History? Three Stages of Modern Scholarship, and a Renewed Effort» 7, che qui seguirò, nella storia della ricerca, la distruzione del tempio ha conosciuto una sorte strana, da un certo punto di vista paradossale. Per oltre un secolo, a partire dalla metà del XIX secolo 8, sebbene la fine del tempio fosse riconosciuta come un evento decisivo e il 70 fosse usato come punto di riferimento per la periodizzazione della storia giudaica, gli storici, in sede di ricostruzione del giudaismo del I secolo, finivano per minimizzarne l’importanza. Convinti, sulla base della documentazione rabbinica, della perfetta continuità e sovrapponibilità tra il gruppo dei farisei, dominante nel giudaismo pre-70, e il movimento rabbinico raccoltosi a Javhne alla fine degli anni ottanta, gli studiosi ritenevano che la distruzione del tempio avesse soltanto portato a compimento quel processo di fariseizzazione del pensiero e della società giudaica già largamente in atto prima del 70. Il tempio, per quanto sontuoso e imponente, era di fatto una istituzione in progressivo declino, centro di un culto prevalentemente formale, oggetto, da oltre due secoli, di una spietata lotta di potere per l’acquisizione della carica sommo-sacerdotale, lontano da ogni sentimento di sincera religiosità. La sua fine aveva sì provocato nell’immediato un senso di smarrimento e aveva comportato alcune obbligate conseguenze di carattere politico, ma il giudaismo aveva sùbito saputo trovare nella Legge e nella sinagoga una piena 7.  D.R. Schwartz , «Introduction: Was 70 CE a Watershed in Jewish History? Three Stages of Modern Scholarship, and a Renewed Effort», ibidem, p. 1‑6. 8.  D.R. Schwartz , «Introduction: Was 70 CE a Watershed in Jewish History? Three Stages of Modern Scholarship, and a Renewed Effort», ibidem, p. 1, individua in H. Graetz, con la sua Die Konstruktion der jüdischen, Berlin, 1936, uno dei primi, se non il primo, che si servì del 70 come punto di svolta nella periodizzazione della storia giudaica antica.

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compensazione alla cessazione del culto e nei maestri/rabbini sostituti più che degni della classe sacerdotale. Si tendeva più o meno esplicitamente ad accettare una sostanziale continuità tra il giudaismo farisaico pre-70 e quello rabbinico successivo, in cui la distruzione non avrebbe comportato ripensamenti o ridefinizioni in chiave identitaria, ma avrebbe al più confermato e ratificato l’indirizzo legalistico-sinagogale già in atto: «In un modo e nell’altro, tutti concordemente ritenevano che i Farisei fossero la più popolare e autorevole espressione del Giudaismo del Secondo Tempio, tutti concordavano che i rabbini erano i loro eredi, tutti concordavano che la distruzione del Tempio non cambiò molto, a parte il fatto che eliminò qualunque concorrente essi potessero avere» 9. A partire dalla seconda metà del XX secolo, come è noto, le cose cambiarono. Non è mia intenzione qui ripercorrere nel dettaglio i radicali cambiamenti che hanno interessato gli studi sul giudaismo antico e le cause che li hanno determinati 10. Mi limito a evidenziare come l’emergere di un’immagine poliedrica della realtà giudaica pre-70, unitamente al drastico ridimensionamento del ruolo e dell’influenza dei farisei, abbia implicato una progressiva reinterpretazione di alcuni eventi della storia giudaica, non ultimo la distruzione del Tempio. È questo che Schwartz indica come secondo stadio della ricerca. Di fronte ad una realtà dinamica e composita, animata da numerosi gruppi e partiti, di cui il fariseismo era soltanto una componente, nello sforzo di individuare un mainstream o common judaism 11 – di individuare cioè quei caratteri condivisi, comuni all’intero mondo giudaico, gli studiosi, soprattutto a partire dalla fine degli anni ’70, hanno riconosciuto nel tempio molto più della sola sede del culto sacrificale o del potere sacerdotale; esso è apparso come un simbolo di giudaicità, un elemento centrale e irrinunciabile dell’identità giudaica. Il tempio, il culto, la classe sacerdotale occupavano una posizione di primissimo piano nella società giudaica pre-70, la cui scomparsa non potè non essere sentita come un trauma 12: il 70 assu9.  D.R. Schwartz , «Introduction: Was 70 CE a Watershed in Jewish History? Three Stages of Modern Scholarship, and a Renewed Effort», ibidem, p. 8. 10.  Cf. D. Jaffé , Gesù l ’ebreo, Milano, 2013, p. 103ss; si veda anche D. Garribba , «La presentazione del giudaismo del secondo tempio nella storiografia del XX secolo», Rassegna di Teologia 45 (2004), p. 73‑88. 11.  Per una esauriente e puntuale presentazione del problema si veda G. Stemberger , «Was there a “mainstream judaism”?», Review of Rabbinic Judaism 4 (2001), p. 189‑208. 12.  È la posizione che ha trovato in E.P. Sanders il più autorevole e influente rappresentante, il cui indiscusso merito è quello essersi interessato al giudaismo nella prospettiva della material culture, superando l’impasse che portava a guardare al giudaismo solo come una dottrina (in particolare, per il nostro tema, il libro più significativo è Giudaismo. Fede e Prassi, Brescia, 2001). Un’interessante riflessione sull’operato di Sanders si trova in un contributo scritto da lui stesso in un’opera celebrativa (E.P. Sanders , «Comparing Judaism and Christianity: An Academic Autobiography», in F.E. Udoh, with S. H eschel , M. Chancey and G. Tatum

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meva così un significato molto più marcato, di fatto segnando una cesura netta tra il giudaismo sacerdotale e il successivo rabbinismo, che veniva visto come la risposta (costruttiva e positiva, nella prospettiva della storiografia ebraica 13; esclusiva e particolaristica agli occhi degli di studiosi di formazione cristiana 14) ad un evento fortemente drammatico. A questa lettura, che pure ha trovato largo seguito storiografico, è andata opponendosi una diversa ricostruzione, che, seppur cronologicamente si sovrappone a quanto ora esposto, Schwartz indica come terzo stadio della ricerca: la messa in discussione del trionfo del rabbinismo. Da un’attenta ricognizione documentaria, diversi studiosi, come L.I. Levine, C. Hezser, H.M. Cotton, S. Schwartz 15, già dalla fine degli anni ’80 – ma in maniera decisamente più intensa negli ultimi anni – hanno mosso serie riserve alla storicità stessa (e all’eventuale rilevanza) del concilio di Javhnè, riconoscendo al movimento rabbinico un ruolo marginale e secondario nella società giudaica del I secolo 16. A vantaggio di chi? Della classe sacerdotale, la cui [ed.], Redefining First-Century Jewish and Christian Identities. Essays in Honor of Ed Parish Sanders, Notre Dame, 2008, p. 11‑41). 13.  Con toni apologetici S.J.D. Cohen, studioso tutt’altro che sprovveduto, anni fa, giudicava la fine del tempio come l’occasione che la storia offriva al giudaismo per superare le sue tensioni interne e ritrovare un’armonia sociale e culturale altrimenti compromessa: «la visione tradizionale oscura il maggiore contributo di Yavneh alla storia giudaica: la creazione di una società che tollera la disputa senza produrre sette […]. L’etica dominante qui non è l’esclusività, ma l’elasticità. La distruzione del Tempio fornì la spinta per questo processo: esso mise in guardia i Giudei dai pericoli delle divisioni interne e rimosse uno dei maggiori punti focali del settarismo giudaico» (S.J.D. Cohen, «The Significance of Javhne», Hebrew Union College Annual 55 [1984], p. 29; cf. anche p. 50). Ancora nel 1999 Cohen, con toni meno enfatici e con maggiore cautela, sembra confermare questa linea. «È spesso detto che il giudaismo fu devastato dalla interruzione del culto sacrificale nel 70 d.C.. Non più capaci di ottenere il perdono o di comunicare con Dio, i giudei si sentirono perduti e disorientati. Questi aspetti probabilmente turbarono alcuni giudei, specialmente il popolo semplice, ma è improbabile che turbassero tutti i giudei, ed è davvero improbabile che turbassero i rabbi» (S.J.D. Cohen, «Temple and Synagogue», in W. Horbury, W.D. Davies , J. Sturdy [ed.], The Cambridge History of Judaism. The early Roman period, vol. 3, Cambridge, 1999, p. 312). 14.  Si veda a riguardo la contrapposizione sorta tra J.D.G. Dunn, «Was Judaism particularist or universalist?», in J. Neusner – A.J. Avery-Peck (ed.), Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part 3, vol. 2: Where we stand: Issues and Debates in Ancient Judaism, Leiden, 1999, p. 57‑73 e W.S. Green, «Judaism and Particularism: a reply to James Dunn», in J. Neusner – A.J. Avery-Peck (ed.), Judaism in Late Antiquity, Part 3, vol. 3: Where we stand: Issues and Debates in Ancient Judaism, Leiden, 2000, p. 71‑76. 15.  C. H eszer , The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine, Tübingen, 1997; H.M. Cotton, «The rabbis and the Documents», in M. Goodman (ed.), Jews in a Graeco-Roman World, Oxford, 1998, p. 167‑179; S. Schwartz , Imperialism and Jewish Society. 200 bce 640 ce, Princeton, 2001. 16.  Sui processi storiografici che hanno portato ad un mutamento di prospettiva verso la comparsa e l’affermazione del mondo rabbinico si veda S. Schwartz ,

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repentina e totale scomparsa dalle scene giudaiche appariva non solo poco convincente sul piano della plausibilità storica, ma anche insoddisfacente a dare ragione di alcuni episodi della storia giudaica successiva, primo fra tutti la rivolta di Bar Kochba, in cui il tema tempio-sacerdozio sembra giocare un ruolo di primo rilievo 17. La fine del tempio verrebbe così di nuovo ridimensionata; essa segna la distruzione fisica del tempio e la cessazione delle attività di culto, ma non determina la scomparsa della struttura e della gerarchia sociale che intorno al tempio era andata sviluppandosi e che guiderà il giudaismo almeno fino alla seconda grande rivolta. È questa la posizione in fondo sostenuta dai saggi del nostro volume, che sembrano offrire, seppur con qualche eccezione, una proposta decisamente cauta e, per molti versi sfumata, sull’impatto che il 70 ebbe sull’articolata società giudaica del I secolo. II. F u

il

70

se n t i to com e u no spa rt i acqu e

n e l gi uda i smo a n t ico ?

Cosa significò per il mondo giudaico la distruzione del tempio? Come la fine del tempio fu vista da chi l’aveva vissuta? E quali conseguenze comportò per la vita dei giudei dell’ultimo scorcio del I secolo? Furono gli eventi del 70 avvertiti come un punto di svolta per la storia giudaica? Dare a queste domande, pur legittime sul piano storico, una risposta univoca e definitiva su ciò che la fine del tempio significò; cercare di dimostrare se il 70 abbia segnato o meno per i giudei una netta discontinuità nella loro storia è con ogni probabilità non solo impossibile, ma metodologicamente avventato. Il giudaismo pre-70, nella molteplicità dei suoi orientamenti e nella eterogeneità della sua natura (si pensi solo alle differenze tra diaspora e Palestina), guardava al tempio da prospettive diverse che, alla sua distruzione, dovettero necessariamente generare reazioni e interpretazioni differenti. Comprendere il valore e il significato della distruzione del tempio significa interrogarsi sul senso che a quell’evento fu dato dalle diverse anime del giudaismo, e ancor prima chiedersi cosa fino ad allora il tempio aveva per loro significato. Mi sembra che forse uno dei meriti del volume stia proprio in questo, di avere promosso un approccio che superasse la persistente, anche se spesso velata o dissimulata, tendenza a pensare al giudaismo come corpo unitario e compatto o a fare del giudaismo qualcosa di puramente dottrinale. Se guardiamo al mondo giudaico nella sua più propria dimensione storica, come realtà sociale arti«La geografia politica dei testi rabbinici», in C. Elisheva Fonrobert – M.S. Jaffee (ed.), Il Talmud e la letteratura rabbinica, Brescia, 2013, p. 93‑114. 17.  P. Schäfer , «Bar Kokhba and the Rabbis», in P. Schäfer (ed.), The Bar Kokhba War Reconsidered, Tübingen, 2003, p. 1‑22.

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colata e dinamica, animata da gruppi e fazioni diverse – questo sembra voler comunicare il libro – il quadro che emergerà apparirà molto più sfumato e indefinito – in un certo senso, molto più simile a quanto accade a qualsiasi società che esca da una tragica guerra – di quanto la storiografia tradizionale, condizionata da forti pressioni ideologiche e confessionali, abbia sostenuto. Ma è un quadro che nella molteplicità dei suoi orientamenti e nella varietà delle sue manifestazioni rivela un complessivo, rapido assorbimento del trauma della guerra. Sebbene vadano riconosciute delle differenze anche significative tra i singoli articoli, il volume nel suo complesso sembra dare un preciso indirizzo alla domanda che si era posto: no, il 70 non fu avvertito dai giudei come uno spartiacque! La distruzione del tempio non segnò uno strappo tra il prima e il dopo, né fu sentito come fattore di discontinuità storica. Non lo fu per il giudaismo palestinese, in cui l’importanza e la centralità del tempio era andata costantemente scemando sin dalla conquista di Pompeo nel 63 a.C. 18, in cui la vita dei gruppi religiosi continuò senza particolari scossoni ben dopo il III secolo 19 e le prassi liturgiche non subirono il cambiamento repentino solitamente immaginato 20. Non lo fu per i giudei della diaspora, che «anche prima della distruzione del tempio nel 70 CE e la cessazione del suo culto sacrificale […] avevano creato un sistema giudaico alternativo in cui il Tempio non giocava un ruolo cruciale» 21, per cui «non è troppo audace supporre che per l’ordinaria vita religiosa di un giudeo della diaspora non cambiò molto al mattino del 10 di Ab nel 70 CE» 22 . Non lo fu infine per i cristiani, la cui riflessione cristologica avrebbe avviato molto prima del 70 il processo di separazione dal giudaismo, che la distruzione del Tempio avrebbe soltanto «accelerato» 23. L’idea di una distruzione definitiva del tempio e, quindi, del 70 come spartiacque della storia sarebbe piuttosto da ascrivere ad un’interpretazione successiva e teologicamente interessata degli apologisti cristiani, che avrebbe condi-

18.  N. Sharon, «Setting the stage: the effects of the Roman conquest and the loss of sovereignty», in D.R. Schwartz – Z. Weiss , in collaboration with R.A. Clements (ed.), Was 70 CE a Watershed in Jewish History?, Leiden – Boston, 2012, p. 433‑438. 19.  J. M agness , «Sectarianism before and after 70 CE», ibidem, p. 69‑79. 20.  E.G. Chazon, «Liturgy Before and After the Temple’s Destruction: Change or Continuity?», ibidem, p. 388; M.D. Swartz , «Liturgy, Poetry and Persistence of Sacrifice», ibidem, p. 410‑412. 21.  M. Tuval , «Doing without the Temple: Paradigms in Judaic Literature of the Diaspora», ibidem, p. 238. 22.  M. Tuval , «Doing without the Temple: Paradigms in Judaic Literature of the Diaspora», ibidem, p. 239. 23.  J. Frey, «Temple and Identity in Early Christianity and in the Johannine Community: reflections on the “Parting of the Ways”», ibidem, p. 447‑507.

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zionato gli stessi estensori del corpus rabbinico nel «concettualizare ciò che per i Giudei significa essere popolo di Dio» 24 . Ma è pienamente condivisibile questo quadro? È, quello a cui il volume giunge, un approdo davvero convincente? Certamente immaginare un repentino e radicale cambio di rotta del giudaismo all’indomani del 70 non solo non trova il conforto delle fonti, ma, sulla base di quello che noi oggi conosciamo del giudaismo pre-70, risulta anche poco verosimile. E mi sembra si possa essere d’accordo anche sul fatto che la ricchezza di orientamenti del giudaismo pre-70 fornisse il grande bacino ideologico, teologico e culturale da cui attingere per ammortizzare e superare le ferite della guerra e della scomparsa del tempio. Mi sembra però che libro nel suo insieme sottovaluti alcuni aspetti, che qui vorrei richiamare: il primo è quello politico. N. Sharon, nel suo contributo giustamente ricorda come «il periodo 67‑37 bce , e il cambiamento drammatico che esso comportò per la Giudea, è stato in qualche modo trascurato dalla moderna ricerca storica» 25 ed invita a considerare, sulla scia di Grabbe 26, come «molti aspetti concettuali e istituzionali che furono cruciali per lo sviluppo del giudaismo successivo alla distruzione riescono a essere compresi in modo più appropriato sullo sfondo della perdita di indipendenza e dell’inizio del dominio romano in Giudea [nel 63 a.C.] 27». Ciò però non deve far perdere di vista un dato difficilmente controvertibile: la guerra determina la fine di una stagione politica 28, che, inauguratasi con la deposizione di Archelao (6 d.C.), aveva visto nelle figure del sommo sacerdote e dell’aristocrazia giudaica gli interlocutori politici privilegiati del governo romano (cf. Flavio Giuseppe Bellum 2,316.318.321ss; 2,336.342; 2,410ss.422). È questo, a mio giudizio, un importante elemento di discontinuità, che in fondo già Flavio Giuseppe avvertiva come tale, nel momento stesso in cui dava avvio al progetto della sua Guerra Giudaica (cf. Flavio Giuseppe Bellum 1,10): la guerra spazzò via l’intera classe dirigente giudaica; all’indomani del conflitto le autorità romane non solo provvidero a radere al suolo la città (Flavio Giuseppe Bellum 6,413.434.435; 7,1), ma vollero impostare 24.  R.A. Clements , «Epilogue: 70 Ce after 135 CE – The Making of a Watershed?», ibidem, p. 517. 25.  N. Sharon, «Setting the stage: the effects of the Roman conquest and the loss of sovereignty», in ibidem, p. 416. 26.  L.L. Grabbe , Judaic Religion in the Second Temple Period: Belief and Practice from the Exile to Yavneh, London 2000, p. 333ss. 27.  N. Sharon, «Setting the stage: the effects of the Roman conquest and the loss of sovereignty», in D.R. Schwartz – Z. Weiss , in collaboration with R.A. Clements (ed.), Was 70 CE a Watershed in Jewish History?, Leiden –Boston, 2012, p. 418. 28.  Sul senso e sugli effetti della guerra giudaica si veda, tra gli altri, l’interessante M. Popovic (ed.), The Jewish Revolt against Rome: interdisciplinary perspective, Leiden, 2011.

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su basi nuove, decisamente più severe, il rapporto con il mondo giudaico: imposero a tutto il territorio della Giudea il regime della locazione in affitto (Flavio Giuseppe Bellum 7,216‑217), riducendo la regione ad una proprietà privata dell’imperatore 29 e coniarono monete con la dicitura IUDAEA CAPTA 30, che sembrano voler evidenziare, con chiaro intento di propaganda 31, che la Giudea, che era già dominio romano e quindi non certo da conquistare, fosse soltanto da quel momento in poi in uno stato di piena sottomissione; istituirono il fiscus iudaicus obbligando – con evidente scopo punitivo, in provocatorio contrasto con un privilegium prima riconosciuto (cf. Antiquitates 14,112‑113) – tutti i giudei dell’impero al pagamento del didramma da destinare alla ricostruzione del tempio di Giove Capitolino 32 e distrussero anche il tempio di Onia in Egitto (Flavio Giuseppe Bellum 7,420ss) con la dichiarata intenzione di privare il giudaismo di ogni riferimento territoriale 33. Non pare inoltre, o perlomeno le fonti di cui disponiamo su questo tacciono, che cercassero nuovi interlocu29.  Giuseppe afferma che l’imperatore ordinò che πᾶσαν γῆν ἀποδόσθαι τῶν ᾿Ιουδαίων. G. Vitucci traduce, portando la frase all’attivo «l’imperatore ordinò […] di assoggettare tutto il territorio della Giudea al regime della locazione in affitto», a cui segue «Egli infatti non vi costituì alcuna città, riservandosi quella regione come sua proprietà privata» (οὐ γάρ κατῴκισεν ἐκεῖ πόλιν ἰδίαν αὐτῷ τὴν χώραν φυλάττων) (Flavio Giuseppe, La Guerra Giudaica, a cura di G. Vitucci, Milano 1974, II, p. 467, cf. anche p. 597, n. 18). Qui Vitucci in linea con la traduzione del Thackeray nella Loeb Classical Library («Caesar sent instructions […] to farm out all Jewish territory») riferisce il genitivo τῶν ᾿Ιουδαίων al termine πᾶσαν γῆν e attribuisce al verbo ἀποδόσθαι il significato mediale di «dare in affitto». Mi sembrerebbe però più convincente legare il genitivo τῶν ᾿Ιουδαίων al verbo ἀποδόσθαι ed evidenziare le intenzioni punitive che animano l’imperatore nell’ordinare che tutta la terra, senza alcuna eccezione, sia sottratta, alienata ai giudei. Il passo successivo, che si riferisce alla imposizione a tutti i giudei, dovunque risiedessero, di una tassa di due dracme da versare annualmente al Campidoglio (Bellum 7,218), sembrerebbe andare nella stessa direzione. 30.  R. Deutsch, «Roman Coins Boast “Judaea Capta”», Biblical Archaeology Review 36 (2010), p. 51‑53. 31.  Sull’uso della guerra giudaica come strumento di consenso da parte della dinastia flavia si veda A.J. Boyle – W.J. Dominik (edd.), Flavian Rome: Image, Culture, Text, Leiden, 2003; S. M ason, «Of Audience and Meaning: Reading Josephus’ Bellum Judaicum in the Context of a Flavian Audience», in J. Sievers – G. L embi (ed.), Josephus and Jewish History in Flavian Rome and Beyond, Leiden, 2005, p. 71‑100; M. Vasta, «Flavian Visual Propaganda: Building a Dynasty», Constructing the Past 8 (2007), p. 107‑138. 32.  La bibliografia sull’istituzione del fiscus iudaicus è sterminata, mi limito pertanto a rimandare al lavoro di M. H eemstra, The Fiscus Judaicus and the Parting of the Ways, Tübingen, 2010, che, sebbene alcune sue considerazioni non siano, a mio giudizio, pienamente condivisibili, costituisce ad oggi uno degli studi più completi sul tema del fiscus. 33.  Sulla fine del tempio di Leontopoli si veda J. R ives , «Flavian Religious Policy and the Destruction of the Jerusalem Temple», in J. Edmondson – S. M ason – J. R ives (ed.), Flavius Josephus and Flavian Rome, Oxford University Press, Oxford,

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tori politici in rappresentanza dei giudei o che accordassero qualche forma di concessione a determinati gruppi in territorio giudaico (la questione del Nasi è debole e probabilmente più tardiva). Credo si possa dire che il 70 d.C. fu uno spartiacque per la storia dei rapporti tra Roma e i Giudei. III. Te mpio

e i de n t i tà gi uda ica

Vi è poi un secondo aspetto di cui il volume, a mio giudizio, sottovaluta l’importanza. Il tempio, al di là delle specifiche funzioni religiose e politico-amministrative, era, per chiunque si sentisse parte del giudaismo, un importante riferimento identitario. Il tempio di Gerusalemme non è soltanto un luogo sacro o lo spazio religioso dei giudei; esso va oltre le sue specifiche funzioni di culto, va oltre i problemi e le polemiche inerenti la legittimità del sommo sacerdote o le corrette prassi sacrificali. Il tempio è prima di tutto un identity marker, che contribuisce – ovviamente non da solo – all’avvertimento e alla definizione di un sé giudaico. Il tempio è da considerarsi dunque un fattore di giudaicità e la sua importanza non è data, come spesso si è inteso  3 4 , solo da ciò che in esso si pratica, ma dal modo in cui ad esso si guarda, dal valore che i giudei gli attribuiscono, facendone uno dei più forti simboli della loro nazione e del loro ἔθνος. Nel I secolo d.C. – in verità già da prima, a partire almeno dall’incontro tra cultura greca e mondo giudaico 35 – lo ἰουδαῖος, l’essere giudeo, non è più determinato dal solo luogo di appartenenza o dai legami parentali, ma dall’adesione ad un determinato sistema culturale e dall’adozione di un insieme di segni e pratiche condivise: esso indica cioè un modo di vita (cf.  2Mac 2,21; 4,13‑15; 8,1; 14,38) e si può così diventare giudei o simpatizzare per essi, pur appartenendo ad altra etnia (Flavio Giuseppe, Contra Apionem 2,209‑210; Antiquitates 20,75‑96; Atti degli Apostoli 10,1ss; 13,16; 17,4), o non sentirsi giudeo, pur essendo giudeo di nascita (Flavio Giuseppe, Antiquitates 20,100; Galati 1,13) 36. Il tempio è uno degli indi2005, p. 45‑166; L. Capponi, Il tempio di Leontopoli in Egitto. Identità politica e religiosa dei Giudei di Onia (c. 150 a.C. - 73 d.C.), Pisa, 2007, p. 28‑129. 34.  E.P. Sanders , Il Giudaismo. Fede e prassi, Brescia, 2001. 35.  Un quadro sintetico di come l’incontro tra cultura greca e mondo giudaico incise sulla trasformazione del concetto di ἰουδαῖος lo offre D.R. Schwartz , Studies in Jewish Background of Christianity, Tübingen, 1992, p. 9‑15; argomenti poi ripresi e aggiornati in I d., «’Judean’ or ‘Jew’? How Should We Translate Ioudaios in Josephus?», in J. Frey – D.R. Schwartz – S. Gripentrog (ed.), Jewish Identity in the Greco-Roman World, Brill, Leiden, 2007, p. 3‑27. 36.  Non è ovviamente facile dare una interpretazione univoca all’affermazione paolina di Gal 1,13, ma di certo non si può pensare alla questione in termini di apostasia. Si veda J. Frey, «Paul’s Jewish Identity», in J. Frey – D.R. Schwartz – S. Gripentrog (ed.), Jewish Identity in the Greco-Roman World, Leiden, 2007,

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catori di appartenenza, rappresenta, per chiunque sente di essere parte del giudaismo, un simbolo della propria giudaicità. Su questo punto la testimonianza di Filone è preziosa: la minaccia di Caligola di profanazione del tempio è preludio alla scomparsa dell’intero giudaismo 37 (Legatio ad Gaium 194). Non importa frequentare con assiduità il tempio o prendere regolarmente parte ai sacrifici, l’importante, indipendentemente da dove si vive, è sentirsi legati al tempio, anche quando questo legame si manifesta soltanto attraverso atti come l’invio del tributo o il pellegrinaggio a Gerusalemme – diritti di cui nessun giudeo vuole essere privato (Flavio Giuseppe, Antiquitates 14,160‑173, cf. anche Filone, De Providentia 2,107). Eppure dire questo ancora non basta. Bisogna infatti interrogarsi su quali aspetti della giudaicità il tempio alimentasse e che tipo di giudeo l’identity marker tempio contribuisse a formare. Dare una risposta univoca e generale è difficile: ogni identity marker fissa un determinato confine identitario in relazione e in risposta al contesto storico e sociale in cui agisce e, per questo, il medesimo marker può assumere, ai fini della definizone identitaria, più valori; va però riconosciuto che ogni marker è portatore di un proprio significato, legato alla sua intrinseca natura che va al di là del valore simbolico e immaginario che gli può essere attribuito. In questo senso è possibile individuare alcune peculiarità proprie del tempio. Il tempio è un edificio che occupa uno spazio fisico e di questo spazio il mondo giudaico rivendica una proprietà esclusiva, che gli stessi dominatori romani implicitamente riconoscono: si pensi all’iscrizione del cortile dei gentili, «nessun gentile oltrepassi la balaustra di recinzione del tempio; chi fosse sorpreso sarà causa a se stesso della morte che seguirà», che attesta una deroga del tutto eccezionale al potere di comminare la pena di morte in Giudea 38. Il tempio dunque si rappresenta come spazio (centrale) della giudaicità, che implicitamente connota il concetto di ἰουδαῖος (e di ἰουδαισμός) di una dimensione territoriale. Il riconoscimento di Gerusalemme come città madre, μητρόπολις, di tutti i giudei (cf.  Lettera di Aristea a Filocrate 84‑104; 2Maccabei 1,12; Filone, Legatio ad Gaium p. 285‑321; J.M.G. Barclay, «Paul Among Diaspora Jews: Anomaly or Apostate?», Journal for the Study of the New Testament 18 (1996), p. 89‑119. 37.  Filone, Legatio ad Gaium 194: ἅμα γάρ τῇ τοῦ ἱεροῦ καταλύσει δέος, μὴ καὶ τὸ κοινὸν τοῦ ἔθνους ὄνομα συναφανισθῆναι κελεύσῃ ὁ νεωτεροποιὸς καὶ μεγαλουργὸς ἄνθρωπος. 38.  Sull’iscrizione si veda L. Boffo, Iscrizioni greche e latine per lo studio della Bibbia, Brescia, 1994, 283‑290. A conferma, anche dal punto di vista romano, dello status eccezionale del tempio valgano le parole che Giuseppe attribuisce a Tito in Bellum 6,124‑126: «Non foste proprio voi, sporchi profanatori, a innalzare questa balaustra dinanzi ai luoghi sacri? […] e non vi abbiamo noi permesso di mettere a morte chi l’avesse oltrepassata, anche se si fosse trattato di un romano?». È altresì interessante notare l’acuta formulazione dell’iscrizione che pur lasciando intendere che il trasgressore sarà punito per la violazione di una legge giudaica, non dichiara esplicitamente quale sia l’autorità cui compete l’emissione della sentenza di morte.

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225, 281, 288, 299, 346; In Flaccum 46; Flavio Giuseppe, Bellum 4,258; 4,274; 7,375) è data dalla presenza del tempio, e il tempio rappresenta in modo concreto, visibile, oggettivo il legame tra i giudei e la loro terra 39; la scomparsa del tempio o la sola sua violazione metterebbe a rischio questo legame e comprometterebbe l’immagine che i giudei hanno del proprio giudaismo. Per quanto possa sembrare contraddittorio, se è vero che l’adesione al giudaismo – grazie anche all’incontro con la cultura greca – è venuto a delinearsi come un insieme di pratiche e simboli culturali che svincola l’essere giudeo dall’abitare in Giudea, è altrettanto vero che nel concetto di giudaicità permane un irrinunciabile richiamo territoriale, che si esprime simbolicamente proprio nel legame con il tempio  4 0 e che alimenta quello che noi chiameremmo un sentimento nazionalista. Appare dunque errato, contrapporre, come alcuni studiosi fanno, il judean, cioè colui che abita in Giudea, al jew, cioè colui che sceglie di aderire al giudaismo 41. È più corretto invece includere il judean nel jew: il concetto di 39.  Sul rapporto tra Filone, il tempio e Gerusalemme come μητρόπολις cf.  S. Pearce , «Jerusalem as ‘Mother-city’ in the Writings of Philo», in J.M.G. Barclay (ed.), Negotiating Diaspora. Jewish Strategies in the Roman Empire, LondonNew York, 1994, p. 19‑36 (in particolare p. 31‑37). Nega invece ogni nesso tra la centralità di Gerusalemme e la presenza del Tempio, in maniera non del tutto convincente, D.R. Schwartz , «Temple or City: what did Hellenistic Jews See in Jerusalem?» in M. Porthuis – C. Safrai (ed.), The Centrality of Jerusalem, Kampen, 1996, p. 114‑127. 40.  Cf. D.R. Schwartz , Studies in Jewish Background of Christianity, p. 40‑41. 41.  È questa la tesi di S.J.D. Cohen, «Ἰουδαῖος, Iudaeus, Judaean, Jew», in I d., The Beginnings of Jewishness. Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertaintes, Berkeley-Los Angeles-New York 1991, p. 69‑106; S.J.D. Cohen, «Ἰουδαῖος τὸ γένος and related expressions in Josephus», in F. Parente – J. Sievers (ed.), Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith, Leiden, 1994, p. 23‑38. Lo studioso americano sostiene che a partire dall’età asmonea si assisterebbe ad un progressivo ampliamento di significato del termine ἰουδαῖος. Se in un primo momento esso aveva avuto un valore puramente etno-geografico, era servito cioè ad indicare i membri della nazione degli ἰουδαίοι che abitavano in Giudea (o i cui avi vi avevano abitato), successivamente avrebbe designato anche chi volontariamente aderiva alla religione e al sistema di vita giudaico (accezione religiosa e culturale) e chi diveniva, indipendentemente dalle proprie convinzioni religiose e dalle proprie origini, suddito dello stato asmoneo (accezione politica). Questo triplice valore sarebbe rimasto valido fino al VI sec. d.C. (quella politica sarebbe scomparsa con la perdita dell’indipendenza giudaica), quando l’accezione religiosa sarebbe definitivamente prevalsa sulle altre. Queste considerazioni portano Cohen a distinguere, in termini di traduzione, la dimensione etno-geografica da quella religiosa, ricorrendo nel primo caso alla parola inglese judean (costruita sul modello di syrian, aegyptian, phoenician,  etc.), nel secondo al termine jew (nulla è proposto per rendere l’accezione politica di ἰουδαῖος). Non è di questo avviso S. M ason che attraverso un’articolata ed meticolosa analisi del problema, attribuisce al termine judean un’accezione ampia che offrirebbe una più efficace e corretta traduzione del greco ἰουδαῖος: «‘Judean’ non ha alcuna restrizione geografica, più di quanto non ne abbia qualsiasi altro descrittore etnico. […] Come ‘Romano’, ‘Egiziano’ e ‘Greco’

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jew contiene infatti quello di judean, e non perde mai la sua dimensione territoriale. È una dimensione che il legame con il tempio di Gerusalemme contribuisce ad alimentare. Da qui scaturisce che il tempio rappresenta anche il simbolo del potere politico, il cui controllo, diretto o indiretto determina il prestigio e la leadership, o meglio da qui si determina che solo intorno e nel nome del tempio il giudaismo si possa rivendicare una autonomia politica 42 . Ora, la scomparsa del tempio pone fine alla fisicità del tempio, il che comporta delle conseguenze immediate sulle prassi giudaiche (culto, pellegrinaggio, invio del didramma, etc.), ma inevitabilmente obbliga anche ad una rielaborazione identitaria di cui c’è più di una traccia nelle fonti (cf.  4Esdra 4,23; 3,31 43; ma penso anche, più in generale alla genesi di opere come Antichità Giudaiche o Contro Apione). Qualche anno fa scrivevo: «All’interno di questa riflessione, sembra riaffermarsi ancora l’assoluta necessità del tempio», cioè, «sembra sussistere in ampi settori del mondo giudaico la ferma volontà di riaffermare un legame diretto tra ἔθνος e territorio giudaico e di esprimere questo legame ancora attraverso

(etc.) hanno un’ampia gamma di accezioni oltre quella geografica, e non richiedono di essere sostituiti da altri termini quando ci riferiamo a ‘cittadini Romani’ o definiamo Luciano ‘un Greco’, così anche a ‘Judean’ dovrebbe essere concesso di portare il peso di un termine etnico pieno di complesse possibilità» (S. M ason, «Jews, Judeans, Judaizing, Judaism: Problems of Categorization in Ancient History», Journal for the study of Judaism 38 [2007], p. 504). Queste considerazioni hanno spinto Mason a preferire, in sede di traduzione, sistematicamente il termine judean a jew, trovando seguito presso altri studiosi (cf., ad esempio, Flavius Josephus, Judean Antiquities 1‑4. Translation and Commentary by L.H. Feldman, volume 3 of Flavius Josephus. Translation and Commentary. Edited by S. Mason, Leiden, 2000). A Mason si è opposto in maniera convincente D.R. Schwartz , «‘Judean’ or ‘Jew’? How Should We Translate Ioudaios in Josephus?», in J. Frey – D.R. Schwartz – S. Gripentrog (ed.), Jewish Identity in the Greco-Roman World, Leiden, 2007, p. 3‑27, il quale evidenzia gli esiti erronei e talora grotteschi che un troppo rigido e univoco uso di judean comporterebbe. 42.  Si considerino le scelte e le strategie politiche di Erode I, il quale fa della sontuosa ricostruzione del tempio il simbolo della sua grandezza, e probabilmente anche della sua forza economica. Cf. W. Horbury, «Herod’s Temple and Herod’s Days», in W. Horbury (ed.), Templum Amicitiae, Sheffield 1991, p. 103‑149; M. Broshi, «The Role of the Temple in the Herodian Economy», Journal of Jewish Studies 38 (1987), p. 31‑37. 43.  4Esdra 3,31: «Forse che Babilonia si comporta meglio di Sion?»; 4Esdra 4,23: «Per quale motivo Israele è stata consegnata in mano ai pagani, il popolo che tu hai amato è stato dato a delle empie tribù, la Legge dei nostri padri è stata ridotta a nulla, e il patto messo per iscritto non esiste più?»; si vedano anche le parole che Giuseppe mette in bocca ad Eleazaro in Bellum 7,328 («Se Egli [Dio] ci fosse rimasto propizio, o non ci avesse preso tanto a malvolere, non sarebbe rimasto indifferente allo sterminio di tanti uomini né avrebbe abbandonato la sua città santa alle fiamme e alle devastazioni dei nemici»).

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il tempio»  4 4 . Sono parole che tuttora sottoscrivo, ma nei confronti delle quali c’è forse da aggiungere qualcosa. Leggendo testi come il Quarto Libro di Esdra, l ’Apocalisse Siriaca di Baruc o il Contro Apione che parlano del tempio al presente, o ancor più pensando a figure come Bar Kochba, che, nel rivendicare una qualche forma di autonomia politico-territoriale, continua a fare del tempio uno dei propri simboli identitari, non si può non riconoscere l’importanza che il tempio continua ad esercitare. Ma è lo stesso Tempio? Direi di no. Dopo il 70 il tempio muta il suo status e questo innesca un processo di cambiamento del rapporto identitario tra lo ἰουδαῖος e il tempio: il tempio non più come uno spazio che ogni giudeo sente di avere, ma come uno spazio che si spera di riavere; non più come uno spazio riconosciuto ai giudei, ma come uno spazio rivendicato dai giudei; non più luogo reale, ma immaginato: non più il luogo della giudaicità, ma soltanto, da ora in poi, uno dei simboli della giudaicità.

44.  D. Garribba, «Identità giudaica e Tempio. Le reazioni giudaiche alla fine di un’identity marker», Ricerche Storico-bibliche 21 (2009), p. 179.

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Quale sia l’atteggiamento di Flavio Giuseppe verso Gesù e i suoi seguaci è, come è noto, una questione ancora vivacemente dibattuta. Le posizioni degli studiosi in merito dipendono essenzialmente dalla soluzione del problema dell’autenticità del Testimonium Flavianum (Antiquitates Iudaicae 18,63‑64) e di quello della sua esatta interpretazione. Esula dagli intenti del mio contributo affrontare tali problemi. Qui parto dall’assunto che Antiquitates Iudaicae 18,63‑64 contiene un nucleo genuino ed esprime un’attitudine nel complesso relativamente positiva, o comunque non ostile, nei confronti di Gesù 1. Do anche per presupposto che un’analoga 1.  Ponendomi nel solco di una consolidata tradizione critica, sono incline a credere che il textus receptus del Testimonium Flavianum lasci intravedere l’intervento di una mano cristiana in almeno tre espressioni: εἴγε ἄνδρα αὐτὸν λέγειν χρή («se pure lo si deve chiamare uomo»), ὁ Χριστὸς οὗτος ἦν («questi era il Cristo»), ἐφάνη γὰρ αὐτοῖς τρίτην ἔχων ἡμέραν πάλιν ζῶν τῶν ϑείων προφητῶν ταῦτά τε καὶ ἄλλα μυρία περὶ αὐτοῦ ϑαυμάσια εἰρηκότων («infatti apparve loro il terzo giorno nuovamente vivo, avendo detto i divini profeti su di lui queste e altre innumerevoli cose prodigiose»). Tuttavia, diversamente da quanti ritengono che il testo originario possa essere ricostruito semplicemente eliminando tali passaggi (così ad es. J.P. M eier , Un ebreo marginale. Ripensare il Gesù storico. I. Le radici del problema e della persona, Brescia, 2001, p. 57‑85), concordo con studiosi come F. Bruce, R.T. France, G. Jossa sul fatto che la frase «questi era il Cristo» non possa essere facilmente soppressa. Una menzione del termine Χριστός è richiesta per giustificare appieno sia l’espressione τῶν Χριστιανῶν ἀπὸ τοῦδε ὠνομασμένον […] τὸ φῦλον «la tribù di coloro che da lui sono detti cristiani», che nella parte conclusiva dello stesso Testimonium è impiegata per designare i seguaci di Gesù, sia l’espressione Ἰησοῦς ὁ λεγόμενος Χριστός («Gesù detto Cristo») di Antiquitates Iudaicae 20,200. La soluzione per la quale propendo, sulla scia degli autori da ultimo citati, consiste nel correggere la frase del testo tràdito «questi era il Cristo» (ὁ Χριστὸς οὗτος ἦν) – che ha tutta la parvenza di una confessione di fede cristologica – inserendo congetturalmente, fra l’articolo e il nome Χριστός, il participio λεγόμενος, desunto per analogia da Antiquitates iudaicae 20,200, così da ottenere l’espressione «questi era il cosiddetto Cristo» (ὁ λεγόμενος Χριστὸς οὗτος ἦν: cf.  ad es. F.F. Bruce , Testimonianze extrabibliche su Gesù, Torino, 2003, Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 465–486 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111717 ©

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attitudine sia individuabile nel passo delle Antiquitates Iudaicae su Giacomo (20,199ss.), della cui paternità flaviana per lo più non si dubita. Per entrambi i passi accolgo una tesi che notoriamente, pur non essendo affatto unanime, incontra molti consensi, ed è probabilmente maggioritaria 2 . Ma come spiegare storicamente questa propensione dell’autore giudeo? È a questa domanda che proverò a rispondere. Si tratta di un interrogativo che non di rado è stato trascurato nella ricerca sui passi citati. Alcuni studi affrontano il problema delle fonti 3; p. 39; R.T. France , The Evidence for Jesus, Downers Grove, 1886, p. 30; G. Jossa, «Jews, Romans and Christians: From the Bellum Judaicum to the Antiquitates», in J. Sievers – G. L embi (ed.), Josephus and Jewish History in Flavian Rome and Beyond, Leiden, 2005, p. 332‑333. Qui il termine Christos sarebbe impiegato non come titolo messianico ma come semplice soprannome atto a distinguere il Gesù in questione dai numerosi personaggi omonimi presenti nelle Antiquitates, con una designazione che tiene conto del modo in cui ordinariamente Gesù di Nazareth era conosciuto negli ambienti pagani, ove “Cristo” era utilizzato come antroponimo. Secondo tale ipotesi, la frase «questi era il Cristo» del testo attuale del Testimonium si sarebbe prodotta per la semplice omissione – intenzionale o accidentale – del participio λεγόμενος. 2.  Si vedano, ad es., C. Setzer , Jewish Response to Early Christians: History and Polemics, 30‑150 C.E., Minneapolis, 1994, p. 105‑109; G. Vermes , «The Jesus Notice of Josephus Re-Examined», in I d., Jesus in his Jewish Context, London, 2003, p. 91‑98; G. Jossa, «Jews, Romans and Christians», in J. Sievers – G. L embi (ed.), Josephus and Jewish History in Flavian Rome and Beyond, Leiden, 2005, p. 331‑342; R.E. Van Voorst, Gesù nelle fonti extrabibliche. Le antiche testimonianze sul maestro di Galilea, Cinisello Balsamo (Milano), 2004, p. 100‑124; J. Carleton Paget, «Some Observations on Josephus and Christianity», Journal of Theological Studies 52 (2001), p. 539‑624; G. Theissen – A. M erz , Il Gesù storico. Un manuale, Brescia, 1999, p. 88‑100; J.P. M eier , «Jesus in Josephus: A Modest Proposal», Catholic Biblical Quarterly 52 (1990), p. 76‑99. Va però segnalata la pubblicazione recente di importanti studi che sostengono la tesi dell’autenticità integrale (o quasi) del Testimonium Flavianum, alcuni dei quali vi leggono anche una disposizione tendenzialmente negativa verso Gesù: cf. ad es, E. Nodet, «Jésus et Jean-Baptiste selon Josèphe», Revue Biblique 92 (1985), p. 321‑348, 497‑524; A. Whealey, Josephus on Jesus: The Testimonium Flavianum Controversy from Late Antiquity to Modern Times, New York, 2003; L. Troiani, «Il Gesù di Flavio Giuseppe», in A. P itta (ed.), Il Gesù storico nelle fonti del I-II secolo (Atti del X Convegno di Studi Neotestamentari, Foligno 11‑13 Settembre 2003), Ricerche Storico Bibliche 17 (2005), p. 137‑147; U. Victor , «Das Testimonium Flavianum: Ein authentischer Text des Josephus», Novum Testamentum 52 (2010), p. 72‑82; F. Bermejo -Rubio, «Was the Hypothetical Vorlage of the Testimonium Flavianum a Neutral “Text”? Challenging the Common Wisdom on Antiquitates Iudaicae 18.63‑64», Journal for the Study of Judaism 45 (2014), p. 326‑365. 3.  Il tentativo recente più risoluto in questa direzione è quello di G.J. Goldberg, «The Coincidences of the Testimonium of Josephus and the Emmaus Narrative of Luke», Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 13 (1995), p. 59‑77 (cf. anche la versione on line: http://www.josephus.org/testimonium.htm). Questo autore riscontra diverse corrispondenze tra il Testimonium Flavianum e l’episodio di Emmaus del Vangelo di Luca (cap. 24), concludendo che entrambi i racconti dipendono da

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ma questa impostazione si rivela insufficiente per rispondere alla nostra domanda, poiché da un lato l’indagine sulle fonti, nel nostro caso, è destinata a rimanere fortemente ipotetica 4; dall’altro è ormai una solida acquisizione della critica flaviana che lo storico giudeo non ha un approccio passivo alle sue fonti ed è da considerarsi pienamente responsabile di ciò che scrive 5; il che rende ineludibile l’interrogativo sulle motivazioni delle sue scelte autoriali. In grande maggioranza gli studiosi che hanno cercato di spiegare il giudizio di Flavio Giuseppe sui “cristiani” hanno concentrato la propria indagine sul contesto storico-politico (in senso lato) in cui si colloca la composizione delle Antiquitates, ovvero la Roma del tempo di Domiziano. Per R. Laqueur, ad es., Flavio Giuseppe, emarginato dai suoi connazionali e caduto in disgrazia presso Domiziano, avrebbe inserito il passo su Gesù per guadagnare il favore dei cristiani e vendere a loro copie della sua opera 6. Secondo P. Garnet e A. Vincent-Cernuda, il Testimonium Flavianum presenterebbe tratti ambivalenti perché scritto con lo scopo di compiacere Flavio Clemente – da essi erroneamente ritenuto cristiano – senza però urtare la diversa sensibilità religiosa dell’imperatore e di altri membri della

una comune fonte “giudeocristiana”. La possibilità che il Testimonium Flavianum, se autentico, derivi da una fonte “giudeocristiana” (di tipo ebionita) avente anche elementi di convergenza col terzo vangelo canonico viene prospettata anche da S. Bardet, il quale ritiene però altrettanto possibile che il passo sia direttamente l’interpolazione di uno scriba giudeocristiano (S. Bardet, Le Testimonium Flavianum. Examen historique, considérations historiographiques, Paris, 2002, p. 154‑164; I d., «Un approche èpistémologique et christologique des problèmes posés par le Testimonium Flavianum (Flavius Josèphe, Antiquités Juives  XVIII, § 63‑64)», in S.C. M imouni (ed.), Le judéo-christianisme dans tous ses états, Paris, 2001, spec. p. 193ss.). Per una breve riflessione sulle fonti cf. anche Van Voorst, Gesù nelle fonti extrabibliche. Le antiche testimonianze sul maestro di Galilea, Cinisello Balsamo (Milano), 2004, p. 222‑224. 4.  L’incertezza è tale da far dire a J.P. Meier che «ogni opinione sulla questione delle fonti rimane ugualmente possibile, perché rimane ugualmente non verificabile» (J.P. M eier , Un ebreo marginale. I. Le radici del problema e della persona, Brescia, 2001, p. 83). 5.  Cf. ad es. P. Bilde, per il quale il riconoscimento di tale responsabilità a Flavio Giuseppe è una caratteristica dell’attuale ricerca (P. Bilde , Flavius Josephus Between Jerusalem and Rome. His Life, His Works and Their Importance, Sheffield, 1988, p. 18, 126ss.). Circa l’uso delle fonti da parte di Flavio Giuseppe cf., ad es., S.J.D. Cohen, Josephus in Galileee and Rome, Leiden, 1979, p. 24‑66; S. M ason, Flavius Josephus on the Pharisees. A Composition-Critical Study, Leiden, 1991, p. 176‑177, 207‑211, 306‑307. 6.  R. L aqueur , Der jüdische Historiker Flavius Josephus: ein biographischer Versuch auf neuer quellenkritische Grundlage, Darmstadt, 1970 [or. 1920], p. 271ss.. Per una sintetica ma efficace critica a questa proposta cf. L.H. Feldman, «Flavius Josephus Revisited: The Man, His Writings, and His Significance», in W. H aase (ed.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.21.2, Berlin, 1984, p. 832.

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classe dirigente pagana 7. Molto più rigorosa l’interpretazione di G. Jossa. Opportunamente egli legge i passi flaviani di interesse cristiano in relazione alle finalità generali dell’opera. I ritratti sostanzialmente favorevoli di Gesù e Giacomo sarebbero un effetto secondario sia della critica rivolta ai governatori romani e all’élite sacerdotale giudaica, ritenuti corresponsabili del processo degenerativo che avrebbe condotto alla catastrofe del 70 d.C., sia dell’intento di presentare le diverse correnti religiose giudaiche alla stregua di scuole filosofiche. Comunque anche Jossa, seguendo S. Mazzarino, individua una motivazione di ordine politico: l’atteggiamento positivo di Flavio Giuseppe verso i cristiani rispecchierebbe quello del giudaismo ellenistico filoromano (per es. Agrippa II) e sarebbe da mettere in relazione a un’alleanza di fatto tra giudei, cristiani e opposizione senatoria di tendenze stoiche dinanzi alla deriva autocratica del regime domizianeo 8. Questo approccio sincronico basato sullo studio letterario dei passi delle Antiquitates sui “cristiani” nel quadro dell’opera e sull’indagine storica del loro Sitz im Leben nella Roma degli anni 90 può rivelarsi certamente fruttuoso, come mostra il contributo di G. Jossa. Esso, però, a mio avviso, può essere utilmente integrato da un approccio diacronico che guardi più indietro nel tempo rispetto agli anni di composizione delle Antiquitates, onde accertare un’eventuale storia pregressa della formazione del punto di vista implicito in quei passi. Si tratta cioè di indagare il background spirituale di Flavio Giuseppe, verificando l’esistenza di premesse intellettuali e religiose con le quali, in seguito, nel periodo domizianeo, potrebbero aver interagito altri stimoli derivanti dal nuovo contesto culturale e politico. È questa seconda pista di ricerca, complementare alla prima, che intendo percorrere, consapevole di muovermi su un terreno sicuramente molto ipotetico. La mia tesi è che la sostanza del giudizio sui cristiani espresso nel Testimonium Flavianum e nel passaggio su Giacomo di Antiquitates Iudaicae 20,200ss. ha cominciato a formarsi nel periodo palestinese della vita di Giuseppe, prima della guerra giudaica, ed è più profondamente radicata nelle convinzioni dell’autore giudeo e meno legata alle convenienze del momento di quanto di solito non si ritenga 9. 7.  P. Garnet, «If the Testimonium Flavianum Contains Alterations, Who Originated Them?», Studia Patristica 19 (1989), p. 57‑61; A. Vincent Cernuda, «El Testimonio Flaviano, alarde de solapada ironía», Estudios Biblicos 55 (1997), p. 335‑385, 497‑508. 8.  Cf.  G. Jossa, «Jews, Romans and Christians: From the Bellum Judaicum to the Antiquitates», in J. Sievers – G. L embi (ed.), Josephus and Jewish History in Flavian Rome and Beyond, Leiden, 2005, p. 331‑342; I d., I cristiani e l ’impero romano, Napoli, 1990, p. 63ss. 9.  Questa ipotesi mi sembra anche incontrare quel trend recente della ricerca teso a rivalutare la figura intellettuale dello storico giudeo, troppo spesso ridotta alla caricatura di traditore, opportunista e bugiardo. Cf. ad es. P. Bilde , Flavius Josephus Between Jerusalem and Rome. His Life, His Works and Their Impor-

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Ovviamente tale ipotesi presuppone che il silenzio del Bellum Iudaicum sul fenomeno “cristiano” non dipenda né da una totale mancanza di informazioni in merito, né sia interpretabile in senso ostile. E in effetti negli anni 70 il movimento che si richiamava a Gesù di Nazareth era una realtà già impostasi all’attenzione delle autorità romane e giudaiche, in Palestina 10 come a Roma 11 e in altre province dell’impero 12 , ed è difficile pensare che un giudeo come Flavio Giuseppe, già esponente della classe dirigente del suo popolo, poi divenuto cliente della casa Flavia, non disponesse delle informazioni basilari e non si fosse formato un’opinione a riguardo. Tra l’altro la persecuzione neroniana dei seguaci di Gesù (64 d.C.) avvenne molto probabilmente proprio durante il soggiorno di Giuseppe nella capitale dell’impero per una missione diplomatica 13. Nulla obbliga poi ad intendere il silenzio del Bellum in chiave ostile. Posto che interpretare i silenzi è sempre problematico, varie possono essere le spiegazioni alternative. La più immediata è che in un’opera tesa a raccontare la rivolta contro Roma e ad illustrarne le cause, non era necessario menzionare un gruppo che non aveva avuto alcuna parte in quei tragici eventi 14 . tance, Sheffield, 1988, p. 18, 144ss.; J. Sievers , «La Torah in Flavio Giuseppe», in I. Cardellini (ed.), Torah e Kerygma: dinamiche della tradizione nella Bibbia, XXXVII Settimana Biblica Nazionale (Roma, 9‑13 settembre 2002), Ricerche Storico Bibliche 1‑2 (2004), p. 231‑244; J. K lawans , Josephus and the Theologies of Ancient Judaism, Oxford, 2012; W. Den Hollander , Josephus, the Emperors, and the City of Rome. From Hostage to Historian, Leiden, 2014. 10.  Cf. ad es. Vangelo di Marco 14,43‑15; Atti degli Apostoli 4,1‑22; 5,17‑42; 12,1-19; 21,27‑26-32. 11.  Qui non molti anni prima, nel 64 d.C., vi era stata un’efferata persecuzione, che aveva colpito la comunità cristiana, la quale evidentemente veniva percepita come distinta da quella giudaica: Tacito, Annales 15,44; Svetonio, Nerone 16,2. Sull’episodio cf. G. Jossa, I cristiani e l ’impero romano, Napoli, 1990, p. 57‑62. 12.  Cf. ad es. Atti degli Apostoli 13,4-12; 13,13‑52; 16,16‑40; 18,12‑17; 19,23‑40. 13.  Cf.  infra, note 45 e 46. 14.  Con la maggioranza degli studiosi accolgo tra l’altro la sostanziale storicità (invero controversa) della notizia riferita da Eusebio (Historia Ecclesiastica 3,5,3) ed Epifanio (Panarion 29,7,7-8; 30,2,7; Sui pesi e sulle misure 15) della fuga a Pella della comunità cristiana di Gerusalemme (cf. C. Gianotto, Ebrei credenti in Gesù, Milano, 2012, p. 74‑75, 307‑308, 361, 365‑366, 406, 617‑618), pur ritenendo che i tempi e le modalità dell’episodio non siano stati esattamente quelli riportati dagli autori ecclesiastici e che esso non abbia riguardato la totalità della chiesa gerosolimitana. Un’altra spiegazione del silenzio del Bellum sui “cristiani” consiste nel far rientrare tale silenzio in quello più generale dell’opera sul messianismo e l’apocalittica, ben rilevato da A. Momigliano («Ciò che Flavio Giuseppe non vide», introduzione al volume di P. Vidal-Naquet, Il buon uso del tradimento. Flavio Giuseppe e la guerra giudaica, Roma, 1992, p. IX-XXII). Ancora, si può pensare, sia pure in via puramente congetturale, a rivalità intercorrenti tra le comunità sinagogali ed ecclesiali della città di Roma, che avranno scoraggiato l’autore giudeo dall’esprimere interesse verso Gesù e i suoi seguaci. L’ipotesi sopra esposta di Jossa e Mazzarino può valere a spiegare la ragione per cui, all’altezza cronologica delle Antiquitates,

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Anzi, si può immaginare che la mancata partecipazione dei cristiani alla guerra ponesse questi ultimi in una luce favorevole agli occhi di chi, come Giuseppe, nonostante una certa ambiguità dettata dalle circostanze, si era schierato col fronte moderato contro i fautori della rivoluzione ed era poi passato, dopo la presa della roccaforte galilaica di Iotapata, dalla parte dei Romani 15. Quello che è certo, in linea con quanto sto sostenendo, è che gli ambienti a cui Flavio Giuseppe, al tempo della stesura del Bellum, risulta più strettamente legato non mostrano alcuna ostilità verso i seguaci di Gesù, come attestano chiaramente gli Atti degli Apostoli per Agrippa II (26,28.31‑32), ed Eusebio, o meglio Egesippo, a proposito di Vespasiano (Historia Ecclesiastica 3,17; cf. anche §§ 12 e 19-20) 16. D’altro canto dal Vangelo di Matteo e dagli scritti lucani, redatti orientativamente nel periodo di composizione del Bellum, traspare un atteggiamento fiducioso nei confronti di Roma 17. Lo stesso Flavio Giuseppe, inoltre, nel Bellum esprime simpatia verso gli esseni, che per alcuni versi possono essere accostati al giudaismo cristiano di più stretta osservanza, e considera dotato di capacità profetiche un personaggio come Gesù figlio di Anania (6,300‑309) 18, figura per qualche aspetto confrontabile con l’omonimo e ben più celebre profeta galileo. Insomma, il silenzio del Bellum Iudaicum su Gesù e il suo movimento non impedisce di pensare che lo storico giudeo già allora coltivasse sentimenti non ostili verso di loro. Ma, come accennavo, la genesi di questa propensione si può forse collocare più indietro nel tempo.

nelle mutate circostanze storiche, Flavio Giuseppe sarebbe stato indotto ad abbandonare la sua precedente reticenza sul movimento gesuano. 15.  Come è noto, riguardo alla posizione politica di Giuseppe e in particolare al suo atteggiamento verso la guerra contro Roma esistono interpretazioni molto divergenti tra loro. La ricostruzione sopra proposta segue la linea tracciata da autori come J. Thackeray ( Josephus: The Man and the Historian, New York, 1929, p. 10‑13, 21‑22), T. R ajak ( Josephus. The Historian and His Society, London, 1983, p. 144ss.), P. Bilde (Flavius Josephus between Jerusalem and Rome. His Life, His Works and Their Importance, Sheffield, 1988, p. 39ss., 43ss.), G. Jossa, «La missione di Giuseppe in Galilea», in I d., I gruppi giudaici ai tempi di Gesù, Brescia, 2001, p. 147‑161. 16.  Su questi passi di Eusebio e per il riferimento di Historia Ecclesiastica 3,19‑20 a Vespasiano o Tito anziché a Domiziano, che è invece l’impertore romano espressamente nominato nel passo, cf. G. Jossa, I cristiani e l ’impero romano, Napoli, 1990, p. 65‑67; M. Sordi, I cristiani e l ’impero romano, Milano, 2004, p. 72‑75; M. Smallwood, The Jews under Roman Rule, Leiden, 1976, p. 351ss. 17.  Cf. G. Jossa, I cristiani e l ’impero romano, Napoli, 1990, p. 72‑79. 18.  Su questo personaggio cf., ad es., R. Gray, Prophetic Figures in Late Second Temple Jewish Palestine. The Evidence from Josephus, Oxford, 1993, p. 158‑163. Circa il carattere idealizzato del ritratto flaviano degli esseni cf., tra gli altri, S. M ason, Josephus, Judea, and Christian Origins. Methods and Categories, Peabody, MA, 2009, p. 239‑279.

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for m a z ion e di

471

G i use ppe

Secondo la sua stessa autobiografia, Giuseppe, tra i sedici e i diciannove anni, compì un percorso formativo che lo portò in un primo tempo a fare esperienza di tutte e tre le principali haireseis del giudaismo – quelle dei farisei, dei sadducei e degli esseni – (Vita 10), in un secondo tempo a vivere nel deserto per tre anni al seguito di un asceta di nome Banno (§§ 11‑12a) e infine a seguire il fariseismo (§ 12b). Il racconto risulta, invero, assai sospetto perché, oltre a riflettere un noto schema letterario convenzionale, presenta oggettive difficoltà cronologiche 19. Se, tuttavia, come diversi studiosi credono, esso, al di là di certe forzature ed approssimazioni, mantiene un nocciolo di verità storica 20, se ne possono ricavare alcune informazioni interessanti. Risalta innanzitutto l’apertura del Nostro in materia religiosa, che si evidenzia nella disponibilità a vivere esperienze spirituali molto diverse tra loro, anche di tipo marginale, come nel caso della sequela di Banno. Significativo in particolare è l’interesse di Giuseppe per gli esseni, che trova riscontro nella simpatia con cui egli ritrae questo gruppo nei 19.  Il motivo del passaggio formativo attraverso diverse scuole filosofiche è un topos letterario ben attestato nel mondo greco-romano: lo ritroviamo ad esempio a proposito di Nicolao di Damasco, Galeno, Giustino, Apollonio di Tiana e Agostino. Per quanto riguarda le difficoltà cronologiche, il problema è il seguente: se Giuseppe nel periodo intercorrente tra il sedicesimo e il diciannovesimo anno di età ha trascorso tre anni con l’asceta Banno nel deserto, quando ha trovato il tempo di fare esperienza delle tre scuole? Il problema è reso ancor più grave dal fatto che lo stesso Flavio Giuseppe riporta che l’ingresso nella comunità essena richiedeva tre anni (Bellum Iudaicum 2,137‑138), mentre la qumranica Regola della comunità stabilisce un periodo di due anni per poter essere ammesso alla “comunità del Patto” (1QS VI,13‑23). Scettici sulla storicità del racconto sono, fra gli altri, S.J.D. Cohen ( Josephus in Galilee and Rome, Leiden, 1979, p. 107) e H.W. Attridge («Josephus and His Works», in M. Stone [ed.], Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period. Apocrypha, Pseudepigrapha, Qumran Sectarian Writings, Philo, Josephus, Assen– Philadelphia, PA, 1984, p. 186). 20.  Con T. R ajak ( Josephus. The Historian and His Society, London, 1983, p. 30ss.) si può sostenere che il carattere convenzionale del passo non necessariamente implica la sua totale infondatezza storica e che, date le scarse attitudini ascetiche di Giuseppe, evincibili da tutto ciò che sappiamo di lui, se in un punto si deve sospettare una deformazione del dato storico, questo è nella cronologia della permanenza nel deserto, che lo storico giudeo potrebbe aver ampliato oltre misura per accreditarsi come personaggio dalla superiore spiritualità. Un’altra soluzione (non necessariamente alternativa a quella ora esposta) è ricavabile da un’osservazione di P. Stern («Life of Josephus: The Autobiography of Flavius Josephus», Journal for the Study of Judaism 41 [2010], p. 63‑93, spec. 74‑77), secondo la quale la scansione cronologica che Vita offre del percorso formativo di Giuseppe rifletterebbe non già la prassi ebraica del tempo ma quella romana. Si potrebbe pensare, perciò, che lo storico ebreo alteri la cronologia del proprio itinerario spirituale più che mentire sulle esperienze in cui esso si è articolato.

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suoi scritti (cf. ad es. Bellum Iudaicum 2,119‑161; Antiquitates Iudaicae 18,18‑22); significativo, perché la storiografia attuale ama sottolineare, spesso anche esagerando, le connessioni del movimento dei seguaci di Gesù con questa forma di giudaismo. Rileva anche che Giuseppe, a conclusione del suo itinerario formativo, non opti per il sadduceismo, che pure era l’indirizzo religioso tipico dei ranghi elevati del sacerdozio, cui egli apparteneva 21; anzi, nei suoi scritti i sadducei sono rappresentati in modo chiaramente sfavorevole 22; e questi dati sono degni di nota ai fini del nostro discorso, se si considera l’ostilità irriducibile dei sadducei verso Gesù e il gruppo che a lui si richiamava 23. A stare all’interpretazione più immediata di Vita 12, alla fine del suo percorso “filosofico” Giuseppe opta invece per il fariseismo. III. G i use ppe

è s tato u n fa r i seo ?

Questa interpretazione di Vita 12 e la valutazione positiva della sua attendibilità storica sono state, tuttavia, ripetutamente contestate 24 . A mio 21.  Per l’identità fondamentalmente sacerdotale del gruppo sadduceo, recentemente più volte messa in dubbio, cf. M. Vitelli, «Sadducei e sacerdozio nel giudaismo del Secondo Tempio», in A. P itta (ed.), Tempio, culto e sacerdozio. Atti del XII Convegno di Studi Neotestamentari e Anticocristiani (Fara Sabina, 13‑15 Settembre 2007), Ricerche Storico Bibliche 21/2 (2009), p. 49‑82. 22.  Cf. ad es. G. Baumbach, «The Sadducees in Josephus», in L.H. Feldman ­– G. H ata (ed.), Josephus, the Bible and History, Leiden, 1989, p. 173‑194; M ason, Giuseppe Flavio e il Nuovo Testamento, Torino, 2001, p. 151‑153. 23.  Cf. ad es. Vangelo di Marco 12,18‑27 e parr.; Atti degli Apostoli 4,1ss.; 5,17ss.; 26,6ss; Antiquitates Iudaicae 20,197ss. 24.  Le contestazioni sono sostanzialmente di due tipi: quella di chi ritiene che Flavio Giuseppe, in Vita 12, per ragioni di opportunismo, dichiari falsamente di aver aderito all’hairesis farisaica (così ad es. M. Smith, «Palestinian Judaism in the First Century», in M. Davis [ed.], Israel, Its Role in Civilization, New York, 1956, p. 67‑81; S.J.D. Cohen, Josephus in Galilee and Rome, Leiden, 1979, p. 238; J. Neusner , «Josephus’ Pharisees: A Complete Repertoire», in L.H. Feldman – G. H ata [ed.], Josephus, Judaism and Christianity, Leiden, 1987, p. 275‑276; J.P. M eier , Un ebreo marginale. Ripensare il Gesù storico. III. Compagni e antagonisti, Brescia, 2003, p. 326‑327; e L.L. Grabbe , «Sadducees and Pharisees», in J. Neusner – A.J. Avery-Peck [ed.], Judaism in Late Antiquity. II. Part Three. Where We Stand: Issues and Debate in Ancient Judaism, Section One, Leiden, 2001, p. 43‑44, n. 11); e la contestazione di quanti sostengono che in detto passo l’autore non parli affatto di una sua adesione al gruppo dei farisei ma del suo ingresso nella vita politica (che all’epoca sarebbe stata dominata dai farisei), e affermano anzi che egli non manifestò mai alcuna simpatia verso il fariseismo (cf. ad es. E. Gerlach, Die Weissagungen des Alten Testaments in den Schriften des Flavius Josephus, Berlin, 1863, p. 18; e sopratutto S. M ason, «Was Josephus a Pharisee? A  Re-Examination of Life 10‑12», Journal of Jewish Studies 40 [1989], p. 31‑45; id., Flavius Josephus on the Pharisees. A  Composition-Critical Study, Leiden, 1991, spec. p. 342‑356).

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giudizio, tali contestanzioni, però, non appaiono fondate se non in modo molto parziale. Lo spazio limitato a disposizione non mi consente di argomentare su questo punto. Ma avendo dedicato al tema un lungo articolo, pubblicato su Henoch nel 2012, rimando ad esso 25. Qui mi limito solo a segnalare che l’analisi che lì ho svolto di tutti i principali passi di Vita in cui l’autore parla dei propri rapporti con i farisei (§§ 12; 21; 191; 197‑198; 274) mi ha condotto alla conclusione che Giuseppe aderì effettivamente al fariseismo, ma come semplice simpatizzante, senza diventare un vero e proprio membro del gruppo. In definitiva la formazione spirituale di Giuseppe appare improntata a un giudaismo fedele alle osservanze tradizionali ma esente da chiusure propriamente settarie: essa si mostra aperta a esperienze molto diverse tra loro e si conclude con un’opzione per il fariseismo – l’orientamento religioso più popolare e relativamente più progressista del giudaismo palestinese di allora – che non coincide con un vero e proprio ingresso nel gruppo. IV. Fa r i se i

e cr i s t i a n i

Il fariseismo costituisce, comunque, il principale riferimento religioso del giovane sacerdote gerosolimitano. Può essere utile allora tracciare un pur sommario quadro storico delle relazioni tra farisei e “cristiani” per individuare delle coordinate che aiutino a comprendere meglio l’atteggiamento di Flavio Giuseppe verso Gesù e i suoi seguaci. Secondo le fonti, i farisei intrattennero col maestro di Nazareth rapporti prevalentemente conflittuali 26. Nondimeno, a stare ad alcune tradizioni evangeliche, non tutti i farisei furono ostili a Gesù: alcuni manifestarono nei suoi confronti una positiva disponibilità al dialogo e talora anche benevolenza 27. 25.  M. Vitelli, «Fu Giuseppe un fariseo? La questione dell’identità religiosa dello storico giudeo nel periodo anteriore alla sua resa ai Romani: la testimonianza dell’Autobiografia», Henoch 34 (2012), p. 21‑55. 26.  Cf. per es. Vangelo di Marco 2,13-3,6 e parr.; 7,1‑15 e parr.; 12,13‑17 e parr. In generale, sulla questione della storicità del conflitto tra Gesù e i farisei, spesso messa in dubbio, cf. ad es. G. Jossa, La condanna del messia, Brescia, 2010, p. 150‑176; e M. Vitelli, «Popolarità e influenza dei farisei nel giudaismo palestinese del I secolo», in M.B. Durante M angoni – G. Jossa (ed.), Giudei e cristiani nel I secolo. Continuità, separazione, polemica, Trapani, 2006, p. 13‑66 (spec. 36‑45). 27.  Cf.  Vangelo di Luca 7,36; 11,37s.;13,31; 14,1s.; Vangelo di Giovanni 3,1ss.; 7,50‑52; 19,39. Fra i tanti studiosi che ritengono plausibile la presenza tra i farisei di atteggiamenti diversificati (tolleranti o anche in certa misura amichevoli, oltre che ostili) nei confronti di Gesù cf. G. Theissen – A. M erz , Il Gesù storico. Un manuale, Brescia, 1999, p. 286‑287; J.P. M eier , Un Ebreo marginale. III. Compagni e antagonisti, Brescia 2003, p. 382, 385; A. Destro – M. Pesce , L’uomo Gesù,

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Dopo la Pasqua, mentre la componente “ellenista” della comunità dei credenti in Gesù, probabilmente a motivo della propria critica alla Legge, incontrò l’ostilità dei farisei, o almeno dei loro membri più zelanti all’interno della sinagoga ellenofona di Gerusalemme (cf. Atti degli Apostoli 7,57ss.; Lettera ai Galati 1,13‑14) 28, la componente “ebrea”, più legata alle forme tradizionali della pietà giudaica, trovò da parte loro una certa tolleranza (Atti degli Apostoli 5,34ss.). Nel periodo successivo, la chiesa di Gerusalemme, sotto la leadership di Giacomo “il Giusto”, per la sua salda fedeltà alle osservanze giudaiche stabilì buone relazioni con i farisei. Lo confermano la presenza in quella comunità di membri di provenienza farisaica (15,5) 29 e quanto accadde in occasione della morte di Giacomo, Milano, 2008, p. 71, 84‑86. Per quanto riguarda specificamente Nicodemo come figura storica, cf. J. Paulien, «Nicodemus», in D.N. Freedman (ed.), Anchor Bible Dictionary. IV, New York, 1992, p. 1105‑1106; R. Bauckham, «Nicodemus and the Gurion Family», in I d., The Testimony of the Beloved Disciple, Grand Rapids, 2007, p. 137‑172; D.M. A llen, «Secret Disciples: Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea», in K. K eith – L. Hurtado (ed.), Jesus Among Friends and Enemies, Grand Rapids, 2011, p. 149‑169; A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù, Milano, 2014, p. 36 (scettici però sulla partecipazione di Nicodemo alla sepoltura di Gesù). Sugli episodi lucani di incontro conviviale di Gesù con i farisei cf. ad es. A. Destro – M. Pesce , L’uomo Gesù, Milano, 2008, p. 71, 74, 107‑108, 119; M. Del Verme , Giudaismo e Nuovo Testamento. Il caso delle decime, Napoli, 1989, p. 62‑63; . 28.  Cf. ad es. M. H engel , «Between Jesus and Paul: The ‘Hellenists’, the ‘Seven’ and Stephen (Acts 6.1‑15; 7.54-8.3)», in I d., Between Jesus and Paul. Studies in the Earliest History of Christianity, London, 1983, p. 1‑30; G. Jossa, «Gli ellenisti e i timorati di Dio», in A. P itta (ed.), Gli Atti degli apostoli: storiografia e biografia. Atti dell’VIII Convegno di Studi Neotestamentari (Torreglia, 8‑11 Settembre 1999), Ricerche Storico Bibliche 2 (2001), p. 103‑122. 29.  B. Chilton in alcuni studi recenti («Paul and the Pharisees», in J. Neusner – B. Chilton [ed.], In Quest of the Historical Pharisees, Waco, Texas, 2007, p. 149‑174; «James and the (Christian) Pharisees», in A.J. Avery-Peck – J. H arrington – J. Neusner [ed.], When Judaism and Christianity Began. Essays in Memory of Antony J. Saldariny. I. Christianity in the Beginning, Leiden–Boston, 2004, p. 19‑48) ha sottolineato però con forza il contrasto esistente fra questi membri di matrice farisaica della comunità gerosolimitana e Giacomo sul tema della circoncisione come requisito per l’ammissione dei gentili nella chiesa, evidenziando come tali credenti provenienti dal fariseismo ritenessero la circoncisione irrinunciabile, mentre Giacomo sulla questione specifica sposava la linea opposta di Paolo e Pietro. Ma se questo contrasto va riconosciuto, si devono svolgere alcune considerazioni che ne limitano la portata: (1) in riferimento a quei farisei aderenti a Cristo Luca parla di «alcuni provenienti dalla scuola dei farisei che avevano creduto» (Atti degli Apostoli 15,5) con una formula che lascia spazio all’ipotesi che altri membri della chiesa di provenienza farisaica potessero non condividere la loro posizione e concordare piuttosto con Giacomo; (2) la categoria dei “timorati di Dio” o semiproseliti era ampiamente accettata nella diaspora e, in generale, in Giudea erano proprio i farisei il gruppo religioso che per certi versi era più in sintonia con le esigenze del giudaismo diasporico (cf. ad es. D.R. Schwartz , «Josephus on the Pharisees as Diaspora Jews», in C. Böttrich – J. H erzer [ed.], Josephus und das Neue Testament, Tübin­

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quando alcuni personaggi identificabili con sufficiente sicurezza come farisei ottennero la rimozione del sommo sacerdote Anano, principale responsabile della condanna capitale inflitta al “fratello” di Gesù (Antiquitates Iudaicae 20,200ss.) 30. Si deve anche sottolineare che la mancata adesione dei seguaci di Gesù alla rivolta contro Roma era di fatto in linea con l’orientamento della leadership farisaica, che era contraria alla guerra (Bellum Iudaicum 2,411; Vita 21). gen, 2007, p. 137‑146); (3) fra i maestri rabbinici c’era chi escludeva la necessità della circoncisione per i gentili convertiti al giudaismo (cf. ad es. S.C. M imouni, Aux origines di rituel d ’adhésion au mouvement chrétien, in M.A. Vannier – O. Wermeilinger – G. Wurst [ed.], Anthropos laïcos, Friburg, 2000, p. 179‑190); (4) Giacomo mostra comunque di condividere con i suoi “oppositori” di origine farisaica il principio secondo cui la circoncisione è un requisito essenziale per l’appartenenza alla casa di Israele, che Cristo è venuto a restaurare; perciò, diversamente da Paolo, egli è convinto che i giudei credenti in Cristo non possano esimersi dal praticare il rito; inoltre, circa l’esenzione dei gentili da esso, l’accordo tra Giacomo e Paolo è relativo, poiché i loro presupposti teologici sono assai diversi, come l’incidente di Antiochia avrebbe fatto emergere con drammaticità: Giacomo, infatti, sulla base dei testi profetici, assumendo la prospettiva escatologica dei tempi messianici, ritiene che i gentili che aderiscono alla fede in Cristo si salvino rimanendo gentili, il che vuol dire che, secondo lui, essi non sono da considerare parte di Israele; per Giacomo, cioè, nella comunità dei salvati rimane la distinzione tra giudei e gentili, che per Paolo, “in Cristo”, viene invece a cadere (Lettera ai Galati 3,28; sulla questione cf. ad es. C. Gianotto, «Giacomo e il giudeocristianesimo antico», in G. Filo ramo – C. Gianotto [ed.], Verus Israel. Nuove prospettive sul giudeocristianesimo, Brescia, 2001, p. 110ss.); (4) nella tradizione del giudaismo cristiano di più stretta osservanza Giacomo rimane la principale figura di riferimento, e non si può escludere pertanto che il suo conflitto con l’ala più intransigente di matrice farisaica della comunità gerosolimitana abbia trovato una composizione, come lasciano del resto intendere gli Atti degli Apostoli (15,22ss.). Ai fini della nostra indagine ciò che più rileva è comunque la posizione dei farisei non aderenti a Cristo nei confronti di Giacomo, e in rapporto a ciò occorre tener presente che la chiesa di Gerusalemme, sotto la guida del “fratello di Gesù”, si manteneva saldamente fedele alle osservanze giudaiche e che il problema dell’ammissione dei convertiti dal paganesimo riguardava più direttamente le comunità cristiane della diaspora. 30.  A ragione la netta maggioranza degli studiosi identifica come farisei quei personaggi che in Antiquitates Iudaicae 20,201 si oppongono ad Anano e che Flavio Giuseppe designa con la perifrasi ὅσοι δὲ ἐδόκουν ἐπιεικέστατοι τῶν κατὰ τὴν πόλιν εἶναι καὶ περὶ τοὺς νόμους ἀκριβεῖς (cf. fra i tanti A.I. Baumgarten, «The Name of the Pharisees», Journal of Biblical Literature 102 [1983], p. 413‑414; S. M ason, Giuseppe Flavio e il Nuovo Testamento, Torino, 2001, p. 198; J. Carleton Paget, «Some Observations on Josephus and Christianity», Journal of Theological Studies 52 (2001), p. 546; C. Gianotto, Giacomo, fratello di Gesù, Bologna, 2013, p. 61‑62). Non convincono fino in fondo le obiezioni sollevate di recente contro tale identificazione da J.S. McL aren, «Ananus, James, and Earliest Christianity. Josephus’ Account of the Death of James», Journal of Theological Studies 52 (2001), p. 6ss.

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fa r i se i smo ?

È evidente allora che nel ricostruire i rapporti tra farisei e “cristiani” occorre operare delle distinzioni all’interno del movimento dei credenti in Gesù – tenendo conto dei diversi gruppi che lo costituivano e del loro grado di fedeltà alla Legge e alla tradizione –, e probabilmente anche all’interno di quello farisaico, dove il livello di tolleranza religiosa non sembra sia stato omogeneo. Di conseguenza, per sciogliere il problema che è oggetto di questo contributo si dovrà cercare di rispondere a due domande: a quale tipo di fariseismo si richiamava Giuseppe? Quale tipo di cristianesimo si impose prevalentemente alla sua attenzione? Non è facile rispondere alla prima domanda. Della realtà interna del movimento farisaico in realtà si può dire molto poco: le fonti rabbiniche sono di utilizzazione assai problematica e la partizione tradizionale in Shammaiti ed Hilleliti oggi non è più così certo che possa applicarsi al fariseismo del periodo precedente al 70 d.C. 31. Di conseguenza l’analisi delle posizioni halakiche di Flavio Giuseppe al fine di stabilire la sua appartenenza a una delle due menzionate scuole rabbiniche non è una strada fruttuosa, tanto più che i tentativi fatti in questa direzione non hanno prodotto risultati condivisi 32 . Si può solo ragionevolmente ipotizzare che un gruppo di ampie dimensioni come quello dei farisei avesse una certa articolazione interna e comprendesse circoli più “liberali” e altri più rigoristi. Da ambienti di quest’ultimo tipo sarà provenuto ad es. quel Sadoq che insieme a Giuda il Galileo diede vita alla “quarta filosofia” (Antiquitates Iudaicae 18,4.9), mentre a quelli del primo tipo sarà appartenuto Gamaliele, che le fonti letterarie raffigurano come mite e di mentalità aperta, e che significativamente, nel discorso che gli Atti degli Apostoli gli fanno pronunciare, manifesta, insieme, apertura verso gli apostoli e un’opinione sfavorevole sul conto di Giuda il Galileo (5,35ss.); ma anche al di là del discorso, di origine sicuramente redazionale, Gamaliele svolge nel racconto

31.  Cf. ad es. J. Sievers , «Who were the Pharisees?», in J.H. Charlesworth – L.L. Johns (ed.), Hillel and Jesus. Comparative Studies of Two Major Religious Leaders, Minneapolis, 1997, p. 139; J.P. M eier , Un ebreo marginale. III. Compagni e antagonisti, Brescia, 2003, p. 336. 32.  Cf. ad es. L.H. Feldman, Josephus and Modern Scholarship (1930‑1980), New York, 1984, p. 555; H. Schreckenberg, «Josephus in Early Christian Literature and Medieval Christian Art», in I d. – K. Schubert, Jewish Historiography and Iconography in Early and Medieval Christianity, Assen – Minneapolis, 1992, p. 18 n. 26. Da ultimo si veda sull’argomento, in generale, D. Nakman, «Josephus and Halacha», in H. Howell Chapman – Z. Rodgers (ed.), A Companion to Josephus, West Sussex (UK) - Malden (Ma), 2016, p. 282-292.

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lucano il ruolo di “aiutante” degli apostoli, salvando questi ultimi dalla condanna a morte, sebbene non dalla fustigazione 33. Per quel che riguarda Giuseppe, ciò che può dirsi con sufficiente fiducia è che egli presenta un profilo religioso nel complesso moderato. Basterà ricordare pochi episodi: durante la sua missione diplomatica a Roma, nella prima metà degli anni 60, egli entrò in contatto con Poppea Sabina, simpatizzante del giudaismo, grazie alla mediazione di Alitiro, un attore di mimo di nazionalità ebraica (Vita 16), una figura da cui un giudeo dalla religiosità radicale si sarebbe tenuto ben lontano; in Galilea egli rinunciò alle decime che gli spettavano da parte della popolazione locale in quanto sacerdote (§ 80); e soprattutto, nel corso dello svolgimento del suo mandato nella regione, impedì a “i giudei” la circoncisione forzata di due sudditi del re Agrippa II, e ciò sulla base del principio «che ognuno deve venerare Dio secondo la propria scelta e non per costrizione» (§ 113)  3 4 . 33.  Il discorso, nella forma attuale, è certamente opera del redattore. È credibile però che l’Auctor ad Theophilum lo abbia costruito rispettando il profilo storico del personaggio a cui lo fa pronunciare e dunque la posizione di quest’ultimo e della sua scuola sulla questione “cristiana”. Per Ch.K. Barrett, ad es., il nocciolo del discorso ha una sua plausibilità ed esprime una linea riguardo al gruppo dei seguaci di Gesù che, anche a giudicare da un testo come Abot 4,11, doveva avere i suoi sostenitori nella classe dirigente giudaica (Ch.K. Barrett, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles. I, Edinburg 1994, p. 297). Di certo il discorso esprime una fiducia nella provvidenza divina che corrisponde alla posizione che Flavio Giuseppe attribuisce ai farisei (cf. Bellum Iudaicum 2,162‑163; Antiquitates Iudaicae 13,172); il giudizio negativo implicito nelle parole del Gamaliele lucano su personaggi come Giuda il Galileo e Teuda si adatta bene a quanto sappiamo dell’orientamento politico dei capi dei farisei e in particolare dello stesso figlio di Gamaliele (cf. Bellum Iudaicum 2,411; 4,159; Vita 21); e anche la disposizione alla tolleranza che egli dimostra verso gli apostoli è in linea con il carattere liberale che la tradizione rabbinica assegna al personaggio (cf. J. Neusner , Rabbinic Traditions about the Pharisees before 70. I. The Masters, Leiden, 1971, p. 341‑376; B. Chilton, «Gamaliel», in D.N. Freedman [ed.], Anchor Bible Dictionary. II, New York 1992, p. 903‑906; I d. – J. Neusner , «Paul and Gamaliel», in Eid. [ed.], In Quest of the Historical Pharisees, Waco, Texas, 2007, p. 175‑224). Tralasciando la questione del discorso, diversi esegeti sono propensi a riconoscere una base tradizionale all’intervento di Gamaliele in favore degli apostoli: cf. ad es. J.A. Fitzmyer , Gli Atti degli Apostoli. Introduzione e commento, Brescia, 2003, p. 330; R. Pesch, Atti degli Apostoli, Assisi, 1992, p. 276, 290. 34.  Sul rifiuto della circoncisione forzata da parte di Flavio Giuseppe cf. H.H. Chapman, «Paul, Josephus, and Judean Nationalistic and Imperialistic Policy of Forced Circumcision», ‘Ilu Revista de Ciencias de la Religiones 11 (2006), p. 131‑155. L’epi­ sodio di Vita 112‑113 è significativo anche per un altro aspetto. Sia che i due sudditi del re Agrippa di cui si parla nel testo fossero pagani, come pensa S. M ason (Life of Josephus, Boston-Leiden, 2003, p. 75, n. 542), sia che fossero giudei non-circoncisi, come suggerisce L. Troiani («La circoncisione nel Nuovo Testamento e la testimonianza degli autori greci e latini», in G. Filoramo – C. Gianotto [ed.], Verus Israel. Nuove prospettive sul giudeocristianesimo, Brescia, 2001, p. 100, 103) ciò che rileva è che Giuseppe non solo impedisce la loro circoncisione forzata, ma

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Altrettanto significativa è la sua adesione, durante la guerra, al fronte moderato, in contrapposizione sia ai sicari, che costituivano una sorta di estremismo farisaico, sia agli zeloti (§ 17ss.), a testimonianza di una sua estraneità a forme di radicalismo nazionalistico e religioso 35. Nella stessa direzione sembra puntare la decisione del Nostro, dopo la caduta della roccaforte galilaica di Iotapata, di consegnarsi ai romani a fronte della scelta

anche li accoglie, dà loro protezione, procura loro «tutto quanto era necessario al loro abituale modo di vivere» (Vita 113) e successivamente evita che vengano uccisi da quanti li accusavano di non volersi «adattare ai costumi di coloro presso i quali erano giunti in cerca di salvezza» (§§ 149‑153). Se poi i due personaggi sono da intendersi come “timorati di Dio” – come sono incline a credere sulla base dell’uso, in Vita 113, della locuzione τὸν Θεὸν εὐσεβεῖν a loro riferita –, il passo allora suggerisce anche una qualche analogia tra la condotta di Giuseppe verso i due dignitari e la posizione di Giacomo verso i convertiti dalla gentilità. Come infatti Giacomo, opponendosi alla fazione “giudeocristiana” più intransigente, accoglie nella chiesa i gentili convertiti senza imporre loro l’obbligo della circoncisione e dell’osservanza integrale della legge, che continua invece ad esigere dai cristiani di etnia giudaica, così Giuseppe, sebbene ritenga fortemente auspicabile che l’adesione dei gentili al giudaismo si completi con la circoncisione (lo dimostra inequivocabilmente la storia del re Izate di Adiabene raccontata in Antiquitates Iudaicae 20,17‑91; sull’episodio cf. ad es. N.E. Livesey, Circumcision as a Malleable Symbol, Tübingen, 2010, p. 34‑40), tuttavia non solo, su un piano generale, lascia trasparire un giudizio non negativo sul fenomeno dei “timorati di Dio”, come si evince da diversi testi (cf. B. Wander , Timorati di Dio e simpatizzanti. Studio sull ’ambiente pagano delle sinagoghe della diaspora, Cinisello Balsamo [Milano], 2002, p. 178ss.), ma anche mostra concretamente di essere capace, opponendosi al radicalismo giudaico, di accogliere tali simpatizzanti del giudaismo nel proprio seguito (sia pure in circostanze particolari), senza imporre loro la circoncisione e rispettando e garantendo il loro modo di vivere e di venerare Dio. 35.  Talora, invero, durante la sua missione in Galilea, anche Giuseppe assume comportamenti assimilabili a quelli dei suoi connazionali più fanatici. Ma si tratta di iniziative dettate dalle difficili circostanze in cui si trovò ad operare piuttosto che di atti motivati dalle proprie convinzioni religiose. Così, ad es., il fatto che in Vita 65 egli appaia intenzionato a distruggere il palazzo di Erode che violava la legge recando immagini di animali, si può spiegare come una concessione ai “Galilei” (cf. ad es. L.H. Feldman, «Josephus», in D.N. Freedman [ed.], Anchor Bible Dictionary. III, New York 1992, p. 994), anche alla luce di Antiquitates Iudaicae 19,357, dove egli sembra disapprovare l’oltraggio compiuto contro le immagini delle figlie di Agrippa I. E del resto, a stare al racconto dell’autobiografia, l’iniziativa di distruggere il palazzo non è ascrivibile a Giuseppe, il quale intendeva solo eseguire un ordine proveniente da Gerusalemme; inoltre a portare a compimento l’impresa non fu lui ma, indipendentemente da lui, Gesù figlio di Saffia (Vita 66). Analogamente, certi atti spietati contro suoi avversari (Bellum Iudaicum 2,611‑612 riferisce di una fustigazione a sangue fino a scoprire le viscere; il parallelo di Vita 147 parla della mutilazione di una mano; analogamente Bellum Iudaicum 643‑644 e Vita 170ss. raccontano dell’imposizione a un tale di tagliarsi da se stesso una mano) hanno una funzione per così dire “strategica” in rapporto alle circostanze.

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di altri rivoltosi di darsi la morte (Bellum Iudaicum 3,354‑355.392) 36 , almeno se si ritiene che le reali motivazioni alla base di quella decisione non siano troppo diverse da quelle dichiarate da Flavio Giuseppe stesso nella sua opera (§§ 3,351‑354.362‑382) e dunque se non si pensa che queste ultime siano mere costruzioni apologetiche post eventum atte a coprire un gesto di viltà o, se si preferisce, di Realpolitik. Infine, il fatto che nelle sue opere letterarie egli manifesti apprezzamento per figure e tendenze religiose giudaiche lontane dalla sua concezione del giudaismo, come Onia, il carismatico capace di ottenere da Dio la cessazione della siccità (Antiquitates Iudaicae 14,22‑25), Giovanni il Battista (18,116‑119), gli esseni (ad es. Bellum Iudaicum 2,119‑161, Antiquitates Iudaicae 18,18‑22), Banno (Vita 11-12), è un eloquente indizio della sua apertura mentale e disposizione alla tolleranza 37. È pensabile, dunque, che Giuseppe praticasse un fariseismo dai tratti moderati. Ma forse si può compiere un passo ulteriore. In Vita 189ss. Flavio Giuseppe manifesta grande considerazione nei confronti della famiglia di Simone, il figlio di Gamaliele, e lascia intendere di aver avuto inizialmente rapporti distesi con lui 38. Inoltre Vita 274 qualifica come maestri di Giuseppe i membri farisei della delegazione inviata in Galilea da Simone, al quale evidentemente questi delegati dovevano essere vicini. Forse non è così peregrino ipotizzare che per vari aspetti il fariseismo di Giuseppe fosse in linea con quello di Gamaliele, e che uno dei punti di convergenza consistesse nell’atteggiamento mite verso i “cristiani”, almeno quelli rispettosi della legge e delle tradizioni giudaiche 39. 36.  Sulle implicazioni teologiche della scelta di Giuseppe in contrapposizione all’opzione per una “nobile morte”, tipica dei gruppi radicali, cf. J. K lawans , Josephus and the Theologies of Ancient Judaism, Oxford, 2012, p. 115‑136. 37.  In questa direzione sembrano orientare anche le conclusioni dell’accurato studio di R. Pummer sui Samaritani nelle opere di Flavio Giuseppe: la descrizione del Bellum sarebbe nel complesso neutrale; quella delle Antiquitates avrebbe invece un carattere meno equanime, ma ciò, a giudizio dello studioso, non a motivo di una personale ostilità dell’autore ma in ragione degli scopi letterari dell’opera (R. P ummer , The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, Tübingen, 2009, spec. p. 282‑283). Più in generale, la disposizione alla tolleranza di Flavio Giuseppe è sottolineata anche da J. K lawans , Josephus and The Theologies of Ancient Judaism, Oxford, 2012, p. 170. I parallelismi tra il passo su Gesù e quello su Giovanni il Battista nelle Antiquitates Iudaicae sono ben evidenziati da S. Bardet, Le Testimonium Flavianum. Examen historique, considérations historiographiques, Paris, 2002, p. 174‑175. 38.  Su questo punto cf. M. Vitelli, «Fu Giuseppe un fariseo? La questione dell’identità religiosa dello storico giudeo nel periodo anteriore alla sua resa ai Romani: la testimonianza dell’Autobiografia», Henoch 34 (2012), p. 44‑46. 39.  Alla luce di ciò c’è da chiedersi se l’affermazione conclusiva del Testimonium Flavianum, generalmente ritenuta autentica («[…] e ancora fino ad oggi non è scomparsa la tribù dei cristiani che da lui prende nome», Antiquitates Iudaicae 18,64), non possa leggersi sullo sfondo dell’argomento centrale del discorso di Gamaliele negli Atti degli Apostoli («[…] se questo è un progetto o un’impresa messa su dagli

480

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VI. G i use ppe

e il

“ gi udeocr i s t i a n e si mo ”

Per rispondere alla seconda domanda, in primo luogo occorre sottolineare che in Antiquitates Iudaicae 18,63-64 e 20,199-203 l’attenzione non si appunta sul cristianesimo in generale, tantomeno su un cristianesimo di origine pagana sganciato dalla pratica della Legge, anche se non manca un accenno ai seguaci greci di Gesù  4 0. In primo piano stanno Gesù e uomini, sarà distrutta, ma se viene da Dio, non potrete annientarli», 5,38), che pur essendo una chiara elaborazione lucana, come si è detto, potrebbe riflettere qualcosa del pensiero del Gamaliele storico o della sua scuola sul problema del gruppo messianico dei seguaci di Gesù. Questo, sia ben chiaro, non implica necessariamente, né da parte di Gamaliele né da parte di Flavio Giuseppe, il convincimento di una legittimazione divina del cristianesimo: Gamaliele propone solo una sospensione del giudizio basata sulla fiducia nella provvidenza divina e forse prospetta – o comunque non esclude – la possibilità che il nuovo movimento religioso si estingua da sé; Flavio Giuseppe manifesta un certo stupore dal tenore ambiguo che l’estinzione del fenomeno cristiano non si sia ancora verificata, forse anche in considerazione dell’avvenuta persecuzione neroniana (su quest’ultimo punto cf. J.P. M eier , Un ebreo marginale. I. Le radici del problema e della persona, Brescia, 2001, p. 95‑96). Si possono individuare anche altri punti di convergenza tra il Gamaliele lucano e Giuseppe, e in particolare tra il discorso del primo (Atti degli Apostoli 5,35‑42) e quello che il secondo, a stare al racconto del Bellum Iudaicum, pronuncia dinanzi alle mura di Gerusalemme per persuadere i ribelli a deporre le armi (5,362‑419). Nell’uno come nell’altro caso si argomenta teologicamente contro il ricorso ad azioni di forza e a favore dell’affidamento alla provvidenza divina; in entrambi i casi, a sostegno di questa tesi, si propongono esemplificazioni storiche (Atti degli Apostoli 5,36‑37; Bellum Iudaicum 5,379‑398) e si mette in guardia dal rischio di ritrovarsi a combattere contro Dio stesso (Atti degli Apostoli 5,39; Bellum Iudaicum 5,378). Ambedue i personaggi condividono infine l’avversione per Giuda il Galileo e Teuda (Atti degli Apostoli 5,36‑37; Bellum Iudaicum 2,118.433; Antiquitates Iudaicae 18,4ss.; 20,97‑99). Per l’analogia tra la posizione di Gamaliele e quella di Flavio Giuseppe sul cristianesimo cf. anche E. M eier , Ursprung und Anfänge des Christentums, Stuttgart – Berlin, 1921, p. 206‑211. Per la concezione flaviana della provvidenza divina cf. J. K lawans , Josephus and The Theologies of Ancient Judaism, Oxford, 2012, p. 54‑56; P. Bilde , Flavius Josephus between Jerusalem and Rome. His Life, His Works and Their Importance, Sheffield, 1988, 184‑188. 40.  Solo di passaggio si accenna ai seguaci “greci” di Gesù (Antiquitates Iudaicae 18,63: «Gesù […] attirò a sé molti giudei e anche molti dalla grecità») e al movimento dei “cristiani”, del quale si registra la persistenza (§ 64: «ancora fino ad oggi non è scomparsa la tribù dei cristiani che da lui [da Cristo] prende nome»), e che secondo S. Bardet sarebbe un riferimento specifico al cristianesimo di lingua greca e/o di origine pagana e matrice ellenistico-paolina (S. Bardet, Les Testimonium Flavianum. Examen historique, considérations historiographiques, Paris, 2002, p. 176ss.; cf. anche S.C. M imouni, Les Chrétiens d ’origine juive dans l ’antiquité, Paris, 2004, p. 21). Ma occorre comunque considerare che anche le comunità cristiane più legate al giudaismo praticavano una missione rivolta ai “greci” e lasciarono documenti in greco (è sufficiente ricordare la fonte Q, la lettera di Giacomo o il Vangelo di Matteo), e ancora che alcune chiese di matrice “giudeocristiana” erano

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Giacomo, figure chiave della primitiva storia cristiana ma anche membri a pieno titolo del popolo giudaico, radicati, nonostante aspetti di indiscutibile originalità, nella tradizione religiosa del giudaismo palestinese del loro tempo e forse, per quanto riguarda Giacomo, nella stessa tradizione farisaica 41. In secondo luogo, se ci fu una forma di cristianesimo di cui, prima del 70, Giuseppe potè avere, seppure indirettamente, una qualche conoscenza apprezzabile, questa fu senz’altro quella che la storiografia moderna designa (in realtà impropriamente) come “giudeocristianesimo” 42 . linguisticamente greche e avevano una composizione etnica mista, come la comunità di Roma (cf. ad es. R.E. Brown – J.P. M eier , Antiochia e Roma. Chiese madri della cattolicità antica, Assisi, 1987, p. 109ss.). In particolare, per l’apertura della fonte Q ai gentili cf. P. Foster , «Is Q a ‘Jewish Christian’ Document?», Biblica 94 (2013), p. 368‑394. 41.  In questo senso cf. ad es. M. H engel , La storiografia protocristiana, Brescia, 1985, p. 128‑129. La prudenza è comunque d’obbligo. Non manca chi, infatti, come B. Chilton, accosta Giacomo piuttosto agli esseni e ritiene che i farisei furono, contrariamente a quanto si pensa, suoi risoluti avversari («James and the (Christian) Pharisees», in A.J. Avery-Peck – J. H arrington – J. Neusner [ed.], When Judaism and Christianity Began. Essays in Memory of Antony J. Saldariny. I. Christianity in the Beginning, Leiden–Boston, 2004, p. 19‑48). A sostegno di una prossimità di Giacomo agli esseni, Chilton propone fondamentalmente due argomenti: il fatto che Giacomo sia ricordato nella tradizione successiva come “vescovo”, episkopos, funzione sostanzialmente corrispondente a quella del meqqabar qumranico; e la convergenza tra il Giacomo lucano e i qumraniti nell’interpretazione del testo di Amos 9,11s. Ma si tratta invero di argomenti tutt’altro che decisivi. Del resto lo stesso Chilton deve riconoscere che l’atteggiamento di Giacomo nei confronti del tempio non collima affatto con quello degli esseni e dei qumraniti; inoltre J.J. Collins (The Scepter and the Star. The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Ancient Literature, New York, 1995, p. 64‑65) sottolinea la differenza nell’esegesi del passo di Amos sia tra diversi testi qumranici sia tra questi e Giacomo. Ma al di là della questione se queste fossero davvero aree di accordo tra Giacomo e gli esseni, rimane che sappiamo troppo poco del giudaismo del secondo tempio per escludere che gli elementi di contatto tra Giacomo e gli esseni individuati da Chilton non avessero un raggio più ampio di condivisione. 42.  Stante l’uso ambiguo del termine nella storia della ricerca, è opportuno chiarire che con “giudeocristianesimo” intendo fondamentalmente «quella forma di cristianesimo, quasi sempre di origine giudaica, ma che potrebbe anche essere di origine gentile, che non intende rinunciare alla identità giudaica e che non intende in particolare rinunciare alla osservanza della legge mosaica» (G. Jossa, Giudei o cristiani? I seguaci di Gesù in cerca di una propria identità, Brescia, 2004, p. 154). Per un’acuta critica del concetto di “giudeocristianesimo” cf. in particolare M. Pesce , «Sul concetto di giudeo-cristianesimo», in A. P itta (ed.), Il giudeo-cristianesimo nel I e II sec. d.C., Atti del IX convegno di Studi Neotestamentari (Napoli, 13‑15 Settembre 2001), Ricerche Storico Bibliche 2 (2003), p. 21‑44; I d., Da Gesù al cristianesimo, Brescia, 2011, p. 189‑197. Sulla stessa linea si colloca, fra gli altri, M. Del Verme, che propone di sostituire il termine “giudeocristianesimo” con l’espressione “giudaismo cristiano” (M. Del Verme , Didache and Judaism. Jewish Roots of An Ancient Christian-Jewish Work, London–New York, 2004, p. 23, n. 52; 66ss.; I d.,

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A questo proposito è opportuno richiamare alcuni dati biografici di Giuseppe. Questi nacque nel 37 d.C., dunque successivamente alla morte di Gesù e con ogni probabilità anche all’abbandono di Gerusalemme da parte della corrente ellenista della chiesa madre. Prima della guerra contro Roma, a quanto ne sappiamo, egli trascorse la sua vita nella Città di Davide, allontanandosene solo per un’esperienza religiosa nel deserto e poi per una missione diplomatica a Roma nella prima metà degli anni 60. Durante la guerra svolse per circa sei mesi un ruolo militare di rilievo in Galilea. Dopo la sua resa ai romani rimase loro prigioniero nella regione palestinese. Poi, riacquistata a Berito la libertà, accompagnò Vespasiano e Tito ad Alessandria d’Egitto. Qui si trattenne pochi mesi, per poi rientrare in Palestina al seguito di Tito e partecipare all’assedio di Gerusalemme, svolgendo il ruolo di interprete e portavoce dei romani. In seguito alla conquista della Città Santa, dopo una nuova breve tappa ad Alessandria si trasferì nella capitale dell’impero, dove compose le sue opere letterarie sotto la protezione dei Flavi. Se ci si interroga sul “dove” e sul “quando” Giuseppe possa aver avuto una qualche conoscenza significativa del cristianesimo prima del suo trasferimento a Roma al seguito di Tito, si deve pensare ovviamente a Gerusalemme, al tempo in cui il gruppo messianico dei credenti in Gesù si muoveva saldamente nel solco del c.d. “giudeocristianesimo”. In particolare una circostanza non poté non attirare l’attenzione di Giuseppe sul gruppo dei seguaci del maestro di Nazareth: l’uccisione, nel 62 d.C., di Giacomo, il “fratello di Gesù”, capo della chiesa di Gerusalemme e figura di riferimento della corrente “giudeocristiana”, condannato a morte dal sommo sacerdote sadduceo Anano. L’iniziativa, come si è visto, determinò la protesta dei farisei e la rimozione dello stesso Anano, ad opera di Agrippa II, dalla massima carica del sacerdozio giudaico: possiamo immaginare la risonanza che l’episodio ebbe negli ambienti sacerdotali e farisaici (e non solo), ad entrambi i quali Giuseppe, allora venticinquenne, era legato 43. Non è dunque un caso che lo storico giudeo riporti l’episodio nelle sue Antiquitates. Un’analoga forma di cristianesimo Giuseppe potrebbe averla incontrata di nuovo a Roma già in occasione della sua missione diplomatica nella città negli anni 60, prima ancora del suo trasferimento nell’Urbe come cliente della casa imperiale flavia. La chiesa romana del tempo di Nerone, infatti, pur essendo ormai sociologicamente separata dalla locale «Didaché e origini cristiane. Aggiornamento bibliografico per lo studio della Didaché nel contesto del “Giudaismo cristiano”», Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 20 [2003], p. 455‑544, spec. 513‑516). 43.  Cf. S. Schwartz , Josephus and Judaean Politics, Leiden, 1990, p. 157, secondo cui molte storie circa le relazioni di Agrippa II col sacerdozio nel libro XX delle Antiquitates piuttosto che da fonti scritte potrebbero provenire dalla memoria personale dello storico o dalla testimonianza di suoi conoscenti.

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comunità giudaica e pur presentando una composizione etnica mista, giudaica e gentile, verosimilmente era improntata nel suo complesso a un “giudeocristianesimo” moderato e manteneva ancora legami con la chiesa di Gerusalemme, da cui potrebbe aver avuto anche origine  4 4 . Quanto a Giuseppe, egli sembra che si sia trattenuto in città per un arco di tempo relativamente ampio 45 e soprattutto, come si è detto, che si sia trovato lì al momento della persecuzione neroniana contro i cristiani del 64 d.C.  4 6. 44.  Cf. ad es. R. Penna, «Configurazione giudeo-cristiana della chiesa di Roma nel I secolo», in I d., L’apostolo Paolo. Studi di esegesi e teologia, Cinisello Balsamo (Milano), 1991, p. 64‑76; I d., Le prime comunità cristiane. Persone, tempi, luoghi, forme, credenze, Roma, 2011, p. 82‑104; R.E. Brown – J.P. M eier , Antiochia e Roma. Chiese madri della cattolicità antica, Assisi, 1987, p. 109ss.; G. Barbaglio, San Paolo. Lettere. I. Lettere autentiche, Milano, 1997, p. 296‑297; cf. anche E.K. Broadhead, Jewish Ways of Following Jesus, Tübingen, 2010, p. 101‑114; M. R easoner , «Roma e il cristianesimo romano», in G.F. H awthorne – R.P. M artin – D.G. R eid (ed.), Dizionario di Paolo e delle sue lettere, Cinisello Balsamo (Milano), 1999, p. 1345‑1353; H. Lichtenberger , «Jews and Christians in Rome in the Time of Nero: Josephus and Paul in Rome», in W. H aase (ed.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.26.3, Berlin, 1996, p. 2162ss. Sulla separazione tra le due comunità religiose, cristiana e giudaica, nella Roma del tempo di Nerone, cf. R. Penna, «La chiesa di Roma come test del rapporto tra giudaismo e cristianesimo alla metà del I secolo d.C.», in D. Garribba – S. Tanzarella (ed.), Giudei o cristiani? Quando nasce il cristianesimo?, Trapani, 2005, p. 105‑121; G. Jossa, Giudei o cristiani? I seguaci di Gesù in cerca di una propria identità, Brescia, 2004, p. 184ss. Per E. Norelli, invece, la persecuzione neroniana dei cristiani mostra che questi ultimi erano un gruppo identificabile, ma a suo giudizio ciò «non significa che essi costituissero una religione separata rispetto al giudaismo»; essi «potevano essere considerati, dai non cristiani […] un gruppo interno al giudaismo stesso» (E. Norelli, La nascita del cristianesimo, Bologna, 2014, p. 67); anzi, per questo studioso «la contiguità della chiesa romana con la teologia e le forme espressive del giudaismo non cristiano prosegue fino alla fine del I secolo» (ibidem, p. 71). 45.  Cf. S. M ason, Life of Josephus, Boston–Leiden, 2003, p. 27‑28, n. 121. Per un’ampia discussione del problema cf. W. den Hollander , Josephus, the Emperors and the City of Rome. From Hostage to Historian, Leiden, 2014, p. 31‑46. Questo studioso così conclude la sua disamina della questione: «we should not dismiss too hastily the possibility that Josephus spent the entire time between the autumn of AD 63 and the early spring of AD 66 in the city of Rome or at least a significant segment within this timeframe» (p. 46). 46.  A dire il vero sulla data della persecuzione neroniana non c’è unanimità di opinioni, tuttavia la grande maggioranza degli studiosi opta per il 64 d.C. M. Guarducci presenta validi argomenti per una datazione alla metà di ottobre di quell’anno, in occasione degli spettacoli per il decimo anniversario dell’ascesa di Nerone al soglio imperiale (M. Guarducci, «La data del martirio di Pietro», La Parola del Passato 118 [1968], p. 81‑117; cf. anche R. Pesch, Pietro. Storia e importanza storica del primo discepolo di Gesù Cristo, Brescia, 2008, p. 210ss.). È molto probabile dunque che lo storico giudeo sia stato in qualche modo testimone dell’iniziativa anticristiana di Nerone. Ma come si spiega allora il completo silenzio di Flavio Giuseppe a riguardo? La difficoltà può essere in parte superata se si legge tale silenzio nel quadro del più generale silenzio dell’autore sul fenomeno cristiano (a parte, si

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Anche in questa occasione è difficile che egli non sia stato indotto a riflettere sulla realtà del movimento di Gesù e che la sua riflessione non risentisse in qualche misura della formazione farisaica ricevuta. Più incauto sarebbe ipotizzare un contatto significativo di Giuseppe con i cristiani in Galilea o ad Alessandria. Nonostante una certa tendenza della ricerca a sostenere l’esistenza di un cristianesimo galilaico già nei primissimi tempi dopo la morte di Gesù e ad individuare nella regione il Sitz im Leben di vari scritti protocristiani, come l’Epistola di Giacomo e soprattutto la fonte Q 47, su una stabile e organizzata presenza cristiana nella Galilea del I secolo e sui suoi caratteri non si hanno notizie sicure 48. In ogni caso, come si è detto, Giuseppe trascorse nella regione solo pochi mesi, cinque o sei 49, e questi intensamente impiegati nella difficile opera di controllo politico e di difesa del territorio. E comunque anche il cristianesimo galilaico avrebbe avuto un’impronta “giudeocristiana”. Per quanto riguarda Alessandria, anche se si accoglie l’ipotesi secondo cui la città avrebbe ospitato una comunità ecclesiale di fondazione antica, riconducibile agli “ellenisti” 50, tuttavia il periodo di permanenza di Giuseppe nella metropoli egiziana sembra sia stato ancora più breve di quello trascorso in Galilea: dall’autunno del 69 o dall’inizio dell’inverno del 69‑70 fino al gennaio del 70 51. Si potrebbe infine immaginare – ma siamo evidentemente nel campo delle intende, i due passi delle Antiquitates considerati), che potrebbe anche essere spiegato «come l’indizio di una certa vicinanza [ai cristiani] che consigliava allo storico di non parlarne» (G. Jossa, I cristiani e l ’impero romano, Napoli, 1990, p. 71; per altre possibili spiegazioni cf. J. Carleton Paget, «Some Observations on Josephus and Christianity», Journal of Theological Studies 52 [2001], p. 606ss.). Per altro verso c’è da chiedersi se non si possa vedere un riferimento velato alla persecuzione nel passaggio del Testimonium Flavianum sulla persistenza del cristianesimo («[…] e ancora fino ad oggi non è scomparsa la tribù dei cristiani che da lui prende nome», Antiquitates Iudaicae 18,64). Per questa possibilità cf. J.P. M eier , Un ebreo marginale, I. Le radici del problema e della persona, Brescia, 2001, p. 96. 47.  Cf. ad es. E. Lohmeyer, Galiläa und Jerusalem, Göttingen, 1936; L.E. ElliottBinns , Galilean Christianity, London, 1956; C. Gianotto, «Il movimento di Gesù tra la Pasqua e la missione di Paolo», in R. Penna (ed.), Le origini del cristianesimo. Una guida, Roma, 2004, p. 95‑128; J.S. K loppenborg Verbin, Excavating Q. The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel, Edinburgh, 2000, p. 214ss. 48.  Cf. ad es. M. Goodman, «Galilean Judaism and Judaean Judaism», in W. Horbury–W.D. Davies–J. Sturdy (ed.), The Cambridge History of Judaism. III. The Early Roman Period, Cambridge, 1999, p. 616; G. Jossa, Giudei o cristiani? I seguaci di Gesù in cerca di una propria identità, Brescia, 2004, p. 123‑124; per l’intera questione cf. S. Freyne , Galilee from Alexander the Great to Hadrian, 323 b.C.E. to 135 C.E.: A Study of Second Temple Judaism, Wilmington, Delaware, 1980, p. 344‑391 e, più recentemente, E.K. Broadhead, Jewish Ways of Following Jesus, Tübingen, 2010, p. 90‑98. 49.  Cf. S. M ason, Life of Josephus, Boston–Leiden, 2003, p. XXI. 50.  Cf. J.J.F. Sangrador , Il Vangelo in Egitto. Le origini della comunità cristiana di Alessandria, Cinisello Balsamo (Milano), 2000. 51.  Cf. S. Schwartz , Josephus and Judaean Politics, Leiden, 1990, p. 7.

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mere congetture – che una qualche forma di contatto di Giuseppe con i seguaci di Gesù si sia verificato nel campo romano durante la guerra giudaica, al tempo dell’assedio di Gerusalemme o subito dopo la presa della città. Come si è già accennato, infatti, vi fu verosimilmente un interrogatorio di parenti di Gesù da parte di Vespasiano o Tito. Ebbene, il fatto che Giuseppe in quel periodo svolgesse per conto dei romani la funzione di interprete renderebbe plausibile che egli abbia assolto a questo compito anche in occasione di detto interrogatorio. E va da sé che ancora una volta egli si sarebbe trovato dinanzi a membri della chiesa “giudeocristiana”. C onclusion e In conclusione, è pensabile che il ritratto non ostile di Gesù e Giacomo nelle Antiquitates Iudaicae non rispecchi solo gli interessi dello storico giudeo al tempo della composizione dell’opera e dunque non risponda solo alle sollecitazioni dell’ambiente romano degli anni 90 del I secolo, ma sia anche il frutto di una riflessione avviata da Giuseppe nel periodo giovanile. In tale periodo egli certamente non poté ignorare il fenomeno cristiano, che con ogni verosimiglianza conobbe in qualche modo sia a Gerusalemme che a Roma nella forma di ciò che la moderna storiografia ha designato col termine di “giudeocristianesimo”. E quest’ultimo, nel quadro del pluralismo cristiano dell’epoca, dovette rappresentare per lui la corrente meno aliena dalla sua sensibilità religiosa, educata agli ideali di un giudaismo fedele alle osservanze ma senza chiusure settarie e ispirato in prevalenza a un fariseismo tollerante, in probabile consonanza con la linea di politica religiosa sostenuta tempo addietro da Gamaliele il Vecchio nei confronti del nucleo “ebreo” della chiesa primitiva. In seguito allo scontro col fariseo Simone, figlio del citato Gamaliele (Vita 189ss.), Giuseppe forse allentò ulteriormente i suoi legami con i farisei come gruppo, sviluppando un’opinione sotto certi aspetti severa su di loro, quale emerge dalle sue opere letterarie 52 . Si può credere, tuttavia, che questo distanziamento non abbia comportato un ripudio completo del fariseismo come orientamento religioso, come dimostra un’analisi delle idee teologiche e delle posizioni legali dello storico ebreo attraverso i suoi scritti 53; ma è facile che ne abbia 52.  È stato soprattutto S. Mason a evidenziare – invero non senza esagerazioni – i tratti negativi del profilo flaviano dei farisei (S. M ason, Flavius Josephus on the Pharisees. A  Composition-Critical Study, Leiden, 1991, passim; e più recentemente I d., «Josephus’s Pharisees: The Narratives», in J. Neusner – B. Chilton [ed.], In Quest of the Historical Pharisees, Waco, Texas, 2007, p. 3‑40; I d., «Josephus’s Pharisees: The Philosophy», ibidem, p. 41‑66). 53.  Cf. soprattutto J. K lawans , Josephus and the Theologies of Ancient Judaism, Oxford, 2012, passim. Circa la posizione di Flavio Giuseppe in materia hala-

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sollecitato un ripensamento in una chiave ancora meno esclusiva e più dialogante, che avrà positivamente condizionato il suo modo di giudicare l’emergente movimento cristiano e il suo fondatore, verosimilmente conosciuto in Palestina attraverso il duplice filtro dell’interpretazione “giudeocristiana” e di quella farisaica di indirizzo “liberale”. E del resto il cristianesimo che egli aveva dinanzi quando compose le Antiquitates, negli anni 90, era quello romano, ancora legato, per vari aspetti, alla tradizione giudaica 54 .

chica sono interessanti le conclusioni del recente studio di D. Nakman: «Josephus was […] an educated Jew who does not belong to any sect. Josephus basically supports the Pharisaic halachic interpretations, but sometimes adopts – consciously or unconsciously – other approaches» (D. Nakman, «Josephus and Halacha», in H. Howell Chapman – Z. Rodgers (ed.), A Companion to Josephus, West Sussex (UK) –Malden (Ma), 2016, p. 290. 54.  Cf. ad es. R. Penna, «Configurazione giudeo-cristiana della chiesa di Roma nel I secolo», in I d., L’apostolo Paolo. Studi di esegesi e teologia, Cinisello Balsamo (Milano), 1991, p. 74ss. In linea con la mia ricostruzione mi sembra quanto afferma R.E. Van Voorst a proposito delle fonti del Testimonium Flavianum: «Più plausibile è l’ipotesi che Giuseppe acquisisca le informazioni sul cristianesimo quando vive in Palestina e […] le amplia a Roma, dove vi è una presenza cristiana significativa» (R.E. Van Voorst, Gesù nelle fonti extrabibliche. Le antiche testimonianze sul maestro di Galilea, Cinisello Balsamo [Milano], 2004, p. 124).

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SULL’EBRAISMO EGIZIANO IN ETÀ IMPERIALE Laura C. Paladino Nell’ambito di una ricerca che sto conducendo ai fini della redazione di una nuova edizione critica, do qui comunicazione di un preliminare esame complessivo da me effettuato in relazione all’importante corpus di papiri greci noto sotto il nome di Acta Alexandrinorum, e registrato in tutti i maggiori cataloghi di rilevanza accademica con questo titolo generale, che definisce attualmente una quarantina tra documenti e testi semiletterari redatti in Alessandria e in Egitto nel corso dei primi tre secoli dell’era volgare 1. La silloge, cospicua per consistenza e contenuti, consente di indagare una fase importante e delicatissima della storia politica e istituzionale di Alessandria, animata da correnti ideali e culturali che caratterizzarono in quell’epoca i diversi gruppi etnici e le differenti fazioni organizzate, e che orientarono le relazioni reciproche e i rispettivi rapporti con l’autorità imperiale romana. Di alcuni di questi aspetti gli Acta ci conservano il punto di vista – e spesso la lettura di parte – dei cittadini greci residenti nella metropoli egiziana, e ci documentano, con indubbia e ostentata evidenza, l’anelito, da parte di quella minoranza forte e fiera, a conservare un’identità e una tradizione, la preoccupazione di un imbarbarimento dei costumi e di una corruzione della genuinità ellenica nel contatto con le altre etnie presenti in città, la determinazione a conservare, e talora a recuperare, antichi privilegi estinti o a forte rischio di dispersione, nel calderone di novità, istituzionali e non solo, introdotte nella legislazione e nella prassi dopo la conquista romana e nel primo impero. Tali orientamenti, sostenuti sovente dalla consapevolezza orgogliosa di un passato illustre, dall’attaccamento genuino e altero ad una patria nobile e riverita, dalla rivendicazione della continuità con l’autentica παιδεία greca e della superiorità di questa al confronto con i costumi dei Romani, sentiti come rozzi e corrotti, sono manifestati di norma, nei testi in nostro possesso, attraverso l’esaltazione del coraggio di esponenti importanti della minoranza 1.  Dal momento che il corpus è di costituzione moderna, il numero complessivo dei papiri che ne fanno parte è suscettibile di modifiche anche rilevanti. Gli stessi cataloghi accademici riportano ciascuno un numero differente di testi afferenti agli Acta Alexandrinorum. Il problema è stato chiarito in più casi, ultimamente anche da A. H arker , fin dall’introduzione del suo Loyalty and Dissidence in Roman Egypt. The Case of the Acta Alexandrinorum, Cambridge, 2008, il lavoro più recente sul tema. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 487–506 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111718 ©

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greca residente in Alessandria, la centralità dei quali, nella vita politica e istituzionale della città, è documentata inequivocabilmente nei testi storici coevi: tali figure, in molti casi, sono descritte mentre interloquiscono direttamente con l’imperatore, gli manifestano senza mezzi termini le proprie posizioni e, se necessario, il proprio disprezzo per i comportamenti illeciti e depravati di lui; in tal modo, sovente, i protagonisti dei nostri papiri incorrono nel crimine di lesa maestà e, in più di un caso, vengono condannati a morte. Dall’osservazione della ricorrenza di questi motivi derivò, evidentemente, il titolo complessivo attribuito ai testi in esame, Acta Alexandrinorum Martyrum, proposto da Von Premerstein, che ne pubblicò nel 1923 una prima parziale raccolta 2: attraverso quella definizione si voleva senza dubbio individuare una continuità concettuale, ideale e anche formale con gli Acta Martyrum redatti dai cristiani per celebrare le figure di santi condannati a motivo della loro fede 3, e si mirava a sottolineare, probabilmente, la dimensione propagandistica che in parte accomunava i papiri in esame, pensati e redatti, probabilmente, perché circolassero negli ambienti della resistenza greca di Alessandria, e perché ne alimentassero gli aneliti e ne sostenessero le iniziative, in particolare quelle che manifestavano dissenso rispetto all’autorità imperiale romana. In questo senso, anche, si inquadra e si comprende meglio la dimensione antigiudaica dei papiri degli Acta, e si può intendere la ragione per cui questo aspetto contenutistico, che ne rappresenta uno degli elementi di maggiore interesse, non si rintracci con la stessa centralità e rilevanza in tutti i testi del corpus: essi, infatti, si esprimono violentemente e fieramente contro i Giudei residenti in Alessandria per lo più di riflesso, nella misura in cui questi si fossero legati alle rappresentanze o alle personalità imperiali incarnandone, di fatto, gli alleati, e fossero dunque sentiti, da quanti organizzavano la resistenza greca in città, quali nemici da avversare allo stesso modo; non si tratta, dunque, di una letteratura autenticamente e originariamente antigiudaica, e l’aspetto giudeofobico 4 degli Acta 2. A. Von P remerstein, Zu den sogenannten alexandrinischen Martyrerakten. Philologus, Supplementband 16, Heft 2, Leipzig, 1923; si vedano pure, sull’argomento, altri lavori dello stesso autore, e in particolare A. Von P remerstein – K. K albfleisch, Alexandrinische Geronten vor Kaiser Gaius. Ein neues Bruchstück der sogenannten alexandrinischen Märtyrer-Akten (P. Bibl. Univ. Giss. 46), Mitteilungen aus der Papyrus Sammlung der Giessener Universitätbibliotheken, Part V, Giessen 1936. 3. Già A. Bauer , «Heidnische Märtyrerakten», Archiv für Papyrusforschung und verwandte Gebiete 1 (1901), p. 29‑47, aveva adottato esplicitamente, per questi testi, la definizione di Atti dei Martiri Pagani, poi recuperata in edizioni e studi successivi. 4.  Adotto qui l’aggettivo mutuandolo dal titolo del lavoro di P. Schäfer , Judeophobia. Attitudes toward the Jews in the Ancient Word, Cambridge, 1997, trad. it. di E. Tagliaferro, M. Lupi, Giudeofobia. L’antisemitismo nel mondo antico, Roma, 1999.

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Alexandrinorum, che è comunque peculiare e fondamentale, rappresenta in ultima analisi, e in tal senso va esaminato, un portato e una conseguenza degli atteggiamenti e degli intenti genuinamente antiromani dichiarati implicitamente dall’intero corpus. Per il complesso delle ragioni sopra delineate i papiri degli Acta si configurano come documenti autenticamente storici, indipendentemente dall’effettiva veridicità degli eventi in essi di volta in volta descritti: i testi del corpus, infatti, illuminano ideali, intenti, cause ed effetti, e concorrono a spiegare molti fatti e la loro evoluzione, oltre che la sensibilità delle fazioni coinvolte, il che è, propriamente, un aspetto della storia, e non solo di quella ideologica e culturale. Nello stesso tempo, e non secondariamente, i nostri papiri, dal momento che coprono un arco temporale di quasi tre secoli e che hanno almeno in parte velleità semiletterarie, contribuiscono alla comprensione e a un sempre migliore inquadramento della storia della scrittura greca e dell’evoluzione del libro greco, e consentono di svolgere una serie di riflessioni di carattere bibliologico, a metà strada tra gli studi documentari e quelli autenticamente letterari. I. L a

col loca z ion e bi bl iogr a fica de i si ng ol i pa pi r i :

u na g eogr a fi a mode r na degl i

A cta A l e x a n dr i noru m ,

e l a not i z i a di u no sfort u nato sm a r r i m e n to

È utile preliminarmente fornire un resoconto completo dell’attuale conservazione dei papiri in esame: per quanto concerne i trentacinque frammenti di univoca collocazione, l’Egitto, che ha dato loro i natali, ne conserva oggi uno solo; l’Europa ne accoglie trentatré, di cui cinque in Italia, divisi tra Firenze, Bologna e Milano, otto in Germania, tutti allo Staatliche Museen di Berlino, se si esclude l’unico conservato all’Erlangen Universität, uno in Grecia, uno in Belgio, uno in Francia e diciassette nel Regno Unito, divisi tra Londra, Oxford, Birmingham, Manchester ed Aberdeen; un altro papiro degli Acta è conservato in America, nella Michigan University. Ai suddetti trentacinque testi si aggiungono le quattro collazioni, i cui frammenti si trovano divisi tra Giessen, Yale, Berlino, Il Cairo, Londra e Parigi; infine, è opportuno in questa sede dare notizia dello sfortunato smarrimento di uno dei quaranta papiri degli Acta Alexandrinorum, la cui collocazione è individuata da tutti i cataloghi all’IFAO de Il Cairo, anche se, insolitamente e in modo già sospetto, senza il numero di inventario, che risulta essere ignoto: un accurato controllo svolto nel mese di febbraio del 2008, all’inizio di questa mia ricerca, dal responsabile della collezione dei Papiri dell’IFAO, Jean-Luc Fournet, e condotto sia negli archivi dell’Istituto Francese di Archeologia Orientale sia in quelli della Société Fouad, su mia richiesta e ai fini della mia prossima pubblicazione, ha appurato che il papiro non risulta posseduto da nessuna delle due Istituzioni aventi sede

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nella capitale egiziana. Il testo originale, dunque, non è ora rintracciabile, per ragioni che ci rimangono oscure, sicché di esso ci è possibile uno studio solo in forma indiretta, attraverso l’acquisizione degli elementi contenuti nell’editio princeps e nella sparuta bibliografia secondaria, oltre che nelle revisioni complessive di Herbert Musurillo 5, che rappresentano di fatto l’ultima edizione critica di buona parte dei papiri del corpus, e nel lavoro a carattere storiografico realizzato in tempi più recenti da Andrew Harker 6. II. L a

A cta e l a loro Pa pi r i G i uda ici (CPJ)

s tor i a bi bl iogr a fica degl i

C or pus

de i

r i l eva n z a n e l

L’interesse per gli Acta Alexandrinorum e per il loro significato nel panorama culturale egiziano dei primi tre secoli dell’impero è sorto sullo scorcio del Novecento, in concomitanza con il moltiplicarsi di missioni archeologiche che hanno restituito numerosi papiri da varie aree dell’antico regno tolemaico, e non ha smesso di coinvolgere gli studiosi: lavori importanti sul corpus, e sul suo valore storico oltre che letterario, sono stati condotti a più riprese da Wilcken 7, Bauer 8, Niedermeyer 9, Von Premerstein 10, e da 5.  H. Musurillo, The Acts of the Pagan Martyrs – Acta Alexandrinorum, edited with Commentary, Oxford, 1954, p. 77‑79, 229‑232; H. Musurillo, Acta Alexandrinorum – De mortibus Alexandriae Nobilium Fragmenta Papyracea Graeca, edidit et notis instruxit H. Musurillo, Leipzig, 1961, p. 61‑64. 6. A. H arker , Loyalty and Dissidence in Roman Egypt. The Case of the Acta Alexandrinorum, Cambridge, 2008, p. 207‑208. Il volume, che affronta numerose importanti questioni in relazione al genere di questa letteratura e al contesto politico e culturale che la produsse, e che presenta una rassegna complessiva dei papiri che qui esaminiamo, non è però corredato dai testi che analizza, né nell’originale greco né in traduzione inglese. 7.  Lo studioso editò già nel 1895 il BGU 2 511 (P. Berol. inv. 7118), afferente a una collazione; notevoli riflessioni sul corpus si rintracciano soprattutto in U. Wilcken, «Zum Alexandrinischen Antisemitismus», Abhandlungen der (Königlich) Sächsischen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften 27 (1909), p. 783‑839; alcuni papiri degli Acta si trovano pure editi e discussi in L. M itteis – U. Wilcken, Grundzüge und Chrestomathie der Papyruskunde, I Bd. Historischer Teil, II Hälfte, Chrestomathie, Leipzig-Berlin, 1912. Lo studioso tendette sempre ad assegnare ai papiri degli Acta un autentico significato documentario, ritenendoli estratti di ὑπομνηματισμοί, Commentarii Caesaris, e le sue intuizioni sono tuttora importanti per individuare la valenza storica dei nostri testi, al di là delle riconoscibili, e talora evidentissime, rielaborazioni in chiave letteraria e propagandistica. 8.  A. Bauer , «Heidnische Märtyrerakten», Archiv für Papyrusforschung und verwandte Gebiete 1 (1901); della posizione critica dello studioso, iniziatore, di fatto, della corrente che ha ritenuto opportuno assegnare ai papiri in esame un valore più letterario che documentario, si è già detto in apertura. 9.  H. Niedermeyer , Über antike Protokoll-Literatur, Göttingen, 1918. 10.  Lo studioso, che sembrò inizialmente aderire alle tesi del Wilcken, postulò in seguito, e peculiarmente nella monografia del 1923, che tutti i frammenti noti

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numerosi altri studiosi, che hanno curato contributi minori 11, e presentato di volta in volta le editiones principes o gli aggiornamenti sui diversi frammenti ritenuti con certezza, o assai probabilmente, relativi agli Acta. Per la gran parte dei papiri qui esaminati, comunque, l’ultima edizione disponibile risale come si è detto al 1961, anno in cui il gesuita Herbert Musurillo condusse a compimento, per la Teubneriana di Lipsia, un’importante revisione, in latino, di ventisette papiri degli Acta 12 , quelli noti ai suoi tempi, o almeno quelli da lui ritenuti effettivamente afferenti al corpus; importante è pure, in quanto equivalente nei fatti a un’edizione e assai più analitico, il lavoro preparatorio a quest’opera, pubblicato in inglese dal medesimo autore nel 1954 13, che riporta ventisei testi, gli stessi dell’edizione del 1961 – presentati peraltro nel medesimo ordine – tranne ai suoi tempi fossero frutto dell’opera di un unico autore, il quale la avrebbe redatta all’epoca dell’imperatore Caracalla, entro il 215 d.C., a scopi propagandistici, e per le classi alte della Grecità alessandrina, e.g. con il titolo di Περί τῆς τῶν Ἀλεξανδρέων ἀνδρείας, o con un titolo relativo al tema principale, quello dello sfortunato esito di ambascerie greche alessandrine inviate a Roma tra l’età di Caligola e quella di Commodo. Sulla scorta della grafia e delle evidenze bibliologiche, effettivamente, buona parte dei frammenti ritenuti relativi al corpus – tutti quelli noti ai tempi di Von Premerstein, fortemente caratterizzati in senso letterario – possono essere assegnati alla fine del II o alla prima metà del III secolo d.C.; non è possibile, tuttavia, né postulare l’azione di una sola persona, in ragione di una forte diversità delle grafie e dei caratteri intrinseci dei singoli testi, né ignorare i testi scoperti in anni più recenti, che talora descrivono epoche più tarde di quella di Commodo, e talvolta, come si vedrà, risalgono anche al I secolo a.C., manifestando già, però, una fortissima aspirazione letteraria e propagandistica. Per tutte queste osservazioni si veda oltre, e si consultino A. Von P remerstein, Zu den sogenannten alexandrinischen Martyrerakten. Philologus, Supplementband 16, Heft 2, Leipzig, 1923; A. Von P remerstein – K. K albfleisch, Alexandrinische Geronten vor Kaiser Gaius. Ein neues Bruchstück der sogenannten alexandrinischen Märtyrer-Akten (P. Bibl. Univ. Giss. 46), Mitteilungen aus der Papyrus Sammlung der Giessener Universitätbibliotheken, Part V, Giessen, 1936. 11.  E. Von Dobschütz , «Jews and Antisemites in Ancient Alexandria», American Journal of Theology 8 (1904), p. 728‑755; R. R eitzenstein, «Ein Stück hellenistischer Kleinliteratur», Nachrichten von der Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Gottingen 1904, Heft 1, p. 326-332 (si avanzò qui l’ipotesi che si trattasse di una sorta di narrativa popolare circolante ad Alessandria nei primi secoli dell’impero); A. Neppi Modona, «Protocolli giudiziari o romanzo storico?», in Raccolta Lumbroso, Milano, 1925, p. 407‑438; R. M atta, «Gli Atti dei Martiri Alessandrini: saggio storico-filosofico», Didaskaleion 4 (1926), fasc. 1, p. 69‑106; fasc. 2, 49‑84; H.I. Bell , Juden und Griechen in römischen Alexandria, Beihefte zum Alten Orient, Heft 9, Leipzig, 1926; H.I. Bell , «Antisemitismus in Alexandria», The Journal of Roman Studies 31 (1941), p. 1‑19; H.I. Bell , «The Acts of the Alexandrines», The Journal of Juristic Papyrology 4 (1950), p. 19‑42. 12.  H. Musurillo, Acta Alexandrinorum – De mortibus Alexandriae Nobilium Fragmenta Papyracea Graeca, edidit et notis instruxit H. Musurillo, Leipzig, 1961. 13.  H. Musurillo, The Acts of the Pagan Martyrs – Acta Alexandrinorum, edited with Commentary, Oxford, 1954.

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P. Mich. 4800, edito per la prima volta dallo stesso Musurillo nel 1957, dunque tre anni dopo la pubblicazione della monografia in inglese, e pertanto inserito per ultimo, non senza qualche incertezza sull’opportunità di ritenerlo afferente al corpus, nel lavoro definitivo del 1961 14 . A Musurillo dobbiamo, dunque, l’ultima revisione di ben venticinque dei nostri papiri 15, tra i quali quello perduto; si aggiungono ad essi i testi non compresi nella raccolta perchè non ritenuti, almeno inizialmente, afferenti al corpus 16, o perché pubblicati per la prima volta dopo il 1961 17. Di questi papiri si ha pertanto solo l’editio princeps, oltre a eventuale bibliografia indiretta. Alcuni testi degli Acta si trovano riportati ed editi anche nel Corpus dei Papiri Giudaici 18, e in particolare nel volume secondo, pubblicato nel 1960: si tratta, evidentemente, dei testi che più da vicino sono stati connessi con la dimensione antigiudaica comune a molta letteratura di pro14. Si deve ricordare in questa sede, per completezza di informazione, che in entrambi i lavori del Musurillo è riportato, in aggiunta ai suddetti 26 (27) papiri, pure il P. Oslo. 170, ritenuto dallo studioso afferente agli Acta in ragione della grafia e di qualche indizio di contenuto; diversa posizione assume lo studioso per P. Oslo. 178, che egli cita solo in nota in H. Musurillo, The Acts of the Pagan Martyrs – Acta Alexandrinorum, edited with Commentary, Oxford, 1954, p. 228, senza contemplarlo nella silloge. 15.  Dal novero complessivo dei ventisette testi degli Acta editi in H. Musurillo, Acta Alexandrinorum – De mortibus Alexandriae Nobilium Fragmenta Papyracea Graeca, edidit et notis instruxit H. Musurillo, Leipzig, 1961, si devono escludere P. Oxy. 8 1089 (il secondo dopo PSI 10 1160 nell’edizione dello studioso), papiro che ha conosciuto nel 1974 una più recente edizione, e una collazione di cui lo studioso potè in un primo tempo editare solo la parte corrispondente al P. Giessen Kuhlmann 4.7 (P. Giss. Univ. 5.46), collocandola al terzo posto, dopo P. Oxy. 8 1089. Della collazione completa, tuttavia, che contempla anche il P. Yale. 2 107 (P CtYBR inv. 1385), lo stesso Musurillo potè offrire l’editio princeps insieme a G.M. Parassoglou nel 1974, in H. Musurillo – G.M. Parassoglou, «A New Fragment of the Acta Alexandrinorum», Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 15 (1974) p. 1‑7, tuttora l’unica edizione esistente della collazione, nonché editio princeps di P Yale 2 107, mentre la prima pubblicazione di P Giss 4 7 risale invece al 1936, ed è contenuta in A. Von P remerstein – K. K albfleisch, Alexandrinische Geronten vor Kaiser Gaius. Ein neues Bruchstück der sogenannten alexandrinischen Märtyrer-Akten (P. Bibl. Univ. Giss. 46), Mitteilungen aus der Papyrus Sammlung der Giessener Universitätbibliotheken, Part V, Giessen 1936. 16.  È il caso anche di P. Oxy. 25 2435, pubblicato già nel 1959, e di PSA Athen inv. 58, edito nel 1920, non contemplato da Musurillo nelle pubblicazioni del 1954 e del 1961, ma poi da lui stesso rivisitato e rieditato, come un possibile frammento afferente agli Acta Alexandrinorum, nel 1964. 17.  È il caso di P. Oxy. 34 2690, edito per la prima volta nel 1968, dei P. Oxy. 42 3020-3021-3022, pubblicati nel 1974, e dei BKT 9 64, 115, 177 (P. Berol. inv. 21161v‑21211r‑21273), editi nel 1996. 18.  V.A. Tcherikover – A. Fuks, Corpus Papyrorum Judaicorum, 3 voll., Cambridge, 1957 (vol. 1), 1960 (vol. 2), 1964 (vol. 3), di seguito citato con la sigla CPJ seguita dal numero arabo indicante il volume.

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paganda alessandrina, in ragione soprattutto dei contenuti. Su di essi, tredici in tutto 19, così importanti per la comprensione della sensibilità storica emergente dagli Acta, e su qualche altro che ad essi e al tema più generale di questa comunicazione si riconduce, sebbene non sia entrato in CPJ per ragioni diverse, avremo modo di ritornare oltre. III. D i ffusion e

de l l a l et t e r at u r a propag a n di s t ica

a l e s sa n dr i na n e l l’E gi t to

Ta r do -E l l e n i s t ico ,

e fort u na

de i suoi e roi : i n di z i g eogr a fici , bi bl iologici e t ecn ico - for m a l i

Tutti i papiri degli Acta Alexandrinorum sono senza dubbio di provenienza egiziana, ma non sempre ci è possibile individuare con precisione l’area del loro ritrovamento: solo per alcuni, portati alla luce nel corso di scavi sistematici, e immediatamente acquisiti e conservati in collezioni pubbliche, conosciamo l’origine e le circostanze del rinvenimento; la maggior parte di essi invece, non dissimilmente da quanto avviene per la quasi totalità della documentazione papiracea superstite, ha raggiunto il luogo di attuale conservazione per vie diverse, attraverso lunghe trafile burocratiche o numerosi passaggi commerciali, sicché non risulta sempre agevole definirne l’origine e la provenienza, e non è facile, di conseguenza, delineare l’effettiva divulgazione della letteratura propagandistica alessandrina entro i confini dell’Egitto ellenistico; si può, tuttavia, tentare una statistica, sulla base delle indicazioni che possediamo. Dieci dei nostri papiri, rinvenuti in tempi differenti, provengono da Ossirinco (Banhasa, U19); altri cinque sono stati trovati nel Fayum, e la provenienza dalla stessa area è postulata, ma resta incerta, per ulteriori sei testi afferenti al nostro corpus; forse dalla medesima regione arsinoite proviene un settimo papiro, l’unico conservato oggi ad Atene, mentre per un altro si postula la provenienza dal Fayum oppure da Ossirinco. Completano il quadro il P. IFAO ormai perduto, che pare fosse stato rinvenuto nella regione di Hermopolis Magna, a Tuna el-Gebel, nel corso degli scavi condotti da Sami Gabra nel cimitero della città, ed un papiro proveniente forse da Panopolis; nella medesima città di Alessandria, ove con ogni probabilità i nostri testi furono redatti almeno nella loro primissima versione, è stato rinvenuto un solo frammento degli Acta, che fu edito per la prima volta tra i papiri di Ossirinco, e che sembra la copia approntata in fretta, a scopi privati, da una mano inesperta e senz’altro non cancelleresca, di una lettera pubblica inviata dall’imperatore Traiano ad Alessandria nell’anno 98 d.C.; resta del tutto ignota la provenienza dei rimanenti testi. 19.  CPJ 2 150; CPJ 2 154; CPJ 2 155; CPJ 2 156 (a, b, c, d); CPJ 2 157; CPJ 2 158 (a, b); CPJ 2 159; CPJ 2 418; CPJ 2 435.

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Sono almeno cinque e ben distinte, dunque, le aree dell’Egitto che hanno restituito frammenti relativi agli Acta, il che di fatto illumina su un aspetto importante della fortuna di questa letteratura: redatti nella metropoli alessandrina a ridosso degli eventi che di volta in volta raccontano, o comunque sull’onda di fatti significativi e degni di nota per la fazione greca nazionalista della città, che meritassero un’adeguata eco propagandistica o almeno una qualche risonanza letteraria, i nostri testi furono poi riprodotti in numerose copie, e divulgati un po’ in tutto l’Egitto ellenistico, ovunque risiedesse una enclave significativa di cittadini greci maldisposti nei riguardi del potere di Roma, e dove, pertanto, tale letteratura potesse avere una qualche funzione fomentatrice di valori di parte e atteggiamenti di resistenza. Che la replicazione e la divulgazione dei nostri papiri in aree diverse dell’antico regno tolemaico sia senz’altro avvenuta, e sia sopravvissuta a lungo, per tutto il tempo in cui perdurarono focolai di opposizione greca antiromana in Egitto, sembra testimoniato, in particolare, dall’occasionale rinvenimento di testi uguali in luoghi diversi: è il caso dei due esemplari identici degli Acta Isidori 20, entrambi di provenienza ignota, anche se per il secondo si postula un’origine da Panopolis. I due papiri, il primo dei quali risultante da una collazione, sono datati invariabilmente alla fine del II o anche agli inizi del III secolo d. C., in ragione di evidenze paleografiche 21 che fanno escludere assolutamente la possibilità di ricondurne la redazione al medesimo copista; in essi si rintraccia lo stesso testo, afferente, peraltro, a fatti storicamente collocabili alla metà del I secolo d.C. È questa una prova singolare, e assai significativa, non soltanto dell’importanza e della notorietà, della fortuna e della diffusione della letteratura che stiamo esaminando in varie parti dell’Egitto, ma anche dell’esistenza, nei primi secoli dell’impero, di un vero e proprio culto degli eroi della resistenza greca al potere romano, le cui gesta, anche a distanza di lungo tempo, 20.  BGU 2 511 (P. Berol. inv. 7118) + P. Cairo. inv. 10448 = CPJ 2 156a - 156d e Brit. Libr. inv. 2785 = CPJ 2 156b. Sui papiri afferenti agli Acta Isidori, tra i più qualitativamente significativi e quantitativamente consistenti dell’intero corpus, si veda la monografia di A. M agnani, Il Processo di Isidoro: Roma e Alessandria nel I secolo, Bologna, 2009, che affronta alcune questioni importanti anche a proposito dell’antigiudaismo ellenistico e della collocazione dei Giudei nel contesto egiziano. 21.  Per le riflessioni di carattere paleografico che qui si svolgono si rimanda alla letteratura manualistica di riferimento, e in particolare: L. Perria, Graphis. Per una storia della scrittura greca libraria (secc. IV a.C.-XVI d.C.), Roma, 2011; E. Crisci – P. Degni, La scrittura greca dall ’antichità all ’epoca della stampa. Una introduzione, Roma, 2011; R.S. Bagnall , The Oxford Handbook of Papyrology, Oxford, 2009; G. Cavallo, La scrittura greca e latina dei papiri. Una introduzione, Pisa, 2008; M. Capasso, Introduzione alla papirologia: dalla pianta di papiro all ’informatica papirologica, Bologna, 2005; E.G. Turner , Papiri greci (ed. italiana a c. di M. Manfredi), Roma, 2002.

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venivano cantate ed esaltate in forme e modi assai vicini a quelli propri dell’agiografia e del panegirico. Non è un caso, a questo proposito, che circolassero in Egitto più versioni degli Acta Isidori, diverse nella forma e, in parte, anche nei contenuti, ma sostanzialmente omogenee quanto agli intenti e alle origini: dello stesso pamphlet celebrativo dei suddetti due papiri fanno parte, infatti, pure P. Berol. inv. 8877, ancora di provenienza ignota, e databile alla medesima epoca dei precedenti, nonché con buona probabilità, in ragione della presenza certa, in esso, del nome proprio Ἰσίδωρος, anche P. Oxy. 42 3021, trovato a Ossirinco, che sembra essere il più antico di tutti, e il più vicino, dal punto di vista temporale, ai fatti narrati, in quanto databile al I secolo d.C. Si tratta, è vero, del testo meno significativo per consistenza e contenuto: paradossalmente, però, è proprio questo il frammento degli Acta Isidori più importante in assoluto, perché ci consente di postulare l’antichità della letteratura di propaganda afferente all’indomito Isidoro, capo delle fazioni antiromane e antisemite di Alessandria già ai tempi del pogrom antigiudaico del 38‑41 d.C., e di retrodatarla ad un’epoca immediatamente contigua a quella in cui si collocò la parabola umana e politica del ginnasiarco alessandrino. Tale letteratura, è evidente, non si estinse nel tempo, e anzi conobbe una continuità sorprendente, facendo assistere a un nuovo fervore intorno alla metà del II secolo, quando di nuovo assai forti si fecero gli attriti con il potere costituito e con la minoranza giudaica, e furono conseguentemente sentiti come necessari modelli antichi di determinazione, coraggio e inflessibile orgoglio nazionalista, e nel corso del III secolo. Sulla scorta di quanto detto si spiega pure un’evidenza relativa ai tre frammenti degli Acta conservanti le imprese degli alessandrini Paolo e Antonino, datate agli ultimi anni di Traiano o ai primi di Adriano, probabilmente da vicino connesse con la rivolta giudaica del 115‑117, e descritte in P. Paris. 68 (P. Louvre inv. 2376 bis) + P. Lit. Lond. 118 (Brit. Libr. inv. 1), BGU 1 341 (P. Berol. inv. 8111) e PSA Athen. inv. 58. Va sottolineato come il secondo di questi papiri rechi un testo assai simile, ma non uguale, a parte di quello contenuto nel primo, che rappresenta la collazione opistografa in assoluto più lunga dell’intero corpus. A ben guardare, anzi, l’uno sembra il riassunto, redatto a scopi divulgativi, dell’altro, che pare essere, per le ragioni legate al suo assetto grafico già in parte esposte in precedenza, l’archetipo o almeno una delle primissime redazioni del testo. Se si osserva la cronologia relativa, peraltro, si noterà come BGU 1 341 sia anche il frammento più tardo dei tre, poiché risulta databile, in base ad evidenze paleografiche, oltre il II secolo d.C., forse anche alla prima metà del III, laddove gli altri due testi assai probabilmente non superano, quanto alla redazione, la fine del II secolo d.C. Quanto poi al luogo di ritrovamento, non è peregrino osservare come il papiro berlinese sia stato rinvenuto nel Fayum, in un’area quindi diversa da quella alessandrina: il complesso di queste informazioni prova ancora una volta l’abitudine di

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riprodurre in più copie – e anche in forme più o meno simili – i testi propagandistici, rielaborandoli magari da documenti ufficiali o da archetipi già semiletterari, e divulgandoli poi ove più opportuna fosse la loro pubblicazione, anche a distanza di qualche tempo dalla loro originaria redazione. Con simili ragionamenti si può giustificare e comprendere pure il rinvenimento in luoghi diversi dell’Egitto dei frammenti relativi, con buona probabilità, al medesimo processo contro il prefetto Massimo, impropriamente definiti Acta Maximi e tutti riconducibili al II secolo, ad un’epoca quindi assai complessa, soprattutto in ragione di difficili equilibri politici e interetnici: due di questi papiri, P. Mich. inv. 4800 e, probabilmente, BKT 9 177 (P. Berol. inv. 21273), provengono dal Fayum; di Ossirinco è P. Oxy. 3 471 (Bodl. Libr. inv. Gr.cl.a.10 (P)), mentre non è nota la provenienza di P. Schub. 42 (P. Berol. inv. 13292). I quattro frammenti sono tutti di prima mano, vergati cioè in senso parallelo alle fibre su papiri mai usati in precedenza, e manifestano un chiaro aspetto letterario 22; la loro redazione è avvenuta senz’altro in un tempo non di molto successivo ai fatti narrati, e assai presto questi testi sono stati diffusi a scopo propagandistico in varie parti dell’antico regno tolemaico. Tale evidenza, insieme a diverse osservazioni di carattere bibliologico, fornisce molti dati indiretti sulla produzione degli Acta nel corso del II secolo, e ci chiarisce in particolare come essa fosse, in quegli anni, già fortemente intenzionale, e spiccatamente letteraria, curata nella scelta dei supporti scrittori e nelle modalità redazionali. L’approfondimento di questi aspetti tecnici, e in particolare la frequenza nell’uso dell’una o dell’altra faccia di scrittura, oltre che, evidentemente, la cronologia dei fatti riportati, posta a confronto con la datazione della grafia, sono di particolare importanza per una riflessione complessiva sui documenti in esame: grazie a tali studi, infatti, sembra possibile comprendere meglio come dovette sorgere e svilupparsi la letteratura di propaganda antiromana – e in parte antigiudaica – che i Greci di Alessandria produssero nel corso dei primi tre secoli dell’era volgare, ed individuare con più chiarezza la sua matrice storica 23. IV. A spet t i

propr i a m e n t e l et t e r a r i : i mode l l i e i g e n e r i degl i

A cta A l e x a n dr i noru m

Sulla scorta di quanto fin qui detto emerge evidentissima la dimensione propriamente letteraria dei papiri in esame, soprattutto di alcuni, che più 22.  La grafia è sempre curata, di tipo quasi librario, e impreziosita da segni di interpunzione, paragraphoi, elementi di riempimento e altri accorgimenti stilistici. 23.  Per questi e altri aspetti si rimanda alla versione integrale di questo contributo che apparirà in Adamantius 22 (2016).

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spiccatamente sembrano attingere a modelli e generi coevi. L’aspetto che più fortemente accomuna i nostri testi, e che ha indotto a ritenerli espressione della burocrazia ufficiale, o almeno a giudicare la gran parte di essi come copie private, o minute, di rendiconti di legazione o di atti imperiali, è la forte somiglianza, almeno in superficie, con i protocolli emessi dal potere centrale o dagli uffici periferici: in queste tipologie di documenti, come è noto, si segnala in particolare la dimensione dialogica, soprattutto per ciò che concerne gli interventi dell’ufficiale presidente, di cui si fornisce il nome e il titolo. Un simile carattere dialogato contraddistingue molti dei papiri del corpus, e peculiarmente quelli che ci restituiscono stralci di relazioni di ambascerie o di processi, ove sovente si registrano, però, le battute delle parti più che quelle degli ufficiali, di cui quasi mai, peraltro, viene tramandato il nome. Se si aggiunge a queste anomalie l’assenza quasi assoluta di indicazioni relative alla data in cui il protocollo venne emesso, che sono assai frequenti, invece, nelle scritture ufficiali, si noterà come i nostri papiri rielaborino in modo autonomo, e alquanto fantasioso, i propri modelli di tipo documentario, intervenendo su di essi, peraltro, non esclusivamente sotto l’aspetto formale, ma pure nella sostanza: si individuano nei nostri testi, così, elementi che non appartengono affatto allo stile e ai contenuti asciutti dei resoconti ufficiali, quali racconti di manifestazioni soprannaturali intervenute a sostenere le parole dell’eroe descritto 24 , atteggiamenti colmi di pathos 25, insistenze sull’ingiustizia della condanna, sull’eroicità del condannato e talora sugli aspetti più macabri, affini alla vera e propria tortura, delle esecuzioni capitali 26, esplicite e reiterate dichiarazioni, da parte degli imputati di etnia greca, 24.  Mi riferisco, specificamente, alla descrizione del sudore della statua di Serapide, contenuta nella terza colonna del papiro che restituisce i cosiddetti Acta Hermaisci, P. Oxy. 10 1242, ll. 50‑53, e collocata immediatamente dopo l’intervento dell’ambasciatore alessandrino; il fatto è probabilmente associato, nell’economia narrativa di quel testo, ad altre manifestazioni soprannaturali, dal momento che in concomitanza con l’evento è descritto un tumulto di Romani, non presenti senz’altro alla cognitio davanti all’imperatore, e tuttavia fortemente sconvolti e spaventati, al punto di fuggire in gran numero sulle cime dei colli. Si può pensare, forse, ad un terremoto o comunque ad uno stravolgimento geofisico, che abbia accompagnato, nell’immaginazione del redattore, il miracolo del dio greco. 25.  Si vedano, e.g., il comportamento dell’anonimo γεραιός che si prostra ai piedi di Dionisio nel tempio di Serapide, descritto in P. Oxy. 10 1089, ll. 30‑34, o lo stesso movimento di popolo che segue, in Acta Hermaisci, il sudore della statua di Serapide, P. Oxy. 10 1242, ll. 53‑55; si considerino pure alcuni passaggi del discorso di Germanico contenuto nel recto di P. Oxy. 25 2435, insieme agli ultimi scambi di battute tra Claudio e Isidoro in BGU 2 511 + P. Cairo. inv. 10448, ll.  46‑54, o tra Ermaisco e Traiano ancora in P. Oxy. 10 1242; si veda pure il tono accorato dell’accusatore in Acta Maximi, P. Oxy. 3 471, o l’atteggiamento di Appiano, in particolare dopo la condanna, quando coinvolge nel suo dramma le folle di Roma, in Acta Appiani, P. Oxy. 1 33 + P. Yale. 1536. 26.  Si legga, e.g., Acta Pauli et Antonini, P. Paris. 68 + P. Lond. 118.

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di amore e abnegazione verso la patria 27, rafforzate da continui richiami alle proprie εὐγένεια ed εὐσέβεια e da audacissime offese all’imperatore 28, cause prime, sovente, della condanna a morte per lesa maestà. Si accompagnano a questi elementi, che hanno fatto postulare una chiara dipendenza della letteratura propagandistica alessandrina da certo romanzo greco 29, riferimenti occasionali a comportamenti che non possono trovare riscontro nelle abitudini culturali dei popoli chiamati in causa, e che sono dunque di matrice evidentemente letteraria 30, o anche, all’opposto, evidenti richiami a tradizioni proprie della Grecità e del Giudaismo alessandrino: mi riferisco, in particolare, alle ripetute allusioni al cosiddetto mimo del re, una satira messa in scena dai Greci di Alessandria, di norma nel Ginnasio, per ridicolizzare la centralità, nella cultura e nella propaganda identitaria giudaica, della figura messianico-regale, così importante in tutta la storia dell’Ebraismo, e così fortemente rievocata nei numerosi tentativi di στάσεις originati da parte giudaica nei primi secoli dell’impero, e registrati dalle fonti storiche 31. 27.  Si vedano alcuni riferimenti contenuti in Acta Athenodori, P. Oxy. 18 2177, o in Acta Appiani, P. Oxy. 1 33 + P. Yale. 1536. 28.  Si leggano le affermazioni di Isidoro, in BGU 2 511 + P. Cairo. 10488, ll.  48‑50, ove l’εὐγένεια del greco è apertamente contrapposta, non senza insinuazioni, alla cattiva schiatta del cesare che interloquisce; si vedano, pure, le ripetute dichiarazioni di Appiano in P. Oxy. 1 33 + P. Yale. 1536, ll.  61‑62, ll.  86‑95, ove anche il sovrano in questione, che pare essere Commodo, viene più volte offeso senza ritegno, confrontato con il nobile padre (ll. 50‑56) e definito addirittura prima τύραννος (l.  48) e poi, con un arditissimo gioco di parole del tutto improbabile nella realtà, λῄσταρχος (l.  81). 29. Si legga per questa ipotesi, in particolare, H. Musurillo, The Acts of the Pagan Martyrs – Acta Alexandrinorum, edited with Commentary, Oxford, 1954, p. 252‑254. 30.  Si veda specificamente, in Acta Hermaisci, la descrizione della doppia ambasceria di Greci e di Giudei al cospetto di Traiano, nella quale si individua con chiarezza l’affermazione che ciascuna delegazione conducesse con sé rappresentazioni delle proprie divinità (P. Oxy. 10 1242 ll. 16‑18): l’interruzione della colonna, e la perdita delle righe successive, impedisce di comprendere i riferimenti specifici, ma grazie al contenuto generale del frammento si può ipotizzare che, per gli Alessandrini, seguisse almeno la citazione del busto di Serapide, interessato poco dopo dal miracolo di cui si è sopra detto; più difficile risulta comprendere quale immagine sacra potessero condurre con sé i Giudei, la cui religione è, notoriamente, aniconica; si è proposto allora, da parte degli studiosi, di individuare in questa allusione un altro aspetto letterario del papiro in esame, o di ipotizzare che si volesse alludere, nel testo, alla scelta, da parte dei Giudei, di condurre con sé i Testi Sacri. 31. Rammento solo qui, ma si potrebbero richiamare numerosi altri esempi, come la grande rivolta giudaica del 115‑117 avesse avuto origine per l’iniziativa di Lukuas, un giudeo di Cirene, che si era definito “re”. Riferimenti a un βασιλεύς ἀπό σκηνῆς καὶ ἐκ μίμου, e dunque a un “mimo” organizzato dai Greci appositamente per ridicolizzare tale scelta, sono contenuti in Acta Pauli et Antonini, che si riconducono proprio a quell’epoca, P. Paris. 68 + P. Lond. 118, ll.  1‑7, 98‑100.

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Significativo è pure, in questo breve focus sui caratteri propriamente letterari del nostro corpus, sottolineare una certa attenzione per le figure femminili: le auguste, in particolare, o comunque donne di alto rango, sono presenti durante i processi 32 , e vengono chiamate in causa, talvolta, per completare l’immagine negativa costruita dei loro consorti 33; questa presenza muliebre  3 4 , che è tipica del mimo greco ellenistico, soprattutto di quello urbano 35, è evocata talvolta per sostenere accuse e insinuazioni gravi nei confronti degli imperatori, come nel caso della citazione di Salome, la Giudea, in uno dei frammenti di Acta Isidori. V. I l

sig n i ficato s tor ico e l’a n t igi uda i smo degl i

A cta :

un

docum e n to olt r e l a propag a n da

In alcuni dei papiri superstiti si rintracciano evidenti contenuti antigiudaici: si tratta talora di dichiarazioni esplicite 36 , talaltra di riferimenti Il richiamo ha fondamento storico: fin dai tempi del primo pogrom antigiudaico, verificatosi nel 38‑41, si mettevano infatti in scena, in Alessandria, simili mimi, che sono testimoniati anche nelle fonti letterarie. Si veda e.g. Filone, In Flaccum 6, 36‑39, ove si racconta che il semplicione Carabas fu sarcasticamente incoronato con foglie di papiro nel Ginnasio della città, e che i Greci si prostravano a lui al grido di “Nostro Signore”, ridicolizzando in tal modo il re (governatore di Giudea) Agrippa I. Non dissimili, in definitiva, sono le offese e gli scherni rivolti a Gesù nel corso della Passione, e descritti nei Vangeli (Mt 27,27‑31; Mc 15,16‑20; Gv 19,2‑3), la redazione dei quali, del resto, è coeva ai più antichi dei nostri testi. 32.  Penso, e.g., al riferimento contenuto in BGU 2 511 + P. Cairo. inv. 10448, ll. 27‑28, e nel corrispondente testo di P. Lond. 2785, ll. 2‑3, ove si descrivono, tra gli astanti, συγκλητικοί, ὑπατικοί e παροῦσαι ματρῶναι. 33. Si veda, in particolare, la duplice citazione di Plotina che si rintraccia in Acta Hermaisci, ll. 26‑32, ove la moglie di Traiano è dipinta come una donna quasi diabolica, capace, con i suoi interventi, di influenzare gli orientamenti e le decisioni del Senato e dell’imperatore nei confronti della duplice ambasceria, di Greci e di Giudei alessandrini, convenuta a Roma. Ci sono in questo testo e nella connotazione dell’augusta, come vedremo meglio oltre, implicazioni precise di carattere antigiudaico. 34.  Ne completano il quadro la altrimenti ignota Afrodisia, condotta nel tempio di Serapide al seguito di Isidoro e Dionisio in vista dell’incontro con Flacco, di cui si fa cenno in P. Oxy. 8 1089, e la madre di un giovane greco che si dimena e avanza per testimoniare, probabilmente contro il prefetto Massimo, in P. Mich. inv. 4800, ll. 45‑50. 35.  Si vedano, e.g., gli esempi tratti dalla produzione di Teocrito (Idilli 2, 15) o di Eroda (Mimiambi 1, 3, 4, 5, 6), ove sempre i protagonisti, o i personaggi principali, sono donne. 36. Cfr. i quattro papiri degli Acta Isidori, nel corpo dei quali il ginnasiarco alessandrino pronuncia ogni genere di accusa contro l’etnia avversaria, alla presenza dell’imperatore Claudio e del re (governatore) di Giudea Agrippa, da lui chiamato in giudizio a Roma; si confronti pure il testo di Acta Hermaisci, ove per due

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indiretti 37, che non inficiano in ogni caso la certezza, ormai condivisa dagli studiosi che nel corso dei decenni hanno approfondito la questione della genesi, dello sviluppo, della diffusione e delle priorità concettuali di questi testi, di poter assegnare loro un obiettivo preciso in relazione al Giudaismo di Alessandria, e di rinvenirvi un’ostilità mai sopita nel tempo, documentata chiaramente per l’intero arco cronologico interessato dal fenomeno della produzione letteraria in esame. Gli autori del corpus vollero dunque divulgare, tra gli esponenti della resistenza greca d’Egitto, un chiaro giudizio di valore non soltanto a proposito del potere romano, ma anche rispetto agli abitanti di etnia giudaica presenti in diverse aree dell’antico regno tolemaico, e soprattutto nella metropoli egiziana. Per i cittadini greci i Giudei sono, secondo una definizione incrociata desumibile da PSI 10 1160, uno dei più antichi papiri contenuti nel nostro corpus, e dai P. Oxy. 10 1242 e P. Berol. 8877, riconducibili invece a una fase più tarda, da collocarsi probabilmente tra la fine del II e la prima metà del III secolo, ἀνόσιοι (P. Oxy. 10 1242, ll.  43. 49‑50), ἄθρεπτοι καὶ ἀνάγωγοι γεγονότες ἄνθρωποι (PSI X 1160, l.  6), καὶ ὅλην τὴν οἰκουμένην θέλουσι ταράσσειν (P. Berol. 8877, ll.  23‑24): come tali i Giudei risultano indegni di mescolarsi alla Grecità, e anzi fortemente pericolosi per essa, per la sua genuinità, per i suoi valori e per la sua sopravvivenza, oltre che per l’equilibrio e la pace del consorzio umano; la connivenza con essi, pertanto, è rimproverata apertamente agli imperatori e ai loro congiunti, o fortemente insinuata dai singoli personaggi protagonisti dei papiri e dai narratori, con un misto di verità e di finzione, con l’accurato ingigantimento di fatti, colpe, situazioni, che è tipico di tutta la letteratura propagandistica, in ogni tempo. Si mescolano, in questi giudizi nei riguardi della minoranza giudaica d’Egitto, aspetti diversi, di carattere non soltanto etnico e culturale, ma anche, e soprattutto, di tipo politico, istituzionale, di equilibrio interno: la domanda che dovremmo porci, dunque, è essenzialmente legata alle ragioni del forte antisemitismo che si respirava nelle élites greche dell’Alessandria del primo impero 38, e che condusse, a più riprese nei primi secoli dell’era volgare, a momenti di forte tensione, quando non di diretto scontro armato e di vere e proprie persecuzioni 39. volte l’eroe della resistenza greca, alla presenza dell’imperatore, definisce i Giudei ἀνόσιοι, empi: P. Oxy. 10 1242, ll.  43. 49‑50. 37.  Si veda, in particolare, PSI 10 1160, su cui avrò modo di tornare. 38.  Vero è che l’atteggiamento antigiudaico nel mondo antico si manifesta assai diffuso, ed è testimoniato da numerose fonti, soprattutto egiziane: si veda in particolare P. Schäfer , Judeophobia. Attitudes toward the Jews in the Ancient Word, Cambridge, 1997, ove si discutono e si delineano gli aspetti essenziali di tale antigiudaismo, dal suo sorgere fino all’età romana. 39.  Mi riferisco essenzialmente a tre fatti: il pogrom antigiudaico messo in atto dai Greci di Alessandria negli anni 38‑41, di cui trattano soprattutto Filone, nell’o-

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Ho già detto che il disprezzo nei riguardi dei Giudei assume, nei papiri degli Acta, un ruolo funzionale allo scopo precipuo degli stessi, che è fieramente antiromano  4 0: questo spiega, essenzialmente, perché non tutti ne conservino traccia, e concorre a ridimensionare una lettura esclusivamente ideologica, culturale e psicologica del fenomeno antigiudaico nel mondo antico. A me pare, anzi, di poter riconoscere alcune ragioni chiave di molte delle convinzioni antigiudaiche della Grecità alessandrina, e di gran parte degli eventi sanguinosi cui esse condussero, in alcuni fatti centrali, di carattere istituzionale, che i papiri degli Acta ci aiutano a meglio comprendere e inquadrare, assumendo, in tal modo, una valenza fortemente storica. Un primo aspetto è legato all’esistenza di forti interessi, soprattutto economici, che legavano i Giudei più eminenti, di Alessandria e non solo, alla famiglia imperiale: sappiamo con certezza, per esempio, che il fratello del filosofo giudeo Filone, Alessandro Lisimaco ὁ ἀλαβάρχης, ricchissimo banchiere e membro autorevolissimo della comunità giudaica egiziana nel primo impero 41, fu responsabile delle finanze personali di Antonia Minore, la madre dell’imperatore Claudio; tutta la famiglia degli Erodi, fortemente ellenizzata e romanizzata, fu del resto, anche in ragione di peculiari amicizie tra le donne delle due casate, in ottimi rapporti con il potere imperiale 42 , come ci attesta, in particolare, l’atteggiamento di Claudio nei riguardi degli Agrippa governatori di Giudea, legati peraltro da forti contatti, non soltanto etnici ma pure matrimoniali, con il Giudaismo

razione In Flaccum e nella Legatio ad Gaium, e Giuseppe Flavio, in Antiquitates Judaicae, e sul quale si consulti pure la monografia di K. Blouin, Le conflit judéoalexandrin de 38‑41. L’identité juive à l ’epreuve, Paris, 2005; vanno ricondotti a questa serie di tensioni pure gli scontri che precedettero, negli anni ’60 del I secolo, la grande guerra giudaica e la distruzione del tempio di Gerusalemme, descritti da Giuseppe Flavio in Bellum Judaicum 2, 18, 7‑9 (487‑499), e la vasta rivolta giudaica del 115‑117, di cui trattano in particolare Eusebio e Cassio Dione, eventi che entrambi videro in Alessandria uno dei luoghi più caldi della contesa armata. 40.  L’ipotesi fu già espressa da U. Wilcken, «Zum Alexandrinischen Antisemitismus», Abhandlungen der (Königlich) Sächsischen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften 27 (1909), p. 783‑839. 41.  Il titolo onorifico che possedeva designa infatti, come è noto, l’alabarco, il magistrato supremo dei Giudei di Alessandria, capo ed esattore delle imposte; si vedano sul personaggio i libri 18‑20 delle Antiquitates Judaicae di Flavio Giuseppe, e in particolare Antiquitates Judaicae 19,276‑277. 42.  Crebbe a Roma, alla corte dei Cesari, e fu coetaneo di Claudio e di Druso, Marco Giulio Agrippa I, figlio di Aristobulo (figlio a sua volta di Erode il Grande e di Marianne, prima moglie di lui) e di Berenice. Questa era grande amica di Antonia Minore, madre di Claudio (Antiquitates Judaicae 18, 143), e la madre di lei, Salome I, sorella di Erode il Grande, era legata da rapporti di amicizia e riconoscenza a Giulia, la moglie di Augusto, tanto da coinvolgerla nel proprio testamento: Bellum Judaicum 2, 167.

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di Alessandria. Un Agrippa 43, non a caso, è accusato da Isidoro, alla presenza di Claudio, di essere connivente con le attività sovversive dei Giudei alessandrini nella metropoli egiziana, e il testo insiste molto, in tutti i frammenti conservati, sul favore di cui il personaggio gode presso Claudio, oltre che sulla presenza e sull’orientamento di donne influenti della casa imperiale. Un numero consistente di Giudei, del resto, dimorò nei palazzi imperiali fin dall’inizio del principato  4 4 , e la loro graduale ma costante insinuazione nella macchina istituzionale raggiunse il culmine in epoca traianea, quando addirittura si registrano senatori di stirpe giudaica 45: si comprende bene allora, proprio alla luce di queste notizie, il riferimento ad un consilium imperiale dominato da Giudei contenuto negli Acta Hermaisci  4 6, ambientati proprio al tempo di Traiano o ai primi anni di Adriano. I contatti economici, politici e personali che legavano il potere centrale al Giudaismo tutto, documentati in modo così chiaro, dovettero essere di fatto il motore di molta parte dell’antigiudaismo alessandrino, oltre che la radice di un altro fenomeno, sentito fortemente dai Greci d’Egitto come minaccia alla propria identità culturale e storica, quello legato alla concessione della cittadinanza: ci è noto infatti che, nel corso del I secolo, alcuni Giudei entrarono di diritto nel corpo dei cives dell’impero, e cominciarono ad assumere importanti cariche pubbliche. È il caso, ancora una volta, della famiglia influentissima di Alessandro Lisimaco l’alabarco: si suppone da più parti che già questi, primo tra tutti i componenti della sua stirpe, avesse ricevuto la cittadinanza romana sotto Tiberio 47, sì da acquisirne il 43.  Si discute se si tratti del I o del II, e, conseguentemente, sulla datazione dei fatti descritti negli Acta Isidori entro il 44 d.C. o nel 53 d.C.; la disputa, tuttavia, non è essenziale alla nostra discussione, per cui rimando al mio lavoro monografico sugli Acta, di prossima pubblicazione, e in particolare alle schede sui quattro papiri degli Acta Isidori. 44. Ancora da Giuseppe Flavio sappiamo che un facoltoso liberto samaritano di Tiberio, il cui probabile nome doveva essere Tallo, aveva prestato un milione di sesterzi ad Agrippa I (Antiquitates Judaicae 18, 167), e che Nerone e Poppea avevano a corte Giudei, tra i quali l’attore Halytros, che presentò loro Giuseppe Flavio (Vita 16), ed Epaphroditus, che fu probabilmente un proselito. 45.  Un Caio Giulio Agrippa, discendente di un Alessandro, definito re (governatore) di Giuda, fu questore in Asia (W. Dittenberger , Orientis Greci Inscriptiones Selectae, Leipzig, 1903‑1905, n. 429; si veda pure E. Groag, Paulys RealEncyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft 10 [1917], p. 143, 150‑153), e un Caio Giulio Alessandro Bereniciano, probabilmente della stessa famiglia, fu con buona verosimiglianza luogotenente di Traiano nella campagna di Partia, console nel 116 e proconsole nella stessa provincia nel 132‑133, come si evince da H. Dessau, «Die Herkunft der Offiziere und Beamten», Hermes. Zeitschrift für klassische Philologie 45 (1910), p. 20. 46.  P. Oxy. 10 1242, ll. 46‑50. 47.  P. de R hoden – H. Dessau, Prosopographia Imperii Romani, II, Berlin, 1897‑1898 (I ed.), p. 164; E. Groag – A. Stein, Prosopographia Imperii Romani, I, Berlin, 1933 (II ed.), p. 85.

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prenomen e il nomen 48; senz’altro cittadini dell’impero furono, comunque, i suoi figli Tiberio Giulio Alessandro e Marco Giulio Alessandro. Ciò sembra attestato non soltanto dagli appellativi Iulius, Marcus, Tiberius, forse ereditati, almeno in parte, dal padre, ma anche dalla documentazione relativa alla carriera istituzionale del più anziano dei due, Tiberio, del quale, grazie soprattutto alle testimonianze di Flavio Giuseppe 49, conosciamo il brillante cursus honorum, culminato nella nomina a praefectus Aegypti, ricevuta da Nerone nel maggio del 66 50 e ricoperta probabilmente fino agli inizi del 70 51. In quell’anno Vespasiano trasferì Tiberio in Giudea, a sostegno di Tito nell’assedio di Gerusalemme, quale alto ufficiale, secondo solo al comandante stesso 52; il personaggio fu successivamente eletto praefectus praetorio, come è attestato da P. Hib. 215, databile tra il 70 e il 130 d.C., e raggiunse in tal modo i vertici del potere imperiale, attirandosi evidentemente, fin dall’inizio della sua carriera politica, la disapprovazione dei propri correligionari, che lo ritennero traditore e apostata 53, e l’odio degli Alessandrini, che lo videro come un usurpatore di propri privilegi. 48.  Un orientamento minoritario, registrato in CPJ 2 197, riconduce la concessione della cittadinanza all’alabarco ad un’iniziativa di Augusto, o anche di Cesare, e ipotizza per il personaggio i tria nomina di Gaius Iulius Alexander. L’ipotesi, tuttavia, mi pare poco plausibile, soprattutto in considerazione di alcuni indizi contenuti proprio nei frammenti degli Acta, non ultimo il giudizio assai positivo che di Augusto si conserva nei testi afferenti al corpus che lo presentino come protagonista o che lo chiamino in causa come predecessore e termine di confronto di più malvagi sovrani. 49.  Antiquitates Judaicae 20, 100‑104; Bellum Judaicum 2, 220; 2, 492; 4, 616; 5, 45; 5, 205; 6, 237. Si veda sul personaggio anche Tacito, Annales 15, 28. 50.  Si trattava, come è noto, di uno dei vertici della carriera equestre, in occasione del raggiungimento del quale pare che lo stesso re di Giudea, Agrippa II, si sia mosso da Gerusalemme alla volta di Alessandria, per recare il tributo di onore e le congratulazioni all’illustre correligionario: così ci narra, almeno, ancora Giuseppe Flavio, Bellum Judaicum 2, 309. 51.  Mentre rivestiva questa carica il personaggio accolse Vespasiano durante la sua visita trionfale in Alessandria, nel 70 d.C., come è descritto in P. Fouad 8, per il quale l’assegnazione al corpus degli Acta non è univoca: da più parti si preferisce ricondurre il testo a un resoconto ufficiale, come pare confermato, pure, dalle evidenze grafiche di esso, vergato sul recto di un papiro mai più riusato. È possibile, tuttavia, che il documento sia stato ricopiato, a fini privati, per sottolineare la fedeltà dei Greci di Alessandria a Roma e la loro centralità nell’elezione di Vespasiano a legittimo imperatore, e per indurre la contestazione contro il successivo operato dell’imperatore e dei suoi successori, nel complesso poco inclini a sostenere la cittadinanza greca di Alessandria, e comunque assai ambigui nei loro comportamenti rispetto ai Giudei. 52.  Giuseppe Flavio, Bellum Judaicum 6, 237. 53. Giuseppe Flavio, Antiquitates Judaicae 20, 100, ci dice che egli τοῖς […] πάπριοις οὐκ ἐνέμεινεν […] ἔθεσιν, alludendo probabilmente all’accoglienza, da parte del nostro personaggio, di usi e costumi diversi da quelli giudaici, soprattutto a causa della permanenza nelle legioni.

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È questo, evidentemente, un caso emblematico, il più noto a noi dalle fonti 54: che l’acquisizione della cittadinanza da parte di non Greci e non Alessandrini, e in particolare da parte dei Giudei, già così forti e sostenuti dal potere centrale, fosse sentita come un pericolo incombente dai cittadini di etnia ellenica abitanti nella metropoli egiziana, ci è testimoniato da alcuni frammenti degli Acta, e in particolare da PSI 10 1160, che segnala l’opportunità di vigilare ἵνα μὴ τι τῶν μελλόντων τινὲς λαογραφεῖσθαι, τοῖς κα[τ᾿ἔ]τος ἐφήβοις συνεγγραφόμενοι ἐπὶ τὴν δημοσίαν γ[ραφήν, τὴν] πρόσοδον ἐλασσῶσι καὶ πολίτευμα τῶν Ἀλεξανδρείων […] ἄθρεπτοι καὶ ἀνάγωγοι γεγονότες ἄνθρωποι μολ[ύ]νωσι (ll.  2‑6). Che il riferimento sia soprattutto ai Giudei, e solo in seconda battuta agli Egiziani della χώρα, è confermato da alcune battute contenute negli Acta Isidori, in particolare in P. Berol. inv. 8877, nella seconda colonna del quale il ginnasiarco alessandrino ribadisce al re Agrippa che i Giudei non godono della stessa dignità degli Alessandrini, ma piuttosto devono essere assimilati agli Egiziani, ugualmente ai quali, non a caso, pagano il tributo 55. Ciò significa, in definitiva, che la preoccupazione grossa, per i Greci, risiedeva nel dover assistere impotenti all’ingresso nelle liste civiche, in qualità di cittadini, dei Giudei, e non degli Egiziani, che probabilmente non potevano permetterselo 56; peraltro il confronto delle datazioni dei due papiri, l’uno assegnabile alla metà del I secolo (PSI 10 1160, coevo ai fatti che racconta, o poco posteriore), l’altro afferente all’ultima ondata di produzione propagandistica antiromana in Egitto, collocabile agli inizi del III secolo, manifesta come, a circa due secoli di distanza, quella preoccupazione rimanesse sostanzialmente immutata, e anzi fosse rafforzata dalla presenza di Giudei, in sempre maggior numero, nei palazzi del potere. Si potrebbe concludere, dunque, che forse non a caso la letteratura degli Acta si interrompa quasi in concomitanza con l’emissione della Constitutio 54.  Conosciamo comunque, da iscrizioni, altri due personaggi con ogni probabilità discendenti dal prefetto d’Egitto, e attivi all’epoca di Traiano con compiti militari ufficiali: un Tiberio Giulio Alessandro, procuratore di Creta (CIL 3, Suppl. 7130), e un Tiberio Giulio Alessandro Giuliano, senatore di Roma. 55.  P. Berol. 8877, ll.  25‑27: οὔκ εἰσιν Ἀλ[εξανδρεῦσιν] ὁμοιοπαθεῖς, τρόπῳ δὲ Αἰγυπτ[ίων……], οὔκ εἰσι ἴσοι τοῖς φόρον τελοῦσι. 56.  Probabilmente solo i Giudei, a motivo della loro grandissima disponibilità economica, potevano acquistare la cittadinanza, pagando l’indennità richiesta per legge a chi non fosse figlio di cittadini; in alternativa, come è noto, l’iscrizione nelle liste civiche poteva ottenersi solo per nascita, o tramite l’ammissione all’efebia, indipendentemente dallo status giuridico; è probabile, dunque, che l’accesso all’efebato consentisse di forzare i vincoli di sangue, e che i Giudei riuscissero ad ottenerlo per i propri rampolli. Tale stato di cose sembra testimoniato inequivocabilmente dal testo di PSI X 1160. Sulla disponibilità economica della comunità giudaica alessandrina si veda L. Capponi, «Le fonti storiche e i documenti sulle finanze dei Giudei in Egitto», in L. Troiani – G. Zecchini, Le fonti storiche nei primi secoli dell ’impero, Roma, 2005, p. 163‑171.

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Antoniniana del 212, quando la cittadinanza, di fatto, cessò di essere un discrimen tra etnie, e un vessillo per la rivendicazione di diritti, di valori, di pretese superiorità; c’è però, a mio avviso, un’altra ragione, assai profonda e significativa, legata a un fatto che gli Acta ci aiutano a mettere in luce più di ogni altro documento coevo: mi riferisco, essenzialmente, alla richiesta continua, che attraversa quasi trecento anni e trova accoglimento proprio sullo scorcio del III secolo, dell’assegnazione ad Alessandria, da parte del potere centrale, di una autonoma βουλή di cittadini di etnia ellenica, in funzione certamente ancillare rispetto alle esigenze dell’autorità imperiale, ma comunque significativa, anche a livello simbolico, di una precisa distinzione tra Greci e non Greci. Solo Settimio Severo, nel 199/200 57, acconsentì alle insistenze degli alessandrini di discendenza ellenica, e restituì loro il senatus etnico da tempo agognato; gli Acta ci conservano non tanto i termini del problema, quanto la sensibilità greca al riguardo, e ci consentono di ricostruire alcuni eventi connessi, come, per esempio, il tentativo di influenzare le decisioni degli imperatori 58, e, anche, di forzarne la volontà per accelerare i tempi: è il caso della collazione P. Yale. 2 107 (P. CtYBR inv. 1385) + P. Giessen Kuhlmann 4 7 (P. Iand. inv. 308 = P. Giss. Univ. 5 46), ove si descrive la denuncia, davanti a uno dei primi cesari 59, dell’illegale e segreta elezione, da parte dell’assemblea popolare di 180.000 cittadini greci alessandrini, di una βουλή di 173 membri. Il testo, come si evince dalla grafia, appartiene alla generazione più tarda degli Acta, perché fu vergato tra la fine del II e la metà del III secolo: si tratta, a mio avviso, di un’ulteriore prova dell’importanza del problema legato all’istituzione di un senatus di Greci in Alessandria nella tradizione propagandistica di matrice ellenica, e della sopravvivenza 57. Scriptores Historiae Augustae, Vita Septimii Severi 17; sulla βουλή di cittadini greci in Alessandria, sulla sua istituzione e sulla sua soppressione si vedano anche Cassio Dione, Historia Romana LI, 17, e P. Lond. 6 1912 (P. Jews 1912); esiste, al riguardo, una forte querelle tra gli studiosi, che si incentra essenzialmente sul ruolo di Alessandro e di Augusto in questa vicenda. Senz’altro, tuttavia, tale complesso di riflessioni non riguarda il tema specifico di questo contributo, per cui rimando al mio lavoro monografico sugli Acta, di prossima pubblicazione, e alla scheda su PSI 10 1160; ci interessa, qui, che gli Alessandrini non ebbero questa βουλή per i primi due secoli dell’impero, e che la richiesta di essa rappresentò uno degli argomenti chiave delle rivendicazioni greche nei riguardi del potere romano, e uno dei cavalli di battaglia della propaganda e della resistenza greca nei primi tre secoli dell’impero. 58.  È questa, in definitiva, la valenza di PSI 10 1160, in ordine cronologico il primo testo degli Acta, i cui contenuti sono in parte ripresi nella lettera di Claudio agli Alessandrini, P Lond 6 1912, documento non ricondotto di norma agli Acta, e forse non direttamente connesso con il nostro papiro, ma certo contiguo quanto a contesto culturale e ideale. 59.  Con buona probabilità si tratta di Caligola, ma è plausibile una datazione all’età di Tiberio.

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dell’interesse per quell’argomento fino alle ultime produzioni della letteratura greca antiromana. A queste evidenze, così significative, si aggiunge la forte probabilità che, nello stesso periodo in cui la γερουσία etnica veniva negata ai Greci, fosse invece concessa e attiva per i Giudei di Alessandria, nonostante questi non godessero della piena cittadinanza 60: una ragione in più, in definitiva, per coniugare antiromanismo e antigiudaismo, in un unico, fortissimo, desiderio di rivalsa, e di preservazione dei propri autentici valori, delle proprie più genuine radici culturali, etniche, sociali e ideali.

60.  L’ipotesi più accreditata è che sia stato proprio Augusto, nel corso del suo impero, ad autorizzare un tale consiglio, presieduto con ogni probabilità da un etnarca o un genarca. Si veda in particolare H. Box, Philonis Alexandrini In Flaccum, edited with an Introduction, Translation and Commentary, London, 1953, p. 102; sulla cittadinanza giudea si vedano ancora Box, ibidem, intr. p. XVIIIXXX; H.A. Wolfson, Philo. Foundations of Religious Philosophy in Judaism, Chris­ tianity and Islam, I, Harvard 1927, p. 397. Ci sono, in realtà, alcune evidenze che hanno fatto postulare l’esistenza pure di un qualche corpo associativo greco, a tratti tollerato dal potere romano, nei primi due secoli dell’impero: la stessa collazione in esame è stata chiamata ad indizio di tale stato di cose, oltre a taluni riferimenti contenuti in P. Oxy. 1089, anch’esso pertinente al corpus degli Acta, e a un’iscrizione ora conservata al Museo Fitzwilliam di Cambridge che menziona un certo Titus Iulius Asclepiades, ginnasiarco e ἀρχιγέρων. Non si trattava, in ogni caso, di un consiglio neanche lontanamente paragonabile all’antica βουλή, né quanto a compiti, né quanto a significato e a importanza: quella antica βουλή, invece, segno e memoria di un glorioso passato, continuavano a chiedere i Greci, e a richiamare alla memoria di ogni cittadino di etnia ellenica d’Egitto, attraverso i testi propagandistici.

DANIEL BOYARIN SUR L’ORIGINE DU JUDAÏSME ET DU CHRISTIANISME Maurizio M archeselli Daniel Boyarin possède la double nationalité (USA et Israël), il est professeur de culture talmudique à Berkeley, Université de la Californie. Il a enseigné aussi à New York et à Tel Aviv. Il s’est formé au Jewish Theological Seminary (Conservative Judaism).* Il se décrit come un juif rabbinique postmoderne, pratiquant convaincu, qui s’est familiarisé avec les Cultural Studies 1. Son espace de recherche est principalement la culture talmudique et la littérature rabbinique, la sexualité et le Gender, les relations judéochrétiennes. Les centres d’intérêt de Boyarin vont des sources classiques jusqu’à la philosophie et l’herméneutique postmoderne, en passant par la psychanalyse et les Gender Studies, pour arriver – sur le plan de l’actualité – à une affirmation obstinée du judaïsme de la diaspora, et aussi – sur le plan politique – à des prises de position toujours plus critiques du sionisme 2 . Dans la préface de Border Lines, il confesse : « Quelques juifs, semble-t-il, sont destinés par le sort, par la psychologie ou par l’histoire personnelle à être attirés par le christianisme […]. Je suis l’un de ces juifs » 3. I. P r e m i è r e s

éta pe s d ’ u n pa rcou r s coh é r e n t

A. Carnal Israel (1993) 4 C’est un livre sur la différenciation entre judaïsme et christianisme5 ; le christianisme auquel Boyarin s’intéresse ici directement est le christia*  Je dois remercier sr. Catherine Rendu pour la traduction française de cette étude. 1.  Cf. D. Boyarin, A  Radical Jew. Paul and the Politics of Identity, Berkeley, 1994, p. 4. 2.  Cf. M. Morgenstern, « Daniel Boyarins “Aufspaltung des Judäo-Christentums” », Judaica 67 (2011), p. 106. Pour comprendre comment Boyarin se situe par rapport aux épineuses questions d’actualité politique et au dialogue interreligieux judéo-chrétien, on peut voir en particulier D. Boyarin, « Judaism as a Free Church. Footnotes to John Howard Yoder’s The Jewish-Christian Schism Revisited », Cross Currents 56 (2006‑2007), p. 6‑21. 3.  Cf. D. Boyarin, Border Lines. The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity, Philadelphia, 2004, p. IX. Il s’agit d’une « déclaration d’amour » à laquelle Morgenstern attribue une grande portée herméneutique : M. Morgenstern, « Daniel Boyarins “Aufspaltung des Judäo-Christentums” », Judaica 67 (2011), p. 107. 4.  D. Boyarin, Carnal Israel. Reading Sex in Talmudic Culture, Berkeley, 1993. Dans cette synthèse nous reprenons d’amples passages de M. Peskowitz , « ImaginTexts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 507–534 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111719 ©

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nisme de matrice paulinienne. C’est une étude sociale. L’auteur y reconnaît un lien entre ethnicité et question de Gender. Carnal Israel a été considéré comme le premier livre sur le Talmud à devoir davantage aux études culturelles qu’à la « science du judaïsme » (Wissenschaft des Judentums) et à ses partisans de la fin du XXème siècle : l’enquête sur l’antiquité y est conduite avec une attention critique par rapport aux modèles d’après lesquels les spécialistes ont jusque là raconté le passé. Le livre dérange considérablement le status quo des études talmudiques académiques ; au long des chapitres, Boyarin ré-imagine les rabbins. Les études rabbiniques se sont jusqu’à maintenant basées sur un ethos qui imite les prétentions du siècle des Lumières, celles du penseur désincarné, de l’étude objective, de la dissociation entre la recherche et le chercheur, entre l’objet et le sujet et, enfin, de la construction de l’intellect / intellectuel comme masculin. La volonté de Boyarin de lire les rabbins incarnés et son engagement explicite en faveur du sens des textes pour lui bouleversent cet ethos. Dans Carnal Israel, les modalités et les codes habituels des études rabbiniques font place à une lecture des rabbins en relation et en opposition à la culture « hellénistique », au discours proto-chrétien et à leur collocation subalterne – en tant que colonisés par l’empire romain et par les idées de « Rome » –. Boyarin prête attention aux logiques culturelles spécifiques selon lesquelles, au cours des premiers siècles du premier millénaire, gendered and sexed bodies furent construits par diverses formes de judaïsme, christianisme inclus. Les lecteurs ne se trouvent plus en face de sujets, cultures et corps déjà prêts, que la loi ne fait que manipuler dans de nouvelles relations sociales ; ils verront plutôt la loi qui produit ses propres sujets, la culture et les corps. Dans la compétition pour gagner des adeptes et obtenir l’hégémonie dans l’antiquité tardive, le discours sur le corps était la principale arène de contestation. Les débats sur la circoncision et le corps masculin, les caractéristiques reproductives du corps féminin, les possibilités d’ascèse et de célibat, la nourriture casher étaient tous des lieux à travers lesquels – aussi bien les juifs que les chrétiens – réalisèrent et mirent en évidence leur vision différente du corps, comme un milieu clef de la contestation culturelle dans laquelle ils étaient impliqués. Les constructions relatives au corps, au sexe et au Gender devinrent des points cruciaux d’expression des différences entre les groupes, ethniques et autres. ing the Rabbis : Daniel Boyarin and “Israel’s” Carnality », Religious Studies Review 21 (1995), p. 285‑290. 5.  Selon Virginia Burrus les premiers travaux de Boyarin, parmi lesquels Carnal Israel, soulignaient mieux l’aspect de la tension dialectique, voire l’opposition binaire des relations entre judaïsme rabbinique et christianisme antique : V. Burrus , « Boyarin’s Work : A  Critical Assessment », Henoch 28 (2006), p. 7‑12.

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Pour Boyarin, le judaïsme rabbinique, dans son discours sur le corps, différait substantiellement des regroupements juifs qui parlaient grec 6, y compris la majeure partie du christianisme. L’affirmation d’une telle différence n’implique pas un jugement de valeur : les choix faits par le judaïsme hellénistique et par le judaïsme rabbinique en lien avec le corps n’étaient ni meilleurs ni pires les uns que les autres. Si le judaïsme hellénistique (y compris le paulinisme) fournit un modèle attrayant d’égalité humaine et de liberté (« il n’y a ni Juif ni Grec, il n’y a ni esclave ni homme libre, il n’y a ni homme ni femme » : Ga 3,28), il le fait au prix d’une dépréciation de la sexualité, de la procréation et de l’ethnie. Et si le judaïsme rabbinique montre une orientation positive envers le plaisir sexuel et la différence ethnique, il le fait en imposant des stratifications sociales déterminées. Boyarin démonte soigneusement la tendance diffuse de concevoir les rabbins et le Talmud comme des réalités monolithiques. Il pense ainsi accomplir un devoir crucial de l’étude critique : montrer comment les choses sont devenues ce qu’elles sont. A partir d’infimes signes de désaccord entre les textes, Boyarin revendique la présence d’une culture bodypositive et d’une masculinité non phallique dans le Talmud. L’évidence en faveur de ce type de masculinité semble dérisoire par rapport à l’ensemble du judaïsme talmudique ; toutefois, la lecture de ces dissensions entre les rabbins bouleverse et reconfigure l’étude des textes. L’apport culturel de cette analyse n’est pas la récupération d’un âge d’or originel ; Boyarin rejette la production facile d’un antique paradis : il opère plutôt une historisation démystifiante. La libération vient non de la découverte d’un nouveau passé, mais de la récupération d’une résistance interne à l’androcentrisme dominant de la culture rabbinique. Bien qu’il accomplisse une œuvre de déconstruction consciente, Boyarin revendique pour lui une place stable à l’intérieur du milieu qu’il critique ; de fait, il insiste pour lire le Talmud comme base pour une opposition masculine au discours androcentrique dominant. Il est facile de relever dans ce travail quelques caractéristiques qui affleurent continuellement dans les études successives. (a) Dans ce livre, Boyarin rapproche le judaïsme et le christianisme et en même temps les tient à distance l’un de l’autre. Carnal Israel est déjà une réflexion sur les délimitations et opère un certain mélange des identités juive et chrétienne. (b) Boyarin refuse l’a priori d’une lecture qui croirait pouvoir se tenir à distance du texte et de ses implications : que ce soient celles du texte par 6.  Position nettement contestée par A. Kovelman, « Hellenistic Judaism on the Perfection of the Human Body », Journal of Jewish Studies 61 (2010), p. 207‑219. Cet auteur soutient que les juifs hellénistiques n’étaient pas dépourvus d’une profonde estime pour leur propre existence corporelle. L’aspect « charnel » des juifs rabbiniques ne serait pas né de l’humiliation juive à l’époque de l’empire romain, mais plutôt de la considération judéo-hellénistique de la dignité du corps.

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rapport à la culture dans laquelle il a été produit ou celles de l’interprète moderne par rapport au texte qu’il examine. (c) Sa critique principale à la « science du judaïsme » inspirée des Lumières est qu’elle ait accepté sans critiques les constructions que les rabbins ont élaborées plutôt que de les discuter. (d) Boyarin conçoit son propre travail comme une action démystifiante destinée à restituer une complexité qui a été longtemps ignorée : en dépit de la culture dominante dans laquelle les textes anciens nous sont arrivés, il veut faire entendre une résistance interne qu’il est encore possible de découvrir dans le filigrane des textes. Il est vrai toutefois que, dans sa dé/re-construction, l’auteur travaille sur une évidence que nous définirions dérisoire par rapport à l’ensemble des sources talmudiques. B. A  Radical Jew (1994) 7 Cette œuvre est publiée à un an de distance à peine. A  Radical Jew est de fait un complément de Carnal Israel : en lisant de façon croisée les constructions rabbinique et paulinienne, Boyarin montre comment les deux lignes de pensée présentent des possibilités opposées, chacune avec ses effets particuliers. Les historiens de métier pourront peut-être exprimer leur perplexité ou critiquer à fond ses affirmations et certainement tous les juifs n’ont pas pour Paul le même intérêt personnel que Boyarin : la prémisse sur laquelle se base son enquête est que les études pauliniennes devraient être abordées, de toute façon, comme partie intégrante de l’étude du judaïsme de l’antiquité tardive. Paul est une ressource unique pour les Jewish Studies, parce qu’il n’est autre qu’un juif radical 8. Paul est grec par culture linguistique et juif de formation. Il se confronta avec des questions qui continuent d’être vitales pour l’identité juive moderne. Le judaïsme hellénistique, de fait, représenta une tentative de concilier deux tendances apparemment contradictoires : la tendance universaliste et la tendance à emphatiser les privilèges du peuple juif et de son Dieu unique. Chaque juif moderne devrait donc être intéressé par ce représentant du judaïsme helléniste : Paul constitue, de fait, une option que le judaïsme du Ier siècle pouvait recevoir. Cela ne signifie pas que Boyarin approuve les solutions que Paul avait trouvées aux problématiques auxquelles il était confronté ; mais l’étude de son background, de sa vision 7.  D. Boyarin, A  Radical Jew. Paul and the Politics of Identity, Berkeley, 1994. Dans cette synthèse nous reprenons amplement D.R. L angton, « Modern Jewish Identity and the Apostle Paul : Pauline Studies as an Intra-Jewish Ideological Battleground », Journal for the study of the New Testament 28 (2005), p. 217‑258. 8.  Notre auteur arrivera à dire quelque chose de semblable de l’évangile selon Jean : à la question « Quel type de juif est le quatrième évangéliste ? » Boyarin répond « C’est simplement un juif ! ». Cf. D. Boyarin, « What Kind of A Jew Is An Evangelist ? », dans G. A ichele – R. Walsh (ed.), Those Outside. Noncanonical Readings of Canonical Gospels, New York, 2005, p. 109‑153.

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de la loi, de son approche des gentils et des femmes est un exercice qui vaut la peine. Paul est défini par Boyarin comme un critique culturel juif. On doit se demander en quel sens sa critique est importante et valide pour les juifs aujourd’hui et, surtout, de quelle manière les questions que Paul soulève sur sa culture sont importantes et valides pour chacun aujourd’hui. Il fut un réformateur radical de la culture juive par l’influence des idées universalistes grecques ; il utilisa une idéologie dualiste (le platonisme) pour résoudre le défi de l’universalisme du judaïsme. Il chercha à justifier l’intégration des gentils dans le peuple de Dieu par une lecture allégorique de la loi. La loi spirituelle est sous-jacente à la loi littérale ; elle n’a pas de distinctions ethniques et caractérise un peuple de Dieu universel. Paul n’identifie jamais de manière explicite ces deux types de loi, mais pour Boyarin l’allégorie et le dualisme sont sous-jacents à toute la pensée paulinienne, étant implicites dans le judaïsme helléniste lui-même. Cette nouvelle approche à la loi permet à Paul de construire une nouvelle vision de l’humanité indifférenciée et non hiérarchique (cf. Ga 3,28). La vision de Paul a eu des conséquences négatives pour l’ethnicité et le Gender. Du point de vue de l’ethnicité, elle exige que la spécificité culturelle (par exemple, la judaïcité) soit absorbée dans une culture dominante : une essence singulière pour laquelle la spécificité culturelle n’est pas importante. En ce qui concerne le Gender, l’égalitarisme de Paul se fonde sur le déracinement de la sexualité, maintenant la masculinité comme la norme à laquelle les femmes doivent aspirer. Cependant Boyarin n’est pas moins critique envers le judaïsme rabbinique, pour lequel différence ethnique, spécificité culturelle, mémoire historique et sexualité jouissent d’une grande reconnaissance, mais où les conséquences négatives sont clairement reconnaissables dans une orientation potentielle vers un système social raciste et une liberté sociale et religieuse limitée pour les femmes. Aucun des deux systèmes n’est satisfaisant selon notre auteur. Il ne fait aucun doute que Boyarin incarne un nouveau paradigme pour les lectures juives de Paul 9. Paul est tellement central pour Boyarin que, pour lui, quand on parle de judaïsme rabbinique, on parle d’un développement religieux post-paulinien. A la fois extrême et marginal, Paul est un juif en un sens paradigmatique. C’est un juif qui reste à l’intérieur du judaïsme, mais qui en déplace l’axe. Paul a vécu et est mort convaincu d’être un juif vivant en dehors du judaïsme. Boyarin se sent proche de Paul 10  : la même critique culturelle les rapproche. La question centrale que 9.  Cf. F. Damour , « Le retour du fils prodigue ? Interprétations juives de Paul aux XIXème et XXème siècles ; quelques jalons », Revue d ’histoire et de philosophie religieuses 90 (2010), p. 43‑44. 10.  Dans la présentation que Boyarin fera quelques années plus tard de l’auteur de l’évangile selon Jean, nous assistons à un semblable phénomène de miroir : le

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Boyarin tire de Paul est la suivante : comment construire éthiquement une identité particulière sans tomber dans l’ethnocentrisme, sans rechercher une volonté de dominer les autres ? La compétence de Boyarin pour les études séculières non traditionnelles est une perspective à partir de laquelle il est possible de critiquer les visions juives traditionnelles, mais c’est aussi un parallèle moderne de l’ancienne appropriation de philosophies non juives de la part du juif Paul. II. D u

t h è m e du m a rt y r e pa s sa n t pa r

(1999) à l’ éva ngi l e ju i f (2012), B or de r L i n es (2004)

en

A. Dying for God (1999) 11 Le long chapitre introductif de cet essai a un titre significatif : « When Christians Were Jews : On Judeo-Christian Origins 12  ». A la fin de l’introduction, tandis qu’il présente le plan de l’œuvre, Boyarin déclare que son livre a la prétention d’inaugurer une nouvelle ère dans la recherche concernant l’histoire religieuse des juifs de formation rabbinique et des chrétiens de l’antiquité tardive. L’essai donc doit être lu plus comme une série d’hypothèses que comme une série de conclusions. Pour soutenir sa théorie de l’histoire judéo-chrétienne, il s’appuie sur la lecture d’un seul long passage du Talmud babylonien. Les martyria semblent être un lieu particulièrement fertile pour explorer la perméabilité des frontières : le passage que Boyarin lit dans les trois premiers chapitres de son livre tourne autour de la question complexe du martyre 13. L’essentiel du premier chapitre est consacré à une minutieuse lecture contextualisée d’un récit portant sur l’unique figure d’un rabbin légendaire, Rabbin Eli‘ezer. Dans les deuxième et troisième chapitres, Boyarin veut montrer que lire le texte talmudique à la lumière des textes chrétiens à lui contemporain le rend, à de nombreux points de vue, plus clair. Le thème principal du quatrième chaquatrième évangéliste et son interprète juif contemporain ont plusieurs traits en commun. Cf. à ce sujet M. M archeselli, « Antigiudaismo nel Quarto Vangelo ? Presentazione e bilancio degli orientamenti recenti nella ricerca esegetica », Rivista Biblica 57 (2009), p. 467‑478. 11.  D. Boyarin, Dying for God. Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism, Stanford, 1999. Traduction française : Mourir pour Dieu. L’invention du martyre aux origines du judaïsme et du christianisme, Paris, 2004. 12.  D. Boyarin, Dying for God. Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism, Stanford, 1999, p. 1‑21, 133‑148. 13.  « The Talmud thus brings together the questions of Jewish-Christian definition and martyrology. Martyrdom and the conversation around it are thus provided by the Talmud itself as a pertinent case study for examining the question of Judeo-Christian origins » : D. Boyarin, Dying for God. Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism, Stanford, 1999, p. 41.

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pitre est l’implication du judaïsme rabbinique et du christianisme dans le discours sur le martyre et le rôle de ce dernier dans leur invention comme identités séparées. Le but que Boyarin se fixe est donc d’élaborer un compte-rendu différent de ceux proposés actuellement par la littérature académique. Les paragraphes autour desquels s’articule l’introduction configure clairement l’approche qu’il a adoptée.

L’ancien paradigme : les religions parentes Boyarin commence son parcours en rappelant que, jusqu’à récemment, on croyait que le judaïsme précédait le christianisme et que les spécialistes juifs comme les chrétiens racontaient tous plus ou moins la même histoire : judaïsme et christianisme sont mère et fille. Le cadre historique est, en réalité, un peu plus complexe : s’il faut vraiment adopter la métaphore de la famille, alors il vaudrait mieux parler d’une naissance gémellaire du christianisme et du judaïsme rabbinique comme deux formes de judaïsme. L’histoire actuelle raconte que, après la destruction du temple en 70 ap. J.C., deux religions filles (le judaïsme rabbinique et le christianisme) sont nées de ses ruines. Le christianisme des origines et le judaïsme de la Mishna sont des religions sœurs : ces deux sœurs sont présentées dans le midrash comme des fils jumeaux, les fils de Rebecca. Dans le midrash rabbinique, au début Jacob est Israël et Esaü est Rome ; après l’an 312, Esaü / Edom furent surtout interprétés comme l’église chrétienne. L’équation opérée par le midrash entre Esaü et le christianisme est aussi riche que problématique : il change leur genre (de sœurs à frères) ; le christianisme est plus ancien et le judaïsme plus jeune (vu qu’Esaü était le frère aîné des jumeaux). Boyarin met l’accent sur la confusion générée par la métaphore de Jacob (= le judaïsme rabbinique) qui naît en tenant le talon d’Esaü (= l’église).

La prétendue « séparation des chemins » Même les spécialistes qui ont reconnu qu’on peut difficilement faire dériver le christianisme du judaïsme, comme religion fille, ont pourtant continué à présupposer une nette « séparation des chemins », au Ier ou IIème siècle. Il y a eu une sorte d’entente générale entre spécialistes juifs et chrétiens – chacun avec ses raisons propres – pour insister sur ce manque total de contacts et d’interaction. Ce qui distingue vraiment le judaïsme a été scandé explicitement par les juifs comme une prise de distance d’un christianisme syncrétiste, dont la principale caractéristique est d’être une sorte de combinaison entre judaïsme et christianisme.

Le changement des paradigmes : religions et ressemblance familiale Boyarin propose un modèle pour comprendre la relation historique qui lie les deux « nouvelles » religions de l’antiquité tardive, le judaïsme et

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le christianisme. Il suggère avant tout d’abandonner les métaphores de la parenté, en leur substituant des concepts comme celui de ressemblance familiale (que l’on doit à Wittgenstein). A une reconstruction qui imaginait le développement du judaïsme et du christianisme selon des trajectoires essentiellement séparées, en raison d’une partition précoce, Boyarin substitue un modèle dans lequel les lignes de développement s’unissent et se croisent. Il tend à penser le judaïsme et le christianisme de la période antique tardive comme des moments d’un continuum : à une extrémité il y avait les marcionites (c’est-à-dire ces chrétiens qui refusaient de façon absolue le nom « Israël ») ; de l’autre, les nombreux juifs pour lesquels Jésus ne signifiait rien ; au centre, toutefois, de nombreuses nuances qui garantissaient une mobilité sociale et culturelle d’une extrémité à l’autre de ce spectre. Boyarin propose une théorie « ondulatoire » de l’histoire judéo-chrétienne. Il s’appuie sur un modèle d’historiographie linguistique élaboré par des spécialistes allemands au cours de la seconde moitié du XVIIIème siècle, en opposition à la prétendue « théorie de l’arbre généalogique », et repris ensuite par des sociolinguistes comme W. Labov à partir des années 1970. Les langues d’un groupe déterminé pourraient présenter des affinités qui sont le produit d’une convergence, de nouveaux développements dans lesquels une langue est passée aux autres parce que les langues sont encore en contact entre elles. C’est la théorie « ondulatoire » : dans ce modèle la convergence comme la divergence sont possibles. Les différentes langues sont simplement le fruit de la canonisation officielle d’un dialecte particulier comme langue officielle d’un groupe déterminé. Il n’y a aucune frontière linguistique sur le terrain : nous parlons le français ou l’italien comme langues différentes parce que le dialecte de Paris et celui de Florence ont été canonisés comme langues nationales. Boyarin soutient que le contact social et les nuances de la vie religieuse étaient tels qu’on aurait pu passer, au sens métaphorique, d’un rabbin à un chrétien tout au long d’un continuum sans bien comprendre à quel moment on aurait passé la frontière. Sur la base de ce modèle il aurait pu y avoir au long de ce continuum un contact sur le plan social de « juifs » et de « chrétiens », une interaction culturelle, un développement religieux partagé. Boyarin ne veut pas dire qu’il n’y ait pas eu – à partir du IIème siècle – une distinction, mais seulement la frontière entre judaïsme et christianisme était à ce point nuancée qu’on ne pouvait affirmer avec exactitude quand finissait l’un et commençait l’autre. « Il est monstrueux de parler de Jésus Christ et de pratiquer le judaïsme » (Ignace d’Antioche) : selon notre auteur, cette « monstruosité » était plutôt diffuse. Toutes ces considérations soulèvent de sérieux problèmes pour la terminologie. Boyarin est très attentif à ne plus parler de « judaïsme » et de « christianisme » comme si c’étaient des entités séparées, mais de judaïsme rabbinique et de christianisme orthodoxe, ou parfois de juifs chrétiens et de juifs non-chrétiens (le contraire de l’habituel chrétiens juifs et chrétiens non juifs) comme de deux entités

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en formation. Dans son livre, il se réfère au « judaïsme » et au « christianisme » non comme à des religions, mais comme à des « conversations » : il pense qu’il faut considérer sérieusement la limite au sein de laquelle non-chrétiens et chrétiens furent engagés à « converser » entre eux dans de nombreux lieux de l’empire romain. Sans le pouvoir de l’église orthodoxe et des rabbins de déclarer certaines personnes hérétiques et hors du système, il était impossible d’affirmer, du point de vue phénoménologique, qui était juif et qui était chrétien : les frontières sont indistinctes, les idées religieuses et les changements les traversent dans les deux sens.

Vivre sur la ligne de démarcation Boyarin pense que, pendant le IIIème siècle, dans la majeure partie de la Méditerranée orientale, il n’y a pas eu de séparation et que les deux types de judaïsme n’étaient pas clairement différenciés l’un de l’autre. Une uniformité de fonction interne et une différenciation claire entre les deux groupes sont complètement anachroniques pour les trois premiers siècles : cette prise de conscience porte à une nouvelle conceptualisation historico-théologique de bien des premiers groupes de croyants en Jésus comme groupes juifs dans leur conception d’eux-mêmes et dans leur pratique religieuse. Christianisme et judaïsme ne peuvent être séparés que par décision des rabbins ou des docteurs de l’église. Seul le succès postérieur du christianisme porta de manière rétroactive à établir que, dans ses premières relations avec les rabbins, il était déjà une religion séparée. Le IVème siècle semble particulièrement prolifique en techniques pour l’élaboration de soi-même et de l’autre. La portion de siècle entre 380 et 430 marque la ligne de partage des eaux. Les discussions de ces décennies tournent toutes autour de la question : que veut dire être chrétien ? Ces développements provoquèrent une réaction en chaîne dans le judaïsme. Ce fut seulement au cours du IVème siècle que le judaïsme rabbinique se consolida et émergea comme judaïsme tout court. Boyarin ne veut pas pour autant affirmer que chaque aspect du judaïsme rabbinique ne soit qu’une réaction à la formation du christianisme ( formative Christianity). Les lignes d’influence et de dialogue vont dans les deux directions. Le chapitre de conclusion s’ouvre avec cette affirmation 14  : si les chrétiens sont juifs et si les rabbins peuvent être parfois chrétiens – ou presque –, alors toute la question de qui a eu l’idée du martyre prend un caractère différent. La création de la figure du martyre a été partie intégrante du processus de formation du judaïsme et du christianisme comme entités distinctes.

14.  D. Boyarin, Dying for God. Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism, Stanford, 1999, p. 93.

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Dans le dernier paragraphe de la conclusion, Boyarin revient au trope, antique et moderne, de Jacob et Ésaü, point de départ de son étude 15. Les jumeaux représentent bien la relation pleine de tension et d’ambiguïté entre le judaïsme rabbinique naissant et le christianisme dans cette période antique tardive. Paradoxalement pourtant, l’image fonctionne aussi bien parce qu’elle ne fonctionne pas : en effet, la séparation suggérée par l’accouchement gémellaire, c’est-à-dire la prétendue « séparation des chemins », ne semble pas du tout être l’hypothèse exacte. La représentation symbolique de Jacob et Ésaü rappelle conjointement, selon notre auteur, l’image de la différenciation et de l’identification ; il s’agit d’une représentation en tension, puisqu’il y a une prophétie selon laquelle le plus âgé des jumeaux servira le plus jeune. Là où normalement on devrait trouver une lutte pour la primogéniture, paradoxalement nous trouvons ici l’opposé. Chacun des fils de Rébecca se bat pour démontrer qu’il est le vrai fils, réclamant la couronne du martyre : là où chacun des « frères » cherchait à s’identifier comme le vrai fils, né le dernier, les juifs et les chrétiens cherchent à s’identifier comme ceux qui sont les premiers ayant été mis à mort. La réflexion historique suggère que le martyre ait été élaboré à la fois par des juifs de la période rabbinique et par des chrétiens. La rivalité entre frères semble une parfaite représentation de cette relation : la lutte des rabbins et des Pères pour le nom d’Ésaü et le nom de Jacob rend plus enflammée la lutte d’Ésaü et celle de Jacob dans le sein maternel. B. Border Lines (2004) 16 Border Lines est le texte le plus complexe et le plus articulé de la trilogie sur les origines du judaïsme et du christianisme qui nous occupe. De nombreuses études publiées au cours des années immédiatement précédentes dans des Revues ou des Mélanges l’ont préparé. Le livre se compose de trois parties intitulées : « Faire une différence : les débuts hérésiologiques du christianisme et du judaïsme » (partie I) ; « La crucifixion du logos : comment la théologie du logos devint chrétienne » (partie II) ; « Étincelles du logos : ou comment historiciser la religion rabbinique » (partie III). Les chapitres de la première partie étudient les débuts de l’orthodoxie (« Le 15.  D. Boyarin, Dying for God. Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism, Stanford, 1999, p. 125‑126. 16.  D. Boyarin, Border Lines. The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity, Philadelphia, 2004. Traduction française : La partition du judaïsme et du christianisme, Paris, 2011. La complexité de la pensée de Boyarin et le raffinement de ses formulations linguistiques compliquent grandement la vie des traducteurs : M. Morgenstern a émis de dures critiques contre la traduction allemande, « Daniel Boyarins “Aufspaltung des Judäo-Christentums” », Judaica 67 (2011), p. 110‑111 ; de nombreuses observations à la traduction française se trouvent dans la recension de Border Lines, par J. Costa, apparue dans la Revue des études juives 171 (2012), p. 419‑425.

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dialogue de Justin avec les juifs ») et la succession apostolique dans la Mishna (« Naturalisation de la frontière »). Plus avant, nous nous intéresserons de manière analytique à la seconde partie. Les chapitres de la troisième partie sont consacrés à « La légende de Yavneh des Stammaïm : sur l’invention des Rabbis au VIème siècle » et à « Quand le Royaume devint Minut. L’empire chrétien et le refus rabbinique de la religion ». Nous ouvrons notre présentation par les synthèses de Boyarin donnée par quelques recensions de son essai. Petzel recueille autour de trois points l’apport de Border Lines 17  : le « complot » des deux orthodoxies ; l’invention chrétienne du judaïsme comme religion ; la désintégration du logos. Dans la synthèse de Luz, l’idée de fond du livre est l’asymétrie du christianisme et du judaïsme 18  : le christianisme est une religion ; le judaïsme est une non religion. Selon Costa, chacune des trois parties du livre présente une thèse fondamentale 19  : 1. Les notions d’orthodoxie et d’hérésie sont apparues en même temps dans le corpus rabbinique et dans celui des Pères (IIème et IIIème siècle) ; 2. Une doctrine binitaire (= la théologie du logos) était très diffuse dans le judaïsme de l’antiquité tardive ; 3. Il faut valoriser la polysémie de l’écriture et, de façon plus générale, la pluralité des opinions, aucune n’étant privée de valeurs : c’est un trait qui ne caractérise pas le judaïsme à son origine, mais qui apparaît seulement avec les rédacteurs anonymes du Talmud babylonien (V-VIème siècle). Dans chacune de ces trois thèses, trois motifs s’entrecroisent constamment : celui du logos ; le couple orthodoxie / hérésie ; la question de la partition entre judaïsme et christianisme. En 2006, la revue Henoch a consacré une longue section monographique à l’évaluation critique du travail de Boyarin 20. Dans la synthèse de Burrus, la thèse fondamentale de Border Lines est que le christianisme et le judaïsme rabbinique sont du point de vue historique des identités coproduites, qui s’interpellent l’une l’autre : cette affirmation n’est pas nouvelle pour Boyarin, mais elle atteint un nouveau niveau de précision théorique dans ce livre. La production des identités se fait par la construction du discours hérésiologique, dans lequel l’accueil ou le rejet de la théologie du logos jouent un rôle central. La seconde affirmation principale du livre est que le judaïsme rabbinique n’est pas une orthodoxie semblable au chris17.  P. Petzel , « Vom Sinn für christlich-jüdische “Unschärferelationen”. Zu Daniel Boyarins “Border lines” », Zeitschrift für katholische Theologie 134 (2012), p. 24‑31. 18.  U. Luz , « Grenzziehungen », Evangelische Theologie 68 (2008), p. 71‑74. 19.  J. Costa, Revue des études juives 171 (2012), p. 419‑425 : une recension de Border Lines, à l’occasion de la traduction française du livre. 20.  Cf. Y. Eliav (ed.), « Border Lines : The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity. A Conversation with Daniel Boyarin », Henoch 28 (2006), p. 7‑45. Virginia Burrus, Richard Kalmin, Hayim Lapin et Joel Marcus formulent leurs observations critiques auxquelles Boyarin répond, souhaitant prolonger la conversation.

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tianisme et n’est pas une religion. L’héritage final du judaïsme orthodoxe, selon Boyarin, se situe plutôt dans les efforts innovants du Vème et VIème siècle d’établir une culture de l’étude qui embrasse le débat en refusant le jugement, gardant ainsi jalousement les valeurs d’une indétermination textuelle : c’est ce que Boyarin appelle l’épistémologie apophatique. Pour Kalmin, l’affirmation plus significative de Border Lines est que judaïsme et christianisme constituent une seule entité continue sans une frontière claire jusqu’à ce que des penseurs juifs et chrétiens en imposent une entre le IVème et le VIème siècle. Judaïsme et christianisme commencèrent à peu près au même moment à tracer des frontières entre orthodoxie et hérésie. Cette œuvre d’anathémisation continua dans le judaïsme pendant les IIIème et IVème siècle par des déclarations répétées des rabbins que la théologie du logos était hérétique bien que nombreux fussent ceux qui adhérèrent à une telle doctrine. L’étape successive fut la manipulation de la mémoire de deux « conciles » : Yavneh et Nicée. Pour Boyarin, Yavneh est substantiellement une légende et une mythopoeïa talmudique. Yavneh fut relu par les Stammaïm (les rédacteurs anonymes du Talmud babylonien aux Vème et VIème siècles) comme la formation d’une grande coalition, de telle façon que les hérétiques étaient acceptés dans la mesure où ils professaient le credo stammaïtique de l’indétermination de la vérité et pratiquaient l’étude de la Torah sous la forme d’une argumentation sans fin : tous ceux qui s’obstinaient à leur vision comme la seule correcte devaient être expulsés de la maison d’étude. Alors que le christianisme inventait la religion et définissait judaïsme et paganisme comme religions, le judaïsme refusait de devenir une religion embrassant généalogie et terre comme critères de ce qui définit un juif. La synthèse de Marcus nous semble particulièrement efficace. En soutenant que les rabbins à Yavneh étaient en train de créer une orthodoxie, mais comme réponse à une précédente autodéfinition chrétienne qui recherchait la séparation d’avec le judaïsme, Boyarin ne propose pas une nouveauté absolue (cf. déjà Shaye Cohen). A différence du courant principal du christianisme, le judaïsme rabbinique – selon Boyarin – ne maintint pas un intérêt constant pour des frontières nettement définies : les principes directeurs de ce que Boyarin appelle la forme définitive du judaïsme sont plutôt l’indétermination et la discussion open-ended. L’hérésiologie, l’autodéfinition en termes de séparation, l’élimination de l’ambiguïté ne sont pas intrinsèques au judaïsme. A une époque antérieure, le christianisme et le rabbinisme naissants coopérèrent en se définissant tous les deux sur la base d’« Israël », même si le christianisme naissant y arriva le premier. Nous présentons le cœur du livre à partir de sa partie centrale. Dans les chapitres 4‑6, Boyarin se consacre à l’étude détaillée de la construction de l’identité juive rabbinique comme orthodoxie en se servant de l’hérésie des deux Puissances dans le Ciel. Elle représente la contribution rabbinique à

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la différenciation entre christianisme et judaïsme, au moyen d’une conspiration virtuelle des formateurs de l’orthodoxie chrétienne. La croyance en deux Puissances dans le Ciel (un Dieu très-haut et un intermédiaire pour la création, la révélation et le salut) – c’est-à-dire la théologie du logos – devint pour les rabbins, et – d’un point de vue totalement opposé – pour les auteurs chrétiens orthodoxes à partir de Justin, le point de comparaison de l’orthodoxie. Un des symboles plus lumineux de ce que les spécialistes juifs et chrétiens ont vu comme la séparation primitive et totale du christianisme et du judaïsme a été la centralité de la théologie du logos dans le christianisme, à partir d’une date ancienne, une théologie du logos dont on pensait qu’elle n’avait pas grand-chose à voir avec le judaïsme palestinien authentique. En parcourant le sort du logos dans la théologie juive et chrétienne, nous nous trouvons devant une doctrine qui était originellement partagée et qui devint ensuite centrale pour les autodéfinitions opposées de chacun d’entre eux. Dans les premiers temps de leur développement (Boyarin suggère jusqu’à la fin du IVème siècle), judaïsme et christianisme se confondaient à un plan phénoménologique : les différences, qui un jour constitueront la base pour leur distinction, se meuvent à l ’intérieur des groupes naissants des juifs qui suivent Jésus et des juifs qui ne le suivent pas – et non entre eux –. Une des différences le plus caractéristiques entre judaïsme et christianisme tels que nous les connaissons aujourd’hui est la « croyance en » ou la « négation de » une complexité dans la divinité ; mais au cours des premiers siècles il y avaient des juifs non chrétiens qui croyaient en la « Parole de Dieu », en la « Sagesse », ou même dans le « Fils » come un second Dieu, alors qu’il y avaient des croyants en Jésus qui insistaient sur le fait que les trois personnes divines étaient seulement des noms pour des manifestations différentes d’une seule personne. Les pratiques par lesquelles ces différences internes furent reconstruites comme telles entre des réalités séparées constituent une part importante du récit que Boyarin esquisse dans son livre. Son enquête cherche à confirmer l’hypothèse que la théologie chrétienne, loin de s’être progressivement soustraite aux tendances juives, aurait en réalité maintenu une approche juive plus conservatrice que celle des rabbins ; ce sont eux qui se sont soustraits à la théologie juive primitive. Dans la partie centrale de son livre, Boyarin s’efforce de montrer que la division chimérique des chemins est en vérité la production d’une frontière juridique, l’œuvre de ces hérésiologues dont il a suivi les traces dans la première partie de son essai, intitulée de manière significative : « Établir une différence. Les débuts hérésiologiques du christianisme et du judaïsme ». Au cours des premiers siècles de notre ère, l’axe vertical (les croyants en Jésus contre les non croyants en Jésus) ne coïncide pas avec la séparation entre les croyants en la théologie du logos et les non-croyants en

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la théologie du logos. L’opération suivante consista à faire coïncider l’axe théologique avec l’axe sociologique. C’est ce que firent les hérésiologues des deux communautés et ce qui, à la fin, devint le signe d’une différence théologique entre judaïsme et christianisme. L’hérésiologie fait nécessairement partie de la construction du judaïsme et du christianisme comme religions. La reconstruction offerte par Boyarin prolonge, en le poussant presque jusqu’à la provocation, un parcours commencé depuis des décennies dans les études sur le judaïsme du second temple, celui pour lequel l’opposition binaire entre judaïsme et hellénisme (comme celle entre judaïsme palestinien et judaïsme helléniste) ne peut plus être maintenue et exige d’être repensée de façon radicale. Pour Boyarin, celle qui fut considérée jusqu’à il y a peu comme l’empreinte la plus caractéristique de la pensée hellénistique sur le christianisme (et, en position centrale, la théologie du logos) était en réalité partie intégrante du monde juif du premier siècle, Palestine y comprise. La théologie juive a été pendant des siècles ouverte à la pensée de l’antiquité (qu’elle soit perse ou gréco-romaine) et le judaïsme est depuis le début, selon Boyarin, une forme de culture hellénistique : « hellénistique » signifie simplement, pour lui, la somme de grec et de juif. Boyarin explique le prologue de l’évangile de Jean comme un midrash de Gn 1 : le texte auquel il se réfère sont les premiers versets de la Genèse, alors que le texte en arrière plan – comme intertexte herméneutique – est Pr 8,22‑31. La primauté de la Genèse comme texte interprété explique l’usage de logos à la place de sophia. Les premiers versets du prologue sont une expansion midrashique juive, non christologique, de Gn 1,1‑5, selon une théologie du logos/memra partagée ; dans les versets suivants se trouve une interprétation et une expansion christologique dans laquelle les théologoumènes juifs traditionnels sont appliqués à Jésus. Ce qui marque un nouveau point de départ dans l’histoire du judaïsme n’est pas la théologie du logos, mais l’idée que le logos se soit incarné en Jésus. L’impulsion que produisit celle qui devint l’orthodoxie chrétienne est la combinaison, en la personne de Jésus, de la sotériologie messianique juive avec la théologie du logos (juive elle aussi). Cette perspective interprétative nous permet d’imaginer l’origine des cinq premiers versets du prologue dans la koinè juive du temps de l’évangile, une koinè qui est ensuite christianisée dans les versets suivants. La tradition targoumique pararabbinique (c’est-à-dire contemporaine aux rabbins, mais distinctes d’eux) semble être une clef pour comprendre le contexte historico-religieux du prologue de Jean. De nombreux spécialistes nient une telle connexion entre la memra et le logos et déclarent que l’arrière plan du logos est uniquement la tradition sapientielle biblique et juive. L’analyse des matériaux targoumiques laisse toutefois peu de doutes à l’existence de connexions entre la sagesse et la parole / memra. Il ne s’agit pas de retourner à l’idée que les Targums sont l’arrière plan de Jean (et

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du christianisme) : Boyarin suggère plutôt l’existence d’une relation commune. Il explore donc l’évidence de la théologie du logos comme élément commun de l’imagination religieuse juive, en offrant une étude comparée du logos de Philon et de la memra du Targum qui rend plus vive la vie du logos dans le monde religieux juif. Pris avec Philon et le Targum, l’évangile de Jean fournit une évidence ultérieure importante que la théologie du logos, utilisée par Boyarin comme terme général pour des théologies variées binitaires étroitement liées, est la koinè religieuse des juifs de Palestine et de la diaspora, leur langue théologique franche, ce qui ne signifie pas que cette position était universellement partagée. Il est parfaitement conscient d’affirmer que pour ce qui concerne la doctrine sur Dieu il n’y a pas de différences essentielles et cruciales entre judaïsme et christianisme : aussi bien sur le plan historique que descriptif, le christianisme nicéen orthodoxe et le judaïsme rabbinique orthodoxe représentent simplement deux points (choisis de façon non arbitraire) dans une grille de possibilités, courantes dans le monde pré-nicéen, quand il s’agissait de faire le point sur le problème théologique de la transcendance divine et les possibilités de création, révélation, rédemption. Le déplacement définitif, enfin, pour les rabbins, fut le transfert de chaque discours sur le logos e/ou la sophia à la seule Torah. Pour les rabbins la Torah prend la place du logos comme pour Jean le logos incarné en Jésus remplace le logos révélé dans le Livre, pour les rabbins le logos incarné dans le Livre remplace le logos qui subsiste ailleurs que dans le Livre. Boyarin s’efforce de montrer, en multipliant les exemples tirés des sources rabbiniques, qu’à l’évidence la théologie antique d’un deuteros theos a été éliminée. Notre auteur décrit la façon dont a été produite l’hérésie en la rapprochant du splitting, mécanisme de défense bien connu en psychologie : c’est pour lui une analogie utile pour comprendre comment le christianisme et le judaïsme ont produit chacun leur propre identité en reniant une partie d’eux-mêmes. L’image du chantier archéologique est aussi très belle : pendant qu’on fait des fouilles sur un site, il faut savoir repérer la différence entre la synagogue (c’est-à-dire la piété juive courante) et la maison d’étude (où dominent les rabbins). L’ambiguïté des récits bibliques, surtout lus dans leur ensemble, a dû alimenter beaucoup d’anxiété et de controverses interprétatives au cours des premières années du judéo-christianisme parce que plusieurs de ces passages servaient de preuves à la théologie du logos : chacune des pages de Justin le montre. Ce qui intéresse notre auteur, toutefois, est plutôt l’énergie inlassable que la littérature rabbinique a déployée pour nier de telles implications : une dépense d’énergie qui montre l’attrait exercé par l’idée d’un deuteros theos parmi les juifs. L’énergie hérésiologue dépensée dans les cercles rabbiniques pour produire l’hérésie des deux Puissances dans le Ciel, c’est-à-dire pour manifester (ou christianiser) le théologoumène interne d’un deuxième Dieu, ou d’un assistant de Dieu, nous aide à comprendre certains textes rabbiniques qui,

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sinon, seraient mystérieux. Par exemple, celui du rabbin Aqiva. On fait le portrait d’Aqiva, rabbin du IIème siècle, alors qu’il interprète les versets de Dn 7,9‑10 d’une manière assurément homogène à la théologie des deux Puissances dans le Ciel. La croyance en deux Puissances dans le Ciel – comme nous la trouvons encore dans la théologie de la memra des Targums – fut un temps un courant théologique acceptable dans les cercles dans lesquels grandirent les rabbins et leur théologie ; elle fut ensuite sacrifiée à la production duale du judaïsme rabbinique comme judaïsme et du christianisme patristique comme christianisme. En appelant la doctrine traditionnelle du Dieu du logos ou de la memra une « hérésie » (plus encore l ’hérésie : les deux Puissances dans le Ciel), la théologie rabbinique l’expulse du judaïsme, admettant au moins implicitement cette hérésie comme christianisme ; au moment même où (dans une virtuelle conspiration culturelle) l’orthodoxie chrétienne émergente embrasse la théologie du logos et nomme judaïsme ce qui la répudie. Boyarin souligne la puissante coopération des deux forces discursives : Justin et les rabbins, adversaires acharnés, portent paradoxalement le même profond désir. C. The Jewish Gospels (2012) 21 Le titre anglais The Jewish Gospels (au pluriel) est devenu en français Le Christ juif ; pour l’Épilogue on emploie, dans la traduction française, le singulier « L’évangile juif ». Ce livre de vulgarisation, plutôt expéditif en certaines de ses pages, prête le flanc à des critiques variées 22 . L’essai se compose de quatre chapitres. Le premier (« De Fils de Dieu à Fils de l’Homme ») et le second (« Le Fils de l’Homme dans le 1er livre d’Hénoch et le 4 ème livre d’Esdras : d’autres messies juifs du Ier siècle ») sont profondément homogènes et se basent sur l’affirmation principale selon laquelle la dénomination « Fils de Dieu » se réfère au messie comme roi humain, alors que la dénomination « Fils de l’Homme » – contrairement à l’opinion commune parmi les chrétiens – indique l’origine divine du messie. Dans le troisième chapitre, Boyarin examine, sur la base de Mc 7, la position de Jésus sur les normes de pureté rituelle de la nourriture. Dans le quatrième, il cherche à montrer que le récit évangélique de la passion de Jésus se comprend parfaitement comme midrash de Dn 7. 21.  D. Boyarin, The Jewish Gospels. The Story of the Jewish Christ, New York, 2012. Traduction française : Le Christ juif. À la recherche des origines, Paris, 2013. 22.  Voir par exemple la recension de M. Crimella apparue dans Teologia 38 (2013), p. 128‑130. En termes évidemment positifs, Jack Miles, dans la préface, souligne le caractère très accessible du livre : cf. D. Boyarin, The Jewish Gospels. The Story of the Jewish Christ, New York, 2012, p. XXII.

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Dans ce livre, la réflexion tourne principalement autour du binitarianisme 23  : la conception de deux figures divines de nature et de puissance égales, surtout d’un Dieu plus âgé et d’un autre plus jeune (Père / Fils). Selon Boyarin la christologie qui se développe dans le NT et dans l’église des origines (c’est-à-dire, l’idée que le messie Jésus est essentiellement divin et humain, le Fils de son Père qui est au Ciel) est enracinée dans la tradition juive, préalable au NT. Dans l’introduction, Boyarin définit clairement le type de reconstruction historique qu’il adopte et qu’il entend prouver dans les quatre chapitres qui composent son livre 24 . Quand Jésus vint, il le fit sous une forme que de nombreux juifs attendaient : une seconde figure divine incarnée en un homme. La question n’était pas : « Est-ce qu’un messie divin arrive ? », mais simplement « Ce charpentier de Nazareth est-il ou n’est-il pas celui que nous attendons ? ». Bien sûr, certains juifs répondirent oui et d’autres non. Aujourd’hui on appelle le premier groupe « chrétiens » et le second « juifs », mais ce n’était pas comme cela en ce temps là : le judaïsme, de fait, n’existait pas et le christianisme non plus. L’idée même de « religion » n’était pas apparue et ne le serait pas pendant encore plusieurs siècles. Dans le livre, le terme « judaïsme » est utilisé par Boyarin seulement par commodité : ce mot, pour la période à laquelle il se réfère, est un pur anachronisme. Actuellement presque tous, chrétiens et non-chrétiens, sont bien contents de se référer à Jésus comme à un juif : Boyarin entend aller plus loin. Il veut nous inviter à voir aussi le Christ – le messie divin – comme « juif ». La christologie est un discours juif et non anti-juif ; ses éléments fondateurs appartiennent au même monde dans lequel est né Jésus et dans lequel agissaient les évangélistes. Boyarin espère qu’après la lecture de son livre, les chrétiens et les juifs seront contraints à raconter, les uns sur les autres, des histoires différentes de celles qui circulent actuellement. On a longtemps cru qu’une période initiale de fluidité s’était terminée rapidement, à cause d’une « bifurcation » entre judaïsme et christianisme au cours du Ier ou IIème siècle. Boyarin est de l’avis qu’une grande diversité interne a caractérisé le judaïsme après le IIème siècle et pour longtemps encore. Beaucoup ont pensé, jusqu’à récemment, qu’elle s’était terminée avec le concile de Jamnia/Yavneh, mais aujourd’hui nous pouvons tran23.  Cf. P. Schäfer , « The Jew Who Would Be God », New Republic MAY 18, 2012 [www.newrepublic.com/article/103373/books-and-arts/magazine/jewishgospels-christ-boyarin]. Il existe aussi une version en allemand de cette recension : P. Schäfer , « Zum Buch von Daniel Boyarin “The Jewish Gospels : The story of the Jewish Christ” », Kirche und Israel 27 (2012), p. 100‑109. 24.  D. Boyarin, The Jewish Gospels. The Story of the Jewish Christ, New York, 2012, p. 1‑24.

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quillement affirmer que cette interprétation est une invention des chercheurs d’autrefois. Il faut reconsidérer la variété de l’expérience religieuse juive – surtout à l’origine, ce moment crucial – de façon à mettre en lumière le va-et-vient de différents courants à l’œuvre dans un contexte plus ample de différences et ressemblances, un contexte qui nous consent de parler des rabbins et des juifs disciples de Jésus, tels que expressions historiques – et normatives – juives. Le modèle des ressemblances familiales semble à notre auteur apte pour parler d’un judaïsme qui incorpore aussi les premières étapes du christianisme. Cette conception étendue du « judaïsme » consent d’inclure aussi dans son rayon d’action la toute première littérature évangélique, faisant ainsi des premiers – et par certains aspects fondateurs – textes du christianisme des textes juifs. Parler de frontières entre judaïsme et christianisme est plus compliqué (et intéressant) de ce qu’on pourrait penser. Il faut lire sous un nouvel éclairage la situation historique et les développements du premier « judaïsme » et de la christianité. La foi en Jésus était l’une des nombreuses formes entrecroisées dans ce fouillis de pratiques et de convictions que nous appelons aujourd’hui judaïsme. Il faut s’abstenir de l’anachronisme qui fait que Jésus – et donc aussi le peuple de ce juif Jésus – serait plus ou moins juif selon la manière qu’on a d’aborder la religion des rabbins. III. L e s

r é act ions cr i t iqu e s à l a r econs t ruct ion de

B oya r i n

Boyarin aime surprendre, ses titres ne sont jamais prévisibles et sont souvent pleins d’ironie. Pour certains, cette rhétorique finit par faire écran et rendre moins lisible le nerf de l’argumentation et sa véritable portée. L’accusation d’appropriation illicite nous paraît un peu excessive 25. Dans Border Lines et ensuite dans The Jewish Gospels, Boyarin se concentre sur l’idée binitaire de deux pouvoirs divins comme partie de la tradition juive préchrétienne. Selon Schäfer, pour un lecteur familier de la production exégétique, ce concept n’est pas une innovation qui arriverait comme une bombe : Boyarin pourtant prétend l’avoir inventé et s’attribue la découverte de la théologie juive binitaire préchrétienne. Quoi qu’il en soit, on doit admettre que dans aucune œuvre le binitarisme n’est aussi central que dans la reconstruction de Boyarin 26.

25.  Ainsi P. Schäfer , « The Jew Who Would Be God », New Republic MAY 18, 2012 [www.newrepublic.com/article/103373/books-and-arts/magazine/jewishgospels-christ-boyarin]. 26.  J. Costa le reconnaît dans la recension de Border Lines parue dans la Revue des études juives 171 (2012), p. 420.

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A. Les problèmes soulevés par le modèle « parting of the ways » (ou « accouchement gémellaire ») Il est vrai qu’avec sa théorie ondulatoire Boyarin voulait dépasser le modèle appelé parting of the ways. Pourtant, sa reconstruction est encore débitrice de cet horizon d’ensemble historiographique. En effet, il est facile d’observer que, tout en critiquant les métaphores parentales, il utilise néanmoins l’image de l’accouchement gémellaire de Jacob et Esaü d’un bout à l’autre de son livre sur le martyre. Voici, selon Megan Hale Williams, les principaux problèmes encore sur le tapis dans le contexte actuel des études où le modèle de la séparation des routes semble s’être imposé 27. (a) Juifs et chrétiens occupaient des positions distinctes dans le monde romain et pensaient avec des catégories différentes qui ne peuvent être ni assimilées approximativement les unes aux autres, ni intégrées de force à des typologies artificielles quoique élégantes. (b) Les auteurs juifs et chrétiens travaillaient à l’intérieur de structures culturelles polyvalentes, où des concepts comme ceux d’hellénisme et de romanitas avaient au moins autant d’importance que les notions d’identité juive et chrétienne. (c) Chaque auteur, œuvre et tradition littéraire doit être interprété à l’intérieur de contextes historiques et géographiques mieux définis qu’ils ne l’ont été jusqu’à maintenant. Une caractéristique du type de production historiographique identifiable comme « séparation des chemins » (à laquelle Williams rattache les livres de Boyarin) est, au contraire, que plus on cherche à définir les temps et les lieux de la séparation, plus le modèle devient vague. La plupart des spécialistes sont aujourd’hui convaincus qu’il a existé pendant longtemps des personnes qui étaient aussi bien juives que chrétiennes, mais il s’est révélé extrêmement difficile de relier l’usage de ces termes dans la littérature chrétienne antique à des réalités sociales identifiables avec précision. L’histoire romaine a une consistance et une progression assez différentes de celles du judaïsme et du christianisme qui lui sont contemporains : cette diversité exige que les historiens qui s’intéressent aux relations entre christianisme, judaïsme et empire romain soient particulièrement attentifs à remettre les textes dans leurs contextes propres 28. 27.  Cf. M.H. Williams , « No More Clever Titles : Observations on Some Recent Studies of Jewish-Christian Relations in the Roman World », The Jewish Quarterly Review 99 (2009), p. 37‑55. L’article examine quatre livres : en plus de Dying for God et Border Lines de Boyarin, l’auteur s’intéresse à A.H. Becker – A. Yoshiko R eed (ed.), The Ways that Never Parted : Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Tübingen, 2003 et à J.M. Lieu, Neither Jew Nor Greek ? London – New York, 2002. 28.  Williams critique explicitement Boyarin sur ce point. Dans le dernier chapitre de Border Lines, la datation et la situation supposées par l’auteur sont problématiques. Il met en parallèle le matériel du Talmud babylonien (Mésopotamie, sous

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Selon Williams, la notion de séparation des chemins finit par créer au moins autant de problèmes qu’elle ne promettait d’en résoudre. Enfin, il ne semble pas qu’un seul modèle puisse embrasser toute l’histoire des relations judéo-chrétiennes sous l’empire romain et encore moins après lui. Cette problématique regarde plus encore la déclaration (séduisante du point de vue rhétorique) selon laquelle au IVème siècle les chrétiens inventèrent la catégorie de religion pour embrasser judaïsme, christianisme et paganisme et cherchèrent à l’imposer aux habitants non-chrétiens de l’empire en cours de christianisation, produisant ainsi trois religions alors qu’avant il n’y en avait pas. B. Une recension plus précise de points critiques Il nous semble que Boyarin a été contesté sur deux grands points 29. (1) La tentative de notre auteur de démontrer une connexion constante et intime entre judaïsme et christianisme dans l’antiquité n’a pas convaincu beaucoup de critiques : on conteste que judaïsme et christianisme se soient construits comme réponse à la même problématique et qu’on doive imaginer que jusqu’à la fin du IVème siècle (et peut-être au-delà) les positions respectives soient déterminées par la position assumée par le jumeau. (2) Une partie des problèmes soulevés par le scénario que décrit Boyarin dans la première partie de Border Lines (l’église du IIème siècle crée des frontières et pousse le rabbinisme à faire de même) est le rôle gigantesque – et amplement négatif – que Boyarin attribue à Justin : beaucoup pensent injustifié l’accent mis sur le rôle du philosophe et apologiste. Dans une présentation plus analytique, les points sur lesquels Boyarin peut être critiqué – et l’est de fait – sont les suivants 30.

le gouvernement persan entre 450‑650) et Rufin d’Aquilée, Histoire ecclésiastique (nord de l’Italie, avant 403). Les chrétiens qui furent importants pour les rédacteurs du Talmud babylonien devraient se trouver plus proches de chez eux que l’était Aquilée et devraient être plutôt sous la domination sassanide que romaine. Tout ce que nous croyons savoir sur le monde antique est basé sur une preuve qui est à la fois incomplète et dont l’interprétation est difficile, mais l’histoire des juifs après 100 ap. J.C. est un cas extrême de cette situation. L’histoire chrétienne jusqu’à la fin du IVème siècle pose les mêmes problèmes. 29.  Dans ce sous-paragraphe 3.2 et dans le paragraphe suivant 4, nous nous référons amplement à des recensions qui ont déjà été citées dans cette étude : pour toutes les contributions déjà citées, nous nous limitons à rapporter le nom de l’auteur dont nous reprenons les observations critiques. 30.  Dans sa réponse aux quatre recenseurs de Henoch 2006 Boyarin rassemble les critiques qui lui sont faites autour de quatre nœuds : [1] la question de la présence d’une dimension apologétique ou triomphaliste et d’essentialisme dans son livre ; [2] la question étroitement connexe d’un amalgame présumé de la religion rabbinique et juive tout court ; [3] la question de la périodisation ; [4] la question de savoir s’il

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(a) L’étroite base documentaire de ses reconstructions historiographiques. Le dossier des sources examinées est loin d’être exhaustif ; il paraît excessivement sélectif et lacunaire. Dans Border Lines, Boyarin prétend arriver à des affirmations de grande portée socio-religieuse en se fondant sur l’exégèse d’un petit nombre de textes 31. Nous sommes de toute façon en présence d’une caractéristique constante, bien connue aussi dans Dying for God et The Jewish Gospels. (b) L’insuffisante crédibilité des datations qu’il propose. C’est un point sur lequel insistent de façon particulière deux des recensions de Henoch 2006 (celles de Kalmin et Marcus). Il est crucial pour l’ensemble de la reconstruction de Boyarin que certaines traditions rabbiniques appartiennent à la couche plus récente de la compilation du Talmud, mais cet aspect est loin d’être démontré. Kalmin critique Boyarin sur ces deux points précis : les traditions rabbiniques qui utilisent le discours de l’hérésie (= la première partie de Border Lines) et la réponse rabbinique au problème de l’incapacité de l’argumentation rationnelle à produire une approbation (= la troisième partie de Border Lines). Si on peut démontrer que sur ces deux points cruciaux du processus décrit par Boyarin les rabbins précèdent le christianisme, alors le modèle proposé s’appuie sur des bases extrêmement fragiles. Pour Marcus aussi, Boyarin ne convainc pas lorsqu’il tente de montrer que : (a) l’orthodoxie chrétienne et le rejet du judaïsme précédèrent l’orthodoxie juive et le rejet du christianisme ; (b) la dénonciation chrétienne du modalisme juif précéda les traditions rabbiniques des deux Puissances dans le Ciel ; (c) la déclaration « ce sont les paroles du Dieu vivant » fut une affirmation tardive des Stammaïm du Vème et VIème siècles. (c) L’insuffisance philologique de son exégèse, voire le caractère tendancieux de son herméneutique. C’est la critique principale que fait à son encontre, entre autres, S.C. Mimouni 32  : Boyarin part d’une théorie et non des textes et sa lecture des sources est peu convaincante 33  ; il force les textes pour les faire coïncider avec sa théorie. développe ou non une argumentation historique. Cf. D. Boyarin, « Twenty-four Refutations : Continuing the Conversations », Henoch 28 (2006), p. 30‑44. 31.  Avec d’autres, Luz accuse particulièrement Boyarin de s’être concentré de façon unilatérale sur Justin, omettant complètement des textes chrétiens précédents à l’apologiste et philosophe du IIème siècle, comme les évangiles canoniques et la lettre aux Hébreux. Sur la lettre aux Hébreux voir, pourtant, maintenant D. Boyarin, « Two notes on the “Jewishness” of the New Testament », Rivista Biblica 61 (2013), p. 457‑469. À l’opposé de Boyarin, Luz retient qu’un examen soigné du NT prouve déjà l’existence d’une identité chrétienne distincte par rapport au judaïsme. 32.  Nous faisons référence à la recension de Dying for God et Border Lines parue dans la Revue des études juives 166 (2007), p. 299‑303 à l’occasion de la traduction en français du premier livre. 33.  En particulier, dans l’évaluation critique de Mimouni, les textes semblent contredire l’hypothèse d’une séparation au cours du IVème siècle ; la documentation ne rentre pas si facilement dans le schéma, comme Boyarin voudrait nous le faire croire.

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Donnons quelques exemples de cette déficience. A propos de l’enquête conduite dans la troisième partie de Border Lines, en réalité il n’y a aucune évidence claire que le Talmud babylonien thématise l’indétermination de la vérité : en examinant deux des récits que Boyarin adopte pour soutenir sa thèse, Kalmin critique la pertinence de l’interprétation qu’il propose. En ce qui concerne The Jewish Gospels, on ne peut soutenir que « Fils de Dieu » se réfère toujours au messie comme roi humain et il n’est pas vrai que le Fils de l’homme en Dn 7 soit un être divin (Schäfer, Crimella). On peut reconnaître un autre exemple d’approximation dans la façon dont Boyarin dresse le portrait-robot du christianisme (Luz). Le christianisme serait pour lui une religion alors que le judaïsme de la période rabbinique tardive est quelque chose de différent et d’ouvert, un peuple qui vit dans la partnership avec un Dieu « qui parle ». Une semblable alternative ne peut être soutenue que si on confronte l’enseignement talmudique aux décrets des conciles : mais cette comparaison est-elle correcte ? Pourquoi Boyarin ne compare-t-il pas le Talmud aux commentaires bibliques chrétiens qui lui sont contemporains ? Eux aussi présentent côte à côte une multiplicité de voix. S’il l’avait fait, il aurait dû conclure que le christianisme et le judaïsme sont restés frères. Nous tenons à souligner que ce que certains jugent une herméneutique tendancieuse correspond plus d’une fois à la façon de Boyarin de prélever dans le filigrane des textes antiques des éléments qui permettent de critiquer leur réception habituelle. C’est ce que Boyarin s’est volontairement proposé de faire depuis Carnal Israel. La lecture « à rebrousse-poil » comme technique exégétique et herméneutique que Boyarin utilise systématiquement – en la reprenant aux études postcoloniales – répond à une épistémologie politique qui produit nécessairement un caractère tendancieux et une partialité interprétative. Ne pas percevoir le caractère programmatique de cette méthodologie conduit à n’y voir qu’une provocation à la limite de l’arbitraire et de la déformation. (d) L’insuffisante cohérence de ses argumentations. La théorisation de Boyarin présenterait une série d’incohérences ; dans le développement de son argumentation il y aurait de nombreuses hésitations voire des contradictions. A la suite de Costa nous présentons les trois principales. – La relation de dépendance entre le christianisme et le judaïsme revêt des formes différentes chez Boyarin ; elle n’est pas constamment conçue comme une influence du christianisme sur le judaïsme rabbinique. Ailleurs on trouve, en effet, un parallèle entre christianisme et judaïsme, sans qu’il s’agisse d’une relation cause / effet. Dans d’autres cas, Boyarin rejette explicitement l’interprétation en terme d’influence de l’un sur l’autre. Il semble alors plus approprié à l’ensemble de sa pensée de parler d’intertextualité, d’une relation dialogique entre textes et traditions, de variantes locales d’une tradition commune. Lapin relève comment de fait, dans le livre de Boyarin, il y a deux versions non complètement compatibles de l’histoire qui s’y déroule. (1) Judaïsme et christianisme sont inéluctablement entre-

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lacés du point de vue discursif, mais aucun des deux n’est « cause » de l’autre en un sens positiviste. (2) Les discours chrétiens déterminent les développements significatifs du discours juif. Marcus note le même problème : Boyarin fait certaines affirmations, alors qu’ailleurs il présente ses positions d’une manière difficilement conciliable avec ses assertions initiales. D’une part, il semble que l’hérésiologie chrétienne vienne en premier et que le discours rabbinique sur la minut soit une réaction ; dans d’autres passages, au contraire, le discours rabbinique sur l’hérésie est une réponse ou plutôt un possible parallèle à des développements de la religion romaine en général. – La façon dont Boyarin présente la question de la minut et des minim n’est pas entièrement cohérente. On peut peut-être surmonter l’insuffisante clarté de ses affirmations de la manière suivante : la minut est imaginaire au sens où il n’y a pas de minorité juive déviante à cause de leur croyance binitaire, mais elle est réelle parce qu’elle désigne de fait le judaïsme majoritaire dont les rabbins se détachent en rejetant la théologie du logos. – Les hésitations de Boyarin sont particulièrement évidentes lors du passage du système pluraliste des sectes à un système intolérant dans lequel les rabbins sont orthodoxes et toutes les autres formes de judaïsme hérétiques. Boyarin hésite manifestement entre deux modèles historiographiques : le modèle traditionnel d’un judaïsme rabbinique triomphant après 70 ; un nouveau modèle qui tienne compte de la pluralité du judaïsme après 70 où les rabbins sont minoritaires. (e) Le caractère problématique du modèle sociologique sous-jacent à sa reconstruction. Certains auteurs des recensions ont critiqué le répertoire théorique auquel Boyarin puise son révisionnisme critique  3 4 . Lapin (Henoch 2006) avait déjà mis en lumière la dépendance de Boyarin d’une certaine reconstruction théorique du rapport entre discours et pouvoir : Border Lines s’appuie sur la prémisse de l’interpellation performative du juif en tant que juif de la part de chrétiens qui sont en train de se construire comme non juifs ; nous sommes en face d’une certaine déclinaison de la théorie relative au langage et au pouvoir. Aussi bien Kalmin que Marcus ont déploré un défaut dans la construction théorique de notre auteur : Boyarin n’explique jamais de manière satisfaisante comment on passe de la production de quelques intellectuels aux croyances et pratiques d’une majorité écrasante de juifs et de chrétiens (Kalmin) ; il ne décrit pas les mécanismes sociaux selon lesquels juifs et chrétiens se seraient influencés réciproquement : une argumentation serait nécessaire pour que sa thèse puisse s’avérer convaincante (Marcus). 34.  Sur cet aspect voir surtout E.R. Urciuoli, « Confini, apparati ideologici e giochi di potere. In riferimento alla “storia sociale delle idee come fatti materiali” di Daniel Boyarin », Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 28 (2011), p. 107‑138.

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L’analyse faite par Urciuoli sur les fondements théoriques de la reconstruction de Boyarin est particulièrement soignée. On peut dire sommairement que le point crucial de la critique de Urciuoli concerne la façon peu convaincante avec laquelle Boyarin présente Justin et le rôle qu’il a joué : Justin n’avait, en réalité, aucune autorité pour que ses paroles établissent des frontières, comme au contraire le prétend Boyarin. Le fil rouge qui traverse le projet de déconstruction de Boyarin part de certaines analyses fondamentales du début des années 70 sur le caractère « productif » du pouvoir. Sur ces bases, Boyarin a élaboré une vision personnelle du rapport entre le pouvoir d’un discours (hérésiologique) et la constitution de certains sujets (chrétien, juif, hérétique) selon l’établissement de frontières déterminées (théologiques-religieuses). Son histoire en deux temps est configurée dans un circuit hautement performatif de paroles et d’actions ; mais une histoire en plusieurs actes, avec des interprètes fixes et des parties assignées, n’est plus une histoire, mais une Histoire. Comme d’autres, Urciuoli impute à Boyarin un certain téléologisme. En arrière plan de la reconstruction de Boyarin on voit la théorie althussérienne de l’interpellation. La position d’Althusser a été critiquée par Judith Butler. Pour cette dernière, il tombe dans l’équivoque d’assimiler l’interpellation sociale au performatif divin. Si on tient compte – et on ne peut pas ne pas le faire – de la critique de Butler à Althusser, il serait cohérent avec cette logique réformée de déclasser l’interpellation « faible » du futur martyr au rang de rappel abusif et infondé, de « non-interpellation ». Mais le Boyarin de Border Lines arrive tout au plus à proposer la polémique naissante de Justin comme un type d’interpellation « plus diffus et complexe ». Ce faisant, cependant – relève Urciuoli – le problème, loin de se résoudre, s’accentue. L’aspect plus délicat est le versant plus proprement politique du problème. Comment mesurer en termes de pouvoir l’événement lié aux voix de ces speakers qui inaugurent ou refondent le discours qu’ils transmettent ? Selon Urciuoli, c’est le moment de prendre congé d’Althusser et d’« interpeler » plutôt Foucault. Le « dire » s’est articulé sur un pouvoir, a été investi de pratiques de pouvoir : le rapport de connivence entre pouvoir et discours est le nœud décisif de ce que Boyarin prétend reconstruire. L’expulsion des juifs contemporains du Vrai Israël de Dieu est-il le geste obscur par lequel Justin trace la division qui inaugure l’histoire de la religion chrétienne ? Il y a de bonnes raisons de répondre oui et pourtant, en soi, l’imputation historique ne dit encore rien sur le rapport entre ces expériences de définition de la limite et l’emprise que le christianisme exercera sur hérésie et judaïsme. Le cœur de la reconstruction problématique de Boyarin se trouve dans le manque d’attention aux « attributions de pouvoir » qui s’ouvrent dans l’incertaine, changeante et hétérogène réalité des champs de forces de la société de la fin du second et le début du troisième siècles : dans des cir-

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constances semblables, le réseau de relations qui entoure la Judaeo-Christianity est un tissu fait de pouvoir et non de domination. L’assomption d’un modèle comme celui proposé par Urciuoli, sur la base de Fredrik Barth, aiderait à éviter le risque de voir, (a) dans chaque énoncé inhérent à un certain régime discursif, un « apparat idéologique » qui essaie de prévaloir ; (b) dans chaque procédé linguistique et technique rhétorique liés à ce régime, un système hégémonique qui se manifeste ; (c) dans l’activation de changeantes relations stratégiques de pouvoir, le déploiement de formes de domination de la minorité forte sur la majorité faible. Boyarin, en bloquant la distinction entre l’« acte » qui l’inaugure et la « science » qui le fixe, attribue au langage responsable de son écriture la force assertive (et donc la prérogative linguistique) du rituel fonctionnel à sa confirmation. Avec une modestie peut-être excessive, Urciuoli déclare que le maximum que l’on puisse tirer de sa contribution est une simple indication de méthode : se tenir aussi près que possible d’une vision structurellement mobile et prudemment indéchiffrable. IV. U n e

r econs t ruct ion av ec l aqu e l l e se m e su r e r

Boyarin ne s’intéresse pas à Jewish Christianity mais à Judaeo-Christianity. Par Jewish Christianity on comprend le judéo-christianisme dans l’acception conventionnelle du terme, c’est-à-dire les (divers groupes) chrétiens à l’origine et aux usages juifs : d’après lui ce concept équivoque doit être abandonné 35. La catégorie centrale dans la reconstruction historiographique de Boyarin est au contraire celle de Judaeo-Christianity qui conçoit un système culturel multiforme qui comprend judaïsme et christianisme, constitué par un continuum aux extrémités duquel nous trouvons les chrétiens hostiles au judaïsme (c’est-à-dire les marcionites) et les juifs indifférents au Christ. Selon les recenseurs d’Henoch 2006, qui se réfèrent directement à Border Lines, Boyarin parvient à un double objectif : déstabiliser le consensus des spécialistes dans l’interprétation de nombreux textes clés ; déplacer 35.  D. Boyarin, « Rethinking Jewish Christianity : An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category (to which is Appended a Correction of my Border Lines) », The Jewish Quarterly Review 99 (2009), p. 7‑36. La critique de Boyarin sur la catégorie de « judéo-christianisme » est accueillie aussi par Mimouni : cf. S.C. M imouni, « Réponses à Daniel Boyarin et à F. Stanley Jones à propos du livre de Simon Claude Mimouni “Early Judaeo-Christianity. Historical essay”, Leuven 2012 (Peeters, Interdisciplinary Studies in Ancient Culture and Religion, 13) », Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 30 (2013), p. 112‑123. Il ne s’agit pas de remettre en discussion l’existence de chrétiens d’origine juive que Mimouni appelle “judaïsme chrétien” pour les identifier tout en reconnaissant que l’expression n’est pas complètement satisfaisante.

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l’attention de l’étude de l’orthodoxie et de l’hérésie comme absolue vers la production de l’orthodoxie au moyen du discours hérésiologique. L’éloge constamment fait à Boyarin est centré sur sa capacité à renverser la perspective de lecture de textes archiconnus : il oblige à repenser de manière nouvelle des réalités familières que nous avions toujours lues avec d’autres yeux. Si notre auteur n’en a pas persuadé beaucoup avec la proposition de ce nouveau paradigme, il a certainement laissé sa trace pour ce qui est de la pars destruens de ses études : démanteler la manière dont les spécialistes du judaïsme et du christianisme lisent l’évidence à leur disposition 36. En conclusion, il y a deux points cruciaux sur lesquels Boyarin, dans le sillage des travaux précédents, offre des contributions significatives qui survivent aux critiques reçues. (a) L’idée que le judaïsme rabbinique et le christianisme orthodoxe naissent ensemble et que la dialectique entre eux contribue à la définition des identités respectives. Lapin retient substantiellement correcte l’attribution, de la part de Boyarin, des principaux développements du mouvement rabbinique classique aux interactions avec le christianisme de l’Antiquité tardive – et en particulier avec l’empire qui se christianisait – dans la mesure où cela va à l’encontre de l’orientation jusque là en vigueur chez les spécialistes du judaïsme antique. Une série de distinctions nettes ont été détruites par la recherche actuelle (et Boyarin y a contribué de manière significative) : nous avons beaucoup à gagner de cette perte de simplicité historiographique. Comme Schäfer l’a souligné, nous devons garder les distances par rapport au dogme des deux religions différentes solidement établies dans les premiers siècles de notre ère. (b) La théologie du logos comme patrimoine juif préchrétien. Même si Schäfer juge très sévèrement le livre de Boyarin sur le Christ juif (The Jewish Gospels), il se déclare substantiellement d’accord pour affirmer une origine antique de l’idée binitaire des deux figures divines. Pressentie dans le judaïsme du second temple et adoptée par le NT, elle continue à vivre dans certains cercles du judaïsme rabbinique, malgré sa formulation beaucoup plus sophistiquée qui rejoint son climax dans la doctrine de la Trinité. Schäfer est aussi de l’avis qu’il faille reconnaître que l’idée binitaire germe au cours de la période antérieure au premier siècle et trouve son plein développement dans les cercles chrétiens, mais elle n’est pas inconnue à certains cercles rabbiniques. Les spécialistes ont longtemps cherché à archiver de telles idées comme le produit de quelques fous hérétiques, ou du moins de les reléguer aux marges du judaïsme normatif, mais il est 36.  C’est aussi une réception des thèses de Boyarin au niveau plus particulièrement théologique : dans les relations floues entre juifs et chrétiens de l’antiquité tardive, s’ouvre un espace aussi pour le dialogue judéo-chrétien contemporain. Cf. P. Petzel , « Vom Sinn für christlich-jüdische “Unschärferelationen”. Zu Daniel Boyarins “Border lines” », Zeitschrift für katholische Theologie 134 (2012), p. 22‑39.

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devenu toujours plus évident dans la recherche actuelle qu’elles furent prises aux sérieux par certains rabbins et furent durement attaquées par ceux qui seraient arrivés à former le courant principal du judaïsme. C’est un fait incontestable qu’elles furent discutées à l’intérieur du judaïsme rabbinique. Kalmin aussi juge fascinante et convaincante l’argumentation de Boyarin qui montre comment la foi dans le logos fut une doctrine juive acceptable, même dans certains cercles rabbiniques ; celle-ci devient une hérésie seulement au cours des IIIème et IVème siècle. Boyarin va au-delà des évidences accessibles, seulement quand il affirme que, dans l’antiquité tardive, de nombreux juifs, sinon la plupart, se rattachaient à la théologie du logos.

Part  II A nthropology, M ethodologies and Modern H istorical P erspectives

A nthropology and

of

Religious Forms

Identities

NARRATING THE EXECUTION OF JESUS. FOLLOWERS, BURIERS AND WITNESSES CONFRONTING THE VIOLENT DEATH OF THE L EADER Adriana Destro Each death has a specific historical background and cultural location, which can be reconstructed, narrated and interpreted. The ways in which a death occurs – in terms of places, people and times – may offer an opportunity for understanding the reasons why the death took place and for investigating hidden meanings rooted in the environment in which it occurred. The death of an individual can undermine many human lives and redefine many destinies. When it is caused by a brutal action, it can provoke a problematic destruction of the status quo, 1 and be followed by a series of more-or-less deep repercussions. This is even more likely to be the case when a violent death concerns a prominent figure of leader. To address some key aspects of Jesus’ death, it seems useful to (a) briefly recall the environment in which the death occurred, exploring its characteristic features and the way in which events unfolded. It will then be necessary to (b) examine the development of the narratives, i.e. the gospels passed down to us, that address Jesus’ death. Within this perspective space must be devoted to some essential human figures who appear on the stage, in the episode of his death. How do these figures contribute to our understanding of the writings of the authors, their intentions and expectations? Our purpose is to investigate how the authors of the Gospels did not report merely ideas and notions about Jesus and his experience. They gave visibility and attributed roles to some personages. In this way, they consciously shaped and communicated what motivated them, and witnessed what carried them on.

1.  In this discussion, the theme of continuity and discontinuity is taken as a background for more general evaluations. Our approach chiefly seeks to underline discontinuity. The exegetical explanation of the texts we address here may be found in A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014); I id., Il racconto e la scrittura (Roma, 2014). Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 539–575 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111720 ©

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sudde n e n d of

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Textual documentation of the death of Jesus is dishomogeneous. The dramatic events he experienced are placed within various narrative frames 2 that are not always comparable or reconcilable with each other. 3 This is a fact that has often made it difficult to understand the tragedy that struck the man Jesus and his followers. It was not surprising that narrations and analyses surrounding the event had so many intricate repercussions. 4 Knowledge on the death of Jesus is based on narrated facts, visions built and disseminated by texts. Today, in the view of many readers, it is the speed of events that Jesus met which induced his movement, brutally targeted, to pose questions about its environment, and led some of his follow2.  Scholarly literature is constantly increasing. See in particular D.C. A llison, Jesus of Nazareth: Millenarian Prophet (Minneapolis, 1998); I d., The Historical Christ and the Theological Jesus (Grand Rapids, 2009); I d., Constructing Jesus. Memory, Imagination, and History (Grand Rapids, 2010); Y.M. Blanchard – C. Focant – D. Gerber – D. M arguerat, Jésus. Portraits évangeliques (Brussels, 2008); H. Bond, The Historical Jesus. A Guide for the Perplexed (LondonNew York, 2012); M.J. Borg, The Hearth of Christianity (San Francisco, 2003); J.H. Charlesworth, The Historical Jesus. An Essential Guide (Nashville, 2008); M. Casey, Jesus of Nazareth (New York, 2010); H. Cousin – J.P. L emonon – J. M assonnet, Le monde ou vivait Jesus (Paris, 2004); P. Craffert, The Life of a Galilean Shaman (Eugene, 2008); J.-D. Crossan, The Historical Jesus (San Francisco, 1991); I d., Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography (San Francisco, 1994); I d., Who Killed Jesus? (San Francisco, 1995); A. Destro – M. Pesce , Encounters with Jesus (Minneapolis, 2011); I id., La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014); D.C. Duling, A  Marginal Scribe (Eugene, 2012); B.D. Ehrman, Jesus: Apocalyptic Prophet of the New Millennium (New York, 1999); C.A. Evans , Encyclopedia of the Historical Jesus (London, 2008); A. L e Donne , Historical Jesus. What Can We Know and How Can We Know It? (Grand Rapids, 2011); S. Guijarro, Los comienzos del cristianismo (Salamanca, 2006); R.A. Horsley, Jesus and the Spiral of Violence (San Francisco, 1987); G. Jossa, La condanna del Messia (Brescia, 2010); J.P. M eier , A  Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Volume IV, New Haven, 2009; S.C. M imouni, Jacques le Juste, frère de Jésus (Paris, 2015); J.M. Robinson, Jesus. According to the Earliest Witness (Minneapolis, 2007); E.P. Sanders , The Historical Figure of Jesus (London, 1996); B.B. Scott, Finding the Historical Jesus. Rules of Evidence (Santa Rosa, 2008); W. Stegemann, Jesus und seine Zeit (Stuttgart, 2009); G. Theissen – A. M erz , The Historical Jesus: A Comprehensive Guide (Minneapolis, 1998); G. Vermes , The Search for the Real Jesus (London, 2010). 3.  Differences between accounts and witnesses are of extreme importance in our reconstructions of behaviors and the actions of Jesus and his followers. Our cultural distance from the events suggests that we take into careful account dishomogeneities and dissonances. 4. In this connection, see: M.J. Borg, The Hearth of Christianity (San Francisco, 2003); B.D. Ehrman, The Battle for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew (Oxford, 2003); H. Koester , From Jesus to the Gospels (Minneapolis, 2007); M. Casey, The Solution to the Son of Man Problem (London, 2007); D.C. A llison, Constructing Jesus. Memory, Imagination, and History (Grand Rapids, 2010).

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ers to protect themselves and excogitate some form of response. 5 That is to say that the rapidity of his death is a powerful lens that magnifies the scene that followed Jesus’ end. Such rapidity informs or shapes the entire drama of Jesus’ entourage. To draw the picture of Jesus’ story it is useful to bear in mind three basic assumptions. Firstly, his death is the beginning of everything. 6 It is the unexpected, overwhelming event that unleashes beliefs and passions among people. Immediately after the scene of the cross, Jesus’ death prompted people to take conscious positions; it invested them with motivating ideals. It inevitably upset different individuals, and far from a few. Indeed, it presumably aroused polemical conflicts, precisely among those who had believed and followed him. Secondly, at a time of painful upheaval events of the past tend to re-emerge forcefully. Current events are often re-experienced or simply interpreted on the basis of more remote ones. Human beings are prone to re-orient their concrete actions taking into account previous facts. In other words real living experience is understood in the light of a contingent perspective, but it is never independent from the past. After a death the possibility of a thin (but strong) line of continuity between present and past is frequently established. It seems plausible therefore that Jesus’ death spurred all sorts of people to start thinking about what his life had been, along with events before he died. Among his followers, there may have been attempts to enhance his figure among those who had put their faith in him. Historical facts and real experiences may have been presented and interconnected by various actors (for example, in relation to the renewal of the roles, symbols to adopt, available social resources, the loss of security and so forth). Thirdly, in the environment of a dead person, it is normal for people to embark upon considerations and forecasts that can constitute problematic challenges of contingent and structural situations. Indeed, cognitive experiences can be determining factors; but they may differ from person to person, because of actual diverse historical-environmental perspectives (ongoing struggles, radical beliefs, inability to shake off fear). It should be added that, according to the narratives we have, the capture and death of Jesus, which took place in a few hours, were shocking events insofar as they were seen as destructive and irreparable. What is more, they were judged as momentous, also in the cosmic sense. The texts indicate various “apocalyptic facts” 7 that make the depictions of the death intensely dramatic. 5.  Within the small environment of Jesus’ followers, many individuals may have been prisoners of “the angst of the poor” (see. M. Augé , Les nouvelles peurs [Paris, 2013] 10) because they had neither defense nor resources. 6. See A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014) 16. 7.  J.T. Carroll – J.B. Green, The Death of Jesus in Early Christianity (Peabody, 1995) 48‑49.

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The stories surrounding the biography of Jesus 8 convey the impression of an entire world of relationships and resources being stricken by a flash. The shock waves were likely to have been devastating for those who felt bound to Jesus’ movement, who had accepted his leadership and participated in the expectations of the group. 9 In short, it must have been hard not to be swept away and to resist traumatic events. For sure, there were some who did not succeed: the group that accompanied Jesus, a rather non-homogeneous aggregate of people of varying sensibility, 10 was disrupted and dispersed in the space of a night (Mark 14:50; Matthew 26:56). The existence of Jesus’ followers could no longer have the same meaning as when he was alive and their leader. The complex events of Jesus’ death and burial presented by the texts prompt us to formulate several hypotheses, which are not purely theoretical; their purpose is to map the scenario through the actors on stage and their actions. We know that each text has its own plot and its own scenario. In the reading of Carroll and Green, 11 for example, the extensively re-worked versions of Jesus’ death influenced each evangelical author differently. For such scholars, Mark sees Jesus as a “wonder worker,” Matthew sees him as “just a man who is wrongly put to death,” while Luke emphasizes that Jesus is the “Savior” and John stresses the “majestic figure” of Jesus. It seems clear that Jesus’ death marked the end of the “fervent desire” within his movement for the redemption of the Jewish people, as pursued by Jesus. If the change in circumstances was a terrible shock, we ask ourselves: what were the reactions of those who lived close to Jesus, the leader? Had those gathered around him, who shared his life, prefigured a different outcome? 8. Biographical narrations are highly significant in anthropological analysis. Among others, see D. Bertaux,  ed., Biography and Society (London, 1981); D. Bertaux, “L’approche biographique,” Cahiers Internationaux de Sociologie LXIX (1980) 197‑226. P. Bourdieu, “L’illusion biographique,” Actes de la recherche en sciences sociales 62/63 (1986) 69‑72; J. Bruner , “Life as Narrative,” Social Research 54 (1987) 11‑33; M.V. A ngrosino, Documents of Interaction: Biography, Autobiography and Life History in Social Science Perspective (Gainesville, 1989); J. Hoskins , Biographical Objects (London-New York, 1998). 9.  In this presentation we do not use the term “community”. For a critique of this concept see S. Stowers , “The Concept of Community and the History of Early Christianity,” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 23 (2011) 238‑256. See also the debate in B. A nderson, Imagined Communities (London-New York, 1991). For the concept of group in Network-Analysis see J. Scott, Social Network Analysis (London, 2000). 10.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , Come nasce una religione (Roma-Bari, 2000); I id., Encounters with Jesus (Minneapolis, 2011). 11. J.T. Carroll – J.B. Green, The Death of Jesus in Early Christianity (Peabody, 1995) 23‑109.

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One may imagine that, right up until the last minute before his capture, the followers (with some well-known exceptions) believed in Jesus’ project, in his proclamations and expectations. They hoped in his triumph and act in the conviction that it was at hand. The tragedy probably unfolded at a time when the expectations of the followers were high and perhaps increasing. The people who admired Jesus, and his closest followers, were awaiting great events. At the cross they did not see a glorious victory, the successful culmination of their leader’s work. According to the radical teachings of Jesus, his companions had given birth to a specific lifestyle 12 that intensified or revolved the expectation of the advent of the kingdom of God. Albeit in different ways, those who followed him anticipated no less than this advent. In other words, they seemed to believe in an imminent and complete implementation of direct divine rule. From the very outset, they were waiting for redemption, justice and fairness for all Israel. It is narrated that, at a certain point in their itinerant lives, from one village to another, the followers were led by Jesus to Jerusalem to celebrate the most important festival of the year. As is known, it is said that Jesus arrived in the city in triumph, his entrance in the Holy City arousing enthusiasm among people. The fact is narrated as a jubilation. Not just his followers, but also the people in the city streets joined in the rejoicing, singing and celebrating their leader (Mark 11:1-10; Matthew 21:1-16, Luke 19:28-40, John 12:12-19). In few hours – perhaps even because of this popular rejoicing – in Jerusalem, the people were hearing different voices and seeing many signs. It is this sudden passage from jubilant popularity to the ignominy of death on the cross that, we noted, so dramatically affected the followers, far removed as they were from any idea of the ​​ movement’s defeat, much less the death of their leader. The speed of events, as it is narrated, is striking not only insofar as it clearly indicates that the deadly attack against Jesus was around the corner, but also that it was premeditated in secret (until the enactment of a quick condemnation). But it may also be a sign of anxiety, of troubled behavior: Jesus’ enemies did not think that they had much time, and hurried to avoid any further threat. And so it was that Jesus’ death suddenly impacted the lives of many people, first of all his followers. They, not without some trepidation, were experiencing a new form of existence, an important life project. A shameful death put an end to this experience and all that it promised. In the eyes of Jesus’ followers his death seems to cancel all hope of redeeming the people from their difficulties, of seeing a re-foundation and the beginning of God’s salvation. The absence of the leader is so shocking precisely in 12. See A. Destro – M. Pesce , Encounters with Jesus (Minneapolis, 2011) 102‑127.

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the light of this design, which appears unfeasible at this point. The future seems to be at once dark and disturbing. Essentially, prior to the capture of Jesus, his followers were supported by the expectation of their movement’s extraordinary success, in which they would all take part. They thought that they would personally participate in the renewal of Israel. The condemnation and death of their leader abruptly wiped out this hope of Judaic re-foundation and salvation. After the crucifixion, Jesus’ companions found themselves constrained by specific needs: to lend a voice to what they had learned from Jesus, to protect themselves and forge new relationships, so as to spread the desire to follow the teachings of their leader. 13 They wanted, above all, to escape the accusations (and shameful death) inflicted by those who had killed Jesus. Might it have seemed to them the moment for moving towards important, unimagined religious horizons? II. R e - i n t e r pr et i ng J e sus ’

h i s tory a f t e r h i s de at h

We noted that it is likely that many of Jesus’ surviving companions were overtaken by an acute sense of insecurity and disorientation. Such insecurity may have soon prompted unusual and pressing interrogatives. Did it intensify the need to re-understand their existence, to re-position and consolidate themselves? This is a situation that may have gone on for a long time and is likely to have passed through some stormy moments. 14 It is reasonable to accept the idea that, on his death, at least some of those who were closest to Jesus resolved to continue the work he had undertaken. It could well be that the group of early followers 15 embarked on an attempt to understand, precisely in the light of his death, his teachings and to seek an explanation for his tragic end. Looking back to what 13.  In the texts, many names and titles (such as prophet, lord, shaman, teacher, scribe, marginal preacher, messiah) emphasize the figure of Jesus and condition the knowledge of readers. We refrain from entering the debate on this point and use the term leader in the strict sense of guide/teacher of other people. 14.  In order to perceive the complexity of reconstructions, see J.-D. Crossan, The Historical Jesus (San Francisco, 1991); I d., Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography (San Francisco, 1994); I d., Who Killed Jesus? (San Francisco, 1995); S. Guijarro, Los comienzos del cristianismo (Salamanca, 2006); M.F. Bird – J.G. Crossley, How Did Christianity Begin? (Peabody, 2008); A. Destro – M. Pesce , Encounters with Jesus (Minneapolis, 2011); A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014). 15.  For a historical picture of early groups of Jesus’ followers see: R. Aguirre ,  ed., Así empezó el cristianismo (Estella, 2010); C. Gianotto, Ebrei credenti in Gesù. Le testimonianze degli autori antichi (Milano, 2011); G. Theissen, Sociology of Early Palestinian Christianity (Philadelphia, 1978); S.C. M imouni, Jacques le juste, frère de Jésus de Nazareth (Paris, 2015).

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the group had learned and experienced with Jesus, some followers may have tried to find new orientations and escape routes. A new mobility may have sprung up in daily practices of life (about resources, behaviors and communication). It is also plausible that, as is widely accepted by scholars, communities or groups of various size grew up. They were not always known to each other and did not proceed in unison. A plurality of paths and choices did indeed characterize the groups of followers and sympathizers in the post-mortem period. This simplified picture is based on the conviction that the followers were in deep turmoil, but somehow active. Already in the early days, this situation realistically led to a vast number of reports and dishomogeneous versions of the events concerning Jesus. Numerous accounts, sometimes interdependent, may have been in increasing circulation. It is wholly plausible that some of the narratives were locally-based or used by the people of a specific place. 16 For sure, only part of these narrations has been passed down to us. Save for some notable exceptions (e.g. the source of Q sayings 17) they are now unrecoverable. It is difficult to measure or appraise the degree of creativity or commitment of the earliest followers in the post mortem period. At any rate it must be recognized that it was a phase of discontinuous, but effective, spreading activity in the hands of anonymous individuals (not always well informed or coherent). Given these unstable conditions, such activity took root in places and at times that cannot be determined. Only hypotheses can be made in this regard. 18 The early activities of unknown figures (generally mentioned in major later texts) remain a scarcely explored chapter. Such practices are buried in the past and remain outside our view. In other words, the choices that the followers, whoever they were, made and the early results that those choices produced are almost always impenetrable to us. At the present state of knowledge we can seek to assess the “flows of information” on Jesus’ experiences, including his death, starting from the preliminary hypothesis that the material involved came from individual memories and images transmitted by common people. A second hypothesis is that the “flow” generally consisted of fragmented and occasional 16.  H. L efebre , The Production of Space (Oxford, 1991); M. Augé , Not Place. Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity (London, 1995); T. I ngold, The Perception of the Environment (London, 2000); U. H annerz , Transnational Connections. Culture, People, Place (London, 1996). 17.  J. K loppenborg, Excavating Q. The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel (Edinburgh, 2000); S. Guijarro , Los dichos de Jesús. Introducción al Documento Q (Salamanca, 2014). 18. The basis of our hypotheses on places and transmission are discussed in A. Destro – M. Pesce , Il racconto e la scrittura (Roma, 2014).

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evidence. 19 In any case, it is legitimate to suppose that the behavior of these early story-tellers depended on the interpretations of those who were shaken and downcast by Jesus’ end. Nonetheless, despite the uncertainties and difficulties, they were people who sought tenaciously not to allow the facts about Jesus to fall into unforgivable oblivion. Clearly, the earliest tellers were sometimes extremely close in time to the events of the crucifixion. Probably, many early rumors and stories were amended, from group to group, from period to period. They were in the hands of those who wanted to provide a direction to the group to which they belonged. The accounts cannot be considered merely as resulting from the emotions of the moment, from eye-witnesses (for example, at the foot of the cross). They are the result of exchanges, intersections of news regarding Jesus’ life and teachings that had gradually accumulated. It is conceivable that the various initial accounts depended on the followers who had painfully experienced the injustice suffered by their leader, and felt the need for self-defense, redress or something similar. It is likely that those first reports constituted a counter-maneuver against lack of integration, or a strong sense of religious isolation of the followers. They may also have been the outcome, as will be seen, of the impotence and social marginalization of their groups. The death/loss of their leader could, therefore, have given rise to an acute sense of danger and grief. In short, a large number of variegated choices and orientations will have emerged, at many levels and under dissimilar circumstances. The earliest reactions may have been prompted by needs that we can no longer reconstruct or that cannot be understood today. They will certainly have had to respond to certain needs of identity, 20 which were becoming urgent, since the political and religious environments were under change. They had to face cultural discomforts, uneasiness. In other words, the companions or sympathizers of Jesus who passed on the initial accounts were not always in the position to give clear pictures or provide first-hand information. It therefore seems prudent to suppose that the earliest interpretations, because of their lack of uniformity and stability, became more and more complex. They inevitably superimposed on each other. It should be borne in mind that given the public activities of Jesus, comments and rumors about him may have been constantly renewed and elaborated. The infor19.  It is possible to select and approximately map some places whence witnesses and news spread. See A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014) 99‑136. 20.  On identity see F. R emotti, Contro l ’identità (Roma-Bari, 2007); I d., L’ossessione identitaria (Roma-Bari, 2010); P. Yeager ,  ed., The Geography of Identity (Ann Arbor, 1996); J-L. A mselle , Logiques métisses (Paris, 1990).

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mation of the immediate aftermath was filtered and re-filtered, and not without obvious consequences. The course taken by the various mythmaking and informal testimonies was probably irregular. The networks of dissemination fluctuated, sometimes weakening, sometimes strengthening. The information probably tended to be accepted without check or comparison to the actual facts. In this perspective, we feel that a somewhat fragmented post-mortem spreading of information should be taken as a natural and genuine background by those persons who had the misfortune to bear the brunt of Jesus’ drama. It is a context that allows us to sketch some plausible outlines of the tragedy of Jesus, while bearing in mind the historical complexities that certainly weighed on the “actors upon the stage.” 21 III. S ta rt i ng

from t h e de at h of

J e sus

The Land of Israel is the background of Jesus’ activities and the place where his project must be located. 22 The condition of the Jewish people, as it appears in the eyes of a religious man who devoted all his energies to the needs of the “lost sheep of Israel,” is what gives meaning to his story. 23 We have remarked how the conviction and execution of Jesus, sudden and overwhelming for his followers, belong to the history of the Jewish people under Roman domination. However, the Romans were neither the focal point nor the main addressees of Jesus’ actions. His story essentially concerns the Jews of the Land of Israel, their suffering, and the divine intervention over them. It is significant that the drama of Jesus takes place during the greatest religious festival (Pesach, according to the Gospels of Mark, Luke, Matthew, and the eve according to John) that regulates and punctuates Jewish life. In other words, the general outline of Jesus’ story emerges in the texts not only in the framework of Jewish religious customs, but at a solemn 21.  In our volume Encounters with Jesus (Minneapolis, 2011), we emphasize the lifestyle and practices of Jesus, his leadership, his entourage and itinerant activities. In La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014), we deal with his death. We trace the profile of some relevant personages or individuals, not simply Jesus’ followers. Where possible, we set the former in the foreground. 22.  K.C. H anson – D. Oakman, Palestine in the Time of Jesus (Minneapolis, 2008); R.A. Horsley, Jesus and the Powers (Minneapolis, 2011); D. Oakman, Jesus and the Peasants (Eugene, 2008). 23.  The definition of the social localization of Jesus’ thought is a difficult task. It is necessary to take into account the ecological situation of Galilee, its physical characteristics and the importance of the lake. In this connection, see S. Freyne , Jesus, A Jewish Galilean. A New Reading of the Jesus-Story (London-New York, 2004) 24‑59.

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time, an essential occasion. It obviously should be noted that, in view of the festive circumstances, the putting to death of a condemned man, such as Jesus, must of course be done in full legality – not simply without delay – to avoid leaving the corpse unburied (which would contaminate the ground 24). In the texts of the Gospel, in short, the event of the cross gives the impression of an operation that is put in the hands of the highest (Roman and Jewish, political and religious) authorities. Some main figures occupy unequivocally high positions. The Roman elite of Jerusalem, in particular, had a duty to prevent possible riots, while the religious authorities had to close the case of Jesus without interfering with or disturbing the solemn feast. Jesus’ crucifixion is positioned within an institutional religious context, close to a celebration, during which specific rites must be performed and specific results obtained. The execution of a condemned man, however, is something that stands out within this ritual backdrop. To some it must have appeared an unfortunate accident. For others, it may have seemed a necessary fact: it was a rather common procedure that could be scheduled precisely to coincide with festivities. Possibly, some secretly sought to accelerate the public execution by taking hasty decisions. Ultimately, Jesus’ execution is a problematic event that is firmly wedged within a symbolic and religious process (which should be of liberation, religious renewal-expiation) that is full of sensitive issues. In the Gospels the fatal event is explained as a direct result of the attacks against Jesus that had gone on since the very beginning of his activity. His enemies had long been seeking his capture and elimination (Mark 11:18; John 11:46‑53). They wished to put an end to his activity once and for all, but wanted to avoid unrest and riots. The tactics initially adopted by the authorities seems rather cautious, even if motivated by serious hostility. This set of strategies and choices leads us to reflect on Jesus’ knowledge of his situation. Given the dangers looming over him, it is clear that he was conscious of the risks he ran, and on several occasions he had been forced to take into account the possibility of being arrested and sentenced. That was why, according to the Gospels, he sometimes evaded the onslaught of the crowd (who wanted to capture him). The texts show how sometimes he escaped by flight, in hiding, and tried to avoid getting involved in the maneuvers, real or imaginary, of his enemies. 25 In the end, Jesus accepted his death.

24.  The basis of the pattern concerning the contamination of the earth comes from Deut 21:22‑23. 25.  It should be noted that Jesus retired to isolated and probably safer places also for praying.

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From the representations that have reached us one senses that the authors attribute to Jesus specific intentions to defend himself and a clear desire to continue his activity. Narrators and disseminators of stories probably saw him as a man who confronted the pressures of the environment in which he lived, but was determined to pursue his own convictions or projects. In the eyes of the narrators, Jesus never gives in to fear. Certainly, he does not appear to seek death voluntarily. 26 On the contrary, at most times in his life he avoids it as far as is objectively possible. 27 It is worth noting that the type of leadership attributed to Jesus is religious in character, 28 founded on trust in divine power and having as its goal the coming of the kingdom of God. And it is in religious terms that we should view his way of dealing with conflicts, debates and complaints that punctuated his life. Put differently, the Gospels present Jesus as a guide who feels solidarity with the less fortunate and needy. He lives in close contact with ordinary people, he seeks them, interacting face-to-face, bestowing help and protection to those who follow him. He calls on some to “give up their goods” and proclaims to all the need to make ready for the divine kingdom. 29 It is undeniable that the actions of Jesus among the population certainly gave rise to socio-political repercussions. It may have influenced the religious or institutional position of his followers in society, their lifestyle, their positioning in a broad sense. The fact remains that Jesus shows no sign of wanting to seize power, to join the elite or dominant levels. He sets out to denounce their mistakes and crimes, and he suggests possible changes. His accusations are against the wicked and the unjust. He is presented as a figure who does not claim a role in social processes of decisionmaking or any form of institutional relevance. Jesus appears as a religious personage, a stranger to the ruling strata, who wants to prepare the people to accept a reversal, a restoration of Jewish life. He aspires to the birth of a religious system based on peace, abundance and justice. His experience substantially – and systemically – remains within these religious boundaries.

26.  M. Casey has a precise vision in this regard: “I have argued that the conflicts during Jesus’ ministry were quite sufficient for him to have expected to die. More than that, when he left Galilee to celebrate his final Passover with his disciples, he fully intended to die in Jerusalem” ( Jesus of Nazareth [New York, 2010] 401). Our reading of Mk 11‑15 does not lead us to the same conclusion. In any case, we are convinced that ordinary people believed that Jerusalem was the only place, real or imagined, suitable to die. 27.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014) 80‑83; 233‑240. 28.  D.E. Oakman, The Political Aims of Jesus (Minneapolis, 2012) 76. 29.  This invitation of Jesus measures many things: the good will or kindness of the person, the type of discipleship Jesus was building and the dependence of the group on environmental resources.

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It is precisely on the basis of this set of considerations that we have come to consider the physical death of Jesus as the crucial “point of departure” of many representations that have been handed down over time. 30 It is through a failure, a horrible death that Jesus, the leader of crowds of the dispossessed, becomes understandable and acquires a following. To understand what was “attributed” to Jesus by disseminators and narrators, we increasingly set out to observe persons who physically attended him immediately after his death. In our opinion the accounts of the care of his dead body suggest a number of interconnected hypotheses. At the very least they inform us that those who wrote his story (and shared some of his intentions) did not emphasize a few “abstract notions” of what Jesus was or did. They rather described, through specific personages, their own world (or the world of those in whose favor they wished to act) and the goals of their own undertakings. IV. A  cu lt u r a l

a n d r e l igious r e - i n v e n t ion

Generally, as we have seen, the event of a leader’s death can trigger feelings of grief, withdrawal and resignation. For some such death is wholly unacceptable. Indeed, it may constitute a stimulus to action, a reason for advancing claims or developing a will to fight. What cannot be denied is the fact that, with Jesus’ death, the “group of followers who had been with him” was shattered and dispersed. One can imagine, however, that there began a slow process of emergence of resources and capabilities among those who remained faithful to Jesus (with new grouping, new storytellers and new forms of communication). All this upheaval may also have had repercussions on the thoughts and intentions of opponents and enemies. We return to the fact that the narratives of Jesus’ closest disciples were able to connect the past with the present, adapting the old setting in order to meet new needs. 31 For the disciples the past times spent with Jesus 30. See R.A. Horsley – J.S. H anson, Bandits, Prophets and Messiahs (San Francisco, 1985); R.A. Horsley, Jesus and the Spiral of Violence (San Francisco, 1987); J.-D. Crossan, Who Killed Jesus? (San Francisco, 1995); M. Gibson, Order from Chaos: Responding to Traumatic Events (Birmingham, 1998); B.J. M alina, The Social Gospel of Jesus (Minneapolis , 2001); E.K. Rynearson, Retelling Violent Death (Philadelphia, 2001); G. Jossa, La condanna del Messia (Brescia, 2010); D.E. Oakman, The Political Aims of Jesus (Minneapolis, 2012); A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014). 31.  On such processes, see E. Tonkin, Narrating Our Pasts (Cambridge, 1992); P. Nora, Les lieux de la mémoire (Paris, 1994); H. Moxnes , Putting Jesus in His Place (Louisville-London, 2003); C. Severi, Il percorso e la voce (Torino, 2004); A. K irk – T. Thatcher , Memory, Tradition, and Text. Uses of the Past in Early Christianity (Leiden, 2005).

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became a means of re-acquiring space and vigor. It often occurs that when a leader dies it becomes necessary – and this is the case with Jesus – to strengthen and enlarge his figure through the re-ordering of knowledge related to his action and status. Thus, we enter the realm of more-or-less reliable historical reconstruction of specific environments and complex contexts. 32 Generally speaking, the influence of a leader’s followers and sympathizers closely depends on the degree of involvement and participation they have in his project. Acting together with Jesus, some of them were indirectly co-responsible for strategies and choices. At the moment of his death it is they who willingly take up the project – partially adapted or modified – that was previously conceived of and pursued by the leader. Certainly, for some followers the idea of preserving hope in the kingdom might have been of prime importance. In other cases events may have appeared very worrying because of the followers’ precarious position and fear for the future. Many of them withdrew and disappeared. In brief, it is plausible that the surviving, weak movement embarked upon a process of cultural and religious reinvention, rather than upon a process evoking an impossible recovery of the past. It seems likely that the group did not seek pure continuity with what had been its existence before Jesus’ death. In fact, inevitable symptomatic revisions and disputes arose even among the closest and most faithful companions of Jesus. After Jesus’ death the group closest to him held a vast store of experience and memories. 33 That is to say, it had gone through the distressing experience of losing its leader, seeing the dispersion of old mates, suffering dislocation from familiar places, being forced into hiding and facing disputes. The story of some followers may equally have been marked by acts of rethinking or of taking a distance, as much as total dedication. To think today merely in terms of a continuity of the group after Jesus’ death 32.  Cf. J. Vansina, Oral Tradition as History (London, 1985). 33. Scholarly approaches to the problem of the passage from Jesus’ history to that of the surviving followers are numerous and diverse. See H. Koester , Ancient Christian Gospels (Philadelphia-London, 1990); I d., From Jesus to the Gospels (Minneapolis, 2007); P. Fredriksen, From Jesus to Christ (New Haven-London, 2000); E ad., Jesus of Nazareth, King of Jews (New York, 1999); G. Theissen – A. M erz , The Historical Jesus: A Comprehensive Guide (Minneapolis, 1998); S. Guijarro, Los comienzos del cristianismo (Salamanca, 2006); M. Casey, The Solution to the Son of Man Problem (London, 2007); D. M arguerat, L’aube du christianisme (Geneva, 2008); M.F. Bird – J.G. Crossley, How Did Christianity Begin? (Peabody, 2008); D.C. A llison, The Historical Christ and the Theological Jesus (Grand Rapids, 2009); W. Stegemann, Jesus und seine Zeit (Stuttgart, 2009); A. L e Donne , Historical Jesus. What Can We Know and How Can We Know it? (Grand Rapids, 2011); M. Pesce , Da Gesù al Cristianesimo (Brescia, 2011); A. Destro – M. Pesce , Il racconto e la scrittura (Roma, 2014).

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or of a system totally in line or consistent with the one he initiated is an approach that is likely to be unrealistic and misleading. Overall, in the eyes of Jesus’ surviving followers it was necessary to seek a re-legitimation of the dead leader and to reactivate those who had been his companions and disciples. The enterprise was both hard and intricate. The religious line undertaken by the followers was a true alternative to the general environment. It was motivated by a deep shock coming from the recent dramatic past. But it was directed to innovation. It was an endeavor involving both conservation and change. It is hard to understand what happened, what changed and was actually imagined for the future. Despite uncertainties and difficulties, the situation emerged after Jesus’ death certainly offered an opportunity for strengthening some ties. It had strictly linked the dead leader to the environment he had left behind. Jesus remained the ideal eternal leader, ever present and irreplaceable.  3 4 V. Th e

l e a de r a n d t hose w ho fol low h i m

At this point, we need to take a step back to reflect on the leader-follower relationship. Generally, a leader is a person with the ability to relate or interact with different listeners/addressees, who may be close and familiar or, sometimes, institutional and distant. To be considered a leader, first of all, the individual in question must be able to recognize and meet people’s needs, and identify the concrete possible outcomes of a group or a people. A leader is one who knows how to develop and direct people’s preferences, and to build upon their ideas and resources. At the same time, he is also able to formulate or envisage utopian goals, and to reverse roles and settings previously considered immutable. His insights become the center of the worldview and of the daily interrelations of those who join him. In short, he can make it clear to his addressees that he can provide answers and build opportunities. Thanks to his influence a religious leader can dominate the lives of vast heterogeneous groups. He personally lives in a highly unusual condition. Sometimes he is alone, isolated from the others. He may need to mark a distance and make use of clearly oppositional words or signs. This can give rise either to total adhesion or to dissonance and cultural resistance. There are many forms of expression, whether rigid or flexible, which can emerge within the entourage of a religious leader. It must be remembered that leader-follower relationships are not simply the outcomes of complex sentiments, and/or ingrained mindsets that are hard to express (devotion, respect, solidarity, faith and so on). They 34.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014) 162‑164.

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are mainly generated by a large variety of socio-historical factors such as instability, economic weakness, political superiority, ethnic differentiation, marginalization, deep hopes and expected achievements. Leaders and followers are mutually useful or indispensable. Without active and willing followers there are no leaders in the Weberian sense. The leaders express the objectives and strategies of the followers and guide them. Clearly, the figure of Jesus cannot be encapsulated by a few individual traits of his personality. A vast host of listeners, interlocutors and, not least, opponents (or persons occasionally hostile to him) helps to provide us with an image of the experience he embodied. It should be added that the thread that bound together Jesus’ followers presumably unravelled into irregular trajectories. There are various traces of them in the Gospels: the texts report episodes of dissent, abandonment and misunderstanding. It is therefore plausible that in the node existing between Jesus and his disciples ideas emerged that were crucial to the movement. We may often be unable to reconstruct them. Moreover, it is important to note that the activity of a religious leader may be relatively mysterious and essentially unrepeatable. True, the presentation of Jesus depends, and in no small measure, on his quality as a radical and sharp person, generous with weak people. Nonetheless, in spite of everything his personal life, which is an essential part of his religious and moral authority, often remains in the dark. The physical end of a religious head, moreover, may alter or delete some of the links between leader and followers, but not all of them. As we have remarked, it may strengthen some or give birth to unforeseen outcomes. The dead leader is the object of intense exaltation and glorification which, together, tend to replace the evaluations that existed prior to his death. In addition, death is often a time when affiliations and resources are revealed, or the strategies of the leader are discovered and made clear. Specific aspects of the life of the leader are commented on and disseminated in order to combat the decline of his entourage, and sometimes to defeat oblivion. In Jesus’ case the actual scene of his death may have been emphasized and even modified to better defend the people left behind. 35 The post mortem period, in other words, can be a time that allows the construction of a more organic environment, rooted in an “excellent and inimitable image” of the leader and his people. This image sometimes incorporates elements of unreality that can clearly affect the lives of those who celebrated or fought the deceased. Around the dead leader struggles among individuals and groups of followers often show minor events occur35. The death of a prominent figure can stimulate or motivate those who remain. It can revitalize important aspects of life (self-concepts, duties, reactions, targets). In Jesus’ case, as already noted, it puts the followers, left alone, in a position to launch a project capable of re-energizing the survivors.

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ring in the time before his death (ones that were left unclear or were considered unimportant). This is made possible because the death of a leader – as with all deaths – essentially arrests ongoing affairs, contacts and roles. There is a pause, a space where reinvention, mobility and creativity may spring up. A death, especially when sudden, opens the way to more or less acute periods of discontinuity. VI. We a k

soci a l s tat us of

J e sus

a n d h i s fol low e r s

In the overall picture of Jesus’ death, considerable relevance lies in the fact that he was not a man of the institutions, or the expression of their organization. He belonged to the social stratum that enjoyed neither privileges nor security. His position was at an intermediate level between a small dominant minority and a large majority of weak and problematic “middling figures”. 36 It has been seen that there were variously hostile forces opposing Jesus. His followers shared this basic condition. 37 It is easy to believe that after Jesus’ death disagreements sprang up among the followers – concerning who should do what, or which path should be followed – precisely because of the unfavorable conditions in which they lived. Among the marginalized and powerless many kinds of challenges can prove hard and decisive. In a very concrete way the followers were face-to-face with the problem of how to see themselves, their past life, and possible future actions. During Jesus’ lifetime they had accepted an itinerant lifestyle and shared the ideals of a radical leader. After the crucifixion there was much else to accept. It is very plausible that, in organizing their action and redemption, they experienced discouraging and precarious conditions. At a far later date the texts provide information on symptomatic cases of struggles. Relations between Antioch and Jerusalem, Pauline references to the “pillars” of the movement (Gal 2:9) and the dispute between Peter and Paul on basic rules (Gal 2:11‑14) appear as significant issues. They highlight processes of self-construction and gradual expansion. The followers close to Jesus after the tragedy had no plan or support to protect 36. The discussion on the “middling figures” is extremely important for the social locations of the writers, cf. S. Rollens , Framing Social Criticism in the Jesus Movement (Tübingen, 2014) 44‑79. The point stressed is the fact that the authors narrate such figures because they belong to the same levels of the writers and themselves, and their institutional marginality is before the authors’ own eyes. 37.  In the authors’ vision, Jesus’ entourage was weak and fragile, and the crowd that surrounded him sought his support (healing and freedom from the spirits). Jesus is depicted as a welcoming, generous teacher and protector, but far from the elite levels.

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them. They likely lived in a state of instability and tension. Almost certainly they were in the midst of controversies, in-fighting or mutual disagreements. Their lifestyles were very far from a peaceful development, a process of shared revival. The person of a leader, whether dead or alive, often assumes traits and aims that either succeed brilliantly or fail miserably depending on the actual situations s/he has to confront. The environment may determine relevant images of such a person, of his/her powerful or impotent status. In particular, the images of the loser prophet, the righteous sufferer, the murdered victim (on whom all types of blame fall), the Messiah and the divine envoy, all recurring figures present in Jewish consciousness at one time or another, may alternatively convey an impression of cultural strength and continuity or weakness and discontinuity. Often, such dishomogeneous images may imply or suggest unexpected solutions (halfway between reality and ideality). Jesus’ followers were seemingly convinced that their leader would turn out triumphant. This means that the searing images of weakness that the movement’s members might have conceived of themselves were balanced by the hope for a glorious outcome. This longing for result might have marshaled resources into their lives and released new energy. After the death of the leader the memory of this hope in the survivors, and the motivations underpinning it, do not appear to have been extinguished. Nonetheless, the followers were presumably unable, for a certain time, to emerge from their condition of social fragility and instability. Even in conditions of marginalization, they probably continued to seek comfort and confirmation in Jesus’ experiences. VII. Th e

e a r l i e s t i n for m at ion on

J e sus ’

de at h

It is very difficult to know how the first stories, the ones that emerged immediately following Jesus’ death, were born and the type of information about the past that was circulating. 38 It has been claimed that the activi38.  On the link between narrating and memorizing, see P. Bourdieu, Esquisse d ’une théorie de la pratique (Geneva, 1974); E. Pagel , The Gnostic Gospels (New York, 1979); D. Bertaux,  ed., Biography and Society (London, 1981); G.E. M arcus , “Rhetoric and the Ethnographic Genre in Anthropological Research,” in J. Ruby, ed., A  Crack in the Mirror (Philadelphia, 1982) 163‑171; I d., “Ethnography in/of the World System,” Annual Review of Anthropology 24 (1995) 95‑117; C. Geertz , Local Knowledge (New York, 1983); I d., Works and Lives. The Anthropologist as Author (Stanford, 1988); V. Crapanzano, “Life Histories,” American Anthropologist 86 (1984) 953‑960; J. Vansina, Oral Tradition as History (London, 1985); G.E. M arcus – M.M.J. Fischer , Anthropology as Cultural Critique (Chicago, 1986); J. Bruner , “Life as Narrative,” Social Research 54 (1987) 11‑33;

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ties of narration started very early. They were in the hands of a large variety of people belonging to different social strata. 39 These rather indefinite figures were problematic and rather ambiguous. “People who experience this ambiguity are marginal not only to the socio-political elite but also to the larger, underprivileged group that constitutes the majority of the population”.  4 0 With the rising numbers of sophisticated stories the relationships among followers changed. The earliest group of surviving followers dissolved. After considerable time an other movement developed, motivated by various expectations. After Jesus’ execution many previously existing memories inevitably had to be revisited. They were reinterpreted and, perhaps, manipulated. A new experiential framework influenced the way things were remembered and the way stories were constructed. 41 Both individuals and groups developed their own visions. The audience grew, the addressees broadened. 42 The literary genres multiplied. As mentioned before, the followers were no longer the same as those of the early times. They remain middling figures, even though some backgrounds varied: the groups in fact included Hellenized Jews or ethnically hybrid individuals. In other words, in an attempt to overcome the crisis new groups came into being (thanks to meetings, journeys and cross-contacts), giving rise J. Goody, The Interface between the Written and Oral (Cambridge, 1987); I d., The Power of Written Tradition (Washington-London, 2000); J. Clifford, The Predicament of Culture (Berkeley, 1988); B. Cohn, An Anthropologist Among the Historians, and Other Essays (Delhi, 1990); J.Z. Smith, To Take Place (Chicago, 1992); I d., Map is Not Territory (Chicago, 1993 [1978]); E. Tonkin, Narrating our Past (Cambridge, 1992); R.F. Byron, “Ethnography and Biography. On the Understanding of Culture,” Ethnos 57 (1992) 192‑205; J. Comaroff – J. Comaroff, Ethnography and the Historical Imagination (Boulder, 1992); D. Fabre , Écritures ordinaires (Paris, 1993); M. Detienne , Transcrire les mythologies (Paris, 1994); H. Koester , “The Memory of Jesus,” Harvard Theological Review 91 (1998) 335‑350; J.L. R eed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus (Harrisburg, 2000); T.C. Mournet, Oral Tradition and Literary Dependency (Tubingen, 2005); A. K irk – T. Thatcher , Memory, Tradition, and Text. Uses of the Past in Early Christianity (Leiden, 2005); Y.M. Blanchard – C. Focant – D. Gerber – D. M arguerat, Jésus. Portraits évangeliques (Brussels, 2008); D.C. A llison, Constructing Jesus. Memory, Imagination, and History (Grand Rapids, 2010); S. R adstone – B. Schwartz , ed., Memory, Histories, Theories, Debates (New York, 2010); P.J. Botha, Orality and Literacy in Early Christianity (Eugene, 2012); A. Destro – M. Pesce , Il racconto e la scrittura (Roma, 2014) 68‑69. 39.  See in S. Rollens , Framing Social Criticism in the Jesus Movement (Tübingen, 2014) 51‑75, the important debate about the matter. 40.  S. Rollens , Framing Social Criticism in the Jesus Movement (Tübingen, 2014) 53. 41.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , Il racconto e la scrittura (Roma, 2014) 68‑69. 42.  The followers could use a variety of writings patterns. The literary genres available to them included letters, testaments, farewells, discourses, lists of words, accounts, etc.

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to remarkable, but differentiated aims and challenges. Some basic cultural aspects changed and their symbolic capital as such increased. Narrative accounts always incorporate the points of view of the observer, who directs her/his gaze on past human and social events. 43 Two points must be clarified in the case of Jesus. (a) We believe that in the earliest days of the post-mortem movement nobody possessed texts concerning Jesus’ last will (such as testaments, farewell speeches, letters of instruction). Among his closest followers information circulated in the form of private and informal communication. Whatever the nature of this information we can only assume that the diffusion of news was to some extent occasional and incomplete. However, it must have reflected the collective imagery or knowledge of the crowd that moved with Jesus. Without any doubt, it constituted the basis for the production of later written texts (canonical or non-canonical). (b) As a result, the information in circulation was presumably increasingly influenced by the projects of the narrators. It became less occasional and more systematic. The entire dissemination process appears surprising, when we consider that many narrators had neither met nor listened to Jesus. They had only heard stories from others. Thus, the node between seeing, hearing, narrating and manipulating evidently becomes highly complex. Ultimately, the earliest communication techniques were possibly employed haphazardly in ambiguous or distorted relationships, which nevertheless turned out to be infinitely influential. In short, within the environment of the first groups, the lack of verification or the impossibility of controlling information could not prevent news from flying and finding fertile ground on which it could multiply or be played down. It is hard, however, to say with certainty. Modern theories on memory, cognitive acts and their dissemination  4 4 help us to perceive the wide playing field that was the backdrop to the search for news. Many hypotheses may be formulated. S. Rollens notes:

43.  The past that interests us is known as the time of “passion”; see D.C. A lliConstructing Jesus. Memory, Imagination, and History (Grand Rapids, 2010) 387‑433. We are convinced that the representations of such pasts may contain some historical data, but largely depend on the intellectual preferences and religious aims of their authors. 44.  M. H albwachs , La mémoire collective (Paris, 1997); A. A ssmann – S. Conrad,  ed., Memory in a Global Age: Discourses, Practices and Trajectories (Houndmills-New York, 2010); A. A ssmann – L. Shortt, Memory and Political Change (Houndmills-New York, 2012); A. Erll , Kollektives Gedächtnis und Erinnerungskulturen: Eine Einführung (Stuttgart-Weimar, 2005); A. Erll – A. Nünning ,  ed., Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook (Berlin, 2008); A. Erll – A. R igney,  ed., Mediation, Remediation and the Dynamics of Cultural Memory (Berlin, 2009). son,

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The stories preserved by the gospels, in particular, say next to nothing about those who would have written and shaped these traditions […]. Scholars have yet to work out a solid model for thinking about the relationship between this original oral tradition and the rather erudite texts that later authors produced. 45

The experience of Jesus, throughout all time, has ignited the imagination and “set the world on fire”. Generation after generation, new interpretations and viewpoints of narrators have multiplied, we cannot know how. Today it is accepted that, in the usual order of things, the transmission of events, even exceptional ones, may take place sometimes very rapidly, and other times fleetingly or irregularly. It is also believed that memorization is not reserved only for well-informed eyewitnesses who are aware of what they are experiencing. Ordinary flows of communication spread in all directions, carrying with them many kinds of material.  4 6 Today, the problem of the events leading Jesus to the cross and the consequences of his death is far from obsolete or resolved, either from a historical viewpoint, or from a religious-cultural one. On the contrary, the historically indubitable violent death of Jesus remains obscure and problematic. The circumstances surrounding it are anything but clear. The events remain shrouded in darkness, in need of investigation and study. VIII. I n t e r pr et i ng

v iol e n t de at h

Before speaking of the written narrations or scriptures passed down, decades after decades after Jesus’ death, it is necessary to reflect briefly on his last days. In our book La morte di Gesù (2014) which re-examines the crucial moments of Jesus’ execution, 47 we find ourselves again confronting the fact that there are divergences and contradictions among the writings. The analysis of these discrepancies has become “the problem” in need of urgent address. Jesus meets his death in a situation which in itself is not unusual or inconceivable, given the time in question and players on stage. His crucifixion is correctly viewed in the context of the Roman regime’s penal 45.  S. Rollens , Framing Social Criticism in the Jesus Movement (Tübingen, 2014) 2. 46. See A. Destro – M. Pesce , Il racconto e la scrittura (Roma, 2014); Z.A. Crook , “Memory and the Historical Jesus: A Review Article,” Biblical Theological Bulletin 42 (2012) 461‑478. 47.  The violence suffered by Jesus is historically and culturally central, and not only in the texts. Unfortunately, the concrete detailed events have not been closely analyzed by all scholars. Crucial everyday events did not always receive the attention that historical circumstances, expressed in the texts themselves, deserve.

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system. At the same time, Jesus’ execution is neither a natural nor a predictable event. It is an episode involving many actors, upsetting plans and expectations. Spreading the news of the tragic event is an integral part of the message and became the focus of the discourse on Jesus. There is a great difference between a natural death and one inflicted by political power or foreign ruling class. Not only does a natural death lack cultural-religious resonance, but it attracts less commentary and reaction than a violently imposed one. Both forms have a distinct biologicalphysical or cultural rationale. It is reasonable to believe that had Jesus died because of natural or accidental causes, the narratives would have generated fewer questions or contestations. The violent death of Jesus is shocking because it “requires clarification”: it calls for analysis to elucidate the historical and personal circumstances of the actors on the stage, the tangle of motivations that galvanize them. In cases of violence the writings show that people seek explanations and tend to demand redress. The violent death of a leader can nourish painful, troubling memories every time it is recalled or examined. It is rarely forgotten or played down. Even after a long time has elapsed it continues to fuel a search for causes and effects, and has enormous impact on plans for the future. If Jesus had not been put to death, there would be no need to identify the characters involved nor the need, as will be seen, to entrust his body to certain specific figures. The events preceding and following the death of the leader would have received other representations, other commentaries. Perhaps no mention would have been made of the Sanhedrin’s decision, the coming feast or the actions of the soldiers and the people of Jerusalem, and other such affairs. Space might have been given to remarks on the unshakable expectations that Jesus had raised. Without the violence of the cross Jesus’ activities and actions might have been considered as lacking relevance. Their impact changed precisely because of the intervention of the deadly accusation, in the presence of enigmatic cultural and historical markers. Essentially, the violence widened the field of observation, leading people to emphasize the circumstances arising from the sudden killing of Jesus. At any rate, it should be noted that for the followers to comment on the death of their leader meant honoring him and providing a “just” representation of the group linked to his name. Little is known of Jesus’ state of mind upon arrest and conviction. What did he really think and know about what was occurring? When did he realize that death was imminent and unavoidable? The various narratives open up many fields of investigation. It means that the process of reconstructing the figure of Jesus involves a delicate analysis (inevitably in progress) of his thoughts and emotions. 48 As has become apparent, we believe Jesus had become increasingly aware that defeat could be very 48.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , Encounters with Jesus (Minneapolis, 2011) 155‑169.

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close. Nonetheless, he continued his work, remaining among the people and responding to the problems of the crowd. Although well aware of the fate of John the Baptist, 49 for example, Jesus went on pursuing his goals. His intention was to offer hope and redemption to the people and prepare for the time of the advent of the kingdom. IX. L at e r ,

s t ruct u r e d

“ m ajor ”

t e x ts

It is difficult to understand the phases of uncertainty suffered by the followers in the earliest stages of writing. 50 It is conceivable that they had different impacts on the flows of information and the transmission methods adopted. It has been hypothized that the spreading of news in various forms (anecdotes, gossip, rumors, personal memories) 51 was generalized and somewhat haphazard. Sharing and retelling the story may have had the function of softening the painful loss and filling the void created by Jesus’ death. The material that had circulated since the earliest times was compiled in sophisticated and systematic texts. Starting from the fragmentary character of the material, later writers sought to reformulate and re-order events. The earliest narrators presumably possessed information of varying degrees of reliability, which was probably passed on informally to occasional recipients. Some considerable time after these early fragmentary and unverified stories, began a period of what we refer to as “the time of the major texts”, i.e. of systematic writing. 52 The organic composition of such writing evolved, but there is little explicit evidence of what exactly occurred (the case of Luke 1:1‑4 is enlightening). Also in the second phase, the environmental and historical conditions were non-homogeneous. Those in possession of information about Jesus’ 49.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014) 104‑106. 50.  Writing never emerges from unidirectional work or from transparent and linear proceedings. Many influential and interwoven “politics of writing” probably intervene in the creation of the background of Jesus’ death. See M. Casey, Jesus of Nazareth (New York, 2010) 445‑453, about the crucifixion narratives. 51.  A. Destro, “Strategie delle parole e profili di leader. Un punto di vista antropologico sulle parole di Gesù,” in M. Pesce – M. R escio, ed., La trasmissione delle parole di Gesù nei primi tre secoli (Brescia, 2011) 33‑69. 52.  In anthropological studies a major debate went on for several decades on the interconnection between orality and writing. Among others, see J. Goody, The Interface Between the Written and the Oral (Cambridge, 1987); C. Geertz , Works and Lives. The Anthropologist as Author (Stanford, 1988); D. Fabre , Écritures ordinaires (Paris, 1993); P.J. Botha, Orality and Literacy in Early Christianity (Eugene, 2012). We believe that the two processes cannot be imagined in terms of a temporal sequence.

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death made use of the lines of transmission to which they had access. However, much information, whether revised or manipulated, was probably collected in texts containing specific themes and addressed to specific recipients. In this phase the authors were eager to recall Jesus’ experience. They reasonably wanted to avoid silence and oblivion. 53 Their concrete aim was to underscore Jesus’ message and to legitimize themselves. A conscious employment of writing developed: it was based on assumptions that varied, from person to person and from one period to another. It is presumable, however, that the gospels (which were sometimes retold orally) were intended chiefly to restore continuity with Jesus. 54 Writing is at this point in the hands of experts, figures of a certain cultural level. 55 They are not simply “middling men.” They are no longer the oral narrators we spoke of earlier, because they probably are more aware of their programmatic position and of their specific environments. The early texts (generally, oral) and the subsequent (more programmatic) written ones are obviously interrelated. The former are the starting point of the latter. They are apparently the fruit of two types of adaptation, distant from each other as regards purpose and documentary value. It could be said that the former were “open texts,” destined to be modified whenever necessary. The latter would gradually lose the character of spontaneous accounts and would adopt more standardized forms of exposition. Having ritual or other formal purposes, some of the latter became “closed texts,” i.e. immutable (or canonized). The programmatic writing was a long-term process intensely productive. Certainly, it involved an operation that was far from easy, if today they require systemic analyses (from literary to sociological and historical) about their function and implicit assumptions. Surely, they had a decisive impact on the development of the earliest Christianities. It is clear that the major texts were written considerably later than the first writings. It can be assumed that the policy of writing intensified because both writers and audience were undergoing a process of strong cultural evolution. The texts written later were influenced by many political and cultural events, and were often rooted in particular issues (controversies, ostracisms, pressures from people or authorities) that frequently governed these themes. They therefore became increasingly independent of the earlier occasional, fleeting accounts. It is to be noted again that the major writings are the work of authors who were significantly distant from those who knew Jesus and were present at his death. Their subjectivity is of another order, more consistent with the times in which they were writing. In this regard, it should be stressed again that these authors belong 53. A. Destro – M. Pesce , Il racconto e la scrittura (Roma, 2014) 63‑68. 54.  Ibidem, 51. 55. See A. M illard, Reading and Writing in the Time of Jesus (Sheffield, 2001).

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to a space that is below the elite class but they possess specific characteristics and relevant activities. It is true that the distance separating the elites from the writers below them was far from irrelevant. But the latter were able to adopt appropriate means to further their projects. The later authors might have experienced the shock effects of the human and religious tragedy in a more mediated way than the first witnesses. They might have depicted Jesus’ conviction and death on the basis of what was known and narrated since the time of the crucifixion. They were not mere compilers, but perhaps bearers of novelty with rather distinctive and sonorous voices. These authors did not limit themselves to collecting what was available. Or they did so with a spirit of inquiry, with determination and planning: they investigated the history of the leader, bearing in mind both the Jewish world (institutions and laws of the people of Israel) and Roman rules (the imperial regime of punishment of seditionists and criminals). They took into account as well as symptomatically minor, yet significant circumstances, both present and past. 56 From their situation in various locations 57 the authors of the later phase undertook a complex and memorable “cultural invention.” We have various evidence of their stratified and branching activities. It should also be noted that the work of such authors was often carried out in the absence of any personal contact among them. Many were independent, while others do not give news autonomous from other gospels. Some show a tendency to provide criticism of the work of other writers. The distance in time of the major texts from the actual events deeply influenced the writers’ process of memorization. Their accounts sometimes became vague, if not unreliable or distorted. Nonetheless, they suggest a course of events, a before and after, a perspective. Whatever the case the systematic texts introduced a variety of factors more evident and more consequent. We believe that these writings contained the memories of motivated and determined religious founders (not merely of sympathizers or volunteers). It remains important that, for the purpose of re-foundation, the authors started from Jesus’ horrible death as the decisive incontrover­ tible event. Lacking a perfect historical basis, these writings principally tell of the outlooks and experiences of motivated writers, of rather specialized and influential innovators. It must be added that the major systematic texts – that is the works of specialists – turn our gaze back to the times of past tragedy from the perspective of a precise social and intellectual location. Clearly, the writers could not convey the reality of the initial moments, the times of insecurity and flight. We know that theirs is not “the voice” of those who were the real players in the story of Jesus. They do not reproduce concrete real56.  P. Boyer , Et l ’homme créa les dieux (Paris, 2001). 57. A. Destro – M. Pesce , Il racconto e la scrittura (Roma, 2014).

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ity. They obviously had their own voice. One can assume, moreover, that they were forced to adapt their materials to their place and time, to satisfy the different requirements linked to their respective contexts. That is why they cannot be seen except as part of fluctuating streams of transmission. In any case they are among those who first embrace the ideals of restoration and expansion cherished by the group of followers. Albeit in different ways, the authors distant in time from the drama of the cross aimed to re-launch what they considered to be Jesus’ authentic project. They were the founders of systemic visions. Belief in the imminence of the kingdom of God, the messianic struggle and spiritual rebirth, for example, is the background of their sophisticated programmatic process of writing. Today their writings pose a number of pressing questions quite apart from what their authors, who had their own specific subjectivity, had envisioned. Generally speaking, any narrative is surrounded by concerns or doubts. Often, in fact, we are dealing with reports based on preconceived views that impose adequate caution. This is why Jesus’ tragic end needs to be stripped of unreal and implausible elements. It should be addressed as a historical fact to be historically examined. In our examination a primary issue is the fact that often Jesus’ death is considered merely as a “transitory fact” that is explained by what happened after, i.e. events that occurred soon afterward (the resurrection, apparitions, miracles). The figure of the risen Jesus overshadows that of the Jesus who died. It idealistically transforms the meaning of his death and the fact of the violent destruction of Jesus’ world. On the one hand, the death appears to be merely a backdrop, a trigger of specific historical-social developments. Jesus’ death becomes part of a series of unlikely elements (for example, the uncertain number of Jesus’ visits to Jerusalem, the “secret” revelations of Jesus that are disclosed, the implausible number of soldiers who capture him, etc.). Elsewhere, the image of violent death is expanded into a theological argument, thus omitting many concrete circumstances and ultimately distracting attention from death itself. We believe that it is important to find out how Jesus’ death actually occurred and the roles of the people involved in it (or even those who ignored it). With this aim in mind, we attempt to investigate some crucial figures (men and women) mentioned in the texts in order to identify the salient facts of Jesus’ death as closely as possible. The central question addressed by our book, La morte di Gesù, regards the human beings who remained or arrived on stage after the crucifixion. They were supposed to enter the stories and become the center of the action. Did those who followed Jesus expect the traumatic death of their leader? According to the texts it would seem that the followers had no idea that death was imminent and unavoidable. As seen above, living at Jesus’ side

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the followers believed themselves to be heading towards a victorious destiny. They believed to have the right to a place in the kingdom of God and a role in the restoration of Israel. What they experienced, instead, was the entire collapse of Jesus’ world. At the time of Jesus’ death the followers probably found themselves up against real and powerful enemies. They saw that many bonds had been shattered. They found themselves in need of re-launching what had been interrupted or what was left obscure. The void presumably created around Jesus’ entourage could have overwhelmed the movement; instead, we know that the story of some followers did continue. To emphasize the figure of Jesus (how he had been captured, killed and buried in haste and without honors) the authors dwell upon the critical “story” of those who buried him and cared for his dead body. This seems to strengthen the didactic meaning of their reconstructions. The authors, as they wrote, were likely to have considered their texts as real instruments of self-defense and recovery. Plausibly, they felt themselves to possess the power and the energy to prove what the followers believed in. With this in mind, some of the followers did not withdraw into inertia, limiting themselves to a resigned crystallized repetition of past events. They instead described the profiles of figures who could add strength to the recovery, who could galvanize both old and new followers. We can note again that one of the most complex cognitive problems is tied to the previously mentioned fact that the groups of followers eventually incorporated many figures from outside the Jewish world. Thus, the writers developed hybrid cultural characteristics. Relational complexity increased. In this context some personages of later times may have been “followers of followers,” dependent on non-Jewish transmitters, that is on Gentiles who did not adhere to Jewish rules. In fact, the processes of transmission open up a host of questions as to the chains of memorizers and the links among disciples who were little related to the original environment of Jesus. Essentially, the authors systematically depict – with varying degrees of awareness – their own condition, their “social and intellectual localization,” as well as their expectations and outlooks. In other words, they are individuals who have experienced the condition of the people about whom they write. They illustrate what we have defined as economic and social marginality. They themselves are rooted as problematic figures. In their texts they look at and empathize with people who are similar to themselves in terms of cultural and social resources and expectations. This correlates them to a clear authorial choice, a precise politics of writing. People’s actions, depicted in the writings, convey “environments and objectives” far better than any theory or paradigm. In order to talk about the actors and relational networks that grew up around Jesus’ death, a distinction must be drawn between the narrative of the execution and that of the burial. Local and temporal elements, as well as agency, inevitably are to be taken into account.

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Texts about the crucifixion mention groups, religious elites and Roman authorities, that is, people who presumably “knew” Jesus. Conversely, the burial scenes mainly contain people who were not connected to Jesus or his environment. In terms of our analysis of relationships and bonds this difference is highly significant, as it implies much about the commonality, autonomy or the dominant role of diverse persons. Such relational elements permeate the stories with various degrees of subtlety. Of the two situations in question, that of the burial is decisive, as it sets up a link between the event of death and outcomes of the future. Some of the circumstances of the burial are symptomatic of an entire cultural environment. Jesus is buried following precise rules and habits fulfilled by specific agents. This is a crucial element for localizing the social and cultural ambience of the entire group. The treatment of the dead Jesus respects the rule that a criminal cannot remain “hanged” during the night. No one should remain unburied when the day finishes. 58 The disposition is recalled by Flavius Josephus himself (Against Apion 2.211). According to Jewish law, it was necessary that the criminal named Jesus had to be buried before nightfall. All this is generally considered the normative background of the rapid treatment of Jesus’s body. The fulfillment of this law practically calls particular individuals into play and entrust them with specific duties. When followed, the procedure has evident and legitimate consequences. It ensures that the corpse is treated with honor by authorized people. Who had the right or duty to take care of the dead Jesus? Since he was considered a convicted criminal, was it necessary to call in someone in particular? In the texts the person who buries Jesus is Joseph of Arimathea. The authors chose a prominent figure to lend strength and authority to their story. The Gospel of John also mentions Nicodemus (John 19:38‑42). To the conduct of these two protagonists we add the statement of the centurion (Mark 15:39) and the behavior of several women, who belong to Jesus’ movement. The actions of the women are centered on the necessity of the ritual anointing of Jesus’ body (Mark 16:1-8). These four examples, among others that cannot be analyzed here, confer a rather chiaroscuro atmosphere to the story of Jesus. X. J ose ph

ta k e s ca r e of t h e de a d

J e sus

The texts maintain that the body of Jesus is entrusted to Joseph of Arimathea, who appears as a righteous and wealthy man, and an admirer of Jesus. By explicitly referring to such attributes the narratives provide 58.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014) 292 (footnote 7); Deut 21:22‑23.

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important information on strategies concerning the backdrop of the crucifixion. Symptomatically, Joseph is mentioned in all four canonical Gospels, as well as that of Peter (cf. Mark 15:43; Matthew 27:57, Luke 23:52, John 19:38, Pt 3:23‑24). It is known that their reconstructions are partly interdependent and they all seem to want to validate the fact that the burial was performed correctly. The texts attribute to Joseph of Arimathea a function that is evocative and full of effects. His actions are well-known and have gained celebrity for ever: for sure what he makes is essential, positive and gives importance to Jesus’ figure. 59 Joseph seems to know Jesus, although he was not presented among his closest followers or occasional companions. He has connections with the Jewish authorities (he is a member of the Sanhedrin) and obtains Jesus’ body from Pilate. Before the law and the people he appears as a person of rank, ideal for correctly undertaking the burial of Jesus. He is able of avoiding mistakes or misrepresentations. He fulfills what the authors thought was done “in favor” of the dead leader. From the moment he arrives on the scene we have indirect confirmation that the followers are overshadowed: perhaps they were considered inadequate by the authors, or perhaps they could not be present or maybe they just did not wish to be involved. According to John, Jesus himself requests that they be left free (18:8); in Mark, they had fled at the time of Jesus’ arrest (14:50). What is important is that, essentially, Jesus’ body is not cared for or transported to the tomb by his followers, those living daily with him. These people are missing, in disarray, they remain offstage. We see that Joseph is attributed a position that allows him to deal with Pilate and remove Jesus from the cross. He can protect and honor the deceased leader. The deposition and transport of the dead man take place with respect and discretion. In the Gospel of Peter, Joseph is a friend of Pilate and of the Lord (Pt 2:3). In Luke, he takes a position opposing the other Sanhedrin members (Luke 23:50‑51). In all events he is a person who, on his own initiative, takes in hand the crucial task of Jesus’ burial, from which decisive outcomes arise. On the narrative level the story of Joseph has the function of ensuring that some prescribed funeral rituals were performed. For that reason, the place of entombment became known as well. Joseph’s actions seem to provide the followers with the knowledge of where Jesus’ dead body was kept. They are qualifying the tomb itself: in some texts, it would seem to be his own property, newly excavated into the rock and intended for his 59.  It is easy to think that the narratives concerning Joseph are strictly functional for the re-interpretations that followed the death of Jesus (A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù [Milano, 2014] 133‑148).

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personal use. It is surely a place that is offered to Jesus as a sign of homage and respect. It is then sealed off to prevent manipulations and thefts. Without discussing here the question of the empty tomb, 60 it must be said that, in our hypothesis, before the killing of Jesus both Joseph and the tomb were unknown. Once it has been used, the tomb becomes the place of Jesus, the place containing his remains. It is one of the qualifying elements of the entire story, since Joseph makes it the precious instrument of piety toward the one who has been killed. After Joseph, when the tomb is visited by some followers (as soon as the ritual permits), it is an empty, abandoned site. It has become a former site or place of the leader Jesus. As such, it could assume the role of a radiating center for beliefs, signs, symbols and myths. On the one hand, Joseph’s tomb is therefore a place marking loss or sorrow. On the other, it is transformed into an exceptional location, one that reinforces the image of Jesus as a prominent man and leader. 61 Without the actions of Joseph, the story of Jesus might have been spread in ways that are unthinkable for us. Thanks to him, the rock tomb – unknown to many, but visited and re-signified by some – expanded the collective imagination of the writers. It must be said that, prior to the burial, Joseph is never mentioned. He is not a member of the movement. He is a person that Luke refers to as “good and just” (23:50‑51). However, he does not seem to be active during the execution, nor is he visible at the place of crucifixion. 62 According to the Synoptics he operates alone, while the Gospel of John presents him alongside Nicodemus (19:39). 63 Perhaps Joseph was part of a group that had specific formal roles in the performance of funeral rites.  6 4 60. Cf. D. Smith, Revisiting the Empty Tomb (Minneapolis, 2010). 61.  The interplay of places (places of crucifixion, of deposition of the corpse, the route towards the tomb, the tomb itself) is extremely eloquent. We are aware that the areas “practiced” become a basic element of comprehension. To bury Jesus in a tomb excavated in the rock, in a garden close to the place of execution, means that the authors wanted to emphasize the status, role and consciousness of individuals and groups involved in the crucifixion. 62.  The historical existence of Joseph is discussed and hypotheses vary. Some hypotheses are directed toward contesting the story of the burial and the empty tomb. Perhaps Joseph is a name applied to an individual, or referring to a group who, for ethical or institutional reasons, was encharged to take care of the crucified. 63. The account of John is eccentric and based on specific information. For John, Nicodemus is not an unknown person such as Joseph is; he appears earlier in the narrative (3:1.4.9; 7:50). This adds a further element of clarification to the fact that the dead body of Jesus is at the center of relationships that are crucial to the history of the followers (persons who are without a leader). 64.  The Gospel of Peter presents a variation of the burial scene. The action at the cross is narrated in the plural: it is written that several people removed the nails from Jesus’ body. Probably because of this collective procedure, in this Gospel

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Evidently, around the dead Jesus there gathered actors or figures of considerable importance, while symptomatic defections of various actors also occurred. At the center of a network linking various types of people (never specified in the texts) Joseph becomes the pivot of events, tasks and actions. He is the necessary aggregating element of several crucial operations. He takes the place of the unprepared, frightened followers who prove to be powerless. This seems absolutely essential at a time when new relationships and new tensions were emerging among the followers. Compared to Joseph, the followers are irrelevant. Only a few of them are decisive in the structure of the narrations. 65 XI. Th e

m ys t e r ious be h av ior of

J ose ph

of

A r i m at h e a

It is understandable that Joseph of Arimathea, his existence and intervention, should be the focus of important speculation. Joseph is attributed authority, wealth, political connections and religious responsibilities. But he is silent; no words are attributed to him. Everything suggests that he plays a crucial part in the authors’ politics of writing. He embodies the concerns of those who write and their work as mediators, of those responsible for the development of the movement. He remains, however, outside the category of ordinary people. He is a high-ranking personage, that says nothing. He organizes and probably guides others from his prominent social position. We cannot enter the debate surrounding Joseph, but we can pose a few questions about his identity. Why was a name given to the man responsible for Jesus’ entombment? One wonders whether this eminent, pious man took care of Jesus’ body because he was ordered to do so by the authorities (Sanhedrin). 66 Certainly, his action sets a peculiar frame around the process of burial. There are, however, implausible details as to the time spent by Joseph on the deposition and transportation of the body (in Mark, for example).

Joseph is said to have requested the dead body in advance. Joseph gives the impression of being able to judge Jesus’ situation accurately and realistically. 65. First of all, it seems that Joseph did not encounter the living Jesus. The accounts, moreover, do not mention Joseph in many crucial scenes. He is not present at the cross or at the empty tomb. He is not the addressee of apparitions. His experiences are limited to the burial (and this allows the reactivation of the followers). Because of the visibility of Joseph, the followers are in the shadows. They run then at risk of appearing unnecessary within Jesus’ story. 66.  In particular, Mark might have imagined that the Jewish authorities were responsible for the corpse and perhaps that somebody (a person or group) among such authorities might have had the specific task of dealing with the dead body of Jesus.

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This point has been discussed elsewhere and the conclusion reached, 67 as far as Joseph’s complex activities are concerned, is that the accounts do not seem credible. Certain details underpinning the story appear unrealistic. The figure of Joseph, described as solitary, is undoubtedly interwoven and sanctioned by the Roman authorities, priests and Jewish elites. Perhaps he was surrounded and helped by soldiers, Sanhedrin assistants, ordinary workers for the transport of corpses, etc. The scene could be full of people who are not described in detail. In other words, Joseph, seen as a rigorous and courageous member of the Sanhedrin, may have been at the head of others who were not considered equally brave and were not represented in the texts. Entirely to the benefit of the figure of Jesus, Joseph embodies the pious respect of the Jews for the funerary duties concerning the treatment of the corpse. A further detail is rather striking. Joseph prepares the body, but according to the texts of Mark, Luke and Matthew only in a partial way. In Mark, for example, he merely wraps it in a shroud (15:56). Everything seems to have been done with care, but the procedure is unfinished. Is it to be finished by someone else? Are other actors expected to intervene? It is perplexing that no mention is made of the fact that Jesus’ family was not called upon to perform or complete the burial ritual. Were Jesus’ relatives considered members of a questionable or dangerous group? Were they judged unreliable or simply problematic? What is most surprising is Joseph’s sudden exit from the scene. His actions are interrupted just after the closing of the tomb. Matthew (27:60) merely says that he leaves. Other texts may assume the same, but do not specify (Mark 15:46; Luke 23:53; John 19:42; Pt 6:21‑24). 68 The person in charge of the entire entombment process never appears again. He is named only in this instance and takes no part in the subsequent story. 69 Joseph, we have noted, is a silent figure, encountered for a short time and almost immediately lost. His departure from the scene after the burial of the corpse may indicate that the texts simply wanted to provide proof that Jesus was buried by an influential personage, by a valid representative of the Jewish social world, and nothing else. In conclusion, the figure of Joseph can be interpreted precisely as illuminating the writers’ own condition and expectations. The narrative strat67.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , La morte di Gesù (Milano, 2014) 145‑154. 68.  The authors are laconic or silent about the departure of Joseph. Certainly, it seems problematic to expel him from this role once he has become the ‘protagonist’ of the entire burial process. The authors simply decided to have him disappear from the narrative. 69.  The authors undoubtedly considered him an active and religiously qualified figure who was able to guide the movement in future. In no way does the disappearance of Joseph from the narrations imply the authors’ disapproval of or dissociation from him.

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egy of the authors is essential for understanding the figure of Joseph. It was important for the narrators to give prominence to a brave man, but one who had no intention of contending for command of the survivors. Joseph had to vanish into the air without revealing specific intentions or plans. If this hypothesis holds, then Joseph was destined to leave so that he would not have any influence on the subsequent development of the movement. In the evangelic texts, in fact, he does not reappear. That is to say, he will not become the leader of Jesus’ followers, because presumably others are to assume the leadership. Naturally, this is crucially important for defining the world that was going to begin after Jesus’ death. XII. O t h e r N icode mus

figu r e s : t h e wom e n , a n d t h e ce n t u r ion

Accounts of Jesus’ death make mention of “several” women who had come from Galilee to serve and assist him (Matthew 27:55‑56; Luke 23:49). In the gospels, we know that the presence of women at Jesus’ death is important, because they are the ones who “observe” what is happening and find out where the body is laid (Mark 15:47). The texts are not homogeneous: in Mark only three women saw the tomb where Jesus was placed, while in Luke they know how Jesus was buried (23:55). The women are also significant because they discover the open tomb (Mark 16:8). After the repose of the Sabbath or Pesach, it is said that some women buy “spices” and go to the tomb in the early morning (Mark 16:1). Luke 23:56 specifies instead that they have already prepared “spices and ointments” to take to the tomb. In John 20:1 Mary Magdalene is the only one to see that the corpse was not in the tomb. At the burial site, the women encounter different figures: a seated youth (according to Mark 16:5), an angel in white (according to Matthew 28:7), two angels in white (John 20:12) and two men in dazzling clothes (Luke 24:4). Such variants may reveal the uncertainty of the flows of information and the difficulty faced by the authors in procuring reliable information. An example of this may be the presence of others: in John, for instance, the women are accompanied by the beloved disciple at the crucifixion (20:1), a circumstance that is absent elsewhere. In short, although the scenarios are different, they follow a well-known pattern: it is the women who are informed of the crucifixion and burial. Their gestures and movements are those of the ordinary, known world. It is they who, in Mark, Luke and Matthew, can bring oils to the tomb to anoint the body and are astounded at not finding it. The fear that overtakes them, according to Mark (16:8), is so great that it prevents them from telling others what they have found. At chapter 28, Matthew explains

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that Mary Magdalene and the “other Mary” visited the tomb (28:1) and adds that “scared and joyful” hasten away to give the news. The women apparently are the source of important information (apparition of Jesus, his greetings and encouragement) throughout the story. In substance, the writers seem to describe the women as very close to their own environment and invest them with their own thoughts or intentions. The presence of the women serves to describe how the events unfolded. The structure of the story, one may say, shows Joseph of Arimathea who concludes the burying of Jesus so that some women can know the place of the tomb. It is thanks to them that the group of followers knows where the tomb is located, and can find it, visit it and verify that it is empty. This reveals the links that some figures may have had with the leader and the reality that the group perceives. According to Mark and Matthew the women are “commanded” to announce that the tomb has been found empty and that Jesus preceded his followers to Galilee 70 (at Matthew 28:10 the order comes from Jesus; at 28:7 from the “angel”; cf. also Mark 16:7, where it is the young man who gives the order). Mark affirms that the women, full of fear, do not dare to speak; Luke instead claims that they announce the news to the eleven and all the others (at 24:8 the angels have given the order to remain in Jerusalem); also Mark states that Mary Magdalene has an apparition and announces it, but is not believed (16:9-10). In terms of our overall analysis, it can be seen that Matthew emphasizes that the women are present but stay to one side (27:55) while Mark (16:1-8) apparently unfolds events in such a way that the women can prepare the dead “later”, once the feast is over. Many are the signs of disbelief met with by the women. Mistrust and hope mingle. All this yields a complex profile of the movement. It describes the contradicting emotions that the first followers had at a difficult time. The male world is punctuated by absences, although some male followers do go and see the tomb (perhaps solicited by the women). Is it disbelief in women and obvious perplexity that spurs some of them to go in search of news? What would the story of Jesus’ death have been without female intervention? In the Gospels, in other words, it becomes indispensable to talk about what the women have seen. However, once they have seen the empty tomb, their testimony becomes problematic. For one writer, they keep the news to themselves (Mark 16:8), for another Mary Magdalene hastens to announce that the tomb is empty (John 20:2), while for others they receive an explicit command to announce the fact (Luke 24:9; Matthew 28:7). All the issue throws further light on the fact that in the trans70.  S.Guijarro, “La tradition sobre Jesus y los comienzos del cristianismo en Galilea,” Estudios Biblicos 63 (2005) 451‑479; S. Freyne , Galilee, Jesus and the Gospels (Philadelphia, 1983).

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mission of the events the empty tomb constituted an essential node for the respective authors, and for all the survivors. The activity of writing must have been influenced by this tangled mass of information and the authors would have found it difficult to give an account of what they knew. If the women had obeyed the young man, they would have informed Peter and the disciples. Instead, they fled far from the tomb (Mark 16:78). This does not prevent the news from coming out, however. If the women had kept silent, perhaps everything would have spread in another way. Nevertheless, their failure to prevent the men from being informed otherwise. This is perhaps the reason why Matthew, Luke and John tell us that the news of the empty tomb reached the followers through the women. The behavior of the women, as recounted, may be a trace of the historical unreliability of the burial and disappearance of the corpse from the tomb. In the texts the seeing, the self-censoring and the choice to stay silent or announce the news without being believed are phenomena that are eloquent and closely interrelated. The unfolding of the stories shows how the gospel writers have been dependent on different streams of information and how they possessed only portions of the truth. In John alongside Joseph is Nicodemus (19:39), who has a role of considerable importance. The latter brings costly ointments and apparently deals directly with the burial. He seems to have had previous contact with Jesus (in the long debate of John 3:1‑21, and in 7:50), and, plausibly, is closer to him than Joseph is. The meaning of his actions is rather uncertain, slightly puzzling. His acts of homage seem to be made almost privately or at least with no incentive from the elites, authorities and so on. In John, Joseph and Nicodemus in any case belong to authoritative high levels. Their presence lends special gravitas to the environment in which they appear. The authors of the texts emphasized and shed light on these figures, that do not coincide with the people who composed or wrote the stories. This fact illustrates the targets and the position of the writers of the texts. The episode of the centurion (Mark 15:39; Matthew 27:54‑55; Luke 23:17) has its own specific social location in the outside world, not in that of the followers. The episode lets us know that at least some Romans were probably aware of who Jesus was and what he did. They were filled with wonder at what had happened to him. The Roman authorities, in any case, are depicted as being in a powerful position: they have the body of Jesus at their disposal and are in full control of the burial. One could argue that the personage of the centurion, along with the figures of Pilate and the Roman soldiers, represents a rather significant vehicle of specific social factors at play. The attention, the wonder and

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participation revealed by the centurion seem to have a clear cognitive function. At the very least, they show the intense reactions of some people (soldiers) who were present at Jesus’ death. It is not unlikely that anonymous people were present by chance at the scene of Jesus’ execution. They likely witnessed the events. The authors do not explain the role of bystanders in detail. They often choose to foreground a few individuals, the most functional for the story. S umm i ng

up

In order to address the death of Jesus and improve our understanding of it, we tried to explore some characters appearing “on the stage,” starting from the idea that the narratives express the meaning of the death of Jesus shading light on the participation of some human beings to Jesus’ burial. The texts written in the generations after Jesus’ death illuminate various aspects of the social actors operating inside and outside Jesus’ movement. Who were the persons concerned with Jesus’ corpse described by the texts? Who took care of Jesus? Do these human agents possess specific characteristics? We must remark that, strictly speaking, the followers and sympathizers of Jesus cannot be classified as emblematic people without taking into consideration their social position. Some belong to an intermediate variegated social layer. Some others are not precisely categorized by the authors, who let only understand that they are belonging to different levels and environments. A good exception to this pattern is represented, for example, by Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus that are relevant figures of the Jewish elites. The scenario built on so dishomogenous personages, altogether shows that priviledged and unpriviledged people cannot be really independent. Rather, they appear correlated in some way. In our analysis their subjectivities are taken into account together. Essentially, the texts give us a way of penetrating many sentiments and emotions subsequent to the crucifixion (uncertainty, desire of success, convergence or distance among individuals and groups, etc.). It is precisely because the writings transmit a variety of approaches and aims (of men and women, of lower and upper classes, of Jewish and Roman settings) that we can have an idea of the historical context in which Jesus died. In this respect, we agree that the authors implicitly narrate their own real (or imagined) world. We must keep in mind, however, that they consciously intended to keep up with the times, to build hopes and expectations. Aim of their narratives was not simply to represent events of the past. This concrete circumstance cannot be underestimated. However temporarily distant and spatially dispersed they might be, the authors of the Gospels depicted various human and social contexts. These

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writers set on the stage concrete people, their actions, their backgrounds. They avoided recourse to abstract ideas or patterns. Instead of pure principles or doctrines, they often presented strategies, performances or fears of human beings. Specific personages have been emphasized and became essential agents. This kind of reconstruction of the scenario of Jesus’death was dictated by the dramatic experiences or events memorized and passed on by the followers. But it was also part of a diagnostic process, of a project for the future. It gave birth to decisive religious transformations and achievements. We have noted that the individual characters placed at the center of the stories may be considered part of the literary transposition of a memorized “past world” and – sometimes, but not less frequently – of the world that was before the authors’ eyes. We must add that, within this double perspective those who wrote were surely influenced by two specific conditions: a) they generally observed people who were different from those of the time of Jesus’ death; and b) they consciously set out to describe key episodes and evocative facts, in order to support the purpose they had in mind. These undoubtable issues very likely interacted with or modified the process of transmission. Overall, the authors believed that specific individuals – because of their social and cultural subjectivities – were functional for the rehabilitation of the followers’ groups and legitimation of the activities they were promoting. In other words, the authors sought to further their work by depicting some singular or prominent personages as necessary protagonists. They gave much space to figures they appreciated and considered as reliable. These representations of distinctive actors were successful and forged the destinies of subsequent Christianities. On the basis of the four examples outlined above, it is useful to draw up a summary scheme of what we learn from the figures in question. Joseph and Nicodemus, as images of the high-ranking Jewish society, show themselves attentive to the needs of Jesus (and perhaps of others convicted persons). Because of their status and way of life, they appear as the best supporters/protectors that a disgraced religious leader could have among the Jews. They are trustful men who illuminate the Jewish dispositions. Evidently, these two men encapsulate also the visions and aspirations of the writers, who were acutely observing their context and looking for their own social and religious location. The centurion exemplifies the surrounding world. He seems strongly amazed and literally transformed by Jesus’ execution. The open confession of the centurion shows him to be a real protagonist that can become an example to be evoked in various strategical situations. In this way, the authors reveal their need to emphasize a compassionate outside world, one that shows solidarity and, hence, may merit redemption.

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The women depicted by the texts belong to the world of the followers; they are mobile and active but guided by the group. The authors attribute to them a behavior that involves awareness and compassion. One wonders if their ritual task (anointing of the body) is merely a pretext. At any rate, the women are given performative roles that they fail to fulfill. They remain within a “world that knows and is willing to do,” but that is restrained and cannot operate. Their function was to witness that the tomb was empty and that the body had disappeared. This shows their exact position in the group. The aim given to women, we presume, was not to make an immediate announcement or disclosure to the followers. Rather, they seem to look at, to be ready to take up their duties. In fact, they keep silent about the facts or, when they speak, they are not believed. That is how a certain part of the world of Jesus resurfaces. It emerges through the silences and words of the women. It is worthy of note that the authors’ strategy to make the situation known is successful. From their texts we understand that the pivotal information is in the hands of reliable women, who however have no sufficient autonomy or authority. In any case, it is certain that the information spreads and the men become active. This outcome is not considered by the authors as dependent on female comments or suggestions. In depicting these four types of people (two members of the upper orders and two from other social levels) and in showing them to be influential, the authors were able to provide a social localization of the people moving around Jesus and to represent their projects. Even the absence (or flight) of many followers obviously contributed to define the environment where the tragedy took place and to clarify the message that was delivered. Everything suggests that, for the authors of the Gospels, it was strategically important to narrate of men and women instead of beliefs, principles and rules. This let us conclude that the human characters and stories transmitted exemplary and essential images. The contents of the narrations were able to reflect and animate memories, beliefs and projects. The texts probably did not perfectly report events and phenomena, but they made possible a successful transmission of Jesus’ story.

T ESTIMONIOS AS AUTOBIOGRAPHY. DAILY L IFE AND BELIEFS AMONG THE WICHÍ IN THE A RGENTINE CHACO Zelda Alice Franceschi I. F or ewor d : “ be l i ev i ng ” As I think happens to most ethnologists, one night I dreamt I was conversing with a people I’d been studying for some time, that is, the Penan living in the interior of Borneo. The phrase that brought me out of my restless slumber was, ‘I believe in God’… I couldn’t imagine how a Penan might have expressed such a statement, and this led me to other aspects of the problem. It’s true that the Penan speak of the existence of a spiritual being they call Peselong, whose powers everyone knows and are such as to rank him above everything else in the universe; so the designation ‘God’ in English seemed appropriate. Yet the Penan have no formal religion and, insofar as I know, have no other conventional ways of expressing faith in their god. Nonetheless, I was used to saying, at least to myself, that they believed in a supreme being… And yet now it was clear to me that I had no linguistic proof of this. Not only: I realised too that I couldn’t readily describe their attitude towards God, whether it be faith or something else, through any of the verbs that usually accorded with similar psychological states. 1

I reread Rodney Needham’s Belief, Language and Experience (1972) after my first stint of field work among the Wichí community of Hok tek T’oi in Argentina’s Salta Province in 2010. The person who prompted my thinking about the complexities of the idea of believing as “an inner state of the individual” 2 and, though untranslatable as it may be into language, see it as his or her interacting with experience and belief was John Palmer. 3 At one point during our stay a young female student remarked, “… 1.  R. Needham, Credere. Credenza, linguaggio, esperienza (Torino, 1976) 7. 2.  Ibidem, 12. 3.  John Hilary Palmer greeted us at Hok tek T’oi, the Wichí community where he began his ethnographic fieldwork in the 1970s. Our trip was part of a study programme funded by Bologna University and included four of its female undergraduates. See Z.A. Franceschi, ed., Storie di vita/Autobiografie, Annuario (Milano, 2012). Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 577–612 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111721 ©

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well, there must be something these people believe in!”. Palmer replied mentioning Needham, who held the view that experience, conceptualisation and language must be a single thought even if no common thread unites them. There is an imperfect, unsteady state in the relationship between language and conceptualised experience that becomes more acute the more languages differ because they correspond to differing forms of life. Wittgenstein’s concept of “form of life,” or Lebensform, helped Needham to frame an understanding of the “different” as such: With so-called ‘primitive societies,’ we are not so much dealing with a different […] organisation of the simple elements of experience as we are a fundamentally different object-constitution. 4

For every anthropologist, translation is not just a question of putting a given experience into words. Rather, it is a more complicated task concerning structures of meaning that carry different symbols in different contexts. 5 The issues Needham raises regard religion: non-comprehending the reality of entities, Peselong for the Penan and, as we shall see Lewó for the Wichí, 6 that we cannot represent and whose blurry characteristics remain such as to keep these entities apart from a scheme of formal and formalised “belief.” Yet such entities have names, they figure in narratives with descriptions of them and, above all, there is the certainty of their existence attested to by their manifest effects on the life of the Penan, and that of the Wichí. Although we can surely say the Penan believe in Peselong, as do the Wichí in Lewó, the fact that, according to Needham, there is no linguistic expression capable of describing the experience of the Penan in terms of belief is the point of departure. In his introduction to the Italian edition of Belief, Language and Experience, Diego Marconi notes, “Needham says his book is an attempt to reply to Wittgenstein’s question ‘[…] is believing an experience?’” On the other hand, the book can be seen as a long gloss on another of Wittgenstein’s pronouncements: “The expression of a belief […] is just a phrase and it has meaning only when it’s part of a linguistic system.” 7 What meaning does Peselong have for the Penan? What kind of experience does knowing its effects entail – fearing them, preventing them, living with them in everyday life? What meaning do the nar4. D. M arconi, “Prefazione,” in R. Needham, Credere. Credenza, linguaggio, esperienza (Torino, 1976) XV. 5. D.M. Schneider , “Notes toward a Theory of Culture,” in K.H. Basso – H.A. Selby, ed., Meaning in Anthropology (New Mexico, 1976) 211. 6.  This is a very common theophania among the Wichí as we shall see infra. 7. D. M arconi, “Prefazione,” in R. Needham, Credere. Credenza, linguaggio, esperienza (Torino, 1976) VII.

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ratives and endless descriptions of Peselong supplied by Needham’s many interlocutors in his fieldwork embody? And how are we to define and describe it in terms of the experiences these witnesses live by and bear to us? My purpose in what follows is to examine the complexity of the experience of “conversion” through certain narratives. Some of these stories are part of the traditional canon called pahchehen 8 and, as Needham might put it, should be of help in interpreting the meaning of Peselong. Others are overlapping tales dealing with so-called “conversion” and today are recounted as Wichí versions of “believing,” called testimonios, by men and women who belong to congregations of differing Christian denominations. II. Th e Wich í

in the

A rg e n t i n e C h aco

When we visited the Wichí community of Salta with John Palmer, there was no trace of churches or missions, and the person we were told was a hayawé, or shaman, incidentally himself the son of a shaman who had died several years before, was away at work in a nearby village. There were thus few occasions to meet him and the encounters too brief when we did to determine what the experience of “believing” meant to his form of life, or how he might conceptualise it as experience. The community did, however, have a cemetery and we went to visit it. As my field notes put it then: The cemetery lies in a fenced clearing at the end of a narrow lane that starts where we’re staying […]. The two biggest graves are of M.E. and Y. and they are also fenced to keep out animals. All the graves except Carlito’s have a cross and Yilis’s even has a crucifix. Lying on the ground next to them are open-capped plastic bottles. J. says ‘the souls must drink’ and the bottles are filled when empty and that F. put up the crosses. On the way back he tells us that God created the Earth and that God’s first son was Satan (some call him Satana). Satan had the same powers as God until the moment he wanted to challenge his Father. Jesus, he says, is another of God’s sons […] and that to become a curandero [healer] one can be chosen either by God or by Satan and through the blessing of the abuelo [grandfather]. Hok tek T’oi, 29 June 2010. 9

8. M.C. Dasso, La Mascara Cultural (Buenos Aires, 1999). 9.  The cemetery photos were taken by Clio Corradi.

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Figs 1 & 2. The cemetery of Hok tek T’oi (2010). Photos by Clio Corradi.

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Why, even today, is there a cemetery but no church, mission or school in that small paraje? 10 The cemetery is certainly a non-negligible clue to a cultural message of the community. Certain things about the cemetery caught my eye at the time – the inner-perimeter fences to keep animals out, the crosses, the open bottles and our guide’s explanation of them and his comments about the curandero and the latter’s being chosen by God, Satan or the blessing of the “grandfather.” 11 These were all incipient lines delineating a picture portraying such complex issues as cultural appropriation, continuity vis-à-vis a traditional world, as exemplified by the fear of animals disturbing the dead in some way, 12 and discontinuity with it due to religious conversions past and present, as embodied in the figure of the curandero/husey-wo. They are all issues having a close affinity with Needham’s questions as well as being focal points of a rather heated debate among anthropologists and Christian fundamentalists. The Salta community will serve us as a sounding board in comparing and seeking to grasp the meaning of what shall be called “conversion” experiences of several Wichí women, men and youths related to me over the course of fieldwork at the Franciscan Misión Nueva Pompeya in the Argentine Chaco from 2004 to 2013. The narratives their voices unfolded, often not in formal interviews, were taped and later transcribed in my field journal. These oral exchanges usually took place in domestic settings and related either in Spanish or Wichí, the conversations in the latter being translated by a young man present at the time who was bilingual. My work also included attendance at religious services, held in both Spanish and Wichí, in the churches of the various denominations in the village. 10. By paraje/wukwe-wetes is meant a space where extended families live. The Wichí of Misión Nueva Pompeya (Chaco) live in an upland area (called monte) given to them through a land restitution act dating 1990s. The paraje at Hok tek T’oi (Salta) is situated alongside the road because the community has yet to be granted land right. Some 50 to 100 persons live in a paraje, a kind of extended family unit that can be called a household. They are related by kinship and share alliances and economic resources. Palmer provides a detailed picture of the Hok tek T’oi paraje in J. Palmer , La Buena Voluntad Wichí: una espiritualidad indígena (Buenos Aires, 2005). 11.  This has been defined as husey-wo, heir, to lewit’ale, a kind of verbal inheritance similar in its way to a benediction or blessing called kaphwaiah, according to which an individual bequeaths a special gift before dying. Those who become husey-wo use the Bible and crosses to “see” and to heal. They know verses of the Scriptures and “alternating expressions from the Catholic or Anglican rites with Wichí and creole elements in syncretic formulas,” M.C. Dasso, La Mascara Cultural (Buenos Aires, 1999) 180. 12.  On the dead being devoured by animals see A. M étraux, “Suicide among the matako of the Argentine Gran Chaco,” América Indigena (1943) 198‑209; “Estudio de etnografia chaquense,” Annales Del Instituto De Etnografia Americana, Universidad De Cuyo V (1944) 263‑314; “Ethnography of the Chaco,” in J.H. Stewart, ed., Handbook of South American Indians (Washington, 1946) 197‑370.

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The mission was established in an area that until then had been occupied by the native Wichí, semi-nomadic hunter-gatherers who roamed in closely knit bands and whose cosmological outlook rotated around a mythical and shamanistic universe. The Spanish conquest led to different outcomes for the indigenous peoples who populated the area. In the northwest the Spanish set up colonial centres using the labour of already sedentary natives. This policy led to insurrections by and wars against the indigenous “nations.” 13 The area between the Paraná and Uruguay rivers saw the founding of Jesuit missions called reducciones de Indios that by the late 1500s had stable native groups living in their precincts and local headmen managing their affairs under the oversight of the missionaries. “Governed” by missionaries or priests, the reducciones formed a ring around the “impenetrable” Gran Chaco that closed with a “classic flank” along the western edge that in time saw new bases dotting the blurry provincial frontiers of Salta, Jujuy, Tucumán, Santiago del Estero and Córdoba – areas that were exposed to attacks by the indigenous peoples. 14 In the Gran Chaco, the reducciones established along the frontier lands, unlike those of the Guaraní in Paraguay, thus succumbed to successive phases of destruction, re-founding and abandonment until all these reducciones were finally closed down in 1767. The native revolts and free-wheeling pillaging raids by malones (“attacks by indios”) led the strategic towns of Asunción, Tucumán, Santa Fé and Corrientes to adopt a policy to stop the assaults by building forts and undertaking prevention measures and pre-emptive repraisals, called “containment incursions.” 15 When armed conquest of the area proved elusive because of stiffening native resistance, the Spanish Crown resorted to ad hoc treaties with the free indigenous peoples. 16 The provisions of these treaties regarded peace and friendship, military alliances both offensive and defensive, missionary work, territorial demarcation, prisoner exchanges, return of deserters, right of transit, trade, exchange of food and gifts for the natives and recognition of the Crown’s sovereignty. This “peaceful conquest,” however, was relatively short-lived when it was finally decided to subjugate the Gran Chaco in the decades following the end of the Paraguay War in 1870. The first salvos of the military spearhead led to the occupation of Chaco Austral, 17 south of the Bermejo River, and 13. G. Tommasini, La civilización Cristiana del Chaco (Buenos Aires, 1937) 114‑115. 14. O.M. P unzi, Historia de la conquista del Chaco (Buenos Aires, 1997) 245. 15.  Ibidem, 261. 16. A. L evaggi, Paz en la frontera. Historia de las relaciones diplomáticas con la comunidad indígenas en la Argentina (siglos XVI- XIX) (Buenos Aires, 2000) 19. 17. The Chaco has been divided in Chaco Boreal (north of the Pilcomayo), Chaco Central (between the Bermejo and Pilcomayo rivers) and Chaco Austral (south of the Bermejo) since colonial times.

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then to more extensive military operations and greater settler encroachments (Beck 1994). The forts that were built or reinforced and the periodic troop sweeps in the area wreaked havoc on the traditional huntergatherer subsistence patterns of the natives, who were constantly forced to adapt to the changes brought about by the influx of sedentary farmers and livestock herders protected by the territory’s military outposts. 18 Agricultural development was promoted through incentives granted under Act 817 of 1876, a law that offered subsidies to would-be settlers of the area to establish farms, buy land and build homesteads. This led to the settlements, or colonies, of Resistencia (1878), Avellaneda (1879) and Formosa (1883). The Chaco experienced a boom in immigration between 1878 and 1890 that would reach a peak between 1888 and 1889, although Italians, Spaniards, Czechoslovaks, Poles, Bulgarians, Yugoslavs, and Germans kept coming until 1917-22. 19 Concomitant with the establishment of these multi-ethnic settler enclaves was the start of a military campaign under the presidency of Julio Roca in 1884. Commanded at the outset by War Minister Benjamín Victorica, it was mounted to subjugate the indigenous Chaco peoples and coerce their compliance with the laws of Argentina. The native populations were overwhelmed by the influx of settlers. They were violently removed from their lands and ever closer contact with the newcomers and their new diseases through forced sedentarism left them facing demographic collapse. When General Winter was charged with bringing the campaign to a close in 1911, he oversaw the establishment of missions in the Chaco as provided in the 1876 Act. The missions were intended to regulate the resettlement of the native peoples, gradually leading them to a civilized way of life on a sound economic basis by allocating plots of a hundred hectares in their allotted areas. To carry out this provision, the Franciscans were allocated subsidies both monetary and of land varying in acreage from 20,000 to 40,000 hectares. III. C at hol ic a n d P rot e s ta n t prose ly t i si ng at M i sión N u eva P ompeya Misión Nueva Pompeya was founded on 29 November 1900 by Franciscans sent out from their Chapterhouse, Colegio Apostólico de Salta, in Salta 18. O.M. P unzi, Historia de la conquista del Chaco (Buenos Aires, 1997) 261; J.C. Spota, “Los fortines en la frontera chaqueña (1862‑1884). Un enfoque desde la antropología histórica en relación con la teoría de las organizaciones,” Memoria americana 17 (2009) 85‑117; E.J.A. M aeder , Historia del Chaco (Buenos Aires, 1996). 19. H. Beck , “Relaciones entre blancos e indios en los territorios nacionales del Chaco y Formosa,” Cuadernos de Geohistoria Regional 29 (Resistencia, 1994).

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Province. By 1949, however, years of prolonged drought forced the friars to abandon the Mission, though they left behind records of the native diffidence to their ministry. Friar Raffaele Gobelli, in notes written between 1912 and 1914, recorded: The Mataco, Tobas and other Chaqueñe tribes profess none of the religions known among savages of other countries. They do have a very vague idea of a Supreme Being. They believe there is a good Spirit, whom they call Ojotáj-lais, great good soul, and an evil Spirit named Toguaj (demon), the former ruling over prosperity, abundance of the fruit of the algarroba and chañar trees, of fish and so on, and the latter over scarcity, disease and so forth. But they do not have well-defined rites. They meet for festive occasions as the seasons change where they shout for hours on end, raising their hands and blowing into the air as if warding off plague. They almost always celebrate these feasts far from the village in the deepest part of woods. Several Indians adorned with feathers and rattles form a wheel at the hub of which is the eldest and wisest man of the group. They say the devil appears to them during these meetings. 20 Having lived among them for three years and observed their character, customs and folkways I can say that, generally speaking, this tribe is the most abased and recalcitrant to civilisation. My judgement can undoubetdly be biased […]. The mental faculties of the Mataco are in general highly limited. 21

Gobelli’s views are on the whole consonant with the spiritual mission of the Franciscans and adhere to most stereotypes then prevalent of the natives as too “debased” and “barbarous” to be civilised. That Gobelli wrote that the “Mataco” (the term used in early documents and, viewed as pejorative, recently replaced by the current ethnonym Wichí) had no defined system of worship but celebrated the procession of the seasons with feasts and dances is indicative for its well-worn notions in regard to “believing” and “beliefs.” Yet, despite Gobelli’s seemingly disastrous experience, also made lamentable by the lack of economic support from the Chapterhouse, the Franciscans’ tenure at Misión Nueva Pompeya was held to be fundamental by the Wichí themselves. The friars’ real contribution was schooling, and catechism instruction for children became the modus operandi of their ministry. The children, rather than the adults, became the initial focus, the friars’ privileged interlocutors, of their efforts. The missionaries then extended instruction by providing the Wichí with tools and taught them farming, carpentry, cooking and shoe-making, an approach that has been described as centripetal since the mission served as 20. F.R. Gobelli, “Estudio etnográfico sobre los indios Mataco,” in A.A. Teruel , Misioneros del Chaco occidental. Escritos de franciscanos del Chaco salteño 1861‑1914 (Jujuy, 1995) 143. 21.  Ibidem, 129.

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the focal point for the local population. 22 Yet the friars never managed to propagate the faith within the native households. This is clearly borne out in a recent interview with an elderly Wichí woman, TJ, whose father was an assistant of the friars. T.J. said her father was the first to work for the Franciscans when they first arrived. He worked as the cook. When the Franciscans would go to Salta, they took Angelito with them to train him and taught him how to write and to speak Spanish, which was of fundamental importance at the time. They also trained other young people […] as carpenters like David Chuteley, Francisco Supaz and the young girl Rosa Supaz, my father became an assistant then […]. Not just carpenters, either, as others made shoes, necklaces, combs and, according to what they said, tanned cowhide, and they made combs in different shapes, for example, with fish, ‘tsunis combs’ […]. They themselves also became representatives, delegates, coordinators, lach’utfwas (coordinators of the Franciscans). This representative was part of groups, like the one where bricks were made and, when everyone was in this ladrilleria, they began building the mission […]. He not only spoke about this work, for they made circos, and the work wasn’t paid in money but in goods, tolhok (Field journal, Misión Nueva Pompeya, TJ and FT, 2010).

TJ is about 70 today and her father was the Mission cook, so he was baptized and lived at close quarters with the friars. TJ and her husband were married in a Catholic church in the town of Castelli, 23 although both have since left Catholicism and joined the Iglesia Evangelica Unida of which she is “pastora.” 24 TJ’s account emphasises the important role work had in the ministry of the Franciscans. Yet, as occurred with the friars and in the sugar-cane plantations and salaried jobs, the Wichí’s view of work changed radically. So did their perception of certain aspects of religious worship as the Wichí became adept at selectively appropriating models and turning them into parts that fit their traditional cosmology. Learning the skills for 22. M.C. Dasso, “La scrittura e la presenza religiosa,” in Z.A. Franceschi, ed., Etno-grafie. La scrittura come testimonianza tra i Wichí (Bologna, 2008) 78‑79. 23.  The matrimonial “contract” amongst the Wichí begins with the choice of spouse. According to Molina the father traditionally decided upon his daughter’s spouse depending on such specifics as his ability to support the future bride. The latter in exchange also had to be skilled in weaving the fibre of the chaguar plant. That the couple’s residence would be, and still is, uxorilocal, or matrilocal, explains why attention focused on the prospective groom’s fitness as a provider. Interestingly, TJ emphasized on several occasions that she was married in a Catholic ceremony in the town of Castelli where she and her husband both worked in cotton plantations. See A. I dogaya Molina, “Matrimonio y pasión amorosa entre los Mataco,” Scripta Ethnologica 4 (1976) 46‑67. 24.  This is an evangelical Pentecostal Church at Misión Nueva Pompeya of a mostly Wichí congregation.

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work and working itself became, and are still, valued as criteria for being a person of “good will,” or as TJ told me in 2010, “trabajar abarca todo, actitud, poder, decidir, informar, ayudar, transformar [work, understand everything, aptitude, ability, decide, help, to transform]” (Field Journal, Misión Nueva Pompeya, TJ and FT, 2010). Protestant proselytising was of a very different order. The evangelical work of the South American Missionary Society had, in fact, begun in 1914 when Englishman Wilfred Barbrook Grubb purchased land between the Bermejo and Pilcomayo rivers. Arriving in the Chaco at a time of crisis for their Catholic counterparts, the Anglican missionaries learned the native language, wrote grammars – one of the finest is that of the Rev. Richard J. Hunt dated 1936 – and, more importantly, translated the Gospels in native Wichí and often travelled through the area with their families. 25 They also ministered to the Wichí in a different way too, for they focused on individual, direct access to the Bible and wanted to live among and with the natives, an approach that has been called “centrifugal.” 26 Again, unlike the friars, the Anglicans entered native homes in order to teach the Bible, observed the daily life of the people and sought to understand their traditional way of life and beliefs. Another difference between the two ministries was that the Anglicans at Misión Nueva Pompeya had no officially established mission in situ like the Franciscans and set up teaching centres there and in nearby villages, Algarrobal (Misión Chaqueña), La Paz and Juarez being the main ones, where those who would later become pastors went to learn to read and write and for Bible classes. 27 Many future pastors received their training for the ministry at these schools, as they do even today. Preaching the Gospel, schooling and training were the building blocks of Anglican evangelism. In her book Don’t Cry for Me (1989), Catharine Makower recounts the experience of the churches south of the Bermejo River, including a visit to Nueva Pompeya with Maurice Jones and Mario Mariño. These churches had been formed without any missionary evangelism or oversight as a result of visits to Pozo Yacaré by Christians in the 1940s and ‘50s. The only missionary who had visited these places — Sauzal, Saucelito [Sauzalito], Nueva Pompeya (Misión Nueva Pompeya) — so far was Lois Cumming, and now Maurice and Mario were going — Maurice the first ordained person to visit them — for a pastoral, teaching and baptising 25. K. M akower , Don’t Cry For me. Poor yet Rich: the inspiring Story of Indian Christians in Argentina (London, 1989). 26. M.C. Dasso, “La scrittura e la presenza religiosa,” in Z.A. Franceschi, ed., Etno-grafie. La scrittura come testimonianza tra i Wichí (Bologna, 2008). 27. K. M akower , Don’t Cry For me. Poor yet Rich: the inspiring Story of Indian Christians in Argentina (London, 1989) 134.

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ministry […]. At Nueva Pompeya we found a church which had been in existence for over twenty years and had never been visited by an ordained man. On our first night there — a Saturday — we were teaching and singing hymns with them until very late — they just wanted more and more. That day, too, Mario and I interviewed forty-six candidates for baptism — they were baptized the next day. We were thrilled with the spiritual depth of these people. 28

It is not hard to grasp the zeal and thoroughness with which the Anglicans approached their evangelism and the model of Christianity as an integral part of life they espoused. Yet even their intensely focused efforts met with difficulties, especially in regard to witnessing. The Wichí were reluctant to speak about the new faith in their own language out of timidity, a “paralysis” that the missionaries transcribed from the native demotic as ofwun. Ofwun affects the Lord’s work quite seriously. Discussions fall flat as no one will answer a question, let alone summon up courage to ask one. One preacher was discovered to have given up taking services. Why? He had lost his hymn book and was too shy to ask to borrow one! Witnessing, too, becomes very hard when people are so diffident. Curiously, the trait disappears when the Indians speak Spanish. Thus children who refuse to sing in Mataco will simply bawl out choruses if they are taught them in Spanish. 29

This passage is notable for the fact that the natives were willing to appropriate and interpret the evangelical message of the Anglicans only in a language not their own. To the Wichí, in other words, it was linguistically unthinkable to transfer the new teachings in their own oral idiom. Ideas like sin, morality and immorality soon began to enter the consciousness of the Wichí, as Makower clearly notes: Native beer was brewed in large quantities, especially from the algarrobo fruit (carob bean), and at the season when the fruit ripened great drinking feasts would be held, with large supplies of beer being brewed in the hollowed out ‘bottle trees’ and people from other villages being invited to join in. These feasts could lead to violence and even murder on occasion. The other popular communal diversion was hutsaj dance, the men dancing in a circle, arms linked, the music being provided by their voices and the rhythm by the stamping of their feet. At first we missionaries were intrigued by this spectacle, but when later some of the Indians came to understand the truths of the Gospel and were converted, they themselves pointed out that the dances were almost always a prelude to immorality, and they gradually ceased. 30 28.  Ibidem, 143‑145. 29.  Ibidem, 73. 30.  Ibidem, 66‑67.

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Instructive too about the Protestant approach to evangelism is Makower’s account of how the Wichí came to give up their ritual feasts and dances even though these were not expressly prohibited or forcefully interdicted by the missionaries: […] when asked why there was such a long time – eight years – from the coming of the missionaries to the first baptism, Guilfredo explained that it was because the missionaries didn’t lay down the law to the people. They allowed the Holy Spirit to work gradually, teaching them about drunkenness and so on, and this took time. This explanation is interesting in view of the comment often made that the missionaries suppressed Indian customs – in particular the drinking feasts and the dancing that went with them. 31

There are many entries in Rev. Hunt’s 1936 dictionary 32 concerning the religious realm of Wichí life. For example, chansaj is the term given for “believer,” cha for “break down, sink,” Oj-tiyaj for “faithfulness” and tiyaj for “strike, shoot, hitmark” as when a person is “hit, jolted, struck, marked” at the moment of Christian enlightenment. While the later term seems to jar somewhat with Makower’s gradualness, it is evident that the Gospels and their message were read, circulated and became part of everyday Wichí life under the Anglican missionaries. Indeed, from then on the Christian tradition began to permeate that of the traditions and customs of the Wichí and become an integral part of their biographical trajectories. This new spiritual outlook was appropriated by people for whom family visits by relatives who are not neighbours and live even in distant parajes are a particularly important facet of social life. La visita is a key social institution that strengthens kinship bonds and enables the circulation of tangible and intangible goods. In fact, the Scriptures immediately began to circulate through las visitas. Practically speaking, conversion constitutes a narrative path from initiation to moral change, its occurrence in most cases coinciding with the elimination of behavior held to be sinful and “barbarous.” This pattern is evident in both Catholic and Protestant expansion and evangelisation in the Americas, 33 the main differences between them being the latter’s work of compiling dictionaries and grammars for translating the native

31.  Ibidem, 41. 32. R.J. Hunt, “Mataco-English and English-Mataco Dictionary (with grammatical notes),” in Etnologiska Studier VI (1937); Mataco Grammar, Instituto de Antropología (Tucumán, 1940). 33. F. Cuturi, “Dogma, traduzione delle scritture e alterità linguistico-culturale,” in G. Filoramo – F. R emotti, Pluralismo religioso e modelli di convivenza, Atti del convegno di Torino 20‑21 settembre 2006 (Alessandria, 2009) 72.

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language and the Bible and of definitively prohibiting hockey, shamanism and the feasts of aloja.  3 4 Misión Nueva Pompeya is a densely populated village. The criollos 35 (creoles, mestizos) live in the immediate vicinity of the mission and the indigenous Wichí in the monte, 36 an area that has gradually been organised in parajes. The Mission today has an overall population of 3000–3500. 37 The panorama of religious congregations is a veritable patchwork. The Catholic Hermanos Maristas, the Marist Order of Brothers founded by Marcellin Champagnat, has a mainly criollo congregation. Although the order focuses on education in its work among the native population, the Marists’ arrival coincided with the beginning of the so-called “democracy” period and they were active in securing the return to the native population of the 20,000 hectares surrounding the mission that the Franciscans had “mapped.” 38 They built a school in the paraje household district of 34. Interesting in this connection are the journals of Alfred Métraux published in 1978, A. M étraux, Itinéraires 1 (1935‑1953). Carnets de notes et journaux de voyage (Paris, 1978) and the works of G. Gordillo, Lugares de diablos. Tensiones del espacio y la memoria (Buenos Aires, 2010); Nosotros vamos a estar por acá para siempre. Historias Tobas (Buenos Aires, 2005). Aloja is the main ingredient in the beer consumed during the “feasts of aloja.” It is made from the fruit of the algarrobo (sp. prosopis) tree and a staple food of many indigenous peoples of the Chaco. Aloja is consumed during feasts to celebrate a venganza, i.e. vendetta, G. Barúa – M.C. Dasso, “El papel femenino en la ostilidad wichí,” in M. Califano, El Chaman wichí (Buenos Aires, 1999) 251‑298; is consumed during female initiation rites, J. Palmer , La Buena Voluntad Wichí: una espiritualidad indígena (Buenos Aires 2005), G. Barúa – M.C. Dasso – Z.A. Franceschi, “El papel femenino en la convivencia wichí del Chaco central,” in S. Hirsch, Mujeres indigenas en la Argentina. Cuerpo, trabajo, Poder (Buenos Aires, 2008) 117‑151. 35.  By criollo is meant the descendants of the Spanish and Europeans on the one hand and of those who have intermarried with the natives and become livestock herders on the other. The criollos of the Chaco are thus groups of different origin, and it is to be kept in mind that the term itself has different meanings depending on historical context. Since the 1500s throughout Hispanic countries, criollo has come to mean descendants of the Spanish born in South America and “mestizos,” descendants of European males and native females, O. Sturzennegger , Le mauvais œil de la lune. Ethnomédicine créole en Amérique du Sud (Paris, 1999). 36.  What the Wichí call “monte chaqueño,” or tañhi, is in actual fact a lowland plain that, geologically speaking, is part of the llanura chaco-pampeana and extends southeast in slight gradients from the foothills of the Sierra Andes to the Paraguay River. A varied range of temperature, rainfall, elevation and soil profile thus mark the area. The parajes, or wukwe wetes, are not situated within the precincts of what is called “monte fuerte,” an uninhabited reserve for hunting and gathering, mariscar, and access to it is allowed only for local women and men but not for children and wayfarers. Many of the criollos who live in the monte tend livestock. 37. The Wichí, whose language belongs to the Matacoan-Maka family, today number about 36,000 in Argentina (Instituto Nacional de Estadistica, 2004‑2005). 38.  The Franciscans left boundary stones, mojones, as “markers” and these had to be found to remap the Mission’s 20,000 hectares.

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Pozo del Sapo that employs the pareja pedagogica method. 39 The Anglicans have congregations in the criollo village too as well as in the parajes of Toba, Atento and Nueva Población. There are also evangelical and Pentecostal sects at Misión Nueva Pompeya like the Asamblea de Dios, Iglesia de Dios, Iglesia Evangelica and Iglesia Bautista. The largest of these is the Pentecostal Iglesia Evangelica Unida, established at Barrio Wichí in 1980, whose pastors and deacons are all natives (testimony of EA, 17 June 2013). This sect started in the eastern Chaco among the Toba (Qom) people in the 1930s and apparently spread among the Wichí through contact with Toba and Pilagà converts rather than through direct activity by missionaries. Protestant evangelisation in the Chaco and Formosa of the 1930s flourished under the Emmanuel Mission of British origin and the NorthAmerican Pentecostals led by John Lagar and the Mennonites.  4 0 The latter were at the forefront of the so-called evangelio movement that culminated in the establishment of the Iglesia Evangelica Unida. 41 The experiences narrated in the accounts infra, all of conversions I witnessed, are those of women and men belonging to the Anglican and Iglesia de Dios congregations. IV. C on v e r sion

e x pe r i e nce s

The Wichí are a people of oral tradition and words thus have specific connotations. As Dasso and Palmer 42 point out, their terms for “word” and “volition” are so closely linked that they are often used interchangeably and as synonyms. The same holds for negatively charged words like tayih, which can be translated as meaning “evil eye, curse, malediction”— words not inspired by “good will” that lose their value when used to “speak ill of.” An individual thus exhibits within the group his or her personal qualities or personality by manner of “soft” or “hard” words in speech, the latter type potentially being a cause of pain or illness. Word and intention/volition fuse together and become the means whereby the individual is incorporated, operates and exercises power in the group. Words are not 39. Some primary schools are dual-language with both a Spanish and Wichí teacher, whence the term pareja pedagógica. 40. E.S. M iller , Armonia y disonancia en una sociedad (México, 1979); C. Ceriani Cernadas – S. Citro, “Repensando el movimiento del Evangelio entre los Tobas del Chaco Argentino,” in Congreso Virtual (2002), www.Naya.org.ar. 41. C. Ceriani Cernadas , “Entre la confianza y la sospecha. Representación indígenas sobre la experiencias chaqueñas de misionalización protestante,” in F. Tola – C. M edrano – L. Cardin, Gran Chaco: ontologías, poder, afectividad (Buenos Aires, 2013) 301. 42. J. Palmer , La Buena Voluntad Wichí: una espiritualidad indígena (Buenos Aires, 2005); M.C. Dasso, La Mascara Cultural (Buenos Aires, 1999).

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just any ordinary means or instruments and must command our attention when they form narratives. We shall place our lens mainly over two kinds of conversion stories that are part of the common Wichí repertory: very short oral accounts, or testimonios, focused explicitly on conversion, and exemplary histories called casos and pahchehen. These narratives will be supplemented by accounts of and comments on daily life that belong properly not to native oral tradition but occasioned by the questions of the anthropologist and are part of the participant observation that marked my daily fieldwork. 43 All three categories or kinds of testimony bring into relief educational background, views of society and linguistic models held to be proper. The narrative shape of the testimonios afford continuity vis-à-vis the pahchehen, although the latter cannot be taken as occasions per se since they are an appendage of the everyday life of individuals and of the parajes community. Pahchehen, testimonios and episodes of the quotidian will help us explicate facets of “Wichí Christian belief.” Testimonios are part and parcel of a repertory that has recently been rehabilitated in the anthropological literature. These autobiographical narratives stem from conversion and place the event or events that led to it squarely in the foreground. Once considered “by-products” of the ethnographic record, they are today widely relied on to represent the “native point of view.”  4 4 The turning point was the work of Paul Radin, a pupil of Franz Boas who demonstrated how native religious experience represented the emotional correlate of the struggle for existence in a hostile environment rife with dangers. 45 Radin convinced Samuel Blowsnake, a Ho-Chunk (Winnebago) Amerindian, to write his autobiography and edited it for trade publication under the title Crashing Thunder in 1926.  4 6 43.  In her Mascara Cultural, Maria Cristina Dasso puts particular emphasis on what she calls “lo relatable para el etnógrafo,” i.e. what can be reported through the ethnographer. It is a meditation as much on the meaning of the encounter itself as on the hermeneutic circle that is established in the ethnographic context of “fieldwork.” For Dasso, it is only possible to approach the narrative heart of a given testimony very gradually since the ethnographer’s field method of question-and-answer disrupts the narrative event. This is why, in my own endeavours, I have become convinced that the interview approach is inappropriate to the pursuit of my goals and have relied on participatory observation. M.C. Dasso, La Mascara Cultural (Buenos Aires, 1999) 62‑71. 44. Z.A. Franceschi, Storie di vita. Percorsi nella Storia dell ’antropologia americana (Bologna, 2006). 45. E. Comba, Antropologia delle religioni: un’introduzione (Roma, 2008) 102. 46. Radin originally edited the Blowsnake manuscript for initial publication under the title “The Autobiography of a Winnebago Indian” in The University of California Publications in Anthropology and Ethnography, Vol. XVI, Number 7, April, 1920, and re-edited it for commercial release as Crashing Thunder: The Autobiography of an American Indian by D. Appleton & Company (New York, 1926).

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Blowsnake set down his memories of childhood, his dissolute pursuit of pleasure, or “a true rake’s progress” as Radin put it, in adult life, religious conversion to the peyote cult, and the sobriety of behaviour that marked his maturity. By his own account, conversion was the event of his life, and the revelations that follow it serve to exemplify how the author himself grows to awareness in the very act of narration, a context that encourages a certain kind of “public confession.” To a certain extent, Radin’s “witness” learned to fashion an account capable of illustrating a precise moral image and certain religious concerns. Grant Arndt underscores how “conversion brought Blowsnake into a context that encouraged a public form of confession.” 47 Blowsnake’s narrative stems from a context of spiritual redemption his words illustrate through conversion. The cult and power of peyote initially spread through the aegis of a Ho-Chunk elder, who fit it into the traditional ideas and customs the Winnebago had concerning the use of plants. 48 Later on Albert Hensley, a young convert, promoted a version that was “a strong mixture of Puritan Protestant idea […] Hensley linked peyote to interpretation of the Bible, promoted a Christian version of baptism as a part of the ritual of conversion.” 49 It is in this sense that Arndt sees Radin’s Blowsnake testimony as a first experiment in responding to a request to become “[…] subjects who speak sincerely about what they know in their minds.” 50 This observation seems to me essential in thinking about the new model of narration focused on conversion, on the act of narration itself and on the moral outlook it purports to convey. First comes conversion and then repeated public confessions of experiences like love and sin, subject matter that portrays the sense of morality and how it is played out in domestic and everyday life. It is my conviction that narrative testimony of conversion offered in domestic or institutional, i.e. church, settings has a profound effect on the construction of self and person vis-à-vis society and on society vis-à-vis its individual members. 51 Although conversion in Amerindian contexts has 47. G. A rndt, “Indigenous Autobiography en Abyme: Indigenous Reflections on Representational Agency in the Case of Crashing Thunder,” Ethnohistory 59 (2012) 27‑49. 48.  Ibidem. When Radin arrived to begin fieldwork in Nebraska in 1908, he found a version of the peyote cult promoted by John Rave. 49. G. A rndt, “Indigenous Autobiography en Abyme: Indigenous Reflections on Representational Agency in the Case of Crashing Thunder,” Ethnohistory 59 (2012) 39. 50.  Ibidem. 51.  There is a vast literature on these topics that, starting from Maurice Leenhardt’s studies (1947) have reflected on how much Christian models have influenced native representations of the body, the “soul” of the individual. One of the latest volumes on these themes has been published by S. Oakdale – M. Course , ed., Fluent Selves: Autobiography, Person, and History in Lowland South America (Nebraska Press, 2014).

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been interpreted as a religious experience of a mercurial people that can hardly be isolated from other conversions that occur sooner or later, it is a profound experience nonetheless, and can affect behaviour when one is faced with personal, family or social crisis. Testimonial accounts of such experiences among indigenous peoples evince an awareness motivated by ethical, moral and social realizations such that they cannot be interpreted as superficial or voluble but as coherent with a system of traditional beliefs. They also portray a world that Christianity deems “[…] appropriate and proper for a transformation […] that leads to the abandonment of behaviour held to be sinful […]” 52 but whose moral and ethical character is continually being adapted and re-adapted. V. C on v e r sion

na r r at i v e s a s t e s t i mon ios a n d pa hch e h e n

Biographical accounts involve a suite of ethical and methodological issues that we shall not examine here. 53 For the Wichí, the focus of such portrayals on autobiographical detail and personal experiences is neither a habitual nor conventional model. 54 Rather, their traditional narratives tell of myths, or pahlalis, and of casos, or pahchehen. 55 In her La Mascara Cultural, Dasso notes three distinct aspects of casos/pahchehen: the first is that they shape and direct experience into a narrative form, thereby making it a “communicable entity like a story”; next they exhibit an “intentional and demiurgical character” by which the word reproduces through the narrative process a reality that becomes actual in the telling; and last that they feature a narrator who speaks about and points out the possible occurrence of events in the Wichí world. While the narrator can be the main character to whom the event has formally happened, it is the narrative act itself that makes the occurrence of the event possible even in other

52. C. Ceriani Cernadas – S. Citro, “Repensando el movimiento del Evangelio entre los Tobas del Chaco Argentino,” in Congreso Virtual (2002), www.Naya. org.ar. 53.  See Z.A. Franceschi, ed., Storie di vita/Autobiografie (Milano, 2012), for details. 54.  A good case in point is Manuel Gutiérrez Estévez’s account of the two kinds of narrative of the Yucatan Maya: “autobiography of presentation” and “event biography.” The former portrays interesting facets in the presentation of self and the latter reconstructs a given community ambit with respect to other social contexts, M. Gutiérrez E stevez , “Significado de la narrativa biográfica entre los mayas yucatecos,” in Arbor: Ciencia, pensamiento y cultura 515‑516 (1988) 145‑176. 55. Their myths tell the tales of characters called pahlalis and of events that occurred in times radically different from the contemporary age. Thus a myth cannot be taken simply as a story because it structures thought and action.

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cultural contexts. 56 The casos/pahchehen are even now widely employed to enable listeners to be part of events that have occurred in various ambits of daily and spiritual life so as to make them familiar with particular incidents or circumstances of the natural, social and moral order that have been experienced or experimented or are known to have occurred. They are the medium of a message whose formal telling is a well sign-posted path or nayik. 57 Unlike pahlalis, pahchehen deal with events that occur in the near-present. While they render the acts or comportment of characters described in the stories materially graspable by narrating how certain natural or supernatural forces can become manifest, they are firmly rooted in experienced reality and unfold in close-to-contemporary circumstances. Pahlalis on the other hand embody stories of qualitatively different features from the everyday life of the Wichí because they take place in “ancient,” remote times, i.e. neither in the proximate past nor along habitually trodden narrative ground like pahchehen. The pahchehen I have personally heard recount stories that usually have happened to others yet could become of immediate experience to any of the listeners for they tell of events that take place in close proximity of space and time and explain the order or disorder of the quotidian, occurrences both ordinary and extraordinary. That is why, in their telling, pahchehen often mention acquaintances or acquaintances of acquaintances to whom something, even something that could befall the speaker, has happened. When the Wichí became familiar with the episodes of the Gospels, these became not competitors of the mythical pahlalis but a safe source of casos/pahchehen wherever the two fonts evinced the same conceptual structures. Notions like power/kahnaiaj, sickness/ahot lonek, and even the forceful way something like bequest/lewitole is expressed were placed on the same plane. The Wichí were able to tap into and transform Christian lore through the basic conviction that phenomena known to them and those expounded in the Bible were of the same order of events. As Dasso and Califano have often emphasised, the lengthy time span over which Christianity spread enabled an appropriation of a new structure, or as they put it: when the Wichí came to know Christianity, “[…] the Mataco Welt­ anschauung was upheld through the Dios-wichí-ahát triad […]”. 58 The testimonio is usually a public act adhering to a certain script, or outline, and reinforced by a repetitive structure or refrain. First comes the 56. M.C. Dasso, La Mascara Cultural (Buenos Aires, 1999) 51. 57. M. Califano – M.C. Dasso, “La nocion del camino entre los Mataco(mataco-makà),” Mitologicas  VII (1993) 35‑43. 58. M. Califano, “Los chamanes de Dios entre los Mataco-Maka del Chaco argentino,” in M. Califano – M.C. Dasso, El Chamán Wichí (Buenos Aires, 1999) 273.

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autobiographical account and then a comment on a passage in it or several words taken from the New or Old Testament. Its expressive force is the personal content, the lived experience, that becomes exemplary because the experiences laid bare are both uniquely personal and common to the circle of listeners – the individual’s experience helps the others, it is a gift 59 in the form of words to the community. Yet beyond this horizon, which takes the form of traditional pahchehen to evince the prerogatives of the new belief, are vistas that may appear as nuances of the conversion narrative but are fundamental to social intercourse and, more importantly, are experienced not as being alternative paths to conversion but as completing the journey to it. The testimonios we have thus re-establish the order of things in the here and now of the convert’s life and surrounding world. They exhibit an appropriation of linguistic and cultural elements of Christianity that is well documented in the ethnographical literature 60 while structurally adhering to the traditional pahchehen. Unlike the latter, however, whose purpose is to elucidate the Weltanschauung of society through its subject matter, the testimonios yield a re-interpretation of self through the subject’s encounter with God. Though seemingly subtle, the differences between testimonios and pahchehen help us distinguish which kind of narrative construct we are dealing with and how their perspectives diverge. The testimonio recount and ratify the conversion of an individual either as a single event or a gradual series thereof in a biographical trajectory of moral and ethical values the witness decides to make public, to share, thereby becoming a person of “good will” in the Wichí sense of the term. 61 Conversion means to choose a truth – the Christian God and all else such a truth implies – that the testimonios through the convert appropriate, formalise and continually reshape in through traditional narrative models without ambiguity or mix-up. The pahchehen too are likewise chosen, sorted, adapted as dictated by the daily life accompanying them in 59. The subject of gifts received during their encounter with Christianity emerged more than once, each time referring to different circumstances. It represents a complex issue. Compared to the matter of this paper, we can certainly affirm that also the “capacity to work,” to heal from a disease, to be the medium of a recovery is considered a gift. But gifts, as we know from Marcel Mauss’s famous essay, is neither free nor without strings attached, so it is worthwhile to reflect on the repercussion that such a gift involves from the point of view of those who offer and receive it. In this sense the political and economic implications to be considered are numerous and complex. 60. M.C. Dasso, “Control y descontrol en la cultura Wichí,” Scripta Ethnologica (1992); M.C. Dasso, “Lectura simbólica de un texto bíblico desde la perspectiva Wichí,” Scripta Ethnologica (1991) Suplementa vol. 10. 61. J. Palmer , La Buena Voluntad Wichí: una espiritualidad indígena (Buenos Aires, 2005).

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the parajes. Palmer has bracketed the Wichí ethos in the notion of “will,” hesék, which orchestrates, moderates, compensates and directs emotions, social intercourse, health and includes the worlds of biology, ecology, politics and kinship: In Wichí thought, the will is an indispensable organ of the body, located in the heart, of which it is metaphysical counterpart. Just as the heart is recognized by the Wichí as the material vital factor of human life, they regard the will as the immaterial vital factor: the body although a living organism in its own right, cannot maintain itself in an operative condition without will. We might say that the body without a will is like a car without a driver. 62

Outward signs that will (hesek) and body are in harmony are thrift, selfreflection, imperturbability, composure, inscrutability, although they alternate with their opposites when self-control weakens. 63 Behavioural excess and lack of self-control, descontrol, must be monitored since they can lead to dangerous situations and induce anxiety, nowaye, in both the individual and the community. As we have seen, these aspects are also taken up in those pahchehen that narrate situations of a protagonist who has wilfully or involuntarily transgressed these prescriptions, thereby serving as a guide or reminder of the correct norms of ethical and moral behaviour expected of a Wichí whose will is “good.” The testimonios too can be seen in this light as conversion is a safe, unintimidating way of re-establishing proper ethical and moral behaviour. Addiction to alcohol and drugs, unemployment, illness are all narrative themes of loss and “repair” of self-control invoked in a testimonio whose God is unambiguously good and whose rules of comportment are in balance with the proper social and metaphysical world the Wichí strive primarily to achieve. Conversion testimonios of my knowledge bear witness to a pact (el pacto) with the Christian God and his truth and become an integral part of the Wichí Weltanschauung. The pact is a new source of positive power, unlike the shamanistic that must confront dangerous, i.e. often evil and deceitful, spirits—called ahat and often exemplified by Arco Iris or Lewó in pahchehen tales. Not living up to the pact thus means provoking dangerous and harmful situations. Conversion is a sophisticated process of renewal in the journey of persons who thereby lead a life as Christian Wichí and explain their new 62. J. Palmer , “Husek (the will): A Wichí category of the person,” JASO 25/1 (1994) 2. 63. M.C. Dasso, “Equilibrio del control y descontrol en la existencia wichí,” in M. Califano, ed., Mito, guerra y venganza entre los Wichí (Buenos Aires, 1999) 142.

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spiritual and moral universe in biblical terms. It thus entails shedding principles in contrast to the Christian message like those governing the shamanistic world. According to Joel Robbins, believing is to be understood in all its nuances and facets. The infinitive form of the verb “to believe in,” with its prepositional affix, means believing in something, a person, an idea and attests to a truth while implicating a commitment to pursue a certain path. It communicates a sense of certainty and conviction vis-à-vis the stated propriety of the new path to be undertaken and the reasons for it. “To believe that,” by contrast, expresses uncertainty about the truth of a given proposition.  6 4 The preposition/conjunction divide following the verb “to believe” is thus an interesting example of how wide, elusive and composite the “believing” horizon is and how it can attest to what it apparently negates. Evocative in this connection is David Sweet’s train of thought à propos of historian Nerbert Bolton in his essay “The Ibero-American Frontier Mission in Native American History”, wherein he observes how conversion constantly oscillates between an action (imposed) and an interaction (shared), between constraint and opportunity. 65 Interestingly, the faith-bearing testimonios of my first hand knowledge and those recorded by colleagues who have preceded me all note the firm resolve of the converts to keep their pact with the Christian God. Just as the pahchehen underscore the importance of properly following the dictates of Wichí culture and narrate the society’s identity through personal events, so the autobiographical testimonios tell of the resolve to live up to the word given to God and to live in harmony with their society. The hand guiding the conversion pact with the Christian God and preventing its breaking is the structure ordering the Wichí world view that is portrayed in the pahchehen and derived from the pahlalis. What we see emerging and is attested by the reiterated autobiographical testimonios is a profound cognizance of one’s personal and social history, an awareness that guides the relationship to one’s cultural history by calling into question the individual’s rapport with his or her self, language, past and with other members of the community. As we have seen, while the first-person narrative is not proper to such a context, it is, in my experience, exposing the members of this community to a re-positioning of the self vis-à-vis others and their history (pahchehen and pahlalis).

64. J. Robbins , “Continuity Thinking and the Problem of Christian Culture. Belief, Time, and the Anthropology of Christianity,” Current Anthropology 48 (2007) 14‑15. 65. D. Sweet, “The Ibero-American Frontier Mission in Native American History,” in E. L anger – R.H. Jackson, The new latin American Mission History (Nebraska 1995) 9.

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VI. Th e a n t h ropology of C h r i s t i a n i t y a s t e nsion v i s - à - v i s con t i n u i t y . A spects of con v e r sion Conversion is an elusive concept, indicating as it does disconnection, change of direction, sudden or gradual turning. Christian theological tradition would have it as a sudden, immediate change. According to Lewis Rambo, evangelical Christian sects have in a sense staked their claim to this concept over the centuries by restricting it to the Pauline paradigm of sudden, dramatic metamorphosis. 66 Diane Austin-Broos, on the other hand, views conversion as “a turning from and to that is neither syncretism nor absolute breach.” 67 It is therefore necessary for us to investigate conversion and its complexities to elucidate those facets that, among other things, can initiate continuity and discontinuity. In effect, the conversion testimonios we can read or listen to through more or less formally constructed narrative acts presuppose in most cases a knowledge of the Gospels in the Wichí language by the converts themselves, a knowledge that through accretion has settled within the person like sediment and been transformed through a process of complex adaptation of apparently transient models of existence. Conversion, the Gospels and their interpretation in daily life cannot be disconnected. It is in my view misleading to keep wondering whether conversion is a turning towards or from something. 68 Indeed, to do so might induce one to think or assume that there is some hard core, a surviving remnant of something that persists and is suspended in time, regardless of whether it stems from a native or Christian matrix. Nor was any such assumption the point from which the first Wichí converts started since they were basically interested in learning to read and write and gain access to the Bible. Instructive in this connection are the observations of Mario Califano in witnessing such experiences during fieldwork in the 1970s and 1980s. “The hermeneutic issue of the Gospels takes a curious twist when it comes to Mataco interpretation. A Mataco reader is not interested in the author, whose image is that of a blurry forebear, the four Evangelists being a good case in point. The Mataco reader is struck first and foremost by the literal sense of the text and immediately appropriates this meaning to his or her life.” 69 66. L.R. R ambo, “Anthropology and the Study of Conversion,” in A. Buckser – S.D. Glazier , ed., The Anthropology of Religious Conversion (New York, 2003) 213. 67. D. Austin-Broos , “The Anthropology of Conversion”, in A. Buckser – S.D. Glazier , ed., The Anthropology of Religious Conversion (New York, 2003) 1. 68.  Ibidem, 1‑15; L. Chua, “Conversion, continuity, and moral dilemmas among Christian Bidayus in Malaysian Borneo,” American Ethnologist 39 (2012) 522. 69. M. Califano, “Los chamanes de Dios entre los Mataco-Maka del Chaco argentino,” in M. Califano – M.C. Dasso, El Chamán Wichí (Buenos Aires,1999) 275.

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How can an individual’s conversion change the temporal and relational dimensions of a community? Who is today’s convert and, more importantly, which convert decides to bear witness thereof? Who are those for whom Christianity has long been a part of their lives that change sect today? How do missionaries currently approach their work in the area, what are their expectations in regard to conversion, and what do they know of the Wichí, their culture, language and the way they live? Systems of belief are as robust as they are flexible, pliant. One thing common to those defined as “pagan” is that they can make various experiences of belief as their own without blending them to an undifferentiated mix. Raymond Firth comes straight to the point in this connection: “People who practice a pagan religion, since it is so closely linked with their own society, have the religion which is appropriate to it. They think of their religion as true, but they don’t think of it as uniquely true.” 70 He clearly brings to the fore the issue of a truth’s uniqueness, one of the most vexing and complex for Christian missionaries vis-à-vis the perception of failure or success of their evangelisation efforts. If we take the viewpoint of the Wichí, we must note that they hold conversion as a truth experienced and as such it is not in contrast other truths like Lewó but dictates other choices vis-à-vis sources of power or healing to be pursued. Manuel Gutiérez Estévez put it neatly, saying “ juntas pero no revueltas” or “united but not scrambled” 71 as a way of explaining the persistent practice of many native communities in keeping to Christian precepts but within the bounds of traditional beliefs by aggregation but without confusing the two realms. As Gutiérrez also notes, “the peculiar logic of monotheism has not penetrated the consciousness of Amerindians, who have retained the ‘recalcitrant’ logic of paganism that sees no conflict in tacking on beliefs and practices of whatever origin.” 72 Specifically for the Wichí, Maria Cristina Dasso (1999) has deployed the term mezcla, a kind of amalgamation, to describe how they keep the two ambits separate without confounding them. Keeping their pact with the Christian God means thinking within, but not beyond, his bounds. The Wichí are thus not “recalcitrant” in the sense of the term Gutiérrez attributes to the Yucatan Maya but have grasped, sorted and adapted the new message to the world they know. The co-habitation of different belief systems is a common denominator of many Native American peoples. Gutiérrez notes in this connection that, Christian tradition is differentiated from but not confused with the pagan and each explicates its significance in the world […]. This implies that 70. R. Firth, “Conversion from Paganism to Christianity,” RAIN 14 (1976) 4. 71. M. Gutiérrez E stevez , “Un’altra volta sul sincretismo,” in C. Ciampa, Antropologia delle Americhe (Bologna, 2007) 125. 72.  Ibidem, 126.

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Christianity in many Amerindian societies is a very different one from that of Roman Catholicism and bears a notable local imprint resulting from adaptations, re-interpretations and misunderstandings of the original doctrine. This same also holds true for the pagan tradition, which today is very different from what it must have been in pre-Columbian times since its original repertory has undergone reduction, adaptation to new strategies of identity, ritual impoverishment at the hands of colonial subjugation and by means of other factors. 73

Missionary efforts have thus had to work on layers of amalgamation, accretion, that have often translated into convictions or misunderstandings. 74 This situation has in turn resulted in conversion that, according to Lanternari, “[…] takes on aspects of a collision […] On close inspection, the entire process of Christian proselytising, whether in modern times and in non-occidental areas or even from its western inception, is neither more nor less a continuous creation and re-creation – the differences depending on the given society and cultural group – in a dialectic of ongoing encounters, differentiations, reactions and subsequent counter-reaction […].” 75 It has been suggested that conversion sets off “a direct process of changing and relativizing of the parties involved in missionary work, both the one who is evangelised, i.e. the other to be converted, and the evangeliser.” 76 The Christian message has thus gradually “gone native,” and its reception, adaptation or rejection has affected all parties, as the linguistic twists and turns in the translations of the Gospels clearly evince. 77 Wichí translators of the New Testament, for example, have deployed borrowings from the repertory of their myths and tales of oral tradition, a fact further corroborated by a more recent study at Misión Nueva Pompeya showing how the Wichí have appropriated parts of the Gospels not in contrast with their traditions and then amalgamated and circulated them in known oral forms. Christian missions are thus to be viewed as a complex phenomenon and have been, and are still, part of the “integrating practices of the process of expansion, exploration, discovery and transformation the West long ago

73.  Ibidem, 126. 74. A. P rosperi, Tribunali della coscienza. Inquisitori, confessori, missionari (Torino, 1996). 75. V. L anternari, Occidente e Terzo Mondo. Incontri di civiltà e religioni differenti (Bari, 1967) 261. 76. F. Cuturi, “Introduzione. Adattarsi, modellare e convertire,” in F. Cuturi, ed., In nome di Dio (Roma, 2004) 11. 77.  See Cuturi’s example of translations of the Gospels at San Mateo del Mar in Mexico, F. Cuturi, “Dogma, traduzione delle scritture e alterità linguistico-culturale,” in G. Filoramo – F. R emotti, Pluralismo religioso e modelli di convivenza (2009) 57‑111.

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set in motion.” 78 In many social contexts still, and unfortunately, seen superficially as “poor” or “violent,” the choice of one sect over another has today profound political and economic implications and repercussions. Conversion is often “pitched” as a “bridge to a better life, a kind of contract between the converted and church.” 79 Raymond Firth offered his thoughts of conversion in his paper “Conversion from Paganism to Christianity” that have been reviewed and reassessed in anthropological studies of conversion – those of Lewis R. Rambo (1993), Andrew Buckster and Stephen D. Glazier (2003), Joel Robbins (2007) and Chua (2012) are of particular interest here. 80 Firth called for trans-disciplinary analysis of a phenomenon as complex as conversion and, lamenting the dearth then characterising anthropological studies in this connection, cited Raoul Allier’s La Psychologie de la Conversion chez les Peuples Non Civilizés (1925). 81 Although he considered it already dated and rife with bias and stereotypes, Firth nevertheless found Allier’s book interesting for some of its insights and noted, “[…] He argues also that while intellectual assent can be an important aspect of conversion, this does not consist simply in an intellectual adherence to a system of truths. Rather both sentimental and intellectual aspects of the transposition of 78. F. Cuturi, “Introduzione. Adattarsi, modellare e convertire,” in F. Cuturi, ed., In nome di Dio (Roma, 2004) 9. 79.  A good part of Daniel Levine’s exhaustive review of the current situation of Christianity in Latin America focuses on the Church of the Universal Reign of God (IURD) and on the church established by Edir Macedo at Rio de Janeiro in 1977. While his contextual examples are far removed from those we are considering, it is interesting to note the role of conversion in Levine’s view: “The continuing appeal of divine healing and the possibility of a change in the way life is lived is immensely attractive to people with urgent physical and emotional needs, suffering from what Chesnut calls the pathogens of poverty, namely alcoholism, violence (including domestic violence), gastrointestinal disease and status of marginality”; D.H. L evine , “The future of Christianity in Latin America,” in Journal of Latin American Studies 41 (2009) 134. 80. L.R. R ambo, “Anthropology and the Study of Conversion,” in A. Buckster – S.D. Glazier , ed., The Anthropology of Religious Conversion (New York, 2003) 211‑223; A. Buckster – S.D. Glazier , The Anthropology of Religious Conversion (New York, 2003); J. Robbins , “Continuity Thinking and the Problem of Christian Culture. Belief, Time, and the Anthropology of Christianity,” Current Anthropology 48 (2007) 5‑38; L. Chua, “Conversion, continuity, and moral dilemmas among Christian Bidayus in Malaysian Borneo,” in American Ethnologist 29 (2012) 511‑526. 81.  Allier was a French intellectual of Heugenot family and ardent student of missions. In compiling his book, Allier consulted the Journal des missions évangéliques ( JME), commonly called at the time Journal vert for the colour of its cover, which was a propaganda organ of the Société des Missions Évangéliques de Paris whose purpose was to advertise its missionary work and attract attention to as well as induce vocations for it, R. A llier , La psychologie de la conversion chez les peuples non-civilisés (Paris, 1925).

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values, which is conversion, are the concomitants of the appearance of a new self […]”. 82 For Firth conversion is a change in one’s world view, its system of beliefs, symbols and social actions as well as in the system of those who exert control over these changes. Convertere in Latin means “to turn over” in the sense of to mutate, transpose. Reading Firth between the lines, one discerns an intuition that a religious system like Christianity can exert an attraction vis-à-vis education and has the potential to bring new forces to bear even as instruments of power. In effect, those who do convert are persuaded they can gain the means of this power through knowledge of the Gospels, which also attract as a source or object of power. Whenever the Gospels are translated into the convert’s native language, they have initiated an explicit awareness or heightened sense of identity that is expressed through writings in the native language and Spanish. A good case in point is Laureano Segovia, a wichí writer in the Salta area, although similar examples are increasingly common today. 83 From what we have seen, conversion dictates a change of self. It’s a discontinuity, disjuncture. But what kind of rupture is it? We can see it as incomplete, never definitive, or “never the whole lot” as it were, in light of the non-contradiction principle found in many systems of belief. Conversion can even become a re-connecting, the resolving of a situation that has gone “out of control.” It is a process of identity-forming that presents itself as quest and request – a first rite of passage, point of departure, starting mark. Conversion also induces new expectations that are handed down, changing in time vis-à-vis political and economic conditions, in a delicate dialectic between generations that over time must bring into focus the individual and collective caesurae occurring within moments of small social changes. Anthropologists dealing with conversion are locked in debate today over the disrepute under which any such rupture supposedly is induced by conversion. According to Joel Robbins, anthropologists have pursued a “continuist” line of interpretation by assuming the persistence of traditional systems of belief while ignoring the basic premises of Christianity regarding the perception of time and of change. Robbins notes that, Key among these assumptions is that cultures endure and are very hard to change. Anthropology has generally been, I suggest, a science of continuity. This assumption of continuity is in turn related to assumptions about the nature of time and belief that support it. Christian ideas about change, time, and belief are based on quite different assumptions, ones that are organized around the plausibility of radical discontinuities in personal lives 82. R. Firth, “Conversion from Paganism to Christianity,” RAIN 14 (1976) 4. 83.  Laureano Segovia is a wichí writer of Salta Province who has published two books, one in 1998 and one in 2005. The texts are re-tellings of several myths as parts of the author’s life and are examples not so much of autobiography as of what might be termed “auto-ethnographies.”

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and cultural histories. Only by recognizing this, I argue, will anthropologists be able to understand the way Christianity can become cultural in places where people have converted to it from other religious traditions. 84

Robbins’s arguments are stimulating because they re-direct conversion towards the kind of sudden rupture noted above. Robbins actually mentions an “interruption” 85 in the temporal line of a convert’s life, something often celebrated, but not interpreted as a problem to be resolved. This “continuity gap” is as evident in conversion narratives as is the yearning to seek “refuge” in the new belief, a shelter that acts, say, like a patch sewn on to torn cloth so it can be used again instead of being discarded. What is clearly evident is that conversion and the pursuant periodic public confessions represent for the converts who offer them a real truth, one that has reshaped their lives. Yet, through the new converts, that same truth of the Christian God comes face to face with a universe that embraces other, equally valid truths. My own view in this connection is in accordance with David Maxwell’s response to Robbins because it dovetails neatly with what we have noted heretofore. Both continuity and discontinuity mark conversion. There can be verbal continuities in the names of God, congruence with food taboos and models of leadership, and the replacement of charms with Catholic models. Christianity also brings new, powerful ideas about heaven and hell, sin and judgement. It introduces the figures of Christ and Mary, who demand unwavering devotion […]. Once the converts are established they grasp the congruity of much that went before with their new understanding. The second generation of Christianized children, in particular, who never experienced the rupture of conversion or the old life as a social and spiritual entity, often seek a self-conscious rapprochement with their parents’ former culture. Thus the conversion process has a dialectic that is worked out across the years. 86

Continuity and discontinuity of conversion are good analytical angles that need to be investigated as much through words as through the choices made in ever-day life like what to eat, whom to marry, who holds power, and what is worth learning, transmitting or forgetting. The new generations, who were born in hospital, learnt to speak their native language from the cradle and Spanish at school and whose grandparents learnt to read the Gospels as helpers in the Catholic mission or later with the 84. J. Robbins , “Continuity Thinking and the Problem of Christian Culture. Belief, Time, and the Anthropology of Christianity,” Current Anthropology 48 (2007) 6‑7. 85.  Ibidem. 86. David Maxwell’s answer is to be found following Robbins’s article, published in Current Anthropology in 2007.

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Anglicans, are today’s witnesses seeking to understand the universe of ancestors who had been hunters or shamans. They are the core focus today of the Christian missionary movement and are the challenge of conversion for they represent continuity in a spiritual and social world prevalently marked by discontinuity. VII. Test i mon ios ,

ev e ry day l i fe , c a sos , pahch e h e n

Field Journal, 9 July 2005, Misión Nueva Pompeya. Healing by DM in the Anglican church of paraje Pozo del Toba, after Mass. DM has a helper, a young boy. The two ‘rezan oraciones’ to Jesus. DM asks where the illness is, ‘donde sienten la enfermedad’, and lays on his hands. A has tuberculosis. DM lays his hand on the sufferer’s forehead while his helper holds his (the patient’s) hands. The next to be healed is a two-year-old girl accompanied by her mother. The mother sits down and holds the girl face to her in her arms so DM can touch her back while praying. Before he stops, he caresses the girl’s forehead. The third to be healed is another little girl of about 2. The mother is sitting with her in her arms and uncovers her tummy so DM can massage it. Again, DM and his assistant keep praying until DM touches the girl’s forehead. DM says that he heals with the help of Jesus Christ […] he tells us that he began healing after a dream in which he saw the words of God. Field Journal, 13 March 2014, Misión Nueva Pompeya. DM begins telling me what happens when a person dies: ‘cuando uno muere queda dormido, l’alma y la vida se van hesek hik, l’alma se fue. Se va en casa del Señor, la persona que está bautizada, pero la otra va a otro camino, al camino del fuego eterno. Cuando se sente olor, lanij cuando ya termina todo, cuando ya termina el cuerpo hlilé, los huesos, ya no queda olor. Antes se dejaba colgado a un arbol el cuerpo y cuando caen los huesos ya se va el olor. Ahora cuando llueve como que el agua lava el cuerpo y no tiene más olor, el olor no hace mal. Lo que acompaña una persona tiene que estar cuidado. No tiene que comer picadillo, oveja, mortadela, puede comer dulce. Si la persona es como familia, mi carne es su carne. Contagiar es tajun. […] Los hermanos y los padres tienen que estar cuidados […]. Una mujer también cuando llega los meses también tiene que estar tranquila. No hay que entrar en la laguna porque puede salir el Arco Iris. El señor finado Celestino Cruz, su señora la mató el Arco Iris. Parece que la atacó al cuello y salió mucha sangre. Esto Arco Iris no se puede ver; es como si no se ve, pero cuando se entierra (la señora de Celestino Cruz) queda como la tierra mojada […]. Arco Iris es como un tornado, un viento fuerte […]. Nosotros vamos al cementerio, vamos a revisar la tierra y los

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huesos. Vamos a ver si todo está bien. Todos los Wichí le tienen miedo al Arco Iris de qualquier Iglesia. When one dies, one remains asleep, the sole and life have gone, hesek hik, the soul has departed. It goes to the house of the Lord if the person is baptised, but if not it goes towards another path of eternal fire. When you smell the odour, lanij, when all is over, when the corpse decomposes and ‘ends’, hlilé, the bones no longer smell of the odour. Once upon a time the body was left hanging on a tree and when the bones fell the odour already goes away. So when it rains, it’s as if the water washes the body and the odour is no longer and the odour can’t do harm. The one who accompanies the person must take precautions. He mustn’t eat salami, goat, mortadella, but can eat sweetmeat. If the person is like family, my flesh is his flesh. To infect is tajun  […] brothers and sisters must be careful […]. Even when a woman has her periods she must be calm. She mustn’t enter the lagoon because Arco Iris may emerge. The deceased Mr Celestino Cruz, his wife was killed by Arco Iris. It seems it attacked her neck and a lot of blood spilled out. This Arco Iris can’t be seen it’s like a tornado, a strong wind […]. We go to the cemetery, we go to check the earth and the bones. We go to see if everything is all right. All Wichí are afraid of Arco Iris, no matter what church they belong to.

DM today is a man of about 70, lives in the paraje of Pozo del Toba, has been going to the Iglesia anglicana as long as I have known him and practices healing in the church. He heals because of a gift he received through conversion and has appropriated certain knowledge, hañjaj, that allows him to heal through a beneficent power for good, kajnahjaj. 87 DM relates in detail how to treat the body of the deceased, the reasons for visiting the cemetery, the dietary prescriptions during the time of mourning and of first menstruation. We shall go into neither Wichí funerary practices, nor rites of passage, both of which are amply treated in past literature. 88 What is important to emphasise here is how DM’s conversion led to his asserting that the soul journeys to the “house of the Lord” and that hesek, soul, does not become an ahot but is transformed ontologically. DM also notes that the one who accompanies the deceased must take precautions since there may be contagion, tajun, operating through members of the family and through the deceased’s odour, lanij. 87. M. Califano, “Los chamanes de Dios entre los Mataco-Maka del Chaco argentino,” in M. Califano – M.C. Dasso, El Chamán Wichí (Buenos Aires, 1999) 267‑283. 88. See especially G. Pelleschi, Otto mesi nel Gran Ciacco. Viaggio lungo il fiume Vermiglio (Firenze, 1881); E. Palavecino, “Practicas funerarias norteñas: la de los indios del Chaco Occidental,” in Relaciones  IV (1944) 85‑92; A. M étraux, “Estudio de etnografia chaquense,” in Annales Del Instituto De Etnografia Americana, Universidad De Cuyo V (1944) 263‑314.

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DM then recounts casos-pahchehen about what befalls those who do not follow the dictates of the culture, thereby inciting the intervention of Lewó. Arco Iris/Lewó is a theophany, an inescapable apparition in Wichí life, and certain precautionary measures must be taken to ward it off during menstruation, birth and postpartum, in entering bodies of water, in the “monte” and in alliance relationships construable as incest. Generally speaking, its apparition is linked to any negligent behaviour that can lead to uncontrollable situations. 89 While precise descriptions of Lewó are hard to come by, its most distinctive trait is a lack of humanity that is explicated in its behaviour and form, although the latter remains vague despite the many descriptions given to date. The vagueness of appearance adds to the fear and danger this figure evokes. DM has been associated with the Anglican Church since its founding in the paraje of Pozo del Toba. He and AA, the deceased pastor, built the first church and DM has seen to its restoration. His family comes from Salta Province and his brother FM is working on a new translation of the Bible in Wichí. DM, his wife EC and many other Wichí members of the Pozo del Toba congregation, including AA until his death, have remained in the church they established because of the protection 90 and safety they feel there. DM has been able to balance a life fully lived as Christian with a Wichí life that is familiar with Lewó and tells them how to keep from provoking its wrath, how to deal with mourning and how to refrain from ritually manipulating in daily life the two separate belief systems, especially the Christian. DM was at pains to explain and make me understand clearly that one must behave in a certain way, follow a set of rules and precepts that are part and parcel of the day-to-day routine the Wichí live as Christian in fulfillment of the “I believe in” that Robbins discusses. It is why DM can heal as well as why he has not left the Anglican congregation. The next account is a testimonio proper followed by dialogues with the same person. Field Journal, 11 June 2013, Misión Nueva Pompeya. Testimonio of J at his home in paraje Cuatro Viviendas We went to Cuatro Viviendas where we were met by RD and H. Then P’s husband arrived. J begins by telling us that he’d been very ill because he 89. M.C. Dasso, “Algunas observaciones acerca del Lewó entre los Wichí,” Mitologicas 7 (1993) 27. 90. María Cristina Dasso and I have reflected on the feeling of protection reported to us by the Wichí. They felt especially protected by the Franciscans who helped them with the local Criollas population, and they also felt protected by Guillermina Hagen who spent some years (1969‑1974) amongst the Wichí of Misión Nueva Pompeya, creating a Desarrollo Social programme.

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drank, ‘ero del mundo’ (I was of the world). He had severe headache and had been to several doctors who told him there was no hope and he’d soon be dead. This happened in 2002. J then met the pastor of what he calls the ‘iglesia libre’, encountered the Bible and was healed. J then recited verses of the Gospel that tells the story of a young girl who lost a lot of blood and was healed by her faith when she touched Jesus’s cloak. J emphasises that the girl didn’t need to see Him, it happened because she had faith, ‘entregarse a Dios, lhaya chaj.’ Field Journal, 5 March 2014, Misión Nueva Pompeya. I go to visit P who wasn’t feeling well and had left work early. We begin talking about her sister M. P and J tell me she remarried 6 months ago. J. comments on the behaviour of his wife’s sister by opening the Bible and finding the word ischentsaj, which he translates as ‘malos deseos’ (bad thoughts). It’s in Galatians, vs. 4‑6. Then J talks about locura, madness, and reads me a passage with explicit references to sexuality and desires linked to sex. J emphasises that M fostered her younger children on her parents. J reads the verses in a loud voice. These thoughts are shared by the nuns, who tell me that regardless of the church the Wichí belong to, they stoutly believe in the power of blessing with water, with the Bible, with a crucifix. 91 Field Journal, 7 March 2014, Misión Nueva Pompeya. I go back to see P who’s with her husband. We talk about her job. She tells me her sister ‘se fue a los dos meses’ (she left two months after her husband died) and didn’t observe the period of mourning and she went to live in Pozo del Anta ‘sin escuchar a nadie y dejando todo’ (heedless of anyone’s advice and leaving everything). They say she was in a hurry to leave, ‘estaba apurada’ (she was in a hurry). Everyone at Cuatro Viviendas was surprised. P reiterates what her son R had told me the year before that M.’s new husband was married to the aunt of the wife of M’s son.

The June 2013 testimonio was very similar to others I had listened to in the churches of the various sects. It had a familiar, well-versed plot. It is worth noting that this and the other testimonios heard in church were recounted in Spanish even though, as we shall see, the Wichí have a particular way of expressing the process of conversion. Spanish and Wichí were used in the Sunday services I attended. A notable change thus seems to be taking place vis-à-vis the “paralysing” incapacity of bearing witness in their native language we mentioned above. In effect, the religious lexicon in Wichí is

91. Three nuns of Madre Laura, a missionary congregation established at Dabeiba Antioquia, Colombia, in 1914 by Laura Montoya (1874‑1949, Colombia’s first Saint) arrived in Misión Nueva Pompeya in 2011.

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becoming richer and more varied and the younger generations are using both languages in bearing witness. The healing of J, who is about 50 today, occurred when he made a solemn “pact” with the Christian God, a compromise deal that is valid for him only in that ambit. The “pact,” as we’ve mentioned, is the power of the word, hlamtes, that is established between the person and the spirits that inhabit the surrounding space. J’s is a pact with a new source of entirely positive power that healed and renewed him. Conversion in his case, as in that of DM, is thus to be interpreted as a gaining of access to new forms of power. J’s everyday life and the vicissitudes of his wife’s sister exemplify the train of thought that arises and the questions that are posited in relation to the Scriptures. J reads the Bible for the proper answers because he has acquired new knowledge through conversion. He is ‘born again’ in a new spirit. J found his answers in a Weltanschauung that is a foundational part his being a Wichí Christian. In the March 2014 conversation, J explains the behaviour of his wife’s sister by reading the Wichí words woknhasah and ischentsaj meaning “malos deseos” (bad thoughts) in verse 6‑7 of Paul’s Epistle to the Galatians. J read this passage from the sect’s Bible: “No crean ustedes que pueden engañar a Dios. Cada uno cosechará lo que haya sembrado. Si seguimos nuestros malos deseos, moriremos para siempre; pero si obedecemos al Espíritu, tendremos vida eterna” (Do not be deceived. God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. Whoever sows to please their flesh, from the flesh will reap destruction; whoever sows to please the Spirit, from the Spirit will reap eternal life). M’s story clearly appears to be an altogether family affair. Widowed and without having observed the prescribed period of mourning, the sister of P’s wife ran away to be with the husband of an aunt of her son’s wife and left her young children with their grandparents. J takes issue with M for “abandonment.” Yet it is impossible to say if J is pronouncing moral judgment about a mother’s failure to care for her children since many Wichí children are brought up in extended families without a mother and are not stigmatised as being abandoned. Children bearing their father’s name or those of a first marriage are raised by their maternal grandparents and looked after by the members of the extended household resident in the parajes. In fact, even the conduct of young people, their sexual escapades and vices linked to drugs and alcohol more than once cropped up in these informal conversations. Though not within our purview, all of these are items on the agendas of the Catholic, Anglican and Pentecostal churches. 92 M’s situation on the other hand is one that can generate conflict within related families. It may even be a case of manifest “enfermedad del 92. D.H. L evine , “The future of Christianity in Latin America,” Journal of Latin American Studies 41 (2009) 134.

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muerto” (sickness by means of the dead), i.e. a kind of evil curse, laloyaj, the deceased cast upon his wife because she had betrayed him and it brought madness, locura, upon her and so she did not observe the prescribed period of mourning. Inter-family conflict can lead to enmity that can then turn into a curse or vengeance, and failure to heed the taboos related to the deceased can cause illness, the most feared being the wrath of Arco Iris, Lewó. Whether because of the deceased’s odour, lanij, the wife disseminated by not observing the prescribed mourning period at home, or because she neglected to take the necessary precautions, Lewó’s wrath could have struck at any moment. J’s explanation of this episode via the Bible was seen by him as fear of Lewo’s revenge and the possible enmity its wrath might provoke between families. The Castilian word brujeria (witchcraft, sorcery), to-lhenek in Wichí, is commonly used to resolve cases of family disputes like divorce. A young woman of about 25 told me how widespread this belief is: Field Journal, 14 March 2014, Misión Nueva Pompeya. ME explained to me the meaning of maldecir; enojo is towok; maldecir, hacer brujeria is tiwuynesche. Hay varios tipos de maldición. If two families feud, all the members are courting risk. They can put a curse on you out of envy. You have to be careful, and these things happen when there is a ‘choque familiar,’ a family clash. A curse can be cast in various situations. If a man and a woman beget a child, they put the curse on the child and anyone can kill it. Everyone’s at risk. They can curse you out of envy. We still must be careful too because nature has ‘dueños,’ lords. Dominguez, a girl who lives in Toba, went blind when she died. E. looked at the grave and went blind, the photograph was below her, and she suddenly realised they had cast ‘brujeada’ (curse) upon her […] you have to be careful of yourself and your family.

ME is a member of the Anglican congregation, a teacher outside of Misión Nueva Pompeya, is married and has a son. She speaks Wichí and good Spanish. While her account is not a conversion testimonio, its interest lies in the casos/pahchehen concerning an event that occurred a few days before and its mention of the dueños of nature — ahat that inhabit and have power over the cosmos like i’nat-slele-y (water lords), o’nat-slele-y (earth lords) and pulè-slele-y (lords of the heavens). Respect and awe are due the ‘monte’ because espiritus live there. Many young people have spoken to me about these spirits, know of these entities and have heard stories and tales of them from their grandparents. The last testimonio is from Teodora, a woman whose biography I am writing. Field Journal, 13 March 2014 Mi culto es testimonio; así uno puede aprender, como la religión. Si uno no pregunta no va a saber. La religión tiene que enseñar, y se cura con ora-

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ción, el diacono y el pastor [curan], se da el testimonio y uno cuenta todo lo que pasa. A mi gusta escuchar y después me queda algo en la memoria. La Biblia enseña cosas buenas […] respeto […] (My faith is testimonio; thus one can learn, as with religion. If you don’t ask questions, you can’t learn. Religion must teach and one is healed with prayers, the deacon and pastor [heal] and witness is borne and one recounts everything that happens; I like listening because then something stays in my memory. The Bible teaches good things […] respect).

Now about 70, Teodora was raised by creole families and lives in paraje Araujo. Her husband is a Wichí, she has 10 children and is a member of the Iglesia de Dios sect. For Teodora, the moment of the testimonio occurs when, “el hombre tiene memoria della Biblia” (the person has memory of the Bible). The one who offers the testimonio not only narrates his or her own experience but re-thinks in terms of the Word of God, which can be kept in memory because not everyone knows how to read but everyone can listen and remember. The will to learn, the chance to heal and to remember, even if you cannot read the Word of God directly, are what makes the testimonio a means of real participation, “it works” and can always embrace new faithful. C onclusions As a form of narrative, the testimonio is of interest because it is both a point of departure and arrival in a biographical trajectory marked by very different historical, religious, political and economic arcs. The young Wichí of today have incorporated models of the Bible in ways very different from those of their forebears, who had no schooling and approached the Gospels with precise expectations. In fact, the latter came to know the Scriptures when they had a chance to engage in wage-paying work and were introduced to new food stuffs and new consumer goods. The testimonies of today’s young adults and adolescents are framed by a different world from that of their grandparents. Indeed, the latter’s encounter with Christianity was a challenge, not a clash, since their concern was to learn how to read in order to learn the Bible, how to find the most appropriate words, the most correct translations, whereas living a life as good Christians of “good will” for the younger generations is an obstacle course over which each must find their own way, a way remote from that of their hunter and shaman, nyát, grandfathers. 93 Then too the young live 93.  Most of the elderly Wichi of my acquaintance worked in the mills, ingenios, of sugar-cane plantations as seasonal hands for six months of the year. Here they encountered new kinds of food, apparel, shoes, tools for work and cooking utensils.

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in a world where the Holy Writ is familiar to them all since they know how to read and write, their access to the Word being direct and increasingly personal in ways that reflect the educational role of the Anglican Church. By contrast, for the elderly Wichí whose testimonios of conversion I am acquainted with, learning to read and, hence, to understand and to interpret the Gospels was very important since this enabled them to become Christians and gain access to the power of God. These were the motive forces behind the initial conversions of people like DM, people who sought and found new knowledge and a new power that can be called upon in the material world for healing, protection, work and even for effecting a vocation or turning a gift into act. The Wichí expression for conversion is iwu hesek ehla, litterally “to make/create a new soul or will” (also used for pentimento, repentance). It is thus an event that signals a caesura while marking a new beginning. The new soul is constantly being perfected by listening to and practicing the dictates of its own culture that are now experienced through a Christianity proper to and true for that soul. This is why conversion interrupts life’s path and then hesek ehla takes over the journey anew. Conversion for the Wichí shapes the person because it opens new moral horizons, and those who convert and offer their testimonios “se entrega” unto God – this is what they invest and “believe in.” As we pointedly noted from Joel Robbins, individual accounts of conversion bring together different structural elements to shape new narrative models that, especially for the younger generations, create bonds within and without a congregation. These ties weave affective connections to a lacerating experience, a life-crisis, that is to be shared by the community through the convert’s account. It is an unusual act that brings to public attention an individual’s intimate experience and its links to the community and the wider world. While the casos/pahchehen and the testimonios all narrate quotidian events in the present tense along an arc following what tradition or the new faith prescribes, the testimonios possess something different because they posit challenges to and views of an individual’s life that expose that person to an ethical and moral judgement of self that cannot but exert effects on the community as a whole. This kind of confessional autobiography brings to the fore a specific “agency” that is shared as well as imitated by the younger generations. As do the casos/pahchehen, the testimonios recount an individual’s experience that becomes part of shared knowledge through the concrete act of becomSee J.E. Niklison, “Investigación sobre los indios matacos trabajadores,” Boletín del Departamento Nacional del Trabajo 35 (1917); and Z.A. Franceschi, “Rappresentare e testimoniare. Etica del lavoro e della povertà. I Wichí di Misión Nueva Pompeya (Chaco, Argentina),” in A. Destro, Rappresentare. Questioni di antropologia, cinema e narrativa (Bologna, 2012) 71‑98.

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ing word in its telling. The difference between them is the content since the latter recount a personal experience that had not been shared through the word until then. The testimonio thus makes an individual’s self relevantly applicable to the world through an introspective view of its lifecourse, something especially important to the young who are embarking unsteadily as yet upon their own course both within and outside of their congregation. It is this latter sphere that is the most significantly groundbreaking as new, for very specific narrative models are being gradually forged that recall but diverge from traditional patterns and dictates.

CONTEMPORARY MONASTIC STUDIES. FIRST SKETCHES ON TWO CASE STUDIES: DOMINUS TECUM AND NOTRE-DAME Maria Chiara Giorda Today monasticism is facing a radical challenge because consumerism is one of the indicators of individualism that manifests itself as a new, corrosive dimension of current monastic economy. In this way, modern-day monks are constantly – overtly and covertly – asked to question themselves, not only in the traditional sense, about the meaning of a typical monastic existence, however contemporary it may be. Monasteries nurture an economic theory and practice that often (self-) defines itself as the correct, restrained, healthy, sustainable, quality alternative to external models, but there are many conflicting contact points with what is on the outside. Indeed their very survival depends on it. 1 In an attempt to sidestep the risk of trivialization and “profanation” of the sacred dimension of monastic life, and “the resignification by secular society of monastic rejection of the outside world,” 2 especially in the economic topics I would like to address here, 3 first of all we need to consider the continuous interaction between the monks and the lay community. In economic terms it creates the opportunity for monasteries to find sources of funding and financial resources to be allocated in various ways to the community and to the monastery, renovating, enlarging, and circulating outside its walls a certain kind of knowledge or a spiritual message. The relationship between consumption, economics, and monasticism was spotlighted by recent studies, especially those undertaken in the sociology of religious environment, 4 aiming to demonstrate the complexity 1.  A more complete research has been published in a contribution in Historia Religionum 2015: M. Giorda, “Between God and Mammon. Monastic Economy and Challenges of Secularization,” Historia Religionum 7 (2015) 45-62. 2.  D. H ervieu-L éger , “Tenersi fuori dal mondo. Le diverse valenze dell’extramondanità monastica,” Etnografia e ricerca qualitativa 2 (2012) 185‑202. 3.  Exempli gratia, see the volume: M. Giorda – S. H ejazi , Monaci senza Dio? (Milano, 2014) and G. Filoramo – M. Giorda, Monastic transmutation. Monks in the crucible of secular modernity, Historia Religionum 7 (2015), special issue. 4. See J. Jonveaux, Le monastère au travail. Le royaume de Dieu au défi de l ’économie (Paris, 2011); F. Gauthier , “Primat de l’authenticité et besoin de reconnaissance. La société de consommation et la nouvelle régulation du religieux,” Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses 41/1 (2012) 1‑19. For ancient monasticism: P. Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle. Wealth, the Fall of Roma, and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350‑550  ad (Princeton, 2012). M. Giorda, “Economie Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 613–624 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111722 ©

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and influence of external models also in monasteries. Despite these results being sustained by the scientific environment, public opinion continues to prefer a vision of monasteries as strongholds that contest and protect themselves against capitalist spirit, as havens of radical defiance of consumption, defenders of a certain vision of work and money. 5 In this perspective, monastic life (for centuries one of the possible models for using resources and for social aggregation) might discover a “revolutionary” role in this moment in time. The foundations would be community organization, the relationship between the working and the spiritual dimension, the economic and social culture running counter to individualistic, capitalist, and consumerist mind-sets widespread in the outside world. Those who share this reading think that new economic and production models can be built by starting from the example of monasteries, founded on human relationships based on cooperation and solidarity. Monasteries can be considered practical examples of self-sufficiency, energy, and food production, equitable redistribution of resources, even of degrowth. 6 On the one hand, secularists (according to many that have done so) who interact and spend periods of time in the monasteries relating with the monks experience a sense of wellbeing, which is a different form of repose and tourism. On the other hand, the outside world has a hyperstimulating effect on monasteries, emphasizing a testimony of an alternative way of life that flies the banner of different values and lifestyles, even in outright opposition to those prevailing in the contemporary world. Slow, stable, frugal, and independent of money, in nature, in silence, and also newer concepts like sustainability, organic (thus, pure) food production, seeking “production know-how” (jam, textiles, furnishings, distillates, etc.) that connects seamlessly with the past, and also exemplars of high quality standards. Thus, in a sense monasteries become contemporary places of production and consumption, 7 where the lay community seeks comfort for its dissatisfaction, but will also find alternative production management models. The aim of this paper is to understand the relationship the monasteries enjoy with the social territory and surrounding economic environment, and to what extent they offset or confirm and internalize a number of external cultural and social aspects. This essay focuses on two Cistercian monastiche: scambio di ‘buone pratiche’ tra due tipologie di famiglie in Egitto (IV– VII secolo),” Rivista di Storia del Cristianesimo 3 (2011b) 329‑356. 5.  For an Italian example that triggered a lively debate and attracted the curiosity of journalists on monasteries as places for informed tourism, see M. Pallante , Monasteri del terzo millennio (Torino, 2013). 6.  T. Jaccaud, “Un orto, una comunità e la fede,” in AA.VV., Per un nuovo paradigma. Il messaggio di Edward Goldsmith (Firenze, 2011) 151‑154. 7. See S. Palmisano, “Presentazione: Fughe dal mondo e utopie religiose,” Numero monografico di Etnografia e Ricerca Qualitativa, n. 2 (2012) 159‑162.

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monasteries of the Immaculate Conception Congregation founded in 1867 (the abbey of Notre-Dame, on the island of Saint Honorat in the archipelago of Lérins, in France; Dominus Tecum monastery, at Prà D’mill in Italy), with some references to the case of Rougemont in Canada. 8 I. R ev e n u e

a n d e x pe n di t u r e i n t wo con t e mpor a ry mona s t e r i e s

The Dominus Tecum monastery, currently comprising thirteen monks, was founded in 1995 in Bagnolo Piemonte. It is part of the Congregation of the Immaculate Conception, with the mother-house located on the island of Lérins, which is one of the oldest monasteries in existence, founded in the fifth century, and has now twenty-one monks. 9 The congregation also includes the monastery of Sénanque (Vaucluse), the nunnery of Notre Dame de la Paix (Castagniers, Nice), a monastery at Rougemont in Québec, and a monastery in Vietnam (Mi Ca, Nha Trang). First, it must be remembered that even before the birth of the monastic community the Dominus Tecum monastery of Prà d’mill was a non-profit association called “Dominus Tecum.” It was founded on 12 April 1988 10 by its three founding members: Father Cesare Falletti of Villafalletto, Giancarlo Miola (a Lérins monk), and Claudio Gazzola (Brother Isaiah of Lérins). The Dominus Tecum association, with registered offices in Turin at 22 Corso Tassoni, 11 had the following aims: 1. to create a place suitable for worship, prayer and meditation; 2. to buy, accomplish, and manage works and infrastructure required to achieve the above purpose; 3. to cultivate land, pastures, and woods; 4. to buy, renovate, and erect buildings and facilities necessary for farming, livestock, and forestry, with all infrastructure necessary for the purpose; 5. to buy and raise livestock; 8.  Congregation of the Immaculate Conception: http://win.ocist.org/pdf/statistiche_monasteri_Maschili_2014.pdf in the order: Abbey Professed monk. Temporary professed. Novices Total in 2014. 07‑01 Lérins 20 1 21 ; 07‑01–02 Prà D’mill 11 1 1 13. 9. For the most complete history of the monastery, see M. L abrousse – Y. Codou – J.-M. L e Gall – R. Bertrand, Histoire de l ’abbaye de Lérins (Abbaye de Bellefontaine, 1999). 10.  Dominus Tecum association statute, 12 April 1988. 11.  I was able to carry out research in these monasteries from 2012, flanking a study based on archive documents and bibliographic sources, interviews, workshops, and round tables with the brothers.

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6. to rent, buy, and manage agricultural machinery to meet the needs of the association; 7. to apply to state, regional, and other authorities, as well as public and private bodies, for contributions, loans, and mortgages necessary for the association’s activities; 8. to join and cooperate with other associations that have similar or parallel purposes; 9. in general, to conduct any activities recognized as useful for achieving the purposes stated by the association. The association had a mutual fund comprised primarily of annual payments by each of the three members of ten thousand Italian lire, as well as goods purchased with contributions by these persons or voluntary contributions, bequests, donations, funding, or any kind of sum disbursed by the state, regional, and other authorities, as well as public and private bodies. The association deed was amended on 10 November 1988 12 when the headquarters of the foundation moved from Turin to Saluzzo and, above all, with changes to Article 3), applicable to the aims of the association. In the new text, which invokes association articles, the stated aims are – in particular – to promote and support activities of religion and worship; to promote and support the creation of a Cistercian monastery in the village of Prà d’mill in the municipalities of Barge and Bagnolo, handing over to the future monastery any real estate in this locality purchased by the associations in any capacity; and the remaining items are the same as the previous version. The aims stated are different from the previous version, narrower and more appropriate for monastic life. On 7 January 1992 13 the Ministry of the Interior recognized the Dominus Tecum association as a charity, authorizing it to accept donations that enabled the renovation of the buildings of the fledgling monastery, which would then become the subject receiving donations for the monastery. The farm was set up in 2007 by two founding monks, with initial company capital of ten thousand euros. 14 A reading of available budget and balance sheets shows that the total revenue (income from donations, the only entry for 1988 15 to which residues, interest, and donations have been 12. Dominus Tecum Association, amendment to the association statute, 10 November 1988. 13.  Gazzetta ufficiale della Repubblica Italiana 7 January 1992, “Erezione in ente morale dell’associazione Dominus Tecum, in Saluzzo, ed autorizzazione alla stessa ad accettare alcune donazioni,” 41. 14.  Deed of foundation of the farm: ordinary partnership under private agreement. 15.  Note that the association’s business activities precede the foundation of the monastery in 1995.

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added over the years) and expenditure (insurance, operating expenses, maintenance, property donated, payments, taxes, utility bills, equipment purchases, loans, and healthcare) balance was thirty million Italian lire in 1988, doubling in 1991, and reaching one hundred and fifty million in subsequent years, while recording three hundred and fifty thousand euros in 2005. 16 Revenue and expenditure for the Dominus Tecum association are indicated in “financial management” documents, which then become budget and balance sheets, always in the black. The assets of land, farm buildings, movable objects, and a post-office account with thirty-eight million Italian lire in 1988 rose to four million euros or so in 2005 with the increased value of real estate. 17 The religious guesthouse had to meet obligations arising from the fact that it had to accommodate 350‑700 pilgrims and visitors per month. Thus all the problems related to the safety of the structure, registration of guests, and donations (a free amount usually placed in an envelope left in the rooms or in the store mailbox, or sent by bank draft). 18 Lérins Abbey, however, is a religious association, whose main member is the monastic congregation composed of different companies: one for wine and spirits and their sale through the store on the island and online; the hotel business, which deals with incoming guests; two boating companies (together making up the holding or service company that handles taxation); and the restaurant, “La Tonnelle.” 19 The financial statements (balance sheet and income statement) of Lérins monastery show that in 2013 it was worth almost eighteen million euros in production and owned assets worth three hundred and fifty thousand euros. With regard to revenue, in an interview with the brother managing hospitality at the Prà d’mill Dominus Tecum monastery, 20 it was suggested that we might consider a kind of triple division, comprising work (first of all sale of products), donations, and proceeds from the guesthouse. Their proportion varies from monastery to monastery and certainly on a territorial basis, so while each item in an Italian monastery represents approximately one-third of revenue, in Lérins donations only account for 20% and are as low as 4‑5% in a monastery like Rougemont in Quebec, given the country’s level of secularization and de-Christianization of the countryside. 21 Of course, the varying impact of these items affects how work activities are conceived and implemented. It is thus worthwhile to 16.  Data taken from Dominus Tecum Association accounts. 17.  Documents relating to the Dominus Tecum Association balance sheets. 18.  Interview with Father Amedeo, Prà d’mill monastery, 29/08/2014. 19.  Interview with Brother Marie Pâques, monastery bursar, Lérins monastery 8/08/2014. 20.  Interview with Brother Abramo, Prà d’mill monastery, 29/08/2014. 21.  Interview with the Father Abbot, Rougemont monastery, 13/09/2013.

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provide an overview of which tasks are actually carried out in these two monasteries, as seen first by a visit to their websites. 22 The monastery should be organized, if possible, so that it has on hand everything it needs, namely water, a mill, a vegetable garden, and various workshops. 23 Two of the most typical and typifying Cistercian monastic productions – beer and cheese – are not made by the monasteries examined here because the climate is unsuitable. Furthermore, breeding of cattle, sheep, and goats required for dairy production is now a marginal activity in the Cistercian monastic network. 24 Brother Amedeo explained that in the past Prà d’mill reared chickens and rabbits (about forty), a task undertaken by monks who had grown up in the countryside. From the late 1990s it was abandoned for being too challenging and because the returns from the activity were decidedly limited. Brother Amedeo added that, nonetheless, the monastery’s various plans included one to start breeding grazing sheep, which would decrease the time required to maintain the meadows around the monastery. 25 This project involved training the brothers in stock rearing and building of appropriate structures (folds, stalls). On the other hand, beekeeping and honey production (from development of bee families to packaging the end product) was a concept embraced from the start of the monastic community. Thanks to the progressive flowering in this valley, the honey produced is unique and typical of the area. The beekeeper is Brother Isidoro, managing about thirty hives and the entire process of honey production. 26 Besides Prà d’mill’s honey production the monastery also makes jams and marmalades, initially managed by Brother Gabriele and now by Brother Amedeo (from peeling the fruit to labelling the jars). Gabriele explained that before starting large-scale production of a type of jam or marmalade it is sampled by the other monks; should they fail to give a vote of confidence, production does not go ahead. Today there are twentythree types of jams. 27 In order to work efficiently, in 2008 a workshop and boiler were set up to make jams and preserves. Thanks to this development, production times for jams and preserves are shorter and quality has improved. 28 22.  http://www.dominustecum.it/attivita (no online purchase is available, however) and http://excellencedelerins.com/ (purchases can be made and a virtual tour illustrates the contents of the monastery cellar). 23.  See chapter 66, Rule of St. Benedict, On Porters of the Monastery: http:// www.osb.org/rb/text/toc.html. 24.  L. Moulin, La vita quotidiana secondo San Benedetto (Milano, 1991) 50. 25.  In 2014 a first tangible step (clean meadows in exchange for fresh pasture) was taken in this project, partnered by local breeders who are friends of the monks. 26.  Interview with Brother Isidoro, Prà d’mill monastery, 12/12/2012. 27.  Interview with Brother Gabriele, Prà d’mill monastery, 12/12/2012. 28.  Interview with Brother Amedeo, Prà d’mill monastery, 22/02/2013.

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A wide range of fruit is used at Prà d’mill, including citrus for marmalade and purchased fruit (from Saluzzo and Busca), or donated and treated with the monastery’s own methods. Much of the fruit used comes from the valleys around the monastery: chestnuts, then the redcurrants, blackberries, blueberries, “ramassin” (a type of wild plum), since forest berries are a traditional local crop. The presence of many orchards in the area (as far as the climate and terrain permit) means a continuous supply of fruit and the monastery only has one hundred trees of its own. Everything – jams, fruit jellies, hazelnut pastes, dried fruit with honey – is produced only if it is satisfactory for the community and the buyers. About three tons of fruit are processed each year, of which a part is consumed directly by the monks during meals and the rest is sold outside the monastery at about four or five euros per jar. Then there are approximately five tons of honey each year, selling at five euros per jar. Jams, preserves and honey are sold in part directly in the monastery (visitors may buy them on the spot), while another part is sold through stores across Italy. Production has grown continuously over the years and Brother Amedeo described how the fruit (grown, harvested, and donated) reached large quantities. This was not consumed within the monastery because there was too much of it, so the farm business was set up, allowing the brethren to begin producing jams with the excess fruit. Applicable legislation for structures (workshop and spaces dedicated to storage compliant with applicable hygiene legislation) and revenue was implemented. There are professional figures at the farm that advise the monks and the architects who built the monastery, under the direction of Maurizio Momo, who were then also involved in bringing the workshop (tiles, flooring, suction hoods) to correct compliance standards. Winemaking, widespread in many monasteries (France, Italy, Hungary, Switzerland), is key to the work of Saint Honorat. Annual production is around forty thousand bottles. 29 The two monasteries have quite different productions, not only of type but also in know-how: training courses and spiritual practices, along with books, brochures, and collections also found in their virtual stores and internet sites. The monks offer the lay public a spiritual dimension and this category of activities includes welcoming pilgrims to the sacred areas, supporting and flanking in material and spiritual aspects those men and women who do not belong to their community. The guesthouse business is important in both cases as monasteries are also tourist venues. Booking can be managed online for both monasteries through the website. In addition to the spiritual offerings, visitors are drawn by the chance to work for the monks and alongside the monks, 29.  Interview with Brother Marie Pâques, monastery bursar, Lérins monastery, 8/08/2014.

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dealing with various types of tasks and making their contribution to monastery life: employees, temporary workers, and volunteers. The work for the monastic community involves people of all ages at all times of year. Some of the expenses shouldered by the monks include, first and foremost, maintaining the brethren (food, medical expenses, transportation) and the monasteries, which are often sites of important artistic and architectural heritage. The management, maintenance, restoration, and promotion costs are significant and high enough to constitute a substantial part of expenses. The Abbey of Lérins has expenditure of about five million euros per year, of which two million are wages and expenses for the monks (the monthly cost of living per capita is about four–five thousand euros a month on the island of Saint Honorat with transport, renovation, and maintenance, compared to four–five hundred euros at Prà d’mill), 30 about eight hundred and fifty thousand euros for the island, and two and a half million for charity. The use of external paid workers, and not volunteers, is more consolidated in Lérins than in Italy, where everything except the major renovations 31 is undertaken by the monks: updating of the website, electrical installations, and kitchen management. There are no longer lay brethren at Lérins or in any other Cistercian monastery. There are paid workers, as many as eighty during the summer, about half of whom work in the restaurant. 32 The monastery payroll lists manual workers, cooks, waiters, and professionals of various kinds who have flanked the monastery and helped it to grow. II. M ona s t ic

ca pi ta l i sm : a pa r a dox ?

The economic activities of both monasteries are the concrete result of a vision that the community develops during monthly chapter meetings devoted to work activities. It is deliberate to a certain extent and moreor-less explicit. According to the monks work is technically the finishing point of prayer, perceived as natural and healthy, flanking the asceticism that is preparation for divesting from the social and human perspective. Work becomes prayer and prayer becomes work, so the application of categories normally used to judge work is irrelevant, in continuous tension – as monastic life is – between “otium” and “negotium.” 33 30.  Interview with Brother Abramo, Prà d’mill monastery and Brother Marie Pâques, monastery bursar, Lérins monastery, August 2014. 31.  Interview with Brother Abramo, Prà d’mill monastery, 29/08/2014. 32.  Interview with Brother Marie Pâques, monastery bursar, Lérins monastery 8/08/2014. 33.  Interview with Brother Zeno, Prà d’mill monastery, 29/08/2014.

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In the pages of the book En quête de sens: crises, affaires, spiritualité, and throughout the course of the interview, the bursar of Lérins calls himself a fervent defender of capitalism. He is “a monk, a priest and a company leader.” He is the bursar and a “good manager,” and he cannot imagine an alternative economy, since freedom of enterprise and development are decisive and the company (therefore the monastery, which is also an enterprise) is the place for fulfilling the Kingdom of God.  3 4 Having capital and the possibility of investing that capital is a sign of freedom: without capital and without investment there is no economy, although capitalism must be regulated by law and by charity. The monastic capitalist enterprise is at the service of God and the community, and revenue must be shared among all. Personal wealth and accumulation are avoided by organizing charity and making donations with any surplus. There is a profound difference between work and economy/ money: work is the task at hand, then there is production and sale, trade, and – finally – sharing of the proceeds to meet the needs of the community, investment, and donation. According to the monks interviewed development is required as it is a global, complex strategy that does not lose sight of the common good, values ​​that are being lost, and the need for charity. The results of an efficient enterprise prove that it is a successful business that must respect nature and people, both the workers and the customers. The Lérins bursar stressed that development must be holistic and sustainable, able to welcome and embrace every aspect of the person. Monastic marketing is based on the fact that communication is a Gospel message, a promise of salvation. If the Church’s job is to spread the Word of health and salvation, communication and not simply the content of the message must be addressed. The enterprise is therefore the home of God’s Kingdom and the monastery is thus God’s Kingdom by virtue of the fact that it is a virtuous enterprise. The Lérins bursar explained the necessity of entering the capitalist system, which is the only one possible, despite having to be wary of misuse and remaining true to moderation, which is an important value. In this way the world will see that true wealth is of the other sort. People must eat, drink, and work, but with method and without excesses. The goal of the monks is, in fact, to earn the money required to pursue the aims of monastic life: resurrect, baptize, acquire disciples, evangelize, and teach. The mission is growth because growth represents the Kingdom of God (which means growing in number and in sanctity). 35 Concepts like “capitalism” and “rationality” recur frequently in the words of the Lérins 34.  See the book-interview M. Paques , En quête de sens: crises, affaires, spiritualité (Cannes, 2012). 35.  M. Paques , En quête de sens: crises, affaires, spiritualité (Cannes, 2012) 57‑110.

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bursar: monastic enterprise is virtuous and effective, and since the monks are in a period of investment, like all businesses it is thus particularly prone to failing. Contrary to what was stated by the monks of the Italian monastery, there is a continued insistence on the trademark, a brand for marketing monastic life to grow the community, which should attract young people: “Abbaye de Lérins. Une île des frères, un grand vin.” In addition to the rules (primarily, do not work and make money illegally, do not pay protection money for certain services), there are limits as to how money can be earned (for instance, renting the island out as a film set, advertising, hosting wedding receptions in the restaurant, wine cellar visits, etc.) because the monks are forbidden to do so. As the abbot says, monastic life is “without price.” What those limits are and the criteria for defining them are not at all clear, except that they are chosen, as required, when the community chapter meets. As shown by the case of Prà d’mill beekeeping, food production (in this case, honey) is entrusted to a monk trained in the field and who applies traditional methods, namely no use of modern technologies. In their narratives there is a kind of nostalgia for past, technological innovations and the revolutionary (cast iron, clocks) development that came about in the Cistercian world, which was used to set a competitive price for products that is not possible today because “we are no longer masters of the market, we are marginal.” 36 Despite production growth, the monks do not make use of experts or professionals outside the monastery, preferring “a few friends” who give advice and help out, or subscribing to beekeeping magazines. An interesting element of this brother’s work is definitely the change with respect to his Lérins tasks compared to his Prà d’mill work. As he recounted, in Lérins he worked in the wine cellar and therefore in wine production. He felt he was “an essential cog,” but he added that after he left they hired a paid worker: when he left there were almost forty monks. Now there were eighteen monks and twenty workers. 37 When he moved to Prà d’mill he was entrusted with a different task by his fellow monks, which he learned to perform by reading and observing others doing the same job. His words also reveal the difference in outlook and application of the two monasteries, which depends largely on the current bursar of the monastery of Lérins and its capitalist management, which strongly challenges the question of specialization and use of outsiders in the management of enterprise. Moreover, the topic of efficiency also distinguishes how monks work: the amount of time spent at work each day varies in the monasteries as it depends on the climate, seasons, and time of year, but also on the constant 36.  Interview with Brother Abramo, Prà d’mill monastery, 29/09/2014. 37.  Interview with Brother Isidoro, Prà d’mill monastery, 12/12/2012.

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interruptions that prayer (“orare”) implies, since it fragments time and concentration on work (“laborare”). At Prà d’mill there is usually more fruit in summer, from July to September–October: “In general, we work from half past eight to noon in the morning, and in the afternoon, more or less from three to seven. In summer we work five days a week, and during the winter we may only dedicate two or three days to work.” 38 Vladimir, a former physician and now abbot of Lérins, also remembers that moderation depends strictly on the cultural and geographic context: there is a profound difference between monasteries of the same congregation. For instance Mi Ca, in Vietnam, suffers all the problems of the Vietnamese economy and heavy interference from the state, which has boycotted its activities to make its life difficult. The comparison between the monasteries of the same congregation but located in different parts of the world also makes the significance of what is “necessary” relative. Thus, it would be unthinkable for several monks at Lérins to live without an iPhone or an iPad, as it would be for those of Prà d’mill to have only cold water in the shower. The monks seem almost to have been trained in a manner of expressing themselves whereby they do not utter certain words and they defend certain values: moderation, austerity, “Christian values,” and, above all, the Providence. Providence is a key concept for all the brethren, a fact of their lives. All of them believe that what they need will be made available by Providence while they take care of projects as supervisors, administrators, and managers, almost “flanking” Providence. The monks interpret and describe proof of the signs of Providence in the history of their monastery: when money was needed bequests, donations, and insurance policies were left to the communities, so they are never prey to desperation. Providence, at Prà d’mill as at Lérins, helps, accompanies, saves, and solves. It is indispensable. C onclusions Although it is premature to offer conclusive considerations, at this stage of research into such a complex subject and its many ramifications, the case study of the two Cistercian monasteries is useful for offering some reflections about monastic economy. There is no doubt that the geographical and domestic context weigh heavily on activities and economic systems at both Lérins and Prà d’mill. The gap between the spirit of capitalism and monasticism is marked by a different vision of consumer satisfaction after the accumulation of 38.  Interview with Brother Amedeo, Prà d’mill monastery, 22/02/2013.

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goods and money, the contrast between the private and collective (the monastery, not the monk, establishes the cooperative nature of economic practices) perspective; the value of donations, benefactors, and faith in Providence that will see to everything (and when they say this, the monks really believe it). However, despite some characteristics and the sometimes quite rhetorical stances taken (besides those mentioned above, avoiding accumulation, reducing consumption; individual poverty; moderation and austerity; forced inefficiency; joint responsibility rather than professionalization), all the Cistercian monasteries studied apply a production rationale, not only for survival, but also for production, investment, and rationalization. Very close monastic communities (both Cistercians and even of the same congregation), but located in different contexts, have reacted in different ways to the seeds of modernity, implementing transformation processes at dissimilar speeds. The complex – economic – relationship the monks have with the outside world complies with the monastic tradition found throughout history.

OBJECTS T ELL A NOTHER STORY. GIFTS GIVEN TO THE MONASTERY IN FARA IN SABINA BY C ARDINAL BARBERINI Francesca Sbardella In this paper I would like to reinterpret a few moments in the history of a monastery, the Clarisse Eremite Monastery in Fara in Sabina (Rieti, Italy) through traces of material culture preserved within the monastery. The object apparatus represents a valuable source needed to trace other stories and to identify events, situations, and people of the monastery with an internal and familiar view. The building itself contains a great variety of objects: paintings, statues, and ornaments, but also the remains of people and relics. These objects, when seen together, form a system and allow the history of this religious group to be reinterpreted. Along with the official archival sources, we find unpublished, private, and informal ones, all preserved inside the cloister. These sources are not only the objects themselves, but also the words of the nuns, their stories, their recollections, and all those writings which Daniel Fabre calls “ordinaries” 1 in the sense of “everyday life”: random annotations, notes, chronicles, community diaries, and letters. Anthropological research often comes face-to-face with material objects and their “cultural biography.” 2 The production of objects is recognized not only as a socio-economic phenomenon, but also as a cognitive and cultural process. 3 Apart from the economic system in which they appear as mere objects of use or exchange, material items are shaped and defined by different social actors. They interact with them and constantly intervene on them. They give them shape, status, and social validity through actions, ritual practices, localization, and de-localization, as well as through oral and written traditions. These processes, which we could call validation, are often essential in order to make proper use of these objects and to 1.  D. Fabre , ed., Par écrit. Ethnologie des écritures quotidiennes (Paris, 1997). 2.  I. Kopytoff, “The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process,” in A. A ppadurai, ed., The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective (Cambridge, 1986) 64‑91. 3.  J. Baudrillard, Le système des objets (Paris, 1968); P.G. Solinas , Gli oggetti esemplari. I documenti di cultura materiale in antropologia (Montepulciano, 1989); K. Pomian, Sur l ’histoire (Paris, 1999) chap. 5; P. Warnier , Construire la culture matérielle. L’homme qui pensait avec ses doigts (Paris, 1999); O. Debary – L. Turgeon, ed., Objets & Mémories (Paris, 2007); F. Dei – S. Bernardi – P. M eloni, ed., La materia del quotidiano. Per un’antropologia degli oggetti ordinari (Pisa, 2011). Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 625–648 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111723 ©

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position them functionally within their relevant context, forming in many cases their own representation and formally legitimizing their role. I. P r e se rv e d

obj ects , va l i dat e d obj ects

During a preliminary view of the property of the monastery, the Abbess – drawing on the term used by St. Clare 4 – opened up numerous archives and storage rooms, along with a chest located on the first floor. This allowed me to have access to two wooden boxes, a square one and a small oval one, with floral decoration on them. Both contained small sized objects, mostly remains of people wrapped in paper, which had not yet been placed in their appropriate shrines. Interestingly, there were some newspaper sheets dating back to the beginning of the 1900s, which may lead one to hypothesize that there had been recent attempts to preserve and restore those items. The analysis of some of the individual pieces found in the two wooden boxes made it possible for me to begin to reconstruct fragments of the unpublished history, and to envisage religious policies and orientations of worship. The study of the objects in the monastery began with the intention to carry out an initial ethnographic inspection, in order to undertake any eventual cataloguing of the material. The choice of concentrating on the two wooden boxes was, in this sense, completely fortuitous: convinced of the strong bond between the object and the place in which it is preserved, any choice would offer a glimpse, however small, into monastic history at this early stage of research. In particular, the objects stored in the two boxes, though varied, are linked to each other by the fine line of their history, or at least by their interpretation on the part of the social actors who owned, handled, and wanted to keep the objects together by assembling them in the boxes and then hiding them inside the chest. The process of preserving and/or collecting is never random. It responds to needs and specific orientations, to personal and/or community intents; either way, it is a voluntary and selective action. It is worth going back to look for that line of history. The objects have made it possible to establish connections between people, events, and the objects themselves. Two of the objects preserved in the large box are attrib4.  Oral tradition recalls that Clare preferred to use the term “sister among sisters” instead of the term “Abbess,” even though it was present in the rule. The use of the term “Abbess” was probably introduced for legal and canonical requirements: having banned the approval of new decrees by the Fourth Lateran Council of 1215, Clare was ordered to follow the rulings of Benedict of Norcia, where the term “Abbot” was used. In the Benedictine order of sisters, the term was transformed into “Abbess.”

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uted to Francesca Farnese (1597‑1651). Specifically, there are four pieces of white raw cotton material inside a cardboard package with the words, Pezze della tonacella della venerabile madre suor Francesca Farnese (i.e. Patches of the habit belonging to the venerable Sister Francesca Farnese, Picture 1) 5 written on it, and fragments of a black veil wrapped in a piece of lined notebook paper and a page of a newspaper with the words, Velo della Venerabile madre suor Francesca di Gesù e Maria detta Farnese (i.e. Veil of the Venerable Mother Sister Francesca of Jesus and Mary known as Farnese) handwritten on it. It is important to note that through these scriptures the nuns conveyed an accurate model of interpretation of the objects by identifying and defining them. The narration “invented” a story and outlined a chain of actions and movements which led to their social acceptance and, as a consequence, to their use in devotional practices or in practices of patrimonialization. It is useful to recall a few moments of Francesca Farnese’s life. The daughter of Mario Farnese, Duke of Latera, and Camilla Meli Lupi, daughter of the Marquis of Soragna, Francesca Farnese (named Isabella at birth) was born in Parma in 1593. She was initially destined to a noble marriage, so she obtained a typical courtesan upbringing. However, in 1602, at the age of only nine years old, probably on account of her father’s imposition and because smallpox had left her face disfigured, she entered the convent of the Poor Clares of San Lorenzo in Panisperna. In the company of her sister Victoria, who was also destined to enter the convent, Francesca immediately imposed her strong personality on the community. Following the stereotype of Baroque heroic sanctity, she began a practice of strict and rigorous devotion, encouraged also by the influence of her father confessor, Giovanni Battista Bianchetti. Eager to put her spiritual aspirations and abilities as founder and reformer into action, Francesca Farnese succeeded in convincing her father, who for that matter was interested in increasing the family prestige, to assign her the convent of the Friars Minor and the adjacent church of St. Rocco in Farnese (Viterbo). In 1618, together with the other Poor Clares who had embraced her guidance, she moved into the building, which was given the name of the Monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie. A decisive moment for the reforming activity of Francesca Farnese was the arrival of the Bishop of Castro, Alessandro Carissimi, who in 1625 entrusted her with the task of drawing up the constitutions. Although based on the rule of St. Clare, Francesca imposed more severe penance, physical mortification, and practice of silence. This total devotion was considered by some scholars as not being devoid of ambiguous and disturbing behavior that

5.  The pictures included in the article were taken by the author.

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justified the nickname “sepolte vive” (i.e. buried alive), which from that moment on would define Francesca Farnese’s Poor Clares. 6 After reforming the monastery in Farnese and founding the monasteries in Albano, Palestrina as well as the Conception in Rome, within which she pledged to implement a strict monastic lifestyle of asceticism and penance, Francesca Farnese died in 1651, thus failing to undertake the construction of the fifth monastery, which she had considered the most austere, dedicated to the Side Wound of Jesus Christ. Cardinal Francesco Barberini (1597‑1679), along with a nun from the monastery in Palestrina, was called to Fara in Sabina to reorganize the monastery of Tertiary Franciscan Sisters and fulfilled the wishes of Francesca Farnese in 1672. The Cardinal had previously taken Sister Francesca under his protection, helping and working with her. He personally drew up the Constitutions for this new monastery. A letter dating to 1677 found among the Cardinal’s correspondence, transcribed in full by Professor Di Flavio from Rieti and preserved in the monastery itself, informs us that Francesca spoke of this monastery as the fifth monastery of the Fifth Wound, very strict and poor and guided by the Divine Providence. 7 The letters have also revealed other valuable information about the objects, presumably belonging to Francesca, stored in those boxes. In a letter addressed to Father Bernardo of San Giovanni, the guardian of the convent of Santa Maria Occorrevole of the Discalced Friars of St. Peter of Alcantara in Piedimonte Matese, 8 Barberino, as he signed his letters, wrote that through Father Bernardo he had sent the nuns in Fara some of Francesca’s objects. These objects seem to match the previously mentioned pieces of white fabric and veil preserved in the large rectangular box: […] Mando ancora una tonicella et il velo negro della Gran Madre con una tazzetta adoperata da lei, per consolazione delle vere e legittime sue figliole, se parrà a V.P. [Vostra Paternità] di consegnarglieli, mentre ella [Francesca], per accomodarsi al volere de i superiori et consultori et capacità delle suddite, lasciò quelle asprezze che haveva desiderato et desiderava abbracciate da coteste Solitarie, conforme alla di lei idea e vocatione con le quali fu eccitata da Dio et altissima sua providenza […]. 9 6.  S. A ndretta, “Farnese Francesca,” in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, vol. 45 (Roma, 1995) 87‑90. 7.  Collected Letters of Cardinal Francesco Barberini, letter 19 dated April 11, 1677. 8.  This explanation by Barberini is found in letter 4 dated January 30, 1677. 9.  “[…] I also send a little tunic and the black veil of the Great Mother with a small cup used by her, for the consolation of her true and legitimate daughters, should Your Paternity be willing to give them to her, while she [Francesca], to conform to the will of her superiors and advisors and capacity of subjects, abandoned that harshness she had desired and wanted them to be embraced by such Solitaries, following her idea and calling with which she was inspired by God and his highest

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We do not have authentic or any other formal writings regarding these remains, but only the words written by Barberini in 1677 and the previously mentioned tags that attribute them to Francesca Farnese. We cannot establish a specific date for these written tags. In fact, objects need a recognition of authenticity in order to be acknowledged as carriers of sacred value and, thus, to be used in a religious sense or, as in this case, considered worthy of patrimonialization. This authentication process can take place in different ways: the official legal process, certified by the ecclesiastic authorities through a document of authentication (autentica), 10 or by what might be defined as an “internal” process, carried out by the local communities through informal community entries or even oral history. In the case of Francesca Farnese’s objects preserved in the monastery in Fara, the establishment of authenticity produced within the community seems not to have any sort of relation with the official one, which in fact never took place or, if it did, had never been attested by any preserved documents. The nuns over time had made some choices. They acknowledged the exceptional value of some of the objects themselves and even decided to keep them. This outlines a delicate relationship between the different areas of authority: the male authority of the secular clergy and female authority of the convent. This clearly has an impact on religious practice and on the choices of preservation and exhibition of the objects. The idea of authenticity carries some implications along with it. The attribution of authenticity is the deed that first recognizes some characters on a semantic and/or aesthetic level and then reproduces them on a performative and normative level. This confers on them both truthfulness and universality. Since it remains a social construction, however, the authenticity immediately reveals its illusory nature. Within the terms of Catholicity, human remains can be treasured by the diocesan curiae (including the Vicariate of Rome), but also by the orders and the individual religious communities. Preserving the remains of a person – often a founder or a leading figure – is an attempt to identify the group with a precise model of behavior. The group recognizes this providence […].” Collected Letters of Cardinal Francesco Barberini, letter of November 3, 1677. 10.  For the document of authentication, see R. Naz , “Reliques,” in Dictionnaire de Droit Canonique 7 (Paris, 1965) n. 572. For a reference framework about the concept of authenticity in the ecclesiastical sphere, see H. L eclercq, “Reliques et reliquaires,” in Dictionnaire d ’Archéologie Chrétienne et de Liturgie 1/A (Paris, 1907) 2294‑2359; P. Séjourné , “Reliques,” in Dictionnaire de Théologie Catholique 13/2 (Paris, 1937) 2312‑2376. According to the Codex Iuris Canonici of 1917 the document of authentication may be issued by Cardinals, by local Ordinaries (Bishops, Vicars general and Episcopal Vicars), or by priests appointed to this task (see Can. 1283, § 1). In the Code of Canon Law of 1983 there are no explicit references to the authentication process.

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model as a bearer of positive significance and hence intends to conform to it. These particular objects are recognized to have prodigious and extrahuman power. If directed and used according to specific terms, this power is able to intervene in human life or specific areas of everyday life. It is a wealth of assets that make up a system. For the social actors involved the remains are considered relics, but in reality they cannot be used in official devotional practices. Before they can be used for this purpose, they are subjected to specific treatments within specialized cloistered convents. On a theoretical level, therefore, it is appropriate to make a distinction between the object-remain, consisting of residual pieces of cloth and bones (often broken, dirty, and deteriorated) and object-relic, a composite object that results from the ordered integration of heterogeneous elements (remains, relics, and accessories). 11 The object-remain belongs to that particular category of objects which Gian Paolo Gri defines as “the unfinished.” 12 It represents the lowest stage of the process of attribution of meaning and symbolic value, and acquires its full identity at the moment of production. This can be considered a process of “transformation,” from simple body material or instrument for use to a sophisticated symbolized object endowed with highly meaningful characters, which can be used during official worship practices. Remains and relics, however, may both be subjected to preservation and maintenance procedures. At the methodological level we must make a distinction between the object-remain (unprocessed raw material) and object-relic (the usable finished product), that is, between the unprocessed object and the processed object. 13 The relics are the result of a stratification of images and stories that have been formulated and passed down over time. The individual finds such images and stories in their finished form and acquires them within their social context. These objects of veneration tend to preserve not so much the idea of the saint as an individual, but rather a precise model of spiritual and social behavior. This model is recognized as a bearer of value and accepted by the group, in response to both their practical and ideological intentions. The remains and relics are mainly common objects, which reflect trends and tendencies shared on a large scale and which allow, through shared belief, 14 to maintain the unity of collaboration of the group itself and direct it towards a model considered functional and productive. Elizabeth 11.  F. Sbardella, Antropologia delle reliquie. Un caso storico (Brescia, 2007). 12.  G.P. Gri, “Salire verso la grazia. Strutture simboliche marginali dell’itinerario religioso,” in Accademia Udinese di Scienze L ettere ed A rti, ed., Santuari Alpini. Luoghi e itinerari religiosi nella montagna friulana. Atti del Convegno di Studio, Udine 1997 (Tavagnacco, 1997) 76. 13.  F. Sbardella, Antropologia delle reliquie. Un caso storico (Brescia, 2007). 14.  É. Durkheim, Les formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse (Paris, 1912) 63.

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Hallam and Jenny Hockey, two British anthropologists, affirm that the often painful and traumatic separation caused by death is overcome by the preservation and use of material objects associated with the figure of the deceased. 15 They play an important role in the grieving process; loaded with resonance, they become a means of preserving both individual and collective recollections. The deceased, even common people, may remain present through their clothes, jewelry, perfumes, photographs, and even parts of their body. In the Western world, for example, the custom, very common in the nineteenth century, of keeping strands of hair belonging to the deceased and packing them away with pendants, bracelets, and rings has not yet disappeared. 16 As seen with the remains of saints and beatified persons, at the end of their lives body material undergoes a transformation process and becomes an object which is entirely independent of the body itself. Even if the objects themselves are of little value, they are obviously full of precise symbolic sentimental meanings for the nuns of the monastery, so much so that it has been considered appropriate over the centuries to subject them to procedures of preservation, placement, and care. They should, therefore, be considered a collection of support: “collection” in the sense which the philosopher and historian Krzysztof Pomian gives this term, that is, a set of objects, natural or artificial, kept by choice outside the current economic circuit; and “support,” since these are recognized as materials full of sacred power and at the same time performative agents. The author makes a basic distinction between what he calls things and sémiophores, useful objects on the one hand and objects which are bearers of meaning on the other. These objects are united by the fact that they are constituted by two main elements: by material support and by signs which, although not truly a language, nevertheless have a linguistic function. 17 I was not able to find in the storage rooms of the convent the “tazzetta” (i.e. a small cup) mentioned in the letter to Father Bernardo from Barberini, who noted it as the third object sent to the nuns in Fara as a gift; or better, I did not find any cup connected in any way to Francesca Farnese. It is interesting, though, to note how the oral history of the convent brought my attention towards a cup stored in that small oval box. It is, in fact, a ceramic drinking cup with blue decorations and a cross in the center (Picture 2). According to some art historians, the color blue would 15.  E. H allam – J. Hockey, Death, Memory & Material Culture (Oxford-New York, 2001) 19. 16.  M. Pointon, “Materializing Mourning: Hair, Jewellery and the Body,” in M. Kwint – C. Breward – J. Aynsley, ed., Material Memories: Design and Evocation (Oxford, 1999) 55. 17.  K. Pomian, Che cos’è la storia (Milano, 2009) 129‑145.

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suggest its dating back to the Renaissance and, in the words and stories of the nuns, we can assume that this cup is precisely the one that Barberini said was used by Francesca Farnese. Actually, there is a handwritten note attached to the cup saying In questa tazza ci ha bevuto il B. [beato] Leonardo da Porto Maurizio (i.e. B. [Blessed] Leonard from Porto Maurizio drank from this cup). Two textile remnants were also preserved inside the two boxes; they were authenticated in 1751 as being pieces of the cassock worn by Missionary Father Leonard of Porto Maurizio. Born Girolamo Casanova (1676‑1751), Father Leonard was a friar in the order of the Friars Minor. Creator and preacher of the Way of the Cross, he died in Rome in the convent of St. Bonaventure on November 26, 1751 and was proclaimed a saint by Pope Pius IX in 1867. 18 The note was signed by Friar Natale, guardian of the convent: Testor Ego infrascriptus, hic colligatam, sigilloq: munitam Particulam esse habitus Pris Fris [patris fratis] Leonardi a Porto Mauritio missio­narij Aplici [Apostolico] Ordinis Minorum Reform: de Recessu Conventus Sancti Bonaventurae de Urbe. Qui obit die 26 nobembre 1751. In quorum fidem Ex eodem conventu ac die Fr Natalis a Roma Guard. 19

The oral history of the monastery seems to have favored the recognition of authenticity that mainly took into account, to quote the words of La Cecla, the emotional life of the objects. 20 The nuns are convinced of the idea that the cup could indeed be the one belonging to Francesca Farnese. These objects end up being recognized through the functional dynamics of the group itself. The object involves the introduction of a dialogue between individuals. Each group has a tacit right to accept, deny, or modify the acknowledgement of the object 21 and, as a consequence, its validity. This choice allows individuals to strengthen, establish, or otherwise sever social ties 22 and consequently means sharing assumptions and intentions. For this reason it is necessary and constructive to prove the authenticity 18.  D. Busolini, “Leonardo da Porto Maurizio, santo,” in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, vol. 64 (Roma, 2005) 437‑439. 19.  “I, the undersigned, hereby confirm that the enclosed sealed item is the Particle of the cassock of Father Leonard from Porto Maurizio, missionary apostolic of the order of the Reformed: from the Retreat of the Convent of St. Bonaventure in Roma. Here deceased on 26 November 1751. Faithfully yours. From the same convent and day, Custodian Father Natale” [Father Natale, guardian of the Convent of St. Bonaventure in Roma]. 20.  F. L a Cecla, Non è cosa: vita affettiva degli oggetti (Milano, 1998). 21.  P. Brown, “Relics and Social Status in the Age of Gregory of Tours,” in P. Brown, Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, 1982) 222‑250. 22.  M. Gilsenan, Saint and Sufi in Modern Egypt. An Essay in the Sociology of Religion (Oxford, 1973) 48.

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of what we possess or, as in this case, what we have received. The nuns in Fara tend to support the connection with Francesca Farnese, this greatly charismatic and imaginative figure, and to this end they are trying to create a story of belonging. In order to be used in a religious sense, the objects to which a special prodigious power is attributed must have a recognition of authenticity. This can be obtained through an official document (autentica) issued by the high ecclesiastical spheres, through the writings of individual communities, or through oral history. In any case, it is a long procedure, involving also relocations, donations, restorations, and rituals. The idea of authenticity presents some implications. As stated by Spooner, this notion has to do not only with the genuineness or the actual value of the object, but also with the interpretation of this authenticity and our desire to obtain it. We must remember that the objects are produced by particular individuals with specific materials in certain socio-economic conditions. They are always the result of specific contexts. According to this author, authenticity is established by the encounter between the objective attributes of the object and the subjective criteria of the individual. 23 These should be contextualized within precise cultural choices that vary over time and from society to society. With a view of authenticity (regarded as a cultural product) the author identifies a selection process that functions on the basis of parameters which are external to the object. Authenticity is a form of cultural discrimination projected into objects. But it does not in fact inhere in the object but derives from our concern with it. 24 We are in the presence of a construction of particular types of status given to the objects by the social actors. These forms of status, as stated by Americanist Orvell, make some objects become “real things.” 25 As emphasized by Spooner, this turns out to be a form of discrimination consisting of assessments and preferences, which allows the distinction and cataloging of the products based on both individual and collective quality and representations. Individuals also avail themselves of the objects around them to make explicit choices and thoughts, to say something about themselves in relation to others. Ultimately, this is a discrimination made regarding both the objects and the people who use these objects on a daily 23.  B. Spooner , “Weavers and Dealers: Authenticity and Oriental Carpets,” in A. A ppadurai, ed., The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective (Cambridge, 1986) 220. 24.  B. Spooner , “Weavers and Dealers: Authenticity and Oriental Carpets,” in A. A ppadurai, ed., The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective (Cambridge, 1986) 226. 25.  M. Orvell , The Real Thing. Imitation and Authenticity in American Culture, 1880‑1940 (London, 1989) 157.

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basis. The social construction of authenticity, insofar as it is a producer of value, often passes through the patrimonialization of the objects themselves. This reinforces and legitimizes the endorsement of authenticity. In a careful study on works of art L. Stefan provides us with some details in this regard: authentic or false works of art are non-existent, except in relation to a designation of value of the object made externally. The attribution of authenticity is the instrument which, after recognizing some characters on an aesthetic level, reproduces them on a performative and normative level. 26 This gives them the sense of truth and universality. Authenticity always involves a negotiation between “us,” those who are attributing it, and “them,” the authors or producers of the objects in question. This perspective leads to some interesting considerations. It allows us to identify during the authentication process two different cultural subjects (the producers of the object and the producers of the authenticity of the object) and to recognize mutual interaction between them. Spooner affirms that the manufacturers of the object and the producers of authenticity are usually different individuals, groups, or social contexts, and the greater the distance between them, the more the producers of authenticity will strive to attest it. A dialectic, which is not always easily analyzed, is therefore created between a social-political dominance of a group or society and the use of alien cultural forms. This leads to the recognition of control methods and power over the process of the formation of authenticity, and then of possible uses and manipulations thereof, even if carried out inadvertently. These distinctions are also of interest in regard to objects-remains and objects-relics. If there is always a desire on the part of a group behind the devotion to a figure and the veneration of one’s remains, 27 we must also acknowledge who carried out the authentication processes. Parallel levels can be hypothesized. If the official, socially recognized authentication is definitely in the hands of the political and ecclesiastical dominion, other authentications may derive from small local groups. These different forms are continuously confronted with each other and enter the reciprocal dynamics of control and evaluation. 28 Procedures of validation or annulment of the authentication process are carried out by another cultural subject. Even the process itself, though acknowledged and confirmed, may undergo modifications in the contents of the validation.

26.  L. Stephan, “Le vrai, l’authentique et le faux,” Cahiers du musée national d ’Art modern 36 (1991) 7. 27.  J.M. Sallmann “Il santo e le rappresentazioni della santità. Problemi di metodo,” Quaderni storici 41 (1979) 591. 28.  On the issue of the “truth” and “falsity” of the relics and the ways in which they were established in different historical periods, see J. Goody, Ambivalence Towards Images, Theatre, Fiction, Relics and Sexuality (London, 1997) 82‑92.

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There is one object in particular among those preserved in the large box, which at first glance seemed to have no reference to the rest. However, it actually did prove to be linked, albeit indirectly, to the name of Fran­ cesca Farnese and allowed us to shed light on her interpersonal policies. It is a package wrapped in newspaper containing two small pillows decorated with the image of Saint Jacinta (1585‑1649) lying on her deathbed (Picture 3). Francesca, a woman capable of establishing political and ecclesiastical relationships, not only assured the protection offered by the Barberini family of all the monasteries she founded and reformed, thanks to a privileged relationship with Francesco Barberini, but also the protection offered by the noblewomen of the Roman aristocracy, with whom she had very close bonds of cooperation and friendship. St. Andretta spoke explicitly of her meeting with Hyacintha Mariscotti, 29 who was born in March 1585 in the castle of Vignanello of Count Marcantonio Marescotti and Ottavia Orsini. The family was part of the local nobility, boasting an ancient lineage, and at that very time they were going through a period of ascent and expansion thanks to the support of the Farnese family, to which they were bound through a fortunate marriage accordance. These objects are once again connected to each other, revealing historical, political, and emotional relationships. Behind the preserved objects there are people and life stories which are intertwined and which often defy official historiographic tradition. Many of these objects are testimony to a religious history of values, beliefs, and prerequisites of life. In the small oval box there is a paper package with the inscription Fico di san Pietro di Alcàntara (i.e. Fig tree of St. Peter of Alcantara) (1499‑1562) written on it (Picture 4). Considered the reformer of the (male) Franciscan Order, St. Peter drew up the Constitutions of the Order of the Strict Observance, proposing a more austere model of life. The friars, however, were reunited with the Order of Friars Minor in 1897 thanks to the document Felicitate Quidam of Pope Leo XIII. Since its foundation, the religious community in Fara had a very close relationship with the Alcantarines of Piedimonte Matese. In fact, they adopted some of the customs of their daily liturgical life. At the entrance of both convents we find the Latin quotation by Seneca, O beata solitudo, o sola beatitudo. The nuns of the monastery stated that it was Francesca Farnese herself who held Peter of Alcantara as a model of rigor and austerity. The preserved objects trace the history of the Order, but above all they are kept for the reason that they are evidence of a cer29.  S. A ndretta, “Farnese Francesca,” in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, vol. 45 (Roma, 1995) 89.

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tain behavior, they are material support of exempla to imitate. Indeed, the nuns seemed to have chosen to keep the piece of fig tree as an object that fits right into the course of Francesca Farnese, as a consequence of the same devotional orientation. If we read all of the letters written by Cardinal Barberini, we find that at that time he continued to send other gifts to the nuns in Fara. In 1677 he sent textile remnants and strands of hair belonging to St. Francis of Assisi and St. Clare, which were placed in a reliquary (Picture 5): Hanno trovato alcune puoche ma stimabili reliquie, che m’erano state date da lungo tempo, del serafico patriarca S. Francesco, vostro padre, et vostra madre S. Chiara, le ho fatte porre in un divoto reliquiario, ma con riguardo alla divota povertà che dalle pure anime delle Solitarie si professa. Alla attestazione della b.  m. del vescovo di Ascesi ho sottoscritto la mia del dono che alle suddette ne fo, raccomandando l’anima mia acciò bene si penta delle gravi e molte sue colpe per godere delle loro opere et orationi alla chiamata che si sta aspettando per l’eternità. 30

The Cardinal chose the two saints who were linked directly to the Poor Clares: one was the founder of the first (male) Franciscan order and the other was the founder of the second Franciscan order (the Poor Clares). This demonstrated the Cardinal’s desire to give them a Franciscan-Clarian identity. The nuns also drew up and kept a report on the discovery of the body of St. Francis. This undated document was probably written by one of the nuns (Picture 6). In the Constitutions the Cardinal called for the observance of the rule of Pope Urban IV, which in those years was the officially observed rule in all of the monasteries of the Poor Clares. Francesca Farnese was in line with the same orientation as well. Also in 1677, Barberini sent other remains of St. Peter of Alcantara, together with the remains of Blessed Paschal Baylon, a Franciscan Alcantarine in the second half of the sixteenth century (1540‑1592): Ho fatto venire da Palestrina le reliquie di S. Pietro d’Alcantara e del B. Pasquale Bailon, le quali si conservavano in reliquarietti di cristallo di Montagna (forse Montagna in Alto Adige, o Montagna in Valtellina o Montagna Bianca, in Boemia, vicino a Praga), con ornamenti parte di metallo dorato parte d’argento, del quale le figure de i suddetti, ancorché 30.  “A few but valuable relics were found, which I was given long ago, pertaining to Seraphic Patriarch St. Francis, your father, and your mother St. Clare, I had them placed in a devout reliquary, but in accordance with the devoted poverty that is professed by the pure souls of the Solitaries. In addition to the acknowledgment from the blessed memory the bishop of Ascesi I undersigned mine to acknowledge the present I give to those mentioned above, entrusting my soul so that it repents for the many and serious faults and to benefit from their deeds and orations before the call that one is awaiting for eternity.” Collected Letters of Cardinal Barberini, letter dated 26 May 1678.

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picciole, sono nel di sopra. Io fo ridurre i reliquiarii alla semplicità franciscana, e questo è stato il pretesto di farle condurre a Roma, et ne leverò una particella da ciascuna delle reliquie, in modo che apparischino intere et in modo da non disgustare le religiose di Palestrina. Hora fo ancora porre in reliquiaretti, parte di cristallo di monte, quelle particole che si levono, et si manderanno con piccoli e divoti ornamenti, semplici e poveri, come professano le Romite. Tanto che s’accinga Sr M. Gratia, chè, oltr’essere venuto il B. Pasquale, in imagine, viene in particella di sua ossa. 31

In accordance with the Cardinal’s words, the oral history of the convent recalls that these remains were placed in twin reliquaries. Today there is only one remaining, the one containing the bones supposedly belonging to St. Peter of Alcantara. It is exhibited in a display case in the monastery archive. The notion of the relic seen as an object of exchange is clearly understood. This object can be given away or given as a gift to someone, creating a complex relational network of constraints and obligations between donor and recipient, as occurs with any other donated object (Mauss 1991 168‑175). 32 It allows for contact and communication between people from different environments and reveals its active force of action even outside the religious place. The relic, besides being an object of worship linked to a religious experience of a group or community, is also, as noted by Geary, primarily a “commodity,” that is, a valuable asset to be considered as a product of exchange. 33 This in turn implies the idea of possession and of alienability. It could belong to a small group, such as a religious community, or to a single individual, and like any other item of property it can be exchanged, donated, given away, or even stolen. The relics, 31.  “I had the relics of St. Peter of Alcantara and B. Paschal Baylon sent from Palestrina. These were housed in small reliquaries made of crystal of Montagna (perhaps Montagna in the Alto Adige region, or Montagna in Valtellina [in Italy] or White Mountain in Bohemia, near Prague), with decorations partly in golden metal and partly in silver, with figures of the two mentioned above on the top. I have made the reliquaries be less ornate according to Franciscan simplicity, and this was the pretext to have them sent to Rome, and I will take a particle from each relic, so that they will appear intact and in a way not to disappoint the nuns from Palestrina. Now I am also having those removed particles placed in small reliquaries, partly in crystal of Monte, and they will be enclosed with small and devoted ornaments, poor and simple, as professed by the nuns. Suffice this for Sister M. Gratia to be ready, as besides having B. Paschal come as an image, he comes in particles of his bones.” Collected Letters of Cardinal Barberini, letter dated 7 April 1677. 32.  M. M auss , “Essai sur le don. Forme et raison de l’échange dans les sociétés archaïques,” Année sociologique II (1923/1924) 30‑186. 33.  P. Geary, “Sacred Commodities: The Circulation of Medieval Relics,” in A. A ppadurai, ed., The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective (Cambridge, 1986) 169.

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inasmuch as they are artifacts and manufactured goods, can become part of both the religious-devotional and secular types of exchange networks. They can, therefore, be dealt with similarly to valuable assets and be given away or acquired by individual religious or, more routinely, social subjects. They constantly refer back to different people and situations. The relationship network becomes complicated precisely at the moment they are possessed, donated, loaned, moved, or even exhibited. It is sometimes difficult to specify the role they play and by whom they are used in one way rather than in another; but what is certain is that they can easily become a means of appropriation (also improper), of control, and of power to be used within a specific social context. Through a form of exchange this reciprocity produces roles, opportunities, functions, and cultural situations. Additionally, I would like to point out another element. Inside the glass display case in the archive, near the previously mentioned reliquaries, is placed a colored wooden statue (29cm tall, approx. 11 inches) representing Our Lady of Providence, called Abbadessina (Picture 7). Barberini’s Constitutions of 1678 open up with precise reference to the mother of Jesus as the protector and perpetual abbess of the monastery: Nel Nome della Beatissima Trinità Padre, Figliuolo, e Spirito Santo, e della Santissima Madre dei Signore nostro GIESU’ Christo Signora Protettrice, e perpetua Abbadessa nostra, incominciano le Costitutioni delle Religiose Solitarie Scalze di Santa Chiara, che in questo Eremitico Monastero di S. Maria della Providenza Soccorrente vivono secondo l’Instituto, del Glorioso S. Pietro di Alcantara, e della Ven. Madre Suor Francesca di Giesù Maria detta Farnese.  3 4

The same painted image, dating back to 1600, dominates the choir room, where the nuns go to pray every day. It is also interesting to note that, as written in Barberini’s Constitutions, 35 a novice had to profess her faith in front of the image of Our Lady of Providence until 1963. This further demonstrates the power of Barberini’s liturgical guidance. Through these exchanges of gifts, Cardinal Barberini provided a precise behavioral guideline, which directed the cultic and liturgical experience of nuns. These objects are not random at all, especially since the objects are considered “sacred” or in some way devotional and classified mostly as remains or relics. 34.  “In the name of the blessed trinity, father, son, and holy spirit, and of the holy mother of our lord Jesus Christ, our lady protector and perpetual abbess, here begins the Constitutions of the of Discalced Solitary nuns of St Clare, who live in this eremitic nunnery of St. Mary of Succoring Providence according to the institute of St Peter of Alcantara and of the Ven. Mother Francesca di Giesù Maria known as Farnese.” Barberini’s Constitutions, 1678, p. 7. 35.  Barberini’s Constitutions, Chap. 8, p. 70‑71.

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Although in different ways, all societies must face the issue of death and, consequently, with the matter of the dead body. Many authors consider the care of the corpse to be the element that marks the difference between human beings and animals. 36 In this sense, what is defined as the culture of a population is characterized also by the means it uses to relate to the dead body and attempt to reinsert it into the social group. 37 After the death of an individual, in fact, a process of reappropriation of the corpse takes place. Each culture determines the handling of the body. While sometimes it may be considered mere organic waste − some cases of marginalization and total rejection are known 38 − the dead body is usually cared for. It is washed, perfumed, made up, and placed in a certain position. Even if these treatments might seem simple and of short duration, they still represent an intervention of modeling on the body. Culture finds a precise form of expression in the body, 39 a clearly visible opportunity to reveal itself. The physical body, whether alive or dead, is the subject of reflection and manipulation. Being a place of productive activity, it is always culturally processed and interpreted. Even after the biological death of an individual, it is modeled and subjected to transformation treatments of “anthropo-poiesis.”  4 0 In particular, interest in the dead body is, in the first place, a tangible attempt to tend to its passing, to react to the decomposition process which it inevitably goes through. The process represents a danger not only for the individual, but for the entire society as well, which must carry out a series of practices and measures to manage it. The dead body can generate at the same time different feelings: repulsion and fear, or respect and desire of preservation. The efforts made by the individual are directed towards the recovery of the corpse and its reintegration into social life. The cultural control of death is implemented through practices involving the handling of the corpse itself and can be aimed, depending on the cases and cultures, at avoiding, accelerating, concealing, slowing down, or even stopping the decomposition process. 41 If the desire to avoid the decomposition of a body leads to its destruction, for example through cremation or cannibal36.  L.V. Thomas , Anthropologie de la mort (Paris, 1975); D. M ainardi, “La conquista della consapevolezza in etologia,” in U. Curi, ed., Il volto della Gorgone. La morte e i suoi significati (Milano, 2001) 195‑221. 37.  J. Duvignaud, “L’os et la chair,” in Le langage perdu. Essai sur la différence anthropologique (Paris, 1973) 275. 38.  A. Favole , Resti di umanità. Vita sociale del corpo dopo la morte (Roma-Bari, 2003) 26. 39.  D. L e Breton, Anthropologie du corps et modernité (Paris, 2000) 13. 40.  F. R emotti, Contro l ’identità (Roma-Bari, 1996); F. R emotti, ed., Forme di umanità. Progetti incompleti e cantieri sempre aperti (Torino, 1999). 41.  A. Favole , Resti di umanità. Vita sociale del corpo dopo la morte (Roma-Bari, 2011) 39.

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ism, then the desire to stop its total disintegration tends towards its moreor-less partial preservation. A significant example of this in the Catholic world is represented by the distribution of the remains of a dead body in the form of relics of a person deemed extraordinary. Although no longer physically integral and whole, the body is subjected to a procedure of preservation and non-disintegration applied to its individual parts. Each of these, even if isolated, refers to the unity of the soma, and is full of specific meanings and symbols. 42 This last point deserves more clarification. It should be noted that in religious practice the dead body of a saint or a beatified person is always perceived as single and as a whole, even though it is actually disaggregated. The individual remains, even when they consist of small fragments, are nevertheless considered as the body in its integrity. This integrity is also represented by all the cloths and objects which came in contact with the body, either when alive or dead, and are very often identified with it. As J.P. Albert observes, the time of death of an exceptional person is the meeting point of two contrasting destinies. On the one hand, that person is destined to go through physical decomposition, while on the other it gains access “dans le partage des reliques à une intégrité nouvelle en chacune de ses parties.” 43 Around these remains, whether bodily or of another nature, a “fiction of corporeality” is created.  4 4 We understand the importance and uniqueness attributed to the individual fragments which are considered as limited, rare and thus sought after, and defended remains. They are remains which undergo careful care and treatments. It should be emphasized that their salvage and reintegration into the social context in the form of relics go hand-in-hand with the validation procedure. At different times and using different methodologies, the individual or group feels the need to provide proof of authenticity of the body itself and of all that has come into contact with it, as occurs with common manufactured objects. The use of an object, both an active use as in donating and a passive one as in receiving, is always a matter of choice. The individual, in response to their needs, desires, and expectations, decides to acquire certain objects (and not others), to use them consciously for their own purposes, and possibly to donate them. 45 Each material object, whatever its nature, is in the 42.  M. Niola, Sui palchi delle stelle. Napoli, il sacro, la scena (Roma, 1995) 58; O. R edon, “A proposito delle reliquie: logica dei corpi spezzettati nella ‘Legenda Aurea’?” in P. Clemente et al., Il linguaggio, il corpo, la festa: per un ripensamento della tematica di Michail Bachtin (Milano, 1983). 43.  J.-P. A lbert, “Le corps défait. De quelques manières pieuses de se couper en morceaux,” Terrain 18 (1995) 45. 44.  A. Favole , Resti di umanità. Vita sociale del corpo dopo la morte (Roma-Bari, 2011) 28. 45.  J.R. Hicks , A  Revision of Demand Theory (Oxford, 1965) 166.

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first instance a means of non-verbal communication.  4 6 Accepting, buying, stealing, or giving away an object means giving sense to the surrounding world, taking a stand and sending a message. Individuals construct their own world with the objects which are at their disposal and which they choose. The liturgical, devotional type of object is no exception. For this reason, transactions, donations, and uses to which it is subjected can shed light on the logical behavior of individuals and groups, and on the relations of reciprocity or conflict. The gift is, above all, a symbol. As all goods and services in general, it not only has a use value and an effective exchange value, but it also has a “bond value.” 47 Accepting a gift means accepting an implicit contract with the other party. 48 What Barberini gave as a gift, and indirectly imposed, is a privileged relationship with some saints, a relationship which in all probability the receiver would have not been able to obtain or to exploit successfully on their own. A higher spiritual power made available and shared by the protagonists comes into play. The donor easily takes on the role of spiritual guide, advisor, and intermediary with the saint. By offering the object, in fact, he also transmits a set of cultural models (principles, values to believe in, ideals, reference behavior) linked to it. Accepting the gift, on the other hand, means fully sharing, or at least assuming a good disposition towards those models. The extraordinary importance attributed to the object very often marks a hierarchy among the people involved in the exchange or in the circulation process. If donating always establishes, even if within the system of reciprocity, the difference and inequality of the condition between donor and recipient, then donating remains or relics accentuates this aspect even more. On its own the act of giving brings both parties together as it actuates sharing, but at the same time pulls them socially apart because one will always be in debt to the other. 49 If remains or relics should come into play, the perceived debt cannot be translated into material terms and ends up emphasizing the bond. At the same time, it accentuates the spiritual dependence on the donor. The nuns of the monastery in Fara have actually preserved not only the Cardinal’s words, but also the objects related to his guidance, classifiable within the same conceptual and interpretive framework. Within this practice of donation the male-female relationship still strongly resurfaces within the ecclesiastic sphere. The monastic litur46.  M. Douglas , Purity and Danger. An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (London-New York, 1966). 47.  A. Caillé , Le tiers paradigme. Anthropologie philosophique du don (Paris, 1988). 48.  J.T. Godbout, Le langage du don (Montréal-Québec, 1996); J.T. Godbout, L’esprit du don (Paris, 1992). 49.  A. Caillé , “Du don comme réponse à l’énigme du don. À propos de Maurice Godelier,” L’Homme 142 (1997) 93‑98.

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gical and devotional importation carries structured and oriented ecclesiastical patterns along with it. This still today poses problems of autonomy with respect to possible independent female interpretations and revisions. We must recognize that Cardinal Barberini, through the words and remains he sent, carried out a process of orientation on the nuns of the monastery towards a clear Franciscan-Clarian identity. Another object, important in this regard, is a painting of the family tree of the Friars Minor, still present in the monastery. The aspect to be pointed out is that Barberini, after donating it to the nuns in Fara, asked to modify it in 1677 by inserting the figures of Our Lady of Providence and Francesca Farnese (Picture 8): Riceverà la figura della Madre Sr. Francesca con il velo riformato e tutto secondo l’amata sua povertà. Vengono tante imagini che potrà non solo raccomodare con questa imagine povera nelli dua alberi mandati di qua, facendo la colla con la farina sottile, ma si mandano ancora le imagini di S.Maria della Providenza Soccorrente per aggiungerli alli due alberi già mandati, alla forma che nelli altri dua, comporre di sopra il nome dei santi martiri Petrus Batista et socii sopra di essi, rimanendo coperti i nomi dove sono stati stampati. V.P. potrà aiutare la madre Abadessa a sbozzare la sua lettera al P. Provinciale et a i fratelli di Piedimonte, come ancora, mutatis mutandis alle quattro abadesse de i conventi della Gran Madre. Et se qualcuna delle sorelle ha miglior carattere per riscrivere, basterà che da lei siano sottoscritte. 50

This action entailed a profound cultural orientation towards building a specific profile of the religious woman, that is an externally imposed process of anthropopoiesis. By means of his political and negotiating power Cardinal Barberini enacted some discriminatory religious choices and succeeded in imposing a behavioral pattern in accordance with his policy, thus creating a group of women in line with his views and, at the same time, a potential negotiating resource that could be controlled within the contemporary ecclesiastical setting. 50.  “You will receive the picture of Mother Francesca with the reformed veil and all this in accordance with her beloved poverty. There come many images you shall not only adjust with this poor image in the two trees sent from here, making glue with fine flour, but also are sent the images of St Mary of Succoring Providence to be added to the two trees already sent, in the same fashion as the other two, compose at the top the names of martyr saints Petrus Batista et socii on top of them, keeping covered the names where they were printed. V.P. shall help mother Abbess sketch out her writing for the P. Provinciale and the brothers of Piedmont, as well as, mutatis mutandis, the four abbesses of the convents of the Great Mother. And should any of the sisters have better writing to rewrite this, it shall suffice to have them underwritten by her.” Collected Letters of Cardinal Barberini, letter 40 dated 4 August 1677.

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Barberini’s action, attained through an object apparatus acknowledged to be sacred, seems to express the desire to insert the monastery in Fara, on the one hand, within the roots of the Farnese reform, making direct reference to the second Order (the remains of Francesca Farnese, Jacinta Marescotti and St. Clare), despite the distinctive traits of a cloistered life and, on the other, within the Franciscan Order and its spirituality (the remains of St. Francis, St. Peter of Alcantara and St. Paschal Baylon).

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A ppe n di x

Fig. 1. Fragment of white cotton fabric attributed to Francesca Farnese

Fig.  2. Small ceramic cup with blue decorations donated by cardinal Barberini

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Fig 3. Cushions with the image of saint Hyacintha on her deathbed

Fig 4. Fig tree attributed to saint Peter

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Fig 5. Presumed fabric remains and hair of saint Francis of Assisi in a reliquary

Fig 6. Unpublished report on the finding of the body of saint Francis of Assisi, possibly drafted by the nuns themselves in the monastery of the Poor Clares

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Fig 7. Coloured wooden statue of our Lady of Providence, known as Abbadessina

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Fig 8. Albero dei padri Alcantarini, engraved illustration, XVII century, detail

M ethodological Questions about the Birth of Christianity

L A COMPARAISON PEUT-ELLE

SERVIR À L’HISTOIRE ? R ÉFLEXIONS MÉTHODOLOGIQUES À PARTIR DE DRUDGERY DIVINE DE JONATHAN Z . SMITH* Fabrizio Vecoli I. I n t roduct ion La déconstruction systématique de la tradition des études comparatistes sur les origines du christianisme (et non seulement sur celles-ci, d’ailleurs) mise en œuvre par Jonathan Z. Smith a eu un impact particulièrement significatif sur les sciences des religions en général. D’aucuns vont jusqu’à affirmer que cet auteur serait destiné à devenir « canonique » dans ce domaine du savoir 1. En effet, l’efficacité et la compétence montrées par le savant étasunien dans l’entreprise de dépistage des tensions apologétiques sous-jacentes aux efforts de classification des religions de l’antiquité tardive 2 ont contribué à relativiser les prétentions d’objectivité des sciences historiques 3. En ce sens, son intervention semblerait en syntonie avec plusieurs perspectives propres aux approches herméneutiques et postcoloniales 4: la carte n’est pas le territoire, continue-t-on d’objecter à ceux qui *  Je remercie mon auxiliaire de recherche Sofi Langis pour l’aide apportée dans la récolte de la bibliographie sur J.Z. Smith. 1.  K. von Stuckrad, « Book review : Critical Terms for Religious Studies by Mark C. Taylor ; Guide to the Study of Religion by Willi Braun ; Russell T. McCutcheon », Numen 48 (2001), p. 117‑120 (p. 118). Burton L. Mack considère le modèle de Smith trompeur dans sa simplicité, et “ingenious” : B.L. M ack , « After Drudgery Divine », Numen 39 (1992), p. 225‑233. 2.  Bien évidemment, nous ne contestons pas sur ce point le travail de Smith. 3.  « Contrary to the unbridled optimism of most of our intellectual predecessors concerning how scholarship on religion will reveal the enduring, essential, and thus universal truths about this thing called the human condition, one of Smith’s greatest accomplishments has been to introduce a sense of perspective and economy to our work as scholars », dans R.T. McCutcheon, « Introducing Smith », dans J.Z. Smith – W. Braun – R.T. McCutcheon (ed.), Introducing Religion : Essays in Honor of Jonathan Z. Smith, London, 2008, p. 1‑17 (p. 13‑14). 4.  Waggoner le nomme « the first postcolonial critic of religion » et un « indispensable precursor to postcolonial approaches to Religious Studies » : dans M. Waggoner , « Death of a Discipline », Journal for Cultural and Religious Theory 6 (2005), p. 130‑141 (p. 135 et 139). Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 651–665 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111724 ©

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croient encore – illusion typique d’un Occident toujours trop impérialiste – à la possibilité d’un recul critique, d’une neutralité, d’une impartialité dans l’observation et l’analyse des phénomènes culturels. Et ce refrain s’entend le plus souvent justement quand il est question de l’instrument de la comparaison. Plusieurs ont nuancé ou remis en discussion la posture de Smith en dénonçant de manière plus ou moins explicite les conséquences générales d’une attitude déconstructionniste radicale vis-à-vis du savoir provenant des sciences humaines 5. Certains se sont penchés particulièrement sur les limites et les faiblesses d’une perspective postmoderne sans concession par rapport à la pratique des sciences des religions: se profile le risque d’une dérive nihiliste qui ne mènerait nulle part, si ce n’est au constat d’une incommunicabilité de fond en matière culturelle et donc à l’impossibilité d’un savoir humaniste concernant le réel 6. L’écho des trois propositions fondamentales de Gorgias résonne – mutatis mutandis – en ces conclusions sceptiques remises en discussion: « rien n’existe; même si quelque chose existe, l’homme ne peut l’appréhender; même si on peut l’appréhender, on ne peut ni le formuler ni l’expliquer aux autres » 7. D’autres insistent sur le fait que Smith n’aurait pas appliqué à son propre travail cette même verve déconstructionniste dont il use avec prodigalité envers ses victimes; ou bien, que sa méthode, si affinée sur la pars destruens, doit encore faire ses preuves quant à la pars construens: est-elle réellement viable? Quelqu’un constate qu’il finit par tomber lui-même dans une de ces catégories où il enferme ses prédécesseurs: il détruit la catégorie eliadienne de l’ « homo religiosus » en tant qu’universel, mais au fond il en crée une autre équivalente, l’ « homo faber », de signe opposé 8. 5.  T. M asukawa, « The production of ‘religion’ and the task of the scholar : Russell McCutcheon among the Smiths », Culture and Religion : an Interdisciplinary Journal 1 (2000), p. 123‑130 (p. 128). 6.  K.C. Patton – B.C. R ay (ed.), A  Magic Still Dwells Comparative Religion in the Postmodern Age, Berkeley – Los Angeles, 2000, p. 1‑44. 7.  Sextus Empiricus, Contre les mathématiciens, VII, 65. 8.  H.B. Urban, « Making A Place to Take a Stand : J.Z. Smith and the Politics and Poetics of Comparison », Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 12 (2000), p. 339‑378 : « Though never fully elaborated, worked out, or defended, this neo-Enlightenment ideal does surface from time to time in Smith’s essays, often in rather surprising forms […], he makes it quite clear that the study of religion is born from and continues the Enlightenment’s relentless quest for ‘rational understanding’, the drive to render everything, even the most seemingly irrational phenomena, intelligible to the scholar […] nothing, not even the most foreign, most seemingly alien and different cultural phenomenon, can be conceived as ‘Exotic’ or Other : myths, rituals, and other religious data can all be construed within the framework of pragmatic, rational human action, the work of homo faber […] it would seem that Smith does indeed have a fairly determined, fixed and centered ‘place’ –a clear normative stance in relation to his data […]. It assumes a very strong, even univer-

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Toutes ces interventions sont assurément pertinentes et permettent de faire avancer le débat. Sans prétendre ajouter quoi que ce soit sur ces questions spécifiques, il paraît sans doute utile – pour commencer – de nous situer par rapport à la discussion et de dire quelle sera notre contribution. Une considération préliminaire s’impose en ce qui concerne le statut d’historien (de la religion) de Smith. Bien qu’il se dise à l’aise avec cette étiquette, en ouverture d’un texte 9 où il donne une définition surprenante de l’histoire (que nous n’analyserons pas ici), il paraît néanmoins curieux qu’il ait pu affirmer – ailleurs 10 – que le spécialiste de religion travaille avec le souvenir: il fonde sur ce postulat toute une série de considérations sur le prétendu – finalement illusoire – rapport entre mémoire (et donc son discours: l’histoire) et réel. Il est difficile de souscrire à une telle vision purement subjective de l’histoire, car en réalité celle-ci ne se fonde justement pas sur le souvenir (trace psychique du passé) mais sur des documents (trace physique du passé). L’historien travaille avec des données externes à lui 11. Certes, il les dégage, les isole – dans certains cas de manière arbitraire et artificielle – et peut, de surcroît, les manipuler; sans compter qu’il est appelé à les interpréter, et que ce traitement des données dépendra en mesure variable de sa vision du monde. Tout cela est notoire. Il n’en reste pas moins que le document n’est pas confiné au lieu totalement subjectif de la mémoire du chercheur. Tout le raisonnement qui découle de cette première affirmation, erronée dans sa formulation radicale, s’en trouve dès lors fragilisé. Et il est abusif de procéder de manière si expéditive lorsqu’on s’attaque au fondement même du discours historique pour ensuite présenter ce dernier comme rien de plus qu’une fiction narrative 12 . salistic and totalizing conception of human nature, agency and our position in the world. To say that the human being is ‘homo faber’ is really, no less universal a claim, that to say that he is a ‘homo religiosus’ ; it is merely to substitute a rationalist neo-Enlightenment claim for a more romantic, quasi-theological one. It is not immediately apparent that this is necessarily more useful or more instructive than Eliade’s model : it is perhaps simply more appealing to our contemporary, rather disenchanted and increasingly suspicious post-modern situation » (p. 363). 9.  J.Z. Smith, « Manna, mana everywhere and /‿/‿/ », dans N.K. Frankenberry (ed.), Radical Interpretation in Religion, Cambridge, 2002, p. 188‑212 (p. 188). 10.  J.Z. Smith, « In Comparison a Magic Dwells », dans J.Z. Smith, Imagining Religion. From Babylon to Jonestown, Chicago, 1982, p. 19‑35 : « The scholar of religion is, therefore, concerned with dimensions of memory and remembrance » (p. 24‑25). 11.  Et ce, aussi en histoire des religions. Ceci est l’exact contraire de ce qu’affirme Smith, quand il dit « there is no data for religion », dans J.Z. Smith, Imagining Religion. From Babylon to Jonestown, Chicago, 1982, p. xi. 12.  Sur ce point, voir une bonne synthèse introductive : C. Delacroix, « Linguistic Turn », dans C. Delacroix – F. Dosse – P. Garcia – N. Offenstadt, Historiographies, I. Concepts et débats, Paris, 2010, p. 476-490.

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Une autre prémisse qu’il convient de signaler au lecteur, avant de passer outre, concerne le rapport que les chercheurs entretiennent avec leurs prédécesseurs dans ce domaine de travail. Les choses changent, notre vision du monde change, la nature et les limites de notre connaissance changent. Certains diront qu’il y a évolution, mais il s’agit déjà d’une notion controversée. Il convient d’expliciter un certain malaise par rapport à l’hostilité (frisant souvent le mépris) qui apparaît de manière récurrente dans la littérature concernant la théorie et les méthodes des sciences religieuses dès lors qu’il s’agit de dire quelque chose à propos des savants précédents l’illumination – ou plutôt la « singularité » – postmoderne. Quelle que soit la position de Smith sur l’utilité de lire encore aujourd’hui Weber ou Durkheim, le fait que ses écrits aient souvent été utilisés pour justifier une attitude iconoclaste envers tous ces intellectuels datant d’une époque étiquetée comme positiviste, impérialiste, raciste et patriarcale nous invite à nous distancier par rapport à cette attitude. Cela étant dit, ce que nous entendons mettre en exergue dans cette contribution c’est le débordement dans le champ de la théorie (avec toutes les conséquences du cas) des cinglantes déclarations de Smith à propos de l’historiographie du christianisme. La dénonciation de la tension axiologique omniprésente dans la littérature sur le christianisme des origines examinée est prise en appui afin de démontrer le caractère défectueux – pour ne pas dire fallacieux – de certains instruments propres aux disciplines historico-religieuses, notamment un certain type de comparaison. On se demandera donc s’il est possible de cerner dans l’argumentaire de Smith une dichotomie de fond, qui finit par approximer dangereusement les couples « uniqueness/difference » et « genealogy/analogy » aux oppositions classiques « idiographique/nomothétique », « diffusionnisme/ structuralisme », jusqu’à celle – jamais explicitée et pourtant conséquente – entre histoire et anthropologie. Le premier terme de ces syzygies de méthode relèverait de l’égarement idéologique, le deuxième d’une réflexion nivelée sur le présent, seul reste d’une déconstruction qui prouverait à quel point nous sommes irrémédiablement séparés du passé que nous persistons à vouloir reconstruire. Si nous suivons jusqu’au bout le raisonnement proposé par Smith, la comparaison ne peut plus servir à l’histoire; du moins la comparaison telle que les historiens l’ont – dans la plupart des cas – pratiquée. C’est là une affirmation de taille, dont il faut mesurer toute l’étendue. II. É l ém e n ts

t h éor iqu e s da ns

Map

is not

Te r r i tory

La religion, selon la définition présentée par Smith dans son Map is not Territory 13, est une création humaine vouée à doter de sens et à ordon13.  J.Z. Smith, « Map is not Territory », dans J.Z. Smith, Map is not territory : studies in the history of religions, Leiden, 1978, p. 289‑309 (p. 291 : « Religion is

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ner de manière significative les situations dont on fait l’expérience le long de l’existence. On pourrait sans doute rapprocher cette conception d’une forme d’anthropisation des variabilités du cosmos. En fait, de la manière dont elle est exprimée en ce passage, la conception de Smith présente des analogies – par certains aspects – avec celle qui se dégage de l’œuvre d’Ernesto De Martino 14 et – par d’autres – avec celle du sociologue Peter Berger 15: il est nécessaire d’alimenter la conviction que notre existence compte, ou – pour le dire avec les mots de De Martino – que notre présence en ce monde n’est pas en crise. Cette conviction est indispensable, sous peine de tomber dans la paralysie existentielle. D’ailleurs, il faudrait peut-être souligner ici – paradoxalement, encore que pas tant que cela – un lien avec la position de Mircea Eliade: l’élaboration symbolique 16 de la religion, articulée en mythologies plus ou moins complexes, sert principalement à s’orienter dans le réel, c’est-à-dire à cartographier le territoire étranger dans lequel l’être humain se trouve évoluer le long de son pèlerinage en ce monde. Jusqu’à quel point cette carte reflète-t-elle le monde réel? Est-elle efficace dans l’accomplissement des fonctions qui ont motivé sa création? En lisant Smith, on se demande dans quelle mesure – sans doute très peu – cette opération de cartographie mentale répond efficacement à une nécessité anthropologique effective, et si – probablement que oui – elle ne représente pas plutôt un simple dérivé d’automatismes cognitifs. Sans doute serait-il possible de relever ici plusieurs points communs avec les positions assurément plus tranchées des sciences cognitives de la religion. Pour ne proposer qu’un exemple, Stewart E. Guthrie 17, à la suite de Robin Horton 18, assimile religion et science en vertu d’un élément essentiel que les deux se trouvent à partager: la volonté d’expliquer le visible par le truthe quest, within the bounds of the human, historical condition, for the power to manipulate and negotiate ones ‘situation’ so as to have ‘space’ in which to meaningfully dwell. It is the power to relate ones domain to the plurality of environmental and social spheres in such a way as to guarantee the conviction that ones existence ‘matters’. Religion is a distinctive mode of human creativity, a creativity which both discovers limits and creates limits for humane existence »). 14.  E. De M artino, Il mondo magico : prolegomeni a una storia del magismo, Torino, 1948. 15.  P. Berger , The Sacred Canopy : Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion, Garden City, NY, 1967. 16.  Nous n’entrerons pas ici dans la question des rapports de Smith avec la définition de la religion élaborée par Clifford Geertz. Cf.  Cl . Geertz , « Religion as a Cultural System », dans M. Banton (ed.), Anthropological Approaches to the Study of Religion, London, 1966, p. 1‑46. 17.  S.E. Guthrie , Faces in the Clouds. A New Theory of Religion, New York, 1993. 18.  R. Horton, « African Traditional Thought and Western Science », Africa : Journal of the International African Institute 37/1 (Jan., 1967), p. 50‑71 ; Vol. 37/2 (Apr., 1967), p. 155‑187.

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chement de l’invisible; ou, pour le dire en d’autres termes, l’entreprise d’attribution de sens à l’expérience du monde par le biais de catégories non immédiatement perceptibles. Les conclusions de Horton s’opposent nettement à celles d’un de ses prédécesseurs, Lucien Lévy-Bruhl 19: les êtres humains raisonnent tous et toujours de la même manière, de sorte qu’il est erroné d’affirmer l’existence d’une chose nommée « mentalité primitive », stade de l’évolution humaine où la « participation mystique » occuperait la place de la pensée logique. Comme nous le verrons, Smith semble lui aussi contre ce type de catégorisation dans l’étude des cultures. Il est malaisé de saisir si une forme quelconque de réductionnisme (et alors lequel?) est associée à la définition smithienne de la religion comme expression de la créativité humaine. Par contre, il est évident que Smith ne maintient rien de solide dans la réalité liquide 20 représentée par la culture. Des catégories typiquement religieuses – mais en même temps à la limite de l’anthropologique – telles que pur et impur 21 sont dites (sur la base de Mary Douglas 22) situationnelles, ce qui revient à dire complètement relatives: rien n’est donc en soi sale ou propre, car il s’agit de concepts élaborés par l’esprit humain au moment où il se confronte à des situations et des contextes spécifiques. Par conséquent, nous avons affaire à des déclinaisons contextuelles d’éléments psychiques finis. Cela ne va pas sans évoquer les paillettes du kaléidoscope de Lévi-Strauss 23: le dessin qui à chaque utilisation apparaît dans le tube de miroirs est le résultat du dernier mouvement de son usager; les mouvements précédents n’ont aucune importance, ils ne dessinent pas un parcours évolutif, ils sont tout à fait étrangers aux dynamiques de l’emprunt ou de l’influence, ils ne constituent pas la cause de ce qui va suivre. Naturellement une telle perspective, typiquement structuraliste, réduit significativement le rôle de l’histoire dans la connaissance que l’on peut atteindre de la réalité humaine (et ce, malgré toutes les nuances apportée par Lévi-Strauss lui-même 24). Chaque manifestation historique résulte d’une combinaison entre le psychique humain et le contexte dans lequel il évolue: ainsi, la dimension diachronique – et la causalité qui s’y trouve associée – n’a plus de pertinence dans le processus de formation du présent.

19.  L. L évy-Bruhl , La mentalité primitive, Paris, 1922. 20.  J’emprunte et usurpe quelque peu le qualificatif utilisé par Zygmunt Bauman. 21.  J.Z. Smith, « Map is not Territory », dans J.Z. Smith, Map is not territory : studies in the history of religions, Leiden, 1978, p. 289‑309 (p. 289). 22.  M. Douglas , Purity and Danger : An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo, New York, 1966. 23.  Cl . L évi-Strauss , La pensée sauvage, Paris, 1962, p. 49‑50. 24.  Cl . L évi-Strauss , « Histoire et ethnologie », Annales. Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations 6 (1983), p. 1217‑1231.

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La relation de Smith avec le structuralisme est certes complexe. Il en critique justement l’incapacité à prendre en compte l’histoire (ce que même un structuraliste comme Piaget avait relevé 25), mais semble néanmoins le considérer comme la seule perspective capable de fonder une comparaison valable 26. Par ailleurs, cette conception des faits culturels assume une tinte quelque peu pessimiste au moment où Smith avance que l’intérêt politique est sous-jacent à toute configuration religieuse. L’exemple emblématique des topographies religieuses 27 est offert dans le but de prouver que les organisations mythiques de l’espace sont nécessairement le produit d’une caste motivée par des intérêts spécifiques et contextuels. Si le temple est le centre d’un microcosme symbolique, ce n’est pas en vertu d’un quelconque archétype religieux universel (ici la polémique avec Eliade est évidente), mais plutôt en raison d’intérêts de factions bien plus prosaïques (en l’occurrence ceux d’une élite de scribes désireux de restreindre la mobilité du peuple des fidèles, de sorte à installer une forme de contrôle et donc une concentration du pouvoir symbolique). Le soupçon de Smith se rapproche ici de celui de Bourdieu dans le fait de considérer chaque édifice doctrinal comme la délimitation d’un champ religieux fonctionnel à la « monopolisation de la gestion des biens de salut » 28. Là où plusieurs approches des sciences religieuses insistent pour des raisons idéologiques (ou politiques, dirait Bourdieu) sur la cohérence des systèmes, Smith (qui mentionne ici Ricœur) se concentre plutôt sur l’incohérence des matériaux religieux (« materials » : le terme nie toute valeur systématique, justement). Or, l’incohérence de ces soi-disant « materials » ne fait que refléter l’incohérence du réel, de l’observation duquel ils sont tirés pour être ensuite traités et transformés en engrenages de systèmes conceptuels qui visent la cohérence. Et le fait que l’activité de réflexion (qui est une interrogation) de l’être humain soit activée par la perception de l’incohérence du monde répond à une loi de la nature: cette incohé25.  J. P iaget, Le structuralisme, Paris, 1968, p. 11‑13. 26.  « Nevertheless, in both the biological and the human sciences, morphology has produced major comparisons that have stood the test of time » (p. 24) ; « The only mode to survive scrutiny, the morphological, is the one which is most offensive to us by its refusal to support a thoroughly historical method […] », (p. 25‑26) : dans J.Z. Smith, « In Comparison a Magic Dwells », dans J.Z. Smith, Imagining Religion. From Babylon to Jonestown, Chicago, 1982, p. 19‑35. Précision : « I would classify structuralism as a subset of morphology, although with Marxist rather than Idealist presuppositions ». Et nous savons que Smith « prend Marx très au sérieux » (http://chicagomaroon.com/2008/2006/2002/interview-with-j-z-smith/ consulté le 15 décembre 2014). 27.  J.Z. Smith, « Map is not Territory », dans J.Z. Smith, Map is not territory : studies in the history of religions, Leiden, 1978, p. 289‑309 (p. 293). 28.  P. Bourdieu, « Genèse et structure du champ religieux », Revue française de Sociologie 12 (1971), p. 295‑334 (p. 304).

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rence, au lieu d’être acceptée comme telle, est traitée par l’esprit humain sous forme de question. Si la perception de l’incohérence est un facteur clé et déclencheur de la pensée humaine, la représentation de certains mondes religieux comme holistes ou a-dualistes serait donc une mystification idéologique cachant, encore une fois, l’arrogance impérialiste occidentale. Cela n’est pas sans rappeler l’erreur signalée chez Lévy-Bruhl, en rapport à sa catégorie d’une « pensée primitive » liée à une condition de « participation mystique ». « Nous » – les « civilisés » – percevons les incohérences du réel et les intégrons dans nos élaborations religieuses, dont l’évolution (le progrès?) est fonction de notre effort de répondre de manière toujours plus efficace; « eux » – les « sauvages » – vivent dans un monde de représentations intemporelles parce que leurs cultures seraient imperméables aux contradictions de l’univers, donc incapables d’évoluer. Le problème de la culture ainsi conçue (comme évolution des réponses données aux incongruités de l’univers) consiste – selon Smith – dans le fait de l’avoir utilisée pour introduire des distinctions entre « nous » et « eux », et donc de repousser comme non-humain ce qui est ethniquement ou culturellement différent. Bref, vouloir distinguer nature et culture conduirait inévitablement à l’ethnocentrisme par le biais d’un jugement d’infériorité de celui qui est considéré comme plus proche de la nature (la célèbre catégorie du « sauvage »). Si l’on suit le raisonnement jusqu’au bout, cette même tare apparaît dans la séparation, introduite par certains savants, entre peuples ayant une histoire et ceux appelés « sans histoire » : une distinction problématique, s’il en est. Dans un même élan polémique, Smith associe – par un lien qu’il ne considère pas contingent mais ontologique – la perception d’une différence culturelle à une tension axiologique sous-jacente 29. Par conséquent, la comparaison, en tant qu’instrument soulignant la différence 30, serait inévitablement contaminée par une (plus ou moins consciente) volonté d’affirmation de supériorité culturelle. La critique des catégories employées par les savants dans leurs tentatives de cartographier des mondes humains étrangers au leur ne pourrait être plus radicale: en effet, on ne préconise pas simplement un affinement ou une mise à jour de 29.  Wendy Doniger souligne chez Smith le refus de toute altérité et les dangers qui en découlent. Cf.  W. Doniger , The Implied Spider : Politics and Theology in Myth, New York, 1998, p. 52. 30.  A. Brelich, « Prolégomènes à une histoire des religions », dans H.-C. P uech (ed.), Histoire des religions, Paris 1970, p. 3‑59. Sur le comparatisme différentiel, cf. : N. Spineto. « Conférence de M. Natale Spineto », dans École pratique des hautes études, Section des sciences religieuses. Annuaire 112 (2003‑2004), p. 405‑407 (p. 404). Pour un survol récent sur l’utilisation de la comparaison en histoire des religions : Ph. Bornet – Y. Bubloz , « Entre histoire et anthropologie : pour une réaffirmation de l’identité disciplinaire de l’histoire comparée des religions », ethnographiques.org, Numéro 22 (2011) - mai 2011 (http://www.ethnographiques. org/2011/ Bornet,Bubloz – consulté le 12.12.2014).

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ces catégories, mais plutôt une complète mise à l’écart. En d’autres termes, la constatation d’une différence entre dualisme et holisme – comme celle entre historique et anhistorique – est assimilée à un jugement de valeur raciste dont la comparaison serait l’instrument forcément fonctionnel. III. L a

compa r a i son da ns

D ru dge ry D i v i n e

La comparaison – fatalement animée par une tension axiologique – est associée par Smith à la catégorie de l’« uniqueness » qui est faite valoir pour certains phénomènes religieux. C’est-à-dire que la comparaison serait fonctionnelle à l’affirmation de l’« uniqueness » du premier terme par rapport au deuxième. En contestant cette catégorie, il vise en premier lieu à déconstruire l’autonomie du religieux (« unique » parmi les autres sphères relevant de la culture humaine) fondée sur des présupposés phénoménologiques. Parmi ces derniers, le plus connu est celui qui résulte de la notion de « sacré », telle qu’élaborée par R. Otto 31 et reprise ensuite par Eliade 32 . L’unicité de la religion, pour Otto et ses épigones, viendrait en effet de la relation qu’elle exprime entre l’humain et une réalité non empirique d’ordre métaphysique. Si l’édifice de la comparaison se dresse sur un tel fondement, c’est-à-dire sur un concept surnaturel culturellement connoté, il finit inévitablement par affirmer l’exceptionnalité du christianisme, soit son caractère « unique » sur le plan ontologique 33. Quand toutefois il s’agit de souligner une dépendance du christianisme par rapport à une autre religion, la catégorie d’« emprunt » est employée pour repérer une noble ascendance: Israël est pour le christianisme ce que l’Égypte d’Hérodote est pour la Grèce  3 4 . Encore une opération idéologique, donc. Force est de constater que l’on compare pour faire ressortir le caractère unique et exceptionnel d’une religion spécifique (ou de ses antécédents). Or, l’« unicité » ainsi conçue est – remarque très justement Smith – un fait idéologique qui n’a rien à voir avec la science. Pourtant, on pourrait rétorquer qu’il y a une autre manière de comprendre l’unicité des faits historico-religieux, consistant à les appréhender selon une perspective idiographique 35 qu’on ne peut accuser d’impéria-

31.  R. Otto, Le sacré, Paris, 1995 (1ère édition allemande, 1917). 32.  Par exemple : M. Eliade , Le Sacré et le profane, Paris, 1965 (1ère édition allemande 1956). 33.  J.Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine. On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity, Chicago, 1990, p. 38. 34.  Ibidem, p. 46. 35.  W. Windelband, Geschichte und Naturwissenschaft, Strasbourg, 1894.

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lisme culturel (elle fut utilisée par Franz Boas 36…): l’unicité n’équivaut pas ici à l’affirmation d’une supériorité mais à la reconnaissance d’un caractère particulier, voire irrépétible, de chaque évènement historique (ce qui va bien au-delà d’une « quite ordinary postulation of difference » 37). Nous savons que cette approche peut mener à une conception des phénomènes religieux compris comme objets comparables non sur la base d’une nature humaine universelle (paradigme anthropologique sous-jacent à chaque manifestation particulière), mais plutôt sur la base d’une histoire culturelle commune 38. Cette dernière perspective, qui fusionne historicisme et diffusionnisme, inspire une comparaison différentielle qui vise à mesurer les écarts des contextes culturels particuliers par rapport aux flux de transmission des influences; mais elle ne sert pas nécessairement à établir des hiérarchies axiologiques. Cependant, comme on le verra, Smith ne retient pas cette distinction: « uniqueness » et idiographie sont pour lui coextensives. À la première est opposée la catégorie complexe de « difference », sur laquelle il n’offre pas des détails ultérieurs dans Drudgery Divine. Le couple d’opposés unicité/ différence est ensuite mis en relation à celui de généalogie/analogie. L’analogie, qui remonte à Aristote, est présentée 39 comme la relation de deux objets qui partagent certaines caractéristiques sans partager la même provenance: elle n’a donc aucune valeur taxonomique, pour le moins sur le plan phylogénétique (et pourtant lui comme d’autres ont affirmé que la taxonomie demeure l’œuvre première de toute entreprise scientifique). Au contraire, la généalogie a pour but d’établir une parentèle fondée sur le partage d’un ancêtre commun, ce qui signifie qu’à travers le repérage de similarités elle prétend montrer un processus évolutif. Dans un premier cas, celui de l’analogie, toute ressemblance culturelle est fondée sur rien d’autre qu’une vague unité psychique de l’espèce humaine, qui réagit selon des modalités déterminées à certains stimuli. L’analogie sert tout au plus à dépister les particularités du contexte (historique, géographique, économique, social…) pour les présenter comme explication de certaines configurations culturelles: quoi qu’il en soit, elle 36.  « Cultural phenomena are of such complexity that it seems to me doubtful whether valid cultural laws can be found » : F. Boas , « The aims of anthropological research », Science 76 (1932), p. 605‑613 (p. 612) ; cité par R. L ee LymanM.J. O’Brien, « Nomothetic Science and Idiographic History in Twentieth-Century Americanist Anthropology », Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences 40 (2004), p. 77‑96 (p. 82‑83). 37.  J.Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine. On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity, Chicago, 1990, p. 39. 38.  A. Brelich, « Prolégomènes à une histoire des religions », dans H.-C. Puech (ed.), Histoire des religions, Paris 1970, p. 3‑59. 39.  J.Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine. On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity, Chicago, 1990, p. 47 n. 15.

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ne vise pas à établir des parentés culturelles créées au moyen d’emprunts  4 0. La comparaison analogique, la seule vraie pour Smith, est un exercice purement intellectuel qui sert à résoudre des questionnements purement intellectuels. Pour être plus précis, c’est la manière de « re-envision phenomena as our data in order to solve our theoretical problems » 41. L’insistance sur le « our » caractérise tout le processus comme acte herméneutique, vraisemblablement déconnecté de la nature objective des éléments observés. Si l’on considère ensuite que les éléments comparés en histoire appartiennent au passé, force est de constater que l’on nie ici toute possibilité d’accès à une connaissance tant soit peu objective du monde antique. Par suite, les historiens parlent d’eux-mêmes et non pas du passé. Plus grave encore, si comparer est une démarche dépendante des conceptions de celui qui le fait, comparer devient aussi – inévitablement – geste d’une impardonnable arrogance idéologique au moment même où l’on prétend dire quelque chose sur ce qui est « autre » que soi-même. Et quand la pratique de l’histoire utilise cet instrument irrémédiablement autocentré et donc partial, elle n’est rien de plus qu’une narration politisée. Il est à noter que Smith ne se limite pas à dire que la comparaison est accomplie au moyen d’une « sélection » opérée sur une base herméneutique, et qu’elle procure donc une connaissance limitée et sujette à distorsions, et pourtant encore fondée dans le réel (il s’agit d’une position classique 42). Non, toute la démarche comparatiste est de fait un exercice de pure abstraction. Il est évident que l’on n’accède jamais à la nature des choses (« how things are » 43), mais seulement à la manière dont on peut les concevoir (« might be conceived »). Cette affirmation a des conséquences sérieuses sur le plan épistémologique et rappelle ce qui sera dit plus tard par d’autres: « face au réel, l’homme ne peut pas ne pas sémantiser, et cette sémantisation détermine que désormais pour lui les choses n’existent que conçues »  4 4 . Et pourtant, à moins de préconiser une désintégration irrémédiable du savoir humain, il apparaît nécessaire de défendre l’existence d’une connexion – mince et fragile autant qu’on le voudra – 40.  « […] analogous processes, responding to parallel kinds of religious situations rather than continuing to construct genealogical relations between them whether it be expressed in terms of the former ‘borrowing’ from the latter, or, more recently, in an insistence on the reverse […] » (J.Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine. On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity, Chicago, 1990, p. 112‑113). 41.  J.Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine. On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity, Chicago, 1990, p. 52. 42.  H.-I. M arrou, De la connaissance historique, Paris, 1954. 43.  J.Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine. On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity, Chicago, 1990, p. 52. 44.  J. Giot  J.-Cl . Schotte , Langage, clinique, épistémologie. Achever le programme saussurien, Bruxelles, 1999, p. 76.

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entre savoir et réel 45. Qu’il nous soit consenti d’exprimer notre désaccord par rapport au déconstructionnisme extrême de Smith: la carte n’est pas le territoire, certes, mais elle est de toute évidence en relation avec lui; car autrement elle ne servirait à rien, ce qui n’est pas le cas. En ce qui concerne la généalogie – le deuxième cas –, cette approche est accusée d’hybris impardonnable au moment où elle refuse de rester confinée au plan de l’abstraction spéculative et se présente comme méthode capable de dire quelque chose sur la réalité de choses. La comparaison généalogique se propose de repérer dans l’ensemble des faits historicoculturels un réseau complexe de liens fondés sur l’« emprunt » (et donc sur la transmission). La généalogie est pour le diffusionnisme ce que l’analogie est pour le structuralisme. L’enjeu, au fond, est le type de dynamisme sous-jacent aux faits de l’histoire: relève-t-il d’un mouvement interne à l’humain – une configuration universelle, une structure – qui réagit de façon cohérente à un milieu? Ou est-ce plutôt le résultat d’un processus externe à l’anthropologie, dépendant de transmissions et influences culturelles qui voyagent de manière complexe dans le temps et l’espace? Dans la première hypothèse, il est possible de percevoir une attitude typiquement nomothétique vis-à-vis des évènements reconstruits par la pratique de l’historien: pour ce qui est des faits culturels, si les ressemblances ne peuvent être expliquées – en aucun cas – par des emprunts, il faut se tourner vers des lois anthropologiques capables d’expliquer les récurrences comme le résultat d’interactions analogues (donc récurrentes) entre psyché humaine et contexte: à l’« emprunt » comme facteur d’explication il faut substituer la « fonction »  4 6. Nous avons donc une opposition entre idiographique et nomothétique. Indépendamment du fait que les perspectives ne doivent pas obligatoirement entrer en conflit 47, il est évident que pour Smith la première est le résultat d’une manière de procéder foncièrement erronée. En somme, en forçant juste un peu le raisonnement de Smith, on pourrait ajouter l’opposition histoire-anthropologie – découlant de celle emprunt-fonction – aux syzygies dépistées dans le raisonnement du savant étasunien. Ce qui donne: 45.  J. Guilhaumou, Discours et événement. L’histoire langagière des concepts, Besançon, 2006, p. 181‑221. 46.  J.Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine. On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity, Chicago, 1990, p. 47 n. 15. 47.  William E. Arnal, malgré un jugement généralement positif sur Drudgery Divine, a tout de même affirmé qu’une opposition nette entre analogie et généalogie, au détriment de cette dernière, était « counterproductive » : cf. W.E. A rnal , « Book review : Drudgery Divine », in Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 6 (1994), p. 190‑199. D’une manière similaire, Hans G. Kippenberg avait auparavant critiqué l’opposition entre diffusion et développement indépendant : cf. H.G. K ippenberg , « Comparing Ancient Religions. A  Discussion of J.Z. Smith’s ‘Drudgery Divine’ », Numen 39 (1992), p. 220‑225 (p. 223).

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unicité-différence, généalogie-analogie, emprunt-fonction, idiographiquenomothétique, histoire-anthropologie. IV. L’ e r r eu r

de

S m i t h?

Dans un passage de Drudgery Divine 48, Smith avance que la comparaison n’est pas un processus naturel. Il entend en souligner le caractère spéculatif, donc abstrait, potentiellement idéologique et politique; bref, le produit de ce processus ne correspond pas aux faits. Toutefois, d’autres pensent le contraire et reconnaissent en la comparaison un acte cognitif essentiel de l’être humain 49. La théorie a beau le critiquer, celui-ci résiste au nom d’un sens commun qui ne se laisse pas mettre de côté si facilement 50. De plus, comparer, en matière de religion, est un exercice ancien, si l’on s’en tient aux thèses d’Assmann 51 sur la pratique de la « traduction » des divinités précédentes à la diffusion de la « distinction mosaïque ». Dans la compilation des listes des équivalences divines entre cultures différentes, on ne peut certainement pas percevoir une volonté politique d’affirmation de la supériorité d’un panthéon par rapport à un autre, seulement la nécessité politico-économique d’accomplir les serments exécratoires qui scellaient les pactes et les accords (en s’accor-

48.  J.Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine. On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity, Chicago, 1990, p. 51. 49.  Fr . Boespflug  Fr . Dunand (ed.), Le comparatisme en histoire des religions, Paris 1997, p. 7 ; W.E. Paden, « Comparative Religion », dans J.R. Hinnels (ed.), The Routledge Companion to the Study of Religion, London-New York, 2005, p. 208‑225 (p. 208 : « Seeing similarities and differences is a basic activity of the human mind. The perception of relationships and patterns is the way individuals and cultures organize their experience of the world. It is a process without which there would be undifferentiated chaos, or at best only isolated facts. Likewise, specialized knowledge in any field advances by finding or constructing concepts and categories that give order and intelligibility to otherwise unrelated data. Comparison, among other things, is the process by which generalizations and classifications are produced, and is the basis of scientific and interpretive enterprises of every kind. The very concept ‘religion,’ as an academic definition of a certain area of culture, is such a cross-cultural, comparative category. There can be no systematic study of religion as a subject matter without crosscultural perspective »). Il conviendra aussi de mentionner que pour Marcel Detienne également, la comparaison est nécessaire à la connaissance, notamment à se sortir des marécages du particularisme : cette comparaison doit être large et partir de catégories générales. Cf. M. Detienne , Comparer l ’incomparable, Paris, 2009 (1ère édition 2000), p. 44 et 46. 50.  Cf.  A. Compagnon, Le démon de la théorie. Littérature et sens commun, Paris 1998. 51.  J. A ssmann, Moïse l ’Égyptien. Un essai d ’histoire de la mémoire, Paris, 2001 (1ère édition allemande, 1998).

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dant – dans une perspective on ne peut plus pragmatique – sur les entités divines établies comme garantes). Cet exemple soulève l’importance de prendre en considération ce que l’on appelle le tertium comparationis, qui assume la fonction de dénominateur commun dans le processus de comparaison 52 . Dans le cas des divinités pré-mosaïques d’Assmann, la fonction sociale ou le rôle cosmique du dieu constituait le terme de comparaison. Dans le cas des traditions religieuses (qui nous concerne ici), le terme de la comparaison est la définition de religion que l’on décidera d’adopter. Or, nous connaissons l’entité du problème de la définition de la religion: il s’agit d’une question névralgique, et pourtant elle est négligée par Smith au moment de mettre au banc des accusés les représentants de la tradition des études sur le christianisme des origines. En effet, c’est sur la base de la définition de l’objet étudié que sont accomplies toutes les triangulations de la comparaison. À l’époque des études apologétiques critiquées pas Smith, la définition de la religion normalement utilisée rentrait dans la catégorie de l’« analogie », si l’on s’en tient à la classification de Gisel-Tétaz 53: on se fondait sur un prototype connu (le christianisme) et on jaugeait ce qui existait autour en le mesurant en termes de proximité ou éloignement de ce modèle idéal (que l’on entendait confirmer et exalter). Il s’agissait d’une définition ethnocentrique: il était donc inévitable que ce tertium comparationis influençasse la pratique de la comparaison, en l’orientant vers une approche – justement – ethnocentrique. Contrairement à ce qu’affirme Smith, le point faible de l’instrument de la comparaison n’est pas la perspective généalogique, qui est simplement une des lentilles à travers lesquelles on observe et comprend légitimement l’humain. Le point faible, c’est le tertium comparationis, dont l’influence est déterminante: c’est pour cette raison qu’il doit être continuellement recalibré. Aujourd’hui, les définitions qui ont cours en histoire des religions sont beaucoup plus prudentes, et elles tendent à se fonder sur des notions plus souples, notamment celle bien moins compromettante d’« air de famille » (Wittgenstein) : on ne part pas d’un centre prétendument objectif, en fonction duquel orienter une comparaison qui vise à le confirmer en tant que centre, mais d’un réseau dynamique et sciemment semi-arbitraire qui permet des comparaisons euristiques non axiologiques. Si l’on veut éviter de succomber à la désintégration systématique de l’épistémologie de l’homme occidental accomplie par des orientations 52.  Smith évoque lui-même la « question of the isolation of a unit for comparison with an invariant frame of reference », dans : J.Z. Smith, « In Comparison a Magic Dwells », et dans J.Z. Smith, Imagining Religion. From Babylon to Jonestown, Chicago-London, 1982, p. 19‑35 (p. 25). 53.  P. Gisel  J.-M. Tétaz , Théories de la religion, Genève, 2002, p. 13‑14.

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herméneutiques et déconstructionnistes radicales 54, il devient nécessaire – avec toutes les précautions méthodologiques que l’on voudra – de réaffirmer l’utilité de la comparaison. Peut-être sera-t-il utile alors de se tourner vers la proposition du New Comparativism de William E. Paden 55, et d’élaborer ainsi des notions panhumaines (non culturelles) sur lesquelles fonder un nouveau paradigme de comparaison, mais il s’agit là d’un tout autre débat.

54. N. Spineto, « Religioni. Studi storico-comparativi », dans A. M elloni, Dizionario del sapere storico-religioso del Novecento. Vol. 2, Bologna, 2010, p. 1256‑1317. Pour un bilan général de la situation de l’histoire des religions : G. Filoramo, « La situazione degli studi di Storia delle religioni », dans Le forme e la storia n.s. (2011), p. 61‑72. 55.  W.E. Paden, « Elements of a New Comparatisvism », dans K.C. Patton – B.C. R ay (ed.), A  Magic Still Dwells Comparative Religion in the Postmodern Age, Berkeley – Los Angeles, 2000, p. 182‑192.

RELIGIOUS VICISSITUDES OF POLITICAL DESIRES. A BOURDIEU-DRIVEN APPROACH TO EARLY CHRISTIAN POLITICAL SUBJECTIVATION Emiliano Rubens Urciuoli I. B r e a k i ng

t h e h e r m e n eu t ica l spe l l

With respect to early Christian moods, behaviours and stances towards both public powers and public-political engagement, a precise relationship could be established between the original purposes of some intellectual products and the vast majority of their current interpretations. Such a “quasi-miraculous harmony” 1 implies that what texts shape, further and – under certain conditions – initiate into social reality, scholarly readings tend to confirm and approve. To state it another way: there is a collusion between a particular religious-moral agenda, patterned by a tiny group of experts corresponding to a literate minority of pre-Constantinian Jesus followers, and the specific enterprise of signification and interpretation developed by most modern scholars upon these same texts. Two telling facts demonstrate the success of such a hermeneutical “joint-venture.” (1) As far as I know, despite documentary evidence known for almost a century now, 2 the 2015 volume by Alexander Weiß on the Soziale Elite und Christentum is the only published monograph devoted

1. P. Bourdieu, “Genèse et structure du champ religieux,” Revue française de sociologie 12/3 (1971) 314. 2.  That is, ever since they were listed and discussed in A. von H arnack , Mission und Ausbreitung des Christentums. 2. Die Verbeitung (Leipzig, 1924 4) 559ff. In the wake of Harnack, later historians have basically corrected, integrated and called many of these data into question: see W. Eck , “Das Eindringen des Christentums in den Senatorenstand bis zu Konstantin d. Gr.,” Chiron 1 (1971) 381‑406; P. L ampe , From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries (Minneapolis, 2003); W. Wischmeyer , Von Golgatha zum Ponte Molle: Studien zur Sozialgeschichte der Kirche im dritten Jahrhundert (Göttingen, 1992) 63‑90; T.D. Barnes , “Statistics and the Conversion of the Roman Aristocracy,” Journal of Roman Studies 85 (1995) 135‑147. It seems to me emblematic that Allen Brent’s “political history of Early Christianity” never refers to these people, except for the fleeting reference to those Christian office-holders sacrificing during the enforcement of Decius’ edict in Alexandria (Dionysius of Alexandria in Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 6,41,10‑119): see A. Brent, A  Political History of Early Christianity (LondonNew York, 2009) 260. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 667–691 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111725 ©

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to the politically active Jesus followers 3 (2) Conversely, just the opposite figure still enjoys a steady academic popularity and appeal: I refer to the pre-Constantinian Jesus follower as a public but non-political subject. Tertullian outlines his profile as follows: But as those in whom all ardour in the pursuit of glory and honour is dead (ab omni gloriae at dignitatis ardore frigentibus), we have no pressing inducement to take part in your public affairs (nuc ulla magis res aliena quam publica). We acknowledge one all-embracing commonwealth – the world. 4

While “public” alludes to both the public nature of coming and sovereignty of Christ and the socio-political importance of the messianic belief, “non-political” refers to the alleged 5 and notorious 6 abstention from politics, along with the lack of secular ambitio. Whatever the attested opinions about legitimacy, purposes, function and merits of the secular powers, scholarly discourses tend to take for granted an early Christian disdain and contempt for public honours. How is one to explain this collusion of interpreters and interpreted? First, I argue that, with respect to the early history of the Christian movement, many influential contemporary theories of secularisation, as autobiographic narrative of the Modern Age, have done nothing else but transcribe into theoretical characters the fundamental principles of the mainstream (“Great”) church’s self-awareness. To describe the rise of Christianity as the starting or crucial acceleration point of the process of “de-mythologization,” “de-divinization,” “a-theization”/“de-magification,” “exit of religion,” 7 etc., is to rewrite the same “medical report” drafted two millennia ago by a few dozen Christian intellectuals: it is a rewording of the early Christian (wishful) judgment on the onto-political death of the Greco-Roman polis. All these Modern-centric and Modern-driven theoretical representations, which can be summed up by the motto “the Modern Age is unthink3.  A. Weiss , Soziale Elite und Christentum. Studien zu ordo-Angehörigen unter den frühen Christen (Berlin - Boston, 2015), 4. Tertullian, Apol. 38,3; I use the English translation of S. Thelwall , “Latin Christianity: Its Founder, Tertullian. 1. Apologetic Writings,” in A. Roberts – J. Donaldson, ed., The Ante-Nicene Fathers. 3 (Grand Rapids, 1869; reprint 1986). 5.  On the Christian side, see also Tatian, Or. 11,1; Tertullian, Apol. 46,13; Idol. 17; Pall. 5; Minucius Felix, Oct. 31,6; Trad. ap. 16; Origen, Cels. 8,75. 6.  On the non-Christian side, see the fictive Cecilius (in Minucius Felix, Oct. 8,4) and the extrapolated Celsus (in Origen, Cels. 8,75). 7.  See R. Bultmann, “Neues Testament und Mythologie,” in H.-W. Bartsch, ed., Kerygma und Mythos 1. Ein theologisches Gespräch (Hamburg, 1960 4) 15‑48, E. Voegelin, The New Science of Politics (Chicago, 1952), J.B. M etz , Zur Theologie der Welt (Mainz, 1968), and M. Gauchet, Le désenchantement du monde. Une histoire politique de la religion (Paris, 1985), respectively.

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able without Christianity,” 8 produce an interpretative framework liable to have a twofold effect on historical analyses of the early Christian styles of political behaviour. First, by highlighting the “topological rotation” 9 of the principle of political order from the immanent plane of the Earthly City to the transcendent plane of the Heavenly One, one is compelled to write anything but the “just-so story” of a neutralization of public-political concerns: that is, to tell how “the central domain” 10 of Christian existence has shifted from a historical-earthly fellow citizenship of humans & gods to the eschatological-heavenly Commonwealth of humans & angels. Second, the emotional and motivational corollary of the ontological annihilation of the secular structures of power is the emptying of politics. To summarize: I suspect that all these “grand theories” and “grand narratives” on the Christian deep-rootedness of political Modernity do not benefit a genealogical inquiry on the Christian political life before Constantine. Rather, they interfere with it. The second reason for the aforementioned “harmony” between the concerns of some ancient Christian writers and their modern interpretations is to be found within the deep history of both Late Ancient and Early Christian Studies. It is not possible here to show how deeply a precise early Christian authoritative discourse, aimed at devaluing – and lastly forbidding – political involvement in a given socio-historical situation, still wields its “negative deontic power” 11 over the scholarly discourse on early Christianity. This happens whenever an “ought statement,” uttered by any ancient Christian writer about some early Christian moods and behaviours, is practically mirrored and confirmed by a scholarly “be statement” on some Christian corresponding acts. As in this case: Hence a dispute has lately arisen as to whether a servant of God may accept the exercise of a dignity or a power, if he can keep himself pure of every form of idolatry, either by some special favour or careful wisdom […]. Thus, let us admit that a man may succeed in any post of honour in bearing only its name without sacrificing or lending his authority to sacrifices, without contracting for public victims, without giving assignments for the care of temples, without having charge of their taxes, without giving games at its 8. H. Blumenberg, The Legitimacy of the Modern Age (Cambridge [Mass.], 1985) 30. 9. U. H ebekus , “Enthusiasmus und Recht. Figurationen der Akklamation bei Ernst H. Kantorowicz, Erik Peterson und Carl Schmitt,” in J. Brokof – J. Fohrmann, ed., Politische Theologie. Formen und Funktionen im 20. Jahrhundert (Paderborn, 2003) 105. 10. C. S chmitt, “The Age of Neutralizations and Depoliticizations,” in C. Schmitt, The Concept of the Political: Expanded Edition (Chicago-London, 1996) 90. 11.  See J.R. Searle , Making the Social World. The Structure of Human Civilization (Oxford–New York, 2010) 8ff.

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own cost or that of the state or presiding over the giving of them, without proclaiming or announcing any solemnity, without even taking an oath; further, with regard to what pertains to power, without passing judgments on a man’s life or honour – for as money you might be tolerant –, without condemning or forejudging, without outing anybody in irons, without imprisoning or torturing, if it is believable that all this is possible. 12 For most Christians, neither administrative activity, which is connected with participation in pagan sacrifices, nor official posts, in which they would have participate in death sentences or torture and have to organize games, are an option. 13

Tertullian would have presumably subscribed to what Peter Lampe infers from his On Idolatry: there were “a few Christians in Carthage who seem to consider public offices to be compatible with Christianity.” 14 Although nobody can estimate their number, they have to be a few (Lampe) because their claims for participation in public life are odd (Tertullian). Admittedly, in such a case the point of view of the presbyter is virtually indistinguishable from the perspective of the historian. What was once forbidden as both a standpoint and a practice is now overlooked as a historical phenomenon and historiographical problem: I see this as to “wealth,” 15 “sacrifice,” 16 or – indeed – “politics.” II. A n O l d -N ew M et hod This paper aims to break and step out of such a “hermeneutical circle.” To accomplish the task, it is worth leaning on a specific “style of sociological reasoning”: namely Pierre Bourdieu’s “general science of the economy of practices.” 17 At least three reasons can be given for this choice. (1) Bourdieu’s reflexive sociology is a forceful invitation to tackle “the unthought” of one’s own discipline, its “superego codes”, its doxai, and all those “divisions of scientific labour” that progressively shade into episte12. Tertullian, Idol. 17; I use the English translation of J.H. Waszink – J.C.M. Winden, Tertullianus. De idololatria: Critical Text, Translation and Commentary (Leiden, 1987). 13.  P. L ampe , From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries (Minneapolis, 2003) 316. 14.  P. L ampe , From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries (Minneapolis, 2003), 316, n. 89. 15.  See P. Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle: Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350‑550 ad (Princeton, 2012) 25. 16.  See D. Ullucci, The Christian Rejection of Animal Sacrifice (Oxford, 2012) 10 and 67. 17.  See P. Bourdieu – L. Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology (Chicago, 1992) 118. van

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mological barriers. 18 Asking the sources a simple but virtually uncoded (and thus counter-intuitive) set of questions is starting on the right foot. For instance, is a given “Christianness” 19 a necessary and sufficient element to explain hate or love for the state, to contrast, mistrust or support secular authorities? Is the affinity with some religious signs and practices, which are liable to be interpreted as anti-Roman identity markers, both a plausible and compelling reason to retire from public life and quit investing in politics? Such questions produce a 180 degree shift of the Archimedean point of the inquiry, namely from (a) the normative domain of some Christian opinion makers’ statements of principles to (b) the socio-historical and socio-psychological realm of the existing biases for and against public powers, policies and politics, as well as of the concrete hindrances to get information, benefits and rewards from the “hard public sphere.” 20 (2) Bourdieu’s genetic structuralism escapes the main risk inherent to any individual-centered understanding of social practices and social agents, from the Rational Choice Theory to the reviewed interactionism of the (multiple) Identity Theory. Albeit diverse, 21 both perspectives share a broader genre of “finalism of the individuals,” 22 connected with the denial or the underrating of the unequal distribution of possible behaviours among people facing similar situations. Conversely, a Bourdieusian insight takes structured relations of power much more seriously than any interactionism does. At the same time, it denies hard structuralisms and the trite dualism of other Marx-driven and materialistic approaches. The flexible version being adopted here supposes that every style of political attitude and behaviour stems from a complex but finite “chart of dispositions,” whose objective (i.e., historically incorporated) arrangement paves and constrains the way “the internal plurality of individuals acts and ‘distributes’ itself according to various social contexts.” 23 18.  See P. Bourdieu, “The Sociology in Question,” in P. Bourdieu, Sociology in Question (London, 1993) 30. 19. This term simply means the “Christian quality”/“shade” of thoughts and behaviours: see E. R ebillard, Christians and Their Many Identities in Late Antiquity, North Africa, 200‑450 ce (Ithaca–London, 2012) 99, n. 3. 20. On the differentiation between “weak” (opinion formation) and “hard” (decision making) publics, see N. Fraser , “Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy,” Social Text 25/26 (1990) 56‑80. 21.  See P.J. Burke , “An Identity Model for Network Exchange,” American Sociological Review 62 (1997) 134‑150. 22. P. Bourdieu, “Entretien avec Roger Chartier,” in Les lundis de l ’histoire (France Culture, 1997). See also P. Bourdieu, Sullo Stato. Corso al Collège de France (Volume 1. 1989‑1990) (Milano, 2013) 158. In both cases, the target is the Rational Choice Theory. 23. B. L ahire , “From the Habitus to an Individual Heritage of Dispositions: Towards a Sociology at the Level of the Individual,” Poetics 31 (2003) 248.

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(3) Bourdieu’s epistemological turn to a general theory of practice suggests to identify which analitical categories mapping both social spaces and psychological forces actually permit some measure of understanding in every social phenomenon at stake at any time and everywhere – including early Christian relationships with public powers and public-political commitment. In this sense, “fields” and “interests” are supposed to be the first building blocks of a universal framework for explaining social physics. “Strategies” should be next. A. Fields Capitalizing on Bourdieu for a genealogy of Christian political life means, first and foremost, that all the lavish theological-political figures, such as the “Heavenly Jerusalem,” the “City of God,” “the políteuma in heaven,” etc., even though they do not vanish from sight, definitely step back as referential spaces for Christian political semantics and subjectivations. Another social arena comes to the fore: fields. A field may be defined as a network, or a configuration, of objective relations between positions. These positions are objectively defined, in their existence and in the determinations they impose upon their occupants, agents or institutions, by their present and potential situation (situs) in the structure of the distribution of species of power (or capital) whose possession commands access to the specific profits that are at stake in the field, as well as by their objective relation to other positions (domination, subordination, homology, etc.). 24

Contrary to the loci of the heavenly politics of Paul and his disciples, of the authors of First Peter and Hebrews, of Hermas, of the alleged Clemens of Rome and Tertullian, etc., 25 Bourdieu’s fields are mundane networks of structured relations, within which one takes a position objectively related to other positions and takes a stance objectively related to his/her position. Material and symbolic struggles take place within “limits situated at the point where the effects of the field cease,” 26 and between agents involved in the game, insofar as they recognize the legitimacy of the profit at stake and fight for safeguarding or improving their position: this “sense 24. P. Bourdieu – L. Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology (Chicago, 1992) 97. 25. See Gal. 4:21‑26; Phil. 3:17‑20; Eph. 2:11‑20; 1 Pet. 2:11‑12; Heb. 11:916 and 12:18‑24; Hermas, Sim. 1,1‑2; 2 Clem. 5,1‑5; Tertullian, Cor. 13,4; Idol. 18,9; etc. On this, see E.R. Urciuoli, Per un’archeologia del “noi” cristiano. Le comunità immaginate dei seguaci di Gesù tra utopie e riterritorializzazioni (50‑200 e.v.) (Milano, 2013) 191ff. 26. P. Bourdieu – L. Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology (Chicago, 1992) 97.

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of the game” encompasses the “sense of one’s place.” Finally, “those who dominate in a given field are in position to make it function to their advantage” 27 by policing the borders, sanctioning deviant claims and behaviours, and overseeing and fastening the practical acceptance of the “constitutional principles” fixing the conditions of membership. Indeed, a dominant is whoever profits from the continuous enforcement of the socalled “nomoi” of the fields. This paper focuses on two kind of fields: the well-structured field of (Roman) power and the emergent – and consequently much more fluid – Christian religious field. Each one functions according to a given nomos, grounded both in its “objective structures […] and in the mental structures of those who inhabit it.” 28

1. The field of (Roman) power and its nomos The nomos of the field of (Roman) power prescribes the dominant positions of the empire’s societal system to believe and recognize that the production and reproduction of the social order require different forms of coexisting powers. While giving a mythical account of the relationships between local and central leaderships of political communities, this well-known sentence by Aelius Aristides displays the structure of these “exchange relations” among ruling elites as follows:

27. P. Bourdieu – L. Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology (Chicago, 1992) 102. 28. P. Bourdieu, The Rules of Art. Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field (Stanford, 1996) 61. In his lectures on the State, Bourdieu defines the nomos as a non-questionable principle of differentiation universally recognized within a given social universe: see P. Bourdieu, Sullo Stato. Corso al Collège de France (Volume 1. 1989‑1990) (Milano, 2013) 23. As a consequence, there is no field without a nomos. Yet, as far as I know, although he devotes at least six essays to some specific religious issues (all collected in P. Bourdieu, Religion [Frankfurt am Main, 2011]) and critically discussed by T. R ey, Bourdieu on Religion: Imposing Faith and Legitimacy [London, 2007]), Bourdieu never defines the nomos of a scrutinized religious field. The same is true for the highly problematic analytical tool of the “(meta-)field of power”: see P. Bourdieu, La noblesse d ’État. Grands corps et Grandes Écoles (Paris, 1989), especially 373‑427; P. Bourdieu – L. Wacquant, “Das Feld des Machts und die technokratische Herrschaft,” in P. Bourdieu, Die Intellektuellen und die Macht (Hamburg, 1991) 67‑100. Here is a standard definition: “The field of power is a field of forces defined by the structure of the existing balance of forces between forms of power, or between different species of capital. It is also simultaneously a field of struggles for power among the holders of different forms of power” (P. Bourdieu – L. Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology [Chicago, 1992] 76, n. 16).

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There is no need of garrisons holding acropolis, but the most important and powerful people in each place guard their countries for you (ἑκασταχόθεν μέγιστοι καὶ δυνατώτατοι τὰς ἑαυτῶν πατρίδας ὑμῖν φυλάττουσιν). 29

Such a blunt version of the public transcript 30 of power relations states that the labour of domination must be shared. Behind the rhetorical texture of the Oratio, one can glimpse the twofold fundamental principle grounding the social philosophy of both Roman and local leaders: (1) since the world is to be ruled through the hierarchical teamwork of all the social strata fit to lead, (2) this socio-juridical division of the labour of domination shall go hand in hand with the “spontaneous division of ideological labour.” 31 In other words: to rule for the sake of the empire is to claim obedience for the sake of the obedients. While saying what dominants must display, Aristides’ description suggests as well what is better for them to hide, i.e., their dissent in the interpretation of the nomos. 32 Struggles among the upper- and upper middle classes are aimed both at increasing one’s own capital at the expense of others of the same species – (a) family capital: nobility versus nobility; reproduction strategies versus reproduction strategies; (b) economic capital: money against money; (c) social capital: favour against favour; recommendation versus recommendation; (d) military capital: troops against troops – and at preserving or transforming the “exchange rate” between one’s own species of capital and that of others which are socially recognized and approved (nobilitas versus money; inherited cultured versus troops; imperial recommendation against senatorial support; professional expertise against rank prestige; etc.). These manoeuvres no doubt occur at every time. Yet the period from the mid-3rd up to the last decades of the century, which was formerly labelled as the “Great Crisis,” is marked by relevant – if not extraordinary – processes of societal transformation. Local and supra-local rearrangements of powers take place at two levels: (1) in the hierarchy of the different species of socio-symbolic properties associated with rankings (aristocracy, wealth, bureaucratic capital, military rank, etc.) and (2) in the relative and relational value of the official ranks themselves (senators, equestrians,

29.  Aelius Aristides, Rom. 64. I use the English translation of C.A. Behr , Aelius Aristides. The Complete Works. 2. Orationes XVII-LIII (Leiden, 1981). 30.  On this notion, see J.C. Scott, Domination and the arts of resistance: Hidden transcripts (New Haven, 1990). 31. P. Bourdieu – L. Boltanski, La production de l ’idéologie dominante (Paris, 2008) 10. 32. Whereas solidarity is preferably shown by panegyrics and inscriptions, conflict is mainly displayed through laws (both imperial decrees and jurists’ legal advices).

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decurions). 33 Such a structural “shuffling of social cards” in all dominant positions (including the apex: the emperor) could be summarized as a circumscribed but pronounced process of de-centralisation and de-aristocratisation of posts/functions, recruitment channels and political cultures associated with the government of the empire. If equestrians have never been so close to being the leading edge of society,  3 4 it is because the relationship between the socio-juridical value of the ordo and the political importance of the officium shifts in favour of the latter in a way which is unparalleled in the history of the empire. As Guido Clemente once remarked: Per questa via, possiamo supporre che siano arrivati a ricoprire funzioni pubbliche molti cristiani. 35

Doubting formulas are compulsory, since the shortage of prosopographical evidence advises against any sharp assessment. In any case, it is not too optimistic to say that, in the third century, that is, by far the period of greatest growth, spatial distribution and sociological diversification of the Christian movement, 36 every upper echelon of the Roman social pyramid (excluding the emperor) 37 seems to be more available to Jesus followers. Christian political subjectivation supposedly evolves so as to incorporate a wider range of positions, dispositions and position-takings. For instance, honestiores who share sets of social properties and attitudes stemming from aristocratic but local contexts are definitely in their heydays. It is not 33. On changes that occurred in the upper strata during the once so-called “Great Crisis”, see G. A lföldy, The Social History of Rome (London–Sydney, 1985) 162ff.; A. Chastagnol , L’évolution politique, sociale et économique du monde romain de Dioclétien à Julien: la mise en place du régime du Bas-Empire (284‑363) (Paris, 1982); F. Jacques , “L’ordine senatorio attraverso la crisi del III secolo,” in A. Giardina, ed., Società romana e impero tardoantico. 1. Istituzioni, ceti, economie (Roma-Bari, 1986) 81‑225; C. L epelley, “Fine dell’ordine equestre: le tappe dell’unificazione della classe dirigente romana nel IV secolo,” in A. Giardina, ed., Società romana e impero tardoantico. 1. Istituzioni, ceti, economie (Roma-Bari, 1986) 227‑244;, etc. On the crisis as “a steady continuation of processes already begun,” see A. Cameron, The Later Roman Empire: A.D. 284‑430 (London, 1993) 8ff. 34.  Even if Pflaum exaggerated in describing the third-century equestrians as the actual masters of the Roman administration: see H.G. P flaum, Les procurateurs équestres sous le haut-empire romain. 1. (Paris, 1950) 107. 35. G. Clemente , “Cristianesimo e classi dirigenti prima e dopo Costantino,” in Mondo classico e cristianesimo (Roma, 1982) 56‑57. 36.  Thus, straightforwardly, K. Hopkins , “Christian Number and Its Implications,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 6/2 (1998) 185. The literature is enormous. 37. The apologetic claim that Philip the Arab was a crypto-Christian (see already Eusebius, Historia ecclesiastica 6,34) is no doubt a legendary one. For a deliberate use of the theological concept of “crypto-Christianity”, see I. R amelli, “Cristiani e vita politica: il cripto-cristianesimo nelle classi dirigenti romane nel II secolo,” Aevum 77/1 (2003) 35‑51.

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by chance that legal “persecutions” soon begin to differentiate their strategies according to the public dignity of the target. 38

2. The Christian religious field and its nomos The “fundamental law” of the Christian religious field is no doubt different. As far as we know, Paul first interpreted the principle of the “existence in Christ” as submission to his sovereignty as a Lord (greek: κύριος, δεσπότης; Latin: dominus). As Jacob Taubes has rightly stressed, the opening of Romans already furthers this original theocratic claim by using words sounding like a “political declaration of war”: 39 Paul, a servant of Jesus Christ, called to be an apostle, set apart for the gospel of God, which he promised beforehand through his prophets in the holy scriptures, the gospel concerning his Son, who was descended from David according to the flesh and was declared to be Son of God with power according to the spirit of holiness by resurrection from the dead, Jesus Christ our Lord.  4 0

Since the corollary is the eschatological liberty and independence from whatever earthly forces, every normative authority endowed with powers of subjectivation falls under immediate suspicion (from ethic to ontology). Normally, this protest goes on offstage via an invisible network of texts that power holders cannot see, although in the some cases 41 it is openly transcribed and performed by people prosecuted in some trial courts or executed in crowded arenas – i.e., the martyrs. Step by step, according to extremely diverse time scales, the semantic core of this idiosyncratic theocratic-messianic belief claiming the practical recognition (cognosco) of the ultimate supreme authority of Christ (dominum meum) falls under a narrower definition. Such an interested emendation of what will be the Christian nomos will be imposed and codified by a specific agent, who works hard to construct and police his position for dominating the field by controlling the production and administration of the religious capital: the bishop. 38.  I refer here to the “second Valerian law” against Christians issued in the summer of 258: see R. Selinger , The Mid-Third Century Persecutions of Decius and Valerian (Frankfurt am Main, 2004) 90ff. Its content is summarized by Cyprian in Epistula 80,1,2. 39. J. Taubes , The Political Theology of Paul (Stanford, 2004) 13ff. For the undeniable priority of such a theocratic claim, see also A. Brent, A  Political History of Early Christianity (London–New York, 2009) 2. 40.  Rom. 1:1‑4. I use the English text of the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV). 41.  On the general reluctance of Jesus followers to “act as a group” and promote mass actions, see E. R ebillard, Christians and Their Many Identities in Late Antiquity, North Africa, 200‑450 ce (Ithaca–London, 2012). The misleading concept of “voluntary martyrdom” has been persuasively questioned by L. Grig, Making Martyrs in Late Antiquity (London, 2004) 20.

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For his vision to become the sole legitimate standpoint – the very principle of ‘seeing as Christians’ as it were –, the viewpoint of the bishop has to prevail on those of other Christian religious agents provided with different species of religious capital. Among them, three categories of religious providers, whom I would call the “charismatics,” the “great laymen” and the “enlightened,” are particularly competitive. Here I can only sketch out the main oppositions structuring each struggle. 42 The success of the first enterprise is ensured by enforcing and imposing the office charisma on the personal charisma in order to establish who is the only authoritative/authorized “overseer” (ἐπίσκοπος /episcopus) on all the circulating religious resources. 43 The competition with the “great laymen” is faced by formally making “the principle of internal hierarchization” (namely apostolic succession) prevail over the “principle of external hierarchization” (that is, wealth, rank, social importance in general) :  4 4 “the greater the autonomy (of the field)”, says Bourdieu in the Rules of Art, “the more the symbolic relationship of forces is favourable to producers who are the most independent of demand.” 45 Finally, the struggle against all the Gnosis-grounded forms of enlightenment presupposes the invention of the heresiological discourse as a “schème régulateur et réducteur commun,”  4 6 a system of decoding division by emphasizing differences. 47 42. On this, see the forthcoming E. Urciuoli, “Enforcing Priesthood: The Struggle for the Monopolisation of Religious Goods and the Construction of the Christian Religious Field,” in R.L. Gordon – G. Petridou – J. Rüpke , ed., Beyond Priesthood: Religious Entrepreneurs and Innovators in the Imperial Era (Berlin, 2016). 43.  As well as on the religious capital itself as an institutionalized resource. The enrolment of exorcists and confessors as church officials assigned to supplementary tasks attests that the religious capital can be unpacked and distributed among different producers under the aegis of the bishop. 44.  That is, to prevent as far as possible the short-term conversion of the (socio-) economical capital into religious capital. See already 1 Tim. 6:17‑19. It is equally noteworthy that in this letter (117-138 CE) the instructions for the bishop and for the rich take place in two separate sections (3:1‑7: ἐπίσκοπος; 6:17‑19 πλουσίοι). For a survey on the age-old issue of Pastorals’ “christliche Bürgerlichkeit” see R.M. K idd, Wealth and Beneficence in the Pastoral Epistles: A “Bourgeois” Form of Early Christianity? (Atlanta, 1990). On wealthy patrons as unreliable church leaders in the Acts of Peter (late 2nd century CE), see R. Stoops, “Patronage in the Acts of Peter,” Semeia 38 (1986) 91‑100. Overwhelming public pressures, which “t[ake] and plac[e] on the bishop’s throne” honestiores lacking in religious capital (Fabian at Roma: see Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 6,29,2-3, but also Cyprian at Carthage: see Pontius, Vit. Cyp. 5), show the relative forcefulness of this principle. 45. P. Bourdieu, The Rules of Art: Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field (Stanford, 1996) 217. 46. A. L e Boulluec , La notion d ’hérésie dans la littérature grecque (IIe‑IIIe siècles). 1. De Justin à Irénée (Paris, 1981) 15‑16. 47. K.L. K ing, “Social and Theological Effects of Heresiological Discourse,” in E. I ricinchi – H.M Zellentin, ed., Heresy and Identity in Late Antiquity (Tübingen, 2008) 28‑49.

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Extended from the very beginning to other “domains of error,” the more and more systematic, refined and concerted employment of the heresiologicak software let the church leaders unmask and fight off otherwise invincible challengers (invisible, elusive, mimetic, etc.) like the Valentinians. 48 To summarize: in the course of the third century ce , that is, when welloff Roman citizens begin to swell the Christian ranks, ultimate submission to Christ is increasingly to be interpreted as immediate obedience to bishops. 49 One of these “obedience clauses” is that, just as for anything involving the church, also the visible interaction with public authorities is not to be done regardless of the bishop. B. Interests Taking things literally, it is impossible to escape the impression that the fundamental law of the Christian religious field is significantly different from the nomos in force in the field of power. Not only are the two nomoi mutually hetero-nomous, but taking Christian allegiance seriously and making loyalty to the social order effective by unquestionably participating in the public-political power network seem to be as incompatible as night and day. Yet a mechanical and fully coherent accordance between people’s lines of conduct and the foundational principles of the fields is far from being a general explanatory rule of agents’ practices. It is a possibility among many others; rather, among all the possibilities, it is probably not the easiest circumstance to find at work. First of all, it frequently happens that people are equally involved in two or more overlapping social universes. Furthermore, the concrete force-of-law, with which the nomos of each field is provided, is not so demanding as it may seem: basically, it consists in forbidding to break it openly and – so to say – for free. Rather than forcing people to “do this and not to do that,” its compelling claim sounds this way: “in my domain, you cannot do just anything and get away with it.” So, when at least two arenas of social production are concerned, individual agency is what, under certain objective conditions of possibilities, is free to improvise at the crossroads of the formal respect claimed by both. 50 48. On such an “anti-groupism,” see D. Brakke , The Gnostics. Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Christianity (Cambridge, 2010) 115ff. 49.  As Allen Brent has shown for Rome, the view of a fractionalized community in the late-2nd century could be extended to about the mid-3rd century: see A. Brent, Hippolytus and the Roman Church in the Third Century. Communities in Tension Before the Emergence of a Monarch-Bishop (Leiden 1995). On the development of monoepiscopacy in general, see A.C. Stewart, The Original Bishops. Office and Order in the First Christian Communities (Grand Rapids, 2014). 50. Bourdieu’s position is alternative to both spontaneism/subjectivism and determinism/objectivism: see, essentially, P. Bourdieu, “From Rules to Strategies,”

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To solve the agency’s conundrum between stances and circumstances, spaces of positions and space of position-takings, Bourdieu’s box provides another useful analytical tool: interest. Plunging the notion of interest into the fields consents to break away from the radical but false alternative between existential trajectories driven and shaped by the Heavenly City, on the one side, and social destinies forged in the sole fire of state’s values, on the other. “Interest” is an expression of the practical investment in social games at stake in every field as worth playing, giving access of worth goods by worth forms of capital. More precisely: Each field calls forth and gives life to a specific form of interest, a specific illusio, as tacit recognition of the value of the stakes of the game and as practical mastery of its rules. Furthermore, this specific interest implied by one’s participation in the game differentiates itself according to the position occupied in the game (dominant vs. dominated or orthodox vs. heretic) and with the trajectory that leads each participant to this position. 51

While the intensity degree of an interest (high, intermediate, low) is a measure of how and to what extent a subject is embedded in a field and abides by its rules, its form (positive or negative) 52 notifies her/his objective relationship with those who dominate the field, are empowered by its specific capital and thus are identified with its structures and rules. This highlights precisely what our sources could be deeply interested in misshaping or concealing, namely that there must have been not only different Christian interests in the existence of a structured system of powers, but also different Christian degrees of concern and engagement in “Christianity”: extremely different shades of “Christianness.” Insofar as a mechanical accordance with the general principles of a field is not a failsafe explanatory rule of agents’ practices, an “enchanted way of living one’s [beliefs] is not the only way possible.” 53 That said, is it possible to outline these intertwined economies of religious and political interests? What do their embodied interferences concretely produce? I propose here six diverse macro-types of Christian styles of subjectivation towards civic life, that is, six different ways to interact in P. Bourdieu, In Other Words. Essays Towards a Reflexive Sociology (Stanford, 1990) 59ff. See also the very beginning of P. Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice (Stanford, 1992), 25ff. 51. P. Bourdieu – L. Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology (Chicago, 1992) 117. 52. On the notion of “negative interest,” see P. Bourdieu, “Sociologues de la croyance et croyance des sociologues,” Archives de science sociales des religions 63/1 (1987) 155‑161. 53. B. L ahire , “From the Habitus to an Individual Heritage of Dispositions: Towards a Sociology at the Level of the Individual,” Poetics 31 (2003) 340.

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with a “pagan” public sphere. Where information is lacking, historically informed speculation can intervene to fill the void. C. The six styles of (pre-Constantinian) Christian political subjectivation

1. The “vocation politician” At one extreme, we have a Jesus follower whose political interest has not been affected by his religious belief and worship. While his public-institutional “creed” is strong, his Christians beliefs are weak, insomuch as they are “built […] independently of the habits to act.” 54 Whatever happens in the political game is for him a matter of life and death – to begin with the existence and the endurance of the game itself. This axiological status of both politics and the state is independent from any other value accorded to Christian religious goods and institutions. The index of value and legitimacy of the public-political realm has not looked down and its stakes are trustful and as worthy as ever. The hierarchical and imperative Christianness of church leaders has no grip on it. Such a well-off individual “plays politics” and does not see any significant reason for not playing it: surely not the fact that his “polytheistic mental picture” 55 houses Christ among many other gods. I would give this man the anachronistic name of “vocation politician” (1st style). His figure may be glimpsed behind the well-known story on Severus Alexander’s home chapel (lararium): His manner of living was as follows: first of all, if it were permissible, that is to say, if he had not lain with his wife, in the early morning hours he would worship in the sanctuary of his Lares, in which he kept statues of the deified emperors – of whom, however, only the best had been selected – and also of certain holy souls, among them Apollonius, and, according to a contemporary writer, Christ, Abraham, Orpheus, and other of the same characters and, besides, the portraits of his ancestors. 56

I would not define such practice as a “non-Christian reception of the cult of Christ.” 57 I would rather characterize it as an imperial mode of appropriation and even normalization of a possible anti-imperial cult from a 54. B. L ahire , “From the Habitus to an Individual Heritage of Dispositions: Towards a Sociology at the Level of the Individual,” Poetics 31 (2003) 337. For the distinction between “dispositions to act” and “beliefs”/“dispositions to believe” see 336ff. 55. M. Bettini, Elogio del politeismo. Quello che possiamo imparare oggi dalle religioni antiche (Bologna, 2014) 18. 56.  Hist. Aug. Alex. 29,2. I use the English translation of D. M agie , Historia Augusta. 2. (London, 1924). 57. J. Rüpke , Tra Giove e Cristo. Trasformazioni religiose nell ’impero romano (Brescia, 2013) 291.

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social point of view in which the public-political nomos is everything and the Christian-ecclesiastical one is nothing. Jesus Christ may be someone in which to believe verbally and to worship along with other extraordinary agents in the traditional niche of the Roman domestic cult. Furthermore, he who abolishes the sacrifice – at least according to… memory –, 58 could have been someone “to recruit” (recipere) among the gods worshipped in a publicly financed temple with publicly financed rituals. 59 As even this dubious story may suggest (“usus Vivendi eidem…”; “matutinis horis…”), weak Christian beliefs do not mean necessarily “less profound,” that is, more “frail” and “passing” than other religious “habits igniting actions”. Rather, they could have been formed under particular conditions (e.g., the religious syncretism of an imperial house) and actualized in “different contexts and circumstances” (e.g., a private and manifold house cult). 60 They outline the borderline case of a Christian political engagement for the leading elite pertaining to the borderline conceptualization of Christianness itself. Such a cult arrangement of a depoliticised and weak messianic belief is a likely option for being both a Jesus follower and a man at power.

2. The “man of the world” A second style of political subjectivation comes out when, as a result of a more systematic and practically demanding Christian religious interest, the whole system of meaning of the “state apparatuses” loses its centrality. The socialized and incorporated pressure to gain public legitimacy by qualified participation in civic life loses part of its grip on the subject; although being involved – or in a position to be involved – in public affairs, he is not ultimately concerned by them. Anyway, this state, which corresponds to a partial de-politicization of the Jesus follower’s interest, is compatible with significant forms of public-political engagement, since earthly powers still produce motivations and reasons to act. This individual, as the good “man of the world” (2nd style) he is, continues to be active in politics, albeit in forms that could be influenced and biased by his Christian religious allegiance. The martyr Apollonius, tried and executed in the time of Commodus under the praetorian prefect Perennis (Rome, 183‑185), is an excellent illustration of this category:

58. See the lavish sacrificial framing of Jesus’ effective death throughout the Epistle to the Hebrews. 59. See Hist. Aug. Alex. 43,6. 60. B. L ahire , “From the Habitus to an Individual Heritage of Dispositions: Towards a Sociology at the Level of the Individual,” Poetics 31 (2003) 338.

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In the city of the Romans he (i.e., the demon) brought before the court Apollonius, a man famous among the Christians of that time for his education and philosophy, and raised up to accuse him one of his servants who was suitable for this. […] But the martyr, beloved of God, when the judge earnestly begged and prayed him to defend himself before the senate, made before everyone a most learned defence of the faith for which he was a martyr… . 61

Martyrdom is neither a sufficient nor a necessary condition for this category membership. Much more telling indicators are, on the one hand, the Eusebian reference to Apollonius’ renowned Christianness among the Jesus followers “of that time” (ἄνδρα τῶν τότε πιστῶν); on the other, the learned “Stoicized-Christian” (or “Christianized-Stoic”) worldview that structures the auto-apologetic speech recorded in his Acts – possibly a third-century fiction. 62 To put it in Bourdieu’s terms: the clarissimus – or just town-councillor? – 63 Apollonius is a legitimate Christian, that is, “really Christian,” since a proper Christianness, fully consistent with the nomothetic claim of the field, is credited to him by his religious peers. Apollonius fits perfectly into the field – and not, like Severus, where its borderline lies. His point of view “accords with the founding point of view of the field.” Indeed, Apollonius’ full religious status is apparently certified by those “endowed with the power to say with authority who is authorized to call himself [Christian]”,  6 4 namely his contemporary Christian religious leaders, along with the future imperial bishop, author of the first authorized church biography and thus consecrator of and among 61. Eusebius, Hist. Eccl. 5,21,2‑5; I use the English translation of K. L ake , Eusebius. The Ecclesiastical History. 1. (London, 1926). 62.  See the discussion on both the status quaestionis of the Acts of Apollonius and the philosophical texture of the speech (Act. Apoll. 43ff.) in P. L ampe , From Paul to Valentinus. Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries (Minneapolis, 2003) 321ff. 63.  How is one to interpret “ἐπὶ τῆς συγκλήτου βουλῆς αἰτήσαντος”? The question is still open. A deposition in the senate and in the presence of all senators seems unlikely: see R. Wiegels , “Die Rolle des Senats im Prozess gegen den Christen Apollonius,” in H. H eftner – K. Tomaschutz , ed., Ad fontes! Festschrift für Gerhard Dobesch zum 65. Geburtstag (Wien, 2004) 533‑546. Barnes states that, as an equestrian, Perennis could not have presided over a trial in the senate: see T.D. Barnes , Early Christian Hagiography and Roman History (Tübingen, 2010) 46. Is this sufficient to exclude the senatorial rank of the martyr? Thus E. Gabba, “Il processo di Apollonio,” in Mélanges d ’archéologie, d ’épigraphie et d ’histoire offerts à J. Carcopino (Paris, 1966) 400. Lampe tends to give credit to the tradition (from Jerome to Harnack) by focusing on a passage of Act. Apoll. 11 which presents Apollonius defending himself before an audience of councillors, learned men and a great number of senators: see the argument in P. L ampe , From Paul to Valentinus. Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries (Minneapolis, 2003) 326. 64. P. Bourdieu, The Rules of Art. Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field (Stanford, 1996) 223‑224.

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consecrators: Eusebius of Caesarea. Furthermore, unreliable though it may sound in the version of the Acts, Apollonius’ philosophical type of Christianness, which is well-established in some contemporary Christian urban circles, 65 could be activated as a politically correct mental picture: a safe worldview, even a “cash-valuable” framework that could be supportive of Apollonius’ official incumbencies in everyday public life and in ordinary time.

3. The “loyalist sub condicione” The third dispositional possibility corresponds to a relevant decrease – if not to a complete vanishing – of practical interest in the existence of state apparatuses. Such a posture, which may go as far as being a nonsubversive delegitimation of juridical-political orders, reflects a dispassionate devaluation of the political realm. For these people, to believe in state and politics as state and politics claim to be believed is – so to say – a “bad habit.” State’s pretentions of totality are returned to the sender, along with a radical critique of state-worshippers. As a consequence, the only effect produced by the juridical-political order is a broad acceptance of the principle of obedience to public authorities, that is, a quite pale form of obsequium. 66 This position is associated with two fuzzy-bordered political attitudes embodied by two diverse figures: “the loyalist sub condicione” (3rd style) and the “untrustworthy subject” (4th style). While overlapping in practice, they diverge in principle. The conditioned loyalty of the Christian loyalist refers to her/his religious-moral reservation with regard to the state’s claims of obedience as much as to his impossibility to hold public posts and to exercise public powers. Indeed, even when they exceed the limits of an instrumental authority for maintaining order, mundane rulers could be supposed to function as agencies entrusted with retributive justice legitimated by God. 67 The publicized prototype of the good Christian subject and an ostensible champion of a putative New Testament political ethos, 68 the loyalist sub condicione is actually a typical textual and social product of the

65.  Lampe quotes Justin (Rome), the unknown author of the Letter to Diognetus (Alexandria?) and Clement of Alexandria. 66. On obsequium as a set of “obsequious acts” of a mere respect, which even the most subversives pay to the state, see further P. Bourdieu, Sullo Stato. Corso al Collège de France (Volume I. 1989‑1990) (Milano, 2013) 62ff. 67.  Even persecutions may serve some high purposes, namely to fulfil the measure of God’s wrath against “pagans” and Jesus followers alike: see, for instance, Cyprian, Ep. 11. 68.  See O. Cullmann, Der Staat im Neuen Testament (Tübingen, 1956).

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“internalization of objective chances in the form of subjective hopes.” 69 The twofold Christian device of “sociodicy,” 70 which provides at once religious legitimacy (warranty of order maintenance for the dominants) and religious compensation (promise of salvation for the dominates), is socially and psychologically rooted in this submissive attitude of a religious “resignation and renouncement directly inculcated by conditions of existence.” 71 Religiously conditioned loyalty is a basic ethos for lower strata, i.e. for the vast majority of people. Thus, the loyalist sub condicione represents the political side of a wider religious enterprise of “transmutation of destiny into choice.” 72 He is what a lower-class Jesus follower must want to be according both to her/ his social position (“if you, ingenuus, libertus or servus, cannot command, you can only obey or rise up”) and to the objective relationship between Christian leaders’ concerns and Roman rulers’ interests (“it is better to us, clerics and bishops, as well as to God and to every Christian soul, to keep our people as quiet as we can”). The First Epistle of Peter (Rome?, 90-100 CE) is perhaps the first clear testimony of this standard model: For the Lord’s sake accept the authority of every human institution, whether of the emperor as supreme, or of governors (Ὑποτάγητε πάσῃ ἀνθρωπίνῃ κτίσει διὰ τὸν κύριον, εἴτε βασιλεῖ ὡς ὑπερέχοντι, εἴτε ἡγεμόσιν), as sent by him to punish those who do wrong and to praise those who do right. For it is God’s will that by doing right you should silence the ignorance of the foolish. As servants of God, live as free people, yet do not use your freedom as a pretext for evil. Honour everyone. Love the family of believers. Fear God. Honour the emperor (τὸν θεὸν φοβεῖσθε, τὸν βασιλέα τιμᾶτε). 73

Even though the worshipful “fear” of God (φόβος/timor) is unpacked from the respectful “honour” to the hisghest ruler (τιμή/honos), the “submission” (ὑποταγή/subiectio) to state is safe and guaranteed. As the social κατέχον it is, this religious reinforcement of the state’s symbolic violence keeps imperial force and rage away from both humble Christians and 69. See P. Bourdieu – L. Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology (Chicago, 1992) 130, n. 84. 70. “Les théodicées sont toujours des sociodicées” (P. Bourdieu, “Genèse et structure du champ religieux,” Revue française de sociologie 12/3 [1971] 312), that is, Theodizee des Glücks (Weber) of particular social groups. 71. See 1 Clem. 2,1: “And all of you used to be humble in mind (ἐταπεινοφρονεῖτε), not arrogant in the least, being submissive rather than forcing submission (ὑποτασσόμενοι μᾶλλον ἢ ὑποτασσοντες), giving more gladly than receiving” 72. P. Bourdieu, “Genèse et structure du champ religieux,” Revue française de sociologie 12/3 [1971] 315. 73.  1 Pet. 2:13-17; I use the English text of the NRSV. See equally 1 Tim. 2:1‑2; Tit. 3:1‑2; 1 Clem. 60,4-61,2; Justin, 1 Apol. 17; Mart. Pol. 10,2; Theophilus, Autol. 3,14, etc.

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their religious overseers. At the same time, the distinction between religious consumers and producers is anything but faded; rather, the very (im) position of a religious limit in meeting the state’s demands of obedience fosters the division of religious labour between those who impose this very limit and those who are expected to conform to it. It is not by chance that this style of political subjectivation is by far the most sponsored among the early Christian authoritative and canonized writers throughout the first half of the pre-Constantinian Christian literature (50‑200 CE).

4. The “untrustworthy subject” Even when the protego ergo obligo 74 loses any positive theological guarantee, a negative caveat could still intervene to save public powers from religious mutiny and religious mutineers from state’s wrath. Where the legitimacy of the institutions is out of question (they are totally unjust), their legality can be still ensured as a mere fact (they must not be challenged and assaulted). 75 The existing order has no right over Christian subjects, and vice versa. Since the state’s destiny is entirely up to God, political subjection is “void of purpose” and can spring only from obedience to God. In the first three centuries CE, what Karl Barth calls the “Great Negative Possibility” was from time to time embodied in the very ambiguous figure of the “untrustworthy subject.” Since she/he has so little “material interest” in confirmation as in revolution, she/he deprives the state of the same pathos that she/he refuses to invest in its ruin. 76 At the end of the third century (180‑181 ce), a certain Speratus, brought before the proconsul together with a small group of Jesus followers from Scilli (Numidia), is said to have performed the following act: I do not recognize the empire of this world (Ego imperium huhius seculi non cognosco). Rather, I serve that God whom no man has seen, nor can see, with these eyes. I have not stolen; and on any purchase I pay the tax (sed siquid emero teloneum redo), for I acknowledge my lord who is the emperor of kings and of all nations. 77

Speratus’ words carry no particular hint of anger, no resentment, no visible negative pathos. Honestly, I do not know whether Donata’s following words – “Pay honour to Caesar as Caesar, but it is God we fear” (Hon74.  That is, the cogito ergo sum of the state: thus C. Schmitt, “The Concept of the Political,” in C. Schmitt, The Concept of the Political: Expanded Edition (Chicago-London, 1996) 52. 75. One might call “impolitical” every form of recognition of legality alone, which leads to the devaluation of politics as a “simple and mere fact”: see R. E spo ­ sito, Categorie dell ’impolitico (Bologna, 1988). 76. K. Barth, The Epistle to the Romans (Oxford, 1968) 500ff. 77.  Mart. Scil. 6; I use the English translation of H. Musurillo, The Acts of the Christian Martyrs: Introduction, Texts and Translations (Oxford, 1972).

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orem Caesari quasi Caesari; timorem autem Deo) – reflects a “more complete” synthesis of this “complete secularization of temporal politics.” 78 It should be clear what “secularization” properly means. Admittedly, Speratus does not pay honour to anybody but God and he does not recognize any “absolutely necessary” 79 authority from God: only God himself. Nevertheless, like Donata, the untrustworthy Speratus does not steal and he does pay taxes, since the state is – to quote Barth – like a “plus sign” in that meaningless bracket 80 including any human institution which is not up to him to erase. Is this secularization of state complete? Certainly, the annihilation of obsequium is not.

5. The “apocalyptic opponent” Finally, the last type of behaviour consists in a new politicization of the interest as expressed by positive and negative political theologies. For better or for worse, political power is viewed as a phenomenon deserving a relevant emotional investment: views and feelings towards mundane authorities turn into passions. Here I refer, on the one hand, to the “negative interest” of those who feel a deep but hidden hostility against power, as well as of those who overplay their resentment up to public protest; 81 on the other hand, to a position of “positive interest,” that is, not only a symbolic reinforcement of the existing ruling powers, but also a spiritual commitment in the divinely supervised destiny of the empire’s institutions. Participation in political life is out of question for the “apocalyptic opponent” (5th style), since he is the furious challenger of its diabolic nature. Abstention is for him both a social ban and an ideological creed, since, from a Marxist approach down to a Bourdieusian perspective, the possi78. Thus M. R iedl , “The Secular Sphere in Western Theology. A Historical Reconsideration,” in P. L osonczi – M. Luoma-aho – A. Singh, ed., The Future of Political Theology. Religious and Theological Perspectives (Farnham-Burlington, 2014) 14 (about Mart. Scil. 9). However, in general, I cannot see a uniform “African attitude” of “radical secularization of politics and transcendentalization of political concepts” including Tertullian’s dictum of Apologeticum 38,3. 79.  Contra M. R iedl , “The Secular Sphere in Western Theology. A Historical Reconsideration,” in P. L osonczi – M. Luoma-aho – A. Singh, ed., The Future of Political Theology. Religious and Theological Perspectives (Farnham-Burlington, 2014) 14. Yet I think Riedl is right in saying that, for the two martyrs, the emperor “is neither good nor evil, neither divine nor satanic” (14). 80. K. Barth, The Epistle to the Romans (Oxford, 1968) 483. 81.  Martyrdom is where the “hidden”/“offstage transcript” of Christian political insubordination may come to the fore as a speech of open rebellion: see J.C. Scott, Domination and the arts of resistance. Hidden transcripts (New Haven, 1990) and the smart use of his categories in D. Boyarin, Dying for God. Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford, 1999). This elucidates why martyrdom is for me no specific style of political subjectivation. Rather, it is the behavioural outcome of different political postures.

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bility of a socio-politically dominant and economically prosperous apocalyptic (model) readership is negligible. As far as I know, social-scientific criticism of early Christianity has not provided any compelling argument against this view. To recognize that pre-Constantinian Christianity was not a proletarian, a slave or a working-class (outcast) movement 82 does not mean that the apocalyptic side of Christian literature has been conceived for targeting a high-class audience. At the same time, to call upon the “rich man”, the “Laodicean” 83, in order to attempt to convert and revise his/her priorities, is not to bet on a privileged audience of people who may reasonably suppose that the high price tag of this specific salvation offer corresponds to their social suicide. Since the material conditions of the existence of both the writer and the recipients influence how their imagination works, transfigured representations of an imminent overthrow of the social order can hardly be viewed as the playful reveries of privileged people. Let us take the famous chapter 19 of the canonical Apocalypse of John (Asia Minor, late 1st century CE): 84 Then I saw an angel standing in the sun, and with a loud voice he called to all the birds that fly in mid-heaven, “Come, gather for the great supper of God, to eat the flesh of kings, the flesh of captains, the flesh of the mighty (φάγητε σάρκας βασιλέων καὶ σάρκας χιλιάρχων καὶ σάρκας ἰσχυρῶν), the flesh of horses and their riders – flesh of all, both free and slave, both small and great (σάρκας πάντων ἐλευθέρων τε καὶ δούλων καὶ μικρῶν καὶ μεγάλων)”. Then I saw the beast and the kings of the earth with their armies gathered to make war against the rider on the horse and against his army. And the beast was captured, and with it the false prophet who had performed in its presence the signs by which he deceived those who had received the mark of the beast and those who worshipped its image. These two were thrown alive into the lake of fire that burns with sulphur. And

82.  This old consensus on the social nature of the early Christian movement was shared by both Marxist and “bourgeois” historians “who tended to romanticize poverty”: thus W.A. M eeks , The First Urban Christians. The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven-London, 1983) 51. This view remains largely unchallenged until the mid-twentieth century. For a brief survey, see H. K reissig, “Zur sozialen Zusammensetzung der frühchristlichen Gemeinden im ersten Jahrhundert,” Eirene 6 (1967) 91‑100. 83.  That is, people like the members of the Laodicean church, who are blamed by the seer of the Revelation for saying: “I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing” (Apoc. 3:17) On such a standpoint, see H.O. M aier , Apocalypse Recalled: The Book of Revelation After Christendom (Minneapolis, 2002) 30ff. 84.  For a quick glance at Bourdieu’s updating of Marxist traditional standpoints about how and to what extent apocalyptic representations are amenable to sociological analysis, see again P. Bourdieu, “Genèse et structure du champ religieux,” Revue française de sociologie 12/3 (1971) 313.

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the rest were killed by the sword of the rider on the horse, the sword that came from his mouth; and all the birds were gorged with their flesh. 85

The kind of use influential, powerful and rich “empirical readers” – people even entitled to manage the assets and rule the territories of the “beast” – may have made of texts staging a complete reversal of social fortunes remains unfortunately unknown. The perspective of sharing the unpleasant fate of many unbelieving slaves and poor people is certainly not a good argument for recruiting the “great”; furthermore, I do doubt that, before the 1980s, anyone ever charged or welcomed the text for having parasited the very imperial ideology it fights. 86 What is known, instead, is that the increasing concentration of religious power in the hands of priestly hierarchies headed by bishops led to the marginalization of apocalyptic expectations that question socio-economic injustice and furthering a downfall of the social order. Apocalyptic pareneses supporting the hierarchies 87 or – even better – episcopal mutable countdowns 88 are definitely more suited to the times, that is, to the clergy-friendly asset of the Christian religious field. Jesus Christ being just one more emperor, his subversive doubling of imperial might and power requires few, sober and policed channels of human advertising.

6. The “ideological endorser of the empire” Things stand no doubt differently for the “ideological endorser” (6th style) of the divine mission of the “pagan” state. “Divine mission” entails here not only a functional/instrumental authority to serve, but an economic role to play, that is, inherent to the bright side of the divinely administered 85.  Apoc. 19:17‑21. 86.  See these critiques in E. Schüssler Fiorenza, The Book of Revelation: Justice and Judgment (Philadelphia, 1985); R.M. Royalty, The Streets of Heaven: The Ideology of Wealth in the Apocalypse of John (Macon, 1998); S.D. Moore , Empire and Apocalypse: Postcolonialism and the New Testament (Sheffield, 2006). As for the specific charge that John never questions economic injustice and offers a “judgment without justice”, see some persuasive counter-arguments in S.J. Friesen, Imperial Cults and the Apocalypse of John: Reading Revelation in the Ruins (New YorkOxford, 2001) 208‑209 and H.O. M aier Apocalypse Recalled: The Book of Revelation After Christendom (Minneapolis, 2002) 86 and 182ff. However inegalitarian it may, be, to replicate the “basic economic structure of the Roman Empire” changing “the street signs and the name of the most honoured citizens” is roughly a definition of a hidden script of social revenge. 87. Some sharp critiques notwithstanding (Hermas, Vis. 3,9,7; Sim. 9,31,6) a good sample could be the Sheperd of Hermas (see Hermas, Vis. 3,5,1): thus, straightforwardly, D. Frankfurter , “Early Christian Apocalypticism: Literature and Social World,” in J.J. Collins , ed., The Encyclopedia of Apocalypticism. 1. The Origins of Apocalypticism in Judaism and Christianity (New York, 1998) 431. 88.  See the alternate and strategic use of both katechontic and apocalyptic timetabling in Cyprian’s epistles.

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plan for earth and mankind. The principle of obedience is provided with a new theological legitimacy, which is compatible with an eager cooperation with any enduring institution. Yet an active involvement in public life does not necessarily come with a political engagement: passion is for the state, not for politics. Corresponding to one of the most representative styles of political subjectivation of the second half of pre-Constantinian Christian literature (200‑313 CE), this outlook is always sponsored by church leaders both holding off from political-civic engagement and, as a rule, openly contrary to the involvement of others. 89 However paranoiac and brutal it tends to be, the state is here more useful than ever and the Jesus followers have to heighten their prayers for the emperor’s safety. At any rate, they have something better to do than to run and scramble for public posts; they can lead churches: Celsus exhorts us “to accept public office in our country (ἐπὶ τὸ ἄρχειν τῆς πατρίδος) if it is necessary to do this required for the sake of the preservation of the laws and of piety”. But we know of the existence in each city of another sort of country, created by the Logos of God. And we call upon those who are competent to take office, who are sound in doctrine and life, to rule over the churches (ἐπὶ τὸ ἄρχειν ἐκκλησιῶν). We do not accept those who love power (οὐκ ἀποδεχόμενοι μὲν τοὺς φιλάρχους). But we put pressure on those who on account of their great humility (διὰ πολλὴν μετριότητα) are reluctant hastily to take upon themselves the common responsibility of the church of God. 90

Faced with Celsus’ call for well-off Christians unwilling to “take office (ἐπὶ τὸ ἄρχειν τῆς πατρίδος)” for the empire, Origen the presbyter responds more than fifty years later (about 250 CE) by inviting almost the same class of people to “take charge in the churches (ἐπὶ τὸ ἄρχειν ἐκκλησιῶν)”. By declining the call on behalf of them, he welcomes them to his own 89. Tertullian, Apol. 30‑32; Origen, Cels. 2,30; 8,73‑74. The same position can be credited to the bishop Melito of Sardis: see Melito in Eusebius, Hist eccl. 4,7‑11. For an ambiguous formulation of this attitude, see Diogn 5: “They [Christians] live in fatherlands of their own, but as aliens. They share all things as citizens, and suffer all things as strangers (μετέχουσι πάντων ὡς πολίται) […]”. The words in italics may either designate the voluntary readiness for any kind of good activity a good “bourgeois” citizen is supposed to pursue – over and above accepting and carrying out the directions of public authorities – or convey the implicit recommendation to take public offices and municipal duties: thus H.-I. M arrou, À Diognète (Paris, 1951, 63, n. 5). If interpreted this way, the anonymous Ad Diognetum (around 200 CE) is the sole Christian text before Constantine that contemplates the publicpolitical engagement of the believers. One cannot but be very cautious. 90. Origen, Cels. 8,75. I use the English translation of H. Chadwick , Origen. Contra Celsum (Cambridge, 1980). “Stadtliche”, and not “staatliche Ämter”, is here concerned: thus, persuasively, W. Eck , “Christen im höheren Reichsdienst im 2. Und 3. Jh.?,” Chiron 9 (1979) 453.

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religious dominant position. To put it differently: if Christian citizens’ ambitio has to be disenchanted from “pagan” politics, it is quite strategic to change its name – that is, to call this reluctance to disdain duties and honours “humility” (μετριότης) – and to drive it where the relationship between religious interests and socio-economic assets may be “alchemically” converted into religious capital, 91 namely leading church positions. In such a way, at least some Christian endorsers of the empire could be recruited from the “middle-class” 92 provincial bourgeoisie. Generally speaking, the less consistent this middle-class global status is, the more attractive these (relatively) new Christian leading positions may become. 93 The Pastoral Letters are maybe pioneer texts in this recruitment strategy. 94 Conversely, people who are ready to serve both “countries,” by collecting charges, posts and honours in cities and churches alike, best represent those “lovers of power (τοὺς φιλάρχους)” whom Origen would preferably avoid as religious leaders. The bishop and procurator ducenarius Paul of Samosata (about 268 CE) is a precious and unique example of how compatible and intertwined these economies of symbolic goods could be – the anathemas of church leaders notwithstanding. 95 C onclusions It is important to note that not all of the aforementioned attitudes towards politics are compatible with politics. Only the first, second and last style of political subjectivation may fit well with the public sphere. Yet the first one, that is, the Christian “vocation politician,” is nearly 91. It should be stressed that economic capital is for Bourdieu the most easily “convertible” among all the fundamental species of capital. This depends, quite paradoxically, on both its stability and its ease of “rational management”: see P. Bourdieu, “The Interest of the Sociologist,” in P. Bourdieu, In Other Words (Stanford, 1990) 93. 92. On the tenable use of this term in Greco-Roman empire’s societies, see P. Veyne , L’empire gréco-romain (Paris, 2005) 117‑162. The inferiores viri of the ordo decurionum (Dig. L 7,5,5) can be counted as the highest among those situated in this class of social positions. 93.  On this early Christian “status crystallization” as socio-symbolic process of removal of the “status inconsistency”, see W.A. Meeks , The First Urban Christians. The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven-London, 1983), 54ff. and 191. 94.  Thus – maybe too straightforwardly – L.W. Countryman, The Rich Christian in the Church of the Early Empire: Contradictions and Accommodations (New York-Toronto, 1980) p. 167. 95.  On this figure, see F.W. Norris , “Paul of Samosata: Procurator ducenarius,” Journal of Theological Studies 35 (1984) 50‑70. The hypothesis that his behaviours and actions, as recorded in the synodal letter of the bishops who excommunicated him (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 7,30,1ff.), are “more in line with the full status of ducenarius” is persuasive.

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a virtual position. Apart from the possibly fabulous account of Severus Alexander’s lararium, this figure is unsurprisingly absent and impossible to read against the grain of our dataset. On the other hand, the line of argument of the “ideological endorser of the empire” is better known. Yet – as already mentioned – those who claim to plead for the sake of the socio-political order are generally church leaders depreciating politics and striving to forbid political-civic engagement to others. Thus, admittedly, only the second position, that of the Christian “man of the world,” sounds like a promising approach. The materialization of this epistemic figure in empirical individuals depends on the possibility of proving the existence of a particular kind of political conduct: that is, behaviours and stances inspired by strategic compromises between religious and civic-political allegiances, interests and beliefs. How to envisage such a psychological mechanism is a crucial question that has been answered elsewhere. 96

96.  I refer here to the fourth and last section of my PhD thesis on the origins of Christian politics before Constantine (title: “Non riconosco il potere di questo mondo” Genealogia dell ’uomo politico cristiano [50-313 e.v.]). The thesis is not yet published.

A rchaeology

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Christian Origins

ORIGIN OF CHRISTIANS’ EPIGRAPHY: AN INTEGRATION BETWEEN DIFFERENT SOURCES Carlo Carletti I. M et hodologica l

backgrou n d

Even in investigations about Christian origins the use of “revaluation of the obvious,” may prove productive. In fact, the subtitle of this contribution might also be obvious, but perhaps it is not useless. With the explicit enunciation of this hermeneutical principle I want to underline the important role, that an appropriate integration between sources of different nature may play in our research. This concept is not equivalent to that, so often evoked and perhaps abused, of “interdisciplinarity,” the current use of which sometimes reveals a sterile juxtaposition of different documents, brought together – not always successfully – for a mutual justification. A closer examination of the definition of “interdisciplinarity” also reveals a transparent “academic extraction” and a prejudice – in itself abhorrent – of a hierarchy of sources. The concept of integration instead can lead to a homogeneous convergence of knowledge and interpretive methods in an organic view of complexity, defined in time and space. In reference to epigraphic production, the monumental contexts of belonging (space, environment, supports especially prepared to accept inscriptions) assumes a central role, integrated into a defined historical and environmental framework, as an outcome of complex socio-cultural systems, which determine the functional physiognomies of the epigraphic writings in all their declinations: communicative, functional, and ideological. These are the prevailing characteristics of the epigraphic praxis during the first three centuries of the imperial age, when the use of exposed writings reaches a wide circulation, transversal to all social strata. The scan time of production flows – at least in its essentials – is now generally thus defined: a continuous growth – almost impetuous – between the Principate and the Severan period; a significant slowdown in the second half of the third century and, in sequence, a non-linear cycle – of increase and decrease – from proto-Costantinian age up to the early medieval centuries, decisive terminals of the secular processes in relation to the diverse characters and to the functionality (especially for fruition ways and social diffusion) in time assumed by the epigraphic production: Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 695–716 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111726 ©

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therefore a diagram of expansion and contraction of the use of “exposed inscriptions.” 1 The start of this phenomenon, which emerged in the Augustan age as an unprecedented “epigraphic explosion,” can be coherently explained in the light of different and complementary aspects: the spread of literacy also in the lower layers of a society; demographic and economic dynamics; political and ideological frameworks. 2 Not surprisingly these factors, in their extensive and cumulative developments, manifest during the early and middle imperial age “in concomitanza, da un lato con la formazione di un largo senso di appartenenza, dall’altro con il convincimento indotto e diffuso tra gli utenti di essere partecipi di una svolta epocale, dell’inizio di un nuovo saeculum in cui l’ordine instaurato si sarebbe perpetuato.” 3 In this context the emergence and growth of a real “epigraphic habit,” inclusive of all society, from the Imperial domus up to libertine and servile layer, is fully consistent. 4 In fact, especially in the first three centuries of the Empire, the epigraphic medium seems to reflect a society of dialogue, in which senders and receiv-

1.  A. Petrucci, La scrittura. Ideologia e rappresentazione (Torino, 1986) 3. 2.  For these aspects: W.V. H arris , Lettura e istruzione nel mondo antico, Italian translation (Roma – Bari, 1991) 320‑324; S. M zorek , “A propos de la répartition chronologique des inscriptions latines dans le Haut-Empire,” Epigraphica 35 (1973) 113‑118 and S. M zorek , “A propos de la répartition chronologique des inscriptions latines dans le Haut-Empire,” Epigraphica 50 (1988) 61‑64. According to Mzorek’s documentation – inscriptions dated ad annum – it is observed that between the Augustan age and 268‑284 the Latin inscriptions reach its peak in the age of Septimius Severus. The statistics elaborated by Mzorek are properly commented on by R. M acMullen, “The Epigraphic Habit in the Roman Empire,” American Journal of Philology 103 (1982) 243‑245; for an updated overview of this issue see S. Panciera, “L’epigrafia latina nel passaggio dalla Repubblica all’Impero,” in S. Panciera, Epigrafi, epigrafia, epigrafisti. Scritti vari editi e inediti (1956‑2005) con note complementari e indici (Roma, 2006) 99‑100. 3.  Ibidem, 100. 4.  On this concept see R. M acMullen, “The Epigraphic Habit in the Roman Empire,” American Journal of Philology 103 (1982) 243‑245; J.C. M ann, “Epigraphic consciousness,” Journal of Roman Studies 75 (1985) 204‑206; E.A. M eyer , “Explaning the epigraphic habit in the Roman Empire: the evidence of epitaphs,” Journal of Roman Studies 80 (1990) 74‑96; J. Bodel , “The Roman Epigraphic Habit,” in Epigraphic Evidence. Ancient History from Inscriptions (London – New York, 2001) 6‑10. The genesis and development of this phenomenon is based rather on a plurality of factors, in addition to that of the psychological sphere (trust of the future), highlighted by MacMullen; for an overview and update of these problems and the related interpretations see D.E. Trout, “Inscribing Identity: the Latin Epigraphic Habit in Late Antiquity,” in P. Rousseau,  ed., A  Companion to Late Antiquity (Cambridge, 2009) 170‑186.

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ers are varied and substantially socially transversal: 5 a macrophenomenon extended across the whole territory of the Empire, but which finds its most congenial habitat in the complexity of the material and cultural frameworks of the city. Indeed, it is in urban settlements – be they small or big – and in its suburbs, that there is a extensive and widespread exposure of epigraphic products, present everywhere in all their functional declinations, planned specific rules and procedures for each, of which were, generally observed. 6 The urbanized areas – Rome is a glaring example – in their turn, are the privileged ground for the origin and development of the first groups of followers of Jesus. In this direction it is necessary to first determine whether there existed a need and the means within Christianity between the second and third centuries for conceiving specific “modules of identity” through the epigraphic medium. II. “E pigr a ph y

of t h e

C h r i s t i a ns ”:

a l at e a n t iqu e qu e s t ion

Contrary to a centuries-old tradition of study, we can now assert that a Christian epigraphy – stricto sensu – does not exist. 7 It is not a negationist thesis, but merely the result of current historiographical researches, which can be summarized as follows: in the space of the indivisible unity of Hellenistic-Roman epigraphy (Latin and Greek), from the second half of the second century, emerge some sporadic epigraphic products, that – through verbal and / or figurative modules – explicitly denounce a Christian extraction. 8 This preliminary clarification obviously finds its theoretical foundation in the concept of Auseinardersetzung zwischen Antike und Christentum formulated by Franz Joseph Dölger (1879‑1940) when, during the first decade of the last century, he threw to the wind his first investigations of systematic theology and addressed the cultural history of 5.  G. Cavallo, “Gli usi della cultura scritta nel mondo romano,” in Princeps urbium: cultura e vita sociale dell ’Italia romana (Milano, 1991) 203‑204; A. Petrucci, La scrittura. Ideologia e rappresentazione (Torino, 1986) 3‑6. 6.  A. Petrucci, La scrittura. Ideologia e rappresentazione (Torino, 1986) 3. 7.  C. Carletti, “Epigrafia cristiana – epigrafia dei cristiani,” in A. Donati, ed., La terza età dell ’epigrafia (Faenza 1988) 115‑135; I d., “Preistoria dell’epigrafia dei cristiani. Un mito storiografico ex maiorum auctoritate?” in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon,  ed., Origini delle catacombe romane (Città del Vaticano 2006) 91‑119; I d., Epigrafia dei cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi (Bari, 20122) 7‑18. 8.  On this question see the brilliant conceptualizations of I. Di Stefano M anzella , “L’epigrafia di Roma: una e indivisibile,” in I d.,  ed., Le iscrizioni dei Cri­ stiani in Vaticano. Materiali e contributi scientifici per una mostra epigrafica (Città del Vaticano, 1997) 99‑101.

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primitive Christianity, with particular attention to its relations with the surrounding world. And in this vein, as part of his teaching activities at the University of Münster (1911), Dölger at the same time taught History of Religions, Church History, and Christian Archaeology, including of course the epigraphic production. Another central aspect is the chronology. At our present state of knowledge there are no Christian inscriptions before the age of Marcus Aurelius (161‑180). More specifically, the phase of ancient Christian epigraphy is articulated into two parts, which can conventionally be called Prehistory and History of a real “epigraphic praxis”: the first is situated in the second half of the second century, with some extension into the next century; the second extends from the age of Zephirynus and Callistus (217‑222) until the first twenty years of the fourth century. 9 In this period – it is good to note – the only instances are funerary inscriptions. Later – from the middle of the fourth century to the age of Gregory the Great – the “inscriptions of Christians” exhibit a marked difference from the epigraphic practice experienced during the pre-Constantinian age: there is, formally, a return to the specific characteristics of Roman funerary epigraphy. 10 Many products of this period are essentially configured only as “funerary inscriptions” without identitarian connotations. The end of this overall trend is placed in the first decades of the fourth century, when Christian epigraphy resumes the secular praxis of the imperial age, especially with regard to all those textual structures which related to retrospective data. In this regard it is not superfluous to explain that “epigraphic praxis” means a homogeneous production, numerically significant, extended in time and space, and socially widespread, with its own structural and lexical physiognomy. 11 III. Th e i nscr i p t ions of a G nos t ic L at i na i n R om e : or t h e “ pr e h i s tory ”

house hol d on t h e of

C h r i s t i a ns ’

Vi a

e pigr a ph y

In the capital of the Empire – and perhaps for longer than anywhere else – the followers of Jesus of Nazareth appear as a constellation of small groups, essentially autonomous and heterogeneous by ethnicity and traditions, representative of the multi-ethnicity and multiculturalism of Imperial Rome: in brief a “fragmented structure.” In groups, as natural as these especially within the Jewish Diaspora, there was a marked tendency to retain their original individuality and therefore their traditions (liturgi9.  C. Carletti, Epigrafia dei cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi (Bari, 20122) 26‑47. 10.  Ibidem, 48‑73. 11.  Ibidem.

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cal, disciplinary, doctrinal), which, however, did not prevent moments of dialogue and integration. The diverse set of groups and movements are documented mostly by Justin, the anonymous author of the “Elenchos,” Irenaeus and Eusebius: Marcionites, Carpocratians, Teodotiani, Gnostic groups who were gathered around masters such as Valentinus, Heracleon, Ptolemy, Florinus and Marcellina; and Quartodecimanism, observant circles of Torah, and movements that were related to the sophisticated theology of the Logos, and other groups not specifically identifiable – ethno-Christians or Jewish Christians – that in a few decades, having won out, constituted the unitary and centralized “Orthodox Church,” headed by a monarchical bishop. 12 The followers of these minorities, when alive, gathered in a κατ’οἶκον ἐκκλησία (domus ecclesia), a common dwelling house, that at the end of the assembly returned to its primary function; when dead, they were buried in “the usual non-Christian cemeteries” active in the city. In such contexts – familiar, corporative or collegial –, there is no trace of an identitarian epigraphy recognizable as such, with very few exceptions that prove the rule. In this regard it may be useful to remember that, even with respect to the numerous Jewish communities in the Roman Diaspora, until the third century there is no tangible evidence of a reserved funerary settlement. The exception to which I am referring is a group of three Greek inscriptions, coming from a topographical homogeneous context: in fact they were found around the third mile of the Via Latina. The Flavia Sophe (Fig. 1) and Iulia Evaresta inscriptions are funerary and can be dated to between the end of the second century and the beginning of the third; the so-called inscription of the “wedding feast” (Fig. 2), dated to the age of Marcus Aurelius, belongs instead to the didascalic-type.

12.  M. Simonetti, “Roma cristiana tra vescovi e presbiteri,” in V. Fiocchi Nico – J. Guyon,  ed., Origini delle catacombe romane (Città del Vaticano, 2006) 29‑40; I d., Ortodossia ed eresia tra I e II secolo (Soveria Mannelli, 1994) 291‑314; P. L ampe , Die städrömischen in den ersten beiden Jahrhunderten (Tübingen, 19892); I d. From Paul to Valentinus. Christians at Rome in the first two centuries (Minneapolis, 2003); C. Carletti, “L’arca di Noè: ovvero la Chiesa di Callisto e l’uniformità della ‘morte scritta’,” in Antiquité tardive 9 (2001), 97‑102; I d., “Comunicare un’identità: un tratto specifico dell’epigrafia dei cristiani nel III secolo,” in M.G. A ngeli Bertinelli – A. Donati,  ed., La comunicazione nella storia antica. Fantasie e realtà (Roma, 2008) 195‑207; E. Castelli, “L’Elenchos, ovvero una ‘biblioteca’ contro le eresie,” in A. M agris , ed., Ippolito, Confutazione di tutte le eresie (Brescia, 2012) 46‑56 and I d., “La chiesa di Roma prima e dopo Costantino. Da Vittore (189‑199) a Liberio (352‑366),” in Costantino I. Enciclopedia costantiniana sulla figura e l ’immagine dell ’imperatore del cosiddetto Editto di Milano 313‑2013. I (Roma, 2013) 795‑800, which, among other things, presents a more careful and intelligent interpretation of sources. lai

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Fig. 1. Via Latina. Flavia Sophe’s epitaph

Fig. 2. Via Latina. Didascalic inscription of the “wedding feast”

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These are gnostic inscriptions, more precisely Valentinian, as undoubtedly indicated the explicit mention of doctrinal and ritual practices typical of Valentinian Gnosticism: in the inscription of Φλαβία Σόφη the Aeons (the constituent elements of the Pleroma), the Angel of the Great Council, the “bridal chamber” (νυμφών, image of the eschatological lighting); in that of Ἰουλία Εὐαρέστα the dualism σάρξ  / ψυχὴ (the body destined to remain on earth, the soul assumed into heaven) and the mention of the soul ascending to heaven as an angel. 13 Finally, in the didascalic inscription, the description of an initiation ritual with the mention of the “brothers of the nuptial chamber” (παστῶν συάδελφοι), indicating precisely the initiates, entering into the community in the torchlight and participating in a Eucharistic celebration (εἰλαπίνας πεινοῦσιν), accompanied by hymns praising the Father and the Son. As a note the inscriptions of the “nuptial banquet” and Flavia Sophe make use of the same nuptial metaphor expressed with the homologues νυμφών and παστός, respectively related to initiation and death. 14 H. Gregory Snyder has recently made a contribution to the stele of Φλαβία Σόφη. The author, following a search of Archive, has ascertained that the stele was found in 1858 within an outdoors funerary area at the third mile of the Via Latina. Snyder has also better defined the chronology of this inscription, dating it to the age of Marcus Aurelius on the basis of precise comparisons with Hellenistic epigrammatic, and through a careful analysis of the graphic elements. 15 From the analysis of these Gnostic inscriptions it is possible to extrapolate further relevant data, which allows one to acquire additional knowledge elements: (a) this location along the Via Latina was a residential area, probably consisting of one or more villas, stably used as dwellings by members of the Valentinian community of Rome; 16 13.  C. Carletti, Epigrafia dei cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi (Bari, 20122) 134‑135, n. 6, with previous bibliography. 14.  Ibidem, 130‑131 and particularly P. L ampe , “An Early Christian Inscription in the Musei Capitolini,” in D. H ellholm – H. Moxnes – T.K. Sein, ed., Mighty Minorities? Minorities in Early Christianity – Position and Strategies (Oslo – Copenhagen – Stockholm – Boston, 1995) 79‑92, that, with convincing arguments, rejects the reservations expressed by C. Scholten on the Gnostic character of this inscription. 15.  H. Gregory Snyder , “The Discovery and Interpretation of the Flavia Sophe Inscription,” in Vigiliae Christianae 68 (2014) 1‑59. 16.  On the topography of the Via Latina and the contextual funerary, residential, and cultic structures, see the recent contributions of V. Fiocchi Nicolai, “Il ruolo dell’evergetismo aristocratico nella costruzione degli edifici di culto cristiani nell’hinterland di Roma,” in G.P. Brogiolo,  ed., Archeologia e società tra Tardo Antico e Alto Medioevo (Mantova, 2007) 111; I d., “L’ipogeo di ‘Roma Vecchia’ al IV miglio della via Latina,” in Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 76 (2000) 60‑61.

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(b) the outdoors burial area was not necessarily reserved solely for members of this religious group, who were probably deposited in undifferentiated burials. Here, however, two inscriptions explicitly exhibit a specific religious extraction. In the final abode, as in other aspects and moments of earthly life, there had to be a mutually accepted cohabitation; (c) near or perhaps within the housing area, a building structure was probably established as a stable place for meeting and the celebration of the rites of initiation, as undoubtedly indicated by “nuptial feast” inscription, which describes in detail a ritual. And in truth, a didascalic inscription could only be affixed to a house permanently reserved to sacred rites; otherwise we should suppose an unreal “movable” inscription that was exhibited from time to time and then removed. (d) Ultimately it seems very likely that at the third mile of the Via Latina there was a permanent οἶκος τῆς ἐκκλησίας (domus ecclesiae): a normal house (domus or villa) that, following an appropriate restructuring, becomes a stable place of cultual assembly, conceptually and structurally different – in this new function and morphology – from the original phase of the κατ’οἶκον ἐκκλησία (domus ecclesia). In this residential structure baptism and Eucharist were performed in sequence and, in this regard, Lampe notes that “the inscription fits Justin’s description (Apol. I 61; 65), according to which Christian Eucharists were celebrated after baptismal rituals and often in different accommodations, since baptisms required a locality with a water supply.” 17 IV. A ncot i i :

a proto -C h r i s t i a n fa m i ly

Just as significant – because it is precisely contextualized in a funerary monument, that was certainly active from the second half of the second century during the age of Gordian (238) – is the epigraphic complex of the so called “Piazzola” on the Appian way. In this burial ground, amongst others, some family members of Ancotii were deposited: their memory was handed down by two funerary inscriptions, in Greek and Latin language (Fig. 3‑4). 18

17.  P. L ampe , “An Early Christian Inscription in the Musei Capitolini,” in D. H ellholm – H. Moxnes – T.K. Sein, ed., Mighty Minorities? Minorities in Early Christianity – Position and Strategies (Oslo – Copenhagen – Stockholm – Boston, 1995) 88. 18.  Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae, V, n. 12891 (hereafter ICVR).

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Fig. 3. Piazzola’s burial (via Appia). Ancotia Irene’s epitaph Γ. Ἀνκώτιος Ἐπαφρόδιτος  / Ἀνκωτίᾳ Ἰρήνῃ συμβίῴ  / ((piscis)) καὶ Γ. Ἀνκώτιος᾽ Ῥοῦφος ((ancora))  / καὶ Γ. Ἀνκώτιος Ῥουφεῖνος  / μετρὶ ἀγαπητῇ, φιλοθέῳ καὶ  / φιλοχήρᾳ καὶ φιλάνδρῳ καὶ  / φιλοτέκνῳ. μνείας χάριν.

Fig. 4. Piazzola’s burial (via Appia). Ancotia Auxesis’ epitaph ((ancora piscis)) / Ancotiae Auxesi / Ancotius Epaphrod(itus) / et Ancotia Irene / parentes / b(ene) m(erenti) f(ecerunt). 19

19.  ICVR V, 12891.

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The indicator of a Christian interpretation is not the anchora / piscis module’s presence (which occurs in other inscriptions of this burial ground, 20 and more generally also in many inscriptions that are definitely pagan), but rather the sequence of epithets attributed to Ancotia Irene, two of which appear as specifically identitarians: first φιλοχήρᾳ (unknown in the Roman epigraphic praxis) and, in this context, also ἀγαπητή. These two qualifying elements refer respectively to 1 Tim 5:1‑16, which expounds the precepts relating to the assistance of widows, and to the part of 1 Cor (13:4-7), where caritas (agape) is defined and its depth outlined. Furthermore it must be noted that Ancotia Irene is remembered in two distinct situations: as alive, with her husband Ancotius Epaphroditus, in a Latin inscription dedicated to their daughter; as dead, she is remembered in an epitaph placed by her husband and two sons. These inscriptions – still in situ in the cemetery of the “Piazzola” – further clarify two relevant problems: (a) In the first place the cohabitation of pagans and Christians in the same funerary settlement is confirmed beyond doubt. 21 An irrefutable fact concretely documented at Rome and outside of Rome even in the third and fourth centuries, as indicated by the catacombs of “Roma vecchia” (III sec.), 22 of “via C. Correnti” 23 and to Chiusi in the catacomb of Saint Catherine. 24 To conclude, before the birth of the Christian catacombs in the age of Zephyrinus and Callistus, the Jesus followers were buried “in den üblichen nichtchristlichen Begräbnisstätten.” 25 (b) Second. The two inscriptions of the Via Appia are witnesses of a family, whose members present themselves as Jesus’s followers. It may be 20.  ICVR V 12892, 12905, 13582. For the presence of fish and anchor in funerary inscriptions of the third century see C. Carletti, “ΙΧΤΥΣ ΖΩΝΤΩΝ Chiose a ICVR, II 4246,” Vetera Christianorum 36 (1999) 15‑30. 21.  A. Destro – M.Pesce , “From Jesus movement to Christianity: A Model for the Interpretation. Cohabitation and Separation of Jews and Christians,” in S. M imouni – B. Pouderon, ed., La Croisée des chemins revisitée. Quand l ’Église et la Synagogue se sont-elles distinguées? (Paris, 2012) 21‑49. 22.  V. Fiocchi Nicolai, “L’ipogeo di ‘Roma Vecchia’ al IV miglio della via Latina,” Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 76 (2000) 60‑61. 23.  A. Ferrua, Le pitture della nuova catacomba di via Latina (Città del Vaticano, 1960); L. Kötzsche Breittenbruch, Die neue Katakombe an der via Latina im Rom. Untersuchungen zur Ikonographie der Alttestamentlichen Wandmalerein (Münster, 1976); W. Tronzo, The via Latina Catacomb. Imitation and Discontinuity in Fourth-Century Roman Painting (Pensylvania State-University Park – London, 1986); F. Bisconti, Il restauro dell ’ipogeo di via Dino Compagni. Nuove idee per la lettura del programma decorativo del cubicolo “A” (Città del Vaticano, 2003). 24.  Inscriptiones Christianae Italiae.nova series, introduction, edition and commentary by V. Cipollone (Bari, 2003) 65‑112 (hereafter ICI). 25.  V. Fiocchi Nicolai, “Katakombe (Hypogaeum),” in Rallexikon für Antike und Christentum. XX (Stuttgart, 2003) 380.

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assumed that Ancotia Irene had an important role in the religious field not only in this family, but also – perhaps even as a leader – in their “house church” of belonging, and further that maybe it was inspired by the Pauline model, if we consider the specificity of the epithets (especially the couple philokéra / agapeté) that delineate Ancotia Irene’s physiognomy not just as a wife and mother but as a follower. Perhaps in this case we are faced with the witness – not uncommon in Christian origins – of a woman as primary vector of the Gospel message at least in her own family, if not also in the social group to which she belonged. 26 V. “C hr ist i a ni

t it uli ” accor di ng to

G iova n ni B at t ista

de

R ossi

The themes treated up to now and the related epigraphic documentation would hardly have been welcomed by Giovanni Battista de Rossi (1822‑1894), certainly a master in the field, but a son of the culture and ideologies prevailing in Rome at the time of Pius IX, which left indelible traces in his scientific production. It is however undeniable that his activity in the second half of the nineteenth century, still had achieved valid results in the wide field of Christian archeology and epigraphy, especially through extensive investigations in the subsurface of Rome, which allowed him to start a scientific edition of the Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae, based on a collection of over twenty thousand inscriptions, for each of which he prepared a handwritten card. And from de Rossi alone the investigation of the “material evidence of Christians” – an inconceivable definition in Rome at that time not – was decidedly oriented towards the epigraphic documentation in an attempt to identify “identitarian signals” – often only presumed – in order to distinguish products of Christian extraction in the undifferentiated cemeteries of the time and, more generally, in the huge funerary production of the second and third centuries. Even this was an extremely difficult undertaking because, in most cases, there were only membra disiecta, namely inscriptions for which topographic framework and monumental context of belonging were unknown. The aim in themselves was not the individuation and evaluation of the problems connected to the emergence of Christianity as cultural phenomenon in relation also to the monumental and epigraphic testimonials,

26.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , “Dal gruppo interstiziale di Gesù alla ekklêsia: mutamenti nel ruolo delle donne,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 28 (2011) 37‑58; K.E. Børresen – E. P rinzivalli, ed., Le donne nello sguardo degli antichi autori cristiani. L’uso dei testi biblici nella costruzione dei modelli femminili e la riflessione teologica dal I al VII secolo (Trapani, 2012); M. Simonetti, “In margine alla condizione della donna nella chiesa antica,” Vetera Christianorum 49 (2012) 143‑150.

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but the research and enhancement – sometimes openly confessional – of identitarian signs, often only virtual or not specifically Christian. This setting already emerges with clarity in Praefatio of the first volume of the Inscriptiones christianae (1857‑1861), where de Rossi defines in its complexity the epigraphic production of Christians: “Christianos titulos appello inscriptiones eas, quae a Christianis religionis causa positae sunt”: this expression makes clear a strong emphasis on the religious category. 27 De Rossi also explains that the concept religionis causa was related not only to dedicatory inscriptions and votives, to the martyrs, but also to funerary ones, because – he adds – for Christians much more than for pagans, death and burial were intimately inserted into the religious dimension. In this consideration de Rossi seems not to be taking into account that – from the first century bc to the end of the ancient world – the primary distinctive element of pagan funerary inscriptions was precisely the widespread adprecatio dis Manibus sacrum. In de Rossi’s thought the concept of religio included the whole complex of the depositum fidei that, in different forms, either explicitly or implicitly, would have permeated the Christians’s whole epigraphic universe from the beginning. It is not surprising, then, to read what de Rossi wrote in the editorial for the first vintage of Bullettino di Archeologia Cristiana (1863): “L’archeologia cristiana […] è forse un antidoto dato a noi dalla provvidenza contro tanti e tanti errori, e prepara nuovi trionfi alla verità e alla fede.” The concept of “antidote” – albeit attenuated by a prudent “perhaps” – was the theoretical basis for distinguishing “Christian inscriptions” from pagans ones. So we arrive at the proposition of “high chronologies” – patently unacceptable – in an attempt to find material evidence in synchrony with the formative stages of nascent Christianity. Unproven and unprovable is the “Christian matrix” through images, formulas, and terms, which are in any case polysemic and rooted deeply in the Roman epigraphic praxis. Among the figurative modules were valorized the fish, the anchor, the cryophorus, the praying figure, and the stellar patterns interpreted as improbable “crosses in disguise.” Similarly a Christian sense was attributed to terms like memoria, discessit, reddidit, refrigerium / refrigerare, mensa (especially in Africa), domus aeterna/aeter27.  Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae septimo saeculo antiquiores, ed. by I.B. de Rossi (Romae, 1857‑1861) XXXVII: “Christianos titulos appello inscriptiones eas, quae a Christianis religionis causa positae sunt. Religionis scilicet causa non modo ii omnes facti sunt tituli, qui templa, sacella, altaria extructa et dedicata; qui vota soluta, dona data, sacra indicta testantur; qui martyrum et sanctorum virorum laudes celebrant; qui sacro omnis generis instrumento leguntur inscripti; verum omnia quoque et singula christianorum epitaphia, quippe quae ad sepulcra pertineant, rem Christianis magis, quam ipsis ethnicis religiosi cultus propria et religioni sollemni consecratam.”

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nalis, as well as to the remembrance of the dies mortis introduced by the forms depositio, depositus. This setting, especially in the most confessional environments, despicable and deleterious consequences begat: from the creation of inscriptions “noviciae” to the “normalization” (that is tampering) or destruction of epigraphic originals “per togliere – as advocated by Mgr. Domenico Bartolini about some inscriptions of Chiusi – ai nostri censori ogni pretesto per malignare.” 28 So in the catacombs of s. Catherine at Chiusi the pagan titles of Philonicentius and Redempta were engraved ex novo; 29 on two clearly pagan inscriptions (CIL XI 2538 a, b; 2547th) the adprecatio dis Manibus was erased; another inscription – “per il suo contenuto blasfemo ed epicureo” – was totally deleted. 30

Fig. 5. National Roman Museum. Licinia Amias’ stele

28.  ICI XI, 69‑70. 29.  ICI XI, n. 43, 66*. 30.  Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, XI, n. 2538 a, b; 2547 (hereafter CIL); ICI XI, 71.

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Fig. 6. Vatican Museums. Iulia Calliste’s stele

Some Roman inscriptions suffered a similar fate. Among the many examples we can mention the stele of Licinia Amias (Fig. 5) 31 and Iulia Calliste (Fig. 6), 32 dating between the end of second and beginning of third century, the text of which – as it seems – were deceptively “integrated,” respectively, with the expression ἰχθύς ζώντων inserted between two fish, and with the unprecedented and anachronistic Christological sequence R IH CR; in Varronia Fotina’s epitaph (Fig. 7) the Greek formula δούλῃ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ was daringly added to clearly demonstrate its Christian identity. 33 31.  ICVR, II, 4246; C. Carletti, Epigrafia dei cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi (Bari, 20122) 136, n. 7. 32.  C. Carletti, Epigrafia dei cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi (Bari, 20122) 15; I. Di Stefano M anzella,  ed., Le iscrizioni dei Cri­ stiani in Vaticano. Materiali e contributi scientifici per una mostra epigrafica (Città del Vaticano, 1997) 216‑218, n. 3.2.1 (G. Filippi’s edition and commentary). 33.  C. Carletti, Epigrafia dei cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi (Bari, 20122) 15; I. Di Stefano M anzella,  ed., Le iscrizioni dei Cri­ stiani in Vaticano. Materiali e contributi scientifici per una mostra epigrafica (Città del Vaticano, 1997) 225, n. 3.2.7 (G. Filippi’s edition and commentary).

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Fig. 7. Vatican Museums. Varronia Fotina’s epitaph

The primary objective of these studies consisted of the search for witnesses referable to as sollemni Christianis more in order to arrive therefore at mythical “Urchristentum,” already defined in all its structural elements.  3 4 Ultimately it was the application of what today is defined as “regressive theological method,” for which, once established a priori the meaning of “religion” of “tradition” of “identity” “si ripercorre a ritroso la storia cercando nelle diverse fonti presunti tasselli di una presunta lenta formazione di un prodotto finale.” 35 During the first three decades of the twentieth century – in full antimodernist swing – the traditional method on research of Christian antiquity resumes force. In 1929 – a symbolically significant year – a famous review of the time reiterates that “lo studio delle antichità cristiane non tanto ha servito ad alimentare la curiosità degli eruditi o il nobile egoismo degli esteti, quanto a promuovere e consolidare le ragioni della fede.” 36 Perhaps more than in the during the time of de Rossi the ancient Christian monuments are observed with a perspective considered unreal by present stardand: a drift which left deep scars, still perceptible to this day. There34.  Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae septimo saeculo antiquiores, ed. by I.B. de Rossi (Romae, 1857‑1861) n. 5 p. 10. 35.  M. Pesce , “Introduzione al Convegno ‘Come è nato il cristianesimo’,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 21 (2004) 446‑447. 36.  C. Cecchelli, “Le origini romane dell’archeologia cristiana,” Roma 7 (1929) 105.

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fore, still in the early 60s of last century, Theodor Klauser (the best of Dölger’s students) could note that: “The worst doom of Christian archeology had been its separation from archaeology of classical antiquity, thus becoming the absolute dominion of theologians.” 37 These regressive positions have seriously involved also epigraphic studies, which – driven by confessional preconceptions – have produced a new “epigraphic semiotics,” used as the interpretive key of an alleged “crypto Christianity”: a concept rightly judged “misleading” in its application to the epigraphic production. 38 A telling example of this interpretive process clearly emerges in several studies published during the 50s and 60s on the epigraphic documentation discovered during the excavations under the confession of St. Peter in the Vatican. I refer in particular to the reading of the graffiti drawn on Wall G, on which – among other things – ancient visitors never wrote St. Peter’s name: St. Peter – only after 1600 years – like a “hierophany” has come to light, but only in the fervid imagination of a passionate interpreter. 39 This approach persisted for a long time, because it remained substantially extraneous in relation to the results achieved by the methods of the Antike und Christentum. But it must be recognized that thanks to scholars like J. Klauser, H.I. Marrou and especially A. Ferrua the “certificate of Christian authenticity” attributed inappropriately to a large number of inscriptions, was re-discussed in the perspective of cultural history of the first centuries of the imperial age. However this new approach did not prevent the inclusion of many inscriptions, at least those of dubious attribution and often clearly non-Christians, not only in the great epigraphic collections (ICVR and CIL) but also – and this was one of the most harmful consequences – in renowned anthologies of Christian inscriptions, such as those of E. Diehl and C. Wessel  4 0 used, customarily, even by scholars

37.  Th. K lauser , “Studien zur Entstehungsgeschichte der christlichen Kunst,” Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 7 (1964) 74. 38.  H. Solin, “Pagano e cristiano,” in M.G. A ngeli Bertinelli – A. Donati, ed., Epigrafia di confine, confine dell ’epigrafia (Faenza, 2004) 200, 209, 217, recalls the position of H. Lietzmann that defines as “krypto-christliche” all those elements not immediately perceivable as ideological / religious in their extraction, such as the fish, anchor, crown, palm leaves. In this regard see the methodological exemplification of C. Carletti, “Origini cristiane ed epigrafia. Note di lettura a proposito di alcune iscrizioni (forse) ‘protocristiane’,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 31 (2014) 83‑94. 39.  M. Guarducci, I  graffiti sotto la confessione di s. Pietro in Vaticano, I – III (Città del Vaticano, 1958). About graffiti of Wall G see the appropriate observations recently advanced by T.D. Barnes , Early Christian Hagiography and Roman History (Tübingen, 2010) 410‑411. 40.  Inscriptiones latinae christianae veteres, I – III, ed. by E. Diehl (Dublin – Zurich, 19703); I. Supplementum ed. by J. Moreau – H.I. M arrou, ibidem, 1985

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inexperienced on epigraphic research and, therefore, less cautionary in the verification of the extraction and of the character of a inscription. VI. E pigr a ph ic

pr a x i s of t h e

C h r i s t i a ns :

n ew m et hodologica l a pproach

In the course of early 60s the scaffolding of the “founding fathers” begins to show significant destabilization, especially after many epigraphic investigations, particularly on the methodological level. It developed an intensive debate that had among its most visible and active protagonists Antonio Ferrua and Paul Albert Février, who participated directly in a lively and constructive debate during the “mythical” IX International Congress of Christian Archaeology, dedicated to the pre-Constantinian age. Février, in relation to the inscriptions of the eastern Mauretania, concluded that in this region of the Mediterranean the practice of writing the date of death – considered by de Rossi and partially, by Ferrua, as an exquisitely Christian requirement – begins to assert itself in pagan context (perhaps better to say “profane”) between the second and third centuries and later – from the first three decades of the fourth century onward – was accepted permanently in epigraphic praxis of the Christians. It was the beginning of the removal of an improper distinguishing criterion, one that excavated a metahistorical furrow in a century-old practice, already accepted by the Gentiles from the first century bc and then, in sequence, also by Christians from the beginning of the fourth century. Février’s revision had involved very famous inscriptions, already considered by Monceaux as important pieces for the reconstruction of Christian history (and accepted also in the anthology by Diehl): those of Pretorianus and Prior (years 225 and 226: CIL VIII 8501 = ILCV 710a, b), an anonymous (year 240: CIL, VIII, 20587 = ILCV, 4156c), and Aelia Secundula (late third century: CIL, VIII, 20277 = ILCV 1570), and Rasinia Secunda (Year 238: CIL, VIII, 9289 = ILCV, 3319). 41 Concerning Rasinia Secunda’s inscription Monceaux has remarked, perhaps with uncontrolled emphasis: “the modest epitaph of Rasinia Secunda acquires a great historical value: engraved in 238 – 10 years before the episcopate of Cyprian – it is so far the oldest dated monument of Christian epigraphy in Africa.” 42 (hereafter ILCV); Inscriptiones graecae christianae veteres Occidentis, ed. C. Wessel (Barii, 1989). 41.  “Remarques sur les inscriptions funéraires datées de Maurétanie Césarienne orientale (IIe‑Ve siécle),” Mélanges de l ’École française de Roma. Antiquité 76 (1964) 105‑172. 42.  Histoire littéraire de l ’Afrique chrétienne depuis les origines jusqu’au a l ’invasion arabe, II, Paris 1963 (= Bruxelles, 1902) 121‑122.

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Even in Rome, and long before that in Africa, the mention of dies mortis in inscriptions begins already in the late Republican age and extends seamlessly into the following centuries as witnessed by a large number of inscriptions dating to 13 bc (CIL, VI, 9290), 2 bc (CIL, VI, 9730), ad 1 (CIL, VI, 7398), 4 (CIL, VI, 33544), 13 and 22 (CIL, VI, 9050, 9005), 89 and 97 (CIL, VI, 9326), 100 (CIL, VI. 8210) and so on until the first decades of the third century when perhaps documented is the first Christian inscription with the mention of dies mortis: the epitaph of Cornelia Paula dated to 234 (ICVR X 27075: with fish and anchor). At present – within Roman epigraphy – the earliest mention of a date of death goes back to 150‑100 bc, found on 187 fictile cinerary ollas deposited in a burial chamber adjoining the small town of s. Cesareo (suburb of Rome), which used to received the remains of slaves and freedmen. On the Upper Lip or on the body of these receptacles is charted “a sgraffio” the name of the deceased together with the date of the death / burial: it is a minimal textual structure, which proposes a fixed type, for example Q(uintus) Caecilis / a(nt)e d(iem) VII idus no(vembres) (CIL I 2 , 1031). At our present state of our knowledge, instances of dies mortis in a Christian context are documented only from the last three decades of the third century, as indicated by inscriptions dated to the years 266 (ICVR, VII, 20335, 20336, 20337), 270 (ICVR, VII, 20338), 290 (ICVR, VII, 19946), 291 (ICVR, VIII, 21595; VI 13886), 296 (IV, 10584), 303‑304 (ICVR, X. 26662) 43. VII. M e m br a

di si ecta

Among the many membra disiecta, namely no longer attributable to the original monumental context of belonging, there are fortunately two exemplary specimens discovered along the Salaria vetus and Labicana ways, which can be legitimately included in the spatial and temporal dimension of the “Preistory of Christians epigraphy.” In these funerary areas, no longer recognizable in their size and morphology, were buried – in contiguity to a majority of pagans – even Christian individuals, at a time when the Christians underground cemeteries were not fully active: a situation substantially similar to that documented in the cemetery of the “Piazzola” (see above). They are individuals of servile and libertine condition, who were working in the service of the imperial house at the time of Septimius Severus and Caracalla (198‑211). The slave Marcus, who died 43. C. Carletti, “La data della morte. Un modulo epigrafico tardoromano tra sacro e profano,” in É. R ebillard – C. Sotinel , ed., Les frontières du profane dans l ’antiquité tardive (Roma, 2010) 213-234.

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at 18 years, 9 months, 5 days, while attending the Paedagogium located at the vicus caput Africae – where young slaves destined to domus Augustorum were trained – speaking directly from the grave, asks in the name of God for the brothers of faith to protect his burial: peto a bobis, | fratres boni per | unum deum ne quis | un titelo moles[tet] | pos(t) mor[tem meam] (Fig. 8).  4 4

Fig. 8. National Roman Museum. Marcus’ epitaph

In this same area was discovered an epitaph of the 234 (Maximo et Urbico consulibus) dedicated to the young Cornelia Paula by parents Ti(tus) Cl (audius) Marcianus et Cornelia Hilaritas, which, as clearly suggested by the text of the inscription, declares implicitly a conjugal union in contrast with Roman law. A clear indicator of this specific situation is the maternal gentilitial Cornelia attributed to the young deceased Paula, who – in a situation of legality – instead would have received the paternal gentilitial, that is Claudius. It is no coincidence that this factual situation in the Christian community of Rome during Callistus’ age had instead been legitimated, in light of the principle of equality, firmly supported by Callistus also in reference to the unions between individuals of different social extraction. 44.  ICVR, X, 27126; C. Carletti, Epigrafia dei cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi (Bari, 20122) 137‑138, n. 9.

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From Labicana way comes the sarcophagus containing the remains of the rich and powerful Marcus Aurelius Augg(ustorum duorum) lib(ertus) Prosenes. 45 The epitaph recalls in detail his cursus in the imperial household at the time of Marcus Aurelius and Commodus: Emperor’s butler, treasurer, administrator of the imperial possessions, organizer of the gladiatorial games, and the one responsible for the wine supplies. The final formula (receptus ad deum V non(as) [Mart?]ias), which introduces the latest event of Prosenes, having died at Same in Kefalonia in 217 while returning from a military campaign, reveals his belonging to the Christian community of Prosenes and that of the freedman Ampelius, the inscription’s dedicant (scripsit Ampelius libertus). A

t e n tat i v e conclusion

The only purpose behind methodological and historiographical synthesis presented here is to restart debate around issues about which the margins of uncertainty still remain wide. Not coincidentally V. Fiocchi Nicolai and L. Spera recently have expressed prudential cautions precisely in relation to the use of epigraphic texts for the individuation of proto-Christian burials, in the context “of the usual non-Christians burial settlements.”  4 6 In this regard Rebillard rightly notes: “identifier chrétienne comme une zone funérarire ou à l’interieur d’une zone funéraire, une tombe à partir du formulaire épigraphique ou d’un motiv iconographique est une chose fort délicate au moins jusqu’au milieu du IVe siècle.” 47 The doubts about interpretation, attribution and monumental contextualization – also because of suspecteds tampering – are even more problematic on account of the absence of unambiguous and definite hermeneutic criteria. In other words it has not yet been possible to collect into an organic whole the plurality of aspects and issues related to the epigraphic products, recalled previously – often improperly – as possible proto-Christians witnesses otherwise eccentric as relates to the birth of the catacombs and of the contextual funerary inscriptions. I will therefore just propose a few essential points, which will perhaps be useful for a more precise evaluation of the materials examined: (a) The formalization of the epigraphic funerary memory, as the “written” outcome of a polygenetic ritual praxis, is the result of plural influ45.  ICVR, VI, 17246; C. Carletti, Epigrafia dei cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi (Bari, 20122) 131‑132, n. 3. 46.  V. Fiocchi Nicolai, Strutture funerarie ed edifici di culto paleocristiani di Roma dal IV al VI secolo (Città del Vaticano 2001) 8; L. Spera, Il complesso di Pretestato sulla via Appia (Città del Vaticano, 2004) 79‑99. 47.  E. R ebillard, Religion et sépulture. L’Église, les vivant set les morts dans l ’Antiquité tardive (Paris, 2003) 45.

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ences of diverse backgrounds (cultural, religious, ethnic, social) that, through a process of mutual integration / accumulation, produce “ideas” and “models” of reference, in which, without contradiction, over time tend to recognize on its own broad spaces of a multicultural and multiethnic society, such as the Roman one in the middle and late imperial ages; (b) what we call “epigraphy of the Christians” is a legitimate daughter of the traditional epigraphic Roman praxis, with which it shares and perpetuates a core of fundamental competences: namely functions memorials, indicative and locative, protective, sacral, and secularly absolved by the “latest writings.” In this process of course Christians over time develop – but not in the first two centuries – verbal and figural forms, which translate into a defined epigraphic language, that is recognizable – but not always and everywhere – in its identitarian elements. (c) in the current state of research, the elements identified as “indicators” of possible “Christian visibility” cannot be regarded as the exclusive and original result of a Christian elaboration; and this is true both for verbal forms (especially mention of dies mortis, as we have now seen) and for subjects used to give form and contents to the figurative contexts (especially fish, anchor, pastor, prayer, dove). Ultimately the self-image of a Christian epigraphy with its own defined and unchanging identity, based on a “biblical” matrix, is not reflecting – at least in the terms in which it was formulated – the real material. Concerning this it is sufficient to consider that in Rome only 40% of the 40,000 inscriptions from the catacombs shows identitarian “signs” more or less directly attributable to a scriptural extraction; (d) in this regard an overall view of the presence or absence of Sacred Scripture in the epigraphic production is not superfluous. To address this issue we have today an important subsidium:  a recent study, conducted by A.E. Felle on scriptural quotations in the inscriptions of the whole orbis christianus antiquus (811 specimens), presents an exhaustive framework of the epigraphic Biblisierung between the third and eighth centuries. The highlights emerging in the documentation collected by Felle can be synthesized as follows: 48 – generally the biblical quotations prevail in the East (73.4%), and are almost negligible in the West (24.6%), where in the same capital of the Empire, even in the presence of a huge epigraphic production, biblical quotations are limited to 30 units (0.7%); a similar relationship is recorded for the language: 606 (74.7%) Greek inscriptions, 205 (25.3%) Latin ones;

48.  A.E. Felle , Biblia Epigrafica. La Sacra Scrittura nella documentazione epigrafica dell ’Orbis Christianus antiquus (III – VIII secolo) (Bari, 2006).

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– the distribution in the territories is not homogeneous but, especially in some sites of the West, shows a concentration connected to the urgency of specific situations, contingencies, and local strategies sometimes solicited by individuals of prestige (e.g. Paulinus at Nola) or they sprout in more fertile ground for the spread of Christianity, as for example in Christian Carthage, where not coincidentally personalities as Tertullian and Cyprian operated; – in relation to the chronology, with the exception of four examples presumably assignable to between the third and fourth centuries, only from the fourth century onward do we observe a gradual increase, reaching a remarkable consistency during the sixth century, in both the East and the West; – in relation to the monumental context of belonging, the scriptural quotations for 60% have been used in architectural contexts (especially buildings for worship), 20% in funerary contexts, and the remaining 20% on instrumentum or in extemporaneous inscriptions (graffiti); – most of scriptural quotations comes logically from a clerical environment, that seems to favour the Old Testament and especially the Psalms, for obvious influence of the liturgical praxis; (e) For an investigation and definition of the epigraphic praxis of Christians in its historical reality, what may prove fruitful is a careful consideration of the most recent methodological reflections matured in the searches for the origins of Christianity and / or of the Christianities. In this direction a convincing conceptual synthesis has recently been proposed by M. Pesce and A. Destro at the recent meeting of studies on the theme “Come è nato il Cristianesimo?”: “anzitutto è necessario procedere non in modo teologico regressivo, ma storico induttivo, bisogna cioè evitare un processo di ‘invenzione’ del processo storico della formazione del cristianesimo. In tale invenzione si cade quando si stabilisce a priori ciò che si intende per cristianesimo e poi si ripercorre a ritroso la storia cercando nelle diverse fonti presunti tasselli di una presunta lenta formazione di un prodotto finale.” 49 This methodological approach can be also useful also for investigations of the origin and development of a “material culture of the Christians” and in particular of the epigraphic production, which concretely is a direct indicator of endogenous and exogenous dynamics, characterizing in space and time the formative processes of one or more Christian identities. However some historians have superficially undervalued and often ignored this interconnection, evidently still convinced of the function-crutch – today untenable – improperly attributed to epigraphic documentation. 49.  A. Destro – M. Pesce , “Come è nato il cristianesimo,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 21 (2004) 446.

COMMITTENZE E FUNZIONALITÀ DI UN “IMMAGINARIO FIGURATIVO” PROTOCRISTIANO Paola De Santis I. L a

ba se docum e n ta r i a : l i m i t i e ca r at t e r i s t ich e

In via preliminare, è da sottolineare che l’assoluta maggioranza delle testimonianze figurative rimaste riveste carattere funerario, proveniente in particolare dai complessi cimiteriali che hanno restituito ampia documentazione grazie a specifiche condizioni connesse alla loro ubicazione ipogea che ne ha favorito la conservazione. Questo elemento non deve portare meccanicamente a ritenere che non fossero previsti apparati decorativi anche in contesti non funerari, pur in assenza – in effetti – di una documentazione significativa in tal senso per il periodo delle origini 1. È opportuno sottolineare la totale assenza di rappresentazioni riferibili ad una committenza cristiana per tutto il I e II secolo, quando il sistema del “linguaggio per immagini” è ampiamente documentato da apparati complessi e articolati, in ambiti funzionalmente diversificati (spazi privati e pubblici, funerari e non) 2 . Tale “silenzio” figurativo 3 ha suscitato particolare interesse negli studiosi che hanno cercato di interpretarlo alla luce di una supposta tendenza aniconica nella radice giudaica del cristianesimo 4 . Si 1.  G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 28‑29, 32‑33. 2.  In generale per il fenomeno in età romana cfr. P. Z anker , «Il mondo delle immagini e la comunicazione», in A. Giardina (ed.), Roma antica. Storia di Roma dall ’antichità a oggi, Roma-Bari, 2000, p. 211‑240. 3.  G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 17. 4.  Si veda, a titolo esemplificativo, J.D. Breckenridge , «The reception of art into the early Church», Atti del IX Congresso Internazionale di Archeologia Cristiana (Roma, 21‑27 settembre 1975), Città del Vaticano, 1978, p. 361‑363; F.W. Deichmann, Archeologia Cristiana, Roma, 1993, p. 105; E. K itzinger , Alle origini dell ’arte bizantina, Milano, 2004, p. 23. Per una valutazione complessiva vedi G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 18 con ulteriore bibliografia (in particolare nota 41). Cfr. P.C. Finney, Invisible God. The Earliest Christians on Art, New York-Oxford, 1994, p. 99‑145, in part. p. 108, per un diverso orientamento interpretativo che individua nella scarsità di risorse economiche delle comunità cristiane dei primi due secoli la motivazione dell’assenza di una produzione iconografica connotata; contra G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imaTexts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 717–739 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111727 ©

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tratta di una argomentazione che però non giustifica il fenomeno nella sua complessità ed è forse derivata da letture non propriamente equilibrate, in cui le fonti archeologiche sono viste come specchio diretto e simmetrico di quelle scritte e in cui l’ostilità alle immagini oggetto di culto, o comunque collocate in spazi cultuali, espressa in alcune fonti scritte di II-IV secolo soprattutto in contrapposizione a possibili atteggiamenti idolatrici, è rife­ rita ad ogni forma di rappresentazione figurata 5. Quello che le fonti archeologiche evidenziano è, invece, una sostanziale “integrazione” e condivisione da parte dei cristiani, per almeno due secoli (I-II secolo), del linguaggio iconico del mondo romano, che sarebbe più corretto definire “profano” piuttosto che “pagano”, in quanto largamente condiviso nella vita politica, sociale e culturale dell’impero 6: in questa fase della “preistoria” l’adesione al cristianesimo non comportò di fatto una connotazione in senso “identitario” della produzione figurativa. Un fenomeno, del resto, non a caso osservabile anche nella coeva prassi epigrafica, così come nelle modalità “miste” di fruizione e frequentazione degli spazi funerari 7.

gines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 20. Una rassegna storiografica si trova in C. Bordino, I Padri della Chiesa e le immagini, Tesi di Dottorato, Università della Tuscia, Viterbo, 2010, p. IX-XIX (http:// hdl.handle.net/2067/1027). Recentemente, F. Bisconti, «Immagini cristiane della tarda antichità», in F. Bisconti – O. Brandt (ed.), Lezioni di archeologia cristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2014, p. 501‑503 è tornato sull’analisi delle fonti scritte. 5.  G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 18‑19 con bibliografia. Per un’ampia documentazione sulle fonti scritte cfr. F. Bisconti, «Letteratura patristica e iconografia paleocristiana», in A. Quacquarelli (ed.), Complementi interdisciplinari di patrologia, Roma, 1989, p. 367‑369. 6.  G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 21 e nota 72 con bibliografia. Per il concetto di “profano” in rapporto alla documentazione epigrafica vedi C. Carletti, «La data della morte. Un modulo epigrafico tardoromano tra sacro e profano», in É. R ebillard – C. Sotinel (ed.), Les frontières du profane dans l ’Antiquité Tardive, Roma, 2010, p. 213‑234. 7.  Per il concetto di “preistoria” nella prassi epigrafica di committenza cristiana che connota il periodo delle origini cfr. C. Carletti, «‘Preistoria’ dell’epigrafia dei cristiani. Un mito striografico ex maiorum auctoritate?», in V. Fiocchi Nico lai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 91‑119; C. Carletti, Epigrafia dei cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi, Bari, 2008, p. 18‑39 e il saggio di C. Carletti in questo volume. Riguardo la prassi indifferenziata di occupazione nelle aree funerarie cfr. V. Fiocchi Nicolai, «Origine e sviluppo delle catacombe romane», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – F. Bisconti – D. M azzoleni, Le catacombe cristiane di Roma. Origini, sviluppo, apparato decorativi, documentazione epigrafica, Regensburg, 1998, p. 13‑14; V. Fiocchi Nicolai, Strutture funerarie ed edifici di culto paleocristiani di Roma dal IV al VI secolo, Città del Vaticano, 2001, p. 8‑13.

COMMITTENZE E FUNZIONALITÀ

II. Q ua n t i fica z ion e

719

de l l a ba se docum e n ta r i a

Nel momento di passaggio dal II al III secolo, che come è noto segna un momento di significativo cambiamento nel processo di graduale consolidamento della Chiesa di Roma con gli episcopati di Zefirino (199‑217) e Callisto (217‑222) 8, si colloca la creazione delle prime aree cimiteriali collettive a servizio della comunità cristiana. Questo momento, certamente significativo nella storia delle primitive comunità cristiane, è stato oggetto negli ultimi anni di rinnovato interesse da parte degli studiosi, anche in relazione all’acquisizione di nuovi dati grazie a recenti indagini archeologiche nei complessi catacombali. Il dibattito che ne è derivato ha riguardato soprattutto le forme strutturali dei nuclei cimiteriali più antichi, la loro cronologia e le motivazioni individuabili alla base della scelta di farsi seppellire in “spazi condivisi” 9. Riguardo quest’ultimo aspetto, gli elementi su cui si è maggiormente focalizzata l’attenzione, anche sulla base dell’analisi delle fonti scritte, sono la preoccupazione di garantire una degna sepoltura agli indigenti e l’auto-percezione, gradualmente crescente, di sentirsi partecipi di una “comunità” 10. Tali valori trovarono fertile terreno nei cambiamenti di carattere gestionale e organizzativo della comunità, nella progressiva espansione quantitativa dei convertiti alla nuova religione e nella conseguente possibilità di poter disporre di maggiori risorse economiche, 8.  M. Simonetti, «L’età antica», in Enciclopedia dei Papi, I, Roma, 2000, p. 10‑15; I d., «Roma cristiana tra vescovi e presbiteri», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Atti della giornata tematica dei Seminari di Archeologia Cristiana (Roma, 21 marzo 2005), Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 29‑40; C. Carletti, «Comunicare un’identità: un tratto specifico dell’epigrafia dei cristiani nel III secolo», in M.G. A ngeli Bertinelli – A. Donati (ed.), La comunicazione nella storia antica. Fantasie e realtà, Roma, 2008, p. 195‑207; V. Fiocchi Nicolai, «Interventi monumentali dei vescovi nelle aree suburbane delle città dell’Occidente (III-VI secolo)», in O. Brandt – S. Cresci – J. L ópez Quiroga – C. Pappalardo (ed.), Episcopus, civitas, territorium, Città del Vaticano, 2013, p. 213‑215. 9.  Si veda V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon, «Introduzione», in I id. (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 9‑14, con una sintesi delle problematiche storiografiche, e un inquadramento aggiornato sui contesti monumentali. 10.  Sul confronto con le modalità di formazione dei coevi cimiteri comunitari ebraici vedi M.H. Williams , «The Organisation of Jewish Burials in Ancient Roma in the Light of Evidence from Palestine and the Diaspora», Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 101 (1994), p. 165‑182; V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon, «Introduzione», in I id. (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 11; V. Fiocchi Nicolai, «Le catacombe romane», in F. Bisconti – O. Brandt (ed.), Lezioni di archeologia cristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2014, p. 279 e nota 30 con bibliografia; A.E. Felle , «Ebraismo e cristianesimo alla luce della documentazione epigrafica (III-VII secolo)», La parola del passato 52 (2007), p. 162‑165 e il contributo di A.E. Felle in questo volume.

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come dimostra il fenomeno dell’evergetismo privato a cui è riconducibile, nella maggior parte dei casi, la nascita dei primi cimiteri “di cristiani” 11. Tutti questi aspetti trovano conferma – come si vedrà – nelle caratteristiche planimetriche e strutturali delle regioni cimiteriali più antiche dove si materializza, inoltre, un modo nuovo di “scrivere la morte” con la sistematica rinuncia ai dati retrospettivi 12 . I nuclei cimiteriali originari databili nei primi due o tre decenni del III secolo sono riferibili a otto aree funerarie: la cd. Area I 13 e le “cripte di Lucina” sulla via Appia, all’origine del complesso di Callisto; il cimi­ tero successivamente denominato di Calepodio sulla via Aurelia che nel 222 ospitò la sepoltura del vescovo Callisto; la catacomba di Priscilla sulla via Salaria (in particolare le regioni dell’arenario, di Eliodoro e Tyche); la regione del Buon Pastore e dei Flavi Aureli “A” a Domitilla; le regioni della “Scala maggiore” e “Scala minore” a Pretestato; il cimitero della via Tiburtina dove fu deposto il martire Novaziano; le catacombe di Bassilla e s. Ippolito, sempre sulla Tiburtina. Le principali caratteristiche strutturali dei primi nuclei catacombali possono essere sintetizzate in alcuni elementi ricorrenti: schema regolare delle gallerie, realizzate ex-novo e originate da scale matrici, che determina una significativa estensione degli spazi sotterranei, a volte corrispondenti 11.  V. Fiocchi Nicolai, «Gli spazi delle sepolture cristiane tra il III e il V secolo: genesi e dinamica di una scelta insediativa», in L. Pani Ermini – P. Siniscalco (ed.), La comunità cristiana di Roma: la sua vita e la sua cultura dalle origini all ’Alto Medioevo, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 341‑342; V. Fiocchi Nicolai, Strutture funerarie ed edifici di culto paleocristiani di Roma dal IV al VI secolo, Città del Vaticano, 2001, p. 15‑17; J. Guyon, «À propos d’un ouvrage récent: retour sur le ‘dossier des origines’ des catacombes chrétiennes de Roma», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 81 (2005), p. 248‑253; V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon, «Introduzione», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 10‑11; V. Fiocchi Nicolai, «Le catacombe romane», in F. Bisconti – O. Brandt (ed.), Lezioni di archeologia cristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2014, p. 274‑277, 283‑285. 12.  C. Carletti, «Comunicare un’identità: un tratto specifico dell’epigrafia dei cristiani nel III secolo», in M.G. A ngeli Bertinelli – A. Donati (ed.), La comunicazione nella storia antica. Fantasie e realtà, Atti del III incontro internazionale di Storia Antica (Genova, 23‑24 novembre 2006), Roma, 2008, p. 195‑207, in particolare p. 202‑206 e C. Carletti in questo volume. 13.  La scansione cronologica dei diversi approfondimenti è stata definita con relativa precisione: scavo delle prime gallerie entro gli anni Trenta del III secolo, verso il 235 apertura di 5 cubicoli (A1-A3, L1-L2). V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon , «Relire Styger: les origines de l’Area I du cimetière de Calliste et la Crypta des papes», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Atti della giornata tematica dei Seminari di Archeologia Cristiana (Roma, 21 marzo 2005), Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 121‑161; V. Fiocchi Nicolai, «Le catacombe romane», in F. Bisconti – O. Brandt (ed.), Lezioni di archeologia cristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2014, p. 280‑281.

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ad aree recintate nel sopratterra (in alcuni casi l’occupazione funeraria più antica sfrutta strutture preesistenti, come cave di pozzolana o condotti idraulici); capacità programmatica nella esecuzione degli impianti planimetrici che prevedono successivi ampliamenti e ramificazioni e un utilizzo intensivo e razionale degli spazi; uniformità tipologica delle sepolture con l’uso sistematico del loculo, interrotto solo sporadicamente dallo scavo di ambienti per più sepolture (cubicula) 14 . Sulla base di una valutazione quantitativa certamente approssimativa, ma più che fondata, il numero complessivo delle sepolture ospitate in questi primi cimiteri supera le cinquemila unità sepolcrali 15, quelle interessate da apparati decorativi nei primi decenni del III secolo – ed entro la prima metà – sono circoscrivibili ad alcune decine, concentrate in poche regioni di quattro catacombe: Callisto, Pretestato, Priscilla e Domitilla. Nell’ambito di questi complessi le strutture funerarie in cui si riconoscono soggetti di chiara ispirazione cristiana sono: i primi tre cubicoli cd. dei “Sacramenti” nell’Area I (fig. 1a) e il cubicolo doppio x-y delle cd. “cripte di Lucina” nel cimitero di Callisto (fig. 1c); il cubicolo cd. della “coronatio” nella catacomba di Pretestato (fig. 2a); lo “pseudo-nicchione” di arenario

14.  V. Fiocchi Nicolai, «Gli spazi delle sepolture cristiane tra il III e il V secolo: genesi e dinamica di una scelta insediativa», in L. Pani Ermini – P. Siniscalco (ed.), La comunità cristiana di Roma: la sua vita e la sua cultura dalle origini all ’Alto Medioevo, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 342‑349; V. Fiocchi Nicolai, Strutture funerarie ed edifici di culto paleocristiani di Roma dal IV al VI secolo, Città del Vaticano, 2001, p. 18‑31; I d. , «Le catacombe romane», in F. Bisconti – O. Brandt (ed.), Lezioni di archeologia cristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2014, p. 280‑285. Più in dettaglio si vedano le sintesi specifiche (di V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon; R. Giuliani; Ph. Pergola; L. Spera; A. Rocco; A. Granelli) sui diversi contesti contenute in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006 con relativa bibliografia. 15.  Complessivamente, e con una approssimazione per difetto, circa 5130 tombe (che non corrispondono al numero degli inumati, potenzialmente molto più alto dato che all’interno della stessa sepoltura potevano trovare posto più deposizioni); da tale computo sono esclusi i complessi cimiteriali di Bassilla e Ippolito in cui lo stato di conservazione delle fasi più antiche non permette una quantificazione, V. Fiocchi Nicolai, «Gli spazi delle sepolture cristiane tra il III e il V secolo: genesi e dinamica di una scelta insediativa», in L. Pani Ermini – P. Siniscalco (ed.), La comunità cristiana di Roma: la sua vita e la sua cultura dalle origini all ’Alto Medioevo, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 342‑345. Per quanto riguarda l’Area I e il nucleo più antico del cimitero di Pretestato i dati quantitativi vanno aggiornati rispettivamente con V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon , «Relire Styger: les origines de l’Area I du cimetière de Calliste et la Crypta des papes», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 131, 156, e L. Spera, «All’origine del cimitero di Pretestato: impianti funerari e fenomeni di riuso sepolcrale», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, in particolare p. 213.

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con l’immagine della virgo lactans e il cubicolo cd. dell’“Annunciazione” a Priscilla 16 (fig. 2b).

Fig. 1. Cimitero di Callisto: a) Area I, pianta della III fase con i cubicoli più antichi; b) Area I, pianta complessiva con i cubicoli più recenti (da V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon 2006); c) “Cripte di Lucina”, pianta (da L. Reekmans 1964).

16.  Per uno sguardo d’insieme cfr. F. Bisconti, «Prime decorazioni nelle catacombe romane. Prove di laboratorio, invenzioni e remakes», in V. Fiocchi Nico lai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Atti della giornata tematica dei Seminari di Archeologia Cristiana (Roma, 21 marzo 2005), Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 65‑89 (= in F. Bisconti, Le pitture delle catacombe romane. Restauri ed interpretazioni, Todi, 2011, p. 33‑46). La cronologia del cubicolo cd. dell’“Annunciazione” nel cimitero di Priscilla è stata recentemente sottoposta a riconsiderazioni, anche alla luce di nuovi interventi di restauro e indagini archeologiche, che hanno portato a proporre una anticipazione alla metà del III secolo per la realizzazione del cubicolo, rispetto alla datazione consolidata che la collocava nella prima metà del IV secolo: B. M azzei, «Il cubicolo dell’Annunciazione nelle catacombe di Priscilla», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 75 (1999), p. 269‑277 e R. Giuliani, «Genesi e sviluppo dei nuclei costitutivi del cimitero di Priscilla», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 169‑171 con bibliografia. D’altra parte, si è scelto di escludere dalla base documentaria relativa alle testimonianze inquadrabili entro la prima metà del III secolo le pitture che decorano l’ambiente denominato convenzionalmente “Cappella greca”, sempre nel cimitero di Priscilla, perché di datazione controversa, anche se orientata verso l’età gallienica; cfr. R. Giuliani, «Genesi e sviluppo dei nuclei costitutivi del cimitero di Priscilla», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 172. Cfr. G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 25 e nota 112 con bibliografia precedente.

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Fig. 2. a) Cimitero di Pretestato, pianta del nucleo G con il cubicolo della “coronatio” (Gb) (da L. Spera 2006); b) cimitero di Priscilla, pianta dell’arenario centrale con posizionamento del cubicolo dell’Annunciazione e dello “pseudo-nicchione” con la virgo lactans (da F. Tolotti 1970).

Un aspetto, quello quantitativo, sicuramente significativo che induce a riflettere sulla reale diffusione del repertorio decorativo, circoscritto all’ambito degli ambienti familiari e privati – i cubicoli –, e sulla committenza esclusiva ed elitaria che se ne fa carico; un “patrimonio” che rimarrà “riservato”, anche nei secoli successivi 17. In questi contesti, nei primi decenni del III secolo, si assiste dunque alla comparsa delle prime raffigurazioni di soggetto cristiano. III. I l

dos si e r iconogr a fico

Il repertorio di immagini parietali è organizzato in questi ambienti secondo una scansione geometrica dello spazio disponibile, definita da una linearità rosso-verde, ben nota anche nelle coeve decorazioni degli ambienti residenziali e pubblici 18. Dal punto di vista tematico si assiste, 17.  C. Carletti, «Le pitture delle catacombe di Roma: restauri e nuove acquisizioni. Chiose di libera lettura a proposito di un nuovo libro», Archeologia Medievale 40 (2013), p. 453‑459. 18.  F. Bisconti, «Memorie classiche nelle decorazioni pittoriche delle catacombe romane. Continuità grafiche e variazioni semantiche», in Historiam Pictura Refert. Miscellanea in onore di p. A. Recio Veganzones O.M., Città del Vaticano, 1994, p. 27‑36; F. Bisconti, «La decorazione delle catacombe romane», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – F. Bisconti – D. M azzoleni, Le catacombe cristiane di Roma, Regens­

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in queste prime decorazioni, ad un’alternanza di elementi decorativi profani, che trovano posto soprattutto nelle volte, e soggetti più precisamente connotati. Nella prima categoria rientrano soggetti generici e tradizionali – fitomorfi e zoomorfi, personificazioni stagionali – ispirate alla quies derivata dalla contemplazione della natura, a cui possono associarsi le immagini del pescatore, del filosofo, di Orfeo citaredo (fig. 3), del pastore crioforo, dell’orante (fig. 4), che diventeranno, in particolare questi ultimi due, una cifra identificativa del repertorio iconografico cristiano proprio in quanto veicoli significanti di valori generici 19. I soggetti che costituiscono il primitivo repertorio biblico attingono a scene vetero e neotestamentarie 20. In particolare, le immagini ispirate al Vecchio Testamento presenti in questi primi cubicoli sono: il ciclo di Giona – articolato in più quadri 21 (fig. 5); il sacrificio di Isacco, dove i protagonisti sono eccezionalmente rappresentati oranti 22 (fig. 5); il miraburg, 1998, p. 89‑94; F. Bisconti, «La pittura paleocristiana», in A. Donati (ed.), Romana pictura. La pittura romana dalle origini all ’età bizantina, Catalogo della mostra, Milano 1998, p. 37‑39; F. Bisconti, «Prime decorazioni nelle catacombe romane. Prove di laboratorio, invenzioni e remakes», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 69‑80; F. Bisconti, «L1-L2, A1-A6, x-y, c-e . Relitti iconografici e nuovi tracciati figurativi alle origini della pittura catacombale romana», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 47‑50. 19.  In generale: F. Bisconti, «Memorie classiche nelle decorazioni pittoriche delle catacombe romane. Continuità grafiche e variazioni semantiche», in Historiam Pictura Refert. Miscellanea in onore di p. A. Recio Veganzones O.M., Città del Vaticano, 1994, p. 38‑61; G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 21‑22; F. Bisconti, «Primi passi di un’arte cristiana. I processi di definizione e l’evoluzione dei significati», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 35‑46. Per una analisi degli schemi compositivi nei cubicoli più antichi del cimitero di Callisto vedi anche: P.C. Finney, Invisible God. The Earliest Christians on Art, New York-Oxford, 1994, p. 160‑228; F. Bisconti, «L1-L2, A1-A6, x-y, c-e . Relitti iconografici e nuovi tracciati figurativi alle origini della pittura catacombale romana», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 7‑54. Sui singoli temi – per brevità – si rimanda alle voci contenute in F. Bisconti (ed.), Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2000 con relativa bibliografia specifica. 20.  Anche per queste testimonianze, si rinvia a F. Bisconti (ed.), Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2000 con relativa bibliografia specifica sulle varie tematiche e riferimenti ai passi scritturistici; per un inquadramento tematico generale: J. Dresken-Weiland, Bild, Grab und Wort. Untersuchungen zu Jenseitsvorstellungen von Christen des 3. Und 4. Jahrhunderts, Regensburg, 2010. 21.  Cubicoli A2 (sui caratteri unici – dal punto di vista iconografico – di uno dei pannelli cfr. M. Braconi, «Le cappelle dei sacramenti e Joseph Wilpert. I programmi decorativi dei cubicoli dell’Area I al vaglio della critica del passato», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 [2009], p. 92‑102) e A3 dei “Sacramenti” e cubicolo x delle “Cripte di Lucina” a Callisto, cubicolo dell’“Annunciazione” a Priscilla. 22.  Cubicolo A3 dei “Sacramenti” a Callisto.

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Fig. 3. Cimitero di Callisto, cubicolo di Orfeo, acquarello Wilpert (da F. Bisconti 2009).

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Fig. 4. Cimitero di Callisto, volta cubicolo y ‘Cripte di Lucina’ (Archivio PCAS).

colo della rupe 23; Daniele tra i leoni (fig. 4) 24 . Connesse al Nuovo Testamento sono le scene di battesimo (fig. 5) 25, la resurrezione di Lazzaro 26, il paralitico guarito (fig. 5) 27, Cristo e la Samaritana al pozzo (figg. 8a e 11a) 28, l’emorroissa con Cristo affiancato da due discepoli (fig. 8b)29. 23.  Cubicolo A2 dei “Sacramenti” a Callisto. 24.  Volta del cubicolo y delle “Cripte di Lucina” a Callisto. Cfr. F. Bisconti, «L1L2, A1-A6, x-y, c-e . Relitti iconografici e nuovi tracciati figurativi alle origini della pittura catacombale romana», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 7‑54. 25.  Cubicoli A2 e A3 dei “Sacramenti” e cubicolo y delle “Cripte di Lucina” a Callisto. 26.  Cubicolo A2 dei “Sacramenti” a Callisto, cubicolo della “coronatio” a Pretestato, cubicolo dell’“Annunciazione” a Priscilla. 27.  Cubicolo A3 dei “Sacramenti” a Callisto. 28.  Cubicolo A3 dei “Sacramenti” a Callisto (cfr. R. Bucolo, «La samaritana al pozzo nel cubicolo A3 della catacomba di s. Callisto tra funzione iconografica e interpretazione patristica», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 [2009], p. 107‑124) e cubicolo della “coronatio” a Pretestato, dove l’abbigliamento del Cristo in abiti militari connota la rappresentazione rendendola un unicum; F. Bisconti, «La “coronatio” di Pretestato. Storia delle manomissioni del passato e riflessioni sui recenti restauri», in F. Bisconti, Le pitture delle catacombe romane. Restauri ed interpretazioni, Todi, 2011, p. 94 (= Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 73 [1997], p. 7‑49); L. Spera, Il complesso di Pretestato sulla Via Appia. Storia topografica e monumentale di un insediamento funerario paleocristiano nel suburbio di Roma, Città del Vaticano, 2004, p. 42.

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Fig. 5. Cimitero di Callisto, cubicolo A3 dei “Sacramenti” (da V. Fiocchi Nicolai – F. Bisconti – D. Mazzoleni 1998).

Non mancano elaborazioni molto rare e precoci come l’immagine – che modifica una precedente decorazione bucolica su stucco – di una donna che allatta con accanto un personaggio stante che indica una stella, finora interpretata concordemente come la più antica immagine della virgo lactans 30 rappresentata insieme alla figura di un profeta, probabilmente da interpretare come personificazione del concetto astratto di “profezia” (fig. 6) 31. 29.  Cubicolo della “coronatio” a Pretestato. L’interpretazione della scena è stata discussa, soprattutto in passato: F. Bisconti, «La “coronatio” di Pretestato. Storia delle manomissioni del passato e riflessioni sui recenti restauri», in F. Bisconti, Le pitture delle catacombe romane. Restauri ed interpretazioni, Todi, 2011, p. 93; L. Spera, Il complesso di Pretestato sulla Via Appia. Storia topografica e monumentale di un insediamento funerario paleocristiano nel suburbio di Roma, Città del Vaticano, 2004, p. 42 e nota 241 con bibliografia. 30.  U. Utro, «Maria», in F. Bisconti (ed.), Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 212‑215. 31.  Decorazione dell’intradosso di uno “pseudo-nicchione” nell’arenario centrale del cimitero di Priscilla; F. Bisconti, «La Madonna di Priscilla: interventi di restauro ed ipotesi sulla dinamica decorativa», in F. Bisconti, Le pitture delle catacombe romane. Restauri ed interpretazioni, Todi, 2011, p. 71‑84, in particolare p. 76‑77 per il commento sulle diverse interpretazioni proposte circa l’identificazione del profeta e relativa bibliografia (= Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 72 [1996], p. 7‑34). Cfr. anche B. M azzei, «Il cubicolo dell’Annunciazione nelle catacombe di Priscilla», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 75 (1999), p. 267‑268.

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Fig. 6. Cimitero di Priscilla, “pseudo nicchione” dell’arenario centrale, foto decorazione e grafico ricostruttivo (da F. Bisconti 2011).

Nello stesso cimitero compare la prima raffigurazione di un altro tema mariano scarsamente attestato, soprattutto in pittura 32: l’Annunciazione, reso con l’immagine di una donna seduta di fronte ad un personaggio stante nel gesto dell’adlocutio (fig. 7) 33.

32.  F.P. M assara, «Annunciazione», in F. Bisconti (ed.), Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 111‑113. 33.  B. M azzei, «Il cubicolo dell’Annunciazione nelle catacombe di Priscilla», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 75 (1999), p. 233‑280 in cui si trova anche la discussione approfondita delle diverse interpretazioni proposte; cfr. anche F. Bisconti, «Scavi e restauri nella regione della “Velata” in Priscilla», in F. Bisconti, Le pitture

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Fig. 7. Cimitero di Priscilla, volta cubicolo dell’“Annunciazione” (da F. Bisconti 2011).

Scene uniche sono anche quelle interpretate come Cristo incoronato di spine e percosso dai soldati (fig. 8c), forse completata da una raffigurazione dello stesso ciclo del martirio di Cristo, quella dell’arresto, documentata solo da un frammento  3 4 . Come è noto, le scene di passione e di martirio sono estremamente rare nell’arte paleocristiana, anche se non delle catacombe romane. Restauri ed interpretazioni, Todi, 2011, p. 145 (= Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 77 [2001], p. 7‑95 con D. Nuzzo). 34.  Cubicolo della “coronatio” a Pretestato. F. Bisconti, «La “coronatio” di Pretestato. Storia delle manomissioni del passato e riflessioni sui recenti restauri», in F. Bisconti, Le pitture delle catacombe romane. Restauri ed interpretazioni, Todi, 2011, p. 94‑101 anche per la storia delle interpretazioni, oscillanti tra la tematica battesimale e quella “di passione”; L. Spera, Il complesso di Pretestato sulla Via Appia. Storia topografica e monumentale di un insediamento funerario paleocristiano nel suburbio di Roma, Città del Vaticano, 2004, p. 42.

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mancano eccezioni forse da contestualizzare – come si potrebbe pensare nel caso del cubicolo in questione – nell’ambito di una committenza particolarmente sensibile a linguaggi non canonici e codificati, emergenti anche negli schemi piuttosto inconsueti che caratterizzano gli altri “quadri” decorativi dell’ambiente (Samaritana al pozzo – fig. 8a –, resurrezione di Lazzaro, emorroissa – fig. 8b) 35.

Fig. 8. Cimitero di Pretestato, pitture cubicolo della “coronatio” (da F. Bisconti 2011).

35.  F. Bisconti, «Dentro e intorno all’iconografia martiriale romana: dal “vuoto figurativo” all’“immaginario devozionale”», in M. L amberigts – P. Van Deun (ed.), Martyrium in multidisciplinary perspective. Memorial Louis Reekmans, Leuven, 1995, p. 247‑292 e in particolare p. 259‑261; I d., «La “coronatio” di Pretestato. Storia delle manomissioni del passato e riflessioni sui recenti restauri», in I d., Le pitture delle catacombe romane. Restauri ed interpretazioni, Todi, 2011, p. 101‑102 in cui si richiama l’attenzione sui codici miniati come possibili modelli alla base dei processi di circolazione delle immagini.

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Alla cosiddetta iconografia del “reale”, secondo una efficace definizione di Fabrizio Bisconti 36 , sono da riferire le rappresentazioni degli operai preposti allo scavo delle gallerie ipogee e delle sepolture e forse anche alla realizzazione degli apparati decorativi – i fossores (fig. 5) 37 – e le scene di banchetto (fig. 5) 38 evocative dei riti commemorativi che si svolgevano materialmente in spazi deputati, soprattutto subdiali, e che ripropongono virtualmente, attraverso il linguaggio delle immagini, una sorta di costante e “assicurata” reiterazione della pratica rituale finalizzata alla conservazione della memoria dei defunti. Ad un linguaggio estremamente allusivo e simbolico appartengono la ben nota rappresentazione simmetrica di due pesci con cesti di pani (fig. 9) 39 e il tripode con pane, pesci e sette cesti colmi pure di pani (fig. 10)  4 0; non è il caso di tornare sulla complessa storiografia interpretativa che ha interessato queste immagini, oscillante – in riferimento alla prima raffigurazione – tra le posizioni di stampo “eucaristico” di Joseph Wilpert e quelle decisamente più “laiche” e positiviste di Paul Styger che le definì “nature morte” 41.

36.  F. Bisconti, «Letteratura patristica e iconografia paleocristiana», in A. Quacquarelli (ed.), Complementi interdisciplinari di patrologia, Roma, 1989, p. 393‑397. 37.  Cubicoli A2 e A3 dei “Sacramenti” a Callisto; F. Bisconti, «L1-L2, A1-A6, x-y, c-e . Relitti iconografici e nuovi tracciati figurativi alle origini della pittura catacombale romana», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 22‑24. 38.  Cubicoli A2 e A3 dei “Sacramenti” a Callisto; F. Bisconti, «La decorazione delle catacombe romane», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – F. Bisconti – D. M azzo leni, Le catacombe cristiane di Roma, Regensburg, 1998, p. 108‑112; F. Bisconti, Mestieri nelle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 81‑90; F. Bisconti, «Il vescovo e l’arte: le trame iconografiche tra committenza ed autorappresentazione», in O. Brandt – S. Cresci – J. L ópez Quiroga – C. Pappalardo (ed.), Episcopus, civitas, territorium, Acta XV Congressus Internationalis Archaeologiae Christianae (Toledo, 8‑12.9.2008), Città del Vaticano, 2013, p. 991. Cfr. anche i contributi di N. Zimmermann, «Verstorbene im Bild», Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 50 (2007), p. 171‑173 e N. Zimmermann, «Zur Deutung spätantiker Mahlszenen: Totenmahl im Bild», in G. Danek – I. H ellerschmid (ed.), Rituale – Identitätsstiftende Handlungskomplexe, Wien, 2012, in cui si riesaminano le scene di banchetto nelle catacombe anche alla luce dei più recenti indirizzi di ricerca. 39.  Cubicolo y delle “Cripte di Lucina” a Callisto. 40.  Cubicolo A2 dei “Sacramenti” a Callisto. 41.  C. Carletti, «Origine, committenza e fruizione delle scene bibliche nella produzione figurativa romana del III sec.», Vetera Christianorum 26 (1989), p. 209‑210 con bibliografia a nota 5.

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Fig. 9. Cimitero di Callisto, cubicolo y “Cripte di Lucina”, parete di fondo e particolare (da F. Bisconti 2009).

La questione rimane aperta anche di fronte a più recenti riletture onnicomprensive che includono diversi aspetti: dalla evocazione in forma sintetica del banchetto funebre, alla moltiplicazione dei pani, per poi tornare – anche se in maniera problematica – all’accezione eucaristica 42 . Ad una simile “difficoltà” interpretativa rinvia anche la più antica scena di impositio manuum con accanto una donna expansis manibus, da leggere forse 42.  F. Bisconti, «L1-L2, A1-A6, x-y, c-e . Relitti iconografici e nuovi tracciati figurativi alle origini della pittura catacombale romana», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 41‑43; F. Bisconti, «Immagini cristiane della tarda antichità», in F. Bisconti – O. Brandt (ed.), Lezioni di archeologia cristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2014, p. 510.

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Fig. 10. Cimitero di Callisto, cubicolo A2 dei “Sacramenti” (da F. Bisconti 2009).

come un generico riferimento alla sfera sacrificale a cui rinvia anche il signi­ficato “profano” dell’orante (fig. 5) 43. È indicativo come da tutte queste tematiche (simboliche, di tradizione, scritturistiche, “realistiche”) rimanga sostanzialmente esclusa quella connessa all’autorappresentazione del defunto e dei gruppi familiari – come emergerà invece in seguito –, così come qualsiasi riferimento ai dati retrospettivi. Un aspetto, in cui si può riconoscere un carattere “identitario” – pur circoscritto nel tempo –, che trova coerentemente conferma nella prassi epigrafica delle origini e che sembra invece significativamente contraddetto negli ipogei di diritto privato, come quello coevo degli Aurelii

43.  Cubicolo A3 dei “Sacramenti” a Callisto; F. Bisconti, «La pittura paleocristiana», in A. Donati (ed.), Romana pictura. La pittura romana dalle origini all ’età bizantina, Catalogo della mostra, Milano, 1998, p. 49; F. Bisconti, «Prime decorazioni nelle catacombe romane. Prove di laboratorio, invenzioni e remakes», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 82, 83‑85; F. Bisconti, «La “cristianizzazione” delle immagini in Italia tra Tarda antichità e Alto medioevo», in R.M. Carra Bonacasa – E. Vitale (ed.), La cristianizzazione in Italia fra tardoantico ed altomedioevo, Atti del IX Congresso Nazionale di Archeologia Cristiana (Agrigento, 20‑25 novembre 2004), Palermo, 2007, p. 154‑155; F. Bisconti, «Immagini cristiane della tarda antichità», in F. Bisconti – O. Brandt (ed.), Lezioni di archeologia cristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2014, p. 510. Cfr. anche A. L azzara, «A margine della scena di banchetto», in F. Bisconti (ed.), L’Ipogeo degli Aureli in viale Manzoni. Restauri, tutela, valorizzazione e aggiornamenti interpretativi, Roma, 2011, p. 170 per una rassegna delle diverse proposte interpretative.

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dove la famiglia dei committenti è ripetutamente rappresentata in diverse “pose” e atteggiamenti  4 4 . Nelle primitive pitture catacombali l’autorappresentazione emerge, in maniera indiretta, nel valore in sé della sepoltura privilegiata in cui le deco­ razioni sono rivolte soprattutto ai committenti stessi e al ristretto gruppo di riferimento, cioè a coloro che potevano avere libero accesso alle camere, spesso provviste di sistemi di chiusura 45; questi spazi esclusivi dovevano essere comunque percepiti come tali dagli altri utenti del cimitero, anche se non direttamente fruibili  4 6. Un elemento di attrazione e differenzia­ zione doveva derivare anche solo dal bianco dei rivestimenti parietali, scanditi da linee sottili 47, da cui scaturiva un effetto “luce” contrastante

44.  Cfr.  F. Bisconti (ed.), L’Ipogeo degli Aureli in viale Manzoni. Restauri, tutela, valorizzazione e aggiornamenti interpretativi, Roma, 2011 ed in particolare i seguenti contributi con bibliografia precedente: F. Bisconti, «Il sogno e la quiete: l’altro mondo degli Aureli», p. 14‑15, 16‑17; M. Braconi, «Il cavaliere, il retore, la villa. Le architetture ultraterrene degli Aureli tra simbolo, rito e autorappresentazione», p. 135‑163; C. P roverbio, «La tematica filosofica: un filo conduttore all’interno dell’ipogeo degli Aureli», p. 204, 206, 208‑209. F. Bisconti, «Primi passi di un’arte cristiana. I processi di definizione e l’evoluzione dei significati», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 40‑43. 45.  Al momento non esiste un quantificazione complessiva che evidenzi nelle catacombe l’incidenza numerica dei cubicoli provvisti di porte o cancelli rispetto a quelli concepiti “aperti”; sull’argomento cfr.: L. R eekmans , «Quelques observations sur la stratification sociale et la tumulatio ad sanctos dans les catacombes romaines», in Y. Duval-J.C. P icard (ed.), L’inhumation privilegiée du IVe au VIIIe siècle en Occident, Actes du colloque (Créteil, 16‑18 mars 1984), Paris, 1986, p. 245‑246; C. Carletti, «Origine, committenza e fruizione delle scene bibliche nella produzione figurativa romana del III sec.», Vetera Christianorum 26 (1989), p. 212‑213. Per alcuni esempi cfr.: J. Guyon, Le cimetière «aux deux lauriers». Recherches sur les catacombes romaines, Roma, 1987, p. 53‑96; B. M azzei, «Il cubicolo dell’Annunciazione nelle catacombe di Priscilla», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 75 (1999), p. 243; L. Spera, Il complesso di Pretestato sulla via Appia, Città del Vaticano, 2004, p. 39 (cub. della “coronatio”), 66‑70, 115 e nota 730, 122, 125, 136, 139‑142 (età precostantiniana), 159, 217 e nota 1416, 226, 240, 251 e nota 1665 (IV‑V secolo); C. Carletti, «Le pitture delle catacombe di Roma: restauri e nuove acquisizioni. Chiose di libera lettura a proposito di un nuovo libro», Archeologia Medievale 40 (2013), p. 455‑456. Più in generale cfr. D. Nuzzo, Tipologia sepolcrale delle catacombe romane. I cimiteri ipogei delle vie Ostiense, Ardeatina e Appia, Oxford, 2000, p. 199‑201, 203‑204. 46.  H. von H esberg, «Modi di autorappresentazione nell’ambito di ipogei e catacombe di Roma», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Atti della giornata tematica dei Seminari di Archeologia Cristiana (Roma, 21 marzo 2005), Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 49‑63, in particolare p. 63; G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 26‑28. 47.  Vedi supra.

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con l’atmosfera scura degli spazi limitrofi, scavati semplicemente nel tufo e non intonacati 48. IV. L’ i mm agi na r io

figu r at i vo

È difficile ricomporre in maniera univoca e unitaria un panorama rappresentativo così vario e diversificato, anche se circoscritto nel tempo e nello spazio. Si propongono, dunque, alcuni spunti di riflessione. Riguardo i modi della rappresentazione, è ben noto che le immagini selezionate negli apparati decorativi rispondono ad una spiccata tendenza abbreviativa, ravvisabile soprattutto nei temi scritturistici, che connoterà in maniera ripetitiva e standardizzata anche i repertori di epoca successiva. Mancano elementi descrittivi tratti dai testi di riferimento, manca la contestualizzazione spazio-temporale; il riconoscimento è dato esclusivamente da alcuni dettagli e/o gesti “chiave” che connotano la scena 49. Non è possibile in questa sede tornare sulle complesse questioni interpretative connesse a tale modalità espressiva, ma è importante ribadire che se da un lato essa sembra rispondere ad un codice di decodificazione comune, dall’altro è da escludere – a mio avviso – che alla base ci sia un bagaglio informativo di carattere teologico e dogmatico approfondito, leggibile nelle rielaborazioni iconografiche in maniera stringente e definita 50. Certamente, tra le fun48.  F. Bisconti, «La decorazione delle catacombe romane», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – F. Bisconti – D. M azzoleni, Le catacombe cristiane di Roma, Regensburg, 1998, p. 72‑73, 88‑89; F. Bisconti, «L1-L2, A1-A6, x-y, c-e . Relitti iconografici e nuovi tracciati figurativi alle origini della pittura catacombale romana», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 49. 49.  La bibliografia su questo tema è sterminata; a titolo esemplificativo e per dare ragione della storia delle ricerche in proposito si citano: C. Carletti, «Origine, committenza e fruizione delle scene bibliche nella produzione figurativa romana del III sec.», Vetera Christianorum 26 (1989), p. 216‑219; F.W. Deichmann, Archeologia Cristiana, Roma, 1993, p. 129, 145 (bibliografia); F. Bisconti, «Introduzione», in F. Bisconti (ed.), Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 20, 26‑28, 31‑35; G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 27; C. Carletti, «Le pitture delle catacombe di Roma: restauri e nuove acquisizioni. Chiose di libera lettura a proposito di un nuovo libro», Archeologia Medievale 40 (2013), p. 453‑454. 50.  C. Carletti, «Origine, committenza e fruizione delle scene bibliche nella produzione figurativa romana del III sec.», Vetera Christianorum 26 (1989), p. 218; G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 16, 26‑27. È maggiormente orientato a riconoscere una funzione docetica nelle immagini F. Bisconti, «Introduzione», in F. Bisconti (ed.), Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 31; I d., «La “cristianizzazione” delle immagini in Italia tra Tarda antichità e Alto medioevo», in R.M. Carra Bonacasa – E. Vitale (ed.), La cristianizzazione in Italia fra tardoantico ed altomedioevo, Palermo, 2007, p. 155; cfr. le sue recenti

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zioni primarie di questi apparati decorativi è da considerare l’intento, del tutto trasversale nel tempo e nello spazio, di decorare l’ambiente sepolcrale per “accompagnare” il defunto nel suo ultimo viaggio e per preservarne la memoria anche attraverso l’affermazione di un privilegio acquisito. I processi connessi alle modalità di ricezione e trasmissione delle immagini di queste prime manifestazioni sono estremamente complessi e certamente non del tutto chiari; essi coinvolgono, in modo differente, i committenti diretti, gli esecutori materiali – cioè gli artigiani –, i possibili utenti e frequentatori degli spazi interessati. Si tratta di una fase di sperimentazione in cui bisogna presupporre diversi livelli di lettura, condizionati dalle attitudini, dalle sensibilità, dalle competenze individuali 51; tra queste naturalmente non si deve escludere anche la formazione religiosa e la catechesi, che possono essere connesse all’origine dell’ispirazione e non identificate con il fine ultimo delle rappresentazioni 52 . In questa “variabilità” di stimoli sono probabilmente da collocare le scene uniche o precoci, anche se si deve tener presente che esse possono rappresentare anelli di una catena che conosciamo solo in parte 53. In alcuni casi, le scelte possono essere state condizionate da interessi specifici della committenza, forse legata ad ambienti ecclesiastici interessati a far emergere determinate tematiche, come è stato recentemente proposto per le immagini mariane ispirate al mistero dell’incarnazione del Verbo (Priscilla, cfr. figg. 6 e 7) 54 . e interessanti riflessioni in merito in cui si rivaluta tale valore didattico, sottolineando la condivisione dei codici figurativi tra diversi ambiti, compresi quelli – non di carattere funerario – in cui è possibile ipotizzare un’attività catechetica: F. Bisconti, «L1-L2, A1-A6, x-y, c-e . Relitti iconografici e nuovi tracciati figurativi alle origini della pittura catacombale romana», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 50‑52; F. Bisconti, «Il vescovo e l’arte: le trame iconografiche tra committenza ed autorappresentazione», in O. Brandt – S. Cresci – J. L ópez Quiroga – C. Pappalardo (ed.), Episcopus, civitas, territorium, Città del Vaticano, 2013, p. 992; F. Bisconti, «Immagini cristiane della tarda antichità», in F. Bisconti – O. Brandt (ed.), Lezioni di archeologia cristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2014, p. 512. 51.  F. Bisconti, «La pittura paleocristiana», in A. Donati (ed.), Romana pictura. La pittura romana dalle origini all ’età bizantina, Catalogo della mostra, Milano, 1998, p. 47‑50; F. Bisconti, «Prime decorazioni nelle catacombe romane. Prove di laboratorio, invenzioni e remakes», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 89; F. Bisconti, «L1-L2, A1-A6, x-y, c-e . Relitti iconografici e nuovi tracciati figurativi alle origini della pittura catacombale romana», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 21, 47. 52.  G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 27. 53.  F. Bisconti, «La “coronatio” di Pretestato. Storia delle manomissioni del passato e riflessioni sui recenti restauri», in F. Bisconti, Le pitture delle catacombe romane. Restauri ed interpretazioni, Todi, 2011, p. 102. 54.  B. M azzei, «Il cubicolo dell’Annunciazione nelle catacombe di Priscilla», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 75 (1999), p. 277‑280.

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D’altra parte, è opportuno non estrapolare le immagini tratte dal reper­ torio scritturistico dal resto della decorazione che costituiva il progetto iconografico dell’ambiente, in cui la compresenza di “sacro” e “profano”, l’alternanza di elementi “neutri” 55, allusivi di un mondo ultraterreno descritto come parádeisos 56, ed elementi tratti dalla vita reale e quotidiana evidentemente non disturbava il committente, ma anzi costituiva, nella sua variabilità, la rappresentazione ideale di una sensibilità polivalente e sfaccettata. A partire da queste prime esperienze 57, gli apparati decorativi dei com­ plessi cimiteriali si diffondono e si articolano secondo modelli piuttosto standardizzati, anche se conservano sempre il loro carattere riservato ed elitario. Tra i motivi di tale standardizzazione è certamente da riconoscere anche il semplice spirito di emulazione nella trasmissione dei modelli – pur soggetti a variabili individuali –, come per esempio emerge chiaramente nelle pitture dei tre cubicoli dell’Area I nel cimitero di Callisto aperti, nei decenni successivi, sulla stessa galleria matrice di quelli più antichi (fig. 1c). In essi ritroviamo la storia di Giona, il miracolo della rupe, la resurrezione di Lazzaro, il tema del banchetto, le immagini dei fossori 58. Queste prime formulazioni di un dossier iconografico di committenza cristiana, dunque, si pongono alla base del processo di formalizzazione di un “immaginario” collettivo. Evidentemente con il termine “collettivo” 55.  Per alcune riflessioni sul termine “neutro” cfr. i contributi di F. Bisconti e C. Carletti nella Tavola Rotonda in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 264‑265. 56.  F. Bisconti «Sulla concezione figurativa dell’“habitat” paradisiaco: a proposito di un affresco romano poco noto», in F. Bisconti, Le pitture delle catacombe romane. Restauri ed interpretazioni, Todi, 2011, p. 166‑173 (= Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 66 (1990), p. 25‑80); I d., «Memorie classiche nelle decorazioni pittoriche delle catacombe romane. Continuità grafiche e variazioni semantiche», in Historiam Pictura Refert. Miscellanea in onore di p. A. Recio Veganzones O.M., Città del Vaticano, 1994, p. 51‑58; F. Bisconti, «La pittura paleocristiana», in A. Donati (ed.), Romana pictura. La pittura romana dalle origini all ’età bizantina, Catalogo della mostra, Milano, 1998, p. 39‑41; C. Carletti, «Le pitture delle catacombe di Roma: restauri e nuove acquisizioni. Chiose di libera lettura a proposito di un nuovo libro», Archeologia Medievale 40 (2013), p. 453‑459. 57.  Per l’analisi dei coevi contesti di area napoletana cfr. il contributo di Mara Amodio in questo volume. 58.  Cubicoli A4, A5, A6 dei “Sacramenti” (seconda metà III secolo); V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon , «Relire Styger: les origines de l’Area I du cimetière de Calliste et la Crypta des papes», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 144‑152; F. Bisconti, «L1L2, A1-A6, x-y, c-e . Relitti iconografici e nuovi tracciati figurativi alle origini della pittura catacombale romana», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 28‑37. In generale sul fenomeno imitativo in età romana cfr. P. Z anker , «Il mondo delle immagini e la comunicazione», in A. Giardina (ed.), Roma antica. Storia di Roma dall ’antichità a oggi, Roma-Bari, 2000, p. 218.

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non intendo riferirmi ad una modalità di diffusione di tipo quantitativo, dato il carattere fortemente elitario delle testimonianze, bensì alla gra­duale condivisione di un codice e di un linguaggio comuni, che attraversano diversi aspetti e momenti della vita sociale e quotidiana, divenendo uno strumento di comunicazione. A questo fanno pensare, per esempio, le significative coincidenze tra alcune immagini dei cubicoli esaminati (sama­ ritana al pozzo 59; paralitico risanato) e quelle che decorano l’ambiente battesimale della domus ecclesiae di Dura Europos, riferibile al 240 circa (fig. 11), quindi vicine cronologicamente, ma molto lontane dal punto di vista geografico 60.

59.  R. Bucolo, «La samaritana al pozzo nel cubicolo A3 della catacomba di s. Callisto tra funzione iconografica e interpretazione patristica», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 111‑117. 60.  Sulla possibilità che «l’arte cristiana abbia un unico comune denominatore, sorto, con ogni probabilità, nell’ambito di un edificio di culto o di un suo annesso, dove naturalmente ed opportunamente doveva e poteva svolgersi pure l’attività della catechesi» vedi F. Bisconti, «L1-L2, A1-A6, x-y, c-e . Relitti iconografici e nuovi tracciati figurativi alle origini della pittura catacombale romana», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 52. Cfr. anche F. Bisconti, «Introduzione», in F. Bisconti (ed.), Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 28‑29; F. Bisconti, «Immagini cristiane della tarda antichità», in F. Bisconti – O. Brandt (ed.), Lezioni di archeologia cristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2014, p. 512‑513. In generale per le pitture del battistero di Dura Europos C.H. K raeling , «The Christian Building», in The Excavation at Dura Europos. Final Report, VIII, 2, New Haven, 1967; cfr. anche F. Bisconti, «La pittura paleocristiana», in A. Donati (ed.), Romana pictura. La pittura romana dalle origini all ’età bizantina, Catalogo della mostra, Milano, 1998, p. 44‑45; F.W. Deichmann, Archeologia Cristiana, Roma, 1993, p. 113‑116, 143 (bibliografia); cfr. anche G. Cantino Wataghin, «I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione», Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 28 con bibliografia aggiornata a nota 140.

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Fig. 11. a) Cimitero di Callisto, cubicolo A3 dei “Sacramenti”, particolare parete d’ingresso (da F. Bisconti 2009); b) Dura Europos, battistero, riproduzione affresco (da C.H. Kraeling 1967).

DOCUMENTI EPIGRAFICI DI COMMITTENZA EBRAICA. OMOLOGAZIONE E ALTERITÀ Antonio Enrico Felle 1. Il repertorio epigrafico di committenza giudaica databile tra l’età ellenistica e la Tarda Antichità a tutto il secolo VII, ad oggi 1 conta in tutto poco meno di 2500 documenti, in larghissima parte di funzione funeraria 2 . I dati che qui si presentano (fig. 1) sono desunti dalle edizioni scientifiche più recenti 3 che, considerate nel loro insieme, coprono interamente l’ambito geografico del noto Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaicarum, edito da Jean-Baptiste Frey nel 1936 4 ed ormai ad oggi superato, anche considerandone l’aggiornamento curato da Baruch Lifshitz nel 1975 5. 1.  Nel contributo si definiscono – spero in meglio – alcune delle tracce di ricerca che hanno avuto esito in alcuni miei precedenti interventi: A.E. Felle , «Echi della polemica antigiudaica nella documentazione epigrafica cristiana occidentale. Un primo approccio», Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 14/1 (1997), p. 207‑219; A.E. Felle , «Judaism and Christianity in the light of epigraphic evidence (3rd-7th cent. C.E.)», Henoch 29 (2007), p. 354‑377 (cui è seguito un aggiornamento e ampliamento in versione italiana: A.E. Felle , «Ebraismo e Cristianesimo alla luce della documentazione epigrafica», La Parola del Passato. Rivista di studi antichi 62 [2007], p. 148‑184). 2.  Il dato attuale si discosta in positivo dal totale complessivo di circa 2000 epigrafi segnalato per il medesimo arco temporale da P.W. van der Horst circa venticinque anni fa: vedi P.W. van der Horst, Ancient Jewish epitaphs: an introductory survey of a millennium of Jewish funerary epigraphy (300 BCE-700 CE), Kampen, 1991, 19962 , p. 15‑16. In quelle stesse pagine lo studioso richiama la alta incidenza degli epitaffi, circa l’80% della documentazione, che trova conferma anche ad oggi. Non è qui considerata la documentazione d’età precedente, per la quale rimando a G. Davies et alii (ed.), Ancient Hebrew Inscriptions, voll. I-II, Cambridge, 1991‑2004. 3.  Salvo il caso dell’Africa romana, su cui cfr. Y. L e Bohec , «Inscriptions juïves et judaïsantes dans l’Afrique romaine», Antiquités africaines 17 (1981), p. 165‑207, con gli opportuni rilievi di H. Solin (H. Solin, «Gli Ebrei d ’Africa: una nota», in L’Africa Romana. Atti dell ’VIII convegno di Studio (Cagliari, 14‑16 dicembre 1990), Sassari, 1991, p. 615‑623). Così scriveva in una lettera J.B. Frey, poco prima della scomparsa che interruppe il suo lavoro: «Dopo […] rimarranno soltanto le iscrizioni dell’Africa (circa 200 e quasi tutte in latino)»: da G. Belvederi, «Introduzione», in J.B. Frey, Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaicarum, vol. II: Asie – Afrique, Città del Vaticano, 1952, p. V. 4. J. B. Frey (ed.), Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaicarum. Recueil des inscrip­tions juives qui vont du IIIe siècle avant Jésus-Christ au VIIe siècle de notre ère, vol. I. Europe, Città del Vaticano, 1936; vol. II: Asie - Afrique, Città del Vaticano, 1952 [= CII]. 5. J. B. Frey (ed.), Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaicarum. Recueil des inscrip­tions juives qui vont du IIIe siècle avant Jésus-Christ au VIIe siècle de notre ère, vol. I. Europe; with a Prolegomenon by B. Lifshitz , New York 19752 . Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 741–767 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111728 ©

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Credo di utilità generale richiamare al proposito le Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt per i documenti di Egitto e Cirenaica 6; i due volumi delle Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe dedicati rispettivamente a Roma 7 e al resto d’Italia e d’Occidente 8; i tre volumi finora apparsi delle Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis, che raccolgono rispettivamente le epigrafi della penisola balcanica e della Grecia, dell’Asia Minore, infine di Cipro e dell’area siriana 9. A questi corpora – che come si evince dai loro titoli raccolgono appunto le iscrizioni considerate “giudaiche” – si affiancano ora i tre volumi del recente Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae 10 .

Fig. 1. Epigrafi giudaiche, distribuzione complessiva sulla base dei corpora e delle principali edizioni.

6.  W. Horbury – D. Noy (ed.), Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Egypt, Cambridge – New York, 1992 [= JIGRE]. 7.  D. Noy (ed.), Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe, vol.  II: Roma, Cambridge 1995 (= JIWE, II). Alla bibliografia sulle iscrizioni giudaiche di Roma deve ora aggiungersi l’edizione aggiornata delle epigrafi della catacomba di Monteverde: A. Negroni, «Le iscrizioni», in D. Rossi – M. Di M ento (ed.), La catacomba ebraica di Monteverde: vecchi dati e nuove scoperte, Roma, 2013, p. 155‑319. 8.  D. Noy (ed.), Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe, vol. I: Italy (excluding the City of Rome), Spain and Gaul, Cambridge, 1993 [= JIWE, I]. 9.  Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis [= IJO]. Vol. I, Eastern Europe, ed. by D. Noy – A. Panayotov – H. Bloedhorn, Tübingen, 2004; vol. II, Kleinasien, hrsg. von W. A meling, Tübingen, 2004 ; vol. III, Syria and Cyprus, ed. by D. Noy – H. Bloedhorn, Tübingen, 2004. 10.  Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae / Palaestinae. A multi-lingual corpus of the inscriptions from Alexander to Muhammad, voll. I-III, Berlin-New York, 2010‑2012 [= CIIP].

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Come si evince dalla sua intitolazione, a differenza degli altri corpora sopra richiamati, quest’ultimo nella definizione della sua base documentaria è basato soltanto su un criterio geografico: al suo interno non è operata una articolazione su base linguistica, alfabetica né tantomeno religiosa 11. Tale distinzione sarebbe stata effettivamente incongrua per un contesto – come appunto quello della attuale Terra Santa – in cui convivono in stretto contatto e per lungo tempo gruppi diversi dal punto di vista etnico, religioso, linguistico, nonché scrittorio – aspetto rilevante per la documentazione epigrafica. Ritengo che a motivare ulteriormente la scelta degli editori di questo corpus in favore di una trattazione unitaria della locale documentazione epigrafica senza distinzione tra iscrizioni ebraiche, pagane, cristiane sia stata anche la difficoltà, del resto costantemente evidenziata nelle pagine introduttive di ognuno degli altri corpora dedicati esplicitamente alla documentazione epigrafica degli Ebrei nel mondo antico, di pervenire ad una definizione affidabile e univoca di “epigrafe giudaica”. Difficoltà notevole, tanto che è stato proposto di aggiungere una terza categoria alle due – ovvie – di “iscrizione giudaica” o “non giudaica”: quella di “iscrizione possibilmente giudaica” 12 . Tale soluzione del resto appariva già sottesa nel titolo che Yann Le Bohec assegnava nel 1981 alla sua edizione delle Inscriptions juïves et judaïsantes dans l ’Afrique romaine 13, che proprio per la sua indubbia indefinitezza aveva provocato giustificati rilievi da parte di Heikki Solin 14 , studioso che si è più volte autorevolmente occupato delle testimonianze della presenza degli Ebrei nel mondo antico 15. 11.  L’opera trova un corrispondente sul web, nelle Inscriptions of Israel / Palestine, che al momento raccoglie meno documenti: cfr. http://cds.library.brown.edu/ projects/Inscriptions/. 12.  Cfr. http://cds.library.brown.edu/projects/Inscriptions/resources/HentenHui tinkInscriptions.pdf, p. 2: «The outcome of this debate is that in many cases one cannot be sure of a Jewish origin, because one criterion is often not decisive; unfortunately, two or more criteria are not always met, simply because inscriptions lack the information for checking more than one criterion. What should be done about such inscriptions? How should the balance be tipped in favour of putting the inscriptions in either the Jewish or else in the non-Jewish category? Or should we acknowledge that we do not know sometimes, or that in some instances we can argue either way? Evidently, the latter position may lead to a third category of possible Jewish inscriptions». 13.  Y. L e Bohec , «Inscriptions juïves et judaïsantes dans l’Afrique romaine», Antiquités africaines 17 (1981), p. 165‑207. 14.  H. Solin, «Gli Ebrei d’Africa: una nota», in L’Africa Romana. Atti dell ’VIII convegno di Studio (Cagliari, 14‑16 dicembre 1990), Sassari, 1991, p. 615‑623. 15.  Richiamo qui per brevità il solo H. Solin, «Juden und Syrer im westlichen Teil der römischen Welt. Eine ethnisch-demographische Studie mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der sprachlichen Zustände», in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, II. Sprache und Literatur, vol. 29.2, Berlin – New York, 1983,

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Da una visione di insieme dei principali corpora pertinenti alla documentazione epigrafica riconducibile a committenza giudaica si può facilmente evincere che gli elementi considerati utili a stabilire la pertinenza di un documento epigrafico all’ambito ebraico non sono sempre i medesimi, e inoltre non appaiono avere, nei vari corpora, un medesimo peso specifico 16. In un elenco che proceda su base semplicemente logica, dal generale al particolare, gli elementi che finora individuano un documento epigrafico come pertinente ad ambito ebraico sono i seguenti: (1) contesti riconosciuti come afferenti a committenza d’ambito ebraico, come edifici di riunione o luoghi riservati di sepoltura; (2) elementi di lingua e/o scrittura ebraica e/o aramaica; (3) elementi con certezza riconducibili ad ambito ebraico e in particolare: a. termini di autoidentificazione espliciti (essenzialmente Iudaeus, ᾿Ιουδαῖος); b. elementi onomastici nonché formulari considerati tipicamente ebraici; c. la menzione di comunità – cioè “sinagoghe”; d. il ricordo di cariche onorifiche o di compiti di responsabilità connessi con le comunità; e. i rimandi a feste religiose peculiari; (4) elementi figurativi precipui dell’ebraismo. Data la oggettiva difficoltà di collegamento univoco di determinate soluzioni monumentali ad un ambito religioso piuttosto che ad un altro, il primo elemento – che in teoria sarebbe quello più affidabile – nella realtà è del tutto secondario: nel senso che il riconoscimento di contesti come “ebraici”, nella quasi totalità dei casi, dipende dal rinvenimento in essi di oggetti, epigrafi, figurazioni che intrinsecamente indicano una committenza e una fruizione di ambito ebraico 17. L’uso del criterio della lingua e della scrittura ebraica e/o aramaica per individuare i documenti di committenza giudaica si rivela nel complesso poco utile: se per l’ambito israelo-palestinese l’uso – peraltro non esclusivo – di lingua e scrittura aramaica e/o ebraica è ovvio 18, nell’ebraismo della diaspora i primi esempi, inoltre sporadici, di uso di lingua e scrittura ebraica nelle iscrizioni non sono invece anteriori alla fine del III - inizi del IV secolo d.C. Una selezione della documentazione sulla base di questo criterio escluderebbe a priori moltissime epigrafi pertinenti a committenza p. 587‑789; Indices, p. 1222‑1249; gli altri contributi del medesimo studioso sul giudaismo nel mondo classico sono richiamati alla pagina http://www.helsinki.fi/ hum/kla/solin/solin_uk1b.html#Judaism. 16.  Cfr. anche gli argomenti di E.L. Gibson, The Jewish manumission inscriptions of the Bosporus Kingdom, Tübingen, 1999, p. 6‑10. 17.  Va ricordato che non mancano casi di reimpiego di materiali (a partire dalle lucerne) di committenza ebraica in contesti utilizzati da altri gruppi, in primo luogo da cristiani. 18.  Ma non esclusivo: committenti ebrei, anche a Gerusalemme e immediati dintorni, appaiono adottare per le loro epigrafi funerarie il greco, come si vede anche nelle iscrizioni degli ossuari (tutti anteriori al 70), usualmente consistenti del solo nome accompagnato talvolta da patronimico.

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giudaica, che in larga maggioranza sono in lingua e scrittura greca 19. Bisogna quindi necessariamente considerare anche la vasta documentazione epigrafica in greco (o in latino) in cui rinvenire elementi incontrovertibilmente riconducibili all’ambito ebraico, ovviamente in primo luogo termini autoidentificativi (quali Iudaeus, ᾿Ιουδαῖος 20: fig. 2), richiami espliciti alle sinagoghe, la menzione di responsabilità connesse con le comunità 21 (fig. 3), i rimandi a festività ebraiche. Tutti questi elementi, comunque, non sono particolarmente frequenti.

Fig. 2. Sala (Chellah), Marocco. Ora a Rabat, Museo Archeologico Nazionale. Epitaffio di Mareinos Ptolemaios, Ioudeos. II-III secolo. Le Bohec 1981, n. 78 (foto A.E. Felle).

19.  Si veda a questo proposito la documentazione di Leontopolis (Tell el Yehoudieh) in Egitto, uno dei nuclei documentari epigrafici giudaici più antichi, risalente ad epoca ellenistica: vedi JIGRE, nn. 29‑105. 20.  Exempli gratia vedi l’epigrafe funeraria di Bucoleone e di Ponziana, “la giudea”: Βουκολίουν τοῦ ἱοῦ Ἑρμίου κ(αὶ) Ποντιανῆς τῆς Ἰουδέας (CII, I, 697, da Larissa in Tessaglia); o quello di Mareinos Ptolemaios, Ioudeos, da Sala (Chellah), in Marocco (ora a Rabat, Museo Archeologico Nazionale): Μαρεῖνος  / Πτολεμαῖ/ ος Ἰου/δέος (Y. L e Bohec , «Inscriptions juïves et judaïsantes dans l’Afrique romaine», Antiquités africaines 17 [1981], n. 78). 21.  Cfr. per esempio l’iscrizione funeraria di Salo, figlia di Gadias, pater synagogae, di incerta origine (si conserva a Roma, Museo Nazionale delle Terme di Diocleziano): ὦδε κεῖτε Σαλὼ θυγάτηρ Γαδία πατρὸς συναγωγῆς Αἱβρέων. ἐβίωσεν ((ἔτη)) μα´ ἐν εἰρήνῃ ἡ κοίμησεις αὐτῆς (CII, I, 510; JIWE, II, 2, n. 578).

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Fig. 3. Roma, catacomba di Monteverde. Ora al Museo Nazionale delle Terme di Diocleziano. Epitaffio di Salo, figlia di Gadias, pater synagogae Hebraeorum. IV secolo. CII, I, 510 (foto A.E. Felle).

La considerazione degli elementi onomastici risulta anch’essa non proprio affidabilissima: molte iscrizioni pertinenti a contesti per altro verso sicuramente giudaici, come ad esempio le catacombe romane di Vigna Randanini, di Monteverde, di Villa Torlonia, di Vigna Cimarra 22 o anche 22.  Sulle catacombe ebraiche di Roma, per brevità si segnala il recente E. L au«Oltre Monteverde: altre catacombe ebraiche a Roma. Una proposta di let-

renzi,

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quelle – parimenti note – di Venosa nell’attuale Basilicata 23 hanno restituito documenti funerari di Ebrei e loro congiunti che recano sia nomi di tradizione ebraica, sia di tradizione ellenistico-romana 24 , che appare largamente prevalere 25 secondo un percorso di assimilazione 26 (fig. 4).

Fig. 4. Roma, via Appia, catacomba giudaica di vigna Randanini. Tomba “a forno” (kokh), con in situ l’epitaffio del grammateus Petronius, dedicato dai genitori Honoratus e Petronia. IV secolo. CII, I, 149; JIWE, ΙΙ, 2, 223.

tura sintetica ed analitica», in D. Rossi – M. Di M ento (ed.), La catacomba ebraica di Monteverde: vecchi dati e nuove scoperte, Roma, 2013, p. 76‑91, con indicazione della bibliografia precedente. In generale, sulle comunità giudaiche di Roma e Ostia, vedi K. H edner-Zetterholm, «The Jewish communities of ancient Rome», in The synagogue of ancient Ostia and the Jews of Rome. Interdisciplinary studies, Stockholm, 2001, p. 131‑140. 23.  Da ultimo vedi C. Colafemmina, «Le catacombe ebraiche nell’Italia meridionale e nell’area sicula: Venosa, Siracusa, Noto, Lipari, Malta», in M. Perani (ed.), I beni culturali ebraici in Italia. Situazione attuale, problemi, prospettive e progetti per il futuro, Ravenna, 2003, p. 119‑146. 24.  Come per esempio nell’epitaffio del grammateus Petronius, dedicato dai genitori Honoratus and Petronia, ancora in situ nella catacomba romana di vigna Randanini, sulla via Appia: Ὁνορατὸς πατήρ / γραμματεὸς Πε/τρωνία μήτηρ Πε/ τρωνίῳ γραμματεῷ  / ὑῷ ἀσυνκρίτῳ. ἔζησην  / ἔτη κδ´ μῆν(ας) δ´ ἡ(μέρας) ιε´ ἐν/θάδε κεῖται ἐν εἰρή/νῃ κοίμησις αὐτοῦ (CII, I, 149; JIWE, II, 2, 223). 25.  Cfr.  L.V. Rutgers , «Interaction and its limits: some notes on the Jews of Sicily in Late Antiquity», Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 115 (1997), p. 245‑256. 26.  Illuminanti nell’uso dei nomi come criterio di identificazione della committenza ebraica dei documenti epigrafici i rilievi di H. Solin, «Gli Ebrei d’Africa: una nota», in L’Africa Romana. Atti dell ’VIII convegno di Studio (Cagliari, 14‑16 dicembre 1990), Sassari, 1991, p. 615‑623.

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Più affidabili segnali di committenza ebraica sono taluni elementi figurati – classico esempio, la menorah, ancora oggi “logo” dell’ebraismo, ma anche altri – la cui presenza comunque si rileva solo in epoca piuttosto avanzata (fig. 5).

Fig. 5. Roma, porta s. Sebastiano. Ora nel Museo Nazionale delle Terme. Sarcofago di Faustina recante l’acclamazione in ebraico (‫שלומ‬, shalom) e figurazione di lulav, menorah, shofar. IV secolo. CII, I, 283; JIWE, 2, 535 (foto A.E. Felle).

Questi elementi potenzialmente utili all’individuazione della committenza ebraica di un’epigrafe non sono ovviamente compresenti e cambiano, come ovvio, nel tempo, secondo una dinamica nella quale da una prevalente tendenza all’assimilazione alla prassi epigrafica dominante si procede progressivamente verso una sempre più marcata evidenza di segnali di affermazione di una identità distinta e separata. 2. La quasi totalità (701) delle 714 iscrizioni di Gerusalemme censibili come ebraiche nel Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae / Palaestinae sono quelle, consistenti essenzialmente nel solo nome dei defunti, corredato talvolta dal patronimico 27 e tracciate alquanto rozzamente in ebraico, aramaico, greco – anche compresenti – sui noti ossuari (fig. 6), pertinenti a insediamenti funerari che per ragioni topografiche ed archeologiche sono databili in un periodo compreso tra il I secolo a.C. e la distruzione del 70 d.C. 28.

27.  Vedi T.L. Donaldson, «Jerusalem ossuary inscriptions and the status of Jewish proselytes», in S.G. Wilson – M. Desjardins (ed.), Text and artifact in the religions of Mediterranean antiquity: essays in honour of Peter Richardson, Toronto, 2000, p. 372‑388, part. p. 379‑380. Poche eccezioni confermano tale regola: vedi Corpus Inscriptionum Iudeae/Palaestinae, I: Jerusalem, part 1: 1‑704 [= CIIP, I, 1], Berlin – Boston, 2010, nn. 98, 392; Corpus Inscriptionum Iudeae/ Palaestinae, I: Jerusalem, part 2: 705‑1120 [= CIIP, I, 2], Berlin – Boston, 2012, n. 1119. 28.  L.Y. R ahmani, A catalogue of Jewish ossuaries in the collections of the State of Israel, Jerusalem, 1994, p. 21‑23.

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Fig. 6. Gerusalemme, ipogeo funerario detto “di Caiaphas”, presso la Hass Promenade. Ossuario di Joseph Qyf ’. L’epigrafe, in aramaico, è graffita sul lato minore sinistro. CIIP, I, 1, 461. I sec. a.C. - I sec. d.C.

Questi oggetti credo evidenzino un circoscritto tentativo di assimilazione alla dominante prassi funeraria ellenistico-romana, sia per i motivi ornamentali che decorano gli ossuari – che talvolta li assimilano a veri e propri piccoli sarcofagi (fig. 7), sia per la presenza dell’epigrafe identificativa del defunto, la quale però, o per posizionamento o per bassa qualità esecutiva, appare disorganica rispetto al supporto materiale di pertinenza, come fossero elemento di non primaria importanza – come invece di norma accade nel monumentum funerario ellenistico e poi romano, rivolto ad un pubblico più ampio di quello, esclusivamente familiare, previsto invece per questi oggetti 29.

29.  Cfr. T.L. Donaldson, «Jerusalem ossuary inscriptions and the status of  Jewish proselytes», in S.G. Wilson – M. Desjardins (ed.), Text and artifact in the religions of Mediterranean antiquity: essays in honour of Peter Richardson, Toronto, 2000, p. 372‑388, part. p. 380‑381. Esemplificativa a questo proposito l’epigrafe invece accuratamente eseguita sull’ossario di Ἰούδας, un proselita, forse proveniente da Lagania, in Asia Minore: cfr. CIIP, I, 1, n. 551.

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Fig. 7. Gerusalemme, Israel Museum. Ossuari da Mount Scopus e Katamon (cfr. L.Y. Rahmani, A  Catalogue of Jewish ossuaries in the collections of the State of Israel, Jerusalem 1994, n. 482 pl. 72 e CIIP, I, 1, n. 374). I sec. a.C. - I sec. d.C.

Il caso delle oltre 700 epigrafi degli ossuari di Gerusalemme nel panorama generale costituisce – credo sia il caso di rilevarlo – un caso circoscritto e particolare 30; analogamente isolato anche il dossier epigrafico di Leontopolis in Egitto, con una settantina di iscrizioni databili con certezza tra il II secolo a.C. e il regno di Vespasiano 31. Dopo la distruzione del Tempio di Gerusalemme e fino alla fine dell’Antichità il quadro della distribuzione della documentazione epigrafica di committenza giudaica cambia profondamente (fig. 8): se a Gerusalemme, dal 70 fino alla conquista araba del 638 sono censibili come ebraiche 32 soltanto 13 epigrafi, tutte inoltre di datazione avanzata (tra V e VII secolo, se non oltre), il massimo numero di documenti epigrafici disponibili proviene da Roma, relativi appunto alle note catacombe in uso tra III e IV secolo 33. Anche 30.  Cfr. C. H eszer , «Jewish Literacy and the Use of Writing in Late Roman Palestine», in R. K almin – S. Schwartz (ed.), Jewish Culture and Society under the Christian Roman Empire, Leuven, 2003, p. 149‑193, part. p. 168‑170. 31.  JIWE, I, nn. 29‑105. L’insediamento è precisamente datato dal regno di Tolomeo VI Philometor (180‑145 a.C.), che consenti la realizzazione del locale tempio ebraico, sino alla sua chiusura su ordine di Vespasiano tra 73 e 74 d.C. 32.  Riconoscibili come tali essenzialmente per l’uso della scrittura e della lingua: cfr. CIIP, I, 2, nn. 752; 790, 791, 881, 953, 954, 957, 981, 1001, 1016, 1017, 1018, 1027. Dubbi per la cronologia, forse medievale, dei nn. 953, 954, 1017, 1018. 33.  Una retrodatazione degli insediamenti ipogei funerari degli ebrei di Roma a partire dal II secolo è stata proposta sulla base di analisi al 14 C: vedi da ultimo

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nelle altre regioni del mondo antico la documentazione di committenza ebraica si colloca cronologicamente in massima parte in età tarda, tra III e VII secolo  3 4 , sebbene – credo non sia inutile sottolinearlo – l’esistenza di gruppi e comunità giudaiche in tutto l’orbis antiquus in età pieno imperiale sia un fatto storico sicuro, attestato da numerose fonti 35.

Fig. 8. Epigrafi giudaiche, distribuzione complessiva sulla base dei corpora e delle principali edizioni: III-VII secolo (cfr. fig. 1).

Su questa discrepanza tra dato storico e documentazione epigrafica disponibile credo utile richiamare le parole di un noto contributo di Ross S. Kraemer di circa venti anni fa, che ritengo siano ancora oggi pienamente condivisibili: «molte iscrizioni realizzate da Ebrei non contenevano alcun elemento specificatamente ebraico […] particolarmente in contesti dove gli Ebrei erano bene integrati nelle comunità dominanti, come in molte L.V. Rutgers – K. van der Borg – A.F.M. de Jong – A. Provoost, «Sul problema di come datare le catacombe ebraiche di Roma», Bulletin Antieke Beschaving 81 (2006), p. 169‑184. 34.  D. Noy, «Where were the Jews of the Diaspora buried?», in M. Goodman (ed.), Jews in a Graeco-Roman World, Oxford – New York, 1998, p. 75‑89, a p. 79 rileva che in tutto l’Occidente romano solo sette documenti chiaramente giudaici sono anteriori al III secolo; JIWE, I, nn. 7 da Aquileia (I sec. a. C.), con menzione di Iudaeus; 14 (Ostia, I-II sec.: archisyn(agogus)); 18 (Ostia, II sec.: Iudaeorum, gerusia…); 23 (Marano, Campania, I sec.: gerusiarches); 26 (Napoli, fine I sec.: Hierosolymitana captiva); 188 (Spagna, Villamesias, I-III sec.: Iudeus); JIWE, II, n. 553 (Roma, II-III sec.: Iuda, Maria). 35.  Si vedano ad esempio quelle riportate in H. Solin, «On the presence of Jews in ancient Latium», Scripta Classica Israelica 33 (2014), p. 243‑254, part. p. 243‑244. In generale si veda G. L acerenza, «Il mondo ebraico nella prima età imperiale», in Storia d ’Europa e del Mediterraneo, I. Il mondo antico, vol. VI: Da Augusto a Diocleziano, Roma, 2009, p. 417‑455. Utile per uno sguardo d’insieme, A. L ewin (ed.), Gli Ebrei nell ’Impero romano. Saggi vari, Firenze, 2001.

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città in Asia Minore [o a Roma]. […] Simili osservazioni possono senza dubbio essere avanzate a proposito delle iscrizioni cristiane, dal momento che iscrizioni cristiane non possono essere individuate come tali prima del III secolo, ed è arduo credere che essi non lasciassero di sé alcun ricordo prima di quest’epoca» 36. Prima dell’età severiana e in genere prima del secolo III, si deve registrare la scarsità se non proprio l’assenza di elementi peculiari di una “epigrafia giudaica” in quanto tale. 3. La difficoltà di definizione di un’epigrafe come “ebraica” nasce dal fatto che il concetto richiamato dall’aggettivo “ebraico” non è di ambito esclusivamente religioso – come invece “cristiano” – ma investe anche l’aspetto etnico. E infatti le prime testimonianze riconoscibili come di committenza ebraica sono definite da elementi, quali quelli onomastici o l’esplicito Iudaeus / Ἰουδαῖος, da considerarsi in primo luogo un indicativo di natura etnica – ma non soltanto 37. Si possono dunque individuare committenti ebrei analogamente a come è possibile individuare genericamente membri delle varie etnie all’interno della generale documentazione epigrafica romana, nella cui prassi generale questi documenti appaiono rientrare pienamente (fig. 9). Nella diaspora l’incidenza dei discendenti dai matrimoni misti tra ebrei e gentili aumenta, almeno a giudicare dalla sempre maggiore compresenza di elementi onomastici greco-romani ed ebraici in medesimi nuclei familiari 38; così come aumenta la spinta al proselitismo – come indicato dalla maggiore ricorrenza delle definizioni di modi diversi di essere Iudaei, non più solo per nascita: ad esempio quella di προσήλυτος (già riscontrabile

36.  R.S. K raemer , «Jewish Tuna and Christian Fish: identifying religious affiliation in epigraphic sources», Harvard Theological Review 84 (1991), p. 141‑162, part. p. 162. Del resto, l’esistenza di gruppi e comunità giudaiche in tutto l’orbis antiquus in età ellenistica e imperiale è attestata da numerose fonti: cfr. ad esempio quelle riportate da H. Solin, «On the presence of Jews in ancient Latium», Scripta Classica Israelica 33 (2014), p. 243‑254, part. p. 243‑244. 37.  S. M ason,«Jews, Judaeans, Judaizing, Judaism: Problems of Categorization in Ancient History», Journal for the Study of Judaism 38 (2007), p. 457‑512. A proposito del valore di Iudaeus / Ἰουδαῖος come indicativo non esclusivamente etnico, si veda S.G. Wilson, «ΟΙ ΠΟΤΕ ΙΟΥΔΑΙΟΙ. Epigraphic evidence for Jewish defectors», in S.W. Wilson – M. Desjardins (ed.), Text and artifact in the religions of Mediterranean antiquity: essays in honour of Peter Richardson, Toronto, 2000, p. 354‑371. 38.  Cf. L.V. Rutgers , The Jews in Late Ancient Rome. Evidence of Cultural Interaction in the Roman Diaspora, Leiden – New York – Köln, 1995, p. 145‑157; L.V. Rutgers , «Interaction and its limits: some notes on the Jews of Sicily in Late Antiquity», Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 115 (1997), p. 245‑256, part. p. 249‑253.

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Fig. 9. Castelporziano, tenuta presidenziale (ora a Roma, Museo Nazionale delle Terme di Diocleziano). Donazione di un terreno da parte della comunità giudaica ostiense per la costruzione del sepolcro del gerusiarca C. Iulius Iustus. JIWE, I, 18. Prima metà del II secolo (foto A.E. Felle).

nelle epigrafi degli ossuari gerosolimitani) 39, o quelle – più sfumate e dunque difficili da definire – dei cosiddetti θεοσεβεῖς ο metuentes. Questi termini ricorrono nella documentazione epigrafica  4 0, come ad esempio nella nota iscrizione del teatro di Mileto nella Ionia 41 o nel lungo elenco dei nomi dei donatori per la sinagoga di Aphrodisias in Caria 42 , laddove 39.  Vedi T.L. Donaldson, «Jerusalem ossuary inscriptions and the status of Jewish proselytes», in S.W. Wilson – M. Desjardins (ed.), Text and artifact in the religions of Mediterranean antiquity: essays in honour of Peter Richardson, Toronto, 2000, p. 372‑388. 40.  Cfr.  T. R ajak , «The Jewish community and its boundaries», in The Jews among Pagans and Christians, London – New York, 1992, p. 9‑28, part. p. 19‑21. 41.  IJO, II, n.  37: τόπος Εἰουδέων τῶν καὶ θεοσεβίον. Si vedano le ancora efficaci osservazioni di L. Robert, Nouvelles inscriptions de Sardes. I, Paris, 1964. 42.  IJO, II, n. 14. Rispetto alla prima assegnazione del documento al secolo III (J.M. R eynolds – R.F. Tannenbaum, Jews and God-fearers at Aphrodisias. Greek

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sono indicati προσήλυτοι e θεοσεβεῖς, distinti dagli altri, propriamente ebrei. A fronte di una realtà articolata delle comunità aderenti in varie forme e misure al giudaismo, inoltre in costante interazione con altre culture, dominanti e concorrenti 43, forse la distinzione proposta da Carlo Carletti quasi trent’anni or sono per l’ambito cristiano, con un felice jeu de mots, tra epigrafia “cristiana” ed epigrafia “dei cristiani” è egualmente utile, se non anche in misura maggiore, per l’ambito ebraico. È forse meglio parlare non di “iscrizioni giudaiche”, ma di “iscrizioni degli ebrei”  4 4 , intesi come «gruppo etnico basato su un evento religioso» secondo una efficace definizione 45. 4. A partire dall’età severiana e in misura crescente durante il secolo III compaiono nel medium epigrafico – dapprima episodicamente, poi con maggiore frequenza – taluni elementi genericamente riconducibili ad un sostrato più marcatamente religioso che, almeno nelle prime sue testimonianze, resta comunque non inquadrabile con precisione. Come utile esemplificazione di ciò, richiamo all’attenzione la “formula di Eumeneia”, cosiddetta dalla città frigia nel cui territorio ne sono stati rinvenuti numerosi esempi, tra cui quelli provisti di data rimandano ad Inscriptions with commentary, Cambridge, 1987), la sua datazione è stata spostata in avanti (cfr. A. Chaniotis , «The Jews of Aphrodisias: New Evidence and Old Problems», Scripta Classica Israelica 21 [2002], p. 209‑242), tra IV e V secolo: tale proposta è accettata nelle IJO. Le iscrizioni di Afrodisia sono oggetto di una edizione digitale di prim’ordine, curata da Charlotte Roueché del King’s College di Londra: The Inscriptions of Aphrodisias Project (http://insaph.kcl.ac.uk/); l’iscrizione in questione (n. 11.55) è edita all’indirizzo web http://insaph.kcl.ac.uk/iaph2007/ iAph110055.html#edition. 43.  Cfr. A.J. Bij de Vaate – J.W. Van H enten, «Jewish or non-Jewish? Some Remarks on the Identification of Jewish Inscriptions from Asia Minor», Bibliotheca Orientalis 53 (1996), p. 16‑28, part. p. 27: «It has been proposed to speak no longer of ‘Judaism’, but instead of ‘Judaisms’ in Palestine as well as in the diaspora». 44.  Non si tratta quindi di porre in discussione l’adozione in ambito ebraico dell’«epigraphic habit», come propone David Noy (D. Noy, «Where were the Jews of the Diaspora buried?», in M. Goodman [ed.], Jews in a Graeco-Roman World, Oxford – New York 1998, p. 86). 45.  G.G. Porton, «Who was a Jew?», in J. Neusner – A.J. Avery-Peck (ed.), Judaism in Late Antiquity, 2, part three: Where we stand: issues and debates in Ancient Judaism, Boston – Leiden 2001, p. 197‑218, part. p. 198. Vedi anche T.L. Donaldson, «Jerusalem ossuary inscriptions and the status of Jewish proselytes», in S.W. Wilson – M. Desjardins (ed.), Text and artifact in the religions of Mediterranean antiquity: essays in honour of Peter Richardson, Toronto, 2000, p. 385: «Judaism had a twofold conception of its identity […] (it) existed both as an ethnic community, whose members shared a common ancestry, and as a religious community, whose members were bound together by a common set of beliefs and practices».

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un arco cronologico compreso tra il 246 ed il 274. La formula cosiddetta di Eumeneia risponde alla esigenza – di prassi nella documentazione epigrafica funeraria antica – della protezione della tomba  4 6. Con tale formula si minacciano i potenziali violatori dei sepolcri non, come abitualmente, con una sanzione in denaro da versare all’erario della città o dello Stato – come pure avviene pure nella “regina delle epigrafi cristiane”, il noto epitaffio di Abercio vescovo di Hieropolis 47 – ma piuttosto con l’evocazione del futuro giudizio divino: ἔσθαι αὐτῷ πρὸς τὸν θεόν (“che ne risponda a Dio”), con alcune varianti 48. Gli epitaffi con la formula di Eumeneia, se in qualche caso sono assegnabili ad ambito cristiano con certezza 49 (sulla base ad esempio della variante ἔσθαι αὐτῷ πρὸς τὸν Ἰ(ησοῦν) Χ(ριστόν) 50) o – in misura minore – anche ebraico 51, nel loro complesso possono agevolmente rientrare in entrambi gli ambiti, secondo la documentata opinione di P. Trebilco 52 . Nel particolare contesto dell’Asia Minore si tratta 46.  Si veda ad esempio Libitina e dintorni: Libitina e i luci sepolcrali – Le leges libitinariae campane – Iura sepulcrorum: vecchie e nuove iscrizioni (Atti dell ’XIe Rencontre franco-italienne sur l ’épigraphie), Roma, 2004, part. p. 384‑427. 47.  […] εἰ δ’ οὖν Ῥωμαίων ταμείῳ θήσ δισχείλια ρυσᾶ  / καὶ χ. ρηστῇ πατρίδ. ι Ἱεροπόλει χείλια χρυσᾶ (W.M. R amsay, The Cities and Bishoprics of Phrygia, Oxford, 1895‑1897, p. 722, n. 657, r. 22). Sull’epitaffio di Abercio, da ultimo si veda M.M. M itchell , «Looking for Abercius: Reimagining Contexts of Interpretation of the “Earliest Christian Inscription”» in L. Brink O.P. – D. Green (ed.), Commemorating the Dead. Texts and Artifacts in Context. Studies of Roman, Jewish and Christian Burials, Berlin – New York, 2008, p. 303‑335 (sulla pertinenza a Hieropolis, oggi Hüdāi Kaplicasi, e non a Hierapolis (oggi Pamukkale), si veda part. p. 304 e nota 7). 48.  Cfr.  L. Robert, «Epitaphes juïves d’Ephèse et de Nicomédie», Hellenica 11‑12 (1960), p. 381‑413, part. p. 398‑408. 49.  Cfr. rispettivamente P. Trebilco, «The Christian and Jewish Eumeneian formula», Mediterraneo Antico 5 (2002), p. 63‑97, part. p. 67‑70; 70‑72. Vedi anche L. Robert, «Epitaphes juïves d’Ephèse et de Nicomédie», Hellenica 11‑12 (1960), p. 398‑400. 50.  W.M. R amsay, The Cities and Bishoprics of Phrygia, Oxford, 1895‑1897, p. 526‑528, n. 371 (con monogramma decussato); sulla formula, vedi p. 514‑516, e le iscrizioni nn. 353‑380; cfr. anche H. Buckler – W.M. Calder (ed.), Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua, VI. Monuments and documents from Phrygia and Caria, Manchester, 1939 [= MAMA, VI], nn.  223, 224 (con acrostico ΙΧΘΥΣ), 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236; W. Tabbernee , Montanist Inscriptions and Testimonia: Epigraphic Sources Illustrating the History of Montanism, Macon (Georgia, USA), 1997, p. 220‑223, n. 32. 51.  W.M. R amsay, The Cities and Bishoprics of Phrygia, Oxford, 1895‑1897, p.  525, n.  369:  […] οὐδενὶ δὲ ἄλλῳ ἐξὸν ἔσται θεῖναί τινα· ἐδέ τις ἐπιχειρήσει, εἰσόσει εἰς τὴν Εὐμενέων βουλὴν προστείμου δεν(αρία) ͵α´ καὶ ἔσται αυτῷ πρὸς τὸ μέγα ὄνομα του θεοῦ. Dubitativamente, vedi anche p.  562, n.  455‑457 e p. 652‑653, n. 563 (ripresa in CII, II, n. 769). 52.  P. Trebilco, «The Christian and Jewish Eumeneian formula», Mediterraneo Antico 5 (2002), p. 63‑97, part. p. 73‑83; L. Robert, «Epitaphes juïves d’Ephèse et de Nicomédie», Hellenica 11‑12 (1960), part. p. 410‑413.

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di una formula dunque d’uso comune – ad ebrei e cristiani nonché, con minore sicurezza, anche a pagani – in un orizzonte che possiamo definire indistintamente monoteistico. In questo medesimo orizzonte indistintamente monoteistico rientra anche la dedica, ricorrente sia in Asia Minore sia altrove (come ad esempio nel regno bosporano 53) della dedica θεῷ ὑψίστῳ, per la quale si è rimandato ad un plafond giudaico, cristiano, iranico 54 . Ancora, alla formula di Eumeneia può anche accostarsi quella, ad essa assimilabile nella funzione di protezione della sepoltura, con esplicito riferimento alle maledizioni espresse “nel Deuteronomio” 55. Certamente di conio ebraico, essa risulta anche usata – forse proprio a causa dell’influenza e della crescente visibilità sociale delle comunità giudaiche nelle città dell’Asia Minore, che corrisponde evidentemente anche ad un certo 53.  Cfr.  Y. Ustinova, «The Bosporan Kingdom in Late Antiquity: ethnic and religious transformations», in S. M itchell – G. Geatrex (ed.), Ethnicity and Culture in Late Antiquity, London, 2000, p. 151‑172. 54.  Cfr. Y. Ustinova, «The Bosporan Kingdom in Late Antiquity: ethnic and religious transformations», in S. M itchell – G. Geatrex (ed.), Ethnicity and Culture in Late Antiquity, London, 2000, p. 151‑172 e IJO, II, p. 20‑21. Si veda ad esempio una epigrafe commemorativa della fondazione di una casa di preghiera (προσευχή) a Panticapaeum (ora Kertch, in Crimea), datata al 309 d.C. (603 dell’era bosporana): Θεῷ Ὑψίστῳ  / ἐπηκόῳ εὐ/χήν. Αὐρ(ήλιος) Οὐαλέ/ριος Σόγους Ὀ/λύμπου, ὁ ἐπὶ / τῆς Θεοδοσία / σεβαστόγνω/στο, τειμηθεὶς ὑ/ πὸ Διοκλητια/νοῦ καὶ Μαξιμιανοῦ,  / ὁ καὶ Ὀλυμπιανὸς  / κληθεὶς ἐν τῷ ἐ/παρχείῳ, ὁ πολλὰ  / ἀποδημήσας καὶ  / ἀποστατήσας ἔτη  / δέκα ἓξ καὶ ἐν πολ/λοῖς θλίψεις γενό/μενος, εὐξάμενος,  / ἐκ θεμελίου οἰκο/δομήσας τὴν προσ/ευχὴν ἐν τῷ γχʹ (Corpus inscriptionum regni Bosporani, ed. V. Struve , Moscow, 1965, n. 64). 55.  Cfr. per esempio J. Strubbe (ed.), ΑΡΑΙ ΕΠΙΤΥΜΒΙΟΙ. Ιmprecations against desecrators of the grave in the Greek epitaphs of Asia Minor: a catalogue, Bonn, 1997, n. 228. Vedi anche CII, II, nn. 760, 770; A.E. Felle , Biblia epigraphica. La Sacra Scrittura nella documentazione epigrafica dell ’Orbis Christianus Antiquus (III-VIII secolo), Bari, 2006, nn. B1098 da Akmonia in Frigia, del 249: [---]ιν [ἐξ]έσ|ται ἑτέρῳ ἀνύξαι τὸ  | κάθετον ἢ μόνον ἐὰν  | συνβῇ τοῖς παιδίοις αὐ|τοῦ Δόμνῃ κ(αὶ) Ἀλεξανδρίᾳ· ἐὰν δὲ γαμηθήσονται  | ἐξὸν οὐκ ἔσται ἀνῦξαι·  | ὃς δὲ ἂν τολμήσει ἔτε|ρον ἐπισενένκαι θήσει | τῷ ἱερωτάτῳ ταμίῳ || Ἀττικὰς ͵α´ κ(αὶ) οὐδὲν | ἔλαπον ἔσται τῷ τῆς τυμβωρυχίας ἐνκλήμα|τι ὑπεύθυνος· ἔσται δὲ | ἐπικατάρατος ὁ τυοῦ|ντος κ(αὶ) ὅσαι ἀραὶ ἐν τῷ Δευτερονομίῳ εἰσὶν γε|γραμέναι αὐτῷ τε κ(αὶ) | τέκνοις καὶ ἐγγόνοις κ(αὶ) παντὶ τῷ γένει αὐτοῦ γένοιτο. Ibidem, n. B1100, sempre da Akmonia in Frigia (anni 248‑249): ἔτους τλγ´  | Αὐρ(ήλιος) Φρουγιανὸς | Μηνοκρίτου καὶ Αὐρ(ηλία) | Ἰουλιανὴ γυνὴ αὐτοῦ || Μακαρίᾳ μητρὶ καὶ Ἀλεξανδρί|ᾳ θυγατρὶ | γλυκυτάτῃ ζῶν|τες κατεσκεύ||ασαν μνήμης χάριν· | ἐι δέ τις μετὰ τὸ τεθήναι  | αὐτοὺς εἴ τις θάψει ἕτερον  | νεκρὸν ἤ ἀδικήσει λόγῳ  || ἀγορασίας, ἔσται αὐτῷ αἱ ἀραὶ  | ἡ γεγραμμέναι ἐν τῷ Δευτερο|νομίῳ; IJO, II, 213 (anche in T h. Corsten (ed.), Die Inschriften von Laodikeia am Lykos, Teil 1:  Die Inschriften (Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien, 49), Bonn, 1997, n.  111): τὴν σορὸν Λούκιος Νόνειος Γλύκων ὠνήσατο. μετὰ δὲ {vac.}  / κηδευῆναι τὸν Γλύκωνα μὴ ἐξέστω τινι ἄλῳ (:ἄλλῳ) κηδευθῆναι.  / εἰ δέ τις ἀνύξει καὶ κηδεύσει τινα ἢ ἐκχαράξει τὰ γεγραμμένα,  / ΕΙΙ Σ. Χ. ΙΙ Λ. ΥΤΩ τὰς ἀρὰς τὰς γεγραμμένας ἐν τῷ Δευτερο/νομίῳ. {vac.}.

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successo del proselitismo giudaico – anche da chi propriamente ebreo non era 56. In questo quadro di complessiva fluidità, in cui convivono diversi gruppi mutuamente influenzabili, con tutta una serie di stati intermedi 57, i presunti “fossili-guida” non possono funzionare; semmai funzionano in senso opposto, testimoniando con la loro compresenza la permeabilità delle modalità dell’espressività epigrafica, che invece di separare, etichettandoli, gli ambiti culturali e/o religiosi dei committenti, ne testimonia una base comune di linguaggio e di esigenze espressive. In questa direzione, più che offrire una paratassi di diverse prassi epigrafiche, credo che i documenti che noi abitualmente definiamo come “controversi” siano invece utili a definire un quadro sintattico: ad istanze comuni e condivise corrispondono modelli – anch’essi condivisi – di soluzioni monumentali, forme e tecniche esecutive, formulari 58. È rilevante in questo senso la documentazione epigrafica delle cosiddette “catacombe” di Beth She’arim in Galilea 59, che sono in realtà costituite da una serie di ipogei e tombe contigue di natura familiare e non comunitaria, come dimostrano le numerose iscrizioni attestanti, sugli architravi degli accessi (fig. 10), la proprietà di natura privata dei sepolcri 60, riconducibili agli esponenti più in vista degli Ebrei della diaspora, soprattutto orientale (sono ricordate, tra i luoghi di provenienza e di ori-

56.  Cfr. quanto affermato in J. Bij de Vaate – J.W. Van H enten, «Jewish or non-Jewish? Some Remarks on the Identification of Jewish Inscriptions from Asia Minor», Bibliotheca Orientalis 53 (1996), p.  26: «It is not difficult to find examples of inscriptions which are considered Christian but contain phrases that might Jewish as well». 57.  J. Bij de Vaate – J.W. Van H enten, «Jewish or non-Jewish? Some Remarks on the Identification of Jewish Inscriptions from Asia Minor», Bibliotheca Orientalis 53 (1996), p. 27‑28. 58.  Sul versante giudaico cfr. L.V. Rutgers , «Interaction and its limits: some notes on the Jews of Sicily in Late Antiquity», Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 115 (1997), p. 247‑249; H. L apin, «Palestinian Inscriptions and Jewish Ethnicity in Late Antiquity, in E.M. M eyers (ed.), Galilee through the Centuries. Confluence of Cultures, Winona Lake, Indiana (USA), 1999, p. 239‑268, part. p.  257‑263. 59.  M. Schwabe – B. Lifshitz , Beth She’arim, II: The Greek Inscriptions, Jerusalem, 1967. Sul complesso di Beth She’arim, da ultimo si veda Z. Weiss , «Burial Practices in Beth Sheʿarim and the Question of Dating the Patriarchal Necropolis», in Z. Weiss et al. (ed.),“Follow the Wise”: studies on Jewish history and culture in honour of Lee I. Levine, Winona Lake, Indiana (USA), 2010, p. 207‑231. 60.  Cfr. Z. Weiss , «Social Aspects of Burial in Beth She’arim: Archaeological Finds and Talmudic Sources», in L.I. L evine (ed.), The Galilee in Late Antiquity, Cambridge – London, 1992, p. 357‑371, part. p. 358‑361.

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gine dei defunti, Antiochia 61, Berytus, Tyrus 62 , Byblos 63, nonché Palmyra), ma non mancano ovviamente anche defunti di Giudea e Galilea. Se esiste una valenza “comunitaria” della necropoli di Beth She’arim, essa può essere individuata nel fatto che essa fosse il luogo stabilito per la sepoltura dei patriarchi palestinesi (nesi’im) a partire dal rabbi Judah I (fine II-inizi III secolo) e dei suoi familiari e successori, almeno fino alla soppressione del patriarcato palestinese nei primi decenni del V secolo (il 429 è l’anno della morte dell’ultimo nasi, Gamaliel VI)  6 4 .

Fig. 10. Beth She’arim, Galilea, Israele. Accessi separati agli ipogei funerari con tituli possessionis sugli architravi.

Il giudaismo rabbinico, con la crescita del prestigio del Nasi palestinese, che aveva appunto la sua sede in Galilea dove si era spostata da Gerusalemme, diviene proprio a partire dall’età severiana e per tutto il III secolo 61.  ἁψὶς / Αἰδεσίου / γερουιάρχου / Ἀντιοχέως (M. Schwabe – B. LifBeth She’arim, II: The Greek Inscriptions, Jerusalem, 1967, n. 141). 62.  τόπος Θεοδοσίας τῆς καὶ Σάρας Τυρίας (M. Schwabe – B. Lifshitz , Beth She’arim, II: The Greek Inscriptions, Jerusalem, 1967, n. 199). 63.  θάρσι, / Καλιόπη ματρώνα, / οὐδὶς ἀθάνα/τος, ἡ / ἀπὸ Βίβλου (M. Schwabe – B. Lifshitz , Beth She’arim, II: The Greek Inscriptions, Jerusalem, 1967, n. 136; vedi anche M. Schwabe – B. Lifshitz , Beth She’arim, II: The Greek Inscriptions, Jerusalem, 1967, n.  137: ἁψὶς  / Καλιόπης  / Βιβλί/ας  / ματρώ/νας ). 64.  Sul patriarcato palestinese, oltre a L.I. L evine , «The Jewish Patriarch (Nasi) in Third Century Palestine», in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, II, 19.2, Berlin – New York, 1979, p. 649‑688, e a M. Goodman, «The Roman State and the Jewish Patriarch in the Third Century», in L.I. L evine (ed.), The Galilee in Late Antiquity, Cambridge – London, 1992, p. 127‑139, si veda da ultimo J. Costa, «Entre judaïsme rabbinique et judaïsme synagogal: la figure du Patriarche», Judaïsme ancien – Ancient Judaism 1 (2013), p. 64‑128. shitz ,

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più connotato istituzionalmente, sia nei rapporti con il potere imperiale sia con i vari centri della diaspora, con i quali si instaura una rete di legami anche amministrativi 65. Gli epitaffi di Beth She’arim sono in larga maggioranza in lingua e scrittura greca 66; non di rado compaiono formule consolatorie della prassi epigrafica funeraria tradizionale (εὐμύρι 67, οὐδὶς ἀθάνατος 68) accanto a esplicite manifestazioni di fede nella risurrezione futura 69, nonché – come pure nelle catacombe giudaiche di Roma e d’Italia – nomi ebraici accanto a quelli ellenistico-romani; non mancano sepolture in sarcofagi scolpiti con temi figurativi classici 70, e in alcune delle iscrizioni più articolate non mancano echi del repertorio poetico di tradizione 71. Ancora una volta, si 65.  T. R ajak , «The Jewish community and its boundaries», in The Jews among Pagans and Christians, London – New York, 1992, p. 9‑28, part. p. 14‑15. 66.  La percentuale delle epigrafi greche è dell’88%: cfr. P.W. van der Horst, «Greek in Jewish Palestine in Light of Jewish Epigraphy», in J.J. Collins – G.E. Sterling (ed.), Hellenism in the Land of Israel, Notre Dame, 2001, p. 154‑174 (richiamato in Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 51 [2001], n. 2014). 67.  E. g. vedi M. Schwabe – B. Lifshitz , Beth She’arim, II: The Greek Inscriptions, Jerusalem, 1967, n. 3: εὐμύρι, Ἄννα. 68.  M. Schwabe – B. Lifshitz , Beth She’arim, II: The Greek Inscriptions, Jerusalem, 1967, n. 193: θαρσῖτε / πατέρες ὅσιοι· / οὐδὶς ἀθάνατος. 69.  M. Schwabe – B. Lifshitz , Beth She’arim, II: The Greek Inscriptions, Jerusalem, 1967, n. 194: εὐτυχῶς τῇ ὑμῶν ἀνάστασι. Sulla fede nella risurrezione dei morti in ambito ebraico, vedi R.N. L ongenecker , «“Good luck on your resurrection”. Bet She’arim and Paul on the resurrection of the dead», in S.G. Wilson – M. Desjardins (ed.), Text and artifact in the religions of Mediterranean antiquity. Essays in honour of Peter Richardson, Waterloo (Ontario), 2000, p. 249‑270. 70.  Cfr. A. Konikoff, Sarcophagi from the Jewish catacombs of ancient Rome. A catalogue raisonné, Stuttgart, 1986, p. 9‑10; R.N. L ongenecker , «“Good luck on your resurrection”. Bet She’arim and Paul on the resurrection of the dead», in S.G. Wilson – M. Desjardins (ed.), Text and artifact in the religions of Mediterranean antiquity. Essays in honour of Peter Richardson, Waterloo (Ontario), 2000, p. 259‑260. 71.  Per esempio M. Schwabe – B. Lifshitz , Beth She’arim, II: The Greek Inscriptions, Jerusalem, 1967, nn. 127, 183, riedite rispettivamente in: P.W. van der Horst, «Jewish Poetical Tomb Inscriptions», in J.W. van H enten – P.W. van der Horst (ed.), Studies in Early Jewish Epigraphy, Leiden – New York – Köln, 1994, p. 129‑147, part. p. 135‑139; e R. M erkelbach – J. Stauber (ed.), Steinepigramme aus dem griechischen Osten, IV. Die Südküste Kleinasiens, Syrien und Palaestina, München, 2002, nn. 21/01/01; 21/01/02. Si veda P.W. van der Horst, «Greek in Jewish Palestine in Light of Jewish Epigraphy», in J.J. Collins – G.E. Sterling (ed.), Hellenism in the Land of Israel, Notre Dame, 2001, p. 164‑165; Cfr. H. L apin,«Palestinian Inscriptions and Jewish Ethnicity in Late Antiquity», in E.M. M eyers (ed.), Galilee through the Centuries. Confluence of Cultures, Winona Lake, Indiana (USA), 1999, p. 239‑268, part. p. 259: «My point here is not that there was no ‘Jewishness’ in late antique Palestine but that it was articulated in the context of wider world and that attempts to isolate an essential Jewish core risk missing the far more interesting phenomenon of negotiation».

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deve rilevare che solo negli epitaffi relativi alle deposizioni più tarde, tra la fine del III e tutto il secolo IV, compaiono elementi della lingua nonché della scrittura ­ebraica, come anche elementi figurativi univocamente giudaici 72 . 5. La presenza crescente di “segni di appartenenza” – uso qui una efficace espressione coniata da Carlo Carletti a proposito delle epigrafi dei cristiani 73 – sempre più espliciti (tra i quali rientra anche la presenza, non usuale ma ritualizzata, della lingua e della scrittura ebraica), credo possa interpretarsi come segnale dell’aumento del “peso specifico” dell’identità religiosa nella definizione del ricordo che si intende lasciare alla memoria dei posteri attraverso il medium epigrafico. Un esito particolarmente eloquente di questa dinamica in ambito giudaico è, a fronte del precedente uso quasi assoluto di lingua e scrittura greca (e, in misura minore, anche latina) sino al termine del secolo III 74 , il generale incremento dell’uso della lingua e della scrittura ebraica 75 – non 72.  Come ad esempio nell’epitaffio di Daniel: Δανιὴλ / υἱὸς ((menorah)) / Ἄδδα / Τυρέου / ‫( שלומ‬N. Avigad, Beth She’arim III, Jerusalem, 1976, p. 82 n. 19, C). 73.  C. Carletti, «Nascita e sviluppo del formulario cristiano: prassi e ideologia», in I. Di Stefano M anzella (ed.), Le iscrizioni dei cristiani in Vaticano, Città del Vaticano, 1997, p. 143‑164; C. Carletti, «“Un mondo nuovo”. Epigrafia funeraria dei cristiani a Roma in età postcostantiniana», Vetera Christianorum 35 (1998), p. 39‑68. 74.  Chiara la divergenza dalla contemporanea prassi dei cristiani che, in linea con il progressivo avvicinamento e poi fusione con i gruppi prevalenti, riduce rapidamente l’uso del greco in favore del latino. 75.  Il fenomeno appare essere generale: è riscontrabile sia in Occidente (in particolare a Roma), sia in ambito palestinese. A Beth She’arim, 21 delle 220 epigrafi in greco presentano fenomeni di compresenza di elementi in lingua e/o scrittura ebraica: cfr. M. Schwabe – B. Lifshitz , Beth She’arim, II: The Greek Inscriptions, Jerusalem, 1967, nn. 21, 23, 25, 28, 29, 41, 43, 49, 69, 72, 79, 91, 117, 119, 132, 174, 175, 177, 178, 203, 219. Eccezione a questo proposito è costituita dalla documentazione africana, che Solin (H. Solin, «Gli Ebrei d’Africa: una nota», in L’Africa Romana. Atti dell ’VIII convegno di Studio (Cagliari, 14‑16 dicembre 1990), Sassari, 1991, p. 615‑623, part. p. 617‑619) spiega con la minore consistenza numerica e quindi con una esposizione all’influenza più rapida del contesto linguistico latino prevalente in assoluto (non è un caso che le poche iscrizioni giudaiche africane in lingua greca provengano da un contesto più “aperto” e cosmopolita, quale quello della città di Cartagine). Sull’uso della lingua in ambito giudaico e cristiano vedi L.V. Rutgers , The Jews in Late Ancient Rome, Leiden – New York – Köln, 1995, p. 176‑209; D. Noy, «Writing in Tongues: The Use of Greek, Latin and Hebrew in Jewish Inscriptions from Roman Italy», Journal of Jewish Studies 48 (1997), p. 300‑311; A.E. Felle , «Manifestazioni di bilinguismo nelle iscrizioni cristiane di Roma», in Atti dell ’XI Congresso Internazionale di Epigrafia Greca e Latina (Roma, 18‑24 settembre 1997), Roma, 1999, p. 669‑678; M. L eiwo, «Greek or Latin, or Something in between? The Jews of Venusia and their Language», in H. Solin – M. L eiwo – H. H alla-A ho (ed.), Latin vulgaire – latin tardif VI. Actes

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Fig. 11. Hammath Tiberias, Israele. Sinagoga, Pannello pavimentale musivo con menzione della costruzione del portico, concluso con l’acclamazione ebraica amen (in greco) e shalom (in ebraico). IV‑V secolo (da M. Dothan, Hammath Tiberias. Early Synagogues and the Hellenistic and Roman remains, Jerusalem 1983, p. 60‑62, n. 3, pl. 18.1, cfr. pl. 21.3; 35.4).

solo in ambito funerario (fig. 11) 76 – che, anche se inizialmente limitato a singole parole come shalom o amen appunto esclusivamente ebraiche, già attraverso l’uso dell’alfabeto diverso rendono immediatamente percepibile l’identità ebraica anche a chi semplicemente vedeva l’iscrizione, senza avere la capacità di leggerla 77. du VIe Colloque international sur le latin vulgaire et tardif (Helsinki, 29 août – 2 septembre 2000), Hildesheim, 2003, p. 253‑264; A.E. Felle , «Fenomeni di compresenza delle lingue e delle scritture greca e latina nella epigrafia romana di committenza cristiana», in M. M ayer y Olivé – G. Baratta – A. Guzmán A lmagro (ed.), Acta XII Congressus Internationalis Epigraphiae Graecae et Latinae. Provinciae Imperii Romani inscriptionibus descriptae (Barcelona, 3‑8 septembris 2002), [= Monografies de la Sección Histórico-Arqueológica, X], Barcelona, 2007, p. 475‑481. 76.  Ε non solo in ambito funerario: ad esempio si veda, nel ricco corredo epigrafico della sinagoga di Hammath Tiberias l’iscrizione pavimentale, che commemora la costruzione della navata, il cui testo greco si conclude con l’acclamazione ebraica amen in lettere greche e shalom in alfabeto ebraico: Μνήσθῆ εἰς ἀγαθὸν καὶ εἰς εὐλογίαν Προφοτοῦρος ὁ μιζότερος ἐποίησεν τὴν στοὰν ταύτην τοῦ ἁγίου τόπου εὐλογία αυτῷ. Αμήν ‫( שלומ‬M. Dothan, Hammath Tiberias. Early Synagogues and the Hellenistic and Roman remains, Jerusalem, 1983, p. 60‑62, n. 3; pl. 18.1, 21.3, 35.4). 77.  Vedi A.E. Felle , «Fenomeni di compresenza delle lingue e delle scritture greca e latina nella epigrafia romana di committenza cristiana», in M. M ayer y Olivé – G. Baratta – A. Guzmán A lmagro (ed.), Acta XII Congressus Internationalis Epigraphiae Graecae et Latinae. Provinciae Imperii Romani inscriptionibus

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Questa forma di immediata comunicazione visiva dell’identità sul piano religioso nel documento epigrafico trova una significativa riprova nell’uso crescente accanto al testo – dalla seconda metà del secolo III in avanti, dunque qualche decennio prima dell’insorgere del medesimo fenomeno sul versante cristiano – di elementi di natura figurativa che fungono in questo senso da veri e propri ideogrammi, quali lo shofar, l’ethrog, il lulab, e soprattutto la menorah 78 (fig. 5): elementi che in ambito cristiano hanno i loro omologhi a partire dal secolo IV nel cristogramma, nella croce monogrammatica, nella croce – nelle loro varie formulazioni. Tutti questi elementi esprimono ad un primo sguardo del loro fruitore, anche analfabeta, l’identità dei committenti dell’epigrafe sul piano dell’appartenenza ad un gruppo religioso in modo anche più efficace delle formule testuali 79. Nel corso del secolo IV, nell’arco cronologico definito dall’atto costantiniano di tolleranza del 313 e dall’editto di Tessalonica del 27 febbraio 380 ad opera di Teodosio 80, è noto come il Cristianesimo sia gradualmente sempre più assimilato all’idea stessa di romanitas, passando dallo status di sistema religioso minoritario a quello di sistema dominante. Dopo Tessalonica, ebraismo e cristianesimo non sono nemmeno su un piano teorico in competizione paritaria: nel V secolo, dalla proibizione del proselitismo ebraico alla difesa istituzionale dei luoghi di riunione giudaici dalla distruzione o dalla loro trasformazione coatta in chiese – ma con la contestuale proibizione di realizzazione di nuove sinagoghe 81 – si rende descriptae (Barcelona, 3‑8 septembris 2002), [= Monografies de la Sección Histórico-Arqueológica, X], Barcelona, 2007, p. 475‑481. Si è più volte sottolineato il crescendo della utilizzazione della lingua e della scrittura ebraica nella documentazione epigrafica di committenza giudaica con il passare del tempo: se a Roma l’ebraico non appare in media che nel 3% dei casi (cfr. G. L acerenza, «Le iscrizioni giudaiche in Italia dal I al VI secolo: tipologie, origine, distribuzione», in M. Perani [ed.], I beni culturali ebraici in Italia. Situazione attuale, problemi, prospettive e progetti per il futuro, Ravenna, 2003, p. 71‑92, part. p. 77), a Venosa tra IV e VI secolo epigrafi ebraiche o con la presenza di ebraico rappresentano quasi la metà del totale; in età altomedievale, in Italia meridionale, ne rappresentano quasi la totalità. 78.  H. L apin, «Palestinian Inscriptions and Jewish Ethnicity in Late Antiquity», in E.M. M eyers (ed.), Galilee through the Centuries. Confluence of Cultures, Winona Lake (Indiana, USA), 1999, p. 239‑268, part. p. 260‑263: «The explicit marking of inscriptions as Jewish increases in Late Antiquity» (p. 263). 79.  Non si tratta di elementi utili ad una distinzione delle sepolture (cfr. D. Noy, «Where were the Jews of the Diaspora buried?», in M. Goodman [ed.], Jews in a Graeco-Roman World, Oxford – New York, 1998, p. 88‑89), del resto inutili in contesti riservati come paiono essere i cimiteri collettivi dei cristiani e degli ebrei, ma proprio di manifestazioni identitarie dei singoli. 80.  Codex Theodosianus, XVI, 1, 2 (cfr. A. M arcone , Il mondo tardoantico. Antologia delle fonti, Roma, 2000, p. 223‑224). 81.  Codex Theodosianus, XVI, 8, 25; Codex Theodosianus, XVI, 8, 27. Entrambi i provvedimenti sono del 423.

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evidente la natura sempre più confessionale in senso cristiano dello Stato romano, che determina la progressiva introversione e chiusura delle comunità giudaiche. La difficoltà, se non proprio l’impossibilità di espansione di tali comunità, accanto alla crescente accentuazione sul costantemente presente carattere “etnico” del giudaismo (verificabile anche nella documentazione di natura giuridica, dove ricorrono in riferimento agli ebrei termini come natio, gens, populus, ethnos 82 , che ricorrono anche in taluni documenti epigrafici, come nella nota epigrafe funeraria del convertito Petrus di Grado: fig. 12 83), unitamente alla sparizione di fatto del punto di riferimento istituzionale costituito in passato dai patriarchi palestinesi sono tutti fattori che portano, a partire dal V secolo, ad un ebraismo sempre più costretto ed autoreferenziale, in contrasto con un cristianesimo ormai coincidente con lo Stato che in questi medesimi secoli occupa con i propri segni ogni spazio disponibile anche al di fuori dei luoghi deputati propriamente al culto, che d’altra parte ereditano, trasformandole attraverso necessarie modificazioni, le forme dell’epigrafia d’apparato di tradizione romana. In questo quadro rientra il fenomeno della sostituzione quasi sistematica delle sinagoghe con edifici di culto cristiano, come a Stobi in Macedonia, alla fine del IV secolo; ad Apamea in Siria e a Saranda in Epiro, nel V; a Gerasa, nel VI secolo 84 . Poche sinagoghe, come quella monumentale di Sardis che forse resta attiva fino al secolo VII per la persistente rilevanza economica e politica della locale comunità giudaica e dei suoi simpatizzanti 85, sopravvivono fuori dell’ambito strettamente palestinese86, 82.  Cfr. rispettivamente Paul. Sent. V, 22, 4; Codex Theodosianus XVI, 8, 24; Codex Theodosianus XVI, 8, 24; Iul., Ep. 25: vedi C. Gebbia, «Gli ebrei nell’impero cristiano. Tolleranza e intolleranza», Ormos 2 (2000), p. 149‑173, part. p. 155. 83.  Hic requiescit / Petrus qui Papa/rio fil(ius) Olimpii Iudaei solus que ex gente sua / ad Xp(ist)i meruit / gratiam perveni/re et in hanc s(an)c(t)am / aulam digne sepul/tus est sub d(ie) pr(i)d(ie) id(us) iul(ias) ind(ictione) quarta (CII, I, 643a = JIWE, I, 8). Vedi A.E. Felle , «Echi della polemica antigiudaica nella documentazione epigrafica cristiana occidentale. Un primo approccio», Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 14/1 (1997), p. 207‑219, part. p. 213‑215. 84.  Sintesi su questi casi in B. Brenk , Architettura e immagini del sacro nella Tarda Antichità, Spoleto, 2005, p. 39‑52. In particolare sul caso di Saranda (non ancora noto al tempo del testo originale di B. Brenk , «Die Umwandlung der Synagoge von Apamea in eine Kirche. Eine mentalitätsgeschichtliche Studie», in E. Dassmann – K l . Traede [ed.], Tesserae. Festschrift für Josef Engemann [= Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum, Ergänzungsband 18], Münster, 1991, p. 1‑25), vedi E. Nallbani, «Une nouvelle synagogue de l’Antiquité (tardive?), identifiée à Saranda (Albanie)», Hortus Artium Medievalium 9 (2003), p. 167‑172. 85.  Quello di Sardis è il più grande edificio ad uso sinagogale nella diaspora: riutilizza parte del complesso termale e del ginnasio. Vi sono state rinvenute 75 iscrizioni (settanta greche, cinque in ebraico: si vedano rispettivamente J.H. K roll , «The Greek Inscriptions of the Sardis Synagogue», Harvard Theological Review 94 (2001), p. 1‑127; M. Cross , «The Hebrew Inscriptions from Sardis», Harvard The-

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Fig. 12. Grado, cattedrale. Epigrafe funeraria musiva di Petrus, qui et Papario (CII, I, 643a; JIWE, I, 8). V secolo.

ological Review 95 [2002], p. 3‑19), commemoranti l’intervento di donatori privati, ricordati sia nel pavimento mosaicato, sia in testi incisi nei pannelli marmorei del rivestimento parietale realizzato in opus sectile; come ad Afrodisia, anche a Sardis sono ricordati tra i donatori alcuni dirigenti della comunità cittadina come anche θεοσεβεῖς, nonché un σοφοδιδάσκαλος. La datazione del complesso, inizialmente proposta al III secolo, è stata in seguito spostata in età più avanzata sulla base della documentazione numismatica: J. M agness , «The Date of the Sardis Synagogue in Light of the Numismatic Evidence», American Journal of Archaeology 109 (2005), p. 443‑475, sulla base dei rinvenimenti monetali, sposta la cronologia della sinagoga di Sardi alla metà del VI secolo.

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laddove invece si concentrano numerose testimonianze, talvolta di notevole rilevanza monumentale. In esse è stata giustamente rilevata una notevole vicinanza ai contemporanei edifici del culto cristiano 87 nella iconografia interna, nell’arredo architettonico (ad esempio con la presenza di cancelli e plutei) 88, nella decorazione (come nei mosaici pavimentali figurati 89) e nel corredo epigrafico, che presenta iscrizioni con funzione di apparato o dedicatoria 90, nonché didascalica, che si definiscono ebraiche non solo per il contesto di pertinenza, ma soprattutto per il programmatico e perseguito ricorso alla lingua e alla scrittura ebraica 91 (fig. 13), affermatosi progressivamente dai centri dell’interno fino a quelli più ellenizzati della costa. Se in rapporto alla società imperiale romana il giudaismo in diaspora aveva trovato – almeno in taluni centri – una via di autoaffermazione nell’espansione e nel proselitismo in aperta competizione con il cristianesimo, ora a fronte di una cultura dominante connotata in primis sul piano religioso quale quella dell’Impero cristiano appare prevalere una soluzione di crescente introversione 92 , come esemplificato dalle testimonianze epi86.  Cfr. F. M illar , «Christian Emperors, Christian Church and the Jews of the Diaspora in the Greek East, CE 379‑450», Journal of Jewish Studies 55 (2004), p. 1‑24. Dopo l’invasione persiana dei primi decenni del secolo VII, in Oriente, al di fuori dell’ambito israelo-palestinese sono praticamente nulle le testimonianze epigrafiche di committenza giudaica (cfr. IJO, II, p. 22). 87.  Cfr. Y. Tsafrir , «The Byzantine Setting and its Influence on Ancient Synagogues», in L.I. L evine (ed.), The Synagogue in Late Antiquity, Philadelphia, 1987, p. 147‑157, part. p. 150‑152. 88.  Cfr. G. Foerster , «Decorated Marble Chancel Screens in Sixth-Century Synagogues in Palestine and their relation to Christian Art and Architecture», in Actes du XIe Congrès International d ’Archéologie Chrétienne (Lyon, Vienne, Grenoble, Génève, Aoste, 21‑28 septembre 1986), Città del Vaticano, 1989, p. 1809‑1820. 89.  Cfr. J. Gutmann, «Early Synagogue and Jewish Catacomb Art and its Relation to Christian Art», in Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt, II. Religion, 21.2, Berlin – New York 1984, p. 1313‑1342, part. p. 1335‑1336. 90.  Per esempio si veda una delle iscrizioni nella pavimentazione musiva – figurata – della sinagoga di Sepphoris: Μνηστῇ εἰς ἀγαθὸν βοηθὸς Αἱμιλίου μετὰ τέκνων. Ἐποίησεν τὴν τάβλαν. Εὐλογία αὐτοῖς. ‫( אמן‬vedi Z. Weiss , The Sepphoris Synagogue. Deciphering an ancient message through its archaeological and socio-historical contexts, Jerusalem, 2005, p. 142 fig. 85; p. 214‑215). 91.  Per esempio le iscrizioni dei donatori nella già citata pavimentazione musiva della sinagoga di Sepphoris: Z. Weiss , The Sepphoris Synagogue. Deciphering an ancient message through its archaeological and socio-historical contexts, Jerusalem, 2005, p. 202‑208 (vedi anche p. 163, fig. 103). Si veda anche L.I. L evine , «Contextualizing Jewish Art. The Synagogues at Hammat Tiberias and Sepphoris», in R. K almin – S. Schwartz (ed.), Jewish culture and society under the Christian Roman Empire, Leuven, 2003, p. 91‑131. 92.  Cfr. S. Schwartz , «Some Types of Jewish-Christian interaction in Late Antiquity, in R. K almin – S. Schwartz (ed.), Jewish culture and society under the Christian Roman Empire, Leuven, 2003, p. 197‑210, part. p. 209‑210. C. H eszer ,

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Fig. 13. Sepphoris, Israele. Sinagoga, iscrizioni pavimentali musive in ebraico (da Z. Weiss, The Sepphoris Synagogue. Deciphering an Ancient Message through Its Archaeological and Socio-Historical Contexts, Jerusalem 2005, p. 163, fig. 103; particolarmente per le iscrizioni, cfr. p. 203‑204, n. 3 e p. 204‑205, n. 4).

Jewish Literacy and the Use of Writing in Late Roman Palestine, in R. K almin – S. Schwartz (ed.), Jewish Culture and Society under the Christian Roman Empire, Leuven, 2003, p. 149‑193.

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Fig. 14. Venosa, Museo archeologico. Epitaffio in ebraico con menorah (da C. Colafemmina , «Tre nuove iscrizioni ebraiche a Venosa», Vetera Christianorum 24 [1987], p. 206‑209). IX secolo.

grafiche ebraiche dell’Alto Medioevo occidentale (fig. 14) che ormai fanno esclusivo ricorso alla lingua ed alla scrittura loro proprie 93, che soltanto altri ebrei avrebbero potuto leggere. 93.  Si vedano per esempio le tarde iscrizioni ebraiche pugliesi tra Taranto, Oria, Bari, Otranto: JIWE, I, nn. 120‑137; nonché quelle provenienti da Venosa, tutte datate al secolo IX: cfr. C. Colafemmina, «Tre iscrizioni ebraiche inedite di Venosa e Potenza», Vetera Christianorum 20 (1983), p. 443‑447; C. Colafemmina, «Una nuova iscrizione ebraica a Venosa», Vetera Christianorum 21 (1984), p. 197‑202; C. Colafemmina, «Tre nuove iscrizioni ebraiche a Venosa, Vetera Christianorum 24 (1987), p. 201‑209.

T RACCE ARCHEOLOGICHE DEI PRIMI CREDENTI IN CRISTO A NEAPOLIS : LE PITTURE DELLE CATACOMBE Maria A modio Diverse componenti etniche e religiose coabitavano nel II e III secolo a Neapolis, sede di giochi, spettacoli e soprattutto di commerci che, incrementatisi in età severiana, favorivano la circolazione di stranieri in città (tra cui Orientali e Giudei) 1. In questo contesto s’inseriscono le prime tracce archeologiche della presenza cristiana 2 che si concentrano presso le catacombe di S. Gennaro, il notissimo complesso funerario e cultuale cristiano che si sviluppò fuori le mura dell’antica Neapolis nel settore settentrionale del suburbio, destinato

1.  Su Napoli in età imperiale si veda : E. L epore , « La vita politica e sociale », in Storia di Napoli I, Napoli, 1967, p. 139‑371, part. p. 289‑330, dove si affronta anche il tema della presenza giudaica in città all’epoca, di cui vi sono labili presenze archeologiche (M. Napoli, « Topografia e archeologia », in Storia di Napoli, I, Napoli, 1967, p. 375‑507, part. p. 482). Sugli interventi di ristrutturazione e monumentalizzazione del porto, attestati da recenti scoperte : D. Giampaola, « Il paesaggio costiero di Neapolis tra greci e bizantini », in Napoli la città e il mare. Piazza Bovio : tra Romani e Bizantini, Napoli, 2010, p. 17‑26 ; G. Cavalieri M anasse – H. von H esberg, « Dalle decorazioni architettoniche ai monumenti romani », in Napoli la città e il mare. Piazza Bovio : tra Romani e Bizantini, Napoli, 2010, p. 27‑50. 2.  Sulla dibattuta questione delle evidenze materiali dei cristiani delle origini, si veda di recente : C. Carletti, « Le pitture delle catacombe di Roma : restauri e nuove acquisizioni. Chiose di libera lettura a proposito di un nuovo libro », Archeologia Medievale 40 (2013), p. 453‑459 ; I d., « Origini cristiane e epigrafia. Note di lettura a proposito di alcune iscrizioni (forse) ‘protocristiane’ », Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 31/1 (2014), p. 83‑94 (quest’ultimo scritto in risposta a : W. Tabbernee , « Material Evidence for Early Christian Groups during the First Two Centuries C.E. », Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 30/2 [2013], p. 287‑301). Sugli spazi frequentati dai “cristiani”, un sintetico quadro delle principali questioni sul tema, con rimandi bibliografici in : M. A modio, « La topografia e la storia del cristianesimo antico », in A. Giudice – G. R inaldi (ed.), Fonti documentarie per lo studio del cristianesimo antico, Roma, 2014, p. 129‑157, part. p. 146‑152 (sui cimiteri suburbani). Per una riflessione critica sulla legittimità dell’uso dei termini “cristiano” e “cristianesimo” per il II e III secolo, si veda : M. Pesce , « Quando nasce il cristianesimo ? Aspetti dell’attuale dibattito storiografico e uso delle fonti », Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 20/1 (2003), p. 39‑56, e i vari contributi nel volume monografico « Come è nato il cristianesimo ? » di Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 21/2 (2004), e in particolare : M. Pesce – A. Destro, « Come è nato il cristianesimo », ibidem, p. 529‑556. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout : Brepols, 2017), pp. 769–790 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111729 ©

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a un’occupazione funeraria già in età ellenistica e romana 3. Lungo la via che da Porta S. Gennaro s’inoltra nel suburbio sono disseminati infatti numerosi ipogei ellenistici di IV-III sec. a.C., riutilizzati poi in età tardo-repubblicana e nella prima età imperiale : a questi si giustappongono gli ipogei gentilizi realizzati nel corso del II secolo lungo le pendici della collina di Capodimonte, i quali, inizialmente destinati a singoli nuclei familiari, furono poi inglobati nelle catacombe di cui oggi sono visitabili due livelli. Lo scavo nel tufo delle lunghe gallerie del cimitero comunitario sotterraneo, a partire dal IV secolo, comportò in realtà, in più casi, la distruzione di molte di queste camere sepolcrali, a mano a mano che venivano “intercettate” lungo il percorso, come hanno dimostrato gli scavi e gli studi di Padre Umberto Maria Fasola 4 . Furono risparmiate due camere sepolcrali che assunsero la funzione di “vestibolo”, di ingresso ai due piani del cimitero, e che sono ricordate nella letteratura sull’argomento appunto come “vestibolo inferiore” e “vestibolo superiore” 5 (fig. 1). Le pitture che decorano il soffitto e le pareti di questi due ambienti evidenziano la progressiva introduzione di temi cristiani nel repertorio figurativo tradizionale tra la fine del II e i primi decenni del III secolo. L’antichità e la peculiarità delle scene di contenuto cristiano presenti in questi dipinti hanno da sempre attirato l’attenzione degli studiosi, che in passato si sono soffermati soprattutto sul legame delle immagini con le Sacre Scritture e con opere cristiane coeve. Con la grande stagione di scavi degli anni ’70 del ‘900, le pitture sono state poi inquadrate più puntualmente nello sviluppo topografico del monumento 6.

3.  M. A modio, Le sepolture a Neapolis dall ’età imperiale al Tardo-Antico. Scelte insediative, tipologie sepolcrali e usi funerari tra III e VI secolo, Napoli, 2014, p. 23, 25‑28. 4.  Ancora sostanzialmente valida la ricostruzione dello sviluppo topografico del monumento da lui proposta : U.M. Fasola, Le catacombe di S. Gennaro a Capodimonte, Roma, 1975. Per un inquadramento bibliografico sul monumento con rimando a studi più recenti si veda il già citato : M. A modio, Le sepolture a Neapolis dall ’età imperiale al Tardo-Antico. Scelte insediative, tipologie sepolcrali e usi funerari tra III e VI secolo, Napoli, 2014, p. 55‑66, p. 137‑139 cat. 86. 5.  Sulla storia della scoperta e degli scavi nei due vestiboli : M. A modio, « Riflessi monumentali del culto ianuariano. Le Catacombe di S. Gennaro : dalla ‘curiositas’ degli eruditi alle indagini archeologiche », in G. Luongo (ed.), S. Gennaro nel XVII Centenario del martirio (305‑2005). Atti del Convegno internazionale (Napoli, 21‑23 settembre 2005), in Campania Sacra, vol. 37, 1‑2 (2006), Napoli, 2007, p. 123‑145, part. p. 128‑130, 135‑136, 138‑143. Più di recente sulle indagini nel complesso tra XIX e primi decenni del XX secolo : C. E banista, « Il piccone del fossore : un secolo di scavi nella catacomba di S. Gennaro a Napoli (1830‑1930) », Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 86 (2010), p. 127‑174. 6.  U.M. Fasola, Le catacombe di S. Gennaro a Capodimonte, Roma, 1975, p. 17‑29.

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Fig. 1. Napoli, Catacombe di S. Gennaro. Pianta dei due vestiboli (da Fasola 1975, pianta III)

L’intento di questo contributo è, attraverso l’approfondimento degli aspetti iconografici, stilistici e tecnico-esecutivi e il confronto con la pittura romana e campana di II-III secolo – quest’ultima incrementatasi di recente con nuove scoperte –, definire gli elementi di continuità e innovazione di questi affreschi rispetto alla produzione artistica coeva. Nell’analisi si terrà conto dell’interazione del committente con l’artigiano che dà forma ai nuovi temi iconografici, così come del suo rapporto con i destinatari delle immagini. Le modalità di fruizione e la visibilità delle scene, e quindi il contesto di appartenenza delle pitture, sono infatti aspetti non secondari, su cui si

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è posta giustamente l’attenzione negli studi già da alcuni decenni 7. Proponendo questa nuova prospettiva interpretativa, si è così data una “scossa” all’annoso dibattito storiografico sulla valenza delle scene (simbolico-docetica, storico-narrativa), che ha dominato la storia degli studi sin dalla fine dell’Ottocento e ha condizionato la lettura delle immagini, spesso “schiacciata” sull’interpretazione e sul significato di effettivi o presunti riferimenti scritturistici e letterari 8. L’analisi, concentrata esclusivamente sui soggetti cristiani, era condotta inoltre dando per scontata l’“incompatibilità” delle scene con i compresenti temi “pagani”. L’inserimento delle decorazioni cristiane nella produzione artistica tardo-antica ha poi restituito l’arte cristiana, o meglio l’arte di contenuto cristiano, a un più corretto inquadramento storico e interpretativo, grazie anche al progresso degli studi dei contesti monumentali di appartenenza 9. Si sono creati così i presupposti per accogliere le stimolanti prospettive di lettura, applicate già da oltre vent’anni allo studio dell’arte antica, tese ad indagare il “linguaggio delle immagini” e la loro funzione in quanto “sistema di segni”, strumento per indagare l’universo concettuale condiviso da una società, le relazioni sociali che l’uso delle immagini riflette e al contempo determina 10. Oggi si tende dunque a “disinnescare” il meccanismo interpretativo per lungo tempo automaticamente orientato nella direzione del conflitto e a porre l’accento, viceversa, sui temi della condivisione e dell’appartenenza di cristiani e non-cristiani ad una comune matrice culturale in cui si innestano i valori della nuova fede 11. Questo tipo di lettura si può agevolmente applicare, come si vedrà, anche agli affreschi napoletani. 7.  C. Carletti, « Origine, committenza e fruizione delle scene bibliche nella produzione figurativa romana del III secolo », Vetera Christianorum 26 (1989), p. 207‑219 ; più di recente il già citato : I d., « Le pitture delle catacombe di Roma : restauri e nuove acquisizioni. Chiose di libera lettura a proposito di un nuovo libro »,  Archeologia Medievale 40 (2013), p. 453‑459. 8.  Per un inquadramento della storia degli studi dell’arte cristiana : F. Bisconti, «  La decorazione delle catacombe romane », in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – F. Bisconti – D. M azzoleni (ed.), Le catacombe cristiane di Roma. Origini, sviluppo, apparati decorativi, documentazione epigrafica, Regensburg, 1998, p. 71‑144, part. p. 130‑134. Da ultima : C. Sanmorì, « Le arti figurative e la storia del cristianesimo antico », in A. Giudice – G. R inaldi (ed.), Fonti documentarie per lo studio del cristianesimo antico, Roma, 2014, p. 159‑190. 9.  V. Fiocchi Nicolai, « Elementi di trasformazione dello spazio funerario tra Tarda Antichità ed Altomedioevo », in Uomo e spazio nell ’Alto Medioevo (4‑8 aprile 2002), Spoleto, 2003, p. 921‑969. 10.  Si vedano i numerosi studi di Jàs Elsner e Paul Zanker, tra i principali esponenti di questo filone di studi, e in particolare : J. Elsner , Roman Art and Christian Triumph : the Art of the Roman Empire A.D. 100‑450, Oxford, 1998 ; P. Z anker , Un’arte per l ’Impero. Funzione e intenzione delle immagini nel mondo romano, Milano, 2002. 11.  Si veda : G. Cantino Wataghin, « I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione », Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 13‑33.

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decor a z ion e degl i i pog e i pr i vat i

n e l l a secon da m età de l

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Il “vestibolo inferiore”, più antico, era parte di un ipogeo in origine privato, costituito da una vasta sala trapezoidale che colpisce ancora oggi per la sua monumentalità. Sei sarcofagi realizzati nel tufo (ne restano 5 privi di coperchio) erano addossati alle pareti, destinati evidentemente ai membri più importanti della gens proprietaria dell’ambiente. Altre sepolture erano collocate in tre vani minori visibili a nord (B2-B3-B4), che hanno perduto la forma originaria per le trasformazioni legate alla nascita del cimitero comunitario. La stessa sorte toccò a un altro ipogeo gentilizio (B 11) che si estendeva a sud del vestibolo, quasi del tutto distrutto : contemporaneo (o forse di poco antecedente) ad esso, nella seconda metà del III secolo accolse la tomba del vescovo Agrippino, intorno alla quale poi sorsero un’area funeraria collettiva e una basilica 12 (fig. 1). Di grandissimo interesse sono le pitture che decorano il soffitto e le pareti del vestibolo e che purtroppo oggi sono in cattivo stato e poco leggibili in situ (fig. 2). Si può provare a ricostruirne in modo analitico la decorazione col supporto di alcune fotografie 13 e di disegni e acquerelli realizzati tra la fine dell’Ottocento e i primi decenni del Novecento 14 (fig. 3). Tale supporto documentario non è invece disponibile per altri affreschi, più o meno coevi, che si conservano nella volta del vano centrale a nord (B3) e nella vicina basilica di Agrippino ma sono poco visibili. Grazie ad alcune riproduzioni fotografiche 15 è possibile rilevare, come si vedrà, strette affinità con i dipinti del vestibolo, dal punto di vista dello schema compositivo e della scelta dei motivi iconografici.

12.  U.M. Fasola, Le catacombe di S. Gennaro a Capodimonte, Roma, 1975, p. 17‑22 e Pianta III. Il vestibolo (lungh. 16 m × largh. 6 m all’ingresso e 11 m al fondo ; h oltre 6 m), principale nucleo di sviluppo del cimitero comunitario, subì numerose trasformazioni nel tempo : dopo lo sviluppo dell’area attigua dove era stato deposto Agrippino nel III secolo, nei primi decenni del IV divenne il fulcro di irradiazione dell’imponente cimitero collettivo che si sviluppò con le tre gallerie scavate nella parete est del vestibolo ; nella prima metà del V secolo (tra il 416 e il 432) in un cubicolo della galleria nord furono deposte le reliquie del martire Gennaro ; nell’VIII secolo il vestibolo, adibito a “episcopio di emergenza”, ospitò un grande fonte battesimale e un consignatorium. 13.  U.M. Fasola, Le catacombe di S. Gennaro a Capodimonte, Roma, 1975, tav. I. 14.  R. Garrucci, Storia dell ’arte cristiana, II, Prato, 1873, tav. 90 ; H. Achelis , Die Katakomben von Neapel, Leipzig, 1936, tavv. 1‑4. 15.  U.M. Fasola, Le catacombe di S. Gennaro a Capodimonte, Roma, 1975, figg. 7‑9.

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Fig. 2. Napoli, Catacombe di S. Gennaro. Affreschi del vestibolo inferiore (da Fasola 1975, tav. I, a)

Nel vestibolo sul fondo bianco si sviluppa una decorazione lineare con larghe fasce di diversi colori (ocra, rosso, bruno, verde scuro), dai toni sobri e accostati con gusto, riquadrate da linee semplici o dentellate. La composizione geometrica, imperniata su un tondo centrale in cui è raffigurato un volatile che regge nel becco una ghirlanda, si sviluppa seguendo uno schema circolare concentrico che movimenta, al centro, la superficie piatta del soffitto creando un effetto di profondità. Un quadrato delimita lo spazio occupato dai cerchi concentrici, suddiviso al suo interno, nel senso delle diagonali e dei due assi maggiori, in campi minori dalle forme più variate (mandorle, trapezi, lunette, semilune, tondi, riquadri curvilinei). In questi spazi campeggiano motivi figurativi vari, vegetali e animali (fiori, vasi colmi di frutta, cantari, cervi, capri saltellanti, ippocampi, pantere, volatili), ravvivati da esili tralci vegetali. La decorazione prosegue poi sul soffitto e scende lungo le pareti con campi scanditi dalla successione di quadrati e rettangoli, vivacizzati da tondi e archetti con cui si tenta di celare e correggere otticamente le irregolarità della superficie tufacea. All’interno dei riquadri si ripetono gli stessi motivi figurativi (sono visibili capri, ippocampi) che si librano leggeri, come sospesi nell’aria. La composizione risulta nell’insieme ariosa ed elegante, nonostante la griglia geometrica sia ancora solida e prevalga nettamente – mediante le

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fasce spesse e policrome, sottolineate da filettature semplici o dentellate – sui soggetti raffigurati. Questi, tratti dal repertorio iconografico consueto di tradizione ellenistico-romana, non appaiono dunque protagonisti della decorazione che, dal forte valore ornamentale, sembra più concepita per un effetto d’insieme che non per una visione ravvicinata (com’è ovvio soprattutto nel caso del soffitto che supera i 6 m). Si tratta di motivi definiti in genere “neutri”, privi di rimandi a contenuti esplicitamente cristiani, considerati espressione di un repertorio genericamente cosmico e paradisiaco.

Fig. 3. Napoli, Catacombe di S. Gennaro. Riproduzione grafica degli affreschi del vestibolo inferiore (da Garrucci 1873, tav. 95)

Per quanto riguarda la cronologia lo stato di conservazione dell’affresco napoletano – che non consente al momento una lettura analitica delle immagini e la precisazione di aspetti tecnico-esecutivi e stilistici – ci spinge ad essere cauti nell’istituzione di confronti circostanziati. Per i temi figurativi e l’adozione dello stile lineare, questi affreschi però rientrano in un gusto pittorico che si afferma, in ambito funerario e dome-

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stico, tra la seconda metà e la fine del II secolo 16. Si riscontrano infatti affinità con pitture rinvenute a Roma, databili tra l’età antonina e la fine del II secolo 17. Più difficile è istituire confronti in ambito locale, napoletano e campano, dove le testimonianze sono molto esigue 18. I recenti rin16.  Sui caratteri e l’evoluzione della pittura tra II e III secolo, il cui percorso è stato definito in modo più chiaro e puntuale negli ultimi decenni, grazie al progresso negli studi e all’incremento delle conoscenze : I. Baldassarre – A. Pontrandolfo – A. Rouveret- M. Salvadori, Pittura romana. Dall ’ellenismo al tardo-antico, Milano 2002, p. 322‑358. Per Roma : M. Barbera – R. Paris (ed.), Antiche Stanze. Un quartiere di Roma imperiale nella zona di Termini, Roma, 1996 ; A. Donati (ed.), Romana Pictura. La pittura romana dalle origini all ’età bizantina, Milano, 1998. Per Ostia : S. Falzone , Scavi di Ostia XIV. Le pitture delle insulae (180‑250 d.C.), Roma, 2004. Sulle catacombe romane : F. Bisconti, « Prime decorazioni nelle catacombe romane », in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane. Atti della giornata tematica dei Seminari di Archeologia Cristiana (Roma 21 marzo 2005), Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 65‑89. 17.  A Roma nel Complesso di Piazza dei Cinquecento (M. Barbera – R. Paris [ed.], Antiche Stanze. Un quartiere di Roma imperiale nella zona di Termini, Roma, 1996), dove si conserva un’importante documentazione dello sviluppo della pittura nella seconda metà del II secolo, le decorazioni sono in generale più complesse e articolate rispetto alla più semplice decorazione dell’ipogeo ma si rintracciano delle affinità. Si vedano ad esempio, per l’età antonina, gli affreschi dell’edificio B dell’insula nord-est, in cui si ritrovano riquadri su fondo bianco delineati da spesse fasce, talora raddoppiate, con capri, ippocampi e motivi vari (ivi, fig. 22 a p. 189), e la parete ovest del corridoio E30, dove gli stessi elementi sono inseriti però in ampi pannelli arricchiti da finte prospettive architettoniche (ivi, fig. 2 a p. 150 ; tav. I a p. 153). Queste ultime caratterizzano anche altre decorazioni, che si collocano negli ultimi decenni del II secolo, più complesse dal punto di vista compositivo rispetto all’affresco napoletano, ma affini ad esso nel tono generale della composizione, nel gusto per le spesse fasce accostate in tonalità variate e sobrie, e soprattutto nella resa dei motivi figurativi animalistici (si vedano le decorazioni del corridoio E3-E11 : ivi, tav. III A-B, a p. 83 ; tav. IV B a p. 84 ; tav. V A-B a p. 85), destinati a una grande fortuna anche se progressivamente inseriti in schemi architettonici sempre più esili e destrutturati (si veda la parete nord della stanza E8 : ivi, tav. IV A, a p. 92), che preludono allo “stile lineare”. L’evoluzione dallo “stile architettonico” allo “stile lineare”, come è stato sottolineato da Fabrizio Bisconti, « non è sempre consequenziale e non si sviluppa secondo una meccanica successione cronologica » : F. Bisconti, « Prime decorazioni nelle catacombe romane », in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane. Atti della giornata tematica dei Seminari di Archeologia Cristiana (Roma 21 marzo 2005), Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 68‑72, cit. p. 70. 18.  La documentazione pittorica napoletana d’età imperiale è molto esigua. A parte gli affreschi più antichi delle catacombe di S. Gennaro, si segnalano un frammento di soffitto dipinto rinvenuto presso le terme di Via Diaz durante gli scavi della Metropolitana, della prima metà del II secolo (I. Bragantini, « Un soffitto dipinto di età imperiale da Napoli », in L. Borhy [ed.], Actes du VIIIe Colloque de l ’A ssociation Internationale pour la Peinture Murale Antique – Budapest 2001, Budapest, 2004, p. 175‑181), i poco noti affreschi delle terme nella Curia (M. R ippa, « Le terme romane al di sotto dell’edificio della curia arcivescovile di Napoli. Una nota », Napoli Nobilissima, s. V- v. VIII [2007], p. 215‑220 ;

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venimenti di pitture a Cuma e a Somma Vesuviana, assegnati alla prima metà del III secolo, riflettono un gusto diverso rispetto agli affreschi del vestibolo inferiore 19. La composizione ariosa, elegante e sobria, costellata da figurine eteree, librate nell’aria, che conferiscono all’insieme un senso di leggerezza, il gusto per una composizione geometrica rimarcata da spesse fasce filettate, e, come si è già detto, ancora solida, non destrutturata, elementi uniti all’assenza di temi cristiani, spingono a collocare questi affreschi ancora entro un orizzonte di II secolo, in particolare negli ultimi decenni 20. Più o meno coeve sono le pitture che decorano la volta del vano centrale a nord (B3) che, insieme agli altri due ambienti attigui, faceva parte dell’impianto originario dell’ipogeo. La decorazione è di tipo geometrico centralizzato e prevede tre cerchi concentrici, alternati a quadrati : al centro del soffitto infatti vi è un quadrato iscritto in un cerchio, a sua volta inserito in un quadrato e in un cerchio più grandi. Dagli angoli del quadrato si dipartono trapezi alternati a lunette. Archetti negli spazi di risulta, e comparti con tondi e riquadri curvilinei completano la decorazione geometrica, costituita da fasce rimarcate da una filettatura semplice o dentellata, come nel vestibolo inferiore, ma molto più sottili. Anche i C. E banista, « L’atrio paleocristiano dell’insula episcopalis di Napoli. Problemi di architettura e topografia paleocristiana e altomedievale », in M. Rotili [ed.], Tardo Antico e Alto Medioevo. Filologia, storia, archeologia, arte, Napoli 2009, p. 307‑375), databili tra la fine del II e gli inizi del III secolo (M. A modio, « Neapolis tardoantica : la fondazione della basilica costantiniana e le trasformazioni del tessuto urbano », Analysis Archaeologica. An International Journal of Western Mediterranean Archaeology 1 [2015], p. 7‑39). Più antichi gli affreschi del noto ipogeo di Caivano, non lontano da Napoli, databili alla fine del I-inizi del II secolo : M. A modio – G. Greco, « L’ipogeo di Caivano. Inquadramento storico, tecniche di realizzazione, interpretazione », in G. Libertini (ed.), L’Ipogeo di Caivano. Atti del Convegno di Caivano del 7 ottobre 2004, Frattamaggiore, 2005, p. 14‑56. 19.  J.P. Brun – P. Munzi, « La decorazione pittorica di un mausoleo di età severiana nella necropoli settentrionale di Cuma », in I. Bragantini (ed.), Atti del X Congresso Internazionale dell ’A IPMA (Association Internationale pour la Peinture Murale Antique), Napoli 17‑21 settembre 2007, Napoli, 2010, v. II, p. 499‑510 ; M. Ayoagi – C. A ngelelli, « La c.d. Villa di Augusto a Somma Vesuviana (NA). Nuove ipotesi di lettura sulla base delle più recenti ricerche archeologiche », in Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia (serie III). Rendiconti, vol. LXXXV (2012‑2013), Città del Vaticano, 2013, p. 171‑202. La villa, fondata non prima della seconda metà del II secolo, presenta un’articolata decorazione pittorica assegnata alla fine del II-prima metà del III secolo. Un probabile confronto con il vestibolo inferiore si può ritrovare nell’immagine di una gazzella raffigurata (insieme a un felino e due uccelli) su fondo bianco, in uno dei vani (10) della villa, emerso, in seguito a un restauro, al disotto dello strato di affresco severiano della calotta absidale (ivi, fig. 20 a p. 193) ; non è noto però lo schema compositivo in cui era inserito. 20.  Alla fine del II-inizi del III secolo li colloca : U.M. Fasola, Le catacombe di S. Gennaro a Capodimonte, Roma, 1975, p. 8.

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motivi animalistici e vegetali (pantera, ippocampo, coppe con frutta, fiori), raffigurati al centro dei riquadri sono i medesimi : la composizione nell’insieme presenta però una maggiore leggerezza e ariosità, grazie all’impalcatura geometrica più esile 21. Spesse fasce filettate, di varie tonalità, simili a quelle del vestibolo, caratterizzano la decorazione dell’antico ipogeo gentilizio nella basilica di Agrippino, di cui restano scarse tracce. Nei pochi lacerti conservati sono visibili, anche qui, campi tondi, semilunati, quadrati, rettangolari, in cui campeggiano i consueti motivi decorativi (capriolo saltellante, uccello in volo, pera e mela accostate, fiore stilizzato) 22 . L’ipogeo, come si è detto, è stato assegnato a un’epoca contemporanea (se non di poco antecedente) al vestibolo per motivi topografici da U.M. Fasola, il quale ha considerato questi affreschi (da lui scoperti e esaminati autopticamente) un po’ più tardi della decorazione dell’imponente aula attigua. Sarebbero quindi pertinenti a una fase successiva all’impianto dell’ipogeo, che, a mio avviso però, non va spostata troppo in avanti nel tempo. Al di là di tali precisazioni cronologiche, che sarà possibile effettuare quando si disporrà di una documentazione più affidabile sulle pitture, è significativo che queste non presentino motivi figurativi cristiani. Questo, come è noto, non è un’indicazione dell’appartenenza religiosa dei proprietari degli ipogei di II secolo, su cui non è possibile pronunciarsi con certezza. Siamo in una fase in cui non è ancora nata un’arte di contenuto cristiano, che farà la sua comparsa, come si vedrà, nei primi decenni del III secolo. II. L e

a r e e fu n e r a r i e col l et t i v e di

III

secolo e lo s v i luppo di

u n ’a rt e di con t e n u to cr i s t i a no

Tracce materiali della presenza dei primi credenti in Cristo si trovano nel vestibolo superiore, che presenta un’interessante decorazione dipinta nella volta : qui compaiono per la prima volta, accanto al repertorio consueto, dei temi cristiani. Di dimensioni più modeste rispetto a quello inferiore, il c.d. vestibolo è in realtà l’ambiente più interno di un ipogeo funerario, composto da due vani approssimativamente quadrati (7 m per lato) e raggiungibile da una scala posta al centro della parete tufacea che li separava (figg. 2, 6). Sulle pareti sono visibili due file sovrapposte di arcosoli polisomi (con sepolture infantili realizzate talora nella lunetta) mentre forme terragne erano rica21.  U.M. Fasola, Le catacombe di S. Gennaro a Capodimonte, Roma, 1975, fig. 7. 22.  Ivi, figg. 8, 9.

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vate nel pavimento. Accoglieva dunque un consistente numero di sepolture, in rapporto anche alle dimensioni dell’ambiente (soprattutto se lo si confronta con il vicino vestibolo inferiore) 23. Le più antiche immagini cristiane attestate a Napoli sono inserite nella volta accanto ad altri motivi figurativi, in una composizione geometrica lineare in spesse fasce di diversi colori (rosso, ocra, azzurro), i cui toni caldi e accesi risaltano sul fondo bianco (fig. 4). Lo schema compositivo è centralizzato con sviluppo su diagonali. Al centro è un ottagono inscritto in un quadrato, che racchiude una figura alata in volo (conservata per tre quarti), interpretabile come una Vittoria ; negli spazi di risulta sono raffigurate coppie di amorini reggenti ghirlande, separati da riquadri contenenti un fiorellino appena abbozzato con rapide pennellate. Dagli angoli del quadrato partono le diagonali composte ciascuna da un motivo a mandorla, contenente grappoli d’uva ; questo poggia su un’edicola in ocra, terminante presso gli angoli interni del soffitto, su un campo semilunato che racchiude una testina. Nei quattro spazi formati dalle diagonali si ripete uno schema composto, partendo dal quadrato centrale, da un pinax in cui è rappresentata una maschera e, sotto di esso, una lunetta dai contorni a ghirlanda, su cui poggiano due volatili. In ciascun campo semilunato, in alto è un riquadro con una scena figurata (si tratta delle vignette di contenuto cristiano) e, al di sotto di esso, si dispongono tre rettangoli : uno più lungo al centro, che contiene frutti o animali (melograni e pantera ; fig. 5) e due più piccoli ai lati con ippocampi ; negli spazi di risulta all’esterno sono raffigurati vasi con frutti e gazzelle. Una fascia composta da cinque riquadri, in cui campeggiano testine, ippogrifi, vasi entro rombi o tondi, si dispone presso i lati lunghi del vano e completa il campo del soffitto 24 . Tre sono le scene di contenuto cristiano conservate (in origine ve ne doveva essere una quarta, distrutta in età alto-medievale per l’apertura di un lucernaio nella volta, decorato da un affresco con un Cristo mandorlato) 25 : Adamo ed Eva (fig. 7), la lotta tra Davide e Golia (fig. 5), e un soggetto che è un unicum iconografico e raffigura la Costruzione della torre da parte di tre donne (fig. 8).

23.  Sul vestibolo : U.M. Fasola, Le catacombe di S. Gennaro a Capodimonte, Roma, 1975, p. 22‑29. 24.  Per le riproduzioni degli affreschi tra il XIX e i primi decenni del XX secolo : C.F. Bellermann, Ueber die ältesten christlichen Begräbnisstätten und besonders die Katakomben zu Neapel mit ihren Wandgemälden. Ein Betrag zur christlichen Althertumskunde, Hamburg, 1839, p. 77, Taf. V, 2 ; R. Garrucci, Storia dell ’arte cristiana, II, Prato, 1873, tav. 96, 2 ; 96, 3 ; H. Achelis , Die Katakomben von Neapel, Leipzig, 1936, Taff. 9‑10. 25.  U.M. Fasola, Le catacombe di S. Gennaro a Capodimonte, Roma, 1975, tav. II, fig. 111.

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4 Fig. 4. Napoli, Catacombe di S. Gennaro. Acquerello degli affreschi del vestibolo superiore (da Achelis 1936)

La decorazione prosegue sulle pareti dell’ambiente, traforate da due ordini di arcosolii. Un sistema lineare in fasce rosse e ocra scandisce anche qui le superfici e forma riquadri in cui si ritrovano i motivi consueti (melograni, vasi con frutti, uccelli con tralci vegetali, animali marini, fiori) accanto a figure umane, ormai poco visibili, che in alcuni casi facevano parte di scene di contenuto cristiano (in un caso si può riconoscere l’episodio del miracolo della fonte 26). Vi sono anche iscrizioni dipinte su alcune lunette, riportanti i nomi dei defunti in caratteri greci 27. Lo stato di conservazione degli affreschi e le varie trasformazioni subite dall’ipogeo, in cui sono attestate una progressiva intensificazione delle sepolture e una continuità d’uso dal III al IX secolo, rendono difficile, allo stato attuale, un’analisi dettagliata delle pitture parietali, per definire quali appartengano alla prima fase decorativa dell’ambiente 28 e siano dunque coeve alla volta. Questo dato sarebbe di grande interesse per l’interpretazione del “sistema decorativo” dell’ipogeo al momento del suo impianto. Anche sulle pareti, come nel soffitto, infatti motivi iconografici “neutri”, 26.  Sul tema iconografico : A.M. Nieddu, s.v. « Miracolo della fonte », in F. Bisconti (ed.), Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 216‑219. 27.  Per le epigrafi : E. M iranda, Iscrizioni greche d ’Italia. Napoli, II, Roma, 1995, nn. 217, 221, 223, 234‑235, 240, 248, 255, 258‑259. 28.  Alcune pitture sono collocabili nel III secolo inoltrato.

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Fig. 5. Napoli, Catacombe di S. Gennaro. Affreschi del vestibolo superiore. In alto Davide, in basso una pantera (foto dell’autrice, 2005)

tipici del repertorio tradizionale, convivono con nuove scene cristiane (che però al momento sono di difficile esegesi). Gli affreschi della volta, oggetto di vari restauri negli anni, sono invece in migliore stato di conservazione. Dal punto di vista stilistico si differenziano da quelli del piano inferiore perché la trama di linee è qui più sontuosa e complessa, caratterizzata da spesse fasce a contrasto cromatico che, prive delle eleganti filettature semplici o dentellate, appaiono talora spezzate talora vegetalizzate. La composizione geometrica, seppur ancora ben percepibile, è ormai in via di destrutturazione. Al suo interno trovano spazio temi figurativi, nuovi e consueti, disposti con accuratezza come a sottolinearne la valenza semantica, e concepiti per una visione più ravvicinata e analitica rispetto all’alto soffitto del piano inferiore. Alcuni motivi (le gazzelle, i vasi con frutti), presenti in modo pervasivo e ripetuto nel soffitto del piano inferiore con forte effetto ornamentale, sono qui relegati a riempire gli spazi di risulta in una sorta di horror vacui. Ne deriva una composizione dai toni sontuosi e barocchi, espressione di un nuovo gusto che si afferma nei primi decenni del III secolo, caratterizzato dalla preferenza per l’accostamento di colori intensi (rosso, giallo, inserzioni di azzurro), dalla ricchezza decorativa e dal progressivo affermarsi di una resa più rapida e sommaria delle figure, ora più tozze e corpose, meno armoniose nelle proporzioni, talora con errori di prospet-

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tiva nelle pose e nei movimenti. Ne sono esempio i recenti rinvenimenti di Somma Vesuviana e Cuma su citati 29, collocabili entro la prima metà del III secolo, epoca a cui si possono assegnare anche le pitture del vestibolo superiore. Qui però le figure, soprattutto i personaggi delle scene cristiane, appaiono più armoniose nelle proporzioni (si pensi alle donne della Costruzione della Torre o ad Adamo ed Eva), anche se non manca qualche ingenuità (come si vedrà nel caso di Davide). La distanza dalla produzione precedente emerge anche dal confronto con gli affreschi dell’Ipogeo di Caivano (presso Napoli), databile alla fine del I-inizi del II secolo 30, confronto che evidenzia il processo di trasformazione del “linguaggio delle immagini” nell’ambito di una struttura decorativa e iconografica apparentemente tradizionale. Nella volta vi sono alcune consonanze nello schema compositivo di base : nel quadrato centrale da cui si dipartono diagonali ; nel doppio ordine di rettangoli di diverse dimensioni che delimita il soffitto ; nelle lunette contornate da ghirlande (fig. 6). Il tono generale della composizione di Caivano, anche se un po’ appesantito dalle spesse fasce rosse, è però caratterizzato da una maggiore leggerezza, conferita dalla delicata resa dei motivi figurativi (nature morte, paesaggi idillico-sacrali) e dall’espediente della vegetalizzazione delle diagonali trasformate in ghirlande e tralci vegetali. A Napoli invece è tutto più caricato e denso : nel quadrato centrale, in luogo della più semplice 29.  M. Ayoagi – C. A ngelelli, « La c.d. Villa di Augusto a Somma Vesuviana (NA). Nuove ipotesi di lettura sulla base delle più recenti ricerche archeologiche », in Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia (serie III). Rendiconti, vol. LXXXV, a.a. 2012‑2013, Città del Vaticano, 2013, p. 171‑202. Nella villa di Somma in una scena di tiaso marino (ibidem, fig. 17), interpretata in chiave dionisiaca (A. De Simone – M. Ayoagi, « Il thiasos marino dalla Villa di Somma Vesuviana », in I. Bragantini [ed.], Atti del X Congresso Internazionale dell ’ AIPMA (Association Internationale pour la Peinture Murale Antique), Napoli 17‑21 settembre 2007, Napoli, 2010, v. II, p. 583‑593), è raffigurato un amorino che ricorda quelli del vestibolo napoletano nella forma allungata e poco proporzionata del corpo ; un’altra affinità si ritrova nel gusto coloristico, in particolare nell’accostamento del rosso della fascia che incornicia la scena con due tonalità di azzurro, presenti anche nella volta a Capodimonte. Fasce rosse e azzurre accostate inquadrano anche gli arcosoli del mausoleo di Cuma, dove gli stessi colori ricorrono nelle scene figurate (nell’insieme più eleganti) in cui, al di sopra di un prato fiorito con boccioli rossi, si collocano volatili ai lati di un cesto con fiori, pavoni e, anche qui, una scena di tiaso marino : J.P. Brun – P. Munzi, « La decorazione pittorica di un mausoleo di età severiana nella necropoli settentrionale di Cuma », in I. Bragantini (ed.), Atti del X Congresso Internazionale dell ’A IPMA (Association Internationale pour la Peinture Murale Antique), Napoli 17‑21 settembre 2007, Napoli, 2010, v. II, p. 499‑510. 30.  M. A modio – G. Greco, « L’ipogeo di Caivano. Inquadramento storico, tecniche di realizzazione, interpretazione », in G. Libertini (ed.), L’Ipogeo di Caivano. Atti del Convegno di Caivano del 7 ottobre 2004, Frattamaggiore 2005, p. 14‑56, part. p. 41‑54.

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cerva, è inserito un ottagono con la Vittoria alata e amorini negli spazi di risulta ; i pinakes, invece che quadretti di paesaggio lacustre con anatre, accolgono espressive maschere : queste sono presenti anche a Caivano dove sono però accostate a vasi agonistici, premi per i vincitori dei ludi, come segno di prestigio sociale, economico e culturale 31. Hanno la stessa valenza le varie specie di volatili e frutti che rimandano al locus amoenus, dove al committente piace immaginarsi dopo la morte e che è l’ambientazione che predilige anche in vita, come mostra la diffusione del repertorio nella decorazione domestica. Un’allusione realistica vi è viceversa nel fregio dipinto con coppie di frutti sulla cornice aggettante all’imposta della volta, che si pone in continuità con l’uso funerario ellenistico di deporre offerte nelle camere sepolcrali, ben attestato negli ipogei napoletani di IV-III sec. a.C. nella plastica e in pittura.

Fig. 6. Ipogeo di Caivano (Napoli). Affreschi della volta (da Amodio-Greco 2005, fig. 1)

Tale duplice allusione, “paradisiaca” o realistica, si può ravvisare anche nei frutti raffigurati nella volta del vestibolo napoletano, dove le possibili letture si sovrappongono. I motivi del repertorio tradizionale (i frutti ma anche gli animali) sono qui però selezionati, estrapolati da scene più articolate e collocati in posizione preminente, come nel caso dell’uva nelle dia-

31.  Ibidem.

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gonali, o del melograno 32 e della pantera che campeggiano da soli al centro di riquadri più grandi. Sembrano per questo caricarsi di valenze semantiche più forti, sormontati peraltro dalle vignette che contengono le scene più importanti dell’intera volta, quelle cristiane, su cui doveva certo soffermarsi l’attenzione dei frequentatori dell’ipogeo data la novità del soggetto e il contenuto narrativo. A Caivano, all’incirca nella stessa posizione delle vignette cristiane, si trovavano dei quadretti di paesaggio idillico-sacrale in cui contava più l’atmosfera generale evocata dalle scene, come rimando a un mondo alternativo e immaginario di felicità e pace, che i singoli personaggi e monumenti, appena accennati con rapide pennellate. Nel vestibolo invece sono protagoniste le figure, attentamente delineate nei gesti e negli attributi, che sono quelli poi che consentono di identificare l’episodio dei testi sacri a cui si rimanda : per rendere l’immagine immediatamente comprensibile e efficace, infatti, sono eliminati gli elementi accessori, quali i particolari paesaggistici, a meno che non siano funzionali alla storia, come nel caso di Adamo e Eva. I Protoparenti sono infatti raffigurati ai lati dell’albero, dopo aver commesso il peccato (fig. 7) . Si tratta di una delle più antiche rappresentazioni dell’episodio 33, di cui si trova un esempio sempre in Campania, più o meno contemporaneo, in un mausoleo della necropoli di Cimitile, nella lunetta di un arcosolio  3 4 . La pittura presenta alcune varianti (nella posa delle figure e per l’assenza dell’albero) in una fase in cui il codice iconografico è ancora in formazione. Sempre entro la prima metà del III secolo, la scena è attestata in un contesto geografico e monumentale del tutto diverso, ovvero nel Battistero di Dura Europos in Siria, dove Adamo ed Eva sono raffigurati, in piccole dimensioni, sotto un’immagine del Buon Pastore 35.

32.  Questi motivi hanno ormai acquisito una valenza sepolcrale specifica in seguito al processo di selezione dei temi figurativi nelle decorazioni tombali, avviatosi già dal II secolo e approdato alla specializzazione del repertorio funerario ; si veda in proposito : I. Baldassarre – A. Pontrandolfo – A. Rouveret – M. Salvadori, Pittura romana. Dall ’ellenismo al tardo-antico, Milano, 2002, p. 304, 352‑353. 33.  D. Calcagnini, s.v. « Adamo ed Eva », in F. Bisconti (ed.), Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 96‑101. 34.  Sull’affresco di recente : R. Giordani, « La Bibbia nel repertorio figurativo di Nola-Cimitile », Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 21/1 (2004), p. 189‑197 (con ampio quadro della bibliografia precedente). 35.  C.H. K raeling, « The Christian Building », in C. Bradford Welles (ed.), The Excavations at Dura Europos, Final Report, New Haven, 1967, VIII, 2, pl. 31. Un’interessante lettura delle pitture di Dura in : J. Elsner , Roman Eyes. Visuality and Subjectivity in Art and Text, Princeton, 2007, p. 225‑287, part. p. 268‑270.

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Fig. 7. Napoli, Catacombe di S. Gennaro. Affreschi del vestibolo superiore. Adamo ed Eva (foto dell’autrice, 2005)

Nella volta napoletana, dal lato opposto alla scena dei Protoparenti, era raffigurato l’eroico duello di Davide contro Golia (ispirato al passo I Sam 17). Resta solo Davide che, vestito di una corta tunica, impugna la fionda con il braccio destro, ha il busto di prospetto e le gambe in una posa innaturale e ingenua per rendere lo sforzo dello slancio (fig. 5). Anche in questo caso per un confronto coevo, ci si deve spostare nel battistero di Dura Europos 36 , dove si ritrovano due delle tre scene presenti a Napoli. Colpisce la simultaneità in aree così lontane dell’Impero (la Campania appunto e la Siria) di queste creazioni iconografiche, espressione di un repertorio ancora fluido e in formazione, che tendeva ad operare una selezione delle scene nella stessa direzione. La terza immagine invece è, come si è già accennato, un unicum, una di quelle « meteore iconografiche » (come sono state felicemente definite) che caratterizzano l’arte cristiana degli esordi 37. Rappresenta tre donne 36.  Per un quadro delle attestazioni : U. Utro, s.v. « Davide », in F. Bisconti (ed.), Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 164‑165. 37.  Per la definizione : F. Bisconti, « La decorazione delle catacombe romane », in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – F. Bisconti – D. M azzoleni, Le catacombe cristiane di Roma. Origini, sviluppo, apparati decorativi, documentazione epigrafica, Regensburg, 1998, p. 71‑144, cit. p. 124.

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intente a costruire una torre : due portano i mattoni, la terza li mette in opera. Il significato della scena può essere chiarito in rapporto a un testo molto noto, databile intorno alla metà del II secolo, Il Pastore di Erma 38, in cui è presente l’allegoria della Costruzione della torre, che rappresenta la Chiesa fondata su solidi mattoni, ovvero i fedeli privi di peccato (fig. 8). Il tema ritorna in due diversi passi, ovvero la Visione III e la Similitudine IX, con alcune varianti. Al testo verisimilmente si ispira l’artista che traduce in immagine la scena, scelta dal committente evidentemente per il simbolismo battesimale, funerario e penitenziale implicito nell’opera 39. Rispetto al racconto di Erma, complesso e ricco di particolari, sempre densi di significato, la pittura è però molto più immediata e sintetica, “prosciugata” di elementi accessori e concepita per evocare, nel ridotto spazio della vignetta, il messaggio veicolato dall’immagine e evidentemente comprensibile allo spettatore. Il rapporto tra il committente appunto, che vuole rappresentare un determinato tema, e l’artigiano che ha il compito di renderlo in immagine, è un momento fondamentale nel processo di creazione del nuovo immaginario figurativo cristiano. Il pittore deve fare i conti infatti con gli aspetti tecnico-esecutivi (in primo luogo la superficie da decorare) e con il repertorio di schemi e immagini che ha a disposizione  4 0 : in alcuni casi si può agevolmente rifare a schemi classici 41 in altri deve ideare soluzioni iconografiche nuove42 . 38.  Hermas, Le Pasteur, ed. R. Joly, Sources Chrétiennes 53bis, Paris 1958. Nella III Visione (Herm. Vis. 3, 2 ; 4‑9 = SC 53, 104, 108 e 110) la Chiesa mostra a Erma una grande torre, che viene edificata sulle acque da 6 giovani e da miriadi di uomini ; intorno alla torre vi sono sette donne. Nella IX Similitudine (Herm. Sim. 9, 3 = SC 53,294) è ripreso il simbolo della torre. L’angelo di Dio, sotto le sembianze di un pastore conduce Erma a vedere un campo dove si erge un masso quadrato bianco che supera in altezza le montagne circostanti : vi si vede una porta che sembra aperta di recente e intorno ad essa 12 vergini. Dapprima la torre è costruita da sei giovani e da una moltitudine di uomini e le vergini sono addette a levar le pietre dalle acque e a portarle ai giovani ; in seguito sono le vergini a prendere le pietre squadrate dai manovali e a porle in costruzione. Il primo a individuare l’opera di Erma come fonte d’ispirazione per la pittura napoletana : C.F. Bellermann, Ueber die ältesten christlichen Begräbnisstätten und besonders die Katakomben zu Neapel mit ihren Wandgemälden. Ein Betrag zur christlichen Althertumskunde, Hamburg 1839, p. 77. 39.  M. Perraymond, s.v. « Visioni », in F. Bisconti (ed.), Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 302‑304. 40.  I. Bragantini, « La circolazione dei temi e dei sistemi decorativi : alcune osservazioni », in Circulaciòn de temas y sistemas decorativos en la pintura mural antigua. Actas del IX Congreso Internacional de la Association Internationale pour la Peinture Murale Antique (AIPMA), (Zaragoza-Catalyud 21‑25 septiembre 2004), Zaragoza, 2007, p. 21‑25. 41.  Sulle reminiscenze classiche nelle pitture catacombali  : F. Bisconti, « Memorie classiche nelle decorazioni pittoriche delle catacombe romane. Conti­

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Fig. 8 Napoli, Catacombe di S. Gennaro. Affreschi del vestibolo superiore. La Costruzione della torre (foto dell’autrice, 2005)

Si è discusso molto sul significato della presenza a Napoli di questa raffigurazione tratta da un’opera che il Canone Muratoriano, di qualche decennio posteriore 43, indicava tra quelle di cui si vietava la lettura pubblica. In base a tale notizia, si è presupposta quindi in passato l’anteriorità dell’affresco rispetto al Canone – affermazione assolutamente non confortata però dall’analisi stilistica che ci riporta ad un’epoca non antecedente ai primi decenni del III secolo –, quasi che il divieto di lettura pubblica implicasse in automatico anche il divieto di circolazione o, ancor più, di rappresentazione di un’opera che invece era evidentemente ben nota  4 4 .

nuità grafiche e variazioni semantiche », in Historiam Pictura Refert. Miscellanea in onore di p. Alejandro Recio Veganzones O.F.M., Città del Vaticano, 1994, p. 28‑66. 42.  Sul ruolo di Roma come “laboratorio figurativo” dell’arte cristiana agli inizi del III secolo : F. Bisconti, « Prime decorazioni nelle catacombe romane », in V. Fiocchi Nicolai – J. Guyon (ed.), Origine delle catacombe romane. Atti della giornata tematica dei Seminari di Archeologia Cristiana (Roma 21 marzo 2005), Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 65‑89, part. p. 89. 43.  C. Moreschini – E. Norelli, Storia della letteratura cristiana antica greca e latina I. Da Paolo all ’età costantiniana, Brescia, 1999, p. 240‑246. 44.  Per un’acuta ed equilibrata analisi : D. M allardo, « Le origini della Chiesa di Napoli », in Miscellanea Pio Paschini, I, Roma, 1948, p. 27‑68 ; si veda anche :

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L’influenza a Napoli di un’opera come Il Pastore, « con la sua complessa temperie di giudaismo, cristianesimo ed ellenismo, e il suo complicato allegorismo » 45, è stata viceversa letta come un indizio della composizione della comunità cristiana napoletana dell’epoca. Vi dovevano far parte infatti membri delle classi elevate e colte, come del resto già suggerito dal carattere gentilizio e monumentale degli ipogei privati dove sorgeranno le catacombe. Si è anche ipotizzato che abbia avuto un ruolo determinante nella prima diffusione del cristianesimo la presenza di Giudei, come attestato altrove  4 6. Certo è che la vivacità culturale che doveva caratterizzare non solo gli ambienti cristiani, ma in generale la città, è ricollegabile ai frequenti contatti con gli stranieri presenti a Napoli, come si è detto, in particolare Orientali e Giudei. L’originalità e la ricchezza di spunti dell’affresco del vestibolo si spiegano meglio in questo contesto, così come anche le suggestive e precoci affinità tematiche rilevate con gli affreschi siriani (Adamo ed Eva, Davide e Golia). La scelta di un soggetto così peculiare come la Costruzione della Torre spinge a interrogarsi sulle modalità di fruizione delle immagini, aspetto che è strettamente connesso al contesto monumentale di appartenenza delle pitture 47. Nel caso del vestibolo i colti committenti dei dipinti della volta avevano selezionato delle immagini molto pregnanti, ben visibili a coloro che frequentavano l’ipogeo che, dato il numero delle sepolture presenti, non doveva ridursi certo al numero ristretto dei membri della famiglia. Tra l’altro la sala affrescata, più interna e raccolta, era adibita anche allo svolgimento dei riti funebri, come attestano i resti di un banco in tufo che corre in basso lungo le pareti 48. Quali fossero poi i livelli di fruizione e comprensione delle scene, rispetto anche agli intenti di chi commissionava le opere, è un altro discorso 49. D. A mbrasi, « Il cristianesimo e la chiesa napoletana dei primi secoli », in Storia di Napoli, I, Napoli, 1967, p. 625‑759, part. p. 637‑642. 45.  E. L epore , « La vita politica e sociale », in Storia di Napoli, I , Napoli, 1967, p. 139‑371, cit. p. 318. 46.  Ibidem, p. 314‑320. Sull’identità cristiana di Napoli : G. Otranto et al., « Identità cristiana e territorio. Il caso di Napoli e della Campania », Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 20/1 (2003), p. 139‑164. 47.  C. Carletti, « Origine, committenza e fruizione delle scene bibliche nella produzione figurativa romana del III secolo », Vetera Christianorum 26 (1989), p. 207‑219 ; di recente : I d., « Le pitture delle catacombe di Roma : restauri e nuove acquisizioni. Chiose di libera lettura a proposito di un nuovo libro », Archeologia Medievale 40 (2013), p. 453‑459. 48.  U.M. Fasola, Le catacombe di S. Gennaro a Capodimonte, Roma, 1975, p. 23. 49.  Si veda in proposito : G. Cantino Wataghin, « I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione », Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 13‑33, part. p. 26‑27.

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Così come è difficile definire se il criterio di selezione delle raffigurazioni cristiane nella volta rispondesse a un programma unitario, che collegava in un unico percorso di lettura le diverse immagini. Un legame si può agevolmente individuare nel tema della colpa e della possibilità di salvezza, in cui, accanto ai Protoparenti ben si inserisce la dottrina penitenziale centrale ne Il Pastore di Erma 50, il trionfo di Davide prefigurazione del Cristo, e, in quest’ottica, direi anche la Vittoria alata al centro della volta. Il richiamo ad un immaginario soteriologico si potrebbe ravvisare del resto anche nei motivi segnatamente dionisiaci (le maschere, le pantere, l’uva), selezionati nell’ambito del repertorio profano. Si deve però tener conto che ignoriamo il contenuto della quarta scena cristiana, perduta, e che più in generale si deve procedere sempre con una certa cautela in questo tipo di lettura delle immagini per evitare sovrainterpretazioni. Soprattutto per quanto riguarda la “rifunzionalizzazione semantica” operata dai cristiani di immagini e simboli del repertorio tradizionale, che è un terreno sempre scivoloso, su cui in una fase così precoce non si dovrebbe insistere troppo. È indubbio però, come si è già sottolineato, che per la disposizione e la gerarchia delle proporzioni alcuni temi acquistino rilievo visivo (il melograno, le pantere). Viceversa la posizione delle scene cristiane nell’economia complessiva della decorazione napoletana appare tutto sommato marginale. Tale scelta può essere stata dettata anche da motivi pragmatici e tecnico-esecutivi, e non necessariamente ideologici, nell’interazione tra committente ed esecutore materiale della decorazione. È d’altro canto vero che la nostra percezione della marginalità delle scene è condizionata da una “prospettiva modernizzante”, e non è detto fosse quella degli antichi per i quali le immagini di contenuto cristiano potevano “coabitare” con i temi del repertorio figurativo tradizionale, effettivamente prevalenti e tesi a rappresentare la tomba come dimora piacevole e serena per i defunti. Vi si può leggere certo un richiamo all’habitat paradisiaco 51, senza che questo escluda però, come è stato rilevato, una lettura più semplicemente “umana” del richiamo a una vita terrena idealizzata 52 . Questo immaginario radicato, parte del patrimonio culturale condiviso, era familiare a chi ammirava le pitture che stabiliva certo con esso una connessione emotiva. Vi faceva parte anche la tematica dionisiaca, in questa fase molto in voga (si pensi ai

50.  D. M allardo, « Le origini della Chiesa di Napoli », in Miscellanea Pio Paschini, I, Roma, 1948, p. 27‑68, part. p. 59‑60. 51.  Sul tema : F. Bisconti, «  Sulla concezione figurativa dell’“habitat” paradisiaco : a proposito di un affresco romano poco noto », Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana LXVI (1990), p. 25‑80. 52.  G. Cantino Wataghin, « I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione », Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 13‑33, part. p. 25‑26.

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casi di Cuma e Somma Vesuviana), che, dato il contesto, come si è già accennato, ben si adattava a una valenza soteriologica 53. La decorazione della volta sembra dunque declinata, con diversi linguaggi, a rappresentare il motivo della salvezza e della conquistata serenità. L’inserimento delle scene cristiane nel repertorio tradizionale avviene in modo non “traumatico” : le immagini si piegano verso nuovi significati. Questo è possibile perché il patrimonio figurativo presente, è profondamente radicato nella cultura romana, che è stata giustamente definita come « visual culture » 54, una cultura in cui le immagini sono onnipresenti, investono ogni spazio, e sono così diffuse e pervasive che a un certo punto perdono il legame col significato originario, diventano estremamente flessibili e adattabili ai contesti. Ed è in questo mondo, dominato dalle immagini, che si diffonde il cristianesimo 55. Per questo il rapporto delle immagini cristiane con il patrimonio figurativo non cristiano, “profano” non va letto, in questa fase, nell’ottica del conflitto o dell’incompatibilità, ma viceversa nell’ottica della condivisione. In questo senso le immagini che noi definiamo “neutre”, intendendo con questo termine “non cristiane”, se ci rifacciamo all’accezione originaria latina dell’aggettivo, piuttosto che non appartenere “né all’una né all’altra parte”, appartengono al patrimonio figurativo “naturalmente”, direi, condiviso anche da chi aderiva alla nuova fede.

53.  Di recente un’interessante analisi sul ruolo di Dioniso nei testi e nelle immagini cristiane tra II e IV secolo in : F. M assa, Tra la vigna e la croce. Dioniso nei discorsi letterari e figurativi cristiani (II-IV secolo), Stuttgart 2014. 54.  Per la definizione : J. Elsner , Roman Art and Christian Triumph : the Art of the Roman Empire A.D. 100‑450, Oxford, 1998, p. 11. 55.  G. Cantino Wataghin, « I primi cristiani, tra imagines, historiae e pictura. Spunti di riflessione », Antiquité Tardive 19 (2011), p. 13‑33, part. p. 17‑18.

H istory of the Modern Research on the H istorical F igure of Jesus

T HE H ISTORY OF R ESEARCH ON THE H ISTORICAL JESUS BEFORE R EIMARUS M auro Pesce I. Th e H i s tor ica l F igu r e

of

J e sus

in

M ode r n A g e

It is generally affirmed that the history of the research on the historical Jesus 1 begins with H.S. Reimarus on the influence of Deism and Enlightenment (an idea that rests on a book published more than a century ago by A. Schweitzer) 2 and that it is characterized by a series of phases or stages that culminate in the “last quest.” The aim of these pages is to present a critique of both these opinions. 3 In fact, the attempt to reconstruct an image of Jesus independently from the theological interpretations of the Churches is already attested at the beginning of the fifteenth century. Secondly, the history of the research must be understood not in the frame of a linear historical evolution that proceeds by subsequent phases, but in the light of a social history that takes into consideration the conflicting attitudes of different intellectual and academic institutions of Modern Age: Catholic theological Faculties, Protestant theological Faculties, and independent academic institutions and scholars. 4 1.  I publish here a revision of my article M. Pesce , “The Beginning of the Historical Research on Jesus in Modern Age,” in C. Johnson Hodge – S.M. Olyan – D. Ullucci – E. Wasserman,  ed., The One Who Sows Bountfully: Essays in Honor of Stanley K. Stowers (Atlanta, 2013) 77‑88. 2.  A. Schweitzer , From Reimarus zu Wrede. Geschichte der Leben-Jesu-Forschung (Tübingen, 1906). 3.  See also M. Pesce , Da Gesù al cristianesimo (Brescia, 2011) 13‑21; W. Huttmann, The Life of Jesus Christ Including His Apocryphal History from the Spurious Gospels Unpublished Manuscripts (London, 1818); L. Salvatorelli, “From Locke to Reitzenstein: the historical investigation of the origins of Christianity,” Harvard Theological Review 22 (1929) 264‑369 (Italian translation Cosenza, 1989). 4.  T. Gregory, Etica e religione nella critica libertina (Napoli, 1986); I d., Theophrastus redivivus: erudizione e ateismo nel Seicento (Napoli, 1979); F. L aplanche , La Bible en France entre mythe et critique, XVIe ‑XIXe siècles (Paris, 1994); I d., La République des lettres et l ’histoire du Judaïsme antique XVIe‑XVIIIe siècles. Colloque tenu en Sorbonne en mai 1990 (Paris, 1992); D. Cantimori, Eretici italiani del Cinquecento. A cura di A. Prosperi (Torino, 1992); D. M enozzi, Letture politiche di Gesù. Dall ’Ancien régime alla Rivoluzione (Brescia, 1979) (French translation: Les interprétations politiques de Jésus de l ’ancien régime à la Révolution [Paris, 1983]); I d., “Le interpretazioni di Gesù nell’età della rivoluzione francese,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 21 (2004); M.-C. P itassi, ed., Le Christ entre orthodoxie et lumières (Geneva, 1994); Ch.A. Gliozzo, “The Philosophes and Religion: Intellectual Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 793–806 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111730 ©

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The first condition that made possible a new historical research on Jesus was humanism. This intellectual movement emphasized reading texts in the original language and, starting at the beginning of the fourteenth century, influenced biblical research by bringing in a new understanding of early Christian concepts (for example metanoia versus poenitentia) in light of the Jewish and Greek cultures in which they were produced. The critique of medieval theology and the rise of a method of philological and historical analysis are two dialectic movements that are inseparable from humanism and contribute to the creation of new historical research on Jesus based on the direct reading of the original texts of the Gospels, independent from theological presuppositions. A second contributing factor was the Protestant idea of the discontinuity between medieval theology and Christian origins or, better, the Word of God. According to the Reformers, everything in the ecclesiastic tradition (dogmatic theology and ecclesiastic institutions) that was not faithful to the Word of God as passed down in the New Testament had to be submitted to criticism. This principle of discontinuity constituted a powerful drive towards the quest for the authentic portrait of Jesus, quite aside from later theological representations. For the Catholic theology emerging from the Council of Trent, by contrast, Sacred Scripture had to be understood within the interpretation offered by the Catholic Church and the “unanimous consent of the Fathers.” This set up an opposition between the Catholic principle of continuity of Tradition and the Protestant idea of the transcendence of the Word of God over the Church. The principle of continuity therefore triggered a Catholic tendency to produce historical representations of Jesus that had to be in harmony with Catholic theology. In the case, for example, of C. Baronius’ Annales Ecclesiastici, the historical reconstruction of the life of Christ was directly in conflict with a Protestant representation, and this conflict continued for centuries in many other cases. A third factor was the increasing awareness of the existence of new religions, following the discovery of the Americas and the subsequent colonial conquests. From the fifteenth century on, European thought was Origins of the Dechristianization Movement in the French Revolution,” Church History: Studies in Christianity and Culture 40 (1971) 273‑283; A. Stutcliffe , “Judaism in the Anti-Religious Thought of the Clandestine French Early Enlightenment,” Journal of the History of Ideas 64 (2003) 97‑117; G. A rtigas-M enant, Du secret des clandestins a la propagande voltairienne (Paris, 2001); I. A dinolfi – G. Goisis , ed., I  volti moderni di Gesù. Arte, filosofia, storia (Macerata, 2013). See now the following books: A. Del P rete – S. R icci, ed., Cristo nella filosofia dell ’età moderna (Firenze, 2014); A.L. Schino , Battaglie libertine. La vita e le opere di Gabriel Naudé (Firenze, 2014); L. Simonutti, ed., Religious Obedience and Political Resistance in the Early Modern World. Jewish, Christian and Islamic Philosophers Addressing the Bible (Turnhout, 2014).

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marked by a strong comparative urge that would eventually lead, in the seventeenth century, to the birth of a new science, the comparative history of religions. 5 In this context, the need arose to position the religious figure of Jesus within a comparative religious framework. Questions about the historical Jesus responded to this intellectual trend, as we will see for example in the case of Pietro Pomponazzi. The fourth factor is represented by the conflicts and wars of religions that pervaded Europe from the early sixteenth century until the middle of the seventeenth century. 6 In such a climate, there arose a historical exegesis of biblical texts and a new historical vision of Jesus, aside from the irreconcilable contrasts among churches. Since the conflicting dogmatic theologies could not find an agreement about the message of Jesus and were generating war, only an historical exegesis independent from confessional presuppositions could pretend to reconstruct an image of early Christianity and Jesus that could be acceptable within the “république des lettres.” An example is Jean Leclerc’s Historia Jesu Christi (1699), written on the basis of his synopsis of the four gospels. A fifth factor was the birth of modern science, which brought in its wake a crisis of the traditional worldview generated and maintained by ancient and medieval Christianity. Year after year, beginning at least from the end of sixteenth century, modern science trounced traditional knowledge, replacing the ancient conceptions of astronomy, geology, medicine, and the natural sciences in general with new knowledge that necessarily challenged the philosophical and scientific presuppositions of theological conceptions. Several aspect of the traditional image of Jesus were put into question as is demonstrated for example by the christological implications of the so-called second process against G. Galilei, in 1632‑1633 (for example Jesus’ ascent to the heavens). 7 Sixth, from the sixteenth century on, as is demonstrated by Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan and Baruch Spinoza’s Theological-political Treatise, political reflection assumed a role that was crucial to renewing the inter5.  G.G. Stroumsa, A  New Science: The Discovery of Religion in the Age of Reason (Cambridge, 2010); see also: B. P icart, Ceremonies et coutumes religieuses de peuples idolatres representées par des figures dessinées de la main de Bernard Picard avec une explication historique, & quelques dissertations curieuses (Paris, 1723). 6.  P. H azard, La crise de la conscience européenne (Paris, 1935); M. Fumaroli, “Le retour à l’Antique: la guerre des goûts dans l’Europe des Lumières,” in G. Faroult – C. L eribault – G. Scherf, ed., L’Antiquité rêvée. Innovations et résistances au XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 2010) 23‑56; O. Rossi P inelli, “Winckelmann e la storiografia artistica nella seconda metà del Settecento,” in C. Brook – V. Curzi, Roma e l ’Antico. Realtà e visione nel ‘700 (Milano, 2010) 45‑58; P. Liverani, “Gli scavi archeologici a Roma e dintorni nella seconda metà del Settecento,” in ibidem, 21‑25. 7.  M. Pesce , L’ermeneutica biblica di Galileo e le due strade della teologia cristiana (Roma, 2005).

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pretation of Christianity, sacred scriptures, Jesus’ political vision, and the political function of the churches. It is in this context that the idea of the eschatological nature of Jesus’ announcement of the kingdom of God began to be at the center of the attention, long before the end of nineteenth century and the book of J. Weiss, Die Predigt Jesu vom Reich Gottes. A final factor – perhaps one of the most important – was the impact of the presence of a Jewish scholarship in the European cultural milieu, which diffused a Jewish reading of the Bible and a Jewish interpretation of Jesus. 8 This presence begins already at the end of sixteenth century for example with Isaac of Troki’s Chizzuk Imunah and in the seventeenth century with Leone Modena. These factors cannot be isolated one from another and constitute the complex cultural and scientific background in which new understandings of the figure of Jesus began to surface. For three hundred years, long before S. Reimarus’ seventh fragment, the discussion about the historical figure of Jesus together with the search for Christian origins was at the center of the interest of many European intellectuals and scholars. In the following pages I will limit myself to indicate only some particularly innovating works. 9 II. Th e N at u r a l i s t I n t e r pr etat ion of J e sus (P i et ro P ompona z z i , G ior da no B ru no) Pietro Pomponazzi, in his Apologia 10 and in De Incantationibus (1517), 11 presents a naturalistic interpretation of the birth of religions. He argues that every time situations of crisis arise, a cosmic influence is the natu8.  T. Weis-Rosmarin, Jewish Expressions on Jesus (New York, 1976); C. FacReligione, scienza e storia in un rabbino tra Sei e Settecento. Yishaq Hayyim Cantarini (Bologna, 2004); E ad., “‘The immortal traveler’. How historiography saved Judaism”, in J. Rüpke  M. Mulsow (ed.), Creating Religions by historiography. International Conference (Erfurt 10-12 June, 2015), forthcoming; E ad., “Battling with Jesus. Remarks on Christian and Jewish representations in the early modern period,” in D. Barbu,  ed., The Jewish Life of Jesus (Toledoth Yeshu) in Context: Jewish-Christian Polemics in Ancient, Medieval, and Modern History (forthcoming: Tübingen, 2017). 9.  See also M. Pesce , “Per una ricerca storica su Gesù nei secoli XVI-XVIII: prima di Hermann S. Reimarus,” Annali di Storia dell ’esegesi 28 (2011) 433‑464; I d., “Illuminismo inteso come negazione della fede dogmatica, categoria applicabile alla ricerca sul Gesù storico?” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 29 (2012) 181‑193. 10.  P. Pomponazzi, Apologia, ed. V. Perrone Compagni (Firenze, 2011) 232‑244. 11.  P. Pomponazzi, De Incantationibus, ed. V. Perrone Compagni (Firenze, 2011) LXII-LXXI. See now V. P errone Compagni, “Il Cristo legislatore di Pomponazzi,” in A. Del P rete – S. R icci, ed., Cristo nella filosofia dell ’età moderna (Firenze, 2014) 97‑114. chini,

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ral cause that gives birth to prophets or founders of religions. He ascribes these influences to figures (called divini or perfecti homines) who are able to receive and transmit the natural influence of the cosmic celestial bodies. Pomponazzi does not deny the superiority of Jesus in relation to other prophets nor his divinity. He creates, however, a conceptual classification in which Jesus is included. Christianity is seen as a natural phenomenon and the reason for its birth is understood within a general explanation that can be applied to all religions. In this sense Pomponazzi anticipates a historical-religious understanding of Jesus and Christianity. This naturalist interpretation is attested many times in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. After the rediscovery of many Roman-Hellenistic works (first of all the Corpus Hermeticum), Renaissance culture had very positive evaluation of ancient magic. Magical conceptions and rituals were not only studied but also in some ways practiced. For Giordano Bruno 12 (1548‑1600), as for other sixteenth- and seventeenth-century thinkers, a new concept of nature implied a major general mutation in the interpretation of phenomena – like miracles – previously attributed to supernatural causes. 13 In Bruno’s work, the figure of Jesus is mainly perceived through the concept of magic. 14 Jesus was a magician. He was able to perform miracles because of his knowledge of the laws of the nature and of magical rituals. In other words, Bruno attempted an ante litteram historical-religious categorization of Jesus. Another important aspect of Bruno’s contribution is his negative evaluation of Jesus and Christianity. This is significant because Bruno’s work represents one of the first cases in which a critical attitude towards Jesus emerges in Europe, an attitude that will prevail in other sectors of the intellectual society of the time. 15

12.  On Jesus in Bruno, see now S. R icci, “Un capo senza seguaci e seguaci senza un capo. La solitudine del Nazareno e la socievolezza del cristianesimo in Giordano Bruno,” in A. Del P rete – S. R icci, ed., Cristo nella filosofia dell ’età moderna (Firenze, 2014) 147‑168. 13. See T. Gregory, Mundana Sapientia (Roma, 1992). 14.  L. Firpo, Il processo di Giordano Bruno (Napoli, 1949); D. Quaglioni, Il processo di Giordano Bruno (Roma, 1993); E. Scapparone , “Efficacissimus Dei Filius. Sul Cristo Mago di Bruno,” in E ad., ed., La magia nell ’Europa moderna: tra antica sapienza e filosofia naturale. Atti del convegno (Firenze, 2‑4 ottobre 2003) (Firenze, 2007) 417‑444; H. Gatti, “La Bibbia nei dialoghi italiani di Giordano Bruno,” in E. Canone , ed., La filosofia di Giordano Bruno. Problemi ermeneutici e storiografici. Convegno internazionale, Roma 23‑24 ottobre 1998 (Firenze, 2003); A. I ngegno, La sommersa nave della religione. Studio sulla polemica anticristiana del Bruno (Napoli, 1985). 15. See R. Mortier , “La remise en cause du christianisme au XVIIIe siècle,” Revue de l ’Université de Bruxelles 4 (1971) 415‑443.

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III. C at hol ic H i s tor iogr a ph y a n d Th eology (C a e sa r B a ron i us , Tomm a so C a mpa n e l l a , B l a i se Pa sca l) I have already mentioned that Caesar Baronius began the first volume of his Annales Ecclesiastici (1588‑1607) with a life of Jesus, which would constitute a Catholic reference point for centuries. 16 Also Tommaso Campanella (1568‑1639) deserves a special mention. He wrote not only a Life of Christ, but also On the Words of Christ, The Earthly Origin of Christ and The Monarchy of the Messiah. 17 In these works, Campanella presents a theological and apologetic interpretation of Jesus’ life and teaching against Protestantism and Islam. He insists on harmonizing discrepancies in the gospel narratives and it is not clear whether this is only a topos of theological disputations or, on the contrary, refers to actual contemporary debate. The call for reform of Catholic theology, which was explicit in his Apologia pro Galileo, is absent here. A naturalistic interpretation of Jesus’ life on the basis of his natural philosophy seems present in Campanella’s attention to astrology and what he calls a coincidence between historical and mystical events. As is well-known, Blaise Pascal (1623‑1662) dealt with the figure of Jesus several times. I mention here only the Abrégé de la vie de JésusChrist, a gospel harmony probably written in 1655‑1656. 18 To counter the arguments based on the discrepancies between the gospels, Pascal tries to harmonize the different accounts in a unique narrative that generally follows the chronological order of John’s Gospel. The historical value of the gospels is affirmed. Pascal was indebted to the harmonies produced in his own environment of Port-Royal by Jansenius (Concordia evangelica, 1549) and Arnauld (Historia et concordia evangelica, 1653). The large number of harmonies produced around this time (M. Chemnitz, 1652; F. U. Calixtus, 1663; J. Le Clerc, 1699; B. Lamy, 1725) shows that the problem of the reliability of the gospels was very keenly felt. IV. Th e J ew i sh I n t e r pr etat ion

of

J e sus (I sa ac

of

Trok i)

In 1593, the Chizzuch Emunah 19 by Isaac ben Abraham of Troki (1533‑1594) marked the emergence of a Jewish vision of Jesus. This means 16.  Annales Ecclesiastici (Venezia, 1601) 34‑153. On Jesus in the Annales ecclesiastici of Baronio see now F. Motta, “Una figura della tradizione. Il Gesù di Baronio,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 31(2014) 63‑92. 17. See Campanella, Vita Cristi. Testo critico e traduzione, 2 voll., ed. R. Amerio (Roma, 1962‑1963); Campanella, De dictis Cristi, ed. R. Amerio (Roma, 1969); Campanella, L’origine temporale di Cristo (Roma, 1972). 18.  B. Pascal , Oeuvres Complètes. Présentation et notes de Louis Lafuma (Paris, 1963) 297. The Abregé de la Vie de Jésus-Christ is at p. 268‑310. 19.  Faith Strengthened, Translated by M. Mocatta, Introduction by T. WeisRosmarin (New York, 1970) (Reprint of London’s edition of 1850).

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that at the end of the sixteenth century the recovery of the Jewishness of Jesus had already begun, determining a different vision of his figure and of Christian origins. 20 Isaac sees Jesus as a Jew who did not wish to abolish Mosaic law, did not violate the Sabbath or the Jewish laws regarding food, and did not found a new law to replace the Jewish Law. According to Isaac, the Christological interpretations of the Jewish Bible found in the New Testament are considered unsustainable from an exegetical point of view, while the Hebrew Bible did not permit, if read correctly, the Christological interpretations subsequently given to it by the church. Isaac did not seek to condemn Jesus from the Jewish viewpoint; rather, he set out to re-appropriate his Jewish identity. Thus, at the end of the sixteenth century a new perspective – a Jewish one – emerged in the cultural debate which influenced the historical interpretation of the figure of Jesus. This perspective showed how the Christian interpretation of Jesus and the Christological approach to the Hebrew Bible were exegetically unfounded. 21 Isaac’s work was translated into Spanish in 1621 under the title Fortificacion de la Ley de Moseh. Johann Christian Wagenseil would publish a Latin translation in Tela ignea Satanae 22 in 1681 which was widely read. 23 The idea of the Jewishness of Jesus was therefore present in the scholars 20.  About Jesus in Jewish authors in modern times see: A. Guetta, “Esclusi­ vis­ mo e universalismo: forme del pensiero ebraico in Italia tra Cinquecento e Settecento,” in L. Simonutti, ed., Religious Obedience and Political Resistance in the Early Modern World. Jewish, Christian and Islamic Philosophers Addressing the Bible (Turnhout, 2014) 81‑100; C. Facchini, “Battling with Jesus. Remarks on Christian and Jewish representations in the early modern period,” in D. Barbu, ed., The Jewish Life of Jesus (Toledoth Yeshu) in Context: Jewish-Christian Polemics in Ancient, Medieval, and Modern History (forthcoming: Tübingen, 2017). 21. On I saac , see M. Pesce , “Per una ricerca storica su Gesù nei secoli XVIXVIII: prima di Hermann S. Reimarus,” Annali di Storia dell ’esegesi 28 (2011) 450‑451; M. Benfatto, “Il Gesù del Ḥizzuk Emunah. Fra ricostruzione critica e costruzione polemica,” published in this volume. 22. See M. Waysblum, “Isaac of Troki and Christian Controversy in the 16th Century,” Journal of Jewish Studies 3 (1952) 62‑77. 23. See Jacques Gousset (1635‑1704), Jesu Christi evangeliique veritas salutifera, demonstrata in confutatione Libri Chizzouk Emounah (Amstelodami, 1712); I saac Orobio de Castro (1617‑1687), Israel Vengé (London, 1770); George Bethune E nglish, The Grounds of Christianity Examined, by Comparing the New Testament with the Old (Boston, 1813), republished by R.H. Popkin in Disputing Christianity (New York, 2007); I d., “Jewish Anti-Christian Arguments as a Source of Irreligion from the Seventeenth to the Early Nineteenth Century,” in M. Hunter – M. Muslow – R.H. Popkin, ed., Atheism from the Reformation to the Enlightment (Leiden, 2004) 33‑50; I d., “Some Unresolved Questions in the History of Scepticism. The Role of Jewish Anti-Christian Arguments in the Rise of Scepticism in regard to Religion,” in I d., The Third Force in Seventeenth Century Thought (Leiden, 1997) 222‑245.

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of Modern Age long before Joseph Salvador’s Jesus book of 1838 or the Wissenschaft des Judentums. V. Th e P ol i t ica l I n t e r pr etat ion (Thom a s H obbe s , B a ruch S pi noz a , J oh n L ock e) The importance of the political interpretation of Jesus in modern time has been recently underlined by Vittoria Perrone Compagni in an article about Pietro Pomponazzi, 24 and by Anna Lisa Schino in her book on Gabriel Naudé. 25 In the middle of seventeenth century, Thomas Hobbes 26 devoted the third and fourth part of the Leviathan to theological questions. The only point I wish to highlight concerns his central idea: the kingdom of God. For Hobbes, a fundamental purpose of the Bible was “the re-establishment of the kingdom of God in Christ.” 27 Hobbes’s thesis is that the direct kingdom of God over the people of Israel ended with King Saul, when the Jews claimed no longer to have God as their king, but a human king. Afterwards, God no longer reigned and a new advent of the kingdom of God was announced by Jesus only for the eschatological future. Hobbes identified the centrality of the concept of the kingdom of God in Jesus’ message, pointing to its essentially eschatological character. Jesus is not king now: “the kingdom of Christ is not to begin till the general resurrection.” 28 The church that succeeded him does not coincide with the kingdom of God, and neither does it have, nor can it have, any political power. Eschatology as the great central theme of the historical interpretation of Jesus is already clearly posed at the middle of seventeenth century.

24.  V. P errone Compagni, “Il Cristo legislatore di Pomponazzi,” in A. Del P rete – S. R icci, ed., Cristo nella filosofia dell ’età moderna (Firenze, 2014) 97‑114. 25.  A.L. Schino, Battaglie libertine. La vita e le opere di Gabriel Naudé, (Firenze, 2014); see also “Il Cristo dei libertini: Gesù mago e legislatore nelle pagine di gabriel Naudé,” in A. Del P rete – S. R icci, ed., Cristo nella filosofia dell ’età moderna (Firenze, 2014) 115‑129. On the importance of the political interpretation of the Bible in modern times see L. Simonutti, ed., Religious obedience and Political Resistance in the Early Modern World. Jewish, Christian and Islamic philosophers addressing the Bible (Turnhout, 2014). 26. See H.G. R eventlow, Bibel Autorität und Geist der Moderne (Göttingen, 1980) 328‑370; P.D. Cooke , Hobbes and Christianity. Reassessing the Bible in Leviathan (London-New York, 1996). See also M. Pesce , “Per una ricerca storica su Gesù nei secoli XVI-XVIII: prima di Hermann S. Reimarus,” Annali di Storia dell ’esegesi 28 (2011). 27.  Leviathan, XLIII, in Th. Hobbes , Leviathan. Edited with an Introduction and Notes by J.C.A. Gaskin (Oxford, 1998) 402. 28.  Leviathan, XLI, ibidem, 323.

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Spinoza’s 29 Theological-political treatise 30 falls within the history of our subject because his central theme is the moral message of Jesus extracted from the gospels. Jesus has a superior morality to that of Moses. Jesus’ message is non-political. Spinoza presents a profoundly de-eschatologized message of Jesus. Its moral superiority originates directly from Jesus’ rational (and therefore, in Spinoza’s system, spiritual) perception, without the need for a foundation in the supernatural. The importance of Spinoza in the subsequent development of European thought was so strong that it conditioned the future research on the image of Jesus. The importance of Locke (1632‑1704) in the research on the historical Jesus lies in the fact that The Reasonableness of Christianity 31 defines Jesus as the son of God, but not in the sense of Nicene or Chalcedonian dogma. 32 For Locke Jesus is essentially the Messiah. 33 He underlines a distinction between Jesus and subsequent Christology, and asserts the need to understand the historical figure of Jesus within Jewish cultural categories. The gospels must therefore be interpreted on the basis of a philological and historical exegesis that takes into account their literary unity, rather than in the light of subsequent Christian theology.  3 4 The central content of Jesus’ message is eschatological: Jesus announces the future kingdom of God. Locke understands Jesus’ idea of the kingdom on the basis of the Jewish conception that divides the world’s history into the “present world” and the “future world to come.” However, according to Locke, Jesus distinguished between the end of the present world, which, according to him, actually took place when Jesus put an end “to their [the Jews’] church worship and commonwealth,” and “his last coming to judgment, in the 29.  On Spinoza and Jesus: L. Bove , “Les raisons de l’échec de l’enseignement du Christ et la constitution du christianisme dans le Traité théologico-politique,” in M. Clément, ed., Les Fruits de la dissension religieuse, fin xv e-début xviii e siècles (Saint-Etienne, 1998) 65‑84; S. Frankel , “The Invention of Liberal Theology: Spinoza’s Theological-Political Analysis of Moses and Jesus,” The Review of Politics 63 (2001) 287‑315; P. R elav, Jesus Christus und Benedictus Spinoza in Zwiegesprach (Berlin,1893); G.W. Dawes , ed., The Historical Jesus Quest: Landmarks in the Search for the Jesus of History (Louisville, 2000) 1‑29; A. M atheron, Christ et le salut des ignorants chez Spinoza (Paris, 1971). See the critics to Spinoza about Jesus in Johannes Colerus (1647‑1707), Vérite de la résurrection de Jésus Christ, defendue contre B. de Spinosa, et ses sectateurs. Avec la vie de ce fameux philosophe, tirée, tant de ses propres ecrites, que de la bouche de plusieurs personnes dignes de foi qui l ’ont connu (La Haye, 1706). 30.  Benedictus de Spinoza, Tractatus theologico-politicus. Trattato teologicopolitico, ed. P. Totaro (Napoli, 2007). 31.  John L ocke , Scritti filosofici e religiosi, ed. M. Sina (Milano, 1979); The Reasonableness of Christianity is at p. 261‑442. 32.  Ibidem, 284‑285; 346‑348. 33.  Ibidem, 279‑296. 34.  For the exegetical methodology of Locke, see J. L ocke , A  Paraphrase and Notes on the Epistles of St. Paul, ed. A.W. Wainwright (Oxford, 1987).

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glory of his Father.” 35 Thus, Locke relegates the advent of the kingdom to the end of the future world, demolishing all the church’s claims to earthly power. In this way, the historical reconstruction of the figure of Jesus is strictly connected to a new vision of the early church and to a conception of the non political function of the churches. Locke carefully reconstructs Jesus’ historical experience, employing the gospels in a non-harmonistic way. His vision of the historical figure of Jesus has not received, however, due consideration from specialists. 36 VI. Th e N eg at i v e I n t e r pr etat ion of J e sus (D e t r i bus i m postor i bus , J e a n M e sl i e r , Pau l -H e n r i Th i ry B a ron d ’H ol bach) The anonymous Treatise of the Three Impostors (Moses, Jesus and Mahomet) 37 has a very complex history that has been reconstructed several times over the past decades. There are two different versions of it, one in Latin, the other in French. 38 This work is also of interest as an example of a negative evaluation of Jesus present in European culture in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries that also rests on opinion existing in sixteenth century. In fact, “The central structure of the chapters devoted to Jesus […] consists of Vanini’s dialogue De Deo in De Arcanis  […].” 39 According to S. Berti, the first edition, entitled La Vie et L’Esprit de Spinosa, was published in 1719 after a long clandestine circulation. In view of the success of this work at the time, it would certainly be enlightening for the research on the historical figure of Jesus to trace its influences and eventual metamorphoses. The Testament of Jean Meslier (1664‑1729)  4 0 published posthumously by Voltaire, then reutilized by d’Holbach, represents Jesus as a figure of 35.  John L ocke , Scritti filosofici e religiosi, ed. M. Sina (Milano, 1979) 360. 36.  The interpretation of Jesus in the age of the French revolution deserves careful attention. See the works of D. M enozzi, Les interprétations politiques de Jésus de l ’Ancien Régime à la Révolution (Paris, 1983); I d., “Letture politiche della figura di Gesù nella cultura italiana del Settecento,” in M. Rosa, ed., Cattolicesimo e lumi nel Settecento italiano (Roma, 1981) 127‑176; I d., “Le interpretazioni di Gesù nell’età della rivoluzione francese,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 21 (2004) 617‑643. 37.  F. Charles-Daubert, ed., Le “traité des trois imposteurs” et l ’“Esprit de Spinosa” (Oxford, 1999); A non., Trattato dei tre impostori, ed. S. Berti (Torino, 1994). 38.  P. Totaro, “Da Antonio Magliabechi a Philip von Stosch: varia fortuna del ‘De Tribus Impostoribus’,” in E. Canone , ed., “Bibliothecae selectae” da Cusano a Leopardi (Firenze, 1993) 377‑417. 39.  S. Berti, “Introduzione,” in A non., Trattato dei tre impostori (Torino, 1994) LXX. 40.  Le bon sens du curé J. Meslier suivi de son Testament (Paris, 1802) 295‑380; R. Desné , Extraits du Memoire de Jean Meslier, 1664‑1729 (Paris, 1973); Jean M es-

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little value, an imposter destined to failure. The falseness of his message is demonstrated by the fact that the kingdom of God he spoke about never came to pass. Secondly, Meslier pays close attention to the contradictions among the gospels through a series of precise and systematic observations. Finally, it is the question of the miracles that draws his critical attention, following a recurrent trope. The miracle stories are “vain lies,” “invented to imitate the stories of pagan poets, as appears evident from the similarities that exist between the former and the latter.” 41 Paul Thiry, Baron d’Holbach (1723‑1789), is worthy of our attention above all for his Histoire critique de Jésus Christ, ou, Analyse raisonnée des Évangiles, 42 a work that is intensely critical of both the historical value of the gospels and the figure of Jesus himself. Although he sustained an extreme position, he must be taken into consideration as a symptom of a widespread tendency in several areas of eighteenth-century European culture. He makes use of methods, results and thought patterns that, in other authors, led to different outcomes from his own. For example, d’Holbach draws upon the Chizzuk Emunah of Isaac of Troki, even if Isaac was a believing Karaite Jew. His use of the inconsistencies among the gospels serves to discredit these texts as a whole, while in many other authors it was simply the sign of a critical awareness that urged towards a more serious examination of evangelical sources. VII. J e sus a n d t h e C h u rch (Thom a s Wool s ton , J oh n Tol a n d , Thom a s C h u bb) Thomas Woolston’s (1670‑1733) publication of the Six Discourses on the Miracles of Our Saviour was the focus of widespread debate. The work, translated into French, 43 was sometimes attributed to d’Holbach, who used lier , Œuvres completes (Paris, 1974); Études sur le curé Meslier : actes du colloque international d ’Aix-en-Provence, 21 novembre 1964. Centre aixois d ’études et de recherches sur le 18. Siècle (Paris, 1966); Jean M eslier , Le Testament, ed. R. Charles (Amsterdam, 1864); Jean M eslier , Il Testamento, It. trans. I. Tosi Gallo (Rimini, 1972); M. Dommanget, Le Curé Meslier, athée communiste et révolutionnaire sous Louis XIV (Paris, 1965, reéd. 2008); P. Doussot, “L’archaïsme de Meslier,” in R. Desné, ed., Le Curé Meslier et la vie intellectuelle, sociale et religieuse à la fin du XVIIe siècle et au début du XVIIIe siècle. Actes du colloque international de Reims, 17‑19 Octobre 1974 (Reims, 1980) 181‑208. 41.  Le bon sens du curé J. Meslier suivi de son Testament (Paris, 1802) 329‑348. 42.  Paul-H enri Thiry, baron d’Holbach, Histoire critique de Jésus Christ ou Analyse raisonnée des Evangiles, ed. A. Hunwick (Genève, 1997); I d., Oeuvres Philosophiques Complètes. Tome II (Paris, 1999) 644‑815. 43.  Thomas Woolston, Six discours sur les miracles de Notre Sauveur, ed. W. Trapnell (Paris, 2001).

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it in his Histoire critique.  4 4 The value and meaning of Jesus’ miracles and their appropriate role in defining the meaning of his historical-religious figure was a recurrent theme in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Some works of John Toland (1670‑1722) 45 are fundamental for the historical research on Jesus: Christianity not Mysterious (London, 1696); Nazarenus, or Jewish, Gentile, or Mahometan Christianity (London, 1718);  4 6 Tetradymus (London, 1720). Nazarenus is first of all important because of its affirmation of the Jewishness of Jesus and its repercussions for the perception of the Jewishness of the early church. Jesus did not found a new religion and did not cancel the Mosaic Law. The primitive church and the subsequent pagan Christians, by abandoning the Jewish law and elaborating different theological conceptions and religious practices, betrayed Jesus himself: “the articles of their belief and the rubric of their practice, be manifestly the very things which Jesus went about to destroy.” 47 The Primitive Constitution of the Christian Church 48 posed the problem of the discontinuity between Jesus and subsequent dogma. This would be a central issue throughout all future research. Furthermore, Toland observed that Jesus, unlike the subsequent church, never made use of political instruments. 49 Early Christianity was made up of Jewish followers of Jesus who retained their Jewishness, and of “pagan” followers of Jesus. That is to say, there were Jewish Christians (such as Nazarenes and Ebionites) and pagan Christians. Because of their inveterate hatred of the Jews, the pagan Christians rejected all Jewish practices and refused to entertain “familiarity or commerce with the Jews.” 50 Toland also claims “some of the funda44.  Thomas Woolston, Discours sur les miracles de Jésus-Christ (Amsterdam?, 1769), translation attributed to d’Holbach. Other French translation: Examen critique des Actes des apôtres (London [actually Paris], 1859). 45.  G. Carabelli, Tolandiana. Materiali bibliografici per lo studio dell ’opera e della fortuna di John Toland (1670‑1722) (Firenze, 1975); C. Giuntini, Toland e i liberi pensatori del ‘700 (Firenze, 1974). Extensive bibliography in L. M annarino, John Toland (Paris, 2005) 169‑182. See also A. Sabetti, John Toland (Napoli, 1976). T. Dagron, “Le Christianisme sans mystères de John Toland et la théologie critique hollandaise,” Libertinage et philosophie au xviie-siècle 8 (2004) 71‑90. Important French translation: John Toland, Le Christianisme Sans Mysteres. Edition, Introduction et Notes Par T. Dagron (Paris, 2005), see especially 13‑107; see also John Toland, Lettres a Serena et autres textes. Edition, introduction et notes, ed. T. Dagron (Paris, 2004). 46. Italian translation: John Toland, Opere, ed. C. Giuntini (Torino, 2002) 411‑574 and 93‑187. French translation: John Toland,  ed. T. Dagron (Paris, 2005), with an important introduction (p. 13‑107). 47.  Nazarenus (London, 1718) 70. 48.  English edition and French translation of 1742 are published in La constitution primitive de l ’Eglise Chrétienne. The Primitive Constitution of the Chrtistian Church, ed. L. Jaffro (Paris, 2003). 49.  Ibidem, 196. 50.  Ibidem, vi.

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mental doctrines of Mahometanism to have their rise […] from the earliest monuments of the Christian religion,” 51 namely, those Judeo-Christian texts that reflect the original ideas of Jesus. Toland therefore re-assesses the historical importance and reliability of the so-called apocryphal texts 52 and contrasts the Gospel of Barnabas and pseudo-Clementine literature with Paul. 53 Toland emphasizes how the Ebionites and Nazarenes were “mortal enemies to Paul,” who is defined as an apostate and transgressor of the law. 54 “The original plan of Christianity” was that of the Nazarenes, not of Paul. 55 Thomas Chubb (1679‑1747) published in 1738 The True Gospel of Jesus Christ Asserted. The subtitle is revealing: “wherein is shewn, what is and what is not that Gospel; what was the great and good end it was intended to serve; […] and how […] that end has in great measure been frustrated.” The salvation announced by Jesus is essentially eschatological and this is closely linked to the negation of the political function of churches. The purpose of Chubb’s attempt was to rediscover the authentic message of Jesus. Chubb bases himself particularly on the Gospel of Matthew, marginalizing the thought of Paul. There are three fundamental elements in Jesus’ message. First, Jesus demands observation of the law of reason; second, he calls for repentance in cases of transgression; third, he announces a final judgment by God who will mete out punishment on those who do not respect the law and do not repent after their disobedience. 56 In his life Jesus manifests a rigorous conformity of his sentiments and deeds with an inalterable rule of action founded in reason. Jesus “preached his own life if I may so speak, and lived his own doctrine.” 57 “The Gospel of Jesus Christ is not an historical account of matters of fact.” 58 This essential gospel has been corrupted and perverted by “many absurd doctrines and superstitious practices.” 59 All of the various theologies of justification and grace and the ecclesiastical practices of the churches are considered by Chubb as a perversion of Jesus’ message.

51.  Ibidem, 5. 52.  See his A Catalogue of Books attributed in the Primitive Time to Jesus Christ (London, 1699). F. Schmidt, “John Toland, critique déiste de la littérature apocryphe,” in P. Geoltrain et alii, ed., La fable apocryphe (Turnhout, 1990) 119‑145. 53.  La constitution primitive de l ’Eglise Chrétienne. The Primitive Constitution of the Chrtistian Church, ed. L. Jaffro (Paris, 2003) 23. 54.  Ibidem, 29. 55.  Ibidem, 33. 56.  Thomas Chubb , The True Gospel of Jesus Christ Asserted (London, 1738) 18‑19. 57.  Ibidem, 55. 58.  Ibidem, 43. 59.  Ibidem, 138.

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Jesus’ wish was for people to live in societies based on relations of friendship, rather than on relations of authority. “That which has been most of all injurious to the gospel of Christ, was the blending together Christian and civil societies and making them the same thing.” 60 Once again, the discussion about the political function of the churches is central in the reconstruction of the historical figure of Jesus and the essence of his message. A C onclusion In the Modern Age, circumstances arose that permitted the development of the historical research on Jesus that continues today. Among them of uppermost importance are the birth of modern philology, of historical method, and of history of religions. The authors and works that I have mentioned represent the tip of the iceberg. They are isolated fragments of the modern concerns about the historical figure of Jesus. Reimarus is part of this modern concern, he does not represent its beginning. Obviously different moments can be distinguished in European culture from the point of view of a new historical research on Jesus: after Humanism and the Renaissance, we can also take into account, e.g., “the crisis of the European conscience,” as Paul Hazard called the period spanning from the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century. 61 The conflict between independent scholars, Catholic and Protestant theologians provides the background of the historical research on Jesus over the last five hundred years. What is characteristic of this research is not a linear evolution in subsequent phases but the systemic confrontation between conflicting groups of scholars and academic institutions.

60.  Ibidem, 180. Italics of the author. 61.  P. H azard, La crise de la conscience européenne (1680‑1715) (Paris, 1935).

I L GESÙ DEL H . IZZUK EMUNAH. F RA RICOSTRUZIONE CRITICA E COSTRUZIONE POLEMICA Miriam Benfatto L’obiettivo di questo saggio è riflettere sui nessi fra costruzione polemica anticristiana e ricostruzione critica della figura storica di Gesù, prendendo in considerazione l’opera di Ḥizzuk Emunah. La prima parte sarà incentrata sulla presentazione di alcuni punti analitici del testo, mentre la seconda verterà sulla sua circolazione e ricezione letteraria. Ḥizzuk Emunah (reso in italiano con “Rafforzamento della Fede”) è un testo fondamentale della letteratura polemica anticristiana di matrice ebraica. È stato redatto dallo scrittore caraita Isaac ben Abraham Troki sul finire del XVI secolo e per i suoi scopi dialettici riflette, costruisce ed elabora un’immagine ebraica di Gesù. L’opera è stata composta a Troki, città appartenente alla Confederazione polacco–lituana nata nel 1569 dall’unione della Corona del Regno di Polonia e del Granducato di Lituania. La Confederazione, formata da un vasto impero che si estendeva dal Mar Baltico al Mar Nero, ospitava una varietà di minoranze confessionali, le quali godevano di libertà religiosa e civile. Durante la seconda metà del XVI secolo diventa la meta di diversi gruppi protestanti che vi si rifugiarono per sfuggire alle persecuzioni in corso nei loro paesi di origine: Troki si trasformò, a tutti gli effetti, in un’isola di liberalità nel vasto oceano d’intransigenza religiosa che era il resto d’Europa 1. Questo luogo era verosimilmente il più tollerante dell’epoca: nello stesso periodo nel quale agli ebrei era proibito risiedere in Inghilterra e in Francia, in Spagna e in Portogallo, in molti luoghi dell’Italia e della Germania, essi potevano praticare liberamente la loro religione nel territorio della Confederazione polacco–lituana 2 . L’espressione costituzionale di questa connessione di aspetti giunge nell’atto della Confederazione di Varsavia del 1573: l’accordo prevedeva e garantiva la libertà di professione religiosa nel paese. I grandi movimenti politici si rispecchiarono così negli aspetti sociali e religiosi, infatti, la Confederazione polacco–lituana finì per ospitare una grande varietà di forme confessionali. Sullo stesso suolo,

1.  O. H alecki, Storia della Polonia, Roma, 1966, p. 159; N. Davies , God ’s Playground – A History of Poland: Volume 1: The Origins to 1795, New York, 1982, p. 160. 2.  J. Goldberg , Jewish Privileges in the Polish Commonwealth, Jerusalem, 1985. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 807–827 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111731 ©

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convivevano cattolici romani, greci ortodossi, armeni, musulmani, ebrei, sia rabbaniti sia caraiti, protestanti, tra cui unitariani e calvinisti 3. Esistevano, quindi, vari gruppi con altrettante visioni divergenti sulla natura della religione, l’idea di Dio e l’organizzazione religiosa della società. L’interazione di questi sistemi di credenze diede luogo a un effervescente ambiente intellettuale. Inoltre, il ridursi del carattere monolitico del cattolicesimo non poteva non accompagnare la riflessione teologica, con tutte le inevitabili e indispensabili conseguenze. Il fervore del clima culturale richiese ben presto un nuovo e approfondito studio degli scritti religiosi e delle fonti legislative. Il pluralismo confessionale, in questo senso, è diventato pluralismo interpretativo. Il rinnovato interesse per le fonti antiche rispondeva anche all’esigenza di tracciare una linea di demarcazione tra le diverse forme devozionali. All’interno di quest’atmosfera, è comprensibile che i seguaci di diverse confessioni cristiane abbiano cercato di confrontare le loro convinzioni di base con quelle ebraiche. I. I sa ac

be n

A br a h a m Trok i :

u na biogr a fi a

Una ricostruzione completa e articolata dell’attività e del pensiero intellettuali di Isaac ben Abraham Troki resta ancora un desideratum. Per quanto riguarda i dati biografici, le fonti a disposizione sono scarse. Si può tracciare un profilo biografico, seppur sommario, grazie ai suoi propri scritti e ai documenti ufficiali della comunità alla quale Isaac ben Abraham apparteneva: la maggior parte delle informazioni proviene, di fatto, dal suo epistolario, dai verbali ufficiali delle assemblee religiose e dalla sua multiforme produzione letteraria. Isaac ben Abraham Troki (1525 o 1533 – 1586 o 1594) 4 nasce nella città di Troki da una stirpe di studiosi ed eruditi; è di famiglia caraita e 3.  M. Waysblum, «Isaac of Troki and Christian Controversy in the 16th Century», Journal of Jewish Studies 3 (1952), p. 71. Per una panoramica sulle personalità antitrinitarie presenti in Polonia e in Lituania nel XVI secolo rimando a: M. Firpo, Antitrinitari dell ’Europa Orientale del ‘500, Firenze, 1977. 4.  A favore della nascita nel 1533 si pronunciano: J. M ann, Texts and Studies, vol. II, New York, 1972, p. 715; M. Mocatta, Faith Strengthened, New York, 1970, p. VIII; G. A khiezer , «The Karaite Isaac ben Abraham of Troki and his Polemics against Rabbanites», in C. Goodblatt – H.T. K reisel (ed.), Tradition, heterodoxy, and religious culture: Judaism and Christianity in the early modern period, Beer– Sheva, 2006, p. 438; A. Geiger , Nachgelassene Schriften, Hildesheim, 1999, p. 187; I. Broydé , «Isaac Ben Abraham Troki», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. XII, New York, 1906, p. 265; M. Waxman, History of Jewish Literarure, vol. II, Whitefish, 2003, p. 449; L. Nemoy, «Troki, Isaac Ben Abraham», in Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. XV, Detroit, 2007, p. 1403. A favore della nascita nel 1525 si pronunciano: M. Waysblum, «Isaac of Troki and Christian Controversy in the 16th Century», Journal of Jewish Studies 3 (1952), p. 65. A favore della morte nel 1594 si pronunciano: M. Mocatta, Faith Strengthened, New York, 1970, p. IX; G. A khiezer ,

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coltiva, per tutta la sua vita, forti interessi intellettuali a scopo di edificazione comunitaria e formazione spirituale. Le attività svolte all’interno della comunità costituiscono importanti testimonianze che aiutano a gettar luce sul percorso biografico dell’autore 5. Egli viene introdotto agli studi biblici e alla letteratura ebraica dallo studioso caraita Zefania Ben Mordechai 6 e in giovane età compare di già come segretario dell’Assemblea Generale dei caraiti. A conferma di quest’ultima notizia abbiamo il testo del verbale dell’Assemblea da lui redatto, probabilmente nel 1553 7. Nella stessa occasione, inoltre, serve la sua comunità ricoprendo la figura del dayan, ossia del giudice religioso. Il suo epistolario è ricco di dati biografici: in tal senso si segnala in particolare la corrispondenza che egli intratteneva con studiosi caraiti. Una delle lettere, scritta nel 1558 8, è indirizzata a Isaac ben Israel 9, successivamente ricordato come hazan (leader) della comunità caraita di Luck. In questa lettera, oltre a varie citazioni talmudiche, si trovano allusioni a concetti cabalistici. Un’altra lettera, spedita a Judah ben Aaron 10, hazan di Halicz, riporta la data del 1581‑1583 11 e tratta di questioni relative al calendario ebraico. «The Karaite Isaac ben Abraham of Troki and his Polemics against Rabbanites», in C. Goodblatt – H.T. K reisel (ed.), Tradition, heterodoxy, and religious culture: Judaism and Christianity in the early modern period, Beer–Sheva, 2006, p. 438; I. Broydé , «Isaac Ben Abraham Troki», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. XII, New York, 1906, p. 265; M. Waxman, History of Jewish Literarure, vol. II, Whitefish, 2003, p. 449; L. Nemoy, «Troki, Isaac Ben Abraham», in Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. XV, Detroit, 2007, p. 155. A favore della morte nel 1586 si pronunciano: M. Waysblum, «Isaac of Troki and Christian Controversy in the 16th Century», Journal of Jewish Studies 3 (1952), p. 66; J. M ann, Texts and Studies, vol. II, New York, 1972, p. 726. 5.  La maggior parte delle informazioni biografiche è ricavabile dai suoi scritti e dai documenti ufficiali della comunità a cui apparteneva. Parte della produzione letteraria ed epistolare si trova presso la Biblioteca Nazionale Russa a San Pietroburgo, all’interno della Firkowicz Collection. Per un profilo biografico di Abraham Firkovich rimando a: P. Wiernik , «Abraham B. Samuel Firkovich», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. V, Detroit, 2007, p. 393‑394. 6.  A. Geiger , Nachgelassene Schriften, Hildesheim, 1999, p. 187. Zefania ben Mordechai è uno studioso caraita vissuto alla fine del XVI secolo. Autore di Ḳiddush ha–Ḥodesh we–Sod ha–Ibbur, un lavoro sul calendario e sulle direttive che regolavano la Sheḥiṭah. Per un profilo biografico dell’autore rimando a: M. Seligsohn, «Zephania ben Mordecai Troki», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. XII, New York, 1906, p. 660. 7.  J. M ann, Texts and Studies, vol. II, New York, 1972, p. 715, 769‑790. 8.  J. M ann, Texts and Studies, vol. II, New York, 1972, p. 715, 1181‑1185. 9.  Isaac ben Israel è un discepolo di Zephania ben Mordecai Troki e ha assistito Isaac ben Abraham Troki nei suoi studi. Per ulteriori informazioni biografiche rimando a: J. M ann, Texts and Studies, vol. II, New York, 1972, p. 583, 682, 715. 10.  Judah ben Aaron è stato hazan di Halicz dal 1581 al 1583. Per ulteriori informazioni biografiche rimando a: J. M ann, Texts and Studies, vol. II, New York, 1972, p. 587, 715, 728, 732, 804. 11.  J. M ann, Texts and Studies, vol. II, New York, 1972, p. 715, 1185‑1187.

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Muovendo da questi dati, si può dunque constatare come l’autore si sia distinto, sin dall’inizio della sua carriera, come leader spirituale e politico dell’intera comunità caraita. Questa autorità, che investiva più settori, ci da la misura della stima, del prestigio e del credito di cui Isaac ben Abraham godeva nel suo ambiente: i documenti in nostro possesso lo ritraggono impegnato sia a risolvere questioni interne alla comunità, sia a regolare i rapporti che quest’ultima intratteneva inevitabilmente con le altre; ci informano, inoltre, del suo impegno al fianco della leadership religiosa dei rabbaniti e delle sue relazioni con la classe politica polacco– lituana. I suoi scritti attestano i frequenti contatti che Isaac ben Abraham aveva allacciato con le élites politiche del paese, in vista del mantenimento e ampliamento dei privilegi della collettività di cui era parte. Oltre all’epistolario, la sua produzione letteraria comprende poesie liturgiche, quali i piyyuṭim, composti in lingua ebraica e tartara 12 . Quanto alla sua vita privata si hanno notizie limitate. Isaac ben Abraham era sposato, ma probabilmente non aveva figli: il suo allievo Joseph ben Mordechai Malinowski 13 riporta le ultime volontà del maestro e nel farlo mostra come queste coinvolgano moglie, alcuni fratelli e Joseph ben Mordechai stesso 14 . Si suppone che conoscesse la lingua ebraica, la tartara e probabilmente quella rutena, lingua legale della Confederazione polacco–lituana. Non si può escludere che conoscesse anche il polacco e il lituano. Come già accennato, Isaac ben Abraham proviene da un gruppo religioso nato all’interno del giudaismo, quello dei caraiti 15. Questo gruppo si è separato dall’alveo più ampio della comunità ebraica, all’incirca nell’VIII secolo, a causa delle divergenze sull’accoglimento degli insegnamenti reli12.  J. M ann, Texts and Studies, vol. II, New York, 1972, p. 715. M. K izilov, «Two Piyyutim and a Rhetorical Essay in the Northern (Troki) Dialect of the Karaim Language by Isaac ben Abraham of Troki», Judaica 63 (2007), p. 64‑75. 13.  Joseph ben Mordechai Malinowski (? – dopo il 1624) è uno studioso caraita vissuto a Troki nel XVI secolo. Malinovski ha completato l’opera di Ḥizzuk Emunah redatta dal suo maestro. Nel 1624 era considerato un leader spirituale di Troki. Come tale, egli si sforzava di organizzare gli affari comuni della comunità caraita. Ha stabilito una serie di norme rituali per le comunità polacco–lituano. È autore, tra gli altri, dei libri: Sefer minhagim riguardante la preghiera e la lettura della Torah; Ha–Elef Lekha, un lungo poema mistico liturgico; Kiẓẓur Inyan sheh i tah sulla macellazione rituale degli animali. Per un approfondimento biografico rimando alle seguenti voci enciclopediche: L. Nemoy, «Joseph ben Mordecai Malinovski», in Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. XI, Detroit, 2007, p. 827 e I. Broydé «Joseph ben Mordecai Malinovsky Troki», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. XII, New York, 1906, p. 266. 14.  J. M ann, Texts and Studies, vol. II, New York, 1972, p. 718, 1188‑1195. 15.  Per un approfondimento sul caraismo rimando a: L. Nemoy, Karaites Anthology, New Haven, 1952; D. K atz , Lithuanian Jewish Culture, Vilnius, 2010; Z. A nlori, Karaites in Byzantium, New York, 1968 per la corposa bibliografia.

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giosi che non provenivano direttamente dalla Bibbia. I caraiti rifiutano, infatti, l’autorità del Talmud e dei commentari rabbinici. Anan ben David (715‑795) 16 è considerato comunemente il fondatore e una prima comunità è stata effettivamente indicata con il termine ananita; mentre le ricostruzioni apologetiche dei caraiti rivendicano un’origine più antica e presentano il caraismo come la fede ebraica originaria. Il movimento è sopravvissuto e si è sviluppato in paesi differenti: durante l’Alto Medioevo, esistevano enclave in Crimea, Turchia, Lituania ed Egitto 17. Nel XVI secolo, Troki diventa il principale centro intellettuale dei caraiti e, stando ai documenti ufficiali della città lituana, la loro presenza è attestata dalla fine del XIV secolo 18. II. L’ope r a

de l

Ḥ iz zu k E m u n a h

Ḥizzuk Emunah, scritto all’incirca nel 1593, è l’opera alla quale Isaac ben Abraham si è dedicato negli ultimi anni di vita. Composta per far fronte a esigenze dettate dalle contingenze storiche e culturali, essa si colloca pienamente all’interno della letteratura polemica anticristiana 19. Il testo non si presenta come distaccato lavoro teorico, ma costituisce una riflessione mirata su urgenti questioni concrete. Quelle stesse questioni che non solo agitavano i rapporti tra cristiani ed ebrei, ma che venivano dibattute anche tra gruppi cristiani, basti pensare al più ampio contesto religioso europeo del XVI secolo 20. Le tematiche riguardavano generalmente il rapporto tra la Bibbia Ebraica e il Nuovo Testamento, la validità delle fonti normative religiose, l’esegesi e l’interpretazione dei testi sacri, la figura del Messia e le questioni teologiche, tra cui la dottrina trinitaria, la soteriologia e l’ecclesiologia. In questo clima nascevano i presupposti che hanno determinato la genesi e la composizione dell’opera. Isaac ben Abraham ammette di averne intrapreso la stesura sull’onda di queste riflessioni: Ḥizzuk Emunah è testo concepito per dare sostegno al credente incapace di difendersi. 16.  Per un approfondimento biografico rimando a: H. Vogelstein, «Anan ben David», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. I, New York, 1906, p. 553‑556. 17.  A. De H arkavy – K. Kohler , «Karaites and Karaism», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. VII, New York, 1906, p. 438‑447. 18.  J. M ann, Texts and Studies, vol. II, New York, 1972, p. 556, 860‑869. La questione sul primo insediamento dei Caraiti nei territori polacco–lituani è controversa. Per una sintesi sulle diverse posizioni rimando a: M. K izilov, The Sons of Scripture, Warsaw–Berlin, 2015, p. 369‑448. 19.  I. Broydé , «Polemics and Polemical Literature», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol.  X, New York, 1906, p. 102‑109. 20.  J. Friedman, «The Reformation and Jewish Antichristian Polemics», Bibliothèque d ’Humanisme et Renaissance 41 (1979), p. 83‑97.

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L’opera è suddivisa in due sezioni: la prima parte è dedicata a un esame delle obiezioni sollevate dai cristiani contro la religione ebraica e alle prove addotte per la conferma delle loro dottrine; la seconda si incentra su una precisa analisi, con relativa confutazione, delle incongruenze evidenti nel Nuovo Testamento. In entrambe le sezioni, Isaac ben Abraham cerca di confutare, in primo luogo, le argomentazioni proposte da personalità cristiane contro il credo ebraico e, in secondo luogo, la pretesa superiorità delle stesse sull’interpretazione della Bibbia Ebraica. L’attenzione del testo, si concentra per lo più sulla figura del Messia, con l’obiettivo di ricusare l’identificazione del messia atteso dagli ebrei con Gesù di Nazareth. Isaac ben Abraham accumula materiale proveniente dalle dispute teologiche sostenute con personalità cattoliche, protestanti ed esponenti della chiesa greco–ortodossa, trasformando questo insieme complesso nel suo armamentario di argomentazioni. L’estrazione confessionale di Isaac ben Abraham non è da sottovalutare: da caraita, egli respinge la tradizione orale rabbinica e basa le sue osservazioni soprattutto sull’analisi della Bibbia Ebraica e del Nuovo Testamento 21. III. I l G e sù

e br eo di

Ḥ iz zu k E m u n a h

La prima pubblicazione a stampa di Ḥizzuk Emunah deve aspettare quasi un secolo dalla stesura originale: appare nel 1681 ad Altdorf e viene successivamente riedita ad Amsterdam nel 1705 22 con il contributo di Johann Christoph Wagenseil (1633‑1705) 23. Egli provvede alla traduzione in 21.  Oltre alla Bibbia di Nieswiez del 1572, curata da Simon Budny, probabilmente Isaac ben Abraham conosceva il testo della Vulgata nella seconda edizione della Bibbia cattolica di Cracovia apparsa nel 1575, e anche il testo greco del Nuovo Testamento secondo la Bibbia di Brest, ossia nella versione protestante del 1563. Sulle versioni bibliche allora in circolazione, si veda più approfonditamente N. Davies , God ’s Playground – A History of Poland: Volume 1: The Origins to 1795, New York, 1982, p. 149. Per il rapporto tra Isaac ben Abraham e la letteratura rabbinica rimando a S. Schreiner , «Isaac of Troki’s Studies of Rabbinic Literature», Polin: Studies in Polish Jewry 15 (2002), p. 65‑76. Isaac ben Abraham cita esplicitamente autori e trattati antitrinitari: R. Dan, «Isaac Troki and his “Antitrinitarian” Sources», in R. Dan (ed.), Occident and Orient. A Tribute to the Memory of Alexander Scheiber, Leiden–Budapest, 1988, p. 69‑82. 22.  L. Nemoy, «Isaac ben Abraham Troki», in The Universal Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. X, New York, 1943, p. 311. 23.  Per un approfondimento biografico rimando a: A. Werner , «Johann Chris­ toph Wagenseil», in The Universal Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. X, New York, 1943, p. 438; E. Neumann, «Johann Christoph Wagenseil», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol.  XII, New York, 1906, p. 455; F. Roth–Scholtz , Vita et Consignatio Scriptorum, in appendice a J. Christophori Wagenseilii, Norimbergae & Altdorfii, 1719.

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latino dell’intero testo di Isaac ben Abraham e di altre opere polemiche di matrice ebraica, raccogliendole sotto il titolo di Tela Ignea Satanae. Arcani & horribiles Judaeorum adversus Christum Deum & Christianam Religionem Libri 24 . L’edizione latina di Ḥizzuk Emunah aprì così le idee di Isaac ben Abraham al più ampio pubblico europeo. I passi qui selezionati, tratti da quest’ultima edizione, coinvolgono la riscoperta dell’ebraicità originaria di Gesù e, conseguentemente, della matrice ebraica del suo insegnamento. Nell’introduzione alla seconda parte, Isaac ben Abraham Troki afferma che in nessuna pagina del Nuovo Testamento si può leggere che Gesù intendesse passare come l’autore di una nuova legge, ma al contrario sottolinea come egli stesso ammettesse la durata perpetua della legge mosaica. L’autore corrobora questa affermazione attraverso l’individuazione e il commento di passi esplicativi del Nuovo Testamento, in diversi punti dell’opera. Prooemium

‫הצעה‬

Notum manifestumque est omnibus, quod Nazareni dicant, Evangelium esse Legem novam, traditam iis a Jesu Nazareno. At nos, non invenimus in ullo Novi Testamenti loco asseri, quod Jesus Legem novam promulgarit, sed ejus reperitur contrarium: scilicet, quod ipse jusserit servare præcepta in Lege Mosaica descripta, quodque de ea pronunciarit, illam futuram perennem & semper & semper æternumque duraturam.

‫לכל ומפורסם ידוע המחבר אמר‬ ‫שהנוצרים אומרים שהא׳׳ג הוא תורה חדשה‬ ‫נתונה להם מישו‬ ‫הנוצרי אבל אנחנו לא מצינו בשום מקום‬ ‫באון גליון שיאמר‬ ‫שנתן ישו תורה חדשה אמנם מצינו ההפוך‬ ‫שהוא בעצמו צוה‬ ‫לשמור המצות הכתובים בתורת משה ואומר‬ ‫עליה שהיא‬ ‫נצחית קיימת לעד לעולם ושאי אפשר לה‬ ‫להבטל‬ ‫בשום זמן מהזמנים‬

È noto a tutti che i cristiani affermano che il vangelo sia la nuova Torah, data a loro da Gesù Nazareno, ma noi non troviamo da nessuna parte nel vangelo che lui doni una nuova Torah, infatti troviamo il contrario: Gesù ordina di osservare i comandamenti della Legge mosaica e dice che essa è eternamente valida 25.

Nel secondo capitolo della prima parte vengono criticate e biasimate alcune usanze cristiane. L’autore asserisce che la maggior parte dei seguaci del cristianesimo continua a prostrarsi davanti alle immagini d’oro e a profanare il giorno del sabato, nonostante queste pratiche siano in contraddi-

24.  J.C. Wagenseil , Tela Ignea Satanae. Arcani & horribiles Judaeorum adversus Christum Deum & Christianam Religionem Libri, Altdorf, 1681. Ho consultato l’opera nella riproduzione fotomeccanica pubblicata a Farnboroung nel 1970. 25.  Questa e le seguenti traduzioni dall’ebraico sono mie.

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zione con gli insegnamenti di Gesù riportati nei vangeli. Infatti, egli aveva rigorosamente esortato i suoi discepoli ad astenersi da queste prassi: Cap. II

‫פרק ב‬

Quin adeo nondum ex templis eorum exturbata sunt simulacra argentea & aurea, imaginesque ligneæ & lapideæ; præcipue vero ex veteri consuetudine, panis crustula etiamnum colunt & adorant. Hæc autem omnia peragunt contra præcepta Jesu, qui gravissimis hortationibus talibus indulgere prohibuit, Discipuli vero & Apostoli ejus, vel animantia idolis immolata comedere interdixerunt. Cæterum, (non his tantum) sed & suffocatis, & sanguine, quibus similiter secundum instituta Evangelij vesci nefas est, Optimates quoque illorum fruuntur. Nec minus profanant Sabbaticum diem, præceptum sanctissimum, quod omnes qui illum sectabantur discipuli, par annos quingentos observarunt.

‫בבתי עבודתם עדיין לא פסקו עצבי כסף‬ ‫וזהב ופסילי עץ ואבן ובפרט פסילי הלחם‬ ‫שהם עובדים ומשתהוים להם כפי מה‬ ‫שהורגלו מקדמת דנא וכל זה הם עושים‬ ‫היפך הוראות ישו כי הוא הזהירם מזה‬ ‫באזהרות גדולות ואפילו בעלי חיים הנזבחים‬ ‫לפסילים הזהירו תלמידיו ושלוחיו מאכילתם‬ ‫וכן גם הנחנקים והדם אשר הוזהרו באון‬ ‫גליון‬ ‫מאכילחם אינם נזהרין אפילו גדוליהם וכן‬ ‫מחללין את יום השבת אשר היא מצוה‬ ‫המורה שקיימוהו כל תלמידיו‬ ‫הנמשכין אחרי עד ה׳ מאות שנה‬

Nei loro luoghi di culto non hanno ancora tolto statue d’argento e d’oro, immagini di legno e pietra, ma soprattutto si prostrano al pane che confezionano, come sono abituati da tempo. Tutto quello che fanno è contro gli insegnamenti di Gesù. Egli vieta ai suoi discepoli e ai suoi seguaci queste pratiche e vieta loro di mangiare sacrifici animali offerti agli idoli, quelli soffocati e il sangue, come si trova nel Vangelo. Egli avverte di non profanare il giorno del sabato, che è stato rispettato da Gesù e dai suoi discepoli per oltre cinquecento anni.

Isaac ben Abraham si chiede come sia possibile che i seguaci di Gesù si definiscano cristiani se, all’interno della loro stessa comunità, non vengono osservati i precetti mosaici che Gesù stesso aveva dichiarato inviolabili. Inoltre, sottolinea come molti cristiani sostengano che la legge non sia stata stabilita per una durata permanente, ma solo per un periodo limitato. Questa, essendo stata abrogata da Gesù, viene sostituita da una nuova. Su tali basi, i cristiani si sentono dispensati dal rispetto del codice mosaico. Per l’autore, è il vangelo stesso che confuta la loro opinione: in Mt 5,17‑20, Gesù dice ai suoi discepoli che non è sua intenzione abolire la legge ma che, anzi, osservarla al dettaglio è condizione necessaria per entrare nel regno dei cieli. Gesù, da ebreo osservante, non ha fatto altro che sollecitare l’osservanza della legge e delle prescrizioni mosaiche, rispettandole a sua volta:

IL GESÙ DEL H . IZZUK EMUNAH

815

Cap. XIX

‫פרק יט‬

Porro calumniantur Nazareni Legem Divinam, dictitantque: Lex Mosaica minime æternum, sed tantum pro tempore, ad adventum usque Jesu durare debebat. Is enim abrogavit Legem Mosaicam, finemque ac terminum illi intulit & discipulis suis, omnibusque nomen suum invocantibus, novam Legem promulgavit, qua eos liberos reddidit ab omnibus præceptis & mandatis in Lege Mosaica descriptis. Causa rei, quia hæc Lex sententias capitales promulgat, in quo longe diversa est a Lege nova, quæ meram sapit benignitatem […]. Responsio. Ista quoque objectio a vero abludit & adeo ipsum eorundem Evangelium verba illorum convellit. Extat enim apud Matthæum c. 5. commate 17. & seq. hoc Jesu ad Discipulos suos dictum: Ne existimate me venisse ut dissolvam Legem aut Prophetas, non veni ad dissolvendum, sed ad implemendum.

‫ומה שטוענין הנוצים עוד כנגד התורה‬ ‫האלקית באמרם שתורת משה לא‬ ‫היתה נצחית רק זמניות עד בא ישו אשר‬ ‫בטל ונתן קץ וסוף לתורת משה וצוה‬ ‫לתלמידיו ולכל הנקראים בשמו התורה‬ ‫החרשה אשר עשה אותם חפשי מכל המצות‬ ‫והאזהרות הכתובות בתורת משה והסבה בזה‬ ‫[…] התשובה אין האמת אתם גם בזות‬ ‫הטענה כי אפ׳י הא׳׳ג שלהם סותר דבריהם‬ ‫כי מצינו במטיאש ּפרק ה׳ מפופק י׳׳ז‬ ‫ואילך מאמר ישו לתלמידיו וז׳׳ל אל תחשבו‬ ‫שבאתי לבטל התורה או הנביאים לא‬ ‫באתי לבטל כ׳׳א לקיים באמת‬

Gli argomenti dei cristiani sono contro la Torah e asseriscono che la Legge mosaica non fu stabilita per una durata permanente, ma solo per un periodo limitato fino all’arrivo di Gesù; il quale, abrogandola, stabilì una nuova legge che ha dispensato i discepoli e i seguaci dai comandamenti della Legge mosaica […]. Risposta: questo argomento non è veritiero; anche il loro vangelo rifiuta le loro parole, dato che possiamo trovare in Matteo 5,17 e seguenti, le parole che Gesù disse ai suoi discepoli: non pensate che io sia venuto per abolire la legge o i profeti; io sono venuto non per abolire ma per portare a compimento.

Ḥizzuk Emunah offre una riflessione sul grado d’incoerenza che si presenta soprattutto quando si mette a confronto la dottrina dei cristiani con gli insegnamenti gesuani. Isaac ben Abraham prende in esame gli appellativi divini attribuiti a Gesù, riscontrando che in nessuna parte del Nuovo Testamento egli si definisce “Dio”, bensì continuamente “uomo” o “figlio dell’uomo”. Il titolo divino è stato conferito a Gesù senza la sua approvazione.

816

MIRIAM BENFATTO

Cap. XLIX

‫פרק מט‬

Sic quoque urgeas Nazarenos. Magna nos capit admiratio, quare, cum vos summa fide in Jesum Nazarenum credatis, nullum tamen assensum adhibeatis verbis ejus, verbisque Apostolorum ejus, quodque non servetis præcepta ejus & præcepta Apostolorum ejus, in multis capitibus. Principio, ipse nunquam in ullo loco sibi nomen Dei vindicat, sed tantum sibi appellationem Filium hominis, aut, Viri, indit, ceu ex quamplurimis Novi Testamenti locis apparet. At vos illi divinitatem tribuitis, eumque Dei vocatis nomine, de quo ipse nihil vobis præcepit.

‫טענה לנוצרים יש לתמוה תמיה גדולה‬ ‫עליכם כי אתם מאמינים בישו נוצרי‬ ‫אמנה חזקה אכל אינכם מאמינים לדבריו‬ ‫ולדברי שלוחיו כלל וכן אינכם מקבלים‬ .‫הוראותיו והוראות שלוחיו בהרבה ענינים‬ ‫הא׳ שהוא אינו קורא את עצמו בשם אלקים‬ ‫בשום מקום אלא קורא את עצמו בשם בן‬ ‫אדם ובשם איש כמוזכר בא׳׳ג במקומות‬ ‫רבים‬ ‫אבל אתם מיחסים לו האלקות וקוראים אותו‬ .‫בשם אלקים מה שלא צוה אתכם‬

Un argomento dei cristiani suscita sempre una grande meraviglia in noi, perché voi credete in Gesù Nazareno ma non credete alle sue parole e a quelle dei suoi discepoli, non accogliete le sue prescrizioni e quelle dei suoi discepoli in molti casi. Egli da nessuna parte chiama se stesso con il nome di Dio: egli chiama se stesso solo con il nome di ‘Figlio dell’Uomo’ e con il nome ‘Uomo’, come ricordato in molti luoghi del Vangelo. Ma voi gli attribuite la divinità e lo chiamate con il nome di Dio, cosa che egli non ha disposto.

IV. L a

figu r a s tor ica di

G e sù

in

Ḥ iz zu k E m u n a h

Isaac ben Abraham si preoccupa costantemente di segnalare alcuni tratti dell’attività e dell’insegnamento di Gesù dai quali emerge la considerazione che egli aveva di se stesso e della sua missione. Questi tratti non aderiscono all’interpretazione cristiana e rimangono strettamente legati all’idea di un Gesù ebreo. Il Gesù descritto in Ḥizzuk Emunah è un galileo del primo secolo e la sua tradizione culturale e religiosa è molto vicina a quella ebraico–palestinese. L’analisi degli scritti evangelici mostra come Gesù abbia parlato da ebreo ad altri ebrei, su argomenti ebraici e secondo consuetudini ebraiche. L’intento dell’autore è, tra gli altri, dimostrare come le interpretazioni cristologiche della Bibbia Ebraica siano esegeticamente insostenibili. Dall’analisi storica di Isaac ben Abraham dipende una visione di Gesù coerente con l’ambiente giudaico nel quale viveva. Da un punto di vista metodologico, l’autore distingue tra la predicazione di Gesù e la fede dei seguaci successivi, tra cui gli evangelisti. Ciò che è riportato nei vangeli è una proiezione adattata, secondo criteri intenzionali propri, di ciò che

IL GESÙ DEL H . IZZUK EMUNAH

817

Gesù ha detto e fatto nel corso della sua vita e della sua missione. L’originaria ebraicità di Gesù è stata distorta e coordinata per rispondere all’obiettivo degli evangelisti e del loro pubblico di lettori e proseliti, creando un effettivo divario tra la predicazione gesuana e quella successiva. L’opera non è stata composta per rispondere a problemi di stampo storiografico, ma essa incoraggia la riflessione, anche se collateralmente, sulla rappresentazione storica della figura gesuana e sulla sua storicità in generale. I temi sollevati dal nostro autore sono gli stessi che verranno dibattuti e ampliati dai pionieri e dai massimi esponenti della storia della ricerca sul Gesù storico. La ricostruzione scientifica della figura storica di Gesù non rappresenta quindi l’obiettivo, ma appare necessaria: costituisce un mezzo che concorre all’obiettivo principale. Nonostante non si rintracci un intento storiografico in tal senso, si può osservare come la considerazione della fisionomia storica di Gesù fosse importante al punto di diventare, in molti casi e modi, il terreno d’incontro e scontro tra le divergenti visioni dottrinali di ebrei e cristiani. Si deve tenere ben presente come lo scontro e il contrasto rappresentino spesso fucine di nuove prospettive interpretative. Nel nostro caso, si è palesata l’esigenza di indagare la figura di Gesù, con strumenti storici e critici, per rispondere a un attacco e per costruire una difesa. La storicizzazione operata da Isaac ben Abraham appare strettamente connessa alla costruzione polemica dello scritto: la vita di Gesù, la sua missione e il suo movimento diventano strumenti, poiché tali funzionali, della disputa tra visioni contrastanti. Uno dei contributi principali dell’analisi di Ḥizzuk Emunah è la testimonianza che esiste, almeno dalla fine del XVI secolo, uno straordinario, quanto scottante e urgente, interesse per la figura storica di Gesù. Dietro l’interesse teorico e speculativo si cela quello pratico: il testo rispondeva, prontamente ed efficacemente, a specifiche necessità le quali richiedevano un’immediata soddisfazione, e nel farlo si serve di una lettura analitica dei testi e di un’analisi storico – critica delle fonti del Nuovo Testamento. Il clima di conflitto religioso che caratterizzava il XVI secolo, sia nel più ampio contesto europeo, sia nella più ristretta realtà polacco – lituana, ha verosimilmente avuto il valore di una causa efficiente. V. L a

r ice z ion e de l t e s to : u n br ev e r e socon to

Una ricostruzione, sebbene parziale, della diffusione e della fortuna del testo appare indispensabile se si vuole inquadrare la centralità storica dei temi affrontati dall’autore, tra cui quello del Gesù ebreo preso specificatamente in considerazione qui. Il manoscritto di Ḥizzuk Emunah, terminato verosimilmente nel 1594, in un primo tempo circola principalmente all’interno delle comunità

818

MIRIAM BENFATTO

ebraiche 26. Nonostante la diffusione inizialmente controllata e circoscritta, il testo provoca forti reazioni. La fortuna dello stesso si traduce nell’attività di copiatura, commento e critica, che prende piede in numerose aree geografiche. Il successo incontrato dal testo si fa, in questo caso, indice della grande importanza che esso ha rivestito nel corso della storia: le sue argomentazioni sono state replicate e dibattute in occasioni diverse e per motivi differenti, per oltre quattrocento anni. Una porzione selezionata dell’opera viene tradotta in spagnolo nel 1621, sotto il nome di Fortificación de la Ley de Moseh, dal rabbino sefardita Isaac Athias (? – dopo il 1622), l’allora leader della congregazione di Amburgo 27. La versione spagnola è stata ripetutamente copiata, ma mai pubblicata, nella diaspora sefardita occidentale, ossia nella rete delle comunità fondate da ebrei i cui antenati erano arrivati dalla Spagna e dal Portogallo, dopo che questi paesi li espulsero nel 1492 28. L’ebraista italiano Giulio Bartolocci (1613‑1687) descrive, già nel 1683, il testo come disputatio contra Christianos 29. Il suo nome è legato alla Bibliotheca Magna Rabbinica. Questa monumentale opera bibliografica della letteratura ebraica, redatta in latino e in ebraico, è composta da quattro volumi editi rispettivamente nel 1675, 1678, 1683 e 1693. Il quarto e ultimo volume è stato curato e pubblicato dall’allievo di Bartolocci, Carlo Giuseppe Imbonati, la cui Bibliotheca Latino–Hebraica del 1694 costituisce un’appendice all’opera del maestro. All’interno del terzo volume si trova il nome di Isaac ben Abraham Troki, insieme all’opera di Ḥizzuk Emunah con il titolo, tradotto in latino, di Munimen Fidei, accanto all’indicazione dei manoscritti esistenti. Le copie manoscritte del testo si diffondono rapidamente nel mondo ebraico e anche studiosi cristiani vengono a conoscenza di Ḥizzuk Emunah. Un corposo trattato del 1644 scritto da Johann Müller (1598‑1672), pastore della chiesa di San Pietro ad Amburgo, affronta principalmente le argomentazioni di Ḥizzuk Emunah e quelle prodotte da un altro scritto polemico, Sefer Niṣaḥon, redatto da Yom Tob Lipmann Mulhausen, alla fine del XV secolo. L’opera enciclopedica del pastore porta il titolo di 26.  Isaac Ben Abraham non riesce a concludere la sua opera: il compito ricade su Josef ben Mordecai Malinowski. Quest’ultimo ultima il lavoro del maestro, completandone gli indici e scrivendone la prefazione. 27.  M. K ayserling, Biblioteca espagnola–portugueza–judaica: Dictionnaire bibliographique des auteurs juifs, del leurs ouvrages espagnols et portugais et des oeuvres sur et contre les juifs et le judaisme, Nieuwkoop, 1961, p. 14‑15. Cito da R. Popkin, Disputing Christianity. The 400-Year-Old Debate Over Rabbi Isaac Ben Abraham Troki’s Classic Arguments, New York, 2007, p. 17, n. 13. 28.  R. Popkin riporta questa notizia testimoniata dalle copie conservate ad Amsterdam e a Londra, oltre che in altri centri sefarditi. R. Popkin, Disputing Christianity. The 400-Year-Old Debate Over Rabbi Isaac Ben Abraham Troki’s Classic Arguments, New York, 2007, p. 17. 29.  G. Bartolocci, Bibliotheca Magna Rabbinica, vol III, Roma, 1683, p. 873.

IL GESÙ DEL H . IZZUK EMUNAH

819

Judaismus oder Judenthumb, das ist aussfuerhlicher Bericht von des juedischen Volckes Unglauben, Blindheit und Verstockung 30. Nel corso del XVII e XVIII secolo, traduzioni manoscritte di Ḥizzuk Emunah appaiono in Francia, Olanda, Germania e Portogallo. Alcune di queste copie sono attualmente conservate nella collezione Ets Ḥaim di Amsterdam, la quale comprende buona parte della biblioteca della sinagoga sefardita olandese 31. Come accennato, la prima pubblicazione a stampa di Ḥizzuk Emunah appare nel 1681 ad Altdorf, e successivamente ad Amsterdam nel 1705, grazie a Johann Christoph Wagenseil. Questi, nel 1665, in qualità di professore di giurisprudenza e lingue orientali presso l’Università di Altford, aveva viaggiato attraverso l’Europa occidentale alla volta del nord dell’Africa. Durante il soggiorno nella città di Ceuta, era riuscito a ottenere il manoscritto di Ḥizzuk Emunah dalla comunità ebraica presente e probabilmente era a conoscenza dell’opera grazie alla già citata critica di Müller. La versione a stampa si diffonde rapidamente: si può trovare, già dalla fine del XVII secolo, nelle biblioteche d’Irlanda e di Svezia 32 . Alcuni teologi cristiani non perdono l’occasione per rispondere agli argomenti riportati in Tela Ignea Satanae. Tra questi, Richard Kidder (1633‑1703), vescovo della diocesi inglese di Bath e Wells, il quale cita Ḥizzuk Emunah nel suo lavoro pubblicato nel 1699, A  Demonstration of the Messiah. In which the Truth of the Christian Religion is defended, especially against The Jews 33. Oltre al lavoro di Kidder, una confutazione parziale del lavoro di Isaac ben Abraham compare nello scritto di un pastore ugonotto, Jacques Gousset da Dordrecht (1635‑1704), pubblicato nel 1688 sotto il titolo di Controversiarum adversus Judaeos ternio. La versione completa della confutazione di Gousset viene pubblicata ad Amsterdam nel 1712, sotto il titolo di Jesu Christi Evangeliique veritas salutifera demonstrata in confutatione libri Chizzuk–Emunah a R. Isaaco scripti  3 4 . Questi sono solo alcuni frutti della risonanza dell’opera di Wagenseil, che attirerà anche l’attenzione del filosofo francese Pierre Bayle 30.  J. Müller , Judaismus oder Judenthumb, das ist aussfuerhlicher Bericht von des juedischen Volckes Unglauben, Blindheit und Verstockung, Amburgo, 1707. Cito da R. Popkin, Disputing Christianity. The 400-Year-Old Debate Over Rabbi Isaac Ben Abraham Troki’s Classic Arguments, New York, 2007, p. 18, n. 16. 31.  R. Popkin, «Jewish Anti–Christian Arguments as a Source of Irreligion from the 17th to the Early 19th century», in M. Hunter – D. Wotton (ed.), Atheism from the Reformation to the Enlightenment, Oxford, 1992, p. 166, n. 25. 32.  R. Popkin, Disputing Christianity. The 400-Year-Old Debate Over Rabbi Isaac Ben Abraham Troki’s Classic Arguments, New York, 2007, p. 24 33.  R. K idder , A Demonstration of the Messiah. In which the Truth of the Christian Religion is defended, especially against The Jews, London, 1699. Cito da R. Popkin, Disputing Christianity. The 400-Year-Old Debate Over Rabbi Isaac Ben Abraham Troki’s Classic Arguments, New York, 2007, p. 24, n. 33. 34.  J. Gousset, Jesu Christi Evangeliique veritas salutifera demonstrata in confutatione libri Chizzuk–Emunah a R. Isaaco scripti, Amsterdam, 1712.

820

MIRIAM BENFATTO

(1647‑1706), dello storico Jacques Basnage (1653‑1723/1725), di Voltaire (1669‑1778) e del deista inglese Anthony Collins (1676‑1729). Il filosofo ed enciclopedista Pierre Bayle menziona l’autore del testo in una nota marginale alla voce “Friederic Ragstat de Weile” del suo Dictionnaire historique et critique 35, insieme ai nomi di Abarbanel e Lipmann, senza però precisare quale conoscenza abbia di Isaac ben Abraham e del suo scritto. Friederic Ragstat de Weile era un rabbino tedesco convertito al cristianesimo. Dalla succitata voce enciclopedica si evince come Weile si sia dedicato, nel corso della sua attività letteraria, alla confutazione e all’ammonizione di opere polemiche ebraiche. P. Bayle ci informa che, in una pubblicazione in lingua fiamminga del 1683, Weile tratta il tema del riconoscimento di Gesù come Messia, criticando e biasimando Ḥizzuk Emunah. L’attenzione rivolta a Isaac ben Abraham dallo storico degli ebrei e millenarista Jacques Basnage è particolarmente interessante, proprio a proposito di quest’ultimo punto. Basnage, convinto dell’imminente fine della storia del mondo, vede nella conversione degli Ebrei la condizione imprescindibile per il ritorno di Cristo. Insieme ad altri calvinisti, adotta un atteggiamento filosemita per incoraggiarli a svolgere il ruolo loro deputato nella storia del mondo. Basnage, nel 1715, viene a conoscenza dello scritto di Ḥizzuk Emunah in seguito alla messa all’asta dell’intera biblioteca di M. Sarraz, membro del Principato Elettorale di Sassonia e suo genero. La raccolta conteneva sia una collezione di scritti di autori ebrei spagnoli e portoghesi che vivevano ad Amsterdam, sia alcune copie della nostra opera. Basnage cita gli scritti provenienti dalla collezione nell’ultima edizione di Historie des Juifs depuis Jésus Christ jusq’ à present, nel 1716, descrivendo in particolare Isaac ben Abraham e il suo Ḥizzuk Emunah: «Il se trompe souvent. […] Mais, il ne laisse pas d’etre vrai que son livre est un des plus dangeraux qu’on ait produit contre le Christianisme» 36. Dopo la vendita della biblioteca sarraziana, è Anthony Collins ad avere in mano i diversi scritti polemici, tra i quali si trova il manoscritto spagnolo di Ḥizzuk Emunah 37. Collins usa quest’ultimo nella sua opera polemica intitolata A Discourse on the Grounds and Reasons of the Christian Religion nella quale viene ricordata anche l’opera «Tela Ignea Satanae, which

35.  P. Bayle , «Friederic Ragstat de Weile», in P. Bayle , Dictionnaire Historique et Critique, vol. XIV, Amsterdam, 1740, p. 533. 36.  J. Basnage , Historie des Juifs depuis Jésus Christ jusq’ à present, vol. IX, La Haye, 1716, p. 937. 37.  G. Tarantino, Lo Scrittoio di Anthony Collins (1676‑1729). I libri e i tempi di un libero pensatore, Milano, 2007, p. 257. Nella seconda parte di quest’opera è riportato l’intero catalogo della collezione libraria di A. Collins e al n. 2775 è presente il testo di Isaac ben Abraham Troki.

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is a Collection of Jewish Books against Christianity, wherein Rabbi Isaac’s Munimen Fidei makes the chief Figure» 38. Quanto a Voltaire, si trovano, all’interno della sua biblioteca privata, attualmente conservata nella Biblioteca Nazionale Russa di San Pietroburgo, due versioni dello scritto: la prima è l’edizione latina di Wagenseil 39 e la seconda è una versione manoscritta in spagnolo  4 0. Il filosofo francese menziona Isaac ben Abraham in diversi punti della sua produzione letteraria: in Mélanges all’interno dell’articolo Sur les Juifs; nel Dictionnaire Philosophique sotto la voce Prophecies; nel saggio Un Chretien Contre Six Juifs, ou Refutation Du livre intitulé: Lettres de Quelques Juifs Portugais, Allemands et Polonais, contenuto nel ventisettesimo tomo di Oeuvres Completes. Nel primo testo ricordato, Voltaire descrive il nostro autore come «méthodique et très bon dialecticien: jamais l’erreur n’eut peut– être un plus grand appui» 41. I toni non cambiano all’interno del saggio accolto nel Dictionnaire Philosophique 42 e nel saggio Un Chretien Contre Six Juifs 43, nei quali vengono commentati e ammoniti interi passaggi di Ḥizzuk Emunah. All’interno del Dictionnaire il testo è apostrofato come orribile profanazione. In particolar modo, viene biasimata l’interpretazione delle profezie riguardanti Gesù e la critica alla dottrina trinitaria. In Un Chretien Contre Six Juifs, Voltaire critica Isaac ben Abraham a proposito della sua affermazione sulla durata eterna della legge mosaica, citando precisamente il capitolo di Ḥizzuk Emunah al quale si riferisce. Anche in Germania la risonanza di Ḥizzuk Emunah continua. Johann Christoph Wolf (1683‑1739) inserisce lo scritto di Isaac ben Abraham, traducendone una parte in tedesco, nella sua Bibliothecae Hebraeae  4 4 . L’opera, pubblicata ad Amburgo, è formata da quattro volumi composti tra il 1715 e il 1733. La prima parte offre un elenco di autori con i nomi in 38.  A. Collins , A  Discourse on the Grounds and Reasons of the Christian Religion, London, 1724, p. 74, n. b. Ristampe recenti: New York, 1976; Eugene, 2005. Per un approfondimento sulle opere, sul pensiero e sul rapporto tra testo di Isaac ben Abraham Troki e A. Collins rimando all’opera di G. Tarantino, Lo Scrittoio di Anthony Collins (1676‑1729). I libri e i tempi di un libero pensatore, Milano, 2007. 39.  G.R. H avens – N.L. Torrey, «Voltaire’s catalogue of his library at Ferney», Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century IX (1959), p. 256. L’articolo riporta l’intera lista dei libri contenuti nella biblioteca di Voltaire. 40.  R. Popkin, Disputing Christianity. The 400-Year-Old Debate Over Rabbi Isaac Ben Abraham Troki’s Classic Arguments, New York, 2007, p. 27. 41.  Voltaire , Mélanges, Paris, 1961, p. 1215. 42.  Voltaire , «Prophecies», in Voltaire , A  Philosophical Dictionary, vol. II., London, 1843, p. 364‑369. 43.  Voltaire , «Un Chretien Contre Six Juifs», in Voltaire , Oeuvres Completes, vol XXVII, Basle, 1785, p. 324‑325. 44.  J.C. Wolf, Bibliothecae Hebraeae, vol. IV, Amburgo, 1733, p. 639 e seguenti. Ho consultato l’opera nella ristampa fotomeccanica pubblicata a Bologna nel 1967.

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ebraico, mentre la seconda è organizzata per temi e soggetti. Le restanti due parti costituiscono un ampliamento delle prime due 45. Il lavoro di Wolf mette in risalto le differenze tra i manoscritti di Ḥizzuk Emunah in circolazione, gettando così le basi per uno studio critico del testo. Inoltre, Wolf riporta la raccolta di Wagenseil, contenente il testo di Ḥizzuk Emunah, nella parte V del secondo libro, sotto la sezione Bibliothecae Iudaica et Antiiudaica  4 6. Hermann Samuel Reimarus (1694‑1768) conosce il testo di Ḥizzuk Emunah nell’edizione di Wagenseil del 1681 47, ma probabilmente anche grazie alla già menzionata Bibliothecae Hebraeae di Wolf. In un manoscritto, redatto tra il 1730 e il 1740, Reimarus condensa gli argomenti di Isaac ben Abraham definendolo «der gründlichste und stärkste widersacher des Christentums» 48. Parte di questo manoscritto viene pubblicata postuma da Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729‑1781) tra il 1774 ed il 1778. È interessante notare come Reimarus fosse a conoscenza dello scritto di Ḥizzuk Emunah, il quale viene nominato almeno in due circostanze all’interno della sua produzione letteraria. L’opera di Isaac ben Abraham Troki, viene menzionata nell’opera intitolata Vindicatio dictorum Veteris Testamenti in Novo allegatorum, del 1731. Nella stessa, Reimarus, afferma di aver letto lo scritto di Isaac Ben Abraham nella Bibliothecae Hebraeae di Wolf 49, che riporta – lo ricordiamo – la versione tradotta in Tela Ignea Satanae. Reimarus usa il libro di Ḥizzuk Emunah per esemplificare la più ampia categoria di coloro che, con «turpi ignorantia vel affectata malitia», presentano come errate le applicazioni dei detti veterotestamentari nel Nuovo Testamento. In particolare, viene riportata una porzione iniziale, contenuta nella parte I del capitolo 45, nel quale Isaac ben Abraham tratta dei riferimenti della Bibbia Ebraica che si trovano nel Nuovo Testamento, dichiarando le citazioni veterotestamentarie inopportune perché errate a causa dell’ignoranza degli scrittori neotestamentari. Va notato come la traduzione latina riportata da Reimarus non coincida con quella riportata in Tela Ignea Satanae. Vindicatio dictorum Veteris Testamenti in Novo allegatorum è il frutto della pubblicazione di una lezione tenuta presso l’Akademisches Gymnasium di Amburgo, dove era professore di Lingue Orientali dal 1727. In essa, Reimarus prova a difendere le tradizionali prove profetiche e cristologiche mentre, presumibilmente, cerca di 45.  Per un approfondimento rimando a: J. Jacobs , «Bibliography», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. III, New York, 1906, p. 199‑202. 46.  J.C. Wolf, Bibliothecae Hebraeae, vol.  II, Amburgo, 1733, p. 1046. 47.  Catalogus Bibliothecae beati Herm. Sam. Reimari, vol. I, Hamburg, 1769, n. 1359. 48.  H.S. R eimarus , Apologie oder Schutzschrift für die vernünftigen Verehrer Gottes, vol. II, Frankfurt, 1972, p. 268. 49.  H.S. R eimarus , Vindicatio dictorum Veteris Testamenti in Novo allegatorum, Göttingen, 1983, p. 49.

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nascondere la sua vera attitudine critica. Infine, nei Frammenti dell’Anonimo di Wolfenbüttel pubblicati da G.E. Lessing, si trovano almeno tre riferimenti a Ḥizzuk Emunah 50, verosimilmente tratti dalla seconda parte del nostro testo e corrispondenti ai capitoli 4, 6 e 95. L’enciclopedista e filosofo francese Paul Henri Thiry d’Holbach (1723‑1789) menziona l’opera di Isaac ben Abraham all’interno di Histoire critique de Jesus Christ, ou Analyse raisonnée des Evangiles del 1770 51, prestandole una particolare attenzione nelle appendici. Inoltre, nella sua biblioteca personale compare sia la raccolta di testi anticristiani di Wagenseil, Tela Ignea Satanae 52 , sia l’opera di Anthony Collins: A  Discourse on the Grounds and Reasons of the Christian Religion 53 . In Inghilterra, a cavallo tra XVII e XVIII secolo, il lavoro di Isaac ben Abraham viene ripreso nel dibattito tra Joseph Priestley (1733‑1804), noto per il trattato Letters to the Jews: Inviting Them to an Amicable Discussion of the Evidence of Christianity edito nel 1786, e David Levi (1742‑1801). Entrambi gli autori sembrano avere una discreta dimestichezza con gli argomenti contenuti in – per dirla con loro – Bulwark of the Faith. Priestley, nella lettera intitolata On the doctrine concerning the Messiah 54, risponde allo scetticismo degli ebrei sulla messianicità di Gesù, citando il lavoro di Isaac ben Abraham e le prove addotte dallo stesso a proposito del riconoscimento del Messia. Secondo Priestley, gli ebrei vivono in uno stato di disgrazia proprio a causa del loro rifiuto di Gesù. D. Levi risponde alle asserzioni di Priestley nel suo monumentale Dissertation on the Prophecies of the Old Testament 55. Nell’introduzione si legge un elogio al lavoro di Isaac ben Abraham e alle sue argomentazioni. D. Levi si serve di Ḥizzuk Emunah per dimostrare le falsità delle citazioni veterotestamentarie riguardanti Gesù, per negare la sua divinità e per provare la non ispirazione divina dei racconti evangelici. Un’attestazione della presenza di Ḥizzuk Emunah emerge anche in Italia, precisamente a Fiorenzuola d’Arda, in Emilia-Romagna. Questa piccola cittadina ospitava una consistente comunità di ebrei. Le prime notizie sull’insediamento di famiglie ebraiche a Fiorenzuola d’Arda risalgono alla 50.  Riferimenti rintracciati da F. Parente in H.S. R eimarus , I frammenti dell ’Anonimo di Wolfenbüttel pubblicati da G.E. Lessing, a cura di F. Parente, Napoli, 1977, p. 185, n. 38. 51.  Ho consultato l’opera nell’edizione critica curata da A. Hunwick , Histoire critique de Jesus Christ, ou Analyse raisonnée des Evangiles, Genève, 1997. 52.  Catalogue des Livres de la Bibliotheque de feu M. le Baron d ’Holbach, Paris, 1789, n. 253. 53.  Catalogue des Livres de la Bibliotheque de feu M. le Baron d ’Holbach, Paris, 1789, n. 190. 54.  J. P riestley, Letters to the Jews: Inviting Them to an Amicable Discussion of the Evidence of Christianity, Whitefish, 2003, p. 34‑38. 55.  D. L evi, Dissertation on the Prophecies of the Old Testament, London, 1817.

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fine del sedicesimo secolo. L’espulsione degli ebrei da Cremona e da Piacenza, negli anni immediatamente precedenti, aveva contribuito allo spostamento della collettività ebraica verso il comune piacentino. Non si ha nessuna notizia certa dell’esistenza di un ghetto a Fiorenzuola, mentre è assodata la presenza di una sinagoga e di due confraternite dell’Illuminario e degli assistenti agli infermi, di cui rimane la Costituzione. Il rapporto tra fiorenzuolani ed ebrei era venato da sporadiche tensioni attestate da alcune disposizioni governative dei primi decenni del XVIII secolo. Nel 1803, lo stato nominativo degli ebrei residenti a Fiorenzuola comprendeva 113 persone. La maggior parte dei componenti delle famiglie in questione portava il cognome Ottolenghi 56, ed è proprio grazie ad un membro di questa importante famiglia ebraica che abbiamo una diversa versione del testo di Isaac ben Abraham Troki. Il testo di Ḥizzuk Emunah viene copiato in ebraico da Gershon Yaʿaḳov Ottolonghe nel 1786 57, partendo dalla seconda edizione dell’opera di Wagenseil edita ad Amsterdam nel 1705. Inoltre, sempre in Italia e questa volta a Parma, la fama di Ḥizzuk Emunah viene garantita da Giovanni Bernardo De Rossi (1742‑1831), il quale cita il testo nell’opera intitolata Bibliotheca Judaica Antichristiana 58, edita nel 1800, e nel primo volume del suo Dizionario storico degli autori ebrei e delle loro opere, del 1802. De Rossi apostrofa il testo come «il libro più forte che sia stato scritto dagli ebrei contro la cristiana religione» 59. In entrambe le opere ricordate, De Rossi, riporta le menzioni più importanti di Ḥizzuk Emunah, tra cui le già presentate di Wagenseil e di Wolf. Mentre nel Dizionario storico, si trova solamente una breve nota biografica dell’autore e una sintetica descrizione della struttura dell’opera, nella Bibliotheca, De Rossi descrive il contenuto di Ḥizzuk Emunah. In quest’ultima, infatti, troviamo elencati alcuni temi presenti nell’opera di Isaac ben Abraham, come ad esempio: le questioni sulla messianicità di Gesù, sulla verginità di Maria e sulla validità della legge mosaica. De Rossi sottolinea come ciascuna di queste controversie siano stata esaminata diligentemente e attentamente, facendo riferimento sempre a passi scritturistici 60. 56.  C. A rtocchini, «Gli Ebrei a Fiorenzuola», Pagine Storiche di Fiorenzuola d ’Arda XI (1969), p. 48‑64, in particolare p. 49. 57.  Il manoscritto è provvisto di frontespizio che riporta le informazioni sulla creazione dello stesso. Questo consta di 162 fogli scritti su entrambi i lati. In alcune pagine si trovano annotazioni in lingua italiana, apparentemente glosse e promemoria dell’autore. Questo manoscritto è attualmente posseduto dalla Rare Book & Manuscript Library della Columbia University. 58.  B. De Rossi, Bibliotheca Judaica Antichristiana, qua editi et inediti Judaeorum adversus Christianam religionem libri recensentur, Parma, 1800, p. 42‑47. 59.  B. De Rossi, Dizionario storico degli autori ebrei e delle loro opere, vol. I, Parma, 1802, p. 172. 60.  B. De Rossi, Bibliotheca Judaica Antichristiana, qua editi et inediti Judaeorum adversus Christianam religionem libri recensentur, Parma, 1800, p. 43.

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Negli Stati Uniti l’opera di Ḥizzuk Emunah è stata introdotta da George Bethune English (1787‑1828). Quest’ultimo la conosce in una copia latina dell’edizione di Wagenseil, e trae da Ḥizzuk Emunah l’ispirazione per la stesura del suo libro intitolato The Grounds of Christianity Examined, edito nel 1813 e riedito nel 1839 61. Verosimilmente, quest’ultimo costituisce la prima introduzione in lingua inglese allo scritto di Isaac ben Abraham. Un’edizione in lingua inglese viene prodotta da Moses Mocatta (1768‑1857) e appare a Londra, nel 1851, sotto il titolo di Faith Strenghtened. Si tratta di una versione smussata e ridotta, come esplicitamente ammesso da Mocatta stesso. Sulla copertina appare la notazione printed but not published: la prima edizione di questa versione fu pubblicata in effetti nel 1970. L’opera continua a circolare ampiamente per tutto il XIX secolo. Un’edizione ebraica di Ḥizzuk Emunah appare a Calcutta nel 1836 ad uso della comunità ebraica presente nella regione 62 . Sembra che il testo sia stato al centro dei problemi riscontrati dai missionari inglesi: nella prima metà dell’Ottocento, le conversioni subiscono complicazioni proprio a causa della circolazione di Ḥizzuk Emunah 63. Nel 1876 le tesi di Isaac ben Abraham riappaiono in America, precisamente a New York, quando il rabbino giamaicano Frederic de Sola Mendes (1850‑1927) pubblica Defence, not Defiance. A Hebrew’s Reply to the Missionaries  6 4 . In generale, dunque, la veemenza e la precisione degli argomenti proposti da Isaac ben Abraham non sembrano essere state scalfite dal tempo se, dopo quasi tre secoli, le sue argomentazioni vengono riproposte e si dimostrano convenienti alle nuove contingenze e situazioni, tanto che a Salonicco, all’incirca nel 1850, comparirà addirittura una traduzione ladina, ad opera di Daniyel Pragi 65. Nell’Europa del XIX secolo, la sua risonanza si acuisce in Germania: Isaac ben Abraham è citato nella produzione letteraria di Abraham Geiger (1810‑1874), fondatore dell’ebraismo riformato tedesco 66. In uno scritto 61.  R. Popkin, Disputing Christianity. The 400-Year-Old Debate Over Rabbi Isaac Ben Abraham Troki’s Classic Arguments, New York, 2007, p. 30‑32. 62.  M. Waysblum, «Isaac of Troki and Christian Controversy in the 16th Century», Journal of Jewish Studies 3 (1952), p. 62. 63.  M. Waysblum, «Isaac of Troki and Christian Controversy in the 16th Century», Journal of Jewish Studies 3 (1952), p. 62; R. Popkin, Disputing Christianity. The 400-Year-Old Debate Over Rabbi Isaac Ben Abraham Troki’s Classic Arguments, New York, 2007, p. 32. 64.  F. De Sola M endes , Defence, not Defiance. A Hebrew’s Reply to the Missionaries, New York, 1876. Cito da R. Popkin, Disputing Christianity. The 400-YearOld Debate Over Rabbi Isaac Ben Abraham Troki’s Classic Arguments, New York, 2007, p. 32, n. 61. 65.  D. P ragi, Sefer Ḥizuḳ emunah: lo trezladi en Ladino, Salonicco, 1850. 66.  E.G. Hirsch, «Abraham Geiger», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. V, New York, 1906, p. 584‑587.

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pubblicato nel 1853, intitolato Isaak Troki. Ein Apologet des Judenthums am Ende des sechzehnten Jahrhunderts 67, Geiger sottolinea e commenta il valore della critica cui il nostro testo dà voce. Fino ad allora, l’unica versione integrale e consultabile del testo rimaneva quella latina di Wagenseil, la quale escludeva di fatto dalla lettura quanti non conoscessero l’ebraico o il latino. Il rabbino David Deutsch (1810‑1873) colma questa lacuna occupandosi della traduzione di Ḥizzuk Emunah in una lingua moderna, “occidentale” e più accessibile, la tedesca. Inizialmente l’opera Befestigung im Glauben appare nel 1865, come pubblicazione privata a cura del traduttore stesso, mentre l’accesso ad un più ampio pubblico viene garantito dalla seconda edizione del 1873 68, la quale riporta anche il testo ebraico. Nel Novecento la sua rilevanza è assicurata dall’attenzione rivoltagli da Hermann Leberecht Strack (1848‑1922) 69. Lo studioso tedesco, dopo aver intrapreso un lavoro di confutazione non portato a termine, provvede alla stesura della prefazione allo scritto A Manual of Christian Evidences for Jews, di Arthur Lukyn Williams (1853‑1943). L’impronta e la forza di Ḥizzuk Emunah vengono riconosciute e ricollegate anche all’aspetto confessionale dell’autore: «being a Karaite, his standard of appeal was much more definitely the Hebrew Scriptures than any treatise written by a Rabbinic Jew could have been» 70. Il successo di quest’opera, pubblicata in due volumi nel 1911, è documentata dalla sua ultima edizione, pubblicata in tempi recenti, del 1998. Nonostante la fortuna incontrata, per oltre quattrocento anni e in diverse parti del mondo, il nostro scritto non è sfuggito alle forme di controllo che imperversavano all’interno del più ampio ambito della censura dei libri ebraici. Di seguito si riporteranno solamente due esempi: il primo riguarda la questione della censura in Russia, a partire dalla fine del XVIII secolo; il secondo tratta della questione italiana, allo scorcio dello stesso secolo. In Russia, gli ebrei hanno potuto beneficiare del dettame di Caterina II, risalente al 1783, che ha permesso la realizzazione delle tipografie. In quello stesso anno, libri ebraici furono stampati a Shklov e a Polonnoe. Questi ultimi inizialmente, come quelli importati dalla Polonia, sono sfuggiti all’attenzione del governo. L’interesse delle autorità è stato levato 67.  A. Geiger , Isaak Troki. Ein Apologet des Judenthums am Ende des sechzehnten Jahrhunderts, Breslau, 1853. 68.  D. Deutsch, Befestigung im Glauben, Sohrau, 1873. 69.  Per un approfondimento biografico rimando a: F.T. H aneman, «Hermann Leberecht Strack», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. XI, New York, 1906, p. 559; per un approfondimento sull’importanza e la ricezione della sua produzione letteraria rimando a C. Weise , Challenging Colonial Discourse: Jewish Studies and Protestant Theology in Wilhelmine Germany, Leiden, 2005, p. 136‑149. 70.  A.L. Williams , A  Manual of Christian Evidences for Jews, vol. I, New York, 1919, p. VIII-IX.

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grazie al governatore generale Passek, il quale ha attirato l’attenzione in riguardo alla condizione dei libri ebraici e si è prodigato per far bloccare, nel 1790, alla dogana di Tolochin, alcuni documenti ebraici provenienti dalla Polonia. Ciò suscitò l’interesse dell’imperatrice, la quale proibì, da quel momento, l’importazione dei libri ebraici. A partire da questa data, e per i successivi sei anni, questo divieto è stato oggetto di frequenti lamentele da parte della comunità ebraica, fino a quando, nel 1796, non è stato emanato un decreto con cui si rese legale l’importazione dei libri ebraici. In concomitanza a questi eventi, si è manifestata la necessità di operare controlli mirati alla stampa e per questo sono stati istituiti organi di controllo, espletati tramite la figura del censore. I censori, che operavano inizialmente nella città di Riga e solo in seguito a Vilna, avevano il dovere di confiscare i libri che ritenevano profani e inadeguati. Il primo libro a cadere sotto la condanna dei censori fu proprio quello di Ḥizzuk Emunah. Nell’anno 1800 è stata nuovamente vietata l’importazione di libri ebraici e furono destituiti gli uffici dei censori e le loro cariche. Solamente con l’arrivo al potere di Alessandro I, l’importazione dei libri viene nuovamente autorizzata e regolarizzata, mentre le opere di censura vengono affidate ai governatori civili 71. A una sorte simile, è andato incontro il nostro scritto anche in Italia. In un documento intitolato Norme per la revisione dei libri composti dagli Ebrei, si trova la menzione dell’opera di Isaac ben Abraham Troki, all’interno degli indici annessi. Il documento è stato redatto da Giovanni Antonio Costanzi verso la metà del XVIII secolo, ed è formato da una lunga introduzione e da due consistenti Indici. Questi ultimi sono formati da due elenchi di libri: il primo comprende circa duecento titoli di testi interamente proibiti, mentre il secondo ne riporta più del doppio e comprende i titoli di libri permessi previa correzione. Proprio all’interno del primo elenco si trova l’opera Fortezza della Fede 72 .

71.  N. Porge – J. Jacobs , «Censorship Of Hebrew Books», in Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. III, New York, 1906, p. 642‑652. 72.  Archivio della Congregazione per la Dottrina della Fede, Santo Officio, Stanza Storica, BB3, i, s.n.; M. Caffiero, Legami Pericolosi, Torino, 2012, p. 67. L’autrice attribuisce ad Abrabanel la paternità dello scritto, ma si tratta invece dell’opera di Isaac ben Abraham Troki, controllata nell’edizione ebraica del 1705, quindi verosimilmente la seconda edizione wagenseliana.

A TALE OF H ISTORY, DOGMA, AND T RADITION. JESUS IN CAESAR BARONIUS’ ANNALES ECCLESIASTICI (C . 1560‑1588) Franco Motta I. J e sus

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The first volume of Caesar Baronius’ Annales ecclesiastici – a true landmark in Tridentine sacred historiography – stretches exactly over the century running from the advent of Christ to the year 100, the first year of reign of the emperor Trajan and the eighth of pope Clement of Rome. The first half of the book is devoted to the historia evangelica, the gospels narrative of the life of Jesus, corresponding to the early stage of the history of the Church: 206 pages out of a total of slightly more than 700, from the Annunciation to his Ascension in heaven. Actually, even by quickly browsing the text, one can realize that Baro­ nius’ account is all but a narrative. Rather, his way of describing the events and the characters of Jesus’ life – the Virgin Mary, John the Baptist, Herod, Peter and the other apostles – resembles much more a scenic apparatus: a detailed reconstruction of sceneries on whose background the concordance between the canonical writings of the New Testament, the non-christian sources of the antiquity and the Church Fathers is displayed. Indeed, Baronius’ aim is not any historical contextualization of the development of the body of doctrines and apostolic traditions, since for him – as for his contemporaries – the christian doctrine springs not from any kind of evolution, but rather from revelation. The overall meaning of the Annales ecclesiastici can be more readily understood in terms of a huge collection of evidences – supplied by history, antiquarianism, philology and geography of the ancient world – designed to persuade the reader about the uninterrupted continuity of the catholic tradition from the ancient to the modern Church. Its outcome, as testified by the amazing publishing success of the work, would be the establishing of the Tridentine canon of the history of christianity. II. Th e

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There is no need to remind that the Annales ecclesiastici were printed in Rome to counteract the offensive moved by protestant erudition on the front of Church history. As Albano Biondi stated, “Baronio wanted to […] Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 829–853 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111732 ©

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fashion a combat text, analogous, in the field of history, to the Controversies of Robert Bellarmine.” 1 The direct adversary was the Ecclesiastica historia, or, as it is better known, the Centuriae Magdeburgenses, the huge work on Church history published in thirteenth volumes between 1559 and 1574 by the militant scholars gathered in Magdeburg around Matthias Flacius, or Flacius Illyricus, a leader of the radical Lutheran wing that in 1548 had opposed the Augsburg Interim of Charles V and the moderate stance of Melanchthon. The Centuriae were an absolute novelty for the historical culture of the time, since they did not sketch a history of peoples and events, but rather for the first time what today would be labeled as a history of ideas. Their aim – on the ground of Luther’s hermeneutic principle of veritas abscondita, the concealment of the true faith by the lies and the false rites of the Roman Antichrist – was to attest how the papacy, in the course of the centuries, had increasingly corrupted the doctrines of Christ and the apostles. Flacius Illyricus had first provided this concept with a historical foundation with his Catalogus testium veritatis (1556), an inventory of antipapist authors and martyrs outlined as an ideal genealogy of the Reformation rooting up to the times of Christ. In comparison to this work, the Centuriae widened the scope of the research to the whole sacred history, on the premises of a theology of history centered around the idea of a ceaseless, centuries-long struggle for the preservation of true doctrine. From this viewpoint, the Centuriae Madgeburgenses can be viewed as the specular model of Baronius’ Annales and Bellarmine’s Disputationes de controversiis (1586‑1593), since the same metahistorical force that in these two latter works is represented by the flourishing of heresy, for Illyricus and his fellow scholars has the meaning of the persistence of the Gos1. A. Biondi, “La storiografia apologetica e controversistica”, in I d., Umanisti, eretici, streghe. Saggi di storia moderna, ed. M. Donattini (Modena, 2008) 555‑574: 564. The most complete monograph on Baronius, although old and apologetically biased, is still G. Calenzio, La vita e gli scritti del cardinale Cesare Baronio bibliotecario di Santa romana Chiesa, 2 vols (Roma, 1907). On Baronius’ historiography see S. Zen, Baronio storico. Controriforma e crisi del metodo umanistico (Napoli, 1994), and the miscellaneous books R. De M aio – L. Gulia – A. M azzacane , ed., Baronio storico e la Controriforma (Sora, 1982); L. Gulia, ed., Baronio e le sue fonti (Sora, 2009); G.A. Guazzelli – R. M ichetti – F. Scorza Barcellona, ed., Cesare Baronio tra santità e scrittura storica (Roma, 2012). Synthetic profiles are H. Jedin’s “classic” Kardinal Caesar Baronius. Der Anfang der katholischen Kirchengeschichtsschreibung im 16. Jahrhundert (Münster, 1978), and C.K. P ullapilly, Caesar Baronius Counter-Reformation Historian (Notre Dame – London, 1975). Further attention is devoted to the Oratorian in I. Backus , Historical Method and Confessional Identity in the Era of the Reformation (1378‑1615) (Leiden – Boston, 2003) 375 ff., and S. Tutino, Shadows of Doubt. Language and Truth in Post-Reformation Catholic Culture (New York, 2014) 74 ff.

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pel under the centuries-old accumulation of deceptions orchestrated by the Devil. 2 The first book of both the Centuriae and the Annales ecclesiastici runs along the first century ad. According to Illyricus and his fellow authors, this century enjoys a privileged rank, being the age containing the “pure” teaching of Christ and the apostles, that is the touchstone of what has to be considered as truth or falsehood in the following centuries. In the Centuriators’ conception of sacred history, the first century of Christianity stands as the archetype on which all the deviations and variations inspired by the Devil must be evaluated. So, due to its status of exemplarity, the historia evangelica plays in confessional historiography the same role the biblical canon does in controversialist theology, that of a basic standard of truth. 3 As Enrico Norelli points out, the first century ad “is qualitatively different from the following ones, when the process of corruption of doctrine and Church progressively unfolds, peaking with the full supremacy of the Antichrist from the seventh century onward.” 4 Moving to Baronius, and reading his preface to the first volume of the Annales – both a manifesto of intellectual struggle and a general methodological premise –, we find a viewpoint that can be considered specular to the Centuriators’ one: 2. On the Centuriae see I. Backus , Historical Method and Confessional Identity in the Era of the Reformation (1378‑1615) (Leiden – Boston, 2003) 358 ff.; H. Bollbuck , “Testimony of True Faith and the Ruler’s Mission. The Middle Ages in the Magdeburg Centuries and the Melanchton school,” Archiv für Reformations­ geschichte, 101 (2010) 396‑420; O.K. Olson, Matthias Flacius and the Survival of Luther’s Reform (Wiesbaden, 2002) 256 ff. Comparative analysises of the Centuriae and the Annales of Baronius are provided by E. Norelli, “L’autorità della Chiesa antica nelle Centurie di Magdeburgo e negli Annales del Baronio,” in R. De M aio – L. Gulia – A. M azzacane , ed., Baronio storico e la Controriforma (Sora, 1982) 253‑307; H. Röttgen, “Il ‘loco’ nell’idea delle Centuriae Magdeburgenses e negli Annales ecclesiastici. Scrittura verso tradizione, ovvero la Chiesa a Wittenberg o Magdeburg e la Chiesa a Roma,” in L. Gulia, ed., Baronio e le sue fonti (Sora, 2009) 115‑131. An interpretation of the theoretical principles underlying the Centuriae and Bellarmine’s Controversiae in F. Motta, “Il salto nei tempi nuovi. Controversia religiosa e teologie della storia fra XVI e XVII secolo,” in P. Gajewski – S. P eyronel R ambaldi, ed., Con o senza le armi. Controversistica religiosa e resistenza armata nell ’età moderna (Torino, 2008) 281‑296. 3. The controversialist theologians of the Counter-reformation generally deal with the Scripture – its canon, the clarity of the text, the hermeneutical function – in the preliminary sections of their books; a renowned case is that of Robert Bellarmine’s Disputationes, whose first treatise is the controversy De Verbo Dei. See F. Motta, Bellarmino. Una teologia politia della Controriforma (Brescia, 2005) 197 ff. 4. E. Norelli, “L’autorità della Chiesa antica nelle Centurie di Magdeburgo e negli Annales del Baronio,” in R. De M aio – L. Gulia – A. M azzacane , ed., Baronio storico e la Controriforma (Sora, 1982) 268.

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With the utmost diligence we must apply to this, that is to make sure […] that the original portrait of the Church be restored in its primal beauty, in order that She may dissolve darkness and disperse fog with her brightness, and the eyes of whoever contemplates her may relish in full joy of the clearest appearance of truth. 5

Both Baronius and the Centuriators – i.e. those who gave birth, on opposite fronts, to modern ecclesiastical historiography – share the idea of a genuine and original condition of the Church that has been veiled by the gathering of errors through time. For the catholic historian, the customs of Christ and the apostles are the archetype of the shape and the rule of the Church, “the foundations of christian religion, the divine laws, the pious services, the sacred councils, the published canons.” 6 The difference between the catholic stance and the reformed one lies in the way each one grasps the primitive doctrine and praxis: in the Centuriae, as in the Catalogus testium veritatis, by patiently recovering the fragments of truth still scattered in the mare magnum of papist deception; in the Annales ecclesiastici, on the opposite, by defending the continuity between the original apostolic community and the Church of the later ages. In other words, for the Centuriators only a few people have grasped the truth in the course of history, while, for Baronius, truth has always been visibile and perceptible in the body of the hierarchical Church. Not for chance, Baronius’ vocabulary is strongly marked by a semantics of continuity and tradition: the “visible monarchy of the catholic Church, established by Christ the Lord and founded on Peter” has been “entirely preserved, religiously guarded, never interrupted or suspended, but rather perpetually respected” by the Roman pontiffs. In proving this all lies the peculiar duty that Baronius as historian is setting to. 7 5. “Fuere namque e recentioribus nonnulli, qui antiquorum res gestas se collecturos professi, nihil aliud conati sunt, nisi ut mendacia coacervantes, aditum hunc nobis apertum obstruerent, et patentem viam regiam impedirent […]. Sed ad horum conatus infringendos, commenta detegenda, ac imposturas aperiendas, non multa opus est consultatione, vel facto. Satis superque puto, si germana illa, ac sincera Ecclesiae vultus imago ex antiquo proposito demonstretur […]. In hoc igitur nobis omni diligentia incumbendum, ut in primum illud exemplar semper mentis oculos intendentes, Ecclesiae effigies illa pristina, pristino decori formaeque reddatur, quae suo splendore sic tenebras disiiciat, caliginem dispellat, ut oculi intuentium, maxima cum iucunditate clarissimo veritatis aspectu perfruantur”: Annales ecclesiastici I (Romae, 1588), Praefatio, 1‑2. 6. “Nos operae pretium facturos existimamus, si una cum nascentis Ecclesiae primordiis, ipsa christianae religionis fundamenta a primitus iacta, divinas leges, pias functiones, sacra concilia, editos canones, ut instituti ratio postulabit, sigillatim recensuerimus”: ibidem, 4. 7.  “Ad haec catholicae Ecclesiae visibilem monarchiam a Christo Domino institutam, super Petrum fundatam, ac per eius legitimos, verosque successores, Romanos nimirum pontifices, inviolate conservatam, religiose custoditam, neque umquam

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a n d r h etor ica l s t y l e of t h e t e x t

Jesus, as portrayed in the Annales, is a diaphanous image. Lost in a continuum of doctrines and traditions that deprives him of his messianic features, he can be essentially identified as a figure of the passage from the Old to the New Covenant. Hence I fully agree with Mauro Pesce as he relates Baronius’ Jesus to the broader methodological program of the Loci theologici of Melchor Cano (1563), the major theorist of the use of demonstrative method in theology, the cornerstone of Counter-Reformation controversialist theology. “Jesus falls into the second ‘theological place’, De traditionibus apostolicis. Catholic theologians in the modern age always had trouble in recognizing the historical figure of Jesus as a ‘theological place’, i.e. a landmark for the change in the Church. The main points of reference for catholic theology are Scripture, Tradition, dogmas, but not the figure of Jesus.” 8 The historia evangelica in the Annales revolves around two poles: the advent, birth and childhood of Jesus on the one hand, his public life, up to his ascension, on the other. These two sides of the narrative are divided by the episode of the baptism in the Jordan, with a long digression on John the Baptist and the early assembling of the apostles. The volume is prefaced by a lenghty Apparatus ad annales ecclesiaticos (49 pages in folio in the first edition of Rome), a general historical preface to the account of the New Testament, ranging from the description of the sects in the Second Temple judaism and the pagan philosophical schools to the ancestry of Jesus and the wonders that had foretold his incarnation. In this preface some meaningful cases of the topic of Tradition can be found. The Apparatus, for instance, opens up with the theme of the extinguishing of the kinghood and priesthood in the tribe of Judah shortly before the advent. It is a standard ecclesiological theme emphasizing the convergence of both these highest functions in Christ according to the figural exegesis of Gen 49:10, an interpretation that had already played a prominent role in Eusebius’ Historia ecclesiastica and Augustine’s Civitas Dei, and thereafter was handed down to the Middle Ages as the accomplishment of the promise of the universal kingdom of Christ. 9 interruptam, vel intermissam, sed perpetuo continuatam, semperque huius mystici corporis Christi, quod est Ecclesia, unum caput visibile, cui pareant membra cetera, esse cognitum et observatum per singula tempora demonstrabimus”: ibidem, 4‑5. 8. M. Pesce , “L’emergere della ricerca sulla figura storica di Gesù in età moderna,” in I. A dinolfi – G. Goisis , ed., I  volti moderni di Gesù. Arte filosofia storia (Macerata, 2013) 41‑76: 51. 9. Gen 49:10, “Non auferetur sceptrum de Iuda et baculus ducis de pedibus eius, donec veniat ille, cuius est, et cui erit oboedientia gentium.” Cf. Ecclesiastica historia, ch. 6; De civitate Dei, 17,4. This notion finds space also in Tolomeo da

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Baronius, leaning on Josephus’ Antiquitates, asseverates the historical truthfulness of this statement: Indeed, in the fullness of time, as it had been written in the holy prophecies, the scepter and rule had extinguished from the tribe of Judah and the house of David, not on behalf of Zedekiah, as Julian held, but on behalf of the Hasmoneans, after which the supreme power among the Jews was consigned to Herod. […] At any rate, in those times [sc. shortly before the birth of Jesus] not only the kinghood, but also the office of high priest had extinguished, having been handed over from the family of the Hasmoneans to others, since the high pontiff Hyrcanus had been killed by Herod himself, who thereafter commanded to kill also Aristobulus, of the same family, with whom he had replaced the former. 10

In other passages, this apology of Tradition by means of historical evidence is applied to the customs of the Church. The sacred vestments of the high priest, for instance, stored in the Antonia Fortress in Jerusalem, are described as prefiguring the model of the papal robes, while the dress woven with camel bristles and the belt on the hips weared by John the Baptist show the old-time use of the hair shirt. Indeed, because of his hermitic life, John the Baptist is openly designated as monachorum princeps, founder of the monastic rule, according to a definition attributed to John Chrysostom (although actually apocriphal). 11 The description of Jesus’ mission in the Annales focuses around two main doctrinal places: the primacy of Peter and the establishment of the sacrifice of the mass.

Lucca’s Historia ecclesiastica (1314‑1316), 1,2, De primo pontifice et Domino nostro Iesu Christo. 10.  “Opportunum sane tempus, defecerat enim, quod erat in sacris oraculis, de tribu Iuda, et domo David regium sceptrum, atque ducatus, non in Sedechia, quod Iulianius dicebat, sed in Assamonaeis, postquam rerum summa apud Hebraeos redacta est ad Herodem. […] Verum enim vero non modo regnum, sed et legitima summi sacerdotii institutio, per haec tempora defecerat. E familia namque Assamonaeorum fuit ad alios translatum, et Hircanus quidem pontifex maximus ab eodem Herode necatus est, cui cum substituisset Aristobulum gentis eiusdem, mox et hunc interfici iussit”: Annales ecclesiastici, Apparatus, 8‑9. 11.  Ibidem, ad ann. 17, 92; ad ann. 31, 101‑102: “Porro eiusmodi vitae genere Ioannem iecisse vitae monasticae fundamenta […] catholici omnes fatentur: eaque de causa Chrysostomus eumdem Ioannem monachorum principem nominat.” Baronius refers to two homilies attributed to Chrysostom, quoting them in the Latin translation of Gentian Hervet, in Divi Ioannis Chrysostomi divinae operae, here in the ed. Venetiis, 1574 (orig. 1549): In Marcum Homilia I, II, 417r, and De divo Ioanne Baptista, in Ioan. 1, III, 143v. Actually Sixtus of Siena, in his Bibliotheca sancta (1566), had already argued that the two homilies were apocryphal, being lately followed in Antonio Possevino’s canonical Apparatus sacri (Venetiis, 1606) II, 157‑158.

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The apology of Peter’s ministry evolves first as a commentary to the episode of Andrew and Simon Peter approaching Jesus along the road (John 1:35 ff.); here Baronius emphasizes Christ’s choice of Peter merito confessionis, “by reason of his faith,” despite Andrew’s older age and higher perfection of life: Simon Peter was preferred by Christ to Andrew by reason of his faith: we know indeed that Simon excelled not only in the announcement, but in the profession of the supreme faith as well over Andrew and all the other apostles. […] From this it appears how shamefully err all those deeming that the primacy was credited to Peter because he was the eldest. 12

The debated matter of the apostolic primacy further occurs in the account of the pontifical investiture of Peter, described in the renowned pericope of Mt 16:18 (“You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church”), the most standard evangelical place of Roman catholic apologetics. Baronius’ text is worth to be read as a meaningful example of that biblical and, more broadly, historical continuism I mentioned before: Since [Jesus Christ], in his infinite wisdom, foresaw that it would happen very often that controversies and quarrels pertaining faith would arise, he rightfully solved to clarify who has the charge to judge what is correct, at any occurrence. In order that the divine sacraments, gathered in the Church, did not decline because of the faith scattered among each one’s opinion, He wanted one and the same head to be established, to whom all the others would subdue and obey. After all, there is no doubt that it happened everytime and everywhere, according to the right divine and human. Nobody ignores indeed that among the Jews a highest priest, ranking above all other priests, had been established by God […]. And when has ever been found a republic, also among the gentiles, in which a high priest didn’t legitimately stand above the others priests in right and authority? I won’t hang around in demonstrating it for every single case: be enough, as an example, the Roman republic, where the high priest laid claim on the supreme power over both the priests and the other magistrates, as well as the Athenian republic, where a higher priest did exist, urging and collecting the others’ opinions in the Areopagus.

12.  “Praelatus vero Andreae Simon Petrus a Christo merito confessionis: etenim non in renuntiatione tantum, sed et in summae fidei professione Simonem tum Andreae, tum etiam caeteris apostolis praestitisse constat; ut merito ille eligeretur, qui caeteris praeesse deberet: tuncque implendum, quod nunc tantummodo pollicetur, nempe ut Cephas, hoc est, Petrus, appellaretur […]. Ex his apparet, quam turpiter errent qui primatum putant Petro collatum, quod senior caeteris esset. Nam quod ad hoc spectat, etsi non alii, certe Andreas maior aetate, prior in vocatione, et in perfectioris vitae electione Petro praestabat”: ibidem, ad ann. 31, 103‑104. Cf. Epiphanius, Adversus haereses, II, n. 51, 14, PG 41, 914‑915.

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The pontifical office, bestowed upon Peter, becomes the full and conclusive expression of an invariant element in the history of peoples, i.e. the hierarchy of the functions as a principle of order, rooted in the lex aeterna handed down to man with his creation. After all, Jesus Christ didn’t incarnate to abrogate the law, neither the human nor the natural one: Jesus, who came not to destroy the written law nor the natural right that God has instilled in everyone’s mind, but rather to bring everything to perfection in each part, after having instituted the college of the apostles in the Church, chose one of them as supreme head and prince to lead all the others. 13

It needs not to be underscored that these assumptions mirror the properly Thomist motif of the concordance between human and natural laws, both emanating from divine reason, and their conformity with the ius divinum of Revelation. This is a persistent topic in the whole catholic apologetics of the confessional age, radically opposed the the protestant separation between the sphere of faith and that of reason. A meaningful example of how this topic was used in Counter-Reformation Roman apologetics can be found in the works of Jesuit controversialist theologians, as they proclaimed the sovereignty of the pope as iudex controversiarum (judge of the controversies) by appealing to the natural character of hierarchy, both in the Church and the political realm. I just 13. “Quoniam [Christus] divina illa sapientia praevidebat fore, ut in Ecclesia saepius eiusmodi quae ad fidem pertinent, orirentur controversiae ac disceptationes, iure consuluit, ut a quo quod, quolibet tempore decernendum esset, in comperto esset; et ne ex cuiusque animi sententia fide in diversa distracta, divina in Ecclesiam collata sacramenta vilescerent, unum idemque visibile omnibus caput statuendum putavit, cui ceteri subessent ac parerent. Quod quidem iure divino, humanoque semper ubique gentium factitatum esse, compertissimum est. Apud Hebraeos enim summum pontificem, qui ceteris praeesset sacerdotibus, a Deo institutum esse, non est qui nesciat […]. Sed et quaenam apud gentes optimis legibus reperitur instituta respublica in qua non unus esset summus sacerdos, qui iure et auctoritate ceteros antecelleret sacerdotes? Non morabimus haec in singulis demonstrare: satis ad exemplum ipsa in primis Romana respublica in qua pontifex maximus maximum omnium tum in ceteros sacerdotes, tum in alios magistratus sibi vindicavat imperium. In Atheniensium quoque republica summus etiam sacerdos erat, qui in Areopago rogabat singulorum sententias, ac colligebat. […] Iesus, qui non legem scriptam, iusve naturale a Deo menti cuiusque insitum labefactare venisset, sed numeris omnibus omnia absolutissima reddere, instituto iam in Ecclesia collegio apostolorum, ex illis unum omnium maximum ac principem, qui ceteris praeesset, elegit”: Annales ecclesiastici, ad ann. 33, 137. Typical of the Counter-Reformation culture, this continuism, showing christianity and its institutions as the refinement of previous revealed religions, is shared with Baronius by prominent scholars like Matteo Ricci and other Jesuit fathers of the mission in China, or Athanasius Kircher, with their interpretation of confucianism or the ancient Egyptian religion as forerunners of christian thought.

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mention this passage from Martin Becanus, among the most skilful and prolific controversialists of the first quarter of the seventeenth century: A multiple analysis can be observed between matters of faith and religion on the one side, and civil and political ones on the other. 1. As in political and civil matters often rise quarrels and controversies requiring that a judge pass a sentence between the litigants, so it is the same in faith and religion. 2. As in civil controversies these three things remain distinguished, judge, written law, and custom, so in controversies of faith there are the judge, the Scripture of both Testaments, and the Tradition. 14

A similar perspective, even if not related to the correspondence between faith and reason, but rather to the concordance between the Old and the New Testament, can be found in Baronius’ description of the eucharistic liturgy and the establishment of the sacrifice of the mass (the most extensively treated argument in the book). After a lenghty preliminary analysis of the computation of the date of Passover and the feasting ceremonies among Jews and gentiles, Baronius explains in detail the Passover Seder and the Lord’s Supper, underscoring its function in instituting christian priesthood and accomplishing the Mosaic order of rituals and blessings: The Supper of the Lord […] was distinct from the supper of the Easter lamb, and it was administered after this one. That first ineffable sacrament by which the transsubstantiation of bread and wine to flesh and blood of Christ occurs […] was established in it. Then also the apostles, prescribed by the Lord to do the same in His memory, became priests, and the sacrifice itself that they would offer was disposed. 15 14.  “Inter res fidei ac religionis ex una parte, et inter res civiles et politicas ex altera, potest spectari multiplex analogia. 1. Sicut in politicis ac civilibus saepe oriuntur lites ac controversiae, quae requirunt aliquem iudicem, qui sententiam ferat inter partes litigantes, sic etiam fit in fide ac religione. 2. Sicut in controversiis civilibus distinguuntur haec tria: iudex, lex scripta, et consuetudo: sic etiam in controversiis fidei, haec tria, iudex, Scriptura utriusque Testamenti, et traditio”: De iudice controversiarum, in Becanus, Opera omnia aucta revisa et in duos tomos distributa, here in the edition of Mainz, 1649, II, 1247. On the concordance of faith and reason in the Second Scholasticism see G. H einz , Divinam christianae religionis originem probare. Untersuchung zur Entstehung des fundamental-theologischen Offenbarungstraktates der katholischen Schultheologie (Mainz, 1984) 64 ff. 15.  “Constat autem ex praedictis cenam Domini […] fuisse distinctam a cena agni paschalis, ac post illam fuisse administratam. In qua primum illud sacramentum ineffabile est institutum quo transsubstantiatio fit panis et vini in carnem et sanguinem Christi, in ipsum Christi corpus sub utraque specie integrum. Tunc et apostoli, quibus Dominus praecepit id ipsum facere in sui memoriam, sacerdotes sunt facti, atque ipsum sacrificium, quod offerrent, est ordinatum. Id apostoli ipsi, id Patres omnes, id traditio ecclesiastica, ac ipsa catholica fides ab ipso exordio nascentis Ecclesiae praedicavit, ac hactenus profiteri non desinit”: Annales ecclesiastici, ad ann. 34, 159‑160.

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The comparison between these few words dedicated to the sacrifice celebrated by Jesus and the whole pages preceding and following them, establishing the continuity from the sacrifice prescribed by God to Israel to the eucharistic ritual, is noteworthy. It is a fully doctrinal and ecclesiological reading focused on the apology of the priestly function, based on the figural interpretation of Melchizedek, the king-priest of Salem mentioned in Gen 14:18‑19: “That Melchizedek bore in himself the figure of Christ is declared by the Holy Spirit in the Psalms” [Ps 110]. 16 IV. A n

a pology of

Tr a di t ion

It appears evident enough, I would argue, that the Jesus of Caesar Baronius is steadily included in a historical and religious continuum in which the pagan and Jewish traditions do prefigure and foretell the following nature of the Church, serving as partial and fragmentary images of one divine design that would have reached its full revelation only with the christian universalism. Not for chance, Baronius borrows from Paulus Orosius’ Historiae (early fifth century) the idea that the achievement of Augustus’ monocratic sovereignty and the peace he had given the empire were a praeparatio of the advent, as well as the legend of this emperor refusing the title of Dominus after having foreseen the next birth of Christ. 17 In this imposing apparatus of evidences the subjectiveness and individuality of Jesus are naturally blurred in the cumulative process that preserves Tradition. Christ is caput and founder of the Church inasmuch as he is a figure of Tradition, guaranteeing the transition from the Old to the New Covenant, a transition envisaged as the “completion” and “perfection” of laws and customs springing from the eternal law instilled in human nature and scattered among the ancient peoples. The kerygmatic separation of the Kingdom from this world, and the refusal of the conventions and the priorities ruling this latter, leave very few traces of them in the pages of the Annales. The Gospel verses emphasizing Jesus’ antinomic preaching as a sign of his messianicity are mentioned by Baronius in a very hurried way. Here are three examples. The episode of the Cleansing of the Temple: “As Easter approached, Jesus ascended to Jerusalem, and, after having forged a sort of scourge out 16.  “Quod autem Melchisedech typum Christi portaret, declarat Spiritus sanctus in psalmis, ex persona Patris ad Filium dicentis: Ante Luciferum genui te: Tu es sacerdos in aeternum, secundum ordinem Melchisedech”: ibidem, 161. 17.  Annales ecclesiastici, ad ann., 1, 59‑60. Cf. Orosius, Historiarum adversus paganos libri VII, VI,20, CSEL 5, 419. The whole sixth book of the work accounts for the instauration of the empire as the preparation to the advent of God and the propagation of its word.

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of ropes, he expelled those buying and selling in the temple.” 18 Baronius follows John’s narrative (2:13 ff.) placing the episode at the beginning of Jesus’ preaching, but he pays no attention at all to the symbolic meaning of the action, expatiating instead on the exactitude of John’s calculation of the fourty-six years requested by the enlargement of the Temple ordered by Herod. Then, the Beatitudes: “While teaching his disciples, he made a sermon on beatitude, showing to the many where it was located.” Again, the absence of any exegesis of a passage so salient in Jesus’ preaching is astonishing. 19 Finally, the episode of the adulteress: “Back in the Temple, he sat down and taught the people; then they brought a woman in front of him, who had been caught in adultery, but, in the lack of evidence [deficientibus accusatoribus], he absolved her.” The expression deficientibus accusatoribus, specifiying the absence of sufficient evidence for a conviction, belongs to the vocabulary of the ius commune, and can be often found in canon law, once again pointing out the peculiar legalistic feature of Baronius’ portrait of Jesus. 20 Such an insistency on Tradition, coupling the “expulsion” of Jesus’ subjectivity from the evangelical account, can be probably considered among the reasons that pushed Baronius to choose the word annales, instead of historia (as the Centuriators did), for the title of his book. The ancients – Baronius explains in the preface – used to distinguish annals from history, since in this latter the author treats the events of his own time, those he saw or he may have seen, pointing out not only what has happened, but also why and for which purpose, while in the annals he relies on documents for the knowledge of old events, remote from his age, placing them, one by one, in the years they happened. 21 18.  “Interim vero appropinquante Pascha ascendit Iesus Hierosolymam, et facto quasi flagello de funiculis eiecit ementes et vendentes in templo”: ibidem, ad ann. 31, 109. 19.  “Docens discipulos suos, habuit sermonem de beatitudine, et ubi illa esset sita, pluribus demonstravit”: ibidem, ad ann. 32, 124. 20.  “In templum rediens, sedens docebat populum: tunc oblatam sibi mulierem deprehensam in adulterio deficientibus accusatoribus, absolvit”: ibidem, ad ann. 33, 143. On the expression deficientibus accusatoribus see A. Fiori, “Praesumptio violenta o iuris et de iure? Qualche annotazione sul contributo canonistico alla teoria delle presunzioni,” in O. Condorelli – F. Roumy – M. Schmoeckel , ed., Der Einfluss der Kanonistik auf die Europäischen Rechtskultur, I, Zivil- und Zivilprozess­ recht (Köln, 2009) 75‑106. 21.  “In primis igitur, quod ad titulum spectat: cur potius Annales ecclesiasticos, quam historiam huiuscemodi lucubrationes nostras, maluerimus nuncupare, hanc asserimus ratione: eo nempe discrimine veteres ab historia annales distinxerunt, quod illa proprie res suorum temporum gestas, quas auctor vel vidit, vel potuit videre, pertractet, neque tantum quid gestum sit, sed et qua ratione, quove consilio,

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Baronius’ lexical choice is quite unique with respect to a long-lasting tradition of historiae ecclesiasticae – from Eusebius to Orosius up to Ptolemy of Lucca, Platina, Carlo Sigonio and Girolamo Muzio. Personally, I consider this as a form of self-censorship that must be framed in the cultural, and, even more, mental sphere of the Counter-reformation. I explain better: the classical idea of historia entails the account of a process marked by evolution and change, a process directly witnessed by the historian; the annales, on the opposite, according to Tacitus (a master of style and ideology for Tridentine writers), are the record of events already fixed in the past, and therefore no more subject to change. The annalistic genre is linked to a concept of persistence, or repetition of events, with little or no room for transformation. In this perspective, Baronius’ work is conceptually linked to this second model. His view of history revolves around the vision of a perennial struggle between orthodoxy and heresy, i.e. between preservation and adulteration of doctrine and Tradition. It is a meta-historical vision, since it is rooted not in historical, rather in theological method. As he states in the preface, “if we look towards the ancient authors who published on this matter [the history of the Church], it is difficult to find one having followed completely the truth.” 22 Eusebius was infected by Arianism, Socrates Scholasticus and Sozomen by Novatianism, Orosius wrote with an obscure and convolute style, and the former historians, starting with Josephus, were not Christian. They did not lie altogether, but each of them mixed truth with falsehood, leaving the catholic historian with the task of separating the one from the other. In other terms, nothing arises anew. Baronius’ outlook on history turns around the consideration of the errors in faith, matching with the program expressed by Bellarmine in the preface to his contemporaneous Disputationes de controversiis of 1586, which is the printed version of a speech given by him ten years earlier at the Roman College, introducing his lectures in controversialist theology. Here Bellarmine had indeed depicted a theology of history understood as a perpetual war between orthodoxy and heresy, linking the errors of Luther and Calvin to an ancient chain of heresies dating back to the first heretic in the history of the Church, Simon Magus. 23 indicet: Annalibus contra scriptor res antiquas, ut plurimum, quas sua non novit aetas, easdemque suis annis singulas monumentis commendet”: Annales ecclesiastici, Praefatio, 3. 22. “Ut de antiquioribus loquar, qui eiusdem argumenti commentarios ediderunt, invenire difficile est, qui veritatem in omnibus fuerit assecutus”: ibidem, 2. 23.  Praefatio in disputationes de controversiis christianae fidei adversus huius temporis haereticos, in Roberti Bellarmini opera omnia, ed. J. Fèvre, I (Paris, 1870) 53‑62. See F. Motta, Bellarmino. Una teologia politia della Controriforma (Brescia, 2005) 163 ff.

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eccl esi a st ici i n t h e i r h i s tor ica l con t e x t

I have tried to expound earlier the basic difference between the Annales ecclesiastici and the Centuriae Magdeburgenses: to resume, for the Magdeburg Centuriators it is a matter of recovering the pure doctrine of Christ from a history that is mastered by mystification, while Baronius’ task lies in the endorsement of a tradition that established the authority of the Roman Church all along her history, protecting her from the siege brought by heresy. This opposition must be understood within two wider cultural systems, the Roman catholic and the Lutheran one (better: the Gnesio-Lutheran one, as Illyricus’ purism was labeled), both of which crystallized as a rigid doctrinal system in the central decades of the sixteenth century. But it must not be understood in the terms of a strict cause and effect relation, as could be suggested by the fact that the Annales are the official catholic answer to the challenge of the Magdeburgenses. The texts printed in the first volume of the Annales are ready indeed before the need of a reply to Illyricus is perceived in Rome. In other terms, we can almost certainly affirm that the original function of Baronius’ historia evangelica was different from what it became after. The shaping of the Annales ecclesiastici as a huge historical synthesis doesn’t originate in the Oratorian circle (where father Antonio Galloni, assistant to Filippo Neri and an hagiographer himself, sharply criticizes Baronius’ work), rather in the Roman curia. 24 The project of a refutation of the Centuriae Magdeburgenses is first conceived in Rome around 1565, as this work has already reached its eighth volume. In the field of ecclesiastical history the catholic culture is poorly prepared for the battle: apart from ancient authors like Eusebius (mainly appreciated by protestants for his insistence on the imperial sovereignty over the Church), the only available texts are the useless Historia ecclesiastica nova of Ptolemy of Lucca – which is 250 years old –, the quite heterodox Liber de vita Christi ac omnium pontificum of Platina (1479), and Onofrio Panvinio’s slight catalogues of popes. The Society of Jesus – then leading the catholic confessional counteroffensive in Germany under the generalate of Francisco de Borja – is charged with the task of producing an answer to the Centuriae: two works by Peter Canisius on John the Baptist and the Virgin (1571 and 1572), and an apology of the Apostolic Canons by Francisco de Torres are 24. L. Ponnelle – L. Bordet, San Filippo Neri e la società romana del suo tempo (1515‑1595) (Firenze, 1931 [orig. 1928]) 358 ff. The editorial history of the Annales ecclesiastici is accounted for by G. Finocchiaro in Cesare Baronio e la tipografia dell ’Oratorio (Firenze, 2005).

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recorded. But none of these books has an adequate standard. Outside the Jesuit order, Girolamo Muzio’s Historia sacra, printed in Venice in 1570, reaches only its first book, while Carlo Sigonio’s one is not even printed. 25 In 1571 a commission of cardinals is entrusted with the matter by pope Pius V, under the responsibility of the librarian of the Vaticana Guglielmo Sirleto. The first contacts of Baronius with the commission date around 1576‑1577; in May 1577 he submits to Sirleto a request for a reading permit of the Centuriae, and this is probably the moment when he is entrusted with the writing of the Annales ecclesiastici. Two years later, in April 1579, Baronius informs his father that the first volume has been completed. It will be printed by the Vatican Typography only nine years later, in 1588, probably due to the enormous amount of work that the printing press (officially established only in 1587) is then handling. In fact, the list of sources and apparatuses published by the Tipografia vaticana in less than a decade is impressive: the works of Basilius (1587‑1588), Gregory the Great (1588‑1593) and Bonaventure (1588‑1596), the Sixto-Clementine Bible (1590‑1593) and Antonio Possevino’s Bibliotheca selecta (1593). The large amount of typographical errors in the first edition of the Annales is a strong clue in favor of this reason of the delay, as well as the fact that, in the same years, Baronius is busy editing the Martyrologium Romanum, printed first in 1584 and, in a second revised edition, five years later. 26 So, when did Baronius compose his first book of the Annales, including his life of Jesus? And why was he appointed with this task by the Roman curia? Actually, this second question is absorbed by the first one: cardinal Sirleto – probably through Filippo Neri – turned to Baronius in 1576 since this latter had already at hand a history of the Church in the apostolic age. According to Carlo Bascapè, Charles Borromeo’s biographer, in 1584 Baronius was at work on his ecclesiastical history since no less than twenty-five years; it follows that the beginning of the enterprise must be dated back to c. 1560, slightly after he had joined the first circle of the disciples of Filippo Neri in San Girolamo della Carità in Rome. Baronius himself recalls this events in his deposition at the canonization process of Neri: “[He] commanded me to speak of the ecclesiastical history.” 27 In other terms, Baronius historiographical activity does not arise from a controversialist need, but rather from a commitment internal to the pious 25. S. Zen, Baronio storico. Controriforma e crisi del metodo umanistico (Napoli, 1994) 128 ff. 26. G. Finocchiaro, Cesare Baronio e la tipografia dell ’Oratorio (Firenze, 2005) 21 ff. 27. S. Zen, Baronio storico. Controriforma e crisi del metodo umanistico (Napoli, 1994) 17.

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circle of the Oratorio – which acted as a driving force in the religious reform of the Roman Church. In his Vita di San Filippo Neri Galloni gives some details of this: Each day of the week […] four priests, one after the other, held speeches at the Oratory […]. The sermons turned around matters useful and necessary to the salvation of the listeners […], and they always ended with examples taken from the lives of the saints, through which they wonderfully extirpated the vices, sew the virtues, and gathered fruits of eternal life by preaching and serving […]. Ordinarily father Baronius spoke about the ecclesiastical histories, while others [spoke about] the lives of the saints, since this was what the blessed father [Philip] wanted. 28

Baronius’ biographer, Generoso Calenzio, provides further details about the sources and the method of these lectures: they gathered reports of the jesuit missionaries in the Indies, hagiographical legends, the Imitation of Christ. Then each one, in turn, was asked to comment the readings: One of these latter preachers [i.e. Baronius] proceeds with the account of the ecclesiastical history, and, starting from the beginning of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ Our Lord, from time to time keeps telling all the edifying things that happened in different parts of the world and show the glory of God, and the succession of the Holy Church, and the virtue and grace of the Holy Spirit that rules her, and makes sure that this ship, among the many storms of persecution by emperors, and the heretics who tried to subvert it with different noxious and false doctrines, has always overcome, and always has made kingdoms and empires bow before her, and has rejected and refuted every heresy, as can be read from time to time in the [acts of] the holy councils, where it is revealed that the errors of the modern heretics are one with the faeces they absorbed, which had already been proved wrong, and anathemized, and condemned by the Holy Fathers in ancient times. 29 28. “Ciascun giorno della settimana […] quattro sacerdoti uno doppo l’altro ragionavano all’Oratorio: predicavano essi non se stessi, ma Christo crocifisso; e questo facevano con tanto affetto, ardore, e spirito, ch’infiammavano non poco gli uditori nell’amor di Dio. I sermoni erano di materie utili, e necessarie alla salute degli ascoltanti, […] e terminati sempre con essempi tolti da vite de’ santi, co’ quali stirpavano mirabilmente i vizi, seminavano le virtù, e ricoglievano frutto predicando, e operando, di vita eterna […]. Raccontava il p. Baronio secondo l’usanza l’historie ecclesiastiche; altri le vite de’ santi, che così voleva il beato padre”: La vita di San Filippo Neri, ed. M.T. Bonadonna Russo (Roma, 1995) 144. 29.  “Uno di questi ultimi sermoneggianti seguita il descorso della historia ecclesiastica, e incominciando dal principio dell’incarnazione di Giesù Cristo Nostro Signore va di tempo in tempo raccontando tutte le cose, che di mano in mano occorsono in diverse parti del mondo, che sieno di edificatione, et mostrino la gloria di Dio, et la successione di santa Chiesa, et la virtù, et gratia dello Spirito santo, che la governa, et fa che questa barca fra tante grandi tempeste di persecutioni di

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They were not just the priests of the Oratory who took part to these meetings: we know that, after the official recognition of the congregation in 1575, they saw the presence of intellectuals such as Federico Borromeo, Robert Bellarmine, Gabriele Paleotti (the reformer of the Tridentine canon of sacred arts), Silvio Antoniano (a founder of catholic schooling), Antonio Bosio (a pionieer in christian antiquary), and the appreciated preachers Agostino Valier and Marc-Antoine Muret. It is hard to imagine that the manuscript of the Annales was not read and commented by those top thinkers of late sixteenth century papacy. In other words, Baronius’ Jesus sees the light in this community of theologians, scholars and preachers sitting at the highest level of the Church. VI. S acr e d

h i s tor iogr a ph y, con v e r sion ,

a n d r e for m of t h e

C h u rch

In the cultural paradigm of Counter-reformation, disciplines such as controversial theology, pedagogy, sacred rhetorics, and even philology and antiquary share the same persuasive and parenetic end. The apologetic historiography introduced by Baronius is doubtlessly a part of this program. The ideology of the comeback to the purity of the apostolic Church lies at the heart of the strategy of religious renewal embodied by the forces that, since Hubert Jedin, it is customary to label as “catholic reformation.” 30 Within the congregations of secular priests that lead to the detachment from the religious practice of the mediaeval orders, as the Oratorians, the Barnabites, and the Jesuits, this program of institutional regeneration passes first through the inner reformation, the conversion of the religious self of the individual. This is why history gains an intrinsically moral dimension: as for the Oratory, the shaping of a new model of imperadori, et d’heretici, che con diverse pestifere et false dottrine hanno cercato di sovvertirla, sia stata sempre superiore, et habbia fatto inchinare a sé imperii et regni, et convinte et confutate tutte le eresie, come ne’ concilii santi si legge di tempo in tempo, ove si scuopre che gli errori di moderni heretici sono le fecci assorbite da loro, che anticamente sono state da padri santi dimostrate false, anathematizzate, et condannate”: G. Calenzio, La vita e gli scritti del cardinale Cesare Baronio bibliotecario di Santa romana Chiesa, 2 vols (Roma, 1907) I, 136. 30. At present, there seems to be no univocity of terms among historians to indicate the movement of catholic renewal that preceded and prepared the reformation of the Roman Church after the Council of Trent: the expressions “catholic reformation,” “Tridentine reformation” and “catholic renewal” are de facto equivalent. See, among others, R. Po - chia Hsia, The World of Catholic Renewal, 1540‑1770 (Cambridge, 1998) (lacking the term “Counter-Reformation”); J. O’M alley, Trent and All That. Renaming Catholicism in the Early Modern Era (Cambridge, MA, 2000); R. Bireley, The Refashioning of Catholicism, 1450‑1700. A Reassessment of the Counterreformation (Washington, 1999).

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christian life springs from the knowledge of the past exempla of the martyrs and saints of the heroic age of the ancient Church. 31 This is, in my opinion, the direction we should follow to grasp the deep cultural function of Baronius’ historia evangelica. “To understand Baronius as a historian – as Simon Ditchfield notes – we need to bear in mind the concept of historia sacra, and, at the same time, to remind that, for the Oratorian, the historiographical production was no different from the liturgical one, with the inevitabile consequence that its fruition and its reading were, in short, a form of prayer.” 32 Two conversions are recorded as a consequence of the reading of the Annales ecclesiastici: those of Justus Calvinus, a German calvinist theologian who was baptized in Rome in 1602 acquiring the second name “Baronius,” and Caspar Schoppe, a prominent polemist at the imperial court of Ferdinand II, who converted in Ingolstadt in 1600. 33 After the decline of the confessional age, since the mid-seventeenth century – and, a fortiori, today – the cyclopean learned machinery of the Annales could no longer convert anyone: but in the earlier decades the process of conversion also underwent the persuasion of reason, that is the consent given to a clear system of certainties, fueled by biblical, theological and historical evidences. This was an immediate consequence of the confessional uncertainty, urging the subject to distinguish what was to be believed as the true faith in order to reach redemption.  3 4 In late sixteenth-century Rome, this process finds fertile ground in the fashioning of the ideology of the catholic capital city as a “sacred landscape,” an ideology shared by Baronius’ Annales, his notes to the Martyrologium Romanum and Antonio Bosio’s Roma sotterranea, the huge work on early christian catacombs posthumously printed in 1632. These 31. H. Jedin, Kardinal Caesar Baronius. Der Anfang der katholischen Kirchen­ geschichtsschreibung im 16. Jahrhundert (Münster, 1978) 19 ff.; M. I mpagliazzo, “I padri dell’Oratorio nella Roma della Controriforma (1595‑1605),” Rivista di storia e letteratura religiosa 25/2 (1989) 285‑307. This is probably the reason why Baronius ascribed to Filippo Neri not only the push, but also the idea itself of writing the Annales: VIII, 1599, Pro Annalibus ecclesiasticis beato patri Philippo Nerio Congregationis Oratorii fundatori gratiarum actio, n.n. 32.  S. Ditchfield, “Baronio storico nel suo tempo,” in G.A. Guazzelli – R. M ichetti – F. Scorza Barcellona, ed., Cesare Baronio tra santità e scrittura storica (Roma, 2012) 3‑21: 4‑5. 33. S. Benz , Zwischen Tradition und Kritik. Katholische Geschichtsschreibung im barocken Heiligen Römischen Reich (Husum, 2003) 47. 34.  The topic of religious conversion as a political, artistic and literary phenomenon, is meeting a growing research interest in the later years. See, among the other studies, U. L otz-H eumann – J.-Fr . M issfelder – M. Pohlig,  ed., Konversion und Konfession in der frühen Neuzeit (Gütersloh, 2007); L. Stelling – H. H endrix – T.M. R ichardson,  ed., The Turn of the Soul. Representations of Religious Conversion in Early Modern Art and Literature (Leiden – Boston, 2012).

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texts were the literary version of the cult for christian antiquities that had pushed Filippo Neri, after years of solitary prayer in the catacombs of San Sebastiano on the Appian Way, to establish the devotional walk of the Seven-Churches. 35 Baronius’ historical notes to the Martyrologium abound with the description of instruments of martyrdom and burial places, as well as Bosio’s itinerary through the ancient Roman cemeteries helps the reader in the contemplation on burial grounds and the miracolous conservation of the bodies of the martyrs. It is not just a matter of a baroque taste for the glorification of the carnal substance of sanctity: it is a strategy of persuasion conferring a highly doctrinal value to archaeology and history with their theological repercussions. As Giovanni Severani, then editor of the Roma sotterranea, underlined with reference to the exegesis of the burial symbols, “it appeared necessary to us […] to prove with efficacious reasons, and with the authority of the Holy Fathers and sacred councils, that our cemeteries have always kept virgin for their use by christians, and never polluted by gentiles, or heretics, or schismatics.” 36 The outstanding success of the Annales ecclesiastici, and therefore of the account of Jesus’ life they advance, must be read on the background of this double function they play, the external and dialectical one, on the one side, and the internal, devotional and parenetic one, on the other. The achievement of the book is indeed beyond dispute. Just to list the versions printed during the author’s life or short after his death, after the first edition we have a corrected one, printed three times in the celebrated Plantin shop in Antwerp (1589 and ff., 1597 and ff., 1612 and ff.); then a Roman reprint of the first four volumes (1591 and ff.); and a further revised edition in Mainz (1601 and ff.), then reprinted in Venice (1601 and ff.) and Cologne (1609 and 1624). 37 To fully explain this editorial success we must consider, along with the theological interest for the question of Church history, the functional use the work may have fulfilled. As for their structure, the Annales ecclesiastici resemble much more a collation of sources and quotations than a narration with its own narra35. S. Ditchfield, “Reading Rome as a sacred landscape, c. 1586‑1635,” in W. Coster – A. Spicer ,  ed., Sacred Space in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, 2005) 167‑192: 171 ff. 36. [A. Bosio], ed. G. Severani, Roma sotterranea (Roma, 1632) 593. 37.  The work was continued by Raynaldi, 10 vols, 1646‑1677, Laderchi, 3 vols, 1728‑1737, Theiner, 3 vols, 1856, considered as the most reliable. Less valued are Bzowski, 9 vols, 1616‑1672, and Spondanus, 2 vols, 1659. The reference edition is the reprint of Raynaldi’s one, edited by Giovanni Domenico Mansi with notes of Antonio Pagi (Lucca, 1738‑1759, 38 vols). See the entries by A. Molien, Dictionnaire d ’histoire et de géographie ecclésiastiques, VI, 1932, 871‑882, and A. P incherle , Dizionario biografico degli italiani, VI, 1964, 470‑478.

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tive consistency. This is one of the criticisms – together with his poor, or nonexistent knowledge of Greek and of the languages of the Near East – moved to Baronius by eighteenth-century Catholic scholars, like Ludovico Antonio Muratori, Giovanni Lami, Juan Andrés and Giuseppe Agostino Orsi. 38 But this doxographical and descriptive texture of the work should be probably considered with respect to the end that had originally been thought by the author. Above all, the Annales ecclesiastici are an inventory of theological commonplaces, a catalogue of sources and evidences devised to boost the activity of preachers, confessors, and controversialists. In this sense, they are a brilliant embodiment of the argumentative method advanced in Melchor Cano’s Loci theologici (1563), with their theory about the ten commonplaces, or classes of arguments, the theologian should draw from in his work. The tenth, and last, of these classes is profane history. 39 And it cannot be denied that the Annales, in their essence, can be viewed as a refined interweaving of doctrinal places (the New Testament, the Fathers of the Church) and subsidiary historical places (subsidia fidei) whose purpose is to frame correctly the meaning of certain expressions and events into an overall orthodox interpretation. From this viewpoint, the role Baronius attributes to history is fully instrumental to the confirmation of doctrine. This kind of operation was unthinkable for catholic historiography before the Annales, since the works of Platina and Sigonio restricted to concise accounts the life of Jesus according to the Gospels, while Muzio’s Historia sacra began with the death of Judas, neglecting all the previous events since “it appeared excessive to speak of the nativity, life, miracles, death and resurrection of the Lord […], which are not contended [with the Centuriators].”  4 0 38. D. M enozzi, “Il dibattito sul ‘Baronio storico’ nella Chiesa italiana del Settecento,” in R. De M aio – L. Gulia – A. M azzacane , ed., Baronio storico e la Controriforma (Sora, 1982) 693‑734. 39.  The idea of profane history in Melchior Canus’ theology has been analyzed by Albano Biondi in his “Melchiorre Cano e l’esperienza storico-filologica dell’Umanesimo,” now reprinted in A. Biondi, Umanisti, eretici, streghe. Saggi di storia moderna, ed. M. Donattini (Modena, 2008) 455‑492 (orig. 1973). 40. “La intention nostra veramente essendo stata di scriver questa historia à popoli fedeli in rimedio delle heresie, […] et ispargendo coloro, che nel tempo degli apostoli, et nella primitiva Chiesa si usava la dottrina, che da loro si semina, a me è paruto soverchio il parlar della natività, della vita, de’ miracoli, della morte, et della resurrettion del Signore (secondo che si è fatto da loro) [scil. i centuriatori] che di questo non è la nostra contesa. Ma habbiamo tolto il principio della ascesa del Salvator nostro in cielo, per essere incontanente dapoi succedute cose che ributtano le coloro opinioni; et dalla dottrina de’ santi vangeli parleremo, quando pervenuti saremo al loro luogo, che anche dopo la salita di Christo in cielo furono scritti i santi vangeli”: Della historia sacra libro primo (Venetia, 1570) 4r-v, n.n. Cf. Platynae historici liber de vita Christi ac omnium pontificum qui hactenus ducenti fuere et

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With the Annales, on the opposite, a boundless arsenal of proofs is made available to the variegate intermediaries of Counter-reformation discourse – on the pulpits, in the public squares, and at the courtly ceremonies. I deem this can be testified by the multitude of summaries and compendiums of the work following the publishing of each volume: to name only a few, those of Francesco Panigarola, published two years after the first book of the Annales, of Gabriele Bisciola, of 1601, and of Henri de Sponde (Spondanus), the most widespread one, of 1613. 41 It is on the ground of this subsidiary literature, and above all of the likely mediated use it served – mostly oral, we can assume –, that the Counter-reformation Jesus depicted by Baronius affirmed itself and took root in the catholic collective imagery. VII. B a ron i us ’

m et hodology

According to Jedin, notwithstanding the apologetic structure of the Annales and the repeated mistakes in his use of sources, Baronius is to be praised as the first catholic historian to have dealt with the Church as an object of study in herself, distinguished from the overall history of mankind. 42 Although this judgment can be largely shared, we should not overestimate the originality of Baronius, at least with regard to the history of Jesus’ times and life. First, his choice of making the history of the Church begin with the advent follows Eusebius’ traditional scheme, and is shared by Ptolemy of Lucca, Platina and Sigonio. Nor the contextualizaton of the evangelical narrative within the historical frame of the Second Temple Judaism and the reign of Augustus can be considered as a truly innovative operation, since this approach had been adopted earlier by Platina and finds its ultimate origin in Orosius’ Historiae. 43 XX, ed. G. Gaida, here in G. Carducci – V. Fiorini,  ed., Rerum Italicarum scriptores (Città di Castello, [1913‑1932]) 4‑8; C. Sigonio, Historiae ecclesiasticae libri XIV (Mediolani, 1734) 1‑9. 41. F. Panigarola, Il compendio degli Annali ecclesiastici del padre Cesare Baronio (Roma, 1590); G. Bisciola, Epitome annalium ecclesiasticorum (Venetiis, 1601); Annales ecclesiastici ex XII tomis Caesaris Baronii in epitomen redacti, opera Henrici Spondani, here in the edition Lutetiae Parisiorum, 1617. Further syntheses are listed in the biographical entries cited above, n. 37, and in S. Benz , Zwischen Tradition und Kritik. Katholische Geschichtsschreibung im barocken Heiligen Römischen Reich (Husum, 2003) 38 ff. 42. H. Jedin, Kardinal Caesar Baronius. Der Anfang der katholischen Kirchen­ geschichtsschreibung im 16. Jahrhundert (Münster, 1978). 43.  Liber de vita Christi ac omnium pontificum, 4‑8.

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The real difference between Baronius and his predecessors lies in the enormous amount of evidences displayed by the Oratorian, compared with the few pages devoted to Jesus by the mentioned authors, and, above all, in his thick texture of references crossing biblical, patristic and historical passages. This is obviously a consequence of his long-standing commitment to the enterprise, as well as of his consciousness of the issue at stake. What are the premises of Baronius’ use of the sources? Already at the time of the publication of the Annales, his methodologic integrity had been highlighted as an undisputed virtue, depicting him as a model of the new catholic militant intellectual, whose historical effort becomes a form of askesis. This is what is testified by one of the earlier biographer of the cardinal, Girolamo Barnabei, in 1651: He was ready to confirm without hesitation all that he found defended by incontrovertible reasons and testimonies, and, in the same way, he frankly refused all that appeared less likely and less congruent with truth, even though it came from authoritative sources; therefore, before affirming something he attentively considered it, and inquired with due diligence who the author was, and what the ground, the end, the place, the time of it – in a word, everything.  4 4

These considerations essentially reproduce what Baronius himself had written in the preface to the first book of the Annales: We will treat everything so as to assert nothing with carelessness and inadvertently: nothing without cause, nothing that is not confirmed by the most certain evidence, or not demonstrable by reason, conjecturally probable, and, as far as it is possible, grounded on a clear and solid truth. We can affirm with certainty that, when writing, we have followed no ignorant’s tale, but only the most reliable witnesses. 45

Now, it is obviously necessary to understand what Baronius really meant when claiming the soundess of his analysis of the sources and the exclu44. “Quemadmodum quaecumque optimis rationibus ac testimoniis subnixa comperiebat, facile, prompteque affirmabat, ita etiam siquid minus probabile, minusque consentaneum veritati videretur, quantumvis graves alioqui authores haberet, libere atque aperte reiiciebat; quamobrem antequam certi quidquam statueret, singula suis momentis expendere, qui rerum scriptores, quae causae, quae consilia, loca, tempora, uno verbo omnia explorare diligenter, ac recognoscere”: G. Barnabei, Vita Caesaris Baronii (Romae, 1651) 50. 45. “Haec itaque omnia […] sic pertractabimus, ut nihil dicamus leviter, aut inconsiderate: nihil inaniter, nihil quod non probatissimis testibus fulciatur, ratione demonstretur, coniecturis probetur, ac denique, quantum licet, perspicua solidaque veritate firmetur. Non enim indoctas fabulas secuti sumus haec scribentes, dicimus confidenter, sed gravissimis usi testibus, quos testis ipsa chartarum margo, ne singulorum auctorum molestum, prae nimia longitudine texamus catalogum, facile demonstrabit”: Annales ecclesiastici, Praefatio, 5.

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sive acceptance of “the most certain evidence” (probatissimi testes). What is the criterion he relies on when considering his sources as certain? Is it a philological and historical criterion, as it had been for Valla and Erasmus, or one of another kind? As for the historia evangelica, the sources of the Annales are to be found in the first place in the canonical writings of the New Testament read in Jerome’s Vulgate (at the time of the composition of the first volume the Sixto-Clementine version, published in 1592, was not yet available). After all, it couldn’t have been otherwise, given that Baronius fully recognizes the biblical canon approved by the Council of Trent in the decree touching the sources of faith, including those texts whose authenticity had been questioned by Luther, Erasmus, and, earlier, cardinal Cajetan: Paul’s Epistle to the Hebrews, the Epistle of James, the Second Epistle of Peter, the Second and Third Epistles of John, the Epistle of Jude, and the Apocalypse.  4 6 All these texts, excluding the Epistles of John (undoubtedly for their lower importance in the New Testament canon), are listed in the index locorum of the first volume of the Annales, although summing up just a few references. Along with the biblical apparatus, Baronius relies on the Fathers of the earlier centuries and the further ancient christian authors – Ignatius of Antioch, Justin, Clement of Alexandria, Origen, Irenaeus, Ambrose, Augustine, Eusebius, Epiphanius, Gregory of Tours and others –, as well as Josephus and Philo as Hebrew testimonies, and Pliny the Elder, Suetonius, Ammianus, Tacitus, Plutarch, and Cassius Dio among the pagans. 47 In the description of the geography of the holy places – a key instrument in the inventory of evidences displayed in the Annales – a chief rank is held by Bede’s De locis sanctis and Burchard of Mount Sion’s Descriptio Terrae sanctae. However, Josephus is by far the most used author among the non christian sources. Within this ocean of authorities, Baronius declares to have discerned three kinds of informations: the true, the verisimilar, and the false ones: “We lean on the true ones, we don’t contradict the verisimilar, and we refuse those that are alien to truth.” 48 Now, what does Baronius exactly mean with “true” informations? 46. E. Norelli, “L’autorità della Chiesa antica nelle Centurie di Magdeburgo e negli Annales del Baronio,” in R. De M aio – L. Gulia – A. M azzacane , ed., Baronio storico e la Controriforma (Sora, 1982) 253‑307: 274 ff. On the debates on the New Testament canon in the confessional age see B.M. M etzger , The Canon of the New Testament. Its Origin, Development, and Significance (Oxford, 1987) 239 ff. 47.  A careful analysis of Baronius’ sources can be found in R. Osculati, “Storia, dogma e leggenda alle origini del cristianesimo secondo gli Annali di Cesare Baronio,” in L. Gulia, ed., Baronio e le sue fonti (Sora, 2009) 171‑190: 176 ff. 48.  “Sicut veris innitimur, et verisimilibus non contradicimus, ita quae sunt a veritate prorsus aliena, procul, ut instituimus, abiicimus atque refellimus”: Annales ecclesiastici, ad ann. 1, 31.

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A simple examination of the text makes clear that the author applies a standard of assessment which is entirely based on doctrinal evaluation. By reading the Annales, the general rule we can presume has been adopted by the author is that everything coming from the canonical writings is fully accepted, always respecting the ideal of the concordia evangelica, i.e. the settlement of the divergences among the gospels. The other ancient sources are assessed on the basis of their adherence to the literal text of the New Testament canon, as is, for instance, the case of the Census of Quirinius governor of Syria, which is dated by Josephus nine yeas after the death of Herod, in contrast to what is affirmed by Luke (2:2): here Baronius dwells on the confutation of Josephus’ passage in the Jewish Antiquities, compiling a list of Roman prefects and legates in Judea, to prove the exactness of Luke’s dating. 49 The same procedure is applied to the episodes that, although originally reported in New Testament apocryphals, have been later adopted by the larger tradition: if openly contradicting the canonical Gospels, they are refused without hesitation (one example among the many is the legend of the midwife whose hand dried out when witnessing Mary’s virginal childbirth, an episode of the Protoevangelium of James that had been included in Jacopo de Voragine’s Golden Legend); if instead they can coexist with the canonical accounts, Baronius simply records their existence, without detailing neither confuting them (as in the case of the traditions about the statues of the idols crumbling before the passage of the holy family during the flight into Egypt, deriving from the Arabic gospel of the infancy and that can be found also in Ptolemy of Lucca). 50 The ancient christian writers are generally held in high esteem. In case of discordance bewteen them, the principle of the consistency with the Scripture prevails. We find an example of this in the question of the ethnic origin of the Magi, who were Chaldaic according to Jerome and Basil, Persian according to Clemens of Alexandria, Chrysostom and Cyril of Alexandria, Arabian according to Justin, Cyprian and Tertullian. Baronius supports this latter statement, accepting the figural reading of the Psalm 71 (“The kings of Sheba and Seba shall offer gifts”), mentioning the tribes of Midian and Ephah cited in Is 60:6, and showing, on the ground of Gen 25:6, that they had colonized Arabia. 51 Essentially, Baronius applies a truly historical method, independent from any assessment of religious authority, only when evaluating later traditions. I’ll mention two examples. The first one touches the prodigies that would have anticipated and accompanied the time of the advent and 49.  Ibidem, ad ann. 1, 38 ff. 50.  Ibidem, ad ann. 1, 59, 70 ff. Cf. Legenda aurea, ed. A. Levasti (Firenze, 2000) I, 74; Tolomeo da Lucca, Historia ecclesiastia nova, c. 5. 51.  Annales ecclesiastici, ad ann. 1, 65‑66.

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the nativity – like the Sibylline oracles on the next birth of the Saviour, the arc of light circling the sun, the spring of oil suddenly flowing near the Tiber –, widely adopted by mediaeval hagiography and initially dating back to Orosius. Baronius resolutely accepts them, while he rejects the legend of the crumbling of the temple of the Peace in Rome at the birth of Jesus – a temple erected only under Vespasian, according to Josephus, Suetonius and Pliny – since it is a later one, attributed to Peter Damian. 52 As it can be seen, the difference between the concepts of true and verisimilar does not depend from the factual likelihood of an event, rather from its proximity to the canonical sources of faith. The second example touches the event of the presentation of Mary to the Temple and her following marriage, a tale that was firmly rooted in tradition although not recorded in the canonical corpus. In order to date the event with accuracy, Baronius relies on Nicephorus Callistus’ Historia ecclesiastica (fourteenth century), where a fragment of Evodius of Antioch is quoted, fixing at eleven the age of the Virgin at her marriage and at fifteen the age of her childbirth. The reference is unique, but, since its antiquity (Evodius immediately follows the apostles), Baronius accepts it as unquestionably true. 53 VIII. Tru t h

of fa i t h a n d h i s tor ica l t ru t h

From what has been exposed, I deem that the historia evangelica of Baronius – and, more generally, the Annales ecclesiastici – can be viewed as a result of the applying to sacred history of the strategy of cultural disciplining pursued by Tridentine Church: that is, to confirm the biblical canon and the centrality of Tradition as a source of the faith, to strenghten the importance of patristic literature, hence of positive theology – against the weight of dialectics in mediaeval theology –, to prune the devotion inherited from the Middle Ages of those cults and legends that had questionable origins, to shape a persuasive religious discourse capable of using historical sources without escaping the primacy of theology. 52.  Ibidem, Apparatus ad annales ecclesiasticos, 8, and ad ann. 1, 60. Cf. Orosio, Historiarum adversus paganos libri VII, VI,20,5-8, 419 ff. 53.  Ibidem, Apparatus ad annales ecclesiasticos, 21 ff. On Baronius’ essentially doctrinal criteria, in this case with reference to the Martyrologium, see also F. Scorza Barcellona, “Gli Atti dei Martiri negli Annales Ecclesiastici,” in G.A. Guazzelli – R. M ichetti – F. Scorza Barcellona, ed., Cesare Baronio tra santità e scrittura storica (Roma, 2012) 195‑221, sharply criticizing the stance of S. Ronchey, “Baronio e gli antichi Atti dei Martiri: dottrina ufficiale e realtà storica,” in L. Gulia, ed., Baronio e le sue fonti (Sora, 2009) 301‑325, according to whom the Oratorian applied a correct philological method in assessing his sources.

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Probably this is one of the reasons why the history of Jesus’ life remained unmatched in the genre of Catholic Church historiography after the decline of the age of confessional controversies. Most of the catholic historiographers of the eighteenth century, like Claude Fleury and Augustine Calmet, opened their Church histories with the episode of the affiliation of Matthias to the Apostles, described in Acts 1:15 ff., hence after Christ’s ascension: “I suppose my reader – Fleury remarks in the preface to his Histoire ecclésiastique – to be instructed enough about the mystery of Jesus Christ […]. Anyone who will make the effort to read my history will undoubtedly also have enough devotion to read the holy Gospels.” 54 At that time, the history of the advent, the incarnation and the passion of Christ, as accounted in the gospels and commented by the Fathers of the Church, with its miracles and prodigies, its genealogies and prophetic foresights was no more plausible as an historical account facing the development of a method whose persuasiveness was grounded on the rules of philology and the other profane sciences instead on doctrine. Jesus’ life, in other words, was increasingly confined to the sphere of faith. It was probably since then, also as a reaction to dogmatic stances such as the one expressed by Baronius’ Annales ecclesiastici, that the premises for the research on the historical Jesus took shape.

54.  “Je suppose que mon lecteur est suffisamment instruit du mystère de JésusChrist: de sa generation éternelle, de sa naissance miraculeuse dans le tems, de sa vie, de ses miracles, de sa doctrine, de sa passion, de sa mort, de sa resurrection et de son ascension glorieuse. Quiconque prendra la peine de lire mon histoire, aura sans doute la dévotion de lire les saints évangiles”: Histoire ecclésiastique, here in the edition of Paris, 1722, I, 1‑2. See also Augustin Calmet’s short account of the Gospel tales in his Histoire de l ’Ancien et du Nouveau Testament, here in the edition of Paris, 1718, II.

CONTINUITY AND DISCONTINUITY IN SPINOZA’S APPROACH TO THE HISTORICAL JESUS Pina Totaro In an article of 2012, Mauro Pesce skillfully summarizes the results of his research and of numerous studies on the historical nature of the Hebrew Scriptures. He highlights how the cultural nature of the Hebrew Bible is one of the first acquisitions of modernity, and how Humanism has influenced modern philology and textual criticism. 1 In this broader process of general renewal of studies, the Jewish influence on the learned culture of Europe is emphasized, and this calls for a Jewish interpretation of the Bible. 2 The Jewish perspective stems from the demonstration of the exegetical weakness of the Christian interpretation of the Bible itself. This concept will persist throughout the centuries although it has been ignored by Christian scholars until very recently. It is not until the 1960s, Pesce explains, that the confessional perspective of scientific research is abandoned and the role of the Jewish exegetes is universally accepted as an integral part of the exegetical research on the Hebrew Bible. The first and immediate consequence of the new cultural attitude that begins with Humanism is that the so-called Old Testament is no longer interpreted through the so-called New Testament: The significant cultural meaning of a Jewish presence in European exegetical studies is that the scope of scientific research is not given by confes1. M. Pesce , “Riflessioni sulla natura storica e culturale delle Sacre Scritture giudaiche,” Rivista biblica 60 (2012) 445‑474. I quote Spinoza’s works from the edition: Spinoza, Opera, Im Auftrag der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, hrsg. von C. Gebhardt, 4 vols (Heidelberg, 1975 [19251]). This edition will be indicated with the abbreviation G, followed by the number of volume, page and lines. In the notes, I use the following abbreviations: CGLH (Compendium grammatices linguae Hebraeae); TTP (Tractatus theologico-politicus); TP (Tractatus politicus). In this article I present in part, with many changements, the text “Temi del Gesù storico nell’esegesi radicale di Spinoza,” that I published in A. Del P rete – S. R icci, ed., Cristo nella filosofia dell ’età moderna (Firenze, 2014) 206‑222. 2.  Pesce quotes Isaac ben Abraham of Troki (1533‑1594), who explains in the book he wrote in 1593, Il rafforzamento della fede, how the Hebrew Bible does not allow Christological interpretations of the Church: “Isaac of Troki […] does not suggest replacing the Christian interpretation with a rabbinic one, but moves along the lines of an exegesis of the text. In other words, he is a Jew who uses humanistic cognitive instruments as an analytical instrument for the Bible” (M. Pesce , “Riflessioni sulla natura storica e culturale delle Sacre Scritture giudaiche,” Rivista biblica 60 [2012] 468, my translation). Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 855–878 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111733 ©

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sional concepts of Christian theology that reduces the Hebrew Bible to an Old Testament to be interpreted according to a Christological approach, but is a public space in which what counts is only the achievement of a philological and historical method. 3

During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, new studies began to focus on the cultural context in which the Hebrew Scriptures originated and on the historical, political and social motivations through time of their relationship to the so-called New Testament. On the other hand, the alleged unity of the two Testaments is a concept originating from a strictly Christian ambit that conforms to the Christological interpretation which inevitably involves the subordination of the Old Testament to the New. 4 Baruch Spinoza, Jewish philosopher expelled from the Amsterdam Community, never converted to Christianity and was generally regarded as an atheist and “denier” of God and Providence. 5 He became a central figure in the seventeenth century in the new critical approach to the Scriptures and in modern exegesis, attentive to the environment, culture and the history of the texts and their authors. In general terms, Spinoza’s contribution in this field is an analysis of themes and conclusions that scholars have only approached in recent decades. What I am referring to, in particular, is the research now generally defined as “Historical Jesus.” In this ambit, Spinoza has reached some important conclusions especially in his Tractatus theologico-politicus (1670), the only original work published while he was alive, albeit in anonymity. These conclusions are the 3. M. Pesce , “Riflessioni sulla natura storica e culturale delle Sacre Scritture giudaiche,” Rivista biblica 60 (2012) 470. 4.  “‘Testament’ and ‘Ancient Testament’ are terms used to define the written texts that form the sacred Hebrew Scriptures […] and are elaborated by the Christians. They appeared after two significant historical facts: the creation of a body of written texts called the ‘New Testament’, and the formation of groups of Jesus’ followers who no longer consider themselves part of the Jewish religion but only as Christians. The term ‘Ancient Testament’ is not just a name, it symbolises a conception of the sacred Jewish Scriptures that radically transforms its historical and cultural nature because it defines them in regards to another body of sacred Scriptures […] thereby interpreting them in regards to the latter and transforming them into a sacred Scripture belonging to a group of people whose origin is different from the Jews (who produced these texts) and that refer to a different religion as opposed to the sacred Jewish Scriptures they originate from. Nowhere in ancient Jewish literature does it say that the Jewish sacred Scriptures should be interpreted in the light of a different corpus of sacred Scriptures produced by a religion that is not Jewish. Hence, ‘uniting the two Testaments into one’, is a totally foreign idea for the sacred Jewish Scriptures” (M. Pesce , “Riflessioni sulla natura storica e culturale delle Sacre Scritture giudaiche,” Rivista biblica 60 [2012] 447). 5.  In regards to these concepts of Spinoza, see S. Nadler , A book Forged in Hell. Spinoza’s Scandalous Treatise and the Birth of the Secular Age (Princeton, 2011).

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fundamental aspects around which contemporary debates still revolve: 1) Jesus and the authors of the New Testament were Jews; 2) Jesus did not found a new religion; 3) the discontinuity between Christ and Christianity; and 4) the essentiality of anthropology and social sciences in the field of exegesis. I will now attempt to demonstrate the presence of these different aspects in Spinoza’s works. In Tractatus theologico-politicus Spinoza analyzes and criticizes prejudices regarding the interpretation of the Scriptures, the meaning of the stories they contain, and the exegetical problems that prevent a clear assessment of those facts. 6 He generally uses the language of Christianity (Vetus Testamentum and Novum Testamentum) and speaks of Christ and the Apostles, but he reconfigures the relationship with the prophets and defuses the traditional opposition between Judaism and Christianity exalting the true spirit of religion and its ethical value. 7 According to Spinoza, the Scriptures all contain the same teachings of justice and love. 8 He reaches this conclusion after studies carried out during his youth at the Talmud Torah School, established in the Sephardic Jewish Community of Portuguese origin in Amsterdam, further contact with the Reformed Christians, Calvinists and Catholics and with the different types of Chrétiens sans Église as well as his knowledge of ancient and modern languages, his theological and exegetical skills, and the success of some of his themes and methods of research. These are all crucial elements in order to understand Spinoza’s role in philosophy, theology and in the foundation of modern exegesis. Spinoza represents a fundamental step in the reflection on the historical 6.  Among the objectives pursued in Tractatus theologico-politicus, Spinoza suggests the exposure and removal of “the prejudices of theologians,” who, above all else, “prevent people from applying reason to philosophy,” to defend themselves from the accusation of atheism and to affirm libertas philosophandi “against the dangers of suppression represented everywhere by the excessive authority and petulance of preachers” (Ep. XXX to Oldenburg, 1665; G IV, 166, 27‑29). 7.  There has been much discussion as to who was Spinoza’s audience. In Tractatus theologico-politicus and in Compendium grammatices linguae Hebraeae, he seems to address Christians or “conversos”. In fact, he refers to the Vetus Testamentum which is an expression he would have never have used if talking to Jews. As I already mentioned, “The term ‘Ancient Testament’ is not just a name. It symbolises a concept of the sacred Jewish Scriptures that radically changes its historical and cultural nature because it defines them in relation to another body of sacred Scriptures [...] and interprets them accordingly. Hence it becomes a sacred Scripture of groups of people who have different origins from the Jews (who produced these texts) and that refer to a different religion from the sacred Jewish Scriptures they originate from.” (M. Pesce , “Riflessioni sulla natura storica e culturale delle Sacre Scritture giudaiche,” Rivista biblica 60 [2012] 447). 8.  According to Spinoza, both the Old and the New Testament are Scriptures. Both are equally sacred, not because they are written digito Dei, but because they are teachings of wisdom and love that summarize science, ethics and politics. See TTP, XII, particularly § 8‑9.

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and cultural nature of the Scriptures and on the Jewishness and historicity of Christ well before the writings of Hermann S. Reimarus 9 were published. Spinoza’s public consists mainly of Christians and he addresses the main themes of the theological controversy in order to defeat what he defines “the prejudices of common people.” Starting from the definition of Christ and his role, Spinoza dismantles an entire exegetical system seemingly based on the principle of sola Scriptura, and he paves the way to a new phase in the explanation of the social and cultural reality of the Scriptures. Spinoza’s contribution to the foundation of a modern exegesis on Christ consists mainly on insisting on a specific knowledge of the more ancient texts, of the Gospel and of the New Testament; the story of the leading characters and the cultural and social context. Spinoza insists on the need to have reliable and verifiable texts of the Holy Scriptures, but with this term he does not refer only to the Jewish Bible – the so-called Old Testament – but also to the New Testament. 10 Spinoza wrote all his works in Latin learned at the school of the former Jesuit Franciscus van den Enden. He often quotes the Hebrew Bible using Hebrew characters, to which he adds the Latin translation only partially readapted from the most common editions. 11 In Tractatus theo9. H.S. R eimarus , I  frammenti dell ’Anonimo di Wolfenbüttel pubblicati da G.E. Lessing, ed. by F. Parente (Napoli, 1977). M. Pesce has long argued this interpretation. In particular, he stated: “The Jewish acceptance of Jesus in modern times is not a secondary or marginal question. It is a fundamental factor […] that has significant repercussions on non-Jewish research.” This important contribution leads to the birth of the culture of modern Europe, “of a Jewish influence that highlights the need for a Jewish interpretation of Jesus. This is clearly asserted towards the end of the sixteenth century and becomes a fundamental pole of critical reflection.” (M. Pesce , “Per una ricerca storica su Gesù nei secoli XVI-VIII: prima di Hermann S. Reimarus,” Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 28 [2011] 433‑464: 439, translation mine). 10.  Spinoza does not use the Vulgate edition when he quotes the New Testament. Many have noticed the fact that he did not even use the translation of the Bible from ancient Greek and Hebrew, universally adopted as official text in Spain and throughout the Catholic world. 11.  His biographer, J. Colerus, reports that Spinoza translated the Old Testament into Latin, and perhaps also into Dutch. For scriptural quotations Spinoza did not use the Latin translation of the Vulgata, which he had in his library but maybe considered too distant from the original. For the Old Testament he most certainly used a Hebrew Bible with Masoretic punctuation and comments by the main interpreters. The most important edition of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was printed by Christian D. Bomberg and published by J. Hayim in 1524‑1525. In the inventory of Spinoza’s library there is only a generic indication: “Biblia Ebr. cum comment.” (J. Servaas van Rooijen, Inventaire des livres formant la bibliothèque de Bénédict Spinoza, La Haye-Paris, 1888, n. 1). In all likelihood, Spinoza possessed J. Buxtorf ’s rabbinic Bible, published in Basel in 1618, that also included comments written by Rashi, Ibn Ezra, David Kimchi, Levi ben Gerson, Saadyah and others.

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logico-politicus, he quotes the Hebrew Scriptures directly in un-voiced Hebrew and adopts the system of Masoretic vowel points in the Compendium grammatices linguae Hebraeae. He dedicates considerable attention to the New Testament (Novum Testamentum), which he reads in the Greek translation of Tremellius “from the Syriac text.” 12 However, although “he was unequalled in the Hebrew language,” Spinoza admits that he has less expertise in Greek (“tam exactam linguae Graecae cognitionem non habeo”). As for the language used in the New Testament, Spinoza notes that some of the books were originally written in Hebrew (“qui Hebraea lingua scripti fuerunt” 13) and only translated into Greek at a later date. This subject is extremely important for Spinoza and explains the significance he attributes to the history of the text and its authors. For Spinoza, the New Testament is a collection of books that reflect the endless variety in the culture of their authors, the diversity of the places in which they were written, and the multiplicity of peoples and mentalities they addressed. According to Spinoza, the authors of the New Testament belong to political and geographical milieus that are very different from the world and the context in which the narrative of the Old Testament takes place. This new dimension is radically different from the conformation of the ancient Respublica Hebraeorum. The authors of the New Testament write in Greek, but think in Hebrew. However, in Spinoza’s opinion, there is no doubt that “all the writers, both of the Old and the New Testament, were Jews.” 14 As Jews subjected to Roman domination, they are immersed in other cultures that influenced them considerably, especially in the Greek-Hellenistic world. This combination of languages and culFor the New Testament, Spinoza used the edition edited by I. Tremellius and F. Junius and published for the first time in Frankfurt between 1575 and 1579. This edition contained the Greek text with the Latin version, the Syriac version of the Greek (in Hebrew characters) accompanied by the Latin version. For a review of the texts of Scripture owned by Spinoza, see A. M alet, Le Traité théologico-politique de Spinoza et la pensée biblique (Paris, 1966) 13‑14. 12. It is the book [Diyyatiqah hadata]. Est autem interpretatio Syriaca Novi Testamenti, Hebraeis typis descripta, plerisque etiam locis emandata. Eadem Latino sermone reddita. Autore I mmanuele Tremellio (Genevae, 1569). The book is described in the inventory of Spinoza’s notarial legacy in 1677: “2 – Tremellii N.T. cum interpretatione Syr. Typis Ebr. 1569.” 13.  TTP, X; G III, 150, 35. The fact that Spinoza knew Greek is confirmed by his first biographer J.-M. Lucas in his The life of Spinoza: “as he had lost touch with the Jews [from the herem] he therefore frequented Christians. He made friends with people of talent who pointed out the disadvantages of not knowing either Greek or Latin, even if he knew Hebrew, Italian and Spanish, as well as German, Flemish, and Portuguese – his natural languages. He realized those learned languages were necessary, but did not know how to go about learning them since he possessed neither means nor friends who could help him.” 14. “Omnes tam Veteris, quam Novi Testamenti scriptores Hebraei fuerunt” (G III, 100, 3‑4).

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tures creates new needs and new purposes and causes continuous dialogue with other populations, the overcoming of geographical barriers and the rejection of ancient religious, linguistic, and institutional systems, hence the need for historical knowledge in order to reconstruct the background behind each book and each biblical author. The study of Hebrew history becomes a priority to capture the true divinitas of the Scriptures; from the analysis of the nature and properties of the language in which the various books were written, but also the language that their authors spoke: Nempe I. [the history of Hebrew] continere debet naturam et proprietates linguae, qua libri Scripturae scripti fuerunt et quam eorum authores loqui solebant. Sic enim omnes sensus, quos una quaeque oratio ex communi loquendi usu admittere potest, investigare poterimus. Et quia omnes tam Veteris quam Novi Testamenti scriptores Hebraei fuerunt, certum est Historiam linguae Hebraicae prae omnibus necessariam esse, non tantum ad intelligentiam librorum Veteris Testamenti, qui hac lingua scripti sunt, sed etiam Novi; nam quamvis aliis linguis vulgati fuerint, hebraizant tamen. 15

In the New Testament, the style of the apostles is typical of an era and a population subjected to historical and political events quite different from those of the prophetic revelation. Christ and the Apostles make use of rational arguments and articulated deductions (deductiones et argumentationes) to address not only an audience of Jews but ad gentes. For this reason, the texts of the New Testament have a discursive style that completely differs from that adopted in the enunciation of the precepts and decrees that marked the prophets’ era. Among the elements of diversity between the Old Testament and New Testament, Spinoza detects the way the prophets used to express spiritual aspects by mentioning material objects (“omnia spiritualia corporaliter expresserint”), according to a typical way of using the Hebrew language. Spinoza thoroughly examines the texts of the Scripture and recognizes many Hebraisms and idiomatic expressions in the Greek of the New Testament that prove the accuracy of his insights. Although forced to speak in different languages, the authors of both Testaments are totally immersed in a Jewish dimension, according to Spinoza. The attention to the linguistic aspect is essential for a proper evaluation of the Gospel of Matthew and the Epistle to the Hebrews. According to Spinoza these books were originally written in Hebrew, although there are no Jewish editions; only Greek or Latin versions. A similar case in the Old Testament is the book of Job: in fact, the language it was written in is unknown and was perhaps translated from another language into Hebrew, as also suggested by Ibn Ezra. The same uncertainty can also be extended

15.  TTP, VII; G III, 99‑100, 34-7.

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to the apocryphal books, whose authority is however extremely variable. 16 However, there is, according to Spinoza, a fundamental universal truth (quod universalissimum) at the basis of the entire Scripture (totius Scripturae) that comes from the knowledge of the language of the authors who handed down the contents, first orally and then in writing. Knowledge of the language, as first access to the history of the Scripture, allows us to understand the principles taught everywhere in the Bible. In fact, the purpose of the Bible is the transmission of principles and not the elaboration of philosophical concepts around the nature of God. These principles can be summarised in a few, essential doctrines: “quod Deus unicus et omnipotens existit, qui solus est adorandus et qui omnes curat, eosque supra omnes diligit, qui ipsum adorant et proximum tanquam semet ipsos amant, etc.” 17 Spinoza insists on the importance of the knowledge of Hebrew that he proposes to teach and spread thanks to his Compendium of grammar of the Hebrew language. With this book, he does not just want to teach how to read the sacred texts in the original version and promote a learning program for Christians for the greater glory of God. He does not simply want to teach the language of the books of the so-called Old Testament, but the language spoken by a specific population in a specific geographic area during a specific historical period. 18 This different perspective from all the other authors of Hebrew grammar books who pursued apologetic purposes also shows that Spinoza intended to focus on a particular people and culture, and turn the attention towards a story that marked European modernity and that precisely during those years, because of persecution, returned to the East or even headed to the New World.

16. TTP, VII, §16. Spinoza has a chance to prove that even Gentiles owned sacred books, in ch. X: “Aben Hezra, ut jam supra dixi, in suis commentariis supra hunc librum affirmat eum ex alia lingua in Hebraeam fuisse translatum; quod quidem vellem, ut nobis evidentius ostendisset, nam inde possemus concludere gentiles etiam libros sacros habuisse” (G III, 144, 16‑20). And again further on: “hic cum Aben Hezra crederem hunc librum ex alia lingua translatum fuisse, quia Gentilium poësin affectare videtur” (G III, 144, 28‑30). 17.  TTP, VII; G III, 102, 30‑32. 18.  “Plures sunt, qui Scripturae, at nullus, qui linguae Hebraeae Grammaticam scripsit” (G I, 310, 10‑12); “Nimirum Grammaticam, uti diximus, Scripturae, non linguae scripserunt” (G I, 358, 8‑9). So, he says, although many people have written grammars of the Scriptures, “no one has ever written a Hebrew grammar book” and it is for this reason that the Grammatici “believed that many things in the language were incorrect instead they were actually regular. Thus they ‘ignored’ most of the elements which were necessary to the knowledge and use of the language.” In Compendium, you can read: “Multa crediderunt esse irregularia, quae ex usu linguae maxime regularia sunt, et plura ad linguae cognitionem, ejusque eloquentiam necessaria ignoraverunt” (G I, 303, 8‑10).

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Precisely because of the countless difficulties of the Hebrew language and the many revisions made on the texts, one should be wary of acquired beliefs and decrees erroneously considered traditional (“decreta, quae […] traditiones patrum vocabant”), and trust only what relates to practices of life (usum vitae), that have universal value. As for the moral teachings contained everywhere in the Scriptures, there is no ambiguity regarding their meaning, and the simple and common terms in which they are transmitted are comprehensible for everyone. They show how true salvation and true bliss (vera salus et beatitudo) consist only in the true acquiescence of the soul (in vera animi acquiescentia), that can also be understood by the vulgus in all its clarity and substance, without any need for demonstration. 19 Moreover, those who the teachings were addressed to could understand them just by understanding Hebrew. Although nowadays Hebrew is studied by an educated public, everyone can easily perceive what is necessary for salvation, and in any language, “and it is this conviction, not the testimony of the interpreters, that calms the common people.” The rational teaching of Scripture, together with intellect and virtue, is the only “eternal covenant of the knowledge and love of God,” and this is the only universal teaching to be found in the Scriptures. Compared to this rational value of the biblical texts, no nation is different from another, nor can there be any difference between Jews and Gentiles. 20 To the refusal of every auctoritas ensuring and justifying the common aspiration to bliss sanctioned by the Scriptures, Spinoza adds the statement of freedom of thought and expression as an undeniable right of nature, a right endorsed and confirmed by the light of nature: 19. “Verae enim pietatis documenta verbis usitatissimis exprimuntur, quandoquidem admodum communia, nec minus simplicia, et intellectu facilia sunt; et quia vera salus et beatitudo in vera animi acquiescentia consistit, et nos in iis tantum vere acquiescimus, quae clarissime intelligimus, hinc evidentissime sequitur nos mentem Scripturae circa res salutares et ad beatitudinem necessarias certo posse assequi; quare non est, cur de reliquis simus adeo solliciti; reliqua enim, quandoquidem ea ut plurimum ratione et intellectu complecti non possumus, plus curiositatis quam utilitatis habent” (TTP, VII, §17; G III, 111‑112, 27-1). See also the Adnotatio  VIII (G III, 253, 18‑25). And again: “credo tamen eas levioris esse momenti, iis saltem, qui Scripturas liberiore judicio legunt, et hoc certo affirmare possum me nullam animadvertisse mendam nec lectionum varietatem circa moralia documenta, quae ipsa obscura aut dubia reddere possent” (TTP, IX; G III, 135, 22‑26). 20. “Quia haec electio veram virtutem spectat, non putandum est, quod piis Judaeorum tantum, caeteris exclusis, promissa fuerit, sed plane credendum gentiles veros prophetas, quos omnes nationes habuisse ostendimus, eandem etiam fidelibus suarum nationum promisisse eosque eadem solatos fuisse. Quare hoc aeternum foedus Dei cognitionis et amoris universale est, ut etiam ex Tsephoniae Ch. 3. v. 10. 11. evidentissime constat, adeoque hac in re nulla est admittenda differentia inter Judaeos et gentes, neque igitur etiam alia electio iis peculiaris praeter illam, quam jam ostendimus” (TTP, III; G III, 56, 4‑13).

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Nam cum maxima authoritas Scripturam interpretandi apud unumquemque sit, interpretandi ergo norma nihil debet esse praeter lumen naturale omnibus commune, non ullum supra naturam lumen, neque ulla externa authoritas; non etiam debet esse adeo difficilis, ut non nisi ab acutissimis philosophis dirigi possit, sed naturali et communi hominum ingenio et capacitati accommodata, ut nostram esse ostendimus. 21

All Spinoza’s works, from the Tractatus de intellectus emendatione to the Tractatus theologico-politicus, to the Ethica and Compendium Grammatices linguae Hebraeae, finally found common ground in the definition of politics as a field of application of the principles recommended everywhere in the Scriptures. The books, in fact, that teach and tell of “greater things,” regardless of the language and country they were written in are all “equally sacred.” 22 What is truly sacred is in fact the human reason that, along with the stories of the prophets and the speeches of the apostles, states with the same efficiency that the eternal word of God, the covenant and true religion are divinely inscribed in the hearts of men, that is, in their mind, 23 since all men, “Jews and Gentiles alike” have always been the same and “in omni aevo virtus admodum rara fuit.” 24 This sacredness of reason, this rational device present in man, is incarnated in Christ. Christ is, according to Spinoza, this human characteristic, exalting the divine aspect. In this sense, Christ can be interpreted in Spinoza as a figure of wisdom. In many places of his works the philosopher evokes the spirit of Christ (spiritus Christi) as the only true “son” of God, eternal wisdom that ensures rationality and love, source of life and cohesion among men. 25 The philosopher insists repeatedly on the under21.  TTP, VII; G III, 117, 15‑21. 22.  TTP, X; G III, 145, 6‑8. Cf. and G III, 147‑148, 34-2: “et interea, dum scilicet literas et verba Scripturae adorant, nihil aliud faciunt, ut jam supra monuimus quam Bibliorum scriptores contemtui exponere, adeo ut viderentur nescivisse loqui, neque res dicendas ordinare.” 23.  “Nam tam ipsa ratio, quam prophetarum et apostolorum sententiae aperte clamant Dei aeternum verbum et pactum veramque religionem hominum cordibus, hoc est, humanae menti divinitus inscriptam esse, eamque verum esse Dei syngraphum, quod ipse suo sigillo, nempe sui idea, tanquam imagine suae divinitatis consignavit” (TTP, XII; G III, 158, 28‑33). See also TTP, XVII, §1; G III, 221, 22‑24: “At Deus contra per apostolos revelavit Dei pactum non amplius atramento nec in tabulis lapideis, sed Dei spiritu in corde scribi.” For debates on the concept of sacredness and deconsecration of the Hebrew language, see the entire ch. XII. 24.  TTP, XII; G 160, 3. 25.  In E IV, pr. 68, sch., where the Spiritum Christi is near to the idea Dei. See KV I, 9; TTP, XV, § 3; Ep. 78 to H. Oldenburg (“De aeterno illo filio Dei hoc est, Dei aeterna sapientia”); Ep. 76 to A. Burgh. Spinoza also gives great importance to the attribution to Christ of the name “son of God.” In this regard, he notes that the expression “of God” is an attribute that the ancient Jews, but also other peoples, generally referred to any event or character of special dimensions: “Cum igi-

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standing of Christ secundum Spiritum and on the importance of knowing its role and effectiveness. Christ is for Spinoza who speaks with God from mind to mind (“de mente ad mentem communicavit cum Deo”), emphasizing the intellectual character of divine communication and its distance from the knowledge of imaginative genre that was typical of the prophets. 26 God communicated with the prophets through words and images, or through sensory stimuli and physical tools of perception. God communicates with Christ mentally, spiritually, and without recurring to physical means. Therefore Christ is not a prophet according to Spinoza, although his particular status remains uncertain and never fully defined. Christ represents a progressive spiritualization according to a process that rationalizes or internalizes the principles contained in the Old Testament. 27 I will omit this aspect that highlights theological connotations and metaphysical interpretations, and will simply analyze the presence in Spitur opera naturae insolita, opera Dei vocentur, et arbores insolitae magnitudinis arbores Dei, minime mirandum, quod in Genesi homines fortissimi, et magnae staturae, quamvis impii raptores, et scortatores, filii Dei vocantur. Quare id absolute omne, quo aliquis reliquos excellebat, ad Deum referre solebant antiqui, non tantum Judaei, sed etiam Ethnici; Pharao enim ubi somnii interpretationem audivit, dixit, Josepho mentem Deorum inesse, et Nabucadonosor etiam Danieli dixit, eum mentem Deorum Sanctorum habere. Quin etiam apud Latinos nihil frequentius; nam quae affabre facta sunt, dicunt ea divina manu fuisse fabricata, quod si quis Hebraice transferre vellet, deberet dicere, Manu Dei fabricata, ut Hebraizantibus notum” (TTP, I; G III, 24, 5‑16). 26.  “Therefore, I do not believe that anyone has ever reached such superior perfection, except for Christ, to whom the divine precepts that led men to salvation have been revealed not with words or visions, but in a non-mediatic way, in the same way that God showed himself to the Apostles through the mind of Christ and as he once showed himself to Moses by means of a Voice. Hence, the Voice of Christ, like the voice that Moses heard, can be called the Voice of God. And in this sense, we can also say that the wisdom of god, i.e., a superior knowledge compared to the human one, has assumed in Christ the human nature, and that Christ is the way to salvation. In truth, it is necessary to underline the fact that I do not want to talk of – or even deny – what certain Churches affirm in regards to Christ: in fact, I have no problem admitting that I do not understand it. I reach my conclusions by means of the Scriptures themselves […] Therefore, if Moses spoke to God face to face, as is done among friends, (through our body), Christ communicated with God mind to mind. We can say that no one except Christ felt God’s revelations unless by means of imagination, i.e. through words and images and therefore, in order to prophesize, you do not necessarily require a more superior mind. A vivid imagination is sufficient” (TTP, I, § 18; G III, 21, 3‑26, my translation). 27.  Some critics have recently shown, especially based on some of Spinoza’s last letters, how Christ represents for the philosopher a divine attribute, one of the ways of the immediate substantia, or the infinite intellect of which he speaks in the Ethics (E IV, pr. 48, sch.). Cf. Y.Y. Melamed, “‘Christus secundum spiritum’: Spinoza, Jesus and the Infinite Intellect,” in N. Stahl , ed., The Jewish Jesus (London, 2012) 140-151.

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noza of elements related to the historicity of Christ, in an attempt to show how it is possible to find in the philosopher’s works the statement that Christ belongs to the Jewish context, how Christ’s attitude towards the Mosaic Law is that of re-foundation and how according to Spinoza this attitude is not ascribed to Christianity understood as a religion which was subsequently established after councils and philosophical interpretations. The text of cherem, pronounced against Spinoza by Parnassim of the Portuguese Synagogue of Amsterdam, speaks about “terrible heresies” and sacrilegious theses that would have been incurred by the young Spinoza. We do not know the reasons for these criticisms, but certainly the Sephardic Community, returned to Judaism after centuries of hiding in Spain, first needed to strengthen its condition in a Calvinist country like the Netherlands, to maintain domestic stability and restore lost traditions. We do not know if some comments on Christ and on the New Testament may have contributed to the condemnation of Spinoza, but certainly the opinion on Christ played a significant role in the debate between Judaism and Christianity. In his book Prevenciones divinas contra la vana idolatría de las Gentes, composed at the beginning of the last quarter of the seventeenth century and recently published in a critical edition, 28 Orobio de Castro rejects, for example, the continuity of the Pentateuch and the Gospels operated by Christianity. Orobio was a Spanish Jew forced to convert to Catholicism then locked up and tortured in the prisons of the Inquisition. In the end he fled to Holland and returned to Judaism. In his book he disputes the “sacrílega pretención” of the Christians who would like to “comparar sus fabulosos escritos que llaman Evangelios” with the Law of Moses: “dicen con grande confiança que el Sacro Volumen y quanto contiene se a de entender como explica el Evangelio, y lo que llaman Testamento Nuevo, que esta no es menos Sagrada Escritura que los libros de Moses, y los demás canónicos.” 29 Attributing to the Gospels the same sacredness as the Hebrew Scriptures is, according to Orobio, unacceptable and Spinoza must have seemed to him just as reprehensible as, in his writings, Spinoza uses the category of Vetus Testamentum and repeatedly insists on the figure of Christ, though he denies attributing any value to the concept of incarnation and resurrection. Apart from the passage in a letter to Oldenburg in which the expression “Jesus Christus” appears, in all his works, Spinoza always mentions the term Christus. As it is known, Christós is the Greek translation, adopted in the Septuagint Bible, of the Greek-Latin transcription messias

28. I. Orobio de Castro, Prevenciones divinas Gentes, ed. M. Silvera, Introduction by G. Paganini 29. I. Orobio de Castro, Prevenciones divinas Gentes, ed. M. Silvera, Introduction by G. Paganini

contra la vana idolatría de las (Florence, 2013). contra la vana idolatría de las (Florence, 2013) 152.

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of the Hebrew term masiah. 30 Masiah indicates the “anointed,” who participates in the action of God, the Messiah who comes to teach the law of God. When Spinoza uses only the name Christus he seems to emphasize these aspects and underline the Jewishness. Christ doesn’t turn only to the people of Israel, as had the prophets, but he speaks to all nations and ad gentes. Christus is a figure of religio universalis which has always been known (Isaiah 42:1.4.6; 49:1.5‑6; Haggai 2:21‑22), although never adequately recognized ( John 1:21.25; 6:14; 7:40). Of course, Spinoza’s interpretation of Christ remains an enigma, constantly hovering between a “secundum spiritum” meaning and a historical reading, strongly anchored to the texts and the principle of sola Scriptura. But for the latter, he starts a general historical reconsideration of some controversial aspects of the conflict between Christianity and Judaism, from the birth of Christianity understood as a “new religion,” to the name of “Christians,” already used to refer to the first followers of Christ. Spinoza shows great caution in the use of these terms: he redefines categories and functions that do not seem to respect the chronology of events and he avoids particular expressions connected with prejudices, subsequent interpretations and false names. Spinoza greatly limits the use of the term “Christians.” In the episode mentioned in Matthew 24:24, for example, where Christ recommends to be wary of false prophets, 31 Spinoza always prefers to talk about “disciples”: “Christus […] Discipulos suos monuit.” Elsewhere, Spinoza mentions “qui Christo aderant,” or those to whom Christ appeared in the form of a dove, as well as to the apostles as tongues of fire. 32 Christ also adapts his teachings to the opinions and principles of his public and “discipulos ad veram vitam hortatur,” 33 in Matthew 18:10, “cum discipulis dixit” and in the Sermon on the Mount of Matthew 5:7, Spinoza speaks of the very few and simple documenta that Christ “discipulos in monte docuit.”  3 4 Spinoza avoids using the name “Christians” and prefers “followers” of Christ at a 30.  See Isa 42:1.3-4; 49:5; 50:10; 52:13; 53. In the New Testament the term messias appears for the first time in John 1:41 and 4:25, indicating the spiritual anointing of Jesus as one who knows and can teach. 31.  See TTP, II, § 3; G III, 31, 5‑6. 32.  TTP, I, § 29; G III, 28‑29, 29-2: “Nec jam mirabimur, cur Scriptura, vel prophetae adeo improprie et obscure de Dei Spiritu sive mente loquantur, ut Nu­meri Ch. 11 v. 17 et Primi Regum Ch. 22 v. 21, etc. Deinde quod Michaeas Deum sedentem, Daniel autem ut senem vestibus albis indutum, Ezechiel vero veluti ignem, et qui Christo aderant, Spiritum Sanctum ut columbam descendentem, apostoli vero ut linguas igneas, et Paulus denique, cum prius converteretur, lucem magnam viderit. Haec enim omnia cum vulgaribus de Deo et spiritibus imaginationibus plane conveniunt.” 33.  TTP, II, § 19; G III, 43, 20‑21. 34.  TTP, XI, § 2; G III, 152, 4‑5.

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time when the “Christianity” did not yet exist. “Discipuli Christi,” 35 are also the apostles who preached the story of Christ (historia Christi) who also had the task of teaching and exhorting as doctors. 36 Preaching is in fact typical of those “discipuli” who are, for example, according to Matthew 10:1, nothing but private citizens (“qui viri scilicet privati”) in charge of a mission given them by Christ. 37 “Christ’s disciples” need not fear those who kill bodies (Matthew 10:28), nor those who have an entirely unique authority. 38 The word Evangelistae, instead, refers more specifically to those who have written the history of Christ, each in a different location and transmitting specific contents to their preaching. 39 Spinoza uses the terms “disciples,” “apostles” and “evangelists” to indicate the followers of Christ. The only case in which Spinoza uses the name “Christians,” he seems to refer to a distinct group of followers as opposed to the Pharisees, a group formed when the temple was destroyed.  4 0 This choice shows the importance Spinoza attributed to history, language, and the appropriate use of terminology, avoiding the use of anachronistic and inappropriate terms. The term Christianity, for example, does not coincide with the religious confession that was established a few centuries after Christ, focusing 35.  TTP, XI, § 5; G III, 154, 33. 36.  TTP, XI, § 7; G III, 156, 20‑21. 37.  TTP, XIX, § 12; G III, 233, 27‑30. 38.  TTP, XIX, § 12. 39.  TTP, XII, § 9; G III, 164, 17. 40.  TTP V, § 5; G III, 72, 6‑32: “[§5] That Jews did not have to perform their religious ceremonies after the destruction of their State is documented in Jeremiah, who predicted that the city would soon be destroyed. He said that “God only loves those who know and understand that He practices mercy, judgement and justice in the world, and therefore in future, only they will be considered deserving because they know” (see Jeremiah 9:23). It almost seems as if God, after destroying the city, does not really expect anything from the Jews and only asks that they respect the natural law that every man is expected to respect. Even the New Testament clearly confirms this concept: only moral teachings are imparted and, if you observe them, the Kingdom of God is yours. After the Gospels began to be spread to other people – subject to other laws –, they began to neglect the religious ceremonies. If the Pharisees conserved some of the ceremonies after the fall of the Jewish State, or at least part of them, they did so more to distinguish themselves from the Christians than to be more attractive to God. In fact, after the destruction of the city, when they were taken as prisoners to Babylon (and to my knowledge, at the time they were not yet divided into sects), they neglected their religious ceremonies and even completely abandoned the law of Moses, forgetting the laws of their homeland and melting into the laws of the other countries, as can be seen in Esdra and Neemia. There is no doubt, therefore, that the Jews, already after the destruction of the State, did not feel forced to observe the Law of Moses more than they did before the constitution of their community and their State. For as long as they lived in other nations, before the Flight from Egypt, they had no particular laws and were only expected to observe the natural law as well as the law of the State they lived in, if it did not clash with the natural law.”

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on philosophical speculation and worship ceremonies. The “Christian religion” only becomes theological and political when “they began to introduce the religion into the State” and clerics were recognized as teachers and interpreters of the faith, as well as pastors of the Church and almost vicars of God. 41 There are other clues that lead us to the same conclusion. The use of the term Euangelium, for example: it is always used in contexts that emphasize the aspect of preaching among Jews, but also ad gentes, by the different evangelists, as we read in some quotations: “postquam Euangelium aliis etiam gentibus […] praedicari incepit,” 42 or “unusquisque suum Euangelium diverso loco praedicavit.” 43 The evangelists have the precise function of discussing (disputare), transmitting (tradere) and teaching (docere) the evangelical doctrine (doctrina evangelica). This evangelium prescribes, according to Spinoza, very few and simple dogmas,  4 4 consisting of “Deo credere, eumque revereri, sive, quod idem est, Deo obedire.” 45 This is the core of religio universalis that Spinoza never attributes to Christianity. Universalis is the religio intended as truth content easily accessible to everyone that has always been transmitted by the Scriptures. Consequently, one of the polemical objectives of Spinoza seems to be the prejudice concerning the alleged “newness” of the New Testament compared to the Old Testament. Moreover, Christ’s preaching is not presented by Spinoza as a “new” religion compared to Judaism, and Paul of Tarsus is not considered in the Tractatus theologico-politicus as the theologian of

41.  “But, if you consider the origins of the Christian religion, the cause of this phenomenon is clearly shown. Those who were the first to teach the Christian religion were not kings but private citizens who were against the will of those who held the supreme power (whom they were subjected to). They maintained for many years the right to preach in private churches, to carry out holy rites, ordain and decide for themselves without worrying about the State. But, many years later, the Religion of State was introduced and the Clergy had to teach it as they had determined it, to the emperors themselves, and were therefore soon recognized as doctors and interpreters of the faith as well as pastors and almost Vicars of God. And to avoid Christian kings from later advocating this right for themselves, the Clergy carefully protected itself in the best way possible: forbidding marriage to the supreme ministers of the Church and to the highest interpreter of religion. Moreover, they were able to increase the dogmas of religion and to confuse them with the idea that the highest interpreter of religion had also to be a well-read philosopher as well as a theologian, and he had to find time to deal with many useless speculations that only private and very lazy citizens have time for.” (TTP, XIX, § 20; G III, 237, 6‑24). 42.  TTP, V, § 5; G III, 72, 17. 43.  TTP, XII, § 9; G III, 164, 23‑24. 44.  TTP, XI, § 10; G III, 158, 1‑2. 45.  TTP, XIV, § 3; G III, 174, 18‑19. Cf. also: TTP, XI, § 10; G III, 158, 2; TTP, XII, § 10; G III, 165, 12‑13.

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Christianity, but as one who spread the word of Christ.  4 6 Christ is never defined by Spinoza as “the founder of Christianity” but as He who teaches “revealed truths”, sometimes obscurely, often using parables 47 and, sometimes, presenting them as eternal truths. To indicate the entire teaching of Christ, Spinoza mentions the term “religion,” without further designation. Facilitated by the fact that Latin does not have articles, Spinoza uses religio as the content of preaching turned to omnibus absolute so that the apostles are called on (vocati sunt) to convert everyone to the religion (“omnesque ad religionem converterent”). 48 And although the religio preached by the Apostles by simply narrating the life of Christ, does not belong to the field of reason, everyone can easily understand in their natural light that it “consists mainly of moral teachings, like the rest of the doctrine of Christ.” 49 The Apostles adapted (this term accomodare often recurs) this “religion” to the common understanding of men, and each of them built “the whole edifice of religion” on a different basis. 50 But there is a more 46. Christianity is a religion that as modern historians tend to believe, only began after the death of Christ, and as a result of many Councils. In this regard, Spinoza attributes great importance to the figure of Paul. With a great capacity for interpretation, Spinoza does not consider the writings of Paul as a passage of religion, of a “conversion” from Judaism to Christianity. The modern biblical science has recently shown that the experience of Paul must be analyzed in the light of his time. See M. Pesce , L’esperienza religiosa di Paolo. La conversione, il culto, la politica (Brescia, 2012). 47.  See TTP, IV, § 10; G III, 65, 6. 48.  TTP, XI, § 5; G III, 154, 30‑31. Spinoza tackles the definition of religio in several parts of his works. In Ethica, for example, he states that “costume” and “religion” are not the same for all men, but, on the contrary, there are certain sacred things that for some are profane, and for others they are not (see E III, ex. aff. def. 27). In Ethica, everything that we want and do is connected to religio; everything we are caused by because we hold the idea of God, because we know God (E IV, pr. 37 sch.1). It is the question of the “vera vita” and religion, too, and the idea that hatred should be won by love and that anyone who is guided by reason, wants for others the same good that he “wishes for himself ” (E IV, pr. 73 sch.). In TTP, however, the term religio becomes more accurate, assuming social connotations. Religio is “love, gaudium, pax, continentia” not prejudice and external worships. Religio catholica, i.e. universal, coincides with the divine law and “non tam in actionibus externis, quam in animi simplicitate et veracitate consistit” (TTP, VII, § 22; G III, 116, 30‑31), or “non in caeremoniis, sed in charitate, et vero animo” (TTP, XII, § 7; G III, 162, 20‑21). Religion as such can therefore be summarized in the principle: “Deum supra omnia amare, et proximum tanquam se ipsum” (TTP, XVI, § 10; G III, 198, 9); it is “obedientia erga Deum” (TTP, XVII, § 8; G III, 206, 10‑11), and it consists “in solo Charitatis, et Aequitatis exercitio” (TTP, XX, § 17; G III, 247, 18‑19). 49.  TTP, XI, § 7; G III, 156, 9. 50.  Aedificare religionem, superaedificare religionem are expressions used by Spinoza in TTP, XI, § 8 (G III, 157, 12), where there is also a Christiana religio. But Spinoza seems to refer in this case to any religion “Christian” understood as a new religion or as “Christianity,” but states that each of the apostles spread the preach-

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authentic and original meaning common to all the Gospel texts that can be traced back to those “few and simple dogmas that Christ taught his disciples.” 51 This “religious doctrine” preached by the apostles is for Spinoza a “universal religion,” 52 namely universal divine law 53 he hopes one day will be free from all types of superstition. 54 The simple observance of religious ceremonies and obeying the precepts, however, does not lead to bliss because ritual obligations were established only for the stability and prosperity of the State. The whole Law of Moses (“imo totam legem Mosis nihil aliud quam Hebraeorum imperium […] spectavisse”, TTP, V, 76) was introduced in the State of the Jews to ensure obedience to those principles. In a different theological and political organization, those same principles do not apply universally any more. The so-called Vetus Testamentum promised salvation to a specific nation, the Novum Testamentum promises the kingdom of heaven (as mentioned in the note 40). Spinoza believed that the time the Temple was first destroyed, the Jews were not yet divided into “sects,” whereas the divisions were evident during the second “fall of the Jewish state.” Spinoza speaks of an ongoing conflict around ad 70 between the Pharisees and Christians almost thinking that these were two Jewish sects. In any case, he insists on the existence of a religio universalis which consists in those few elements in which is articulated the purpose of the entire Bible. They focus on the existence of a Supreme Being who loves justice and love, and which everyone must obey to be saved. Everyone must worship God and cultivate justice and ing “of Christ” in a manner and personal paths completely different from those of the other apostles: “unusquisque id, quod praedicaverat, scripsit, idque simpliciter, ut Historiam Christi dilucide narraret” (TTP, XII, § 9; G III, 164, 23‑25). The absence of a common project in the apostles shows how the “Christianity” was established only later and after the introduction of philosophical speculation in the context of religion, so Spinoza speaks of Aristotelianism and Platonism: “Verum quid miror, si homines, qui lumen supra naturale habere jactant, Philosophis, qui nihil praeter naturale habent, nolint cognitione cedere. Id sane mirarer, si quid novi, quod solius esset speculationis, docerent, et quod olim apud Gentiles Philosophos non fuerit tritissimum (quos tamen caecutiisse ajunt); nam si inquiras, quaenam mysteria in Scriptura latere vident, nihil profecto reperies, praeter Aristotelis, aut Platonis, aut alterius similis commenta, quae saepe facilius possit quivis Idiota somniare, quam literatissimus ex Scriptura investigare. Etenim absolute statuere nolumus ad doctrinam Scripturae nihil pertinere, quod solius sit speculationis; nam in superiori Cap. quaedam hujus generis attulimus, tanquam Scripturae fundamentalia; sed hoc tantum volo, talia admodum pauca, atque admodum simplicia esse” (TTP, XIII, § 2; G III, 167‑168, 30-9). The observation in this case does not seem to be confined to Christianity. 51.  TTP, XI, § 10; G III, 158, 1‑2. 52.  TTP, XII, § 8; G III, 163, 14. 53.  TTP, XII, §§ 9‑12; G III, 166, 10‑11. 54.  “Jam autem foelix profecto nostra esset aetas, si ipsam etiam ab omni superstitione liberam videremus” (TTP, XI, § 10; G III, 158, 13‑15).

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love of neighbor. From these two basic principles we can easily deduce all the others, which Spinoza divides into seven points: I. Deum, hoc est, ens supremum, summe justum et misericordem, sive verae vitae exemplar, existere; qui enim nescit vel non credit ipsum existere, ei obedire nequit neque eum judicem noscere; II. eum esse unicum; hoc enim etiam ad supremam devotionem, admirationem et amorem erga Deum absolute requiri nemo dubitare potest. Devotio namque, admiratio et amor ex sola excellentia unius supra reliquos orientur; III. eum ubique esse praesentem vel omnia ipsi patere. Si res ipsum latere crederentur vel ipsum omnia videre ignoraretur, de aequitate ejus justitiae, qua omnia dirigit, dubitaretur vel ipsa ignoraretur; IV. ipsum in omnia supremum habere jus et dominium, nec aliquid jure coactum, sed ex absoluto beneplacito et singulari gratia facere; omnes enim ipsi absolute obedire tenentur, ipse autem nemini; V. cultum Dei ejusque obedientiam in sola justitia et charitate sive amore erga proximum consistere; VI. omnes, qui hac vivendi ratione Deo obediunt, salvos tantum esse, reliquos autem, qui sub imperio voluptatum vivunt, perditos. Si homines hoc firmiter non crederent, nihil causae esset, cur Deo potius quam voluptatibus obtemperare mallent; VII. denique Deum poenitentibus peccata condonare; nullus enim est, qui non peccet. Si igitur hoc non statueretur, omnes de sua salute desperarent, nec ulla esset ratio, cur Deum misericordem crederent; qui autem hoc firmiter credit, videlicet Deum ex misericordia et gratia, qua omnia dirigit, hominum peccata condonare, et hac de causa in Dei amore magis incenditur, is revera Christum secundum spiritum novit et Christus in eo est. 55

The continuity between the Old Testament and the New Testament has always been considered a foundation of Christianity. Spinoza reconfigures this continuity and gives a reading that is different from the one proposed by the Christians. Christianity does not overtake or substitute Judaism. Christianity does not “replace” the Jewish religion after the birth of Christ. Christ is not the founder of a new and different religion, but the religio taught by Christ is the same that was preached in the Scriptures, and as such is the guarantee of their divinity. The unity of the Testaments has a moral value for Spinoza. Hence, the distance between the Old and New Testament is explained by the different political situation in which the story of Christ takes place with respect to the ancient Jewish State. In regards to the history of the definition of the canon, Spinoza believes that the books of the Old and New Testaments are the result of selections made by individual groups within the community. Such groups followed 55.  TTP, XIV, § 10; G III, 177‑178, 21‑10.

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different criteria to exclude from or include in the canon certain books that had been written at different times and according to different criteria: The books of the Old Testament were chosen among many and gathered and approved by the council of Pharisees, as is described in Chapter 10. The books of the New Testament were also introduced into the canon following the decrees of certain councils; decrees that rejected several texts defining them non authentic, when others considered them sacred. 56

From the point of view of content, Spinoza compares Christ’s teachings to Jeremiah’s and compares the Old Testament prophets to the apostles of the New Testament. This moral unity of Scripture is perhaps an attempt by Spinoza to speak not only to Reformed Christians, dissidents and heterodox who made up a large portion of his friends and his audience, but also to those Jewish “conversos” who publicly practised Catholicism in Spain. In those times, also the Jews who had re-embraced the religion of their fathers in the Netherlands were addressed. In an era of fierce religious wars and sectarian conflicts, they intended to “prevent and defend Spanish Jews from the influence of Christian ideas,” thus providing solid arguments to the anti-Christian polemic and constituting “a powerful leavening agent for radical, illegal and the Enlightened culture.” 57 Orobio de Castro, for example – a Spanish Jew who was forced in Spain to the experience of Marranism – once he returned to Judaism in Holland, turned his criticism to Christianity. His book Prevenciones divinas, which was been mentioned at the beginning of this paper, provides the most urgent reasons for this controversy, focusing primarily on the central core of the conflict between Christianity and Judaism: 1) the identification of Jesus with the Messiah; 2) the award to the Sanhedrin, and then to the Jewish authorities, of the responsibility for the condemnation of Christ; 3) the belief that the Law of Moses was replaced by Christ’s preaching; 4) the doctrine of original sin; and 5) the argument that the diaspora was the consequence of the failure to convert to Christianity, etc. Spinoza’s attitude is completly different from Orobio’s as he considers characters and events mentioned in the Scriptures as part of a story that does not end with the life of Jesus, but that connects the story of Jesus to that of Moses and Ezekiel. From the first chapter of the Tractatus theologico-politicus, Spinoza emphasizes the value of a unique revelation; the pervasive presence of a God who reveals himself to the apostles as well as

56.  TTP, XII, § 9; G III, 164, 1‑5. 57. G. Paganini, “Premessa. Orobio e i suoi lettori dall’Ebraismo all’Illu­mi­ nismo,” in I. Orobio de Castro, Prevenciones divinas contra la vana idolatría de las Gentes, ed. M. Silvera, Introduction by G. Paganini (Florence, 2013) 6.

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once he had revealed himself to Moses, albeit in a different way. 58 Christ, with his followers, is part of the same cultural context as the prophets of the Old Testament, and evocations of God, the Holy Spirit or Christ himself have the same function and are also filtered by the individual codes of the different actors involved. The entire doctrine is adapted to the habits, culture, profession, mentality and expectations of the public to whom it is addressed. The visions of Micah, of Daniel and Ezekiel – who see God sitting, like an old man clad in white or in the form of fire – are similar to the perceptions of the disciples or apostles, who saw the Spirit appearing in the likeness of a dove, tongues of fire or as a great light, as happened to Paul when he saw Christ himself. 59 But there is a difference between the “vocation” of the apostles and the vocation of the prophets of the Old Testament; it is the different objective of Christ’s teachings. Indeed, he was not sent to protect a single State or to promulgate laws, but to reaffirm the one law revealed to all men. It concerns true virtue: Quare hinc evidentissime constat legem omnibus absolute (quod supra etiam ex Job. cap. 28. v. 28. ostendimus) revelatam fuisse, sub qua omnes vixerunt, nempe legem, quae solam veram virtutem spectat, non autem illam, quae pro ratione et constitutione singularis cujusdam imperii stabilitur et ad ingenium unius nationis accommodatur [...]. 60

Spinoza quotes Paul in regards to the aims of Christ’s teachings. In no way did Christ abolish the Law of Moses (“hinc facile intelligimus, Christum legem Mosis minime abrogavisse”); nor did he introduce new laws 58.  TTP, I, § 18‑20; G III, 20‑21, 30‑22. 59.  In regards to the vision of Paul, see TTP, I, § 29; G III, 28‑29, 29-1, mistakenly considered as a symbol of “conversion” from Judaism to Christianity, the vision of Paul has been “one of the main narratives our culture is built upon” (cf. M. Pesce , L’esperienza religiosa di Paolo. La conversione, il culto, la politica [Brescia, 2012] 13). 60.  “[...] Denique concludit Paulus, quoniam Deus omnium nationum Deus est, hoc est, omnibus aeque propitius, et omnes aeque sub lege, et peccato fuerant, ideo Deus omnibus nationibus Christum suum misit, qui omnes aeque a servitute legis libe­raret, ne amplius ex mandato legis, sed ex constanti animi decreto bene agerent. Paulus itaque id, quod volumus, adamussim docet” (TTP, III, § 10; G III, 54, 16‑27); “Christus itaque res revelatas vere et adequate percepit; si igitur eas tanquam leges unquam praescripsit, id propter populi ignorantiam et pertinaciam fecit; quare hac in re vicem Dei gessit, quod sese ingenio populi accommodavit, et ideo, quam­v is aliquantulum clarius quam caeteri prophetae loquutus sit, obscure tamen et saepius per parabolas res revelatas docuit, praesertim quando iis loquebatur, quibus nondum datum erat intelligere regnum coelorum (vide Matth. ch. 13. v. 10, etc.); et sine dubio eos, quibus datum erat mysteria coelorum noscere, res ut aeternas veritates docuit, non vero ut leges praescripsit, et hac ratione eos a servitute legis libe­ ravit, et nihilominus legem hoc magis confirmavit et stabilivit eorumque cordibus penitus inscripsit. Quod etiam Paulus quibusdam in locis indicare videtur, nempe Epistol. ad Rom. chap. 7. vs. 6. and chap. 3. vs. 28” (TTP, IV, § 9; G III, 65, 1‑14).

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in the State (“novae leges in rempublicam”). Christ confirmed (confirmare) the same moral teachings that already existed in the Old Testament, which require only the pursuit of charity and justice, as Jeremiah also taught “using very explicit words.” 61 In the New Testament, in fact, only moral precepts are taught. The rites and other rules prescribed in the Old Testament were abandoned by the apostles when the Gospel began to be preached to other populations. 62 The apostles were called (vocati sunt) to preach to all nations and to “convert everyone to this religion.” Since they had to turn to the universality of the nations in the exercise of their teaching, both written and oral, they only had to appeal to the principles of natural knowledge: 63 Deinde hinc etiam scire possumus, cur Biblia in libros Veteris et Novi Testamenti dividantur, videlicet quia ante adventum Christi prophetae religionem praedicare solebant tanquam legem patriae et ex vi pacti tempore Mosis initi; post adventum autem Christi eandem tanquam legem catholicam et ex sola vi passionis Christi omnibus praedicaverunt apostoli, at non quod doctrina diversi sint, nec quod tanquam syngrapha foederis scripti fuerint, nec denique quod religio catholica, quae maxime naturalis est, nova esset, nisi respectu hominum, qui eam non noverant; in mundo erat, ait Johannes evangelista chap. 1. v. 10., et mundus non novit eum.  6 4

Spinoza’s attention to the historical, anthropological and cultural context in which the biblical account takes place is also suggested by the need to consider the common oral character of the transmission of the narrated events. Spinoza notes that originally, the Jewish people 65 used to sing about 61.  The passage of Jeremiah 9:23, states, in the Latin text of Spinoza: “Deum eos tantum diligere, qui sciunt et intelligunt, quod ipse exercet misericordiam, judicium et justitiam in mundo; adeoque in posterum non nisi eos, qui haec norunt, laude dignos aestimandos esse” (TTP, IV, § 5; G III, 72, 8‑11); “sed in hoc tantum glorietur unusquisque, me intelligere et cognoscere, quod ego Jehova facio charitatem, judicium et justitiam in terra, nam his delector, ait Jehova” (TTP, XIII, § 8; G III, 171, 7‑12). 62. TTP, V, § 3; G III, 72, 17‑19. Christ and Jeremiah are also approached about the circumstances in which we should tolerate the offense and subordinate themselves among the wicked: cf. TTP, VII, § 7. 63.  TTP, XI, § 5; G III, 154‑155, 29-7. 64.  TTP, XII, § 8; G III, 163, 7-17. 65. See TTP, XII, § 12; G III, 166, 14‑17. If from the point of view of the preaching of the contents of religion, the role of Christ is clear to Spinoza, it seems more complex to understand the eschatological and charismatic statute of Christ. If he was certainly not a prophet, as we learn from the first chapter of the Tractatus (the divine precepts, in fact, were not revealed to Christ through words or visions as to the prophets, but in a direct and immediate way, nor did anyone ever receive the revelations of God if not through imagination), Spinoza hardly gives him a statute. Christ is “the way to salvation,” able to communicate with God “mind to mind” and “perceiving the truth,” or “understands” revelations (see TTP, IV, § 10: “Chris-

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the ancient history of the nation in the Psalms, and the principal events of Christ’s life and his passion were first orally disclosed throughout the Roman Empire. The historical reality in which the story of Christ takes place marks the distance from the political horizon of the Old Testament, with its different national structure and different relationship between the theological and political dimension. The main tenets of Christianity – understood as a religion that appeared long after the birth of Christ – are rejected by Spinoza. Terms like resurrection or incarnation are declassified to the rank of merely allegorical concepts. 66 Spinoza speaks of this in a letter to Oldenburg, who had questioned him about the figure of Jesus Christ. The Secretary of the Royal Society regarded Christ as the “redeemer of the world and the only mediator of men.” Oldenburg believed in his incarnation and his death “for the forgiveness of our sins.” Here Spinoza exhibits all his distrust of foreign elements preferring an exclusively historical-critical approach to the scriptural text, and expressly denies that “God assumed human form.” Spinoza considers these issues, referring to geometry, absurd statements, “as if you told me that a circle has the nature of a square”: Denique […] dico ad salutem non esse omnino necesse, Christum secundum carnem noscere; sed de aeterno illo filio Dei, hoc est, Dei aeterna sapientia, quae sese in omnibus rebus, et maxime in mente humana, et omnium maxime in Christo Jesu manifestavit, longe aliter sentiendum. Nam nemo absque hac ad statum beatitudinis potest pervenire, utpote tus res revelatas vere percepit sive intellexit,” G III, 64, 34). Only he who perceives the laws of God as eternal truths truly has the “spirit of Christ” in him. The spirit of Christ, the Christus secundum spiritum, is the lumen naturale, but the idea of Christ as wisdom, spirit, of God brings the theological reflection of the Jewish tradition on the “presence” of God. 66.  We are thus faced, in the works of Spinoza, with a Christ for whom he will not discuss the role, messiahship or divinity, but he denies incarnation, bodily resurrection, the trinity and being the son of God. Christ is anointed for a function: so that the imminence of the kingdom which he preached about may be announced for conversion as a “change of heart” or “mind.” This theme is present in all of Spinoza’s works; from his Tractatus de intellectus emendatione, an unfinished text, in which the idea of an emendation of the human intellect emerges (intellectus emendatio) interpreted as conversion, change, inner transformation. The studies of M. Pesce and A. Destro show how this interpretation will be taken up by contemporary critics. In the letter LXXIII of Spinoza to Oldenburg (November 24/December 4 1675), this interpretation is even more precise. In this epistle we can identify several themes: 1) the knowledge of Christ secundum carnem is not required for our individual salvation; 2) the eternal son of God, Jesus Christ, manifests the eternal wisdom present in all things and above all in the human mind; 3) wisdom teaches the difference between truth and lies, good and evil, and it only allows you to reach bliss; 4) wisdom was preached by the apostles who had learned from the revelation of Christ; 5) in this sense they possessed the Spirit of Christ; 6) the concept of incarnation is absurd.

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quae sola docet, quid verum et falsum, bonum et malum sit. Et quia uti dixi, haec sapientia per Jesum Christum maxime manifestata fuit, ideo ipsius discipuli eandem, quatenus ab ipso ipsis fuit revelata, praedicaverunt, seseque spiritu illo Christi supra reliquos gloriari posse ostenderunt. Caeterum quod quaedam Ecclesiae his addunt, quod Deus naturam humanam assumpserit, monui expresse, me, quid dicant, nescire; imo, ut verum fatear, non minus absurde mihi loqui videntur, quam si quis mihi diceret, quod circulus naturam quadrati induerit. 67

Spinoza denies any philosophical as well as theological possibility for the incarnation of Christ, for God becoming Man according to Christian dogma. He also rejects the idea of resurrection that is not only a Christian principle but also belongs to a group of Jews, the Pharisees, who believed in the final resurrection of bodies. From the first chapter of the Tractatus, he also clarified: “I do not want to speak of (or even deny) what some churches say about Christ: I quietly admit that I do not understand it.” The idea of “incarnation” is dismissed as a product of theoretical speculation and an arbitrary interpretation of Churches. It is not supported in the Scriptures and is therefore unacceptable according to the philosopher. In the language of Churches, incarnation expresses the absurd concept according to which God became flesh, equivalent in terms of geometry to a circle that becomes a square. 68 Christ urges his disciples to “real life” (TTP I) and “true virtue” (TTP II). He communicated with God de mente ad mentem and revealed several truths “through the mind,” or the intellect (TTP IV). These terms all refer to the Jewish word ruagh, spiritus. In this process of progressive spiritualization that Christ represents, Spinoza evokes the possibility of “conversion,” an emendation of our life and a renewal of the intellect under67.  Ep. LXXIII, Spinoza to Oldenburg, November 24/December 4 1675 (G IV, 308‑309, 8‑6). In another letter to Oldenburg, Spinoza wrote: “Caeterum Christi passionem, mortem, et sepulturam tecum literaliter accipio, ejus autem resurrectionem allegorice. Fateor quidem hanc etiam ab Evangelistis iis narrari circum­ stantiis, ut negare non possimus, ipsos Evangelistas credidisse, Christi corpus resurrexisse, et ad coelum adscendisse, ut ad Dei dextram sederet; et quod ab infidelibus etiam potuisset videri, si una in iis locis adfuissent, in quibus ipse Christus discipulis apparuit; in quo tamen, salva Evangelii doctrina, potuerunt decipi, ut aliis etiam prophetis contigit, cujus rei exempla in praecedentibus dedi” (G IV, 328, 8‑16). 68.  This is a quotation from Descartes. But Descartes takes from Thomas the “impossible” topic (the contradiction) of the circle-square in the discussion on the omnipotence of God. Spinoza controversially rejects the concept of omnipotence, understood as the possibility of violating the same laws of logic, with the rejection of the incarnation of Christ. God cannot become man (just like a circle cannot be square) because there is no logical difference between what God is able to do and what God wants to do, because the will of God and the power of God are in truth identical.

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stood as the only possible “resurrection.” The knowledge of Christ secundum spiritum (TTP XIV, § 10) is the guarantee of common salvation, as Spinoza wrote to Ostens in 1671, a year after the publication of Tractatus: “Quod autem ad ipsos Turcas, & reliquas Gentes attinet, si Deum cultu justitiae, & charitate erga proximum adorent, eosdem Spiritum Christi habere credo, & salvos esse, quicquid de Mahomete, & oraculis ex ignorantia persuasum habeant.” 69 When discussing Christ, Spinoza reveals prejudices and logic underlying the relationship between theology and politics. In this sense, he releases from the figure of Christ any concept of replacement or fulfillment of the ultimate manifestation of God. Christ’s specific mandate is clear when he defines him as the “Mouth of God,” os Dei: “Christ, in fact – writes Spinoza – was not a prophet, but rather the Mouth of God, because He revealed truths to mankind through the mind of Christ, as had happened with the angels; through an imaginary voice, vision, etc.” 70 Christ who converses with God de mente ad mentem emphasizes the existence of a universal structure linked to Spinoza’s refusal of any theology of substitution, any attempt, that is, to find a path of evolution of the two Testaments in the figure of Christ. On the contrary, according to Spinoza, “it remains irrefutable that the Scriptures always provided the same teaching” (“manet igitur inconcussum Scripturam hoc semper docuisse”), in other words “God exists; He provides for all things; He is all-powerful and, according to his will, the pious will receive goodness whereas the wicked will receive evil, and our salvation depends only upon His grace.” From this “universal foundation” all other teachings derive, especially the documentum charitatis, the commandment of love, that “in both Testaments is highly recommended everywhere.” 71 God did not elect the Jewish people exclusively, non absolute, neque in aeternum. However, there is an eternal covenant (aeternum foedus) “of the knowledge, love and grace of God” extended to all men: “This eternal covenant of the knowledge and love of God, is universal, as is made perfectly clear in Zephaniah (3:10‑11), and therefore, for that matter, there should be no difference between Jews and Gentiles.” 72 The common moral structure of the Scriptures therefore refers to an eminently theological-political dimension in which the figure of Christ is a mediator, not between the Divine and the human, nor between the Old and New Testaments, but compared to an ultimate, homogeneous reality, without a “before” founded on the precepts and an “aftermath” conceived as an absence of precepts. Christ as the “Mouth 69.  Ep. XLIII, Spinoza to J. Ostens (G IV, 226, 1‑4). 70.  TTP, IV, § 10; G III, 64, 17‑22. 71.  TTP, XII, § 11. 72.  TTP, III, § 11; G III, 56, 9‑13.

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of God” speaks to the human and political reality providing moral tools that will be used in modern political thought in the constitutions and State Laws. Spinoza’s Christ can therefore paradoxically be considered the expression that characterises the New Testament from the Old, and has a profoundly social dimension. 73

73.  “Finis ergo reipublicae revera libertas est” (TTP, XX, § 6; G III, 241, 7‑8).

SUR LA CONTINUITÉ DE LA « CRISE MODERNISTE » : DE LA LAMENTABILI À LA LETTRE D’OTTAVIANI SUR LES ERREURS POST-CONCILIAIRES Alessandro Santagata Cette intervention s’inscrit dans le débat historique sur la « longue durée » de la crise moderniste après l’« affaire Loisy ». Il s’agit d’un domaine de recherche déjà travaillé à partir des années soixante 1. Émile Poulat écrivait dans Histoire, dogme et critique dans la crise moderniste (1962) : « le modernisme reste encore aujourd’hui un champ de bataille. Le terrain d’un conflit entre foi et raison » 2 . À la veille du Concile, il laissait entendre que le conflit était en train de se représenter. Plus récemment, Giovanni Vian a affirmé que le modernisme a été la manifestation la plus considerable de la confrontation pluriséculaire avec la pensée moderne 3. Selon Étienne Fouilloux, la crise moderniste a représenté « la matrice intellectuelle du catholicisme contemporain » 4 . Une perspective attentive à la continuité s’impose donc comme nécessaire. Bien que certains intellectuels aient accepté de se définir comme « modernistes » (on prend, par exemple, Il programma dei modernisti, rédigé par Ernesto Buonaiuti et Umberto Fracassini), la catégorie de « modernisme » s’est configurée, tout de suite, comme un dispositif linguistique répressif de la Curie romaine. Il est suffisant de penser que les jésuites de La Civiltà Cattolica ont été les premiers à utiliser la défini-

1.  Le modernisme catholique a été surtout un phénomène franco-italien. Pour le contexte italien Cf. P. Scoppola, Crisi modernista e rinnovamento cattolico in Italia, Bologna, 1962. Pour une perspective mise à jour cf. A. Botti, R. Cerrato (ed.), Il modernismo tra cristianità e secolarizzazione, Urbino, 2002 ; G. Verucci, L’eresia del Novecento. La Chiesa e la repressione del modernismo in Italia, Torino, 2010 ; G. L osito, Il modernismo e la sua repressione, dans A. M elloni (ed.), Cristiani d ’Italia. Chiesa, società e Stato 1861‑2011. I, Roma, 2011, p. 237‑246. 2.  E. Poulat, Histoire, dogme et critique dans la crise moderniste, Paris, 1962, p.  8 ; P. Colin, L’audace et le soupçon. La crise du modernisme dans le catholicisme français (1893‑1914), Paris, 1997. 3.  G. Vian, Il modernismo. La Chiesa cattolica in conflitto con la modernità, Roma, 2012, p. 11 ; G. Vian – C. A rnold (ed.), La condanna del modernismo. Documenti, interpretazioni, conseguenze, Roma, 2010. 4.  É. Fouilloux, Une Église en quête de liberté : la pensée catholique française entre modernisme et Vatican II (1914‑1962), Paris, 2006, p. 10. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 879–888 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111734 ©

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tion de « modernisme » contre le catholicisme libéral 5. Dans cette intervention on abordera la question de la crise du point de vue du « pouvoir ecclésiastique » pour montrer comment la dénonciation d’un complot moderniste a été utilisée, de temps en temps, pour s’opposer aux tendances théologiques considérées comme dangereuses pour l’orthodoxie. Faisant attention aux spécificités de chaque phase, on s’efforcera de fournir des argumentations à la thèse de la continuité historique de la crise moderniste. Plus spécifiquement, on confrontera trois groupes de documents : le décret du Saint-Office Lamentabili sane exitu et l’encyclique de Pie X Pascendi dominici gregis (premier groupe) ; l’encyclique de Pie XII Humani generis (1950) (deuxième groupe) ; la lettre Cum oecumenicum de la Congrégation de la doctrine de la foi (1966) et le Credo du peuple de Dieu de 1968 (troisième groupe). La lettre du card. Alfredo Ottaviani fera l’objet d’une attention particulière pour marquer les continuités et les différences avec l’anti-modernisme du début de siècle. Sur l’« affaire » Loisy il n’est pas nécessaire ici de parcourir les passages de l’histoire : la publication de L’Evangile et l ’Église, les polémiques dans le monde catholique et la réponse de Loisy dans Autour d’un petit livre, l’inscription des deux livres à l’Index, et en enfin l’excommunication en 1908 6. Il est important plutôt de se concentrer sur le premier décret du SaintOffice. Le document, connu comme Lamentabili sane exitu, et publié le 3 juillet 1907, comprend 65 propositions prises par les ouvrages de Loisy 7. Parmi les affirmations condamnées on trouve : la contradiction entre la foi proposée par l’église et l’histoire ; le refus des dogmes ; la négation de l’inspiration divine de l’Écriture ; l’historicisation des sacrements ; la remise en cause de l’historicité de la Résurrection ; l’idée d’une évolution de la Vérité et de la doctrine. À propos de cette dernière, les points 53 et 58 affirment : « La Constitution de l’Église n’est pas immuable, mais la société chrétienne, non moins que la société humaine, est sujet à une évolution constante » ; « La Vérité évolue comme l’être humain et avec lui ». Il s’agit des deux affirmations qui regardent la relation de la foi avec l’histoire comme « lieu théologique » 8. Dans cette perspective Loisy parle de la dynamique du catholicisme en contraposition à la thèse d’Adolf von

5.  Liberatore reprenait la définition de Charles Périn. Cf.  D. M enozzi, Antimodernismo, secolarizzazione e cristianità, dans A. Botti – R. Cerrato (ed.), Il modernismo tra cristianità e secolarizzazione, Urbino, 2002, p. 60‑63. 6.  Cf. G. Verucci, L’eresia del Novecento. La Chiesa e la repressione del modernismo in Italia, Torino, 2010, p. 13‑26. 7.  Pour une analyse du texte et de son histoire cf. C. A rnold – G. L osito, « Lamentabili sane exitu ». Les documents préparatoires du Saint-Office, Roma, 2011. 8.  G. Verucci, L’eresia del Novecento. La Chiesa e la repressione del modernismo in Italia, Torino, 2010, p. 29.

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Harnack 9. Au contraire, malgré les espérances suscitées par l’Aeterni patris de Léon XIII, le Saint-Siège n’est pas disposé à modifier ses positions sur l’exégèse historico-biblique. Historiciser la foi et appliquer la méthodologie positiviste à la Bible signifie mettre en discussion l’autorité consacrée par Vatican I comme la seule gardienne du « Dépôt de la foi ». Evidemment, tout ça a des conséquences politiques. Au début du siècle la politique est un champ de lutte entre la hiérarchie et certains théologiens modernistes. Ces derniers parlent de « réforme » ecclésiastique, mais aussi de réforme politique avec l’intégration des catholiques dans le système politique et démocratique (Romolo Murri) 10. Aux yeux de Rome le danger du modernisme italien résulte plus grave que les positions de Tyrrell, Laberthonnière et de certains commentateurs de Blondel. On s’explique donc la définition de « synthèse des toutes les hérésies » utilisée dans la Pascendi dominici gregis (8 septembre 1907) pour tenir ensemble les différentes condamnations : de l’exégèse historico-critique à la conciliation avec la modernité politique et à la séparation entre l’Église et le pouvoir politique. Le confirme aussi la définition de « modernisme » donnée par le directeur de L’Osservatore Romano Giuseppe Angelini dans un article publié le 1907 : Il modernismo non è una scuola né una dottrina ; è una tendenza, una disposizione dell’animo, per la quale si vuole contrapporre il concetto individualista e il culto dell’io all’autorità gerarchica della Chiesa e al suo insegnamento dottrinale e disciplinare. E questa contrapposizione parte dallo stesso principio e tende allo stesso fine, sia che si tratti della interpretazione dei libri sacri, sia che riferiscasi semplicemente ad un’azione che deve svolgersi sul terreno pratico, nel campo economico-sociale. […] Funesto è IL principio di non voler riconoscere ed accettare l’autorità della Chiesa, se non in quanto sia compatibile colla supremazia e coll’inviolabilità del giudizio e della coscienza individuali 11.

Il n’est pas nécessaire de s’arrêter sur les passages suivants de la crise : le serment anti-moderniste (1910) et l’alliance entre la Saint-Siège et le fascisme avec ses victimes – on pense, par exemple, à la mise à l’Index du Manuel Biblique de Fulcran Vigouroux et Augustin Brassac et à l’excommunication de Buonaiuti, ensuite éloigné par l’Université de Rome. Il est intéressant plutôt de faire la liste des trois éléments qui caractérisent le dispositif répressif : l’identification des modernistes avec les ennemis de 9.  Cf.  G. L osito, L’« affaire » Loisy entre la France et Roma : mentalités et pratiques des antimodernistes français, dans C. A rnold – G. L osito (ed.), La Censure d ’Alfred Loisy (1903). Les documents des Congrégations de l ’index et du Saint Office, Roma, 2009, p. 74‑82. 10.  Cf.  M. Guasco, Romolo Murri e il modernismo, Roma, 1968. 11.  Cité par G. L osito, Il modernismo e la sua repressione, dans A. M elloni (ed.), Cristiani d ’Italia. Chiesa, società e Stato 1861‑2011. I, Roma, 2011, p. 240.

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l’Église ; la centralité de la relation entre la foi et l’histoire ; la dimension politique de la contraposition. Le deuxième groupe est représenté par un seul texte, l’encyclique Humani generis (1950). Déjà dans la Divine afflante spiritu (1943), le pape a célébré l’enseignement de la Provvidentissimus Deus de Leon XIII contre le positivisme et la critique symbolique. A la même période, les Congrégations et les Universités de Rome pressent pour une restauration du thomisme. Le symbole de cette phase est Réginald Garrigou-Lagrange, professeur à l’ Angelicum et consulteur du Saint-Office. Son objectif est de contenir les nouvelles tendances qui « revient dangereusement au début de siècle » 12 . Dans la géographie du catholicisme des années Quarante, les avant-gardes se déroulent autour les revues Esprit et La Vie intellectuelle et les écoles de Saulchoir (Paris) et de Fourvière (Lyon). Parmi les noms, les plus importants il y a les théologiens Marie-Dominique Chenu et Yves Congar, Jean Daniélou, Henri de Lubac et les autres promoteurs des « Sources chrétiennes » 13. Sans entrer dans le détail de cette « nouvelle théologie », on peut relever la persistance des questions du retour aux sources et de la relation avec l’histoire, au centre de la réflexion de Chenu. Les animateurs de Lyon, seront la cible de l’Humani generis. Dans le document de Pie XII les positions des Français sont inscrites dans une liste des erreurs traditionnelles (rationalisme, évolutionnisme et historisme) et nouvelles (l’existentialisme, le matérialisme et l’irénisme). Le retour aux sources y figure en tant que « stratégie » pour contaminer la foi avec les catégories de la philosophie moderne. Le dispositif mis en place par Rome reste donc le même qu’en 1907 : condamnation des théologies les plus innovatrices (accusées d’être ennemies du christianisme) et invocation du principe d’autorité et d’obédience. La dimension politique est secondaire, surtout après la Conciliation (1929). Elle reviendra en force au Vatican II dans la polémique sur la condamnation du communisme et sur la fin de l’« Ère constanienne ». On arrive donc au troisième groupe, la section des années du Vatican II. Les études les plus récentes ont montré la contribution des courants souterrains qui ont ouvert la voie au Concile : le mouvement liturgique ; le mouvement biblique (l’École biblique de Jérusalem fondée par JosephMarie Lagrange) ; le mouvement œcuménique ; la nouvelle christologie de

12.  É. Fouilloux, Une Église en quête de liberté : la pensée catholique française entre modernisme et Vatican II (1914‑1962), Paris, 2006, p. 32.  13.  Cf. M.D. Chenu, Une école de la théologie : Le Saulchoir, Paris, 1985 ; Y. Congar , La tradition et les traditions, 2 voll., Paris, 1960‑1963 [derniere edition, 2010].

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Karl Rahner et Edward Schillebeeckx 14 . Sans approfondir l’histoire de l’assemblée, il faut signaler que la question de l’anti-modernisme était revenue déjà dans la phase ante-préparatoire 15. En 1960 le Saint-Office, à l’époque sous la direction du card. Ottaviani, avait signalé les dix points théologiques à condamner au Concile, terminant le décalogue par la requête d’une nouvelle Profession de foi de caractère antimoderniste. Comme il est connu, l’assemblée prendra un parcours différent. Sur l’interprétation des Écritures (Dei Verbum e Sacrosantum concilium), Vatican II célèbre la dimension eucharistique de la nature de l’Eglise acceptant de manière définitive le principe de l’évolution historique de la tradition. 16 Concernant les études bibliques, le troisième chapitre de la Constitution sur la Révélation confirme la légitimité des genres littéraires. Sur la politique, enfin, les pères conciliaires, en syntonie avec l’enseignement de Jean XXIII, affirment l’enjeu pastoral d’une Église conciliée avec la modernité et qui reconnait la laïcité de l’État (déclaration Dignitatis humanae e constitution Gaudium et spes). Les études des historiens ont souligné les ambiguïtés de ces documents dérivant du compromis entre la majorité et la minorité 17. Tout de suite, il faut mettre de coté la question de l’herméneutique du Concile pour nous concentrer sur un deuxième décalogue, moins connu que le précédent, mais peut- être plus important pour réfléchir sur la continuité du discours antimoderniste après Vatican II. Il s’agit de la lettre Cum Oecumenicum, envoyée par la Congrégation de doctrine de la foi aux épiscopats le 24 juillet 1966. A la différence des encycliques, la lettre est rendue publique par une fuite d’informations dans Le Monde qui oblige la Congrégation à la publier dans les Acta Apostolicae Sedis 18. L’objectif est d’indiquer les erreurs les plus fréquentes dans l’interprétation et dans l’application des décrets conciliaires, avec ordre d’en discuter dans les différentes conférences afin d’en « référer au Saint-Siège d’une manière opportune en faisant connaître leur avis avant les fêtes de Noël ». La formule reprend donc le document de 1960. Analysons le texte. Dans les premières lignes, la lettre dénonce 14.  Cf. G. A lberigo (ed.), Histoire du Concile Vatican II., 5 voll, Paris-Louvain, 1995‑2001 : vol. 1. 15.  Déjà dans les vota arrivés à Roma pendant la phase ante-préparatoire on dénonçait le danger du « neo-modernisme ». 16.  Sur cette question on a vu la réflexion historico-théologique de C. Theo bald, La réception du concile Vatican II. Accéder à la source, Paris, 2009. 17.  Cf.  G. M iccoli, « Tra concilio e anticoncilio. Un nodo presente e non solo ecclesiale », Italia contemporanea 60 (2013), p. 77‑102. 18.  « Rome consulte les Conférences épiscopales sur les questions doctrinales », Le Monde, 30 août 1966. C’est possible que le Préfet lui-même ait donné le texte à la presse. Pour la publication officielle cf. Acta Apostolicae Sedis, LVIII/9 (30 septembre 1966), p. 659‑666. Des informations dans G. Ruggieri, « La politica dottrinale della curia romana nel post-concilio », Cristianesimo nella storia 21 (2000), p. 103‑132.

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la crise dans l’Église de l’après-concile. De manière plus explicite, Ottaviani signale que de plusieurs endroits lui sont parvenues des nouvelles qui ne sont pas rassurantes concernant « l’augmentation des abus dans l’interprétation de la doctrine du Concile, ainsi que d’opinions étranges et audacieuses » susceptibles de bouleverser « l’esprit d’un grand nombre des fidèles ». À ce propos, se fondant sur certains « documents examinés par cette Congrégation sacrée », Ottaviani n’hésite pas à considérer ces opinions comme des « jugements » qui « dépassant facilement les limites de la simple opinion ou de l’hypothèse », doivent être considérés comme capables de porter en quelque sorte atteinte « au dogme lui-même ainsi qu’aux fondements de la foi ». Une liste suit, dont on propose ici une synthèse. En premier lieu, le Préfet signale l’augmentation des abus commis dans l’exégèse biblique par ceux qui font référence aux Saintes Ecritures, « abandonnant délibérément la tradition » et réduisant « la force de l’inspiration et de l’inerrance bibliques » sans une véritable intelligence de la valeur des textes historiques. Vient ensuite la condamnation de ceux qui estiment que les formules dogmatiques sont sujettes « à l’évolution historique » ainsi que celle de ceux qui minimisent tellement le Magistère ordinaire de l’Église, « notamment celui du Pontife romain », qui le relègue « presque dans le domaine des libres opinions ». Au quatrième point, Ottaviani condamne ceux qui, « ne reconnaissant presque plus une vérité objective absolue, ferme et immuable », estiment que toutes les choses sont soumises à un certain relativisme, alléguant comme raison que toute vérité doit suivre « le rythme de l’évolution de la conscience et de l’histoire ». Au cinquième, il conteste « un certain humanisme christologique » visant à réduire le Christ à la dimension d’un simple homme qui n’aurait acquis que progressivement la conscience de sa filiation divine, et qui n’admet sa conception virginale, ses miracles et sa résurrection. « De même », poursuivait la lettre, « dans la manière de traiter la théologie sacramentaire » commettent une erreur ceux qui ignorent certains des éléments concernant l’Eucharistie ou, pis encore, qui parlent de la présence réelle du Christ sous les espèces du pain et du vin, tendant à un « symbolisme exagéré », comme si, suite à la transsubstantiation, « le pain et le vin ne se transformaient pas en Corps et en Sang de Jésus Christ, mais étaient simplement transférés à une signification déterminée » . Vient ensuite la condamnation de ceux qui expliquent le sacrement de la pénitence « comme un moyen de réconciliation avec l’Église, n’exprimant pas suffisamment le concept de réconciliation avec Dieu offensé » et celle de ceux qui n’attribuent pas assez d’importance à la doctrine du Concile de Trente concernant le péché originel et ont la tendance à minimiser le péché d’Abraham et de sa descendance. Enfin, Ottaviani attaque ceux qui, dans le domaine de la théologie morale, osent rejeter « le critère objectif de moralité, ne reconnaissant pas la loi naturelle et affirmant au contraire la

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légitimité de la prétendue éthique de la situation ». La même considération ne peut qu’être valide aussi dans la politique, dont le Préfet ne parle pas explicitement, mais bien au centre des préoccupations d’Ottaviani dans les années du Centre-gauche en Italie. Il sera donc désormais clair que nous ne sommes pas face un rappel générique. Comme l’écrit la revue Il Gallo de Gênes, il s’agit d’un Syllabus ou, plus précisément, d’une rétroposition du dispositif antimoderniste 19. Mais jusqu’à quel point la Cum Oecumenicum peut être considérée comme représentative du point de vue du Saint Siège et, plus en général, de l’opinion des catholiques postconciliaires ? Une première réponse nous vient de la presse. Comme on peut l’imaginer, La Civiltà Cattolica et L’Osservatore Romano s’alignent sur la Curie contre Henry Fesquet, qui a parlé sur Le Monde d’un « tournant anticonciliaire » 20. Dans les milieux du traditionalisme italien et français, l’initiative est reçue comme un signal positif de retour à l’ordre 21. Au contraire, la majorité des revue engagées dans la reforme critiquent l’essai d’enterrer le Concile 22 . Pour réfléchir plus spécifiquement sur les réactions des sommets de l’Église il faut tourner le regard aux épiscopats. Nous connaissons la réponse officielle de l’assemblée de Lourdes de la Conférence française (octobre 1966), diffusée dans la presse par la biais d’une note de mons. Pierre Veuillot. Celle-ci rejette l’accusation d’une « crise neo-moderniste » considérant normale une certaine effervescence postconciliaire 23. C’est la même position que les évêques hollandais, eux aussi auteurs d’une réponse officielle. Toujours par la presse nous sommes informés que les Allemands, les Autrichiens, les Espagnols, les Vietnamiens, les Indiens et les Latinoaméricains pensent de la même manière 24 . Il faut faire un discours à part pour le Conférence italienne. 19.  « Un documento discusso, ma rivelatore », Il Gallo 236 (dicembre 1966), p. 16‑17. 20.  « Ombre e luci ? », L’Osservatore Romano, 28 agosto 1966 ; “Lettera della S. Congregazione”, La Civiltà cattolica 2793 (5 novembre 1966), p. 292‑294 21.  Cf.  L.J. L efèvre , « La lettre de S. EM. Le cardinal Ottaviani aux présidents des conférences épiscopales », La Pensée catholique 103 (1966), p. 17‑19. Sur le traditionalisme après le Concile cf. G. M iccoli, La Chiesa dell ’anticoncilio. I tradizionalisti alla riconquista di Roma, Roma-Bari, 2011. 22.  C’est significatif la réponse de Karl Rahner publiée sur Stimmen der Zeit. K. R ahner , « Kirchliches lehramt und theologie nach dem Konzil », Stimmen der Zeit 17 (1966), p. 404‑420. 23.  « La conférence épiscopale de Lourdes », Études (décembre 1966), p. 708‑ 715. 24.  Cf. « La risposta dell’episcopato olandese all’inchiesta del card. Ottaviani », Il Regno. Documentazione cattolica 12 -155/6 (15 mars 1968), p. 101‑109. Pour les autres réponses on verra « Roma reçoit des réponses rassurantes à la lettre du cardinal Ottaviani », Informations catholiques internationales 280 (15 janvier 1967), p. 7 ; « Il comunicato finale della Conferenza straordinaria dei vescovi del Vietnam », L’Osservatore Romano 17‑18 octobre 1966 ; « Allemagne occidentale. Après

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La réponse de la Cei n’est pas rendue publique, mais aux Archives de Rome un schéma préparatoire est consultable 25. On en déduit que dans un moment difficile pour Église italienne la Conférence ne veut pas prendre une position en contraste avec la Curie 26. On ajoute que à l’assemblée générale de 1967 les évêques se sont plaints pour certains excès des revues et théologiens, en particulier sur la politique, mais ils n’ont pas accepté l’attitude d’Ottaviani 27. Il sera donc clair que l’initiative de la Congrégation a trouvé un accueil généralement négatif dans les épiscopats, comme le confirme la résolution du Synode des évêques d’octobre 1967 28. Le monde des théologiens est plus complexe et divisé. Comme préambule il faut dire que 1965 a été l’année de la rupture de la majorité conciliaire. En conséquence de la discussion sur Gaudium et spes, Daniélou, De Lubac et Hans Hurs von Balthasar ont critiqué leur groupe de provenance 29. Il e n’est donc pas étrange que il y ait des points d’accord entre ces théologiens et Ottaviani. En 1966, dans Le Paysan de la Garonne, Jacques Maritain dénonce la diffusion d’un « néo-modernisme » encore plus grave que l’original 30. Commentant l’initiative d’Ottaviani dans une lettre au card. Charles Journet, il écrit : « La réponse de L’Episcopat français aux points du Cardinal Ottaviani, comment la lire sans tristesse ? Ce n’est pas une réponse d’évêques, c’est une réponse ‘ d’esprits ’ qui ont l’air de prendre

Fulda : vivre la ‘nouvelle fraternité’ », Informations catholiques internationales 276 (15 novembre 1966), p. 8‑9 ; « La X assemblée du CELAM. Que s’est-il passé à Mar del Plata ? », Informations catholiques internationales 276 (15 novembre 1966), p. 5‑8 ; « En Espagne : La Conférence épiscopale devant le difficile problème des ‘privilèges’ », Informations catholiques internationales 278 (15 décembre 1966), p. 6‑7. 25.  Archives de Conférence épiscopale italienne (ACEI), chez le Secrétariat général (Roma), Correspondance avec la Congrégation pour la doctrine de la foi (XIV, ser. AIII, doss. 11, doc. 1, f. 1). 26.  Cf.  F. Sportelli, La Conferenza episcopale italiana (1952‑1972), Bari, 1994, p. 227‑247. 27.  Cfr.  Atti della Assemblea generale, Roma, 4‑7 aprile 1967, Roma, 1967, p. 33‑38 ; 142‑162. 28.  Cfr.  A. I ndelicato, Il sinodo dei vescovi. La collegialità sospesa 1965‑1985, Bologna, 2008, p. 109‑136. 29.  Cfr.  G. Ruggieri, « Delusioni alla fine del concilio. Qualche atteggiamento nell’ambiente cattolico francese », dans J. Dorè – A. M elloni, Volti di fine Concilio. Studi di storia e teologia sulla conclusione del Vaticano II, Bologna, 2000, p. 193‑224. Parmi les publications les plus polémiques sur l’après-Concile voir J. Daniélou, L’oraison probleme politique, Paris, 1965 ; É. Gilson, Les tribulations de Sophie, Paris, 1967. 30.  J. M aritain, Le paysan de la Garonne. Un vieux laïcs s’interroge à propos du temps présent, Paris, 1966. Sur les attitudes conservatrices du jeune Maritain voir G.Forni Rosa, « Antimoderne : le saint Jean-Jacques du premier Maritain », Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 30 (2014), p. 421‑437.

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leurs distances avec Rome » 31. À la différence des collègues de la revue Concilium, Maritain souligne donc q’une crise du catholicisme existe vraiment et que tout le monde chrétien est en phase de déségrégation. C’est la même position de Paul VI. Les dénonciations de la crise post-conciliaire de la part de Paul VI sont bien connues. Le 15 décembre 1965, par exemple, un peu plus d’une semaine après la fin des assises œcuméniques, le pape a condamné l’attitude de ceux qui pensent « revenir, une fois le Concile terminé, à la situation antérieure » et celle de ceux qui rêvent « un Concile permanent » 32 . Il revient sur ce sujet dans le discours au Collège des cardinaux et à la prélature romaine du 23 décembre dans lequel, parlant de la doctrine, il explicite que le Concile n’a pas inauguré « une période d’incertitude dogmatique et morale ». De même, lors de l’audience du 12 janvier 1966 où il rappelle à l’ordre ces fidèles qui pensent que le Concile a représenté « une coupure, une rupture, une prétendue libération de l’enseignement traditionnel de l’Église ». Dans ce discours aussi, affrontant le thème de l’autorité et de la qualification théologique du corpus, Paul VI rétorque que le Concile a muni ses enseignements « de l’autorité du suprême Magistère ordinaire », autorité qui doit être accueillie « avec docilité et sincérité par tous les fidèles, selon l’esprit du Concile concernant la nature et les objectifs de ses textes » 33. Le point d’arrivée de cette réflexion sera l’exhortation apostolique Petrum et Paulum apostolos, avec laquelle l’Année de la foi est convoquée. Après, avec la collaboration de Maritain, le pape promulgue le Credo et profite de l’occasion pour répéter la liste des erreurs doctrinales à condamner  3 4 . Bien qu’il soit une erreur de mettre sur le même plan l’effort de « normalisation » de Paul VI – le pape qui a terminé le Concile – et l’initiative de la Congrégation, une certaine proximité résulte donc indéniable. Le fait que dans les années Soixante-dix, le pape sera promoteur d’un projet de Lex ecclesiae fondamentalis (jamais approuvé) le confirme. Alors les caractères de la crise « néo-moderniste » – et surtout du discours contre le modernisme – seront finalement évidents dans leur continuité avec le passé 35. Nous allons le répéter une dernière fois : la condamnation 31.  Ch. Journet – J. M aritain, Correspondance, volume VI. 1965‑1973, Paris, 2008, p. 338‑340. 32.  L’udienza generale dans Encicliche e discorsi di Paolo VI, vol. 8, Roma, 1966, p. 571‑577 (traduction de l’auteur). 33.  Al Sacro Collegio e alla Prelatura Romana dans Insegnamenti di Paolo VI, III (1965), Roma, 1966, p. 795‑802 ; « L’Udienza generale », dans Encicliche e discorsi di Paolo VI, vol. 9 (1966), p. 49‑58. 34.  Cf. « L’anno della fede », La Civiltà Cattolica 2802 (18 marzo 1967), p. 521‑526. 35.  Sur Paul VI et la normalisation cf. G. M iccoli, In difesa della fede. La Chiesa di Giovanni Paolo II e di Benedetto XVI, Milano, 2007, p. 13‑30.

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des penseurs qui, excédant dans l’ouverture à la modernité, modifient les fondements de la doctrine ; la désobéissance à l’autorité de Rome ; le dialogue avec les ennemis de l’Église. Plus spécifiquement, on a vu que parmi les éléments qui reviennent il y a les dénonciations de la conception de l’histoire comme « lieu théologique » ; de la critique aux dogmes ; et de la conciliation politique avec la modernité. Le dernier point n’est pas explicité dans la lettre d’Ottaviani, mais, comme on l’a dit, il marquera le débat post-conciliaire en Amérique Latine et en Europe. De ces points de vue, il s’agit d’une crise plus grave que celle du début de siècle et en tant que telle elle sera abordée par la Curie. Arrivé à la conclusion de cette intervention, il est nécessaire de répéter que les lignes interprétatives avancées ci-dessus sont bien évidemment à approfondir et confirmer par l’étude de la documentation romaine. Dans la confrontation des textes, on a essayée de montrer les éléments de continuité dans la stratégie discursive mise en place par Rome au XXe siècle. La thèse ici avancée consiste dans la considération que l’antimodernisme doit être considéré en tant que dispositif linguistique de caractère répressif, un dispositif actif aussi après le pontificat de Pie X. Comme l’a souligné Pierre Colin, la résolution manquée du conflit avec 89 a conditionné le christianisme romain faisant du “modernisme” le synonyme d’hérésie à l’époque contemporaine 36.

36.  P. Colin, L’audace et le soupçon. La crise du modernisme dans le catholicisme français (1893‑1914), Paris, 1997, p.  495‑512.

L E JÉSUS D’A NTONIN A RTAUD Raffaella Cavallaro Dieu le rêve a manqué l’esprit du corps parce qu’il a eu peur de ce point de mort où la douleur devenait obscène […] 1. A ntonin A rtaud

I. Ava n t R ode z  :

pou r u n e r a pi de r ét rospect ion

Cet article a pour objectif de présenter une première reconstruction critique du rapport complexe qu’Artaud à la fin de sa vie (Marseille, 4 septembre 1896 - Ivry-sur-Seine, 4 mars 1948) entretient avec le christianisme et en particulier avec la figure du « Christ ». Si une confrontation rapprochée avec le christianisme émerge de façon évidente dans la vie et dans l’œuvre de l’auteur pendant toute la durée de son internement à l’hôpital psychiatrique de Rodez (11 février 1943 - 25 mai 1946), et si, en suivant la proposition/hypothèse soutenue ici, tout un pan de la dernière phase de Rodez (février-avril 1945) peut être considéré comme le lieu d’une restructuration progressive de structures chrétiennes jusqu’à l’élaboration d’un athéisme complexe et ambigu, je pense qu’il est utile de mettre tout d’abord en lumière certains moments qui précèdent ce que l’auteur élaborera dans les dernières années tourmentées de sa vie. Un court extrait de la lettre qu’Artaud adresse à son amie journaliste Anne Manson le 14 septembre 1937 met en lumière un aspect important du mystérieux voyage irlandais qu’accomplit l’auteur (14 août - 29 septembre 1937) : Je prêcherai le retour au christ des catacombes, qui sera le retour du christianisme dans les catacombes. Le catholicisme visible sera rasé pour cause de l’idolâtrie, et le Pape actuel condamné à mort comme traître, et comme Simoniaque 2 .

L’itinéraire irlandais coïncide en effet avec la recherche du retour à un christianisme primitif, à opposer au christianisme visible et inévitablement destiné à la destruction car envahi par l’idolâtrie et la simonie imputée au souverain pontife lui-même. Au sujet de la fougue antipapiste, la lettre 1.  A. A rtaud, Au Docteur Jean Dequeker, Œuvres Complètes, t. XI, Paris, 1974, p. 72. 2.  A. A rtaud, À  Anne Manson, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 833. Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2–5 October 2014), ed  by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce (Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), pp. 889–913 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.111735 ©

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à Manson n’est pas sans rappeler un autre texte, qui remonte aux années vingt. L’Artaud surréaliste de 1925 écrivait en effet une Adresse au Pape, où l’on pouvait lire : […] Au nom de la Patrie, au nom de la Famille, tu pousses à la vente des âmes, à la libre trituration des corps. […] Ton Dieu catholique et chrétien qui, comme les autres dieux a pensé tout le mal : 1° Tu l’as mis dans ta poche. / 2° Nous n’avons que faire de tes canons, index, péché, confessionnal, prêtraille, nous pensons à une autre guerre, guerre à toi, Pape, chien. […]. Du haut en bas de ta mascarade romaine ce qui triomphe c’est la haine des vérités immédiates de l’âme, de ces flammes qui brûlent à même l’esprit. Il n’y a Dieu, ni Bible ou Evangile, il n’y a pas de mots qui arrêtent l’esprit. / Nous ne sommes pas au monde. O Pape confiné dans le monde, ni la terre, ni Dieu ne parlent par toi. / Le monde, c’est l’abîme de l’âme, Pape déjeté, Pape extérieur à l’âme, laisse-nous nager dans nos corps, laisse nos âmes dans nos âmes, nous n’avons pas besoin de ton couteau de clartés 3.

Si l’on fait référence à certains extraits de lettres envoyées depuis l’Irlande, c’est bien parce que le deuxième voyage d’Artaud – entrepris peu de temps après celui au Mexique (10 janvier - 31 octobre 1936), bien plus structuré que celui en Irlande – peut constituer une sorte de pont entre différents noyaux thématiques que l’on rencontre dans les années trente (voire dans les années vingt, comme on vient de le suggérer à propos de la période surréaliste) et ce sur quoi l’auteur reviendra à plusieurs reprises pendant les années de son internement. En ce qui concerne la lettre à Manson, il semble utile de renvoyer ultérieurement à des textes qui précèdent la période irlandaise. Il s’agit du célèbre Héliogabale ou l ’anarchiste couronné (1934). Bien qu’à cette occasion Artaud ne se soit pas du tout intéressé au christianisme et à la recherche de son aspect originel, on peut toutefois retrouver dans Héliogabale une polémique structurée autour de l’opposition entre « religion du christ », d’une part, et « religion d’Héliogabale », de l’autre. On voit alors émerger, dans cette même dichotomie, des signes que l’on peut lire en continuité avec le voyage en Irlande. Par exemple, quelques réflexions contenues dans la partie centrale de l’œuvre – La guerre des Principes –, intermède qui interrompt le récit des aventures d’Héliogabale. A cette occasion, le christianisme, l’Europe chrétienne, est accusé d’avoir construit une idolâtrie horrible, obscène, à opposer à cet « esprit sacré » dont Héliogabale était au contraire l’exemple incarné. En 1934, Artaud écrivait : 3.  A. A rtaud, Adresse au Pape, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 133. L’Adresse était parue le 15 avril dans le troisième numéro de La Révolution surréaliste, presque entièrement rédigé par Artaud lui-même. Le titre de ce numéro était 1925 : Fin de l ’Ère chrétienne.

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[…] Cette séparation de la force et du dieu, le dieu n’étant plus réduit qu’à une sorte de mot qui tombe, une effigiée vouée aux plus hideuses idolâtrie ; […] cette façon de clouer le ciel dans le ciel, et la terre sur la terre […] c’est nous, c’est notre Europe chrétienne, c’est l’Histoire qui l’a fabriquée 4 .

Mais l’idolâtrie mise en œuvre par l’Europe chrétienne n’était pas différente de celle du paganisme. De ce point de vue, Artaud lisait paganisme et christianisme en nette continuité : Que l’on s’étonne après cela que les païens aient fini par devenir idolâtres, qu’ils soient arrivés à confondre des effigies avec des principes et que le pouvoir d’attraction des principes à la longue leur ait échappé. / Et nous, chrétiens, est-ce que nous ne faisons pas la même chose ? Est-ce que nous n’avons pas, nous aussi, nos effigies, nos totems, nos morceaux de dieu, qui, dans la tête et dans le cœur des individus qui les adorent, arriveront aussi à se fixer en formes, à se séparer en multitudes de dieux. / Une chose nommée est une chose morte, et elle est morte parce qu’elle est séparée. Trop de dévotion à des couronnes d’épines, à des bois de la croix, à des cœurs de Jésus vénérés ici et là, à des Sangs et à des Chrêmes, à des Vierges multiples, enfin, qui noires, blanches, jaunes ou rouges, répondent à autant d’adoration séparées, représentent pour les individus qui s’y livrent, le même danger d’esprit, la même menace de chute dans une irrémédiable idolâtrie, que les altérations de l’énergie créatrice dans le mystère des dieux païens 5.

Il faut noter, encore, à quel point la réflexion de l’auteur assume dans cette partie de l’œuvre un caractère toujours plus intime. Un des passages à relever dans la lecture de cette partie de Héliogabale est en effet celui qui va de l’identité chrétienne européenne à la conscience individuelle. Ou plutôt à une individualité spécifique, celle justement de l’Artaud chrétien 6  :

4.  A. A rtaud, Héliogabale ou l ’anarchiste couronné, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 428. 5.  Ibidem, p. 430‑431. 6.  Il faut rappeler qu’Antoine Marie Joseph Paul Artaud, est né et a grandi dans un contexte catholique. Né le 4 septembre 1896, Artaud est baptisé le 19 du même mois dans l’église de Chartreux à Marseille. Sa solide éducation catholique vient surtout du côté maternel de sa famille. Comme l’explique Florence de Mèredieu dans sa riche reconstruction de la biographie de l’auteur, c’est du côté maternel, donc d’Euphrasie Nalpas, née à Smyrne et cousine du père d’Artaud – Antoine-Roi Artaud – que l’auteur reçoit sa propre formation catholique. A ce propos il est intéressant de rapporter ce qu’écrit la sœur d’Artaud, Marie-Ange : « Par sa mère il était issu d’une très ancienne famille française installée en Orient depuis une époque très reculée dont l’origine remonte au temps des croisades, c’est ce qui explique le fervent catholicisme d’Antonin Artaud, car comme l’a si bien dit M.J. Crepet pour Baudelaire, Antonin Artaud portait dans ses veines la tradition catholique renforcée par une forte éducation religieuse. Il était catholique de naissance, de formation, de culture, d’inclination ». Ce témoignage est rapporté dans F. De M èredieu, C’était Antonin Artaud, Paris, 2006, p. 65.

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Le dogme chrétien est contenu dans le Credo, je le veux bien, mais du Credo à ma conscience individuelle il y a un monde d’interprétations, des bibliothèques de saints, des hérésies et des conciles. Et seul l’enfer n’a jamais varié 7.

Une œuvre comme Héliogabale, à inscrire sans doute sous le signe de l’intérêt syncrétiste d’Artaud pendant cette période, présente toutefois des indices qui peuvent dialoguer avec le voyage irlandais. D’autre part, c’est bel et bien en 1934 qu’Artaud avait consulté ce Dictionnaire d’Hagiographie 8 qui sera si important dans l’itinéraire accompli en Irlande et dans les reformulations de la période psychiatrique 9. Revenons donc au 14 septembre 1937. Dans la lettre adressée à Anne Manson on voit apparaître une référence au bâton de Saint Patrick que pendant le voyage Artaud aurait dû rendre au peuple irlandais : Je tiens le Bâton même de Jésus-Christ et c’est Jésus-Christ qui me commande tout ce que je vais faire et on verra que son Enseignement était fait pour des Héros Métaphysiques et non pour des idiots 10.

Mais le même jour, Antonin Artaud envoie une autre lettre importante, qui introduit de nouvelles thématiques. Cette fois-ci, le destinataire est son ami André Breton. Le texte en question se caractérise par un puissant ton apocalyptique, par un pressentiment d’imminentes destructions et révélations. A propos de ce texte, il est intéressant de remarquer qu’il est le début d’un processus de déstructuration des Personnes trinitaires. Comme on le verra dans la prochaine partie, c’est justement cette même logique de désagrégation qui deviendra centrale dans la phase « gnostique » qui s’écoule à Rodez. En particulier, dans la lettre à Breton la figure du Fils émerge nettement, en s’opposant surtout au Père. Artaud écrit à son ami : On ne peut se rebeller contre la Loi, mais on peut se rebeller contre le désordre de crime et les conséquences de la Loi. / Mais il faut pour cela une Science. Il y a contre le désordre de Dieu ce qu’on appellerait aujourd’hui une technique. / C’est cette technique que le Fils rebelle est venu nous révéler contre son Père et pour cela il a pris la forme du christ. / Or le christ vrai est celui qui m’a donné sa propre canne, son bâton de magie aimanté et il n’a rien à voir, je vous prie de le croire, avec le christ de la chrétienté ni avec celui de la catholicité 11. 7.  A. A rtaud, Héliogabale ou l ’anarchiste couronné, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 431. 8.  Selon toute probabilité, le Dictionnaire d ’Hagiographie qu’il consulte en 1934 est celui de l’A bbé Pétin, Paris, 1850, publié par Migne dans les volumes 40 et 41 de son Encyclopédie théologique. 9.  Sur cet aspect, on peut mettre en relation F. de M èredieu, C’était Antonin Artaud, Paris, 2006, p. 610‑611. 10.  A. A rtaud, À  Anne Manson, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 833. 11.  Ibidem, p. 836.

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Le Fils rebelle révèle le « désordre de Dieu », conséquence de la Loi, de la loi du Père. Le Fils prend donc la forme du « christ » pour opposer au père même une nouvelle révélation. Le bâton que possède Artaud, donné par ce même christ, assure donc un lien tangible entre l’auteur et le Fils. Toutefois, le christ dont parle Artaud, relié de façon cohérente avec ce qui a été évoqué à propos de la lettre à Manson, n’est vrai christ qu’en ce qu’« il n’a rien à voir […] avec le christ de la chrétienté ni avec celui de la catholicité ». Quel est alors le christ auquel Artaud fait référence ? L’auteur continue : Oui mon cher Breton, les Temps sont venus, annoncés par l’apocalypse où le christ pour punir son Église va susciter un Enragé qui rasera toutes les Églises et fera rentrer sous la terre le rite des Initiés. / […] Ce christ, Jésus-Christ était un homme comme Vous et moi. Et il rit sinistrement, je vous le jure, des hideurs que l’on appelle Son Nom et des Images que l’on appelle ses images. / Il rit du culte et de l’appareil extérieur de tous les cultes autant que vous pouvez en rire […]. Et s’il a voulu passer par un corps c’était pour nous apprendre à détruire les corps, et à repousser l’attachement des corps 12 .

Le christ d’Artaud commence ainsi à se définir comme l’auteur de la destruction et de la punition de toutes les Eglises, sans distinction, qu’elles participent ou non de l’obscénité propre du culte idolâtrique. Le Jésus d’Artaud rit d’un rire sinistre des appareils extérieurs de tous les cultes. En outre, ce Jésus-Christ est « homme », tout comme Artaud et Breton luimême. Le passage par le corps de ce christ, son incarnation, cherche paradoxalement à interrompre l’attachement au corps lui-même. L’assomption du corps est en d’autres termes fonctionnelle à un enseignement : celui de la destruction du corps, du corps tel que nous le connaissons. C’est justement sur la question du corps que se joue alors la désarticulation trinitaire qui oppose le Fils au Père, mais voit se découper en outre l’irréparable conflit entre le Fils et le Saint Esprit : « Ceux qui cherchent l’absolu sont avec le Fils, contre le Père mais surtout contre le Saint-Esprit » 13. L’Esprit est en effet restitué par Artaud comme principe de conservation du corps. Cette fonction de conservation attribuée à l’Esprit coïncide chez Artaud avec l’accusation de perpétrer une illusion. En d’autres termes, l’Esprit est identifié à une Personne responsable d’une supercherie que le Fils doit démasquer. Le Fils est en effet celui qui, à travers le passage par son propre corps, est capable de révéler le mensonge. Jésus-Christ vient donc rompre l’illusion de vivre, illusion fondée sur celle de posséder son propre corps.

12.  Ibidem. 13.  Ibidem, p. 835.

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En Irlande, commence alors à émerger avec puissance la question du corps et de sa nécessité de reconstruction, problème central pour Artaud dans les dernières années de sa vie. Dans le cadre du parcours qu’il s’agit ici de construire, il peut être intéressant de remarquer à quel point la question se lie justement à la désarticulation trinitaire et, encore une fois, à l’opposition entre Fils et Saint Esprit : « C’est le Saint-Esprit qui conserve le corps et qui nous fait croire au fait de vivre, c’est le Saint-Esprit qui nie l’Absolu. C’est le Fils qui ramène à l’absolu […] » 14 . La crise ouverte au sein de la Trinité s’aiguise toujours plus. Dans la lettre à Breton dont il était question, le Saint-Esprit est en effet connecté à l’Antéchrist. De cette manière, les structures qui, à Rodez, deviendront absolument centrales, commencent à se profiler. Artaud écrit à Breton : « Oui, c’est le Saint-Esprit lui-même qui va susciter l’antéchrist. Si incroyable que cela ce soit » 15. « Ce sera la guerre, tout cela sera la guerre du Fils contre le SaintEsprit et du christ contre l’antéchrist » 16. II. R ode z  :

cat hol ici sm e et g nos t ici sm e

Je me suis confessé et j’ai communié en septembre 1937 à Dublin en Irlande après 20 ans d’éloignement de Dieu 17.

Dans une lettre à Jean Paulhan, Artaud fait référence à la conclusion de son bref voyage en Irlande. L’itinéraire irlandais, effectué comme on l’a vu sous le signe de la recherche fébrile de la récupération d’un christianisme conçu comme « originel » par l’auteur, avait vu d’un côté la montée progressive du ton apocalyptique, et de l’autre le rapprochement après vingt ans au catholicisme et aux sacrements de la confession et de l’eucharistie. La lettre à Paulhan remonte au 5 octobre 1943 : Artaud est déjà depuis plusieurs mois interné à Rodez. La mémoire de l’auteur revient sur les derniers jours, turbulents, qu’il a passés à Dublin : le 23 septembre 1937, il avait été arrêté pour vagabondage et atteinte à la tranquillité publique. Détenu jusqu’au 29 septembre, il avait ensuite été reconduit à Cobh et rapatrié de force. Le 30 septembre, au Havre, avait commencé la série ininterrompue des internements. D’abord à l’Hôpital général du Havre, où, remis par la police en camisole de force, Artaud avait été jugé « violent, dangereux, souffrant d’hallucinations et d’idées de persécution » 18. Ensuite à l’Hôpital psychiatrique de Sotteville-lès-Rouen (16 octobre 1937 - 1er avril 1938), où sa 14.  Ibidem, p. 836. 15.  Ibidem, p. 837. 16.  Ibidem, p. 838. 17.  A. A rtaud, À  Jean Paulhan, Œuvres Complètes, t. X, Paris, 1974, p. 104. 18.  É. Grossman, Antonin Artaud. Vie et Œuvre, dans A. A rtaud, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 1752.

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mère Euphrasie avait réussi à le retrouver. L’internement à Sainte-Anne a suivi (1er avril 1938 - 22 février 1939) où, selon Roger Blin, Jacques Lacan (le « Dr L. » de Van Gogh le suicidé de la société), ayant visité Artaud, l’aurait déclaré « définitivement fixé, perdu pour la littérature » 19. Après la période passée à Saint-Anne, des mois pendant lesquels, selon toute probabilité, il n’avait jamais cessé d’écrire – Grossman note en effet que sur le certificat de transfert apparaît l’indication : « graphorrhée » 20 –, Artaud avait été interné à Ville-Évrard 21 (22 février 1939 - 22 janvier 1942). Après les rudes mois passés dans cet hôpital, sur demande de sa mère et grâce à l’intercession de l’ami et poète Robert Desnos, l’auteur est enfin interné à Rodez le 11 février 1943 et confié aux soins de Gaston Ferdière, pionnier en France de l’Art-thérapie. La période passée à Rodez (11 février 1943 - mai 1945) est certainement complexe, autant en ce qui concerne la biographie d’Artaud que pour ce qui relève de son écriture. Du point de vue du problème dont il est ici question, celui du rapport avec le christianisme et en particulier avec la figure de Jésus, Rodez constitue un environnement labyrinthique mais aussi une période en bonne part inexplorée. Il faut donc avant toute chose fournir quelques points de repère. Au sein de la parabole de Rodez, il est possible de distinguer trois trajectoires. La première coïncide avec le rapprochement de l’auteur à la foi catholique. Il s’ensuit un bref mais décisif passage que l’on peut définir gnostique, phase à concevoir selon toute évidence comme un laboratoire qu’Artaud met en place au troisième mouvement, qui marque le croisement problématique entre les réminiscences de structures jésuiennes et dans le même temps une tendance athéiste. Les trois trajectoires doivent être considérées comme intimement liées entre elles. En effet, tout comme il faut lire le passage gnostique en continuité avec le rapprochement que l’auteur effectue avec le catholicisme, de la même manière la possibilité de l’athéisme est aussi déjà « creusée » à l’intérieur du laboratoire gnostique. C’est d’ailleurs à travers le gnosticisme lui-même, réélaboré de façon originale par l’auteur, qu’Artaud pourra construire sa propre option athéiste, qui sur de nombreux points ne peut que se décliner à partir de la figure de Jésus. La question clé à examiner reste celle de la valeur à accorder à l’athéisme artaudien des dernières années et aux tensions dialectiques qui en jaillissent. En ce qui concerne le parcours proposé ici, il apparaît important que ce soit autour de la question jésuienne que se joue un aspect de la problématique. 19.  Ibidem, p. 1753. 20.  Ibidem, p. 1753. 21.  A propos de la lettre écrite à Ville-Évrard, on peut mettre en parallèle celle adressée à sa mère le 31 décembre 1942. A cette occasion, Artaud refuse sa propre génération sexuée. Il refuse donc sa propre mère, Euphrasie Nalpas et signe « Antonin Nalpas – J-C », A. A rtaud, À  sa mère, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 872.

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Donc, malgré le fait que les trois trajectoires – catholique, gnostique et athée – soient intimement reliées, il faut les replacer dans de possibles périodisations. En ce qui concerne la première, catholique, elle va de l’arrivée d’Artaud à Rodez jusqu’en février 1945. A partir de ce moment, en effet, on peut parcourir dans l’écriture de l’auteur un virage important, bien qu’il ne corresponde qu’à quelques mois. Dans cette perspective, la phase gnostique correspond aux Cahiers rédigés entre février et avril 1945. C’est bien cette deuxième phase qui marque un détachement progressif par rapport à la période catholique et parallèlement la préparation au tournant que constitue la Pâques de 1945. Car le dimanche de Pâques de cette année-là, qui correspond au premier jour du mois d’avril, l’auteur écrit une lettre importante à son ami Roger Blin. Il faut considérer ce texte comme un point critique à la fois explicite et symbolique. Artaud, en effet, définit ce « soi-disant dimanche de la Passion » comme le moment pour refuser « communion, eucharistie, dieu et son christ ». Mais le passage en question structure dans le même temps un acte d’affirmation identitaire radical, que l’on peut d’ailleurs concevoir à partir de ce même refus. Artaud écrit en effet qu’il a décidé d’être « moi », dans le sens où une telle autoidentification porte avec soi les caractères de l’irréligiosité, et de la haine pour Dieu et ses religions, qu’elles soient exclusivement chrétiennes ou non. Il faut voir que dans la lettre à Blin, ce n’est pas une déclaration athée à proprement parler qui apparaît, mais, et cela est plus intéressant – car plus problématique – une haine pour Dieu. Voici ce qu’écrit Artaud : Il y a des océans d’envoûtement sur Paris, sur la terre et sur Rodez pour m’empêcher de sortir d’ici et je ne tiens pas à continuer à avoir l’âme asphyxiée sous des envoûtements comme cela se produit depuis 8 ans mais a gagné le comble du paroxysme depuis le mois d’avril dernier, c’est-à-dire depuis ce soi-disant dimanche de la Passion où j’ai jeté la communion, l’eucharistie, dieu et son christ par les fenêtres et me suis décidé à être moi, c’est-à-dire tout simplement Antonin Artaud un incrédule irréligieux de nature et d’âme qui n’a jamais rien haï plus que Dieu et ses religions, qu’elles soient du christ, de Jehova ou de Brahma, sans omettre les rites naturalistes de lamas 22 .

Jusqu’au 1er avril 1945, l’auteur communie donc de façon régulière. Cet élément est fourni par Artaud lui-même quand, le 5 octobre 1943, il écrit à son ami Jean-Louis Barrault pour lui parler justement de cela. Contrairement à ce qu’il en était pendant les internements précédents, l’asile de Rodez est doté d’une chapelle et d’un aumônier. Cet élément, signalé à plusieurs reprises dans les textes de l’auteur, permet à Artaud de reprendre ce qu’en Irlande il avait laissé en suspens. Artaud écrit donc à Barrault qu’il communie quotidiennement : 22.  A. A rtaud, À  Roger Blin, Œuvres Complètes, t. XI, Paris, 1974, p. 120.

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Depuis l’Irlande je n’ai plus pu pratiquer parce que ni à Rouen, ni à SainteAnne, ni à Ville-Évrard il n’y avait de chapelle ni d’aumônier, mais ici il y a un aumônier et une chapelle et je communie tous les jours. Et vous ne pouvez pas savoir à quel point cela rend fort contre le Mal 23.

Au moins depuis octobre 1943, le sacrement de l’eucharistie constitue pour Artaud un exercice quotidien qui lui permet de se sentir plus fort contre le « Mal ». La communion permet à l’auteur de combattre ce qu’il ressent comme des puissances démoniques qui n’ont de cesse de l’assaillir violemment. De ce point de vue, on peut considérer l’eucharistie comme faisant partie des autres typologies de pratiques qu’Artaud développe dans les deux premières années qu’il passe à Rodez. Le chant et la respiration sont les deux exercices que l’auteur ne cesse de pratiquer. Un autre aspect à mettre en lumière au sujet de la complexe période catholique est ce qu’Artaud lui-même définit comme sa propre « attitude religieuse et mystique », identifiée dans la première lettre adressée à Ferdière (12 février 1943) comme la principale cause de son internement. Il faut se rappeler de quelle manière Artaud signe la lettre en question du nom d’Antonin Nalpas. Depuis décembre 1941, en effet, l’auteur renonce à son patronyme, et adopte le nom de famille de sa mère : Mais ce que je veux vous dire Dr Ferdière est ceci : c’est que dans le cas d’Antonin Artaud il n’est pas question de littérature ni de théâtre mais de religion et que c’est pour ses idées religieuses, pour son attitude religieuse et mystique qu’Antonin Artaud JUSQU’A SA MORT a été poursuivi par la foule des Français. Et ici Dr Ferdière, écoutez-moi bien. Antonin Artaud au contraire de ce qu’on a pu quelquefois un peu légèrement penser de lui, était profondément religieux et chrétien. Il a été en ce monde le représentant plus qualifié et le plus pur de la Religion véritable de Jésus-Christ dont le catholicisme exotérique n’était plus depuis longtemps que la caricature éhontée 24 .

Dans cet extrait de lettre – la première d’une longue série de missives adressées au psychiatre – affleure l’idée selon laquelle l’internement de cet Antonin Artaud, auquel Antonin Nalpas fait référence, serait justement dû au fait qu’il était profondément religieux et chrétien. Mais il y a plus. Cet Artaud, en effet, a été dans ce monde le représentant le plus qualifié de la vraie Religion de Jésus-Christ, dont le catholicisme « exotérique » n’est que la caricature éhontée. Artaud ne se sent persécuté ni pour des raisons littéraires ni pour des raisons théâtrales : tout se joue autour de problèmes de nature religieuse et mystique. En outre, il faut lire la référence à la mort d’Antonin Artaud (« JUSQU’A SA MORT ») avec une mort 23.  A. A rtaud, À  Jean-Louis Barrault, Œuvres Complètes, t. X, Paris, 1974, p. 101. 24.  A. A rtaud, Nouveaux écrits de Rodez, Paris, 1977, p. 28.

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symbolique plusieurs fois citée par l’auteur et qui serait advenue en août 1939 à Ville-Évrard. Décès symbolique, disait-on, et dont la structure est élaborée à partir des conditions matérielles de pénurie alimentaire extrême qui pesaient sur les internés de cette structure, peu avant que n’explose la seconde guerre mondiale 25. Pendant les deux premières années passées à Rodez, il est donc possible de trouver chez Artaud, qui reviendra au nom de famille paternel le 17 septembre 1943, la présence simultanée de divers éléments comme : l’eucharistie quotidienne et la prière ; le désir mystique d’intimité avec un Jésus plus vrai et plus authentique que le Jésus catholique, aspiration que l’on pourrait voir selon moi en nette continuité avec le voyage irlandais ; l’explicite intérêt intellectuel pour des figures particulières de la mystique chrétienne. Pour revenir aux lettres à Ferdière, Artaud manifeste au psychiatre au moins deux éléments de grand intérêt. Le premier est lié à la lecture de Maître Eckhart : dans ce cas précis, la question est liée au domaine littéraire et à l’utilisation du langage de la part d’Eckhart luimême. Le second élément vient de la fascination pour Juan de la Cruz, au sujet duquel l’exigence d’un approfondissement intellectuel est évidente de la part d’Artaud à travers l’œuvre de Jean Baruzi 26. Mais venons-en à présent à la courte période qui va de février à avril 1945, c’est-à-dire à cette fenêtre que l’on a défini gnostique et qui correspond au début de la rédaction des Cahiers. Avant tout, il faut préciser qu’Artaud confiera à ces petits cahiers d’écolier – on en compte 406 – ses réflexions intimes, et qu’il n’était probablement pas dans ses intentions de les destiner à la publication. Le flux d’écriture des Cahiers reste difficile à interpréter, même dans l’édition présentée par Paule Thévenin pour Gallimard. Thévenin elle-même rappelle qu’Artaud considérait les Cahiers comme des « notes psychologiques personnelles qui tournent autour de quelques remarques que j’ai faites sur le fonds de l’inconscient humain, ses 25.  Sur cet aspect, et sur la soudaine perte de poids d’Artaud, interné à Ville-Évrard, on peut lire F. de M èredieu, C’était Antonin Artaud, Paris, 2006, p. 721‑723. 26.  En ce qui concerne Eckhart on peut se référer en particulier à la lettre à Ferdière du 20 juillet 1943, lorsqu’Artaud écrit au psychiatre qu’il lui confie les œuvres du mystique allemand (selon toute vraisemblance l’auteur se réfère à M. Eckhart, Sermons, Traités, Paris, 1942) : A. A rtaud, Nouveaux écrits de Rodez, Paris, 1977, p. 47‑53. En ce qui concerne Juan de la Cruz, Artaud écrit à Ferdière le 12 mars 1944 : « Mon cher ami, / J’ai vu avant-hier en sortant avec F. Delanglade à la librairie Faux une étude sur Saint Jean de la Croix par Jean Baruzi et qui m’a beaucoup intéressé. Mais je me demande s’il me reste encore assez d’argent pour acheter ce livre qui coute 130 fcs », A. A rtaud, Nouveaux écrits de Rodez, Paris, 1977, p. 86. L’œuvre dont parle Artaud de façon implicite est J. Baruzi, Saint Jean de la Croix et le problème de l ’expérience mystique, Paris, 1924. Sur la question du rapport entre Artaud et la mystique chrétienne on peut signaler au moins le texte suivant : L. Cortade , Antonin Artaud. La virtualité incarnée, Paris, 2000.

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refoulements, ses secrets ignorés même du moi habituel » 27. Il faut en effet souligner la quantité imposante de matériau écrit dans les Cahiers : sur les vingt-six tomes qui composent les Œuvres Complètes, onze contiennent les cahiers. Aux onze tomes en question, il faut ajouter ceux qui contiennent les Cahiers d’Ivry, dans l’édition présentée par Grossman. Si l’on propose donc une brève tentative d’interprétation des Cahiers de Rodez rédigés entre février et avril 1945 et qui correspondent au tome XV des Œuvres complètes, c’est qu’il s’agit de signaler d’importants mouvements pour poursuivre la recherche du Jésus d’Artaud. L’idée que je développe dans ma thèse de Doctorat, que je soutiendrai bientôt à La Sapienza Università di Roma, reconnait justement dans cette période une sorte de travail de phagocytation de la Trinité par Artaud lui-même. Travail qui n’est d’ailleurs pas nouveau puisque ce que l’on en peut considérer comme les principaux indices émergent déjà selon moi pendant le voyage irlandais. Selon cette perspective, le Jésus d’Artaud viendrait progressivement se définir comme la dernière étape problématique de ce processus. Au sujet de la possibilité de lire cette phase comme un passage gnostique, il faut clarifier que cette hypothèse ne peut en aucun cas aspirer à reconnaitre chez Artaud une adhésion explicite à des doctrines gnostiques. Le passage à travers l’hérésie est en effet tout sauf systématique, et il marque le début du mouvement de désarticulation trinitaire qui conduira l’auteur à s’identifier de façon profonde avec la figure d’un Jésus à la fois douloureux et rédempteur. Au sujet du lien entre Artaud et le gnosticisme, on peut se rappeler ce qu’écrit Thévenin dans la présentation du tome XV : Ainsi, les textes du tome XV appartiennent en majorité à ce que l’on pourrait appeler la période chrétienne d’Antonin Artaud. Mais est-il si simple ? Son catholicisme est quelque peu hérétique, sa conception de la religion l’apparenterait plutôt aux gnostiques qu’il avait autrefois lus avec attention 28.

Thévenin attribue donc à Artaud la connaissance préalable de doctrines gnostiques. De telles lectures peuvent être placées selon toute vraisemblance entre les années vingt et trente. Or, il faut souligner que la seule monographie existante au sujet du lien entre Artaud et le gnosticisme montre toutefois le « lack of evidence » quant à la connaissance artaudienne de textes gnostiques 29. En ce qui concerne ma recherche, je n’exclus pas la connaissance de la part d’Artaud de sources hérésiologiques, en

27.  A. A rtaud, Œuvres Complètes, t. XV, Paris, 1981, p. 346. 28.  P. Thévenin, quatrième de couverture du t. XV des Œuvres Complètes. 29.  J. Goodall , Artaud and the Gnostic Drama, Oxford – New York, 1994, p. 6.

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particulier d’Irénée et d’Hyppolite 30. Il faut prendre en considération, en outre, les œuvres d’Eugène de Faye, qui circulaient dans les milieux guénoniens des premières années du vingtième siècle à travers la revue La Gnose (1909‑1912). Il n’en reste pas moins que, dans les Cahiers, il manque des citations explicites que l’on puisse faire remonter aux lectures gnostiques auxquelles Thévenin fait référence. Les raccords herméneutiques que l’on propose sont donc toujours de nature conjecturelle. Il faut dire en outre que le rôle du gnosticisme chez Artaud a été peu exploré par la critique. Plus qu’au gnosticisme, en effet, les chercheurs font référence à une gnose de caractère syncrétiste, catégorie sans aucun doute précieuse, surtout du point de vue de la critique littéraire, mais qui ne restitue pas, selon moi, toute la complexité de l’écriture de l’auteur. En particulier, on peut faire référence au moins à deux voix, toutes deux des années ’70 : celle de Susan Sontag et celle d’Umberto Artioli. En 1975, Sontag écrivait : La sensibilité gnostique d’Artaud le porta naturellement vers les enseignements de nombreuses doctrines secrètes […]. Il entreprit au cours des années ’30 une étude approfondie des systèmes ésotériques et consulta les textes traitant de l’Alchimie, de la Cabale, du Tarot, de l’astrologie et de la secte des Rose-Croix. Toutes ces doctrines ont en commun d’être des variations relativement récentes, sinon décadentes, sur la thématique gnostique. […] Mais aucune de ces doctrines secrètes dont il ne survit que des bribes, qui ne sont plus sur le plan de l’histoire que des fossiles, ne pouvaient contenir l’imagination convulsive d’Artaud, un gnostique bien vivant. […] Le dernier refuge de la pensée gnostique, sur le plan historique ou psychologique, ce sont les phantasmes de la schizophrénie 31.

La lecture de Sontag est sans aucun doute intéressante, puisqu’elle souligne l’impossibilité de cueillir dans les Cahiers d’Artaud des références systématiques à des thématiques gnostiques : en d’autres termes, il faut remarquer la définition de l’auteur comme « gnostique bien vivant ». La construction du lien direct entre le plan historique et psychologique, donc la lecture de la schizophrénie comme dernier refuge de la pensée gnostique même, est à mon avis moins convaincante. L’interprétation proposée par Artioli en 1978 est très certainement plus approfondie et à mon avis inégalée du point de vue de la précision avec 30.  En ce qui concerne Irénée, je signale la traduction partielle de l’Adversus Haereses par Albert Dufourq, dans Saint Irénee, Paris, 1905. Une traduction de la sorte se basait sur l’édition de 1710 de René Massuet, publiée de nouveau en 1882. Pour ce qui est d’Hyppolite, une traduction en français des Philosophumena était disponible depuis 1928, lorsqu’Auguste Siouville publia à Paris Philosophumena ou réfutation de toutes les hérésies. Première traduction française avec une introduction et des notes par A. Siouville. 31.  S. Sontag, À  la rencontre d ’Artaud, Paris, 1975, p. 99‑101.

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laquelle il restitue les textes et le lexique artaudiens. Dans la dernière phase d’Artaud, qu’il appelle « materialistica », Artioli reconnait le recours à des lieux typiques de l’imaginaire gnostique, identifié de façon explicite avec un gnosticisme de caractère jonassien : Il tema dell’impossibilità a esistere in un cosmo che ha rovesciato gli indici della sua significazione greca, divenendo il regno dell’arbitrio e della bestialità, ripropone così una delle costanti del pensiero di Artaud : il ricorso ai tòpoi dell’immaginazione gnostica. Il dio visto come incarnazione dell’orribile Demiurgo, la venuta al mondo come un ‘essere gettati’, la Creazione come violenza da parte di un’entità non autorizzata, l’esistenza come manifestazione del regno infernale, l’oblio dell’origine come incoscienza e torpore, le teorie del ‘mescolamento’ e del ‘riassorbimento’ come necessità di raggrumare le particelle del divino disseminate dalla gelosia dell’Altro, ne sono gli indici più perspicui 32 .

Donc, l’utilisation de la lecture jonassienne du gnosticisme apparaît non seulement légitime, mais aussi fertile et plutôt solide afin d’interpréter la pensée et l’expérience d’Artaud, étant surtout utile pour reconnaitre dans la période en question (et pas seulement) l’irréductible fracture aliénante entre la condition mondaine et celle ultra-mondaine, et donc la profonde aversion ressentie pour la figure démiurgique elle-même. Toutefois, je crois important de s’interroger sur le lien que l’on pourrait établir entre Artaud et un gnosticisme dont la logique serait considérée comme plus profondément et spécifiquement chrétienne 33. 32.  U. A rtioli – F. Bartoli, Teatro e corpo glorioso. Saggio su Antonin Artaud, Milano, 1978, p. 199‑200. Dans le même contexte, en note, Artioli fait explicitement référence à Jonas à propos de l’imaginaire gnostique utile pour lire l’Artaud de la dernière période : « Sull’immaginario gnostico si veda il bel volume di H. Jonas , Lo gnosticismo, SEI, Torino 1973, con particolare riferimento al capitolo II, Immaginazione gnostica e linguaggio simbolico, p. 68‑115 ». 33.  L’arrière-plan de ma tentative de trouver le rôle que revêt le gnosticisme à la fin de la vie d’Artaud privilégie donc les interprétations qui insistent sur les origines et l’essence chrétiennes du dualisme gnostique : je me borne ici à citer S. P étrement, Le Dieu séparé. Les origines du gnosticisme, Paris, 1984 ; A.H.B. L ogan, Gnostic Truht and Christian Heresy : A Study in the History of Gnosticism, Peabody, 1996 ; G. L ettieri, Deus patiens. L’essenza cristologica dello gnosticismo, Roma, 1996. En particulier, après avoir mis en évidence, dans le sillage des recherches fondamentales de Manlio Simonetti, que les origines du phénomène gnostique sont à trouver exclusivement dans un contexte chrétien, Lettieri développe en effet davantage la question, en s’arrêtant sur les raisons intimes du lien entre le gnosticisme et le christianisme lui-même, entre les mythologies gnostiques et la découverte de leur racine dualiste dans l’activation d’un noyau de foi chrétien, défini par le « fatto storico della fede in Gesù di Nazareth compimento e al tempo stesso rivoluzionario superamento della religione ebraica », G. L ettieri, Deus patiens. L’essenza cristologica dello gnosticismo, Roma, 1996, p. 17. Je trouve utile de citer la définition avancée par Lettieri lui-même, lorsqu’il souligne le fait qu’il faille

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Toutefois, il n’est pas aisé de trouver les éléments d’un gnosticisme de ce genre, c’est-à-dire les aspects qui, dans le passage à travers le gnosticisme, peuvent être utiles pour explorer la transition de l’auteur, du catholicisme à la possibilité athéiste. De façon provisoire, on peut faire référence à certains indices gnostiques présents dans les écrits artaudiens de la période étudiée. Il me semble indubitable, en effet, qu’Artaud récupère l’idée d’avoir été jeté et donc la haine gnostique pour la divinité inférieure, ce Démiurge qui prend un rôle tout à fait central dans les écrits de cette période. Le Démiurge est en effet attaqué pour sa violence et pour son principe ordonnateur monothéiste, auquel Artaud le « gnostique » se trouve être paradoxalement soumis. Un tel aspect, cependant, est peut-être plus « simple » à retrouver dans les écrits artaudiens, puisqu’il est au fond le plus évident. Or, on peut le relier selon moi à une proposition de lecture plus spécifique, qui puisse prendre en compte chez Artaud l’identification profonde avec l’élément divin déchu et sujet à la violence démiurgique. De ce point de vue, donc, la récupération de la part de l’auteur d’une racine ontologiquement divine, de la homoousia avec le divin lui-même, en d’autres termes l’activation du processus qui culminera dans l’identification déjà citée avec Jésus, vient en effet se souder à la haine anti-démiurgique – qu’Artaud décline de façon obsessive dans ses écrits et qui sans doute conserve toute sa portée existentielle –, mais aussi, dans certains cas, au désir spéculaire de récupération d’un état de perfection perdue, interprété comme l’exigence d’un retour à Dieu. A ce propos, on peut citer les extraits suivants, dans lesquels au désir d’une appartenance renouvelée au Dieu supérieur se lie le trait pathique qui tient ensemble d’un côté la caractérisation d’Artaud comme victime violentée et d’un autre côté l’identification de l’élément douloureux, du « point de douleur », avec la possibilité même de « rentrer en Dieu » : Moi, homme – âme arrachée à Dieu par la méchanceté de l’être, j’ai voulu puisque les êtres n’avaient pas pitié de moi retrouver ce point de douleur qui me permettrait par la douleur de me détacher vraiment du vice inhérent de l’être et rentrer en Dieu. / La seule question qui se soit posée pour moi a été de condamner l’être par mon sacrifice à la douleur contre l’être et non pas de lui pardonner. Et tous les Anges sont comme moi. / Ma douleur ne m’est jamais venue que de mon refus de l’être et parce qu’à force de me déchirer sur l’être je finirais par revenir à Dieu  3 4 .

considérer le gnosticisme comme « un dualismo intrateologico, prima che antropologico o cosmologico, che radica nel Dio unico, trascendente, santo onnipotente del giudaismo la passione e l’impotenza dell’uomo, ovvero la caduta e il peccato, la morte e l’alienazione nel kenoma dell’errore e del male, dell’idolatria persino », G. L ettieri, Deus patiens. L’essenza cristologica dello gnosticismo, Roma, 1996, p. 16. 34.  A. A rtaud, Œuvres Complètes, t. XV, Paris, 1981, p. 62.

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Et encore : L’âme du pauvre Antonin est ce qui a été violenté et martyrisé par tous les êtres en dehors de quelques rares parce qu’il était bon, juste et qu’Il avait toujours cherché le Parfait 35 .

Pourtant – et selon moi c’est justement là que pourrait résider le potentiel problématiquement athéiste, parce que hyper-gnostique en étant hyperchristologique, mis en œuvre par Artaud ! – le trait qui ressort le plus chez l’auteur semble être non pas tant celui du désir de retour à un état de plénitude perdue, à récupérer à travers l’intervention d’une figure rédemptive, mais plutôt celui de l’acceptation profonde de l’homoousia avec le divin. Un divin, toutefois, qu’il faut concevoir gnostiquement seulement s’il est « christologiquement » caractérisé par une ambivalence : douloureux, pathique, kénotique d’un côté, mais d’un autre côté indubitablement (auto-)rédemptif. L’opération menée par Artaud, alors, réside donc selon moi dans l’acceptation de la double valeur du divin gnostique, entendu comme à la fois douloureux et salvateur. En outre, dans la perspective artaudienne ainsi prise en compte, progressivement et rapidement, n’importe quel horizon d’attente sotériologique qui impliquerait l’intervention d’une altérité, donc de la figure d’un Rédempteur, perd toute sa consistance. La catégorie de l’altérité semble en effet être conçue comme si elle coïncidait avec une instance accablante et une logique d’imposture. Artaud le gnostique, en reconnaissant sa propre identité divine, s’exhorte lui-même à se définir comme à la fois un sujet souffrant et rédemptif ou, mieux encore, auto-rédemptif. En ce sens, il serait possible pour l’auteur d’entamer un mouvement de tension athéiste. La possibilité athéiste présente chez Artaud, toutefois, ne comporte aucune renonciation au salut : il s’agit d’autre chose. Il faut en revanche nécessairement reconfigurer la notion de salut, puisqu’il faut la comprendre comme le devoir d’une perpétuelle réfection de soi. A ce propos, la précision de Derrida est lumineuse, quand il écrit : « Dressé contre Dieu, crispé contre l’œuvre, Artaud ne renonce pas au salut. La sotériologie sera l’eschatologie du corps propre » 36. En ce sens, pour ce que j’en lis, le passage gnostique viendrait se relier aux urgences thématiques typiques de l’Artaud des derniers temps. Selon cette hypothèse de travail, l’auteur pousserait donc l’intimité gnostique avec le divin à ses conséquences extrêmes. En d’autres termes, Artaud prendrait autant l’aspect déchu et douloureux – intimement lié, comme Sontag nous le rappelait, à la condition d’internement –, que celui rédemptif et salvateur, voyant ce deuxième rôle comme un devoir dont l’objet serait la réfection absolument autonome de sa propre anatomie. 35.  Ibidem, p. 76. 36.  J. Derrida, La parole soufflée, L’écriture et la différence, Paris, 1967, p. 273.

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Comme on aura l’occasion de le voir, bien que de façon sommaire, l’auteur attribuera petit à petit les traits typiques du démiurge que sont l’imposture et la furtivité, à Dieu le Père, à l’Esprit et au Fils lui-même. Voilà donc en quel sens, au sein de ce gnosticisme particulier, on peut creuser et entrevoir la même instance athéiste de l’auteur, qui, toujours plus intéressé à la récupération et à l’appropriation d’une identité divine à voir sous le signe de l’auto-nomie, l’auto-rédemption et l’auto-régénération, pourra ainsi récupérer un ultérieur aspect gnostique. Je fais en particulier référence à l’utilisation de la part d’Artaud d’un Jésus docétiste de caractère basilidien, d’un Jésus sans corps, qui rit de la douleur « irréelle » de celui qui meurt sur la croix à sa place, figure qui laissera apparaître par contraste celle d’un « homme » faisant appel à la complexe question artaudienne du corps. Je donne ici quelques résultats de ma recherche, mettant en évidence les principaux noyaux thématiques ainsi que les glissements que l’on peut trouver à l’intérieur des Cahiers en question. Voici quatre passages qui élaborent brièvement le décor dans lequel évolue l’écriture d’Artaud à cette période. Il faut voir la sélection des textes et la rapide lecture qui la ponctue comme la synthèse des principaux passages apparus grâce à l’analyse des textes complexes examinés. A. Le Démiurge : voleur de corps Le Démiurge qui apparaît de façon obsessive dans ces Cahiers est l’Autre, ennemi par excellence. Le Démiurge coïncide pleinement avec le faux dieu, défini tour à tour comme canaille, vampire, imposteur, parasite. La caractéristique fondamentale du Démiurge artaudien est d’être un voleur furtif du corps de l’homme. Le Démiurge est donc la représentation première et radicale de l’imposteur qui, n’ayant pas de corps, vient interrompre l’acte de naissance auto-génératif de l’homme lui-même. Ayant reconnu et souffert cette imposture, il s’agit alors pour Artaud d’engager une lutte antiparasitaire contre le faux dieu. A titre d’exemple, on peut lire le passage suivant, dans lequel le Démiurge est justement présenté comme complètement privé de corps. Cette privation est alors imposée au corps de l’homme, corps qu’Artaud définit déjà pendant ces années comme « mal réalisé » : […] le Démiurge révolté entre l’être et l’abîme de toute éternité a voulu lutter en se brûlant lui-même alors que lui-même n’était qu’un voleur de soi, et il l’était en soi-même (voir Lucifer), et que n’ayant pas encore réalisé le corps absolu du soi-même, et il ne le pouvait pas puisqu’il n’était pas soi, il a voulu imposer le même supplice d’absence à un corps mal réalisé mais où le soi s’était réalisé. – Et il ne fallait pas maintenir une seconde le soi dans ce corps mal réalisé ni l’y pousser dans le supplice d’un faux temps 37. 37.  A. A rtaud, Œuvres Complètes, t. XV, Paris, 1981, p. 159‑160.

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B. Démiurgisation du Père, de l’Esprit (et du Christ) Mais la caractéristique démiurgique est rapidement déplacée par Artaud vers le Dieu supérieur, le Père. Le dualisme théologique n’a pas long cours dans la structure des Cahiers en question. Mieux encore : le Démiurge est en effet une figure théologique, mais c’est aussi un nom que l’on peut juxtaposer ou substituer à celui du Dieu Père supérieur. Dans ce processus, Dieu/Père et Démiurge parviennent à se fondre l’un dans l’autre, remettant en question selon moi une lecture de la pensée d’Artaud qui enracine le gnosticisme de l’auteur dans une exclusive et oppressante présence démiurgique. L’enjeu semble être à la fois plus complexe et plus intéressant. C’est sans doute Derrida 38 qui parvient à saisir en profondeur un aspect du mécanisme dont il est question, en proposant une lecture synchronique de la logique artaudienne. Le philosophe voit dans la « complicité avec l’origine de l’œuvre » – et donc également avec celle du corps inauthentique – la raison de la proximité et de la superposition entre Dieu et Démiurge. Il convient de reporter ici au moins quelques passages de cet auteur : Depuis que j’ai rapport à mon corps, donc depuis ma naissance, je ne suis plus mon corps. Depuis que j’ai un corps, je ne le suis pas, donc je ne l’ai pas. Cette privation institue et instruit mon rapport à ma vie. Mon corps m’a donc été volé depuis toujours. Qui a pu le voler sinon un Autre […] ? […] Dieu est donc le nom propre de ce qui nous prive de notre propre nature, de notre propre naissance et qui par la suite, à la dérobée, aura toujours parlé avant nous. Il est la différence qui s’insinue comme ma mort entre moi et moi 39. C’est peut-être à cause de sa complicité avec l’origine de l’œuvre qu’Artaud appelle aussi Dieu le Démiurge. Il s’agit là d’une métonymie du nom de Dieu […]. En tout cas Dieu-Démiurge ne crée pas, il n’est pas la vie, il est le sujet des œuvres et de manœuvres, le voleur, le trompeur, le faussaire,

38.  Qu’on lise également Artioli, qui reconnaissait en plusieurs points la portée herméneutique de la proposition derridienne : « È Dio il falso essere, l’essere del raggiro, colui che dissimulando la propria vacuità dietro la sedicente pienezza dello spirito, ha disseccato il ‘limo’ vitale per distillarne un nutrimento indispensabile alla propria esistenza di vampiro. […] Lo spirito non è più il principio attivante, il soffio cosmico che circola nell’uomo come nella natura, ma il Doppio che infetta la vita, lo Spossessatore per la cui identificazione tutto un glossario si richiede in cui la voracità del suggere si coniughi con l’ottusità dell’imitare. / Vampiro, eco, scimmia, topo, cimice, piovra, mimo, spia, sono gli attributi del dio […] », U. A rtioli – F. Bartoli, Teatro e corpo glorioso. Saggio su Antonin Artaud, Milano, 1978, p. 201. 39.  J. Derrida, La parole soufflée, L’écriture et la différence, Paris, 1967, p. 268‑270.

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le pseudonyme, l’usurpateur, le contraire de l’artiste créateur, l’être-artisan, l’être de l’artifice : Satan. Je suis Dieu et Dieu est Satan […]  4 0.

La contagion démiurgique que l’on rencontre dans les écrits dont il est ici question pénètre alors au sein même de la Trinité : Dieu le Père prend les traits du faussaire 41. Dans le fragment artaudien suivant, à côté du mécanisme de fusion entre Dieu et Démiurge, apparaît un mouvement simultané d’identification du réel principe divin non pas avec le Père, mais bien avec le Christ : C’est très dur, mais votre père à tous a péché en vous faisant croire qu’il était votre Père, alors qu’il n’y a pas de Dieu mais le christ 42 .

La déstructuration trinitaire peut alors être connectée à ce que l’on a remarqué au sujet de l’Irlande : en effet, de la même manière que pendant ce voyage, Père et Esprit sont radicalement opposés à Jésus-Christ. A travers l’attribution de la caractéristique de l’imposture aux deux Personnes émerge une possibilité christique de rémission, qui toutefois, dans certains cas, empêche Christ lui-même d’exercer sa fonction rédemptrice. Au moment où le Christ est « aspiré » par l’abstraite machine trinitaire, littéralement et de façon cohérente, il perd son corps, devenant de fait à son tour inclus dans la même altérité démiurgique. Artaud écrit : Il n’aurait pas fallu donner à l’être quoi que ce soit, surtout pas d’exister sans moi. C’est la Sainte Trinité qui est la cause de tout péché – le Père et l’Esprit en se déclarant des personnes ont tué le Christ. Car le fournisseur de la Puissance n’a pas pu se reconstituer assez tôt pour ne pas être mangé 43.

Puis au sujet de l’Esprit  4 4 , Artaud ne saurait être plus clair. La troisième Personne est pleinement impliquée dans le processus de contagion démiurgique. Afin de pouvoir le reconstruire, le corps que recherche Artaud, bien qu’il soit défini éternel, est en tout cas toujours corps et non esprit : 40.  Ibidem, p. 271. 41.  « Dans les lettres d’Irlande, cette fracture passe entre le Père et le Fils : le Christ y est exalté comme le « Fils rebelle » en lutte contre le Père. Dans les écrits de Rodez, la figure du Père apparaît elle-même divisée, scindée entre un Dieu lointain, absent, et un faux dieu désigné comme le Démiurge, l’Antéchrist ou Satan », J. Rogozinski, Guérir la vie. La Passion d ’Antonin Artaud, Paris, p. 105. Bien qu’il révèle le passage significatif accompli par Artaud de l’Irlande à Rodez, il me semble que Rogozinski ne prend pas en considération la note fondamentale de Derrida qui n’annule pas ce que Rogozinski lui-même suggère, mais qui structure de façon plus complexe le mouvement artaudien, en le définissant dans le déplacement des processus de scission et de fracture du divin. 42.  A. A rtaud, Œuvres Complètes, t. XV, Paris, 1981, p. 144. 43.  Ibidem, p. 238. 44.  « Toujours la croix ! / Ceci contre le Saint-Esprit », A. A rtaud, Œuvres Complètes, t. XV, Paris, 1981, p. 245.

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Je ne veux pas des esprits saints. Le corps éternel est toujours corps et non esprit 45.

C. Le « petit christ » A la lecture des Cahiers il apparaît donc que la figure du Christ – bien que parfois incluse dans le processus de démiurgisation et au fond d’abstraction trinitaire qui, comme on l’a vu, implique principalement le Père et l’Esprit – constitue un puissant principe de résistance, qui trouve dans le corps incarné, petit, humble, ignorant et douloureux, sa propre caractéristique distinctive et inaliénable. La souffrance du corps humain, à laquelle le Père, l’Esprit et n’importe quelle image idéale et désincarnée de Jésus se soustraient, institue alors la vraie discrimination entre une identité authentiquement divine et tout ce que l’on attribue à une fausse divinité à présent presque entièrement démasquée. Le fait qu’Artaud se concentre sur la souffrance, bien que profondément lié à la biographie du poète, isole progressivement le Christ du milieu trinitaire, l’opposant aux usurpations commises autant par le Démiurge/Dieu/Père que par l’Esprit. Artaud peut donc identifier dans le petit corps, douloureux et kénotique l’authentique principe divin, qui constituera ensuite le point de départ du processus auto-rédempteur. Observons les fragments suivants : […] le tout petit être christ est supérieur à l’infini de Dieu  4 6. Mais le christ n’est pas une idée d’esprit qui en esprit règne au-dessus des choses et veut la Sainteté hors de l’être qui est corps mais un fait manifesté par un corps 47. Dieu le Père Tout-Puissant et Créateur n’a pas voulu se rendre au corps qui est le christ et il a mieux aimé que ce corps sombre dans le Mal et faire venir le Mal sur la douleur âme de ce corps que de reconnaître que c’était ce christ ignorant qui était Dieu et non Lui l’Intelligence souveraine de tout 48. L’unique satisfaction de Dieu l’Esprit, faire venir le mal sur moi […] 49.

D. Le Jésus d’Artaud Le « petit christ », principe corporel de résistance aux usurpations paternelles et spirituelles, marque la sortie du Christ du milieu trinitaire mais également la possibilité d’établir l’identification d’Artaud au Christ luimême. L’auteur en effet élabore des textes qui d’un côté mettent en évi45.  A. A rtaud, Œuvres Complètes, t. XV, Paris, 1981, p. 186. 46.  Ibidem, p. 131. 47.  Ibidem, p. 246‑247. 48.  Ibidem, p. 119‑120. 49.  Ibidem, p. 191.

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dence sa progressive assimilation à un Jésus kénotique, alors que d’un autre côté, ils continuent à démiurgiser, vider et dénoncer l’imposture qui demeure dans une nature divine du Fils conçue comme absente, distante et donc trompeuse. En tant qu’image idéale, extérieure, autre, donc oppressante, à opposer à la présence, au fait du corps, du corps douloureux, il faut donc démasquer pleinement et définitivement le « Jésus-Christ Eternel ». En ce sens, il faut selon moi considérer l’acceptation progressive de l’identité christique de la part d’Artaud comme le résultat et de la démiurgisation établie de toute la machine trinitaire et de l’absorption de la part de l’auteur de la caractéristique divine ambivalente – qui n’est gnostique que parce qu’elle est christologique : Que Jésus-Christ Antonin Artaud forme un corps contre l’image idéale !!! de Jésus-christ Éternel puisque lui, Artaud est dans le temps 50.

Ainsi, un élément qui dans ces écrits artaudiens marque et enrichit le travail d’acceptation de l’identité de Jésus consiste en l’élaboration du souvenir de sa propre passion : non plus (ou non seulement) celle de l’internement, mais celle du Golgotha. Le sens possible d’une telle élaboration peut être saisi dans l’acceptation de la part d’Artaud aussi bien de la figure/ du rôle de la victime douloureuse que, comme on le verra, de celui du rédempteur ou, mieux encore, de l’auto-rédempteur : Je me suis souvenu un jour, moi, Antonin Artaud, d’avoir été crucifié et je me suis dit : Tiens, mais je suis au Golgotha. Je pends. – Et j’ai vécu aussi l’ensevelissement avec d’épouvantables angoisses qui s’oublient 51.

III. A rtaud d ’u n

et

J é sus  :

su r l a pos si bi l i t é

at h é i sm e a rtaudi e n

Plusieurs fois, au cours de ce texte, on a fait référence à la possibilité athéiste présente chez Artaud à la fin de sa vie. De ce point de vue, les écrits qui vont d’avril 1945 à la mort de l’auteur constituent une source complexe, ambiguë, traversée par des questions multiples et importantes. Dans la perspective qui nous concerne, la trajectoire athéiste définie dans la section précédente comme le troisième mouvement déjà commencé à Rodez, il s’agit maintenant de présenter certaines problématiques mais également de fournir des précisions. Le fait d’avoir proposé une caractérisation spécifiquement chrétienne du gnosticisme artaudien, en d’autres termes d’avoir indiqué comme intuition possible des spéculations gnostiques de l’auteur cette même acceptation d’une identité divine à la fois déchue et rachetée, kénotique et salvatrice, se 50.  Ibidem, p. 188. 51.  Ibidem, p. 283.

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lie bien à l’assimilation successive de la part d’Artaud de cette même identité jésuienne, qui chez lui viendra moduler de façon évidente les thèmes de la souffrance, de la persécution, du martyre voire de la falsification. Il paraît donc difficile de matérialiser un athéisme artaudien qui soit compris comme une sortie des grilles ou de la cage chrétiennes, qui continuent à transparaitre de façon significative dans la pensée et l’écriture de l’auteur. En l’état actuel de mes recherches, je retiens que dans les dernières élaborations de l’auteur, on trouve des tentatives constantes qui, bien qu’elles aient comme telos un véritable athéisme 52 , continuent à dépendre d’un noyau dur chrétien, dont les court-circuits sont continuellement réactivés. Selon cette perspective, donc, l’acceptation de l’identité jésuienne constitue un élément qui renforce l’idée d’un Artaud perpétuellement capturé à l’intérieur d’un réseau symbolique et de logiques de caractère chrétien. Je crois donc nécessaire de voir une continuité entre l’élaboration du souvenir de la crucifixion, la nécessité de la réélaboration autobiographique et le projet de rédaction d’une « vraie » histoire de Jésus Christ. En ce qui concerne le premier aspect, celui de l’élaboration du souvenir, dont les multiples facettes et variantes abondent dans les derniers écrits d’Artaud, on peut faire au moins référence à certains passages de la magnifique lettre écrite (et jamais envoyée) à Henri Parisot le 6 décembre 1945 53  : Cher ami, le recueil de mes lettes de Rodez était clos avec la dernière, mais l’histoire de ma vie n’y était pas entièrement close et en voici le postscriptum. / Les souvenirs de ma vie éternelle ne remontent pas seulement à cette existence-ci mais à quelques autres. Et si dans cette vie-ci je suis passé par Marseille, Smyrne, Lyon, Lourdes, Paris, Rome, Berlin, Mexico, Bruxelles, Dublin, Le Havre, Rouen et Rodez, j’ai passé il y a deux mille ans par Nazareth et Jérusalem où j’ai vécu quelques années. […] Je ne peux m’étendre plus longuement sur tout cela car le temps presse, […] mais j’ai retrouvé hier avec horreur un dernier souvenir de ma vie à Jérusalem il y a deux mille ans. – Je sais que je m’appelais déjà Mr Artaud, que tout le monde m’y prenait pour un innocent et un fada, m’accusait d’avoir des 52.  Au sujet de l’impossibilité de parler d’athéisme à propos d’Artaud à la fin de sa vie, on peut faire référence à l’un des derniers textes de Derrida : « Ce qui est saisissant en effet chez Artaud, dans ce corps à corps avec ce qu’il appelle ‘dieu’, c’est qu’il n’y a pas simplement un discours de plus sur la mort de Dieu, une théologie ou une athéologie. Il y a une mise en œuvre et une mise en acte par l’écriture, non pas d’une mort de Dieu, mais d’une mise à mort interminable de Dieu, ce qui suppose un Dieu beaucoup plus persécuteur finalement qu’il ne l’est pour les croyants ou pour les athées. Je crois qu’Artaud n’était ni athée ni croyant. Il avait des comptes à rendre avec ce qu’il appelle ‘dieu’ et auquel on peut trouver toutes sortes de substituts métonymiques », J. Derrida, « La voix, d’Artaud (la force, la forme, la forge) », Le Magazine Littéraire 434 (2004), p. 36. 53.  A. A rtaud, Être christ n’est pas être Jésus-Christ, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 1560.

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voix, de déclamer et de chanter tout haut, de parler seul, et parce que j’écrivais et déclamais des poèmes d’être un oisif et un bon à rien. […] La Judée et spécialement Jérusalem étaient en ce temps-là infestées par des magiciens et des sorciers qui tous ne cessaient de me harceler pour me prendre les dernières forces qui me restaient, à moi qui étais sans domicile, et mangeais quand je le pouvais c’est-à-dire presque jamais. […] Quoi qu’il en soit la police et les rabbins de ce temps décidèrent un jour de se débarrasser de moi et me firent arrêter une nuit dans un jardin planté d’oliviers […]. Je passai en jugement, mais bien que par un certain Ponce Pilate reconnu innocent de tout crime, le peuple immense de l’imbécillité se souleva pour exiger que je sois crucifié. Je me souviens d’un local où, assis sur un escabeau, il me fut sur la tête planté une couronne d’épines […]. Et sur le seuil de la porte ouverte au soleil de l’après-midi toute la populace passa me couvrir de crachats, me souffleter et m’insulter. Je me souviens aussi du supplice ignoble du crucifiement en un lieu nommé Golgotha et du cri qui m’enleva les entrailles lorsque la croix fut redressée et plantée, et que tout mon corps d’un coup plongea vers la terre sous les clous qui le retenaient par les mains et par les pieds. – Je vous passe les détails de tout ce qui suivit jusqu’au milieu de l’après-midi. / Mais mort, mon cadavre fut jeté au fumier et je me souviens alors d’y avoir macéré je ne sais combien de jours ou combien d’heures dans l’attente de me réveiller. Car je ne sus pas du tout d’abord que j’étais mort et il me fallut me décider à le comprendre pour parvenir à me soulever. […] Mais me sentir les mains crevées et sanglantes et le corps puant, et le visage asséché de fiente sur mon cadavre qui se survivait me donna une telle horreur de mon état et des choses qu’un tremblement de furie m’emporta, un séisme qui me fit tout renverser, et l’on se battit plus d’un jour en Judée. – Sera-ce cette fois-ci à Rodez la même chose ? 54 .

Il est évident à quel point l’élaboration de ce souvenir, intimement liée à l’exigence de sa propre réélaboration autobiographique, peut être relié à la lecture de certains textes rédigés après l’internement en 1947, ainsi que du dernier recueil qui a donné naissance à Suppôts et Suppliciations. Je signale trois textes en particulier : L’histoire vraie de Jésus-Christ, Je crache sur le christ inné et Être christ n’est pas être Jésus-christ. Or, les écrits en question, en renouvelant la critique profonde et blasphématoire du catholicisme – rendue toujours plus aigüe par une violence anticléricale devenue typique –, sont traversés par la recherche d’un Jésus authentique, avec lequel Artaud lui-même s’identifie. La question est alors, encore une fois, celle du lien entre une possible poussée athéiste d’un côté, et une dette envers les modèles jésuiens de l’autre, au point où l’on pourrait proposer la formule paradoxale d’un athéisme hyper-jésuien. 54.  A. A rtaud, À  Henri Parisot, Œuvres Complètes, t. XIV*, Paris, 1978, p. 70‑73.

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Par rapport à certaines modalités qui, dans les textes de l’auteur, structurent la question, il faut noter que dans Être christ n’est pas être Jésuschrist (septembre 1947) c’est le nom de Jésus-Christ qui est mis en accusation : un nom à évacuer puisqu’il coïncide totalement avec celui de l’imposture la plus obscène : […] la lope répugnante de la bête innée / de chacun / et de la chatte / de tous les êtres / ne va pas continuer à nous envoûter / sous le nom ignoble et pédérastique de / Jésus-Christ / sorti il y a 2 mille ans de tous les bas égouts de Jérusalem / et répandu depuis universellement / en dérision de toute haute spiritualité possible, / de toute science / de tout homme fait. / Car Jésuschrist est le nom obscène de la poupée impie, / du vampire animé […] 55.

L’accusation portée au nom de « Jésus-Christ » doit selon moi être reliée aux notes de Derrida auxquelles on a fait référence dans la précédente section. Ce que l’on a défini comme processus de démiurgisation du Père reposait en effet sur le fait même que pour Artaud le nom « Dieu » est à considérer comme le nom même de l’imposture et du vol. Une logique analogue est alors appliquée dans ce cas au nom de « Jésus-Christ ». Dans Je crache sur le christ inné (fin août 1947) prend corps cette libre utilisation d’un élément gnostique docétiste déjà mentionné plus haut. A travers le docétisme, l’auteur cherche à démasquer Jésus. Dans ce cas, la référence implicite au Simon de Cyrène de la tradition basilidienne, qu’Artaud aurait connu selon moi au moins à travers Irénée 56 et De Faye 57, marque l’acceptation effective de « l’authentique identité jésuienne » de la part d’Artaud. L’auteur fait référence dans ce contexte à « un autre type », « une espèce d’inconnu », « un humoriste incrédule », « homme » crucifié à la place de Jésus, qui, en revanche, se soustrait aux souffrances de la croix. Il est évident que la souffrance corporelle reste le critère qui matérialise l’identité divine. En relation directe avec ce qui se passait à Rodez dans certains cas 58, le texte en question rejette encore une fois l’idée d’un 55.  A. A rtaud, Être christ n’est pas être Jésus-christ, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 1560. 56.  Irénée, Adversus Haereses I 24, 4 : « […] Quapropter neque passum eum, sed Simonem quendam Cyrenaeum angariatum portasse crucem eius pro eo : et hunc secundum ignorantiam et errorem crucifixum, transfiguratum ab eo, uti putaretur ipse esse Iesus : et ipsum autem Iesum Simonis accepisse formam, et stantem irrisisse eos. Quoniam enim Virtus incorporalis erat et Nus innati Patris, transfiguratum quemadmodum vellet, et sic ascendisse ad eum, qui miserat eum, deridentem eos, cum teneri non posset et invisibilis esset omnibus », M. Simonetti, Testi gno­ stici in lingua greca e latina, Milano, 1993, p. 150. 57.  « Le Christ, venu du Dieu suprême, n’avait eu qu’un semblant de corps. Il n’avait pas été réellement crucifié. Au dernier moment il s’était substitué à lui-même Simon de Cyrène », E. de Faye , Gnostiques et Gnosticisme, Paris, 1913, p. 34. 58.  « Jésus-Christ est une émanation, un pou d’idiotie concrétisé en être », A. A rtaud, Œuvres Complètes, t. XIX, Paris, 1990, p. 62. « J’ai toujours été au

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Christ qui n’aurait pas souffert, et identifie également des éléments propres au sujet soumis à la persécution (donc à Artaud lui-même) : En tout cas ce qui subsiste de toute cette histoire chrétienne / est que Jésus-christ / […] a peut-être finalement fondé un culte / le culte du dieu / qui monte tout à coup ou qui descend / mais il ne l’a pas fondé avec son sang. – Car lorsqu’il a senti / l’atmosphère de Jérusalem par trop dangereuse pour lui / il n’est pas resté à attendre les soldats qui auraient pu venir le chercher, / mais il s’est empressé de foutre le camp. / Et c’est un autre type, / un espèce d’inconnu, / beaucoup plus que lui / rebuté par les prêtres qui est mort / sur la croix, / non par hasard d’ailleurs, / mais pour la défense de ses idées. […] Cet homme était un humoriste incrédule / qui disait que la mort n’existait pas, / ni les esprits / ni dieu / et qu’il n’y avait que l’homme / un homme / qui avait fait toutes les choses / non comme des esprits qui se matérialisent ou s’incarnent / mais des corps qui révèlent tout à coup leur état de corps, / leur présence objective rassurante / sans arrièrefonds où la mauvaise conscience puisse / derrière les choses se nicher 59.

Le sujet soumis à la persécution, au martyre, à la crucifixion est le « suppôt » au centre de l’abyssal Suppôts et Suppliciations déjà évoqué, œuvre posthume publiée en 1978. Dans la troisième section du recueil – Interjections – on peut trouver de nouvelles pistes de recherche. D’un côté, en effet, Artaud continue à élaborer son existence de persécuté et de supplicié selon le modèle de la passion jésuienne : il faut alors noter la réminiscence de structures symbolico-narratives christocentriques. D’un autre côté, je crois que ces écrits peuvent restituer la complexe tension athéiste présente chez l’auteur, qui passe à travers la réfection autonome du corps. A titre d’exemple, on peut lire le passage suivant, qui peut aider à présenter l’ambiguïté que l’on cherche à trouver : Ainsi donc c’est en prévention d’être dieu / que moi, / Antonin Artaud, / ai été martyrisé pendant des siècles, / et comme étant justement cet homme, et l’homme qui n’avait jamais voulu de dieu, et que toutes les églises ont toujours persécuté pour lui extirper son athéisme […]. C’est en prévention d’être dieu que j’ai été un peu partout persécuté comme homme à travers toute ma vie, / ici /, mais je ne l’ai su que fort peu de temps avant le début de mon internement, / que c’était parce que tous les hommes me croyaient, moi, être cet homme, / me soupçonnaient d’être ce corps, / m’avaient repéré comme étant ce corps d’homme d’où toute la vie était sortie […] 60.

sommet de la douleur, j’y suis à chaque minute depuis toujours et la douleur augmentera toujours. / Le christ est ce qui m’a toujours le plus perdu l’idée d’une chose sans l’avoir vécue et expérimentée […] », A. A rtaud, Œuvres Complètes, t. XIX, Paris, 1990, p. 122. 59.  A. A rtaud, Je crache sur le christ inné, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 1558. 60.  A. A rtaud, Suppôts et Suppliciations, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 1415.

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Je crois alors qu’autour de la question de la reconstruction du corps se joue la possibilité même de l’athéisme artaudien. On peut se souvenir de ce que suggère Derrida : « Dressé contre Dieu, crispé contre l’œuvre, Artaud ne renonce pas au salut. La sotériologie sera l’eschatologie du corps propre ». Après avoir survécu à neuf années d’internement, Artaud se concentre en effet sur la question de la guérison d’un corps malade car infesté par l’altérité oppressante. La poussée est forte, alors, vers l’affirmation et la construction d’un corps unique 61, vivant, qui ne laisse aucun espace à cette altérité violente, persécutrice, spirituelle, intrusive et légiférante dont l’auteur cherche encore à se libérer : Le corps humain n’est jamais achevé. / C’est lui qui parle, lui qui frappe, / lui qui marche, / lui qui vit. / Où est l’esprit, qui l’a jamais vu / sauf pour le faire croire, / à vous le corps? Il est devant le corps, / autour de lui, / comme une bête, / une maladie. / Ainsi donc le corps est un état illimité qui a besoin qu’on le préserve, qu’on préserve son infini. / Et le théâtre était fait pour cela. Pour mettre le corps en état d’action / active / efficace, / effective, pour faire rendre au corps son registre organique entier / dans le dynamisme et l’harmonie. / Pour ne faire oublier au corps qu’il est de la dynamite en activité. […] Machine force éructante de feux, / le corps premier ne connaît rien / ni famille ni société, ni père ni mère, ni genèse hantée / par les sbires des institutions / des entités. – Il ne connaît rien. / Il éructe. / Des poings. / Des pieds. / De la langue. Des dents. / C’est un barattement / de squelettes barbares / sans fin ni commencement / un effroyable concassement ardent. Et c’est cela le Théâtre de la Cruauté 62 .

La reconstruction inédite de ce corps, qui selon le parcours suivi ici répond à une exigence auto-sotériologique, peut être placée dans la même urgence de refondation d’une pratique théâtrale qui est le lieu privilégié de la reconstruction anatomique. C’est donc encore une fois sur scène 63 – dans ce cas sur la page qui lie écriture, rythme, dessin – qu’Artaud élabore sa propre tension athéiste. 61.  « Et non comme dieu, / mais comme étant, moi, / ce corps unique, / d’où tout, / même dieu, fut sorti, / que j’ai été violé à vie […] », A. A rtaud, Suppôts et Suppliciations, Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 1414. 62.  A. A rtaud, [Le corps humain], Œuvres, Paris, 2004, p. 1518‑1519. 63.  On peut citer Derrida, quand à propos du Théâtre de la Cruauté d’Artaud dans les années trente, il réfléchissait sur la possibilité de l’athéisme théâtral : « Mais le théâtre ainsi décolonisé ne succombera-t-il pas sous sa propre cruauté ? Résisterat-il à son propre danger ? Libéré de la diction, soustrait à la dictature du texte, l’athéisme théâtral ne sera-t-il pas livré à l’anarchie improvisatrice et à l’inspiration capricieuse de l’acteur ? Un autre assujettissement ne se prépare-t-il pas ? Un autre dérobement du langage dans l’arbitraire et l’irresponsabilité ? Pour parer à ce danger qui intestinement menace le danger lui-même, Artaud, par un étrange mouvement, informe le langage de la cruauté dans une nouvelle écriture : la plus rigoureuse, la plus impérieuse, la plus réglée, la plus mathématique, la plus formelle », J. Derrida, La parole soufflée. L’écriture et la différence, Paris, 1967, p. 285‑286.

CONTENTS Mauro Pesce Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Part  I Texts and Groups Dating Early Christian Texts Markus Vinzent Marcion of Sinope and the Synoptic Question . . . . . . . . 27 Claudio Gianotto Redating Early Christian Texts. A propos de deux nouvelles    hypothèses pour la datation des évangiles canonisés . . . . 63 Historical Jesus Facundo Daniel Troche Fishing in the Lake of Galilee and the Socio-Economic Context    of Jesus’ Movement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 Simone Paganini Historischer Jesus und eschatologischer Messias. Bemerkungen zu    4Q521 und Lk 7,22 (//Mt 11,5) . . . . . . . . . . . 109 Federico A dinolfi Una redazione piena di memoria. L’indispensabile contributo    di Mt 21,31c-32 alla conoscenza storica di Gesù e Giovanni   il Battista . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 Early Texts of Jesus’ Followers and Their Groups Luigi Walt Vernacular Reve(i)lations: Paul and the Veil Controversy in   Corinth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 Mauro Belcastro Conflits d’intention: Paul, 1 Corinthiens et la pratique de     l’ἐκκλησία . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 Mara R escio A Little Lesson in Faith and Prayer: The Sayings Cluster of Mark   11:22‑25 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193

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Andrea A nnese The Temple in the Gospel of Thomas. An Interpretive Perspective    on Some Words Attributed to Jesus . . . . . . . . . . 227 Giulio Michelini The Gospel of Matthew and the Gospel of John: Intertextual    Connections in three Case Studies (Matt 27:49 // John    19:34; Matt 27:55‑56 // John 19:25‑27; Matt 5:32 // John   7:53-8:11) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 Carlo Broccardo Pantheist, Equilibrist, Opportunist? Luke and the Spirituality of    the Gentiles in Acts 17:16‑34 . . . . . . . . . . . . 269 Cora Presezzi Vasi e concubine. Tracce di un conflitto tra carismi in Samaria    secondo Gv 4,7‑30 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293 Francesco Berno Inauguratio quaedam dividendae doctrinae Valentini: Incon  ­sistencies about Valentinianism’s Split into duae cathedrae   between Adversus Valentinianos and De Carne Christi . . . 317 Religious Practices Luca A rcari Visionary Experiences and Communication in the Revelation of    John. Between Selective Memories and Individual Authority . 337 Daniele Tripaldi Lots, Cups, and Ecstasy: Towards a Reconstruction of the    “Thiasoi” of Marcus, Disciple of Valentinus . . . . . . . 361 Maria Dell’Isola Montanism and Ecstasy: The Case of Theodotus’ Death (Eus.   HE V,16,14‑15) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 377 Laura Carnevale Et de caseo quod mulgebat dedit mihi quasi buccellam. On    Charismatic Power, Prophetic Authority and Ritual Practice    in Perpetua’s First Vision . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 395 Carmine Pisano The Visionary’s Body as a Dialectical Space of Tradition. The    Case of the Pythia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 413

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Donatella Tronca Dancing in Ancient Christianity: Initial Research . . . . . . . 433 History of the Jews and Judaism in the Roman-Hellenistic Period Dario Garribba Il 70 d.C. come spartiacque della storia giudaica . . . . . . . 451 Marco Vitelli Le immagini di Gesù e Giacomo nelle Antiquitates Iudaicae.    Un’ipotesi storica sulla loro genesi . . . . . . . . . . . 465 Laura C. Paladino Acta Alexandrinorum. Documenti sull’ebraismo egiziano in età   imperiale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 487 Maurizio M archeselli Daniel Boyarin sur l’origine du judaïsme et du christianisme . . . 507 Part  II. Anthropology, Methodologies and Modern Historical Perspectives Anthropology of Religious Forms and Identities Adriana Destro Narrating the Execution of Jesus. Followers, Buriers and Witnesses    Confronting the Violent Death of the Leader . . . . . . 539 Zelda Alice Franceschi Testimonios as Autobiography. Daily Life and Beliefs among the    Wichí in the Argentine Chaco . . . . . . . . . . . . 577 Maria Chiara Giorda Contemporary Monastic Studies. First Sketches on Two Case    Studies: Dominus Tecum and Notre-Dame . . . . . . . 613 Francesca Sbardella Objects Tell Another Story. Gifts Given to the Monastery in Fara    in Sabina by Cardinal Barberini . . . . . . . . . . . 625 Methodological Questions about the Birth of Christianity Fabrizio Vecoli La comparaison peut-elle servir à l’histoire? Réflexions métho­   dologiques à partir de Drudgery Divine de Jonathan   Z. Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 651

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Emiliano Rubens Urciuoli Religious Vicissitudes of Political Desires. A Bourdieu-Driven    Approach to Early Christian Political Subjectivation . . . . 667 Archaeology and Christian Origins Carlo Carletti Origin of Christians’ Epigraphy: an Integration between Different   Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 695 Paola De Santis Committenze e funzionalità di un “immaginario figurativo”   protocristiano . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 717 Antonio Enrico Felle Documenti epigrafici di committenza ebraica. Omologazione e   alterità . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 741 Maria A modio Tracce archeologiche dei primi credenti in Cristo a Neapolis: le    pitture delle catacombe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 769 History of the Modern Research on the Historical Figure of Jesus Mauro Pesce The History of Research on the Historical Jesus before Reimarus . 793 Miriam Benfatto Il Gesù del Ḥizzuk Emunah. Fra ricostruzione critica e costruzione   polemica . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 807 Franco Motta A Tale of History, Dogma, and Tradition. Jesus in Caesar   Baronius’ Annales ecclesiastici (c. 1560‑1588) . . . . . . . 829 Pina Totaro Continuity and Discontinuity in Spinoza’s Approach to the   Historical Jesus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 855 Alessandro Santagata Sur la continuité de la « crise moderniste » : de la Lamentabili à    la lettre d’Ottaviani sur les erreurs post-conciliaires . . . . 879 Raffaella Cavallaro Le Jésus d’Antonin Artaud . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 889