New Testament Studies, Volume 55, Number 4 (October 2009)

0028–6885 | volume 55 | number 4 | october 2009

NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES Published quarterly in association with studiorum novi testamenti societas

NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES

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EDITOR OF NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES J. M. G. Barclay (Durham, England) Editorial Board K. Backhaus (München, Germany) S. Byrskog (Lund, Sweden) E. Cuvillier (Montpellier, France) I. Dunderberg (Helsinki, Finland ) J. Fitzgerald (Miami, FL, USA) C. Gerber (Hamburg, Germany) J. Green (Pasadena, CA, USA) J. Herzer (Leipzig, Germany) J. J. Kanagaraj (Bethel Bible Institute, Danishpet, India) C. Karkolis (Athens, Greece) L. M. McDonald (Arizona, USA) M. MacDonald (Antigonish Nova Scotia, Canada) A. Reinhartz (Ottawa, Canada) D. Sim (Melbourne, Australia) G. Steyn (Pretoria, South Africa) F. Tolmie (Bloemfontein, South Africa) P. Trebilco (Otago, New Zealand) H. van de Sandt (Tilburg, The Netherlands)

EDITOR OF THE SNTS MONOGRAPH SERIES J. M. Court (Canterbury, England) THE OFFICERS OF THE SOCIETY ex officio: President of the Society for 2009–2010: A. Lindemann, (Bielefeld, Germany) Past-President : A.B. Du Toit, (Pretoria, South Africa) President-Elect : A. Yarbro Collins, (Yale, CT, USA) Deputy President-Elect: A. Puig I Tàrrach (La Selva del Camp, Catalonia, Spain) Secretary : M. de Boer, (Amsterdam, Netherlands) Assistant Secretary : R. A. Piper, (St Andrews, Scotland) Treasurer : H. K. Bond, (Edinburgh, Scotland) For further information on the Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas, please look at the website at https://www.surfgroepen.nl/sites/snts

New Testament Studies is an international peer-reviewed periodical whose contributors comprise the leading New Testament scholars writing in the world today. The journal publishes original articles and short studies in English, French and German on a wide range of issues pertaining to the origins, history and theology of the New Testament and early Christianity. All contributions represent research at the cutting edge of the discipline which has developed a wide range of methods in recent years. The periodical embraces exegetical, historical, literary-critical, sociological, theological and other approaches to the New Testament, including studies in its history of interpretation and effects. Published under the auspices of Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas

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© Cambridge University Press 2009

New Test. Stud. , pp. –. Printed in the United Kingdom ©  Cambridge University Press doi:10.1017/S0028688509990026

Q as Hypothesis: A Study in Methodology F RAN C I S WAT S O N Department of Theology and Religion, Durham University, Abbey House, Palace Green, Durham DH1 3RS, UK. email: [email protected]

Arguments for the Q hypothesis have changed little since B. H. Streeter. The purpose of this article is not to advocate an alternative hypothesis but to argue that, if the Q hypothesis is to be sustained, the unlikelihood of Luke’s dependence on Matthew must be demonstrated by a systematic and comprehensive reconstruction of the redactional procedures entailed in the two hypotheses. The Q hypothesis will have been verified if (and only if) it generates a more plausible account of the Matthean and Lukan redaction of Mark and Q than the corresponding account of Luke’s use of Mark and Matthew. Keywords: Q, synoptic problem, source criticism, two source hypothesis

Q has a secure place within an account of synoptic origins that established itself in the later nineteenth century, and that has remained dominant ever since. If Q is a ‘hypothesis’, so too is Markan priority. If we are to dispense with modern scholarly hypotheses, we would have to rethink the gospels in purely ahistorical, synchronic terms, as parallel texts whose interrelationship should not be further investigated. That would be to revert not only to a pre-Enlightenment but also to a pre-Augustinian perspective. For Q to be a hypothesis is not in itself a problem. Reminders of Q’s hypothetical status are usually intended as warnings not to proceed as though Q were an established fact, a newly discovered document of  ‘Narrative criticism’ does not characteristically claim that synoptic interrelations should not be investigated at all—only that source-critical investigation should not be made foundational for all other forms of gospel scholarship.  Augustine is usually credited with the view that Mark was dependent on Matthew as his ‘follower and summarizer’ ( pedisequus et breviator)—the so-called ‘Augustinian hypothesis’. In fact, Augustine changed his mind in the course of writing De Consensu Evangelistarum, concluding that Mark was more probably dependent on both Matthew and Luke, and thereby anticipating the so-called ‘Griesbach hypothesis’ (see de cons. evang. i..; iv..). More significant than either theory is the fact that Augustine advocated literary dependence at all, in opposition to the dominant tradition of independent authorship. John Kloppenborg’s suggestion that Augustine does not actually envisage literary dependence is unlikely, given the use of breviator and the vacillation between one theory and another; see his Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel (Minneapolis: Fortress, ) n.





FRANCIS WATSON

primitive Christianity like the Gospel of Thomas. The scholarly circumspection that reminds us that an ‘assured result of modern scholarship’ is in reality ‘only a hypothesis’ is not without value. Yet it misunderstands what a hypothesis is for. It assumes that a hypothesis is characterized by its uncertainty, referring as it does to probabilities or possibilities whose actuality can never be reliably established. A hypothesis is not simply an informed guess or speculation, however. Its purpose is to present itself for ongoing critical testing, in order to ascertain whether it can provide a more plausible explanation of the relevant data than its rivals. If it is successful in this regard, it will have attained the fact-like status to which it aspires. The plausibility of a hypothesis is dependent in part on the implausibility of its main alternatives. This point has been recognized in principle in Q research—and necessarily so, since Q is premised on the unlikelihood that either of the later evangelists is dependent on the other in addition to Mark. Yet the arguments for this unlikelihood are typically asserted as though self-evident, without any attempt to substantiate them in detail. From B. H. Streeter and others, we learn () that, after the material relating to the beginnings of Jesus’ ministry, Luke’s insertion of double tradition material into the Markan sequence bears no relation to Matthew’s; () that Luke’s allegedly disordered presentation of Jesus’ teaching demonstrates his ignorance of the orderly Matthean discourses, especially the Sermon on the Mount; and () that the more primitive version of a particular saying is sometimes found in the one gospel, sometimes in the other. Q is the product of arguments such as these. It is assumed (rightly, in my view) that Matthew and Luke both use Mark, and that the most significant rival to the Q hypothesis is the hypothesis that Luke used Matthew as well as Mark (referred to henceforth as the Luke/Matthew or L/M hypothesis.) Given these parameters, the  Thus A. Lindemann writes: ‘[E]s bleibt die Frage, ob eine umfassende literarische Analyse und theologische Auslegung der Logienquelle, die der Analyse und Interpretation der synoptischen Evangelien vergleichbar wäre, wirklich möglich ist’ (‘Die Logienquelle Q: Fragen an eine gut begründete Hypothese’, The Sayings Source Q and the Historical Jesus [ed. A Lindemann; Leuven: Leuven University, ] –, here ).  According to John Kloppenborg, ‘[n]o volume of support for a hypothesis will ever turn it into a fact’, for ‘hypotheses are our ways of configuring and accounting for data…’ (Excavating Q, ; italics original). In practice Kloppenborg usually treats Q as though it were a fact. If the arguments for the Q hypothesis are as strong as he believes them to be, he is not wrong to do so.  B. H. Streeter, The Four Gospels: A Study of Origins (London: Macmillan, ) –; W. G. Kümmel, Introduction to the New Testament (London: SCM, ) –. Streeter devotes five paragraphs to the independence of Matthew and Luke and the consequent existence of Q; Kümmel, one. Christopher Tuckett bases his case for the existence of Q on four ‘traditional arguments’ which do not go significantly beyond Streeter (Q and the History of Earliest Christianity: Studies on Q [Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, ] –). W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison devote fourteen lines to the argument for Q rather than Luke’s use of Matthew, and merely repeat Streeter’s familiar claims (The Gospel according to Saint Matthew [ICC;  vols.; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, –] .).  The usual nomenclature—the ‘Farrer hypothesis’, the ‘Farrer–Goulder hypothesis’—should be abandoned, for two reasons. First, the L/M possibility is a concern not just of this or that

Q as Hypothesis 

conventional arguments are not without force. But whether they represent a properly rigorous testing of the Q hypothesis is another matter. A systematic investigation of the Q hypothesis would have to compare the redactional procedures entailed by both the Q and the L/M hypotheses, since it is the alleged implausibility of the latter that creates the need for the former. It is inadequate merely to assert without argument that, on the L/M hypothesis ‘it would be difficult to account for the fact that Luke’s placement of the double tradition differs almost entirely from that of Matthew’—and to found a whole new document of primitive Christianity on that assertion. Each hypothesis entails an account of a consequent redactional procedure which it should be possible to retrace. Q generates, as it were, a double redactional process, as it is independently incorporated along with Mark into the work of the two later evangelists. The L/M hypothesis is concerned with the single process in which Luke edits Matthew. If the Q hypothesis can produce a more intelligible, coherent and plausible account of the double redaction than the L/M hypothesis can of its single redaction, then—within the parameters of the investigation—it will have been verified. If not, then Q may have to be returned to the limbo of probabilities and possibilities, or rejected altogether. Indeed, my argument here will tend towards this latter conclusion. My intention is not, however, to produce arguments in favour of Luke’s knowledge of Matthew and against Q. Rather, the point is a methodological one: to demonstrate the need for a comparative and systematic study of the redactional procedures entailed in competing source-critical hypotheses. The redactional procedures consequent on both Q and Luke’s use of Matthew must both be reconstructed and compared if the Q hypothesis is to be rigorously assessed. Even so, the discussion will be limited in scope. Other hypotheses—the ‘Griesbach’ theory, for example, according to which Mark is dependent on both Matthew and Luke—will not come directly into consideration. Neither will the view that the predominantly oral/aural culture of the early church makes the discussion of purely literary relationships redundant. Oral tradition may influence a later evangelist’s handling of an earlier text, but it is still possible and necessary to describe the relationship in literary, redaction-critical terms.

scholar but of anyone seriously wishing to assess Q itself. Second, the case for Luke’s use of Matthew is best articulated not by Farrer or Goulder but by Mark Goodacre, whose book, The Case against Q (Harrisburg: Trinity, ) is fundamental to the renewed debate. See also Mark Goodacre and Nicholas Perrin, ed., Questioning Q (London: SPCK, ).  Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, .  For a succinct defence of the need for literary explanations, see Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, . Kloppenborg appeals to () ‘[s]trong verbal agreements…between each pair of Gospels’, and () ‘striking agreements in the sequence of pericopae’, especially significant given that ‘the relative ordering of most of the Synoptic pericopae is not intrinsically determined by their content’.



FRANCIS WATSON

It will be convenient to base this investigation on the rendering of Q material in () Matthew – = Luke –; () Matthew – = Luke  (with parts of chs. –); and () Matthew – = Luke –. The aim is to cover most of the contents of Q, in the hope that the clarity of an overview will compensate for unavoidable lack of attention to detail. For the text of Q I shall use the Critical Edition of Robinson, Hoffmann and Kloppenborg, although alternative possibilities will also be acknowledged. I shall assume Q except where the rival L/M hypothesis is under consideration. . Parallel Redaction

Matthew and Luke provide similar accounts of the beginnings of Jesus’ ministry, and—according to the Q hypothesis—the similarities derive from their independent use of both Mark and Q. At the point where the later evangelists first make contact with these two sources, a tendency to proceed in parallel has already become evident in their independent decision to supplement Mark with birth stories. As we shall see, the Q hypothesis entails a whole series of similar yet independent redactional moves on the part of Matthew and Luke. The question is how far this parallelism constitutes a problem for the hypothesis. In the introductory account of the ministry of John the Baptist (Mark .– + pars.), minor agreements between Matthew and Luke against Mark may indicate that Q too began at this point. Matthew and Luke agree against Mark in their references to ‘all the region of the Jordan’, as an area from which crowds came to John (Matt .) or as part of John’s own sphere of activity (Luke .). Both later evangelists cite Isa . without the non-Isaianic elements present in Mark (Mark .–; Matt .; Luke .). These minor agreements may suggest that the later evangelists were able to draw on a parallel Q introduction to the ministry of John the Baptist, in addition to Mark. Other phraseology, unique to Matthew or Luke, may also be derived from Q, though the lack of agreement with the other evangelist makes it difficult to identify as such. A Q introduction is required not just to account for the minor agreements, however, but also to prepare for the passage that follows. Here, a sample is given of the Baptist’s harsh proclamation of judgment to those he describes as a ‘brood of vipers’, and this is clearly derived from Q (Matt .–; Luke .–). The almost complete verbal agreement demonstrates the need for a literary explanation of the relationship between Matthew and Luke. Yet this passage cannot represent the beginning of Q; the speaker is not even named in  I hope to provide a fuller discussion of these matters in Chapters  and  of a book provisionally entitled, Receiving Jesus: Gospel Writing in Canonical Perspective, scheduled for publication in .  James M. Robinson, Paul Hoffmann and John S. Kloppenborg, The Critical Edition of Q (Minneapolis: Fortress; Leuven: Peeters, ).  The Critical Edition (pp. –) assigns the following items to Q: Q .a ἐν δέ (?), .b {Ἰωάννη}, {ἐν τῇ ἐρήμῳ} (?), a πᾶσα..ἡ.. π1ρί{χωρ}ο… τοῦ Ἰορδάνου, b {κηρύσσων} (?), . the Isaiah citation (?).

Q as Hypothesis 

it. There must, then, be a Q component as well as a Markan one in the Matthean and Lukan passages in which the Baptist is introduced. We already note that the double redactional procedure entailed in the Q hypothesis requires both later evangelists independently to make broadly similar choices. In the introductory passage, they choose to conflate elements of Mark with elements of Q, and they supplement this passage with the Q judgment oracle which they both cite almost verbatim. The parallelism extends into the passage on the Coming One that follows. As formatted below, underlinings represent words or phrases unique to a single evangelist; italics, points where the wording of Matthew and Luke agrees against Mark; [A] and [B,], the distribution of the Coming One and double baptism sayings. [A] There comes one stronger than me after me, and I am not worthy to stoop and undo the strap of his sandals. [B] I baptize you with water, [B] but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit. (Mark .–) [B] I indeed baptize you in water for repentance; [A] but the one who comes after me is stronger than me, and I am not worthy to carry his sandals. [B] He will baptize you in the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing-fork is in his hand… (Matt .–) [B] I indeed baptize you with water; [A] but there comes one stronger than me, and I am not worthy to undo the strap of his sandals. [B] He will baptize you in the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing-fork is in his hand… (Luke .–)

Matthew and Luke independently derive from Q the transposition of [A] and [B], resulting in the division of the double baptism saying, and the addition of ‘…with fire’, leading into the winnowing-fork saying (worded almost identically). Matthew deviates further from Mark than does Luke, perhaps deriving from Q the reference to ‘carrying’ sandals rather than ‘undoing’ them. Yet the parallel redactional procedures are again noteworthy. Both evangelists prefer the longer Q format, although Luke is also influenced by the Markan wording. Q, then, has provided both later evangelists with two judgment oracles, one general, the other announcing the Coming One, and these are linked by the theme of ‘fire’ (Q ., , ). Was there a Q account of Jesus’ baptism, the event that follows in all three synoptic evangelists (Mark .–; Matt .–; Luke .–)? Minor agreements against Mark are again slight but not negligible. Arguably, Q needs  According to the Critical Edition, the following items may be assigned to Q from the baptism accounts: Q.[[]] {Ἰησου}, {βαπτισθ1}, ν1ῳχθη, {ο}, {οὐρανο} (p. ). Q.[[]] {καὶ}, {καταβ…ν} (?), {τό πν1ῦμα}, το (?), {ὡς π1ριστ1ράν} (?), ἐπ’ {αὐτόν}, {καὶ ϕωνή} (?), [(ουραν)] (?), {ὁ υἱός μου ὁ ἀγαπητός, ἐν} (?), {1ὐδόκησα} (?). These items are sufficient to ensure a connection between the messianic preaching (Q .b–) and the temptations (Q .–). The Critical Edition also repeatedly suggests that phraseology apparently drawn from Mark or from Matthean or Lukan redaction may actually reflect identical wording in Q.



FRANCIS WATSON

some such passage in order to bridge the gap between the Baptist’s proclamation and the extended temptation narrative that follows (Q .–). If so, Matthew and Luke independently prefer Mark to Q at this point. In the temptation narrative, however, they incorporate different elements from the brief Markan version into the much fuller Q version, which completes this text’s opening narrative sequence. Almost imperceptible in the introductory passage, Q provides the later evangelists with the two judgment oracles, gives way to Mark’s account of Jesus’ baptism and the descent of the Spirit and reappears in the extended temptation narrative. In spite of their differences, the later evangelists proceed in parallel as they undertake their parallel tasks, which are to compose new accounts of the beginning of Jesus’ ministry on the basis of both Mark and Q. The other equally striking parallelism is between Q and Mark. If these two texts are independent of each other, as Matthew and Luke are supposed to be, then both the pairings that comprise the classic two-source hypothesis—Mark and Q, Matthew and Luke—give similar accounts of the beginnings of Jesus’ ministry, proceeding in mysterious harmony like the four living creatures in Ezekiel’s vision. One possibility is simply to deny this opening narrative sequence to Q. A Q that begins with the Inaugural Sermon (Q .–) is a more coherent text than one that sets out as a narrative gospel but diverts into sayings gospel mode. On that view, passages such as the judgment oracle (Q .–) and the temptation story (Q .–) are independent fragments, not truly a part of Q. In that case, however, the redactional parallelism is not just striking but astonishing. Quite independently of one another, Matthew and Luke insert the same fragments at the same points in their common Markan framework. Alternatively, Mark may be dependent on Q, or Q on Mark. But if parallelism without dependence can exist on the second tier (Matthew and Luke), perhaps it can also exist on the first (Mark and Q). The fact is that the Q hypothesis labours under a certain disadvantage in this opening narrative sequence. This is indirectly acknowledged by B. H. Streeter himself. In response to ‘the obvious suggestion that Luke knew Matthew’s Gospel’, Streeter claimed that, ‘subsequent to the Temptation story, there is not a single case in which Matthew and Luke agree in inserting the same saying at the same point in the Marcan outline’. If that is the case only ‘subsequent to the Temptation story’, it is because the situation is quite different in the opening narrative sequence itself. Here, Matthew and Luke do agree in inserting the same sayings (the two judgment oracles) and the same narrative (the temptations) at the same points in

 So Lindemann, for whom no coherent opening for Q can be extracted from Matt – = Luke –; Q opened instead with the beatitudes (‘Die Logienquelle Q’, –).  See Jan Lambrecht ‘John the Baptist and Jesus in Mark .–: Markan Redaction of Q?’, NTS  () –.  Streeter, The Four Gospels, .

Q as Hypothesis 

the Markan outline. It follows that, for this material, ‘the obvious suggestion that Luke knew Matthew’s Gospel’ must seem plausible, on Streeter’s own premises. The L/M hypothesis seeks to account for a single rather than a double redaction, and has no need of the coincidental parallelism required by the Q hypothesis. If Luke knew Matthew’s Gospel, he would follow Matthew in the two judgment oracles (while allowing Mark some influence over the wording of the second). He would supplement Matthew with the exchanges between the Baptist and the crowds, tax-collectors and soldiers (Luke .–), just as Matthew had previously supplemented Mark with the first judgment oracle. But he would omit the exchange between the Baptist and Jesus himself (Matt .–). Why might he have done so? If no plausible explanation lies to hand, does this suggest Luke’s ignorance of Matthew, as the Q hypothesis requires? But little if anything should be read into an omission. The later evangelists often omit material from Mark, and speculating about their motives is rarely fruitful. Given that Matthew and Luke otherwise agree here in their additions to Mark, Streeter’s assumption must be that their disagreement elsewhere is such as to override their agreement here. On the basis of this material alone, we would postulate not Q but Luke’s knowledge of Matthew. If Q represents the best explanation for the rest of the ‘double tradition’, however, it makes sense to extend the hypothesis even into material that does not display the all-important disagreement. Probably no-one will be satisfied with the suggestion that Luke followed Matthew in the opening narrative sequence, but Q thereafter. The crucial question is whether the redactional parallelism generated here by the Q hypothesis should be regarded as entirely conceivable or as highly unlikely.

. The Inaugural Sermon

According to the Q hypothesis, Q moves rapidly on from the temptation narrative to the Inaugural Sermon (Q .–). That is why, in Matthew, the  Perhaps Luke felt that the Baptist’s initial reluctance to baptize Jesus was incompatible with the predestined relationship between them, as portrayed in Luke ? Or perhaps he failed to understand Jesus’ cryptic reference to ‘fulfilling all righteousness’? Or perhaps the Matthean passage simply seemed superfluous to him? The possibilities could be multiplied.  Contrast David Catchpole’s discussion of the opening narrative sequence, where the existence of Q is made to hang on the unlikelihood that Lukan wording is dependent on Matthean (The Quest for Q [Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, ] –). Why, for example, would Luke omit the Matthean 1ἰς μ1τάνοιαν from the double baptism saying, given that he introduces this very phrase into his rendering of Mark . in Luke . ()? It is assumed here that a writer who introduces a phrase into one context would be ‘inconsistent’ if he failed to reproduce it in another, where it appears in one though not the other of his sources. But that is to operate with a mechanistic model of ‘consistency’. Ad hoc arguments of this kind do nothing to demonstrate the likelihood of Q, in the absence of an overarching reconstruction of the redational procedure entailed in the alternative hypotheses.



FRANCIS WATSON

Sermon occurs so early in Jesus’ ministry. The Sermon on the Mount follows the Q Sermon only in the outline it shares with Luke, and it is expanded with Q and nonQ material drawn in from elsewhere. It therefore contains two types of Q material: framework material also found in the Lukan Sermon on the Plain and the underlying Q text, in much the same sequence as in Matthew; and supplementary material drawn from Q contexts that may still be preserved in Luke. The framework material consists in the followingο five items: .

. . . .

a collection of four beatitudes, pronouncing blessings on the poor, the hungry, the sorrowful, and the persecuted—with or without corresponding woes, which may be Lukan (Matt ., , , –; Luke .–); sayings relating to love of enemies, non-resistance and the Golden Rule (Matt .–, .; Luke .–); the warning against judging, with the corresponding parable of the mote and the beam (Matt .–; Luke .–, –); the passage on good and bad trees and their fruits (Matt .–; Luke .–); the parable of the two houses, introduced by the saying, ‘Why do you call me Lord, Lord…?’ (Matt ., –; Luke .–).

This framework material corresponds closely to Luke’s Sermon on the Plain, which in turn corresponds closely to Q in both sequence and content. Of the supplementary items with which Matthew expands this framework, the following thirteen are drawn from Q: [ ] (= Q framework)  salt  lighting lamp  not an iota  adversary  divorce []  Lord’s Prayer  treasure in heaven  eye as lamp  two masters  do not be anxious []  ask, seek  narrow gate []  rejection []

.– . . .– .

→ → → → →

Matt . Matt . Matt . Matt .– Matt .

Q .– Q .– Q .– Q . Q .–

→ → → → →

Matt .– Matt .– Matt .– Matt . Matt .–

Q .– Q .–

→ →

Matt .– Matt .–

Q .–

→

Matt .–

Q Q Q Q Q

Further analysis of Matthew’s use of Q would investigate the extension of the collection of beatitudes (Matt .–), the construction of the antitheses (Matt

Q as Hypothesis 

.–), the incorporation of the Lord’s prayer into a second antithetical structure (Matt .–) and so on. There seems no reason to doubt that a plausible account of the Matthean redaction would come to light. If Q is a hypothesis, however, requiring critical testing as such, it is not sufficient simply to describe the Matthean redaction as though Q were an extant document. Any hypothesis must demonstrate its superiority over its rivals. In this case, the hypothesis only exists at all on account of the alleged implausibility of its main rival, the L/M hypothesis. On that view, the thirteen Q items inserted into the Sermon on the Mount would have to be redescribed as items extracted from the Sermon on the Mount by Luke, and reincorporated at later points in his gospel. It is at this point that the L/M hypothesis is supposedly at its weakest. Thus, W. G. Kümmel writes in an oft-quoted passage: [T]hat Lk took his common material over directly from Mt is championed again and again. This position is completely inconceivable, however. What could possibly have motivated Lk, for example, to shatter Mt’s Sermon on the Mount, placing part of it in his Sermon on the Plain, dividing up other parts among various chapters of his Gospel, and letting the rest drop out of sight?

This familiar argument has perhaps done more than any other to establish a sense of the prima facie plausibility of Q. Yet it is seriously flawed. First, Kümmel assumes that a later evangelist would inevitably wish to reproduce the Sermon on the Mount in his own work, in more or less its Matthean form. But Luke would not have known this material as ‘the Sermon on the Mount’, and it is anachronistic to imagine that he would necessarily have shared the modern reverence for it. A later evangelist must reshape, omit or supplement source material if he is to produce a genuinely new gospel at all. Second, Kümmel’s question about ‘motivation’ is premature. In order to test the Q hypothesis, we should first reconstruct the redactional procedure the evangelist would have to follow in redistributing parts of the Matthean Sermon to later points in his own gospel. Once this hypothetical redactional procedure has been established, we may then raise the question of ‘motivation’, seeking a possible redactional logic within the new juxtapositions. On the L/M hypothesis, the five framework items and thirteen supplementary items, listed above, take on a different significance. The framework items—four beatitudes; sayings on love of enemies, judging and fruitbearing; the parable of the two houses—now represent the Lukan reduction of the Matthean Sermon to around a third of its original compass. Some material Luke would simply omit: nowhere in Luke do we find an equivalent of the Matthean prohibition of oath-taking (Matt .–). There is no need for the L/M hypothesis to explain  Kümmel, Introduction to the New Testament, .



FRANCIS WATSON

‘what could possibly have motivated Luke’ to omit this prohibition, any more than the Markan priority hypothesis is obliged to speculate about Luke’s objections to everything in Mark .–.. Both hypotheses generate accounts of redactional procedure that involve omissions, and speculation about motives will usually be inconclusive. The thirteen supplementary items must now be presented as Matthean passages extracted by Luke for reincorporation elsewhere:

[]  salt  lighting lamp  not an iota  adversary  divorce []  Lord’s Prayer  treasure in heaven  eye as lamp  two masters  do not be anxious []  ask, seek  narrow gate []  rejection []

Matt . Matt . Matt . Matt .– Matt .

→ → → → →

Luke .– Luke . Luke . Luke .– Luke .

Matt .– Matt .– Matt .– Matt . Matt .–

→ → → → →

Luke .– Luke .– Luke .– Luke . Luke .–

Matt .– Matt .–

→ →

Luke .– Luke .–

Matt .–

→

Luke .–

The secondary Lukan sequence is quite different from the original Matthean one. We may imagine that, in the course of reducing Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount to his own Sermon on the Plain, Luke has copied into a notebook those Matthean items he wishes to set aside for subsequent use. These are all reincorporated, along with other items shared with Matthew or unique to Luke, in the central section of Luke’s Gospel in which the Markan framework is absent (Luke .–.).

 For the ancient use of notebooks (codices) and wax tablets for preparatory work, see Loveday Alexander, ‘Ancient Book Production’, The Gospels for All Christians (ed. R. Bauckham; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans: ) – (–).  Compare the analysis of Mark A. Matson, ‘Luke’s Rewriting of the Sermon on the Mount’, Questioning Q (ed. Goodacre and Perrin) – (–).

Q as Hypothesis 

If the thirteen items are rearranged in their Lukan sequence, the following pattern comes to light: A A

Luke .–  Lord’s Prayer Luke .–  ask, seek

B B

Luke .  lighting lamp Luke .–  eye as lamp

C C

Luke .–  do not be anxious Luke .–  treasure in heaven

D

Luke .–  accuser

E E

Luke .–  narrow gate Luke .–  rejection

F F F

Luke .  two masters Luke .  not an iota Luke .  divorce

In four cases (A B C E) Luke has arranged the Matthean passages in pairs, the second member of which is inserted more or less directly after the first. In the first three cases (A B C), an entirely new juxtaposition is created, as the dispersal of our original Matthean enumeration indicates (A/ Luke =   Matthew, and so on). In A and B, a thematic link between the paired passages is readily apparent even from the outline above, and closer investigation shows that this is also the case with C, E and F/. Also in E and F/, traces of the original Matthean order are preserved. Further analysis of the redactional procedure consequent on the L/M hypothesis is unnecessary here, since our concern is primarily a methodological one. This preliminary analysis confirms the Q hypothesis if and only if the redactional procedure consequent on the L/M hypothesis is held to be ‘completely inconceivable’. It supports the Q hypothesis if the thirteen items are more plausibly seen as supplementing a short Sermon than as extracted from a long one. It undermines the Q hypothesis if the L/M redactional procedure is judged to be no less plausible than the alternative. The issue is not resolved merely by observing that the Sermon on the Mount appears to be a secondary construction put together by Matthew himself. Assuming that the evangelist made use of at least one source, that source might or might not have been Q. As defined by the standard hypothesis, Q is not just a generic lost sayings source. It has its own particular contours.

 It is true that, ‘[i]f Luke were proved to have used Matthew, who in turn used Mark, the origin of the non-Marcan material in Matthew would still need clarification’ (Catchpole, Quest for Q, ). Yet, if one postulated a pre-Matthean sayings source on that basis, it would be utterly misleading to call it ‘Q’.



FRANCIS WATSON

One other way in which the issue might be resolved is by demonstrating what Mark Goodacre has described as ‘alternating primitivity’: that Matthew preserves the earlier form of a passage on some occasions, Luke on others. The earlier form would then be the Q form; the L/M hypothesis is vulnerable if passages can be identified in which the earlier form is clearly preserved in Luke. One possible candidate occurs at the very outset of the Inaugural Sermon. In Luke, Jesus pronounces blessings on ‘you poor’ and ‘you who hunger now’ (Luke .–). In Matthew, he blesses ‘the poor in spirit’ and ‘those who hunger and thirst for righteousness’ (Matt ., ). It is often said that Matthew has here ‘spiritualized’ sayings that originally referred to material deprivation. While this is certainly possible, it is methodologically important to exclude the alternative possibility only when one has attempted and failed to make a case for it. If Luke’s beatitudes are constructed out of Matthew’s, then the later evangelist has reapplied beatitudes relating to ethical qualities to the material deprivations endured by Jesus’ disciples. By adding the woes, he has created a set of antitheses: poor/rich, hungry/satisfied, weeping/laughing, hatred/esteem (Luke .–). Arguably, the first two antitheses fit remarkably well into a Gospel that contains the Magnificat (cf. Luke .), the scriptural motif of good news for the poor (Luke .; .) and the parables of the Rich Fool (.–) and Dives and Lazarus (.–). If so, there is no need to trace the beatitudes in their shorter form back to Q. If Matthew’s beatitudes are secondary then Luke’s may be primary, but they may equally well be tertiary.

. The Common Sequence

The chapters following Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount contain a significant quantity of Q material interspersed within Markan material in which the original Markan sequence is not easy to detect. Indeed, it is the free handling of Markan sequence especially in Matthew – that has led to the view that Luke  Goodacre, Case against Q, .  See the detailed discussion of this point in Goodacre, Case against Q, –.  The pressure to identify one version of a saying as ‘more primitive’ than another reflects the assumption that the favoured version may approximate to the very words Jesus uttered. For a theoretically sophisticated critique of this view of ‘authenticity’, see Jens Schröter, ‘Die Frage nach dem historischen Jesus und der Charakter historischer Erkenntnis’, Sayings Source Q (ed. A Lindemann) –. According to Schröter: ‘[D]ie Quellen der Vergangenheit enthalten nicht die Tatsachen und Ereignisse, sondern Deutungen von diesen… Die Vorstellung, es könne einen Zugang zu einer hinter diesen Interpretationen liegenden Wirklichkeit geben, wird damit grundsätzlich obsolet’ (). Thus, ‘[d]ie Vorstellung des “wirklichen” Jesus hinter den Quellen erweist sich dabei als obsolet, die Jesusfrage ist mithin umzuformulieren in diejenige nach einem an die Quellen gebundenen Entwurf des erinnerten Jesus als Inhalt des sozialen Gedächtnisses des Urchristentums’ (; italics original).

Q as Hypothesis 

is more likely to have preserved the Q sequence. This conclusion is unwarranted, however. In Matthew –, three interlocking sequences may be identified. Two of these are Markan, and they are the result of Matthew’s decision to allow the sequences Mark .–. and .–. to overlap in his own rendering of them. As formatted below, the second sequence is italicized in order to differentiate it from the first; square brackets represent the third, nonMarkan sequence to which we shall shortly return; the asterisk denotes a displacement.

The leper [] Peter’s mother-in-law [] Stilling the storm Gerasene demoniac[s] Paralytic Call of Levi/Matthew Eating with sinners Fasting Ruler’s daughter, haemorrhaging woman [ ] Grain on sabbath Sabbath healing [] Beelzebul controversy [] Jesus’ true family Parables Rejection at Nazareth

Mark .–

→

Matt .–

*Mark .–

→

Matt .–

Mark .– Mark .– Mark .– Mark .– Mark .– Mark .– Mark .–

→ → → → → → →

Matt .– Matt .– Matt .– Matt . Matt .– Matt .– Matt .–

Mark .– Mark .–

→ →

Matt .– Matt .–

Mark .–

→

Matt .–

Mark .– Mark .– Mark .–

→ → →

Matt .– Matt .– Matt .–

As the italicization indicates, Matthew’s primary Markan sequence is interrupted by material from a later point in Mark’s narrative, constituting a second Markan sequence. Both sequences are incorporated in their correct Markan order. With the incorporation of Mark .– in Matthew , the gap between the first and second sequences has been filled up, so that from this point on Matthew follows a single Markan sequence. The one genuine displacement  ‘It is…a matter of empirical observation that Matthew transposed Marcan passages. From this derives the possibility that in the case of disagreements, Matthew may be secondary in his setting of Q’ (J. Kloppenborg, The Formation of Q: Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Collections [Harrisburg: Trinity, nd ed. ] –, ; see also Excavating Q, –). For a critique of the assumption that Luke keeps closer to Markan sequence than Matthew, see Goodacre, Case against Q, –.  The Mission Discourse of Matt  is omitted here, since it depends on diverse Markan and non-Markan materials.



FRANCIS WATSON

occurs at Mark .– (Peter’s mother-in-law). It occurs on account of Matthew’s decision to place the healing of the leper on the road that leads from the mountain to Capernaum, where the centurion’s servant and Peter’s mother-in-law are healed. It is therefore incorrect to assume that Matthew – in particular is based on some non-Markan principle of organization. Although the Beelzebul controversy story is said to have occurred in Q as well as Mark, it should be noted that it occurs here at the appropriate position within the primary Markan sequence. Interspersed within the two overlapping Markan sequences is a further sequence consisting of ten items that Matthew shares with Luke. Most of these item are non-Markan, but three of them show signs of a Markan connection (= { }, below). Surprisingly, two of these three simultaneously belong to Matthew’s primary Markan sequence, and represent points where Markan and non-Markan sequences converge. The Mark column represents the point reached in Matthew’s primary Markan sequence when an item is inserted:

i Centurion’s servant ii Discipleship sayings iii {Mission Discourse} iv Jesus and John v Woes against towns vi Jesus’ thanksgiving vii {Beelzebul controversy} viii Sign of Jonah ix Return of unclean spirit x {Jesus’ true family}

Matt Matt Matt Matt Matt Matt Matt Matt Matt Matt

.– .– .–. .– .– .– .– .– .– .–

Mark . Mark . [Mark .–; .–; .–] Mark . Mark . Mark . =Mark .– Mark . Mark . =Mark .–

Items iii–vi occur consecutively in Matt .–., but i–ii and vii–x occur within contexts determined by the first Markan sequence (= Mark .–.), to which indeed two of them already belong (vii {Beelzebul controversy} and x {Jesus’ true family}). The sequence recurs within two distinct sections in Luke (.–; .–.), separated by the abbreviated Lukan rendering of Mark .–.. In the following analysis, an asterisk indicates a difference from the Matthean order.  According to Davies and Allison, in Matt – the evangelist has reorganized the Markan sequence to create three groups of three miracles stories concluding with a summary and words of Jesus (Matthew, ., ; .– [Excursus V]). In Matt –, five transpositions of Markan sequence may be identified (.–). The analysis is greatly simplified once it is seen that Matthew here follows two distinct Markan sequences. The double sequence is noted by F. Neirynck, who distinguishes here between ‘Mk (A)’ and ‘Mk (B)’ (‘Matthew :–: and the Matthean Composition of :–:’, The Interrelations of the Gospels [ed. David L. Dungan; Leuven: Leuven University, ] – [–]).

Q as Hypothesis 

The Mark column again represents the point reached when non-Markan items are inserted:

i Centurion’s servant iv* Jesus and John ii Discipleship sayings iii {Mission Discourse} v Woes against towns vi Jesus’ thanksgiving vii {Beelzebul controversy} ix Return of unclean spirit x {Jesus’ true family} viii* Sign of Jonah

Luke .– Luke .– Luke .– Luke .–,  Luke .– Luke .– Luke .– Luke .– Luke .– Luke .–

Mark . (= Luke .) Mark . Mark . (= Luke .) Mark . Mark . Mark . Mark . Mark . (cf. .–) Mark . (cf. .–) Mark .

Some general observations about this shared sequence are necessary, before seeking to recover the redactional procedures needed to create it under the L/M and Q hypotheses respectively. First, in both Matthew and Luke this common sequence follows on from the Sermon, which in turn follows on from the opening narrative sequence. In both later gospels, this entire common sequence has been superimposed on the Markan one, and around % of the ‘double tradition’ material occurs within it. This is to be differentiated from the remaining % of this material which is differently distributed: in Matthew, primarily in the great discourses (Matt –; , ; –); in Luke, primarily in .–., starting from the very point at which the common sequence ends. In both Matthew and Luke, the common sequence is partially concealed by material derived from Mark or unique to one or other evangelist. It comes to light only when this extraneous material is set aside. Second, the earlier position of iv Jesus and John in Luke connects this passage more closely with the Baptist material that introduces Jesus’ own ministry (Luke .– and parallels). Since the sequence here concludes with viii Sign of Jonah, the sequel to vii {Beelzebul controversy} is now, appropriately enough, ix Return of unclean spirit. In Matthew, the equivalent sequel is provided by the passage on fruitbearing (Matt .–), which this evangelist connects to the twin sayings on blasphemy against the Spirit that conclude his account of the Beelzebul controversy. However they are to be explained, these divergences do not seriously undermine the common non-Markan sequence.  Kloppenborg also notes this common sequence, but adds further items to it—the parable of the lost sheep, sayings on forgiveness, the parable of the talents (Formation of Q, ). The effect is to obscure the sharp divide in Luke between common sequence material (Luke .–. = Matt .–.) and non-sequential common material (Luke .–. = Matt passim; exceptions at Luke .–; .–, –).



FRANCIS WATSON

Third, after the opening narrative sequence Luke incorporates items from the common sequence in just two major groupings, and these items all occur at a later point relative to Mark than in Matthew. While some grouping occurs in Matthew, common sequence items are more widely dispersed through the evangelist’s overlapping Markan sequences; and all have been incorporated by the point at which Matthew reaches Mark’s parable chapter (Matt  = Mark ). In contrast, only two of the ten common sequence items have been incorporated at the equivalent point in Luke (Luke .–). As a result of Luke’s grouping of common sequence material, the Markan sequence stands out more clearly in Luke than in Matthew, even though it is equally fundamental to both evangelists. Matthew seeks to conflate his Markan and non-Markan sequences, whereas Luke seeks to preserve their individual integrity. The later positioning of the non-Markan material relative to the Markan indicates that Luke gives a certain priority to Mark. Fourth, Luke’s version of vii {Beelzebul controversy} is anomalous. In Matthew this controversy story occurs within the primary Markan sequence. As with the other Markan controversy stories in Matthew , the later evangelist inserts supplementary material here, in the form of a new introduction (.–) and sayings relating to the source of exorcistic power (.–), being for or against Jesus (.) and defaming the Son of man and the Holy Spirit (.). Luke attests the first three of these four expansions, and he places this story not in the appropriate location in his Markan sequence (that is, at Luke .) but within the sequence shared with Matthew. Thus, this controversy story belongs both within Matthew’s rendering of the primary Markan sequence, and within the non-Markan sequence Matthew shares with Luke. Fifth, a related anomaly arises from Luke’s version of x {Jesus’ true family}. Here, Jesus blesses ‘those who hear the word of God and keep it’, in response to a woman in the crowd who pronounces a blessing on his mother (.–). This recalls the Markan passage on Jesus’ true family (Mark .–), which Luke has already reproduced (Luke .–). Thus Luke includes two passages on this theme, and they are similar enough to comprise a ‘doublet’. In both passages, Jesus’ saying is provoked by a reference to his mother (with or without his brothers), and in both he responds by commending instead those who hear and obey the word of God. In Matthew, x {Jesus’ true family} occurs in a Markan form and within the primary Markan sequence. Yet Matthew and Luke have both attached a form of the true family passage to ix Return of unclean spirit. Like vii

 In the same way, Matthew supplements the Markan sabbath controversy stories with sayings relating to the temple (Matt .–), and with the analogy of the sheep falling into a pit (Matt .–). Matt .,  are closely connected to one another and to the context, as is indicated by the sequence ἐν τῷ Β11ζ1βούλ (v. ), ἐν Β11ζ1βούλ, ἐν τίνι (v. ), ἐν πν1ύματι θ1οῦ (v. ). Matt .,  are both variants of Markan sayings.

Q as Hypothesis 

{Beelzebul controversy}, this passage exists simultaneously within a Markan sequence (evidenced in Matthew) and a non-Markan one (evidenced in Luke). This analysis of the sequence common to Matthew and Luke can now be used to test the L/M and Q hypotheses. The question to be put to each is this: What kind of redactional procedure would produce this common sequence, differently distributed and partially concealed by Markan and other material? On the L/M hypothesis, the common sequence is the result of Luke’s distinctive engagement with Matthew. The hypothesis requires Luke to be able to identify non-Markan material in Matthew, but to do so only after he has given his own rendering of the Markan context in which Matthew has located it, on the basis of Mark’s narrative alone. Luke first rewrites a Markan sequence, and then incorporates selected supplementary material from Matthew. After the opening narrative sequence, the third evangelist engages with each of the two earlier gospels in turn, alternating between them. Given a redactional decision to differentiate Markan and Matthean material and to give precedence to Mark, it is unsurprising that relatively few traces of Matthew’s redaction of Mark are evident in the equivalent Lukan redaction. Luke departs from his usual editorial practice, however, in the case of vii {Beelzebul controversy} and x {Jesus’ true family}. In the one case, he has followed Matthew rather than Mark, as both the positioning and the additional sayings indicate. In the other case, he has followed Matthew as well as Mark, reworking the Markan version within his Markan sequence (Luke .–) and the Matthean version (itself dependent on Mark) within the common sequence derived from Matthew (Luke .–). On the Q hypothesis, the non-Markan sequence common to Matthew and Luke is derived from Q, rather than being a Lukan construct derived from Matthew’s supplementation of Mark. Working independently but in parallel, the later evangelists find different ways to accommodate the Q sequence within the Markan one. Luke’s consistent grouping of items from Q may preserve their original connections. vii {Beelzebul controversy} and x {Jesus’ true family} create some complications, however. It is evident from Matthew that these passages belong to the evangelist’s primary Markan sequence, and it is evident from Luke that they also belong to the common sequence derived from Q. So we must envisage two independent sequences, one from Mark, the other from Q, in both of which an account of the Beelzebul controversy is followed—immediately in Mark, after  It is therefore not a problem for the L/M hypothesis that ‘there is no sign in Luke of the major addition Matthew makes to Mark at :–’ (Graham Stanton, The Four Gospels and Jesus [Oxford: Oxford University, ] ). Luke incorporates many Matthean additions to Mark but not all (e.g. Matt .– = Luke .; Matt .– = Luke .–; Matt .– = Luke .–).  Against Kloppenborg, the L/M hypothesis does not find it ‘difficult to account for the fact that Luke’s placement of the double tradition differs almost entirely from that of Matthew’ (Excavating Q, ). Once this placement is adequately investigated, its logic is straightforward.

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FRANCIS WATSON

intervening material in Q—by an incident in which a reference to Jesus’ mother or family provokes him to utter a saying commending those who observe the will or word of God. Since Matthew reproduces the Mark version here, the Lukan version of x {Jesus’ true family} probably derives from Q. Thus Matthew has at his disposal two otherwise different sequences, derived from Mark and Q, which coincide at two points. These points occur late in the Q sequence, early in the Markan one, and the evangelist uses them to create a juncture at which the two sequences merge into one. That is why Matthew’s Q material has to occur so early in relation to Mark. The construction of Matthew – in its entirety is shaped by the decision that the two sequences should meet and merge at their otherwise inconspicuous points of coincidence. This redactional decision is, however, the product of the Q hypothesis itself. Matthew expands Mark’s account of the Beelzebul controversy, as he expands other Markan controversy stories, but there is little in the Matthean text itself to suggest that the evangelist has at his disposal a second version of the entire story. The hypothetical Q version of the story is the product of Luke’s unusual proximity here to Matthew rather than Mark, interpreted on the assumption that Luke cannot be dependent on Matthew. The proximity is such that, if one evangelist cannot be dependent on the other, a common source is the only option. But it remains a challenge for the Q hypothesis to show why its own consequent redactional procedure is more plausible than the straightforward one entailed in the L/M hypothesis. The claim that the L/M hypothesis must attribute to Luke a patently incredible redactional procedure has turned out to be premature, to say the least. It is not my concern here to adjudicate between the Q and L/M hypotheses. The aim is methodological: to show the importance of systematic attention to the redactional procedures entailed in competing source-critical hypotheses. In the case of Q, refutation of the L/M hypothesis is a prerequisite, and a full analysis of the redactional procedure consequent upon both hypotheses is therefore indispensable for the critical assessment of Q itself. Anyone concerned to verify Q,

 This is acknowledged as a possibility in Critical Edition, . If Luke .– is not drawn from Q, independent redaction has coincidentally attached parallel passages from different sources to ix Return of unclean spirit (Q).  The existence of a ‘doublet’ (Matt .– = .–) might be taken as an indication that the evangelist draws on a non-Markan as well as a Markan version of this story. Matt .– falls outside both the Markan and the Q sequences; on the other hand, it corresponds closely to the opening of Luke’s (single) version of the story (Luke .–), and could therefore derive from Q. The majority of Matthew’s doublets do not easily fit the ‘two source’ model, however, and the duplication is often the work of the evangelist himself. See the examples assembled in Sir John Hawkins, Horae Synopticae (Oxford: Oxford University, nd ed. ) –.

Q as Hypothesis 

rather than merely assuming it on the basis of traditional ad hoc arguments, must engage seriously with the major alternative. Once an overview of the relevant redactional procedures has been achieved, it may then be possible to identify decisive points that tell against one hypothesis and in favour of another. Some potential candidates for this role may have come to light in the course of this study. Yet the moral of the story of Q research is that supposedly decisive points have been too readily accepted as such, passing into wider circulation without consideration of the wider framework within which they must be either verified or falsified. That is a pitfall to be avoided, whether in reaffirming Q or in dispensing with it.

 Neglect of this methodological point may be traced back to the very roots of the Q hypothesis. Q in its modern form originated in Weisse’s extension to Luke of Schleiermacher’s logia source, which had been derived exclusively from Matthew (F. D. E. Schleiermacher, ‘Ueber die Zeugnisse des Papias von unsern beiden ersten Evangelien’, ThStKr [] –; Christian Hermann Weisse, Die evangelische Geschichte kritisch und philosophisch bearbeitet [ vols.; Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, ] .). Weisse makes the simple observation that much of the material in Schleiermacher’s logia recurs in Luke, who is therefore dependent on the same source as Matthew (.). What is at issue is therefore not the existence of the source (which Weisse like Schleiermacher believes is attested by Papias), but rather its scope. Support for the claim that two earlier sources underlie both Matthew and Luke is found in the ‘doublets’ in both (.–). Thus Weisse is led to the conclusion that ‘[n]icht nur Marcus ist beiden gemeinschaftliche Quelle, sondern, unserer bestimmtesten Ueberzeugung nach, auch die Spruchsammlung des Matthäus’ (.). It is taken for granted that Luke is ‘völlig unabhängig’ of Matthew (.), and the importance of demonstrating this independence is overlooked.

New Test. Stud. , pp. –. Printed in the United Kingdom ©  Cambridge University Press doi:10.1017/S0028688509990051

Hellenistic παιδ1ία and Luke’s Education: A Critique of Recent Approaches* O S VA L D O PA D I L LA Samford University, 800 Lakeshore Drive, Birmingham, AL 35229, USA email: [email protected]

This essay offers a critique of recent works that claim for the author of Acts a high level of rhetorical sophistication. The paper attempts to begin to fill a gap in Acts studies by exploring two skills of the curriculum of tertiary rhetorical education and asking how these are exemplified in the curriculum itself. In this way an attempt is made to provide a more sophisticated parallel reading, one that avoids shell comparisons that can often lead to distortion. The two skills explored are intertextuality from the Greek classics and speech construction. It is suggested that—from the perspective of the rhetorical curriculum—the author of Acts probably lacked a rhetorical education. Keywords: Luke-Acts, education, rhetoric, intertextuality, speeches, Atticism

The pendulum of opinion on Luke’s literary capabilities has often swung from one side to the other during the last two centuries. To the extent that the Gospel of Luke was part of the Synoptics, authors such as M. Dibelius, K. L. Schmidt and R. Bultmann considered this writing an example of Kleinliteratur. A more optimistic conclusion was reached by Blass and Debrunner: [A]lmost nothing of proper classical education appears in these authors [Luke, author of Hebrews and Paul]… Yet many a good classical form and construction and many a word from the cultured literary language (often beside corresponding vulgar expressions), indicate that Paul and Luke and the author of the Hebrews must have had some kind of grammatical and rhetorical education.



* I would like to thank Drs. Sydney Park and Frank Thielman as well as the editor and his reader for helpful comments on an earlier version of this essay.  M. Dibelius, From Tradition to Gospel (trans. B. L. Woolf; New York: Scribner, ) – and passim; K. L. Schmidt, Der Rahmen der Geschichte Jesu (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, ); R. Bultmann, The History of the Synoptic Tradition (trans. J. Marsh; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, rev. ed. ) –.  F. Blass and A. Debrunner, A Greek Grammar of the New Testament and other Early Christian Literature (Chicago: University of Chicago, ) . Equally nuanced is E. Norden, Die Antike

Hellenistic παιδ1ία and Luke’s Education 

At the present, with the burgeoning of rhetorical criticism, it seems that the pendulum has swung to the other side from Bultmann. Consider the following two opinions. M. Parsons, noting Luke’s apparent facility in making a narrative clear, concise and plausible, reaches the conclusion that Luke ‘cut his rhetorical teeth…on the progymnasmata tradition’. This is to make a statement about Luke’s level of education (and hence his possible literary capabilities): the progymnasmata were generally taught at the tertiary level of literate education, a level that only the elite within Graeco-Roman culture would reach. Bolder still is the conclusion recently reached by M. Martin in comparing Luke to other authors of bioi. He concludes that Luke’s rhetorical sophistication in the employment of synkrisis is greater than that of highly educated authors such as Philo and Plutarch. Our estimation of Luke’s education and literary prowess, it appears, has come a long way. Is there evidence that Luke had reached the tertiary level of Hellenistic literate education? Authors such as Parsons and Martin, among others, would answer in the affirmative, basing their response, it would appear, on formal parallels. Formal parallels, however, can be problematic and reductionist when attempting to use them to answer fundamental questions about a text and its author. Parsons, for example, states that Luke, following the progymnasmata, shows himself adept at ekphrasis (vividness in description). The question that must be asked is: Adept in whose eyes? Would an educated Greek who had read Herodotus’s detailed descriptions of the walls of Ecbatana (.) think Luke to be satisfactorily descriptive? Would this reader think Luke equally skilled at ekphrasis when comparing him to Thucydides’ description of the Plataean siege (.) or of the plague (.–)? The persuasion of Parsons’s parallels can thus vary, depending on the





 



Kunstprosa vom VI. Jahrhundert v. Chr. bis in die Zeit der Renaissance, vol.  (Stuttgart: Teubner, th ed. ) –, who states that while many parts of Acts would have come across to an ancient reader as competent Greek, others would have felt un-Greek. M. Parsons, ‘Luke and the Progymnasmata: A Preliminary Investigation into the Preliminary Exercises’, Contextualizing Acts: Lukan Narrative and Greco-Roman Discourse (ed. T. Penner and C. V. Stichele; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, ) –, at . See A. Missiou, ‘Language and Education in Antiquity’, A History of Ancient Greek: From the Beginnings to Late Antiquity (ed. A.–F. Christidis; Cambridge: Cambridge University, ) –. M. Martin, ‘Progymnastic Topic Lists: A Compositional Template for Luke and Other Bioi?’, NTS  () –, at . Other recent works that operate with a high view of Luke’s rhetorical level include Penner and Stichele, eds., Contextualizing Acts: Lukan Narrative and Greco-Roman Discourse; C. K. Rothschild, Luke-Acts and the Rhetoric of History: An Investigation of Early Christian Historiography (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, ). This list, of course, is not exhaustive. I mention Herodotus and Thucydides since Theon, , suggests their descriptions as good examples of ekphrasis. The Greek edition consulted is the Patillon edition in the Budé

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literary milieu in which they are read. This, in turn, makes it difficult exclusively to use surface parallels to determine Luke’s educational level. In fact, there appears to be a pattern in the method of these readings. First, analogies with the Septuagint are minimised. For example, Rothschild’s four features of rhetorical history—recurrence, prediction, guidance and epitomizing— are all amply found in the Septuagint. While she recognises this, she downplays the parallels significantly. Secondly, there is a tendency to mention only the positive parallels. That is, only those features that apparently obtain in Luke-Acts are brought up. What about features of Graeco-Roman literature that are absent or which are significantly different in Luke-Acts? For example, granted that both Graeco-Roman historians and Luke include speeches, how is their respective use of speeches different from one another? Thirdly, and related to this last point, many (but by no means all) of the parallel readings are primarily structural and hence are shell comparisons. However, beneath the shell there may be significant differences that could call into question the validity of the structural similarities. In this essay I shall focus on this last aspect. In particular, I propose to () read some of the material in the curriculum of tertiary literate education; () abstract two skills of the curriculum; and () explore how these skills are employed in the curriculum itself. In this manner I hope to shine a light not only on the surface of the curriculum but also on the ground beneath it. Only then will I ask if these two skills—both at the exterior and interior level—are present in Acts.

. The Curriculum of Tertiary Education

By the time the student would reach this level, he would have become thoroughly familiar with some of the core authors of Hellenic civilisation, primarily poets (Homer being the towering figure). This was the highest level of ‘formal’ education that a student could reach. Although it is clear that other subjects— such as philosophy—were studied at the tertiary level, there is no doubt that

series. The English translation followed is that of G. A. Kennedy, Progymnasmata: Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, ).  For detailed analyses of primary and secondary education, see H. I. Marrou, Histoire de l’éducation dans l’Antiquité (Paris: Seuil, th ed. ) –; S. F. Bonner, Education in Ancient Rome (Berkeley: University of California, ). More recent explorations, taking a more systematic approach to the papyri in Egypt, are R. Cribiore, Writing, Teachers, and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt (Atlanta: Scholars, ), and Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University, ); T. Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University, ); and Y. L. Too, ed., Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity (Leiden: Brill, ).

Hellenistic παιδ1ία and Luke’s Education 

rhetoric was the dominant one. One can conclude from the sources that very few of those who began the education cycle were able to reach the tertiary level. For example, Lucian’s father commented on the obstacles and necessary sacrifices for those wishing to reach the summit of paideia: ‘Most of them thought that higher education (παιδ1ία) required great labour, much time, considerable expense, and conspicuous social position (τύχης…λαμπρᾶς)’. The papyri also offer some support in this matter: the most common extant authors in schooltext papyri are Homer, Euripides and Menander as well as gnomologies. These sources were studied mainly at the primary and secondary level. In fact, it could be said that with some exceptions rhetorical education was the domain of the elite in Graeco-Roman culture. The curriculum of rhetorical studies varied according to location, rhetor and period. This was particularly the case with respect to the preliminary exercises or progymnasmata. Quintilian, for example, writing ca.  CE, believed that the grammatici could instruct pupils in the easier exercises of aphorisms, chreiae and aethiologiae (Inst. Or. ..), but he was not pleased with the fact that certain rhetors thought it beneath their profession to teach the progymnasmata (Inst. Or. ..). Approximately two decades later, Suetonius (De Gramm. ) stated that in his own day the grammatici had completely taken over the progymnasmata. The reason for this was not the attitude of the rhetors (as in the period of Quintilian), but rather the apathy and youth of the pupils. Thus, Roman education, roughly during the period in which Acts was written, was in a stage of transition, with the progymnasmata increasingly becoming the domain of the secondary level of literate education. With the Greeks there was equal variation. R. Webb notes that in the handbooks from Theon onward the exercises are all grouped together, thus possibly suggesting one teacher for all the progymnasmata at the tertiary level. Kennedy, on the other hand, by observing Theon’s handbook, suggests that Greek teachers probably taught both grammar and rhetoric. This is corroborated in Strabo, who stated that his teacher, though a grammarian, taught both grammar and rhetoric (Geog. ..). We can thus conclude that

 A reading of Pseudo-Plutarch’s essay De liberis educandis could lead to the conclusion that philosophy was the essential subject of tertiary education. More balanced is Lucian’s Somnium , where lady paideia lists among those whom she has immortalised both rhetoricians (Demosthenes) and philosophers (Socrates). On the debate see especially Morgan, Literate Education, –.  Lucian Somnium .  Morgan, Literate Education, Table . See also M. Winterbottom, Roman Declamation (Bristol: Bristol Classical, ).  See Marrou, Histoire, –; Morgan, Literate Education, –, .  R. Webb, ‘The Progymnasmata as Practice’, Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity (ed. Too) –, at .  Kennedy, Progymnasmata, .

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there was fluidity during the Late Republic and Early Empire, with the result being that the progymnasmata could be engaged either at the end of the secondary level or at the beginning of the tertiary level. The exercises included the following: chreia, fable, narrative, topos, description, prosopopoeia, encomium, synkrisis, thesis and nomos. These were methodical exercises that were meant to isolate the separate threads that went into the composition of a historical work or a declamation (Theon, ). The student laboured in each exercise, attempting to hone each individual skill in order to be well rounded for the final goal of composition and speech-giving. Quintilian (Inst. Or. ..–) also strongly encouraged the reading of history and oratory at this stage. He argued that the pupil could profit by reading these works during class while the rhetor abstracted for him the separate skills (e.g. cause, narrative, amplification) that could be discerned in the work. Thus, the teacher would act as a sort of guiding physician in the autopsy of histories and speeches while his pupils looked on and learned. Quintilian points out that Greek rhetoricians (or rather, their assistants [adiutores]) followed this path. The student, having finished the preliminary exercises, moved to the zenith of rhetorical education, namely declamation. This consisted of two types, the controversiae and suasoriae. The former dealt with forensic situations, in which the student delivered a speech-in-character arguing for the side of the case that he took. The student would have to determine the stasis of the case in order to put forward a persuasive argument for or against. Controversiae thus prepared the student for judicial speeches. Cribiore correctly notes that the Greek rhetors focused their controversiae on historical themes from the classical period (e.g. Persian wars, Peloponnesian war). In this case the student would take on the persona of a historical character and defend himself against an accusation. The suasoriae dealt with counsel on a particular course of action and were thus useful for training in deliberative speeches. Again, the characters were primarily taken from the Greek classics. Examples include: Alexander debating on whether he should sail the Ocean to conquer new lands or halt, and Agamemnon deliberating on sacrificing Iphigenia for fair winds. It would be apparent that in order to declaim on these subjects the student needed to have a solid knowledge of the characters, circumstances and the classical world as a whole. It would have been impossible to do a competent job on prosopopoeia, for example, if the student was not steeped in the classical world.  By the fourth century the exercises were fixed at fourteen with Aphthonius and Libanius (see C. Gibson, Libanius’ Progymnasmata: Model Exercises in Greek Prose Composition and Rhetoric [Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, ]).  On declamation, see S. F. Bonner, Roman Declamation (Liverpool: Liverpool University, ) and D. A. Russell, Greek Declamation (Cambridge: Cambridge University) .  Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, –.  The Elder Seneca Suasoriae .–; .–.

Hellenistic παιδ1ία and Luke’s Education 

Anachronisms and historical monstrosities would have crept in if the student was ignorant of one aspect or another of the period he was attempting to portray. One can thus see that at this level all the knowledge accumulated at each successive stage—gnomic sayings, Homeric exegesis and study of prose authors—was necessary if the student was successfully to declaim and write a literary piece.

. Literary Competencies of the pepaideumenoi

An individual who had navigated through all levels of education would have naturally accumulated extensive knowledge and developed a large number of abilities to put to use in the composition of speeches or literature. Consequently, it is not possible, given the limited scope of this essay, to explore all these competencies. I would like, however, to focus on two aspects of the arsenal of the rhetorically educated man. a. Knowledge of the Greek Classics Though the highly educated man of the Principate lived in a world considerably different from the golden age of Hellenic civilisation, it is no exaggeration to say that his studies transported him to that glorious past. His education, from beginning to end, was a sustained exposure to the fifth and fourth centuries that left a profound mark on his worldview. In primary education, the pupil learned to read and write by copying, among other things, ancient maxims. He was exposed to three of the great Greek classics, namely Homer, Euripides and Menander. At the secondary level the student’s knowledge of Homer was deepened, to the point where, in some cases, the poet’s words would have been burned into his mind. But Homer was not the only poet studied: as at the primary level, Euripides, Menander and Hesiod were looked at more closely. At the tertiary level the prose genre was dominant. Looking at Theon’s progymnasmata, the historical writers most referred to by him in his illustrations of the exercises are Thucydides ( times), Herodotus ( times) and Theopompus ( times). Plato is referred to ten times, and from the orators Demosthenes is given pride of place with  references (followed by Isocrates with six references). Homer is quoted extensively and other poets occasionally. Two important observations emerge from the above. First, with the exception of prose at the tertiary level, the student of Hellenistic paideia was exposed to the same authors at all three levels. Although there was an approfondissement of these  On the reading of Vergil for Roman students, Orosius stated that the Aeneid was ‘burned into his memory’ (adv. pagan. ..). Interestingly, Orosius states that the person responsible for this was the ludus litterarius, not the grammaticus. I owe this citation to R. Kaster, ‘Notes on “Primary” and “Secondary” Schools in Late Antiquity’, TAPA  () –, at .  See Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, –.  I did not include in this count the Armenian additions.

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authors at the successive levels, the authors largely remained the same. Pliny the Younger’s suggestion that the thing was not how wide one read but how much (of the same authors) bears this out. The result was thorough knowledge of the core authors. Secondly, and as the consequence of this profound knowledge of the classical authors in the proper context (or register, to use the vocabulary of sociolinguistics), the writer or speaker could (and should) deploy his knowledge of the classics in his quotations, allusions and style. When reading authors roughly contemporary with Luke, such as Plutarch, Arrian, Cassius Dio and Lucian (all highly educated), one is struck at their saturation with the Greek classics, not excluding prose works. Quotations, allusions, images and myths of the glorious Hellenic past abound. A turn of phrase here or a particular form of diction there raises their discourse and imbues their work with solemnity. The classical world with all its symbolic significance provides a dense intertextual web linking these authors to a prestigious past and in the process marks them out as the elite of their period. They thus portrayed their high level of education by means of an intertextuality based on the prestigious authors of the Greek past. The observations above lead to the important topic of Atticism. Starting in the first century BCE, a movement arose that sought to revitalize the dignity of the Greek language. It was felt by many men of letters (partly influenced by a Stoic philosophy of language) that the Koine lacked the vitality and beauty of the Attic Greek. Therefore, literary critics such as Dionysius of Halicarnassus encouraged a certain amount of imitatio of the classical writers. This movement is rightly called ‘classicism’. By the second century CE, however, what had begun as an attempt to rehabilitate Greek prose (partly as a reaction to Asianism) had turned into an extreme form of language purism that castigated any literature that did not closely imitate the classical masters. Vocabulary aids were produced by lexicographers such as Phrynichos and Moeris where the current (Koine) form of a term was listed and rejected, and the Attic form to be employed supplied. This linguistic situation had inevitable social ramifications: it was a badge of the elite to be able to atticise since only those who had reached the tertiary level of literate education had obtained the necessary intimate knowledge of the classics to be able to deploy it. There is no doubt that one could have learned a phrase of, say, Demosthenes, by listening to a Sophist or by attending a festival. But the  Pliny the Younger Ep. .: ‘multum legendum esse, non multa’. I owe this quotation to Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, .  See Morgan, Literate Education, –, for a list of core and peripheral authors, the latter of whom only a minority of students mastered.  On which see S. Swain, Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek World AD – (Oxford: Clarendon, ) –; A. Wifstrand, ‘Luke and Greek Classicism’, Epochs and Styles: Selected Writings on the New Testament, Greek Language and Greek Culture in the Post-Classical Era (ed. L. Rydbeck and S. E. Porter; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, ) –, at – and passim.

Hellenistic παιδ1ία and Luke’s Education 

ability consistently and elegantly to atticise was virtually impossible without a thorough knowledge of the Attic authors: imitatio is extremely difficult if the author is not saturated with the literary model. Atticism was an extreme manifestation of the elite post-classical Greeks’ preoccupation with their language and how it functioned to define their ‘ethnic’ identity. It served inter alia to mark a contrast between the elite Atticists and the masses, showing their superiority as educated men. It would be a mistake to conclude that all those who had reached the tertiary level of paideia were given to classicism or Atticism. Some immediately observed its superficiality; others found it inappropriate to atticise in the genre in which they were writing. Yet, we can be certain (as the literary sources demonstrate) that both the educational material in which they had immersed themselves and the classicising/atticising atmosphere of the period were a source of pleasure and pressure so that the pepaideumenoi, in the proper register, would stamp their works with the sign of the Greek classics. This is very important to keep in mind when we examine Luke’s level of education. b. Elaborate Speeches Even a superficial knowledge of Greek narrative shows how fundamental recorded speech was to its configuration. From the standpoint of the genre of history, Thucydides was viewed as the master and was thus often imitated with varying degrees of success. Historians from the Hellenistic and Roman periods included numerous set pieces which had a variety of functions in the overall works. There are at least two features of speeches that rhetorically educated students would have acquired and imitated: their length and their agonistic character. I shall briefly develop these below. The reader who has been accustomed to the speeches in biblical narrative is struck at their relative brevity in comparison to the speeches of Graeco-Roman historians. The classical prose authors studied at the tertiary level of paideia had certainly included very long and elaborate speeches. One thinks, for example, of the lengthy speeches in Book One of Thucydides. Though shorter than Thucydides, Xenophon’s Hellenica includes several set pieces in Book Two. The student at the tertiary level thus had models to imitate when it came time to compose his own prose works. If one also keeps in mind that orators  See, e.g., Cicero Brutus –, whose chief critique was that the Attic orators were too varied in their style for contemporaries to impose a uniform style and call it ‘Attic’: ‘“Atticos”, inquit, “volo imitari”. Quos? nec enim est unum genus’ (). Cicero, we may note, is not without bias in this statement, as he had been accused of being florid and hence Asian in his style.  E.g. Epictetus and Galen.  Although Dionysius of Halicarnassus found numerous faults with some of his speeches: see De Thuc. –, –. On the attempt to imitate Thucydides’ speech-reporting by amateur historians, see Lucian, Hist. conscr. , .

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such as Demosthenes and Lysias served as literary models, then it is not at all surprising that the introduction of lengthy and highly rhetorical speeches into historical works was a constant feature of Graeco-Roman history. The second feature of the speeches that I would like to discuss is their agonistic character. By this I mean how endemic close argumentation and refutation were to speeches. This should not be surprising given the competitive nature of paideia and of the culture as a whole. In addition, if the student was going to be effective in judicial and deliberative speeches, it was necessary both to present a persuasive argument and to counter that of another. Thus, one finds that the ability to produce counterarguments was pervasive in the progymnasmata. The student, to be sure, had to learn to defend and refute in the exercises on confirmation, refutation and theses. But it is noteworthy that already in such early exercises such as the chreiae and fables the student was honing his skills at debate. He was to expand, restate and comment on chreiae, but at the same time he had to be thinking of how to refute with the proper arguments (Theon, –). He was to learn by heart Aesop’s fables, expand them and concoct fables of his own, but at the same time he had to refute and contradict them (Theon, –). Argument and counterargument by means of logic, syllogisms, knowledge of laws and ancient citations thus provided part of the fabric of tertiary education. One of the ways in which authors were able to exploit this agonistic element was by the introduction of pairs of speeches. Thus, one voice answers another in argument and counterargument for the prosecution of an individual; one carefully argued opinion on a proposal for a future action is offset by another opinion suggesting a different tack. It was in his speeches that the persuasive power of the pepaideumenos was best seen. A reading of the speeches of Thucydides and Demosthenes, for example, amply illustrates this agonistic character: the arguments are tight, the use of maxims abounds and intertextuality is employed for persuasion. This feature must be kept in mind when examining the speeches in Acts and their relation to Graeco-Roman historiography.

. Luke among the pepaideumenoi?

In the first part of this paper I provided a sketch of the curriculum of the tertiary level of Hellenistic literate education. In the second section I abstracted two skills that authors educated to the highest level displayed in their literary works, namely, intertextuality from the Greek classics and agonistic speeches. We have now reached the place where we can compare these core aspects of paideia to Acts. How does Luke fare in comparison to the educated elite of the Empire? Specifically, when we concentrate on the matter of intertextuality and speech reporting, does Luke demonstrate a facility like that displayed by those who had reached the tertiary level of literate education?  On the competitive nature of paideia, see Morgan, Literate Education, –.

Hellenistic παιδ1ία and Luke’s Education 

a. Intertextuality In what follows I shall not focus on intertextuality in the broad sense of generic imitation or large architectonic comparisons. Rather, I shall concentrate on specific links such as quotations, allusions and phraseology—precisely the type of intertextuality that demonstrates intimate knowledge of the classical authors in which the highly educated were steeped. There are several verses that scholars have identified as possible connections between Acts and Greek literature.

i) Acts . This verse is found in the speech of Gamaliel that covers .–. The disciples had gravely upset the Jerusalem authorities by refusing to comply with their command to stop preaching in the name of Jesus (.–). In fact, when confronted once again with their disobedience, the disciples responded that they would obey God rather than men (.), thus insinuating that in their failure to acknowledge the messiaship of Jesus of Nazareth the Sanhedrin was no longer operating under God’s authority. Not surprisingly (given their recent execution of Jesus), the Sanhedrin now wished to execute the disciples. At this highly tense point the Pharisee Gamaliel intervened. He had the disciples step out, and delivered a speech that had the ironic result of the liberation of the disciples for further gospel preaching (.). In the peroratio of the speech Gamaliel resorted to a historical example to drive home his point that the Sanhedrin should wait rather than tempestuously execute the apostles. The reason for this approach, argued Gamaliel, was that if the movement turned out to be from God, the Sanhedrin would have found itself fighting God himself: μήποτ1 καὶ θ1ομάχοι 1ὑρ1θῆτ1. It has been noted that the verbal form of θ1ομάχος appears in Euripides’ Bacchae in  and . Most commentators agree that there is probably no literary dependence on Euripides. More recently, however, J. B. Weaver has called attention to how well Acts  (as well as Acts  and ) interconnects with the framework of the Bacchae. That is, in both works the mention of God-fighting is framed within the context of prison-escape and combat against a new deity. This could thus suggest that Luke may have known the Bacchae and thus may have participated in Hellenistic education, where Euripides was a formative author.  See C. K. Barrett, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles ( vols.; London: T&T Clark, –) .; H. Conzelmann, A Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles (trans. J. Limburgh, A. T. Kraabel and D. H. Juel; Philadelphia: Fortress, ) ; G. Schneider, Die Apostelgeschichte ( vols.; Freiburg: Herder, –) ..  J. B. Weaver, Plots of Epiphany: Prison-Escape in Acts of the Apostles (Berlin: de Gruyter, ) – and passim.  See R. Cribiore, ‘The Grammarian’s Choice: The Popularity of Euripides’ Phoenissae in Hellenistic and Roman Education’, Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity (ed. Too) –.

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Two observations are pertinent here. First, even if it could be proven that Luke had read Euripides, that does not provide sufficient evidence to suggest that he was therefore highly educated—Euripides’ pre-eminence in Hellenistic paideia was found mostly at the primary level. Furthermore, we noted that statements from the poets were employed in gnomologies (again, the domain of primary education) not only because they taught the students to read and write but also because they inculcated morality in the young minds. A statement about avoidance of becoming a θ1ομάχος would fit extremely well in ancient culture, where individuals were bombarded with warnings about hubris. Thus, even if Luke pulled the term right from Euripides, this is not proof that he was highly educated. Secondly, it should be observed that the verbal form θ1ομαχ1ῖν was already employed in Hellenistic Judaism ( Macc .) in the context of oppression of the people of God by a tyrant. In addition, the fragmentary Hellenistic Jewish author Artapanus appeared to exploit the above motif in his story of Moses’ imprisonment and miraculous prison-release in the face of the Egyptian king’s oppression. It would therefore appear that Hellenistic Judaism had already taken over the motif of the God-fighter to portray a foreign monarch’s vain attempt to destroy the Jews. It is more likely, given Luke’s overall Jewish framework, that his intertextuality in Acts . stems from the soil of Hellenistic Judaism rather than from direct knowledge of the Greek classics. Even if the latter were the case, it does not support an argument for participation in rhetorical education. ii) Acts . Another possible intertextual link with Greek literature is found in the Areopagus speech. This is possibly Paul’s most polished sermon in the entirety of Acts from a rhetorical point of view. It begins with a textbook exordium in his praise of the Athenians’ pietas in order to gain a favourable hearing (.). There followed an ingenious transition to the narratio in v.  with the mention of the ἀγνώστῳ θ1ῷ. The pathos is palpable in vv. b and , and the argument is logical (v. —as befits the occasion in Athens!). In the course of his argument Paul offered corroboration in v.  (γάρ) by offering a quotation from Aratus’ Phaenomena : τοῦ γὰρ καὶ γένος ἐσμέν. This is one of the few explicit  Artapanus Frg. .–.  It is most remarkable that Luke would use this theme of the Jerusalem authorities!  Thus also more recently D. Marguerat, Les Actes des Apôtres (–) (Genève: Labor et Fides, ) : ‘L’expansion du motif au-delà du mythe dionysiaque fait penser que Luc ne l’a pas emprunté directement à Euripide, mais qu’il l’a reçu par l’intermédiaire du judaïsme hellénistique’.  It is difficult to say with certainty whether the expression ὡς καὶ τιν1ς τῶν καθ’ ὑµᾶς ποιητῶν 1ἰρήκασιν of v.  refers to what has just been said or to what follows or to both. If it is anaphoric, then it may stem from Epimenides. There are, however, difficulties in ascertaining the true source of the triad (see Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles, .). On the other hand, there is no doubt that the final clause was in fact contained in Aratus’ poem.

Hellenistic παιδ1ία and Luke’s Education 

quotations in Acts from a corpus other than the Greek Bible. Might not the quotation of this Greek poet in the mouth of Paul be an indicator of Luke’s education? In fact, a quotation from Aratus’ Phaenomena is not a token of elevated education. First, it comes from the genre of poetry, which was predominant at the primary level. Secondly, and perhaps more telling, is the fact that Aratus’ poem was extremely popular during the Hellenistic period. In the words of C. J. Tuplin: ‘The Phaenomena achieved immediate fame…and lasting popularity beyond the circle of the learned poets: it became the most widely read poem, after the Iliad and Odyssey, in the ancient world’. We seem to be dealing here, therefore, with the sort of cliché wisdom that could have easily been picked up in the streets. Lastly, it should be mentioned that the poem had already been cited by the Hellenistic Jew of the second century BCE Aristobulus (frag. ). It appears, therefore, that long before Luke the poem had been pressed into apologetic duty by Alexandrian Jews. We saw that this was also the case with respect to the maxim of Acts .. A stronger argument for Luke’s rhetorical sophistication could be made rather from the fact that he would quote a maxim-like statement from an ancient author in order to cement his argument; or the Socratic parallels from Acts  as a whole. Otherwise, a quotation from the well-known Aratus is not at all a strong argument for Luke’s supposed high level of paideia. iii) Acts . As was the case in the two previous examples, the possible connection with Greek literature in this text occurs within direct speech. .– is Paul’s farewell speech to the elders of the Ephesian church. Paul reminded them of his valiant service (vv. –), warned them of future intrusions from false teachers (vv. –) and employed his own life as paradigmatic. At the very end of the speech Paul cited an otherwise unknown logion of Jesus in order to add pathos and reinforcement to his last injunction. The logion reads: μακάριόν ἐστιν μᾶλλον διδόναι ἢ λαμβάν1ιν. An argument has been made by E. Plümacher to the effect that the statement ascribed to Jesus is actually an imitation of Thucydides. Plümacher begins by noting that a maxim similar to the one expressed by Thucydides has not been discovered in Jewish literature. Therefore, it is quite probable that Luke has taken a refrain from the Graeco-Roman world and placed it on the lips of  See M. Dibelius, ‘Paul on the Areopagus’, Studies in the Acts of the Apostles (ed. Heinrich Greeven; London: SCM, ) –, at , who appears to state that Luke had firsthand knowledge of the poem.  OCD s.v. Aratus.  E. Plümacher, ‘Eine Thukydidesreminiszenz in der Apostelgeschichte (Apg ,––Thuk. II ,f.)’, Geschichte und Geschichten: Aufsätze zur Apostelgeschichte und zu den Johannesakten (ed. Jens Schröter and Ralph Brucker; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, ) –.

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Jesus. Plümacher notes that the sentiment about the preference for giving over receiving was not exclusive to Thucydides but actually turns up in numerous Graeco-Roman authors. Why, then, one may ask, insist that in the case of Acts the quotation stems directly from Thucydides? His answer is that the correspondences between Acts .– and Thucydides ..– are so close that the statement is more than likely a deliberate reference to the Athenian historian: So kongruent, wie die beiden Texte in Inhalt, Topik, Reihenfolge der einzelnen Topoi und in V.  selbst im Gleichklang der jeweils eine Maxime formulierenden Worte sind, halte ich es nun in der Tat für wahrscheinlich, daß der Verfasser der Apostelgeschichte das Ende der Paulusrede Apg ,– in Anlehnung an die beigezogene Thukydidesstelle gestaltet hat.

It would be of some significance for our evaluation of Luke’s paideia if Plümacher were correct. The place of Thucydides in literate education, as we have seen, was reserved for the tertiary level. Upon closer examination, however, Plümacher’s argument turns out to be problematic. First, it is exaggerated to state that the sentiment expressed in . was foreign to Jewish literature. In fact, I would suggest that a better parallel to Acts . is found in Sir .–:

χάριν ἐντολῆς ἀντιλαβοῦ πένητος καὶ κατὰ τὴν ἔνδ1ιαν αὐτοῦ μὴ ἀποστρέψῃς αὐτὸν κ1νόν. ἀπόλ1σον ἀργύριον δι’ ἀδ1λφὸν καὶ φίλον, καὶ μὴ ἰωθήτω ὑπὸ τὸν λίθον 1ἰς ἀπώλ1ιαν. θὲς τὸν θησαυρόν σου κατ’ ἐντολὰς ὑψίστου, καὶ λυσιτ1λήσ1ι σοι μᾶλλον ἢ τὸ χρυσίον. I have underlined a number of terms that also show up in Acts .–. In addition, the context of Sir .– is remarkably similar to the Acts passage. In Sirach, the injunctions have to do with the care of the poor (πένης) as a response to the commandments of God. In Acts, Paul asserted that he toiled with his own hands not only so as to support himself and his companions, but also that he might ‘help’ (ἀντιλαμβάνω) those in need. He did this, he stated, so that he might ‘remember’ (a Semitism which in effect means ‘to keep’, cf. Exod .; Tob .) the words of Jesus. Thus, as in Sirach, Paul toils to help those in need in order to keep the words (i.e. the command) of Jesus. The connections  Plümacher, ‘Eine Thukydidesreminiszenz’, .  Plümacher, ‘Eine Thukydidesreminiszenz’, .  Plümacher, ‘Eine Thukydidesreminiszenz’, . He adds (–) that imitation of Thucydides during the Principate was common, and thus one should not be surprised to find it in Acts. Others who view the logion as an imitation of a Graeco-Roman aphorism (but not exclusively stemming from Thucydides) include Conzelmann, The Acts of the Apostles, ; E. Haenchen, The Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary (trans. R. M. Wilson; Oxford: Blackwell, ) – n. ; and J. Jervell, Die Apostelgeschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, ) .

Hellenistic παιδ1ία and Luke’s Education 

between the Jewish thought as found in Sirach and the logion of Jesus are striking. I suggest that there are stronger correspondences between the logion and Sirach than with Thucydides (the latter has nothing to do with care for the poor). A second weakness in Plümacher’s argument has to do with the wording of the Sprichwort. In fact, the Thucydidean maxim states the opposite of Acts .. Thucydides states that the Odrysians had established a custom which was the opposite to that of the Persians. This nomos of the Odrysians, states Thucydides, was λαμβάν1ιν μᾶλλον ἢ διδόναι (..). The statement in Acts, on the other hand, is μακάριόν ἐστιν μᾶλλον διδόναι ἢ λαμβάν1ιν. Thus, it would be necessary to reconstruct in wording what the Persian custom was in order to have a maxim that is similar to Acts .. This is problematic. To sum up, the sentiment of the logion ascribed to Jesus in Acts . is not foreign to Jewish literature. An important example is Sir .– (cf. also Sir .), where both lexical and conceptual ties with Acts . are very plausible. It should be noted that I am not arguing for direct dependence of Luke on Sirach. Rather, I suggest that the maxim is also found in Jewish literary soil (an example of which is Sirach) and that it is much more likely (given lexical and conceptual ties) that Luke derived it from this quarter than in imitatio of Thucydides. iv) Acts . The statement is found in Paul’s speech before Agrippa II (vv.–). It is an account of Paul’s conversion and subsequent controversial ministry. Paul emphasised that his preaching concerning Jesus of Nazareth was in accordance with the Scriptures since in him they had been fulfilled. Paul stated that on his encounter with the resurrected Jesus the latter spoke to him in Aramaic (τῇ ‘Εβραΐδι διαλέκτῳ) and stated: Σαοὺλ Σαούλ, τί μ1 διώκ1ις; σκληρόν σοι πρὸς κέντρα λακτίζ1ιν. The last statement in the dialogue has been identified as a Greek proverb. Though most commentators agree that it is found in various classical authors (e.g. Pindar and Aeschylus), the text that most resembles Acts . in wording and thrust is said to be Euripides’ Bacchae , although direct correspondence is largely denied. Other authors indicate that the proverb was also a familiar one in Judaism (e.g. Psalms of Solomon .; Philo Dec. ). It is difficult to reach a firm decision on this matter since there are arguments that can be marshalled on both sides. On the one hand, it is true that in an  See the appropriate remarks of J. J. Kilgallen, ‘Acts : and Thucydides ..’, JBL  () – in this respect. His remarks, however, are directed towards Haenchen.  See O. Bauernfeind, Kommentar und Studien zur Apostelgeschichte mit einer Einleitung von Martin Hengel (ed. Volker Metelmann; Tübingen: Paul Siebeck, ) ; Conzelmann, Acts, –; Haenchen, Acts, .  Thus especially Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles, . and Bauernfeind, Kommentar, .  Bruce, The Book of the Acts,  n. .

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agricultural society the image would be readily available to be employed as a spiritual metaphor. It is also true that, broadly speaking, the passages in Psalms of Solomon and Philo employ the image in the context of a struggle between God (in the case of Philo a struggle through conscience) and humans. On the other hand, the way that the proverb is used in Greek authors such as Euripides and Pindar, that is, of the inability of a human to defeat the will of the immortal gods, fits in well with the context of Acts .. The evidence from the sources we possess thus makes it more likely that Luke drew the proverb from the Greek milieu. Whether or not he obtained the statement directly from Euripides is more difficult to say. If he did, it would be evidence that Luke had probably participated in primary education in a Greek context, where, as we have previously observed, Euripides was extremely popular in gnomologies. Indeed, the warning against hubris expressed in the maxim about kicking against the goads would be precisely what ancient society would have wanted to inculcate in the pupil. It is interesting that a similar maxim, having to do with hubris, was also used in the speech of Gamaliel that we examined previously. v) Acts . This verse is part of the narrative of Paul’s voyage to Rome. After fourteen days of drifting, the crew finally drew close to the island of Malta. As they were nearing the beach, they hit a shoal (τόπος διθάλασσον) and ‘ran the ship aground’. This last clause translates ἐπέκ1ιλαν τὴν ναῦν. Commentators have called this last phrase a ‘literary expression’ that is reminiscent of Homer. Bruce, indeed, states that Acts  ‘presents one or two unmistakable Homeric reminiscences’. The following observations are pertinent in determining a Homeric echo here. First, it should be noted that it is somewhat misleading to argue that, because the term ναῦς was used in classical literature and appears only in this verse in the NT, Luke is therefore using a classical expression. In order to label a term ‘classical’ it is necessary to show that it did not normally appear in the Koine. Otherwise, hundreds of words could be termed ‘classical’ since the Koine is after all built upon Attic Greek. This was one of Wifstrand’s criticisms of Norden’s method with respect to Luke’s classicism in his Gospel: ‘It is not enough to point out that Luke has an Attic term in a passage where Mark has a koine word, since you must also show that the word chosen by Luke does not occur in Hellenistic  Thus Haenchen, Acts, .  Bruce, The Book of the Acts, . S. M. Praeder, ‘Acts :–:: Sea Voyages in Ancient Literature and the Theology of Luke-Acts’, CBQ  () –, at : ‘In the Odyssey epikellein is used with naus (ne ̄us) of the beaching of ships… Little else except a reminiscence of the Odyssey would explain the only appearance of epikellein and naus in the NT’. See also Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles, ., though he does not seem to be as convinced as Bruce of the Homeric reference.

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prose and also, hopefully, that the one he avoids does occur in Hellenistic writers. Then and only then can you reasonably argue for his being a classicist or an Atticist’. In fact, the term ναῦς does appear in non-classical literature such as the papyri. Thus, it is mistaken to state that Luke’s use of the term ναῦς (rather than the more usual πλοῖν) in this passage indicates classical imitatio. Secondly, given the revival (though argued differently from Hobart) of the idea that the author of Acts was possibly a physician, it is interesting to note that physicians during the Principate travelled often. Thus, it could be argued that a nautical term such as ἐπικέλλω would probably have been known to Luke. On the other hand, it is true that the spelling ἐπικέλλω is decidedly epic, not found in prose. Furthermore, the combination of ἐπικέλλω and ναῦς is only found in Homer or in Eustathius’s Homeric scholia. It is thus striking to find this combination in Acts. This is perhaps the strongest piece of evidence that Luke was familiar with the Odyssey. It is more difficult to say whether his use of the phrase was a conscious imitatio of Homer or a slip of the pen due to thorough familiarity with the poet. Whatever the case, this may constitute evidence of at least a secondary level of literate education on the part of Luke. To sum up this section on intertextuality, it will be apparent that Acts’ linkage with the Greek classics is minimal. In those places where there does appear to be a connection with Greek authors (Acts .; .; .), it is either with maxims that would have been learned at the primary level or with popular cliché poetry of the Hellenistic period. Only the echo of Homer in Paul’s voyage to Rome would indicate that the author had probably advanced to the secondary level of  Wifstrand, ‘Luke and Greek Classicism’, –.  MM, s. v.  See L. Alexander, The Preface to Luke’s Gospel: Literary Convention and Social Context in Luke .– and Acts . (Cambridge: Cambridge University, ) –; M. Hengel and A. M. Schwemer, Paulus zwischen Damaskus und Antiochien: Die unbekannten Jahre des Apostels mit einem Beitrag von Ernst Axel Knauf (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, ) –; A. Weissenrieder, Images of Illness in the Gospel of Luke: Insights of Ancient Medical Texts (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, ); W. Eckey, Das Lukasevangelium unter Berücksichtigung seiner Parallelen. Teilband : Lk ,–,  (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, ) –.  See Hengel and Schwemer, Paulus, –.  See Homer Od. ., ; .; Apollonius Rhodius Argon. .; .; .; Numenius, Fragmenta .; Phanocles Fragmenta .. Later uses of the verb in this particular form are found mainly in scholia on Homer (e.g. Eustathius).  The closest thing to ἐπικέλλω is Herodotus .: ἐπώκ1ιλαν τὴν νέα. But note that ἐποκέλλω is normally used in prose during the Hellenistic period (e.g. Polybius .; Arrian Indica ..). Note the inferior textual variant in Acts . with the more prosefriendly ἐπώκ1ιλαν.  On Luke’s supposed imitation of Homer, see especially D. MacDonald, Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? Four Cases from the Acts of the Apostles (New Haven: Yale University, ) although this author remains unconvinced by the parallels he cites, as the method for detecting Homeric echoes appears to be too broad.

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paideia in the Greek context. Doubtless some would like mention of the prologues of Luke and Acts in this discussion on intertextuality, and I will deal with these in the Conclusion.

b. The Speeches The use of speeches in Acts has often been employed as evidence for Luke’s awareness of the Greek model of historical writing. In this section I would like, from the perspective of the Greek rhetorical curriculum that we have sketched, briefly to explore how the speeches in Acts fit with the model of Graeco-Roman historiography. That is to say, are the speeches in Acts reflective of the agonistic fabric that rhetorically trained students would have learned in the progymnasmata and declamations, and which was demonstrated in the pairing of speeches in literary works? When looked at from this perspective, I suggest that the speeches in Acts are after all not as similar to Graeco-Roman historiography as is often suggested. The first major speech is Peter’s Pentecost sermon in ch. . The ostensible purpose of the speech was to convince the hearers that Jesus, who had been betrayed and crucified but yet had been raised from the dead, was the Christ (v. ). In order to effect this persuasion Peter resorted to arguments based on the authoritative Scriptures (vv. –, –, –). It would thus be fair to say that the discourse had a persuasive function. Viewing the speech from the perspective of the rhetorical curriculum it is striking that there is no rebuttal to Peter’s speech. If the attempt was to persuade, then one would have expected—following the Greek tradition—a second speech to be set side by side with Peter’s in order to see which had the better argument and thus also bring a certain amount of objectivity. In fact, the voice of the ‘other’ is not given a chance in this speech. Instead, what we are allowed to hear are the words of surprise from the crowd: ‘What does this mean?’ (v. ). This sounds a lot like an invitation to the reader to pay attention to Peter’s sermon precisely to know what the tongues event means. The only agonistic statement is mentioned in v. : ‘But others sneered and said, “They are filled with new wine” ’. This is hardly a rebuttal! One might expect a response at the end of the speech. Instead, Luke reports that about three thousand were baptised and followed the apostles’ teaching. In this, the first major, and in a sense tone-setting speech, there is no argument presented against the monumental claims of Peter. I would suggest that this is less than satisfactory from the point of view of the rhetorical curriculum that we have examined.  See, e.g., W. C. van Unnik, ‘Luke’s Second Book and the Rules of Hellenistic Historiography’, Les Actes des Apôtres: Traditions, rédaction, théologie (ed. J. Kremer; Leuven: Leuven University, ) –; P. E. Satterthwaite, ‘Acts against the Background of Classical Rhetoric’, The Book of Acts in Its Ancient Literary Setting, vol.  (ed. B. W. Winter and A. D. Clarke; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, ) –.

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More overtly judicial scenarios show up during Paul’s so-called second missionary journey at Philippi, Thessalonica and Corinth. At Philippi, after exorcising a slave-girl who brought great profit to her masters, Paul and Silas received the following accusation: ‘These men are disturbing our city, being as they are Jews (’Ιουδαῖοι ὑπάρχοντ1ς), and are proclaiming customs which are not lawful for us either to receive or observe, being Romans (ʿΡωμαίοις οὖσιν)’ (.–). Capitalising on their sense of Roman identity as citizens of such a centre of romanitas as Philippi, the plaintiffs accused the peregrini Paul and Silas of disturbance based on the latter’s Jewish identity. The charge was probably that of disturbance through magic, as the exorcism of the slave-girl, performed by Jews, would have appeared to the Philippian bystanders. What is interesting to note for our purposes is that Luke reports no rebuttal from Paul and Silas. The charge was indeed a serious one, and yet, even after Paul’s citizenship disclosure in vv. –, there was really no defence. The only defence, if a defence it may be called, is the supernatural prison-release that occurs that evening. Again, viewing the episode through the lens of the rhetorical curriculum leaves one wondering why a defence speech was not included. At Thessalonica, Paul and Silas again received an accusation: ‘These men who have turned the world upside-down have come here also… And they are all acting against the decrees of Caesar saying that there is another king, namely Jesus’ (.–). The charge was probably that of maiestas, a very serious accusation that could incur severe penalties. Remarkably, Luke does not include a defence against this charge. This would have been an excellent place, judging from what a student would have been taught in the progymnasmata and controversiae, to put a speech on the lips of Paul providing a defence against the maiestas charge. It would be the sort of thing that the student would have learned in the exercises on prosopopoeia in the progymnasmata. During his stay at Corinth, Paul was taken before the proconsul Gallio and accused of ‘persuading men to worship God contrary to the law’ (.). It is difficult to say what ‘law’ the Jews were referring to. Yet, it is remarkable that Luke again does not allow Paul to give a response. Instead, Luke makes the surprising statement that ‘when Paul was about to open his mouth…’ Gallio himself broke-in and, ironically, provided a defence that would be used by Paul later in Acts for his apologia. This again would have been a very good place to allow the audience to hear Paul’s counter-argument against very pertinent accusations. Alexander comments on these apologetic scenarios:

Paul, certainly, is presented as innocent of the particular charge on which he was tried in Caesarea… But he and his associates have incurred a number of other charges along the way which have never in so many words—that is, in the explicit terms we would expect of apologetic speech—been refuted. Mud has a disturbing tendency to stick, and it is a dangerous strategy for an

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apologetic writer to bring accusations to the reader’s attention without taking the trouble to refute them.

There are other places in Acts where a refutation—either from opponents against the Christian claim or from the disciples against political charges—would have worked very well (e.g. Acts .–). An individual who had been nourished in the progymnasmata and declamations would have found these ideal opportunities to put words on the lips of the speakers and thus add the agonistic dimension that was so central to Greek literature. This is what he was taught during his rhetorical education, and what was reinforced in the culture. And yet, with the exception of the (brief) exchange between Tertullus and Paul in Acts , speeches in pairs are not at all the norm in Acts. Rather, the book of Acts reads like a one-way argument, where, as I have observed elsewhere, even the outsiders ironically accent Luke’s theology. Of course, it could be said that the reason why counter-speeches are not generally found in Acts is because Luke refused to put words on the lips of speakers that had never been uttered: he was a serious historian, it may be argued, unlike those blasted by Polybius in Book Twelve, who invented speeches ex nihilo to parade their rhetorical prowess. In fact, it may be that the portrait of Luke as a sober historian is best exemplified in his use of speeches—but ironically not in his similarity to Greek historians and their use of speeches, but rather in his dissimilarity to them. Whatever the case, it remains that Luke did not operate as the pepaideumenoi did in their use of speeches, and this should be taken into serious consideration when assessing his educational level.

. Conclusions

In this paper I have attempted to put ourselves in the shoes of an individual who had obtained a rhetorical education by analysing the curriculum of tertiary literate education. From the curriculum two skills were isolated—intertextuality and speech construction. These were then explored in Acts, with the results being rather minimal, particularly (ironically enough) in speech construction. As for intertextuality, it was noted that most parallels (to the extent that they were legitimate) were in relation to poetry—the domain of primary and secondary  L. Alexander, ‘The Acts of the Apostles as an Apologetic Text’, Acts in its Ancient Literary Context: A Classicist Looks at the Acts of the Apostles (London: T&T Clark, ) –, at .  Pairing of speeches is attested in scores of places in Greek historians. One may cite Thucydides as an example: Corinthians versus Athenians (.–), and between individuals, Archidamus versus Sthenelaidas (.–). On Josephus, see the contrasting speeches on suicide, one by Josephus himself (B.J. .–) and the other by Eleazar (B.J. .–).  See O. Padilla, The Speeches of Outsiders in Acts: Poetics, Theology and Historiography (Cambridge: Cambridge University, ) passim.

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levels of literate education. Strikingly, there was no intertextuality with prose authors, the domain of rhetorical education. Based on these observations, I would suggest that Luke does not display some of the basic distinctive marks of a rhetorically educated individual and that, probably, he was not highly educated in the literate tradition. There will naturally be some objections to this conclusion, to which I now propose to give brief responses. First, it could be objected that although Luke was in fact rhetorically educated, he was writing to people who were not, and hence he chose not to display his learning. This is a legitimate criticism. However, I think that the following observations may offset its potency. First, the criticism assumes that the audience of Luke-Acts was not well educated. Works on the social level of early Christianity, however, have made a good case for viewing early Christian audiences as incorporating different strata of society, by no means excluding the upper strata, which would make it more likely that some of its members were highly educated. There is, in principle, no reason why this type of audience would not have appreciated a denser intertextuality with Greek authors in Acts that would have given the work a sense of solemnity and elevation. Secondly, it is crucial to remember that history belonged to the high register of writings. That is to say, it was precisely in a work of history that the author was expected to dignify his prose with intertextuality and rhetoric. This was not the case with official or technical writings. Thus, it would be very odd if Luke lowered his rhetorical standards when writing a work of history; and this in itself may signal his lack of rhetorical education. Lastly, if Luke concealed his level of education, just how do we know that he was rhetorically educated in the first place? At this point scholars who wish to defend the image of Luke as a rhetorically educated individual may take refuge in one of two places or both. One is the testimony of the early church, where authors such as Irenaeus and the Muratorian Fragment, for example, speak of Luke as a physician. But it should be noted that to say that Luke was educated in the domain of medicine does not imply that he was also highly educated in the domain of rhetoric. Just here a lack of nuance on ancient education may confuse the matter. Harking back to Lucian’s Somnium we can see that after  See now R. Pervo, Acts: A Commentary (Minneapolis: Fortress, ) for a similar conclusion though reached by slightly different means: ‘Familiarity with rhetorical technique and contact with such authors as Homer and Euripides suggest an education that had progressed beyond the elementary level, but his stylistic limitations indicate that he did not reach the advanced stages’ ().  See, e.g,. A. J. Malherbe, Social Aspects of Early Christianity (London: Louisiana State University, ); W. A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven: Yale University, ) –; Gerd Theissen, The Social Setting of Pauline Christianity (trans. J. H. Schütz; Philadelphia: Fortress, ) –.  See Swain, Hellenism and Empire, –.

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some measure of literate education, the student, depending on several factors, could have continued on to tertiary rhetorical education or could have become an apprentice and learned one of the ‘lower’ technai. Thus, in the case of Lucian, having finished part of his literate studies (ἐπ1παύμην 1ἰς τὰ διδασκαλ1ῖα φοιτών), it was now to be decided whether he would go on to study rhetoric or learn a techne with his uncle (). We can see from this text that individuals who were fortunate enough to have the possibility of education could have taken a rhetorical ‘track’ or a more scientific ‘track’. That Galen had studied medicine and philosophy (Lib. Prop. .) was unusual and due not a little to his father (.). Thus, to say that Luke was a physician (a profession viewed today, but not necessarily in the ancient world, as a mark of the highly educated) does not at all imply that he was rhetorically educated: these were two different tracks that only exceptional individuals (and in exceptional circumstances) could have attained. The second place of refuge is of course the preface to Luke’s Gospel. But here again the works of L. Alexander and L. Rydbeck have made a very strong case for viewing Luke’s language (especially that of the prologue) as most in tune with ancient Fachprosa or technical literature. Thus it is quite probable that the prologue stems from a man who depended on a techne for a living and not from a literary man. The preface, therefore, should not be viewed as proof that Luke was a rhetorically educated man. Although not the principal aim of this paper, I offer the following possible scenario for Luke’s education. It is possible that Luke received primary and probably some measure of secondary education in the literate context, but, when it came time for higher education, he did not follow the literate track but followed the scientific or technical track. This would explain his use of the more literate (but not literary) Fachprosa and his lack of sophistication in intertextuality and speech-reporting, since he would in this case not have attended lectures with the rhetor. It would be necessary to explore further the scientific educational milieu of antiquity and bring it to bear on Luke’s education. Another option has been recently suggested by Alexander. She argues that Biblical Greek (itself very similar to Fachprosa) would have functioned as a high register code in the Diaspora synagogues, much like Attic Greek was a prestige  See now the very informative work of V. Nutton, Ancient Medicine (London: Routledge, ) –, –, – and his comments on the social status of physicians. With the exception of royal physicians (such as Galen) they were not viewed as part of the educated elite: ‘Both papyri and inscriptions place the doctor on the same level as village craftsmen’ ().  Alexander, The Preface, –; L. Rydbeck, Fachprosa, vermeintliche Volkssprache und Neues Testament. Zur Beurteilung der sprachlichen Niveauunterschiede in nachklassischen Griechisch (Uppsala: Berlingska Boktryckerirt, ) passim.  A good start would be L. Edelstein, Ancient Medicine (trans. C. L. Temkin; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University, ) supplemented now by Nutton, Ancient Medicine.

Hellenistic παιδ1ία and Luke’s Education 

code in the Greek setting. To an educated Greek reader, on the other hand, Biblical Greek would have been seen as lower on the spectrum of the Koine. But for Luke, educated in a Jewish setting, this Biblical Greek would have been a prestige code, entirely appropriate for his literary work. Alexander thus concludes that Luke’s thorough biblical linguistic pattern could only have been acquired in a Jewish school, which may mean that Luke was after all Jewish. These observations lead to a series of further questions that must be explored to shed light on Luke’s educational level: Did the Jewish system adopt the Greek one but just change its classics from Homer and Demosthenes to Moses and David? Or did this form of imitatio develop independently of the Greek movement? Indeed, is imitatio inevitable in any culture that possesses sacred and authoritative texts? The matter of Luke’s education, we can see, turns out to be complex. But it is important to continue exploring, as the matter of Luke’s paideia has repercussions for the social location of the early Christians, the way in which we read Acts, the genre of Acts and the standard of historical reporting that Luke may have had. I think, however, that a plausible case has been made to go beyond one-dimensional formal readings to more nuanced core explorations—and in this case, I think it raises serious difficulties for the view that Luke was a rhetorically educated individual.

 L. Alexander, ‘Septuaginta, Fachprosa, Imitatio: Albert Wifstrand and the Language of LukeActs’, Acts in Its Ancient Literary Context, –.  See Wifstrand, ‘Luke and Greek Classicism’, –.

New Test. Stud. , pp. –. Printed in the United Kingdom ©  Cambridge University Press doi:10.1017/S0028688509990014

The Burden of Ambiguity: Nicodemus and the Social Identity of the Johannine Christians RAI M O HAKO L A Department of Biblical Studies, P. O. Box 33, 00014 University of Helsinki, Finland email: [email protected]

Nicodemus is an enigmatic literary character who is wavering in no man’s land in John’s narrative between Jesus’ opponents and his true disciples. Some scholars have taken Nicodemus as an example of someone of inadequate faith who remains an outsider throughout the narrative, while others have traced his development from initial and tentative faith to open and public commitment to Jesus. The present article, however, agrees with those who have acknowledged that no single trait determines Nicodemus’s portrait, but, in the end, this portrait remains ambiguous. In the article, a text-centered approach to Nicodemus is complemented by asking how this ambiguous literary character may have functioned as a symbol for those who shared John’s dualistic tendencies. The article draws upon the social identity approach in order to explain how Nicodemus’s ambiguity may have helped the Johannine Christians to accept the uncertainties in their social environment without abandoning the stereotyped and fixed thrust in their symbolic world. Keywords: The Gospel of John, characters in the Bible, Nicodemus, Johannine community, social identity

Nicodemus is an enigmatic character who appears in the NT only three times, all in the Gospel of John (John .–; .–; .–). His character has received a considerable amount of scholarly attention in recent decades. The Johannine narrator does not give much information about the inner life of his different characters, which means that scholars have been compelled to draw conclusions as to the motives of these characters mainly from their external behavior. In the case of Nicodemus, scholars have arrived at very different conclusions concerning his role and function in John’s narrative. For some, Nicodemus is an example of someone of inadequate faith who remains an outsider throughout the narrative, while others have traced his development from initial and tentative faith to open and public commitment to Jesus. Still others have acknowledged that no single trait determines Nicodemus’s portrait, but, in the end, this portrait remains ambiguous. In this article, I agree with those who emphasize the ambiguity of Nicodemus’s character. I also argue that, while Nicodemus is an ambiguous character in John’s 

The Burden of Ambiguity 

text world, in the symbolic world that legitimates the social identity of the writer and his audience, even this kind of vague character may support highly dualistic notions evident in the rest of the Gospel. I suggest that some insights from the socalled social identity perspective help us to appreciate a seeming paradox of how such an ambiguous character could have helped John and his audience to hold fast to their fixed symbolic world even when challenged by the mixed and perplexing signals of the real world.

. Nicodemus in John and in Recent Studies

It is noteworthy that scholars rest their conflicting interpretations of Nicodemus on the very same narrative details that they understand in quite opposite ways. In his first appearance, Nicodemus is characterized as a Pharisee and as a leader of the Jews who comes to Jesus by night and confesses that Jesus is a teacher who has come from God (John .). Nicodemus’s nocturnal visit, a detail later recalled in the burial scene (.), has often been taken symbolically to mean that Nicodemus ‘does not walk in light’ and ‘is not, then, a believer’. Jerome Neyrey does not place much value on Nicodemus’s confession in John . either. For him, it only ‘seems like a “confession”, but it identifies Jesus with no title of any consequence and it is fraught with ambiguity’. In this tradition of interpretation, not even Nicodemus’s conviction that ‘no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God’, speaks well for him but reveals that ‘Nicodemus is a person for whom the acknowledgment of Jesus’ signs is the end as well as the beginning of his acknowledgment of Jesus’.  My larger hermeneutical background here is the so-called three-world model developed in a number of writings by Kari Syreeni. See, e.g., K. Syreeni, ‘Wonderlands: A Beginner’s Guide to Three Worlds’, SEÅ  () –; ‘Peter as Character and Symbol in the Gospel of Matthew’, Characterization in the Gospels: Reconceiving Narrative Criticism (ed. D. Rhoads and K. Syreeni; JSNTSup ; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, ) –. The model is based on a distinction between a literary work’s text world, symbolic world and the real world behind the text. The model can be seen as an attempt to create a holistic context that makes it possible to utilize and combine different methodological approaches that are mostly kept apart in the study of the NT. For the evaluation of the model, see P. Merenlahti, Poetics for the Gospels: Rethinking Narrative Criticism (Studies of the New Testament and its World; London & New York: T&T Clark, ) –.  J. H. Neyrey, ‘John III: A Debate over Johannine Epistemology and Christology’, NovT  () –, esp.  n. . Nicodemus is also taken as an outsider by R. A. Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress, ) –.  Neyrey, ‘John III’, –. Neyrey continues this line of interpretation in his recent commentary; see J. H. Neyrey, The Gospel of John (NCBC; Cambridge: Cambridge University, ) : ‘Nicodemus knows little when he arrives and has learned nothing when he leaves’.  R. F. Collins, ‘From John to the Beloved Disciple: An Essay on Johannine Characters’, Int  () –, esp. .

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Nicodemus’s night-time visit signals for some scholars that he is ‘in the darkness of fear and ignorance’. This is well in line with the understanding of the Gospel as a two-level drama that tells not only of Jesus’ life but also of the contemporary situation of the Johannine community. According to this reading, John reflects a bitter and violent conflict between the Johannine group and its opponents in the synagogue, identified as representatives of the post- emergent rabbinic Judaism. For the supporters of this paradigm, Nicodemus’s nightly visit betrays him as a representative of some believers in the synagogue—even among synagogue leaders (cf. John .)—who did not have the courage to confess their secret faith publicly. Many scholars are ready to read the opening of Nicodemus’s visit to Jesus in a more positive light. Even though the scene takes place at night, it still describes Nicodemus’s action as movement to Jesus. Nicodemus’s words to Jesus may be taken to contain ‘a key insight that is missing from other [earlier] professions of faith: that Jesus has “come from God”.’ Even though the beginning of Nicodemus’s encounter with Jesus is open to different interpretations, the sequel of the scene strongly supports those who see Nicodemus in a negative light. In the course of the conversation, Nicodemus takes Jesus’ words literally and thus becomes a typical example of Johannine misunderstanding and irony. Jesus’ reference to Nicodemus’s position as a teacher of Israel (v. ) increases the irony of the scene by hinting that Nicodemus is not equal to his task. Jesus makes the gulf between himself and Nicodemus even deeper by saying, ‘We speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things?’ (vv. –). There has been  P. Duke, Irony in the Fourth Gospel (Atlanta: John Knox, ) .  J. L. Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, rd ed. ) ; D. Rensberger, Overcoming the World: Politics and Community in the Gospel of John (London: SPCK, ) –. For criticism of this two-level reading strategy, see below n. .  Cf. F. J. Moloney, Belief in the Word: Reading John – (Minneapolis: Fortress, ) ; W. Munro, ‘The Pharisee and the Samaritan Woman: Polar or Parallel?’, CBQ  () –, esp. .  J. M. Bassler, ‘Mixed Signals: Nicodemus in the Fourth Gospel’, JBL  () –, esp. . In a similar vein, R. Schnackenburg, The Gospel According to John ( vols.; London: Burns & Oates, –) .: ‘Nicodemus concludes that Jesus must also be a divinely-enlightened teacher. It speaks well for the respected scholar that he seeks out someone who has not been formed in the schools (cf. .), addresses him as “rabbi” and enquires about his doctrine. It is a polite exaggeration when he affirms that the other doctors share his opinion’. Cf. also B. J. Malina and R. L. Rohrbaugh, Social Science Commentary on the Gospel of John (Minneapolis: Fortress, ) : ‘It would be somewhat startling, if not highly improbable, for a member of the Jerusalem elite to address a Galilean villager in this way’.  For this irony, see Culpepper, Anatomy, ; Duke, Irony, –.

The Burden of Ambiguity 

much discussion about what is meant by ‘heavenly things’ in this connection. As Wayne Meeks has remarked, however, it is not so important to decide this question because ‘the point of vs.  is not at all the contrast between earthly and heavenly information, but the contrast between the questioner and the one who possesses the information’. After this, the dialogue turns into Jesus’ monologue, and the narrator does not report in any way how Nicodemus responded to Jesus’ words. Scholars, however, have been quite willing to fill this gap in the narrative. For those who see Nicodemus as completely ignorant, ‘there is no indication in the story that after the extended speech of Jesus in .– Nicodemus finally “got it”. We do not read about a glimmer of recognition or hesitant attempt to use the Johannine language himself’. Again, the open ending of the scene leaves room for an opposite reading as well. Winsome Munro notes that the silent Nicodemus stands out from other Pharisees in the Gospel who ‘are by no means silent in the face of Jesus’ claims but counter them with accusations’. Nicodemus’s silence is ‘eloquent’ and ‘denotes, at the very least, attentive and sympathetic listening’. Nicodemus returns to the scene in the meeting of the chief priests and Pharisees, who want to arrest Jesus (.–). In this connection Nicodemus, who is introduced as the one who had gone to Jesus before, and as one of the Pharisees, reminds his colleagues of the principle of their own law: ‘Our law does not judge people without first giving them a hearing to find out what they are doing, does it?’ Even though Nicodemus here raises his voice for Jesus, the implications of his intervention are quite often neutralized. According to Marinus de Jonge, Nicodemus takes part  W. A. Meeks, ‘The Man from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism’, JBL  () –, esp. . Cf. also Malina and Rohrbaugh, The Gospel of John, . They remark that ‘in antiquity this sort of put-down was directed at those interested in things of the sky yet unable to properly understand life on earth’. They refer to the following parallels: Wis .;  Ezra .; Diogenes Laertius .; Ps. Callisthenes Life of Alexander .; Cicero De Republica . and Seneca Apocolocyntosis ..  R. L. Rohrbaugh, ‘What’s the Matter with Nicodemus? A Social Science Perspective on John :–’, Distant Voices Drawing Near: Essays in Honor of Antoinette Clark Wire (ed. H. E. Hearon; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical, ) –, esp. . Rohrbaugh interprets John’s language as an anti-language that opposes a dominant social order and is incomprehensible to those outside the community where the language is used. Thus also N. R. Petersen, The Gospel of John and the Sociology of Light: Language and Characterization in the Fourth Gospel (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity, ) –; Malina and Rohrbaugh, The Gospel of John, –; Neyrey, The Gospel of John, –. While the notion of anti-language works apparently well in the case of Nicodemus in John .–, it is not clear how it can explain Nicodemus’s more promising appearances later in the Gospel.  Munro, ‘The Pharisee’, . Cf. also J. Painter, The Quest for the Messiah: The History, Literature and Theology of the Johannine Community (Nashville: Abingdon, nd ed. ) . Painter says that because John does not describe this scene either as a success or as a failure, ‘we should see that the quest of Nicodemus progresses through future episodes until final success is narrated, .–’.

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only in ‘an inner-Jewish discussion’ where he ‘does not take up one of the themes which were developed by Jesus in his own way…[but] only emphasizes the legal requirement that the accused should be granted a proper hearing’. In this scene, too, Nicodemus remains silent after his fellow Pharisees have mocked him by replying, ‘Surely you are not also from Galilee, are you? Search and you will see that no prophet is to arise from Galilee’. Nicodemus’s silence is taken as a sign that he acquiesces in this counterclaim. According to this line of interpretation, Nicodemus’s third appearance, in the burial scene, does not fare better for him (.–). Nicodemus brings to the scene ‘a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds’. What is remarkable here is the great quantity of the spices, a detail that has not gone unnoticed by commentators. The abundance of spices is understood as a sign of unbelief because Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus regard the burial as final and do not anticipate in any way the following resurrection. Dennis Sylva has paid special attention to the binding of Jesus’ body for burial and takes this detail to show that ‘for Nicodemus and Joseph Jesus is held by the power of death; they have not understood Jesus’ life beyond death’. Those who had seen some initial positive signs of Nicodemus’s faith already in John  have explained the scenes in John  and  in a fundamentally different way. John Painter says that both Nicodemus’s objection to his fellow Pharisees and his participation in Jesus’ burial ‘chronicle a growing openness and willingness to be identified with Jesus’. Winsome Munro has noted the important fact that both these actions take place in the public realm which means that, in the end, Nicodemus ‘will cast aside his cover and become an open disciple’. In this case, the large amount of spices in the burial scene may be taken to show that Nicodemus provides Jesus with a royal burial. Raymond Brown says that Joseph and Nicodemus appear as ‘men who partially accepted Jesus during his ministry but have been brought by his death to show their love for him’.  M. de Jonge, Jesus: Stranger from Heaven and Son of God: Jesus Christ and the Christians in Johannine Perspective (SBLSBS ; Missoula, MT: Scholars, ) . Thus also Rensberger, Overcoming, ; Neyrey, The Gospel of John, .  Malina and Rohrbaugh, The Gospel of John, .  de Jonge, Jesus, : ‘Joseph and Nicodemus are pictured as having come to a dead end; they regard the burial as definitive’. Rensberger, Overcoming,  n. : ‘Nicodemus, like Caesar’s Antony but without his irony, has come to bury Jesus, not to raise him’.  D. D. Sylva, ‘Nicodemus and his Spices’, NTS  () –, esp. .  Painter, The Quest, .  Munro, ‘The Pharisee’, . In a similar vein, J. S. King, ‘Nicodemus and the Pharisees’, ExpTim  () ; F. J. Moloney, Glory not Dishonor: Reading John – (Minneapolis: Fortress, ) .  R. E. Brown, The Gospel According to John ( vols.; AB ; New York: Doubleday,  and ) .. Cf. also Schnackenburg (John, .) who takes Nicodemus’s gesture as ‘an extraordinary manifestation of respect’.

The Burden of Ambiguity 

Given these highly conflicting views of Nicodemus, it is not surprising that some scholars have claimed that we should not tone down certain obvious tensions in John’s presentation. Wayne Meeks already remarked that ‘ambiguity is doubtless an important and deliberate part of the portrait of this obscure character’. Jouette Bassler later pushed this interpretation further and concluded that ‘the figure of Nicodemus works powerfully on the reader precisely because it is ambiguous’. Furthermore, ‘ambiguity lends a complexity and depth to his figure, which suggests…a more than passing interest on the part of the author of and community behind this Gospel in whomever or whatever Nicodemus represents’. Colleen Conway has proposed that Nicodemus is not the only ambiguous character in John, but John ‘repeatedly portrays characters in indeterminate ways. Again and again, the characters are constructed in ways that pull the reader in multiple directions, frustrating attempts to discern a clearly drawn trait’. In the following, I agree with those who emphasize the ambiguity of Nicodemus. Those who see Nicodemus only as a representative of unbelief or initial but insufficient faith fail to appreciate some unique features in his portrait. After all, Nicodemus is the only Pharisee in John who is identified as an individual and his role clearly exceeds and differs from the role of those other Jewish leaders—Annas and Caiaphas—who are named in the narrative. Readings that see Nicodemus totally in a negative light and take him as an outsider are based one-sidedly on John  and tone down the force of Nicodemus’s comparatively positive gestures in John  and . Furthermore, the negative understanding of Nicodemus correlates closely with views that take him as some kind of secret believer who does not have the courage to confess his faith in public and is condemned by John for this reason. This interpretation is yet another recycling of the influential understanding of John’s community as persecuted by a powerful Jewish establishment identified as the post- rabbinic movement. This earlier consensus has been called severely into question in recent years. Recent rabbinic studies depict the early  Meeks, ‘The Man from Heaven’, .  Bassler, ‘Mixed Signals’, . Cf. also J.-M. Sevrin, ‘The Nicodemus Enigma: The Characterization and Function of an Ambiguous Actor of the Fourth Gospel’, Anti-Judaism and the Fourth Gospel: Papers of the Leuven Colloquium,  (ed. R. Bieringer, D. Pollefeyt and F. Vandecasteele-Vanneuville; Jewish and Christian Heritage Series ; Assen: Royal van Gorcum, ) –, esp. –: ‘Nicodemus has not yet found his place in the narrative. He has rightly been said to be ambiguous and marginal, unable to fit in any category… In the end like in the beginning he is the character of a story still to be completed’.  C. M. Conway, ‘Speaking through Ambiguity: Minor Characters in the Fourth Gospel’, BiblInt  () –, esp. .  Thus Sevrin, ‘The Nicodemus Enigma’, .  Cf. A. Reinhartz, Befriending the Beloved Disciple: A Jewish Reading of the Gospel of John (New York: Continuum, ) –; T. Nicklas, Ablösung und Verstrickung: ‘Juden’ und Jüngergestalten als Charaktere der erzählten Welt des Johannesevangeliums und ihre

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rabbinic movement as a relatively powerless group with little influence on nonrabbinic Jews; so it is not just some minor details in the persecution scenario that are misleading, but the whole model needs to be reconsidered. According to the persecution scenario, Nicodemus is connected to those authorities who feared to confess their faith in Jesus, ‘for they loved the glory of men more than the glory of God’ (John .). This description, however, is not an unbiased description of some real group in John’s surroundings. The charge that someone is a lover of glory was a conventional rhetorical cliché both in Hellenistic polemic and in Jewish and Christian traditions. The claim that some believing Jews feared to confess their faith may simply be a part of the attempt by the Johannine writer to denigrate those who responded to Jesus in a way he regarded as deplorable. On the other hand, those who trace the development of Nicodemus’s faith simply seem to be reading too much between the lines. Nicodemus’s appearances are far too brief and vague to allow us to conclude anything about his inner life. He certainly acts in a relatively positive way as he defends Jesus in front of his fellow Pharisees and honors Jesus by burying him properly. It is too daring, however, in the absence of any clear signs to the contrary, to conclude that he completely left behind his initial misunderstandings and became a full believer. As Jouette Bassler puts it, ‘Nicodemus’ repeated professions and actions of faith have made him no more than a “proximate other”, the other who is beginning to challenge the limits of otherness but who remains “other” nonetheless. For John’s community, then, to be in transition, to be of two minds, is still to be outsider’. What makes Nicodemus unique in John is especially the fact that he is clearly a representative of groups—Pharisees and Jews—who are otherwise characterized mainly as Jesus’ fierce opponents. In this sense, he differs even from other

Wirkung auf den impliziten Leser (RST ; Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, ) –; R. Hakola, Identity Matters: John, the Jews and Jewishness (NovTSup ; Leiden: Brill, ) –; Raimo Hakola and Adele Reinhartz, ‘John’s Pharisees’, In Quest of the Historical Pharisees (ed. J. Neusner and B. D. Chilton; Waco, TX: Baylor University, ) –.  For Hellenistic material, see L. T. Johnson, ‘The New Testament’s Anti-Jewish Slander and the Conventions of Ancient Polemic’, JBL  () –, esp. . For Jewish and Christian material, see Hakola, Identity Matters, .  Bassler, ‘Mixed Signals’, .  For John’s characterization of the Jews and the Pharisees, see F. Tolmie, ‘The ἸΟΥΔΑΙΟΙ in the Fourth Gospel: A Narratological Perspective’, Theology and Christology in the Fourth Gospel: Essays by the Members of the SNTS Johannine Writings Seminar (ed. G. van Belle, J. G. van der Watt and P. Maritz; BETL ; Leuven: Leuven University, ) –, esp. . Tolmie concludes that groups such as the Jews, the Pharisees or the crowd are not really characterized in depth in John because, from John’s point of view, it is not important who these groups really are but how they respond to Jesus. In the case of the Pharisees, the most important thing is their almost completely negative response, which explains why

The Burden of Ambiguity 

ambiguous characters in John. More than in the case of John’s other characters, Nicodemus’s ambiguity raises questions concerning his place in relation to the dualistic framework of the Gospel. Jean-Marie Sevrin notes that ‘the way Nicodemus is characterized makes it impossible to consider “the Jews”, who are connected with the Pharisees, to constitute one pole of a dualism’. According to Colleen Conway, Nicodemus and John’s other ‘minor characters play a major role in undercutting the dualism of the gospel’. I fully share this interest in counter-reading John’s dualism, but I also want to raise the question as to how successfully Nicodemus’s portrait really deconstructs John’s two-dimensional view of the world. I agree that, in John’s text world, Nicodemus’s portrait is different from John’s overtly hostile Pharisees and, therefore, as a relatively positive character, he counterbalances the overall negative characterization of the Pharisees and the Jews in the Gospel. I will also try to demonstrate, however, that in the dualistic symbolic world of the Johannine group, even Nicodemus’s ambiguity may have supported a highly stereotyped view of the world. I suggest that some insights from the so-called social identity perspective hold much promise for clarifying the role of Nicodemus in relation to the dualistic framework of the Gospel.

‘only a small number of traits are revealed’ of them. For John’s characterization of the Pharisees, see also R. Hakola and A. Reinhartz, ‘John’s Pharisees’, –. Hakola and Reinhartz conclude that, while the Pharisees are not the only Jews that are blamed for Jesus’ death in John’s narrative world, they are the ones portrayed as seeking his destruction from the outset. They also note that Nicodemus is not typical of the Johannine Pharisees; only he stands out though even he does not openly express his convictions. There have been attempts at defining the meaning of the term Ἰουδαĩοι in John as referring only to some particular Jewish group, be it Judeans or the Jewish authorities, but these attempts are not totally satisfying. For discussion, see Hakola, Identity Matters, – and –. The indiscriminate use of the term shows that, even in those instances where ‘the Jews’ could be understood as a specific group of Jewish leaders or Judaeans, the conflict between these groups and Jesus is raised to a new and more general level. Cf. R. A. Culpepper, ‘The Gospel of John as a Document of Faith in a Pluralistic Culture’, ‘What is John?’: Readers and Readings of the Fourth Gospel (ed. F. F. Segovia; SBLSymS ; Atlanta: Scholars, ) –, esp. ; A. Reinhartz, ‘“Jews” and Jews in the Fourth Gospel’, AntiJudaism and the Fourth Gospel (ed. Bieringer, Pollefeyt and Vandecasteele-Vanneuville) –, esp. .  Conway (‘Speaking’, –) identifies as ambiguous characters in John—in addition to Nicodemus—Peter, Pilate, the Samaritan woman, Martha and Mary of Bethany, Mary Magdalene, the mother of Jesus and the beloved disciple.  Sevrin, ‘The Nicodemus Enigma’, .  Conway, ‘Speaking’, .

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RAIMO HAKOLA

. The Social Identity Approach

Social identity theory was first developed by social psychologist Henri Tajfel and his colleagues in Great Britain in the late s and early s. This approach has increasingly been applied to early Jewish and Christian sources. One of the key ideas behind the theory was formulated by Tajfel as the ‘minimal group paradigm’. In a series of experiments Tajfel and his colleagues found that, even in minimal groups where there is neither conflict of interest nor previously existing hostility, people tend to favor ingroup members over outgroup members. This means that ‘the mere perception of belonging to two distinct groups—that is, social categorization per se—is sufficient to trigger intergroup discrimination favoring the in-group’. The need for social differentiation between groups ‘is fulfilled through the creation of intergroup differences when such differences do not in fact exist, or the

 For general introductions to the theory, see M. A. Hogg and D. Abrams, Social Identifications: A Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations and Group Processes (London and New York: Routledge, ) –; J. C. Turner, ‘Some Current Issues in Research on Social Identity and Self-Categorization Theories’, Social Identity: Context, Commitment, Content (ed. N. Ellemers, R. Spears and B. Doosje; Oxford: Blackwell, ) –; R. Brown, ‘Social Identity Theory: Past Achievements, Current Problems and Future Challenges’, European Journal of Social Psychology  () –; S. A. Haslam, Psychology in Organizations: The Social Identity Approach (London: Sage, ) –.  P. F. Esler, Galatians (London and New York: Routledge, ) –; Conflict and Identity in Romans: The Social Setting of Paul’s Letter (Minneapolis: Fortress, ) –. Two recent collections contain several articles introducing and applying the social identity approach. See P. Luomanen, ‘The Sociology of Knowledge, the Social Identity Approach and the Cognitive Science of Religion’, Explaining Early Judaism and Christianity: Contributions From Cognitive and Social Science (ed. P. Luomanen, I. Pyysiäinen and R. Uro; BibInt Series . Leiden: Brill, ) –; R. Hakola, ‘Social Identities and Group Phenomena in the Second Temple Period’, Explaining Early Judaism and Christianity (ed. Luomanen, Pyysiäinen and Uro) –; J. Jokiranta, ‘Social Identity in the Qumran Movement: The Case of the Penal Code’, Explaining Early Judaism and Christianity, –; T. Kazen, ‘Son of Man and Early Christian Identity Formation’, Identity Formation in the New Testament (ed. B. Holmberg and M. Winninge; WUNT ; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, ) –; R. Hakola, ‘Social Identity and a Stereotype in the Making: The Pharisees as Hypocrites in Matt ’, Identity Formation (ed. B. Holmberg and M. Winninge) –; R. Roitto, ‘Act as a Christ-Believer, as a Household Member or as Both? A Cognitive Perspective on the Relationship between the Social Identity in Christ and Household Identities in Pauline and Deutero-Pauline Texts’, Identity Formation (ed. Holmberg and Winninge) –.  For minimal groups, see H. Tajfel, Human Groups and Social Categories: Studies in Social Psychology (Cambridge: Cambridge University, ) – and –; H. Tajfel and J. C. Turner, ‘An Integrative Theory of Intergroup Conflict’, The Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations (ed. W. G. Austin and S. Worchel; Monterey, California: Brooks/Cole, ) –, esp. –.  Tajfel and Turner, ‘Integrative Theory’, .

The Burden of Ambiguity 

attribution of value to, and the enhancement of, whatever differences that do exist’. The findings connected to minimal group studies resulted in the formulation of the concept of social identity, which can be understood as ‘that part of an individual’s self-concept which derives from his [sic] knowledge of his membership of a social group (or groups) together with the value and emotional significance attached to that membership’. The concept of social identity was later developed into a more general explanation of all cognitive processes connected to group formation in the so-called Self-Categorization Theory. According to John Turner and other social psychologists, ‘the central hypothesis for group behaviour is that, as shared social identity becomes salient, individual self-perception tends to become depersonalized’. This means that when we experience ourselves as identical with a certain class of people and in contrast to some other classes, we tend to stereotype not only the members of outgroups, but also ourselves as a member of our own ingroup. Therefore, the process of categorization concerns both the self-conception of an individual in relation to his or her ingroup and people who are experienced as different from the ingroup. Social categorization helps individual group members to orientate themselves in variable social environments by making those environments more predictable and meaningful. Self-categorization theory emphasizes that categorization is always a dynamic, contextbound process, which results in maximizing the clarity of intergroup boundaries in a given social context. Social categories are not inflexible but always dependent on the specific social environment and those comparative relations that are present in that environment. It can even be claimed that ‘people who are categorized and perceived as different in one context…can be recategorized and perceived as similar in another context’. One of the basic observations of the social identity approach is that human social behavior varies along the ‘interpersonal and intergroup continuum’. At the interpersonal extreme, social encounters are determined by personal relationships between human beings while at the intergroup extreme, membership in different social groups determines human behavior. This continuum explains how, under certain conditions, social identity may become more salient than personal identity for the behavior of individuals. There are good reasons to think that, like other early Christian writings, the Gospel of John betrays traces of intergroup behavior and reflects attempts to construct and solidify a distinct social identity of a group of Jesus’ early followers.    

Tajfel, Human Groups, . Tajfel, Human Groups, . Turner, ‘Some Current Issues’, . P. J. Oakes, S. A. Haslam and J. C. Turner, Stereotyping and Social Reality (Oxford: Blackwell, ) .  Cf. Tajfel, Human Groups, –.

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RAIMO HAKOLA

First, many cultural anthropologists have made a distinction between individualistic and collectivistic cultures. This distinction may not be so definite as has sometimes been postulated, but it is difficult to deny that, in Mediterranean antiquity, people were commonly seen as deeply embedded in different groups that were essential for their identity. Second, many studies on the Dead Sea Scrolls or early Christian writings, especially the Gospels, have emphasized communal aspects in these writings; while written by different individuals, these writings give voice to different groups by expressing their collective convictions and shared view of the world. To be sure, this view has recently been challenged. This recent criticism may be justified in the sense that many earlier redaction critical studies have gone quite far in their detailed reconstructions of various histories of Christian communities. It is also undeniable that the canonical Gospels contain several features that appealed to a wide range of different Christian communities beyond their local area of origin. However, both the evidence of the reception of the Gospels in the early church and various extra-canonical texts suggest that it is not anachronistic to think that the Gospels mirror, at least to some extent, the experiences and needs of those particular communities where they were produced. It is thus productive to ask how Nicodemus’s literary character may have supported the social identity of the Johannine author and his audience.

. Social Identity and Nicodemus

In the following, I try to show what possibilities the social identity perspective holds for explaining John’s portrait of Nicodemus. I think that this perspective helps to understand both Jesus’ harsh words to Nicodemus in John  and Nicodemus’s more positive appearances later in the narrative.  Cf. Esler, Galatians, –.  Most notably, see R. Bauckham, ‘For Whom Were Gospels Written?’, The Gospels for All Christians: Rethinking the Gospel Audiences (ed. R. Bauckham; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, ) –. For a reconsideration of whether it is possible to trace the history of a specific Johannine community, see R. Kysar, ‘The Whence and Whither of the Johannine Community’, Life in Abundance: Studies of John’s Gospel in Tribute to Raymond E. Brown (ed. J. R. Donahue; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical, ) –.  For methodological criticism of J. L. Martyn’s two level reading of John, see Hakola, Identity Matters, –.  See especially, M. M. Mitchell, ‘Patristic Counter-Evidence to the Claim That “The Gospels Were Written for All Christians”’, NTS  () –; T. Kazen, ‘Sectarian Gospels for Some Christians? Intention and Mirror-Reading in the Light of Extra-Canonical Texts’, NTS  () –. For earlier criticisms of Bauckham’s views, see P. F. Esler, ‘Community and Gospel in Early Christianity: A Response to Richard Bauckham’s Gospels for All Christians’, SJT  () –; D. C. Sim, ‘The Gospels for All Christians. A Response to Richard Bauckham’, JSNT  () –.

The Burden of Ambiguity 

What is remarkable in Nicodemus’s first appearance is Jesus’ cruel response to him. Nicodemus does not seem to have come to Jesus with hostile or suspicious intentions. However, the Johaninne Jesus has no time to wait on what Nicodemus has in his heart but starts to pinpoint what is wrong with Nicodemus. Wayne Meeks has remarked that ‘the unbiased reader feels quite sympathetic with poor Nicodemus and the “believing” Jews with whom, it seems, Jesus is playing some kind of language-game whose rules neither they nor we could possibly know’. Why does Jesus respond so harshly to the sincere quest of Nicodemus? Scholars have usually answered this question by referring to some of Nicodemus’s individual characteristics that betray his shortcomings. As we have seen, his night-time visit is said to speak to his fear and willingness to hide his faith. Or, it is claimed that his confession is based only superficially on Jesus’ signs. Several times Nicodemus is compared to other characters—the disciples, the Samaritan woman or the man born blind in John —and these comparisons are very much to Nicodemus’s disadvantage. It is not so easy, however, to differentiate between Nicodemus and other characters of the story. For example, the faith of the disciples is based on Jesus’ sign at the wedding in Cana (John .), and ‘the careful reader is left wondering just what distinguishes Nicodemus’s sign-based faith from that of the disciples’. Likewise, the Samaritan woman acknowledges Jesus as a prophet after Jesus has miraculously explained her marital past (.). The blind man in John  repeatedly comes back to Jesus’ miracle in his confessions of who Jesus is and he is like Nicodemus—not unlike, as is often argued—in defending Jesus in the face of wrong accusations by the Pharisees. In John ., Joseph of Arimathea—and perhaps also by implication Nicodemus—is said to be Jesus’ secret disciple ‘because of his fear of the Jews’, which corresponds with the remark that, after Jesus’ resurrection, his disciples met behind closed doors for fear of the Jews (.). These comparisons fail to locate a single and definitive reason for Jesus’ surprisingly harsh and uncompromising censure of Nicodemus in John . According to Jesus’ rebuke, Nicodemus is not going halfway from initial and insufficient faith towards the confession of his faith; Jesus categorically denies any positive faith on the part of Nicodemus and makes him and his group the complete opposite to Jesus and his followers. Richard Rohrbaugh is on the right track when he disapproves of attempts to attribute ‘one failing or another to Nicodemus’ as an explanation for what is the  Meeks, ‘The Man from Heaven’, . Bassler (‘Mixed Signals’,  and ) speaks of Jesus’ ‘surprisingly acerbic response’ to Nicodemus and adds that Jesus treats Nicodemus ‘rather shabbily’.  Bassler, ‘Mixed Signals’, –.  Nicodemus and the blind man are compared—to Nicodemus’s disadvantage—by Rensberger, Overcoming, –.

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RAIMO HAKOLA

matter with him. According to Rohrbaugh, ‘Nicodemus’ experience with Jesus was exactly that of any outsider, whether an inquirer or not, who encountered a Johannine type for the first time’. While Rohrbaugh connects Jesus’ response to the notion of John’s language as an anti-language, I think that some much more general features of intergroup relations help to clarify the scene. The key to understanding Jesus’ rude response is to realize that Jesus does not confront Nicodemus here as an individual with recognizable characteristics that distinguish him from other individuals. Rather, Jesus takes him as a member and representative of groups—Pharisees and Jews—who are presented as symbols of unbelief and as Jesus’ opponents throughout the Gospel. In social identity terms, we have here an example of intergroup behavior. According to the social identity approach, interpersonal behavior becomes intergroup behavior when individuals are not judged according to their own individual characteristics but are seen as depersonalized representatives of the groups to which they belong. In situations of this kind, members of the ingroup tend to ‘treat members of the outgroup as undifferentiated items in a unified category, i.e. independently of the individual differences between them’. Furthermore, ingroup members attribute to outgoup members ‘traits assumed to be common to the groups as a whole’. In Nicodemus’s first meeting with Jesus, it is the essence of the groups to whom he belongs that dictates Jesus’ response to him, not some individual characteristics of this particular teacher of Israel. In social identity terms, Nicodemus’s more positive appearances are not necessarily in contradiction to his first meeting with Jesus. The social identity theory was originally developed to explain intergroup discrimination and it addressed such questions as ‘Why do people in groups discriminate against each other?’ From this perspective, a simple answer would be that, because of social categorization, people commonly tend to favor ingroup members and discriminate against outgroup members. Some recent studies, however, have revealed that it is problematic to think that ingroup members are universally regarded as more attractive than outgroup members. In particular, José Marques and his colleagues have tried to explain the function of deviant group members for social identity. In a series of experiments, they found evidence  Rohrbaugh, ‘What’s the Matter?’, .  Tajfel, Human Groups, .  J. M. Marques, V. Y. Yzerbryt and J.-P. Leyens, ‘The “Black-Sheep Effect”: Extremity of Judgments towards Ingroup Members as a Function of Group Identification’, European Journal of Social Psychology  () –; J. M. Marques and V. Y. Yzerbryt, ‘The BlackSheep Effect: Judgmental Extremity towards Ingroup Members in Inter- and Intra-Group Situations’, European Journal of Social Psychology  () –; J. M. Marques, ‘The “Black-Sheep Effect”: Outgroup Homogeneity in Social Comparison Settings’, Social Identity Theory: Constructive and Critical Advances (ed. D. Abrams and M. A. Hogg; London: Harvester Wheatsheaf, ) –; J. M. Marques, E. M. Robalo and S. A. Rocha, ‘Ingroup

The Burden of Ambiguity 

for what they called the ‘black sheep effect’. This term conceptualizes a commonsense observation that a person who behaves against the norms of an ingroup is even more strongly rejected than the members of outgroups. The ‘Black sheep effect’ means that ingroup members are judged more extremely than outgroup members who have similar attitudes and values. An interesting observation made in the research on the ‘black sheep effect’ is that an outgroup member who behaves against the norms of the outgroup in a way that is in line with ingroup norms is quite often evaluated more positively than an ingroup member who acts against the ingroup norms. This phenomenon has nothing to do with the personal qualities of the members in question but is dependent on the significance of the ingroup norms for social identity. The relative approval of the ‘friendly’ outgroup members is explained by the fact that, from the perspective of an ingroup, outgroup deviants help to undermine the legitimacy of the outgroup and, at the same time, help to verify the social reality implied by the ingroup norms. As a Pharisee who speaks for Jesus, Nicodemus perfectly fits the role of a deviant outgroup member who supports the ingroup norms. According to the above-mentioned studies, people are quite capable of making distinctions between likable and unlikable ingroup members, or between likable and unlikable outgroup members without diminishing the significance of the boundaries between the respective in- and outgroups. In the case of Nicodemus this means that, even though his action in the meeting of the Pharisees has a positive value for the Johannine community, he is not necessarily presented as becoming a believer. Especially as an outsider, Nicodemus undermines the claims of Jesus’ Pharisaic opponents by showing that their own law does not unequivocally support Jesus’ guilt. This theme continues in John .– where, after a political

Bias and the “Black Sheep” Effect: Assessing the Impact of Social Identification and Perceived Variability on Group Judgments’, European Journal of Social Psychology  () –; J. M. Marques , ‘The Role of Categorization and In-Group Norms in Judgments of Groups and Their Members’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology  () –; J. M. Marques, ‘Social Categorization, Social Identification, and Rejection of Deviant Group Members’, Blackwell Handbook of Social Psychology: Group Processes (ed. M. A. Hogg and R. S. Tindale; Oxford: Blackwell, ) –.  Marques et al., ‘The Role of Categorization’, –; D. Abrams , ‘Pro-Norm and Anti-Norm Deviance Within and Between Groups’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology  () –, esp. ; Marques et al., ‘Social Categorization’, .  For a similar kind of conclusion with regard to Gamaliel (Acts .–) and other relatively friendly Pharisees (Acts .–) in Luke-Acts, see Raimo Hakola, ‘“Friendly” Pharisees and Social Identity in the Book of Acts’, Contemporary Studies in Acts (ed. T. E. Phillips; Macon, GA: Mercer University, ) –.



RAIMO HAKOLA

intrigue and without a legitimate reason, the Pharisees and the chief priests finally reach the decision to kill Jesus. A social identity perspective also helps to explain what kind of function Nicodemus’s ambiguity may have had for the maintenance of the distinct social identity of the Johannine writer and his audience. Nicodemus brings a certain amount of uncertainty into a narrative that is otherwise characterized by the clear distinction between light and darkness, faith and unbelief. According to John’s dualistic notions, believers and unbelievers (the latter represented especially by the Jews in John’s narrative) are clearly distinct from each other. We have every reason to suppose, however, that the social reality behind the Gospel was far more diverse and complex. The scenario that sees John’s community as a persecuted Jewish minority is based on the assumption that Jewish synagogue communities had strict boundaries that were defined by a strong leadership class. But there is evidence that Jewish synagogue communities were not so clearly defined but open to their surroundings in many different ways. For example, Shaye Cohen has shown that even the Gentiles could interact with Jewish communities in a variety of ways— from admiring some aspects of the faith of the Jews to full conversion. The evidence for different types of ‘sympathizers’ and full converts shows that the boundary between Jews and Gentiles was crossable. It is fully possible that the boundary between the Jews who came to believe in Jesus and other Jews also still remained open and fluid at the end of the first century. Because there was not one ruling class among the Jews even after the destruction of the temple, the Jews’ responses to Jesus’ followers were not backed by any authorities and it may be that these responses were not so completely negative as is suggested by early Christian polemics against the Jews.  The portrayal of Jesus as an innocent victim at the hands of the Jewish rulers can be taken as an attempt to validate the social identity of the Johannine Christians who had abandoned basic markers of Jewish identity and marginalized themselves in relation to other Jews. See Raimo Hakola, ‘The Counsel of Caiaphas and the Social Identity of the Johannine Christians (John :–)’, Lux Humana, Lux Aeterna: Essays on Biblical and Related Themes in Honour of Lars Aejmelaeus (ed. A. Mustakallio in collaboration with H. Leppä and H. Räisänen; Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society ; Helsinki/Göttingen: Finnish Exegetical Society/Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, ) –.  S. J. D. Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California, ) –.  Cohen, The Beginnings, . Cf. also T. Rajak, The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome: Studies in Cultural and Social Interaction (AGJU ; Leiden: Brill, ) –. Rajak emphasizes the ‘activity on the boundaries’ which speaks for the openness of Jewish Diaspora communities.  Cf. C. Setzer, Jewish Responses to Early Christians: History and Polemics, – C.E. (Minneapolis: Fortress, ) –. Setzer remarks that in early Christian sources Jews are every now and then presented as fair-minded and tolerant, even though the negative

The Burden of Ambiguity 

Jews who came to believe in Jesus may have dealt with synagogue communities and their members in different ways. Some who believed in Jesus may have become alienated from their fellow Jews to the extent that they felt themselves expelled from the synagogue (John .). Some other believers may have continued to interact with other Jews and found the practice of basic matters of Jewishness still attractive. It may be that we have an allusion to such Jews in John .– where the Johannine narrator says that many Jews believed in Jesus. In the course of the subsequent dialogue in .–, John connects even these believers with the devil (.), creating in the process an imaginary universe where the sons of light and the sons of darkness are much more clearly distinct from each other than they may ever have been in real life. It is wise to take John’s dualism and the accompanying stereotyped characterization as a product of an effort to construct a clearly defined social identity rather than as a direct reflection of the real world. Contacts with the members of stereotyped outgroups may sometimes reduce tension and conflicts between groups, but, unfortunately, many social psychological studies have shown that this is not always the case. As Henri Tajfel has remarked: There is good evidence that even when facts do turn against us and destroy the useful and comfortable distinctions, we still find ways to preserve the general content of our categories… In many social situations which present notorious ambiguities of interpretation, it will always be easier to find supporting evidence for the assumed class characteristics of an individual than to find contradictory evidence.

Groups have various ways of dealing with information that disconfirms their stereotyped view of reality. One such way is called subtyping. This term refers

portrayals of Jews are dominant. Setzer asks whether the trend to depict Jews in more positive terms ‘is not underrepresented in ancient literature’. The favorable mentions of Jews would not have served early Christian communities because ‘if Jews are sensible and fair-minded, their refusal of Christianity becomes more problematic than if they are hard-hearted, vicious, and ignorant of their own Scripture’.  See Raimo Hakola, ‘The Johannine Community as Jewish Christians? Some Problems in Current Scholarly Consensus’, Jewish Christianity Reconsidered: Rethinking Ancient Groups and Texts (ed. M. Jackson-McCabe; Minneapolis: Fortress, ) –, esp. –. Many scholars have found in John .– a reference to some kind of Jewish Christians whose faith is denounced by John. Most recently M. Theobald, ‘Abraham—(Isaak-) Jakob: Israels Väter im Johannesevangelium’, Israel und seine Heilstraditionen im Johannesevangelium: Festgabe für Johannes Beutler SJ zum . Geburtstag (ed. M. Labahn, K. Scholtissek and A. Strotmann; Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, ) –, esp. –; I. Dunderberg, The Beloved Disciple in Conflict? Revisiting the Gospels of John and Thomas (Oxford: Oxford University, ) .  Tajfel, Human Groups, –.



RAIMO HAKOLA

to a process of recategorizing an individual not fitting to a persistent stereotype into a new lower-level social category. This new subtype makes the original stereotype more flexible and permits groups to sustain prejudiced beliefs even when they confront contradictory evidence. This process is well described by Ziva Kunda and Kathryn Oleson: Positive contacts may fail to affect stereotypes because people do not generalize from the positive members whom they have encountered to the groups as a whole. Rather, when people encounter group members who violate a group stereotype…they ‘fence off’ these members by assuming that they constitute a distinct subtype of the group. Consigning deviants to a subtype believed to be atypical and unrepresentative of the group as a whole may enable people to maintain their pre-existing global stereotypes even though they are aware that deviants exist.

Subtyping can be seen as a way to protect a stereotype from change. As a matter of fact, this cognitive process may even strengthen the original stereotype by making it more adaptable to changing social contexts that always have a potential to challenge the accuracy of fixed and monochrome categories. This is detailed by Miles Hewstone and his colleagues: Increased awareness that a target group is heterogeneous is not necessarily a harbinger of stereotype change. In fact, somewhat paradoxically, it may make change more difficult to achieve… By increasing the variability of a stereotype when inconsistent group members are encountered, social perceivers can maintain the stereotype’s central tendency.

I propose that Nicodemus may have functioned as this kind of deviant subtype for the Johannine Christians. As a Jew and a Pharisee whose faith is not quite enough despite his positive response to Jesus, Nicodemus may have allowed the Johannine group to come to terms with Jewish groups and individuals whose response to early Christians and Jesus was, at least to some extent, positive. Jews of this kind would not have a proper place in the two-dimensional symbolic world of the Johannine Christians but Nicodemus as an ambiguous textual character made it possible for the Johannine group to hold fast to the basic dichotomy in their symbolic world.  Z. Kunda and K. Oleson, ‘Maintaining Stereotypes in the Face of Disconfirmation: Constructing Grounds for Subtyping Deviants’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology  () –, esp. .  M. C. Hewstone , ‘Cognitive Models of Stereotype Change: (). Measurement, Development and Consequences of Subtyping’, Journal of Experimental Social Psychology  () –, esp. .

The Burden of Ambiguity  . Conclusions

In this article, I have complemented a purely text-centered approach, which takes Nicodemus as an ambiguous literary character, and asked how this literary character may have functioned as a symbol for those who shared John’s dualistic tendencies. I have examined what role Nicodemus may have played in the construction and maintenance of a distinct early Christian identity. The social identity approach makes it possible to take seriously both the severe criticism of Nicodemus in John  and his more positive appearances in John  and . While a purely text-centered approach goes only halfway toward explaining John’s seemingly conflicting images of Nicodemus, the wider perspective adopted here explains how both negative and positive appraisals of Nicodemus may have contributed to early Christian identity. While differing portraits may clash in the text world, they may well have a parallel function as different components of the symbolic world that validates the social identity of the writer and his audience. Jesus’ harsh words to Nicodemus in John  suggest that, for John and his readers, Nicodemus is not simply a literary construct with recognizable individual features but a symbol of groups that had a crucial function for how they understood their position in the world. As a Pharisee and a Jew, Nicodemus represents an unbelieving and even hostile world that cannot accept Jesus. This initial critical stance towards Nicodemus is not necessarily contrary to a qualified approval of this character later in the Gospel. Rather, it is especially in his role as an outsider that Nicodemus can give a boost to the social identity of the Johannine group. The mere presence of a Pharisee who does not consistently sustain the rejection of Jesus and his message serves to contest the principles the Pharisees represent in the Gospel. Finally, as an ambiguous literary character, Nicodemus may have helped John and his audience to accept the ambiguities and uncertainties in their social environment without abandoning the basic thrust of their symbolic world. Despite the realistic evidence to the contrary, they could have continued to count the Pharisees and other Jews as the ones who are single-minded and undivided in their intense struggle against Jesus and his followers. Given the persistence of two-dimensional and extreme tendencies in how individuals and groups define themselves in relation to others, the appearance of such an ambiguous literary character as Nicodemus may not be enough to counter the dualistic polarities evident in the rest of the Gospel—even though such polarities hardly ever provide a fair picture of the complexities of real life.

 Cf. Hakola, ‘The Counsel of Caiaphas’, .

New Test. Stud. , pp. –. Printed in the United Kingdom ©  Cambridge University Press doi:10.1017/S0028688509990087

The Idea of Fellowship in 1 Corinthians 10.14–22* HAR M W. H O LL AN D E R Leiden Institute for Religious Studies, Faculteit der Geesteswetenschappen, Universiteit Leiden, P.O. Box 9515, 2300 RA Leiden, The Netherlands email: [email protected]

In  Cor .– Paul warns his readers to refrain from idolatry. In order to convince his readers he calls attention to the unity and solidarity which exist between worshippers of the same religion. In this context he uses the terms κοινωνία and κοινωνός (vv. , , and ). In v.  Paul tells his readers that at their joint meals they are ‘partners’, this time expressed by the term μετέχειν. In the light of ancient parallels, it is concluded that the references to κοινωνία in v.  (cf. vv.  and ) should be understood ecclesiologically, denoting ‘partnership’ rather than ‘participation’. Keywords: The Lord’s Supper, the body of Christ, fellowship, idolatry, κοινωνία,

μετέχειν

In ch.  of his first letter to the Corinthians the apostle Paul brings to a conclusion the argument about eating food sacrificed to idols that began in .. After a reference to the people of Israel’s idolatry in the desert during the Exodus as a negative example in vv. – he warns his addressees in Corinth to ‘flee from idolatry’ (v. ). It would provoke the Lord and ‘arouse his jealousy’ and they would consequently lose eternal salvation (v. ). In concreto,



* For Henk Jan de Jonge, on the occasion of his th birthday ( September ).  The exact structure of Paul’s argument in these three chapters and the relation between .– , .–, .–, and .–. need not bother us here. On this theme, see the commentaries, ad loc., and esp. W. L. Willis, Idol Meat in Corinth: The Pauline Argument in  Corinthians  and  (SBLDS ; Chico, CA: Scholars, ), and J. F. M. Smit, ‘About the Idol Offerings’: Rhetoric, Social Context and Theology of Paul’s Discourse in First Corinthians :–: (CBET ; Leuven/Paris/Sterling, VA: Peeters, ). On these chapters, see further in particular D. Newton, Deity and Diet: The Dilemma of Sacrificial Food at Corinth (JSNTSup ; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, ) and J. Fotopoulos, Food Offered to Idols in Roman Corinth: A Social-Rhetorical Reconsideration of  Corinthians :–: (WUNT /; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, ), esp. –. A review of past research is found in Fotopoulos, Food Offered to Idols, –.

The Idea of Fellowship in  Corinthians .– 

Corinthian Christians should not participate in cultic meals celebrated for the glory of pagan deities. The basis for the prohibition of idolatry is Paul’s understanding of Christian fellowship: Christians share in the worship of God and cannot share with pagans in the worship of pagan deities as well. The key in this passage seems to be the κοινωνία/κοινωνός word group. For it is mentioned explicitly in all three examples of cultic associations used by Paul to convince the Corinthian Christians of the dangers of idolatry, i.e., the associations of Christians (vv. –), of Jews (v. ), and of pagans (vv. –, esp. v. ). However, the exact meaning of κοινωνία is not clear at first sight. Is it to be interpreted to mean ‘participation’, that is, having a part of Christ, God, or a pagan deity, or does it mean ‘partnership’ or ‘association’, that is, having fellowship with other worshippers of the same God? In other words, is the unity with Christ at stake here or the believers’ unity with one another? Or is there perhaps a shift between vv.  and  and does Paul proceed from a ‘vertical’ κοινωνία (i.e. the Christians’ fellowship with their Lord) in v.  to its ‘horizontal’ implications (i.e. a κοινωνία with the Christian believers) in v. ? A careful analysis of the Greek terms κοινωνία and its cognates with a genitive as found in vv. , , and  may help to answer these questions. In the next paragraphs it will be argued that it is the unity of the Corinthian Christians with each other that Paul wants to emphasize in these verses, and not so much the ‘fellowship-establishing event between Christ and the believers’. A new interpretation of v. , and in particular of the use of the verb μετέχειν, will support this argument.

 So also, e.g., G. G. Findlay, ‘St. Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians’, The Expositor’s Greek Testament, vol.  (ed. W. Robertson Nicoll; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, ) –, esp. ; G. D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, )  n. ; and esp. Willis, Idol Meat in Corinth, –.  Cf. J. Y. Campbell, ‘Κοινωνία and its Cognates in the New Testament’, JBL  () – (repr. in Campbell, Three New Testament Studies [Leiden: Brill, ] –), esp. , ‘The ideas of participation and of association are both present, and the main emphasis may fall upon either of them, sometimes to the practical exclusion of the other’. On the history of interpretation of the use of κοινωνία in these verses, see esp. Willis, Idol Meat in Corinth, –. Important contributions to the interpretation of κοινωνία and its cognates in NT are esp. Campbell, ‘Κοινωνία’; H. Seesemann, Der Begriff Κοινωνία im Neuen Testament (BZNW ; Giessen: Töpelmann, ); G. V. Jourdan, ‘ΚΟΙΝΩΝΙΑ in  Corinthians :’, JBL  () –; J. M. McDermott, ‘The Biblical Doctrine of KOINONIA’, BZ NF  () –, –; G. Panikulam, Koinonia in the New Testament: A Dynamic Expression of Christian Life (AnBib ; Rome: Biblical Institute, ).  So D. G. Powers, Salvation through Participation: An Examination of the Notion of the Believers’ Corporate Unity with Christ in Early Christian Soteriology (CBET ; Leuven/ Paris/Sterling, VA: Peeters, ) –, esp. .



HARM W. HOLLANDER

. Paul’s argument in  Corinthians .–

In  Cor .– the apostle Paul warns the Corinthian Christians against the dangers of idolatry (v. ). He admonishes them not to participate in cultic meals for the glory of a pagan deity. As Christians, as people who ‘drink the cup of the Lord’ and people who ‘have a part in the Lord’s table’, they cannot and should not ‘drink the cup of demons’ nor ‘have a part in the table of demons’ (v. ). Taking part in a pagan cultic meal is idolatrous and is incompatible with a true Christian life. A similar line of thought is found in Jos. Asen. ., And Joseph said, ‘It is not fitting for a man who worships God, who will bless with his mouth the living God and eat blessed bread of life and drink a blessed cup of immortality (ἐσθίει ἄρτον εὐλογημένον ζωῆς καὶ πίνει ποτήριον εὐλογημένον ἀθανασίας)…to kiss a strange woman who will bless with her mouth dead and dumb idols and eat from their table bread of strangulation and drink from their libation a cup of insidiousness (ἐσθίει ἐκ

τῆς τραπέζης αὐτῶν ἄρτον ἀγχόνης καὶ πίνει ἐκ τῆς σπονδῆς αὐτῶν ποτήριον ἐνέδρας)…’

According to Joseph and Aseneth Jews are people who ‘eat blessed bread’ and ‘drink a blessed cup’ as opposed to pagans who ‘eat from their (= the idols’) table bread of strangulation’ and ‘drink a cup of insidiousness’. On these grounds a ‘mixture’ of both parties is impossible. Paul’s reasoning seems to be similar: Christians who ‘drink the cup of the Lord’ and ‘have a part in the Lord’s table’, cannot mix with impunity in the company of people who ‘drink the cup of demons’ and ‘have a part in the table of demons’. For the food eaten by pagans at their cultic meals is ‘offered to demons’ and not ‘to God’ (v. ), that is, it is dedicated to pagan deities and it is eaten for their glory. The ‘Lord’s table’ refers to the food on the tables which was eaten by the Christians in remembrance of (the death of) Jesus Christ, just as the ‘table of demons’ refers to the food eaten by pagans for the glory of their gods. According to the OT/LXX there was a ‘table’ in the tabernacle and—later on— in the temple, the so-called ‘table for the bread of the Presence’, from which the priests were allowed to eat. The altar itself was also called the ‘table (of the  Text: C. Burchard, Joseph und Aseneth (PVTG ; Leiden and Boston: Brill, ); trans. in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, vol.  (ed. J. H. Charlesworth; London: Darton, Longman & Todd, ) –, esp. –. See also Jos. Asen. ., ‘…let her eat your bread of life, and drink your cup of blessing (φαγέτω ἄρτον ζωῆς σου καὶ πιέτω ποτήριον εὐλογίας σου)’; ., ‘I have sinned… My mouth is defiled from the sacrifices of the idols and from the tables of the gods of the Egyptians (μεμίαται τὸ στόμα μου ἀπὸ τῶν θυσιῶν τῶν εἰδώλων καὶ ἀπὸ τῆς τραπέζης τῶν θεῶν τῶν Αἰγυπτίων)’.  Cf. the expression ‘bread of strangulation’ (and ‘cup of insidiousness’) in Jos. Asen. ..  See, e.g., Exod .–; Lev .–;  Kgs .;  Macc .; ., ; cf. also  Clem. .; T. Judah ..

The Idea of Fellowship in  Corinthians .– 

Lord)’. Pagan deities had ‘tables’ in their temples as well. It is quite plausible that in using the term ‘table (of the Lord/of demons)’ in this passage Paul has been influenced by the use of tables in Jewish and pagan temples. He does not seem to consider the ‘table of the Lord’ and the ‘table of demons’ as altars on which sacrifices were offered in honour of God or demons but rather as tables at which people were eating together, either as Christians in remembrance of the death of Jesus Christ or as pagans for the glory of pagan deities. As the ‘table’ refers to the food eaten by Christians or pagans during their meetings, so the ‘cup (of the Lord/of demons)’ refers to the wine drunk at the meals of both Christians and pagans. For these meetings are to be characterized as convivia or symposia; social gatherings at which food and wine were offered to the gods and at which like-minded people ate and drank together. After the meal there was usually some time for drinking wine, singing songs, playing music, and discussion. Thus, Paul’s argument in vv. – is quite clear: although idols and food offered to idols are ‘nothing’ (v. ; cf. .–) Christians should not share food with pagans at their symposia. For their food is sacrificed in honour of demons and not of God, and Christians should not ‘provoke the Lord’ (v. ) by eating idol food in a cultic context. Paul considers demons, represented by idols, obviously existent; in his view, participating in such a cultic act is to be avoided, because this cult is addressed to existences, which are opposed to God. So, the Corinthian Christians should not become ‘partners in demons (κοινωνοὺς τῶν δαιμονίων)’ (v. ), the associates of members of a cult devoted to idols.  See, e.g., Ezek .; Mal ., ; cf. T. Levi ..  See, e.g., Herodotus Hist. ..; ..; Diodorus Siculus ...  Cf. also the formulation ‘to have a part in (or “to eat from”, “to share”) the table’ (μετέχειν τραπέζης) used by Paul in v.  and in, e.g., Philo De Jos. ; Plutarch Life of Brutus . (Vitae Par. F); Lucian Cynicus . Cf. also Plutarch Mor. C, ‘a table…is an altar of the gods of friendship and hospitality (φιλίων θεῶν βωμὸν καὶ ξενίων)’ (trans. F. C. Babbitt in LCL). On the expression ‘table of the God’, see also Willis, Idol Meat in Corinth, –.  See, e.g., Plato Symp. A; Xenophon Symp. .; Plutarch Mor. D; Lucian Toxaris . It is plausible that  Cor –, too, should be understood against the background of such symposia; see esp. H. J. de Jonge, ‘The Early History of the Lord’s Supper’, Religious Identity and the Invention of Tradition (ed. J. W. van Henten and A. Houtepen; Assen: Van Gorcum, ) –; de Jonge, Avondmaal en symposium. Oorsprong en eerste ontwikkeling van de vroegchristelijke samenkomst (Leiden: Universiteit Leiden, ); V. A. Alikin, ‘The Earliest History of the Christian Gathering: Origin, Development and Content of the Christian Gathering in the First to Third Centuries’ (diss., Leiden University, ).  Cf. esp. Newton, Deity and Diet, –, –; Fotopoulos, Food Offered to Idols, .  For the Jewish-Christian characterization of pagans as people who worship ‘demons’, see, e.g., Ps (). (LXX), ‘all the gods of the nations are demons (πάντες οἱ θεοὶ τῶν ἐθνῶν δαιμόνια)’; Deut .; Ps .; Bar .;  Enoch .; .; Jub. .; T. Job .; Philo De vita Mosis .; Acts .; Rev .; Barn. .; Justin Dialogue with Trypho .; .; ..



HARM W. HOLLANDER

According to Paul the case of the people of Israel is somewhat similar: people who together eat food offered to the God of Israel are ‘partners in the altar (κοινωνοὶ τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου)’ (v. ). Not only the priests used to eat food offered to God, but also the people of Israel were allowed to eat food that was offered by the priests to God on some occasions. So we read in Philo De specialibus legibus ., that the sacrificial meals should not be hoarded, but be free and open to all who have need (πᾶσιν…τοῖς δεομένοις), for they are now the property not of him by whom but of Him to Whom the victim has been sacrificed, He the benefactor, the bountiful, Who has made the convivial company of those who carry out the sacrifices partners of the altar whose board they share (κοινωνὸν ἀπέφηνε τοῦ βωμοῦ καὶ ὁμοτράπεζον τὸ συμπόσιον τῶν τὴν θυσίαν ἐπιτελούντων).

What Paul wants to underline here is that when Israelites or Jews eat together for the glory of God they are a close-knit community, or in his words, ‘partners in the altar’, that is, partners who share in the food on the altar and who consequently share the same cult. Just as pagans are ‘partners in demons’, that is, associates in a cult devoted to demons, Israelites or Jews are ‘partners in the altar’, that is, participants in the worship of the God of Israel. In both cases Paul uses the term κοινωνοί followed by a genitive (τῶν δαιμονίων and τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου). This certainly takes up the word κοινωνία which is used in v. . There Paul argues that ‘the cup of thanksgiving for which we give thanks’ implies ‘being partners in the blood of Christ (κοινωνία τοῦ αἵματος τοῦ Χριστοῦ)’ and that ‘the bread that we break’ implies ‘being partners in the body of Christ (κοινωνία τοῦ σώματος τοῦ Χριστοῦ)’. Without any doubt Paul refers to the meals served when the Christian believers met weekly in remembrance of their Lord Jesus Christ and his last supper ‘on the night he was betrayed’. Whereas Paul follows the usual order (bread–cup) in .–, he now names the cup first and the bread last, probably because he wants to speak about the bread at more length in the next verse. ‘The blood of Christ (τὸ αἵμα τοῦ Χριστοῦ)’ and ‘the body of Christ (τὸ σῶμα τοῦ Χριστοῦ)’ refer to the death of Jesus Christ and its beneficial effects on the Christian believers. For elsewhere in his letters Paul also uses the words ‘the blood of Christ’ and ‘the body of Christ’ as metaphors to refer to Jesus Christ’s death. But what  Text and trans. F. H. Colson in LCL. See already Lev .–; Deut .–.  Cf.  Cor .–, esp. vv. –. For a survey of the literature on the Eucharist tradition in the letters of Paul, see esp. Fee, Corinthians,  n. , and A. C. Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (NIGTC; Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge: Eerdmans; Carlisle: Paternoster, ) –, –.  So also, among many others, Fee, Corinthians, ; Thiselton, Corinthians, ; A. Lindemann, Der Erste Korintherbrief (HNT /I; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, ) .  Cf. Fee, Corinthians, .  See, e.g., Rom ., ‘justified by his blood (ἐν τῷ αἵματι αὐτοῦ)’; ., ‘you have died to the law through the body of Christ (διὰ τοῦ σώματος τοῦ Χριστοῦ)’; .;  Cor ., , .

The Idea of Fellowship in  Corinthians .– 

exactly does he mean by ‘being partners in the blood of Christ’ and ‘being partners in the body of Christ’? In order to answer this question an analysis of the term κοινωνία and its cognates with a genitive seems to be appropriate. . An Analysis of κοινωνία and its Cognates with a Genitive

In the Greco-Roman world κοινωνία/κοινωνός/κοινωνεῖν are favourite terms to describe all kinds of business partnerships, joint enterprises, social and sexual relationships, and other sorts of associations. They are also frequently used to characterize the close relationship between people having a meal together. A communal meal offered an opportunity to converse and to build friendships. Eating together implies, or should imply, a close-knit community, a group of associates who are bound together by a joint interest. So we read, for instance, in Plutarch Mor. A: For in my opinion, said Hagias, we invite each other not for the sake of eating and drinking, but for drinking together and eating together, and this division of meat into shares kills sociability (τὴν κοινωνίαν ἀναιροῦσα) and makes many dinners and many diners with nobody anybody’s dinner-companion when each takes his share by weight as from a butcher’s counter and puts it before himself.

Therefore, it does not come as a surprise that Paul uses the terms κοινωνία and κοινωνός a couple of times when he speaks about Christian, Jewish, and pagan meals. But other kinds of relationships can also be described in these terms of partnership. The thing (or, occasionally, the person) in which people have a joint interest is usually expressed by a genitive. Thus, in most instances,  See esp. Willis, Idol Meat in Corinth, –. Cf. already Seesemann, Κοινωνία, , ‘Das Wort κοινωνία spielt in der griechischen Literatur eine recht große Rolle. Abgesehen von einer Reihe von Spezialbedeutungen…ist es der ständige Ausdruck für die Gemeinschaft der Menschen untereinander…’  Cf. Newton, Deity and Diet, –.  Text and trans. P. A. Clement and H. B. Hoffleit in LCL. See the entire passage F–D, and further, e.g., Plutarch Mor. C, ‘For when the table is done away with, there go with it all these other things: the altar fire on the hearth, the hearth itself, wine-bowls, all entertainment and hospitality,—the most humane and the first acts of communion between man and man (φιλανθρωπότατα καὶ πρῶτα κοινωνήματα πρὸς ἀλλήλους)’ (text and trans. Babbitt in LCL); F; B; C; D (‘A dinner party is a sharing of earnest and jest, of words and deeds [κοινωνία γάρ ἐστι καὶ σπουδῆς καὶ παιδιᾶς καὶ λόγων καὶ πράξεων τὸ συμπόσιον]’; text and trans. E. L. Minar, F. H. Sandbach, and W. C. Helmbold in LCL); Plutarch Life of Lucullus . (Vitae Par. E); Sir .; Philo Spec. Leg. ..  Cf. also Campbell, ‘Κοινωνία’, , ‘Theoretically, κοινωνία might be used with three dependent genitives, of three different kinds… Commonly there is only one genitive, and in the large majority of instances this is, as might be expected, the genitive of the thing shared. More than five out of every six genitives used with κοινωνία are of this kind’; McDermott, ‘KOINONIA’, , ‘The normal usage of κοινωνία and its cognates is with a genitive of the thing participated in…’



HARM W. HOLLANDER

κοινωνία/κοινωνός with a genitive basically means ‘partnership’, ‘fellowship’, or ‘sharing with one or more individuals who have a common interest in something (or someone)’. A number of examples from the literature of the GrecoRoman period may illustrate this: This Herakleides was a Syracusan exile, a military man…but of an unsettled disposition, fickle and least of all to be relied upon when associated with a colleague in any command of dignity and honour (ἥκιστα δὲ βέβαιος ἐν κοινωνίᾳ πραγμάτων ἀρχὴν ἐχόντων καὶ δόξαν). And yet even a well-bred guest at dinner has a function to perform, much more a hearer; for he is a participant in the discourse (κοινωνὸς γάρ ἐστι τοῦ λόγου) and a fellow-worker with the speaker. …that she dared to do such wickedness as to murder the lawful wife of her king, who was the mother of the heirs to the throne (lit.: ‘[the king’s] partner in her relationship with the children who were brought up for kingship’) (ἀνελεῖν

τολμήσασα τὴν γνησίαν βασιλέως γυναῖκα καὶ τέκνων κοινωνὸν ἐπὶ βασιλείᾳ τρεφομένων).

But where will you find me a Cynic’s friend? For such a person must be another Cynic, in order to be worthy of being counted his friend. He must share with him his sceptre and kingdom (κοινωνὸν αὐτὸν εἶναι δεῖ τοῦ σκήπτρου καὶ τῆς βασιλείας)… Friendship, they declare, exists only between the wise and good, by reason of their likeness to one another. And by friendship they mean a common use of all that has to do with life (φασὶ δ᾽ αὐτὴν κοινωνίαν τινὰ εἶναι τῶν κατὰ τὸν βίον), wherein we treat our friends as we should ourselves. For it is good that they should not be ignorant of one another, being members of the same race and partners in the same institutions (ὁμοφύλους τε ὄντας καὶ τῶν αὐτῶν κοινωνοῦντας ἐπιτηδευμάτων).  Cf. Willis, Idol Meat in Corinth, .  Plutarch Life of Dion . (Vitae Par. D). Text: K. Ziegler in Bibliotheca Scriptorum Graecorum et Romanorum Teubneriana; trans. A. Stewart and G. Long, Plutarch’s Lives ( vols.; London: George Bell & Sons, –).  Plutarch Mor. E. Text and trans. Babbitt in LCL.  Plutarch Life of Artaxerxes . (Vitae Par. C). Text: Ziegler; trans. Stewart and Long.  Epictetus Diss. ... Text and trans. W. A. Oldfather in LCL.  Diogenes Laertius Vitae Phil. .. Text and trans. R. D. Hicks in LCL.  Josephus Ant. .. Text and trans. H. St. J. Thackeray in LCL. For more examples of such a use of κοινωνία or κοινωνός with a genitive, see Xenophon Mem. .. (φιλίας κοινωνός); Thucydides Hist. .. (κοινωνοί…τῆς ἀρχῆς); Plutarch Mor. A (ἀφροδισίων παιδικῶν κοινωνία); Life of Brutus . (Vitae Par. F) (κοινωνὸς μὲν ἀγαθῶν…κοινωνὸς δ᾽ ἀνιαρῶν). The apostle Paul also seems to use κοινωνία this way throughout his letters:

The Idea of Fellowship in  Corinthians .– 

Just as κοινωνία and its cognates are favourite terms to characterize the close relationship between people having a meal together, there are also quite a number of passages in Hellenistic literature where the genitive explicitly refers to the event of having a meal. Let me give just a few examples: And there is a friend who is a table mate (κοινωνὸς τραπεζῶν)… …to invite acquaintances and associates of one’s own, to share in the libations and the food and the talk over the wine and the conviviality (ἐπὶ κοινωνίαν σπονδῆς καὶ τραπέζης καὶ λόγων ἐν οἴνῳ γινομένων καὶ φιλοφροσύνης) … and Lucullus, after some acquaintance with him (=Olthakus), was soon pleased with his acuteness and his zeal, and at last admitted him to his table and made him a member of his council (ὥστε τραπέζης καὶ συνεδρίου ποτὲ ποιεῖσθαι κοινωνόν).

These examples make clear that in  Cor .– κοινωνία and κοινωνός refer to the close relationship between the people who are having a cultic meal

apart from  Cor ., , and  (see below), see  Cor . (‘knowing that if you share with me the sufferings, you share also with me the consolation’ or ‘knowing that if you are my partners in the sufferings, you are also my partners in the consolation’ [εἰδότες ὅτι ὡς κοινωνοί ἐστε τῶν παθημάτων, οὕτως καὶ τῆς παρακλήσεως]); Phil . (‘If then there is…any consolation from love, any kind of fellowship from the Spirit [εἴ τις κοινωνία πνεύματος]’); . (‘and to share with him the sufferings’ or ‘and to be his partner in the sufferings’ [(τὴν) κοινωνίαν (τῶν) παθημάτων αὐτοῦ]); Phlm  (‘the faith you share with us [ἡ κοινωνία τῆς πίστεώς σου]’). Many interpreters and translators may argue that in these instances Paul uses the terms κοινωνία and κοινωνός in the sense of ‘participation in something’ rather than ‘partnership’ or ‘sharing with someone in something’, but in that case Paul would use the terms contrary to the standard sense in Hellenistic Greek. Finally, also  Cor . (…ἐκλήθητε εἰς κοινωνίαν τοῦ υἱοῦ ᾽Ιησοῦ Χριστοῦ τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν) may be interpreted this way: the Corinthians are called into ‘a fellowship of believers based on their relationship with his (=God’s) son Jesus Christ our Lord’. In this text Paul may not refer to a fellowship of the Corinthians with Christ (through the Spirit), an interpretation that cannot be totally excluded (cf., e.g., Isa . LXX, ‘companions of thieves [κοινωνοὶ κλεπτῶν]’) and that is supported by almost all commentators, but to a society of Christian believers established on (their faith in) Christ (cf. Willis, Idol Meat in Corinth, –).  Sir ..  Plutarch Mor. C. Text and trans. Minar, Sandbach, and Helmbold in LCL.  Plutarch Life of Lucullus . (Vitae Par. E). Text: Ziegler; trans. Stewart and Long. Cf. further Philo Spec. leg. ., ‘…because a man ought not to be table mate with savage brutes (ὡς οὐ δέον κοινωνεῖν τραπέζης ἄνθρωπον ἀτιθάσοις θηρίοις)’ (text and trans. F. H. Colson in LCL); Plutarch Mor. F, ‘to share the same table with Ardalus (᾽Αρδάλῳ κοινωνεῖν μιᾶς τραπέζης)’ (text and trans. Babbitt in LCL); Ps-Clem. Hom. ..; ... For Philo Spec. leg. . (κοινωνόν…τοῦ βωμοῦ καὶ ὁμοτράπεζον), see above.



HARM W. HOLLANDER

together: in v. , Christians who eat together in remembrance of the death of their Lord Jesus Christ; in v. , Israelites or Jews, who have a meal together as worshippers of the God of Israel; and in v. , pagans who are together and eat their meals for the glory of their gods. In all three cases the meals are described as apt occasions for social association and as expressions of partnership between the participants. Eating together in remembrance of Jesus Christ, Christians are ‘partners in his body and his blood’; that is, they are partners in their belief in Jesus Christ and the beneficial effects of his violent death. Likewise, Israelites or Jews who have a cultic meal are ‘partners in the altar’; that is, they are united as participants in the worship of the God of Israel, and pagans who eat together are ‘partners in demons’; that is, they are associates with other people in a cult devoted to idols. Since Paul considers the cultic meals of the local Christian communities to be expressions of partnership between people who share a common belief in their Lord Jesus Christ, he cannot imagine that on other occasions there are Christians in Corinth who share a sacrifice and a common meal with pagans and are ‘partners (with one another and with [their] heathen fellow-worshippers) in demons’. In his view, such behaviour is identical to idolatry and is, consequently, to be condemned. For ‘the Christian and pagan meals represent differing communities of allegiance’. Fully to convince his readers in Corinth Paul feels obliged to add a few phrases about the ‘unity’ and ‘solidarity’ of the Christian community in v. . A detailed analysis of this verse seems appropriate in order fully to understand Paul’s argument in this passage.

. A New Interpretation of  Corinthians .

Having said that the Christian meals imply a partnership between the Christian believers, Paul adds another two phrases meant to underline the close and solid relationship of the Christians to one another. He starts by saying that ‘since there is one bread, we who are many are one body (ὅτι εἷς ἄρτος, ἓν σῶμα οἱ πολλοί ἐσμεν)’. Elsewhere in his letters the apostle also compares the Christian community to a (human) ‘body’ in order to make clear to his  Cf. Willis, Idol Meat in Corinth, –. Willis’s assumption that in vv.  and  κοινωνία/ κοινωνός refers to ‘partnership’ or a ‘communal relationship’ (among Israelites or Jews in v. , and among pagans in v. ) but that in v.  it means ‘the relationship established among members of a covenant and the obligations ensuing from it’ () seems to lack any conclusive evidence. Also in the case of the Christian cultic community described in v.  κοινωνία stands for ‘partnership’. Of course, in Paul’s view Christians are also members of a (new) covenant, but that idea is not implied by the word κοινωνία itself.  So Campbell, ‘Κοινωνία’, .  So Willis, Idol Meat in Corinth, .  Cf. Fee, Corinthians, .

The Idea of Fellowship in  Corinthians .– 

readers that the Christians are (or should be) a community tightly bound together by social and religious beliefs and activities and whose members feel (or should feel) solidarity with one another. In ch.  he will refer to this image of the ‘body’ in much more detail; there we find once again the idea that all Christians are members of only ‘one body’, the ‘body of Christ’ (see .–, esp. vv. –, ). The reason that all the Christians together are ‘one body’, one close-knit community, is—according to Paul in .—that ‘there is one bread’. Of course, the apostle does not mean that there is only one piece of bread which is broken and divided among the participants at all the Christian meals, but that all Christians eat some bread and thus take part in eating the same sort of food. For him as for all people of his time, having a meal together at one table and eating the same food implied the unity and solidarity of the participants. Some passages from Jewish, early Christian, and pagan literature are very illustrative in this context: We have certainly heard of banquets where sudden destruction has fallen upon a great assemblage of guests drawn by comradeship to eat of the same salt and sit at the same board (τοὺς αὐτοὺς ἅλας καὶ τὴν αὐτὴν τράπεζαν)… I would have given money to share the same table with Ardalus (᾽Αρδάλῳ κοινωνεῖν μιᾶς τραπέζης). …when he brought together in one golden-canopied tent an hundred Persian brides and an hundred Macedonian and Greek bridegrooms, united at a common hearth and board (ἐφ᾽ ἑστίας κοινῆς καὶ τραπέζης). For once friends used to meet over one loaf (ὅτι ἐπὶ ἕνα [ἄρτον] οἱ πάλαι τῶν

φίλων ἐφοίτων)…

Since Christians share the food at their joint meals, in particular the bread which they break in remembrance of the death of Jesus Christ (v. ), they are to be considered ‘one body’, though they are ‘many’ (v. a). Paul seems to be afraid that his readers in Corinth will not understand the metaphor of the (human) body and therefore adds an explanation in v. b (οἱ γὰρ πάντες ἐκ τοῦ ἑνὸς ἄρτου μετέχομεν) which is usually translated as ‘for we all partake of      

See further . and Rom .; cf. also Eph .; .; ., , ; ., ; Col .; .. Cf. .–. Philo Spec. leg. .. Text and trans. Colson in LCL. Plutarch Mor. F. Text and trans. Babbitt in LCL. Plutarch Mor. E. Text and trans. Babbitt in LCL. Diogenes Laertius Vitae Phil. .. Text and trans. Hicks in LCL. See further Plutarch Mor. D; Philo Spec. leg. . (see above); Ignatius Eph. .; and see already Dan ., ‘The two kings…shall eat at one table (LXX, ἐπὶ μιᾶς τραπέζης φάγονται)…’



HARM W. HOLLANDER

the one bread’ (NRSV) or ‘for it is one loaf of which we all partake’ (REB). That is, ‘By common “participation” in the single loaf, the “body of Christ,” they affirm that they together make up the “body of Christ”…’ This translation and interpretation is, however, somewhat problematic. First, understood this way v. b does not turn out to be an explanation of v. a but a rather futile statement telling the Corinthians what they already knew. The word ‘for’ (γάρ), however, makes clear that v. b is indeed meant to clarify the preceding sentence in v. a. Second, the grammatical construction seems to pose an obstacle to this interpretation and translation. Translators and interpreters are keen on connecting the verb ‘to partake’ (μετέχειν) with the words ‘of the one bread (ἐκ τοῦ ἑνὸς ἄρτου)’. They are surely aware of the fact that μετέχειν is usually preceded or followed by a noun in the genitive or in the accusative indicating the thing which is shared. Following the NT grammars and dictionaries they seem to feel justified in interpreting the prepositional phrase (ἐκ…) as another example of a Hellenistic substitute for the (Classical) partitive genitive. But nobody mentions  So Fee, Corinthians, .  So, among many others, J. Weiss, Der erste Korintherbrief (KEK ; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, . Aufl.  []) ; A. Robertson and A. Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the First Epistle of St Paul to the Corinthians (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, nd ed.  [])  (‘For we all have our share from the one bread’); Ph. Bachmann, Der erste Brief des Paulus an die Korinther (KNT ; Leipzig/Erlangen: A. Deichertsche Verlagsbuchhandlung Dr. Werner Scholl, . Aufl. )  (‘insgesamt ja haben wir Anteil an dem Einen Brote’); C. K. Barrett, A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians (BNTC; London: A. & C. Black, )  (‘for we all partake of the one loaf’); H. Lietzmann, An die Korinther I/II (HNT ; Tübingen: Mohr [Siebeck], . Aufl. )  (‘denn alle haben wir an dem einen Brote teil’); H. Conzelmann, Der erste Brief an die Korinther (KEK ; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, . Aufl. )  (‘denn wir alle haben an dem einen Brot teil’); Fee, Corinthians,  (‘for we all partake of the one loaf’); W. Schrage, Der erste Brief an die Korinther. . Teilband  Kor ,–, (EKK /; Düsseldorf: Benziger/Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, )  (‘denn wir alle haben teil an dem einen Brot’); Lindemann, Korintherbrief,  (‘denn wir haben alle teil an dem einen Brot’); Thiselton, Corinthians,  (‘for it is the one bread that we all share’).  So also Paul in  Cor . and ..  See, among others, F. Blass, A. Debrunner, and F. Rehkopf, Grammatik des neutestamentlichen Griechisch (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, . Aufl. ) § ; J. H. Moulton, W. F. Howard, and N. Turner, A Grammar of New Testament Greek, vol.  (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, ) ; W. Bauer and K. and B. Aland, Griechisch-deutsches Wörterbuch zu den Schriften des Neuen Testaments und der frühchristlichen Literatur (Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, . Aufl. ) s.v. μετέχω, ‘Statt d. Gen. μ. ἐκ τινος: ἐκ τοῦ ἑνὸς ἄρτου μ. von ein und demselben Brot genießen’; between brackets they add a reference to ‘Thieme f’., that is G. Thieme, Die Inschriften von Magnesia am Mäander und das Neue Testament (InauguralDissertation; Borna/Leipzig: Robert Noske, ) –, but in his book Thieme does not mention any other example of μετέχειν ἐκ but only states that the verbs μετέχειν and κοινωνεῖν are for the greater part synonymous (‘Beide Verba sind Synonyma…’, ). Cf. Bachmann, Korinther, , who assumes that ‘ἐκ ist vielmehr als pleonastische Bezeichnung

The Idea of Fellowship in  Corinthians .– 

a parallel passage from Greek literature where we find the verb μετέχειν connected with a prepositional phrase with ἐκ and I am afraid there is none. What Paul wants to explain to his readers in Corinth in v. b seems to be the meaning of the metaphor of ‘one body’. As ἐκ τοῦ ἑνὸς ἄρτου in v. b corresponds with ὅτι εἷς ἄρτος in v. a, and οἱ πάντες in v. b corresponds with οἱ πολλοί in v. a, so the verb μετέχομεν in v. b is meant to correspond with ἓν σῶμα…ἐσμεν in v. a. In other words: the verb μετέχομεν is not to be connected with the prepositional phrase ἐκ τοῦ ἑνὸς ἄρτου but is used in an absolute sense, and is meant to elucidate the metaphor in the preceding clause. In some passages in Greek literature where the verb μετέχειν is used in an absolute sense, the noun indicating the thing which is shared can and must be supplied from the context. In other instances, however, there is no such need, particularly not in those clauses where the verb is used in an absolute sense with the meaning ‘to be partners’: …chief tax-farmers and associates may be partners […ταις των αρχ]ωνων και [των κοινωνω]ν με[τοχ]αις εξεσ[τω] μετεχ[ε]ιν…









des schon durch den Genitiv ausgedrückten Partitivverhältnisses zu verstehen’; Schrage, Korinther,  n. , agrees with Bachmann but thinks that it is also possible that it is ‘einfach Indiz der vordringenden präpositionalen Wendungen anstelle des gen. part’. Cf. Robertson and Plummer, Corinthians, , who notice that ‘Nowhere else have we μετέχειν with ἐκ’, but they refer to  Cor . (there, however, ἐσθίειν ἐκ and πίνειν ἐκ), and Fee, Corinthians, , who characterizes the use of ἐκ with ἄρτος as ‘unusual’, but tries to reassure his readers by telling them that ‘Nothing is to be made of the unusual use of ἐκ with ἄρτος; it is a Hebraism: all eat from the one loaf’ ( n. ). So also in Paul: see  Cor ., ‘and whoever threshes should thresh in hope of a share in the crop (καὶ ὁ ἀλοῶν ἐπ᾽ ἐλπίδι τοῦ μετέχειν)’ (NRSV), and ., ‘If I partake [sc. of food and drink] with thankfulness (εἰ ἐγὼ χάριτι μετέχω), why should I be denounced because of that for which I give thanks?’ (NRSV). See also, e.g., Herodotus Hist. .., ‘nor indeed did any save the men of Smyrna ask to be admitted (sc. into the temple) (οὐδ᾽ ἐδεήθησαν δὲ οὐδαμοὶ μετασχεῖν ὅτι μὴ Σμυρναῖοι)’ (text and trans. A. D. Godley in LCL); cf. .. and  (…ἐξεκλήισαν τῆς μετοχῆς); and P. Oxy. XII. , l. , ‘there are many methods of giving them (viz. robbers) shelter: some do so because they are partners in their misdeeds, others without sharing in these yet… (οἱ δὲ οὐ μετέχοντες μὲν κα[…)’ (cited in J. H. Moulton and G. Milligan, The Vocabulary of the Greek Testament Illustrated from the Papyri and other Non-literary Sources [London: Hodder & Stoughton,  ()] s.v. μετέχω). The very formulation (ἐκ τοῦ ἑνὸς ἄρτου μετέχομεν) makes it unlikely that  Cor .b also has the object implied (e.g. bread or food); a phrase like ‘For because of the one bread we all partake of bread (or: food)’ does not make sense. See H. G. Liddell, R. Scott, and H. S. Jones, A Greek–English Lexicon (Oxford: Clarendon, th ed.  []) s.v. μετέχω , who refer to a text in the Revenue Laws of Ptolemy Philadelphus (col. , ll. –) and to a passage in Herodotus Hist. . (see below). B. P. Grenfell and J. P. Mahaffy, Revenue Laws of Ptolemy Philadelphus (Oxford: Clarendon, ) col. , ll. –. Translation mine.



HARM W. HOLLANDER

These, who at first were seven, made a faction and conspired to slay Strattis, the despot of Chios; but when their conspiracy became known, one of the accomplices (lit.: ‘one of those who were partners’, ἑνὸς τῶν μετεχόντων) having revealed their enterprise, the six that remained got them privily out of Chios… …so a friend, if need befall for his services that involves expense, danger, or labour, is foremost in insisting, without excuse or hesitation, that he be called upon and that he do his share (or: ‘that he be called upon and that he be his partner’, καλεῖσθαι καὶ μετέχειν)… After she (=Poppaea) became his (=Otho’s) wife, he did not like to share her favours (lit.: ‘he did not like to be his [=Nero’s] associate [with respect to her]’, οὐκ ἠγάπα μετέχων)…

From these examples it may be concluded that the verb μετέχειν can be used in an absolute sense meaning ‘to participate’, ‘to share’, or ‘to be associates’ or ‘partners’. As such the verb is indeed more or less synonymous with κοινωνεῖν and seems to have been quite appropriate for Paul to explain the metaphor of the ‘one body’ in v. : together, the Corinthian Christians eat the same food, they share the same cult and the same belief in their Lord Jesus Christ. Consequently, they ‘are partners’ (μετέχομεν); they are, in other words, ‘one body’ (ἓν σῶμα), the body of Christ. As said before, the prepositional phrase ἐκ τοῦ ἑνὸς ἄρτου in v. b is not to be connected with the verb μετέχομεν but refers back to ὅτι εἷς ἄρτος in v. a, and is meant to form the basis for Paul’s view that the Corinthian Christians are ‘partners’ in their belief in Jesus Christ. The preposition ἐκ is used more than once in a causal sense to be interpreted and translated as ‘in consequence of’, ‘because of’, ‘by reason of’, or ‘on the basis of’. This means that ἐκ τοῦ ἑνὸς ἄρτου can be translated as ‘in consequence of the one bread’ or ‘since there is one bread’ (synonymous with ὅτι εἷς ἄρτος in v. a), that is ‘on the basis of the fact that    

Herodotus Hist. ... Text and trans. Godley in LCL. Plutarch Mor.  D. Text and trans. Babbitt in LCL. Plutarch Life of Galba . (Vitae Par.  E). Text: Ziegler; trans. Stewart and Long. Cf. also Otto Kern, Die Inschriften von Magnesia am Maeander (Berlin: Spemann, ) no. , l.  (τοῖς μετέχουσιν).  Cf., among others, Thieme, Inschriften, – (see above, n. ); Moulton and Milligan, Vocabulary, s.v. μετέχω; Willis, Idol Meat in Corinth, –.  See Liddell, Scott, and Jones, Lexicon, s.v. ἐκ III.; Bauer and Aland, Wörterbuch, s.v. ἐκ f. Examples of such a use of ἐκ are found in, e.g., Homer Od. ., ‘Friends from old we declare ourselves to be by reason of our father’s friendship (ἐκ πατέρων φιλότητος)’ (text and trans. A. T. Murray and G. E. Dimock in LCL); Herodotus Hist. .., ‘When he was dead of the wound (τὸν μὲν τελευτήσαντα ἐκ τοῦ τρώματος) the priests buried him…’ (text and trans. Godley in LCL); Xenophon Anab. ..; Philo De Jos. ; Luke .; Acts .; Rom .; Gal .; Rev ..

The Idea of Fellowship in  Corinthians .– 

we Christians share the same bread’. The whole phrase v. b should then be translated as ‘on the basis of the fact that there is one bread we all are partners (in our belief in Jesus Christ)’. Interpreted this way v. b offers a lucid explanation for the meaning of the metaphor of the one ‘body’ in v. a. As a consequence, v.  once more underlines the unity and solidarity of the Christian community, a theme so prominent in this passage (esp. vv. , , and –).

. Conclusion

In  Cor .– the apostle Paul warns his readers to refrain from idolatry. That means, according to Paul, in concreto that they should not participate in cultic meals for the glory of a pagan deity. Since Christian believers share together in the worship of God, they should not share with pagans at their symposia. Taking part in a pagan cultic meal is idolatry and is absolutely incompatible with a true Christian life. In order to convince his addressees in Corinth Paul stresses the unity and solidarity which exist between worshippers of the same religious community. Sharing with pagans at their cultic meals would break the Christian community and would provoke God, for a joint meal is the expression of the unity and solidarity of the participants. In this context Paul uses the terms κοινωνία and κοινωνός, favourite terms in his time to describe all sorts of associations. When the terms are used with a genitive, as in vv. , , and , the noun in the genitive usually refers to the thing (or, occasionally, the person) in which (or in whom) people have a common interest. Thus, in Paul’s view, Israelites or Jews are people who are united as participants in the worship of the God of Israel (‘partners in the altar’, v. ), pagans are associates in a cult devoted to idols (‘partners in demons’, v. ), and Christians are partners in their belief in Jesus Christ and the beneficial effects of his violent death (‘partners in his [=Jesus Christ’s] blood and body’, v. ). After having said in v.  that Christians are a close-knit community, a group of associates who are bound together by their belief in Jesus Christ, Paul continues in v.  by telling his readers that at their meals in remembrance of the death of their Lord Jesus Christ they are together eating the same food, viz. ‘one bread’, which implies that they are ‘one body’; a community whose members feel or should feel solidarity with one another. For they are ‘partners’, this time expressed by the term μετέχειν, which is not to be connected, as all interpreters and translators seem to do, with the prepositional phrase ἐκ τοῦ ἑνὸς ἄρτου, but is used in an absolute sense. Thus, there is no shift between vv.  and – on the one hand and v.  on the other; neither is v.  to be interpreted as a digression. Both the references to κοινωνία in v.  (cf. vv.  and ) and the phrases in v.  should be understood ecclesiologically, denoting ‘partnership’  Cf. Fee, Corinthians, .



HARM W. HOLLANDER

rather than ‘participation’. The entire passage vv. – centres on the idea of the unity and solidarity of the Christian community, a topic Paul discussed so extensively in the rest of his letter.

 As de Jonge seems to do; see his ‘Early History’, , ‘“The Lord’s Supper”…established the unity of the congregation…’ (cf. –, but see p. , where de Jonge speaks of the κοινωνία ‘with Christ and with one another’). However, the unity of the Christian congregation is not ‘established’ by a Christian meal, neither did it ‘come about through the participants’ drinking from the cup and eating the bread’, as de Jonge assumes (), but just the other way round: by eating and drinking together the Christians express their solidarity and their unity, a unity brought about by their common belief in the beneficial effects of the death of their Lord Jesus Christ.

New Test. Stud. , pp. –. Printed in the United Kingdom ©  Cambridge University Press doi:10.1017/S002868850999004X

The Route of Paul’s First Journey to Pisidian Antioch MARK WI LS ON University of South Africa, Pretoria, South Africa email: [email protected]

The route of Paul’s first journey between Perga and Pisidian Antioch is still disputed. This article examines the three alternatives proposed by scholars. It explores the geographical and historical evidence for each route, looking especially at the extensive road system that existed in Pamphylia, Pisidia, and south Galatia in the first century. Bible atlases routinely depict one route and the reasons for this choice are discussed. Based on a review of the evidence, a fresh hypothesis for the route of the first journey is suggested. Keywords: Paul’s first journey, Perga, Pisidian Antioch, Via Sebaste, Roman roads, Acts .; .

. Introduction

The routes that the apostle Paul took on his journeys across Asia Minor still remain in dispute. A case in point is the route of Paul’s first journey from Perga (Πέργη) to Pisidian Antioch. Scholars have suggested three possible routes with variations for this journey. Two of these routes are routinely depicted in Bible atlases, often with little awareness of the ancient road network or the topography of the area. On a popular level, the recent opening of the St Paul Trail in southern Turkey has also stirred up interest in the route of Paul’s first journey. Although the St Paul Trail does not follow the ancient routes exactly, Kate Clow’s experience in preparing the new path has provided fresh insights into the region’s history and topography.

 I will use the Latin spelling found exclusively in English translations of the NT rather than the Greek spelling Perge usually found in classical and historical works.  Clow, working with a team of volunteers, has waymarked a  mile/ kilometer trail from Perga to Pisidian Antioch (Yalvaç) according to Grande Ranonnée standards. She has also published a guidebook to assist hikers: St Paul Trail (Derbyshire, UK: Upcountry, ). It has an excellent map with a commentary on the ancient routes that intersect the trail.





MARK WILSON

. The Route of Paul’s First Journey

Acts . relates that Paul and Barnabas traveled inland from Perga to Pisidian Antioch. Barbara Levick makes a general comment that Paul’s ‘journeyings took him along well-established routes’. However, her vague description does not help much, because as Broughton correctly observes, ‘The text of Acts (XIII, ) gives us no help regarding this stage of Saint Paul’s first journey. We can only attempt to decide what was topographically and historically the most probable route’. The text is vague regarding the route inland through which they passed (διϵλθόντ1ς) to Pisidian Antioch. Pisidian Antioch sat at the apex of a triangle that ran from the plain of Pamphylia on the Mediterranean coast across the Taurus Mountains and through the fertile lake region. Within this triangle was the rugged, mountainous region called Pisidia. The three possible routes for the journey may be classified according to their geographical direction from Perga—eastern, central, and western; see Figure . This article will examine the viability of the suggested routes and their variations through the lens of literary, topographical, archaeological, and epigraphical evidence. It will also look at how Bible atlases have depicted this journey, often charting the route inadequately. After reviewing the evidence, the paper will present a new hypothesis regarding the route. a. The Eastern Route The eastern route began at Perga and crossed the Cestrus (Aksu) River before running southeast through the plain of Pamphylia. It passed just south of Sillyum and crossed the Eurymedon River (Köprüçay) at Aspendus. The main coastal road ran to Side, where the route turned north through the Taurus range

 Barbara Levick, Roman Colonies in Southern Asia Minor (Oxford: Oxford University, ) .  T. R. S. Broughton, ‘Three Notes on Saint Paul’s Journeys in Asia Minor’, Quantulacumque: Studies Presented to Kirsopp Lake (ed. Robert P. Casey, Silva Lake, and Agnes K. Lake; London: Christophers, ) –, here .  As David French notes in an email (//) about the road system in Pamphylia, ‘Perge is the starting point for almost all important routes, cp. the Hittite text of Kurunta’.  John McRay, Paul: His Life and Teaching (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, ) –. David French never mentions McRay’s eastern route. Instead he discusses only two options— what he calls the eastern (McRay’s central one) and western routes; ‘Acts and the Roman Roads of Asia Minor’, Greco-Roman Setting (vol.  of The Book of Acts in its First Century Setting ; ed. David W. J. Gill and Conrad Gempf; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, ) –.  Giray Ercenk in his Turkish article, ‘Pamphylia Bölgesi ve Çevresi Eski Yol Sistemi’, Türk Tarih Kurumu Belleten / () –, here , mentions a short-cut running from Aspendus to a junction just north of Etenna (also depicted in Map , p. ). However, McRay does not account for this in his discussion. This junction to Aspendus was observed by the author and USAF Chaplain Glenn Page while traveling through the pass near At İzi, but we followed the track toward Side instead.

The Route of Paul’s First Journey to Pisidian Antioch 

Figure . The possible routes between Perga and Pisidian Antioch to Lake Caralis (Beyşehir Gölü). It first climbed past Etenna (Sırt Köy) through the foothills of the Taurus and then crossed through the pass at Kesik Beli before descending to Lake Caralis. Ormerod suggests that this was probably the route  Another route struck northeast of Side following the valley of the Melas (Manavgat) River. After passing through modern Akseki, it descended to the basin of Lake Trogitis (Suğla Gölü) near modern Seydeşehir. The modern Turkish highway largely follows this route. Neither W. M. Calder and G. E. Bean in A Classical Map of Asia Minor (London: British Institute of Archaelogy at Ankara, ) nor the Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World (ed. Richard J. A. Talbert; Princeton: Princeton University, ) shows this track, however. In his article on Etenna J. Nollé includes maps depicting both routes: ‘Etenna. Ein Vorbericht’, Epigraphica Anatolica  () –, here , . H. A. Ormerod traveled it in  in his attempt to trace the route of Servilius; see ‘The Campaign of Servilius Isauricus against the Pirates’, Journal of Roman Studies  () –, here . The stages of the journey with his discoveries are given in an Appendix, pp. –.  Colonel Doughty-Wylie traversed this route in . The stages and distances are given by Ormerod in ‘The Campaign of Servilius Isauricus against the Pirates’,  n. . Ercenk also provides the stages of the route in ‘Pamphylia Bölgesi ve Çevresi Eski Yol Sistemi’, –,  Map .



MARK WILSON

followed by Servilius Isauricus around  BCE when he conquered the inland country of Orondeis. In the Caralis basin the Orondian tribe had two communities—Mistea and Pappa. Mistea, later to be renamed Claudiocaesarea (modern Beyşehir), was located at the southeastern corner of Caralis. Here the road forked, with the north branch proceeding to Pisidian Antioch along the eastern shore of the lake, where it connected with the Via Sebaste at Neapolis. (The fork to Iconium struck northeast to Pappa, later renamed Tiberiopolis, where it too connected with the Via Sebaste.) From Neapolis the road left the shores of Caralis and passed in a straight line through rolling hills to Pisidian Antioch. The stages of the eastern route are: Perga Aspendus Etenna Mistea Neapolis Perga to Pisidian Antioch

Aspendus Etenna via Side Mistea/Claudiocaesarea Neapolis Pisidian Antioch Total

 miles  miles  miles  miles  miles  miles

b. The Central Route The central route ran north from Perga along the valley of the Cestrus (Aksu) River. F. W. Farrar suggested over a century ago that ‘the Apostles made their way up the valley of the Cestrus, passed along the eastern shore of the large and beautiful lake Eyerdir [sic]’. North of Perga there was an ancient crossing point near Çatallar where the track switched to the east bank of the Cestrus. The road followed a pleasant valley through the Pamphylian plain that narrowed in the north. At Karacaören, where the present dam sits, the gorge becomes very deep.  Ormerod, ‘The Campaign of Servilius Isauricus against the Pirates’, . Magie, however, believes such a route was improbable ‘for it would have led Servilius far to the northwest of Isauria’. Instead he opts for the route east of Side to Silistat and Isaura Vetus through the steep Susam Beli (Roman Rule in Asia Minor, vol.  [Princeton: Princeton University, ] .  Neapolis was formerly located at modern Şarkikaraağaç, but now is placed further south near the village of Kıyakdede. See Getzel M. Cohen, The Hellenistic Settlements in Europe, the Islands, and Asia Minor (Berkeley: University of California, ) –.  For photographs of sections of the eastern route, see Takeko Harada and Fatih Cimok, Roads of Ancient Anatolia ( vols.; Istanbul: A Turizm Yayınları, ) .–.  The distances given in statute miles were measured using a Brunton Digital Map Measurer on the Barrington Atlas. The distances are over % accurate. Higher accuracies are difficult because of the page creases and the way the maps overlap in the atlas.  F. W. Farrar, The Life and Work of St. Paul (New York: Dutton, ) . The Roman historian Ronald Syme was more equivocal, suggesting that Paul ‘might have passed this way’ (Anatolica: Studies in Strabo [Oxford: Oxford University, ] ).  Ercenk, ‘Pamphylia Bölgesi ve Çevresi Eski Yol Sistemi’, ,  Map , describes a spur that ran from the crossing westward to the Climax Pass.  The reservoir now in the area has dramatically changed the local landscape, but its physical features can still be discerned.

The Route of Paul’s First Journey to Pisidian Antioch 

De Mesmay rightly points out that though this route may seem simple, it too involves crossing the Taurus! Nearby a spur ran northwest to Cremna, while another branch proceeded to the northeast following the course of the upper Cestrus. The route now begins to climb through steep valleys along a stretch called the King’s Road (Kral Yolu). Along this section there are three inscriptions from the early Roman period engraved on the wall of a canyon just above the track. One is a Traveler’s poem of Epictetus, who was born in nearby Phrygia. Today this area near Çandır is a national park called the Yazılı Kanyon (‘Canyon with Writing’) Milli Park. The road climbs out of the canyon southwest of Sütçüler, and sections of the Roman road can still be seen around this village. The road proceeded north toward the only major city along the route—Adada (near Sağrak). Like the other Pisidian cities of Cremna and Sagalassus, Adada was perched on a high vantage point overlooking the valley below. The dizzying ascent to the city is one of the best-preserved sections of Roman road in Turkey today. The roadbed is an engineering wonder as it twists along the edge of a precipitous cliff. Adada for Paul, according to de Mesmay, was an étape incontournable—an inescapable stopping place. Likewise, Clow writes, ‘Although much of Adada was built after Paul’s travel, it must have been a welcome and comfortable halting place on a tough and dangerous journey’. In Ramsay’s day Adada bore the name of Kara Bavlo. He writes that ‘it is highly probable that the name Bavlo has arisen from the fact that Paul was the patron saint of the city, and the great church of the city was dedicated to him’. He concludes that ‘the church dedicated to Paul probably originated in the belief that the  Étienne de Mesmay, Sur les Routes de L’Apôtre Paul en Turquie (Paris: Parole et Silence, ) . Ben Witherington III must be speaking of the central route when he writes, ‘Paul and Barnabas set out on an arduous journey over the Taurus Mountains to Antioch near Pisidia’ (Acts [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, ] ; see map ).  Stephen Mitchell et al., Cremna in Pisidia (London: Duckworth, ) , mentions that his team was able to trace sections of this road; however, the route does not appear in the volume’s maps on pages  and . The road is depicted on a map in another of his works; see G. H. R. Horsley and S. Mitchell, The Inscriptions of Central Pisidia (IK ; Bonn: Rudolf Habelt, ) .  The only available book on Adada is a guide in Turkish with site plans and photographs written by its excavator Mustafa Büyükkolancı—Adadā Pisidia’da Antik Bir Kent (Göltaş Kültür Dizisi: Ankara, ). For a popular account of the city with color photographs, see Ersin Demirel, ‘Adada’, Skylife (April ) –. Online: http://www.thy.com/en-INT/cor porate/skylife/article.aspx?mkl= (accessed  February ).  Unfortunately the road at the upper end of the approach to the city is greatly debilitated due to erosion by water and probably also by earthquakes. For a photograph of this and other sections of the central route, see Harada and Cimok, Roads of Ancient Anatolia, .–.  De Mesmay, Sur les Routes de L’Apôtre Paul en Turquie, .  Clow, St. Paul Trail, .  Broughton, ‘Saint Paul’s Journeys in Asia Minor’, , objects to this interpretation stating that ‘a Turkish corruption of Saint Paul’s name is more likely to become Ayo Bavlo than Kara Bavlo’. Unfortunately both the church and the name have disappeared from the local area today.



MARK WILSON

Apostle had visited Adada on his way to Antioch’. The main route from Adada continued northeast through the hill country to Timbriada (near Aksu). Another track went northwest from Adada along the marshy shores of Lake Kovada to Prostanna. This Roman colony was situated above the southern end of Lake Limnae (Eğirdir Gölü) at a distance of  miles/ kilometers from Adada. The map of Pisidia at the end of Levick’s volume does not show a track from Adada to Lake Kovada that would connect with the Cremna–Prostanna road. Nevertheless, she writes, ‘From Adada easy routes could be followed along branches which led north to Prostanna and south to Perge’. From Timbriada the central route proceeded through the hills above Lake Limnae to Malos (Sarıidris). North of modern Mahmatlar the road descended to the eastern side of the lake where it connected with a track running along the shoreline from Prostanna. It continued along the lake to the mouth of the Anthios River (Yalvaç Çay) near Yeşilköy. At Dabenae (Galanda?; modern Gelendost) the road entered the territory of Pisidian Antioch. From Dabenae the road followed the Anthios northeast through the open fields near Höyüklü before arriving at Pisidian Antioch. The stages of the central route are: Perga Adada Timbriada Malos Dabenae Perga to Pisidian Antioch

Adada Timbriada Malos Dabenae Pisidian Antioch Total

 miles  miles  miles  miles  miles  miles

c. The Western Route The western route probably began to be used during the Persian and Hellenistic periods. The first portion may have been Alexander’s route in  BCE  W. M. Ramsay, The Church in the Roman Empire before A.D.  (London: Hodder & Stoughton, ) , . The closest village today is Sağrak on the paved road.  On which side of the lake this spur passed is open to question. Levick, Roman Colonies, end map, shows the road going along the west side of Lake Kovada and up the Aksu River to Prostanna. Clow instead takes her trail from Adada through the foothills east of Kovada to Sipahiler, before descending to Serpil at the north end of the lake. She thinks that the Romans would have avoided such a marshy shoreline as that found along Lake Kovada (St Paul Trail, ).  Levick, Roman Colonies, . Levick’s map does show a road running south from Adada along the upper Cestrus before descending to Perga.  This must be the area about which Levick, Roman Colonies, , writes: ‘there is a break in the second eastern range just south of Antioch, which enables the road from Antioch to reach Eğrirdir [sic] Göl and, by hugging the cliffs, Prostanna’. She is postulating another track that followed the lake’s shoreline rather than going inland.  Stephen Mitchell and Marc Waelkens, Pisidian Antioch: The Site and its Monuments (London: Duckworth/Classical Press of Wales, ) .  Locally the road near Pisidian Antioch is called the Göçer Yolu (Nomads’ Road).

The Route of Paul’s First Journey to Pisidian Antioch 

when he marched from Pamphylia to Sagalassus in Pisidia. Along this route in  BCE Augustus founded Roman colonies at Comama, Apollonia, and Pisidian Antioch using Roman army veterans. The road encircled Pisidia on a broken axis—basically south to north past Lake Ascania (Burdur Gölü) to Apollonia, then west to east from Apollonia to Iconium. These colonies were strategically situated to guarantee the safety of the populace outside the Pisidian triangle. Inside the triangle was a hostile tribe called the Homanadenses. The Via Sebaste was built in  BCE by the legate Cornutus Arruntius Aquila. Once the road was constructed, Augustus tasked Publius Sulpicius Quirinius to make war against the Homanadenses. After two to three years of conflict, Quirinius was victorious, taking some four thousand male prisoners. Remaining sections of road show that it was a wide, paved highway intended for wheeled traffic, not just a narrow stone track intended only for crossing by pedestrians and pack animals. It began at Perga and climbed out of the Cestrus River valley before heading northwest across the plain of Pamphylia. About  miles/ kilometers northwest of Attalia (Antalya) a natural pass called the Climax (Doşeme Boğazı) cuts through the Taurus range. Today this pass is largely undisturbed and in a remarkable state of preservation because the modern highway follows the route of the Seljuks five miles west at the Çubuk Boğazı. At the lower end of Doşeme Boğazı several Byzantine buildings still stand, showing that the road continued in use until at least the sixth century CE. Original sections of pavement can still be found along the ascent from the Pamphylian plain. After walking for approximately two hours, another group of buildings comes into view along with several sarcophagi in situ. At the summit of the pass there is a gate complex containing a milestone also in situ that marked a distance of  (CXXXVIIII) Roman miles from Pisidian Antioch,  Stephen Mitchell, Anatolia: Land, Men, and Gods in Asia Minor, vol.  (Oxford: Oxford University, ) .  D. H. French, ‘Roads in Pisidia’ Forschungen in Pisidien (ed. Elmar Schwertheim; AMS ; Bonn: Rudolf Habelt, ) –, here .  Levick, Roman Colonies, . She notes that while the name Via Sebaste is documented for only certain stretches of the road, ‘it is convenient to describe here the whole Roman road system in Pisidia, but how much was built in  B.C. remains uncertain’ ( n. ).  For a discussion of this section of the route, see Burak Takmer and Nihal Tüner Öner, ‘Surveys of the Route-Network in West Pamphylia: A New Portion of the Via Sebaste Extending Between Perge and Klimax’, Adalya  () –.  This pass is marked ‘Klimax’ in Talbert, Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World, Section , E.  For photographs of sections of the Via Sebaste from Perga to Pisidian Antioch including the Climax Pass, see Harada and Cimok, Roads of Ancient Anatolia, .–.  The Roman mile was approximately % shorter than the statute mile, running  ½ yards,  feet, or  meters. However, measured distances between mileposts suggest a length closer to  feet or  meters. See OCD, .



MARK WILSON

the caput viae (head of the road). The road then descended into a picturesque valley before continuing to the Anatolian plateau along a gentle ascent. The first city of importance on the Sebaste route was Comama, which sat in the middle of a flat plain at the junction of two roads. It covered about thirtyfive acres with no evidence of city walls. It ‘was founded primarily as a centre of Roman culture, to spread it along the routes on which it stood and to influence the development of the superficially hellenized neighbouring cities’. This colony resembles Lystra in situation. The population of the city and its territory is estimated at between  and  people. A milestone (CIL III. ) found here indicated it was  (CXXII) Roman miles from Pisidian Antioch. The road continued northwest through pine-covered hills passing several smaller villages as it progressed across the plain of Lake Ascania. This saltwater lake dominated this part of the journey, and the road skirted the western shore of the lake. At the northwest corner of the lake the road left the shoreline and moved northeastward up a gentle pass to a junction of the Via Sebaste and the great Southern Highway that ran west to Apamea. On his subsequent journeys westward Paul would take this route to the province of Asia and to Ephesus. Near this junction a pillar was found atop a ridge that marked the boundary between the provinces of Asia and Galatia. The road next descended into a valley that widens before reaching Apollonia. The road then proceeds northeast along the base of Mount Gelincik. Paul passed beneath Gelincik’s shadow on all three of his inland journeys, and would have been able to view snow on its north face well into early summer. The valley opened onto another plain along the northern shore of Lake Limnae. This freshwater lake still presents a dramatic setting in the mountains of Pisidia. In the vicinity of Gençali eight Roman milestones have been found.

 The Climax Pass at Doşeme Boğazı with its monuments and inscriptions is described by Horsley and Mitchell in Inscriptions of Central Pisidia, –. It is also discussed by David H. French in ‘A Road Problem: Roman or Byzantine?’ Istanbuler Mitteilungen  () –, here –.  There might possibly have been a branch of the road here that ran northeast to the Roman colony of Cremna; see French, ‘Acts and the Roman Roads of Asia Minor’, . It is interesting that Ercenk, ‘Pamphylia Bölgesi ve Çevresi Eski Yol Sistemi’, –,  Map , shows this spur but ignores the more important Via Sebaste.  Levick, Roman Colonies, .  Levick, Roman Colonies,  n. .  Although this boundary stone dates to the reign of Hadrian, some sort of provincial boundary marker must have existed before this time. See W. M. Calder, Monuments from Eastern Phyrgia [MAMA]  (Manchester: Manchester University, ) ix.  Little in modern Uluborlu indicates that it was once a Roman colony. Yet the ancient acropolis still preserves traces of ancient Apollonia. Cut stones appear in buildings, and inscriptions have been used in well houses. Although the castle was rebuilt in Seljuk times, it was Augustus who initially fortified the position when he established the colony. An aqueduct that supplied the city’s water bridges a steep ravine to the south.

The Route of Paul’s First Journey to Pisidian Antioch 

One was used as the headstone of a Muslim sage (Polatdede Türbesi) and records the distance to Pisidian Antioch as  (XXIII) Roman miles. At the old graveyard nearby a second milestone records the distance from Pisidian Antioch as  (XXIIX) Roman miles and to Apollonia as  (Iθ) Roman miles. After skirting the shoreline for a dozen or so miles, the road climbed into the foothills leading to Pisidian Antioch. This Roman colony was also established by Augustus and was the initial terminus of the Via Sebaste. Pisidian Antioch as the caput viae sits at a dominant position near the apex of the Pisidian triangle. From Pisidian Antioch the Via Sebaste was later extended to Iconium and Lystra. Broughton proposed a variation of the western route, suggesting that above Climax Pass, Paul took a branch that ran through Cremna, Sagalassus, Baris, and Prostanna, before connecting with the route on the eastern shore of Lake Limnae. He preferred this route because () it is unclear whether ‘there was a frequented highway beyond Adada through the rough country and the culturally backward communities about the sources of the Eurymedon’ and () ‘[it] is not so circuitous as the Via Sebaste’. The stages of the western route following the Via Sebaste are:

Perga Climax Pass Comama Apollonia Perga to Pisidian Antioch

Climax Pass Comama Apollonia Pisidian Antioch Total

 miles  miles  miles  miles  miles

 These are numbers  and  in David French, Roman Roads and Milestones of Asia Minor, Fasc. : An Interim Catalogue of Milestones, Part  (Oxford: B.A.R., ) , . The location of these milestones can be found on Map  in Part , p. . For photographs of these milestones, see Harada and Cimok, Roads of Ancient Anatolia, ., .  Levick, Roman Colonies, .  Broughton, ‘Saint Paul’s Journeys in Asia Minor’, –; W. J. Conybeare and J. S. Howson, The Life and Epistles of St. Paul (London: Longmans, Green, ) , suggest a route ‘passing somewhere near Selge and Sagalassus’ and approaching the margin of the ‘beautiful lake Eyerdir’ [sic]. Conybeare and Howson’s hybrid itinerary, a blend of variations of the western and central routes, has no basis in geographical possibility. Yet the map of Paul’s journeys at the end of the volume shows a direct passage up the Cestrus valley following the central route.  See Levick, Roman Colonies, nn., for the various milestones found along the route.  Using the Brunton map marker I measured a distance of  miles from Climax Pass to Pisidian Antioch. The distance of  Roman miles indicated on the milepost, when converted, is  miles, an error of approximately %. It was  Roman miles from Apollonia to Pisidian Antioch,  miles when converted; I measured  miles. See n.  for the difficulty related to calculating Roman miles. If the longer distance of  feet to the Roman mile is used, the results would be much closer—. miles and . miles.



MARK WILSON

For Broughton’s alternate route the total first along the Via Sebaste, then through Sagalassus and Parlais would be  miles. His route saves only  miles from the ‘circuitous’ Via Sebaste. d. The Route According to Bible Atlases Before drawing a conclusion as to the viability of each of the three proposed routes, it is useful to look at which route is preferred in the depictions of the first journey in various Bible atlases. Upon examining these atlases, it is easy to concur with David French’s criticism that the route on most maps is ‘indicated imprecisely’ and shows an ‘imperfect knowledge of the terrain which lies between Perge and Antiochia’. In some atlases it is difficult to determine which route is being suggested. Regarding the eastern route, there are no atlases that depict it. Instead most atlases show the central route. The InterVarsity Atlas of Bible History inexplicably depicts the route passing northeast to the valley of the Eurymedon River. A road to Selge did exist but stopped there because of the rugged terrain to the north. This atlas therefore shows a route that never existed in antiquity. In The Sacred Bridge: Carta’s Atlas of the Biblical World the text accompanying the map reads, ‘Travel from Perga followed inland along the Cestrus River to the Via Sebaste built in  BCE by Caesar Augustus through Colonia Comama to Colonia  For photographs of sections of this route, see Harada and Cimok, Roads of Ancient Anatolia, ., –.  French, ‘Acts and the Roman Roads of Asia Minor’, .  Atlas of Ancient History:  BC to  AD (ed. Michael Grant; New York: Dorset, ) ; The Kregel Bible Atlas (ed. Tim Dowley; Grand Rapids: Kregel, ), ; Marsha A. Ellis Smith, The Holman Book of Biblical Charts, Maps, and Reconstructions (Nashville: Broadman & Holman, ) ; Yohanan Aharoni and Michael Avi-Yonah, The Macmillan Bible Atlas (New York: Macmillan, ) ; Zondervan NIV Atlas of the Bible (ed. Carl Rasmussen; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, ), ; The Harper Atlas of the Bible (ed. James Pritchard; New York: Harper & Row, rev. ed. ) ; Atlas of the Bible and Christianity (ed. Tim Dowley; Grand Rapids: Baker, ) ; E. M. Blaiklock, The Zondervan Pictorial Bible Atlas (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, ) ; Herbert G. May, Oxford Bible Atlas (New York: Oxford University, nd ed. ) ; Barry J. Beitzel, The Moody Atlas of Bible Lands (Chicago: Moody, ), ; Hammond’s Atlas of the Bible Lands (ed. Harry T. Frank; Maplewood, NJ: Hammond, ) B- [This same map is found in Baker’s Bible Atlas (ed. Charles F. Pfeiffer; Grand Rapids: Baker, ) , and in The Wycliffe Historical Geography of Bible Lands (ed. Charles F. Pfeiffer and Howard F. Vos; Chicago: Moody, ), in Maps section ]; Reader’s Digest Atlas of the Bible (ed. Joseph L. Gardner; Pleasantville, NY: Reader’s Digest, ) ; Atlas of the Christian Church (ed. Henry Chadwick and G. R. Evans; New York: Facts on File, )  [This same map is found in The Atlas of the Bible (ed. John Rogerson; New York: Facts on File, ) ].; James Harpur and Marcus Braybrooke, The Collegeville Atlas of the Bible/The Essential Bible Atlas (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical, ; London: SPCK, ) .  Paul Lawrence, The InterVarsity Atlas of Bible History (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, ) .

The Route of Paul’s First Journey to Pisidian Antioch 

Antiochia’. It is unclear whether this postulates a route following the Via Sebaste westward through Comama or a route up the Cestrus meeting the Via Sebaste at Pisidian Antioch. The accompanying map clearly portrays the latter, central route. Regarding the western route following the Via Sebaste, only the Holman Bible Atlas definitely shows it. Yet its author later concedes, ‘It is also possible that Paul detoured eastward to take advantage of better roads to reach Antioch’. The preponderance of atlases that prefer the central route seems to have little to do with a topographical or historical examination of the evidence. Rather it is simply the most direct route between Perga and Pisidian Antioch for cartographers and illustrators to draw.

. Paul’s Route

Of the three possible routes, John McRay favors the eastern one: ‘This would be a steep climb across high mountains for about eighty miles and take approximately a week, but it would probably be faster than the western route. All things considered, this seems to be the best choice of the available options’. Likewise, Jack Finegan rejects the western route because ‘it swung quite far to the west’, and he also claims the eastern route as ‘most likely’. Such a conclusion is difficult to sustain, however, since this route is the most rugged and covers  miles, only  miles fewer than the western route. Stephen Mitchell in his monumental two-volume study Anatolia notes that Iconium, not Pisidian Antioch, was the natural terminus of the eastern route. Indeed a modern highway follows this route today, and its traffic is usually destined for Konya (ancient Iconium), not Yalvaç (ancient Pisidian Antioch). If Paul were going directly to Iconium, this would be his route of choice.  The Sacred Bridge: Carta’s Atlas of the Biblical World (ed. Anson F. Rainey and Steven R. Notley; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, ) .  Thomas V. Brisco, Holman Bible Atlas (Nashville: Broadman & Holman, ) . The text states that the Pisidian highlands beyond the western edge of the Taurus Mountains ‘presented considerable challenges to travelers; peaks and valleys harbored brigands, while the rough terrain required careful attention to the pathways’, a description not fitting for the Via Sebaste.  Brisco, Holman Bible Atlas, .  John McRay, Paul: His Life and Teaching (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, ) –. McRay does not differentiate between the two eastern routes but mentions only the route through Side, then northward to Lake Caralis. However, the map of the first journey that illustrates the text ( Map .) shows Paul traversing the central route, not the eastern route!  Jack Finegan, The Archaeology of the New Testament: The Mediterranean World of the Early Christian Apostles (Boulder: Westview, ) .  Finegan (Archaeology of the New Testament, ) greatly underestimates this distance— miles ( km) from Perga, ‘a journey of perhaps six days’ duration’.  Mitchell, Anatolia, .. Mitchell likewise mentions the three routes that McRay identifies.



MARK WILSON

One other matter suggests ruling out this option. The Pamphylian rivers were apparently navigable in the first century (Strabo ..) so Paul perhaps sailed up the Cestrus (Aksu) River to Perga’s port, several miles east of the city. If Paul had planned to take the eastern route, Sergius Paulus would have no doubt engaged a vessel for the apostles that would sail up the Eurymedon River to Aspendus. This would have saved the apostles the walk from Perga. Regarding its viability for Paul’s first journey, the eastern route is rejected. Étienne de Mesmay in his new book on Paul’s routes in Turkey favors the central route for his roundtrip. Likewise, Giray Ercenk, the Turkish authority on the ancient roads of this region, calls the central route ‘Aziz Paulos Yolu’ (St Paul’s Road). As we have seen, this is the preferred route of the Bible atlases because it was the most direct at  miles. David French, the foremost authority on Roman roads in Asia Minor, opts for the western route. While % longer than the central route, it was much easier because it avoided the deep valleys and difficult terrain of the Taurus Mountains. Stephen Mitchell, a leading scholar on Asia Minor, believes that Sergius Paulus himself influenced Paul’s choice of roads: ‘It is an elementary inference that he advised or encouraged Paul to make the trip up-country into Asia Minor, following the via Sebaste’. Broughton’s alternative route has little to commend it. It is nearly as long, and leaves the main route for a secondary road through the rugged Pisidian terrain. Although it was not the shortest route, by far the easiest and probably the safest route for Paul and Barnabas to travel to Pisidian Antioch was the western route along the Via Sebaste—a conclusion supported by such experts on Anatolia as French and Mitchell. I agree with them that Paul would have taken the western route to Pisidian Antioch along the Via Sebaste. However, for the return another option must be considered. At the end of the first journey Acts . relates that Paul and Barnabas revisited the newly formed south Galatian churches instead of taking the direct route back to Tarsus and Antioch on the Orontes via the Cilician and Syrian Gates. At Pisidian Antioch the apostles were faced with the choice of whether to return on the longer route along the Via Sebaste or to take the shorter route via Adada down the Cestrus valley. From Pisidian Antioch Paul could see the two mountains that  This is Ramsay’s view in St. Paul: The Traveler and Roman Citizen (ed. Mark Wilson; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, rev. ed. ) ; also in Church in the Roman Empire (London: Hodder & Stoughton, )  and sustained by Mitchell, Pisidian Antioch, , and Douglas A. Campbell, ‘Paul in Pamphylia (Acts .–a; :b–): A Critical Note’, NTS  (): –. Some scholars suggest instead that the landfall was at Attalia, the port of Pamphylia; see John B. Polhill, Paul and his Letters (Nashville: Broadman & Holman, ) .  de Mesmay, Sur les Routes de L’Apôtre Paul en Turquie, –.  Ercenk, ‘Pamphylia Bölgesi ve Çevresi Eski Yol Sistemi’, –,  map .  Mitchell and Waelkens, Pisidian Antioch, .

The Route of Paul’s First Journey to Pisidian Antioch 

framed that choice—Gelincik Dağı ( ft/ m) at the northwest corner of Lake Limnae and Ouiaros (Davraz Dağı;  ft/ m) at its southwest corner. French believes that Paul would have taken a paved road in both directions if one had been available. This, however, is just speculation, and at the time Paul had more important concerns on his mind than just the best-paved road. He had been traveling for some two years so was undoubtedly anxious to return home to Antioch. Paul seems to have opted for the most direct route because Acts . expressly states that he and Barnabas now passed through Pisidia (διϵλθόντϵς τὴν Πισιδίαν). Neither the eastern nor western routes passed through Pisidia; only the central route did. I thus conclude that Paul chose the western route for his inbound journey to Pisidian Antioch and the central route for the return to Perga.

 French, ‘Acts and the Roman Roads of Asia Minor’, . G. Walter Hansen, ‘Galatia’, GraecoRoman Setting (ed. David W. J. Gill and Conrad Gempf; BAFCS; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, ), ., following French, prefers the route of the Via Sebaste and writes regarding Paul, ‘No doubt he used the same roads on his return trip to Perge’.  This is unlike Acts ., which vaguely reads ‘after passing through’ (διϵλθόντ1ς), omitting an object. Traveling through this region, one is reminded of Paul’s recollections in  Cor . where he describes the dangers of ancient travel, particularly rivers and bandits. As they passed through Pisidia, Paul and Barnabas would certainly have been vulnerable to both.

New Test. Stud. , pp. –. Printed in the United Kingdom ©  Cambridge University Press doi:10.1017/S0028688509990075

Neither Gold nor Braided Hair (1 Timothy 2.9; 1 Peter 3.3): Adornment, Gender and Honour in Antiquity A L I C I A J . BAT T E N University of Sudbury, 935 Ramsey Lake Road, Sudbury, Ontario P3E 2C6, Canada. email: [email protected]

This article examines the relationships between adornment, gender and honour in the Graeco-Roman world in order to provide a broad context for understanding the attempts to curtail women’s adornment in  Tim . and  Pet .. It argues that while many male writers criticize women who adorn themselves, often accusing such women of luxuria, not all women shared such a perspective. Rather, women may well have valued jewellery, fine clothes and elaborate hair as means of conveying status and honour, and as important forms of economic power. These factors require consideration when attempting to understand why the authors of  Timothy and  Peter counsel women to avoid gold, pearls, braided hair and fine clothing. Keywords: adornment, honour, shame, gender,  Timothy,  Peter

. Introduction

One of the more detailed glimpses we have into the workings of an ancient mystery cult is provided by the first-century BCE Rule of the Andanian Mysteries. This lengthy inscription describes many aspects of life in a cult that was long celebrated in Messenia, Greece, including the order of the procession, what happens to those who are disorderly (they will be flogged), the responsibilities of the rodbearers (they get to flog the disorderly), the type and process for obtaining sacrificial animals (a pregnant sow is sacrificed to Demeter, while Hagnai receives a



 For a translation, see Marvin W. Meyer, The Ancient Mysteries: A Sourcebook (San Francisco: Harper, ) –. Meyer translates the Greek text based on the version preserved in Dittenberger (Syll ), but the inscription is also found in IG V/  and LSCG . In addition, the Hellenistic Texts Seminar (Toronto) translated it in the s. It is not clear when these mysteries first began, but the Rule indicates that they were reinstated in / BCE. The geographer Pausanias (second century CE) also describes the cult in the fourth book of his Description of Greece.

Neither Gold nor Braided Hair 

sheep etc.) as well as a long section on collecting revenue for the association, including monies for the group’s benefactor, Mnasistratos. But what is of interest here is the inscription’s segment on clothing which describes the sorts of garments people should wear in the association. Particular focus is on the women, among whom there are distinctions between the instructed, the initiates, the sacred women, female slaves and children. Women cannot wear transparent clothing, the stripes on the border of their 1ἱµάτιον should not be more than a half a finger wide, the uninstructed should wear a linen χιτών and a borderless 1ἱµάτιον not worth more than  drachmae, the children must not wear a garment worth more than a mina (= drachmae), the sacred women should wear a garment and a 1ἱµάτιον not worth more than  minas, while the clothes of the slave women cannot be worth more than  drachmae. There are also instructions for what the sacred women and what the children should wear during the procession, and subsequently a clear exhortation that no woman is to wear gold (χρυσός), nor make-up, nor a hair-band nor braided hair (τρίχας ἀνπ1πλ1γμένας), nor shoes unless they are made of the skins of sacrificial animals. If anyone wears a 1ἱµάτιον contrary to these rules or wears something which is not allowed, the supervisor of women (a male) can prohibit it, inflict punishment and give the garments to the gods. The inscription’s directives on the clothing and general appearance of females indicate that not only was the association concerned about women appearing modest and without showy ornamentation, but with the cost of their attire and how the costume designated different degrees of status within the cult. Some women can wear garments that are worth more than those of others and the initiated women can wear a border on their 1ἱµάτιον (provided that it stays within a certain width) as can the female officers during the procession, while the uninstructed and the slaves cannot. Thus the status indicators of the women within the association would be immediately apparent from the manner in which they were dressed even though none were permitted to wear rouge, gold jewellery or have braided hair.  The women officers are called ἱ1ραὶ γυναȋκ1ς. Meyer translates it as ‘sacred women’ while the Hellenistic Texts Seminar chose ‘women officers’.  Borders, trim and stripes were significant signs of status. The Roman equestrian tunic, for example, had a thin stripe while that of the senatorial tunic was much thicker. Judith Lyn Sebesta (‘Women’s Costume and Feminine Civic Morality in Augustan Rome’, Gender and the Body in the Ancient Mediterranean [ed. Marie Wyke; Oxford: Blackwell, ] ) points out that in Rome, borders (praetexta) on togas symbolized the inviolability of the wearer. Male and female children of a certain status could wear bordered (in purple) togas, as could those who presided over sacrifices and a son in mourning over a dead parent, while the Vestal Virgins would wear them on their veils. For Sebesta, the praetexta on a garment ‘signified prohibition and precaution; the wearer was inviolable (sacer), and those nearby were not to pollute his/her inviolability by word or deed, particularly not by sexual language, acts, or gestures’.



ALICIA J. BATTEN

As is well known, how one dressed and decorated oneself in the ancient world was important not only in ‘religious’ settings such as the mysteries, but in everyday life. The details of costume and public presentation had significance far beyond the taste of the individual person; they were signs of status (not only of a man or woman or slave, of course, but of the household) and reflected moral and political meanings. Dress and grooming mattered for how a person was to be perceived by others, just as it mattered how people moved and interacted, who they looked at directly and from whom they withdrew or averted their gaze. The bulk of this study examines dress and adornment in antiquity, including how these practices were bound up with gender, honour and status, in order to provide a broad context for understanding samples of ancient Christian exhortation about these matters. Throughout the Roman sources in particular there is a constant tension between women’s desire to wear jewellery and fine clothes, and the Roman male stress on modesty and simplicity. Ideally, Roman women should dress without showy gems, overly complicated hair, or fancy clothes spun with rare threads, and sources attack such dressing practices accusing the wearer of luxuria, a deeply dishonourable vice. Moreover, as is well known, how a woman dressed and behaved bore considerable consequences for the perception of her husband or guardian. In general, the ideal Roman matron—modestly dressed, quiet and obedient—was an asset to her husband and preserved his honour in male eyes. Indeed, as Sherry Ortner argued some years ago, male concerns with female purity are linked to maintaining status within a hierarchical system; they are connected to the rise of the stratified state itself, and there is no doubt that a woman’s public appearance was crucial in the evaluation of her purity. Yet on the other hand, jewellery and adornment could be important ways for a woman to communicate her own and her family’s status, a phenomenon attested to in other societies as well. Male writers often criticize women for wearing gems or expensive clothing, but women may not have felt the same way. Anthropological studies indicate that although in many cases male honour is largely dependent upon female behaviour, female honour does not always

 For a study of the significance of ‘eye service’ as part of the context for the instructions to slaves in Col . and Eph .–, see Clarice J. Martin, ‘The Eyes Have It: Slaves in the Communities of Christ Believers’, Christian Origins (ed. Richard A. Horsley; A People’s History of Christianity ; Minneapolis: Fortress, ) –.  Ann M. Stout, ‘Jewelry as a Symbol of Status in the Roman Empire’, The World of Roman Costume (ed. Judith Lynn Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante; Madison: University of Wisconsin, ) .  As Ortner, (‘The Virgin and the State’, Feminist Studies  [] ) pointed out, ‘this sort of concern with the purity of women was part of, and somehow structurally, functionally, and symbolically bound up with, the historical emergence of systematically stratified state-type structures, in the evolution of human society’.

Neither Gold nor Braided Hair 

function in an identical fashion as women are less publicly oriented. Unni Wikan’s work has shown, for example, that gold jewellery was a significant broadcaster of high rank for Sohari women in Arabia. For various Roman women, adornment was a significant form of female investment and economic power; it was undoubtedly aesthetically pleasing, and it could be a means for some to communicate their family lineage. This complicated and ambivalent dimension of adornment requires consideration when approaching texts such as  Tim . and  Pet ., which seek to curtail women’s adornment.

. Wealth, Honour and Gender

Throughout the Graeco-Roman world, wealth by itself did not determine social status, but it was an important component of one’s social standing. Careful attention was paid to the manner in which a person displayed his or her wealth so as not to be perceived as overly attached to it, and being affluent required a balance with various virtues, especially generosity, which for some writers justified the possession of wealth in the first place. A long tradition of literature satirizes the wealthy who simply indulge in their own appetites, seeking further gain at the expense of others, and growing portly and lazy. Perhaps the most vivid example is that of Aristophanes, who describes ‘Wealth’s people’ as ‘fat rogues with big bellies and dropsical legs, whose toes by the gout are tormented’. Indulgence and greed were associated with the rich if they did not provide benefits and services in the form of funding associations, providing land or other public works. The wealthy were often considered immoral, especially in the context of a limited good society, for their riches meant that others were cheated or exploited, and thus if the rich did not share their wealth, their greed  See Unni Wikan, Behind the Veil in Arabia: Women in Oman (Chicago and London: University of Chicago, ) –.  Wikan, Behind the Veil, .  It is important to underline the complexity of the issue. I am not claiming that adornment was always advantageous for women or that men discredited adornment universally. Rather, in certain cases women may likely have valued their jewellery, clothes and hairstyles in a manner quite different from their male contemporaries. As Eve D’Ambra (Roman Women [Cambridge: Cambridge University, ] ) helpfully points out: ‘To discount the feminine arts as repressive ideological tools or to celebrate them as means of empowerment does not adequately describe their effects, in fact, their appeal may lie in between the two extremes in practices that both established and erased social differences (e.g. between freedwomen and matrons) in ingenious and creative forms of self-expression’.  See Koenraad Verboven, ‘The Associative Order: Status and Ethos Among Roman Businessmen in Late Republic and Early Empire’, Athenaeum  ()  (postprint).  For example, Aristotle Eth. Nic. ..; Cicero Off. .–. These examples are cited by Verboven, ‘The Associative Order’,  n. .  Aristophanes Plut.  (LCL; Rogers).

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ALICIA J. BATTEN

would be resented and ridiculed. A text that clearly illustrates such attitudes is Jas .–, in which the rich (οἱ πλούσιοι) appear in a heap of rotten, motheaten clothes, along with a pile of rusty metals that serve as evidence against their crimes. James is ironic here, for the gold and silver, which the rich have hoarded while they were living sumptuously (τρυϕάω), will now consume (ϕάγ1ται) their flesh like fire. Mediterranean collectivist societies were strongly ocular, people had little privacy, and sources indicate general anxiety about how one was observed in public. A person’s identity depended upon how he or she was perceived by the group, and honour and shame were paramount as humans constantly manoeuvred to preserve or increase their honour while at the same time remaining aware of the need to maintain a sense of shame. This balancing act varied according to status and gender, for women could seek and possess honour in different ways from men, and although the aristocracy often viewed slaves as without honour, there is evidence that communities of honour existed at lower levels of society, including among slaves. Attacks upon honour could come from all sides. As J. E. Lendon points out, the great threat to honour was insult, and aristocrats were not immune from receiving such public censure from those beneath them. Tacitus indicates that slaves and ex-slaves would try to intimidate their

 Bruce Malina’s work on poverty and wealth has been central for biblical scholars in identifying the moral and status dimensions of poverty and wealth in antiquity. See his ‘Wealth and Poverty in the New Testament and its World’, Int  (): –.  For more analysis of the social meanings of poverty and wealth in James, see Alicia Batten, ‘The Degraded Poor and the Greedy Rich: Exploring the Language of Poverty and Wealth in James’, The Social Sciences and Biblical Translation (ed. Dietmar Neufeld; Symposium ; Atlanta: SBL, ) –.  For a summary of anthropological debates about whether honour and shame were ‘Mediterraneanist’ values, see Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell, ) –, who argue that they were.  For some contemporary examples of how the honour, shame, gender mix can vary among Mediterranean cultures, see the collection of essays edited by Tullia Magrini, Music and Gender: Perspectives from the Mediterranean (Chicago: University of Chicago, ).  J. E. Lendon (Empire of Honour [New York: Oxford, ] –) discusses the various communities of honour (a group of household slaves, various guild associations) that existed beneath the aristocracy. He refers to Dio Chrysostom, for example, who comments that slaves competed for glory (.). Regarding women, Greek inscriptions honour individual benefactors, both male and female, for the ϕιλοτιμία that they have displayed to the association. See Alicia Batten, ‘The Moral World of Greco-Roman Associations’, SR  () –.  As Lendon (Empire of Honour, ) points out, ‘the status or identity of the critic did not matter: the shouted abuse of the base, anonymous lampoons and verses, anonymous gossip, anonymous slander, all excited acute concern’. In addition, Carlin Barton (Roman Honor: The Fire in the Bones [Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California, ] ) states that ‘the humblest could hiss you at the games or piss on your statue. They could kill you’.

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masters or patrons. As Carlin Barton puts it of the Romans’ ‘[t]o have a sense of honor was to have a sense of shame, of pudor or verecundia, a shyness, an ability, a willingness to be awed or intimidated by others. The Romans lived in a sort of “zero-sum” universe; by withdrawing one’s gaze before another person or a god, one augmented, or increased the portion of the person or god’. Manner of dress and adornment were crucial in this endless play of seeing and being seen. Heavy and obvious make-up, for example, often met disapproval, for it tried to conceal. Covering up the face with creams and colours could hide the involuntary act of blushing, which was a manifestation of shame that the Romans apparently found endearing and forgivable. If someone blushed, the community might likely find it charming and could readily restore that person’s honour. Thus one of the reasons why thick make-up was viewed suspiciously is that its wearer indicated an unwillingness to expose her shame in the form of a blush, and in turn, enable the onlookers to redeem her honour. Conversely, women’s bodies needed to be well covered, for transparent clothing sent the message that the wearer wanted to be stared at; that she lacked the requisite concern for shame. Women who wore see-through clothes could be associated with adultery or prostitution and thus authors repeatedly stressed the need to cover up. Many concur that societies that emphasize honour and shame set different standards for men and women. Women often have to follow the values set by men, although depending upon the circumstances women can sometimes subvert honour/shame codes such that the men are more vulnerable to being shamed than women. Contemporary anthropologists increasingly argue that while the model of honour and shame set forth by the Oxford school of social  Tacitus Ann. ..  Carlin Barton, ‘Being in the Eyes: Shame and Sight in Ancient Rome’, The Roman Gaze: Vision, Power, and the Body (ed. David Fredrick; Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University) .  On Greek and Roman male invective against make-up in general, see Amy Richlin, ‘Making Up a Woman: The Face of Roman Gender’, Off with Her Head! The Denial of Women’s Identity in Myth, Religion and Culture (ed. Howard Eilberg-Schwartz and Wendy Doniger; Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California, ) –.  Carlin Barton, ‘The Roman Blush: The Delicate Matter of Self-Control’, Constructions of the Classical Body (ed. James L. Porter; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, ) .  Horace indicates that one sees only the face of respectable women (Sat. .; .–).  On ancient Greece, see Douglas L. Cairns, Aidōs: The Psychology and Ethics of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greek Literature (Oxford: Clarendon, ) –; on the Mediterranean in general, see Julian Pitt-Rivers, ‘Honour and Social Status’, Honour and Shame: The Values of Mediterranean Society (ed. J. G. Peristiany; London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, ) –.  See Carolyn Bithell, ‘A Man’s Game? Engendered Song and the Changing Dynamics of Musical Activity in Corsica’, Music and Gender [ed. Magrini] –) who points out that in Corsica, women will sing lament vendettas after a violent death that goads the male family

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anthropology in the s was very valuable, it runs the risk of universally associating males with honour and females with shame. More recent anthropological studies, such as analyses of how music functions among men and women in different areas of the Mediterranean, reveal that honour and shame can function in diverse and ever-evolving ways. As there was less freedom for women to pursue status and honour in ancient Rome, adornment was a means by which females could assert their standing (as well as that of their husband) and seek honour in the community. Clearly women adorned themselves ornately if they had the means, given the plentiful archaeological evidence for jewellery, make-up and elaborate hairstyles. However, by attempting to display a certain status, a woman might jeopardize her honour (and that of her husband and family) in the eyes of other men at least; it all depended upon her social level, and the manner in which she presented herself. A woman of high rank might well ‘get away with’ wearing a certain jewel or hairpiece because it befitted her rank whereas a freedwoman would be severely criticized for donning the same piece, and accused of luxuria, which, as mentioned earlier, was dishonourable. Roman matrons, for example, ‘could display their own or their husbands’ wealth, particularly in the contexts of the pageantry of state ceremonies or religious processions’, but they had to do so in a modest, understated way. Thus while adornment was a means by which a woman could declare her significance publicly and express her femininity, it had to be presented in an appropriate manner, consistent with her social level. Women were expected to arrange their hair (or have it arranged by slaves) in a style befitting their age and status, but if they overdid it with complicated swirls and braids, or costly bands or ornaments, they could be accused of luxuria by

 





 

members to avenge the death. The women emerge as those concerned with honour and the men become vulnerable to being shamed if they do not seek vengeance. As exemplified by the Peristiany volume, Honour and Shame. As Magrini (‘Introduction: Studying Gender in Mediterranean Musical Cultures’, Music and Gender [ed. Magrini] ) writes, ‘the stereotyped figures of the Mediterranean man and woman proposed by the Oxford school fade out and make room for a more realistic representation of human groups who live femininity and masculinity according to a more nuanced— and ever changing—range of models’. See Ria Berg, ‘Wearing Wealth: Mundus Muliebris and Ornatus as Status Markers for Women in Imperial Rome’, Women, Wealth and Power in the Roman Empire (ed. Pävi Setälä et al.; Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae ; Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, ) . Eve D’Ambra, ‘Nudity and Adornment in Female Portrait Sculpture of the Second Century AD’, I Claudia II: Women in Roman Art and Society (ed. Diana E.E. Kleiner and Susan B. Matheson; Austin: University of Texas, ) . As Berg says (‘Wearing Wealth’, ), objects of adornment ‘have a long tradition of being considered “attributes” of the female gender, visually symbolizing and defining femininity’. See Elizabeth Bartman, ‘Hair and the Artifice of Roman Female Adornment’, AJA  () .

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men, or of being sexually inviting. Highly ornamental hairstyles that connoted artificiality could provoke satirical attacks such as those of Juvenal, who is amazed at the number of tiers a woman could pile on her head. Although the Greeks and Romans lived in a gendered universe, with a clear hierarchy of male over female, and in which the male social identity was generally associated with public activities while that of the female was aligned with the domestic, women were not without power, including economic power. Female Roman citizens could not vote or hold public office, but they could still express their identity and status within the community. In general, women could not seek honour through oratorical brilliance or military prowess, but this did not mean that they did not have important economic roles or could not be involved in business and trade, or that wealthier women did not serve as patrons and benefactors to groups. There is ample evidence for all of these activities. Archaeological remains praise countless women for their roles as wives, mothers and sisters and often these women had to manage economic resources, especially when their husbands or children were off at war. Women could inherit wealth and own land, and as Susan Treggiari writes, ‘Roman law safeguarded a married woman’s right to own and administer her own property (which for the upper classes seems normally to have been bigger than her dowry) and to decide how to dispose of it. She was expected (if possible) to pass it down intact or increased to her own children, if she had any, although she might will all or part to her husband’. From the second century BCE on, the economic power of widows was noted and some male sources indicate a fear of women who were wealthy and independent. An important dimension of a woman’s economic power was her jewellery box. Jewellery was a type of portable wealth, and evidence indicates that women would remove a number of pearls from their necklaces or segments of gold from their  Bartman, ‘Hair and Artifice’, .  As D’Ambra (Roman Women, ) points out, luxurious hair indicated a ‘vigorous female sexuality’.  Juvenal Sat. .–.  I say ‘in general’ because there were exceptions, such as those described by Plutarch throughout his Mulierum virtutes.  See the discussion by Carolyn Osiek and Margaret MacDonald in their book, A Woman’s Place: House Churches in Earliest Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress, ) –.  Susan Treggiari, ‘Women in Roman Society’, I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (ed. Diana E.E. Kleiner and Susan B. Matheson; New Haven: Yale University Art Gallery, ) .  Treggiari, ‘Women’, . Treggiari also makes the noteworthy observation that ancient sources attest to who ancient women were, what they did, their relationships etc., while modern scholarship tends to focus on their restrictions and how they were excluded from activities ().  Treggiari, ‘Women’,  here refers to the Elder Cato. Other writers, such as Polybius (.– ), respect women’s rights to property. On Polybius, see Suzanne Dixon, ‘Polybius on Roman Women and Property’, AJP  () –.

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bracelets, in order to pay for things. The notion that jewellery was a form of money is apparent in the precision with which gems are counted and valued, and disputes about their value are evident in legal sources, as well as the fact that some ornaments consisted of actual coins made into necklaces and bracelets. Furthermore, we cannot assume that the jewels were the sole property of the husband or father, for sometimes they may have been gifts to the woman, or she could have acquired them from elsewhere. Although a woman might not ‘own’ the jewellery, she may have had control over its use and disposal. As Ria Berg states, the ‘relative strength of the right of women to control objects that legally were not their property is indicated by the fact that women could, for example, include them in their testaments or give orders for their acquisition’. Women sometimes used their jewellery as a last resort for the family, loaning it as collateral or paying off debts. An examination of this evidence indicates a key point for Berg: despite women’s association primarily with the domestic, private realm, ‘it was possible for Roman women to possess significant amounts of valuables, use them as financial resources and as symbols of these resources’. Given the worth of these items in a woman’s world, it is quite conceivable that she would have admired other women when they donned such things even if men were critical. But if adornment was one of the sources of a woman’s economic power as well as a means of signalling her status to the community, it was also something, as we have seen, that could and did earn her criticism. Livy’s reconstruction of debates about whether the Oppian Law of  BCE should be repealed in  BCE illustrates this point. The Law had decreed that women could not carry more than half an ounce of gold, nor wear clothes with purple trim, nor ride in carriages within a mile of Rome unless it was a public ritual. Marcus Porcius Cato and others argued that the Law should be upheld while Lucius Valerius, among others, wanted to revoke it. Cato, alarmed by the matrons who had blocked the streets and pleaded directly to other women’s husbands for the revocation of the law, argues forcefully that women’s indulgence and luxury be limited, for women are uncontrollable and the moment they become men’s equals they will become superior. Valerius, however, counters that women’s wealth has benefited the public welfare in times past, including examples of matrons contributing to the treasury and widows providing needed money in times of war. Moreover, since  For an analysis of this issue and discussion of the primary sources (primarily Ulpian) see Berg, ‘Wearing Wealth’, –.  Berg, ‘Wearing Wealth’, –.  See Berg, ‘Wearing Wealth’, –.  Berg, ‘Wearing Wealth’, .  Berg (‘Wearing Wealth’, ) indicates that adornment was both unnecessary and necessary. This was its paradox.  Livy .– (LCL; Sage)  Livy ..

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women cannot seek honour in ways that men can, ‘elegance of appearance, adornment, apparel—these are the woman’s badges of honour; in these they rejoice and take delight; these our ancestors called the woman’s world’. Maria Wyke, who analyses this debate, makes an important observation worth citing in full: Woman’s adorned body is thus a site of her social definition, and it is only in their relative evaluations of the role women can play in the Roman state that the speakers differ. Women are defined in a more visual, material and outward way than men. In the context of narratives which explicitly construct gender difference, men are seen to create their social identity by extending out from their bodies to control a public domain. When contrasted with women, their civic, religious and military offices are viewed as higher-status mental functions. Women work with and within their bodies, gaining a limited and lower social status through physical self-cultivation.

Appropriate adornment could contribute to a woman’s social status, and even honour, according to Livy’s depiction of Valerius’s views, but she was always perceived as inferior to the male. Her time in front of the mirror was thus important for her public face, yet at the same time it perpetuated the notion that women were ‘frivolous, unconcerned with true civic life, and…inherently sexual’ at least from the perspective of male writers. Such perceptions of women naturally comprised a contrast to how men should behave. The ultimate insult to a man was the accusation that he was acting like a woman. As indicated above, careful conformity to the expectations of appropriate appearance and presentation were requisite in the endless effort to maintain or increase honour and thus a mistake, such as a man grooming himself too much, exposed him to the powerful and penetrating gaze of the group, which could ‘desoul’ and shame him, leaving him a laughing stock. Seneca lashes out at effeminate men who arrange their hair and compete with women in the smoothness of their bodies, while Juvenal satirizes men who wear make-up and tie up their ‘long locks in a gilded net’. Onlookers were suspicious of Julius Caesar because he paid too much attention to his hair, wore his  Livy ..  Maria Wyke, ‘Woman in the Mirror: The Rhetoric of Adornment in the Roman World’, Woman in Ancient Societies: An Illusion in the Night (ed. Léonie J. Archer, Susan Fischler and Maria Wyke; London: Macmillan, ) .  Richlin, ‘Making Up a Woman’, .  Barton (‘Being in the Eyes’, ) uses the philosopher Max Scheler’s notion of Entseelung or ‘desouling’ which occurs when one gazes directly at another at an inappropriate moment. This has the effect of shaming as opposed to Beseelung or ‘ensouling’ when one averts one’s eyes out of respect for the honour of another.  Seneca Contr. .–.  Juvenal Sat. ..

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tunic loose and sometimes donned shoes that were an inappropriate shade of red. These features caused others to consider him dangerousor weak. Cicero uses his criticisms of certain men’s clothing as a way of undermining their character. If the man dressed in women’s clothes or effeminately in any way, he was also guilty of immorality. Julia Heskel points out that in one case, Cicero satirizes a certain P. Clodius Pulcher, who famously infiltrated the women-only Bona Dea festival dressed as a woman. Although the description of Clodius is funny, Heskel indicates that the audience would also see the seriousness of the matter, for Clodius had not only violated gender roles, he was guilty of religious sacrilege. Men who wore overly fine clothes or jewellery were thus vulnerable to these sorts of attacks, and not only was their imitation of the feminine perceived as violating the natural order, they were engaging in the vice of luxuria, which was especially associated with women. The rich man in Jas .– is a case in point here. As has been observed, the man who enters the assembly in fine clothes and flashing gold rings is comparable to Lucian’s description of the ridiculous rich who show off their clothes and rings, expecting displays of respect and obeisance from onlookers. Lucian also illustrates how such people can be humiliated, however, when he describes a ‘millionaire’ who comes to Athens in his fancy clothes and jewellery expecting others to envy him. As the fop struts about in his finery, onlookers comment covertly but within his earshot with things such as ‘ “Spring already?” “How did that peacock get here?” and “Perhaps it’s his mother’s?” ’ This process of dishonouring the fellow by associating him with femininity has the effect of disciplining him, according to Lucian, and the man leaves ‘much improved’ by the ‘public education he had received’.

 Cassius Dio ..–.  Suetonius Jul. .  Plutarch (Caes. .), referring to comments made by Cicero about Caesar’s manner of scratching his head and combing his hair.  See Cicero Cat. ..  See Cicero Har. resp. –. See the discussion of Cicero’s attitudes towards clothing in Julia Heskel, ‘Cicero as Evidence for Attitudes to Dress in the Late Republic’, The World of Roman Costume (ed. Sebesta and Bonfante) –.  Catherine Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University, ) . Such a pattern of males fearing association with femininity shows up in a variety of contexts. See, for example, Stanley Brandes, ‘Like Wounded Stags: Male Sexual Ideology in an Andalusian Town’, Sexual Meanings: The Cultural Construction of Gender and Sexuality (ed. Sherry B. Ortner and Harriet Whitehead; Cambridge: Cambridge University, ) –.  See John S. Kloppenborg, ‘Patronage Avoidance in James’, HTS  () , who points out the parallel with Lucian Nigr. .  Lucian Nigr.  (LCL; Harmon).

Neither Gold nor Braided Hair 

Men were also susceptible to accusations that they had come under the sway of their wives, and were especially derided when it was apparent that their wives had economic power and influence over them. Juvenal satirizes the man who weds a woman for her money, and indicates that a wife whose husband has married her for her wealth has significant freedom, including the freedom to look elsewhere, which invites the possibility of cuckoldry, another source of dishonour to the husband. For the Romans, ‘a man who is poorer than his wife is less of a man’. Greek and Roman comedy made fun of men who were subject to the manipulations of their wealthy wives, for again, they were not upholding traditional notions of what it meant to be a strong, powerful male. It seems reasonable to conclude, therefore, that one reason a man would not want his wife to adorn herself ornately, especially if the woman was truly wealthy, was that it would signal her wealth to the group. Everyone would know how rich his wife was, and such knowledge could harm his reputation in the community. Even if the wife did not actually own the sumptuous clothes or jewels, her wearing of them sent the message that she could influence her husband to obtain them for her, and allow her to wear them. Such impressions would again render the man vulnerable to accusations that he was weak when facing the demands of a domineering wife. These examples indicate that women and men were required to dress and adorn themselves in ways conforming to their gender role and that although wealth was a prerequisite for status for men and women, men had reasons to worry if their rich wives obviously advertised that fact. High-status women had to be groomed and elegant, for as Eve D’Ambra points out, ‘[t]he appearance of a sophisticated, wellturned-out woman in public was cause for praise not only for herself but for her husband. In the close quarters of a Roman city, with its well-defined pecking order, being seen at public events was not always as crucial as making a smart appearance in the company of one’s spouse’. But if she wore things deemed too costly for her social level, she and her household (especially her husband) could be accused of indulgence, and the husband’s reputation would be in jeopardy. He had lost control of his wife, and fallen prey to her wants, just as a lavish but tasteless banquet thrown by a man could earn an icy satire from the likes of Petronius, or an outlandish building project provoke disdain from philosophers.

 Juvenal Sat. ..  Edwards, Politics, .  See Susan Treggiari, Roman Marriage (Oxford: Clarendon, ) , who is referred to by Edwards, Politics,  n. .  Eve D’Ambra, ‘Nudity and Adornment’, .  On the criticism of the rich buying rare foods and constructing large building projects that are perceived to be trying to overcome nature, see Robert A. Kaster, Emotion, Restraint, and Community in Ancient Rome (Classical Culture and Society; Oxford: Oxford University, ) –.

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Luxurious spending, some ancients thought, ‘made people strange’, for it enslaved them to the quest for novelty, never satisfied with the mundane or the ordinary. Pliny the Elder calls luxuria a madness; a disease that harms not only the individual who engages in it but also the wider community. Luxuria is dangerous for it upsets the natural order; and one of the reasons why pearls were so often singled out as examples of women’s craving for luxuria is that they had been taken from their natural place in the sea to the land, where they did not belong. In the Andanian inscription, it is arguable that this worry about luxuria, among other concerns, lies behind the directives concerning gold, clothing and elaborate hair, for if women were permitted to wear such things, they might continually pursue more and more adornment possibly to the financial and social detriment of the association. Although women in the association might have admired the hairbands and jewellery of their fellow initiates, the males in the association decreed that there must be limits. Despite the stress by male writers that women appear modest in public, and not attract attention to themselves, there is much evidence that many women, from varying social levels, sought to adorn themselves as best they could. Even though a woman may be admired by men for going unadorned, and in doing so, rise above her gender, the actual practice of many women seems to have been to wear jewellery, elaborate hairstyles and fine clothes if they could afford to do so. The ‘unadorned look’ was more of a propagandistic ideal than it was reality. The contrast between literary accounts of Agrippina the Younger’s lavish displays of wealth in the form of a magnificent cloak made of gold, and rides in a carpentum, usually reserved only for priests, in the heart of Rome, with her official ‘unadorned’ portrait make this clear. Moreover, in private portraits she is depicted with earrings and even a bulla, or amulet that only boys wore. Likewise Cleopatra, famous for her pearls, is depicted with no jewels in official portraiture. This lack of jewellery in public portraits conveys the message that these women were above the craving for baubles and luxuria, an identity which would accent their honour in male eyes, for they appeared controlled

 Kaster, Emotion, .  Pliny Nat. .. Ria Berg (‘Wearing Wealth’, –) provides these references to Pliny’s discussion of luxuria.  Pliny Nat. ..  As Wyke (‘Woman in the Mirror’, ) observes, ‘[t]he woman who remains unadorned is permitted, in this moralising male discourse, to transcend the boundaries of her gender. If she cannot become an honorary man, she is at least raised about the massed ranks of women’. Like many contexts in which honour and shame are significant values, women are acknowledged as honourable when they are more like men (but within male-defined limits). For comparisons, see Frank Henderson Stewart, Honor (Chicago and London: University of Chicago, ) –.  See the discussion by Berg, ‘Wearing Wealth’, –.

Neither Gold nor Braided Hair 

and strong, like men. However, in reality they apparently enjoyed wearing and doing those things that would signal their high status to the community, and perhaps garner admiration from other women. Thus while the ‘plain look’ might convey honour for men by associating them more with maleness, the wearing of beautiful clothes and expensive jewellery would underline their status in the society of women, and equip them with an economic power that could have ensured a certain degree of autonomy. . Implications for  Timothy and  Peter

Studies of the instructions about women and wives in  Timothy and  Peter have acknowledged that the exhortations not to braid hair, wear gold, pearls or expensive clothes are consistent with the general Graeco-Roman male emphasis upon female modesty and criticism of female adornment. As the directions in each text are quite standard, it is difficult to reconstruct the actual social status of the women who are addressed, either directly in  Peter, or indirectly in  Timothy, although there must have been some women for whom the instructions were relevant, otherwise the teachings would be gratuitous. Although they are standard tropes, the words are there for a reason, and they demonstrate that the authors want the women in their communities to conform to conventional male notions of what an honourable woman’s appearance and conduct should be. In the case of  Peter, John H. Elliott points out  See Berg, ‘Wearing Wealth’, .  For example, Mary Rose D’Angelo (‘Roman Imperial Family Values and the Sexual Politics of  Maccabees and the Pastorals’, BibInt  [] ) points out how the instructions conform to the overall Roman emphasis upon pietas or 1ὐσέβ1ια that included strictures upon women’s adornment and focus upon female virtue in the domestic realm. On  Timothy, see also Reggie M. Kidd, Wealth and Beneficence in the Pastoral Epistles (SBLDS ; Atlanta: Scholars, ) . John H. Elliott (I Peter [AB B; New York: Doubleday, ] –) provides a thorough discussion of the background and intent of these instructions, providing a variety of parallels in Graeco-Roman literature and reflecting upon larger hermeneutical issues. He points out that the author ‘presumes’ the views about women’s dress in this passage, and does not argue them (–).  I do not think, for example, that one need to posit a ‘new woman’ behind the text of  Tim .– , as Bruce Winter does (Roman Wives, Roman Widows: The Appearance of New Women and the Pauline Communities [Grand Rapids and Cambridge: Eerdmans, ] –). Winter argues that a ‘new woman’ had arisen in the first century BCE, who neglected her household duties and engaged in illicit liaisons (–) and that  Timothy as well as several other texts from Pauline communities were reacting to her activities. It seems to me, rather, that  Timothy is simply echoing the longstanding male emphasis upon female modesty and place in the domestic realm, in which children are supposed to be women’s true adornment (see Berg, ‘Wearing Wealth’, ).  On this issue in  Timothy, see Jouette M. Bassler, ‘Limits and Differentiation: The Calculus of Widows in  Timothy .–’, A Feminist Companion to the Deutero-Pauline Epistles (ed. AmyJill Levine, with Marianne Blickenstaff; Cleveland: Pilgrim, ) .

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ALICIA J. BATTEN

that the author advises such conformity ‘because this involved no sacrifice of Christian identity or principle, while it also secured public approval’. As such, the exhortation had an important function as Christians negotiated their daily lives in a hostile environment. In light of the ambivalent nature of female adornment, meaning that it could be both a reason for criticism and dishonour, but also a sign of status and power, especially for women, how might we approach these instructions? In general, we can say that limiting the women’s adornment with jewellery, fine clothes or elaborately braided hair would make her less visible in public. She would blend in and not attract the ‘gaze’ to which people were continually vulnerable nor earn male accusations of immorality or lack of concern about maintaining an appropriate sensitivity to honour and shame. Second, forbidding lavish adornment lessened the possibility that the women and their households could be accused of luxuria, an accusation that could bring dishonour to the family and church. Thus the restrictions on dress and adornment could function very positively for the communities given the patriarchal nature of the culture in which they lived. Turning to  Timothy more specifically, the author may be concerned about adornment given the subsequent teachings on avoiding the pursuit of wealth, negative comments about money ( Tim .–) and overall attention to public opinion ( Tim .–; .). The instructions would limit the women’s ability to display their status within the community but this limitation would be to the advantage of the male members, for if the women dressed modestly and behaved submissively, as the instructions exhort them to do, there would be less chance of a husband being ridiculed for the perception that his wife was wealthier than he (whether or not this was true), or that she was able to control his purse strings. The same would apply, presumably, to any male guardian given that  Tim .– does not explicitly address wives. The directions on women’s dress are not concerned solely with how the women are perceived within the community, nor only with how the women interact with the men in the group, but how their dress and adornment reflect upon the men in the family and community, and in turn, how the community is perceived by the wider society. Given the letter’s concern for public opinion, Ortner’s insight about the link between perceptions of female purity and maintenance of male social status is relevant. If the men in the church are vying for more social acceptance, then their concern for how women are viewed by the outside world increases. According to Ortner, women are often expected to be purer than the men in a group that is seeking greater social respectability. As she writes:

one of the major puzzles of the female purity phenomenon [is] that the women of a given group are expected to be purer than the men, [and]…upon their higher purity hinges the honor of the group…the women are not, contrary to  Elliott, I Peter, .

Neither Gold nor Braided Hair  native ideology, representing and maintaining the group’s actual status, but are oriented upwards and represent the ideal higher status of the group…female purity…is oriented toward an ideal and generally unattainable status. The unattainability may in turn account for some of the sadism and anger toward women expressed in these purity patterns, for the women are representing the over-classes themselves.

Although Paul directs women to wear veils in  Cor .–, we do not see him restricting women’s display of wealth in the undisputed letters, and some of the women he mentions, such as Phoebe (Rom .–), may have been rather well off. Thus in  Timothy, a deutero-Pauline letter, has the involvement of wealthy women in the church become problematic to the point that appeals to women’s modest dress and inward adornment, so typical of the day, are required in order to fend off suggestions that the women are not under control and not ‘pure’? Many authors have observed that  Timothy wants to limit women’s empowerment. Given the fact that jewellery and fine clothing could be sources of economic power, the strictures placed upon the display of such wealth could contribute to the curtailment of some wealthy women’s power within the community. Admittedly, the author does not dwell upon the matter, suggesting that it may not have been a huge concern, but nonetheless this aspect of the function of adornment merits attention. The author may wish for women to dress modestly in the context of worship in particular because he is concerned about the status indicators that women’s wealth display could exhibit, especially among other women, thereby enhancing female significance and roles in the community overall. Thus limiting their adornment functions doubly to protect the community from external criticism and internally, to thwart any attempts women were making to maintain or enhance their leadership roles. There must be a reason why the author insists that women should not teach but learn in silence and submission ( Tim .–) and the preoccupation of the letter with who is a proper widow and with young widows’ behaviour ( Tim .–) betrays concerns about women taking on what the author perceives to be improper roles within the community.  Ortner, ‘The Virgin’, . For a discussion of how Ortner’s ideas apply to the perception of Julia, daughter of Augustus, see Amy Richlin, ‘Julia’s Jokes, Galla Placidia, and the Roman Use of Women as Political Icons’, Stereotypes of Women in Power: Historical Perspectives and Revisionist Views (ed. Barbara Garlick, Suzanne Dixon and Pauline Allen; New York: Westport; London: Greenwood, ) –.  See Plutarch Conj. praec. .  See, for example, Dennis Ronald MacDonald, The Legend and the Apostle: The Battle for Paul in Story and Canon (Philadelphia: Westminster, ); Ulrike Wagener, Die Ordnung des ‘Hauses Gottes’: Der Ort von Frauen in de Ekklesiologie und Ethik der Pastoralbriefe (WUNT /; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Siebeck], ).  See David C. Verner, The Household of God: The Social World of the Pastoral Epistles (SBLDS ; Chico, CA: Scholars, ) .

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ALICIA J. BATTEN

 Peter is not preoccupied with women’s behaviour in the manner that  Timothy is, and addresses a completely different social situation, but it does underscore the extent to which a woman’s dress and comportment were important, as these people dealt with the difficulties of living within an unwelcoming environment. In this text, the honour/shame dimension of a woman’s appearance is particularly important because although the limitations placed upon the woman’s adornment might decrease her ability to convey her status to others, she was maintaining the honour of her husband, which he would undoubtedly appreciate. It is impossible to know if the women were wealthier than their spouses, but if this was the case, it should not be advertised for it could potentially cause the husbands dishonour as we have seen from the discussion earlier. Given the respect his wife’s simple appearance and modest behaviour would garner him, the husband might now join the believers. Thus a woman’s behaviour and adornment were so significant that they could potentially win over a husband. One might argue that there is even more pressure upon the women to be ‘pure’ here as their dress and comportment played significant roles in attracting males into the church. Drawing upon Ortner’s point that women ‘are oriented upwards and represent the ideal status of the group’, the perception of Christian women within the community may have functioned as a key factor in the degree to which new, male, members were attracted to the church. Moreover, in abiding by these instructions, the wife is conforming to the model of Sarah, whose child she had become ( Pet .). This dimension of the text is especially interesting. Could it be that the author has some inkling that women cared how they were perceived by other women in particular? Although becoming a child of Sarah is consistent with the larger identity of the addressees as faithful aliens and exiles, does the author understand that this recognition by other women is important, and thus stresses the identification with Sarah? The latter is hard to say, but it is clear that the author is aware of the visual dimension of women’s dress and comportment, for while the wives may not attract the notice of passers by, their significance in God’s gaze ( Pet .) is ensured. But at the same time, the author is also aware of the empire’s gaze upon the community, as the letter is sure to remind the audience, including the women within it, to ‘honour the emperor’ ( Pet .). Women’s appearance would thereby be an important factor in deflecting social criticism and in maintaining whatever social status these early Christians had.

 Elliott (I Peter, ) also makes the point that the cultivation of modest dress and subordination to one’s husband dispels any idea that the Christian wife married to a non-believer is in any way a threat to the family and its honour.  Ortner, ‘The Virgin’, .  Elliott (I Peter, ) makes this point.

Neither Gold nor Braided Hair 

The letters of  Timothy and  Peter share little in common overall, but there are passages in both texts that curb female adornment and in so doing limit the women’s ability to convey their status and honour, while increasing or at least preserving male honour and status.  Timothy .– may intentionally do so whereas  Pet .– is primarily concerned with the influence of female comportment upon the perception of the man, and in turn, how that may play a role in whether or not he may be won over.  Timothy seems to be especially worried about women exerting some degree of economic power in the church, and the public perception of such power. Given the attention to women’s issues elsewhere in the Pastorals, such concerns may have been particularly significant in Ephesus. In addition, male honour could be affected by women’s display of wealth, culminating either in accusations of luxuria or the perception that the husband was weak and subservient to his wife who spent his money on jewels. Considering that women’s dress becomes even more of an issue based upon the attention it receives in patristic writings, one might speculate that women, in certain contexts, resisted giving up their adornment because they wished to display their status and assert their importance by maintaining some degree of economic power, while their male counterparts, concerned about the church’s perception by the larger society, sought to control their appearance even more. Women likely knew the social consequences of their public face, and attempted to use their arts of adornment as tools to negotiate their involvement in the community at certain moments. At any rate, the fact that women continued to adorn themselves in the early church, as evident from the attention male writers give to the subject, reflects the value women placed on these practices. Adornment could have functioned as an expression and enhancement of female honour while it was simultaneously jeopardizing the honour of men. At the very least, studies of ancient texts that attempt to curtail women’s adornment need to consider these contextual possibilities when trying to determine the rhetorical purposes and social meanings of such writings.

 Elliott (I Peter, ) points out, for example, how ‘the Church Fathers show more interest in this text in  Peter than in other passages that might be expected to draw attention, such as the letter’s Christological statements or other soteriological functions’. See, for example, Clement of Alexandria Paed. ..–; .., ; ..–; Tertullian Or. ; De cultu feminarum.  Based upon her experiences with the Sohari, Wikan (Behind the Veil, ) finds that ‘there are real differences in priorities between men and women, reflecting their different worlds’. There is no reason to believe that such differences did not exist, in different ways, for men and women in Mediterranean antiquity.  For a discussion of the continuing power of honour and shame in the early church, and its connections to gender and the renunciation of riches, see Elizabeth A. Clark, ‘Sex, Shame and Rhetoric: En-gendering Early Christian Ethics’, JAAR  () –.

New Test. Stud. , pp. –. Printed in the United Kingdom ©  Cambridge University Press doi:10.1017/S0028688509990038

The Themes of 1 Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts (the Crosby-Schøyen Codex ms 193 and the Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex containing P72)* DAV I D G. H O R R E L L Department of Theology and Religion, University of Exeter, Exeter EX4 4RJ, UK email: [email protected]

Recent developments in textual criticism have encouraged NT scholars to regard the various NT manuscripts not merely as sources of variant readings to enable a reconstruction of the original text but as interpretative renderings with their own intrinsic interest and as important material evidence for early Christianity. Taking up this cue, this paper examines what the two (probably) earliest manuscripts of  Peter indicate about the status of this writing, and what early readers took to be its key themes, given the other texts with which it is bound. In both cases, and with some striking overlaps,  Peter is regarded as a text focused on the Easter themes of the suffering, martyrdom and vindication of Christ, and the related suffering and hope of his faithful people in a hostile world. These two manuscripts also call for some reconsideration of older scholarship, now widely rejected, which saw  Peter as a baptismal homily or paschal liturgy. While these remain unconvincing views of  Peter’s origins, they do rightly identify themes and connections which the earliest editors and readers evidently also perceived. Keywords:  Peter, Bodmer Papyrus, Crosby-Schøyen, early NT manuscripts, themes of  Peter . Introduction

Recent developments in textual criticism have significantly broadened the range of insights to be gained from study of the NT manuscripts. While the efforts



* I would like to dedicate this essay, first presented as a paper in the month of his retirement after thirty-six years at the University of Exeter, to my colleague Dr Alastair Logan, and to thank him publicly for his warm collegiality (and fruitful discussions of the topic of this paper!). I would also like to thank the following for their very helpful comments and suggestions: Peter Williams, Peter Head, Stuart Macwilliam, Morwenna Ludlow and Lutz Doering. Research for this essay has also been supported by a Small Research Grant from the British Academy, and library facilities in Cambridge and Heidelberg, for which I would also like to express my sincere thanks.

The Themes of  Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts 

to weigh competing readings and thus establish the earliest form of the text remain crucial, recent studies have shown how the manuscripts (and their variant readings) are themselves valuable embodiments of reception and interpretation, crucial witnesses to early Christianity’s visual and material culture. My interest in this paper is in what are, as things currently stand, very likely the two earliest manuscripts of  Peter. Not only does their antiquity make them significant, so also does the character and content of the manuscripts themselves. I am not here concerned with the variant readings of  Peter which these two manuscripts present but with the ways in which, as collections of literature, they offer insights into the early interpretation of  Peter, the literary connections made with it and what early transmitters of the text of  Peter took to be its key themes. The two manuscripts are the Crosby-Schøyen Codex ms  (hereafter C-S), in Sahidic Coptic, and the Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex (hereafter BMC), in Greek. The Coptic manuscript, as a recently published translational version, has received very little attention in treatments of the text of  Peter. The Bodmer Codex, published in parts between  and , is much better known, at least sofar as its NT items are concerned: it includes  Peter,  Peter and Jude, known together as P. However, while the variant readings of P have been carefully assessed, the significance of the manuscript context in which these NT texts appear has less frequently been considered. Both codices, it should be noted, ‘derive from the same early Christian library’, a library of the Pachomian monastic Order, ‘discovered late in  in  See, e.g., D. C. Parker, The Living Text of the Gospels (Cambridge: Cambridge University, ); B. D. Ehrman, The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture: The Effect of Early Christological Controversies on the Text of the New Testament (New York and Oxford: Oxford University, ); L. W. Hurtado, The Earliest Christian Artifacts: Manuscripts and Christian Origins (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, ).  For this title for the codex, cf. T. Wasserman, ‘Papyrus  and the Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex’, NTS  () –.  For the publication of the MS, see J. E. Goehring, ed., The Crosby-Schøyen Codex Ms  in the Schøyen Collection (CSCO ; Leuven: Peeters, ). Some of the most significant readings of the text of  Peter have been presented by a member of the team which edited the codex: H.-G. Bethge, ‘Der Text des ersten Petrusbriefes im Crosby-Schøyen-Codex (Ms.  Schøyen Collection)’, ZNW  () –.  See, e.g., É. Massaux, ‘Le Texte de la Ia Petri du Papyrus Bodmer VIII (P)’, ETL  () –.  There have been some studies with this latter focus, most recently Wasserman, ‘Papyrus ’ and T. Nicklas and T. Wasserman, ‘Theologische Linien im Codex Bodmer Miscellani?’, New Testament Manuscripts: Their Texts and Their World (ed. T. J. Kraus and T. Nicklas; Leiden: Brill, ) –. These have, however, come mostly from those whose primary interest and expertise is in the text-historical/text-critical areas.  W. H. Willis, ‘The Letter of Peter ( Peter)’, Crosby-Schøyen Codex, – ().



DAVID G. HORRELL

Upper Egypt near Dishnā’. However, the codices almost certainly date from before the foundation of the Order itself, as does ‘much of the material of the highest quality in the collection’. Moreover, their texts of  Peter ‘appear to be quite unrelated’. The Greek Vorlage on which C-S depends was evidently quite distinct from—and perhaps considerably older than—that presented in P (see below on dating). The shared geographical provenance of these two codices means that we should be wary of taking them as two entirely unrelated witnesses to the ways in which early Christians collected and interpreted their writings. Nonetheless, the two codices do give us two distinct glimpses into the early reception of  Peter. I shall consider each in turn, before drawing some comparative and broader conclusions; I begin with C-S.

. Crosby-Schøyen Codex ms 

C-S comprises a codex which originally had  pages, though these were not numbered sequentially throughout. Each page measures approximately  ×  cm. The date of C-S cannot be precisely determined, and opinions range from late second to early fifth century, but William Willis, the editor and translator of its text of  Peter, concludes ‘that it may be dated with some confidence to the middle of the III century’. The Greek Vorlage from which the Coptic translation was made—at a stage prior to the production of C-S itself—must have been older still, quite probably older than the text of P. And whatever its precise date, C-S is undoubtedly an important witness to the early history of the letter. It is interesting first to note the inscriptio with which  Peter begins in C-S (repeated as the subscript): tepistolh mpetros = ἡ ἐπιστολὴ (τοῦ) Πέτρου. The author of this text, then, and probably the author of the Greek Vorlage too, seems likely to have known—or at least, to have accepted—only this one letter  J. M. Robinson, ‘The Manuscript’s History and Codicology’, Crosby-Schøyen Codex (ed. Goehring) xvii–xlvii (xxvii, cf. also xxxv).  J. M. Robinson, ‘The Pachomian Monastic Library at the Chester Beatty Library and the Bibliothèque Bodmer’, Manuscripts of the Middle East  (–) – ().  Willis, ‘Letter of Peter’, .  ‘The Crosby-Schøyen text agrees with only one of the  unique significant readings of P’ (Willis, ‘Letter of Peter’, ).  See Robinson, ‘The Manuscript’s History’, xvii–xlvii, xliii–lxiv.  See Robinson, ‘The Manuscript’s History’, xxxiii. K. Aland and B. Aland, Der Text des Neuen Testaments (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, nd ed. ) , suggest ‘wahrscheinlich wohl um ’, though with there giving arguments for this date.  Willis, ‘Letter of Peter’, , citing support from C. H. Roberts for an early dating in n. ; Bethge, ‘Crosby-Schøyen-Codex’, –.  Willis, ‘Letter of Peter’, , notes that since C-S is evidently a ‘copy of a copy’, not itself a direct translation from the Greek, ‘the original translation on which it is based must be pushed back to A.D. , perhaps even earlier’.

The Themes of  Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts 

of Peter. Moreover, in C-S,  Peter does not form part of a collection of NT texts, but a more diverse collection. The texts in their order in the codex, with the likely original pagination, are as follows: Melito of Sardis, On the Passover –  Maccabees .–. –  Peter – Jonah – Unidentified Text [pagination missing] Despite the discontinuous pagination, it is evidently all the work of one scribe, though it seems likely that the very fragmentary final homily was added at a later stage (but still by the same scribe). The collection of texts evidently makes no distinction between ‘canonical’ texts and others. Melito’s Π1ρὶ Πάσχα—of which only §§– are preserved in C-S, the opening sections being lost—focuses on the story of the Passover lamb as a prefiguration of the redemptive sufferings of Christ. Also notable in combination with the Passover lamb motif is the use of the Isaianic suffering servant material, particularly its sheep/lamb imagery (quoted explicitly in §; see also, e.g., §§, , , ). The deliverance purchased for the members of the Church—‘from slavery to freedom, from death to life, from tyranny to everlasting kingdom’ (§§ – [C-S])—gives them a new identity which is described in terms drawn again from OT texts in Exodus (.) and Isaiah (.): ‘he made us a new priesthood and a chosen people and an eternal kingdom’ (§  [C-S]). This is also a striking and precise parallel to  Pet ..  Willis, ‘Letter of Peter’, ; Bethge, ‘Crosby-Schøyen-Codex’, . Eusebius clearly knows of both letters attributed to Peter, but refers to ‘the letter of Peter’, which should be accepted (τὴν Πέτρου κυρωτέον ἐπιστολήν), contrasted with the second letter of Peter (Πέτρου δ1υτέρα ἐπιστολή) which is among the disputed books (HE ..–). I am grateful to Peter Head for alerting me to this point.  There may possibly have been a brief opening tractate, but since the opening pages of the codex are missing, it is impossible to know what, if anything, might have filled these opening pages. The extant pagination for Melito (which begins only at p. , the previous pages being mostly lost), suggests a separately paginated six-page section at the beginning of the codex. See Robinson, ‘The Manuscript’s History’, xlvi; J. E. Goehring and W. H. Willis, ‘On the Passover by Melito of Sardis’, Crosby-Schøyen Codex (ed. Goehring) – ().  However, the text of Jonah begins, prior to p. , on the same page (p. ) as the ending of  Peter (see plate  in Goehring, ed., Crosby-Schøyen Codex).  See J. E. Goehring, ‘The Manuscript’s Language and Orthography’, Crosby-Schøyen Codex (ed. Goehring) xlix–lxii.  J. E. Goehring, ‘Unidentified Text’, Crosby-Schøyen Codex (ed. Goehring) – ().  ET from Goehring and Willis, ‘On the Passover’, .  These words are missing from the text of Melito in the Bodmer Papyrus, on which see below, and fall within a lacuna in the Latin text. See O. Perler, Méliton de Sardes: sur la Pâque,



DAVID G. HORRELL

Indeed, there are a number of close parallels between  Peter and Melito, at the level both of terminology and theme, and of more exact literary parallels, close enough to allow the possibility of, if not prove, literary dependency. More generally,  Peter and Melito’s Peri Pascha represent a common interpretation of the death of Christ in terms drawn both from the Exodus Passover account and Isaiah . This, John Elliott suggests, points at least to a shared oral tradition of interpretation (and possibly to Melito’s knowledge of  Peter). The second text is an extract from  Maccabees, the ‘martyrology section’ of the book. Its title in C-S is ‘The Martyrs of the Jews Who Lived Under Antiochus the King’, abbreviated in the subscript to ‘The Jewish Martyrs’. According to the editors, ‘though on the whole it seems to parallel Septuagint  Maccabees closely, it often gives a paraphrase or digest, or chooses a different word’. This section of  Maccabees describes the persecution of Jews which followed the king’s demand that they join in the offerings and celebrations associated with his birthday, actions which are taken to represent the acceptance of Greek customs (.–). First two women are publicly paraded and killed for having circumcised their sons (.). Then we hear about the hideous deaths of Eleazar, and of seven brothers and their mother, who refused to eat pork and thus defile themselves. The text was especially important, Jonathan Goldstein notes, since it contained ‘the earliest surviving examples of elaborate stories of monotheists suffering martyrdom’ and as such provided ‘the direct source for the patterns that thereafter prevailed in Jewish and Christian literature’. After  Peter, the fourth text to be found in C-S is a complete text of Jonah, entitled ‘Jonah the Prophet’. The text again closely follows the Septuagint, with some variations, mostly due ‘to the simple preferences of the translator’.



 

   

et Fragments (SC ; Paris: Cerf, ) , . There is therefore some uncertainty about their originality, but they are, significantly, present within the C-S text. Along with Melito // Pet ., Melito // Pet . is also an especially precise parallel, where the shared terminology might well reflect the influence of  Peter on Melito. See J. H. Elliott,  Peter (AB B; New York: Doubleday, ) –. Elliott,  Peter, , who details further parallels. See E. S. Meltzer and H.-G. Bethge, ‘The Jewish Martyrs ( Maccabees :–:)’, CrosbySchøyen Codex (ed. Goehring) – (), who note that the other known Coptic ms of  Maccabees includes virtually the identical section (.–., possibly running to . in its original complete form). Meltzer and Bethge, ‘The Jewish Martyrs’, . Meltzer and Bethge, ‘The Jewish Martyrs’, . J. A. Goldstein, II Maccabees: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB A; New York: Doubleday, ) . C. W. Hedrick, ‘Jonah the Prophet (Jonah)’, Crosby-Schøyen Codex (ed. Goehring) – ().

The Themes of  Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts 

According to Charles Hedrick, editor and translator of the C-S text of Jonah, ‘[t]he relatively numerous remains of the Coptic text of Jonah suggest that it played a significant role in the liturgical life of early Coptic Christianity particularly in Upper Egypt’. The story of Jonah was also ‘an overwhelmingly favorite subject’ in early Christian art, appearing ‘more than seventy times…[i]n the preConstantinian era’, often with several episodes from the narrative depicted. The earliest such example is in the third-century Callistus Catacomb in Rome. The images of Jonah in early Christian art help to indicate one major reason for the story’s popularity: its perceived relevance as a type of the Easter story, a sign of resurrection, notably in the ‘three days and three nights’ (.) Jonah spends inside the fish. This christological parallel is strengthened further by the implication that Jonah has, in this three-day period, indeed gone to the ׁ ; . LXX: ᾅδης; C-S: emnte). It was thus realm of the dead (Jonah . MT: ‫שאול‬ also appropriate as a symbol of the resurrection hope for the deceased whose place of repose it marked, as they awaited the final day of resurrection. The typological significance of the Jonah story seems to have been picked up very early in the Christian tradition. A saying recorded in both Matthew and Luke makes reference to ‘the sign of Jonah’ (τὸ σημ1ῖον ’Ιωνᾶ: Matt .; .; Luke .). Matthew’s version—which describes Jonah, like the inscriptio in C-S, as Jonah ‘the prophet’ (.)—most clearly indicates that the sign refers to the Easter events, since it contains the crucial comparison, ‘just as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the sea-monster, so will the Son of Man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth’ (v. ). As such, the sign of Jonah can equally well be applied to the general Christian hope for resurrection, as in  Cor .– (a text, incidentally, which appears in the second of our codices; see below). There are perhaps other reasons too why the text of Jonah may have appealed to readers who also treasured  Peter: it is a story about a righteous man (.) called to missionary witness in a world of wickedness and vice (.). Indeed, one possible interpretation of ‘the sign of Jonah’ as presented and interpreted in Luke .– is of Jonah, like Jesus, as a preacher of repentance. Because of Jonah’s witness to the Lord, the sailors—who nobly seek to avoid causing the  Hedrick, ‘Jonah the Prophet’, .  R. M. Jensen, Understanding Early Christian Art (London and New York: Routledge, ) , .  For a colour picture, see L. V. Rutgers, Subterranean Rome: In Search of the Roots of Christianity in the Catacombs of the Eternal City (Leuven: Peeters, ) .  See Jensen, Early Christian Art, –. Cf. Justin Dial. ; Origen Comm in Matt .; Basil De Spiritu Sanc. ..  An older view discussed and rejected by Jeremias, ‘’Ιωνᾶς’, TDNT .. J. B. Green, The Gospel of Luke (NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, ) , nonetheless sees this still as one of two possibilities that make good sense in the narrative.



DAVID G. HORRELL

death of a righteous man (.)—are converted to worshipping God (.), as are the inhabitants of Nineveh (.–), much to Jonah’s chagrin. Jonah’s prayer to God in the midst of his affliction (.–) is especially apposite for those who are suffering affliction, even to death, but who look to God as the source of their salvation. These are central themes in  Peter too: the missionary witness of God’s people in a hostile world and their related afflictions, and their hope for vindication and salvation (cf. .–; .; .–). The final text included in the codex is fragmentary and as yet unidentified. Differences in presentation (one column of text per page, compared with two throughout the rest of the codex; no apparent title or subscript) suggest that it ‘represents a secondary addition to an original collection of four tractates’, though it is ‘written in the same scribal hand’. Too little of the text is extant to analyse its content in any detail. It ‘exhorts its hearers to prayer, action and watchfulness’, drawing on biblical images and allusions to do so (e.g., references to the good shepherd [, ]; to virgins and their lamps [, –]; to Noah and Joseph [, , ]). The rhetorical style has been seen as reminiscent of Melito, though this is insufficient basis to conclude that he was the author. The style seems to suggest that the text takes the form of a homily, though some other form of exhortation or catechesis is also possible. It is evident that C-S has a clear thematic coherence, focused around the Easter themes of suffering and vindication. Hans-Gebhard Bethge summarises the themes concisely as ‘Leiden, Passion, Ostern’. More fully, we might say that the collection focuses on the paschal suffering of Christ (esp. in Melito), and the suffering (and martyrdom) of God’s people (esp. in  Maccabees), and, more generally, the existence and mission of Christians in a hostile gentile world (cf. Jonah, also a key Easter parable). It is striking how well these themes also reflect those central to  Peter. Indeed, given the way in which  Peter contains and connects all the above themes, we might well argue that it is perhaps the central text in terms of the thematic coherence of the codex.  Peter, like Melito’s Peri Pascha, which it may have influenced, draws on both Exodus Passover and Isaianic suffering servant material to depict the suffering and sacrifice of Christ (., ; .–).  Peter is clearly addressed to Christians who are suffering  Goehring, ‘Unidentified Text’, .  Goehring, ‘Unidentified Text’, .  The text is cited according to the codex page number then line number(s), following the convention in Goehring, ‘Unidentified Text’.  See Goehring, ‘Unidentified Text’,  with n. ,  with n. ; A. Stewart-Sykes, The Lamb’s High Feast: Melito, Peri Pascha and the Quartodeciman Paschal Liturgy at Sardis (VTSup ; Leiden: Brill, ) .  Goehring, ‘Unidentified Text’, .  Willis, ‘Letter of Peter’, .  Bethge, ‘Crosby-Schøyen-Codex’, .

The Themes of  Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts 

due to the hostility of the world around them, suffering not only informal slander and opprobrium but also, on occasion, trials and executions for confessing the name ‘Christian’. And Christ’s path of suffering is presented as an example, a way of discipleship (.), which leads to glory and salvation (.–, ; .–; .). C-S clearly shows that early readers indeed took these to be the central themes of  Peter, linking it with other texts that depicted the paschal sufferings of Christ and the suffering of God’s people.

. The Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex

The Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex is more complex to assess. For a start, it has not been preserved in its assembled form, and was published in a number of separate volumes in the Papyrus Bodmer series. The codex contains the work of several scribes and was formed by the amalgamation of a number of previously distinct writings. The order and contents of the codex thus remain somewhat open to debate. Nonetheless, we can be highly confident that these texts were collected together to form one codex, originally containing around  pages in total. The papyrus sheets measure around  cm × . cm, giving a page size of  × . cm, similar to that of C-S. Connections in the pagination or evident in the preserved manuscripts enable some of the links between texts in the collection to be confirmed beyond doubt. There were clearly a number of scribes involved, and the most recent work by  A good deal of recent scholarship has concluded that  Peter reflects mostly informal opprobrium and public hostility, not trials and possible executions, but I think that both scenarios, connected through the accusatorial process, are likely in view. See D. G. Horrell, ‘The Label Χριστιανός:  Pet . and the Formation of Christian Identity’, JBL  () –.  Papyrus Bodmer V, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XX (Cologne-Geneva: Bibliotheca Bodmeriana, –). A new edition of the Apology of Phileas has since been published: A. Pietersma, The Acts of Phileas Bishop of Thmuis (Including Fragments of the Greek Psalter): P. Chester Beatty XV (with a New Edition of P. Bodmer XX, and Halkin’s Latin Acta) (Cahiers d’orientalisme ; Geneva: Victor Chevalier, ).  See M. Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer VII–IX (Cologne-Geneva: Bibliotheca Bodmeriana, ) , who suggests that the texts must have existed ‘en plusiers brochures séparées, qu’on a réunies en un seul livre’.  Cf. Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer VII–IX, ; V. Martin, Papyrus Bodmer XX (Cologne-Geneva: Bibliotheca Bodmeriana, ) ; E. G. Turner, The Typology of the Early Codex (Pennsylvania: University of Pennsylvania, ) ; Wasserman, ‘Papyrus ’, –; Nicklas and Wasserman, ‘Theologische Linien’, –.  For the estimate of ca.  pages, see W. Grunewald and K. Junack, Das Neue Testament auf Papyrus. I: Die katholischen Briefe (ANTF ; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, ) . Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer VII–IX, –, estimated ca.  pages, prior to the reconstruction of the Apology of Phileas. My own count from the various Bodmer Papyrus volumes brings a total of around  pages, of which  are extant.  Martin, Papyrus Bodmer XX, ; Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer VII–IX, .



DAVID G. HORRELL

Tommy Wasserman presents a strong case for identifying five distinct hands. But the codicological connections indicate three distinct sections, two of them connected by a common scribe. The contents of the codex in the order proposed by Michel Testuz, editor of the majority of the relevant Papyrus Bodmer volumes, are as follows; I have also indicated the three sections of the codex as numbered by Winfried Grunewald (and later Wasserman), and the likely scribal hands. I Nativity of Mary (=Protevangelium of James) [scribe A] I Apocryphal Correspondence of Paul with the Corinthians ( Corinthians) [scribe B] I Odes of Solomon  [scribe B] I The Epistle of Jude [scribe B] I Melito of Sardis, On the Passover [scribe A or E] I Fragment of a liturgical hymn [scribe A or E] II Apology of Phileas [scribe C] II Psalms – LXX [scribe D] III  and  Peter [scribe B] The creation of the codex in its final form, Grunewald suggests, was occasioned by the martyrdom of Phileas (in – CE): this was the impetus to construct a collection with the Apology of Phileas (and Pss –, undoubtedly part of the same text as the Apology) as its core. The earlier collections (I and III), dating probably from the third century, may have been supplemented and drawn together into a new codex in the early fourth century. This means, of course, that the text of  Peter as preserved in this codex has a number of contexts, at different stages of the growth of the collection. The first stage is its grouping with  Peter in a distinct manuscript (section III). In contrast to C-S, we here find the letter entitled π1τρου ἐπιστολη α’ and linked with a  Wasserman, ‘Papyrus ’, –.  See Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer VII–IX, .  See Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer VII–IX, –; Grunewald and Junack, Die katholischen Briefe, ; Wasserman, ‘Papyrus ’, –; Nicklas and Wasserman, ‘Theologische Linien’, , –, though Nicklas and Wasserman suggest that the order of texts in the codex may have been different from that proposed by Testuz, with the Apology of Phileas (and Pss – ) at the beginning or the end of the collection.  On the possible date range for the martyrdom, see Martin, Papyrus Bodmer XX, ; Pietersma, Acts of Phileas, .  Grunewald and Junack, Die katholischen Briefe, –.  For the third-century dating, see, e.g., Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer VII–IX, , and Papyrus Bodmer V, .  Cf. W. Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen Zu Papyrus Bodmer VII/VIII (P)’, Archiv für Papyrusforschung  () –.  Cf. esp. Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’.

The Themes of  Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts 

second letter attributed to the same apostle, a link suggested already by the explicit reference to a previous letter in  Pet .. This manuscript, then, provides an early example of the kind of ‘Petrine witness’ which Robert Wall suggests is the canonical function of  Peter, when placed alongside  Peter. The combination of  and  Peter provides a fuller depiction of emerging orthodoxy, and a clear opposition to ‘false’ teachers (a dominant concern in  Peter), presented under the name of the apostle who represented the ‘rock’ on which the church was built (Matt .). Indeed, this interpretation of the significance of the grouping of  and  Peter can be strengthened when we consider the marginal headings, or thematic summaries, that occur through  and  Peter but nowhere else in the BMC. This feature of the Petrine texts of the BMC, Wolfgang Wiefel suggests, is an indication of the particular value placed upon these writings, compared with others in the collection. It is indeed striking that it is only in these two letters that these marginal notes appear. This may be explicable, however, on the grounds that this particular tract, containing only  and  Peter, was first produced separately, before being incorporated into the larger codex. What seems more persuasive is Wiefel’s suggestion that these headings offer ‘Hinweise, die ein Stück Hermeneutik sichtbar werden lassen’. In other words, these marginal summaries indicate for us, as for the early readers of the codex, something of what were taken to be the main topics of the two letters. They are as follows (preserving the spellings in BMC):  Peter . . . . . . .

π1ρι αγ1ιοσυνη π1ρι αγνια π1ρι ϊ1ρατ1υμα αγιον π1ρι γ1νος 1γλ1κτον βασιλιον ϊ1ρατ1υμα 1θνος αγιον λαον π1ριποησιν π1ρι θανατου 1ν σαρκι και ζωοποιου και ακ1κλ1ισμ1νοις π1ρι χρυ παθος 1ν σαρκι π1ρι σαρκος

 R. W. Wall, ‘The Canonical Function of  Peter’, BibInt  () –.  These are presented in their marginal location in the text of P edited by Testuz, and are listed and discussed by Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, ; Grunewald and Junack, Die katholischen Briefe, ; Nicklas and Wasserman, ‘Theologische Linien’, –.  Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, .  Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, .  F. W. Beare, The First Epistle of Peter (Oxford: Blackwell, rd ed.  []) , suggests that this ‘is probably an error for κατακ1κλησμ1νοις which is read by C and a few minuscules, and is widely represented in the Old Latin’ (and also the Syriac Peshitta and Ethiopic versions). Indeed, P’s marginal note may thus be a very early witness to the presence of this word in the textual tradition. Given the (Coptic) scribe’s relatively poor Greek, it is unlikely he introduced this word without some influence or precedent.

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DAVID G. HORRELL

. .

π1ρι αγαπη π1ρι θυ κτ1ιστη

 Peter . . . .

π1ρι π1ρι π1ρι π1ρι

ψ1δοδιδασκαλοι τ1κνα καταρα 1μπ1κται 1ιρηνη

As Wiefel points out, these summary phrases together give a clear indication of the priorities of Christian life in the world: holiness and purity, the holy priesthood and chosen people of God, belief in the sufferings of Christ in the flesh and in the creator God, separation from false teachers and scoffers, love and peace. In short, Wiefel claims, ‘das Bild eines durchschnittlichen großkirchlichen Christentums tritt uns aus diesen Überschriften entgegen’. This rather exaggerates the extent to which the headings themselves constitute a mini-summary of the key aspects of orthodox early Christianity, especially given their rather poor Greek, except insofar as  and  Peter together themselves constitute such an orthodox Bild. But whatever their combined doctrinal force, the summary notes certainly reflect an interpretative reading of the text which, by identifying and summarising topics, influences subsequent readings. More specifically, for  Peter in particular, it is interesting to note that by far the two longest marginal notes relate to the declaration of the identity of the new people of God (.)—a verse, we recall, closely paralleled in Melito—and the death and new life of Christ, in the context of his enigmatic proclamation to the imprisoned spirits (.; cf. also the heading to . on this theme). This focus of attention in the thematic summaries gives a further indication of what was seen as the theological centre of the epistle. The tract containing  and  Peter was combined with another collection of texts (section I of the codex), some written by the same scribe, containing the Nativity of Mary,  Corinthians, the th Ode of Solomon, the letter of Jude, Melito’s Peri Pascha and a liturgical hymn. It is interesting to note, first, the linking of – Peter with Jude, a hint as to the early stages in the clustering of ‘catholic epistles’, and second, that here we find these subsequently canonised writings grouped with other early Christian literature, with no evident distinctions of status or value. It is difficult, however, to see any close thematic connections to explain the bringing together of this collection of texts, though this is an issue to which we shall shortly return. The inclusion of Jude might well be explained either on the

 Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, .  Cf. Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, –.  Cf. Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, –.

The Themes of  Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts 

grounds of the status of its author or because of the evident similarity of its material with that of  Peter (there is a large amount of closely shared material suggesting clear literary dependence). But it is hard to see any reason, in terms of closely shared theme or common outlook, for linking these three texts with the Nativity of Mary,  Corinthians and the th Ode of Solomon. It may be that a concern for mainstream orthodoxy, and defence against socalled heresies, was a prominent motivation. Jude, like  Peter, is dominated by a polemical denunciation of false teachers. The Nativity of Mary (ProtJas), the opening tract in section I, is clearly concerned to stress the purity and virginity of Mary, and the virginal conception of Jesus, drawing especially on Luke’s nativity story (ProtJas .–; .–.), thus, among other things, countering any low or adoptionist Christology. It is interesting to note that three unique readings in P also indicate a concern to stress the deity of Christ, perhaps again with an antiadoptionist motivation: in Jude , instead of κυριος (where some MSS, including Alexandrinus and Vaticanus, have ’Ιησους), P has θ1ος Χριστος; in  Pet ., ‘the sufferings of Christ’ are, in P (and in miniscule ), τα του θ1ου παθηματα; and in  Pet ., the omission of και leads to the reading ἐν ἐπιγνωσ1ι θ1ου ’Ιησου του κυριου ημων. In the apocryphal correspondence of Paul with the Corinthians, Paul is called upon in order to oppose false teachers, who deny, among other things, God’s omnipotence, creation of the world, the real humanity of Christ and the resurrection from the dead ( Cor .–). The eleventh Ode is perhaps the most difficult to connect thematically, though James Charlesworth has recently suggested that it may have been found valuable in further stressing a belief in resurrection and future life, with its depiction and promise of paradise (OdeSol .–, –). Charlesworth also notes a link between Jude’s polemic against false teachers who are like fruitless trees (Jude ) and the positive depiction of the blossoming fruitful trees ‘in the land of eternal life’ (OdeSol .a–c, unique to the PBod text). One thing that is striking about the contents of sections I and III of the codex is the appearance of Melito’s Peri Pascha alongside  Peter, as in C-S. The fragment

 On Jude’s significance in the leadership of early Jewish Christianity, see R. J. Bauckham, Jude and the Relatives of Jesus (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, ). This significance may have been particularly important in the context of a Catholic Epistle collection, the purpose of which was, at least in part, to counterbalance the influence of the Pauline Epistle collection: see D. R. Nienhuis, Not by Paul Alone: The Formation of the Catholic Epistle Collection and the Christian Canon (Waco, TX: Baylor University, ).  See Wasserman, ‘Papyrus ’, –. More generally, on this issue, see Ehrman, Orthodox Corruption of Scripture.  A point made emphatically by Nicklas and Wasserman, ‘Theologische Linien’, .  J. H. Charlesworth, ‘Bodmer Papyrus and Ode of Solomon : What Function or Functions Did the Collection Serve?’, Paper presented at the SBL Annual Meeting, Boston MA, November .

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of a hymn that immediately follows the Peri Pascha is too brief to say very much about. It is clearly some kind of liturgical hymn, its call to praise and response suggesting the possibility of antiphonal performance. Since it immediately follows the Peri Pascha, it has been suggested that it may have been used as part of the paschal liturgy, perhaps ‘chanté après le baptême et avant l’agapeeucharistie’. Othmar Perler considers it likely that Melito is the author of the hymn. Even if this remains unprovable, a close and early connection between the Peri Pascha and the hymn seems highly likely. Certainly, the appearance of  Peter and the Peri Pascha, as in C-S, suggests that the paschal/Easter theme was again a prominent reason for the selection and collection of these texts. A number of proposals have been made regarding the theological motivation or thematic focus that led to the creation of the entire codex which, in its final form, now also included the Apology of Phileas and Greek Psalms – (section II). Victor Martin, editor and translator of the Apology of Phileas in the Papyrus Bodmer series, proposed that the texts were united by their character as ‘theological literature’, developing and defending aspects of orthodox Christian doctrine. However, as Kim Haines-Eitzen points out, ‘Martin’s explanation… has the disadvantage of being so general that one wonders what early Christian literature would not fit in the category of “theological literature”, or what third and fourth century Christian writings are not concerned in some way with the questions of doctrine—particularly in the form of controversies over “orthodoxy” and “heresy”’. Moreover, so far as  Peter is concerned, we might note that it is hardly concerned with any explicit rebuke of ‘heretics’, unlike Jude and  Peter. Nonetheless, as we have already seen, Martin’s suggestion has some merit, at least so far as the combined force of sections I and III of the codex are concerned. Haines-Eitzen’s own proposal is that ‘the most pervasive theme in the texts gathered into this codex is that of the body’, a proposal cautiously affirmed to a degree by Wasserman. However, this proposal also fails convincingly to capture a unifying theme. In the first place, to be even plausibly considered, the motif of the ‘body’ must be understood in immensely broad and diverse ways—Haines-Eitzen notes, for example, the Nativity’s insistence that Jesus was born in the flesh, the spiritualised notion of the flesh in the th Ode of Solomon, the polemic against those who defile the flesh in  Peter and the  So Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer X–XII, .  Perler, Méliton, .  See O. Perler, Ein Hymnus zur Ostervigil von Meliton? (Papyrus Bodmer XII) (Freiburg: Universitätsverlag Freiburg Schweiz, ). Cf. Perler, Méliton, –.  Martin, Papyrus Bodmer XX, –.  K. Haines-Eitzen, Guardians of Letters: Literacy, Power, and the Transmitters of Early Christian Literature (Oxford: Oxford University, ) .  Haines-Eitzen, Guardians of Letters, ; Wasserman, ‘Papyrus ’, .

The Themes of  Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts 

theme of persecution and martyrdom in the Apology and the two Psalms. Thus, like Martin’s category of ‘theological literature’, the motif of the body becomes too diffuse to capture any supposedly clear common thread. The theme of the body (σῶμα) as such is, after all, hardly apparent in these texts, not least  Peter (from which the word is absent). Wasserman assesses these earlier proposals, and adds the possibility of some ‘liturgical connection between some of the writings’—a connection he unfortunately leaves unspecified—and also ‘several characteristics typical of incipient orthodoxy… especially in the area of Christology’ (cf. above). However, Nicklas and Wasserman are cautious about the possibility of identifying any specific theme which might explain the formation of the whole collection. In their view, the BMC may occupy ‘eine Mittelstellung zwischen Codices, deren Texte ganz offensichtlich unter einem die Einzeltexte recht eng verknüpfenden leitenden Thema verzahnt sind, und solchen, bei denen keinerlei innerer Zusammenhang erkennbar ist… Das Manuskript bleibt rätselhaft’. The earlier proposals by Wolfgang Wiefel, however, are also worth our attention. Wiefel distinguishes the two phases of the codex’s development and attempts to provide a Sitz im Leben for each. The texts collected in the first phase, during the third century (sections I and III above), constituted a ‘Privatanthologie’ for personal use, characterised by a ‘deutlich antihäretischer Tendenz’. In the second phase, during the early fourth century, when section II was added, the codex was likely used for private reading at festival times, particularly at Easter. The change evident in this second phase may thus be summarised, ‘daß die ursprünglich mit antihäretischer Zielsetzung angelegte Anthologie zur erbaulichen Vorlesung an Festtagen bestimmt wird’. Certain aspects of Wiefel’s proposals seem somewhat unconvincing. The suggestion that the codex was intended for personal/private use, on the basis of its relatively small size, is not necessarily to be accepted. There is some merit, as           

Haines-Eitzen, Guardians of Letters, –. Wasserman, ‘Papyrus ’, ; cf. . Wasserman, ‘Papyrus ’, ; cf. . Wasserman, ‘Papyrus ’, ; Nicklas and Wasserman, ‘Theologische Linien’, –. Nicklas and Wasserman, ‘Theologische Linien’, , . Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, –. Cf. Nicklas and Wasserman, ‘Theologische Linien’, , who describe Wiefel’s proposal as ‘[e]inen sehr komplexen Vorschlag’. Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, . Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, . Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, –. Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, . The dominant context for reading/hearing—not least given the low rates of literacy—would have been the congregational meetings. Moreover, the miniatures made specifically for private use were often much smaller than either BMC or C-S: see H. Y. Gamble, Books and

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we have seen, in seeing the collection as a presentation of emerging orthodoxy— to which  Peter makes a clear contribution—with defence against heretics and false teachers also a prominent concern (here  Peter is more pertinent). But unlike Jude,  Peter, and  Corinthians,  Peter is plainly unpolemical, and has no explicit concern to combat false teaching. The proposed shift to a Paschal focus with the addition of section II is also less than convincing, since it seems hardly related to the content of the texts added at this point, particularly the Apology of Phileas. It is rather Melito’s Peri Pascha and  Peter that are central here. While this means that Wiefel’s attempt to identify distinct motives and uses at different stages in the codex’s history is unconvincing, his linking of the contents with an Easter theme and the Paschal celebrations remains of interest.  Peter is crucial here. Indeed, Wiefel goes on to note that, if we add  Peter to Melito’s Peri Pascha, ‘so entfällt die Hälfte des Bestandes ( von  erhaltenen Blättern) auf Texte mit Osterbezug’. While Nicklas and Wasserman see the inclusion of Psalms – (LXX) along with – Peter as most likely a coincidence, Wiefel explains the inclusion of Psalms – on the basis of a link between Psalm  and  Peter. Noting that the Psalm is cited twice in  Peter—in . and .–, the latter being ‘das längste AT-Zitat im . Petr. überhaupt’—Wiefel raises the question whether  Peter was understood as a homily on Psalm . Indeed, beyond the important citations (and possible echoes) of Psalm  in  Peter, there are also close thematic resonances between these two Psalms and  Peter. Both Psalms depict the cry of the righteous Davidide to God, for deliverance from those who persecute him and cause him suffering. As such they contain christologically relevant motifs, and were evidently taken to be of messianic significance by early Christians (cf. the quotation of Ps . [LXX] in John .). They are also particularly relevant to the situation of people suffering rejection and persecution in a hostile world (cf.  Macc .).  Peter explicitly describes the suffering Christ as a model for Christian discipleship, just as these Psalms depict the righteous sufferer in the line of David, who endures suffering confident of God’s just vindication. These two Psalms offer an excellent OT source to connect two themes central to  Peter:

   

Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts (New Haven and London: Yale University, )  n. . Cf. Nicklas and Wasserman, ‘Theologische Linien’, , who note that Wiefel’s theory leaves unclear what role the Apology has in the collection. Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, . On the total number of pages in the codex, see above n. . Cf. Nicklas and Wasserman, ‘Theologische Linien’, ; I think this underestimates the likelihood that literary and thematic connections were perceived, on which see below. Wiefel, ‘Kanongeschichtliche Erwägungen’, . He does not, however, refer to W. Bornemann’s much earlier proposal to this effect, on which see below.

The Themes of  Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts 

the suffering and vindication of Christ, and the suffering and vindication of God’s righteous people. Furthermore, Psalm  (LXX) contains another theme of great importance to  Peter, that of ‘doing good’ (Ps . [LXX], quoted in  Pet .). There is also more to say about the significance of the Apology of Phileas, quite possibly the key to the formation of the codex in its final form. It is interesting to note that in the other extant Greek manuscript of this text, Papyrus Chester Beatty XV, which dates from roughly the same time as (this part of) BMC (i.e. early to mid-fourth century), Phileas is also bound together with a collection of Greek Psalms. Even more important for our consideration here is the content and character of the Apology of Phileas (elsewhere called the Acts of Phileas). It is a martyrdom account which details the repeated questioning of Phileas by the prefect Culcianus. Culcianus repeatedly urges Phileas to sacrifice to the gods—and on one occasion to swear an oath, probably to the genius of the emperors—while Phileas gives a range of reasons for his firm and repeated refusal. Although the death of Phileas is not narrated in the BMC version (contrast the Chester Beatty Papyrus and the Latin version), it is clear that attempts by the whole court to persuade him will not change his resolute refusal to comply with the prefect’s request. A comparison with C-S is striking: there, along with Melito and  Peter, we had  Macc –, an account of the Jewish martyrs; here, along with Melito and  Peter, we have an account of the trial of a recent Christian martyr. The thematic resonances which cluster in BMC, and specifically around  Peter, are, then, closer than has been recognised. Wiefel, we recall, noted that when the pages of Melito and  Peter were added together, half of the BMC comprised texts with an Easter connection. However, if we now add Psalms –, texts which clearly focus on the theme of the suffering and hope for vindication of the Davidic righteous one, and the Apology of Phileas, a Christian martyrology, then over a hundred pages of the codex ( of the  that are extant) contain texts relating to the themes of the paschal suffering of Christ, and the related suffering of his people in a hostile world. The parallel with the focal themes of C-S is close indeed. There are also some specific points of connection with  Peter. Just as Phileas is here presented as an apologia (the opening phrase is: απολογ1ια [sic] φιλ1ου 1πισκοπου θμου1ως), so the addressees of  Peter are instructed ‘always to be ready to offer an ἀπολογία to anyone who demands an account (λόγος) from you’ (.). And as with martyr-acts elsewhere, so the Apology of Phileas  See Pietersma, Acts of Phileas, .  See BCM col. , lines – (from Pietersma’s new edition). In P. Chester Beatty XV, the oath is explicitly ‘by the genius of the emperors’ (τὴν τύχην τῶν βασιλέ[ω]ν, Pietersma, Acts of Phileas, ).  See Pietersma, Acts of Phileas, –.  The possibly legal nuances of this language in  Peter have long been noted, though recent commentators have tended to suggest that the context implied here is everyday rather than judicial (e.g. Elliott,  Peter, –; N. Brox, Der erste Petrusbrief [EKKNT ; Zürich/

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epitomises the kind of ‘polite resistance’ (as I have elsewhere termed it) that  Peter calls for in its instruction that the emperor should be honoured, but God (alone) should be worshipped (.). The refusal to sacrifice (and to swear) is the central focus in Phileas. We cannot claim, then, that a single theme or theological motif unites every one of the diverse texts collected in BMC. Nonetheless, there are a number of aspects of the codex’s content that are significant for understanding the way early editors/readers understood the themes and content of  Peter. First, linked with  Peter, and then with the other texts in section I of the codex,  (and ) Peter provides a body of Petrine teaching which is valuable and instructive for an emerging Christian orthodoxy, not least in its battles against what is perceived as false teaching and heresy. Second, there is the prominent focus on Easter themes central to Christian faith and discipleship. As in C-S, there is the striking collocation of  Peter and Melito’s Peri Pascha. This would seem to indicate that early editors, like modern scholars, recognised the thematic (and textual?) resonances connecting the two works, and their common focus on the themes of Christ’s suffering, death and vindication. The linking of  Peter with Psalms – not only highlights still further the paschal theme, but also connects this christological motif with the suffering of God’s people in a hostile world, their following of the one who suffered for them and their hope of salvation and vindication. Given the clear use of Psalm  in  Peter, there is also an intertextual as well as a thematic relationship. The inclusion of the Apology of Phileas, perhaps the key to the making of the final collection, indicates, as in C-S, the thematic link between the suffering of Christ and the suffering of God’s faithful people. In short, while the clear thematic coherence that characterises C-S is less evident in BMC, there is still a good deal to suggest a similar focus linking a number of texts with themes central to  Peter.

. The Significance of C-S and BMC for the Interpretation of  Peter

It remains to consider the significance of these early codices for the interpretation of  Peter, particularly in relation to a history of research in

Braunschweig: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, rd ed. ], –; O. Knoch, Der erste und zweite Petrusbrief. Der Judasbrief [RNT; Regensburg: Friedrich Pustet, ], ; K. H. Jobes,  Peter [BECNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, ], ).  D. G. Horrell, ‘Between Conformity and Resistance: Beyond the Balch–Elliott Debate Towards a Postcolonial Reading of  Peter’, Reading  Peter with New Eyes: Methodological Reassessments of the Letter of First Peter (ed. R. L. Webb and B. Bauman-Martin; LNTS ; London and New York: T&T Clark, ) –.

The Themes of  Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts 

which proposals concerning a baptismal, homiletical, liturgical or paschal origin for  Peter, after a period of popularity, have in more recent decades come to be decisively rejected. First to propose that  Peter contained a baptismal homily (in .–.) was Richard Perdelwitz. This view of the letter was also developed (independently) by W. Bornemann, who argued that  Pet .–. (the letter frame being added later), ‘ursprünglich eine Taufrede war, und zwar im Anschluß an Psalm  [LXX ] um das Jahr  von Silvanus in einer Stadt Kleinasiens gehalten’. Much of Bornemann’s article was devoted to an attempt to demonstrate a large number of allusions to this Psalm in the text of  Peter. The view of  Peter’s origin as a baptismal homily became popular, and not only in German scholarship. Herbert Preisker developed a liturgical analysis of the letter as a literary record of a baptismal service, an analysis which was enthusiastically endorsed by F. L. Cross. Cross agrees with Perdelwitz, Bornemann, Preisker and others that  Peter is, in large part at least, a baptismal homily, but goes beyond this theory in proposing that the baptismal context is specifically that of the Paschal Baptismal Eucharist. Some subsequent work presented similar analyses, but criticisms were also expressed. The ingenious but speculative proposals of Preisker and Cross came increasingly to be seen as unconvincing—‘impressive in their breath-taking ingenuity’, as J. N. D. Kelly puts it—and as obscuring rather than highlighting the central concerns and themes of the letter. Recent scholarship has almost unanimously come to reject the liturgical and homiletical theories of earlier scholarship, together with their proposals for literary partition and a baptismal connection. In his recent and magisterial commentary, John Elliott concludes his review of scholarship on the genre and integrity of the letter thus: ‘ Peter from the outset was conceived,  See Elliott,  Peter, – for a concise but thorough treatment of this history of research.  R. Perdelwitz, Die Mysterienreligion und das Problem des . Petrusbriefes (Giessen: Alfred Töpelmann, ) , .  W. Bornemann, ‘Der erste Petrusbrief—eine Taufrede des Silvanus?’ ZNW  () – ().  See Elliott,  Peter, , for a list.  H. Priesker, ‘Anhang zum ersten Petrusbrief’, in H. Windisch, Die katholischen Briefe (HNT ; Tübingen: Mohr, rd ed. ) – (). F. L. Cross,  Peter: A Paschal Liturgy (London: Mowbray, ).  Cross,  Peter, –.  E.g. M.-E. Boismard, Quatre hymnes baptismales dans la première épître de Pierre (LD ; Paris: Cerf, ).  Notably C. F. D. Moule, ‘The Nature and Purpose of  Peter’, NTS  (–) –; T. C. G. Thornton, ‘I Peter, a Paschal Liturgy?’, JTS  () –; D. Hill, ‘On Suffering and Baptism in I Peter’, NovT  () –.  J. N. D. Kelly, A Commentary on the Epistles of Peter and Jude (BNTC; London: A. & C. Black, ) , cited in Elliott,  Peter, .



DAVID G. HORRELL

composed, and dispatched as an integral, genuine letter. This conclusion represents the position of the vast majority of recent research on  Peter’. There is perhaps some irony in the fact that those who proposed a paschal or baptismal setting for  Peter, or noted specifically its connections with Melito or with Psalm  (LXX ), wrote before the discovery of the manuscripts in which these texts were collected together with  Peter, while the rejection of their proposals became established precisely in the period shortly after the publication of the Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex. Or, to raise the issue in a different way, while recent commentators on  Peter have paid little attention to the significance of the manuscript contexts in which the earliest copies of  Peter have been found, those whose attention is primarily focused on these manuscripts sometimes echo earlier views of  Peter, in a way which can sound dated to those familiar with recent scholarship on the letter. Thus, Willis opens his introduction to the C-S text of  Peter with the following words: ‘In an early mixed codex the selection of the texts for which was the theme of the Pasch, it is not surprising to find  Peter, long recognized as a baptismal homily appropriate to the Easter season.’ How far, then, should these earliest manuscripts of  Peter cause us to revise our views of the letter, and perhaps reassess the proposals from an earlier phase of Petrine scholarship? () We should not, I think, reject the strong consensus of recent scholarship that  Peter is a genuine letter, and a literary unity. Nonetheless, there is perhaps a somewhat more blurry line between epistolary and liturgical origin than the recent consensus suggests. For a start, as a letter which has long been seen as ‘une Épître de la Tradition’, incorporating a wide range of early Christian traditions and materials,  Peter may well include material that has been formed and shaped in liturgical contexts, even if the precise identification of such materials is not possible with any confidence. Moreover, the immediate  Elliott,  Peter, . Cf. also K. M. Schmidt, Mahnung und Erinnerung im Maskenspiel. Epistolographie, Rhetorik und Narrativik der pseudepigraphen Petrusbriefe (HBS ; Freiburg/Basel/Vienna: Herder, ) ; R. Feldmeier, The First Letter of Peter: A Commentary on the Greek Text (Waco, TX: Baylor University, ) –. Feldmeier sees ‘no reason to doubt the unity of  Peter’ () but leaves more open the question as to whether it was originally sent as a letter or only clothed in this form ().  C-S, of course, has only been relatively recently published.  Willis, ‘Letter of Peter’, . Cf. Nicklas and Wasserman, ‘Theologische Linien’, , writing on the contents of BMC: ‘Eines der entscheidenden Themen des .Petrusbriefes ist die Taufe’. It should be noted, though, that Willis continues the comments cited above as follows: ‘But whatever may be one’s view of the text as a baptismal sermon or liturgy, its inclusion in the Crosby-Schøyen codex confirms at least that the scribe or organizer of the codex considered the epistle Paschal in character’ ().  C. Spicq, Les Épîtres de Saint Pierre (SB; Paris: Gabalda, ) . See further D. G. Horrell, ‘The Product of a Petrine Circle? A Reassessment of the Origin and Character of  Peter’, JSNT  () –.

The Themes of  Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts 

reception of a letter is in a liturgical context, in the sense that it is read (and intended to be read) to a congregational gathering. From the earliest times the dominant Christian context for the reading of scriptural texts and other letters and communications was the ecclesial meeting (cf.  Thess .; Col .;  Tim .; Rev .). And it was not only texts from the Jewish scriptures and the (later canonised) NT texts that continued to be read in early Christian worship; other letters and valued writings were also included (cf., e.g., Eusebius HE ..; .; ..). Martyr-acts too were read in the context of Christian meetings, perhaps from as early as the second century. It is unlikely that  Peter originated as a baptismal homily on Psalm , as Bornemann argued, but the Psalm, the use of which may have been known from the context of congregational worship, has clearly enough influenced the author of the letter, even if not to the extent that Bornemann argued. The BMC suggests that this intertextual and/or thematic link between  Peter and Psalms – was soon recognised by readers of the epistle. It is impossible to be certain how the particular codices we have considered here were used, whether liturgically—specifically at Easter, or throughout the year?—or, say, for catechetical instruction. Bethge, for example, regards C-S as ‘ein liturgisches Buch für die Osterzeit’. Wasserman notes ‘a liturgical connection between the th Ode, Melito’s Homily, the hymnal fragment and  Peter’ in BMC. He is uncertain whether ‘the Bodmer codex was actually used in church services’ but nonetheless sees the liturgical connections as likely explained ‘by the fact that these texts were transmitted in a liturgical context’. The appearance of two psalms in the collection would also support a liturgical use. C-S, with its clear and well-spaced text, and its tight thematic focus, perhaps more strongly implies a liturgical use, while the less polished presentation of the BMC text, and its wider range of topics and material, might possibly suggest a use in teaching and instruction, whether in congregational or private settings. But even if we do assume some kind of liturgical/congregational use, this is, of course, quite different from the view which sees in the text of  Peter the record of a (baptismal/eucharistic/paschal) liturgy. Finding  Peter in early liturgical use does not imply that the document originated as a liturgical order, later set within an epistolary frame. It is important to distinguish between the search for  See further Gamble, Books and Readers, –, –; L. W. Hurtado, ‘The New Testament in the Second Century: Text, Collections and Canon’, Transmission and Reception: New Testament Text-Critical and Exegetical Studies (ed. J. W. Childers and D. C. Parker; Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, ) – (–).  Gamble, Books and Readers, .  See S. Woan, ‘The Psalms in  Peter’, The Psalms in the New Testament (ed. S. Moyise and M. J. J. Menken; London & New York: T&T Clark, ) –.  Bethge, ‘Crosby-Schøyen-Codex’, .  Wasserman, ‘Papyrus ’, .



DAVID G. HORRELL

the origins of  Peter and the early interpretation and use of the letter. Early twentieth-century scholarship on  Peter rightly and astutely recognised in  Peter paschal themes, and connections with Melito and Psalm . Where it went wrong was in seeing these themes and connections as indications of the origins of the letter, in homily or liturgy, the addition of an epistolary frame turning these materials into the form of a letter. () Perhaps the main way in which these manuscripts of  Peter make a contribution to our understanding of the letter is in indicating what early interpreters took to be its central themes and theological focus. The two earliest copies of  Peter, C-S in particular, indicate that some of the earliest interpreters of the letter found it full of paschal themes, seeing connections with Melito and (in BMC) the Psalms. They also found it a text resonant with the themes of persecution and martyrdom, and the suffering of God’s people in the world, a suffering that imitates that of Christ. This thematic focus is less consistently evident in BMC, but is nonetheless prominent, as we have seen above. In identifying such themes as central to the letter, these codices—products and reflections of a somewhat later time and context—do not, of course, allow us to assume that these were also in the mind of the author of  Peter. But they do provide a view, an interpretation of the letter, which can, not entirely unlike exegetical works and commentaries (also reflections of later times and contexts), point us to the theological centre of the letter and to its dominant themes and concerns—whether or not these were consciously intended by its author. In identifying as the central themes of  Peter the suffering and vindication of Christ, and the related suffering and hope of his faithful people in a hostile world, the producers of these early codices concur with modern commentators. This in itself illustrates how these early manuscripts constitute a valuable and fascinating part of the history of interpretation of  Peter, an illuminating pointer to the dominant themes of the letter.

 E.g., Elliott characterises  Peter as follows: ‘First Peter is, in a sense, an Easter letter. The basis for the hope it celebrates, and the impetus for the creation of the distinctive community it describes, are grounded in God’s resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead and the regeneration of those who confess him as Lord… It is most appropriate, therefore, that it is  Peter to which the church listens in its liturgical celebration of the Sundays of the Easter season’ (J. H. Elliott, Conflict, Community, and Honor:  Peter in Social-Scientific Perspective [Eugene, OR: Cascade, ], –.

New Test. Stud. , pp. –. Printed in the United Kingdom ©  Cambridge University Press doi:10.1017/S0028688509990063

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited J O E L M AR C U S Duke Divinity School, Box 90967, Durham NC 27708 email: [email protected]

J. Louis Martyn and others have argued that a decision by late first-century rabbis to introduce a liturgical curse against heretics (Birkat Ha-Minim) provides the background for early Christian passages about Christians being excluded from and cursed in synagogues. More recent scholars, however, have challenged the assumption that the earliest form of Birkat Ha-Minim referred to Christians and that the rabbis controlled the synagogues. The present article defends the basics of Martyn’s reconstruction while nuancing the extent of rabbinic control in the early Christian centuries. It also suggests, however, that the original of Birkat Ha-Minim may have been a Qumranian curse on the Romans. Keywords: Birkat Ha-Minim, Minim, Eighteen Benedictions, Jewish Christianity, Yavneh

. Birkat Ha-Minim and Early Christianity: Introduction

In , Solomon Schechter and Israel Abrahams published a version of the statutory daily prayer of Judaism, the Eighteen Benedictions or ‘Amidah (‘standing prayer’), which they had discovered in the Cairo Genizah. Scholars of early Judaism and Christianity were immediately intrigued by the rendition here of the Twelfth Benediction, which is commonly dubbed Birkat Ha-Minim, a phrase that literally means ‘the benediction of the heretics’ but is actually a euphemism for an imprecation against them. The arresting thing about Schechter’s Genizah version is that it refers not only to minim = heretics in general but also to Nazarenes = Christians in particular:  Solomon Schechter and I. Abrahams, ‘Genizah Specimens’, JQR  () –.  The phrase ‫ ברכת המינים‬first occurs in the baraita in b. Ber. b–a, although the printed texts here, including that in the Soncino Talmud, have ‫‘ = ברכת הצדוקים‬the benediction (=cursing) of the Sadducees’, a reading that reflects medieval censorship; cf. Yehezkel Luger, The Weekday Amidah in the Cairo Genizah (Jerusalem: Orhot,  [Hebrew]) . Several earlier passages, however, use the shorthand ‫[‘ = של מינים‬the benediction] of the heretics’ (see t. Ber. .; y. Ber. . [a]; . [a]; y. Ta‘an. . [c]).  On ‫נוצרים‬/‫ נצרים‬as a term for Christians, see Reuven Kimelman, ‘Birkat Ha-Minim and the Lack of Evidence for an Anti-Christian Jewish Prayer in Late Antiquity’, Jewish and Christian





JOEL MARCUS

‫למשומדים אל תהי תקוה‬ ‫ומלכות זדון מהרה תעקר בימינו‬ ‫והנצרים והמינים כרגע יאבדו‬ ‫ימחו מספר החיים‬ ‫ועם צדיקים אל יכתבו‬ ‫ברוך אתה יי‬ ‫מכניע זדים‬ For those doomed to destruction may there be no hope and may the dominion of arrogance be quickly uprooted in our days and may the Nazarenes and the heretics be destroyed in a moment and may they be blotted out of the book of life and may they not be inscribed with the righteous. Blessed are you, O Lord, who subdues the arrogant.

Scholars frequently refer to this version of Birkat Ha-Minim as ‘the Genizah version’ or ‘the Palestinian recension’, although both terms are somewhat misleading. The Genizah collection contains not just one manuscript attesting Birkat Ha-Minim but eighty-six, which Uri Ehrlich and Ruth Langer have recently sorted into six different versions. Many of the Genizah fragments, moreover, display ‘Babylonian’ characteristics, and many ‘Babylonian’ liturgical traditions are probably rooted in Palestine, so that a simplistic equation of ‘the Genizah version’ with ‘the Palestinian recension’ is misleading. It is nonetheless









Self-Definition. Vol. . Aspects of Judaism in the Greco-Roman Period (ed. E. P. Sanders; Philadelphia: Fortress, ) –; Ray A. Pritz, Nazarene Jewish Christianity from the End of the New Testament Period Until its Disappearance in the Fourth Century (StPB ; Jerusalem: Magnes; Leiden: Brill, ) passim; Martinus C. de Boer, ‘The Nazoreans: Living at the Boundary of Judaism and Christianity’, Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Christianity (ed. Graham N. Stanton and Guy G. Stroumsa; Cambridge: Cambridge University, ) –. On the question of whether the ‫ נצרים‬in Birkat HaMinim are Jewish or Gentile Christians, see below, pp. –. I give the text as transcribed in the original publication by Schechter and Abrahams, ‘Genizah Specimens’, . The arrangement into sense-lines, however, follows that of Luger, Weekday Amidah, –. The translation is my own. For an influential example, see Emil Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ ( B.C.–A.D. ) (ed. Geza Vermes et al.;  vols.; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, –) .–. Uri Ehrlich and Ruth Langer, ‘The Earliest Texts of the Birkat Haminim’, HUCA  () –. A few years before the appearance of this article, Luger, Weekday Amidah,  looked at a smaller number of Genizah manuscripts and sorted them into three versions. See Joseph Heinemann, Prayer in the Talmud: Forms and Patterns (SJ ; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, ) –; Uri Ehrlich, ‘The Earliest Version of the Amidah: The Blessing About the Temple Worship’, From Qumran to Cairo: Studies in the History of Prayer. Proceedings of the Research Group Convened Under the Auspices of the Institute for Advanced Studies of the

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

significant that the vast majority of the Genizah manuscripts of this imprecation contain a reference not only to minim but also to Nazarenes, and that those that lack ‫ נצרים‬also lack ‫מינים‬. Despite the fact that Schechter’s Genizah fragment dates to the late ninth or early tenth century, several scholars have used it to support their view that a reference to Christians ‘was regularly incorporated in the Eighteen Benedictions from the end of the first century, [and] played an important part in the separation of church and synagogue…’ In recent years, this view has been especially associated with the name of J. Louis Martyn, who in a famous  study linked Schechter’s Genizah version of Birkat Ha-Minim with the references in John .; .; and . to Christians becoming ἀποσυνάγωγοι, i.e. outcasts from the synagogue or the Jewish community. According to Martyn, these Johannine ἀποσυνάγωγος passages reflect not their ostensible setting in Jesus’ time but the Gospel writer’s own historical location near the end of the first century CE, after the rabbis at Jamnia or Yavneh, in the wake of the disaster of the First Revolt, had decreed that Jewish Christians could no longer be part of the religious community of Israel. In constructing his case, Martyn, following the lead of much previous scholarship, linked Schechter’s Genizah manuscript with a passage from the Babylonian Talmud, Berakot b–a:

 







Hebrew University of Jerusalem  (ed. Joseph Tabory; Jerusalem: Orhot, )  (Hebrew); Luger, Weekday Amidah, –. See Ehrlich and Langer, ‘Earliest Texts’, –. We will return to this point below, p. . William Horbury, ‘The Benediction of the Minim and Early Jewish-Christian Controversy’, Jews and Christians in Contact and Controversy (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark,  [orig. ]) . Horbury cites Ismar Elbogen, Adolf von Harnack, Marcel Simon, W. D. Davies, and W. H. C. Frend as influential exponents of this view. On the ambiguity of the word συναγωγή (synagogue or Jewish community?) and hence of ἀποσυνάγωγος, see Shaye J. D. Cohen, ‘Were Pharisees and Rabbis the Leaders of Communal Prayer and Torah Study in Antiquity? The Evidence of the New Testament, Josephus, and the Early Church Fathers’, Evolution of the Synagogue: Problems and Progress (ed. Howard Clark Kee and Lynn H. Cohick; Harrisburg: Trinity, ) –, –. J. Louis Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel (Louisville and London: Westminster John Knox, rd ed. ). For Martyn’s predecessors in connecting Birkat Ha-Minim with the Johannine ἀποσυνάγωγος passages, see D. Moody Smith, ‘The Contribution of J. Louis Martyn to the Understanding of the Gospel of John’, in Martyn, History,  n. . See Ismar Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy: A Comprehensive History (Philadelphia/New York/ Jerusalem: Jewish Publication Society/Jewish Theological Seminary,  [orig. ]) ; Karl Georg Kuhn, Achtzehngebet und Vaterunser und der Reim (WUNT ; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck] ) ; more recently Alan F. Segal, Two Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity and Gnosticism (SJLA ; Leiden: Brill, ) ; Lee I. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years (New Haven and London: Yale University, nd ed. ) .



JOEL MARCUS

‫ אמר להם רבן‬.‫ שמעון הפקולי הסדיר שמונה עשרה ברכות לפני רבן גמליאל על הסדר ביבנה‬:‫תנו רבנן‬ ‫ לשנה אחרת‬,‫ כלום יש אדם שיודע לתקן ברכת המינים? עמד שמואל הקטן ותקנה‬:‫גמליאל לחכמים‬ :‫ אמאי לא העלוהו? והאמר רב יהודה אמר רב‬.‫ והשקיף בה שתים ושלש שעות ולא העלוהו‬.‫שכחה‬ ‫ חיישינן שמא מין הוא? שאני‬,‫ מעלין אותו‬- ‫ בברכת המינים‬,‫ אין מעלין אותו‬- ‫טעה בכל הברכות כלן‬ .‫ דאיהו תקנה‬,‫שמואל הקטן‬

Our rabbis taught: Simeon ha-Paquli organized the Eighteen Benedictions in order before Rabban Gamaliel in Yavneh. Rabban Gamaliel said to the sages: ‘Isn’t there anyone who knows how to fix the Benediction of the Heretics?’ Samuel the Small stood up and fixed it, but another year he forgot it. And he thought about it for two or three hours, [and he did not recall it], but they did not remove him.—Why then did they not remove him? Did not R. Judah say that Rav said: ‘If someone makes a mistake in any of the benedictions, they don’t remove him, but if [he makes a mistake] in the Benediction of the Heretics, they do remove him, since they suspect that perhaps he is a heretic’? Samuel the Small is different, because he formulated it. (my translation) Here, according to Martyn, we see Birkat Ha-Minim functioning as a loyalty oath to ‘smoke out’ Christians and thus hasten their departure from the synagogue. Martyn interpreted b. Ber. a and other rabbinic traditions such as y. Ber. . (c) to mean that, if a reader faltered in reciting this benediction, he was suspected of being a min himself and therefore stood in danger of expulsion.

. Responses to Martyn

In general Martyn’s book was well received, and it has continued to shape Johannine scholarship to the present day. Several scholars, however, have criticized its intertwined assumptions that Birkat Ha-Minim was promulgated at Yavneh and directed at Christians. Although the motivation usually does not become explicit, part of the passion of this denial seems to stem from the fear that a reconstruction of Johannine history that sees the back story of the Gospel in a situation in which Jews were cursing and even killing Christians will also lend credence to the belief that the fierce Johannine language about ‘the Jews’ is justified and that subsequent Christian persecution of Jews has simply been payback for what Jews previously did to Christians. This fear is not entirely paranoid. As William Horbury shows in his erudite study of Birkat Ha-Minim, since the benediction was first translated into  For a good summary of the response to Martyn’s thesis, including criticism about his use of Birkat Ha-Minim, see Moody Smith, ‘Contribution’; cf. more recently Raimo Hakola, Identity Matters: John, the Jews and Jewishness (SNT ; Leiden: Brill, ) –.  See Martyn, History, , with reference to John ..  This anxiety is indirectly acknowledged by Judith M. Lieu, ‘Anti-Judaism in the Fourth Gospel: Explanation and Hermeneutics’, Anti-Judaism and the Fourth Gospel (ed. Reimund Bieringer et al.; Louisville/London/Leiden: Westminster John Knox, ) .

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

Latin by a Jewish convert to Catholicism in , its relevance to early Christian history has been routinely upheld by anti-Semites and denied by Jews and their defenders. But it would be a mistake to think the objections to Martyn’s thesis were motivated entirely by concern about anti-Semitism. Many of them, rather, have to do with substantive issues of scholarly method. Reuven Kimelman and Steven Katz, for example, have stressed that the benediction is known as ‫ברכת המינים‬ (‘the benediction of the heretics’). If it were really directed against the Christians, Kimelman and Katz argue, it would instead be called ‫ברכת הנצרים‬ (‘the benediction of the Nazarenes’). Moreover, the explicit reference to the Christians (=Nazarenes) in the phrase ‫‘( הנצרים והמינים‬the Nazarenes and the heretics’) appears to these scholars to be a secondary addition, since they consider unnatural a phrase in which the subgroup is mentioned before the larger group to which it belongs. Katz concludes that the Genizah form, with its reference to the Christians, reflects medieval Jewish polemic rather than the original text of Birkat Ha-Minim. The original, according to Katz, was probably directed at a variety of Jewish sects, including perhaps Jewish Gnostics, Hellenizers, and post- remnants of the Sadducees and the Essenes, as well as Jewish Christians. Recently, scholarship on early Jewish liturgy has surfaced more radical doubts, which have to do with such matters as the precise relation of the rabbis to the formulation of the ‘Amidah and our ability to reconstruct the original form of that prayer—or even if there was such a thing. These doubts have profound implications for Martyn’s analysis, since the latter is based on the presuppositions that Birkat Ha-Minim was a set and influential liturgical text by the end of the first century, and that the rabbis (who according to Martyn correspond to the Pharisees in the Gospel of John) played a decisive role in its promulgation. Two quotations from a contemporary investigator of ancient Jewish liturgy, Ruth Langer, will illustrate the nature of some of these doubts: If we understand that Second Temple-era synagogues (and even late-antique synagogues) were not loci for organized prayer, that synagogues did not become ubiquitous in Palestine until at least the fourth century, that the

 William Horbury, ‘Benediction’, –.  Similarly now Hakola, Identity Matters,  and Yaakov Y. Teppler, Birkat HaMinim: Jews and Christians in Conflicts in the Ancient World (TSAJ ; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, ) . I have not entered into detailed conversation with the latter monograph, which is riddled with errors, difficult to follow, and frequently incoherent; cf. Stefan C. Reif, ‘Review of Yaakov Y. Teppler, Birkat HaMinim’, JJS  () –.  Kimelman, ‘Birkat Ha-Minim’, ; Steven T. Katz, ‘Issues in the Separation of Judaism and Christianity after  C.E.: A Reconsideration’, JBL  () –; Steven T. Katz, ‘The Rabbinic Response to Christianity’, The Cambridge History of Judaism. Vol. . The Late Roman-Rabbinic Period (ed. Steven T. Katz; Cambridge University, ) .  Katz, ‘Issues’, –; cf. Katz, ‘Rabbinic Response’, –.

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rabbis were only peripheral to the wider Jewish community, that Rabbinic texts represent selective and ahistorical memories, that Hebrew was not widely understood let alone spoken, then we need to rethink the evidence on which our theories for the early history of Rabbinic liturgy are built. [R]abbinic liturgy seems to have functioned almost entirely orally until at least the second half of the ninth century CE. The talmudic literature includes only occasional fragments of prayer texts, usually where there was a matter of dispute or where some particular problem required discussion. As a consequence, it records almost nothing about the actual prayer texts of most of the ‘amidah. Even where it does include texts, we cannot know that later generations—predating the earliest surviving manuscripts—did not insert their own versions. Our first recorded attempts to write official prayer books begin only in the late ninth century when leaders of the Babylonian academies, Rav Amram Gaon and his contemporary Rav Natronai Gaon, write responsa to communities in Spain who had asked for liturgical direction. Unfortunately, we cannot derive accurate knowledge of geonic prayer texts from these sources either. The [Cairo] geniza did yield some more or less complete liturgical texts, but the earliest manuscripts date from approximately this same period. Hence, for at least  years after Yavneh, we have no rabbinic Jewish prayer texts from which to draw conclusions.

Moreover, even if we accept the substantial historicity of the tradition in b. Ber. b about Simeon Ha-Paquli arranging the Eighteen Benedictions before Rabban Gamaliel at Yavneh, there is room for dispute about how this tradition should be interpreted. Does it imply, as Louis Finkelstein maintains, that Gamaliel simply gave a final editing to existing benedictions? Does it suggest, as Ezra Fleischer argues, that Simeon virtually created the Eighteen Benedictions ex nihilo and thereby fixed their form? Or is Joseph Heinemann correct in asserting  Ruth Langer, ‘Early Rabbinic Liturgy in its Palestinian Milieu: Did Non-Rabbis Know the ‘amidah?’ When Judaism and Christianity Began: Essays in Memory of Anthony J. Saldarini (ed. A. J. Avery-Peck et al.; Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism; Leiden and Boston: Brill, ) –.  Ruth Langer, ‘The ‘Amidah as Formative Rabbinic Prayer’, Identität durch Gebet. Zur gemeinschaftsbildenden Funktion institutionalisierten Betens in Judentum und Christentum (ed. Albert Gerhards et al.; Studien zu Judentum und Christentum; Paderborn/München/ Wien/Zürich: Ferdinand Schöningh, ) .  For doubts on the historicity of this tradition, see Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Divinations; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, ) –; for critique of Boyarin, see Stuart S. Miller, ‘Review Essay. Roman Imperialism, Jewish SelfDefinition, and Rabbinic Society: Belayche’s Iudaea-Palaestina, Schwartz’s Imperialism and Jewish Society, and Boyarin’s Border Lines Reconsidered’, AJS Review  () –. Miller points out that elsewhere Boyarin himself affirms the historicity of a baraita from the Babylonian Talmud about Gamaliel (b. Ket. b) and that the general picture of Jewish consolidation in the wake of the destruction of the Temple makes good historical sense.  See Louis Finkelstein, ‘The Development of the Amidah’, JQR  () –.  Ezra Fleischer, ‘On the Beginnings of Obligatory Jewish Prayer’, Tarbiz  () – (Hebrew).

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

that the sages’ activity at Yavneh was limited to fixing the number, themes, and order of the benedictions, and that it is therefore fruitless to search for their ‘original text’? Such questions, and the scholarly uncertainty they imply, may make it appear as though the foundations for Martyn’s use of Birkat Ha-Minim have collapsed.

. Response to the Respondents

Other scholars of ancient Judaism, however, have challenged these opinions about the insignificance of the rabbis, the fluidity of the ‘Amidah, and the indeterminacy of our knowledge about early Jewish liturgy. For example, Langer’s occasional collaborator Uri Ehrlich acknowledges the lateness of the Genizah and other prayerbook texts, but he still thinks it possible to use them to argue backwards, in some instances even to a first-century form of a particular ‘Amidah blessing. In an important methodological note, Ehrlich suggests that the point of departure for reconstructing the history of these versions of particular benedictions should be the allusions to them in the Talmudic literature rather than the later full texts, but that the prayerbooks can be useful for filling out the picture reconstructed from the Talmudic references. He adds that in certain cases the prayerbook recensions of particular benedictions seem to be genetically related to each other, and the development of one from another can be inferred. For example, ‫עבודה‬, the benediction having to do with the Temple service (#/), appears in two basic versions, one of which clearly reflects the destruction of the Temple while the other does not. Ehrlich argues that these Ur-versions are not two alternative primitive forms, as Heinemann would have it, but that the one reflecting the Temple’s destruction grows out of the earlier one, which does not, and which probably originated in the Second Temple period. Ehrlich reaches a similar conclusion about Benediction , ‫בונה ירושלים‬, which speaks of God building the holy city. In the earlier version, which can be glimpsed in a trajectory that extends from Sir .– to Saadia Gaon and some of the Genizah fragments, the requested divine ‘building’ of Jerusalem is the glorification of its present structures. In the later version, which first appears in the recension of Rav Amram Gaon and other Genizah fragments, it is the return of God’s presence to a city from which it has been absent. Here again, according to Ehrlich, the earlier version probably goes back to Second Temple times. All of  See Heinemann, Prayer, –.  This is the conclusion of Hakola, Identity Matters, –.  See Uri Ehrlich, ‘On the Early Texts of the Blessings “Who Builds Jerusalem” and the “Blessing of David” in the Liturgy’, Peʿamim  () – (Hebrew); cf. Ehrlich, ‘Earliest Version’, . See also David Instone-Brewer, ‘The Eighteen Benedictions and the Minim Before  CE’, JTS

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JOEL MARCUS

this suggests that there is something to the Talmudic tradition that the rudiments of the ‘Amidah were already present in Second Temple times, and that the task of the sages at Yavneh was to edit these preexistent prayers. The existence of such preexistent prayer traditions is also indicated by the parallels between the ‘Amidah, on the one hand, and passages from Sirach (.–; . [Heb.B]) and the Dead Sea Scrolls (QS .–.), on the other. Nor does radical skepticism about the existence of synagogues, their use for worship, and the importance of the rabbis seem to be warranted. Pieter Van der Horst, for example, has mounted a vigorous defense of the view that Second Temple synagogues functioned as places of organized worship, and Stuart Miller has argued that synagogues were probably widespread before the fourth century, although they were not monumental structures but something more akin to Christian house-churches. And Miller, Adiel Schremer, and others have contended that, while the rabbis in the earliest Christian centuries did not possess the hegemony that they later attained, it is an exaggeration to say that they were peripheral to Palestinian Jewish society, even in the late first century CE. Here the NT itself, if used judiciously, can come to our aid, since it is after all a first-century source that says a lot about Jews and their beliefs and lives. Much of what it says, to be sure, is biased and negative, but one always has to compensate for the prejudices of ancient sources, and the NT is no worse than other sources in this regard. For this reason, Jacob Neusner and his followers have been making









 () –, who makes similar points, apparently independently, though he does cite Stefan C. Reif, ‘Jerusalem in Jewish Liturgy’, Judaism  () –. On the Sirach parallels, see K. Kohler, ‘The Origin and Composition of the Eighteen Benedictions with a Translation of the Corresponding Essene Prayers in the Apostolic Constitutions’, HUCA  () ; Joseph Tabory, ‘The Precursors of the ‘Amidah’, Identität durch Gebet (ed. Gerhards et al.) –. On the Qumran parallels, see Shemaryahu Talmon, ‘The “Manual of Benedictions” of the Sect of the Judaean Desert’, RevQ  () –. See Pieter W. Van der Horst, ‘Was the Synagogue a Place of Sabbath Worship Before  CE?’, Japheth in the Tents of Shem: Studies on Jewish Hellenism in Antiquity (Biblical Exegesis and Theology ; Leuven/Paris/Sterling, VA: Peeters,  [orig. ]) –. See Stuart S. Miller, ‘The Rabbis and the Non-Existent Monolithic Synagogue’, Jews, Christians and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue (ed. Steven Fine; London: Routledge, ) –; Stuart S. Miller, ‘On the Number of Synagogues in the Cities of ᾿Erez Israel’, JJS  () ˙ –; Miller, ‘Roman Imperialism’, –. See Stuart S. Miller, Sages and Commoners in Late Antique ᾿Erez Israel: A Philological Inquiry ˙ Into Local Traditions in Talmud Yerushalmi (TSAJ ; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, ); Adiel Schremer, ‘Seclusion and Exclusion: The Rhetoric of Separation in Qumran and Tannaitic Literature’, Rabbinic Perspectives: Rabbinic Literature and the Dead Sea Scrolls. Proceedings of the Eighth International Symposium of the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Associated Literature, – January,  (ed. Steven D. Fraade et al.; Leiden and Boston: Brill, ) –.

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

liberal use of the NT for the past generation or so in their attempts to reconstruct the social position of the rabbis and their predecessors, the pre– Pharisees. And indeed, it is legitimate to ask why the Gospels should be so preoccupied with the Pharisees, if the latter were relatively unimportant. Already in the Synoptic Gospels, the Pharisees are described as Jesus’ main antagonists, and Matthew in particular, at the beginning of a chapter that turns into a furious denunciation of ‘scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites’, still asserts that these same groups, who embrace the title ‘Rabbi’, need to be obeyed in their halakhic rulings, since they ‘sit in Moses’ seat’ (Matt .–). In several passages in John, similarly, the author virtually equates the Pharisees with ‘the Jews’, i.e. the hostile Jewish leadership (., ; ., –, , ), and in . he implies that the Pharisees have the authority to expel people from the synagogue. This is of a piece not only with the possibly biased report of Josephus (who was a Pharisee) that the party was popular with the common people (Ant. ., , –; .), but also with the gripe in the Nahum Pesher that the Qumran sect’s Pharisaic enemies, the ‘Seekers of Smooth Things’, possess ‘dominion’ (‫)ממשלה‬, are deceiving the many, and are being supported by ‘the congregation and the simple ones’ (QpNah ., ; .–). This sort of grudging acknowledgment of an opponent’s superior political power needs to be taken seriously. The NT and other early Christian writings, moreover, are useful not only for showing that the Pharisees and rabbis did have some power but also for trying to trace the history of Birkat Ha-Minim, which probably emerged from Pharisaic/rabbinic circles. We can use this Christian literature in a similar way to Ehrlich’s deployment of Talmudic references to the benedictions of the ‘Amidah: it enables us to see whether or not certain features of the later texts might go back to the early Christian centuries. Most important in this regard is the testimony in patristic literature, beginning with Justin Martyr, about Jews cursing Christians in their synagogues. When we recall that the word ‫ ברכה‬in the phrase ‫ ברכת המינים‬is a euphemism for ‘curse’, and that the whole phrase  See already Neusner’s pioneering work, Jacob Neusner, From Politics to Piety: The Emergence of Pharisaic Judaism (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prenctice-Hall, ). More recently, Cohen, ‘Pharisees’ takes seriously the light that the early Christian evidence can shed on the question of the influence of the Pharisees and rabbis.  See Shani L. Berrin, The Pesher Nahum Scroll from Qumran: An Exegetical Study of Q (STDJ ; Leiden and Boston: Brill, ) –.  Cf. Schremer, ‘Seclusion’, .  Justin Dial. .; ., and cf. the passages from Epiphanius and Jerome on the cursing of the ‘Nazoreans’ (Epiphanius Pan. ..; Jerome in Esaiam  [on Isa .–];  [on Isa .];  [on Isa .–]; in Amos  [on Amos .–]; cf. Origen Homilies on Jeremiah ..: ‘Enter the synagogues of the Jews and see Jesus flagellated by those with the language of blasphemy’ (cited in Kimelman, ‘Birkat Ha-Minim’, ). For discussion of these passages, see S. Krauss, ‘The Jews in the Works of the Church Fathers’, JQR – (–) –, –, –; Kimelman, ‘Birkat Ha-Minim’, –; Horbury, ‘Benediction’, –. Some of the texts are



JOEL MARCUS

means ‘the cursing of the heretics’, the similarity to these patristic references to the cursing of Christians in the synagogue becomes too great to ignore. This pushes back to about  CE, the date for Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho, the evidence for an anti-Christian version of Birkat Ha-Minim, and possibly for the phrase ‫הנצרים והמינים‬. This argument from external attestation is supported by one from textual study of the manuscripts of the Benediction in the Genizah and elsewhere; after an exhaustive investigation, Ehrlich and Langer conclude that attestation for ‫ נצרים‬is as old as that for ‫מינים‬: ‘If one of them is early, then both are, and if one of them is late, then both are’. Recognizing the importance of the patristic citations, and especially of the texts from Justin Martyr, for an early dating of Birkat Ha-Minim, Kimelman has questioned their relevance. He points out that Justin does not mention prayer specifically when he speaks of Jews cursing Christians in their synagogues in Dialogue .; .; and .. In Dialogue ., moreover, he talks of the rulers of the synagogues teaching their congregants to scoff at Christ (not Christians) after their prayers (not during them). These arguments, however, are not convincing. The most probable context for the cursing of Christians in synagogues is a liturgical one, and the line between cursing Christians and cursing their master would have been thin to the vanishing point in a world in which it was commonly believed that a person’s messenger was as the person himself (m. Ber. .; b. Qid. b; cf. Mark . pars.; John .). It is not clear, moreover, that μετὰ τὴν προσευχήν in Dial. . means ‘after the prayer’. It may, on the contrary, mean ‘at the end of the prayer’, ‘according to the prayer’, or, most likely, ‘by means of the prayer’. The latter translation, indeed, corresponds to Justin’s usage elsewhere. In Dial. ., for example, he promises to complete his discourse μετὰ τὰς ἐξετάσεις καὶ ἀποκρίσεις, which

  



 

also given in A. F. J. Klijn and G. J. Reinink, Patristic Evidence for Jewish-Christian Sects (NovTSup ; Leiden: Brill, ). Cf. Elbogen, Liturgy, . Ehrlich and Langer, ‘Earliest Texts’, . Kimelman, ‘Birkat Ha-Minim’, –. Cf. also Katz, ‘Issues’, – and Katz, ‘Rabbinic Response’, –, who points out that the term ‘Nazarenes’, while attested by two later church fathers, Epiphanius (Panarion ..–) and Jerome (in Esaiam .– et passim) is absent in the works of two earlier ones, Justin and Origen. He also observes that the Johannine ἀποσυνάγωγος texts contain no specific reference to cursing or to a liturgical context, and hence he disputes their link with Birkat Ha-Minim. These, however, are both entirely arguments from silence, and hence not as weighty as Kimelman’s objections. So Philippe Bobichon, Justin Martyr: Dialogue avec Tryphon. Édition critique (Paradosis / -;  vols.; Fribourg: Academic Press Fribourg, ) .; cf. μετὰ τρεῖς ἡμέρας, in Matt .; Mark .; .; .. For μετά + accusative = ‘according to’, see LSJ  (CIII); PGL  (Ac); see, for example, μετὰ νόμον in Chrysostom hom. .. in Ac. (.B). Cf. PGL  (A h) on the instrumental use of μετά + accusative in patristic texts.

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

may mean ‘by means of questions and answers’. In Dial. ., similarly, he says that Jesus will give Christians an eternal inheritance μετὰ τὴν ἁγίαν ἀνάστασιν, which probably means ‘by means of his holy resurrection’. And in Dial. . he says that Moses, taking the rod, led the children of Israel through the sea μετὰ χεῖρα, which almost certainly means ‘by means of his hand’. Despite Kimelman’s objections, then, Justin’s Dialogue provides strong evidence for a usage of Birkat Ha-Minim against Christians in the mid-second century CE. But we can probably trace Birkat Ha-Minim back even further than  CE, since as we have seen the patristic citations continue a Christian hostility to Pharisees and rabbis that is already well attested in the NT and that can be plausibly linked to rabbinic enactments such as Birkat Ha-Minim. In the Johannine ἀποσυνάγωγος texts, moreover (John .; .; .), the Fourth Gospel speaks of a decision by ‘the Jews’ (.) or ‘the Pharisees’ (.) to put out of the synagogue and the Jewish community in general anyone who confesses Jesus as the Messiah, and it is easy to see the self-curse of Birkat Ha-Minim as a weapon for enforcing such an edict. The alternative is, as Katz puts it, to view the Johannine passages as ‘complete fabrications created to make Christians fearful of visiting synagogues’—an unlikely hypothesis given the consonance between these NT passages and the rabbinic traditions considered above.

. Minim in Rabbinic Literature

A consideration of the usage of the word minim in rabbinic literature reinforces this argument from early Christian writings, since from the Tannaitic period on, minim is prominently applied to Christians. Admittedly, the Christians are not the only group tarred with this epithet. In fact, in y. Sanh. . (d), R. Yohanan, a third-century Palestinian sage, ascribes the second exile to the fissuring of Jewish society into twenty-four classes of minim. As this passage suggests, in early traditions minim is usually reserved  I prefer to see both nuances (out of the synagogue/Jewish community) in ἀποσυνάγωγος in John (on the ambiguity, see above, n. ). The two Johannine usages of συναγωγή (‘synagogue’) seem to refer to the building, not just to a gathering of Jewish people (see .; .). And ἐξέβαλον αὐτὸν ἔξω in .– suggests a concrete nuance for ἀποσυνάγωγος in .. But anyone banned from the synagogue was effectively excluded from the Jewish community, so the term is probably a double entendre.  Katz, ‘Rabbinic Response’,  n. , summarizing Kimelman, ‘Birkat Ha-Minim’, – and – nn. –.  See above, pp. –, on b. Ber. b–a and y. Ber. . (c). As a reminder, the Yerushalmi passage speaks of intensive scrutiny of the way in which a congregant recites Birkat Ha-Minim, and the Bavli one of ‘removing’ him (‫ )מעלין אותו‬on suspicion that he is a min, if he errs in his recitation. This overlaps with the basic picture in the Johannine passages: expulsion from the synagogue because of demonstrated belief in Jesus.  ‫ לא גלו ישראל עד שנעשו עשרים וארבע כיתות של מינים‬:‫אמר רבי יוחנן‬.

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for heretical Jews. To be sure, there are some Amoraic Babylonian texts that use it for Gentiles (e.g. b. Hul. b), but Tannaitic texts and Amoraic literature from ˙ Palestine nearly always employ it to refer to Jewish sectarians. Alan Segal, moreover, argues that, even when dealing with later texts, ‘[f]rom a methodological point of view…, one has to assume that minim are always Jewish sectarians, … unless they are specifically accused of anti-Israel propaganda’. Of these Jewish sectarians, identifiable Jewish Christians are mentioned comparatively frequently as minim in Tannaitic sources and Amoraic literature from Palestine. In t. Hul. ., for example, R. Eliezer is arrested by/for minut ˙ because he once heard with pleasure words of heresy spoken in the name of Jesus. Because of its proximity to the tale about R. Eliezer, the story in t. Hul. ˙ . about Jacob of Kefar Sama attempting to heal Ben Dama in the name of Jesus also seems, in the opinion of the Tosefta’s editors, to be a narrative about minut. And t. Yad. . and t. Šabb. (). mention ‫הגליונים וספרי )ה(מינים‬, which probably means ‘the Gospels and the other books of the minim’ (see below, p. ). It is also likely that the stricture in m. Meg. .– against reading the second narrative of the Golden Calf because of the danger of minut is directed against Christian interpretations of that story, and that in  Kimelman, ‘Birkat Ha-Minim’, –. A possible exception is provided by y. Ber. . (c), in which it is said that the Ten Commandments are no longer recited every day ‘because of the claim of the minim: so that they should not say, Only these were given to Moses on Sinai’. As Philip S. Alexander, ‘Jewish Believers in Early Rabbinic Literature (d to th Centuries)’, Jewish Believers in Jesus: The Early Centuries (ed. Oskar Skarsaune and Reidar Hvalvik; Peabody MA: Hendrickson, ) – points out, if the minim in question are Christians, they are probably non-Torah-observant Gentile Christians rather than Jewish ones, since ‘[t]he evidence suggests that Jewish Christians continued to observe many of the laws (circumcision and kashrut) which are not part of the Ten Words’. In a more recent article, Kimelman argues that Didascalia Apostolorum ch.  (Kimelman mistakenly cites it as ch. ) implies the existence of Jewish Christians who revere only the Decalogue, not the ‘Second Legislation’, which includes prescriptions for sacrifices, abstention from certain meats, bathing after intercourse and menstruation, etc. (see Reuven Kimelman, ‘The Shema’ Liturgy: From Covenant Ceremony to Coronation’, Kenishta: Studies of the Synagogue World [ed. Joseph Tabory; Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University, ], – n. ). As Anders Ekenberg points out, however, while the author of the Didascalia and some of his addressees are probably from a Jewish background, most of them are probably Gentiles who have never tried to observe the Mosaic law in its fullness (see Anders Ekenberg, ‘Evidence for Jewish Believers in “Church Orders” and Liturgical Texts’, Jewish Believers in Jesus [ed. Skarsaune and Hvalvik], –). It is therefore doubtful that the Didascalia should be cited in an unnuanced way as evidence for ‘Jewish Christianity’.  Segal, Two Powers in Heaven,  n. .  For a penetrating analysis of this passage, see Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Figurae; Stanford University, ) –.  On these passages and others, see Kimelman, ‘Birkat Ha-Minim’, – and Alexander, ‘Jewish Believers’, –.  See Alexander, ‘Jewish Believers’, –.

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

Palestinian sources most of the proponents of ‘two powers in heaven’ heresy, who are sometimes identified as minim, are Jewish Christians. On the basis of such evidence, even Reuven Kimelman, who entitles his article ‘Birkat Ha-Minim and the Lack of Evidence for an Anti-Christian Jewish Prayer in Late Antiquity’, says that it is ‘safe to conclude that the Palestinian prayer against the minim was aimed at Jewish sectarians among whom Jewish Christians figured prominently’. After the Christians, the groups most frequently mentioned by recent scholars as minim in rabbinic literature are (roughly in order of frequency of reference in secondary literature) Sadducees, Essenes, Gnostics, and Samaritans. Let us consider these groups one at a time, in reverse order. To anticipate our conclusion, none of them has the sort of high profile that Christians do. With regard to Samaritans, Alan Segal points out that one late midrashic text (Lev. Rab. [Vilna] .) may call a Samaritan ‫מינאי‬. It is debatable, however, whether this is actually ancient evidence for a Samaritan being called a min, and even if it is, it is a very rare usage. By the first century CE, a Samaritan was no longer the sort of inside–outsider whom the word ‫ מין‬designated but an outsider pure and simple. It is not surprising, then, that a Tannaitic passage, t. Hul. ., ˙ distinguishes minim from Samaritans. As for Jewish Gnostics, some scholars, such as Segal, mention them as possible targets of Birkat Ha-Minim. As Travers Herford already pointed out, however, the few named individuals in rabbinic texts who have been identified as possible Gnostics, such as Ben Zoma, Ben Azzai, and Elisha ben Abuya, are never called minim. Segal’s case for minim as Gnostics is based on rabbinic passages in which anonymous interlocutors, some of whom are called minim, are accused  See Boyarin, Border Lines, ; Alexander, ‘Jewish Believers’, –.  Kimelman, ‘Birkat Ha-Minim’, . I had long puzzled over the apparent conflict between this conclusion and Kimelman’s title; if Jewish Christians were prominent among the targets of Birkat Ha-Minim, how could evidence for an ancient anti-Christian Jewish prayer be lacking? When I asked Kimelman this question in a conversation at the SBL Annual Meeting in Boston in November , he responded, ‘But they [the Nazarenes] were Jews!’—and thus, seemingly, not Christians. But to dichotomize the terms ‘Jewish’ and ‘Christian’ in this way reflects the modern situation more than the ancient one.  Segal, Two Powers in Heaven,  n. .  The text does not call this ‫ מינאי‬a Samaritan. Segal notes that he ‘is usually identified as a Samaritan’ because he criticizes Alexander for standing up before a Jew, and ‘Samaritans are reported in other legends to have criticized the Jews before Alexander’. The reasoning is somewhat circuitous, and in any case the word ‫ מינאי‬is not present in the authoritative edition of Margolioth but only in the less reliable Vilna version.  See Segal, Two Powers in Heaven, passim. An early proponent of the view of minim as Jewish Gnostics was Moriz Friedländer, Der vorchristliche jüdische Gnosticismus (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, ), whose views were given a thorough critique by R. Travers Herford, Christianity in Talmud and Midrash (repr. ; Clifton, NJ: Reference, ) –.  Herford, Christianity, –.

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of positing two or more powers in heaven. According to Segal, these heretics sometimes seem to be Gnostics. For example, in Mekilta, Bahodesh  ˙ (Lauterbach .–), R. Nathan builds on Exod . an argument that only one God gave the Law, and that he did not do so deviously. This appears to be an argument against Gnostics who maintain that the God of the Law is not the true God, and that this Demiurge introduced the Law surreptitiously. Segal acknowledges, however, that in many of the ‘two powers’ passages the opponents may be Christians who believe in the divinity both of the Father and of Jesus, and Daniel Boyarin points out that ‘in the most extensive text in which Two Powers arguments are debated with minim (Palestinian Talmud Berakhot d–a), it is obvious that these minim hold a Logos theology and not a “Gnostic” evil-creator sort of doctrine’. In any case, Jewish Gnosticism is a difficult phenomenon to pin down, so much so that some scholars doubt its existence. It is unlikely to be the main target of Birkat Ha-Minim. Essenes and Sadducees are more promising candidates. Martin Goodman has recently argued that these groups probably continued to play a role in Palestinian Jewish society after  CE—they were too important simply to vanish in the wake of the First Jewish Revolt. There are, moreover, some Tannaitic and later passages in which ‫ מין‬is used for a heretic whose ideology resembles that of the Sadducees. In m. Ber. ., for example, the Sages institute a rule requiring that concluding formulas of blessings should include the phrase ‫‘( מן העולם ועד העולם‬from eternity to eternity’, lit. ‘from the world to the world’) in order to confute minim who say that there is only one world, i.e. no world to come. And y. Ber. . (c) stipulates that the person who omits the benediction ‘who makes the dead to live’ must repeat his prayer, since he is suspected of being a min. As we shall see below, moreover, there are tannaitic texts that use min/minim to refer to groups whose practices seem to be similar to those of the Qumran sect or the Essenes. It is hard, however, to think of Essenes and Sadducees as the main targets of

 See, for example, Segal, Two Powers in Heaven,  on b. Sanh. b and– on b. Hul. a. ˙ On pp. –, Segal considers the possibility that the minim combated by R. Idi in b. Sanh. b may be Merkabah mystics, but he considers this somewhat less likely than that they are Christians, ‘because nowhere else are Merkabah mystics explicitly called “minim” ’ (p. ).  Boyarin, Border Lines, . See also Marcel Simon, Verus Israel: A Study of the Relations Between Christians and Jews in the Roman Empire AD – (Littman Library of Jewish Civilization; London: Valentine Mitchell & Co.,  [orig. ]) –, who shows that exegetical debates between rabbis and ‘two power’ heretics often center on biblical texts that were central to Christian polemic against Judaism.  See, for example, Karen L. King, What is Gnosticism? (Cambridge MA and London: Harvard University, ) –.  ‫ מין הוא‬:‫ אני אומר‬.‫‘( אין מחזירין אותו חוץ ממי שלא אמר מחיה המתים ומכניע זדים ובונה ירושלים‬They don’t make anyone return [to the bema] except for the one who does not say “who makes the dead to live” or “who subdues the arrogant” or “who builds Jerusalem”; I might think that he is a min’).

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

Birkat Ha-Minim, especially since evidence for their continued existence is largely circumstantial. By process of elimination, then, if nothing else, the Jewish Christians emerge as the most prominent candidates for min status in the earliest strata of rabbinic literature. As we have seen, they are frequently called ‫ מינים‬in Tannaitic traditions and Palestinian Amoraic traditions, and they fit the bill nicely, since they are inside outsiders—people with whom the rabbis share basic presuppositions (e.g. the authority of the Tanach), practices (observance of the Torah), and community (to the point that Jewish Christians and rabbis keep running into each other and debating scripture, and even distinguished rabbis are tempted to be treated by Christian healers). Yet they are also people whom the rabbis consider to be fundamentally mistaken about central matters such as the unity of God. They are, in short, minim.

. ‘The Nazarenes and the [Other] Heretics’

But if Jewish Christians were the most prominent targets of Birkat Ha-Minim, and this prominence is reflected in the Johannine ἀποσυνάγωγος texts and the passages from Justin about Jews cursing Christians in the synagogues, what does one make of the argument of Kimelman and Katz that the reading in Schechter’s Genizah text, ‫‘( הנצרים והמינים‬the Nazarenes and the heretics’), is awkward and the reference to the Nazarenes = Jewish Christians secondary? My reply is twofold: )

Even if it were true that the original form of Birkat Ha-Minim mentioned only ‫מינים‬, not ‫נצרים‬, it would still be possible, and indeed likely, that the main target of the benediction was Jewish Christians. If, as argued in the previous section, Jewish Christians were the most prominent group among those whom rabbinic Jews designated as minim, a curse against minim would be understood as targeting Jewish Christians above all. Kimelman and Katz object that Jewish Christians could have escaped the threat of self-curse by saying, in effect, ‘I am not a heretic; the benediction must apply to someone else’. But as Phillip Alexander responds, min = ‘heretic’ seems to be a rabbinic coinage for those whom the rabbis considered to be heretics, ‘[s]o anyone opposed to the Rabbis would have felt threatened’.

 The argument in Martin Goodman, ‘Sadducees and Essenes After  CE’, Judaism in the Roman World: Collected Essays (Leiden and Boston: Brill, ) – is, as the author recognizes, essentially negative, relying not on hard and copious evidence of the continued existence of these groups but on an inability to identify good reasons for thinking that they would have disappeared after  CE.  See Kimelman, ‘Birkat Ha-Minim’, ; Katz, ‘Issues’, –.  Philip S. Alexander, ‘ “The Parting of the Ways” from the Perspective of Rabbinic Judaism’, Jews and Christians: The Parting of the Ways A.D.  to . The Second Durham–Tübingen

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JOEL MARCUS

)

More importantly, the syntactical basis of the argument for the secondariness of ‘Nazarenes’ is faulty. Contrary to the assertion of Kimelman and Katz, a phrase of the form ‘the Christians and the heretics’ is not at all unnatural in the context of ancient Jewish and Christian literature. Indeed, there are many ancient examples in which the specific precedes the general in this way. Perhaps the best-known instances are the allusions in the Synoptic Gospels to

τελῶναι καὶ ἁμαρτωλοί = ‘toll collectors and sinners’, some of which are put into the mouths of Jewish opponents (Matt .–; .; Mark .–; Luke .; .; .). The καί here is generalizing, a usage known from classical Greek, and the phrase means ‘toll collectors and [other] sinners’. Other possible NT examples include the common Matthean/Lukan locution, γραμματεῖς καὶ Φαρισαῖοι (‘scribes and [other] Pharisees’), προφῆται καὶ δίκαιοι (‘prophets and [other] righteous people’) in Matt ., ἱερεῖς καὶ Λευίτας (‘priests and [other] Levites’) in John ., πάντων τῶν ὁλοκαυτωμάτων καὶ θυσιῶν (‘than all whole burnt offerings and [other] sacrifices’) in Mark ., and several locutions in which the word βασιλεῖς (‘kings’) is followed by a generalizing term. This NT usage continues one that is already attested in Second Temple Jewish literature. In  Macc ., for example, ἐπὶ συναγωγῆς μεγάλης ἱερέων καὶ λαοῦ (‘at the great assembly of the priests and the people’) is apparently meant to be synonymous with τοῖς ἱερεῦσιν καὶ τῷ λοιπῷ δήμῳ (‘to the priests and the rest of the populace’) in .. Nor did speakers of ancient Greek have a monopoly on use of the generalizing ‘and’. The NT phrase ‘whole burnt offerings and [other] sacrifices’, which is cited

  





Research Symposium on Earliest Christianity and Judaism (Durham, September ) (ed. J. D. G. Dunn; WUNT ; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck] ) – n. ; Alexander, ‘Jewish Believers’, , . See, for example, Aristophanes Nubes  ὦ Ζεῦ καὶ θεοί (‘O Zeus and the [other] gods’); cf. H. W. Smyth, Greek Grammar (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University,  [orig. ]) §. Cf. Joel Marcus, Mark –: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB ; New York: Doubleday, ) . Matt .; .; ., –; Luke .; .; .; cf. John .. The hypothesis that the καί here is generalizing is supported by several Synoptic passages that speak explicitly of scribes who belong to the Pharisaic party (Mark .; Luke .; Acts .). ‘Levites’ here is usually understood as a designation for lower-level descendants of Levi than priests (who also were descendants of Levi), but the καί could be generalizing. Cf.  Clem ., ἱερεῖς καὶ λευῖται πάντες οἱ λειτουργοῦντες τῷ θυσιαστηρίῳ, ‘the priests and all the Levites serving at the altar’. βασιλεῖς καὶ ἡγεμόνας (‘kings and [other] leaders’) in Luke .; οἱ βασιλεῖς…καὶ οἱ ἄρχοντες (‘the kings…and the [other] rulers’) in Acts . (cf. Ps .); οἱ βασιλεῖς τῆς γῆς καὶ οἱ μεγιστᾶνες (‘the kings and the [other] great ones of the earth’) in Rev ..

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

above, is an OT locution (Exod .;  Chron .; Ezek .), as is ‘priests and [other] Levites’ ( Kgs .;  Chron .; . etc.), and there are several other OT phrases that pair priests with a larger, more inclusive group, by means of waw (‘and’): ‫‘( הכהנים והעם‬the priests and the [rest of the] people’) in Exod ., ‫‘( הכהנים הלוים וכל ישראל‬the Levitical priests and all [the rest of] Israel’) in Ezra ., ‫‘( הכהנים והשופטים‬the priests and the [other] magistrates’) in Deut ., ‫‘( לכהנים ולקסמים‬to the priests and to the [other] diviners’) in  Sam ., ‫הכהנים וכל‬ ‫‘( העם‬the priests and all the [rest of the] people’) in Jer .–; ., ; ., etc. Nor are the priests the only group that can be included in such a generalizing expression; see, for example, ‫‘( אל השרים ואל כל העם‬to the officials and to all [the rest of] the people’) in Jer ., ‫‘( מלכינו ושרינו‬our kings and our [other] officials’) in Jer ., , and ‫‘( מלכיה וכל נשיאיה‬her kings and all [the rest of] her chieftains’) in Ezek .. Post-biblical Jewish literature written in Hebrew is also familiar with the idiom of the generalizing ‘and’. In the Dead Sea Scrolls, for example, the phrase [‫משיח]י‬ ‫‘( אהרון וישראל‬the anointed one[s] of Aaron and of Israel’) in QS .; CD . provides an example, since the tribe of Aaron is a subset of the people of Israel. In rabbinic literature, similarly, the formula ‘Rabbi X and the [other] sages’ is very common from the Mishnah on (see m. Ber. .; .; ., etc.), and similar phrases such as ‫‘( הסופרים והחכמים‬the scribes and the [other] sages’, Exod. Rab. .) also occur. Significantly, moreover, as we have briefly noted above, there is in the Tosefta a phrase that uses a generalizing ‘and’ with reference to minim: ‫‘ = הגליונים וספרי )ה(מינים‬the Gospels and the [other] books of the minim’ (t. Yad. .; t. Šabb. [].). And there is even a possible example elsewhere within the ‘Amidah itself, ‫‘( שופטינו…ויועצינו‬our judges and our [other] counselors’) in Benediction . Given the frequency of the generalizing ‘and’, it seems very plausible that the phrase in the next benediction of the ‘Amidah, ‫הנצרים והמינים‬, should be interpreted as ‘the Christians and the other heretics’. If so, the benediction containing this phrase could justly be called Birkat Ha-Minim, since minim is the more inclusive

 On this interpretation of the phrase, see Alexander, ‘Jewish Believers’, .  Earlier attestations of this interpretation of ‫ הנצרים והמינים‬include Paul Riessler, Altjüdisches Schrifttum ausserhalb der Bibel (Heidelberg: F. H. Kerle, ) ; Simon, Verus Israel, ; Martyn, History, ; and Levine, Synagogue, . Kimelman, ‘Birkat Ha-Minim’,  notes such paraphrases but rejects them because they require inserting a word not found in the text (‘other’) and because he considers the phrase ‘Jewish Christians and heretics’ to be redundant. Moreover, he berates the updaters of Elbogen’s book for paraphrasing ‫ הנצרים והמינים‬as ‘the minim in general and the nosrim in particular’ (cf. Elbogen, Liturgy, ) a rendering ˙ that ‘gives the erroneous impression that the text reads first minim and then nosrim rather ˙ than the reverse’ ( n. ). But the phrase ‘the Nazarenes and the heretics’ is not redundant if the former is a subset of the latter, and the evidence adduced above shows clearly that putting the subset first was a common way of getting this idea across.



JOEL MARCUS

term. This interpretation also comports with our survey of min passages in the previous section, since it showed that, in early rabbinic sources, the Christians were the most prominent but not the only group that could be denoted by the term. An interpretation of ‫ הנצרים והמינים‬as ‘the Christians and the other heretics’ fits this combination perfectly.

. The Genealogy of Birkat Ha-Minim

It is, moreover, likely that Birkat Ha-Minim can be traced back even earlier than the Tannaitic and Amoraic periods. Indeed, the very Talmudic passage that speaks of its composition at Yavneh, b. Ber. b–a (see above, pp. –), hints at this backdating when it says that at Rabban Gamaliel’s request Simeon ha-Paquli organized the Eighteen Benedictions in order (‫)הסדיר שמונה עשרה ברכות…על הסדר‬. This seems to refer to the reorganization of an existent prayer. A similar nuance may be present when the same passage says that Gamaliel sought someone ‫לתקן ברכת המינים‬. The Soncino translation of Maurice Simon renders this as ‘[to] frame a benediction relating to the Minim’. But ‫לתקן‬, which Simon renders here as ‘to frame’ and in the next sentence as ‘to compose’, is actually ambiguous, since it can mean either ‘to ordain’ or ‘to repair’—in the present case, either to invent or to revise a benediction. The English verb ‘to fix’ provides a perfect analogy, since it can mean either to fix something up or to ‘fix’ it for all time, i.e. to set it in stone. In this particular case, most translations join the Soncino in opting for the nuance of ordaining or promulgating, but the implication of repairing or revising may be preferable, as is suggested by the important early passage t. Ber. .. This text identifies Birkat Ha-Minim as one of several benedictions that were created by melding earlier prayer traditions: .‫כולל של מינים בשל פרושין ושל גרים בשל זקנים ושל דוד בבונה ירושלם‬  Therefore Peter Schäfer, ‘Die sogenannte Synode von Jabne. Zur Trennung von Juden und Christen im ersten/zweiten Jh. n. Chr’, Studien zur Geschichte und Theologie des rabbinischen Judentums (repr. ; AGJU ; Leiden: Brill, )  and Katz, ‘Issues’,  are attacking a straw man when they argue that Birkat Ha-Minim was not directed exclusively at Jewish Christians.  Translation by Maurice Simon from Isadore Epstein, ed., Hebrew–English Edition of the Babylonian Talmud (London: Soncino, ).  ‘Samuel the Lesser arose and composed it’, which renders ‫עמד שמואל הקטן ותקנה‬.  Marcus Jastrow, A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature (New York: Judaica,  [orig. –]) –. Arguing in favor of the nuance ‘repair’ here is S. Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-Fshutah: A Comprehensive Commentary ˙ on the Tosefta (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary,  [Hebrew]) Zeraʿim ., on the basis of the passage from t. Ber. . to be discussed below.  I am grateful for this comparison to my colleague Kalman Bland.

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited  One inserts [the benediction] of the heretics into [the benediction] of the separatists and [the benediction] of the proselytes into [the benediction] of the elders, and [the benediction] of David into [the benediction concluding], ‘Builder of Jerusalem’. (my translation)

This implies that Birkat Ha-Minim resulted from editorial activity that incorporated the cursing of the ‫ מינים‬into another imprecation. Lieberman, citing b. Ber. b, identifies the point of transition as the meeting at Yavneh. The general point asserted by t. Ber. ., that Birkat Ha-Minim is a composite benediction, is supported by internal evidence. As Philip Alexander puts it: The motif of the arrogant kingdom actually forms the framework of the benediction: note how the concluding formula, which normally draws out the central point, refers to ‘humbling the arrogant’ and makes no mention of the minim. It is…likely that the Birkat ha-Minim is a restatement of an earlier benediction calling for the overthrow of Israel’s oppressors.

An earlier form of the benediction, then, was probably directed against the pagan empire; indeed, even as late as the Amoraic period, the benediction could be called ‫‘( מכניע זדים‬he who subdues the arrogant’) from its concluding eulogy. Various later versions of the saying quoted above from t. Ber. ., moreover, speak of intercalating Birkat Ha-Minim not into the ‘benediction of the separatists’ but into ‘he who subdues the arrogant’. The original form of what we now call Birkat Ha-Minim, therefore, probably cursed neither the ‫‘( פרושין‬separatists’) nor the ‫‘( מינים‬heretics’), but rather the ‫‘( זדים‬arrogant’), and was directed against the Romans. At a later stage (under Rabban Gamaliel, according to b. Ber. b), it was reformulated to include other targets, resulting in its present hybrid form. Our confidence in the reliability of the Tosefta passage is increased by a look at the two other benedictions identified by t. Ber. . as having been intercalated, since these likewise reveal internal evidence of intercalation. The benediction that speaks about the building of Jerusalem is, in the recension that predominates in Jewish prayer books today, separate from the benediction that speaks about the  See Lieberman, Tosefta, Zeraʿim .; cf. Horbury, ‘Benediction’, –.  Alexander, ‘Parting’, .  See y. Ber. . (c) quoted above, n. , citing R. Simon, a third-generation Amora, in the name of R. Joshua b. Levi, a first-generation Amora.  See, for example, the baraita cited by R. Jose in y. Ber. . (a) ‫כולל של מינים ושל פושעין במכניע זדים‬, ‘One includes [the benediction of] the minim and of the sinners in [the benediction ending], “He who subdues the arrogant” ’ (my translation). See also Tanhuma (Warsaw) Korah  () ˙ which speaks of ‫‘( ברכת הזדים שתקנו ביבנה‬The benediction of the arrogant, which [the sages] fixed at Yavneh’). For other instances, see David Flusser, ‘QMMT and the Benediction Against the Minim’, Judaism of the Second Temple Period. Vol. . Qumran and Apocalypticism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans; Jerusalem: Magnes,  [orig. ])  n. .



JOEL MARCUS

Davidic Messiah (##  and ). In Schechter’s Genizah version, however, these two benedictions are melded into one, which ends with a conflated eulogy. The Thirteenth Benediction also seems to be conflated, since it concerns two different groups, pious Jews and converts to Judaism. Our reconstruction of the tradition history of Birkat Ha-Minim is supported by the observation of Ehrlich and Langer that what they call Branch , the largest of the six families of Birkat Ha-Minim texts in the Genizah ( out of  mss), omits entirely the segment against the minim. Ehrlich and Langer acknowledge that this shorter version of the benediction, which owes its popularity to the authority of Saadia Gaon, could be the result of Saadia’s abbreviation of a longer form, but they also raise the possibility ‘that this version was itself a received early text that Rav Saadia Gaon chose to adopt for his prayer book. If so, this could be an extremely ancient text, perhaps the earliest preserved. It would then be a witness to the period before the addition of the explicit curse against the noserim and minim’. ˙

. Qumran Connections

But there is a problem with the argument I have been advancing that the present form of Birkat Ha-Minim resulted from the insertion of a curse against the minim into one against the arrogant: it does not seem to correspond exactly to the text of our oldest witness to intercalation, t. Ber. .. The latter, as we have seen, speaks of the insertion of Birkat Ha-Minim not into ‫‘( מכניע זדים‬he who subdues the arrogant’) but into ‫‘( ברכת הפרושין‬the benediction of the separatists’). This seems awkward: why should anyone insert a reference to the heretics (‫ )מינים‬into an imprecation against the separatists (‫)פרושין‬, when the two terms are nearly synonymous? These two difficulties are related, and some light can be gained on both by asking a further question about the genealogy of the benediction: in what circles might an anti-pagan imprecation have arisen? If we are right that the prototype for our benediction antedated Yavneh, the most probable answer would be that its curse against the ‘arrogant kingdom’ reflects the events leading up to the Great Revolt against the Romans in –  See Louis Ginzberg, A Commentary on the Palestinian Talmud: A Study of the Development of the Halakah and Haggadah in Palestine and Babylon (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary,  [Hebrew]) .–; Kuhn, Achtzehngebet, –, –; Lieberman, Tosefta, Zeraʿim .– ; Luger, Weekday Amidah, –.  Ehrlich and Langer, ‘Earliest Texts’, –. The text appears on pp. –: ‫למשומדים אל תהי תקוה‬ .‫ ברוך אתה יי שובר רשעים ומכניע זדים‬.‫‘( ומלכות זדון מהרה תעקר בימינו‬For the destroyed ones may there be no hope, and may the dominion of arrogance be quickly uprooted in our days. Blessed are you, O Lord, who shatters the wicked and subdues the arrogant’).  As noted above (n. ) y. Ber. . (a) does speak of the insertion of ‫ ברכת המינים‬into ‫מכניע זדים‬, but this is probably secondary to the form of the saying in t. Ber. .; see Lieberman, Tosefta, Zeraʿim .–.

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

CE. As is well known, Josephus blames this revolt on a group he calls the ‘Fourth Philosophy’, which he distinguishes from the other leading Jewish sects, the Sadducees, Essenes, and Pharisees (Ant. .–). From Josephus’s own testimony, however, the revolutionary group seems actually to have included both Essenes and Pharisees. Moreover, the scrolls of the Qumran sectarians, who were probably a subset or offshoot of the Essenes, manifest in many places a militantly anti-Roman ideology, and the Qumran settlement itself appears to have been decimated by the war. The Dead Sea sectarians, then, were in some ways ‘zealotic’, and it is unsurprising that language similar to the militant denunciation of the ‘dominion of arrogance’ in Birkat Ha-Minim appears throughout the Qumran scrolls, as the following excerpts illustrate: ‫בהתעופף כול חצי שחת לאין השב ויפרו לאין תקוה בנפול קו על משפט וגורל אף על נעזבים ומתך חמה‬ ‫על נעלמים וקץ חרון לכול בליעל‬ when all the arrows of the pit fly off without returning and burst forth without hope, when the measuring line falls upon judgment and the lot of wrath upon those who are abandoned, when the outpouring of wrath upon the pretenders and the time of anger for all which belongs to Belial… (QH-a .–) ‫ואין פלט ליצר אשמה לכלה ירמוסו ואין שאר]ית ואין[ תקוה ברוב… ולכול גבורי מלחםות אין מנוס כי‬ ‫לאל עליון ה…ושוכבי עפר הרימו תרן ותולעת מתים נשאו נס במלחמות זדים‬ But there is no escape for the creatures of guilt, they shall be trampled down to destruction with no rem[nant. And there is no] hope in the abundance of…, and for all the heroes of war there is no refuge. For [ ] belongs to God Most High… Raise the ensign, O you who lie in the dust, and let the worms of the dead lift a banner for…in the battles of the arrogant. (QH-a .–) ‫איש פותי אל יבוא בגורל…להתיצב במלחמה להכניע גוים‬ No dull-witted man is to be ordained to office…to receive command in the war that will subdue the Gentiles. (QSa .–)  On Pharisaic revolutionaries, see Ant. ., where Josephus says that adherents of the Fourth Philosophy agree in everything with the opinions of the Pharisees except their unconquerable passion for liberty, and ., where the co-founder of the movement is identified as a Pharisee named Saddok. On Essene participation in the revolution, see Bell. .–; cf. Martin Hengel, The Zealots: Investigations into the Jewish Freedom Movement in the Period from Herod I until  A.D. (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark,  [orig. ]) General Index s.v. ‘Essenes, and Zealots’ and ‘Pharisees, and Zealots’. On the relation between the Qumran sect and the Essenes, see Jodi Magness, The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls (Grand Rapids, MI and Cambridge: Eerdmans, ).  Translations are based on, but sometimes altered from, E. Tov, ed., The Dead Sea Scrolls Electronic Library (Salt Lake City: Brigham Young University, ), which also provides the Hebrew citations.



JOEL MARCUS

‫]להכנ[יע לכה לא]ומי[ם ר]ב[ים‬ to subdue many peoples on your behalf… (QSb .) ‫סרה ממשלת כתיים להכניע רשעה לאין שארית ופלטה לוא תהיה ל]בנ[י חושך‬ And the dominion of the Kittim shall cease, to subdue wickedness without a remnant. There shall be no survivors to [the sons of] darkness. (QM .) ‫להפיל חללים במשפט אל ולהכניע מערכת אויב בגבורת אל לשלם גמול רעתם לכול גוי הבל‬ …to bring down the slain by the judgment of God, to subdue the battle line of the enemy by the power of God, and to render recompense for their evil to all the nations of vanity. (QM .–) ‫ואת פלשתיים הכנ]י[ע פעמים רבות בשם קודשכה‬ And he [David] subdued the Philistines many times through Your holy name. (QM .–) ‫היום מועדו להכניע ולהשפיל שר ממשלת רשעה‬ Today is His appointed time to subdue and to humiliate the prince of the dominion of wickedness. (QM .–) ‫להכניע אויב‬ to subdue the enemy… (QMilamaha [Q] –.)

‫]אין לה[ם תקוה בארץ ]החיים כי לשאול ירדו ואל מקום הדין ילכו ואין זכ[רון לכולמה בארץ‬ [‫כאשר נשמדו בני סדום מהאר[ץ כן ישמדו כול ]עובדי‬ [there is no] hope [for th]em in the land [of the living. For they will go down into Sheol and will go into the place of judgment. There will be no mem]ory of them all on the earth. […As the people of Sodom were destroyed from the eart]h, so all [who worship (idols)] will be destroyed. (Q = [Jub-f]  .– = Jub .) ‫אבדה תקות שונה‬ The enemy’s hope has perished. (Q = QRPc a + c .) ‫ממשלת עולה‬ dominion of perversity… (QS .) ‫בקץ ממשל]ת[ רשעה‬ at the end of the domin[ion of] wickedness… (QShir-a .)

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

The similarities include a vision of eschatological destruction in which the dominion of evil, as embodied in the arrogant pagan empire, will be eradicated, and the proud pagans will be subdued and left without hope. It is particularly noticeable that ‫‘( להכניע‬to subdue’), which appears in the eulogy of Birkat Ha-Minim, also turns up frequently in these passages, where it seems to be virtually a technical term for the eschatological subjugation of the evil Kittim (= Romans), who are referred to in one passage as ‫‘( זדים‬arrogant’). Another key word in Birkat Ha-Minim, ‫‘( תקוה‬hope’), also seems in the Qumran literature to be a technical term for what the evil enemy cannot expect at the eschaton. There are, moreover, frequent construct chains such as ‘dominion of perversity’ and ‘dominion of wickedness’, which are parallel in form and meaning to ‘dominion of arrogance’, a term that is used in Birkat Ha-Minim, as in its Qumran parallels, to designate the pagan enemy. The verb ‫שמד‬, which means ‘to destroy’, also features in both Birkat Ha-Minim and the Qumran texts listed. Birkat Ha-Minim is not the only benediction in the ‘Amidah to contain such zealotic language. Another militant benediction is #, which like QH-a . uses an imperatival form of the verb ‫‘( נשא‬to lift’) plus the object ‫‘( נס‬a banner’) in a vision of the eschatological battle. A similar note is struck in Schechter’s Genizah version of Benediction : ‫‘( ומלוך עלינו אתה לבדך‬and rule over us, you alone’). This is a noteworthy parallel to Josephus’s description of the ‘Fourth Philosophy’ in Ant. .. In many ways, then, the language of Birkat Ha-Minim and the [other] militant benedictions of the ‘Amidah strikingly resembles the language of Qumran.

. Minim as a Subjective Genitive?

In light of these similarities, I would tentatively recommend modifying a suggestion by David Flusser, who noticed that t. Ber. . refers to the earlier form of the benediction as ‫ ברכת הפרושין‬and hypothesized that ‫ פרושין‬designated not the Pharisees but the Qumran sect, which was self-consciously separatist in its ideology. As the author of an early Qumran document puts it: ‫פרשנו מרוב העם‬ (‘We have segregated ourselves from the majority of the people’, QMMT .). Other passages praise Qumranian separatism but do not use the verb ‫פרש‬, employing instead the synonym ‫( להבדל‬QS .–, –; .–; .–) and paraphrases such as ‫‘( לסור מדרך העם‬to turn away from the path of the people’, CD .; .; QMelchizedek .; QFlorilegium .). The phrase ‫בית פלג‬ (‘house of division’) in CD . also may be a self-designation of the Qumran  The verb ‫‘( אבד‬to perish’) is also present in both the Qumran evidence and Schechter’s Genizah version of Birkat Ha-Minim, but as Ruth Langer has pointed out to me, it seems to belong to a later layer of the Genizah evidence. I am grateful to Prof. Langer for her helpful critique of an earlier version of this article.



JOEL MARCUS

community (cf. also QSa .–). According to Flusser, then, what we now know as ‫ ברכת המינים‬was previously ‫ברכת הפרושין‬, an imprecation against the Qumran separatists. Flusser’s hypothesis has been strengthened by a recent article of Joshua Burns, who shows that criticism in tannaitic passages of minim who use an alternate festal calendar, dress in white, practice aberrant sacrificial rites, and are fastidious about water rituals related to purity corresponds to descriptions of the Essenes from Philo and Josephus and to practices of the Qumran sect in its own literature. I differ from Flusser and Burns, however, in their assumption that the phrase ‫ ברכת הפרושין‬in t. Ber. . unambiguously means ‘the benediction against the separatists’. My counter-suggestion is that perhaps it also contains the nuance of ‘the benediction that comes from the separatists’. And the same ambiguity, I would suggest, may apply to the report in b. Ber. b that Rabban Gamaliel asked for someone ‘to fix the Benediction of the Minim’. This may imply that Gamaliel was looking for someone not only to formulate a malediction against heretics, but also to reformulate a malediction that came from a group of them. This hypothesis of the Qumranian origin of the ‘Amidah’s only curse is especially compelling because there is ample evidence that the Qumran sect engaged in rituals of cursing. According to the understanding I am proposing, one nuance of the genitives ‫ פרושין‬in t. Ber. . and ‫ מינים‬in b. Ber. b may be subjective; the second member of the construct chain, in other words, may denote the group from which the benediction originates. This understanding comports with what we  See Flusser, ‘QMMT’, –; cf. Boyarin, Border Lines, ,  n.  and Schremer, ‘Seclusion’, –.  Joshua Ezra Burns, ‘Essene Sectarianism and Social Differentiation in Judaea After  C.E’, HTR  [] –. Among the passages Burns cites for overlap between rabbinic descriptions of minim and descriptions of the Essenes/Qumran sect in Philo, Josephus, and the Qumran literature are the following: ) Use of an alternate calendar: see m. Roš. Haš. .; cf. CD .–; .–; .–; .–, etc. ) Dressing in white: m. Meg. .; cf. Josephus Bell. .. ) Practicing variant sacrificial rites: m. Hul. .; t. Hul. .; t. Yoma . (cf. Mek. Amalek  ˙ ˙ [Lauterbach .]); cf. Josephus Ant. .. ) Fastidiousness about water rituals related to purity: t. Parah . (cf. the Mekilta passage referred to above); cf. Josephus B. J. ., , ; QS .–, ; ., etc.  See Israel Jacob Yuval, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California, ) –, who links Birkat Ha-Minim with Qumran curses, citing QD-a (=Q) .–. Other Qumran curses are found in QS .–; .–; QBer-a (Q)  a ,b-d; QCurses (Q); cf. Russell C. D. Arnold, The Social Role of Liturgy in the Religion of the Qumran Community (STDJ ; Leiden/Boston: Brill, ) –.  The anonymous NTS reviewer of this article objects that the other genitives in t. Ber. .—‘of the heretics’, ‘of the proselytes’, ‘of the elders’, and ‘of David’—all seem to be objective rather

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

see in several other rabbinic examples of phrases of the form birkat X. For example, ‫‘( ברכת כהנים‬the blessing of priests’), which appears frequently in tannaitic traditions (see, for example, m. R. Hasˇ .; m. Meg. .; t. Men. .), is the benediction with which priests bless the people, as t. Sot. . makes clear (see also m. Tam. .). Similarly, ‫‘( ברכת פועלים‬the blessing of workers’) in b. Ber. a is the benediction that workers pronounce, and ‫‘( ברכת הדיוט‬the benediction of a layperson’) in b. Meg. a; b. Ber. a, etc. is the benediction that a layperson pronounces (cf. the context in b. Meg. a). There also may be some ambiguity about the frequent locution ‫‘( ברכת האבלים‬the benediction of the mourners’) and

than subjective. I am not convinced, however, that the objective sense is unambiguous in the case of the benediction ‘of the elders’, which in the earliest versions does not bless the elders but ‘the righteous and the pious’ (cf. Elbogen, Liturgy, ; Luger, Weekday Amidah, ). This opens up the possiblity that ‘of the elders’ in t. Ber. . may be a subjective rather than an objective genitive, designating a liturgical text handed down from days of yore (cf. m. ᾿Abot ., and Luger, Weekday Amidah, , who says that most researchers trace the benediction back to the time of the Antiochene persecutions). ‘The benediction of the elders’ therefore may mean ‘the benediction that comes from the elders’, just as according to my hypothesis ‘the benediction of the separatists’ means ‘the benediction that comes from the separatists’. The resulting mixture of subjective and objective genitives in the Tosefta passage as a whole may seem confusing, but we are obviously dealing here with abbreviated catchphrases, and that means that the benedictions and the significance of their names may have been wellenough known that small grammatical inconsistencies would not have been considered awkward.  The same subjective genitive interpretation applies to the expression in the singular, ‫ברכת כוהן‬ ‫‘( )ה(גדול‬the blessing of the High Priest’) in m. Sot. .; t. Men. ., etc.: this is the blessing ˙ recited by the High Priest on the Day of Atonement, as m. Sot. . establishes. Other subjective ˙ genitives include ‫ברכת מושה‬, ‘the blessing of Moses’ (Ber. Rab. .) and the phrases from Gen ., ‫ ברכת אביך‬and ‫‘( ברכת הורי‬the blessings of your father’ and ‘the blessings of my parents’) which are quoted in Ber. Rab. . (.).  The subjective genitive interpretation of ‫ ברכת הדיוט‬is made explicit by the context in b. Meg. a: ‫ שהרי שני גדולי הדור ברכום שני‬,‫ לעולם אל תהי ברכת הדיוט קלה בעיניך‬:‫ואמר רבי אלעזר אמר רבי חנינא‬ ‫‘( הדיוטות ונתקיימה בהן‬Rabbi Eliezer said, R. Hanina said: Let not the blessing of an ordinary ˙ person be lightly esteemed in your eyes, for behold, two men great in their generation received from ordinary people blessings that were fulfilled in them’—citing the examples of David being blessed by Araunah [ Sam .] and Daniel being blessed by Darius [Dan .]).  One passage, b. Sof. . [], distinguishes ‫ ברכת האבלים‬from the mourner’s Kaddish, but this distinction may be late. That the terminology was confusing is shown in b. Meg. b, which raises the question of what ‫ ברכת האבלים‬is. Another passage, b. Ket. b, speaks of a prayer with regard to mourners (‫ )כנגד אבלים‬that ends ‫ברוך מנחם אבלים‬, but it does not explicitly identify this as ‫ברכת האבלים‬, contrary to the Soncino editor’s note on b. Sem. .. The two seem to be conflated in y. Meg. . (c–a) but many sources seem to distinguish ‫ ברכת האבלים‬from ‫‘( תחנוני האבלים‬the consolation of the mourners’; see, e.g., m. Meg. .; y. Pes. . [b]; y. M. Qat. . [d] b. Ber. b; b. Meg. b; b. Sem. .; .; cf. Lieberman, Tosefta, Zeraʿim .). This would seem to open up the possibility that the genitive in ‫ ברכת האבלים‬originally was not objective.



JOEL MARCUS

about ‫‘( ברכת הלוים‬the benediction of the Levites’) in b. Sof. . etc. and ‫ברכת‬ ‫‘( החתונים‬the benediction of the bridegrooms’) in b. Ket. b etc., though these are usually taken as objective genitives. Correspondingly, I am suggesting, there may be ambiguity about ‫ברכת המינים‬ and ‫ ברכת הפרושין‬in some contexts; they may mean both a curse against sectarians and separatists and a curse that comes from a group of the same. Specifically, it may be that what the rabbis came to call Birkat Ha-Minim, ‘the curse of the heretics’, was originally an anti-Roman curse that came from a group that in their eyes consisted of ‘heretics’, the Qumran sect, but was eventually turned against this group and other sectarians by the rabbis. This process of turning against a group one of its own traditions has a long history within the OT, ancient Judaism, and the early church.

. Conclusion

As we have seen, however, the primary target, at the time of this curse’s rabbinic reformulation, was no longer the Qumranians, who existed in a denuded form by the end of the first century, but the Jewish Christians, the minim par excellence, who were a far more powerful force. This amalgamation of a curse against Jewish Christians with one against the ‘arrogant kingdom’ makes sense because, as Philip Alexander emphasizes, the Jewish Christianity of the first few centuries ran afoul of Jewish nationalism:

 See, for example, Jeremiah’s appropriation of his opponents’ slogan, ‘the temple of the Lord’ (Jer .–); the Qumran designation for the Pharisees, ‘Seekers of Smooth Things’ (‫דורשי‬ ‫חלקות‬, which is probably an ironic pun on their self-designation, ‘Interpreters of Halakhic Rulings’ (‫ ;)דורשי הלכות‬and the jab in Rev . against those who boast about knowing ‘the deep things of Satan’, which is probably a reversal of their claim to know ‘the deep things of God’. Paul frequently recycles traditions that come from his opponents. In  Corinthians, for example, he takes up and qualifies several slogans of the Corinthian Christian community (‘all things are lawful for me’, ‘food for the stomach and the stomach for food’, ‘it is good for a man not to touch a woman’, and ‘all of us have knowledge’). And Galatians is full of reappropriations of the slogans and traditions of Paul’s opponents, such as ‘the blessing of Abraham’ in ., the curse on the ‘hanged man’ in .–, the allegory of Sarah and Hagar in .–., and part or all of the concluding benediction, ‘Peace upon the Israel of God’ in . (cf. J. Louis Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB A; New York: Doubleday, ], passim). Among the church fathers, Eusebius transforms the name of the Jewish-Christian Ebionites (=‘poor ones’), which probably started out as an honorific self-designation, into a reference to the group’s deficient opinions (Hist. eccl. .) and Tertullian takes up the title of Marcion’s main work and claims to have fashioned ‘antitheses’ that demolish those of the heresiarch (Marc. .–). A famous rabbinic example is m. Sanh. ., which first cites an old tradition that categorically proclaims the salvation of all Jews, then qualifies it, ‘And these are they who have no share in the world to come…’

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited  …[I]n this period the Palestinian Jews fought two disastrous wars of liberation against Rome (not to mention a number of abortive uprisings in the Diaspora) … [T]he First War [w]as a time of trouble for the Jewish Christians. The Second War was probably equally disastrous for them, and their failure to support Bar Kochba may have cost them dear [citing Justin First Apology ]. Nationalism was bound up with traditionalism (zeal for the Law) and attachment to the Land of Israel, and it easily took on messianic overtones. Christians proclaimed that the Messiah had come, but Jesus had clearly failed to deliver the kingdom in the form in which most had anticipated it… Christians stressed the spiritual nature of the kingdom and de-emphasized ‘the territorial dimension of Judaism’. Such radicalism was out of joint with the spirit of the times.

Thus it was logical for the rabbis to associate their assault on Christian ‘sectarians’ with an excoriation of the pagan kingdom; they were not the first party, and they would not be the last, to undermine internal enemies and rivals by implicating them with external foes and thus tarnishing their patriotism. What are the implications of our reconstruction of the tradition history of Birkat Ha-Minim for the scholarly debates we discussed at the beginning of this article about the fluidity or fixity of Jewish liturgy and the influence of the Pharisees and later the rabbis in the early Christian era? While we have found compelling Ehrlich’s suggestion that the rudiments of at least some of the benedictions go back to the Second Temple period, the subsequent analysis has also recognized that the form of at least one of them, Birkat Ha-Minim, was still being hammered out at the end of the first century. It may be that, overall, the truth lies somewhere between the contrasting positions of Heinemann and Ehrlich. At Yavneh the sages prescribed an order and general outline for the ‘Amidah benedictions, most or all of which probably existed already as an inheritance from the Temple liturgy and other venues. They were thus not creating a liturgy ex nihilo but ratifying and revising one that was already in use. They did not impose this liturgy on synagogues by fiat, but by putting their stamp of approval on a particular version of the developing tradition they simultaneously accepted the common consensus, moved toward fixing its form, and solidified their claim to be the people’s leaders.

 An allusion to the book by W. D. Davies, The Territorial Dimension of Judaism (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California, ).  Alexander, ‘Parting’, –.  On the rootage of the ‘Amidah in the Temple liturgy, see Heinemann, Prayer, –. Evidence includes the testimony of Tannaitic texts (m. Tamid .; m. Yoma; t. Yoma .) as well as the parallels between Sir . (Heb. B) and the ‘Amidah (see above, p.  and n. ) which may reflect Sirach’s priestly status or linkage with priestly circles; see David McLain Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (New York: Oxford University, ) .



JOEL MARCUS

This view of things comports with Lee Levine’s observation about the eclecticism of the rabbis: Interestingly, …not all of the traditions that may have constituted potential sources for the ‘Amidah stem from settings or groups that the rabbis would necessarily have wished to emulate. The priestly liturgy from the Temple and [blessings deriving from] Qumran are cases in point. How some of these ideas and threads of different origins reached Yavneh is impossible to determine, though the fact that so many threads of different origins appear to have been interwoven is intriguing. It is reminiscent of the selection of very diverse books for inclusion in the Bible at various stages, or of the appearance of so many contradictory opinions side by side in R. Judah’s Mishnah.

Another example of the same eclecticism may be the way in which the secondcentury rabbis, according to Martin Goodman, adopted and rabbinized the common law of Galilee with regard to the Sabbath. Goodman thinks that this populism is one of the reasons that the rabbis became more and more influential over time. There are two ways of viewing such rabbinic eclecticism. One is to understand it against the background of the theory proposed by Shaye Cohen in his wellknown article ‘The Significance of Yavneh: Pharisees, Rabbis, and the End of Jewish Sectarianism’. As this title implies, Cohen suggests that the rabbis at Yavneh erected a ‘big tent’ for the Jewish community, thus effectively ending Jewish sectarianism, and that the only people who were left out of this tent were those who refused to enter it. Cohen argues that these post- rabbis, the heirs of the former Pharisees, were operating from a position of substantial strength vis-à-vis their vanquished foes from other sects. But eclecticism and the search for consensus can also be a strategy adopted by a group that is making a bid for power and not yet secure in it, and in such cases it may be combined with strong exclusionary tendencies designed to eliminate potential rivals. This picture fits better with the results of the present investigation. If my argument here has been correct, the post- rabbis were not simply putting up a large tent, trying to create one big happy family out of diverse traditions. They were also using diverse traditions from various groups to exclude people whom  Levine, Synagogue, .  See Martin Goodman, State and Society in Roman Galilee, A.D. – (Oxford Centre for Postgraduate Hebrew Studies; Totowa, NJ: Rowman & Allanheld, ) ; cf. Boyarin, Border Lines, .  Shaye J. D. Cohen, ‘The Significance of Yavneh: Pharisees, Rabbis, and the End of Jewish Sectarianism’, HUCA  () –.  See, for example, his conclusion on pp. – that ‘ CE was a major transition point in Jewish sectarianism. Perhaps some sectarians, aside from the Samaritans and Christianizing Jews, lingered on for a while, but Jewish society from the end of the first century until the rise of the Karaites, was not torn by sectarian divisions’.

Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited 

they wanted to render beyond the pale. Perhaps the most important thing for them was not so much the question of ‘who loses and who wins, who’s in, who’s out’, but that they should be the ones to define who belonged where. In attempting to don the mantle of authority to decide such questions, the rabbis were probably more successful in some localities than in others. As we have seen, the Gospels of Matthew and John, and Justin’s reports about Jews cursing Christians in synagogues, probably emerged from places in which the rabbis were able to establish substantial control over the synagogue and Jewish religious life in general. Because they had the upper hand in these areas, they could enforce an anti-Christian policy through measures such as Birkat Ha-Minim. In other localities, however, the rabbis probably did not exercise comparable control for several centuries, as is attested by the frequent tension between rabbinic law and piety, on the one hand, and synagogal art and architecture, on the other. Moreover, as I will argue in a subsequent article, y. Ber. . (a) shows that in late third-century Palestine there were still groups of Jewish Christians who employed a seventeen-benediction form of the ‘Amidah, one that lacked Birkat Ha-Minim and competed with the eighteenbenediction version of the rabbis. What all this reveals is that the post- rabbis were involved in a religious battle that would continue for several centuries. In this war they were happy to use any weapon at their disposal, including some that had fallen from the hands of their vanquished foes and could be reforged for their own purposes. One of these weapons was Birkat Ha-Minim.

 Shakespeare King Lear ..  Cf. Martyn’s report (in Martyn, History,  n. ) about Wayne Meeks’s suspicion that the Johannine ἀποσυνάγωγος scenes ‘portray as punctiliar events in Gamaliel’s time what was actually a linear development stretching over a lengthy period and culminating in the pertinent formulation of Birkath ha-Minim, perhaps quite a bit later than Gamaliel’. Martyn makes a good counterargument that something significant probably did happen at Yavneh under Gamaliel. But even if that is so, the enactment formulated there was probably received in different ways in different localities, in some of which the rabbis probably had considerable power, in others not; cf. D. Rensberger, Overcoming the World: Politics and Community in the Gospel of John (London: SPCK, ) ; D. M. Smith, ‘Judaism and the Gospel of John’, Jews and Christians: Exploring the Past, Present, and Future (ed. J. H. Charlesworth; New York: Crossroad, ) .  See Lee I. Levine, ‘The Sages and the Synagogue in Late Antiquity: The Evidence of the Galilee’, The Galilee in Late Antiquity (New York/Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, ) –; Cohen, ‘Pharisees’, .  On the question of rabbinic ‘ownership’ of the ‘Amidah, see Langer, ‘Early Rabbinic Liturgy’.

New Test. Stud. , pp. –. Printed in the United Kingdom ©  Cambridge University Press doi:10.1017/S0028688509990099

The Faithfulness of Jesus Christ in Hippolytus’s De Christo et Antichristo: Overlooked Patristic Evidence in the Πίστις Χριστοῦ Debate M I C HA E L F. B I R D Highland Theological College/UHI Millennium Institute, High Street, Dingwall, Scotland, IV15 9HA, UK email: [email protected]

M I C HA E L R . W H IT E N TO N Dallas Theological Seminary, 3909 Swiss Ave, Dallas, TX 75204, USA email: [email protected]

The debate over the meaning of πίστις Χριστοῦ has been continuing for some time and shows no signs of abating, yet one conclusion has remained constant: the Church Fathers, generally, did not understand πίστις Χριστοῦ in the Pauline materials in the subjective sense as the ‘faithfulness of Christ’. Furthermore, there has heretofore been no text that correlates Jesus’ faithfulness with his death on the cross in patristic writings. In light of that, the aim of this study is () to offer a critique of recent work on πίστις Χριστοῦ in the Church Fathers, and () to break the longstanding silence by presenting overlooked evidence from Hippolytus’s De Christo et Antichristo that unambiguously relates Jesus’ faithfulness to his death on the cross. Keywords: faithfulness of Christ, pistis Christou, Hippolytus, Church Fathers, Apostle Paul

I. Introduction

The πίστις Χριστοῦ debate has now become a well-known and even wellworn entity in NT scholarship. Modern discussion on this subject, following on from Richard Hays’s monograph in , has continued and shows no signs of abating. Understandably the discussion has focused principally on the Pauline



 Richard Hays, The Faith of Jesus Christ: An Investigation of the Narrative Substructure of Galatians :–: (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, nd ed.  []).

The Faithfulness of Jesus Christ in Hippolytus’s De Christo et Antichristo 

materials as the key junctures for the scholarly traffic that has ensued (esp. Gal .; .; Rom .; .; Phil .; Eph .). There is, however, a broader array of texts outside of the Pauline corpus that are pertinent to the debate as well (e.g. Acts .; Heb .; Jas .; Rev .; .; .; .). As a natural development, scholars have also begun to examine materials from the Church Fathers with a view to illuminating the Pauline texts through their receptionhistory. In this excavation of patristic texts one piece of evidence that has so far been overlooked is the statement by Hippolytus in Demonstratio de Christo et Antichristo where he refers to the ‘faith of Jesus Christ’ (Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ πίστιν) demonstrated in the cross that protects believers from the sufferings of the anticipated apocalyptic tribulation. In light of this, the aim of this study is to expound the significance of the Hippolytus passage for the πίστις Χριστοῦ debate. This will be achieved by: () describing current debates about Jesus’ faithfulness in the Apostolic Fathers and Church Fathers; () analyzing Hippolytus’s reference to the ‘faith of Jesus Christ’ in its immediate setting; and () identifying the significance of the text for NT studies.

II. Debates about Πίστις Χριστοῦ in the Apostolic Fathers and Church Fathers

The value of studies in Wirkungsgeschichte is that it shows the relevance of post-apostolic materials for shedding light on exegetical debates about the NT. Unless one posits a sharp and absolute divide between implied readers and subsequent real readers in the early centuries of the common era, the views of postapostolic authors for understanding biblical texts is naturally of value for modern interpreters since they are closer in language, time, and conceptual framework to the biblical authors than ourselves. That is not to say that pre-critical patristic interpretation is necessarily superior to modern critical studies; however, to disregard the value of biblical interpretation in antiquity is to engage in a form of  For a fuller discussion of the wide array of issues in the debate, see Michael F. Bird and Preston M. Sprinkle, eds., The Faith of Jesus Christ: Exegetical, Biblical, and Theological Studies (Milton Keynes, UK: Paternoster, forthcoming ).  Cf. R. A. Harrisville, ‘ΠΙΣΤΙΣ ΧΡΙΣΤΟΥ: Witness of the Fathers’, NovT  () –; I. G. Wallis, The Faith of Jesus Christ in Early Christian Traditions (SNTSMS ; Cambridge: Cambridge University, ); Mark Reasoner, Romans in Full Circle: A History of Interpretation (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, ) –; Robert Matthew Calhoun, ‘John Chrysostom on EK ΠΙΣΤΕΩΣ ΕΙΣ ΠΙΣΤΙΝ in Rom. :: A Reply to Charles L. Quarles’, NovT  () –; Mark Elliott, ‘Πίστις Χριστοῦ in the Church Fathers and Beyond…’, The Faith of Jesus Christ (ed. Bird and Sprinkle).  Cf. Markus Bockmuehl, Seeing the Word: Refocusing New Testament Study (STI; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, ).

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‘exegetical amnesia’. Before examining Hippolytus’s comment in Demonstratio de Christo et Antichristo it is necessary first to make some prefatory remarks about the state of scholarship with regards to evidence from the Church Fathers and its bearing upon the πίστις Χριστοῦ debate. Two studies dealing with πίστις Χριστοῦ in the early church were released between  and , yet they drew diametrically opposed conclusions. The first to be published was a study by Roy A. Harrisville which dealt specifically with how the early Church Fathers understood the πίστις Χριστοῦ passages in the Pauline materials. Harrisville combed the early Church Fathers, searching for evidence of how they understood and articulated the πίστις Χριστοῦ constructions from Paul. While he located some ambiguous references, he found none that unequivocally referred to Jesus’ own faithfulness. Moreover, he found that the Church Fathers regularly understood πίστις Χριστοῦ as referring to ‘faith in Christ’. One year later, Ian G. Wallis’s monograph, The Faith of Jesus Christ in Early Christian Traditions, was published. Wallis canvassed the earliest strands of Christian tradition, including the Church Fathers, for portrayals of Jesus as a man of faith. Unlike Harrisville, Wallis was not so much concerned with actual πίστις Χριστοῦ constructions as he was with finding general references to Jesus’ faith or faithfulness in the early church. In contrast to Harrisville’s study, Wallis argued that the early Christian traditions, both the NT and Church Fathers, presented Jesus over and over again as a man of intense faith. Though these studies are helpful, they are not without their problems. At times, Harrisville seems to overlook places where the πίστις Χριστοῦ construction may have taken on a more complex meaning in the eyes of the Church Fathers, especially in the case of Origen. Conversely, Wallis’s investigation  Hays, Faith of Jesus Christ, liii. See also Daniel J. Treier, ‘The Superiority of Pre-Critical Exegesis? Sic et Non’, TrinJ NS  () –; John Barton, The Nature of Biblical Criticism (London and New York: Westminster John Knox, ) –.  Harrisville, ‘ΠΙΣΤΙΣ ΧΡΙΣΤΟΥ’, –.  For his discussion on the Church Fathers and other early Christian sources, see Wallis, The Faith of Jesus Christ, –.  In his discussion on Origen’s Selecta in Psalmos (PG .), in which he holds that Origen understands πίστις Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ only in an objective sense, Harrisville neglects to consider that Origen may have more in mind that just ‘faith in Jesus Christ’. Commenting on Ps  (MT ) v. , Origen quotes Matt . and relates them both with language reminiscent of Rom –, ‘“Repay your servant”. It says the righteousness of faith of Jesus Christ, which has been disclosed to all who believe. [Δικαιοσύνην λέγ1ι τὴν ἐκ πίστ1ως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, ἥτις π1φανέρωται 1ἰς πάντας τοὺς πιστ1ύοντας]. For to those who rightly believe, faith is reckoned as righteousness [τοῖς γὰρ ὀρθως πιστ1ύουσιν ἡ πίστις 1ἰς δικαιοσύνην λογίζ1ται]’. But whose πίστις is in view? Harrisville argues that Jesus’ πίστις cannot be in view because Origen says that it refers to the plural, ‘those who rightly believe’. However, he shows no consideration that both senses may be in view. It is possible to argue that Origen understands

The Faithfulness of Jesus Christ in Hippolytus’s De Christo et Antichristo 

lacks adequate attention on how the early Church Fathers actually understood the πίστις Χριστοῦ construction in the Pauline materials. In addition, though Wallis does treat the Apostolic Fathers to a limited extent, he does not discuss all the pertinent texts (e.g. Herm. Mand. .) and merely notes others (e.g. Ign. Magn. .; Rom. Inscr.; Herm. Sim. ..; ..), thus creating a significant lacuna in his study. Harrisville and Wallis both neglect the evidence from the Apostolic Fathers, which is unfortunate because we have in the Apostolic Fathers an array of data that have a significant bearing on early Christian understandings of the salvific dynamics of the Christ-event generally and explications of the πίστις Χριστοῦ phrases more specifically. The Apostolic Fathers also provide a crucial nexus between the NT authors and the later Church Fathers and thus matter immensely in mapping the effect, continuity, and reception of the NT materials in the immediate post-apostolic period. In fact, there are at least eleven places in the Apostolic Fathers where πίστις is modified by a genitive that refers to Jesus Christ. While each of these references are ambiguous as to their precise meaning, a case can be made that they refer not to ‘faith in Christ,’ but to ‘the faithfulness of Christ’. That is not to say that the concept of ‘faith in Christ’ is absent from the Apostolic Fathers, indeed it is ubiquitous, yet no genitive is used to denote the object of faith. Additionally, the faith of believers is also sourced in Jesus Christ. This is seen most clearly in Ign. Phld. ., where Ignatius refers to Jesus’ cross, death, and resurrection as well as the faith which comes through him (ὁ σταυρὸς αὐτοῦ καὶ ὁ θάνατος καὶ ἡ ἀνάστασις αὐτοῦ καὶ ἡ πίστις ἡ δι᾽ αὐτοῦ).

   

 

πίστις Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ to signify ‘the faithfulness of Jesus Christ’, which is reckoned as righteousness to ‘those who rightly believe’. Whether this is the correct understanding of Origen here is beyond our current purposes; we merely wish to point out that it should have been considered as an option. See Harrisville, ‘ΠΙΣΤΙΣ ΧΡΙΣΤΟΥ’, . Unless otherwise noted, the Greek text for the Apostolic Fathers is taken from K. Bihlmeyer, ed., Die Apostolischen Väter (Tübingen: Mohr/Siebeck, ). Cf. A. Gregory and C. Tuckett, eds., The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (New York: Oxford University, ). Cf. Ign. Eph. .; Magn. .; Rom. Inscr.; Barn. .; .; Herm. Vis. ..; Mand. .; Sim. ..; ..; ... The strongest case for a subjective genitive can be made in Ign. Eph. ., where Ignatius refers to a future letter that he wishes to write with reference to ‘[Jesus Christ’s] faithfulness, his love, his suffering and resurrection’ (ἐν τῇ αὐτοῦ πίστ1ι καὶ ἐν τῇ αὐτοῦ ἀγάπῃ, ἐν πάθ1ι αὐτοῦ καὶ ἀναστάσ1ι) (cf. Ign. Magn. .; Rom. Inscr.; Barn. .; .; Herm. Sim. ..). Cf. e.g.  Clem. .; Ign. Eph. .; Smyrn. .; Phld. .; Herm. Vis. ..; Mand. ..; ... This unique construction (ἡ πίστις ἡ δι᾽ αὐτοῦ) also shows up in Acts .. Cf. Herm. Vis. ..; Mand. .; Sim. ..; ...

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While there is nothing in the Apostolic Fathers that will end the debate over the meaning of πίστις Χριστοῦ, these writings do provide possible references to the faithfulness of Jesus Christ outside the NT; in addition, they portray faith as something that is enigmatically mediated through Jesus. There are also several texts that show that the subjective and objective senses for πίστις Χριστοῦ are not mutually exclusive. This phenomenon is not restricted to the Apostolic Fathers as it shows up in the larger corpora of the later Church Fathers as well. The best example of this is Origen, who understood the πίστις Χριστοῦ formulation in this dual sense. As Harrisville notes, Origen reads διὰ πίστ1ως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ in Rom . as an objective genitive. However, a careful reading of Origen reveals that he also leaves open the possibility of a subjective genitive reading. In what survives from fragment four of Book V in the Tura Papyrus, Origen comments on Rom .–, ‘and those believing in Jesus or those making room for faith, which Jesus Christ created for them in the Father’ (καὶ πιστ1ύοντάς γ1 Ἰησοῦ

Χριστῷ ἢ πίστιν χωροῦντας ἣν Ἰησοῦς Χριστὸς αὐτοῖς ἐν1ποίησ1ν 1ἰς τὸν Πατέρα). Here Origen seems to hold both options in tension. On the one hand, ‘faith in Jesus Christ’ is clearly in view; yet there remains a sense in which Jesus created room for that faith in the Father in the first place. Later, concluding his discussion on Rom .–, Origen explicates what he meant by faith

 Cf. Herm. Vis. ..; Mand. .; Sim. ..; ... In his recent volume, Karl Ulrichs draws a similar conclusion regarding the evidence in the NT: ‘Ebenso ist eine Rubrizierung von PX, die ein einziges Genitivverständnis favorisiert und damit andere ausschließt, ein unphilologisches Bemühen—und ein unpaulinisches: Paulus denkt womöglich gar nicht in den Rubriken der Grammatiker, sondern verwendet bewusst “a general (‘vague’) expression”’ (K. F. Ulrichs, Christusglaube: Studien zum Syntagma πίστις Χριστοῦ und zum paulinischen Verständnis von Glaube und Rechtfertigung [WUNT /; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, ] , quoting S. Moises, God, Language and Scripture: Reading the Bible in the Light of General Linguistics [Leicester: Apollos, ] ). See similarly Francis Watson, ‘As we have seen, the christological qualification of Paul’s faith terminology is intended to refer neither to “the faithfulness of Christ” nor to “faith in Christ” but, more open-endedly, to the faith that pertains to God’s saving action in Christ—originating in it, participating in it, and oriented towards it’ (Francis Watson, Paul, Judaism, and the Gentile: Beyond the New Perspective [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, ] ; cf. Watson, Paul and the Hermeneutics of Faith [London: T&T Clark, ] –).  Harrisville, ‘ΠΙΣΤΙΣ ΧΡΙΣΤΟΥ’, .  Cf. Reasoner, Romans in Full Circle, –.  J. Scherer, Le Commentaire D’Origène sur Rom. III. –V. , d’après les extraits du Papyrus no.  du Musée du Caire et les fragments de la Philocalie et du Vaticanus Gr. . Essai de ̂ aux reconstitution du texte et de la pensée des tomes V et VI du ‘Commentaire sur l’Épitre Romains’ (Cairo: Impr. de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, ) .

The Faithfulness of Jesus Christ in Hippolytus’s De Christo et Antichristo 

‘which Jesus Christ created for them in the Father’. Here we let Origen speak for himself: ‘And justifying the one who is of faith’, that is, the one who believes in Jesus and through Jesus in God, and it is not unusual in the least in anticipation of the ‘justifying the one who is of the faith of Jesus’, to say that, just as ‘Abraham believed God and it was credited to him for righteousness’, in the same way to those who believe in Jesus, or in God through Jesus, God will credit their faith for righteousness, so also will he justify the one who is of the faith of Jesus.

καὶ δικαιῶν τὸν ἐκ πίστ1ως, τουτέστιν τὸν πιστ1ύοντα 1ἰς Ἰησοῦν καὶ διὰ Ἰησοῦ τῷ Θ1ῷ, καὶ οὐκ ἄ[το]πόν γ1 προλαβόντας 1ἰς τὸ « δικαιοῦντα τὸν ἐκ πίστ1ως Ἰησοῦ » 1ἰπ1ῖν [ὅτι] ὥσπ1ρ ᾽Αβραὰμ ἐπίστ1υσ1ν τῷ Θ1ῷ καὶ ἐλογίσθη αὐτῷ 1ἰς δικαι[οσύ]νην, οὕτως τοῖς πιστ1ύσασιν 1ἰς τὸν Ἰησοῦν ἢ 1ἰς τὸν Θ1ὸν διὰ τοῦ Ἰησοῦ λο[γίζ]1ται ὁ Θ1ὸς τὴν πίστιν 1ἰς δικαιοσύνην, καὶ οὕτω δικαιοῖ τὸν ἐκ π[ίσ]τ1ως Ἰησοῦ.

As can be seen above, Origen seems to understand διὰ πίστ1ως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ in Rom . primarily in terms of ‘faith in Jesus Christ’, but embedded in that understanding seems to be the notion that when the believer puts his or her faith in Jesus Christ, then he or she becomes a beneficiary of the faith that Jesus himself displayed toward God. Though the content of Jesus’ faith is not made explicit, its presence is nonetheless felt in the twice repeated language of believing in God through Jesus. Unfortunately, in his examination of this text, Harrisville only focuses on the fact that the ‘believes in Jesus [1ἰς Ἰησοῦν]’ phraseology parallels the ‘faith of Jesus [Ἰησοῦ]’ construction. However, as we have shown, Origen does not seem to stop with an objective construal of διὰ πίστ1ως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ. Instead, he leaves open the connotation of Jesus’ own faith in God. What should we conclude with regard to this extant evidence for the use of πίστις Χριστοῦ in early Christian literature? First, though there is a paucity of evidence from the Apostolic Fathers, there are several passages that may well refer to the faithfulness of Jesus Christ. These texts suggest that the categories of ‘subjective genitive’ and ‘objective genitive’ are not mutually exclusive. Second, this line is developed in the later Church Fathers such as Origen. While he and others typically see πίστις Χριστοῦ as referring to ‘faith in Christ’, in his Commentarii ad Romanos he also leaves room for ‘the faithfulness of Christ’ in his discussion on Rom .–. Third, despite the evidence for the subjective genitive in the

 The Greek text comes from Scherer (Le Commentaire D’Origène sur Rom. III. –V. , ) and the English translation is our own.  It is interesting to note that Jesus’ faith in God is compared with Abraham’s faith in God (so also Reasoner, Romans in Full Circle, ).  Harrisville, ‘ΠΙΣΤΙΣ ΧΡΙΣΤΟΥ’, .

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MICHAEL F. BIRD AND MICHAEL R. WHITENTON

Church Fathers, heretofore there has been no known text that correlates Jesus’ faithfulness with his death on the cross. Herein lies the significance of Hippolytus.

III. Hippolytus and the Faithfulness of Christ

Hippolytus (ca. – CE) was a Greek-speaking Roman presbyter, a rival bishop in Rome, and martyr. He disagreed vehemently with the bishops Zephyrinus, Callistus, and Pontianus of Rome and was elected bishop of a schismatic community in Rome (Eusebius Hist. Eccl. .). He was eventually exiled to Sardinia by the emperor Maximinus Thrax where he died, but his body was brought back to Rome by Bishop Fabian where he was buried. As a schismatic and a Greek author in Rome, his works suffered unfortunate neglect. Hippolytus’s major works included Apostolic Tradition, Commentary on Daniel, On Christ and Antichrist, Homily on the Heresy of Noetus, Benedictions of Isaac and Jacob, and Benedictions of Moses. Yet his most influential literary achievement was his Refutation of All Heresies which roots all doctrinal aberrations of the faith in the schools of Greek philosophy. Hippolytus’s writings are also of relevance for studies on messianism and millenarianism in the early church. Everett Ferguson says of him: ‘Hippolytus resembled Irenaeus in theology, Origen in scholarship, and Tertullian in attitudes but was inferior to all three in originality and achievement.’ In Demonstratio de Christo et Antichristo, Hippolytus endeavours to present a synthesized account of the coming of the Antichrist from the Holy Scriptures, principally Daniel and the Apocalypse, and explains its effects upon the church prior to the second advent of Jesus Christ (De Chr. ). This tract is written so that the designated reader, Theophilus, may maintain faith in what is written, anticipate the things to come, and so avoid offence to God and humanity alike (De Chr. ). In the narration, the Antichrist is a Jewish ruler who mirrors the ministries of Jesus Christ in manifold ways and wages war against the church after subjugating northeast Africa and the Palestinian coastland (De Chr. , ). When Hippolytus comes to the tribulation that is destined to fall upon the church by this adversary, he cites Rev .– and interprets the image of the woman as signifying the church and the child as the ‘perfect man-child of God’ who is declared among the nations (De Chr. – ). The flight of the woman into the wilderness in Rev . is interpreted as designating the church that escapes persecution by fleeing from city to city and taking refuge in the wilderness and mountains. Hippolytus then relates the two wings of the great eagle given to the woman for the purpose of her escape in Rev  Cf. Andrew Chester, Messiah and Exaltation: Jewish Messianic and Visionary Traditions and New Testament Christology (WUNT ; Tübingen: Mohr/Siebeck, ) –.  Everett Ferguson, ‘Hippolytus’, Encyclopedia of Early Christianity (ed. Everett Ferguson; New York and London: Garland, nd ed. ) .

The Faithfulness of Jesus Christ in Hippolytus’s De Christo et Antichristo 

. as signifying the arms of Jesus Christ stretched out upon the cross. Here Hippolytus needs to be quoted in full: ‘And to the woman were given two wings of the great eagle, that she might fly into the wilderness, where she is nourished for a time, and times, and half a time, from the face of the serpent.’ That refers to the one thousand two hundred and threescore days (the half of the week) during which the tyrant is to reign and persecute the Church, which flees from city to city, and seeks concealment in the wilderness among the mountains, possessed of no other defence than the two wings of the great eagle, that is to say, the faith of Jesus Christ, who, in stretching forth His holy hands on the holy tree, unfolded two wings, the right and the left, and called to Him all who believed upon Him, and covered them as a hen her chickens. For by the mouth of Malachi also He speaks thus: ‘And unto you that fear my name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing in His wings.’

« καὶ ἐδόθησαν τῇ γυναικὶ αἱ δύο πτέρυγ1ς τοῦ ἀ1τοῦ τοῦ μ1γάλου, ἵνα πέτηται 1ἰς τὴν ἔρημον, ὅπου τρέϕ1ται ἐκ1ῖ καιρὸν, καὶ καιροὺς, καὶ ἥμισυ καιροῦ ἀπὸ προσώπου τοῦ ὄϕ1ως. » Αὗταί 1ἰσιν αἱ χίλιαι διακόσιαι ἐξήχοντα, τὸ ἥμισυ τῆς ἐβδομάδος, ἃς κρατήσ1ι τύραννος, διώκων τὴν Ἐκκλησἰαν ϕ1ύγουσαν ἀπὸ πόλ1ως 1ἰς πόλιν, καὶ ἐν ἐρημἰᾳ κρυπτομένην ἐν τοῖς ὄρ1σιν, ἔχουσαν μ1θ᾽ ἑαυτῆς οὐδὲν ἕτ1ρον, 1ἰ μὴ τὰς δύο πτέρυγας τοῦ ἀ1τοῦ τοῦ μ1γάλου, τουτέστιν, Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ πίστιν, ὃς ἐκτ1ίνας τὰς ἁγίας χ1ῖρας ἐν ἁγίῳ ξύλῳ, ἥπλωσ1 δύο πτέρυγας, δ1ξιὰν καὶ 1ὐώνυμον, προσκαλούμ1νος πάντας τοὺς 1ἰς αὐτὸν πιστ1ύοντας, καὶ σκ1πάζων ὡς ὄρνις ν1οσσούς. Καὶ γὰρ διὰ Μαλαχίου ϕησί: « Καὶ ὑμῖν τοῖς ϕοβουμένοις τὸ ὄνομά μου ἀνατ1λ1ῖ Ἥλιος δικαιοσύνης, καὶ ἴασις ἐν ταῖς πρέρυξιν αὐτοῦ. »

« Et datæ sunt mulieri duæ alæ aquilæ magnæ, ut volaret in desertum, ubi alitur per tempus et tempora et dimidium temporis, a facie sarpentis. » Hi sunt dies mille ducenti sexaginta (dimidium scilicet hebdomadæ) quibus tyrannus rerum potietur, persequens Ecclesiam fugientem de civitate in civitatem, et in solitudine in montibus latitantem, nullo alio tutam præsidio, quam duarum alarum aquilæ magnæ; fidei scilicet Jesu Christi, qui, extensis in sancta cruce sanctis manibus suis, duas extendit alas, dexteram atque sinistram, vocans ad se omnes fideles, ac velut gallina eos protegens. Nam et ait per Malachiam: « Vobis qui timetis nomen meum, orietur Sol justitiæ; et sanitas in pennis ejus. »

What is striking is that in this text from Hippolytus we have a subjective genitive construction, viz., Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ πίστιν, denoting Jesus’ faithfulness, and this is directly related to Jesus’ death on the cross. This seems certain given: () the relative pronoun ὅς relates back to Jesus Christ as the subject of what follows; () the wings are the hands of Jesus Christ spread out on the cross as the means by which this faithfulness is formally displayed; () in a christocentric interpretation of Mal

 Translations and text are from ANF . and PG ..



MICHAEL F. BIRD AND MICHAEL R. WHITENTON

. Jesus emerges as the one with ‘healing in his wings’; and () this ‘faith of Jesus Christ’ is distinguished from a subsequent act of faith by those called to believe in him (πάντας τοὺς 1ἰς αὐτὸν πιστ1ύοντας). In fact, the faithfulness of Christ and faith in Christ are both necessary components in the redemptive story assumed by Hippolytus. It thus appears that we have here the clearest reference in the corpus of patristic writings to the saving significance of Jesus’ faithfulness as displayed on the cross. While Hippolytus derives his remarks about Jesus’ faithfulness in death from Revelation, we can credibly correlate his thoughts with what Paul says about Jesus’ death as an act of obedience. When Paul refers to the ἑνὸς δικαιώματος and ὑπακοὴ τοῦ ἑνὸς (Rom .–) it is most likely that he has in mind Jesus’ voluntary death as the fulfillment of the law (Rom .; .) and the enactment of the role of the Isaianic Servant who is obedient and justifies many (Isa .–). That naturally contrasts with Adam’s breach of the divine commandment and so establishes Jesus’ position as the new Adam through his vicarious obedience. If we read Paul’s remarks in Gal . that Christ is τοῦ ἀγαπήσαντός μ1 καὶ παραδόντος ἐαυτὸν ὑπὲρ ἐμοῦ in light of Gal ., . and .–, then, the participles can be coordinated with Christ’s willingness to provide redemption by going to the cross as part of God’s plan of apocalyptic deliverance. In which case, the self-giving love of Jesus Christ in Gal . expresses the fidelity and obedience of God’s son to the task of redemptive suffering on the cross. In Phil .–, Jesus’ obedience unto death, understood as his willingness to experience utter humiliation on the cross, is the focal point of the hymn as it marks the paradigmatic model for godly service and humility (Phil .). It could be objected that ὑπακοή and πίστις are not strictly synonymous. Nonetheless, Paul can intimately associate the two together as per the ὑπακοὴ πίστ1ως that brackets Romans (Rom .; .; cf. .; .; .). Rudolf Bultmann could even speak of ‘faith primarily as obedience’ as the first point in his exposition of Paul and faith. Finally, we should note the comment of Richard Longenecker that ‘Christ’s obedient, faithful sonship undergirds a great many of

 Cf. recently Dale C. Allison, ‘Healing in the Wings of His Garment: the Synoptics and Malachi :’, The Word Leaps the Gap: Essays on Scripture and Theology in Honour of Richard B. Hays (ed. J. Ross Wagner, C. Kavin Rowe, and A. Katherine Grieb; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, ) –.  Cf. e.g. James D. G. Dunn, Romans – (WBC A; Dallas, TX: Word, ) –; N. T. Wright, ‘Romans’, NIB (ed. Leander E. Keck;  vols.; Nashville: Abingdon, ) .–; Charles H. Talbert, Romans (Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, ) –; J. R. Daniel Kirk, ‘The Sufficiency of the Cross (I): The Crucifixion as Jesus’ Act of Obedience’, Scottish Bulletin of Evangelical Theology  () –.  On the referent of πίστις, see the discussion in Hays, Faith of Jesus Christ, –.  Rudolf Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament (trans. K. Grobel;  vols.; London: SCM, ) .–.

The Faithfulness of Jesus Christ in Hippolytus’s De Christo et Antichristo 

the crucial discussions of the NT writers, for it informs matters that are not only christological in nature but also soteriological, ecclesiological, eschatological, ethical, and sacramental’. In sum, Hippolytus’s exposition of Jesus’ faithfulness in death from Revelation is conceptually paralleled by Paul’s articulation of Jesus’ death as an act of obedience.

IV. Implications

What is the significance of this text from Hippolytus? Evidently Hippolytus was reading Revelation with an understanding of Jesus’ ‘faithfulness’ as demonstrated definitively in his death on the cross as salvific (in line with Rev .; .–; .) and indelibly part of the eschatological scenario of tribulation and deliverance that was to fall upon the church prior to the parousia. Moreover, while the cross of Jesus Christ is clearly a saving event for Hippolytus, it is not in the sense of providing atonement for sins at this point. Rather, the cross is part of an apocalyptic narrative whereby Jesus’ death protects and preserves believers from the messianic woes that are to come upon the church and he is the source of healing for his followers (cf. Matt ./Luke .; Col .;  Pet .). Jesus’ faithfulness in death is portrayed as a shield that preserves believers from the diabolical designs of the Antichrist as opposed to a sacrifice that turns away divine disfavour. Finally, we also caution against an uncritical and too hasty importation of this instance of a subjective genitive of Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ πίστιν into interpretation of Pauline texts simply because  Richard N. Longenecker, ‘The Foundational Conviction of New Testament Christology: The Obedience/Faithfulness/Sonship of Christ’, Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ: Essays on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology (ed. Joel B. Green and Max Turner; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, ) .  Cf. Sigve K. Tonstad, Saving God’s Reputation: The Theological Function of Pistis Iesou in the Cosmic Narratives of Revelation (London: T&T Clark, ); David A. deSilva, ‘On the Sidelines of the Πίστις Χριστοῦ Debate: The View from Revelation’, The Faith of Jesus Christ (ed. Bird and Sprinkle).  Elsewhere Hippolytus refers to Jesus as the one from ‘whose side also flowed two streams of blood and water, in which the nations are washed and purified’ (De Chr. ). He also refers to the cross as a ‘trophy’ which the church carries about with her as a symbol of Christ’s triumph over death (De Chr. ). Hippolytus rehearses the Baptist’s testimony from John . that Jesus is the ‘Lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world’ (De Chr. ). Finally, Hippolytus alludes to  Pet . where he states that Jesus was ‘reckoned among the dead … by death overcoming death’ and he descended to Hades in order to ‘ransom the souls of the saints from the hand of death’ (De Chr. , ).  See further, Brant Pitre, Jesus, the Tribulation, and the End of the Exile: Restoration Eschatology and the Origin of the Atonement (WUNT /; Tübingen: Mohr/Siebeck, ); Scot McKnight, Jesus and his Death: Historiography, the Historical Jesus, and Atonement Theory (Waco, TX: Baylor University, ).



MICHAEL F. BIRD AND MICHAEL R. WHITENTON

Hippolytus’s remark emerges from the framework of Revelation and not from an exegesis of Galatians and Romans; what is more, there still remains a tacit historical and theological distance between Hippolytus and the NT authors that must be countenanced. That qualification aside, we think that this text sheds new light on the πίστις Χριστοῦ debate from the vantage point of patristic literature as Hippolytus provides a clear instance of Jesus’ faithfulness being related to his saving work on the cross. Further, this dramatic portrayal corroborates passages where Paul associates Jesus’ death with his obedience and fidelity to his calling.

New Test. Stud. , pp. –. Printed in the United Kingdom ©  Cambridge University Press doi:10.1017/S0028688509990129

BOOKS RECEIVED / AEJMELAEUS, Lars & Antti MUTSAKALLIO, eds., The Nordic Paul: Finnish Approaches to Pauline Theology (LNTS ; London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. xvi + . ISBN ----. £.. AUS, Roger David, The Death, Burial, and Resurrection of Jesus, and the Death, Burial and Translation of Moses in Judaic Tradition (Studies in Judaism; Lanham/Boulder/New York/ Toronto/Plymouth, UK: University Press of America, ) Pp. xxii + . ISBN ---. $.. BARNETT, Paul, Finding the Historical Christ (After Jesus ; Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, ) Pp. xi + . ISBN ----. $./£.. BAUCKHAM, Richard, Daniel DRIVER, Trevor HART & Nathan MACDONALD, A Cloud of Witnesses: The Theology of Hebrews in its Ancient Contexts (LNTS ; London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. xiv + . ISBN ----. £.. BLACK, C. Clifton & Duane F. WATSON, eds., Words Well Spoken: George Kennedy’s Rhetoric of the New Testament (Studies in Rhetoric and Religion ; Waco, TX: Baylor University, ) Pp. xi + . ISBN ----. $./£.. BOCKMUEHL, Markus & Alan J. TORRANCE, eds., Scripture’s Doctrine and Theology’s Bible: How the New Testament Shapes Christian Theology (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. $.. CAMPBELL, Ted A., The Gospel in Christian Traditions (Oxford: OUP, ) Pp. xvi + . ISBN ----. £. (Paperback). ISBN ----. £. (Hardback). COLLINS, Adela Yarbro & John J. COLLINS, King and Messiah as Son of God: Divine, Human, and Angelic Messianic Figures in Biblical and Related Literature (Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, ) Pp. xiv + . ISBN ----. $./£.. DUNN, James D.G., Beginning from Jerusalem (Christianity in the Making ; Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, ) Pp. xv + . ISBN ----. $./£.. DURAN, Nicole Wilkinson, The Power of Disorder: Ritual Elements in Mark’s Passion Narrative (LNTS ; London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. £. ELLUL, Jaques, L’Apocalpyse: Architecture en mouvement (Essais Biblique ; Geneva: Labor et Fides, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. €./CHF . EVANS, Craig A. & Emanuel TOV, eds., Exploring the Origins of the Bible: Canon Formation in Historical, Literary, and Theological Perspective (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. $.. EVE, Eric, The Healer from Nazareth: Jesus’ Miracles in Historical Context (London: SPCK, ) Pp. xxi + . ISBN ----. £.. FERGUSON, Everett, Baptism in the Early Church: History, Theology, and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, ) Pp. xxii + . ISBN ---. $./£.. FOSTER, Paul, ed., The Non-Canonical Gospels (London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. xxv + . ISBN ----. £.. FREDRICKSEN, Paula, Augustine and the Jews: A Christian Defense of Judaism (New York: Doubleday, ) Pp. xxiii + . ISBN ----. $.. GAVENTA, Beverly Roberts & Richard B. HAYS, eds., Seeking the Identity of Jesus: A Pilgrimage (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, ) Pp. xiv + . ISBN ----. $./£.. GOODER, Paula, ed., Searching for Meaning: An Introduction to Interpreting the New Testament (London: SPCK, ) Pp. xxi + . ISBN ----. £.. [Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, , ISBN ----] GORMAN, Michael J., Inhabiting the Cruciform God: Kenosis, Justification and Theosis in Paul’s Narrative Soteriology (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, ) Pp. xi + . ISBN ---. $./£..

 Books Received – GREEN, Deborah A. & Laura S. LIEBER, eds., Scriptural Exegesis: The Shapes of Culture and the Religious Imagination: Essays in Honour of Michael Fishbane (Oxford: OUP, ) Pp. xiv + . ISBN ----. £.. GREEN, Gene L., Jude &  Peter (Baker Exegetical New Testament Commentary; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, ) Pp. xxi + . ISBN ----. $.. HAUERWAS, Stanley, Matthew (SCM Theological Commentary on the Bible; London: SCM, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. £.. HOUGHTON, H. A. G., Augustine’s Text of John: Patristic Citations and Latin Gospel Manuscripts (Oxford Early Christian Studies; Oxford: Oxford University, ) Pp. xiii + . ISBN ---. £.. KIM, Seyoon, Christ and Caesar: The Gospel and the Roman Empire in the Writings of Paul and Luke (Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, ) Pp. xvi + . ISBN ----. $./£.. KIRK, J. R. Daniel, Unlocking Romans: Resurrection and the Justification of God (Grand Rapids/ Cambridge: Eerdmans, ) Pp. xiv + . ISBN ----. $./£.. KOESTER, Craig R., The Word of Life: A Theology of John’s Gospel (Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, ) Pp. xiv + . ISBN ----. $./£.. KRAUS, Thomas J., Michael J. KRUGER & Tobias NICKLAS, eds., Gospel Fragments (Oxford Early Christian Gospel Texts; Oxford: Oxford University, ) Pp. xx + . ISBN ----. £.. KURUVILLA, Abraham, Text to Praxis: Hermeneutics and Homiletics in Dialogue (LNTS ; London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. xv + . ISBN ----. £.. LÓPEZ, Elisa Estévez, Mediadoras de sanación: Encuentros entre Jesús y las mujeres: Una nueva mirada (Theología Comillas; Madrid: San Pablo, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. No price. McHUGH, John F., A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on John - (ICC; London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. xl + . ISBN ----. £.. MARTIN, Dale B., Pedagogy of the Bible: An Analysis and Proposal (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, ) Pp. xii + . ISBN ----. £.. MEEK, James A., The Gentile Mission in Old Testament Citations in Acts: Text, Hermeneutic, and Purpose (LNTS ; London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. viii + . ISBN ----. £.. MIDDLETON, Paul, Angus PADDISON & Karen WENNEL, eds., Paul, Grace and Freedom: Essays in Honour of John K. Riches (London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. xi + . ISBN ----. £.. MOO, Douglas, The Letters to the Colossians and to Philemon (Pillar New Testament Commentary; Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. $.. MURPHY-O’CONNOR, Jerome, Keys to First Corinthians: Revisiting the Major Issues (Oxford: OUP, ) Pp. xii + . ISBN ----. £.. PATTON, Kimberley C., Religion of the Gods: Ritual, Paradox, and Reflexivity (Oxford: OUP, ) Pp. xxi + . ISBN ----. £.. PELIKAN, Jaroslav, Acts (SCM Theological Commentary on the Bible; London: SCM, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. £.. PRATSCHER, Wilhelm, Markus ÖHLER & Markus LANG, eds., Das ägyptische Christentum im . Jahrhundert (Studien zum Neuen Testament und seiner Umwelt N.F. ; Berlin: LIT, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. €.. PUSKAS, Charles B. & David CRUMP, An Introduction to the Gospels and Acts (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. $./£.. SAARINEN, Risto, The Pastoral Epistles with Philemon & Jude (SCM Theological Commentary on the Bible; London: SCM, ) Pp. . ISBN ---. £.. SANDNES, Karl Olav, The Challenge of Homer: School, Pagan Poets and Early Christianity (LNTS ; London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. xvi + . ISBN ----. £..

Books Received –  SCHWIEBERT, Jonathan, Knowledge and the Coming Kingdom: The Didache’s Meal Ritual and its Place in Early Christianity (LNTS ; London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. xiii + . ISBN ---. £.. SHILLINGTON, V. George, The New Testament in Context: A Literary and Theological Textbook (London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. xi + . ISBN ----. £.. SPAULDING, Mary B., Commemorative Identities: Jewish Social Memory and the Johannine Feast of Booths (LNTS ; London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. xiii + . ISBN ----. £.. THATCHER, Tom, ed., Jesus, the Voice, and the Text: Beyond the Oral and Written Gospel (Waco, TX: Baylor University, ) Pp. viii + . ISBN ----. $./£.. THOMPSON, Alan J., One Lord, One People: The Unity of the Church in Acts in its Literary Setting (LNTS ; London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. xiv + . ISBN ---- £.. TSUTSEROV, Alexander, Glory, Grace and Truth: Ratification of the Sinaitic Covenant according to the Gospel of John (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, ) Pp. xv + . ISBN ---. $.. VOUGA, François. Politique du Noveau Testament: Leçons contemporaines (Essais Bibliques ; Geneva/Paris: Labor et Fides, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. €./CHF .. WAGNER, J. Ross, C. Kavin ROWE & A. Katherine GRIEB, The Word Leaps the Gap: Essays on Scripture and Theology in Honor of Richard B. Hays (Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, ) Pp. xxii + . ISBN ----. $./£.. WEBB, Robert L., & Peter Hugh DAVIDS, eds., Reading Jude with New Eyes: Methodological Reassessments of the Letter of Jude (LNTS ; London: T&T Clark, ) Pp. ix + . ISBN ----. £.. WITHERINGTON III, Ben, New Testament Rhetoric: An Introductory Guide to the Art of Persuasion in and of the New Testament (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, ) Pp. x + . ISBN ---. £.. WÜSTENBERG, Ralf K., Christologie: Wie man heute theologisch von Jesus sprechen kann (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, ) Pp. . ISBN ----. €..

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volume 55 | number 4 | october 2009

NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES Articles Francis Watson (Durham, England) Q as Hypothesis: A Study in Methodology [397–415] Osvaldo Padilla (Birmingham, Alabama, USA) Hellenistic and Luke’s Education: A Critique of Recent Approaches [416–437] Raimo Hakola (Helsinki, Finland) The Burden of Ambiguity: Nicodemus and the Social Identity of the Johannine Christians [438–455] Harm W. Hollander (Leiden, The Netherlands) The Idea of Fellowship in 1 Corinthians 10.14–22 [456–470] Mark Wilson (Pretoria, South Africa) The Route of Paul’s First Journey to Pisidian Antioch [471–483]

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Alicia J. Batten (Sudbury, Ontario, Canada) Neither Gold nor Braided Hair (1 Timothy 2.9; 1 Peter 3.3): Adornment, Gender and Honour in Antiquity [484–501] David G. Horrell (Exeter, England) The Themes of 1 Peter: Insights from the Earliest Manuscripts (the Crosby-Schøyen Codex ms 193 and the Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex containing P72) [502–522] Joel Marcus (Durham, USA) Birkat Ha-Minim Revisited [523–551] Michael F. Bird (Dingwall, Scotland) and Michael R. Whitenton (Dallas, USA) The Faithfulness of Jesus Christ in Hippolytus’s De Christo et Antichristo: Overlooked Patristic Evidence in the Debate [552–562] Books Received 2008-2009 [563–565]