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SAINTS AND ROLE MODELS IN JUDAISM AND CHRISTIANITY
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JEWISH AND CHRISTIAN PERSPECTIVES SERIES Editorial Board
Marcel J.H.M. Poorthuis, Joshua Schwartz, Freek van der Steen Advisory Board
David B. Burrell, Yvonne Friedman, Judith Frishman Martin D. Goodman, Pieter W. van der Horst Anton W.J. Houtepen, Gerard A.M. Rouwhorst Ze’ev Safrai, Lawrence H. Schiffman, Günter Stemberger Robert L. Wilken VOLUME VII
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SAINTS AND ROLE MODELS IN JUDAISM AND CHRISTIANITY EDITED BY
MARCEL POORTHUIS JOSHUA SCHWARTZ
BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2004
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This book is printed on acid-free paper.
The Ingeborg Rennert Center for Jerusalem Studies Faculty of Jewish Studies Bar-Ilan University, Israel www.biu.ac.il/js/rennert/jcp Catholic Theological University of Utrecht The Netherlands www.ktu.nl Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Saints and role models in Judaism and Christianity / edited by Joshua Schwartz, Marcel Poorthuis. p. cm. — (Jewish and Christian perspectives series, ISSN 1388-2074 ; v. 7) Includes bibliographical references and indexes. ISBN 90-04-12614-7 (alk. paper) 1. Zaddikim—Congresses. 2. Christian saints—Congresses. 3. Holiness—Judaism—Congresses. 4. Holiness—Christianity—Congresses. 5. Christianity and other religions—Judaism. 6. Judaism—Relations—Christianity. I. Schwartz, Joshua. II. Poorthuis, Marcel, 1955- III. Series. BM750.S24 2003 296.6’1—dc22 2003058279
ISSN 1388–2074 ISBN 90 04 12614 7 © Copyright 2004 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands Cover design by TopicA (Antoinette Hanekuyk) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands
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JEWISH AND CHRISTIAN PERSPECTIVE Judaism and Christianity share a common heritage. Recently, there has been a great deal of interest in this fact: there have been investigations into the shared aspects of this heritage as well as the elements unique to each religion. However, there has not yet been a systematic attempt to present findings relative to both the Jewish and the Christian tradition to a broad audience of scholars. The purpose of this series, Jewish and Christian Perspectives (JCP), is to fill that void and bring to light studies that are relevant to Christianity and Judaism. To this end, the series includes works pertaining to the Hebrew Bible and New Testament, the Second Temple period, the JudaeoChristian polemic (from ancient until modern times), Rabbinical literature relevant to Christianity, Patristics, Medieval Studies and the modern period. Special interest is paid to the interaction between the two religions throughout the ages and, therefore, related historical, exegetical, philosophcial and theological studies fall within the scope of this series. Moreover, scholarly studies focussing on sociological and anthropological issues – this includes archaeological studies – in the form of monographs and congress volumes, appear in JCP.
1. Houtman, A., Poorthuis, M.J.H.M. and Schwartz, J. (eds.). Sanctity of Time and Space in Tradition and Modernity. 1998. ISBN 90 04 11233 2 2. Poorthuis, M.J.H.M. and Schwartz, J. (eds.) Purity and Holiness. The Heritage of Leviticus. 1999. ISBN 90 04 11418 1 3. Kofsky, A. Eusebius of Caesarea against Paganism. 2000. ISBN 90 04 11642 7 4. Teugels, L.M. Aggadat Bereshit. Translated from the Hebrew with an Introduction and Notes. 2001. ISBN 90 04 12173 0 5. Rokéah, D. Justin Martyr and the Jews. 2001. ISBN 90 04 12310 5 6. den Hollander, A., Schmid, U. and Smelik, W. (eds.). Paratext and Megatext as Channels of Jewish and Christian Traditions. The Textual Markers of Contextualization. 2003. ISBN 90 04 12882 4 7. Schwartz, J. and Poorthuis, M. (eds.) Saints and Role Models in Judaism and Christianity. 2004. ISBN 90 04 12614 7 8. Frishman, J., Otten, W. and Rouwhorst, G. Religious Identity and the Problem of Historical Foundation. The Foundational Character of Authoritative Sources in the History of Christianity and Judaism. 2004. ISBN 90 04 13021 7 (In preparation)
ISSN 1388-2074
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CONTENTS List of Illustrations .................................................................... List of E-Mail Addresses Contributors .................................... Editorial Statement ....................................................................
ix xi xiii
INTRODUCTION
J S M P Introduction ............................................................................ J D Hermeneutics of Imitation: A Philosophical Approach to Sainthood and Exemplariness ..............................................
3
7
BIBLICAL PERIOD
E A Divine versus Human Leadership: An Examination of Joshua’s Succession ................................................................
25
RABBINIC/PATRISTIC PERIOD
D L Holy Men and Rabbis in Talmudic Antiquity .................. 45 C S Z S Rabbinic Holy Men .............................................................. 59 M B-I Prayers of Jews to Angels and Other Mediators in the First Centuries .................................................................. 79 M P Enoch and Melchizedek in Judaism and Christianity: A Study in Intermediaries .................................................... 97 J S Material Culture in the Land of Israel: Monks and Rabbis on Clothing and Dress in the Byzantine Period ................ 121
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B R L Partnership between Heaven and Earth: The Sage as Religious Role Model in Canticles Rabbah ........................ J W H Jewish and Christian Martyrs .............................................. G R The Cult of the Seven Maccabean Brothers and Their Mother in Christian Tradition .............................................. N V Individuality, Exemplarity and Community: Athanasius’ Use of Two Biblical Characters in the Life of Antony .... M P Job the Rebel: From the Rabbis to the Church Fathers .... H R Pious Intrepidness: Egeria and the Ascetic Ideal ................ A K The Byzantine Holy Person: The Case of Barsanuphius and John of Gaza ..................................................................
139 163
183
205 227 243
261
MIDDLE AGES
W B ‘The Rock on Which the Church is Founded’: Simon Peter in Jewish Folktale ............................................ P G Holiness as Gift and as Achievement in Late Medieval Funeral Sermons: The Role of the Deceased and the Religious Life of the Mourning Believer in Gabriel Biel’s sermones in exequiis .................................................................... C C Wandering between Transubstantiation and Transfiguration: Images of the Prophet Elijah in Western Christianity, 1200–1500 ..................................................
289
311
335
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MODERN PERIOD
A K R G “A Woman’s Voice is ‘Erva’”: The Female’s Voice and Silence—between the Talmudic Sages and Psychoanalysis R M New Models of the Sacred Leader at the Beginning of Hasidism .................................................................................. P P The Modern Saint: An Exploration of Sacral Interferences ............................................................................ A-M K Miraculous Women: Miracles, Religious Authority and Gender .................................................................................... A H A Holy Father on the See of Moses? ..................................
433
Index of Ancient Sources .......................................................... Index of Names and Subjects ..................................................
457 471
357
377
393
415
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Elie Assis, ‘Divine versus Human Leadership’, p. 26. Fig. 1 The well in the wilderness: Moses gives water to the tribes. Marcel Poorthuis, ‘Enoch and Melchizedek in Judaism and Christianity’, pp. 107, 116. Fig. 1 The story of Antichrist. Fig. 2 Abraham preparing to shear Melchizedek. Gerard Rouwhorst, ‘The Cult of the Seven Maccabean Brothers’, p. 192. Fig. 1 Hannah and her children in a pot while Antiochus, holding his sceptre, looks on. Nienke Vos, ‘Individuality, Exemplarity and Community’, p. 208. Fig. 1 Saint Antony being tormented by evil spirits. Martien Parmentier, ‘Job the Rebel: from the Rabbis to the Church Fathers’, p. 227. Fig. 1 Job sitting on the dunghill. Wout van Bekkum, ‘The Rock on which the Church is Founded’, p. 291. Fig. 1 Detail of tombstone of 6 year old boy Asellus. Charles Caspers, ‘Wandering between Transubstantiation and Transfiguration’, pp. 339, 341. Fig. 1 The sleeping Elijah. Lower right panel of The Last Supper (1464–1468) by Dirc Bouts. Fig. 2 Institution of the Eucharist during the Last Supper. Central panel of The Last Supper (1464–1468) by Dirc Bouts.
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Paul Post, ‘The Modern Saint’, pp. 394–412. Fig. 1 Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.
2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Fig. 9 Fig. 10
Modern saints; glass-in-concrete window in the church of Saint Anne. Padre Pio with the stigmata. Padre Pio with crucifix. Funeral of Padre Pio. Church of San Giovanni Rotondo. Titus Brandsma in his study. Portrait of Titus Brandsma in prison. ‘Modern pilgrims’ on the Camino, the Medieval route to Santiago de Compostela. House decoration with Raphael’s little angles. Devotion print.
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LIST OF E-MAIL ADDRESSES Website of the JCP Series www.biu.ac.il/js/rennert/jcp
E-mail addresses of the contributors to this volume: Elie Assis
[email protected] Meir Bar-Ilan
[email protected] Wout van Bekkum
[email protected] Charles Caspers
[email protected] Joachim Duyndam
[email protected] Paul van Geest
[email protected] Ruth Golan
[email protected] Judith Frishman
[email protected] Jan Willem van Henten
[email protected] Anton Houtepen
[email protected] Aryeh Kofsky
[email protected] Anne-Marie Korte
[email protected] Admiel Kosman
[email protected] David Levine
[email protected] Ron Margolin
[email protected] Martien Parmentier
[email protected] Marcel Poorthuis
[email protected] Paul Post
[email protected] Gerard Rouwhorst
[email protected] Birke Rapp
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Hanneke Reuling
[email protected] Chana Safrai
[email protected] Zeev Safrai
[email protected] Joshua Schwartz
[email protected] Nienke Vos
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EDITORIAL STATEMENT Judaism and Christianity share much of a heritage. There has been a good deal of interest of late in this phenomenon, examining both this common heritage, as well as the elements unique to each religion. There has, however, been no systematic attempt to present findings relative to both Jewish and Christian tradition to a broad audience of scholars. It is the purpose of the proposed series to do just that. Jewish and Christian Perspectives will publish studies that are relevant to both Christianity and Judaism. The series will include monographs and congress volumes relating to the Hebrew Bible and New Testament, the Second Temple period, the Judaeo-Christian polemic (from Ancient until Modern Times), rabbinic literature relevant to Christianity, as well as Patristics, Medieval Studies and the Modern Period. Special interest will be paid to the interaction between the religions throughout the ages. Historical, exegetical, philosophical, and theological studies are welcomed as well as studies focusing on sociological and anthropological issues common to both religions, including archaeology. Detailed information can be obtained at: www.biu.ac.il/js/rennert/jcp
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INTRODUCTION
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INTRODUCTION In the framework of ongoing cooperation between Bar-Ilan University and Catholic Theological University of Utrecht, there have taken place a number of conferences examining issues of vital importance to both Judaism and Christianity and focusing upon the overall theme of holiness. The results of these conferences have been published in the joint series of both Universities entitled Jewish and Christian Perspectives (www.biu.ac.il/js/rennert/jcp). This conference will continue to examine this theme of holiness by studying the significance of holy persons and religious role models in Judaism and Christianity. The editorial board mourns the recent passing of Prof. Dafna Yizraeli, member of the JCP advisory board. In spite of the common Biblical heritage of Judaism and Christianity, both religions have often cherisihed widely divergent views on the significance of exemplary personalities in religious experience. The major difference between Christianity and Judaism is sometimes described as the Christian need for mediation as opposed to a more direct approach to God in Judaism. Historical research, however, proves this view to be rather simplistic. Already in the Biblical period, Moses’ role is unique and inimitable, not even by his successor Joshua. Almost from its inception, Christianity has stressed the importance of its cult of the saints, whereas in Judaism somewhat of a reverse process seems to have taken place. In the course of time, the Jewish veneration of prophets and their tombs seems to have waned whereas in Christianity the ever growing distribution of relics, Christian and christianized, almost parallels the development of that religion itself. The “divinization” of figures from the Biblical period such as Enoch and Melchisedech undoubtedly began in Judaism, but was soon adopted by nascent Christianity, resulting in a waning interest in these figures in Judaism. A similar phenomenon has taken place regarding the veneration of angels and other intermediaries. Well into the Talmudic period, there was tension between rabbinic leadership and charismatic wonderworkers. Whereas the former stressed the paramount importance of communal life and of study of Torah, the latter behaved in a more individualistic manner. On the other hand, the study of Torah itself created something of an elite. In
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addition, Torah study may have been of paramount importance, but this did not prevent the development of other types of religiosity. The appearance of the Hassidic movement in the 18th century, and further developments in the history of that movement, proved that these tensions were no temporary phenomenon, but had remained deeply ingrained within Judaism. Struggles between institutionalized religion and charismatic religiosity are also found in Christianity. The Desert Fathers, although formally obedient to the Church authorities, sought their real spiritual guidance elsewhere and adopted a lifestyle, religious and material, including even their own manner of dress, which was hardly compatible with the ordinary Christian community. In spite of this, these ascetics followed in the footsteps of Biblical examples, as they interpreted them. As persecution of Christians came to end, martyrdom, as a prominent religious motif was replaced by asceticism. This marginalized the role of the Jewish Maccabees who had been venerated as Christian martyrs in spite of their Jewish identity. Still, the memory of such martyrs did not disappear, and the profusion of relics throughout Europe resulted in an immense dispersion of holiness among social strata. What were the reasons for this Christian profusion of holiness and when did such an experience of holiness border upon superstition and magic? In the iconoclasm of the Eastern churches certain devotional practices were forbidden. However, this was no more than a prelude to the Reformation’s abhorrence of the veneration of saints. Reformation theology, which exclusively emphasized Christ, did not allow for the intercession of other holy persons. However, the preReformation writer Gabriel Biel evinces some of the features commonly associated with the Reformation, ignoring saints and viewing royal persons as examples for Christian behavior. While the Jewish Maccabees might have been venerated as martyrs in Christian tradition, the prophet Elijah receives a wholly Christian identity in the Middle Ages providing an example of contemplative personality. No less curious is the role of the apostle Peter in Jewish texts. Apparently, he is portrayed as outwardly living the life of a Christian pope, but secretly observing Jewish regulations. Judaism, in reaction to Christianity, tended to minimize the importance of intermediaries between God and man. In the liturgical
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context, an intermediary between the believer and God was no longer deemed necessary as the non-priestly character of rabbinic Judaism shows. In light of that, the important role of the zaddik and of the rebbe in Hassidism from the 18th century onward to the present day may come somewhat as a surprise. Other varieties of Judaism prefer to emphasize the responsibility of each individual Jew and look with suspicion upon charismatic claims and miraculous manifestations. In modern secular society, the veneration of persons of various types has sometimes drifted away from a religious context, but has not entirely disappeared. Postmodernism seems to be able to combine very different role models in one and the same religious universe, including veneration of relics and pilgrimage to ‘holy sites’. Sometimes, surprisingly, former religious elements re-appear in a wholly new context, as is proven by a comparison between the Rabbinic attitude towards the allegedly seductive quality of the female voice and the therapeutic view of the female voice according to the school of Lacan. A comparison between the views of the papal authority, including on ‘infallibility’, with rabbinic authority embodied in the chair of Moses, yields some surprising results as well. Modern practice both within Judaism and Christianity to search for female religious role models to enhance women’s liberation deserves a fresh examination: is a female saint an incentive or a stumbling block for emancipation? In a philosophical reflection preceding all these contributions, questions of imitation, emulation and mimesis of exemplary figures are confronted with issues of freedom, obedience, autonomy and heteronomy. Perhaps the only saint worth following is the one who does not know he is one. The contributions to this volume put into bold relief salient features of Jewish and/or Christian attitudes toward holy persons and religious role models, either through the study of one of the respective traditions or through their comparison. As such, these studies contribute to the clarification of the differences and similarities between Jewish and Christian attitudes and to a deeper appreciation of the multiform manifestations of each tradition. Through interdisciplinary exchange that combines historical research with contemporary thought and philosophical and theological reflection, we aim to contribute to a deeper understanding of both Judaism and Christianity in past and present and perhaps to help forge a way for the future. Finally we
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would like to thank Henk Scholder for his painstaking efforts in preparing the indices. Joshua Schwartz Bar-Ilan University, Israel Marcel Poorthuis Catholic University of Utrecht, The Netherlands
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HERMENEUTICS OF IMITATION: A PHILOSOPHICAL APPROACH TO SAINTHOOD AND EXEMPLARINESS Joachim Duyndam (University for Humanist Studies, Utrecht, The Netherlands) The beautiful film The Bridges of Madison County from 1995, starring Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood,1 recounts the love story of Francesca Johnson (45), a farmer’s wife from Iowa, and Robert Kincaid (52), a freelance photographer working for National Geographic. As a young American’s bride Francesca came from Italy to Iowa after World War II, where at the time of the story she led a plain and steady family life, happy but dull, with occasionally the flickering memories of her young girl’s dreams. When in the summer of 1965 Kincaid drove past Francesca’s farm asking directions to Roseman’s Bridge in Madison County, her husband and her two growing children had gone out for a few days to an annual fair in Illinois. From the moment Francesca and Robert met, a true and passionate love has set these two lonely people on fire, a love that lasted only for the four days of her family’s absence but that turned out to have a huge influence over the rest of their lives. After Francesca’s death in 1989, her son and daughter were startled to find in her last will instructions that her body was to be cremated— instead of being buried in the family tomb, next to her husband who had died several years before—and that her ashes were to be scattered at Roseman’s Bridge. Looking for an answer, they started browsing through their mother’s belongings. Through her diary, some photographs and a valedictory letter they found out about Francesca’s love affair, of which they’ve had not even the slightest knowing. “If not for your father and the two of you,” Francesca’s letter said, “I would have gone anywhere with him, instantly. He asked me to go, begged me to go. But I wouldn’t, and he was too much of a sensitive and caring person to ever interfere in our lives after that.”2 1 Directed by Clint Eastwood, after R.J. Waller’s novel of the same name (New York 1992, 1997). 2 Waller 1997, 182.
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“The paradox is this,” the letter continued, “If it hadn’t been for Robert Kincaid, I’m not sure I could have stayed on the farm all these years. In four days, he gave me a lifetime, a universe, and made the separate parts of me into a whole. I have never stopped thinking of him, not for a moment. Even when he was not in my conscious mind, I could feel him. But it never took away from anything I felt for the two of you or your father. Thinking only for myself, I’m not sure I made the right decision. But taking the family into account, I’m pretty sure I did.”3 Many years later, according to the letter, Francesca received a message from Robert’s attorney reporting that he had died and that his ashes had been thrown off Roseman’s Bridge in Madison County. “After reading all this,” the farewell letter ended, “I hope you can now understand my burial request. It was not the ravings of some mad old lady. I gave my life to my family. I wish to give Robert what is left of me.”4 A tragic and impressive story, but on the other hand quite ordinary. An unattainable love is sad, but not exceptional. Neither is the conclusion that life is stronger than dreams. So why start a contribution on imitation, notably in a book that is about holy persons and religious role models, precisely with this story? Clearly, Francesca is nothing at all like a saint. And at least in the film, the narrative of her life ignores any religious feelings or practices of hers. The reason, though, to launch the subject of imitation precisely with this example lies in the inspiring influence the plot of Francesca’s life posthumously had upon her two children. Both having bad marriages, one of them seriously considering a divorce, they began to see their respective partners in another light. After reading their mother’s diary and valedictory letter, and having realized what happened at the time when they were young, of which events they have been completely unknown, they became determined to make the best of their situations, and to abandon their centripetal attitudes. In doing so, I presume they were imitating their mother. More precisely, they were imitating the exemplar their mother appeared to be. The term centripetal is to be explained later. It is supposed to be the opposite of ‘centrifugal’, ‘de-centered’ or transcendent. In my view, 3 4
Waller 1997, 182–183. Waller 1997, 183.
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Francesca’s decision not to follow the love of her life, her abstaining from the opportunity to experience a passionate relationship and a new life with a kindred soul for the sake of her family’s well-being, implies some kind of self-sacrifice. I will demonstrate in this contribution a concept of self-sacrifice that is based upon transcendence of centripetal behavior. In my interpretation, it is precisely selfsacrifice understood as transcendence that makes up the inspiring influence we try to grasp. And it is this transcendence that is to be imitated. I provisionally use the terms centripetality and transcendence in a morally neutral way, avoiding more charged wordings such as egocentric and altruistic. For it remains to be seen whether or not the inspiring influence meant here is morally good, just as it is not for sure that what Francesca did is morally good. From a traditional moral perspective, it is. But on the other hand one could argue, for instance from a feminist point of view, that her self-sacrifice was wrong; that by remaining a countrywoman and a housewife, she didn’t achieve her full capacities, and that by staying with her husband, she was in fact tolerating him rather than loving him, so that she would come out short not only to herself but also to her husband. The outline of this contribution is as follows. The leading question is: how can the imitation of inspiring exemplars be understood in a ethical-hermeneutical way? This main question implies at least three sub-questions to be dealt with here: (1) What is imitation, and what is it not—related to its ethical context? (2) How is the hermeneutic character of imitation to be understood? (3) What can be so inspiring, especially morally inspiring, that it is to be imitated? This article’s aim is to elucidate and to demonstrate that the transcendence displayed by the exemplar’s behavior appears to the imitator as a moral value to be applied hermeneutically into his of her own life—this application being the core of the imitation process. 1. What is Imitation, and What is It Not? Modern ethical reasoning is mainly based upon principles, values, virtues or beneficial goals, though rarely upon authoritative or inspiring exemplars.5 The evident fact that our moral behavior is highly 5
T. Beauchamp, Philosophical Ethics; An Introduction to Moral Philosophy, New York 1991.
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influenced by the conduct of others6 finds no full place in modern ethical theory. The reason for this absence seems to be obvious: the imitation of exemplary actions would be incompatible with currently important and widely shared values such as autonomy and authenticity. Although in the history of Western Culture, the imitation of exemplars has been both an important ethical principle and a widely extended moral practice—e.g. the exemplarily embodied virtues in Aristotelian ethics, the imitation of saints and of Christ himself in Christianity—in modern ethics, the role of exemplars seems to have been downgraded to the sole position of only instances, merely illustrating general and abstract moral rules and statements. The humble status of imitation in modern ethics has also been confirmed by moral psychology. In the well-known developmental-psychological theory of Lawrence Kohlberg, which is based on a Kantian view, acting according to an exemplar is considered to be specific to a lower grade of moral development—it is actually supposed to indicate moral immaturity—while acting in accordance with general moral rules would mark the highest degree of moral conduct.7 However, it may be argued that inspiring exemplars form a substantial part of our moral lives. We all probably have had experiences, such as taking heart from a courageous person, or coping with a confusing situation by following the example of a wise friend. Anybody who once had to take a fundamental decision in his or her life, or who has suffered or loved, who had to bear a loss, or who experienced friendship, will know the power of an inspiring exemplar. In all these existential areas a certain dignity and an excellence can be achieved by taking an eminent paradigm as a model; by directing oneself to exemplary courage, to outstanding wisdom, to respectable perseverance, to model friendship, etc. Yet there are some exceptions in contemporary ethics treating the importance of exemplars to our moral conduct. One of them is Edith Wyschogrod, who discusses in her remarkable study Saints and Postmodernism. Revisioning Moral Philosophy8 the present-day significance of hagiographies to moral action. Although she hardly focuses speci-
6
E.g. J. Nadel & G. Butterworth (eds), Imitation in infancy, Cambridge 1999. L. Kohlberg, The Psychology of Moral Development; The Nature and Validity of Moral Stages, San Francisco 1984; cf. C. Gilligan, In a Different Voice; Psychological Theory and Women’s Development, Cambridge Ma 1982. 8 E. Wyschogrod, Saints and Postmodernism; Revisioning Moral Philosophy, Chicago 1990. 7
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fically on the imitation of saints, her account of what she calls the ‘saintly effect’ is considerably valuable to our subject matter. In my view, the meaning of imitation is not confined to saints in the literal and acknowledged sense, although they make up the main paradigm, at least in Christian tradition, but it refers generally to the aforementioned inspiring influence or effect that can emanate from any exemplary person. On the other hand, it should be noticed that not all saints are to be imitated. Some are only prayed to as mediators, such as St. Anthony, because they are believed to be close to God.9 Others, like St. James, are worshiped by pilgrims who seek their proximity to share a bit of their holiness.10 Another category of saints, including ascetics, hermits and recluses, as well as the so-called pillarists such as Simeon the Stylite, is literally inimitable.11 Against the background of the contemporary ethical context touched upon briefly here, a provisional answer can be given to the question of this section: what is imitation and what is it not? The answer is rather hypothetical and will be elaborated in the next sections. 1. Firstly, imitation should be strictly distinguished from aping, copying, duplicating, mirroring or counterfeiting. In the opening story, the children of Francesca imitating her, did not copy the actions of their mother, as if they would have been entering upon a secret love affair themselves, as she did, and subsequently giving this up for the sake of their respective marriages. That would have been absurd, if not immoral. Imitating Francesca means that her children tried to translate the value of what she did—the values represented in her attitude, her behavior, her choices—into their own lives. Their lives and behavior cannot be and should not be duplicates of their mother’s. Imitation as pointed out here is a creative process, including a kind of translation of the valuable from another’s life to one’s own. To become really one’s own value, it cannot be just borrowed or adopted from another’s life, but it must be interpreted, transfigured, reconstructed. In my view, this is true for imitation of exemplars in general, including saints. Although traditional worshiping of saints may have implied appeals for their meticulous
9
W. Frijhoff, Heiligen, idolen, iconen, Nijmegen 1998. M.L. Nolan & S. Nolan, Christian Pilgrimage in Modern Europe, Chapel Hill, N.C. 1989. 11 R. Cohn, ‘Sainthood’, in: M. Eliade (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion, New York 1987. 10
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and literary ‘imitation’ or copying, this would sound implausible or even preposterous to present-day moral subjects considering themselves to be autonomous and authentic persons.12 2. Confirming that the imitation of an exemplar is a creative process implies that imitation is a matter of free action and free choice. This means that the inspiring exemplar does not exercise its work by compulsion, constraint or force, but that it is just appealing, albeit strongly appealing. The moral agent remains free either to comply with the appeal, that is to accept its invitation, or to reject it. It is not the place here to discuss all philosophical implications of this presupposition of free will. What matters here is to distinguish free imitation from the supposedly natural—and therefore ‘unfree’—human disposition so familiar to ape or to copy one another. The French-American philosopher René Girard takes this point to the extreme. All human desire is supposed to be based on mimesis, as he calls it. Although people believe and pretend that their desires are authentic and originally theirs, all desire would in fact be mediated by a model. In short, one desires a certain object because another person—the model—desires the same object too, according to Girard.13 Though extremely interesting as such, Girard’s theses are less important from an ethical point of view. Girard’s concept of ‘imitation’ is based on a supposed natural human inclination, whereas ours is built upon inspiration, choice and determination. 3. Referring to the previously raised question whether or not the inspiring influence emanating from the episode in Francesca’s life onto her children might be rated as morally good, it is clear that the answer to our question on imitation cannot have the character of a plea. I am not simply making a general plea for imitation, neither in ethics nor in life itself. History provides us with a lot of evil exemplars who should better not be imitated, though being strongly inspiring, and perhaps even sanctified by their suspicious adherents. Yet it may be a similar process at work. If the latter is true, imitation appears to be an ambivalent phenomenon. It depends on the character of the values imitated whether imitation is morally good, bad or neutral.
12 13
Wyschogrod 1990, 31–60. R. Girard, Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World, Stanford CA 1987.
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2. The Hermeneutic Character of Imitation As to the second of our three sub-questions, let us focus now on the hermeneutic character of the imitation process. The concept of hermeneutics refers, generally speaking, to the art of interpreting, as well as to the disciplines teaching such arts. Interpretation includes the detection, reconstruction, explaining, illuminating and appropriation of meaning, usually in texts. Theology and law are the traditional fields of hermeneutic craft. In its classical definition, hermeneutics identified the problem of meaning and interpretation with the exegesis of authoritative scriptural texts and human law. Since the nineteenth century, the field of hermeneutics has been extended to philology and literature, including poetry.14 Recently it has become customary to count life itself, fundamentally supposed to have a textual or narrative structure, as belonging to the expertise of hermeneutics.15 Common to these domains of theology, law, literature and life-as-a-text is that they incorporate authoritative or otherwise appealing texts—texts that are asking, inviting, seducing or even provoking to be read, interpreted and conquered. A hagiography may be such a text. In relation to such texts, hermeneutics tries to interpret their meaning whereas they are not willing to release it easily or directly. There is a distance—a historical, cultural or hierarchical gap—between the interpreter and the meaning sought for. Interpretation aims to bridge that distance, to get closer to the meaning, to assume it, to appropriate it. In cases of law, hermeneutic interpretation has dealt mostly with matters of application. The gap to be bridged here is the discrepancy between the always generally formulated rules of law on the one hand and the particular cases or situations the law is to be applied to on the other. Application is connecting the general to the particular or to the individual, the theoretical to the practical, the abstract to the concrete. The difficulties accompanying application were already familiar to Aristotle. In his ethics he stressed the importance of the virtue of phronesis (prudence), which is the virtue of practical reasoning.16 Our expression ‘jurisprudence’ still refers to this ability. Phronesis is the creative capability, acquired by education and
14 15 16
W. Dilthey, Hermeneutics and the Study of History, Princeton, NJ 1996. J. Derrida, De la grammatologie, Paris 1967. Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics, Cambridge Ma 1982, ch. 6.
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learning, to apply general values and ethical virtues to particular situations and actions.17 The German hermeneutic philosopher HansGeorg Gadamer has fashioned a modern version of the hermeneutical method on this Aristotelian practical-ethical knowledge.18 In line with Gadamer it may be defended that the hermeneutical notion of application far exceeds the field of law, and that it is generally suitable to the interpretation of meaning as being discussed here. Regarding the imitation of inspiring exemplars, and referring to the aforementioned translation of the exemplar’s values, one may also speak of the application of the values represented by the exemplar to one’s own life and actions. This application is a creative process. For the values at issue are mostly not handed down to us on a silver platter, clearly and unambiguously. Hagiographies, for instance, are usually full of mysteries, paradoxes, controversies, tall stories and miracles. Moreover, it is by these seeming impossibilities that hagiographies captivate the reader. They intrigue us and they trigger our curiosity and our creativity because they suggest something important and valuable. The captivating character of the still alien meaning that is sought for by the hermeneutic approach is indicative of some kind of recognition by the imitator. This recognition incorporates the experience that the appeal is concerning me. The exemplar’s inspiring appeal makes me, the imitator, an associate or an accomplice, not just a spectator. This implies that our quest for the alien meaning usually happens within some acquaintance or kinship with it. According to the French hermeneutic philosopher Paul Ricoeur, this kinship or appartenance (belonging to) is an essential trait of hermeneutics.19 In order to prove this, Ricoeur establishes hermeneutics on the basis of phenomenology, by demonstrating that Husserl’s intentionality presupposes appartenance, the latter being the preceding relation of inclusion that is embracing the pretended autonomous subject and the object pretendedly opposed to it.20 In doing so, Ricoeur is building
17
In Aristotelian ethics it is the art of keeping the ethical virtues in their fair equilibrium—the famous ‘right middle’—between defect and excess. 18 H.G. Gadamer, Wahrheit und Methode; Grundzüge einer philosophischen Hermeneutik, Tübingen 1960. 19 P. Ricoeur, ‘Phänomenologie und Hermeneutik’, in: E.W. Orth (ed.), Phänomenologie Heute; Grundlagen- und Methodenprobleme, Freiburg 1975. 20 E. Husserl, Ideen zu einer reinen Phänomenologie und phänomenologischen Philosophie I. Den Haag 1976.
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on Heidegger, Merleau-Ponty and also on Levinas, whom we will meet in the next section. Against this background, the process of imitation can be described as follows. The imitation of an inspiring exemplar begins with the experience of being appealed by the exemplar. The appeal is part of the very inspiration of the inspiring exemplar. It indicates a certain familiarity or kinship with the exemplar. The values represented by the exemplar are mine, up to a certain degree. They give me the experience of recognition already mentioned, like ‘Yes, this is really worthwhile, this is the right thing to do’. But the values represented by the exemplar are also alien, not mine, perhaps even ‘too far away’ for me. I have not reached (the level of ) those values yet. The just mentioned familiarity refers, hermeneutically speaking, to the preceding relation of inclusion that is embracing me, the interpreter, and the exemplar to be interpreted, making the interpreter rely on the exemplar, making the imitator committed to the values represented. Within this inclusive familiarity, I, the interpreter, am ‘moving toward’ the exemplar’s alien values, trying to reach or to achieve those values. By an opposite metaphor, one may say that I am moving the exemplar’s values to me, trying to acquire them, to appropriate them. Both movements are implied in the translation or, hermeneutically speaking, the application of the values represented by the exemplar to my life and my actions, this application being the main element of imitation. Unlike aping or copying, this application implies a creative process. The values to be acquired are not sold out, neither are they detachable from the particular life story and the actions of the exemplar. In fact, they are embodied or incarnated in the exemplar’s concrete actions, words and gestures. Moreover, they may be hidden or disguised for the most part. And if present, they may be ambiguous. All this, the inspiring appeal, the experience of recognition and familiarity with the values represented on the one hand and their strangeness and distance on the other, motivate to imitation; all this makes up the saintly effect mentioned above. In the next section I shall enter upon the question of what values actually are, and which values are to be imitated. Regarding the hermeneutic character of imitation, it may be concluded that imitation can be considered to be a practical form of hermeneutics. Whereas hermeneutics in the usual sense of the word refers to a theoretical or academic activity acquiring meanings out of texts, imitation is hermeneutics-by-doing.
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It embodies the acquiring of meanings, particularly of values, by practically endeavoring to realize them. The preceding relation of inclusion entails that the hermeneutic interpreter, exercising either theoretically as an academic scholar or practically as an imitator, is committed to the meanings or the values he or she is seeking to unveil, to obtain, and to reconstruct. The saintly effect is not for spectators; it cannot be responded to by just admiration, let alone by a touristy attitude. 3. Moral Value and Self-sacrifice Finally, we have to raise the question as to what is actually the nature of the value or the values displayed by the exemplar and to be imitated by the moral agent. What is it we translate or apply imitating? In ethical argumentation, a value is that by which an argument can be a valid argument, or through which a reason is considered to be a good reason. Ethical reasoning rests on values, but values are not like separate things available directly. They are always embodied or incarnated in something else: in an action, behavior, an event, a virtue—and, as we suppose, in an inspiring exemplar’s life. A value may be represented by a goal that is aimed for albeit never fully reached. Or it may have the character of a basic principle that is not directly dealt with itself, but from which something is being approached. Let us look at some examples. In philosophical ethics, it has become customary to distinguish moral values from non-moral values.21 There is no consensus, however, on the criterion of this distinction. Usually, such goods as justice, respect, love, friendship, freedom, autonomy and human dignity are rated among moral values, whereas physical health, spiritual wealth, prosperity, power, prestige and fame are considered to be non-moral values, or simply ‘values’. Happiness and well-being may be placed somewhere in-between. But how should one distinguish between these categories? According to one view, going back to Aristotle, a moral value is a value that serves community and its well-being (eudaimonia), whereas values benefiting only the individual’s interests may
21
Beauchamp 1991.
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indeed be values, though non-moral values.22 A religious view would rather attach the moral character of a value to its relationship to God: a moral value is given by God, and ultimately serves Him and His creation. A modern deontological view, stemming from Immanuel Kant, sharply distinguishes between values unconditionally valid (‘categorical’ values, in Kantian terms) and values with conditional (‘hypothetical’) validity. According to Kant’s categorical imperative, moral values serve mankind as an end-in-itself.23 In line with Kant, some authors would specify the distinction between moral and non-moral values as an opposition of, respectively, non-instrumental to instrumental values.24 The latter distinction not only means that these values are referring, respectively, either to ends-in-itself or to provisional purposes—not real ends but just means, so to say—but it entails that a moral value cannot be used instrumentally itself, on pain of not being a moral value anymore. When, for example, friendship is exploited to achieve a better position or for other reasons of selfinterest, friendship has become an instrument and consequently has lost its moral character.25 I would submit another criterion to distinguish between moral and non-moral values, in line with the French-Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Levinas.26 Let me first stress, however, the importance of such a distinction being made here, in spite of the general lack of unanimity on the matter. Referring to the previously raised question as to how one should deal with the so-called evil exemplars history provides, who from an ethical point of view should better not be imitated, though being strongly inspiring and influencing, the suggestion could be made that the so-called good exemplars might be distinguished from the evil ones by the distinction between moral and non-moral values. Following this suggestion, the appealing effect of evil exemplars would rest upon such values as prestige, courage, toughness, power and so on, whereas the saintly effect of good exemplars would depend on moral values. If so, then the distinction between moral
22 E.J. Bond, Ethics and Human Well-Being; An Introduction to Moral Philosophy, Cambridge Ma 1996; Aristotle 1982. 23 I. Kant, Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten, Darmstadt 1975. 24 J. Rachels, Can Ethics Provide Answers? And Other Essays in Moral Philosophy, Boston 1997. 25 J. Duyndam, Denken, passie en compassie; Tijdreizen naar gemeenschap, Kampen 1997. 26 E. Levinas, Totality and Infinity; An Essay on Exteriority, Pittsburgh 2000.
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and non-moral values is of great interest to our question on imitation. Distinguishing moral from non-moral values is all the more important because non-moral values are also representing goods, albeit not moral goods. They are not bad, immoral or evil as such. Physical health, spiritual wealth, prosperity, power, prestige, and so on, are excessively valued and strongly being aimed at. People pay high prices for them. So they are properly called values. Still, they are not moral values. As to the question on moral values, Levinas’ view combines in a way the three criteria of morality mentioned above, as it integrates components of the Aristotelian-communitarian, the religious and the Kantian-unconditional paradigms. The central issue of Levinas’ philosophy is the first person responsibility, my responsibility, which is considered to be the very source of morality in general. This first person responsibility, according to which I am primarily, fully and unconditionally responsible for the other, precedes the more general level of morality, say the level of community or state, on which rights and obligations are distributed equally. On the underlying level, my responsibility is inescapable and cannot be delegated. From Levinas’ perspective, Ricoeur’s appartenance (belonging to)27 is a moral appartenance to the other. Seen from this basic level of responsibility, the morality of a moral value depends on the other. This implies that a value is a moral value if and only if it stems from and complies with my responsibility for the other. In other words, a value is a moral value insofar as it serves the other. Let us reassess now from this point of view the examples previously given. Are freedom and autonomy moral values? If they are directed by responsibility, primarily my responsibility for the other, they are indeed to be rated as moral values. If they are to be taken in a general, natural or abstract sense, they are not. Some of the moral values mentioned above—such as respect, love, friendship and justice—may imply themselves this basic responsibility for the other, and in as far as they do, they are from our point of view to be considered to be moral values indeed. But how about physical health, prosperity and happiness—previously counted as non-moral values, or in-between? From Levinas’ point of view of responsibility, morality cannot be fully understood from a general point of view, cover-
27
See § 2.
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ing me and the other. So these values should also be ‘differentiated’ or specified between me and the other, just like the previously given examples of freedom and autonomy. My physical health, my prosperity and my happiness are a matter of care for myself, not unimportant but just my business. The physical health, the prosperity and the happiness of the other, however, are like a holy obligation to me. To me, these are substance of my responsibility for the other. And so is my physical health, actually, if there are people dependent on me, as, for instance, my children are. In such a case my physical health is not just my business anymore. In that case, it has become like a moral value. So we may conclude in line with Levinas’ view that the morality of a moral value originates from my essential responsibility, and consequently rests upon the difference between what concerns me and what serves the other. According to Levinas, the relation between the essentially differing spheres of what concerns me and what serves the other is a relationship of transcendence. As a subject I am not only the center of my relations to the world, i.e. of my own perceptions, knowledge, actions, passions, and giving meaning, but I have also the ability of being de-centered by the otherness of the other. Subjectivity is in Levinas’ view supposed to incorporate both tendencies: centrality or the ‘centripetality’ of natural self-interest on the one hand and decentrality or transcendence on the other, corresponding to the two main concepts of Levinas’ principal work: totality and infinity.28 Roughly speaking, these two reflect the propensity to take, to have and to hold on the one hand and the incentive to give on the other. The centripetal disposition, being the stronger of the two, is predominant in human nature. However, the centripetal disposition may be given up or broken through—or sacrificed—by transcendence. Leaving aside the question whether this transcendence is either actively done by the subject29 or rather occurs to me passively,30 we may conclude that the subject’s self, his or her natural inclination to act out of self-interest, may be sacrificed for the benefit of something more important or something more valuable—like Francesca did in our opening story, and likewise her children imitating her. 28
Levinas, Totality and Infinity. As Levinas states in his first capital work Totality and Infinity. 30 As Levinas elaborates in his second capital work Otherwise than being or beyond essence (Den Haag 1981). 29
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I would define self-sacrifice as breaking through or giving up my centripetal attitude, behavior or thinking. As self-sacrifice may occur either by chance (un-deliberately) or with determination, the definition includes the possibilities of both breaking through and giving up. Connecting this definition with Levinas’ first person responsibility, and with the dependance of the morality of moral values exactly on this responsibility for the other, it may be concluded that the morality of a moral value depends on self-sacrifice. In other words, a moral value is a value worth self-sacrifice in the first person, my self-sacrifice. What does this all mean for our discussion on imitation? Recalling the saintly effect—incorporating an inspiring appeal to me, demonstrating a moral value that is both familiar and alien, motivating to imitate the exemplar, that is to apply the displayed value to my own life—it may be concluded now that the exemplar’s inspiring appeal, as by demonstrating a moral value, is appealing precisely to my basic responsibility. The exemplar’s message is that there is something valuable for me to do. For me means that it cannot be passed on to another. And it is a valuable thing to do—the ‘right thing’—because of the moral value revealed by the exemplar and recognized by me. The reason by which I may know that the value displayed by the exemplar is a moral value, is the exemplar’s self-sacrifice. Actually, it is the exemplar’s self-sacrifice that discloses the exemplified moral values as moral values. It is the exemplar’s self-sacrifice—being non-natural and therefore surprising, startling, puzzling—that invites me to interpretation and imitation. It is the exemplar’s self-sacrifice that makes me presume that the values to be imitated are really worthwhile. These conclusive words may sound somewhat lofty and highminded, but let us not forget that they fit perfectly well with the quite ordinary life of Francesca as recounted in our opening story. Her life and the choices she made, as far as being interpreted by her children reading her diary after her death, display such values as faithfulness, dedication and enduring love—praiseworthy values indeed, but not uncommon and, as it may be supposed, extensively shared by their social environment. These values are strongly enhanced and reinforced, however, by the self-sacrifice of the moral agent serving them. By that they become moral values, as we have seen. Francesca’s self-sacrifice made these usually routine values really appealing to her children, motivating them to imitation, to apply these values to their own lives and to take on their own responsi-
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bilities. Positively a saintly effect, though not of a saint. The hidden character of what happened at the time has prevented her children from being stuck in admiration and perhaps sanctification of their mother. In such a case they might not have come to imitation. I started this contribution by warning that self-sacrifice is a controversial concept, likely to be abused in ethical contexts, seducing moralists to deposit moral pressure upon their audiences by propagandizing self-sacrifice in an absolute way.31 The first person perspective that is adopted here, however, effectively prevents the interpreter or imitator from moralizing, preaching, sermonizing or pontificating. Breaking through or giving up a centripetal attitude is strictly limited to a first person, to me. I may notice self-sacrifice occurring to someone else, notably to my inspiring exemplar, I may imitate it but I may never delegate it to someone else. Have we provided a solution now to all problems raised above? Unfortunately not, I am afraid. The saintly effect of the good exemplar to be imitated may be well understood now, appealing to me and demonstrating moral values reinforced by some form of selfsacrifice. But have we definitely solved the problem of distinguishing between good and dangerous exemplars? The distinction made above between moral and non-moral values may not suffice. Although self-sacrifice is a necessary condition or a necessary element of the saintly effect, it is not a sufficient condition. Moral values imply selfsacrifice, according to our line of thought, but self-sacrifice does not imply morality. In other words, an inspiring exemplar may display a kind of self-sacrifice in order to support the values he or she is demonstrating, but still be an evil exemplar. For what is good, and what is evil? Ultimately, we do not know.32
31 Besides, these audiences have turned out to be female mostly. So the issue is not gender-neutral. History should make us quite cautious as to defending forms of self-sacrifice. 32 And what counts even more: we cannot know, according to a long tradition from Plato’s Idea of the Good until G.E. Moore’s Naturalistic Fallacy. Some general works on imitation, important though not explicitly cited above, are: E. Auerbach, Mimesis; Dargestellte Wirklichkeit in der abendländischen Literatur, Bern 1982; S. IJsseling, Mimesis, Baarn 1990; M. Poorthuis, Het gelaat van de Messias; Messiaanse Talmoedlezingen van Emmanuel Levinas, Hilversum 1992; H.U. Reck, Imitation und Mimesis; Eine Dokumentation, Köln 1991; M. Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity; A Particular History of the Senses, New York 1993; G. Wenzelmann, Nachfolge und Gemeinschaft; Eine theologische Grundlegung des kommunitären Lebens, Stuttgart 1994.
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BIBLICAL PERIOD
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DIVINE VERSUS HUMAN LEADERSHIP: AN EXAMINATION OF JOSHUA’S SUCCESSION Elie Assis (Bar-Ilan University, Israel) In this paper we attempt to examine the topic of leadership as it is presented in the narratives of Joshua’s succession. These narratives may contribute to a better understanding of this issue since Moses is Israel’s first leader and a biblical role model. It is told that Moses led the Israelites during their formative years as a nation, taking them out of Egypt, and shepherding them during the wandering in the wilderness. Moses is presented in the Pentateuch as the one who shaped Israel’s culture, ideology and beliefs as well as constituting a juridical system. It is, therefore, not surprising that the death of the great leader and the appointment of his successor are echoed repeatedly in the Books of Numbers and Deuteronomy. In this paper we will concentrate mainly on its first occurrence in Numbers 27:12–23, followed by an observation of Deuteronomy 31:1–8. In light of these examinations we will examine the ties between Moses and Joshua as they appear in the beginning of the Book of Joshua. 1. Moses’ Succession: The Role of God and Moses Numbers 27:12–23 contains two passages: 12–14—God’s announcement to Moses regarding his death1 14–23—an appointment of Moses’ successor
1 An expanded version of vv. 12–14 is repeated almost verbatim in Deuteronomy 32:48–52. Scholars agree that the two passages belong to P. Von Rad claims that the two passages are two independent variants, because they are not identical, see: G. von Rad, Deuteronomy, A Commentary (OTL, tr. D. Barton), London 1966, 201. But Noth is right that the agreement between the passages is so extensive, that this opinion must be completely rejected, see: M. Noth, The Chronicler’s History (tr. H.G.M. Williamson, JSOTsup 50), Sheffield 1987, 178 n. 1. For the question which passage is the original and which is a redactive repetition, see: S.R. Driver, Deuteronomy (ICC), Edinburgh 1895, 383; G.B. Gray, Numbers (ICC), Edinburgh 1903, 400. B.W. Bacon, The Triple Tradition of the Exodus, Hartford 1894, 239–240. According to Noth
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Fig. 1 The well in the wilderness: Moses gives water to the tribes (Synagoge at Dura-Europos, C. 250 ).
Moses’ death report shares many similarities with Aaron’s death report, Num 20:23–29. They resemble one another in their theme, style and vocabulary. They both share a common structure, which consists of the same components. The following table illustrates these points:
the repetition of the announcement of Moses’ death at the end of Deuteronomy is a result of the insertion of the great Deuteronomic material between God’s announcement and the occasion of Moses’ death. See: M. Noth, Numbers, A Commentary (OTL, tr. J.D. Martin), London 1968, 213. For the question why nonetheless Moses’ death announcement was left in its original place in Num 27, out of the context of the actual death account, see: P.J. Budd, Numbers (WBC), Waco 1984, 306; J. Milgrom, Numbers (The JPS Torah Commentary), Philadelphia New York 1990, 233.
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: ’ Numbers 20:23–29
Numbers 27:12–23; Deuteronomy 34:1–7 12
27
Geographical indication
23
Then the L said to Moses and Aaron at Mount Hor, on the border of the land of Edom,
The L said to Moses, “Go up this mountain of the Abarim range, and see the land that I have given to the Israelites.
Announcement and reason of death
24
13
“Let Aaron be gathered to his people. For he shall not enter the land that I have given to the Israelites, because you rebelled against my command at the waters of Meribah.
Appointment of successor
25
Take Aaron and his son Eleazar, and bring them up Mount Hor; 26 strip Aaron of his vestments, and put them on his son Eleazar. But Aaron shall be gathered to his people, and shall die there.” Execution of appointment
When you have seen it, you also shall be gathered to your people, as your brother Aaron was, 14 because you rebelled against my word . . . These are the waters of Meribath . . . 15 Moses spoke to the L, saying. 16 “Let the L, the God of the spirits of all flesh, appoint someone over the congregation. 17 who shall go out before . . . so that the congregation of the L may not be like sheep without a shepherd.”. 18 So the L said to Moses, “Take Joshua son of Nun, a man in whom is the spirit, and lay your hand upon him. 19 Have him stand before Eleazar the priest and all the congregation, and commission him in their sight.
27 22 Moses did as the So Moses did as the L had commanded; L commanded they went up Mount him. He took Joshua
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28 (cont.)
Numbers 20:23–29
Numbers 27:12–23; Deuteronomy 34:1–7
Hor in the sight of the whole congregation. 28 Moses stripped Aaron of his vestments, and put them on his son Eleazar;
and had him stand before Eleazar the priest and the whole congregation; 23 he laid his hands on him and commissioned him…
Actual death
and Aaron died there on the top of the mountain. Moses and Eleazar came down from the mountain.
. . .5 Then Moses, the servant of the L, died there in the land of Moab, at the L’s command. 6 He was buried in a valley in the land of Moab…
Mourning
29
The Israelites wept for Moses in the plains of Moab thirty days; then the period of mourning for Moses was ended.
When all the congregation saw that Aaron had died, all the house of Israel mourned for Aaron thirty days.
The two death accounts share a similar form as indicated in the table above.2 In light of these similarities, one significant difference between the two accounts is conspicuous. God’s command to Aaron regarding his death includes an order to transfer the priesthood to Aaron’s son—Eleazar.3 This order contains specific instructions regarding the installation rite: stripping Aaron of his vestments and putting them onto the designated Priest. Contrary to this, God’s announcement to Moses does not include an instruction to appoint a successor.4 It
2
See: T.R. Ashley, The Book of Numbers (NICOT), Grand Rapids 1993, 548. The departing narrative of Elijah also includes an instruction to appoint Elisha as a replacement instead of Elijah, I Kings 19:15–16: ‘Then the L said to him, Go, return on your way to the wilderness of Damascus; when you arrive, you shall anoint Hazael as king over Aram. Also you shall anoint Jehu son of Nimshi as king over Israel; and you shall anoint Elisha son of Shaphat of Abel-meholah as prophet in your place’. 4 In his commentary to Genesis, Coats identified the following typical components that characterize the death report: 1. A summary formula noting the total 3
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29
is Moses who initiates the appointment of a successor who will replace him, Numbers 27:15–17: Moses spoke to the L, saying. “Let the L, the God of the spirits of all flesh, appoint someone over the congregation who shall go out before them and come in before them, who shall lead them out and bring them in, so that the congregation of the L may not be like sheep without a shepherd.”
God’s decision to appoint Joshua instead of Moses was in response to Moses’ request. The obvious question is why God announced Aaron’s successor while he refrained from appointing a successor to Moses? This question stands out prominently through the structure of the seemingly ordinary verse: ‘Moses spoke to the L, saying’. This sentence is formed in reverse to the very common verse in the Pentateuch: “And the L spoke to Moses”. The use of a similar well known form in a reverse order conspicuously points out to what the reader expects at this point: God’s instruction regarding a successor to Moses; instead he finds the opposite—Moses’ appeal to God.5 Moreover, unlike Numbers 27, in parallel accounts of Moses’ death in the Book of Deuteronomy there is an immediate reference to Joshua’s appointment. Thus we find in Deut 1:37–28: ‘Even with
number of years in life. 2. A death notice. 3. A burial notice. 4. A notice of mourning. The Death Reports that Coats includes in this genre are: Sarah, 23:1–20 (pp. 163–166); Abraham, 25:7–11 (pp. 172–173); Ishmael, 25:17–18 (174–175); Deborah, 35:8 (p. 238); Rebecca, 35:16–20 (pp. 240–241); Isaac, 35:27–29 (pp. 245–247); Jacob, 47:28–50:14 (pp. 300–303); Joseph, 50:22–26 (pp. 313–315). G.W. Coats, Genesis with an Introduction to Narrative Literature (FOTL), Grand Rapids 1983; See also: J.J. Scullion, ‘Literary Forms in Genesis’, ABD vol. 2, New York 1992, 956–962, esp. 960. Ashley, The Book of Numbers, 548. In Abraham’s case Coats identified another component: A notice of the deceased succession (p. 173). In fact, in most cases of Death Reports there is some kind of reference to the idea of continuation. After the report of Sarah’s death and the search for a wife for Isaac, Rebecca is depicted as Sarah’s substitute, 24:67: ‘Then Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah’s tent . . . So Isaac was comforted after his mother’s death’. After the report of Isaac’s death, chapter 36 enumerates Esau’s descendants, while emphasizing repeatedly his residence in the land of Seir. Immediately, chapter 37 opens with Jacob descendants, and announces ‘Jacob settled in the land where his father had lived . . . the land of Canaan’. The association of the succession with the death report emphasizes the absence of God’s appointment of Moses’ successor. 5 This matter was first recognized by the Midrash of Sifre Zuta on Numbers 27,15: ‘“Moses spoke to the L, saying”—In the entire Torah the phrase “And Moses spoke to the L, saying” is found only here. He said to Him: “Let me know if you are going to appoint someone in my place. . . .”
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me the L was angry on your account, saying, “You also shall not enter there. Joshua son of Nun, your assistant, shall enter there; encourage him, for he is the one who will secure Israel’s possession of it”’. 3:27–28: ‘Go up to the top of Pisgah and look around you to the west, to the north, to the south, and to the east. Look well, for you shall not cross over this Jordan. But charge Joshua, and encourage and strengthen him, because it is he who shall cross over at the head of this people and who shall secure their possession of the land that you will see’. One explanation is that the purpose of this passage is to reveal Moses’ virtue. He is concerned for the people’s condition after his death and not about his own misfortune.6 Doubtlessly, Moses’ act here is noble, but this answer does not resolve the question why God did not mention the appointment of a leader before Moses responded. As a matter of fact scholars usually ignored this question.7 The most reasonable explanation is that, in principle, God did not intend that a leader should be appointed after Moses’ death. According to this conception, Moses, the first leader of Israel, took the people of Israel out of Egypt and was meant to lead them into the Promised Land without being succeeded by one single leader.8 Joshua’s death report, in Josh 24, confirms this thesis. After Joshua’s death is reported, there is no appointment of a leader to succeed him; thus God’s original plan that there should not be any leader after Moses was postponed as a result of Moses’ request, but realized after Joshua’s death ( Josh 24:29–30). The absence of a leader to succeed Joshua is conspicuous in comparison with Eleazar’s death report in the same passage, which alludes to the transition of the
6
See, Sifre Numbers 138: ‘This is to tell you the virtue of the righteous, that, when they depart from this world, they put aside their own needs and address the needs of the community’. This interpretation was adopted by Rashi, and is found also in: A.G. Butzer, The Book of Numbers (The Interpreters Bible), vol. 2, New York 1953, 272–274, in the exposition to the commentary; Ashley, Numbers, 550–551. 7 Noth, for instance, claims: ‘The narrative of Joshua’s installation as Moses’ successor is remarkable in that the initiative is taken by Moses (v.15)’. Noth, Numbers, 214. Nevertheless, Noth does not attempt to explain this feature. 8 It is interesting to note that Von Rad’s view is that according to source J, Moses was not very active and he was in the background while God was the actual leader. Moses’ duty was very limited; it was to announce God’s plan to Israel but not to act as the leader. In his opinion, this presentation is in accordance with the conception that Moses is not a leader at all; God is Israel’s leader. See: G. von Rad, Old Testament Theology, vol. 1, (tr. D.M.G. Stalker), Edinburgh & London 1962, 291–292. According to Von Rad, a different picture of Moses’ office is given by E, see: pp. 292–293.
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priesthood to his son Phinehas:9 ‘Eleazar son of Aaron died; and they buried him at Gibeah, the town of his son Phinehas, which had been given him in the hill country of Ephraim’, Josh 24:33.10 Phinehas is, indeed, the priest serving in the period of the Judges ( Jud. 20:28), and he is mentioned in the story of the altar built by the Transjordanian tribes ( Josh 22). After Joshua’s death, the people were left without a single central leader. Instead, the leadership was transmitted to the local elders of every tribe and clan. Our argument in this paper is that this system should have begun immediately after Moses’ death, if according to plan he had entered the Land. 2. Analysis of Numbers 27: Moses’ Request and Joshua’s Appointment Before exploring this idea, an examination of the content and style of Moses’ request will reinforce the concept presented above. We shall begin with Moses’ last sentence of his appeal to God, v. 17b: so that the congregation of the L may not be like sheep without a shepherd
This statement has meaning only if Moses understood that God had no intention to appoint someone to replace him, and he is attempting to dissuade him from this plan. The use of the metaphor ‘sheep without a shepherd’ is meant to illustrate the potentially disastrous result of God’s plan.11 The metaphor of a shepherd looking after the sheep appears several times in the Bible to characterize a dedicated and ideal care of a leader. It might refer to human leadership (Ps 78:71–72) or divine leadership (Ps 23; 80:2; Isa 40:11). It is not surprising that God is presented as a shepherd in relation to the Exodus references (Ps 77:21; 78:52; Isa 63:11 ff.). 9
See: R.D. Nelson, Joshua, A Commentary (OTL), Louisville 1997, 280. The text is not decisive in regard to who received the portion, Eleazar or Phinehas. The commentators dealt with the issue of a cohen receiving a portion here contrary to other places that explicitly exclude the priests from distribution of land. See: Y. Kaufman, The Book of Joshua, Jerusalem, 1959, 256; A.B. Ehrlich, Mikra ki-Pheshuto, vol. 2, 1900, 41–42. 11 For the use of the shepherd-flock imagery in the bible and extra-biblical sources, see: J.W. Vancil, ‘Sheep, Shepherd’, ABD, vol. 5, New York 1992, 1187–1190. For image of the king as a shepherd in the Near East, see: W. Zimmerli, Ezekiel 2 (Hermeneia—A Critical and Historical Commentary on the Bible) (tr. J.D. Martin), Philadelphia 1983, 213–214; M. Greenberg, Ezekiel 21–37 (AB), New York 1997, 707–708, and bibliography there. 10
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The metaphor is employed in negative contexts as well. In the prophecies of Jeremiah and Ezekiel, the metaphor is applied to the rebuke of Israel’s leaders who abused their position not only by abandoning their responsibilities towards their people, but also by exploiting them for their own benefit (e.g.: Jer 23:1–4; 25:34–35, Ezek 34; Zech 11:4–11). In these prophecies, God is pictured as a shepherd, who replaces the human leaders and gathers the sheep back to the land after they were scattered as a result of the shepherds’ negligence.12 In light of the use of the shepherd—flock metaphor, the meaning of Moses’ statement—‘may not be like sheep without a shepherd’— is that refraining from appointing a leader to succeed him, will cause the dispersal of the people of Israel who will then fail to reach their destination. Moreover, perhaps Moses’ use of this metaphor is an admonition against God, alluding that refraining from appointing a leader is God’s failure to fulfill His duty as Israel’s shepherd. Moses addresses God with the rare appellation, v. 16: the God of the spirits of all flesh
The exact meaning of this phrase is not clear,13 but a comparison with its only other appearance might clarify its meaning. After God decided to exterminate the people following Korah’s rebellion, Aaron and Moses beg him to change His mind, Numbers 16:22: ‘They fell on their faces, and said, “O God, the God of the spirits of all flesh, shall one person sin and You become angry with the whole congregation?”’. A profound connection between these accounts may be asserted. Both cases are about a leadership crisis in relation to Moses’ character.14 In the first, Korah asserted that Moses and Aaron assumed 12 According to Cooke, Ezekiel 37 pronounces an anti-monarchic view, picturing God as Israel’s leader instead of human monarchs, presenting the replacement of monarchy by Theocracy. Cooke believes that this negative attitude came as a result of Israel’s experience under the monarchical regime from the 8th century BCE See: G.A. Cooke, The Book of Ezekiel (ICC), Edinburgh 1936, 372 ff. For a different view, see: E. Hammershaimb, ‘Ezekiel’s View of the Monarchy’, Studia Ioanni Pedersen . . . Dicta, Hauniae 1953, 130–140 (esp. 136–138). 13 There are two general lines of interpretation: 1. The appeal here is to God’s justice, thus, the meaning of the expression is—the God who knows all spirits can discern the sinner from the innocent (Rashi; Rashbam; J. Licht, A Commentary on the Book of Numbers, [XI–XXI], Jerusalem 1991, 143, Hebrew). 2. The appeal is to God’s mercy. The explanation of the term is an acknowledgment of God’s right to take the life that he gave, following this concept comes the appeal to God’s mercy not to take the life of the innocent. See: A. Noordtzij, Numbers (tr. E. van der Mass, Bible Student’s Commentary), Grand Rapids 1983, 149; Ashley, Numbers, 314. 14 See: Ashley, Numbers, 551.
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authority to which they were not entitled. In fact, Korah’s claim is that the people do not need a single leader at all because the entire nation is holy, and no individual should be singled out.15 Moses’ argument in Numbers 27 is the opposite. His claim is that leaving the people without a leader will result in a crisis. On the one hand, in the Korah narrative, God sets Moses and Aaron apart from the people whom He intends to destroy, and apparently God plans to fulfill his promises through Moses and Aaron (Num 16:20, see also: Ex 32:10). On the other hand, in the narrative discussed here, God commands Moses to die, as his brother Aaron did, but the people will continue on to the Promised Land. Moses attempts to change God’s decision in both cases, and he succeeds in both. In Korah’s case, Moses and Aaron accuse God of injustice—‘shall one person sin and you become angry with the whole congregation?’. Moses’ argument, in Numbers 27 is that the execution of God’s plan will be disastrous. Indirectly, however, his argument is similar to the one in the Korah episode: that the sin of one man (his own sin) should not affect the whole people. Thus Moses’ request to appoint a leader, so that they would not remain without a shepherd, is parallel to his appeal that God should not punish the entire people because of Korah and his party. In both cases that the words ‘the God of the spirits of all flesh’ are employed, the possibility of the annihilation of the people is considered real. Moses’ actual request, vv. 16–17a is: appoint someone over the congregation who shall go out before them and come in before them, who shall lead them out and bring them in
Moses’ office was never defined as such even though there were various titles in use at the time,16 such as: king (˚lm ), prince (ayçn), minister (rç) and nagid (dygn ).17 Accordingly, Moses’ request does not
15 The nature of this narrative is composite. Many scholars have resolved the difficulties of this narrative by separating the different pentateuchal sources. See, for example: J. Wellhausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs, 1899, 102–106, 340–342. Though Liver agrees that the narrative is composite, he disputes the existence of different sources. Instead, he identifies various traditions. See: J. Liver, ‘Korah, Datan and Aviram’, in: Studies in Bible and Judean Desert Scrolls, Jerusalem 1971, 9–30 (Hebrew). For a summary of approaches, see: J. Licht, A Commentary on the Book of Numbers [XXII–XXXVI ], Jerusalem 1995, 132–134 (Hebrew). Milgrom identifies four separate rebellions, see: Milgrom, Numbers, 414–423. 16 At the theophany of the burning bush he is assigned to deliver Israel from Egypt, but no office is specified. Exod 3:10: ‘So come, I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt’.
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include a title for the office he wishes to pass on. Instead, he vaguely describes: ‘appoint someone over the congregation’. Another term used to describe the office is ‘who shall go out before them and come in before them, who shall lead them out and bring them in’. This term generally means to ‘manage’ or it might apply specifically to military leadership.18 Yet the avoidance of using a title for the post of Moses and his successor is significant. Perhaps, refraining from using a fixed title is meant to avoid the possibility of institutionalization of that position. What may be the explanation for God’s initial reservation to appoint a successor to Moses? The conception behind this is that Israel’s exclusive leader is God himself. The ideology is that God is sovereign over the world, and placing a single human leader at the head of the nation diminishes God’s sovereignty. This idea resembles the concept of ‘The Kingdom of Heaven’ that prevails in some Biblical passages, especially in antimonarchic statements that contrast human kingship to divine kingship. The idea in Numbers 27:12–23 is radical. According to this passage, no human may interpose between God and His people, for God is their exclusive leader. Moses was an exception because he was Israel’s first leader and at the outset it was necessary to make the initial connection between God and Israel. Indeed, at the beginning of the Exodus narrative we find that the duty of Moses was not merely to show Pharaoh God’s mighty hand, but to present the people of Israel with God’s intention of redeeming them.19
17 It is therefore not surprising to find a range of biblical depiction and scholarly opinion as to the definition of Moses’ role: He has been described as a king, a prophet, a teacher and a scribe, a judge and a priest. See: J.W. Watts, ‘The Legal Characterization of Moses in the Rhetoric of the Pentateuch’, JBL 117 (1998), 415–426. E. Auerbach, Moses (tr. R.A. Barcley & I.O. Lehman), Detroit 1975, 90–93; S.E. Loewenstamm, ‘Moses’, Encyclopaedia Biblica, vol. 5, Jerusalem 1968, cols 482–495 (Hebrew). See also: B.S Childs, Exodus, A Commentary (OTL), Philadelphia 1974, 353–359. 18 See: J.H. Tigay, Deuteronomy (The JPS Torah Commentary), Philadelphia— Jerusalem 1996, 259; Gray, Numbers, 400–401. Gray is inclined to interpret the term as: ‘an idiomatic way of expressing activity in general by reference to its commencement and conclusion’. This interpretation is applied to Moses’ words as a request that ‘his successor may initiate all undertakings of the people and see them through’. 19 See: U. Cassuto, A Commentary on the Book of Exodus (tr. I. Abrahams), Jerusalem
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Numbers 27:12–23, contains two voices. God’s initial reservation against appointing a leader represents an ideological aspect of the concept of leadership, while the words of Moses represent a practical aspect. The ideal is compromised in favor of the practical need for a human leader. Indeed, the argument of Moses as presented in the passage is not a conceptual one, but a practical one: ‘so that the congregation of the L may not be like sheep without a shepherd’. 3. Joshua’s Appointment If this idea is accepted, the uniqueness of the rite of Joshua’s installation in Numbers 27:15–23 is understood. The most common rite of appointment is the anointment of the designated candidate.20 This rite is found in the appointment of kings (2 Sam 2:4–7; 5:4; 19:10; 1 Kgs 1:34,45; 2 Kgs 11:12)21 and priests (Ex. 29:7; 40:13–15; Lev 8:12, 30).22 Other rites include the enthronement,23 coronation24 and the transfer of vestments. One of the rites in the installation of Aaron and the other priests was the donning of the priestly garments (Exod 29:5–6, 8–9, 29–30; 40:12–14; Lev 8:7–9, 13). In Numbers 20, the
1967, 40–42; Noth M., Exodus, A Commentary (OTL, tr. J.S. Bowden), Philadelphia 1962, 40–41. 20 For the meaning of this act, see: Noth, ‘Office and Vocation in the Old Testament’, in: The Laws in the Pentateuch and Other Studies (tr. D.R. Ap-Thomas), Philadelphia 1966, 229–249 (esp. 239–240). Noth claims that according to the ancients, oil contained vital energy, and thus the anointed person was given permanent additional vital energy. 21 For the installation of a king, See: R. de Vaux, Ancient Israel; Its Life and Institutions (tr. J. McHugh), London 1965, 100–107. 22 For the appointment of the priest, see: de Vaux, Ancient Israel, 346–348. For the origin of the act of anointing a king and its application to the high priesthood, see: Noth, ‘Office and Vocation in the Old Testament’, 237–238. In some Biblical passages, it appears that even prophets were anointed, see: 1 Kgs 19:16; Isa 61:1. It is very unlikely that Elisha was anointed since the transition of the prophetic office stands in sharp contrast to the essence of Biblical prophecy. Indeed, except for this case, there is no other example of a prophet appointing another. See J. Gray, I & II Kings, A Commentary (OTL), London 1970, 411. For Elisha’s appointment by Elijah, see: R.P. Carroll, ‘The Elijah-Elisha Sagas: Some Remarks on Prophetic Succession in Ancient Israel’, VT 19 (1969) 400–415. In Isaiah 60:1 the word ‘anointed’ does not mean to anoint the body, but rather ‘to give authorization’. See: C. Westermann, Isaiah 40–66, A Commentary (OTL, tr. D.M.G. Stalker), London 1969, 365–366. 23 Similarly the act of a new king sitting on the throne meant that he was invested as a king. See: de Vaux, Ancient Israel, 106–107. 24 See: de Vaux, Ancient Israel, 103.
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transfer of Aaron’s garments and the dressing of his son Eleazar with them, meant that Eleazar was installed into the office in place of his father.25 Unlike these rites, Joshua’s installation was enacted by Moses laying his hands over him. The probable meaning of this rite, is that something is transferred from the one that lays his hands onto somebody else.26 This clarifies the basic difference between the analogous appointments of Eleazar and Joshua. Eleazar occupies an officially recognized and definite post, thus the installation rite of Eleazer into the priestly position is symbolized by wearing the special priestly garments. However, Moses did not transfer any post, because he did not hold a definite one. Moses did not transfer an office but rather his authority (Num 27:20: ‘You shall give him some of your authority’). Taking into account the meaning of the rite of laying hands, he transferred part of his personality. In order not to institutionalize the position of an individual standing at the head of the nation, Joshua did not obtain a title, and even the rite of appointment does not resemble a fixed one. Rather, through the rite of laying hands
25 Another possible case might be the appointment of Elisha in place of Elijah (I Kings 19:19–21; 2 Kings 2:1–18). Some view the casting of the mantle as a symbolic act of installation, see: R. Kittel, Die Bücher der Könige (HKAT), Göttingen 1900, 155. J.A. Montgomery, The Book of Kings (ICC), Edinburgh 1951, 315–316. Some scholars view the casting of the mantle upon the chosen successor as magical rite that possesses the power of its owner, see: J. Gray, I & II Kings, A Commentary (OTL), London 1970, 413. Z. Weisman, ‘Elijah’s Mantle and Consecration of Elisha’, Shnaton: An Annual for Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies 2 (1977), 93–99 (Hebrew). G.H. Jones, 1 and 2 Kings (NCB), vol 2, Grand Rapids-London 1984, 336. 26 See: J. Licht, ‘Semikhah’, Encyclopaedia Biblica, vol. 5, Jerusalem 1968, cols 1052–1055 (Hebrew). For instance by laying his hands on the goat Aaron transfers onto it the sins of Israel, Leviticus 16:21. From this case Licht derives that in all cases of expiatory sacrifices laying hands means transference of the guilt. Licht presents another variation to explain this act. The one whom the hands were laid over is identified with the person who laid his hands, and he, in turn, becomes his emissary, his substitute. Such is the case of the first born laying their hands over the Levites thereby becoming their substitutes, Numbers 8:10. Licht claims that this explanation may be applied to the sacrifices as well. Every sacrifice may be seen as a substitute of the person who presents the offering. Péter distinguished between laying over one hand in sacrifices indicating that he who presents the offering identifies himself as its owner. Laying two hands implies transition of power and authority. See: R. Péter, ‘L’imposition des mains dans L’Ancien Testament’, VT 37 (1977) 48–55. Wright accepts this conclusion and demonstrates a similar gesture among the Hittites, see: D. Wright, ‘The Gesture of Hand Placement in the Hebrew Bible and in the Hittite Literature’, JAOS 106 (1986) 433–446. See also: M. Paran, ‘Two Types of “Laying Hands Upon” in the Priestly Source’, Beer Sheva 2 (1995) 115–119 (Hebrew).
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he is designated as the successor to Moses. This also explains the choice of Joshua as Moses’ successor. Joshua is known as Moses’ servant who was very close to his master (Exod 33:11). The intimacy between Joshua and Moses indicates that the appointment of Joshua is not the beginning of a new regime. The presentation of Joshua as a second Moses serves to bridge between the ideological reservation against appointing a leader after Moses and the practical need for one. 4. Further Applications of the Thesis It is also possible to understand a difficulty in Deuteronomy 31:1–6 in light of the interpretation presented in this paper. Before his death, it is reported that Moses said to Israel the following, vv. 2–3: I am now one hundred twenty years old. I am no longer able to get about, and the L has told me, you shall not cross over this Jordan. The L your God himself will cross over before you. He will destroy these nations before you, and you shall dispossess them. Joshua himself will cross over before you, as the L promised.
The three verses use the phrase ‘cross over’. After Moses declares that he will not cross over to the land, in the next sentence he says that God will cross over before Israel. The use of this verb with reference to God is not unusual in the Bible, but the difficulty is that the use of this verb here immediately after its use with regard to Moses not bringing Israel into the Land gives the impression that God is the substitute of Moses. This difficulty is enhanced in the third sentence that presents Joshua as Israel’s leader, using again the same verb—‘cross over before you’, that is attributed in the previous sentence to God’s leadership. Some scholars have ignored these difficulties. Tur-Sinai, however, proposes to omit the words ‘himself will cross over before you’ in the second sentence, and to add the conjunction waw before the word ‘Joshua’. The emended version then is: ‘God will destroy these nations before you, and you shall dispossess them. And Joshua himself will cross over before you’.27 Craigie’s interpretation is like that
27
N.H. Tur-Sinai, Pshuto Shel Mikra, vol. 1, Jerusalem 1967, 219.
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of Tur-Sinai but without the emendation of the text. According to his interpretation God and Joshua together will cross over before Israel.28 According to this explanation, Joshua is Moses’ substitute and the reference to God is in accordance with the concept of the Holy War that God fights for His people. Rofé argues that v. 3b is the natural sequence to v. 2, because v. 3a vitiates the contrast between Moses who cannot cross the Jordan and Joshua who will take Moses’ place. Moreover, there is no logic in substituting God for Moses because God participated in Israel’s wars in the days both of Moses and Joshua. Rofé concludes that v. 3a should be omitted, and since vv. 4–6 are in sequence to 3a they should be omitted too.29 Because all other versions support the MT, Rofé assumes that the expansion of the text was made at a very early date. The original text according to Rofé was vv. 1–2, 3b, 7–8. In order to emphasize the marvelous assistance of God in the conquest of the Land verses 3a, 4–6 were added. A different solution may be suggested in light of our interpretation of Numbers 27:12–23. If this interpretation is accepted, the meaning of Deuteronomy 31: 3a might be that, indeed, God is Moses’ substitute, and that he was actually supposed to lead Israel across the Jordan. This corresponds with the idealistic idea expressed by God’s avoidance to appoint a leader in Num 27. Verse 3b expresses the practical solution that a human leader is necessary and corresponds with Moses’ request to appoint a human leader.30
28 P.C. Craigie, The Book of Deuteronomy (NICOT), Grand Rapids 1976, 369. See: D.Z. Hoffmann, Sefer Devarim, Tel-Aviv 1959, 659. This is in fact the understanding of the NRSV translation ‘Joshua also himself will cross over before you, as the L promised’. 29 A. Rofé, Introduction to Deuteronomy, Jerusalem 1988, 208; G.A. Smith, The Book of Deuteronomy (CBSC), Cambridge 1918, 333; W.L. Moran, ‘Deuteronomy’, in: B. Orchard, et al. (ed.), A New Catholic Commentary on the Holy Scripture London 1969, 257; J.D. Levenson, ‘Who Inserted the Book of Torah?’, Harvard Theological Review 68 (1975) 203–221, esp. 209. However, Von Rad thinks that verses 3–6 are a later amplification and that originally Joshua’s appointment in v. 7 followed v. 2, but he does not offer arguments for this hypothesis (von Rad, Deuteronomy, 188). Elsewhere, he points out that Deut 31:3–6, 7–8 describes God as a warrior who destroys Israel’s enemies and this is the typical Holy War concept. In this context, he views only v. 3b as a late insertion. See: G. von Rad, Studies in Deuteronomy (Studies in Biblical Theology, tr. D. Stalker), London 1953, 56. See also: M. Noth, The Deuteronomistic History ( JSOTsup, 15), Sheffield 19912, 59 n. 2. 30 The ideological association between Num 27:12–23 and Deut 31 that we have pointed out in this paper is supported by Lohfink’s observation that the Pg text of Num 27:12–23 is dependent on the text of DtrL (= the major part of Deuteronomy
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There are other implications of this thesis in the Book of Joshua. As we have seen above, after Joshua’s death, a leader was not appointed. The request of Moses included a limited extension of his leadership, in order to complete the challenging task of the conquest of the Land and its distribution. This extension ended with Joshua’s death. At that moment the conception of Israel without a human leader was realized for the first time.31 5. Joshua’s Leadership Compared to Moses’ Leadership Scholars have pointed out that Joshua is presented as a reflection of Moses.32 Joshua is explicitly compared to Moses several times in the Book of Joshua,33 and also described as implementing Moses’ instructions.34 Many of Joshua’s actions resemble actions of Moses.35 We
1 to Joshua 22 which Lohfink defines as a deuteronomistic narrative of the occupation of the Land, see p. 187) in Deut 31. Lohfink based this conclusion on linguistic arguments: Moses explains Joshua’s installation because of his incapacity to lead the people due to his old age, Deut 31:2: ‘he said to them: “I am now one hundred twenty years old. I am no longer able to go out and come in”’. Similar words are used by Moses in Num 27:16–17: ‘Let the L . . . appoint someone over the congregation who shall go out before them and come in before them, who shall lead them out and bring them in’. See: N. Lohfink, ‘The Strata of the Pentateuch and the Question of War’, in: Theology of the Pentateuch; Themes of the Priestly Narrative and Deuteronomy (tr. L.M. Maloney), Minneapolis 1994, 197–198. 31 This idea is expressed by Buber: ‘The Hebrew leaders are so much in earnest about it that after the land has been conquered they undertake to do what is “contrary to history”: they try to build a society without a ruling power save only that of God. It is that experiment in primitive theocracy of which the Book of Judges tells, and which degenerates into anarchy, as is shown by examples given in its last part’. See: M. Buber, ‘Biblical Leadership’, On the Bible, New York 1982, 146. 32 See: M.Z. Segal, Mavo Lamiqra, vol 1, Jerusalem 1960, 157; J. Porter, “The Succession of Joshua”, in: J. Durham & J. Porter (eds), Proclamation and Presence, Richmond 1970, 102–132; L. Mazor, The Septuagint Translation of the Book of Joshua; Its Contribution to the Understanding of the Textual Transmission of the Book and its Literary and Ideological Development, unpublished doctoral dissertation, The Hebrew University, Jerusalem 1994, 230, 456 and n. 36 (Hebrew). S. Ahituv, Joshua (Mikra Leyisrael), Tel-Aviv—Jerusalem 1995, 37–39 (Hebrew); Nelson, Joshua, 21–22; D. Or, Moses and His Time in Biblical Literature, unpublished doctoral dissertation, The Hebrew University, Jerusalem 1977, 151 ff. 33 See e.g.: Josh 1:5: ‘As I was with Moses, so I will be with you’; See also: 1:17; 3:7, 14. Joshua is called ‘The servant of the Lord’ at the end of the Book (24:29), similar to Moses’ title at the beginning of the Book (1:1). 34 See: Josh 1:7–8; 4:10; 8:35; 11:15; 14:2, 5; 20:1–9. 35 The spy narratives (Num 13, Josh 2); the crossing of the sea of Reeds and the Jordan river (Exod 14, Josh 3–4); the celebration of Passover (Exod 12; Josh 5:10); Moses at the burning bush and Joshua’s encounter with the commander of
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have also demonstrated elsewhere this concept in the structure of Joshua 1–5. There it was shown that every story in chapters 1–5 has a parallel in the Pentateuch, but that they are arranged in a reversed order to that of the parallels in the Pentateuch.36 The following table demonstrates this structure: Joshua 1–5
Parallels in the Pentateuch
1:1
After the death of Moses the servant of God
Deut 34:5 The death of Moses the Servant of God
1:1–9
After Moses’ death God encourages Joshua, commands him to enter the Land, and assures him that he will be with him
Deut 31:1–7
Before his death Moses encourages the people, assures them that God will be with them, that Joshua will bring them into the Land
1:12–18 Joshua asks the Num 32 Transjordanian tribes to keep their promise to Moses to go before the people and to help them to conquer the land. They then respond.
Moses accepts the request those who wished to settle in the Transjordan on the condition that they would go before the people and help them to conquer the land. They consent.
2
Moses sent spies to the Land
Joshua sent spies to Jericho
Num 13–14
God (Exod 3:2–5; Josh 5:13–15). For these parallels, see: E. Assis, The Literary Structure of the Conquest Narrative in the Book of Joshua (Chs 1–11) and its Meaning, unpublished doctoral dissertation, Bar-Ilan University, Ramat-Gan 1999, 36–39, 163–164, 184–186, 188–191. See there for detailed bibliography on these issues. Joshua lifted his sword towards Ai and Moses lifted his arms up in the battle against Amalek (Exod 17:11; Josh 8:18, 26). Moses conquers the Land east of the Jordan ( Josh 12:1–6), and Joshua conquers the Land west of the Jordan ( Josh 12:7–24). Both Moses and Joshua distributed the Land: Moses the east of the Jordan ( Josh 13) and Joshua the west of the Jordan ( Josh 14–19). Like Moses, Joshua addresses the people before his death ( Josh 23). They both made a statute and an ordinance (Exod 15:25; Josh 24:25). 36 Assis, The Literary Structure of the Conquest Narrative in the Book of Joshua (Chs 1–11) and its Meaning, 30 ff.
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: ’
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(cont.) Joshua 1–5
Parallels in the Pentateuch
3–5:1
The crossing of the Jordan River
Exod 14
The crossing of the Sea of Reeds
5: 2–12
Circumcision and Passover
Exod 12
Passover and circumcision
5:13–15 Joshua’s theophany Exod 3:1 ff Moses and the theophany at Jericho, and the at the burning bush, and instruction of the God’s instruction: ‘Remove commander of God’s the sandals from your feet, army: ‘Remove the for the place where you sandals from your stand is holy ground’ feet, for the place where you stand is holy’
This mirror structure constitutes a literary continuation between the Book of Joshua and the previous books of the Pentateuch. It also contributes to the characterization of Joshua as a reflection of Moses, especially proclaiming the continuity of the relationship between God and His leaders. Nevertheless, it is almost impossible to reconstruct Joshua’s character, even though he is present in the whole book of Joshua, and in fact, he is the only character portrayed across the entire book. It seems that the author deliberately did not disclose adequate information regarding his personality, so that the only conclusion the reader may reach regarding his character is his resemblance to Moses. It is our view that the presentation of Joshua as a reflection of Moses is an attempt to resolve the psychological and spiritual problem that the nation faced with the traumatic death of Moses, the veteran leader upon whom they were dependent.37 The new leader was no more than an extension of the old one. Our main thesis is that the fusion of both leaderships stems from a fundamental religious concept according to which no one but God
37 See Assis, The Literary Structure of the Conquest Narrative in the Book of Joshua (Chs 1–11) and its Meaning, 42–43.
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is Israel’s leader. As explained above, the leadership of Moses was exceptional, and that of Joshua, as we have just shown was an integral part of it. Joshua did not appoint a leader to replace him, and the elders governed the people after his death. Reviv claimed that the elders were chosen by active members of the people, apparently by military participants.38 Others think that the elders included all free males.39 Whatever the actual method of electing the elders, it is reasonable to view governmental system as a sort of primitive democracy, and the conception on which the system was based was that the people possessed complete sovereignty.40 The leadership of the elders, who represented the whole mass of individuals, prevented any single individual from attaining a position of too much prominence, and maintained a balance between different power groups in society. Above the individuals of the group there was only one incontrovertible leader—the God of Israel. This conception appears again in the Bible in relation to the establishment of the monarchy in ancient Israel, but eventually the practical need for a central human leader prevailed. God’s sovereignty as expressed in the narrative of Joshua’s succession, is again uttered in the clear declaration of Gideon: ‘I will not rule over you, and my son will not rule over you; the L will rule over you’ ( Judg 8:23).41
38 H. Reviv, From Clan to Monarchy; Israel in Biblical Period 3, Jerusalem 1990, 70–71 (Hebrew). 39 C.U. Wolf, ‘Traces of Primitive Democracy in Ancient Israel’, JNES 6 (1947) 98–108. 40 H.M. Orlinsky, Ancient Israel, Ithaca 1954, 13–14. See also: M. Buber, ‘Leadership in the Bible, in: Darko shel Mikra, Jerusalem 1978, 130 f. Wolf, ‘Traces of Primitive Democracy in Ancient Israel’, 98–108. 41 For the idea of the ‘Kingdom of God’ and its date, see e.g.: O. Eissfeldt, ‘Jahwe als König’, ZAW 46 (1928) 81–105; M. Buber, Kingship of God (tr. R. Scheimann), London 1967. The tendency in recent research is to view the concept of God’s kingship as pre-monarchic. See: J. Gray, ‘The Hebrew Conception of the Kingship of God: its Origin and Development’, VT 6 (1956) 268–285; T. Ishida, The Royal Dynasties in Ancient Israel; A Study on the Formation and Development of Royal-Dynastic Ideology (BZAW, 142), Berlin-New York 1977, 38–39. Scholars have convincingly proven that Samuel’s Manner of the King (1 Sam 8:11–17) is a testimony of the period it describes—eve of the foundation of Israelite Monarchy, see e.g. S. Talmon, ‘“The Rule of the King”—I Samuel 8:4–22’, in: King, Cult and Calendar in Ancient Israel, Jerusalem 1986, 53–67.
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RABBINIC/PATRISTIC PERIOD
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HOLY MEN AND RABBIS IN TALMUDIC ANTIQUITY David Levine (Hebrew University, Israel) [1] How does a community define its religious focus? What place in society occupies the center of spiritual attention? Phrased in the idiom of historians of religion: What is the primary locus of the supernatural within a culturally defined group? Classical antiquity locates its divinities in temples, with priests or other officials administering the usually sacrificial ritual. This cultural map underwent a fundamental change. Jonathan Z. Smith speaks of late Hellenism as the context in which individual theurgoi begin to assume the role of chief mediators of the Divine. Smith uses the autobiography of Thessalos, a second century magician, to illustrate this development. Perhaps the most representative and telling description in that text is that of the protagonist’s arrival at Diospolis Megalé (Thebes of Egypt) “a [mere] shadow of its former glory, with a handful of priests inhabiting a few ruined temples”.1 The temple wanes as the magus waxes: “[T]he authority—indeed the divinity—of the priest-king, the faith of the clergy in the efficacy of their rituals, the temple as the chief locus of revelation—all these have been relativized in favor of a direct experience of a mobile magician with his equally mobile divinity”.2 Peter Brown—in his portrait of the Byzantine holy man—identifies this cultural-religious shift, four centuries later. The much celebrated
1 J.Z. Smith, ‘The Temple and the Magician’, in: idem, Map is not Territory, Leiden 1978, 178. See also: M. Smith, ‘Prolegomena to a Discussion of Aretologies, Divine Men, the Gospels and Jesus’, JBL 90 (1971) 174–199; idem, ‘On the History of the Divine Man’, in: A. Benoit (ed.), Paganism, Judaïsme, Christianisme—Marcel Simon Festschrift, Paris 1978, 335–345; R. Phillips, ‘The Sociology of Religious Knowledge in the Roman Empire to 284’, ANRW II, 16.3 (1986) 2752–2764. 2 J.Z. Smith (ibid.) 189. Alternately: ‘Rather than a sacred place, the new center and chief means of access to divinity will be a divine man, a magician, who will function, by and large, as an entrepreneur without fixed office . . . Rather than celebration, purification and pilgrimage, the new rituals will be those of conversion, initiation into the secret society or identification with the divine man’ (idem, 187).
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rise and function of the late antique holy man encapsulates this development: “In the period between 200 and 400, Mediterranean men came to accept, in increasing numbers and with increasing enthusiasm, the idea that divine power was represented on earth by a limited number of exceptional human agents, who had been empowered to bring it to bear among their fellows by reason of a relationship with the supernatural that was personal to them, stable and clearly perceptible to fellow believers”.3 This depiction of the holy man as a key to understanding pivotal aspects of Late Roman culture and society, has been one of the most suggestive accomplishments of Late Antique studies. This figure both participates in and influences central spiritual developments such as: the expansion of the early Byzantine church; the encounter of the pagan countryside with this new religious force. He personifies the holy, and is presented as aspiring to Imitatio Christi.4 The holy man was not only a spiritual or religious phenomenon, but also a social figure that exerted communal and political influence within the geographical area in which he functioned. Town-village relations, the evolving nature of rural patronage, the necessity of arbitration, both personal and communal; are all connected to the career of the holy man.5 “[H]ealing, good advice . . . arbitration, plainspeaking, cursing and intercession, on behalf of individuals or whole communities”;6 were all part of the holy man’s activities. These two interconnected developments—the shift from institution to acclaimed individual, and the social as well as spiritual aspects of
3 P. Brown, The Making of Late Antiquity, Cambridge, Massachusetts 1978, 12. “A society prepared to vest fellow humans with such powers was ever vigilant. Men watched each other closely for those signs of intimacy with the supernatural that would validate their claim. Holiness itself might be quantifiable. Symeon Stylites, we are told, touched his toes 1244 times in bowing before God from the top of his column. The true horror of this story lies not in the exertions of the saint, but in the layman who stood there counting” (ibid., 13–14). 4 P. Brown, ‘The Saint as Exemplar in Late Antiquity’, Representations 1/2 (1983) 1–25; idem, Authority and the Sacred, Cambridge 1995, 57–78; R. Browning, ‘The “Low Level” Saint’s Life in the Early Byzantine World’, in: S. Hackel (ed.), The Byzantine Saint (Studies Supplementary to Sobornost 5), San Bernadino, California 1981, 117–127; G. Fowden, ‘The Pagan Holy Man in Late Antique Society’, JHS 102 (1982) 35–59. 5 P. Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity’, ‘Town, Village and Holy Man’, in: idem, Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity, Berkeley & Los Angeles 1982, 103–152, 153–165; Fowden (ibid.). 6 Brown, Authority and the Sacred (ibid.), pp. 59, 64.
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this endowed person’s tenure—are well correlated in contemporary Jewish culture. The two centuries leading to the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 herald a shift in the religious history of Judaism. From a religion preoccupied with a sacrificial cult at Jerusalem, administered by the Aaronide priests; there is a turn towards exploring and introducing alternate modes of piety and spirituality. This development is complex and should not be ascribed only as a result of the destruction itself. Its roots and beginnings are to be identified in the crises and developments from the second century onward.7 Even after 70 , this process continues to be a gradual one. The centrality of temple and cult does not disappear, neither in theory nor even in practice, as evident in the aspirations of the Bar-Kokhba rebels, and the persistence of the priestly status.8 The gradual nature of this process is also perceptible in the literary output of the rabbis. Practically half of the Mishnah-Tosefta corpus deals with temple-oriented material. Even without adding the relevant parts of the tannaitic midrashim, one is impressed by the attention afforded the temple, its ritual and the priestly routine. Even if the literature of the Tannaim indicates a new type of literary endeavor; the fact remains that the first two centuries of rabbinic activity continue dealing with issues and subjects of a past era, albeit in new modes. As the centuries progress, the amoraic material deals less and less with these domains of halakhah. The editing of the Talmudim affords a literary perspective of this re-orientation, with the PT leaving out the final two mishnaic orders dealing with sacrifices and purities, and the BT not including the final order of purities.9 7 M. Stone, Scriptures, Sects and Visions, Philadelphia 1980, esp. 57–86; S.J.D. Cohen, From the Maccabees to the Mishnah, Philadelphia 1987, esp. 34–45, 62–103, 143–173, 214–231. 8 See: D. Goodblatt, ‘The Title Nasi and the Ideological Background of the Second Revolt’, in: A. Oppenheimer & U. Rappaport (eds), The Bar-Kokhva Revolt; A New Approach, Jerusalem 1984, 113–132 (Hebrew); D. Trifon, The Jewish Priests from the Destruction of the Second Temple to the Rise of Christianity, Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Haifa 1985 (Hebrew); R. Kimelman, ‘The Conflict between the Priestly Oligarchy and the Sages in the Talmudic Period’, Zion 48 (1983) 135–147 (Hebrew). For intimations of sacrifices after the destruction, see: K.W. Clark, ‘Worship in the Jerusalem Temple after AD 70’, NTS 6 (1960) 267–280; A. Guttmann, ‘The End of the Jewish Sacrificial Cult’, HUCA 38 (1967) 137–148; A. Aderet, From Destruction to Restoration; The Mode of Yavneh in the Re-Establishment of the Jewish People, Jerusalem 1990, 66–68 (Hebrew). 9 The Babylonian inclusion of the fifth order, Kodashim, is curious and has not
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In the development of talmudic religion, temple and cult recede while individual piety comes to the fore. Whether the de jure responsibility of each person to fulfill his or her own obligations—or the rabbis as role models of piety—the focal point of religious experience resides in the person, not in the institution.10 A changing element of rabbinic self-depiction conforms to the chronological framework under discussion. The almost total absence of rabbis as miracle-workers in tannaitic tradition has been noted and variously interpreted in modern scholarship.11 The ability to influence the supernatural is not a skill that this early literature cares to associate with its protagonists, and in general, the individual as a conduit to the Divine is lacking in this stratum of rabbinic literature.12 This absence is strikingly contrasted with the abundance of such portrayals in amoraic traditions from the third century and afterwards. These later traditions do not hesitate to portray rabbis possessing unique capabilities, able to render assistance to the community because of their special ties with the supernatural. Third and fourth century talmudic tradition added the manipulation of the supernatural to the leadership qualities and spiritual assets of its heroes. been satisfactorily explained, neither in traditional literature nor in scholarly writings. The prevalent explanation (following BT Men 110a) is that the study of the subject is to be construed as a substitute for actual participation in the cult. This does not account for other parts of mishnaic law, equally theoretical and irrelevant to contemporary practice, which are not addressed by the Babylonian Talmud. See: D. Goodblatt, ‘The Babylonian Talmud’, ANRW II, vol. 19.2 (1979) 259–261; H.L. Strack & G. Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, Minneapolis 19962, 191. For the missing orders in the Palestinian Talmud see: B. Bokser, ‘An Annotated Bibliographical Guide to the Study of the Palestinian Talmud’, ANRW (ibid.) 165–167; Y. Sussman, ‘Chapters of Yerushalmi’, Mehqerei Talmud 2 (1993) 220 note 4 (Hebrew); Strack & Stemberger (ibid.) 166–168. 10 R. Goldenberg, ‘The Broken Axis: Rabbinic Judaism and the Fall of Jerusalem’, JAAR Supplement 45 (1977) 869–882; J. Neusner, ‘Map without Territory; Mishnah’s System of Sacrifice and Sanctuary’, in: idem (ed.), Method and Meaning in Ancient Judaism, 1, Missoula, Montana 1979, 133–153; B.M. Bokser, ‘Rabbinic Responses to Catastrophe; From Continuity to Discontinuity’, PAAJR 50 (1983) 37–61; Aderet (supra, note 8), esp. 7–33, 86–111, 119–148; E. Fleischer, ‘On The Beginnings of Obligatory Jewish Prayer’, Tarbiz 59 (1990) 397–441 (Hebrew). 11 M. Smith, Tannaitic Parallels to the Gospels, Philadelphia 1951, 51; W.S. Green, ‘Palestinian Holy Men; Charismatic Leadership and Rabbinic Tradition’, ANRW II, 19.2 (1979) 624–625; B.M. Bokser, ‘Wonder-Working and the Rabbinic Tradition’, JSJ 16 (1985) 78–86. 12 The reservations early rabbinic tradition had regarding the centrality of an endowed individual can also be interpreted as a desire to accentuate the availability and accessibility of basic religious experiences (such as prayer and study) to all. Green (ibid.); Bokser (ibid.)
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[2] The enticing portrayal of the Byzantine holy man of late antiquity has stimulated historians of Judaism in late antiquity to explore its implications for their field of studies. Two main approaches have been utilized. One approach describes certain characteristics of the Talmudic rabbi as a Jewish parallel to the Christian holy man. Rabbis were spiritual virtuosi, miracle workers, social arbiters, authorities on law and ritual, and exemplars of their religious tradition.13 A prime example—used repeatedly in this context—is the story of the drought set in early third century Sepphoris, and the ensuing interaction between R. Hanina b. Hama and the Zippora’ei, the Sepphoreans.14 The Sepphoreans regard R. Hanina as a holy-man who is approached in times of need because of his powers of intercession and solution; the relations between sage and town folk, however, were not always good. This tenuous situation was exacerbated by Hanina’s apparent unwillingness to intercede in times of plague and drought. The townspeople blamed his aloofness for the ongoing public calamity. The crowd’s demanding behavior is crucial to the picture. The expectation of the Sepphoreans is simple and straightforward: the rabbi has the power and ability, and can manipulate it at will. The rabbi, for his part, sees ‘a word of Torah’ and its influence over the people as a key to resolving the communal crisis. Only if the members of the community assume responsibility for their actions, will a solution be forthcoming.15 A second approach endeavors to locate holy man figures in Jewish society outside rabbinic circles. Whether in a diaspora context16 or 13 J. Neusner, Talmudic Judaism in Sassanian Babylonia, Leiden 1976, 46–60; R. Kirschner, ‘The Vocation of Holiness in Late Antiquity’, Vigiliae Christianae 38 (1984) 105–124. 14 PT Taan 3:4 66c (see: L. Ginzberg, Geniza Studies, 1, New York 1928, 420); L. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine, Jerusalem & New York 1989, 107, 121; S. Miller, ‘R. Hanina bar Hama at Sepphoris’, in: L. Levine (ed.), The Galilee in Late Antiquity, New York & Jerusalem 1992, 192–193; idem, ‘Those Cantankerous Sepphoreans Revisited’, in: R. Chazan et al. (eds), Ki Baruch Hu; Studies in Honor of B.A. Levine, Winona Lake, Indiana 1999, 561–562. 15 I might add that the talmudic storyteller cannot resist the urge to illustrate the manipulative ability of his protagonist. After the (public) assertion by R. Hanina that he is not involved, the story ends with a demonstration of his rainmaking prowess. 16 J.N. Lightstone, The Commerce of the Sacred; Mediation of the Divine among Jews in the Graeco-Roman Diaspora, Chico, California 1984, esp. 40–49, 148–152.
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in a non-rabbinic Palestinian context, different figures and portraits have been suggested as exemplifying certain holy man qualities. Recent discussions have focused attention on the figure of a countryside pious man—the hasid of Kefar Imi (or: Emi)17—whose help the rabbis seek to enlist in order to end a severe drought. They go searching for him on the mountainside, and there they encounter him and his spiritually and ethically rigorous lifestyle. At the end of the story, the hasid ’s prayer for rain is answered, but even now he is careful at directing attention and success away from himself, thereby maintaining the aura of modesty. I should like to offer several comments on what I see as common to both these approaches. There are two ways of utilizing results from one context in order to fructify a parallel setting. [1] One is to highlight comparable characteristics and manifestations. In our case, this would yield a listing of pagan and Christian holy-man qualities, and then require looking for these same items in a Jewish setting. How does the rabbi conform to the existing holy man pattern culled from a pagan and Christian context? Do others in Jewish society exhibit similar qualities? The issue then is defined on a grid stemming from a different culture with its own literature and agendum. We then annotate this picture with sources and data from talmudic tradition. The two ways of comparison mentioned above assume this methodical approach. This is a more mechanical usage of scholarly results from a cognate field of studies. [2] Another approach requires defining the agenda differently: What were the circumstances that stimulated the unique responses of the pagan and Christian holy-man? Are those stimuli paralleled in a Jewish context? Are the responses parallel? Given the prima facie correlation in rabbinic culture with the new styled religious leadership
17 D. Levine, ‘Who Participated in the Fast-day Ritual in the City Square? Communal Fasts in Third- and Fourth-century Palestine’, Cathedra 94 (1999) 50–51 (Hebrew); R. Kalmin, ‘Holy Men, Rabbis and Demonic Sages in the Judaism of Late Antiquity’ (forthcoming). I should like to thank Dr. Kalmin for sharing this thought-provoking paper with me before publication. The suggested location of Kefar Emi (Kefar Yama?) is somewhere in the Yavnean valley, southwest of Tiberias. Cf. S. Klein, Sefer HaYishuv, Tel Aviv 1939, 91, 93 (Hebrew); M. Avi-Yonah, Historical Geography of Palestine, Jerusalem 19844, 139 (Hebrew). For a more general description of the relationship of “mainstream” rabbis with individual pietists, hasidim, see: S. Safrai, ‘The Teaching of Pietists in Mishnaic Literature’, JJS 16 (1965) 15–33; idem, ‘The Pious and the Men of Deeds’, Zion 50 (1985), 133–154 (Hebrew). Contrast the general comments of Green, Bokser (supra, note 11). See Chana and Zeev Safraion holy men and rabbis in the next contribution to this volume.
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centered on spiritual virtuosity, the following issues should be pursued: what are the differences, what do they reflect, and how do they effect the historical reconstruction? What—in the eyes of the rabbis—constitutes the type of spiritual endeavor that yields a following within the community at large? How does talmudic tradition regard the status of its own rabbinic scholarship: How is it achieved and maintained? What type of status and authority—within rabbinic circles or in broader society—is thereby gained? Let us address briefly some differences and then turn to a pivotal talmudic source that can be utilized to shed light on our query. [3] The most apparent difference between the holy man of pagan and Christian sources and his rabbinic counterpart, is that of sustained individual portraits versus collective depiction.18 To be sure, rabbinic literature abounds with stories about its protagonists, but these tales are almost always brief and anecdotal. There is no comprehensive treatment of specific rabbinic masters. Therefore the collectivity is in the total picture gleaned from the sources. However, what is at stake ventures much deeper than a difference in literary genre. This collective portrait betrays a disinterest in preserving the figure of the individual rabbi for posterity. These texts represent the ideals of the storytellers and tradents more than those of the protagonists. These ideals resonate in the stories told of talmudic figures. The figure of Hanina bar Hama as such, or an actual rural hasid whose help the rabbis enlisted, are not the concern of talmudic tradition. But the literary traditions regarding Hanina are evidence for rabbinic selfperception and self-portrayal at some point during the third and fourth centuries. I am not claiming that the hagiographies of Symeon Stylites—for instance—conform to standards of historiography, ancient or modern. But the literary genre of holy biography, in-and-of-itself, is evidence of the centrality of specific, named, individuals for the authors and for their public. In contrast, the literature of the rabbis, when presenting its heroes in narrative, is not concerned with
18 Kirschner (supra, note 13), 114–115; D. Boyarin, Carnal Israel, Berkeley 1993, 27: “[F]or authority resides not in the individual Rabbi but in the entire community of the Rabbis”.
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the individual sage per se, but rather with his role as exemplar. It presents a standard of intellectual achievement and religious behavior, which can be attained—at least in principle—by all who aspire. It is presented as a realistic goal within the social circles of the rabbinic academy.19 Thus, while talmudic culture partakes in the general shift towards the individual, its approach is unique. While the figure of the rabbi represents the ultimate manifestation, in principle any individual can attain this standard. Each individual is responsible for cultivating his or her own relationship with God.20 Guidance is necessary, success not guaranteed, but the ideal as such is both explicitly stated and implicitly conveyed in the tradition. Success in this endeavor, according to our sources, is heavily dependent on the nature of rabbinic piety in late antiquity. Asceticism generally is not championed, nor is removal from society, either physical or psychological, valued. Granted this was the rabbinic ideal of the pious life, was this value shared by the wider Jewish society in which the sages functioned? Did the public desire guides and instructors for a self-responsible, do-it-yourself type of religion, or was there a demand for more active and fundamental intercession with the Divine? This touches on the thorny and much-contested issue of rabbinic influence and authority
19 W.S. Green, ‘Storytelling and Holy Man; The Case of Ancient Judaism’, in: J. Neusner (ed.), Take Judaism for Example: Studies toward the Comparison of Religions, Chicago & London 1983, 41: “Whatever personal traits, whatever magnetism or charisma, a rabbi possessed, his standing and credibility within the rabbinic movement initially depended on his learning. Rabbinical status derived not from the exercise of mysterious and arbitrary divine favor but from the result of intellectual labor”. 20 Indeed the description of rabbinic circles as a distinct class in society, is an important contribution of recent scholarship (cf. L. Levine [supra, note 14]; C. Hezser, The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement, Tübingen 1997). However, the heterogeneous nature of this class, together with the ongoing adherence to an ideal of personal responsibility for fulfillment of religious obligations, served to forestall a monastic type of differentiation and removal from society. This does not mean that a separatist-ascetic tendency was totally absent in talmudic thought (we will be examining one such source presently), but the aforementioned ideal usually served as moderating force. Even an aggadah portraying one of the harshest confrontations between rabbi and non-rabbi, states the expectation that laymen have command of basic ritual skills and rudimentary religious knowledge (Leviticus Rabbah 9:3 [ed. Margulies, 176–178]). Interestingly, this source contrasts the rabbinic value of personal obligation and responsibility with an expectation of wider circles of to function as a custodian of religious tradition and as a proxy for its fulfillment (see also the exchange between rabbi and community in the R. Hanina story, supra, note 14).
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in late antiquity.21 Suffice it to say that talmudic texts suggest a complex interplay of theory and practice, between the ideal of a religion fulfilled personally and the need for mediation by known authorities. Again, as illustrated by the Sepphoris story, cited above, the community wanted the rabbi to intercede and solve its problem; the rabbi saw himself as a facilitator for the community executing its own responsibility. [4] Many different types of rabbinic texts have been brought to bear on the relationship of rabbis and holy men. These would include: theoretical dicta on the behavior of a talmid hakham and on the relationship of a sage or disciple with the community; anecdotes describing how rabbis were regarded by different elements of society; stories dealing with the interaction between rabbis and non-rabbis; and more. One group of texts compares the rabbinic ‘career’ with other vocations. I place the quotation marks because I do not wish to imply that there was a formal structure and organizational definition to embarking on a rabbinic ‘career’. But defined loosely as a lifestyle of intellectual pursuit and associated behavior patterns, can being a talmudic sage include other occupations as well? This comparison appears in a number of sources that exhibit some common characteristics, which will be dealt with elsewhere. One particular text presents a one-sided vantage point, wherein the exclusivity of the rabbinic endeavor is emphasized. This is an extreme example of the nexus of rabbis and holy men figures. Unequivocal and absolute dedication to spirituality and religiosity—at the expense of integration in everyday life—is a distinguishing attribute of late antique virtuosi.22 More prevalent attitudes in talmudic tradition attempt a more conciliatory approach in integrating rabbinic activity with worldly pursuits.23 However, an examination of the exclusivist position serve us
21 Of the vast literature on this issue see the contribution of Hezser (ibid.), pp. 353 ff., and the extensive reference to earlier scholarship. 22 Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man’ (supra, note 5), 130–131: “In late Roman society, the holy man was deliberately not human. He was the ‘stranger’ par excellance . . . the deep social significance of asceticism as a long drawnout, solemn ritual of disassociation—of becoming the total stranger”. 23 On these contrasting approaches, attempting to integrate study with communal
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in defining the common ground of the parallel figures. We will focus on this account, the story of ’Ilfa and R. Yohanan in the Bavli (BT Taan 21a):24 ’Ilfa and R. Yohanan had been studying Torah, and were in great (financial) distress. They said: ‘Let us go and do business and apply the verse “There shall be no needy among you” (Deut 15:4) to ourselves.’ They went and sat under a shaky wall, and were eating bread. Two angels came, and R. Yohanan overheard one say to the other: ‘Let us collapse the wall on them and kill them, for they abandon a life of eternity and hold on to a life of an hour’. The other responded: ‘Let them be, for one of them the hour is fortuitous’. R. Yohanan heard, ’Ilfa did not. R. Yohanan said to ’Ilfa, ‘Have you just heard anything’. ’Ilfa said, ‘No’. He (Yohanan) said to himself, ‘From the fact that I heard and ’Ilfa did not, I derive that I am the one whose hour is fortuitous’. R. Yohanan said to him (’Ilfa), ‘I will go back and apply to myself the verse “For there will never cease to be needy ones in your land” (ibid. 11)’. R. Yohanan returned, ’Ilfa did not. By the time ’Ilfa returned, R. Yohanan reigned. They said to him (’Ilfa), ‘If you, sir, had remained and studied, would you not have reigned?’ He went and suspended himself from the mast (var.lec.: hook) of a ship25 and said, ‘If anyone asks me about the mishnayot of R. Hiyya and R. Oshaya, and I cannot explain them on the basis of our Mishnah, I will fall from the ship’s mast and drown’. An old man came and recited to him, ‘If one says “Give my sons a shekel a week” and they
service and other worldly occupations, see: M. Beer, ‘Talmud Torah and Derekh Eretz’, Bar Ilan 2 (1964) 134–162 (Hebrew); L. Levine (supra, note 14), 43–47, 162–167, 181–185. 24 It is clear that this story was placed in this context as a whole because of one detail in the narrative—the shaky wall, see: D. Rosenthal, ‘Early Redactions in the Babylonian Talmud’, Mehqerei Talmud 1 (1990) 172 note 30 (Hebrew); C. Licht, Ten Legends of the Sages, Hoboken, New Jersey 1991, 181–183. A partial parallel in the Bavli (BT Ket 69b) is clearly dependent on this context. A Yerushalmi parallel (PT Ket 6:7 30d–31a) situates ’Ilfa (Hilfi) on a river bank inviting the assembled crowd to throw him in the river if he cannot find a parallel source. However, the Palestinian Talmud lacks any additional narrative (or anecdotal) framework. No mention is made of leaving the academy or the comparison with R. Yohanan. Furthermore, PT Qid 1:5 58d has the same scene and protagonist depicted, but an alternate set of sources is addressed. ’Ilfa’s challenge seems to have circulated as a context-less anecdote with different examples grafted on to it. I have translated the text from the printed edition of the Bavli, citing variants where necessary (see: H. Malter, The Treatise Ta’anit of the Babylonian Talmud, New York 1930, 83–84). 25 On the nautical realia here, see the data and analysis in D. Sperber, Nautica Talmudica, Ramat Gan & Leiden 1986, 29–32, 132–133, 150–151; idem, Material Culture in Eretz-Israel during the Talmudic Period, Jerusalem 1993, 173–176 (Hebrew); and recently idem, ‘Nautica in Talmudic Palestine’, Mediterranean Historical Review 15/1 (2000) 31 note 14.
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need a sela, they are given a sela. But if he said “Give them only a shekel ”, they are given only a shekel. If he then stipulated: “If they die, let others inherit in their place,” whether he had said (beforehand) “Give” or “Give only”, they (the sons) are given only a shekel.’26 He (’Ilfa) responded, ‘This is (the teaching) of R. Meir who said “It is a mitzvah to fulfill the wishes of the deceased”’.
The different career choices of ’Ilfa and R. Yohanan propel the plot. The narrative explores the distinction between these choices and their consequences.27 The story divides neatly into two main scenes, with the parting of the two sages being the literary point of division. The following points may help elucidate the issue under discussion: [1] The first half of the story is devoted to the drifting apart of the two scholars. Both were faced with economic difficulties and decide to leave the academy. They are treated as one at this point: they study together, experience common hardship, make their decision as one, and embark as partners on a journey. Then something happens and a separation develops. A key to deciphering this development is to compare the pair of scholars with the corresponding pair of angels. The two angels act as one. There is an exchange of views between the angels, but common action is taken for granted. R. Yohanan does not share his experience and a parting of the ways ensues; the study partners split up. A lack of proper means will prevent the attainment of the end. [2] The quotation of texts in the story serves different purposes. Most obviously, this indicates the protagonists’, and storyteller’s, appeal to tradition as a guide to decision making and as a technique of resolving doubts. This, of course, is widespread in aggadic narrative, but here it is intrinsic to the moral of the tale. It is not only a formalized literary ploy, but also represents the ideals and world to which the protagonists claim allegiance. Different types of texts are cited. The first part cited verses from Scripture, while the second notes oral tradition. Here we have a symbolic representation of the intellectual world of these two rabbinic figures. The texts selected are telling. Deuteronomy 15 includes the two verses which
26 T Ket 6:10 (ed. Lieberman, 78), the text is also quoted in the aforementioned PT Ket 6:7 30d, BT Ket 69b. 27 Previous analyses of this narrative are J. Frankel, Studies of the Spiritual World of the Aggadic Story, Tel Aviv 1981, 87–91 (Hebrew); Licht (supra, note 21), 181–206.
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indeed conflict, dealing with the ongoing presence of poverty in society. While verses 4–6 seem to be referring to a utopia where “there shall be no needy among you”, verses 1–3, 7–11 legislate the sabbatical year loan moratorium “for there will never cease to be needy ones in your land”. The loan moratorium itself is rather optimistic in its expectation, as indicated by the warning issued in verses 9–10, and its de facto abandonment in subsequent Jewish tradition.28 This biblical grappling with the ever-present reality of the under-privileged and the ways in which their plight might be alleviated, form a textual precedent for the characters in the story. Similarly, the baraitot quoted are intricately tied to the issues dealt with.29 The legal situation addressed is the leeway afforded an executor of an estate in enlarging the allowance intended for the inheritors. If the deceased person’s instructions where specific and unequivocal, then the allotted sum may not be supplemented, but if the testament was worded more loosely, then adjustments are permissible. The reality of having to cope with a limited budget even though more funds are theoretically available is reflected in the situation of the two scholars. [3] The latter part of the story involves ’Ilfa alone. The tragic consequences of his decision are vividly depicted in the final scene. The scene portrayed is as follows: ’Ilfa is dangling from the top of a ship mast,30 issuing a challenge to the crowd to stump him. An elderly man (possibly a veteran scholar, maybe just a “John Doe”) steps forward, throws out a baraita for ’Ilfa to identify and extrapolate from the Mishnah. As mentioned, the baraita—intentionally— deals with inheritors living off a limited budget. ’Ilfa then responds, shouting from the top of the mast: “it is a mitzvah to fulfill the wishes of the deceased”,31 or translated more dramatically: “remember the
28 Y.D. Gilat, ‘The Development of the Prosbol Enactment’, in: idem, Studies in the Development of the Halakha, Ramat Gan 1992, 217–235 (Hebrew). 29 Cf. D. Steinmetz, ‘Must the Patriarch Know ‘Uqtzin? The Nasi as Scholar’, AJS Review 23 (1998) 176–177. 30 The Aramaic for ship or raft is ‘ilfa. See supra, note 22. 31 This dictum ascribed to R. Meir does not appear in the Mishnah. In the Yerushalmi parallel (PT Ket 6:7 31a) the passage that is quoted as ’Ilfa’s answer— “the shalish (= third party, executor) shall execute his instructions”—does indeed appear in the Mishnah (M Ket 6:7). ’Ilfa’s application of R. Meir’s legal dictum— “it is a mitzvah to fulfill the wishes of the deceased”—to these specific tannaitic traditions, is found only in this Bavli story of R. Yohanan and ’Ilfa and not in any tradition ascribed to tannaitic authority.
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words of the dead”. The story breaks off ominously. A tragedy is not necessarily implied, but an upbeat resolution of ’Ilfa’s distress is not conveyed.32 Even though ’Ilfa has succeeded in demonstrating his scholarly prowess, matters are no rectified. The issue is not the final intellectual achievement, but the daily routine and process that leads to this end. Total commitment to a life of study, even at the expense of financial comfort and security, is a necessary prerequisite of the scholarly endeavor. One is judged not only by what he knows, but how one comes to know it, and the devotion reflected in that knowledge. This is the upshot of the story. Commitment must be exclusive.33 Any attempt to compromise is inadequate. A desire to straddle two vocations, to benefit from the better of two worlds, is doomed to failure. Here we have an instance of one type of talmudic piety. According to this approach, there is no room to share one’s commitment and allegiance with any sort of outside investment of time and energy. This exclusivity contributes to our understanding of rabbinic self-perception in an age where religious leaders were grappling with the inherent tension between their self-perceived uniqueness and the demands of their co-religionists to relate to their needs. The talmudic sage did not come into being, nor develop in a vacuum. It is necessary to understand rabbinic piety as part of the wider phenomenon of spirituality and religious leadership in late antiquity. Necessary, but not sufficient. The adaptation of prevalent patterns and concepts to its own context, and imbuing these concepts with its own sensibilities, is no less a part of the achievement of talmudic religion.
32
The interpretation offered here is different from those of Frankel (ibid.) and Licht (ibid.). They see the end as redeeming ’Ilfa’s plight. 33 A parallel deliberation, both contrasting and complimenting, seeks the appropriate balance between time devoted to study and time spent at home. See inter alia the sequence of texts—both legal and narrative—in BT Ket 61b–63a, and the analyses of Frankel (ibid.), 99–115; Boyarin (supra, note 18), 134–166; S. Valler, Women and Womanhood in the Talmud, Atlanta, Georgia 1999, 51–76. See also: J. Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories, Baltimore & London 1999, 136–137.
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RABBINIC HOLY MEN Chana Safrai and Zeev Safrai (Bar-Ilan University, Israel) One of the most important socio-religious functions of religious leaders has always been to mediate between God (or the gods) and His flesh-and-blood creations. The religious functionary is an exalted individual, possessing supernatural qualities of one type or another. This capability is acquired, but at times is a natural quality imparted by the grace of God. By force of this attribute, the religious leader is capable of providing society and the individual with aid and succor in times of distress. The range of aid varies from one religion to another, and from one society to another.1 In many religions, prophecy is provided in the temple. Healing, both of illnesses of the body and the spirit, was entrusted to the priest. In the Roman period, medical services, combining contemporary medicine with divine aid, were given in temples. The priests engaged in white magic, the atonement of sins, the conducting of miracles, and similar activities. In early Christianity, the holy man played a central role in dissemination of the new religion. These holy men spread Christian theology, but their primary influence was due to the combination of a charismatic personality, and healing powers. They expressed an exceptional moral and ascetic manner, and performed miracles. They conducted themselves modestly and humbly, but their power, influence, and fame were sustained by healing of the sick, through the undertaking of miraculous triumphs over wild animals, and by saving the wretched. A common model is the matron who comes to the holy man seeking a cure. The narrative usually ends, not only with a miracle of healing, but also with the conversion to Christianity of the matron, her servants, and at times also of her husband. By the mid-third century, such holy men or by then already active as monks,
1 For the holy man, see: P. Brown, The World of Late Antiquity, London 1971; idem, Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity, London 1982, 103–65.
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in the wildernesses of Syria,2 were found mainly among the Aramaicspeaking population. It may reasonably be assumed that the populace in the Land of Israel also was exposed to the phenomenon of holy men that was well-known in the deserts of Syria. One might assume that Rabbis and the Jewish public were aware of the existence of this type of holy man nearby.3 In the fourth century, the monks constituted the vanguard for the dissemination of Christianity.4 The above-mentioned social functions; healing and charismatic moral guidance, were apparently in great demand in ancient society, as is attested by the outstanding success of the pagan temples on the one hand, and of the propagators of Christianity and its early monks, on the other. Accordingly, it is of special interest whether society in the Rabbinic world was in need of such, real or virtual, services and functions, whether the Rabbis filled this social function, or whether other holy man concurrently fulfilled such a function. Hasidim: The Holy Men of the Late Second Temple Period The collection of the majority of the material concerning pietists (hasidim) and men of good deeds (anshei ma"aseh) in Jerusalem in the last generations before the destruction of the Temple, and afterwards, together with a socio-religious analysis of this material, has already been undertaken by Shmuel Safrai in a series of essays. In it he stressed the unique nature of the group as being a social entity on the fringes of the world of the bet midrash.5 Based on these previous studies this work is a further study of the pietists as a distinctive group, as well as an attempt to evaluate the place of this group within the power structure of the society of the late Second Temple and Tannaic periods. 2 Safik AbuZayd, Ihidayutha. A Study of the Life of Singleness in the Syrian Orient from Ignatius of Antioch to Chalcedon 451 AD, Oxford 1993. 3 G. Anderson, Sage, Saint, and Sophist: Holy Men and Their Associates in the Early Roman Empire. London 1994. 4 R. MacMullen, Changes in the Roman Empire, Essays in the Ordinary, Princeton 1990, 10–11. 5 S. Safrai, ‘Mishnat Hasidim in the Tannaitic Literature’, in: Ve-Hinei Ein Yosef, A Collection in Memory of Yosef Amorai, Tel Aviv, 1973, 136–52 (Heb.) idem, ‘Teaching of Pietists in Mishnaic Literature’ JJS XVI (1965) 15–33; idem, ‘The Pious (Hassidim) and the Men of Deeds’, Zion 50 (1985), 133–54 (Heb.); idem, ‘Jesus as a Hasid’, Proceedings of the Tenth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Jerusalem 1990, 1–7 (Heb.); idem, ‘The Term Derekh Erez’, Tarbiz 60 (1991), 147–62 (Heb.).
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Such an attempt must contend with two fundamental methodological problems. All of the information concerning these pietists, their deeds and halakhot, is contained in Rabbinic literature. Although it is possible to identify elements of their teachings that were absorbed verbatim in this literature,6 these elements are not the independent voice of the pietists themselves, as in the case of classical prophecy representing the words of the prophets or esoteric literature representing the ipsissima verba of mystics. It is difficult to discern supposed social tensions, or to evaluate their full social significance, when we possess only their Rabbinic reflection. From extant material, however, we may ascribe to this group a number of key words and appellations characteristic of its members. Two such terms, “hasidim” and “anshei ma"aseh,” have been mentioned above. To these may be added other clearly pietist expressions such as “yirei het [those who fear sin]” and “derekh eretz [proper behavior].” These expressions are used both in a more general way and in a specific way to signify important qualities of the pietists. At times, distinguishing between these two, between pietist’s expressions and regular Rabbinic words is difficult or even impossible. The following dicta are illustrative: (a) The first appears in the Babylonian Talmud in the name of a sage from the land of Israel R. Samuel b. Nahmani: “Woe to the enemies of the scholars, who occupy themselves with the Torah, but have no fear of Heaven [ yirat shamayim].”7 (b) The second is that of R. Hoshaiah, a sage of the Land of Israel: “Anyone who has knowledge but lacks the fear of sin [ yirat het] has nothing, just as a carpenter who does not possess the tools of his trade is not a real carpenter, for the treasure-chest of the Torah lies in the fear of sin, as it is said: ‘Reverence for the Lord—that was his treasure’ (Isaiah 33:6)”.8 Were these originally part of a pietist teaching that attacked the Rabbinic world, a world of Torah study lacking in fear of Heaven and fear of sin? Or were they a Rabbinic call to act in a manner guided by the fear of Heaven? Finally perhaps all this just represents the influence of pietist literature upon that of the Rabbis? A sociological discussion cannot be restricted to the influence of the
6 7 8
S. Safrai, ‘Mishnat Hasidim’. BT Yoma 72b. ExR 40.1.
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pietists, but must also be concerned with the tension, or even competition, between the Rabbis and the pietists as two distinctive groups, and will frequently have difficulty in arriving at clear-cut conclusions. Finally, the degree to which the pietists as a group constituted a social elite within Jewish society is in doubt, even though the sources present them as an established group: “The Holy One, blessed be He, foresaw and showed him [Moses] each generation and its sages, each generation and its prophets, each generation and its leaders, each generation and [its] anshei ma"aseh.”9 The list comprises a portion of the Jewish leadership groups, as will be discussed below. The pietists unquestionably exerted considerable influence as individuals, both within the public and among the Rabbis, and this list could be understood within the framework of the struggle of the Rabbis to attain hegemony and elite standing. Moreover, even if the pietists did not develop into an elite group, they posed a threat and potential danger to the elite standing of the Rabbis, since they seemingly offered an alternative religious leadership. Since the pietists have already been identified as an established group that was influential within the Jewish public of the late Second Temple period, we need not describe all of the characteristics attributed to them, and will restrict ourselves to a summary of those features that constituted the subject of disagreement and a source of tension with the Rabbinic world. Thus, the pietists emphasize derekh eretz, that is, concern for societal needs and care of the needy. Their social credo stands in patent contrast to that of the Rabbis, who were the main proponents of the promotion of the Torah and its study. We possess no Talmudic or halakhic statements by the pietists, but rather traditions describing pious practices and a moral philosophy in which Torah study has a secondary role. Consequently, their existence was likely to pose a challenge to the Rabbis. Torah study was the primary source of power of the Rabbis, and whoever did not regard Torah study as the centre of his or her religious experience obviously undermined the power base of the Rabbis.10 One of the outstanding characteristics of the Rabbinic world in the first centuries is the development of purity laws. Pietist nar9
Tanna de-Vei Eliyahu Zuta 6, 183. C. Hezser, The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine, Tubingen 1987. L.I. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity, Jerusalem and New York 1989, 43–53. Cp. Birke Rapp’s contribution to this volume. 10
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ratives demonstrate that the pietists, among others, did not participate in this pursuit of the Rabbis. In addition, their reservations regarding the renewed purity laws expedited their involvement with the poor and wretched. This was so because anyone strictly observing these laws had to take care in his or her contacts with the lower socio-economic echelons of society, while the pietists felt obligated to care for anyone who was in need. Their abstention from the purity laws was a factor in their acknowledged standing among the popular classes as healers of the sick and the impure. They were known as wonder workers capable of spiritually uplifting prayers. Their halakhic behavior was not only a reservation of the Rabbis’ power and prestige, but became a possible power source for themselves, as individuals enjoying prestige and power among the public. The last issue that is necessary to mention here, is the special nature of pietist prayer. Rabbinic literature contains numerous testimonies concerning the involvement of the pietists in prayer as well as their exceptional prayers. Of course, the synagogue and the order of prayers are a subject of importance in the world of the Rabbis. Nonetheless, prayer and its practices are not confined to the Rabbinic world, and other groups share the Rabbinic concern for prayer and are party to it. The prayer of pietists, although obviously nonRabbinic, maintained a position of popularity among the public, who was well aware of its existence, and it might have served as a source of inspiration for the entire community.11 The outstanding characteristic of the pietists at prayer is its wonderful spiritual elevation which provides the feeling that this prayer breaches the gates of Heaven and attains its goals in a direct manner. While the pietist worshiper has such a sensation,12 it is of greater importance in social terms that the public acknowledges it as wondrous ability to receive an almost immediate response to their prayer. Spiritually uplifting prayer places the pietist in a position superior to the Rabbi, at least in times of crisis and distress. Thus, when all else fails, when all the fasting promulgated and practised by the Rabbis and the public are of no avail, the community turns to Honi the Circle Maker that he
11 MBer 5.1; 5.5. See further developed formulations in: TBer 3.20–22; PT Ber 5, 8(d)–9(a); BT Ber 31a; 32b; Tan Va-Yera 9, 90–91; Midrash Psalms 108.1, 463; Yalkut Makhiri, Psalms 108.1, 176. 12 MBer 5.5.
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should pray for an end to the drought.13 The intensity of the prayer is thereby transformed into an accepted and recognized source of power and prestige. Rabbis versus Pietists How do the Rabbis contend with competition, whether concealed or open? In spite of what we have written above, is it still possible to consider the pietists as part of the Rabbinic class and if not, were they shunted aside or rejected from the Rabbinic world? Rabbinic literature is cognizant of, and even quotes from, “a teaching of the pious [mishnat hasidim]”14 or “the Scroll of the Pious [Megillat Hasidim].”15 The dicta, laws, or practices of the pietists are on occasion incorporated into Rabbinic tradition, even without explicit mention of the fact that the source may have been pietistic. Quotations and references appear in the entire Talmudic literature. In most instances, the pietist literature is mentioned in an appreciative and admiring fashion, and many times became an integral part of the Rabbinic message. An outstanding example are the dicta of undisputed pietists such as Hanina b. Dosa in Pirkei Avot,16 R. Phinehas b. Jair in the Tractate Sotah,17 and special prayer practices of the pietists as mentioned Mishnah Berakhot.18 There, we find, for instance, that one may not interrupt one’s prayer, “even if a serpent is wound around his heel.” This is a pietist halakhah that contradicts the wellknown Tannaitic halakhot regarding life-threatening situations which would certainly allow one to stop in such an instance. Nevertheless, this halakhah is incorporated into the Mishnah as an anonymous halakhah. Similarly, passages from pietist teachings were absorbed into Pirkei Derekh Eretz.19 Furthermore, the actions and practices of pietists are mentioned as being held in high esteem, and their spe-
13 MTaanit 3.8 and parallels. Note the various reactions mentioned in the parallels. 14 GenR 94.9, 1185. 15 ARN B 26, 52; PT Ber 9, 68(a); Midrash Shmuel 1.1, and in several mss. of Sifre Deut 48, 112; see the comment by Finkelstein on the textual variants. 16 MAvot 3.8–9, and parallels. 17 MSot 9.15, and parallels. 18 MBer 5.1; 5.5; TBer 3.20. 19 S. Safrai, ‘Mishnat Hasidim’.
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cial capabilities were acknowledged and accepted by the public. Thus, they turned to Honi the Circle Maker and asked him to pray for rain,20 as mentioned above, and asked the same of his grandson.21 There are also narratives regarding Rabbis who ask pietists to pray for them on behalf of the sick.22 In spite of the above mentioned potential for strife and conflict, Rabbinic tradition acknowledges the pietists and holds them in high regard. A unique instance of a combination between normative Rabbinic teaching and and pietist literature is Tanna de-Ve Eliyahu, with its preoccupation regarding the relationship of “Torah” and “Ma"aseh”.23 However paradoxically, Rabbinic literature contains a degree of reservation and apprehension concerning the pietists and their actions. This paradox of appreciation and apprehension attests to the tension between the Rabbis and the pietists, between Torah study and charismatic religious power. Thus, the bringing of rain by Honi the Circle Maker on Passover eve ends with the cold response of Simeon b. Shetah: “If you were not Honi, I would impose a ban on you, but what shall I do to you? You importune the Omnipresent and He performs your will, like a son who importunes his father, who does his will. Of you Scripture says: ‘Your father and mother will rejoice; she who bore you will exult’ (Proverbs 23:23).”24 However, it should be noted that Simeon b. Shetah acknowledged Honi’s power and his special standing, as “a son before the Omnipresent,” although his statement contains an unmistaken element of misgiving or warning not to adopt Honi’s ways of prayer. In any event, Simeon’s esteem for the rainmaker is hedged by apprehension, this in marked contrast with Amoraic traditions, where one finds a positive reflection on the prayer of Honi. In a Midrash on Job 22:28 ff., Honi is even compared to God himself.25 The Honi ha-Me"aggel narrative also
20
MTaanit 3.8. BT Taanit 23a; and its parallel in PT Taanit 1, 64(b). See: M. Hirschman, ‘Changing Focal Points of Sanctity’, Tura 1 (1989), 109–18 (Heb.). 22 PT Ber 5, 9(d); BT Ber 34b. 23 See: Tanna de-Vei Eliyahu Rabbah 2, 13; 3, 16; 7, 36–37; 11(12), 56; 13, 67; 19, 112; 24(22), 112; 25(23), 129. 24 MTaanit 3.8 and parallels. Most of the manuscripts state explicitly: “A ban should be imposed on you.” 25 PT Taanit 3, 67(c); BT Taanit 23a. It may be assumed that in the tradition of the BT narrative the exegesis became a letter, and that it reflects the worldview of the Babylonian sages. 21
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appears in a concise form in the midrashic tradition. Of interest for the current discussion is the adaptation of the narrative in Tanhuma,26 especially the moral with which the exegete concludes the wondrous narrative: “What was the purpose of his praying and the Holy One, blessed be He, heeding his prayer? Because he listened to words of Torah.” Honi’s power in prayer is explained by Torah study, and he is depicted as a Torah scholar whose prayers are answered, not due to his praying, but by force of his scholarship.27 An additional instance of unmistakable reservation regarding the practices of pietists is found in certain traditions of Amoraic literature concerning the prayer practices of the pietists. We will start with the positive acceptance, so as to appreciate better the apprehension and reservations. The Mishnah notes that the pietists were known to pause for an hour prior to their recitation of the Amidah, thus building up proper stance in prayer. Tannaitic literature teaches that every person should adopt this pietist practice. In this spirit, we find in the PT, in the name of R. Isaac b. R. Eleazar: “Because the pietists [were engaged at length in prayer], their Torah study was infused with blessing, and their labor was infused with blessing.”28 A dictum by R. Joshua b. Levi on this is accepted as definitive law: “R. Joshua b. Levi said, One who prays should wait an hour before his prayer, and an hour after his prayer.”29 Thus, on the one hand, the pietists are considered as sort of Rabbis, while on the other hand, another discussion on this matter expresses criticism. The early pietists used to wait for an hour, pray for an hour, and once again waited for an hour. Since, however, they spend nine hours each day in prayer, how is their knowledge of Torah preserved, and how is their work performed? Another pietist characteristic, the demand for total absorption in prayer, while disregarding any danger, engendered in the Amoraic literature two opposing approaches: esteem and amazement as well as socio-halakhic reservations. On one hand, there is continued admiration for the conduct of the pietist Hanina b. Dosa, who acted in accordance with the teaching of the Mishnah and did not move, even though this
26
Tan Ki Tavo 4. Note that the miracle no longer revolves around the Temple. See: M. Hirschman, ‘Changing Focal Points’. 28 PT Ber 4, 8(d); BT Ber 32b. 29 BT Ber 32b. 27
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entailed danger. On the other hand, the halakhic discussions seek to define “what is a time of danger in which one must stop one’s prayer.”30 The narrative of R. Joshua, disciple of Rabban Johanan b. Zakkai and the pietist, reflects the complex attitude concerning the pietist’s purity conduct. The late Tannaitic tradition relates several versions of the narrative, in which R. Joshua was sent to “check” on this pietist. He was not happy with what he found: “If you indeed acted in such a manner, you would never in your life have eaten pure terumah.”31 Of especial interest is the version of the narrative in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, version B, according to which: “R. Joshua went to speak with him, and they were engaged in the halakhot of pietists.” The tradition considers the pietist to be an educated individual, with whom one could conduct a halakhic discussion, but criticizes his customary halakhic practices, establishing that whoever does not heed the teachings of the Rabbis, is neither a Torah scholar, nor a true pietist. The inference is that Torah study is a necessary condition for piety, in accordance with the dictum: “An ignoramus cannot fear sin, nor can an unlearned man be pious.”32 It is not possible to draw a sharp distinction between the period of the Tannaim and that of the Amoraim, nor between the Land of Israel and Babylonia in relation to the Rabbinic attitude to the pietists. As seen above, already the Tannaitic traditions reflect esteem and recognition, along with occasional negative reports. These same mixed tendencies recur in the Amoraic tradition. During the course of the Amoraic period, the phenomenon of pietism waned, at least as it pertained to a large social group. There were, however, Rabbis who were also pietists, such as R. Joshua b. Levi, and possibly R. Phinehas b. Jair. These individuals, however, were part of the bet midrash society. There are literary developments that portray the pietist as a Torah scholar: “It happened that R. Hanina b. Dosa went to study Torah with Rabban Johanan b. Zakkai, and the son of Rabban Johanan b. Zakkai fell ill. . . .”33
30
BT Ber 32b; PT Ber 4.8(d)–5.9(a). ARN A, 12, 56; and in a different version in ver. B, 27, 56–57; see the comment by Schechter on version A, n. 77. See also S. Safrai, ‘Bet Anat’, Sinai 78 (1976), 18–34. 32 MAvot 2.5. 33 BT Ber 34b; see also: Tan Ki Tavo 4. 31
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A tradition, that appears only in the BT, in the name of Rabban Johanan b. Zakkai, compares the power of the Rabbis with the personal standing of the pietists and stresses the intimate relationship of the latter with the Divine: If R. Johanan b. Zakkai had stuck his head between his knees for the whole day, no notice would have been taken of him. His wife asked him: “Is Hanina greater than you are?” He replied to her: “No, but he is like a servant before the king, and I am like a nobleman before the king.”34
In any event, in the Amoraic period the pietists became a historical memory. Ordinary Rabbis such as the “kehilah kadisha [holy community]” in Jerusalem, Phinehas b. Jair, and R. Joshua b. Levi were mainstream Rabbis, although their teachings were imbued with a pietistic tendencies. The pietists’ power now, ironically, became an additional factor in the aggrandizement of the Rabbis.35 In the social sphere, in contrast with the ideological aspect reviewed above, matters were likely to develop differently. “Anshei ma"aseh,” “yirei het,” and “hasidim” are capable of reaching “their [proper] place,” that is, of acquiring the standing of pietists, only on the basis of Torah study: “An ignoramus cannot fear sin [ yire het], nor can an unlearned man be pious [hasid].”36 The Pietist and the Tzaddik At this point, attention should be devoted to the literary-intellectualsocial connection between the “historical” pietist and the concept of the righteous individual (tzaddik). Miracles and wonders were ascribed to pietists in the Second Temple period and in the first generation of Tannaim. Honi prayed for rain, and Hanina b. Dosa would pray on behalf of the sick, and personal miracles were performed for him. We should also mention Jesus, a type of pietist who heals the sick, walks on water, and, by the power of his speech, brings up from the Sea of Galilee a fish with silver coins in its mouth. The pietists lived humble and ascetic lives, and, as we have already mentioned,
34
BT Ber 34b. This entire section is missing in the parallel in PT Ber 5, 9(d). For a similar analysis concerning prophecy, see: Ch. Safrai, ‘Propheten/Prophetie III’, TRE XXVII (1997), 499–503. 36 MAvot 2.5. 35
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were regarded with devotion and esteem. They fulfilled the social role of the holy man, but in relation to what was commonly accepted in the ancient world, their actions and power are not impressive, their “holiness” was moderate. Honi, like Hanina b. Dosa, do not engage in acts of sorcery; they merely pray and “it is not the lizard that kills. It is sin that kills.”37 This, at any rate, is the manner in which the Rabbis explain his power. Even Jesus stresses that it is not he who heals, but rather faith in the Lord.38 The phenomenon of the Rabbi as pietists declined after the Yavneh generation, and from the period of the Tannaim and Amoraim we know of only a small number of Rabbis who were also pietists, and indeed their acts of piety were few and modest. However, as early as the Tannaitic period, pietist teachings infiltrated the world of the Rabbis, but these were ethical-scholarly principles, and not the components of “sanctity” and miracles.39 Of special interest in this context is a renewed examination of the prayers of the pietists and the righteous. The Talmudic traditions attribute to the tzaddik mystical power and the special ability to “persuade” God to act in accordance with his requests: the righteous individual decrees and the Holy One, blessed be He, fulfills.40 In Tannaitic sources, the righteous individual generally does not decree, but rather prays. His prayer and blessing do not guarantee success, but rather wield much power and influence in Heaven. It is related in the name of Hanina b. Dosa: “If the prayer is fluent in my mouth, I know that it [the prayer/sick person] is accepted, and if not, I know that it is rejected.”41 In a discussion that appears only in the Amoraic literature, the Rabbis refrain from attributing power to the prayer of the righteous. The dispute between Simeon b. Shetah and Honi the Circle Maker focuses on this issue:
37
BT Ber 33a. For the miraculous acts of Jesus and their place in the thought of his circle, see: Safrai, ‘Mishnat Hasidim’, above n. 1; idem, ‘The Pious’; idem, ‘Jesus’. All in all, their deeds are modest, and their miracles are not conspicuous. The acts of the Christian monks are much more impressive, and it is doubtful whether miracles such as those performed by Honi would even be included in the biographies of these monks. 39 S. Safrai, ‘The Term Derekh Erez’. 40 NumR 14.4. 41 M Ber 5.5. 38
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The Holy One, blessed be He, does not cancel His decree in favor of the decree of the righteous!” [Honi] replied, “Yes, the Holy One, blessed be He, does cancel His decree in favor of the decree of the righteous, and [the Holy One,] blessed be He, does not cancel the decree of one righteous individual [in favor of ] the decree of another righteous one.42
Only Amoraic literature expressly ascribes the same power to the prayer of the “righteous”: the longer the righteous spend in prayer, the more will their prayer be heard.43 Or: “They went to R. Simeon b. Johai, he stood and prayed for them, and they were blessed to become pregnant. This teaches you, just as the Holy One, blessed be He, blesses the barren, so too, the righteous bless the barren”.44 Thus also: Whenever the righteous instructs before the Holy One, blessed be He, He acts [accordingly].45 In this realm as well, the teachings from Babylonia differ from those from the Land of Israel. The statement that “the righteous decree, and the Holy One, blessed be He, fulfills their utterance” is Babylonian. Supernatural powers and attributes were ascribed to the “righteous”.46 In the Land of Israel, efficacy of prayer was attributed to the pietist. It is his prayer that is superior to all others. Prayer and not miraculous acts are the focal point here.47 Furthermore, even reservations are formulated within the praying framework: “The prayer of the righteous is heard when they pray with the public.”48 The “tzaddik” in Rabbinic literature, is often the pietist. Thus, in the discussion in the Palestinian Talmud, Honi the pietist is referred to as a righteous one. But in most instances, the righteous individual is depicted as a Rabbi, or at least as an individual who belongs in part to the Rabbinic stratum. “Happy are you the righteous, for you love the Torah”;49 “The righteous pass away from the world 42
PT Taanit 3, 67(a). BT Yoma 29a; cf. Suk 14a. 44 Song of Songs R 1.30. 45 TanB Va-Yera 45, 112, and additional, less obvious sources: Midrash Psalms 90.6, 195; RuthR 6.2; Tan Mi-Ketz 10. 46 ExR 1.13 (ed. Shinan), 58. 47 For example, the series of episodes in PT Taanit 1, 64(b), et alia. 48 Midrash Proverbs 15.4. See also the evaluation by W.S. Green, ‘Palestinian Holy Men, Charismatic Leadership and Rabbinic Tradition’, ANRW 19,2 (1979), 619–47 and G. Anderson, Sage, Saint and Sophist: Holy Men and Their Associates in the Early Roman Empire, London 1994. Cf. J.E. Mignard, “Jewish and Christian Cultic Discipline to the Middle of the Second Century,” Ph.D. diss., Boston University, 1966. 49 TZevahim 2.17. 43
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only for the sin of neglect of Torah study”;50 “No monuments need be erected for the righteous; their words are their memorial”;51 Consequently, Torah scholars are righteous. Notwithstanding this, the use of the terminology of “tzaddikim”, instead of the accepted terms hakham (sage), Talmid hakham (Torah scholar), or rav (rabbi), is not incidental. This term usually alludes to a slightly different facet of the world and activity of the Rabbis. The Tannaitic sources, and a bit later, the Amoraic sources, contain a number of dicta regarding the power of the righteous to influence the course of the world, to change the decisions of the Creator. These sources also indicate that these righteous might have had a certain degree of prophetic ability. Nonetheless, both the Tannaitic and Amoraic sources contain only few teachings concerning their activity as righteous. The almost total silence concerning the power of the righteous in this realm seems to outweigh these isolated sources, thus allowing for the conclusion that the Rabbis did not emphasize the supernatural or prophetic element, nor regarded it as the primary source of their power. Even teachings that stress the power of the individual righteous person, or his great abilities, do not consider the righteous to be a holy man in the socio-religious sense of this term as is found in the ancient world. The tzaddik does not heal the sick with the touch of his hand, does not cause the rain to fall with his hands, does not engage in magic, whether black, gray, or white, and makes no use of charms or adjurations, but rather prays. In practice, the righteous individual has no supernatural power, and his strength lies in addressing God, and he, thereby, constitutes a social type different from the “holy” man. Furthermore, the righteous individual is not a professional, he is not available all the time, he only acts in time of distress, in response to the requests from the community or from particular individuals. Though we traced the equation between particular Rabbis and the “tzaddik”, not all Rabbis are tzaddikim and not all the tzaddikim are Rabbis. Many individuals are called “righteous,” even though they did not live during the time of the Rabbis, such as the Patriarchs, Sarah and Hagar, Moses, David, and others. In a number of places, the speakers assume that the tzaddik is a Rabbi, or perhaps that every
50 51
Kallah Rabbati 6.4. PT Shekalim 2, 46(d)–47a et alia.
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righteous individual is a Rabbi, but not that every Rabbi is a tzaddik. The Rabbis and elders filled an important role among the people, but not as a result of their mystical power; rather great wisdom, intelligence, knowledge, and morality are the usual requisites. Rabbis as Holy Men Since this article is primarily concerned with the social, rather than the ideological-religious aspect of the phenomenon of holy men, the relevant questions would be: did the Rabbis fulfill the social role of holy men? Did they recognize the importance of this role? Did they, and the public, believe that they had the power to effect miracles and wondrous acts? Did the Rabbis want to, or could they rely on this capacity, and turn it into a basis of their power? We will proceed to discuss these issues chronologically. Second Temple period: the Rabbis (Hillel, Shammai), with the exception of the pietists mentioned above, are depicted as wise teachers with social concerns, and not as holy men. Tannaim: it is related of Rabban Johanan b. Zakkai that he possessed great powers in Merkabah (the Divine chariot) mysticism, and his greatness was even confirmed by a Heavenly voice.52 Nonetheless, Rabban Johanan b. Zakkai is not a miracle-worker. He responds in a frustrated manner to the miraculous power of Hanina b. Dosa (see above). The tradition relates some narratives on famous Tannaim and their super-natural prowess. For the present analysis it will suffice to mention here two cases:53 (a) Rabban Johanan b. Zakkai delivered a prophecy of healing to the emperor, but the healing of the latter, is not connected with the prophecy as such, but rather with Rabban Johanan b. Zakkai’s words of wisdom.54 This narrative is solely
52 In THag 2.1 the narrative does not describe any miraculous power while Mek deRabbi Shimon ben Yohai, beginning of Mishpatim, 158 already mentions the fire that blazed around him. PT Hag 2, 77(a) and BT 14a add that “an angel spoke from within the fire.” 53 M. Beer, ‘Shim’on Bar Yohai and Jerusalem’, in: A. Oppenheimer et al. (eds), Jerusalem in the Second Temple Period: Abraham Schalit Memorial Volume, Jerusalem 1980, 361–76 (Heb.). 54 BT Gitt 56b; cf. PT Gitt 3, 65(c–d).
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Amoraic, and was probably first related by Josephus with perhaps some Roman pagan influence.55 (b) Concerning R. Akiva: Our masters taught [. . .] It is further related of R. Eliezer that once he stepped down before the Ark and recited the twenty-four blessings [for rain], and his prayer was not answered. R. Akiva stepped down after him and said: “Our father, our King [. . .] for Your sake have mercy upon us,” and rain fell. Our masters complained [against R. Eliezer], whereupon a Heavenly voice went forth and proclaimed: “[The prayer of ] this one [R. Akiva] was answered, not because he is greater than the other, but because he is always forbearing, while the other is not.”56
This tale appears only in the Babylonian Talmud. An examination of all the narratives of miracles attributed to Tannaim would exceed the scope of the present work; almost all appear exclusively in Amoraic sources, and as miracles are not very impressive. Obviously miracles are not the major power source of the Tannaim. Asceticism is another patently “holy” characteristic. Urbach has already indicated57 that the Rabbis were generally opposed to asceticism, although there are traditions that contain allusions to circles and individuals of an ascetic bent. These tendencies became stronger in the Amoraic period. Only Amoraic traditions depict R. Simeon b. Johai and his son, or R. Judah of Hutzi, as ascetics. Characteristic of this phenomenon is the narrative regarding R. Joshua b. Hananiah. The Tosefta states only: “R. Joshua said: ‘I defer to you bones of the School of Shammai,’”58 while the Babylonian Talmud has R. Joshua prostrating himself at the tombs of the School of Shammai and fasting his entire life.59 Concerning charms and amulets, the Rabbis both acknowledged the efficacy of charms, while expressing reservation of using them. Of relevance to our discussion is the fact that in Rabbinic literature,
55 G. Alon, ‘Rabban Johanan b. Zakkai’s Removal to Jabneh’, Jews, Judaism and the Classical World, trans. I. Abrahams, Jerusalem 1977, 276. 56 BT Taanit 25b. 57 E.E. Urbach, ‘Ascesis and Suffering in Talmudic and Midrashic Sources’, Yitzhak F. Baer Jubilee Volume, Jerusalem 1960, 62–66 (Heb.) (= idem, The World of the Sages: Collected Studies [ Jerusalem, 1988], 445 ff. [Heb.]). 58 TAhilot 5.12. 59 BT Hag 22b; cf.: BT Nazir 52b. For a complete discussion, see: Urbach, ‘Ascesis’, 63.
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the writer of amulets is always a physician, and not a Rabbi or tzaddik. This reflects the fact that such writing was considered work and entailed possessing skills, but had no relevance to mystic ability or righteousness. The sole Tannaitic testimony of the special role played by a Rabbi in prayer and in the beseeching of Divine mercy is the obligation or practice of “yehidim [individuals]” to engage in additional fasts during time of drought, after the public had concluded the series of fasts enumerated in the Mishnah: “Individuals continue to fast until the end of Nissan.”60 The term “yehidim” is not unambiguous, and already the Tosefta wonders as to its meaning. A Rabbi could, and was entitled to proclaim himself to be a yahid, but he did not have such status automatically.61 One gains the impression that “yehidut” is not merely Torah study, but rather a higher level that Rabbis, communal leaders and officials were entitled to proclaim for themselves.62 Such a rule would seem to lack any mystical tinge. In later sources this law may possibly have become the basis for a special social role of the Rabbis, like leading the congregation in prayer on special ceremonies in fasts days. The Amoraic period: in this period one reads of more activities of Rabbis as “holy men.” As was shown above, Amoraim tend to ascribe such qualities to Tannaim, and to narratives about them are added those about the Amoraim themselves. L. Levine collected a number of such testimonies63 to which one might add a few more, but the total number is not large. The following examples were chosen to illustrate the dubious role that supernatural, or charismatic activities play in establishing rabbinic status. Rabbi Johanan was once asked to pray for a merchant’s success, but he refused and merely provided advice.64 The same Talmudic discussion continues with some additional episodes deprecating divination, and postulating the efficacy of charity and good deeds. These episodes indicate that divination existed in the rabbinic horizon, but 60
MTaanit 1.7 and parallels. TTaanit 1.7. 62 See the comments by S. Lieberman, Tosefta ki-Fshuta V, (NY 1962), 1070–71. The identical term “yehida"ah” was commonly used in Syriac to describe the Christian monk, who acted as a holy man in the Byzantine period. See: Safik AbuZayd, Ihidayutha. 63 L.I. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity, Jerusalem and New York 1989, 105–9. 64 PT Shab 6, 8(c–d). 61
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the Rabbis did not engage in this practice. Thus, the daughter of Rabbi Akiva was saved from an imminent death by merit of charity and not by the blessings of her prominent father.65 Rabbi Joshua ben Levi, one of the last pietists,66 preached in Sepphoris that rainfall is not dependent upon the sage and his prayer but rather on the heart of the community and “the people of Sepphoris are hardhearted, and hear words of Torah but are not submissive.”67 This narrative attests to the faith of the community in the magical power of the sage. But the Rabbi presents himself as a preacher and advocates rabbinic values—repentance. Further in the narrative, rain eventually fell and although Rabbi Joshua ben Levi took the credit for it, he vowed not to repeat such an act. In another series of tales, one reads about Rabbis leading the community in time of drought. One of their tasks is to find a person of outstanding qualities to represent the community. The leader of prayer is not necessarily a sage, but one possessing good deeds. Although this reflects a semi-mystical belief in the effectiveness of prayer by the righteous individual, the Rabbi did not necessarily fill this role,68 although they did make the decision whether to fast or not, establishing their leadership and not their “holiness”. In addition to the power of prayer, other attributes of the charismatic include raising from the death, healing the sick and asceticism.69 We will discuss just two: (a) A person asks Rabbi Johanan to heal him. The sage sends him to Rabbi Haninah, who advises him to study. Thus Torah study is put in place of “medical treatment.”70 The
65
BT Shab 156b; similarly PT Taanit 3, 66(c). GenR 6.5, 45. See: S. Safrai, ‘Mishnat Hasidim’. 67 PT Taanit loc. cit. 68 PT Taanit 1, 64(b), and more. 69 Rabbi Simeon bar Yohai and his son went into seclusion in a cave for ascetic reasons, as was already shown by M.D. Herr, ‘Roman Rule in Tannaitic Literature,’ Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 1970, 104–6 (Heb.). See also I.L. Levine, ‘Rabi [sic] Simeon bar Yohai, Bones of the Dead and the Purification of Tiberias’, Cathedra 22 (1982), 9–42 (Heb.). Judah of Hozi went into seclusion in a cave; see: PT Shebi 8, 38(d); PT Ned 1, 42(c). His teacher, Rabbi Yose bar Halafta, and the entire Talmudic discussion, loc. cit., oppose this path. The few Rabbis who engaged in excessive fasting were listed by Urbach in his discussion of the phenomenon of asceticism in the Rabbinic literature. E.E. Urbach, ‘Ascesis’, 62–66. Urbach played down its importance, while Fraade, in contrast, expands upon this point: S.D. Fraade, ‘Ascetical Aspects of Ancient Judaism’, in: A. Green (ed.), Jewish Spirituality from the Bible through the Middle Ages, New York 1989, 253–88. 70 PT Taanit 1, 64(a). 66
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request represents a popular sentiment, while the rabbinic response reflects their reservations. (b) Although according to the Talmud, one who is responsible for a sick person must go to a sage and ask him to help with prayer,71 this requirement was not accepted as the normative halakhah.72 From a social standpoint, then, just how important were such miraculous activities in relation to the sum total of rabbinic activities. The issue should be examined from the following perspectives: (a) The number of texts and stories is exceedingly small. (b) The small number of testimonies is submerged in a sea of narratives concerning the deeds, acts, and annals of the Rabbis. It is in the nature of miraculous and sacred narratives to be well known and widely disseminated. The redaction of the Talmudic literature was entrusted to the Rabbis, and in stark contrast with the Christian hagiographic literature, or with stories of the righteous in present-day religious literature, the Rabbis do not express an interest in a “holy” power base. It would seem that the redactors of the Talmudic literature attempted to conceal these narratives. (c) Rabbinic literature contains dozens of narratives of miracles performed for the forefathers of Israel in Biblical times, including miracles that are not mentioned in the Bible, while only an extremely small number of miracles are attributed to the Rabbis. (d) Numbers of traditions in these cases could be a deceptive, since the preservation of the traditions is fragmentary, partial, and random. However, if the miraculous stories had been considered as advancing the status of Rabbis, the redactors would have embellished them and cited them often. The fact that almost all the traditions have few parallels, and that the traditions concerning miracles of Amoraim from the Land of Israel appearing in the Babylonian Talmud have no parallels in Palestinian Talmud reflects the limited interest in these miraculous acts. (e) Rabbis who were asked to act as holy men often refused to do so and suggested an alternative rabbinic solution such as study, charity and good deeds.
71
BT BB 116a. For example one is not permitted to desecrate the Sabbath for this visit though a physician or a midwife are legally permitted. 72
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(f ) In a society in which the “holy” tradition is a central component in the activity and nature of sages, one could expect to find a correlation between the importance of the sage and the miraculous acts attributed to him. It could reasonably be assumed that more miraculous narratives would be related about the leading Rabbis than about lesser sages. However, this is not the case. Rabbi Johanan and Rabbi Haninah are indeed among the leading Amoraim, but there were many leading Tannaim and Amoraim about whom no miraculous narratives are related, such as Hillel, Shammai, Rabban Johanan ben Zakkai, Resh Lakish, Rav Ammi, Rav Assi, Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba, Rabbi Eleazar ben Pedat, Rabbi Abbahu and many other. It may therefore be presumed that the role of the Rabbis as “holy men” was not emphasized, and did not constitute a viable source of social power. (g) A comparison with the Christian world, such as with Christians in the Egyptian desert or in the villages of eastern Syria, provides additional information. In the Christian world, the main sources of power of the monks were asceticism, holy acts, and the providing of services connected with them. As we saw, the Rabbinic model was different. (h) Both Jewish and Christian literature, contain many narratives of an encounter between the sage73/holy man (“saba” in Syriac)74 and a “matrona [matron].” But the nature of the encounter is very different. The Christian narratives evolve around a miracle, while the Jewish encounters are intellectual—a study session, be it polemic or philosophical. The Christian model end usually with a conversion, while the Jewish debate usually does not lead to a conversion. The difference in power base is obvious. (i) In religions there is an intellectual-philosophical stratum and a popular one more at home with miraculous deeds, wondrous stories, and “holy” acts and there might be a confrontation between the two. The question, therefore, is not whether there is a popular stratum in which holy men fulfilled a central role, but whether the intellectual leadership played a role there.
73 For matron narratives, see, for example, GenRab 4.6, 30; 6.5, 45; 17.7, 158; 25.1, 239; 63.8, 688; 68.3, 771; 84.21, 1027; 87.6, 1070; PT Pes 10, 37(c); Pesikta Rabbati 18, p. 93. See also: T. Ilan, ‘Matrona and Rabbi Jose: An Alternative Interpretation’, JSJ 25,1 (1994), 11–51. 74 Safik AbuZayd, Ihidayutha.
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( j) There were many marked elements of popular religion in the Second Temple period, as is evident from epigraphic finds, charms and amulets pilgrimage and many other issues.75 This popular religion is attested by books such as Sefer Ha Razim, and by the developments of traditions regarding sacred sites, and practices of pilgrimage and popular celebrations at the holy tombs.76 Apparently there was great popular demand for holy men, but the Rabbis, as a typical intellectual elite, did not fill this role, and tended to play down its value, stressing other values discussed above. (k) The Rabbis thereby willingly waived a source of power and of authority. The way of the holy man or charismatic contradicts that of the Rabbis. The Rabbis taught that the way to the kingdom of Heaven consisted of faith, observance of the commandments and Torah study, while the holy men presented a different and enticing, emotional path. If the Rabbis had acted as holy men, they would have attained prestige and amassed personal power, but in the long run they would have undermined their own way and religious leadership.
75 See, for example, J. Naveh and S. Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity, Jerusalem 1985, and much additional literature. 76 See: Z. Safrai, ‘Sacred Tombs and Holy Sites in the Jewish Tradition’, in: E. Schiller (ed.), Zev Vilnay’s Jubilee Volume, Jerusalem 1987, 303–13 (Hebr.).
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PRAYERS OF JEWS TO ANGELS AND OTHER MEDIATORS IN THE FIRST CENTURIES CE Meir Bar-Ilan (Bar-Ilan University, Israel) I. Introduction It has been claimed that angels with divine power have no place in Judaism, a monotheistic religion, as the strength of such a religion lies in the exclusivity of the divinity.1 Angels can thus be no more than messengers, fulfilling God’s commandments. Indeed, in traditional Jewish prayer there appears to be no mention of the status of angels in general, nor of their role as intermediaries in prayer in particular. On the surface, the Siddur, or prayer book, would seem to indicate that Jews do not pray to angels or other divine agents, but solely to the Lord.2 This, however, is not the case. Extensive analysis of the various sources of Talmudic literature reveals that there is some substance to the polemical claims of early Christians that Jews at that time did pray to angels.3 The current paper seeks to bring together all the evidence of Jewish prayers to angels and other intermediaries that can be found in sources from the first centuries . Although no actual prayers have come down to us from this time, a strong indication that they did exist is the fact that a not inconsiderable number are known from a later period, the Middle Ages. We therefore begin with texts from the Middle Ages which are still
1 In the Thirteen Principles of Faith, according to Maimonides, it is stated: “I believe with complete faith that the Creator, Blessed is His Name—to him alone is it proper to pray and it is not proper to pray to any other”; Siddur Kol Yaacov— Ashkenaz, New York 1990, 179. 2 The existence of the prohibition goes back to Scripture, see: A. Rofe, Faith in Angels in Scripture, Jerusalem 1979, 101 ff. (Hebrew). For the conventional approach in research to ‘intermediaries,’ see: M. Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, Jerusalem: The Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1980, II, 234, 265, 295. 3 S. Carroll, ‘A Preliminary Analysis of the Epistle to Rehoboam’, Journal for the Study of Pseudepigrapha 4 (1989), 91–103.
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being recited, and which clearly reveal a relationship to this type of prayers to angels. In an area as conservative and traditional as prayer, it is more than reasonable to assume that these represent the continuation of a pre-existing convention. Several examples of post-Talmudic prayers to angels can be found in the Jewish service even today. One such invocation, one of the most famous and most familiar to those who participate in daily prayer, is a piyyut generally included in the prayers for forgiveness (Selihot) recited before and after Rosh Hashana. The precise date of origin of this piyyut is difficult to establish. It is entitled ‘Usherers of Mercy’, and begins with the words: Usherers of mercy, usher in our [plea for] mercy, before the Master of mercy, You who cause prayer to be heard, may you cause our prayer to be heard before the Hearer of prayer, You who cause our outcry to be heard, may you cause our outcry to be heard, before the Hearer of outcry, You who usher in tears, may you usher in our tears, before the King Who finds favor through tears. Exert yourselves and multiply supplication and petition before the King, God, exalted and most high, etc.4
In other words, the petitioner turns to the angels, asking them to pray on his behalf and to intervene for him so that his prayers and outcries come before God, as if the angels were the ‘gatekeepers’ or guards of God’s palace, determining what God should and should not hear. A similar plea is voiced in the song recited in the Ne'illah service, (the concluding service of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement): ‘Angels of mercy, servants of the Supreme, accost God with the best thoughts, perhaps he will show pity to the poor begging people [perhaps he will show pity]’.5 Another piyyut, included in the Selihot until the present time, was composed by Amittai, a paytan who lived in Italy (Oria) at the end of the ninth century. It opens with the attributes of the Lord: ‘The Lord, slow to anger and abounding in kindness,’ and continues with
4
D. Goldschmidt, The Order of Selihot (Penitential Prayers) According to the Polish Rite, Jerusalem 1965, introduction, 11–12 (Hebrew). For the controversy over ‘Angels of Mercy’, see: M. Saperstein, Decoding the Rabbis, Cambridge MA, 1980, 192 ff. J. Yahalom, Poetry and Society in Jewish Galilee of Late Antiquity, Tel-Aviv 1999, 54 (Hebrew). 5 D. Goldschmidt, Mahzor for the Days of Awe, 2, Yom Kippur, Jerusalem 1970, 764 (Hebrew). The use of the Hebrew word higayon hints at the post-Talmudic period as the period in which the hymn was composed.
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the supplication: ‘Attribute of mercy, turn on our behalf and enter your pleas before your Creator, and ask for mercy on behalf of your people,6 for every heart is ailing and every head is sick’.7 From a later period comes a prayer, familiar as well from the prayer book, recited just before the blowing of the shofar (while ‘seated’):8 And so may it be Thy will Lord our God and God of our fathers that all the angels appointed to oversee the shofar and its various sounds will ascend before Your Seat of Glory and recommend favorably for us to atone for our sins.9
It seems then that prayers to angels are preserved to this day in the Orthodox Jewish prayer service,10 and for one reason or another, most of them seem to be recited in proximity to the period of the Days of Awe.11 Not surprisingly, such invocations aroused the rage of halachic authorities, who sought to expunge them from the prayerbook or, at the very least, to disguise their meaning.12 As stated above, these prayers, composed over hundreds of years during the Middle Ages, are still being recited while no Talmudic prayers of this kind have survived. However, it is assumed that these late prayers were continuing a tradition from the Mishnah and Talmud periods or the first centuries (if not earlier). Now we can
6 Goldschmidt notes that the precedent for this notion can be found in Hekhalot Rabbati 13,2 (S.A. Wertheimer, Batei Midrashot, Jerusalem 1980, I, 88; P. Schaefer, Synopse zur Hekhalot-Literatur, Tübingen 1981, 76, § 172). 7 Goldschmidt, The Order of Selihot, 208. The hymn is also recited in the Ne"illah prayer on Yom Kippur. See: Goldschmidt, Mahzor for the Days of Awe, 2, Yom Kippur, 663–664 (Hebrew). A similar hymn is Shlomo ben Menachem’s ‘Thirteen Attributes’ also recited in the Selihot service (Goldschmidt, The Order of Selihot, 95). 8 It is worth citing here the end of the “personal” prayer recited by the Cantor before the Mussaf service entitled ‘I am but poor of deed’ (Goldschmidt, Mahzor for the Days of Awe, 1, Rosh Hashana, 147): ‘That all the angels who are masters of prayer bring my prayer before the Seat of Your Glory,’ etc. 9 Goldschmidt, Mahzor for the Days of Awe, 1, Rosh Hashana, p. 145; M. BarIlan, ‘The Fate of Joshua Prince of Presence in Scientific (?) Research,’ Sinai, 101 (1988), 174–181 (Hebrew). 10 Additional examples: ‘Angels of the tears of the wretched endure for hours like the scent of a consuming fire’ (by Moshe bar Shabtai. See: D. Goldschmidt, Mahzor for the Days of Awe, 1, Rosh Hashana, Jerusalem: Qoren 1970, 125). 11 The proximity of prayers to angels to Rosh Hashana may derive from the mystic character of Rosh Hashana (and Yom Kippur) as evident in the many times angels mentioned in the liturgy of these days, as opposed to the other days in the year. 12 Avraham ben Eliezer Halevi, ‘Instruction on the Question of the Angels,’ Kerem Hemed, 9 (1856), 141–148 (Hebrew).
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begin to work backwards, and after having referred to the relatively well-known prayers to angels from “recent” times, we can confront those ancient prayers that have escaped notice since they were somehow “rejected” during the centuries. In spite of the general belief that there were no prayers to angels from these early times, we shall attempt to show, upon closer examination of the sources, various indications of their existence.13 PT Ber 9:1, 13a, cites the following (presumably in the name of the Lord): If a person faces trouble, he should not cry out to the angels Michael or Gabriel. But he should cry out to me, and I will immediately answer him. In this regard [it says], ‘All who call upon the name of the Lord shall be delivered’ [ Joel 2:32].14
This is presumed to be the only source in Rabbinic literature from which we learn that Jews had been accustomed to praying to angels,15 and that the sages prohibited the practice.16 However, in spite of this prohibition, prayers to angels can still be found in Talmudic texts. In reference to the Midrash of Canticles, for example, Tanya Rabbati, laws of Rosh Hashana, § 72, there is this quotation: In the Midrash of Canticles on the verse ‘I adjure you’, the community of Israel says to the angels monitoring the gates of prayer and the gates of tears: convey my prayer and tears to the Holy One blessed be He and be you advocates before Him to forgive me the wicked deeds and the unintentional sins.17
Although this passage does not appear in the various versions of the midrash available today, it is claimed to be authentic, and if this is the case, the text was probably deleted by internal censorship because
13
See: Nils Johansson, Parakletoi, Lund 1940. Translation from: Tzvee Zahavy, The Talmud of the Land of Israel, vol. 1, Berakhot, Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press 1989, 314. 15 Not only Rabbinic Jews were praying to Angels, as is stated in I Enoch 104,1: ‘I swear unto you that in heaven the angels will remember you for good before the glory of the great One.’ 16 According to J. Heinemann, Prayer in the Talmud: Forms and Patterns, Berlin— New York 1977, 249: ‘It is a well-known fact that there are no prayers from the Talmudic period which are addressed to intermediaries of any sort—neither to angels, nor to saints or patriarchs’. 17 R. Yehiel son of R. Zedekiah (?), Tanya Rabbati, Warsaw 1879 (photocopy, Jerusalem 1963), 77d (p. 154). 14
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of its ‘problematic’ content which did not seem to suit religious teachings.18 As we shall now see, despite these attempts, Talmudic literature reveals examples of appeals to intermediaries. II. Prayers To Angels and To Celestial and Earthly Bodies A. Aggadic Literature Eleazar ben Dardoya19 One of the best-known stories in the Babylonian Talmud describes a prayer to celestial bodies as intermediaries between man and God. It relates the story of repentance of Eleazar ben Dardoya, and appears in BT AZ 17a: It was said of R. Eleazar b. Dordia that he did not leave out any harlot in the world without coming to her. Once, on hearing that there was a certain harlot in one of the towns by the sea who accepted a purse of denarii for her hire, he took a purse of denarii and crossed seven rivers for her sake. As he was with her, she blew forth breath and said: As this blown breath will not return to its place, so will Eleazar b. Dordia never be received in repentance. He thereupon went, sat between two hills and mountains and exclaimed: O, ye hills and mountains, plead for mercy for me! They replied: How shall we pray for thee? We stand in need of it ourselves . . . So he exclaimed: Heaven and earth, plead ye for mercy for me . . . Sun and moon, plead ye for mercy for me! . . . Ye stars and constellations . . . Said he: The matter then depends upon me alone! Having placed his head between his knees, he wept aloud until his soul departed. Then a bath-kol was heard proclaiming: ‘Rabbi Eleazar b. Dordia is destined for the life of the world to come’.20
Here is a man, not necessarily from rabbinic circles, who, on feeling the need to offer up a prayer of supplication, a heartfelt plea
18 See: M. Bar-Ilan, ‘The Occurrences and the Significance of the Yoser Ha’adam Benediction,’ HUCA 56 (1985), Hebrew section, 9–27. On this type of internal censoring see below. 19 In the printed edition and in manuscripts the name of Eleazar’s father appears slightly different. 20 Translation from: I. Epstein, The Babylonian Talmud: Seder Nezikin, IV, London 1935, 87 (hereafter the citations are from this edition). See also: M. Baer, ‘On the Atonement of Penitents in the Literature of the Sages’, Zion, 46 (1981), 159–181 (Hebrew), especially 163; M. Bar-Ilan, Some Jewish Women in Antiquity, Atlanta Georgia 1998, 138–139.
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for mercy (just before his death), turns to heaven and earth,21 and to the sun and the moon, perceiving the celestial bodies as if they were angels mediating between him and the Lord.22 Moreover, the narrator does not seem to express any objection to this prayer, since it is clear that after praying to the intermediaries, Eleazar b. Dardoya was invited into the world to come, and even granted the title ‘Rabbi’. As we shall see below, however, not only common people prayed to celestial bodies; the elite of Israel did so as well, at least according to the aggadah. Moses Yehuda Hadassi, a famous Karaite scholar of the twelfth century and author of Eshkol Hakofer, cites an aggadic midrash which is not found in Talmudic literature. As part of his criticism of the Oral Law, he claims that when God sought to end the life of Moses, he tried to prevent this from happening: When Moses saw the situation, he pleaded to the Lord to be a bird in His land . . . and was refused by the Lord. He went and beseeched the Land of Israel: plead for mercy for me from your Creator . . . he went and pleaded to Heaven . . . he went before the stars . . . he went before the sun and the moon . . . he went to Mt. Sinai and all the mountains . . . he went to the sea, the rivers and the lakes . . . he went to the deserts . . . he went in the footsteps of Joshua . . . he went and fell at the feet of Eleazar the Priest . . . and likewise [he did] to Caleb ben Jepphunne, and likewise to the princes of Thy people Israel. . . .23
Although the story of Moses entreating intermediaries to plead for him before God does not appear in any ancient rabbinic source known today, it is likely that the Karaite scholar did not invent the story, but derived it from some type of rabbinic source. This supposition is supported by a seemingly parallel homily preserved only in an obscure Yemenite midrash.24 According to this source: 21 Quite a similar prayer to the sun and the moon see in the Book of Adam and Eve 36, 2. 22 For the personification of celestial bodies, or more precisely, their perception as angels, see: M. Beit-Arié, Perek SHIRA: Introductions and Critical Edition, Ph.D. Thesis submitted to the Hebrew University, Jerusalem 1967 (Hebrew, unpublished), 1, 47. 23 Yehuda Hadassi, Eshkol Hakofer, Goslaw 1836 (reprint: Israel 1969), 140b. 24 S. Lieberman, Yemenite Midrashim, 2nd edition, Jerusalem 1970, 33 (Hebrew). The Yemenite community preserved several midrashim in full, without subjecting them to internal censorship.
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Moses raised his voice with cries and pleas, and pleaded to the earth: plead for mercy on my behalf before the Holy One Blessed Be He . . . Moses approached Heaven and said: I implore you, plead for mercy on my behalf before the Holy One Blessed Be He . . . He went to the sun and moon and pleaded before them to plead for mercy on him . . . Moses went to Mt. Sinai and pleaded that it plead for mercy on him . . . He went to the rivers and pleaded that they plead for mercy on him . . .25
Thus the text in Eshkol Hakofer is an adaptation of an ‘original’ homily preserved in Yemen without the benefit of editing or ‘improvement’ by internal Jewish censors.26 It would appear, therefore, that according to this tradition, even Moses prayed to intermediaries, including the heavens, the sun and the moon, Mt. Sinai(!),27 rivers, some other “cosmic beings” and even to humans, such as Joshua, Eleazar and other leaders of Israel. Clearly, then, a Talmudic source (which was probably censored in a later period) reflects the belief that Moses prayed to various intermediaries, both celestial and human, to intervene on his behalf and ask the Lord to have pity on him. B. Halachic Texts The issue of appealing to intermediaries is addressed in M Hul 2:8: If a man slaughtered [an animal] as a sacrifice to mountains, hills, seas, rivers, or deserts, the slaughtering is invalid.28
This mishnah is cited in BT Hul 40a, where it is discussed in respect to a baraita found more concisely in T Hul 2:18:
25 From a collection of homilies about Moses and his death: A.M. Haberman, Helkat Mehokek (The Portion of the Lawgiver), Jerusalem, 1947, 62 ff. (Hebrew); J.D. Eisenstein, Ozar Midrashim, (reprint), Israel 1969, II, 368–369 (Hebrew). 26 R. Yehuda Hadassi’s addition of Moses turning to the ‘land of Israel’ and to the ‘deserts’ is not a substantive change. It seems to me that this Aggadic midrash can be associated with an excerpt from another Aggadah cited in additions to S.Z. Schechter, Avoth dR. Nathan, New York 1967, 156–157 (additions to version A, XII, 50). See also: E. Glickler Chazon, ‘Moses’ Struggle for His Soul: A Prototype for the Testament of Abraham, the Greek Apocalypse of Ezra, and the Apocalypse of Sedrach’, The Second Century 5 (1985–6), 151–164. 27 Compare this tradition to that of the places where miracles occurred to the People of Israel in the Exodus from Egypt. See: M. Bar-Ilan, ‘Wonder Sites in the Land of Israel in Ancient Times,’ Judea and Samaria Studies 5 (1995), 229–239 (Hebrew). 28 I. Epstein, The Babylonian Talmud: Seder Kodashim, II, 214–215.
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- He who slaughters for the sake of the sun, for the sake of the moon, for the sake of the stars, for the sake of the planets, for the sake of Michael, prince of the great host, and for the sake of the small earthworm29—lo, this is deemed to be flesh deriving from the sacrifices of corpses.30
The Babylonian Talmud sought to comprehend the difference in the terminology of the Mishnah and Tosefta, i.e., the “unfit slaughter” of the Mishnah and the “sacrifices of corpses” (= for the dead) of the Tosefta. Abbaye explains: ‘One refers to the mountain, the other to the divinity of the mountain’. More plausibly, however, the disparity seems to reflect different textual versions without any real difference in substance. Thus, uttering the name of one of those ‘intermediaries’ in connection with a ritual slaughter makes it void.31 It was, therefore, the intent of both the baraita and the Mishnah to ban sacrificial slaughter in which the slaughterer invokes an intermediary, either by name or by uttering the name of the angel appointed over it. Clearly then, although the sages had established that the blessing recited at the time of the slaughter should be addressed to God,32 some Jews continued to invoke the names of angels, such as Michael, or those of specific mountains, lakes, and the like. Similarly, in M Hul 2:9 the sages state: ‘One may not slaughter [in such manner that the blood runs] into the sea, or into rivers . . .’ and the Talmud explains: ‘Why is it that a person may not slaughter into the sea? . . . because it might be said that he is slaughtering to the deity of the sea?.’33 We might relate this answer back to the story of Moses appealing, for example, to Mt. Sinai. The appeal is not made to the inanimate object itself, but to the angel appointed over it, not to the earth of the Land of Israel but to its appointed angel. For instance,
29 Michael appears together with a lowly earthworm by way of contrast. In other words, the reference is to anyone who prays to intermediaries of any sort, from the greatest angel to the least of the divine powers. 30 J. Neusner, The Tosefta: Translated from the Hebrew, Fifth Division, Qodoshim, Atlanta, Georgia, 1997, 73. Neusner left the Hebrew word shilshul untranslated while here the word was translated into ‘earthworm’. 31 See: J. Faur Halevi, Studies in the Rambam’s Mishne Torah, Jerusalem, 1978, 224 ff. (Hebrew). 32 T Ber 6:11, Lieberman edition, 36. 33 Translation from Epstein (supra, note 28), 220. See: R. Patai, Hamayim (The Water), Tel Aviv 1936, 136–137 (Hebrew).
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when offering a sacrifice to the sea, a person would say: ‘god of the seas (Poseidon, servant of the Lord) save me from this storm’. In the same context, we might consider another law associated with this issue. BT AZ 27a cites a baraita34 dealing with the laws of circumcision, and states: Surely it has been taught: An Israelite may perform a circumcision on a Cuthean but a Cuthean should not [be allowed to] circumcise an Israelite, because he performs the circumcision in the name of Mount Gerizim, this is the opinion of R. Judah. Said R. Jose to him: Where is it at all to be found in the Torah that circumcision must be performed specifically for its purpose? But he may go on performing it even though he expires in the act.35
Thus, R. Jose differs with R. Judah by saying that the lack of intent does not nullify the circumcision (as it does in the case of sacrifice, for example). Indeed, we learn from this that in the second century, at least, it was the Samaritan custom to invoke the name of Mt. Gerizim when circumcising, similar to Moses appealing to Mt. Sinai in the Aggadah, or to the likelihood that some Jews regularly called on Mt. Moriah in their prayers. It is assumed that the Samaritans appealed to the angel appointed over the mountain not only at circumcisions, but also in the course of ritual slaughter, as Jews were accustomed to do, a practice condemned by the sages. This may very well explain why the sages taught in Mishnah Ber 9:2 that anyone seeing a mountain, ocean, or something similar is required to recite a blessing such as ‘Blessed be He Who created the Great Sea’. In other words, one should not invoke or be awed by the angelic officer appointed over these natural phenomena, but offer thanks only to God. In general, then, we can say that the halachic midrashim cited here appear to reflect not only theoretical laws, but a reality in which the rituals of certain Jews included reference to a variety of servants and attendants of God, such as angels, seraphim, and the like. While the sages of the Mishnah considered this custom disgraceful and banned it, for other Jews it was apparently common practice. Such a case is seen with the author of Sefer Harazim who writes of purity 34
T AZ 3:13, Zuckermandel edition, 464. Translated from: I. Epstein (supra n. 20), 133. This version is the printed one, but it is likely that an error has crept in and it should read: ‘continues to circumcise until his/its soul expires’. 35
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on the one hand, but on the other hand refers to prayers to Helios (the sun) or to consulting with a ghost, practices already prohibited in the Pentateuch.36 In other words, the doctrine of the sages alludes to Jews whose religious views were considered objectionable, as they were (in the opinion of the sages) syncretistic, that is, they implied serving God in partnership. It is interesting to note that certain examples of the Judeo-Christian polemic from the fourth century onward reveal that the Jews condemned the Christians for worshiping objects, trees, and stones, and that certain Christians of that era construed these items to be sacred and viewed them more or less on the order of angels.37 However, it would appear that these later views rebuked Christians for the very type of practices that had existed among the Jews themselves centuries before. Just how commonplace the appeal to angels was is demonstrated by a baraita in BT Ber 60b (Dereh Eretz 11; Kalla Rabbati 9:13): On entering a privy one should say: ‘Be honoured, ye honoured and holy ones the minister to the Most High. Give honour to the God of Israel. Wait for me till I enter and do my needs, and I return to you’.38
Presumably, then, several times in the course of an ordinary day, a Jew would turn to angels and ask them not to accompany him to the privy. This custom, too, was later abolished because of objections to praying to angels.39 III. Prayers to Saintly Individuals in Tannaitic Texts and Later The custom of appealing to a revered holy person, whether a sage or prophet, is well known from Scripture. The luminary would serve
36 See: Sefer Harazim (Book of Secrets), M. Margaliot edition, Jerusalem: Yediot Achronot, 1967, 12–16. See also: Rachel Elior, ‘Mysticism, Magic, and Angelology: The Perception of Angels in Hekhalot Literature’, Jewish Studies Quarterly 1 (1993/94), 3–53 (esp. 41–43); H. Mack, ‘The Unique Character of the Zippori Synagogue Mosaic and Eretz Israel Midrashim’, Cathedra 88 (1998), 39–56 (Hebrew). 37 See: N.H. Baynes, ‘The Icons before Iconoclasm’, HTR XLIV (1951), 93–106. 38 Translation from: I. Epstein, The Babylonian Talmud: Seder Zera'im, London, 1948, 377. 39 Rabbi Joseph Karo, in Shulhan Arukh, Ora'h Chaim, 3, 1, writes: ‘When one enters the water closet, one says: be honored, you honored ones etc., but now it is not said’.
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as an intermediary between those in need of divine help and God by soliciting divine intervention and praying on their behalf.40 Thus, for example, the people turned to the prophet and pleaded ( Jer. 42:2): ‘Pray for us to the Lord your God.’ From the context it is clear that the Lord was their God as well, but they were apparently too timid to appeal to him directly. Similarly, the people begged Samuel (1 Sam. 12:19): ‘Intercede for your servants with the Lord your God that we may not die’, behavior that is explained by the verse immediately preceding this: ‘And the people stood in awe of the Lord and Samuel.’ Every charismatic is typically assumed to have been granted the power to mediate between his disciples and the divinity, and it seems obvious that a prayer could only be effective if the individual to whom the supplicant turned for help was someone the Lord was likely to listen to. A key religious (and charismatic) figure whose concern for the people was expressed not only in his dealings with them, but also in his appeals to the Lord was Hanina ben Dosa.41 M Ber 5:5 states: It was related of [R.] Hanina ben Dosa that he used to pray for the sick and say, this one will live. They said to him: how do you know? He replied: If my prayer comes out fluently, I know that he (= the patient) is accepted, but if not, then I know that he is rejected.42
An expanded version appears in a baraita cited in BT Ber 34b: Our Rabbis taught: Once the son of R. Gamaliel fell ill. He sent two scholars to R. Hanina ben Dosa to ask him to pray for him. When he saw them he went up to the upper chamber and prayed for him. When he came down he said to them: Go, the fever has left him; [by the sun]. They said to him: Are you a prophet? He replied: I am neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet, but I learnt this from
40 M. Greenberg, ‘Prayer’, Encyclopedia Miqrait, 8 (1982), 896–922 (Hebrew); M. Greenberg, Lectures on Prayer in Scripture, Jerusalem: Akademon Press 1981, 17 ff. (Hebrew); Y. Muffs, ‘Between Law and Mercy: The Prayer of Prophets’, A. Shapira, ed., Torah Nidreshet, Tel-Aviv, 1984, 39–87 (especially 74 ff. Hebrew); Patrick D. Miller, They Cried to The Lord, Minneapolis, 1994, 262–280. 41 See: G.B.A. Zarfati, ‘Sages and Men of Deeds’, Tarbiz, 26 (1957), 126–153 (Hebrew); S. Safrai, The Land of Israel and Its Sages in the Period of the Mishna and the Talmud, United Kibbutz Publishers 1984, 144 ff. (Hebrew); Y. Frankel, Studies in the Spiritual World of the Legendary Tale, United Kibbutz Publishers 1981, 23 ff. (Hebrew); G. Vermes, Post-Biblical Jewish Studies, Leiden 1975, 178–214; S. Freyne, ‘The Charismatic’, G.W.E. Nickelsburg and J.J. Collins (eds), Ideal Figures in Ancient Judaism— Profiles and Paradigms, Ann Arbor, Michigan 1980, 223–258. 42 Translation: I. Epstein (supra n. 38), 214.
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- experience. If my prayer is fluent in my mouth, I know that he is accepted: but if not, I know that he is rejected.43
The baraita goes on to refer to another incident of interest: On another occasion it happened that R. Hanina ben Dosa went to study Torah with Rabban Johanan ben Zakkai. The son of R. Johanan ben Zakkai fell ill. He said to him: Hanina my son, pray for him that he may live. He put his head between his knees and prayed for him and he lived.44
The extraordinary figure of R. Hanina ben Dosa has already been discussed by many scholars who study the world of the sages, and there is no need to expand. What is relevant, however, is the fact that some (although not all) of the Tannaim, viewed as authorities passing down the traditions of the Torah, sought a distinguished or saintly individual to intervene with God in some way on behalf of the ill. Even the greatest of the Tannaim, such as Rabban Johanan ben Zakkai, appealed to such people. This was accepted practice not only among the Tannaim, but among the Amoraim in Palestine as well. This might be understood from the following: ‘R. Phinehas b. Hama gave the following exposition: Whoever has a sick person in his house should go to a sage who will invoke [heavenly] mercy for him; as it is said (Prov. 16:14): “The wrath of a king is as messenger of death; but a wise man will pacify it”.’45 A similar statement is found in BT AZ 8a: ‘[So also] said R. Hiyya b. Ashi in the name of Rab: Even though it has been said that one should pray for his needs only at “Who hearest prayer”, still if [for example] one has a sick person at home, he may offer [an extempore] prayer at the Benediction for the sick’.46 In other words, a person is permitted to pray for a sick member of his household (his wife or children), and indeed to this day Jews are accustomed to doing so.47 If this was accepted by the sages and their disciples, who
43 Translation: I. Epstein (supra n. 38), 215–216. Florence manuscript II I 7 9 contains minor discrepancies that are insubstantial. 44 Translation: I. Epstein (supra n. 36), 216. 45 BT BB 116a; translation: I. Epstein (supra n. 19), vol. II, 478. 46 Translation: I. Epstein (supra n. 19), 35. 47 This is grounded in Shulchan Aruch Orach Chaim 119; see also Yoreh Deah 335. Compare BT Ber 34a: ‘R. Jacob said in the name of R. Hisda: If one prays on behalf of his fellow, he need not mention his name, since it says: “Heal her now, O God, I beseech Thee”’ [Translation: Epstein, 212].
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were familiar with the theological problems of such a prayer, then it must certainly have been the norm among the simple folk.48 This notion of appealing to a distinguished individual to intervene with the Lord is also reflected in the people’s plea to Honi the Circle Maker (Hameagel), another charismatic figure (M Taan 3:8), ‘to pray for rainfall’. We learn in BT Taan 23a that the sages also asked Abba Hilkiah, the son of the daughter of Honi, to pray (on their behalf ) for rainfall, as it happened with Hanan the Hidden (BT Taan 23b), and the Gemara cites a number of similar examples in the same place. Clearly, then, sources in Talmudic literature provide a wide range of instances of human intermediaries in prayer, from the legend of Moses appealing to Joshua ben Nun, Eleazar the Priest, and the nobles of Israel, and to the petitions to Honi Hameagel and to other ‘distinguished figures’. These sources clearly demonstrate what we are seeking to prove here, a fact which is not generally recognized: Jews in the period of the Mishnah and Talmud (like those who came before them) prayed not only to the Lord, but also to intermediaries.49 IV. Prayers to the Patriarchs and Matriarchs in Legend Since contact with the dead was considered to contaminate the living, in Biblical times, as in the tannaitic period, there were some people who took care not to be rendered impure in this way.50 However, the gradual disappearance of the laws of purity and impurity enabled the people to begin to visit graves and solicit the help of the deceased. This practice is first related by Rava in Babylon, according to whom the spies went up to Hebron to prostrate themselves
48 For example: 2 Enoch (Slavic) 4:6: ‘And they said to me: Man of God, pray for us to the Lord’; ibid., 13.105: ‘And now my son do not say our father is with the Lord, and he will protect us and pray to offset our sins—none can help any one who has sinned’; II Thessalonians 3:1: ‘Finally, brethren, pray for us’. The Christian sources in this regard have been studied at length, see: A.R.C. Leaney, ‘The Johannine Paraclete and the Qumran Scrolls,’ J.H. Charlesworth, (ed.), John and the Dead Sea Scrolls, New York 1990, 38–61. 49 In The Words of Gad the Seer, verses 108–109, Tamar, the daughter of David, turns to her father (who is not present), appealing to him to mediate between her and God. See: M. Bar-Ilan, ‘The Date of The Words of Gad the Seer’, JBL, 109/3 (1990), 477–493; M. Bar-Ilan, Some Jewish Women in Antiquity, 93–94. 50 T.J. Lewis, Cults of the Dead in Ancient Israel and Ugarit, Atlanta 1989.
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on the graves of the patriarchs (BT Sot 34b).51 Similarly, one of the Palestinian Amoraim of the third century believed in visiting cemeteries on fast days, ‘so that the dead shall plead for mercy on us’ (BT Taan 16a).52 Once the practice became widely established in popular circles, community leaders seem to have followed in their wake, also visiting graves and pleading with the dead to bring their prayers before the Lord.53 The custom is described in greater detail in Lamentations Rabba (Buber) Petihta 24: The Holy One Blessed Be He said to Jeremiah: Today I resemble a man who had an only son for whom he prepared the bridal canopy and the son died under the bridal canopy. And you feel no pain for Me or for my son. Go summon Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and Moses for they know how to weep.54
In other words, the prophet Jeremiah is sent by God to summon the Patriarchs, that is, to visit their graves and ask them to weep before Him. The preacher in Lamentations Rabba depicts a rather dramatic scene in which the Patriarchs ‘tore their clothes, placed their hands on their heads and shouted and wept up to the doors of the Holy Temple’. In contrast, the preacher in Genesis Rabba, apparently earlier than Lamentations Rabba, speaks not of the Patriarchs, but of the Matriarch Rachel: ‘So Rachel died and she was buried on the way to Ephrath . . .’ Why did Jacob bury Rachel on the way to Ephrath? Jacob foresaw that the exiles would pass by there [en route to Babylon]. Therefore he buried her there, so that she should seek mercy for them: “A voice is heard in Ramah . . . Rachel weeping for her children . . . Thus says the Lord,
51 See further BT Hag 22b: ‘R. Joshua immediately went and prostrated himself on the graves of Beth Shammai, saying: I have sinned against you, bones of Beth Shammai, and if this is so with your hidden issues—then a fortiori with your open issues’. Here, however, forgiveness is asked of the dead, whereas in the case of the spies a request is made to the dead to intervene with God. 52 BT Taan 16a: ‘Why do people visit a cemetery? R. Levi bar Hama and R. Hanina differ; one says: we are considered as dead before You, and one says: so that the dead should plead for mercy on our behalf ’. 53 This subject has been dealt with recently in: Z. Safrai, ‘Graves of the Righteous and Holy Places in Jewish Tradition’, E. Schiller (ed.), Zev Vilnay’s Jubilee Volume, II, Jerusalem: Ariel 1987, 303–313 (Hebrew); Y. Lichtenstein, From the Impurity of the Dead to His Sanctification, doctoral dissertation, Bar-Ilan University, Ramat-Gan 1997, 168–181 (Hebrew, unpublished). 54 Lam. Rabba, Pesikta, 24, S. Buber edition, 24–25; Eicha Zuta, 64.
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‘Keep your voice from weeping . . . and there is hope for your future’ . . . ( Jer. 31:15–16).55
Another reference to Rachel’s burial place appears in Pesikta Rabbati 3, and focuses on why she was not buried together with the Patriarchs: God commanded Rachel to be buried there because it was known to Him and foreseen that a time was to come when the Temple would be destroyed and Jacob’s children would depart into exile. Whereupon they would go to the Patriarchs whom they would beseech to pray for them, but the Patriarchs would not avail the children of Israel. Then, before the setting forth on their way, they would go and embrace the tomb of Rachel, who would arise and beg mercy of the Holy One, blessed be He, saying to Him: Master of the Universe, hearken to the voice of my weeping and have mercy upon my children, or else pay the due bill which I present.56 Forthwith the Holy One, blessed be He, would listen to the voice of her prayer.57
This midrash relates explicitly to what is not spelled out in the earlier one. In Genesis Rabba, Rachel pleas for mercy from the Lord without being asked to, whereas in Pesikta Rabbati, she does so only after her sons come and beg her to intercede for them. In addition, the preacher was undoubtedly aware that Jews went to the Cave of Machpela in Hebron to ask the Patriarchs for mercy, as he must have seen this for himself. We can therefore deduce from Talmudic sources that the practice of appealing to the dead Patriarchs began in the Amoraic period, most probably emerging around their burial places in Hebron and Rachel’s tomb. If we look outside of Talmudic literature we first encounter prayer at patriarchal tombs in the elegy of R. Elazar Haqalir. This is recited to this day on the Ninth of Av: ‘Then when Jeremiah went to the burial places of the Patriarchs and declared: Lovable bones, why lie you still? Your children are exiled and their houses are destroyed. What is become of the merit of the ancestors in the land of drought’ . . .58 Apparently, then, in the sixth or seventh centuries,
55
Genesis Rabbah (translated by J. Neusner), Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press 1985, III, 173. 56 The translator added here in a footnote: ‘I.e., transfer my bones to Machpelah in Hebron’. 57 Pesikta Rabbati (translated by William G. Braude), New Haven and London 1968, I. 75–76 (piska 3). 58 D. Goldschmidt, ed., Order of Elegies for the Ninth of Ab: Polish Rite, Jerusalem
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the Jews in Palestine prayed at the tombs of the patriarchs in Hebron. The poet was a leader in prayer (and probably more) and although the custom is mentioned in rabbinical sources, the prayer itself is unknown, so the poet apparently ‘reconstructed’ the words said by the prophet. As it was composed only for the purposes of the elegy, however, it cannot be considered as authentic. Not long after the time of Haqalir, a prayer to be recited at the grave of the prophet Samuel was, in fact, composed, and reads in part: Fortunate are you the faithful and friendly, fortunate the modest and the pious . . . because of your merit God will receive [the prayer of His people Israel], because of your merit God will bring to end [of our exile] . . . our master Samuel the prophet . . . [be dear] my soul in your eyes and the souls of your servants believing in your prophecy, who come to prostrate themselves on your grave, to implore the great and awesome Lord your God on behalf of the surviving remnant . . .59
Thus, Talmudic literature retains a number of references to the custom of visiting graves. What is more, by the ninth century at the latest, special prayers were being written for the graves of the prophets of Israel, and it is more than reasonable to assume that prayers meant to be recited at the graves of the patriarchs in Hebron already existed at that time. Hence, praying at gravesites, a custom prohibited in Scripture and condemned in later periods, appears to have been a norm more than a thousand years ago, even if the halachic authorities refused to admit it. V. Conclusion The sources presented above clearly indicate that the Jews in Palestine in the Talmud period did not pray exclusively to God, but also to various intermediaries, including celestial bodies and natural phenomena, leaders, and the saintly, both living and dead. All of these were asked to pray to the Lord on behalf of the supplicant. This cannot be considered only as ‘popular religion’, since even the great-
1968, 98 (Hebrew). The editor states that the hymn-writer relied on Lam Rabbati, Petihta 24, a text dealt with by Z. Safrai (supra note 55). 59 S. Assaf, ‘Ancient Prayers on the Grave of the Prophet Samuel’, Jerusalem, 1 (1948), 71–73 (Hebrew).
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est of the Tannaim appealed to intermediaries to intercede with the Lord. At the same time, there are indications that the sages sought to ‘popularize’ prayer by teaching that God welcomes the prayers of all people, not only of the sages, the pious or the priest. Exodus Rabba 21:4 states: ‘Who hears prayer’—R. Judah bar Shalom reported in the name of R. Eleazar: A human being, if a poor man comes to say something to him—he does not listen to him; if a rich man comes to say something—he immediately listens and receives him. But the Holy One blessed Be He is not so, but all are equal before him—women and slaves and the poor and the rich . . . this is prayer and this is prayer: all are equal before God in prayer.
Notwithstanding this teaching, which reflects an attitude of equality among all believers in respect to prayer (precluding the need for intermediaries), it is clear that the appeal to angels and other intermediaries in the Judaism of the Talmudic period was not limited to a small circle. On the contrary, it was accepted by all levels of society, from the sages representing the religious norm to the broad ranks of the populace. Only later did theologians and religious philosophers seek to limit this practice, or at the very least, to disguise it.
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ENOCH AND MELCHIZEDEK IN JUDAISM AND CHRISTIANITY: A STUDY IN INTERMEDIARIES Marcel Poorthuis (Catholic Theological University of Utrecht, The Netherlands) Popular opinion has it that one of the main differences between Judaism and Christianity concerns their view regarding mediation. Judaism would reject any intermediary between the believer and his God whereas Christianity would insist upon the indispensable role of Christ as intermediary between the Christian and his Father in heaven.1 A cursory glance at the Jewish and Christian documents of that period is enough to realize that matters are more complicated than that. Second Temple Judaism knows both of angelic figures that communicate knowledge of heavenly matters to the initiate, and of human figures of superhuman dimensions who share divine prerogatives such as sitting on a heavenly throne and treasuring divine wisdom.2 Sometimes the angelic and the human even seem to merge: Enoch is Metatron. Both in Judaism and in Christianity, the patriarchs of the Hebrew Bible have angelic counterparts. Thus, for example, Jacob’s portrayal as ‘Israel, the angel of God’, in the Prayer of Joseph is quite striking. Adam and Eve enjoyed angelic status before they transgressed God’s command.3 The liturgy transports the believer towards the company of angels and the righteous become angels after death.4 Even during this earthly life, certain ecstatic experiences
1 The German-Jewish philosopher Franz Rosenzweig (1886–1929) has elevated this idea to philosophical dignity. Whatever the value of this thought may be, it should not be considered as a exhaustive description and a guiding principle of the historical reality of Second Temple Judaism. 2 The most striking example is the vision of Moses sitting on God’s trone in the description of the Jewish hellenistic author Ezechiel Poeta. Cp. on the sitting at God’s right hand, M. Hengel, Studies in Early Christology, Edinburgh 1995, 119–225. Cp. M. Barker, The Great Angel. A Study of Israel’s Second God, London 1992; J. Fossum, The Name of God and the Angel of the Lord, Tübingen 1985. 3 2 (Slavonic) Henoch 30:8–18; cp. Test. Adam 3:2,4. See J.H. Charlesworth, ‘The Righteous as an Angel’, G.W.E. Nickelsburg/J.J. Collins, Ideal Figures in Ancient Judaism, Scholars Press Chico CA 1980, 137–147. 4 History of the Rechabites 7:10 ff.: “O blessed Ones . . . O earthly angels”.
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may transpose the righteous toward an angelic existence, as is attested about the daughters of Job in the Testament of Job and by the phenomenon of glossolaly, the ‘language of angels’ in 1 Cor 13. In early Christianity, celibacy was thought to be an imitation of angelic existence as well.5 Some of these ideas are familiar both in Christianity and in Judaism; quite often it is difficult to tell whether the documents in which these ideas feature, are Jewish or Christian. In spite of these similarities, I think it is possible to discern different trends in Judaism and in Christianity with respect to the role of intermediaries, although it is important to remember that neither of these two traditions should be considered static nor as mutually independent. On the contrary, we wish to argue that these developments should be studied as a dialectical process in which both influence and are influenced by one another. Emergent Christianity exercised a decisive influence upon the way in which Rabbinic Judaism perceived intermediaries, but was itself dependent upon Jewish ideas. The famous Rabbinic dictum: “Not by an angel, not by a messenger”, is often understood as the categorical rejection of intermediaries in favor of God’s own redeeming action.6 On closer scrutiny, however, this interpretation, perhaps fostered by precisely those modern popular opinions referred to above, should be rejected. This ‘floating logion’ conveys several meanings that are dependent upon the context, some of them definitely in favor of intermediaries. Moses’ unique role as recipient of revelation is underscored by this same dictum: Moses is the only one to receive God’s word “not by an angel nor by a messenger”. Even the Exodus of Egypt is understood to be by an intermediary, since only in the future will God Himself perform the liberation.7
5
R.L. Fox, Pagans and Christians, London 1986, c. 7. J. Goldin, ‘Not by means of an angel and not by means of a messenger’, J. Neusner (ed.), Religions in Antiquity. Essays in Memory of E.R. Goodenough. Leiden 1968, 412–424. The idea of the Law being mediated by an angel is known both in Judaism and in Christianity. Cp. W.D. Davies, ‘A Note on Josephus, Antiquities 15:136’, Jewish and Pauline Studies, London 1984, 84–88. 7 Sifre Deut § 325. J. Goldin, op. cit., 413–414, has misunderstood this midrash, because he has overlooked the prooftexts. For divergent Rabbinic perspectives upon the role of angels and of God Himself during the Exodus, see my article ‘Rudolph Otto revisited: Numinosity Vis-à-Vis Rabbinic, Patristic and Gnostic Interpretations of Scripture’, M. Poorthuis & J. Schwartz (eds), Purity and Holiness. The Heritage of Leviticus. ( Jewish and Christian Perspectives 2), Leiden 2000, 117–120. 6
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In this article I will briefly sketch the Jewish and Christian attitudes toward intermediaries, by comparing the figures of Enoch (I) and Melchizedek (II) in Jewish and Christian interpretations. My thesis is that in both these cases a parallel development can be demonstrated along the following lines: early Christianity’s perspective on intermediaries was highly indebted to pre-Rabbinic Judaism. Christian tradition integrated these pre-Rabbinic ideas to highlight the significance of Christ. Rabbinic tradition reacted to that by downplaying the divine status of these intermediaries. Gradually, however, Christianity itself abandoned these divine intermediaries because of internal-Christian debates about Christ’s unique status. Judaism, obviously free of these constraints and no longer in polemic with Christianity, was freer to continue to maintain older images of these figures or to develop new images of them that underlined their divine status. By doing so, pre-Christian Jewish motifs could reappear on the ( Jewish) scene. I. Enoch First stage: the pre-Rabbinic Jewish interpretation of Enoch as an intermediary The importance of Enoch as a heavenly figure is attested in preChristian times, as the Book of Ben Sirah (LXX) makes clear: No one on earth has been created to equal Enoch, for he was taken up from the earth (49:14).8
Enoch learned secret knowledge and was translated into the Garden of Eden, as Jubilees 4:21 states. As the Scribe of God and inventor of writing he writes down all the wickedness of the children of men. In addition to that he is acquainted with the astronomical secrets of the Calendar.9 A vast literature was written and attributed to Enoch, such as the composite work of 1 Enoch. Fragments of this work have been found in Qumran and allow the dating of parts of 1 Enoch by the 3d century . The name of Enoch was connected to an 8 Cp. the Hebrew Ben Sira: “Few like Henoch have been created on earth”, apparently referring to the similar fate of Elija. 9 Cp. the Samaritan writer pseudo-Eupolemos, who identifies Enoch with the Greek giant Atlas (quoted in Eusebius, Praeparatio Evangelica 9:17,2–9; translation in B. Wacholder, Eupolemos, New York 1974, 314).
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ascension to heaven and mystical speculation about this issue developed immensely in Judaism. However, opposition arose against the exalted character of Enoch (as against the figure of Melchizedek as will be clear later on). In the case of Enoch, some sort of opposition is attested already in preChristian times! An indication of it is possibly preserved in Ben Sirah (LXX) 44:16: Enoch is “an example of repentance to the generations”, whereas the Hebrew reads: “a sign of knowledge”.10 The Book of Wisdom 4:13 relates that Enoch was well-pleasing to God, but nevertheless was taken away by God as a protective measure against the wickedness of his generation. According to the Wisdom of Solomon, this would explain his relatively young age at the time of his ‘death’, which seems to be implied here. There are also more pronounced negative traditions such as Philo’s statement that Enoch “changed from the worse life to the better, called by the Hebrews ‘Enoch’. (. . .). The expression (. . .) that he was not found, is well said, either because his old reprehensible life is blotted out and disappears and is no more found . . .” (De Abrahamo 17). However, the implied repentance of Enoch is not meant to exclude his miraculous ascension. Philo describes in his Questions on Genesis 86 Enoch’s translation to heaven as the marvelous end of worthy holy men, comparable to Elijah and Moses, who have no burialplace. Likewise Josephus asserts that concerning both Enoch and Elijah it is written that “they became invisible, and no one knows of their death” (Ant. 9:28). It might well be that Josephus here implies that they did not die, although he is very reluctant in providing details about their fate. Undoubtedly, Josephus considerably diminished the miraculous aspect of the death of Elijah, perhaps out of reverence for Moses “who definitely did die, according to the Biblical text and Josephus himself ”.11 In addition, Josephus’ description of the disappearance of Enoch and Elijah would seem plausible to a pagan reader, who would recall similar disappearances of Aeneas and of Romulus.
10
See P. Beentjes, The Book of Ben Sirah in Hebrew. A text Edition of all Extant Hebrew Manuscripts, Leiden 1997, 176; M.Z. Segal, Sefer ben Sira Hashalem, Jeruzalem 1958, 307–308, proposes different explanations for the LXX reading: Enoch calling the people to repent, or Enoch as an incentive to repentance by his own premature death. R.A. Argall, 1 Enoch and Sirach, Atlanta Georgia 1995, considers the Hebrew version authentic and in accordance with 1 Enoch 92:1: “a sign of wisdom”. 11 L.H. Feldman, Studies in Josephus’ Rewritten Bible, Leiden 1998, 301–302, referring to Ant. 4:326. Enoch “returned to the divinity”, according to Ant. 1:85.
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Second stage: the Christian appropriation of Enoch As is well known, the Enoch literature was eagerly absorbed and expanded upon in early Christianity. The figure of Enoch itself is extolled already in Hebrews 11:5–6 as a witness of faith: “Because of belief Enoch was taken away so that he did not see death”. It is precisely the uncertainty of the Jewish or Christian character of much of the Enoch literature that is a proof of its popularity in Christian circles.12 Irenaeus adds another motif, that is quite similar to the way that Justin portrays Melchizedek, that will be quoted later on: “Enoch, although he was uncircumcised, was well-pleasing to God and despite the fact that he was a man, he acted like an envoy to the angels and was translated and was preserved until now as a witness of the justice of God’s judgment” (Adversus Haereses 4.16.2). Here Enoch’s translation to heaven is readily assumed and combined with his being uncircumcised.13 The Syriac Cave of Treasures likewise locates Enoch’s abode in paradise, “in a place beyond death” (13:19). Moreover, in the Christian debate over the resurrection of the body, Enoch’s translation to heaven became an effective argument. According to Irenaeus, both Enoch’s and Elijah’s miraculous translations were especially appropriate to stress the bodily resurrection of Christ ( 5.5.1). The Jewish expectation of the return of Elijah plays a primary role already in the New Testament, affecting the portraits of John the Baptist and of Jesus himself.14 Christian tradition soon coupled this individual figure with Enoch.15 On his heavenly journey, Paul meets Enoch, the righteous scribe, and Elijah at
12 J.T. Milik, op. cit., 89, assigns the so-called Book of Parables (1 Enoch 37–71) as well as the whole of 2 (Slavonic) Enoch to Christian literature. Milik’s late dating has been contested by a number of scholars. Cp. M. Stone, (infra, note 48), 398–400, for a summary of the discussion. 13 (Pseudo?)Tertullian, Adversus Iudaeos 2:13–14, mentions inter alia Enoch and Melchizedek as righteous persons who pleased God without being circumcised and without observing the Sabbath. Cp. H. Tränkle (ed.), Q.S.F. Tertulliani Adversus Iudaeos. Mit Einleitung und kritischem Kommentar, Wiesbaden 1964, 6 and 51. 14 J. Louis Martyn, ‘We have found Elijah’, R. Hamerton-Kelly (ed.), Jews, Greeks and Christians, Leiden 1976, 181–219. After the New Testament, Justin (Dialogue with Trypho 49) still knows of a return of Elijah only. Cf. the battle of only Elijah against the Anti-Christ in Vitae Prophetarum (Dorothei recension), quoted in M. Stone/ J. Strugnell, The Books of Elijah parts 1&2, SBL, Missoula, 97. 15 Cp. Pseudo-Titus Epistle, in: E. Hennecke/W. Schneemelcher/R. McL. Wilson, New Testament Apocrypha II Cambridge 1991, 53 ff.; 5 Ezra 1.39, ib., 644.
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the gates of Paradise.16 Other traditions relate how both could be met in heaven during otherwordly journeys. Third stage: the Jewish reaction to Christian appropriation of Enoch Establishing the anti-Christian character of Jewish opposition against Enoch as heavenly figure is a complicated task for several reasons. Firstly, we have seen that already in pre-Christian times, there was some Jewish criticism of Enoch. In addition, the development of apocalyptic and mystical literature attributed to Enoch within Judaism makes it plausible that the rise of critical voices against Enoch as a heavenly figure took place in that tradition. Rabbinic criticism of the ascension of Moses and Elijah is found already by the year 150 or so, but this fact alone may not be enough to prove an antiChristian polemic.17 However, there are more indications of a anti-Christian polemical in the following rabbinic interpretation of the Bible. It deviates sharply from the general picture of the biblical Enoch; which cannot be wholly explained from inner-Jewish arguments. In addition, the setting of the text contains clear indication of a polemical context: The sectarians (‘mimim’) asked rabbi Abbahu and said to him: “We do not find that Enoch died”. “How so?” he asked. They said to him: It is said here ‘taken up’ and in connection with Elijah it is said: ‘taken up’. He said: If you inquire after ‘taken up’, it is said both here and in connection with Ezekiel, where it is said: “Behold, I take away the desire of your eyes” (Ez 24:16, implying death) (Gen Rabba 25:1).
Rabbi Abbahu (300 ) lived in Caesarea, a city with a large Jewish and a significant Christian community at that time. He was wellknown as spokesman against Christians.18 The statement that if someone says: “I am going up to heaven”, he spoke but it will not be
16 Apocalypse of Paul 19; E. Hennecke/W. Schneemelcher/R. McL. Wilson, New Testament Apocrypha II, 725. 17 Rabbi Jose ben Halafta said: “Never did the Shekina descend on earth, nor did Moses and Elijah ascend on high” (BT Sukkah 5a). To complicate matters further, John 3:13 states: “No one went up to heaven except who descended from heaven, the Son of Man”, which likewise may be a polemic against portrayals of Biblical figures as ascending to heaven. 18 D. Levine, Caesarea under Roman Rule, Leiden 1975, 75–85. The matter is complicated by the fact that Abbahu also attacked mystical and Gnostic speculations with no reference to Christian speculations. Cp. S. Lachs, ‘Rabbi Abbahu and the Minim’, JQR 60 (1970), 197–212, esp. 202–203.
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fulfilled’ (PT Ta'anit 2,1,65b), may be regarded as countering Christian claims of the resurrection of Christ. Similarly, the midrash quoted above refuting the idea of Enoch being taken up to heaven, counters the Christian argument of Enoch (and Elijah) as being precedents for the resurrection of Christ. Preceding this midrash, Genesis Rabba 25:1 quotes Rabbinic opinions on Enoch that play him down even more. Enoch is said to be inscribed in the roll of the wicked and he is called a hypocrite. These opinions are no mere continuation of pre-Christian Jewish ideas about Enoch, as quoted earlier in Wisdom and Philo, but go further by calling Enoch ‘wicked’ or a ‘hypocrite’. Undoubtedly this utterly negative image of Enoch has the polemical aim to refute a Christian exaltation of Enoch.19 Although the reading of Targum Onkelos Gen 5:24, “and he [Enoch] was no more, because the Lord had caused him to die”,20 has a polemical ring in emphasizing Enoch’s death, the statement here is perhaps too general to decide for a specific anti-Christian tendency. It could be directed against Jewish mystical speculations that, by greatly expanding upon that Biblical verse, relate of the heavenly scribe Enoch. As a matter of fact, the much later interpretation of Tg Ps Jon on the same verse attests of this mystical speculation: “he was taken away and ascended to the firmament at the command of the Lord, and he was called Metatron, the Great Scribe”.21 Although the Jewish speculations that have survived are of a much later date, it cannot be excluded that such speculations circulated in Jewish circles earlier. However, not all polemic around Enoch can be explained in relation to mystical speculations.22 It seems
19 Adam being called a ‘heretic’ (BT Sanhedrin 38b) or Noah a castrate (Ber. Rabba 36:4) may have served similar polemical purposes. Cp. N. Koltun-Fromm, ‘Aphrahat and the Rabbis on Noah’, J. Frishman/L. van Rompay (eds), The Book of Genesis in Jewish and Oriental Christian Interpretation, Louvain 1997, 66. 20 Note the variant reading of Targum Onkelos Gen 5:24 (D. Sperber, The Bible in Aramaic part I, Leiden 1959, 8): “and the Lord had not caused him to die”. 21 See Targum Pseudo-Jonathan: Genesis, M. Maher (transl.), The Aramaic Bible part 1B, Edinburgh 1992, 37. Cp. J. Bowker, The Targums and Rabbinic Literature, Cambridge 1969, 142–150. Lev. Rabba 29:11 endorses the idea that Enoch as the seventh in his generation is most dear to God with a reference to Gen 5:24, implying a positive understanding of this text as well. 22 Talmudic criticism of Metatron may very well be directed against mystical speculations with no reference at all to Christian connotations; cp. BT Sanhedrin 38b and BT Hagiga 15a and A.F. Segal, Two Powers in Heaven, Leiden 1977, 60–73,
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to me to be beyond dispute that the Rabbinic portrayal of Enoch as quoted from the midrash Genesis Rabba contains polemical elements against Christianity. In addition, the theme of Enoch being born circumcised (Midrash Psalms 9:7) makes no sense at all as an anti-mystical polemic, but is highly effective against Christian claims of Enoch being uncircumcised (cp. Irenaeus above).23 As will be demonstrated later on, the figures of Enoch and Melchizedek receive a similar treatment in Rabbinic tradition in this respect. Fourth stage: the Christian downplaying of Enoch. Together with Elijah, Enoch also became an eschatological figure for Christians; both of these figures were expected to return. On the one hand, they served to highlight the significance of Christ, especially his resurrection; on the other hand, Christ’s unique role had to be safeguarded. It seems that the Ascension of Isaiah (early second century ) already felt this tension when it has: “I saw all the righteous from Adam. And I saw the holy Abel and and all the righteous. And there I saw Enoch and all who were with him, stripped of the garment of flesh, and I saw them in their higher garments, and they were like the angels who stand there in great glory. But they were not seated upon their thrones and their crown of glory was not upon them”. (9:6–10, italics mine).24 Although this text stresses Enoch’s glorious state, at the same time it reduces his status; he was not seated upon a throne. Christian literature in general felt the need to subordinate the status of both Elijah and Enoch to that of Christ. John Chrysostom explains that Elijah ascended to heaven as a servant whereas Christ ascended as Lord.25 Augustine points out that Eliah’s ascension is described in the passivum, as an act of God, whereas Jesus’ ascension
who allows both for Christians and Merkabah mystics as the targets of Rabbinic criticism of Metatron. As is well known, the Talmudic criticism of Metatron (BT Hagiga 15a) was integrated into 3 Enoch (chapter 16), although this document extolls the figure of Enoch. P.S. Alexander, ‘The Historical Setting of the Hebrew Book of Enoch’, Journal of Jewish Studies 29 (1978), 178, claims to have detected traces of an ‘orthodox’ redaction of 3 Enoch. 23 In contrast with the polemical statements on Enoch in the midrash, both Talmuds do not contain a single reference to Enoch, which may be explained out of polemical reasons as well, although an ‘argument from silence’ as such cannot be convincing. 24 W. Schneemelcher/R. McLaren Wilson, New Testament Apocrypha 2, Cambridge 1992, 615. Cp. J. Daniélou, Les saints paiens dans l’Ancien Testament, Paris 1955, 67–68. 25 John Chrysostom, In Ascensionem Domini Jesu Christi, PG 50, Sp. 450.
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is his own deed.26 Gregory the Great describes Enoch and Elijah as examples of the era before the giving of the Law and of the era under the Law respectively, pointing towards Christ who actually ascended heaven himself. In addition to that, Enoch had children, Elijah was celibate, but Christ, however, was unbegotten and uncreated.27 Syriac writers strugggled with the same questions. Ephrem the Syrian frequently mentions Enoch and Elijah together as the only two who escaped death.28 But if so, how could it be possible that Enoch and Elijah were in Paradise without having died and hence were not in need of Christ’s resurrection? Apparently, Enoch and Elijah had no need of Christ to be liberated from death!29 Apparently in response to such objections, Syriac writers played down somewhat these motifs regarding Enoch and Elijah by pointing out that Elijah ascended “as it were towards heaven”, but not to heaven.30 According to Narsai (fifth century), both Enoch and Elijah remained somewhere on earth, be it in an uncorrupted state; Christ was the first to enter heaven.31 Thus, although Elijah and Enoch did not experience death, their translation was not a real resurrection. These same problems were solved in a completely different and very radical way by connecting Elijah and Enoch to an apocalyptic motif. This happened quite early, but apparently this motif did not spread throughout the whole Christian world. The two witnesses combating the Antichrist, known from the Apocalypse, were identified with Elijah and Enoch.32 The two witnesses had to die eventually 26 Augustin, Sermo 40 De Elia, PG 39, Sp. 1825. Note that Augustin here refers to Elijah only. Cp. M.M. Witte, Elias und Henoch als Exempel, typologische Figuren und apokalyptische Zeugen, Frankfurt am Main 1987, 138–139. 27 Gregory the Great, 40th Hom. in Evangelia, Lib.2, Hom. XXIX, PL 76, Sp. 1217. 28 T. Kronholm, Motifs from Genesis 1–11 in the Genuine Hyms of Ephrem the Syrian, Uppsala 1978, 154–163. 29 This critical question is dealt with in a catena on Genesis 5:24, attributed to Ephrem. The question is put in the mouth of a Jewish spokesman! See F. Petit (ed.), La Chaîne sur la Genèse. II, Louvain 1993, 62. 30 Cyrus of Edessa (mid sixth century), quoted by J. Frishman, ‘Genesis 5 in Early East-Syrian Exegesis’, J. Frishman/L. van Rompay (eds), The Book of Genesis in Jewish and Oriental Christian Interpretation, Louvain 1997, 180. 31 Ib. 176. Whereas Enoch and Elijah escaped death, Christ conquered death. 32 Apoc 11 itself is influenced by Zech 4:2. See Charles Casper’s contribution in this volume, p. 345. Possible connections of these eschatological witnesses with the Jewish figure of the Messiah son of Joseph, who is expected to die as well, need further research. BT Sukkah 52b connects the Messiah son of Joseph to the prophecies of Zech 2:3, whereas Pesikta Rabbati 8.3 interprets the two olive-trees in Zech
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and hence did not enter the heavenly bliss before Christ. Probably the first testimony of the identification of the two witnesses with Enoch and Elijah is contained in the Apocalypse of Peter (2d century): “Enoch and Elijah will be sent to instruct them that this is the deceiver who must come into the world and do signs and wonders to deceive. And on account of this those who died by his hand will be martyrs (. . .)” (2:11–13).33 In the beginning of the third century, Tertullian likewise mentions these two figures together, proving that death is the fate of all men: “Enoch was translated, and so was Elijah; nor did they experience death. It was postponed (and only postponed,) most certainly; they are reserved for the suffering of death, that by their blood they may extinguish Antichrist” (A Treatise on the Soul 50). This is the first text that unambiguously denies what was held both in early Christianity and pre-Christian Judaism: that Enoch and Elijah did not die.34 Upon returning, Elijah and Enoch had to fight against the Impudent, the Son of wickedness. “After descending to hell, Christ enters paradise and the people liberated from hell meet in paradise Elijah and Enoch (and the good thief ). Enoch explains: I am Enoch who was translated hither by the word of the Lord and he is Elijah the Thisbite who was taken up in a chariot of fire; and up to this day we have not tasted death, but we are received unto the coming of the Antichrist to fight against him with signs and wonders of God, and to be slain of him in Jerusalem, and after three days and a half to be taken up again alive on the clouds.35
4:3 as the eschatological priest in war and the king respectively. Cp. G. Kretschmar, Studien zur frühchristlichen Trinitätstheologie, Tübingen 1956, 102. 33 W. Schneemelcher/R. McLaren Wilson, New Testament Apocrypha 2, Cambridge 1992, 626. However, in Apocalypse of Peter 16, Moses and Elijah are met on a heavenly tour (p. 634). Cp. R. Bauckham, ‘Jews and Christians in the Land of Israel at the Time of the Bar Kochba War’, G.N. Stanton & G. Stroumsa (eds), Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Christianity, Cambridge, 1998, 228–238, who identifies the Antichrist in the Apocalypse of Peter with Bar Kochba. 34 Contrary to what is often assumed, even Hippolytus, Commentary on Daniel 39, is not explicit about the death of Enoch and Elijah, although he does mention the death of the two witnesses. But compare his Treatise on Christ and anti-Christ 43 and 47. 35 Acts of Pilate IX (XXV). Cp. Hennecke/Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha I (Cambridge 1990), 525. See J.T. Milik, op. cit., 119 ff. for the subsequent development in Sibylline books and medieval apocalypses of the theme of Enoch and Elijah being killed by the Antichrist. His assumption that already Irenaeus is familiar with this theme should be corrected. Cp. J.C. VanderKam/W. Adler (eds), The Jewish Apocalyptic Heritage in Early Christianity, CRINT 3.4., Assen/Minneapolis 1996, 88–101 (‘The Person of Enoch in Early Christian Literature’).
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Fig. 1 The story of Antichrist. On the left, Antichrist is preaching at the inspiration of the Devil, while on the right the ‘two witnesses’ Enoch and Elijah preach against him. Above, Antichrist, supported by demons, trying to fly and thereby show that he is God, while an archangel prepares to strike him down. (From: Liber Cronicarum of Hartmann Schedel, with woodcuts by Michel Wohlgemuth and Wilhelm Pleydenwurff, Nuremberg 1493.) © The British Museum.
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Although the two are mentioned together already by Irenaeus, roughly from the period of Tertullian and afterwards, the motif of their eventual death is underscored by identifying them with the two witnesses mentioned in the Apocalyps who were killed by the Antichrist.36 The Christian sources are highly uncertain about their abode. Whereas in the Apocalypse of Paul, Enoch and Elijah already participate in the heavenly bliss, other sources emphasize their subsequent return to earth in order to combat the Antichrist and to be killed by him. After that their fate is described in different ways. Either they are resurrected by the angels Michael and Gabriel, or they participate in the Last Judgment.37 The motif of Enoch and Elijah being killed by the Antichrist remained extremely popular during the whole of the Middle Ages.38 Apart from its apocalyptic connotations, it solved an intricate theological problem discussed above: how can Enoch and Elijah participate in the heavenly bliss before Christ himself and without being resurrected? By identifying the two with the witnesses to be killed, they were firmly subordinated to Christ again. Elijah and Enoch are no longer on a par with Jesus Christ. But apparently this apocalyptic motif was not universally known in the church, which explains that some Christian writers felt obliged to explain the subordination of Elijah and Enoch to Christ in other ways. Fifth stage: a Jewish rehabilitation of Enoch. In spite of the Rabbinic criticism voiced against the figure of Enoch, later Jewish sources attest of a rehabilitation of Enoch. The Targum Pseudo-Jonathan on Gen 5:24 quoted above is an example of such a rehabilitation: “he was taken away and ascended to the firmament at the command of the Lord, and he was called Metatron, the Great Scribe”.39
36 The gnostic tractate Melchizedek (NHC IX,1, 13:1) mentions the two witnesses without giving names; see B. Pearson (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codices IX and X, Leiden 1981, 25. Possibly the writer of the Apocalypse of John himself thought of Moses and Elijah, who feature together in the story of the transfiguration of Jesus on the mountain as well (Mk 9,2–13). Cp. J.C. VanderKam/W. Adler (eds), op. cit., 89–92. 37 W. Bousset, Der Antichrist in der Ueberlieferung des Judentums, des neuen Testaments und der alten Kirche, Hildesheim 1983 (repr.), 134–139. 38 Cp. the famous Ludus de Antichristo (1160 CE). See M.M. Witte, Elias und Henoch als Exempel, typologische Figuren und apokalyptische Zeugen, Frankfurt am Main/Bern/New York 1987. 39 P.S. Alexander, ‘The Historical Setting of the Book of Enoch’, Journal of Jewish Studies 29 (1978), 156–180, argues that this identification of Enoch with Metatron must have taken place after 450 CE. In later texts (e.g. Zohar I 37b), the identification
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Clearly the ‘taking away’ is interpreted as being taken to heaven, in spite of the criticism voiced by Rabbis cited earlier. It is also clear that despite Rabbinic attempts to downplay the importance of Enoch, speculations about his heavenly status continued. Merkabah mysticism reflects the fusion of originally separated traditions about two heavenly scribes: apocalyptic traditions about Enoch’s translation and angelic speculations about Metatron.40 In the late Midrash Aggada on Gen 5:24, it is told that Enoch went with the angels 365 years. He learned from them about cycles, about planets and much wisdom. Because he was righteous God took him away from men and made him an angel and he is Metatron.
The similarity with Jubilees 4:21, written some ten centuries earlier, is striking. Apparently, the heavenly character of Enoch, known from pre-Christian Jewish tradition in Jubilees, is completely restored in this late midrash. The identification of Enoch with Metatron, known from Merkabah mysticism, is likewise assumed. Yalkut Reubeni, a mystical midrashic commentary on the Torah, employs the angelic figure of Enoch/Metatron.41 Enoch’s heavenly status is widely attested in later Jewish tradition and his ascension to heaven is readily accepted. Enoch ascends to heaven and ministers before God, together with Moses and Elijah (Midrash Hagadol Gen 5:24).42 Enoch possesses antediluvian wisdom (Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer 8).43 In an equally late text, Enoch is counted of the two is buttressed by referring to Proverbs 22:6: “Chanokh laNa'ar”, interpreted as: “Enoch became the youth”, i.e. Metatron. Cp. H. Odeberg, 3 Enoch, New York 1973, 119. 40 See esp. 3 Enoch 3–16 and 48C. Cp. Midrash Ketappuah ba 'Atsey haYa"ar, describing Moses’ heavenly tour under the guidance of Enoch-Metatron, in A.J. Wertheimer, Batei Midrashot I, Jerusalem 1954, 277. (= ‘Gedulat Moshe’, translated in M. Gaster, Studies and Texts I, New York 1971, 125–141. 41 Yalkut Reubeni on Gen 5:24 (p. 107). Cp. Zohar 56b where Enoch after his translation is said to possess heavenly treasures and mystical secrets of letters. I. Tishby, The Wisdom of the Zohar II, London 1989, 627 ff., contains ample testimony of the unbridled exaltation of Enoch in the Zohar. However, this text has preserved a more critical attitude to Enoch as well, namely that God took him away prematurely in order to prevent him from sinning. Cp. M. Idel, ‘Enoch is Metatron’ (Hebr.), J. Dan (ed.), Early Jewish Mysticism, Jerusalem 1987, 151–170 for the portrayal of Enoch in Jewish mystical tradition. 42 Note that in this context of ministering, standing is often emphasized as opposed to God sitting on His trone. Cp. SifDt § 357 (Moses); BT Sotah 13b (on Moses); BT Hagigah 15a (critical of Metatron sitting). Cp. K. Haacker/P. Schäfer, ‘Nachbiblische Traditionen vom Tod des Mose’, O. Betz (ed.), Josephus-Studien, Göttingen 1974, 171–174; M. Hengel, Studies in Early Christology, Edinburgh 1995, 191–225. 43 In the medieval Sefer Noah (A. Jellinek, Beth Hamidrasch 3, Jerusalem 1938,
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together with Elijah among the nine righteous who went into Paradise alive (Derekh Erets Zuta 1:20).44 Although Scripture seems to deny the possibility of a human ascending to heaven: “Who ascends up into heaven?” (Prov 30:4), midrash Pesikta de Rav Kahana boldly reverses the meaning of the Biblical rhetorical question by pointing to Elijah and Moses respectively (§ 1.4). By transferring motifs from the Abraham-cycle and the Elijahcycle to Enoch, the Sefer Hayashar paints an elaborate picture of Enoch as a solitary wise teacher who returns to the people to instruct them.45 Then Enoch bids all farewell and after seven days he ascends to heaven in a fiery chariot with fiery horses.46 To sum up: both in Merkabah mysticism and in medieval midrash, Enoch again features as a heavenly figure possessing secret knowledge, unbridled by attempts to downplay his heavenly status. Hence the conclusion seems warranted that later Jewish literature regained the freedom to indulge in speculations about the heavenly ascension of Enoch, that were censored in Tannaitic and early Amoraic times. II. Melchizedek Let us now investigate, Melchizedek, the second Biblical figure to be discussed. First stage: the Jewish interpretation of Melchizedek as an intermediary. Already in the pre-Christian Judaism of the Dead Sea scrolls, Melchizedek is viewed as a heavenly figure, who will judge in the Last Judgment and who will combat the wicked Belial (11 Q 13). Thus, 158), Enoch finds a book belonging to Adam and containing the course of the stars and the names of the angels. 44 See on this text L. Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews 5, Philadelphia 1955, pp. 163–164; M. van Loopik, The Ways of the Sages and the Way of the World, Tübingen 1991, pp. 208–209. 45 See for Sefer Hayashar (approximately 14th century) as the last midrash in a chain of medieval midrashim, my article: ‘Moses’ Rod in Zipporah’s Garden’, A. Houtman, M. Poorthuis, J. Schwartz (eds), Sanctity of Time and Place in Tradition and Modernity, Leiden 1998, 252–253. 46 Sefer Hayashar. There are similarities between this portrayal of Enoch and the Christian portrayal of Melchizedek in The Apocryphal Story of Melchizedek, to be quoted later on. Especially the similar ascetic elements are noteworthy and their featuring in a Jewish text is surprising. Cp. the excerpt in A. Jellinek, Beth Hamidrasch 4 ( Jerusalem 1938), 129–132.
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there are scholars who claim that Ps 82:1, “The heavenly one (elohim) stands in the assembly of God (el), in the midst of the gods (elohim) he judges”, was interpreted in the Qumran text as Melchizedek.47 The miraculous birth of Melchizedek from a barren woman and without the intervention of a father, as it is told in 2 (Slavonic) Enoch 27, is not undisputedly pre-Christian; in fact it may be either Christian or a Jewish reaction to Christian claims of the virgin birth of Jesus.48 Therefore we shall not deal with this text regarding the first stage of the process we are describing. However, Philo’s ideas about Melchizedek as the ‘great priest’ of a self-taught priesthood (De Abr. §235) and as representation of the Logos (Leg. All. III §79–82), are clear examples of the exalted view of Melchizedek in pre-Christian Judaism. Uneasiness over the presence of a priestly figure outside the Jewish fold is not prominent in this pre-Christian period. Second stage: the Christian appropriation of Melchizedek. This Christian appropriation of Melchizedek serves to highlight the importance of Christ. The priesthood of Christ after the order of Melchizedek (Epistle to the Hebrews 6:19) is superior to the Levitical priesthood. Melchizedek is superior to Abraham: he is eternal, being without father and mother. All this serves to highlight
47 Cp. A.S. van der Woude, ‘Melchisedek als himmlischer Erlösergestalt in den neugefundenen eschatologischen Midraschim aus Qumran Höhle XI’, Oudtestamentische Studiën 14 (1965), 354–373. J. Carmignac, ‘Le document de Qumran sur Melkisédeq’, Revue de Qumran 27 (1970), 343–378, however, questions this interpretation and argues that Ps 82:1 refers to God in 11 Q Melch. See, however, M. Delcor, ‘Melchizedek from Genesis to the Qumran Texts and the Epistle to the Hebrews’, Journal of the Study of Judaism 2 (1971), 2, 133–134, who rejects Carmignac’s hypothesis. D. Flusser, ‘Melchizedek and the Son of Man’, Judaism and the Origins of Christianity, Jerusalem 1988, 188, tries to tone down the heavenly status of Melchizedek in Qumran by pointing to the well-known Rabbinic interpretation of ‘elohim’ as judge. Even so, however, he acknowledges the similarity between the Qumranic Melchizedek and the eschatological Son of Man in Mt 25. Cp. F.L. Horton, The Melchizedek Tradition. A Critical Examination of the Sources to the Fifth Century AD and in the Epistle to the Hebrews, Cambridge 1976, 64–82. 48 Cp. M. Delcor, op. cit., 129–130, who himself recognizes the “fundamental Jewish character of the birth of Melchizedek”, as does I. Gruenwald, ‘The Messianic Image of Melchizedek’ (hebr.), Mahanayim 124 (1970), 88–98. J.T. Milik, The Books of Enoch, Oxford 1976, 112, argues for a Greek monk as the author. Cp. M.E. Stone, ‘Apocalyptic Literature’, in idem (ed.), Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period, Assen 1984, pp. 406–408, who points to Qumranic parallels. See also the survey of the discussion and of the literature in A. Orlov, ‘Melchizedek Legend of 2 (Slavonic) Enoch’, Journal for the Study of Judaism 31/1 (2000), 23–38.
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Christ himself as a heavenly figure, as eternal and as an eternal priest. The eschatological role of Melchizedek in Qumran seems to have exercised some influence upon the author of the Epistle to the Hebrews. Justin Martyr (2d century ) elaborates upon the significance of Melchizedek as highlighting Christ in still another way. “Melchizedek was priest of the uncircumcised and he blessed Abraham who was uncircumcised. Thus God has shown that his eternal priest, also called ‘Lord’, by the Holy Spirit, would become priest of those in uncircumcision” (Dialogue with Trypho § 33; cp. § 19). Justin apparently identifies the figure of Psalm 110: “The Lord said to my lord”, with Christ (“You are a highpriest forever, after the order of Melchizedek” [110:4]), and explains why Christ is priest for the uncircumcised. The polemical nature of this Christian interpretation is obvious and beyond dispute.49 Extolling Melchizedek became the hallmark of Christian interpretation. As a priest offering bread and wine Melchizedek became the prototype of the Eucharistic offering.50 Origen considered Melchizedek to be an angelic figure.51 There were even Christian groups that considered Melchizedek of a higher order than Christ. But before we pursue that development we should concentrate upon the Jewish reaction to the Christian appropriation of Melchizedek. Third stage: the Jewish reaction to Christian appropriation of Melchizedek. The Jewish reaction to the Christian appropriation of Melchizedek is twofold and each trend is diametrically opposed to the other: either Melchizedek is relocated well within Judaism or or his importance is downplayed. According to the midrash, Melchizedek was born
49 Cp. M. Simon, ‘Melchisédech dans la polémique entre juifs et chrétiens et dans la légende’, Revue de l’Histoire et de Philosophie Réligieuses XVII (1937), 64 ff. The same interpretation is found in (pseudo?)-Tertullian, Adversus Judaeos 2. The polemical element is absent in Theophilus, Ad Autolycum, 2:31; cp. G. Bardy, ‘Melchisédech dans la tradition patristique’, Revue Biblique 35 (1926), 499. 50 Cp. G. Bardy, op. cit., 500. See the Syriac Cave of Treasures 28:11: “the holy mysteries of bread and wine”. This motif was first developed by Clement of Alexandria, Stromata 4.161.3. Cp. the Apostolic Constitutions 8:5 where the antediluvian Patriarchs are listed as priests. See J.T. Milik, The Books of Enoch, Oxford 1976, 114, and compare for the same theme in the gnostic tractate Melchizedek 12:8, B. Pearson (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codices IX and X, Leiden 1981, 25. 51 See Horton, The Melchizedek Tradition, 88.
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circumcised.52 The widely attested identification of Melchizedek with Noah’s son Shem in the Targum and in Rabbinic literature53 counters both the claim of a heavenly figure ‘without father or mother’ and of Melchizedek being uncircumcised. Nevertheless this is not yet conclusive proof that this Jewish motif originated as a form of polemics with Christianity for it may have served an exegetical purpose, explaining Shem still being alive at the time of Abraham (Gen 11:11).54 However, the following Talmudic text is undoubtedly polemical against Christian exaltation of Melchizedek: Because Melchizedek/Shem gave precedence in his blessing to Abraham over God, He brought the priesthood forth from Abraham, (. . .)as it is said: “The Lord said to my lord (i.e. Abraham): ‘Sit thou at my right hand while I make your enemies your footstool” (Ps 110:1), which is followed by, “Thou art priest forever after the order (dibrati ) of Melchizedek” is interpreted: “because of the word (diburo) of Melchizedek” (BT Nedarim 32b).
The elevation of Abraham at the expense of Melchizedek is so foreign to the description of Melchizedek in Scripture that a polemical intent may be assumed. Melchizedek’s priesthood is no longer eternal, but transferred to Abraham already from the outset.55 Apparently, the Christian claim of Melchizedek’s superior priesthood was known to the Rabbis and countered by denying him the priesthood from the outset. In addition, the Patristic argument of Melchizedek being uncircumcised is also dealt with in Rabbinic interpretation. After quoting the text from BT Ned 32 b, discussed above, the Lev Rabba 25:6 states that there are four modes of circumcision: the ear, the mouth, and the heart and the membrum virile. Although the first three are intended metaphorically in Scripture (which was duly noted by the Churchfathers),56 this midrash, attributed to R. Akiba, ironically 52
Gen Rabba 43:6 (Isaac the Babylonian); Theodor-Albeck I, 420. Targum Neofiti and Ps Jon on Gen 14:18; BT Nedarim 32b; Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer 8 and Midrash Psalms 76:3. Epiphanius, Panarion 55.6.1 and 8 attributes this idea to the Samaritans. 54 Cf. J.J. Petuchowsky, ‘The Controversial Figure of Melchizedek’, Hebrew Union College Annual 28 (1957), 129. The midrash tends to identify anonymous persons with known figures. 55 Cp. Targum Onkelos and Ps Jon on Gen 14:18, which refrain from calling Melchizedek a ‘cohen’ or priest. 56 The Epistle of Barnabas 9 even claims that all Scriptural references to circumcision were intended metaphorically. 53
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pretends to take all four modes literally. If Abraham would have performed one of the first three circumcisions, he would not have been fit for the priesthood (because of mutilation). Only circumcision of his membrum made him fit and ‘whole’, according to rabbi Akiba.57 This playful dealing with the metaphorical meanings of circumcision serves to underline the paramount significance of circumcision in relation to the priesthood and reflects a Jewish polemic against Christianity that claims to have in Melchizedek an uncircumcised priest.58 The culmination of the tendency on the Jewish side to degrade Melchizedek can be found in a Patristic source, Epiphanius, Panarion 55.7.1: “The Jews for their part say that Melchizedek is just and good and a priest of the Most High, as sacred Scripture states, but because he is the son of a whore, they say, his mother is not mentioned in writing nor is his father known”. This Jewish opinion as reported by Epiphanius (377 ), is probably not a invention by this Churchfather for polemical purposes.59 He is not even indignant about this Jewish opinion. As a matter of fact, Epiphanius quotes this opinion, albeit not in approval, but still to refute those sectarian Christians who claim Melchizedek as a divine being. Moreover, this Jewish idea of Melchizedek as the son of a whore shows a remarkable resemblance to Jewish ideas regarding Jesus. The pagan opponent to Christianity, Celsus, introduces a Jewish spokesman who relates how Jesus’ mother was chased away by her husband because of adultery with a soldier Panthera.60 The figure of Melchizedek was used by the Christians as a argument that Christ’s miraculous birth was not without precedent: both Melchizedek and Christ had no human father. In reaction to that Christian argument, Jews explained
57 Lev Rabba 25:6, presupposing the explanation of the commandment to be ‘whole’ (Gen 17:1) as circumcision. Horton, op. cit., 120, seems not to have grasped this argument. 58 This does not mean that this interpretation was intended to reach Christians at all. 59 The same motif in John Chrysostom, ‘Homily on Melchizedek’, PG 56:260; cp. for Chrysostom’s refutation of the Melchizedekians: Horton, op. cit., 101. 60 Origen, Contra Celsus I:28 and 32. Earlier traces of this motif can be found in Acts of Pilate 2:3–5. On Rabbinic parallels see M. Lods, ‘Études sur les sources juives de la polémique de Celsus contre les Chrétiens’, RHPhR 21 (1941), 1–33. Cp. N. de Lange, Origen and the Jews, Cambridge 1976, 66–69 and 100. J. Maier, Jesus von Nazareth in der Talmudischen Ueberlieferung, Darmstadt 1978, 253, rejects any Rabbinic parallel.
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the similarity between the two differently: the mothers of both were adulterous which explains why their biological fathers were unknown. With these polemical Jewish ideas we are of course far removed from the equally Jewish ideas of Melchizedek as eschatological judge and heavenly Redeemer, as quoted above. Obviously, the Jewish interpretations of Melchizedek and its fluctuations should be understood against the background of Christian interpretations of Melchizedek and cannot be explained in isolation from one another. Fourth stage: the Christian abandonment of Melchizedek as intermediary. On the Christian side as well, the significance of Melchizedek began to be downplayed. This, however, was not because of Jewish influence but because of internal-Christian christological controversies. The need to demonstrate the continuity between Christ and figures from the Hebrew Bible became less pressing as the distance between Judaism and Christianity grew. In addition to that, the Christological debates increasingly emphasized the uniqueness of Christ. Thus, elements derived from angels and applied to Christ— the so-called angelchristology—were abandoned as it might imply subordination of Christ to God the Father or denial of Christ’s full humanity (so-called ‘Docetism’) and might hamper orthodox Trinitarian speculations.61 Any comparison of Christ with other figures, be it angelic or human, might lead to some sort of subordination of Christ to God or to a kind of Docetism. In the case of Melchizedek, the fact that he was said to be without father and mother, brought this pre-figuration of Christ dangerously close to Docetic heresies. Christ as a heavenly figure without father and mother might deny the reality of the Incarnation in favour of a gnostic type of Redeemer. Another threat was to maintain the separation between Melchizedek as a heavenly figure and Jesus Christ as an earthly figure. In the
61 Although Christ is ranked higher than the angels already in the New Testament (as W. Michaelis, Zur Engelchristologie im Urchristentum. Abbau der Konstruktion Martin Werners, Basel 1942, rightly states), many motifs from Jewish angelology have been applied to Christ. See the abundant material collected by J. Danielou, Théologie du Judéo-Christianisme, Paris 1958, 169–198. Cp. R.N. Longenecker, The Christology of Early Jewish Christianity, Ann Arbor 1981, 26–32. Early Trinitarian speculations as well are influenced by Jewish motifs of two powers, angels, witnesses or spirits before God, to be abandoned later on within Christianity; see G. Kretschmar, Studien zur frühchristlichen Trinitätstheologie, Tübingen 1956, 62–124.
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Fig. 2 Abraham preparing to shear Melchizedek. According to legend, Abraham found Melchizedek living as a caveman, and convinced him to believe in one god. (From the 16th-century Greek Sacred History of the Old Testament, St. Catherine’s Monastery, Ms. 1187, fol. 1, 52v.)
gnostic tractate Melchizedek (around 200 ), an explicit anti-docetic warning is combined with a portrait of Melchizedek as a heavenly saviour.62 This may be similar to an adoptionist christology, i.e.
62 The anti-heretical warning: “They will say of him (Christ) that he is unbegotten, though he has been begotten, that he does not eat, though he eats” etc. (Melchizedek 4:7; cp. B. Pearson (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codices IX and X, Leiden 1981,
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Melchizedek as heavenly figure descending upon Jesus, e.g. during his baptism in the Jordan, in order to transform him into Christ. It became clear that the intermediary role of Melchizedek increasingly threatened orthodox christology. This proces began already in the beginning of the third century. In the fourth and fifth centuries, Melchizedek was called god (‘theos’) by some heterodox Christians, and Holy Spirit by others.63 This explains the playing down of the importance of Melchizedek in Christian tradition as time went on. For example, in the highly enigmatic Apocryphal story of Melchizedek, it is stated: “Because no one of the family of Melchizedek is left upon earth, for this reason he shall be called ‘without father and without mother, without genealogy (. . .). Don’t suppose therefore, that he has not a beginning of days just because no one knows when he was born or his genealogy or his father or mother”. Here, in a Christian text (!) any trace of a supernatural origin of Melchizedek is explained away.64 The interpretation of Hebrews 7:3: “he has no father and no mother”, is utterly rationalistic. No doubt the thrust of the argument is directed against those gnosticising Christians who interpreted Melchizedek as a heavenly Redeemer at the expense of the reality of the Incarnation.65 The Syriac Cave of Treasures 31:13–17 likewise explains that simple people have thought that Melchizedek was not a man, but God
p. 21) is surprising in a gnostic tractate. However, it seems that this warning against docetic-gnostic christology is only ostensibly orthodox-Christian, as it was combined with the portrait of Melchizedek as a heavenly figure. The emphasis upon the incarnation of Christ would not affect the heavenly status of Melchizedek. If so, the writer of this gnostic text would be close to heterodox-Christian Melchizedekians although the identity of both remains a matter of debate. 63 Horton, op. cit., pp. 87–114. See for the later gnostic texts on Melchizedek, ib., 131–151. Horton does not treat NHC IX Melchizedek. 64 See the translation by S.E. Robinson, in: Journal for the Study of Judaism 18/1 (1987), pp. 26–39. I am greatly indebted to his lucid commentary. D. Flusser, ‘Palaea Historia: an Unknown Source of Biblical Legends’, J. Heinemann/D. Noy (eds), Studies in Aggada and Folk-Literature, Jerusalem 1971, 48–79, argues that much of the material may have been derived from Jewish literature of the Hellenistic period. Be it as it may, from a methodological point of view one should first assess the tendency of the excerpt in its proper and in this instance ultimately Christian context. The excerpt just quoted fits into this fourth stage, although the first part of the story extolls Melchizedek using Jewish motifs originally belonging to the figure of Abraham, and it is the second part that plays down the figure of Melchizedek. 65 Robinson, op. cit., 36–37, leaves open the possibility that this Christian downplaying of Melchizedek was in its turn influenced by Jewish traditions (from our third stage).
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and strongly disapproves of this view: “However, the only thing the apostle [in the Epistle to the Hebrews] meant to say is that the name of Melchizedek’s parents were not written down in the genealogy”.66 The desertfather Abba Daniel tells how a ascetic ‘old man’ thought in his simplicity that Melchizedek was the son of God. Cyril of Alexandria asks the old man to adress himself to God, whereupon the old man actually sees in a vision the chain of patriarchs, including Melchizedek.67 The Kitab alMajal, a Christian-Arabic work related to the Cave of Treasures, offers a similar rationalistic-apologetic argument, stating that “some people have supposed that Melchizedek will not die. (. . .). How could he since he is flesh? (. . .). Moses did not mention him in his book because he was genealogizing the patriarchs only”. Attempts to counter the divinization process of Melchizedek helped to create new legends. It is told how Melchizedek as a young boy was taken away from his parents by an angel.68 These embellishments of Melchizedek originated in an attempt to lower his heavenly status.69 By the end of the fourth century, the opinion that Melchizedek had no father and mother was branded heretical.70 Melchizedek’s offering of bread and wine remained in medieval
66
Caverne de Trésors (ed. Su-Min Ri), Louvain 1987, 90–91 (in older editions 30:13–17), dating from the fourth century. Cp. the related but much later Book of the Bee. Hence G. Vajda’s assumption that the heavenly figure of Melchizedek in Ismailite Islamic sources is derived from the Cave of Treasures must be considered improbable. Cp. G. Vajda, ‘Melchisédec dans la mythologie Ismaélienne’, in: Études de théologie et de philosophie arabo-islamiques à l’époque classique, London 1986. 67 Apophtegmata Patrum: The Alphabetical Collection (s.v. Daniel). See B. Ward (tr.), The Sayings of the Desert Fathers. The Alphabetical Collection, London 1975, 54. Cp. B. Pearson (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codices IX and X, Leiden 1981, 31, who stresses the geographical proximity of the desertfathers to the Melchizedekians and to Egyptian gnosticism. According to Eustatius of Antioch, Melchizedek’s parents did exist but were not worth mentioning (quoted in G. Bardy, ‘Melchisédech dans la tradition patristique’, Revue Biblique 36 (1927), 30. Jerome embraces the Jewish identification of Melchizedek with Shem as proof of his human provenance (Bardy, ibidem, 31). 68 The Book of Adam and Eve, also called The Conflict of Adam and Eve with Satan, translated by S.C. Malan, London 1882, book 3, chapter 16, pp. 164–172. Other legendary developments of this theme may be found in the Apocryphal History of Melchizedek quoted above. 69 On this we take issue with M. Simon, ‘Melchisédech dans la polémique entre juifs et chrétiens et dans la légende’, Revue de l’Histoire et de Philosophie Réligieuses XVII (1937), 64 ff., who overemphasizes the extolling of Melchizedek in these legends. 70 Filastrius, Haereses 148, quoted in G. Bardy, ‘Melchisédech dans la tradition patristique’, Revue Biblique 36 (1927), 40. He argues that Melchizedek’s parents were Canaanites.
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Christian literature and art the prototype of the Eucharist and his non-circumcised status kept being used as Christian proof that the ceremonial laws could be dispensed with.71 His heavenly status however was not expanded upon any more. The fifth stage: a Jewish rehabilitation of Melchizedek Being appropriated by heterodox Christian groups had been a severe blow regarding the ability to use Melchizedek on the Christian side of the Judaeo-Christian polemic. In addition, interaction between Judaism and Christianity diminished as the boundaries between the two religions were drawn sharper. This may be the reason that Judaism felt freeer to expand upon the figure of Melchizedek, without being bothered any more by Christian polemical arguments. In Midrash HaNe'elam Lekh 25, Melchizedek officiating in the heavenly sanctuary is identified with the archangel Michael or considered as his earthly counterpart; Salem is the heavenly Jerusalem.72 In the undoubtedly late midrash Se'udat Liwyatan, we meet Melchizedek again as eschatological judge who “gives rewards to each righteous”.73 This may consist of a reactivation of elements from the first Jewish developments of Melchizedek (stage 1), or perhaps even of an assimilation of material from Christian provenance (stage 2). The role of the archangel Michael again merges with that of Melchizedek, despite Rabbinic attempts to separate the two (stage 3). Conclusion The similarity between the trajectories of the figures of Enoch and of Melchizedek in Judaism and Christianity is indeed striking. There is a a parallel development along the following lines: early Christianity’s perspective on Enoch and Melchizedek was indebted to pre-Rabbinic
71 Cp. the medieval Christian authors Alcuin, Abelard and Petrus Alfonsi. See Casper’s contribution in this volume, p. 343. For a survey of Melchizedek in literature and art see H. Schreckenberg, Die christlichen Adversus-Judaeos-Texte (11.–13.Jh.). Mit einer Ikonographie des Judenthemas bis zum 4. Laterankonzil, Bern/New York/ Paris, 1988, index s.v. ‘Melchizedek’. 72 Quoted in Torah Shlema on Gen 14:18, part 3, p. 615, § 111–112. 73 A. Jellinek, Beth Hamidrasch 6, Jerusalem 1938, p. 151. Cp. the identification of Melchizedek and Michael in Yalkut Hadash, Malakhim no. 19 (Warsaw 1879), p. 122, quoted in P.S. Alexander, op. cit., p. 162, n. 12.
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Judaism. Christian tradition integrated these pre-Rabbinic ideas to highlight the significance of Christ. Rabbinic tradition reacted to that by downplaying the divine status of both Enoch and Melchizedek. As a consequence, Christianity has sometimes preserved traces of older Jewish layers of interpretation of Enoch and Melchizedek, that had been abandoned in Rabbinic Judaism. Gradually, however, Christianity itself abandoned the divine status of both Enoch and Melchizedek, mainly because of internal-Christian debates about Christ’ s unique status. Judaism, obviously free of these constraints and no longer in polemic with Christianity, was freer to continue to maintain older images of these figures or to develop new images of them that underlined their divine status. By doing so, pre-Christian Jewish motifs could reappear on the ( Jewish) scene. These trajectories prove that the careers of both figures in Judaism and in Christianity vacilated while interacting. To consider the heavenly status and intermediary role of both figures a Christian idea alien to Judaism is a gross simplification. Their vacilating position in Judaism and in Christianity cannot be understood in isolation from another but only within the framework of mutual interaction.
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MATERIAL CULTURE IN THE LAND OF ISRAEL: MONKS AND RABBIS ON CLOTHING AND DRESS IN THE BYZANTINE PERIOD Joshua Schwartz (Bar-Ilan University, Israel) Introduction Prof. Daniel Sperber, in the opening section of his work on material culture in Eretz-Israel during the Talmudic period, paraphrased the late Prof. Saul Lieberman and stated the following: “it is impossible to understand either the halachah or aggadah without understanding the modes of life then, their history, development and usages.”1 The purpose of the discipline of Talmudic Realia, i.e. the study of material culture of the periods of the Mishnah and Talmud is to provide this understanding.2 Already at the earliest stages of research into this field, it was clear that it was impossible to arrive at an understanding of the material culture of Talmudic times using only the data available from the study of the material culture of the Jews and that it was necessary to bring parallels from the Graeco-Roman world.3 However, those early scholars of the material culture of Talmudic times erred regarding two issues. In the first case, they did not understand that the study of material culture included not only the relationship between people and objects, but also the study of ideas and concepts.4 Secondly, when searching for parallel material to Jewish remains, they often neglected the material remains of the Christian world.
1 Daniel Sperber, Material Culture in Eretz-Israel during the Talmudic Period, Jerusalem 1993, 1 (Hebrew). Sperber makes reference to Saul Lieberman, ‘[Grain] Mills and Those Who Work Them’, Tarbiz 50 (1980–1981) 128–135 (Hebrew) (= Saul Lieberman, Studies in Palestinian Talmudic Literature (edited by David Rosenthal), Jerusalem 1991, 383–390 [Hebrew]). 2 Sperber, ibid., 3. 3 For the history of scholarship see Sperber, ibid., 3–23. 4 See Ian Hodder, Reading the Past: Current Approaches to Interpretation in Archaeology, Cambridge 1986, 3. For a good example of a work which does study ideas and concepts within the broader framework of people and objects see, Daniel Sperber, A Commentary on Derech Eretz Zuta: Chapters Five to Eight, Ramat-Gan 1990.
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Correcting the first fault was dependent on developments in the study of material culture and its relationship to both archaeology and history, as well as the implementation of all this to the study of Talmudic literature.5 Correcting the second fault was and is a more complex matter and involves many problems of methodology. First of all, a substantial amount of Christian material on everyday life from the Byzantine period in the Land of Israel, what is more or less parallel to Talmudic times, is found in the vitae of the various monks who were active in Palestine and its environs. This is the result of the fact that there is apparently very little information regarding everyday life of the common people among the Christians6 while Talmudic literature, however, does provide a good deal of knowledge regarding the lives of common people in the Jewish community, as well as regarding the Rabbis. Thus, it is not that clear, methodologically speaking, that what we do have from the monks is really parallel to the material from the Rabbis or for that matter even to the material pertaining to the Rabbis. In addition to all this, the Rabbis clearly do not occupy the same place in Jewish society as the Desert Fathers do in their religious community, although both can be considered as a religious elite. Thus, the content of the two different corpora of literature is hardly symmetrical. The “form” of the two types of literature is also different; Hagiographic literature is hardly the same as Talmudic literature. This lack of symmetry 5 The study of material culture in modern times owes much to the historical methods developed by scholars such as Fernand Braudel. See, for example, J.H. Hexter, On Historians: Reappraisals of Some Makers of Modern History, Cambridge [MA] 1979, 61–145 (= ‘Fernand Braudel and the Monde Braudellian’). On the Annales school see esp. 64–87. For an example of the study of material culture in the Jewish world see S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Community of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza, IV, Daily Life, Berkeley-Los AngelesLondon 1983. See esp. 270 on the study of ‘Sachkultur’. The study of material culture also owes a great debt to recent developments in Post-Processual Archaeology. For a discussion of these developments see, for example, Avi Faust and Aron Maeir (eds), Material Culture, Society and Ideology: New Directions in the Archaeology of the Land of Israel, Ramat-Gan 1999. 6 There is, of course, a body of moral and didactic literature which relates to some extent to everyday life, although it is not always clear as to how realistic these descriptions are. Thus, the Paedagogus of Clement of Alexandria contains a number of references to clothing, the subject of our study. The work is meant for baptized students whose appetites and will still need further discipline. The references basically proscribe certain modes of dress (and behavior) and prescribe others. For references to clothing, shoes ornaments and the like see Paedagogus II.10 (11); II.11 (12); II.12 (13) (PG 8:520 ff.); III.11 (PG 8:628 ff.). I thank my friend and colleague Marcel Poorthuis for these references.
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between Jewish and Christian literature caused difficulty for scholars who refrained from comparing them in matters of everyday life.7 These problems, however, are not insurmountable. The study of material culture has shown that often there is a fundamental similarity between basic objects in different societies and that changes and developments in these objects proceed at a very slow pace.8 These two conclusions allow for a comparison between objects of different cultures, examining both similarities and differences, and, therefore, there is no reason that this should not be the case regarding the study of monastic-Christian material vis-à-vis parallels from Talmudic realia.9 It is our claim that Christian material can provide a general realistic background for understanding the Jewish material and vice versa. In the present study, we shall not engage in a general comparison between Jewish material culture of the Mishnah and Talmud period with that of the Christian-monastic world, but rather with one specific, somewhat limited issue, i.e. with what we shall refer to as the ‘clothes of poverty’ of the monks (and not standard habit) in relation to norms of dress of both Rabbis and commoners in ancient Jewish society.10 Firstly, we shall present the Byzantine-Christian material. After that we shall study the ‘parallels’ from Jewish society and
7 Of course it is possible to claim that this same lack of symmetry exists between the literature of the Jewish world and that of the Graeco-Roman world. However, comparisons between these two spheres apparently seemed to be of a less threatening nature, at least to those scholars studying them, than comparisons between the Jewish and Christian worlds and thus the lack of symmetry did not impede research regarding the former. Today, however, there is a growing tendency to compare both Jewish and Christian societies in terms of what is unique to each society as well as regarding what they share. A good example of this trend is the series in which this article appears, the Jewish and Christian Perspective Series. 8 See, for instance, Joshua Schwartz, ‘“A Child’s Cart”: a Toy Wagon in Ancient Jewish Sources’, Ludica, annali di storia e cilvilta del gioco 4 (1998) 7–19. 9 For an additional attempt at comparing the material culture of the monastic world with that of the Rabbis see Joshua Schwartz, ‘Material Culture and Rabbinic Literature in the Land of Israel in Late Antiquity: Beds, Bedding and Sleep Habits’, to appear in Lee I. Levine (ed.), The Land of Israel in Late Antiquity. 10 The study of material culture by its nature revolves around the “micro”. Every object has a “social life” and it is exactly this which we shall attempt to uncover. See in general, A. Appadurai (ed.), The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, Cambridge 1986. On the micro-level study of clothing and material culture see, for example, N. Thomas, ‘The Case of the Misplaced Ponchos: Speculations Concerning the History of Cloth in Polynesia’, Journal of Material Culture 4 (1999) 5–20 and M. Pastoureau, The Devil’s Cloth: A History of Stripes and Striped Fabric, New York 2001.
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examine both within their behavioral and social contexts. Hopefully, all this will help us to learn about the material culture of both Jews and Christians as well as regarding relationships between them. We shall see Christian behavior based on Jewish social norms but which developed in its own unique way as well as Jewish behavior influenced by and indeed sometimes reacting to Christian norms. All of this will be anchored in the study of ‘Holy Persons’, the general theme of the present volume. Monks, Habit and ‘Clothes of Poverty’ In order to understand the ‘clothes of poverty’ it is first necessary to briefly discuss the standard habit of Palestinian monks, to the extent, at least, that we can determine uniformity. Habits were given to monks upon ordination. In the Judaean Desert, monks received a cloak ( pallium, himation), a cowl (koukoulion, cuculla), sandals and a sleeveless (or very short-sleeved) tunic (kolobion, colobium) and often a number of regular tunics (chiton). A belt (cingulo, zone) also seemed to be common.11 For our purposes, however, most of this is irrelevant since, as we stated, we are not dealing with the habit, except for those cases in which it became extremely worn out, but with ‘clothes of poverty’ which were worn by those monks who wanted to inflict upon themselves additional strictures in matters of dress.12 Thus, those monks who were strict took only one tunic (xiton).13 Those who were even stricter did not take a new tunic when the old one wore out, but continued to repair the old worn out one until it turned into rags.14 Thus, we hear of a monk by the name
11 See, for example, Yizhar Hirschfeld, ‘Monasteries of the Judean Desert in the Byzantine Period’, Qadmoniot 22 (1987/8) 78 ff. (Hebrew) and Joseph Patrich, The Judean Desert Monasticism in the Byzantine Period: The Institutions of Sabas and his Disciples, Jerusalem 1995, 173–179 (Hebrew). 12 We deal in this study with cenobites and not hermits. Thus, while it might be argued that hermits would more likely wear rags and cenobites a habit of some sort, our concern in this study is basically with cenobites who continued to wear worn out habits or rags of sorts. 13 The source for this is apparently Mark 6:8–9 and parallels. When Jesus sent forth his students he commanded that “they should not put on two tunics”, i.e. that they should not take with them a replacement garment. This, however, would also seem to imply that in general they would have had a spare garment. 14 Cf. Matt 9:16, Mark 2:21 and Luke 5:36. The New Testament traditions seem to reflect an “anti-repair” theology or perhaps a feeling of dissatisfaction with “mixed
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of Aphrodesias who had only one tunic for the entire thirty years or so that he spent in the Great Laura of Sabas.15 There were indeed monks who invested a good deal in the ‘rag look’. Thus, it is stated that Sabas looked like a beggar and liked to wear patch-work clothes or rags. This was apparently not an unimportant matter since Sabas was often found among the high and mighty and even appeared before the Emperor himself.16 There were a number of different ways to acquire rags or ‘clothing of poverty’. The most common way was, of course, to continue wearing the same clothes until they turned into rags, as did Aphrodesias. Other monks, however, increased their wardrobe of poverty by picking out rags from monastic refuse dumps.17 This, by the way, also shows that there were those who discarded worn out clothes. The monks of Syria were apparently stricter in these matters than those of Palestine. We hear of monks there wearing rags, not washing and essentially continuing to wear their worn out clothing when it no longer existed and for all sakes and purposes, these monks were naked.18 We also hear of monks there who changed their clothes only once a year.19 Others went about in clothes that were made essentially from palm leaves, roots, grass or straw.20 John Chrysostom
kinds”, in this case sewing a new piece of cloth on to an old garment. These views might have influenced the monks on one hand to throw out garments or conversely on the other hand to wear them until they turned into rags. The former would have been the more normative course of action. We are concerned, of course, with the latter. See also Deut 29:4 which tells of the clothes and shoes that did not wear out when the Children of Israel spent forty years in the desert. The Rabbis in Deut. Rab. 7:11 (p. 113, ed. Lieberman) describe the various miracles associated with this. The clothes grew with the wearer, were damaged by nature, did not decay upon the death of the wearer and never smelled foul. In this tradition the clothes were never in need of repair. 15 Patrich, Monasticism (see n. 10), p. 173. On this ascetic monk in general see Vita Sancti Sabae, ed. E. Schwartz, Leipzig 1939, 134,8–135, 29 (143–145 in R.M. Price and J. Binns, Cyril of Scythopolis: The Lives of the Monks of Palestine, Kalamazoo 1991). 16 Vita Sancti Sabae 142, 5 (= 151, ed. Price and Binns). Cf. P. Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire, Hanover and London 2002, 91. It became de rigueur for monks such as Sabas to appear at court in Constantinople dressed like this. The ushers, however, at first did not want to admit Sabas. 17 Joseph Patrich, Sabas, Leader of Palestinian Monasticism: A Comparative Study in Eastern Monasticism, Fourth to Seventh Centuries, Washington, D.C. 1994, 186. 18 A. Vööbus, History of Asceticism in the Syrian Orient, Louvain 1958, I, 151–152. 19 Ibid., 119–120. 20 Ibid., 265–269.
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tells us that some of these ‘clothes’ were in such a state that even the poorest people would not want to be seen in similar attire.21 This would seem to imply that the concept of “clothing of poverty” of the monks was not invented by them, but was based upon reality, i.e. that these monks copied attire found among the poor or deprived and then added their own touches of compound poverty.22 The monastic clothing of poverty, therefore, imitated the clothing of the poor and their poverty was the model for the monks.23 Essenes and Cynics We shall of course expand upon the point that we just made that the starting point for the monastic habit of poverty was the attire of the poor in Palestine and its environs, and we shall also claim that norms in Jewish society developed in an entirely different manner, sometimes, though, in response to the Christian developments. However, before we examine the Jewish sources, and particularly those in Rabbinic literature, it is necessary to determine if there are other parallels which might have influenced the behavior of the monks in matters of dress.
21
Ibid. Ibid. Cf. Luke 16:19–20. The rich man wears purple and fine linen. The poor man was covered with sores. The comparison between the luxurious clothes of the rich man and the ailing bodily state of the poor man would seem to imply that the tradition here understood the latter as being naked. Cf. Brown, Poverty and Leadership, p. 50. We do not differentiate between the clothing of the urban and rural poor. According to Brown, city dwellers would have benefited from some type of economic safety-net while those in the countryside would not have and thus might have been subject to abject poverty, including in dress. 23 It is, of course, necessary to remember that normative Christianity did occasionally attempt to limit excessive monastic asceticism which included the wandering of the Desert Fathers. See, S. Rubenson, art. ‘Asceticism: Christian Perspectives’, in Encyclopedia of Monasticism, Chicago and London 2000, 92–93. There were also limits to this aping of the poor. Basil, for instance, wrote to his monks to warn them that just because they now wore clothes of the poor did not mean that they could behave like the poor. In spite of a Christian theology that stressed care for poor, and which to some extent even invented a cult of the poor, there was still some degree of condescension. See Brown, Poverty and Leadership, 1 ff., 16 ff., 53. However, ultimately there was still some type of belief that Christ was hidden in the ranks of the poor and this poor Christ was sometimes a naked Christ. Brown, Poverty and Leadership, 64, 73. 22
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Thus, for example, Josephus states that the Essenes “do not change their garments or shoes until they are torn to shreds or worn threadbare with age”.24 This, however, is not identical to what we have just seen regarding the monks. The Essenes simply did not make or buy a new garment or new shoes when the old clothing or shoes were still functional. They did not, however, have an outright policy of wearing rags. Another potential precedent for monastic behavior might be found in the writings of the Jewish Alexandrian philosopher Philo who states that he knew people who dressed in an ascetic manner. In his work Quod Detrius Potiori insidiari soleat (19) we find the following: If then you observe anyone not taking food or drink when he should, or refusing to use the bath and oil, or careless about his clothing, or sleeping on the ground, and occupying wretched lodgings, and then on the strength of all this fancying that he is practicing self-control, take pity on his mistake and show him the true method of self-control; for all the practices of his are fruitless and wearisome labors, prostrating soul and body by starving and in other ways maltreating them.
Philo describes here Jews who imitated the ascetic dressing practices of the Cynics. Philo opposed such practices and attempted to convince to Jews to refrain from engaging in them.25 Thus, it is unlikely that Philo influenced the monks, nor is it likely that the Cynics, who in addition to their asceticism also espoused “shameless” behavior which would not have been very popular among the monks, would have had much influence on monastic behavior.26 This being the
24
BJ 2.8.4 (127). Cf. Steven Fraade, ‘Ascetical Aspects of Ancient Judaism’, in Arthur Green (ed.), Jewish Spirituality from the Bible through the Middle Ages, New York 1987, 265. 26 There was apparently some philosophical or theological influence of the Cynics on certain points of Christian theology. Gregory of Nazianzus, for instance, viewed the Cynics as models for a good life. This, however, did not seem to include their concept of shamelessness. See M. Moxter, art. ‘Cynicism’, in The Encyclopedia of Christianity, Grand Rapids 1997, 762. The salos or fool (God’s fool) was not necessarily a direct offshoot of Cynicism and in any case this was not a terribly widespread phenomenon in Christianity. See F.L. Cross, art. ‘salos’ in The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, Oxford 1997, 1447. Similar phenomena seem to be found the world over. See “Letter from Marrakesh”, Times Literary Supplement, January 7, 2000, 13 describing the popular Muslim brotherhood (hedaua) of the Qor whose members avoid all relations with women, let their hair grow, wear the poorest clothes and smoke kef in a narghile. See also the description of the buhala belonging to the brotherhood of the Sidi Hedi who exhibit themselves unshod, unshaven, unkempt, and cultivate a wild appearance. The rejection that their appearance, 25
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case, we can now examine the background for the monastic practices described within the framework of the material culture of Palestinian Jewry of the Mishnah and Talmud periods.27 Jewish Tradition We mentioned above that the model for the clothing of poverty of the monks was the actual clothing of the poor. Now we shall see that the attitude of the Jews in the Talmudic period was exactly the opposite. The Jews did not see poverty as a model and those who found themselves caught in this world, whether regarding clothing or anything else sought to extricate themselves from it. The Rabbis then chose a way, as far as clothing in any case, that was exactly opposite that of the monks.28 Thus, for example, the Rabbis compare the words of Torah to expensive clothing made from thin and exquisite wool which is very expensive, but which tears easily.29 Words of foolishness were compared to a plain sack, cheap, but strong. Albeit, the attitude to the beards and rags provoke from “decent” citizens is a sign that they have kept to the right path. 27 Another possible precedent might be the Jewish wisdom text with marked ascetic overtones found in the Cairo Genizah and published at the beginning of the last century. There have been scholars, for instance, who have dated this text to the second century CE. See Klaus Berger, Die Weisheitsschrift aus der Kairoer Geniza: Erstedition, Kommentar und Uebersetzung, Tuebingen 1989. The consensus of scholarly opinion, however, seems to be against dating it so early. See, for instance, Ezra Fleischer, The Proverbs of Sa'id Ben Babshad, Jerusalem 1990, 241–263 (Hebrew). Fleischer sees the document as late, possibly Karaite, and certainly sectarian. See also Hans Peter Rueger, Die Weisheitsschrift aus der Kairoer Geniza: Text, Uebersetzung und philologischer Kommentar, Tuebingen 1991, who connects it to the “Mourners of Zion”. If the late dating is correct then this text could clearly have had no influence on monastic circles nor served as a precedent for any of their practices. I should like to thank Dr. Marcel Poorthuis for bringing this topic to my attention and Prof. Ezra Fleischer for discussing the matter with me. 28 On clothing in general in Jewish tradition see, for example, S. Krauss, Qadmoniot ha-Talmud, Tel-Aviv 1945, II, 2, 5–33 (Hebrew). See also, Y. Brand, ‘Clothing in the Talmudic Period’, in idem, Glass Implements in Talmudic Literature, Jerusalem 1978, 176–185. Cf. L.A. Roussin, ‘Costume in Roman Palestine: Archaeological Remains and Evidence from the Mishnah,’ in J.L. Sebasta and L. Bonfante, The World of Roman Costume, Milwaukee 1998, 182–190 and Gildas Hammel, Poverty and Charity in Roman Palestine, First Three Centuries CE, Berkeley and Los Angeles 1990, 57–93. 29 ARN, A, 28 (43a, ed. Schechter); B, 31 (34b, ed. Schechter). Cf. Clement of Alexandria’s comments in Paedagogus II.10 (11) (see n. 6 above) on the use of softer clothes provided they are not made of fabrics foolishly thin such as silk. Clement
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sack is not completely negative because it is strong, but in the final analysis this should be seen in a negative light because it just means that the words of foolishness persist. From what we have seen of the monks, they would have preferred the sack. It is, of course, not possible to prove that this midrash was developed in response to Christians and monks, but this is not impossible. Be all that as it may, it is interesting that the Rabbis chose to compare the words of Torah and the observance of the commandments, albeit metaphorically, with expensive clothes and other expensive items.30 We shall examine now some of the motives that we have discussed above regarding monastic life with realities described in Talmudic literature. We mentioned, for example, that one of the ideal examples of monastic behavior was to maintain only one set of clothes. Rabbinic literature postulates a completely opposite approach. In BT Shab 114a we find a list of statements attributed to R. Johanan and his colleagues about the need for a replacement garment. And in general all garments should be clean and in good repair. The traditions regarding the prescribed cleanliness and good state of the replacement garment refer to sages. The general tradition about a replacement garment refers to everyone. We shall cite the entire tradition. At the present we shall deal with the replacement garment. Later on we shall return to discuss the issue of cleanliness and the state of the garment: Rabbi Aha bar Abba said in the name of Rabbi Johanan—From where do we learn that the requirement to change one’s garment is from the Torah? As it is written, ‘And he shall put off his garments, and put on other garments’ (Lev 6:4). And it was taught in the House of Rabbi Yishmael: The Torah has taught you derech eretz. Clothing which one wore to cook in a pot for his master—one should not wear to pour (a beverage) for him. Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba said in the name of Rabbi Johanan: It is shameful for a Sage to go out to the market place in tattered shoes. . . . And Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba said in the name of Rabbi Johanan: Every sage on whose garment a stain is found should be put to death, as it is written, ‘All they that hate Me love death.’
cites the moral dangers lurking in such garments. The Rabbis use to this motif to describe the difficulty in acquiring Torah and the ease in which it may be lost. 30 ARN, B, ibid.: “the words of Torah are compared to golden utensils”. Cf. this with Clement’s comments against excessive fondness for jewels and gold ornaments Paedagogus II.13 (see n. 6 above).
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(Prov 8:36). Do not read ‘hate Me’, but ‘make Me hateful’ (by degrading the Torah by dressing inappropriately [Rashi]). . . . And Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba said in the name of R. Johanan: What does the verse mean when it states, ‘Like as My servant Isaiah has walked naked and barefoot’ (Isa 20:3). ‘Naked’—in ragged clothes, and ‘Barefoot’—in tattered shoes.
In PT Peah 8:7 (21b) the stress is on having a different garment for weekdays and the Sabbath. The tradition is general and refers to everyone and not just Sages: Rabbi Hanina said: Every person should have two wrappings,31 one for the weekdays and one for the Sabbath.
Needless to say, the Sages were also included in this and even the poor ones among them as we read in the continuation of the tradition on the PT Peah: When Rabbi Simlai taught this in public, the Sages cried before him saying, ‘Rabbi, as is our covering (= garment) on weekdays, so is it on the Sabbath.’ He said to them, ‘Even so, you need (a different set of clothes).
In spite of the requirement for a spare garment, which R. Simlai stressed, not every sage could apparently afford this ‘luxury’. As we saw above, the monks considered the lack of a replacement garment and not changing their attire as an ideal. The Rabbis just saw it as poverty, a situation which should be avoided if at all possible, which unfortunately was not always the case whether among the sages or the common people. There were times when economic conditions were difficult and it was not easy to afford a change of clothing. This was the case, for example after the Bar-Kochba Revolt. Tamudic literature relates a tradition regarding the second century Sage Rabbi Judah bar Ilai who had six students who used to 31 On 'atifin as literally ‘wrappings’, and technically the outer garment (= talit) but loosely translated as garment in general see Sperber, Derech Eretz Zuta (n. 4 above), 33–35. It is hard to be sure which type of replacement garment was required. See Krauss, Qadmoniot ha-Talmud, II, 2, 179. Cf. M.G. Houston, Ancient Greek, Roman and Byzantine Costume and Decoration, London 1847, 96–99. There were, of course, different types of outer garments in the Graeco-Roman world and many of them reflected differentiation in social standing, although sometimes they were worn only in relation to the particular function they provided. The most common outer garment in the Roman world was the abolla. The talit resembled the himation or the pallium. The Romans considered these garments to be too Greek and usually refrained from wearing them.
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share the same outer garment. The upshot of this was that only one at a time could go out in public.32 Another tradition tells of a woolen robe made by his wife which they used to share. She would wear it when she went out to the market place while he would wear it to pray.33 These traditions clearly reflect difficult times. Another tradition lists among those ‘whose life is no life’, ‘one who has only one (under) garment (haluq).’34 The ideal world of the Rabbis then clearly required more than one garment and a change of clothes. Proper clothing was also considered a minimum requirement for basic existence.35 Thus it is stated in M Ket 5:8, among the necessary items which a husband must give his wife: And he must give her a cap for her head and a girdle for her loins, and shoes at every holiday, and clothing worth fifty zuz every year. And they may not give her new garments for summer nor threadbare clothes for winter; but he must give her clothing worth fifty zuz for winter, and she may cover herself with the worn-out ones in summer and the threadbare ones belong to her.36
Married women are to receive a cap, shoes and belt every year and clothes worth fifty zuz which should be durable enough to last through the winter in good condition and the summer in at least passable condition.
32 BT Sanh 20a. On the required dress of a Sage in public see Sperber, Derech Eretz Zuta, 33–34 and our discussion below. 33 BT Ned 49b. It is difficult to determine exactly which garment is meant by the glima of the text. The outer garment of the woman need not be different than that of the man unless the garment was specifically connected to some genderrelated function. Women, however, did wear the himation, the equivalent of the talit, as we have mentioned a number of times. See, for instance, Houston, Costume and Decoration, 108–111. On women going to the market see Tal Ilan, Jewish Women in Greco-Roman Palestine, Tuebingen 1995, 128–129. 34 See BT Besah 32b. See also Krauss, Qadmoniot ha-Talmud, II, 2, 28. The haluq was the undergarment worn underneath the talit and is mentioned at times with this garment. See, for example, M Kel 29:1–2. Sometimes two such garments would be worn (T Kil 5:6, 222, ed. Lieberman), and even one on top of the other (T Kil 5:15, 224, ed. Lieberman). There were those who wore even more than two (T Nid 7:2, 648, ed. Zuckermandel). A person who possessed one such garment could not launder it, making it a welcome home for vermin of various sorts, although of course it could always be shaken out, removing at least some of the unwanted visitors from it. 35 The Mishnah refers to one who does not live with his wife, but provides support through a representative. For our purposes, it makes no difference whether the husband is with his wife or not. 36 Cf. T Ket 5:8–9 (74, ed. Lieberman).
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What could a woman receive for fifty zuz or silver dinars? She could buy one or two simple undergarments (haluq) and an upper garment that was not too elaborate.37 This is obviously not a large amount of clothing, but it is important to remember that the Mishnah lists minimum amounts for the poor, as is clear from the next Mishnah: When does this apply?—In the case of a poor man in Israel; but in the case of a man of a better class, all should be in accordance with his respectability (M Ket 5:9).
It should also be remembered that the amounts listed in the Mishnah are double of those which Cato (mid-second century ), for instance, was willing to give his workers. They received an under garment and an upper garment once every two years and were required to return the worn out ones, unlike the woman mentioned in the Mishnah. Roman workers also received shoes once every two years.38 For our purposes it is important to point that even the minimal amounts mentioned in the Mishnah would be considered respectable in the ancient world. It is indeed possible that the Mishnah here represents some type of ideal, but even so, it would still reflect the fact that even the poor in ancient Jewish society sought to dress in an appropriate fashion. While the Christian poor might have also yearned for better apparel, those that aped them, i.e. the Desert Fathers, certainly did not. There is another difference, based on what is found in M Ket, between the Jewish and Christian-monastic world. We have already mentioned those monks who searched for new clothing in monastic garbage dumps. This, as we also mentioned, implies that there were other monks who discarded old clothing. The Mishnah states, however, that the threadbare ones belong to the woman,39 i.e. that the
37 See Daniel Sperber, Roman Palestine 200 – 400: Money and Prices, Ramat-Gan 1974, 103. Cf. Hammel, Poverty, 65–67. 38 Cato, De Agri Cultura, 59. The upper garment referred to by Cato was the sagum, which also served as a sleep blanket. 39 See T Ket 5:9 (74, ed. Lieberman): The remainder of foodstuffs are his (= the husband’s) and the remainder of threadbare ones are hers (= the wife’s). According to the Mishnah, the woman might still wear threadbare clothes even if she is to receive new ones. This is the understanding of the Babylonian tradition as well (BT Ket 65b), except that in this tradition the worn out clothing might serve as temporary replacement garments. See also PT Ket 5:7 (30b). Sometimes, however, the woman did not receive the threadbare garments. See, for example, M Yeb 9:3;
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old clothes were not thrown out or discarded.40 Rags were not necessarily worn, but they had value and could be used by the woman or others for many purposes and, therefore, the woman wanted to keep them.41 Needless to say, clothes would be mended many times, and remnants would be used to mend other clothing, before anything would be relegated to the dust bin.42 This is not to say, of course, that there were not poor in ancient Jewish society who were forced by circumstances to wear rags. Such “clothing” is mentioned in Jewish tradition, particularly when comparing the poor and the wealthy. Thus, for example, BT Shebu 31a tells of two people who came to court for judgment. One wore rags and another wore a suit worth one hundred maneh. Rags are also mentioned in those traditions describing those who have fallen on hard times. Thus, for example, Naomi is described as one who used to wear colored garments made of fine wool, but upon her return to Israel from Moab was forced to dress in rags.43 It is possible to claim that these traditions reflect only literary motifs and not historical reality. There are, however, a number of halachic matters pertaining to the wearing of rags and these would 10:1; M Ket 11:6; M Git 8:5 and the numerous parallels in the Tosefta and Talmudim. 40 There are numerous laws that relate to the many usages that could be made of clothing that wore out or was ripped or torn and eventually became rags. See T Kel BB 5:2 (595, ed. Zuckermandel) on a paper garment that was worn out, ibid., 5:3 on a worn out felt garment, ibid. 5:9 on a belt whose sides became frayed, ibid., 5:10 on a talit which began to tear, ibid., 5:16 on the veil of an old woman which was ripped ibid. 6:3 (596, ed. Zuckermandel) and the talit of a pauper that wore out. 41 The various traditions might stress that rags or worn-out clothing remained with the woman, but they were certainly used not only by them, but also by others. Thus, for example, rags might be burned to maintain a fire (T Shab 2:1, 6, ed. Lieberman; BT Shab 29a), used as a stopper (M Parah 5:7), to clean (M Shab 21:2), as pot-holders (MidrPss 114:6, 237a, ed. Buber), as bandages after a circumcision ceremony taking place on a Sabbath (M Shab 19:2), or as a “filler” for balls used in various ball games (M Kel 28:1 [cf. Joshua Schwartz, ‘Ball Playing in Ancient Jewish Society: the Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Periods’, Ludica, annali di storia e cilvilta del gioco, 3 (1997) 18–23]). Sometimes clothing might be made from other types of implements or utensils that had worn out and could no longer be used. See, for example, T Kel BB 5:12 (595, ed. Zuckermandel) on making a garment from an old wine-strainer. 42 See, for example, T Kel BB 5:9 (595, ed. Zuckermandel); 5:17 (596, ed. Zuckermandel). 43 RuthR 3 and RuthZ 1:19 (22a, ed. Buber). See also LamR 1:1 (21a–b) on a king who dressed his son in comely garments as long as the son obeyed him, but when he did not, dressed him in rags.
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clearly seem to reflect social reality. Thus, for example, M Kel 28:8 states: The garments of poor people [made by patching together pieces of material], even though none [of the bits measures] three [fingerbreaths] by three [fingerbreaths], are susceptible to midras impurity.44
The halachah also mentions the concept of poheah, i.e. one who is dressed in rags, whose limbs are exposed and, therefore, there is a question as to whether that person may recite the Shema, translate the reading of the Torah, read the Torah itself or serve as a prayer leader.45 These laws would seem to strengthen our impression that there were unfortunately those whose wardrobe was rather ragged.46 To the best of our knowledge, however, we do not know of any limitation on spiritual activities of monks who would have been dressed in “clothing” conforming to the halachic category of the poheah. On the contrary; as we have claimed above, this type of attire would have been considered ideal. In the final analysis, though, it appears that few in Jewish society would have wanted to dress like that and those that did dress in rags would have approached the charitable institutions in Jewish society in order to receive help in buying new clothes. Although there is some discussion as to whether these institutions had to really check if the person who had approached them was in dire need of a garment,47 it was decided that one pleading poverty and claiming to need a new clothing should receive it and sometimes even “in keeping with his (prior) status” (le-fi kevodo) before coming upon hard times. 44
These “garments” would have been so worn out that for all sakes and purposes they hardly existed. Even so, because these pieces of cloth might have been combined into a garment, it was decided that they should be considered susceptible to midras impurity. 45 M Meg 4:6 and T Meg 3:27 (361, ed. Lieberman). Cf. Tractate Sofrim 9:18 (28, ed. Zlotnick). 46 These laws relate to matters of modesty. See the statement of Rabban Simeon b. Gamaliel in T Meg 3:27: he should take care lest he uncover himself. Cf. Krauss, Qadmoniot ha-Talmud, II, 2, 6 ff. who claims that “underwear” would have been worn under these rags. This would be the apikrisin or the apikarsin of Talmudic literature (ibid., 188–189). It is hard to know whether someone wearing rags would have had the luxury of “underwear”. It would appear that Krauss was trying to limit the phenomenon of nudity among the poor, whether by desire or circumstances. On early Jewish views against public nudity see Jubilees 3:31. For later Rabbinic ones see Pirke d’Rabbi Eliezer 22. 47 See T Peah 4:9 (57, ed. Lieberman); PT Peah 8:4 (21a) and BT BB 9a.
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Up until now, all the Jewish sources that we have examined have espoused an approach diametrically opposed to that of the Christianmonastic world. However, a number of Jewish sources evince a different approach to that described above. Thus, for example, in ARN, A, 11 (23b, ed. Schechter) we find in the name of Ben Azzai:48 If one degrades oneself for the sake of Torah and eats dates and carobs and wears clothing soiled with excrement and sits and guards the entranceway of Sages, every passer-by will wonder whether this is a fool, but in the end you will find all the Torah with him.
Or in PesR 23 (124a, ed. Ish Shalom) we read that Jacob used to wait upon his father dressed in clothes soiled with excrement, and changed his attire to presentable clothing only when he went out in public to the market. Jacob’s brother Esau wore stately gowns to serve his father, what was considered a point in Esau’s favor in this tradition. Jacob’s dress and behavior or that found in the tradition just cited in ARN was not all that different from what we have discussed above regarding monastic circles. It is possible that in the course of time, the prevalence of monastic custom regarding clothes of poverty also influenced certain Jewish circles, although the tradition regarding Jacob, that he changes his clothes to go outside in public, seems to be somewhat of a compromise between the Christian and the original Jewish approach.49
48 It is interesting to note that this statement is attributed to a sage who was apparently celibate for a good part of his life (BT Yeb 63b; cf., however, BT Ket 63a and BT Sotah 4b). 49 We do not claim a direct connection between monastic circles and Jewish traditions. However, it would seem likely that during the course of the Byzantine period, as monastic custom prevalent, it would have also have become known in various Jewish circles and perhaps even accepted by some of those circles with proclivities towards asceticism. There are, in our view, a goodly number of “ascetic” traditions in Talmudic literature which might have drawn upon or have been influenced by the Christian or monastic world. See, for example, M Abot 6:4: ‘This is the way of Torah: a morsel of bread with salt you must eat and water by measure must you drink and upon the ground must you sleep and live a life of trouble while you toil in the Torah etc.’ On this source and possible Christian influence see Joshua Schwartz, ‘Material Culture and Rabbinic Literature in the Land of Israel in Late Antiquity: Beds, Bedding and Sleep Habits’, to appear in Lee I. Levine (ed.), The Land of Israel in Late Antiquity. It is of course possible to claim that Early Christianity was influenced by pre-Rabbinic asceticism, but see our discussion above regarding Philo and the Essenes. What is clear is that the Rabbis basically opposed asceticism from whatever direction it came. See, for example, E.E. Urbach, “Ascesis and Asceticism in the Teachings of the Sages,” in E.E. Urbach, The World
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It should be stressed, though, that even if certain Jewish traditions seem to have maintained some aspects of the monastic view regarding the clothes of poverty, “normative” Jewish tradition remained opposed to it. We have already mentioned the tradition in BT Shab 114a which states that a student cannot serve his master wearing the same clothes that he wore while preparing the meal or go out to the market wearing tattered shoes and that a Sage must take great care in the state and cleanliness of his clothes. It is, of course, impossible to be sure that these traditions were formulated in response to the Christian-monastic viewpoint mentioned before, but it is extremely likely that this is indeed the case when similar motifs appear in later Jewish traditions dating from the Byzantine period. Thus, in Derech Eretz Zuta 5:3 we find: A scholar is recognizable in four ways: by his purse, by his cup, by his anger, and by his attire; and some say, by his speech too.50
A Sage must pay particular attention to his behavior even in matters which would seem to be quite external to his status as a Sage. For our purposes, it is particularly important to notice the difference between this tradition and an earlier version of it, particularly regarding clothes. Thus, in SDeut 343 (400 ed. Finkelstein) we find: And thus Sages are recognized: by their walk, by their speech and their attire in the market.51
The earlier versions of the tradition refer to clothes for the most part in relation to appearing in public at the market and not to of the Sages: Collected Studies, Jerusalem 1988, 437–457 (Hebrew). While there may have been ascetic elements in Merkavah mysticism, it is interesting that the description of ascetic practices before the mystical ascent that Gershom Scholem cites in G.G. Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism, New York 19726, 49 is from Gaonic literature and not Talmudic literature. 50 On the development of this text see Sperber, Derech Eretz Zuta (n. 4 above), 29–35. The text derives from BT Erub 65b. This tradition mentions only cup, purse and anger. The other motifs were apparently added later on. According to Sperber, the expanded form in Derech Eretz Zuta derives from ARN, B, 31 (34b, ed. Schechter): ‘In three ways a scholar reveals to the public if his behavior is proper or not: by his walk, and his attire, and his greeting; and some say by his speech too’. The motifs mentioned in BT Erub can only with difficulty be connected in any form to the Judaeo-Christian polemic. Based on what we have seen in the course of this study, this is not the case regarding ‘walk’ and ‘attire’. The connection between ‘attire’ and ‘speech’ is well known in the ancient East. See Sperber, 35 ff. 51 See also Mek de Rashbi 19 (144, ed. Epstein).
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clothes worn in the private. The later traditions began to deal with dress in general and everywhere, including in private. It is possible that this switch came as a response to the practice described above in PesR regarding Jacob who wore soiled clothes to serve his father in private, but changed when he went out in public. This, as we remember, was claimed to represent the possible incorporation of Christian-monastic practice into the normative Jewish ones. The development we have just described would seem to reflect the view in Jewish society rejecting entirely any attempt to incorporate the monastic practice. Summary We have seen that the “clothes of poverty” traditions of the Palestinian monks were based on the realities of poverty. In general it is likely that there were no differences in this reality between Jewish and Christian paupers. We have also seen that it is possible to learn about monks from Rabbinic traditions that refer to the poor and that indeed the opposite is possible, i.e., we may learn about the poor from monastic sources. However, normative tradition of the two groups was different. Christian-monastic tradition saw poverty as the starting point from which one could proceed to further and further physical hardship while soaring to spiritual heights. The Jews generally saw poverty as a negative socio-economic condition which had to be ameliorated and which does not particularly contribute to the spiritual standing or success of the Sage. Finally, we saw that when the monastic view apparently became popular enough to infiltrate Jewish tradition, normative Judaism reacted and demanded that the sage revert to accepted Jewish practice.
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PARTNERSHIP BETWEEN HEAVEN AND EARTH: THE SAGE AS RELIGIOUS ROLE MODEL IN CANTICLES RABBAH Birke Rapp-de Lange (Catholic Theological University of Utrecht, The Netherlands) Introduction Unlike Christianity’s perception of Jesus’ role as mediator and the relatively early emergence of worshipping saints in the first centuries of Christianity, rabbinic Judaism appears to have distanced itself from any kind of intermediation between God and Israel. While the priests in their office in the Temple might be seen as a sort of mediator, holy or otherwise, in the encounter between the people and God, no such distinct instance or group can be found in rabbinic Judaism. In the period after the Destruction, along with prayers and sanctifications in daily life, the study of the Torah as the means of access to God was regarded as an ideal, accessible, in principle, to everyone without the need for mediation. However, an evaluation of the role of the rabbis as found in rabbinic literature shows that they transformed the ideal of Torah study into a means of strengthening their own power and transformed themselves into an institution indispensable for access to God. In their recommendation for the study of Torah, they represent themselves as religious role models, as we shall see below. Among the questions to be examined in this article are: 1) The reasoning used by the rabbis in order to justify their “new” position as mediators in the study of Torah; 2) The extent that Torah study was really open to the people. The answer to these questions will be based on an analysis of traditions found in Canticles Rabbah (CantR). In rabbinic times, Canticles was interpreted allegorically as reflecting a relationship of love between God and Israel.1 Mutual love is attested to not only in historical 1 For an overview of literature on CantR in general and on the allegorical approach see G. Stemberger, Einleitung in Talmud und Midrasch, 8th revised edition,
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events of the past like the Exodus or the Revelation at Sinai, but also in contemporary forms of piety such as Talmud Torah (study of Torah) and prayer. In CantR, the largest and earliest collection of sayings on Canticles, there are many midrashim on Talmud Torah, deriving from amoraic and tannaitic times, and love is a dominant motif of many of them.2 This article will focus on three selections from CantR. The first two are related to the first issue mentioned above, while the last selection is related to the second one. The first selection concerns the midrash in CantR 1.2a,1–5,3 in which the possibility of a continuation of Revelation at Sinai and a direct encounter with God is attested to but only for the learned sage. The second concerns the striking midrash in CantR 1.2b,1–2, in which the rabbis are said to possess a distinctive means of access to God and His teachings. The third deals with midrashim in which ordinary people are called upon to engage actively in the study of the Torah. In this case we shall pay special attention to the issue of “ordinary people”, trying to determine to what extent they were indeed so. 1. Possibilities of Encountering God: Direct Revelation versus Mediation (CantR 1.2a,1–5) CantR 1.2a,1–5 is a lengthy midrash on Cant 1:2a (“let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth”). It is a carefully composed derasha which consists of ten interpretation units4 which can be combined into two main parts (B–E and F–J) and a general introduction (A). Whereas in the introduction there is a survey of different historical events which are traditionally related to the Song of Songs (Red
Munich 1982, 309–10. For more literature see my forthcoming doctoral thesis on the role of Talmud Torah in CantR. 2 CantR in its final editorial version dates about the year 600. See the remarks of the Academy for Hebraic Language in Jerusalem in Sefer haMekorot, Towards the End of the Bible until the End of the Gaonic Period (Hebr.), Jerusalem 1970, 24 and see also L. Giron-Blanc, “A Preliminary Description of the Language of Canticles Rabba: Sample Edition” (Hebr.), Mehkarim beLashon 4 (1990), 129–160. 3 The texts from CantR will be cited according to the English translation of the Midrash from Maurice Simon in the Soncino-edition of H. Freedman and M. Simon (eds), Midrash Rabbah, London and New York 1983. 4 See for the division the appendix next to this article. All further explanations will be based on this division.
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Sea, Sinai, Tent of Assembly and Temple),5 the two main parts consist solely of expositions regarding the giving of the Torah at Sinai. The common denominator is that they are all about the possibilities and dangers inherent in a direct encounter between God and man. In the first part (B–E), there are different theoretical models of the means of Torah revelation with the encounter between the Divine (= God) and the human (= Israel) as a major theme. The second part (F–J) is focused on Israel in history. It begins with an enumeration of the different biblical reactions of Israel to Revelation at Sinai (F–H) and continues with the meaning of this event in the time of the rabbis (I–J). Nevertheless, a certain climax can be perceived in the composition of the two parts. Whereas in most of the midrashim the kiss is said to reflect the direct encounter between God and Israel at Sinai towards the end of the derasha in I, it is claimed that the kiss can also be experienced through the study of Torah. This means that in Talmud Torah the close relationship between God and Israel at the revelation at Sinai can be continued in the present and experienced again and again. It is said there (I): R. Judah says:6 If two scholars argue over a halakhic question and each one adduces a foundation to support his view, the Holy One, blessed be He, says: ‘Their dispute7 is on Me.’ R. Nehemiah says: Even of the breath which issues from his mouth, as it says: “But Job doth open his mouth for vanity”8 ( Job 35:16), the Holy One, blessed be He, says: ‘Their dispute is on Me’.
5
Cf. the article of S. Lieberman, “Mishnat Shir haShirim,” in G. Scholem, Jewish Gnosticism, Merkabah Mysticism and Talmudic Tradition, New York 1965, 118–126. 6 In some of the manuscripts this statement is ascribed to R. Nehemiah and the following to R. Judah. 7 According to the manuscripts, the text reads mashukyothon which is a construction of the midrash on the word yishakeni in Cant 1:2a. In the translation the word has been interpreted according to the second meaning of the root n-sh-k in the Pi'el (to arm, to equip) and refers to the scholarly combat in discussions of Torah for the sake of Heaven, see M. Jastrow, Dictionary of the Talmud, London 1926, 1541. Another possibility is the interpretation of the root in the Hif 'il (in the sense of “close contact”) which might relate to the social and intellectual proximity among the scholars. One might also think of the passionate inset of the wise men for the sake of heaven (from the root sh-u-k or sh-k-k with the meaning “to desire”), see S. Dunski, Midrash Rabbah Shir haShirim, Tel Aviv 1980, 16, note 14. 8 The word hevel means both “breath, vapor” (which comes out of the mouth like a kiss) and “vanity.”
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This is an important statement in support of the possibility of a direct encounter with God without mediation. Most striking in these two sayings is that the kiss does not issue from the mouth of God as in the case of the revelation on Sinai, but from the mouth of fellow-students studying together (haverim). Their activity—struggling about a halakhic question—points to the culture of controversy of the sages, which is practised in the House of Study. It is a scholarly combat which is full of passion for Torah and God.9 The Oral Torah—as result of these dialectical discussions may be understood as the responsive kiss of the rabbis, a counterpart to the kiss of God formed by the Written Torah given at Sinai. God reacts to the study and arguments with nearness and love10 even when it is only “vanity” which comes forth from their mouths, as in the view of R. Nehemiah. Because of this second view it is especially stressed that it is an unconditional love of God. Within the framework of studying, it is a perfect partnership between God and man which provides unlimited possibilities for mankind: The scholars have a dialogue with God; they can take the initiative discussing God’s word, make their own decisions and become nearer to God in an almost physical way. However, one important restriction is made: the unique partnership is not related with the entire People of Israel, as was the case in the preceding interpretations of CantR 1.2a, but is limited to the scholars. In order to gain a better understanding of the implication of the interpretation in I, we have to take a closer look at the preceding midrashim (B–H). As already mentioned, all of these interpretations (B–H) can be understood as a discussion about the possibilities and also dangers of a direct encounter between God and man at Sinai. This serves to provide a better estimation of the climax in I which is about the possibility of a direct encounter in the present by means of Talmud Torah. What are most interesting in this context are the midrashim in B–E. Here are given three different theoretical models about the notion of the encounter with God at Sinai11 which all con-
9 For more information about the passion and erotic feelings involved in the study of Torah see D. Boyarin, Carnal Israel, Berkeley 1993, 134–166. 10 In the answer of God, the preposition al yadi is used which has the meaning of “next to” or “through.” In both meanings, the close connection between God and the students is expressed. 11 There are only three models, since E and C belong together.
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sist of an opinion and an opposing view.12 Due to the space limitations of this article, we will provide only a brief summary of the arguments in support of direct revelation or mediation. In favour of direct revelation at Sinai it is stated that a relationship can only be established through intimacy between God and Israel (allegorically described in Cant as a kiss). Only through direct contact with God, can Israel know itself supported and encouraged in its unique task to transmit the Torah and to engage with its God. This closeness to God is the ultimate condition of partnership consisting of accepting the commandments and acknowledging the sovereignty of God.13 In favour of the mediation of revelation by an angel, an envoy or even a hypostasis of the Word, it is stated that the uniqueness of God is hereby guaranteed. God is not reduced to human level; at the same time man is prevented from being absorbed into the Divine. Through mediation, man maintains his own freedom of decision and responsibility without being spellbound by God’s perfection as a result of direct engagement with Him.14 The second part (F–H) of the preceding midrashim of I is a continuation of the discussion about the possibilities and dangers of direct revelation and mediation. Yet, in these midrashim the theme of direct revelation versus mediation is not discussed theoretically, but rather embedded historically in interpretations of the different biblical descriptions of Israel’s reaction on the revelation of the Torah. Whereas the first part was focused very strongly on the different conceptions of the divine and the effect on Israel in his humaneness, the second part is applied to Israel as a practical example in history, which will finally proceed to the present time in I. Again, three sections are given. We will concentrate on the midrash in the middle (G), because from this we receive an important explanation for the necessity of mediation of the Torah at Sinai, which can also be applied to the
12 R. Johanan versus the rabbis (B), R. Joshua ben Levi versus the rabbis (E–C), and R. Simeon bar Yohai versus the rabbis (D). 13 This interpretation can be found in the explanations of the rabbis (B) and of R. Shimon ben Yohai (D). It is interesting, that the pleading for direct revelation seems to have a tannaitic origin, cf. for this suggestion also E.E. Urbach, The Sages— Their Concepts and Beliefs, Jerusalem 1987, 152 ff. and P. Schäfer, Rivalität zwischen Engeln und Menschen: Untersuchungen zur rabbinischen Engelvorstellung, Berlin 1975. 14 See the interpretation of R. Johanan (B) and the rabbis (D). The interpretation-unit of R. Joshua ben Levi and the rabbis (E–C) can be understood in terms of limitations of a direct encounter with God, too.
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present. In G it is claimed that mediation of the Torah is indispensable for a human being in order to become a true partner of God. It is said there: R. Judan in the name of R. Judah b. Simon and R. Judah and R. Nehemiah joined issue. R. Judah said: When Israel heard the words, “I am the Lord thy God” (Ex 20:2), the knowledge of the Torah was fixed in their heart and they learnt and forgot not. They came to Moses and said, ‘Our master, Moses, do thou become an intermediary between us, as it says, “Speak thou with us, and we will hear” (Ex 20:16). “Now therefore why should we die” (Deut 5:22). ‘What profit is there in our perishing?’ They then became liable to forget what they learnt. They said: Just as Moses, being flesh and blood, is transitory, so his teaching is transitory. Forthwith they came a second time to Moses and said: ‘Our master, Moses, would that God might be revealed to us a second time! Would that He would kiss us “with the kisses of his mouth” (Cant 1:2). Would that He would fix the knowledge of the Torah in our hearts as it was!’ He replied to them: ‘This cannot be now, but it will be in the days to come,’ as it says, “I will put My law in their inward parts and in their heart will I write it” ( Jer 31:33). R. Nehemiah said: When Israel heard the command “Thou shalt have no other gods” (Ex 20:2), the Evil Inclination was plucked from their heart. They came to Moses and said to him: ‘Our master Moses, become thou an intermediary between us, as it says, “Speak thou with us and we shall hear” (Ex 20:16) “Now therefore why should we die” (Deut 5:22). What profit is there in our perishing?’ Straightway the Evil Inclination returned to its place. They returned to Moses and said to him, ‘Moses, would that God would reveal Himself to us a second time. Would that He would kiss us “with the kisses of his mouth” (Cant 1:2). He replied to them: ‘This cannot be now, but in time to come it will be, as it says, “And I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh” (Ez 36:26).
In this midrash it is said that Israel enters the perfect state when listening to the direct revelation of the first two words. This means, according to the midrash, that when studying, Israel doesn’t forget anymore what it has learned, and that the evil inclination has been banished from the world. However, in this very situation Israel asks for mediation of the commandments through Moses. This paradox can be explained by the fact that Israel is unable to become a partner in a perfect world. As long as Israel need not engage in Torah because there is no danger of forgetting, and (together with the Torah) does not have to fight the evil inclination, it can never become a real human partner of God. Israel has to face the challenge in order to grow to meet its task, must get acquainted with the Torah and
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learn to apply it. Therefore, in order to take—as a human—full responsibility mediation is necessary. Moreover, the midrash concludes by saying that they will enter into the perfect state again only in the world to come. In my opinion, this expression means nothing less than the ideal rabbinical age, a hypothesis which is supported by the midrash in I, where it is said that close relationship with God can be reached already in this world, in the Torah study of the scholars. From the structure of the whole derasha we can receive a fuller picture of the implications of the interpretation in I. Firstly with the discussion on the danger of direct revelation in comparison with mediation in the preceding midraschim (B–H) the preciousness and importance of the statement in I is even more striking: the affirmation of the possibility of a direct encounter with God through the study of Torah at any time. Subsequently, the possibility of direct encounter is limited in I to the study of Torah and to the educated wise man. Although there is no explicit remark about the necessity of mediation, it can implicitly be derived from the subject of the statement concerning the two students (haverim) who struggle with each other for the right halakhic understanding. In order to reach this study level and in order to know how to encounter God, rabbinic mediation is necessary and indispensable.15 Theoretically, the necessity of mediation has already been claimed in G, according to which mediation of the Torah is indispensable for every human being. Moreover— and that is even more interesting with respect to I—it is stated in G that direct encounter is only possible in the world to come. In this context, the rabbinic scholars of I are said to be nothing less than an example in the present of what will come in the future. As such they can be defined as a role-model.
15 This becomes obvious through the sociological studies of recent times e.g. C. Hezser, The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine, Tübingen 1997 and L.I. Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity, Jerusalem/ New York 1989. See also I. Ben-Shalom, “Tora Study for all or for the Elite,” in: A. Kasher et al. (eds), Synagogue in Antiquity (Hebr.), Jerusalem 1987, 97–118 and E.E. Urbach, “Class Status and Leadership in the World of the Palestinian Sages,” in: Proceedings of the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, II, Jerusalem 1968, 38–74. There it becomes clear, that those studying in the Beit haMidrash were an elite minority receiving a strictly-fixed and hierarchic education.
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2. The Rabbis’ Exclusive Authority in Matters of Torah (CantR 1.2b,1–2) The second selection of this article has as its main text the interpretation of Cant 1:2b (“for thy love is better than wine”). The midrash consists of two parts. In the first part it is claimed that the rabbis have to be distinguished from the rest of Israel, including their own students. In the second part this distinction is characterized in terms of a special love relationship with God. In this selection the rabbis are not seen as an example, but as an authority, on whom the people are dependent when they want to take part in the revelations of God.16 The starting point of the midrash is a halakhic discussion between R. Joshua and R. Ishmael17 with regard to the prohibition against eating cheese produced by gentiles.18 In the discussion, R. Ishmael advances two objections to the arguments that are presented by R. Joshua in order to defend the prohibition. After the second time R. Joshua reacts to this by distracting R. Ishmaels attention in putting forward a simple exegetical question concerning Cant 1:2b: ‘How do you read “For ‘dodekha’ is better than wine”, or “‘dodayikh’”?’19 He [R. Ishmael] replied: ‘It cannot be the latter, because the subsequent words throw light upon it, “Thine ointments have a goodly fragrance”.’20
16 On the complete midrash of CantR 1.2b,1–2 there is a parallel in PT AZ 2,7 (41c). 17 According to a tradition in BT Git 58a R. Joshua rescued the young and talented Ishmael from a Roman prison, who then became his pupil. But this late legend is problematical. According to the analysis of texts from the Mishnah and Tosefta of G. Porton, The Traditions of R. Ishmael, Leiden 1976, part I, 159–161 it is rather doubtful that they had been in a teacher-pupil relationship. This would also fit better to the story in CantR 1.2b,1 where R. Joshua addresses R. Ishmael with “my brother.” 18 On the 18 decrees to which this prohibition belongs to see S. Safrai, “Halakha,” in: S. Safrai (ed.), The Literature of the Sages, part I, Compendia Rerum Iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum II,3, Assen 1987, 192 ff. 19 Should “thy love” be read as a noun with a masculine possessive and applied therefore to man and in allegorical sense to God, or must it be read as a noun with a feminine possessive and applied to the woman and allegorically to Israel? At this stage of the midrash it remains open whether R. Joshua asks a mere grammatical question or whether he connects a deeper allegorical meaning with the verse. 20 Since the subject (“thine ointments”) of the following verse Cant 1:3 has a masculine suffix, the same must be assumed for “thy love” in Cant 1:2b.
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The discussion that follows revolves around trying to find an explanation for the shift in subject and the reasons for R. Joshua’s unwillingness to answer. Whereas one might explain the shift in terms of the inability of R. Joshua to answer the second question, CantR does not mention this possibility at all in the discussion. Quite to the contrary, here the reason is based on the superiority of R. Joshua to R. Ishmael who is presented as his pupil rather than his colleague. Within the discussion three arguments are used which defend with growing intensity the unique position of the rabbis.21 These will be dealt with one by one following the presentation of the midrashic text: Why did he not tell him the reason [of the prohibition]? R. Jonathan said: Because they had only recently forbidden it, and R. Ishmael was young. On this point R. Simeon b. Halafta and R. Haggai speaking in the name of R. Samuel b. Nahman joined issue. It is written: “The lambs will be for thy clothing” (Prov 27:26). It is written ‘suppress them’:22 when your disciples are young, suppress words of Torah in their presence; when they have grown up and become scholars, reveal to them the secrets of the Torah. R. Simeon b. Yohai taught: “Now these are the ordinances which thou shalt set before them” (Ex 21:1): just as a treasure23 is not disclosed to everyone, so too the teaching of the Torah. R. Huna asked, and R. Hama b. 'Ukba objected: If he only wanted to put him off, he should have put him off with one of the five equivocations in the Torah, namely . . . R. Isaac said: It is written: “And me the Lord commanded” (Deut 4:14), as much as to say, There are some things which He committed to me alone, and some which He committed to me to transmit to His sons. R. Ila said: There are some things on which the lips are sealed. For instance: One verse says, “Thy word have I laid up in my heart that I might not sin against thee” (Ps 119:11), and another verse says, “With my lips have I told all the ordinances of thy mouth” (ib. 13). How can these two verses be reconciled? Thus: As long as Ira the Yairite, the teacher of David, was alive, then “Thy word I laid up in my heart” (ib. 11), but when he departed, then “with my lips I told” (ib. 13).
21
It is striking that none of the arguments in the discussion are expositions of Cant 1:2b but rather teachings based on other verses. The interpretations are not cited in the first place for exegetical reasons, i.e. a better understanding of the verse but rather for ideological reasons. 22 The word for lambs (kevasim—written with a sin) may be read as deriving from the root k-v-sh (written with a shin), as a verb instead of a noun in the sense of “to hide, suppress, conquer/overcome.” 23 The treasure in this interpretation is derived from the verb from Ex 21:1 (tasim).
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The first explanation of the behavior of R. Joshua is given in the name of R. Jonathan in two parts. First, the rabbis made a nonpublic decision with regard to the eating of cheese produced by gentiles. Since this would not explain the exclusion of R. Ishmael who is addressed in the story as one of the rabbis, it is claimed moreover that R. Ishmael must have been a minor at that time, too young to be initiated into the subject by R. Joshua, presumably his teacher.24 As a sort of confirmation to this, the statement of R. Simeon ben Halafta and R. Haggai is quoted. In this first argument the rabbis are described as possessing the insights in the Torah and the right to decide, but these attributes are in principle available for everybody who is involved in the study—it’s only a question of age. The second argument goes much further. In an exposition on Ex 21:1 in the name of R. Simeon bar Yohai, it is said that the Torah will not be directly revealed to everyone. Like a treasure, the Torah is given only to distinguished persons such as Moses. Only they are granted full insights which at the same time provide them with more responsibility and power about what to teach and what not. Applied to our story, the relationship is again depicted in terms of a teacherpupil relationship. The knowledge of R. Joshua is to be distinguished from that of his pupil R. Ishmael. The former has the prerogative to decide to whom things will be revealed and to whom not. Interrupted by the question in the name of R. Huna as to why R. Joshua did not choose one of the grammatical equivocations from the Pentateuch, the discussion continues and culminates in a third argument, the explanation of Deut 4:14 in the name of R. Isaac. Here it is mentioned that the rabbis, being mediators (as Moses in Deut 4:14), have a special dialogue with God in which more is revealed to them than to ordinary people. This legitimization of the unique position of the rabbis forms the basis for the following two explanations, which at the same time serve for a better application of the statement of R. Isaac to the story. In light of R. Isaac’s statement, the interpretation of R. Ila of Cant 1:2 can be understood as the right of the rabbis to keep silent as concerns the revealed knowledge of God. This means that a Rabbi (as e.g. R. Joshua) is not
24 By depicting the two rabbis in a hierarchic teacher-pupil relationship, R. Jonathan gives the story his own interpretation, probably applying the legend of BT Git 58a.
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obliged to teach his insights. In the second attached interpretation on Ps 119, attention is focused on the behavior of a pupil (as e.g. R. Ishmael) towards his teacher. In the example of Ira the Yarite and his pupil David, the relationship is depicted as highly hierarchic. Here the opinion is advocated that a pupil has the obligation to remain silent in the presence of his master.25 With the third and last argument a climax is reached, whereby the rabbis are granted exclusive responsibility and authority as concerns the study of the Torah. In the second part of the midrash, the rabbis’ claim to exclusive authority is defined as a special love relationship between God and the rabbis. For this, a special formulation (“more/as beloved as”) derived from the verse of Cant 1:2b and 7:10 is applied. It occurs three times and forms the center of the second part. The first two times it appears in two identically structured statements on Cant 7:10 and 1:2b, both in the name of R. Johanan: Simeon b. Abba said in the name of R. Johanan: The injunctions of the Scribes are as beloved as the injunctions of the [Written] Torah. What is the proof? “And the roof of the mouth is like the best wine” (Cant 7:10). The scholars said in the name of R. Johanan: The injunctions of the Scribes are more beloved than those of the Torah, as it says “For thy love is better than wine” (Cant 1:2b).
Striking in both statements is that R. Johanan interprets tovim (good) as havivin (beloved). This term is used in rabbinic literature as an expression for the special relationship of God towards his people and symbolizes its intimacy, shared feeling and familiarity.26 Here the special relationship is explicitly applied to the soferim,27 who have to be identified with the rabbis. This is even more stressed by the second interpretation, which judges the value of the rabbinical teachings to be more important than the Written Torah. Among the two explanations with respect to the relationship between Oral and Written Torah, the second one is clearly the preferred one. This follows not only from the arrangement of the two statements and the fact that
25 There are also less hierarchic statements where the pupils are encouraged to take part in decision making, see e.g. TSan 7,2 and BT San 5a–6b. 26 See D. Stern, “Midrash and the Language of Exegesis: a Study of Vajikra Rabbah, Chapter 1,” in: G.H. Hartman and S. Budick (eds), Midrash and Literature, New Haven (Conn.) and London 1986, esp. 115–122. 27 The term stands for the successors of Ezra as the authentic teachers of the Oral Law.
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the second one is an interpretation to the verse of Cant dealt with in this passage; it can also be derived from what follows. By means of two examples from Mishnaic times28 it is stated that an offence against the ordinances of the Oral Torah has much more severe consequences than an offence against the ordinances of the Written Torah. One of the examples is the story of R. Tarfon. He opposes the tradition of the House of Hillel and recites the shema while lying down, according to the custom of Shammai. When robbers attack him, it is said that the reason for this lies in his not keeping to the tradition of the House of Hillel and having therefore committed an offence against the Oral Torah. This Oral Torah is much more important than the Written Torah, for the text continues: in the case that he had not recited the shema, thus violating the Written Torah, he would not have received such a serious punishment. After this the formulation is applied for the third time. In the name of R. Hanina the son of R. Ada it is claimed that ‘they are even more stringent29 than the words of the Torah and the prophets as it is written, “Preach ye not, they preach” (Mic 2:6).’ In a subsequent sophisticated explanation of Deut 17:2 ff., the sages are granted much more authority than the prophets. The midrash concludes with the strong statement that due to this love relationship, there is a necessity for total obedience to the rabbis: ‘if they tell you, that the right hand is right and the left hand is left, listen to them, and even if they shall tell you that the right hand is left and the left hand is right.’ In the face of the rabbis’ claim to a distinctive role in the knowledge of the Torah (first part) and the characterization of this distinction as a special love-relationship with God (second part), this midrash seems to be one long appropriation of exclusive authority by the rabbis. Apart from and implicit to the claim of being the example of people (cf. the conclusion of the first text-selection) this is another characteristic that belongs to a (religious) role model: In order to be a (religious) role model a clear distinction from the common people is necessary.
28 29
MSan 11,3; MBer 1,3. In place of havivin here the term hamurim (stringent) is used.
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3. The Lay Persons Share in the Study of Torah: Independent or Supportive The third issue of this article deals with the question of the lay persons share in the Torah. Although the scholars and students taking part in the culture of controversy are praised regularly in CantR,30 several texts may also be found in which common people are the center of interest. These texts may be divided into two categories. Most of them can be characterized as promotional texts in which the individual is urged to study Torah. Apart from these, there are other texts which focus upon the supportive and caring role of the ordinary people for those who are studying Torah. i. Promotional Texts In the so-called promotional texts, attention is directed towards individual persons, mentioned as adam, ahad, pikeah or on one occasion even as am ha-arez (CantR 2.4,1). In all these texts these people are summoned and encouraged to study Torah. It seems as if the individual is addressed directly about his own responsibility to study Torah. Yet the subjects and the atmosphere described remind one strongly of the world of the House of Study as will be demonstrated in what follows. The rabbis determine the norms of Torah study and all the invitations to study presume an intention to dedicate oneself fully to the study of Torah. It is therefore doubtful that these texts really allude to the common people, but rather to the scholars and their pupils. Several examples illustrate this thesis. In CantR 5.11,231 three parables are described in which a distinction is made between a foolish man (tipesh) and a prudent man ( pikeah)—two literary types, which do not particularly refer to rabbis or pupils. They are confronted with problems characteristic of Torah study: the large quantity of material to be learned in the first parable, the distant goal of perfection in the second and finally the problem of forgetfulness. I will quote the first parable:
30 Apart from CantR 1.2(a),5 and 1.2(b),1–2 see a.o. CantR 1.10,2; 2.4,1; 5.12,1–2; 6.9,2–3 and 8.14,1. 31 To the derasha as a whole there is a parallel in LevR 19.1–3, see also MidrSam 5.2–3.
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- R. Johanan of Sepphoris explained the verse by a parable from heaps (teluliot) of dust. A foolish man will say: ‘Who can clear away all this?’ But a prudent man will say: ‘I will clear away two basketfuls by day and two by night, until it is all cleared away.’ So the fool says: ‘Who can learn the whole of the Torah—Nezikin,32 thirty sections, Kelim thirty sections?’ But the prudent man says: ‘I will learn two halakhot today and two tomorrow, until I have learnt the whole’.
Parables with these two figures are widespread in rabbinic and also New Testament literature. It is not unusual to find this kind of parables in sermons (see CantR 1.1,8 which grant access to the Torah for all). Their function is to guide the community to the proper conduct and behavior in public. Nevertheless, the problems the parables are related to, especially the struggle against forgetfulness, point to a rabbinic perspective. Moreover the whole context of Cant 5:11 is about the accurate and continuous study of every detail in the Torah. In CantR 5.14,12 it is said that people (bnei adam) who engage in Torah will become (physically) weak. This is an interpretation of the words me"ulefet sapirim (overlaid with sapphires) from Cant 5:14, where the root of the verb me"ulefet in the Nitpa'el also can have the meaning ‘to get weak, to grow faint.’ Thus by engaging in the Torah— the sapphire—people will become weak. So it is written, “Overlaid with sapphires.” R. Abba bar Memel said: If a man grows faint over the study of Torah and the halakhah, he will ultimately become a sapphire. R. Isaac said: Whoever has become a sapphire in the words of the Torah will ultimately be able to conjure. And the rabbis said: Whoever is able to conjure with the word of Torah will finally become a king over them, as it says, “Divination is in the lips of the king” (Prov 16:10).’33
32 Nezikin must be understood in this interpretation as a tractate. As such it comprehends the three Babot, Baba Kamma, Baba Mezia and Baba Batra and is the largest tractate of the order Nezikin, cf. G. Stemberger, Einleitung in Talmud und Midrasch, München 1982, 124. Together with Kelim, which is the first and largest tractate (30 chapters!) of the order Toharot, they are two extreme examples of the huge amount of learning material. 33 The word kesem has two meanings, which form the basis for this threefold transformation. On the one hand its meaning is “to carve, to cut a stone,” which is an allusion on the hardness of the sapphire which functions as metaphor for the one who studies the Torah. On the other hand the word means “to divine.” In Prov 16:10 this function is ascribed to the king.
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This interpretation is obviously the description of the ideal scholar: A man, who steeps himself in the spiritual beauty of the Torah may do so to the point of physical exhaustion. In return he will acquire wonderful spiritual power.34 Moreover, this magical experience can only be achieved by constant spiritual commitment without being disturbed by the outside physical world. In the fourth petihta of CantR (CantR 1.1,8), Solomon’s wisdom is praised as a key to the study of the Torah. The books and explanations attributed to him have to be understood as parables that grant everyone (ha-kol) full access to the Torah. This leads to the conclusion: So the parable should not be lightly esteemed in your eyes, since by means of the parable a man can master the words of Torah. Here is a proof that it is so; for Solomon by means of the parable penetrated to the finest nuances of the Torah.
According to this statement it is, in principle, possible for everyone to understand the Torah, apparently without any mediation. This is stressed by the parable, which is one of the popular tools in access to the Torah. Yet, from the context of the statement it becomes clear, that the term “parable” actually has to be understood as rabbinic exegetical methods, as Boyarin has shown.35 This is also stressed in the last sentence of our statement where it is said that Solomon, by means of the parable, penetrated to the finest nuances of the Torah, which is nothing less than studying according to the intensive way and manner of the rabbis. In all these examples, it seems that the focus is always on (potential) students, who are encouraged to dedicate their lives to Talmud Torah. But there is one text in CantR 2.4,1, in which, surprisingly, it is said that even for the uneducated, common man (am ha-arez) who engages in the Torah on a low, basic level (reciting the Torah or prayer), an encounter with God is possible.36
34 In his book Unheroic Conduct: The Rise of Heterosexuality and the Invention of the Jewish Man, Berkeley 1997, 127–150. D. Boyarin claims, that the nonphallic (powerless), weakly femminized world of the studying, who are spiritually strong, is a rabbinic role-model for manliness. 35 See D. Boyarin, “The Song of Songs, Lock or Key,” in idem, Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash, Bloomington 1990, 105–116. 36 It is the first of four midrashim, with an (uneducated) man or a child by turns as subject. They are all constructed according to the same pattern. In the parallel in NumR 2.3 the midrash is related to the study of the halakha by the rabbis and their mistakes.
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- R. Aha said: If an uneducated man reads “hate” instead of “love” by saying for instance ve-ayavta (and thou shalt hate) for ve-ahavta (and thou shalt love), God says, ‘His mistake (diglo) is beloved to Me’.37
According to this midrash, God accepts everyone according to his level. The statement is therefore without doubt a confirmation of the general assumption in academic circles nowadays: that the amoraim—as opposed to the tannaim—seemed to have been more anxious with regard to educating the public.38 But at the same time it must be said, that the description, i.e. the rabbis view, of the man is rather derogatory. The unlearned, ordinary man is not able to recite the Torah, probably not even the shema, properly.39 The encounter, unlike the one experienced by the scholars (CantR on 1:2a), which is repeated in the first part of CantR 2.4,1 right before the quoted text (!), is not taking place in a perfect state, but rather by making mistakes in the simplest things. So in comparison with the perfect encounter of the scholars, this statement on the ordinary people confirms what we have found already in CantR: the summons to study Torah is reduced almost entirely to persons who are participating already in the House of Study. This happens—in accordance with Zeev Safrai’s findings40—in order to strengthen the privileged position of the rabbis and to recruit the necessary pupils to maintain their elite. To attain this goal they had to encourage also (a restricted number of ) ordinary people willing to fit into the study-ideal of the rabbis. ii. Supporting those Studying Apart from the examples mentioned above, a second category of texts exists in which people who are not studying, i.e. those who 37 This is an interpretation of the words ve-diglo alai ahava (and his banner over me is love) from Cant 2,4. Ve-diglo is read as mispronouncing (= ‘skipping’) some letters, which is another meaning of the root d-g-l. 38 See C. Hezser, o.c., 100–104. 223 f., who discusses the propagation of Torah study in tannaitic and amoraic times. Cf. also L. Levine, o.c., 112 f., who describes the changing relationship of the rabbis to those not schooled in Torah (amei ha-arez) towards the middle of the third century. 39 The word ve-ahavta can be found in Lev 19:18.34 and Deut 11:1 but also in Deut 6:5! 40 See his article ‘Rabbinic Recruitment Policy in the Mishnaic and Talmudic Period. A Sociological Inquiry into Rabbinic Society’, Proceedings of the 11th Congress of Jewish Studies, Division B, vol. 1, Jerusalem 1994/95, 25–32, where he presumes the two conflicting requirements.
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labour for a living, are represented as supporting the scholars and those who study, taking care of their worldly needs. These texts show that the rabbis do not presume that everyone studies, but that there are ideally two groups: those who study and those who provide the basic physical requirements for those studying. In this attitude, the friction between elitist scholars and the supportive class becomes clear. For CantR this can be illustrated in the best way by one text,41 in which the attitude is clearly emphasized by the editor. In CantR 2.5,1–3, love-sickness is related to situations of oppression by foreign rule. In this connection, the period following the Hadrianic persecution of scholars is mentioned, when an attempt was made to re-institute rabbinic study in Usha. Various pupils of R. Akiva pronounced: ‘Whoever is learned, let him come and teach; whoever is not learned, let him come and learn. They gathered and studied together and they took care of all their needs (we-asu kol zorkhehon).’ In comparison with the parallel baraitha in BT Ber 63b it is interesting that both, the studying as well as the last expression are only mentioned in CantR. This points to a deliberate distinction between the people who came to learn and the people who provided their needs.42 At the end of this gathering for the sake of study, the ‘men of Usha’ (bnei Usha) are blessed by the scholars because the inhabitants of that town not only welcomed those studying into their midst, but also took care of them by providing them with food, drink and a place to sleep. Therefore it would seem that the expression ‘and they took care of all their needs’ refers to the men of Usha in stressing their hospitality. In five sermons out of an appendix of six which are follows this invitation,43 the hospitality—and nothing else (e.g. the study of Torah) is brought forward time and again in new homilies of praise about the ‘men of Usha.’ Thus
41 Besides this characteristic derasha there are other examples in which the friction can be noticed, like e.g. the story about some scholars studying under a figtree in CantR 6.2,2 and the story about R. Eleazar ben Simeon in CantR 5.14,3. 42 Since the two verbs of the last sentence has but one subject it has often been suggested that the expression we-asu kol zorkhehon, refers to the sages in asserting national jurisdiction beside their studying in Usha. See for a discussion of this common interpretation D. Goodblatt, The Monarchic Principle, Tübingen 1994, 257 f. Regarding the usage of the term zorekh (in the plural) in tradition it is more probable that this term relates to essential requirements such as food, drink and a place to sleep. 43 In the first homily R. Judah as a citizen of Usha is praising the ones who gathered in Usha for the sake of study.
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R. Yose’s homily on 1 Chr 26:5 is about the service performed for the Torah. . . . If for kindling one lamp before the ark of God, which did not eat or drink or sleep, but which contained the two tablets of stone, he was rewarded by being blessed for honouring it, how much more so you, our brethren, men of Usha!
In this midrash, too, a clear distinction is made between the ones taking care (the men of Usha) and the ones studying. In relation to what has been said in connection with the promotional texts, CantR seems to advocate the opinion that ordinary, working people need not study so much themselves, but rather should support the scholars studying Torah. Final Conclusions My initial questions were 1) how did the rabbis justify their position as mediator and 2) to what extent did they involve the whole people of Israel in studying Torah. In CantR, the rabbis justify their role as mediators by interpreting the love relationship with God as the study of Torah, especially as practised by the scholars. They can be seen as a religious role model occupying privileged positions: On the one hand the rabbis are portrayed as an example (esp. CantR 1.2a (I)); simultaneously a certain distinction of the rabbis from the rest of Israel can be perceived in all interpretations. A true culmination of the latter is reached in the attribution of exclusive authority in CantR 1.2b. The claim of egalitarianism, that the study of the Torah is open to the people as a whole, proves illusory. Those summoned to study Torah are always those who are willing to dedicate their lives to intensive studies as the rabbis do. Tension appears in statements about poorly educated adults. Although they form a potential corps for the study of the Torah, they are said to have difficulties in dealing it. Though not being prohibited from studying Torah, they are particularly called upon by CantR to support those studying the Torah.
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APPENDIX
CantR on 1:2a according to manuscript Vatican, Ms Ebr. 761
hrman µyb ùma app rb anynj ùr .hrman ˆkya whyp twqyçnm ynqçy 1st ˆwmys ùrb hdwy ùr .(f a µyryçh ryç) h[rp ybkrb ytswsl aùùrmk ynysb µyrçy wrmaç ryç (a a µç) µyryçh ryç ùnç hrman ynysb ùma ryç hrman µyb ùma qjxy ùr .(z b ylçm) hyçwt µyrçyl ˜wpxy aùùrmh aùùrmh µyrrwçh µyrçh wtwa wrmaç ryç (a a µyryçh ryç) µyryçh rwbkb hùùbqh ˆtn ùr µwçm ynt .(wk js µylyht) µyngwn rja µyrç wmdq ˚lml (a a µyryçh ryç) hmlçl rça µyryçh ryç ùnç hrma wtlwdg (µç) µyryçh ryç whwrma trçh ykalm ùmwa laylmg ˆbr .wlç µwlçhç hrman ynysb ùma ˆnjwy ùr .hl[m lç µyrç whwrmaç ryç µyrçh ryç hl ytymw .hrman d[wm lhab ùmwa ryam ùr .whyp twqyçnm ynqçy ùnç hlw[h wz ˜wpx yrw[ (zf d µç) ˜myt yawbw ˜wpx yrw[ ayrq adh ˆm yng yjyph µwrdb ˆyfjçnç µymlç wla (µç) ˜myt yawbw ˆwpxb tfjçnh wngl ydwd aby µymsh trfq wz (µç) wymçb wlzy d[wm lha hz (µç) tybb ùma ˆynbr .twnbrqh wla (µç) wydgm yrp lkayw hnykçh wz (µç) (µç) ˜wpx yrw[ .arq yam ˆwnya πa ˆynbr hl ˆwtymw .ùrman µymlw[h µwrdb ˆyfjçnh µymlçh wla (µç) ˜myt yarbw ˆwpxb tfjçnh hlw[h wz aby µymçh trfq hz (µç) wymçb wlzy µymlw[h tyb hz (µç) yng yjyph ˆynbrw .twnbrqh wla (µç) wydgm yrp lkayw hnykçh wz (µç) ydwd (f g µç) ˜wyrpa aja rùùma .hrman µymlw[h tybb hlwk yrwj ˆwhlwk .(a z rbdmb) hçm twlk µwyb yhywl ˆyjtp ˆyhty ˆydb[ ˆynbdw .hyrtbdw çdqh jwr wnyl[ yrçy hrman µyb ùmad app rb anynj ùrd hyt[d l[ trçh ykalm ùmad laylmg ˆbrd hyt[d l[w .hbrh ùwryç wynpl rmanw lhab ùmad ryam ùrd hyt[d l[ .wynbl qçnç twqyçnm wnl ˆty whwrma ùmad ˆnjwy ùrd hyt[d l[ .wnytwnbrq lbqyw çah wnl dyrwy hrman d[wm .whyp twqyçnm ynqçy dùùhh whyp ˚wtm ùwqyçn yl ayxwy hrman ynysb
1 Ms Ebr. 76 is the oldest manuscript (completed in 1379 CE) containing the entire text of CantR. In comparison with the earlier Genizah-fragments (11th century CE) and the Parma-fragment (Ms Parma 3122, from 1270 CE) it provides a very good reading of the text. For a more detailed description of the manuscripts see the introduction of my forthcoming Ph.D., Rabbinische Liebe—Untersuchungen zur Deutung der Liebe des Hohenliedes auf das Studium der Tora in Midrasch Shir haShirim Rabba and the article of H.E. Steller, “A New Edition of Shir haShirim Rabbah,” in: G. SedRajna, Rashi 1040 –1990, Traduction, Commentaire, Intérpretation, Hommage à Ephraim E. Urbach, Congrès Européen des Études Juives, Paris 1993, 301–311. Words put into brackets (< >) are corrections when the text of Ms Vatican is likely to be defective.
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ynplm rwbydh ayxwm hyh ˚alm ˆnjwy rùùma .whyp twqyçnm ynqçy aùùd 2nd larçym djaw dja lk l[ wryzjmw rwbydw rwbyd lk l[ hùùbqh ˚kw ˚k wb çy µynyd ˚kw ˚k hzh rbdh ta ˚yl[ ta lbqm wl ùmwaw çy µyrwmjw µylq ˚kw wb çy twxm ˚kw ˚kw twrzg ˚kw ˚k wb çy µyçnw[ wl ùmwaw rzwjw .ˆh larçy wl ùmwa wyhw wb çy rkç ˆtm ˚kw ˚k wb wyp l[ wqçwn hyh dym .ˆh ˆh wl ùmwa awhw .hùùbqh lç wtwhla ta lbqm wrma ˆynbrw .jylç ydy l[ (hl d µyrbd) t[dl tyarh hta dùùhh ta ynlbqm wl ùmwaw larçym djaw dja lk l[ ryzjm hyh wmx[ rwbydh µylq ˚kw ˚k µyçnw[ ˚kw ˚k µynyd ˚kw ˚k yb çy twxm ˚kw ˚k ˚yl[ wl ùmwaw rwbydh rzwjw .ˆh ùmwa awhy yb çy rkç ˆtm ˚kw ˚k µyrwmjw rwbydh hyh dym .ˆh ˆh wl ùmwa .hùùbqh lç wtwhla ˚yl[ ta lbqm ta tkçt ˜p dùùhh hrwth wdmylw hsdh lç ˆwalwqdal wyp l[ wqçwn hyh ˚ya ˚yny[ warç µyrbd ,(f d µyrbd) ˚yny[ war rça µyrbdh .˚m[ rbdm rwbydh .hùùbqh wpm larçy w[mç twrbd ynç .(µç) µyrbdh ta jkçt ˜p aùùd 3rd
hta rbd ùtk twrrbdh lk rja ˆynbrd ùm[f ùma ywl ˆb [çwhy ybr ˆyaç gylp .ywl ˆb [çrhy ùr hl db[ hm .(zf k twmç) h[mçnw wnm[ ala (µç) h[mçnw wnm[ hta rbd rbdm wnya wa hrwtb rjwamw µdqwm [çwhy ùr µçb ˆwmys ùrb hdwhy ùrw hyrz[ ùr .twrbd hçlç µynç rjal lk ,(d gl µyrbd) hçm wnl hwx hrwt ùtk ùma .hytfyç çypt ywl ˆb hlw[ ayrfymygb hrwt yrh twxm hrç[ çlçw twam çç hlwk hrwth hyhy alw ykna mrb hçm wnm[ rbd twxm hrç[ tjaw twam çç ˆwnmb ynqçy ywh .hùùbqh ypm ala hçm ypm wn[mç al (g-b k twmç) ˚l .whwp twqyçnm ˆw[mç ùr .ˆynbrw yajwy ˆb ˆw[mç ùr .hùùbqh ypm axwy rwbydh hyh dxykw 4th larçy lç wlamçl hùùbqh lç wnymym rwbydh hyhç dmlm ùmwa yajwy ˆb rzwjw lym rç[ hbmç l[ lym rç[ hnmç larçy hnjm ta πqw[w rzwjw wnymym wlbqm hùùbqhw .hùùbqh lç wlamçl larçy lç ˆnymyl πyqmw lwq ùnç hm µyyql wpws d[w µlw[h πwsm ˚lwh wlwqw .dwlh l[ wqqwjw .hl[ml lamç çy ykw yrma ˆnbrw .(z fk µylht) ça twbhl bxwj yùùy ala .(w wf twmç) bywa ≈[rt ˚nymy jkb yrdan yùùy ˚nymy ùtk alhw ta πqw[w rzwjw larçy lç ˆnymyl wnymym hùùbqh ypm axwy hyh rwbydh ˆnymym> πyqmw rzwjw lym rç[ hnwmç l[ lym rç[ hnmç larçy hnjm l[ wqqwjw wnymym wlbqm hùùqhw hùùbqh lç ˆnymyl 2< larçy lç ça twbhl bxwj yùùy lwq ùnç wpws d[w µlw[h πwsm ˚lwh wlwqw .jwlh 2
Ms Vatican reads larçy lç ˆnymym lamçm.
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hyh wmx[ rwbydh wblj ùr yl hnç hykrb rùùma .( z fk µylyht ) ùnç wpws d[w µlw[h πwsm ˚lwh wlwq hyh qqjn awhçkw wylyam qqjn µybwtk ùtk ahw wblj ùr ta ytbçyh .(µç) ça twbhl bxwj yùùy lwq hyl tyrma .ynyqwnjl trbs hqwnj yl ùma .(jy al twmç) µyhla [bxab yl ùma .( µç) µyhla [bxab µybwtk ˜ba twjwl ùtkd ˆyd whmw .wdy l[ bçym wbrw btwk awhç dymltl larçy w[mç twrbd ynç ùma ywl ˆb [çwhy ùr .ˆynbrw ywl ˆb [çwhy ùr 5th ynqçy dùùhh (g-b k twmç) µyùùla ˚l hyhy alw ykna hùùbqh ypm ypm larçy w[mç ùwrbdh lk yrma ˆnbrw .twqyçnh lk alw whyp twqyçnm hçm la wrmayw ùtk ˆynbrd ˆwm[f ywl ùr µçb ˆynksd [çwhy ùr .hùùbqh µrb d[ ly[l ùtkdk anyn[ ùwkw (zf k twmç) ù[mçnw wnm[ hta rbd .hçm wnl rbd al (g-b k twmç) ˚l hyhy alw ykna jqyl çqbmç ˚lml .ynys rhl wl[ç h[çb larçyb ayrq rtp ˆnjwy ùr 6th ynya hrma .hl rmaw jylç hlxa jlç .µysyng tbw µybwf tb hça wl ˚lmh la jylçh wtwa rzjç ˆwyk .wypm [mçl ynwxr ala wtjpçl yadk hz ùma jqyp hyhç ˚lmh .˚lml tw[mçn ˆnya wytwjyçw twqjwç wynp wyh hrmaç hmwd yl tw[mçn ˆnya wytwjyçw hyl[ hlbqç hmwd twqjwç wynp hz ˚lmh .hçm hz jylçh .µybwf tb wyh larçy ˚k .wypm [mçl ynwxr hmw .(j fy twmç) yùùy la µ[h yrbd ja hçm bçyw ayhh h[çb hùùbqh ydy l[ ala .(f fy twmç) yùùy la µ[h yrbd ta hçm dgyw ùmwl ùlt ˚m[ yrbdb µ[h [mçy rwb[b ˜n[h b[b ˚yla ab ykna hnh ùmanç ùma .(µç) yùùy la µ[h yrbd ta hçm dgyw [mlw[l wnymay ˚n µgw] µçb sjnyp ùr .y[b arhd hm aqwnyyml ˆw[mçw hyl ùma .w[bt ˚k hyl lmta hçm ùma ˚k .hyl lyjdm albj hyl tyknd ùma altm ùma ywl ùr tjtm ylç ta ytlfn (a d twmç) yl wnymay al ˜hw wl ytrmaç ydy l[ wrmaw w[bt ˚k yajwy ˆb ˆw[mç ùr ynt .µhl hçw[ yna hm wçk[ .µhydy 3 hyh ywlg ywl ùr µçb sjnyp ùr .wnklm dwbk twarl wnnwxr wq µylyht) µdwbk ta wrymyw ùnç rjab wdwbk rwmhl ˆydyt[ç hùùbqh wl µynymam wnyyh wldg taw wdwbk ta wnarh wlya µyrmwa why alç .(k ynç hm µyyql wl µynymam wna ˆya wldg taw wdwbk ta wnarh alç wçk[w .(b gmq µylht) ˚db[ ta fpçmb abt law h[çb ùmya hdwhy ùr .hymjn ùrw hdwhy ùrw ˆwmys ùryb hdwy ùr µçb ˆdwy ùr 7th wyhw µblb hrwt dwmlt [qtn (b k twmç) ˚yhla yùùy ykna larçy w[mçç
3
Ms Vatican reads ypl.
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hç[h hçm wnybr wrmaw hçm lxa µhl yab ˆyjkçm wyh alw µydml .(zf k twmç) h[mçnw wnm[ hta rbd ùnç wnytwnyb jylç ˆwybzwrp ta wrzj .wnlç hdbab çy hyynh hmw .(bk h µyrbd) twmn hml ht[w ˆyrbw[ wdymlt πa rbw[ µdw rçb hçm hm wrma .µyjkçw µydml twyhl wnl hlny yawwlw hçm wnybd wl wdma hçm lxa µhl wabw wdzj .wdyb wnblb hrwt yrbd [qty ywalw ,whyp twqyçnm ynqçy yawlw hyynç µ[p ta yttnw ùnç awh abl dyt[l lba .wçk[ wz ˆya µhl ùma .hyhç twmk h[çb ùma hymjn ùr .(gl al hymry) hnbtka µbl l[w µblb ytrwt lxa wab .[rh rxy µblm rq[n (g k twmç) ˚l hyhy al larçy w[mçç µç) ù[mçnw wnm[ hta rbd wnfwbzwrp hç[h hçm wnybr wl wrma ,hçm dym .wnlç hdbab çy hyynh hmw (bk h µyrbd) twmn hml ht[w (zf µç 4 hçm wnybr wl wrmaw hçm lxa wrzj .wmwqml [rh dxy rzj wçk[ wz ˆya µhl ùma .whyp twqyçnm ynqçy yawlw hyynç µ[p wnl hlgy laqzjy) µkrçbm ˜bah bl ta ytwryshw ùtkd ayh awbl dyt[l lba .(wk wl ùmwa rz[l ùr .ˆynbrw anynj ùrb yswy ùrw rz[la ùr hl yrmaw hyrz[ ùr 8th srkh ta wl gzm ˆwçar jrwa dja ab .ˆyy lç πtrm wl hyhç ˚lml ˆtn ˚lm lç wnb abç ˆwyk .wl ˆtnw swkh ta wl gzmw ynçh ab .wl ˆtnw wxyw dùùhh twxm çç l[ hwwfxn ˆwçarh µda ˚k .wlwk πtrmh ta wl ˚lh lyawh yk aùùdmh zùù[ wxyw .(zf b tyçarb) µdah l[ µyhla yùùy tmwy twm yùùy µç bqwnw ùnç µçh tllq l[ yùùy .(ay h [çwh) wx yrja µhynç rbd aby µyhlah d[ ùnç µynyydh wla µyhla .(zf dk arqyw) tyçarb) µdah µd ˚pwç ùnç µymd twkypç wz mdah l[ .(j bk twmç) wtça ta çya jlçy ˜h rmal ùtkd twyr[ ywlg wz rmal .( w f rça ≈[h ˜mh ùtkd lzgh l[ ˜gh ≈[ lkm .(a g hymry) wtam hklhw wçpnb rçb ˚a ùtkd yjh ˆm rba wl πswtw jn .(ay g tyçarb) ˚ytywx dyg l[ bq[y .hnmçl hknj qjxy .ùlymh l[ µhrba .(d f µç) wmd .(gl bl µç) hçnh dyg ta larçy ynb wlkay al ˜k l[ ùnç hçnh µbyw ˚yja tça la ab ˜nwal hdwhy rmayw ùnç hmbyh l[ hdwhy .hç[t al twxm hùùsçw hç[ twxm jùùmr ta lba .(j jl µç) htwa ydy l[ wytwnwygll twynpsa qljm hyhç ˚lml rma anynj ùrb yswy ybr ùmwa qjxy ùr .dyl dym wl ˆtn wnb abç ˆwyk .ˆylfrfsaw ˆyakr[yaw ˆyskd yrma ˆynbr .dyl dym wl ˆtn wnb abç ˆwyk .ˆylfspya lkwa hyhç ˚lml h[mnç ùmwa çyw .dyl dym wl ˆtn wnb abç ˆwyk .twkytj lkwa hyhç ˚lml .(w b ylçm) hnwbtw t[d wypm hmkj ˜ty yùùy yk ùnç wl ˆtnw wypm
4
The word is missing in the manuscript.
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µyrbj µynç ùma hdwhy ybr .hymjn ùrw hdwhy ùr hl yrmaw whba ùr ba tyb ùmwa hzw hklh lç ba tyb ùmwa hz hklh rbdb ˆwqws[ wyhç lbh wlypa ùma hymjn ùr .ydy l[ ˆwhtwyqwçm hùùbqh ùma .hklh lç hùùbqh ùma .(zf hl bwya) wyp hxpy lbh bwyaw rmytd hmk wypm axwyh lwfyl wla lç ˆhytwçpn twdyt[ yrma ˆynbrw .5 ˆwhtwyqwçm hqyçnb ala hlfn al ˆrha lç wçpnç wnaxm hyrz[ rùùma .hqyçnb gl rbdmb) µç tmyw yùùy yp l[ rhh rh la ˜hkh ˜rha l[yw dùùhh yùùy yp l[ [. . .] yùùy db[ hçm µç tmyw ùnç ˆynm hçm lç wçpn .(jl µç hm (a k rbdmb) µyrm µç tmtw ùnç ˆynm µyrm .(h dl µyrbd) µyqydxh lk raçw .wçrpl yangç ala ˆk ˆak πa yùùy yp l[ ˆlhl ùmanç -çntm ˚ytpçç hrwt yrbdb tqs[ µa .whyp twqyçnm ynqçy ùnç ˆynm .˚yp l[ ˚l ˆyqçnm lkhç πws twq
161 9th
yqçwn ùtkdm ynyyzy ynqçy .ynqbdy ynrhfy ynyyzy .twqyçnm ynqçy aùùd 10th ˆmjn ùrb lawmç rùùma .(b by a µymyh yrbd) µylyamçmw µynymym tçq hmjlm t[çb wyl[b µ[ µyyqtm hzh ˆyyzh hm ˆyyzb hrwt yrbd wlçmn aja rb anwh ùr .ˆkrx lk ˆhb lm[ç ym µ[ ˆymyqtm hrwt yrbd ˚k (w fmq µylyht) µdyb twypyp brj µnwrgb la twmmwr akhm hl ytym ùr .abh µlw[l µyyjw hzh µlw[l µyyj tntwn hyddx ynçm tlkwa ayhç trmaw dja hpb hrmanç hrwthç ùmwa hdwhy ùr .ˆynbrw hymjn ùrw hdwhy ˆynbrw .btkb tjaw hpb tja twrwt ytç ùma hymjn ùr .hbrh twypb [çwhy ùr .ˆyçw[w µynwtjth l[ ˆyçw[w µynwyl[h l[ ˆyrzwg ˆhç ùma µyhlah yrçw çdq yrç wyh yk ùtk ˆnbrd ùm[f ywl ùr µçb ˆynksd lljaw aùùdmh trçh ykalm wla (µç) çdq yrç (h dk a µymyh yrbd) wla (h dk a µymyh yrbd) µyhlah yrç .(jk gm hy[çy) çdq yrç -l[h l[ ˆyrzwg ˆhç (w bp µylht) µta µyhla ytrma yna ùtkd ù rçy twqyçnm ynqçy .hrhfb ˆyçw[ ˆhçk ˆyçw[w µynwtjth l[ ˆyçw[w µynwy l[ hz µybg ynç qyçm awhç µdak ynrhfy ynqçy .ynqbdy ynrhfy whyp ynqçy aùùd .(d gl hy[çy) wb qqwç µybg qçmk aùùdk ˆqybdm awhw hz .(gy g laqzjy) htwja la hça twqyçm twyjh ypnk lwqw aùùdmh ynqbdy .whyp ˚ytm twqyçn lwq yl ayxwy ynqçy Apart from the interesting arrangement of the derasha by content, there are two formal characteristics which testify to a unique editorial construct of this derasha in CantR. Firstly, more than half of the interpretation units consist of an opinion and an opposing or additional
5
Ms Vatican reads wyl[.
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view, which are structured in a similar way. Such a construction can be perceived in B, E–C,6 D, G and I. If there is a parallel elsewhere, then it is either to the one opinion or the other. Another formal peculiarity concerns R. Johanan’s exposition of the verse (kiss) to the revelation at Sinai at the beginning of the derasha in A. This exposition is also referred to in the middle (F—first sentence) and end of the midrash ( J—last sentence). Thus it can be said that it provides a link throughout the whole.
6 C and E belong together. The order of C and E should be reversed: E is needed in order to understand C, whereas C is a straight continuation of E, if one starts the reading at “R. Joshua ben Levi said: . . .” (according to E R. Joshua from Sikhnin which is more likely).
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JEWISH AND CHRISTIAN MARTYRS Jan Willem van Henten (University of Amsterdam, The Netherlands) 1. Introduction Martyrs are holy persons. The remains of the so-called Maccabean martyrs are—supposedly—kept up to the present day in a place close to the Roman Catholic cathedral in Cologne, as well as in the basilica St. Peter in Chains in Rome, and, at least as far as the Maccabean mother is concerned, also in the Greek Orthodox Patriarchal Church of Agios Georgios in Istanbul. Their shrine at Nea Paphos on the island of Cyprus, where the Maccabean mother received the name Agia Solomoni, has running water and a miracle tree and even offers the visitor the possibility of cures for eye ailments. Those who visit these holy places are often unaware of the Jewish origin of these martyrs. Scholars have recently taken a fresh interest in Jewish and Christian sources about martyrdom and their interconnections. This contribution first offers a survey of definitions of early Christian and Jewish martyr texts. Subsequently, it engages in the ongoing discussion regarding the connections between early Christian and Jewish traditions about martyrdom by offering a brief comparison of two texts: the Passio Perpetuae and the martyrdom of R. Hanina ben Teradyon in the Babylonian Talmud (BT AZ 17b–18a).1 2. Martyr Texts: Technical Terminology and Functional Description ‘Martyr’ has become an established expression for persons who die a heroic death, especially in Christian, Jewish, and Muslim sources.
1 I warmly thank Prof. D.R. Schwartz, Prof. E. Segal, Prof. A. Reinhartz, Dr. F. Avemarie and Dr. B. Wallfish for their help in finding references as well as all members of the ‘From Hellenistic Judaism to Christian Hellenism’ group at the Institute for Advanced Studies in Jerusalem for their many helpful comments and suggestions.
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Scholarly definitions of martyrdom often mention the aspect of witness or confession as an important or even central characteristic of the martyr’s behavior, taking as their point of departure the semantic development of the Greek noun martys (‘witness’) and the related verb martyrein into the early Christian title ‘martyr’ and into the meaning ‘die a martyr’s death’ respectively.2 At the beginning of the twentieth century, New Testament scholars and church historians tended to derive these new meanings from New Testament occurrences of martys.3 But presently there is a considerable consensus that the meaning ‘martyr’ of martys occurs only in Christian literature from 150 or later.4 The honorific ‘martyr’, referring to people who were executed because they remained obedient to their Christian faith and identity and refused to make concessions to the Roman authorities, occurs for the first time in the Martyrdom of Polycarp, probably dating from the fifties of the second century .5 The introduction of this letter from the Christian community of Smyrna to the community of Philomelium and all other communities reporting the arrest and execution of Polycarp, the bishop of Smyrna, begins as follows: ‘We write you, brothers, an account of those who died a martyr’s death (tous marturèsantas), and especially about the blessed Polycarp . . .’ (1.1; cf. 2.1; 14.2). About two decades later, martyr, the
2 This is, for example, the case in W. Bousset and H. Gressmann, Die Religion des Judentums im Späthellenistischen Zeitalter, HNT 21, Tübingen 1926. See for references J.W. van Henten, ‘Martyrion and Martyrdom: Some Remarks about Noble Death in Josephus’, in: J. Kalms & F. Siegert (eds), Internationales Josephus-Kolloquium Brüssel 1998, Münsteraner Judaistische Beiträge 4, Münster 1999, 124–41. 3 K. Holl, ‘Die Vorstellung vom Märtyrer und die Märtyrerakte in ihrer geschichtlichen Entwicklung’, Neue Jahrbücher für das klassische Altertum 33 (1914) 521–56; reprinted in: Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Kirchengeschichte; Tübingen 1921–1928, vol. 2, 68–102, see esp. pp. 79–81. Further references can be found in B.A.G.M. Dehandschutter & J.W. van Henten, ‘Einleitung’, J.W. van Henten a.o. (eds), Die Entstehung der jüdischen Martyrologie, Studia Post-Biblica 38; Leiden 1989, 1–19, esp. pp. 5–8. Recently: A.M. Schwemer, ‘Prophet, Zeuge und Märtyrer: Zur Entstehung des Märtyrerbegriffs im frühesten Christentum’, Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 96 (1999) 320–50. 4 For surveys of the semantic development of martys and related phrases as well as references, see H. Strathmann, ‘martys etc.’, TWNT 4.477–520; T. Baumeister, Die Anfänge der Theologie des Martyriums, Münsterische Beiträge zur Theologie 45, Münster 1980, 239–45 and 257–70; G. Buschmann, Martyrium Polycarpi—Eine formkritische Studie: Ein Beitrag zur Frage nach der Entstehung der Gattung Märtyrerakte, BZNW 70, Berlin-New York 1994, 136–41. 5 B.A.G.M. Dehandschutter, ‘The Martyrium Polycarpi: a Century of Research’, ANRW II 27.1 485–522.
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Latin equivalent of martys, occurs for the first time as a self-designation and a reference to the martyrs’ vindication in the NorthAfrican Acts of the Scillitan Martyrs. After the governor’s proclamation of the verdict, Nartzalus, one of the condemned, says: ‘today we are martyrs in heaven: thanks to God’ (hodie martyres in caeli sumus: Deo gratias, Act. Scil. 15). In the earliest Jewish writings about martyrdom, 2 and 4 Maccabees, technical terminology relating to martyrdom is simply missing, but in Rabbinic literature the term qiddush ha-Shem gradually developed into a specific phrase indicating martyrdom. The specific Rabbinic terminology referring to martyrdom, such as qiddush ha-Shem (the sanctification of God’s Name) and Aseret haruge malkhut (the Ten killed by the [Roman] government), appeared considerably later than the chronological setting of the earliest references to martyrdom in Rabbinic literature. Statements by Rabbinic sages living in the first two centuries still contain a considerable variation of references to martyrdom, incorporating phrases like to ‘give one’s life for the commandments’ and to ‘offer oneself to be slaughtered for the Torah’ that echo Greek terminology.6 In passages from the third century onwards, however, one frequently finds qiddush ha-Shem as the shorthand expression referring to the experiences, acts and statements of Jewish martyrs (see e.g. TBer. 4.18; Sifra Lev 18:5; BT Zeb. 115b; Targum Neofiti on Gen 38:25–26). Thus the technical terminology referring to martyrdom in the Jewish and Christian contexts appears considerably later than the phenomenon itself. Moreover, the Jewish and Christian specific phrases that indicate martyrs differ greatly. These two observations require us to provide a functional description of ‘martyr’ and ‘martyr texts’. To start off with, a group of Jewish and Christian passages that can be labelled ‘martyr texts’, at least in a broad and non-generic sense. These texts share a specific theme and a number of motifs. Such martyr texts describe how a certain person, in an extremely hostile situation, preferred a violent death to compliance with a decree or demand of the (usually) pagan authorities. The martyr decides to die rather than to obey the foreign government. He or she is executed
6 S. Safrai, ‘Martyrdom in the Teachings of the Tannaim’, in: T.C. de Kruijff & H. van der Sandt (eds), Sjaloom: Ter nagedachtenis van Mgr. Dr. A.C. Ramselaar, Arnhem 1983, 145–64, esp. p. 146 with references.
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by this government and does not die by his or her own hands.7 The death of this person is a structural element in such a text, and the execution should at least be mentioned. By giving up one’s conviction, renouncing Jewish or Christian identity or stopping the activity that would force the foreign government to intervene, the would-be martyr could have prevented his or her execution. R. Aqiva, for instance, could have theoretically avoided his violent death by not organizing meetings to study Torah.8 Once a martyr is arrested, only his or her submission to the authorities can prevent a violent death, because the decree of the non-Jewish authorities usually brought about the death penalty as an automatic sanction. A number of Jewish and Christian texts about heroes not only correspond to this paradigm of the martyr, but also display a common pattern of narrative elements, which often occur in the same sequence. The pattern can be summarized as follows: 1) The point of departure for the narrative is formed by an enactment issued by the (pagan) authorities, often in a situation of oppression. Transgression of this law results in the death penalty. 2) The enforcement of the law brings Jews or Christians into a loyalty conflict, since Jews cannot stay faithful to their God, the Law and their Jewish way of life if they comply with the enactment and Christians in similar circumstances have to make concessions to their religious convictions. 3) When Christians or Jews are forced—after their arrest for instance— to decide between complying with the law of the government or remaining faithful to their religion and practices, they choose to die rather than to obey the authorities. 7 This definition differs from the one given by Droge and Tabor, who deliberately do not differentiate martyrdom from self-killing and define what they call ‘voluntary death’ as: ‘. . . the act resulting from an individual’s intentional decision to die, either by his own agency, by another’s, or by contriving the circumstances in which death is the known, ineluctable result’, A.J. Droge & J.D. Tabor, A Noble Death: Suicide and Martyrdom among Christians and Jews in Antiquity, San Francisco 1992, 4. 8 BT Ber. 61b. A. Goldberg, ‘Das Martyrium des Rabbi Akiva’, in: A. Goldberg, Mystik und Theologie des rabbinischen Judentums: Gesammelte Studien, Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum, vol. 61, Tübingen 1997, vol. 1, 351–412; I. Gruenwald, ‘Intolerance and Martyrdom: from Socrates to Rabbi Aqiva’, in: G. Stroumsa & G. Stanton (eds), Tolerance and Intolerance in early Judaism and Christianity, Cambridge 1998, 7–29. S. Lieberman, ‘The Martyrs of Caesarea’, Annuaire de l’Institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales et Slaves 7 (1939–1944) 395–446, esp. pp. 425–6, tries to reconstruct the content of the Roman prohibition by analyzing the variant readings of this tradition.
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4) This becomes obvious during the examination, often accompanied by torture, by the ruler or other officials. 5) The execution is described. This pattern occurs in 2 Macc. 6:18–31 and 7, the earliest Jewish martyr texts, at least if the context of these stories is taken into account. Other instances of this pattern are 4 Maccabees, dealing entirely with the Maccabean martyrs, and Rabbinic passages such as the martyrdom of R. Aqiva (BT Ber. 61b; cf. PT Ber. 9.7, 14b), the martyrdom of R. Hanina ben Teradyon (BT AZ 17b–18a; parallel versions Sifre Deut 32:4 § 307, Semahot 8 and Kallah 23), and the martyrdom of R. Judah ben Bava (BT Sanh. 13b–14a; BT AZ 8b). The early Christian martyr texts are more complicated in this matter. In antiquity these texts were usually called martyrium, i.e., report of a martyr’s death, passio, i.e., passion narrative, or acta, meaning martyr acts. The latter especially have a fairly fixed form and several scholars have explained this by arguing that this form derives from an affinity with official Roman records of trial (commentarii).9 A comparison of all relevant texts, however, leads to the conclusion that there is in fact considerable variation in the form as well as in the content of the early Christian martyr texts. Some of the most famous Christian texts show a striking similarity especially with the earliest Jewish martyr texts and contain elaborate dialogues between the martyr and the ruler who orders his or her execution, as in 2 Macc 7 and 4 Maccabees. The pattern of martyr texts described above can be found, for instance, in the Martyrdom of Polycarp that may ultimately derive from an authentic report about the death of this old bishop of Smyrna. In its present form, the Martyrdom is a carefully composed literary work, containing many allusions to passages from the Hebrew Bible as well as from the passion narratives in the New Testament. Polycarp was arrested after his betrayal by two slaves who lived in the country-house in which he had taken refuge (6.1–7.3). Chap. 8 describes the attempt of the police magistrate Herodes and his father Nicetas to persuade Polycarp to recognize the emperor as Lord and to
9 G. Lanata, Gli atti dei martiri come documenti processuali, Studi e testi per un Corpus judiciorum 1, Milano 1973; K. Berger, ‘Hellenistische Gattungen im Neuen Testament’, ANRW 2.25.2, 1031–432; 1831–85, esp. pp. 1248–9; G.A. Bisbee, Pre-Decian Acts of Martyrs and Commentarii, Harvard Dissertations in Religion 22, Philadelphia 1988.
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sacrifice incense with the accompanying rituals. A second and also unsuccessful attempt by the Roman governor during the trial in the amphitheatre to persuade the bishop to prove his loyalty to the emperor ends with Polycarp’s conviction (chaps. 9–12). The governor, extremely angered by Polycarp’s refusal, orders his herald to announce from the center of the arena that Polycarp had confessed three times that he was a Christian (12.1). The execution is described extensively in chaps. 13–16, while chaps. 17–18 describe the fate of Polycarp’s mortal remains. Thus we can see that all elements of the martyr pattern described above of martyr texts are clearly present in the Martyrdom of Polycarp, with the exception of the first one, namely the enactment. The reason for Polycarp’s arrest may not be given explicitly in chaps. 5–7, but the pattern’s first element does become apparent from the context. This presupposes some kind of a proceeding that would have required Polycarp to call the emperor Lord (kyrios, 8.2), to sacrifice incense (8.2; 12.2), to curse the Christians, to swear by the fortuna of the emperor (9.2–10.1) and to taunt Jesus Christ (9.3; cf. chap. 4). There is no doubt that death is the sanction for not executing these rituals. It should be pointed out that the functional definition offered above is more specific than the one provided by Eugene and Anita Weiner, who state that there were three ways of becoming a martyr: 1) choosing to suffer or die rather than give up one’s faith or principles; 2) being tortured or killed because of one’s convictions; 3) suffering great pain or misery for a long time.10 Their sociological perspective is important, however. It is obvious that the ‘martyr’ as a literary phenomenon comes into existence only after someone else has begun to consider that individual to be a martyr. Thus, the martyr cannot exist without supporters and must function somehow as a model in regard to the values and identity of this group of supporters. These two scholars correctly stress the connection between martyr and group identity in an additional definition: ‘The martyr will be seen as a member of a suppressed group who, when given the opportunity to renounce aspects of his or her group’s code, willingly submits to suffering and death rather than forsake a conviction’.11
10 E. Weiner & A. Weiner, The Martyr’s Conviction: A Sociological Analysis, Brown Judaic Studies 203, Atlanta, Georgia 1990, 9. 11 Weiner & Weiner, The Martyr’s Conviction, 10.
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Recently, Daniel Boyarin has suggested an entirely new paradigm for the study of Jewish and Christian martyrdom in late antiquity, arguing for many interconnections back and forth between the two groups, which in his view both remained within Judaism up to the fourth century. He also emphasizes, in line with Glen Bowersock’s argument, that in late antiquity a new kind of martyrdom developed and that this new martyrdom differed considerably from the earlier Jewish views about noble death in the Maccabean writings.12 In Boyarin’s opinion a new discourse of martyrdom developed from the second to the fourth century . This new discourse had three basic constituents: 1) a ritualized and performative speech act, 2) the fulfillment of a religious mandate, and 3) powerful erotic elements.13 3. Interactions, Differences and Ambiguities Recently Judith Lieu,14 Galit Hasan-Rokem and especially Daniel Boyarin15 have argued for intense and complex interconnections between Jews and Christians concerning the theme of martyrdom. Galit Hasan-Rokem’s reading of Perpetua’s Passion and Rabbinic versions of the martyrdom of the Maccabean mother and her seven sons implies that there was a narrative dialogue between Jewish and Christian presentations of martyrdom.16 Boyarin severely criticized the work of William H.C. Frend and others claiming that they wrongly assume 1) that the parting of the ways between Judaism and Christianity already occurred in the late first or early second century and 2) that there were no connections between the two groups afterwards.17 He argued that Rabbinic Judaism and orthodox Christianity
12 D. Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism, Figurae: Reading Medieval Culture, Stanford 1999; G.W. Bowersock, Martyrdom and Rome, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. 13 Boyarin, Dying for God, 109. 14 J. Lieu, Image and Reality: The Jews in the World of the Christians in the Second Century, Edinburgh 1996, 57–94; 277–86; Idem, ‘The Race of the God-fearers’, JThS ns 46 (1995) 483–501. 15 Boyarin, Dying for God. 16 G. Hasan-Rokem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature, Contraversions, Stanford 2000, esp. pp. 114–125. 17 W.H.C. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church: A Study of a Conflict from the Maccabees to Donatus, Oxford 1965; Garden City, New York 1967. Boyarin’s criticism of Frend is a thread in his entire Dying for God, but see esp. pp. 92–130.
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were invented only in the fourth century. He also criticized Frend’s genetic or kinship paradigm and proposed an alternative model of explaining the interconnections between Jews and Christians. He stated that ‘the languages in a given group might very well have similarities that are the product of convergence, of new developments in one that have passed to others, because the languages are still in contact with each other. This is called wave theory, on the assumption that an innovation takes place at a certain location and then spreads like a wave from that site to others, almost in the fashion of a stone thrown into a pond. In this model, convergence is as possible as divergence’.18 Boyarin’s ‘wave theory’, that is, his plea for multiple interactions between Jewish and Christian traditions about martyrdom is attractive and stimulating.19 With this in mind, I would like to use Boyarin’s paradigm as point of departure for a discussion of the presentations of martyrs in two texts, one Christian and one Jewish: Passio Perpetuae and BT AZ17b–18a. Both texts match the description of a martyr text given in section 2 of this contribution and figure prominently in Boyarin’s argument as well.20
18 Boyarin, Dying for God, 9. In his book, Boyarin also argues that Rabbinic passages about martyrdom engage themselves with Christianity which was still seen as a Jewish heresy (with the story about R. Eliezer in THul. 2.24 as a key text) and that Christians and rabbis tried to escape martyrdom acting as tricksters, but nevertheless became martyrs (pp. 26–66). 19 Following his line of thought, one could, for example, interpret the compilation of the stories of the so-called Ten Martyrs (‘The Ten Killed by the Government’) that culminated in a midrashic work of this name (see G. Reeg, Die Geschichte von den Zehn Märtyrern, Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum 10, Tübingen 1985) as a Jewish response to the process of canonization of Christian martyrs that becomes apparent from lists of martyrs in calendars of martyrs and martyrologia. 20 As a tangential point, I would like to point out a third paradigm, since, in addition to the old genetic paradigm and Boyarin’s new wave theory model, one could argue that there have been analogous independent developments around the theme of noble death in Christian and Jewish milieus: ‘Similar ideas can originate within different groups independently, because the groups share something, a cultural environment, or experiences in a similar socio-historical situation or ideological conceptions or strategies concerning one’s own group’, see J.W. van Henten, ‘The Martyrs as Heroes of the Christian People. Some Remarks on the Continuity between Jewish and Christian Martyrology, with Pagan Analogies’, in: M. Lamberigts & P. van Deun (eds), Martyrium in Multidisciplinary Perspective, BETL 107, Leuven 1995, 303–22, p. 304. This is basically what Herbert Musurillo has argued in connection with the corresponding motifs between the so-called Acts of the Alexandrian Martyrs and early-Christian martyr texts. See his The Acts of the Pagan Martyrs, Oxford 1954, 262.
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Before entering into a comparison of the depiction of the martyr figure in both writings, some introductory information is useful. The kernel of the Passio of Perpetua and Felicitas is a dramatic autobiographical document about a woman’s last days, which has been expanded by an anonymous redactor. Perpetua and her fellowChristians were executed in Carthage on March 7, 203.21 Most scholars consider Perpetua’s ego-document, which is unique in ancient literature, to be authentic. The names of the two female heroes, however, may be suspicious, since their combination fits in so perfectly with the heavenly vindication of the martyrs highlighted by the writing: ‘Perpetual Happiness’. The martyrdom of R. Hanina ben Teradyon in BT AZ17b–18a is a fictitious biographical narrative interwoven with halakhic discourse. Rabbinic traditions present R. Hanina as a contemporary of the famous R. Aqiva, who also belonged to the second generation of Tannaitic Rabbinic sages (about 90–130 ). Both rabbis died a martyr’s death according to Rabbinic passages that have a Roman persecution as their setting.22 In BT AZ 17b–18a about the death of R. Hanina, two accounts of his martyrdom have been combined, expanded and transmitted by several different generations of Rabbinic sages. It is impossible to discuss these passages about Perpetua and R. Hanina ben Teradyon in detail here, but I will highlight some interesting features of both by focusing on the martyr’s motives for preferring a violent death as well as on the character and role of the martyr’s opponent. The guiding question will be: What can be said about the martyr’s motives for not giving in to the Roman authorities in relation to both texts? 3.1. The Martyrs’ Motives The autobiographical section of Perpetua’s Passion (chaps. 3–13) includes a description of the trial scene in chap. 6. During this scene
21 For references see P. Dronke, Women Writers of the Middle Ages: A Critical Study of Texts from Perpetua to Marguerite Porete, Cambridge 1984; P. Habermehl, Perpetua und der Ägypter oder Bilder des Bösen im frühen Afrikanischen Christentum: Ein Versuch zur Passio Sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis, Texte und Untersuchungen 140, Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1992; B. Shaw, ‘The Passion of Perpetua’, Past and Present 139 (1993) 3–45; E. Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion: The Death and Memory of a Young Roman Woman, New York-London 1997. 22 M.D. Herr, ‘Persecutions and Martyrdom in Hadrian’s Days’, ScrHier 23 (1972) 85–125; P. Schäfer, Der Bar Kokhba-Aufstand: Studien zum zweiten jüdischen Krieg gegen Rom, Tübingen 1981, 194–235 with references. See also footnote 8.
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Perpetua confirms that she was a Christian (christiana sum 6.4; cf. 3.2), as martyrs usually do in Christian martyr texts (cf. the pattern in section 2). Thus, Perpetua dies a martyr’s death because she does not want to renounce her Christian belief and identity. Although the text hardly elaborates the content of Perpetua’s belief, it does present her choice as a matter of life and death. This is apparent from the trial scene, which is expanded in a very special way with a dialogue between Perpetua and her father. The father tries to persuade her to sacrifice for the safety of the emperor: ‘We climbed the platform. The others were interrogated and confessed. Then it was my turn. Immediately my father appeared with my son and he pulled me aside saying: “pray to the gods, have pity on your baby”’ (6.2). The dialogue between Perpetua and her father revolves around the choice between Perpetua’s traditional Roman identity and her new Christian identity. Perpetua’s Roman identity can be filled in easily on the basis of several details in the Passion. Her family name Vibius suggests that her family had received Roman citizenship many generations before. Her father is presented as a person of high rank, maybe even a member of the senatorial class.23 Looking at the function of the work, we see that the Passion does not concentrate that much on Perpetua’s religious motives themselves. The work reads more like a story about conflicting values and identities, that is, the old Roman one as opposed to the new Christian one, with the ongoing dialogue of Perpetua and her father as a leitmotiv. Perpetua’s father plays a prominent role as representative of the old order and traditional identity. He clearly is a figure of contrast to Perpetua and embodies the ‘old’ way of life (3.1–3; 5.1–6.8; 9). The clash between the traditional power of Perpetua’s father, the head of a Roman household, as well as the traditional role of a mother, i.e., nursing and raising children to continue the family line, on the one hand, and Perpetua’s behavior during trial, in prison—including the giving up of her baby—and, finally, in the amphitheatre, on the other hand, must have been rather obvious to contemporary readers. According to Roman traditions the aristocratic father was responsi-
23 The Greek translation mentions that Perpetua’s group was arrested in Thuburbo Minus on the Bagrada River (modern Tébourba), which is about thirty-three miles to the west of Carthage. In that case, readers could easily understand Perpetua’s father as a wealthy landowner, since Thuburbo was part of a prosperous region that served as a breadbasket for Rome.
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ble for Roman religious rituals at home. But Perpetua’s pitiful father fights a lost battle for the Roman deities against his Christian daughter. Perpetua as well as Felicitas destroy traditional family structures and their Christian group in prison functions as an alternative family, fully focused on the eternal happiness in heaven.24 The construction of an alternative family can be linked to the role of Perpetua and to the other martyrs as model figures for other Christians, is suggested by the redactor’s introduction to and conclusion of the Passion. In this framework the redactor indicates that he/she transmitted the writing to other Christians so that they could participate in the martyrs’ experiences and enter into fellowship with Christ through them (1.6). He/she also presented the martyrs as model figures of faith (exempla fidei), who yield to none of the earlier ideal figures of Christianity (1.1–2; 21.11). Reading about these model figures in the Passion would strengthen the feeling of belonging to the special community of the Church (21.11). Thus, in the Passion of Perpetua we find the religious stock motive of total faithfulness to Christian belief hand in hand with the construction of a Christian group identity focused upon the martyr. Moving on to the second tradition, R. Hanina’s motives are not self-evident, although the Torah clearly is a major factor. In the first account of his martyrdom in BT AZ 17b–18a, he is arrested for studying the Torah. In the second version, he provokes the Romans by studying the Law in public, organizing meetings and having a Torah scroll at his bosom immediately after the funeral of R. Jose ben Kisma, during which many Romans were present. The Romans respond promptly to R. Hanina’s provocation and execute him wrapped in a Torah scroll. One could argue that by using R. Hanina as a model figure, the Talmud advocates the open confrontation with the hostile Roman government and a public show of loyalty to the Torah as Israel’s prime religious and socio-cultural source of life. This reading is, however, immediately deconstructed by R. Jose ben Kisma’s view, which seems to imply that this open confrontation leads to disaster not only for the individual, but, in the end, for the entire people. Yet, one should not conclude too quickly that the
24 Cf. Origenes, Contra Cels. 3.55. See Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution, 321–2; J. Perkins, The Suffering Self: Pain and Narrative Representation in the Early Christian Era, London 1995, 104–13; Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 5–11.
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Talmud’s redactors took side with R. Jose, because R. Jose clearly envies R. Hanina in the text because of his share in the world to come, right after his death: ‘“Rabbi” (i.e. R. Jose ben Kisma), said the other (i.e. R. Hanina ben Teradyon), “How do I stand with regard to the world to come?”—“Is there any particular act that thou hast done?” he (R. Jose) enquired. He (R. Hanina) replied: “I once mistook Purim-money for ordinary charity-money, and I distributed [of my own] to the poor”. “Well then”, said he (R. Jose), “would that thy portion were my portion and thy lot my lot”’ (trans. A. Mishcon). Thus, BT AZ 17b–18a’s view about martyrdom seems to be ambiguous. This ambiguity is also apparent from the focus on the justification of God’s judgment in the first account of R. Hanina’s death in BT AZ17b–18a. The execution is not even described in this first version, which ends with R. Hanina, his wife and his daughter justifying the judgment of God with quotations from Deut 32:4 and Jer 32:19: ‘As the three of them went out [from the tribunal] they declared their submission to [the Divine] righteous judgment. He quoted: “The Rock, His work is perfect; for all his ways are justice” (Deut 32:4). His wife continued: “A God of faithfulness and without iniquity, just and right is He” (Deut 32:4); and the daughter quoted: “Great in counsel and mighty in work, whose eyes are open upon all the ways of the sons of men, to give everyone according to his ways, and according to the fruit of his doing”’ ( Jer 32:19; trans. A. Mishcon). The justification of God’s judgment can be linked to R. Jose’s argument in the second account that Roman domination was in accordance with God’s will: ‘He said to him: “Brother Hanina, knowest thou not that it is Heaven (i.e. God) that has ordained this [Roman] nation to reign?”’ Finally, the great attention in the first account to the sins of R. Hanina as a means of explaining his execution, implying that his violent death functioned as personal atonement, also seems to relativize his martyrdom or make it ambiguous. The theme of the justification of God’s judgment (zidduk ha-Din) is prominent in BT AZ17b–18a and is connected with R. Hanina’s motive for preferring or accepting his violent death. Thus, both the deaths of Perpetua and of R. Hanina are in accordance with the will of God. In R. Hanina’s case, however, death seems to be the consequence of his transgressing precepts of the Torah. The first account of his martyrdom in the Talmud refers to a discussion between R. Eleazar ben Perata and R. Hanina that explains their
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fate in the sequel of the story. The discussion suggests that R. Hanina only studied Torah, and did not combine this with the practice of benevolence (gemilut hasadim) as did R. Eleazar. Rav Huna links this through a complicated exegesis to 2 Chron 15:3 and interprets it as godlessness. The discussion continues with references to minor transgressions as other explanations of R. Hanina’s violent death.25 The conclusion seems unavoidable that R. Hanina’s martyrdom was a divine punishment.26 He had sinned, no matter how small his transgressions. His horrible death apparently brought atonement for his sins and made it possible for him to enter the World to Come.27 This reading would imply that R. Hanina’s martyrdom triggers ambivalent feelings: on the one hand R. Hanina clearly is a hero in the story, but on the other hand the text seems to convey serious hesitations about his attitude to Rome. One wonders whether this hesitation also implies a critical view of R. Hanina’s determination to die a martyr’s death. Moreover, the Talmud mentions several transgressions of the Torah by R. Hanina, although some of them seem to be minimal. Apparently, the standard for the assessment of R. Hanina’s practices as one of Israel’s sages was far higher than that for ‘normal people’. In any case, all of this is very different from the unreserved glorification of Perpetua. 3.2. The Martyr’s Opponent In the Passio Perpetuae, the father of Perpetua can be considered an important opponent because he tries to return his daughter to her traditional way of life. Perpetua’s ultimate opponent is somebody else, however. Chap. 10 of the Passion offers Perpetua’s vision of her
25 I.e. the pronouncement of God’s name in public and the mixing up of Purim money and charity money. R. Hanina’s mixing up the different kinds of money implied that the Purim money was not used for its proper purpose, possibly a banquet for the poor, as Rashi assumes. Not using Purim money for the right purpose was not allowed according to statements in PT Meg. 1.6(3), 70b and BT BM 78b and 106b. See about this money TMeg. 1.5. A comment by Rashi upon BT AZ 67b suggests that R. Hanina practiced esoteric teachings. See also W. Bacher, Die Agada der Tannaiten, Strassburg 1903, 2 vols, 1.397. Cf. E. Urbach, The Sages: their Concepts and Beliefs, Trans. from the Hebrew by Israel Abrahams, Jerusalem 1975, 133–4. 26 This is most obvious in the parallel version in Kalla 18c. 27 H.W. Surkau, Martyrien in jüdischer und frühchristlicher Zeit, FRLANT NF 36, Göttingen 1938, 47–50; E. Lohse, Märtyrer und Gottesknecht. Untersuchungen zur urchristlichen Verkündiging vom Sühntod Jesu Christi, FRLANT 64; 2nd ed., Göttingen 1963.
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own death scene (cf. Mart. Pol. 5.2). She sees herself fighting against an Egyptian and being transformed into a man before the fight. Prophecies and visions are characteristic of the Passion and demonstrate that the martyrs have direct contact with the divine. Remarkably, the death scene of Perpetua and Felicitas described in chap. 20 does not match Perpetua’s vision in several ways. The young women have to confront a mad heifer as animal of punishment. The choice of this animal is attributed to the devil and he is clearly associated with Perpetua’s opponent in chap. 10. The gender of the animal is not a coincidence, since the femaleness of both martyrs is stressed by taboo-breaking particularities that must have had an eroticizing effect on many onlookers and readers: ‘For the young women they had saved a mad heifer. The devil had inspired the executioners to get hold of this unusual animal for the games since he wanted to match the choice of the animal with their sex. After being stripped and enclosed in nets they were brought into the arena. The people were horrified, seeing that one was an attractive girl, the other a woman fresh from childbirth, with milk dripping from her breasts . . .’ (Pas. Perp. 20). The depiction of the combat in the vision of chap. 10 triggers associations with various sports, and maybe deliberately so. The combined references to punching, kicking and wrestling point to the athletic contest of a pankration, one of the contests of the Olympic games.28 At the same time, the vocabulary hints at gladiatorial fights.29 Perpetua leaves the amphitheatre through the gate of life just as a victorious gladiator would leave it. The vocabulary and imagery used with respect to the deacon Pomponius (10.2), who says that he will suffer together with Perpetua, is not uniform either. The phrase lanista (10.8) suggests that he was a trainer of gladiators, but 10.9 presents him as the referee or even the organizer of the contest.30 The passage about Perpetua’s transformation into a man has excited scholars and has been interpreted in very different ways. A simple explanation may be that athletic combat such as in a pankration contest could only be fought by men. The fact that Perpetua appears as a woman
28 M.I. Finley & H.W. Pleket, The Olympic Games: the First Thousand Years, London 1976, 40–4; Habermehl, Perpetua, 99. 29 Habermehl, Perpetua, 164–65. 30 Habermehl, Perpetua, 100; 164.
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again after the depiction of the contest would seem to confirm this understanding.31 The Passion’s focus here is on martyrdom as a spectacle for a crowd of onlookers.32 This dimension is far less prominent in the story about R. Hanina ben Teradyon. The Passion’s athletic imagery is almost non-existent in Rabbinic passages. In neither of the two accounts in BT is R. Hanina’s martyrdom described as a contest. The devil is Perpetua’s real opponent (also 3.3; 21.10). In 10.14 Perpetua herself identifies the Egyptian33 as the devil who is also associated with the serpent of Gen. 3. Perpetua’s stepping on the head of the Egyptian is a sign of her victory and also echoes Gen. 3:15 which states that Eve’s descendants will step on the head of the serpent. Augustine already suggests that Perpetua’s opponent was the same as Eve’s adversary (Sermo 2; 4). The devil also serves as the martyrs’ principal opponent in several Christian martyr texts (e.g. Ignatius, Rom. 5.3; 7.1 Mart. Pol. 2.4; 17.1; Mart. Pauli 1, and consistently in the Martyrdom of Lyon),34 but not in R. Hanina ben Teradyon’s martyrdom or, as far as I know, in any other Rabbinic martyr text. Thus, the motif of the devil as the opponent of a martyr seems to be an important difference between Jewish and Christian martyr texts. Indeed, it is difficult to determine who R. Hanina’s opponent is. The role of the Roman authorities is marginal. The executioner even takes side with R. Hanina, since he agrees to hasten the martyr’s death and shares his fate in order to enter the World to Come.35 In my view, God functions as R. Hanina’s opponent, since the heavenly judgment is far more important than the Roman authorities. The first account of R. Hanina’s martyrdom in BT AZ 17b–18a starts with the Roman arrest of R. Eleazar ben Perata and R. Hanina. The reason for the arrest is explicitly given by some of the textual witnesses of the version in the BT as well as by the parallel version
31
For this and other interpretations, see Habermehl, Perpetua, 109–19. Rightly emphasized by Bowersock, Martyrdom and Rome. 33 Several commentators suppose that the horrible looks of the Egyptian refer to a black color of skin, implying that he was the devil. For a detailed discussion and references, see Habermehl, Perpetua, 130–70. 34 Baumeister, Anfänge, 254–5. 35 Many scholars have pointed out the similarity with Jesus’ dialogue with the criminal crucified next to him and their going to Paradise together on the same day (Luke 23:40–3). 32
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in Semahot 8.11(12), both of which state ‘because of heresy’ (le-minut).36 ‘Heresy’ may be interpreted from a Roman or a Jewish religious perspective, referring to Jewish heretical behavior, such as Christianity. Since ‘heresy’ refers to R. Hanina as well as to R. Eleazar, who is miraculously saved five times from Roman accusations and apparently has not sinned, a Roman perspective is more probable here.37 Nevertheless, a double judicial system is clearly implied in the text by the discussion about R. Hanina’s transgressions of the Torah and the justification of God’s judgment by the sage, his wife and his daughter. The Roman authorities shrink into insignificance, however, in comparison with the heavenly Judge. R. Hanina’s arrest and execution, in contrast to R. Eleazar’s miraculous deliverance, are apparently the outcome of God’s judgment, which seems to be closely connected with R. Hanina’s sins. 4. Conclusion Jewish and Christian presentations of martyrdom share the fact that the ‘technical vocabulary’, i.e. the terminology of ‘witness’ or the phrase qiddush ha-Shem indicating martyrdom, is later than the earliest documents that describe this specific kind of noble death. It is necessary therefore to work with a functional description of the figure of the martyr that matches the early Jewish (2 and 4 Maccabees), the early Christian as well as the Rabbinic depictions of martyrdom. Jewish and Christian documents about martyrdom frequently also share a narrative pattern, of which a loyalty conflict between an enactment of the foreign government and the faithfulness to Jewish practices or Christian belief is an important element. A brief discussion of one of these documents, the Martyrdom of Polycarp, suggests that these martyr texts should be taken as literary documents offering
36 R. Rabbinovicz, Sefer diqduqe soferim, vol. 10, München 1879, 41; Sem. 8.11 (47b; ed. Higger 8.12, p. 159). For interpretations of this phrase see D. Zlotnick, The Tractate ‘Mourning’ (Semahot): Regulations relating to Death, Burial, and Mourning, Yale Judaica Series 17, New Haven 1966, 140; Boyarin, Dying for God, 26–41, who argues, against his teacher Lieberman, that the ‘heresy’ was Christianity in the case of R. Eli‘ezer (see footnote 17). 37 The text offers no hint whatsoever that minut refers to sympathies for Christianity, as Boyarin argues in connection with R. Eli'ezer’s trial in THul. 2.24, see footnote 17.
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presentations of martyrs that may be rather far removed from the actual events. If the textual evidence for Jewish and Christian martyrdom implies important similarities and continuities, then how should the connection between Jewish and Christian depictions of martyrdom be understood? Daniel Boyarin and others not only criticized earlier paradigms for explaining this connection but also argued for multiple interactions. As a check of the usefulness of this radical new approach I compared two martyr texts, a Christian and a Rabbinic Jewish one. This comparison of Perpetua’s Passion and the martydom of R. Hanina ben Teradyon in BT AZ 17b–18a resulted in the conclusion that fascinating similarities go hand in hand with considerable differences. The texts themselves are very different from each other, as the gender of the key figures, the literary context as well as the presentation of the martyrs show. Nevertheless, both martyr figures share a religious motive for refusing to give in to the Romans authorities. Perpetua died for her Christian belief and R. Hanina ben Teradyon for studying the Torah in public. In both cases, this motive itself does not get much attention but leads up to other things, namely, the presentation of the Christians as an alternative family and Perpetua as a model in the Passion, and the attitude to the Roman government and the justification God’s judgment in BT AZ 17b–18a. The question of who really functions as the martyr’s opponent results in the intriguing observation that the Romans are ultimately not the opponent in either case. Perpetua fights the devil and R. Hanina faces God as Heavenly Judge because of his (minimal) transgressions of the Torah. There is yet another similarity, both texts share a visionary dimension. Perpetua’s vision about her death scene is one of several visions in Perpetua’s Passion. In R. Hanina’s martyrdom, the visionary aspect is apparent in the martyr’s dialogue with his pupils who explicitly ask him about his visionary experience during his execution.38 R. Hanina sees the parchment of the Torah scroll being burned and the letters going to Heaven. It is difficult to interpret this brief reference to R. Hanina’s visionary experience. A mystical reading of the passage may imply that the content of the Torah could not be burned,
38 H.A. Fischel, ‘Martyr and Prophet (A Study in Jewish Literature)’, JQR 37 (1947) 265–280; 363–386, esp. pp. 363–5.
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possibly because the Torah itself was considered divine fire, which could not be destroyed. Fire cannot destroy fire, as a tradition in PT suggests.39 Precisely the observation of intriguing similarities in both texts, despite the considerable differences between them, supports the argument for multiple interactions or a narrative dialogue between Jewish and Christian depictions of martyrdom. Furthermore, it should be noted that there are several similarities between BT AZ 17b–18a and other Christian passages as well, which are striking in one or two cases. The burning of R. Hanina in a scroll has an interesting parallel in Lactantius’ reference to the future burning by the antichrist of righteous persons wrapped in prophetic books.40 And the reference to the hastening of R. Hanina’s death by opening the mouth and inhaling the smoke finds an interesting parallel in a tradition about the Christian martyr Porphyrius, who was executed in Caesarea Maritima: “After the fire was kindled around him, from outside and from a considerable distance, he snatched away the flames eagerly with his mouth from one side to the other . . .”.41 Yet, as already indicated, the comparison also reveals considerable differences. Not only do the literary form and the content of both passages differ greatly, but, more importantly, the figure of the martyr is highlighted in very different ways. Perpetua functions as a model for the identity and ideal way of life for other Christians. The framework of the text unambiguously calls upon readers to imitate her example. These functions are far less clear regarding R. Hanina’s martyrdom. His brutal confrontation with Rome does not function as a guideline for the attitude towards the foreign authorities, since it is being deconstructed in the text itself by R. Jose ben Kisma’s opposite position and by R. Hanina’s fate ending with the justification of God’s judgement. One wonders whether R. Hanina functions as a model figure at all, since BT AZ 17b–18a offers a highly ambiguous depiction despite the fact that he is clearly presented as a sage.
39 The Torah came directly from heaven and was thought to be given in fire according to PT Sheq. 6.1, 49d. 40 Lactantius, Div. inst. 7.17.8: idem iustos homines obvolvet libris prophetarum atque ita cremabit. 41 Eusebius, Mart. Pal. 11.13–19. F.J. Dölger, ‘Der Flammentod des Märtyrers Porphyrios in Caesarea Maritima: Die Verkürzung der Qualen durch Einatmung des Rauches’, Antike und Christentum 1 (1929) 243–53.
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A paradigm for explaining corresponding textual phenomena in competitive religious traditions has to be tested time and again. It should also take account of the similarities as well as the differences in the relevant texts. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that Daniel Boyarin has provided us with a highly stimulating fresh approach for research into the interconnections of Jewish and Christian passages about martyrdom.
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THE CULT OF THE SEVEN MACCABEAN BROTHERS AND THEIR MOTHER IN CHRISTIAN TRADITION Gerard Rouwhorst (Catholic Theological University of Utrecht, The Netherlands) Introduction From a very early period onward, several Eastern and Western traditions have venerated a number of saints who were pre-Christian and never embraced specifically Christian beliefs. I have here in mind the saints who are derived from the Hebrew Bible or from the books which are commonly known as the Apocrypha or the deuterocanonical books (and have been included in the Septuagint and the Vulgate but not in the Tenakh).1 From the fourth-century Armenian Lectionary which provides a detailed and reliable picture of the liturgical traditions of Christians living in Jerusalem at the end of the fourth and during the fifth century,2 it becomes clear that this category of ‘saints’ was very popular in that city and in the Holy Land then.3 In addition, traces of their veneration are also found in most Eastern liturgical rites4 as well in some ancient western
1 On this subject see in particular B. Botte, ‘Le culte des saints de l’Ancien Testament dans l’Eglise chrétienne’, Cahiers Sioniens 4 (1950), 170–177; Idem, ‘Les Saints de l’Ancien Testament’, La Maison-Dieu 52 (1957), 109–120; M. Simon, ‘Les Saints d’Israel dans la dévotion de l’Eglise ancienne’, Revue d’Histoire et de Philosophie Religieuses 34 (1954), 98–127; H. Auf der Maur,’ Festtage und Gedenktage der Heiligen’, in: Feiern im Rhythmus der Zeit II/1, = Gottesdienst der Kirche 6,1, Regensburg 1994, 65–401, especially 117–122 (‘Feste biblischer Gestalten’). 2 Ed. C. Renoux, Le Codex arménien Jérusalem 121, PO 163 and 168, Turnhout 1969/1971. 3 The liturgical calendar transmitted by this source contains commemorations of the following pre-Christian Jewish ‘saints’: Jeremiah (1 May, in Anathoth), the prophet Zachariah (10 June), Elisha (14 June), Isaiah (6 July), the Maccabees, i.e. the Maccabean brothers (1 August), David (25 December, in the church of Sion in Jerusalem). See for other sources referring to the veneration or commemoration of this category of saints in Jerusalem and elsewhere in the Holy Land in the 4th and 5th century: G. Stemberger, Jews and Christians in the Holy Land, 105–114 and H. Auf der Maur, ‘Festtage und Gedenktage der Heiligen’, 120. 4 Especially in the Byzantine rite. Cf. B. Botte, ‘Le culte des saints’, 43–44 and H. Auf der Maur, ‘Das Sanktorale der griechisch-byzantinischen Kirche’, Feiern im
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liturgical traditions, in particular those of Gaul and Irish Christianity.5 One of the most intriguing examples of the veneration of this category of saints is the cult of the Maccabean martyrs, i.e., the priest Eleazar and the seven brothers with their mother whose heroic deaths are related in II Maccabees, 6–7 as well as in IV Maccabees.6 I believe that there are two reasons why their veneration may be qualified as remarkable. First, it is rather surprising that Christians venerated Jews who were not simply pious or morally outstanding persons, but who suffered martyrdom for the sake of a commandment which according to most Christians had lost its relevance after Christ, namely the eating of pig meat. Another remarkable thing about the cult of the Maccabean martyrs is its unusually rapid and wide diffusion among nearly all Christian liturgical traditions of both East and West, even entering the Roman calendar of saints which has never included any other pre-Christian figure. In this paper I will deal with some aspects of this cult. First, we shall discuss some questions connected with its emergence at the end of the fourth century. Next, we shall briefly outline its further development throughout the centuries in both the east and the west. In the final part, we shall follow its vicissitudes in the west in the Middle Ages and in modern times until its practically unnoticed removal from the general calendar of the Roman Catholic Church in 1969. 1. Origins and Rise of the Cult It is generally agreed that the Christian cult of the Maccabean martyrs7 began in the latter part of the fourth century in Antioch and
Rhythmus der Zeit II,1, 347. See for the other eastern rites (Syrian, Coptic, Ethiopian): B. Botte, ‘Le culte des saints’, 44. 5 See especially H. Auf der Maur, ‘Festtage und Gedenktage der Heiligen’, 120. 6 For the sake of clarity, the Maccabean martyrs dealt with in this article should be distinguished from the Hasmonean sons of Mattatias, the tomb of whom was located near Modiin. See for the traditions regarding this tomb: J. Schwartz, ‘On Modiin and the Tomb of the Hasmoneans’, in: Idem, Lod (Lydda), Israel from its Origins throught the Byzantine Period, = British Archaeological Reports International Series 571, Oxford 1991, 61–65. 7 A considerable number of publications have already been devoted to the cult of the Maccabean martyrs. See in particular: C. Rampolla, ‘Martyre et sépulture des Machabées’, Revue de l’Art chrétien 42 (1899), 290–305; 377–392; 457–465; M. Maas, ‘Die Maccabäer als christliche Heilige’, Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 44 (1900), 145–156; W. Bacher, ‘Jüdische Märtyer im christlichen Kalender’,
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was connected with the veneration of their relics at the tombs located in that city. Already early authors who make mention of this cult, such as John Chrysostom8 and Augustine9 and a Syriac document usually called the martyrologium of Edessa ( 411),10 explicitly associate it with these tombs. Augustine even informs us that a Christian basilica was built on that spot. The martyrologium provides information about the precise location of the tombs: the martyrs were buried in the quarter called the ‘Kerateion’. An additional and indirect argument in favour of the view that the cult started in Antioch may be found in the Armenian Lectionary which mentions a commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs on August 1, the traditional date, but does not indicate a special church,11 which is unusual in this document. This means that the Christians of Jerusalem did not have a specific place that was associated by them with the burial or the martyrdom of the Maccabean brothers. Otherwise they certainly would have held the commemoration on that spot. Once the cult had emerged in Antioch, the annual commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs fixed on August 1 spread all over the Christian world with a rapidity that was very rare at that time and was matched only by very popular feasts like Christmas and Epiphany. About twenty years before John Chrysostom delivered the aforementioned homilies, a sermon of Gregory of Nazianze testifies to this commemoration around 360 in Cappadocia.12 Ambrose
Jahrbuch für jüdische Geschichte und Literatur, IV (1901), 70–85 (reprint: K. Wilhelm (ed.), Wissenschaft des Judentums im deutschen Sprachbereich, Tübingen 1967, 595–607); M. Schatkin, ‘The Maccabean Martyrs’, VigChr 28 (1974), 97–113; L. Rutgers, ‘The Importance of Scripture in the Conflict between Jews and Christians: The Example of Antioch’, L. Rutgers, P. van der Horst, H. Havelaar, L. Teugels (eds), The Use of Sacred Books in the Ancient World, Leuven 1998, 287–303. 8 Homily on the holy Maccabees I, 1 (PG 50, 617); Sermon on the holy Martyrs (PG 50, 647). 9 Sermo 300, c. 6. 10 Ed. F. Nau, Un martyrologe et douze ménologes syriaques, PO 10 (1915), 7–26, especially 19. German translation: H. Lietzmann, Die drei ältesten Martyrologien, Bonn 1911, 7–15. Latin translation: B. Mariani, Breviarium syriacum, Rome 1956. The Syriac manuscript containing this document originated in Edessa and is dated 411 AD. It is, however, commonly agreed that it goes back to an older Greek archetype which has been composed around 360 AD in Nicomedia (see the introduction of Mariani, 10–14). 11 A. Renoux, Le codex arménien Jérusalem 121, PO 168, 352–353. 12 Homily 15 (PG 35, 912–933). See for this text also M. Vinson, ‘Gregory Nazianzen’s Homily 15 and the Genesis of the Christian Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs’, Byzantion 64 (1994), 166–192.
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alludes to it in a letter written to Theodosius13 which shows that the veneration of the Maccabean martyrs had become widespread in the West around 388 at the latest. From two homilies of Augustine, one of which we have already mentioned, it becomes clear that in the cult in Africa as well must have been introduced in the last decades of the fourth century.14 The Armenian Lectionary already attests to the existence of the yearly commemoration in Jerusalem at that time. The martyrologium of Edessa also refers to the widespread nature of this phenomenon, as does Theophilus of Alexandria.15 This being established, the question arises as to how one may account for the sudden rise of this cult and its diffusion from Antioch all over the Christian world. What is the historical background of the emergence of this remarkable cult? In this connection, it should be first remarked that there has long been discussion regarding the Jewish antecedents of the cult. Was there a Jewish form of veneration or commemoration of the Maccabean brothers which would have been continued by the Christians? Several scholars, in particular Marcel Simon16 and Margaret Schatkin,17 have explicitly defended the view that the Christian cult of the brothers and their mother had Jewish roots. At a rather early date, in their view, the Jews would have built a synagogue on the place where Eleazar and the seven brothers and their mother were buried and where veneration of these martyrs would have been developed by the local Jewish community. When the Christians obtained a dominant position in Antioch in the fourth century, they expropriated this synagogue and transformed it into a church christianizing the Jewish cult and simultaneously the Jewish cult. Marcel Simon suggests this might have occurred around 363, just after the death of the emperor Julian. Although this theory has been and still is popular, it has also aroused serious criticism.18 To begin with, it is founded on a limited
13
Epist.extra coll. 1a (40,16), CSEL 82,3, 170. Sermo 300 and 301 (PL 38, 1376–1385). 15 Quoted by Jerome, Ep. 100,9. 16 M. Simon, ‘Les saints d’Israël dans la dévotion de l’église ancienne’ Revue d’histoire et de philosophie religieuses 34 (1954), 98–127 (= Idem, Recherches d’Histoire JudéoChrétienne, Paris-The Hague, 1962, 154–180). 17 M. Schatkin, ‘The Maccabean Martyrs’. See also C. Rampolla, ‘Martyre et sépulture’, 383–392; W. Bacher, ‘Jüdische Märtyrer’, 598. 18 See in particular L. Rutgers, ‘The Importance of Scripture’, especially 290–291; 14
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number of sources, namely a passage from the Chronography of the Byzantine chronographer John Malalas,19 and an account preserved in Arabic.20 Moreover, these sources date to the sixth century, a relatively late period, are not easy to interpret and even at times seem to contradict one another.21 In addition, it is highly improbable that Jews would have constructed a synagogue at a burial site or in its direct vicinity, in clear contradiction with Jewish notions of purity and accepted custom. Moreover, assuming that the Kerateion was located within the city limits,22 a burial site there was counter to the prohibition which existed in the Roman Empire and was followed very strictly until the arrival of Christianity of burying inside the city. Finally, this theory appears to contradict a passage of a sermon of Augustine mentioned before in which this church father asserts that the basilica was built by Christians,23 with this passage making not even the slightest allusion to a synagogue which might have there existed before. Two alternative solutions have been proposed. The first was by M. Vinson24 who tried to show that in addition to the sanctuary in the Kerateion where the Christians situated the place of the burial, a much older Jewish cult site would have existed, a martyrium which was not located within the city limits, but outside in the suburb of Daphne. This building was not a synagogue and it had never been so and, more importantly, it possessed the physical remains of the
299–300. Cf. also Th. Klauser, Gesammelte Arbeiten zur Liturgiegeschichte, Kirchengeschichte und christlichen Archäologie, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum, Ergänzungsband 3 (1974), 221–229, especially 226 and M. Vinson, ‘Gregory Nazianzen’s Homily’, especially 182. 19 Chronographia, ch. VIII, 23–24 (ed. L. Dindorf ), Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae, Bonn 1831, pp. 206–207; English translation: E. Jeffreys and others, The Chronicle of John Malalas. A Translation, = Byzantina Australensia 4, Melbourne 1986, 108–109. 20 Ed. and Italian translation: I. Guidi, ‘Una descrizione araba di Antiochia’, Rendiconti della reale Accademia dei Lincei. Classe di scienze morali, storiche e filologiche, ser. 5, vol. 6 (1897), 137–161, esp. 149 and 160. A third source which is not taken into consideration by all of the scholars and equally dates from the sixth century, is the Armenian life of Marutha of Maipherkat (R. Marcus, ‘The Armenian Life of Marutha of Maipherkat’, HTR 25 (1932), 47–71, especially 57. 21 See especially M. Vinson, ‘Gregory of Nazianzen’s Homily’, 179vv. 22 It is generally agreed that this was the case in the period concerned. See, for instance, L. Rutgers, ‘The Importance of Scripture’, 300 and M. Vinson, ‘Gregory Nazianzen’s Homily’, 181–182. 23 PL 38, 1379. 24 M. Vinson, ‘Gregory Nazianzen’s Homily’, 178–189.
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Maccabean martyrs. The sanctuary in the Kerateion where the Christians located the tombs of the Maccabean martyrs had been built by Christians but not on the site of a synagogue. Furthermore, it did not contain the relics of the Maccabean martyrs which actually had not been confiscated by the Christians, as many scholars assume. Both cults would have been in competition until the conversion of the Jewish martyrium into a Christian church in the fifth century. A different solution, more radical yet definitely less complicated, has been proposed by Leonard Rutgers.25 In his view, the whole theory of the Jewish origins of the Christian cult of the Maccabean martyrs should simply be discarded. He is convinced that the Christian cult was a Christian invention of the second half of the fourth century, when Christians everywhere began excavating bones of saints. The most plausible view seems to be that of Rutgers. Firstly, the arguments adduced against the traditional view which assumes the existence of a pre-Christian Jewish cult inside the city walls in or near a synagogue in the Kerateion area are too strong to be neglected. Next, Vinson’ reconstruction is speculative and leaves several questions unanswered. Is it, for instance, likely that Christians began venerating martyrs at a site where only their (empty) tombs were located and no physical remains were believed to have been preserved? The solution of Rutgers clearly avoids all these difficulties.26 Whether one assumes the existence of a pre-Christian Jewish cult or not, the question remains why the cult in its Christian form, invented or otherwise, emerged in Antioch in the second half of the fourth century.
25
L. Rutgers, ‘The Importance of Scripture’. It should be noted that the issue of the possible Jewish origins of the cult of the Maccabean brothers is part of the much broader and equally disputed question regarding the provenance of the cult of the saints derived from the Hebrew Bible and the Apocrypha, especially in connection to patriarchs and prophets as attested in particular by Christian sources of the fourth and fifth century. J. Jeremias who has examined by far the majority of the cases, has argued that a great number of them have Jewish roots (Heiligengräber in Jesu Umwelt, Göttingen 1958) and his conclusions have been favourably received by several scholars, such as W. Rordorf, in: ‘Wie steht es um den jüdischen Einfluss auf den christlichen Märtyrerkult?’, in: J. van Amersfoort/J. van Oort, Juden und Christen in der Antike, Kampen 1990, 61–71 and, last but not least, by M. Simon in his afore-mentioned article. In my view, the rich dossier assembled by Joachim Jeremias deserves a fresh critical examination, but extreme prudence is advised. Each case has to be examined separately (and critically). 26
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It is noteworthy that with respect to this question, a surprising consensus exists among scholars. In fact, all of them, whether they assume the existence of Jewish roots of the cult or not, share the conviction that the emergence of the cult served a very specific strategic goal, namely to decrease the influence of the Jewish community living in Antioch and to make this community less attractive to the so-called Judaizing Christians. Basing themselves on well-known sources such as the Apostolic Constitutions and especially the homilies of John Chrysostom, these scholars draw attention to the fact that in Antioch and its environs many Christians were attracted to Jewish practice and ritual. This would have upset the Christian leaders who would have considered this a serious threat to the identity of the Christian Churches which, apart from the real or supposed rivalry of the Synagogue, were also threatened by internal divisions about several dogmatic issues concerning the Godhead of Christ and the Trinity. The emergence of the Christian cult of the Maccabean martyrs, so the argument goes, must be closely connected to the struggle against what is called ‘Judaizing’ tendencies among Christians. Marcel Simon, for example, suggested that the Christian leaders confiscated the synagogue where the Jewish cult was located and christianized this cult because they wanted to prevent Christians from visiting this place which might have encouraged contacts between Jews and Christians.27 According to Vinson, the reason why Christians created a cultic site and built a basilica inside the walls of Antioch was that they wanted to prevent Christians from frequenting the Jewish cultic site in Daphne.28 Finally, for Rutgers as well, who considers the cult a purely Christian invention, this initiative was a tactical move aimed at drawing away Judaizing Christians from Jewish festivals and rituals.29 At first glance, this may seem convincing. It might appear to fit in with what we know about the strained relations between the Jewish and Christian communities in Antioch. In itself it would be conceivable that Christians tried to combat Jewish practices by appropriating them and giving them a Christian twist. As far as the Maccabees are concerned, however, we are confronted with a serious problem.
27 28 29
M. Simon, ‘Les saints d’Israel’, 151. M. Vinson, ‘Gregory Nazianzen’s Homily’, especially 186. L. Rutgers, ‘The Importance of Scripture’, 302–303.
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In fact, one may ask whether their cult really fitted in so well with the strategy of orthodox Christian leaders who wanted to return Judaizing Christians to the fold. The opposite seems to be true. From the perspective of orthodox Christians who wanted to restrain their fellow Christians from participating in Jewish practices and rituals, the Maccabean brothers must have been problematic role models since they had died not for the sake of some general ethical principle they shared with most Christians, but because they did not want to abandon their specifically Jewish way of life which included observing the Sabbath and the other ancestral festivals (2 Macc. 6, 6) and especially the ban on eating pork. They would seem appropriate role models for Judaizing Christians and hence by inventing their cult, the orthodox Christians might have aroused more problems than they had resolved. It may also be recalled in this regard that we know from the homilies of Gregory of Nazianze,30 John Chrysostom31 and Augustine32 that numerous Christians were seriously embarrassed by the veneration of these saints who had lived before Christ and had died not for the sake of Christ, but for the sake of the Mosaic Law. Finally, it should be added that even if the cult/commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs was introduced for only strategic reasons, this would not provide an explanation for its rapid spread all over the then Christian world, including the regions where Judaizing Christians hardly existed or were active. All this weakens the factor of the supposed anti-Jewish strategy in the emergence and the spread of the cult. At the very least, it cannot have been the only reason why this cult came into existence in Antioch and even if it were a reason, it could not have been decisive. But how to explain the emergence of the cult? To answer this question, I would like to point to two facts which might provide a partial explanation when taken separately and when taken together might even render the hypothesis of an anti-Judaizing policy superfluous. Firstly, as has been shown with regard to the veneration of saints by several scholars such as Peter Brown, a revolutionary change of mentality related to a specific Christian view took place in the fourth century. Instead of being considered impure, the graves of saints,
30 31 32
PG 35, 912–913. PG 50, 525–526. PL 38, 1376–1377.
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especially the bones they contained, became, to quote Peter Brown, the privileged placed ‘where the contrasted poles of Heaven and Earth met, were joined’.33 This development had implications for burial practices and, in particular, the location of graves. Burial inside the city became more and more acceptable and in the case of saints, one did not hesitate to bring their bones into the cities or into the churches. If no bones were available, they could be sometimes suddenly discovered. In view of the cult of the pre-Christian Maccabean martyrs, it is interesting and important to remark that also a number of figures of the Hebrew Bible, prophets and patriarchs, were unearthed in this way and once their graves were excavated, became objects of veneration. The second factor is the remarkable popularity that the Maccabean martyrs enjoyed in Christianity already before the rise of their cult, at least from the third century. This popularity is testified to by several Christian sources such as, for example, Cyprian’s Ad Fortunatum.34 There is no doubt that their popularity was connected to the persecution of Christian in the pre-Constantinian era, in particular in the third century. But there is no reason to believe that their reputation faded immediately after the persecutions had come to an end in the fourth century. Convincing proof of this is provided by the earliest homilies held on the festival of the Maccabees which give clear evidence of enormous admiration for the courage and the heroism of the Maccabean martyrs, especially of their mother, in the face of their confrontation with Antiochus Epiphanes. The clearest
33 P. Brown, The Cult of the Saints. Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity, Chicago 1981, p. 1. See also L. Rutgers, ‘The Importance of Scripture’, 301. 34 Ed. R. Weber, Sancti Cypriani opera, CCL 3, Turnhout 1982, 205–210. See also S. Déléani, ‘Une typologie du martyre chrétien: la Passion des frères Maccabées et de leur mère selon saint Cyprien’, in: Figures de l’Ancien Testament chez les Pères, = Cahiers de Biblia Patristica 2, Strasbourg 1989, 189–213. See further for the role of the Maccabean brothers in early Christian literature: W. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church: A Study of the Conflict from the Maccabees to Donatus, Oxford 1965; G. Nauroy, ‘Les frères Maccabées dans l’exégèse d’Ambroise de Milan ou la conversion de la sagesse judéo-hellénique aux valeurs du martyre chrétien’, in: Figures de l’Ancien Testament chez les Pères, 215–245; J. van Henten, ‘The Martyrs as Heroes of the Christian People. Some remarks on the continuity between Jewish and Christian Martyrology, with pagan analogies’, in: Martyrium in Multidisciplinary Perspective. Memorial Louis Reekmans (ed. M. Lamberigts and O. van Deun, Leuven 1995, 303–322; T. Hilhorst, ‘Fourth Maccabees in Christian Martyrdom Texts’, in: C. Kroon/ D. den Hengst, Ultima Aetas. Time, Tense and Transience in the Ancient World. Studies in Honour of Jan den Boeft, Amsterdam 2000, 107–121.
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Fig. 1 Hannah and her children in a pot while Antiochus, holding his sceptre, looks on. (From a translation of IV Maccabees by Erasmus of Rotterdam, 1517).
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example of this is the homily of Gregory of Nazianze which perhaps dates to the period of the emperor Julian,35 is comparable with IV Maccabees in many aspects and, for that matter, seems to have been influenced by it.36 This text shows the same extreme and passionate glorification of martyrdom which is so characteristic of IV Maccabees.37 2. The Spread of the Cult in Eastern and Western Christianity Having proposed an explanation for the emergence of the cult at the end of the fourth century in Antioch, we must address several questions with regard to its further development throughout the centuries in the East and the West. How did this cult fare since it had come into existence and had rapidly gained acceptance almost everywhere in the then Christian world? What happened to it in the course of Christian history? To what extent did it preserve its character in the late fourth century? How important was it to Christians in comparison with other cults and commemorations? It will not be possible to discuss exhaustively all of these questions We will limit ourselves to outlining the development of the cult over the centuries and discussing some of the most important questions. We shall pick up now the threads of our account of the spread of the cult at the point where we had interrupted it to discuss its origin, i.e., in the fifth and sixth centuries. Although most of our discussion will relate to Western Christianity, we shall begin with some brief remarks concerning the East. 2.1
The Incorporation of the Cult in Eastern Rites
As already stated, the annual commemoration had been introduced very early in Jerusalem. From that city it found its way to Armenia38
35
M. Vinson, ‘Gregory Nazianzen’s Homily’, 166–167. Ibidem, especially 191. 37 See for this source, as well as II Maccabees: J. van Henten, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviours of the Jewish People. A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees, Leiden 1997; Idem, ‘Das jüdische Selbstverständnis in den ältesten Martyrien’, in: J. van Henten, B. Dehandschutter, H. van der Klaauw (eds), Die Entststehung der jüdischen Martyrologie, Leiden 1989, 127–161. 38 In the Armenian tradition, most liturgical feasts and commemorations are not celebrated on a fixed day of the month, but either on a Sunday or on a fixed day 36
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and Georgia39 where the liturgical traditions of Jerusalem proved extremely influential. As might be expected, in Antioch the cult remained popular for centuries, as testified to by a sermon and a number of hymns written by Severus of Antioch for the festival of August 1.40 This explains why the festival is celebrated by the Christians following the (West-)Syrian rite and Maronite rites which actually have been predominantly influenced by the liturgical traditions of Antioch.41 Furthermore, the annual commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs has been incorporated into the calendars of the Coptic Church of Egypt42 and into the Byzantine rite, the most widespread rite of the East.43 This means that the cult found acceptance in all of one of the weeks into which the liturgical year is divided. Thus, the commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs falls on the Monday following on the fourth Sunday after the festival of the Transfiguration (= August 6). Cf. N. Nilles, Kalendarium Manuale utriusque ecclesiae orientalis et occidentalis, II, Innsbruck 1897, 556–557, 592–593. See also V. Grumel, Traité d’études byzantines. I. La chronologie, Paris 1958, 330. 39 Evidence of this is provided by the Georgian Typicon/Lectionary edited by M. Tarchnischvili, Le grand lectionnaire de l’Eglise de Jérusalem, CSCO 188/189 and 204/205, Louvain 1959/1960, which, just as the Armenian Lectionary, is a translation of the Greek Typicon-lectionary of Jerusalem. See for the commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs on August 1: CSCO 205, 24. 40 See the 52nd cathedral homily (ed. R. Duval, PO 15 (IV,1), Turnhout 1906, 7–23) and two hymns published by E. Brooks (The Hymns of Severus of Antioch, PO 35 (VII,5), Turnhout 1911. See for these and numerous other Syriac texts also: W. Witakowski, ‘Mart(y) Shmuni, the Mother of the Maccabean Martyrs in Syriac Tradition’, VI Symposium Syriacum 1992 (ed. R. Lavenant), Roma 1994, 153–168. 41 See for the West-Syrian tradition N. Nilles, Kalendarium manuale I (1896), 479; V. Grumel, La chronologie, 340 and for the rite of the Maronites: N. Nilles, Kalendarium manuale I (1896), 489; M. Hayek, Liturgie maronite. Histoire et textes eucharistiques, Paris 1964. It may be noted that in these two traditions, the commemoration on August 1 appears as the commemoration of Shmuni, her sons and the old man Eleazar. Cf. for the (Syriac) background of this designation and especially of the name Shmuni as used for the mother of the seven brothers: W. Witakowski, ‘Mart(y) Shmuni’. 42 In the Coptic Church it is celebrated on Misra 8 which corresponds to August 1 of the Julian Calendar (see U. Zanetti, Les lectionnaires coptes annuels. Basse-Egypte, Louvain-la-Neuve 1985, 24–25, 45 and, moreover, N. Nilles, Kalendarium manuale, II, 723; V. Grumel, Traité, 333–336). This day is wrongly identified by W. Bacher with August 8. His suggestion that some connection might exist between the commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs and the 9th of Ab as celebrated by the Jews ( Jüdische Märtyrer im christlichen Kalender, 603), hinges on this mistaken identification of the Coptic date and already for that reason alone is weak. Apart from this, it may be observed that the Maccabean martyrs are commemorated by the Copts at another date as well, namely on the 25th of Koyakh (21 December according to the Julian Calendar). Cf. N. Nilles, Kalendarium Manuale, II, 712. 43 See especially the Typicon of the Great Church of Constantinople (10th century); ed. J. Mateos, Le Typicon de la grande église, I, OCA 165, Roma 1962, 356–357; N. Nilles, Kalendarium Manuale I, 230; II; V. Grumel, La chronologie, 325.
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the Eastern rites with the exception of only the East-Syrian one, which has a relatively short calendar, containing only a limited number of commemorations of martyrs and saints.44 Apart from this rite, the commemoration of August 1 has been preserved by all other Eastern rites.45 2.2
The Diffusion of the Cult in Western Christianity (Excluding Rome)
The picture which emerges from the available Western sources, is more complicated and less homogeneous. There is no doubt that in the fifth and sixth centuries, the commemoration on August 1 was known almost everywhere in the West. However, there are strong indications that it did not maintain everywhere an equally central position with the cult being clearly more developed than in certain regions. One of the liturgical traditions, in which the cult of the Maccabean martyrs is well attested to, is that of Milan. All the medieval liturgical sources related to the Milanese rite contain a Mass formula for the festival of these martyrs on August 146 which proves that this festival was firmly anchored in the Milanese tradition. Moreover, the homilies of Gaudentius of Brescia47 and Maximus of Turin,48 as well as the Martyrologium Hieronymianum49 which is commonly assumed to have been composed in North Italy,50 prove that in Northern Italy the veneration of the Jewish martyrs on August 1 was not restricted to Milan. Next, in an Irish sacramentary of the seventh century, unfortunately preserved in palimpsest only, we find an extensive Mass formula in which the praises of the seven sons and their mother are
44 See for a list of the saints commemorated in the East-Syrian rite: N. Nilles, Kalendarium Manuale, II, 681–688. See also V. Grumel, La chronologie, 341–343. 45 I must admit that I have failed to form a clear picture of the situation with regard to the commemoration concerned in the Ethiopian tradition. 46 See for instance the sacramentary of Bergamo (ed. A. Paredi, Sacramentarium Bergomense, manoscritto del secolo IX, Monumenta Bergomensia 6, Bergamo 1962, 265–267) and the sacramentary of Biasca (ed. O. Heiming, Corpus Ambrosiano Liturgicum II. Das ambrosianische Sakramentar von Biasca, LQF 51, Münster 1969, 139–140). 47 Tractatus 15 De Machabaeis martyribus, CSEL 68 (1936), 130–136. 48 Sermo 7, CCL 23 (1962), 89–93. 49 Ed. J. de Rossi/L. Duchesne, Acta Sanctorum novembris, II, 1, 1894; H. Delehaye/ H. Quentin, Acta Sanctorum novembris, II, 1, 1931, 408–410. 50 See for instance J. Dubois, Les martyrologes du moyen âge latin, = Typologie des sources du moyen âge occidental 26, Turnhout 1978, 29.
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sung at length,51 proving that the commemoration must have gained a strong foothold in Irish Christianity. Furthermore, one of the medieval manuscripts containing Mass formulas for the Spanish Mozarabic rite contains a remarkable Mass formula52 which, according to its title, is destined for the commemoration of the Christian martyr Felix (of Gerunda)53 which, in Spanish tradition, is celebrated on August 1.54 In the prayer texts themselves, however, this figure plays a subordinate role. Instead, the majority of these prayers deal with the Maccabean martyrs and in particular in the ‘inlatio’, the preface, their heroic death is described extensively and glorified. This fact unmistakably points to a Spanish tradition which was familiar with the custom of celebrating on August 1 as the commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs. Furthermore, since in all the medieval Spanish liturgical calendars on August 1 the Maccabean martyrs are mentioned along with Felix,55 there is every reason to assume that this was an ancient tradition in Spain. The absence of the Maccabean martyrs in the title of the Mass formula and the fact that allusions to them are missing in the Mass formulae of other manuscripts may be best explained as the result of a tendency to replace the veneration of the Jewish martyrs by that of a Christian martyr. In other regions, however, the cult appears to have occupied a more marginal position in the period from the fifth until the seventh centuries. This is true in particular regarding Gaul. It is striking that the veneration of the Maccabean martyrs has left no traces in any of the sources which transmit the liturgical traditions of this region. This, however, does not mean that it was completely non-existent in Gaul. In fact, there are some indications which point to the contrary.56 It would appear, though, that the cult of the Jewish martyrs, in so far as it existed, must have been of a local character.
51 See ed. A. Dold/L. Eizenhöfer, Das irische Palimpsestsakramentar im CLM 14429 der Staatsbibliothek München, Beuron 1964, 134–142. See especially the immolatio missae. 52 See M. Férotin, Le Liber Mozarabicus sacramentorum et les manuscrits mozarabes, Paris 1912, 583–589 and J. Janini, Liber missarum de Toledo I, Toledo 1982, 478–483. Cf. for the manuscript under consideration, British Library Add. 30.845: M. Férotin, Le Liber Mozarabicus, XXIX; J. Janini, Liber missarum II, 1983, XXII. 53 See for this martyr H. Delehaye, Les origines du culte des martyrs, 366–367. 54 Cf. M. Férotin, Liber mozarabicus, 380–384; J. Janini, Liber missarum de Toledo, I, 1982, 304–308. 55 See M. Férotin, Liber mozarabicus, 583–584, note 1. 56 The commemoration is mentioned in the Laturculus of Polemius Silvius (CE
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A similar conclusion emerges also with regard to the veneration of the Maccabean martyrs in the fifth and the sixth centuries in Rome. Since the liturgical traditions of this city became of crucial importance for the further trajectory of Western liturgy, we will discuss at greater length the veneration of the Maccabean martyrs in that city at the end of Antiquity and at the beginning of the Middle Ages. 2.3
The Cult of the Maccabean Martyrs in Rome
There can be no doubt that from the fifth century onwards Rome was familiar with the commemoration. The earliest testimony to its celebration in Rome is a sermon of Pope Leo held in a church dedicated to the Apostles Peter and Paul and later to become ‘Saint Peter in Chains’, but nonetheless devoted entirely to the martyrs.57 In the sixth century, (some of the) bodily remains of the Maccabean brothers were transferred from Constantinople to Rome and deposited in the Church of Saint Peter in Chains.58 Further evidence of the commemoration of the Jewish martyrs in Rome is provided by the Old Gelasian Sacramentary, commonly considered to contain mainly Roman liturgical traditions of the seventh century belonging to what is called the ‘presbyteral’ type, i.e., traditions that were followed in the different churches of Rome on occasions when the pope himself
448–449; Ed. Th. Mommsen, Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, I, Berlin 1863, 349). There is data pointing to an early veneration of the Maccabean martyrs (see R. Hirner, Der Makkabäerschrein in St. Andreas zu Köln, Bonn 1976). Cf. in this connection also the carmen that Avitus of Vienne devoted to them. Last, most probably an allusion to the commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs can be found in an inscription preserved in the Church of Peter and Paul in Arles (E. Diehl, Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae Veterae, Berlin 1924, 416; cf. C. Pietri, Roma Christiana, Roma 1976, II, 1543). 57 PL 54, 517–520; SC 200 (ed. A. Dolle), Paris 1973, 286–293. See for the authenticity of this sermon which sometimes has been called into question: A. Dolle, SC 200, 286, note 1 and M. Schatkin, ‘The Maccabean Martyrs’, 109–110. See further for the homily and the church in which it was held: P. Jounel, Le culte des saints dans les basiliques du Latran et du Vatican au douzième siècle, = Collection de l’école française de Rome 16, Roma 1977, 265–266. 58 See C. Rampolla, ‘Martyre et sépulture des Machabées’, 458–460; M. Schatkin, ‘The Maccabean Martyrs’, 108–110; H. Leclercq, ‘Maccabées’, DACL 10, 1 (1931), 724–727. It is commonly agreed that shortly before then the relics had been transferred from Antioch to the imperial city (ibidem). Possibly, the rationale for the choice of Saint Peter in Chains was that this church had been consecrated on the day of the commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs, see also F. Scorza Barcellona, ‘Makkabäische Brüder’, Lexikon des Mittelalters, München/Zürich 1993, VI, 155–156.
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did not preside. This sacramentary contains three short liturgical prayers explicitly intended for the commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs on August 1.59 All this, however, does not mean that the cult of the Maccabean martyrs had achieved an important status in this city. On the contrary: much evidence points to the fact that it played a relatively marginal role in the liturgical life of the city and that it remained confined to the church of ‘Saint Peter in Chains’. Thus, allusions to it are completely lacking in practically all the numerous manuscripts of the so-called Gregorian sacramentaries, the liturgical books containing the prayers of the pope in the seventh and eighth centuries when he presided over the Mass in one of the Roman churches.60 Also, the prayers transmitted by the Old Gelasian Sacramentary are of a very general nature and might be used for the commemoration of any Christian martyr. Moreover, it should be added that in the church of ‘Saint Peter in Chains’ the bones of the Jewish martyrs had to compete almost from the very beginning with other relics equally preserved in that location, namely the chains with which Peter was supposed to have been bound when he was imprisoned in Jerusalem and Rome.61 2.4
Spread of the Cult in Western Europe
Further development of the commemoration of the Maccabean Martyrs in Western Europe has been largely determined by the marginal and indistinct position it held in Rome. Very telling in this
59
Ed. L. Mohlberg, Liber sacramentorum Romanae aeclesiae ordinis anni circuli, Roma 19813, 149–150 (nr. 957–959). See for this sacramentary C. Vogel, Medieval Liturgy An Introduction to the Sources, Washington 1986, 65–70 M. Metzger, Les sacramentaires, = Typologie des sources du moyen âge occidental 70, Turnhout 1994, 81–106. 60 Ed. J. Deshusses, Le sacramentaire grégorien. Ses principales formes d’après les plus anciens manuscrits I, = Spicilegium Friburgense 16, Fribourg 19792. See for this sacramentary C. Vogel, Medieval Liturgy, 79–102. Only two manuscripts belonging to this type contain prayers—of a very general character—destined for the celebration of the first of August, namely manuscripts S and V1 ( J. Deshusses, Le sacramentaire grégorien, 699; see for the manuscripts mentioned: Idem, 35–37). In fact, these manuscripts belong to a particular, late variant of the Gregorian sacramentary which is called the ‘mixed’ type or the Gelasianized Gregorian, with which we deal further on (cf. C. Vogel, Medieval Liturgy, 103). 61 See P. Jounel, Le culte des saints, 265–266. These relics the Gregorian sacramentaries actually do refer to in the formulae destined for August 1, albeit succinctly (see J. Deshusses, Le sacramentaire grégorien, 253 (prayer nr. 622)).
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regard is the spread of a number of (basically Roman) liturgical books that were copied and used in Gaul in the eighth and ninth centuries. Three types of sacramentaries circulated in this region almost simultaneously. In the middle of the eighth century, some churches must have used the Old Gelasian Sacramentary which contains a Mass formula for the commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs. Very soon afterwards, the Gregorian type, in which this commemoration was completely missing, was adopted by other—or perhaps even the same—churches. The impression we get of the veneration of the Maccabean martyrs becomes still more complicated and even confused if we take into account a third type of sacramentary, the Frankish Gelasian Sacramentary that emerged circa 750 in Flavigny, Burgundy.62 Nearly all the sacramentaries belonging to this type contain a short series of five liturgical prayers destined for August 1.63 This in itself suggests that the Maccabean martyrs are meant, an interpretation supported by the title preceding the formula in which mention is made of the anniversary of the death (Natale) of the Maccabeans. It should, however, be remarked that the preface suggests the possibility that they may have been confused with the seven sons of Felicitas64 who were supposed to have been put to death in Rome at the time of the Emperor Antoninus, but were actually the Maccabean brothers in Christian disguise.65 62 See for this type of sacramentary: C. Vogel, Medieval Liturgy, 70–78; M. Metzger, Les sacramentaires, 107–113. 63 See especially the important Sacramentary of Gellone (ed. J. Deshusses, Liber sacramentorum Gellonensis, CC CLIX, Turnhout 1981, 168–169); cf. also the synopsis in idem, CC CLIX A, 61. See moreover the sacramentary of Sankt Gallen 348 (ed. L. Mohlberg, Das fränkische Sacramentarium Gelasianum in alemanischer Überlieferung, = LQF 1/2, Münster 19392, 158–159). The same disposition is found in the sacramentary of Angoulême, but in this source the Mass formula mentioned is followed by another one which is exclusively and explicitly destined for the commemoration of the ‘Maccabeans’ and consists of the three prayers of the Old Gelasian Sacramentary (see P. Saint-Roch, Liber sacramentorum Engolismensis, CC CLIX C, Turnhout 1987, 171–172). Already from the variety existing between the different manuscripts on this point it emerges that the position of the commemoration had not yet been crystallized. 64 My attention to this problem was drawn by Prof. Jounel. 65 It is agreed that Felicitas and her sons never existed and that the Passio Felicitatis, the account of their martyrdom is a free rendering of the events described in II and IV Maccabees (cf. L. Rutgers, ‘The importance of Scripture’, 294). With regard to the prayer under consideration it may be remarked that it has been borrowed from a Mass formula transmitted by the Sacramentarium Veronense (ed. L. Mohlberg, Sacramentarium Veronense, Roma 1956, 54 (nr. 398), which is intended for the commemoration of those Christian martyrs on 10 July. In addition, it has
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Furthermore, it should be emphasized that the title of the Mass formula associates the celebration first and foremost with the chains of Peter and that the Maccabean brothers are mentioned only afterwards and clearly come in second place. For that matter, it should be noted that both the Old Gelasian Sacramentary and the Frankish Gelasian type were gradually eclipsed by the Gregorian sacramentaries! Given the rather marginal and unclear position of the commemoration both in Rome and in Gaul at the end of Antiquity and in the early Middle Ages and taking into account the growing influence of the Gregorian sacramentaries, it would seem that the veneration of the Maccabean martyrs was destined to taper off in Western Europe or, at the very least, that its role in the official liturgy was bound to become limited to the martyrologies which were essentially confined to the monasteries.66 This, however, did not occur. The cult survived and, surprisingly, spread all over Europe, due to the fact that the five prayers of the Frankish Gelasian Sacramentary were quite unexpectedly incorporated in a variant of the Gregorian type which appeared in the tenth century, had a mixed character and was therefore sometimes called the Gelasianized Gregorian sacramentary.67 This mixed type would prove to become very important for the history of Western liturgy because in the second half of the tenth century copies of it were carried to Rome and, subsequently, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, these were used in the different churches of that city, such as Saint Peter on the Vatican hill (not to be confused with Saint Peter in Chains) and Saint John Lateran.68
not been adapted to its new liturgical setting which is that of the commemoration of Jewish instead of Christian martyrs. Thus, the text calls them ‘offspring of the church’ ( proles ecclesiae). In case the insertion of this preface was not the result of a confusion between the Christian and the Jewish martyrs, it might easily give occasion to such confusion. 66 See for the use of the martyrologium, which was read in the monasteries at the end of the office of the prime: J. Dubois, Les martyrologes, 14–15; E. Palazzo, Le Moyen Age. Des origines au XIII e siècle, Paris 1993, 177–178. 67 See C. Vogel, Medieval Liturgy, 102–105; E. Palazzo, Le Moyen Age, 78. Some important examples of this type of sacramentary which contain these five prayers are the sacramentaries of Saint-Vaast of Arras (Cambrai, Bibliothèque municipale 162 and 163; cf. J. Deshusses, Le sacramentaire grégorien), of Fulda (ed. G. Richter – A. Schönfelder, Sacramentarium Fuldense saeculi X, Fulda 1912 (= Henry Bradford Society 101, London 1972–1977). See also the recently published sacramentary of Echternach (ed. Y. Hen, The Sacramentary of Echternach, Henry Bradford Society 110. London 1997, 277–278) 68 See for a survey of the liturgical sources of the period under consideration related to these two churches P. Jounel, Le culte des saints, 20–51.
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The liturgical books used in these churches from the twelfth century onwards contain an extensive Mass formula which is entirely devoted to the chains of Peter, but three additional prayers are provided for the commemoration of Paul and, moreover, for the Maccabean martyrs.69 The same disposition is found in the Roman Missal that was printed in 1570, after the Council of Trent, and has been used since that time throughout Latin Christendom. However, the role of the commemoration of the Maccabean brothers in the Roman sacramentaries and missals used after the twelfth century should not be exaggerated. They had no feast-day of their own. They had to content themselves with the lowest rank of ‘celebration’ existing in the Roman liturgy, that of a commemoration70 and on the first of August they appear in the third place, after Peter and Paul. Nonetheless, they had not completely disappeared from the General Calendar. The presumption that the cult continued to play a certain role is corroborated by a number of sources which do not contain prayers or ritual elements destined for the cult, but testify to its existence in an indirect way and permit us to receive a glimpse of its reception. Thus, the twelfth century Parisian theologian John Beleth explicitly comments and discusses the commemoration of the Maccabean brothers and its meaning for Christians in his Summa de ecclesiasticis officiis.71 What is, however, still more important is that this passage of John Beleth was incorporated into the ‘Golden Legend’ (Legenda Aurea), a source immensely popular in the late Middle Ages.72 In addition, in
69 The sources which contain the three prayers have not been edited, but Prof. Jounel assured me that this disposition is found in practically all the sources from the 12th century onward. 70 See for the ranking of the feast-days and the commemorations in Roman liturgy: Ph. Harnoncourt, ‘Der Kalender’, in Feiern im Rhythmus der Zeit II/1, 52–55. 71 Ch. 142. See the edition of H. Douteil in CC. Continuatio mediaevalis 41A (Turnhout 1976), 277–278. 72 See R. Hirner, Der Makkabäerschrein, 46–47. Contrary to her view, however, it should be noted that the passage on the Maccabean martyrs was already part of the Latin original and was not inserted in the text at a later stage, as Hirner believes who appears to base that conclusion on the German translation of R. Benz (Die Legenda aurea des Jacobus de Voragine, Heidelberg 1955, XXXI–XXXII). I should like to thank Dr. A. Hilhorst and his wife Drs. C. Hilhorst-Böink, who are preparing a Dutch translation of the Golden Legend, for this information. Cf. also the survey of the most important manuscripts and their contents conducted by G. Maggioni, Ricerche sulla composizione e sulla trasmissione della , Spoleto 1995, 545–602. See further the critical edition of G. Maggioni, Iacopo da Varazze. Legenda aurea, two volumes, Firenze 1998 and B. Fleith, Studien zur Überlieferungsgeschichte der lateinischen Legenda aurea, = Subsidia hagiographica 72, Bruxelles 1991, especially 432–433.
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the second part of the Middle Ages a number of traces can be found of local and more popular types of veneration of the Maccabean brothers. Apart from churches dedicated to them,73 mention should be made of the veneration of their (alleged) relics in Cologne beginning in the twelfth century, after they had been transferred, simultaneously with the bones of the three Magi or the three kings, from Milan (!), to Cologne.74 The focal point of this veneration was a huge and richly decorated gilded reliquary containing the bones located in a monastery dedicated to the Maccabean martyrs which was closed and demolished in 1803, with the reliquary being transferred to the Church of St. Andrew where it actually is still to be found.75 Interesting though this sort of data may be, it does not alter the overall picture of the cult at which we have arrived on the basis of the liturgical books. It had been relegated to a marginal position and during the middle ages or in modern times no serious attempts were made to breathe new life into it. 2.5
Final Decline in the Twentieth Century
In spite of the marginal position the cult of the Maccabean martyrs kept in Western Christianity, it was not abolished in the Middle Ages and, furthermore, it survived the liturgical reform which took place just after the Council of Trent (1545–1563). It is, therefore, all the more remarkable that it did not survive the reform of the Roman liturgy which took place about thirty years ago in the aftermath of the Second Vatican Council. The committees preparing the New General Calendar of the Roman Church maintained the commemoration of the Maccabean martyrs on August 1, but it was dropped in 1969 together with some other commemorations of Christian saints after the final committee had completed its work and had submitted its conclusions for approval by the Congregations for Doctrine and Rites, and finally by the Pope (Paul VI).76 In order to avoid misunderstanding, it should be added that it did not disappear from
73
See R. Hirner, Der Makkabäerschrein, 39–40. Idem, 21. Further research is needed to clarify the rise and background of the cult of the Maccabean martyrs in Cologne and its background. 75 On this shrine see the monograph of R. Hirner. 76 See P. Jounel, Le renouveau du culte des saints, = B.E.L. Subsidia 36, Roma 1986, especially 57–58. See for the calendar that was proposed but finally was not accepted: 58–64. 74
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the Calendar everywhere. Thus, their commemoration continues to be celebrated in the calendar of the Latin Patriarchate of Jerusalem. Incidentally, the Maccabean martyrs maintain a place in the new Roman Martyrologium.77 Nonetheless, the removal of their commemoration from the General Calendar meant that it was reduced to an extremely marginal position and practically came to an end. Why did the commemoration of these martyrs disappear from the General Calendar of the Roman Catholic church? The first explanation is embarrassment caused by the pre-Christian background of the Maccabean martyrs or by their Jewishness, in particular their zeal for the Jewish Law and the Jewish temple. In my view, however, this it is unlikely and there is even evidence to the contrary in so far as some liturgical reforms carried out after the Second Vatican Council betray a rather more positive attitude and openness to Judaism and Jewish tradition. I would suggest that the real reason for the final decline of the cult is the marginal position it had maintained in Western tradition since the Middle Ages. At the last moment, it was felt that the calendar had become too crowded—as the result of some special wishes of the Pope with regard to festivals in commemoration of Mary and the guardian angel—and therefore it was decided to drop some commemorations of martyrs who in fact already held a minor place in the hierarchy of saints and the Maccabean martyrs belonged to that category.78 If this holds true, the decline of the cult arouses another question: Why did a cult which enjoyed such a great popularity in early Christianity, finally occupy such a marginal position? Concluding Remarks: The Causes of the Gradual Decline in the West It should be admitted that we remain in the dark about many facets regarding the gradual decline of the cult in the West. On the basis of the limited data at our disposal now we can suggest some reason.
77
See Martyrologium romanum, Typis Vaticanis 2001. See also Notitiae XXVII (1991),
302. 78 I should like to thank Prof. Jounel who was a member of the committee concerned and with whom I corresponded about this issue, for these details.
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First, there can be no doubt that the pre-Christian character of the Maccabean martyrs and their passion for the Jewish Law often caused embarrassment among Christians. Very telling in this regard is the mere fact that numerous sources feel obliged to explicitly defend their cult and to refute the argument that their status of preChristian Jews should be an impediment to their veneration as Christian saints. Incidentally, the fact that often they had to share the date of August 1 with Christian saints, such as Felix, Eusebius of Vercelli or Peter, may be interpreted as a stratagem to counterbalance their Jewishness. As for the fact that the cult of the Maccabean martyrs merged at times with that of Felicitas and her seven sons or was replaced by it, this obviously happened with the intention not only to neutralize, but to Christianize the cult. This, therefore, betrays the selfsame embarrassment with the pre-Christian provenance of the Maccabean martyrs and their explicit Jewishness. Nonetheless, this might not have been the only reason of the gradual decline of the cult in Western Christianity. Thus, the fading of the cult in the West might in part be the result of the far-reaching and decisive impact of the liturgical traditions of Rome where the veneration of the Maccabean martyrs held a marginal position. Moreover, for Christians living in later centuries and holding a dominant position in society, the clear-cut and pronounced ideal of martyrdom attested by the earliest homilies had lost much of its appeal. For them, stories about persecution and martyrdom related to a distant past. Even if they were ill at ease in society, it was natural for them to choose other models of heroism rather than martyrs. I would suggest that this affected the veneration of the Maccabean martyrs as well and that it constituted one of the factors underlying the gradual marginalization of their cult.
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INDIVIDUALITY, EXEMPLARITY AND COMMUNITY: ATHANASIUS’ USE OF TWO BIBLICAL CHARACTERS IN THE LIFE OF ANTONY Nienke Vos (University of Utrecht, The Netherlands) Paradox The theme of holy persons and religious role models is particularly relevant to the student of early Christianity, for this field has a strong interest in holy men and women and their functioning as role models.1 During my research on the use of biblical material in early Christian lives of saints, I came across two publications from the areas of modern ethics and literary studies: Saints and Postmodernism: Revisioning Moral Philosophy by Edith Wyschogrod and Relating Narratives: Storytelling and Selfhood by Adriana Cavarero. The authors represent opposing viewpoints. Wyschogrod emphasizes the role of a saintly person in terms of example, whereas Cavarero affirms the uniqueness of each individual. She is wary of philosophical reasoning which tends to generalize or universalize and as such turn people into collections of characteristics. Philosophy, with its interest in generality, runs the risk of no longer seeing people as individuals. Cavarero reminds us that a biographical tale is always about someone: a concrete and unique identity, wrapped up in a body which is exposed to the world. I will illustrate the tension between these two perspectives by juxtaposing two quotations. Cavarero writes: ‘Although it (i.e. identity) is inextricably intertwined with various plural, typological identities, it is above all a unique, unrepeatable personal identity whose story a biographical text narrates.’2 Wyschogrod asserts, however, that ‘it
1 Cf. the seminal article ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity’ by Peter Brown in the Journal of Roman Studies LXI, 1971, 80–101. Reprinted in: Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity, Berkeley/Los Angeles/London, 1982, 103–152. The Journal of Early Christian Studies devoted a whole issue to holy people and their contexts, honouring the 25th anniversary of Brown’s publication: JECS, volume 6, number 37, 1998. 2 A. Cavarero, Relating Narratives, Storytelling and Selfhood, London 2000, 73–74.
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is easy to forget that the primary purpose of hagiographic discourse is not a re-presentation of the events of saintly existence.’3 Rather, ‘exemplary lives in which saintly power and its renunciation figure teach moral practice by way of practice’.4 This paradox has led me to ask the following questions: how does this tension relate to material from the early church? What bearing do these perspectives have upon the literary formation of early Christian vitae? And furthermore, what may be said about the use of biblical figures within the vita? In other words, how do both exemplarity and individuality of biblical personae relate to the exemplarity and individuality of the saint? What role does the author play in the construction of these connections and what are reasons for constructing the life of a saint in a certain way? In exploring answers to these questions, I will focus on one particular text, the Life of Antony by Athanasius from the fourth century Eventually, I hope to suggest some kind of middle ground between the two extremes as mentioned before, thereby easing contradiction into paradox. The Life of Antony In order to assess the effects of this paradox, let us turn to the hagiographical source under consideration: the Life of Antony, written by Athanasius around 356 . As bishop of Alexandria, Athanasius had become an eminent player within the political and ecclesiastical arena of his day and age. Various conflicts with both political and ecclesiastical authorities had led to being exiled, including to the West.5 Exiled once again around 356, Athanasius remained in Egypt and went into hiding in Alexandria and in the Egyptian desert. Accidentally, this exile coincided with the death of that most famous of Egyptian monks, saint Antony, who had finally settled in the deep desert of Egypt, amidst a mountain range not too far from the Red Sea. It is quite likely that Athanasius acquainted himself more closely with the monks of the Egyptian desert during this time of exile. Anyway,
3 E. Wyschogrod, Saints and Postmodernism, Revisioning Moral Philosophy, Chicago 1990, 33. 4 Ibid. 52. 5 Cf. T.D. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius, Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire, Cambridge, Massachusetts 1993.
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at this point in his life he ventured to write a work of saintly biography which would become a classic: the Life of Antony. After its publication, it spread rapidly across the Mediterranean. In his Confessions Augustine recounts the story of two officials in Trier who discovered a version of the Life of Antony in Latin. This event took place scarcely twenty years after the Life of Antony had been written in Greek.6 Quick translation and a large area of dispersement are witness to the popularity of the work. With asceticism on the rise, Athanasius had tapped into a field of general interest. The Life of Antony tells the story of a young Egyptian man who inherits a large amount of land and possessions when his parents die. He chooses to renounce this life of relative wealth and opts for a life of asceticism. An ever increasing process of hardship and struggle is described, as Antony perfects his own brand of asceticism. He is constantly attacked by demons who try to frustrate his attempts to become a purified human being who is fully dedicated to God. Once he has achieved his own personal ascetic equilibrium, he begins to teach other monks the way of asceticism. Subsequently, various anecdotes are related which describe Antony’s interactions with the outside world: healings, exorcisms, philosophical discussion and legal advice. These interactions with the outside world cause constant tension between Antony’s personal longing for purity of body and soul, a necessary condition for an experience of intimacy with the divine, and the disturbance of his mental serenity each time people approach him to be healed or to receive advice, counsel or aid. As a recluse striving for inner purity, Antony may become a channel of divine strength for others, charged as he is with the power of God, but it would seem that this charitative function adds to, rather than detracts from his longing for absolute solitude. Elijah Athanasius describes Antony as the first and greatest of monks, a father of asceticism. From the outset, he portrays his hero as a figure
6 G.J.M. Bartelink (ed.), Vie d’Antoine par Athanase d’Alexandrie (SC 400; subsequently referred to as VA), Paris 1994, 27, 38–39. The story by Augustine is found in his Confessiones (8,14–15).
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Fig. 1 Saint Antony being tormented by evil spirits (detail of 17th century icon, 40 ¥ 49 cm) © The National Museum of Belgrade.
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of authority by establishing a link between Antony and Elijah. In the Prologue, he writes to his intended audience, a group of monks in the West: ‘I have made haste to write to you who are full of devotion, those things I know about him myself and whatever I could learn from him who was a follower of his for a long time and who poured water on his hands.’7 The phrase ‘pouring water on his hands’, is a direct reference to the II Kings 3:11 where it describes the relationship between Elisha and Elijah: ‘Elisha, son of Shaphat, who used to pour water on the hands of Elijah, is here.’ Apparently, theirs was a relationship characterized by reverence and service.8 Moreover, I Kings 19:16 mentions the fact that God calls Elijah to anoint Elisha, in order that he may succeed him as prophet. Athanasius compares this special relationship between the prophet Elijah and his successor Elisha to the relationship between Antony and one of his followers, who is an important source for his biography about Antony. Thus, Athanasius uses the Prologue to connect Elijah the prophet to Antony the ascetic and to claim the trustworthiness of his testimony. In the course of the vita, another passage from I Kings reinforces the link between Antony and Elijah.9 It is a quotation combined from verses in chapters 17 (verse 1) and 18 (verse 15)10 and Athanasius uses it to describe Antony’s ascetic aspirations: ‘He constantly remembered the voice of the prophet Elijah who said: “The Lord is alive, before whom I stand today.’ This is a peculiar reference, because the word today (sÆmeron) in the biblical passage applies to a meeting
7
VA Pr. 5. This prase is unique in the Bible, and it is unclear what is means exactly. It is generally taken to refer to one person being the personal servant of another. Later rabbinic interpretation connected the incident to the story of Mount Karmel (I Kings 18). See T.R. Hobbs, 2 Kings, Word Biblical Commentary, vol. 13, Waco, Texas, 1985, 36. In Ginzberg’s The Legends of the Jews (Philadephia 1913/1968 7th impr., vol. IV,199) the story is told how Elisha poured water over the hands of Elijah. Subsequently and miraculously, water starts to flow from the hands of Elijah until the whole trench around the altar is filled up. The tale continues with the passage about fire from heaven consuming the drenched sacrifice. Another symbol of the relationship between Elijah and Elisha is mentioned in II Kings 2 when Elisha picks up Elijah’s cloak after he has been taken up to heaven. The inheritance of the cloak symbolizes Elisha’s succession of Elijah in the role of prophet. The motif of the cloak also appears in Athanasius’ Life of Antony (VA 91). This will be discussed later. 9 VA 7,12. 10 Bartelink, Vie d’Antoine, 155, n. 3. 8
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between Elijah and King Ahab: Elijah emphasizes the fact that he will present himself to Ahab ‘today’ and not to God as Athanasius would have us believe. For the passage from the vita continues: ‘It must be noticed that he says “today”, because he does not measure the time which has passed, but it is as if he continually makes a beginning, for daily he makes an effort to show himself to God, as he should appear before Him: pure in heart and ready to obey his will and no other. So from this lifestyle of the great Elijah, the ascetic may learn, always seeing his own life as in a mirror.’11 This passage from the Life brings some important aspects to light concerning the author’s use of biblical characters. With imagination he presents the life and the character of Elijah as a mirror image for both Antony and the reader. Looking at Elijah is like looking in a mirror. But which aspect of Elijah is actually mirrored? Which trait is selected in order that Elijah may function as a model for both the saint and the reader? The today which is taken out of context serves to reinforce the point of daily living before God, which is daily dying to self, resulting in purity of heart. As Athanasius connects Elijah to Antony, the aspect which is mirrored is that of an ascetic life, which starts again every day. Each day is a beginning. And those who read or listen to the Life of Antony, may look to Elijah as if they were looking in a mirror. He becomes an important example for those who choose to be ascetics. It must be admitted that Athanasius’ use of the biblical quotation presented above is rather creative. However, the interpretation of Elijah as a kind of model ascetic, an ascetic before the rise of asceticism, is not entirely foreign to the figure of Elijah. For the image of Elijah which is projected in the Bible is indeed that of a man in the desert, a man who remains in close connection with his God on the fringes of society in the most ascetic of ways: scantily dressed and living on a diet of locusts and honey which was occasionally supplemented by a bird. Therefore, the depiction of Elijah as an exemplary ascetic, is not without basis in the Scriptures. And it is precisely to this element that Athanasius refers further on when he tells his readers how Antony hears a voice from heaven that says: ‘If you want to live in solitude, go now into the inner desert.’12 As
11 12
VA 7,12–13. The reference is to 1 Kings 19:13–15 in VA 49,4.
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such, Antony’s movement into the desert is linked directly to Elijah’s journey in the wilderness. Another link is forged by the reference to Antony as the one who is ‘sitting on the mountain’, since the same had been said about Elijah.13 In the Life of Antony, the figure of this mountain becomes a symbol of asceticism, and more specifically, of contemplation. But it may well be asked whether the image of the ascetic is the primary image connected to Elijah from a biblical point of view. When we read the stories of Elijah in context, we are confronted by a narrative about a remarkable prophet: someone who has been called by God to proclaim God’s critical Word to his contemporaries and who almost becomes consumed in the process.14 The Elijah who is described in the Bible seems to be first and foremost a prophet, but this aspect of Elijah is not made explicit in the Life of Antony. As such, the image of Elijah in the vita is selective, perhaps even defective. By focusing on the exemplarity of Elijah in terms of the ascetic, another aspect of his individuality,15 that of the prophetic, seems have been lost. But has it? It may be asserted that the prophetic aspect is also communicated, be it in an implicit way. Because it must be assumed that those who read the Life of Antony knew Elijah to be the prophet of God, the concept of prophecy could be implicitly conferred upon the main character of the story, saint Antony. By way of identifying Antony with Elijah, it is suggested that the life of Antony can be interpreted as that of a prophet of God, a prophet with a message in the desert; calling his fellow human beings to lead an ascetic life. If we understand prophecy to mean the ‘task to listen to the voice
13
Allusions to 2 Kings 1:9 occur in VA 59,2.6; 60,1; 66,1; 84,2 and 93,5. Cf. the article on Elijah in the Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. 6, New York 1972, which calls Elijah the ‘Israelite prophet active in Israel in the reigns of Ahab and Ahaziah (ninth century BCE)’ (632) The focal point of Elijah’s activity was the confrontation on Mount Carmel (1 Kings 18). (633) ‘It is the task of the prophet to listen to the voice of God and pass its message to the people.’ (634) Also, ‘supernatural powers were attributed to Elijah’s cloak. As Elijah ascended to heaven, his cloak dropped to the ground and with its help Elisha too performed miracles (2 Kings 2:8, 13)’. (635) Here, the ascetic aspect is played down. 15 In this case, I use the term ‘individuality’ to refer to the characteristic depiction of Elijah in Scripture. I am aware of the fact that this representation is removed from the actual historical prophet who hides from us in the mists of time. In that sense, his individuality remains unknown. We only have access to his modified individuality in the story. 14
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of God and pass its message on to the people’,16 it could be argued that in some sense prophetic activity should be attributed to Antony. Indeed, the story about his life increasingly portrays him as an individual who is able to communicate the will of God to his people. Many come to Antony in order to receive words of divine counsel. Also, a large portion of the work is devoted to a speech to the monks,17 in which Antony explains what it means to opt for the ascetic life. Although this passage definitely casts Antony in the role of teacher, an element of the prophetic should be acknowledged as well.18 Insofar as the special position of the prophet is supported by the fact that he is able to perform miracles, this is another area of resemblance between Elijah and Antony.19 It is important to notice that Antony is critical of anyone who tries to deify him.20 Athanasius is careful to emphasize the fact that his saint is a channel through which God may work, but it should never be forgotten that the actual power behind the miracles and any of Antony’s impressive deeds is of divine origin. In this respect, the person of Antony is linked to the person of Christ. The saint is styled as a figure who has become purified of all evil inclinations to such an extent that God is able to act through him. With the human logos purified, the divine Logos may do its work.21 In Athanasius’ mind the work of God which became apparent in Christ, in terms of both insight and miracle, continues in those who believe in him.22 Consequently, the
16
Cf. note 13. VA 16–44. 18 A similar conjunction of teaching and the prophetic in the sense of being ‘inspired by the Holy Spirit’ is found in the Life of Marcina by Gregory of Nyssa. (Vie de sainte Macrine, ed. P. Maraval, SC 178, Paris 1978.) In chapters 17–21 Macrina speaks to her brother Gregory and gives him instructions concerning the ascetic life. He attributes to her the title didãskalow (VA 19,6) and calls her ‘inspired by the Holy Spirit’, for she speaks about human nature, divine providence and the life to come. The term yeoforoum°nh t“ èg¤ƒ pneÊmati carries connotations similar to the Greek phrase pneumatofÒrow which has been linked to prophecy in early Christianity and the New Testament. An important passage in this respect is Acts 21,9 which speaks about the four prophesying daughters of Philip (See Ruth Albrecht, Das Leben der heiligen Makrina auf Hintergrund der Thekla-Traditionen, Studien zu den Ursprüngen des weiblichen Mönchtums im 4. Jahrhundert in Kleinasien, Göttingen 1986, 100.) 19 Antony performs miracles in VA 48, 54–66 (miracles of nature, healings and visions). 20 VA 48. 21 Cf. VA 14 and 84. 22 VA 80,6. 17
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whole purpose of propagating asceticism lies in the belief that with an increasing number of people choosing the ascetic life, the platform for God’s activity in the world will be enlarged. When we consider the connections between Elijah and Antony, therefore, many actual points of contact should be noticed, even if we accept the fact that Athanasius molded the figure of Elijah to fit his own project. In addition, it should be acknowledged that Athanasius did not write in a vacuum and that a considerable body of postbiblical literature already existed in his day, which had reworked biblical figures and ideas as well. Apart from the Gospels which present Elijah as a precursor of the Messiah, linking him to the figures of Jesus and John the Baptist23 and to the story of the Transfiguration,24 an Apocalypse of Elijah has come down to us in Hebrew and Coptic. The latter version is probably a translation of a Greek original and presents a picture of Elijah which modifies the biblical picture in a number of ways. Although this work focuses on the ascetic side of Elijah and mentions prayer, fasting and miracles, the emphasis, nevertheless, seems to lie on his connection to apocalyptic and eschatological events.25 This aspect does not occur in the Life of Antony in the same way. Athanasius does not expound on the apocalytic associations surrounding Elijah. Therefore, even if Athanasius was familiar with this type of literature in which the prophet had already been remodelled, he seems to have placed his own personal stamp on his story. Moreover, a wider survey of Athanasius’ work shows many signs of unmediated contact with the Bible as a whole.26 More specifically, the Life of Antony is so full of references to biblical material, that Athanasius seems to have accessed the Bible freely as a direct source. At this point, we will turn to the figure of Jacob to observe Athanasius’ technique once again.
23
Luke 4 and 7; Mark 9. Mark 9; Matthew 17; Luke 9. 25 See the articles Elijah, by Siegfried Johnson, and Elijah, Apocalyse of, by Orval Wintermute, in the Anchor Bible Dictionary, D.N. Freedman ed., New York 1992, vol II, 463–469. Cp. Poorthuis’ contribution to this volume, p. 106. 26 Cf. also the article by Charles Kannengiesser, ‘The Athanasian Understanding of Scripture’, in: The Early Church in Context, Essays in honour of Everett Ferguson, Brill 1998, 221–229. 24
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Jacob
The second biblical figure to be discussed is Jacob. Right at the beginning of the work, Jacob is alluded to as a model of domesticity and simplicity. In chapter 1 Athanasius describes the young Antony as someone who longs to sit at home avoiding the company of other children and he adds the phrase ‘as it is written’, referring to Genesis 25:27. This passage from Genesis calls Jacob ‘a simple man, living in tents.’ In this way, Athanasius compares the ascetic nature of Antony to the simplicity of Jacob. In the Septuagint, the Greek word êplastow, simple, is related to the contrast between Jacob who remains at home and his brother Esau who is a hunter. In the context of Antony, the word refers to the fact that he does not attend school, because he wants to refrain from contact with other children. Therefore, Antony’s asceticism is at first connected to his withdrawal from the social field, although his ‘simplicity’ is subsequently explained in terms of abstinence from luxurious food and pleasure.27 It is interesting to observe that Jewish tradition has a rather different take on Jacob, based on the same text, and sees him as a symbol of study.28 In this case, the ‘tents’ are interpreted as ‘houses of study’, whereas the ‘Antonian’ Jacob is connected to a withdrawal from study. This is illustrative of the fact that different traditions can mold their biblical examples in opposite directions, even if they refer to identical texts. In the Christian vita, the association between Antony and Jacob reinforces the element of ascetic simplicity. However, when we consider the stories about Jacob in context, as we did in the case of Elijah, it may be asked whether the primary image of the biblical Jacob is that of an ascetic figure. The Jacobnarrative as a whole seems to present the image of a patriarch.29 As
27
VA 1,4. It is said in Genesis Rabba 63,6 that whenever Rebekah passed a house of study, Jacob tried to break forth. Jacob is supposed to have studied at the schools of Shem and Eber, and spent all his life in the pursuit of learning (Gen.R. 63,10). In rabbinic literature, Jacob is considered as a model of virtue and righteousness (Encycl. Jud., 1198). Also, Philo writes in his Legum Allegoriae III,2 that ‘Jacob is virtuous, dwelling in a house’. Even if we admit that Athanasius was probably unfamiliar with the ins and outs of Jewish tradition, it is interesting to observe that both elaborate on elements from Genesis 25. 29 The article about Jacob, Encycl. Jud. 1191–1201, reads: ‘younger twin son of Isaac and Rebecca, third of the Patriarchs of the people of Israel. 28
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in the case of Elijah, one particular aspect of a biblical character is presented which is not dominant from a scriptural point of view. Indeed, it is an aspect which is present in the sacred text and which may be conveniently connected to the ascetic model which Athanasius tries to promote. At this point in the story, the element of the patriarchal is still implicit in the story, but it will be worked out as the tale continues, for Antony is increasingly presented as the founder of a new people, namely a nation of ascetic monks. Halfway through the vita, an episode occurs which marks the end of Antony’s speech to the monks. It summarizes the effect of his words: the desert becomes a city. Before the story shifts from the speech30 to a more concrete presentation of the saint’s life,31 a passage from the Bible is quoted: ‘How beautiful are your houses, Jacob, your tents, Israel; like shaded valleys and paradise beside a stream, like tents which the Lord has pitched, like cedars beside waters.’32 At this point, Antony’s role becomes more patriarchal in that he founds a new way of life. He may not have started a literal, biological family, but he has created a spiritual family of which he is the spiritual father.33 Also, at the end of the biography, this aspect of patriarchy is made explicit when the circumstances of his death are reminiscent of the death of Jacob. Chapter 92 contains allusions to Genesis 49 when Antony is described as the one who ‘lifts up his feet, dies and is gathered to the fathers’.34 This procedure of modification by which certain characteristics were highlighted, displaced or transformed, was employed by many authors at the time. Writers would draw on biblical material and reconstruct it to fit their own stories and aims. Recent literature explains and explores the various ways in which this process occurs. We see it, for instance, in the Vitae Prophetarum, a late antique work which describes the lives of a number of biblical prophets.35 Whatever
30
VA 16–43. From VA 45 onwards. 32 Numbers 24,5–6; quoted in VA 44,4. 33 The same motif is present in the Life of Macrina who remains celibate, but becomes the mother of many. Cf. Vie de sainte Macrine, 26,31–34. 34 Cf. Genesis 49,33. The story of Antony’s death and burial also alludes to the death of Moses, but this issue will not be discussed here. Cf. VA 93,2; ‘his eyes were still clear and he had not lost his teeth’. 35 Its origins are under debate: Anna Maria Schwemer argues for Jewish origins in Studien zu der frühjüdischen Prophetenlegenden Vitae prophetarum, Tübingen 1995, but 31
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its particular background, it is interesting to see how the images of the prophets have been transformed to fit a more ascetic paradigm. Satran discusses the way in which prophets are modelled as holy men, to fit a new context. But he also emphasizes the reciprocity of this relation: the fact that Byzantine saints are linked to biblical prophets, changes their image, as well as the image of the original prophets.36 The transformation works both ways. However, the Lives of the Prophets differ from, say, the Life of Antony, to the extent that the Vitae Prophetarum shows an explicit and direct transformation of biblical figures, whereas the Life of Antony has the saint as an intermediary figure and forges the change more implicitly, by way of comparison, juxtaposition and allusion. This process of ‘ascetization’ as described by Satran is similar to what Elizabeth Clark has called ‘ascetizing Scripture’.37 She discusses the many different ways in which Christian authors dealt with parts of Scripture which seem to contradict or impair their ascetic project. A variety of reading strategies were developed in order to harmonize ascetic thinking and biblical material. Frances Young has pointed out that from the beginning, Christians were using and transforming biblical elements in their sermons, tractates, commentaries, poems, letters and hagiographical works.38 Therefore, the fact that writers from the first centuries practiced ascetic transformation of biblical figures should be accepted as a given. However, the variety of ways in which this happened calls for exploration. In addition, I want to claim that the modification of biblical material in lives of saints is different from, say, its reworking in commentaries, sermons or tractates, where an agenda had already been set by the structure of the biblical text, the lectionary or polemical discussion. In the case of a vita, the author is much freer to select the material he wants to present. At this point, I want
David Satran believes the work derives from a Christian context in his Biblical Prophets in Byzantine Palestine: reassessing the Lives of the Prophets, Leiden 1995. 36 Satran, Biblical Prophets, 97–105. 37 See Reading Renunciation, 104–152. 38 See F.M. Young, Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture, Cambridge 1997. She draws attention to various aspects of this process, among others to the sense in which authors saw themselves as contemporaries of figures from biblical times. By way of the liturgy a kind of extra-temporal space would be created in which biblical stories, characters and motifs could be experienced as simultaneous to current events. The idea of reenactment is fundamental here (209–212).
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to draw attention to the intricate web by which one author links a particular saint to two biblical figures in a specific manner. The Exemplarity of Antony In the cases of both Elijah and Jacob, Athanasius uses a figure of style known as inclusion, since he introduces both characters at the beginning of his work and returns to them at the end. It has been pointed out before that the identification with Elijah is suggested repeatedly throughout the work whenever Athanasius refers to Antony as the ‘man sitting on the mountain’. This phrase occurs for the last time at the end of the vita, when Athanasius speaks of Antony’s future fame: he will be known in Spain and Gaul, in Rome and Africa, this man who had been ‘hidden while seated on his mountain’.39 This sentence incorporates the paradoxical image of someone who is hidden, while positioned on a high point both geographically and spiritually. Again, it suggests the tension between the humility of asceticism and the fame of a saint, between individual life and the exemplary potential of hagiography. In this respect, it is important to realize that the author is a key figure in this process of rendering Antony’s life exemplary by way of his biographical activity. The vita itself makes this theme of legacy explicit, when Athanasius names himself as one of the two men to inherit a piece of clothing from the saint.40 Again, the fact that the author portrays himself as an inheritor of the saint’s mantle, reinforces prophetic notions, since Elijah also left his mantle to his successor. Although I have restricted my treatment of biblical characters to Elijah and Jacob, it should be taken into account that other important biblical characters are found as well. Moses has already been mentioned,41 but Athanasius also refers to Joshua,42 David,43 Elisha44 39
VA 93,5. VA 91,8. 41 See note 33. 42 VA 20,6: ‘That is why Joshua, son of Nun, exhorted the people, saying: “Realign your hearts with your Lord, the God of Israel.” 43 VA 67,8: ‘In this way Samuel recognized David, for he had eyes which incited joy and teeth which were white as milk.’ 44 VA 34,3: ‘Such (namely pure and transparant) was the soul of Elisha when he observed the situation concerning Gehazi and saw the powers which stood around him.’ Antony takes this verse to refer to the ascetic: when his soul is purified, he will be able to see more than meets the eye. 40
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and Daniel.45 Sometimes these figures are related strictly to Antony and enhance his stature as a prophet, a leader or a visionary. In other cases the biblical characters illustrate one particular aspect which is directly relevant to the ascetic reader. Elijah and Jacob present a special case in point for they occur more than once in the story and they represent the elements of role and imitation. The cases of Elijah and Jacob are more complex and therefore more interesting, especially with a view to the aforementioned figure of inclusion. For the author consciously uses both characters in order to suggest some kind of development in the course of the life span he aims to depict. Indeed, Athanasius presents the biblical figures to highlight both the individual traits of asceticism at the outset and the communal roles of prophet and patriarch as the story enfolds. As such, he enhances the dynamic element within the vita. From birth to death, the life of the saint is one of movement and development. The way in which the saint comes into his own as an ascetic and subsequently as a leader of ascetics, invites the reader to also embark on a journey of spiritual growth. As the reader follows the story of Antony, he may become part of the community around him. The narrative movement is vital to the vita and has a special place within the Christian community because, unlike sermons or tractates, it corresponds closely to the narrative structure of the Gospel story itself.46 In his vita, Athanasius tries to connect his readers to the ideals of the ascetic life which he is trying to promote along two axes: those of individual traits and communal roles. Both axes are balanced between the extremes of distance and connection. Firstly, when we consider the individual traits, it is obvious that these lend themselves to a reasonably uncomplicated kind of imitation, because it is relatively easy for the reader to relate to ascetic virtue as described in
45 VA 43,3: ‘and the enemy could not hide himself from Daniel when he interrogated him.’ In this case, Daniel is a figure with whom any ascetic may identify. In VA 82,2 the identification is more clearly with Antony: ‘Often he was struck dumb, as it is written in the book of Daniel.’ 46 This is pointed out by Averil Cameron in her Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, The Development of Christian Discourse, Berkeley/LA, CA, 1991 (141–154; 181–188). She explains how ‘Christian mythology was built on biography, that its most characteristic metaphors were drawn from the human body and that it persistently used written Lives as models for Christian behavior.’ (145) Lives could be ‘acted out’. (147) ‘Through Lives, Christian writers could present an image not only of the perfect Christian life but also of the life in imitation of Christ, the life that becomes an icon.’ (143)
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the vita. Just like Antony the saint who sits at home in simplicity like Jacob, the reader may imitate this simple mode of life. At the same time, the simplicity of this mirroring is defied by the fact that the saint is someone who has reached the heights of perfection. This realization creates an awareness of distance on the part of the reader. However, precisely this tension between the capacity to mirror and the awareness of one’s own limitations can fuel a process of transformation in the reader. The element of connection keeps him or her committed to the ideal of living ascetically, while the distance creates a path to follow. Because of this distance there is something to strive for. Secondly, a similar dynamic occurs in the case of the axis of communal roles. Again, an intricate process of connecting and distancing is displayed. Communal roles like prophet or patriarch require the presence of a community, for both are defined by their role within the community. They are connected to it, for outside the community, the roles of prophet or patriarch would be meaningless. However, these specific roles are also elements which create distance. In our case, by comparing saint Antony to Elijah the prophet and Jacob the patriarch, the distance between the saint and the community is definitely enlarged. Not every reader is singled out to become either patriarch or prophet; patriarchs and prophets derive their meaning from being ‘scarce’. The larger-than-life character of the saint which is enhanced by identifying him with either patriarch or prophet, safeguards the meaning of his life. For if he were to be an ordinary person, just like everyone else, the recipient of his biography would find nothing to reach for. Therefore, both dynamics, the one which runs along the axis of individual imitation and the other which runs along the axis of community, are needed to facilitate the process of imitation. Both are meant to draw the reader into the story of the saint and to motivate him or her to find his or her own niche within the story. While the saint was still alive, he was able to function as a mediator within the community and now that he is no longer alive, the story of his life picks up on this mediating role. The story is not simply meant to entertain: it is meant to convey certain values and blueprints for action. It is about changing people and the way they live. In short, we see a picture unfolding of a saint who imitates and transforms the characteristics of his biblical forebears. In this process of imitation, some of the idiosyncracies of the biblical story recede
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into the background, while others are highlighted. The biblical figures are treated by the author as examples and in the process their individuality is compromised. A similar dynamic occurs when the saint becomes an example to the reader. For the special position of the saint facilitates imitation, but the individual recipient of the text will add his or her own personal flavour to the ascetic, exemplified lifestyle. Here, I want to recall the initial tension that was perceived between the exemplary and the individual aspects of biography. We can observe this tension in terms of the biblical figures whose standard portrayal is modified by the hagiographer, but also in terms of individuals constructing their own ascetic lifestyles with the help of an exemplary saint. Therefore, I want to suggest that the element of community makes this tension productive. Community makes exemplarity possible, when certain members inspire others to construct their identities in a particular way. But at the same time, community safeguards the individuality of every member as he or she secures his or her personal position within the whole. Community is about sharing certain characteristics and ideals, but also about a space which allows individuals to come into their own. As such, the person of Antony represents neither a collection of characteristics to be emulated, nor the inimitable uniqueness of an individual, but the portrayal of a man who inspires the formation of a community which features the participation of an endless number of individuals, all sharing certain valued traits. And the fact that biblical characters figure prominently in the story of the saint attests to the importance of exemplarity within the community which is envisioned by the author. Community In Athanasius’ case, the concept of community functions on a number of different levels. David Brakke has drawn attention to the political dimension of the bishop’s actions. In a convincing study, he analyzes the various ways in which Athanasius tried to forge links with the ascetics of his time.47 He did that in order to strengthen his position as bishop of Alexandria. This was necessary as his epis47 David Brakke, Athanasius and Asceticism, Baltimore 1995, esp. chapter 5 (201–265): ‘The Spirituality and Politics of the Life of Antony’.
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copacy had been under attack from various quarters: he was at odds with the emperor from time to time and quarelled with some of his fellow bishops. His career as archbishop of Alexandria was long, but fraught with anxiety.48 Therefore, he needed to look for allies and he focused on the ascetics of the Egyptian desert. As these monastic communities had functioned rather autonomously, Athanasius considered it important to strengthen their connections with the ecclesiastical hierarchy. He did this, for instance, by appointing abbots as bishops, making them a integral part of his episcopal network.49 Writing the Life of Antony was another way in which he hoped to earn the appreciation of the monks. He probably spent the time when he was exiled by the emperor Constantius in 356 with ascetics who had been close to Antony. He was familiar with the milieu and championed the ascetic cause by describing the life of their founding father. While Athanasius honoured their hero saint in his vita, he also stamped the work with his personal mark by deleting, highlighting and transforming various aspects as fit his purpose.50 And because he embedded the story of Antony within the wider and older framework of the Bible, comparing him to biblical figures and painting him as a preacher of virtue, the saint could become a model for the every Christian. As such, the figure of Antony transcended the circles of asceticism, and became a role model for the Christian community at large. Thus, the story became a tool in Athanasius’ policy to asceticize the church as a whole.51 Late antique authors tended to legitimate their positions by reference to ancient traditions: Homer, Moses, Plato.52 In the same way, Athanasius anchored his support to the ascetic project by embedding it in the tracks of biblical faith. Therefore, when Athanasius taps into an ancient vein of authoritative texts and compares the saint to a prophet like Elijah and a patriarch like Jacob, he attributes biblical authority and stature to this figure. The person of Antony 48 More details about the career of Athanasius can be found in Timothy Barnes’ meticulous study Athanasius and Constantius. See note 5. 49 See Brakke, Athanasius and Asceticism, chapter 2 (80–141): ‘The Desert Fathers and the Episcopate’. 50 Athanasius’ Antony supports the hierarchy, chooses Athanasius’ side over and against the Arians, is critical of the emperor and generally represents Athanasius’ theological outlook. 51 Ibid., 266–272. 52 Cf. F. Young, Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture, Cambridge 1997, 49–75.
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does not represent just anybody: he is one of the saints who was able to mirror in the here and now the lives of saints from the ancient scriptures. This idea that the saint may function as an example for the community and inspire its members to a certain way of life, is mirrored intratextually by the fact that biblical figures function as examples for the saint. What happens on a literary level within the text is supposed to happen in real life. And Athanasius, by affording himself a clear position within the story as the inheritor of Antony’s mantle, presents himself as the prophet who will broadcast this news to the world. As Brakke has shown, Athanasius’ intention to improve relations with the ascetic contingent of his flock factored into his decision to write the Life of Antony. However, it seems unlikely that the publication of this work should be interpreted as only a means to an end. Judging from his other writings, Athanasius had great sympathy for asceticism as a way of life. Even if people did not feel they could become permanent ascetics, he devised different ways in which they could be part-time ascetics, so to speak. His advice stemmed from his belief in asceticism and the need to communicate this belief pastorally and spiritually.53 The connections between biblical interpretation and an ascetic way of living have been presented by Douglas Burton-Christie in his book The Word in the Desert. He has studied the Apophtegmata Patrum, the Sayings of the Fathers, and concludes that the monks in the desert can best be described as ‘embodiments of Scripture’ or ‘living texts’. He explains how it is helpful to understand the lives of these people as texts that need to be read.54 The contents of Scripture, interpreted as the pure and simple life of virtue in imitation of Christ, is something that has to be realized in everyday life, supported by the constant and conscious meditation on scriptural passages.55 This close alliance between the biblical and the
53
Cf. also D. Brakke, Athanasius and Asceticism, 142–200. Wyschogrod has a similar passage in her book when she calls the hagiographic field a ‘text of flesh in which the body takes on a signifying role’; see Saints and Postmodernism, 49. Like Cavarero, she wants to bypass the use of propositional truths and excessive abstraction from concrete life. She does this by way of emphasizing the importance of embodiment: ‘In their disclosure of what is morally possible, saintly bodies “fill” the discursive plane of ethics.’; see ibid., 52. 55 This idea is worked out by Douglas Burton-Christie in his The Word in the Desert, New York/Oxford 1993, see esp. 297–300. 54
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ascetic is found in the Life of Antony as well, as Athanasius’ abundant referencing to biblical texts attests.56 Therefore, I want to claim that what Athanasius is doing in the Life of Antony, cannnot be fully explained in terms of a need for diplomacy or an interest in literary legitimation. To a large extent, the author’s use of biblical material must be interpreted as an expression of his belief that the ascetic lifestyle provided a scriptural standard for every Christian. And the literary effort of his hagiographical work aims to attract as many people as he can to these ideals. Indeed, the communication of biblical truth is not so much a matter of conveying knowledge, as it is an issue of inspiring the right way of living. For Athanasius as a bishop it was his pastoral concern to invite and persuade Christians to conduct themselves in imitation of Christ and the ascetic way matched that ideal. It is almost as if for Athanasius, the ascetic and the Christian life are synonymous. Concerning the concept of community we may conclude the following: it functions on three levels. Firstly, Athanasius aims to reinforce his ties with Egyptian ascetics. It is their hero saint whom he tries to promote. This is important as he wants to secure his episcopal power. Secondly, he tries to reach those who sympathize with asceticism but who are outside his jurisdiction. The intended audience mentioned in the prologue consists of monks in the West and towards the end of the work Athanasius refers to areas to which the story of Antony may spread, namely Spain, Gaule, Rome and Africa.57 The community envisaged by Athanasius will exceed political boundaries which have been set. Thus the story and its message will extend geographically, far beyond Egypt. But finally, it will also transcend the limits of time. I believe that the third level of community which the author had in mind was of a transhistorical nature. It would include members who had not been born at the time of Antony’s life.58 Athanasius’ story testifies to this belief when it describes the 56 Cf. VA 16 where Antony begins his Coptic speech as follows: ‘The Scriptures are sufficient for your instruction, but it is good to encourage one another in the faith, and to strengthen each other by words.’ 57 VA 93,5. 58 This amounts to what has been called a ‘textual community’; see Brian Stock, Listening for the Text, Baltimore 1990, 16–29. Cf. Robert Alter in his Canon and Creativity, Modern Writing and the Authority of Scripture, New Haven 2000: ‘A canon is above all a transhistorical textual community. Knowledge of the received texts and recourse to them constitute the community, but the texts do not have a single, authoritative meaning.’ (5)
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joy on the face of the saint as he dies and meets his eternal friends.59 Unarguably, this circle included included famous characters like Jacob and Elijah. The same sense of transcendent community is still experienced by the desert monks of modern times. When William Dalrymple visited the monastery of saint Antony in the Egyptian desert, the monks assured him that their fathers regularly appeared to them. For them, this was the most natural of experiences, since they were members of the same continuing community: ‘I’m not joking. I had to take the Protestants aside and explain that we believe that St Antony and all the fathers have not died, that they live with us, continually protecting us and looking after us. When they are needed—when we go to their graves and pray to their relics— they appear and sort out our problems.’ ‘Can the monks see them?’ ‘Who? Protestants?’ ‘No, the deceased fathers.’ ‘Abuna Yustus is always appearing,’ says Fr. Dioscuros matter-of-factly. ‘In fact one of the fathers had a half-hour conversation with him the day before yesterday. And of course St Antony makes fairly regular appearances— although he is very busy these days answering prayers all over the world. But even when we cannot see the departed fathers, we can always feel them.’60
Conclusion The tension between the exemplary and the individual perspective in saintly biography provided a pair of spectacles to observe the dynamics between reader and religious role model outside the text as well as the connections between the saint and biblical models within the story. We became aware of the intricate patterns which related the holy person to his scriptural forerunners. In the process, the identities of biblical characters were modified. Initially, the element of the ascetic was emphasized at the expense of role descriptions like that of the prophet or the patriarch. In this way, Athanasius attributed biblical authority to saint Antony, but simultaneously distorted the biblical images of Elijah and Jacob. However, their roles were carried over into the story and became meaningful in the course
59
VA 92,1. Quotation from William Dalrymple’s From the Holy Mountain, A Journey in the Shadow of Byzantium, London 1998, 406–407. 60
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of its development. The implicit notions of the prophetic and the patriarchal helped to build up the modelling potential of the saint. As the voice of God and a father of many, Antony gained the stature which is requisite for a religious role model. These roles afford the saint his place within the community, and it is precisely this concept of community which mediates between the exemplary and the individual. The community is the locus where the individual and the exemplary intersect and which, as such, provides the space where individuals can mirror the characteristics of exemplary individuals. The individuality of both parties must be stressed, since no unique member of the community can be defined exhaustively in terms of another. Indeed, the individuality of the exemplary figure exceeds his or her exemplarity and recedes behind the stylized account of his or her life. Indeed, it is the community which safeguards the uniqueness of its members, while at the same time acknowledging the importance of shared values and truths. Thus a complex process of mirroring involves connection and distance, as the recipient of the story is inspired by and reaches for the perfection embodied in the holy person. The image of the mirror symbolizes both reflection and distortion as some aspects of the exemplary figure are internalized, while others are transformed or deleted. As in a mirror, one dimension is always lost. This is precisely the dimension which each individual must add from his or her unique biography. The intricacies of these processes are played out in space and time: in the original community of bishop Athanasius who wanted to strengthen his episcopal authority and communicate his ascetic ideals; in the community of readers which expanded as the Life of Antony became a bestseller, and eventually in the community of Christians today, among whom a belief in the ‘communion of saints’ is still current.
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JOB THE REBEL: FROM THE RABBIS TO THE CHURCH FATHERS Martien Parmentier (University of Bern, Switzerland) In both Jewish and Christian tradition, the often and mightily tested Job is regarded as a righteous gentile who acknowledged God in spite of the weight of his fate.1 Indeed the rabbis seem to draw a
Fig. 1 Job, sitting on a dunghill and scratching his head, is menaced by disasters and bemoaned by his wife. (Miniature from Byzantine codex, 9th century CE— Bibliotheca Apostolica Vaticana).
1 Sometimes, Job is held to be an Israelite, but this view seems to be a reaction against Christian views of Job as a righteous gentile witnessing to Christ. See Judith R. Baskin, Pharaoh’s Counsellors. Job, Jethro and Balaam in Rabbinic and Patristic Tradition, Chico CA 1983, 10, 22–25.
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picture of Job as a good and pious man. However, this picture of pious resignation derives entirely from the first and last chapters of the biblical book (1 and 42). The Job of the rest of the book is a rebel with a cause, who, at times blasphemously, opposes a God who allows his utterly unjust treatment. In this paper we shall investigate the traces of the rebellious Job of chapters 2–41 in Jewish and especially in Christian tradition and we shall attempt also to see how exegetes coped with passages in the main section of the book in which Job protests his fate. We shall do this by looking specifically at examples of the exegesis of different Christian authors of Job 3:3: “Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night which said, ‘A man-child is conceived.’” One Clever Monk Can Ask More than Ten Wise Elders Can Answer It becomes clear that Job 3:3 was such a tricky passage when we read of an early Christian monk who asks whether Job should not be seen as a righteous man and not as a rebel. This question is found in the context of the so-called “questions and answers literature”, which originated in monastic circles.2 The question was the following: “If it is true to say that Job committed no sin when he cursed that day (= his birth), it follows that God heard his prayer considering him as a righteous person. And if he was indeed heard, this implies that God overstepped the boundary He had set for Himself, and we have to search Holy Scripture to find the perdition of that day announced. But if God did not hear his prayer, how else can he be regarded except as a disobedient sinner? For Scripture says: ‘He fulfils the desire of those who fear Him’ (Ps 144[145]:19), but about sinners it says: ‘Even if you make many prayers, I will not listen to you’ (Is 1:15).”3 The idea found here is that cursing one’s day of birth is a sin, presumably because it denies belief in God’s goodness and justice. However, what if one could ask God to cancel one’s day of birth
2 Apprentice monks asked questions that spiritual fathers tried to answer, and such questions and answers were written down and collected for the benefit of others. The topics dealt with vary enormously: from practical and ethical matters to theological issues that indeed rise from the exegesis of difficult passages of Scripture. 3 Pseudo-Theodoret of Cyrus, Questions and answers 28, ed. St. Petersburg 1895, 38.
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and in spite of that sinful wish, one could still be considered a righteous person and not a sinner. If that were possible, God would surely hear this prayer, although it would mean that He had to go against his own order of creation. However, such an exception to the rule should be documented somewhere in Scripture. If, though, Job’s prayer was not heard when he asked for the day of his birth to be wiped out and indeed Scripture does not say anywhere that it was, then it follows that Job was not a righteous man but a rebel, for Scripture does say that God listens to righteous men and not to sinners. The answer that the monk received to this question was this: “Job’s intention in cursing was the following: he meant to say, ‘Oh that the day on which I was born be cursed, given the kind of day it is’. Why should the day of his birth be cursed? ‘So that I should not be born’, he says. For it is not possible for anyone to be born on this day if it has been cursed in this manner. However, did not Job speak this curse while he was still hoping to find a solution? If this is the case, he must have revoked his own words later, when his afflictions had stopped and his affairs had changed for the better. For it was because of his enormous affliction that he spoke the words of this curse, and when the situation had changed he evidently could no longer hold the same opinion about that day.” Our monk can hardly have been content with this answer, but then he had formulated a question that was hardly ever espoused so sharply in Christian tradition. Job between Jewish and Christian Tradition From the Second Temple period onward, the dividing line between Jews and Christians was drawn sharper and sharper. Therefore, the righteous gentile Job met with mixed appreciation: as a possible champion of the pagan Christian cause he became a symbol in the emerging Judaeo-Christian polemic. On the Jewish side, some Jewish traditions emphasized Job’s piety, while others merely sought to explain the severity of his punishment.4 But attempts to sympathetically understand Job’s behavior are few and far between. Nevertheless
4
Baskin 7.
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the biblical text that presents him as someone who is skeptic about divine justice and about the resurrection of the dead (cp. Job 14:14) could not be totally ignored. One way of explaining Job’s suffering was to regard it as a punishment for his sins or as a means for his atonement. One Jewish tradition claims that Job’s sin was that as one of Pharaoh’s counselors (together with Jethro and Balaam) he had remained silent when Pharaoh decreed all male children of Israel to be drowned.5 Therefore, God allowed Satan to put Job to the test. Job was also accused of secret blasphemy, because he doubted God’s justice.6 Yet, the portrait of Job as a pious, martyr-like sufferer is the most common. The process of mitigating Job’s apparent blasphemies is already visible in the Septuagint in which Job, according to one modern author, “speaks almost with composure and his words lack that quality of self-assurance and protest found in the Hebrew original.”7 Moreover, the Septuagint text has two additions to the Hebrew. In 2:9 there is a long explanation of why Job’s wife said “Curse [in Greek: Say a word against] God and die”; and in the Greek version of 42:17 faith in the resurrection of Job himself is affirmed.8 Through the Septuagint and two apocrypha, the Testament of Job and the Life of Job, the dominant Christian view of Job also becomes that of the pious sufferer.9 In the Life of Job (cited by Eusebius of Caesarea),10 a certain Aristeas depicts Job as such a silent sufferer: “While he was being comforted, he said that even without comfort he would be steadfast in piety, even in such trying circumstances. God, amazed at his high courage, freed him from illness and made him master of many possessions.”11 The modern translator explains: “Aristeas, then, by stating that God was amazed at Job’s steadfastness, has transformed the tragedy of the problem of suffering in the canonical Book of Job into an edifying story of endurance for the sake of religion.”12
5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
Baskin 15. Baskin 16. Urbach, quoted by Baskin, 28. Baskin, 28–29. Baskin, 32. Praeparatio Evangelica IX.25, GCS Eusebius VIII,1, 518. J.H. Charlesworth, The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha II, New York etc. 1985, 859. Idem, 856.
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In the Testament of Job, the righteous Job knows why he suffers, for an angel comes to inform him of the impending calamities. And if Job endures them patiently, the angel tells him that he “will make your name renowned in all generations of the earth till the consummation of the age. And I will return you again to your goods. It will be repaid to you doubly, so you may know that the Lord is impartial—rendering good things to each one who obeys. And you will be raised up in the resurrection. For you will be like a sparring athlete, both enduring pains and winning the crown. Then will you know that the Lord is just, true and strong, giving strength to his elect ones.”13 In this work, the role of Job’s wife is inversely proportional to Job’s own role: as Job’s rebellion wanes, so, under the influence of Satan, his wife’s rebellion grows.14 Patristic authors also claim that Satan used Job’s wife to try and trick him into disobedience.15 Two Schools of Christian Exegesis In the Greek East of the fourth and fifth century, we usually distinguish two schools of Christian exegesis and theology, namely the Alexandrian and the Antiochene schools. The Alexandrian school, following Origen, distinguished between a literal, moral and spiritual sense of Scripture, but whenever they could, they applied the allegorical method, corresponding with the spiritual sense of Scripture. However, sometimes even Origen failed to find a “deeper meaning” as, for example, in the case of 1 Samuel 28, the story of the ‘witch’ of Endor,16 and in the case of Job 3:3–6 about which Origen (in Rufinus’translation) only knows to say that it was not without the Holy Spirit that Job cursed the day of his birth, because he (Origen) can make sense of it by explaining the following verse Job 3:8 as a prophecy referring to Christ.17
13
Charlesworth I, 841. E. Dassmann, “Hiob”, in: RAC XV, 1991, esp. col. 375; P.W. van der Horst, “The Role of Women in the Testament of Job”, NTT 40 (1986) 273–289, esp. 275–279. 15 Idem, col. 398 (Leontius of Constantinople), 407 (Ambrosiaster). 16 Cp. M.F.G. Parmentier, Goddelijke wezens uit de aarde. Griekse kerkvaders over de ‘heks’ van Endor, Kampen 1989, 21 etc. 17 Homilies on Leviticus VIII, 3, SC 287, 18; cp. G. Rouwhorst, “Leviticus 12–15 14
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The Antiochenes sometimes also found a deeper meaning of the text, but usually showed the greatest interest in what they called “The History”.18 Their rule was to explain Scripture through Scripture, that is, not to introduce external elements to explain the text, but to illuminate it exclusively through other passages from Scripture. It should be pointed out, though, that this rule was also used by Alexandrians like Origen.19 Therefore, although in practice the exegetical method of the Antiochenes was not so radically different from that of the Alexandrians, it is true to say that when doing exegesis the Alexandrians probably used their imagination more than the Antiochenes.20
in Early Christianity”, in: M.J.H.M. Poorthuis & J. Schwartz, Purity and Holiness. The Heritage of Leviticus, Leiden 2000, 186. 18 Their method was based mostly on an understanding of historical events and grammar relative to the text. Thus, they concentrated especially on the literal sense of Scripture and furthermore they sought to find practical applications of this exegesis on the moral level. Both schools, however, tried to answer the same question, namely: how do Christians understand the Jewish facts of the Old Testament? Thus, since the Antiochenes had such strong reservations about the abundant use of allegory by the Alexandrians, they emphasised the historical element. Their rule was to explain Scripture through Scripture, that is, not to introduce external elements to explain the text, but to illuminate it exclusively through other passages from Scripture. 19 Thus, at the beginning of his Commentary on the Psalms, Origen says that he has learned this rule from Jewish exegesis, a rule that is also found in the work of the apostle Paul: “As we are about to begin the interpretation of the Psalms, we shall disclose a very beautiful tradition handed on to us by the Hebrew” (i.e. Origen’s unnamed Jewish teacher at Alexandria) “which applies generally to the entire divine Scripture. For the Hebrew said that the whole divinely inspired Scripture may be likened, because of its obscurity, to many locked rooms in one house. By each room is placed a key, but not the one that corresponds to it, so that the keys are scattered about beside the rooms, none of them matching the room by which it is placed. It is a difficult task to find the keys and match them to the rooms that they can open. We therefore know the Scriptures that are obscure only by taking the points of departure for understanding them from another place because they have their interpretative principle scattered among them. In any event, I think that the apostle (Paul) suggests a similar approach to understanding the divine discourses when he says: ‘And those things we speak are not in discourses instructed by human wisdom, but in ones instructed by the Spirit, interpreting spiritual things by means of spiritual things’ (1 Cor. 2:13).” (Text: J.A. Robinson, The Philocalia of Origen, Cambridge 1893, 38. Translation: Joseph W. Trigg, Origen, London/New York 1998, 70–71). 20 Take Psalm 1:3 as an example. The text calls the righteous man “a tree planted by streams of water, that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither.” An Antiochene exegete like Diodore of Tarsus would explain the phrase as a mere comparison: Just as a tree prospers through constant irrigation, thus a wise man moistens his intellect. An Alexandrian exegete like Didymus the Blind however might
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The Antiochene school and the book of Job Our brief discussion above on the two schools has implications for the understanding of the book of Job. Antiochenes like Diodore and Theodore of Mopsuestia expressed strong reservations about this complicated and sometimes seemingly offensive text. They found it was hard to regard it as “history”. Diodore more or less expresses this on psalm 119 (LXX 118): “History is the pure narrative of an event that has taken place. It is worth its name when it is neither mixed with fancy ideas (§pino¤ai) of the author, nor with digressions (§peisod¤oi), figurations (±yopoi¤ai)21 or personifications (prosvpopoi¤ai),22 as it is the case with the history of Job. For history is clear, plain and concise; it does not bother its readers with fancy ideas and lengthy figurations of the writer.”23 Diodore’s famous pupil Theodore of Mopsuestia wrote a critical commentary on Job (now lost), in which he rejected the book in its present form, as we can learn from the Acts of the Council of Constantinople in 553, which preserve some fragments of the work in the context of Theodore’s condemnation.24 If we accept the veracity lose himself in a lengthy discourse, associating a series of successive metaphors: the tree of Psalm 1 is the Tree of Life and the latter tree can be identified in its turn with Christ as the True Vine. Then the author might dwell on the blessings of Paradise, in which both the Tree of Life and the righteous man are planted. Thus both approaches explain Scripture by Scripture, but the Alexandrian does not necessarily feel he has to stay close to the text as long as possible. Since there are different levels of understanding Scripture, any exegete is allowed to switch levels in principle, but the Alexandrian feels freer than the Antiochene to switch to another, less ‘historical’, level where successive images can be associated with each other, and he looks especially for a possible christological background of the whole argument. For although in a sense christology is also history, as it derives from the historical person of Jesus Christ, it is not a history that is contemporary to either author or reader. Many passages that in Alexandrian exegesis receive a christological interpretation (and at times even these exegetes realise that these applications could hardly have been intended by the authors of the texts) are regarded by the Antiochenes as purposely written for a specific group of people contemporary with the author and/or reader. Thus in his Commentary on the Psalms, Diodore of Tarsus for example (cp. CCSG 6, 4–5) distinguishes ethical Psalms, that were written for all people, Psalms for specific people, Psalms addressed specifically to the Jews, dogmatic Psalms directed against certain heresies, and finally Psalms with specific themes. 21 Lampe: “the attribution of the words or deeds of one person to another”. 22 Lampe: “dramatization”, “personification”. 23 Louis Mariès, Extraits du commentaire de Diodore de Tarse sur les Psaumes, RSR 9, 1919, 79–101, text on 94–96. 24 ACO IV,1, 66–68. Cp. C. Schäublin, Untersuchungen zu Methode und Herkunft der antiochenischen Exegese, Köln/Bonn 1974, 77–83.
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of the fragments, Theodore’s misgivings against the book were mainly philological. While he acknowledged that the story of the suffering righteous man deserves a place in holy Scripture, he still had two main objections. Firstly, he found the fact that Job curses himself in chapter three incredible and unfitting for a righteous man. “What person that attentively perceives and considers all the very words that, according to the author, Job began to speak when his friends had arrived, would think or say that they were ever fitting for the mind of a righteous man? For what person would be of the opinion that it would be fitting for a man who had led his life with so much wisdom, virtue and reverence, to bring together so many curses directly at the outset . . .?”25 Theodore’s second objection is that the author did not tell the story in the simple manner of the Bible, but showed off his apparently pagan rhetorical education. He parades as a writer of tragedies who reworks a simple story into a pompous piece of rhetoric. Theodore’s concern is clear: the Biblical narrative needs to be simple and straightforward in order to be edifying. Unfitting behavior or pompous rhetoric has no place in Scripture. Undoubtedly, a rebellious Job would fall into the same negative category as a Job cursing himself. Such views of Job cannot inspire moral behavior in the believer. Theodore is offended by every suggestion that paints Job as the pious, suffering servant of God. The Alexandrian Exegesis of Didymus the Blind Didymus the Blind is a representative of the Alexandrian school who has a completely different understanding of Job 3. If an Antiochene like Theodore of Mopsuestia rejects the canonicity of large parts of the book of Job as unfitting for a wise and righteous man like Job, Didymus attempts to explain the words of Job 3:3 and other passages in such a manner that they confirm to the traditional role model of Job as a pious sufferer. We can learn this from Didymus’ commentary on Job.26 For Didymus, human suffering has a double meaning: either it is a punishment for sin, or it is part of God’s economy of salvation in which some humans have a special task of suffering on behalf of others. Didymus makes it clear that Job had 25 26
ACO IV,1, LXV 74, 67. Rediscovered in 1941, together with other Biblical commentaries from his hand.
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not committed any personal sins, as his friends thought, but that he suffered for three reasons: 1) To refute Satan 2) To serve as an example for sufferers of his own time and afterwards 3) To strengthen, and purify himself. Job was perfectly aware of all this: nothing that happens to him makes him raise his eyebrows or ask questions. According to Didymus, the complaints and reproaches that we find in the Biblical text are all metaphorical, for in fact Job knows better. In his silence and in his speaking, he is merely adapting himself to the Weltanschauung of his friends in order to demonstrate the fundamental incongruity of their idea that all suffering has only one cause, namely punishment for personal sins. Didymus painted the figure of Job as an example of endurance, a hero of faith who went his way without fear or trepidation, someone who had no need to ask any questions, but who speaks only pious words and knows all the right answers. Job has no history of wrestling with God; time stands still. History is fixed because of events that took place before the creation of the world. Like Origen, Didymus believed in a pre-existent fall of incorporeal souls that were joined with bodies to stop their downward movement. The souls that had grown cold and thereby heavy because they had turned away from God, were plunged into an endless fall that was stopped because God created material bodies to stop the fall. This event predetermined the whole of human history. Job is a sage who knows all and who, teaching how humanity is to dwell in this fallen state, demonstrated how to suffer and to conquer. He is a saint who triumphed by forbearing everything patiently, not by wrestling to find the truth or by insisting that God keep His word or by calling on God to give an account.27 When he comes to Job’s speech in chapter 3, Didymus explains that suffering exists because of the pre-existent fall of souls. Commenting on Job 3:3 Didymus says: “He says this with regard to the whole of humanity. For since the holy man knew that those who saw what happened to him were very disturbed, because they believed he suffered innocently, he steered the discourse to the cause of it all, saying as it were: ‘if it were not because of the fall of many, an example of courage would not be necessary’. For as the loving doctor rightly curses the disorderly way of life into which
27 G.W. Marchal, Didymus de Blinde en zijn interpretatie van het boek Job, Diss. Utrecht 1977, 131.
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many have lapsed, thus this blessed therapist, speaking generally, curses the day of the fall of humanity, not arbitrarily but in connection and coherence with the call to help those who have fallen.”28 Job’s friends must learn two things: firstly, that the meaning of suffering does not just lie in the fact that sins must be punished, but that there are several meanings to suffering and secondly that the ultimate cause of suffering lies beyond time. John Chrysostom: A Pastoral Preference for Job John Chrysostom (fourth century) was especially fond of Job. Job appears as an exemplary figure in many places in Chrysostom’s voluminous works and he also wrote a commentary on the book of Job. Chrysostom found Job a particularly suitable person to serve as an example for his contemporary audiences; thus he continually sought to make the story of Job relevant to his own time.29 He summoned his audience to imitate the virtue of this pious pagan who had become righteous by keeping the natural, not the Jewish law. Another way in which Job functioned as an exemplary figure is that the story of his suffering comforted those in Chrysostom’s audience who also suffered: The preacher said: “Imitate the piety of Job, learning how many glorious things spring from earnestness. Consider him, the conqueror throughout, and you shall have much consolation in all pain and peril . . . Let the sufferings of that man be the medicines for our ills, and his grievous surging sea the harbor of our sufferings, and in each of the accidents which befall us, let us consider this saint, and seeing one person exhausting the misfortunes of the universe, we shall conduct ourselves bravely in those which fall to our share, and as some affectionate mother, stretching forth her hands on all sides, and receiving and reviving her terrified children, so let us always flee to this book, and even if the pitiable troubles of all humanity assail us, let us take sufficient comfort for all and so depart. And if you say, he was Job, and for this reason bore all this, but I
28 A. Henrichs, Didymos der Blinde. Kommentar zu Hiob, Teil I, Bonn 1968, 180/ 181–182/183. 29 Cp. L. Brottier, “L’actualisation de la figure de Job chez Jean Chrysostome”, in: Cahiers de Biblia Patristica 5, Le Livre de Job chez les Pères, Strasbourg 1996, 63–110.
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am not like him; you supply me with a greater accusation against yourself and fresh praise of him. For it is more likely that you should be able to bear this than he. Why then? Because he indeed was before the day of grace and of the law, when there was not much strictness of life, when the grace of the Spirit was not so great, when sin was hard to fight against, when the curse prevailed and death was terrible. But now our wrestlings have become easier, all these things having been removed after the coming of Christ; so that we have no excuse, when we are unable to reach the same standard as he, after so long a time, and such advantage, and so many gifts given to us by God.”30 Reading John Chrysostom, his description of Job’s suffering could remind us of that of Jesus Christ. But Chrysostom does not see Job as a pre-figuration of Christ, as some other fathers do. For him, Job is an exemplary figure in his own right.31 This also pertains for the total absence of any rebelliousness. Here, Job fits in with other longsuffering persons in the Old Testament such as David and Jeremiah: “Of course these men were perplexed and inquired, but not in a manner comparable to that of the impious. They did not address reproaches to God, nor accuse Him of injustice because of that which had happened to them . . . And they did not receive an answer, in order that they should teach those who came after them to not even ask questions. Moreover they inquired about one thing in particular, namely why the impious live in prosperity and wealth, and even to that they did not receive an answer. But people today indiscreetly ask many more questions, and the questions which are asked today are more profound . . .”32 Chrysostom favored a literal explanation of the text of the book of Job, in the tradition of the Antiochene school, and a pastoral application.33 But unlike other Antiochene exegetes, such as Diodore and Theodore, he does not take offence at the wording and style of the book of Job. When he arrives at chapter 3:3 and Job cursing the day that he was born, he argued that this was spoken, in a sense, from discouragement and confusion. Even more, “if Job had not said that, he would have
30 De diabolo tentatore III,5, PG 49, 270 and 273–274. ET NPNF First Series Vol. IX, 195–197. 31 Cp. Brottier 75 note 49. 32 Ad Stagirium a daemone vexatum I,7, PG 47, 442–443, cf. Brottier 107. 33 SC 346 51.
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given the impression that he did not share in our common nature.”34 Likewise we find: “‘Let the day perish in which I was born . . .’, Let us consider what ‘Let . . . perish’ means, then we shall see that these are words of discouragement, not of evilness or blasphemy. That day did not perish, for it could not come back and happen again. So Job spoke about a non-existent matter, as it were.35 Ambrose of Milan and Zeno of Verona: Exegesis in the West Ambrose of Milan (fourth century) was not shocked by Job’s strong words. Job spoke as an advocate of the devil, said Ambrose. In reply to his friends, Job, as it were, says to God: “Go away from me, I don’t want to know your ways; what good does it do that I have served you, or what use does it have that I have walked towards you? All good things are in the hands of the impious, and God does not see their works.”36 It is interesting that for Ambrose, Job’s cursing himself presented no problem, as it did for some Antiochenes, because Ambrose discovered a meaning in it on another level, rather like the Alexandrians. First, it was a well known topos, often used to console bereaved relations, to regard the day of birth as the beginning of suffering and death as the end of it.37 It is in this tradition that we must understand Ambrose’s words on Job 3:3 on the occasion of the death of his brother Satyrus: “‘Let the day perish wherein I was born . . .’ Job had recognized that to be born is the beginning of all woes, and therefore wished that the day on which he was born might perish, so that the origin of all troubles might be removed, and wished that the day of his birth might perish that he might receive the day
34
Ed. U. & D. Hagedorn, Patristische Texte und Studien (= PTS) 35, 51, 3–4. Idem 51, 16–21. 36 De officiis I,42–44, ed. M. Testard, Paris 1984, vol. 1, 115–116. We find this figure of speech in Plato, Ambrose says: the speaker has the role of arguing against justice and he asks forgiveness for speaking words that he does not approve of, saying that it was with the aim to discover the truth and to elucidate the subject of the discussion, that he was cast in this role. Now Job, who lived long before Plato, had invented this procedure, not in order to parade with his eloquence, but in order to prove the truth. 37 U. Gantz, Gregor von Nyssa: Oratio consolatoria in Pulcheriam, Chrèsis. Die Methode der Kirchenväter im Umgang mit der antiken Kultur, Basel 1999, 205 note 42. 35
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of resurrection.”38 In view of the miseries of this life, death seems to be a good thing to the wise: “But did not holy and wise men, who lamented the longevity of this pilgrimage, since they considered it more glorious ‘to depart and to be with Christ’ (Phil. 1:23) curse the day of their generation, as one of them says: ‘Perish the day on which I was born’. For what is the pleasure of this life? It is full of troubles and cares, and in it are countless injustices and many vexations and many tears from those who are afflicted with vexations, and ‘there is no one to comfort them’ (Eccl 4:1). And so Ecclesiastes praises the dead rather than the living and says: and better off than both is the yet unborn, who has not seen this evil.’ (Eccl 4:2–3).”39 However, for Ambrose, the deepest level of explaining Job 3:3 is ultimately christological. On this level, Job’s curse has a prophetic value. It announces the crushing of the devil and the day of his spiritual rebirth: “. . . That he curses the day, saying, ‘Let the day perish in which I was born . . .’ and further down, ‘Let him that curses that day curse it, even he that is ready to crush the great monster’ ( Job 3:8), appertains at the prophecy, in the sense that the devil, the monster of this tempestuous world, has been crushed by our Lord Jesus Christ. And if Job desires that the day of his birth in the flesh should perish, this is in order that his day should be counted in the rebirth. ‘Let the worldly day perish’, he says, ‘in order that the spiritual day may rise’.”40 In spite of this christological level of explanation, however, Ambrose never turns Job into a pre-figuration of Christ as other Church Fathers do. The way of Christ is incomparable to that of Job.41 Several Church Fathers, however, do link Job and Christ, although naturally the comparison is not between equals. For example, Zeno, bishop of Verona in the sixth decade of the fourth century, describes Job as prefiguring Christ in that they were both poor and tempted by the devil. Job was humiliated and Christ emptied himself in the Incarnation. To strengthen the connection between Job and Christ, Zeno does not hesitate to use rather colorful language: “Job sits on
38
De excessu fratris 2,31–32, CSEL 73, 266. ET NPNF Second Series vol. X, 178. De bono mortis 2,3–4, CSEL 32, 704–705; ET: FC 65, 71–72. Cp. Gantz 205 note 42. 40 SC 45, 167. 41 Cp. SC 45, 166. 39
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a dunghill full of worms; the Lord also resides on the true dunghill, that is in the mud of this world, amongst people who are true worms, because they foam with diverse crimes and passions.”42 Gregory the Great Gregory the Great (sixth century) was interested less in speculation and more in psychology. As bishop of Rome, he was a practical man. After spending five years in a monastery, Gregory was sent to Constantinople in 579 to represent the pope. It was there that he wrote his great work that took him six years to finish, the Morals on the Book of Job.43 The form of the Morals on Job is that of a verse by verse running commentary. The work was composed in the form of homilies to monks in Constantinople who also had questions, usually concerning the monastic life. Above all, Gregory wishes to stimulate the spiritual progress of his audience. He has little interest in the literal sense of the text and ignores the literary structure of the book. As he himself says: “There are some parts which we run through in a historical exposition, some we trace out in allegory upon an investigation of the typological meaning, some we open in the lessons of moral teaching alone, allegorically conveyed. . . .”44 For Gregory, to comment on the book of Job is to expose the Christian moral doctrine. On the allegorical level, Job’s role is cast as both the pre-figuration of Christ and of the Church as the body of Christ: “It was necessary for the blessed Job, who announced the greatest of all mysteries, the incarnation, to be a sign of him whom he proclaimed with his voice through his life, and for all that he underwent to show forth what were to be his sufferings; and so much the more to truly foretell the mysteries of his passion, as he prophesied not merely with his lips but also by suffering. But because our Redeemer has shown himself to be personally one with the Holy Church . . . the blessed Job conveys a type of the Redeemer who is to come together with his own body. . . .”45 Christ is the head and
42
Tractatus I 15 (II 15) de Iob II 9, CCSL 22, 61–62. It is dedicated to Leander, bishop of Sevilla, who passed by in Constantinople when Gregory was staying there. 44 Moralia, Letter to Leander, SC 32bis 122–124, ET (altered) cp. Library of the Fathers (= LF) vol. I, 7. 45 Moralia, Praefatio 14, SC 32bis 162–164, ET cp. LF vol. I, 26–27. 43
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the Church is his body; Job prefigures both. On the moral level, Job is the man who shows his audience how faith should be made manifest in works. But Gregory cannot make much literal sense of the story of Job. This becomes especially evident in his explanation of Job 3:3. “Sometimes even the very words themselves contradict each other, in order not to run the risk of being taken literally. Thus Job says: ‘Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night which said, ‘A man-child is conceived.’ And a little while afterwards, he adds: ‘Let darkness seize it, and let it be involved in bitterness’. . . . And in cursing the same night, he adds: ‘Let that night be solitary’ [ Job 3:4]. Surely this day of his birth, which was unrolled by the course of time, could not stand firm. In what way then did he wish that it might be involved in darkness? For having gone by, it no longer was. And even if it had existed among the created things, it could by no means feel bitterness. It is evident therefore that the words [of Job 3:3 etc.] cannot in any way refer to a day without feeling, when the wish is expressed that it be struck with a feeling of bitterness [cf. Job 3:6]. And if the night in which he was conceived had gone by, united with the other nights, how could he wish that it became solitary? No more could it be fixed by the passing time than separated from the union with the other nights.”46 In a highly original manner, Gregory indicates contradictions in the text in order to justify his abandonment of the historical level in favour of another level of explanation. Beginning on the historical level, Gregory shows the difficulties of the literal sense. His idea is that Job cannot ask for anything to be done to his day of birth, because that day is long past. In other words: his curse cannot have any effect. Job knew that of course, so; thus, he did not sin. Gregory says that it was on behalf of his friends that Job spoke this curse, because his friends only found physical miseries to be important. Job, however, realised that it is a wounded soul that needs healing most of all: “Therefore if we weigh with exactness the words of blessed Job, his cursing does not come from the malice of someone guilty of sin, but from the integrity of a judge; not from the anger of someone who is shaken, but from quiet teaching . . . And while he outwardly burst forth into the voice of grief, he showed to his friends that were inwardly wounded the power of healing, saying,
46
Moralia, Letter to Leander, SC 32bis 124–126, ET cp. LF vol. I, 8.
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‘Let the day perish wherein I was born . . .’.” Next, Gregory offers an interpretation of Job 3:3 on a higher level. Here the ‘day’ is no longer just the day of Job’s birth but it is now a metaphor for ‘mortality’. “What is to be understood by the day of birth except the whole time of our mortal state? As long as this keeps us fast in the corruption of this mutable state of being, the unchangeability of eternity does not appear to us. Job then, who already beholds the day of eternity, endures with difficulty the day of his mortal being. And observe that he does not say, ‘Let the day perish wherein I was created’, but, ‘let the day perish wherein I was born’. For man was created in a day of righteousness, but now he is born in a time of guilt; for Adam was created, but Cain was the first man that was born. What else is it to curse the day of birth then, than to say openly, ‘May the day of mutability perish, and the light of eternity burst forth?’47 Conclusion E. Dassmann writes: “If we compare the picture of Job that is drawn by the Church Fathers with the Old Testament Job literature, it becomes clear that the sufferer rebelling against God has been toned down to an example of patience and all other virtues . . .”48 Already in Jewish tradition, the process of liberating Job from all unacceptable traits had taken place, as is apparent from the Septuagint, the Testament of Job and the rabbinic tradition. Those rare Jewish attempts to allow Job the status of a rebel, requires a more thorough explanation than we can give here. In Christian tradition, none of the Fathers can cope with a rebellious Job. All rebellion is left to his wife, tricked by Satan. In the eyes of the Church Fathers, the phrase “The Lord has given, the Lord has taken, the name of the Lord be praised” ( Job 1:21) summarizes the message of the book. Centuries would pass, before the theodicy problem would be formulated once again with an acuteness comparable to that of the Biblical book of Job.
47 48
Moralia IV,1,3–4, CCSL 143, 165–166; ET cp. LF vol. I, 186. “Akzente frühchristlicher Hiobdeutung”, JAC 31, 1988, 42.
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PIOUS INTREPIDNESS: EGERIA AND THE ASCETIC IDEAL Hanneke Reuling (Catholic Theological University of Utrecht, The Netherlands) Introduction Who was Egeria? The woman who travelled for several years in the 380s from the far west of the Roman Empire to the Holy Land, Egypt, Syria and Asia Minor, owes her fame to the account she wrote of her journey. This narrative, the Itinerarium, addressed to a group of women to whom she refers as sisters, is a major source for the study of liturgy, pilgrimage, geography and monasticism in early Christianity.1 Although her story relates to the theme of this book— Egeria describes many saintly figures—this is not the aspect to be discussed. Rather, our focus is the character of the writer. What kind of woman was she? What kind of life did she lead? Can this singular pilgrim represent an inspiration for pious living? And what can the way she lived tell us about one of the central Christian role models, that of the ascetic? In the late seventh century, the Galician monk Valerius of Bierzo wrote a series of letters to monks in monasteries in the region, intended as contributions towards their ascetic and spiritual development. These letters include a praise of Egeria. Valerius recommends the pilgrim as an example of true religious life, praising her courage, her perseverance and her passionate longing for divine grace.2 However, in presenting Egeria as an exemplary person,
1 The Itinerarium Egeriae was published in CCSL 175 (Turnhout 1965). An edition with French translation is available in SC 296 (Paris 1997) and with German translation in Fontes Christiani 20 (Freiburg 1995). See also J. Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels: Newly translated with supporting documents and notes, Warminster 1999 (third edition). It is unclear whether Egeria came from Northern Spain or Southern France. Most authors tend to prefer Spain, a choice to which I have adhered. This may seem relatively arbitrary, but the importance of the question should not be exaggerated. The history of Priscillianism has shown how close the two regions actually were. The Hebrew reader is referred to the translation and commentary of O. Limor, Holy Land Travels: Christian Pilgrims in Late Antiquity, Jerusalem, 1988, 39–130 (Hebrew). 2 Valerius’ letter concerning Egeria is also published in SC 296, Paris 1997.
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Valerius shows himself the proverbial exception to the rule. Tradition remains remarkably silent on Egeria’s side, while historiography has underlined the problematic aspects of her person more than the exemplary. Here the question of Egeria’s identity has been presented as one of religious status, or in other words whether or not Egeria was a nun. Opinions have differed widely on this point. Hagith Sivan, for example, maintained that Egeria could never have been either an abbess, or an ordinary nun—‘For once settled in a monastic community, the monk was not likely to start wandering off to as distant a destination as the Holy Land, even on a pious mission.’ Egeria should therefore be seen as a layperson, one of a group of pious women who followed the aristocratic example of pilgrimage to the East.3 This view was a response to that presented by Paul Devos, who had written some years before that ‘pour nous Égérie est, avec toutes les nuances que requiert l’emploi de ces termes à l’époque dont il s’agit, une vraie religieuse appartenant à une vraie communauté religieuse, composée de “soeurs” qui sont ses consoeurs’.4 In the context of the many studies on ancient asceticism of the last twenty years, this debate on the status of Egeria is not without apparent anachronisms. What, after all, is meant by the term ‘nun’ or ‘religious’? Surely these are crystallized models taken from a later period and superimposed on the flexible situation that pertained in the fourth century, which encompassed coenobites, but also chaste wives and ascetic women living alongside men. Peter Brown has shown convincingly how alien early Christianity’s vision of the body is to us, thereby warning against too ready an identification of ancient models with familiar patterns.5
3 H. Sivan, ‘Who was Egeria? Piety and Pilgrimage in the Age of Gratian’, HTR 81 (1988) 59–72. 4 P. Devos, ‘Une nouvelle Égérie’, AB 101 (1983) 43–70. Christine Mohrmann provides a balanced view (‘Égérie et le Monachisme’ in: Corona Gratiarum I. Bruges 1975, 163–180). She sees Egeria not as a virgin, coenobite, religious or ascetic, but rather associates her with Roman circles of scholarly women, like those around Marcella. That is, she thinks of Egeria as as one of the intellectuals ‘appartenant à la noblesse, menant une vie ascétique—mais pas dénuée d’un certain luxe—dans les villas et grands domaines d’Aquitaine et, aussi, d’Espagne et d’Italie’. 5 On the variety of forms of early Christian asceticism in relation to later forms of religious life see P. Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity, London-Boston 1988, and S. Elm, Virgins of God: The Making of Asceticism in Late Antiquity, Oxford 1994.
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By modern historiographical standards, the least flawed formulation would therefore be to ask whether Egeria can be considered a representative of the richly-varied phenomenon of late-antique asceticism. I use the term ‘asceticism’ as an umbrella concept for all possible variants of the life of perfection. Sexual abstention in the pursuit of a Christian life can be taken as the decisive criterion. Other ascetic elements will also always be present, varying according to the lifestyle. Moreover, we would state that the usual approach to the person of Egeria doesn’t just tend to anachronism, it also thwarts a possible appreciation of this remarkable pilgrim as an exemplary religious woman. It is obvious that Egeria’s way of life transgresses the traditional boundaries of ideal female religiosity. Her independence and freedom of movement might be considered especially contradictory to a possible religious status. In light of the question as whether Egeria was a nun, these characteristics become a problem-to-besolved, a deviation of what is understood to be normative. In this study, our main concern will be to find out whether and in what way Egeria can be considered an exponent of the ascetic movement. In order to achieve this purpose, the relevant details in the Itinerarium are identified and then examined in relation to what is known about the role of women’s asceticism in Egeria’s native region. Finally, we shall return to the discussion of the relationship between the pilgrim and the role model of the ascetic. Information in the Itinerarium Nowhere in the surviving sections of her narrative is there any direct information about the author or her lifestyle.6 Nor does she appear in any other contemporary source. Egeria is mentioned only in the letter from Valerius of Bierzo, in which she is described as a beatissima sanctimonialis (‘a most blessed religious woman’ or ‘nun’). In fact, this letter dates from around 680 , and is more interesting as a historical source for the interpretative framework of the seventh century than for the status of Egeria. We are therefore forced to make do with the indirect information in the Itinerarium.
6 The text of the Itinerarium has not survived complete. Apart from a lacuna in the centre, the beginning and end—precisely those parts which probably contained information about the origins of the text—are also missing.
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Style of Travel
Egeria never travelled alone. She was invariably accompanied by monks or clerics, always men, who escorted her and acted as guides. Deaconess Marthana, the friend who received her at Seleucia, at the tomb of Thecla, is the only woman mentioned by name (It. 23,3). It seems unlikely that other women would have formed part of the entourage without Egeria mentioning the fact, since she explicitly mentioned the presence of men and women elsewhere. This occurred at two locations, in Seleucia and in Jerusalem. Describing her visit to the tomb of Thecla, Egeria mentioned the cells of men and women (It. 23,2; 23,3; 23,6). Similarly, in her description of the liturgy in Jerusalem, she noted that the ascetics present were viri vel feminae (It. 28,3; 39,3 and also 47,4). Interestingly, she repeatedly referred to the lay public as male and female as well (viri vel mulieres: It. 24,1 and 12; 25,12; 45,2 and 4; 46,1; 49,1).7 Nowhere does the text of the Itinerarium suggest that Egeria ever encountered any antagonism as a single woman travelling in the company of men. In Egypt she was welcomed by the monks she visited. The ‘holy men’ acted as local guides, receiving her in their cells and offering her small gifts. At Edessa and Carrhae she enjoyed animated conversations with the local bishops (It. 19,5–19; It. 20,9). At no point does the Itinerarium indicate that Egeria led a particularly strict ascetic life. While she described how others fasted (It. 27,9; 28,3; 44,1), she never mentioned her own abstinence. Prayer, Scripture-reading and liturgy play a prominent part in her narrative, but vigils are not mentioned as forming a regular part of her life. Nevertheless, she adapted to the rhythm of the monks she visited and joined them in their meals (It. 9,1; 4,8). On the road, she generally rode, only travelling by foot where the paths were too steep (It. 3,2). Despite being able to ride, however, the journey, especially in the desert, must have been laborious. Egeria noted as much on various occasions (e.g. It. 6,4). But her gratitude at being able to fulfil her desire to undertake the journey made the effort hardly felt (It. 3,2). Nowhere in the Itinerarium is money discussed; Egeria apparently had sufficient resources to allow her to travel for three years,
7 Both expressions mean ‘man and women’, but the term mulier tends to indicate a married woman.
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not to miss any of the excursions and eventually to postpone the journey from Constantinople to Spain without specifying when she expected her ‘desire’ to be satisfied. Privation or mortification seem to have been alien concepts to her: this was a woman who enjoyed whatever she encountered to the full and was able to report it with infectious enthusiasm. In this period, regular pilgrim routes existed throughout Palestine and the surrounding region, and there appears to have been a relatively organized supply of guides.8 From Egeria’s narrative it is clear that she made Jerusalem her base. She gleaned information from other pilgrims and sought contact with potential travel companions and guides. Her narrative shows her to have been a person of initiative, enterprise and independence. Ascetic and Monastic Terminology The terminology Egeria employed when discussing various ascetics has been meticulously studied by Christine Mohrmann in the publication referred to above.9 Remarkably, Egeria’s use of language changed in different sections of the narrative. She appears to have adjusted to the local conventions and environments in which she happened to be at the time. Moreover, she seems to have enjoyed particular words and phrases with an exotic ring, such as ascitis, aputactite viri vel feminae and monazontes et parthene.10 These terms are accompanied by the expression ut hic dicunt (‘as people say here’), indicating that they would have been new to her readers. The word monachus (‘monk’) is used without any further qualification. By monasteria, Egeria meant the collective residences of individual monks—
8 E.D. Hunt, Holy Land Pilgrimage in the Later Roman Empire AD 312–460 (Oxford 1982), 137, describes the commercial developments that accompanied the LateAntique boom in pilgrimage. He mentions the growth of small trades, such as shoemaking and calligraphy, and the need for guides at the holy places, who would expect payment for their services. 9 See footnote 4. 10 These are all Greek expressions in Latin transliteration. Ascitis means ‘ascetics’, aputactit(a)e viri vel feminae probably refers to male and female hermits (‘people set apart’), while monazontes is greek for ‘monks’ and parthene for ‘virgins’. Mohrmann, ‘Égérie’, 177, on aputactite: ‘Cet emprunt grec, épotaktistÆw dérivé de épotãttomai peut être considéré comme l’équivalent de continens latin. En grec épotagÆ et épotaktikÒw se rapportent à la vie des moines en général.’
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the cells. Egeria was not consistent in her use of terminology and it is impossible to determine the category of ascetics referred to with a specific phrase. She appears to have been relatively unaware of the different designations. Moreover, she does not express a sense of identification with any of the forms of ascetic life she described. A particularly significant term is the word frater (‘brother’). Egeria used it four times and on three of these occasions she added that the term refers to monachus (It. 10,3; 15,3; 16,2). Bastiaensen11 has noted that the word’s meaning was in a transitional phase at this time. For years it had been used to signify a ‘brother in faith’ (i.e. a Christian), but in the age of the coenobite monks it took on the meaning of ‘monk’. This change had only just begun at the time of Egeria’s journey, so that she felt compelled to explain the meaning to her readers each time she used it. The parallel to frater—soror or ‘sister’—only occurs as a form of address for Egeria’s readers. But on one occasion, when referring to the men and women who worked as interpreters in Jerusalem, Egeria employed a much-debated expression: alii fratres et sorores grecolatini (i.e. brothers and sisters who speek both greek and latin, It. 47,4). The issue here is whether—given the use of frater—this refers to monks and nuns, or whether this harks back to the old use of sisters and brothers in faith.12 The question is especially important for an understanding of who Egeria’s readers were, on which we shall expand below. It is also noticeable that Egeria used the word laicus (‘layperson’) as the opposite of monachus, instead of the usual opposing pair of laicus-clericus (‘people and clergy’). This, for Bastiaensen, is an argument supporting the hypothesis that Egeria was herself a nun.13
11 A.A. Bastiaensen, Observations sur le vocabulaire liturgique dans I’Itinéraire de Égérie. Nijmegen 1962, 21–22. 12 As Egeria explains in It. 47,4, the current languages were Greek and Syriac (Aramaic). The bishop of Jerusalem, however, always spoke in Greek, his words being simultaneously translated by a priest. Similary the readings from Scripture were always in Greek, while someone translated them on the same moment into Aramaic. ‘Of course there are also people who speak neither Greek nor Syriac, but Latin. But there is no need for them to be discouraged, since some of the brothers or sisters who speak Latin as well as Greek will explain things to them’ (translation from Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels). Egeria might refer to Western pilgrims or to inhabitants of the Holy Land originally coming form other regions. In a concrete suggestion, Mohrmann has proposed that Egeria refers to the members of the Western monasteries of Melania and Rufinus on the Mount of Olives. 13 Bastiaensen, Observations, 22–23.
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Finally, it should also be noted that Egeria, at least in her own version of events, is referred to by the bishops of Carrhae and Edessa as filia (‘daughter’), a word that found a place in St Jerome’s arrangement of ascetic terminological categories.14 Egeria’s Readers Various titles were employed by Egeria when addressing her readers. Twice she wrote dominae venerabiles sorores (‘reverend ladies my sisters’, It. 3,8 and 20,5), six times affectio vestra (‘beloved ones’, It. 5,8; 7,3; 17,2; 20,13; 23,10 and 24,1), once domine venerabiles (‘reverend ladies’, It. 12,7), once dominae animae meae (‘ladies of my soul’ or ‘dearest ladies’, It. 19,19), twice dominae, lumen meum (‘ladies, my light’, It. 23,10 two times) and again twice dominae sorores (‘ladies and sisters’, It. 46,1 and 46,4). Her most frequently used form of address is therefore affectio vestra, in Maraval’s view, a ‘titre de politesse affectueuse’. Mohrmann sees this as the most traditional of her range of expressions. She notes that the other forms suggest a ‘lien assez étroit’ between the women readers and Egeria. Sorores, in her view, clearly refers to nuns. Thus the singular form means ‘religious’, and the plural a ‘community’.15 Bastiaensen’s interpretation of the word soror is much wider. He notes three possible connotations: sisters in the flesh (i.e. daughters of the same parents), sisters in faith (i.e. female members of the Christian community) and ‘soeurs de religion’ (i.e. religious women).16 The combination of soror with other forms of address makes this last definition, in our view, the most plausible. Egeria’s sisters were well versed in Scripture. In fact, the reason why Egeria wrote to them is precisely because she knew they wished to know about what she encountered in the East (It. 24,1). As she travelled, Egeria regularly referred to the Scriptural knowledge of these women and advised them to reread passages linked with the locations she had visited. She informed them that the bishop of
14 St Jerome, Ad Theodoram spanam (ep. 75,5) and Ad Abigaum spanum (ep. 76,3). In both cases the reference is to a Spanish woman named Theodora who, with her husband, led a celibate marriage. Edition and translation in J. Labourt, Saint Jérôme lettres, vol. 4, Paris 1954. 15 Mohrmann, ‘Égérie’, 165–166. 16 Bastiaensen, Observations, 21–22.
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Edessa had given her a copy of the correspondence between Jesus and Abgar, which was especially pleasing since this was a longer version than the one she had at home. She promised to show her friends when she returned (It. 19,19). The narrative is therefore addressed exclusively to women: in particular, to women interested in religion and with a knowledge of Scripture. This appears to have been her spiritual home front. With these women she wished to share her experiences. Nowhere is a husband mentioned, neither are parents or family, a local church to which she might have belonged or friends—apart from Marthana. Whether Egeria was a member of the community with which she corresponded or not, the ties with these women must have been remarkably close. Spirituality Besides of a lack of asceticism, Egeria has also been accused of a lack of spirituality. Although understandable, this conclusion is a little simplistic. Egeria was not spiritual in the sense of a penchant for theological or anthropological reflection. Indeed, her spiritual life was perhaps in that context somewhat superficial. Yet Egeria appears to have been touched, even emotionally moved, by what she heard, although nothing is told of the ideas and wisdom she exchanged with the venerable men she met—almost as if she were not particularly interested. The holiness for which she was continually searching, acquired form for her in the places and people she visited. The Scripture that was so close to her heart was her travelguide and history book. She travelled iuxta Scripturas sanctas, following the roads the Bible showed her, revealing a highly literal (historical) interpretation of the relevant passages. There is another side to Egeria’s spirituality. This is revealed in her pious curiosity (It. 16,3), her enthusiasm and her ability to enjoy life. Her self-confidence and her open approach to people should not be seen separately from her faith that ‘God wishes to give her everything’ (It. 20,6). At the same time, she revealed in many instances a conscious modesty and a sense of gratitude towards God and the venerable men she met. She clearly adored the Bible, the liturgy, saints and holy places. While Egeria may have shown little tendency towards speculative thought in the form of theological debate of allegorical exegesis, she desperately longed to be a part of the concretely
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holy. This is why she sought out whatever was tangibly and visibly sacred—places and vistas from biblical history, liturgical celebrations and monks in the barren wilderness. Based on this, it is possible to compile a preliminary profile of our pilgrim. Egeria was well-off, a woman from a privileged background.17 There is no reason to suppose that she was married or in any other way tied to family. She seems not to have lived an abstemious life and had no special interest in theological questions. However, she was deeply interested in different aspects of religious life, especially in liturgy and asceticism. While she was remarkably free and independent, she also had close ties with a group of apparently religious women. Egeria and Female Asceticism in Spain Pre-monastic asceticism in the extreme west of the Roman Empire is a sparsely documented field.18 In Spain, moreover, ecclesiastical documents of the late fourth century are dominated by the struggle against Priscillianism. Nevertheless, hints of other forms of asceticism can be read between the lines of the prohibitions of the conciliar documents. Besides the women followers of Priscillian, Spain appears also to have had its consecrated virgins, widows and women living in convents as well as female ascetics living alongside men, or in short, every variety of female asceticism found in other regions. The conciliar texts provide little information about the form or substance of this asceticism, revealing only that the orthodox wing of the episcopate was less than enthusiastic about the new ascetic rage that
17 The social status of Egeria has also been discussed. Hunt, Holy Land Pilgrimage, 163–166, has suggested that she may have been connected to the court of Theodosius. Sivan, in ‘Who was Egeria?’, takes a different view, associating the pilgrim with the ‘urban bourgeoisie’. 18 On the problem of Egeria’s origins see footnote 1. Although from the early Middle Ages on monasticism has become the dominant type of asceticism, in the time of Egeria the development from a broad variety of ascetic lifestyles to the prevalence of organized community-life had only just begun. However, as far as Spain and Gaul are concerned, sources are scarce up to the time of St Martin, who propagated a form of monasticism that was highly inspired by Anthony. A good overview is available in R. Lorenz, ‘Die Anfänge des abendländlichen Mönchtums im IV. Jahrhundert’, ZKG 77 (1966) 1–61. On Spain see especially: J. Perez de Urbel, ‘Le monachisme en Espagne au temps de saint Martin’, in: Saint Martin et son temps. Studia Anselmiana 46 (1961) 45–66.
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had now apparently reached Spain.19 In addition to the concern voiced in the canons of the first council of Saragossa (380) regarding the heretical deviancy of the Priscillianists, these canons also reveal a disapproval of the monastic tendency to withdraw from the local community and especially the degree of contact between men and women which the ascetics apparently tolerated.20 The first canon of Saragossa not only barred women from attending assemblies at which Scripture was read alongside men to whom they were not related, it also prohibited the reading of Scripture by groups of women alone. In fact, by around 400, the preference for clerical celibacy had gained the upper hand, although the fear of the excesses associated with other forms of asceticism remained undiminished.21 It therefore seems highly unlikely that Egeria could have been a representative of classical virginal asceticism. The virgo sacra or devota (both terms indicating a consecrated virgin) is a figure that had long featured in Christendom. Since the third century, these women had the option of taking the veil in a solemn ordination ceremony. Often, they lived with their families and fulfilled a variety of duties at their local church. Psalmody, bible reading and handicrafts were regular aspects of their daily lives, alongside fasts, vigils and prayer. It is almost inconceivable that the orthodox bishops would have permitted one of their consecrated virgins to travel as Egeria did, doing practically everything the Spanish councils had banned. For the same reason, it is improbable that Egeria bore the early-Christian status of widow. Could Egeria have been a monacha? In contemporary terms, this was no more and no less than a woman who lived together with other virgins. Various constructions were possible, depending on the number of women, their relationship to each other and the rules they followed. Some formed house convents, other groups were organized around a particular canon of daily observance, and some spiritual groups centred on a specific woman. Church documents of the late fourth century indicate that monasticism had already made 19 The acts of the councils of Saragossa (Caesaraugustanum I) and Toledo (Toletanum I) have been published by G.M. Diez and F. Rodriguez in La Collecion canonica Hispana IV (Madrid 1984). The provenance of Toledo I is problematic and is discussed in H. Chadwick, Priscillian of Avila: The Occult and the Charismatic in the Early Church, Oxford 1976. 20 Anti-monastic tendencies can be discerned in canon 2 and especially in 6. 21 Toledo I, canon 1, 6 and 9.
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inroads into Spain by then.22 Indeed, as we have seen, monachus was a familiar expression for Egeria. There seems to be little to oppose this hypothesis, therefore, although the only supportive argument is that Egeria addressed the account of her journey to a group of women whom she referred to as ‘sisters’. Is that sufficient to assert that she formed part of a community? As we shall see, the conclusion is less self-evident than it seems. Clearly, the leading ascetic movement in fourth-century Spain was Priscillianism. This movement of spiritual renewal, named after its leading man bishop Priscillian of Avila, encouraged a severe form of asceticism and believed that the gift of prophecy could be rewarded to both man and women. Priscillian, a person of education with a special interest in apocryphal literature, had a taste for the occult, which made him vulnerable to the charge of Manicheism and sorcery that eventually led to his execution in 386. Despite the dramatic death of Priscillian and some of his followers, the movement continued to flourish, especially in the province of Galicia. Henry Chadwick has asserted that Egeria either belonged to this movement, or was at least in contact with it. Her account, in his view, was written for a ‘religious sorority of the type that Priscillian encouraged’.23 His argument is based on Egeria’s attention to apocryphal texts (such as the correspondence between Jesus and Abgar), a remark that no fasts were held on Saturdays or Sundays in the Holy Land (Sunday fasting was a Priscillianist practice) and a particular interest in the ascetics of Mesopotamia, possibly followers of the Messalian movement that resembled Priscillian’s group in certain ways. The principal objection to Chadwick’s thesis appears, in my view, to be the enormous distance between Egeria’s spirituality and that of Priscillian. Her unconstrained enthusiasm is in stark contrast to the esoteric focus of her radical compatriots and her literal interpretation of biblical texts bears no relation to the complex allegorical exegesis of the Priscillianist tracts.24 Although it seems unlikely that Egeria was a follower of Priscillian, this theory certainly raises interesting issues. Entirely in line with the archaic pneumatic nature of this radical ascetic movement, the 22 Saragossa I, canon 6: ‘ut clericus qui propter licentiam monachus vult esse, excommunicetur’. 23 Chadwick, Priscillian, 166. 24 Chadwick, Priscillian, 73 ff.
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Priscillianist tracts included proposals to abolish the division between men and women. By living in strict abstention, by severe fasting, and by intensive prayer, vigils and study of Scripture, the Priscillians hoped to attain the condition of an angel. The difference between men and women was then no longer relevant. Not only was equality then possible, at least theoretically; it was also possible to switch gender in either direction: women could become brothers and men the brides of Christ.25 Contemporary scandal-mongers attributed to Priscillian a tremendous power over women.26 Given his theological-anthropological views, they might well have been right. If Egeria had been part of this prominent Spanish movement, it would explain why she was able to act with such independence, to mix so freely with male ascetics and why she attached such importance to the study of Scripture. It therefore seems justifiable to conclude that there was a link between Egeria’s unprecedented freedom of mobility and the norms of certain ascetic movements. Indeed, the subject of gender switching and that of biblical study were both typical themes associated with the new ascetic movement that gained increasing ground in the West in the fourth century.27 These lines seem to converge in one of the most unusual phenomena to emerge from this Late-Antique movement: that of the wealthy ascetic. In the domestic monasteries these aristocrats practiced what Elizabeth Clark has called ‘a genteel form of asceticism’. They remained in actual possession of their property and servants,
25 Both the Tracts and the Canons appear in CSEL 18 (1889). For relations between the sexes see, for example, Tract I, p. 28, l. 14–24, with a typical appeal to the old baptismal formula cited by St Paul in Gal 3:28 (‘There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus’). For a discussion of the use of Gal 3:28 in mainstream and marginal Christianity see S. Heine, Frauen der frühen Christenheit, Göttingen 1990 (3). 26 St. Jerome, Ad Ctesiphontem (ep. 133, Labourt, Saint Jérôme, vol. 8, 1963). The historian Sulpicius Severus also mentions the many women in Liber Chronicorum II, 46 and 48 (CSEL 1, 1866). 27 It is hardly coincidental that it was precisely these aspects that the members of the Spanish councils rejected, and which appear to have played no role in traditional virginal asceticism. On the ambivalent position of the Church fathers with regard to the nature and position of (ascetic) women see E.A. Clark, Ascetic Piety and Womens’ Faith: Essays on Late Ancient Christianity, New York-Toronto 1986, especially the articles ‘Devil’s Gateway and Bride of Christ: Women in the Early Christian World’ (23–60) and ‘Ascetic Renunciation and Feminine Advancement: A Paradox of late Ancient Christianity’ (175–208).
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only divesting themselves of their belongings mentally. Physical labour, a regular part of life in most monasteries, was never part of their daily routine. For the women of this class, an ascetic life meant a release from family duties. These ascetics did not place themselves under an abbot or rule: they went wherever they pleased and managed their own finances.28 Like these elitist ascetics, Egeria had international contacts, wealth, the opportunity to overcome the constraints of her gender (especially the chance to travel as a woman alone and to meet men who were not related to her) and, of course, an interest in the Bible and in religious life. That the phenomenon was not unknown in Spain is clear from the correspondence of the Church Father St Jerome with two couples living together on ascetic principles, of which the woman in both cases was Spanish. In one letter, the Church Father congratulated the Spaniard Lucinus with the conversio of himself and his wife, Theodora.29 Now they were joined in a casta coniunctio (‘a chaste alliance’); Theodora was no longer a wife, but a brother, she had changed from woman to man, from subordinate to equal. Now they would speed together under a joint yoke towards the kingdom of heaven.30 In letters to Lucinus and, after the latter’s death, to Theodora, as well as in his correspondence with Paulinus of Nola and his wife Therasia, St Jerome expressed his criticism of the way they managed their finances.31 That his criticism was not entirely disinterested and that he considered his own monastery at Bethlehem a fitting target for a donation, seems beyond much doubt. It is at least clear from his remarks that the new ascetics had not yet divested themselves of all their worldly possessions. In short, the information in the Itinerarium makes most sense if Egeria is seen as being similar to her compatriots Therasia and Theodora: as an independent ascetic, unencumbered by ties to a local church community like the traditional virgins and widows, or to a community of religious women of whatever dogmatic hue. If that were the case, however, then who were Egeria’s sisters and what was the nature of the ties between these women? 28
Clark, Ascetic Piety, 181. While conversio originally referred to a conversion to the Christian faith, in this context it has the meaning of a conversion from ordinary Christian life to an ascetic lifestyle. 30 St. Jerome, Ad Lucinum Baeticum (ep. 71,3. Labourt, Saint Jérôme, vol. 4, 1954). 31 St. Jerome, epistulae 58, 71 and 75 (Labourt, Saint Jérôme, vols 3–4, 1953–54). 29
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Two Letters
Christine Mohrmann has made the significant observation that Egeria need not necessarily have been a member of the group of women whom she was addressing. This notion is supported by an remarkable, yet rarely studied document from around the year 400. It contains two letters, both written by one woman to another, that may have had a Priscillianist background. The terminology of the first letter reveals a surprising similarity to the way Egeria addresses her sisters.32 The writer of the letter praised the recipient extravagantly for her knowledge of Scripture. Her opinion of herself was more modest: however much she wished, she could not hope to match the qualities her friend saw in her. Yet she considered that the qualities of the other woman compensated for her own inadequacy: quia ex opere tuo infelicitatem meam ignorantiamque pensasti. [. . .] In te vero utraque stant, et utraque fructificant (‘For you have recompensed for my unhappiness and ignorance because of your work. [. . .] Both of us stand firm in you, and both of us bear fruit.’) Here she went on to describe her as being impregnated with the word of God. The ‘son’ to whom she would give birth was the knowledge of God. Thus, she noted, the virginei fructus incorrupta fecunditas (‘the unspoiled fertility of a virgin fruit’). Referring to the daughter of Jephthah, the writer described her own fate: Mihi autem infelici necesse est petere a patre meo, ut plangam virginalia mea, priusquam paternorum laborum pacta dissolvam (‘But I, unhappy woman, must request of my father that I may bewail my virginity, before I shall dissolve the pacts of my fathers lips’, cf. Judges 11:39). According to the writer, the recipient deserved to be called, not soror (‘sister’), but domina (‘lady’). She was a mother of spiritual fruit, but
32 The letters are published by G. Morin in RB 40 (1928), 289–310 (‘Pages inédites de deux pseudo-Jérômes des environs de l’an 400. I. Deux lettres mystique d’une ascète espagnoles’). On the question of authorship and location see Morin’s commentary and B. Fischer’s discussion in CPL of 1951 (Theologische Literaturzeitung, 1952, col. 288), Perez de Urbel, ‘Le monachisme’, 49 and 52, Chadwick, Priscillian, 16 and 166–169 and H.J. Frede, Kirchenschriftsteller. Freiburg 19953. In CPL the letters are listed under the name of the Spanish monk Bachiarius. Morin’s hypothesis that Bachiarius worked as a secretary for the two women seems to me rather farfetched. Like Chadwick, I assume the letters emanated from a Priscillianist environment, particularly since retreating for period of isolation, as advised here, is known to have been a Priscillianist practice. Compare the fourth canon of the council of Saragossa.
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also a bride, namely of Christ. Here she referred to her as venerabilis soror (‘reverend sister’), which would later change to veneranda sanctitas tua (‘your reverend holiness’). Borrowing from Jeremiah 13:4 ff., the writer noted that the garments of her virtue were marred iuxta praecipitium mundiale et duritia cordis mei (‘by the worldly precipice and the insensibility of my heart’). In that sense, she was now a naked woman, with no protection from wisdom. She concluded the letter somewhat abruptly and a little sadly, noting that her own ignorance and sorrow in the face of her mother’s illness prevented her from writing any further. She begged her friend to ‘fertilize her dried roots’ so that, when she next visited as usual, she would find a fruit of good works. The second surviving letter is considerably longer and presents a sample of late Priscillianist theory on virginity which is beyond the purview of our discussion. In short, the writer’s message comes down to a call to the recipient to retreat for the three weeks preceding Epiphany. In addition to virgins, married women were also supposed to prepare themselves in the solitude of the convent for the ‘birth of Christ’. In this way they could emulate Mary. The writer assured her friend that she need have no fear of loneliness, since her inner being would be a spouse to wisdom. And her wives (sic) would also bear children, in the form of the fruit of her good work. Here, the theme of gender-switching returns. The wives are compared to Daniel. Just as he deserved to be called a man because of the strength of his work, ita nos omnibus desideriis nostris et voluptatibus potentantes viri dici vel esse mereamur (‘likewise we deserve to be called or rather to be men when we master all our desires and delights’). Thus if a woman who obeys her husband is called his subordinate, those who are able to subject their own desires could be termed a man with respect to those desires. The guestroom of the convent was for the woman, who would give birth to the ‘male’. ‘Joseph’ would gladly accept this momentary separation, since the sorrow of temporary abstinence would bear double fruit.33 Who were the women who wrote these letters and who were their readers? The writer of the first letter remarked that she had been compelled to ask her father for permission to mourn her virginity,
33 Given the context of the letter, it seems clear that ‘Joseph’ is an enigmatic expression for the husband of the retreating woman, who is compared with Mary.
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before fulfilling the pact her father made. Assuming that her own father’s pact was not quite the same as Jephthah’s vow, and given the contrast that the writer created between her own situation and that of her reader, it would seem that she was as yet unmarried, but was preparing for life as a married woman. The ‘compulsion’ was in her view not simply a parental order, it also reflected her lack of spirituality. A virginal existence only made sense if accompanied by ‘knowledge’ and, she wrote, this was knowledge she did not possess. It is clear at least that the woman to whom the letter is addressed was a virgin. Her friend describes her as extremely ‘fertile’, in the sense that she allowed others to imbibe her spirituality. For this she not only wrote letters, she also paid visits. The second writer constructed her letter around highly allegorical interpretations of biblical texts. Leading her reader, like a teacher, step by step, she took account of the possible objections and dealt with these as she proceeded. She was clearly one of the people who spent the three weeks before Epiphany in isolation. Finally, the person to whom she addressed the letter was a married woman. Just as she was to follow Mary, her husband would emulate Joseph and not object to the interruption of their marriage for three weeks. This implies that the woman would return to her normal life after her retreat. We, therefore, have two women who were either married or preparing to marry. Both were in touch with another woman, although it is impossible to determine whether this was the same person. These women, however, also have something in common. In terms of a spiritual relationship, they fulfilled the same role. These letters clearly show that ascetic women provided spiritual guidance to women who lived worldly lives. This was not just in the form of letters. As the first letter indicates, it also involved visits. The terminology of the first letter reveals the writer to have had enormous respect for her teacher: she considered domina more appropriate than soror. Where she nevertheless used soror, she added venerabilis and even called her veneranda sanctitas tua. The first letter reveals that for the writer, a ‘sister’ or ‘venerable’ was a virgin. A ‘sister’ was also at home in Scripture. The writer of the first letter noted that she ‘encompassed the entire corpus of the canon’, praising her knowledge and eloquence. This image is confirmed in the substance and self-confident style of the second letter. This closely matches the image of the sisters referred to by Egeria so that it would be correct to conclude that these formed a group of monachae. Moreover,
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these letters clearly represent the same pattern as the relationship between the pilgrim and the women for whom she wrote. It would seem, therefore, that the sisters she addressed with such respect were her teachers, her inspirational guides or her spiritual mentors. Egeria and her sisters shared a dedication to an ascetic movement based on Christian principles, although they did not express this in the same way. Ascetic Ideal One of the most influential Christian role models is undoubtedly that of the ascetic. Ascetics are encountered in many different forms, from Simeon the Stylite to the modern convent nun. Since the late fourth century, the dominant type of this model has been that of generally accepted clerical celibacy. Throughout the Middle Ages, the Church’s elite was made up of celibates. Indeed, it remains so in today’s Catholic Church. Even for the broad mass of congregants, those who never completely took on the role model, the ideal of sexual abstinence was not without its consequences. For them, the holy person stood apart and embodied what ordinary people neither could nor wished to become, yet expressed values that were universal. Clearly, the influence of the ascetic ideal left a mark on Christian notions of bodiliness, sexuality and pleasure in general and Christian theology of marriage in particular. For most contemporary Christians, ascetic ideals have little appeal. Continence is mostly understood as a suppressive practice, which impedes a positive evaluation of human bodily existence. But the many recent studies of asceticism in the early Christian era have revealed a different picture. Here asceticism comes to the fore as a radical alternative to the existing order which provided not less than a liberation from social constraints. A remarkable aspect is the number of publications on this theme that take a feminist stance. As far as the human body is concerned, the repression of its longing for delight (be it food, sex or beauty) doesn’t prevent it from being the way par excellence to God and divine grace. Finally, the organized convent life and clerical celibacy of today turn out to be merely variations in a kaleidoscope of ascetic lifestyles. Egeria occupies a unique position within this kaleidoscopic spectrum. Clearly she is a pious woman, connected with the Western
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ascetic movement of the late fourth century. One may assume that she lived a life of sexual abstinence, but how much further did her asceticism go? Egeria has never been nominated for canonization, which seems only right. Yet she reminds us in no uncertain terms what it was all about in the first place. Asceticism was intended to liberate, not to suppress. Penitence is a major value, but not at the cost of full enjoyment of life. She breathes new life into our ideas about true religiosity and offers new values for consideration: a passionate curiosity for holiness, religious enterprise, pious intrepidness, enthusiasm and, not least, friendship. In that sense Devos may have been right, Egeria was ‘une vraie religieuse’. ABBREVIATIONS CCSL SC HTR AB ZKG CSEL RB CPL
Corpus Christianorum Series Latina Sources Chrétiennes Harvard Theological Review Analecta Bollandiana Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Revue Bénédictine Clavis Patrum Latinorum
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THE BYZANTINE HOLY PERSON: THE CASE OF BARSANUPHIUS AND JOHN OF GAZA1 Aryeh Kofsky (University of Haifa, Israel) The Monastic Circle of Gaza In this study I will try to evaluate a certain evolution in the figure of the Christian holy person that took place in the monastic circle of Gaza in the sixth century, thus indicating some nuances in the multifaceted picture of the holy person in Late Antiquity and Early Byzantium, especially as it evolved during the last three decades of the seminal studies of Peter Brown.2 Monastic life flourished in the region
1 This research was supported by The Israel Science Foundation founded by The Israel Academy of Science and Humanities. 2 P. Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity’, in: idem, Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity, Berkeley, Los Angeles and Oxford 1982, 103–152; idem, ‘The Saint as Exemplar’, Representation 1 (1983) 1–25; idem, Authority and the Sacred: Aspects of the Christianization of the Roman World, Cambridge 1995, 57–78. For assessments of the evolution of Brown’s view of the holy person in Late Antiquity, see S. Elm, ‘Introduction’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 6 (1998) 343–351; S. Ashbrook Harvey, ‘The Stylite’s Liturgy: Ritual and Religious Identity in Late Antiquity’, ibid., 523–524. And see Brown’s own assessment, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity, 1971–1997’, ibid., 353–376. Brown’s model was founded primarily on evidence from Syria, Asia Minor, and—to a lesser extent— Palestine. According to Brown the different situation in Egypt stems from the harsh reality of the desert, where the clear-cut separation between the desert and the inhabited land caused a closing up of Egyptian hermitic monasticism in a struggle for survival (‘Rise and Function of the Holy Man’, 109). On the group segregation of Egyptian hermitic monasticism and its concern not to exercise its spiritual influence beyond its narrow circle, see P. Rousseau, ‘The Spiritual Authority of the “MonkBishop”: Eastern Elements in Some Western Hagiography of the Fourth and Fifth Centuries’, Journal of Theological Studies n.s. 22 (1971) 397. But this monastic segregation can also be viewed as a rhetorical means of reconciling in the texts the tension between episcopal and ascetic authority in Egypt. See J.E. Goehring, ‘The Encroaching Desert: Literary Production and Ascetic Space in Early Christian Egypt’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 1 (1993) 281–296; D. Brakke, Athanasius and the Politics of Asceticism, Oxford 1995. Brown’s reconstruction also does not explain the figure of a holy man, notably Pachomius, in Egyptian cenobitic monasticism. See M.S. Burrows, ‘On the Visibility of God in the Holy Man: A Reconsideration of the Role of the Apa in the Pachomian Vitae’, Vigiliae Christianae 41 (1987) 11–33.
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of Gaza from the fourth century to the seventh. As with the first known monk of Palestine, Hilarion, a native of the region, the monastic influence of Egypt and its environs was felt throughout the period.3 Nevertheless, Gaza monasticism assumed an independent character, reflected in the outstanding personalities and ascetic writings that emerged especially in the fifth and sixth centuries.4 Troubles at Scetis, the center of Egyptian desert monasticism, at the end of the fourth century and beginning of the fifth led many monks to seek monastic life elsewhere.5 The immigration of monks from Egypt, among them such distinguished spiritual leaders as Abba Isaiah and Barsanuphius during the fifth and sixth centuries led in fact to the transfer of the monastic intellectual center from Scetis to Gaza. Gaza may also have become an important center for the formation and transmission of the Sayings of the Desert Fathers (Apophthegmata Patrum) tradition.6 In the mid-fifth century Gaza monasticism became a core of monophysite resistance led by the Georgian monk Peter, otherwise known as Peter the Iberian, and by his friend Abba Isaiah of Egypt.7 Abba Isaiah lived in seclusion, maintaining contact with the outside world only through a disciple—perhaps partly by letters of spiritual direction8—yet at the same time continuing the supervi-
3
On Egyptian monastic relations with Palestinian monasticism, see S. Rubenson, ‘The Egyptian Relations of Early Palestinian Monasticism’, in: A. O’Mahony, G. Göran, and K. Hintlian (eds), The Christian Heritage in the Holy Land, London 1995, 35–46. 4 For general surveys of Gaza monasticism, see D.J. Chitty, The Desert a City: An Introduction to the Study of Egyptian and Palestinian Monasticism under the Christian Empire (Oxford 1966) 72–77, 103–105, 132–140; L. Perrone, ‘Monasticism in the Holy Land: From the Beginnings to the Crusades’, Proche-orient chrétien 45 (1995) 48–52; idem, ‘I Padri del monachesimo di Gaza (IV–VI sec.): la fedeltà allo spirito delle origini’, La Chiesa nel Tempo 13 (1997) 87–116; B. Bitton-Ashkelony and A. Kofsky, ‘Gaza Monasticism in the Fourth-Sixth Centuries: From Anchoritic to Cenobitic’, Proche-orient chretién (forthcoming). 5 H.G. Evelyn-White, The History of the Monasteries of Nitria and Scetis, New York 1932, 150–167; D.J. Chitty, The Desert a City, 66–74. 6 L. Regnault, ‘Les Apophtegmes des Pères en Palestine aux Ve–VIe siècles’, Irénikon 54 (1981), 320–330; idem, Les Pères du désert à travers leurs Apophtegmes, Solesmes 1987, 73–83. For a general discussion on the question of the place of redaction of the Apophthegmata, see Chitty, The Desert a City, 60–61; idem, ‘The Books of the Old Men’, Eastern Churches Review 6 (1974) 16–17; G. Gould, The Desert Father on Monastic Community, Oxford 1993, 1–25. 7 See A. Kofsky, ‘Peter the Iberian: Pilgrimage, Monasticism and Ecclesiastical Politics in Byzantine Palestine’, Liber Annuus 47 (1997) 209–222; Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky, ‘Gazan Monasticism’. 8 L. Regnault, Abbé Isaïe, Recueil ascétique, Abbaye de Bellfontaine 19853, Introduction,
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sion of his monastery and his spiritual direction, reflected in the Asceticon, the ascetic collection attributed to him.9 The Social Context This peculiar model of spiritual guidance was further accentuated in the next generation—the third to fifth decades of the sixth century— by the pair of recluses Barsanuphius and John, who lived in extreme seclusion outside the coenobium of Seridus at Thabatha, the birthplace of Hilarion, south of Gaza. The two ‘old men’ communicated with each other and supervised the life of the monastery through the mediation of Abbot Seridus.10 The extreme seclusion of Barsanuphius actually gave rise on one occasion to the suspicion that he was merely the figment of Seridus’s imagination; to dispel that doubt, Barsanuphius appeared in public and washed the feet of the monks.11 The spiritual direction of Barsanuphius and John was maintained through an intensive correspondence, in the form of questions and answers, with monks, churchmen, and laymen.12
16–17; idem, ‘Isaïe de Scété ou de Gaza? Notes critiques en marge d’une Introduction au problème isaïen’, Revue d’ascétique et de mystique 46 (1970) 40. 9 On Abba Isaiah and the attribution of the Asceticon to him, see H. Keller, ‘L’abbé Isaïe-le-Jeune’, Irénikon 16 (1939) 113–126; L. Regnault, ‘Isaïe de Scété ou de Gaza?’ 33–44; D.J. Chitty, ‘Abba Isaiah’, Journal of Theological Studies 22 (1971) 47–72. The Asceticon was originally written in Greek but was transmitted in various recensions. For the Greek edition, see Augoustinos Monachos (ed.), Jerusalem 1911 (2nd ed. S.N. Schoinas, Volos 1962); Syriac recensions are by R. Draguet, Les cinq recensions de l’Ascéticon syriaque d’abba Isaïe I–IV, CSCO 289–290; 293–294 (1968). Coptic fragments are by A. Guillamont, L’Asceticon copte de l’abbé Isaïe, Cairo 1956; French expanded translation appears in Abbé Isaïe, Recueil ascétique, int. L. Regnault, tr. H. De Broc, Abbaye de Bellefontaine 19853. References here are to the paragraph subdivision of the latter edition. 10 On Seridus and his monastery, see S. Vailhé, ‘Jean le prophète et Séridos’, Échos d’Orient 8 (1905) 159–160; Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky, ‘Gazan Monasticism’. 11 Barsanuphius and John, Questions and Answers 61, ed. Nicodemus Hagiorites, Venice 1816 (2nd. rev. ed. corrected by S.N. Schoinas, Volos 1960). 12 One of their disciples, Dorotheus, became the confidant of John and later founded a new monastery, where he continued the tradition of their spiritual guidance, fusing the tradition of the Desert Fathers with the model of Basilian communal monasticism. His teachings were assembled in his Instructions. For a critical edition of the Instructions and other minor writings of Dorotheus, with a French translation and an introduction by L. Regnault and J. de Préville, see Dorothée de Gaza. Oeuvres spirituelles, SC 92 (1963). For an English translation with an introduction by E.P. Wheeler, see Dorotheos of Gaza: Discourses and Sayings, Kalamazoo 1977. For general studies of Dorotheus, see Regnault and Préville, Dorothée de Gaza, 9–97;
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Developed in ancient Egyptian cult centers, communication by means of questions and answers had long been an established oracular procedure. It was adapted and revived by Christian Egyptian clergy in such cult centers as the shrine of St. Colluthus in Antinoë, where questions and answers were communicated by the priests of the site. This form of communication apparently constituted a discreet way of replying to personal problems.13 Albeit not indicative of a direct and conscious influence of the Egyptian cultic model on the new form of spiritual leadership in absentia now evolving in Gaza, the parallel seems quite striking. The pattern of leadership in seclusion obviously precluded the development of a typical cult and pilgrimage center around the figure of a holy person, along the lines studied by Brown. Yet at the same time the holy ascetics of Gaza may be viewed as forming a center of religious power on the periphery of Palestine, outside the main circle of holy sites and pilgrimage routes, possibly serving also as a focal alternative to the holy center of Jerusalem and the Judean Desert in the local ecclesiastical context following the Council of Chalcedon and the monophysite revolt in Palestine. The monastic community of Barsanuphius and John accepted the Council of Chalcedon, at least outwardly;14 but in fact it dealt minimally with the Christological polemics of the period and appears to have preferred to withdraw into monastic piety,15 faithfully continuing the monastic legacy of Abba Isaiah.16 The monastery at Thabatha, modeled on that of Abba Isaiah, was led by Barsanuphius the Copt,17 known as ‘the Great Old Man’, through the mediation of his disciple Seridus, who served as abbot of the coenobium around which hermitages were scattered.18 At some point, Barsanuphius had left
Wheeler, Dorotheos of Gaza, 19–74. The correspondence includes a long series of letters between the elders and Dorotheus. See F. Neyt, Les lettres à Dorothée dans la correspondance de Barsanuphe et de Jean de Gaza, Louvain 1969. 13 L. Papini, ‘Fragments of the Sortes Sanctorum from the Shrine of St. Colluthus’, in D. Frankfurter (ed.), Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt, Leiden 1998, 393–401. On the perception of the holy person as taking on the classical function of oracles, see Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man’, 134. 14 See Wheeler, Dorotheos, 71; Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky, ‘Gazan Monasticism’, n. 132, 207. 15 Barsanuphius and John, Questions and Answers 695–703. 16 See F. Neyt, ‘Citations “Isaïennes” chez Barsanuphe et Jean de Gaza’, Le Muséon 84 (1971) 65–92. 17 On his Egyptian origins, see Questions and Answers 55. 18 Seridus, as head of the monastery and confidant of John and Barsanuphius,
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his cell for the sake of his disciple John,19 who became his partner in the spiritual leadership of the monastery and was given the titles ‘the Second Old Man’ and ‘the Prophet’, due to his special gift of discernment (diãkrisiw).20 John, like Barsanuphius, maintained contact with members of the monastery and the outside world through Seridus or another chosen disciple. The two old men conducted their spiritual direction by means of a wide correspondence with monks, churchmen, and laymen, including some of the highest-ranking religious and political leaders in the province. Among them we find Peter, Patriarch of Jerusalem (524–552), who consulted with Barsanuphius on various questions relating to the governing of the Church,21 and teachers of philosophy, apparently from Gaza.22 This correspondence contains almost no biographical data on either Barsanuphius or John; but about 850 letters, apparently redacted by one of their disciples, have survived, constituting a unique source for the study of Byzantine monasticism.23 It also provides a rare opportunity to observe spiritual direction—usually oral and private—in action, documented in the immediate and daily context of questions and answers, as a result of the conditions of extreme seclusion of the spiritual fathers.24 Isaiah’s conception of monasticism is reflected
naturally holds an important place in the monks’ letters to the two fathers, especially in matters concerning the relationship between the monks and their abbot. However, the figure of Seridus remains fairly abstract as a rule, in contrast with his masters. 19 Questions and Answers 224. 20 See Vita Dosithei 1 (in: Regnault and de Préville, Dorothée de Gaza. Oeuvres spirituelles, 122–145). The title ‘Prophet’ was apparently traditional at this time. Monastic leaders of the previous generation, such as Zenon and Abba Isaiah, were given this title. See M. Van Parys, ‘Abba Silvain et ses disciples: Une famille monastique entre Scété et la Palestine à la fin du IVe et dans la première moitié du Ve siècles’, Irénikon 61 (1988) 477–478. 21 Questions and Answers 813–30. 22 Questions and Answers 664–66, 778. 23 For brief surveys of Barsanuphius and John, see I. Hausherr ‘Barsanuphe’, Dictionnaire de la Spiritualité 1:1255–1262; L. Regnault, ‘Jean de Gaza’, Dictionnaire de la Spiritualité, 8:536–38; Chitty, The Desert a City, 132–40; Peronne, La chiesa di Palestina, 296–307. For a critical edition of the first 124 letters, with English translation, see D.J. Chitty, Barsanuphius and John, Questions and Answers, PO 31/3 (1966). For a new critical edition with French translation of the first 223 letters, See F. Neyt, P. de Angelis-Noah, and L. Regnault, Barsanuphe et Jean de Gaza, Correspondance, SC 426,427 (Paris 1997, 1998). For the complete Greek text, see the edition of Hagiorites, cited in note 10 above. For a complete French translation of the Greek text with additions from the Georgian translation, see L. Regnault, P. Lemaire, and B. Outtier, Barsanuphe et Jean de Gaza, Correspondance, Solesmes 19932. 24 On spiritual direction in Eastern monasticism, see I. Hausherr, Direction spirituelle
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in these letters, but they present more conspicuously a picture of a concrete, practical spirituality applied in the monk’s daily life.25 At the base of this spiritual direction is the demand for complete obedience to the abbot of the monastery and annihilation of the monk’s own free will.26 We are able here to observe the disciples of the Old Man in their spiritual struggle, in the storm of difficulties and temptations facing them, and to learn of their weaknesses and suffering as well as their virtues and victories. These questions and answers cover a wide variety of topics pertaining to the daily existence of the monk in his semi-coenobitic monastery and include seemingly trivial matters alongside questions on monastic spirituality.27 The correspondence between Barsanuphius/John and laymen touches on all domains of life, and draws a clear picture of the leadership and spiritual authority of the holy men to whom their lay followers turned for advice and guidance, not only in religious matters, but also in practical questions of daily life. The holy man’s leadership style, as it emerges from the collection, fits, to a certain extent, Peter Brown’s classic description of the holy man as patron, councilor, and arbiter, and as a spiritual and moral authority—a spiritual father (patØr pneumatikÒw).28 It is difficult, however, to judge his status in the community in general, since only a limited number of the questions and answers deal with community matters, the majority being personal in nature. Thus the social and communal functions of the holy person as reflected in the letters appear rather restricted. The letters, reflecting the reality of rural monasticism, do not indicate the reality of a country mobile working crowd, an essential ele-
en Orient autrefois, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 144, Rome 1955. Some aspects of the spiritual direction of Barsanuphius and John are discussed by S. Tugwell, Ways of Perfection, London 1984, 83–92; J. Chryssavgis, ‘Aspects of Spiritual Direction: The Palestinian Tradition’, in: P. Allen and E. Jeffreys (eds), The Sixth Century, End or Beginning? Brisbane 1966, 126–130. 25 See L. Regnault, P. Lemaire, and B. Outtier, Barsanuphe et Jean de Gaza, Correspondance, 21–22. 26 On the monastic virtues of obedience and the annihilation of self will in the Apophthegmata, see Gould, The Desert Fathers, 34–36; 52–58. 27 For the conception of the monastic spiritual ideal in this circle, see L. Regnault, ‘Théologie de la vie monastique selon Barsanuphe et Dorothée’, in: Théologie de la vie monastique, Paris 1961, 315–322. 28 Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man’, 132–134; idem. Authority and the Sacred, 60–62. On Barsanuphius’s charismatic leadership, see F. Neyt, ‘Un type d’autorité charismatique’, Byzantion 44 (1974) 343–61.
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ment in the life of the holy person in Syria as described by Brown,29 although such a crowd certainly existed in the Gaza region as well.30 Contact between soldier clientele31 and Seridus’s monastery is attested, however, in the vita of Dositheus, the young servant of a general, who joined the monastery and became a model of monastic obedience.32 Miracles as well as exorcism as means of channeling power and establishing and maintaining the role of the holy person in the society33 are topics virtually absent from the letters. Physiognomy and similar skills of discerning the character of a person from his outward appearance are also irrelevant to Barsanuphius and John. They in fact seem to have been somewhat predisposed against the magical arts and divination techniques. Barsanuphius, for example, opposed a common oneiromantic belief that a triple occurrence of something in a dream is indicative of its truth.34 John similarly objected to magical incantations, curative charms, and resorting to magicians, as being proscribed by God.35 The two also expressed reservations regarding the exaggerated adoration of holy relics; it was enough to bow the head once in respect, or at most three times.36 Making the sign of the cross excessively was similarly frowned upon; once a day was deemed sufficient.37 Although the letters indicate a wide circle of individual devotees, it is doubtful whether we can talk about a cohesive clientele or a defined group of lay followers. In short, the correspondence of Barsanuphius and John seems not the best place to look for the corroboration of Brown’s model of the Byzantine holy person in its wider social context. It does supply, however, rich, first-hand evidence for the make-up of the religious personality of the holy man and his interaction with his followers, as variously perceived by himself, his monastic circle, and the wider
29
Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man’, 113. This reality is somewhat reflected in the vitae of Hilarion, Porphyry, Peter the Iberian, and Abba Isaiah. 31 On the importance of soldier clientele for the reputation of the holy man in Syria, see Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man’, 113–114. 32 Vita Dosithei 2–3. See also Questions and Answers 492–499, dealing with a soldier who has recently become a monk. 33 Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man’, 121–126. 34 Questions and Answers 418. 35 Ibid. 753–755. 36 Ibid. 433. 37 Ibid. 436. 30
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circle of his lay devotees. In other words, the correspondence enables us to observe the ways in which the charismatic powers and personality of the holy person were understood. Barsanuphius and John reflect the self-consciousness of a spiritual elite.38 They belonged to the order of ascetics who had attained perfection, regarding themselves, metaphorically, as combatants in a military elite core wearing the special unit’s uniforms39 and envisaging their ascetic life as following the path of the tormented martyrs of past heroic generations.40 It is this consciousness of ascetic perfection that charged them with spiritual energy and charismatic authority as holy men, elevating them to the status of mediators between God and their followers. Against this background it may be possible to appreciate the universal powers attributed by Barsanuphius to perfect holy persons as guardians of humanity who sustain the world in times of great catastrophes such as the great plague—regarded as divine punishment, when the world was saved by the intercession of three distinguished holy men.41 The overall impression is that John was more inclined to deal with questions of social relations and the practical issues of monastic and lay life, whereas the more intellectual—albeit perhaps less versed in monastic literature—Barsanuphius42 attended to those pertaining to spiritual struggle.43 John, in fact, effaced himself in relation to Barsanuphius, acknowledging the senior status of his elder.44 We may discern here two types of relation or authority. Barsanuphius acted by means of prayer and mediation through Christ,45 while John dealt with day-to-day matters.46 This type of hierarchic division is reflected by John’s instruction to Dorotheus, that in every word or
38
See e.g. Questions and Answers 60. Ibid. 136. 40 Ibid. 256. On the concept of asceticism as a novel form of martyrdom, see Spidlik, Tenace, and Cemus, Questions Monastiques, 68. 41 Questions and Answers 569. 42 Neyt, ‘Citations’, 80. 43 Neyt suggests that while Barsanuphius continued the Egyptian semi-anchoritic tradition, John was rather influenced by coenobitic monasticism, the different sources of influence determining the orientation of their respective spiritual guidance (‘Autorité charismatique’, 358). 44 Questions and Answers 252, 253. 45 See e.g., Questions and Answers 263. 46 Chitty, The Desert a City, 135–136; Neyt, Introduction to the SC edition of Barsanuphius and John, 43–44. 39
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act he must recall the name of the Old Man (i.e. Barsanuphius) and God would then guide him on how to speak and act.47 John perceived his relationship with Barsanuphius as a bondage of dependence, in union, where his personality and self-will were effaced in Barsanuphius, and his powers had been channeled through the prayers and intercession of the Great Old Man. Moreover, they were one, Barsanuphius in God and John through Barsanuphius: ‘If we are one’, wrote John, ‘the Old Man in God and I in him. . . . But I cannot separate from the Old Man, because he makes me merciful, so that the two of us should be but one. (Efi ßn §smen . . . ı g°rvn ¢n t“ Ye“, kög∆ aÈt“ . . . ållÉ épost∞nai toË g°rontow oÊ dÊnamai: ¶leow går poie› metÉ §moË, toË e‰nai toÁw dÊo ßn).’48 Similarly Barsanuphius saw himself as one with John in a unity of identity.49 In practice the relationship between John and Barsanuphius also meant that John would often pass to Barsanuphius, out of humility, questions that were addressed to himself. Apparently this excessive humility was sometimes misconceived by the lay clientele, who were not always fully aware of the hierarchy of holiness among the two Old Men and regarded the spiritual power of John as identical with that of Barsanuphius. They thus took offense at John’s transfer of their questions to Barsanuphius, regarding it as a sign of mockery.50 Mysticism and Spiritual Powers The deep sense of intimacy (parrhs¤a) with God gained by the experienced ascetic, accompanied by the awareness of a superior morality, nourished the self-confidence of the holy person and charged him with spiritual energy and did much to give him a cherished standing in the eyes of men. Hardly elaborated in their correspondence, it is yet apparent that with Barsanuphius and John such intimacy was sustained by mystical experience—different from the intellectual mysticism of Evagrius of Pontus.51 It seems that both
47
Questions and Answers 263. Ibid. 305. 49 Ibid. 188. 50 Ibid. 783. 51 On Evagrius’s intellectual mysticism, see A. Louth, The Origins of the Christian Mystical Tradition, Oxford 1981, 100–113. 48
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Barsanuphius and John were experiencing mystical union in their intensive contemplation. In describing the spiritual experience of the perfect ascetic they may have been attesting their own. These pneumatics had reached the degree of elevation where there is no more distraction or disturbance, ‘becoming all mind, all eye, all alive, all luminous, all perfect, all gods (˜loi noËw genÒmenoi, ˜loi ÙfyalmÒw, ˜loi z«ntew, ˜loi fvteino¤, ˜loi t°leioi, ˜loi Yeo¤).’52 Perfection is then experienced as a total spiritual and luminous state of being through deification, perceived as resurrection. The perfect ascetic has become a god like God.53 In this state he is delivered and purified from the ‘old man (toË palaioË ényr≈pou)’—his old self in Pauline terms—and both his body and soul are sanctified.54 This state is perceived also as a transition from non-being to being (épÚ toË mØ e‰nai efiw tÚ e‰nai).55 Deification (y°vsiw)56 through mystical experience becomes the ultimate monastic goal. It is also understood according to traditional monastic spirituality as an imitation of the Son of God, epitomized in a maxim of Barsanuphius: ‘The Son of God became man for you; be you also a god for him. (ênyrvpow g°gonen ı uflÚw toË yeoË diå s°, genoË ka‹ sÁ diÉ aÈtÚn yeÒw).’57 The self-perceived spiritual resurrection in divine luminary existence infused Barsanuphius
52
Questions and Answers 120. See Apophthegmata, Alph. Bessarion 11: ‘The monk ought to be as the Cherubim and the Seraphim: all eye’. The Apophthegmata in general does not seem to supply much evidence for mystical inclination, but the Desert Fathers may well have had a mystical bent beyond this general impression, indicating that Evagrius was not an exception. See G. Bunge, ‘Le “lieu de la limpidité”. À propos d’un apophtegme énigmatique: Budge II, 494’, Irénikon 55 (1982) 17. Some of the visionary experiences recorded in the Apophthegmata may also indicate mystical trances. See A. Guillaumont, ‘Les visions dans le monachisme oriental chrétien’, in: idem, Aux origines du monachisme chrétien, Abbaye de Bellefontaine 1979, 136–147; Gould, The Desert Fathers, 42–44, 177–182. Abba Isaiah and Peter the Iberian may also be regarded as mystics. See S. Vailhé, ‘Un mystique monophysite, le moine Isaïe’, Échos d’Orient 9 (1906) 81–91; John of Beth Rufina (Rufus), V. Petri Ib. 77 (ed. R. Raabe, Leipzig 1895); E. Honigmann, Pierre l’Ibérien et les écrits du Pseudo-Denys l’Aréopagite, Brussels 1952; Kofsky, ‘Peter the Iberian’, 215. On early monastic mysticism in general, see Louth, The Origins of the Christian Mystical Tradition; B. McGinn, The Foundations of Mysticism: Origins to the Fifth Century, New York 1991, 131–196. 53 Questions and Answers 120, 484. 54 For the evolution of the complex though essentially positive perception of the body in Eastern monastic circles, see Brown, The Body and Society, 213–240. 55 Questions and Answers 114. 56 On the evolution of this concept in patristic thought, see B. Satorius, La doctrine de la déification de l’homme d’apres les Péres grecs, Geneva 1965. 57 Questions and Answers 113.
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with the kin sense of being an extension or an instrument of God or the Holy Spirit, speaking and working through him. This perception was inductively applied to the holy fathers as a distinct elite of pneumatic ascetics.58 It could sometimes be expressed in rather extreme form, where Barsanuphius could declare that the fathers were not responsible for their words; it was God who spoke through them according to his mysterious ways.59 This is clearly an expression of the self-conceived notion of the oracular nature of their prophetic powers. The result was Barsanuphius’s ongoing awareness of the divine presence in the sustained serenity of his soul,60 an emphasis on his identification with Scripture as the divine word, and an intimate relation with God and the Holy Spirit, empowering him to see hidden truths through the gift of prophecy.61 But this type of contemplation leading to mystical deification, it was emphasized, was possible only in seclusion. In other words, anchoritic asceticism remained a precondition for perfect purification from the passions and for ultimate monastic perfection, leading to a mystical unification with the Son and the Father.62 It was ascetic perfection resulting in divine intimacy and deification that imbued the holy men of Gaza with their charismatic powers and a self-awareness of their unique faculties, distinct from those of ordinary monks and laymen. Not possessing the traditional signs of power and authority—namely, ordination—Barsanuphius and John regarded themselves, and were similarly regarded by their clientele, as endowed with the power to prophesy, discern thoughts, and remit sins.63 These powers, this true knowledge, belonged exclusively to the perfect ascetic, who spoke in the name of God and had ceased to be a prey for demons.64 Every ascetic had to wrestle with thoughts that surfaced on the stream of consciousness, but the power to let negative thoughts enter and wrestle with them from within was reserved to the perfect ones;
58 59 60 61 62 63 64
Questions and Answers 361, 382. Ibid. 778b. Ibid. 137. See also Neyt, Introduction, 111–114. Questions and Answers 8. Ibid. 10, 107, 139, 211, 575b. Ibid. 373.
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the weak should preempt their entrance to avoid succumbing to them.65 The sophisticated weapon of monastic psychology, the discernment of thoughts, belonged to the perfect. One should turn to the Old Men and reveal one’s thoughts.66 Only the holy fathers were able to discern immediately a seemingly benevolent demonic dissimulation; others could grasp it only in retrospect, according to its negative or positive result.67 In fact the essence of the relation of the holy man, or spiritual father, with his disciple or devotee lay in the latter opening himself to the holy man, enabling him to discern and examine the thoughts of the heart.68 One should ask the Old Men to pray for one’s sins. Here we meet the unusual concept of the father actually shouldering the sins and giving his soul for his devotees, taking the responsibility, and sometime even the blame, for the sins of monks or laymen, because it was his duty to pray for them. He would be asked, in fact, to account for these sins. Monks and laymen should therefore obey his command even if it seemed to involve a sin:69 ‘If the fathers tell you that darkness is light, try to believe that it is so’.70 The prayers of the fathers were not effective, however, without the cooperation and true intention of the penitent. But repentance of the penitent, though mandatory, was not sufficient in itself; it contributes only a little, whereas the intercessory prayers of the holy fathers were the main channel for attaining absolution.71 Certain formulas were thus recommended for asking the fathers to pray for the forgiveness of sins: ‘Pray for us, so that we receive forgiveness.’72 And addressing the 65
Ibid. 69, 432. Ibid. 60. 67 Ibid. 405. 68 On the mandatory disclosure of thoughts to the father in the Apophthegmata, see Gould, The Desert Fathers, 32–33. 69 Questions and Answers 59, 541, 691. 70 Ibid. 834. Obedience as a monastic value is evident in the Apophthegmata (Gould, The Desert Fathers, 52–58), but the ideal of total, undiscriminating obedience (édiãkritow ÍpakoÆ) may reflect Pachomian influence. According to John, however, there is a distinction between the command and the advice of the spiritual father (Questions and Answers 368,541). A certain qualification to blind obedience is also attested: One should trust God through his saints (the fathers) but at the same time should not trust blindly the power of the saints and should be constantly on guard (Ibid. 386). 71 Questions and Answers 616. For a discussion of the concept of the holy father sharing or even transferring the sins to himself, see B. Bitton-Ashkelony, ‘Penitence in Late Antique Monastic Literature’, in: J. Assman and G.G. Stroumsa (eds), Transformations of the Inner Self in Ancient Religions, Leiden 1999, 179–194, esp. 185–190. 72 Questions and Answers 706. 66
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Lord one should use the following formula: ‘Have mercy on me, Lord, through your martyrs and through your holy fathers, and forgive me my sins through their intercessions (§l°hsÒn me D°spota diå toÁw èg¤ouw pat°raw ka‹ sugx≈rhsÒn moi ta›w aÈt«n presbe¤aiw tå èmartÆmatã mou).’73
Prayer A principal means to achieve mystical experience was prayer. As with Evagrius of Pontus in his Chapters on Prayer74 the correspondence reflects the central role assigned by Barsanuphius and John to prayer as a major tool of monastic spirituality.75 This circle consequently developed forms of meditative prayer as a supreme technique for combating the demons operating through our thoughts. In fact, the correspondence of Barsanuphius, gives early evidence for the development of the famous meditative Jesus prayer in the monastic circle of Gaza.76 Barsanuphius was apparently also occupied in a form of meditation on the letters of the alphabet, which he regarded as a type of prayer and a basis for theoretical advice and teachings, containing symbolic and mystical elements and epitomizing ascetic theory and practical teachings.77 The essence of the meditative technique—apparently a variation on Evagrius78—lay in differentiating the various thoughts surfacing in the stream of consciousness during prayer as divine, demonic, or natural, by simultaneously questioning to the nature of a specific thought and consequently neutralizing it or attaining knowledge through it.79 73
Ibid. 706b. PG 79, cols 1165–1200 (= De Oratione of ‘Nilus’); English translation by J.E. Bamberger, Evagrius Ponticus, The Praktikos, Chapters on Prayer, Kalamazoo 1981. 75 On the relatively more moderate significance assigned to prayer in the Apophthegmata, see Gould, The Desert Fathers, 167–182. 76 Questions and Answers 124, 268, 301, 421. See also Vita Dos. 10. On the Jesus prayer, see I. Hausherr, The Prayer of Jesus, New York 1967; idem, The Name of Jesus, Kalamazoo 1978; A. Guillaumont, ‘La prière de Jesus chez les moines de’Egypte’, in: idem, Aux origines, 127–134; F. Neyt, ‘La prière de Jesus’, Collactanea Cisterciensia 34/3 (1972) 202–217; K. Ware, ‘The Origins of Jesus Prayer: Diadochus, Gaza, Sinai’, in: C. Jones, G. Wainwright, and E. Yarnold (eds), The Study of Spirituality, London 1966, 175–184. 77 See P. de Angelis-Noah, ‘La méditation de Barsanuphe sur la lettre HTA’, Byzantion 53 (1983) 494–506. 78 See especially Chapters on Prayer 67, 72–73, 90–92, 99, 133–134. 79 Questions and Answers 91, 124, 166, 407, 427, 811. 74
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The ideal state of ascetic life was the Evagrian ideal of continuous, uninterrupted prayer achieved in a state of épãyeia.80 This continuous prayer is a form of what the Apophthegmata tradition calls remembrance of God (mnÆmh toË yeoË).81 But the constant remembrance of God during prayer belonged exclusively to the perfect ascetic.82 Indeed it might be possible to write a special study on prayer according to the two Old Men of Gaza. Here is Barsanuphius’s description of the perfect prayer of the perfect: Perfect prayer (eÈxØ tele¤a) consists in talking to God without any distraction (érembãstvw), in gathering all one’s thoughts and senses. One gets there by dying to all men, to the world, and to the affairs of the world. You have nothing to say to God in your prayer except this: “Save me from evil (Matt 6:13); may your will be done in me” (Matt 6,10); the mind should be held in front of God, talking to Him. The (perfect) prayer is recognized when it is free of distraction, when it is seen that the mind rejoices, illuminated in the Lord. The sign that one has achieved it, is that he is not troubled any longer, even if the whole world is about to attack him. It is he who prays perfectly, who is dead to the world and to his well being (énãpausiw) . . .83
The state of meditative silent prayer was reserved to the perfect. Others should maintain a balanced proportion of meditation and vocal prayer.84 Erotic Stimulation One of the main tenets of asceticism is the renunciation of women, who came to be regarded as a form of demonic allurement. Sexual abstinence resulted in erotic temptations besetting the monk in his masculine and secluded environment. The mental struggle resulting
80 Ibid. 181, 441, 717; cf. Evagrius, Chapters on Prayer 52. For continual prayer in the Apophthegmata, see L. Regnault, ‘La prière continuelle monologistos dans la litérature apophtématique’, Irénikon 47 (1974) 467–493. On the monastic ideal of apatheia see Evagrius Ponticus, Praktikos 2; 18 (ed. A. Guillaumont and C. Guillaumont, SC 171 [1971]); J.E. Bamberger, Evagrius Ponticus: The Praktikos, Kalamazoo 1981, lxxxiilxxxvii; P. Miquel, Lexique du désert: Etude de quelques mots-clés du vocabulaire monastique grec ancien (Spiritualité orientale 44), Abbaye de Bellefontaine 1986) 115–134. 81 Apophthegmata alph. John Kolobos 27; Macarius 36; Sisoes 13; N 377. 82 Questions and Answers 249. 83 Ibid. 79. On this specific use of énãpausiw in the correspondence see Miquel, Lexique du Désert, 80–81. 84 Questions and Answers 431.
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from sexual abstinence, which has an autonomous existence in the depth of the soul in one’s most solitary hours, indicates in ascetic ethical psychology a moral imperfection or sin that is conceived of as a demonic reality waging battle in the monk’s heart.85 This is one of the most famous themes of Christian monastic tradition, going back to Anthony. In the correspondence we have direct documentation of this persistent psychological reality. The perfect ascetic alone had the power to overcome sexual impulses entirely. Success in doing so was regarded as the crowning victory over the passions and a preparatory stage for attaining mystical deification. The perfect ascetic was immune even against the nocturnal stimulation caused by erotic images in dreams. Whether natural or demonic, such erotic stimulation was taken to be indicative of moral flaws and demonic presence.86 According to John, the devil could not act without the nocturnal pleasure of the monk.87 On the other hand such stimulation was considered natural if the soul had maintained its equilibrium during this nocturnal experience.88 Perfect ascetics, however, were immune from even natural arousal; they had suppressed it; they had become spiritual eunuchs (Matt 19:12).89 Healing and Control over Death Divine intimacy imbued the holy man with unique spiritual powers. Barsanuphius and John possessed healing powers.90 These powers,
85 See A. Kofsky, ‘Aspects of Sin in the Monastic School of Gaza’, in: Assmann and Stroumsa (eds), Transformations of the Inner Self, 421–437, esp. 431–433. 86 According to Evagrius, dreams are the reflection of passions in reality. See Praktikos 55. For a discussion of Evagrius’s view on dreams, see F. Refoulé, ‘Rêves et vie spirituelle d’après Évagre le Pontique,’ La Vie Spirituelle 14 (1961) 470–516. 87 Mental consent to illicit pleasure is considered by Evagrius to be a grievous sin. See Praktikos 75. See also D. Brakke, ‘The Problematization of Nocturnal Emission in Early Christian Syria, Egypt and Gaul’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 3 (1995) 419–460. 88 According to Evagrius this is proof of having achieved the ideal of épãyeia. See Praktikos 64. 89 Questions and Answers 95. See Kofsky, ‘Aspects of Sin’, 433–434. On the effects of an extremely ascetic dietary regime on sexual function, see W.C. Bushell, ‘Psychophysiological and Comparative Analysis of Ascetico-Meditational Discipline: Toward a New Theory of Asceticism’, in: V.L. Wimbush and R. Valantasis (eds), Asceticism (New York and Oxford 1995) 553–575. 90 On the holy man as a healer and dispenser of blessings in interaction with his clientele, see Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man’, 141.
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however, were not channeled through acts of direct miraculous intervention but through prayers, blessings—a virtual substitute for amulets— and physical contact with objects belonging to the sick. Such powers, however, were not to be celebrated or publicized excessively. The old men received requests for prayers on behalf of the sick, and their prayers are documented to have been effective.91 In one case a sick layman asked Barsanuphius to pray for him and drink the water that his fever had prevented him from drinking. Barsanuphius complied with the request and the man was cured. Glorifying God and Barsanuphius, he told some friends about the holy Old Man’s great deed, but in a short while the fever returned. When he returned to Barsanuphius the Old Man scolded him for having boasted about his healing powers, which was indeed the reason for the return of the suffering.92 But the healing powers of the Old Men were not always viewed with complete trust and credulity. A sick layman received a promise of recuperation from John. Recuperation delayed, he became suspicious and complained to Barsanuphius, suspecting John of a dishonest promise. Barsanuphius replied that everything promised by God through John would be fulfilled, but that there had been some latent disbelief in the heart of the petitioner, preventing his cure.93 Another means of transmitting protective and energizing powers was by the holy men of Gaza wearing items of clothing of a devotee for a short time, then returning them to be worn by the petitioner. Once a monk asked Barsanuphius to bless a hood (koukoÊlion) and a scapular (énãlabow) he had sent, so that they might protect him against temptation. Barsanuphius promised to wear them for three days and return them sanctified.94 One of the most impressive powers attained by the holy ascetic was a certain control over death. The holy man possessed the power to grant permission to die—namely, to control the time of death and affect the posthumous fate of the soul. These powers can be seen at work in a group of letters recounting the death of the young monk Dostiheus as well as the death of another, unnamed brother. 91
For the curative efficacy of the prayers of holy fathers, see Questions and Answers
390. 92
Ibid. 643. See also Questions and Answers 784, where a joint healing was achieved by Barsanuphius and John. 93 Ibid. 645. Another case of complaint and distrust of John’s healing powers is recorded in Questions and Answers 779–782. 94 Ibid. 123.
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Dying from tuberculosis, Dositheus asked Barsanuphius forgiveness for his sins. The Old Man’s answer was somewhat enigmatic, so Dositheus’s friends turned to John for clarification. He explained that with God’s inspiration Barsanuphius could ask for life for Dositheus. They then begged Barsanuphius to ask for life for Dositheus, but he declined. Dositheus was not about to die but to become instantly rich through a transition to everlasting life. Barsanuphius asked them not to reveal this secret to Dositheus. They further asked Barsanuphius to shorten his misery and hasten his death. But the great Old Man responded that the suffering had been prolonged in order to multiply prayers for his sake. Suffering greatly, Dositheus himself turned to Barsanuphius, beseeching release. Barsanuphius told him to be patient just a while longer. A few days later Dositheus declared that he could not bear it any more, whereupon the Old Man replied: ‘Go in peace and stand by the side of the Holy Trinity’.95 When John was about to die following the death of Seridus, he was asked by Aelianus, inexperienced successor of Seridus, to postpone his death by two weeks to allow Aelianus sufficient time to learn the management of the monastery; John assented.96 Barsanuphius’ additional power to perceive the posthumous fate of the soul, was confirmed by a vision of another old man who had seen Dositheus standing among the saints in heaven.97 These powers were acknowledged by both Barsanuphius and his clientele. Once a dying monk beseeched Barsanuphius to help him die quickly, present him before Christ, guide him by his prayers, and accompany him on his journey. Barsanuphius complied. He presented the monk before Christ so as to allay his fear of death and elevate his soul without harm to the saints, the angels, and the Trinity.98 Barsanuphius’s power and protection over souls did apparently extend to the next world.99 Francois Neyt has classified Barsnanuphius’s spiritual direction as charismatic authority.100 In contradistinction, that of John seems a
95
Vita Dosithei 10; Questions and Answers 147–150. Questions and Answers 224. On the whole affair of Aelianus’s unusual succession, see Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky, ‘Gazan Monasticism’. 97 Vita Dosithei 13. 98 Questions and Answers 146. 99 Ibid. 274. 100 F. Neyt, ‘Un type d’autorité charismatique’, Byzantion 44 (1974) 343–361. See also note 41, above. On ascetic charismatic authority, see P. Rousseau, Ascetics, Authority and the Church in the Age of Jerome and Cassian, Oxford 1978, 19–32. 96
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hybrid of charismatic and institutional authority, and that of Seridus primarily institutional.101 Nonetheless, the relationship of Barsanuphius and John with the monastic community, and in fact with the outside world at large, depended entirely on Seridus as their representative. Barsanuphius’s charismatic holiness had a pedagogic side as well. His spiritual leadership was conveyed through pedagogic and psychological means designed to encourage his followers. Thus the elements of his monastic paideia were applied individually and didactically according to the spiritual powers and status of the monk.102 In many letters Barsanuphius proved himself an insightful psychologist, often addressing delicate situations. One such was an impending crisis in the relationship between two friends living together. One of them had recently married, and with the three now living together, he feared that his marriage would change his friend’s attitude toward him.103 Barsanuphius regarded the monks in his monastery, and his devotees in general, as his adopted children,104 and was therefore able to convey the conviction that he indeed shared their load of worries.105 Moreover, a unique pact was sealed in their mutual relations of open hearts and prayer. According to John, the keeping of this pact with Barsanuphius guaranteed attainment of the kingdom of heaven.106 Evagrian influence notwithstanding, there seems to be relatively little influence of Evagrian technical terminology on Barsanuphius and John. Their main sources of inspiration were the Bible, Abba Isaiah, and the Apophthegmata, and their spiritual direction was conveyed primarily as an intensive interpretation and application of these writings. Advocating a stance of anti-intellectual anthropology, they emphasized the heart (kard¤a) as a central psychological term. In their use of ascetic and psychological terms, they reflect a psychological and personal tone, their main goal being to guide the conscience (»f°leia cux∞w).107 101
See Neyt, ‘Autorité charismatique’, 359. See e.g. Questions and Answers 223, 330, 363. 103 Ibid. 646. 104 Ibid. 136, 614. On the central status of the spiritual father in the pattern of spiritual leadership that developed in the monastic circle of Gaza, see BittonAshkelony, ‘Penitence’; Hausherr, Direction Spirituelle. For the spiritual father in the Apophthegmata, see Gould, The Desert Fathers, 26–87. For Evagrius, see G. Bunge, Paternité spirituelle, Abbaye de Bellefontaine 1994. 105 Questions and Answers 330. 106 Ibid. 306. 107 See F. Neyt, ‘Le vocabulaire de Barsanuphe et de Jean de Gaza’, Studia Patristica 12 (1975) 247–253. 102
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Theology The legacy of Abba Isaiah as reflected in the correspondence of Barsanuphius and John extends also to their negative attitude to theology.108 Compared to the intensive occupation with the practical side of monastic life and quietist ascetic spirituality, the letters contain relatively little concerning theological matters. The main principle is that dabbling in theology can only confuse the believer and introduce heretical thoughts to his mind. The study of theological issues should therefore be exclusively reserved to the experienced and perfect ascetic. This position is in fact compatible with the antiintellectual tendency of Barsanuphius and John, who essentially objected to the study of not only non-Christian literature but all Christian literature as well, with the exception of the Apophthegmata and the Scriptures. Even independent study of the Scriptures was considered liable to implant heresy into the hearts of believers unfamiliar with its spiritual interpretation.109 A monk wrote Barsanuphius that upon reading theological books he had felt his soul elevated beyond passionate thoughts toward contemplation of the truths revealed by these books. But as it happened his soul had rebuked him, saying: ‘You do not benefit from reading such things, you who are wretched (êyliow) and impure (ékãyartow)!’ Barsanuphius retorted: ‘I did not find satisfaction in these books which exalt the soul, but 108 See Abba Isaiah, Asceticon 26,18. This tendency had in fact been expressed already by Zeno, an older contemporary of Isaiah in the region of Gaza (Apophthegmata alph. Zeno 4). 109 Questions and Answers 469. A layman asked if it was beneficial to tell many stories from the Bible and the lives of the ascetics. He was answered that the great virtue was silence, but due to our weakness one may talk about that which invigorates the soul, namely, the Apophthegmata, whereas Scripture may be dangerous for the unenlightened in their spiritual interpretation. See also Questions and Answers 698. This was apparently also the stance of Abba Isaiah. See Asceticon 30, 4, in statements ascribed to Poimen, one of the prominent figures of the Apophthegmata. Thus alongside a certain intellectual openness Abba Isaiah also evinces an anti-intellectual tendency and even creates a sort of idealization of ‘the ignorance that is in the fear of God’ (Asceticon 1,6). On the dangers inherent in the study of Scripture, see also Apophthegmata alph. Amoun 3. On the complex attitude to Scripture in the Apophthegmata, see D. Burton-Christie, The Word in the Desert: Scripture and the Quest for Holiness in Early Christian Monasticism, Oxford 1993, 107–177; on its negative aspect, see ibid., 154–157. For anti-intellectual bias in the Apophthegmata, see Rousseau, ‘The Spiritual Authority of the Monk-Bishop’, 385. Despite the overall anti-intellectual trend, certain relations between Barsanuphius and John’s circle and intellectual circles were maintained, as reflected in the correspondence with anonymous teachers of philosophy, though not on philosophical issues (Questions and Answers 664–666, 778), and in the arrival at the monastery of educated monks such as Dorotheus.
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rather in the Sayings of the Elders (lÒgoi t«n gerÒntvn = apophthegmata) because they lead the soul to humility’.110 A laymen, describing a situation of meetings between fathers and laymen where theological discussions had taken place, asked Barsanuphius whether he should participate in such a discussion or remain silent, and whether his silence was not in fact a betrayal of the faith. The Old Man instructed him never to argue about matters concerning faith, declaring that dogmatic issues were beyond him. He should instead concentrate on prayer for his sins.111 When the questioner asked him further whether he should at least study the decisions of the Church, Barsanuphius instructed him: ‘Do not study anything that God does not demand of you,’112 clearly intending that one should not study at all, for fear of introducing doubt and heresy. One should be satisfied with a statement of the right faith.113 Thus the clear policy of Barsanuphius and John, at least regarding laymen and ordinary monks, was that of perpetuating blissful ignorance. It seems, however, that this attitude to theology reflects not merely a negative approach motivated by fear of doubt and heresy but may also indicate a quietist monastic tendency eschewing any judgment of the other.114 This stance is reflected in the answer to the same layman questioner asking whether he should curse and condemn Nestorius when asked to do so: One should not be hasty to condemn—even though Nestorius and his followers were excommunicated—because we are all sinners and must therefore focus on repentance for our sins without mixing it with other matters.115 ‘If I condemn the devil while doing his deeds’, proclaimed Barsanuphius, ‘I condemn myself !’116 But if the questioner is constantly pressured he may be permitted to condemn the heretic in order to satisfy those imposing on him.117
110
Questions and Answers 547. Ibid. 695. A similar stance was expressed by Abba Isaiah, Asceticon 26, 18. In Ascetion 4, 67–68, Isaiah warns against polemics with heretics for fear of incurring harm. 112 Questions and Answers 697. 113 Ibid. 697. 114 On this monastic virtue in the Apophthegmata see Gould, The Desert Fathers, 123–132. 115 Questions and Answers 700. 116 Ibid. 701. 117 Ibid. 111
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From the consultation with Barsanuphius and John regarding the Origenist controversy of the sixth century we can glean something of their position in the polemic and their essential attitude to theology. Polemics against Origen’s theological views started not long after his death, resuming at the end of the fourth century.118 In the first half of the sixth century the Church was beset by yet another bitter polemic over Origen. In Palestine, Jerusalem clergy and monks from the Judean Desert were especially involved in the polemic, which sometimes escalated to violence between the parties.119 This time criticism was directed not only against Origen’s writing but perhaps more against the writings of his followers in later generations, especially Evagrius of Pontus.120 The polemic focused primarily on the issues of the preexistence of the soul and the nature of body and soul after the resurrection. A certain monk addressed to Barsanuphius and John a series of questions regarding the Origenist controversy. The monk had read the writings of Origen, Didymus, and Evagrius121 and was asking about the belief in the preexistence of human, angelic, and demonic souls, and about their return with the épokatãstasiw to their pure primordial state. Barsanuphius condemned these doctrines as the speculation of Greeks. They did not lead believers to the light and were in fact demonic machinations. One should not concern oneself with the hidden future. Nonetheless, God had no difficulty in simultaneously creating body and soul. Barsanuphius further objected to the idea of change and advancement in the degree of angels. But while condemning Origenist concepts, Barsanuphius hardly addressed them or elaborated his objections beyond their ultimate rejection and reiteration of the demand to concentrate on the study of the Apophthegmata.122 The same monk addressed an identical question to John and received an answer condemning these concepts as demonic.123 118 See E.A. Clark, The Origenist Controversy: The Cultural Construction of an Early Christian Debate, Princeton 1992. 119 The Origenist controversy of the sixth century and its Palestinian aspects have been studied extensively. See e.g., Perrone, La Chiesa di Palestina, 203–222, and bibliography cited there. 120 See A. Guillaumont, Les ‘Kephalaia Gnostica’ d’Évagre le pontique et l’histoire de l’origénisme chez les grecs et chez les syriens, Paris 1962, 124–170. 121 Especially the Kephalaia Gnostica, containing Origenist doctrines. See A. Guillaumont’s edition, PO 28,1 (1958). 122 Questions and Answers 600. 123 Ibid. 601.
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Persisting, the monk asks whether one might at least read the writings of Evagrius. The answer was that one might read them, but only selectively.124 The monk testified that some of the fathers had accepted the Origenist doctrines through Evagrius, and this was indeed confirmed by Barsanuphius, who was nevertheless inclined to oppose Origenism. He emphasized, though, that the important thing was not whether these views had been right or wrong; both the questioner and Barsanuphius himself should not be preoccupied with them but concentrate on an examination of their emotions (§reunçn tå pãyh), weeping, and compunction (klaËsai ka‹ peny∞sai).125 The questioner and his fellow monks then complained to Barsanuphius that other monks were advocating the Origenist doctrine of the soul’s preexistence, deriving support for it from Gregory of Nazianzus, but that in contradistinction to Gregory, they claimed that the soul was attached to the body as a punishment for previous sins and had even found support for their view in the writings of Gregory of Nyssa, though Gregory himself had rejected this opinion. They further distorted his statements on the épokatãstasiw. The monks questioned Barsanuphius as to how Gregory of Nyssa could be wrong, as to the disagreement among Christian authors on whether Paradise was material or spiritual, and on their interpretation of certain biblical verses. The crux of Barsanuphius’s answer was that preoccupation with these matters causes only harm and confusion. Even the saints did not have a full understanding of the divine mysteries. In addition, however, Barsanuphius pointed to the hermeneutical principle of discernment between unorthodox views accepted by authors uncritically from certain teachers and the authors’ own thoughts. His general approach to theology was summed up in his instruction to focus on the struggle against the passions, for which we would be called to account on the Day of Judgment, whereas we would not be examined concerning these matters of theology, whether we had studied them or not.126 The inquisitive monk followed with theological questions regarding heterodox views encountered in the Apophthegmata. He inquired about the opinion that the holy bread was not the body of Christ 124
Ibid. 602. Ibid. 603. On the monastic ideal of compunction (p°nyow), see I. Hausherr, Penthos: The Doctrine of Compunction in the Christian East, Kalamazoo 1982. 126 Questions and Answers 604. 125
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but only a symbol, and that Christ was in fact Melchizedek—why did God allow these great men to fall into error? The answer was that God did not lead them astray, but that these wise men did not investigate the matter in the pursuit of truth. Sages in various generations, however, complement one another.127 Barsanuphius’s replies did not succeed in allaying the monk’s concern with the theological issues of the Origenist controversy. He had, he said, read another theological work that caused great confusion in his soul. He was hesitant about addressing Barsanuphius but claimed that his thoughts did not allow him to remain silent. Barsanuphius rebuked him, declaring that the devil was pushing him to useless matters. However, he permitted the monk to raise his questions so as to preempt demonic arguments.128 These questions concerned the definition of the postresurrection body, identified with the post-resurrection body of Christ. Some Origenists had claimed that following resurrection the body would be different—airy and round, not a body of flesh and bones. Moreover, these Origenist opinions were founded on Paul, seeming to prove also belief in the soul’s preexistence and the épokatãstasiw. In his reply, Barsanusphius expressed an orthodox resurrection concept, though he was of the opinion that post-resurrection bodies would be stronger, luminous, and incorruptible. The sharp transition in resurrection from the despicable, corrupt body to a luminous, eternal one is likened to a simple farmer instantly becoming a general, or a deacon an ordained bishop.129 In conclusion, it may be said that Barsanuphius’s overall attitude to theological issues was negative. He regarded theology as inessential to the ideal Christian way of monastic life, which should be focused on a continuous process of self-examination and repentance. Moreover, he asserted, dabbling in theology distracts the mind, sets obstacles, and invites demonic machinations. Nevertheless it appears that Barsanuphius was himself well versed in the important writings of the Church Fathers and in central issues of the Origenist controversy. Although it is clear that the controversy had penetrated their circle as well, Barsanuphius and John were generally orthodox
127
Ibid. 605; Apophthegmata alph. Daniel, 8. Questions and Answers 606. 129 Ibid. 607. For an analysis of the Origenist content of the series of questions and answers regarding the Origenist controversy, see Guillaumont, Les ‘Kephalaia Gnostica’ d’Évagre le pontique et l’histoire de l’origénisme, 124–128. 128
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in their stance. Nevertheless their essential attitude to theology seems to have generated a tolerant attitude toward those holding non-orthodox theological views. Thus the series of questions about the Origenist polemic form a somewhat peculiar unit in the correspondence, indicative of a general rule of avoidance of theological discussion in the circle of Barsanuphius and John. An exception to this rule may be seen in the questions relating to what could be termed the theology of monastic life130—namely, the discussion of issues pertaining to the metaphysical goals of asceticism, similar to that of Abba Isaiah.131 These discussions, however, are rather short and extemporaneous. In an uncharacteristic question Barsanuphius was asked by the monk Theodorus about the origin of evil and about the evil powers of the devil and man and their origin. Here as well Barsanuphius began by emphasizing that a monk had no need of this knowledge. His principal response was that the origin of evil—in the devil as well as in men—was in the voluntary movement toward it. It was in fact the devil himself who transformed his originally good power into an evil one.132 Barsanuphius does not deal here with the question of whether evil has an independent ontological existence, but he seems to have held the view that evil does not have an independent existence, its existence being dependent on demonic and human psychological reality. Yet Barsanuphius’s attitude to theology may have been somewhat more complex than has been indicated so far, which may temper Brown’s harsh judgment on the theological skills of holy ascetics.133 As with other issues, Barsanuphius distinguished sharply between ordinary monks and laymen—for whom he had formulated his negative stance regarding theology—and veteran ascetics who had reached monastic perfection. The study of theology was reserved to these pneumatic individuals. From the redactor of the corpus it appears that Barsanuphius wrote the above-mentioned series of compositions, arranged in the form of meditations around the letters of the alphabet and including discussions and advice on theological issues, for
130 See Regnault, ‘Théologie de la vie monastique’, in: Théologie de la vie monastique, 315–322. 131 See Perrone, La chiesa di Palestina, 286–295; Kofsky, ‘Aspects of Sin’, 425–428. 132 Questions and Answers 63. 133 Brown, Authority and the Sacred, 72–73.
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the benefit of other experienced ascetics.134 It is noteworthy, however, that—at least according to the meditation on the letter eta, the only one included in the correspondence—Barsanuphius was apparently occupied primarily with issues pertaining to the theology of monastic life rather than with the classical questions of Christian theology. Conclusion The old men of Gaza, then, were holy men of their own kind, molded in the peculiar monastic tradition of Gaza and the singularity of their personalities, and their rich correspondence offers us a rare insight into a strange and bygone mentality. Barsanuphius did not die. Like the old soldiers in the poem, he simply faded away. On the eve of John’s death, Barsanuphius retreated completely from the world and fell silent.135 But the forces of centralization could not easily domesticate the holy person’s charisma even after he had vanished into the dark depths of his monastic cell. The historian Evagrius wrote that people still believed Barsanuphius was living in his cell about fifty years later, though throughout the entire interval he had received no food and was not seen by anyone. According to the story, when Eustochius, patriarch of Jerusalem (552–63), refused to credit this and ordered a forced entry to the cell of the Old Man, a fire broke out and the assembled party was almost burned to death.136 The Byzantine Church embraced the two inseparable holy men of Gaza, commemorating them in the holy liturgy.137
134 135 136
Questions and Answers 137. Ibid. 224. Evagrius Scholasticus, Hist. Eccl., 4, 33, ed. J. Bidez and L. Parmentier, London
1898. 137 On the Byzantine cult of Barsanuphius and John, and on the later vita of Barsanuphius and his cult in southern Italy, see Neyt, Introduction, 27–32.
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‘THE ROCK ON WHICH THE CHURCH IS FOUNDED’: SIMON PETER IN JEWISH FOLKTALE* Wout van Bekkum (University of Groningen, The Netherlands) 1. Introduction Modern scholarship has greatly advanced the understanding of Peter, the most prominent disciple of Jesus and the spokesman of the apostles, with stronger emphasis on the definition of his methodological and interpretative roles. In a recent study, Timothy Wiarda has grouped representative scholars and types of approach according to his perception of how the original narrator intended the Peter narratives to be read and which ways of reading were preferred by later interpreters. Modern research on understanding or evaluating the gospel narrative concerning Peter seems to be divided into three broad approaches: 1. understanding or evaluating the gospel narratives concerning Peter as if they were accounts referring to historical persons and events 2. understanding the narratives as symbolic presentations of theological or ecclesiological points 3. understanding or evaluating the narratives primarily as story worlds.1 The work of Carsten Thiede may be considered representative of a great number of interpreters who prefer to regard the evangelic accounts of Peter as data for understanding the man and his times.2 The scholar Rudolf Pesch notes that in examining the Gospels the historian faces the problem of distinguishing the ‘historical Simon’ from the ‘Peter of faith.’ His main interest is an examination of the
1 T. Wiarda, Peter in the Gospels, Pattern, Personality and Relationship, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 2. Reihe No. 127, Tübingen 2000, 9–11. 2 C. Thiede, Simon Peter, Exeter: Paternoster 1986; ibid., The Earliest Gospel Manuscript? The Qumran Fragment 75Q and its Significance for New Testament Studies, Exeter 1992.
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evidence concerning the historical Peter.3 Some thirty years ago, a group of New Testament scholars was formed primarily to study Peter to reconstruct from a historical perspective the thought of the first few generations of the nascent Christian church. Their book, Peter in the New Testament, focuses on the church role or exemplary function of an impersonal Peter.4 The second approach towards the symbolic presentation of Peter is illustrated by K. Quast’s monograph Peter and the Beloved Disciple, Figures for a Community in Crisis.5 Quast and many other scholars adhere to a widespread perspective which sees a characterization of the Christian community and a role model for church leadership in the gospel narratives of Peter. The third way of approaching Peter treats him essentially as a character in a work of fiction, as in the narrative analyses of Jack Dean Kingsbury who describes Peter primarily as the spokesman of the disciples.6 Wiarda’s own analysis of the Peter episodes confirms a repeated pattern or motif in which positively intended words or actions on Peter’s part meet with reversal. He also shows that a particular set of personal traits and ways of relating to Jesus (either the disciple-rabbi model or that between an eschatological prophet and his followers) form an integral part of Peter’s characterization, often in close connection with the reversal motif. Similar features appear in the biblical Elijah-Elisha narratives and in rabbinic anecdotes portraying individual rabbis.7 Certain rabbis display particular character traits which may be considered as ideal or exemplary, but which often come to expression in a single distinctive personality.8 It seems to me that in terms of motif and setting some individual characteristics concerning the apostle Peter and biographical ele-
3 R. Pesch, Simon-Petrus, Geschichte und geschichtliche Bedeutung des ersten Jüngers Jesu Christi, Päpste und Papsttum Band 15, Stuttgart 1980. 4 R.E. Brown, K. Donfried, J. Reumann, Peter in the New Testament, Minneapolis and New York: Augsburg/Paulist 1973; T. Wiarda, Peter in the Gospels (n. 1), 18–19. 5 Published in Sheffield 1989. 6 Jack Dean Kingsbury, Matthew as Story, Minneapolis 1991; ibid., Mark, Jesus, Authorities, Disciples, Minneapolis 1991; ibid., Conflict in Luke, Jesus Authorities, Disciples, Minneapolis 1991. 7 S. Alexander, ‘Rabbinic Biography and the Biography of Jesus, A Survey of the Evidence’, Synoptic Studies, The Ampleforth Conference of 1982 & 1983, C.M. Tuckett (ed.), Sheffield 1984, 19–50; F. Martin, Narrative Parallels to the New Testament, Atlanta 1988. 8 T. Wiarda, Peter in the Gospels (n. 1), 183–193.
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ments from rabbinic storytelling are brought together in a number of legends concerning Simon Cephas. Simon Cephas, the original name of Peter in combination with the Aramaic-Greek title Cepha(s) and the apostolic name par excellence with the original meaning ‘stone’, may have been known to some extent among Jews as the alleged founder of the Church of Rome.9 There are hardly any reminiscences of Simon-Peter in Jewish literature, but three small Hebrew accounts of a biography of Peter can be found in Bet ha-Midrash,
Fig. 1 Detail of tombstone of 6 year old boy Asellus (4th CE. Museo Della Civiltà Romana, Rome).
‘Simon the apostle’ is mentioned in Judah Ha-Levi’s Kuzari as the first lawgiver of Christianity: David H. Baneth (ed.), Kitàb al-Radd wa-’l-Dalìl fì ’l-Dìn alDhalìl (Al-Kitàb al-Khazarì)—The Book of Refutations and Proof on the Despised Faith (The Book of the Khazars) known as The Kuzari, Jerusalem 1977, 7; for the Petrine literature of the early Church and its interrelations, cf. W. Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha II, Tübingen 1989, 14–25 (“The Apostle in Early Christian Tradition”), 271–321 (“The Acts of Peter”), 483–541 (“The Pseudo-Clementines”, “Kerygmata Petrou”). 9
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published by A. Jellinek within the context of the ‘History of Jesus’ or Toldot Yeshu tradition,10 and in Otzar Midrashim edited by Y.D. Eisenstein.11 The third account has been copied verbatim from the Tam u-Mu"ad (“Complete and testified”) version of the Toldot Yeshu.12 The Toldot Yeshu is an early medieval treatise, originally written in Aramaic, with a unique approach to the stories about Jesus as the founder of Christianity. This episodic work does not offer any systematic polemical argumentation but rather ridicules the biographical tales about Jesus in the New Testament. In this treatise it is believed that Jesus did perform miracles, but drew on black magic for the purpose. An essential part of the work describes the going in separate ways of Jews and Christians. Simon Cephas is portrayed as one of the propagators of the new law and religion of Christianity given by Johanan (= John) and Abba Shaul (= Paul).13
10
Bet ha-Midrasch, Sammlung kleiner Midraschim und vermischter Abhandlungen aus der älteren jüdischen Literatur, Wien 1873 – Jerusalem 1938, Volume V, 60–62; Wien 1878 – Jerusalem 1938, volume VI, 9–11, 155–156. A possible fourth version with Elijah or Paul as the dominant character in the story ( Jellinek, Bet ha-Midrasch VI, 11–14) has been omitted from the discussion here. H.M. Güdemann, Geschichte des Erziehungswesens und der Cultur der abendländischen Juden während des Mittelalters, Band II, Wien 1884, 44–52; S. Krauss, Das Leben Jesu nach jüdischen Quellen, Berlin 1902, reprint Hildesheim 1977, 297. For the discussion between Samuel Krauss and Bernard Heller, cf. S. Krauss, “Neuere Ansichten über ‘Toldoth Jeschu’”, Monatschrift für die Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 77 (1933), 44–63, B. Heller, “Über das Alter der jüdischen Judas-Sage und des Toldot Jeschu”, MGWJ 77 (1933), 198–210. J. Schwartz claims that the Ben Stada narratives in Rabbinic literature and the traditions concerning the mesit or enticer can be applied to the apostle Peter, cf. J. Schwartz, ‘Ben Stada and Peter in Lydda’, Journal for the Study of Judaism 21, 1990, 1–18; revised version ‘Peter and Ben Stada in Lydda’, in R. Bauckham (ed.), The Book of Acts in Its Palestinian Setting, The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting Volume IV, Grand Rapids 1995, 391–414 (chapter 14); also in J. Schwartz, Lod (Lydda), Israel, From its Origins through the Byzantine Period 5600 BCE–640 CE, Oxford: BAR International Series 571, 1991, 67–71. 11 Published in New York: Reznick, Menschel & Co. 1928, no. 557. 12 This third version, known as Account C, is re-edited in G. Schlichting, Ein jüdisches Leben Jesu, Die verschollene Toledot Jeschu-Fassung Tam u-mu'ad, Tübingen 1982, 179–187, 225–228. 13 W. Horbury, A Critical Examination of the Toldoth Jeshu, Ph.D. Cambridge 1971; D.J. Lasker and S. Stroumsa, The Polemic of Nestor the Priest, Qissat Mujadalat al-Usquf and Sefer Nestor Ha-Komer, Jerusalem 1996; O. Limor, “Judaism observing Christianity: the Polemics of Nestor the Priest and Toldoth Jeshu”, Peamim 75, 1998, 109–128. Only at a much later stage did Jews compose specifically anti-Christian theological treatises as a defence against Christian attacks and engage in debates and disputations with the Church about the truth of Christianity, H. Trautner-Kromann, Shield and Sword: Jewish Polemics against Christianity and the Christians in France and Spain 1100–1500, Tübingen 1993; S. Krauss, The Jewish-Christian Controversy from the Earliest
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2. Translation of the Legends of Simon Cephas14 A After these things there arose a conflict between the Christians and the Jews. As soon as a Christian saw a Jew he wished to kill him, and the trouble grew steadily worse over thirty years.15 Then the Christians assembled in their thousands and tens of thousands, and they prevented Israel from going on a pilgrimage [to Jerusalem]. There was great turmoil in Israel just as on the day when the [golden] calf was made;16 the [ Jews] did not know what to do. However, the [Christian] faith became stronger and twelve men went out, and they went to twelve kingdoms and they proclaimed their prophecies in their dwellingplaces.17 Israel was led astray by them because they were renowned men who strengthened the faith in Jesus. They said that they were his messengers and they recruited many people from among the Israelites.
Times to 1789, Edited and revised by William Horbury, Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum 56, 1996, section iii, The Jewish Polemists of the Middle Ages, 201–261; ibid., Jews and Christians in Contact and Controversy, Edinburgh 1998; ibid., “Hebrew apologetic and polemical literature”, Hebrew Scholarship and the Medieval World, edited by Nicholas de Lange, Cambridge 2001, 189–209; M. Poorthuis, ‘The Three Rings, Judaism, Christianity, Islam, A bibliographical essay on their interaction in the Eastern and Western world’, Jaarboek 1999 Thomas Instituut te Utrecht, 12–25; H.W. Basser, Studies in Exegesis, Christian Critiques of Jewish Law and Rabbinic Responses 70–300 CE, Leiden 2000; Jacob Deutsch, “Evidence of the Oldest Version of Toldoth Jeshu”, Tarbiz 69, 2000, 177–197. 14 We have deliberately chosen a translation that reflects the inconsistencies of the Hebrew original rather than transpose it into literary English. 15 Apparently the estimated number of years of Jesus’ life. The beginning here is similar to the words of 'Abd al-Jabbar, ‘After him (i.e., Jesus) his disciples were with the Jews and the Children of Israel in the latter’s synagogues and observed the prayers and the feasts of (the Jews) in the same place as the latter. (However) there was a disagreement between them and the Jews with regard to Christ’, S. Pines, ‘The Jewish Christians of the Early Centuries of Christianity According to a New Source’, Proceedings of the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities II, No. 13, Jerusalem 1966, 1–74, esp. 41. 16 BT Shabbat 17a, ‘And that day was as harsh for Israel as the day on which the golden calf was made’; cf. I.J. Mandelbaum, ‘Tannaitic Exegesis of the Golden Calf Episode’, A Tribute to Geza Vermes (R. Davies & R.T. White, eds), Sheffield 1990, 207–223. 17 According to Matt. 10,1 and Acts 1,23. For an Arabic parallel of the twelve apostles who departed to the twelve kingdoms: Geert Jan van Gelder, “Mudrik alShaybànì’s Poem on a Christian Boy, Bad Taste or Harmless Wit?”, Representations of the Divine in Arabic Poetry, Orientations 5, Amsterdam-Atlanta 2001, 49–70, esp. 67.
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The sages saw this evil thing, and it was a great evil to them. They said to each other, ‘Woe betide us for we have sinned, because it is in our time that this evil has happened in Israel because we and our forebears did not listen.’ They were very upset and sat down and wept and turned their eyes unto heaven and said, ‘O Lord, God of heaven, counsel us about what to do for we do not know what to do. Our eyes are turned unto You because innocent blood is being shed among Your people Israel on account of this man. How long will we be trapped by this so enabling the Christians to overpower us and kill us whenever they want? We are few and as a result traps are set for Your people, the house of Israel.18 But You, for the sake of Your name, counsel us about what to do so that we may be separated from the community of the Christians.’ When they ceased speaking, one of the elders whose name was Simon Cephas stood up. He made use of a voice from heaven19 and said to them, ‘Listen to me, my brothers and my people, if you consider my words right, I shall separate these people out of the community of the children of Israel and they will have no share or heritage in the midst of Israel, but only if you are ready to accept the sin.’ They replied, ‘We will accept the sin so do as you have said.’ Simon the son of Cephas went into the temple and wrote down the great name. He tore his flesh and secreted the writing within himself. He left the sanctuary and took the writing out and studied the name.20 He went to the metropolis of the Christians and shouted in a loud voice, ‘Let anyone who believes in Jesus come to me because I am his apostle.’ He then said to them, ‘What sign do you want from me?’ They said, ‘Jesus performed miracles during his life, you too will have to perform them for us.’ He said, ‘Bring me a leper.’ They brought him one and he laid his hands [upon him], and then he
18
Job 34,30. In Hebrew: hayah mishtammesh be-bat qol. Bat qol or ‘echo [from heaven]’ is the term given in rabbinic literature for the lowest form of direct divine inspiration, cf. Acts 10,9–16. See E.E. Urbach, The Sages, their Concepts and Beliefs, Jerusalem 1975, 99. 20 These passages are unclear. In Hebrew: wayyasem hakketav betokho; ‘the great name’ most likely refers to the Tetragrammaton; J.H. Greenstone, ‘Jewish Legends about Simon-Peter’, Historia Judaica XII, Philadelphia 1950, 91: “[Simon-Peter] learned the combinations of the Ineffable Name of God and secreted them under his skin.” 19
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was cured.21 Then he said to them, ‘Bring me a dead man.’ They brought [one] to him and he laid his hands upon him and then he stood upon his feet.22 When the people saw this, they fell down before him and said to him, ‘You are truly the apostle of Jesus because that is what he did for us during his life.’ Simon Cephas said to them, ‘I am the apostle of Jesus; he commanded me to come to you. Swear to me that you will do everything I command you.’ They all answered and said, ‘Everything you command us we will do.’ Then Simon Cephas said to them, ‘Know that Jesus was an enemy of Israel and their Torah, just as Isaiah said in a prophecy, ‘Your new moons and your appointed feasts My soul hates’ (Is. 1,14). You must also know that he did not have affection for Israel in accordance with what Hosea said in a prophecy, ‘Because you are not My people’ (Hos. 1,9). [ Jesus] also intended to uproot [the Jews] from the world at once; however, he did not want to exterminate them but wanted them to be left [alive] so that his being hanged and stoned would be remembered down through the generations. He bore his great sufferings in order to redeem you from Hell, and now he warns you and commands you to not to do evil any longer to any Jew. If a Jew says to a Christian, ‘Go for me a parasang’, then he shall go for him two parasangs.23 If a Jew hits him on the left cheek, turn to him also the right cheek so that they will squander their reward in this world;24 in the world to come they will be judged in Hell.25 If you act in this manner, you will be favored to be equal to them. Therefore, he commands you not to celebrate the Feast of the Unleavened Bread but instead celebrate the day of his death. Instead of the Feast of Weeks, you will celebrate the forty days from the moment he was stoned until his ascension to heaven.
21 According to Acts 3,1–9, or a transposition of the story about Jesus who healed a leper according to Matt. 8,1–3, Luke 5,12–14. 22 Apparently a transposition of the story about Jesus who raised a widow’s son from the dead, Luke 7,11–15. 23 In Hebrew, parsah – ‘parasang’, ‘mile’; G. Schlichting (n. 12), 171. In the Toldot Yeshu these words are attributed to John: [I translate from the Hebrew original] ‘If a Jew orders one of you to go for him on a message, say to him, ‘I am ready to go many miles!’’ 24 Literally in Hebrew: she-yokhlu skharam ba-'olam ha-zeh. 25 Matt. 5,39; G. Schlichting (n. 12), 171. This saying is also attributed to John: [I translate from the Hebrew original] ‘If a Jew hits you on one cheek, turn to him the other cheek so that he will hit you again!’
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Instead of the Feast of Booths, you shall celebrate the day of his birth, and on the eighth day after his birth you will celebrate his circumcision.’ They all replied and said, ‘Everything you have spoken we will do, provided that you stay with us.’ He said, ‘I shall live among you if you do what has been commanded of me: I shall not eat any food, just scanty rations and water [out of ] necessity. You must build me a tower within the city; I shall live there until the day I die.’ They said, ‘We will do what you have said.’ The [Christians] built a tower for [Simon Cephas] and offered him the tower as a place to live. They gave him a daily ration of bread and water until the day of his death, and he lived among them. He worshipped the God of his Fathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and he composed numerous piyyutim. He sent them to every corner of Israel so that he would be remembered in every generation; he has sent all his piyyutim to his teachers. And Simon sat in the tower for six years until he died. And as he had ordered that he be buried within the tower, that is what [the Christians] did. Then they built an ugly building for him; this tower is still in Rome. They call it Peter and this is the name of the stone he sat upon until the day of his death.26 Commentary: Much of the characterization of Peter in this account consists of his distinctive role in the separation of Judaism and Christianity. The words and acts of Simon Cephas are a sign of faith for the Christians and at the same time a request for them to leave Judaism to the Jews and to follow new guidelines concerning the Jewish festivals. Simon seems to be protesting that the Christians are putting him under pressure and thus cuts down the time he spends among them by leading a life in isolation. His determination to remain loyal to Judaism is expressed by his faith in the God of the Patriarchs and the composition of liturgical hymns or piyyutim.
26 J.M.C. Toynbee and J.B. Ward-Perkins, The Shrine of St. Peter and the Vatican Excavations, London 1976; Chrys C. Caragounis, Peter and the Rock, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche 58, Berlin – New York 1990.
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B In that time there was a person in Israel called Simon Cephas on account of the fact that he had been sitting upon a stone about which the prophet Ezekiel has said that it was near the Kebar River.27 He was the leader of the poets, and a voice would come out to him from the stone so that he was granted great wisdom. The [Christians] were envious that such a man existed in Israel. Rabbi Simon knew of this envy, so what did he do? During the Feast of Booths, on the day of Hoshana Rabba, he ascended the Mount of Olives.28 They began to discuss with Rabbi Simon, but he defeated them all with his insights, so that they were not able to answer him and were fearful. When they understood that he possessed great wisdom, they took counsel and said, ‘We must not leave such a man amongst the Jews; let us take him from them, because he will ruin our religion within a short while.’ They seized him on the instant and said to him, ‘We know that there is no sage in Israel like you; you have the ability to make [things] better or worse, to nullify what has been done or to preserve it. God has given grace to Jesus to continue our religion. All our sages are Jews, and when we saw your acts we said, ‘He is capable of protecting the validity of our religion; our numbers are increasing every day whereas the [number of ] Jews is steadily declining. It is not right for a man like you to remain among them. You must come with us because our laws, precepts and statutes are good and you will inherit the world to come. We will make you a leader over us29 and nobody will tell you what you should do.’ [Simon Cephas] replied to them, ‘Your words are true but I do not want to forsake my religion.’ They said to him, ‘If you do not want to go with us, we will kill you and all the Jews; not one of them will remain alive.’ He said to them, ‘It is all in the hands of heaven and God will help us.’30
27 Ezek. 1,3; Ezek. 43,3, and the opening line of the Book of Zerubbavel, ‘Like the vision I had seen by the Kebar River’, cf. Y. Even Shmuel, Midreshey Ge"ullah, Jerusalem 1943, 71. 28 The seventh day of the Feast of Booths; perhaps a remote reminder of Jesus ascending the Mount of Olives just before being arrested (Matt. 26,36–45). 29 Literally in Hebrew: we-nasimkha be-roshenu rosh. 30 Is. 50,7–9.
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The Christians started to kill the Jews, who feared and trembled and all of them submitted their pleas to Rabbi Simon saying to him, ‘Do what they say and save us from their hands; we will take the transgression on ourselves and act according to your great wisdom.’ The Gentiles used to kidnap and to snatch Jews and sell them for a single coin; three Jews [were sold] for three coins because that was the price for which Jesus was sold.31 When Rabbi Simon saw this he said, ‘Better that Simon and one hundred like him are lost than one soul from Israel.’ Hence, what did he do? He said he would go with the [Christians]. And lo! The pope and the bishop came to him, and he said to them, ‘What do you want from me?32 If you wish [me to come] and yet you continue to exterminate the Jews, then I do not wish to live with you. If you wish to do what St. Paul33 has commanded on behalf of Jesus, so that his words may be valid, this is what you have to do, accept anew and fulfil the conditions that I am telling you. Stop stoning the Jews and allow them entrance into their houses of abominations if you want, and also to our churches so that they will also begin to believe in Jesus. If you do not do this, the Jews will say that you persecute them. Then you will not see that their activity consists of falsehood and lies.’ They immediately accepted the words of Rabbi Simon, including the pope,34 and they said, ‘Everything you command us and order us we will do.’35 Then it became law that every Jew who wished to enter into the [houses of] abominations could enter. He said to them also, ‘I inform you that I take a vow not to eat meat on Fridays
31
A distortion of the thirty silver coins mentioned in Matt. 26,15. In the Hebrew original papa we-ha-vescovo caelo. The term vescovo is clearly derived from Italian ‘episcopus’. The reading caelo for the term or abbreviation aylç is very doubtful; J.H. Greenstone, “Jewish Legends” (n. 20), 89–104, 97, n. 12: ‘Another word aylç is added, which is rather strange. Krauss’ suggestion (Das Leben Jesu, 87) that it stands for the name of the bishop (Giulio) cannot be accepted, nor would any other proper name fit in the context, since a little further on in the text the same word refers to the pope and it is hardly likely that both the pope and the bishop should have had the same name.’ L. Ginzberg (Ginzey Schechter I, New York 1928, 324–338) suggests that the letters aylç are an abbreviation of a phrase containing a curse, such as µmç ˆwdbal (‘to Hell with their names!’) or µmç hlal (‘Cursed are their names!’). 33 Literally in Hebrew: S’ Pauli (‘Saint Paul’). 34 ha-papa caelo, cf. n. 24. 35 Josh. 1,16. 32
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for my whole life because Jesus was killed on that day. I shall not drink wine during all my days so that I may not rejoice because of the love of Jesus. I shall be completely isolated from all the people within my house so that my eyes may not err and to fulfil what has been written ‘Avoid telling lies.’36 And I shall accept excommunication and complete isolation, ordaining statutes and ordinances and revealing to you the secrets of the world so that you will know and believe the truth. Behold, I command you to build a high tower where I shall live all the days of my life. You will not bother me and disturb me any longer in my worship and my wisdom, not because I consider faith to be evil but because I know that this is the right way to act. From now on, you must not force upon anyone your teaching with violence or too much zeal.37 Let him come voluntarily, for if you will act thus you will bring the Jews close to your religion, and you will make them understand that their religion is not good. Therefore, anyone who wants to join your religion will come voluntarily. Even when he says that he will come voluntarily, we shall not accept him until he has lived for thirty days in a house of good people. You will not accept a little child younger than nine years of age because a child does not decide things using his reason.’38 The Gentiles immediately built a large tower where he could live, and he was the first pope in the world whom the Greeks have called kleouri.39 His activities were performed with great subtlety, so that their food would not be ritually unclean or forbidden anymore, and they would no more bow down to their idols. He lived there alone in a tower and ordained many things. The Gentiles accepted him in [his] isolation, and during that same period of his stay there he composed great hymns for Israel; they all still exist in his name.
36
Ex. 23,7. Literally aestomo, probably related to Latin aestus, ‘glow’, ‘heat’, ‘passion’, ‘zeal’. Perhaps a distortion of baptismo? 38 J.H. Greenstone, “Jewish Legends” (n. 20), 98, n. 13: “Nine years as the age of puberty is not known in rabbinic law, except in connection with the duty of fasting on the Day of Atonement, when a child of nine is expected to be trained to fast part of the day, if his health is normal. A nine-year old boy is regarded as being of marriageable age.” 39 A derivation from Greek klerourgia, perhaps ‘clergy’? L. Ginzberg (n. 30) prefers to take the word kleouri or kloyouri as representing the Latin term claviger (‘key-bearer’), as indicated in Matthew 16,19, ‘I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven.’ 37
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He wrote, ‘Know ye, O House of Israel, who are faithful to God and His perfect Torah, which is the true Torah, and who are designated as His possession, that I Simon Cephas, who suffered all these evil experiences because of my love for Him, know what is true and what is false. Accept from me these piyyutim which I have composed, so that God may forgive both me and you, for all that I have done, I did for your benefit and your salvation.’ They took the manuscript with great joy and sent it to the Exilarch and showed the piyyutim to the heads of the academies and to the Sanhedrin. All of them agreed that [the hymns] were worthy and in good taste and that it was proper for the hazzanim to include them in their public prayers. To this day, they are accustomed to recite them on every Sabbath. And this is Simon Cephas whom the Gentiles call St. Peter.40 Commentary: The individual units underlying this account contain a lot of information about the person of Simon Cephas acting with consistently positive intentions towards the Jews. Simon Cephas’s words and actions suggest that he is described as a spokesman on behalf of the Jews, even in the presence of the pope and the bishop. This account seems to pay more attention to the fact that Simon Cephas’s role led to a positive affirmation of Jewish values among Christians, who, therefore, should have no reason to persecute the Jews. His name is forever remembered in Jewish tradition, as shown by his authorship of liturgical hymns which were included in the public prayers of every Sabbath.41 Remarkably, this version refers to the Mount of Olives but does not explicitly mention Jerusalem as the residence of Simon Cephas. ‘The stone on which he was sitting’ is situated by the Kebar River in accordance with the first verses of the book of Ezekiel. Version A mentions Rome, where Simon Cephas resided at the end of his life but the other two accounts are vague with regard to his final whereabouts and seem to situate him in the East, or to be more specific, in Babylonia. This difference could very well be based upon the references to Babylon found in 1 Peter 5,13 and in Rev. 14,8, 16,19, and 18,2, but it is not clear to what extent the author of the 40
Literally in Hebrew: s’t Pitra. This version introduces Simon Cephas as ha-rosh shel meshorerim, ‘head of the poets’. 41
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Hebrew Simon-Peter legend was aware of the Christian interpretation of the name ‘Babylon’ for the city of Rome in accordance with the occasional medieval instance in Jewish tradition of referring to Rome as ‘Babel’ or ‘Bavli’.42 C Shortly after that period there was among the wise men of Israel a very great sage, whose name was Simon, in their language called Cephas as was his destiny.43 That man was famous among the Jews. He could hear a heavenly voice for which those who envied him wanted to harm him. Due to his great wisdom all the sages envied him. Being jealous, they did not treat him with proper respect. Hence, he was forced to stay away from Jerusalem, and he lived at a distance. The Christians heard about the wisdom of Rabbi Simon who was called Cephas. He was put under strong pressure of the sages. A large number of Christians assembled and approached Jerusalem in a surprise attack with drawn swords in their hands.44 They suddenly entered the house where Rabbi Simon was staying, because he had come to Jerusalem for the celebration of the Feast of Booths. They said to him, ‘Are you the sage Rabbi Simon Cephas? How long do you want to be thwarted by the sages who show hatred towards you. You are like a painful thistle among them. Grant yourself peace by turning your heart towards our ever rising and successful religion.45 You will be for us a leader and a ruler if you like. If you do not listen to us voluntarily, then the drawn swords will not leave anyone alive, nor let anyone escape.46 They drew their swords over him and they said, ‘Answer us because we will not take our leave of you until the murderous blow of the sword separates us.47 42 H. Fuchs, Der geistige Widerstand gegen Rom, Berlin 1964, 20–22, 60–62, 67–74, 78–79; M. E. Stone, Fourth Ezra, A Commentary on the Book of Fourth Ezra, New York 1990, 56; M. Güdemann, Geschichte des Erziehungswesens (n. 30), II,44–52. On the emergence of the role of Rome as the locus of the messianic advent, cf. The Book of Zerubbavel (n. 5,21), ed. Y. Even-Shmuel, 72; cf. A. Berger, ‘Captive at the Gate of Rome, The Story of a Messianic Motif ’, Proceedings of the American Academy of Jewish Research 44, 1977, 1–17. 43 The author of this version apparently considers the word Cephas to be Greek rather than Aramaic. 44 Num. 22,23, Judg. 20,25. 45 Psalm 139,22. 46 Josh. 8,22, Jer. 42,17. 47 Esther 9,5.
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Rabbi Simon reflected upon this in his wisdom and righteousness and he said, ‘Far be it from me; I am seventy years old now and how could I dishonor my old age by accepting a new faith?’ He said to them, ‘Whatever you want to do with me please do. However, what has this flock done?48 And what are the sins of the remnant of Israel49 that you chase after them so hotly50 when there is no wrongdoing from their hands?’51 Rabbi Simon said in his wisdom and righteousness, ‘Give me some time to explore and investigate your faith, for I might believe in it without this faith being forced upon me.’ They said, ‘We will give you one day time.’ Thereupon the entire house of Israel in Jerusalem assembled and entered before Rabbi Simon. They threw themselves to the ground weeping and supplicating, and they said, ‘Our sin will be great52 if you go away with them so that a great number of people from all the nation of Israel may live.53 Behold, with a sword they have attacked us, whereas we are helpless.54 Our sins are the cause of their might, and who will stand against this violent and severe people who have swords in their hands? But you, be careful in your wisdom so that your soul may not be disgusted by their abhorrences and abominations, and [you will be able to] save the surviving remnant [of Israel].’55 The next day Rabbi Simon invited the Christian elders to him and said to them, ‘Here I am at your order; I want to come with you and to fulfil your wish, but you too must honor the words you have spoken to me and make me a lord and ruler over you.’ They replied and said, ‘We will do what we have said. Whoever disobeys you56 will die. We do not wish to do anything but good to you.’ Rabbi Simon went with the Christians and he appeared to be a very devout believer to them. Every day he stood firm in their false belief. He made weak hands strong in faith and strengthened tottering knees57 and he encouraged them and admonished them about 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57
II Sam. 24,17. Zeph. 3,13. Cf. Gen. 31,36. Cf. Job 16,17. II Chr. 28,13. Gen. 50,20. Deut. 32,36. I Chr. 4,43. Josh. 1,18. Is. 35,3.
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the new law and worship given to them by John and Abba Saul Paul.58 He warned them to stay away from the community of Israel. They were not to go to synagogues and houses of study anymore, and they were not to prevent Israel from worship. He said to them, ‘This is how you cast them down into the grave because the Torah was despised in the eyes of Jesus, and keeping [the precepts of the] Torah is now an act of idolatry.’ The Christians obeyed all his commands because they trusted him completely. In their eyes he appeared to be a great adherent to their faith more than any other adherent to their false religion. After Rabbi Simon had strived for a long period of time among the [Christians to become] important in their eyes as a great and devout believer of their faith, he ordered a house and a tower to be built for him [on] a rock and for rooms to be carved out within the rock. He said that Jesus had ordered this. ‘Let there be for me a special place where my people can convene in order to tell his people through me what he wants [to be done]. He also ordered me never to marry, lest he will suddenly come to speak with me when I am not purified from pollution. Therefore nobody shall come to the tower.’59 The intention of Rabbi Simon was to seclude himself from them, so that he would not be defiled by their food and drink, and would not have to bow down to their idols, because he remained faithful to God and the Torah of His servant Moses. The Christians listened to him because they trusted him completely. They built for him the tower and they carved in the clefts of the rock a living-place for him. Rabbi Simon sat there in this 58 Note the peculiar combination of the names abba Shaul Paulus: the name of Rabbi Abba Saul (late first century and third generation of Tannaites, a contemporary of Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel II) alongside the name of the apostle Paul who was formerly called Saul (Acts 13,9). G. Schlichting (n. 12), 223, n. 734, quotes Abu Yusuf Ya"qub al-Qirqisani in Kitab al-'Anwar wa-l-Maraqib (“The Book of Lights and Watchtowers”, New York 1939) in the translation of L. Nemoy: “When the Christians could not find in the Gospels any decisive regulations about certain things, they claimed that Paul and Peter—who is the Jew Abba Saul the fisherman—laid down for them laws and regulations found neither in the Gospels nor in the Torah. [. . .] These two men commanded them to obey these laws, saying that these laws were divulged to them by Jesus.” Judah Hadassi in Eshkol ha-Kofer (Constantinople c. 1150) also equates Abba Saul with Paulus. 59 Cf. B. Blumenkranz, ‘Die jüdischen Beweisgründe im Religionsgespräch mit den Christen in den christlich-lateinischen Sonderschriften des 5. bis 11. Jahrhunderts’, Theologische Zeitschrift 4, Basel 1948, 119–147, 146 on the Jewish objection against celibacy; reprint in, B. Blumenkranz, Juifs et Chrétiens, Patristique et Moyen Age, London 1977, art. XIX.
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tower all the time, every day and night. He remained alone in his abode with the Torah of Moses. Once a year he went out in front of the gate of the tower, and the Christians gathered around him and prostrated themselves before him on the ground. He proclaimed to them new ordinances and instructions, and he always said, ‘Thus Jesus has told me to command and to teach you the law; commandments and statutes that are not good.’60 There was no commandment that was not for the benefit of Israel. They believed in him completely and accepted the yoke of his ordinances and commandments for all generations. He kept them away from every commandment of the Torah of Moses, peace be upon him, his ordinances and decrees. However, they changed the name of Rabbi Simon into Kepha Poter (“Cephas the liberator”) because he exempted them completely from the entire Torah of Moses because of their great number.61 He remained in the tower of the rock all of the time. In accordance with the name of the rock in which he had settled, the Jews called him Rabbi Simon Cephas. When he was securely locked up in the tower on the rock, Rabbi Simon worshipped God with all his soul and composed numerous piyyutim, yotzrot, qerovot, ofannim and zulatot for use during the entire year, even as Kalir had done.62 He also composed a few piyyutim for the New Year in the tower of the rock, and they were sent off by a man appointed for the task.63 He entrusted him to hand them over to the sages of Israel in Babylonia so that the hazzanim could recite these piyyutim. The sages handed these piyyutim over to Rabbi Nathan the Babylonian who was the leader of the entire Diaspora (the Exilarch). From there they were spread to all the lands of Israel’s dispersion and they were received with honor.64 They decreed that Israel should recite these piyyutim in all the Diaspora because they protect and acclaim the composer, peace be upon him. 60
Ezek. 20,25. In Hebrew: pitteram—‘he exempted them’; J.K. Elliott, ‘Kephas, Simon Petros, ho Petros, An Examination of New Testament Usage’, Novum Testamentum 14 (1972), 241–256. 62 These are generic terms for the hymns inserted into the benedictions of the Shema" and the Amidah. Kalir is the hymnist Eleazar birabbi Qillir, the greatest composer within the classical Palestinian school of Piyyut. He probably flourished during the first half of the 7th century, cf. L.J. Weinberger, Jewish Hymnography, A Literary History, London 1998, 42–49. 63 Lev. 16,21. 64 Nathan Ha-Bavli, his full name was Nathan Ha-Kohen ben Yitzhak (Ishaq) 61
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Commentary: In the first phase of his narrative role, Simon Cephas represents an exemplary Jewish sage whose wisdom helps him to become recognized as a leading figure for the Christians. The purpose of his wisdom must have been of great significance for the anonymous story teller since he refers to it so often. In the second phase of his role the greatest emphasis falls again on his qualities as a composer of different genres of liturgical poetry, thereby demonstrating his adherence to Judaism. 3. Analysis There is some external evidence for the Simon Cephas accounts of the sort in rabbinic-midrashic sources with regard to Jesus and his associates, but what is related there about him appears to be polemical. The very name of the apostle is variously derived in the different versions: A and B render the proper name pitra by the Hebrew word for ‘rock’ (sela’ ). Version C, however, offers a folk-etymology for the explanation of Poter by a connection of the name with the Hebrew verb pitter, ‘to exempt’. The texts contain no direct indication of any kind regarding their place of origin. There is also scarcely any useful indication in the text for answering the question of the date, and scholars are of different minds about this question. If the fate of these accounts is closely linked with that of the Toldot Yeshu, one of the sources for the Simon Cephas story, then William Horbury is right in asserting that they could not have existed earlier than the fifth century or later than the ninth.65 It must be emphasized that the Simon Cephas narratives do not give the impression that they were to be read as theological treatises, but clearly belong to popular Jewish literature, for which didactics,
Ha-Bavli and he was a 10th-century chronicler who, in his Judeo-Arabic work 'Akhbàr Baghdàd (‘Tidings from Baghdad’) translated into Hebrew as Hibbur Rav Natan ha-Bavli ) described the conflicts and the struggle for power in the Babylonian academies during the lifetime and shortly after the death of Se‘adyah Gaon ben Yosef al-Fayyumi (942). His accounts of the problems between the schools of Pumbedita and Sura were copied by scribes like ‘Nathan the Diadem’ (Ha-Netzer), who was himself active in Damascus during the first half of the 12th century, cf. S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, volume II, The Jewish Community, Berkeley 1971, 513; M. Gil, In the Kingdom of Ishmael, Texts from the Cairo Geniza, Jerusalem 1997, vol. I, 208–216; R. Brody, The Geonim of Babylonia and the Shaping of Medieval Jewish Culture, New Haven and London 1998, 26–30. 65 S. Krauss-W. Horbury, The Jewish-Christian Controversy (n. 13), 12–13.
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edification and instruction are of more consequence than theological clarity. It is certainly difficult, and would overstep the limits of this analysis, to attempt to indicate in detail how far the authors of these narratives have made use of orally transmitted legendary material. We can see the reflection of later times in the form in which the legends have come down to us, with Simon Cephas or Peter transforming the Jewish festivals into Christian holidays: Passover has turned into days of commemoration and celebration of Jesus’ death; Shavuot is equated with Ascension Day (not with Pentecost); the eight days of Sukkot are transposed to Christmas and the New Year, the festivals of Jesus’ birth and circumcision. The main intention of the depiction of the character of Simon Cephas is to demonstrate that Christianity is based upon shaky foundations, and to separate it as much as possible from its Jewish roots.66 Therefore, it is no surprise when he disavows Christianity. It should be pointed out that there is no explicit use of a sarcastic, hypocritical argument with regard to the protagonist; Simon is not to be compared with a renegade or a meshummad who deserve to be ridiculed or despised.67 Eli Yassif considers the tale of Simon Cephas to be a tale of the past. It accounts for Christianity’s vast departure from Judaism, despite their common origins.68 The practical meaning of the stories includes the origin of an apostle of Jesus as a man from the people of Israel. It is very likely that the Hebrew accounts of Simon-Peter were intended to be a Jewish response to the Christian stories about the apostle Peter being the first bishop of Rome. Version A states that the Jewish authorities in Jerusalem prevailed upon him to travel to Rome and present himself as the apostle of Jesus, so that he would be able to defend the Jews against the increasing power of the Christians. Versions B and C present a forceful action on the part of the Christians to induce Simon Cephas to assume leadership over
66 S. Légasse, “La légende juive des Apôtres et les rapports judéo-chrétiens dans le haut Moyen Age”, Bulletin de Litterature Ecclesiastique LXXV, 1974, 99–132. 67 Ram Ben-Shalom considers the figure of Peter as the first literary-mythic expression of the converted Jewish apostate and an instance of mitzwah ha-ba’ah ba-‘averah (‘fulfilling a commandment through transgression’), in: “The Converso as Subversive: Jewish Traditions or Christian Libel?”, Journal of Jewish Studies L, No. 2, 1999, 259–283. 68 Cf. E. Yassif, The Hebrew Folktale: History, Genre, Meaning, Jerusalem: The Bialik Institute 1994, 334–336 (Hebrew); Bloomington and Indianapolis 1998, 306–308 (English translation).
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them. In version C he is even granted a day of respite to think the decision over, and during this period all the Jews gather and ask him to accept the conditions of the Christians and to act as though he were converted, but in reality to safeguard Judaism and to segregate Christians from Jews. It is possible to say that the circles from which the corresponding Simon Cephas narratives derive were particularly interested in precisely this point. The life of Simon Cephas or Peter was intended to present to contemporary popes, the successors of Peter, an example of tolerance which they should follow in their dealings with the Jews. There are some points where a combination of traditions becomes evident. What is really striking is that each version concludes with Simon Cephas’s personal activity within the tower of the rock as the composer of Hebrew liturgical poetry. In the first version it is stated that he composed numerous piyyutim and sent them to every corner of Israel. The second version elaborates the motif, and the third version specifies the piyyutic genres and the ways these poems acquired fame. Why should Simon Cephas be presented as a renowned poet or payyetan? In his introduction to the Italian Prayer Book, Samuel David Luzzatto (1800–1865) mentions him as the author of a hymn for the Day of Atonement, saying that ‘Simon Cephas whom the Catholics call San Pierre, composed this eulogy after he had established the Christian religion.’ Luzzatto also points to a responsum by Rabbenu Tam (1100–1171), the grandson of Rashi, in praise of several piyyutim allegedly written by Simon Cephas.69 One of these hymns is Etten Tehillah (“I shall give praise”), recited during the Yom Kippur Musaph service as a reshut or introduction to the 'avodah composition Attah khonanta 'olam (“You established the universe”).70 Both the reshut and the 'avodah composition are ascribed to the 4th-century hymnist Yosse ben Yosse.71 It would seem that Rabbenu Tam was 69 Livorno 1856, 7: µhl ˆqytç rjal hzh jbçh hç[ aryyp ùq ˆyrwqç apyk ˆw[mç µyrxwnh tnwma; E.D. Goldschmidt, On Jewish Liturgy, Essays on Prayer and Religious Poetry,
Jerusalem 1980, 82, 110, 149. 70 L. Zunz, Literaturgeschichte der synagogalen Poesie, Berlin 1865, reprint Hildesheim 1966, 5: “Im zwölften Jahrhundert ward Simon Kefa oder Petrus als Verfasser des alfabetischen Gebetes Etten Tehilla genannt.” Some traditions refer to Simon Cephas as the author of the Nishmat prayer, cf. D. Oppenheim, “Ueber den Verfasser des Nischmath und das Alter der Piutim”, Monatschrift fuer die Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 1861, 212–224; S.Z. Leiman, “The Scroll of Fasts—the Ninth of Tebeth”, Jewish Quarterly Review 74, 1983, 174–195. 71 Cf. A. Mirski, Yosse ben Yosse, Poems, Jerusalem 1977, 173–178, 178–203.
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acquainted with these legends, which suggests that they were circulating before the twelfth century.72 Rabbenu Tam’s own experience of the Second Crusade is reflected in his opinions about Christianity and, among other things, he states that the apostle Peter was not really a believer in Jesus but wished to appease the Christian persecutors through his leadership. The idea that an apostle of Jesus composed Hebrew liturgical poetry could have caused Jews to believe that leading Christian-Jewish men like Peter never intended to act against Judaism. However, these observations do not solve the problematic nature of Simon’s authorship of so many liturgical hymns. The historical background of this ascription may well be linked with the tales or tale cycles about the Jewish pope named Elhanan and his father, Rabbi Simon.73 We need only to recall the legend of the Jewish pope Elhanan that without doubt circulated in the form of several episodes before attaining a fixed form.74 The Yiddish version in the Ma'asehbuch tells that Simon and Elhanan came from Mainz, where Elhanan was taken away from his parents and forcibly converted to Christianity. In Rome he was elected pope but after an emotional reunion with his father he decided to abolish anti-Jewish decrees and to return to Judaism. Elhanan fled secretly from Rome and returned to Mainz resuming his life as a faithful Jew. According to the Ma'aseh story, his father Simon expressed his personal gratitude by composing the New Year’s hymn El hanan nahalato be-no"am le-hashper (“God has dealt graciously [= Elhanan] with His inheritance to make it pleasing in delight”) with the name acrostics of both his son Elhanan
72
Cf. G. Schlichting, Ein jüdisches Leben Jesu (n. 12), 225, n. 766. A. Jellinek, Beit ha-Midrasch (n. 10), V, 148, VI, 137; the historical ‘Jewish Pope’ was elected in 1130 as Anaclet II. His original name was Petrus Pierleoni. The Pierleoni family had converted from Judaism to Christianity almost a century before under Leo IX, and thereafter they used their fortune acquired in banking to support the reform popes, cf. M. Stroll, The Jewish Pope, Ideology and Politics in the Papal Schism of 1130, Leiden 1987, xiv–xv; D.L. Lerner, ‘The Enduring Legend of the Jewish Pope’, Judaism 40, no. 1, 1991, 148–170; J. Prinz, Popes from the Ghetto; A View of Medieval Christianity, New York 1968. On the Messiah’s coming to Rome and his encounter with the pope, cf. M. Idel, Messianic Mystics, New Haven & London 1998, 97–98. Cf. for additional similarities M. Perlmann, ‘A legendary Story of Ka'b Al-Ahbar’s Conversion to Islam’, The Joshua Starr Volume, Studies in history and philology (A.G. Duker and A.S. Halkin, eds), New York 1953, 85–99; ibid., ‘Another Ka'b al-Ahbar Story’, Jewish Quarterly Review XLV, 1954, 48–58. 74 Also in A. Jellinek, Bet ha-Midrasch (n. 10), vol. VI, 137–139. 73
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and himself.75 Obviously, the Simon in the legend of the Jewish pope has been identified into the rabbi-poet Simon ben Isaac ben Abun of Mainz (c. 950).76 In my opinion, the legend circulated in several different forms before attaining a fixed form. The legendary traits of the hymnist Simon as the father of the pope thus have played a part in relation to the portrayal of Simon Cephas. The texts are favourable to such a hypothesis when one assumes that the name of the payyetan from Mainz was equated in this story world with that of Simon Cephas, without mentioning the city of his origin. Simon Cephas’ quality as a composer of Hebrew poetry in terms of the typology outlined above reflects and serves a specific interest in him. A crucial argument is found in the second version: “Accept from me these piyyutim which I have composed, so that God may forgive both me and you; for all that I have done, I did for your benefit and your salvation.” In spite of the diversity of the motifs, they are welded together by a strong sense of purpose, to be summarized in short as: piety by poetry, with the assertion that the real existence of these piyyutim makes the tale more trustworthy and even consoling to the listener or the reader. The motif of the so-called apostolic payyetan decisively establishes a significant measure of development in the portrayal of Simon-Peter in Jewish folklore. This brings me to the very core of paytanic activity: to express true adherence to the traditions and faith of the community of Israel through the elevated language of poetic texts in synagogal liturgy. This also encompasses the emotional and spiritual harassment and sense of guilt felt by those who suffered from Christianity through persecution or by those who became Christians by force or circumstance. The Jewish perception of the apostle Peter as a Hebrew poet is powerful
75 Ma'asehbuch, edition Basel 1602; Jakob Meitlis, Das Ma'assebuch, seine Entstehung und Quellengeschichte zugleich ein Beitrag zur Einführung in die altjiddische Agada, Berlin 1933, 121–126, 133; Moses Gaster, Ma'aseh Book, Book of Jewish Tales and Legends Translated from the Judeo-German, Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America 1934, 410–418; I. Zinberg, Di Geshichte fun der Literatur bei Jiden, Wilna 1935, Band 6, 221–225; Ram Ben-Shalom, “The Converso as Subversive” (n. 66), 277, n. 81. 76 Compare to H.G. Enelow, “Andreas”, Jewish Encyclopaedia I, New York and London 1901, 579; A.H. Habermann, The Liturgical Poems of Shim'on bar Yitzhak, Berlin – Jerusalem 1938; G. Schlichting, Ein jüdisches Leben Jesu (n. 12), 12–14; E. Hollender, Synagogale Hymnen, Qedushta"ot des Simon b. Isaak im Amsterdam Mahsor, Judentum und Umwelt Band 55, Frankfurt am Main 1994, 21–22; L. Raspe, Paytanim as Heroes of Medieval Folk Narrative: The Case of R. Shim'on bar Yitzhak of Mayence, Frankfurt (forthcoming thesis).
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but still leaves room for questions about how much of the meta-narrative aspects of such Simon-Peter tales is consciously appreciated by story-teller and audience, and at a later stage by copyist/redactor and readership. Perhaps this is one of the reasons that these stories have existed for a long time in no man’s land, eventually to be resurrected for closer observation in our time.
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HOLINESS AS GIFT AND AS ACHIEVEMENT IN LATE MEDIEVAL FUNERAL SERMONS The Role of the Deceased and the Religious Life of the Mourning Believer in Gabriel Biel’s sermones in exequiis Paul van Geest (Catholic Theological University of Utrecht, The Netherlands) 1. Introduction The Medieval Christian scholastic tradition, which determined Catholic thought in the Middle Ages, can be divided into the old way, the via antiqua, and the modern way, the via moderna. The spokesmen of the first way conceived general principles as an expression of an ultimate higher reality behind all individual things. This way was to culminate in the doctor angelicus, Thomas Aquinas. Up to this century, his Summa theologiae was considered the eminent source and high point of theology. The Fathers of the Council of Trent and, later, Pope Leo XIII (d. 1903), favored Thomas’s works more than the tracts of the via moderna’s theologians because they thought Thomas’s synthesis would provide Catholic thinkers with lucidity of thought and a coherent worldview in times of social and economic instability.1 The second way, the via moderna, culminated in the works of the Nominalists, Duns Scotus and William of Ockham, who stated that not sensorial perception but abstraction leads to the knowledge of the universalia and of God. Gabriel Biel (1410?–1495) was an important heir to these two Franciscans. His works, especially the Collectorium circa Quattuor Sententiarum Libros, on the Sentences of Peter Lombard, and his exposition of the Mass, the Canonis Missae Expositio, were studied in the Neo-Thomism of the 19th century, because they offered a synthesis of the via moderna. At that time, it was considered self-evident that the via moderna represented the alteration of the via antiqua and
1 For the growing appreciation of Thomas’s work see: M. Schrama, ‘Het laatmiddeleeuws nominalisme in de geschiedschrijving’, in: Bijdragen. Tijdschrift voor filosofie en theologie 40 (1979), 403–423, esp. 408–413; O.H. Pesch, Thomas von Aquin.Grenze und Größe mittelalterlicher Theologie. Eine Einführung, Mainz 19892, 20.
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was even the major factor giving rise to the Reformation. So it was that Gabriel Biel, considered to have been a champion of this via moderna was rejected by Catholic theologians, along with the movement for which he had become a spokesman.2 This fact has determined Biel’s reputation for a long period. However, it is little known, that Biel was a gifted preacher. Particularly as a Cathedral Preacher in Mainz during the years 1457–1466, he produced a complete fiveyear cycle of sermons, sermones de tempore, which may be grouped into Sermones de festivitatibus Christi, Sermones de festivitatibus virginis Mariae and Sermones de Sanctis. In contrast to the obvious importance Biel himself attached to these sermons, research into them and into the manner in which he sought to make real the salvific events therein described, is in its infancy.3 In this contribution, I wish to discuss Biel’s funeral sermons, which were delivered, from 1467–1481, at the funerals of the nobility of the Houses of Nassau and Württemberg. These sermons were never published and have never been the object of research indeed. Until 1968, they were completely unknown.4 This lack of interest is not surprising. Recently, B. Boge and R.G. Bogner were able to establish the fact that, to date, research into funeral sermons as such has hardly begun.5 Biel’s sermons are witness to the personal involvement of the leading nobility. While belonging to the so-called Brethren of the Common Life, Biel was intensely involved with the nobility in Butzbach and in Urach. He founded several houses of the Brethren
2 See: P. van Geest, ‘Das Niemandsland zwischen Via moderna und Devotio moderna. Der Status quaestionis der Gabriel-Biel-Forschung’, in: Nederlands Archief voor Kerkgeschiedenis/Dutch Review of Church History 80 (2000), 157–192. 3 Cf. Van Geest, op. cit., 162–165, where the most important literature dealing with the sermons is given. 4 J.B. Schneyer, Geschichte der katholischen Predigt, Freiburg 1969, 226 and F. Jürgensmeier, ‘Die Leichenpredigt in der katholischen Begräbnisfeier’, in: R. Lenz, ed., Leichenpredigten als Quelle Historischer Wissenschaften, Cologne & Vienna 1975–1984. 3 pts. (pt. 3 Marburg) pt. 1, 122–145, esp. 130 fail to mention Biel’s sermons at all. 5 B. Boge, R.G. Bogner, ‘Leichenpredigtforschung auf Abwegen? Zu den Gründen für die bisherige Ignoranz gegenüber eine Gattung frühneuzeitlicher katholischer Gebrauchsliteratur’ in: B. Boge, R.G. Bogner, eds. Oratio funebris. Die katholische Leichenpredigt der frühen Neuzeit. Zwölf Studien. Mit einem Katalog deutschsprachiger katholischer Leichenpredigten in Einzeldrucken 1576–1799 aus den Bestanden der Stiftsbibliothek Klosterneuburg und der Universitätsbibliothek Eichstätt, Amsterdam & Atlanta 1999, 3–8, Chloe. Beihefte zum Daphnis 30. Cf. R. Lenz, ‘Gedruckte Leichenpredigten (1550–1750). Historischer Abriß, II. Quellenwert, Forschungsstand, III. Grenzen der Quelle’, in: R. Lenz, ed., Leichenpredigten, pt. 1, 36–51: ‘Im deutschen Reich dieser Zeit scheinen Leichenpredigten keine weitere Verbreitung gefunden zu haben.’ (39).
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in their domain. The contacts between Biel and the nobility were useful both for the Brethren and for the Duke. The latter was able to use the learned Brethren as an excellent tool for the reform of his country. For the Brethren, the protection of the Duke was essential since they desired “vivere in libertate sub lege Christi”, life in freedom under the law of Christ. They lived in a fraternity without being officially recognized as a religious order, ordo in the strict sense of the word, by the Pope. In this way, the Brethren could be more independent. It was obvious that Biel, as leader of the Brethren, would play a prominent role in any funeral liturgy associated with the death of a member of the noble house.6 There are two main reasons for analyzing these funeral sermons. First, as indicated above, the medieval sermon remains, until recently, an under-utilized source for the study of models of holiness in medieval Europe. This, too, is remarkable, since the sermon is both a central literary genre in the life of medieval Christians and Jews and the primary medium for conveying and adapting models of holiness to the public.7 It might have been logical to choose Biel’s Sermones de sanctis. In these sermons, Biel systematically links a given saint to a specific virtue. And he emphasizes the saint’s intercessory activity. In the sermones de sanctis, the Christian need for mediation, as opposed to a more direct approach to God, as in Judaism, prevails. Within the framework of research into models of holiness, I have chosen to look at the funeral sermons. Why? First of all, in these sermons one can discover precisely the religious significance of persons, who do not belong to the specified ranks of the canonized saints, those mediators between God and man. Secondly, the sermons make clear what Biel considered important to the religious life of the mourning believer. Thus they offer a sharp picture of the Christian attitude toward death, guilt and holiness as gift and achievement in that period.
6 For the relationship between the Reformers and the Rulers in general and the individual character of the semi-canonical way of living in community, see: P. van Geest, ‘The Interiorisation of the Spirituality of the Modern Devotion by Gabriel Biel (†1495). Preconditions and outlines’, in: Augustiniana 51 (2001), 183–223. 7 B.M. Kienzle, ‘Introduction’ in: B.M. Kienzle & others, ed., Models of Holiness in Medieval Sermons. Proceedings of the International Symposium (Kalamazoo, 4–7 May 1995), Louvain-La-Neuve 1996, XI (Fédération Internationale des Instituts d’Etudes Médiévales. Textes et Etudes du Moyen Age 5); C. Horowitz, ‘Rhetoric Reality and Aspirations to Holiness in 14th century Jewish Preaching’, in: ibidem, 175–192.
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2. Chronology, Authenticity and Structure of the sermones in exequiis To date, we know of seven funeral sermons, which may be attributed to Gabriel Biel. A sermon on Margaret of Nassau, Countess of Sayn, who died in 1467. A second on Margaret of Württemberg (1470) and a third on Mary of Nassau, held in 1472. The fourth was delivered in 1475 at the funeral of Eberhard III of Eppstein. The Ruler had been of great importance to Biel since he had helped him to found the Houses of the Brethren at Butzbach and Königstein. In 1478, Biel was to deliver the fifth of his funeral sermons at Urach on the occasion of the funeral of Margrave Ludovico of Mantua, Eberhard’s father-in-law. The sixth was at the funeral of the Margrave’s wife, Barbara, in 1481 and in that same year, the seventh and final sermon of which we have any knowledge at all was a short sermon on the occasion of the death of Duke Eberhard’s land agent, John of Bubenhoffen.8 The sermons have not survived in one original hand and in Ms. 826, found in the University Library at Giessen, they are clearly written in two distinct hands. Nevertheless, M. Elze, basing her argument on Biel’s biography and other textual criticism of an extrinsic nature, has been able to establish, quite convincingly, that they are indeed by Biel.9 No other funeral sermons by Biel are known. Basing his argument on the use of language, W. Jetter concluded that the sermons “ein Auditorum voraus[setzen], das des Lateinischen mächtig war”.10 However, this is unlikely. In line with medieval practice, a distinction had always to be made between, on the one hand, preaching and, on the other hand, the sermon. The
8
The sermons are edited by M. Elze ‘Sieben Exequienpredigten von Gabriel Biel’, in: Blätter für württembergische Kirchengeschichte 68/69 (1968/69), 3–52, at resp. 7–15; 15–23; 23–30; 31–38; 39–45; 48–52; 46–47; Cf. too his: ‘Spätmittelalterliche Predigt im Angesicht des Todes’, in: Leben angesichts des Todes. Beiträge zum theologischen Problem des Todes. Helmut Thielicke zum 60. Geburtstag, Tübingen 1968, 89–99, on the funeral sermon on Margaret of Nassau, Countess of Sayn. The sermon on Bubenhoffen is short and is not treated here, because what Biel has to say about judgment, the value of the death of Christ and about one’s own death in the light of his death, are all dealt with more exhaustively in the other sermons. 9 There is a description of the manuscript in M. Elze ‘Sieben Exequienpredigte’, 3–5; W. Bayerer, Die Handschriften des ehem. Fraterherrenstifts St. Markus zu Butzbach. Vol. 1: Handschriften aus der Nummernfolge Hs 42–Hs 760, Wiesbaden 1980 (Handschriftenkataloge der Universitätsbibliothek Gießen 4). 10 W. Jetter, ‘Drei Neujahrs-Sermone Gabriel Biels als Beispiel spätmittelalterlicher Lehrpredigt’, in: Geist und Geschichte der Reformation. Festgabe H. Rückert, Berlin 1966, 86–126, esp. 98 (Arbeiten zur Kirchengeschichte 38).
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first is the oral expression of language, acted upon within the overall framework of the liturgy, the latter is its written version, in which the preaching would be re-written in the form of a text which could be read.11 Because of his place in society and his position in the community, it is highly likely that Biel re-wrote, or, had someone else re-write, his sermons so that they became sermo magistralis with a balanced structure. At the end of one of his sermons, Biel tells us that his sermon was being delivered in the church.12 This is likely to have taken place after the Requiem Mass and before the absolution, which forms the liturgical transition to the funeral rite proper.13 In two of his sermons he addresses his public respectively as “patres et fratres colendissimi”, “nobiles”; “fratres carissimi”.14 Without going into detail, it should be noted that the sermons reveal the stylistic characteristics of the Middle-Dutch Epistle and Gospel Sermons. Once the theme, taken from a pericope from the Bible, has been re-stated in the introductio thematis, there follows the divisio thematis and the dilatatio. This is the elaboration, in which the theme is explained by means of closely related expositions of the literal, allegorical, moral and mystical senses, with the help of authoritative sources such as Holy Scripture and the Church Fathers, or exempla, supportive Bible stories, fables and anecdotes. After the dilatatio there follows the summary and the admonitio.15 In the sermons on Margaret of Württemberg, Mary of Nassau, Eberhard and Ludovico, the qualities of the deceased are mourned and praised during the dialogue with death, which, in its turn, is fitted into the framework of the prothema.16 At the heart of his sermons Biel never fails to
11
Cf. M. Elze ‘Handschriften von Werken Gabriel Biels aus seinem Nachlass in der Giessener Universitätsbibliothek’, in: Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 81 (1970), 70–91, esp. 88; for the distinct differences between the oral and literary expression of language, see: G.C. Zieleman, Middelnederlandse epistel- en evangeliepreken, Leiden 1978, 8; M. Menzel, ‘Predigt und Predigtorganisation im Mittelalter’, in: Historisches Jahrbuch 111 (1991), 337–384. 12 Elze, op. cit., 7. 13 F. Jürgensmeier, op. cit., 131. 14 Elze, op. cit., 7, 16, 19. 15 G.C. Zieleman, op. cit., 15–18 distinguishes in de Middle Dutch Episte and Gospel sermons: the theme (1) taken from a pericope from the Bible (1), followed by an initial prayer (2), the introductio thematis (3), divisio thematis (4) and the dilatatio (5) After the dilatatio follows the summary and the admonitio. The style characteristics 3–6 in the Zieleman scheme are clearly identifiable. I shall be dealing with this matter at greater length in another paper. 16 Elze, op. cit., 24.
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mention the life and death of the person being remembered as an exemplum. We shall deal with this in the next paragraph. Only in the sermon on Eberhard does the life of the deceased constitute an exemplum in all four possible senses, mentioned above.17 In the remaining sermons, reflections about the terrors of life and of death, and the fleeting nature of this earthly life, are derived from and supported by many auctoritates, among which Holy Scripture, SS. Augustine and Jerome are the most frequently quoted.18 It would seem, at first sight, that Biel’s funeral sermons might best be characterized as a purifying meditation on death (meditatio mortis). 3. The Religious Significance of the Deceased and the Religious Life of the Mourner It is eminently possible to use all of the funeral sermons to determine the religious significance of a deceased person and the religious value this had in everyday life for the mourning believer. Here we shall make an attempt at deducing the religious significance of people, who do not belong to the specified ranks of the canonized Saints, the mediators between God and man. After that, we shall utilize the sermons to try to determine what Biel considered important for the religious life of the mourning believer. 3.1. The Quick and the Dead in the Sermones in exequiis. An Orientation At first sight, Gabriel Biel seems to attach minimal importance to the life of the deceased in his funeral sermons. In the sermons, remembrance of the life of the famous dead always constitutes the exemplum within a more comprehensive theological reflection. Thus
17 Cf. “Littera gesta docet, quid credas allegoria, moralis quid agas, quo tendas anagogia”. Cf. H. de Lubac, Exégèse médiévale. Les quatre sens de l’écriture, [Lyon 1959] Pt. I, 1, 24. References to authorities for the structuring of the special sermons may be found in the following paragraphs. 18 Constantly recurring authorities are: Mt 9: 24, Elze, op. cit., 8, 21, 39; Rom 5:12, Rom. 7: 23, Elze, op. cit., 8, 26, 41, 42, 48; Wis. 1:23, Elze, op. cit., 8, 18, 42, 43, 48; Wis. 2:24, Elze, op. cit., 8,18, 24; 42, cf. 43, 48; 2 Sam.14:14, Elze, op. cit., 9, 16, 41, 47; Phil. 1:23, Elze, op. cit., 12, 28, 43, 51; Ps. 115: 15, Elze, op. cit., 13, 27, 33, 51; Ps. 115:125, Elze, op. cit., 12, 20, cf. 21, 43, 51. The quotations from the Church Fathers are often elucidations of these, cf. Elze, op. cit., 14–15, 23, 30, 38, 45, 52.
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it is that Biel can declare in the sermon on Margaret of Nassau on the theme in die mala liberabit eum dominus, i.e. that the day of her death is a day of liberation. For this purpose, in the first part of his sermon, he searches for an explanation for the phenomenon of death. Biel’s following explanation features time and again in his sermons and was actually quite common in his day. Death has come into the world because of the pride and guilt of Adam, the prototype of mankind. It is the inescapable result of a sudden calamity, and even good people, born under the dispensation of sin, are not able to avoid it. Death is the great equalizer. It is within this context that Margaret is characterized and, more especially, dispassionately described as being elegant, warm-hearted, caring, empathic and responsible. In the other sermons too, Biel describes the qualities and background of the deceased in order to further heighten the contrast between his or her goodness, the goodness also of an individual and the “atrocity” of death.19 In this first part then, there follows a reflection on life itself, which is characterized as short, miserable and fraught with danger, a time determined by fear and pain. In fact, life is itself already a type of death. Death as Peace In this context, death is evoked as something rather desirable, ushering in peace. The question, which follows, keeps on cropping up in Biel’s funeral sermons. Who would not consider the dead person fortunate, now that she is no longer vulnerable to the world but asleep in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection?20 The death of Margaret is further adduced by Biel in his second point to demonstrate that
19 “Maledictum protoplasti peccatum, quod tantum malitiae suae in posteros transfudit effectum (. . .) omnes morimur (. . .) Quis speraret umquam se mortem effugere posse (. . .) Etiam nunc in nostri ablatione mortui demonstravit. Deglutivit ecce Margaretam de Nassaw [follows a laudatio ending with] Morum honestate fulgentem prostravit: suspirent cultores virtutum!” (Elze, op. cit., 8–9). 20 “Audisti vitam hanc miseram, audi et fallacem! An non fallax, quae se vitam mentitur, quae verius mors quam vita? [Augustine, Bernard and Jerome follow as auctoritates] Haec ille. Ecce ex parte lucet vitae huius miseria fallens brevitas, immo mors continua. Quis non beatiores aestimaret mortuos de tantis periculis liberatos viventibus per poenas et labores ad mortem tendentibus sine pausa! Adde quod dormientes quiescunt suae beatitudinis securi, dum vitam miseram agentes trepidi sunt et incerti. Quare non mortui, sed magis nos ipsi sumus plangendi (. . .)’ (10–11); ‘Felix nimium mors ista, finis miseriae, ianua vitae ac principium felicitatis aeternae!’ (12); ‘o mors desiderabilis . . .” (Elze, op. cit., 12).
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mourning the dead is a thoroughly undignified behavior for a Christian. Margaret interpreted her illness as a purification of her worldly desires, and in addition, as a correctio on the part of God the Father. Moreover, since she had received the sacraments worthily, Biel argues that her death is not a matter of regret; on the contrary, it is precious in the eyes of the Lord.21 These points he would go on to make again and again in his sermons on the deaths of Margaret of Württemberg, and of Eberhard and Mary of Nassau. But Biel is not primarily interested in reassuring Margaret’s next of kin about her fate. The way in which he describes her blissful demise is replete with whole sections of prose in which exclamations are used to appeal to the hearts and emotions of his listeners, rather than to their heads. Thereby, he wants to convince them that no person on earth can ever be sure of his or her final end and that the reception of the sacraments creates the right conditions in which to die a good death. These thoughts too keep on recurring in other sermons of Biel.22 At the end of his sermon on Margaret, as in his other sermons, Biel points to the resurrection in a summarily and nearly obligatory fashion. But because of the length of the section dealing with life and death in this first sermon, we can establish that he is attempting to intensify the feeling that both life and death are terrible and the future is uncertain. The re-statement of the life and qualities of the deceased, towards the end of the sermon, serves then to re-enforce this uncertainty and fear by confronting the listener with the virtues of an exemplary person. The uncertainty appears to serve as a starting point for the purification of one’s own self. He is forever stating that a regular meditatio mortis is the foundation on which to base an avoidance of sin and the doing of good deeds.23
21
Elze, op. cit., 13–14. Cf. n. 20. “Nescit homo, an odio vel amore dignus sit, eo quod omnia in futurum servantur incerta? (Eccles 9:1). (. . .) Sed licet evidens nobis scientia eorum, quae dicta sunt, negatur (. . .) Magna auxilia et certa electionis signa, (. . .) quod sacramenta poenitentiae, eucharistiae frequenter extremaeque unctionis devotius (. . .) meruit (Margaretha, pvg) participare” (Elze, op. cit., 12–13; cf. 39–40). 23 “Ecce nobis nunc loquitur re ipsa, quam deflemus: Memor esto iudicii mei, sic enim erit et tuum; mihi heri, tibi hodie. Hac ergo dubii finis nostri cogitatione a peccatis nos retrahamus (. . .) ad opera bona excitemus (. . .) per quae in die illa mala liberati nostrae, quam praemisimus, in aeterna beatitudine iungi cum gaudio mereamur praestante domino nostro Iesu Christo, liberatore nostro cum patre et spiritu sancto in saecula benedicto.” (Elze, op. cit., 14). 22
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The same aim can be seen in the sermon on Margaret of Württemberg. In the meditatio mortis, Biel has refined the theological part and has formulated the appeal to reflect upon one’s own death even more insistently. His central section contains three points. Taking his lead from the medieval theologian and chancellor of the university of Paris, Jean Gerson (d. 1429), he talks of the relationship between natural birth and the birth which results from Baptism and which poses natural, spiritual and eternal death in the hereafter. Natural death, caused, as we have seen, by Adam, occurs when the very essence of the person, the soul, breaks away from the body although still continuing to live. Spiritual death occurs when God withdraws his mercy from the soul, as a punishment for committing one or more of the deadly sins. The third death occurs at the Last Judgment, after which a person is irretrievably lost.24 In this theological discussion, the deceased is left out of the picture. This is in contrast to the appeal made in the second point, in which Biel, with the purpose of confronting his audience, in the midst of all their sorrow, distinguishes between two groups: the tearful, the amatores seculi (lit. lovers of the life in the world) on the one hand and the servants of Christ on the other hand. In the first instance, because of the sudden and, if we follow the description carefully, incomprehensible death of Margaret, Biel allows sorrow by searching for something which might be able to explain it. He traces her death back to the Devil’s jealousy and not to the Will of God. The listing of Margaret’s qualities serves to intensify the sense of death’s powers as well as those of the Devil.25 Mourning Forbidden to the Christian However, the space Biel has allowed for sorrow appears very limited indeed. Margaret was never able to provide a heir to succeed to the Ducal title. At the end of his sermon, Biel is rather negative about those people who are in mourning for Margaret, judging them as saeculi carnis cultores: people, who, by dint of their intense mourning for the childless death of Margaret, signify a disproportionate
24 Elze, op. cit., 16–17. Cf. J. Gerson, De vita spirituali animae, lect. 1, in: Jean Gerson, Oeuvres Complètes, ed. by P. Glorieux, Paris-Tournai-Rome-New York 1960– 1973, 10 vols., vol. 3, 115 f. 25 Elze, op. cit., 18.
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attachment to the world.26 For to be servants of Christ, is to presuppose an attitude bordering on indifference in the face of death. He states that they, following on St. Jerome, are of the opinion that the naturalis affectio (lit. natural affection) generates tears. But, as Biel tells his listeners, tears are not consistent with Christian hope. Biel sees the true disposition of the Christian as further characterized by the realization that everything has a purpose in God’s plan and that a long life also involves a long period of torment. Biel considers that the clue as to why the next of kin should be rejoicing at the death of this woman is to be found in this attitude.27 She is no longer vulnerable to the dangers of this world. Looking back on her life, Biel reckons the hope of her now being united with the bridegroom Christ has been justified. Margaret’s death is reproduced as having been “just” the death of the body and not of the soul and, what was true of Jairus’s little daughter (Mt. 9:24), is as true for Margaret as for every good Christian, namely, “She is not really dead, but asleep and living with God”.28 In this sermon, when giving an account of the ideal attitude a Christian ought to have to life, Biel anchors his laudatio (praise) to the deceased in quite a organic way in the whole of the sermon. Yet, however comforting the treatment of the servants of Christ may be, the tone of the third point is savage indeed. Here, Biel links the forms of death, and especially the death of the soul, to the aim in life of those who, while living here on earth, are yet dead to God. It is, as if, at that pivotal moment, Biel had just discovered that those whom he terms “fratres carissimi” in the second part, need addressing about their true attitude to life. He evokes fear by making people think of the uncertainties of life and death and the vulnerability of all living things; the fear holds not so much for the loss of God as for the loss of one’s own soul.
26
Elze, op. cit., 18–19. “Nam etsi naturalis affectio lacrimas eliciat invitas, immoderatas tamen cohibet spes christiana. Numquam enim spes cum dolore concordat, ait Hieronymus (. . .) Nolite igitur, fratres carissimi, nostrae, quam dominus de laborioso saeculi certamine vocavit, invidere felicitati ” (Elze, op. cit., 19). 28 “Nunc autem gaudendum est magis, quoniam eam non amisimus, sed eo praemisimus, quo nos futuros esse perpetuo affectamus. Non est mortua, sed dormit, inquit Dominus, Matth.9 de archisynagogi filia (. . .) Nostra puella nec mortua est nec dormit, quae etsi dormit corpore, cor eius—animam loquor—vigilat vivens cum domino.” (Elze, op. cit., 20–21; cf. 39). 27
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The Rhetorics of Terror The final part of the sermon constitutes a charming substantiation both of the thought of Philippe Ariès as well as of Johan Huizinga in relation to Biel’s time. The former was able to show that the 15th century was characterized by a feeling of the uncertainty of the time coupled with great vitality and an excessive attachment to life: one would live for as long as one was alive!29 The latter argued that medieval man would react to even the most forceful of stimuli only if an urgent exhortation were made to his moral perfection.30 Having in mind the catalogue of vices of which the still youthful members of the aristocracy were capable, Biel did not hesitate to constantly present at great length the consequences of sins of the flesh and of thought in terrifying images.31 The manner in which Mary of Nassau is talked about in her funeral sermon is very similar to the way in which her relative Margaret was remembered. As in the previous sermon, Biel establishes, in his first point, the reason for death and the three forms it can take and the life span, in order, once again, to be able to characterize this life as being wearisome and as being the harbinger of death. And so, he can explain the inescapable nature of death, which even such good people as Mary were not able to avoid, as being inherent in the human condition.32 And yet, there is a difference. In the sermon on Mary, Biel had already intensified uncertainties surrounding one’s final fate by criticizing those who fail to reflect on their own death, and because they continue to sin, they remain incapable of comprehending the coming rapture.33 But Mary is not only
29
P. Ariès, Western Attitudes toward death: from the Middle Ages to the Present, Baltimore & London 1981, 29–33, particularly 44–45. But cf. also: M. Vovelle, ‘L’histoire des hommes au miroir de la mort’, in: H. Braet, W. Verbeke, ed., Death in the Middle Ages, Louvain 1983, 1–18, (Mediaevalia Lovaniensia, series 1 studia 9). Biel’s sermons support his outline wonderfully well. 30 J. Huizinga, Herfsttij der Middeleeuwen. Studie over levens-en gedachtenvormen der veertiende en vijftiende eeuw in Frankrijk en de Nederlanden, Haarlem 192820, 220. 31 “Si carnis voluptatibus laetaris: nutrita in croceis putredinem amplexatur. Si in divitiis et vario corporis confidis ornatu: ecce quae hac ipsa die in vestito deaurato gemmarum varietate circumdata sponsa processit amabilis, data est in cibum vermibus, abominatio cunctis intolerabilis (. . .). Cogitemus, carissimi, quo momentis omnibus properamus!” (Elze, op. cit., 22). 32 “Cum fletu ingredimur, cum dolore egredimur, cum anxietate et periculis innumerabilibus conversamur (. . .) Haec ceteris terribilior omnes sternit, nulli parcet, nullum excipit.” (Elze, op. cit., 26–27). 33 “. . . Timor peccatum expellat, negligentiam non admittat. Heu quam rara est haec
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made to represent the goodly nature of womankind, the loving nature of motherhood and the devoted nature of the spouse but also to impress upon her relatives in a succinct way in full view of their own deaths to begin a thorough self-examination. In this sermon, the intensification of fear is coupled with the intensification of the joy at Mary being united with Christ and the hope that her relatives too will see her once again in the heavenly realm.34 Just as in the previous sermon, Biel states that it is impossible to cry and at the same time to proclaim the resurrection, or to cry and thus begrudge Mary’s happiness.35 But if one looks through the rhetorical elements by assessing the relationship between the sections of text dealing with life’s misery and the resurrection, then it becomes clear that here Biel is not just pointing to the resurrection in a general way, but wants to intensify the hope of resurrection by an acute consciousness of the relativity of this world.36 The Mercy of God When Biel comes to meditate upon the biography of Eberhard III of Eppstein in the funeral sermon on the man who had helped him to found two of the Houses of the Brethren of the Common Life, he does so in much greater detail than when he was sermonizing on the noble women. Also here the reasons for the three forms of death, as well as God’s hand in them, and the human attitude in the face of different kinds of death, are raised in a very schematic way. But for the first time, the inescapability of bodily death, even for good people like Eberhard, is here more explicitly linked to the power of God. A virtuous, sinless person will arise with the risen sapientia apud saeculi homines, qui mortis meditationem tamquam extremam abiciunt stultitiam, minus intelligentes Catonis versiculum: Qui mortem metuit, amittit gaudia vitae.” (Elze, op. cit., 28). 34 “Talem fuisse mortem eius, quam commemoramus, christiana praesumptione confidimus, quoniam Christo salvatori, in quem constanter credidit, nihil propriis confidens meritis se fidenter commisit seque obtulit absolutissima voluntate. (. . .) Omnibus siccis renuntiavit oculis, divinae voluntati se devotissime subdidit, cupiens mori et esse cum Christo (. . .) Non mors ista lugenda est, sed magis dignis laudibus et iubilo praedicanda . . .” (Elze, op. cit., 28–29). 35 Elze, op. cit., 29–30. 36 “Laetentur ipsi, qui exeunt ventientes ad requiem! Laetemur nos cum ipsis saltem compugnantes nostram et nostrorum exeuntium beatitudinem! (. . .) Quod ipsa sponte obtulit, nos consentiendo offeramus sicque voluntate concordes in ea patria eam iterum visuri recipiamur amplius non deserendam, ubi est pax et laetitia, remota omni malitia sine fine. Amen.” (Elze, op. cit. 30).
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Lord by the power of a just, and not merely merciful, God. . . .37 The sermons on Ludovico and Barbara of Mantua serve to demonstrate that, over the course of time, Biel began to lay much greater emphasis on the mercy of God.38 Eberhard’s death was discussed comprehensively and extensively analyzed in the second, central point in which Biel explains how the human being can prepare for death. Firstly, the theme is explained allegorically (1 Kings 17:12). The bread which the widow, an allegory for the Church, baked for her son, an allegory of the Faithful, serves the growth in conformity to Christ and guarantees a good death. The meal is the cognisance of Christ, whereas the oil stands for Grace, in which one participates by partaking of the Sacraments. The wood upon which the dough is kneaded represents the Cross of Jesus, the fundamental principal, the locus where humankind’s salvation was lived-out and begun. Then the allegory becomes thoroughly concrete by means of examples taken from the life of Eberhard. The meal is an allegory for the care, which Eberhard showed in the maintenance of the one, true, Catholic faith. The oil symbolizes the Grace, which was bestowed upon him, seemingly not in vain. As a soldier, he guarded his homeland, as a monk he reflected upon our Lord’s suffering, he used to fast and would go on pilgrimage at Biel’s request and restored life in the community as it had been in the Early Church. Referring to the wood of the Cross, Biel does not hesitate to place Eberhard’s virtues in death on the same level with those for which Jesus died on the Cross: love, obedience, submission to the Will of God and perseverance. All these facts draw Biel to conclude that Eberhard wanted to be both a Ruler and a monk.39 The Incertainty of Salvation As in the other sermons, Biel comforts his listeners by stating that one should not mourn the death of such a great person. And then, in order once more to intensify the uncertainty as a basis for the “Primam causat carnis infirmitas, secundum intellectus cupiditas, tertiam finalis pravitas. Prima necessaria, secunda voluntaria, tertia praecedentibus culpis debita. Ideoque prima expectanda, secunda cavenda, tertia tremenda (. . .) A morte carnis omnes resurgent perdei potentiam, a morte animae plurimi vivificabuntur per dei gratiam, a morte infernali nulli umquam exsilient propter inflexibilem dei iustitiam.” (Elze, op. cit., 32). 38 Elze, op. cit., 33. 39 Elze, op. cit., 36. 37
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emendatio vitae (lit. amendment of life). Biel goes on to suggest that one may mourn Eberhard if one regrets the loss of a comforter and helper for whom there is also no hard evidence, no reason to assume, that he is presently with God. Then Biel goes on to appeal directly to the hearts of his congregation to pray for the deceased emphazising the fact that only if they live a moral life will their prayer be meaningful and acceptable to God. By virtue of his good deeds, Eberhard will attain the status meriti. By praying devoutly and worthily and performing good deeds, Eberhard will be able to transcend even this blessed state and attain to the regio premii.40 Only in this sermon does Biel make the final salvation of Eberhard, his definite union with God, which it is His alone to bestow, dependent upon the sanctification of the community itself through prayer and the performance of good deeds. God’s sanctification of the nobleman is also the community’s aim in life. Simultaneously, God is the means by which the community is made holy. In his other sermons, the religious significance of the deceased, although uncanonized, reflects the relationship between sin and death, life and resurrection. In Eberhard’s case, after death he continues to be what he was in life: an intercessor between God and man. When we look at the funeral sermons on Ludovico and Barbara of Mantua, we can see that, from 1467–1481, Biel’s thoughts on the power of the Devil and the power of Almighty God, the sadness of life, suffering and death, hardly evolved at all, although he devotes some more words to the mercy of God. The way in which the biography is made to nestle snugly within the sermon is subject to even less variety. As ever, the inescapability of death, even for the righteous such as Ludovico, is elaborated upon.41 Biel has included in this sermon the most compact description of the inevitability, harshness, terrors and uncertainty surrounding the precise moment of death, as if he wanted more and more to emphasize the release that
40
“Si ergo diligimus, si amici sumus, nunc in necessitate posito subveniamus. Excessit statum meriti, intravit regionem premii. Clamat ad nos: Miseremini mei (. . .) Nec frustra miseremur et succurrimus, quoniam mensuram similem, cum et ipsi transibimus, expectamus et eum per nos liberatum expectamus pro nobis efficacissimum intercessorem. Ad preces igitur pro eo fundendas domino assurgite et, quod vobis fieri cupitis, nunc indigenti amico liberaliter exhibete per dominum nostrum Iesum Christum cum patre in saecula benedictum. Amen.” (Elze, op. cit., 38). 41 Elze, op. cit., 42.
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death amounts to.42 In his answer to the second question about the right attitude the Christian should cultivate when faced with death, Biel states that it is unfitting for Christians to bewail the dead or to express extravagant praise. Ludovico should be imitated by undertaking good deeds, which may then serve as an exemplum to others.43 Praise is fitting for God alone, because it is He who frees us in death from all possibility of sinning and preserves mankind in perfect sleep till the Day of Resurrection. It is fitting to offer thanks to God for the meritorious work, which He has enabled Ludovico to do.44 Biel’s sermon on the Margrave provides us with an excellent vision of the best way a human being can come to realize his or her potential. First and foremost, any human being is aware that death can be terrible. The fear of death, however, can equally be coupled with the feeling that God’s Grace can enable one to accomplish good deeds. The praise of God, which this feeling elicits, is strengthened by a life of fasting, prayer and good deeds. This way of life is a preparation for a good death; for the deceased, this way of life could mean freedom from punishment.45 Dying as the Dawn of a New Day Finally, in the sermon on Barbara of Mantua, Nox praecessit, dies autem appropinquabit, taking his theme from Rom 13:12, Biel makes it clear that life on earth resembles night. Stating first that night resembles death, he steadfastly remains with this theme declaring that life on earth is like the night because both are cold and lack love. Life on earth and night are both dark because reason is clouded and dangerous because of the snares of the spirit, the Devil and the flesh.46 Thus it is that death is able to proclaim the dawning of the new day and so should not be bewailed nor feared, but, rather, sought after. Death should be sought all the more, as Biel tells us, since it leads us to Christ. As he got older, he appears to have emphasized
42
Elze, op. cit., 43. Elze, op. cit., 45. 44 “Licet per facti evidentiam ipsum de nostro defuncto scire neqeamus, tamen per coniecturam ex signis probabilibus ipsum morte iustorum transisse conicimus et in domino fideliter speramus [follow the merits and qualities] Pro tali morte beneficia merito gratiam referimus, non planctum, ei, qui omnia in omnibus operatur.” (Elze, op. cit., 44). 45 Elze, op. cit., 45. 46 Elze, op. cit., 50. 43
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God’s mercy more and more. . . . As in the sermon on Ludovico, he states that God should be believed, since there are none of us, who have not sinned. Having masses offered for the deceased and engaging in personal prayer are recommended as providing compensation for any shortcomings the deceased may have suffered.47 Thus it is that the funeral sermons show that over the course of time, Biel placed more emphasis on the mercy of God than on His righteousness. His view of mankind also seems to have undergone development. In his first sermons, he devotes a lot of effort into instilling in the next of kin a feeling that their final future too is utterly uncertain in the face of death. The meditationes mortis are meant to arouse a purifying fear and as such serve as a starting point for putting one’s life in order, which implies a good death and peace with God. In his later sermons, we see that the role of man as an intercessor for the deceased, mediating between God and mankind is more important to Biel. This is not only because it impresses the value of ordering one’s life aright, but also, because it is a means of making the mourner and the deceased person receptive to God’s Grace. And with this Grace, He leads mankind to final perfection, qui operatur omnia in omnibus. 3.2. The Religious Significance of the Deceased Heinrich Denifle saw Gabriel Biel as a predecessor of the Reformation, because he emphasized human will and cognition as a necessary precondition for attaining salvation. It was through the work of Biel that Martin Luther came into contact with Nominalism for the first time. Denifle had reached this conclusion after studying Biel’s academic work.48 However, also in his funeral sermons, Biel attaches great importance to the deeds one could achieve e puris naturalibus for the sake of attaining salvation. Both the biographical notes he recorded in the margin of his sermons and the description of the tasks, which the next of kin are charged to perform, seem to point
47 “Non enim adiciendum vel audiendum laudes convenimus, sed ad defunctae nostrae animam domino fideliter commendanum simul et adorandum misericordem dominum, ut quae in corpore ex humana fragilitate sunt admissa—non enim est homo iustis in terra, qui facit bonum et non peccet (Eccles. 7:21) <et> condigna satisfactione compensata non sunt, ex his celebratis divinis officiis compensentur; ad quod accedat vestra oratio corde devoto. Amen.” (Elze, op. cit., 52). 48 H. Denifle, Luther und Luthertum in der ersten Entwicklung, Mainz 19042, pt. 1,
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to this. However, Biel does not give priority to the justificatio operis ( Justification by Works) and he does not wish to minimalize the importance of Divine Grace and Mercy. Clearly, the description of the deceased in the funeral sermons does not resonate with that dogmatic assertivity which we find in the adage facientibus quod est in se, deus non denegat gratiam. This adage is at the root of Biel’s thought about God and mankind. However, it is his funeral sermons in particular, which show that he wished to formulate this as a tentative probability rather than as a guarantee. It becomes clear, in all of his sermons, that the only thing a human being is capable of doing for the deceased is to entertain the hope that, because of the good deeds of the deceased, he or she will no longer be lost, but sleeps in the Lord until the Dead shall be raised. Only with a probability bordering on certainty, is Biel, in consequence, able to proclaim that the reason for their salvation of the deceased in his or her exemplary life.49 Thus it is that Biel’s funeral sermons are free of any taint of Pelagianism, which, oddly enough, some authors were convinced they had detected.50 It is true that the qualities, the feat of arms and the departure of the deceased are all dealt with in a more fulsome manner than are any of the Divine attributes. However, these reflections are always contained within passages of the text where intense use is made of the sense of God’s Omnipotence, Righteousness or Mercy and, along with this, the uncertainty about others and about oneself. Fundamental to Biel’s thought, is the notion that man is only able to stand coram Deo (lit: in the presence of God) and is quite incapable of effecting his or her own escape, even if he or she had been a life-long paragon of virtue. It is in his sermon on Eberhard that Biel is the most explicit about the relationship between the deeds of man and the Grace of God. He states here that, although exemplary, the deeds and personality of Eberhard were a priori insufficient to effect the purification needed for his fulfilment in God. Without making God’s Sovereignty look absurd, Biel insists that the life and prayers of the believers on
1 Abt., 170–171, 461, 522–535, 588–607, 870–873; pt. 2, 48, 87–90, 296–309, 356–365, 411–495. 49 Cf. n. 34, 39, 44, particularly Elze, op. cit., 39 & 50. 50 Pelagianism derived its name from the British ascetic Pelagius who attached great importance to the human will at the expense of divine grace. His ideas were condemned at the councils of Carthago (416) and of Rome (417–418).
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earth are an equally important part of the process of bringing the deceased to fulfillment.51 The Intercession of the Deceased While maintaining the sense of God’s Omnipotence, Biel in no way minimizes the importance of intermediaries. This brings us to another point. The final salvation of the deceased, i.e. his or her definitive unification with God, which is also only God’s gift to grant, is made by Biel, in most of his sermons, to be also more or less explicitly dependent upon the prayer and work of the community. The life of the deceased is recalled, as we have seen, in order to gain acceptance of the idea that he or she will be justified. Now, in this sermon on Eberhard, the believer is exhorted to emulate Christ’s continentia, patientia, prudentia and humilitas. The sermon on Eberhard displays notable parallels with the genre of sermons on exemplary saints, although it is improbable that Biel intends his canonization. However, in the sermon on Eberhard, the prayer and work of the next of kin are recognized as having the power to impart Eberhard that quality which he possessed while on earth namely, that of an intercessor between God and man. The aim of the community in this life is to effect God’s sanctification of the nobleman, at the same time; this becomes the means by which the community itself is sanctified. The community’s holiness guarantees the recognizing of Eberhard’s qualities in Heaven and, thereby, increases the probability that, their good works and Eberhard’s intercession also will justify them. Good works, therefore, work in two ways. Firstly, they dispose mankind to receive Grace, so that one will not die the second form of death.52 Secondly, good works lead to the creation of an intermediary. Since a guarantee has been given, Biel regards final union with God, by means of good works, as being something to be trusted. What also shines through Biel’s funeral sermons is a complete absence of any kind of prelude to the Reformation’s abhorrence of the veneration of saints. In his sermones de sanctis, Biel gave expression to the dichotomy, common to his age, between the Saints and the average Christian. This was a dichotomy that would intensify in
51 52
Cf. n. 40, 47. Cf. n. 24 and Elze, op. cit., 16–17.
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the later Middle Ages whereby, in the words of Richard Kieckhefer, the saint is “exalted and put on a pedestal, in such way that he or she can no longer serve effectively as a model. The otherness of the Saint arose partly from the sheer fact of glorification.”53 The Reformation, with its exclusive emphasis on Christ, did not allow the intercession of any other holy persons. Thus it was that, in the 16th century, the Reformers placed “the burden of saintly individualism upon every believer, by replacing the cult of the saints, with the communion of saints, the body of true believers. 54 Luther redefined the communion of saints: “Saints were all true believers: the “communion” was the spiritual community on earth. Accordingly, Luther redefined the communio sanctorum referred to in the creeds, simply as those people, living or dead, who belonged to the elect”.55 Here we can see how Biel has integrated contemporary thinking whereby mere mortals could become heavenly intercessors for their fellow human beings. His characterization of the Saints in Heaven in his Canonis Missae Expositio fits precisely into his description of Eberhard’s qualities after his death. In his exposition of the Mass, Biel admits that he is unable to provide proof of the effectiveness of the intercession of the saints but it may be believed that their intercessory work as intermediaries between God and man does indeed bear fruit. God, in His Omnipotence, permits this type of mediation, even if He has no need of its effectiveness to provide Him with a reason for dispensing His grace.56 One cannot therefore consider Biel as a forerunner of this Reformation idea, at least, not in the Lutheran sense of a democratization of holiness leading to the cult of saints and intercessors being altogether replaced. It is in this context also that, in his funeral sermons, Biel places the burden of saintly individualism squarely on the shoulders of every believer.
53 R. Kieckhefer, Unquiet souls. Fourteenth-Century Saints and their Religious Milieu, Chicago, 1984, 190. 54 D. Weinstein, R. Bell, Saints and Society. The Two Worlds of Western Christendom, 1000–1700, Chicago 1982, 241. 55 Cf. E. Cameron, The European Reformation, Oxford 1991, 134 & 145; J. Bossy, Christianity in the West, 1400–1700, Oxford 1985, 95–96. 56 Gabrielis Biel Canonis Missae Expositio, eds. H. Oberman, W. Courtenay, Lectio 30E, 306 “Credendum est igitur firmiter et nullatenus dubitandum sanctos in patria pro nobis intercedere nobisque suffragari merito et prece sine voto”; cf. 309–310; where it is made explicit why people call on the aid of the Saints in Lectio 31, 314–327.
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Biel ought to be seen within a much wider Augustinian context. He seems much more in line with Jordan of Quedlinburg. Eric Saak concluded from the sermon cycle of that Augustinian friar that he tried to persuade the believers that it is the transformation and sanctification of the self and human society, which are the true object of religious effort and not the veneration of saints.57 Nevertheless, for Jordan, the mediation and advocacy of the regular canonized Saints still played an essential role in the whole religious process.58 However, here too, as with Biel, in the sermones in exequiis, and certainly in his sermon on Eberhard, there resounds “a radical democratization of the concept of who was, or was supposed to be, a saint”.59 3.3. The Mourner as Religious Role Model in an Age of Anxiety From what we have seen mentioned above, we are now able to draw some conclusions about what it was that Biel considered important to the religious life of the mourning believers. Once again, we will be considering the funeral sermons. For Biel, a true Christian is a person, who does not mourn. Hope springs forth from his own understanding of death and suffering. He knows that death was caused by the original sin of Adam, the human prototype, who was unable to resist the Devil. He also knows that, ultimately, this was God’s plan.60 He gives little weight to feelings of grief and sorrow, as a direct result of his interpretation and understanding of suffering and death. Acceptance lies hidden in the knowledge that bodily death ushers in a period of rest when the human being is liberated from the torment, which, being imprisoned both in this life and in a body, necessarily entailed.61 In addition, he knows that a deceased Christian is not really dead. The deceased reposes in the expectation of res-
57 Jordanus was a fourteenth century augustinian friar who was the first to describe the history of his order and composed more sermons than any other augustinian in the Later Middle Ages. For Jordanus’ biography and the historiography on Jordan see Jordani de Saxonia, Ordinis Eremitarum S. Augustini, Liber Vitasfratrum. Ed. R. Arbesmann, W. Hümpfner. New York, 1943. (Cassiciacum. Studies in St. Augustine and the Augustinian Order, 1 (American Series). 58 Cf. E.J.D. Douglass, Justification in Late Medieval Preaching. A Study of John Geiler of Keisersberg, Leyden 1966, 189. 59 E.L. Saak, ‘Quilibet Christianus: Saints in Society in the Sermons of Jordan of Quedlinburg, OESA’, in: B.M. Kienzle inter alia, ed., Models of Holiness, quotation 320. 60 Cf. nn. 28, cf. 26 (Elze, op. cit. pass). 61 Cf. nn. 21, 29 (Elze, op. cit. pass).
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urrection. Mourning, therefore, is utterly inappropriate for a true Christian.62 Moreover a Christian can never be entirely certain that he too will one day rise with Christ. His hope does not give him certainty. His life is actually a continual preparation for a good death. And this feeling of insecurity is a fundamental emotion with which he or she must live.63 The variety of ways in which Biel seeks to intensify this uncertainty, reveal to us the importance he must have attached to the idea that a true Christian is someone with a highly developed sense of insecurity.64 Even if a Christian person were to shape his entire life in the hope of one day being united with God, he would know that the likelihood of it ever happening in death is never more than a mere probability. The Christian is continually beset by fear.65 Still, it is possible for him or her to believe that God will justify a particular person, or even deem that a person become an intercessor.66 When he or she does this, a Christian is committing himself to the kind of life he would have opted for had he been entirely certain. In conclusion, we can make the claim that, according to Biel, the ideal religious person languishes in doubt about his or her ultimate lot. Nevertheless, his fond hope of resurrection leads him on to shape his entire life into a balanced harmony of works and prayer.67 What is also striking is the emotional way in which Biel intensifies the sadness of this earthly existence and its uncertainties. On the other hand, the resurrection is recalled thoroughly rationally in doxologies at the end of the sermon or as a remedy for earthly sorrow. By using a merely obligatory and intellectual approach to the resurrection in his funeral sermons, Biel causes the hope of the resurrection to make much less of a lasting impression than do the doubts surrounding the whole issue of personal salvation. This continues to be so even when over the course of time, Biel intensifies not only the fear of death, but also the sense of responsibility one should have for the whole of one’s own life. He also accords a greater emphasis to the mercy of God.68 The intermediary stage between living in this world and living with the perception of
62 63 64 65 66 67 68
Cf. Cf. Cf. Cf. Cf. Cf. Cf.
nn. 21, nn. 23, e.g. 24, nn. 24, n. 41 nn. 40, nn. 38,
22, 28, 29. 24, 34. cf. Elze, op. cit., 14, 36, 47. 33, 34. 41. 41, Elze, op. cit., 39, 50, 52.
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God, sine speculo (without mirror) which is the life of the Christian, is for Biel determined by a fundamental, though purifying, uncertainty through which, over the course of time, cautious trust breaks through.69 4. Final Reflections There are no eyewitness accounts of the funeral celebrations at which Biel preached. But, from contemporary sources at Tübingen, we are able to establish that the atmosphere at such a funeral liturgy would have been defined by black vestments, candles of unbleached wax and the exaggerated black of the setting, the drapes and the curtains.70 At the close of this troubled 15th century laments and elegies became prominent again. The plainchant Missa pro defunctis (1461) of Johannes Ockegem (1425–1497), which could rightly be considered as being the apotheosis and the conclusion of the richest period in the history of Western music, was determined by long, almost unbroken phrases and by sonorous, polyphonic melodies. In Biel’s day, the space, the play of forms, the intonation and the content of the liturgical prayers, all contributed especially to the intensification of the consciousness that there was, as yet, no reason for joyful hope. Life after death was evoked rather in images of purification than in images of deliverance and by a “being with God”.71 The tone of Biel’s funeral sermons is partly explained by the time in which he was living. In Biel’s sermons exaggerated use of emotion, aroused by space and the play of forms, regarded by P. Ariès as typical of the experience of death at the time, eclipses the hope of the resurrection. Even though he ends his sermons with a terse, almost doxological reference to being with Christ, and even though 69
Cf. n. 28, 35, 37. Cf. de Kurtze Verzaichnis, Welcher massen die Leuchprocession und Begräbnis Desz weilund Wolgeborner Herrn, Herrn Willhelm Ernsten Graffen vnd Herrn zu Waldeck, & Christseeliger gedächtnus, den 18. Oct. Im Jahr 1598. Zu Tübingen gehalten und verrichtet worden. (published in: H. Schmidt-Grave, Leichenreden und Leichenpredigten Tübinger Professoren. Untersuchungen zur biographischen Geschichtsschreibung in der frühen Neuzeit, Tübingen 1974, 83–88 (Contubernium. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Eberhard-Karls-Universität Tübingen 6). 71 “Die Bitte um Vergebung der Schuld, die Bitte um das Bestehenkönnen im Gericht, die Bitte um den Nachlaß der Sündenstrafen, die Bitte um die Befreiung aus ‘dem Rache des Löwen’, ‘ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum’ [Offertorium der Messe für Verstorbene], diese Gedanken prägten die Totenliturgie des Mittelalters. . . .”, Jürgensmeier, op. cit., 127. 70
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he looks for reasons to maintain that the deceased will be with God, for most of the time his discourses are determined by launching complaints against death and bemoaning those who are still living. Biel’s funeral sermons seem not to distinguish themselves from other funeral sermons of the Late Middle Ages. Exposés too about the inescapability of death and the sadness and brief nature of this life can be traced back to the main points of the artes moriendi of his day. Notably for his time, he is much less able to rise above the negative feeling for life than was the norm in other contemporary scholastic sermons.72 P. Dinzelbacher has shown us to what extent fear has dominated the teaching and the life of Christianity and the Church.73 The development of the terrifying images of Hell, the Devil and of God, served to banish fear by channeling it. By identifying these incentives of fear, fear itself could be eliminated. By creating a “concrete” representation of the Devil and of Hell, one at least knew what it was that one had to be afraid about.74 In the light of this conclusion, it is possible adequately to evaluate Biel’s funeral sermons. His intensifying and possible channeling of the fear is always coupled with an intensification of the feeling that good people, in all probability, will be perfected in God. The hope, which emerges amidst all of this, whilst not removing the uncertainty, is, in view of the spirit of the day, not insignificant. As well as this, Biel implicitly ascribes mercy to God, who will look favorably upon people’s work as an acceptable sacrifice on behalf of a dead person, who may thereby be raised by God to the rank of intercessor. When one realizes the full extent of these thoughts, one can appreciate Biel’s careful anthropological optimism, which goes against the spirit of the age and the whole tenor of the purifying meditatio mortis contained in the sermons. Fear and uncertainty are balanced by the sense that resurrection and deliverance are probable. This does generate a smattering of hope.
72 Schneyer, op. cit., 22: “Der Mensch—Prediger wie Hörer—steht zuerst als Sünder im Blickpunkt der damaligen Predigt. (. . .) Nicht aus trüber, drückender Weltuntergangsstimmung in Schwarzseherei und Sündenangst, sondern mit ruhigem, klarem Blick auf Gott und die Welt ruft sie den Menschen von der Sünde zurück und zu Christus hin, um das Heil des Menschen und Gottes Ehre zu wirken. Diese Grundeinstellung der scholastischen Predigt müssen wir bei all ihren Äußerungen beachten.” 73 P. Dinzelbacher, Angst im Mittelalter. Teufels-, Todes- und Gotteserfahrung: Mentalitätsgeschichte und Ikonographie, Paderborn, Munich, Vienna & Zürich 1996, 135–260. 74 Op. cit., 280.
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WANDERING BETWEEN TRANSUBSTANTIATION AND TRANSFIGURATION: IMAGES OF THE PROPHET ELIJAH IN WESTERN CHRISTIANITY, 1200–1500 CE* Charles Caspers (Catholic University of Nijmegen, The Netherlands) 1. Introduction Two thousand years of Christianity have yielded a colorful collection of saints. To afford a better command of this great “legion,” overviews in which the saints are divided into various categories appear with some regularity. These categories, which stand side by side with one another or are even opposites—for instance, martyrs and confessors, men and women, nobles and commoners, clerics and laity, maternal saints and virgins, missionaries and indigenous saints— are not only helpful as schemata for hagiographic studies, but also for a better understanding of culture, mentality and identity in general. Among other things, successive or contrasting views of saintliness and saints reveal a good deal about images of humanity, God and the world.1 Among all the differences and distinctions, it must not be forgotten, however, that there is at the same time a continuity; an uninterrupted successio sanctorum exists throughout the history of Christianity.2 Following on their understanding of Jewish practice, the earliest Christians already considered it their difficult but not impossible calling to strive to become a community of saints. In spite of this similarity, there were of course great differences between Jewish and Christian conceptions regarding sainthood. For instance, Christians
* With thanks to Kees Waaijman, Hein Blommestijn and Rijckloff Hofman, my colleagues at the Titus Brandsma Institute, Nijmegen. Translated by D. Mader M. Div. 1 See also the contribution by Paul Post on modern saints (with extensive bibliography) in this collection. 2 Cf. Herman A.J. Wegman, ‘Successio sanctorum’, in: J. Neil Alexander (ed.), Time and community. In honor of Thomas Julian Talley (= NPM studies in church music and liturgy), Washington D.C. 1990, 219–241.
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considered—and still consider—the imitation of Christ to be the best and practically only way leading to saintliness. Moreover, after their earthly life, many who have conspicuously excelled at this imitation obtain a place in the official cultus having been raised to the “honor of the altars.” Henceforth in heaven they take part in the visio beatifica and function as intercessors, that is they are deemed worthy to intensify the prayers and supplications addressed to God by believers. Despite these exclusivist features, some Old Testament figures also were accounted as saints in the Christian Tradition, and thus also as intercessors. Obviously, this could not be credited to their capacity as “imitators” of Christ, but to the fact that they were considered as His exemplary “forerunners.”3 While Old Testament saints were popular from the very beginning in the Eastern Church, within the Western Church they comprised only a very small group who were of little importance compared with the constantly swelling army of “post-Christ” saints, including martyrs, bishops, missionaries and noble founders of monasteries. Only the Maccabees (in the official calendar) and Job (in popular religion) acquired a real status in the cultus.4 In the period of the high and late Middle Ages, increasingly developed scholastic theology indeed made it impossible for wide-spread devotion to Old Testament saints to be established. If such saints would gain too much popularity, their cults would after all clash with the doctrines of the faith, equilibrated to the smallest detail, according to which mankind was saved by the redemptive work of Christ alone. Thanks to their later birth—not thanks to their merits—Christians were by their own admission privileged in comparison with the “old” Jews who had often led more exemplary and morally edifying lives than
3 See ‘Sainteté de Dieu’, ‘Sainteté-sanctification de l’homme’ and ‘Saints’, in: Dictionnaire de spiritualité, XIV, Paris 1990; Bart Lauvrijs, Zalig- en heiligverklaringen. Damiaan en anderen. Historiek, spiritualiteit en procedure, Brugge 1995. 4 Emm. de Azevedo (ed.), Benedicti Papae XIV, doctrina de servorum dei beatificatione et beatorum canonizatione in synopsim redacta, Brussels 1840, 320–321 (regarding Old Testament saints); B. Botte, ‘Le culte du prophète Élie dans l’Église chrétienne’, in: Élie le prophète, I. Selon les écritures et les traditions chrétiennes (= Études carmélitaines 35–1), Bruges 1956, 208–218, esp. 209, 213, 217–218. Regarding the Maccabees, see the contribution by G. Rouwhorst in this collection. On Job, see the contribution by M. Parmentier in this collection, and ‘Hiob’, in: Handwörterbuch des deutschen Aberglaubens, IV, Berlin/Leipzig 1931–1932, 68–72.
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they themselves did. For these “old” Jews heaven remained unreachable because they lived in the time before Christ accomplished His work of salvation.5 Yet during this period of the high and late Middle Ages there were a small group of Old Testament saints who were highly regarded, albeit not so much as intercessors, as in the East, but as witnesses to the Old Covenant. One of them was the prophet Elijah. In the East he was accounted a great miracle-worker, to whom many churches were dedicated, and to whom one or, depending on the region, more feast days were assigned. In Constantinople, his feast was July 20. He did not enjoy this popularity in the West, but he was still regarded, together with Moses, as the most important Old Testament predecessor of Christ. His cult did have several sites in the Latin Church, where, following Constantinople, July 20 was the most important feast day, but saints who were really considered important had hundreds of cultic sites.6 However, after the twelfth century, when Western Christianity became increasingly Christocentric, the position of Elijah changed. Particularly in the preaching about and the visual culture surrounding the Mass and the feast of Corpus Christi, introduced in 1264 (see § 2.1), and later, after it was upgraded in 1457, the feast of the Transfiguration (see § 3), he began to play a prominent role. In this study I shall sketch the image of Elijah in Western Christianity during the late Middle Ages. As we shall see, the paradoxes associated with this image were large. It was not always clear how to deal with the Tishbite.
5 Otto H. Brandt (ed.), Bertholds von Regensburg Deutsche Predigten, Jena 1924, 225–226; Charles M.A. Caspers, De eucharistische vroomheid en het feest van Sacramentsdag in de Nederlanden tijdens de late Middeleeuwen (= Miscellanea Neerlandica 5), Leuven 1992, 170–172. 6 After the eleventh century, under the influence of the Eastern Church, several shrines for Elijah arose in Italy. In this region it was also customary to call upon the intercession of Elijah in times of drought. In Oviedo in northern Spain, relics that the Carmelites had been able to save from the Saracen destruction of their monastery on Mount Carmel were still being venerated as late as the eighteenth century, see Acta Sanctorum, Julii tomus quintus, Paris/Rome 1868, 8–10.
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2. Elijah and Eucharistic Piety 2.1. The orbis eucharisticus Beginning in the twelfth century, the sacrament of the Eucharist assumed a more important place within ecclesiastical and religious life than it had ever had before, or for that matter has had since. The new usage, circa 1200, of elevating the Host for adoration during the Mass, and the pronouncement of the dogma of transubstantiation by Pope Innocent III at the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, had the particular effect of further increasing collective regard for this sacrament. According to this dogma, every time the Mass is celebrated, during the pronouncement of the words of institution (the words which, according to the Gospels, Christ himself spoke during the Last Supper), through the agency of a mystery, the bread and wine become the body and blood of Christ. The Catholic Church also teaches that there is an essential alteration in which the one substance is transformed into the other (thus the term transsubstantiatio), which cannot however be perceived by the senses because incidental qualities (in Latin, accidentia) such as measurements and taste do not change with the essence.7 The act of blessing during which the priest pronounces the words of institution is the “consecration.” For all baptized persons who had attained the age of discretion, preparation for the communion and the communion itself were the most important acts of faith that one could perform during earthly life. The preparation consisted of meditating upon or even sharing in the sufferings of the Lord, in combination with steadfast faith in the doctrines of the church and performing confession. The communion, through which a person was able to be united with Christ, was possible in a “sacramental” manner (usually by partaking of a piece of consecrated bread, the Host) during Mass in a church, but also in a “spiritual” manner (without consumption of the Host), independent of time or place. Spiritual communion implied that the sacrament was in a certain manner present at all times wherever Christians were. The whole of their actions were thus to be marked
7 After about 1050, this view of the sacrament of the Eucharist was shared by most Western theologians. As far as is known, the term transsubstantiatio was first used by Orlando Bandinelli, later to become Pope Alexander III (see Caspers, De eucharistische vroomheid, 18).
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Fig. 1. The sleeping Elijah, just before an angel wakes him (cf. I Kings 19). On the left side we see a cup and a bread the prophet will receive. In the late Middle Ages these were symbols for the Eucharist. On the right side we see the prophet on his way to Mount Horeb. Lower right panel of The Last Supper (1464–1468) by Dirc Bouts, St. Pieterskerk, Louvain.
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by the sacrament; they lived in an orbis eucharisticus.8 The “universality” of the sacrament was visualized by all sorts of “theophoric” (“God-bearing”) processions. Particularly, the procession accompanying the feast of Corpus Christi, developed during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries into perhaps the most triumphalist manifestation of faith in the Catholic Church.9 In sermons prepared for this feast (the second Thursday after Pentecost), detailed attention was not only devoted to the meaning of the sacrament, but also to its Old Testament “prefigurations.” The feeding of the prophet Elijah, as described in I Kings 19, was one of the prefigurations of the sacrament and its salvific effect; as a consequence, the person of Elijah could also be accounted a forerunner of Christ. 2.2. Elijah as Forerunner of Christ and the Institution of the Eucharist If Elijah was already important in early Christianity as an Old and New Testament figure—for instance as the alter ego of John the Baptist, as one of the figures present at the Transfiguration of Christ and as the one to whom, according to some witnesses, Jesus called out as he died on the cross10—from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries on, Western theologians one-eyedly began to cite him as an important Old Testament precursor of Christ. Elijah is, for instance, frequently mentioned in this latter capacity in the Tafel van den Kersten Ghelove, compiled circa 1400 by the Dutch Dominican Dirc van Delf, although other Old Testament personages such as David, Solomon, Moses, Isaiah, Job, Adam, Eve, Abraham and Ezekiel are mentioned even
8
Charles M.A. Caspers, ‘Meum summum desiderium est te habere. L’eucharistie comme sacrement de la rencontre avec Dieu pour tous les croyants (ca. 1200–ca. 1500)’, in: André Haquin (ed.), Fête-Dieu (1246–1996), I. Actes du colloque de Liège, 12–14 septembre 1996, Louvain-la-Neuve 1999, 127–151. 9 Charles M.A. Caspers, ‘How the Sacrament Left the Church Building. Theophoric Processions as a Constituent of the Feast of Corpus Christi’, in: Paul Post et al. (eds), Christian Feast and Festival. The Dynamics of Western Liturgy and Culture (= Liturgia condenda 12), Louvain 2001. 10 M.-E. Boismard, ‘Élie dans le Nouveau Testament’, in: Élie le prophète, I. Selon les écritures et les traditions chrétiennes (= Études carmélitaines, 35–1), Bruges 1956, 116–130; Aharon Wiener, The Prophet Elijah in the development of Judaism. A DepthPsychological Study, London 1978, 141–145; Kees Waaijman, De profeet Elia (= Bijbelse spiritualiteit 4), Nijmegen 1985, 124–127; Johannes Molanus, Traité des saintes images, I, Paris 1996, 388 (on Elijah and John the Baptist); Frans Van Segbroeck, ‘Elia in het Nieuwe Testament’, in: Paul Kevers (ed.), Elia. Profeet van vuur. Mens als wij, Leuven/Amersfoort 1996, 127–155.
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Fig. 2. Institution of the Eucharist by Christ during the Last Supper. The cup, standing on the left corner of the chimney, is the same as the cup at the side of Elijah’s head in fig. 1. Above the open door to the right of the chimney stands a stutue of Moses. Central panel of The Last Supper (1464–1468) by Dirc Bouts, St. Pieterskerk, Louvain.
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more frequently. Because of the symbolism of bread in his Elijah’s life story (I Kings 19), Dirc connects him with the sacrament of the Eucharist as instituted by Christ, compares his being taken up into heaven with Christ’s Ascension, and compares the still, small whisper that Elijah encountered on Horeb with the experience of Pentecost.11 The visual art of the Middle Ages also bears witness to a multiplicity of motifs surrounding Elijah as a precursor of Jesus. For instance, his flight into the desert to escape Ahab is viewed as a foreshadowing of the flight of Mary and Joseph to Egypt (Matt 2:13–15); the reception of Elijah by the widow of Zarephath as a foreshadowing of the reception of Jesus by Mary and Martha (Luke 10:38–42); the multiplication of the widow’s oil and flour as a foreshadowing of the miraculous multiplication of the fish and loaves (e.g. Matt 14:13–21); the resurrection of the widow’s son as a foreshadowing of resurrection of Lazarus ( John 11); Elijah’s despair in the desert as a foreshadowing of Christ’s agony in the Garden of Gethsemane (Matt 26:36–46); the prophet’s assumption as a foreshadowing of the Ascension of Christ (Luke 24:50–53); and—the most relevant for this study—the feeding of Elijah by the angel as a foreshadowing of Christians being fed and strengthened by the sacrament of the Eucharist.12 Although the text of I Kings 19:5–8 was only briefly linked with the sacrament by the Cistercian Caesarius van Heisterbach (d. 1240) and the Dominican Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274),13 by circa 1300 the Carmelite Koenraad of St. Joris had produced an elaborate comparison between the feeding of Elijah and the mystic power that is
11
L.M. Fr. Daniëls (ed.), Meester Dirc van Delf, O.P. Tafel van den Kersten Ghelove, I, Antwerpen/Nijmegen/Utrecht 1939, 252 (register: ‘Elias’). On Dirc van Delf, see Charles Caspers, ‘Leviticus 12, Mary and Wax. Purification and Churching in Late Medieval Christianity’, in: M.J.H.M. Poorthuis & J. Schwartz (eds), Purity and Holiness. The Heritage of Leviticus (= Jewish and Christian Perspectives, 2), Leiden/Boston/Köln 2000, 295–309. 12 Louis Réau, ‘Iconographie du prophète Élie’, in: Élie le prophète, I, 233–267, esp. 240–241 and 254–256. See also Tarcisio Stramata et al., ‘Elia, profeta’, in: Bibliotheca sanctorum, IV, Rome 1964, 1022–1039. Cf. M. Poorthuis’ contribution to this volume, note 14. 13 J. Strange (ed.), Caesarii Heisterbacensis monachi ordinis cisterciensis, Dialogus Miraculorum, II, Cologne/Bonn/Brussels 1851, 202 (chapter 47). The song Lauda Sion, with among other lines the passage “Ecce panis angelorum, factus cibus viatorum,” appears in the Mass for Corpus Christi composed by Thomas Aquinas. Cf. Maurits Smeyers, ‘Het Levende Brood. Dirk Bouts en het Laatste Avondmaal’, in: Anna Bergmans (red.), Leuven in de Late Middeleeuwen. Dirk Bouts, Het Laatste Avondmaal, Tielt 1998, 133–176, esp. 163–164 and 166–167.
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derived from partaking of the sacrament of the Body of Christ.14 In the late Middle Ages this Bible passage became one of the four standard prefigurations in the Old Testament for the institution of the Eucharist—the other three being the encounter between Abraham and Melchizedek (Gen 14:18–20), the Jewish Passover meal (Ex 12:1–28), and the provision of manna during the journey through the desert on the way to the Promised Land (Ex 16:2–36).15 Thus, Dionysius the Carthusian (d. 1471) explains as the spiritual exegesis of I Kings 19:6 (“He ate and drank, and lay down again”) that those who have taken Christ to themselves in a worthy manner by means of the sacrament, may lay themselves down to sleep in a state of contemplation and love, freed of the agitation of the senses. The words of the angel in verse 5, repeated in verse 7 (“Get up and eat”) mean that Christians must take Christ to themselves daily in a spiritual manner, by the spiritual communion. The last words of verse 7, “otherwise the journey will be too much for you,” mean that Christians still have much misery to endure in the present life before arriving at the joys of eternal bliss. According to Dionysius, the spiritual meaning of verse 8 (“He got up, and ate and drank; then he went in the strength of that food for forty days and forty nights to Horeb the mount of God”) is that thanks to the power of the Body of the Lord, which is sustenance (viaticum) for the pilgrim journey of our present life, Christians can always persevere in the right way, until they reach the mountain of the Church Triumphant.16 In late medieval sermons, we encounter the eucharistic reading of I Kings 19 in diverse variants. For example, the Dutch Dominican Egidius, in a sermon prepared for the feast of Corpus Christi in the year 1466, says that the bread from which Elijah drew strength to walk for forty days and forty nights without break, is a prefiguration of the sacrament which gives us the strength to continue in prosperity, i.e. days, or adversity, i.e. nights, until we reach life eternal, i.e. Horeb.17
14 H. Blommestijn, ‘De Eucharistie in de vroege karmelitaanse spiritualiteit’, in: A.H.C. van Eijk & H.W.M. Rikhof (eds), De lengte en de breedte, de hoogte en de diepte. Peilingen in de theologie van de sacramenten, Zoetermeer 1996, 39–73. 15 John B. Knipping, Iconography of the Counter Reformation in the Netherlands. Heaven on Earth, Nieuwkoop/Leiden 1974, 187–188; Smeyers, ‘Het Levende Brood’, 155–167. 16 Dionysius Cartusianus, Opera Omnia, III, Montreuil 1897, 715–717 (cf. ibidem, 702, on Elijah as forerunner of Christ). 17 Caspers, De eucharistische vroomheid, 172 (cf. ibidem, 181).
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3. Elijah and the Transfiguration of Christ on the Mount
During the feast of the Transfiguration Christians celebrate an event in the life of Jesus reported in the Synoptic Gospels (Matt 17:1–13, Mark 9:2–13 and Luke 9:28–36). It involves a majestic vision granted to the apostles Peter (Simon), James and John which took place some days after the confession by Simon Peter that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of the living God. The version most often represented in the visual arts is that of Luke (New Revised Standard Version): (28) Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. (29) And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. (30) Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. (31) They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. (32) Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. (33) Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, “Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, one for Elijah”— not knowing what he said. (34) While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. (35) Then from the cloud came a voice that said, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” (36) When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told to no one any of the things they had seen.
In the gospels according to Matthew (17:9–13) and Mark (9:9–13), the three disciples, as they descend the mountain, ask Jesus a question about Elijah after Jesus had spoken to them about the resurrection of the Son of Man. Jesus’ answer implies that Elijah has returned as John the Baptist. In Christian tradition, the vision of the three apostles is generally interpreted as a brief revelation by Jesus of His divine nature, at other moments concealed by his human nature, and/or as a prefiguration of the glorified Christ after His resurrection. From around the year 500, there spread within the Eastern Church a special feast that was devoted to the Transfiguration or Metamorphosis of Christ on Mount Tabor.18 This feast would further develop into
18
See Z. Safrai, ‘The Institutionalization of the Cult of Saints in Christian Society’,
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one of the “twelve major feasts.” Beginning in the tenth century, the feast was also celebrated at several places in Western Christianity, and in the twelfth century, it would spread still further in the West, without, however, ever becoming widely celebrated.19 Not only did the Transfiguration gradually win a place in the worship of monastic orders, but it also became an issue for catechesis. For instance, the Dominican Dirc van Delf, mentioned above, devoted a separate chapter to the narrative of the Transfiguration in his Tafel.20 In response to the question of why Moses and Elijah were present at the Transfiguration, Dirc answers that this enabled the two most important prophets of the Old Testament to honour “the Master of the Old and New Testaments,” who will come to judge the living, represented by Elijah, and the dead, represented by Moses. As to the question of what the two prophets said to Christ, Dirc replies that they discussed the fall of Jerusalem and the disaster that overtook the Jews in the time of Titus and Vespasian, the coming of the Antichrist who shall defeat Enoch and Elijah, and the suffering and death of Christ resulting in, among its consequences, the liberation of the “fathers” from limbo.21 Just as Dirc constantly stresses in his Tafel that Jesus and his parents remained obedient to the law of the Old Covenant, he also repeatedly makes use of Moses and
in: A. Houtman, M. Poorthuis & J. Schwartz (eds), Sanctity of Time and Space in Tradition and Modernity, Leiden 1998, 197, who refers to Cyril of Jerusalem as the first one to identify the mountain of the Transfiguration with Horeb. 19 V. Grumel, ‘Sur l’ancienneté de la fête de la Transfiguration’, in: Revue des études byzantines 14 (1956) 209–210; R.W. Pfaff, New Liturgical Feasts in Later Medieval England, Oxford 1970, 13–39; Hansjörg Auf der Maur, Feiern im Rythmus der Zeit, I. Herrenfeste in Woche und Jahr (= Gottesdienst der Kirche. Handbuch der Liturgiewissenschaft 5), Regensburg 1983, 189–190. 20 Daniëls (ed.), Tafel van den Kersten Ghelove, II, 1937, 394–405. The issues which he discusses: Why had the Transfiguration to take place? Why took Christ only Peter, James and John with Him? Why had the occurrence to take place on a mountain top? What was the precise meaning of the Transfiguration? Why did Moses and Elijah reveal themselves? What was the subject of their conversation with Christ? Why did Peter propose to set up three “tabernacles”? Why did God the Father speak from out of a cloud? Why did the disciples throw themselves face down on the ground when they heard the words of the Father? Why were the disciples not permitted to tell anyone of what they had experienced? 21 The term “fathers’ limbo” designates the state and place of those souls who did not merit hell and its eternal punishments but could not enter heaven before the Redemption. See P.J. Hill, ‘Limbo’, in: New Catholic Encyclopedia, VIII, Washington D.C. 1967, 762–765. See for the battle of Enoch and Elijah against the Antichrist: M. Poorthuis’ contribution to this volume, note 32–35.
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Elijah in order to point out that Christ has not come to destroy the law, but to fulfil it.22 In 1457, in his bull Inter divinae dispositionis arcana, Pope Calixtus III prescribed that the celebration of the feast of the Transfiguration, on August 6, was henceforth obligatory throughout Christendom.23 In this bull Calixtus was very clear about the reasons why he rather abruptly sought to make an inconspicuous feast into a major celebration, complete with a new Mass formula and office: the renewed feast was to be a continuing thanksgiving for the victory that the Christian armies had scored on July 22, 1456, over the advancing Turks near Belgrade.24 After the upgrading of the feast, the New Testament passage concerning the Transfiguration in Luke, the preferred version as we have seen—there was a preference for depicting the Transfiguration at the moment that the disciples awake from their sleep, and this is mentioned only in Luke 9:3225—became a popular theme in the visual arts, in part thanks to the efforts of Carmelite monasteries and nunneries.26 The best-known representation is perhaps the painting on which Raphael began to work in 1517–1518, commissioned by
22 Cf. Petrus Ribadineira & Heribertus Rosweyde, Generale legende der heylighen. Vergadert uyt de H. Schrifture, Oude-vaders, ende Registers der Heylighe Kercke, II, Antwerpen: Hieronymus Verdussen 1686, 117: Moses, as the Law-giver, was the prophet most beloved among the Hebrews, and Elijah was the prophet who was most zealous to uphold the law; together they represented the living (by Elijah) and the dead (by Moses). 23 In the Missale Romanum of 1570, this feast is assigned to the “second order,” or duplex; Pius X elevated this rank to duplex II. classis; the Missale Romanum of 1970 simply denotes it as festum. 24 Ludwig von Pastor, Geschichte der Päpste im Zeitalter der Renaissance bis zur Wahl Pius’ II. Martin V. Eugen IV. Nikolaus V. Kalixtus III, Freiburg 1926; 8–9 edition) 712–742, esp. 729. 25 See also our notes 27 and 33. 26 The order of Carmelites arouse around 1200 from a movement of lay solitaries who frequently performed pilgrimages to the Holy Land. A number of them grouped together on Mount Carmel. Not only did they consider Elijah as their inspiration, but after about 1300 they even insisted that a community of monks had lived on Mount Carmel without interruption since the time of this prophet. For the rest, in the Eastern Church since about the beginning of the fourth century (and possibly earlier), Elijah had been considered the original model for monastic life. See Elias Friedman, The Latin Hermits of Mount Carmel. A Study in Carmelite Origins, Rome 1979; Waaijman, De profeet Elia, 130–136; Emanuele Boaga, Nello spirito e nella virtù di Elia, Rome 1990; Emanuele Boaga, ‘Elia alle origini e nelle prime generazioni dell’Ordine Carmelitano’, in: Paul Chandler (ed.), A Journey with Elijah (= Carisma e Spiritualità 2), Rome 1991, 85–110.
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Cardinal Giulio de Medici, later Pope Clement VII, which is now in the Vatican Museums.27 However, the Transfiguration never became the extravagant feast that Pope Calixtus had intended it to be. Although it definitely had acquired a place in the liturgical calendar of the Roman Catholic Church, the history of mankind has ordained instead that August 6 is the day on which Christian and non-Christian alike recall the atomic bombing of Hiroshima in 1945. Ironically enough, just as in the vision of the three apostles, it was also a day of blinding light followed by a cloud.28 4. The Relationship between Transubstantiation and Transfiguration In the preceding paragraphs, transubstantiation and (to a lesser degree) Transfiguration have been identified as two important concepts in late medieval Christianity. An obvious question is whether the figure of the prophet Elijah, as he appears in the discussion or representation of either of these concepts, also served to make or reinforce connections between them. Before we can begin to answer this question, we must briefly discuss both the differences and the similarities which exist between transubstantiation and Transfiguration. 4.1. Differences During the Mass, the Host does not change its outward form, although, according to the doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church, a change in its essence does in fact take place and this is termed transubstantiation (see § 2.1). Those who are present in the Mass at the consecration indeed see the priest perform various actions, but to their visual perception the Host remains unaltered. In the Transfiguration, Christ changed in appearance, but there was no change in
27
On the Transfiguration in the visual arts, see Réau, ‘L’iconographie du prophète Élie’, 262–263; J. Myslivec, ‘Verklärung Christi’, in: Lexikon der christlichen Ikonographie, IV, Rome etc. 1972, 416–421; Knipping, Iconography of the Counter Reformation in the Netherlands, 228, 413 (on Raphael and Rubens); Jan van Lier, ‘De iconografie van Elia’, in: Paul Kevers (ed.), Elia. Profeet van vuur. Mens als wij, Leuven/Amersfoort 1996, 176, 185–189. See also our note 33. 28 Cf. Herman Wegman, ‘De zesde van de achtste maand’, in: Van gerechtigheid tot liturgie (= KTHU-reeks, Theologie en Samenleving), Hilversum 1984, 11–21.
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His essence. Those who were present at this occurrence, the apostles Peter, James and John, saw Christ appear in a totally altered form; actually, however, Christ Himself did not change, but rather revealed His divine nature, which had been concealed. A greater contrast between these two concepts is hardly imaginable: in the case of transubstantiation, there is a non-perceivable change; in the case of the Transfiguration, there is in actuality no change, although there is a perception of one. A second difference, not so much between transubstantiation and Transfiguration as between the two forms of devotion with which these concepts correspond, is that in the late Middle Ages, preparation for communion took place through contemplation of the life and passion of Christ, through which attention is focused on his human nature, while with the feast of Transfiguration, the accent was placed on the divinity of Christ. 4.2. Similarities This latter comparison yields not only differences, but at the same time, a certain complementary relationship. According to Christian creed, Christ is, after all, God and man. Pope Calixtus placed extra emphasis on this complementary relationship by making the feast of the Transfiguration a counterpart to Corpus Christi, a feast which was especially instituted to honor the sacrament of Eucharist. Calixtus sought to impart to both feasts the same triumphal character by, inter alia, prescribing that for the feast of the Transfiguration believers could henceforth avail themselves of the same indulgences as they could on the feast of Corpus Christi.29 By deliberately connecting the two feasts, he also provided an impetus for connecting the idea of Transfiguration with the idea of the sacrament. It is striking that in his bull Inter divinae dispositionis arcana, Calixtus expressly compares the feast of Transfiguration with the Passover feast of “Israel”: as the Jews celebrated their deliverance from the Egyptians, so Christians would henceforth celebrate their deliverance
29 Bullarum privilegiorium ac diplomatum Romanorum Pontificum amplissima collectio III-3, Rome 1743, 85–88; Ribadineira & Rosweyde, Generale legende der heylighen, 119 (regarding the same indulgences as Corpus Christi). Indulgences are grants for the remission or payment of the debts of temporal punishment after the guilt of sin has been forgiven, see P.F. Palmer, ‘Indulgences’, in: New Catholic Encyclopedia, VII, Washington D.C. 1967, 482–484.
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from the Turks.30 With this comparison the Pope further strengthens the connection he had made already between the feasts of Transfiguration and Corpus Christi, particularly when we remember that the Jewish Passover meal was considered by Christians as an important prefiguration of the Eucharist. 4.3. Combinations The differences between transubstantiation and Transfiguration are so fundamental that between circa 1100 and 1457, the year that Calixtus issued his bull, Western theologians, preachers and artists did not seek to reduce the one concept to the other.31 On the contrary, it was even pointed out that it was not only incorrect, but even dangerous, to combine them. As an illustration of this, the Cistercian Baudouin de Ford (d. 1190), in his work on the sacrament of the altar, notes that even the devil is very well able to apparently change into an angel by means of “a transfiguration.”32 Even after 1457, the link between the feast of Corpus Christi and the feast of the Transfiguration, despite the efforts of Pope Calixtus, did not appear to be very long-lasting. The Transfiguration showed the divine nature of Christ, heralded his return, or, particularly after the Middle Ages, was intended to illustrate that God existed as three persons, but was not directly involved with the Eucharist.33 In religious life, however, apart from doctrine or even in conflict with it, the two concepts, related etymologically as they were, sometimes “dangerously” touched each other. For example, in the abundant literature of miraculous occurrences produced in the high and late Middle Ages, instances are encountered where miraculous Hosts
30 Bullarum privilegiorium ac diplomatum Romanorum Pontificum amplissima collectio III-3, 88 (§ 3). 31 In the Eastern Church, the Transfiguration, as an “outward encounter with God,” was indeed several times interpreted as an adumbration of communion, as an “inward encounter with God,” particularly by the Byzantine theologian Gregorios Palamas (d. 1359). See Marie-Anne Vannier, ‘Communion trinitaire et communion eucharistique’, in: La vie spirituelle 80 (2000) no. 735, 363–380, esp. 371–372. 32 Baudouin de Ford, Le sacrament de l’autel, I–II (= Sources chrétiennes 93–94), Paris 1963, vol. I, 204–207 (“Transsubstantation et transfiguration”). See also Dionysius Cartusianus, Opera omnia, XI, Montreuil 1900, 194, and Ribadineira & Rosweyde, Generale legende der heylighen, 116, who likewise clearly posit that no change of essence occurred in the case of the Transfiguration. 33 Gertrud Schiller, Ikonographie der christlichen Kunst, I (Gütersloh 1969; 2nd edition) 155–161, 410–419.
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suddenly appear with intense light, precisely as Christ did at the Transfiguration.34 As late as the nineteenth century, on Corpus Christi in 1819, the German mystic Anna Katharina Emmerich received a vision regarding the institution of the Eucharist in which Christ and later the bread and chalice radiated an intense light that spread to the apostles and Mary.35 All things considered, the question of whether Elijah in any way played the role of mediator between transubstantiation and Transfiguration must be answered in the negative. From the complexity of both the theological debate and religious life, however, there arises a new question, being posed from the opposite direction: did the involvement of Elijah in the myths behind these, although irreconcilable, concepts eventually lead to an increase in the status of this prophet in Western Christianity? 5. Consequences for the Image of Elijah The entanglement of Eucharistic symbolism with the feast of the Transfiguration, in which Elijah, like Moses, plays a role, is strikingly encountered in one of the finest examples of what are termed the “Flemish Primitives,” The Last Supper by Dirc Bouts, to be seen in the Sacramentskapel of the St. Pieterskerk, Louvain. The large central panel of this painting, produced between 1464 and 1468 as a commission by the Confraternity of the Holy Sacrament in Louvain, shows the institution of the Eucharist by Christ during the Last Supper. Jesus is seated in the center, in front of a large, closed-off chimney. The four smaller side panels each show one of the four Old Testament prefigurations of the sacrament of the Eucharist, which we have mentioned above (§ 2.2). The lower right panel, with a representation of the sleeping Elijah, just before he is awakened by the angel to subsequently begin his journey to Mount Horeb, contains a subtle but highly significant link with the central panel.
34 Strange (ed.), Caesarii Heisterbacensis monachi ordinis cisterciensis, Dialogus Miraculorum, II, 189–190 (distinctio 9, cap. 33–34); Caspers, De eucharistische vroomheid, 147. 35 Anna Katharina Emmerich, Visionen über die Engel, die Armen Seelen im Fegfeuer, die streitende Kirche u.a. Aus den Tagebüchern Clemens Brentanos herausgegeben von P. Karl Erhard Schmöger, Augsburg 1988 (10th ed.; orig. 1906), 198–200. Cf. the Dutch theologian Wegman, who redefines various terms and argues for a “eucharistic transfiguration”, see Herman A.J. Wegman, ‘Een andere transfiguratie?’, in: Jaarboek voor liturgie-onderzoek 7 (1991) 25–48.
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To the side of Elijah’s head is depicted a cup with a piece of bread on top of it; in the central panel, the same cup is depicted standing on the left corner of the chimney mentioned above. According to the art historians Butzkamm and Smeyers, the cup on the chimney refers to the Jewish custom during the celebration of the Passover meal of placing a cup on the table for Elijah, who will once more return before the coming of the Messiah. Now, in the central panel of Bout’s painting, Elijah’s cup has been removed from the table and set aside, to demonstrate that Elijah is no longer expected; Elijah has, after all, returned in the form of John the Baptist, and indeed the Messiah Himself has already come. It is striking that above the open door in the wall to the right of the chimney there stands a grey statue of Moses. Thus, Christ is flanked by the attributes of Moses and Elijah, the two persons with whom He had spoken about His approaching passion during the Transfiguration.36 The way in which Bouts assigns places of honor in his composition to Moses and Elijah, leads one to suspect that the ideas of Pope Calixtus were warmly accepted, in any case in Louvain.37 It is also tempting to connect still more of the details Bouts represents in the institution of the sacrament of the Eucharist with the Transfiguration or with the person of Elijah. With regard to the Transfiguration, it is noteworthy that the apostles who sit closest to Christ are Peter, John and James the Less (the latter depicted as a twin brother of Jesus). Taking note of the fact that in the late Middle Ages there was an ongoing discussion about whether the apostle James who was present at the Transfiguration was James the Great or James the Less, Bouts has in all probability intended to depict next to Christ the three apostles who also attended the Transfiguration.38 With regard to the person of Elijah, the reflections of Butzkamm
36 Aloys Butzkamm, Bild und Frömmigkeit im 15. Jahrhundert. Der Sakramentsaltar von Dieric Bouts in der St.-Peters-Kirche zu Löwen, Paderborn 1990, 104–113; Smeyers, ‘Het Levende Brood’, 153, 155. Regarding the evening of the Passover, with the cup of the prophet Elijah and the opening of the door after Birkath ha Mazon, cf. Aharon Wiener, The Prophet Elijah in the Development of Judaism. A Depth-Psychological Study, London 1978, 132–135; A. Guigui, ‘Le prophète Élie dans la liturgie juive’, in: Gerard F. Willems (ed.), Élie le prophète. Bible, traditon, iconographie (= Publications de l’Institutum Judaicum), Louvain 1988, 115–135. 37 During his artistic work, Bouts was constantly assisted by two theologians; see Smeyers, ‘Het Levende Brood’, 136, 138, 152. 38 Cf. Dionysius Cartusianus, Opera omnia, XI, 194. Dionysius vociferously resists those so-called scholars who claimed that James the Less was present at the Transfiguration.
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on this matter are worth noting.39 A combination of various things, especially the cup on the chimney and the open door to the right behind Jesus, could lead the viewer to the conclusion that Elijah has just entered the room where the Last Supper is being held, either invisibly, or visibly as the servant to the viewer’s right at the back of the room, or even as the apostle/double of Jesus ( James). To be sure, it is difficult to substantiate this interpretation, but Bouts’ composition does certainly call up such associations. 6. Elijah, Everywhere and Nowhere In the transmission of the Christian faith, Elijah increasingly became more important as the forerunner and legitimator of the one who fulfilled the Law, Christ. As a consequence of this, Elijah also received a more important place in literature and the visual arts. This includes not only motifs that were already known during Christian antiquity and which would continue to play in the Eastern Church, but also new motifs that supported eucharistic piety or illustrated the Transfiguration of Christ. In the case of the Last Supper of the painter Dirc Bouts, these motifs are even combined with one another in a highly refined manner. Yet, as we have seen, the increasing significance of Elijah did not result in increased veneration of Elijah. We have already explained some reasons for this phenomenon in the preceding sections. In the first place, the Western Church was wary of propagating devotion for Old Testament saints (see § 1). Secondly, such a cult might have resulted in a forbidden “familiarity” between transubstantiation and Transfiguration (see § 4.1 and § 4.3). This however, is not sufficient to explain the whole phenomenon. On the basis of biblical and non-biblical traditions, Christendom in the Middle Ages argued that Elijah had never really died. Thus he could represent the living, as the counterpart to Moses, who represented the dead.40 He was taken up into heaven in a fiery chariot, to subsequently occupy a place along with Enoch in an earthly paradise, where both continue to reside until the time when
39
See Butzkamm, Bild und Frömmigkeit, 110–113. Cf. above, in § 3, regarding the Tafel of Dirc van Delf, in which Elijah represents the living. 40
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they will do battle against the Antichrist.41 Elijah was thus not in heaven with the choir of the blessed, who should be honored as saints.42 Ecclesiastical authors repeatedly underscore this unique situation, all the more because some rabbis maintained that Elijah was wholly swallowed up by fire and therefore in fact was dead.43 That is why even the Carmelites, who considered Elijah as their great model, included a feast in honor of Elijah ( July 20) in their liturgical books only after the Middle Ages, in 1551, and then reluctantly. This step was only taken when the monastic order became familiar with the argument that Elijah could be venerated because, even if he remained in an earthly paradise, he was still vouchsafed the visio beatifica. Moreover, according to the same argument, his enormous merits, the assistance that he had already given as an intercessor on several occasions, and the fact that he had already been so long separated from normal mortals, meant that he could in a certain sense already be viewed as dead and buried. What is ultimately recalled in the Mass formula that the Carmelites had written for the feast of Elijah is the abundance of the meaning of his person for Christian faith. His merits, as set forth in the Old Testament, are rehearsed, as are his fiery assumption, his still-awaited conflict with the Antichrist,
41 Cf. Rev. 11; Pascal Kallenberg, ‘Le culte liturgique d’Élie dans l’ordre du Carmel’, in: Élie le prophète, II. Au Carmel. Dans le judaïsme et l’Islam (= Études carmélitaines 35–2) (Bruges 1956) 134–150, esp. 140–141; Wiener, The Prophet Elijah in the Development of Judaism 146–147. Regarding Enoch and Elijah, see also the contribution in this collection by M. Poorthuis, who demonstrates the identification of Elijah with one of the witnesses against the Antichrist already circa 200 CE. For the biblical citations about the Antichrist and the significance of this figure for Christian tradition in the Middle Ages, see B. Dehandschutter, ‘Les apocalypses d’Élie’, in: Willems (ed.), Élie le prophète, 59–68; Schiller, Ikonographie der christlichen Kunst, V. Die Apokalypse des Johannes, Gütersloh 1990, 399–423; Bernard McGinn, Antichrist. Two thousand years of the human fascination with evil, San Francisco 1994. 42 Cf. Acta Sanctorum, Julii tomus quintus 4, with reference to the prohibition against venerating a living person, in Ecclesiasticus 11, 28 (“Call no one happy before his death; by how he ends, a person becomes known”). For early Christian discussions about the status of both Elijah and Enoch after their translation, see the contribution by M. Poorthuis in this collection. 43 Kallenberg, ‘Le culte liturgique d’Élie dans l’ordre du Carmel’, 141; J.-B. Lezana, Consulta varia theologica, iuridica et regularia pro conscientiarum instructione circa controversias in Alma Urbe, etiam apud tribunalia agitatas, Venice: Franciscus Baba 1651, Consultum tertium, 50, nos. 31–32: “Primus [error] est, quorundam Rabinorum, qui ut Genebrardus de illis scribit (Lib. 1 Chronolog.) putant, Eliam in suo raptu laxatum corpore et in sua solutum elementa, ubi ad ignis sphaeram pervenisset, unde vere mortuum jam esse Haebraei isti credunt.”
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his presence at the Transfiguration of Christ and, before and after the communion, the fortification he received from the angel. The introduction of this formula, however, came too late; its celebration remained limited to only a small group, and then with little enthusiasm.44 7. Conclusion During the late Middle Ages, Western theology and devotion were focused to an extreme degree on the suffering of Christ and on the sacrament of the Eucharist. The orbis eucharisticus implied a radical reordering and expansion of religious symbols and metaphors. The significance of Old Testament saints also changed as compared with earlier periods. They were brought to the foreground with renewed fervour as witnesses to the Old Covenant and as forerunners of Christ; at the same time, however, they were “demoted” because they were capable of nothing apart from the salvific work of Christ. The fitful career that Elijah wandered through Christian religious concepts is illustrative of the total subordination of the treasury of biblical symbols to rational Western theology. As he might be needed, Elijah was called upon as “temporary help” of a sort in order to support articles of the faith. At last he was rewarded with his own, however insignificant feast.
44
Kallenberg, ‘Le culte liturgique d’Élie dans l’ordre du Carmel’, 146–150.
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“A WOMAN’S VOICE IS ‘ERVA’”: THE FEMALE’S VOICE AND SILENCE—BETWEEN THE TALMUDIC SAGES AND PSYCHOANALYSIS Admiel Kosman and Ruth Golan (Bar-Ilan University, Israel) The subject of this paper is a comparison of psychoanalytic theory as it was formulated by Freud and has been interpreted by Lacan, with Jewish culture as it is expressed in the Talmudic texts concerning the special and problematic issue of man’s relation to the female voice and speech, in particular two central sayings: “Talk not much with a woman” (Mishna, Avoth 1,5), and “A woman’s voice is Erva”1 (BT Ber. 24a). In this paper we shall concentrate on studying and understanding the meanings and the consequences of the latter saying. What then, is the link between the feminine voice and speech, and sexuality? Why was it often so important, even outside Jewish culture, to warn men about the dangers of the female voice, and to try to repress it, What can the Talmud teach contemporary psychoanalytic research concerning this issue? And can psychoanalysis shed light on the intriguing historical fact that the woman’s voice was silenced through all the cultures and all ages.2 Our claim in this article is that the common tendency among the Jewish sages was to relate this rejection of the woman’s voice from all the public life cycles to its seductive, sexual quality. But in our 1 Howard Eilberg-Schwartz translates the word Erva as ‘nakedness’. See: “The Nakedness of a Woman’s Voice, The Pleasure in a Man’s Mouth—An Oral History of Ancient Judaism”, in: Howard Eilberg-Schwartz & Wendy Doniger (ed.), Off with her Head!—The Denial of Woman’s Identity in Myth, Religion, and Culture, Berkeley 1955, pp. 184–165. Erva can also be translated as ‘sexual incitement’, which is how it is translated in the Soncino of the BT, and see below note 7. 2 In a longer version of this paper we surveyed also the threat of the feminine voice and music in general cultural history. See Pauline Shmitt, A history of Women, part I, [G. Duby & M. Perrot, General editors] Cambridge Massachusetts, 1992, 474; Danielle Regnier-Bohler, Literary and Mystical Voices, in: Klapisch-Zuber Christiane, (ed.), A history of Women, part II, ibid., 428–430; Mladen Dolar, The Object Voice, in: Slavoj Zizek and Renata Salecl (ed.), Gaze and Voice as Love Objects (Duke University Press), 1996, 7–31.
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opinion, this argument is nothing but a formal defense of “male” anxiety, expressed in language and law, from the potentially threatening disintegration of law and order that is embodied in the female entity in general and the feminine voice in particular. We suggest a way of understanding this “male” anxiety in light of Lacan’s discrimination between the phallic jouissance3 which is incarnated in language and law, and the feminine jouissance, that he designated as “the infinite”. Below we will comment extensively on these suppositions and, in light of his arguments, we will try to explain the two sides of the coin which are revealed to those who study the ancient Jewish sources that deal with “the problem” of the woman’s voice: on one hand the expressive, frank rejection of this voice, and, on the other hand, various appreciations of the value of that voice that show (usually in a cryptic or veiled manner) that this voice was often perceived as bearing a spiritual religious quality. 1. “A Woman’s Voice is ‘Erva’” in the Jewish Tradition The scriptures do not exclude explicitly women’s voices from the general life of the community circle, and do not limit its manifestations in any way. In the few references which deal with this question in biblical literature, we find that women probably sang in the presence of men, and probably also sang along with them, as Miriam and her friends sang about the miracle that happened in the Red Sea (Exod 15, 20), so Deborah the prophetess sang with Barak the song on the victory on Sisera and his army ( Judg 5, 1).4 And in the same way the women sang and danced when receiving King Saul, after David had beaten Goliath (Sam 1, 18, 6), and the writer of Ecclesiastes tells us that among other pleasures of life, which he pre-
3 On the term jouissance see our disscusion below. However, we would like to comment here that we use the term jouissance here in the usual way it is used today while discussing the teaching of Lacan, but this concept underwent several changes and developments during Lacan’s many seminars. On the 6 paradigms of jouissance see Jacques Alain Miller, Paradigms of Jouissance, Lacanian Ink, 17, 2000, 8–47. 4 According to the Provencal philosopher Levi Ben Gershom (1288–1344), Deborah herself composed the chant, and Barak just continued to sing along with her, just as in the case in which Moses composed the chant itself and the Israelites only accompanied him. See Ralbag on Judg. 4, 24, and see also: Y. Kaufmann, Sefer Shoftim, Jerusalem, 1962, p. 133 [Hebrew].
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pared for himself, there were choruses of “male and female singers” (Kohelet 2,8).5 And even in the time of Ezra a list in Ezra 2 included “two- in hundred singing men and singing women” among those who returned to the Land of Israel (Ezra 2, 65). However, these texts appear in a wholly different light in Rabbinic interpretation. Our research will concentrate on the later rabbinical interpretation of these texts, from the time of the Second Temple period and afterwards. Philo of Alexandria, the great first century Jewish philosopher, clearly states that there is no promiscuity in women and men chanting together here. On the contrary, he sees in the combination of voices a spiritual virtue of grace and harmony. Philo describes not only the communal chant of both sexes, but also a communal dance, and reveals his position, according to which the harmonic blending of the voices of men and women is a “friendship with god”. Philo asserts that this chant is religious by nature, and leads to the sublime, as well as to a nearness to God.6 The position of Philo meets opposition in the strict view of the fourth century Babylonian sage R. Yoseph Bar-Hiya who states: When men sing and women join it is licentiousness. When women sing and men join it is like fire in tow.
So, according to R. Joseph’s interpretation, one should forbid women to participate together with men in a choir, because in his opinion, neither of the two possibilities which arise, agrees with Jewish sexual moral rules, even though the second possibility is worse. Anyway, he does not even think it possible that the chanting of women and men together could have the quality of spiritual sublimation, as does Philo. Rashi supposes, a perfectly logical supposition, that this determination, which was stated by the Babylonian Amora of the 4th century, is based on more ancient way of behaving. This is how, for instance, Shmuel in the third century determined that “a woman’s voice is Erva”. Anyhow, this is a very interesting determination from
5 In the Zohar this group is compared to the group of Miriam’s women who sang at the Sea. See: Zohar, Exod., 19a. 6 See: Philo, Moses, II, 256, tr., F.H. Colson, The Loeb Classical library, vol. VI, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1935, 576–579, and see also: Philo, On the Life of Contemplating, 83–85 tr. by F.H. Colson, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1941, 165–167.
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a cultural point of view, and is not an obvious one, so we shall cite the entire Talmudic paragraph. In this paragraph there appears a list of different things, which are called Erva, in the sense of exciting sexual provocation.7 R. Isaac said: An [exposed] handbreadth in a woman constitutes Erva. In what circumstances? Shall I say, if one gazes at it? But has not R. Shesheth said, “Why did scripture enumerate both the ornaments worn outside the clothes and those worn within them? To tell you that if you gaze at a woman’s little finger—it is as though you gazed at her vagina!”—No, it means [an exposed handbreadth] of one’s own wife—when he recites the ‘Shema’. R. Hisda said: A woman’s leg is Erva, since the bible says ‘Uncover the leg, pass through the rivers’ (Isa 47, 2), afterwards it adds, ‘Thy nakedness shall be uncovered, yea, thy shame shall be seen’ (Isa 47, 3). Samuel said, A woman’s voice is Erva, as it says ‘For sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely’ (Cant 2, 14). R. Shesheth said: A woman’s hair is Erva, as it says ‘thy hair is as a flock of goats’ (Cant 4, 1).8
Rashi explains Shmuel’s statement thus: “From the fact that the Bible is praising the beauty of woman in that way, we can deduce that this beauty is passion”. That is to say, the fact that the sentence in the Song of Songs sees the voice of the beloved as a pleasant voice, and compliments it, means that this pleasantness can arouse sexual passion. This statement, which identifies totally aesthetic pleasure and sexual arousal, is not obvious, and is not common to all ancient civilizations. Philo’s position mentioned above, for example, reflects a completely opposite position—one which maintains that the chanting of men and women together is not only not prostitution, but even has in it an element of sacredness and religious sublimation. Later we will try to understand that duality, which passes through all of the different opinions in Judaism regarding of a woman’s voice.9 7 The word “Erva” was used to mark incestual taboos, but its semantic signification was widened to any taboo or sexual interest, and in most cases this word does not refer to a woman who is prohibited because of familial relations, but to any woman who is prohibited for any reason whatsoever (This meaning has disappeared from some of the new dictionaries. See for instance Even Shoshan’s Dictionary, 2, p. 1018, but see Aruch HaShalem, Kohot ed. Vol. 6, 266; and Tur-Sinai who mentioned this meaning in Ben-Yehuda’s dictionary, 9, p. 4717). 8 And see BT, Sanhedrin 45a, where the Talmud says by the way of the Suggiya that the whole body of the woman is totally Erva. 9 Our paper deals with Jewish sources. However, we should state before we go on, that the Church also didn’t easily allow mixed choirs of men and women.
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“A Woman’s Voice is ‘Erva’” in the Post-Talmudic Tradition From discussions of this subject in Geonic period, it seems that Shmuel’s statement that “A woman’s voice is Erva”, was not interpreted as a prohibition on hearing a woman’s voice in general.10 This prohibition was asserted only in the context that was mentioned earlier, and according to that it is forbidden for a man to recite “Shema” while listening to a woman’s voice, especially her singing voice. It should be noted that a woman’s voice is considered disturbing during the recital of “Shema”, not because it contains an element of lasciviousness in it, but by the mere fact that it attracts and distracts the man’s mind from concentrating on the words at the time of prayer.11 Already in the New Testament, in 1 Corintian 14, 35–34, Paul states that women should be silent in church. In this he means not only that they should not sing, but that they should not speak either. See 1 Cor 14: 35–34: “As in all the churches of God’s holy people, women are to remain quiet in the assemblies, since they have no permission to speak. Theirs is a subordinate part, as the law itself says”. And on the puzzlement of Jesus’ disciples on seeing him speak to a woman see John 4, 27. For that see also: Norbert Baumert, S.J., Woman and man in Paul—Overcoming a Misunderstanding, tr. Patric Medigan S.J., and Linda M. Maloney, Collegeville, Minnesota 1996, 198–195; Antoinette Clark Wire, The Corinthian Women Prophets— A Reconstruction Through Paul’s Rhetoric, Minneapolis, 1995, 158–152; Francis J. Moloney Sdb, Paul and the Christian Woman, Collegeville, Minnesota, 1996, 65–59. It is also worthwhile to mention here that later we know about the gnostics Marcion (in the second century), and Paul of Samosata, who was the bishop of Antioch, who were the first to compose hymns for female singers. For that see: Eric Werner, “The Conflict Between Hellenism and Judaism in the Music of the Early Christian Church”, Hebrew Union College Annual 20 (1947) 407–470, 433. There was a division in those days between the Western Church, which strictly prohibited women’s singing, and the Eastern Church, which tended to allow it. It is interesting to see that in the 5th century a compromise—very similar to what we saw in the Talmud— was reached in the Syrian Church between those who supported women’s singing and those who were opposed to it. According to this compromise, women’s choirs were allowed only as an answer to the men’s voices. The argument in the church about allowing women’s choirs was related to cultural and geographic differences: In those places where there were popular orgiastic ceremonies in which women participated, the Church tended to allow women to sing, and in those places where this practice was not common, their singing was strictly forbidden. Both were expressions of the same tendency to include or exclude women in the life of the community. 10 Our discussion and conclusion are based somewhat on Saul J. Berman, “Kol Isha” in: Leo Landman (ed.), Rabbi Joseph H. Lookstein Memorial Volume, New York 1980, pp. 45–66. 11 On this “attraction” that is not due to sexual factors we will say more infra. Anyway, it is also clear in this opinion that the female voice has a kind of distracting quality, even though “kriat shema” was not forbidden when a male voice might distract.
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Only in Provence in the 13–14th century we find a stricter position regarding a woman’s voice. The “Rabad”, R. Abraham Ben David (1246–ca. 1316), probably interpreted the prohibition regarding the hearing of a woman’s voice as not related especially to the “kriat Shema”, but as a general prohibition expressing a woman’s modesty.12 However, the analysis of his interpretation brings us to the conclusion that he did not think that there was any element of seduction in the feminine voice itself. Rather, he meant to say that only when a woman sings to a man songs that are directed to him, is there an element of seduction—and thus the prohibition of hearing a woman’s voice is similar to the prohibition of greeting her. A surprising and more unusual interpretation of Shmuel’s saying may be found in ‘Sefer Hassidim’13 from 12–13th century Germany. From everything that is written in Cant. [about beauty] [it appears that] one must be careful not to hear the voice of a woman. The same thing applies to a woman who must be careful not to hear the voice of a man.14
From the development of this issue in the Middle Ages in Jewish sources, we can sketch the following: The sages of Ashkenaz thought that the sayings of Shmuel in the Talmud prohibit only the recitation of “Shema” while a woman is singing, while the sages of North Africa and Spain (and some of the sages of Germany)15 thought that the prohibition related only to greeting a married woman because of fear that this would lead to fornication. And among the sages of Provence the opinion was also expressed that both greeting a woman and praying while her voice might be heard should be prohibited. Maimonides proposes a list of prohibitions of actions that can lead to a danger of sexual arousal, even though they are not concerned with proper sexual relations. One of them is the voice of women.16 Maimonides does not mean only the woman’s singing voice, but also her speaking voice.17 But these sayings of Maimonides were deformed
12
His opinion is cited in the commentary of the Rashba on BT. Ber. 24a. Most of this book contains traditions attributed to R. Yehuda Ben-Shmuel the Hassid (1150–ca. 1217), the central figure in the circle of the Ashkenazic Hassidic movement. 14 Sefer Hassidim, ch. 614, Margolis ed. p. 407. 15 See: Berman, p. 54. 16 Mishneh Torah, Issurei Biah (“Forbidden unions”) 21, 1–2. 17 Maimonides does not distinguish in any way between the voice of a woman 13
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when they were copied with a slight change to the Sefer Ha-turim of R. Yaakov Ben Asher (1270–ca. 1340), “. . . and it is forbidden to hear the voice of Erva or to see her hair”.18 The omission of ‘the’ from the word ‘the Erva’, resulted in the interpreters of Sefer Ha-turim identifying the expression of “the voice of Erva”, as if it meant to say that the mere voice of the woman is Erva, like any other hidden organ of her body, even like the vagina itself (which is the original meaning of the word Erva). And from there on, this halakhic judgement was adopted in the books of the later casuists,19 who usually added to this prohibition two more that were later renewed. One, a prohibition of hearing the singing voice of an unmarried girl, and the other a prohibition of hearing the voice of his wife while she is ‘Nida’ and therefore forbidden to her husband.20 This is how, for instance, one of the later casuists, R. Yechiel Michal Epstein, sums up the Halakha as it is accepted today: And it is forbidden to hear a woman’s voice, a melodious voice [when she sings], when she is not his wife . . . and during the recitation of ‘Kriat Shema’ and prayer, it is forbidden to hear even his wife’s voice.21
‘A Woman’s Voice is Craving’—Signs of Conflict and Different Positions concerning the Woman’s Voice in Rabbinical Literature One has to admit that opinions such as Philo’s, which look upon the singing of men and women together as a sublime means for devotion to God, do not exist at all in rabbinical tradition. One should also remember that this tradition was subject to the strict talmudic tradition we have noted above, concerning the singing of men and women together—so that even if we find in this literature signs of conflicts, it is clear that the possible space for interpretation will be extremely limited. That is why the sources that look indulgently upon the singing of the woman can surprise us. So for instance, it was written in the Zohar (Bamidbar, Shelakh 167b):
singing and that of a woman speaking. This distinction emanates from the sayings of the first Ashkenazi sages who interpreted what was said in the BT Ber. 24a, as a prohibition of hearing one’s wife sing while he prays “Shema”. 18 Tur Even Ha-Ezer, Pirya u-Rviya 21. 19 See: R. Yosef Karo, Shulkhan Aruch, Hilkhot Ishut 21, 1. 20 For that see Berman, 59–61. 21 Arukh HaShulkhan, Ishut, Even HaEzer 21, 3.
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‘Then Miriam the prophetess, Aaron’s sister, took up in her hand the hand-drum’ (Exod 15, 20)—And all those pious people in paradise listen to her22 pleasant voice, and several holy angels thank and praise with her the holy name of God.
And in the Bible itself, (as was mentioned earlier) we find that women probably sang in front of men, and sometimes even together with men. Of course, these sources were difficult for those interpreters who tried to harmonize the Bible with the halakhah, although such harmonization may even appear in tannaic literature. Thus we find in Mekhilta De-Rabbi Ishmael: ‘And Miriam sang unto them’—Scripture tells that just as Moses recited the song for the men, so Miriam recited the song for the women: ‘sing ye to the Lord . . .’23
The author of the tradition probably understood that Miriam sang only for the women, and that her chanting was not directed to men, neither alone nor as a “mixed” chorus with that of Moses’, as was understood by Philo. But, as was stated before, our aim is to accentuate the opinion that saw the women’s voice as a spiritual voice, even if the halakhic texts cited above made this possibility quite limited. These opinions, as we will later claim, have a common denominator that can be defined as a spiritual-autopistic direction. We would like to state that because it was not possible to legitimize the female voice in society and law, interpreters and commentators described the spiritually provocative power of this voice in autopistic terms. This is how, for example, they could claim that a woman’s voice is really very spiritual for men—but it can be grasped only when certain conditions make it possible. These conditions will dominate man’s world only in the future, when the sexual drive serving to blur it will be canceled. This blurring prevents men from appreciating the spiritual vitality of a female voice. R. Azaria of Pano24 for example, assumes that this uplifting moment when Miriam and the women sang before the men on the edge of the Red sea, was an exceptional moment of “the world beyond”,
22
Probably Jocheved—the mother of Moses. Mekhilta De-Rabbi Ishmael, tr. by Jacob Z. Lauterbach, vol. 2, Philadelphia, 1933, p. 83. 24 R. Menahem Azaria from Pano, Kanfei Yonah, Lemberg 1884, vol. 4, no. 36, 99b. 23
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that penetrated into “this world” and this made it possible to transgress the law that prohibits women’s singing before men. The woman’s voice was therefore, in that special moment, prophetic and divine, resulting in a special spiritual uplifting experience. Nevertheless it should be pointed out that he does not speak about a special feminine quality of this singing, but about a general prophetic quality of “singing”, that can be either male or female, and it seems as if, in this “singing”, the distinction between male and female is completely annihilated as it became totally Divine. Another possibility suggested by R. Azaria is that only Miriam sang in front of the men and the rest of the women joined in only by accompanying her with various musical instruments and did not sing. Why was Miriam’s singing permitted here? His reason is that the rest of the women were simply ordinary women and therefore could not possibly “turn their mind to God”. But Miriam, as a prophetess, could know that at that moment she could sing in front of the men, even if the law forbids it completely! R. Efraim of Lonshitz (died in 1619), in his interpretation of Exod., Keli Yakar, has another interpretation. In his view the change was brought about by the women changing in this brief moment, and reaching in their spiritual level—the level of “men” in “perceiving the prophecy.”25 This negated any possibility of sexual arousal. It seems that the principal difference between R. Azaria’s position and that of R. Efraim’s is that according to R. Azaria’s interpretation, the emphasis in this miraculous moment is placed on the transformation of the interior masculine world and its sublimation on the spiritual level—to a level from which men could sense the spirituality of the female voice without being sexually aroused. According to R. Efraim however, the transformation should take place in the women themselves, so they might be sublimated to a higher level of spirituality—the level of men—and hence cause the seductive element to disappear from their voice. Some later halakhic commentators expressed a very liberal position about practical issues, and limited the prohibition as much as they could. For instance, in the 19th century R. Hayim Hizkiyahu Medini stated that if the voice is not “Kol Agavim” (‘a sexual voice’)
25 R. Efraim assumes that in this verse it was said that in the world to come, the “Spiritual level” of the female would rise and women would be like men.
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it is not prohibited.26 And in the 20th century, some of the Rabbis in Germany27 allowed ensemble singing of men and women on the condition that it would be limited to sacred music.28 2. The Voice as Object a in Lacanian Theory Our discussion until now, clearly presented the fundamental tension existing between those ancient Jewish sources who saw the woman’s voice as spiritual, and even divine,29 and those who were afraid of this voice, and thought of it as a seductive and dangerous instrument. Now we can ask whether psychoanalytic theory will be able to help us to arrive at a better understanding of this tension. Throughout all its history, one can discern discontent in psychoanalysis, especially relating to the enigma of what can be called “the particular place the feminine holds in our culture”. One possible way of dealing with it is to learn from discontent in culture, i.e., from the conflicts that are inherent to it, its gaps and fissures, through which the ‘Drive’ returns and erupts, threatening to destroy it. Observing the basic tension that we saw in the Jewish sources we presented above is one way to understand the meaning of the “feminine” better from contemporary psychoanalytic point of view.
26
See: Sedei Khemed, Tel Aviv 1963, Klalim, Maarekhet 100, ch. 42. See: R. Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg, Sridei Esh, vol. 2, ch. 8, and see also, Joel B. Wolowelsky, Modern Orthodoxy and Women’s Self-Perception, Tradition 22,1 (1986), pp. 65–81. 28 By the way, we would like to point out here that sometimes we can find various “male” traditions which clearly evoke the argument that we will later discuss regarding the spiritual level of the woman that can be higher than that of a man. This is, for instance, noted by the Maharal (R. Yehuda Lev ben Betzalel, 1525– ca. 1609), who sought to explain (see: Baer Ha-Gola, Drush Al ha-Torah, Jerusalem, 1971, pp. 27–28 [hebrew]) the fact that women were not commanded to study the Torah. According to his interpretation, this is an expression of their spiritual superiority over men. In BT Ber. 17a it is even said that they are rewarded equally with men (who studied the Torah) only by helping men. So why was this Sisiphian effort to study the Torah day and night demanded of men in order to heal their soul, while the women did not need it? He answers that women are better ‘prepared’ than men for that spiritual reward, so they can obtain it more easily by the help they give to their husbands, while men have to invest much more effort than do the women in order to reach this spiritual level. 29 We have to emphasize repeatedly the fact that even those who held this position had to eliminate the “danger” of female sexuality in order to be able to make this position tenable for them. 27
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On Jouissance and Feminine Jouissance The drive can achieve satisfaction in two main ways. One is within the framework of the “law”, and in this way it does not transgress the pleasure principle;30 The second way is by combining the two drives in such a manner that leads to transgressing the “law”, going “beyond the pleasure principle”. In this second way, the Death Drive is stronger than the Libido, and this combination leads to taking chances and the defiance of rules, law, and language. Desire and Drive have an inverted logic. Desire is connected fundamentally to the law and to the transgression of the “law”, for it seeks always something forbidden or unavailable. However the drive could not care less about law or prohibition. Desire is expressed in the option, “Because it is forbidden I will do it!” The drive expresses itself in the option, “I don’t want to do it but nevertheless I do it!” While the drive always obtains its satisfaction, one-way or another, desire stays forever unsatisfied and passes from object to object. The forbidding of jouissance itself creates the desire to transgress. In this sense the Death Drive is the drive to transgress the symbolic law towards the ‘Real’31—what Lacan calls, after Freud and Kant, ‘Das Ding’, ‘The Thing’.32 To the thing itself we do not have an immediate access, instead we put supplementary various objects, which we invest with the energy of the libido. ‘The Thing’ is, in a way, “a hole”.
30 The Pleasure Principle—The tendency of any tension to seek for relief until it reaches homeostasis. 31 Real, Symbolic, Imaginary—Three orders or dimensions that Lacan introduced as psychoanalytic concepts. These concepts went through many changes and developments throughout Lacan’s teaching (see: Dylan Evans, An Introductury Dictionary of Lacanian Psychoanalysis, Routledge, London and New York 1996, pp. 82–84, 159–161, 201–203). As a short summary we can say that the Imaginary is the Ego, and it is structured on identifications. Reality is mostly based on images. The Symbolic order is consequence of man being a speaking being and it is structured by the chain of signifiers (a signifier is a concept taken from the linguistic theories of De Saussure and Jakobson. The signifiers are differential elements that receive their meaning only through the relations between them). The subject is an effect of the symbolic order. The Real is what falls in the gaps of the signifying net; it is called “the impossible”. It is what one encounters by surprise and it cannot be represented in words, but just be described. One cannot ‘understand’ the ‘Real’. It is the traumatic encounter. The three orders are connected to one another. 32 See Lacan’s 7th and 11th seminars.
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Jouissance does not relate to the ‘Other’. The ‘Other’ is nothing but an object for the subject to enjoy. But in his 20th seminar, Encore,33 Lacan developed his radical claim concerning two kinds of jouissance.34 He claimed that there is phallic jouissance but not all jouissance is phallic. While the law that is linked in our culture to desire is the “Law of the father”, and jouissance in our culture is essentially phallic, Lacan claimed that since the woman is not wholly subject to the phallic law, feminine sexuality has a possibility of experiencing a kind of jouissance, which is not phallic. Jouissance that cannot be expressed in words that are essentially subject to the “paternal law”. Lacan called this ‘Other’ jouissance—‘feminine jouissance’. It is this type, which, while usually experienced by women, can be also experienced by artists and male mystics. But the problem is that one cannot speak about feminine jouissance since it exists outside language and law. This is an a-sexual jouissance, says Lacan, “Jouissance of the body as such”. It is the element of jouissance of the symptom, connected to the body, which Lacan places as linked to the order of the “Real”. “The Gravity Force” of jouissance, explains Lacan, is intensified as one approaches this nucleus, as we find in the physical world, in the gravity that attracts the electrons to the nucleus of the atom. This is why we observe in the praxis of psychoanalysis that patients find it very hard to renounce their symptoms, even when they become aware of their symbolic meaning. The human being is attached to his suffering. The analytic consequences of these observations are that the subject can renounce his symptom only if he is willing to pay the price of renouncing part of his jouissance. In other words, this is an equivalent description of castration in Freud’s teaching.35 33 Jacques Lacan, On Feminine Sexuality—The Limits of Love and Knowledge, 1972–1973, Seminar XX, Trans. Bruce Fink, Norton, 1998. 34 This is jouissance that is born from the drive, and it is the perverse jouissance around an object which Lacan calls ‘object a’. See: Jacques Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis (Seminar XI, 1963, Translated by A. Sheridan Routledge), 1977. 35 And now there is a possibility to understand that point in a new way: acceptance of the mere fact of one’s own castration is probably the key for renouncing the symptom. Therefore we suggest that the distinction between the feminine inner position who cannot accept castration, and that psychological fact is the cause of the ‘penis envy’—while on the other hand stands the Feminine Sexuality, the feminine possibility that comes from a real inner acceptance of castration—and that makes room for the ‘infinite’.
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Voice and Speech Lacan counts the voice as one of the primal lost objects,36 among other objects such as the breast, the excrement and the gaze, around which the drive circulates in an attempt of attaining satisfaction. In his XI seminar37 Lacan explains how the drive, which is connected to the voice, is bi-faceted. On the one side there is the desire to hear the voice, but on the other, the drive is to be heard, or in Lacan’s words, “making oneself heard” (‘Se faire’).38 As in “the mirror stage” which is linked to the gaze,39 (when the baby sees himself in the mirror and receives a message from his mother that this reflection is he, his ego), one can look at the event of “hearing yourself speak” and be recognized, because it is also an elementary formula of narcissism that is needed in order to be able to crystallize the minimal ego. Recognizing his own voice has the same effect on the baby as recognizing yourself in the mirror. The voice of the mother that answers the cry of the baby turns this cry into a call, and this becomes the primary relation to the other. In this context the myth of the love story between Narcissus and Echo is relevant.40 Miller explains thus the contribution of Lacan to an understanding of the status of the voice as an object.41 If Freud discovered the primal objects, the breast and excrement, in his study of neuroses, Lacan adds the objects “gaze” and “voice”, in his study of psychosis. The voice appears as an object when it is the voice of the ‘Other’. The voice is the element of language that cannot be 36
About that see the sources mentioned in note 34. Jacques Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis (Seminar XI, 1963, Translated by A. Sheridan, Routledge), 1977. 38 Ibid., p. 195. 39 Jacques Lacan, The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the I, in Ecrits—A Selection, pp. 1–7. 40 This myth proves that the Narcissistic saga consists of an element of voice as well as of gaze. The myth is about a tragic love and a failed narcissism, because the nymph Echo could only reiterate Narcissus’ words, since she had not a voice of her own. Narcissus preferred to die in his narcissism (to drown in the pond), rather than to give himself to another, to Echo’s love. After Echo died, only her voice remained and became his voice’s echo. This is a bodiless voice. It is nothing but a trace of the lost object. If echo had her own voice which could have said, like the mother to the baby, “How beautiful you are!”—and if Narcissus had listened to her, a sensation of the ego would have been created in Narcissism that could have cut him off from his extreme narcissism, this unawareness of himself that is represented here in his drowning in the pond. 41 Jacques Alain Miller, Jacques Lacan et La Voix, in La Voix, Actes du colloque d’Ivry du 23/1/1988, 175–184. 37
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assimilated into a part of the ‘I’, so it is subjectively referred to as ‘Other’. This is the haunting voice that represents surplus jouissance. Castration means that one doesn’t hear a voice in the ‘Real’, which is to say; it is a situation of “deafness”. So where is the instance of the voice when I speak? Not in the tone of speech. The voice lies precisely in what cannot be said. It inhabits language, it haunts language. It is enough to say something in order for it to become as uncanny as something that cannot be said. If we talk, chat, sing, and listen, it is connected, according to Lacan, to the fact that we try to hide what we can call The voice in its function as ‘object a’ . The voice contains the craving for the lost object, and it reveals what the words, which are part of the symbolic order, try to cover. Linguistic researchers in our modern epoch, especially the structuralistic school inspired by De Saussure and Jakobson, ignored the voice and its materiality and only dealt with the structural characteristics of speech and the chain of signifiers which are characterized solely by differentiation, the difference existing between signifiers. In opposition to them, for Lacan there is a “Leftover” remaining from the signifying chain. This “Leftover” is the voice, which is why the voice is meaningless by itself, because meaning arises only from the oppositions existing between signifiers. A voice represents a “Leftover” that cannot be signified—and singing and music are nothing but sublimative attempts to domesticate this pure voice, this “Leftover”, and turn it into an object of esthetic pleasure. Singing and music throw a screen that hides what is unbearable and threatening in this “Leftover” of the symbolic order, since in its purity it belongs to the ‘Real’. In the paradigm where the symbolic logos creates meaning, it stands in opposition to the voice that is considered as a pure voice, a penetration of ‘Otherness’, mysticism and femininity. The Meaning of the Threat Embodied in the Singing of the Sirens The myth of the singing of the sirens is a suitable metaphor to the voice as ‘object a’. Their voices represent on one side pure desire, and on the other side pure death. The Sirens’ song binds its listeners in an obsessive way to the fascination of death. The jouissance derived from listening to it is a lethal jouissance. Renata Salecl42 analyses the myth of Odysseus in his encounter with the Sirens. As opposed to the function of the Muses in Greek mythology to arouse 42
R. Salecl, (Per)Versions of Love and Hate, New York, Verso, 1998, p. 59.
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past memories directly linked to forgetfulness, the knowledge of the Sirens is of past secrets that will never arise in the memory of future generations. For Lacan, after Freud, memory is linked with forgetting of trauma, that is to say, memories, according to this conception, screen primal trauma. This is the Real around which the subject constructs his being. So the Sirens make the listeners to their voice receive knowledge in the Real, the kind of knowledge of which the listeners don’t want to know anything about. The knowledge that exists in the Real is linked to the drive that looks for satisfaction. According to Salecl a paradox is created here That which cannot ever be memorized, symbolized by way of its inclusion into the narrative frame, is not some fleeting moment of the past, forever lost, but the very insistence of drive as that which cannot ever be forgotten in the first place, since it repeats itself incessantly.
That is to say, trauma is not something that happened in the past, but rather something that keeps on happening, like in the nightmares of shell-shocked soldiers. That is why, Salecl emphasizes, the paradox lies in the fact that on the one hand “we don’t remember it”, but on the other hand this non-remembering is present and significant all the time. In the case of the voice, the ‘“Leftover”’, the excessive jouissance that is linked to the voice is what turns the voice into a fascinating and deadly element. In the Odyssey we have on one hand the promise of limitless jouissance through surrender to the Siren’s singing, and on the other hand we have the prohibition of hearing this singing and the threat of death. The Relation between “The Voice of the Father” and the Feminine Voice At the end of our discussion, which has concerned mostly the female voice, we would like to comment upon the relation between this voice and the male voice, the ‘Voice of the Father’. In opposition to the feminine voice stands the voice of the ‘Primal Father’, the voice of God. This is a voice that stresses the word, the logos; a commanding voice, which ties a bond and signs a pact. Lacan raises this issue in his seminar On Anxiety,43 where he takes the sound of
43 Jacques Lacan, Seminar X, On Anxiety, 1962–63, lesson 22/5/63, unpublished seminar.
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the Shofar as a metaphor. The sound of the Shofar is the “Voice of the Father”—the cry of the primal father of the herd, the “Leftover” that pursues and that also stands as the foundation of the law and seals it. The sound of the Shofar is the sign of the pact with the Lord that the community of believers signs. This is how it declares its recognition of the Lord, its surrender and its obedience to the Law. “Pure Law”, before it commands specifically, is embodied in the ‘Voice of the Father’, the voice that commands total obedience although it is meaningless by itself. The voice is a substitute for the impossible presence of the Lord, a presence that covers a substantial absence. If the Word (logos) has to fight repeatedly with the voice as the carrier of the meaningless Otherness of the ‘Other’, feminine jouissance, it can do so only by an implicitly leaning on this ‘Other Voice’, the ‘Voice of the Father’, which accompanies the law. In this way the struggle is not between logos and voice, but between ‘voice’ and ‘voice’—‘The Voice of the Father’ against the ‘Feminine Voice’. Is the ‘Voice of the Father’ inherently different from the ‘Feminine Voice’? Is the pursuing voice inherently different from the pursued voice? Dolar suggests44 the possibility that perhaps they are both identical.45 There is only one voice object that attaches itself and splits the other from the outside and from the inside. “And why not interpret the face of the ‘Other’, the face of God, as supported by the feminine jouissance?” asks Lacan in his late teachings.46 And so, feminine and male positions are maybe two ways to approach the same impossibility—two related versions of the same voice which guards deliberate dimness.
44 Mladen Dolar, The Object Voice, in S. Zizek & R. Salecl, (ed.) Gaze and Voice as Love Objects [Duke Univ. Press] 1996, 7. 45 The most significant sound of the Shofar in the Jewish tradition is the one that was blown on the occasion of the Sinaitic theophany. The Shofar in this establishing moment is what testifies to the presence of God for his people, because all they could hear was this terrible commanding voice, and only Moses could have spoken with the Lord and understood his sayings. The voice that is described in the Sinaitic theophany is a ‘Real’ voice: “And all the people saw the thundering, and the lightning, and the noise of the trumpet, and the mountain smoking, and when the people saw it they removed, and stood after off ” (Exod. 20:18). ‘object a’ in this instance was constructed in this impossible way from Voice and Gaze—the auditory drive and the specular drive blended together. To see the voices means that the voice has materiality, which it is of the “Real”. 46 See Dolar, ibid.
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3. Epilogue: A Psychoanalytic View of the Relationship to the Woman’s Voice in Jewish Sources The encounter between the interpretative and halakhic study and the psychoanalytic study that we presented above can teach us how completely different methods of thought can enrich each other. It is possible to realize now, after specifying the psychoanalytic sources and ways of conceptualizing, to what extent the tension between different approaches in the Jewish thought is a case study of the general psychoanalytic discussion relating to ‘object a’, which is the voice. The psychoanalytic insights of Freud and Lacan concerning the object of the drive can help us understand how this tension between the different interpreters in the Jewish tradition relating to the woman’s voice, was created: a tension that we called: “a woman’s voice is Erva” as opposed to “a woman’s voice is Erga (craving)” (a play of words in Hebrew). The Jewish sources, in referring directly and clearly to the woman’s voice as carrying seductive sexual quality, help us understand the psychoanalytic assertion on the sexual quality of the search for object a, in this case the voice. Another issue that became clear to us here, and was at the center of our discussion, was related to the Lacanian assertion about the tension existing between the symbolic order and the order of the ‘Real’. Lacan claimed that the symbolic order falls under the phallic function, which is why it is more closely linked to the male position in culture. As opposed to that, the woman is closer to the ‘Real’, because she is not wholly under the phallic function. That is why there is a threatening aspect to the ‘Feminine Voice’, a threatening element to the symbolic order in traditional Jewish society, which is represented by the prohibitions that are related to the performance of the rituals while hearing this voice. So, for example, we saw that even the liberal interpreters in the Talmudic issue in BT Ber. 24a, perceive that the woman’s voice is a disintegrating factor and undermines the ability of men to concentrate on “male” rituals of holiness, such as “kriat Shema” and so forth. On the other hand, we saw that many traditional Jewish sources relate, even though in an autopic way, to the woman’s voice as carrying a “sublime” quality. Our claim is that precisely because the woman does not fall completely under the “Law of the father”, she
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can represents a possibility of “liberation” which makes the touch with the ‘Real’ possible, a touch without which the artist cannot create, and the religious man cannot reach devotion to the Lord. The psychoanalytic conception of ‘Feminine Jouissance’ as ‘an-other’ jouissance also links the feminine voice and the artistic and mystical voice.47 This element in the woman’s voice is threatening for the symbolic male world quite as much as the sexual seduction, because it presents a kind of transgressive craving to disintegrate the accepted symbolic order. It is important to remember that even those interpreters who are ready to admit in the woman’s voice a spiritual quality had to work to cancel its sexually seductive aspect. We have shown above the relation existing between ‘object a’, which is the object of the drive, and the ‘Other’ which represents the Law, the ideal, and one can say that which represents the “male” God. The craving after the ideal, the belief that the ‘Other’ ‘Has’ it (he knows, he is potent, he determines) is responsible for most of the human suffering expressed in symptoms or in negative emotions such as envy and hatred. In opposition to this ‘Other’ feminine jouissance represents the psychic fact that the ‘Other’ doesn’t ‘exist’ (and to the extent that he exists it is perceived as not whole)—an idea that Lacan developed in his 20th seminar. Feminine jouissance is seen in this context as the signifier of the lack in the ‘Other’, as in Lacan’s mathem S(A/). So when one makes place for feminine jouissance and doesn’t silence it, the ‘Other’, as whole, as ideal, falls and the possibility is opened for liberation from paralyzing negative emotions. So, in light of these findings, it is clear that the ‘autopic’ description existing in the interpretative texts that we have presented on the possibility that woman’s voice will lose its threatening quality in the eyes of men, that ‘the time’ will come when men will be able to see (through the screen of phallic search after ‘object a’ ) its spiritual quality—‘The Infinite’.
47 See also: Jacques Lacan, On Feminine Sexuality—The Limits of Love and Knowledge, p. 60.
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This interpretation represents deeply the male ‘craving’ to that same ‘autopic’ situation—a situation where listening to the ‘Feminine Voice’ will teach men other spiritual possibilities which usually those who are under the phallic function are barred against. Our claim—in its last essence—is therefore that both sides of this coin are identical. This is because without feminine jouissance (the ‘Infinite’) there can be no touch with the divine.
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NEW MODELS OF THE SACRED LEADER AT THE BEGINNING OF HASIDISM Ron Margolin (Tel-Aviv University, Israel) The doctrine of the mystic leader called the Zaddik is one of the most notable innovations of Hasidism, the religious movement that began to spread through Eastern Europe in the 18th century. The revival of this paradigm of a righteous wonderworking figure brought about a basic shift in the ideal of religious leadership among Eastern European Jews of the time. According to Martin Buber: ‘Even in the Talmudic period, masters of an unmistakably sacramental form of existence appear, men, therefore, in whose existence, in whose whole life-attitude, in whose experiences and actions the consecration of the covenant is present and fully operative. The historical series of such persons is well-nigh uninterrupted. The zaddik, of the early period of Hasidism, the classic zaddik, is only an especially clear, theoretically delineated stamp of the same archetype, originating in the Biblical world and pointing to a future one.’1 The modern researcher of Hasidism, Mendel Piekarz, wrote in his book The Hasidic Leadership: ‘Faith in Zaddikim implies not only faith in the authority of scholars to interpret the Torah and in the religious importance of unconditional deference to their authority, but perhaps even more importantly, the faith that, as the Maggid said, “the Zaddik can bring about change in the higher and lower worlds whenever he chooses.”2 Or, in the words of R. Menahem Mendel of Vitebsk, the Zaddik is the “foundation of the world . . . who holds the power to . . . increase and strengthen everything and to change the primal order through the power of his word and spirit.”’3
1 M. Buber, ‘Sinnbildliche und Sakramentale Existenz im Judentum’, in: EranosJahrbuch 1934, Zürich 1935, 339–367. In English: M. Buber, ‘Symbolic and Sacramental Existence’, in: M. Buber, The Origin and Meaning of Hasidism, New York 1960, 173. 2 Dov Baer of Mezritch, Maggid Devarav le-Ya"akov, R. Schatz-Uffenheimer’s edition, Jerusalem 1990, 220. [Hebrew] (Henceforth Maggid Devarav). 3 M. Piekarz, The Hasidic Leadership, Jerusalem 1999, 35 (Hebrew). The quotation is from: M.M. of Vitebsk, Sefer Peri ha-"Arez, Zhitomir 1867, 25.
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Who, then, were the first Hasidic Zaddikim—wonderworking figures as Piekarz said, or ‘masters of an unmistakably sacramental form of existence’ as Buber introduced them—and do these descriptions contradict each other? What were the main characteristics of the Zaddikim in the early period of modern Hasidism, before their leadership became an institution generally passed down from father to son? In addressing these questions I shall not discuss the later institution of the Zaddik as Hasidic leader. Instead, I shall review those sources which shed light on the theories and practices upon which the founders of the movement established their concept of leadership, and which, within a very short time, became the prevailing model.4 The idea of the Zaddik as an alternative to the well known model of the Torah scholar, the Rabbi, is found in the books of Rabbi Jacob Joseph Katz of Polonoy, the first writer of the Hasidic movement.5 Although he was a well-known Torah scholar, (= a man of halacha) and the Rabbi of the city of Sharogrod, he was vehemently critical of Torah scholars in his writings, calling them ‘Shedin Yehudayin’, or ‘Jewish Demons’.6 Learning per se, he wrote, does not entitle Torah scholars to be leaders of their communities. Real Torah scholars, whom Rabbi Jacob Joseph calls Zaddikim, do not become leaders by virtue of their learning or knowledge of halacha alone. The fact that the founders of Hasidism had several pupils who were themselves distinguished Torah scholars, like Jacob Joseph himself, (as well as R. Schneor Zalman of Ladi, founder of the Habad movement, and Levi Yitzhak of Berdichyev) did not hinder them from taking a severely critical view of many Torah scholars of their gen-
4 I cite a number of important studies in English on Hasidic views of the Zaddik, in addition to those studies which I shall mention below: G. Scholem, On the Mystical Shape of the Godhead, New York 1991, 88–139; A. Green, ‘Typologies of Leadership and the Hasidic Zaddik’, in: A. Green (ed.), Jewish Spirituality, Vol. 2, 127–156; Ibid., ‘Zaddik as Axis Mundi’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 45, 3 (1977) 327–347; L. Jacobs, Holy Living-Saints and Saintliness in Judaism, New Jersey and London 1990; R. Mahler, Hasidism and the Jewish Enlightenment, Philadelphia 1985; J. Orent, ‘The Transcendent Person’, Judaism 9 (1960) 235–252; I. Etkes, ‘The Zaddik: The Interrelationship between Religious Doctrine and Social Organization’, in: A. Rapoport-Albert (ed.), Hasidism Reappraised, London 1996, 159–167. 5 His first book Toldot Ya"aqov Yosef was published in 1780. His writings include many quotations of the Ba'al Shem Tov’s teachings. On R. Jacob Joseph and his doctrine of the Zaddik see: S.H. Dresner, The Zaddik, New York 1974. 6 Jacob Joseph Katz, Toldot Ya"aqov Yosef, Jerusalem 1983, 169. (Henceforth Toldot). On this issue see: Piekarz, ibid., 88–90.
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eration. It would appear that the sociological reality that led to the Zaddik’s replacement of the Rabbi as leader in the Hasidic world grew out of certain notable concepts. These concepts preceded the institutionalization of Hasidic leadership in the late 18th and early 19th centuries and are the subject of this discussion. In early Hasidic writings from the 18th century, we find many references to biblical and Tannaitic figures (0–200 ) described as wonderworkers, especially the ancient Tannaitic Hasidim like Honi Ha-me"agel, R. Hanina Ben Dosa and R. Pinhas Ben Yair. The ability of Tannaitic Hasidim to work wonders is attributed to their power of prayer.7 This established a correlation between the new Hasidic leader who was expected to perform miracles and Tannaitic figures like R. Hanina Ben Dosa. The question is how the founders of Hasidism explained the link between the Zaddik’s religious practices and his ability to change the natural order. For in contrast to the Talmudic literature which offers only short anecdotes about the character of these figures, the literature of early modern Hasidism examines the correspondence between the ability of Zaddikim to change nature and work wonders, and their way of life and religious practices. In this article I deal with the writings of three famous figures considered ‘fathers’ of Hasidism after the death of R. Israel Ba'al Shem Tov (BeSht), the founder of the movement:8 R. Dov Baer, the Maggid of Mezritch,9 (circa 1710–1772) who was considered the successor of the Ba'al Shem Tov, and the teacher of most Zaddikim of the Hasidic movement in the century following the death of the BeShT in 1760; R. Jacob Joseph Katz of Polonoy (died 1782), a close disciple of the Ba'al Shem Tov and the first writer of the Hasidic movement (as mentioned above); and R. Pinhas of Koretz (1726–1791), a Hasidic figure who, although less known than the first two and
7 See: S. Safrai, ‘Teaching of Pietists in Mishnaic Literature’, JJS 16 (1965) 15–33; Idem, ‘Hasidim and men of activity’, Zion 50 (1985) 133–154; in this volume 63ff. 8 Historical research about R. Israel Baal Shem Tov see: M. Rosman, Founder of Hasidism, A Quest for the Historical Ba’al Shem Tov, Berkeley & Los Angeles 1996. About the development of Hasidism in its beginning see: A. Rapoport-Albert, ‘Hasidism after 1772: Structural Continuity and Change’, in: A. Rapoport-Albert (ed.), Hasidism Reappraised, London 1996, 76–140. 9 On R. Schatz-Uffenheimer’s attitude toward the Maggid of Mezritch see R. Schatz-Uffenheimer, Hasidism as Mysticism, Princeton and Jerusalem 1993.
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less influenced by the Ba'al Shem Tov, was greatly revered by later Rabbis, including the famous Zaddik, R. Nahman of Braslav.10 A. Rabbi Dov Baer, the Maggid of Mezritch In the Babylonian Talmud we find that ‘. . . R. Hanina b. Dosa was journeying on the road when it began to rain. He exclaimed: “Master of the Universe, the whole world is at ease, but Hanina is in distress”. The rain has ceased. When he reached home he exclaimed: “Master of the Universe, the whole world is in distress and Hanina is at ease”, whereupon rain fell. R. Joseph remarked: “Of what avail was the prayer of the High Priest11 against that of R. Hanina b. Dosa?”’ (BT Taan 24b).12 The Maggid of Mezritch said of this story: ‘And here they say: “of what avail is the prayer of the High Priest?” that is, the Zaddik can change any time he wishes what the High Priest can change only on Yom Kippur’ and the answer: ‘Israel cleaving to our blessed God can reach the root of roots through which everything came into being, and the Holy One Blessed Be He by virtue of His love for us changes evil to good even without prayer (at His will)’. And this is the meaning of the verse: ‘He fulfills the wishes of those who fear Him’.13 The Zaddik is identified with R. Hanina b. Dosa because he too is able, through his will and certainly through his prayers, to influence the supernal world and change the natural order, that is, the will of God. But though in the original story we have no idea how this was done, the Maggid of Mezritch provides us with the key to the Zaddik’s action and adds that in fact everyone in Israel may use this key. Before dealing with the meaning of this key, it is important to pay attention to the fact that the Maggid does not distinguish in
10 On R. Pinhas of Koretz see A.J. Heshel, The Circle of the Baal Shem Tov, Chicago and London 1972, 1–43; and my forthcoming book Human Temple. 11 On the Day of Atonement. 12 All the Talmudic citations in this article, are from the Soncino edition of the Babylonian Talmud. About Hanina Ben Dosa see: G. Vermes, ‘Hanina Ben Dosa’, JJS 23 (1972) 28–50; 24 (1973) 51–64; B.M. Bokser, ‘Wonder-working and the rabbinic tradition; the case of Hanina ben Dosa’, JSJ 16, 1 (1985) 42–92. 13 Maggid Devarav, 220. All the Hasidic sources in this article, were translated by Ron Margolin.
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principle between all of Israel [Klal Yisrael ] and the Zaddik. The Maggid stresses that every Jew can become a Zaddik. This view must have preceded a concept of the Zaddik that stresses his unique status and benefit to the rest of the community. In other words, the Maggid’s concept of the Zaddik does not carry the same significance of leadership ascribed to it after his death. What is the key according to the Maggid? ‘Israel cleaving to our blessed God can reach the root of roots through which everything came into being.’ In order to understand this explanation let us look at what the Maggid says about it elsewhere: For the Ayin (naught) is the primal matter that connects all opposites and leads them to proceed one from the other, like a chicken hatching from an egg. When the Ayin comes into its Yesh (being), it is first annihilated in the face of the Einsof (Infinity), and is then transformed into something else. Now the Ayin halts and connects the beginning of God’s thought [tchilat ha-mahshava] with His last creation [sof hamaaseh]. The drawing of the beginning of God’s thought to His last creation [techilat ha-mahshava le-sof ha-maaseh] issues from the Divine wisdom which comes inside the Yesh, that is, the gate of Ayin . . .14
It would seem that the cumbersome Kabbalistic theories of Creation are here exchanged for the essentially similar concepts of Creation ex nihilo, [ yesh meayin] that characterize Medieval Jewish philosophy. But the Ayin is the source of change in the physical world, and it is not only the intangible Kabbalistic infinity [or Einsof ] which trickles down through prolonged emanation into the tangible world. Ayin is the Godhead itself.15 In this connection it should be stressed that the term for wisdom, [hochmah] almost loses its original Kabbalistic connotation here and closely parallels the terms Ayin and Godhead.16 More than it describes the historical creation of the world, this theory explains the continuous creation of new entities [or havayot] which makes changing human reality possible. Through the creation of change, the Hasidic Zaddik aspires to bring good to the world.17
14
Maggid Devarav, 277; see also ibid., 49, 91, 134. Although Medieval philosophers never thought of identifying the nihil with God, the Hasidic thinkers did so. See M. Piekarz, Between Ideology and Reality, Jerusalem 1994, 66–72 (Hebrew). 16 On the attitude of Hasidism toward Kabbalah concepts see: G. Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism, New York 1961, 341. 17 See R. Elior, ‘The Paradigma of Yesh and Ayin in Hasidic Thought’, in: A. Rapoport-Albert (ed.), Hasidism Reappraised, London 1996, 168–179. 15
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Paradoxically, the creative power of the Ayin first causes the annihilation of the old entity and makes possible the creation of a new one in its place. The revival of the medieval theory of change did not arise from a new view of nature but from the contemplation of religious experience as described by the Maggid, especially in his writings about prayer. The power of spiritual revival after the experience of annihilation encouraged the Zaddik to believe that he too had power to influence the external world. How was this accomplished? In the following theories the Maggid dealt directly with the experience of communicating with the Divine Ayin, which enabled the Zaddik to bring about external changes: Vitality, [hiyut] results in the main from the connection with the beginning of God’s thought. Without vitality there is nothing, and within every person there is only vitality. Vitality is one with the beginning of God’s thought. And if a person wishes to prepare for the Godhead to pervade him, then he must understand and realize deeply that it is the Godhead alone which gives him life, and that without this he is really nothing, and this is by way of preparation that He may pervade him. Then the pervading is “like an eagle who rouses his nestlings, gliding down to his young” (Deut 34:11), both “touching and not touching”, (p. Hag 2.1) in other words, a person cannot fully achieve this,18 for if he does, he will in truth be annihilated. For should even a particle of self-aggrandizement be found in this person, he will not be tied and connected to Godhead, because he is not as nothing . . .19
Divine vitality is the primary basis for all existence. This vitality precedes all thought and is its source. It is possible actually to contact the vitality which is Divine essence. And this, according to the Maggid, is the meaning of the Biblical story of the changing of Jacob’s name to Israel. ‘Said He: Your name shall no longer be Jacob but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human and have prevailed.’ (Gen 32:29) It is within the power of the people of Israel to consciously prepare for such a process. The Maggid stresses that though annihilation must not be prolonged, it can be endured for brief moments. The metaphor of the eagle’s beating wings, touch18 The Godhead which dwells upon him (As Rabbi A.Y. Kahan remarked in his edition of Maggid Devarav leYaaqov, Jerusalem 1971, 52–53). 19 Maggid Devarav, 197–198.
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ing and not touching its nestlings, alludes to the ephemerality of the experience, which is like a momentary stepping out of time.20 Even a particle of self-importance makes it impossible to be pervaded by the Godhead. The connection with ‘the beginning of God’s thought’, [tchilat ha-mahshava], is achieved not through the power of thought but through vitality, the necessary energy for all existence, without which existence becomes nothing. The connection with vitality requires conscious preparation, which consists mainly of a reduction in self-importance, that is, a contracting of pride, and the creation of qualities other than those that gratify the ego: And this is the reason that the words (of prayer) always rise upward if he cleaves to God, for although in this world every word and letter exists in time, nevertheless we can for a moment exist beyond time, in the place where time is indivisible.21
A rising upwards signifies the Godhead’s pervading of man. According to the Maggid, during prayer and study, a man can achieve these states. The aim here is to return the letters to their roots in order to communicate through the use of words and letters with the source of thought, what the Maggid in his other writings calls ‘pre-intellect’ or sekhel qadmon.22 The return of the letters to their roots therefore signifies movement beyond the world and beyond apprehension. In the pre-intellect only Divine vitality exists, sustaining everything. Reality becomes there as nothing and is recreated from within. Hence, whoever can reach this point within himself, has the power to influence and change those realms to which he is connected, and thus, the souls of those who seek him and are connected to him emotionally. The similarity between the terms ‘The beginning of God’s Thought’ and the ‘Pre-Intellect’ [tchilat ha-mahshava and sekhel qadmon] in the Maggid’s writings, is illustrated by the following texts. The first is a discussion of the paradox created by the dwelling of the Godhead within the corporeal human being and the second text reflects a psychological insight. 20 See J. Weiss, ‘The Saddik-Altering the Divine Will’, in: J. Weiss, Studies in Eastern European Jewish Mysticism, London 1985, 194–201. 21 Maggid Devarav, 267. 22 For a list of Hasidic sources on the term ‘qadmut hasekel’, see G. Scholem, ‘The sub-consciousness and the concept of “qadmut hasekhel” in the Hasidic literature’, in: G. Scholem, Explications and Implications, Tel-Aviv 1982, 351–360 (Hebrew).
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I. ‘“Can two walk together without having met?” (Amos 3:3). This means: is it possible for the Godhead to dwell within the corporal body? It is possible because they had met together within the ancient thought [mahshava qduma],23 which revitalizes every thing . . . The completion of God’s creations, His last creation which is the most corporal, was present in the beginning of God’s thought [tchilat ha-mahshava] and this creation is connected and totally unified with the beginning and Qadmut.’24 In this quotation we find an equation: ‘Ancient Thought’ [machshava qduma] = ‘Beginning of God’s Thought’ [tchilat ha-mahshava]. In the next teaching we shall see that the term ‘Beginning of God’s Thought’ [tchilat ha-mahshava] can be called ‘Pre-intellect’ [qadmut hasekhel]. II. ‘There are times when something very wise will enter a person’s mind unexpectedly, and upon realizing that it was unknown to him before, he understands that this wise thought which entered his mind was drawn from the pre-intellect [qadmut ha-sekhel] . . .’25 We may conclude therefore that in the Maggid’s mind the ‘drawing from beginning of God’s thought’ [tchilat ha-mahshava] is the same as the ‘drawing from the Pre-intellect’ [qadmut ha-sekhel]. To better understand the Maggid on this subject, let us compare his discussions on ‘Pre-intellect’ [qadmut ha-sekhel or sekhel qadmon] with the words of Plotinus in the Sixth Ennead. . . . It is not therefore Intellect, but before Intellect. For Intellect is one of the beings, but that is not anything, but before each and every thing, and is not being; for being has a kind of shape of being, but that has no shape, not even intelligible shape . . . The perplexity arises especially because our awareness of that One is not by way of a reasoned knowledge or of intellectual perception, as with other intelligible things, but by way of a presence superior to knowledge. The soul experiences its falling away from being one and is not altogether one when it has reasoned knowledge of anything; for reasoned knowledge is a rational process, and a rational process is many. (Enneads VI, 9, 3–4).26
23 The root mdq has two meanings in Hebrew, “previous” and “ancient”. Therefore, it is possible to translate the term ‘mahshava qduma’ as ‘previous thought’ or as ‘ancient thought’. 24 Maggid Devarav, 196–197. 25 Ibid., 281. 26 Plotinus, Enneads, translated by A.H. Armstrong, Cambridge Mass. and London 1988, 313–315.
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What Plotinus says here is that abiding in the spiritual-intellectual sphere can prepare one for the real meditation which is superior to knowledge. Abiding in the pre-intellect [sekhel qadmon] is the unifying experience that precedes being. We cannot assume a direct connection between Plotinus writings and the Maggid, but there are a lot of intermediate Hebrew writings which can explain such a similarity.27 What the Maggid’s subsequent teachings suggest is that his technique of connecting through prayer with the pre-intellect, if only for a moment, is the basis of his claims about the Zaddik’s ability to change nature. In the act of prayer a man must apply all his might to the words, and proceed thus from letter to letter till he lose all sense of the physical, and think that the letters are combining and connecting with each other, and this is a great pleasure . . .28 And this is the meaning of “Taking one of the stones of that place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place . . .” (Gen 28:11), for as is known from the Book of Creation, the stones are the letters.29 And when the Zaddik prays with letters, he connects himself with the supernal wisdom as one who remembers, that is, one who has already entered the gate of Ayin. He has thought in his heart that if not for the power of the Blessed be He within him, he would be a complete nothing, that everything derives from the power of the Lord, Blessed be He . . . and through this intention he draws down the plenty and the desire for God’s supernal wisdom to the end of all worlds . . .30
According to Plotinus, the person engaged in contemplation unites inwardly with the Divine. The Maggid likewise sees this process as inward and real though outwardly imperceptible: Though we see that the body of man does not ascend, and he stands in place as before . . . so when he performs the precept we understand that speech pervades the precepts and the inwardness of the world ascends . . .31
In contrast to certain Christian doctrines influenced by Plotinus which tend to ignore the physical world, the Maggid’s teachings are based on the connection between inward prayer, made possible through
27 28 29 30 31
See L.E. Goodman (ed.), Neoplatonism and Jewish Thought, New York 1992. Maggid Devarav, 85–86. Book of Creation, end of chapter 4. Maggid Devarav, 94–95. Ibid., 110.
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contemplation, and the Hasid’s ability to work changes in nature, that is, miracles. We find here a structural relationship between momentary experiences of thought-transcending union with God, and the ability to bring about changes in the natural order. The connection with the Divine is a departure from nature, in other words, a departure to what is beyond nature, the origin of creation. Thus with the Hasid’s return to the physical world, he is as if created anew. The passage between worlds has made even change in the natural order possible. B. Rabbi Jacob Joseph Katz of Polonoy R. Jacob Joseph in his book Ben Porat Yosef transforms R. Hanina Ben Dosa into even more of a wonderworker. In his commentary on the miraculous story that tells of Hanina maintaining the entire world, R. Jacob Joseph emphasizes that Hanina served as a pipeline through which God’s divine bounty is brought down to the world. The Talmud says that a “Every day a divine voice goes forth from Mount Horeb and proclaims: The whole world is sustained for the sake (bi-shvil) of my son Hanina, and Hanina My son has to subsist on kab of carobs from one week end to the next.” (BT Ber 17b) Why is the latter part of this tradition needed? I have seen the answer in the book Yad Yosef which says that this latter phrase offers a reason for the former: the whole world is sustained for the sake of Hanina because he makes do with but a ration of carob. It is because of this that his merit suffices to sustain the entire world. But in the name of my teacher (= R. Israel Ba'al Shem Tov) is said the following: Hanina My son forged a path (shvil ) or a pipeline to draw Divine bounty into the world. This is the meaning of ‘the world is sustained by the shvil or channel, since the Divine bounty flowed through him. This would be an esoteric reading for “Blessings to the head of the Zaddik” (Prov 10:6)’.32
This exegesis is a play on the Hebrew words “bishvil” (= for the sake of ) and “shvil” (= path). R. Jacob Joseph on behalf of his teacher, reads the original Talmudic “for the sake of ” as “path”. In such a way he gives a new mystical meaning to the Talmudic story.
32
J.J. Katz, Ben Porat Yosef, Warsaw 1883, 80b.
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Hanina ben Dosa became a model of the Hasidic Zaddik. The activities of the Zaddik provide a kind of channel for the Divine bounty that flows down to this earthly life. When we attempt to clarify how the Zaddik draws down the Divine bounty according to R. Jacob Joseph, we see an affinity between his aforementioned theories and those of the Maggid, though with an aspect not found in the Maggid’s writings. Just as in man there is matter and form so in the letters of the Torah there is matter and form. The body of the letters is their matter and the spirituality of the sefirot with the light of infinity or [ein sof ] is the form of the letters. It is toward this that man should aim his Torah study and prayer. And as it is written in the book Chesed Le-Avraham chap. 43:33 ‘“The intention [kavana] of prayer carries spirituality from the higher worlds to the letters which he mentions in order that the letters may rise to the highest world and do his behest” . . . and in this will be clarified “vayiqach mi-avnei ha-maqom va-yasem merashotav” (“Taking one of the stones of that place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place.”) (Gen 28:11), which are the letters of the Shechina called Makom, and he put them under his head, [merashotav] . . . and by taking and drawing out the letters . . . the connection is made . . .’34
The letters of the prayer are likewise a combination of form and matter. The Zaddik connects the spiritual and physical worlds through his use of inward intention or kavanah during prayer. Unlike the Maggid, he does not aspire here to self-annihilation, but to drawing down the spiritual world, the world of vitality, to the physical plane by means of thoughtful experiential communication during prayer. The Zaddik, praying with such inward intention [kavanah], serves as a pipeline for Divine bounty and brings a spiritual bounty to all who are connected with him.35 The view of the Maggid is Neoplatonic while that of R. Jacob Joseph contains a notable Aristotelian component.
33 Chesed Le-Abraham, is a Kabbalistic book of R. Abraham Azulai from the 16th century. 34 Toldot, introduction, 19–20. 35 For more about the Zaddik as ‘Vessel’ and ‘Channel’ in Hasidism, see M. Idel, Hasidism Between Ecstasy and Magic, New York 1995, 189–207.
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C. Rabbi Pinhas of Koretz
The theories of the two men we have discussed so far stand in contrast to the approach of R. Pinhas of Koretz. The Maggid’s theory was a highly activist one: while praying, a person can use directed effort to detach himself from the meaning of the words of the prayer, thus detaching himself inwardly from his physical being and connecting, if only for a few minutes, with the Godhead so that it may pervade him. In R. Jacob Joseph’s teaching we can find also an active direction. A man should aim his Torah study and prayer toward a combination of matter and spirituality by a proper intention. Though R. Pinhas also views the ability to work miracles and changes as dependent upon the ability to connect with the Ayin (nought), his way to the Ayin is different. Let us examine his words: A person who truly identifies with the Ayin can have great miracles wrought for his sake. Abraham our father when he went to war with the kings did not rely upon miracles himself but set out bearing his sword and arms for the very reason that he was in the world of Ayin, and the Holy One Blessed be He performed miracles and took stones and made them fall upon his enemies and vanquished them . . .36 so too when a man is in the world of Ayin, he has the Holy One Blessed be He within himself, but a man who has something within himself does not have the Holy One Blessed Be He within.37
When Abraham went to war with King Chedorlaomer of Elam and his allies, a miracle was performed for his sake because he never thought at all that he was worthy of a miracle and thus prepared himself for war. According to R. Pinhas there is no substitute for absolute humility hence miracles are never the outcome of concerted effort, as in the case of the effort of the Maggid during prayer. Miracles and changes in nature cannot be attained by means of contemplative prayer and the deliberate stripping away of the physical during prayer, but arise only from the annihilation of the ego. It seems that R. Pinhas wished to live within the Divine [Ayin], in an all encompassing sanctity, no less than the Maggid of Mezritch.38 At the base of R. Pinhas’ passive attitude, however, is his great sensi-
36
See Gen 14 and GenR 43 (Theodor-Albeck edition, Jerusalem 1965, 418). Y.S. Frenkel (ed.), Imrei Pinhas, Bnei-Brak 1978, 3 (Henceforth Imrei Pinhas). 38 R. Pinhas said: ‘A man must go within God’, see his book Likiti Shoschanim, Tshernovitz 1857, 14. 37
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tivity to the potential for spiritual self-deception, and his recognition that every spiritual and religious effort includes the dangerous pitfall of pride that contradicts all possibility for life within the Ayin [nought]. R. Pinhas connects the world of Ayin with the transformations that arise from direct Divine intervention in the world. What is novel in his writings is his emphasis on the importance of not knowing, on the removal of self-consciousness, that is, pride. In the Mishnah it is said that “It is better for me to be called a fool” (Eduyot 5.6). The suggestion made to man is that he be a fool in his own eyes, that he be truly like unto nothing, and thus all his mind will be renewed both with the spiritual and physical, that is, even with regard to his livelihood and his physical health and all that belongs to him.39
Self-annihilation is not grasped here as identical with total selfeffacement but with ‘smallness of mind’ [qatnut de-mohin] to the point of folly. This state is likened to that of sleep and in the background is the saying of the sages that ‘sleep is one-sixtieth part of death’ (BT Ber 57b). The power of these states lies in their preceding the renewal and revitalization—the ‘expansion of the mind’ [ gadlut de mohin]. Annihilation of the ego is a state of spiritual torpor and folly in which, of course, no one wants to linger. But just as the secret of renewal in nature resides in sleep and awakening, thus the more foolish a man is in his own eyes, the more he is spiritually and physically renewed. These ideas should be understood in the light of R. Pinhas’ extremely passive doctrine concerning spiritual techniques. Spiritual wonder and real renewal are recognizable in their being a gift from above and what is really given to man is his self-contraction. The next story was told by R. Pinhas of Koretz’ Hassids. In this story we see that although there is no reference in the writings attributed to R. Pinhas, to Honi ha-Meagel and to R. Hanina ben Dosa, R. Pinhas was for his Hasidim almost the incarnation of the ancient wonderworking Hasidim: When the first of the Righteous Ones, about whom it was said that their ‘study was their profession’ (BT Shab 11a) decreed a something, it came to be. In the days of R. Pinhas of Blessed Memory, there was
39
R. Pinhas of Koretz, Midrash Pinhas, Ashdod 1990, 6.
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once a draught. On the Eve of Sabbath, during the kiddush (= blessing) over the wine, he quoted the biblical verse ‘I will grant your rains in the right time’ (Lev 26:4) and he explained that Rashi said that ‘right time’ means time in which people are not outside like on the Eve of the Sabbath. The reason for this is the Talmudic phrase: “No rain falls unless the sins of Israel have been forgiven” (BT Taan 7b). It is also written in the Talmud that: “He who observes the Sabbath according to its laws, even if he practices idolatry like the generation of Enosh, is forgiven” (BT Shab 118b). Therefore said R. Pinhas “On the Sabbath it has to rain”, immediately after he finished speaking it rained.40
This story testifies to the Hasidic experience that when the Hasidic leader or Zaddik speaks and makes a decree, God executes his will. The idea is based on a famous Talmudic exegesis: ‘The God of Israel said, “The Rock of Israel spoke to me: Ruler over man shall be the righteous (Zaddik), even he that ruleth through the fear of God” (2 Sam 23:3), What does this mean?—Said R. Abbahu, It means this: “The God of Israel said, to me [David] speak the Rock of Israel”; I rule man; who rules Me? [It is] the righteous: (Zaddik) for I make a decree and he [may] annul it’ (BT Moed Qatan 16b).41 In this exegesis which is based on King David’s last speech in 2 Samuel 23, R. Abbahu changed the original meaning of the biblical verse. For the Sages, King David as the righteous author of Psalms, is the model of a ruler devoted to God. Therefore, King David is not only one who “ruleth through the fear of God”, but one who may change God’s decisions. For modern Hasidim, this exegesis created a chain of righteous leaders (Zaddikim) beginning with King David himself through the first Hasidim, Honi Ha-me"agel and Hanina Ben Dosa and down to the Zaddikim of their own day. Thus the ‘Zaddik’ came to signify not only a righteous man but a true leader, able to influence the will of God through his religious devotion. Summary At first glance it would seem that scholars of Hasidism like Piekarz are correct in their claim that the basic model of Hasidic leadership was that of the authoritative wonderworker. However, a deeper con-
40 41
Imrei Pinhas, 200. See also BT Shab 63a; BT BM 85a.
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sideration of Hasidic texts reveals that Buber’s understanding of this model is closer to the spiritual origins of Hasidic leadership. It is wrong to view the Zaddik archetype merely as a revival of the ancient wonderworker. The Zaddik at the beginning of Hasidism was not a common leader who gained power because the crowd believed him to be a sorcerer. He was, as Buber wrote, a man ‘in whose existence, in whose whole life-attitude, in whose experiences and actions the consecration of the covenant is present and fully operative.’42 Indeed it was because of these spiritual attributes that the crowd believed in the Zaddik’s ability to change nature. The followers of these thinkers became social and religious leaders of great influence and power. In their doctrines of the Zaddik they attempted to teach spiritual ways of connecting the physical world with the world of the Divine. Only those able to bring about such a connection, they believed, were fit to be leaders. All three figures described above view the Zaddik as an intermediary between heaven and earth, yet there are significant differences in their ideas as to how he attains this position. To summarize briefly, the Maggid and R. Jacob Joseph are active in their approach to spirituality. The former, particularly in his teachings on the technique of prayer, had been influenced by the Neoplatonic concepts he absorbed through a variety of Jewish writings.43 R. Jacob Joseph’s doctrine corresponded more closely to Aristotelian ideas about matter and form, known to him from various Jewish medieval writers, foremost among them, Maimonides. R. Pinhas, on the other hand, held the paradoxical belief that in spite of the activism involved in any kind of leadership, only the passive form of spirituality could enable one to become a true leader. All three figures attempted to renew the tradition of the ‘First Hasidim’, but had different approaches toward this goal. Their shared belief in the wonder-working ability attributed to ancient Hasidim was a consequence of their respective spiritual teachings. These teachings led to the establishment of a new tradition of Eastern European Jewish leadership.
42 43
See n. 1 above. See n. 27 above.
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THE MODERN SAINT: AN EXPLORATION OF SACRAL INTERFERENCES Paul Post (Liturgical Institute, Theological Faculty, Tilburg, The Netherlands) 1. Intention and Plan In Search of the Modern Saint: Impressions In the 1960s and ’70s the Dutch artist Daan Wildschut made a series of windows for Peutz’s domed concrete church at Heerlen, in the Province of Limburg, The Netherlands, built in 1953.1 One glassin-concrete window depicts modern saints. Surrounding the central figure of Pope John XXIII, we see portraits of a series of inspirational contemporary figures: Teilhard de Chardin, Anne Frank, Martin Luther King, Abbé Pierre, Mother Teresa, Steve Biko, Bishop Bekkers, Dom Helder Camera, Julius Nyerere, Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Dag Hammerskjöld. This type of searching for and identifying of modern saints has a clear tradition originating in the 1960s and ’70s. Since the saints returned again to the rallying-cry of the Swiss Protestant church historian Walter Nigg,2 a number of lists of modern, new saints appealing to contemporary sensibilities have been composed. The intention is clear: this is an effort to link the classic image or concept of the Christian saint with today’s world, with contemporary, recognized inspirational, exemplary individuals. Often this happens intuitively, as it appears in journalism: there too regularly figures are briefly, fleetingly, described as modern saints: Diana, Leonardo di Caprio, Nelson Mandela. Others prepare their lists less intuitively, more analytically, pointing to a certain profile as characteristic of modern saints. For example, we find the theme of “the modern saint” in almost all the better surveys of the veneration of saints.3
1 Cf. ratie van 2 Cf. 3 Cf.
A. Blijlevens a.o. (eds), Ruimte voor liturgie. Opstellen met betrekking tot de restaude Sint-Servaas te Maastricht, Maastricht 1983, photo on p. 41. W. Nigg, Grote heiligen, Amsterdam 1954 = Große Heilige (1946). for models, types or profiles of saints, see S. Spinsanti, ‘Modèles spirituels’,
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Fig. 1 Modern saints; glass-in-concrete window in the church of Saint Anne (1953), Heerlen (The Netherlands); artist: Daan Wildschut. © P. Post.
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Intention and Plan We too search for the modern saint, but not in the course of a programme of inculturation. Thus “modern” will not be a matter of a passionate search for different, new, recognized saints of various sorts, credible in modern times. Moreover, although every ritual/liturgical study wrestles with the problem of establishing the balance between distance and involvement, in our project distance prevails and examines the modern saint in relation to tendencies in modern sacrality. It will be a search for profiles of holiness that fit in the modern sacral milieu.4
in Dictionnaire de la vie spirituelle, Paris 1983, 691–710, esp. 699–710. Cf. art. ‘Saints’, Dictionnaire de Spiritualité, d. 14, Paris 1990, 196–230 and ‘Sainteté’, ibidem, 192–194 (offers a ‘hagio-typology’). In general with bibliography: S. Boesch Gajano, La santità, Laterza 1999. See also: J.J. Delaney (ed.), Saints Are Now. Eight Portraits of Modern Sanctity, New York s.a.); G. Zarri (ed.), Finzione e santità tra medioevo ed età moderna, Turijn 1991; G. Barone, M. Caffiero & F. Scorza Barcellona (eds), Modelli di santità e modelli di comportamento. Contrasti, intersezioni, complementarità, Torino 1994; Hj. Auf der Maur, Feste und Gedenktage der Heiligen (= Gottesdienst der Kirche Handbuch der Liturgiewissenschaft 6,1) (Regensburg 1994) § 262, 270–279 with litt. on 270s.; Special issue ‘Modellen van heiligheid’, Concilium 15,9 (1979); art. ‘Sainteté’, Encyclopedia Universalis d. XIV, Paris 1980, 2nd ed., 603–607; art. ‘Sainthood’, M. Eliade (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion, New York/London 1987, t. XIII, 1–6. Cf. for surveys on the veneration of saints: Auf der Maur, Feste und Gedenktage der Heiligen (co-author: Ph. Harnoncourt, Der Kalender); A. Angenendt, Heilige und Reliquien. Die Geschichte ihres Kultes vom frühen Christentum bis zur Gegenwart, München 1994; P. Dinzelbacher & D.R. Baur (eds), Heiligenverhrung in Geschichte und Gegenwart, Ostfildern 1990; J.St. Hawley (ed.), Saints and Virtues, Berkeley 1987; (although on the late Antique periode) P. Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (= The Haskell Lectures on History of Religions, New Series 2), Chicago 1981 (cf. now: J. Howard-Johnston & P.A. Hayward (eds), The Cult of Saints in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages: Essays on the Contribution of Peter Brown, Oxford 1999); D. Weinstein & R.M. Bell (eds), Saints and Society. The Two Worlds of Western Christendom, 1000–1700, Chicago/London 1982 (with special attention for profiles of saints, cf. the appendix, 121–137 and Pars 2: ‘Perceptions of Sanctity’, 139–250); St. Wilson (ed.), Saints and Their Cults: Studies in Religious Sociology, Folklore and History, Cambridge 1985; W. Groß, ‘Heiligenverehrung in der Glaubenspraxis der Gegenwart’, in Dinzelbacher & Bauer (eds), Heiligenverehrung, 358–372; A. Legner, Reliquien in Kunst und Kult. Zwischen Antike und Aufklärung, Darmstadt 1995; H. van Os, Titus Brandsma, de man Gods uit Bolsward. Over heiligenverering vroeger en nu, Nijmegen 1998; W. Frijhoff, Heiligen, idolen, iconen, Nijmegen 1998. Cf. form the perspective of liturgical studies: A. Triacca & A. Pistoia (eds), Saints et sainteté dans la liturgie (= Conférences Saint-Serge 1986) (Bibliotheca ‘ephemerides liturgicae’, subsidia 40), Rome 1987; DACL, t. XV,1, cols. 373–462 s.v. ‘Saint’; special issue ‘Heilige’, Diakonia. Internationale Zeitschrift für die Praxis der Kirche 31,2 (2000). 4 See already for the dimension of contextuality: R. Stuip & C. Vellekoop (eds), Andere structuren, andere heiligen. Het veranderende beeld van de heilige in de Middeleeuwen, Utrecht 1983.
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Our approach links us with the analytic use of “saint” and “sanctity” that was recently presented by Willem Frijhoff.5 His is an open approach, not, by its inception, restricted to ecclesiastical strategies. Thus, a saint is someone who is acknowledged, designated and promoted as such by a group. Around the notion of model or exemplary conduct there are thus always three poles that cohere with one another: characteristics, designation, and appropriation. We should like to make some brief remarks regarding the terms used in our study. As mentioned above, the words “modern” and “saint” will both be used in an “open” manner, descriptively rather than prescriptively, and even perhaps occasionally imprecisely. “Modernity” will be employed to mean the current situation in culture, religion and the church, and especially the 20th century. In the case of the use of the term “saint”, although the Roman Catholic milieu will be our frame of reference, we will not strictly abide by the official ecclesiastical framework of canonization (beatification and sanctification).6 From the very beginning, we are going to speak here of “models”, in the plural. One of the general characteristics of modernity is differentiation, variety, fragmentation and plurality. Profiles of sanctity are, as we will see, increasingly linked with groups or group cultures. 2. The General Research Model: The Perspectives of Appropriation, Interferences and Sacralization Tendencies I have previously, on several occasions, sketched out the general research design of liturgical and ritual studies which forms the overall framework for our exploration.7 I will briefly recapitulate three important points here via three words or concepts:
5
Cf. Frijhoff, Heiligen. Cf. for official Roman Catholic canonization: B. Lauvrijs, Zalig- en heiligverklaringen. Damiaan en anderen. Historiek, spiritualiteit en procedure, Brugge 1995; Frijhoff, Heiligen, 87s. note 6; K.L. Woodward, Making Saints: How the Catholic Church Determines Who Becomes a Saint, Who Doesn’t, and Why, New York 1990; for an critical evaluation, see the work of the sociologist of religion, see P. Delooz, ‘Over de heiligverklaringen en hun sociaal gebruik’, Concilium ‘Modellen van heiligheid’ 15,9 (1979) 24–34; Id.: Sociologie et canonisations, Liège/The Haye 1969. 7 Cf. P. Post, ‘Interference and Intuition: On the Characteristic Nature of Research Design in Liturgical Studies’, in Questions liturgiques/Studies in Liturgy 81 (2000) 48–65. 6
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Appropriation First there is the rather new and important perspective of appropriation.8 Rather than a unilateral emphasis on designation by, for instance, academics or ecclesiastical authorities, stress is placed on the broad process of production, distribution and consumption of culture, from prescribed order to lived, celebrated practice. Interference Another important term in the research design is interference.9 In our exploration of modern sainthood, we will be looking primarily at the interference between designation and appropriation on the one hand and that with the cultural, ritual context on the other, and these always in their mutual interrelationship. Sacralization As has already been mentioned, we are studying the modern saint in the broader context of what can be called sacralization tendencies.10 In addition to the constant desacralization or referential profile of Christian sacrality (for saints this always implies the relativization that there is only One who is Holy, i.e. God), there is the general anthropological, cultural “persistance du sacré”; there is always reference to forces, powers and dimensions which go beyond us and reference to transcendence through which we distance ourselves from the banality of the everyday. One can certainly speak in this connection of the “sacred milieu”. Many have pointed out that it is precisely for modern society that these tendencies pertaining to sacrality are extremely complex and
8 Cf. Post, ‘Interference’, 59–60 (bibliogr. in note 22); Id., ‘Van paasvuur tot stille tocht. Over interferentie van liturgie en volksreligieus ritueel’, in Volkskundig Bulletin. Tijdschrift voor Nederlandse cultuurwetenschap 25,2–3 (1999) 215–234; W. Frijhoff, ‘Toeëigening: van bezitsdrang naar betekenisgeving’, in Trajecta 6,2 (1997) 99–118. 9 Cf. with litt.: Post, ‘Interference’. 10 For a good introduction see Lumen vitae. Revue internationale de catéchèse et de pastorale 54,4 (1999); esp. in that issue: R. Englert, ‘Les valeurs sacrées des hommes et les signes sacrés de L’Église’, 404–422; M. Singleton, ‘Sacrées variations!’, 377–391; P. Tihon, ‘Pour un chrétien, qu’est-ce qui est sacré?’, 365–376; P. Beraudy, ‘La métamorphose du sacré religieux dans le christianisme’, 392–403; cf. R.A. Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity (= Cambridge Studies in Social and Cultural Anthropology 110), Cambridge 1999, esp. Ch. 9–14).
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dynamic. The probing and testing of the sacred milieu is a difficult exercise, but one which is essential for obtaining an idea of modern Christian rituality and sacramentality, or in terms of the main general focus of my discipline, liturgical studies, the identity of Christian rituality and sacramentality. It is precisely there that our search for modern profiles of sainthood must be situated. 3. The Modern Saint: Five Profiles As a first trial run of a synthesis of this extensive project surrounding modern saints and modern devotion, I wish to present five profiles of the modern saint. I have chosen specific figures, who at the same time must be understood as types or models. a. Padre Pio: Guardian of a Lost Sacral Order As my first profile of the modern saint, I wish to present Padre Pio.11 This may be surprising for some, since he has previously been seen occasionally as an example of the “old” or “traditional” devotion to saints. Yet in the 1970s, Padre Pio was already being labelled as the prototype of the modern saint by William Christian, Jr., the renowned scholar of European religious popular culture,12 or, in the words of another famous scholar, Sandra Zimdars Swarz, as “a typical twentieth century holy man.”13 That Padre Pio is still not really seen as
11 For Padre Pio there is esp. hagiographic and propagandistic material, see E. Boniface, Padre Pio de Pietrelcina; vie—oeuvres—passion, Paris 1966; F. Chiocci & L. Cirri, Padre Pio: storia d’una vittima, Roma 1967, 3rd ed.; R. Allegri, Padre Pio: l’uomo della speranza, Milano 1990, 4th ed.; T. Rivas, ‘Padre Pio en het concept heiligheid’, in Prana 98 (1996/7) 14–18; N. Castello, Padre Pio Teaches Us, San Giovanni Rotondo 1981; A. D’Apolito, Padre Pio of Pietrelcina. Memories, Experiences, Testimonials, San Giovanni Rotondo 1981; A. Da Ripabottoni, Padre Pio: Il cireneo di tutti, San Giovanni Rotondo 1983; G. Di Flumeri, Homage to the Blessed Padre Pio, San Giovanni Rotondo 1999 (is based on Omaggio a Padre Pio, San Giovanni Rotondo 1981; an appendix offers the official documents on the beatification, 67–76). For The Netherlands: P.J. Margry & Ch. Caspers (eds), Bedevaartplaatsen in Nederland, deel II, Hilversum/ Amsterdam 1998, s.v. Tilburg, 854–856. See now P.J. Margry, ‘Merchandising and sanctity: the invasive cult of Padre Pio’, in Journal of Modern Italian Studies 7,1 (2002) 88–115. 12 Vgl. W.A. Christian Jr., ‘Holy People in Peasant Europe’, in Comparative Studies in Society and History 15 (1973) 106–114; cf. Id., Visionaries. The Spanish Republic and the Reign of Christ, Berkeley/Los Angeles 1996, 25.284.398. 13 S. Zimdars Swarz, Encountering Mary. Visions of Mary from La Salette to Medjugorje, New York 1991, esp. Ch. 7, 245ss. and also 94–101; 106; 227–229; 291 n. 1.
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the dominant exponent of modern devotion is attributed by Christian to “the blindness of the Western intellectual community.”14 Since that time, the cultus and the power of the attraction of Padre Pio has risen to enormous heights world wide, and especially in Europe. Padre Pio was born in 1887 as Francesco Forgione in Pietrelcina, a farming village in southern Italy, in the province of Benevento. He was a pious youth, having at a very young age all sorts of mystic experiences, visions of Mary and seeing and undergoing attacks from the devil. At the age of 16 he entered the Capuchin order, choosing this Franciscan variant because of their ascetic lifestyle. In 1916 he came to the monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie, in San Giovanni Rotondo, in southern Italy. From 1918, the stigmata—bleeding wounds, especially on the hands, with reference to Christ on the cross— revealed themselves, and he would develop into the best known bearer of the stigmata in the 20th century.
Fig. 2 Padre Pio with the stigmata; the blessing at the end of Mass.
14
Christian, ‘Holy People’, 111.
Fig. 3 Padre Pio with crucifix.
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Padre Pio saw himself as sent to save souls, undergoing the illness and suffering that go along with this, in the literal imitation of Christ. He preached reconciliation and actively devoted himself to the material well-being of people, both individually and collectively. Padre Pio was, and still is for many, a controversial figure. Until the start of the beatification process in 1983, not only local and regional ecclesiastical authorities, but also the bishops and the Vatican were extremely sceptical of his cult. Devotions to him, which had already taken on great form during his life and had quickly made San Giovanni Rotondo into an important pilgrimage site, were distrusted in official church circles and considered as fanaticism. Phases of persecution and controversy alternated with moments of acknowledgement. During the last 52 years of his life, the pressure from his order towards restraint became greater and greater, and he spent those years in the relative quiet of San Giovanni Rotondo. He died on September 23, 1968, with more than 100,000 people attending his burial in his monastery/pilgrimage site. Immediately, the familiar ritual mechanism began: his grave became the central cultic object of a pilgrimage centre. In 1983, after long avoidance on the part of the official ecclesiastical hierarchy, the canonization process began which resulted in his beatification in Rome on May 2, 1999 and sanctification in June 2002. The dossier of miracles, healings, examples of bilocation, prophecies, telepathy, glossolalia, etc. was overwhelming. But already much earlier, actually already during his life, large numbers of Roman Catholics had declared him a saint. With regard to his profile as a modern saint, I wish to limit myself to a general sketch in light of the research model discussed above. The profile of Padre Pio unites a series of core elements that are to be found again and again in a number of 20th century figures and devotions. The image surrounding his person has a strongly apocalyptic colouring. The world and the Church are seen as being in crisis and the atmosphere is that of the last days before the Second Coming of Christ with the saint appearing as part of a divine plan, preaching a last opportunity for repentance and atonement. The saint is an intermediary who can change the course of events and identify evils. This is a familiar and wide-spread image from the 19th and 20th centuries. We recognize in it the messages of La Salette and Fátima, of Garabandal and Medjugorje: the sins, the unbelief, communism and atheism and the deterioration of the Church such
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Fig. 4 Funeral of Padre Pio, San Giovanni Rotondo, 1968.
Fig. 5 Church of San Giovanni Rotondo.
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as no confession, no good priests or no Sunday observance. It is a picture of a sacral order that is eroded and must be restored. It is a powerful voice against a modernity where the transcendent is denied, where God is no longer Lord and Creator. In this desperate situation prophets are sent, performers of wonders who offer signs; in this context, a very specific form of Marian devotion blooms: Mary as the Mother who cares for her children and tries to restrain the anger of her Son. This programme has everything to do with modernity. In the 20th century, and especially in the periods just after the two World Wars, major changes took place, particularly in the fields of the Church, politics, medical science and technology. The structure of the Roman Catholic Church became unsettled; in various countries there appeared a new generation of liberal clergy and urban culture with its homogenous middle class and the countryside with its stable rural village culture. All began to shift. In this context of threatening change, tradition is cherished, and the reality of evil and the devil is emphasized. People read the signs of the times and seek a foothold in the sacred order that is to be restored in the sense of the ecclesiastical sacramental order. This programme of restoration focuses primarily on the liturgical repertoire. Many see the devotions to Padre Pio as a reaction against the modernization of the Roman Catholic liturgical repertoire since the Liturgical Movement arose at the end of the 19th century which led to the total and official renewal of the liturgy provided by the Church after Vatican II.15 All this relates to modern devotion. It should be clear that this profile speaks to a certain segment of the Roman Catholic community, but it would be false to, therefore, marginalize the cult and person of Padre Pio. Its provenance, influence and following must not be underestimated. San Giovanni Rotondo draws millions of pilgrims and has the allure of Lourdes, Jerusalem or Mecca.16 Moreover, this is not an isolated cult; already before
15 See in general P. Malloy, ‘The Re-emergence of Popular Religion Among Non-Hispanic American Catholics’, in Worship 72,1 (1998) 2–15; E. Badone (ed.), Religious Orthodoxy and Popular Faith in European Society, Princeton 1990; see also (without mentioning Padre Pio): H. Tak, South Italian Festivals. A Local History of Ritual and Change, Amsterdam 2000. 16 Chr. McKevitt, ‘San Giovanni Rotondo and the Shrine of Padre Pio’, in
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the existence of the World Wide Web, Padre Pio directed an international network, and everywhere that appearances of Mary took place, where statues wept, women had visions, Padre Pio was always there in one way or another. His presence in image and prayer has come to function internationally as a hallmark. Padre Pio authenticates, stamps the vision or miracle in question, and places it in the general programme of suffering and restoration just outlined. Thus he is explicitly, in the cult itself, designated a type of the modern saint. b. Titus Brandsma: Recognized Ascetic and Moral Exemplar A clearly different model, type or profile of modern saintliness is offered by the figure of the Dutch journalist-martyr Titus Brandsma.17 Brandsma was born on a farm near Bolsward, Friesland, on February 23, 1881. His was a very pious farmer’s family; of the six children at least five chose the life of a cleric. He entered the Carmelite cloister in Boxmeer and received the monastic name of Titus. In 1905 he was ordained to the priesthood, after which he pursued the study of philosophy and sociology in Rome (1906–1909). He returned in 1909 to become instructor in philosophy at Oss, a task he combined with journalistic work for newspapers and magazines. He became professor of philosophy and mysticism and in 1935 he was appointed spiritual advisor to the Roman Catholic Journalists
J. Eade & M.J. Sallnow (eds), Contesting the Sacred. The Anthropology of Christian Pilgrimage, London 1991, 77–97. See for some statistical data: M.C. Nolan & S. Nolan, Christian Pilgrimage in Modern Western Europe, Chapel Hill/London 1989, esp. 25ss. Table 2–1 Chr. C. Park, Sacred Worlds. An Introduction to Geography and Religion, London/New York 1994, esp. Ch. 8, 275–284. 17 For Titus Brandsma: B. Meyer, Titus Brandsma, Bussum 1951; A. Staring, ‘Bibliografia di Tito Brandsma’, in Carmelus 31 (1984) 209–216; H. Aukes, Het leven van Titus Brandsma, Utrecht 1985, 3rd ed.; Titus Brandsma: Zaligverklaring Rome 1985, Oegstgeest St. RK Voorlichting 1985; C. Struyker Boudier (ed.), Titus Brandsma herzien—herdacht—herschreven, Baarn 1993; in that esp.: O. Steggink, ‘Titus Brandsma hérdacht en hérzien’, 28–48; A. Janssen, ‘Titus Brandsma als ‘hovenier van ons geestelijk erf ’. Enkele geschiedkundige aantekeningen in de context van heilig- en zaligverklaringen’, 49–70; C. Waaijman, ‘Heilige beeldvorming —zou Titus zich verzetten?’, 98–124; Van Os, Titus Brandsma, de man Gods uit Bolsward. See also: Margry & Caspers (eds), Bedevaartplaatsen in Nederland, vol. I, Hilversum/Amsterdam 1997, s.v. Dokkum (304–306) cf. 290–304; Colmschate (248–252); vol. II (1998) s.v. Nijmegen (600–606). The most recent biography is C. Dölle, De weg van Titus Brandsma. Biografie van een martelaar 1881–1942, Baarn/Gent 2000.
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Fig. 6 Titus Brandsma in his study.
Association and made great efforts in the area of the education and legal status of journalists. A letter with his signature written on December 31, 1941, to all members of the Journalists Association which urged Roman Catholic daily newspapers not to accept advertisements from the NSB, the Dutch sister party to the Nazis, had radical consequences. On January 19, 1942, he was arrested by the Germans and ultimately sent to Dachau, where he died in the infirmary on July 26. He was officially beatified in 1985. His liturgical commemoration is July 27. The veneration of Brandsma as a saint, or officially, as beatified, takes on the traditional form in limited degree. At the moment, his cult is concentrated in a number of places. Interest in the figure of Brandsma likewise takes shape chiefly through the ritual of commemoration. On occasions such as the fiftieth anniversary of his death and his beatification there were symposia and study conferences, and collections and studies were published. At these commemorative celebrations it is regularly emphasized that these modern rites of veneration, reflecting rationality, intellectualism and distance, are in keeping with the character of Brandsma. I will present this modern profile now in more general terms.
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His is an appropriation that can be traced in certain segments of the Church and, more importantly, now more broadly, in society. It is, generally speaking, the more intellectual spheres of the Church and society that shape Titus’s profile. That can be seen in the rituals of the academic congress and symposia, of collections of articles and journalistic pieces. The relevance of Christianity is also expressed in a more general sense through Titus. Here, Titus as a modern saint links up with the trend, previously mentioned above, which began in the 1960s, of bringing modern witnesses, righteous men and women, exemplary lives, into the procession of traditional saints, or replacing it with them. I am referring, for instance to that church window in Heerlen, to the lists in studies about saints that seek to update and inculturate the tradition. Titus provides a profile very suitable for such inculturation. With an eye to modern sacrality, he particularly stands for such previously mentioned basic values as suffering, asceticism, Christian moral appeal and mysticism. Exemplary studies of the saint, such as those of Peter Dinzelbacher and Arnold Angenendt, present the historical model of the Christian saint on through to the present.18 A life marked by suffering, the example of unselfish asceticism and self-sacrifice, and an engaged mystical attitude on the one hand, embody and personify the moral appeal of Christianity in our culture, and on the other hand they afford comfort and hope. At the close of his book, with reference to CarlFriedrich von Weizsäcker, Arnold Angenendt explicitly makes note of this important ascetic potential which can be brought into modern Western culture through the memory of Christian saints such as Titus Brandsma.19 Waaijman is, therefore, correct in linking Brandsma with the features of postmodern sanctity that Edith Wyschogrod sketched in 1990.20 She strongly emphasizes the ethical profile of the modern saint. A holy life is a life in which compassion for the Other is central. The saint’s story is extremely modern and contemporary, or can be, because it speaks of self-denial and the primacy of the Other in such a way that readers and hearers experience the motives that impel the holy man or woman.
18
Cf. our note 3. Angenendt, Heilige, 315–317 and 350–355. 20 E. Wyschogrod, Saints and Postmodernism, Chicago 1990; cf. Waaijman, ‘Heilige beeldvorming’. 19
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Fig. 7 Portrait of Titus Brandsma in prison (Kamp Amersfoort) by John Dons.
c. Mary Magdalene: A Saint Tailor Made for the Feminist Liturgical Movement The two profiles which now follow can be more briefly sketched. We refer here to good studies that have already been done. This is true firstly for the profile of Mary Magdalene. In this I refer to the tradition of feminist liturgical movements in which the role of women has been critically examined. There are two tracks involved here. There is the track of feminist, or women’s and gender studies in theology and liturgy, and there is the closely related practical track of new ways of celebrating liturgy. Both lines come together under the umbrella of the Feminist Liturgical Movement.21 This movement
21
For a good introduction on the FLM: D. Dijk, Een beeld van een liturgie. Verkenningen
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has made a name for itself particularly in the United States. Often in close cooperation with feminist studies in the field of Biblical studies, the liturgical tradition of commemorating women is also critically examined in this light. Forgotten women, women to whom inadequate attention has been paid, women whose roles have been misunderstood in the Old and New Testaments are brought into the academic limelight, and in the liturgical context as well. Various authors, such as Mary Collins and Marjorie Procter-Smith, have now also taken the place of women in liturgical anamnesis as their subject, working along the two tracks indicated, of study and alternative liturgical praxis. Here, for instance, the “communion of saints” becomes a vital theme. A good survey of soundings into the marginal place of women in the liturgical commemoratio and possible correctives, adequate and inadequate, is given in a recent article by Michael D. Whalen in the American liturgical studies journal Worship.22 In this study, numerous examples are given of female saints who serve in Christian narratives and rituals in place of, or alongside male saints. Referring to the authors already mentioned, such as Collins, Procter-Smith and Whalen, for this profile of Mary Magdalene as a modern saint for the Feminist Liturgical Movement, the following points can be made: – First, there is the clear tendency when searching for women saints to rely on Scripture. In this regard, Mary Magdalene also represents Miriam, Esther, Ruth and Mary of Nazareth. – It is also important that in the context of the Feminist Liturgical Movement the new, modern saint is linked with a fundamentally new and modern rethinking of the concept of “remembrance.” Remembrance is now seen as a critical activity, a subversive act. The political and ideological dimensions which adhere to it are constantly emphasized. Thus, the naming of names in a liturgy is
in vrouwenstudies liturgiek, met bijzondere aandacht voor het werk van Marjorie Procter-Smith, Gorinchem 1999. Cf. M. Procter-Smith, ‘Liturgical Anamnesis and Women’s Memory: Something Missing’, in Worship 61 (1987) 405–425; E. Johnson, Friends of God and Prophets: a Feminist Theological Reading of the Communion of Saints, New York 1998; M.D. Whalen, ‘In the Company of Women? The Politics of Memory in the Liturgical Commemoration of Saints—Male and Female’, in Worship 73,6 (1999) 482–504; M. Collins, Contemplative Participation, Collegeville 1990. 22 Whalen, ‘In the Company’. On Maria Magdalena: 495–97.
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never done without premeditation: one must constantly be conscious of the responsibility of looking ideologically and critically at what is being said in the liturgical act. Thus, in the profile of Mary Magdalene there lies also a modern form of veneration and cult—once again, of modern devotion. Mary Magdalene and the profile of Padre Pio have in common that both a social situation and existing ecclesiastical liturgical practices form reference points to which people react. The “modern” milieu is, however, not subject to criticism for being modern, but for being traditionally masculine and androcentric. There are some indications that here the saint as a person in a certain sense evaporates, that the saint is often rather a name, an alternative, a thematization of certain qualities from the feminist programme. That perspective certainly seems to apply in the following, final two profiles. d. James, the Folklorized, Musealized Saint The next profile, which I connect with the name of St. James, could equally well could have been linked with the names of Nicholas or Hubert. I use an important and by now frequently described modern process among sacral tendencies, which not only fundamentally affects objects but also rituals. Our analysis will be presented in the context of sanctity of time and space, under the umbrella-term “musealization.”23 We deal here with a very specific form of appropriation of saints in which there is a remarkable shift in context which is in turn linked to changes in the way in which the sacred is dealt with and experienced. There is no longer mythic involvement in the sacred, but distance. Statues of saints are a good illustration of this. Through a series of changing processes of appropriation, the physical, material image of a saint can move from the liturgical context of a pilgrimage site (the mystic dimension of devotion) through the historical or art
23 P. Post, Het wonder van Dokkum. Verkenningen van populair religieus ritueel, Nijmegen 2000, 33ss. and Id., ‘Post-Modern Pilgrimage: Christian Ritual Between Liturgy and ‘Topolatry’’, in: A. Houtman, M. Poorthuis & J. Schwartz (eds), Sanctity of Time and Space in Tradition and Modernity (= Jewish & Christian Perspectives Series 1), Leiden 1998, 299–316, sub 3, 310–314, litt. in note 25.
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museum into the gallery of an art or antique dealer, and thus through commercial channels to become decoration in a postmodern living room or office. With this in mind we are now able, it seems to me, to fill in the content of an important profile of the modern saint, typified in the folklorized and musealized saint. This saint has to an important degree become depersonalized; he or she is connected with culture and the past. A good illustration of this is the Camino to Santiago de Compostela. This medieval pilgrims’ journey is by now, as is well known, flourishing again, thanks in large part to what are termed “modern pilgrims.”24 Large numbers of people hike and bicycle the ancient route on the way to the reputed burial place of James. Research has now provided us with the information to further elaborate the profile of these modern pilgrims. For them it is not, as it was for their predecessors, or as it still is for local or regional pilgrims, a form of devotion to the saint, to James as the powerful, important intercessor and patron, but a physical journey which is sharply focused around an individual, personal, inward journey in which culture, history, nature, self-encounter, or the search for a moratorium in the pace of bourgeois existence are supporting motifs. The figure of the saint, the person of the venerable James, plays hardly any role in this. He is only a slogan; it is not his image, his portrait, but the shell that is the logo. This profile of Christian saints who are primarily connected with folklore, tradition, past and culture is by now widespread in Western Europe. The great popularity of Christian saints in the last years in media, museums, books, etc., is particularly linked with this profile. In a final profile of modern sanctity, we travel further along this line of depersonalization, subjectivity and personal appropriation, and allow the saint to ascend into the choir or angels. e. Angel: The Modern Saint as an Ambiguous, Vague Sacred Presence The final profile of the modern saint I would designate as the angel. In an ecclesiastic/ritual perspective, angels and saints traditionally
24 Cf. P. Post, J. Pieper & M. van Uden, The Modern Pilgrim. Multidisciplinary Explorations of Christian Pilgrimage (= Liturgia condenda 8) Leuven 1998, Ch. 9, 221–243; N.L. Frey, Pilgrim Stories. On and off the Road to Santiago. Journeys Along an Ancient Way in Modern Spain, Berkeley/Los Angeles/London 1998.
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‘Modern pilgrims’ on the Camino, the Medieval route to Santiago de Compostela (Spain).
belong together; there are overlaps and interrelationships. The angel is, in my view, an exponent, a type of the modern religious, sacred intermediary, but in a pronouncedly general, open and individual/ subjective form. I would even propose that the angel is the modern saint par excellence. I will briefly work out this angel profile further.25 It has been noted that in recent years, following on the return of saints, there has also been a return of angels, and it must be admitted that in a number of places and in a number of ways, angels are again among us. For the rest—and many have also suggested this—
25 For angel(s): Lexikon der christlichen Ikonographie, t. I, s.v. Engel 626–642 (1968/1990); Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum t. 5 (1962) 53–322 s.v. Engel I–X; Liturgisch Woordenboek deel I (1962) s.v. Engelen, cols. 671–680; K. Köstlin, ‘Die Wiederkehr der Engel’, in N.-A. Bringéus (ed.), Religion in Everyday Life. Papers Given at a Symposium in Stockholm 1993 (= Konferenzer etc. 31), Stockholm 1994, 79–96; M. McNamee, Vested Angels. Eucharistic Allusions in Early Netherlandish Paintings (= Liturgia condenda 6), Leuven 1998; F. van der Meer, ‘De tweede val der engelen. Geschiedenis ener beeldvorming’, in: Saecula saeculorum. Opstellen aangeboden aan C.W. Mönnich, Amsterdam 1982, 47–97 = S. de Boer, Bronnen van Europese cultuur 6, Baarn 1991, 205–254.
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Fig. 9. House decoration with Raphael’s little angels (1995), detail of the Madonna Sistina, ca. 1513.
the question remains whether they were ever really gone. There are continuously exhibition projects devoted to angels, the stream of publications in which reports of experiences with angels is immense, and some book shops have even devoted a whole shelf of its own for angel books. Raphael’s little angels, a relatively small detail at one side of a larger work that is known as the “Madonna Sistina” (Dresden, ca. 1513) are now to be found on biscuit tins, Christmas cards, gift wrap, wrapping paper, posters and who knows what else.26 As angels now “return” again, possibly the more general nature of the messenger appeals more to the modern inclination toward the ambiguous, as humans yearn for intermediaries between God and man. In a fascinating essay from 1994 on the return of angels in our Western culture, the German/Austrian ethnologist Konrad Köstlin showed how people attach themselves to the general sacral and ritual tendencies by means of the open figure of the angel.27 The angel
26 Cf. H. Belting, Bild und Kult. Eine Geschichte des Bildes vor dem Zeitalter der Kunst, München 1990, 533–545 (fig. 290; over Raphael’s Madonna Sistina). 27 Köstlin, ‘Die Wiederkehr’.
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Fig. 10 Devotion print ( Jeanne Hebbelynck), angels and prayer; mid 20th cent. CE.
provides coherence and myth, connects with the past and with tradition. Angels stand for the good old days, for continuity in a quickly changing modern world. Quite correctly, Köstlin immediately follows this up by remarking that it is primarily their ambiguity which makes angels popular. Rather than the personal God or saint with a face and a history, the angel is preeminently a component of modern religiosity and rituality. Angels are indeterminate beings; they are capable of being everything and nothing. They literally hover somewhere between person and generalized power or force. They transcend man or woman, are elusive and near at hand, but at the same time possess a name and a face. They possess an open identity, they are transconfessional, transsexual and transcultural. The figure of the angel, like much of modern religions and modern ritual, is a vessel, an open and ambiguous frame which can be filled in and appropriated entirely according to one’s own personal desires and insights. Angels stand now for everything for which men feel a need, the everyday ecstasy of happiness and the idyllic: harmony, companionship, warmth, peace, romance and every day Valentine’s day. The use of Raphael’s two angels, which we mentioned above,
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speaks volumes here: like a quotation taken out of context, this detail of a painting is blown up into an autonomous image that provides atmosphere not just for Christmas, but actually any time and any place. In this way, the angel becomes a innocent decoration, a counterpoint, an oasis in a hard society where people generally must make their way by not being an angel. Therefore in the image of angels people opt for an appearance of personal ambiguity as the vessel for modern dealings with the sacred.
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MIRACULOUS WOMEN: MIRACLES, RELIGIOUS AUTHORITY AND GENDER Anne-Marie Korte (Catholic Theological University of Utrecht, The Netherlands) Introduction In the history of Judaism and Christianity the sanctity of persons has predominantly been marked by the miraculous. Miracle stories are told and retold to keep the memory of extraordinary persons— prophets, martyrs, saints—alive and to emphasize their significance as religious role models.1 Studying the major miracle stories of Jewish and Christian heritage searching for ‘miraculous women’, however, does not seem to be very fruitful. In light of women’s marginal position within the mainstream of the western religious traditions, the central and famous miracle stories of Judaism and Christianity are not likely to expose or emphasize women’s religious prominence and authority. Miracles are crucial for supporting the religious authority and credibility of religious leaders and institutions, for the phenomenon of miracles and the legitimization of religious power and authority are closely connected. Indeed, miracle-performing women as such are hard to find in the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament. However, to work the other way around and to start with critical reflection on how to define and interpret miracles and miracle stories seems more promising. In a very interesting article on the study of medieval miracles and the sense of wonder in general, the American historian Caroline Walker Bynum has emphasized the acknowledgement of difference in the study of miracles. “Only that which is really different from the knower can trigger wonder; yet wonder will always be in a context and from a particular point of view,”
1 In Christianity, from the outset sanctity has been marked by the miraculous. See a.o. Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981); Donald Weinstein and Rudolph Bell, Saints and Society: The Two Worlds of Wetern Christendom, 1000–1700 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), p. 142.
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she states.2 In medieval times the miraculous was defined as the antithesis, not of that which could be known or sensed, but of that which could be investigated, imitated and generalized. “Wonder was a recognition of the singularity and significance of the thing encountered. . . . [It] was a response to something novel and bizarre that seemed both to exceed explanation and to indicate that there might be reason (significance—not necessarily cause) behind it.”3 Only an inquisitive approach that incorporates the very same attitude towards wonderment can lead us to what people in other ages and contexts have considered miraculous, according to Bynum. In my opinion, this recommendation, i.e. to study miracle and miracle stories in light of difference and wonder can also be very fruitful to women’s studies in particular and to gender studies in general. Following this approach, miracles can be seen as events of transgression, reversal and excess, all needed to express the uniqueness and the irreducibility of the situation and the experience. Miracle stories confirm, but they also contest and transform theological dualism, gender stereotypes and established structures of religious power and authority. Here I will concentrate on the question whether miracle stories from Jewish and Christian tradition deal with women as religious role models, and if they do, how this is done. First, I will present some general remarks and insights on the study of women in miracle stories, and then I will discuss several historical examples analyzing developments in the models of wondrous women. I will argue that the involvement of women in miracles reveals how the human body, and especially the female body, can be perceived as having its own distinctive role in conveying God’s presence and power.4 Women in Miracle Stories Miracles figure in the oral and written canons of most religious traditions. In the second half of the twentieth century, western academic 2
Caroline Walker Bynum, “Wonder”, American Historical Review 102 (1997), p. 3. Bynum, “Wonder”, p. 3; p. 24. 4 See Anne-Marie Korte, “Women and Miracle Stories: An Introduction,” in: Idem (ed.), Women and Miracle Stories: A Multidisciplinary Exploration (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 1–28; Idem, “A Different Grace: Epilogue,” in: Idem (ed.), Women and Miracle Stories, pp. 325–340. 3
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scholars of theology and religious studies often have avoided the study of miracles and miracle stories because of the non-rational and manipulative characteristics that have been ascribed to this phenomenon. However, this tendency, originally fed by twentieth century hypotheses about secularization and the general decline of religion, is waning. There is a growing curiosity about the significance of miracles and their function, for instance, in the establishment and spread of (new) religious movements, in popular faith and culture, as well as in non-western religions. Scholars from different fields and disciplines are showing a new interest in the meaning of miracle as a religious phenomenon and as a means of religious expression and communication.5 Most miracles are incidents of healing or salvation that defy all reasonable expectations. Such incidents may be experienced as an intervention from outside, by a higher power or by God. This type of miracle is characteristic of most classic religious miracle stories, but it also occurs in many spontaneously reported events experienced as ‘miracles’ in today’s world. In the latter, most are not regarded as special or significant by all people but are miracle-like to those who experience them because of their profound, wondrous and lifechanging effect. Such private miracles may be related to birth and death and other existential occurrences that are ‘eye openers’ and provide new insights into life. This aspect occurs especially often in everyday secular discourse about miracles, while miracles of more general or public significance are extremely rare in this discourse. There are also miracles that do not directly answer to individual needs or wishes. For example, the corpse of a saint may appear not 5 Examples of this renewed interest are a.o. Mart Bax, Medjugorje: Religion, Politics and Violence in Rural Bosnia (Amsterdam: VU Uitgeverij, 1995); Irmtraud Götz von Olenhusen (Hrsg.), Wunderbare Erscheinungen: Frauen und katholischen Frömmigkeit im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1995); Michael E. Goodich, Violence and Miracle in the Fourteenth Century: Private Grief and Public Salvation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995); Torsten Fremer, “Wunder und Magie: Zur Funktion der Heiligen im frühmittelalterlichen Christianisierungsprozess”, Hagiographica 3 (1996), pp. 15–88; Robert Bruce Mullin, Miracles and the Modern Religious Imagination (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 1996); Lorraine J. Daston, Katharine Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature, 1150–1750 (New York: Zone Books, 1998); Richard H. Davis (ed.), Images, Miracles, and Authority in Asian Religious Traditions (Boulder/Oxford: Westview Press, 1998); Ruth Harris, Lourdes: Body and Spirit in the Secular Age (London: Allen Lane/The Penguin Press, 1999); John C. Cavadini (ed.), Miracles in Jewish and Christian Antiquity: Imagining Truth (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1999); Korte (ed.), Women and Miracle Stories.
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to have decomposed, the sun seems to spin on its axis, or roses may suddenly bloom in wintertime. This category of miracles also includes phenomena that underscore a particular individual’s unique position, power or abilities. Examples of such abilities are precognitive dreams, prophecies, and the power to control animals or natural phenomena. These occurrences are amazing and unfathomable because they deviate from what is ‘normal’ or ‘predictable’—in terms of the laws of physics, for instance. The events can be seen as a sign from an alternative or incomprehensible order or reality; the miracle is understood as an indication or proof that this other realm exists and ‘makes a difference’. In general, miracles have a positive effect. A miracle is an event that both meets and fails to meet expectations; what happens exceeds, but does not violate, the witnesses’ expectations. In some way a miracle brings salvation or changes things for the better. However, this does not exclude the possibility that a miracle will have a critical, disruptive or even destructive effect on those who are involved. In miracle stories, women often are more present and make themselves better heard than in other classic genres of religious writing, like doctrinal or liturgical texts. This is mainly due to the fact that miracle stories are narratives or are narratively structured texts. Telling examples of women figuring in miracle stories in western religious traditions are not hard to find. Both the Hebrew and the Christian Bible contain remarkable stories in which women, against all expectations, bear children, are miraculously healed, or obtain inexhaustible food supplies.6 In miraculous healings of classical and late antiquity— for instance the Epidaurus cases—sources such as Strabo explicitly refer to the wondrous recovery of women.7 Some apocryphal biblical texts, like for instance the Acts of Thecla, even suggest that women themselves have performed miracles.8 And clearly many of the Christian saints who are known for their—in most cases posthumous—miracles are women.
6 See e.g. Cavadini (ed.), Miracles in Jewish and Christian Antiquity; Marla J. Selvidge, Woman, Cult, and Miracle Recital: A Redactional Critical Investigation on Mark 5:24–34 (Lewisburg, Pa: Bucknell University Press, 1990). 7 Emma J. Edelstein and Ludwig Edelstein, Asclepius: A Collection and Interpretation of the Testimonies (Baltimore Johns Hopkins University, 1945) Vol. I, #423, 1 and 2. 8 Magda Misset-van de Weg, Sara & Thecla: Verbeelding van vrouwen in 1 Petrus en de Acta Thecla (Dissertation, Tilburg, 1998).
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Women’s Involvement in Miracles Quantitative research has shown that, in European history, women’s public involvement in miracles has steadily increased. Textual material brought together from various periods and disciplines suggests that, through time, women in Western Europe have become more and more openly involved in rituals, cults, and other activities surrounding miracles such as faith healing, pilgrimages, the veneration of saints, et cetera.9 While women in early medieval times were ascribed practically no miracles,10 this changed considerably in the high Middle Ages, when the number of female miracle-performing saints grew impressively. While most visitors to shrines and miracle sites were men until the late Middle Ages, 11 the balance subsequently tipped in favor of women.12 In western countries, the nineteenth and twentieth centuries are characterized by an ever-stronger connection between women and miracles. In this period, women have taken center stage as ‘mediators’, visionaries or go-betweens, who connect with another reality—and in this role they have had fewer male counterparts.13
9 Peter Dinzelbacher, Vision und Visionsliteratur im Mittelalter (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1981); Caroline Walker Bynum, Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987); Idem, Fragmentation and Redemption: Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion (New York: Zone Books, 1991); Idem, “Bodily Miracles and the Resurrection of the Body in the High Middle Ages”, Thomas Kselman (ed.), Belief in History (Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 1990), pp. 68–106. 10 See Aline Rouselle, “La sage-femme et le thaumaturge dans la Gaule tardive: Les femmes ne font pas de miracles”, André Pelletier (ed.), La médecine en Gaule: Villes d’eaux, sanctuaires des eaux (Paris: Picard, 1985), pp. 241–251; Elena Giannarelli, “Women and Miracles in Christian Biography (IVth–Vth centuries)”, Studia Patristica 25 (1991), pp. 376–380; Benedicta Ward, “Apophtegmata Matrum”, Ward, Signs and Wonders, I, pp. 63–66; H.-W. Goetz, “Heiligenkult und Geslecht: Geslechtspezifisches Wunderwirken in frühmittelalterlichen Mirakelberichten?”, Das Mittelalter 1 (1996), pp. 89–111. 11 Rebekka Habermas, Wahlfart und Aufruhr: Zur Geschichte des Wunderglaubens in der frühen Neuzeit (Frankfurt: Campus, 1991), pp. 45–66; Gerrit Verhoeven, Devotie en negotie: Delft als bedevaartsplaats in de late middeleeuwen (Amsterdam: VU Uitgeverij, 1992). 12 See Irmtraud Götz von Olenhusen, “Vorwort”, Götz von Olenhusen (Hrsg.), Wunderbare Erscheinungen, pp. 7–12; William A. Christian Jr., Apparitions in Late Medieval and Renaissance Spain (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981). 13 Thomas A. Kselman, Miracles & Prophecies in Nineteenth-Century France (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1983); Stéphane Michaud, Muse et madone: Visages de la femme de la Revolution française aux apparitions de Lourdes (Paris: Seuil, 1985); Alex Owen, The Darkened Room: Women, Power and Spirituality in late Victorian England
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So the phenomenon of miracle and the genre of miracle stories seem to provide us with an interesting opportunity to study women’s appearance as role models in religious affairs and to discuss the possibilities and limitations of their spiritual influence and religious authority. However, women’s presence in this genre has not received very much systematic scholarly attention. This may result from the deeply rooted assumption that women have a ‘natural’ leaning towards the supernatural, a special susceptibility to faith as well as to superstition and magic. These ideas were present in writings as early as Strabo’s and have since been reaffirmed by many others, including St. Jerome in his Contra Vigilantum, David Hume in his Natural History of Religion, and even by Simone de Beauvoir in her famous study on the secondary position of women, The Second Sex.14 Those who follow this line of thinking can easily link women’s involvement in miracles with stereotypical ideas about faith versus knowledge and femininity versus masculinity. The issue then seems to need no further explanation or inquiry. In fact, women’s involvement in miracles is not as self-evident as it seems. In mainstream western culture, women’s individual and public participation in religious affairs is highly controversial. Literary critic Lynda Coon who studied late antique and early medieval hagiography has shown how a strongly gendered rhetoric of authority has shaped Christian religious role models. Although the Jewish and the Christian Bibles provide brief references to female queens, judges and prophets, there are no biblical women whose deeds can compare with the miraculous accomplishments of holy men such as Elijah, Elisha, John the Baptist, Christ and the apostles. According to Coon, in biblical discourse, it is manhood that defines miraculous power, consecrated authority and spiritual perfection, and this male authoritative model is construed in opposition to female weakness and imperfection, as for example is expressed in 2 Timothy 3, 6–7: “Weak women, burdened with sins and swayed by various impulses,
(Philadelphia: The University of Pennsylvania Press, 1990); Sandra L. ZimdarsSwartz, Encountering Mary: From La Salette to Medjugorje (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991); David Blackbourn, Marpingen: Apparitions of the Virgin Mary in Bismarckian Germany (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993); Bax, Medjugorje; Götz von Olenhusen (Hrsg.), Wunderbare Erscheinungen; Christian Jr., Visionaries: The Spanish Republic and the Reign of Christ. 14 See Brown, The Cult of the Saints, p. 20; p. 28; Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex (New York: Vintage Books, 1989), pp. 289–293; pp. 597–628; pp. 670–678.
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who will listen to anybody and can never arrive at a knowledge of the truth.”15 Literary critic Elizabeth Alvilda Petroff has pointed out how anxiousness about women’s independent and public participation in religious affairs has influenced the representation of the ‘female saint’ in medieval Europe. Noting that religious ideas about women were steeped in suspicion (‘the good woman was the invisible woman, the silent woman’), Petroff observes that any woman prominently active in religion was open to accusations of transgression. For a woman “[t]o become a saint, one had to transgress somewhere, if only in order to become visible.”16 Her sin was her failure to adhere to conventional female behavior, overstepping the boundaries of gender set by none other than God. According to Petroff, medieval hagiographers faced a complicated task when it came to depicting female saints. They had to stress how extraordinary and miraculous these women’s deeds were by showing how they differed from the norm. Yet they also had to make clear that it was God, and not the saint herself, who willed the miracles to occur. They had to verify that a transgression by a saintly woman had been the will of God. If not, she would doubtlessly be branded a heretic, a witch or a whore. The fact that a woman could be empowered by God to independently and directly intervene in spiritual matters was sometimes considered even more miraculous than the very miracles this saintly woman performed. Arguing from the opposite point of view, the famous Dutch historian Johan Huizinga has contended that it is holiness itself that transcends gender norms and conventions. While he acknowledged that the western images of the hero, the genius and the ‘great’ historical figure are male models, according to him this does not apply to the idea of the saint. He believed that holiness contains the highest realization of human potential and that gender plays no role in it. Holiness, he explained, operates in manners that differ profoundly from profane conventions, and it cannot be measured by worldly standards.17
15 Lynda L. Coon, Sacred Fictions: Holy Women and Hagiography in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997), pp. 1–27. 16 Elizabeth Alvida Petroff, Medieval Women’s Visionary Literature (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), p. 166. 17 Johan Huizinga, “Historische grootheid: Een overpeinzing (30–3–1940)”, Johan
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This idea, although much less idealistically and lofty formulated, has become foundational in the new study of holiness that departs from the social and cultural construction of gender. From this point of view, in religious discourse gender receives its own function and representations to mediate the idea that the sacred operates in a manner opposite to profane conventions. So, to depict holy men and holy women, Christian hagiographers not only resorted to prevailing images of masculinity and femininity but they also blended and even inverted these to demonstrate the otherworldly nature of Christian sanctity. This gender-bending and gender-crossing complicate the interpretation and valuing of female holiness, as can be seen in the feminist studies of female saints that have been undertaken in the last quarter of the twentieth century. Holy women like Mary of Magdala, Mary of Egypt or Monica, the mother of Saint Augustine, have been depicted as sheer victims of misogyny, while other scholars have presented them as proto-feminist heroines. Only when the paradoxical use of gender in the shaping of religious role models is acknowledged, it becomes possible to escape this impasse. As Lynda Coon has suggested, the portrayals of holy women need to be studied with an eye toward the highly rhetorical and symbolic meanings contained in their sacred biographies, which are often produced by male authors for a primarily male audience. So, for instance, “[m]ale writers who constructed the symbolic images of holy women did so not only to glorify the piety of female saints, but also to suppress the vacillating faith of men and to feature powerful, independent holy women’s submission to the male hierarchy.”18 From a historical and literary point of view, that acknowledges the construction of gender in religious discourse, the female saint thus can not be released from her paradoxical gender-identity. As far as she is a religious role model, her gender-identity is fluid and multi-interpretable.
Huizinga, Verzamelde Werken VII: Geschiedwetenschap hedendaagsche cultuur (Haarlem: Tjeenk Willink, 1950), pp. 211–217, esp. p. 217. 18 Coon, Sacred Fictions, pp. 26–27.
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Miracles and the Exertion of Power Apparently, as a number of historical cases show, to perform miracles—or to be associated with them—can work out in different ways: it may confirm the male authoritative model, but it can also contest this model and help to create new forms of religious power and authority. So the question is not, if women can obtain religious power and authority by performing miracles, but what kind of religious power and authority women obtain or lay claim to by performing miracles or by being associated with miracles, and to which aims this power and authority is used by them. Scholars of religion have contended that women resort to miracles as a means of overcoming deprivation. In this view, women ‘use’ miracles—as well as spirit possession and other charismatic or ecstatic religious expressions—as an instrument of power, because they are denied influence in so many other ways. Historical, sociological and anthropological research shows women and children to be the least empowered sufferers. The use of acknowledged power or legitimate violence to resolve conflicts is an option less available to women, at home, as well as within local and religious communities. Involvement in miracles can be seen as an appropriate way of contesting these restrictions. It provides an alternative in which women can actively promote their own well being as well as that of their families or communities.19 To be associated with miracles, therefore, can be understood as an important ‘source of empowerment’. It is the unique and entirely out of the ordinary nature of miracles which lends their performers a kind of social and religious authority independent of their education and social or religious status. As the number of women miracleperformers in Christian Europe continually grew until the Reformation, it would seem that women indeed have used this unique source of
19
Zimdars-Swartz, Encountering Mary, passim; Bax, Medjugorje, pp. 53–66. For a similar view, see also Fatima Mernissi, “Women, Saints and Sanctuaries”, Elizabeth Abel and Emily K. Abel (eds), The Signs Reader: Women, Gender & Scholarship (Chicago/ London: University of Chicago Press, 1983), pp. 57–68; Edien Bartels, Een dochter is beter dan duizend zonen: Arabische vrouwen, symbolen en machtsverhoudingen tussen de sexen (Utrecht: Van Arkel, 1993); Bartels’ study of women in North African Islam shows that—despite the fact that holy women here are outnumbered by holy men—it is predominantly women who ‘deal with’ and invoke these—usually local—saints.
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empowerment to claim religious autonomy and authority in a religious climate increasingly dominated by an exclusively male hierarchy. A number of women employed the power of miracles to forge their own brand of faith, to devote their lives to God against the social conventions of marriage and motherhood.20 But a far greater number of women could not or did not claim this autonomy and authority, and in the same period, namely late medieval and early modern Europe, women’s social and religious independence was highly contested and extremely disqualified by association with heresy, witchcraft and magic, which has led to the greatest gender-specific murdering of European history in the so called witch hunts.21 The idea that women resort to miracles mainly because they lack autonomy, power and rationality may sound convenient and fits the stereotypes concerning women’s ‘natural’ religious sensibility as discussed above, but is hardly illuminating when it comes to chart the relationship between miracle performing and the exercising of spiritual power and religious authority by women. This approach is more likely to confirm than question the classic, stereotypical image of women as less rational, less autonomous and therefore more susceptible to religion, magic and superstition. Moreover, to focus on women as the underprivileged or as outsiders “may obscure the role women have played in the actual creation of distinctive features of main-
20 Jo Ann McNamara, “The Need to Give: Suffering and Female Sanctity in the Middle Ages,” in: Renate Blumenfeld-Kosinski and Timea Szell (eds), Images of Sainthood in Medieval Europe (Ithaca and London: Cornell UP, 1991), pp. 199–221; John Coakley, “Frairs as Confidants of Holy Women in Medieval Dominican Hagiography,” in: Blumenfeld-Kosinski and Szell (eds), Images of Sainthood in Medieval Europe, pp. 222–46; John Coakley, “Gender and the Authority of Friars: The Significance of Holy Women for Thirteenth-Century Franciscans and Dominicans,” Church History 60 (1991), pp. 445–60. 21 See Gottfried Koch, Frauenfrage und Ketzertum im Mittelalter: Die Frauenbewegung im Rahmen des Katharismus und des Waldensertums und ihre sozialen Wurzeln (12.–14. Jahrhundert) (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962); Carol Frances Karlsen, The Devil in the Shape of a Woman: The Witch in Seventeenth Century New England, PhD Yale University (Ann Arbor: University Microfilms, 1982); Lène Dresen-Coenders, Het verbond van heks en duivel: Een waandenkbeeld aan het begin van de moderne tijd als symptoom van een veranderende situatie van de vrouw en als middel tot hervorming van de zeden (Baarn: Ambo, 1983); Brian P. Levack (ed.), Witchcraft, Women and Society: Articles on Witchcraft, Magic & Demonology (New York: Garland Publishing, 1992); Dorothée van Paassen en Anke Passenier (red.), Op zoek naar vrouwen in ketterij en sekte: Een bronnenonderzoek (Kampen: Kok, 1993); Daniela Müller, Frauen vor der Inquisition: Lebensform, Glaubenszeugnis und Aburteilung der deutschen und französischen Katharerinnen (Mainz: von Zabern, 1996).
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stream religious practice”.22 Women’s lives and experiences are not only marginal and ‘other’. They can be assumed to form a world, which is in some ways marginal and isolated, but in other ways not at all. Anthropologists Edwin and Shirley Ardener developed a model for studying the cultural expressions of marginalized groups in society. The model assumes that marginalized groups are for the most part included in the dominant culture—while recognizing that they are also excluded from it to some extent. When applied to women, this means that one should be aware of the possibility that their utterances and actions are ‘double voiced’. Their expressions may contain irreconcilable tensions between a given women’s culture and a dominant androcentric culture.23 This has consequences for research into women and miracles. When women appeal for acknowledgement of their (involvement in) miracles, it is partly a way of seeking acknowledgement of themselves. They do this by presenting ‘their’ miracles in a way that is acceptable, at least to the dominant culture. At the same time, these women may also use the miracles to place their own problems, expectations and (religious) views on the public agenda. Women as ‘Vehicle’ of Divine Acts In the miracle stories that I have been studying during the past years,24 I have discovered some recurring themes that have made
22
Walker Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, p. 57. Edwin Ardener, “Belief and the Problem of Women”; “The Problem Revisited”, Shirley Ardener (ed.), Perceiving Women (New York: Halsted Press, 1978), pp. 1–27. For examples and an explanation of this type of interpretation of Old Testament texts, see Fokkelien van Dijk-Hemmes, Sporen van vrouwenteksten in de Hebreeuwse bijbel (Utrecht: Faculteit der Godgeleerdheid Universiteit Utrecht, 1992); Idem, De dubbele stem van haar verlangen, teksten van Fokkelien van Dijk-Hemmes, verzameld en ingeleid door Jonneke Bekkenkamp en Freda Dröes (Zoetermeer: Meinema, 1995). 24 These miracle stories have been object of study in the interdisciplinary research project in the fields of theology and religious studies, entitled ‘Women and Miracle Stories’ (see: Korte (ed.), Women and Miracle Stories). Scholars from the Catholic Theological University of Utrecht, from Utrecht University’s Department of Theology and several other departments have participated in this project, which aimed at examining miracle stories with a special emphasis on gender and the position of women. The participants have come from many different fields, including religious studies, theology, philosophy, literature and history. In the course of this project cases have been studied that range from the period of formative Christianity through the European Middle Ages till modern and contemporary western times. The miracle stories discussed in this book include the apocryphal Acts of Thecla, the reports 23
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me reconsider the relationship between miracle performing and the exercising of spiritual power and religious authority by women. In the first place, the idea that miracle-working equals influence or power and establishes or confirms religious authority is at odds with the intrinsic meaning of miracles in most religious traditions. In Judaism and Christianity, God is the initiator of miracles. God’s miraculous power becomes manifest in the prophets, martyrs and saints. Miracle-performers are instruments, signs or intermediaries, which serve this power. Their role is one of ‘receptiveness’ and ‘passivity’, stereotypically feminine characteristics. Seen in this light, it is not unthinkable that women can also perform miracles. But how does this work out given the fact that women are already considered to be receptive and passive creatures? Actually, the miracles that have been ascribed to women in the course of western history are not only less in number but also different from the wonders performed by their male counterparts.25 Women’s miracles are often more physical in nature, involving a change either in their bodies or brought about by their bodies, and their miracles serve less often to establish their individual religious authority. As miracle-performers, women are more likely to be God’s vehicle than God’s personal representative. The idea that women are the ‘vehicle’ par excellence for Divine acts—and in the most literal, corporeal sense—is already present in prototypical form in the long series of biblical stories about barren women whose wombs are opened by God. The notion has taken root in the early Middle Ages with the worship of Mary, Jesus’ Mother, as theotokos, or Mother of God (fifth
of among others Gregory of Tours on the sixth-century Frankish female saints Radegund and Monegunde, the thirteenth century Life of Christina Mirabilis, the miracle story concerning a rabbi’s wife in the so-called ‘messianic document’ of the Genizah of Cairo, the biography of the nineteenth century German Seeress of Prevorst, as well as the miracles in the writings of the contemporary Austrian novelist Ingeborg Bachmann and the American science fiction author Rhoda Lerman. 25 Historian Jane Tibbets Schulenberg has concluded that an inequitable evaluation of miracles based on gender runs through different periods of western history. According to her, miracles performed by women saints, that is ‘female miracles’, in general have been viewed by churchmen as less impressive or inferior to ‘male miracles’. Already in the sixth century Ireland St. Ailbe was said to have been told by angels that the miracles of women saints were in fact minima miracula in comparison tot those of male saints. Jane Tibbets Schulenberg, Forgetful of their Sex: Female Sanctity and Society, ca. 500 –1100 (Chigago/London: University of Chicago Press, 1998), pp. 412–413.
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century). It is not until the high Middle Ages, however, that the idea is linked to the performance of miracles. As God is depicted as an increasingly transcendental divinity and Christ becomes more powerful and exalted, there seems to be more room for women to act as intermediaries. They mediate both at the heavenly level, in the church—where the Virgin Mary is acknowledged as mediatrix (in the ninth century) and redemptrix or mater redemptoris (in the eleventh century)—and on earth, as becomes manifest in the growing number of female saints and miracle performers. In modern times, the expectation that God acts through miracles has dwindled. Still, the mediation and the intercession of women based on their extraordinary, physical and non-rational religious receptiveness has survived. It has taken on new forms and has in some cases expanded, for instance in women’s leading roles in pietism, quietism and spiritism. Apparitions of the Virgin Mary in nineteenth and twentieth century Europe have hinged on women’s mediation. These apparitions are cases of multi-level mediation—the Virgin being an actively mediating divine being, whose apparition is mediated by women and children. The Body as Site of Wonder The idea that women are literally a physical ‘vehicle’ of God confirms the traditional anthropological view that women have a passive and ‘merely bodily’ role and a derivative or secondary social status. But the miracle stories also show that the human body is perceived to have its own distinctive role in conveying God’s presence and power. Medievalist Giselle de Nie who has studied the miraculous deeds that have been reported of Saint Radegund (c. 520–605), suggest that a female style of spiritual guidance and authority can be traced in the stories told of this Gallic saint.26 Radegund was a Thuringian princess, who was captured on the battlefield and had become a Frankish queen. She managed to leave her royal husband to embrace the religious life, and she founded a convent in Poitiers. There she eventually created her own center of spiritual power, underlined by
26 Giselle de Nie, “Fatherly and Motherly Curing in Sixth-Century Gaul: Saint Radegund’s Mysterium,” in: Korte (ed.), Women and Miracle Stories, pp. 53–86.
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the fact that she managed to acquire a powerful relic: a piece of the Holy Cross, that was sent to her at her request from Constantinople by the reigning Emperor and Empress. She was revered by many people as a saint already during her lifetime, and two biographies that were written in the years after her decease express this high esteem. In spite of the fact that Radegund’s ascetic piety and humility were emphasized in these texts, her independent and unconventional personality shines through these depictions. One of her biographers, the Italian poet and priest Venantius Fortunatus (c. 540–c. 605), a personal friend of Radegund, who reported fourteen wondrous deeds, qualifies one of Radegund’s curings as a ‘new kind of miracle’. Fortunatus tells that: the nun Animia was so completely swollen with dropsy that she had reached her end. The appointed sister nuns were around her, expecting her to expire at any moment, when she saw in her sleep that the Blessed Radegund, with the venerable abbess, ordered her to descend nude into a bath without water. Then, with her own hand, the saint was seen to pour oil over the head of the sick woman, and to cover her with a new robe. After this mystery had been enacted, she awoke from sleep and nothing of the illness was left; she had not lost the water through perspiration but it had been consumed within. By this new kind of miracle the illness left no trace in her womb. For she who had been believed to be ready to be carried to the grave, lifted herself at once from her bed, with the scent of the oil remaining upon her head and the fact that there was nothing harmful in her belly as a testimony [to the truth of the event].27
Since no tradition of holy women performing miracles had been formed yet, Radegund was perceived as following male clerical role models—especially that of Saint Martin. But according to De Nie, the wondrous healings that are reported of Radegund can be seen as a novelty within the established male curing tradition. In most cases her healings concern the curing of women. Since Radegund lived in a cloistered sphere, this must be one reason why she was reported as healing more women than men: very few men had access to her. Another reason may be that women patients tended to feel more comfortable with a woman healer.
27 Venantius Fortunatus, Vita sanctae Radegundis, ed. B. Krusch, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores Antiquissimi 4.2 (Berlin, 1885), pp. 80–81. Translation by G. de Nie.
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In the curing activities that have been ascribed to Radegund as in the case mentioned above, De Nie sees a combined and refined enactment of Christian ritual and female therapeutical treatment. Assuming that her biographer Fortunatus had no reason to invent her new curing rituals, De Nie considers it very likely that it was Radegund herself who was, more or less consciously, innovating here. Radegund’s acts resemble the therapeutical bathing and massage that had been part of the pagan water sanctuaries. The special care these sanctuaries had offered to women had been taken over by “wise women” or birth-helpers after the dismantling of these holy places.28 Radegund appears to have been acting in this tradition of ‘wise women’ while at the same time there were symbolical and spiritual dimensions in her performance, that point to the Christian sacraments of baptism and the anointing of the sick. Radegund’s miracles also fit into the picture of spiritual motherhood, the late antique Christian ideal for monastic men as well as women who had renounced physical procreation. Radegund is not reported to have had children of her own; her actions reveal that this ideal of spiritual motherhood must have been very important for her. From early on, as Fortunatus delineates, Radegund embodied this ideal in acts of practical, loving care. Washing, stroking and anointing were a recurring pattern in Radegund’s relations to others. Fortunatus mentions that when she was being educated before her marriage, she founded a hospital for poor, sick women, in which she washed them in baths. After leaving her husband, she again cared for the poor and the sick: she bathed them, cleansed their sores, deloused hair, treated infected wounds, extracted worms, and ‘overcame illness through the pouring out of oil’. Fortunatus points to the fact that she tried to hide her miraculous healing under the guise of ‘natural’ remedies. But actually her medical kind of care and her miraculous healing were deeply intertwined. She bathed women with soap from head to foot; when necessary they were given new clothes and, in any case, meals. For all this Fortunatus grants her the somewhat dubious praise of the epithet “new Martha”, indicating, according to De Nie, that there simply was no traditional role model for a holy healer who happened to be a woman.
28 Aline Rousselle, “Du sanctuaire au thaumaturge: la guérison en Gaule au IVe siècle,” Annales 31 (1976), p. 1093.
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In her subtle analysis, Giselle de Nie argues that the acts of bathing and stroking combined with the motif of (re)birth to new life that can be found in Radegund’s miracles are unique. She seems to be continuing the practices of gynecological therapy and the birthhelper’s craft, but remodels them in her own religious framework. Radegund’s gestures are obviously reminiscent of ‘maternal’ acts: giving birth, feeding and providing care. These gestures, however, are modelled on the death and resurrection of Christ—not on the Virgin Mary’s role as mother.29 Another series of Radegund’s miracles, which are also unparalleled by male miracle workers in the same period, does refer to a female image from the Bible. Radegund’s crushing of worms refers to the Virgin Mary, but not in her role as the mother of God. Instead, it is Mary as the new Eve, the woman from John’s Revelations who tramples evil in the shape of a snake. What can be seen here is that woman’s association with corporeality, care and procreation is confirmed, appropriated and given its own (ritual) form. At the same time an independent and authoritative female voice and hand in matters of faith is established. The miracles women are involved in are often related to the use of their own body to save, heal or change either their own or someone else’s body. When in medieval scholastic theology God’s power became depicted more absolute and transcendental, women’s miracle-working power became even more literally attached to their bodily condition and functions. What is more interestingly, the miracle stories from this period indicate that some women have appropriated and transformed this association with ‘passive’ and ‘physical’ mediation and intercession. Their involvement with miracles allowed them to physically or spiritually heal themselves and others and to show empathy and compassion with the suffering of others expressed in terms of personally experienced physical suffering.30 This point of view has been exemplified by historian Anke Passenier who has studied the Life of Christina Mirabilis (1150–1224).31 Passenier brings to light a remarkable difference between the corporeal spirituality or asceticism attributed to medieval women saints and the
These findings are confirmed by Coon, Sacred Fictions, pp. 126–135. See Korte, “A Different Grace”. 31 Anke Passenier, “The Life of Christina Mirabilis: Miracles and The Construction Of Marginality,” in: Korte (ed.), Women and Miracle Stories, pp. 145–178. 29 30
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manner in which the women themselves experienced suffering. The Life of Christina Mirabilis is regarded by many as an example of the extreme corporeality of medieval women’s sanctity and religiosity. From other Vitae too, it appears that women were considered particularly apt to embody the divine, to incarnate the Word and to represent the message. Christina is portrayed as living purgatory on earth, vicariously suffering the torments of the souls imprisoned there. Other aspects of her ministry, such as her preaching and teaching, are overshadowed by the miraculous purgatorial sufferings that set the scene for the Vita. According to Passenier, we see in the general rise of purgatorial piety which began in the late twelfth century religious women take on the role of visionary medium between the living and the dead and of intercessor, offering prayers and suffering to ease the pain of agonizing souls in purgatory. To some extent, the particular emphasis hagiographers placed on physical pain in women’s apostolate to the dead may well have derived from the wish to establish specific models of female religious ministry. This seems to be confirmed by a certain discrepancy between the representations of female apostolate to the dead in hagiographic texts and those in the writings of the women saints themselves. Although some of these women’s writings concur with hagiographic representation, most of them show women’s concern with the indigent dead to be based not so much on physical suffering as on psychological torment, the pain of love and compassion. In the writings of female mystics tormented souls are generally not released from purgatory by physical suffering through self-mortification and illness. It is rather the mystic’s love and the pain that love causes her that make God’s mercy prevail. Concluding Remarks In an analysis of miracle stories it is unproductive to presume that women resort to miracles mainly because they lack autonomy, power and rationality. Miracles perform a unique function in religious expression and communication—and women’s involvement in miracles should be explored from this angle. It is true that miracles, and stories about them, can evoke and confirm every conceivable stereotype of ‘woman’—and some miracle stories do just that. Yet, the realm of miracles also shows us how women appropriate common
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religious discourses and practices and leave their own marks on them. Women do derive religious influence and authority from miracles, but that is not all. They also acquire the ability to recognize and fight personal and communal suffering. Moreover, miracles help women to confront and to overcome the stigmas of corporeality which the main western religious traditions have assigned to women’s bodies in particular. By focusing on miracles, we can trace how women contribute to the continual reshaping of religious tradition at the conceptual, ritual and institutional levels. Women’s religious authority, that is to say their acknowledged influence and power in religious affairs, in western Christianity is not by definition based upon their obtained or ascribed ability to dissociate from female corporal existence and from corporeality as such, as some scholars have stated.32 On the contrary, for as a number of miracle stories show, their female corporal existence is pivotal in the establishing of their religious authority, spiritual influence and societal significance.
32 See Daniel Boyarin, “Gender,” in: Mark C. Taylor (ed.), Critical Terms for Religious Studies (Chicago/London: The University of Chicago Press, 1998), p. 131; Beauvoir, The Second Sex, pp. 597–628; pp. 670–678.
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A HOLY FATHER ON THE SEE OF MOSES? Anton Houtepen (University of Utrecht, The Netherlands) Introduction In spring 2000, Pope John Paul II visited Jerusalem. He prayed there at the Western Wall, repenting for all the religious violence exercised in the name of Jesus over the centuries, especially with regard to the Jews, and commemorating all that Christians and popes failed to do to prevent the demonic drama of the Holocaust. What a role! The leader of more than one billion followers of Jesus, but a bone of contention for many Christian churches, carrying the burden of history: standing there, weak and aged, in Jerusalem on the holy grounds of Israel, clothed in white garments inherited from the Jewish High Priests and covered with the originally Jewish kippa. Not far from the place where Jesus suffered execution he apologized for thousands of executions carried out in Jesus’ name, even with the consent of his papal predecessors. And without doubt he was aware of the tensions and conflicts in the city of Jerusalem itself, with the sanctuaries of Islam located above him on the former Temple Mount Square. For many, he became, on that holy place, the symbol of real conversion from and contrition over all inhuman violence of the past, a modern scapegoat, not to be sent away into the desert like in old Israel, but having to cry it out before the eyes of the world: no more violence; violence does not belong to the majesty of God. Was this what they call—in ecumenical discussions—a Petrine ministry?1 Is this what Jesus, or for that case, what Luke had in mind, when he appealed to Peter, the first of the Twelve, that he would convert and then strengthen his brethren? (Lk 22,32). Holy Father, Universal Shepherd, Patriarch of the West, Summus Pontifex, Caput Ecclesiae, Vicarius Petri (Christi, Dei): all those high titles given to the
1 For this discussion on the Petrine ministry, see: J. Puglisi (ed.), Petrine Ministry and the Unity of the Church, Liturgical Press, Collegeville, Mi., 1999.
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bishop of Rome in the course of the centuries seem to point in another direction: that of universal leadership, authority and jurisdiction. Modern perceptions of the papal ministry, for example in the media, look at it in management terms, the bishop of Rome being configured as the head of a multinational organization. Theological debate of the past 50 years, however, and ecumenical dialogues have re-discovered a quite different ‘role model’ of a Petrine ministry in the Early Church, derived from the role of Simon,— Peter—, among the company of those who followed Jesus. This role as described in the New Testament resembles much more that of John Paul at the Western Wall in Jerusalem and perhaps resembles also the recognized role of rabbinic and patriarchal leadership in Jewish history and thought. A recent document from the Anglican— Roman Catholic International Commission, entitled The Gift of Authority states as follows: The exigencies of church life call for a specific exercise of episcope at the service of the whole church. In the pattern found in the New Testament, one of the Twelve is chosen by Jesus to strengthen the others so that they will remain faithful to their mission and in harmony with each other . . . Historically, the bishop of Rome has exercised such a ministry . . . We believe that this is a gift to be received by all the churches.2
Is there a real basis for these claims in the history of earliest Christianity and are there any parallels for such a guiding role in Judaism? I will first sketch three different roles of the bishop of Rome in Christianity, as they developed over the centuries, with a significant change in role-patterns between the first and the second millennium . I will then pay attention to one specific aspect of that change, which seems to imply certain claims of Rome’s bishops to be seated on the kathedra d’moshe, and the Church of Rome claiming the role of mater et magistra omnium ecclesiarum, a title reserved for Jerusalem in
2 Anglican-Roman Catholic Dialogue, The Gift of Authority, in: Origins 29 (1999, May 27), 18 ff. Cf. ARCIC I, Authority in the Church II (Windsor Statement 1981), § 2–5, in: H. Meyer and L. Vischer, Growth in Agreement I, Paulist Press/World Council of Churches, New York/Geneva 1984, 106 ff.; similar views earlier already in: Lutheran-Roman Catholic Dialogue, Peter in the New Testament, Augsburg Publishing House/Paulist Press, Minneapolis/New York 1973; for recent comments by scholars from various traditions, see: J. Puglisi (ed.), Petrine Ministry and the Unity of the Church, Liturgical Press, Collegeville 1999.
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the first millennium. Finally I will examine some ecumenical perspectives for a contemporary ‘Petrine ministry’, including some suggestions for Jewish-Christian dialogue with regard to aspects of common witness. 1. Three Different Roles of the Bishop of Rome For Roman Catholics nowadays, papal authority implies at least three different functions, each of which shapes the specific role model ascribed to the Pope. Similar function we may find in other Christian denominations and in other religions, including Judaism, but seldom connected with one person as in the case of the bishop of Rome: – a witnessing function: the bishop of Rome is seen as spokesman of the church (os ecclesiae), a referee in local church or societal conflicts, a convener of ecumenical and inter-religious dialogues, someone who may be the advocate of believers in times of persecution and who might address the leaders of this world on behalf of justice, peace and the integrity of creation. Such role was attributed to Peter according to the Acts of the Apostles, the Epistles of Peter and of Clement of Rome and apparently, in early Christian circles in Jerusalem and Antioch. – a supervising function: the bishop of Rome is considered to be a holy shepherd and father of his flock with an inherited commission to confirm people in the faith, to guide them through the manifold expressions of faith and the variations of doctrine, that they might not fall victim to doubt about truth and salvation. This function implies the duty to supervise moral integrity and spirituality, to defend and to assist the poor, to work for the sanctity of life, the purity and holiness of the church and the worldwide unity and communion of local churches. Such a role was attributed to the so called ‘apostolic sees’ in the Early Church, among them the see of Rome. – a juridical position: the bishop of Rome bears the highest authority (suprema auctoritas et potestas) for binding decisions on moral and faith doctrines. As such, he exercises the primacy of jurisdiction in the church within the college of bishops. He convenes synods and councils, presides over them and confirms their decisions. He is considered to be,—without any separation of powers—, legislator,
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supreme administrator and judge at the same time. This last position or function could scarcely be called a role model and seems unparalleled in most other religious communities or civil societies. This role developed gradually during the second millennium and reached its climax at Vatican I (1870) and in the Code of Canon Law (1917). It was somewhat counter-balanced by the Second Vatican Council’s emphasis on the collegial authority of the local bishops together with the Pope (1962–1965). a. The Primacy of Rome during the First Millennium Within the first millennium of the history of Christianity, the first two of these functions developed into what has been falsely called a ‘primacy of honor’ of the church and the bishop of Rome among the ‘apostolic sees’, i.e. the churches allegedly founded by the apostles, Jesus’ first disciples. This primacy of honor did not detract from the respect for the other Petrine sees like Jerusalem, Alexandria, and Antioch. Nor did it compete with the authority of the imperial city of Constantinople. The special role of the see of Rome was based on many factors: it was, of course, the capital of the Empire, but, more importantly, it was also the alleged place of the martyrdom of Peter and Paul. Their graves were venerated in Rome from early times; the sources of the tradition kept there in the archives seemed reliable.3 The second century struggle against gnosticism and against
3 For a reliable scholarly view on what we really know about the relation of Peter to the Roman congregation, about the martyrdom of Peter and Paul in that city and about the position of Rome among the scattered Christian communities in the Roman Empire, see: B. Schimmelpfennig, The Papacy, Columbia University Press, New York 1992; for a collection of early patristic texts from Clement of Rome to Augustine and popes Leo the Great and Gelasius on the developing teaching authority of bishops and the role of the ‘apostolic see’ of Peter and Paul at Rome, see: R. Eno, Teaching Authority in the Early Church (Message of the Fathers of the Church 14), Glazier, Wilmington 1984. On the significance of the double authority of Peter and Paul, representing together both the Jewish and the Gentile parts of the Church, see: Fr. Mußner, Petrus und Paulus—Pole der Einheit (Quaestiones Disputatae 76), Herder, Freiburg/Basel/Wien 1976 and J.J. von Allmen, La primauté de l’Église de Pierre et de Paul (Cahiers Oecuméniques 10), Éditions Universitaires Fribourg/Du Cerf Paris 1977. The motif of the double presence of Peter and Paul, having worked and died in Rome, is first mentioned in the letter of the Roman congregation to the Corinthians (the socalled First Letter of Clement to the Corinthians, dating from 96 CE). We may find a weak allusion to it in Ignatius of Antioch’s Epistle to the Romans, IV,3, where he praises Rome for ‘presiding in charity’, like Peter and Paul had done: it, therefore, does not need instructions from him, he
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the movements of Mani and Marcion, according to Irenaeus’ Adversus Haereses, was founded on the tradition of the faith, kept by apostolic sees like Smyrna and Ephesus, but foremost by Rome. This see enjoyed what Irenaeus called a potentior principalitas, i.e. a stronger claim to be the first in rank, a more direct relation to the origin of the faith through the presence in Rome of two apostles, Peter and Paul. What counted for Irenaeus was a direct line of tradition from the apostle Paul up to the actual bishop of the Church of Rome. He referred to the martyrdom of Peter in Rome, but does not claim any direct episcopal succession of Peter for Rome’s bishop. It was Tertullian in his De praescriptione haereticorum (around 200 ), who first referred to a Roman claim of episcopal succession from Peter through Clement all the way to the time of their actual bishop. However, he referred to other ‘apostolic’ sites as well, such as Corinth, Philippi or Ephesus. Rome, seen from Alexandria, is just ‘our closest apostolic see’.4 Rome’s bishop Callistus I, at the beginning of the third century introduced a formal system of exclusion from and reconciliation with the church, retaining for himself as a bishop the general absolution of mortal sins. He thereby appealed to the authority of the chair (cathedra) he occupied and to Jesus’ prophecy in Matthew 13,29 about the separation of the wheat from the chaff, but nowhere did he appeal to the commission given to Peter in Matthew 16,18–19.5 His claims, moreover, met with considerable
says. A veneration of memorials of Peter and of Paul is testified from the middle of the second century, followed by Irenaeus at the end of that same century in his Adversus Haereses, III, 2 (Sources Chrétiennes 211, pp. 30 ff.). Cf. G. Bardy, La Théologie de l’Église de saint Clément de Rome à saint Irénée (Unam Sanctam 13), Du Cerf, Paris 1945 and J. Colson, L’Épiscopat Catholique. Collégialité et Primauté dans les Trois Premiers Siècles de l’Église (Unam Sanctam 43), Cerf, Paris 1963. From the time of Pope Gelasius I (492–496) this ‘double apostolic origin’ would become a familiar part of the self-understanding of Rome’s bishops. 4 Tertullian, De praescriptione haereticorum c. 32, Corpus Christianorum, series Latina I, 212–213. 5 This appeal to his cathedral authority was not yet an appeal to the ‘cathedra Petri’, as it would become later, but just a reference to his magisterial authority as a bishop on an ‘apostolic see’ (sedes apostolica). A similar vocabulary was also used in Tertullian and Irenaeus. Schimmelpfennig, o.c., p. 13: “In Rome as well as in other communities, these two concepts (cathedra and sedes apostolica) were supposed to indicate, with reference to Old Testament and Romano-pagan ideas, that the person who occupied the see was following in a particular tradition, in this case the tradition of the apostle”. A special appeal to the cathedra Petri is first found in Cyprian of Carthago’s writings. See: N. Gussone, Thron und Inthronisation des Papstes von den Anfängen bis zum 12. Jahrhundert, Bonn 1978; W. Marschall, Karthago und Rom:
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opposition: they gave rise to the revolt of the presbyter and according to some even anti-bishop, Hippolytus of Rome, who would become the alleged author of the first ‘Service Book’ of the church, the Traditio Apostolica.6 Here we meet with yet another factor of the growing influence emanating from the city of Rome by its offering models for the liturgy of the sacraments and the orders of ministry in the church. More influential, still, seem to have been the moral standards set by the bishops of Rome, when it came to the reconciliation of those who had transgressed the strict prohibition against venerating the pagan deities and participating in the Imperial cult (the so called lapsi). Around 250, under Decius’ persecutions (249–251) a similar conflict was fought out between bishop Cornelius of Rome and the presbyter Novatian, elected anti-bishop. The more tolerant and reconciliatory party of Cornelius won the battle from the rigorists (the congregation of the ‘pure’ (katharoi) led by Novatian. From the fourth and fifth century onwards, after the ‘conversion’ of the emperor Constantine and especially in the context of the decline of the Roman empire, popes Damasus I (366–384), Innocent I (401–417) and Leo the Great (440–461) enhanced their influence in the churches’ struggle with nestorianism, arianism and pelagianism. But still, they stressed very much their holy task of sanctification, which was of a pastoral character, quite different from imperial, earthly power. They all still functioned as role models rather than as lawgivers. Roma locuta, causa finita, wrote Augustine in 417, after the condemnation of the monk Pelagius by Innocent I, and he thus Die Stellung der nordafrikanischen Kirche zum apostolischen Stuhl in Rom, Stuttgart 1971; see also the earlier classic of P. Batiffol, Cathedra Petri: études d’histoire ancienne de l’Église (Unam Sanctam 4), Du Cerf, Paris 1938. A feast of cathedra Petri was celebrated in Rome from the fourth century on 22 February, the day of the original pagan memorial day of the dead, and was later (Paul IV 1558) transferred to 18 January, thereby creating a new feast of St. Peter’s chair at Antioch ‘where the disciples were first called Christians’. On 29 June there were originally separate commemorations of the martyrdom of Peter and of Paul, which were combined to the later feast of Peter and Paul on that same day. This major feast (a ‘triduum’ with an official vigil the eve before and a special feast for Paul on the following day) was celebrated in East and West and probably has been one of the major occasions for veneration, not only of the martyrs Peter and Paul, but of the residing bishops of Rome themselves as well. Feasts and pilgrimages have done more for the foundation of Rome’s authority than juridical power or central administration, at least during the first millennium. 6 Cf. W. Geerlings (ed.), Traditio Apostolica (Fontes Christiani 1), Herder, Freiburg etc. 1991, 211 ff. The authorship of Hippolyt may be doubted, but the origin of the text in Rome seems certain: see Geerlings, ib., 148–149.
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seems to attribute to the Roman bishops a more direct decisionmaking power. Precisely this Pelagian cause, paradoxically, was not finished by Rome’ decision. It was reopened several times, because the relation of law and gospel, God’s mercy and human responsibility would never satisfactorily be solved and would even become one of the main issues of conflict in the Western Church in the time of the Reformation of the 16th century. Rome’s decision-making could win authority only by its religious reliability. In a letter at the occasion of the feast of Peter and Paul, 29 June 441, Leo I wrote: It is these two (i.e. Peter and Paul) who have brought you, Rome, to such glory, so that you, once having been made into a holy race and a chosen people, a priestly and royal city by the holy see of blessed Peter, would get more influence through divine religion than through earthly domination.7
By divina religio Leo meant the whole complex role of obeying and proclaiming the gospel and supervising the faithfulness and moral standards of the Christian community in its totality considered as a royal priesthood (according to 1 Peter 2,15) in the Roman empire. This spiritual task of sanctification is thus, formulated in terms derived from the biblical tradition, what Peter and Paul, according to Leo I, intended to accomplish. Like them, the bishops of Rome have to work for the legislation of the covenant, in the footsteps of Moses, with the help of imperial Rome as caput mundi, in order to expand this covenant to all the gentiles of the world. Though a subtle theology of supersession lurks already behind the words of Leo, the emphasis is still on a common salvation history perspective, like in Augustine’s De civitate Dei: Jews and Christians have each their proper share in the building up of the city of God. The role of the bishops of Rome is formulated in typological terms of witness and service in the way of Jesus Christ: their mission is to serve for the needs of the churches. In the formulation of pope Hormisdas I (514–523) we read that the church of Rome has faithfully kept the rule of faith and that it is, therefore, safe, to follow
7 Isti (sc. Petrus et Paulus) sunt qui te (Roma) ad hanc gloriam provexerunt, ut gens sancta, populus electus, civitas sacerdotalis et regia, per sacram beati Petri sedem caput orbis effecta, latius praesideres religione divina quam dominatione terrena (italics mine AH), J.P. Migne, Patres Latinae 54, 422D–423A, quoted by K. Schatz, ‘Historical considerations concerning the problem of primacy’, in: J. Puglisi (ed.), Petrine Ministry and the Unity of the Church, The Liturgical Press, Collegeville, Minnesota 1999, p. 1).
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that faith and that all must be in communion with the sound and steadfast faith of that church.8 Pope Gregory the Great (590–604) will call himself servus servorum Dei. He organizes the Christian mission in Europe and streamlines, with the help of Benedict’s monastic rule, the life of religious communities and ascetic movements in the Latin part of the Empire. The popes think and act in terms of auctoritas, not yet of potestas.9 In the Carolingian period, however, the popes start to centralize the organization of the newly converted peoples of Europe by a metropolitan system of bishops, strongly related to Rome.10 They propagate the—still voluntary—introduction of uniform service books for the liturgy and universal regulations for excommunication, penance and reconciliation in common accord with the civil authorities.11 But even here, in the field of excommunication, the sanctifying functions 8 H. Denzinger – A. Schönmetzer, Enchiridion symbolorum, definitionum et declarationum de rebus fidei et morum, Herder, Barcelona/Freiburg/Rome/New York, 33 ed. 1965) (= DS), DS 363–365: Prima salus est rectae fidei regulum custodire et a constitutis Patrum nullatenus deviare. Et quia non potest Domini nostri Jesu Christi praetermitti sententia dicentis: Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram aedificabo Ecclesiam meam” (Mt 16,18), haec quae dicta sunt, rerum probantur effectibus, quia in Sede Apostolica immaculata est semper catholica servata religio . . . Et ideo spero, ut in una communione vobiscum, quam Sedes Apostolica praedicat, esse merear, in qua est integra et verax christianae religionis soliditas . . . This text was meant as a format for a profession of faith, to be submitted to the bishop of Rome for those who wanted to return from their schismatic ways, and thus the beginning of a more administrative conception of orthodoxy, whereas, up to that time, reconciliation was enacted in liturgical form by sacramental penance and eucharistic communion, i.e. through renewed participation in the synaxis. 9 Cf. Y. Congar, ‘Le développement historique de l’autorité dans l’Église’, in: J.M. Todd (ed.), Problèmes de l’Autorité (Unam Sanctam 38), Cerf, Paris 1962, 145–181. p. 155: L’autorité, dans l’Église ancienne, est celle d’hommes qui sont comme des princes dans une communauté tout entière sainte, plebs sancta, et visitée par l’Esprit de Dieu: des chefs d’autant plus conscients de leur autorité qu’ils la voyaient comme portant le mystère du salut que Dieu veut réaliser dans son Église. Ils se voulaient et se savaient mus par l’Esprit, mais ils savaient aussi que l’Esprit habite la communauté des chrétiens, et ils restaient, dans l’exercice de l’autorité, très liés à celle-ci. 10 A. Angenendt, Das geistliche Bündnis der Päpste mit den Karolingern’ (754–796), Historisches Jahrbuch 100 (1980) 1–94; Schimmelpfennig, ‘The Papacy Under Carolingian Rule (774–904)’, in: id., o.c., 88–107. 11 Cf. E. Vodola, Excommunication in the Middle Ages, University of California Press, Berkeley/Los Angeles/London 1986, pp. 7 ff. In the first four centuries rites of excommunication and reconciliation served the purity and holiness of the congregation and were executed in ceremonial forms much resembling the practices of the Jewish synagogue ban (prescriptions of hair-cutting, shaving, mourning and social ostracism). Cf. J. Forkman, The Limits of the Jewish and Christian Communities, Lund 1972.
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of the bishops of Rome, were tantamount and much more important than their teaching or legislative roles. The power of the keys was directly used for binding and loosing of people, be they lay or clerics, counts or bishops, in an essentially therapeutic mode. As Hödl has pointed out some decades ago, papal authority and even infallibility refer much more to the power of the keys in the forgiveness of sins and the care for the purity of the church than in their central juridical ruling of a uniform church structure and of their juridical monopoly to spreak the last word in doctrinal questions about the articulation of the faith.12 b. The Second Millennium: Gradual Shift to a Juridical View on the Role of the Pope From the beginning of the second millennium, these role models were gradually replaced by a position of juridical power and authority, codified in papal decrees, legitimated partly by collections of feigned canonical regulations from the past (the pseudo-Isidorian decrees), which were, then, officially received by several councils (Councils of Lateran, Vienne, Lyon, Constance, Florence, Trent, Vatican I and II). In the 20th century, this juridical position was laid down in a central code of canon law, from 1917 defined as papal law. This gradual juridical underpinning of the power to bind and to loose is considered by many as the real stumbling block for further Christian unity. The gradual juridical exacerbation13 of the papal functions of the bishop of Rome, however, did not mean that the other two role models went ignored. In popular and pious movements, even outside the Roman Catholic community, and even until 12 L. Hödl, Die Geschichte der scholastischen Literatur und der Theologie der Schlüsselgewalt I–II, Münster 1960. Doctrinal disputes were dealt with by synods and councils of bishops and, in some instances (as in the case of Chalcedon 451) confirmed and received by the bishops of Rome. The latter became the much praised authentic defenders of the conciliar faith of the Church, settled doctrinal disputes now and then upon the request of local bishops, but made no major dogmatic decisions on their own. A text by Ignatius of Antioch (Ad Romanos III), which says that the Church of Rome has taught the other churches, has falsely been taken as an early argument for Rome’s magisterial authority over the other churches, which was a much later development. 13 K. Schatz, ‘Historical Considerations Concerning the Problem of the Primacy’, in: J. Puglisi (ed.), Petrine Ministry and the Unity of the Church, Liturgical Press, Collegeville 1999, 1–14, discerns five episodes of such gradual juridisation, the first signs of it beginning already in the fourth century (ib., 4), but this was certainly not accepted in the Eastern part of Christianity.
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today, the figure of the Pope is welcomed and appraised for his protection of holiness and sanctity of life, his promotion of justice and peace in the world and for his appeal towards the unity of Christians and towards inter-religious dialogue. I will argue, then, that this role of sanctification, together with his task of interpreting the tradition in new circumstances, could be the basis for a more ecumenical function of the pope in the nearby ecumenical future. At the same time I want to illustrate, that the formal juridical authority of the bishops of Rome remained an ever-contested concept within Christianity, with many inherent ambiguities. I can only briefly sketch some of these ambiguities that showed up in the second millennium. In his recent biography of pope Gregory VII (bishop of Rome 1073– 1085)—the former famous canonist Hildebrand—H.E.J. Cowdrey14 makes clear, that for Gregory, still, the holiness-motif was the strongest drive of his pontificate (1073–1085): he saw himself as guardian of the holiness of the church. He fought clerical fornication and rivalry, ordination by simony and the selling of ecclesiastical offices. He fostered the vigilance of the episcopal office, he raised clerical standards of education and demanded high moral standards in monastic life and pleaded for free episcopal elections. He condemned the emperor Henry IV for his abuse of lay investiture and disobedience over against the church by not respecting canonical regulations. He legislated proper rules for fasting, for offering, for marriage (no consanguinity) and he forbade avocations which necessarily lead to sin, in a general mood to strengthen the conditions for true penance: outward penance must be accompanied by inner conversion of life: My greatest aim has been that the holy church, the bride of Christ, our lady and mother, should return to her true glory and stand free, chaste and catholic.15
But his plea for reform, sanctity and moral rearmament in Europe also took the form of a legalistic approach to faith. As a former jurist, he stressed the need for continuity and promised in a profession of faith, made at the tomb of Peter, to maintain all the decisions of former councils and predecessors at the see of Rome:
14 H.E.J. Cowdrey, Pope Gregory VII (1073–1085), Clarendon, Oxford 1998 (= Cowdrey). 15 Epistolae vagantes 54, 132–133, Cowdrey, 508.
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I will diminish or alter nothing in the tradition that I find to be delivered and preserved by my most authoritative predecessors; I will admit no novelty, but zealously and as their true disciple and follower, I will maintain and reverence with every effort of my mind whatever I have found to be canonically handed down.16
This pledge was accompanied by an eschatological accountability clause: I will by God’s help uphold the sacred canons and the canonical dispositions of the popes as the directives of God and of heaven, in the knowledge that, at the divine judgement-day, I must render a strict account to God and to you, Peter, over whose most holy see I now preside by God’s grace and by your patronage, and whose place, with your intercessions, I occupy.17
This statement is testimony, not only to a strong claim to be the only ‘successor of Peter’, but to the beginning of a long curial tradition in Rome of popes only quoting popes and never contradicting any sentence, written down by predecessors as well. In his Dictatus Papae (1075) he formulated his personal ideas about the role of the papacy in the future: the Roman Church has been founded by God alone, it has never erred and will never err. It is licit for the pope to depose emperors. He alone is the universal bishop, who, when canonically elected, is undoubtedly made holy by the merits of St. Peter. This Dictatus Papae is a main source text for the thesis, that it was the so called Gregorian Reform that must be held responsible for the enhanced juridical claims of a central and universal papal power over all the churches in the second millennium. In a letter to the clergy and noblemen of Flanders in 1083, Gregory VII called the Roman Church ‘the first and most important all the churches, their common mother, the teacher and ruler of all peoples on earth’, titles thus far reserved for Jerusalem.18
16 Cowdrey, 514, a quotation from the Liber diurnus, a part of the Collectio canonum of Cardinal Deusdedit. 17 Codrey, 515. 18 . . . omnium ecclesiarum princeps and communis mater, omnium gentium magistra et domina: Cowdrey, 521. Cowdrey smartly remarks (522, note 114), that none of those images for the Roman church was used by former popes to whose authority Gregory appealed for his views! Innocentius III confirmed the title of mater et magistra in 1199 in a letter to patriarch John of Constantinople (DS 774–775). In this letter we find a reference to Acts 10,9—the vision of Peter in the house of Cornelius—, arguing that this meant Peter’s universal prelacy over all the nations, including the Jews:
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In fact, such enhanced claims of authority of the medieval popes stood in sharp contrast to the actual division of Christianity and much internal quarreling over the papacy within Christianity. The role model of the first millennium, based on apostolic authority, broke down under the claims of jurisdictional power. The Gregorian Reform ran parallel to the separation of the Eastern part of Christianity in 1054 with the bishop of Rome ruling since that time only over half of the Christian heritage. The Crusades brought much harm to the East and their mission to protect the holy places in the Land of Israel against the Turks ended in bloodshed among Muslims, Jews and Christians alike. The 12th and 13th century struggle of the popes against Gnostic dualist and spiritualist movements such as those of the Albigenses or the Waldensians gave them new authority as champions of the true apostolic purity of the Church among the ruling classes of Europe, albeit at the cost of much violence inflicted upon the dissidents. Pope Innocent III took a rigorist stand regarding excommunication, declaring that the use of violence and even capital punishment to purify the church from heresies, is according to the will of God. The consonance with and obedience to the Roman see in the struggle against the heretics became the very criterion of true faith.19 The rise of the mendicant orders, however, which produced several good popes in the fourteenth century, brought back the idea of the church itself having to be purified and reformed in imitation of Christ. Nevertheless, disputes within the Western Church over formal authority set the tone in the 14th and the beginning of the 15th centuries. The gradual juridical form and interpretation of universal papal supervision and the conflicts over jurisdiction with the rulers and kings of Britain, France and Germany resulted in the Western Schism (1378–1418) and the controversies between the conciliarists and papalists up to the Council of Constance. All of this did not enhance the credibility of the Roman bishops who lived in
Ipse [Petrus vidit] . . . vas quoddam velut linteum magnum quattuor initiis in terram de caelo submitti, quod omnia quadrupedia et serpentia terrae ac caeli volatilia continebat [Acts 10,9 ss] . . . Et vox ad eum est facta secundo: “Quod Deus purificavit, tu commune ne dixeris.” Per quod innuitur manifeste, quod Petrus praelatus fuerit populis universis, cum vas illud orbem, et universitas contentorum in eo universas significet tam Iudaeorum quam gentium nationes . . .” 19 Lateran Council 1215, canon III, see: G.G. Coulton, The Death Penalty for Heresy from 1184 to 1921 AD. (Medieval Studies 18), Simpkin etc., London 1924, 16–17. Cf. DS 795.
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France from 1304–1378. After 1378 the Latin part of Christianity was confronted with several pretenders to the papal throne. The faithful had to choose obedience to one of them according to political spheres of influence. This ‘Western Schism’ caused vigorous debate among canonists and theologians on the reliability and indefectibility of solemn papal teaching. The ‘conciliarists’ among them would attribute the supreme and final authority in the church to a universal council, whereas the ‘papalists’ wanted to ascribe such suprema auctoritas to the pope, who could then even overrule the decisions of a universal council. At the beginning of the 14th century Franciscan scholars from the neighborhood of the emperor Ludwig II of Saxony, had pleaded for the irrevocability of papal decrees and defended the impossibility that later popes could alter decisions of their predecessors. Such alterations had been undertaken, so they contended, by John XXII (1316–1334), who had abolished favorable decisions of his predecessor Nicholas III (1277–1280) with regard to the Franciscan life-style.20 The dispute made clear, that a living tradition needs both timely ruling in changing times and fidelity to the faith of the church through the ages. It turned out to be rather difficult to articulate exactly this double demand by way of formal jurisdiction or by sorting out neatly decisions that could be changed and others that must be labeled ‘irrevocable’. After the Reformation, papal magisterium had to be defended against the Reformer’s appeal to the sola scriptura principle—the personal reading and interpretation of the Bible as the highest authority of the faith—and against French—Gallicanist—claims, that the local churches should have a right of consent and dissent with regard to papal teaching. Finally, Vatican I decided in favor of the Roman bishop’s highest authority in doctrinal matters with regard to faith and morals, his decisions being by themselves and without any need for the consensus of the wider church irrevocable and without error when he clearly indicates his intention to bind the whole church and to speak ex cathedra.21
20 B. Tierney, The Origins of Papal Infallibility 1150–1350. A Study on the Concepts of Infallibility, Sovereignty and Tradition in the Middle Ages, Brill, Leiden 1972. 21 DS 3074: . . . Romanum Pontificem, cum ex cathedra loquitur, id est, cum omnium Christianorum pastoris et doctoris munere fungens, pro suprema sua Apostolica auctoritate doctrinam de fide vel moribus ab universa Ecclesia tenendam definit, per assistentiam divinam ipsi in beato Petro promissam, ea infallibilitate
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Both Vatican I and II have persisted in ascribing to the bishop of Rome a binding magisterial authority in matters of doctrine regarding faith and morals, when he intends to speak ex cathedra on behalf of the universal church.22 Vatican II, however, in describing the papal magisterium in the dogmatic constitution on the Church Lumen Gentium § 25 seems to have had hesitations with the term ex cathedra. Though it used it once, ex cathedra was replaced in another sentence by definitivo actu.23 Why? From the Acta Synodalia and from earlier discussions, at Vatican I as well, it is clear, that the ex cathedra terminology was associated with the ‘see or seat of Moses’. Already in medieval texts, a comparison with the Old Testament teaching of Moses and the prophets was made when discussing the authority of the bishops, especially those of Rome. Vatican II was aware, however, of the dangers of such usage. There is no direct line of succession from Moses to Peter. Such idea was nowhere mentioned in the New Testament. We even meet there with a serious denial of any such claim by Jesus. In Mt 23, 2 ff. Jesus refers to the scribes and Pharisees, who have seated themselves on the seat of Moses, teaching the many obligations of the Torah, but who do not behave according to their teaching themselves. They only seek formal authority and honour, wanting to be called ‘Rabbi’ by their audience. Such behavior should be absent in the community of his disciples: You, however, must not allow yourselves to be called Rabbi, since you have only one Master, and you are all brothers. You must call no one on earth your father, since you have only one Father, who is in heaven. Nor must you allow yourselves to be called teachers, for you have only one Teacher, the Christ. The greatest among you must be your ser-
pollere, qua divinus Redemptor Ecclesiam suam in definienda doctrina de fide vel moribus instructam esse voluit; ideoque eiusmodi Romani Pontificis definitiones ex sese, non autem ex consensu Ecclesiae, irreformabiles esse. For the exegesis of this text, see: A. Houtepen, Onfeilbaarheid en Hermeneutiek. De betekenis van het infallibilitas-concept op Vaticanum I, Emmaüs, Brugge 193; K. Schatz, Vaticanum I (1869–1870), Bd. I–III, Schöningh, Paderborn etc. 1992–1994, esp. Volume III. 22 For Vatican I: DS 3074; for Vatican II: Dogmatic Constitution on the Church ‘Lumen gentium’ § 25. 23 In Lumen Gentium § 25. Constitutiones, decreta, declarations, Typis Polyglottis Vaticanis 1966, p. 138, 3rd line from below and 140 (3rd line from above). Apparently subsequent authorities in the Roman Catholic Church may change ‘definitive’ formulations, even when they were labeled, at their time, irreformable!
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vant. Anyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and anyone who humbles himself will be exalted (Mt 23,2 ff.).
Many other texts in the New Testament are rather critical regarding claims of higher formal authority (for example Mk 10,42; Mt 20,25 Mt 23,8; Luke 12,11; John 7,48; Acts 7,27.35; 1 Cor 2,8). Real authority (exousia) has to do with power over demons, the power to heal and the power to forgive sins: it is the eschatological mission given to Jesus (Mt 28,19) and transmitted by him to his disciples, to teach his message and commandments and to ‘bind and loose’, i.e. to hold people responsible or to announce forgiveness to them in view of God’s final judgment on their deeds (Mt 16 and 18). The saying in Mt 23,2 on the scribes and Pharisees means, that they have appropriated the authority of the rightful successors of Moses and Joshua and have put themselves, so to say, in apostolic succession to Moses in the synagogues. It is not this position as such which Jesus criticizes, for the magisterial teaching of the Pharisees is even recommended: ‘You must therefore do what they tell you and listen to what they say’ (Mt 23,3). To be rejected, however, is their alleged practical behavior: ‘They do not practice what they preach . . . Everything they do is done to attract attention . . .’24 The message of Jesus to his disciples, then, is to behave otherwise, not to look for titles and honors, but to behave like brethren (Mt 23,8–12). Such criticism by Jesus himself of improper behavior of religious leaders and teachers must have worked as a strong warning among the early Church leaders against claiming formal authority. Mt. 23 as a whole has been read over time not so much as a criticism of Pharisaic and scribal attitudes with regard to the law, but rather as an admonition for Christian teachers and leaders.25 Matthew 23,2–12 raises an interesting historical-hermeneutical question, however, with regard to any teaching ex cathedra, be it by
24 For this exegesis, see: Ulrich Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (EvangelischKatholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament I/3), Benziger/Neukirchener, Zurich/Düsseldorf/Neukirchen-Vluyn 1997, 290 ff. Mt 23 is “perhaps the most unfriendly chapter in the gospel of Matthew” for its apparent unfair generalizations of the pharisees and the consequences of an anti-Jewish reading of Jesus’ apocalyptic sermon throughout the centuries. Luz is critical of this generalization on all scribes and Pharisees in the text of Matthew. 25 Luz, o.c., 300 ff., mentions Origen, Clement of Alexandria, Jerome, John Chrysostom and later interpreters like Valdes, Luther and Erasmus (313).
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Christians or Jews. How, actually, have the Jewish forms of halachic teaching of the Torah, served as a model for early Christian authoritative teaching? Which factors caused the thinking in terms of supersession in the 11th century? Could a common rethinking of what we need to transmit—the tradition in a positive and creative way—, help the contemporary ecumenical dialogue on authority, magisterium and primacy in the church and help to overcome the juridical-moral interpretation of the title vicarius Christi et Dei (representative of Christ and of God) of the bishop of Rome? 2. Ex cathedra Moysi? Mt 23,2 and magisterial authority in Judaism and Christianity The chair or seat of Moses (kathedra d’moshe), mentioned in Mt 23,2, is an expression not found in the Hebrew Bible and only used from the Byzantine period in later Jewish writing.26 It then denotes special marble stone chairs or thrones in the synagogue next to the ark, where the Elders or Sages in the synagogue were seated. Some texts even mention 70 or 71 such thrones, referring to Nb 11,16. One of these may have been ornamented in a special way or even put up a little higher: the seat of the president of the Sages. These kathedra’ot, some of which were found back in archeological sites of ancient synagogues, symbolized legal authority and legitimate interpretation of the Torah.27 In Mt 23,2, probably reflecting the period of the reorganization of the Jewish community in Palestine after 70 , the position of ‘sitting on the seat of Moses’ expression has been used in the sense of a succession of authority in an unbroken chain of transmission
26 See for the following: H.J. Becker, Auf der Kathedra des Mose. Rabbinisch-theologisches Denken und antirabbinische Polemik in Matthäus 23,1–12 (Arbeiten zur neutestamentlichen Theologie und Zeitgeschichte; Bd. 4), Institut Kirche und Judentum, Berlin 1990; D.E. Garland, The intention of Matthew 23, Leiden 1979; U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (Evangelisch-Katholischer KommentarK zum Neuen Testament I/3), Benziger/Neukirchener Verlag, Zürich/Düsseldorf/Neukirchen-Vluyn 1997, 290 ff. 27 Becker, Auf der Kathedra des Mose, mentions various rabbinic texts, where the ‘seat of Moses’ refers to the authority of the chakhamim or zeqenim as successors of Moses and Joshua, especially Mishnah Avot 1,1–15; 2,8–14; 5,1–19 and Tosefta Sukkot 4,6. The kathedra’ot of the Sages/Elders symbolize their teaching roles, but as much their roles as judges and leaders of the community: Becker, pp. 17–49.
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(or tradition) from the time of Moses and Joshua. We find this idea in Jewish tradition as well, were the chain of authority is prolonged to the Men of the Great Synagogue. Moses received the Law from Sinai and committed it to Joshua, and Joshua to the elders, and the elders to the Prophets, and the Prophets committed it to the men of the Great Synagogue.28
Matthew seems to imply that the chakamim of his time are the successors of the Pharisees and scribes in Jesus’ time. He uses the expression kathedra Moysès already in a more general and metaphorical meaning. Thus, the metaphorical seat of Moses or throne of the Torah symbolized the succession of tradition down through the ages.29 Jesus’ recognition of ‘the seat of Moses’ and of the teaching authority of those who sit upon it, sounds only natural to his audience, even when he seems rather critical about specific Pharisaic teachings in his time (e.g. in Mt 5–7 and 15). Jesus’ dictum, as reported in Mt 23,2–12 is a very Jewish vision on authoritative teaching indeed: it is tradition that counts, not the formal positions of those who sit upon thrones. The teaching of the ‘oral Torah’ supposes some authoritative interpretation of the tradition but formal authority alone can never guarantee the validity of such interpretation. The way of teaching, which Jesus commended to his disciples, therefore, had nothing to do with a breakaway from the teachings of the Torah, or from its Pharisaic interpretations, let alone a claim to take over ‘the seat of Moses’. Ecclesiastical authorities should be admonished likewise, that their position is not one of power and jurisdiction, but of testimony, in remembrance and expectation. The use of Holy or Canonical Scriptures in any religion makes clear that the leaders and the other members of a church share in the same heritage. But this reference to the past is not merely a reference to past wisdom, crystallized in authoritative texts, but a memorial act of the wise people, whom we venerate as the authors, editors or collectors of the texts: Moses, the kings of Israel, the prophets and the sages, the scribes, the elders and rabbis who have preserved the texts and their ongoing oral and
28
Mishnah Abot 1,1. William G. Braude and Israel J. Kapstein, Pesikta De-Rab Kahana, p. 17, note 59 (quoting Jacob Mann, Texts and Studies, Cincinnati 1931–1935, Vol. I, 237). 29
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written interpretation. Within Christianity the Scriptures were read in the memory of Jesus of Nazareth through the eyes of the first witnesses of his life and teaching, Jesus’ Jewish disciples and apostles, among whom the Twelve and Paul have a special place as holy persons and role models. Their authority, remarkably enough, is not given to them on the basis of formal ordination or legitimization, transmitted by semikah or the laying on of hands. The disciples are not put in a succession to Jesus, like Joshua to Moses, we do not hear of any ordination of the Twelve or the apostles by Jesus. The apostles received their task by a simple appeal (Mt 4,19), a commission (Mt 10,1–16) and the breathing over them ( Jn 20,22) by Jesus. They themselves initiated a ceremony of laying on of hands in Acts 6 (the delegation of the Seven Helpers), but, remarkably enough, it is a laying on of hands by the people, by the whole community, not by the apostles or the Twelve, but by the whole community of Christians in Jerusalem. Neither are Paul or Barnabas in Acts 13,1 ‘ordained’ as missionaries: they are ‘separated’ from the rest of the teachers and prophets at Antioch as once the Levites were set apart by Moses in Nb 8,6.14, an offering to God in the form of special service troops, replacing the first born in Israel. Only in 1 and 2 Tm we hear about an act of laying on of hands and ordination by the apostle Paul himself according to rabbinic procedures of semikhath zeqenim.30 Ministerial and magisterial authority, thus, from a Jewish and a Christian point of view, are not based on a formal legitimization, but on legalized tradition. It is, according to Mt 23, a matter of consistent behavior: to preach what one has heard and to do what one preaches. Those who live according to the preaching and teaching and do not lay burdens on the audience that cannot be kept.
30 See: L.A. Hoffman, ‘L’ordination juive à la veille du christianisme’, La MaisonDieu, no. 138 (1980) 7–48; A. Leaney, The Jewish & Christian World 200 BC to AD 200, Cambridge 1984, 145 ff. It is debated what the exact function of the laying on of hands (semikah) has been in different periods of Jewish teaching authority and in different regions of the Jewish world. But the fact that the Twelve were not ordained by such an act is relevant for the character of the transmission of teaching authority in later times. It may be remarked, that the authoritative functions of the pope do not require any specific formal investment. Once elected and/or consecrated a bishop of Rome and on the basis of this episcopal authority, he enjoys the authority of his ‘Petrine ministry’ automatically, ipso facto. There is no such thing like an ‘ordination to the papacy’.
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Leaders and all members of the community are bound to the same rules of conduct: no special privileges or dispensations from the law are allowed to the leaders. Triumphal titles and formal authority claims should be avoided. Sitting on ‘the see of Moses’ does not exalt the disciples to hierarchical positions whatsoever, but will oblige them to fidelity to the paradosis of the gospel. Similar things were said of the episcopal thrones, in use within Christianity from the fourth century, but mentioned already in Tertullian about 200 .31 The bishops, Augustine says, are sitting on higher and more precious thrones for two reasons only: for a better view on their flock, which they have to protect and supervise and in order that they might be as prominent in virtue and good behavior, as their higher position requires. Though they sit on higher thrones, they will not have any advantage of such position when it comes to the future judgment of Christ.32 Within Christianity the expression cathedra became the name for any bishop’s main church, where he was regularly to preach and teach (ecclesia cathedralis). When, in this sense, the expression cathedra Petri was first used by Hieronymus for the episcopal see of Rome in a letter to pope Damasus, he added a critical remark as well: Following no other than Christ, I want to be in communion with Your Holiness, which is: with the See of Peter . . .33
The cathedra Petri cannot replace the authority of Jesus Christ, nor is it restricted to Rome but may be found in Antioch or Jerusalem, where Peter lived as well. From the eleventh century onwards, however, the bishops of Rome have claimed a special position for their cathedra, and have started to relate it to the cathedra Moysi in what we now could not otherwise label as a clear example of a theology of supersession, which should be rejected: the popes are not the
31 Cathedra proprie est sedes, seu sessio honestior et augustior Episcoporum in ecclesia, caeteris aliorum Presbyterorum sedilibus excelsior . . . quoted in Du Cange, Glossarium mediae et infimae latinitatis, p. 226. 32 Augustine, Ennarationes in Psalmos, in ps. 121: . . . altiore se in loco, tamquam in specula constitutos, quo oculorum acie pervigili, atque indefessa, in tutelam gregis incumbant, tanto caeteris virtute et probitate clariores, quanto magis essent sedis honore ac sublimitate conspicui; Epistula 208: In futuro Christi judicio neque absidae gradatae, nec Cathedrae . . . velatae adhibebuntur ad defensionem . . . 33 Epistula 14,1.
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successors of Moses and Joshua. Which does not mean, that their teaching authority and the role model ascribed to them, has no comparable traits to offer to Jewish teaching procedures, from which we could learn a lot in Christian ecumenical dialogues. 3. Ecumenical Perspectives In his 1995 encyclical Ut unum sint Pope John Paul II seems to make a courageous opening to a more ecumenical understanding of the functions of the primatial magisterium, asking the contribution of all Christian churches for a creative re-thinking of the shape of the Petrine ministry of the Roman see: As the heir to the mission of Peter in the Church, which has been made fruitful by the blood of the Princes of the Apostles, the Bishop of Rome exercises a ministry originating in the manifold mercy of God. This mercy converts hearts and pours forth the power of grace where the disciple experiences the bitter taste of his personal weakness and helplessness. The authority proper to this ministry is completely at the service of God’s merciful plan and it must always be seen in this perspective . . . Associating himself with Peter’s threefold profession of love, which corresponds to the earlier threefold denial, his Successor knows that he must be a sign of mercy. His is a ministry of mercy, born of an act of Christ’s own mercy. . . . I insistently pray the Holy Spirit to shine his light upon us, enlightening all the pastors and theologians of our churches, that we may seek—together, of course—the forms in which this ministry may accomplish a service of love recognized by all concerned . . .34
At the same time, in his encyclical to the Eastern Churches, he pleaded for a more dynamic and less juridical understanding of the tradition process that this Petrine ministry must serve: Tradition is the heritage of Christ’s Church. This is a living memory of the Risen One met and witnessed to by the apostles, who passed on his living memory to their successors . . . This is articulated in the historical and cultural patrimony of each church, shaped by the witness of the martyrs, fathers and saints, as well as by the living faith of all Christians down the centuries to our own day. It is not an
34 Papal Encyclical Ut unum sint dd 25 May 1995, Libreria Editrice Vaticana, Vatican City 1995, §§ 92–96, 103–107.
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unchanging repetition of formulas, but a heritage that preserves its original, living and kerygmatic core . . . When the uses and customs belonging to each church are considered as absolutely unchangeable, there is a sure risk of tradition losing that feature of a living reality which grows and develops, and which the Spirit guarantees precisely because it has something to say to the people of every age . . . Tradition is never pure nostalgia for things or forms past nor regret for lost privileges, but the living memory of the bride, kept eternally youthful by the love that dwells in her.35
In the past decades Lutherans,36 Anglicans,37 Methodists,38 Disciples of Christ39 and the French Groupe des Dombes40 have reflected on the possibility of an ecumenical form of the Petrine ministry, based on the two role models of the first millennium: a witnessing role, interpreting the tradition in ever new circumstances and a supervising role of sanctification, fostering the purity and unity of the Christian communities. A renewed and reformed Petrine ministry would be also necessary to restore Christian unity or koinonia41 in the divided situation of the Church of Christ in view of its mission today. The main line of this ecumenical reflection may be summarized as follows: Until the time of Leo the Great, the bishops of Rome considered their Petrine task as a function of service to, not of authority over, the
35 Encyclical Letter Orientale Lumen dd. 18 May, Libreria Editrice Vaticana, Vatican City 1995, § 8. 36 Lutheran-Roman Catholic Dialogue in the USA, Papal Primacy and the Universal Church (ed. by P.C. Empie et al.), Augsburg, Minneapolis 1974, §§ 5, 28 and 30. 37 Anglican-Roman Catholic International Dialogue, Authority in the Church (Venice Statement 1976) §§ 22–23, in: H. Meyer and L. Vischer, Growth in Agreement, Paulist Press/WCC, New York/Geneva 1984,97; Windsor Statement (1981) §§ 29, 31, ib., 114–115; The Gift of Authority, in: Origins 29 (1999, May 27), 18 ff. 38 Methodist-Roman Catholic Dialogue, Towards a Statement on the Church (Nairobi 1986) § 58–62, in: Growth in Agreement II, Eerdmans/WCC, Grand Rapids/Geneva 2000, 593–594; Speaking the Truth in Love: Teaching Authority Among Catholics and Methodists (Seventh Series 1997–2001), §§ 41, 76, 123 ff. 39 Disciples of Christ-Roman Catholic Dialogue, The Church as Communion in Christ (1992), § 53, in: Growth in Agreement II, 397. 40 Groupe des Dombes, Le ministère de communion dans l’Eglise universelle, §§ 152–162 cf. 136, in: Pour la communion des Eglises, Centurion, Paris 1988. 41 “Koinonia is not confined to a mere “being-together”. It requires unanimity in the profession of faith despite diversity of expression. On major points, it requires someone to point out the errors to be avoided. It needs information to be passed to all the churches concerning the ways some of them seek to resolve common problems . . . these are the hallmarks of the mission of the bishop of Rome” ( Jean Tillard, Dictionary of the Ecumenical Movement, WCC, Geneva 1991, 824).
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churches. The commission to bind and loose in the church was understood to be of a therapeutic, not of a forensic nature. Their primacy was a primacy of honor, shared with other patriarchal sees and with the local churches and their bishops. Since the time of Gregory VII, however, they have claimed a primacy of jurisdiction and a direct identification with the mandate of Peter. Pope Innocent III (1198–1216) even stated that the other patriarchal sees had derived their jurisdiction from the see of Rome and its bishop, as the direct and only successor of Peter. We find this idea, for example, in the text of the profession of faith for the emperor Michael Paleologus, proposed for the Reunion Council of Lyon 1274. This text is a reworking of the formulation of pope Hormisdas II during the Photian schism 869, where he claims that the holy church of Rome possesses the highest and complete primacy ( primatum et principatum) over the universal church, which is given to her by Christ, through his commission to Peter, of which the bishop of Rome is the legitimate successor. As we know, the formulation of reunion failed completely, both in 1274 and later again at the council of Florence. It will fail again within the ecumenical dialogues of today.
This historical-juridical dogma of a direct mandate—de jure divino— of Jesus Christ to Peter and then to the church of Rome, seems to be softened in the following statement by John Paul II in the encyclical Orientale Lumen (1995): Peter’s task is to search constantly for ways that help preserve unity. Therefore he must not create obstacles but must open up paths, nor is this in any way at odds with the duty entrusted to him by Christ: ‘Strenghten your brothers in the faith’ (cf. Lk 22,32). It was as if the Master himself wanted to tell Peter: ‘Remember that you are weak, that you, too, need endless conversion. You are able to strengthen others only insofar as you are aware of your own weakness.’42
Even the Reformers could have accepted such understanding of the ‘Petrine ministry’. Luther accepted a special place for Peter in the New Testament as a model of the sinner, who can only survive through Gods mercy. Calvin refers to Peter as the one who resisted in the face of the secular authorities, and who had to obey God more than man. In Geneva, Calvin’s main church is, significantly enough, a church devoted to Peter (Saint Pierre). At the end of his Institutio, Calvin refers to Peter as someone, who was willing to suffer rather than to disobey God and who, thus, testified: ‘Glory alone to
42
Orientale Lumen, o.c., § 19. Cf. Ut unum sint §§ 92–96, quoted above.
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God’.43 As such Peter belongs to Jerusalem and not to Rome. As the first among the Twelve, he represents the whole renewed Israel to come, a new heaven and a new earth, where justice and peace will dwell (Is 65,17; 2 P 3,13; Rev 21,1.17) and cannot be identified with whatever patriarch in whatever holy place in the world, nor occupied by Christians alone: a real Petrine ministry has to recognize the fact, that Peter’s messianic confession of Jesus, the Jew (Mk 8,27–34; Mt 16,13–24) can only be rightly understood as a Jewish confession of faith and that Jesus’ commission to Peter to convert from his cowardice and then to confirm his brethren, refers firstly to his fellow-Jews. This is indeed what he did in Jerusalem, according to Acts 2, at the feast of Pentecost, expanding the message later on to Samaria, Antioch, Alexandria and, according to the legend of his martyrdom there, Rome. Conclusion: Peter and Jerusalem The Gospel of Mark, traditionally considered to be the Gospel of Peter, and perhaps even written in Rome, puts the messianic confession of Peter in chapter 8 in the upper north of Palestine, in the region of Caesarea Philippi, where the source of the Jordan river is. Mark has sketched Jesus as a new Moses: he saves the Twelve, figuring the twelve tribes from the drowning waters, like Moses led the people through the sea (Mk 4,35–41) and provides them with food in the desert (Mk 6,30–44) just as Moses did. And just like Elijah he goes beyond the horizon of the people of Israel by healing a Syrian-Phoenician woman (Mk 7,24–30). People are reported considering Jesus as a reincarnated prophet such as John the Baptist, Elijah and Jeremiah. Peter, then, expresses his hope that Jesus might become God’s Messiah the expected one, the Son of the living God, and in answer to that Peter is called by Jesus, to become a fisherman of God’s people according to the vision of Jeremiah 16 and to become
43 Jean Calvin, Institutio Religionis Christianae, Liber IV, Ch. XX, 32. In the same work, ch. VI, however, he rejects the claims to the primacy of the see of Rome, which are legitimated by the theologians of his time through a comparison with the position of the High Priest and the Supreme Court of the Sanhedrin in Jerusalem. Calvin rejects such claims, not because he rejects such an idea of supersession, but because he thinks that the Jewish priesthood has been taken over by Christ alone and certainly not by the Pope.
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the rock of Zion according to Isaiah 28. Jesus calls him the leader who must confirm the rest in their messianic faith. This calling he could not fulfill without much hesitation, renunciation and sin. His real conversion had to come in stages: first of all in the painful days of mourning after Jesus death and burial, then in his visions of the Risen Christ and in the events at Pentecost. He came to realize, that he must obey God more than man (Acts 5) and this implied a further widening of the horizon of his mission: first in Antioch (Acts 10), then at the Jerusalem apostolic council (Acts 15) and finally in a discussion with Paul about the scope of the Christian mission to the Gentiles (Gal 2). This Peter does not belong to anyone church or particular confession, but stands typologically, for all those, Jews and Gentiles, who might follow Jesus. I consider him as a timely figure, a biblical role model who is not in need of one but of many successors. His most important role for our time is perhaps, that he might restore in our churches and communities of faith the courage to hand on what we have learnt (Ac 4,19) to a wider audience in the world in a courageous and prudent way. Is not this, what was meant, metaphorically, by teaching ‘from the seat of Moses’ in Mt 23,2?
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457
INDEX OF ANCIENT SOURCES Hebrew Bible Genesis 3:15 11:11 14 14:18–20 17:1 23:1–20 24:67 25:7–11 25:17–18 25:27 31:36 35:8 35:16–20 35:27–29 32:29 47:28–50:14 49 49:33 50:20 50:22–26 Exodus 3:1ff 3:2–5 3:10 12 12:1–28 14 15:20 15:25 16:2–36 17:11 20:2 20:16 20:18 21:1 23:7 29:5–6,8–9, 29–30 29:7 32:10 33:11 40:12–14 40:13–15
177 113 388 n.36 343 57, 114 29 n.4 29 n.4 29 n.4 29 n.4 214 302 n.50 29 n.4 29 n.4 29 n.4 382 29 n.4 215 215 n.34 302 n.53 29 n.4 41 40 n.35 33 n.16 39 n.35, 41 343 39 n.35, 41 358, 364 40 n.35 343 40 n.35 144 144 372 n.45 147, 147 n.23, 148 299 n.36 35 35 33 37 35 35
Leviticus 6:4 8:7–9,13 8:12, 30 16:21 19:18,34 26:4 Numbers 8:6.14 8:10 11:16 13–14
129 35 35 36 n.26, 304 n.63 154 n.39 390
13 16:20 16:22 20 20:23–29 22:23 24:5–6 27 27:12–23 27:15–23 27:15–17 27:16–17 27:20 32
450 36 n.26 448 40, 42 n.40, 46 n.3 39 n.35 33 32 35 26 301 n.44 215 n.32 29, 31, 33 25 35 29 39 n.30 36 40
Deuteronomy 1:37–28 3:27–28 4:14 5:22 6:5 11:1 15 15:1–3 15:4 15:4–6 15:7–11 17:2ff 29:4 31:1–8 31:1–7 31:1–6
29 30 147–48 144 154 n.39 154 n.39 55 56 54 38, 56 56 150 125 n.14 25 40 37
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458 31:2 31:3a 31:3b 31:4–6 32:4 32:36 32:48–52 34:1–7 34:5 34:11
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39 n.30 38 38, 38 n.29 38 167, 174 302 n.54 25 n.1 27 40 382
Joshua 1–5 1:5 1:7–8 1:16 1:17 1:18 2 3–4 3:7,14 4:10 5:10 5:13–15 8:18,26 8:22 8:35 11:15 12:1–6 12:7–24 13 14–19 14:2,5 20:1–9 22 24 24:25 24:29–30 24:29 24:33
40 39 n.33 39 n.34 298 n.35 39 n.33 302 n.56 39 n.35 39 n.35 39 n.33 39 n.33 39 n.35 40 n.35 40 n.35 301 n.46 39 n.34 39 n.35 40 n.35 40 n.35 40 n.35 40 n.35 39 n.34 39 n.34 31 30 40 n.36 30 39 n.33 31
Judges 5:1 8:23 11:39 20:25 20:28
358 42 256 301 n.44 31
1 Samuel 1:18,6 8:4–22 8:11–17 12:19 28
358 42 n.41 42 89 231
2 Samuel 2:4–7 5:4 19:10 14:14 23 23:3 24:17
35 35 35 316 n.18 390 390 302 n.48
1 Kings 1:34,45 17:1 17:12 18 18:15 19 19:5–8 19:6 19:13–15 19:15–16 19:16 19:19–21
35 209 323 209 n.8 209 340, 342–43 342 343 210 n.12 28 n.3 35 n.22 36 n.25
2 Kings 1:9 2:1–18 2:8,13 2 3:11 11:12
211 n.13 36 n.25 211 n.14 209 n.8 209 35
Isaiah 1:15 20:3 28 35:3 40:11 47:2 47:3 50:7–9 61:1 63:11ff 65:17
228 130 456 302 n.57 31 360 360 297 n.30 35 n.22 31 455
Jeremiah 13:4ff 16 23:1–4 25:34–35 31:15–16 31:33 32:19 42:2 42:17
257 455 32 32 93 144 174 89 301 n.46
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Ezekiel 1:3 20:25 24:16 34 36:26 37 43:3
297 n.27 304 n.60 102 32 144 32 n.12 297 n.27
Hoseah 1:9
295
Joel 2:32
82
Amos 3:3
384
Micah 2:6
150
Zephaniah 3:13
302 n.49
Zechariah 2:3 4:2 4:3 11:4–11
105 n.32 105 n.32 106 n.32 32
Psalms 1:3 23 77:21 78:52 78:71–72 80:2 82:1 110 110:1 115:15 115:125 119 119:11 119:13 139:22 144[145]:19
232 n.20 31 31 31 31 31 111, 111 n.47 112 113 316 n.18 316 n.18 149 147 147 301 n.45 228
Proverbs 8:36 10:6
130 386
16:10 16:14 22:6 23:23 27:26 30:4 Job 1:21 2:9 3 3:3–6 3:3 3:4 3:6 3:8 14:14 16:17 22:28ff 34:30 35:16 42:17 Canticles 1:2 1:2b
459 152, 152 n.33 90 109 n.39 65 147 110 242 230 235 231 228, 235, 238–39, 241–42 241 241 231, 239 230 302 n.51 65 294 n.18 141 230
1:3 2:14 4:1 5:14 7:10
144, 148 146, 146 n.20, 147 n.21, 149 146 n.20 360 360 152 149
Ecclesiastes 2:8 4:1 4:2–3 7:21 9:1
359 239 239 326 n.47 318 n.22
Esther 9:5
301 n.47
1 Chronicles 4:43 26:5
302 n.55 156
2 Chronicles 15:3 28:13
175 302 n.52
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Page 460
460
Septuagint 2 Ezra 2:65
359 Targum
Targum Onkelos Genesis 5:24 14:18
Targum Neofiti Genesis 14:18 38:25–26
103, 103 n.20 113 n.55
113 n.53 165
Targum Pseudo-Jonathan Genesis 5:24 108 14:18 113 nn.53, 55 Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha Ascension of Isaiah 9:6–10
104
1 Enoch (Ethiopic) 37–71 92:1 104,1
101 n.11 100 n.10 82 n.15
2 Enoch (Slavonic) 4:6 13:105 27 30:8–18
2 Maccabees 6–7 6:6 6:18–31 7 4 Maccabees 4 Maccabees
184 190 167 167 65, 165, 167–78, 184, 193, 193 n.37, 199
91 n.48 91 n.48 111 97 n.3
Rechabites, History of the 7:10ff 97 n.4
104 n.22, 109 n.40
Sirah 44:16 (LXX) 49:14
5 Ezra 1:39
101 n.15
Testament of Adam 3:2,4 97 n.3
Jubilees 3:31 4:21
134 n.46 99
3 Enoch (Hebrew) 3–16 and 48C
Wisdom 1:23 2:24 4:13
100 99
316 n.18 316 n.18 100
New Testament Matthew 2:13–15 4:19 5–7,15 5:39
342 450 449 295 n.25
8:1–3 9:16 9:24 10:1–16 10:1
295 124 316 450 293
n.21 n.14 n.18, 320 n.17
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13:29 14:13–21 16:13–24 16:18–19 16:18 17 17:1–13 20:25 23 23:2–12 23:2ff 23:2 23:3 23:8 25 26:36–46 26:36–45 28:19
437 342 455 437 440 n.8 213 n.24 344 447 447, 447 n.24 447, 449 446–47 447–48, 456 447 447 111 n.47 342 297 n.28 447
Mark 2:21 4:35–41 6:8–9 6:30–44 7:24–30 8:27–34 9 9:2–13 10:42
124 455 124 455 455 455 213 108 447
Luke 4 5:12–14 5:36 7:11–15 9 9:28–36 9:32 10:38–42 12:11 16:19–20 22:32 24:50–53
n.14 n.13
nn.23–24 n.36, 344
213 n.23 295 n.21 124 n.14 295 n.22 213 n.24 344 346 342 447 126 n.22 433, 454 342
John 3:13 4:27 7:48 11 20:22
102 n.17 361 447 342 450
Acts 1:23
293 n.17
461
2 3:1–9 4:19 5 6 7:27,35 10 10:9–16 10:9 13:1 13:9 15 21:9
455 295 456 456 450 447 456 294 444 450 303 456 212
Romans 5:12 7:23 13:12
316 n.18 316 n.18 325
1 Corinthians 2:8 2:13 13 14:35–34
447 232 n.19 98 361
Galatians 2 3:28
456 254 n.25
Philippians 1:23
239, 316 n.18
2 Timothy 3:6–7
420
Hebrews 7:3 11:5–6
117 101
1 Peter 2:15 5:13
439 300
2 Peter 3:13
455
Revelation 11 14:8 16:19 18:2 21:1,17
105 n.32 300 300 300 455
n.21
n.19 n.18 n.58 n.18
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462
Qumran 11Q13
110
11QMelch
111 n.47
Jewish-Hellenistic Literature Josephus Antiquities 1:85 4:326 9:28 15:136
100 n.11 100 n.11 100 98 n.6
Jewish War 2.8.4 (127)
127 n.24
Philo On Abraham §235
111
Legum Allegoriae III,2 III §79–82
214 n.28 111
Life of Moses II,256
359 n.6
Quod detrius potiori 19 127
Mishna Abot 1:1 1:5 2:5 3:8–9 6:4 Berakhot 1:3 5:1 5:5
Eduyot 5:6 Gittin 8:5 Óullin 2:9 Kelim 28:1 28:8 29:1–2
449 n.28 357 67 n.32, 68 n.36 64 n.16 135 n.49 150 n.28 63 n.11, 64 n.18 63 nn.11–12, 64 n.18, 69 n.41, 89 389
Ketoevot 5:8 5:9 6:7 11:6
131 132 56 n.31 133 n.39
Megillah 4:6
134 n.45
Parah 5:7
133 n.41
Sanhedrin 11:3
150 n.28
Shabbat 19:2 21:2
133 n.41 133 n.41
Sotah 9:15
64 n.17
Taanit 1:7 3:8
74 n.60 64 n.13, 65 n.20
Yebamot 9:3 10:1
132 n.39 133 n.39
133 n.39 86 133 n.41 134 131 n.34
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463
Tosefta Abodah Zarah 3:13
87
Ahilot 5:12
73 n.58
Berakhot 3:20–22 3:20 4:18 6:11
63 n.11 64 n.18 165 86 n.32
Óagigah 2:1
72 n.52
Óullin 2:24 2:18
170, 178 n.37 85
Kelim 5:2 5:3 5:9 5:10 5:12 5:16 6:3
133 133 133 133 133 133 133
n.40 n.40 nn.40, 42 n.40 n.41 n.40 n.41
Ketubot 5:8–9 5:9 6:10
131 n.36 132 n.39 55 n.26
Kilaim 5:6 5:15
131 n.34 131 n.34
Megillah 1:5 3:27
175 n.25 134 nn.45–46
Niddah 7:2
131 n.34
Peah 4:9
134 n.47
Sanhedrin 7:2
149 n.25
Shabbat 2:1,6
133 n.41
Taanit 1:7
74 n.61
Zeva˙im 2:17
70 n.49
Babylonian Talmud Abodah Zarah 8a 8b 17a 17b–18a 27a
90 167 83 163, 167, 171, 173–74, 179–80 87
Baba Batra 9a 116a
134 n.47 76 n.71, 90 n.45
Baba Metsia 85a 78b 106b
390 n.41 175 n.25 175 n.25
Berakhot 17a
366 n.28
17b 24a 31a 32b
57b 60b 61b 63b
386 357, 373, 363 n.28 63 n.11 63 n.11, 66 nn.28–29, 67 n.30 69 n.37 89, 65 n.22, 67 n.33, 68 n.34 389 88 167, 166 n.8 155
Besah 32b
131 n.34
Erubin 65b
136 n.50
33a 34b
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14a Óagigah 15a 22b
72 n.54 146 n.17, 148 n.24 72 n.54 103 n.24, 104 n.22, 109 n.42 73 n.59, 92 n.51
Óullin 40a
85
Ketubot 61b–63a 63a 65b 69b
57 n.33 135 n.48 132 n.39 54 n.24, 55 n.26
Moed Katan 16b
390
Nazir 52b
73 n.59
Nedarim 32b 49b
113, 113 n.53 131 n.33
Sanhedrin 5a–6b 13b–14a 20a 38b Shabbat 11a
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464 Gittin 56b 58a
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149 n.25 167 131 n.32 103 nn.19, 22
29a 63b 114a 118b 156b
133 n.41 390 n.41 129, 136 390 75 n.65
Shebuot 31a
133
Sotah 4b 13b 34b
135 n.48 109 n.42 92
Sukkah 5a 14a 52b
102 n.17 70 n.43 105 n.32
Taanit 7b 16a 21a 23a 23b 24b 25b
390 92, 92 n.52 54 65 nn.21, 25, 91 91 380 73 n.56
Yebamot 63b
135 n.48
Yoma 29a 72b
70 n.43 61 n.7
Zeba˙im 115b
165
389 Palestinian Talmud
Abodah Zarah 2,7 (41c)
146 n.16
Berakhot 4.8(d)–5.9(a) 4, 8(d) 5, 8(d)–9(a) 5, 9(d) 9, 68(a) 9:1, 13a 9.7, 14b
67 n.30 66 n.28 63 n.11 65 n.22, 68 n.34 64 n.15 82 167
Gittin 3, 65(c–d)
72 n.54
Óagigah 2:1 2, 77(a)
382 72 n.52
Ketubot 5:7 30b 6:7 30d 6:7 30d–31a 6:7 31a
132 n.39 55 n.26 54 n.24 56 n.31
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Megillah 1:6(3), 70b
175 n.25
Nedarim 1, 42(c)
75 n.69
Peah 8:4 (21a) 8:7 (21b)
134 n.47 130
Taanit 1, 64(a) 1, 64(b)
Pesa˙im 10, 37(c)
77 n.73
Qiddushin 1:5 58d
54 n.24
2:1, 65b 3:4 66c 3, 66(c) 3, 67(a) 3, 67(c)
Shabbat 6, 8(c–d)
74 n.64
465
Shebiith 8, 38(d)
75 n.69
Shekalim 2, 46(d)–47a 6.1, 49d
71 n.51 180 n.39 75 n.70 65 n.21, 70 n.47, 75 n.68 103 49 n.14 75 n.65 70 n.42 65 n.25
Midrash and Related Works Avot de Rabbi Nathan A 11 (23b) 135 A 12 (50) 85 n.26 A 12 (56) 67 n.31 A 28 (43a) 128 n.29 B 31 (34b) 136 n.50 B 26 (52) 64 n.15 B 27 (56–57) 67 n.31
Mekhilta de Simon bar Jochai Mishpatim, 158 72 n.52
Soferim 9:18
134 n.45
Sifre Zuta on Numbers 27,15 29 n.5
Semachot 8 8.11(12) 8.11
167 178 178 n.36
Derekh Erets 11
88
Derekh Erets Zuta 1:20 110 5:3 136 Kallah 18c 23
175 n.26 167
Kallah Rabbati 6:4 9:13
71 n.50 88
Sifra 18:5
165
Sifre Numbers 138
30 n.6
Sifre Deuteronomy 48, §112 64 n.15 32:4, §307 167 §325 98 n.7 §343 136 §357 109 n.42 Genesis Rabba 4:6 6:5 17:7 25:1 36:4 43 43:6 63:6 63:8 63:10 68:3
77 n.73 75 n.65, 77 n.73 77 n.73 77 n.73, 102–103 103 n.19 388 n.36 113 n.52 214 n.28 77 n.73 214 n.28 77 n.73
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466 84:21 87:6 94:9 Exodus Rabba 1:13 40:1 Leviticus Rabba 9:3 19:1–3 25:6 29:11 Numbers Rabba 2:3 14:4
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77 n.73 77 n.73 64 n.14
Eikha Zuta 64
92 n.54
Midrash Samuel 1.1 5.2–3
64 n.15 151 n.31
Midrash Proverbs 15.4
70 n.48
52 n.20 151 n.31 113, 114 n.57 103 n.21
Midrash Hagadol 5:24
109
153 n.36 69 n.40
Midrash Psalms 9:7 76:3 90:6 108:1 114:6
104 113 n.53 70 n.45 63 n.11 133 n.41
70 n.46 61 n.8
Deuteronomy Rabba 7:11 125 n.14 Lamentations Rabba Peti˙ta 24 92 Pesikta 24 92 n.54 1:1 (21a–b) 133 n.43 Canticles Rabba 1.1,8 1.2a 1.2(a),5 1.2(b),1–2 1.2a,1–5 1.2b,1–2 1.2b 1.2b,1 1.10,2 1.30 2.4,1
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2.5,1–3 5.11 5.11,2 5.12,1–2 5.14,3 5.14,12 6.2,2 6.9,2–3 8.14,1
152–53 140, 142, 156 151 n.30 151 n.30 140 140, 146, 146 n.16 156 146 n.17 151 n.30 70 n.44 151, 151 n.30, 153–54 155 152 151 151 n.30 155 n.41 152 155 n.41 151 n.30 151 n.30
Ruth Rabba 3 6:2
133 n.43 70 n.45
Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer 8 109 22 134 n.46 Pesikta de Rab Kahana §1.4 110 p. 17 449 n.29 Pesikta Rabbati 3 8.3 18 23
93 105 n.32 77 n.73 135
Midrash Aggada 5:24
109
Tan˙uma Mi-Ketz 10 Wa-Yera 9 Ki-Tavo 4
70 n.45 63 n.11 66 n.26, 67 n.33
Tan˙uma Buber Wa-Yera 45
70 n.45
Tanna deBe Eliyahu Rabba 2, 13; 3, 16; 7, 65 n.23 36–37; 11(12), 56; 13, 67; 19, 112; 24(22), 112; 25(23), 129
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467
Tanna deBe Eliyahu Zuta 6 62 n.9
Yalkut Reubeni 5:24
109 n.41
Tanya Rabbati §72
82
Yalkut Hadash 19
119 n.73
Yalkut Makhiri 108:1
63 n.11 Christian Writings
Abba Isaiah Asceticon 1,6 26,18 4,67–68
279 279 n.108 280 n.111
Acts of the Council of Constantinople IV,1 233 n.24, 234 n.25 LXV 74 234 n.25 Ambrose De bono mortis 2,3–4 De excessu fratris 2,31–32 De officiis I,42–44 Epist. extra coll. 1a
239 n.39 239 n.38 238 n.36 186 n.13
Apocalypse of Paul 19
102 n.16
Apocalypse of Peter 2:11–13 16
106 106 n.33
Apophthegmata 11
270 n.52
Armenian codex 121 Augustine 2;4 40 De Elia, PG 39 300 300 and 301, PL 38 PL 38 ps. 121
Barsanuphius and John Questions Monastiques 68 Questions and Answers 418 Questions and Answers 492–499 Vita Dosithei 13
267 n.32 277 n.97
Beleth Summa de ecclesiasticis officiis
201
Calvin Institutio Liber IV, Ch XX, 32 Liber IV, Ch VI
455 n.43 455 n.43
Cave of Treasures 13:19 31:13–17
101 117
Clement of Alexandria Paedagogus II.10 (11); II.11 (12); II.12 (13) (PG 8:520 ff.); III.11 (PG 8:628 ff.) II.10 (11)
268 n.40 267 n.34
122 n.6
128 n.29
185 n.11
Conflict of Adam and Eve with Satan 3,16 118 n.68
177 105 186 186 187 190 451
Epiphanius Panarion 55.6.1 and 8 55.7.1
113 n.53 114
Epistle of Barnabas 9
113 n.56
n.26 n.14 n.14 n.23, n.32 n.32
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468 Eusebius Mart. Pal. 11.13–19 Praeparatio Evangelica IX.25 Evagrius of Pontus Chapters on Prayer PG 79, cols 1165–1200 Chapters on Prayer 52 Chapters on Prayer 67, 72–73, 90–92, 99, 133–134 De Oratione of ‘Nilus’ Praktikos 55 75 Evagrius Scholasticus Hist. Eccl., 4, 33 Gregory of Nazianze Homily 15 (PG 35) Gregory the Great Moralia, Letter to Leander, SC 32bis Moralia, Praefatio 14 SC 32bis Moralia IV,1,3–4, CCSL 143 Hippolytus Commentary on Daniel 39 Treatise on Christ and anti-Christ 43 and 47 Ignatius Epistle to the Romans 4,3 5,3 7,1 3 Irenaeus Adversus Haereses III, 2 4.16.2 5.5.1
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180 n.41 230 n.10 273 n.74
273 n.78 274 n.80 275 n.86 275 n.87
Filastrius 148
118 n.70
Gaudentius of Brescia Tractatus 15
195 n.47
John Chrysostom In Ascensionem Domini Jesu Christi, PG 50 Homily on Melchizedek PG 56 Homily on the holy Maccabees I,1 (PG 50) Sermon on the holy Martyrs (PG 50, 647) De diabolo tentatore III,5, PG 49 Ad Stagirium a daemone vexatum I,7, PG 47
104 n.25 114 n.59 185 n.8 185 n.8 237 n.30 237 n.32
285 n.136 185 n.12, 190 n.30 240 n.44 240 n.45 242 n.47
106 n.34 106 n.34
436 n.3 177 177 441 n.12
437 n.3 101 101
John Malalas Chronographia, ch. VIII, 23–24
187 n.19
Jerome Epistulae 100,9 58, 71 and 75 71,3 75,5 76,3 133
186 255 255 249 249 254
Justin Dialogue with Trypho § 33; cp. § 19 Acts of Pilate IX (XXV) Acts of Pilate 2:3–5
112 106 n.35 114 n.60
Lactantius Div. inst. 7.17.8
180 n.40
Ludus de Antichristo
108 n.38
Melchizedek, Apocryphal story of
117
Melchizedek (NHC) NHC IX,1, 4:7 NHC IX,1, 13:1
116 n.62 108 n.36
Maximus of Turin Sermo 7
195 n.48
n.15 n.31 n.30 n.14 n.14 n.26
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Origen Contra Celsus 1,28 and 32 Contra Cels. 3,55 Homilies on Leviticus 8,3 Passio Perpetuae 1.1–2 3–13 3.1–3; 5.1–6.8; 9 3.2 3.3; 21.10 6 6.4 10 10.2 10.8 10.9 10.14 21.11 Pseudo-Theodoret of Cyrus Questions and answers 28
114 n.60 173 n.24 231 n.17 173 171 172 172 177 171 172 175 176 176 176 177 173
Sulpicius Severus Liber Chronicorum II, 46 and 48 (CSEL 1)
469
254 n.26
Tertullian A Treatise on the Soul 50 De praescriptione haereticorum c. 32 Adversus Iudaeos 2:13–14
437 n.4 101 n.13
Vita Sancti Sabae 142, 5
125 n.16
Apophthegmata alph. Amoun 3 Apophthegmata alph. Daniel, 8 Apophthegmata alph. Zeno 4 Zeno of Verona Tractatus I 15 (II 15) de Iob II 9 CCSL 22
106
279 n.109 283 279 n.108 240 n.42
228 n.3 Later Jewish Authors
Aruch HaShalem Kohot ed. Vol. 6, 266
360 n.7
Book of Adam and Eve 36,2
84 n.21
Dov Baer, the Maggid of Mezritch 85–86 385 n.28 94–95 385 n 30 110 385 n.31 196–197 384 n.24 197–198 382 n.19 220 380 n.13 267 383 n.21 277 381 n.14 281 384 n.25 Hayim Hizkiyahu Medini Sedei Khemed Klalim, Maarekhet 100, ch. 42 Yosef Karo Shulkhan Aruch, Hilkhot Ishut 21,1 Arukh HaShulkhan, Ishut, Even HaEzer 21,3
Maimonides Mishneh Torah, 21, 1–2
362 n.16
Menahem Azaria from Pano Kanfei Yonah, vol. 4, 364 n.24 no. 36, 99b Rashi Rashi upon BT AZ 67b
175 n.25
Yehuda Hadassi Eshkol Hakofer 140b
84 n.23
Sefer Hassidim ch. 614
362 n.14
Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg Sridei Esh, vol. 2, ch. 8
366 n.27
366 n.26
363 n.19 363 n.21
Yaakov Ben Asher Sefer Ha-turim Tur Even Ha-Ezer, Pirya u-Rviya 21 Torah Shlema Gen. 14:18, part 3, p. 615, §§ 111–112
363 n.18
119 n.72
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Abraham Azulai Chesed Le-Avraham chap. 43 Katz, Jacob Joseph Ben Porat Yosef 80b Toldot Ya’aqov Yosef, 19–20
387
Zohar I 37b 56b Numbers, Shelakh 167b Exodus 19a
109 n.39 109 n.41 363 359 n.5
386 n.32 387 n.34 Greek and Latin Authors
Cato De Agri Cultura, 59
132 n.38
Plotinus Enneads VI, 9:3–4
384
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INDEX OF NAMES AND SUBJECTS Aaron 28–29, 31–33, 36 36 n.26 Abba Daniel 118 Abba Isaiah 262, 263 n.9, 264, 265 n.20, 267 n.30, 270 n.52, 278–79, 279 nn.108–109, 280, 284 Abba bar Memel 152 Abba Shaul (= Paul) 292, 303, 303 n.58 Abbahu 77, 102, 102 n.18, 390 Abbaye 86, 262 n.8, 263 n.9, 270 n.52, 274 n.80, 278 n.104 Abbot Seridus 263 Abel 104, 423 n.19 Abgar 250, 253 Abraham 29 n.4, 85 n.26, 92, 110, 111–14, 117 n.64, 175 n.25, 296, 340, 343, 388 Abraham ben David 362 Abstention 63, 245, 254 Acts of the Alexandrian Martyrs 170 n.20 Acts of the Scillitan Martyrs 165 Acts of Thecla 418, 425 Adam 84 n.21, 97, 97 n.3, 103 n.19, 104, 109 n.43, 118 n.68, 242, 317, 319, 330, 340 Adoptionist 116 A˙a 154 A˙a bar Abba 129 Ahab 210, 211 n.14, 342 Albigenses 444 Alexandria 112 n.50, 118, 122, 127, 128, n.20, 170, 186, 206, 220–21, 231–33, 235, 238–359, 436–37, 447 n.25, 455 Allegory 258 Ambrose of Milan 185, 238, 238 n.36, 239 Amidah 66, 304 n.62 Amittai 80 Amulets 78 n.75 Anaclet II 308 n.73 Angel 79–80, 80 n.4, 81 nn.10, 12, 82 n.15, 83, 88 n.36, 97, 97 nn.2–3, 98, 109, 112, 115, 115 n.61, 281, 409, 412 Angel, guardian 203
Anna Katharina Emmerich 350, 350 n.35 Anthony (saint) 11, 251 n.18, 206–25, 275 Anti-Christ 101 n.14, 105–106, 106 nn.33, 35, 108, 108 nn.37–38, 180, 345, 345 n.21, 353, 353 n.41 Antioch 60 n.2, 118 n.67, 184–85, 185 n.7, 186, 188–90, 193–94, 197 n.58, 231–33, 233 nn.20–21, 235, 237–38, 361 n.9, 435–36, 438, 441 n.12, 450–51, 455–56 Antiochus Epiphanes 191 Aphrodesias 125 Apocalyptic 102, 105, 106 n.35, 108–109, 111 n.48, 213, 400, 447 n.24 Apostles 197, 289, 293 n.17, 344, 347–48, 350–51, 420, 435–37, 450, 452 Apostolic Constitutions 112 n.50, 189 Appartenance 14, 18 Appropriation 13, 101–102, 111–12, 150, 396–97, 405, 408–409 Aqiva 73, 75, 155, 166, 166 n.8, 167, 171 Aquinas, Thomas 311, 342, 342 n.13 Archaeology 121 n.4, 122 n.5 Aristotle 10, 13, 13 n.16, 14, 14 n.17, 16, 17 n.22, 18, 387, 391 Armenia 193 Armenian Lectionary 183, 185–86, 194 n.39 Ascension 100, 102, 104, 109–10, 295 Ascension Day 306 Ascetic dietary 275 n.89 Ascetic(s) 4, 11, 73, 210, 218, 220–22, 246–47, 247 n.10, 248, 251–55, 264, 268, 271, 275, 279 n.109, 284–85 Asceticism 4, 53 n.22, 73, 75, 75 n.69, 77, 126–27, 135, 207, 210–11, 213–14, 217–18, 220 n.47, 221, 221 n.49, 222–44, 244 n.5, 245, 250–51, 251 n.18, 252–54, 254 n.27, 259–60, 268 n.40, 271, 274, 284, 405, 430
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Asceticize 221 Ascetics, Egyptian 223 Ascetization 216 Assumption 106 n.35, 118 n.66, 154, 170, 342, 353, 420 Athanasius 205–206, 206 n.5, 207, 209, 209 n.8, 210, 212–14, 214 n.28, 215, 217–18, 220, 220 n.47, 221, 221 nn.48–50, 222, 222 n.53, 223–25, 261 n.2 Atheism 400 Atonement 59, 174–75, 230, 400 Augustine 177, 185–87, 190, 207, 207 n.6, 316, 317 n.20, 330 n.57, 422, 436, 451 Autonomy 5, 10, 16, 18–19, 424, 431 Baal Shem Tov 378 n.5, 379, 379 n.8, 380, 380 n.10, 386 Baptism 319 Barsanuphius 261–63, 263 n.11, 264, 264 nn.15, 18, 265, 265 n.23, 266, 266 nn.24, 28, 267–68, 268 nn.43, 46, 269, 270–71, 273–76, 276 n.92, 277–79, 279 n.109, 280–85, 285 n.137 Bekkers (Bishop) 393 Beleth 201 Bethlehem 255 Bible 30 n.6, 31, 32 n.13, 33, 36–37, 39 n.31, 42, 42 n.40, 75 n.69, 76, 97, 102, 115, 167, 183, 188 n.26, 191, 209 n.8, 210–11, 213, 215, 221, 250, 255, 278, 279 n.109, 140 n.2, 315, 343, 360, 364, 415, 418, 420, 430, 445, 448 Biel, Gabriel 4, 311–12, 312 nn.2, 4, 313, 313 n.6, 314, 314 nn.8, 10, 315, 315 n.11, 316–21, 321 n.29, 322–29, 329 n.56, 330–33 Biko, Steve 393 Bilocation 400 Biographical 171, 205, 217, 265, 290, 292, 326 Biography 51, 207, 209, 215, 218 n.46, 219, 220, 224–25, 291, 314, 322, 324, 330 n.57, 403 n.17, 426 n.25, 442 Birth 111, 111 n.48 114, 218, 228–29, 231, 238–39, 241–42, 256–57, 296, 306, 319, 336, 417, 429–30 Bishop 164, 167–68, 206, 220–21, 223, 225, 239–40, 240 n.43, 246,
248–49, 252–53, 283, 298, 298 n.32, 300, 336, 361 n.9, 400, 434–37, 437 n.3, 438–41, 441 n.12, 443–46, 451, 454 Bishop of Rome 306, 434–36, 440–42, 444, 446, 448, 450, 453 Body 7, 35 n.22, 59, 101, 122 n.6, 127, 205, 207, 213, 218 n.46, 222 n.55, 240–41, 244, 259, 270, 270 n.54, 281–83, 319–20, 329–30, 338, 360 n.8, 363, 368, 384–85, 387, 416, 427, 430 celestial 83–84, 84 n.22, 94 Bonhoeffer, Dietrich 393 Bouts, Dirc 350–52 Brandsma, Titus 335, 395 n.3, 403, 403 n.17, 405 Bread and wine 112, 112 n.50, 118 Brethren of the Common Life 312, 322 Brides of Christ 254 Byzantine 45–46, 49, 74 n.62, 121–23, 135–36, 187, 261, 265, 267, 285, 285 n.137, 349, 448 rite 183 n.4, 194 saints 216 Caesarea 102, 180, 230, 455 Caesarius van Heisterbach 342 Cain 242 Cairo Genizah 128 Calendar of saints 184 Calvin 454–55, 455 n.43 Camera, Dom Helder 393 Caprio, Leonardo di 393 Carmelite 337 n.6, 342, 346, 346 n.26, 353, 403 Castration 368, 368 n.35 Cathedra 437, 437 n.5, 438, 445, 445 n.21, 446–47, 451 Cathedra Moysi see Chair of Moses Cathedra Petri 451 Cave of Machpela 93 Celibacy 98, 105, 135, 215 n.33, 249 n.14, 259, 303 n.59 clerical 252, 259 Celsus 114, 114 n.60 Cemetery 92 n.52 Cenobites 124 n.12, 244, 264 n.13 Centripetal 8–9, 19–21 Chains of Peter 200–201 Chair of Moses 5, 434, 446, 448–49 Channel 207, 212, 272, 386, 409 Chanting 359–60, 364
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Charismatic 5, 59–60, 65, 74–75, 78–89, 91, 266 n.28, 268, 271, 277, 277 n.100, 278, 423 religiosity 4 wonderworkers 3 Charms 71, 73, 78, 267 Christ 10, 97, 99, 103–106, 106 n.34, 108, 111–12, 114–15, 115 n.61, 116 n.62, 117, 120, 126 n.23, 168, 173, 184, 189–90, 212, 221 n.51, 223, 227 n.1, 233, n.20, 237, 239–40, 254, 254 nn.25, 27, 257, 268, 277, 282–83, 293 n.15, 313, 314 n.8, 320, 322–25, 328–29, 331–32, 336–38, 340, 342–43, 343 n.16, 344–52, 354, 399–400, 439, 442, 446, 451–53, 454–56 Christ, bridegroom 320 naked 126 n.23 poor 126 n.23 resurrection of 101, 103, 430 Christian 3–5, 11, 49–51, 59, 69, 74 n.62, 76–79, 88, 91, 97–99, 101, 101 n.12, 102, 102 n.18, 103, 103 n.22, 104–105, 106 n.33, 108, 110 n.46, 111–14, 114 n.58, 115, 117, 117, nn.64–65, 119, 119 n.71, 120–23, 123 n.7, 124, 126, 127 n.26, 129, 132, 135, 137, 163–70, 170 n.20, 171–73, 178–81, 183, 183 n.3, 184–91, 193–94, 199, 201–202, 204–206, 214, 216, 218, 221, 223, 225, 227–32, 240, 242–45, 248–49, 252, 255 n.29, 259, 261, 264, 275, 279, 282–83, 285, 290, 292, 292 n.13, 293–98, 300–303, 305–309, 311, 313, 318–20, 325, 328, 330–32, 335–36, 338, 340, 342, 342 n.11, 343–44, 346–50, 352–53, 353 nn.41–42, 354, 361, 385, 393, 397–99, 405, 407, 409, 415–20, 422–23, 429, 433, 435–36, 438–42, 444, 447–48, 450, 452–53, 455–56 Christmas 185, 306, 411, 413 Christology 115, 233 n.20, 239 Chrysostom 104, 104 n.25, 114 n.59, 185, 189–90, 236–37 Church 4, 113–14, 127, 163, 169 n.17, 173, 184, 191 n.34, 194 n.43, 197 n.56, 202, 213 n.26, 239–42, 252, 252 n.19, 254 n.27, 255, 259, 277 n.100, 281, 283, 285, 289, 291, 291 n.9, 292 n.13, 312 n.2, 315,
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316 n.18, 323–33, 336–37, 337 n.6, 338, 340, 343–44, 346–47, 349 n.31, 352, 360, 396, 400, 402, 405, 424 n.20, 433 n.1, 434–37, 439, 439 n.7, 441, 441 n.12, 443–44, 446, 446 nn.22–23, 447, 452–53, 453 nn.36–39 Church of Saint Peter in Chains 197 Church of St. Andrew 202 Circumcised 101 n.13, 104, 113, 119 Circumcision 41, 87, 113, 113 n.56, 114, 114 n.57, 133 n.41, 296, 306 City 102, 126, 183, 185, 187–88, 191, 193, 197, 197 n.58, 198, 200, 215, 296, 301, 309, 378, 433, 436, 438–39 Clement 112 n.50, 122 n.6, 128 n.29, 129 n.30, 435–37, 447 n.25 Clerical 428, 442 Cloak 124, 209 n.8, 211 n.14 Clothes of poverty 123–24, 135–37 Clothes, soiled 135, 137 Clothing 122 n.6, 123 n.10, 125–26, 126 n.22, 127–28, 128 n.28, 130–32, 132 n.39, 133, 133 nn.40–41, 134–35, 147, 217, 276 Coenobites see Cenobites Colluthus (saint) 264 Cologne 163, 202, 202 n.74, 312 n.4, 342 n.13 Communal roles 218–19 Communio sanctorum 329, 407 Communion 329, 338, 343, 348, 349 n.31, 453 n.40, 354, 435, 440, 440 n.8, 451 Communion of Saints 225, 329, 407 Community 4, 16, 18, 30, 45, 48–49, 51, 52 n.20, 53, 63, 68, 71, 75, 82, 84 n.24, 92, 102, 122, 152, 164, 173, 186, 189, 218–23, 223 n.58, 224–25, 244, 249–50, 251 n.18, 252–53, 255, 264, 266, 278, 290, 294, 303, 309, 313 n.6, 315, 323–24, 328–29, 335, 335 n.2, 346 n.26, 358, 361 n.9, 372, 381, 399, 402, 439, 441, 446, 448, 448 n.27, 450–51 Constantine 438 Constantinople 125 n.16, 194 n.43, 197, 231 n.15, 240, 247, 303 n.58, 337, 428, 436, 443 Contemplation 211, 270–71, 279, 343, 348, 382, 385–86 Continence 259
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Controversy 80 n.4, 142, 151, 281, 281 n.119, 283, 283 n.129, 400 Conversion 45 n.2, 59, 77, 188, 191 n.34, 255 n.29, 308 n.73, 433, 438, 442, 454, 456 Coptic Church 194, 194 n.42 Copying 11–12, 15 Coronation 35 Corpus Christi 337, 340, 340 n.9, 342 n.13, 343, 348, 348 n.29, 349–50 Council of Chalcedon 264 Council of Constantinople 233 Council of Saragossa 252, 256 n.32 Council of Trent 201–202, 311 Creation 381, 385, 385 n.29 Cross 30, 37–38, 267, 340, 399 Crusade 262 n.4, 308 Cult 47–48, 48 n.9, 126 n.23, 183, 184, 184 n.7, 185–88, 188 n.26, 189–91, 193–96, 198, 200–202, 202 n.74, 203–204, 264, 285 n.137, 329, 336–37, 352, 398 n.11, 402–404, 408, 419, 438 Cult of the saints 3, 188 n.26, 329 Cynics 126–27, 127 n.26 Cyril of Alexandria 118 Dachau 404 Daniel 118, 121, 169, 179, 181, 187, 189, 218, 218 n.45, 257, 283 n.127 Daphne 187, 189 Daughter of Jephthah 256 David 71, 91 n.49, 147, 149, 183 n.3, 217, 217 n.43, 237, 340, 358, 390, 420 Day of Atonement 80, 299 n.38, 307, 380 n.11 Days of Awe 80 n.5, 81, 81 nn.7, 9–10 Death 7, 20, 25–26, 28, 28 n.4, 29–31, 37, 39–40, 40 n.35, 41–42, 75, 84, 85 n.25, 90, 97, 100, 100 n.10, 101–103, 105, 105 n.31, 106, 106 n.34, 108, 125 n.14, 129, 163–66, 166 n.7, 167–69, 170 n.20, 171–72, 174–80, 184, 186, 196, 199, 206, 215, 218, 237–39, 253, 255, 276–77, 281, 285, 295–96, 305–306, 313–14, 314 n.8, 315–21, 321 n.29, 322–26, 328–33, 345, 370–71, 379, 381, 389, 404, 417, 430, 456 Drive 367
fear of 277, 325, 331 noble 170 Deborah 29, 358, 358 n.4 Deeds 69 n.38, 82, 212, 233 n.21, 280, 326–27, 420–21, 427–28, 447 Delf, Dirc van 340, 342 n.11, 345, 352 n.40 Democracy 42 Demons 207, 271–75, 447, 281, 283–84, 433 Deprivation 423 Derekh Eretz 61–62, 64 Desert 60, 84, 85, 85 n.26, 118, 118 n.67, 125 n.14, 206, 210–11, 215, 222, 224, 246, 261 n.2, 342–43, 433, 455 Desert, Egyptian 77, 206, 221, 224, 262 Desert Fathers 4, 70, 118 n.67, 122, 126 n.23, 132, 221 n.49, 262, 263 n.12, 266 n.26, 270 n.52, 272 nn.68, 273 n.75, 278 n.104, 280 n.114 Devil 176–77, 177 n.33, 179, 238–39, 275, 280, 283–84, 349, 399, 402 Diana (princess) 393 Dictatus Papae 443 Didymus 232 n.20, 235, 235 n.27, 281 Differences 5, 51, 97, 123, 137, 179–81, 315 n.11, 335, 347–49, 361 n.9, 391 Diodore 232 n.20 Dionysius the Carthusian 343, 343 n.16, 349 n.32, 351 n.38 Disciple 53, 262, 263 n.12, 264–65, 265 n.20, 266, 272, 289–90, 293 n.15, 344–45, 346, 361 n.9 Divination 267 Divine kingship 34 Docetism 115 Dorotheus 263 n.12, 268, 279 n.109 Dositheus 267, 277 Doubt 55, 117, 168, 181, 255, 263, 280, 308 Dov Baer 377 n.2, 379–80, 388 Dream 267, 275, 275 n.86 Dress 4 Eastern Church 336, 337 n.6, 344, 346 n.26, 349 n.31, 352, 361 n.9, 452 Eastern rites 195 East-Syrian 195, 195 n.44
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Eberhard 314–16, 318, 322–24, 327–30, 332 n.70 Eberhard III of Eppstein 314, 322 Ecstatic 97 Egeria 243, 243 nn.1–2, 244, 244 nn.3–4, 245–48, 248 n.12, 249–51, 251 nn.17–18, 252–56, 259–60 Egypt 25, 30, 33 n.16, 45, 98, 194, 206, 261, 261 n.2, 262, 342 Eleazar 27–28, 31 n.10, 85, 83 n.19, 91, 175, 184, 186, 194 n.41, 304 n.62 Eleazar ben Dordia 83 Eleazar ben Perata 174, 177 Eleazar ben Simeon 155 n.41 Elhanan (pope) 308 Eliezer 73, 81 n.12, 109, 113 n.53, 134 n.46, 170 n.18 Elijah 4, 28 n.3, 35–36, 100–101, 101 n.14 , 102, 102 n.17, 103–105, 105 nn.26, 31, 106, 106 n.33–35, 108, 108 n.36, 109–10, 207, 209, 209 n.8, 210–11, 211 n.15, 212–13, 213 n.25, 215, 217–19, 221, 224, 290, 292 n.10, 335, 337, 337 n.6, 338, 340, 342–43, 343 n.16, 344–45, 345 n.20–21, 346, 346 n.22, 347, 350–52, 352 n.40, 353, 353 nn.41–42, 354, 420, 455 Apocalypse of Elijah 213 Elisha 209, 209 n.8, 217, 217 n.44 Embodiments of Scripture 222 Emulation 5 Endurance 230, 235 Enoch 3, 97, 99, 99 n.9, 100, 100 nn.10–11, 101, 101 nn.12–13, 102–103, 103 n.21, 104, 104 nn.22–23, 105, 105 n.31, 106, 106 nn.34–35, 108, 108 n.39, 109, 109 nn.40–41, 43, 110, 110 n.46, 111, 111 n.48, 112 n.50, 119–20 Enthronement 35 Ephrem the Syrian 105, 105 n.28 Epiphanius 113 n.8, 114 Epiphany 185, 257–58 Episcopal 221, 223, 225, 437, 442, 450 n.30, 451 Episcopal thrones 451 Erotic 176, 274 images 275 temptations 274 Erva 357, 357 n.1, 358–60, 360 nn.7–8, 361, 363, 373 Esau 29 n.4, 135, 214
475
Eschatological 104, 105 n.32, 111 n.47, 112, 115, 119, 213, 443, 447 Essenes 126–27, 135 Ethics 205, 222 n.54 Eucharist 119, 338 n.7, 340, 342, 348–51, 354 Eustatius of Antioch 118 n.67 Eustochius 285 Evagrius 269, 269 n.51, 273, 273 n.74, 274, 274 n.80, 275 nn.86–88, 278, 278 n.104, 281–82, 285, 285 n.136 Eve 84 n.21, 97, 177, 340, 390, 430 Evil inclination 212 Excommunication 440, 440 n.11, 444 Exempla 173, 315 Exemplar 3, 5, 206, 210, 217, 220, 224–25 Exemplum 316, 325 Exorcism 207, 267 Ezekiel 32, 32 n.12, 102, 297, 300, 340 Fast 442 Fátima 400 Fear 61, 67–68, 228, 235, 252, 257, 279 n.109, 280, 280 n.111, 317–18, 320, 322, 326, 331, 333, 362, 380, 390 of death 277, 325, 331 Feast 438 n.5 Feast of Booths 296–97, 297 n.28, 301 Felicitas 171, 173, 176, 199, 199 n.65, 204 Felix 196, 204, 317 n.20 Female religious role models 5 Female saint 5, 407, 421–22, 426 n.24, 427 Female voice 5, 357, 361 n.11, 364–65, 371, 430 Feminine 146 n.19, 368 n.35, 370, 420, 422, 426 Feminist 9, 259, 406–407, 422 Festival of the Maccabees 191 Festivals 189–90, 203, 296, 306 Flight of Mary and Joseph 342 Forgiveness 80, 92 n.51, 238 n.36, 272, 277, 441, 447 Frank, Anne 393 Free will 12, 266 Freud 357, 367–69, 371, 373 Funeral 311–14, 314 n.8, 316–17, 322, 324, 326–33
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Gabriel 4 Gadamer 14, 14 n.18 Gaonic literature 136 n.49 Garabandal 400 Garment 124 n.13, 125 n.14, 127, 129–34 Gaza 261–62, 262 n.4, 263–67, 271, 273–74, 276, 278 n.104, 279 n.108, 285 Gaze 360, 369 n.40, 357 n.2, 372 nn.44–45 Gelasian 200 Gelasian Sacramentary 197–99, 199 n.63, 200 Gelasius I 437 n.3 Geonic period 361 Georgia 57, 83 n.20, 86 n.30, 93 n.55, 100 n.10, 194 Gerson, Jean 319, 319 n.24 Gethsemane 342 Ghost 88 Gideon 42 Girard 12, 12 n.13 Glossolalia 400 Gnostic 108 n.36, 112 n.50, 115–16, 116 n.62, 117 n.63, 118 n.67, 436 God’s fool 127 Graeco-Roman 49 n.16, 121, 123, 130 n.31 Graves of saints 190 Graves of the patriarchs 92, 94 Gravesites 94 Greeting 136 n.50, 362 a woman 362 Gregorian Reform 443–44 Gregorian sacramentary 198, 198 nn.60–61, 200 Gregorios Palamas 349 n.31 Gregory 212 n.18, 240, 240 n.43, 241–42, 282, 426, 442, 443 n.18 Gregory of Nazianze 127, 185, 190, 193, 282 Gregory the Great 105, 105 n.27, 240, 440 Gregory VII 442–43, 454 Óabad movement 378 Habit 123–24, 124 n.12, 126 Haggai 147–48 Hagiographic 335, 398 n.11, 431 Hagiography 13–14, 76, 206, 217, 222 n.54, 420 Halachic teaching 448 Óama b. 'Ukba 147
Dag Hammerskjöld 393 Hanan 91 Óanina 49, 49 n.15, 51, 52 n.20, 92 n.52, 68, 75, 77, 90, 130, 150, 171, 173–75, 175 n.25, 177–80, 379–80, 386 Óanina bar Hama 49, 51 Óanina ben Dosa 64, 66–69, 72, 89–90, 380, 380 n.12, 387, 389 Hanina ben Teradyon 163, 167, 171, 174, 177, 179 Óasid 50, 50 n.17, 51, 60–61, 64, 68 Healing 59–60, 68–69, 71, 75, 207, 212 n.19, 241, 275–76, 276 nn.92–93, 366 n.28, 400, 417–19, 428–30, 455 Heaven 82 n.15, 84–85, 97, 100–102, 102 n.17, 103–105, 109–10, 141 n.7, 165, 173, 180 n.39, 209 n.8, 211 n.14, 255, 277–78, 294, 294 n.19, 295, 297, 299, 336–37, 342, 345 n.21, 352–53, 391, 443, 446, 455 Hebron 91, 93, 93 n.56, 94 Heidegger 15 Hell 106, 345 n.21 Henry IV 442 Heresy 103 n.19, 118, 170 n.18, 178, 178 n.36, 252, 279, 280, 280 n.111, 421, 424, 444 Hermeneutic 9, 13–16, 282, 447 Hermits 11, 124 n.12, 247 n.10 Hierarchy 203, 221, 221 n.50, 269, 400, 422, 424 Hilarion 262–63, 267 n.30 Hillel 72, 77 Himation 124, 130 n.31, 131 n.33 Hippolytus 106 n.34, 438 Óisda 90 n.47, 360 Óiyya b. Ashi 90 Óiyya bar Abba 77, 129–30 Holiness 3–4, 11, 69, 75, 250, 257, 260, 269, 278, 313, 328–29, 373, 395, 421–22, 435, 440 n.11, 442 Models of holiness 313 Holocaust 433 Holy bread 282 Holy Land 183, 183 n.3, 243–44, 248 n.12, 253, 262, 346 n.26 Holy man 45–46, 49–51, 53, 53 n.22, 59, 59 n.1, 60, 69, 71–72, 74, 74 n.62, 76–78, 100, 205, 216, 235, 246, 261 n.2, 266–67, 267 n.31, 268, 271–72, 275, 275 n.90,
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276, 285, 398, 405, 420, 422, 423 n.19 Holy obligation 19 Holy person 8, 3–5, 88, 163, 205, 224–25, 259, 261, 261 n.2, 264, 264 n.13, 266–69, 285, 329, 450 Holy sites 5, 264 Holy Spirit 112, 117, 212 n.18, 231, 271, 452 Óoni the Circle Maker 63, 65–66, 68–69, 69 n.38, 70, 91, 379, 389 Horeb 342–43, 345 n.18, 350, 386 Hosea 295 Hoshaiah 61 Host 338, 347, 349 House of Hillel 150 Human kingship 34 Humility 217, 269, 280, 388, 428 Huna 147, 148, 175 Husserl 14, 14 n.20 Iconoclasm 4 Ila 147–48 Ilfa 54, 54 n.24, 55–56, 56 n.31, 57, 57 n.32 Imitation 5, 8–15, 18, 20–21, 98, 218, 218 n.46, 219–20, 222–23, 270, 336, 400, 444 Incarnation 115, 117 n.62, 239–40, 389 Incest 360 n.7 Individual 5, 13, 16, 33, 36, 42, 45–46, 48, 48 n.12, 50 n.17, 51, 51 n.18, 52, 59, 62–63, 67–75, 89–91, 101, 151, 166 n.7, 168, 173, 205, 212, 217–20, 224–25, 247, 267, 284, 290, 300, 311, 313 n.6, 317, 393, 409–10, 417, 420, 426 Innocent III 338, 444, 454 Intention 31, 34, 151, 204, 222, 229, 272, 300, 303, 306, 385, 387–88, 393, 445, 448 n.26 Intercession 4, 46, 49, 52, 268–69, 273, 329, 337 n.6, 427, 430, 443 of deceased 326 of Saints 409 Intercessor 272, 313, 324, 328–29, 331, 333, 336–37, 353, 431 Intermediary 3–5, 79, 79 n.2, 82 n.16, 83–86, 86 n.29, 89, 91, 94–95, 97–99, 110, 115, 117, 120, 144, 216, 328–29, 331, 391, 400, 411, 426–27 Isaac 29, 29 n.4, 92, 113 n.52,
477
147–48, 152, 214 n.29, 296, 309, 360 Isaac ben R. Eleazar 66 Isaiah 35 n.22, 61, 104, 130, 183 n.3, 265, 279 n.108, 295, 340, 456 Ishmael 29 n.4, 146, 146 n.17, 147–49, 305 n.64, 364, 364 n.22 Jacob 29, 90 n.47, 92–93, 97, 135, 137, 213, 214 nn.28–29, 215, 217–19, 221, 224, 293 n.13, 296, 364 n.23, 378, 378 nn.4–6, 379, 382, 386–87, 391, 449 Jacob, death of 215 James 344, 345 n.20, 348, 351–52, 408–409 James the Less 351, 351 n.38 James (saint) 11, 408 Jephthah 256 Jephthah, vow of 258 Jeremiah 32, 92–93, 183 n.3, 237, 257, 455 Jerome 118 n.67, 186 n.15, 249, 249 n.14, 254 n.26, 255, 255 nn.30–31, 316–17, 320, 420 Jerusalem 31–34, 34 n.17, 36 n.26, 37, 38 n.29, 39 n.32, 42, 42 n.38, 47, 47 n.8, 48, 49 n.14, 50, 54, 60, 60 n.5, 62, 68, 72 n.53, 73 nn.55, 57, 74 n.63, 78, 78 n.75, 79–82, 84 nn.22, 24, 85, 86 n.31, 88–89, 92, 93 n.58, 94 n.59, 106, 109 nn.40–41, 43, 110 n.46, 111 n.47, 117 n.64, 119, 119 n.73, 121 n.1, 124 n.11, 128 nn.27–28, 136 n.49, 140 n.2, 143 n.13, 145 n.15, 163, 175 n.25, 183, 183 n.3, 185, 193–94, 194 n.39, 198, 203, 243, 246–48, 248 n.12, 263 n.9, 264, 281, 285, 291, 292 n.10, 293, 294 n.19, 297, 300–302, 305–306, 306 n.68, 307 nn.69, 71, 309 n.76, 344, 345 n.18, 358 n.4, 366, 377, 378 n.6, 379, 381–82, 388 n.36, 402, 433–36, 443, 450–51, 455–56 fall of 345 Jesus 68–69, 69 n.38, 101, 104, 108, 108 n.36, 111, 114–15, 117, 124 n.13, 139, 168, 177 n.35, 213, 233 n.20, 237, 239, 250, 253, 254 n.25, 273, 273 n.76, 289–90, 290 nn.6–7, 292–93, 293 n.15, 294–95, 295 nn.21–22, 297, 297 n.28, 298–99, 303, 303 n.58, 304–306, 308, 323,
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340, 342, 344–45, 350–52, 361 n.9, 426, 433–34, 436–37, 439, 446–47, 447 n.24, 449–51, 454–56 Jewish Law 203–204 Jews 3–5, 17, 32, 47, 49–50, 52, 56, 60, 62, 70, 73 n.55, 75, 77–83, 85–88, 89–91, 93–94, 97, 97 nn.1–2, 98, 99, 101–104, 105 n.29, 108–10, 110 n.46, 111–15, 115 n.61, 117 n.64, 119–23, 123 n.7, 124, 126–28, 128 nn.27–28, 131–35, 135 n.49, 136–37, 141, 154 n.40, 163, 165–66, 169–70, 170 n.20, 178–79, 179 n.38, 180–81, 183 n.3, 184–88, 188 n.26, 189–91, 194 n.42, 195, 200 n.65, 204, 209, 214–15, 227–30, 232–33, 236, 242, 289, 291–92, 292 n.13, 293, 293 n.15, 294–301, 303 n.59, 304–306, 306 n.67, 307–309, 313, 335–37, 342 n.11, 343, 345, 348, 351, 357–59, 360 n.9, 362, 366, 372 n.45, 373, 377–78, 381, 383, 385, 391, 408 n.23, 415–18, 420, 433–36, 439–40, 443 n.18, 444, 447 n.24, 448–50, 452, 455, 455 n.43, 456 Job 65, 98, 141, 227, 227 n.1, 228–31, 233–38, 238 n.36, 239–42, 294 n.18, 302 n.51, 336, 336 n.4, 340 Life of 230 Testament of 98, 230–31, 231 n.14, 242 Wife of 230–31 Johanan 74–75, 77, 129–30, 143 nn.12, 14, 149, 162 Johanan ben Zakkai 67–68, 72, 77, 90 Johanan of Sepphoris 152 Johanan (= John) 292 John 102 n.17, 91 n.48, 104, 108 n.36, 200–201, 261, 263, 263 nn.11–12, 264, 264 nn.15, 18, 265, 265 n.23, 266–68, 268 nn.43, 46, 269–70, 270 n.52, 271, 272 n.71, 273, 275–76, 276 nn.92–93, 277–79, 279 n.109, 280–81, 283–85, 285 n.137, 295, 295 n.25, 303, 314, 342, 344, 345 n.20, 348, 351, 361 n.9, 430, 443, 447 John the Baptist 101, 213, 340, 340 n.10, 344, 351, 420, 455 Jonathan 103 n.21, 108, 147–48, 148 n.24
Jose ben Kisma 173–74, 180 Joseph 29 n.4, 97, 105 n.32, 124 n.11, 257, 257 n.33, 258, 342, 359, 361 n.10, 380 Joshua 3, 25, 29–30, 30 n.7, 31, 35–38, 38 nn.28–29, 39, 39 nn.33, 35, 40–42, 67, 81, 84–85, 92 n.51, 146, 146 nn.17, 19, 147–48, 217, 217 n.42, 308 n.73, 447, 448 n.27, 449–50, 452 Death of 30–31, 39 Joshua ben Hananiah 73 Joshua ben Levi 66–67, 68, 75, 143 nn.12, 14, 162 n.6 Joshua ben Nun 91 Jouissance 358 n.3, 367–68, 368 n.34, 370–71, 374 feminine 358, 368, 372, 374–75 phallic 358, 368 Judaeo-Christian polemic 119, 136 n.50, 229 Judah 75 n.69, 87, 95, 141, 141 n.6, 144, 155 n.43 Judah bar Ilai 130 Judah ben Bava 167 Judah ben Simon 144 Judah Hadassi 303 n.58 Judah of Hutzi 73 Judaizing 189–90 Judaizing Christians 189–90 Kabbalistic 381, 387 n.33 Kalir 304, 304 n.62 Kant 17, 17 n.23, 367 Kantian 10, 17–18 Karaite 84, 128 n.27 kavanah 387 Kepha Poter 304 Kerateion 185, 187–88 King 28 n.3, 31 n.11, 33, 34 n.17, 35, 35 nn.21–23, 45, 68, 90, 106 n.32, 133 n.43, 152, 152 n.33, 202, 449 King, Martin Luther 393 Kiss 140–41, 141 n.8, 142, 144, 162 Kiss of God 142 Koenraad of St. Joris 342 Korah 32–33, 33 n.15 Lacan 5, 357–58, 358 n.3, 366–67, 367 nn.31–32, 368, 368 nn.33–34, 369, 369 nn.37, 39, 47, 370–71, 371 n.43, 372–74, 374 n.47 Last Judgment 108, 110, 319
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Last Supper 338, 350, 352 Latin Patriarchate of Jerusalem 203 Law 13–14, 48 n.9, 49, 62–64, 66, 74, 82, 87, 91, 119, 133 n.40, 134, 134 n.46, 144, 160, 166, 236–37, 291 n.9, 292, 297–98, 299 n.38, 303, 303 n.58, 304, 313, 345–46, 346 n.22, 358, 361, 364–65, 367–68, 372, 390, 418, 439, 441, 447, 451 Laying hands 36, 36 n.26 Lazarus 342 Leaderships 41 Legislator 435 Leo the Great 436 n.3, 438, 453 Levi ben Gershom 358 n.4 Levi Yitzhak (of Berdichyev) 378 Levinas 15, 17, 17 n.26, 18–19, 19 nn.28–30, 20, 21 n.32 Levites 36 n.26, 450 Libido 367 Liturgy 81 n.11, 97, 197, 200–201, 201 n.70, 202, 216 n.38, 243, 246, 250–51, 285, 309, 313, 315, 332, 335 n.2, 402, 406–407, 438, 440 Lourdes 402, 417 n.5, 419 n.13 Luther 326, 326 n.48, 329, 447 n.25, 454 Luzzatto 307 Maccabees 4, 163, 165, 167, 169, 178, 183, 183 n.3, 184–85, 185 nn.8, 12, 186, 188 n.26, 189–91, 191 n.34, 193, 193 n.37, 194 n.40, 197, 197 nn.57–58, 198–99, 199 nn.63, 65, 200–202, 336, 336 n.4 Maggid 377, 377 n.2, 380, 380 n.13, 381, 381 n.14, 382, 382 nn.18–19, 383, 383 n.21, 384, 384 n.24, 385, 385 nn.28, 30, 387–88, 391 Maggid of Mezritch see Dov Baer Magi 202 Magic 78 n.75, 88 n.36, 387 n.35, 424 n.21 Magical 36 n.25, 75, 153, 267 Magician 45, 45 n.2, 267 Magisterial authority 437, 441 n.12, 446, 448, 450 Maharal 366 n.28 Maimonides 79 n.1, 362, 362 n.17, 391 Mandela, Nelson 393 Manna 343 Mantle 36 n.25, 217, 222
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Marcion 361 n.9, 437 Margaret of Nassau 314, 314 n.8, 317 Margaret of Württemberg 314–15, 318–19 Maronite rites 194 Marriage 8, 11, 249 n.14, 258–59, 278, 424, 429, 442 Martin 26 n.1, 31 n.11, 115 n.61, 164 n.2, 170 nn.19–20, 171 n.22, 173 n.24, 177 n.32, 191 n.34, 193 n.37, 251 n.18, 185–86, 290 n.7, 326, 346 n.24, 377, 428 Martyr 112, 163, 165, 165 n.6, 166 nn.7–8, 167 n.9, 168 nn.10–11, 169 nn.12, 17, 175, 179 n.38, 185, 194 n.40, 197, 197 nn.57–58, 198 Martyr, Christian 4, 167, 170 nn.19–20, 172, 177, 180, 196, 198–99, 200 n.65 Martyr, Jewish 163, 165, 167, 188, 195–98, 200 n.65 Martyr, Maccabean 163, 167, 184, 184 nn.6–7, 185–86, 188–91, 194, 194 nn.39, 42, 195–97, 197 nn.56, 58, 198–201, 201 n.72, 202, 202 n.74, 203–204 Martyrologia 170 n.19 Martyrologium of Edessa 185–86 Marutha of Maipherkat 187 n.20 Mary 203, 257–58, 321–22, 342, 342 n.11, 350, 398 n.13, 399, 402–403, 407, 420, 423 n.19, 426, 430 Mary and Martha 342 Mary Magdalene 406–408, 422 Mary, virgin 420 n.13, 427, 430 Mary of Egypt 422 Mary of Nassau 314–15, 318, 321 Material culture 121–22, 122 n.5, 123, 123 nn.9–10, 124, 128 Matrona 77 Mattatias 184 n.6 Mecca 402 Mediation 3, 45, 53, 79, 97, 139, 142–45, 148, 153, 156, 219, 263–64, 268, 313, 316, 329–30, 350, 419, 427, 430 Medjugorje 398 n.13, 400, 417 n.5, 419 n.13, 423 n.19 Melania 248 n.12 Melchizedek 3, 97, 99–100, 101, 101 n.13, 104, 108 n.36, 110, 110 n.46, 111, 111 nn.47–48, 112, 112 nn.50–51, 113, 113 nn.54–55, 114,
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114 n.59, 115–16, 116 n.62, 117, 117 nn.63–65, 118, 118 nn.66–70, 119, 119 nn.71, 73, 120, 283, 343 Merkabah 72, 104, 136 n.49, 141 n.5 mysticism 109–10 Merleau-Ponty 15 Mesopotamia 253 Messalian 253 Messiah 105, 105 n.32, 213, 308 n.73, 351, 455 Metatron 97, 103, 103 n.22, 108, 108 n.39, 109, 109 nn.40–42 Michael 82, 86, 86 n.29, 108, 119, 119 n.73, 407, 454 Milan 191 n.34, 195, 202, 238 Mimesis 5, 12 Christina Mirabilis 426 n.24, 430, 430 n.31, 431 Miracle 14, 49, 59, 66 n.27, 68–69, 69 n.38, 72–73, 76–77, 85, 125 n.14, 163, 211–12, 212 n.19, 213, 292, 294, 358, 379, 386, 388, 400, 403, 415–19, 419 n.10, 420–21, 423–25, 425 n.24, 426, 426 n.25, 427–32 worker 48, 72, 337 Miraculous 5, 59, 69 n.38, 70, 72, 72 n.52, 76–77, 100–101, 111, 114, 178, 276, 342, 349, 365, 386, 415, 415 n.1, 416, 418, 420–21, 426–27, 429, 431 Miriam 358, 359 n.5, 364–65, 407 Mirror 41, 210, 219, 222, 225, 332, 369 Misogyny 422 Modernity 110 n.45, 345 n.18, 408 n.23 Monachus 247–48, 253, 253 n.22 Monastery 52, 123, 123 n.9, 125–26, 126 n.23, 127–28, 128 n.27, 129, 132, 135, 135 n.49, 136–37, 200, 200 n.66, 202, 221, 224, 228, 240, 243–44, 248 n.12, 251, 251 n.18, 252, 252 n.20, 254–55, 261–63, 263 n.10, 264–68, 270–72, 277–79, 279 n.109, 280, 283, 336, 337 n.6, 345–46, 346 n.26, 353, 399–400, 403, 429, 440, 442 Monica 422 Monk 59–60, 69 n.38, 74 n.62, 77, 111 n.49, 122–25, 125 nn.14–16, 126, 126 n.23, 127–30, 132, 134, 137, 206–207, 212, 215, 221–24, 228, 228 n.2, 229, 240, 243–44,
246–47, 247 n.10, 248, 251, 256 n.32, 262–63, 265, 265 n.18, 266–67, 270 n.52, 271–72, 274–79, 279 n.109, 280–84, 323, 346 n.26, 438 Monks of Syria 125 Monophysite 262, 264, 270 n.52 Moon 83–84, 84 n.21, 85–86, 295 Moral 9–10, 12, 16–21, 55, 59–60, 62, 66, 122 n.6, 129 n.30, 206, 231–32, 234, 240–41, 266, 275, 315, 321, 324, 359, 405, 435, 438–39, 442, 445–46 Moral, moralizing 21 Moral values 16–18, 20–21 Mosaic Law 190 Moses 3, 5, 25, 28–29, 29 n.5, 30, 30 nn.7–8, 31–34, 34 n.18, 35–39, 39 nn.30, 35, 40–42, 62, 71, 84–85, 85 nn.25–26, 86–87, 91–92, 97 n.2, 98, 100, 102, 102 nn.17, 34, 106 n.33, 108 n.36, 109, 109 n.40, 110, 110 n.45, 118, 144, 148, 215 n.34, 217, 221, 303–304, 309 n.75, 337, 340, 344–45, 345 n.20, 346 n.22, 350–52, 358 n.4, 359 n.6, 364, 372, 439, 446–48, 448 n.27, 449–52, 455–56 death of 26 n.1, 29, 30–31, 40 Mother 7–8, 11, 21, 29, 65, 111, 113–15, 117–18, 163, 169, 172, 183–84, 186, 191, 194 n.41, 195, 215, 236, 256–57, 322, 364 n.22, 369, 369 n.40, 422, 424, 429–30, 442–43 Mountain 224 n.60 Mount Carmel 211 n.14, 337 n.6, 346 n.26 Mount Gerizim 87 Mount Moriah 87 Mount of Olives 248 n.12, 297, 297 n.28, 300 Mozarabic rite 196 Musealization 408 Muses 370 Muslim 163, 444 brotherhood 127 n.26 Mysticism 72, 109–10, 136 n.50, 269, 269 n.51, 270 n.52, 370, 403, 405 Na˙man of Braslav 380 Naked 125, 126 n.22, 130, 134 n.46, 257 Naomi 133
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Narcissus 369, 369 n.40 Narsai 105 Nathan 67, 85 n.26, 304, 304 n.64, 305 Nehemiah 141, 141 n.6, 142, 144 Nestorius 280 New Year 304, 306 New Year, hymn 308 Novatian 438 Nun 244–45, 248–49, 259, 346, 428 Nyerere, Julius 393 Ockegem, John 332 Oil 35 n.20, 127, 323, 342, 428–29 Oracular 264, 271 Oral Torah 142, 150 Ordination 124, 252, 271, 442, 450, 450 n.30 Origen 112, 114 n.60, 231, 232, 235, 281, 281 n.19, 121, 232 n.19, 282–83, 283 n.129, 284, 447 n.25 Padre Pio 398, 398 n.11, 399, 400, 402, 402 nn.15–16, 403, 408 Paideia 278 Palestine 49 n.14, 50 n.17, 54 n.25, 62 n.10, 74 n.63, 90, 94, 122, 125, 125 n.15, 126, 128 n.28, 131 n.33, 132 n.37, 145, 216 n.35, 247, 261 n.2, 262, 264, 265 n.20, 281, 448, 455 Panthera 114 Paradise 102, 105, 110, 177 n.35, 233, 282 Passio Perpetuae 163, 169–71, 171 n.21, 172–73, 173 n.24, 175, 179 Passion 169, 171–73, 175–77, 179, 191 n.34 Passover 39 n.35, 41, 65, 306, 343, 348–49, 351, 351 n.36 Patriarch 82 n.16, 92–94, 97, 118, 188 n.26, 191, 214–15, 218–19, 221, 224, 285, 434, 443 n.18, 454–55 Paul 101, 108, 197, 197 n.56, 201, 232, 232 n.19, 244, 254 n.25, 283, 292, 292 n.10, 298, 298 n.33, 303, 303 n.58, 335 n.1, 340 n.9, 361, 436, 436 n.3, 437, 438 n.5, 439, 450, 456 Paul of Samosata 361 n.9 Payyetan 307, 309 Pelagianism 327, 327 n.50 Pelagius 327 n.50, 438
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Penitent 272 Pentecost 306, 340, 342, 455–56 Perpetua 171, 171 n.21, 172, 172 n.23, 173–76, 176 nn.28–30, 177, 177 nn.31, 33, 179–80 Perpetua, transformation of 176 Peter (apostle) 4, 58, 106, 106 n.33, 197 nn.56, 58, 198, 200–201, 204, 262, 289–91, 292 n.10, 296, 300–301, 303, 306, 306 n.67, 307–10, 344–45, 348, 351, 433–36, 436 n.3, 437, 438 n.5, 439, 442–43, 443 n.18, 446, 451–52, 454–56 Peter the Iberian 262, 262 n.7, 267 n.30, 270 n.52 Peter, Patriarch of Jerusalem 265 Petrine 291 n.9, 436, 453 Petrine ministry 433, 433 n.1, 434, 434 n.2, 435, 439 n.7, 441 n.13, 450 n.30, 452–55 Petrus Pierleoni 308 n.73 Phallic 368, 373–75 Pharisees 446–47, 447 n.24, 449 Philo 100, 103, 111, 127, 135 n.49, 214 n.28, 359, 359 n.6, 360, 363–64 Phinehas 31, 31 n.10 Phronesis 13 Pierre, Abbé 393 Pietist 50 n.17, 60–70, 72, 75 Pilgrim 5, 11, 45 n.2, 78, 239, 243–45, 247, 247 n.8, 248 n.12, 251, 251 n.17, 259, 264, 293, 323, 343, 346 n.26, 400, 402, 408–409, 419, 438 n.5 Pinhas 388–90, 390 n.40, 391 Pinhas ben Hama 90 Pinhas ben Yair 64, 67–68, 379 Pinhas of Koretz 389 Pipeline 386–87 Piyyut 80, 296, 300, 304, 307, 309 Planets 86, 109 Plato 21, 221, 238 n.36 Plotinus 384, 384 n.26, 385 Polycarp 164, 167–68 Polycarp, Martyrdom of 164, 167–68, 178 Poor 56, 63, 80, 81 n.8, 125–26, 126 nn.22–23, 95, 128, 130, 132–34, 134 n.46, 137, 174, 175 n.25, 239, 429, 435 Pope 202–203, 308 n.73, 313, 349, 435–36, 441–42, 455 n.43 Pope Calixtus 347–49, 351 Pope Calixtus III 346
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Pope Clement VII 347 Pope John XXIII 393 Pope John Paul II 433, 452, 454 Pope, Jewish 308, 308 n.73, 309 Pope Paul VI 202 Pork 190 Postmodern sanctity 405 Prayer 11, 48 n.12, 50, 63–67, 69–70, 73–76, 79–81, 81 nn.7–8, 82, 82 n.16, 83–84, 84 n.21, 87–95, 139–40, 153, 196, 198, 198 nn.60–61, 199, 199 nn.63, 65, 200–201, 201 n.69, 213, 224, 228–29, 252, 254, 268–69, 272–73, 273 nn.75–76, 274, 274 n.80, 276, 276 n.91, 277–78, 280, 293 n.15, 300, 307 n.70, 315, 324–28, 331–32, 336, 344, 361–63, 379–80, 382–83, 385–88, 391, 403, 431 Pride 317, 383, 389 Priesthood 5, 28, 31, 31 n.10, 34 n.17, 35, 35 n.22, 36, 45, 47, 59, 95, 106 n.32, 111–12, 112 n.50, 113, 113 n.55, 114, 139, 184, 248 n.12, 264, 338, 347, 402–403, 428, 439, 455 Primacy of the see of Rome 455 Priscillianism 243 n.1, 251–52, 252 n.19, 253, 253 nn.23–24, 254, 256, 256 n.32, 257 Processions 340 Promised Land 30, 33, 343 Prophecy 3–4, 35, 59, 61, 68 n.35, 71–72, 94, 176, 180, 183 n.3, 188 n.26, 191, 209, 209 n.8, 211, 211 nn.14–15, 212, 212 n.18, 213, 215–19, 221–22, 224–25, 231, 239, 253, 271, 290, 295, 297, 337, 340, 342, 345–46, 346 n.22, 347, 350, 358, 364–65, 402, 415, 420, 426, 437, 446, 449–50, 455 of healing 72 Psalmody 252 Purgatory 431 Purification 45 n.2, 47, 62–63, 67, 87, 91, 187, 207, 210, 271, 318, 327, 332, 370, 435, 440 n.11, 441, 444, 453 Qiddush ha-Shem
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Rabbenu Tam 307–308 Rabbi 47–50, 50 n.17, 51, 52 nn.19–20, 53, 71, 102, 114, 139–42,
143 nn.12–14, 146–48, 148 n.24, 149–53, 153 n.36, 154, 154 n.38, 155–56, 170 n.18, 171, 227, 290, 309, 353, 426, 449 Rabbis, as miracle-workers 48 Rachel 17 n.24, 92–93 tomb of 93 Radegund 426–27, 427 n.26, 428–30 Raphael 346, 347 n.27, 411, 411 n.26, 412 Rashi 30 n.6, 32 n.13, 130, 157 n.1, 175 n.25, 307, 359–60, 390 Rava 91 Rebbe 5 Rebekah 29 n.4, 214 nn.28–29 Rebellion 32, 33 n.15, 228, 231, 234, 237, 242 Redeemer 115, 117, 240 Reformation 4, 312, 314 n.10, 326, 328–29, 329 n.55, 343 n.15, 347 n.27, 423, 439, 445 Relics 3–5, 185, 188, 197 n.58, 198, 198 n.61, 202, 224, 267, 337 n.6 Renunciation 206, 274, 456 Responsibility 5, 18–20, 48–49, 52, 52 n.20, 53, 143, 145, 148–49, 151, 272, 331, 408, 439 Resurrection 101, 103, 105, 270, 281, 283, 317–18, 322, 324, 331–33, 342, 344 Revelation 45, 98, 141–43, 143 n.13, 144, 146, 162, 344 Rich man 95, 126 n.22 Ricoeur 14, 14 n.19, 18 Righteous 30 n.6, 68–72, 75–97, 101, 101 n.13, 104, 109–10, 119, 174, 180, 227, 227 n.1, 228–29, 231, 232 n.20, 234–36, 324, 377, 390, 405 Ritual 45, 45 n.2, 47, 49, 52 n.20, 53 n.22, 86–87, 168, 173, 189–90, 201, 373, 395–98, 400, 404–405, 407–409, 411–12, 419, 429–30, 432 Rome 172 n.23, 175, 180, 185 n.10, 195, 197, 197 n.57, 198–200, 204, 223, 266 n.24, 291, 296, 300–301, 301 n.42, 306, 308, 308 n.73, 319, 327 n.50, 337 n.6, 342, 346 n.26, 347 n.27, 348 n.29, 395 n.3, 400, 403, 403 n.17, 434–37, 437 n.5, 438–44, 446, 448, 450 n.30, 451–53, 453 n.41, 454–55, 455 n.43 Rosenzweig 97 n.1 Royal persons 4 Rufinus 231, 248 n.12
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Sabas 124 n.11, 125, 125 nn.16–17 Sabbath 76 n.72, 101 n.13, 130, 133 n.41, 190, 300, 390 Sacral 45, 76, 78, 88, 114, 215, 251, 366, 395, 397–98, 402, 408, 411, 413, 422 Sacrament 318, 318 n.22, 338, 338 n.7, 340, 342–43, 348–49, 349 n.32, 350–51, 354, 429, 438, 443 Sacred intermediary 410 Sacrifice 19, 36, 36 n.26, 47, 85–87, 168, 172, 209 n.8, 333 Sage 47 n.8, 50 n.17, 54 n.24, 60 n.3, 70 n.48, 73 n.57, 83 n.20, 89 n.41, 129–30, 131 n.32, 135, 135 n.49, 136–37, 139, 143 n.13, 145 n.15, 146 n.18, 175 n.25, 283, 292 n.10, 294 n.19, 357, 390, 448, 448 n.27 Saint 3–8, 10–11, 21, 46, 82, 139, 183, 183 n.3, 184, 186 n.16, 188, 188 n.26, 189 n.27, 190, 191 n.34, 195, 195 n.44, 197 n.57, 198 n.61, 200 n.68, 202, 202 n.76, 203–206, 210–12, 215–25, 235–36, 250, 272 n.70, 277, 282, 313, 328–30, 335–37, 353, 393, 395–400, 404–405, 407–10, 412, 415, 417–19, 421–22, 423 n.19, 426, 426 n.25, 427–28, 430–31, 437, 452 Saintly 11, 15–17, 20–21, 90, 94, 205–207, 222 n.54, 224, 243, 329, 421 Saints, modern 335 n.1, 393, 397–98 Saints, Old Testament 336, 336 n.4, 337, 352, 354 La Salette 398 n.13, 400, 420 Salvation 235, 300, 309, 323–24, 326–28, 331, 337, 417–18, 435, 439 Samuel 42, 89, 94, 217 n.43, 231, 292 n.10, 307, 360, 390 Samuel bar Nahmani 61, 147 Sanctification 21, 139, 165, 324, 328, 330, 336 n.3, 396, 400, 438–39, 442, 453 Santiago de Compostela 409 Satan 118 n.68, 230–31, 235, 242 Saul 303 n.58, 358 De Saussure 367 n.31, 370 Scetis 262, 262 n.5 Schneor Zalman of Ladi 378 Scripture 38, 47, 55, 58, 65, 79, 88, 94, 98 n.7, 110, 113–14, 185, 210, 211 n.15, 213 n.26, 216, 222, 223
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n.56, 228, 228 n.2, 229, 231–32, 232 n.19, 233 n.20, 234, 246, 248 n.12, 249–50, 252, 256, 258, 271, 279, 315–16, 364, 407, 449–50 Second Vatican Council 202–203, 436 Secularization 417 Self-annihilation 387, 389 Self-control 127 Self-denial 405 Self-sacrifice 9, 16, 20–21, 21 n.31, 405 Semikah 450, 450 n.30 Seraphim 87 Seridus 263, 263 n.10, 264, 264 n.18, 265, 267, 277–78 Sermon 64, 152, 155, 185, 187, 194, 197, 197 n.57, 216–18, 311–12, 312 nn.3–4, 313–14, 314 n.8, 315, 315 n.15, 316, 316 n.17, 317–21, 321 n.29, 322–33, 340, 343, 447 n.24 Serpent 177 Seven brothers 184, 186, 194 n.41 Seven sons of Felicitas 199 Severus of Antioch 194, 194 n.40 Sexual abstinence 259–60, 275 Sexual arousal 360, 362, 365 Sexual seduction 374 Sexuality 259, 275 n.89, 357, 360, 364, 366 n.29, 368 Shammai 72–73, 77, 92 n.51, 150 Shavuot 306 Shem 113, 118 n.67, 165, 178, 214 n.28, 378 n.5, 379, 379 n.8, 380, 380 n.10, 386 Shema 134, 150, 154, 304 n.62, 360–61, 361 n.11, 362–63, 363 n.17, 373 Shepherd 29, 31, 31 n.11, 32–33, 35, 435 Shesheth 360 Shmuel 60, 64 n.15, 297 n.27, 359–62, 362 n.13 Shmuni 194 nn.40–41 Shofar 372, 372 n.45 Shrines 337 n.6, 419 Siddur 79, 79 n.1 Simeon bar Yohai 70, 73, 75 n.69, 143 n.12, 147–48 Simeon ben Halafta 147–48 Simeon ben Shetah 65, 69 Simeon the Stylite 11, 259 Simlai 130
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Simon 144, 289, 291, 294, 296–98, 301–304, 306, 308–10, 344, 434 Simon Cephas (= Peter the apostle) 45 n.1, 112 n.49, 118 n.49, 140 n.3, 291, 291 n.9, 292–94, 294 n.20, 295–97, 300, 300 n.41, 301, 301 n.43, 304–307, 307 n.70, 309 Solomon 100, 153, 340 Son of God 270 Sorcery 69, 253 Souls 94, 235, 277, 281, 329 n.53, 345 n.21, 383, 400, 431 Spain 196, 217, 223, 243 n.1, 247, 251, 251 n.18, 252–53, 255, 292, 337 n.6, 362 Spirit possession 423 Stars 83–84, 86, 109 n.43 Stigmata 399 Stone 88, 152 n.33, 156, 170, 291, 295–97, 300, 385, 387–88, 448 Study 3, 5, 10, 48, 53 n.23, 55, 57, 57 n.33, 60, 62, 75–77, 90, 97, 121, 121 n.4, 122, 122 nn.5–6, 123, 123 n.10, 124, 124 n.12, 136 n.50, 139–42, 142 n.9, 145, 148–49, 152, 153 n.36, 154–56, 169, 214, 214 n.28, 220, 221 n.48, 243, 245, 254, 261, 265, 274, 279, 280–81, 284, 289–90, 303, 313, 337, 342, 358, 366–69, 373, 383, 389, 395–96, 403–404, 407, 415–17, 420, 422, 423 n.19, 425 n.24 Study of Torah 54, 67, 90, 151, 154, 156, 166, 173, 179, 254, 279 n.109 Suffering 106, 168, 230, 234–38, 240, 242, 266, 276–77, 295, 323–324, 330, 338, 345, 354, 368, 374, 400, 403, 405, 423, 430–32 Sukkot 306, 448 n.27 Sun 84, 84 n.21, 85–86, 88–89, 418 Superstition 4, 420, 424 Symeon Stylites 46 n.3, 51 Synagogue 63, 186–89, 293 n.15, 303, 440 n.11, 447–48 Syria 60, 77, 125, 243, 261 n.2, 267, 267 n.31, 275 n.87 Syrian Church 194, 195 n.44, 361 n.9 Tabor 166 n.7, 344 Talit 130 n.31, 131 nn.33–34, 133 n.40 Talmudic literature 64, 76, 79,
83–84, 91, 93–94, 122, 129, 134 n.46, 135 n.49, 379 Talmudic sage 53, 57 Tarfon 150 Teacher 34, 72, 75 n.69, 110, 146 n.17, 147–48, 148 n.24, 149, 149 n.27, 178 n.36, 212, 232, 258–59, 265, 279 n.109, 282, 296, 379, 386, 443, 446–47, 450 Teilhard de Chardin 393 Telepathy 400 Temple 45, 47–48, 59–60, 62, 66 n.27, 68, 72, 78, 92–93, 97, 97 n.1, 111 n.48, 139, 141, 203, 229, 294, 359 Mount 433 Temptation 266, 274, 276 Mother Teresa 393 Tertullian 101 n.13, 106, 108, 112 n.49, 437, 437 n.4–5, 451 Tetragrammaton 294 n.20 Thecla 246, 418 n.8 Theodora 249 n.14, 255 Theodore 233–34, 237 Theodore of Mopsuestia 233, 235 Theology 4, 13, 59, 124 n.14, 126 n.23, 127 n.26, 231, 259, 279–85, 311, 336, 354, 406, 417, 425 n.24, 430, 439, 451 Therasia 255 Thessalos 45 Throne 35 n.23, 97, 104, 445, 448–49, 451 Titus 101 n.15, 345, 403, 405 Toldot Yeshu 292, 295 n.23, 305 Tomb 3, 73, 78, 93–94, 185, 188 Tomb, of Peter 442 Torah 29 n.5, 38, 49, 54 n.23, 61, 66, 75, 87, 90, 109, 128–29, 129 nn.29–30, 130, 134, 135, 135 n.49, 139, 141, 141 n.7, 142–45, 147–50, 152–54, 154 n.38, 156, 165–66, 173–75, 178–80, 180 n.39, 295, 300, 303, 303 n.58, 304, 377, 387, 446, 448–49 scholar 66–67, 71, 378 study 4, 61–62, 65–68, 71, 74–75, 78, 139, 145, 151, 154 n.38, 387, 388, see study of Torah Tower 296, 299, 303–304, 307 Transcendence 9, 19, 397 Transcendent 8, 224, 402 Transfiguration 194 n.38, 213, 337, 344–45, 345 nn.18, 20, 346–47,
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347 n.27, 348–49, 349 nn.31–32, 350–52 Transfiguration of Christ 340, 344, 354 Translation 11, 14, 15, 38 n.28, 90 n.45, 99 n.9, 100–101, 105, 109, 109 n.41, 117 n.64, 140 n.3, 141, 172 n.23, 185 n.10, 187 nn.19–20, 194 n.39, 201 n.72, 207, 213, 231, 243 n.1, 248 n.12, 249 n.14, 263, 265, 273 n.74, 293, 303 n.58, 306 n.68, 353 n.43 Transsexual 412 Transubstantiation 338, 347–50, 352 Trinitarian 115, 115 n.61 Tunic 124, 124 n.13, 125 Tzaddik, see Zaddik Uncircumcised 101, 104, 112–14 Unlearned 67–68, 154 Usha 155, 155 nn.42–43, 156 Vagina 360, 363 Valerius of Bierzo 243, 245 Vatican I 436, 441, 445–46, 446 n.22 Venantius Fortunatus 428, 428 n.27 Veneration 3, 5, 183, 183 n.3, 184–86, 190–91, 195–97, 197 n.57, 199–200, 202, 204, 352, 404, 408, 437, 438 n.5 Veneration, of saints 4, 190, 328, 330, 393, 395 n.3, 419 Vespasian 345 Virgin 111, 244 n.4, 247 n.10, 251–52, 255–58, 335 Virgo sacra 252 Visio beatifica 336, 353 Vitae Prophetarum 101 n.14, 215–16 Voice 35, 61, 72–73, 85, 92–93, 102, 209, 211, 211 n.14, 225, 240–41, 294, 297, 301, 344, 358–60, 361 n.9, 362, 362 n.17, 363–66, 369, 369 n.40, 370–72, 372 n.45, 373–74, 386, 402 Voice from heaven 210, 294 Voice of the Father 371–72 Voice, female 5, 357, 358–61, 361 n.11, 362–66, 371, 373–74, 430 Voice, male 361 n.11, 371
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Waldensians 444 Western Schism 444–45 Western Wall 433–34 Whore 114, 421 Witch 421, 424 Witch, of Endor 231 Witnesses 105, 105 n.32, 106, 106 n.34, 108, 108 n.36, 115 n.61, 177, 337, 340, 353 n.41, 354, 405, 418, 450 Witnessing 227 n.1, 435, 453 Woman 111, 131 n.33, 132, 132 n.39, 133, 133 n.41, 146 n.19, 171, 176, 243, 245–46, 246 n.7, 247, 249 n.14, 251–52, 255–59, 320, 357, 360–62, 362 n.17, 363, 366 n.28, 368, 373, 412, 421, 428–31, 455 barren 426 hair of 360 modesty of 362 noble 322 Women 2 n.3, 5, 95, 127, 131, 176, 205, 243–44, 244 n.4, 245–46, 246 n.7, 248–54, 254 n.26, 255–59, 274, 335, 358–59, 359 n.5, 360, 360 n.9, 361–65, 365 n.25, 366, 366 n.28, 368, 403, 405–407, 415–16, 418–23, 423 n.19, 424–25, 425 n.24, 426–32 Wonderworker 3, 379, 386, 390–91 Word 91 n.49, 128, 143, 157 n.1, 209 n.8, 211, 222, 222 n.55, 279 n.109, 372, 431 Working people 156 Good works 60, 74–76, 257, 318, 324–25, 327–328 Ya˙id 74 Yehuda Ben-Shmuel the Hassid 362 n.13 Yehuda Hadassi 84, 84 n.23, 85 n.26 Yishmael 129 Yo˙anan 54, 54 n.24, 55, 56 n.31 Yom Kippur 80, 80 n.5, 81 nn.7, 11, 307, 380 Yose 75 n.69, 156 Yoseph Bar-Hiya 359 Yosse ben Yosse 307, 307 n.71 Zachariah 183 n.3 Zaddik 5, 68–71, 74, 377 Zeno of Verona 238–39
