Anthropology and New Testament Theology 9780567660343, 9780567680211, 9780567660336

Table of contents :
Cover
Title
Copyright
Contents
Preface
Abbreviations
List of Contributors
Chapter 1: Introduction
Chapter 2: ‘What is Man?’ A Wisdom Anthropology
Chapter 3: On the Anthropology of Early Judaism: Some Observations
Chapter 4: Greco-Roman Perspectives on Anthropology: A Survey of Perspectives From 800 BCE to 200 CE
Chapter 5: The Familial Anthropology of Matthew’s Gospel
Chapter 6: The Redemption of Fallen Humanity: Theological Anthropology and Mark’s Narrative World
Chapter 7: Turning Anthropology Right Side Up: Seeing Human Life and Existence Lukewise
Chapter 8: The Anthropology of John and the Johannine Epistles: A Relational Anthropology
Chapter 9: Enlivened Slaves: Paul’s Christological Anthropology
Chapter 10: The Eschatological Son: Christological Anthropology in Hebrews
Chapter 11: Life as Image Bearers in the New Creation: The Anthropology of James
Chapter 12: ‘Remember These Things’: The Role of Memory in the Theological Anthropology of Peter and Jude
Chapter 13: Revelation’s Human Characters and its Anthropology
Chapter 14: Son of God at the Centre: Anthropology in Biblical-Theological Perspective
Chapter 15: The Mystery of Christian Anthropology
Bibliography
Index of Ancient Sources
Index of Authors

Citation preview

Library of New Testament Studies 529 formerly the Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement series Editor Chris Keith Editorial Board Dale C. Allison, John M.G. Barclay, Lynn H. Cohick, R. Alan Culpepper, Craig A. Evans, Robert Fowler, Simon J. Gathercole, John S. Kloppenborg, Michael Labahn, Love L. Sechrest, Robert Wall, Steve Walton, Catrin H. Williams

ANTHROPOLOGY AND NEW TESTAMENT THEOLOGY

Edited by Jason Maston and Benjamin E. Reynolds

T&T CLARK Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the T&T Clark logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2018 Paperback edition first published 2019 Copyright © Jason Maston, Benjamin E. Reynolds and contributors, 2018 Jason Maston and Benjamin E. Reynolds have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as editors of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-0-5676-6034-3 PB: 978-0-5676-9004-3 ePDF: 978-0-5676-6033-6 eBook: 978-0-5676-8022-8 Series: Library of New Testament Studies, volume 529 Typeset by Newgen KnowledgeWorks Pvt. Ltd., Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

CONTENTS Preface Abbreviations List of Contributors

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Chapter 1 INTRODUCTION Jason Maston

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Chapter 2 ‘WHAT IS MAN?’ A WISDOM ANTHROPOLOGY Jamie A. Grant

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Chapter 3 ON THE ANTHROPOLOGY OF EARLY JUDAISM: SOME OBSERVATIONS Matthias Henze Chapter 4 GRECO-ROMAN PERSPECTIVES ON ANTHROPOLOGY: A SURVEY OF PERSPECTIVES FROM 800 BCE TO 200 CE Timothy A. Brookins Chapter 5 THE FAMILIAL ANTHROPOLOGY OF MATTHEW’S GOSPEL Amy Richter Chapter 6 THE REDEMPTION OF FALLEN HUMANITY: THEOLOGICAL ANTHROPOLOGY AND MARK’S NARRATIVE WORLD Mark L. Strauss Chapter 7 TURNING ANTHROPOLOGY RIGHT SIDE UP: SEEING HUMAN LIFE AND EXISTENCE LUKEWISE Steve Walton Chapter 8 THE ANTHROPOLOGY OF JOHN AND THE JOHANNINE EPISTLES: A RELATIONAL ANTHROPOLOGY Benjamin E. Reynolds

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Contents

Chapter 9 ENLIVENED SLAVES: PAUL’S CHRISTOLOGICAL ANTHROPOLOGY Jason Maston Chapter 10 THE ESCHATOLOGICAL SON: CHRISTOLOGICAL ANTHROPOLOGY IN HEBREWS Amy L. B. Peeler Chapter 11 LIFE AS IMAGE BEARERS IN THE NEW CREATION: THE ANTHROPOLOGY OF JAMES Mariam Kamell Kovalishyn Chapter 12 ‘REMEMBER THESE THINGS’: THE ROLE OF MEMORY IN THE THEOLOGICAL ANTHROPOLOGY OF PETER AND JUDE Karen H. Jobes Chapter 13 REVELATION’S HUMAN CHARACTERS AND ITS ANTHROPOLOGY Ian Paul Chapter 14 SON OF GOD AT THE CENTRE: ANTHROPOLOGY IN BIBLICAL-THEOLOGICAL PERSPECTIVE Brian S. Rosner

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Chapter 15 THE MYSTERY OF CHRISTIAN ANTHROPOLOGY Ephraim Radner

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Bibliography Index of Ancient Sources Index of Authors

263 285 313

PREFACE This book is modelled on Jonathan T.  Pennington and Sean M.  McDonough’s edited volume Cosmology and New Testament Theology (London:  T&T Clark, 2008), which also appeared in the LNTS series. We are grateful to the former editor Mark Goodacre and the present editor Chris Keith for accepting this volume into the series. We also thank the staff at Bloomsbury T&T Clark for their support and assistance. The abbreviations and bibliography were prepared by Anna Brahce and Scott Bickle, respectively. We dedicate this volume to the memory of Professor I. Howard Marshall, who passed away during the writing of the essays. Professor Marshall’s influence on New Testament studies is well known, and both editors had the privilege of knowing Howard during their time in Aberdeen. Jason Maston Benjamin E. Reynolds

ABBREVIATIONS AB AcBib AJEC AnBib AnGr ANTC ASC BAFCS BBR BDAG

BECNT BETL BNTC BZ BZAW CBET CBQ CC CEJL CJHNT CurBR CurTM EJT EKKNT ESEC EvQ ExpTim FCNT GNS HALOT

HTR HTS HBT HUCA HUT

Anchor Bible Academia Biblica Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity Analecta Biblica Analecta Gregoriana Abingdon New Testament Commentaries Advances in Social Cognition Series The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting Bulletin for Biblical Research Bauer, Walter, Frederick W. Danker, William F. Arndt, F. William Gingrich, A Greek–English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature, 3rd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000) Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium Black’s New Testament Commentaries Biblische Zeitschrift Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology Catholic Biblical Quarterly Concordia Commentary Commentaries on Early Jewish Literature Corpus Judaeo-Hellenisticum Novi Testamenti Currents in Biblical Research Currents in Theology and Mission European Journal of Theology Evangelisch-Katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament Emory Studies in Early Christianity Evangelical Quarterly Expository Times Feminist Companion to the New Testament Good News Studies Koehler, L., W. Baumgartner, and J. J. Stamm, The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament. Translated and edited under the supervision of M. E. J. Richardson. 4 vols. Leiden: Brill, 1994–1999. Harvard Theological Review Harvard Theological Studies Horizons in Biblical Theology Hebrew Union College Annual Hermeneutische Untersuchungen zur Theologie

x ICC Int IVPNTC JAJ JANESCU JBL JBQ JCH JPTSup JSJSup JSNT JSNTSup JSOT JSOTSup JTC JTI LCC LCL LHBOTS LNTS LW MNTC NICNT NICOT NIDOTTE NIGTC NIVAC NovT NovTSup NSBT NTL NTS NTT OTG OTL PBTM PGNT PNTC ResQ RevExp RMeta SBB SBL SBLDS SBFA SBLAcBib

Abbreviations International Critical Commentary Interpretation IVP New Testament Commentary Journal of Ancient Judaism Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society of Columbia University Journal of Biblical Literature Jewish Bible Quarterly Jewish and Christian Heritage Journal of Pentecostal Theology, Supplement Series Journal for the Study of Judaism, Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for the Study of the New Testament, Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplement Series Journal for Theology and the Church Journal of Theological Interpretation Library of Christian Classics Loeb Classical Library The Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies Library of New Testament Studies Luther’s Works Moffat New Testament Commentary New International Commentary on the New Testament New International Commentary on the Old Testament New International Dictionary of Old Testament Theology and Exegesis The New International Greek Testament Commentary New International Version Application Commentary Novum Testamentum Novum Testamentum, Supplements New Studies in Biblical Theology New Testament Library New Testament Studies New Testament Theology Old Testament Guides Old Testament Library Paternoster Biblical and Theological Monographs Phoenix Guides to the New Testament The Pillar New Testament Commentary Restoration Quarterly Review and Expositor The Review of Metaphysics Stuttgarter biblische Beiträge Society of Biblical Literature SBL Dissertation Series Studium Biblicum Franciscanum, Analecta SBL Academia Biblica

Abbreviations SBLDS SBLEJL SBLSBS SBLSP SBT SchL SECT SemeiaSt SGBC SHR SJT SNT SNTSMS SNTW SP SSBT SST SSBT STDJ SVF THKNT TNTC TOTC TSAJ TynBul VT VTSup WBC WUNT ZAW ZECNT

SBL Dissertation Series SBL Early Judaism and Its Literature Series SBL Sources for Biblical Study SBL Seminar Papers Studies in Biblical Theology Schweich Lectures of the British Academy Sources of Early Christian Thought Semeia Studies Story of God Bible Commentary Studies in the History of Religions Scottish Journal of Theology Studien zum Neuen Testament Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series Studies of the New Testament and Its World Sacra Pagina Short Studies in Biblical Theology Studies in Systematic Theology Short Studies in Biblical Theology Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta Theologischer Handkommentar zum Neuen Testament Tyndale New Testament Commentaries Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum Tyndale Bulletin Vetus Testamentum Vetus Testamentum, Supplements World Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zondervan Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament

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CONTRIBUTORS Timothy A. Brookins (PhD, Baylor University), Houston Baptist University Jamie A. Grant (PhD, University of Gloucestershire), Highland Theological College UHI Matthias Henze (PhD, Harvard University), Rice University Karen H. Jobes (PhD, Westminster Theological Seminary, Philadelphia), Wheaton College and Graduate School Mariam Kamell Kovalishyn (PhD, University of St Andrews), Regent College Jason Maston (PhD, Durham University), Houston Baptist University Ian Paul (PhD, Nottingham Trent University), Fuller Theological Seminary Amy L. B. Peeler (PhD, Princeton Theological Seminary), Wheaton College Ephraim Radner (PhD, Yale University), Wycliffe College at the University of Toronto Benjamin E. Reynolds (PhD, University of Aberdeen), Tyndale University College Amy Richter (PhD, Marquette University), The Ecumenical Institute of Theology, St. Mary’s Seminary and University Brian Rosner (PhD, Cambridge University), Ridley College, Melbourne Mark L. Strauss (PhD, University of Aberdeen), Bethel Seminary San Diego Steve Walton (PhD, University of Sheffield), St Mary’s University, Twickenham (London)

Chapter 1 I N T R O DU C T IO N Jason Maston

‘When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established, what are human beings that you are mindful of them, and mortals that you care for them?’ (Ps 8:3–4).1 The psalmist’s question reaches to the core of this project. To begin, the psalmist identifies humanity as merely one creature within the vast array of creation. He recognizes that in itself humanity has no quality that distinguishes it from the res t of creation. In fact, quite the opposite: humanity by itself is considered the lowest of the creatures. Nevertheless, he knows that the Creator gives special attention to humanity. The following statement clarifies how God has cared for humanity: ‘Yet you have made them a little lower than God and crowned them with glory and honor’ (v. 5). Although humanity appears insignificant when compared t o the rest of creation, the place of humanity within the order of creation is actually quite high. Humanity is situated just below ‫( אלהים‬MT) or ἀγγέλους (LXX). Far from devaluing humanity, the comment in Ps 8:5 actually elevates humanity to the top of the created order. This elevation is particularly the case if one rejects the LXX translation and interprets the Hebrew as a reference to God himself . Regardless, though, the language of ‘glory and honor’ ascribes high status to humanity. Indeed, as the psalmist continues, he recalls the tasks given to Adam of ruling over the created realm. In these tasks Adam acts as God’s vice-regent. It is difficult to imagine a higher status being ascribed to lowly humanity. Psalm 8 places humanity in a unique position. While not the grandest of God’s creations, humans nevertheless stand out from creation because of the special attention given by God. The perspective of the psalmist draws from the creation accounts found in Genesis 1. There humanity is the final creature brought forth by God and marked out because humans – both male and female – bear the image of God (Gen. 1:26–28). Other ancient writers raised the same question as the psalmist but offered answers filtered less through Genesis 1. Psalm 144:3–4, for example, answers the question of why God cares for humanity with the pointed reminder that humans 1. All translations are from the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV).

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‘are like a breath; their days are like a passing shadow’. In contrast to the positive commendation of Psalm 8, this psalm stops short of balancing the negative with the positive. Likewise, Job answers the question ‘what are mortals?’ by pointing to the sinfulness of humans ‘who is abominable and corrupt, one who drinks iniquity like water’ (15:14–16). The variety of answers given to the question ‘what is a human being’ indicate for us the magnitude of the question and the complexity of understanding humanity. Indeed, throughout the ancient world and in almost every period of history unto the current, scholars have wrestled with this question. And the examples noted here are only the tip of the iceberg. Debates among the Greeks and Romans regarding the afterlife of the soul and the meaning of the body, or the divide between Augustine and Pelagius about human ability (which is later repeated with Luther and Erasmus), or Calvin’s famous claim that ‘Our wisdom, in so far as it ought to be deemed true and solid Wisdom, consists almost entirely of two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves’: all of these are addressing the question of ‘what is a human being?’ from one perspective or another.2 Recent scholarship and popular culture have embarked on a renewed attempt to understand humanity. The rise in interest in popular culture is particularly revealing. Many recent popular novels (particularly those targeted at teenagers) and movies and television shows (e.g. the growth of movies and shows about superheroes) have grappled with a range of anthropological issues.3 At the centre of the current debates about ‘human rights’ lies the fundamental question, ‘what does it mean to be human?’ In the academy, scientific and medical developments, in particular, have ignited discussions about the uniqueness or lack thereof of humans. Developments in neuroscience have sparked vigorous debates about the material versus immaterial constitution of humanity. These scientific discussions have been matched by a growing interest in the philosophy of mind. All of this impinges on human ability, and philosophers and ethicists have taken up the age-old topics of free will and determinism in the hopes of providing new theories and models. Ethical topics such as abortion and euthanasia hinge, to a large extent, on defining human nature. The growing debate over the nature of human sexuality is deeply driven by how one defines human nature. Advancements, or at least detailed discussions, in these other fields have been matched by many new works in ‘theological anthropology’.4 Several 2.  For some of the early Christian literature, see J. Patout Burns, ed. Theological Anthropology (SECT; Philadelphia, PA:  Fortress, 1981); John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, trans. Henry Beveridge (London: James Clarke, 1962), 1.1. 3. For example, The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. 4.  For an excellent overview of theological anthropology, see Marc Cortez, Theological Anthropology: A Guide for the Perplexed (London:  T&T Clark, 2010). See also the recent volume Joshua Ryan Farris and Charles Taliaferro, eds, Ashgate Research Companion to Theological Anthropology (Surrey : Ashgate Publishing, 2015).

Introduction

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interdisciplinary volumes have sought to break through the traditional academic divides.5 Drawing upon the discussions about the mind, many theologians have revisited the topic of the soul, with a growing popularity that the idea of an immaterial, spiritual soul cannot stand up to the current scientific evidence.6 Several full-length theological anthropologies have appeared recently, and these recall the earlier works by noted scholars like Anderson, Barth, Berkouwer, Moltmann and Pannenberg for their comprehensive perspectives and careful engagement with other disciplines.7 Despite this growing interest in anthropology across the academy and popular culture, New Testament scholarship has fallen significantly behind. Although a number of essay-length studies have been produced dealing with a range of anthropological aspects and some conferences have been held addressing anthropology, there is no single volume that attempts to summarize the New Testament’s anthropology.8 The present volume is an attempt to remedy this gap. The essays in this volume do not say everything that could be said, but they provide an entryway into a particular section of the New Testament. The heart of this volume is the nine chapters discussing the New Testament texts. The aim in each of these chapters is to let the anthropological implications of the text form the study. That is, the editors have not imposed any specific framework or asked the authors to address any particular issue other than the broad 5.  Malcolm A. Jeeves, ed., Rethinking Human Nature:  A Multidisciplinary Approach (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2011); Michael Welker, ed., The Depth of the Human Person: A Multidisciplinary Approach (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014). 6.  Nancey Murphy, Bodies and Souls, or Spirited Bodies? (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2006); Joel B. Green, Body, Soul, and Human Life: The Nature of Humanity in the Bible (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2008). 7. For recent works note, particularly, David H. Kelsey, Eccentric Existence: A Theological Anthropology, 2  vols. (Louisville, KY:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009); and Hans Schwarz, The Human Being:  A Theological Anthropology (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2013). Ray S. Anderson, On Being Human: Essays in Theological Anthropology (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1982); Karl Barth, The Humanity of God (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1960); G. C. Berkouwer, Man: The Image of God (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1962); Jürgen Moltmann, Man:  Christian Anthropology in the Conflicts of the Present (London:  SPCK, 1974); Wolfhart Pannenberg, What Is Man? Contemporary Anthropology in Theological Perspective, trans. Duane A. Priebe (Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress Press, 1970); Wolfhart Pannenberg, Anthropology in Theological Perspective (repr. London:  T&T Clark, 2004). 8.  Michael Labahn and Outi Lehtipuu, eds, Anthropology in the New Testament and Its Ancient Context:  Papers from the EABS-Meeting in Piliscaba/Budapest (CBET 54; Leuven:  Peeters, 2010); Clare K. Rothschild and Trevor W. Thompson, eds, Christian Body, Christian Self: Concepts of Early Christian Personhood (WUNT 284; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). For a fuller, but limited review of the New Testament, see Udo Schnelle, The Human Condition: Anthropology in the Teachings of Jesus, Paul, and John, trans. O. C. Dean (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996).

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question, ‘What is humanity according to your assigned text?’ Authors have been encouraged to follow the text where it leads and trace the anthropological themes that it raises. This means, as a result, that not every analysis will address all the issues that one might hope to discuss in a study of theological anthropology. As well, it means that each essay brings to the table different issues. Before coming to the New Testament texts, it is helpful to see how others in the ancient world presented humanity. The volume opens with three chapters describing the anthropological ideas found in the Old Testament, Second Temple Judaism and Greco-Roman contexts. These chapters are surveys, and one could easily compose a volume or more on the anthropology of each of these contexts. They are designed primarily to provide some perspective on the New Testament’s original context. Finally, as the context essays help set the scene for the New Testament, the final chapters draw out the implications of the New Testament essays for contemporary anthropological discussions. New Testament scholars have been reluctant at times to indicate how their research can influence other disciplines and how it has relevance for the world outside of the academy. Indeed, this has been one of the most serious weaknesses in many recent anthropological studies by New Testament scholars. To avoid this narrowness, a New Testament scholar, Brian Rosner, and a systematic theologian, Ephraim Radner, bring the whole exploration together by reflecting on the theological implications of the New Testament’s anthropological ideas. These essays are not direct responses to the previous chapters; rather, they draw from and build upon these chapters to show how the anthropological ideas of the New Testament can contribute to the continuing quest to answer the question, ‘What is humanity?’ It is the hope of the editors that these essays will help stimulate New Testament scholars to address the anthropological concerns of the New Testament. As well the essays can help scholars in other disciplines better understand how the New Testament contributes to present-day discussions. Indeed, the New Testament, as read through, for example, Augustine and the Reformers, is in many ways the foundation upon which much of the contemporary discussion actually lies. It is necessary, then, that scholars attempt to understand it.

Chapter 2 ‘ W HAT I S M A N ? ’ A   W I SD OM A N T H R O P O L O G Y Jamie A. Grant

Introduction Standard approaches to the question of Old Testament anthropology, perhaps naturally enough, tend to focus on foundational theological premises, often originating from Genesis 1–3, rather than the realities of human experience. Therefore, basic tenets like the creation of men and women in the image of God, humanity as the pinnacle of the created order and the first humans’ role as vice-regents and cocreators with Yhwh tend to dominate theological anthropologies derived from the Hebrew canon.1 Such a starting point is, of course, defensible but is also, arguably, unhelpful. If the attempt to derive a theological anthropology from the ancient text revolves around the question, ‘What is man according to the Old Testament?’ then answers derived from Genesis 1–3 and its intertexts skew the discussion positively.2 Undoubtedly, it is good to know the theory, but the abstract bears little 1.  For example, Marc Cortez’s helpful Theological Anthropology:  A Guide for the Perplexed (London:  T&T Clark, 2010) begins with a chapter on the ‘Imago Dei’ following introductory discussions. He comments on the creation of humanity in the image of God, ‘[c]onsequently, this statement has been understood by many theologians to stand at the very center of a properly Christian concept of what it means to be human, and the starting point of theological anthropology’ (15). To affirm his point, every systematic theology on my shelves begins its discussion of anthropology with reflection on creation in the divine image as the pinnacle of creation. 2.  ‘Standard’ anthropological conclusions drawn from Genesis 1–3 include the following three views: first, humanity is created in the image of God (imago Dei, Gen. 1:26–28); second, humanity is created with a task and purpose in mind as part of God’s plan for creation; and, third, humanity has been marked by the fall (Genesis 3). It is this fallen reality that is our nexus with the sages’ consideration of the human condition. For sources on these three conclusions, see, for example, Anthony A. Hoekema, Created in God’s Image (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1986); J. Richard Middleton, The Liberating Image: The Imago Dei in Genesis 1 (Grand Rapids, MI:  Brazos Press, 2005); G. C. Berkouwer, Man: The Image of God, trans. Dirk W. Jellema (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1962), and James Orr’s classic

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resemblance to the concrete experience of being human. However, were we to take the Wisdom literature – with its focus on the empirical and its observational discussion of human experience – as our starting point, it would provide a helpful corrective to this imbalance.3 While in no way denying the ultimate reality of the theological construct presented in the early chapters of Genesis, the poetry of the OT wisdom tradition provides a perspective on anthropology that is much more focused on the challenges, frustrations, inconsistencies and banalities of human existence than it is on these much-discussed ideologies.4 These texts build a view of anthropological reality that, arguably, provides a better starting point for the modern reader’s quest to understand human nature. The foundational texts become more, not less, intelligible when viewed in the light of human experience honestly described.5

text God’s Image in Man (New  York:  A. C.  Armstrong, 1905). All of the standard commentaries will also address the question of humanity’s creation in the image of God to one degree or another. See, for example, the discussion in Gerhard von Rad, Genesis:  A Commentary, trans. Dorothea Barton, (OTL; London:  SCM Press, 1972), 57–61; Gordon J. Wenham, Genesis 1–15 (WBC; Waco:  Word Books, 1987), 26–33, or John H. Walton, Genesis (NIVAC; Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2001), 127–45. 3.  I appreciate that there is some debate about both the extent of the Wisdom corpus and the appropriateness of the classification at all (see Will Kynes, ‘The Nineteenth-Century Beginnings of “Wisdom Literature”, and Its Twenty-first-Century End?’ , in Perspectives on Israelite Wisdom: Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar, ed. John Jarick [LHBOTS 618; London:  Bloomsbury/T&T Clark, 2015], 83–108). However, for the purposes of this essay I am adopting a tight definition of the Wisdom literature as encompassing the books of Job, Proverbs and Ecclesiastes. 4.  Silvia Schroer and Thomas Staubli, ‘Bodily and Embodied:  Being Human in the Tradition of the Hebrew Bible’ , Int 67, no. 1 (2013): 5–19. In his encyclopaedic, two-volume study, Eccentric Existence: A Theological Anthropology (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2009), David Kelsey uses the language of humanity’s ‘ultimate context’ to describe the human condition as creature before God and its ‘proximate contexts’ to elucidate the more experiential realities of life in creation. While there are points where our views vary, Kelsey makes a solid exegetical and theological case for beginning reflections on a Christian view of anthropology with the Wisdom texts, rather than Genesis 1–3 (see esp. ch. 4B, 176–89). I am grateful to the editors of this volume for drawing my attention to Kelsey’s work at the first draft stage of this essay. 5.  Richard Clifford comments, ‘The wisdom books remind readers that one must take hold of life as both gift and task, that there are many possibilities but also profound limits, and that honest observation and fidelity to one’s experience of life can put one in touch with a wondrous order whose source is God. The wisdom books’ starting point of everyday experience and honest observations create common ground for Bible readers to engage with other people just as it once did for ancient Israel and its neighbors’ (‘Introduction to Wisdom Literature’ , in The New Interpreter’s Bible: A Commentary in Twelve Volumes, ed. Leander Keck, Vol. 5 [NIB; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1997], 16 [emphasis mine]).

‘What Is Man?’

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When we begin with the poetic Wisdom tradition, there seem to be three repeated frustrations that characterize human experience and provide us with a good starting point in the development of a sapiential anthropology. These are: 1. The frustration of divine sovereignty; 2. The frustration of human finitude; and, 3. The frustration of human mortality. The second point is, of course, the flip side of the first and, indeed, the third is the ultimate conclusion of the second. So these three notions – the imponderability of God’s sovereignty, human limitedness and the inevitability of death – are, in many ways, all aspects of the same experience. However, they also combine to paint a vivid picture of humanity from the perspective of the Wisdom tradition. The central and underlying premise behind these tensions is the idea of design or counsel.6 The sages believed that humanity plays a part in the divine plan for the cosmos; however, discerning that plan can be marred by complexity and confusion.7 This is the human experience. Wisdom’s practical voice needs to be heard in order to counterbalance theoretical approaches to anthropology. It would be helpful to examine each of these points in turn before drawing some theological conclusions.

The Frustration of Divine Sovereignty Ironically, knowledge of a sovereign Creator contributes to feelings of both great security and great frustration in the human experience. This is ideally illustrated for us in the book of Job. Often considered a classic theodicy, in reality, the topics under debate between Job and his friends vary widely.8 One of the themes that come under discussion time and again in the speech cycles (Job 4–27) is the question of human response to the sovereignty of God. For example, note Zophar’s challenge to Job: Can you find out the deep things of God? Can you find out the limit of the Almighty?

6.  Raymond C. Van Leeuwen, ‘Liminality and Worldview in Proverbs 1–9’ , Semeia 50 (1990): 111–44. 7.  See Michael V. Fox, A Time to Tear Down and a Time to Build Up: A Rereading of Ecclesiastes (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1999), 8–11. In his comparison with Camus’s concept of the absurd, Fox comments, ‘Qohelet asserts the irrationality of life and the impenetrability of God’s will, but he also seeks to recover meanings, values, and truths to discern a Way of life through the murky wasteland’ (11). 8.  Ernest W. Nicholson, ‘The Limits of Theodicy as a Theme of the Book of Job’ , in Wisdom in Ancient Israel, ed. John Day et  al. (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1995), 71–82.

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Jamie A. Grant It is higher than heaven – what can you do? Deeper than Sheol – what can you know? Its measure is longer than the earth and broader than the sea. (Job 11:7–9)9

The implication is clear. God is beyond human understanding and his sovereignty is unfathomable. Therefore, Zophar concludes that Job should turn aside from his iniquity in order to relieve himself of the wrath of God (11:13–20).10 Job is more than willing to agree with the premise while denying Zophar’s conclusions: With God are wisdom and might; he has counsel and understanding. If he tears down, none can rebuild; if he shuts a man in, none can open. If he withholds the waters, they dry up; if he sends them out, they overwhelm the land. With him are strength and sound wisdom; the deceived and the deceiver are his. (Job 12:13–16)

The remainder of the pericope continues to make the same point with reference to the influence of officials and nations. These may be powerful individuals or states but the sovereignty of God always demarcates the extent of their success or failure. Job’s acknowledgement of divine sovereignty is, however, a challenging one. God is sovereign and clearly in complete control, but this is often an uncomfortable truth from the human perspective. I am a laughingstock to my friends; I, who called to God and he answered me, a just and blameless man, am a laughingstock. (Job 12:4) From empirical observation and the experience of lived reality, divine sovereignty can be a difficult human experience for the believer.11 Job knows and freely acknowledges God’s complete control, yet he is still left to deal with the profoundly discomforting reality that he, a God-fearing, righteous and faithful practitioner of wisdom, is left as a laughingstock before his friends and all observers through 9. All biblical citations are drawn from the English Standard Version (Crossway Bibles: 2011), unless otherwise indicated. 10. Katharine J. Dell, ‘Job’ , in Eerdmans Commentary on the Bible, ed. James D. G. Dunn and John W. Rogerson (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2003), 348–9. 11.  ‘Life and death are in God’s hands – this can be seen as praiseworthy and yet terrifying if God has become the enemy  . . . The problem that is made clear in 12:13–25 is that God often acts capriciously and arbitrarily in nature. He reverses human fortunes, and humans are helpless to do anything about it’ (Dell, ‘Job’ , 352). I am not sure that ‘capricious’ and ‘arbitrary’ are quite the right words to reflect Job’s complaint here, but Dell certainly grasps the challenge of divine sovereignty from the human perspective well.

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absolutely no fault of his own.12 Job denies Zophar’s conclusion that he is suffering because he has sinned badly (13:4–12), but he is still confronted with the painful present reality of extreme suffering without ethical ‘cause’ on his part. So, sovereignty is not always a good thing from the anthropological perspective. This tension is further emphasized in the following chapter. Job, under the influence of the friends, has come to believe that God has taken out a ‫ ִריב‬against him. Though he slay me, I will hope in him; yet I will argue my ways to his face. This will be my salvation, that the godless shall not come before him. Keep listening to my words, and let my declaration be in your ears. Behold, I have prepared my case; I know that I shall be in the right. Who is there who will contend with me? For then I would be silent and die. Only grant me two things, then I will not hide myself from your face: withdraw your hand far from me, and let not dread of you terrify me. Then call, and I will answer; or let me speak, and you reply to me. How many are my iniquities and my sins? Make me know my transgression and my sin. Why do you hide your face and count me as your enemy? (Job 13:15–24) This passage highlights some of the difficulties experienced by the believer in the face of the mysteries of divine sovereignty. Job clearly does not, indeed cannot, understand his present experience. The friends’ claim that he suffers because he has sinned greatly is a bare-faced lie (13:4–12), yet in the reality of his experience he still suffers terrors despite his reverence for God and his commitment to a lifestyle of wisdom.13 How can he possibly square this circle? The tension of the human experience of divine sovereignty is palpable in the preceding passage. First, sovereignty inevitably leads to a sense of inner conflict for humanity (13:15a).14 Job knows that God is in complete control over his life and, 12. Note the theologically awkward use of ‫‘ ִח ָנּם‬without reason’ in Job 2:3. 13. Note Ticciati’s helpful discussion of Job’s ‘bipolar conception of self ’ in Job and the Disruption of Identity: Reading beyond Barth (London: Continuum, 2005), 91–6. Citing the NIDOTTE article on ‫ בעת‬she comments that the terror Job expresses here is ‘a response to something not fully understood and overwhelmingly powerful’ (93). 14. There is a textual question with regard to this verse, but the modern English translations get it right in translating the verse as an expression of conflicted realities (‘Though

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therefore, ultimately responsible for the tragedies he currently experiences. However, despite this fact, he also declares hope in his Sovereign because he realizes that any solution to his present crisis is also only to be found in relationship with him. Sovereignty leads inevitably to a conflicted sense of human reality. For Job here, God is both the source of his problem and the source of his solution.15 This tension is the anthropological reality of all people of faith at some point (or at many points) in life. Second, we see the significance of lament in the human experience of life with God (13:15b). We do not have scope to develop this argument to the full here, but Job is clear that the only possibility of finding ‘resolution’ to the experiential tension of a life of suffering lived coram Dei is through the honest and forthright expression of complaint to the Sovereign.16 Hebrew lament is not so much about the expression of sadness as it is about the perspectival declaration that Yhwh is not upholding his side of the covenant. Job knows that his perspective may be wrong, yet he laments forcefully and is ultimately commended for that lament. He is the only human participant in the dialogue who addresses God directly, and it is for this determination to bring all of the deep angst of his human experience before God that he is ultimately affirmed (Job 42:7–9).17 So, acknowledging our conflicted reality of human experience seems to be an essential part of our make up as people, especially as people of faith. Third, there is no equality in sovereignty. God rules. The end. Note the tone of some of the verses highlighted previously. Job believes that God has taken legal action against him,18 yet there is no equity in defending a case brought by the he slay me, I will hope in him’) rather than the more fatalistic expression of certain death (‘Behold, he will slay me, I  have no hope’ [RSV]). See Francis I. Andersen, Job (TOTC; Leicester: IVP, 1976), 166–67 for fuller discussion. 15. As Robert Gordis puts it, ‘Finding neither compassion nor truth in the Friends, Job flees from God to God, seeking refuge from His wrath in His mercy’ (The Book of God and Man: A Study of Job [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965], 235). This is the essence of the concept of lament in Hebrew poetry. 16.  I have developed this argument more fully elsewhere (see Jamie A. Grant, ‘The Hermeneutics of Humanity: Reflections on the Human Origin of the Laments’ , in A God of Faithfulness: Essays in Honour of J. Gordon McConville on His 60th Birthday, ed. Jamie A. Grant et al. [LHBOTS 538; London: T&T Clark, 2011], 182–202). See also Craig C. Broyles, The Conflict of Faith and Experience in the Psalms: A Form-Critical and Theological Study (JSOTSup 52; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989) for a fuller-length treatment of these ideas. 17.  Elaine A. Phillips, ‘Speaking Truthfully:  Job’s Friends and Job’ , BBR 18, no. 1 (2008):  31–43. See also Kenneth Numfor Ngwa, The Hermeneutics of the ‘Happy’ Ending in Job 42:7–17 (BZAW 354; Berlin:  Walter de Gruyter, 2005) and Grant, ‘Hermeneutics of Humanity’ , 198–202. 18. This, of course, turns out to be a wrong conclusion when we arrive at the Yhwh speeches, Job’s conclusion and the epilogue. Job, influenced by the repeated assertions of the friends, accepts their argument that God has put him on trial. When we get to the end of the book, Yhwh replies, ‘What case? What trial? I have never brought a ‫ ִריב‬and never turned my back.’ The friends’ conclusion was wrong and Job was led astray in accepting

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Almighty. Job is determined to argue his case (13:15b), yet he knows that it could well get him killed (13:15a). He can voice his defence but where is the advocate who can contend on his behalf (13:19)? There is no one who can represent him and no judge who is higher than the One bringing the case.19 Divine sovereignty is an absolute concept. There is no leeway or fuzziness around the edges and this is an intimidating experience for frail humans. Anthropologically speaking, the confrontation with absolute rule is a sobering and mysterious reality check. It feels like there is no wriggle room. We are subjects, plain and simple.20 Unsurprisingly, the book of Ecclesiastes and, arguably more surprisingly, the book of Proverbs echo the frustrations of human experience vis-à-vis relationship with an absolute Sovereign.21 Take, for example, the discussion of plans and planning in Proverbs 16: The plans of the heart belong to man, but the answer of the tongue is from the LORD (Prov. 16:1). Commit your work to the LORD, and your plans will be established (Prov. 16:3). The heart of man plans his way, but the LORD establishes his steps (Prov. 16:9). Clearly, from the proverbial perspective, planning is a good thing.22 Yet the best plans of the wisest people are readily subverted by the sovereign will of God (16:9).23 God has the final say in all of the events of humanity (16:1), and it is only in relationship with him that our plans have any chance of succeeding (16:3).24 their premise. See Will Kynes, ‘The Trials of Job: Relitigating Job’s “Good Case” in Christian Interpretation’ , SJT 66, no. 2 (2013): 174–91, for a helpful discussion of legal motifs in Job. 19. Dell, ‘Job’ , 352. 20.  Ironically, a key aspect of the message of Job, however, is that importunate human argument may well turn out to be part of the divine plan and purpose. This does not deny the fact, though, that it is a stark reality to face up to the concept of a sovereign God from the human perspective. See Kynes, ‘The Trials of Job’ , 190–91. 21.  It is often argued that Job and Ecclesiastes represent a reaction against the overly simplistic world view of Proverbs. This, of course, is something of a misrepresentation: Proverbs is far from simplistic and is fully cognizant of the evils that manifest themselves in the world. It is rather a fossilized reading of Proverbs that comes under critique in both Job and Ecclesiastes (see Graeme Goldsworthy, Gospel and Wisdom: Israel’s Wisdom Literature in the Christian Life [Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 1995]). 22.  See, for example, Prov. 15:22: ‘Without counsel plans fail, but with many advisers they succeed’; or Prov. 21:5: ‘The plans of the diligent lead surely to abundance, but everyone who is hasty comes only to poverty.’ 23.  Michael V. Fox, Proverbs 10–31:  A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB; New York: Doubleday, 2009), 631. 24.  Indeed, Raymond Van Leeuwen argues that the question of divine sovereignty and human freedom is the focal point of the cluster of proverbs found in 16:1–9 (‘The Book of

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The challenge of divine sovereignty is a repeated theme throughout the proverbial literature. Proverbs 1–9 encourages the reader to seek out wisdom as a faithful guide for life. The implications are clear throughout:  wisdom is a good thing, it is of great value and should be pursued with all the strength that we can muster. However, the almost inevitable corrective appears in Proverbs 3: Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. (Prov. 3:5–6)

The directives of the introductory section of Proverbs are clear: wisdom is a faithful guide; folly will lead you astray; there is great value in wisdom; therefore, above all else, pursue wisdom with passion and vigour (Prov. 4:5–9). To that end the faithful reader is encouraged to: Ponder the path of your feet; then all your ways will be sure. (Prov. 4:26).

Except when they are not sure. Or, at best, one may say that applying wisdom leads to paths that are by and large sure except when Yhwh deems otherwise and intervenes to fulfil his own sovereign will and purpose. Wisdom and understanding are great things, the sages tell us, but remember the wisest of paths and the greatest human understanding can be subverted by God in a heartbeat. Such is the lot of creatures in the hands of their Creator.25 The NET Bible captures the essence of this frustration perfectly in their rendering of Prov. 20:24: The steps of a person are ordained by the LORD – so how can anyone understand his own way?

The subject notes in the NET Bible add insightfully: ‘To say that one’s steps are ordained by the LORD means that one’s course of actions, one’s whole life, is divinely prepared and sovereignly superintended (e.g. Gen. 50.26; Prov. 3:6). Ironically, man is not actually in control of his own steps.’26 And there is great

Proverbs: Introduction, Commentary and Reflections’ , in The New Interpreter’s Bible, ed. Keck, 159. 25. ‘This [dependence on Yhwh in Prov. 3:5–6] focuses on the point that there is a potential, if not explicitly acknowledged, tension between wisdom’s pragmatic concern to show the path to human well-being and happiness and the sometimes unfathomable demands of God’ (Ronald E. Clements, ‘Proverbs’ , in Eerdmans Commentary on the Bible, ed. Dunn and Rogerson, 440–41). 26. NET Bible® copyright ©1996–2006 by Biblical Studies Press, L.L.C. http://www.bible. org/. All rights reserved. This material is available in its entirety as a free download or online web use at http://www.netbible.org/.

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frustration in the constant encouragement to seek wisdom in order to live well when one is confronted with the realization that ultimately ‘one’s whole life is divinely prepared and sovereignly superintended’.27 It will come as a surprise to precisely no one that Qohelet also struggles with the concept of divine sovereignty, so we can be brief here. Following the introductory wisdom poem that reflects on the grinding monotony of life, the sage begins his ‘autobiographical’ section with the summary statement: I, the Teacher, was king over Israel in Jerusalem. I devoted myself to study and to explore by wisdom all that is done under heaven. What a heavy burden God has laid on men! I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind. What is twisted cannot be straightened; what is lacking cannot be counted. (Eccl. 1:12–15, NIV)

The ‘heavy burden’ (‫ ) ִﬠ ְנ ַין ָרע‬has attracted a wide diversity of colourful translation options from the RSV’s ‘unhappy business’ to the KJV’s ‘sore travail’. However one parses the precise nuance of this idiom, clearly, it is not a good thing. The essence of Qohelet’s frustration lies in the realities of v. 15 – that which has been preordained cannot be changed or impacted even by the greatest of human endeavours.28 As echoed in 7:13, that which the Sovereign decides to do is done and cannot be undone.29 So, in summary, what can be said regarding the essence of humanity according to the Wisdom literature? People are creatures subject to the will of their Creator. They are subjects under the rule of a Sovereign. If we are to read the text (and life) honestly, there are times when the absolute rule of the creator and covenant God 27. ‘Man cannot fully plan or control the course of his life, for God is ultimately in control, and God’s plans are not transparent. This is the message of Prov. 16:9’ (Fox, Proverbs 10–31, 674). Although, clearly, not an OT text, the Epistle of James is strongly flavoured by the Hebrew sapiential tradition and comes to similar conclusions: ‘Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that”’ (Jas 4:13–15, NIV). 28. Eccl.1:15 is sometimes taken to be a reference simply to a broken world that cannot be fixed by human effort. However, the essence of Qohel et’s problem is that God lies behind all of these realities; hence, God is explicitly the subject of the repetition in 7:13. The inability to correct that which needs to be corrected is one aspect of the ‫ ִﬠ ְנ ַין ָרע‬laid on humanity by God. See Tremper Longman III, The Book of Ecclesiastes (NICOT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1998), 82–83 and 191. 29.  ‘Consider what God has done:  Who can straighten what he has made crooked? When times are good, be happy; but when times are bad, consider: God has made the one as well as the other. Therefore, a man cannot discover anything about his future’ (Eccl. 7:13–14, NIV).

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throws up issues for us as human beings. God’s sovereign will can often be troublesome or unpalatable, and it is almost always shrouded in mystery and difficult to read. Yet, his will simply is. People must accommodate to his purposes and never the other way around.

The Frustration of Human Finitude The flip side of the frustrations of divine sovereignty is the problem of human limitedness. God is in complete control, and it often seems to the sages that people have little or no understanding of what he is doing or how they might play their part in his sovereign design. The Knowledge Issue Qohelet is perhaps the best starting point for our consideration of human limitedness. One of the great debates regarding Ecclesiastes is the extent to which Qohelet manifests a deterministic world view. Some would argue that Qohelet holds a world view grounded in the belief that our lot is predetermined and there is nothing that we can do about it.30 While ultimately, as argued next, a hard view of determinism in Ecclesiastes (and life) is difficult to sustain, Qohelet is clearly troubled by the implications of human limitedness. Perhaps, this is most clearly expressed in his reflections in Ecclesiastes 3. Following the famous song that reflects on the appropriate times and seasons for all events (some of which are determined and beyond human control, while others are not), Qohelet reflects on the consequences of human finitude: He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. (Eccl. 3:11, NIV)

Roland Murphy describes this reality as a ‘fantastic statement of divine sabotage’.31 God gives humanity a flavour of eternity but only to a limited extent. It is almost as if he gives people just enough insight into his plans and purposes for it to be frustrating.32 People have an awareness that there is an eternal design that functions well (‘beautiful in its time’ , ‫ ) ָי ֶפה ְב ִﬠתּוֹ‬but perceiving that design is beyond us due to our own human limitedness. There is an issue of lack of understanding when it comes to human finitude. We have a limited perception of divine reality. 30.  See the thorough discussion of this topic in Dominic Rudman, Determinism in the Book of Ecclesiastes (JSOTSup 316; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001). 31. Roland E. Murphy, Ecclesiastes (WBC 23A; Waco, TX: Thomas Nelson, 1992), 39. 32. Norbert F. Lohfink, Qoheleth, trans. Sean McEvenue (CC; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2003), 61.

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Qohelet makes it clear that we do have some sense of eternity but we cannot discern its totality. This is part of the frustration of being made ‘a little lower than God’ despite the elevated status that this implies (Ps. 8:5). We sense a design beyond ourselves, but we cannot grasp it.33 The impenetrability of the divine purpo se was Job’s problem as well. He simply could not discern any sense of design in the tragic events that unfolded in his life. Finally he came to perceive that his finite understanding lay at the root of his existential crisis (Job 42:1– 6). Job ultimately came to understand that his error lay not in terms of his perception of his own righteousness or in the forceful nature of his lament – the former is established in the prologue and for the latter he is commended in the epilogue. The root of Job’s error is in calling into question the very fact that God had a plan for him. The assumption of 29:1– 6 is that God has turned his back on Job. He has ‘removed his friendship’ from Job’s tent (29:4). The Hebre w here is interesting. Job laments the loss of days when the ‫ סוֹד ֱא לוֹ ַהּ‬rested on himself and his family.34 Most modern translations render the term ‫ סוֹד‬as ‘friendship’ (NRSV, ESV, NASB etc.) or ‘intimate friendship’ (NIV, NET, etc.). The rendering is accurate enough, but some nuance is lost in translation.35 The NKJV perhaps comes closest to the Hebrew in translating ‫ סוֹד‬as ‘friendly council’.36 This seems to be the essence of the Hebrew – it implies the confidences and secret counsel that is shared among friends and is used in this way in Job 15:8. So, effectively, Job laments the removal of insight into God’s design and plan for him. His frustration arises through lack of understanding – human finitude – so, he questions God’s purposes for his life. Resolution comes for Job in the realization that sovereignty automatically implies mystery and, therefore, lack of understanding does not equate with lack of a good purpose for his life. Note Job 42:1–3: Then Job answered the LORD and said: I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted. 33. Fox comments on the rendering of this verse, ‘The usual translation, “without being able to find out the work that God has done from beginning to end” (or the like), has Qohelet complaining about the impossibility of knowing the entirety of God’s work. Such a complaint would be trivial, because it would be senseless to hope for an absolute knowledge of everything. Rather, Qohelet is saying that man can in no way understand maʿǎśeh haʾělohim’ (Fox, Time to Tear Down, 212). His point is that humans have no hope of grasping God’s work, despite some awareness of his purpose. 34. There is a textual variant in the BHS but most translations accept the given text. 35.  Jamie A. Grant, ‘“When the Friendship of God Was Upon My Tent”: Covenant as Essential Background to Lament in the Wisdom Literature’ , in Covenant in the Persian Period: From Genesis to Chronicles, ed. Richard I. Bautch and Gary N. Knoppers (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 348–50. 36. See HALOT 6475.

16

Jamie A. Grant ‘Who is this that hides counsel without knowledge?’ Therefore I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know.

Job repeats the challenge that Yhwh lays out to him in 38:2. The key word in Job’s conclusion, of course, is ‫ ֵﬠ ָצה‬37 – ‘counsel’ or, perhaps better here ‘plan’ or ‘purpose’ used as a synonym of ‫ ְמ ִז ָמּ ה‬38 in the previous verse. Since Job could no longer understand the divine plan, he came to assume that there was not one. The interrogation of the Yhwh speeches drew him to the logical conclusion that God’s ways are there, but they are beyond his human understanding. Therefore, he concludes, ‘I know that you can do all things, no plan of yours can be thwarted’. Job acknowledges both the validity of the divine design and the inevitability of his own incapacity to comprehend that blueprint.39 The realization of our human finitude vis-à-vis unquestionable divine sovereignty leads to an uncomfortable anthropological reality. Accepting limitedness is never an easy thing, yet accept it we must, if we are to understand our true nature.40 The Sin Problem Alongside the essential problem of limited awareness and understanding, there comes the additional frustration of human ethical incapacity. Put simply, we are not as good as we would like to be and even the extent of our desire for good is not what it should be. Whatever the first causes, the Wisdom literature is forthright about the essential corruption of human nature. In a typically pithy fashion, Proverbs summarizes the issue with a rhetorical question: Who can say, ‘I have made my heart pure; I am clean from my sin’? (Prov. 20:9)41

The answer is obvious to every honest reader. Humanity has a problem with corruption. Purity escapes us. The effect of our ethical inability on the created order and its societal structures is profound. This is the net effect of Proverbs 1– 9:  choose the right way because wrong choices have a calamitous effect on the personal, the familial and the societal level.42 Wisdom and folly are strongly associated with the ethical effects of the reader’s life choices in this section of the book. 37. HALOT 7220. 38. HALOT 4981. 39. John H. Walton, Job (NIVAC; Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2012), 398–99. 40.  There are many verses and passages in Proverbs that acknowledge the same reality. The Proverbs 3 passage discussed earlier would be one of them, see esp. v. 7. There is no ‘solution’ to the problem of divine sovereignty and human limitedness, but we will reflect on those conclusions that bring at least some light to the question in the final section of this essay. 41. Similarly, the Teacher pronounces: ‘surely there is not a righteous man on earth who does good and never sins’ (Eccl. 7:20). 42. Paul E. Koptak, Proverbs (NIVAC; Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2003), 46–48.

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Wisdom leads to righteousness, whereas folly leads to adultery and moral failing. There are strong associations between the vocabulary of wisdom and the language of uprightness, righteousness and integrity (e.g. Prov. 2:1–15). Folly, however, leads to all things evil (e.g. Prov. 1:8–19; 4:10–19).43 The difficulty in terms of human nature according to the Wisdom literature, of course, is that determination of will is not enough for people to be godly. Proverbs acknowledges this fact (20:9), but this is a recurring focus of the Joban speech cycles. The closed system adopted by Job’s friends requires them to find the locus of his suffering in the sinfulness of his behaviour. Following a strict view of divine retribution, the friends consistently highlight the impossibility of human moral purity and con clude that Job suffers greatly because he has sinned greatly (e.g. 4:17– 19 and passim).44 Job resents even the hint of this equation, asking the conceptual question: what does his holiness or sinfulness do to God (7:20–21)? Why should behaviour so impact the divine? Yet, the reader is given a hermeneutical insight that the protagonists do not have. Job is declared ‘blameless and upright’ (‫ ) ָתּם ְו ָי ָשׁר‬in the prologue and is affirmed as such by Yhwh (1:1, 8; 2:3). So, whatever the cause of Job’s suffering, it is not due to his sins. This, of course, creates an interesting conundrum because, although Yhwh declares him blameless, Job is open about his moral failings throughout the debate (31:33–34). 45 How does one square this circle: Job confesses sin yet is affirmed and accepted by God as upright? The key seems to be found in the language of Job’s affirmation by the narrator. Being ‘blameless and upright’ is obviously not the same as being without sin. The two terms are often used in parallel and combine to indicate a genuine integrity of heart that is Godward in direction.46 ‫ ָתּם‬implies integrity of lifestyle, rather than the traditional ‘perfection’ of the KJV. It speaks of the honest and wholehearted attempt to live for God. When combined with ‫ ָי ָשׁר‬, these terms imply a lifestyle that is honestly and holistically determined to live in relationship with the Creator by walking in his ways (Ps. 25:21).47 However, a tension still remains.

43.  See Fox’s excellent essay on ‘Words for Wisdom and Folly in Proverbs’ in Proverbs 1–9, 28–43. 44. See Walton’s helpful discussion of the ‘Retribution Principle’ in Job, 39–41. 45.  The friends often misrepresent Job’s defence as a false claim of sinless perfection (e.g. 11:1–6). Job never claims to be sinless. His contention is, merely, that if he is suffering greatly because of sin, then surely he would be aware of the heinous acts that led to this punishment (13:20–23). 46. Note Ticciati’s discussion of the possible presentation of Job as a faithful adherent to the Deuteronomic Covenant (Job and the Disruption of Identity, 59–65). 47. ‘In Heb. the concept of integrity is for the most part expressed by the root ‫ תממ‬and its de rivat ives. . . . The word ‫ תמ‬designates (esp. in the Wisdom literature) a discernible group of people to whom adherence to the ethos and the social values that clearly distinguish the God- fearing from the wicked . . . is of prime importance’ (J. P. J. Oliver, ‘‫ ’תמם‬, in New International Dictionary of the Old Testament Theology and Exegesis, ed. Willem A. VanGemeren (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1996), 4:306–7). See also HALOT 10118.

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According to the sages, sin is intrinsic to human nature and it separates from God, yet at the same time it is possible for sinful human beings, like Job, to enjoy his friendship. How is this possible? One suspects that the sages found resolution to their moral conundrum in a manner similar to that found throughout the rest of Scripture: divine mercy as the sole source of human hope (Prov. 16:6). The Enjoyment Prerogative The Wisdom corpus makes it clear that life is difficult but that it is also a gift to be enjoyed. The human experience is blighted by human incapacity both cognitive and moral, yet people can – and probably should – still enjoy the experience of life in meaningful ways. There are many examples of this ideology, but perhaps it is most clearly stated in the carpe diem passages of Ecclesiastes (2:24–26; 3:12–14, 22; 5:18–20; 8:15; 9:7–10; and, more contentiously, 11:7–12:7). These passages reflect on the human experience and conclude that, although life is blighted by lack of understanding (and, therefore, lack of meaning), there is still pleasure (and, thus, meaning of some sort) to be found in the enjoyment of life’s simple delights: good food, good drink, life with one’s spouse, a fulfilling vocation, and so on. The influence of Greek philosophy on these reflections seems strong and Qohelet’s conclusions come close to the approach to life advocated by the Epicureans.48 It is an understanding of human nature that essentially brackets the big questions (while still reflecting on them) and encourages focus on the moment and life’s present experience.49 However, Epicurus’s denial of divine intervention is not reflected in Qohelet’s world view.50 While the dominant voice of Qohelet’s book rings with the refrain of ‘meaninglessness’ , there is plenty in Ecclesiastes to suggest that Qohelet believed in an interventionist God. For Qohelet, the divine hand is hidden and mysterious, rather than absent.51 See, for example, Eccl. 8:14–17: There is something else meaningless that occurs on earth: righteous men who get what the wicked deserve, and wicked men who get what the righteous deserve. This too, I  say, is meaningless. So I  commend the enjoyment of life, 48.  ‘The individualism and empiricism are probably best accounted for by the Greek influence that Jews were being exposed to in the third century BC. . . . It is notoriously difficult to pin down the specific Greek influences affecting Qoheleth, but I think it is right to imagine a situation in which Jews are increasingly being exposed to the sort of epistemologies that Epicureanism exhibits’ (Craig G. Bartholomew, Reading Ecclesiastes:  Old Testament Exegesis and Hermeneutical Theory [AnBib 139; Rome: Pontifical Bible Institute, 1998], 261). 49.  The trend towards the practice of ‘mindfulness’ is a current expression of this phenomenon. 50.  Gadi Charles Weber, ‘Maimonides and the Epicurean Position on Providence’ , RMeta 68, no. 3 (2015): 545–72. 51. See James L. Crenshaw, ‘In Search of Divine Presence: Some Remarks Preliminary to a Theology of Wisdom’ , RevExp 74, no. 3 (1977): 364–6.

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because nothing is better for a man under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad. Then joy will accompany him in his work all the days of the life God has given him under the sun. When I applied my mind to know wisdom and to observe man’s labor on earth – his eyes not seeing sleep day or night – then I saw all that God has done. No-one can comprehend what goes on under the sun. Despite all his efforts to search it out, man cannot discover its meaning. Even if a wise man claims he knows, he cannot really comprehend it. (NIV)

So, although reflecting aspects of Epicurean ideas of pleasure, Qohelet’s carpe diem thought is more complex. He believes that God is at work in the world and that human life and experience do have meaning as a result, even if ultimate appreciation of that meaning is hidden from us, which results in an anthropology of frustration.52 The enjoyment passages in Ecclesiastes encourage a human experience of presence and mindfulness. Since the problem of divine sovereignty and human finitude places the big picture beyond our grasp, real meaning is only to be found in the enjoyment of those tangible pleasures that are our present experience. So, for the Hebrew sages, questions of anthropology are earthy and rooted in the real world. We discover what it means to be truly human in our enjoyment of the life given to us.53

The Frustration of Human Mortality A third telling aspect to the human experience from the sapiential perspective is the inevitability of death. Of course, the theme of mortality is inescapably present throughout the whole of the Hebrew canon from Adam and Eve to Abel to Moses and David and the list of kings who ‘slept with their fathers’ in Jerusalem. However, there is an added bite of meaninglessness to the question of death in the Wisdom texts which gives a structural significance to the inevitability of death as part of the human experience.54 Death is not just an inevitable reality for the sages. Particularly for Qohelet, the inevitability of death actually relativizes every other experience of value in life. For what happens to the children of man and what happens to the beasts is the same; as one dies, so dies the other. They all have the same breath, and man has no advantage over the beasts, for all is vanity. All go to one place. All are from the dust, and to dust all return. (Eccl. 3:19–20) 52.  Iain W. Provan, Ecclesiastes/Song of Songs (NIVAC; Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan, 2001), 168. 53.  Graham S. Ogden, ‘Qoheleth’s Use of the “Nothing Is Better”-Form’ , JBL 98, no. 3 (1979): 339–50. 54. Alison Lo, ‘Death in Qohelet’ , JANESCU 31 (2008): 85–98.

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Our end is no better than that of the animals. They live and breathe, eat and drink, and then they die, as do we. So, Qohelet wonders, what point can there possibly be in a life that ends in death and the inevitability of being forgotten (2:15–17)? Any value that might be found in the whole range of human experience becomes subjective, at best, and dubious, at worst. The pursuit of wisdom does not matter because the sage and the fool meet the same end (2:15). Entrepreneurship is pointless, because even the greatest businessman will die and who knows what his heirs will do with his wealth (2:18–19). Whatever excellence of human achievement we might aspire to is without meaning because ultimately both we and it will be forgotten in the voracious movement of history (2:16). Death calls the meaningfulness of the human experience into question.55 Yet, at the same time, both Job and Qohelet acknowledge that death may be more desirable than a life of suffering or a life without meaning. Job’s powerful lament frames the discussion that follows in the speech cycles in de-creative terms (Job 3).56 He longs for darkness not light, night not day, death not life – the grave would be a place of rejoicing for him (2:22). In the face of great suffering, death can be the preferable option. Equally, given the vicissitudes of life, Qohelet ultimately concludes that ‘the day of death is better than the day of life’ (7:1–2). Although death relativizes any sense of meaning, purpose and achievement in life, ultimately, according to the sages, it may be more desirable than a life lived in the face of either overwhelming human suffering or the complete lack of any sense of purpose or meaning.57 Either way, death is the inevitable and inescapable conclusion to life, and the sages openly confront their readers with that sobering thought, encouraging them to take stock of their present reality. As we have seen earlier, to be human means to be finite, to be human means to be sinful, to be human means to be under the control of the Creator and here we see, additionally, that humanity inevitably implies mortality. In all of these factors the sages are pointing out our extreme limitedness as humans. OT anthropological ‘theory’ points us to the realities that we do not really experience in the here and now (pinnacle of creation, little lower than God, etc.). A Wisdom anthropology confronts us with an image of human experience as 55.  However, Lo argues cogently that the inevitability of death passages in Ecclesiastes actually serve as a spur to enjoy life to the full (‘Death in Qohelet’). The brevity of life and the stark inevitability of death are also frequent points of reflection in Job (e.g. 10:18–22; 14:10–14). Proverbs tends to present death as the consequence of folly (e.g. 5:23), but this sense of the inescapability of death comes through on occasion as well (e.g. 30:7–9). Also, twice in Proverbs we come across the recognition that a person’s honest and best plans can lead to death (14:12; 16:25). Lack of understanding can lead to wrong choices that lead to death. 56.  Michael A Fishbane, ‘Jeremiah 4:23–6 and Job 3:3–13:  A Recovered Use of the Creation Pattern’ , VT 21, no. 2 (1971): 151–67. 57.  This could, of course, be the result of a burgeoning concept of life with God after death in the period in which Job and Ecclesiastes were penned. This, however, remains a point of some debate.

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one which is severely bounded by lack of understanding, moral failing and death. Yet, at the same time, life is a gift to be enjoyed. Is it possible to reconcile these voices?

An Anthropology of Frustration The Wisdom texts point us to a picture of human existence that is different from the theological starting points that are normally cast over the question of the human nature from the perspective of the Hebrew canon. What we see in these books is a presentation of anthropological reality that is, at best, conflicted. Clearly, human life is a gift from God (Job 3)58 and it is something to be enjoyed (carpe diem in Ecclesiastes),59 and yet the sages universally paint an image of life that is difficult to understand and impossible to master. In one sense, this should not surprise us. The imponderability of life has been a theme in literature from the most ancient of times, so the Hebrew Wisdom texts are no different in that sense.60 However, canonical status separates from the rest of the literary corpus, so one might reasonably expect that greater anthropological clarity could be drawn from the Writings than from the meanderings of other works of philosophy. However, the neutral reader would probably question whether such is actually the case. What clarity does Wisdom bring to the question of ‘ultimate’ anthropology? As discussed earlier, human beings are creaturely and, in real and daily terms, we are more frustrated by our limits than we are inspired by our noble origins. So, anthropologically, we may well have been made in the image of the Creator as the pinnacle of the creative process – and this is significant – but, as creatures, we are frustrated by a limited capacity to understand our lot, by a moral corruption that defies our best intentions and by death as the final line in the sand of all human beings. This is the reality of all people bar none. So, the question may well arise, what difference does faith make? If these frustrations are the shared experience of all humanity, do our noble origins make any difference whatsoever to our lived reality? It may be a very modest claim, but the sapiential texts seem to argue that one has little chance of making sense out of life with God, but, at the same time, one has no chance of making sense out of life apart from God. 58. This understanding obviously calibrates quite closely the creational images of life as divine gift that we see in the Genesis 1–3 accounts. 59.  The priority of vocational satisfaction and enjoyment of life’s pleasures also correlate with the idea of the Priestly task and the blessed existence of our primordial parents in Eden, respectively. So, we see that the Wisdom literature does not reject the ‘ultimate contexts’ of anthropological theory, but, equally, it does not tend to focus on these ontological discussions. 60.  From the Babylonian Theodicy’s quest for justice to Aristotle’s pursuit of the good life right through to David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest and the quest for meaning in entertainment.

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There is a sense in which Job’s ontological crisis is resolved in the prologue. His ultimate conundrum is framed by his wife: Then his wife said to him, ‘Do you still hold fast your integrity? Curse God and die.’ (Job 2:9)

Job’s wife encapsulates the essence of his decision. His life is in tatters, his suffering beyond comprehension, so only one question remains: will Job curse God and die or somehow cling to the Creator despite his torment?61 So, as Ticciati argues, Job’s crisis is actually resolved in the prologue: the only question that remains is how is he going to be able to maintain relationship with God in the face of these traumatic events?62 Job does not understand. He laments his losses in forceful terms, accusing God of breach of covenant, but from the very outset, he realizes that life with God – though still imponderable and inexplicably hard – is better than life without God.63 Job’s cognitively limited, but still significant, final realization revolves around the question of design. He, along with every reader of the book, still does not understand why Yhwh has allowed such tragic events to mar his life. Job’s expectation had been to interrogate God (31:35–37) but, instead, he is the one who gets a grilling (Job 38–41). The divine questioning, however, has a singular theme: design and control over that design. Job’s thinly veiled accusation that God has lost control over his life (Job 9–10; 16–17; 19, etc.) is addressed in Yhwh’s cross-examination.64 The Creator challenges Job to control the weather elements and to place the constellations where they are meant to be. Such questions draw Job’s attention to a design and order that is not only beyond his control but also beyond his comprehension. In 42:3, in response to Yhwh’s question in 38:2, Job acknowledges that he has overstepped the mark in one key area: ‘You asked, “Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge?”’ (Job 42:3, NIV [2011])65 61.  Some scholars see this as the main role of Job’s wife – she crystallizes Job’s options, making him aware that there are only two live options. In this way, effectively, she forces Job’s hand and encourages him along the path of seeking resolution with God. See, for example, E. J. van Wolde, Mr and Mrs Job, trans. John Bowden (London: SCM, 1997). 62. ‘In the poem the question of whether Job will bless or curse God in response to affliction (cf. 1:11) is considerably complexified. This simple choice is no longer what is at stake. There is no question of Job’s letting go of God; the question is just how is he to hold on to him?’ (Ticciati, Job and the Disruption of Identity, 56). 63. Grant, ‘When the Friendship of God’ , 348–52. 64.  See Karen Langton, ‘Job’s Attempt to Regain Control: Traces of a Babylonian Birth Incantation in Job 3’ , JSOT 36, no. 4 (2012):  459–69; and Johan de Joode, ‘The Body and Its Boundaries:  The Coherence of Conceptual Metaphors for Job’s Distress and Lack of Control’ , ZAW 126, no. 4 (2014):  554–69, for discussion of control images in Job. On the question of design and order in 42:3, see Andersen, Job, 273–74; and Norman C. Habel, The Book of Job (OTL; Louisville: WJKP, 1985), 536–37. 65. The latest version of the NIV captures the sense of this verse perfectly. The Hebrew wor d u sed is ‫ ֵﬠ ָצה‬, which is traditionally tran slated as ‘counsel’. However, the term is

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Job has complained that Yhwh has lost control over his life or, perhaps, worse that the essence of God’s plan is dark and malevolent. However, in his encounter with Yhwh at the conclusion of the book, Job realizes that the crux of the issue is actually mystery beyond comprehension rather than lack of control or evil intent. God has a plan, even when the experience of it is irresolutely hard to grasp from the human perspective. Job’s personal encounter with God makes it possible for him to accept his anthropological limitations in a way that would have been impossible apart from that relational recalibration of his thinking.66 Qohelet concludes in a similar manner in the epilogue to his book (Eccl. 12:9–14).67 Just as Job finds indications of benevolent design in the mystery of God despite his experiential torment, Qohelet also comes to an unexpectedly orthodox conclusion. Having heard everything, I have reached this conclusion: Fear God and keep his commandments, because this is the whole duty of man. For God will evaluate every deed, including every secret thing, whether good or evil. (Eccl. 12:13–14, NET)

While the NET Bible captures well the idea of the sum total of human responsibility that is encapsulated in the final verses of Ecclesiastes, it misses out one of the texts most poignant plays on words. ‫‘( סוֹף ָדּ ָבר‬the end of the matter’ , 12:13) is, of course, a counterpoint to the familiar Wisdom assertion that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom (Prov. 1:7; 9:10; Ps. 111:10, etc.). Qohelet concludes that fear of God is also the end of the matter.68 To ‘fear God and keep his frequently used to refer to the divine plan and purpose (see, e.g. Mic. 4:12 and Isa. 14:26) and this rendering makes the most sense of the dialogue between Yhwh and Job at the conclusion of the book. See HALOT 7220 and Walton, Job, 399. 66.  ‘Job has “found” the God he sought to “see” (23:9). Thus Job may lack the wisdom which derives from a primordial knowledge of the principle governing Yahweh’s design for the cosmos, but he gains a first-hand knowledge of God through the theophany of the whirlwind. He did not find wisdom but he found God. That experience makes all other claims to knowledge relative. In the last analysis wisdom, as the principle which governs all other structures and principles of the world, is inaccessible to humans, but to heroic mortals like Job, God himself is not. Job sees God and survives!’ (Norman C. Habel, ‘Of Things Beyond Me: Wisdom in the Book of Job’ , CurTM 10, no. 3 [1983]: 154). 67.  Now is not the place to discuss the number of epilogists, nor the details of their hermeneutical stance towards Qohelet. See, for example, the discussions in Gerald T. Sheppard, ‘Epilogue to Qoheleth as Theological Commentary’ , CBQ 39, no. 2 (1977): 182– 9; Andrew G. Shead, ‘Reading Ecclesiastes “Epilogically”’, TynBul 48, no. 1 (1997):  67–91 and Michael V. Fox, ‘Frame-Narrative and Composition in the Book of Qohelet’ , HUCA 48 (1977): 83–106. 68.  Qohelet, of course, uses the fear of God rather than Yhwh, but there seems to be little rhetorical significance to this transition (see R. Norman Whybray, Ecclesiastes [OTG; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989], 77–80).

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commandments’ seems a strange summation of life for the tortured sage who so struggles to find any sense or meaning in life. Yet, the conclusion is not inappropriate when compared with many of Qohelet’s varied deliberations (note, e.g. the other ‘fear God’ passages in the main text, 3:14; 5:7; 8:12–13). Qohelet’s conclusion is similar to Job’s in that the fear of God is relational and the torah language implies design. Job found some sense of resolution in the realization that Yhwh had not turned against him and that he did have a plan for his life, even though the task of discerning its contours was elusive. Similarly, the fear of God language in Ecclesiastes implies the importance of relationship with the Creator because the exhortation is profoundly relational.69 Also the notion of keeping his commandments in the sapiential setting is often a reference to the divine design inscribed in the universe. His commandments are ingrained into the created order, so obedience to the written law implies following that godly cosmic design.70 So, Qohelet joins Job and the author of Proverbs, in also concluding that, while life with God is by no means easy or understandable, it is better than life without God. Life with God offers some hope of ultimate meaning and significance, whereas a life apart from God inevitably lacks any sense of ultimate meaning (Eccl. 8:12–17).

Conclusion So, what conclusions might one draw from a sapiential anthropology? In many ways, it is appropriate to describe an OT wisdom anthropology as an anthropology of frustration. Knowledge of the ultimate realities of human origins does little to alleviate the tensions and traumas of lived human experience. Mystery, as we have seen above, makes the human experience inexplicably arduous. However, the sages would argue that mystery is far better than randomness. Mystery implies that there is a plan, even if it is opaque to our eyes. Randomness means that the brutal vicissitudes of life actually have no meaning. The sapiential tradition is absolutely honest about the difficulty of human finitude. Experientially, mystery can often feel like randomness and the sages – especially in Job and Qohelet – voice that pain forcefully. However, their final reckonings lead the reader to the conclusion that there is a plan and a design, hidden to us, but one that ultimately makes all of these

69. See Deut. 10:12–13 as an epexegetical description of what the fear of the Lord means. ‘Although this phrase has its origin in the experience of God’s numinous majesty (as at Sinai, Deut. 4:9–10), it eventually has come to express the total claim of God upon humans and the total life-response of humans to God’ (Van Leeuwen, ‘Proverbs’ , 33). 70. See, for example, Prov. 8:27–31, which describes the establishment of the cosmos in accordance with the divine decree (‫חקק‬, ‫ )חוק‬using torah language. Similarly, Yhwh’s argument from creation in Job 38–39 is also described using torah synonyms (e.g. ‫ חוק‬in 38:10, or the ‫‘[ ֻחקּוֹת ָשׁ ָמ ִים‬laws of the heavens’] in 38:33). See Daniel G. Ashburn, ‘Creation and Torah in Psalm 19’ , JBQ 22 (1994): 241–8, and Van Leeuwen, ‘Liminality’.

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hardships meaningful. Without design (atheism), there can be no meaning to life. Although the anthropological experience remains painfully difficult and impenetrably complex, design (theism) does bring a profound sense of ultimate meaning to the human experience.

Chapter 3 O N T H E A N T H R O P O L O G Y O F E A R LY J U DA I SM :   S OM E O B SE RVAT IO N S Matthias Henze

In recent decades, Judaism roughly from the time of Alexander the Great (356–323 BCE) to the last Jewish revolt against Rome (132–135 CE), has emerged as an academic field of study in its own right.1 Scholarship on this period has often focused on two interconnected aspects of early Judaism: a number of changes in Judaism, both intellectual and social, and a spike in literary activity that has left us with a wealth of early Jewish writings. Intellectual and social changes were widespread and affected virtually all aspects of religious life. Many of these changes were the result of rigorous debates: about the legitimacy of the Second Temple as the dominant institution in Judaism, the advancement of Hellenistic language and culture, the development of apocalyptic thought, about the failed revolts against Rome, among others. The articulation and defence of the distinct and often contradictory viewpoints expressed in these debates led to the production of a rich corpus of early Jewish writings. Only a few of these texts are preserved in the Hebrew Bible, while most are found outside the Bible.2 Many of these early Jewish texts are closely modelled on the biblical writings, as authors continued to write in the biblical idiom, for example, by adopting the literary genres of the Bible, or by writing 1. Scholarly designations for Judaism during the period of the Second Temple continue to be a matter of debate. Some prefer the term Second Temple Judaism, while others speak more generally of early Judaism. There are several reasons for the debate. One is that some important early Jewish texts, such 4 Ezra, 2 Baruch, and the Apocalypse of Abraham, were written after the year 70 CE, hence our chronological frame from Alexander the Great to Bar Kokhba. On the significance of the year 70 CE, see Daniel R. Schwartz and Zeev Weiss, eds, Was 70 CE a Watershed in Jewish History? On Jews and Judaism Before and After the Destruction of the Second Temple (Leiden: Brill, 2012). 2.  The field of the Second Temple studies is growing rapidly. James C. VanderKam, An Introduction to Early Judaism (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2001); George W.  E. Nickelsburg, Jewish Literature between the Bible and the Mishnah. 2nd ed. (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2005); John J. Collins and Daniel C. Harlow, eds, The Eerdmans Dictionary of Early Judaism (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010).

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under the pseudonym of a biblical figure. There is, in other words, much continuity from biblical to post-biblical literature, both in letter and in spirit.3 The literature of early Judaism cannot be understood apart from the Hebrew Bible. And yet, at the same time, it marks a significant development in the religion of ancient Israel. New literary genres were formed, such as the apocalypse or the testament. And new themes and topics became the subject of intense deliberations that indicate how the foci of religious debates in this period had shifted. As part of a life of service to God, for example, the veneration of the Torah and the stringent observance of the commandments assumed a central role. The piety of the Second Temple was no longer focused on the temple but now included all aspects of the everyday life. The synagogue emerged as a lay institution apart from the temple. Prayers and liturgies developed. And the study of the Torah and the correct interpretation of Scripture became crucially important as identity markers of distinct local communities. In all of this, the fate of the individual became a major concern. Shaye Cohen speaks of ‘the democratization of religion and the sanctification of life outside the temple’ during the Second Temple period.4 Early Jewish thinkers showed a heightened awareness of, and great curiosity about what it means to be human. Armed with a new boldness to explore the human condition in all its facets, these writers reflected on the nature of human life in its tremendous potential, as well as its physical and intellectual limitations, the place of human beings in their natural and social environs, life in the presence of God with all its promises and shortcomings, and death, resurrection, and the afterlife. These reflections do not amount to a systematic anthropology in the modern sense, and we should be wary not to impose modern categories onto ancient texts.5 Still, the time of early Judaism is a period during which Jewish writers pondered new ideas about the essentials of the human existence. Early Jewish literature is a vast terrain, as is, of course, the question of what makes us human. Here we can only offer some most preliminary observations by focusing on five specific themes: Adam and Eve, creation and birth, epistemology and the knowledge of God, death, and resurrection and the afterlife with the angels.6 3.  A debate has recently emerged about the centrality of the Hebrew Bible, both in ancient Judaism and in the modern study of ancient Judaism, with some scholars questioning the dominance of the Bible. For example, Eva Mroczek, “The Hegemony of the Biblical in the Study of Second Temple Literature,” JAJ 6 (2015):  2–35, and Eva Mroczek, The Literary Imagination in Jewish Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015). 4.  Shaye J.  D. Cohen, From the Maccabees to the Mishnah. 2nd ed. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2006), 66. 5.  Biblical scholars have lately shown renewed interest in anthropology. For example, Michael Labahn and Outi Lehtipuu, eds, Anthropology in the New Testament and Its Ancient Context: Papers from the EABS-Meeting in Piliscaba/Budapest (CBET 54; Leuven:  Peeters, 2010); Clare K. Rothschild and Trevor W. Thompson, eds, Christian Body, Christian Self: Concepts of Early Christian Personhood (WUNT 284; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). 6.  The choice of topics is necessarily exemplary rather than inclusive. It is, however, informed by two classic studies. In his Theology of the New Testament, Rudolf Bultmann

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Two preliminary remarks are in order before we turn to the texts. First, early Jewish literature is characterized above all by its diversity of thought and expression. It should come as no surprise to find conflicting, even mutually contradictory statements on a variety of issues. After all, many of these texts were written precisely to express a distinct point of view. There is no coherent, widely shared anthropology in Second Temple Judaism. And second, the purpose of the following reflections on the early Jewish writings cannot be to describe the Jewish ‘background’ of the New Testament, even though this essay is intended to serve as an introduction to a set of studies on the anthropology of the New Testament. A  century ago, this was the primary rationale for the scholarly study of Jewish texts. Knowledge of the Jewish literature from the turn of the Common Era is indispensable for our understanding of Christian beginnings. However, it is imperative that we overcome the erstwhile dominant perspective of finding the Jewish texts relevant only to the extent that they can shed light on Christianity. Instead, we need to pursue what has recently been called a ‘wechselseitige Wahrnehmung’ , or ‘interpretive reciprocity’ , of the two groups of texts, early Jewish and early Christian literature.7 Rather than thinking of the study of Second Temple Judaism as auxiliary or preliminary, a somehow onerous, albeit useful preparatory exercise before we get to the ‘real’ literature that is the New Testament, the early Christian writings should be viewed as part of, and studied together with the Jewish texts here discussed, not apart from them.8

discusses what he calls ‘anthropological concepts’ in the context of the theology of Paul. He follows the following structure: §17 ‘Soma’ (Body); §18 Psyche, Pneuma, and Zoe; §19 Mind and Conscience; and §20 Heart. Then, in the next section, he goes on to address §21 Creation and Man; §22 The Term ‘Flesh’ (Sarx); §23 Flesh and Sin; §24 Sin and Death; §25 The Universality of Sin; §26 The Term ‘World’ (Cosmos); and §27 The Law. See Rudolf Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament (New  York:  Scribner, 1951 [first German edition, 1948–53]). Writing in 1973, Hans Walter Wolff structures his Anthropology of the Old Testament, trans. Margaret Kohl (Philadelphia, PA:  Fortress, 1974) in three parts:  The Being of Man, under which he discusses various anthropological terms for the body and soul; The Time of Man, which covers the concept of time, birth, sickness and death; and The World of Man, which focuses on the social environment of human beings. 7. The phrase has been used in a series of conferences that are part of the project Corpus Judaeo-Hellenisticum Novi Testamenti (CJHNT). Matthias Konradt and Esther Schläpfer, eds, Anthropologie und Ethik im Frühjudentum und im Neuen Testament:  Wechselseitige Wahrnehmungen (WUNT 322; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2014); Roland Deines, Jens Herzer and Karl-Wilhelm Niebuhr, eds, Neues Testament und hellenistischjüdische Alltagskultur:  Wechselseitige Wahrnehmungen (WUNT 274; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2011). 8. Matthias Henze, Mind the Gap: How the Jewish Writings between the Old and the New Testament Help Us Understand Jesus (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2017).

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Adam and Eve As literary figures in the Hebrew Bible who mark the beginning of human life, Adam and Eve remain somewhat sketchy and undeveloped. They figure prominently in the creation accounts in Genesis 1–3, where their story serves as an etiology for human travails (Gen. 3:16–19), but they are never mentioned again in the Hebrew Bible. By contrast, early Jewish thinkers showed great interest in them.9 The pseudepigraphic writings about Adam and Eve, of which there were several in antiquity, are unfortunately lost, but there are a number of references to the first humans in early Jewish texts.10 The Life of Adam and Eve, a text from a later period, was very popular in the Christian West. It gives a fanciful account of the lives of the first couple and their ultimate expulsion from Paradise.11 From an anthropological perspective, there are two interpretive traditions about Adam and Eve in early Judaism worth mentioning. The first, which is found in two Jewish apocalypses from the late first century CE, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch, holds that it was Adam’s transgression of the divine command not to eat from the tree that introduced sin and mortality to all of humankind. The belief that Adam’s sin is the cause of human sin, and that it was Adam who brought mortality to all, is perhaps best known from the Apostle Paul (Rom. 5:12–17; 1 Cor. 15:20–22, 42–49). Taking his cue from Paul, St. Augustine of Hippo developed the Christian doctrine of ‘original sin’ , which he based on Paul’s reading of Genesis 3. In ancient Jewish literature, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch’s use of Adam is the exception rather than the rule, though they may reflect the same tradition as found in Paul. Human mortality is the direct consequence of Adam’s sin. ‘And you laid upon him one commandment of yours; but he transgressed it, and immediately you appointed death for him and for his descendants’ (4 Ezra 3:7).12 Israel is unable

9.  The notable exception is the Qumran library, from which Adam and Eve texts are largely absent. There the origin of evil is traced to the story of the fallen angels in Gen. 6:1–4 and developed further in the Book of the Watchers in 1 Enoch 1–36. Gabriele Boccaccini and John J. Collins, eds, The Early Enoch Literature (JSJSup 121; Leiden: Brill, 2007). 10.  Jub. 2:1–3:29; Wis. 7:1–6; 9:1–3; 10:1–3; Sir. 17:1–10; 24:28; 49:16; LAB 13:8–9; and several passages in Philo, including in De Virtutibus, De Opificio Mundi, and Legum Allegoriae. John R. Levison, Portraits of Adam in Early Judaism (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1988), 129–44; John R. Levison, ‘Adam and Eve’ , in The Eerdmans Dictionary of Early Judaism, ed. Collins and Harlow, 300–02; Michael Stone, A History of the Literature of Adam and Eve (SBLEJL 3; Atlanta, GA:  Scholars Press, 1992); and Michael Stone, Ancient Judaism: New Visions and Views (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2001), 52–58. 11.  Marinus de Jonge and Johannes Tromp, The Life of Adam and Eve and Related Literature (Sheffield:  Academic Press, 1997); Michael E. Stone, Gary A. Anderson and Johannes Tromp, eds, Literature on Adam and Eve: Collected Essays (Leiden: Brill, 2000). 12.  Michael E. Stone, Fourth Ezra (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress, 1990), 63– 67; Michael E. Stone and Matthias Henze, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch: Translations, Introductions, and Notes (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2013); see also Gk. Apoc. Ezra 2:9–17.

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to obey the Torah because Adam was ‘burdened with an evil heart’; the ‘disease’ became permanent, and ‘the law was in the hearts of the people along with the evil root’ (4 Ezra 3:21–22). Fourth Ezra does not explicitly address the vexing problem of the origin of evil, but there is no doubt that it was Adam whose transgression led to the sins of all his descendants. In despair, Ezra exclaims, ‘O Adam, what have you done? For though it was you who sinned, the fall was not yours alone, but ours also who are your descendants’ (4 Ezra 7:118). The author of 2 Baruch shares the same beliefs (2 Bar. 48:42–47; 54:15–22; 56:5–7) but recognizes the potential problems with this reading of Genesis. By laying the blame exclusively on Adam, an individual might feel exonerated from any sin and even feel encouraged to sin. To make sure the believers are still held accountable for their deeds, 2 Baruch stresses that each individual shapes his or her own fate, ‘Adam is therefore not the cause, except only for himself, but each of us has become our own Adam’ (2 Bar. 54:19). The same sentiment was already expressed by Ben Sira, a sapiential teacher writing in the second century BCE, though without the explicit reference to Adam. ‘It was he who created humankind in the beginning, and he left them in the power of their own free choice’ (Sir. 15:14). The other interpretative tradition worth mentioning concerns the status of Adam (and Eve) before the fall and its eschatological implications. A  number of early Jewish and Christian texts stress that when Adam was created, he was endowed with an angelic glory.13 The tradition is especially pronounced at Qumran. Crispin Fletcher-Louis speaks of the ‘divine anthropology in the Dead Sea Scrolls’.14 The Damascus Document identifies the members of the Qumran Community as the true Israel, who are given a special promise. ‘Those who remained steadfast in [the covenant] will acquire eternal life, and all the glory of Adam is for them’ (CD 3:20).15 The Rule of the Community describes how, at the end of time, God will cleanse the righteous with the spirit of holiness and will instruct them with the knowledge of the Most High. ‘For those God has chosen for an everlasting covenant and to them shall belong all the glory of Adam’ (1QS 4:22–23). And the Hymn Scroll, or Hodayot, also speaks of the rewards God holds for those who serve him loyally. ‘You have raised an [eternal] name . . . giving them as a legacy all the glory of Adam [and] abundance of days’ (1QHa 4:14–15; cf. 1QHa

13.  Apoc. Abr. 23:5; LAE 4:1–2; 27:1; 3 Bar. 4:16; 2 En. 30:13; Sib. Or. 3:27. Gary A. Anderson, The Genesis of Perfection:  Adam and Eve in Jewish and Christian Imagination (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001); and Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam: Liturgical Anthropology in the Dead Sea Scrolls (STDJ 42; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 91– 97. According to a wisdom text from Qumran known as 4QInstruction, God gave Adam ‘the vision of meditation of the book of remembrance’ because God made him ‘according to the likeness of the holy ones’ (4Q417 1 16–17); Matthew J. Goff, 4QInstruction (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2013), 165–8. 14. Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam, 92. 15. Cf. 4QDibHam (4Q504) 8 4-6; 4QpPsa (4Q171) 3:1–2.

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4:27). These texts have in common that they describe Adam’s elevated status before the fall. Adam was endowed with divine glory, presumably because he was created in God’s glory (Gen. 1:26).16 This original status was lost with the transgression of the commandment, in which all those who are born of Adam are implicated. At the end of time, however, God will restore the chosen to the status originally intended for all of humankind.17

Creation and Birth The accounts in Genesis 1–3 have preserved contrasting views of the creation and birth of the first human couple. According to the Priestly account in Gen. 1:26–27, God made the male and female together in the final and climactic act of creation on the sixth day.18 Nothing is said about the matter from which they are made or the act of creation itself. Instead, the emphasis is on their elevated status: humans alone are made in the image of God, a powerful statement with significant ramifications for later Jewish and Christian views of human life. Similarly, according to Ps. 8:5, God the Creator has endowed human beings with extraordinary qualities: they are almost like God. ‘Yet you have made them a little lower than God, and crowned them with glory and honor.’ Genesis 1:26–27 underscores that humans are created in God’s image. The psalmist, too, likens humans to God, but does so in terms of their status – they are ‘a little lower’. At the same time, all humans are crowned with ‘honor and glory’ , attributes typically associated with God. By contrast, in Gen. 2:7, 22–23, the second creation account, Adam is first created from the dust of the ground, and Eve is later fashioned from his rib.19 A different understanding of creation and birth is found in Psalm 139. In the intimate anthropological reflection in Ps. 139:13–18 the psalmist professes that it is impossible to flee from God, as God is everywhere. The passage is a collage of images about the creation of human beings. God is active in an underground workshop (v. 15), building and weaving each individual human being before he is placed in his mother’s womb. ‘My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes beheld 16.  A similar connection between the original incorruptibility of humankind and having been created in the image of God is found in Wis. 2:23, ‘for God created us for incorruption, and made us in the image of his own eternity’. 17.  In Rom. 8:18–25, Paul writes of a similar eschatological outlook that is largely restorative, ‘I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us’ (Rom. 8:18). 18. Cf. Jub. 2:14; Wis 9:1; Sib. Or. 1:22–37; 1QS 3:17–18; 2 En. 30:8–18. 19.  Jub. 3:4–7; 4 Ezra 3:5; 6:54; 2 Bar. 48:46. Genesis 2 is often compared with the Babylonian creation myth Enuma Elish, in which humans are created from the blood of the rebellious god Kingu, and the Gilgamesh Epic, in which the goddess Aruru forms Enkidu out of a pinch of clay (I:101–04); Nahum M. Sarna, Understanding Genesis: The Heritage of Biblical Israel (New York: Schocken Books, 1970), 14–16.

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my unformed substance. In your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed’ (Ps. 139:15–16; cf. Prov. 8:22–31). God is a weaver (Job 10:11), who knows the individual long before birth (Ps. 22:10; Jer. 1:5). The reference to a heavenly book in which are recorded all the days of a human’s life suggests that God is sovereign not only over human life before birth but also over human time, which is not like God’s time (Pss. 90:4; 102:26–27).20 Early Jewish writers continued to reflect on human life as part of God’s creation. The author of 2 Baruch stresses that we have no say over the timing of our birth or of our death. ‘For we did not say to our parents, “Beget us!,” nor did we send to Sheol, saying: “Receive us!”’ (2 Bar. 48:16). Life is exclusively under God’s control. Wisdom 7:1–6 confirms that the same applies to all humans, including royalty. ‘For no king has had a different beginning of existence; there is for all one entrance into life, and one way out’ (Wis. 7:5–6). Ben Sira places a creation hymn (Sir. 42:15–43:33) immediately before his majestic Hymn of Our Ancestors in Sir. 44:1–50:24, the grand glorification of Israel’s heroes of old. This compositional structure, in which the account of Israel’s finest ancestors follows on the heels of an elaborate hymn of creation, suggests that creation and human history are linked. Two aspects about human creation and birth are stressed repeatedly in early Jewish writings. One is that the creation of human life, and therefore human life itself, needs to be understood within the context of the creation of the universe. Not only are humans dependent on their environment, the realization that humankind is but a part of the natural universe comes with an ethical imperative. God has created the universe, assigned boundaries to everything in the natural world and has provided an eternal order that the natural elements do not ever transgress. Likewise, humans are to acknowledge that they, too, are but creatures of God and therefore are not to transgress the commandments given to them.21 The second aspect of human creation stressed in these writings points in the opposite direction. Whereas the acknowledgement that humans are part of the universe is predicated on the notion that the order of nature is eternal and unchanging, at the same time these texts recognize the fleeting and ephemeral nature of human life. A number of biblical voices emphasize that humans are created from the dust, and that they will return to the dust. The locus classicus is Gen. 3:19, the final phrase in God’s response to Adam’s transgression, ‘you are dust, and to dust you shall return’.22 Early Jewish thinkers adopted this basic truism of human life and developed it further.23 At the end of the Community Rule from Qumran, for example, the poet author, probably the instructor, or maskil, concludes with an 20.  Frank Lothar Hossfeld and Eric Zenger, Psalms 3 (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2011), 542. 21. Variations of this theme are found in 1 En. 2:1–5:4; Sir. 16:24–30; 17:1–24; 1QS 3:154:26; 1QHa 20:4–11; T. Naph. 3:2–4:1; Ps. Sol. 18:10–12; 1Q34 bis 3 2:1–4; 4 Ezra 4:13– 19; 6:38–54. Stone, Fourth Ezra, 102–5; George W. E. Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch 1 (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2001), 152–5. 22. Also Job 10:9; 34:15; Pss. 90:3; 103:14; Qoh. 3:20; 12:7. 23. Wis. 2:3; 2 Bar. 42:8; 48:46; 4 Ezra 3:4; 7:32, 62–63; 8:2; 13:11; ’Abot 3:1.

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extended prayer in which he marvels at his own humanity. Nothing can oppose God, not least human beings, as they are merely shaped from dust. The rhetorical questions he uses are reminiscent of Psalm 8. ‘What, indeed, is the son of man, among all your marvellous deeds? As what shall one born of woman be considered in your presence? Shaped from dust has he been, maggots’ food shall be his dwelling; he is spit saliva, moulded clay, and for dust is his longing. What will the clay reply and the one shaped by hand?’ (1QS 11:20–22). Similar language is found in the Hodayot. In 1QHa 20, the author, who, like in the Community Rule introduces himself as the maskil (line 11), praises God for having enlightened him with knowledge.24 And yet, he bemoans his inability to fully comprehend, for which he blames the fact that he is made of dust and ashes. And I, from dust [I] have been gathered, [and from clay] I  have been [fo] rmed to be a source of impurity, and of vile filth, a pile of dust, mixed with [water, . . . ] a lodging of darkness. The creature of clay must return to the dust at the time of . . . [  . . . ] in the dust, to the place from which he has been taken. What will dust and ash[es] reply? [  . . . How] can it understand his [wo]rks? (1QHa 20:24–28)25

Both passages in the Community Rule and in the Hodayot stress the finite nature of human life. Humans are ‘a pile of dust’ , and at the end of their lives they must ‘return to the dust’. The poet’s language of self-deprecation in the Hodayot is particularly striking. But there is something else both passages from Qumran share. The greatest impediment that results from the fact that humans are made from dust is not any physical limitation they experience in life or the brevity of their life on earth, but their inability to gain complete knowledge of the ways of God, a major concern for early Jewish thinkers.

Epistemology: The Knowledge of God and the Limitations of Human Understanding Job already bewailed the elusive nature of wisdom and the inability of humans to gain complete understanding of the way the universe works. In his famous wisdom poem, Job acknowledges the innate failure of humans to grasp the ways of God (Job 28). And he leaves no doubt how deeply aware he is of his own limitations and shortcomings, especially when confronted with the transcendent nature of God’s wisdom.26

24. Carol A. Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space: Constructing Identity and Community at Qumran (STDJ 52; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 198–204. 25. Cf. 1QHa 5:19–22; 9:21–23; Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space, 219–20. 26. Carol A. Newsom, The Book of Job: A Contest of Moral Imaginations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 169–82.

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But where shall wisdom be found? And where is the place of understanding? Mortals do not know the way to it, And it is not found in the land of the living. (Job 28:12–13)27 The painful realization that the believer is not able to understand God’s ways is a recurring theme in early Jewish literature. It points to one of the most fundamental aspects of human life before God. For the maskil of the Community Rule and the Hodayot, to recognize that he cannot fully understand God, even though God has enlightened him with knowledge, is to recognize his own mortality, to come to terms with the fact that he is made of dust and ashes. The awareness of one’s own cognitive limitations – the clash, as it were, between divine wisdom, which is transcendent and infinite, and human wisdom, which is immanent and finite – is played out in various ways in early Jewish writings. According to a trajectory associated with the wisdom tradition, the gap between divine and human wisdom was overcome when divine wisdom, personified as a woman (Prov. 8:22–31), descended to earth, and came to be identified with Torah. The claim that wisdom and Torah became one makes wisdom attainable through the proper means of study and contemplation.28 Early Christian writers inherited this wisdom tradition and applied it to Jesus.29 To point out that human knowledge is incomplete is a mere truism. What makes it relevant is the context in which this is stated. In Jewish wisdom literature the insufficiency of human understanding is often contrasted with the all-knowing God, the origin of all knowledge, who bestows understanding on the believer. Ben Sira explicitly warns against any attempt to understand that which lies beyond one’s ability (Sir. 3:21–22; 16:19–23). The teacher sage in 4QInstruction has no such qualms. He admonishes his student that all knowledge, understanding and truth stem from God. And then you will know the difference between [go]od and [evil according to their] deeds, [f]or the God of Knowledge is a foundation of truth. With the mystery that is to be [raz nihyeh] he spread out its foundation and indeed m[ade (it) with wis]dom and, regarding everything, [with cleve]rness he fashioned it. (4Q417 1 i 8–9)

The divine epithet ‘God of Knowledge’ , which is here used together with another designation, ‘foundation of truth’ (cf. 4Q418a 12 2; 1QHa 19:26), implies that God has complete knowledge of the past and of the future. A similar statement is found in the Rule of the Community, ‘From the God of Knowledge stems 27. Cf. Job 9:11–12; Isa. 40:13. 28. Sir. 1:4, 9–10; 24:9, 23–29; Bar. 3:29-4:4; Wis. 7:22–9:18; 1 Enoch 42. 29.  1 Cor. 1:24; Col. 1:15–16; and especially Jn 1:1–18. On John’s prologue, Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 89–111.

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all that is and will be. Before they existed he established their entire design’ (1QS 3:15).30 In order to acquire wisdom, one has to meditate on this mystery and to study it constantly (4Q417 1 i 6).31 The poet of the Hodayot proclaims that he is nothing and that he has nothing to say, unless God puts the words into his mouth. ‘What can I say unless you open my mouth? How can I  understand unless you teach me? What can I  pro[pose] if you do not open my heart?’ (1QHa 20:32–34). Equipped with knowledge that comes from divine revelation, the poet will now proclaim God’s glory and recount God’s wonders (1QHa 18:20–22; 19:9–10). God has disclosed the divine mysteries to him. But this has also gotten the poet into trouble with his opponents, ‘the assembly of the wicked’ (1QHa 10:12), who are plotting to kill him. While God has made him a teacher by giving him the ability ‘to open the source of knowledge for all those who understand’ (1QHa 10:18), his opponents are a people who lack understanding and who have distorted the word of God.32 The loss of the Jerusalem temple in the year 70 CE provided an altogether different context in which the human inability to understand God’s plans was painfully emphasized. Ezra is quite explicit about this right at the beginning of 4 Ezra: Israel’s enemies are flourishing, while Zion is destroyed, and God has not revealed to anyone ‘how [God’s] way may be comprehended’ (4 Ezra 3:31).33 In the wisdom texts discussed earlier, the main problem lies with human nature and the human inability to receive and absorb complete knowledge from God. The same holds true for 4 Ezra (4:11). But Ezra also blames God, who has failed to disclose ‘the way’ of the Most High to the seer. Clearly frustrated about being kept in the dark, Ezra repeatedly requests such knowledge.34 In the end, the ‘answer’ for Ezra comes in the form of a sequence of apocalyptic visions about the final days.35 Similarly, Baruch wants to know how the fall of Jerusalem fits in with God’s overall intention for Israel. Like Ezra, Baruch remarks that no human can understand God’s way, and that God’s will remains obscure (2 Bar. 14:8–9). God is unimpressed and points to the Torah as the source of all knowledge. Everything has been revealed in the Torah, and Israel will therefore fully be held accountable. It is right that man would not understand my judgment, had he not received the Torah and had I not instructed him in understanding. Now, however, since he

30. 1QHa 20:13–14; 4Q402 4 12-13; 4Q417 1 i 8; 4Q418 55 5-6; Goff, 4QInstruction, 149–50. 31.  Knowledge of God’s mysteries is a recurring theme in the Hodayot, for example, in 1QHa 5:3; 9:11, 19; 18:3. 32. See Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space, 232–40, on 1QHa 10:20–30. 33. 2 Bar. 14:8 (note the parallelism between “judgment” and “way”); 20:4 (God promises Baruch to reveal to him God’s “inscrutable ways”); and 44:6. 34. 4 Ezra 4:2–3, 11, 23; 5:34, 38; etc. Stone, Fourth Ezra, 76. 35.  Karina Martin Hogan, Theologies in Conflict in 4 Ezra:  Wisdom Debate and Apocalyptic Solution (Leiden:  Brill, 2008), 227–31, argues that the book’s solution to the unanswered questions in the dialogues are the apocalyptic visions.

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transgressed knowingly, therefore he will also be tormented knowingly. (2 Bar. 15:5–6)36

Epistemology is a concern across early Jewish literature. The context in which it is brought up can tell us a great deal about the authors and what prompted them to write their texts in the first place.

Death The frailty of the human frame, life’s temporal nature, and human mortality are frequently addressed in the wisdom books of the Hebrew Bible. God is the Author of all life. Thus declares Job, ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I  return there; the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord’ (Job 1:21; cf. Gen. 3:19). The book of Qoheleth, probably written during the Hellenistic period, offers a sustained meditation on the meaning of life and death. For Qoheleth, death is the great equalizer that does not distinguish between the wise and the fool (Qoh. 2:14). Death remains a constant threat that eliminates all social and moral distinctions, even between humans and animals (Qoh. 3:19–21; 9:1–3; cf. Ps. 49:20). The latter may possibly be seen as a critique levelled at Qoheleth’s contemporaries, who hoped for an afterlife. The book closes with a poetic reflection on the end of life, a grim allegory of death that culminates in Qoheleth’s motto, ‘Vanity of vanities’ (12:1–8).37 We find similar reflections on death in later wisdom texts. Ben Sira initially seems to echo the words of Qoheleth, ‘O death, how bitter is the thought of you to the one at peace among possessions.’38 But then he goes on to strike a more conciliatory note, ‘Do not fear death’s decree for you; remember those who went before you and those who will come after you . . . This is the Lord’s decree for all flesh; why then should you reject the will of the Most High?’ (Sir. 41:1, 3–4; cf. 5:6–7; 40:2). Ben Sira differs from Qoheleth in that the inevitability of death does not force him into passivity but becomes a source of motivation to do good. The sage admonishes his readers to practice kindness towards their friends before they die (Sir. 14:12–19; cf. 7:36; 10:9).39 Similarly, the sage in 4QSapiential Work from 36. Cf. 4 Ezra 7:64, 72; 8:56–58. 37.  Michael V. Fox, A Time to Tear Down and a Time to Build Up:  A Rereading of Ecclesiastes (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1999), 347–49. A poetic reflection on the end of the life of the cosmos is found at the end of 2 Baruch (85:10–11, ‘For the youth of the world has passed, the strength of creation is already consumed  . . . The pitcher is near to the cistern, the boat to the harbour, the journey of the road to the city’). Baruch uses some of Qoheleth’s allegories, which may suggest knowledge of the biblical book. 38. James L. Kugel, ‘Qohelet and Money’ , CBQ 51 (1989): 374–99. 39. Shannon Burkes, God, Self, and Death: The Shape of Religious Transformation in the Second Temple Period (JSJSup 79; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 109–17; Matthew J. Goff, Discerning

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Qumran compares the lives of humans to the grass that withers and is scattered by the wind (4Q185 1–2 i 10–11; cf. Ps. 92:7–9). The path to a prosperous and long life can only be found in divine instruction, ‘Listen to me, my sons, and do not defy the words of the Lord’ (4Q185 1–2 ii 3).40 Apart from these wisdom texts, there is another tradition in early Jewish literature associated with death that has its origins in the Hebrew Bible, the oral testament and death of the patriarch. As their deaths approach, Jacob (Gen. 49:1–28) and Moses (Deut. 33:1–29) summon their offspring to bless them and give them some final instructions. In early Judaism, these type-scenes developed into a distinct literary genre, the testament. The most prominent examples are the Testament of Moses, the Testament of Abraham, the Testament of Job, and the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs.41 The testament typically has a narrative introduction, in which the testator gathers his family members, followed by his instructions, and ending with the speaker’s death. Some of the testaments include reflections on death itself. The Testament of Gad, for example, contrasts hatred and love: ‘For among all men the spirit of hatred works by Satan through human frailty for the death of humankind’ (T. Gad. 4:7; cf. T. Job 4:3–4). The Testament of Asher includes some advice for the righteous: ‘righteous actions [lead] to life, unjust actions to death, since eternal life wards off death’ (T. Ash. 5:2). The most sustained treatment of death is found in the Testament of Abraham, which relates the circumstances of Abraham’s death. Dale Allison writes, ‘The central issue in the Testament of Abraham is death, the focus on Abraham being ultimately incidental.’42 Abraham lives in denial of death and refuses to cooperate with Michael, whom God has sent to Abraham. In chs. 16–20, God finally dispatches death, who tricks Abraham into giving up his soul.43 The book ends with a moral exhortation: ‘let us also, my beloved brothers, emulate the hospitality of the patriarch Abraham, and let us acquire his virtuous conduct, so that we might be found worthy of eternal life’ (T. Abr. 20:15).44 No book in the Hebrew Bible includes more reflections on what it means to be human than the Psalter, as it is in the Psalms that worshippers pour out their lives before God and provide an honest and untainted portrayal of their condition. Human life is perishable, a mere breath (Pss. 17:14; 39:11; 49:12; 89:47–48). Death

Wisdom: The Sapiential Literature of the Dead Sea Scrolls (VTSup 116; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 128–30. 40.  Pss. 1:4–5; 37:20 (cited in 4Q171 iii 7–8); 129:5–6; 1 En. 48:9; Wis. 1:12–16; 4:20– 5:14; 4 Ezra 4:24; 7:61; 2 Bar. 14:10–11; 82:3–9; Jas 1:9–10; 5:1–6. 41.  John J. Collins, ‘Testaments’ , in Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period, ed. Michael E. Stone (CRINT; Assen: Van Gorcum; Philadelphia, PA: Fortress, 1984), 325–56; Robert A. Kugler, ‘Testaments’ , in The Eerdmans Dictionary of Early Judaism, ed. Collins and Harlow, 1295–97. See also Isaac’s blessing for Jacob in Gen. 27:27–29 and Jub. 26:34. 42.  Dale C. Allison Jr., ‘Abraham, Testament of ’ , in The Eerdmans Dictionary of Early Judaism, ed. Collins and Harlow, 300. 43. See also T. Abr. 1:3–7; 8:9–12; 10:14. 44. Dale C. Allison Jr., Testament of Abraham (CEJL; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), 381–412.

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is ever present. It is part of creation, indiscriminate, finite and unalterable (Pss. 88:10–12; 115:17). And yet, the psalmist stops short of voicing any hope for a life after death. The dead descend to Sheol, which is synonymous with the pit, the dust or Abaddon (Pss. 16:10; 88:5–6; 94:17; 115:17; 143:3; cf. Job 17:16), that dreary, distant and dark underworld to which one descends, where one is cut off from God, and from which there is no return.45 But, most strikingly, the psalmist never speculates about what happens after death. This changes in early Jewish writings, where resurrection and afterlife become major concerns.

Resurrection and the Afterlife with the Angels Resurrection language appears for the first time in the Hebrew Bible in the exilic writings of the prophets. There resurrection is used as a metaphor for the restoration of Israel as a nation. Isaiah 24–27, sometimes called the Apocalypse of Isaiah, gives hope to the Israelites. Israel’s enemies are now dead and they will not come back to life (Isa. 26:14). Israel as a nation, however, will live again. ‘Your dead shall live, their corpses shall rise’ (Isa. 26:19). Similarly, Ezekiel’s vision of the valley of dry bones in 37:1–14 employs language of bodily resurrection as a metaphor for Israel’s restoration from the Babylonian Exile. The dry bones that live again are ‘the whole house of Israel’ (Ezek. 37:11).46 The first and only unambiguous expression in the Hebrew Bible of the hope in the physical resurrection of the dead is found in Dan. 12:1–3, a text written during the persecution of the Jews under Antiochus IV Epiphanes (167–164 BCE).47 Here, as in many other early Jewish texts, resurrection is a reward, God’s vindication of the suffering and persecuted. Resurrection is tied to God’s final judgment.48 Daniel writes of a double resurrection. Those who have resisted Antiochus will be rewarded with life everlasting, while the sinners will be condemned. Daniel singles 45.  Jon D. Levenson, Resurrection and the Restoration of Israel: The Ultimate Victory of the God of Life (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006), ‘Up from Sheol’ , 35–66. The exceptions are Ps. 49:15, ‘But God will ransom my soul from the power of Sheol, for he will receive me’; and Ps. 139:8, ‘If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make by bed in Sheol, you are there’ (cf. Amos 9:2; Job 26:6). 46. John J. Collins, ‘The Afterlife in Apocalyptic Literature’ , in Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part Four. Death, Life-After-Death, Resurrection and the World-to-Come in the Judaisms of Late Antiquity, ed. Alan J. Avery-Peck and Jacob Neusner (Handbuch der Orientalistik 49; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 119–39. 47.  George W.  E. Nickelsburg, Resurrection, Immortality, and Eternal Life in Intertestamental Judaism and Early Christianity. Expanded ed. (HTS 56; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2006), 23–42; Nickelsburg cites as related texts Testament of Moses 10; Jub. 23:27–41; and Testament of Judah 25. See also John J. Collins, Daniel (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1993), 390–98; and Levenson, Resurrection, 181–200. 48. Also T. Jud. 25:4, ‘And those who died in sorrow shall be raised in joy; and those who died in poverty for the Lord’s sake shall be made rich.’

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out the ‘wise’ , those who have instructed the faithful to endure and have lost their lives in the process. Many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, and some to shame and everlasting contempt. Those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the sky, and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever. (Dan. 12:2–3)

Daniel’s apocalyptic outlook, with its concrete hope for the physical resurrection of the individual, is exceptional within the biblical canon, but Daniel is not unique among early Jewish texts. Another apocalypse, 1 Enoch, provides more context. In ch. 22, which is part of the Book of the Watchers, Enoch learns about the post-mortem fate of the sinners. The seer visits the mountain of the dead, where the spirits of the sinners are segregated into groups and wait until the day of judgement; some will be raised to everlasting destruction, while others will never be raised at all. In ch. 27 Enoch is shown the very place where the judgement will happen. It is likely that these Enochic texts pre-date the book of Daniel and may have influenced it.49 The resurrection motif appears again in the Enochic Book of Parables. Chapter 51 gives a brief account of the resurrection and the blissful life of the righteous after the day of judgement. ‘In those days, the earth will restore what has been entrusted to it, and Sheol will restore what it has received, and destruction will restore what it owes’ (1 En. 51:1; cf. 91:10).50 The book of Jubilees, from the middle of the second century BCE., includes a brief apocalypse in ch. 23. Not unlike the promise to the wise in Dan. 12:3, it says of the righteous that ‘their bones shall rest in the earth and their spirits will have much joy’ (Jub. 23:31). The hope for the bodily resurrection of the dead as a reward for the persecuted righteous plays a major role in 2 Maccabees 7, the story of the martyrdom of the mother and her seven sons. The sons accept death willingly, confident that they will be resurrected because of their obedience to the Torah. ‘The King of the universe will raise us up to an everlasting renewal of life, because we have died for his laws’ (2 Macc. 7:9).51 According to a later version of the same story in 4 Maccabees, their reward is not the resurrection of their bodies but ‘immortality in endless life’ (4 Macc. 17:12). They will also be ‘gathered together into the chorus of the fathers, and have received pure and immortal souls from God’ (4 Macc. 18:23).

49. Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch 1, ad loc. 50.  The resurrection tradition behind 1 En. 51:1 is found in several other texts, among them Rev. 20:13; 2 Bar. 21:23; 42:8; 50:2; 4 Ezra 4:41–43; 7:32; LAB 3:10; 33:3; Apoc. Pet. 4:3–4, 10–12; et al. See Richard J. Bauckham, ‘Resurrection as Giving Back the Dead’ , in The Fate of the Dead: Studies on the Jewish and Christian Apocalypses, ed. Richard J. Bauckham (NovTSup 93; Leiden:  Brill, 1998), 271–75; and George W.  E. Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch 2 (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2012), 183–85. 51. Daniel R. Schwartz, 2 Maccabees (CEJL; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008), 303–05.

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A number of early Jewish authors reach beyond the moment of resurrection itself and go on to express their hope for a life of the resurrected among the angels. The Epistle of Enoch (1 Enoch 92–105), for example, encourages the righteous in language that closely resembles Dan. 12:3 and promises them a life with the angels. ‘Be hopeful, and do not abandon your hope, for you will have great joy as the angels of heaven’ (1 En. 104:4).52 The hope for the life among the angels is also expressed in a number of texts from Qumran. The line between this world and the world to come is often blurred.53 The members of the Qumran community believed that they were already living in the fellowship of angels. ‘[God] unites their assembly to the sons of heaven in order [to form] the council of the community and a foundation of the building to be an everlasting plantation throughout all future ages’ (1QS 11:8). At the same time, the sectarians were promised a blessed afterlife, as in the Treatise of the Two Spirits:  ‘These are the foundations of the spirit of the sons of truth [in] the world. And the reward of all those who walk in it will be healing, plentiful peace in a long life, fruitful offspring with all everlasting blessings, eternal enjoyment with endless life, and a crown of glory with majestic raiment in eternal light’ (1QS 6:6–7). Communion with the angels is a prominent motif in Hodayot. The psalmist thanks God for having saved him from the pit and having lifted him up to an everlasting height. The depraved spirit you have purified from great offence so that he can take a place with the host of holy ones, and can enter in communion with the congregation of the sons of heaven. (1QHa 11:20–22)

In the next psalm, the poet speaks confidently about those who have heeded his advice. They, too, will walk among the angels. ‘Those who walk on the path of your heart have listened to me, they have aligned themselves before you in the council of the holy ones’ (1QHa 12:24–25; cf. 1QHa 19:11–12). The Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice depict the angelic priesthood in the heavenly temple (4Q400 1).54 The way for the Qumran community to join the angelic ranks was through the liturgy, not the afterlife.

52. In Mk 12:25 Jesus says of the resurrected that they ‘are like angels in heaven’; cf. Lk. 10:20; 15:10; Mt. 22:30. Loren T. Stuckenbruck, 1 Enoch 91–108 (CEJL; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007), 575–76. 53.  Devorah Dimant, ‘Men as Angels: The Self-Image of the Qumran Community’ , in Religion and Politics in the Ancient Near East, ed. Adele Berlin (Bethesda:  University of Maryland, 1996), 93–103; John J. Collins, ‘The Angelic Life’ , in Metamorphoses: Resurrection, Body and Transformative Practices in Early Christianity, ed. Turid Karlsen Seim and Jorunn Økland (Ekstasis; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 291–310. 54.  Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space, 198, refers to the so-called self-glorification hymn. ‘One quite unusual hodayah   .  .  .  speaks in exalted terms of the speaker’s place “among the heavenly beings” (1QHa 26:24–27?; 4QHa frag. 7).’

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One of the most detailed descriptions of the process of resurrection, leading up to the angelic life, is found in 2 Baruch 50–51.55 It begins with the earth regurgitating the dead, just as it has received them (2 Bar. 50:2). Initially the resurrected will have the same body. This is necessary, the text explains, so that the resurrected will be recognized by those who live at the time.56 Resurrection and recognition are followed by the last judgement (2 Bar. 50:4). Immediately after the judgement scene, the shape of the resurrected will change again. The wicked will be transformed into ‘startling apparitions’ and waste away entirely (2 Bar. 51:5). The righteous, by contrast, will inherit the world to come, where they will be transformed ‘into the splendour of the angels’ (2 Bar. 51:5). They will ‘be like angels, and they will be deemed equal to the stars’ (2 Bar. 51:10). The expanses of Paradise will be spread out before them, and they will live beneath the throne in fellowship with armies of angels.

Conclusion There are other aspects of what it means to be human which early Jewish thinkers pondered and about which they had much to say. These include notions of sin, infirmity, hope and many of the topics of what might be called sociological anthropology. What is clear from this brief survey is that the time of early Judaism was a period of significant change, during which anthropological concerns moved from the periphery to the centre. Early Jewish thinkers were concerned with what it means to be human to a degree not seen during the First Temple period. Centuries later, these new perspectives on the human condition would have major consequences for nascent Christianity as well as for the formation of rabbinic Judaism. As for the origins of Christianity and the early Christian texts that are the subject of this collection, it would not be an overstatement to say that it is impossible to understand the anthropology of the New Testament without having some appreciation for these early Jewish thinkers and their anthropological perspectives. After all, Christianity did not emerge from the Old Testament, it emerged from early Judaism, and it needs to be understood within that context.

55.  The resurrection texts in 2 Baruch can be compared with Paul’s detailed treatise on the resurrection in 1 Corinthians 15; Matthias Henze, ‘ “Then the Messiah Will Begin to Be Revealed”: Resurrection and the Apocalyptic Drama in 1 Corinthians 15 and Second Baruch 29–30, 49–51’ and Samuel Vollenweider, ‘Auferstehung als Verwandlung: Die paulinische Eschatologie von 1 Kor 15 im Vergleich mit der syrischen Baruchapokalypse (2Bar)’ , in Anthropologie und Ethik, ed. Konradt and Schläpfer, 441–62 and 463–90. 56.  Matthias Henze, Jewish Apocalypticism in Late First Century Israel: Reading Second Baruch in Context (TSAJ 142; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 305–17; Liv Ingeborg Lied, ‘Recognizing the Righteous Remnant? Resurrection, Recognition and Eschatological Reversals in 2 Baruch 47–52’ , in Metamorphoses, ed. Seim and Økland, 311–35.

Chapter 4 G R E C O - R OM A N P E R SP E C T I V E S O N A N T H R O P O L O G Y:   A S U RV EY O F P E R SP E C T I V E S F R OM 8 0 0 B C E T O   2 0 0   C E Timothy A. Brookins

Anthropology as an academic discipline devoted to the study of humanity in all its diverse aspects did not exist as such in antiquity.1 Nonetheless, ancient sources reveal much about what ancient people thought about what it meant to be human – psychologically, biologically, ethically, socially and culturally – although they would have defined all of these terms differently than we do today. The task of the present paper is to range over the evidence that has survived for such conceptions across the vast stretch of the Greco-Roman world between Archaic times (beginning ca. 800 BCE) and the Roman period (up to ca. 200 CE). Such a survey, covering a period of a full millennium, will by necessity be selective, but hopefully it will also be representative of the range of views attested. The record itself is of course incomplete and unrepresentative, for much has not survived, and what has survived records predominantly the views of the elite minority. Nonetheless, a close estimation of non-elite conceptions of humanity (these are perhaps not rightly called ‘views’ , much less ‘theories’) can be recovered through recourse to funerary monuments, epitaphs, graves and commemorative material, in addition to literary sources such as myths and satires. The present attempt to synthesize this data has been arranged under a number of headings. The survey begins with an examination of both theoretical (elite) and non-theoretical (popular) conceptions of human composition and life after death, before moving to views of the ‘self ’ , the human as contrasted with the non-human or less-than-fully human, and human behaviour or ‘ends’.

1.  The Oxford Classical Dictionary begins its entry on ‘anthropology’ in this way: ‘It is probably misleading, though not entirely inappropriate, to use this word [anthropology] to describe the ancient study of man and society’ (102).

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Human Composition In discussing ancient views on human composition, perhaps the most productive approach will be to begin with ‘theories’ , as represented especially in philosophical and medical texts. By ‘theories’ we mean reflective, thematically focused discussion on the nature of human composition that is both technical in its use of language and systematic in its scope. ‘Theories’ of human composition thus provide a benchmark from which to evaluate the less reflective and generally less consistent perspectives associated with ‘popular’ belief. Theoretical Perspectives Ancient theories of human composition generally defined the ‘human’ in terms of at least two different substances, namely, body and soul. Reflection on the body in Greek thought can be traced as far back as the sixth century BCE. Both the pre-Socratic philosophers and medical practitioners developed theories in this area, although after the fifth century BCE this kind of speculation became increasingly restricted to the field of medicine (the philosopher Aristotle was a notable exception). For all ancient theorists, the body consisted of at least one of, if not a compound of, the four ‘elements’ – water, earth, air and fire. For medical theorists, however, the primary concern of such speculation was to identify the nature of the body’s constitution in order to develop a theoretical basis for treating its pathologies. Common across medical discussions (which survive most completely in Aristotle and the Hippocratic corpus) was a conception of the body as a balance of the elements, measured on a continuum from hot to cold, dry to moist and hard to soft.2 This balance of elements, and sometimes more specifically of the bodily ‘humours’ (bile, phlegm, blood, water), determined health and wholeness. An imbalance of these was responsible for pathological disorders.3 Philosophers were more concerned to answer questions about where the body came from and what its ‘vital’ principle, or animating force, was. Plato proposed a theory of the body in the Timaeus (fourth century BCE). He says that the bodies of humans were moulded by the lesser divinities (Tim. 42D–E), who borrowed portions of fire, earth, water, and air from the Cosmos and, using numerous and invisibly small pegs, thusly cemented them together (Tim. 43A). The characteristics of the body are further described in the Phaedrus. In contrast to the soul (ψυχή), says Plato, the body (σῶμα) is mortal and changing, and ought to be treated as subordinate to the divine and immutable soul (Phaedr. 79A–80B). Subject to sensation

2.  Aristotle:  fourth century BCE; the Hippocratic corpus:  based on the thought of the fifth-century physician Hippocrates, though perhaps composed in the third or second century BCE. 3.  For the balance/imbalance concept, see Dale Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven, CT; London: Yale University Press, 1995), 35–36, 159–62.

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and pleasures, the body distracts from the soul’s attainment of true wisdom and knowledge (Phaedr. 66A–67B), and should be despised (Phaedr. 68C). Yet Plato’s scorn for the body was not such that he regarded the body and matter as inherently evil, as we find developed in Gnosticism in the second century CE. For Plato, the body needed to be exercised, just as the soul did, so that they remained evenly matched (Tim. 88B). Aristotle was less dualistic in his thinking. For him, the body consisted of ‘matter’ (ὕλη), and yet the body, in living things, had no individuality or ‘form’ (εἶδος) apart from the soul; it remained merely matter, which in itself did not constitute an individual thing. The body as matter remained a body only ‘potentially’; the body animated by soul was a body ‘actually’ , that is, an organic body (De an. 412A). As the soul was the ‘form’ of the body, the soul could not exist without the body, and the (organic) body could not exist as such without the soul (De an. 413A, 414A). Applied to organic bodies, Aristotle’s notion of ‘form’ could be taken to imply intelligent design. If the form of a hammer gives it its capacity to drive nails into wood, one could say that the ‘formal cause’ , or design, of the hammer is for driving nails as such. It could further be said that such nail-driving is the ‘final cause’ of the hammer’s form, that is, is that for the sake of which the hammer exists. When it came to natural organisms, then, Aristotle recognized that body parts such as heart and teeth existed in order to produce certain beneficial results. Aristotle, however, never committed to a particular teleological theory to explain such phenomena. That is, he accepted that there were formal and final causes, but the question whether these were to be explained by design or by something like evolutionary processes that just happened to be advantageous to the organism, he left open.4 Whatever the body’s composition, and however it came to be, every ancient theory recognized the body’s dependence on some vital or animating principle, capable of explaining what gave it movement, action and behaviour, in contrast to those things that lacked these faculties. Proponents of ancient theories located this capacity, without exception, in what they called the ‘soul’ (ψυχή or anima).5 Plato’s dualism, which divorced soul and body, was quite exceptional among ancient views. The lesser deities, Plato speculated, had moulded human bodies, but God himself had created the immortal soul, mixing it out of the residue left when he created the soul of the cosmos (Tim. 41C–E). Invisible, immaterial and divine, the soul equipped people with the capacity to reason. Using reason, the soul was to rule over the visible, changing and mortal body, and to be separated

4.  T. H. Irwin, ‘Aristotle’s Philosophy of Mind’ , in Companions to Ancient Thought 2:  Psychology, ed. S. Everson (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1991), 56–83, esp. 63–65. 5.  For discussions on the soul, see S.  Everson, ed., Companions to Ancient Thought 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); J. E. Annas, Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind (Berkeley :  University of California Press, 1992); and D. Frede, and B. Reis, eds, Body and Soul in Ancient Philosophy (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2009).

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from it as much as possible (Phaed. 79A–80B), even now, just as it would be after death (Phaed. 67C). A sharp dualism would be retained in the later phases of Platonism, including its revival in the form of Neo-Platonism, as developed under Plotinus in the third century CE. Nonetheless, most ancient theories, whether medical or philosophical, were not dualistic but rather ‘physicalistic’. That is, they treated the soul as part of the physical world, not as an immaterial substance that transcended it. In medicine, therapeutic practices were predicated on the premise that psychology (or the soul) and physiology (or the body) were closely intertwined. In some models, the soul was seen as a force moving through channels or ‘pores’ (πόροι) running throughout the body, conducting effluences, which streamed from objects, to the sites of the appropriate senses.6 Aristotle’s treatise On the Soul attests that the question of what the soul consisted of admitted of little agreement among the philosophers. Among the pre-Socratic philosophers, Democritus thought it consisted of fire, the finest particles and nearest to being incorporeal; Diogenes that it consisted of air, this being the finest of particles; Hippo that it consisted of water, since the seed of all animals is moist; and Critias that it consisted of blood, since blood is, so he thought, responsible for sense-perception (Aristotle, De an. 405A–B). Pythagoras, however, proposed an alternative view, that the soul was not composed of single elements, but was rather a ‘harmony’ (ἁρμονία) or composition of contraries (Aristotle, De an. 407B). Aristotle himself rejected all of these theories, holding, as we have said, that the soul constituted the ‘form’ or ‘actuality’ of the body. In this sense, Aristotle defies classification as a materialist, for he rejected the idea that the soul was in any sense corporeal (De an. 414A); on the contrary, it was the cause and first principle of life in the corporeal (De an. 415A). Yet against Plato, he also rejected dualism, for he held that the soul must reside in a body, and not just in any body, but in a body of a particular kind (De an. 414A). Thus he rejected Plato’s doctrine of the transmigration of the soul (cf. Aristotle, De an. 407B; Plato, Rep. 620A–D). As ‘actuality’ , the soul for Aristotle was defined at a minimum by its capacity for nutrition and growth, as seen in plants. The souls of higher animals possessed the additional faculty of sensation, first of all that of touch. Human souls possessed, in addition to the faculties of growth and sensation, the faculty of thought (De an. 413A–B; 427A; 434A–B). Philosophy of the soul grew more technical in the Hellenistic period, with the advent of Stoicism and Epicureanism (ca. 300 BCE).7 Both systems defined the soul as ‘corporeal’ , on the grounds that (1) the soul was a causal force and that (2) only what was corporeal could play a causal role.8 6.  See R.  J. Hankinson, ‘Greek Medical Models of Mind’ , in Companions to Ancient Thought 2, ed. Everson, 218–52; and Martin, Corinthian Body, 17–25. 7. Annas (Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind, 5) suggests that the Stoics and Epicureans were the first to develop a systematic philosophy of the mind/soul. 8.  For the Stoic view:  SVF 2.790–800; for the Epicurean view:  Epicurus, Ep. Hdt. 67; Diogenes Laertius, Vit. 10.63; Lucretius, Rer. nat. 3.161–76.

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For the Stoics, this corporeal soul consisted of compressed air, or πνεύμα (LS 47), extended through the body from the ‘commanding faculty’ (ἡγεμονίκη), which received and adjudicated ‘sense-impressions’ (φαντασίαι) sent out from objects. This infusion of πνεύμα suggests a form of pantheism, or at least panentheism, for πνεύμα was conceived as a divine force, equivalent to God. Filled with this divine power, humans possessed the faculties not only of ‘perception’ (reception of φαντασίαι) and ‘impulse’ (ὁρμή), but also of ‘understanding’ (παρακολούθησις) and ‘assent’ (συγκατάθεσις) (LS 53T; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.6.13; 1.28.19–22; 2.8.6), in contrast to animals, which had the capacity to ‘use’ sense-impressions but not to ‘understand’ them. Thus, while employing different terminology, the Stoics were in essential agreement with Aristotle in defining the human soul by the manifold faculties of movement, perception and thought or reason. The Epicureans had different ideas on the soul’s composition. The soul consisted of four kinds of ‘atoms’: a fire-like atom, an air-like atom, a wind-like atom, and a nameless, fourth kind of atom, which enabled the soul to function as a unity (Lucretius, Rer. nat. 3.258–87). Despite defining the soul in corporeal terms, neither Stoicism nor Epicureanism reduced human composition to one kind of substance only. In Stoic thinking, body and soul interpenetrated one another, each enveloping the other entirely, though without surrendering their substantial distinctiveness (SVF 2.463–81). Epicurean doctrine fell short of a pure materialism as well, for it held that the soul was the cause of the body’s preservation, and interwoven with it rather than reducible to it (Lucretius, Rer. nat. 3.323–32). In sum, for the philosophers, the non-bodily part of the person was defined in terms of the ‘soul’. It should also be noted, however, that for some thinkers the soul itself was subject to division, or else could be thought of, in different aspects or functions, as something other than simply ‘soul’. ‘Reason’ (λόγος), for Plato, seems to have been regarded either as a species of soul or as a part of it (Rep. 435D–E). Thus, reason resided within the soul, as soul resided within the body (Tim. 30B). But Plato’s views on the parts of the soul seem not to have remained consistent. Whereas in the Phaedo he denied the composite nature of the soul, dividing the human into only two parts, body and soul (Phaed. 79A), in the later, Republic and the Timaeus, he distinguished three different parts: the ‘rational (λογιστικόν)’ , located in the head; the ‘spirited (θυμικόν)’ , located in the chest; and the ‘appetitive (ἐπιθυμητικόν)’ , located between the midriff and the navel.9 The Epicureans divided the soul, similar to Plato, into a rational and an irrational part (Lucretius, Rer. nat. 3.136–7). However, the Stoics attributed irrationality not to a separate part of the soul, but to the perversion of reason (LS 65G). As to the question whether the soul survived after death, that depended on the extent to which body and soul could in theory be separated, and the extent to which the soul was identified with the seat of the true self. Plato held strongly to the belief that the soul was immortal. A lengthy account of his views on life after death can be found in the Phaedo, in addition to the somewhat different account 9. See Rep. 439D–440E; Tim. 45B; 69–70E; 73C.

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of matters found in the Republic.10 According to the Phaedo account, death is the separation of the soul from the body. The souls of the base tarry at the tombs, flitting about the body on account of attachment to it. The souls of all are eventually led by their assigned geniuses (guardian spirits) to the other world (the insensible world) to receive their rewards or punishments, in accordance as they have lived. The incurably wicked are cast into Tartarus forever, others only for a time, before being reimprisoned in bodies befitting their previous way of life. Those who lived justly through philosophy, conducting themselves according to reason and shunning the body, find the company of the gods. Those who lived well but without philosophy pass into some social and gentle species like that of bees, wasps or ants, if not again into the human race.11 The cycle repeats itself eternally, or until one attains to the virtuous life through philosophy (Phaed. 72B). The Stoic theory of the afterlife was more ambiguous. Like Plato, the Stoics defined death as the ‘separation of the soul from the body’ (SVF 2.790); moreover, because the soul consisted of πνεύμα, the same stuff of which the stars in the celestial sphere consisted, it would be reunited with the stars, whence it came, at death (Seneca, Ben. 3.20.1; Cons. Polyb. 9.2–4; Ep. 86.1).12 Yet, the souls of individuals themselves were not immortal (SVF 2.809–822). Souls lasted, at the longest, only until the conflagration that would consume the universe at the end of the age (Diogenes Laertius, Vit. 7.134, 141, 157). Whether and how long a soul lasted following death depended on its degree of ‘pneumatic tension’ , as determined by its exercise of virtue in proportion to vice during life (SVF 2.810, 812). Thus, only the ‘wise’ survived to the end. Such were called ‘heroes’ (ἥρωας) (Diogenes Laertius, Vit. 7.151). The rest survived only for a short time, before losing all perception (SVF 2.809).13 The Stoics of the Roman era (ca. first to second century CE) seem not to have accepted the doctrine of ‘heroes’ , or at least never clearly affirmed belief in them. Across his writings, Seneca’s views on the afterlife appear to vary drastically, perhaps because of changing rhetorical aims, perhaps because of personal uncertainty. In his consolations to the grieving, he stresses that souls will return to the place whence they came (Cons. Polyb. 9.2–4) and once again be reunited (Cons. Polyb. 4.1). There they learn the secrets of the universe (Marc. 23.1–3; 102.28) and live blissfully among the heavenly light (Cons. Polyb. 9.7–8). Yet he also affirms the view that at death all perception is lost (Brev. 18.5; Ep. 109.30) and persons enter into non-existence (Ep. 36.10–12; 54.4–5). In places, he gives equal weight to both possibilities (Ep. 65.24; 71.16). Certainly, he says, there is no Underworld (Marc. 19.4; Ep. 82.16; Ep. 24.18). Just maybe there is a blessed haven for the wise (Ep. 63.16). 10. See the Republic’s ‘Myth of Er’ , in Rep. 614–621. 11. See especially Phaed. 63C–69D; 80D–82B; 108B–114B. 12. Plato suggested that souls return to the stars to which they were assigned before birth (Tim. 41D–E; 42B–D). 13.  On ‘demons’ , ‘heroes’ and the survival of the soul after death in Stoic thought, see Keimpa Algra, ‘Stoics on Souls and Demons: Reconstructing Stoic Demonology’ , in Body and Soul in Ancient Philosophy, ed. Frede and Reis, 360–87.

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In any case, the laws of nature cannot be changed; all things are destined to die (Ep. 91.15–16); to die is ‘human’ (Ep. 123.16). In contrast to others, the Epicureans roundly rejected the doctrine of the soul’s immortality. The soul, like the body and everything else, consisted of ‘atoms’. Death was the dissolution of these atoms, and thus of both the body and the soul. It was the beginning of non-existence (Lucretius, Rer. nat. 3.417–829). Second Temple Jewish anthropological views deserve at least passing mention here, for these were often indebted directly to Greek philosophical thinking.14 Philo of Alexandria shows how deeply indebted to Hellenism a Jew could be. For Philo, like Plato, a person was a body–soul duality; the soul, as part of the ‘insensible’ realm, was immortal, invisible and unchanging, and either bipartite or tripartite; and the seat of the self was the ‘understanding’ (διάνοια).15 The immortality of the soul is emphasized also in the Wisdom of Solomon, 4 Maccabees and other Jewish writings of this period. Cynics and popular or eclectic philosophers could affirm any of the views along the spectrum just covered. The spurious Cynic epistles depict Cynics as believers in the soul’s immortality, and the works of Lucian purportedly depicting Cynic views feature the soul’s journey to the Underworld;16 but the Cynics had no standard doctrine on the issue of the soul, for Cynicism was not so much a systematic philosophy as it was a ‘way of life’ (Diogenes Laertius, Vit. 6.103). Cynics like Demonax seem, in any case, to have been sceptical. When asked if he thought the soul was immortal, his reply was: ‘Yes, but no more so than everything else’ (Lucian, Dem. 32). Popular Conceptions For popular conceptions of human composition, we rely on scantier and much more indirect evidence. Nonetheless, the sources provide us with an abundance of useful data. It seems that, in general, popular views on the body reflected some considerable differences from elite views. In an extensive study on ancient ideologies of the body, Dale Martin has identified at least two different models of the body: one associated with elites and the other with non-elites.17 Whereas, according to

14.  See James Barr’s classic refutation of the Jew-Greek dichotomy (The Semantics of Biblical Language [Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 1961; repr. SCM, 1983], esp. 10–14), in response to James A.  T. Robinson (The Body:  A Study in Pauline Theology [SBT 5; London: SCM, 1952]); and Robert Jewett’s application (Paul’s Anthropological Terms [AGJU 10; Leiden: Brill, 1971]) of Barr to issues of Pauline anthropology. 15.  David Runia, ‘Jewish Platonism (ancient)’ , in The Continuum Companion to Plato, ed. Gerald A. Press (London; New York: Continuum, 2012), 267–69. 16.  Cynic Epistles:  Socratics, Ep.  14 (p.  257, lines 25–27); Ep.  25 (p.  279, lines 4–10). Lucian: Downward Journey or The Tyrant; The Dream; and Menippus or Descent into Hades. 17. Martin, The Corinthian Body.

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Martin, elites viewed the body in terms of its internal balance – that is, its balance of the elements and of accidental characteristics like hotness and coldness, wetness and dryness – non-elites tended to view the body in terms of its relation to external forces or pollutants, to which the body lay constantly vulnerable, and which people sought to ward off through magic, prayer and apotropaic devices. According to Martin, elite and non-elite ideologies, however, shared at least this thing in common: both viewed the body as to some extent ‘porous’ , that is, not as buffered off from its surroundings, from other bodies and the objects of sense perception, but as open to influence from them or penetration by them. We shall return to this point again below. Most of what we know about popular conceptions of the ‘soul’ has to be extrapolated from what we are told about people’s views on death and what lay beyond it.18 Literary sources such as epics, myths, and satires provide us a window into such views. Material remains such as sarcophagi, graves and epitaphs also supply useful data. In some instances, elite sources report directly on popular views. According to Plato, ‘most people’ in his day said that the soul perished at death, ‘scattering like a breath or smoke’ (Phaed. 80D; 70A). Seneca, however, writing in Rome more than four centuries later, reported that ‘the general opinion of mankind’ was that the soul was immortal (Ep. 117.6). The disparity between these remarks from Plato and Seneca seems to reflect accurately the change in popular opinion attested by the other available evidence. In Homer’s day (eighth century BCE), belief in the general immortality of the soul had not yet taken hold. The prevailing view, rather, seems to have been that perception was lost at death, at the moment of one’s final breath, when the soul escaped through the mouth (Il. 9.408–9), or was poured out through some bodily wound (Il. 14.518–19). From there the soul survived only as a shadowy ‘image’ (εἴδωλον), resembling a person’s physical appearance in life but being deprived of feeling and thought. It was the body, even as inert matter, with which the ‘person’ was identified, as we see in the opening lines of the Iliad: the ‘souls’ (ψ υχαί) go forth to Hades, but ‘they themselves’ (αὐτούς) become spoil for carrion dogs and birds (Il. 1.3–5; see also Il. 24.54). Thus destruction of the body, whether through natural decay or through human cremation, signalled the final end of existence.19 Mention in the works of Homer of post-mortem experiences can be variously explained. Although the dead could be conjured up and their consciousness restored, this was only a temporary state, achieved through votive offerings, and from which the ghosts once again faded into senselessness.20 Permanent torment in 18.  For recent studies on Roman and Greek views on death, see Valerie M. Hope, Roman Death:  Dying and the Dead in Ancient Rome (London; New  York:  Continuum, 2009); and Maria Serena Mirto, Death in the Greek World: From Homer to the Classical Age (Norman: Oklahoma University Press, 2012). 19. For this account of Homer, see Mirto, Death in the Greek World, 10–28. 20.  See Mirto’s discussion (Death in the Greek World, 11–12), citing Od. 11.13–50; 11.473–76.

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the Underworld, such as Odysseus witnessed of Tityos, Tantalus and others, seems to have been reserved only for the most egregious offenders (Od. 11.576–600).21 Yet these accounts perhaps bear witness that a different model of the afterlife was emerging already in Homer’s day alongside the more common one. Beginning in the eighth century BCE, a form of religious devotion centred around the heroes of the epic past began to crop up. These heroes were regarded as a special class of dead, who lived on and were capable of interfering in the affairs of the living as patrons, saviours or helpers. From the end of the eighth century BCE, the hero cult expanded to include not only the legendary warriors of the past but also local heroes and rulers of more recent times. By the fourth century BCE, the label of ‘hero’ was being bestowed even on ordinary people.22 The rise of the hero cult helps further explain the inconsistencies of conceptions on the afterlife encountered in Homer’s works: Achilles, like the heroes, is aware in death of the honours accorded to him (Od. 11.482–91), even though the general run of shades are without thought or awareness (Od. 11.473–76). The concept of the blessed Elysian Fields seems also to have been on the rise in Homer’s day. In Odyssey 4, Homer describes this as a place, located at the ‘ends of the earth’ (4.563), ‘where all existence is a dream of ease. Snowfall is never known there, neither long frost of winter, nor torrential rain, but only mild and lulling airs from Ocean bearing refreshment for the souls of men – the West Wind always blowing’ (4.561–8 [Fitzgerald, 69]). This is the promised fate of Menelaus, but not of his companions Ajax, Agamemnon and Odysseus. From the time of our earliest Greek sources, then, disparate models of the afterlife apparently existed side by side. The prevailing perspective of the Archaic period – that perception was lost at death – gave way only in time to emergent models that envisaged the perseverance of consciousness after death and the possibility of interaction between the dead and the living. The latter perspective was widely held in the Classical period (ca. 480–300 BCE),23 as we have seen, for example, in post-Socratic philosophy and in the hero cult. It was then but a short step to perspectives on the ‘immortality of the soul’ and retributive justice for all, which we see developed clearly for the first time in Plato, in the fourth century BCE (Phaed. 113D–114C; Rep. 614–21), but which permeated the culture from there. After Plato, with the blooming of the Hellenistic Age (ca. 300 BCE), we find widespread belief in a conscious afterlife, spent, for most people, in the Underworld. Detailed depictions of the Underworld can be found in a variety of literary sources.24 In Vergil’s epic poem, the Aeneid (first century BCE), the hero Aeneas enters the Underworld through a deep rocky cave enclosed in the forest that circles Lake Avernus (Aen. 6.236–8).25 Vergil’s account of the Underworld involves a 21. See also Il. 3.276–80; 19.258–60. 22. On the hero-cult, see Mirto, Death in the Greek World, 116–25. 23. Mirto, Death in the Greek World, 93. 24. Ovid, Metam. 4.430–46; Virgil, Aen. 6; Lucian, Luct. 2–9; Apuleius, Metam. 6.17–21. 25. Lake Avernus is known today as Monte Miseno.

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curious mix of Homeric and later, philosophical elements. Aeneas sees there many ‘souls’ (animae) or ‘shades’ (umbrae) of the dead. The ghost of Dido, his former lover, appears to him ‘dark through the shadows, of the kind as one sees or thinks one sees when the moon rises through the clouds at the first of the month’ (Aen. 6.452–4). Further in, Aeneas enters the Elysian Fields, where the grass is green, and the blessed souls occupy their time in dancing, music, sport and feasting. Yet, certain souls await their transmigration into new bodies (Aen. 6.713–14), a scene that obviously recalls Plato’s views. The critical question of whether the masses, or many among them, truly believed in the Underworld and its separate abodes of Tartarus and the Elysian Fields for different kinds of souls, as told about in the poems, must be answered in the affirmative. One must of course make allowance for ‘literary imagination’ as to some extent distinct from ‘religious faith’. The boundary is perhaps difficult to draw in some cases.26 It must be said, however, that the dismissal of these mythical accounts so frequently encountered in elite sources would hardly have needed emphasis if no one believed the accounts anyway.27 Moreover, elites insisted that people did believe these stories, and are often found chastising them for it. According to Plato, ‘the multitude’ very much approved of the writings of the poets (Rep. 599A). Varro (first century BCE), distinguishing between ‘natural theology’ , associated with the philosophers, and ‘mythical theology’ , associated with the poets,28 viewed the latter as ‘utter lies’ (mendacissima fabula). He complained that the masses loved these stories, found them pleasing to the gods, and were more inclined to believe these stories than the truths of the philosophers.29 Lucretius’s poem On the Nature of Things (first century BCE), written from an Epicurean perspective, represents apparently a kind of evangelistic effort to recruit people to a more enlightened, philosophical perspective on death. The bulk of book 3 seeks to prove the mortality of the soul (3.829), and the folly of the fear of death (3.830– 1094) and of the stories about Hades (3.978–1023). The efficacy of much ancient satire, such as the works of Lucian (second century CE), depends on the circumstance that such views, or at least their likenesses, were in fact widely accepted. Lucian’s Lover of Lies (whose title is a statement in itself) recounts a prolonged conversation between witnesses who swear to have seen some incredible things themselves. One man claims to have seen in the woods near his farm an old woman who, by stomping on the ground, made a chasm into Hades. Peering inside, he ‘saw everything   .  .  .  the River of Blazing Fire, and the Lake and Cerberus, and the dead, well enough to recognize some of

26. For this language, see Mirto, Death in the Greek World, ix. 27.  See Cicero, Tusc. Disp. 1.6.11; Lucretius, Rer. nat. 3.629–32, 979–1022; Seneca, Marc. 19.4–5; Ep. 24.18; 82.16; Juvenal, Sat. 2.149–52; Epictetus, Diatr. 3.13.14–15; Lucian, Philops. 40. 28.  He also recognized a third category: ‘civil theology’ , associated with the civic cults (Augustine, Civ. 6.5–8). 29. As reported by Augustine (Civ. 6.6).

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them’. The souls were lying around ‘to while away the time’. Among them he saw his father, ‘still wearing the same clothes’ in which they had buried him. He even recognized the soul of Socrates, ‘bald and pot-bellied’ (Lover 24 [Harmon, LCL]). Others insist too that ‘the souls of dead men go about above ground and appear to whomsoever they will’ (Lover 29). ‘Everybody’ , says another man, sees such things (Lover 30). Lucian’s work On Funerals purports to relate specifically ‘what beliefs people hold about death itself ’ (Fun. 1). Lucian suggests explicitly that most people do believe the accounts told in the myths: The general herd (πολὺς ὅμιλος), whom philosophers call the laity (ἰδιώτας), trust Homer and Hesiod and the other myth-makers in these matters, and take their poetry for a law unto themselves. So they suppose that there is a place deep under the earth called Hades, which is large and roomy and murky and sunless. (Fun. 2)

He goes on to summarize the common account of the Underworld, beginning with the soul’s entrance into the abode across Lake Acheron and beyond three-headed Cerberus, and continuing through its journey to the judgement seat of Pluto and its consignment to one of the regions of the lower world, where it receives its fitting retribution. Of particular importance is Lucian’s insistence that people actually believe that the rituals associated with burial of the deceased had real significance for their afterlife: ‘so thoroughly are people taken in by all this that when one of the family dies, immediately they bring an obol and put it into his mouth, to pay the ferryman for setting him over [Lake Acheron]’ (Fun. 10 [Harmon, LCL]). Thus they bathe, dress, and anoint the deceased, so they are not cold on their way to the Underworld (Fun. 11). And thus people offer ritual food and libations at the grave: on these things the souls are able to nourish themselves (Fun. 9). Lucian’s insistence that people took these rituals seriously, not just symbolically or in compliance with tradition, is significant, for if he can be even partially trusted, it answers for us what the archaeological record cannot: although we have ample material evidence that people practised these rituals, from an interpretative standpoint the motivation for them inevitably remains a matter of speculation.30 One finds, then, by the Hellenistic period, diverse views attested on the afterlife, the soul, and its fate, with earlier views persisting alongside those of more recent vintage. Lucretius’s poem On the Nature of Things reveals that in his day the full range of views still found representation. In the preface to the work (Rer. nat. 1.111–27) he suggests that people in general are not sure what the soul is (whether it comes into existence with the body or, pre-existent, moves from one body to another) or what happens to it at death (whether it perishes with us; or descends into Hades, where it roams as a pale shade; or passes into another body).

30. As Hope (Roman Death, 93, 102) acknowledges; but see also her comments on 86–87.

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The same diversity in views can be demonstrated from archaeological evidence of the Roman era. The widespread use of spells and curse-tablets to summon up the dead for assistance; the connection between the household shrine, or lararium, and one’s deceased ancestors; and traditions surrounding a number of Roman festivals, all suggest the belief that the possibility of contact with the deceased was not broken by death. Some sarcophagi and reliefs reflect belief in divination or apotheosis.31 Epitaphs, too, sometimes suggest the belief that life continued after death. An epigraph of a slave named Antigenides, from Pisaurum, reads: ‘I now live in Tartarus, by the waters of infernal Acheron and under dark stars.’ In another epitaph it is said, of Iulius Gallanius from Haidra, that he ‘is not held in cruel Tartarus but occupies the Elysian Fields’. Formulas such as ‘Eternal rest’ (quieti aeternae) or ‘Here rests  . . . ‘ (hic requiescat) could imply hope in the afterlife, although these could also function more ambiguously, like the traditional English ‘Rest in peace’. Some epitaphs, however, attest clearly to belief in annihilation: ‘there is no boat in Hades, no ferryman Charon, no Aeacus holder of the keys, nor any dog called Cerberus. All of us who have died and gone below are bones and ashes: there is nothing else’; and ‘I was not, I was, I am not, I care not’ , which was used so frequently that it came to be signified simply with the Latin abbreviation N.F.F.N.S.N.C. (Non fui, fui, non sum, non curo).32 That ancient people regarded a proper funeral as one of the core ‘unwritten laws’ shared by peoples everywhere reveals that people cared deeply about what happened to their bodies.33 However, little can be determined about views on death from body-disposal practices. While incineration of bodies predominated in the Archaic period, and inhumation in the Hellenistic period, these changes in method, Maria Mirto has observed, ‘do not necessarily correspond to changes in understanding of death and its effects on the survivors’ , for the choice was influenced to some extent by beliefs about physical contagion, and practices varied from place to place and according to personal or family preference.34 This last point applies, mutatis mutandis, to views about death and the ‘soul’ in general during the Roman period. Views varied from one chronological and geographical context to another, and from one economic and social context to another. More than this, non-elite views, because they were generally unsystematic and formulated on other than sustained reflection, could be combined, sometimes inconsistently, or adapted differently in different circumstances, whether in conformity to one’s immediate social context or simply according to one’s deepest wishes of the moment. Moreover, apart from theoretical discussions, it is difficult to judge how much importance to invest in the nuances of particular anthropological language. This is true not only with respect to imaginative genres, but also with more propositional

31. For more detail on these practices, see Hope, Roman Death, 97–120. 32. Hope, Roman Death, 114–15. 33. The subject of Sophocles’s Antigone. 34. Mirto, Death in the Greek World, 65, 85.

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pieces. A  speaker could use anthropological language in a literal sense without using it in a precise or technical way. Likewise, a speaker could use anthropological language figuratively without necessarily giving clear indications of it. The writings of the apostle Paul, as non-theoretical and non-systematic pieces, provide a good example of this, and of the disagreement that can ensue when these issues are not sufficiently recognized.35 On close examination, we find that much of Paul’s anthropological language cannot in fact be taken technically or literally, for one finds in his writings many examples where predications or systemic relations involving anthropological terms are either internally or externally contradictory.36 Statements of this kind cannot be taken as anthropological propositions, to be integrated into a larger theory of human composition. This same caveat applies to non-theoretical writings in general.

The Human ‘Self ’ For various reasons, the concept of the ‘self ’ is considered a problematic category for many modern philosophers.37 However, we do find some reflection on this concept in ancient philosophical or otherwise theoretical works. Plato, as we have seen, distinguished not only between body and soul, but also between three parts of the soul: the rational, the spirited and the appetitive. For Plato, only the rational part belonged to the soul essentially (Rep. 611D). The other two parts were ‘mortal’ and thus unessential to the true self (Tim. 69D–E). This more restrictive definition of the self would be picked up by platonizing philosophers in later phases of Platonism. Philo of Alexandria, usually classified as a ‘Middle Platonist’ , or at least as a conduit of it, placed the seat of the self in the ‘understanding’ (διάνοια; Jos. 71). The late Neo-Platonist Simplicius thought that the true ἄνθρωπος, ‘human’ , was the unadulterated mind (in Epict. 3.25). Aristotle too located the self in the intellect (διανοήτικη δύναμις; Eth. Nic. 9.4.3; 9.8.6; 10.7.9).

35. See Jewett (Paul’s Anthropological Terms, esp. 1–10), as an attempt to correct earlier interpretations of Paul’s anthropological language. 36. I list here just three examples. (1) A Christian cannot literally be a body ‘part’ , for in Paul’s terms a Christian is a ‘piece of bread’ (1 Cor 10:15–17) just as much as a Christian is a ‘limb’ (1 Cor 12:12–26) – both cannot be literally true at once. (2) The Christian’s body is a ‘temple’ (1 Cor 6:19), a ‘house’ (2 Cor 5:2) or ‘clothing’ (2 Cor 5:1–4), but the body cannot literally be all of these at once. (3) In 2 Cor 4:16–5:10, Paul is inconsistent with regard to how he defines the essential self: in the ‘inner-outer man’ dichotomy, it is the inner man (what is relatively internal), but with the ‘naked-clothed’ dichotomy, it is the clothed person (what is relatively external). 37.  See discussion in Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and the Self in the Apostle Paul:  The Material Spirit (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2010), 140–2), drawing on Pierre Bourdieu and Michel Foucault.

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So did the Stoics. Although from the earliest days of the school they had defined the human as a compound of body and soul, thoroughly mixed with each other, like water and wine,38 still the essential self was located in the soul, and in particular in the soul’s ‘governing faculty’ , the ἡγεμόνικον (SVF 2.895/LS 34J).39 Thus, later Stoics like Seneca and Epictetus expressed severe disdain for the body, as something external to the self. It was a burden (Seneca, Ep. 65.15–17; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.1), a prison (Seneca, Ep. 102.22; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.9.1). They called it ‘the paltry body’ (corpusculum/σωμάτιον) and regarded it among the things ‘alien’ , ‘not your own’.40 For Epictetus it was a mere ‘husk’ (Diatr. 1.23.1) or ‘tunic’ (Diatr. 1.25.22–23). In what, then, did the self consist? For Epictetus, not in the body, but in what he called the ‘faculty of moral choice’ , or προαίρεσις: in a word, ‘you are not flesh, nor hair, but προαίρεσις’ (Diatr. 3.1.40). One must be careful at this point to distinguish ancient definitions of the self from modern, Western ones, particularly those in the tradition of Locke and Descartes. At least two differences should be noted. First, whereas modernist definitions of the self locate the criterion for selfhood in the subject’s perceptual experience of his or her own thought, or in selfconsciousness, ancient definitions, as found especially in Aristotle and the Stoics, focused on the person’s capacity to recollect and thus to experience the sensible world in such a way as to form judgements about it, and on the capacity to use language to rationalize and articulate those beliefs.41 Thus, Epictetus defined the human as a ‘rational, mortal animal’ (Diatr. 2.9.2; so also Dio, Or. 36.19), but not fundamentally as a ‘self-conscious’ being. Second, ancient conceptions of the self seem to have operated with a much less sharply bounded notion of the ‘individual’. Charles Taylor has defined the difference between ancient and modern views in terms of a contrast between the ‘porous self ’ and the ‘buffered self ’.42 It has been noted before that the notion of ‘porousness’ figured in both elite and non-elite ideologies of the body. The individual, while embodied, was not thus ‘buffered off ’ from other embodied persons or objects, but was open to them and vulnerable to outside influence, or to penetration and entanglement. In its Stoic inflection, this idea was described in terms of a kind of ‘interpenetration’ , in which all things in the cosmos enveloped one another. Thus, for all its emphasis on personal autonomy, Stoicism also advised people to live in ‘conformity with nature’ , recognizing that each person is only a

38. See Musonius Rufus, Diatr. 6; Diogenes Laertius, Vit. 7.151. 39. Tad Brennan, ‘Stoic Souls in Stoic Corpses’ , in Body and Soul in Ancient Philosophy, ed. Frede and Reis, 389–407. 40.  See Seneca, Marc. 25.1; Vit. Beat. 8.2; Tranq. 11.1–3; Ep. 76.32; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.1.7–12; 4.12.15–19. 41.  See Christopher Gill, ‘Is There a Concept of Person in Greek Philosophy’ , in Companions to Ancient Thought 2, ed. Everson, 166–93; and A. A. Long, ‘Representation and the Self in Stoicism’ , in Companions to Ancient Thought 2: Psychology, ed. Everson, 102–20. 42. Charles Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007), 37–40.

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‘part of a whole’ (Diogenes Laertius, Vit. 7.37), parts as it were of a cosmic body, which must live in harmony with each other and which share in ‘sympathy’ with each other (Seneca, Ep. 95.51–52). For the Stoics, divine πνεύμα united all things. Because all things were infused by God, all things contained a fragment of the world soul. Hence the same ‘blending’ that occurred between body and soul also occurred severally between objects or entities in the cosmos:  God was mixed with the world, as the soul is with a body (Epictetus, Diatr. 1.14); all people were joined together in association with all others (Cicero, Fin. 3.5.16); husband and wife shared all things in common, up to even body and soul (Hierocles/Stobaeus, Flor. 4.67.23). In Stoicism, then, the definition of the individual had always to be referred back to the organic whole. Ultimately, human worth was relative to the human’s relation to and common share in God’s essence. Thus, Epictetus often reminded his students that God was ‘within’ them (Diatr. 1.14.12–14).

The Human versus the Non-Human Apparently it was not self-evident to ancient people exactly who or what counted as a ‘human’ (although that is a question that debates of recent centuries suggest still has not been settled for everyone!). For Aristotle, possession of a ‘soul’ was not in itself a defining feature. All things in fact that possessed the faculty of ‘growth’ had ‘soul’ (De an. 434A). Thus, plants had souls, as did animals, whose souls possessed the added faculty of ‘sensation’ (De an. 435A–B). Only human souls, however, possessed the faculty of ‘thought’ , and then only ‘potentially’. That is, the part of the soul called the ‘mind’ only had ‘actual’ existence when a person engaged the thinking faculty (De an. 429A). The Stoics, similar to Aristotle, attributed ‘soul’ to plants and animals as well as to humans, although they attributed the differences not to varying ‘faculties’ but to varying levels of ‘tension’ between air and fire in the soul’s pneumatic blend (LS 47). Plants and animals, because they possessed πνεύμα at a lower level of tension, were inherently ‘irrational’. Animals could receive ‘external/sense impressions’ (φαντασίαι), and make ‘use’ (χρῆσις) of them for purposes of eating, drinking and procreating, but did not have ‘understanding’ (παρακολούθησις) of them (Epictetus, Diatr. 1.6.13; 1.28.19–22; 2.8.6). Humans, by contrast, possessed πνεύμα at a more tensive level, and were thus rational, like the gods. Hence, humans possessed by nature the capacity to become ‘equal to God’.43 The philosophers took pains also to define the difference between, one might say, various levels of humanity. According to the Stoics, reason – the capacity that defines humans against plants and other animals – was not given at birth. One has by nature only its ‘seeds’ (Seneca, Ep. 124.10), which blossoms only in adulthood. Consequently, children, like plants and animals, were ‘irrational’ (Seneca,

43.  See Seneca Ep. 31.9–10; 41.4; 48.12; 59.14; 73.12–16; 87.19; 92.29–30; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.14.12; cf. 2.17.33.

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Ep. 118.14; 121.15; 124.8–12) and could not achieve life’s highest ‘good’ (Seneca, Ep. 124.14–15), life in conformity with nature through reason. Assuming, then, the common Stoic definition of a ‘human’ as a ‘rational, mortal creature’ , a child or anyone whose faculties had not as of yet reached maturity could not have been considered fully human. The refusal of some ancient people to attribute full humanness to any but rational adult humans extended still further. Ancient sources also relate questions of what it meant to be human to the issues of gender, race and social class. Plato considered men to be by nature ‘the superior sex’ (despite also allowing that women could become philosophers).44 Thus, men who failed to live according to reason in their previous lives were doomed to be reincarnated as women (Tim. 90E). Aristotle found women by nature less virtuous than men (Rhet. 1.9.22; Pol. 1252B). Even the Stoic Seneca, who maintained time and again that all were by nature ‘sprung from the same stock’ (Ep. 47.10), found himself able to say that men were ‘born to command’ and women ‘born to obey’ (Const. 1.1). Some of course were willing to concede that women had an equal capacity for virtue as men (Musonius Rufus, Diatr. 3; Seneca, Marc. 16.1–4), but the notion that women were inherently the inferior sex seems to have been well entrenched in most ancient milieux.45 Accordingly, medical texts regarded women not only as having inherently different physiologies and pathologies from men, but also again as being inherently inferior to men. The Hippocratic writings regarded women as belonging to an entirely different ‘species’. Aristotle was willing to admit them into the ἄνθρωπος species (Metaph. 1058A29–31; Gen. an. 737A28), but perhaps worse still, regarded them as merely ‘deformed males’ (ἄρρεν πεπηρωμένον; Gen. an. 737A28). All later medical writers seem to have operated with the same basic premise, and thus defined women negatively against the pattern of male perfection.46 Racism and classism could also be grounded in anthropological theory. The commonplace that humanity divided into ‘Greeks’ and ‘barbarians’ was predicated on alleged differences in ethics just as much as it was on disparate language and culture. Aristotle understood the difference as another example of the principle of natural hierarchy: those superior by nature must rule the inferior: male must rule female, as free rules slave, and Greek rules barbarian (Pol. 1252A). Thus Aristotle believed also in ‘natural’ slavery: some were born to rule, others to serve (Politics). Although Stoicism rejected the principle of natural slavery, holding that all were endowed with the same nature by birth, Stoics in general seem to have accepted the institutional structure not only as legitimate, but also as somehow embedded

44. Rep. 453B–456A. See also Tim. 42A. 45.  See, for example, the following non-philosophical texts:  Aeschylus, Ag. 483–487; Pseudo-Cicero, Rhet. Her. 4.16.23; Vergil, Aen. 4.569–70. 46.  For discussion of women in ancient medical texts, see L. A. Dean-Jones, Women’s Bodies in Classical Greek Science (Oxford:  Clarendon, 1996); and R. Flemming, Medicine and the Making of Roman Women:  Gender, Nature, and Authority from Celsus to Galen (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000).

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in the order of nature. We find in the later Stoics the view that alongside one’s ‘nature’ as a human being, with respect to which all stand as equals, each person also possesses an idiosyncratic nature (Ira 2.20.2), with respect to which disposition and skills vary. Some are born with better qualities, others with worse (Ep. 95.36). Thus Seneca was able to say of slaves, ‘They are human’ (Ep. 47.1), but also to compare them to animals (Ira 3.37.2; Ep. 77.6).47

Human Behaviour For the ancient philosophers, proper human behaviour was that which corresponded with human nature, or with the nature of the most essential or defining part of the human self. Thus the question of human behaviour was also related closely with questions of human teleology. In short, for the philosophers what one ought to do flowed naturally from what one by nature is. This link between human ends and human origins raises the question of how ancient people explained the universal problem of human sin. The sources attest to widespread belief in a kind of ‘fall’ narrative, moving from a past ‘Golden Age’ , when the earth produced plenty, justice reigned, and all peoples lived in peace, into a gradual decline into hardship, vice and disunity.48 This narrative perhaps suggests a conviction that human nature was essentially good, and that vice is only learned. Indeed, it is often said of the ancient philosophical tradition that the philosophers were essentially optimistic about human nature. There is basis for this claim in that the philosophers regarded their ideas about highest human ends to be in fact capable of realization. Each school had their own ideas about what those ends might be. For Plato, it was to ‘be’ rather than to ‘become’ or ‘seem’ , that is, to live as one who has contemplated the unchanging, invisible, eternal values embodied in the ‘ideas’ of the transcendent, non-sensible sphere, the location of all that is real as against the mutable and thus deceptive realm that is subject to the senses. Such a life could be achieved by allowing the rational part of the soul, that part most essential to one’s humanity, to rule over the appetitive and spirited parts, thus establishing perfect order in the soul (Tim. 90D; Rep. 442A). For Aristotle, too, the highest end was contemplation (Eth. nic. 10.7), for it was the faculty of ‘thought’ that distinguished the human soul from that of plants and animals, and it was only in making the ‘potentiality’ of thought ‘actuality’ in the person that the human mind could be said to truly exist (De an. 429A). For the Epicureans, the highest end was to achieve total pleasure, which consisted in the ‘absence of pain’ (Cicero, Fin. 1.29–39). For the Stoics, the end was to live ‘according to nature’ , that is, by using reason to make virtue the object of every

47.  On the other hand, Miriam Griffin, Seneca:  A Philosopher in Politics (Oxford: Clarendon, 1976), 459–60, argues that the Old Stoa, and perhaps the Middle Stoa, saw slavery as ‘unnatural’ , and due to Fortune. 48. E.g., Ovid, Metam. 1.89–150; Seneca, Ben. 1.10.1; Ep. 90; Dio, Or. 31.75.

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choice. Again, if, taking the Stoic definition, a human was defined as a ‘rational, mortal animal’ (Epictetus, Diatr. 2.9.2), then only in preserving this rational capacity was one’s humanness preserved. In denying nature, that is, in living contrary to reason, one’s humanity was lost (Epictetus, Diatr. 2.10.16). It was the assumption of all the philosophical schools that the power to achieve these ends was available to people from within, from the most essential part of the person or else from some inborn faculty. The axiom that one ought not to look to another or to the gods for what is available within oneself was common across the philosophical schools of the Hellenistic period (Epicurus, Vatican Sayings 65; Seneca, Ep. 80.4–5; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.9.32; 1.29.4). The philosophers, however, were also conscious of human shortcomings. Plato quotes a saying attributed to Pittacus of Pytilene, one among the group of Seven Sages of the sixth century BCE, but apparently approved of by all the sages:  ‘It is hard to be good’ (Prot. 343B). Similar was the truism, widely attested in the sources, ‘To err is human’ (e.g. Cicero, Phil. 12.2.5; Demonax in Lucian, Dem. 7). The philosophers often remarked upon the fact that vice prevailed particularly among the masses.49 The tension between philosophical theory and the troubling facts of human experience demanded a great deal of attention from Seneca. As a Stoic, he remained stalwartly devoted to the premise that virtue was in accordance with nature. All that one needed for virtue nature had already given (Cons. Polyb. 5.1; 13.4; Ep. 50.9). It is available within oneself (Ep. 41.1–2). To live virtuously is to live in accordance with one’s own nature (Ep. 41.9). Nature has so endowed us as to rise equal to God (Ep. 31.9–10; 41.4; 48.12; 59.14; 73.16), nay, even beyond him (Ep. 53.11; 92.28; Prov. 6.6). Even the most hardened sinner can be changed (Ep. 50.5– 6). Virtue is easy to attain (Ira 2.13.1–2; Clem. 1.6.4). It is possible to reach perfection, even in the body (Ep. 32.2–5; 64.5; 79.13). In more than one place, Seneca insists unequivocally that the notion of the ‘wise man’ , perfect in virtue, was not merely hypothetical (a claim widely contested among the philosophers): ‘He is not a fiction of us Stoics, a sort of phantom glory of human nature, nor is he a mere conception, the mighty semblance of a thing unreal, but we have shown him in the flesh just as we delineate him, and shall show him’ (Const. 6.3–8). Yet, countering such assertions are repeated statements from Seneca expressing almost total despair in humanity. Few wise men have ever existed (Vit. Beat. 17.3, 4; Marc. 5.2; Const. 7.1). One has not walked the earth for centuries (Tranq. 7.4–5). Now, there is no one wise (Ben. 4.26.2–3). All are fools (Ben. 4.26.2–3), all slaves to vice (Tranq. 10.3; Ep. 47.1). ‘Innocence is not rare – it is non-existent’ (Ira 2.9.1). ‘To be a human being is an even greater and truer excuse for error than to be a child’ (Ira 2.10.3). ‘None of us is free from fault’ (Ira 2.28.1). ‘All have sinned’ (Clem. 1.6.3), ‘all are wicked’ (Ira 3.26.3–4), ‘all ungodly’ (Ben. 5.17.3). Seneca, however, was not prepared to allow these observations to nullify his Stoic

49.  See, for example, Dio, Or. 32.20–25, 27–28; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.18.3, 7, 9–11; 28.10– 11; Plutarch, Mor. 6.188D, 196D, 197B; Heraclitus, Ep. 2; 4; 5; Pseudo-Diogenes, Ep. 27.

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convictions about true human ‘nature’. Virtue in fact is our nature, but it first lies fallow (Ben. 5.25.6): nature has not equipped us with wisdom itself but only with the faculty necessary for acquiring it (Ep. 90.2), scattering in our souls the seeds of knowledge (Ep. 73.16; 120.4; 123.16), which, if nurtured, may grow to maturity in virtue (Ep. 94.29; 108.8). People, however, are evil before they become virtuous (Ep. 50.7–8). Although endowed by nature with the seeds of virtue, we ‘live backwards’ , ‘swerve from nature’ , ‘row against the current’ (Ep. 122.19) and finally abandon nature under the vile influence of the mob (Ep. 94.31; 109.17; 123.6–9). Virtue arises only later, through training and through error (Ep. 68.14; 90.45–46; 120.4; Clem. 1.6.4). The first step is one’s recognition of the power available within (Ep. 116.8). Through various stages of progress one arrives at last at wisdom, a restoration of one’s natural condition, which the influence of others has driven from us (Ep. 94.68–69). For Seneca, then, evil is not innate, but learned (Ep. 94.55), and universal as it is, it does not reflect one’s true nature. For the vast crowds of people in antiquity who claimed no allegiance to the philosophical schools, one of course cannot properly speak of any ‘theory’ of human ends. Not that most people had the leisure to devote themselves to a life of speculation had they wanted to. Rather the vast majority of people were concerned more with basic needs like maintaining an adequate diet, bringing in a good crop or earning a subsistence income, protecting themselves against the severity of nature, keeping themselves and their families healthy, bearing offspring to ensure the family’s survival.50 Such purposes have sometimes been referred to as matters of ‘ordinary human flourishing’.51 This was a more modest ‘end’ , but it was the ‘end’ of most people nonetheless. For many such people, what it meant to be ‘human’ might well have been defined in terms of mortality: some might stave off death for longer, but all give in to it eventually. Particularly at a time when lifespans were much shorter, death was a reality that stared everyone in the face, even the self-sufficient philosophers. Thus Seneca said, ‘death is human (humanum)’ (Cons. Polyb. 10.6; Ep. 99.8; 123.16). This unites us, makes us all equal (Cons. Poly. 17.2; Ep. 99.9).

Conclusions Any attempt to summarize the sweep of ‘Greco-Roman views on anthropology’ , – that is, to summarize what the entirety of the civilized Western world over a period of a millennium believed about what it meant to be ‘human’  – is bound to be selective. As expected, what has been covered reveals a wide variety of views in

50. Recent studies estimate that, in first-century urban contexts, some 70 to 80 per cent of people sat near (= at or just above) or below subsistence level. The percentage was probably still greater in the countryside. See Timothy A. Brookins, ‘Economic Profiling of Early Christian Communities’ , in Paul and Economics (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress, 2016), 57–88. 51. Taylor, A Secular Age, 16–20.

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each of the areas covered. When it came to the question of human composition, there was no unified viewpoint. Although all people seem to have assumed the existence of the ‘soul’ as the body’s animating principle, the questions of whether the soul consisted of one part or many, whether it retained perception following death, whether it existed eternally or only for a time, received a variety of answers. Moreover, people never found total agreement as to what constituted the ‘self ’ , who counted as fully ‘human’ and what kind of life defined ultimate ‘human’ life. It should be reiterated here that all of the ‘theoretical’ anthropological discussion that has survived in the literary sources records the views of only the elite minority. The indirect evidence attesting to more ‘popular’ conceptions of humanity suggests that other people could differ fundamentally from elites in the ways they viewed human composition, the self, and human ends, even if over time elite views often permeated down to the masses. Aside from medical, philosophical and theological treatises, moreover, the chief evidence consists in often ambiguous material finds; tendentious satirical representations of popular views by elites; and mythical accounts that no doubt blended religious beliefs with literary imagination. Thus there is a certain lack of systematicity in the presentation of the evidence. But as has been suggested, there must also have been an unsystematic quality to the beliefs themselves. The evidence suggests that a number of models of the self and the afterlife existed side by side, and people who were troubled less by the demands of philosophical consistency than they were by daily pressures for survival could, within the standing options, select what best suited their circumstances or deepest longings. Lastly, it may be helpful to draw together those aspects of this survey where ancient theoretical assumptions about anthropology seem to depart fundamentally from modern ones. There are several notable points of difference. First, ancient theoretical discussions did not present the ψυχή merely as the ‘mind’ , as in modern psychology (ψυχο-λογία), but as a much broader life ‘principle’ , explaining not only perception and thought in living things but also growth and movement. Second, most ancient theories regarded the ψυχή as part of the physical world, as part of the φύσις (‘nature’), not as an immaterial substance that somehow transcended it. Plato, with his dualistic separation of the body as part of the sensible world from the soul as part of the higher, insensible realm, represented the exception rather than the rule. (One might say in general, then, that what antiquity has left us is a range of ‘non-Cartesian’ anthropological options.) Third, most thinkers up until Aristotle apparently regarded the soul as ‘incorporeal’ , even though they also thought that it consisted of ‘matter’ or the ‘elements’ (Aristotle, De an. 405B). Thus, incorporeality was not necessarily synonymous with immateriality. Fourth, many philosophers regarded the soul as something divine, if not as a portion of God himself, even those philosophers (like the Stoics) who considered the soul to be part of the physical world. Fifth, ancient theories as a whole avoided explanations of human composition that effectively reduced the human to a single substance. Even philosophers like the Stoics and Epicureans, who did consider the soul to be in some sense ‘corporeal’ , refused to reduce humanity to ‘body’ or any single substance. This avoidance of reductionism might be explained in part by

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the fact that they did not have the ‘scientific bridging laws’ to provide the kind of complete empirical explanations sought and often thought possible to reach today.52 On the other hand, the ancient philosophers were not minded to think that their ‘science’ was inadequate to begin with (excepting perhaps the Sceptics in the tradition of Plato) or that their explanations were anything less than complete. The Stoics, for instance, assumed with absolute certainty that they were correct in their very technical account of the human, and yet they did not see the completeness of their account as grounds for reducing things finally to a single substance. Sixth, the boundaries marking off the ‘individual’ were in general much fuzzier in the ancient imagination than they have been in Western thinking over the past several centuries. In contrast with the modern ‘buffered self ’ , the ancient self was ‘porous’ , open and implicated with other selves, as we have seen, for example, in the Stoic view of ‘sympathy’ between the parts of the cosmos. These differences in themselves, however, reveal at least one fundamental similarity between ancient and modern people: in neither age have we been able to explain to everyone’s satisfaction the nature of the ‘human being’.

52. Annas, Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind, 4–5.

Chapter 5 T H E F A M I L IA L A N T H R O P O L O G Y O F M AT T H EW ’ S   G O SP E L Amy Richter

Introduction What does it mean to be human according to Matthew’s Gospel? Matthew’s primary interest is not anthropological; soteriology shapes the story he tells and the people who populate it. When Matthew1 describes human beings, it is their positive or negative response to Jesus’ actions or teachings that informs his description. Indeed, in Matthew, different groups of people characteristically respond to Jesus in different ways. Are they obedient, doing ‘the will of my Father who sent me’ (Mt. 12:50)? This is the response of the disciples, those Jesus identifies as his family, ‘my brother and sister and mother’ (Mt. 12:50). Are they ‘like sheep without a shepherd’ , eliciting Jesus’ compassion (Mt. 9:36)? These are the crowds who come to Jesus (Mt. 15:30) and follow Jesus (Mt. 4:25; 8:1; 19:20), but obey the prompting of the chief priests and elders in calling for Jesus’ crucifixion (Mt. 27:22–23). Do they ‘test Jesus’2 (Mt. 19:3), ‘attempt to trap him’ (Mt. 22:15), question the source of his authority (Mt. 21:23) or scheme how to put him to death (Mt. 26:59)? These are the responses of the religious leaders:  Pharisees, scribes, Herodians, chief priests and elders. How people respond to Jesus shows whether or not they understand and embrace Jesus and his efforts to ‘save his people from their sin’ (Mt. 1:21), as the angel describes Jesus’ mission when instructing Joseph to name him Jesus. It is the response of human beings to Jesus that Matthew is interested in, not their humanness per se. However, we can look at the humans who populate the first Gospel and draw inferences about Matthew’s anthropology. Because of the evangelist’s interest in Jesus and his impact on humanity, we see not just what Matthew thinks it means to 1. I follow the convention of calling the person responsible for the Gospel of Matthew by the name Matthew. I also address the Gospel as we have it in its final redacted form; I do not address its various sources or possible redactions, other than to make some comparisons with the Gospel of Mark, which I view as one of Matthew’s sources. 2. All translations are the author’s.

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be human, but what it should mean. That is, Matthew presents a range, from what is true of all humans to what he believes can be true of all humans. Indeed, this is his aim: he hopes his Gospel will have an effect on the reader, that the reader too might participate in what Matthew presents as the best way to be human. When we look at the human participants in Matthew’s Gospel and what, according to Matthew, Jesus wants for their lives as humans, we find that humans’ most fundamental attribute is their existence as relational beings. The best human relationship – that makes the best human life possible – is to become part of Jesus’ family, those Jesus calls his ‘brother and sister and mother’ and also refers to as his children. The hallmark of human relationships among Jesus’ family members is forgiveness, but forgiveness is also to be shown to people as yet outside Jesus’ family and even to those who persecute Jesus and his family. It is in the context of the topic of forgiveness that we see Matthew’s unique and striking uses of the word ἄνθρωπος. Humans are also meant to pray and worship God and Jesus, aware that human life is affected by the heavenly, as well as the earthly realm.

Humans in Family Relationships In Matthew’s Gospel, human beings in familial relationships figure prominently. These relationships take two forms: families related by blood or marriage (I refer to both as biological families) and family redefined in terms of allegiance to Jesus and his teaching. Matthew grants Jesus’ new family superior status over biological families, although such superiority does not come with special earthly privilege. Rather, the family of Jesus has as its hallmark costly forgiveness, both within the family of Jesus and shown to those who are not members of the family. We look first at how biological families are portrayed, then at how Jesus defines family, and finally at some examples of people who are related by both blood and discipleship. Biological Families in Matthew Matthew provides several stories of human beings who are family members, related by blood or marriage and Jesus’ response to them. Jesus’ responses to the various biologically based relationships vary. To some, Jesus responds positively; of others, Jesus makes a negative judgement because they impede people’s ability to be allied with Jesus. We look at positive examples first. Positive Biological Familial Relationships Although we will see Jesus’ preference for the family he redefines in terms of obedience, Jesus does not disparage biological family relationships per se. Jesus promotes the commandment of God to honour one’s father and mother (Exod. 20:12; Deut. 5:16) as one of the commandments to keep in order ‘to enter into life’ (Mt. 19:19). Accordingly, Jesus castigates the Pharisees and scribes for ‘transgressing the commandment of God on account of [their] tradition’ (Mt. 15:3), essentially breaking this commandment, by teaching that Corban is acceptable, that is, that one may state that one’s possessions belong to God rather

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than use them to support one’s parents (Mt. 15:5–6).3 When the Pharisees test Jesus by asking him whether it is permissible for a man to divorce his wife for any reason (Mt. 19:3), Jesus replies that divorce is permissible only in cases of unchastity (Mt. 19:9). To support his view, Jesus quotes two statements from Genesis (‘the one who made them at the beginning “made them male and female,” ’ Gen. 1:27; 5:2, and ‘for this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh’ , Gen. 2:24). Jesus gives these passages primacy over the Pharisees’s objection that Moses commanded (ἐνετείλατο) men to give a certificate of divorce (Mt. 19:7). Jesus demotes the Pharisees’ claim that Moses’s words were a ‘command’ to mere ‘permission’ given by Moses (ἐπέτρεψεν) because of people’s ‘hardness of heart’ (Mt.19:8). Jesus upholds the keeping of the commandment to honour one’s parents; he upholds the bond of marriage. In both, he grounds his view in God’s commandment and his own interpretation of scripture. Matthew also provides examples where people in biological familial relationships bring the people with whom they are in these relationships to Jesus for restoration to life and for healing. These examples do not show support for the relationships themselves but do provide examples where the care of one human being for another is appropriately shown by bringing the person to Jesus or Jesus to the person. In this way, family relationships may be vehicles through which Jesus’ kingdom is proclaimed, experienced and even extended. In Mt. 9:18, a ruler whose daughter has just died comes to Jesus with the faith that if Jesus lays his hand on her she will live. In Mt. 15:22, a mother in distress for her demon-possessed daughter asks Jesus to help her. In Mt. 8:14–15, Jesus cures Peter’s mother-in-law of a fever, although Jesus does this upon seeing her (εἶδεν τὴν πενθερὰν αὐτου βεβλημένηω καὶ πυπέσσουσαν) rather than explicitly at Peter’s request. In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus interacts with children, as he does in Mark and Luke. However, when people bring children to Jesus in Matthew, those who bring them  – one might presume it is parents who do this  – are missing from direct interaction with Jesus in the scene because of the use of the passive voice: ‘children were brought to him’ (προσηνέχθησαν αὐτῷ παιδία; Mt. 19:13).4 The disciples rebuke ‘them’ (αὐτοις; we presume, again, the previously unmentioned parents5). Thus the scene, described literally, shows Jesus with the children while the disciples interact with the parents. In Matthew’s telling, the emphasis is placed squarely on Jesus’ desire that children come to him, unhindered, ‘for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs’ (Mt. 19:14). In Matthew’s Gospel, people are beings in relation, including in biological relationships. Jesus supports the honouring of parents and prohibiting of divorce, 3. Donald Senior, Matthew (ANTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 1998), 175. 4.  In Mark and Luke, parents are not specified, but the verb form is active, ‘they were bringing’ (προσέφερον; Mk. 13:13; Lk. 18:15). 5. Translators who want to indicate it is the people who bring the children, rather than the children whom the disciples rebuke supply, instead of ‘them’ , ‘the people’ (RSV, ESV) or ‘those who brought them’ (NRSV). Others change the passive ‘was brought’ to ‘people brought’ and maintain ‘them’ as the object of the disciples’ rebuke (NIV, CEB).

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except in cases of unchastity. Family members bring their family members to Jesus and Jesus cares for them. Although the familial relationship may be regarded as merely an aspect of the context, Jesus’ response – raising from the dead, healing, praying and blessing – indicates that an appropriate use of familial relationships is as a vehicle to bring someone into relationship with Jesus. Negative Biological Familial Relationships However, Matthew also provides some examples of people who misuse their familial relationships. Already mentioned earlier is the example of the Pharisees whose interpretation of scripture allows them to, in Jesus’ words, ‘nullify (ἠκυρώσατε) the word of God’ (Mt. 15:6) concerning the command to honour father and mother. But in Mt. 14:1–12, we see a family, made by both blood and marriage, that exemplifies unrighteousness on several fronts: the relationship of the adults (husband and wife) is illicit, the mother influences her daughter to do something terrible and the stepfather makes and keeps a foolish oath. John the Baptist had criticized the marriage of Herod to Herod’s brother Philip’s wife, Herodias, as unlawful. Herod imprisoned John and wanted to kill him but did not because John was regarded as a prophet by the crowd (Mt. 14:4–5). However, on Herod’s birthday, Herod made an oath to grant any wish of his step-daughter, the daughter of Herodias. Herodias then prompted her daughter to request the head of John the Baptist on a platter (Mt. 14:6–8). Herod regrets this turn of events, but keeps his oath rather than disappoint his guests and deny his step-daughter’s horrific demand. Here are family dynamics at their worst. Although Herod’s is a family with earthly power, it is a family devoid of obedience to God. Herod makes an oath; readers of Matthew’s Gospel know that Jesus taught the disciples to carry out the oaths they make to God (Mt. 5:33), but to make no oaths to anyone else, ‘Let your word be yes, yes, or no, no; anything beyond this is from the evil one’ (Mt. 5:37). Herod is more concerned about how he is seen by the humans around him than about how God sees him. Later, in Mt. 23:5, Jesus will condemn the scribes and Pharisees for doing everything ‘to be seen by people [πρὸς τὸ θεαθῆναι τοῖς ἀνθρώποις]’. Herod is obedient, but to the macabre demands of a child.6 The child is obedient, but to the vicious prompting of her revenge-seeking mother. For Matthew, then, humans find themselves in familial relationships, but the fact of the relationship is not a good in itself. In order for the relationship to result in some good for human beings, people must keep God’s commandments regarding the relationship, or use the relationship as a vehicle for faithfulness to Jesus, new life for the dead, healing of those who suffer or the blessing of children. Jesus treated the biological family ‘as subject to God’s ethics, a potential competitor for one’s loyalties, and a vehicle for kingdom expansion’.7 6. The text does not provide the age of the daughter of Herodias; she is a child in terms of her relationship to her mother. 7. Cynthia Long Westfall, ‘Family in the Gospel and Acts’ , in Family in the Bible: Exploring Customs, Culture, and Context, ed. Richard S. Hess and M. Daniel Carroll R. (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2003), 125–47 (135).

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Better Brothers, Sisters, Mothers, Sons: The People Who Belong to Jesus Matthew adds one further dimension to the relative goodness or unworthiness of human familial relationships: people must give higher allegiance to Jesus, choosing obedience and relationship with him over their blood relations, in order to meet Jesus’ definition of what makes for ‘family’. Jesus has a biological family with whom he is identified. His biological mother is Mary. He has unnamed biological sisters and named biological brothers, James, Joseph, Simon and Judas (Mt. 13:55). People from his hometown call him ‘the carpenter’s son’ (Mt. 13:55), although Joseph, emphatically, according to Matthew, is not Jesus’ biological father (Mt. 1:18–20). However, Jesus redefines his family, and the family to which his disciples belong, as those whose allegiance is to Jesus and who follow Jesus’ teaching. Family, as Jesus conceives of it, is not made through blood or marriage, but rather through obedience to God’s will. This shift from biological family to the importance of family redefined by Jesus is witnessed even in Jesus’ own genealogy with which the Gospel begins. The genealogy of Jesus (Mt. 1:1–17) shows that people find their identity partly in terms of their relationships with their biological families. Jesus is identified in terms of his ancestors, the noteworthy people in Israel’s history from whom he is descended. Jesus is the son three times fourteen generations from Abraham, two times fourteen generations from the great king David, and fourteen generations from Jeconiah. Jesus’ human ancestors can be named and the generations counted. And then we come to Jesus. With him, the chain of one generation fathering the next is broken, and we read instead that Joseph is ‘the husband of Mary, from whom Jesus was born, who is called the Messiah’ (Mt. 1:16). Rather than using the aorist active of ἐγέννησεν (‘fathered’ , ‘begot’) as in all the previous generations, with Jesus the verb form is changed to the aorist passive ἐγεννήθη (‘was conceived’ or ‘was born’). Called the ‘divine passive’ ,8 the verb form indicates that Jesus’ birth is different from the previous sons’. Jesus is part of a different kind of family. Just so, he will make a new kind of family later in the narrative. Jesus redefines family. Although his biological mother is regarded positively in Matthew, when Mary and Jesus’ brothers were outside of the place where Jesus was speaking and seek to speak with him, Jesus asks, ‘ “Who are my mother, and who are my brothers?” and stretching out his hand upon his disciples he said, “Behold, my mother and my brothers. For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother” ’ (Mt. 12:46–50). Jesus’ identifying those who do his Father’s will as mother and brother and sister will be contrasted again with his biological family when Jesus is in his hometown. The people ‘who knew him when’ are astounded by Jesus’ teaching and ask, ‘Isn’t this the carpenter’s son? Isn’t his mother called Mary and his brothers James and Joseph and Simon and Judas? And aren’t all his sisters with us?’ (Mt. 13:55–56). 8.  W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew 1:  Introduction and Commentary on Matthew I-VII (ICC, 1, repr., London; New York: T&T Clark, 2004 ed., 2006), 184.

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The people take offence at him, perhaps because they cannot identify the source of his teaching,9 or perhaps because as the eldest biological son of Mary, Jesus’ primary responsibility would be to take care of her and the rest of his biological family, not to wander the countryside with a band of disciples. Ironically, the onlookers may think that Jesus is breaking the commandment to honour his father and mother, the same commandment about which Jesus criticizes the Pharisees in Mt. 15:1–9 and promotes in Mt. 19:19 as an aspect of the key to entering life. It is not biological ties that bind in Jesus’ community; doing the will of the Father is what makes one part of Jesus’ family. Fathers are noticeably absent from Jesus’ new family, since ‘you have one Father – the one in heaven’ (Mt. 23:9). Therefore, it is appropriate that ‘father’ is missing from Jesus’ list of family members when Jesus names those who do his Father’s will as his brother and sister and mother (Mt. 12:50). Jesus calls on this heavenly Father often10 and invites the brothers and sisters in his family to claim the same Father as well, including in the prayer he teaches his disciples, now sometimes known as ‘the Our Father’ (Mt. 6:9–13). Jesus calls the pure in heart, the ‘sons of God’ (Mt. 5:9) and tells his followers to obey his teaching so they will be ‘sons of your Father who is in heaven’ (Mt. 5:45).11 However, Jesus also refers to his followers as his own ‘sons’. In Mt. 9:15, he refers to himself as ‘the bridegroom’ and his followers as ‘sons of the bridegroom’ who ‘cannot mourn as long as the bridegroom is with them’. In Mt. 9:2, Jesus calls the paralyzed man ‘child’ or ‘son’ (τέκνον) before forgiving the man’s sins. Jesus is father to his disciples and the man he forgives and heals; Jesus is the one in whom they are to find their identity and from whom they are to learn how to live in the world, both with their brothers and sisters in Jesus and with those outside the family of Jesus. Jesus also uses ‘son’ language to identify those who do not follow him: in his parable of wheat and weeds (Mt. 13:38) the weeds are the ‘sons of the evil one;’ the Pharisees are the ‘sons of those who murdered the prophets’ (Mt. 23:31) who make their disciples ‘sons of hell’ (Mt. 23:35).12 The contrast between the family of Jesus and the evil sons drives home the point made in Matthew. People have biological families, but the family that matters most for one’s identity is whether one is allied with the family of Jesus or the enemy. The importance to Jesus of familial language to describe his disciples and their proper relationship with him as well as to his ‘heavenly Father’ shows dramatically in the language Jesus uses in Matthew. Not only does Jesus repeatedly use familial terms to refer to those closest to him, but the word ‘disciple’ to describe Jesus’ adherents is used only by the narrator and others in the story, with one noteworthy 9.  Daniel J. Harrington, The Gospel of Matthew (SP 1; Collegeville:  Michael Glazier, 1991), 213. 10. Matthew uses ‘Father’ 44 times; Mark, 4 times; Luke, 17 times. Harrington, The Gospel of Matthew, 41. 11. Harrington, The Gospel of Matthew, 41. 12. Harrington, The Gospel of Matthew, 40.

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exception. ‘His disciples’ is used multiple times when some action is described by the narrator; for example, ‘his disciples came to him’ (Mt. 5:1); ‘his disciples followed him’ (Mt. 8:23); ‘he asked his disciples’ (Mt. 16:13). Others report the failure, or perceived failure, of Jesus’ disciples, identifying them as ‘your disciples;’ for example, ‘When the Pharisees saw it, they said to Jesus, “Look, your disciples are doing what is not lawful to do on the sabbath”’ (Mt. 12:2); the Pharisees and scribes: ‘Why do your disciples transgress the tradition of the elders?’ (Mt. 15:2); the man with a son who is epileptic:  ‘I brought him to your disciples, but they could not heal him’ (Mt. 17:16). Jesus calls his disciples his family; others refer to them as his ‘disciples’. Jesus says ‘my disciples’ only once, and this usage reinforces the familial language Jesus regularly uses to refer to those others addressed as his disciples. In Mt. 26:17–19, the time has come to make preparations for the Passover. Jesus tells his disciples to go ‘to a certain man, and say to him, “the Teacher says, my time is near; I will keep the Passover with you with my disciples”’ (Mt. 26:18). This may indicate more than just that Jesus wants the man to know Jesus is bringing company along when he keeps the Passover with the unnamed man. Jesus is not keeping the Passover with his biological family; the family with whom he is keeping the Passover is the family of his disciples.13 If Jesus had said ‘my family’ to the man, the man may have misunderstood who was coming to dinner. By saying ‘my disciples’ , the man knows it is not Jesus’ biological family. By this point in the narrative, the reader understands that Jesus’ disciples are, in fact, Jesus’ family. When one is faced with the need to choose between one’s biological family and Jesus, Jesus makes it clear the proper choice is him. He says, ‘The one who loves a father or a mother more than me is not worthy of me; and the one who loves a son or a daughter more than me is not worthy of me’ (Mt.10:37). Those who ally themselves with Jesus should expect that this choice will bring division within biological families. Jesus says, ‘I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in law; and a person’s enemies will be members of one’s own household’ (Mt. 10:35–36). Jesus promises, however, that those who give up relationships and the material well-being possible from the stability of living in biological families will be rewarded with a hundredfold replacement family members, houses and lands in the next world (Mt. 19:29). In Matthew’s Gospel, being humans means being part of a biological family, but Jesus redefines family as those who follow him, ally themselves with him and are obedient to his teaching, doing the will of God. Jesus uses familial terms when speaking to his disciples and wants them to see themselves as being brothers and sisters of one another and children of the heavenly father. Allegiance to Jesus will cause rifts in biological families; however, Jesus promises the reward of a greater and more numerous family to those who give up their families-by-blood to follow him and be part of his redefined family.

13.  Jonathan T. Pennington, ‘Christian Psychology and the Gospel of Matthew’ , Edification: Journal of the Society for Christian Psychology 3, no. 2 (2009): 39–48 (41).

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Brother-Disciples and a Mother-Disciple In Matthew’s Gospel, biological family members may be members of Jesus’ family as well. For example, Simon and Andrew, the first disciples called by Jesus, are both biological brothers and brother-disciples. The story of Jesus’ call to them highlights their identities as biological brothers and brothers in Jesus’ family. Jesus sees two brothers who are fishing, and they are identified as Simon and Andrew (Mt. 4:18). If Matthew is here using Mark’s account of the same event as the basis for his story, then Matthew makes one noteworthy change from Mark. Matthew adds wording redundant from a strictly logical point of view, but wording indicative of his theological intent. Where Mark identifies the two fishermen as ‘Simon and Andrew the brother of Simon’ (Mk 1:16), Matthew uses the more cumbersome, but theologically important, ‘two brothers, Simon who is called Peter and Andrew his brother’ (Mt. 4:18). These two biological brothers are also both followers of Jesus and therefore ‘brothers’ in the new family Jesus makes. His first recruits are these two fishermen whom Jesus makes ‘fishers of people’ (ά λεῖς ἀν θρώπων; Mt. 4:19). These biological brothers who are brother-disciples, members of Jesus’ new family, now join Jesus as he reaches out to people. Jesus wants their help in making human beings, ἄν θρωποι, into his people who will do the will of his Father and become his brother and sister and mother (Mt.12:50). The mother of two other biological brothers and brother-disciples provides another interesting case. After Jesus calls Simon and Andrew, Jesus calls two more brothers, who are also fishermen, James and John (Mt. 4:21). Like Simon and Andrew, James and John, are also identified with a redundant ‘brother’ in Mt. 4:21 (‘James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother’), an unnecessary, logically speaking, identifier since the sentence begins by saying that Jesus ‘saw two other brothers’ (Mt. 4:21). This second pair of brothers immediately demonstrate their allegiance to Jesus and their willingness to join Jesus’ family by leaving their biological father, Zebedee, behind. However, James and John’s mother shows up twice later in the story, once with her two sons and once without them, but with other women at Jesus’ crucifixion. In the first case, she is an example of a biological family member who does not understand what is required of Jesus’ family members. In the second, she demonstrates her identity as part of Jesus’ family. In Mt. 20:20–28, the mother of James and John, along with James and John themselves, comes to Jesus to ask for positions of honour for her sons in Jesus’ kingdom. The fact that none of the three biologically related people understand that this request is inappropriate is shown in how Matthew refers to her. She is the ‘mother of the sons of Zebedee’ (Mt. 20:20). Not the heavenly Father, not Jesus, but Zebedee is still the referent father of these sons. In seeking honour for them, and in their presence, she demonstrates that none of them understands the nature of membership in Jesus’ family. The request concerning James and John also ruptures relationship with the other ten disciples. They are angry about ‘the two brothers’ (Mt. 20:24), not about ‘their brothers’ , as they should be viewed within Jesus’

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family. Jesus uses the event to remind them that Jesus’ purpose, and therefore theirs as his disciples, is ‘not to be served but to serve’ (Mt. 20:28). We meet the mother of the sons of Zebedee, still identified by this name, again in Mt. 27:55–56, looking on from a distance at Jesus’ crucifixion. She is one of a group of women ‘who had followed Jesus from Galilee, serving him’ (Mt. 27:55). That is, at this point in the narrative she is described as doing what Jesus instructed his disciples to do: follow and serve, not be served. In serving Jesus, she chooses Jesus. She demonstrates concern for Jesus, whereas in the other episode her concern is for her sons.14 However, at the cross, none of the twelve named disciples is present, including the sons of Zebedee. In this scene, the moniker ‘mother of the sons of Zebedee’ serves as a reminder, not of her misunderstanding but of James’s and John’s absence. At the cross, the sons’ mother is present. The sons have, at least at this moment, chosen identity with Zebedee over identity with Jesus.

Family Resemblances Matthew regards the family made by Jesus as superior to biological families in forming the best human life. Jesus identifies doing the will of God as the familial bond between the members of the family. But what is the will of God to which Jesus refers? In what sort of behaviour do the human beings in Jesus’ family engage? What makes them distinct as a group from other human beings who are not members of the family? The hallmark of Jesus’ family is forgiveness. Repeated references to forgiveness in Matthew show that this behaviour is what most distinguishes Jesus’ disciples from other human beings. Later in this chapter additional practices will be addressed that distinguish disciples from other groups of people, but the frequency of references to forgiveness show it to be key to Matthew’s anthropology. Human beings can forgive and must in order to live most fully as human beings. It is within the context of the discussion on the disciples’ practice of forgiveness that we see Matthew use the word ἄνθρωπος15 in ways that are distinct from its use in the Gospels of Mark and Luke. These distinct uses of ἄνθρωπος show the costly nature of the forgiveness that distinguishes the family of Jesus from other human beings. Costly Forgiveness: ἄνθρωπος as Person and Persecutor Jesus’ disciples are to forgive not only their brother- and sister-disciples, they are to forgive human beings, those identified as ἄνθρωπος. More than simply indicating ‘forgive everyone’ , Matthew’s use of ἄνθρωπος in the context of persecution indicates 14.  Emily Cheney, ‘The Mother of the Sons of Zebedee (Matthew 27.56)’ , JSNT 68 (1997): 13–21 (17). 15. For the sake of convenience, I refer to ἄνθρωπος throughout this section rather than using the various forms that occur in the Greek text.

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that disciples are to forgive people whom it could be very difficult: people who persecute them as they did Jesus. It will be helpful to mention two ways Matthew uses ἄνθρωπος that are similar to how the word is used in Mark and Luke as well, as a way to indicate human beings in general and in contrast to the divine. Matthew also shows ἄνθρωπος not just in contrast to the divine, but in opposition to the divine through persecution of Jesus and his disciples. This last way in which Matthew uses ἄνθρωπος makes it all the more striking that disciples are to forgive ἄνθρωπος. ἄνθρωπος in Matthew  – Human Beings in General and as Inferior to the Heavenly Matthew sometimes uses the word ἄνθρωπος as a broad and inclusive term to indicate human beings generally, for example, in Mt. 4:19 when he says he will make Simon and Peter fishers of people. In Mt. 12:12, in a controversy with the Pharisees over Jesus’ healing on the sabbath, Jesus says a human being, whom he has healed, is more valuable than a sheep, for whom care can be shown on the sabbath. This is a statement about the value of all human beings. Matthew also uses ἄνθρωπος to draw a contrast between the divine, which is superior, and the human, which is inferior. For example, in Mt. 19:26, the powerlessness of humanity is contrasted with God’s power:  ‘for human beings this is impossible, but for God, all things are possible’. When the chief priests and elders ask Jesus by what authority he has acted and who was the source of his authority, Jesus asks a question of his own in reply:  ‘Did the baptism of John come from heaven or from human beings [ἐξ άνθρώπων]?’ (Mt. 21:25). This question silences Jesus’ opponents: if they reply that John’s baptism came from heaven, it bears an authority they must recognize; if they reply that it was of human origin, those who believe John was a prophet will say they are debasing John. In these examples, shared by the other synoptic Gospels, the labelling of something as ‘human’ shows it to be of lesser value than the divine. The Sermon on the Mount contains a uniquely Matthean use of ἄνθρωπος where another contrast is made between the superior nature of the divine and the inferior nature of the human. In Mt. 6:2, 5, and 16–18, as well as in the summary statement in 6.1 with which the section begins, the reference to ἄνθρωπος concerns those who witness the disciples’ behaviour. Jesus tells his disciples to perform acts of piety not to be seen by humans; they should give alms, pray, and fast in order to be seen and rewarded by the ‘Father who sees in secret’ (Mt. 6:3, 6, 18). Having the divine as witness, rather than human witnesses, will bring rewards that are not subject to decay and theft (Mt. 6:20); if unnoticed by human beings on earth, the rewards of pious acts may be ‘banked’ in heaven, where they will enjoy a permanence not possible on earth.16 ἄνθρωπος in Opposition to Jesus Sometimes ἄνθρωπος indicates not just what is inferior to the divine, but what is in conflict with God’s intentions. Matthew, like

16. Nathan Eubank, ‘Storing Up Treasure with God in the Heavens: Celestial Investments in Matthew 6:1–21’ , CBQ 76 (2014): 77–92 (91).

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Mark and Luke, uses the word ἄνθρωπος to refer to those in conflict with Jesus and his mission. When Jesus says in Mt. 17:22 (as in Mk 9:31 and Lk. 9:44) ‘The Son of Man is going to be betrayed into human hands [εἰς χεῖρας άνθρώπων]’ , it is not happy news for the Son of Man. After Peter rebukes Jesus for saying he must suffer, be killed, and raised, Jesus rebukes Peter for denying Jesus’ mission: ‘you are not thinking of the things of God but of human things [τὰ τῶν ἀνθρώπων]’ (Mt. 16:23 and Mk 8:33) and calls Peter ‘Satan’. It is, according to Jesus, part of the divine purpose that Jesus be handed over to human beings; it is ‘human’ and ‘Satanic’ to desire that Jesus avoid such suffering. When Judas is about to betray Jesus, he is identified specifically as ‘that person [τῷ ἀνθρώπῳ ἐκείνῳ] by whom the Son of Man is betrayed’ (Mt. 26:24; Mk 14:21; Lk. 22:22). These examples show that ἄνθρωπος is used to identify an agent working in opposition to Jesus. ἄνθρωπος in Opposition to Jesus’ Followers However, when it comes to humans’ opposition to Jesus’ disciples, Matthew differs from the parallel passage in Luke by his use of ἄνθρωπος to refer to those who persecute Jesus’ disciples. Matthew alone adds mention of ἄνθρωπος when Jesus warns his disciples that they too will be persecuted as Jesus was. In Mt. 10:17, Jesus says his disciples will be subject to the same treatment as he will be: being handed over to their human enemies. Jesus cautions his disciples, ‘Beware of people [τῶν ἀνθρώπων], for they will hand you over to councils and flog you in their synagogues.’ In contrast, when giving the same warning, Luke does not warn against ‘τῶν ἀνθρώπων’. Instead he warns, ‘When they bring you [εἰσφέρωσιν] before the synagogues, rulers, and authorities’ (Lk. 12:11).17 By warning the disciples about τῶν ἀνθρώπων, Matthew draws the connection between Jesus and his disciples: Jesus is betrayed into human hands (εἰς χεῖρας άνθρώπων), and his family members will be subject to the same abusive treatment. When Jesus then exhorts his disciples to forgive ἄνθρωπος, Jesus commands no easy task. ἄνθρωπος in the Giving and Receiving of Forgiveness Matthew uses ἄνθρωπος in conjunction with forgiveness in ways that Mark and Luke do not: to indicate those whom Jesus’ disciples are to forgive (Mt. 6:14–15), in Jesus’ discussion of divine forgiveness of human beings (Mt. 12:31), and in Matthew’s version of the healing of the man who is paralyzed (Mt. 9:1–8). The contrast with Mark’s and Luke’s accounts shows that Matthew has other options for presenting Jesus’ teaching and how Matthew narrates events. The fact that Matthew includes ἄνθρωπος in these contexts when it is not necessary to do so indicates an emphasis on radical 17.  Not only does Luke not warn against ‘people’ , but he also includes the ‘authorities’ as those before whom Jesus’ followers will be brought. Not so in Matthew, who is careful to reserve for Jesus the notion of authority. See also the temptation in the wilderness, where in Luke’s version, the devil shows Jesus all the kingdoms of the world and says he will give ‘all this authority and their glory; for it has been delivered to me, and I give it to whom I will’ (Lk. 4:6). In Mt. 4:9, the devil says merely ‘all these I will give you’; in Matthew, the devil is denied even claiming to have the authority that Jesus will say has been given to Jesus in Mt. 28:17.

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inclusivity in forgiveness in terms of who must be forgiven and who can have the authority to forgive. In Matthew’s version of the Lord’s Prayer, Jesus teaches his disciples to pray: ‘And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors’ (Mt. 6:12). The correspondence between receiving and granting forgiveness is similar in Luke’s version: ‘and forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone [παντί] who is indebted to us’ (Lk. 11:4). However, in Matthew (Mt. 6:14), after concluding the prayer, Jesus returns to the subject of forgiveness and the expectation that his disciples not only ask for forgiveness but also grant forgiveness. Further, Jesus makes clear that the Father’s forgiveness of them is contingent upon their forgiveness of others: ‘For if you forgive human beings [τοῖς άνθρώποις] their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you do not forgive human beings [τοῖς άνθρώποις], neither will your Father forgive your trespasses’ (Mt. 6:14–15). Jesus seems keen to make crystal clear what could be inferred by the forgiveness clause of the prayer in Mt. 6:12: Father, forgive us – we have forgiven others; if one does not forgive, one ought not to expect to receive forgiveness. However, the use of ἄνθρωπος in his explanation is unnecessary. Matthew could use παντὶ as in Luke or repeat the ‘our debtors’ of the prayer; he need not have inserted τοῖς άνθρώποις. Mark’s version of the teaching that receiving forgiveness is dependent upon granting forgiveness does not contain ἄνθρωπος. In Mark, Jesus says, ‘Forgive if you have anything against anyone [τινος], so that your Father who is in heaven also may forgive you your trespasses’ (Mk 11:25). While Mark and Luke both show Jesus teaching his disciples to forgive anyone and everyone (τινος in Mark, παντί in Luke), Matthew appears to be making a point by his addition of ἄνθρωπος. Not only does ἄνθρωπος indicate human beings in general (the equivalent of ‘anyone and everyone’), but his use of ἄνθρωπος implies something more. The word used in the context of the command to forgive carries a resonance with the persecutors of Mt. 10:17, 17:22 and 26:24, where ἄνθρωπος indicates those who will persecute Jesus and the disciples. It is better to say, perhaps, that when the reader gets to these mentions of persecutors later in the Gospel the reader can associate those human beings (ἄνθρωπος) with the ones disciples are to forgive if disciples expect to receive forgiveness from God. In Matthew, then, Jesus’ insistence on the dependence of the disciples’ receiving forgiveness on their granting of forgiveness to those called ἄνθρωπος is no easy teaching, especially since Matthew identifies as ἄνθρωπος those who oppose Jesus and his mission and will persecute Jesus’ followers. The command to forgive those who oppose and persecute as a reinforcement of the forgiveness petition of the Lord’s Prayer, however, fits with Jesus’ teaching in Matthew to ‘love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you’ (Mt. 5:43). The teaching is one of the antitheses in which Jesus first states what his hearers would identify as accepted teaching and then intensifies it, making a contrast with the original.18 In this case, the accepted teaching was, ‘You shall love your neighbor

18.  On the antitheses, see, for example, Davies and Allison, Matthew 1, 504–71. Davies and Allison call this section ‘The Better Righteousness’ , and stress that Jesus is not

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[τὸν πλησίον σου] and hate your enemy [τὸν ἐχθρὸν σου].’ To love one’s enemies is a more difficult teaching, but it corresponds with the behaviour of those who forgive their oppressors, as Jesus teaches. In this section we examined the connection Jesus makes between granting forgiveness and receiving forgiveness, specifically granting forgiveness to those Matthew calls ἄνθρωπος, that is, to those identified elsewhere in Matthew as those who oppose Jesus and his mission, and who will oppose his disciples. This difficult teaching concerning forgiveness of those who persecute is consistent with Jesus’ teaching to love enemies and pray for persecutors. ἄνθρωπος Will Be Forgiven Every Sin and Blasphemy Another place where Matthew connects ἄνθρωπος with forgiveness occurs in the passage about forgiveness of ἄνθρωπος for sin and blasphemy (Mt. 12:31–32). The presumed granter of forgiveness in this case is God,19 so the passage is about divine forgiveness of ἄνθρωπος. The context for the passage, as in its parallels in Mark 3:28–29 and Luke 12:10, is Jesus’ speaking about the forgiveness of sin and blasphemy, but the denial of forgiveness to anyone who speaks against the Holy Spirit. In Mt. 12:31, and in contrast to Luke’s version, Jesus utters the word ‘people’ when speaking about the forgiveness they will receive:  ‘all sin and blasphemy will be forgiven people [τοῖς ἀνθρώποις]’. In Luke’s version, ‘everyone [πᾶς] who speaks a word against the Son of Man will be forgiven’ (Lk. 12:10). In Mk 3:28, Jesus promises ‘all sins will be forgiven the sons of human beings [τοῖς υὶοῖς τῶν ἀνθρώπων]’. Noting the parallels here points out that there are different ways Matthew could convey the information without the use of ἄνθρωπος. Like Luke, he could use πᾶς or the longer τοῖς υὶοῖς τῶν ἀνθρώπων of Mark. But if Matthew did either, the resonances with other uses of ἄνθρωπος and forgiveness would be lost. Here again Matthew connects forgiveness with ἄνθρωπος. In this way, Matthew makes it clear that forgiveness of human beings is to be done by disciples (as discussed earlier) and that God is ready to forgive all but the one sin deemed unforgivable. When disciples forgive ἄνθρωπος they are emulating divine forgiveness, which is broad and inclusive in its reach. The Authority to Forgive Has Been Given to ἄνθρωπος Perhaps the most striking instance in which forgiveness and ἄνθρωπος appear together in Matthew is in the story of the healing of the paralytic (Mt. 9:1–8), notable for its differences from Mark’s and Luke’s versions (Mk 2:1–12; Lk. 5:17–26). Matthew tells the event of the healing itself in basically the same way as Mark and Luke do, with the paralytic man first having his sins forgiven by Jesus and then being healed of his paralysis. contradicting Torah in this section; rather ‘his demands surpass those of the Torah without contradicting the Torah’ (Davies and Allison, Matthew 1, 508). 19. W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to Saint Matthew 2: Commentary on Matthew VIII-XVIII (ICC 1, repr., London; New  York:  T & T Clark, 2004 ed., 2006), 345; U. Luz, Matthew 8–20:  A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2007), 202.

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However, the concluding statements of the witnesses in Mark and Luke differ greatly from the summary statement at the end of Matthew’s account. Mark and Luke record the onlookers’ response as a combination of amazement and glorification of God. They remark on the uniqueness of the event: ‘We never saw anything like this!’ (Mk 2:12); ‘We have seen strange things today’ (Lk. 5:26). In Matthew, the crowds are afraid and glorify God ‘who had given such authority to human beings [τοῖς ἀνθρώποις]’ (Mt. 9:8). In Matthew’s version, both the summary statement and the mention of authority given to human beings are noteworthy. Note first that the crowd’s verbal responses are not given verbatim, as they are in Mark and Luke. Matthew instead simply provides his readers with the correct interpretation of the event: God has ‘given such authority to human beings’. That the crowds give glory to the God who has imparted such power connects the statement to the event; but how, exactly, does it follow? What the eyewitnesses have seen is one person acting, namely, Jesus. The most logical summary statement would be that the crowds glorified God who has given such authority to Jesus, or to this man. Yet, what Matthew wants us to know is that God has given such authority, to act as Jesus has, to humans, plural. What authority is it that God has granted, and when did God confer it to human beings? God has given the authority to forgive sins to Jesus, which Jesus demonstrates by healing the man (‘‘‘But that you may know that the Son of man has authority on earth to forgive sins” – he then said to the paralytic – “Rise, take up your bed and go home”’ , Mt. 9:6). God also gave such authority earlier to human beings, that is, to his disciples, through Jesus’ teaching of the Lord’s Prayer and through Jesus’ reiteration that the disciples’ receiving forgiveness from God depends on the disciples’ showing forgiveness to human beings. Human beings can forgive: Jesus, acting as an agent of his Father, through his teaching, has authorized his family to forgive sins. Through this concluding statement, Matthew reminds the reader of what has been stated regarding forgiveness in the narrative so far, and gives the reader a glimpse of coming events in the Gospel, and even beyond the Gospel. Yet to come in the narrative are several more references to the forgiveness to be shown by those who are Jesus’ disciples. These references show the centrality of forgiveness for life as a disciple. A member of Jesus’ family who is sinned against by another family member must forgive ‘not seven, but, seventy-seven times’20 (Mt. 18:22). Those who do not forgive others from their hearts will be subject to divine punishment (Mt. 18:35). In Mt. 16:19, Jesus gives to Peter the authority to bind and loose, and in Mt. 18:18, Jesus gives the same authority to all the disciples. Their binding and loosing on earth will be efficacious in heaven as well. While the full scope of the meaning of binding and loosing has been the subject of much debate and is beyond the scope of this essay, the term seems to refer to juridical decisions and includes the retaining or forgiving of sins.21 Forgiveness of sins is also a part of 20. Or ‘seventy times seven’. 21.  See, for example, Luz, Matthew 8–20, 454; Davies and Allison, Matthew 2, 635–39, for a survey of interpretations of Mt. 16:19.

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Matthew’s version of the Lord’s Supper. When Jesus provides the meaning for the cup at the Passover meal, as in Mark and Luke, he calls it his ‘blood of the covenant’ (Mt. 26:28; Mk 14:24; Lk. 22:20 has ‘new covenant’). However, in Matthew, Jesus adds that the blood of the covenant is ‘shed for many for the forgiveness of sins’ (Mt. 26:28). In Matthew’s Gospel, then, people receive the authority to forgive sins from Jesus within the Lord’s Prayer and as part of the community of Jesus’ followers. The story of Jesus’ healing of the paralyzed man, as Matthew tells it, proclaims not just Jesus’ authority to forgive sins, as in Mark and Luke, but his human disciples’ authority to do as Jesus does. The way Matthew makes this point, through the summary statement that God has given such authority to human beings, reminds Matthew’s readers that this authority has been conferred by Jesus’ teaching about forgiveness in the Sermon on the Mount and foreshadows what is forthcoming in the narrative. Forgiveness is commanded by Jesus, authorized by Jesus in prayer, and to be copiously shown by his disciples. Forgiveness even makes its way into the meaning of the Lord’s Supper in Matthew, and therefore is reflected and embodied in the worship life of his community. The Crowds as Potential Recipients of the Authority to Forgive The response of the crowd in Mt. 9:8, however, is not amazement that God had given such authority to Jesus’ disciples; it is that human beings have received such authority. While the crowd’s response does point back for the reader to Jesus’ teaching of his disciples and forward to more teaching to come about forgiveness, their response may also point beyond the narrative of the Gospel to Matthew’s hope for the crowds with whom his own community interacts. The crowd’s statement about human beings may reflect Matthew’s hope that someday all human beings may become disciples who forgive. J. R. C. Cousland states that the crowds in Matthew’s Gospel are people who respond with astonishment, fear and glorification of God, but do not have faith in Jesus. In the spectrum of responses to Jesus, they occupy the middle between Jesus’ opponents and the disciples.22 Cousland, following Luz and others, believes that the crowds may function transparently, that is, with a direct connection with Matthew’s community. As such, they are potential future disciples.23 They lack understanding within the context of the Gospel story, but they may come to understanding in the future. They are never condemned within the Gospel narrative. Cousland states, ‘Matthew has not written the crowds out of the prospect of salvation.’24 If the crowds are transparent in Matthew, then their response in Mt. 9:8, glorifying God for giving human beings the authority to forgive sins,

22.  J. R.  C. Cousland, The Crowds in the Gospel of Matthew (NovTSup 102; Leiden; Boston, MA; Köln: Brill, 2002), 143. 23. Cousland, The Crowds in the Gospel of Matthew, 271. 24. Cousland, The Crowds in the Gospel of Matthew, 285.

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may point not just to the disciples’ authority but also to the authority Matthew hopes the crowds too will one day receive. Human beings, plural, in Mt. 9:8 is an appropriate response to the one man they see forgiving sins. The crowds do not fully understand what they say, but it is true for Matthew: the authority to forgive extends to the human disciples now and in the future the human crowds may become part of Jesus’ family. Summary of ἄνθρωπος and Forgiveness in Matthew Matthew’s unique uses of ἄνθρωπος in conjunction with forgiveness shows his special emphasis on forgiveness, and that forgiveness is to be shown to those whom it may be difficult to forgive, in particular those who are opposed to Jesus, his mission, and his family members, the disciples. Nevertheless, in Matthew, Jesus goes out of his way to remind people that unless they forgive ἄνθρωπος, they will not receive divine forgiveness, adding this statement immediately following the Lord’s Prayer (Mt. 6:14–15). Jesus tells them that divine forgiveness will be granted to ἄνθρωπος for every sin and blasphemy, except that against the Holy Spirit, which also serves to connect human and divine forgiveness: God will forgive ἄνθρωπος just as the disciples are to forgive ἄνθρωπος (12:31). Matthew tells his readers that the authority to forgive sins has been given to ἄνθρωπος in his telling of Jesus’ healing of the paralyzed man (Mt. 9:1–8). In each of these instances, Matthew draws a connection not made in Mark or Luke between the forgiveness by God and disciples of ἄνθρωπος. Perhaps even the crowds someday will become part of Jesus’ family and participate in its forgiveness. Forgiveness is the hallmark behaviour of human beings who are Jesus’ disciples. We now look at two more attributes of those human beings who live human life most fully in Matthew: prayer and worship. Jesus’ Family: People Who Pray on Earth, Aware of Heaven Human beings live within the contemporaneous reality of the heavens and earth. As noted earlier, human beings are to do acts of piety so they can be seen by God, not by other humans, lest they receive their reward on earth and forfeit a heavenly reward (Mt. 6:1–6). Regarding forgiveness, the forgiveness human beings show to other human beings, or not, affects their receiving forgiveness from God (Mt. 6:14–15). Jesus gives authority to his disciples so what they bind on earth will be bound in heaven (Mt. 18:18). Human existence is experienced in two realms and what human beings do on earth is noticed and affects what happens in heaven. Prayer for all who pray as Jesus teaches is the chief and habitual way humans experience the contemporaneous reality of the heavens and earth. Those who follow Jesus are to practice their piety, notably by almsgiving, prayer and fasting. They are to be aware that the reward from their Father in heaven is better than the reward from ἄνθρωπος (Mt. 6:1–6). The Lord’s Prayer (Mt. 6:9–13) is the great example of the overlap of heavenly and earthly realms in which people live. As Paul Minear states, ‘the prayer serves as a two-way bridge, conveying daily traffic between earth

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and heaven, uniting both regions in a single homeland’.25 As the exemplary prayer of Jesus’ followers to the Father whom Jesus declares ‘ours’ (Mt. 6:10), the prayer acknowledges that ‘the heavens are as near as the Father to this family’.26 The prayer also laments the present disjuncture between the heavens and the earth and the desire that the earthly come into alignment with the heavenly in the petitions that God’s name be revered, God’s kingdom come and God’s will be done ‘as in heaven also on earth’ (Mt. 6:10). The heavens and the earth are not strictly separate in terms of human activity; in the Lord’s Prayer, Jesus’ family members ask that their actions on earth correspond to these activities as they are being done in heaven: revering God’s name, seeking God’s kingdom and fulfilling God’s will. Jesus’ Family: People Who Praise Another practice of human beings who are members of Jesus’ family is worship. Psalm 8.4 asks, ‘What are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?’ (NRSV). This psalm is on the lips of Jesus in Mt. 21:16 (LXX Ps. 8:3). When Jesus cures blind and lame people in the temple, the chief priests and scribes see what Jesus does and hear ‘the children crying out in the temple, “Hosanna to the Son of David’’’ (Mt. 21:15). The chief priests and scribes become angry and say to Jesus, ‘Do you hear what these are saying?’ Jesus replies, ‘Yes; have you never read, “Out of the mouths of infants and nursing babies you have prepared praise for yourself?”’ (Mt. 21:16). Jesus quotes from the LXX version of Psalm 8, which begins and ends with ‘O Lord, our Lord, how admirable is your name in all the earth!’ (LXX Ps. 8:1, 9). The line immediately following Jesus’ quotation gives the infants’ praise a purpose: ‘because of your enemies, to depose the enemy and the avenger’ (LXX Ps. 8:3). Praise serves a purpose: not solely to magnify the name of the Lord, but in so doing, to depose the Lord’s enemy. Through Jesus’ response to the chief priests and scribes, he accepts the name given to him by the children, ‘the Son of David’. He also accepts that the praise of the psalmist is rightfully ascribed to him, that is, that Jesus is the Lord whose name is admirable, and whose praise is prepared in order to depose his enemy. In this example, we see that, according to Matthew, worship is people’s appropriate response to Jesus. It is also a means by which Jesus’ enemy, who is therefore the enemy of Jesus’ people, will be defeated. Matthew’s Gospel begins and ends with people worshipping Jesus. Magi come from afar and worship the Christ child (Mt. 2:1–12). The eleven go to the mountain in Galilee to meet the resurrected Jesus and ‘they worshipped him, but some doubted’ (Mt. 28:17). The presence of doubt, even among such a small number of Jesus’ disciples, and even among eye witnesses of the resurrected one attests to the ongoing struggles of Matthew’s community and its mixed nature of believers and doubters. In Mt. 4:10, Jesus says people should worship only the Lord God. Matthew does not see it unfitting that in his Gospel people worship Jesus: Jesus is, after all, God with us, who promised his disciples he would remain with them 25. Paul S. Minear, ‘The Home of the Our Father’ , Worship 70 (2000): 212–22 (214). 26. Minear, ‘The Home of the Our Father’ , 214.

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always, to the end of the age (Mt. 28:20).27 To worship Jesus is to assert his rightful identity as divine and as the only one worthy of worship, thereby deposing the enemy and robbing the enemy of power over humans. Summary Jesus’ disciples are, of course, human beings. However, the disciples are a particular group of human beings whom Jesus describes using familial terms. Jesus’ family, those who do the will of the Father, engage in particular practices that help them to live in a way that is cognizant of the reality in which all human beings, disciples, non-disciples and future disciples, live: the need for forgiving and forgiveness. Jesus’ family members are people who forgive. This reality includes existence in the overlapping realms of heaven and earth. Jesus’ family prays for hallowing of God’s name, the seeking of God’s kingdom, and the doing of God’s will to be accomplished on earth as it is in heaven, and believes that Jesus is worthy of praise and worship.

Conclusion According to Matthew, humans are relational beings. They exist as members of biological families, but the best form of human life is attained when one becomes part of Jesus’ family, a family not tied by biology, but by allegiance to Jesus and his teaching. The hallmark human behaviour within this family is forgiveness, including the forgiveness of those humans responsible for persecuting Jesus, other family members, and oneself. Humans are also meant to pray and worship God and Jesus. Not all human beings live the fullness of human life as Matthew envisions it, but Matthew writes his Gospel hoping they will.

27.  For example, Mt. 8:2; 9:18; 14:33; 15:25; 28:9. For a full treatment, see Mark Allen Powell, ‘A Typology of Worship in the Gospel of Matthew’ , JSNT 57 (1995): 3–17.

Chapter 6 T H E R E D E M P T IO N O F F A L L E N H UM A N I T Y:   T H E O L O G IC A L A N T H R O P O L O G Y A N D M A R K ’ S N A R R AT I V E   W O R L D Mark L. Strauss

The author of Mark’s Gospel did not set out to write a treatise on theological anthropology.1 His purposes, rather, were primarily Christological, eschatological and ecclesiological.2 Mark writes to proclaim Jesus as Messiah and Son of God, whose death was not the tragic fate of a failed prophet, but the victory of God in inaugurating the kingdom of God and providing an atoning sacrifice for the sins of the world (Mk 10:45). Furthermore, Jesus’ willing obedience to the purpose and plan of God provides the model of true discipleship. Those who would inherit true life must take up their own cross and follow him through death to resurrection. Mark likely writes to a church or churches experiencing growing persecution. The Gospel is both an apologetic for the scandal of the cross and a clarion call for cross-bearing discipleship.3

1.  David Garland’s A Theology of Mark’s Gospel (Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan, 2015) has multiple chapters on Christology, God, kingdom of God, discipleship, mission, soteriology and eschatology, but no chapters or sections on Markan anthropology. Similarly, William R. Telford’s 575-page bibliography, Writings on the Gospel of Mark (Dorset:  Deo, 2009) has major sections on methodology, background and theological themes – including Christology, soteriology, pneumatology, eschatology and ecclesiology (17–21, 425–466) – but nothing on anthropology. In Udo Schnelle’s volume on New Testament anthropology, he deals with the Synoptics in a short chapter on ‘The Image of Humankind in the Proclamation of Jesus’. Yet the great majority of references come from Jesus’ teaching in Matthew and/or Luke. Scant attention is given to Mark (The Human Condition: Anthropology in the Teachings of Jesus, Paul and John [trans. O. C. Dean Jr.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996], 11–36). The same can be said of almost everything written on NT anthropology. 2.  See Mark L. Strauss, Mark (ZECNT; Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan, 2014), 39–44, 734–47. 3.  For the former, see especially Robert H. Gundry, Mark:  A Commentary on His Apology for the Cross (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1993), 3–15. For the latter, see Ernst

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While anthropology per se is certainly not at the forefront of Mark’s concerns, there is an implicit theology of humanity that runs through the Gospel. The announcement of the kingdom of God and the call for people to submit to its demands assumes a relationship between Creator and created – a relationship that needs restoration and renewal. In contrast to an author like Paul, Mark says almost nothing ontologically about the nature of humanity. Yet there is an implicit functional anthropology that runs through his work. In Jesus’ words and actions we can deduce Markan theology related to: (1) the identity of humanity, (2) the predicament of humanity and (3) the purpose and destiny of humanity.

The Identity of Humanity Mark’s Gospel assumes a particular Judeo-Christian perspective related to the nature of God, the value and dignity of human beings, and human responsibility for love and loyalty towards their creator God. Created in God’s Image Even if Mark had not mentioned God’s creation of humanity in his short narrative, we could assume his general perspective from the Gospel’s first-century Jewish world view and context. But in fact Jesus does refer to God as creator twice. One reference is in the Olivet Discourse, where the ‘days of distress’ associated with the abomination of desolation will go beyond anything since God’s original creation (13:19). More significantly, Jesus responds to the Pharisees’ question about divorce (10:1–12) by quoting Gen. 1:27 and 2:24 to confirm the binary nature of humanity as male and female and marriage as an inviolable one-flesh union between husband and wife: But from the beginning of creation he ‘made them male and female’ [Gen. 1:27]. ‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united with his wife, and the two will become one flesh’ [Gen. 2:24]. So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no person separate. (Mk 10:6–9)4

With Jesus’ quote, Mark no doubt has the broader context of Genesis 1–2 in mind, including the basic truths of humanity’s creation in God’s image as the pinnacle of his creative acts (Gen. 1:26), the role of mankind as caretakers of the earth (Gen. 1:26, 28–30; 2:15), and human sexuality and procreation as God’s good design (Gen. 1:28; 2:24).

Best, Following Jesus: Discipleship in the Gospel of Mark (JSNTSup, 4; Sheffield:  University of Sheffield, 1981). 4. All biblical translations are the author’s own.

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Human Value and Dignity Human value and dignity are assumed in many Markan contexts. When Jesus’ disciples are accused of working on the Sabbath by plucking grain, Jesus claims the precedence of human welfare over legalistic obedience: ‘The Sabbath was made for people, not people for the Sabbath’ (2:27). Behind this aphorism is the assumption that God’s laws were designed for the physical, social and spiritual benefit of people, rather than simply to affirm loyalty or to emphasize subservience. The same principle is asserted in the following pericope, where the religious leaders watch Jesus to see if he will violate the Sabbath by healing a man with a paralyzed hand (3:1–6). In a highly ironic question, Jesus asks, ‘Which is God’s law for the Sabbath, to do good or to do evil, to save a life or to kill?’ (3:4). The irony is that while Jesus does good on the Sabbath by healing the man, they practice evil by plotting his death (3:6)! The implicit point is that God’s intention was for the Sabbath to be a joyful blessing for humanity, not a means of cowering obedience. Statements concerning Jesus’ compassion also portray humanity as the object of God’s loving care. While Mark’s Jesus performs miracles especially to demonstrate his messianic authority and as evidence of the inbreaking power of the kingdom, they also express care and compassion. He addresses the paralyzed man as ‘child’ (τέκνον, 2:5) and the woman with a bleeding disorder as ‘daughter’ (θυγάτηρ; 5:34); he raises Jairus’s daughter with the affectionate Aramaic phrase, ‘Little lamb, Arise’ (ταλιθα κουμ; 5:41).5 Before the first feeding miracle (6:30–44), Jesus sees the large crowd and ‘felt compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd’ (6:34). The Markan Jesus, of course, always reflects the evaluative point of view of God, and so his compassion reflects God’s loving care. This is particularly emphasized in the feeding miracle by the echo of God’s role as loving shepherd over the flock of Israel (Pss. 23; 80:1; Isa. 40:11).6 Jesus expresses similar concern before the second feeding miracle: ‘I have compassion for the people because they have been with me for three days and have nothing to eat’ (Mk 8:2). A third expression of compassion, before the healing of a man with leprosy (1:41), is textually debated. Yet, whether the text originally read that Jesus ‘felt compassion’ (σπλαγχνισθείς) or that he ‘was angry/indignant’ (ὀργισθείς),7 Jesus’ willingness to touch the man despite the 5. Talitha is an Aramaic word meaning ‘lamb’ and was used affectionately for children, hence Mark’s translation, ‘Little girl’ (τὸ κοράσιον). See James R. Edwards, The Gospel According to Mark (PNTC; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2002), 167; R. T. France, The Gospel of Mark (NIGTC; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2002), 240 n.  30; Max Wilcox, ‘Talitha Cumi’ , in The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary, ed., David Noel Freedman (Doubleday, 1992; Electronic edition by OakTree Software), 6:309–10. 6.  The messianic king from David’s line was also commonly portrayed as a shepherd over God’s flock (Jer. 23:1–6; Ezek. 34:22–23; Mic. 5:2–4; Zech. 13:7; Pss. Sol. 17:40–41). 7.  While the external textual evidence strongly favours σπλαγχνισθείς (ὀργισθείς appears only in D and a few other mss), the internal evidence runs strongly in the other direction: (1) It is almost inconceivable that a copyist would have changed Jesus’ compassion

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defiling nature of the disease shows tender concern. Even if anger is the correct reading, this indignation is almost certainly directed at the ostracizing effect of the leprosy, not the man himself.8 Though the theme of God as Father is less prominent in Mark than in the other Gospels, it is nevertheless present (11:25; 13:32). Children must not be hindered from coming to Jesus, since the kingdom of God belongs to such as these (10:13). The dignity and value of humanity is seen in God’s care for the least and most vulnerable. Whoever welcomes a child in Jesus’ name welcomes Jesus himself (9:37) and those who give a cup of water in his name will receive their due reward (9:41). Negatively, anyone who causes one of these little ones to stumble will face judgement: ‘it would be better for them if a large millstone was hung around their neck and they were thrown into the sea’ (9:42). While all three Synoptics describe the rich young ruler who comes to Jesus seeking eternal life (10:17–22; Mt. 19:16–22; Lk. 18:18–23), Mark alone emphasizes that Jesus looked at him with love (10:21). There is a poignancy here. Although the man cannot bring himself to renounce his wealth and follow Jesus, this does not provoke rebuke or rejection. Although people will bear the consequences of their decisions, God’s love for them is unconditional. Human Responsibility: Loving God, Loving Others As those created in God’s image with value and dignity, human beings are expected to treat one another with this same dignity. When a scribe asks Jesus the most important of the commandments, Jesus responds with the two greatest: loving God and loving others (Mk 12:28–34; cf. Deut. 6:4–5; Lev. 19:18). The man’s affirmation of Jesus’ response receives a commendation by Jesus: ‘You are not far from the kingdom of God’ (Mk 12:34). In a Gospel where the kingdom of God epitomizes the message and mission of Jesus (1:15), this is high praise indeed. If human beings find their identity as God’s image-bearers and recipients of God’s blessings and grace, they find their role in loving God and loving others. As the perfect representative of humanity, Jesus epitomizes both love for God and for humanity. Loving God means doing his will, so Jesus prays in the Garden, ‘Abba, Father . . . not what I will, but what you will’ (14:36). Loving others means feeling compassion for them and acting on their behalf, which Jesus consistently does (1:25, 32–34, 41; 2:5; 3:5; 5:18–20, 34, 41; 6:34; 7:29, 33–35; 8:2, 8, 22–25;

to indignation, for no apparent reason. (2) Neither Matthew nor Luke refers to Jesus’ compassion. Assuming Markan priority, it is easy to explain why both Matthew and Luke would drop Mark’s potentially offensive reference to Jesus’ indignation; but their independent removal of a statement about Jesus’ compassion is inexplicable. 8.  So France, Mark, 117–18. Another possibility is that Jesus’ anger is directed at demonic forces causing the disease. See Morna D. Hooker, The Gospel according to St. Mark (BNTC; London: A. & C. Black, 1991), 80; Joel Marcus, Mark 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 27; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 209.

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9:25–27; 10:51–52). He is the great physician (2:17), bringing healing to those who are physically, socially and spiritually sick. Human Responsibility: Allegiance to the Kingdom of God In Markan theology, loving God and loving others are a manifestation of allegiance to God’s kingdom. When Jesus appears on the scene, his essential message is, ‘The time is fulfilled, the kingdom of God has drawn near; repent and believe in the good news’ (1:15). In its broadest sense, the kingdom of God represents God’s sovereign authority over all of creation. He created it and it is his. While by right God has authority and power over all things, that sovereignty has been compromised by the presence of evil (Satan and his demons) and by human disobedience and rebellion (represented in Mark especially by Herod and the religious leaders). The announcement of the kingdom by Jesus is the claim that God is even now acting decisively in human history to claim back that authority. The ‘time’ that ‘is fulfilled’ (πεπλήρωται ὁ καιρός) must be understood from the perspective of Jewish eschatology. The old age of promise is giving way to the age of fulfilment, identified by the Hebrew prophets as the restoration and renewal of fallen creation. As France points out: God’s kingship is both eternal and eschatological, both fulfilled and awaited, both present and imminent . . . . To declare that God’s kingship has come near is to say that God is now fulfilling his agelong purpose . . . . With the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, therefore, a new era of fulfilment has begun, and it calls for response from God’s people.9

The kingdom for Mark is both a reign and a realm; it is both present and future. It is inaugurated through Jesus’ words and actions, but will be consummated at the End (13:26–32; cf. 8:38; 14:62). Like seed planted in the ground, it grows by God’s power in the present, but will be completed at the final harvest (4:26–29). It is like a mustard seed that starts tiny, but will grow to fill the whole earth (4:30). People ‘enter’ the kingdom in the present by believing and submitting to God’s authority (1:13; 10:15, 24–25; 12:34). Yet full entrance awaits the final consummation (9:1, 47; 10:15; 13:26–27). At the last supper Jesus tells his disciples he will not drink wine again until he drinks it new in the kingdom of God (14:25) and Joseph of Arimathea is among the righteous remnant because he is ‘waiting for the kingdom of God’ (15:43). If God’s kingdom (= reign) is the ultimate goal of creation, then the purpose and responsibility of human beings is to submit to God’s reign in the present and live in anticipation of its consummation in the future. Jesus’ parable of the sower describes various responses to the good news of the kingdom of God (4:2–20). Some believe only superficially, so that the word is snatched away by Satan or

9. France, Mark, 93.

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remains unfruitful because of persecution or the concerns of this world (= the present evil age). Others in ‘good soil’ persevere in faith and so produce a bountiful spiritual crop.10 In Jesus’ eschatological discourse on the Mount of Olives, Jesus repeatedly calls the disciples to spiritual faithfulness  – ‘watch!’ (βλέπετε; 13:23, 33), ‘be vigilant!’ (ἀγρυπνεῖτε; 13:33), ‘keep watch!’ (γρηγορεῖτε; 13:35, 37). In the Garden of Gethsemane he tells Peter, James and John to ‘watch and pray so that you won’t fall into temptation’ (14:38; cf. vv. 34, 41) – a call for both physical and spiritual alertness. This is God’s purpose and design for human beings:  love and obedience for God, loving care for fellow human beings and allegiance and sensitivity to God’s purposes for the world.

The Predicament of Humanity If humanity’s true identity is to be in right relation with God and in harmony with the values of his kingdom, its present predicament is far from this reality. Jesus’ announcement that God’s kingdom is at hand (1:15) implies that the present reality stands in opposition to this kingdom. The pressing need for restoration and renewal is illustrated by the degradation of the characters we meet. Indeed, almost everyone Jesus encounters in Mark is in some sense in a state of brokenness. These include sinners, the demonized, the sick and disabled, the crowds and even the disciples. Sinners Both John’s ‘baptism of repentance’ (1:4) and Jesus’ call for response – ‘repent and believe’ (1:15) – carry the assumption that people are sinners in need of repentance. Yet surprisingly, the only specific references to ‘sinners’ (ἁμαρτωλοί) in Mark’s Gospel appear in the call of Levi (2:13–17; 3x) and in Jesus’ announcement at his arrest that ‘the Son of Man is delivered into the hands of sinners’ (14:41).11 Despite this paucity of references, the call of Levi is clearly programmatic for defining the nature of Jesus’ ministry. After calling Levi from his tax booth, Jesus attends a banquet at Levi’s house together with many ‘tax collectors and sinners’ (presumably Levi’s former colleagues). When the religious leaders accuse him of

10.  There is ambiguity in the parable as to whether the recipients of the word are symbolized by the seed or the soil (see France, Mark, 203–5; Strauss, Mark, 186–87). At one point the ‘seed’ is identified as the message (v. 14), which is sown in ‘them’ (= the people; v. 15b). Yet the people are then apparently identified with the seed, which either bears fruit or does not (vv. 15a, 16, 18, 20). The image is clearly a fluid one, and Mark is concerned less with specific identification than with the dynamic process through which the message bears spiritual fruit in people. 11. Jesus also refers to the present ‘sinful’ generation in 8:38.

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hanging out with the wrong crowd, Jesus responds with a common proverb – ‘It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick’12 – followed by a pronouncement applying the proverb to his ministry: ‘I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners’ (2:17). The pronouncement indicates (1) that people are fundamentally sinful and that this sinfulness is analogous to a sickness and (2) that Jesus’ mission of mercy as God’s envoy is like a doctor offering spiritual healing to these sinners. Later in Mark’s Gospel we learn that the means of this healing is Jesus’ ‘ransom’ payment – his atoning and sacrificial death on the cross (10:45; cf. 14:22–24). The pronouncement also indicates that those who are ‘righteous’ are not the intended recipients of Jesus’ ministry. Are these actual righteous people who do not need to repent? In light of the negative portrayal of the religious leaders throughout Mark, the reference is almost certainly ironic. These are not the truly righteous but rather the self-righteous who refuse to acknowledge their own sinfulness and so lose out on the salvation benefits that Jesus will bring.13 The Demonized In Mark’s narrative world, humans are often subject to powerful spiritual forces beyond their control. From the start, Mark identifies Jesus’ ministry as one that is operating on a supernatural level. Jesus’ first three conflicts concern malevolent spiritual forces.14 Jesus is tested/tempted (πειράζω) by Satan in the wilderness (1:13); he encounters a demon in the synagogue in Capernaum (1:23–24); that evening he performs many exorcisms (1:32–34). In addition to summary statements related to the exorcisms of Jesus (1:34, 39; 3:11–12, 22) and his disciples (3:15; 6:7, 13), Mark narrates four exorcisms (1:21–28; 5:1–20; 7:24–30; 9:14–29). Mark often notes the severity or the apparent hopelessness of the situation. This is vividly illustrated by Mark’s colourful description of the Gerasene demoniac: A man with an unclean spirit, who lived among the tombs; and no one could bind him anymore, not even with a chain, because he had often been bound with chains and shackles, but he tore apart the chains and broke the shackles. No one was strong enough to subdue him. Night and day among the tombs and in the hills he was constantly crying out and cutting himself with stones. (5:2–5)

12.  Similar proverbs can be found in Greek and Jewish sources (e.g. Plutarch, Apophthegmata Laconica 230–31; Dio Chrysostom, Or. 8.5; Mekilta to Exod. 15.26). 13.  R. H.  Stein, Mark (BECNT; Grand Rapids, MI:  Baker, 2008), 131; Marcus, Mark 1–8, 228. 14.  On Markan exorcism stories, see Telford, Writings, 492–94 and Ludger Schenke, Die Wundererzählungen des Markusevangeliums (SBB 5; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk,  1974).

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The hopelessness of the situation is emphasized through repetition of the impossibility of restraining the man:  οὐδὲ . . .  οὐδεὶς . . .  οὐδεὶς . . . (‘not even . . . no one . . . no one’). A similar expression of the severity of demonization occurs when Jesus’ disciples are unable to drive out a particularly powerful demon after the transfiguration (9:14–29). Mark again emphasizes the severity through vivid description and fourfold repetition: the father first describes the demon’s destructive actions (vv. 17–18); the demon then throws the boy into convulsions (v. 20); questioned by Jesus, the father further describes the demon’s attempts to destroy the boy in water and in fire (vv. 21–22); finally, the demon again violently convulses the boy before coming out (v. 26). When the disciples question Jesus about their own failure to accomplish the exorcism, Jesus replies, ‘This kind cannot be cast out except by prayer’ (9:29). Human helplessness in the face of powerful spiritual forces can be remedied only through utter dependence on God. As Jesus previously tells the man, ‘Everything is possible for one who believes’ (v. 23). Faith is necessary since human beings stand helpless and hopeless before powerful spiritual forces. In the Beelzebul controversy, the analogy Jesus uses to describe demonization is a strong man (Satan) whose household goods (the demonized) are secure, until the stronger man (Jesus) binds him and plunders his house (3:27). Although Mark does not include the Q saying in Lk. 11:20 – ‘But if I cast out demons by the finger of God, then the kingdom of God has come upon you’ (cf. Mt. 12:28) – the strong man saying asserts essentially the same thing. Jesus’ exorcisms symbolize the power of the kingdom of God to free those enslaved by Satan and his demons. The Sick and Disabled Most of those Jesus encounters in Mark’s Gospel who are not demonized are either sick or disabled. During the long day of ministry in Capernaum described in 1:16– 34, Jesus heals Peter’s mother-in-law and then continues healing ‘many who had various diseases’ late into the night (1:34). A series of healings follow: a man with leprosy (1:40–45), a paralyzed man (2:1–12) and the Sabbath healing of a man with a paralyzed hand (3:1–6). Later in his Galilean ministry, Jesus heals a woman with a bleeding disorder (5:24–34) and raises Jairus’s daughter from the dead (5:21–24, 35–43). In Decapolis, he heals a deaf and mute man (7:31–37). Finally, two accounts of the healing of blind men (8:22–26; 10:46–52) frame the central section of Mark (8:27–10:45), which contains Jesus’ three passion predictions and climaxes with his entrance into Jerusalem for the last week of his life. It is sometimes said that Mark portrays Jesus as a man of action rather than words. This is only partly true. Although Mark provides far less of Jesus’ actual teaching than Matthew or Luke, he frequently describes him as a teacher or as teaching15  – more so proportionally than the other

15.  Mk 1:21–22, 27; 2:13; 4:1–2, 38; 5:35; 6:2, 6, 34; 8:31; 9:17, 31, 38; 10:1, 17, 20, 35; 11:17, 18; 12:14, 19, 32, 35, 38; 13:1; 14:14, 49.

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Gospels.16 Yet there is no doubt that Jesus’ authoritative actions, especially his exorcisms and healings, are central to his messianic mission and message. These healings recall Isaiah’s portrait of eschatological salvation. Isaiah 35.5–6 reads: ‘Then the eyes of the blind will be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped. Then the lame will leap like a deer, and the mute tongue shout for joy’ (cf. Isa. 29:18–19). Although Mark’s Gospel does not include the question of John the Baptist and the Q saying in which Jesus explicitly links his healings and preaching to the Isaianic signs of eschatological salvation (Mt. 11:2–6; Lk. 7:18–23; alluding to Isa. 26:19; 29:18–19; 35:5–6; 61:1–2), Mark almost certainly has this Isaianic setting in mind. This is especially so since Mark places Jesus’ whole ministry under the banner of Isaianic eschatological salvation: The good news of Jesus the Messiah begins, ‘just as it is written in Isaiah the prophet . . . ‘ (Mk 1:2).17 As in the cases of demonization noted earlier, Mark sometimes emphasizes the hopelessness of the situation before Jesus’ intervention. The woman with a bleeding disorder has been stricken for twelve years and all attempts at cures have failed:  ‘She had suffered much at the hands of many doctors and had spent all she had, yet instead of getting better she got worse’ (5:26). For Jairus, the synagogue ruler, hope turns to despair when he learns that his sick daughter has died (5:35). Yet Jesus encourages him to faith: ‘Don’t be afraid; just believe’ (5:36). The announcement of the kingdom of God brings the certainty of restoration for a broken world. This connection between Jesus’ healing ministry and his kingdom proclamation is evident in that the healings carry not only physical but also eschatological significance. When approached by a man with leprosy, Jesus surprisingly reaches out and touches him. This is surprising since in Judaism such action would have resulted in ritual impurity. Various interpretations have been suggested for Jesus’ actions. Some claim that Jesus simply accepted ritual impurity.18 Such impurity was not sin but was a normal part of everyday life. Purity returned after a period of time or through prescribed rituals (cf. Lev. 12–15; Num. 19:11–22). The problem with this view is that elsewhere the Markan Jesus seems to disregard such rituals, claiming that nothing from the outside brings defilement (Mk 7:15, 18; cf. 2:15– 17, 25–26) – a statement Mark interprets as a declaration that all foods are now ‘clean’ (7:19). Others claim that Jesus’ willingness to touch the man demonstrates

16. See especially Vernon K. Robbins, Jesus the Teacher: A Socio-Rhetorical Interpretation of Mark (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1984). 17. See especially Rikki E. Watts, Isaiah’s New Exodus in Mark (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2001), who identifies Mark’s opening quotation as programmatic for his whole Gospel: ‘In keeping with the role of the opening sentence in literary antiquity, Mark’s sole explicit editorial citation of the OT should be expected to convey the main concerns of his prologue and, therefore, his Gospel’ (90). 18.  James G. Crossley, The Date of Mark’s Gospel:  Insights from the Law in Earliest Christianity (JSNTSup 299; London: T&T Clark, 2004), 90–91. Crossley seeks to show that Jesus was an entirely law-observant Jew in Mark.

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his outright rejection of Jewish purity laws and the social and religious hierarchy that they represented.19 This, too, seems unlikely, especially since immediately after this Jesus tells the man to seek out priestly validation for the healing and to offer the sacrifices prescribed by the law (1:43). A better solution – and one in line with Jesus’ kingdom proclamation – is that Jesus is here reversing the direction of impurity, bringing purity to defilement and restoration to brokenness. Jesus has come not to abolish the law, but to fulfil it (cf. Mt. 5:17): The OT age of promise, with its ceremonial rules of purity, is giving way to the new age of fulfillment, where purity does not come through external ritual and ceremony but through the internal transformation and cleansing by the Holy Spirit . . . the OT rituals were mere symbols and precursors to the eschatological cleansing that comes with the kingdom of God.20

This interpretation agrees with Jesus’ response to the question about fasting that follows (2:18–22). Jesus says that his disciples don’t presently fast because he, the bridegroom, is with them. In its Jewish context, the analogy has clear eschatological implications. Jesus portrays himself as the bridegroom at the messianic banquet, a symbol of God’s end time salvation (Isa. 25:6–8; 65:13–14; cf. Mt. 8:11; Lk. 13:29). The connection between physical healing and eschatological renewal appears most strikingly in Jesus’ healing of the paralyzed man in 2:1–12. When a paralyzed man’s friends demonstrate remarkable faith by tearing up the roof of a house to get him to Jesus, the crowd (and the implied reader) expects a healing miracle. Surprisingly, Jesus instead pronounces the man’s sins forgiven, provoking a charge of blasphemy from the religious leaders. In response, Jesus heals the man in order to show that ‘the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins’ (2:10). Christologically, the episode continues the theme of Jesus’ divine authority that runs throughout Jesus’ Galilean ministry in Mark. Jesus’ healings and his authority to forgive sins confirm his status as Messiah and Son of God. Eschatologically (and soteriologically), the episode confirms the close relationship between the physical restoration of creation (the healing of paralysis) and reconciliation between God and humanity (forgiveness of sins). The man’s paralysis, though not necessarily the immediate result of sin, is ultimately the result of a fallen creation caused by sin. Forgiveness of sins and healing are therefore two sides of the same coin, both indicating the brokenness of this world and the reconciliation God is now accomplishing through Jesus the Messiah – the coming of the kingdom of God (cf. Jer. 31:34;

19.  See John Dominic Crossan, Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography (San Francisco, CA: Harper San Francisco, 1994), 82. Crossan claims that as a Cynic-like sage, Jesus called for an egalitarian society without religious or social hierarchy. While he did not cure actual illness, he ‘healed the poor man’s illness by refusing to accept the disease’s ritual uncleanness and social ostracization’. 20. Strauss, Mark, 113.

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33:8; 50:20). Anthropologically, the account reinforces the theme of humanity’s bondage to sin and its consequences. Physical and spiritual redemption are available only through Jesus the Messiah. It is significant that Mk 10:45, the strongest soteriological statement in Mark’s Gospel, uses the language of emancipation to describe the salvation of humanity. Jesus will give his life as a ‘ransom’ (λύτρον) for many.21 The Crowds The crowds represent a narrative character in Mark and have three main functions. First, at times they are an obstacle to be overcome. Those with faith push through the crowds to reach Jesus (2:2–5; 10:47–48; cf. 5:27–28). Second, the crowds serve to confirm Jesus’ enormous popularity. The press of the crowds requires Jesus to sit in a boat to teach them (3:9; 4:1). Jesus tries to escape with his disciples for rest or to eat, but the masses pursue him (3:7–9, 20; 5:21). They come to hear him teach (1:22; 2:2, 13; 3:9; 4:1; 10:1) and for healing (1:32–34, 37; 3:9–10). From a narrative perspective, the size of the crowd confirms the importance of the teacher. Third, however, the crowds represent neediness and spiritual hunger. They are sheep without a shepherd and the object of Jesus’ compassion (6:34; 8:2–3). As such, they represent the fallen state of humanity in need of the restoration and renewal promised by the kingdom of God. The Disciples If the demonized, the sick and disabled, and the aimless crowds represent the brokenness of humanity, the disciples in Mark are not far behind. It is widely acknowledged that of the four Gospels Mark has the most negative portrait of the disciples.22 On the one hand, they stand in a privileged position. Handpicked and appointed by Jesus as his apostles (6:30), the twelve symbolically represent the restoration of Israel. Jesus bestows on them great authority to heal and cast out demons (6:7, 13) and they serve as his representatives. The implied reader knows that they will witness the resurrected Jesus (14:28; 16:7) and become the foundation for the apostolic church. Yet Mark also consistently and repeatedly points to their failures. They fail to understand his teaching (4:13; 7:18) and act from self-interest and pride (9:38; 10:13, 37). They cannot comprehend his messianic role (8:32; 9:32). These failures come

21. For a good discussion of Jewish and Greco-Roman background to λύτρον see Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2007), 499–504. 22. See Robert C. Tannehill, ‘The Disciples in Mark: The Function of a Narrative Role’ , in The Interpretation of Mark, ed., William R. Telford (Philadelphia, PA:  Fortress Press, 1985), 134–57; Best, Following Jesus, passim; Suzanne Watts Henderson, Christology and Discipleship in the Gospel of Mark (SNTSMS 135; Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2006).

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out especially in two cycles of events, centring respectively on three boat trips (4:36– 41; 6:45–52; 8:13–21) and then Jesus’ three passion predictions (8:31–38; 9:30–37; 10:32–45).23 In the first cycle, the disciples show fear and lack of faith in the face of a storm at sea (4:40), terror and hardness of hearts when Jesus walks on water (6:52) and spiritual blindness when Jesus warns them about the leaven of the Pharisees (8:18). In the second cycle, each of Jesus’ three passion predictions is followed by an act of misunderstanding, arrogance or self-centredness on the part of the disciples. Peter rebukes Jesus for speaking about his coming death (8:33); the disciples argue over who is the greatest (9:34); and James and John seek the best seats in the coming kingdom, provoking indignation from the other ten disciples (10:37, 41). In each case Jesus follows with teaching on humility and self-sacrificial servanthood. This litany of failure continues into passion week. At the last supper Jesus predicts the desertion of the disciples (14:21) and the denial by Peter (14:30). At his arrest, all the disciples desert him (14:50); Peter goes on to deny him three times (14:66–72). At Jesus’ trial and crucifixion, the disciples are nowhere to be found. Even the women disciples, who maintain a faithful presence at the crucifixion (15:40–41) and the burial (15:47), respond to the empty tomb with silence and fear (16:8). In summary, the disciples, like the sinners, the demonized, the sick and the disabled represent human brokenness and failure. This comes out perhaps most clearly at the key turning point in Mark’s Gospel. When Jesus first predicts his death after Peter’s confession (8:27–32), Peter rebukes Jesus for such a defeatist attitude (8:33). Jesus responds with a rebuke of his own: ‘Get behind me Satan, you are not thinking about the things of God [τὰ τοῦ θεοῦ], but human things [τὰ τῶν ἀνθρώπων]!’ (8:33). By rejecting the way of suffering and the way of the cross, Peter is acting like a mere (fallen) human being. The quest for power and glory apart from the cross is not only human; it is diabolical, Satan’s attempt to derail God’s purpose for the reconciliation and restoration of creation. The true destiny of humanity can be achieved only by following God’s purpose, epitomized in Jesus, who alone in Mark’s Gospel does the will of his heavenly Father.

The Purpose and Destiny of Humanity The purpose of Mark’s Gospel is not only to narrate human brokenness, but also to identify its solution, the restoration and renewal that comes through the inauguration of the kingdom of God through Jesus the Messiah. Jesus as Ideal Humanity If the disciples serve in Mark’s Gospel as a negative model of discipleship, Jesus represents the ideal disciple and so ideal humanity. While Mark’s narrative reveals

23. For details, see Strauss, Mark, 745–46.

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a very high implicit Christology,24 the author also presents the most human portrait of Jesus among the four Gospels. Jesus demonstrates a need for rest (4:38) and rejuvenation (6:31). He gets hungry (11:12). He shows emotions, like indignation (10:14; cf. 1:41), anger (3:5), sorrow (3:5), surprise (6:6), compassion (6:34; 8:2) and love (10:21). He is ignorant of future events (13:32) and apparently limited in his healing power (6:5). He agonizes in the Garden over his impending fate (14:33–34) and cries out in despair from the cross (15:34).25 Yet while subject to human weakness and frailty, Jesus maintains steadfast faith in God and obedience to his Father’s will. Jesus’ life is marked by prayer and dependence on God. He rises early to pray (1:35) and separates from the disciples for times of solitary prayer (6:46; 14:32, 34, 39). He is calm and trusting in the face of the storm and encourages the disciples to similar faith (4:37–40). Though he agonizes in the Garden, he pushes through his anxiety to obedience: ‘Take this cup from me; but not what I will but what you will’ (14:36). This is humanity as it was created to be – living in complete trust and dependence on God. Persevering Faith Leading to Salvation The faith and trust in God that Jesus demonstrates is a model for others, and Jesus invites others to receive the spiritual blessings that come through faith. Jesus offers forgiveness and then heals the paralyzed man when he sees the faith of his friends (2:5). He tells those he heals that their faith has made them well (5:34; 10:52) and encourages Jairus to keep faith at the heartbreaking news of his daughter’s death (5:36). He tells his disciples that a particularly treacherous demon can only be exorcized through prayer (9:29), meaning complete reliance on God’s power. The inverse is also true. Jesus can do few miracles in his hometown because of their lack of faith (6:5–6). Since God is all powerful, faith has unlimited potential. Jesus tells the father of the demonized boy, ‘Everything is possible for one who believes’ (9:23). Even moving mountains is possible for those with faith, so that ‘whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours’ (11:22–24). Faith is so powerful because it means relinquishing self-reliance and utter dependence

24.  See M. Eugene Boring, ‘Markan Christology:  God-language for Jesus?’ , NTS 45 (1999): 451–71; Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ. Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2003), 283–316; Philip G. Davis, ‘Mark’s Christological Paradox’ , JSNT 35 (1989): 3–18; Jacob Chacko Naluparayil, The Identity of Jesus in Mark: An Essay on Narrative Christology (SBFA 49; Jerusalem: Franciscan, 2000). 25.  Some scholars, of course, view the cry as not one of despair, but of vindication, claiming that Jesus’ shout is meant to recall the whole of Psalm 22, which ends in vindication and restoration (Ps. 22:22–31). See Joel Marcus, The Way of the Lord: Christological Exegesis of the Old Testament in the Gospel of Mark (Louisville:  Westminster/John Knox Press, 1992), 180–82; Frank J. Matera, The Kingship of Jesus: Composition and Theology in Mark 15 (SBLDS 66; Chico: Scholars Press, 1982), 132–37.

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on God. When the disciples express shock that even a pious rich man falls short of salvation and wonder, ‘Who, then, can be saved?’ , Jesus asserts the impossibility of salvation through human achievement or wealth: ‘For people, it is impossible, but not with God. All things are possible with God’ (10:26–27). In the Garden of Gethsemane, he calls on his disciples to watch and pray so that they will not enter into temptation (14:38). Only through God’s power can they endure the coming test. Suffering and the People of God This last passage confirms that while faith can accomplish anything, it does not guarantee temporal or physical safety or success. Faith in God means enduring faith in the face of adversity, persecution and even death. Even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve ‘and to give his life as a ransom for many’ (10:45). Jesus’ faithful obedience to God’s plan will result in his arrest, flogging and violent death (8:31; 9:31; 10:33–34). Whoever wants to be Jesus’ disciple must follow him on this path, taking up their own cross (8:35). James and John are promised that they will experience the same ‘baptism’ and ‘cup’ of suffering that Jesus is facing (10:39). In his Olivet Discourse, Jesus tells his disciples that they will be handed over to councils and flogged in the synagogues. They will be betrayed by their own family, even to the point of death. They will be hated by all because of their allegiance to Jesus (13:9–13). Mark’s Gospel is almost certainly written to a church or churches that are experiencing increasing censure, ostracism and violent opposition.26 Jesus predicts that the eschatological consummation will bring physical deliverance for the persecuted people of God when the Son of Man ‘sends his angels to gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven’ (13:27). Yet no one knows the day or the hour this will occur (13:32), and in the meantime persecution and suffering remain an existential reality. For Mark’s readers, there is no guarantee of commercial success or peaceful coexistence with their pagan neighbours or Jewish opponents. To be truly human (= the people of God) means patient endurance in the face of suffering. The Salvation of the ‘Soul’ (ψυχή) If the kingdom of God that Jesus announces has no guarantee of personal safety or societal triumph, how can it be good news? What is the nature of the salvation Jesus announces? Various terms are used to describe salvation in Mark’s Gospel, including ‘entering the kingdom of God’ (9:47; 10:23–25), ‘receiving the kingdom’ (10:15),

26.  This is the consensus view, although it is debated whether Mark’s audience is in Rome (the traditional view), Syria, Galilee or somewhere else. See Garland, Theology of Mark’s Gospel, 68.

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inheriting/receiving ‘eternal life’ [ζωὴν αἰώνιον] (10:17, 30), entering ‘life’ [ζωή] (9:43, 45), saving your ‘life/soul’ [ψυχή] (8:35). All are roughly synonymous. For Mark, salvation is fundamentally eschatological. The coming of the kingdom of God means the radical upheaval of the present age and inbreaking power of the age-to-come. Although for Mark’s readers there is no guarantee of physical safety or success in the present age, the age-to-come will bring life, peace and an eternally secure home. The kingdom inaugurated by Jesus (1:15) will be consummated at the final resurrection (12:18–27) and the gathering of God’s chosen ones (13:27). In a play on words, the Markan Jesus says that ‘whoever wants to save their life [ψυχή] will lose it, but whoever loses their life [ψυχή] for me and for the gospel will save it’ (8:36). The play on words works because ψυχή can mean physical life or spiritual life (‘soul’). It is not clear whether Mark is a monist or dichotomist (or trichotomist?).27 Does he mean that those whose bodies are martyred will have their spirits/souls taken immediately into God’s presence? Or does he mean only that those who are martyred today will be resurrected in the future (see 12:18–27)? In either case, Mark distinguishes the temporal, mortal and corruptible existence that characterizes the present age with the eternal, immortal and incorruptible life of the age-to-come. Jesus continues: ‘What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul [ψυχή]?’ (8:37). All the wealth and power of this ‘world’ (= the present evil age) is worthless since it cannot be carried into the age-to-come, where only spiritual life (ψυχή) counts (8:38). Such life can only be received by repentance and faith – submitting one’s life to the kingdom of God. Indeed, those who reject the message of the kingdom will be cast into the fires of Gehenna. With characteristic hyperbole, Jesus says it is better to gouge out an eye or cut off a foot or hand that cause you to sin and enter ‘life’ maimed, than to be cast into Gehenna with body intact (9:43–47). The point is that any suffering or deprivation that Jesus’ followers experience in this life pales in comparison to the suffering of those excluded from the age-to-come. New Family Relationships and a New Humanity In light of Mark’s strong emphasis on present suffering and future salvation, is there any joy and fulfilment to be experienced in the present age? The answer can be found in the new community that Jesus establishes. In a cultural context where family and clan were the strongest of bonds, Jesus radically redefines family with reference to allegiance to the kingdom of God. When Jesus’ family hears he is working too hard and fear for his sanity, they come to take charge of him (3:20–21). Yet when Jesus is informed that his mother and siblings are outside waiting to see him, he points to his disciples and

27. For recent discussion (though not with reference to Mark’s Gospel), see Joel Green, Body, Soul and Human Life: The Nature of Humanity in the Bible (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2008); Hans Schwarz, The Human Being:  A Theological Anthropology (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013).

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announces: ‘Here are my mother and my siblings. Whoever does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother’ (3:34). In the Greco-Roman world, one’s identity was defined by relationships of family and clan.28 Jesus shockingly says one’s true family are not those with such physical and lineal ties, but rather those with whom you share allegiance to the kingdom of God. A second passage reinforces this point. After the episode of the rich man who is unable to part with his riches, Peter remarks to Jesus: ‘We have left everything to follow you.’ Jesus responds, Truly I say to you, no one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields on account of me and the gospel will fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age: homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields – along with persecutions – and in the age-to-come eternal life. (10:29–30)

Not surprisingly (in light of our earlier discussion), Jesus acknowledges the suffering and persecution that will characterize the lives of his followers and promises them the reward of eternal life in the age-to-come. Yet surprisingly, he also promises them great blessings in this age, including homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields. What does this mean? The answer is that the worldwide community of believers, who represent a vast family greater and more diverse than any on earth. In Mark’s day, the kingdom of God has been growing secretly day and night from a tiny mustard seed into a great plant (4:26–29, 30–32). Communities of faith are springing up throughout the Mediterranean region. These families and communities, Jesus says, are one’s true family and where one’s true identity is to be found – a new humanity whose identity lies in their common allegiance to Jesus and the kingdom of God. This is the anthropological message of Mark’s Gospel. The present brokenness of human beings is not their true nature or God’s design. It is an aberration brought on by the powers of Satan, sin and death. Jesus the Messiah and Son of God came to defeat these evil forces through his atoning death on the cross and to bring reconciliation between God and humanity, a reconciliation that will restore God’s good creation and renew his sovereign reign – the kingdom of God.

28. See Bruce J. Malina and Richard L. Rohrbaugh, Social-Scientific Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels (Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress Press, 1992), 201: ‘In antiquity, the extended family meant everything. It not only was the source of one’s status in the community but also functioned as the primary economic, religious, educational, and social network.’

Chapter 7 T U R N I N G A N T H R O P O L O G Y R IG H T S I D E U P : S E E I N G H UM A N L I F E A N D E X I ST E N C E L U K EW I SE Steve Walton

Luke1 rarely gets a mention when anthropology is discussed – the Third Gospel is lumped with the other Synoptic Gospels, and Acts is placed in the pending tray never to emerge.2 Yet, when we read Luke and Acts with care, a strong and clear perspective on the nature of human beings, their relationships with God and one another, including across gender and ethnic boundaries, and what it means to be human, emerges.3 This essay seeks to map that perspective. We shall proceed by considering first how we may draw out an idea (anthropology) from a story, for the documents we are considering are narrative, rather than directly didactic. This leads us to note the important device of reversal, which Luke is recognized to use as a storytelling technique, but which can be seen more widely in contrasts between Luke’s view of humanity and those found in society and culture. The examination of the Lukan text then focuses on four themes which are particularly relevant to anthropology:  the transformation of sinful humanity, explored through the evangelistic speeches of Acts; Jesus as humanity par excellence, explored through Jesus-Peter-Paul parallels; human physicality reunderstood, explored through comparing Luke’s writings and the physiognomic tradition; and the refiguring of community of men and women among believers (and wider hints at community life) in Luke and Acts. 1. As is customary, I use ‘Luke’ as the name of the author of the Third Gospel and Acts, without any necessary implication as to the author’s identity. 2.  See the valuable survey in Christoph W. Stenschke, Luke’s Portrait of Gentiles Prior to Their Coming to Faith (WUNT 2.108; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 9–50, esp. 9–11. 3.  I here assume both the common authorship of the Third Gospel and Acts and that there is common intentionality and message to them. See, for example I. Howard Marshall, ‘Acts and the “Former Treatise”’, in The Book of Acts in Its Ancient Literary Setting, ed. Bruce W. Winter and Andrew D. Clarke (BAFCS 1; Carlisle: Paternoster/Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1993), 163–82; Joel B. Green, ‘Luke-Acts, or Luke and Acts? A Reaffirmation of Narrative Unity’ , in Reading Acts Today:  Essays in Honour of Loveday C.  A. Alexander, ed. Steve Walton et al. (LNTS 427; London: T&T Clark, 2011), 101–19.

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How Does Narrative Teach? In seeking to study the anthropology of two narrative texts, Luke and Acts, we are asking how an author communicates ideas through story and stories. Our question is particularly acute, given that the speeches – where it is commonly assumed that we hear Luke’s ideology4 – are not focused on the understanding of humanity as much as the understanding of God and how God is made known and available to people in and through Jesus. What features of Luke’s ‘double work’ will enable us to recognize what Luke understands by the nature and roles of human beings and humanity collectively? First, the example and model of Jesus are significant. Luke does not explicitly state that Jesus models what humanity is meant to be in the way that Paul does (e.g. Rom. 5:12–21; Phil. 2:1–11). Nevertheless, Luke is clear that Jesus is human, rather than the kind of visiting deity known from Graeco-Roman myths:5 in Acts, he is twice called ‘a man’ (ἀνήρ) in strategic speeches, by Peter at Pentecost (2:22) and by Paul in Athens (17:31).6 Luke’s Jesus is a man filled with the Spirit and exercising his ministry ‘in the Spirit’ (e.g. Lk. 3:21–22; 4:1, 14, 18), and the oft-noted parallels between Jesus, Peter and Paul in Luke-Acts7 are suggestive that Luke is modelling his portrait of restored humanity (Peter, Paul) on Jesus as a human being par excellence. Second, statements about how people need to respond to the message of Jesus and the apostolic band signal how Luke understands God’s purposes for humanity, for they indicate ways in which humanity is out of kilter, and how God, through Jesus and the Spirit, is bringing people back in tune with God’s purposes for humanity and the world. Third, healings and deliverance stories signal that illness and demonization are no part of God’s purpose for humanity, for God acts to change them. This is so in Jesus’ ministry, where his actions are intrinsic to his message of the kingdom

4. See, for example, the seminal essay ‘The Speeches in Acts and Ancient Historiography’ , in Martin Dibelius, Studies in the Acts of the Apostles (London:  SCM, 1956), 138–85. For critical response, see Marion L. Soards, The Speeches in Acts: Their Content, Context, and Concerns (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994), 6–11. 5. For example, Ovid tells the story of Zeus and Hermes visiting an elderly couple, Baucis and Philemon (Metamorphoses 8:621–96; cf. Acts 14:11), and (notoriously) Zeus engaged in sexual intercourse in human guise (e.g. Apollodorus, Library 3:10). 6.  Jesus is also referred to as ἄνθρωπος, a generic ‘human being’ , by the Sanhedrin (Acts 5:28). 7.  See Susan M. Praeder, ‘Jesus-Paul, Peter-Paul, and Jesus-Peter Parallelisms in LukeActs: A History of Reader Response’ , Society of Biblical Literature 1984 Seminar Papers (SBLSP 23; Chico, CA: Scholars, 1984), 23–39; Steve Walton, Leadership and Lifestyle: The Portrait of Paul in the Miletus Speech and 1 Thessalonians (SNTSMS 108; Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2000), 34–40; Andrew C. Clark, Parallel Lives: The Relation of Paul to the Apostles in the Lucan Perspective (PBTM; Carlisle: Paternoster, 2001), 63–73.

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of God – God’s rule brings restoration of people to God’s creational purposes and hopes.8 It is also so in the healing and deliverance stories in Acts, where the physical/ spiritual restoration performed also restores people to community in general, and to an active engagement in the people of God in particular. For example, in the healing of the man with a congenital disability at the Beautiful Gate, Luke stresses that he now enters the temple ‘walking and leaping and praising God’ (Acts 3:8 bis, 9) – his physical restoration means he no longer sits dependent as a beggar, unable to join in the temple worship, but can now participate fully in the life of the people of God. Fourth, external sources provide a helpful comparison. Specifically, GraecoRoman sources offer an understanding of the nature and being of humanity collectively and as individual persons, and we may compare (and frequently contrast) such pictures with that emerging from Luke.9 In particular, Mikeal Parsons argues cogently that the ancient physiognomic tradition offers a valuable dialogue partner, for that tradition assumes that physical appearance speaks of character and a person’s nature, and necessarily makes assumptions about what it means to be truly and fully human.10 Further, the Old Testament provides a rich and important source for Luke’s reflection and writing about the events of Jesus and the apostolic church. It is well known that Luke (in common with most other NT writers) cites Isaiah and the Psalms most frequently. Luke also cites and echoes Genesis, a key source of understanding of humanity’s origins, destiny and purposes in the Old Testament,11 and these echoes can help us in reflecting on Luke’s anthropology. Sensitized to these possibilities, we next note a major Lukan literary technique which will be important for our study.

Luke’s Reversal Theme It is widely recognized that Luke uses reversal as a literary device to contrast how something/someone appears or is reckoned to be with how it/they actually is or should be.12 For example, the parable of the rich man and Lazarus involves an 8.  Cf. Turner’s valuable discussion, arguing that the close connection of the kingdom of God with healing and deliverance suggests the latter are an instance of the former’s presence, in Max Turner, Power from on High: The Spirit in Israel’s Restoration and Witness in Luke-Acts (JPTSup 9; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1996), 319–33. 9. A fine recent example is Brittany E. Wilson, Unmanly Men: Refigurations of Masculinity in Luke-Acts (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015); we shall consider her arguments in discussing masculinity and the relationship of the sexes below. 10.  Mikeal C. Parsons, Body and Character in Luke and Acts: The Subversion of Physiognomy in Early Christianity (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2006). 11. See Peter Mallen, ‘Genesis in Luke-Acts’ , in Genesis in the New Testament, ed. Maarten J. J. Menken and Steve Moyise (LNTS 466; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2012), 60–82. 12. See valuable surveys in John O. York, The Last Shall Be First: The Rhetoric of Reversal in Luke (JSNTSup 46; Sheffield:  JSOT, 1991), 10–38; Frederick W. Danker, Luke, 2nd ed. (Proclamation Commentaries; Philadelphia, PA: Fortress, 1987), 47–57.

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overturning of expectations, in that the rich man  – normally understood to be blessed by God because of his wealth – goes to Hades in the after-life, and poor Lazarus is taken to that blessed place (Lk. 16:19–31). Similarly, the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector overturns expectations, for the deeply devout Pharisee is not ‘justified’ , whereas the hated tax collector is (Lk. 18:9–14) – indeed, Jesus makes the reversal explicit: ‘all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted’ (v. 14). Luke uses this reversal theme to communicate positively and negatively, as do other ancient writers who use this theme.13 By contrast with other ancient writers, however, Luke is clear that God stands behind the reversals which he portrays.14 Positively, Luke signals that God – rather than mere chance or fate – stands with people who are lowly, poor, outcast or marginal. These qualities are attractive to Jesus and to his people, especially where they are combined with humility and recognition of need. Negatively, Luke signals that God stands against people who are rich, self-satisfied, proud of their own achievements or oppressive of poor people, especially where these qualities are combined with, or expressive of, arrogance towards God in religious dress. York suggests that Luke regularly presents ‘bipolar’ reversal, that is, that an opposition is reversed: high status becomes low status and vice versa; ‘good becomes bad and bad becomes good’.15 Not for nothing did the people of Thessalonica describe Paul and Silas as people ‘who have turned the world upside-down’ (Acts 17:6) – and the change to right-side up (as Luke would see it) includes a different view of humankind in many dimensions.

Sinful Humanity Transformed It is well recognized that salvation is a – if not the – major theme in Luke-Acts: Jesus comes ‘to seek and to save the lost’ (Lk. 19:10).16 This recognition necessarily entails two questions:  from what do people need to be saved and to what do they need to be saved?17 However, the question is never answered by Luke in Acts in the

13. For Graeco-Roman examples, see York, Last, 173–81. 14. York, Last, 181–82. 15. York, Last, 42 (his italics); discussion of several clear examples on 44–92. 16. For example, I. Howard Marshall, Luke: Historian and Theologian (Exeter: Paternoster, 1970), esp. chs. IV–VIII (77–215); I. Howard Marshall and David Peterson, eds, Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts (Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge:  Eerdmans, 1998), esp. John Nolland, ‘Salvation-History and Eschatology’ (63–81), Joel B. Green, ‘Salvation to the End of the Earth:  God as the Saviour in the Acts of the Apostles’ (83–106), H.  Douglas Buckwalter, ‘The Divine Saviour’ (107–23), Christoph Stenschke, ‘The Need for Salvation’ (125–44), and Ben Witherington III, ‘Salvation and Health in Christian Antiquity:  The Soteriology of Luke-Acts in its First Century Setting’ (145–66). 17.  Cf. W. G. Kümmel, Man in the New Testament, trans. John J. Vincent, rev. ed. (London:  Epworth, 1963), 16–17: ‘If we can find the answer to this question [sc. to whom

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direct way that he answers the question how people are saved in Paul’s answer to the Philippian jailer (Acts 16:30–31), and this lack forces us to look for less direct statements and hints, including in the Third Gospel.18 The question of how to respond is put clearly twice in Acts: one in a gentile setting, on the lips of the Philippian jailer, as we noted earlier, ‘Sirs, what must I do (τί με δεῖ ποιεῖν) to be saved?’ (16:30); the other in a Jewish setting, on the lips of the Pentecost crowd, ‘What shall we do (τί ποιήσωμεν), brothers and sisters?’ (2:37). Exploring the context, both literary and cultural, of these questions will help us to understand why humanity – both Jewish and gentile – needs saving, and what the gospel message offers under the name ‘salvation’. The Pentecost Question The Pentecost question is provoked by a change to the crowd’s inner state: they had been divided in their response to the pentecostal events, with some ‘astonished and perplexed’ (2:13) and some sceptical (v. 14). Peter’s speech has focused their attention on Jesus, and their response is to be ‘cut to the heart’ (κατενύγησαν τὴν καρδίαν, v. 14). They experience sharp pain, doubtless remorse for their part in Jesus’ death (note ἀνείλατε ‘you put to death’ , v. 23) and want to know how to respond. Peter calls them to a response which includes at least five elements. The first four – repentance, baptism, forgiveness and the gift of the Spirit – are widely recognized. Less widely recognized is that v. 39, connected to v. 38 by γάρ ‘for’ , offers further explanation of the response required. Let us consider these elements of response, which are both personal and corporate, and the light they shine on Luke’s anthropology. Repentance includes both change of mind and change of life-direction in consequence.19 Repentance is a characteristic response to the gospel message elsewhere, in both Jewish and gentile settings.20 Here it includes the specific element of repudiating the killing of Jesus, for which the speech holds those present responsible (v. 23).21 In both Jewish and gentile settings, repentance involves two assumptions about people: that they are going in the wrong direction, and that they are thinking the wrong way – their lifestyle and mindset need to change. Luke is thus no naïve optimist about human nature, although he does expect that people can recognize that they are out of sync with God’s intentions for them – people in general are not the message of Jesus Christ comes], we can also conclude what kind of salvation it must be which will save such a man, and also how he can lay hold of it.’ 18. Stenschke, ‘Need’ , 128. 19.  Guy D. Nave, The Role and Function of Repentance in Luke-Acts (SBLAcBib 4; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 199. 20.  Jewish:  3:19; 5:31; cf. Lk. 3:3, 8; 5:32; 10:13; 13:3, 5; 15:7, 10; 16:30; 17:3, 4; gentile: 11:18; 17:30; cf. 20:21; 26:20; Lk. 24:47. 21. Contrast speeches outside Jerusalem to Jewish audiences, which speak of ‘they’ who killed Jesus, for example, 13:27–29. See discussion in Jon A. Weatherly, Jewish Responsibility for the Death of Jesus in Luke-Acts (JSNTSup 106; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1994), 50–98.

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‘so far gone’ that this is impossible. It is, of course, also necessary for God to draw people to himself by opening people’s minds22 to the gospel message. The need for repentance shows that there is material for God to work with in human beings. Baptism is the second element. The passive imperative βαπτισθήτω (‘be baptized’) calls people to submit to baptism, illustrating that what they receive from God (forgiveness and the Spirit) is gift. The verb is plural, which places baptism in the corporate sphere, but combined with a singular personal pronoun, ἕκαστος (‘each one’), which underlines the personal nature of the response. Household baptisms elsewhere in Acts, where each individual is baptized – rather than the head of the household being baptized on behalf of all (e.g. 16:15, 33)  – further demonstrate both the individual and corporate nature of the response. Baptism is ἐπὶ τῷ ὀνόματι Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (‘in the name of Jesus Messiah’), most probably with the sense ‘having in mind’ or ‘with regard to’ the name of Jesus Messiah.23 Such usage connects with the expression ‘call upon’ (ἐπικαλέω) used in 2:21 and, strikingly, implies that Jesus – rather than YHWH – is the name upon which believers are to call. Similarly, 22:16 suggests that a baptisand calls upon the name of Jesus for forgiveness. To call on the name of Jesus, to be baptized in the name of Jesus, is to invoke the power of the one who is at God’s right side, the one with whom authority thus rests. This picture shows the radical nature of conversion in Acts, for people are unable to save themselves: they need and require outside power to change, symbolized and enacted in water baptism. Those who respond in repentance and baptism receive forgiveness and the gift of the Holy Spirit. The emphasis continues to be on the Godward side of human change, as well as on the need for change. Forgiveness of sins entails two movements: first, those forgiving acknowledge that they have been done wrong by another party, and then they commit themselves not to continue to hold the wrong against the other party.24 Thus, Luke’s usage on the lips of Peter here indicates that the audience are in the wrong in relation to God, and yet may have that situation reversed. The combination of repentance and baptism leads to (εἰς) ‘forgiveness of sins’ (ἄφεσις τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν, a distinctively Lukan phrase). Luke has prepared carefully for this use: John the baptizer’s ministry is prophesied by his father Zechariah to bring salvation to the people ἐν ἀφέσει ἁμαρτιῶν αὐτῶν (‘by the forgiveness of their sins’ , Lk. 1:77), and such forgiveness is the focus of his baptism of repentance (3:3); Jesus has announced forgiveness to the man with paralysis (5:20) and to the woman who pours ointment on his feet in the house of Simon the Pharisee (7:47–48), in each

22. ‘Minds’ is today’s term: in common with OT writers, Luke uses ‘heart’ for the realm of understanding and will, for example, 2:37; 8:22; 16:14. 23. Lars Hartman, ‘Into the Name of the Lord Jesus’: Baptism in the Early Church (SNTW; Edinburgh:  T&T Clark, 1997), 42–43. See discussion in my forthcoming commentary on Acts in the Word Biblical Commentary, ad loc. 24.  See the excellent discussion in Miroslav Volf, Free of Charge: Giving and Forgiving in a Culture Stripped of Grace (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2006), esp. 129–31, 165–77.

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case scandalizing his hearers (5:21; 7:49); the disciples’ prayer is to include asking for forgiveness of sins (11:4); and the risen Jesus tells his disciples that ‘repentance and forgiveness of sins’ will be heralded to all nations (24:47).25 Forgiveness of sins continues to be prominent in Acts: people, both Jewish and gentile, are urged to receive the forgiveness God-in-Jesus offers, frequently with repentance as the road which leads to forgiveness (Acts 3:19; 5:31; 10:43; 13:38–39; 22:16; 26:17–28). Luke’s anthropology here is universal: the breadth of use of ‘forgiveness of sins’ in Luke-Acts indicates that the wrong-standing with God which requires forgiveness is a universal human characteristic, and not confined to those in Jerusalem who have particular culpability for Jesus’ death, and that the offer of forgiveness is made to all kinds of people without distinction. The gift of the Holy Spirit, in combination with λήμψεσθε (‘you will receive’), signals that the change required comes from outside a person: the Spirit is received from another, not taken for oneself. Peter’s appropriation of Joel’s promise of a universal gift of the Spirit (Joel 2:28–32 [LXX 3:1–5], quoted in 2:17–21) to explain the pentecostal outpouring prepares for this promise – anyone who repents and is baptized can expect to receive the Spirit.26 Pentecost is a Jewish setting, but the expectation of the Spirit’s coming to gentiles who similarly repent and are baptized is clear as the story of Acts develops: 8:16 (in Samaria) should be heard as Luke speaking with raised eyebrows – it is a surprise that the Spirit has not yet fallen on the Samaritans who have believed;27 the Spirit is poured out on Cornelius and his household, and that confirms and authenticates God’s acceptance of them (10:44– 48; 11:15–18); and the Ephesian twelve receive the Spirit after baptism in the name of Jesus (19:1–10). The Spirit in Acts, as Turner rightly argues, is given not only to empower God’s people for mission, but is also a vital necessity for the life of believers and believing communities, both in bringing people into the experience of salvation and in equipping them to continue to live that way.28 Anthropologically, then, the picture of humanity as dependent on God for the ability to live in tune with God is further reinforced. Renewed community: Peter’s explanation of the nature of the response required continues into the next sentence (2:39), where it becomes even clearer that it is not a purely individual matter: others near and far are implicated and involved. A Jewish audience – indeed, any ancient audience – would hear ‘the promise is to you and your children’ as entailing family solidarity with the head of household’s

25.  See discussion in Tim Carter, The Forgiveness of Sins (Cambridge:  James Clarke, 2016), esp. 211–36. 26. Thus, Turner, Power, 358–59 considers 2:38 to be programmatic, signalling the elements which Luke understands to be constitutive of Christian conversion. 27. See Max Turner, ‘Interpreting the Samaritans of Acts 8: The Waterloo of Pentecostal Soteriology and Pneumatology?’ , Pneuma 23 (2001): 265–86, esp. 267–68, 278. 28.  Turner, Power, 405–27; with James D.  G. Dunn, Baptism in the Holy Spirit (London: SCM, 1970), 90–102; contra Robert P. Menzies, Empowered for Witness: The Spirit in Luke-Acts (JPTSup 6; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1994), 172–225.

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response. ‘All who are far away [πᾶσιν τοῖς εἰς μακράν]’ echoes Isa. 57:19 LXX ‘peace upon peace to those far away [τοῖς μακρὰν…οὖσιν] and to those near’ , and ‘whoever the Lord our God calls to himself [ὅσους ἂν προσκαλέσηται κύριος ὁ θεὸς ἡμῶν]’ echoes Joel 3:5 LXX ‘whom the Lord has called [οὓς κύριος προσκέκληται]’ , a phrase not quoted in 2:17–21. The eschatological pilgrimage, which Joel and others portray, includes far-flung diaspora Jews and some gentiles coming to Jerusalem.29 People in the ancient world  – and the large majority today, especially in the two-thirds world – think of themselves as members of a community first, and as individuals only far later (if at all).30 So the question of human identity is about the community to which a person belongs. To speak, as Peter does, of a community which will include household members and ‘all who are far away’ identifies that a new kind of community is in the process of being formed, for it is not constituted by ethnicity, by blood relationships; rather, it is constituted by a relationship to God-in-Jesus. It took some time for the implications of this change to sink in: even after the ‘Jerusalem council’ (Acts 15:6–29), the question of Jew-gentile relationships within the believing communities rumbled on, to the extent that Paul was later asked to show his Jewish credentials and loyalty by participating in a temple vow (Acts 21:20–24). To form a community across the great Jew-gentile divide was remarkable and difficult. The quantity of Luke’s use of Jewish Scripture in Acts, not least in understanding the inclusion of gentiles in the people of God,31 shows that Luke does not think the Jews as a people are being rejected in favour of the gentiles; rather, gentiles are being included in the renewed people of God – once the ‘tent of David’ is rebuilt, that is, once Israel’s restoration is well in process, then inclusion of gentiles is fitting (Amos 9:11–12, quoted in Acts 15:16–18).32 Ethnicity, then, is not to be regarded as a prime anthropological reality concerning membership of the people of God, and nor are markers of ethnicity, such as circumcision. 29.  For example, Zech 8:20–23; Isa 2:1–3; 56:6–8; cf. Isa 49:6; Sib. Or. 3:616–17, 772– 73; Pss. Sol. 17:34–35; see E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London:  SCM, 1984), 212– 18; Michael F. Bird, Jesus and the Origins of the Gentile Mission (LNTS 331; London:  T&T Clark, 2006), 26–29, both with further ancient references. 30. For discussion, see Bruce J. Malina, The New Testament World: Insights from Cultural Anthropology, 3rd ed. (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001), 58–79. 31.  See Joseph B. Tyson, ‘The Gentile Mission and the Authority of Scripture in Acts’ , NTS 33 (1987):  619–31; James A. Meek, The Gentile Mission in Old Testament Citations in Acts: Text, Hermeneutic, and Purpose (LNTS 385; London: T&T Clark, 2008). 32.  See discussion in Turner, Power, 312–15; Richard Bauckham, ‘James and the Jerusalem Church’ , in The Book of Acts in Its Palestinian Setting, ed. Richard Bauckham (BAFCS 4; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans/Carlisle:  Paternoster, 1995), 415–80 esp. 452–62; Richard Bauckham, ‘James and the Gentiles (Acts 15:13–21)’ , in History, Literature, and Society in the Book of Acts, ed. Ben Witherington III (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1996), 154–84; Meek, Gentile Mission, 77–94; contra Jack T. Sanders, The Jews in Luke-Acts (London:  SCM, 1987), passim, who considers Luke to be anti-Jewish and to regard the whole Jewish nation as responsible for Jesus’ death.

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The Philippian Jailer’s Question The jailer’s question, ‘What must I  do to be saved?’ (Acts 16:30) is sometimes suggested to be about how the jailer can escape punishment for the prisoners’ escape.33 However, at the point in the story where the jailer speaks, he has already been assured by Paul (16:28) that the prisoners are there and has confirmed this by bringing in lights (v. 29a).34 As happens elsewhere with gentiles, his first reaction is to fall before the believers (v. 29b; cf. 10:25), most probably expressing fear, for he had treated these men harshly (vv. 23b–24) and now saw that an earthquake had seemingly vindicated them. He would most naturally assume that the earthquake was a deed of Paul and Silas’s god,35 and thus feared retribution from their god.36 His desire to know how to be saved was based on this fear, and need not be understood to include a personal sense of sin. It was only Paul and Silas’s answer which opened his understanding to ‘salvation’ more broadly, as they pointed him to the Lord Jesus as the source of salvation (v. 31). What is it from which gentiles need saving? Christoph Stenschke summarizes well, identifying seven key features of gentiles prior to faith in Christ:37 (1) ignorance: they do not recognize God and how God has made himself known in nature (Acts 17:16, 22–25); (2)  rejection of God’s purpose and revelation in history: they discard ways in which God has made himself known to the Jewish people, and despise God’s historic people and their city, Jerusalem (Lk. 21:24; Acts 16:20–21), and in particular were complicit in the death of Jesus (Acts 4:25– 27); (3)  idolatry marks gentile ignorance and rejection of revelation; gentiles worship the wrong things in place of the one true God – they are deeply ‘religious’ , but in erroneous ways (Acts 8:9–11; 15:20, 28; 19:23–37), and thus are unable to differentiate adequately between divine and human beings (Acts 8:9– 11; 12:20–23; 19:35; 28:4–6); (4) materialism is the centre of their concerns, and drives their decision-making and preoccupations – they even seek to manipulate spiritual forces to this end (Lk. 12:29–30; Acts 16:16–24; 19:24–28); (5)  moral failure marks their lives, although such sins are the outworking of their sinful state of living in independence of the true God – thus the death of Jesus is an expression of their rejection of God (Acts 4:25–27). They can and do act above the level of this state in showing kindness (e.g. Acts 27:3; 28:2); (6) under Satan’s power: gentiles are under the rule of the Evil One (e.g. Acts 26:18; cf. Lk. 4:5–6), although they are not thereby removed from culpability for their other failures 33.  For example, C. K. Barrett, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, 2 vols. (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994, 1998), 2:796–77; although Barrett does go on to note that Luke could hardly have been unaware of the overtones of ‘saved’ for Christian readers. 34. With Stenschke, Portrait, 200. 35.  Or, indeed, that they were gods, a possible interpretation of his addressing them as κύριοι (16:30); cf. 14:11–13. See discussion in Stenschke, Portrait, 202 with n. 469. 36. Stenschke, Portrait, 201. 37. Stenschke, Portrait, 378–82.

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noted previously;38 (7)  under God’s judgement:  gentiles face future judgement by God, and divine actions of judgement in history prefigure and actualize this judgement before the Last Day (e.g. Acts 7:7). When gentiles are invited to faith, it is their spiritual failure which comes to the fore:  for example, Simon Magus has been wicked (Acts 8:22–23), and the Athenians are called to repentance from past ignorant idolatry (Acts 17:29–30). The remedy for this spiritual failure is radical forgiveness, not merely tidying up their lives (cf. Lk. 1:77)39 or moral correction40 (although teaching and change follows once they have become believers41). Interestingly, gentiles who respond to the message of salvation are most frequently godfearers,42 rather than ‘devout pagans’ (e.g. Cornelius:  Acts 10:1–2; Antiochenes:  13:42–49; Lydia:  16:13–15; Thessalonians: 17:4; Beroeans: 17:12; Titius Justus and other Corinthians: 18:6–7). Such people have some understanding and knowledge of God through their association with the synagogues and Jewish groups; yet they – like Jewish people – are called to repent and receive salvation, rather than needing only correction (e.g. Acts 13:38–39; cf. 17:30–31). What, then, should we make of passages which have been understood to indicate gentile kinship to God, most notably the Athens speech (Acts 17:16– 31), upon which some have almost entirely based their understanding of Lukan anthropology?43 Vielhauer declared that Luke’s portrait of Paul’s proclamation to gentile pagans in Athens was at odds with the portrait found in Rom. 1:18– 32, for in Romans the statement of human kinship to God resulted in God’s

38. Stenschke, Portrait, 382, observes that, for example, Satan is not held responsible for the Ephesian riot, and comments that ‘Luke does not clarify the bearing of Satan’s dominance on human responsibility’ (see also 242). 39.  Stenschke, Portrait, 384–85; contra Hans Conzelmann, The Theology of St Luke, trans. Geoffrey Busewell (London:  Faber & Faber, 1960), 228–29, who claims that sin is predominantly an ethical concept in Luke-Acts (and thus implies that character improvement is all that is required). 40.  Stenschke, Portrait, 100, 240, 318; contra Jens-Wilhelm Taeger, Der Mensch und sein Heil: Studien zum Bild des Menschen und zur Sicht der Bekehrung bei Lukas (SNT 14; Gütersloh:  Mohn, 1982), esp. 105–224, and note ‘Der Mensch ist kein salvandus, sondern ein corrigendus’ (‘Humanity is not something to be saved, but something to be corrected,’ 227 [my translation]). See Stenschke’s good summary in English of Taeger’s overall argument: Stenschke, Portrait, 36–45. 41. Stenschke, Portrait, 386, cites Acts 8:24; 11:28–29; 20:7–12; 19:18–19 as examples. 42.  On this disputed category, see, for example, Craig S. Keener, Acts:  An Exegetical Commentary, 4 vols. (Grand Rapids, MI:  Baker Academic, 2012–15), 2:1750–55; Conrad H. Gempf, ‘The God-Fearers’ in Colin J. Hemer, The Book of Acts in the Setting of Hellenistic History, ed. Conrad H. Gempf (WUNT 49; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1989), 444–48. 43.  For example, Phillip Vielhauer, ‘On the Paulinism of Acts’ , in Studies in Luke-Acts, ed. Leander E. Keck and J. L. Martyn (London:  SPCK, 1968), 33–50 esp. 34–37; Kümmel, Man, 89; Dibelius, Studies, 47–57.

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wrath, whereas in Acts 17 the result was simply the need for education and enlightenment.44 Paul’s speech responds to a question (17:19–20) which is likely to be about why the Areopagites should allow Paul to build a temple to Jesus in Athens.45 The council had authority to determine whether new deities were to have temples, and thus required evidence that the temple would be viable, that is, that there were sufficient worshippers of the deity to provide the money to buy land and build the temple with an altar for sacrifice, and perhaps a statue of the god, as well as to endow an annual feast.46 Thus their question has the sense, ‘[W]e possess the legal right to judge what this new teaching is that is being spoken by you.’47 Paul’s response undermines and rejects the presuppositions of their question: he is not bringing a new god to Athens, but one they already worship, but as unknown (vv. 22–23); no plot of land to build a temple is required, for this god does not live in handbuilt places (v. 24), but is himself the creator of all things (v. 25); and no statue or image of this god is required, since humans are themselves this god’s offspring (vv. 28–29). Instead, Paul’s speech makes clear that, rather than them judging this god, Jesus judges them and seeks their repentance (vv. 30–31). Given Paul’s declaration of his hearers’ ignorance (ἄγνοια, v. 30; cf. ἀγνοοῦντες, v.  24), how should we understand his opening statement that they are ὡς δεισιδαιμονεστέρους (v. 22)? This phrase can mean ‘deeply religious’ or ‘deeply superstitious’ , and thus can signal a positive or negative approbation of Paul’s hearers.48 In favour of the latter, it comes in a context where Luke has expressed Paul’s distress at the city’s idolatry (v. 16), Luke uses other terms to express a positive view of non-believers’ religious sensibilities, notably the participle of σέβομαι, sometimes with τὸν θεόν as object,49 and the rest of the speech offers an acerbic critique of the Athenians’ idolatry, notably v. 29.50 It could be that the term was understood by Paul (and Luke) negatively, but might be heard in the opening part of the speech as positive, for the audience had not yet heard the rest of the speech,51 44. Vielhauer, ‘Paulinism’ , 36–37. 45. Bruce W. Winter, ‘On Introducing Gods to Athens: An Alternative Reading of Acts 17:18–20’ , TynBul 47 (1996): 71–90. 46.  Robert Garland, Introducing New Gods: The Politics of Athenian Religion (London: Duckworth, 1991), 21. 47. Winter, ‘Gods’ , 82. 48.  For the view that it is ‘cautiously appreciative’ , see Ernst Haenchen, The Acts of the Apostles (Oxford: Blackwell, 1971), 520 n. 7. 49. Acts 13:43, 50; 16:14; 17:4, 17; 18:7 – contrast 18:13; 19:27. 50. Stenschke, Portrait, 211, 213–18; Conrad H. Gempf, ‘Athens, Paul at’ , in Dictionary of Paul and His Letters, ed. Gerald F. Hawthorne, Ralph P. Martin and Daniel G. Reid (Downers Grove, IL/Leicester: IVP, 1993), 51–54 esp. 52. 51.  So Rudolf Pesch, Die Apostelgeschichte, 2  vols. (EKKNT; Zürich:  BenzingerVerlag, 1986), 2:136, who calls it ‘zweideutig’ (ambiguous); cf. Stenschke, Portrait, 211; C. Kavin Rowe, World Upside Down:  Reading Acts in the Graeco-Roman Age (Oxford/ New York: Oxford University Press, 2009), 33–34.

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but the context makes clear that Luke’s Paul regards the term negatively – and thus signals that Luke regards humans as not ‘naturally’ near to knowing the true God. This distance from God in practical gentile experience is underlined by the use of the tentative εἰ ἄρα γε ‘if then, perhaps’ with the optative verb εὕροιεν ‘might find’ (v. 27): although people have an instinct to seek the true God and that God is actually not far from them (vv. 27b–28), they are unlikely in their groping around (ψηλαφήσειαν, v. 27, also optative) to find him.52 Taeger notes this failure:  ‘the Athenians actually do not come by themselves to accurate knowledge and remain trapped in ignorance.’53 The Areopagus speech, in sum, seeks to ‘change the frame’54 of the Athenians’ thinking and living by showing them their ignorance about the one true God, and calling for a change in their thinking and living, and for submission to the judge of all, Jesus. In more traditional language, gentiles are sinners who live in idolatry and ignorance and need to repent. Their sins may differ from those of their Jewish contemporaries, but those sins are nonetheless offensive to God, so that gentiles require repentance and baptism in order to receive forgiveness and the empowering Spirit. Summary Jews and gentiles alike are called to repentance and faith, expressed in baptism, in the light of their sinfulness. This sinfulness goes beyond particular deeds and words to life orientation – and that is why only God, in Christ and by the Spirit, can achieve effective and lasting change in people’s lives. People are saved into a new community, which includes both gentile and Jew, and in which relationships are being restored to the Creator’s pattern. We move on now to consider that pattern as modelled and exemplified in Jesus, and then its implications for re-understanding human physicality and refiguring human community.

Jesus as Humanity Par Excellence The parallels between Luke’s portraits of Jesus, Peter and Paul have frequently been noted and explored.55 A  key implication in relation to this essay is that Jesus is

52.  Rowe, World, 199 n. 155, rightly criticizes RSV and others for translating in a way which suggests that they have found God. On the verbs, see Gempf, ‘Athens’ , 52; Barrett, Acts, vol. 2, 844–46. 53. Taeger, Mensch, 101 (my translation). 54.  I owe the image to Rowe, World, 39. Rowe’s whole discussion of the speech is judicious and helpful (27–41). 55. See Praeder, ‘Jesus-Paul’; Clark, Lives, 35–38, 39–49, 63–73; Graham H. Twelftree, People of the Spirit:  Exploring Luke’s View of the Church (Grand Rapids, MI:  Baker Academic/London:  SPCK, 2009), 30–51; Robert F. O’Toole, SJ. ‘Parallels between Jesus and His Disciples in Luke-Acts: A Further Study’ , BZ 27 (1983), 195–212 (with literature

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presented as a model human being whom others will imitate – as we noted earlier, he is designated ‘a man’ (ἀνήρ, Acts 2:22; 17:31). For sure, others do not imitate Jesus without the enabling of the Spirit – hence the transformation of the apostles after Pentecost – but Luke portrays Peter and Paul’s actions and attitudes coming more into line with those of Jesus. This section considers some major parallels in order to substantiate this claim.56 First, Jesus, Peter and Paul are agents of deliverance, signs and wonders, and healings.57 One of Jesus’ first actions is to deliver a man from an unclean demon (Lk. 4:31–37), and Peter’s summary of Jesus’ ministry is that he ‘went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil’ (Acts 10:38). Within the time of Jesus’ ministry, the twelve receive power and authority over all demons (Lk. 9:1), and the seventy(-two)58 rejoice that the demons submit to them in Jesus’ name (Lk. 10:17); both groups would include Peter. Such deliverance ministry is a feature of Peter and Paul’s lives in Acts (5:16; 16:16–18; 19:11–12). More specifically: Jesus heals a person who is paralysed (παραλελυμένος, Lk. 5:18, 24), and so does Peter (παραλελυμένος, Acts 9:33; cf. Philip, 8:7) – although Peter is clear that it is the exalted Jesus Christ who is healing Aeneas (9:34); Jesus, Peter and Paul are the agents of a person being raised from the dead (Lk. 7:1–11; Acts 9:36–43; 20:7–12); Jesus, Peter and John, and Paul are agents of healing people with impairments of the lower limbs (χωλός, Lk. 7:22; Acts 3:2; 14:8; again cf. Philip, 8:7). Jesus, Peter (as one of the apostles) and Paul are all said in Acts to perform ‘signs and wonders’ (σημεῖα καὶ τέρατα, 2:22, 43; 5:12; 14:3; 15:12; cf. Stephen, 6:8). The fact that Peter and Paul (and other believers) do such things demonstrates that it is not necessarily Jesus’ divine status which enables him to act thus59 – they are performed through empowerment by the Spirit, which is common to Jesus and his followers in Luke-Acts.

there cited); O’Toole, SJ, The Unity of Luke’s Theology (GNS 9; Wilmington, DE:  Michael Glazier, 1984), 62–95; and my discussion in Walton, Leadership, 34–40 and literature there cited. 56. In addition to Peter and Paul, other characters in Acts – notably Stephen – exemplify key qualities shown by Jesus (Twelftree, People, 34–36). The wider believing community – and not prominent leaders alone – is presented as imitating Jesus. 57. Note the valuable study of Leo O’Reilly, Word and Sign in the Acts of the Apostles: A Study in Lucan Theology (AnGr 243; Rome: Editrice Pontificia Università Gregoriana, 1987) on this theme. 58. The manuscripts are divided between ‘seventy’ and ‘seventy-two’ , an issue which is not significant for our purposes. For discussion, see, for example, Bruce M. Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament, 2nd ed. (Stuttgart:  Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft/ United Bible Societies, 1994), 126; I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Exeter: Paternoster, 1978), 414–15. 59.  On Jesus’ divine identity in Luke, see Richard B. Hays, Reading Backwards: Figural Christology and the Fourfold Gospel Witness (Waco, TX:  Baylor University Press, 2014), 55–74.

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Second, developing the previous point, Jesus, Peter, and Paul are all empowered by the Spirit, who enables these signs and wonders to happen. There is a cluster of key ‘Spirit’ references surrounding the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry in Luke: Jesus sees the Spirit come down on him at his baptism (3:21–22); he is filled with the Spirit and then led by the Spirit in the wilderness (4:1); he returns from the wilderness in the power of the Spirit and thus begins to teach (4:14–15); and in the Nazareth synagogue he reads from Isa. 61:1, identifying himself as the one upon whom the Lord’s Spirit rests (4:18) – the Spirit will be the power of his ministry.60 Moreover, Jesus’ parting words in both the Gospel and Acts instruct his followers to wait in Jerusalem for the Spirit’s power to rest on them as the Spirit had rested on Jesus (Lk. 24:49; Acts 1:4–5). It is thus no great surprise to readers of Luke’s double work when the Spirit is poured out on and fills the believers at Pentecost (Acts 2:1–4, 16–18, 33) and is promised to others who believe (2:38). The most natural reading of the description of the life of the earliest community in Jerusalem as contiguous with the Pentecost account is that in that description we see the outflow of their Spirit-empowered life into the believing community (2:42–47).61 Indeed, the statement that ‘many signs and wonders’ (2:43) were done among the believers echoes Peter’s statement that Jesus performed such deeds (2:22), thus showing that the Spirit is at work through the apostles in a similar manner as through Jesus. Luke reports other occasions when Peter (sometimes as part of the apostolic band) is filled with or directed by the Spirit for particular tasks (4:8, 31; 10:19; 11:12).62 Paul, too, is filled with the Spirit and thus empowered for his ministry (13:9; 20:22, 23; 21:4, 11). The programmatic and normative role of 2:38 suggests that the usual expectation is that believers will receive the Spirit at the point of water baptism63 – indeed (as we saw earlier) Luke writes with raised eyebrows when this does not happen (8:16;64 19:2). Third, in particular, Jesus, Peter and Paul’s teaching and speaking is empowered by the Spirit. In the case of Jesus, it is immediately following his return from the wilderness, filled with Spirit, that he begins to teach (4:14–15).65 The 60.  For discussion, see Turner, Power, 188–212; Dunn, Baptism, 23–37; Menzies, Empowered, 132–56. 61.  With Turner, Power, 412–14; Luke T. Johnson, The Literary Function of Possessions in Luke-Acts (SBLDS 39; Missoula, MT:  Scholars, 1977), 183–84; Matthias Wenk, Community-forming Power:  The Socio-ethical Role of the Spirit in Luke-Acts (JPTSup 19; Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic, 2000), 261–63; contra Menzies, Empowered, 258; Gonzalo Haya-Prats, SJ, Empowered Believers:  The Holy Spirit in the Book of Acts, trans. Scott A. Ellington (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2011), 168–77. 62. Cf. similar instances with Stephen (6:10; 7:55), Philip (8:29, 39) and Barnabas (11:24). 63.  For a clear statement of this view with supporting references, see Turner, Power, 358–60. 64. Turner, ‘Samaritans’ , 267–68, 278. 65.  The imperfect ἐδίδασκεν (4:15) is inceptive, portraying the teaching as beginning and continuing.

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apostles – notably Peter (who gives the first two major speeches in Acts, 2:14–36, 38–40; 3:12–26) – begin their teaching ministry following the Spirit’s descent at Pentecost (Acts 2:42), and this ministry is critical to the church’s life and growth (6:2, 4, 7). When they speak to hostile audience, the Spirit empowers them, as Jesus had promised (Acts 4:8, 31 with Lk. 12:11–12; cf. Acts 5:32; 6:5, 8–10; 7:55).66 Saul/Paul, likewise, begins to proclaim Jesus with great effectiveness after he is filled with the Holy Spirit (Acts 9:17, 19b–22). Paul’s travels from Antioch are initiated by the Spirit (13:2, 4), and his speech is imbued by the Spirit (13:9). Fourth, suffering marks Jesus, Peter and Paul and is understood as a normal feature of faithful discipleship.67 In the case of Jesus, suffering is focused in his death on the cross and the lead up to that event (he is mocked and beaten, Lk. 22:63–65). His death, of course, has redemptive significance, seen in, for example, the exchange of the innocent Jesus for the guilty Barabbas (Lk. 23:13–25) in combination with the stress on Jesus’ innocent suffering in the passion narrative (e.g. Lk. 23:14, 15, 22, 41, 47) – in this redemptive aspect, Jesus’ suffering is different from that of his followers. Nevertheless, Jesus teaches that his faithful followers should expect to suffer (e.g. Lk. 12:11–12; 21:12–19), and Acts presents the fulfilment of Jesus’ words. Peter and John are twice brought before the Jewish council to answer for their proclamation of Jesus as Messiah – once alone, and once with the other apostles (4:1–22; 5:17–41); and Peter is imprisoned by Herod and narrowly escapes execution because of an angelic intervention (12:3–11).68 Paul – ironically, having been an initiator of persecution of believers (8:3; 9:1–2; 26:9–11) – regularly suffers, through being thrown out of cities (13:50–51), imprisonment (16:23; chs. 21–28),69 attempted and actual physical punishment and attack (14:5–6, 19; 16:22–23; 17:5; 20:3; 22:22–23, 24–29; 23:10, 12–15, 35), storm and shipwreck

66. See my discussion of Lk. 12:11–12 in the context of Luke-Acts: Steve Walton, ‘Whose Spirit? The Promise and the Promiser in Luke 12:12’ , in The Spirit and Christ in the New Testament and Christian Theology, ed. I. Howard Marshall, Volker Rabens and Cornelis Bennema (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012), 35–51. 67. Parts of what follows draw on my student Brian J. Tabb’s PhD thesis, ‘Suffering and Worldview:  A Comparative Study of Acts, Fourth Maccabees, and Seneca’ (PhD diss., London School of Theology/Middlesex University, 2013), published in revised form as Suffering in Ancient Worldview:  Luke, Seneca and 4 Maccabees in Dialogue (LNTS 569; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2017). 68. For fuller discussion of persecution in Palestine, see Ernst Bammel, ‘Jewish Activity against Christians in Palestine according to Acts’ , in The Book of Acts in Its Palestinian Setting, ed. Bauckham, 357–64. On persecution in Luke-Acts, see Scott Cunningham, ‘Through Many Tribulations’:  The Theology of Persecution in Luke-Acts (JSNTSup 142; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997); Wenk, Power, passim. 69.  See the insightful studies Brian M. Rapske, The Book of Acts and Paul in Roman Custody (BAFCS 3; Carlisle: Paternoster/Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1994); Matthew L. Skinner, Locating Paul:  Places of Custody as Narrative Settings in Acts 21–28 (AcBib 13; Atlanta, GA: SBL, 2003).

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(27:13–44), being brought before the authorities (16:19–21; 18:12; 24:1–2), and riot (19:23–34; 21:27–36). The exalted Lord programmatically tells Ananias that suffering will mark Paul’s path (9:15),70 and Paul reflects on and theologizes about suffering with the Ephesian elders (20:19, 23–24, 29–30).71 There are clear echoes of Jesus’ promise of aid from the Spirit in such situations (Lk. 12:11–12; cf. Acts 4:8; 5:32; 6:10; 7:55).72 Thus in a number of ways Luke presents Jesus as a model of what it means to be truly and fully human, as a model for imitation amidst the vicissitudes of human existence. For Luke, being fully human – which means living in relationship with God and his people – necessitates reliance upon the Spirit’s enabling and transforming power; the Spirit is the active power of God to unite a disparate set of people.73

Human Physicality Re-Understood Mikeal Parsons highlights the significance of bodily form and life in ancient physiognomic traditions, whether Graeco-Roman, Jewish or early Christian.74 He shows that ancient authors considered the physical form of the body as displaying character.75 In particular, physical disabilities marked a person as morally inferior, as well as less than fully human. Parsons argues cogently that Luke – along with other Christian writers – critiques these physiognomic assumptions. For example, the man at the Beautiful Gate (Acts 3:1–10) is presented as having weak feet and ankles (v. 7). Of ankles, pseudo-Aristotle writes, ‘Those who have strong and well-jointed ankles are brave in character; witness the male sex. Those that have fleshly and ill-jointed ankles are weak in character; witness the female sex’ (810a25–29); and of feet, Pomelo writes, ‘If you see contracted, strong feet, and their tendons are straight and strong, and their joints are evenly proportioned, these are the signs of powerful and mighty men. If the feet are very fleshly and soft, they indicate weakness, softness, and laxity’ (5:15–19).76 This man is being presented, thus, as morally weak and effeminate.77 The story could be read, then, as following the ancient physiognomic expectations, for his physical healing results in him becoming a ‘whole’ person, able to participate in the praise of God’s people (vv. 8, 9). However, the man does not adopt the steady, slow gait expected of a

70. See the fine discussion of 9:14–15 in Tabb, ‘Suffering’ , 164–69. 71. On suffering in this speech, see Walton, Leadership, 87–89. 72. See discussion in Walton, ‘Spirit’. 73. Alan J. Thompson, The Acts of the Risen Lord Jesus: Luke’s Account of God’s Unfolding Plan (NSBT 27; Nottingham: Apollos, 2011), 131–41. 74. Parsons, Body. 75. Parsons, Body, 28–34, 39–61. 76. Translations from Parsons, Body, 112, 113. 77. On ancient attitudes to disability more widely, see Parsons, Body, 114–16.

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man of composure, but enthusiastically leaps (ἐξαλλόμενος ‘jumping’ , ἁλλόμενος ‘leaping’ , v. 8). Luke does not present the healed man as conforming to physiognomic expectations; rather, Luke presents the man’s response to God as breaking those expectations.78 Membership of the people of God in Luke’s understanding is not confined to those who fit with social norms of ‘wholeness’: ‘God shows no partiality’ (Acts 10:34). As well as the man at the Beautiful Gate, Parsons also highlights the woman bent double (Lk. 13:11–17), Zacchaeus, who is small of stature (Lk. 19:1–10), and the Ethiopian eunuch (Acts 8:25–40), and in each case shows that the ancient physiognomic traditions would regard them as sub-human and morally inferior because of their physical appearance or impairment.79 Such attitudes would lead to social marginalization and exclusion. In some cases, they are healed and social inclusion – indeed, inclusion in the people of God – results: for example, the man at the Beautiful Gate enters the temple, from which he would formerly have been excluded by his disability, participating in praising God (Acts 3:8–9), and associates with the believing community in their regular meeting place, Solomon’s Portico (3:11; cf. 5:12). However, the Ethiopian eunuch continues to be a eunuch and finds himself needing to ask whether anything prevents him being baptized (Acts 8:36) – a natural question in the light of his probable exclusion from anything close to full participation in temple worship, which was the purpose of his visit to Jerusalem (8:27). His ‘rejoicing’ (8:39) is the natural response to his inclusion in the people of God through baptism. Gentiles are, of course, a particular and prominent example of such inclusion, and the Ethiopian eunuch provides a key example.80 Barriers of physical deformity and ethnicity, which shut people out from full participation in the people of God (Deut. 23:1), are overcome in belonging to the people of Jesus (cf. Isa. 56:3– 8, promising a day when foreigners and eunuchs will be joined to the people of God). The symbolic world of first-century Judaism is being reordered to include such outsiders. Through baptism, repentance and faith, the unclean and despised is made clean and accepted.

Human Community Refigured Two areas of human community in Luke-Acts require reflection here. Standard ancient social understandings of what it means to be a man or a woman are

78. Parsons, Body, 119–21. 79. See, respectively, Parsons, Body, 83–95, 97–108, 123–41. 80. Interestingly, in the main, Ethiopians were not regarded with contempt in antiquity because of their dark skin color; for example, Homer wrote of ‘blameless Ethiopians’ (Il. 1:423–24). See Parsons, Body, 132; Frank M. Snowden Jr., Blacks in Antiquity: Ethiopians in the Greco-Roman Experience (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1970), esp. 169– 95; Frank M. Snowden Jr., Before Color Prejudice: The Ancient View of Blacks (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), esp. 46–59.

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reshaped through the gospel, and thus the nature of being human-in-relationships looks different to the mainstream pictures. It is a striking discovery – although disputed81 – in recent studies that Luke’s portrait of men does not comport with Graeco-Roman norms of masculinity.82 In particular, a ‘manly man’ (Wilson’s phrase) should not act in ways which women were expected to behave. Wilson characterizes ‘manly man’ expectations as including: the exercise of sexual and paternal power as ‘head of the household’; the exercise of political and military power; the exercise of self-control in areas such as emotions, diet and exercise; and bodily autonomy, notably safety from the body being invaded or penetrated from outside.83 These expectations are shattered by Luke’s characterization of believing men as living in dependence on God’s power, rather than exercising their own power – thus, Zechariah is silenced (Lk. 1:20), Jesus is crucified (Lk. 23), Paul is blinded by the exalted Jesus (Acts 9:8–9) and the Ethiopian eunuch has been emasculated prior to entering the story and is characterized consistently and solely as ‘the eunuch’ (Acts 8:27, 34, 36, 38, 39).84 All four men are examples of loss of power, loss of self-control and breach of bodily boundaries, and yet these are four of Luke’s ‘heroes’ , men whose example (once they bow to the power of God-in-Jesus) Luke commends and promotes. However, it is interesting that Luke does not follow the example of his contemporaries and discuss these men using the standard vocabulary of manliness (ἀνδρεία),85 or describe them as ‘feminized’ (ἐθηλύνετο) or that they have a ‘female disease’ (νόσον θήλειαν).86 Luke is also relatively restrained in his descriptions of

81.  Some argue that Luke perpetuates elite images of masculinity in order to present the Christian gospel attractively to such men, for example, Todd Penner and Caroline VanderStichele, ‘Gendering Violence: Patterns of Power and Constructs of Masculinity in the Acts of the Apostles’ , in A Feminist Companion to the Acts of the Apostles, ed. Amy-Jill Levine and Marianne Blickenstaff (FCNT 9; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2004), 193–209. 82.  Brittany E. Wilson, ‘Contextualizing Masculinity in the Book of Acts:  Peter and Paul as Test Cases’ , in Reading Acts in the Discourses of Masculinity and Politics, ed., Eric D. Barreto, Matthew L. Skinner and Steve Walton (LNTS 559; London:  Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2016), 28–48; Wilson, Men; Bonnie J. Flessen, An Exemplary Man:  Cornelius and Characterization in Acts 10 (Eugene, OR:  Pickwick, 2011); Sean D. Burke, Queering the Ethiopian Eunuch:  Strategies of Ambiguity in Acts (Emerging Scholars; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2013). 83. Wilson, ‘Masculinity’; more fully, Wilson, Men, 39–75. 84. See full discussion in Wilson, Men, chs. 3–6. 85.  For example, the mother of the Jewish brothers martyred in 4 Maccabees is said to act like a man (ἀνδρειώσας, 15:23), to show manly endurance (ὑπομονὴν ἀνδρειοτέρα, 15:30), and to be found as a man (ἀνδρός, 16:14). I owe these references to Wilson, Men, 47 n. 29. 86. Wilson, Men, 46 with n. 23, cites examples from Josephus, War 1:59; and Philo, Abr. 135–136; Contempl. 59–61; Spec. 1:60.325.

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suffering: he does not give detail on men’s bodily suffering – and in this he contrasts with later Christian martyrological texts too.87 To be a believing man looks different from the way Graeco-Roman and Jewish societies of the day would think of masculinity, and that is so because to believe is to submit to God-in-Jesus known through the Spirit. It is to be filled with  – and thus penetrated by – the Spirit, rather than one’s standing reflecting personal authority and self-control (e.g. Acts 2:4; 4:8, 31; 6:3, 5; 7:55; 9:17; 11:24; 13:9, 52). Control is given to Another, and that Other can and does give male followers the promise of suffering and pain (e.g. Acts 9:15–16), so that Paul can describe himself as ‘having been bound by the Spirit’ (δεδεμένος  . . . τῷ πνεύματι, 20:22), a strong image of being under the control of Another. Luke’s reshaping of masculinity in light of his focus on God, and what God is doing in and through Jesus and by the Spirit, also reshapes his portrait of femininity. Luke’s portrait of women characters has been controversial in recent times:88 some (probably a majority) present him as generally positive towards women, while not anachronistically seeing him as a ‘feminist’;89 others regard Luke’s portrait of women as simply reflecting the norms of his time and place which locate women in a subordinate position to men in both home and wider society.90 A third group see a ‘double message’ in Luke’s material including women, affirming both their presence and participation in the believing communities and traditions of masculine leadership.91 Veronica Koperski has examined a number of such studies, focusing on the male–female pairs which are a prominent feature of LukeActs, and showing that they regularly portray the female partner positively.92 It is indeed striking that Luke’s women are generally portrayed as better models of discipleship than the men. Mary and Zechariah spring quickly to mind as one such pair, for Mary’s response is a believing one (Lk. 1:38) and Zechariah’s the opposite (1:20). More broadly in the infancy narratives, women hear about the coming of Jesus and model a positive response of praise and trust  – Mary, Elizabeth and Anna (1:26–38, 39–45; 2:36–38; contrast Matthew’s infancy narrative, told through the eyes of Joseph, Mt. 1:20–21). Similarly, Jesus is ready to 87. Wilson, ‘Masculinity’. 88.  For a valuable survey of key scholarship, see Beverly R.  Gaventa, ‘What Ever Happened to Those Prophesying Daughters?’ , in A Feminist Companion to the Acts of the Apostles, ed. Levine and Blickenstaff, 49–60 esp. 50–53. 89.  For example, Leonard Swidler, Biblical Affirmations of Woman (Philadelphia, PA: Westminster, 1979), 161–328. 90.  For example, Shelly Matthews, The Acts of the Apostles: Taming the Tongues of Fire (PGNT 5; Sheffield:  Sheffield Phoenix, 2013), 47–49; Mary Rose D’Angelo, ‘Women in Luke-Acts: A Redactional View’ , JBL 109 (1990): 441–61. 91.  Notably Turid Karlsen Seim, The Double Message: Patterns of Gender in Luke-Acts (SNTW; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994). 92.  Veronica Koperski, ‘Is “Luke” a Feminist or Not? Female-Male Parallels in LukeActs’ , in Luke and His Readers: Festschrift A. Denaux, ed. Reimund Bieringer, Gilbert Van Belle and Joseph Verheyden (BETL 182; Leuven: Peeters, 2005), 25–48.

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receive help from wealthy women who provide for him in response to his provision for them (Lk. 8:1–3). Mary, strikingly, is found in the posture of a disciple, sitting at Jesus’ feet learning from him (10:38) and is affirmed by Jesus in this orientation (10:42). Luke alone records parables which take their point from knowledge of the world which women experienced, such as the lost coin (15:8–10) and the persistent widow (18:1–8). When we turn to Acts, we meet a number of passages where Luke signals that ‘both men and women’ were involved in the believing community’s activities, frequently linked by the double conjunction τε καί (‘both  . . . and’ , 5:14; 8:3, 12; 9:2; 17:12, 34; 22:4). Such involvement included suffering and persecution, so these were no ‘fair weather’ followers (8:3; 9:2; 22:4). A similar point is in view in the emphasis on both men and women prophesying in the Joel quotation cited by Peter at Pentecost (2:17–18, quoting Joel 2:28–29 [LXX 3:1–2]). So where are these ‘prophesying daughters’? asks Beverly Gaventa.93 As she notes, they do not disappear, but they are perhaps less prominent than we might expect after the prominent threefold statement about women and men in the Joel prophecy. Philip’s daughters clearly fit the bill (Acts 21:8–9), although we never hear their voices. Other women take significant roles, such as Lydia hosting the church in Philippi (Acts 16:13–15, 40), which suggests she takes leadership in some way. We do hear Lydia speak, albeit briefly (v. 15), but the brevity may simply be because Paul is the main vehicle of Luke’s story at this point and others, both women and men, speak or act only insofar as they touch Paul’s life and ministry. Luke’s picture of the believing communities includes both women and men, and hints that some  – such as Lydia  – take a leading role. It would be a huge anachronism to regard Luke as a ‘feminist’ if we construe that in twenty-firstcentury Western terms. Nevertheless, this evidence suggests that Luke cannot simply be pigeonholed as a man of his day whose double work simply reflects the values of his cultural setting(s). The invasion of the kingdom of God in and through Jesus, in the Third Gospel, and the spread of the gospel empowered by the Spirit, in Acts, are carried out in ways that include women and men together as both recipients and as proponents. The Lukan portrait of believing communities stretches wider than the community of men and women, to include the sharing of possessions, both from individuals (e.g. Lk. 8:1–3; Acts 2:44–45; 4:32–35) and from community to community (Acts 11:27–30).94 This community fulfils the ideals both of Israel (‘there was not a needy person among them’ , Acts 4:34 echoes Deut. 15:4) and of the Greek

93. Gaventa, ‘What Ever’. 94.  On the sharing of possessions, see my student Fiona J.  R. Gregson’s PhD thesis, ‘Everything in Common? The Theology and Practice of the Sharing of Possessions in Community in the New Testament with Particular Reference to Jesus and His Disciples, the Earliest Christians, and Paul’ (PhD diss., London School of Theology/Middlesex University, 2012), forthcoming in revised form as Everything in Common? (Eugene, OR:  Wipf & Stock, 2017).

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world,95 and thus offers a model of community life which contributes to our picture of Luke’s anthropology – humans are designed to live in relationships with one another which are mutually sustaining and supportive.

Conclusion Luke has led us on a fascinating journey as we have walked with him and sought to get inside his understanding of what it means to be human. This journey has ranged from the darkness of human life apart from God’s transforming power to the shining light of the new community of believers – not without its dark spots, it must be said  – which includes people who are female and male, gentile and Jew, rich and poor, and able-bodied and disabled. Luke presents ideals of godly humanity alongside portraits of godless humanity, and is thus thoroughly realistic. He gives us food for thought and an invitation to action, that in our day believing communities might reflect the best of his vision of humanness.

95. Steve Walton, ‘Primitive Communism in Acts? Does Acts Present the Community of Goods (2:44–45; 4:32–35) as Mistaken? [with response by Brian J. Capper]’ , EvQ 80 (2008), 99–111 (104–5).

Chapter 8 THE ANTHROPOLOGY OF JOHN AND THE J O HA N N I N E E P I ST L E S :   A R E L AT IO NA L ANTHROPOLOGY Benjamin E. Reynolds

In the words of Ray Anderson, ‘The attempt of theology to speak of the uniqueness of human personhood has not been altogether successful.’1 Anderson clarifies that one of the challenges for theologians is in establishing the meaning of ‘being’. For New Testament scholars, who live in a world of texts, words and discourses, the challenge is not so much the defining of ‘being’ but that the New Testament documents do not speak directly to the concept of theological anthropology. The New Testament focuses primarily on God, Jesus and the redemption of God’s people made possible through the life and work of Jesus the Messiah, and thus, New Testament perspectives on humanity must often be implied from the portrayals of God and Jesus. The emphasis of the Gospel of John and 1, 2 and 3 John is undoubtedly on the Father and Jesus as the Revealer of the Father, but the Johannine literature offers insight into theological anthropology because of the implications that the sending of the Son and his revelation of the Father have for humanity. The anthropology that we find in the Johannine literature is relational in nature. Human beings are either in relationship with God or they are not. They believe and thus overcome the world (1 Jn 5:4–5), are born of God (Jn 1:12; 1 Jn 3:1–2; 5:1), remain in him (Jn 6:55; 15:4–5; 1 Jn 4:15–16) and become one with the Father and the Son (Jn 17:21); or they do not believe and remain part of the world, reject Jesus and hate the light (1:11; 3:20; 7:7; 1 Jn 1:6; 2:11; 3:10). Belief in the one whom God sent allows human beings to have eternal life (Jn 3:16, 36; 5:24; 6:40; 1 Jn 2:25). ‘This is eternal life, that they know you the only true God and Jesus Christ whom you have sent’ (Jn 17:3). Again, ‘we know that the Son of God has come and has given us understanding, so that we may know him who is true; and we are in him who is true, in his Son Jesus Christ. He is the true God and eternal life’ (1 Jn 5:20; cf. 2 Jn 1–2, 9). The knowledge spoken of here is not a rational knowledge, but it is 1.  Ray S. Anderson, On Being Human:  Essays in Theological Anthropology (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1982), 4.

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an intimate relationship in which the believer or the possessor of the knowledge enters into fellowship with God as one who is a child of God and is ‘in him’ (Jn 1:12; 14:23; 15:4–5; 17:21; 1 Jn 1:3; 2:28).2 The Gospel and the epistles assume an estranged relationship between God and humanity. In the Gospel, the separation between God and humanity is heightened through the sending of the Son because Jesus’ coming forces a decision of belief or unbelief and the coming of the light exposes humanity’s deeds (Jn 3:20–21). But in the Johannine Epistles, there is a separation between human beings – the children of God and the children of the devil. Sin has a role in this antagonism, and belief in Jesus serves as the means of bridging the separation. The anthropology of both the Gospel of John and the Epistles of John is relational; humanity either is or is not in relationship with God. Throughout this essay, I frame this examination of the Johannine literature in terms of traditional theological categories of anthropology:  humans as created beings, salvation, sin and judgement, and human agency versus divine agency.3 However, the Gospel and epistles do not speak to these topics in this systematic framework, and these categories are often interconnected with various Johannine themes. Thus, I strive to remain true to the Johannine language and attempt to avoid imposing theological structures on the texts.

Humanity in the Gospel of John The Gospel of John presents Jesus as the Messiah and Son of God so that those who believe in him may have eternal life (20:31). It does not specifically answer questions about the nature of humanity, but an understanding of the human person is implicit in the purpose of the Gospel because the revelation of Jesus as sent from God requires human beings to come to a decision about his identity. Is Jesus who he claims to be? Is he the Messiah, Son of God? The Johannine Jesus may not have come to ‘seek and save the lost’ (Lk. 19:10), yet the reason for his coming into the world is not far from this. John the Baptist declares that Jesus is ‘the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world’ (Jn 1:29), and Jesus says of himself, ‘I have come into the world as light, so that whoever believes in me may not remain in darkness’ (12:46). The coming of Jesus for the purpose of bringing light into the darkened world creates an expectation that human beings must accept or reject Jesus (1:9–10). His own reject him (1:11), but those who receive him are given the right to enter into relationship with him and become children of God (1:12). And it is in this saving belief that we see hints of the Gospel’s perspective on humanity, particularly with regard to sin, salvation, judgement and divine and human

2. Rudolf Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, trans. Kendrick Grobel (New York: Scribner, 1951), 2.78. 3.  Marc Cortez, Theological Anthropology:  A Guide for the Perplexed (London:  T&T Clark, 2010), 1–13.

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agency. Human beings either believe, and so become children of God and mutually indwell the Father and the Son, or do not believe, and so are not in relation to God.4

Humans as Part of Creation The Fourth Gospel begins by echoing the opening line of Genesis with the familiar words ‘In the beginning’. The echo draws attention to the theme of creation, which only becomes more explicit in the following verses. John 1:3 states, ‘All things were made through [the Word], and not one thing which has been made was made apart from him’ (cf. 1:10).5 Human beings are obviously part of the ‘all things’ (πάντα) created through the Word. In Genesis, human beings are created on the sixth day as the last of God’s creative work (Gen. 1.26–31). John’s focus, however, is not on the details of creation but instead on the role of the Word in the act of creation. Everything has come into being through Jesus, including humanity. Thus, humans are created beings and part of the world which God the Father made through his Son. In contrast to Genesis, however, the Fourth Gospel does not declare all of creation to be good. The world, which came into being through the Word, is a place of darkness to which the light comes and shines (1:4, 9–10). Jesus is the light that gives light to all humanity (1:9), but the human beings whose works are evil love the darkness more than the light (3:19–20). They are even said to hate the light (3:20), and elsewhere more explicitly still, the world is said to hate Jesus and his Father (7:7; 15:8, 23). This antagonism between God and the world does not negate God’s declaration of creation as good, and by extension the goodness of created humanity (cf. Gen. 1:4, 10, 12, 18, 21, 25, 31),6 but the antagonism reflects a world that has been tainted by the sin of Adam and Eve. Nowhere in the Johannine literature are Adam and Eve or the account of their disobedience mentioned,7 but the events of Genesis 3 lurk in the background. For example, the devil is described as ἀνθρωποκτόνος (‘murderer’ or ‘human killer’), a ψεύστης (‘liar’) and ὁ πατὴρ

4.  Craig R. Koester, ‘What Does It Mean to Be Human? Imagery and the Human Condition in John’s Gospel’ , in Imagery in the Gospel of John: Terms, Forms, Themes, and Theology of Johannine Figurative Language, ed. Jörg Frey, Jan G. Van der Watt and Ruben Zimmermann (WUNT 200; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 403–20, also understands the Gospel’s anthropology as relational, particularly with regard to Johannine imagery. 5. See Masanobu Endo, Creation and Christology: A Study on the Johannine Prologue in the Light of Early Jewish Creation Accounts (WUNT 2.149; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 206–19. 6.  Udo Schnelle, Das Evangelium nach Johannes (THNKT 4; Leipzig:  Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2004), 76. See below on belief and sin. 7. Cf. Cain in 1 Jn 3:12 and the Pauline references to Adam (Rom. 5:12–14; 1 Cor. 15:21– 22, 45–49; 1 Tim. 2:13–14).

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αὐτοῦ (‘the father of it’ , that is, the father of the lie or the liar8), and he has been these from the beginning (Jn 8:44; cf. Gen. 2:17; 3:3–4; Wis. 2:24).9 Adam and Eve may not be mentioned, but the Fourth Gospel assumes their disobedience and the resulting separation between God and the world (i.e. between God and humanity10) as a given.11 This separation between God and humanity is a cosmological separation. Its cosmological nature is noticeable in God’s sending Jesus into the world (εἰς τὸν κοσμόν: Jn 1:9–10; 3:17, 19; 9:39; 10:36; 12:46), in Jesus as the light and the world as in darkness (1:5, 9–10), and in Jesus’ description of his opponents as ‘from below’ (ἐκ τῶν κάτω) and himself as ‘from above’ (ἐκ τῶν ἄνω). They are from this world but he is not (8:23; cf. 3:31). Jesus has come into the world and will return to his Father (16:10, 28), and both ‘the Jews’ (οἱ Ἰουδαῖοι)12 and his disciples do not know where he is going and are unable to follow him (7:34; 8:21; 13:33, 36; cf. 14:4–5; 16:5). Jesus is from above. His place is with the Father where he had glory before the foundation of the world (1:1–2; 3:13; 17:5; cf. 6:62). He is not from this world, but human beings are from this world.13 Humanity may have been part of God’s good creation, but humans are now separated from God and are not in relationship with him.14 8. Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel According to John (I–XII): Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 29; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1966), 358. 9.  Paul A. Rainbow, Johannine Theology:  The Gospel, the Epistles and the Apocalypse (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2014), 122. 10. The Fourth Gospel often uses the word κόσμος (‘world’) to refer to humanity in general (1:10; 7:4; 12:19). See Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, 2.15; Craig R. Koester, The Word of Life: A Theology of John’s Gospel (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2008) 80–81; Rainbow, Johannine Theology, 121. 11. D. Moody Smith, The Theology of the Gospel of John (Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 81, 83. 12.  As is common in Johannine studies, I  will use ‘the Jews’ to indicate instances of the term οἱ Ἰουδαῖοι. There are various opinions on the translation of this term and what was meant by it, especially considering anti-Semitic views that have resulted. For various views on the meaning of the term, see most recently, Timothy Michael Law and Charles Halton, eds, Jew and Judean: A MARGINALIA Forum on Politics and Historiography in the Translation of Ancient Texts (Los Angeles, CA:  Marginalia Review of Books, 2014) http:// marginalia.lareviewofbooks.org/jew-judean-forum/. The essays are by Adele Reinhartz, Steve Mason, Daniel Schwartz, Annette Yoshiko Reed, Joan Taylor, Malcolm Lowe, Jonathan Klawans, Ruth Sheridan and James Crossley. 13.  See Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce, ‘Self, Identity, and Body in Paul and John’ , in Self, Soul, and Body in Religious Experience, ed. Albert I. Baumgarten et  al. (SHR 78; Leiden:  Brill, 1998), 184–97; contra Jeffrey A. Trumbower, Born from Above:  The Anthropology of the Gospel of John (HUT 29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992). 14. There is, however, an ambiguity in the presentation of Jesus’ disciples. The disciples were given to Jesus from the world, they are in the world and he prays that they not be taken from the world (17:6, 11, 15). Yet, Jesus can also say that his disciples are not from the world

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Sin and Judgement While the Gospel of John assumes humanity’s cosmological separation and lack of relationship with God, the cause of the separation is humanity’s sin. Craig Koester states: ‘In a profound sense sin and death are dehumanizing, because they separate human beings from the God who made them and from the life for which they were created.’15 The existence of humanity’s sin is implied at the beginning of the Gospel in John the Baptist’s cry ‘Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world’ (1:29).16 Not only that, but his statement reflects the possibility of sin’s removal. The Fourth Gospel draws attention to humanity’s sinfulness on other occasions as well: This is the judgment that the light has come into the world and humans [οἱ ἄνθρωποι] loved the darkness more than the light for their works were evil [πονηρὰ τὰ ἔργα]. For everyone practicing evil [φαῦλα πράσσων] hates the light and does not come to the light so that their works might not be brought to light [ἐλεγχθῇ]. (3:19–20)

Again, in 5:29, but with an eschatological sense, those practicing evil (τὰ φαῦλα πράξαντες) will be raised to a resurrection of judgement. The implication is that humanity is sinful and their works are evil. Human beings love the darkness and need a saviour (4:42). Although the Gospel of John presents an understanding of sin that assumes Adam and Eve’s sinfulness, humanity’s sin is ‘identical with unfaith’ , and their sin is convicted because humans do not believe in Jesus (15:22, 24; 16:8).17 In other words, according to John, sin existed before Jesus was sent by the Father, but it is Jesus as the light coming into the darkness that makes the world guilty of sin (1:9–10; 8:12; 9:4–5). Jesus states this explicitly in 15:22 and 24: ‘If I had not come and spoken to them [the world, 15:19], they would not have been guilty of sin. . . . If I had not done among them works that no one else did, they would not be guilty of sin, but now they have seen and hated both me and my Father.’ Later Jesus says that the just as he is not from the world (17:14, 16). Thus, even though Jesus’ disciples still remain in the world, they are no longer from the world. This change of sphere indicates that the separation between God and humanity may be bridged. See below. 15. Koester, ‘What Does It Mean to Be Human?’ , 408, although Koester notes two causes of separation: sin and human creatureliness, or essentially what I have referred to as cosmological separation (407). 16.  For Rainer Metzner, Das Verständnis der Sünde im Johannesevangelium (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 115–58, Jn 1:29 is the central thesis of the Gospel. 17.  Udo Schnelle, The Human Condition: Anthropology in the Teachings of Jesus, Paul, and John, trans. O. C. Dean Jr. (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1996), 140; also Craig R. Koester, ‘The Death of Jesus and the Human Condition: Exploring the Theology of John’s Gospel’ , in Life in Abundance: Studies of John’s Gospel in Tribute to Raymond E. Brown, ed. John R. Donahue (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2005), 141–57.

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Holy Spirit will convict the world of sin because they do not believe in him (16:8–9). Likewise, at the end of ch. 9, the Pharisees’ claim to see indicates their blindness and that their sin remains (9:41). The impression given from these statements is that guilt regarding sin and the conviction of sin would not have taken place if Jesus had not come into the world.18 His presence in the world brings about the judgement of sin. In 8:21–30, the tension heightens between Jesus and Pharisees (8:13), and sin is central to the confrontation. Jesus speaks to his opponents about their inability to follow him and tells them that they will die in their sins (8:21). He says that he is from above and they are from below. They are from this world and he is not (8:23). He continues, ‘Unless you believe that I  am [ἐγώ εἰμι], you will die in your sins’ (8:24). Ultimately, sin is unbelief, and lack of belief in Jesus results in conviction and judgement,19 and as stated earlier in the Gospel, the ‘wrath of God remains’ on those who do not believe (3:36). In the words of Hermann Ridderbos, ‘What light and darkness, life and nonlife, “evil and worthless” and “doing the truth” are, therefore, is determined by whether or not one knows and accepts the light (cf. 1:4, 5, 9ff.).’20 Sin and the darkness of the world existed before Jesus was sent by the Father, but the Gospel of John indicates that Jesus’ presence in the world brings about the judgement of sin. Those who do not believe in him will die in their sins and be convicted of them. The guilt of humanity exists because Jesus has come and not all have believed in him as a result of his words and actions. Because of sin, there is no relationship with God. Believing in Jesus: Eternal Life or Judgement Sin may be the cause of humanity’s antagonism with God, but the separation may be overcome. If sin, which is unbelief, is the cause of the separation, it should be unsurprising if belief leads to relationship with God and the one whom he sent. To quote Koester, ‘ . . . faith enables people to be most fully human because it binds people to God and thereby brings them life.’21 Because Jesus has come into the world, human beings must choose whether to believe or not to believe in him.22 They must make a decision about his identity. Is he the Messiah, Son of 18.  Smith, Theology of the Gospel of John, 82: ‘the Gospel almost goes out of its way to indicate that the seriousness of the human plight would not even have been known apart from the revelation of God in Jesus Christ . . .’ 19.  Metzner, Das Verständnis der Sünde im Johannesevangelium, 172–73. Metzner also refers to sin as the world’s self-love (‘Eigenliebe’) and self-separation from the love of God (‘Sich-Entzeihen aus dem Liebe Gottes’) (224–30). 20.  Herman N. Ridderbos, The Gospel of John:  A Theological Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1997), 142. 21. Koester, ‘What Does It Mean to Be Human?’ , 408. 22.  Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, 2.63; cf. Trumbower, Born from Above, passim, who argues that the Gospel of John assumes a gnostic conception of fixed origins. One is either from above or from below, and thus belief in the Son of God is dependent upon one’s origin.

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God? Is he from above? Is he the Bread from Heaven, the light of the world, the Good Shepherd? Is he one with God? Is God his Father? Throughout the Gospel, we see the Johannine characters coming to terms with this choice. Whether it is the crowds (2:23; 6:25–31; 7:25–31, 40–44; 10:42; 11:45–46), Jesus’ disciples (2:11; 6:66) or individual characters such as Nicodemus (3:2–9; cf. 7:50–52; 19:39), the Samaritan woman (4:29), the official (4:50, 53), the lame man (5:8–9, 13), Jesus’ brothers (7:5), the man born blind (9:38) or Martha (11:27), humanity has two responses to Jesus: to believe or not to believe (12:46, 48). This choice between belief and unbelief leads either to judgement or to eternal life. John 3:15–18 makes this quite clear. Those who believe in the Son do not perish but have eternal life. As we have seen earlier, sin ends in death. Jesus says, ‘unless you believe that I am you will die in your sins’ (8:24; cf. 8:21; 10:28). Much of the imagery in the Fourth Gospel implies the death of those who do not believe. Those who do not eat the bread of life do not live (6:53), and the branches that do not remain in the vine die (15:5–6).23 Death underlines the finality of the separation between the life-giving Father and Son and unbelieving human beings (5:21). Yet this is not merely a future event; those who do not believe are, in fact, already judged (3:18). Judgement and the resulting death, although retaining a future sense (5:28–29; 6:39–40; 12:48),24 are present realities for unbelievers.25 On the other hand, those who believe have already passed from death to life (5:24). They do not remain in darkness (12:46) and are no longer part of the world (17:14, 16). Believers become children of God, which has nothing to do with human birth (1:12–13; 3:4–6), but is rather about entering into relationship with God. Belief, thus, dislodges humans from the world and aligns them with God in antagonism against the world. As a result of this realignment, believers become hated by the world just as the world hates God and his Son (15:18–19; cf. 17:6). Humanity’s belief or unbelief leads to judgement or eternal life, either death and a continued separation from God or a relationship of mutual indwelling with him (14:23; 15:4; 17:3, 21). The Belief of Humanity and Divine or Human Agency If in John lack of belief is sin (8:24) and if it is belief in Jesus that allows one to cross over from death to life and enter into relationship with God (5:24), is humanity’s choice to believe or not to believe in Jesus free or is it determined? Is God the agent of the choice or are human beings? It would seem that belief would be the sort of

23. Koester, ‘What Does It Mean to Be Human?’ , 409–16. 24.  On the future eschatology of these passages, see Jörg Frey, Die johanneische Eschatologie 3.  Die eschatologische Verkündigung in den johanneischen Texten, vol. 3 (WUNT 117; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 381–97. 25. On humanity and eschatology in John, see Jaime Clark-Soles, ‘ “I Will Raise [Whom?] Up on the Last Day”: Anthropology as a Feature of Johannine Eschatology’ , in New Currents Through John: A Global Perspective, ed. Francisco Lozada Jr. and Tom Thatcher (SBLSBS 54; Atlanta: SBL, 2006), 29–53.

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decision that human beings are capable of making; however, the Gospel of John’s presentation of humanity suggests that belief in Jesus is less than free because of the deep separation between God and human beings. The Fourth Gospel contains some explicitly deterministic statements, implying divine agency. Jesus says in 6:44, ‘No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws him.’ And again in 6:65, ‘No one can come to me unless it is granted him by the Father.’ The darkness is diametrically opposed to the light and to God and is unable to come to Jesus apart from the Father’s drawing of human beings to himself. Human beings belong to the earth and are not from above (3:31). They are slaves to sin (8:34). Without the Father’s work of drawing, those from below cannot receive or believe in what is from above, let alone become one with the Father and his Son who are from above. It is the Son sent by the Father out of love for the world who is able to set humans free from slavery to sin (3:16; 8:36). The implication is that it is not a human being’s own will that enables freedom.26 Similarly, those who come to the Father and the Son are those who have been given to Jesus by the Father (6:37, 39; 17:12). Becoming a child of God is entirely the work of the Spirit and has nothing to do with the flesh27 (3:6; cf. 6:63). Rudolf Schnackenburg notes that the three negative statements about human birth in 1:12–13 show that being born from God is ‘the incomprehensible work of the divine Spirit, utterly beyond man’s reach’.28 Not being born of the ‘will of man, but of God’ may indicate that it is God’s will which makes becoming a child of God possible. Again in the words of Schnackenburg: ‘Natural birth does not make one a child of God, nor any other natural process. It is a strictly supernatural event, wrought by God alone.’29 On the question of human or divine agency, the Gospel of John’s portrayal of such a deep separation and antagonism between God and humanity suggests the impossibility of a free choice to believe in Jesus. Belief itself and being born of God can only take place if God draws human beings to himself.30 Yet, even though belief is presented as entirely God’s prerogative, Udo Schnelle notes that God’s drawing of individuals makes human choice possible and does not negate free will.31 For the Johannine author, ‘Human beings are supposed to let themselves be moved to faith, for God’s salvific will does not abolish human freedom of decision.’32 There is an apparent paradoxical nature to the Gospel’s

26. Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, 2.21; see Schnelle, Human Condition, 126, for more passages reflecting divine agency. 27. ‘Flesh’ (σάρξ) in the Gospel of John refers primarily to humanity and does not carry a negative connotation as in Pauline usage. See 1:14 and below. 28.  Rudolf Schnackenburg, The Gospel According to St. John, 3  vols. (Tunbridge Wells: Burns & Oates, 1967) 1.263. 29. Schnackenburg, The Gospel According to St. John, 1.263. 30. And even that initial drawing may not be enough to remain in him, since Jesus chose the Twelve and he said one of them was a devil (6:70). 31. Also, Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, 2.23. 32. Schnelle, Human Condition, 127.

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portrayal of agency, since human beings are responsible to believe in Jesus33 but simultaneously the Fourth Gospel presents God as the sole mover in salvation.34 We may explain the paradox in various ways, but we are limited in contemporary discussions of agency, since, as John Barclay has rightly pointed out, contemporary discussions ‘often . . . mask fundamental differences of conceptuality’ with those of the ancient world.35 Regardless of how we describe it, the Gospel of John presents agency as an apparent paradox. It portrays God as the one who draws every human to himself,36 yet the Gospel also portrays human beings as those who make and are held responsible for their own choices regarding belief.37 From its cosmological perspective, the Fourth Gospel appears to emphasize divine agency; however, that appearance may be due to our perspective and not that of the Gospel of John.38 Jesus as a Human: The Word Became Flesh The topics discussed thus far are relevant for any discussion of theological anthropology, but any discussion of this subject in John’s Gospel cannot fail to mention the Word becoming flesh (ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο, 1:14). The Word that was with God in the beginning became flesh and dwelt among humanity. The world did not receive him, but those who were drawn by God believed in him and became children of God (1:1–2, 10–14). The enfleshed Word is the antithesis of the opposition between God and humanity. The one from above, sent by the Father, came into the world but was not from the world. He was the Son and not a slave to sin (8:34). He came to take away the sin of the world, and as the Son he freed human beings from the slavery of sin (8:31–32).

33. Smith, Theology of the Gospel of John, 94. 34. See Marianne Meye Thompson, ‘When the Ending Is Not the End’ , in The Ending of Mark and the Ends of God: Essays in Memory of Donald Harrisville Juel, ed. Beverly Roberts Gaventa and Patrick D. Miller (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2005), 74, who states: ‘While there are many interpretations of the meaning of such phrases as “drawn by the Father” and “taught by God,” it is difficult to find a way to read these statements without making it clear that for people to have faith in Jesus, God must do something; God must draw, and God must teach. The wind must blow, and the wind blows where it wills.’ 35.  John M.  G. Barclay, ‘Introduction’ , in Divine and Human Agency in Paul and His Cultural Environment, ed. John M.  G. Barclay and Simon J. Gathercole (LNTS 335; London: T&T Clark, 2006), 4. 36.  R. Alan Culpepper, ‘Inclusivism and Exclusivism in the Fourth Gospel’ , in Word, Theology, and Community in John, ed. John Painter, R. Alan Culpepper and Fernando F. Segovia (St. Louis, MO: Chalice Press, 2002), 85–108; Rainbow, Johannine Theology, 141–45. 37. See Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, 2.76–78. 38. Jan G. Van der Watt, ‘Ethics Alive in Imagery’ , in Imagery in the Gospel of John, ed. Jörg Frey, Jan G. Van der Watt and Ruben Zimmermann (WUNT 200; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 421–48, notes that freedom according to John is ‘to be free to be who you are in the presence and to the glory of God’ (433).

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In John’s Gospel, σάρξ (‘flesh’) refers to human beings generally and does not carry the negative sense of its Pauline usage where it represents the sinful nature (e.g. Rom 7:14; 8:7).39 The Word becoming flesh means that the Son of God became a human being and dwelt with humanity.40 Thus, the term ‘flesh’ is neutral, and any negativity exists only because flesh, that is humanity, is separated from God. Yet, God bridges the antagonism by sending his Son into the world. The light comes into the darkness in a new creative moment. The one ‘from above’ enters into the ‘below’ and lives with those from below as a human being. The world, although it is not where Jesus is ‘from’ , becomes where he remains (Jn 1:39) as the true image of God, revealing the Father and also making possible an example of humanity in relationship with God (1:18; 17:23). The dwelling of the Word ἐν ἡμῖν (‘among us’) echoes the dwelling of God with his people in the wilderness. After Moses and the people erect the tabernacle in the midst of the camp, God descends on the tabernacle in the form of a cloud, and his glory fills the tabernacle (Exod. 40:34–35). Again, at the dedication of Solomon’s temple, God’s glory fills the temple signalling his presence with his people (1 Kgs. 8:10–11). In Jn 1:14, ‘the Word became flesh and tabernacled [ἐσκήνωσεν] among us and we have seen his glory’. God again came to dwell with his people and reveal his glory, but in this instance, it takes place in the human being, Jesus Christ. A  renewed relationship between God and his people is made possible through God’s Son becoming human and living among humanity. The Word dwells with humanity and God’s glory may be seen in him, in a human being (1:14; 12:41). Those humans who believe in the Father and the one he sent will enter into a mutually indwelling relationship, being one with the Father and the Son. For those who believe and love God, the Father and Jesus will come and make their dwelling (μονήν) with them (14:23; cf. 15:4–5; 17:23). Through the Son becoming a human being and his revelation of the Father, humans may enter into a mutually abiding relationship with God. Gospel Summary The Gospel of John’s anthropology is ultimately relational. Although God created human beings and declared all creation ‘good’ , the Gospel depicts a stark separation between God and humanity. The separation is described primarily in spatial terms: humans are from this world; Jesus is not from this world. The antagonism is so great that humans hate the light and reject the one God sent. Sin is the cause of this separation, and sin, according to the Fourth Gospel, is unbelief, which leads to judgement and death. Jesus’ coming into the world brings about the conviction

39. Clark-Soles, ‘I Will Raise’ , 37–38; and also Marianne Meye Thompson, The Incarnate Word: Perspectives on Jesus in the Fourth Gospel (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1993), 39–49, in more detail. 40.  Throughout the Gospel, Jesus is clearly understood to be a human being by others. See Thompson, Incarnate Word, 49–52; Smith, Theology of the Gospel of John, 166–67.

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of sin because it forces a decision concerning his identity. Humans, however, can receive eternal life and become children of God by believing in Jesus, because the Lamb of God takes away the sin of the world. John’s Gospel gives the appearance that this decision is dependent upon the Father drawing humans and is not solely their own decision, yet humans remain responsible for their belief or unbelief. According to John, God sent his Son to make possible the re-establishment of his relationship with creation. Only through the Word made flesh can flesh become spirit and dwell with the Father and the Son.

Humanity in the Johannine Epistles An examination of the anthropology of the Johannine Epistles reveals numerous conceptual and verbal similarities with the Gospel of John, but a significant difference exists in the anthropological perspective of the epistles, and especially 1 John. While 1 John shares language and ideas with the Gospel, the epistle is more ethical in orientation and contains a slight emphasis on eschatological expectation. The epistles seem to be written for a different purpose than the Gospel, namely for those who believe rather than to encourage belief (1 Jn 5:13; cf. Jn 20:31). The emphases of the anthropological perspectives show some dissimilarity from the Gospel, yet the epistles also reflect a relational anthropology. Separation between Humanity First John presents the world in an antagonistic relationship with God in a manner similar to the Fourth Gospel, but the dynamics of the antagonism are significantly changed. No longer is the primary antagonism between God and humanity, but it is now between the world and the children of God. The author of 1 John states, ‘We know we are from God and the whole world lies in the power of the evil one’ (5:19; also 4:4–5). The world hates believers, and believers should not be surprised at this (3:13; cf. Jn 15:18). First John tells its audience not to love the world or the things of the world (2:15) because the things in the world are not from the Father (ἐκ τοῦ πάτρος) but from the world (ἐκ τοῦ κοσμοῦ, 2:16). These ‘worldly things’ are the desires of the flesh, the desires of the eyes and the pride of life (2:16).41 That they are described as ‘in the world’ and ‘from the world’ indicates their separation from God, and the separation has an eschatological implication: ‘The world and its desires pass away, but the one doing the will of God remains forever [μένει εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα]’ (2:17). ‘Remaining forever’ and the passing away of the world highlight the separation between the world and God and between those doing God’s will

41. Judith M. Lieu, I, II, & III John: A Commentary (NTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 95, suggests that ‘the author is drawing on what were probably conventional formulations in order to infuse the rather abstract concept of “the world” with the immediacy of potential threat’.

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and those by implication acting on the desires of the world. I. Howard Marshall states:  ‘[human beings] cannot be neutral:  they must belong to one side or the other.’42 In other words, they are in relationship with God or they are not. The antagonism in 1 John differs from that in the Gospel of John because, in 1 John, Jesus has already come (4:9–10). The word of life has been revealed; he has been heard, seen, beheld and touched (1:1–2). His coming, which forced humanity to believe or not to believe, has now created a division between human beings, between those who believe and do the truth and those who do not believe and do not do the truth. The believers became children of God (3:1, 23; cf. Jn 1:12–13) and crossed over from death to life (3:14; cf. Jn 5:24). This movement from death to life is also a crossing over from the world to the Father. Those who believe are no longer children of the devil but children of God (3:10; cf. Jn 8:44). The antagonism that humanity had for God is no longer monolithic. Some human beings have entered into a familial relationship with God through belief, and, in the words of C. H. Dodd, ‘a new kind of humanity has emerged’.43 These believers have overcome the false prophets and the world (4:1, 4; 5:4–5). This language of overcoming or victory (νίκη, νικάω) highlights the antagonism that now exists between human beings. Through belief in Jesus as the Messiah (5:1; cf. 2:22; 4:15; 5:5), some human beings are no longer in an antagonistic relationship with God, but those who do not believe remain part of the world. Those who have joined with God and become his children are now separated from their fellow human beings because they have believed that Jesus is the Son of God (3:23; cf. 3:1; 4:7). Sin in 1 John The dichotomy between these two groups of human beings is noticeable in their relationship to sin. Unlike the Gospel where sin is failure to believe in Jesus, in 1 John, sin is associated more with deeds and serves as a distinguishing marker between the children of God and the children of the devil (3:8–9).44 It is the children of the devil who sin and commit lawlessness (3:4, 8–10). Sinning is not something that those born of God do. The children of God walk in the light (1:6) and do not sin (3:6–10; 5:18). Sin therefore remains part of the human condition, but only for those humans who are not children of God. However, 1 John presents an apparent paradoxical perspective on sin. First John 1:8–10 states that all have sin, and those who claim to not have sin do not have God’s word in them. Yet, in 3:6–10, the children of God do not sin while the children of the devil do. Is it the case that everyone has sin which should be 42.  I. Howard Marshall, The Epistles of John (NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1978), 185. 43.  C. H. Dodd, The Johannine Epistles (MNTC; London:  Hodder and Stoughton, 1946), 69. 44.  Matthew D. Jensen, ‘The Structure and Argument of 1 John’ , JSNT 35, no. 1 (2012): 69–70, argues for the centrality of the themes of sin and love.

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confessed (1 Jn 1:8–10) or are the children of God without sin (3:6–10)? How can one be free from sin (3:6, 9) and yet deceive oneself by claiming to be without sin (1:8)? Both Marshall and Lieu highlight the way in which 1 John often presents contradictory concepts on sin. We read that ‘no one who remains in him sins’ (3:6a), but the author exhorts the audience to avoid sin and to do righteousness on multiple occasions. For example, in 2:1 the author states, ‘My little children, these things have been written so that you do not sin.’45 Or again, ‘no one who sins has seen him or known him’ (3:6b), but previously the author has claimed to have seen him (1:1–3) and has told the readers that they have ‘known him’ (2:13–14).46 Various suggestions have been made to explain 1 John’s contradictory perspectives on sin. First, one can make a distinction between verbal ideas. Not having sin (ἁμαρτίαν οὐκ ἐχομεν, 1:8) may be distinguished from ‘doing sin’ (ὁ ποιῶν τὴν ἁμαρτίαν, 3:4, 8, 9; cf. Jn 8:34). Second, the perfect tense of the verb ‘sin’ in 1:10 (ἡμαρτήκαμεν) may be differentiated from the present tense of the same verb in 3:9 (ἁμαρτάνειν). This ‘grammatical subtlety’47 may present a contrast between the existence of sin in a believer in 1:8–10 and a believer’s ongoing, habitual sin in 3:6– 10. Dodd, however, argues that these two passages are not so much contradictory as they are different perspectives on the issue of sin for different groups of people.48 In other words, one group of believers needed to be informed of their necessity to be cleansed from sin (1:7–9). Another group needed to know that becoming children of God and being cleansed from sin did not allow them the freedom to sin (3:6; 2:15; cf. 3:4; Rom 6:1). Marshall on the other hand understands the difference between the passages as an eschatological difference. Sinlessness is an ideal, something to be striven for, but it is only an eschatological reality.49 The sinfulness of humanity and God’s lack of sin remain key aspects in the separation between God and human beings. God is light and in him there is no darkness at all (1:5). Humans have sin and do sin, but those who become children of God do not sin. The act of sin or doing unrighteousness serves to mark the gap that has been created between believers and unbelievers.50 Believers are to do and keep God’s commands, walk in the truth, walk in the light, have fellowship with God and one another, love one another, and believe in God’s son Jesus Christ (cf. 2 Jn 1–2, 6, 9; 3 Jn 5). Unbelievers do not do these things. Thus, sin serves as an outward indication of whether a human being has become a child of God and entered into relationship with God.

45. See Marshall, Epistles of John, 178, citing 2:1, 15, 29; 3:12, 18; 5:21. 46. Lieu, I, II, & III John, 132. 47. Dodd, Johannine Epistles, 80. 48.  Dodd, Johannine Epistles,, 80–81; Rudolf Schnackenburg, The Johannine Epistles: Introduction and Commentary, trans. Reginald Fuller and Ilse Fuller (New York: Crossroad, 1992), 173; cf. Lieu, I, II, & III John, 132, who refers to the different ‘rhetorical context of each stage of the letter’. 49. Marshall, Epistles of John, 182–83, 187. 50. Schnackenburg, Johannine Epistles, 176.

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Becoming Children of God and Overcoming the World: Belief and Salvation in 1–3 John While sin forms one marker of the stark divide between the children of God and the children of the devil (3:10), there is indication in 1 John that these are not permanent categories.51 Sin may be overcome so that humans who belong to the world may become children of God. Twice in 1 Jn 1:7–10, which makes clear that sin is part of the human experience (esp. 1:8), we read that God has made possible the forgiveness of sin through Jesus: ‘If we walk in the light as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another and the blood of Jesus cleanses us from all sin’ (1:7). And again, ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and righteous [πίστος καὶ δίκαιος] in order that he might take away our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness [ἀδικίας]’ (1:9). Jesus has a role in the removal of sin, and it is his appearance that makes forgiveness possible. First John 3:5 states, ‘that one was revealed in order that he might take away sins’ (3:5). His appearance also results in the destruction of the devil’s works (1 Jn 3:8–12). However, it is Jesus’ death and not merely his appearance that brings about a reversal of sin. The cleansing of sin takes place through Jesus’ blood, implying that Jesus’ death is the means of the removal of sin, a point made clearer in 3:16: ‘he laid down his life for us’ (cf. Jn 10:11, 15; 15:13). Forgiveness of sin and cleansing from unrighteousness are possible for human beings, and they take place because of Jesus’ appearance and through his blood (1 Jn 1:7b; cf. 5:16–17). The connection to Jesus’ death, while remaining implicit in the mention of blood in 1:7, may also be noticeable in the similarity of language concerning the ‘taking away’ of sin. There is a close resemblance between 1 John 3:5 (cf. 1:9) and John the Baptist’s statement about the Lamb of God in Jn 1:29: 1 Jn 3:5: ἵνα τὰς ἁμαρτίας ἄρῃ (‘in order that he might take away sins’) Jn 1:29: ὁ αἴρων τὴν ἁμαρτίαν τοῦ κοσμοῦ (‘the one taking away the sin of the world’) The connection to the Lamb of God imagery, the taking away of sin and Jesus’ blood indicates the significance of Jesus’ death for the forgiveness of sins.52 The role of Jesus’ death in the forgiving and taking away of sins becomes more evident in 1 Jn 2:1–2. Jesus Messiah is the παράκλητον (‘advocate’) before the Father for those who sin. He is a ἱλασμός not only ‘for our sins’ but also ‘for the sins of the whole world’. The term ἱλασμός is also used in 4:10: God ‘loved us and sent his son as a ἱλασμός for our sins’. This word is clearly suggestive of the removal or 51.  See Marshall, Epistles of John, 184–85, on whether one can switch groups. Cf. Lieu, I, II, & III John, 140–41. 52.  See Maarten J. J. Menken, ‘The “Lamb of God” (John 1,29) in the Light of 1 John 3,4–7’ , in The Death of Jesus in the Fourth Gospel (ed. Gilbert Van Belle; BETL 200; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2007), 581–90.

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forgiveness of humanity’s sin through Jesus’ death53 and implies the atoning nature of Jesus’ death. The term ἱλασμός has long been recognized to echo the LXX terminology related to the atoning of sin on the Day of Atonement (Lev. 25:9).54 Whether as expiating or propitiating, God makes possible the forgiveness of sins through Jesus’ death and thus allows humans to enter into fellowship with him and his Son (1 Jn 1:7; 3:6).55 Addressing this theological salvation, C. H. Dodd states, ‘We may not be able to give a fully reasoned theology [of the atonement], but we are entitled to believe, in face of the degradation of our common humanity, that God has done in Christ all that needs to be done to cleanse us, and done it with the complete adequacy possible only to infinite power and love.’56 Dodd continues saying that God through Jesus made possible this ‘radical removal of the taint’.57 A human being can thus become a child of God by confessing sin and entering into fellowship with God (1:7) and abiding in him (3:6). As in the Gospel of John, belief plays a significant role in humanity’s relationship with God. The content of belief in 1 John is also similar with the Gospel, since 1 John is written to those who believe that Jesus is the Son of God (5:13; cf. Jn 20:31). While lack of belief is not explicitly sin in 1 John as in the Gospel, those who do not believe certain things about Jesus remain children of the devil. For example, whoever believes in Jesus as the Messiah has been born of God (1 Jn 5:1; cf. 2:22), and whoever believes that Jesus is the Son of God has overcome the world (5:5; cf. 4:15; 5:10). In other words, human beings who believe these things about Jesus are those who have become children of God and are no longer in an antagonistic relationship with God. Their belief in Jesus has bridged the gap of antagonism between God and humanity. Agency in 1 John: Human or Divine? If belief is the primary link between God and the children of God, does the emphasis on belief indicate a greater emphasis on human agency in 1 John than in the Gospel? In the Gospel of John, belief is required of humans but the Father is described as the one who draws believers. In 1 John, by contrast, there appears to be a greater emphasis on human agency. Human beings who are born of God are required to act. They are to believe in Jesus, keep God’s commands, confess sin, walk in the light, love one another and do righteousness. The ethical requirements for those in God’s family are quite high: ‘Whatever we ask, we receive from him because we keep his commands and do the things pleasing before him. And this is his command that we believe in the name of his son Jesus Messiah and love one another just as he gave a command to us. And whoever keeps his commands remains in him, and by this we know that he remains in us, by the Spirit which he 53. John Painter, 1, 2, and 3 John (SP 18; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2002), 159. 54. For a full discussion, see Toan Joseph Do, ‘Jesus’ Death as HILASMOS according to 1 John’ , in The Death of Jesus in the Fourth Gospel, ed. Van Belle, 537–53. 55. For a non-sacrificial view, see Lieu, I, II, & III John, 64. 56. Dodd, Johannine Epistles, 29. 57. Dodd, Johannine Epistles, 29.

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gave to us’ (3:22–24). And elsewhere, ‘For this is the love of God, that we should keep his commands’ (5:3). Keeping commands and confessing sin (1:9) appear to be efforts to be exerted by human beings. However, before claiming that salvation in 1 John is entirely humanity’s responsibility, there are two considerations to make. First, these exhortations are written to believers – to those who believe in the name of the Son of God (5:13). The letter is written to those whose sins are forgiven (2:12), who have known from the beginning (2:13, 14), who have overcome the evil one (2:13), who know the Father (2:14) and who have the word of God dwelling within them (2:14). Thus, 1 John appears to be written to human beings who are already children of God (3:2), who have crossed over from death to life (3:14). The ethical exhortations are, therefore, not required for human beings to enter into relationship with God. Rather, they are ethical exhortations for those already in relationship with God. Those who do righteousness and walk in the light are children of God (2:29). Second, divine agency is recognizable when we consider that entering into relationship with God is only made possible through God sending his Son. It is not human effort in 1 John that makes becoming a child of God possible. God ‘sent his only begotten Son into the world that we might live through him’ (4:9) and God ‘sent his Son as a ἱλασμός for our sins’ (4:10). The sending of God’s Son is the revelation and evidence of this love (3:5; 4:9–10; cf. Jn 3:16), and it is this great love that makes it possible for humans to become children of God (1 Jn 3:1). While ethical demands may suggest a greater emphasis on human agency, these demands are written to those who already believe, and it is ultimately God who makes becoming a child of God possible.58 Thus, like the Gospel, 1 John maintains a paradoxical balance between divine and human agency. Eschatology and Human Existence in 1 John Humanity’s ability to change from an antagonistic relationship with God to becoming one of his children takes place because of God’s love made evident in the sending of his Son. The status of human beings as children of God has, however, eschatological consequences. Those who have believed and become children of God have been given eternal life by God, and this eternal life is in his Son (5:11). In fact, the author continues in 5:13 to say that the epistle has been written so that those who believe ‘may know that they have life in his name’. This life is presently available to believers, but it is also eternal life (5:11, 20; cf. 1:2), which is described as ‘the promise that God has promised’ (αὕτη ἐστιν ἠ ἐπαγγελία ἣν αὐτὸς ἐπηγγείλατο ἡμῖν; 2:25; cf. 1:5; 3:11). While believers already have eternal life, the ‘eternal’ nature of the life indicates the ongoing, future nature of the life.59 Eternal

58.  Lieu, I, II, & III John, 134, states: ‘the language [of being born of God] ensures that change cannot naturally come about through any potential of the human actors.’ 59.  Raymond E. Brown, The Epistles of John (AB 30; Garden City, NY:  Doubleday, 1982), 168.

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life is part of what it means to be in relationship with God (1:2–3; 5:20), to remain in him (2:24; 4:12–13, 15–16) and to have the Son and the Father (2:23; 5:11–12; 2 Jn 9). The eschatological reality of being in relationship with God is also apparent in 1 Jn 2:17: ‘And the world and its desires are passing away, but the one doing the will of God remains forever’ (μένει εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα, cf. 2 Jn 2). On the other hand, the eschatological implications can also be negative for humans who do not believe. Believers have crossed over from death to life because they love their fellow believers, but the ones who do not love remain in death (μένει ἐν τῷ θανάτῳ, 3:14). Those who are murderers do not have eternal life remaining in them (3:15). Thus, life and death do not merely relate to a human being’s present, earthly existence, but life and death are also present and future consequences of humanity’s relationship with God (see 2 Jn 8). First John 3:2–3 offers some further intriguing eschatological perspectives on humanity. These verses begin with the statement:  ‘Now we are children of God’ , implying that there was a time when believers were not children of God (also 3:1).60 Being born of God depends on believing that Jesus is the Messiah. Becoming a child of God was not possible until the revelation of Jesus (ἐφανερώθη) through the Father’s sending of him (3:2, 5), but it is ‘not yet revealed what we will be. We know that when he appears, we will be like him because we will see him just as he is’ (3:2b). This appearing of Jesus is clearly a coming appearance (2:28) and not the appearance that has already taken place (3:5, 8; 4:10). The implication of 3:2 is that something greater is in store for those humans who are already children of God.61 First John 3:3 refers to this as ‘hope’. It is not clear what human beings will become (cf. 2 Cor. 3:18), but it is known that they will be like Jesus (ὅμοιοι αὐτῷ ἐσόμεθα). Another revealing of the Son will allow the children of God to be more like the Son of God. In addition, Jesus’ future appearance will bring about judgement.62 The author writes: ‘And now, little children, remain in him in order that when he appears we may have boldness [παρρησίαν] and not be put to shame by him at his coming [παρουσίᾳ αὐτοῦ]’ (2:28). The following verse mentions that Jesus is ‘righteous’ (δίκαιός), which is also suggestive of judgement (2:29; cf. 2:1). Why the need for boldness and concern for being put to shame at his coming if judgement is not expected in some way? First John 4:17 makes the judgement more explicit: ‘In this, the love is perfected [τετελείται] with us so that we might have boldness [παρρησίαν] on the day of judgement [τῇ ἡμέρᾳ τῆς κρίσεως] because just as that one is so also are we in this world’ (cf. 3:21). The repeated use of ‘boldness’

60. Painter, 1, 2, and 3 John, 219, 220. 61. Schnackenburg, Johannine Epistles, 157–60; and William R. G. Loader, The Johannine Epistles (London: Epworth Press, 1992), 33–34, suggest that the resurrection of the dead is intended. 62. Ruben Zimmermann, ‘Remembering the Future: Eschatology in the Letters of John’ , in Eschatology of the New Testament and Some Related Documents, ed. Jan G. Van der Watt (WUNT 2.315; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 514–34.

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in both instances ties Jesus’ future appearance with the ‘day of judgement’. For those in him the judgement holds no fear (4:18) or shame (2:28). But rather they may be bold in his presence quite possibly due to their being in him and like him (3:2). Those humans who are called children of God will become more like Jesus (3:1–2). Incarnation As with the Gospel of John, the incarnation of God’s Son is an important part of the Epistles of John, although for slightly different reasons. In the Gospel, the incarnation highlights Jesus’ heavenly nature and true home in heaven as well as God returning to dwell with his people (Jn 1:14–18). The Gospel of John argues that Jesus is the Messiah and Son of God, while seeming to assume his humanity. The Johannine Epistles, on the other hand, seem to argue that Jesus is the Messiah, Son of God and that he came in flesh. In 1 John, Jesus’ humanity appears to be questioned by some of the intended audience. ‘Every spirit confessing that Jesus Christ came in the flesh is from God’ (4:2). Those who do not confess Jesus as having come in the flesh are deceivers and the spirit of anti-Christ (2 Jn 7). The anti-Messiah and false prophets are those who deny Jesus came in flesh. They also deny that Jesus is the Messiah (1 Jn 2:22) and apparently that he was the Son of God (2:23; 4:14–15; 5:5, 10, 13). The phrase ‘in the flesh’ (4:2) clearly serves as a referent to the humanity of Jesus.63 The opening of 1 John also speaks without question to the physical reality of Jesus, the word of life. The author’s proclamation of Jesus having been heard, seen, beheld and touched by hands only reinforces that witness (1:1). Raymond Brown states that this sensory language ‘makes a spiritualized interpretation farfetched. Clearly the author is claiming participation in a physical contact with Jesus’.64 For 1 John, Jesus’ humanity is necessary because his death makes possible the taking away of sin and allows him to be an atoning sacrifice (1:7, 9; 2:2; 4:10; cf. 5:6–8). Jesus’ blood cleanses all from sin, and thus the cleansing of sin and the existence of Jesus’ blood requires his humanity. For those who confess their sin, Jesus’ coming ‘in the flesh’ allows for human beings to enter into relationship with the Father and the Son, to have fellowship with them and to abide in them (1:3, 7; 3:24).

63. Stephen S. Smalley, 1, 2, 3 John, rev. ed. (WBC 51; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2007), 212; Karen H. Jobes, 1, 2, and 3 John (ZECNT 19; Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan, 2014), 178. Some scholars understand the emphasis to rest on Jesus’ sacrificial death rather than solely on the incarnation. See Martinus C. de Boer, ‘The Death of Jesus Christ and His Coming in the Flesh (1 John 4:2)’ , NovT 33, no. 4 (1991):  326–46; Brown, Epistles of John, 76–79, 492; Painter, 1, 2, and 3 John, 260–61; cf. Paul Sevier Minear, ‘Idea of Incarnation in First John’ , Int. 24, no. 3 (1970): 291–302. 64. Brown, Epistles of John, 163, also 175.

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Epistles Summary The Johannine Epistles present a slightly different perspective on humanity than the Gospel of John. The antagonism between humanity and God has become an antagonism between humans, those who have become children of God and those who have not. Sin is one of the primary ways in which this separation is marked since those who are from God do not sin, and belief in Jesus as the Messiah and Son of God is the way to overcome the world and become a child of God. As such, the epistles present a greater emphasis on human agency than the Gospel, while not negating the role of divine agency. There are eschatological consequences to becoming children of God. Those who are children are no longer in death but those who are not remain in death. The salvation of the children of God is dependent upon the humanity of Jesus. Jesus’ coming in the flesh makes possible humanity’s opportunity to enter into relationship with God, through Jesus’ blood, which cleanses from sin.

Conclusion The theological anthropology of the Gospel and Epistles of John is relational. Human beings have become separated from God, and it is only out of God’s love in sending his Son into the world that the separation may be bridged (Jn 3:16, 31, 36; 1 Jn 4:10). In the Gospel, the separation is between God and all humanity, but in the epistles, the separation exists between human beings, depending upon whether or not one has become a child of God. Ultimately, sin separates humanity from God, and only its removal makes possible a relationship with God. In the Gospel, Jesus takes away the sin of the world, and sin is essentially unbelief. Thus, sin is overcome by belief in Jesus. Relatedly, in 1 John, the blood of Jesus cleanses believers from all sin, but confession of sin is required. Sin in the epistles is more often described in an ethical manner. For both the Gospel and the epistles, the incarnation, God becoming a human being, is the means to a restored relationship between God and humanity. For the Gospel, the Word becoming flesh makes possible the dwelling of God with his people and the right to be born of God, to be called children of God. For 1 John, Jesus’ coming in the flesh initiates fellowship between God and humanity, but this takes place through Jesus’ death. For both, divine agency plays a significant role in bridging the separation between God and humanity. God sent the Son, God broke the slavery of sin and God drew believers to himself. God gave humans the right to become his children through belief in his Son, the Messiah. Jesus becoming a human being is instrumental and a necessary part of humanity’s hope of entering into relationship with God. If any humans should love the Son and keep his word, the Father will love them and the Father and the Son will come and make their dwelling with them (Jn 14:23; cf. 1 Jn 3:23–24).65 65.  I am grateful to Spencer Healey, Brian Lugioyo and my co-editor Jason Maston for commenting on earlier versions of this essay.

Chapter 9 E N L I V E N E D S L AV E S :   P AU L’ S C H R I S T O L O G IC A L A N T H R O P O L O G Y Jason Maston

Introduction Among those who have made the most significant contribution to our understanding of what it means to be human, one figure is surely the Apostle Paul. His statements about human action and the goal of human life deeply influenced the Reformers and their followers. Tracing back further, Augustine drew widely from the Pauline vision and constructed his account of humanity from his reading of the Pauline literature. In more recent discussion, especially in the legacy of Barth, theological anthropology has drawn extensively from Paul. It would not be a stretch to claim that at every turning point in human history since Paul, his letters and claims about humanity have been a catalyst.1 In the particular field of New Testament studies, an important contribution comes from Rudolf Bultmann, who, in his New Testament Theology, structured the whole of Paul’s theology around the ‘human being’ (der Mensch): ‘Man Prior to the Revelation of Faith’; ‘Man under Faith’.2 These two headings and the subsequent analysis emphasize the soteriological act of faith and the account of humanity in each stage. In a crucial methodological statement, Bultmann explains why he gives priority to anthropology: ‘Every assertion about God is simultaneously an assertion about man and vice versa. For this reason and in this sense Paul’s theology is, at the same time, anthropology’.3 For Bultmann, Paul is not interested in an abstract ‘theology’ nor an abstract ‘anthropology’. Paul addresses God as he relates to humanity and humanity from its relation to God. At the centre, then, lay the 1. Despite the influence of Paul’s claims on subsequent accounts of humanity, two recent handbooks on Paul have not included chapters on anthropology:  James D. G. Dunn, ed., The Cambridge Companion to St Paul (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); and Stephen Westerholm, ed., The Blackwell Companion to Paul (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011). 2. The discussion of Paul is in Part 2 of his Theology of the New Testament, trans. Kendrick Grobel; 2 vols. (New York: Scribner, 1951). 3. Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, 1.191.

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divine act for salvation and its impact on humanity. Thus, independent statements are not made about either, but rather about each other. Bultmann’s central focus on God’s salvific action and human response leads to his claim that ‘Paul’s theology can best be treated as his doctrine of man’.4 Bultmann’s insistence on the anthropological dimension of Paul’s thought has been widely influential and controversial. One important objection to his programme comes from his student Ernst Käsemann. Käsemann actually accepts Bultmann’s assertion, but he objects to Bultmann’s narrow focus on anthropology. Käsemann, rightly, contends that Bultmann never develops the ‘vice versa’.5 Aiming for a centre point around which the two topics could revolve, Käsemann suggested Christology: ‘it might be possible to develop the connection of the two [theology and anthropology] in the light of Pauline Christology, thus avoiding the danger both of a Christian metaphysic and of a Christian humanism.’6 Käsemann develops this suggestion in a tangential way, however, by exploring how humanity relates to the powers. His approach taps into his central concern with ‘who is one’s Lord?’ As I argue below, this is indeed a vital element in Paul’s anthropology. Left open, though, is a discussion of who Jesus is as a human being and how this helps explain Paul’s anthropology. My approach to Pauline anthropology, then, is to take up Käsemann’s suggestion that Christology could provide a bridge over the gap between theology and anthropology, thus defining both God and humanity. My focus in this brief study will be on the anthropological side. I make several observations about Paul’s portrayal of the human Jesus as it is found in Phil. 2:5–11. I argue that Paul presents anthropology as characterized by three axes: humans as slaves, humans as agents and humans as eschatologically oriented. Building on these observations I then look at how Paul develops these three axes in Romans 5–8. The final section of the study will expand further by drawing some implications for anthropology. By taking this Christological lens, I am eschewing two customary approaches to Pauline anthropology.7 First, scholars tend to approach Paul’s anthropology through word studies.8 They categorize all of Paul’s vocabulary in order to trace how he uses particular words. While word studies can be helpful and interesting,

4. Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, 1.191. 5.  Ernst Käsemann, ‘On Paul’s Anthropology’ , in Perspectives on Paul, trans. M. Kohl (London: SCM Press, 1971), 12. 6. Käsemann, ‘On Paul’s Anthropology’ , 12. 7. It is worth noting that many theologians approach anthropology from a Christological perspective. See the recent volume by Marc Cortez, for example: Christological Anthropology in Historical Perspective: Ancient and Contemporary Approaches to Theological Anthropology (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2016). 8.  The word study approach is clearly displayed in Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, 1.191–227; and James D.  G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1998), 51–79. Both develop additional ideas about anthropology, but the word studies set the agenda.

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merely cataloguing how an author uses words does not explain the anthropological underpinnings. Even in cases like the Stoics, who develop a sophisticated anthropological vocabulary, these terms gain meaning because they are placed in a larger structure. What is missing in many attempts to explain Paul’s anthropology is this larger framework. Second, studies of Pauline anthropology tend to focus only on the pessimistic aspects of the human condition.9 This approach, however, is one-sided and fails to recognize that Paul develops an optimistic anthropology. Moreover, beginning with sinful humanity risks skewing the account of the optimistic. That is, the pessimistic sets the terms for the optimistic vision of humanity. By taking a Christological approach, my aim is to develop a more rounded anthropology that can account for both Paul’s pessimistic and optimistic descriptions and how he uses his terminology.

Christ and Being Human: The Anthropology of Philippians 2:5–11 In Phil. 2:5–11, Paul traces the actions of Christ Jesus from his pre-existence through his incarnation to his glorification. Although much ink has been spilled on this passage, we must not overlook the central ‘theological’ point:  the preexistent one became human.10 The poem turns on the incarnation and is fundamentally about the human existence of Jesus. I  make three observations about this passage. Humanity as Slave Philippians 2:5–11 is a concise and compact account of Christ’s existence. The statement opens in dramatic terms with the declaration that he ‘existed in the form of God’ (ἐν μορφῇ θεοῦ; v. 6). The word μορφή denotes the external appearance of something. The object assumes this shape because the external is displaying an internal essence. To claim, then, that Jesus is in the ‘form of God’ is to indicate that he visually displays the divine because he shares in the divine essence. The word μορφή is used again in this passage in the statement ‘by taking the form of a slave’ (μορφὴν δούλου λαβών; v. 7). Taken on its own, the statement is imprecise, and it is with the next phrase that some precision is given. The expression ‘in the likeness of humanity’ is most likely intended to modify and 9. Dunn, for example, after his word studies, has a part on ‘Humankind under Indictment’ that discusses Adam, Sin and Death, and the law (The Theology of Paul the Apostle, 79–161). 10.  While some dispute the claim that Paul understands Christ as pre-existent here, I find their arguments unconvincing. Nevertheless, at the core of this text is the view of Jesus as a human, so my reading remains intact regardless. For a good introduction to the main debates about this text and bibliography, see Ralph P. Martin and Brian J. Dodd, eds, Where Christology Began: Essays on Philippians 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1998); and recently Gregory P. Fewster, ‘The Philippians “Christ Hymn”: Trends in Critical Scholarship’ , CurBR 13, no. 2 (2015): 191–206.

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specify the expression ‘form of a slave’. This is suggested by the common structure of the two sentences in vv. 7–8.11 ὃς ἐν μορφῇ θεοῦ ὑπάρχων οὐχ ἁρπαγμὸν ἡγήσατο τὸ εἶναι ἴσα θεῷ, 7 ἀλλὰ ἑαυτὸν ἐκένωσεν μορφὴν δούλου λαβών, ἐν ὁμοιώματι ἀνθρώπων γενόμενος καὶ σχήματι εὑρεθεὶς ὡς ἄνθρωπος 8 ἐταπείνωσεν ἑαυτὸν γενόμενος ὑπήκοος μέχρι θανάτου, θανάτου δὲ σταυροῦ. The final clauses of both statements (‘becoming in the likeness of humanity’ and ‘even death on a cross’) draw out the meaning of the preceding clauses.12 Also, the clause ‘and being found in appearance as a human’ repeats the phrase ‘becoming in the likeness of humanity’. This suggests that Paul is moving to a new statement. The juxtaposition of the two clauses ‘taking the form of a slave’ and ‘becoming in the likeness of humanity’ indicates that for Paul being human can be explained as being in a state of enslavement.13 Lynn Cohick explicitly rejects this conclusion because of the link formed between humanity and slavery and the resulting picture of humanity:  ‘Treating “slave” and “human” as synonyms presents an inaccurate picture that minimizes the reality that humans are made in the image of God; it suggests that in itself, being human is similar to slavery’.14 Additionally, she aligns this vision of humanity as enslaved exclusively with enslavement to sin.15 Her position, however, falters on several accounts. First, even if ‘form of God’ is alluding to ‘image of God’ , Paul does not make this a central element of his presentation here. He is not interested in presently an image of God anthropology. Second, in this passage Paul does not explicitly state that humans are enslaved to sin, and elsewhere he uses the slavery image positively to describe the believer’s relationship to God. While the image of enslavement is jarring to many today, as it would have been to many in the ancient world, this discomfort provides no grounds to downplay the connection between humanity and slave that the text establishes.

11.  Scholars have long debated the structure of these verses, and there is no common agreement. For the discussion see the commentaries. My presentation here is not attempting to resolve all the issues. 12.  See Gordon D. Fee, Paul’s Letter to the Philippians (NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995), 194–96, 213. 13.  Cf. Moisés Silva, Philippians (BECNT; Grand Rapids, MI:  Baker Academic, 2005), 106. 14. Lynn H. Cohick, Philippians (SGBC; Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2013), 117. 15. Cohick, Philippians, 119.

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Paul does not make clear to whom Christ is a slave, and scholars have proposed several options. Käsemann, for example, contended that Christ became a slave to the cosmic powers.16 Although this interpretation has not been widely embraced, given Paul’s contention elsewhere that humans are slaves to Sin, Death and the Law in Romans and Galatians, Käsemann’s view is not as strange as sometimes implied. Byron argues that the pattern of ‘Humiliation-Obedience-Exaltation’ in the passage serves to identify Christ as a slave of God.17 While there is much to commend this view, Paul may have deliberately left the comment that Christ became a slave unspecified because he is assuming an anthropological truth: humanity exists as in an enslaved reality. Humanity as Agent Although interpreters often focus on the abstract statements about the nature of divinity and humanity, the driving terms of this passage are the verbs ‘emptied’ and ‘humbled’. In both his pre-incarnate and incarnate states, Jesus acts selflessly by, first, denying his rights and condescending to the condition of an enslaved human and, second, submitting himself in humble obedience. At the centre of Paul’s exposition is the issue of agency. Two points can be noted from Paul’s description. First, by centring the account on Christ’s actions, Paul indicates that a key component of being human (and divine) is the capacity to act. Agency is fundamental to what it means to be human. Second, more significant than having the ability to act is what one actually does. The story of Christ here focuses on his obedience. The statement summarizes the early Christian belief that Christ fulfils the will of God. Moreover, the description of Christ as ‘making himself nothing’ and ‘humbling himself ’ suggests that these are the truest forms of divine and human action. True humanity consists in living an obedient life that is characterized by humility.18 We should also notice the correlation between act and being in these verses. As commentators widely recognize, the actions of Christ do not merely describe what he did. Rather, they indicate his very identity.19 The more abstract statements like ‘form of God’ , ‘equality with God’ and ‘form of a human being’ are given specific content through the actions of ‘emptying’ and ‘humbling’. Christ is, as both divine and human, a self-giving being. This correction between act and being is important for understanding Paul’s anthropology. 16. Ernst Käsemann, ‘Critical Analysis of Philippians 2:5–11’ , JTC 5 (1968): 45–88. 17.  John Byron, Slavery Metaphors in Early Judaism and Pauline Christianity: A TraditioHistorical and Exegetical Examination (WUNT 2.162; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 164–71. 18. Cohick (Philippians, 120) comes close to this but does not quite capture the relationship between humility and obedience when she writes, ‘A true human is one who embraces obedience, even if that path leads to humiliation.’ Cf. Michael J. Gorman, Inhabiting the Cruciform God:  Kenosis, Justification, and Theosis in Paul’s Narrative Soteriology (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009), 35–37. 19.  Gorman, Inhabiting the Cruciform God, 9–39, esp. 32–34; Gordon D. Fee, Pauline Christology: An Exegetical-Theological Study (Peabody : Hendrickson, 2007), 389.

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The focus on Christ as an agent fits well within the immediate context in Philippians. Paul presents this material to provide the Philippians with an example of how to live for others. In 2:1–4, he exhorts the Philippians to consider others before themselves. The example of Christ is introduced as a model (v. 5). The ‘mind-set’ of Christ is one of self-giving. The main verbs stress this. Humanity as Eschatologically Oriented Christ’s enslavement and his obedience are directed toward embracing death. The climactic, indeed shocking, claim of the passage is not that the pre-existent one became human, but rather that he descended to the darkest depths of the human experience, namely death. Paul references death not only because of the historical realities of Jesus’ death and its salvific implications. Rather, he is indicating that the human experience is defined by death. Death is like a shadow looming over the whole human experience, and in order for Christ to be truly human, he must participate even in this reality. His death is both a demonstration of his obedience and, more importantly, a confirmation of his full humanity. Yet, the story of Christ reveals that death does not have the final say over the human experience. After his subjection to death he is exalted to a place of honour. This is the point of vv. 9–11: the human Jesus is elevated to the supreme status. While it is a return to something of the status he had before becoming human, it is now as the God-man that Jesus Christ is given the divine name and receives worship from all humanity. This movement is crucial for Paul’s anthropology. It indicates that humanity is eschatologically oriented and reveals a tension between death and life.20 Summary In these dense statements, Paul describes the incarnation of Christ. As the pre-existent one, he opts not to use his divine prerogatives to elevate himself. Rather, he lowers himself to the state of a slave, that is, to being human. As a human he humbles himself by his obedience even to the point of death. This is not the end, though, for as a human Christ is exalted. In this account of Christ’s human existence, Paul is not only making strong theological claims. He is also reflecting on the nature of humanity. For Paul, when Christ takes the form of a human, he reveals what is true humanity. Reading Paul’s anthropology from the perspective of Christ brings out the primary categories with which Paul operates. His anthropology has three primary axes: 1. Humanity exists in a state of enslavement. 2. Humans are agents. Moreover, true humanity is displayed when humans act in humble obedience seen especially in self-sacrifice. 3. Humanity is eschatologically oriented between the poles of life/honour/glory and death. 20. ‘Life’ serves as a shorthand word since it counters death well. It would be appropriate to use ‘honour’ or ‘glory’ as well.

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Having established Paul’s understanding of Jesus as a human being, the remainder of this study explores how these features are developed elsewhere in Paul’s theology as he applies this understanding to the rest of humanity. Paul holds that this understanding of Jesus presents a model of true humanity: humanity as it was divinely intended to be.21 Of course, describing the ideal portrait of humanity is in reality often a far cry from how many experience being human. Thus, while Christ presents true humanity and is the image into which believers are being conformed (Rom. 8:29), for Paul, humans can be placed into two contrasting realms. One realm is associated with Christ and thus directed towards experiencing true humanity. The other realm is associated with Adam and thus experiences the negation of humanity. The following will develop these alternative accounts of humanity from the perspective of these three primary axes of the human experience.

Reading Paul’s Christological Anthropology Nowhere in his letters does Paul offer a holistic discussion of anthropology. He does not write a doctrine of humanity. Nevertheless, his arguments across his letters assume an anthropology, and the previous section has identified the main features of this anthropology as it is set forth in his description of Jesus, the true human. In this section I widen the scope to see how Paul’s account of Christ as human is developed when Paul looks to the rest of humanity. I focus primarily on Romans 5–8 since it is in these chapters that Paul gives his most sustained account of humanity. Romans 5:12–21 is particularly important for Paul’s anthropology since here he charts his view of the cosmos with a focus on anthropology. He develops a dual anthropology as he describes two contrasting head figures: Adam and Christ. These two figures model two different visions of human existence, one the negation of the human and the other the creation of the human. Underlying the radical differences in these two accounts are the three themes identified above: enslavement, agency and eschatological orientation. Paul’s contrasting account in these verses is developed and clarified through the argument in chs. 6–8.

21.  Many scholars have objected to the ethical reading of Phil. 2:5–11 in which Christ provides a model for how humans should act (e.g. Käsemann, ‘Critical Analysis’). Rightly, these scholars note that the account of Christ cannot be replicated exactly by others for no one else can rise to the specific state of honour and glory that Christ attains. However, this operates with a rigid view of imitation that demands exact correspondence. It overlooks that Christ, in revealing true humanity, establishes a pattern to be replicated. Moreover, aside from the immediate context which clearly indicates an ethical aim for this passage (vv. 1–4), the humiliation-exultation pattern is applied to believers in 3:20–21 (see Ben C. Blackwell, Christosis: Engaging Paul’s Soteriology with His Patristic Interpreters, rev. ed. [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2016], 204–9). See also 1 Pet. 2:18–25 where Christ as presented as a model for human action.

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The Negation of the Human We observed above that when Paul writes of Christ becoming human, he understands this to mean that Christ became a slave. The statement points not only to a status, but also more fundamentally to an ontological reality: being human is to be a slave. In Romans 5–8 Paul develops this idea in a broader manner. As a result of Adam’s transgression, the powers of Sin and Death have broken into the world (5:12–21). Sin’s impact is made evident in the fact that Death now ‘reigns’ over humanity, even those who have not transgressed in the same manner as Adam (vv. 12–14, 21). Lying behind Paul’s description of Sin and Death is a vision of the cosmos as a battle zone between two opposing (but not equal) forces. In this account, Sin and Death should not be understood primarily as human disobedience and the end of life. Rather, they refer to anti-God Powers.22 Paul presents these Powers, particularly Sin, as manipulating and ruling over humans.23 The Powers can, as Sin does in Rom. 7:15–20, embed themselves into the human. At the same time, these powers are understood as ‘cosmic’ beings, that is, powers that dwell and operate above the mundane human experience. In Romans 6–7, Paul concerns himself most immediately with how Sin demonstrates its lordship over humanity by usurping the human’s agency (the second of our axes). The emphatic declaration of 7:14 captures the comprehensiveness of Sin’s reign: ‘I am fleshly, sold as a servant to Sin’ (ἐγὼ δὲ σάρκινός εἰμι πεπραμένος ὑπὸ τὴν ἁμαρτίαν).24 In the surrounding verses, Paul describes the human encounter with the Torah as one of inability. Sin used the law as a bridgehead to wage war against the human being. From this powerful position, Sin is able to ‘deceive’ the human with the result that the human is incapable of determining right and wrong.25 The graphic account in 7:15–20 describes a hopeless human who is caught in a cycle of disobedience that results in despair and ultimately death. After each cycle of failure, the speaker makes the observation that ‘Sin dwells in me’ (vv. 17, 22.  For this understanding of Sin and the evil powers, often identified as the ‘apocalyptic’ reading of Paul, see especially J. Louis Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 33A; New York: Doubleday, 1997). On the development of this interpretation and others who adopt it, see David A. Shaw, ‘Plight and Solution in the “Apocalyptic” Paul: A History and Critique’ (PhD Thesis, Cambridge, England: University of Cambridge, 2014). For a recent engagement with the apocalyptic interpretations of Paul, see Ben C. Blackwell, John K. Goodrich and Jason Maston, eds, Paul and the Apocalyptic Imagination (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2016). 23. For example, 1QS 3:13–4:26. 24.  On the background to this text lying (possibly) in Isa. 50:1, see John K. Goodrich, ‘Sold under Sin: Echoes of Exile in Romans 7.14–25’ , NTS 59, no. 4 (2013):  476–95. On whether the word πιπράσκω indicates a state of enslavement, see, however, Byron, Slavery Metaphors, 223–25. 25.  On Sin’s deception, see Stephen J. Chester, Conversion at Corinth: An Exploration of the Understandings of Conversion Held by the Apostle Paul and the Corinthian Christians (SNTW; London: T&T Clark, 2003), 185–94.

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20). The claim does not absolve the human of his responsibility. It points instead to the comprehensive nature of Sin’s invasive mastery, for Sin has removed the speaker’s agency and rendered him an incompetent actor.26 Eastman captures the sense well: ‘Here is a depiction of radically diminished personal agency, a crippled capacity for effective action for the good, but not a complete erasure of the self.’27 This is slavery in its most extreme form. The account of Sin’s rule in the human described in 7:7–25 personalizes and individualizes the broader account of 6:15–23. In this passage, Paul draws together various statements about the meaning of Sin and its relation to the human being and community previously made in the letter to the Romans. His suggestive comment that ‘all are under Sin’ (3:9) and the hints at Sin’s (and Death’s) lordship in 5:12–21 are given a fuller explanation in 6:15–23. Indeed, 6:15–23 is a reflection on the meaning of ‘slavery’.28 Paul reminds his readers, as many of them may have known from personal experience, that obedience is rendered to one’s master. Thus, at a previous time, believers were enslaved to Sin and obeyed its commands. Sin’s mastery over the human is manifest in two ways. First, because of enslavement to Sin, the human lacks the ability to recognize the things of God. The human mind has been corrupted. This is indicated, for example, in 7:10 where Paul states that Sin ‘deceives’ the human. In 1:18–32 Paul contends that human wickedness is displayed by the failure of humans to properly worship God despite knowing him. The result is that ‘their thinking became futile’ (v. 21). In 8:1–13 Paul describes alternative realms, that of the Spirit and that of the Flesh, and he refers to the ‘mind-set’ of those who live according to one realm or the other. George van Kooten maintains that the mind described in Romans 7 is no longer the debased mind of Romans 1, for the speaker is able in his mind to contemplate the good.29 Yet, overlooked by van Kooten is that, whatever the mind’s ability, the human lacks the capacity to enact anything good. The position of the human in Romans 7 remains the same as that of the human in Romans 1: a disobedient being who will be condemned.30 An ability to identify the good is insufficient if one lacks the ability to act upon the good.

26.  I have explored this in greater detail in Jason Maston, Divine and Human Agency in Second Temple Judaism and Paul: A Comparative Study (WUNT 2.297; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 140–52. 27. Susan G. Eastman, ‘Double Participation and the Responsible Self in Romans 5–8’ , in Apocalyptic Paul: Cosmos and Anthropos in Romans 5–8, ed. Beverly R. Gaventa (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2013), 102. 28.  Ernst Käsemann, Commentary on Romans, trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley (London: SCM Press, 1980), 182: ‘δουλεία is the key word in the passage.’ 29. George H. van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context: The Image of God, Assimilation to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient Philosophy and Early Christianity (WUNT 232; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 379–81. 30.  On the connections between Romans 1 and 7, see Simon J. Gathercole, ‘Sin in God’s Economy: Agencies in Romans 1 and 7’ , in Divine and Human Agency in Paul and

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Second, Sin exercises its lordship through the human’s body (6:6).31 Sin lodges itself in the body, and from this internal position it reveals its mastery over the human by compelling the human to use the body to produce evil (7:17, 20). The anthropological dilemma described in Romans 1–3 stresses that the failure of the mind reveals itself in corrupted bodily actions. Humans give themselves over to inappropriate sexual activities as well as to other forms of evil. Notably, the scriptural texts that Paul cites as proof for his thesis that ‘all under Sin’ (3:9) refer to body parts: throats, tongues, mouths, feet and eyes (vv. 12–18). Also, in 6:13, he instructs the readers not to ‘offer your members [τὰ μέλη] as weapons of unrighteousness to Sin’. While μέλη normally refers to ‘limbs’ , here the word probably has a broader reference to the whole human body (cf. Rom. 3:10–18; 1 Cor. 12:12–16).32 The deeds performed by the body controlled by Sin lead to lawlessness and result in death (6:19; cf. 8:13). The Roman Christians are now ashamed of their former actions (6:21). Paul probably intends a link back to the actions described in chs. 1–3. In his account of human sinfulness, he highlights actions performed in the body that are self-seeking and destroy any attempts at community. Sins like murder, speaking ill of others and even sexual depravity destroy community for they seek to establish one person over another. As his use of the singular in 7:7–25 implies, those under Sin’s rule are viewed as isolated individuals who seek after their own gain. They act out of selfish ambition and vanity striving after their own interests (cf. Phil. 2:3–4). The third axis highlighted from the account of Jesus as human was the eschatological orientation of humanity. In Romans 5–8 this axis is developed in several ways when Paul describes the negation of the human, and his description

His Cultural Environment, ed. John M.  G. Barclay and Simon J. Gathercole (LNTS 335; London: T&T Clark, 2006), 158–72. 31. ‘Body of sin’ (τὸ σῶμα τῆς ἁμαρτίας) means the physical body as ruled by Sin. Some interpret the expression as a reference to, in Moo’s words, ‘myself in all my sin-prone faculties’ (Douglas J. Moo, The Epistle to the Romans [NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1996], 375). While it is common for scholars, at least since Bultmann, to interpret Paul’s use of σῶμα as referring to the whole human self, this is problematic. It ignores that Paul had other ways to refer to the human being (e.g. the use of the reflexive pronoun) without using a term that stresses the physicality of the human. Others argue that the phrase ‘body of sin’ refers to the corporate ‘mass of humanity in the thrall of sin’ (Michael F. Bird, Romans [SGBC; Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan, 2016], 198). The wider context of Romans, which repeatedly links Sin with the physical body (cf. 6:12, 23; 7:24), speaks against this view. 32. See Robert Jewett, Romans: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2006), 409–10. The expression should not be confined to ‘natural capacities’ either (so Käsemann, Commentary on Romans, 177; C. E.  B. Cranfield, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, vol. 1: Romans 1–8 [ICC 32; London: T&T Clark, 2004], 317–18; Moo, Romans, 384) as this is too restrictive and misses that Paul’s whole discussion here is founded on the physicality of the human.

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of it highlights the way in which the three axes are integrated. In 5:12–21 Paul contends that Death entered the world on the heel of Sin’s infiltration because of Adam’s transgression. In many discussions one has the impression that Sin is the primary culprit and Death is just a tag-along. However, Paul’s account of Sin and Death is more complex, and Death is an equal culprit in the negation of the human.33 Death’s reign is comprehensive for it rules even in the lawless time between Adam and Moses (5:13–14). Paul can describe both Death and Sin as reigning in the present (5:17, 21). Death’s reign over the human is developed in several ways by Paul. Paul emphasizes throughout Romans 6–8 that death is the outcome of human disobedience. He reminds the readers that when they were slaves to Sin, they produced actions that resulted in death (6:16, 21, 23). The mindset of those who exist in the realm of the flesh is death, for they not only fail to submit to God, but are also not even able to please him with their actions (8:6–8). Paul warns the readers that if they live as if they are in the realm of the flesh, death will most certainly come (8:13). The mindset of the flesh described in 8:5–13 is an abstraction from the concrete account in 7:7–25, where the link between disobedience and death is highlighted by the speaker’s cry of desperation in 7:24: ‘who will redeem me from this body of death?’ (cf. 7:10). This cry of desperation indicates that the human’s disobedience is tied directly to the body. Paul has previously referred to the body as ‘mortal’ , and he will make this point again in 8:10. There is a strong tendency among scholars, however, to downplay or even dismiss the physicality of death in these chapters.34 Commentators regularly note that death is contrasted with ‘eternal life’ (5:21), and ‘condemnation’ (5:16, 18) seems to be used in the same manner as death (5:12). Moreover, since Paul is drawing on Genesis 3, it is routinely highlighted that Adam does not physically die when he eats of the tree. Instead, he is removed from the presence of God. As Thomas Schreiner comments, ‘the account in Genesis indicates that death is fundamentally separation from God’.35 Paul, however, does not describe death as separation from God. While Paul can use the language of death with a variety of connotations,36 the distinction between ‘spiritual’ and ‘physical’ death fails to recognize the organic connection. Nor does 33. C. Clifton Black comments, ‘Especially when viewed in the context of his discussion of the Christian’s new life in Christ ([Romans] 6 and 8), Paul’s main interest in this section is not the origin of sin but the origin of death’ (‘Pauline Perspectives on Death in Romans 5–8’ , JBL 103, no. 3 [1984]: 420). His point is a good corrective of the tendency to emphasize sin. 34.  For example, Charles Hodge, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, rev. ed (New York: A. C. Armstrong and Son, 1909), 229–30; Grant R. Osborne, Romans (IVPNTC; Downers Grove, IL: IVP, 2004), 157. 35. Thomas R. Schreiner, Romans (BECNT 6; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 1998), 272. 36.  See Black, ‘Pauline Perspectives on Death’. For some reflections on the place of death in Paul’s anthropology, see John A.  T. Robinson, The Body:  A Study in Pauline Theology (SBT 5; London: SCM Press, 1952), 20–21, 34–36; and Udo Schnelle, The Human

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the notion of ‘total death’ quite capture the relationship.37 This distinction seems to draw more from a modernist distinction between the physical and the spiritual than an ancient perspective that lacked these refined categories. While Paul’s depiction of Death as a power pushes beyond the physical, in all his other uses of this terminology physical death makes perfect sense. It is physical death that is the condemnation, and this matches squarely with ‘eternal life’ , when the latter is rightly understood as a physical existence.38 The depiction of Sin as master reveals the interconnectedness of Paul’s anthropology. Sin as master is demonstrated by the way in which it eliminates human agency and brings humanity to death. For Paul, the human dilemma – the negation of the human – cannot be reduced to one issue. Rather, it involves the interaction of three issues which reach to the core of what it means to be human: (1) enslavement to anti-God powers, (2) the loss of agency and (3) the nullification of the eschatological orientation. Yet, despite how many scholars discuss Paul’s anthropology, Paul does not have only a pessimistic view. On the contrary, he develops a robust account of the creation of the human. The Creation of the Human In light of Paul’s pessimistic comments about the condition of humanity under Sin’s lordship, one might expect him to stress that the gospel brings an end to the human condition of enslavement. His remark, ‘I am speaking in human fashion because of the weakness of your flesh’ (Rom. 6:19) could imply as much. Given the pervasiveness of slavery language in the immediate context before and after this remark, as well as its wider usage elsewhere in Romans and Paul’s other letters, such a claim seems inaccurate.39 Whatever the precise force of Paul’s statement, it is not the claim that humans exist as slaves of which he is excusing himself.40 In fact, rather than abandoning the image of slavery, Paul presses it further by arguing that the movement out of Sin’s enslavement is a movement to enslavement under a new master. In 6:22, Paul tells the Romans that they ‘have been set free from Sin and have become slaves of God’ (cf. v. 18). The movement in their lives is from one master to another, but the condition is the same throughout. Moreover, Paul’s claim juxtaposes two ideas that are normally considered opposites. For Paul, Condition:  Anthropology in the Teachings of Jesus, Paul, and John, trans. O. C. Dean (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 40–44. 37.  Moo, Romans, 320. Moo connects this with J. Christiaan Beker’s expression ‘physico-spiritual’ (Paul the Apostle: The Triumph of God in Life and Thought [Philadelphia, PA: Fortress, 1984], 224). 38.  1 Corinthians 15 also links death with the physical body of Adam and the solution to this anthropological plight is a material body enlivened by the Spirit. See Jason Maston, ‘Anthropological Crisis and Solution in the Hodayot and 1 Corinthians 15’ , NTS 62, no. 4 (2016): 533–48. 39. John M. G. Barclay, Paul and the Gift (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015), 498–99. 40.  It would also be incorrect to set Paul’s comments about Christians as slaves in Romans 6 in conflict with his claim in 8:15 that ‘you did not receive a spirit of slavery’.

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rather, freedom and slavery are ‘mutually dependent: the freedom of the apostle is realized precisely in slavery to the gospel’.41 Freedom in Paul’s perspective is freedom from enslavement to the evil powers that oppose God and freedom for enslavement to Christ and the Spirit. Barclay puts it well: ‘There is no neutral zone in Paul’s cosmos, no pocket of absolute freedom, no no-man’s land between the two fronts. The gift of God in Jesus Christ has established not liberation from authority, but a new allegiance, a new responsibility, a new “slavery” under the rule of grace.’42 This transfer from enslavement to Sin to enslavement to God is enacted through baptism. The account of baptism in 6:1–10 is not only a theological discourse about salvation, but also an account of the new human formed by this event. Baptism marks a decisive break with one’s past. Paul tells the readers in 6:6 that their ‘old selves’ have been crucified with Christ and this releases their bodies from Sin’s control.43 Out of baptism emerges a new creation because the believer in Jesus now has his or her identity formed by union with Christ. This is the anthropological implication of Paul’s argument about baptism. Out of this ritual emerges a new identity in which the human has a new lord, is empowered to respond to the call of this new lord and is now oriented to life. As a result of the change of lord, a new human emerges who is not only a responsible being but also a competent agent who is able to determine his or her own direction. As noted above, under Sin’s reign, the human lost all control and became a vessel for Sin to work its destructive ways. The human in Christ, by contrast, is able to hear God’s commands and follow them. Paul stresses in 6:1–23 that believers are now able to choose whether to submit to Sin. He, of course, urges and expects believers to reject Sin and submit to God. It is here alone that any idea of ‘free will’ enters into Paul’s view. Importantly, though, Paul’s view is not identical with modern notions of autonomy or an absolute freedom.44 For, according to Paul, not only are humans always enslaved by a Being greater than themselves, but to use one’s ability to do sin is to give up the freedom of the gospel. Committing sins is to re-enter into Sin’s destructive rule where the human becomes an incompetent agent. The newly formed competent agent is empowered by the Spirit and united to a community in which action is possible. Both of these aspects need development. Before the axes of agency can be developed further, though, it is important to see how Paul configures the polarity of life and death under this new lord. Putting these in opposition ignores the rhetorical aim of Paul’s later comment which contrasts sonship with slavery (cf. Gal. 3:23–4:7). 41. Schnelle, The Human Condition, 85–86. 42. Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 497. 43. The expression ‘old self ’ refers to the whole human under the reign of Sin and Death, not merely a part of the human (Leander E. Keck, Romans [ANTC; Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 2005], 162). 44.  Contra Chris VanLandingham, Judgment & Justification in Early Judaism and the Apostle Paul (Peabody, MA:  Hendrickson, 2006), whose whole project assumes modern notions of libertarian freedom.

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Believers have dwelling within them ‘the Spirit of the one who raised Jesus from the dead’ (8:11). This Spirit of life counteracts the work of Sin which brought death to the body (8:10).45 In the present, the believer’s body is dying, but the hope is for the redemption of the body (8:23). In fact, in a striking reversal, Paul contends that death is not something to be escaped, as it was for the speaker of Romans 7, but rather something to be embraced (Phil. 3:10–11). The power of death has been broken so that the believer no longer fears it (Rom. 8.31–39; 1 Thess. 4.13; cf. Heb. 2:14–15).46 Death and suffering are given a new meaning in Christ for they no longer indicate the end of human existence. Now they are aspects of participating in the story of Christ. For Paul, this promise of resurrection life is experienced in the present as the Spirit empowers believers to do deeds that lead to life (Rom. 6:22; 8:13; cf. 2 Cor. 3:6). When Christ ushered in a new era by his death, he also created a new world. Paul refers to this new world as ‘the realm of the Spirit’ (8:4–11). In this new realm, the Spirit of God rules in and through the human.47 As a direct counter to Sin, Paul describes the Spirit as dwelling within the human (compare 8:9–13 with 7:17, 20 and the term οἰκέω). Whereas Sin destroyed human agency, in fact rendering the human a non-agent, through the Spirit agency is restored. Because of the Spirit, the human is enabled to hear God’s commands and perform them. Paul does not, however, present human agency as autonomous. Rather, Paul develops an understanding of joint agency in which the human and the Spirit cooperate together (8:13).48 The Spirit is not a domineering master, but one who creates and enlivens the human. This transformation affects the believer’s mind and body. For the human enlivened by the Spirit, both of these are brought into service to God. Believers are transferred from the realm of the flesh into the realm of the Spirit where they have the ‘mindset’ of the Spirit. Although Paul does not clearly state this, the argument of 8:5–13 suggests that those who have the mindset of the Spirit are capable of pleasing God (cf. 8:8). Believers’ minds are transformed under the guidance of the Spirit. Also, believers can now submit their ‘members’ in service to God (6:13). The suggestions about the change in mind and body come to the forefront at the ethical turn of the letter in 12:1–2, where submission of the body and mind to God

45. The meaning of 8:10, particularly the referent of πνεῦμα, is debated. Paul most likely is referring to the divine Spirit. The phrase ‘spirit of life’ recalls v.  2 (van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context, 387), and in ch. 8 πνεῦμα always indicates the divine Spirit unless it is clearly marked as the human spirit (cf. 8:16). 46.  On 1 Thess. 4:13 see John M.  G. Barclay, ‘ “That You May Not Grieve, Like the Rest Who Have No Hope” (1 Thess 4.13): Death and Early Christian Identity’ , in Pauline Churches and Diaspora Jews (WUNT 275; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 217–35. 47. Cf. Schnelle, The Human Condition, 49. On the understanding of πνεῦμα as a referent to the divine Spirit, see Gordon D. Fee, God’s Empowering Presence: The Holy Spirit in the Letters of Paul (Peabody : Hendrickson, 1995), 519–59. 48. Maston, Divine and Human Agency, 166–69.

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are seen as the high marks of Christian worship. The same bodies that were once vessels of Sin’s deadly rule are now to be offered to God, and the minds that were once sources of depravity are now being renewed. This act of worship, though, is not that of an individual alone. Instead, the newly formed agent is united to a community of believers who also are empowered by the Spirit to obey God (8:14–17). In Romans 5–8 Paul expresses this through the repeated use of plural subjects. The plurals do not lead to a negation of the individual, but they do re-contextualize the place of the individual.49 The contrast is especially sharp between 7:7–25 and 8:4. In the former passage, Paul’s speaker is an individual confronted with the demands of the law. In the latter passage, Paul describes a corporate community who together are able to ‘fulfil the righteous requirement of the law’. This statement most likely refers to the love commandment (cf. 13:8–10).50 Paul’s point is that the human formed out of baptism is not only united to Christ and the Spirit, but also a new people among whom God’s love is displayed. Paul’s presentation of the human agent oriented towards the community follows the pattern of Phil. 2:1–11. There the selfless actions of Jesus are directed towards the other, and as the context makes clear, Paul presents Christ as the ethical model for the believing community. For Paul, true humanity is not evident merely in human action. Rather, true humanity, as found in and revealed by Christ, is displayed in actions that uplift and encourage the other. Having been freed from Sin’s control, this new community no longer engages in the community-destroying activities that defined their former lives. Rather than using their tongues to destroy (1:29–30; 3:13–14), they uplift others through the gifts given by the Spirit and bless rather than curse (12:6–8, 14). Caring for others is service rendered to the Lord (12:11). The instructions about food in Romans 14–15 emerge out of Paul’s concern that the divisions mirror the life of those under Sin rather than those under the Spirit.51 These divisions stress individual ‘rights’ and threaten the community. Yet, Paul contends, in this new humanity, service to Christ is revealed when the stronger give way to the weaker. In these exhortations, ‘the idea of being enslaved or not enslaved to Christ is presented in the context of actions that believers render to one another in the community (ἀλλήλων – 12:10; 14:13; 16:16)’.52 Additionally, if these two groups represent, at some level at least,

49.  In his defense of the individual against readings that focus on the problem of Jew and Gentiles (or Israel), Moo underplays the vital role of the community (Douglas J. Moo, ‘Israel and the Law in Romans 5–11: Interaction with the New Perspective’ , in Justification and Variegated Nomism, volume 2: The Paradoxes of Paul, ed. D. A. Carson et al. [WUNT 2.181; Tübingen/Grand Rapids: Mohr Siebeck/Baker Academic, 2004], 189–95). 50. For a defense of this interpretation of ‘the righteous requirement of the law’ , see my Divine and Human Agency, 163–66. 51.  Cf. also Paul’s remarks about the schisms in the Corinthian community in 1 Corinthians 1–3. 52. Byron, Slavery Metaphors, 230. See also Rom. 16:18.

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Jewish and gentile Christians, then Paul is contending that it is in this new humanity formed in Christ that the social and theological barriers that divide humanity can be overcome (cf. Eph. 2:14–18).53 Paul’s depiction of the creation of the human starts with an account of a new Lord. Those in the Christian community have been transferred (by baptism) from one master to another, from one realm to another. Now they are slaves to God, and through his Spirit they are granted life and produce deeds of life. Their eschatological orientation is shifted away from death and towards life. They have become competent agents who are empowered by the Spirit to obey God. Ultimately, this new humanity imitates the true humanity revealed in Jesus. And they do so because, through baptism, they have been united with Christ. This identity and purpose come to expression in Paul’s claim that Christians were created to be in the image of Christ (Rom. 8:29; 1 Cor. 15:49), who is himself the image of God (2 Cor. 4:4).

Paul’s Anthropology in Wider Perspective In the previous sections I have sought a Christological anthropology consisting of three primary features: the human as enslaved, the human as an agent and the human as an eschatologically oriented being. I have argued that these three axes emerge from Paul’s understanding of the Christ story as he tells it in Phil. 2:6–11, and that Paul operates with this anthropology in his argument in Romans 5–8 and elsewhere. In this final section, I draw together some of the themes that have arisen above. I discuss the body and soul/mind, community and individual, and the issue of identity. My aim in this final section is not to explore fully a Pauline anthropology of these topics, but rather to show how they could be understood when viewed within the nexus of the three primary axes. A central topic in anthropology is the relationship between the body and soul/mind (and spirit).54 The discussion above reveals the importance of both the body and the mind for Paul. The body and mind are, though, both caught in the web of the three axes. The physical body is the location over and in which Sin rules and brings death, and Sin can deceive the human mind. This same body can also be the place from which the Spirit rules as it brings life to the body by transforming the mind to understand the will of God. The restoration of the mind and the redemption of the body are fundamental to Paul’s

53.  Galatians 3:28 may also be relevant here depending on how far reaching the claim is. For a recent discussion see Karin B. Neutel, A Cosmopolitan Ideal:  Paul’s Declaration ‘Neither Jew nor Greek, Neither Slave nor Free, nor Male and Female’ in the Context of FirstCentury Thought (LNTS 513; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015). 54. For an overview of recent discussion in theological anthropology, see Marc Cortez, Theological Anthropology: A Guide for the Perplexed (London: T&T Clark, 2010), 68–97.

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soteriology because both are essential to his anthropology. When viewed from the perspective of the three axes of Paul’s anthropology, the discussion of mind and body can only be rightly understood when viewed from the intersection of the three axes. One must ask three questions: (1) Who is the master of the mind or body? (2) How is the mind or body being used? And (3) is the mind or body living or dying? Paul’s adoption of the language of ‘mind’ and ‘body’ , however, is often understand to indicate a dichotomy between the two. When this dualism is adopted, priority is usually given to the mind as the locus of the true human. The present physical body is viewed as something to be escaped and discarded. Despite the popularity of this view among especially non-scholars but also some scholars, this dualism appears fundamentally wrong. First, while some form of ‘out-of-body’ experience is at least conceivable to Paul (2 Cor. 12:2–3), this is not the norm. One should certainly not conclude that Paul is indicating that human existence can be disembodied. His own uncertainty about the experience should make his interpreters cautious. Also, the apparent dualism in 2 Cor. 4:16–5:10 does not conclude with a disembodied experience. At best, Paul implies a period of separation between the human and the body, but even this is not clear.55 Regardless, one should be careful to draw the conclusion from this text alone that the eschatological human experience will be disembodied. Second, although Paul can distinguish between the mind and the body, there is no clear evidence that one has priority over the other as the real locus of the human being. Both are controlled by Sin and must be redeemed from Sin’s grasp. Both are to be brought into the service of God. Third, the suggestion that Paul’s view of the resurrected body is that of a material spirit fails to understand Paul’s contention that the present, physical body must be redeemed from Sin’s grasp.56 Throughout Romans, Paul portrays the present body as the instrument of Sin which is redeemed by God’s act in Christ and his Spirit so that the body is both resurrected (Rom. 8:23) and the mechanism of worship (12:1). When the mind and body are viewed from the perspective of the three axes, it becomes clear that both are important for Paul’s anthropology. Neither defines the essence of the true human being, and both are caught in the web of Sin’s rule. The means to redeeming the mind and the body, the fullness of the human being, is through the Son of God becoming human, that is, coming ‘in the likeness of sinful flesh’ (Rom. 8:3).

55. See Jeffery W. Aernie, ‘Faith, Judgment, and the Life of the Believer: A Reassessment of 2 Corinthians 5:6–10’ , CBQ 79, no. 3 (2017): 438–54. 56. As argued by Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul: The Material Spirit (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). For a strong critique of the ‘material spirit’ interpretation, see Volker Rabens, The Holy Spirit and Ethics in Paul: Transformation and Empowering for Religious-Ethical Life, 2nd ed. (WUNT 2.283; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2013).

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The second theme is the relationship between the individual and the community, a topic that Pauline scholars have long debated.57 Viewing Paul’s anthropology from the lens of these three axes brings this issue to the forefront. Under Sin’s control, human relationships are distorted and destroyed. There is a hyperindividualism that elevates oneself while downgrading others. One’s actions exploit the other. When brought into Christ, community and individual come into a different relationship. The individual human is brought into the church, the body of Christ. This is not, it is important to note, the elimination of the individual, but rather the creation of a fully orbed human being. One’s actions are now directed towards the up building and encouragement of the other, as the individual human becomes a competent agent within a community of other agents. Paul’s anthropology, then, presents two views of the individual-community. From the perspective of humanity controlled by Sin, there is a fundamental conflict between the individual and the community. From the perspective of humanity controlled by the Spirit, individual and community are not in conflict for they are both formed and built. Paul indicates that true humanity is experienced in a properly functioning community. For Paul, humans are fundamentally communal beings, for they seek relationships with other humans. Behind this drive for relationship with other humans stands a more determinative relationship. Community reveals itself in the first instance in the identity of its lord – either Sin or Christ. As Käsemann remarked, ‘man is a being who cannot be determined solely in the light of his own self. His existence stems from outside himself ’.58 This interconnectedness between the individual human and his master, as Käsemann claims, is evident by how Sin or Christ can take possession of a person. There is, for Paul, no truly autonomous human, for individuals are always related to a lord. All this leads to the conclusion that individual humans do not determine who they are.59 Rather, the relationship to one’s lord is determinative for one’s identity. For Paul, union with Christ is not merely a salvific state.60 This union is constitutive of one’s identity because the believer is indwelt by Christ’s Spirit. Through the Spirit, the believer is both given life and empowered to do acts of life. These actions reveal one’s identity. The converse is also true: those who have Sin as their master are indwelt by Sin and through Sin’s agency commit acts of disobedience and thus reveal their identity as sinners.

57.  See Ben C. Dunson, ‘The Individual and Community in Twentieth- and Twentyfirst-Century Pauline Scholarship’ , CurBR 9, no. 1 (2010):  63–97; and Ben C. Dunson, Individual and Community in Paul’s Letter to the Romans (WUNT 2.332; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2012). 58. Käsemann, ‘On Paul’s Anthropology’ , 28. 59. I am echoing Käsemann; see Käsemann, ‘On Paul’s Anthropology’ , 28. 60.  For recent discussion of the theme of union with Christ, see Constantine R. Campbell, Paul and Union with Christ: An Exegetical and Theological Study (Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan, 2012); and Grant Macaskill, Union with Christ in the New Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).

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These final reflections only begin to address important elements in Paul’s anthropology. Hopefully, they have done just enough to show how attention to the three axes of enslavement, agency and eschatological orientation help to bring out the features of Paul’s anthropology.

Conclusion At the core of Paul’s anthropology lies the declaration that in Jesus true humanity is revealed. In his exposition of the incarnation, Paul describes Jesus as becoming a slave, who as an agent displays his identity through his humbling obedience, and after descending into the depths of death, rises to life and attains honour and glory. These three aspects are the three axes of Paul’s anthropology: enslavement, agency and eschatological orientation. For Paul, Christ is not only the model for humanity, but also more importantly the definitive revelation of true humanity. Through his Spirit he calls others out of their enslavement to Sin into a new identity, a new humanity in which these newly created humans live out his life in their own. This is true humanity for Paul.

Chapter 10 T H E E S C HAT O L O G IC A L S O N :   C H R I ST O L O G IC A L A N T H R O P O L O G Y I N H E B R EWS Amy L. B. Peeler

The author of the Epistle to the Hebrews poses the precise question guiding this entire book, ‘What is man?’1 (Heb. 2:8). At least he knows that someone has asked this question,2 and he recites this line from Psalm 8 to provide first and foremost a Christological answer.3 For the author of Hebrews, the man described in Psalm 8 provides a fitting story of the Son of God humbled and then honoured above all others. The Son’s story, as described in Psalm 8, is not just his own, however, but becomes the template and doorway for all others. Hebrews has limited but sufficient clues to construct its anthropological narrative. In that story of all humanity it becomes clear that other humans bear important differences from the Son who becomes human. They are created and then marred by sin, a reality inapplicable to him. With his taking of a human body, however, their stories merge; the coming of Jesus the Man changes the reality, experience and 1. I knowingly use exclusive language here to reflect my Christological interpretation of his citation. 2.  The Greek here is διεμαρτύρατο δέ πού τις λέγων, ‘and someone has testified somewhere’. (All translations from the New Testament are my own unless otherwise noted.) It is the only time in Hebrews that the author is so nondescript with a Scriptural attribution. Various theories exist for why this might be the case. One option is that it could also be a rhetorical move, leaving unspoken what is commonly known (Harold W. Attridge, Hebrews [Hermeneia; Philadelphia, PA: Fortress, 1989], 71). 3. Scholarship on Hebrews debates whether the author presents his citation of Psalm 8 to speak about Christ or humanity, although most affirm a dual application. For example, see the discussions in Raymond Brown, The Message of Hebrews (The Bible Speaks Today; Downers Grove, IL:  IVP, 1984), 56–58; William L. Lane, Hebrews 1–8 (WBC 47A; Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2015), 47; Luke Timothy Johnson, Hebrews (NTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2006), 90. I will endeavour to make the argument that the primary reference is Christ, but this has powerful implications for reading Psalm 8 as a story of other humans who are members of Christ.

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conclusion of the human story for all who enduringly confess to him. First, those humans begin to follow the trail he blazes, entering into a relationship of intimacy and ritual service similar to the Son. Second, they all await the conclusion of their story; Hebrews’ anthropology is anthropology in suspension. The path is laid but the race is not yet won, for even Christ the forerunner awaits his final sovereign end, the final culmination to the question posed by the Psalmist, the question of his humanity. Anthropology in Hebrews, then, is Christologically defined, and that means that it is relational eschatological anthropology. What is man? In short, for Hebrews, humanity is the eschatological Son, and that one phrase, like the reflection on Psalm 8 in the hands of this preacher, carries multiple and rich implications for members of humanity who are caught up into his holy and ultimately sovereign Sonship.

What Is Man? The Christological Answer After the first of many exhortations to the audience (Heb. 2:1–4), the author continues the comparison with angels begun in the first chapter. He states that God did not subject the coming world to angels (2:5). This statement follows the pattern of the statements about angels in the first chapter. God did not give them a great name (1:5). God created them out of ephemeral things (1:7),4 and God did not ask them to sit at his right hand (1:13). In each instance in ch. 1, the Son provides the contrast. God did give him a name above all others (1:4); he is begotten of God (1:5, 6); and he has been invited to sit at the right hand of the Most High (1:13). The author’s citation of Psalm 8 functions as the ‘instead’ to his statement about the angels. God did not subject the coming world to angels; instead, God did put all things under the feet of man (Heb. 2:8//Ps. 8:6). Since the initial comparisons with angels concerned the Son, it stands to reason that this next comparison with angels focuses upon the same subject.5 The comprehensiveness of the subjected things, moreover, provides the best evidence that this author reads the Psalm powerfully – but not exclusively – through a Christological lens. First, he cites the Psalm in a way that lays the groundwork for a more expansive dominion of this man. His citation does not include the phrase, ‘And you set him over the works of your hands’ (Ps. 8:7a LXX),6 nor does it repeat

4.  David M. Moffitt argues that the created/uncreated difference is not all that matters to the author of Hebrews, but that the angels as spirits and the son as one who took on flesh plays a vital role as well. Atonement and the Logic of the Resurrection in Hebrews (NovTSup 141; Leiden: Brill, 2011), 50, 138. 5. Gareth Lee Cockerill argues similarly, ‘The pastor extends the argument of 1:5–14 by contrasting the “angels” with the “man”/“son of man” described in Ps. 8:4–6’ (The Epistle to the Hebrews [NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012], 126). 6.  Albert Pietersma and Benjamin G. Wright, eds, A New English Translation of the Septuagint (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007).

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the closing stanzas about human dominance over animal life (Ps. 8:7–8). By eliminating these phrases, he removes any means of circumscribing the πάντα solely to the earthly realm.7 Second, in his own commentary on the Psalm, the author insists that his audience not miss the scope of ‘all things’. ‘For while he subjected to him all things, he left nothing that is unsubjected to him’ (Heb. 2:8b). This comprehensive sovereignty, however, cannot be visualized. What they can see is Jesus who has suffered and died. Through that experience he was made lower than the angels and also through that experience he was crowned with glory and honour. They, through the revelation of God and his people (2:3– 4), can see Jesus incarnate, crucified, resurrected and ascended. What they cannot yet see is all things under the feet of Jesus. This lack is no surprise to the readers, for the author closed the catena in ch. 1 with just this promise. Jesus is awaiting the time when God will place his enemies under his feet (Ps. 109:1 LXX// Heb. 1:13). The author has transformed the π άν τα of Psalm 8:  now ‘all things’ includes not just the animal creation on earth, but the universe, all things created and things rebelled. He makes Psalm 8 an affirmation of Ps. 110:1.8 If the author uses Psalm 8 to describe Jesus, then the tenor of the earlier verses of Psalm 8 changes as well. In the Psalm, the poet begins by reflecting on the grandness of creation, the heavens, the moon and the stars (8:3), and then wonders why God would even notice humans on so grand a canvas. If Christ is the focus of the Psalm citation for the author of Hebrews, the initial questions, ‘What is man that you remember him? Or the Son of Man that you are concerned about him?’ concern not scale but ontology.9 The fact that God remembers and cares for this man is without question. The author begins with this seemingly agreed upon fact in the first chapter.10 Giving the Son the name, the throne, creative power, eternity and a seat at His right hand firmly establishes

7. Attridge argues similarly, ‘That omission was probably made because the clause refers quite clearly to the mastery of humanity over the present world and would make more difficult the interpretation in terms of Christ, his temporary subjection, and his eschatological reign’ (Hebrews, 71). 8. Many interpreters of Hebrews see this connection. For example, see Jared Compton, Psalm 110 and the Logic of Hebrews (LNTS 537; London:  Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015), 65; Johnson, Hebrews, 90; Craig R. Koester, Hebrews (AB 36; New Haven, CT:  Yale, 2001), 222. 9.  I grant that on an initial hearing the audience, as was common for the reading of Psalm 8 in their time, might have thought of humanity when the author begins his quotation (Koester, Hebrews, 220; Moffitt, Atonement, 127). I would argue, however, based on his citation and commentary that the author desires his readers to think about Christ, so they might need to re-evaluate how they heard the initial question. 10.  They have confessed Jesus (Heb. 3:1). Craig Koester states, ‘The listeners would almost certainly have agreed that these texts could be used for Jesus’ (Hebrews, 199).

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God’s care (see also 5:7–9). The issue is not God’s care, but this man’s humanity.11 The initial question moves in this direction: What is the nature of this one for whom God has cared so deeply? After the author has established the sovereignty of the Son, he returns to this question. What is this man or the son of man? The answer comes simply as an affirmative. What is this man? He is indeed a man. If humans share in flesh and blood, so does he (2:14), and, again, he becomes like his siblings in all ways (2:17). It is quite possible that the author affirms his humanity as early as v. 10: ‘Both the one who sanctifies and those who are being sanctified are all from one (ἐξ ἑνός); because of this cause he is not ashamed to call them brothers.’ The phrase ἐξ ἑνός does not reveal explicitly the identity of the ‘one’ , but a good case can be made for a human referent, namely a common human nature.12 The sanctifier and the sanctified trace their roots to Adam and, therefore, there is no shame in calling his fellow humans brothers and sisters. The human reading of ἐξ ἑνός would continue the author’s assertion of the humanity of Jesus begun with the citation of Psalm 8. In sum, he answers the question two or three times, namely the question, ‘Who is man?’ His answer is that the Man described in Psalm 8 is Jesus the human. This citation from Psalm 8 tells the story of Jesus. This man, this son, for whom God cares enough to entrust to him all things (1:2) and to rescue him from death (13:20) became a little lower than the angels so that he could be crowned with glory and honour, and he awaits the time in which everything will be subjected under his feet. Hisstory, however, is not the entire story. Entwined in the author’s citation and exegesis are the implications of Jesus’ story for other humans. Jesus’ humanity changes the narrative of all others. Anthropology in Hebrews is Christological because the author puts Christ Jesus as the initial focus when the author articulates the anthropological question of Psalm 8, and even more important, anthropology in Hebrews is Christological because his experience sets the example for other humans and makes their following of his path possible.

11.  Gunther Zuntz clearly articulates the idea when he argues that P46 preserves an original reading in which the author amends the Psalm with a sigma transforming the τι into a τις. Zuntz continues, “ ‘Who is the man (anthropos) that thou mindest?” The following is probably intended to suggest the answer:  “Truly the Son of Man, for him Thou visitest”’ (The Text of the Epistles:  A Disquisition on the Corpus Paulinum [SchL; London:  Oxford,  1953], 48). I  am not convinced that the second phrase is so clearly meant to be an answer to the first question (see the argument of Attridge, Hebrews, 71), nevertheless, the ontological identity of this man does need discussion as the following part of ch. 2 shows. 12. Moffitt, Atonement, 131–38. This is not to exclude a divine referent. Jesus is, in fact, related to other humans because he is human and because he has made God to be their Father. It is not impossible that the author intended to be ambiguous to capture both divine and human fathers that Jesus and his siblings share. See my arguments for seeing a divine referent in the following pages.

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Hebrews’ Non-Christological Anthropology Although the author will establish striking similarities between the Son and the many sons and daughters, their stories are not identical. He also indicates the ways in which God’s created and fallen beings have a different experience from the begotten and sinless Son. The differences create an admittedly dark canvas upon which the similarities shine with an even more amazing light. The story of humanity – not including the Son of God who became the Son of Man – includes creation, fall and redemption.13 Taking chronological priority, the author affirms that God is the creator of all things (Heb. 3:4), and again that all things were created by the word of God (11:3). God’s work on the days of creation gets mention in the fourth chapter when the author focuses upon God’s rest after his work (4:4, 10).14 God creates everything, and although no recounting of Genesis 2 appears, ‘everything’ surely would include humanity. At some point, though, the enemy of God enters the picture and mars the human creation. The author gives no account of his existence nor the way in which his power over humanity came to be. Instead, he only states that death is a reality and the devil has the power of death (2:14–15), a link commonly made in other Jewish and Christian sources.15 Death plays into the stories of the faithful in Israel’s past – they did not obtain the full promises before they died (Heb. 11:13) – as well as in the arguments for the other priests’ disqualification from the eternal priesthood (7:23). In addition to the reality of death, the author also asserts that it casts a shadow retrospectively over the extent of human life. Humans, because they fear death their whole lives, are enslaved.16 The connections between the ideas suggest that because humans are bound by the reality and fear of death, and the proprietor of death is the devil, therefore, humanity finds itself under his power.

13.  This is described in Genesis 1–3 and reflected in New Testament passages outside Hebrews such as Romans 1–8 and John 1. The basic shape of this Christian narrative receives excellent explication in Marc Cortez, Embodied Souls, Ensouled Bodies (SST; London: T&T Clark, 2008), especially ch. 2, 16–27. Utilizing the work of Karl Barth, Cortez develops the Christological shape of humanity. These quotes from Barth capture the narrative elements in a Christological vision: ‘true man, the true nature behind our corrupted nature, is not concealed but revealed in the person of Jesus, and in His nature we recognize our own, and that of every man’ (Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics III/2, trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley and Thomas F. Torrance [Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1960], 43 cited in Cortez, Embodied Souls, 28). 14.  Even this beginning point carries a Christological element, because the Son is the means through which God makes the ages (1:2c) and is addressed by God as the Lord who laid the foundations of the earth and worked the heavens with his hands (1:10). 15. Attridge (Hebrews, 92 n. 156) cites Gen. 3:1; Exod. 12:23, Jub. 49:2; 1 Macc. 7:11; Wis. 2:24; 18:15; T. Abr. 13:1; T. Lev. 18:12; Ezekiel the Tragedian, in Epiphanies Pan. 64.29.6; 1 Cor. 5:5; 10:10; Jn 8:44. 16. The fear of death was a common trope in Greco-Roman literature. See the treatment of the subject in Patrick Gray, Godly Fear (SBLAcBib 16; Leiden: Brill, 2003), especially 112–17.

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Although this author does not connect death and sin as Paul does (Rom. 5:12– 21), he affirms the reality of sin for humanity as he affirms the reality of death. Sin is a threat to personal and communal faithfulness (3:13; 12:1, 4) and the assumption is that sin is pervasive. Only Jesus has escaped its wiles. For those with whom God established his covenant, the seed of Abraham (2:16; 8:9; 9:20), God provided a way for them to deal with their sin. The priests who were called by God offered gifts and sacrifices for sin (2:17; 5:1; 8:3). These rituals cleansed the flesh of the God’s people (9:10, 13). As a consequence of this temporary cleansing, the people of Israel find themselves being constantly reminded of their sin (10:3). Hebrews paints a picture of humanity that needs God to intervene, to remove the continual oppression of sin and death by eliminating their power from the human experience. It is important to note, however, that even before this elimination, a similarity existed between Christ and humanity in that both are the addressees of God. If one thing is certain for the author of Hebrews, it is that God speaks to his people.17 God has been speaking through the prophets for a very long time (1:1). He addressed the generation in the wilderness (Heb. 3–4; 12:18–21), called the priests (5:4), made a promise to Abraham (6:13–14), foretold of a better covenant (8:8–12) and speaks to or about the faithful (ch. 11). Even though they had fallen under the power of death and sin, humanity continues to receive the revelation of God. God, through Word and ritual, maintained relationship with humanity even as they continued to struggle with the reality of sin and death. Some among them, though, knew to look forward to the full realization of God’s promises. Even though death overtook them, they kept their vision on the future greeting those promises from a distance (11:13). For the author of Hebrews, Jesus the Messiah, the Son and Priest of God, when he became human, continued God’s speech but in such a new way that he fulfilled those promises and eliminated the very problems enslaving humanity, namely the power of death and sin. When the author of Hebrews talks about the devil and his deathly and fearful power, he does so only to affirm his defeat. Jesus has destroyed or vanquished him (καταργέω), and in so doing he has rescued those who were under his sway (2:14–15). By defeating the devil, he opens the possibility for humanity to move out of the state of enslavement. So too Jesus removes the power of sin, in that he brings lasting forgiveness (8:12; 10:18) so that the sacrifices that remind God’s people of their sin are no longer necessary (1:3; 2:17; 7:27; 9:26, 28; 10:12). When he did so, the promises could come to fruition and God’s people

17. Concerning Hebrews, Johnson (Hebrews, 45) states, ‘Above all, Scripture reveals God as one who speaks to humans.’ Harold Attridge in his article ‘God in Hebrews’ makes a bold claim as well, ‘As a practitioner of sophisticated homiletic rhetoric, it is no surprise that Hebrews uses God’s act of speech as a vehicle of theological insight  . . . this orator’s focus on the word of God attends to the qualities of God’s voice,  . . . the divine illocution’ (in The Epistle to the Hebrews and Christian Theology, ed. Richard Bauckham et al. [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009], 103).

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could dwell in positions of sovereignty in His presence (4:1; 6:12, 17; 8:6; 9:15; 10:23, 36; 11:11, 13, 33, 39 12:26). Jesus changed the story of humanity by granting them redemption, and in their new state, allowed them to enter a new relationship with God in which they are perfect children on the journey towards God’s reigning presence. In other words, he transformed their story so that it could begin to follow the pattern of his own.

Relational Anthropology The Epistle to the Hebrews powerfully and beautifully describes the relationship between God the Father and his Son. As the climactic complement to the longstanding prophetic testimony described in the initial phrase, the Son enters the sermon as the means of God’s eschatological revelation. ‘He spoke in a18 Son’ contains in nuce the elements of the divine Father/Son relationship paralleled in the story of redeemed humanity. His is a familial dialogic relationship with a holy God. Those who become sharers of the Son are ushered into the same relationship with God: they converse with him as perfect sons and daughters.19 Dialogue God’s speech to Jesus, as Hebrews uniquely portrays it, begins to demonstrate the relationship between them. God the Father engages Jesus in conversation before, during and after the incarnation. God’s first speech in Hebrews reveals the paternal/filial relationship between him and the Son. This statement is a timeless one, a perfect example of the eschatological day (σήμερον) in which God articulates the Son’s relationship with him at the time of the Son’s session, after he has made purification from sins (1:3), a reaffirmation, as would happen at the inauguration of a king, of a reality established before. This pronouncement is the speech act of the eternal generation in which the Father becomes Father in relationship with the Son, to whom he will entrust all things and with whom he will create and sustain the worlds. The remaining citations in which God speaks to the Son at the time of exaltation also recall the past and look forward to the future: the

18. The lack of an article before υἱός emphasizes the nature of the Son in comparison to the prophets (Lane, Hebrews 1–8, 5) and his exalted status (Attridge, Hebrews, 39). 19. The author’s use of υἱός for the audience (2:10; 12:5) is intended to show the similarities between the Son and the many other sons. While this term is not meant to apply to only men, if the community of Hebrews includes women as does other early Christian communities, it does convey something powerful for women. They now have all the blessings and responsibilities that are afforded to sons more often than daughters, including education, inheritance and priesthood. See Amy L. B. Peeler, ‘Leading Many Sons to Glory: Implications of Exclusive Language in the Epistle to the Hebrews’ presented at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta, GA, Sunday, 22 November 2015.

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eternal – pretemporal and postemporal – throne (1:8), the act of creation and its change (ἀλλαγήσονται) over which the Son remains the same (1:10–12), and his present session at God’s right hand and his awaited subjection (1:13). After the Psalmist provides an observation of the dynamics of their relationship (Ps. 8:5–7// Heb. 2:6–8), the Son replies with the words of Scripture as a faithful messenger for his Father (2:12–13). Then, the author shows how the Father gave a vocation to his Son (5:6) of an eternal priesthood (repeated in 7:17, 21), and the Son consents to the plan (10:5–8). A reminder of God’s invitation to the Son to sit at his right hand reverberates throughout the sermon.20 God’s speech continues to other humans after their redemption as well. Now, at the end of the ages, God speaks in his Son (1:2). His life, death, resurrection and ascension reveal what God wants his people to know about his plan for them. God bears witness to the salvific message of his Son with miraculous and powerful demonstrations of his Holy Spirit (2:4). Even in this very letter, it is the conviction of the author that God revives the words of his revelations to former generations to speak afresh to this community (3:7–11, 15; 4:3, 7; 8:8–12; 10:30, 37–38; 12:5, 26). One of his most powerful exhortations is that they should watch out not to resist the One who is speaking (12:25), and in his closing chapter, he gives them scriptural words to use as a liturgy of reply (13:6). God has never stopped communicating with words of comfort or warning, and this provides evidence of the relationship God maintains with humanity. Sonship The consistency of divine address then provides the bridge between the dissimilarities and similarities between Jesus and other humans. God has spoken to and heard humanity just as he has spoken to and heard his Son. The redemption won by the life, the Son, however, moves that conversation into a different relational context. Hence, the chief and most powerful similarity Jesus shares with his redeemed brothers and sisters who God is leading to glory as υἱοί, ‘sons’ (2:10). The familial connection continues into the next verse when he asserts that they come from one source (ἐξ ἑνός)21 and that Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers. The citations 20.  Jared Compton lists Heb. 1:3, 13; 8:1; 10:12 and 12:2 (Psalm 110 and the Logic of Hebrews, 5). 21.  In the previous discussion, I  argued for the human connection of these familial terms, but a divine connection within the fatherhood of God is present as well. In v. 10, the cause and purpose of all things (δι’ ὃν τὰ πάντα καὶ δι’ οὗ τὰ πάντα) seems likely that God is in view, especially because the author describes this one as leading many sons to glory (Lane, Hebrews 1–8, 55; Attridge, Hebrews, 82). Since the author describes God prominently as Father in ch. 1, the continuation of the familial connection with God seems probable. Finally, as discussed in the following section, the sanctification that flows from this one also makes it probable that the holy God is in view. See Amy L. B. Peeler, ‘You Are My Son’: The Family of God in the Epistle to the Hebrews (LNTS 486; London:  Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2014), 81–82.

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spoken by Jesus bear this out. He proclaims the name of God to his brothers (2:12) and then declares the identity of those given to him by God as children (2:13b). As the author transitions to the warning about the wilderness generation, he states that the readers are the household of God, which indicates more than a metaphorical building but the living members of God’s οἶκος (3:6).22 The most developed reflection on their filial identity comes in the twelfth chapter. Here the author cites Prov. 3:11–12 LXX to comfort the audience in their time of struggle. God has not left them but is instead acting as a diligent Father to train them into maturity. If they accept and endure this training, they will reap the rewards and blessings of being a child, even a firstborn child of God (Heb. 12:23). Hebrews reserves sonship with God for those who are brought into relationship with the Son. The sonship of the readers parallels that of Jesus, in that God has promised both an inheritance. God has designated the Son as the heir of all things (1:2), but the readers too stand to possess a stake in that supremacy. They look forward to an inheritance of salvation (1:14). For this author salvation is part of the gospel message (2:3) and resides in Jesus Christ (2:10; 5:9). The readers participate in this salvation (6:9), but still are looking forward to its consummation (7:25; 9:28). Expressed in another way, the author refers to their inheritance as the promise (6:17). As God made good on his promise to Abraham (6:13), so too the readers can trust that God will make good on his promise to them, a promise that poetically the author describes as fleeing out of something to grasp a hope that lies ahead which resides in the presence of God (6:18–19). Although the σῴζω word group does not appear here, the hope of fleeing out of something and into the presence of God resonates with the idea of being saved, delivered out of one state and into another. In ch. 9, the terms switch places. Here instead of ‘the heirs of the promise’ the turn of phrase is ‘the promise of eternal inheritance’ (9:15). This promise comes when the transgressions of the first covenant are redeemed and Christ’s mediation of the new covenant becomes a reality. He fits them to move from dead works to a living service to God (9:14). Their inheritance consists not of possessions but of place and presence, a dwelling in God’s kingdom forever. Hence, their inheritance replicates Jesus’: as heir of all things he sits in God’s presence at God’s right hand forever. Their inheritance also fulfils Jesus’ inheritance; they are the children given to him (2:13), the brothers and sisters of his household (3:6). When they take possession of their inheritance, Jesus then sees his come to fulfilment. Until they take possession of that inheritance, they should not be surprised or downtrodden when they experience another aspect of their identity as children of God. As Jesus learned (5:8) and became perfect (2:10; 5:9; 7:28) through suffering, they too will grow into righteousness through the training (παιδεία) God brings to them. The author encourages them to consider the difficulty of which they all share (12:8) as a sign of God’s paternal relationship with them. The result of such training will be life (12:9) just as it was for Jesus (5:7–10). He does not deny

22.  ‘In a primary sense, the house over which Jesus is positioned is the community of faith’ (Koester, Hebrews, 252).

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the fact that these experiences are not joyful but grievous (12:11). Nonetheless, he assures them that holiness, peace and righteousness await those who endure (12:11). God’s discipline of his children will shape them to become more like Him. Holiness If they endure this training as Jesus did, they too can reach the state of ultimate maturity, or in Hebrews’ words, the state of perfection. If Jesus has changed the status from slave to son for those who confess him, he has also dealt with the problem of sin in a way that the previous sacrifices could not. Now the people who confess him can be perfect, holy and set apart because His sacrifice changes the present and future state of humanity. He has made them perfect and holy. Because the offering of his life cleanses internally and eternally, he creates a thorough and permanent sacred ontology for humanity. A hint of the end of sin’s power appears as early in the letter as Heb. 1:3: ‘Having made purification for sins, he sat down at the right hand of the majesty on high’. Cleansing has occurred, and his work is done. The author will, of course, have to argue this point (10:11), but it is clear that the final sacrifice is in view here as early as the beginning paragraph of the letter. In his initial vocative address, the author calls the readers ἀδελφοὶ ἅγιοι, ‘holy siblings’ (3:1). As those who confess Jesus, they make up his household, the dwelling place of God (3:6). They would certainly need to be holy to reside in the house of God, and even more so if the author intends the image to convey that God himself inhabits their midst, as the miraculous events of 2:4 suggest. If the author is going to assert a new holiness through the priesthood of Jesus Christ in the order of Melchizedek, he must also discuss why the previous priesthood did not grant the same kind of holiness. He begins in 7:11 by surmising that if God, in Psalm 110, established a new priestly order, that indicated that the previous one might not have brought perfection (7:11). The law, most likely a reference to the cultic law,23 he concludes in 7:19, perfected nothing. Instead, there is the introduction of the better hope that allows a drawing near to God. Because Jesus is always living and therefore always interceding, humanity can draw near to God through him (7:25). Jesus’ ministry allows him to bring in the new covenant prophesied by Jeremiah. This covenant inscribes God’s laws internally upon minds and hearts (Heb. 8:10// Jer. 38:33 LXX). It confirms the covenant relationship between God and all his people (Heb. 8:10//Jer. 38:33 LXX). It ushers in mercy for unrighteousness, and the forgetting of sins (Heb. 8:12//Jer 38:34 LXX). The author returns to this same line of reasoning about previous sacrifices in the ninth chapter, but now his focus shifts to the internal change heralded by Jeremiah. The gifts and sacrifices offered on earth are not able to cleanse the conscience of

23.  Mary Schmitt, ‘Restructuring Views on Law in Hebrews 7:12’ , JBL 128 (2009), 189–201.

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those who worship through them (9:9). They affect an external cleansing, but not an internal one (9:10). The blood of animals did sanctify those who participated in their sacrifice, but only as a cleansing of the flesh (9:13). Jesus’ sacrifice, on the other hand, cleansed the consciences of those who participate in him so that they could now serve the living God (9:14). His eschatological sacrifice removed sin (9:26); his offering bore sin (9:28). The offering of animals could not achieve the same affect with sin (10:4). Hence they had to be offered continually, which only served to remind the participants of the continuing reality of sin in their lives (10:1–3). The prophetic critique against sacrifices as reflected in Psalm 40 affirms the ancient reality of God’s plan (cf. Mal 1:6– 14). God desired not sacrifices and burnt offerings but for an embodied one to do his will (Heb. 10:5–8). God’s will for the sanctification of humanity was achieved in the one-time offering of the body of Jesus (10:10). The centre section of ch. 10 reiterates the argument. The repeated sacrifices could not remove sin (10:11), but this one offering given before he took his seat at the right hand of God perfected forever those who are being sanctified (10:14). This one offering allows God’s total forgetfulness of sins and lawless deeds anticipated by the prophet Jeremiah (10:17). Once sins have been fully and finally removed, no more sacrifices are necessary (10:18). The humans who confess Christ are perfect; God does not remember their sins. Hence, now they can approach the throne of God boldly. Their bodies are cleansed as was true before, but now so are their consciences (10:22). Christ’s offering introduced a long-hoped for reality for humanity. He sanctified humanity when he suffered outside the gate (13:12). They now have lasting internal holiness that allows all of them access to God.

Eschatological Anthropology Jesus, as the ideal human, is addressed by God, related to God as Son, and perfected by God. At the time in which the author is writing, and in our time as well, he also awaits the full culmination of his story, the subjugation of all things that belong to him as Son of Man and the inheritance of all things that belong to him as Son of God. The author intimates the eschatological hope of the Son at the very beginning of the letter. God has appointed the Son as heir of all things (1:2), but it is not immediately clear in what way he possesses his inheritance or not. A future possession seems even more likely by the end of the first chapter when the author cites Ps. 110:1 for the first time. God’s invitation to be at His right hand includes a future event when his enemies are placed under his feet. The author then adds an eschatological element to his citation of Psalm 8. In the psalm God puts all things, meaning the rest of creation, under the feet of humanity, but the author clarifies that when Jesus is in view, his sovereignty cannot yet be seen. It is not apparent if Jesus is sovereign and it cannot be seen by the rest of humanity or if his full sovereignty still has yet to be achieved. The ambiguity continues throughout the warnings and explanations of the following chapters until ch. 10. There the author

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states clearly that Christ has made the one final sacrifice for sin (10:12), but what remains for him is to await the time in which his enemies are placed under his feet (10:13). What are these enemies? Chiefly, it is the deceitful sin of disbelief that would tempt these sharers of Christ to fall away from him. The enemies include any sin yet to be defeated that would take Christ’s brothers and sisters from the household of God. No question remains that Christ will inherit all things. Brothers and sisters will dwell in his house over which he reigns as the pre-eminent Son, and the enemies will be placed under his footstool. In the present, though, the forces opposed to God still run rampant to tempt the children of God into the camp of his enemies until the time when all God’s people reach his rest. Consequently, the brothers and sisters of Jesus await fulfilment as well, fulfilment in precisely the two areas that their paths have joined that of Jesus: fulfilment of their perfection and fulfilment of their sonship in obtaining their inheritance. Earlier I  said that Hebrews paints a picture of humanity that needs God to intervene, to remove the continual oppression of sin and death by eliminating their power over the human experience. But while the sacrifice and intercession of Christ eliminates their dominance, the time still awaits in which he will eliminate their reality. Sin remains a possibility, and death remains a guarantee. The brothers and sisters are both holy and becoming holy, perfect and on their way to perfection. If the finality of Christ’s sacrifice is in view from the beginning of the letter, if a reader who had been exposed to the author’s ideas might affirm the full cleansing established by his sacrifice and session, then why after the catena of ch. 1 does the author issue a warning? If sin has been cleansed, why is he worried about them drifting away (2:1) or ignoring the message of salvation (2:3)? Simil iustus et peccatore seems an appropriate description of Hebrews’ anthropology as well as Paul’s.24 A recognition of both truths possibly appears in the anthropologically focused second chapter. It seems clear that Jesus is the one who sanctifies (ἁγιάζων) and other humans are those who are sanctified (ἁγιαζόμενοι),25 but the present tense of the participle may allow a continuous sense. The brothers and sisters of Jesus are not just sanctified once, but in the process of being sanctified.26 So too at the close of the chapter, the purpose of Jesus’ priesthood, his mediatorial role, as directed towards God is to atone for the sins of the people, but directed towards humanity, he is there to offer help to those who are tested or even tempted.27 He has made atonement 24.  Martin Luther, Lectures on Romans: Glosses and Scholia, ed. Hilton C. Oswald; LW 25; St. Louis: Concordia, 1972), 257. 25. Koester, Hebrews, 236–37; Lane, Hebrews 1–8, 58. 26.  Lane (Hebrews 1–8, 58)  connects this to the continuous present sense of 10:14. Johnson (Hebrews, 97) emphasizes the present tense as well noting that these are ‘human beings who are approaching God’s glory’. 27. Cockerill (Hebrews, 151) notes, ‘His thinking includes general temptations to sin and testings by hard times, but his primary concern is with the pressures of the world that would lead his hearers to withdraw their loyalty and fall away from the faith.’ Lane (Hebrews 1–8, 66) also sees this as a reference to their ‘temptations and conflicts’.

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for sins, and as it will become clear, he never has to do that again (7:27; 9:12; 10:10), yet the temptation of sin remains a reality for which humanity will need his priestly aid. While Hebrews’ author can affirm that they are holy siblings (3:1) – while he can affirm their holiness – holiness provides a springboard to warn them not to lose it. These siblings need to watch out lest they have within them the same kind of heart Israel’s wilderness generation possessed, a heart that would stop believing and depart from the living God (3:12). Sin can still deceive and harden the heart (3:13). They are sharers of Christ (3:14), sharers of a heavenly calling (3:1), if they hold firm until the end. Because God through the Scripture issues the warning today, as long as it is today, as long as the enemies have yet to be put under the footstool of Christ, the warning is necessary. Sin can tempt one not to trust God (3:19). As the reflection on the wilderness generation continues into ch. 4, the proximity this community has with God becomes more clear. They have God’s presence among them, as manifest in his communication (1:2), gifts, powers and Spirit (2:4) because they are the household of God. Even so, they do not yet dwell fully in God’s presence. He is among them, but they are not with God. They have not yet entered his rest. In fact, the author encourages them and himself to fear (φοβέομαι) lest some from among them seem to fall short of it, to fail to reach it (4:1). They need to show haste to go into that rest, not following the example of disbelief (ἀπειθεία) of the wilderness generation. In a chilling closing comment, the author reminds them that the word of God leaves no room for pretence, and God will continue to speak to them in the Son, in the Spirit and in Scripture. If their hearts harbour a speck of disbelief, it will be exposed by this sword-like revelation (4:12–13). It seems that in this vulnerable state, all of creation stands before God, with nothing to hide behind or better themselves. God knows their true state (4:13). This is true of all creation, but even for those who are part of Christ. We, the author says, have to give our report. This is why they need a high priest exactly like Jesus. The high priest is one who sympathizes with their weaknesses (4:15), who understands their temptations (4:15; 2:17). The author wants this audience to be serious about their faith, of that there is no doubt, but he does not, in my opinion, want to scare them into perfection. It is not as if Jesus cleanses their sins, and then it is up to them to remain perfect. They should pay close attention to the state of faith in their hearts, but they should also be honest about their temptations and weaknesses with this high priest. Having sanctified them, he allows them to approach the throne of God boldly even as they continue to struggle with sin and he allows them to ask for mercy, grace and help for those very struggles (4:16). A  real concern exists that they might deviate from the path towards God’s rest (as the warning in 6:4–8 indicates), but only if they stop trusting in the aid Jesus provides. They have a firm and solid anchor of the soul that goes into the presence of God beyond the veil (6:19), but this hope lies before them (πρόκειμαι). The image here seems to be one that urges them to hold onto this hope, even to run towards it, as its solid security pulls them forward.

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Even though the author asserts that they have been cleansed in both heart and body (10:22), it should not be forgotten that he also states that they are being sanctified (10:14); they have a hope to which they need to hold fast, a promise they need to regard as faithful (10:23). If they sin against the Son of God, the blood of this new covenant and the Spirit of grace, no other sacrifice for sins remains, for this is the full, final and only one (10:26–29). They must be people of faith who continue to regard the promises of God as trustworthy, to persevere until the end. Sin will remain something that they need to struggle against (12:1, 4). Sanctification will remain something they need to pursue (12:14). They still must live out, in quite practical ways, involving basic realities like hospitality, ministry, money and sex (13:1–5), their perfect yet growing-in-holiness life. To aid them they should keep before them the cloud of faithful witnesses (12:1), the righteous who have been perfected and dwell with God (12:23), and, most of all, the one who began and completed faith, Jesus himself (12:2). He sanctified humanity when he suffered outside the gate (13:12). They too will be called to reproach (13:13) and to training that is full of grief (12:11) as they are restored to do the pleasing will of God (13:21). Sin remains a reality with which they must contend and a threat that could pull them away from the only effective sacrifice for sins. On the topic of human perfection, the author embraces a dialectic. The paradox of their sanctification is that they are growing in holiness even as their sins have been removed. Humanity has been perfected, but is not yet perfect. The followers of Christ are sanctified, but not yet holy. They have been changed but they are moving into their changed status. They are, in other words, growing in perfection just as Jesus did. To summarize the author’s eschatological vision, Christ awaits his sovereignty and humanity awaits unassailable perfection. In other words, from the standpoint of Hebrews’ familial lens, they are both awaiting their inheritance. While their status has changed, they do not yet reap the full benefits of sonship, namely they are looking forward to their inheritance. The author states that the members of Christ are about to inherit salvation (1:14); they are the heirs of the promise (6:17), a promise of eternal inheritance (9:15). Those who have not forfeited their birthright as Esau did will be added to the assembly of the firstborn (12:23). Their status as children of God has yet to be fully realized. What is their inheritance? Their inheritance is to be with God. They will enter his glory. They will dwell in his rest. They will see him because they will take on his characteristics of righteousness, holiness and peace. They will dwell in his kingdom in his city on his holy mountain with their high priest forever. This anthropological investigation of Hebrews now comes full circle. The hope expressed in Psalm 8 and in early Jewish literature28 that humanity would reign over creation will become a reality for those who are sanctified by the blood of Christ. They will join the cloud of witnesses (12:1), the firstborn ones, the spirits of the righteous who have been perfected who dwell in the city of God, and they

28.  See David Moffitt’s discussion of texts from Qumran, Jubilees, 4 Ezra, L.A.B., 2 Baruch, and L.A.E. in Atonement, 81–144.

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will gather with the angels (12:22–24). This is the rest of God that the author wants his readers to reach. This is their inheritance, to take the rightful place of humanity over creation as they take their rightful place in the presence of God. When they come into their inheritance, the Son will enjoy his. God has given him all things, and this includes the brothers and sisters redeemed by his offering (2:13), the members of God’s household (3:6). When they enter God’s rest and ascend God’s mountain, Jesus will reign with them forever (12:24). Could this be the joy that was laid before him (12:2)? To be with his Father and his brothers and sisters gathering joyfully forever (12:22). His inheritance, like theirs, involves sovereignty and presence, with God and with other people.

Conclusion What is man? For the author of Hebrews, the primary answer to this anthropological question must be Jesus. He above all others holds the attention of God and he above all others reigns as sovereign. His identity and experience sets the type for all other humans. They too, as one addressed by God, can stand in the same relationship with God as sons, and they too can become perfect. That being said, they have yet to see what full and complete humanity will be. Humans come into their inheritance of salvation as they dwell in sovereignty over creation with God, Jesus, the angels and those humans who reign over and with his promised inheritance. They all await the time when they dwell together forever in the presence of God. To be with God forever is the τέλος of all humanity. The Son of God made humans experience it now, and he awaits the time when all his brothers and sisters can join him.

Chapter 11 L I F E A S I M AG E B E A R E R S I N T H E N EW C R E AT IO N :   T H E A N T H R O P O L O G Y O F   J A M E S Mariam Kamell Kovalishyn

The epistle of James grants us insight into what is likely an early layer of Jewish Christianity.1 In accordance with the Hebraic world view and theology behind the paraenesis,2 God stands at the centre of the epistle’s anthropology, and humans, made in God’s image, are meant to reflect God’s character in the world as his new creation beings. The epistle also draws on Jewish wisdom literature, which means that the familiar tradition of two-ways teaching, seen in Proverbs with its contrast between Wisdom and Folly but dependent upon Deuteronomic blessings and curses, also finds a place. James depicts sin as following the path of one’s desires and giving way to temptation, and calls his audience instead to live a new-creation life in obedience and endurance. This attempt to tease out the anthropology of the epistle accords well with James’s own emphases, for much of the author’s concern stems from his theology that how one treats another human indicates how a person has understood and absorbed the work of God’s grace. Foundational to James is a vision of life indebted to Old Testament teaching of the character of God: revealed to Moses as both just and merciful, the one who shows compassion particularly on the weak and isolated ones of society (cf. Ex. 1.  For the sake of this chapter, just the text of the epistle is in view and authorship and date are not of central concern. An early date and authorship by James of Jerusalem is assumed, and for extended discussions of the evidence, see, for example, Patrick Hartin, James (SP 14; Collegeville, MN:  Liturgical Press, 2003), 16–25; Luke Timothy Johnson, James (AB; New York:  Doubleday, 1995), 89–123; or Dan G. McCartney, James (BECNT; Grand Rapids, MI:  Baker, 2009), 8–32. However, even on a theory such as that of Dale Allison, James (ICC; London/New York: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2013), 29–30, 47–50, that the epistle is quite late, his Sitz im Leben still necessitates a Jewish outlook. 2.  On genre, see Richard Bauckham, James: The Wisdom of James, Disciple of Jesus the Sage (London:  Routledge, 1999); Robert W. Wall, ‘James as Apocalyptic Paraenesis’ , ResQ 32 (1990): 11–22; Luke L. Cheung, The Genre, Composition and Hermeneutics of the Epistle of James (Milton Keynes: Paternoster, 2003), 49–52. BDAG, 708, notes that ‘Js 3:9 uses [Gen. 1:26] freely’.

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34:6–7; Deut. 10:12–20). He also calls the people He redeemed to obedience (Deut. 27–30).3 So also in James, God initiates the work of saving his people (cf. 1:17–18 in particular), and God is the one who is both just and merciful (cf. 2:12–13; 4:11–12). God’s people, however, are to receive his saving work (1:21) and respond to it appropriately in obedience (1:22–27). Thus the theo-logy of James undergirds the rest of the epistle.4 Because of the vision James has of the priority of the work of God, the work of humanity to care for one another gains importance: in terms of mercy, humans are to mimic their God; in terms of judgement, humans are to trust God. The problem comes when people switch those two categories and begin to presume themselves in God’s role. In this, the echo of the sin of Genesis 3 reveals itself. Ultimately, after the fall, humans have chosen to follow the path of their own desires, which leaves them divided and unable (or unwilling) to act in accordance with God’s ways. All these threads play through the text of James as the author reflects on what it means to be the people of God. James betrays an anthropology based on Gen. 1:26–27, taking at face value that humans are made in the image of God. At a deeper level, however, the implication is that humanity  – and here particularly redeemed humanity  – ought to act in accordance with the character of God. Throughout the text, a contrast is made between God’s single-minded unchanging goodness, and fallen humanity’s duplicity, a doubleness caused by loving the world and the things of the world rather than God. Humans are called to emulate God’s wholeness of will and character in their own endurance of temptation and in their relations with one another.

Significance of Gen. 1:26–27 First, the place of creation imagery in the epistle should be noted. Throughout the book, the natural world stands as illustration and model, whether it be short-lived flowers and mists that should caution arrogant businessmen (James 1:9–11; 4:13– 17), or the consistency of the bushes and springs to bring forth their appropriate output without confusion (3:11–12). Waves and planets indicate instability, while stars and seasonal rains illustrate stability (1:6, 17; 5:7). If we were to focus on salvation, then the bold statement in 1:18 places believers as the ‘first fruits of his creatures [ἀπαρχήν τινα τῶν αὐτοῦ κτισμάτων]’.5 Having set the place of believers within a New Creation framework,6 James roots his anthropology within the original Creation account. 3.  As Luke Timothy Johnson (James, 160)  observes, those who study the theology of James ‘agree that James’ moral discourse is deeply embedded in the theological convictions of Judaism and the nascent Christian community’. 4. See Mariam J. Kamell, ‘God Gave Us Birth’ , in Christian Reflection: The Letter of James, ed. Robert B. Kruschwitz (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2012), 11–19. 5. Unless otherwise stated, all biblical quotations are from the NRSV. 6. Most agree this is a reference to new creation. See, for example, Scot McKnight, James (NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011), 129–32.

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Our most explicit statement of the nature of humanity comes in 3:9, embedded within a chapter exploring humanity’s relationship with nature (vv. 3–5, 7)  and nature’s own consistency (vv. 11–12). Illustrating the hypocrisy innate in human speech and therefore the need for us to bridle our tongues, James observes: ‘With [the tongue,] we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse those who are made in the likeness of God [τοὺς ἀνθρώπους τοὺς καθ᾿ ὁμοίωσιν θεοῦ γεγονότας]’. This reference to humanity as image bearers is not a direct quotation from Gen. 1:26 or 27 (LXX: Ποιήσωμεν ἄνθρωπον κατ᾿ εἰκόνα ἡμετέραν καὶ καθ᾿ ὁμοίωσιν  . . . κατ᾿ εἰκόνα θεοῦ ἐποίησεν αὐτόν), but it reflects Gen. 1:26 in its repetition of καθ᾿ ὁμοίωσιν. Most likely the lack of direct quotation reflects James’s penchant for resetting rather than quoting prior literature.7 This contrast, however, between blessing God and cursing humans made in God’s likeness clearly echoes the Genesis creation account. This reveals something of the framework of James’s world order. People should be particularly concerned with how they care for and speak to others, two fundamental themes of the epistle, because those others are made in the image of God, or, as James puts it, in the likeness of God. Thus, his logic in 3:9 runs, how one treats God ought to direct how to treat one’s fellow humans, for the two are not as removed as one might think.8 James’s vision for how believers ought to speak to one another depends on a theology of humanity’s place in creation that stems back to the creation account, not to reason or observation. Because God stated that humanity was to be made in His image, each person has value that cannot be taken for granted. This allusion undergirds James’s discussion regarding the tongue and our need for wisdom from God. If this section extends from 3:1 to 4:10, then this issue of people speaking against one another in the body is the pressing issue. Perhaps this reading helps explain why the tongue can be depicted as a guaranteed cause of sin (3:2), as a fire (3:5–6), as a restless evil and a deadly poison (3:8), bringing about our judgement (3:6).9 The destructive conflict of ch. 4 is merely the fruit of uncontrolled speech. When people fail to view each other as fellow image bearers, the tongue’s natural bent shadows the Fall rather than Creation. Intriguingly, all of the animal imagery in this section parallels humanity’s call in Genesis 1–2 to steward and ‘have dominion  . . . over every living thing that moves upon the earth.’ James highlights the irony that people have succeeded in that quest but utterly failed to control the wildness resident in their own bodies. It is also worth noting the way that each person has value throughout the epistle. In ch. 2, James specifies that it is a brother or sister (ἀδελφὸς ἢ ἀδελφὴ) in need,

7. See Bauckham, James, 93–111. 8.  Peter Davids, The Epistle of James (NIGTC; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1982), 146, notes that ‘it is important to realize that this fact was used in Jewish traditions to reject the cursing of men  . . . The connection is simply that one cannot pretend to bless the person (God) and logically curse the representation of that person (a human)’. 9. For the last point, see Richard Bauckham, ‘The Tongue Set on Fire by Hell’ , in The Fate of the Dead: Studies on the Jewish and Christian Apocalypses (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 119–31.

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using one of very few explicitly gender-inclusive statements in the New Testament. It is not enough to specify ‘someone’ in need; instead, James brings individual men and women of the congregation before their eyes. Need is no respecter of gender, and James makes his hypothetical example serve to remind his congregation of all who might be destitute and calls the believers to serve all in their midst. But along with that, in 3:9, he opens the imago dei language from a simple application to believers only, questioning rather why they might curse ‘those (τοὺς ἀνθρώπους) who are made in the likeness of God’. Here, instead of his more common language of ἀδελφοί, which could limit the imago language to fellow congregants, he generalizes to humanity (ἄνθρωποι) in the image. Every human has value, because each is made in the likeness of God, thus every human should be treated with dignity and respect.

Emulation of God Given James’s emphasis on humanity in the image of God combined with his view of believers as the first fruits of God’s new creation, the implication is that believers now are to emulate God’s character the way Israel had been called to represent God in their world.10 The ways in which we are or are not to emulate God’s character are a significant part of the human responsibility that James depicts. Significantly, while the new Christians are to grow in the shape of God’s character in terms of His mercy and integrity, they are repeatedly forbidden from usurping God’s role as judge. Perhaps it is better to say that humans are called to emulate God’s character but forbidden from taking on his roles. Most foundational to the epistle is its call to wholeness or integrity. Patrick Hartin notes, ‘For James, perfection is a search for wholeness as an individual and as a community in relationship to the one God who guides them through the Torah’.11 Beginning in 1:4b, James presents the goal of our human life as moving to where we are ‘mature12 and complete, lacking in nothing’ (τέλειοι καὶ ὁλόκληροι ἐν μηδενὶ λειπόμενοι). That line states in three different ways the goal that God’s 10.  See, for instance, Deut. 10:17–19, with its turn from examining God’s character to ‘you shall also’. 11.  Patrick Hartin, ‘Faith-in-Action:  An Ethic of “Perfection”’, in Christian Reflection, ed. Kruschwitz, 23. 12.  Following the NRSV. τέλειος means ‘perfect’ in the sense of ‘attaining an end or purpose, complete’. Thus the translations range thus: ‘1. pert. to meeting the highest standard:  a. of things, perfect; b.  of persons who are fully up to standard in a certain respect and not satisfied with half-way measures perfect, complete, expert; 2. pert. to being mature, full-grown, mature, adult; 3. pert. to being a cult initiate, initiated; 4. pert. to being fully developed in a moral sense: a. of humans perfect, fully developed; b. of God perfect’. BDAG, 995, places James 1:4 under category 4.a., indicating a sense of perfection as the outcome of growth, hence the NIV and NRSV use ‘mature’. Most others retain ‘perfect’ to bring out the wordplay between the ἔργον τέλειον that makes one become τέλειοι.

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people be whole, in contrast with the double-minded who are unstable in their dividedness.13 Examining the threefold description, we can trace some threads regarding the nature of believers’ call. Twice in James τέλος language refers to human works ‘perfecting’ us in some way (1:4a; 2:22), twice it describes the law given by God (1:25, 2:8), which probably reflects that this is itself one of the ‘perfect gifts’ from God (1:17), once it refers to the end goal of God which reveals his character as merciful and compassionate (5:11), and twice it refers to human status as complete or perfect (1:4b, 3:2). It becomes clear through the book that ‘perfection’ , a matured reflection of God’s own character, is the goal of the Christian life – indeed, Jesus was the only one who has made no mistakes in speaking and was himself perfect (3:2; cf. 1 Pet. 2:22 quoting Isa. 53:9). Endurance, called for throughout the epistle (especially chs. 1 and 5), completes a perfect work in bringing believers to perfection, leading them to be more able to mimic God’s own perfect works.14 Key among the perfect works to which James calls his audience are those of mercy. The crucial verse, 2:13, hinges ch. 2 around the need to show mercy in order to receive mercy in judgement and sets up the subsequent discussion for the shape of a Christian’s works. While James opens the discussion beyond ‘merely’ acts of mercy, as illustrated in 2:14–16,15 his idea of works has nothing to do with Paul’s ‘works of the law’. Rather, these are works that are in keeping with the ‘perfect law of liberty’ and the ‘kingdom law’ , that which Jesus described in a double-love command to love God and love our neighbour.16 When that is fulfilled, human works bring faith to its completion (2:22, ἐκ τῶν ἔργων ἡ πίστις ἐτελειώθη; cf. the echo of 1:4). While Luther and others have reacted negatively to the emphasis on works in ch. 2,17 it presents a dignifying view of humanity much in line with

13. See Darian Lockett, Purity and Worldview in the Epistle of James (LNTS 366; London; New York: T&T Clark, 2008), 136: ‘Within the contrasts set forth in James 1.2–27, “perfection” (1.2–4) is in opposition to “double-mindedness” (1.5–8).’ 14.  Endurance is also closely tied with the need for wisdom from God. See Donald Gowan, ‘Wisdom and Endurance in James’ , HBT 15 (1993): 145–53. 15. James Riley Strange, The Moral World of James: Setting the Epistle in Its Greco-Roman and Judaic Environments (New York: Peter Lang, 2010), 40, describes the overarching argument in James that of ‘action taken on another’s behalf ’. 16. Hartin, James, 37, notes, ‘Chief among the values one is to emulate is God’s concern for the poor as demonstrated in the context of Leviticus 19, which is a central inspiration behind the ethical admonitions of James. . . . Concern for the poor is a concrete way of imitation God.’ David Gowler, James through the Centuries (Chichester:  Wiley Blackwell, 2014), 186, notes the important connection to Jesus’ teaching: ‘Just as Jesus connected love of neighbor to the Shema (e.g. Matt 22:36–40), so does James (2:8).’ Thus, ‘Chrysostom calls mercy the “highest art,” the “friend of God,” and a “queen” that makes human beings like God’ (163). 17. For example, Luther’s comment, ‘It is flatly against St. Paul and all the rest of Scripture in ascribing justification to works [2:24]’ in Word and Sacrament I, ed. E.  Theodore Bachmann (LW 35; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1960), 396.

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Paul’s encouragement in Eph. 2:10.18 People are not to be passive, for believers are (re-)created to act like God. This comes to its culmination with the example of Job, the profound model of endurance, who revealed God’s goodness through his patience: ‘you have seen the purpose of the Lord, how the Lord is compassionate and merciful’ (5:11, echoing the theophany of Ex. 34:6). In endurance, which has its own perfecting work (1:4), the mercy of God is revealed to others. In mercy, the judgement of God is matched and cast down in favour of his mercy (2:13).19 Believers are to mimic his merciful character; these are the good works for which they have been created. In 1:4, James also calls his hearers to be ‘whole’. While ὁλόκληροι occurs once, the related adjective ὅλος occurs another four times in James. In 2:10, James draws a part–whole contrast in relation to obedience to the law: the law of God is one unified whole and God’s followers cannot pick which parts they would like to obey while ignoring others. Similarly, three times in ch. 3, ὅλος contrasts with the small part that controls a much larger entity, for good or ill (tongue: body, vv. 2, 6; bit: horse, v. 3; parallel to rudder: ship, v. 4). The implication is that it matters what direction the small parts take the whole, which requires discipline and training to bring a good outcome. These contrasts, however, stand with James’s larger concern regarding divided people. The ‘whole’ person in 1:4 contrasts with the ‘doubter’ (ὁ διακρινόμενος) and ‘double-minded’ (δίψυχος) person of 1:6–8, who doubts God’s good character. Likewise, the ‘double-minded’ (δίψυχοι in parallel with ἁμαρτωλοί) of 4:8 are those who wish to be friends of the world (4:4) and stand in stark contrast to those who are shaped by God’s wisdom. In 3:18, the ones who have the ‘wisdom from above’ are ‘first pure’ (πρῶτον μὲν ἁγνή), a trait that signals people who are unmixed, untainted by the doubleness so inherent to human nature.20 Finally, the image of the ones who stray at the end (5:19–20) builds from the example of Elijah, who called a straying Israel from their double-worship to worship of YHWH alone. In like manner, the congregants are to call those who wander into double-mindedness by doubting God’s character or loving the world to singleness of worship of God alone. We are made to be whole, or single-minded,

18.  See Joachim Jeremias, ‘Paul and James’ , ExpTim 66 (1955):  368–71, for the best breakdown of how Paul and James have different referents in Galatians 2 and James 2; also Mariam J. Kamell, ‘Life in the Spirit and Life in Wisdom: Reading Galatians and James as a Dialogue’ , in Galatians and Christian Theology, ed. Scott J. Hafemann et al. (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2014), 353–63. 19.  McKnight, James, 223, gives a vivid and accurate depiction: the term ‘boast’ leads ‘one to think that there is an assurance and confidence along with some figurative chestpounding and fist-raising on the part of the personified mercy in the face of the personified justice. This word describes the posture of the victor, even the gladiator, as he or she stands over the defeated on the battlefield. Paradoxically, it is mercy that stands as the conquering victor in this battle. The image is breathtaking’. 20.  BDAG, 13, notes that ἁγνή is ‘a cultic word, orig. an attribute of the divinity and everything belonging to it’.

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but our human nature tends towards idolatry and false allegiances.21 The power of the contrasts in ch. 3 comes from the sense that each thing in nature is single in accord with its purpose, but in the fall a doubleness was introduced into humanity that is inherently inconsistent and problematic.22 As Cheung observes, ‘the major obstacle to perfection lies with human nature (the power of the evil inclination) and the human condition (the situation of doubleness) one is in’.23 Like our God who gives ‘generously’ or ‘singly’ (1:5, ἁπλῶς; cf. 1:17), we are to give generously and be single-minded in our purpose and worship, not giving way to our desires that lead us astray. However, in one area we are not to mimic God: in his role as judge. In 2:1–12, the argument echoes 1 Samuel 16, for humans judge with only partial information (προσωπολημψίαις, 2:1). God alone can judge properly. In James, judging people based on appearances brings the condemnation that the people have ‘made distinctions among yourselves, and become judges with evil thoughts’ (2:4). People are not to be judges of others, because they are invariably prejudiced and fail to judge properly. In doing so, the judges themselves fall under judgement. In 4:11–12, however, this warning against attempting to judge comes to its peak. This text uses the full force of both logic and sarcasm to highlight the ridiculous pride of those who try to judge others. To be a judge implies that a person has the ability to set the law. But the Law (as shown in chs. 1–2) comes as a gift from God; therefore, humans have no standing over it. Since God is the one who gave the law (ὁ νομοθέτης), then God alone is the one who can judge. Those roles cannot be separated. Additionally, God is the only one with the power to judge with any effectiveness (ὁ δυνάμενος σῶσαι καὶ ἀπολέσαι). Thus the logic runs to its sarcastic conclusion: one human cannot save another (they can call one another back to singleness but cannot actually save, cf. 5:19–20), nor can they actually condemn another person. As a result, judging is of no effect except to bring oneself under condemnation, hence the rhetorical question at the end puts humans in their place before their God. While we are made in the likeness of God, we are not God.

21.  Hartin, ‘Faith-in-Action’ , 22, observes that perfection has several dimensions in James: ‘First, it expresses the idea of wholeness or completeness, of a being remaining true to its original constitution. Second, it refers to giving oneself wholeheartedly and unconditionally to God in the context of God’s people. When persons were grounded in this relationship, they would be whole, perfect. Third, such a wholehearted dedication to the Lord is expressed through obedience to God’s will.’ In his earlier work, The Spirituality of Perfection (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999), 68, he notes the way this ties to the Shema, for a ‘double-minded person betrays this exclusivity’. 22. The fall account in Genesis 3 illustrates James’s concern in 1:5–8, for the doubter does not believe in the good and generous character of God and so reaches for worldly satisfaction. 23. Cheung, Genre, 196.

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Friendship with the World versus Friendship with God24 Ultimately, to achieve the full humanity for which people were created, they must be in single-minded relationship with God. Thus James introduces the dichotomy of friendships. Consistent with general wisdom two-ways presentations of life – Wisdom or Folly, righteousness or wickedness, mercy or judgement – James views human life as headed in one of two directions. A person can choose either to follow their natural (fallen) desires wherever they may lead, or they may seek to draw near to God and cultivate his life in all their ways. These two paths are perhaps most clearly depicted in 1:12–21 and 3:13–4:10, while the introduction to the epistle (1:2–8) sets up this contrast. James 1:2–8 takes the opposite shape of the subsequent passages in that it begins with the positive vision before presenting the outcome of failure in endurance and faithfulness. It is possible to see 1:4 as a potential thesis for the epistle. Wholeness, in view of the whole epistle, contrasts with the δίψυχος (1:8). Throughout the epistle, humans are to become like their single-mindedly good and generous God (1:5, 17–18), thereby consistently choosing the path of trusting God in contrast to the double-minded doubter. James 1:12–21 contains two iterations of this contrast of paths, first set forth theologically in vv. 12–18, then enacted in vv. 19–21. First, James 1:12–18 presents two contrasting life cycles. Both involve imagery of birth, but one birth brings forth death, and the other bears new creation life. Verse 16 stands as a hinge warning people to choose wisely. The introductory v. 12 promises that the one who endures temptation will receive life, where the language of endurance and temptation ties this section to 1:2–4.25 This promise, however, is immediately followed by a dire warning: in the life cycle of death, a person gives way to the enticement of their desires, thereby failing to endure their temptations. Verses 12 and 15 stand as diametrically opposed outcomes. Moreover, James highlights that temptations are something everyone has: each person is enticed ‘by one’s own desire’ (ὑπὸ τῆς ἰδίας ἐπιθυμίας), placing an emphasis on the uniqueness of each person’s temptation. Being human is to have seemingly natural desires that actively seek to lure in directions that one is weakest, but James warns strongly against conceding to them (v. 16).26 Those who give way to their desires have chosen to engage in pleasures that lead to death.27

24. Hartin, James, 37, titles a section of his introduction ‘A Theology of Social Concern’ , but begins, ‘James’s hearers/readers are faced with a fundamental choice between friendship with the world and friendship with God (4:4).’ 25. See Nicholas Ellis, The Hermeneutics of Divine Testing (WUNT 2.396; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), which deals with the issue of the change in translation of πειρασμός between verses 12 and 13 from ‘trial’ to ‘temptation’. 26. It should be noted that ‘deception’ language in James appears to have eschatological implications: 1:16, 22, 26; 5:19–20. 27. Walter T. Wilson (‘Sin as Sex and Sex with Sin: The Anthropology of James 1:12–15’. HTR 95 [2002]:  159) observes, ‘The structure of the argument highlights how the human

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In contrast, the second life cycle in vv. 17–18 describes everything as the work of a good and generous God. Instead of desires that lure and entice in order to destroy, God gives in order to bring new life. Instead of the individual choosing the path of their cravings, God wills (v. 18:  βουληθεὶς) and a new life is created. Instead of a life cycle of desire ‘conceiving’ sin and sin ‘giving birth’ to death (v. 15), God himself gives his people ‘birth’ by his word (v. 18). James even uses the same verb (ἀποκυέω) for the contrast of what sin and what God bears. By this contrast, James highlights not only the responsibility humans have in our negative choices but also the work of God that brings about new creation life. There are only two options: to cooperate with the new life through single-minded obedience to God, or to opt for death by choosing to be led by one’s desires. In this paradigm, God bears responsibility for giving us life, his people bear responsibility for remaining in Him or walking away, much in line with Deuteronomic and Wisdom covenantal pattern.28 This ‘spiritual reality’ is then grounded in the practicality of life in vv. 19–21. Verse 19 sets forth a proverbial triad regarding speech, but the grounds for the third proverbial statement is spelled out in the hard-to-translate explanation of v. 20:  ὀργὴ γὰρ ἀνδρὸς δικαιοσύνην θεοῦ οὐ κατεργάζεται. Here we have a rare (for James) combination of the ‘righteousness of God’ language combined with ‘work’. Johnson is correct when he observes that ‘human anger is not a legitimate instrument for effecting those right relationships God desires for creatures’ and notes that one does not have to decide whether it is an objective or subjective genitive, for ‘‘righteous human behavior’ is always measured by God’s norm for righteousness’.29 Having given this warning, James begins v. 21 with διὸ, indicating that this verse is the culmination of the prior ones. Here the two paths are spelled out in a parallel to the parable of the sower and the four soils (cf. Mt. 13). In James, a person can cultivate either anger and wickedness internally (ὀργὴ, v. 20; κακίας, v.  21)  or meekness and receptiveness (ἐν πραΰτητι δέξασθε, v.  21). But while the audience are called on to actively remove the evil in their midst (which, left uncontrolled, would choke out the growing righteousness), they are to receive the already ‘implanted word that has the power to save your souls’ (ἔμφυτον λόγον τὸν δυνάμενον σῶσαι τὰς ψυχὰς ὑμῶν, echoing v.  18). As above, the person is choice, made one way or the other, sets in motion a chain of events that determines one’s final destiny, either κακά – πειρασμοί – ὐπομονή – δὀκιμος – ζωή or its opposite, κακά – πειρασμοί – ἐπιθυμία – ἁμαρτία – θάνατος. The decision that confronts the human self in its experience of evil, then, is presented as a decision between endurance and desire’. While his paradigm nicely sets out the contrast built into the text, it is, unfortunately, one created by Wilson and not directly to be found in the text. 28.  For example, Deuteronomy 27–28 and the covenant blessings and curses; or Proverbs, such as 1:32–33: ‘For the waywardness of the simple will kill them, and the complacency of fools will destroy them; but whoever listens to me will live in safety, and be at ease, without fear of harm.’ 29. Johnson, James, 200. He adds, ‘This reading would go well with the use of dikaiosynē in 3:18.’

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called to resist actively their natural desires (cf. v. 14), but the counter life saving is something already given by God. The ‘implanted’ language echoes the soils parable, and the imagery appears to be of cultivating a space wherein the implanted word can flourish – something that requires participation. The word of God has the power to save, but in order to do so, it has to be welcomed and prepared for, which requires a deliberate turning away from natural responses of anger and desire. The third and most significant of the two-ways instructions comes in 3:13–4:10. Much like the prior discussion, here we have a contrast of earthly and heavenly ‘wisdoms’ (3:13–18) followed by a contrast of these played out in the community (4:1–10). In 3:13–18, the descriptions of the behaviours of true wisdom in vv. 13, 17–18 frame the discussion with a focus on the wisdom ‘from above’ (ἄνωθεν σοφία, v.  17), while the ‘earthly’ , ‘natural’ and ultimately ‘demonic’ (ἐπίγειος, ψυχική, δαιμονιώδης, v. 15) version is played out in vv. 14–16. What comes naturally to, or perhaps from, human nature is to be resisted, for it does not lead to one being ‘wise and understanding’ (σοφὸς καὶ ἐπιστήμων, v. 13). In fact, ‘wisdom’ here is only mentioned in connection with a godly character, distinctly originating from above. Much like the implanted word, wisdom is a gift from God that we are to seek and cultivate, but is not natural to our humanity. In contrast, what is natural is that which leads to strife and disorder. This then plays out in 4:1–10 in the community. Having been warned that the false wisdom leads to ‘disorder and wickedness of every kind’ (3:16), this is vividly depicted in 4:1–3. James begins with the ‘conflicts and disputes among you’ (πόλεμοι καὶ   .  .  .  μάχαι), which come from desires ‘at war within you’ (ἡδονῶν ὑμῶν τῶν στρατευομένων ἐν τοῖς μέλεσιν ὑμῶν). Here he continues the same dramatic language in connection with desires as he did in ch. 1. Nowhere in this epistle are natural desires a positive thing to be followed; instead, they wage war within one’s very self and spill over destructively into the community. In this sense, James has a pessimistic anthropology – how low humanity has descended from creation in the imago dei. James begins 4:4 with a prophetic denunciation, ‘Adulteresses (μοιχαλίδες)’!30 He then continues, ‘Do you not know that friendship with the world is enmity with God? Therefore whoever wishes to be a friend of the world becomes an enemy of God.’ The three segments of this verse – prophetic denunciation, statement, repetition – all provide the clearest dichotomy of the text: one has to choose between following one’s natural desires or persisting in friendship with God. And yet, James has hope for humans, because of God’s grace. James 4:6 quotes Prov. 3:34, his only clear biblical quotation (versus allusion). The significance of this quote stems from its introduction of the character to which God responds positively. If our desires place us in a position of enmity with God, cultivating a character of humility brings us into his grace.31 Therefore 30.  With NASB. The OT background of the prophetic rebuke of Israel as a covenantal adulteress is significant enough to break with the NRSV translation. 31.  See Mariam J. Kamell, ‘The Economics of Humility: The Rich and the Humble in James’ , in Economic Dimensions of Early Christianity, ed. Bruce W. Longenecker and Kelly

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the instructions of 4:7–10 call for repentance signified in outward and inward acts of humiliation and purification.32 Within this dramatically pictured remorse, two promises motivate the seeker. Verse 8 poetically presents the promise opposite to the warning of v. 5: ‘Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you’ , while v. 10 reiterates the promise entailed in the second half of the Proverbs quotation: ‘Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will exalt you’. Two promises of God’s response are given within a whole series of commands, thus the believer has confidence that if they choose to act in a manner that indicates that they want to be friends with God and not the world, God will indeed respond. Thus we can see that, while James has a pessimistic view of humans left to themselves, particularly how people are led by their desires to destruction, he also has a very high view of their responsibility in their relationship with God. The two ways depicted throughout the text culminate in ch. 4 with the language of friendship and enmity and the call to return wholeheartedly to God. Each person has the power to wreak havoc in the community through their desires, but each person also has the possibility of nearness with God through his mercy. Thus, while we have no power to save ourselves, at the same time humans hold significant responsibility for the possibility of the outworking or thwarting of salvation. In so far as people are in relationship with God, then their responsibility for the possibility of flourishing is unsurpassed.

Conclusions In conclusion, James’s anthropology follows the biblical arc. Each person, made in the image of God, is of value and ought to be treated accordingly. Christians, moreover, have been granted new birth as the first fruits of the new creation, thereby allowing them the possibility of living according to their maker’s will. As re-created image bearers, each person is made for wholeness and completeness, demonstrated in emulating God’s character of wisdom and mercy. Believers face ongoing temptation that seeks to drive them into friendship with the world even while they have been born as God’s new creation, and James seeks to call them instead into a wholehearted friendship with God. James has a biblically realistic, pessimistic anthropology: people will go astray, love the world, fight and falsely judge one another. And yet, through God’s mercy, James also has a very high view

Leibengood (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2009), 157–75, for my argument of how in James everyone will be humbled, so the choice is either to humble ourselves or to be forcibly humbled by God. 32. The repentance language of 4:7–10 is cast entirely in cultic purity language. Lockett (Purity, 135) observes that ‘ “sinners” is paralleled by “double-minded” ’. Note that as one approaches God greater purification is necessary while the further away from God (near the world/devil) defilement is assumed’.

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of the renewed anthropology:  believers are to work with God to restore those who stray and to show God’s mercy to those who suffer. Indeed, in God’s mercy, endurance forms people to become whole and perfect, and thus as new creations they reveal the imago dei and reflect the mercy and compassion of God into the world.

Chapter 12 ‘ R E M E M B E R T H E SE T H I N G S’ :   T H E R O L E O F M E M O RY I N T H E T H E O L O G IC A L ANTHROPOLOGY OF PETER AND JUDE Karen H. Jobes

Theological anthropology can be defined broadly as ‘theological reflection on the human person’ , focusing upon the question of what it means to be human both in distinction from and in similarity to all other forms of animal life on earth.1 Christian theologians usually begin to address this topic from the perspective of the imago dei that uniquely defines human beings as bearers of God’s image (Gen. 1:26, 27). For Scripture reveals that while all life forms have been created by God, only human beings are said to bear the imago dei. While there may be consensus among Christian theologians that to be human is to bear the image of God, there is little agreement beyond that on what specifically constitutes the image of God in the human being. Characteristics such as developed language, rational thinking, planning and problem solving and emotional bonding have been offered at one time or another, but as more is learned about the minds and communal life of animals, those categories can be challenged. Perhaps even to ask the question, ‘what is a human being?’ is part of the answer, for only human beings are theologically and philosophically self-reflective in contrast to ‘irrational’ animals (cf. 2 Pet. 2:12; Jude 10). No animal faces life decisions that would motivate such a question. As Moltmann comments, A cow is always simply a cow. It does not ask, ‘What is a cow? Who am I?’ Only man asks such questions, and indeed clearly has to ask them about himself and his being. This is his question. His question follows him in hundreds of forms.2

Christian thinkers today stand in a long tradition of attempts to define the image of God ontologically as an attribute, capacity or structure of the human person. Since the image of God is presumed to reflect something of the character of God himself, 1.  Marc Cortez, Theological Anthropology:  A Guide for the Perplexed (London:  T&T Clark, 2010), 5. 2. Quoted in Cortez, Theological Anthropology, 1.

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one cannot arrive at a Christian understanding of the human being without some previous understanding of the person and nature of God. As John Calvin taught, knowledge of God and knowledge of self are reciprocally related.3 The capacity for rational thought seems to offer an obvious potential definition of the imago dei, but the question of what kind of rationality and to what degree rationality functions in the human being frustrates the definition. On the one hand, apes show significant problem-solving skills that could be considered rational thought but they are not human; on the other hand, one does not cease to be human through the loss or impairment of rational thought by injury or disease. The supremacy the human species has enjoyed over creation that has allowed the development of human cultures and the advance of science and technology may also be considered an important distinctive element of divine image bearing, especially as the image of God is associated with the ‘cultural mandate’ in Gen. 1:28. This line of thinking tends to move away from an ontological definition towards the direction that locates the divine image in what humans do as stewards over creation rather than what they are in their constitutive nature.4 But if no person is an island, the development of human society and culture not only entails a high degree of rational thinking skills but also necessarily implies that interpersonal relationship may be involved in the definition of our humanness, modelled perhaps on the inner-Trinitarian relationships of Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Because everyone starts out with a birth mother upon whom one is initially completely dependent, human beings are fundamentally relational from birth. We grow up in family units that are part of a larger social community. We have classmates, teachers, co-workers, friends and neighbours. We join churches, clubs, volunteer organizations, music groups and a myriad of other groups that give meaning to our lives and bring us into relationships with others. Of course, this is not unique to humans, as every living animal starts out having been generated from another, and many social animals live in groups in which relationships are clearly discernible. In fact, some neuroscientists argue that group relationships are relevant to all animals that reproduce sexually.5 Others argue that the human mind can develop only in the presence of other human beings, which coheres with God’s statement that it is not good for the human being to be alone (Gen. 2:18).6 But Scripture reveals to us one relationship unique to the human being – the human being’s relationship to God as our Creator, our Redeemer, Covenant Head and as our Judge. Although God has created all life forms, the creation account of the human being is distinctly different from that of the animals both because God personally fashioned the human being and also because he infused the species

3. John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, ed. John T. McNeil, trans. Ford Lewis Battles (LCC XX; Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press, 1960), 35–38. 4. Cortez, Theological Anthropology, 21. 5. James B. Ashbrook, ‘Interfacing Religion and the Neurosciences: A Review of TwentyFive Years of Exploration and Reflection’ , Zygon, 31, no. 4 (1996): 567. 6. Ashbrook, ‘Interfacing Religion and the Neurosciences’.

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with his own breath. God commands the water to teem with living creatures (Gen. 1:20), birds to fill the sky (Gen. 1:20) and the land to produce living creatures (Gen. 1:24). But God fashioned the human being himself and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life (Gen. 2:7). Surely this distinctive creation in comparison to the fish, birds and animals must imply something about what it means to bear the image of God, and it suggests that the human being enjoys a distinctive relationship with the Creator that makes us uniquely human. A distinctive of Christian theological anthropology is that it must recognize the importance that God has placed on the human person in establishing humanity as the objects of [God’s] covenantal relationality and eschatological purposes. In other words, theological anthropology takes the human person as an important object of theological reflection because the triune God has drawn the human person into the theological narrative [most supremely in the incarnation of Jesus Christ] and, consequently, has made a theological understanding of the human a necessary and vital aspect of the theological task.7

This distinctive stands in sharp contrast to many modern, materialistic definitions of the human person, for instance, that of Francis Crick who defines the human being as a soulless entity that is ‘no more than the behavior of a vast assembly of nerve cells and their associated molecules’.8 While many of the various categories in which the image of God has been discussed are useful, the Christian answer sought in Scripture to the philosophical question of what it means to be human is not found in philosophical definitions of ontology but in the place of human beings in the narrative of God’s redemptive work. What it means to be human is not found, in ontological definitions of inner states or essences, much less in terms of contrasts with the nonhuman creation, but in terms of the unique commission given to human beings in the biblical narrative. For the biblical writers at least, ‘What is it to be human?’ is ultimately a narrative-ethical rather than a metaphysicalontological question.9

This shift away from an ontological definition towards a paradigm defined by God’s unique relationship with the human race sits nicely with the view proposed

7. Cortez, Theological Anthropology, 5. 8. Francis Crick, The Astonishing Hypothesis: The Scientific Search for the Soul (New York: Scribner, 1994), 256, quoted in Ashbrook, ‘Interfacing Religion and the Neurosciences’ , 564–65. 9. Michael S. Horton, ‘Image and Office:  Human Personhood and the Covenant’ in Personal Identity in Theological Perspective, ed. Richard Lints, Michael S. Horton and Mark R. Talbot (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2006), 181, quoted in Cortez, Theological Anthropology, 36.

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by some Reformed theologians that the image of God is not an isolated trait or something within the human being but is the human being as a whole unity, corporeal, intellectual and spiritual.10 This more holistic view of the human being as divine image bearer in all aspects of life opens up some new avenues of thought when asking about the anthropology of the biblical authors. The task of this paper is to examine the New Testament books attributed to Peter, the disciple of Jesus, and to Jude, Jesus’ half-brother, to see what light they may shed on issues of theological anthropology. I am neither an anthropologist nor a theologian, but approach this task as a New Testament exegete. And, of course, the books of 1 Peter, 2 Peter and Jude were not written to answer questions such as modern theologians find themselves facing today. Whatever light they may shed is light reflected from the topics they do address more directly. One of the more enduring elements of divine image bearing has been the belief that human beings, probably in distinction from animals, continue to exist in some conscious, personal form after physical death. When read within the context of Christian eschatology 2 Pet. 1:13, 14 suggests Peter’s expectation of life after physical death:  δίκαιον δὲ ἡγοῦμαι, ἐφ᾿ ὅσον εἰμὶ ἐν τούτῳ τῷ σκηνώματι, διεγείρειν ὑμᾶς ἐν ὑπομνήσει εἰδὼς ὅτι ταχινή ἐστιν ἡ ἀπόθεσις τοῦ σκηνώματός μου, καθὼς καὶ ὁ κύριος ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦς Χριστὸς ἐδήλωσέν μοι (‘I think it right, as long as I am in this tent, to rouse you by reminding you, knowing that soon is the putting off of my tent, just as our Lord Jesus Christ has made known to me’ , author’s translation).11 In the face of imminent death, this verse mentions Peter’s desire to remind his readers, a theme that is found also in 1:12 and that is shared with Jude 5 and 17. Moreover, if 1 Peter is one of the two letters mentioned in 2 Pet. 3:1 (‘this is now my second letter to you’) then both letters share the author’s intention to be ‘reminders to stimulate you to wholesome thinking’ (2 Pet. 3:1, emphasis added). It is not surprising that an apostle would especially wish to remind his readers of who they are in Christ in light of his imminent death. The theme of memory in all three of these New Testament (NT) letters invites us to reflect further on the role of memory in theological anthropology.

Remembrance in Scripture The capacity to remember and memorialize past events is a pervasive theme of Scripture and plays an important role in the faithfulness of the believer. Early in the Bible, God is presented as a God who remembers (e.g. Gen. 8:1; 9:15, 16; Exod. 2:24; 6:5; Deut. 4:31; 1 Chron. 16:15; Pss. 9:18; 111:5; Isa. 44:21; 49:15). Remembering is also an important theme in the NT, as the Greek words in the

10.  G. C. Berkouwer, Man:  The Image of God (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1962), esp. 67–94. 11. For the purposes of this paper, the author(s) of both 1 and 2 Peter will be referred to as ‘Peter’ without presumption that these two texts come from the same author.

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semantic domain of memory and remembering (μνήμη, μνημονεύω, μιμνῄσκομαι, ὑπόμνησις, ἀναμιμνῄσκω, ἀνάμνησις) occur more than fifty times. Its readers are instructed to remember violations of relationship (e.g. Mt. 5:23), to recall what the Lord had said and done (e.g. Mt. 16:9, Mark 14:72; John 16:4; Acts 11:16; 2 Tim. 2:8), to remember Scripture (John 2:17); and to not forget (i.e. to remember) from whence we came (e.g. Eph. 2:11; Heb. 10:32). Memory is an important characteristic of both God and his human creatures. The central concept that defines God’s people as God’s people is the covenant, and, in verses too numerous to list, those who would be counted among his people are called to remember their covenant relationship with God (e.g. Exod. 17:14; Num. 15:39; Deut. 4:10; 1 Chron. 16:12; Ps 105:5). In fact, the Old Testament custom of Sabbath observance was established as an act of remembrance (Deut. 5:15). Those who violated their covenant relationship with God are often described as those who have forgotten him (e.g. Judg. 8:34; Neh. 9:17; Job 8:13; Ps. 78:42; Isa. 65:11). In Christianity, the central act of liturgy is the Last Supper or Eucharist, in which Christ’s followers are charged to remember the new covenant forged in his blood: ‘Do this in remembrance of me  . . . ‘ (Luke 22:19; 1 Cor. 11:24, 25). The central identity of the Christian as an individual and collectively as the Church involves the act of remembering. Memory is essential for identity, both individual and collective, and to that thought we now turn.

The Role of Memory in a Definition of Human Personhood In Religion and Cultural Memory, Jan Assmann discusses how memory forms identity for both an individual and collectively for a culture.12 He observes that human memory has a twofold basis, the physiological basis in the neural networks of the brain and the social basis in engagement with others.13 While much of the neural basis of the human brain is similar to that of other developed animals such as apes and chimpanzees, the social basis of human memory extends much more broadly in the human species to a cultural context that is vast in both its contemporary scope and its reach into the past through time. Individual memory always functions within the context of social memory, and these two kinds of memory are reciprocal in shaping identity.14 As Judith Lieu writes while discussing Christian identity formation, individual memory ‘is often expressed through one’s “story”, a self-narrative that gives meaning to the present, although such stories can never

12.  Jan Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, trans., Rodney Livingstone (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2006). 13. Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 1. 14. Eric Mankowski and Julian Rappaport, ‘Stories, Identity, and the Psychological Sense of Community’ , in Knowledge and Memory: The Real Story, ed. Robert S. Wyer Jr. (ASC VIII; Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1995), 211–23.

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be entirely separated from the norms and the expectations of the particular social context’.15 The ongoing continuity of one’s personal narrative is reinforced by the stability of one’s social network and social institutions. For the Christian, the church is a defining context. My memory of saying ‘I do’ more than thirty-five years ago finds its meaning within the social context of marriage as defined by the church and by the state. It defines my identity as a wife to God, to myself, and to my society. In cases of amnesia, a person may forget who they are and have a very difficult time continuing to function. They may not remember whose child they are, if they are married or where they live or are employed. The saddest cases of dementia disrupt family relationships as the memory of self-identity slips away. A spouse may forget that they are married and even become involved in a new relationship (e.g. the highly publicized case of Justice Sandra Day O’Connor’s husband).16 Through a forgetfulness that is no fault of their own, such a person has lost a part of his or her self-identity because they have lost a vital memory that connects their present self to their past. However, in the collective social memory of their relatives, friends, neighbourhood, church, and so on, they continue to be recognized by others as a spouse. And so whose memory is definitive for identity? The individual’s or his or her society’s? If Sandra Day O’Connor’s husband does not recognize her at all, is their relationship still a marriage because she remembers him to be the man she married? Who gets to be the reference point for one’s identity? Ultimately, it is God’s unfailing and eternal memory of each of us that defines who we are – which leads again to the idea that our personhood is found distinctively in relation to God. While our spouse might tragically forget us, God remembers who we are eternally, and it is God’s remembrance of us that defines and secures our eternal identity even after death (Isa. 49:15). Collective social memory functions within a more extensive cultural memory that persists beyond the lifetime of its individual members. This cultural memory shapes, preserves and transmits a collective identity in which our individual identities are shaped. Cultural memory of, for instance, what it means to be an American, selectively enshrines the history of a people into rituals (e.g. voting), memorials (e.g. the Washington monument), days of remembrance and commemoration (e.g. the 4th of July), stories (e.g. Washington crossing the Delaware to the seminal battle of Trenton), flags, slogans and other cultural icons. This collective cultural memory and its symbols persist from generation to generation (though not unaltered) and form a stable identity of what it means to be an American. The persistence of a cultural memory requires that it be transmitted from generation to generation, and, in the case of literate societies, its fundamental principles are codified and preserved in normative documents (e.g. the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution). For the Christian church, those documents

15.  Judith M. Lieu, Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). 16. As reported by CBS News, 13 November 2007. Accessed online 14 November 2015, at http://www.cbsnews.com/news/justice-oconnors-husband-finds-new-love/.

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are of course the texts of the Bible. Therefore, we can consider the Bible, and in this case, the New Testament books of 1 Peter, 2 Peter and Jude, from the perspective of memory and its role in Christian identity. As Jan Assmann demonstrates, religious identity is ubiquitously (universally?) formed by cultural memory.17 This is found to be true in both ancient and modern times and in both literate and illiterate societies, through texts in the case of the former and through oral tradition and ritual in the case of the latter. Religious tradition communicates religious identity from generation to generation. Christianity is no exception to this phenomenon. At the last supper, Jesus Christ establishes a memorial ritual that has persisted two thousand years. The salient events upon which the Christian faith is based – the life, death and resurrection of Jesus – are documented in texts that were produced within the span of living memory of people who witnessed these events of Jesus’ life. The apostles also recorded subsequent interpretation and entailments of that documented history under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. As a social group with cultural memory, the church also has its slogans (e.g. sola scriptura), memorial celebrations (e.g. celebrations of Easter and Christmas), songs and hymns (though culturally shaped by time and geography) and rituals (e.g. preaching and the sacraments). But social and cultural memory is of a different nature than the memory of an individual who alone has memory in its truest human sense. How does the individual’s memory that forms self-identity mutually engage cultural memory? The individual human being is the sole possessor of true, neurally based memories, but as Assmann explains, an individual’s memory is shaped by the social and cultural memory in which the individual’s life is embedded.18 One’s self-identity is formed by the engagement of the individual in his or her social context and the reinforcement of those engagements through memory of them.19 That is to say, individual identity is largely determined by memory of our relationship to our social groups (family, church, neighbourhood, etc.) and by the culture in which that social group operates (e.g. American, European, ancient Roman). As Assmann observes, ‘it is difficult, or even impossible, to distinguish between “individual” memory and a “social” memory’ , for even our most private memories witnessed by no other person are remembered in terms provided by our social identity.20 Who would I be if I had been born in another social context, perhaps on another continent or at another period of time? Who would I be if I had been born into a different family, or lived in a different community, or married a different man? In Christian culture, baptizing or dedicating infants into a covenant community expresses the intent for an individual identity to be shaped by a social context, namely the church.

17. Assman, Religion and Cultural Memory. 18. Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 8; Lieu, Christian Identity, 62–97. 19.  Mankowski and Rappaport, ‘Stories, Identity, and the Psychological Sense of Community’ , 216–17. 20. Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 3; Lieu, Christian Identity, 62.

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Since human memory is not exhaustive, selectively remembering and forgetting who we are in relation to a social context and cultural memory defines and potentially transforms ourselves for good or bad (cf. Heb. 12:5; James 1:25; 2 Pet. 1:9; 2 Pet. 3:5, 8).21 And as the apostle Paul says, forgetting is also a necessary part of the formation of Christian identity (e.g. Phil. 3:13; cf. Isa. 43:18).

The Role of Memory for Christian Identity in Peter and Jude It could be argued that what we see in the New Testament is the transformation of personal, individual memory into an enduring cultural memory of the community that we know as the universal Christian church. The foundational events of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection are documented and preserved in the stories of the gospels. Going back at least to the early 1980s, the role of story in the construction of identity has been discussed by cognitive psychologists.22 Schank and Abelson have proposed a theory that all human knowledge and memory – even propositional knowledge – are constituted by stories.23 While this is likely an overstatement, it is true that the narratives of history largely form the social and cultural memories into which individuals integrate the personal narrative of their lives. Human beings create meaning through selectively remembering and connecting stories together both in our individual lives and in our cultural history. Neurodegenerative disease results in the inability to connect new memories to older ones and prohibits the ability to connect one’s present life to one’s previous life and to the lives of others. Our lives find meaning by connecting to the stories of others, and most supremely to the story God has revealed in Scripture. The stories of the apostles who witnessed the unique event of Jesus’ resurrection and wrote under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit to interpret its significance established the collective memory that defines what it means to be the church as followers of Jesus. And Scripture summons us to join our personal life narrative to the collective memory of the church as believers in Jesus Christ. It is clear from 2 Pet. 1:12–15 that Peter writes his second epistle under the expectation of his imminent death, and this expectation motivates him to write as he does. The church was at the vulnerable point where it was about to pass from apostolic to sub-apostolic leadership because of the inevitable death of those who personally knew Jesus. When all people who have personally lived through

21.  See Lieu, Christian Identity, 67–89, for a discussion of how selective remembering and forgetting shaped texts of the early Christian period. 22. Karl E. Scheibe, Self Studies: The Psychology of Self and Identity (Westport, CT: Praeger, 1995), 142, citing the work of Mancuso and Ceely (1980), Spence (1982), Mancuso and Sarbin (1983), Gergen and Gergen (1983). 23. Roger C. Schank and Robert P. Abelson, ‘Knowledge and Memory: The Real Story’ , in Knowledge and Memory, ed. Wyer, 1–85.

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a momentous event have died, only what they have transmitted to the next generation survives to shape the cultural memory of that event. Living memory becomes history. Peter writes to transform personal living memory into cultural memory for his readers. The apostles preached to their contemporaries to communicate their living memory of Jesus, but ‘[w]hat communication is for communicative memory, tradition is for cultural memory’.24 Quoting Aleida Assmann, Jan Assmann contrasts communication and tradition: ‘Tradition can be understood as a special case of communication in which information is not exchanged reciprocally and horizontally, but is transmitted vertically through the generations.’ In this way, cultural memory can be considered to be a special case of communicative memory. It has a different temporal structure. If we think of the typical three-generation cycle of communicative memory as a synchronic memory-space [i.e., the temporal space in which living memory operates typically spanning grandparent, parent, and child], then cultural memory, with its traditions reaching far back into the past, forms the diachronic axis.25

The transformation of living memory into cultural memory is essential for the identity of all people groups, religious or secular. It seems psychologically incomprehensible that those who witnessed something as spectacular as the resurrected Christ would be content to leave this earth without documenting what they knew and remembered. While oral transmission no doubt played a role in the transmission of apostolic personal memory that became cultural memory for the Christian church, Judaism was a religion of the book and preserved its cultural memory of formative stories in writing. Given the continuity of the gospel story with the Hebrew Scriptures, the transformation of personal memory into history clearly involved the written texts that form the NT. It is no wonder that in light of his imminent death Peter writes passionately with the purpose of establishing a remembrance in the lives of his readers: ‘I will always remind you of these things. . . . I think it is right to always remind you of these things. . . . I will make every effort to see that. . . . you will always be able to remember these things’ (2 Pet. 1:12–13, emphasis added). ‘These things’ are understood by interpreters to refer either to the content of 2 Peter26 or to the broader teaching of early Christianity that was at the core of Peter’s message.27

24. Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 8. 25. Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 8. 26. Simon J. Kistemaker, Exposition of the Epistles of Peter and of the Epistle of Jude (NTC; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Book House, 1987), 260. 27. Peter H. Davids, The Letters of 2 Peter and Jude (PNTC; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006), 193; Daniel C. Arichea and Howard A. Hatton, A Handbook on the Letter from Jude and the Second Letter from Peter (UBS Handbook Series; New York: United Bible Societies, 1993), 87; Richard J. Bauckham, Jude, 2 Peter (WBC 50; Waco: Word, 1983), 197.

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If we allow that 1 Peter is one of the two letters mentioned in 2 Pet. 3:1 (‘this is now my second letter to you’) then both 1 and 2 Peter were written with the author’s stated intention, ‘as reminders to stimulate you to wholesome thinking’ (2 Pet. 3:1, emphasis added). More specifically what the apostle wants his readers to recall are ‘the words spoken in the past by the holy prophets [i.e. the Old Testament] and the command given by our Lord and Savior through your apostles [i.e. the teaching now contained in the New Testament]’.28 The command – notice it is singular in the text – originates with the Lord Jesus and was given through the apostles and is therefore a reference to the gospel that calls people to faith and repentance, demanding a moral transformation.29 Jude’s exhortation to contend for the faith also necessarily implies remembrance. He opens the body of his letter with the statement, ‘I want to remind you  . . .’ (v. 5, emphasis added) and then refers to the paradigmatic act of God documented in the Old Testament, the exodus event. He closes his argument with the appeal, ‘dear friends, remember  . . .’ (v. 17, emphasis added), pointing his readers to the warning of the apostles concerning heresy. And so for both Peter and Jude the remembrance of the words of Scripture, both Old and New Testaments, is necessary for safeguarding against heresy and thereby preserving the collective identity of the church. At the same time, Peter’s and Jude’s readers are exhorted to integrate their individual life stories into the meta-story of God’s redemptive work. This perhaps also reveals an important aspect of what it means to be human – to be defined by one’s relationship to God, who remembers eternally who we are, even if and when we fail to remember for ourselves. When the three books of 1 Peter, 2 Peter and Jude are more closely examined, their exhortations to remembrance can be classified into at least three categories: (1) remember who you are, (2) remember the Scriptures: what God has done, the example of Christ, and the words of the apostles, and (3) remember the future. Remember Who You Are There is perhaps no more sweeping metaphor of a saving relationship with God than that of the new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead (1 Pet. 1:3). If the individual is defined in this earthly life by the social relationships into which they are born – by parents, by national and ethnic identity – then to be born again with God as Father into the community of all those similarly reborn is a sweeping redefinition of self-identity. Peter’s first book

28. Cf. 2 Pet 1:16–21 where the eyewitness of the apostles confirms the OT prophecies. 29. Arichea and Hatton, A Handbook, 142; Bauckham, Jude, 2 Peter, 278; Davids, 2 Peter and Jude, 261; Michael Green, 2 Peter and Jude (TNTC 18; Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 1987), 136; Kistemaker, Exposition of the Epistles, 323; Douglas J. Moo, 2 Peter, Jude (NIVAC; Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 1996), 164; Gene L. Green, Jude and 2 Peter (BECNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2008), 305.

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is largely instruction on how to reorient one’s life to the new identity in Christ.30 Regardless of how one’s relationship with a human father has shaped identity, the Christian enters into a relationship with God as Father and no longer as just Creator. As a child bears the family resemblance to their parent, Peter admonishes his readers to be holy because their Father is holy (1 Pet. 1:14–17), and proceeds to explain throughout the rest of the letter what that means. Regardless of what national passport a person carries, when they become a Christian they carry the new passport of the kingdom of God with its own ‘laws of the land’ and cultural norms. Peter and the other NT writers provide the explanation of what that means to Christian identity. Mankowski and Rappaport have applied Schank and Abelson’s theory about the essential role that stories play in self-identity to the situation of Christian conversion experiences.31 They define conversion as a development and change in personal and social identity, or ‘how one understands “who I am, how I got this way, how I ought to be, and what may be my future”’.32 In terms of stories remembered they explain, the phenomena of identity development and change may be understood in terms of the appropriation of shared narratives into one’s personal life story on the one hand, and the creation of new narratives or modification of existing narratives on the other.33

In terms of Christian conversion, the apostles point to the story of what God has done in the Old Testament documented through its narratives and their ancillary interpretive material (wisdom books, prophetic books), and to the life of Jesus Christ and his significance as documented in the New Testament. These are the stories that constitute the cultural memory of the church – the stories of Jesus and his teaching, the stories of the expansion of the church, the stories of the various apostles and diverse churches they founded. Individual Christian believers appropriate these stories and their significance into their personal lives. The cultural memory of Jesus preserved in the church becomes the personal memory of the individuals who comprise it.

30.  See Karen H. Jobes, 1 Peter (BECNT; Grand Rapids, MI:  Baker Academic, 2005), esp. 44–53. 31. Mankowski and Rappaport, ‘Stories, Identity, and the Psychological Sense of Community’ , 216–17. 32. Mankowski and Rappaport, ‘Stories, Identity, and the Psychological Sense of Community’ , 212. 33. Mankowski and Rappaport, ‘Stories, Identity, and the Psychological Sense of Community’ , 213.

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Remember the Scriptures The quotations of the Old Testament scriptures in Peter and Jude (and throughout the NT) are the vehicle for remembering what God has done throughout the history that culminated in Jesus Christ. The quotations also connect the Christian believer to the cultural memory of Israel (e.g. 1 Pet. 2:9, 10) as a formative memory of who the Christian is to be (e.g. 1 Pet. 3:5, 6). For example, if God has given his people new birth (1 Pet. 1:3) then the individual who is a member of God’s people is a human being who has ‘been born again . . . of imperishable [seed] through the living and enduring word of God. . . . ‘ (1 Pet. 1:23). This guarantees the eternal life of people who are otherwise ‘like grass . . . and flowers of the field’ (1 Pet. 1:24). The possibility of new birth has been preserved in the cultural memory of the church, and it becomes a personal memory in the life of the Christian that is constitutive of one’s self-identity (even for the Christian who was too young to remember its circumstances in his or her life). Peter holds up the example of Jesus Christ in his suffering as the formative memory in the life of a Christian who wishes to follow in the footsteps of Jesus (1 Pet. 2:21). Any suffering resulting from following the Lord is to be understood by remembering the Suffering Servant (1 Pet. 2:22–25) as described by Isaiah (Isaiah 53 quoted in 1 Pet. 2:22–25). This remembrance of the Lord’s suffering is further reinforced socially and collectively when the individual partakes of the Lord’s Supper within a local congregation. The example of Christ’s redemptive suffering becomes paradigmatic in the life of the believer who is to arm him or herself with the same attitude (1 Pet. 4:1), making Jesus’ story a part of his or her own life story. This remembrance of Jesus results in deliberately forgetting to live like the pagans do – in debauchery, lust, drunkenness, orgies, carousing and detestable idolatry (1 Pet. 4:3). Therefore, a Christian’s remembered identity forms the foundation of ethical teaching not only in Peter but in the other apostolic writings as well. One is liable to forget who one is if one forgets to read Scripture, attend worship and partake of the sacraments. But God does not forget who we are. As Cortez explains, ‘the human person is always-already defined and determined by his relationship to God’.34 For Peter and other NT writers, the self-identity of the Christian is to be redefined by a moral transformation (1 Pet. 2:1–3). On the positive side, the moral transformation that redefines the Christian’s new self-identity takes pagan friends by surprise and disrupts the formerly defining relationships that were based on debauchery, lust, drunkenness, orgies, carousing and detestable idolatry (1 Pet. 4:1–6). However, when moral character changes in a negative way, identity is also affected, especially as perceived by others. When a person with a morally upright reputation is suddenly found to have committed a heinous crime, family and friends may ask, ‘Did I really ever know this person?’ Indeed, people who commit an uncharacteristically egregious act may question their own identity. 34. Cortez, Theological Anthropology, 5.

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Neurodegenerative diseases can cause catastrophic changes in a person such as inability to walk or speak, but those misfortunes do not seem to affect selfhood in the same way as a degeneration of the moral faculty. People with such a disease ‘are prone to antisocial outbursts, apathy, pathological lying, stealing and sexual infidelity’.35 A recent neurological study has observed that changes to moral character and moral behaviours such as empathy, honesty and compassion ‘created a powerful sense that the patient’s identity had been compromised  . . . . It is only when our grip on the moral universe loosens that our identity slips away with it’.36 Amnesia, personality change, loss of intelligence, emotional disturbances and the ability to perform basic daily tasks did not make patients seem less like themselves to their families, but changes to the moral faculty created the most identity dissonance. This interesting association of moral character and one’s identity is consistent with how the NT writers present the moral transformation of a new identity in Christ. As Paul writes in Rom. 12:2, ‘Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind’. For Peter and Jude (and arguably for all the New Testament writers), the moral and ethical basis for life is the memory of one’s personal relationship to God through the work of the Spirit in the context of the larger redemptive story. Both Scripture and neurological study suggest that identity is largely defined by moral character in relation to others. This suggests that what it means to be human in distinction from all the other animals is to be a moral being capable of a personal relationship with God as Creator, Father and Judge. Human beings were created in God’s image to live in right relationship with God and with each other. Whatever else the effects of sin, it has made human beings forget who we were created to be. It mars and diminishes our humanity and requires a restoration and renewal of our minds (Rom. 12:2). In matters of morality and relationship with God, both Peter and Jude liken immoral and heretical false teachers with irrational animals (ἄλογα ζῷα) who live by their instincts (2 Pet. 2:12; Jude 10). God restores our full human identity through the new birth into a living hope through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Remember the Future When we speak of memory and remembering, we most often are thinking of the past. Therefore, it may seem almost an oxymoron to speak of remembering the future, but what one believes about the future largely determines how one will live in the present. The NT writers constantly call readers to remember the future that the past death and resurrection of Christ guarantees. The exodus is the paradigmatic event of deliverance in the OT, and it is intriguing that the writer of Hebrews states that by faith Joseph ‘remembered’ the exodus, though it was an event that

35.  Nina Strohminger and Shaun Nichols, ‘Your Brain, Your Disease, Your Self ’ in The New  York Times, 21 August 2015, accessed online on 14 November 2015 at http://www. nytimes.com/2015/08/23/opinion/your-brain-your-disease-your-self.html?_r=0. 36. Strohminger and Nichols, ‘Your Brain, Your Disease, Your Self ’.

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would not happen for many generations after he died.37 Joseph is an example of living by faith because he remembered the future to which God was taking them. Similarly, the writer of Hebrews invites his readers to remember the future to which God is taking us. The central liturgical act of the Christian church is not only an act of remembering the past (‘do this in remembrance of me’) but also an act of remembering the future (‘until the Lord comes’). As Ruth Anne Reese writes, ‘If Joseph can by faith remember the exodus, then the church can, by faith, remember the eschaton, that final deliverance that has not yet taken place’.38 Both Peter and Jude exhort their readers to remembrance as a safeguard against heresy that threatens the cultural memory of what it means to be the church waiting for the Lord’s return (2 Pet. 3:2; Jude 17), specifically belief about future judgement. There is much popular interest among both Christians and non-believers alike about biblical prophecy and especially about if, how and when the world will end. Most often, this interest is an attempt to peg biblical prophecy to current events and infer how close we are to the world’s end. As titillating as this subject may be, the NT writers link eschatology to ethics. God has revealed the future to us in order to motivate people to live rightly in the present by more fully revealing who he is as Creator, Redeemer and Judge. Both Peter and Jude speak of the world ending in a future divine judgement (2 Pet. 3:1–18; Jude 3–16) and ask the question, therefore, ‘what kind of people ought you to be?’ The heresy that both 2 Peter and Jude are correcting is a disbelief that how we live matters. People who had forgotten that God will judge had come into the churches teaching a life of immorality under the guise of God’s grace (2 Pet. 3:3–7; Jude 4). Jude describes these people in harsh terms (ungodly, blemishes in the church, clouds without rain, twice-dead trees, comparable to irrational animals). Had eschatology been given to inform us completely about the future we would have a clearer understanding of what the afterlife will be like and the times and circumstances of the end of the world. But the purpose of NT eschatology is not to inform. It is to motivate us to remember that God is our Creator (2 Pet. 3:5), Judge (2 Pet. 3:7) and Redeemer (2 Pet. 3:9). Eschatology calls us to remember our future.

When Memory Fails Scripture suggests that what distinguishes human beings from all other animals is that we are beings whose identity is formed by our capacity for both individual and cultural memory and that we are moral beings created to remember that we are in a relationship with God, whether as faithful follower or as a rebellious sinner.

37.  Ruth Anne Reese, ‘Joseph Remembered the Exodus:  Memory, Narrative, and Remembering the Future’ , JTI 9 (2015): 267–86. See also Alan Kirk and Tom Thatcher, eds, Memory, Tradition, and Text: Uses of the Past in Early Christianity (SemeiaSt 54; Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005). 38. Reese, ‘Joseph Remembered the Exodus’ , 282.

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In our times when Alzheimer’s disease and other forms of dementia are increasingly common, there may be no greater fear than the loss of ourselves or a loved one through such a neurodegenerative disease. The deterioration of the neural networks may literally destroy the memory that one is a Christian, make moral judgement flawed and prevent one from functioning within the Christian culture of the church. We may forget who we are in Christ. We may forget the Scriptures. We may forget the future. And so if self-identity depends on the memory of who one is, does that put too much responsibility for one’s salvation in the afterlife on the soundness of one’s own mind? Does the Alzheimer’s patient who forgets they were once a functioning Christian become any less a Christian? Scripture tells us that our God is a God who remembers eternally. ‘Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you!’ says the Lord (Isa. 49:15). As with other attributes that are perfect in God but less so in human beings, memory is an essential characteristic of divine image bearing. Our bodies will fail, perhaps taking our minds and memory of who we are with it, but the memory that defines who we are is safe with God. ‘For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory’ (Col. 3:3, 4). Our identity depends ultimately not on ourselves but on our God who created us, sustains us and remembers us eternally.

Chapter 13 R EV E L AT IO N ’ S H UM A N C HA R AC T E R S AND ITS ANTHROPOLOGY Ian Paul

Introduction Excavating the anthropology of the Book of Revelation holds some unique challenges. Within the Pauline corpus, although we do not find doctrinal statements as such, there is no shortage of theological material to draw on. Within the gospels, we are offered paradigmatic examples of healing, deliverance and forgiveness, which throw light on the human condition, human need and the route to human wholeness. In contrast to the Pauline correspondences, though in common with the Gospels, much of the material in Revelation is in narrative form, and so Revelation’s distinctive anthropological perspective needs to be inferred from the elements of the narrative.1 Unlike the Gospels, though, Revelation is hardly conventional narrative, so the usual tools of narrative criticism (plot, characterization, point of view, narrative time, role of the narrator, and so on) do not apply straightforwardly.2 The narrative shape of Revelation is notably discontinuous,3 and the dramatis personae could hardly be described as ‘rounded characters’ , in part because they 1.  David Barr has long been an advocate of narrative readings. See David L. Barr, Tales of the End:  A Narrative Commentary on the Book of Revelation, 2nd ed. (Salem, MA:  Polebridge Press, 2012) and his chapter ‘The Story John Told:  Reading Revelation for Its Plot’ , in Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students, ed. David L. Barr (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 11–24. For a representative sample of narrative readings, giving an overview of possible approaches, see Russell S. Morton, Recent Research on Revelation (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2014), 74–97. 2.  The standard introduction to these aspects of narrative criticism can be found in Mark Allan Powell, What Is Narrative Criticism? (Minneapolis, MN:  Augsburg Fortress, 1990). For a more recent introduction, see James L. Resseguie, Narrative Criticism of the New Testament: An Introduction (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2005). 3.  The discontinuity has, for most of the last 150 years in Western scholarship, led to theories about the text as the final product of the redaction of several earlier texts. See David E. Aune, Revelation 1–5 (WBC 52; Dallas, TX:  Word Books, 1997), cvi–cxvii, for

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draw on mythic symbolism from other sources (either Old Testament or pagan mythology), and in part because different characters in the narrative appear to refer to the same extra-textual reality. So, the figure of Jesus is both the subject of the angelomorphic vision in ch. 1, but is also depicted in the metaphorical imagery of the ‘lamb who appeared as though slain’ in ch. 5, as the ‘male son’ in ch. 12, and the rider on the white horse in ch. 19. Does it make any sense to combine these different depictions within an analysis of ‘characterization’ , or should we treat them independently as actors in different sections of the drama? Part of the difficulty is identifying the subjects that such metaphors are referring to because of the consistent use of ‘hypocatastatic’ metaphor – where the metaphorical term is presented without any mention of the subject itself.4 Revelation also includes distinctive features as part of its narrative ‘shape’ , including numerical structuring devices not normally associated with continuous narrative.5 It is not surprising, therefore, that in James Resseguie’s narrative reading of Revelation, his taxonomy of narrative features is strikingly different from the taxonomy presented in his more general study of narrative criticism of the New Testament.6 Alongside exploration of metaphors and similes, his list includes two-step progressions, verbal threads, chiasm, inclusio, and numbers and numerical sequences – though he does not include reference to the significance of square, triangular or rectangular numbers, nor the importance of word frequencies, both

a comprehensive survey, possibly based on Frederick David Mazzaferri, The Genre of the Book of Revelation from a Source-Critical Perspective (Berlin; New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1989), 8–22. For a critical evaluation of such approaches, see my ‘Source, Structure and Composition in the Book of Revelation’ in The Book of Revelation:  Currents in British Research on the Apocalypse, ed, Garrick Allen, Ian Paul and Simon Woodman (WUNT 2/ 411; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 41–54. 4. An example from everyday speech would be ‘The pig has eaten all the food’. The metaphorical term ‘pig’ (the ‘vehicle’ of the metaphor) is clear, but the ‘subject’ of the metaphor (the person being referred to) is not specified. (If I had said, ‘That pig John has eaten all the food’ then the subject ‘John’ of the metaphor ‘pig’ is unambiguous.) But because the subject of the metaphor has not been stated, the vehicle ‘pig’ could refer to any number of people – indeed, it could be transferred from one referent to another. In fact, unless we have other indicators to rely on, we cannot tell from the text itself whether this is in fact a metaphorical rather than a literal statement. For a detailed analysis of the nature of hypocatastatic metaphor in Revelation, see Ian Paul, ‘Cities in the Book of Revelation’ , in The Urban World and the First Christians, ed. Steve Walton et al. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2017), 304–19. 5.  The pioneering modern exploration of numerical structuring devices can be found in Richard Bauckham, The Climax of Prophecy:  Studies on the Book of Revelation (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1993), especially 1–37 and 384–452. For an analysis of the distribution of one aspect of that, the use of words with certain frequencies of occurrence, see my ‘Source, Structure and Composition’. 6. James L. Resseguie, The Revelation of John: A Narrative Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2009), 17–59; Resseguie, Narrative Criticism of the New Testament.

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of which add further elements of narrative structural importance. Given the numerous interpretive debates to attend to, it is perhaps not surprising that so little attention has been paid to anthropology as such. A fruitful way into questions of anthropology is to look at the terms used in the text for human figures and humanity, observing how they function within the narrative and where they occur in both narrative space and narrative time.7 This allows us to focus on both the metaphorical/symbolic significance of the terms used and structural features related to their occurrence, thus addressing directly some of the distinctive aspects of Revelation’s narrative approach.8 This is quite different from the earlier approach of Vacher Burch, who took a ‘history of religions’ approach to locate Revelation’s anthropology in a timeless mythical-symbolic framework, thus ignoring Revelation’s very specific social location.9 In analysing these human figures, we will need to bear in mind some of the classical categories of theological anthropology. Charles Cameron suggests the themes of creation, sin, salvation, divine calling, human response, personal transformation, the mind and understanding, emotions, the will and social transformation as constituting the key elements of a Christian theological anthropology.10 Mark Cortez uses the broader categories of imago Dei, sexuality, mind and body, and free will, though these clearly overlap with and relate to Cameron’s themes.11 In addition, issues of eschatology, which are present through Revelation, will contribute to our understanding of human destiny. Noting where the depiction of human figures contributes to each of these themes will enable us to create an anthropological ‘map’ , though we will need to beware of pressing the text into answering questions that it is not actually addressing.

7. Renate Viveen Hood notes that ‘plot movement and character placement are instrumental in [Revelation’s] rhetorical endeavours’. It is notable that she uses the term ‘character placement’ despite the title of her essay, since it is arguable that the characters in Revelation lack any sense of actual development. ‘Women and Warriors: Character Development in John’s Apocalypse’ , in Essays on Revelation: Appropriating Yesterday’s Apocalypse in Today’s World, ed. Gerald L. Stevens (Eugene: Pickwick Publications, 2011). 8.  For a similar approach to the anthropology of Revelation, though set within a dispensational premillennial framework, see Mal Couch, A Bible Handbook to Revelation (Grand Rapids, MI: Kregel Publications, 2001), 131–41. 9.  Vacher Burch, Anthropology and the Apocalypse: An Interpretation of ‘The Book of Revelation’ in Relation to the Archaeology, Folklore and Religious Literature and Ritual of the Near East (New York:  Macmillan, 1939). Burch offers a similar reading to the late one of Austin Farrer, looking for meaning in dehistoricized mythic symbolism, but shares with so-called preterist readings a belief that the Great City is not Rome but Jerusalem. See the reviews in JR 19, no. 3 (1939): 277–278 and JBL 59, no. 1 (1940): 80–82. 10. Charles Cameron, ‘An Introduction to “Theological Anthropology”’, Evangel 23, no. 2 (2005): 53–61. 11. Marc Cortez, Theological Anthropology: A Guide for the Perplexed (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2010).

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The most significant terms relating to human figures are the names of John himself and Jesus, and both of these offer important insights into Revelation’s anthropology. Two important related collective terms, the ‘kings of the earth’ and the ‘inhabitants of the earth’ are analysed next, followed by the named individuals and groups in the messages to the seven assemblies in chs. 2 and 3. Finally, the remaining collective terms are assessed prior to concluding observations about how Revelation depicts humanity.

Two Key Named Individuals: John and Jesus John John names himself as the recipient of the visions he has seen and heard and which he is commanded to write down and distribute to the seven assemblies.12 His name occurs four times in the text (1:1, 4, 9; 22:8), contributing to the inclusio formed both verbally and theologically by chs. 1 and 22. This is in marked contrast to the practice of all other early Jewish apocalypses, which were pseudonymous, and has implications for how John understood his writing as authoritative revelation.13 12.  ‘Assemblies’ is preferable as a translation of ἐκκλησίαι to ‘churches’ , since it does not have the institutional overtones of the latter, and suggests the connections to Greek senses of the word. See Craig R. Koester, Revelation: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB; New Haven:  Yale University Press, 2014), 215. This appears to be a shift from his approach in the earlier Craig R. Koester, Revelation and the End of All Things (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2001), especially 48–69. 13. David E. Aune, Prophecy in Early Christianity and the Ancient Mediterranean World (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1991), 109–10 sees the pseudonymity and vaticinium ex eventu of Jewish apocalyptic as a (possibly understood, possibly deceptive) device to locate the record of these visions back within the scope of a closed canon. Armin Baum, ‘Revelatory Experience and Pseudepigraphical Attribution in Early Jewish Apocalypses’ , BBR 21, no. 1 (2011): 65–92, argues that, within the conventions of first-century literature, it should be understood as deceptive. On the question of whether the writers of NT documents saw themselves as ‘writing Scripture’ see Tom Wright, Scripture and the Authority of God: How to Read the Bible Today, Rev. and exp. ed. (London: SPCK Publishing, 2013), 51, and Roland Deines, ‘Did Matthew Know He Was Writing Scripture?’ , EJT 22, no. 2 (2013):  101–9. Elsewhere Deines comments: ‘I am convinced that it would be possible to demonstrate that a good number of the writings in the New Testament were intended to be Scripture-like – in other words, that they wanted to provide testimony or to instruct their addressees on the basis of what the authors had experienced as God’s revelation in their own time.’ Roland Deines, ‘Revelatory Experiences as the Beginning of Scripture:  Paul’s Letters and the Prophets in the Hebrew Bible’ , in From Author to Copyist:  Essays on the Composition, Redaction, and Transmission of the Hebrew Bible in Honor of Zipi Talshir, ed. Cana Werman (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 323–24.

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But his naming also has implications for anthropology. Whereas the Jewish apocalypses situate the one receiving the revelation in the distant past, at an ostensible personal and social distance from the first readers, here the recipient is in the contemporaneous present and is in relationship with the readers. This locates Revelation within the prophetic more than the apocalyptic tradition,14 and connects it with Paul’s understanding of redeemed humanity as recipients of prophecy by means of the eschatological Spirit in 1 Corinthians 12 and 14 and the theological timescale indicated by Peter in Acts 2:17, ‘these last days’.15 But John appears to have a more qualified view, in that the prophetic word is mediated through a chain of revelation (‘The revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave . . . sending his angel to his servant John, who testified . . . . ‘ [1:1–2]) rather than directly to the whole assembly. The centrality of John himself as named transmitter of the revelation he has received suggests that it is possible for humans to be recipients of the communicative action of God. And yet that reception is mediated, and the ultimate human recipients might not respond appropriately to the revelation itself. This ambiguity about the reception of the revelation from God is reinforced in the messages to the seven assemblies; rather than being communicated to the assemblies themselves, the messages are given to the ‘angel of the assembly’ , the supernatural representative of the community.16 In relation to Cameron’s themes of anthropology, the divine call can be heard clearly, and humanity is invited to hear, understand and respond to this calling. It is worth noting that John is a good, but not a perfect, transmitter of this revelation, in two important regards. First, despite the uniqueness of what he has experienced and the wonder of the revelation he has seen, he is still liable to commit the primary sin, idolatry or false worship, from which his revelation calls his readers/listeners: in a startling paradox, at the end of this vision, John is ready to worship the angel rather than God (Rev. 22:8). In this fourth and final naming of

14.  Notice the fivefold claim of the text to be a ‘prophecy’ in 1:3, 22:7, 10, 18 and 19, within the sevenfold use of the term (also in 11:6 and 19:10). 15.  ‘The necessity for [the use of pseudepigraphy] had disappeared since direct revelation through God’s spirit was considered to be a possibility within the Christian communities’ (Christopher Rowland, The Open Heaven: A Study of Apocalyptic in Judaism and Early Christianity [London: SPCK, 1982], 69–70. For recent affirmation of this view, see Lorenzo DiTommaso, ‘Pseudonymity and the Revelation of John’ , in Revealed Wisdom: Studies in Apocalyptic in Honour of Christopher Rowland, ed. John Ashton (AJEC 88; Leiden:  Brill, 2014), 305–15. 16.  On the identity of the angels as supernatural representatives, rather than either embodiments of the ‘spiritual condition’ of each assembly or human messengers, see Koester, Revelation, 248–49. This is contrary to more popular approaches, based on the work of Walter Wink, Naming the Powers:  The Language of Power in the New Testament (Philadelphia, PA: Augsburg Fortress, 1959), such as Scott Daniels, Seven Deadly Spirits: The Message of Revelation’s Letters for Today’s Church (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2009).

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himself, John appears to be identifying most clearly with the ambiguous humanity of his readers. He exhibits the full range of human emotions in response to what he sees and hears, leading Harry Maier to describe John as ‘the moodiest character in the Newer Testament’.17 This fits with both the tenor of the book itself and the responses it evokes; it contains a wide range of emotions, from terror, through wonder, frustration, anger, disappointment and grief, to relief, worship and gratitude, and this is reflected in the wide range of responses to it by readers, from disgust and horror at its violence, to devotion, fascination and even obsession. There is surely no more emotional work in the New Testament canon. Second, John is an imperfect transmitter of his revelation, in that he is not allowed to communicate part of it, the message of the seven thunders (10:4). This might be a limitation of God’s permission more than John’s failure as such, but it suggests (in parallel with Paul’s experience in 2 Cor. 12:4) that there are things which are ‘inexpressible  .  .  .  which no-one is permitted to tell’. In other words, there are limitations to humanity’s ability to hear, understand and respond to God’s revelation of himself. Significantly for anthropology, John’s strongest statement of affinity with those to whom he is writing comes in the context of locating both himself and them in the context of a partially realized eschatology: ‘I, John, am your brother in kingdom, suffering (ἐν τῇ θλίψει), and patient endurance’ (Rev. 1:9). Like his readers/ listeners, John not only has experienced the first glimpses of the kingdom of God that has been made available through the victory of the lamb, but also continues to experience the sufferings and frustrations of this world until that kingdom is fully revealed in the eschaton. This connects with the repeated presence of the ‘exodus’ motif throughout Revelation;18 to be part of redeemed humanity in Revelation is to be on a journey from imperfection and slavery to holiness and freedom, not yet having arrived but travelling in hope formed by the vision of the world that is to come. Jesus The name ‘Jesus’ occurs 14 times; understood as the number of witness (2) multiplied by the number of completion (7), this communicates numerologically the distinctive characterization in Revelation of Jesus as ‘faithful witness’.19 This is supported by the additional numerology of seven occurrences of the phrase ‘the

17.  Harry O. Maier, Apocalypse Recalled:  The Book of Revelation after Christendom (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress, 2002), 57. 18.  On which see Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (NTT; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 70–72. 19.  See the extended argument on numerological significance in Bauckham, The Climax of Prophecy, 29–37. On the parallel, the importance of Jesus as witness in John’s gospel, see Andrew T. Lincoln, Truth on Trial:  The Lawsuit Motif in the Fourth Gospel (Peabody : Hendrickson Publishers, 2001).

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witness of Jesus’ (1:2, 9, 12:17, 19:10 twice, 20:4) or ‘the witnesses of Jesus’ (17:6).20 The associated title Χριστός occurs seven times, the first three in conjunction with ‘Jesus’ (1:1, 2, 5) and the remaining four occurring on their own (11:15, 12:10, 20:4, 6)21 suggesting that it continues to function here as a title (‘the Anointed One’) rather than nominally as is often assumed in the Pauline corpus.22 The figure of Jesus is depicted in a wide variety of metaphors in Revelation, only some of which emphasize his human identity. The opening vision of the ‘one like a son of man’ in 1:12–16 is often taken to be a picture of Jesus as a human figure, particularly in visual depictions in Christian art. But, as with other imagery in Revelation, it is a blend of angelomorphic imagery from the Old Testament combined with ideas from the Graeco-Roman magic. Most of the features of this depiction are derived from the vision of the angel in Dan. 10:5–6,23 combined with elements of the vision of the Ancient of Days in Dan. 7:9. But the ‘belt of gold’ has been moved from the angel’s waist to the breasts (μαστοὶ, ‘paps’ in AV) of this figure, in contrast both to Dan. 10:5 (ὀσφύς, waist) and to the similar phrase in Rev. 15:6, where the angels emerge from the temple each with a gold belt around his στῆθος, chest.24 The image in Revelation 1 appears to be part of a strategy of polemical displacement where Jesus takes over the functions of pagan goddesses, even to the extent of taking over the slogans from the cult of Hekate ‘I am coming quickly’ (Rev. 2:16, 3:11, 22:7, 22:12) and ‘I have the keys to death and Hades’ (Rev. 1:18).25

20. Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation, 66. 21. It is possible that this structure of 3 + 4 corresponds to one of the configurations of the two half-weeks of history represented by the 3 + 4 structural markers in the seven messages to the assemblies in Rev. 2–3, in tension or contrast with the 4 + 3 structure of the seals and trumpets. See Mark Wilson, The Victor Sayings in the Book of Revelation (repr.; Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2007), 74–75. 22. For the counter argument, that Paul is not using the title nominally, see Matthew V. Novenson, Christ among the Messiahs: Christ Language in Paul and Messiah Language in Ancient Judaism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012). 23.  See the detailed analysis in Steve Moyise, ‘From Revelatory Experience to Written Messages or Vice Versa:  The Question of Revelation 1:12–18 and the Seven Letters to the Churches in Asia Minor’ , in Epiphanies of the Divine in the Septuagint and the New Testament, ed. Roland Deines (WUNT; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, forthcoming). 24. The idea of Jesus with breasts will strike most modern readers as odd, but is in line both with the idea of the ‘pure spiritual milk’ Jesus provides (1 Pet. 2:2–3) and the eschatological promise in Isa. 60:16 that ‘you will suck the milk of nations and the breasts of kings’. 25.  For an exploration of this gendered image of Jesus, including its connections with early Christian iconography, see Ian Paul, ‘Jesus and Gender in Revelation’ , Psephizo, 1 December 2015, http://bit.ly/1MSZY5e. For the wider context of Revelation and GraecoRoman magic, see David E.  Aune’s essay ‘The Apocalypse of John and Graeco-Roman Revelatory Magic’ in his Apocalypticism, Prophecy, and Magic in Early Christianity: Collected Essays (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2008), 347–67.

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Jesus is depicted in angelomorphic imagery in two other episodes: Rev. 14:6–20 (the harvest of the earth) and 19:11–21 (the rider on the white horse). Matthias Hoffman demonstrates that this angelomorphism draws on the avenging angel in the Exodus narrative and represents judgement for those outside the people of God, while the imagery of the lamb (ἀρνίον, occurring 28 times with reference to Jesus, and once in relation to the ‘beast coming from the earth’ in 13:11) offers the complementary image of salvation for those counted among the people of God.26 The image of the lamb is identified with divinity by being located ‘in the midst of the throne’ (5:6) sharing it with the One seated there. Praise for the lamb converges with praise for the one on the throne, so much so that as ‘the Lord and his Messiah’ they share a singular verb at Rev. 11:15. Alongside imagery of Jesus identified with the divine, and imagery of Jesus as messenger and intermediary (between God and John and his hearers), there is also language referring to him as prototypical and perfected humanity. The opening epistolary greeting in 1:4–5 follows the Pauline modification of the standard Greek letter format of sender, recipient, extended binitarian or Trinitarian greeting, and thanksgiving.27 Within the Trinitarian greeting, Jesus is given a trio of epithets focusing on his humanity, prior to the thanksgiving focused on Jesus’ death (referred to by the synecdochic metaphor of ‘blood’). Grace and peace to you from him who is, and who was, and who is to come, and from the seven spirits before his throne, and from Jesus Christ, who is the faithful witness, the firstborn from the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth. (Rev. 1:4–5a)

The first of the trio, ‘faithful witness’ , establishes Jesus’ role as parallel to that of John, who ‘witnesses’ to the ‘witness of Jesus’ (1:2). Jesus is the ideal model for both the ministry of John as witness and the followers of the lamb, characterized as Jesus’ ‘brothers’ (ἀδελφοὶ) who participate in the triumph won by the ‘blood of the lamb’ by their fearless witness (12:11). This parallel is reinforced structurally by John’s use of the word ‘saints’ (ἅγιοι) fourteen times, the same number of times he uses the name ‘Jesus’.28 The importance of Jesus’ witness as a model for

26.  Matthias Hoffmann, The Destroyer and the Lamb:  The Relationship between Angelomorphic and Lamb Christology in the Book of Revelation (WUNT 2/203; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 123–33, 248–53. 27.  See Koester, Revelation, 215, 225–26. On ancient letter writing more generally, see John Lee White, Form and Function of the Body of the Greek Letter:  Study of the LetterBody in the Non-Literary Papyri and in Paul the Apostle, 2nd ed. (Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature, 1982). 28. Stephen Pattemore notes the importance of the term ‘saints’ , particularly as the term ἅγιος is not used of God or Christ after Rev. 6:10. Stephen Pattemore, The People of God in the Apocalypse: Discourse, Structure and Exegesis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 83.

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the followers of the lamb who are also to bear ‘faithful witness’ is expressed in more detail in the narrative about the two witnesses in 11:3–13, ‘who represent the prophetic witness to which the whole church is called in the final period of world history’.29 Redeemed humanity is capable of authentic witness to the reality of God’s actions in the world. They are called to this by Jesus, the archetypal faithful witness; they are empowered in this by Jesus being faithful to the point of death and breaking the power of the accuser; and they are spurred on to faithfulness by the perfect example of Jesus. The second epithet is ‘firstborn from the dead’. The term ‘firstborn’ (πρωτότοκος) might suggest royal connotations (as in Ps. 89:27), but here it has strong associations with Jesus’ own birth (Luke 2:7) and with his resurrection as the first of the redeemed humanity. Jesus is ‘firstborn amongst many ἀδελφοὶ’ in Rom. 8:29, and in Col. 1:15–18 he is both the firstborn (origin) of creation and firstborn of the dead. Revelation appears to be deploying a similar set of ideas here; the title indicates Jesus is the archetype of the renewed humanity. This language anticipates the final scenes of judgement and resurrection, in Revelation 20 and 21, as the destiny of humanity. Bodily resurrection is not a strong explicit theme in Revelation; ἀνάστασις occurs only in 20:5–6 (and ἀνίστημι not at all). Given the language of ‘clothing’ (Rev. 6:11, 7:14) and ‘standing’ (Rev. 20:12), and the description of the New Jerusalem in physical, spatial terms, bodily resurrection appears to be assumed rather than argued or explicated. The third epithet is ‘ruler of the kings of the earth’. This title is developed into the more extravagant ‘king of kings and lord of lords’ in 19:16, whereas this second title has formal use elsewhere, and suggests divine sovereignty over human rulers (see 2 Macc. 13:4, Deut. 10:17, Ps. 136:3), this earlier title is less formal and appears to situate Jesus within the differentiated economy of human power. These two individuals – John himself and the human representations of Jesus – set out important elements of a framework for understanding the anthropology of Revelation. To be human is to be located in space and time, engaged with others and engaged with human culture. There is not here a strong sense of being created in the image of God, but there is a strong sense of being created within the audition of God – able to hear the voice of God, even if unreliably and still subject to failure, and capable of passing that message on as witnesses, even if imperfectly or incompletely. If John represents the uncertainty and ambiguity of the human condition in the ‘in-between’ state, suspended between kingdom ideals and earthly realities, surprised, burdened, shocked and dismayed by what he sees and hears, then the person of Jesus represents the human ideal and eschatological goal, offering the possibility of faithful human witness and perfect testimony (μαρτυρία), even to the point of death.

29.  Bauckham, The Climax of Prophecy, 273; see also Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation, 84–88.

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Two Key Named Collectives: The Kings of the Earth and the Inhabitants of the Earth Kings of the Earth Revelation offers a dramatic and differentiated description of humanity in general, mentioning specific roles and titles (kings, nobility, generals, the wealthy, the mighty in 6:15; merchants, sea captains, seafarers, sailors, traders of sea goods in 18:11, 17) as well as more general gradable antonyms that use Semitic contrast to indicate the whole of humanity (‘rich and poor, great and small, slave and free’ , 13:16). Within this, the term ‘kings of the earth’ is particularly important. It occurs 17 times in the LXX, translating the Hebrew term ‫ מל כי הארץ‬and has several quite distinct senses. The first is simply descriptive of those ruling the different nations or people groups, either in the land (Josh. 12:1), or throughout the earth who travelled to hear the wisdom of Solomon (1 Kgs 10:24, 2 Chron. 9:23; note that like the Greek γῆ, the Hebrew ‫ ארץ‬can refer either to the land [of Israel] or to the earth as a whole). The phrase then develops into a term signifying the resistance of earthly powers to the recognition and reign of the God of Israel, of which the messianic Ps. 2:2 is the most notable example (cited in Acts 4:26; see also Ps. 76:12, Lam. 4:12, Isa. 24:21). But within the later psalter, the phrase expresses an aspiration that earthly powers will come to recognize the God of Israel and submit to him in worship (Ps. 102:15, 138:4). This idea is expressed in a similar way, though using different terms, in Second Isaiah, where the nations who were subject to God’s wrath in Isa. 34:2 are now drawn to the light of the glory of God revealed in his people (Isa. 60:2). This movement – from neutral use through negative to redeemed – is followed in the eight occurrences of the term in Revelation (1:5, 6:15, 17:2, 17:18, 18:3, 18:9, 19:19, 21:24). It first appears to be a neutral term for the political powers over which Jesus has de jure authority (1:5) – though this is in tension with the de facto rule of the ‘great city’ in 17:18 until it becomes the case that ‘the kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Messiah’ (anticipated in 11:15). But as Revelation progresses, it is clear that the kings of the earth become aligned with the forces of evil opposed to the rule of God. They fear the ‘wrath of the lamb’ (6:15), have committed adultery with the great prostitute (17:1, 18:3, 9) and waged war against the rider on the white horse (19:19). And yet, in a shocking reversal, they finally appear to participate in the eschatological gathering of the people of God in the New Jerusalem as they ‘bring their glory’ into the city (21:24). As Bauckham highlights: The image conveys the full inclusion of the nations in the blessings of the covenant, not their partial exclusion. . . . It brings together the Old Testament promises for the destiny of God’s own people and the universal hope, also to be found in the Old Testament, that all the nations will become God’s people. The history of the covenant people – both of the one nation Israel and of the church which is

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redeemed from all the nations – will find its eschatological fulfilment in the full inclusion of all the nations in its own covenant privileges and promises.30

This is a significant contradiction to the observation (particularly in feminist commentary on the text) that Revelation deals in simple binaries of those for or against the reign of God and his messiah as it deploys the patterns of primeval combat mythology.31 Inhabitants of the Earth This phrase occurs ten times in Revelation (κατοικοῦντες ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς: 3:10; 6:10; 8:13; 11:10 [twice]; 13:8, 14 [twice]; and 17:8; κατοικοῦντες τὴν γῆν: 17:2), and at one point is linked closely with the ‘kings of the earth’ (17:2) as both have committed adultery with the great prostitute. That the phrase is used ten times is probably significant as a natural number; Revelation includes two grammatically superfluous repetitions (in 11:10 and 13:14) which are not rendered in most English translations, while using an alternative phrase in 13:12 (‘the earth and its inhabitants’). In the LXX, the phrase is mostly used in relation to the nations driven out from the land by God in the Pentateuch, and so has a consistently negative connotation (see e.g. Num. 33:55, Josh. 7:9, 1 Chron. 22:18). It is also occasionally used of God’s people who dwell in the land, but in the context of God’s coming judgement upon them (Hos. 4:1, Joel 2:1). The sense in Revelation follows this uniformly negative focus: the hour of trial will come upon them (3:10) and the saints under the altar call for judgement upon them (6:10); they gloat over the defeat of the two witnesses (11:10), worship the beast and are deceived by it (13:8, 14); they commit adultery with the prostitute and do not have their names written in the book of life (17:2, 8). It is striking that, in the reversal of fortunes for the kings of the earth, those who walk by the light of the city are designated ‘nations’ rather than ‘inhabitants of the earth’; the phrase appears to function as antonymic to ‘those tabernacling in the heavens’ (τοὺς ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ σκηνοῦντας) in 13:6.32 30.  Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation, 139. Bauckham notes that this universalism does not equate to ‘the salvation of each and every human being’ because of the restriction that ‘unrepentant sinners have no place’ in the city – nor will it be inherited by Christians who participate in the sins of Babylon rather than being faithful witnesses. Even in this qualified form, Morton, Recent Research on Revelation, 101, notes the rejection of this reading of Revelation by some key conservative commentators. 31.  The most important exposition of the influence of the combat myth from a feminist perspective remains Adela Yarbro Collins, The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation (Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2001). Popular engagements with Revelation also have a tendency to flatten out the conflict in the text into a simple binary, as indicated in the title of Simon Ponsonby, And the Lamb Wins: Why the End of the World Is Really Good News (Colorado Springs, CO: David C. Cook, 2008). 32. Bauckham, The Climax of Prophecy, 239–40.

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These two terms – the ‘kings of the earth’ and the ‘inhabitants of the earth’ – fill out further dimensions of Revelation’s anthropology. To be human might involve being fixated only on earthly things and worshipping earthly powers (Revelation 13) rather than the God who created the world and the lamb who purchased a kingdom and priests for God (Revelation 4 and 5). It might mean being that part of humanity which refuses to repent of idolatry (Rev. 9:20–21) and turn to the living God. Here we perhaps come closest to the theological expression of the fallenness of humanity; this is not primarily expressed in relation to sin (the word ἁμαρτία only occurring in 1:5 once and 18:4 twice) but in relation to idolatry and false worship. In this regard, Revelation stands in the central tradition of Jewish belief, rooted in key texts such as the Shema (Deut. 6:5) and the Ten Commandments (Exod. 20:1–20 and Deut 5:5–21) and expressed by Paul in Rom. 1:18–23 until he translates this into the language of universal sin in Rom. 3:23. It also explains the importance of allusions to the Psalms which occur ninety-nine times in the text.33 But to be human might also mean, despite having been caught up in such idolatry like the kings of the earth, still having the possibility of experiencing redemption and participation in the life of the New Jerusalem in the new age when it comes from heaven to earth.

Named Individuals and Groups in Revelation 2–3 Within the messages to the seven assemblies in chs. 2 and 3, there are a number of individuals and groups specified by name. In contrast to most other writings in the New Testament (though in line with Old Testament prophetic traditions particularly in Isaiah and Jeremiah), Revelation is explicit about the fact that this prophetic word might or might not be received by the listeners, and therefore might or might not be effective in bringing about the desired result of its communication. So, for example, the promise of victory and the exhortation to listen to ‘what the Spirit is saying to the assemblies’ together function as rhetorical devices to prompt the listeners to decision and action.34 Despite not making much use of ‘sin’ language, Revelation does use the language of ‘repentance’; this is the call of God to fallen humanity caught in an idolatrous worship. The verb μετανοέω occurs twice each at the end of the seven trumpets (9:20, 21) and seven bowls (16:9, 11) as the appropriate response to suffering to which the people refuse to conform. But it occurs a further eight times in the messages to the seven assemblies; this is also the response called for to the

33.  For a complete catalogue of allusions to the OT, see Ian Paul, ‘Paul Ricoeur’s Hermeneutic of Metaphor and the Interpretation of Revelation 12 and 13’ (PhD Thesis, Nottingham, England: Nottingham Trent University, 1998), 174–75. 34.  See Wilson, The Victor Sayings in the Book of Revelation, 231–56, especially 240– 55 on the function of the sayings. Wilson has explored the identity of ‘the victors’ earlier on 88–91.

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words of the risen Jesus to those who are part of the communities of faith. Despite Revelation drawing very sharp lines between the worship of idols and the worship of the living God, these lines do not always fall in the places we might expect them to, but run through the assemblies as well as the wider world. So the question for the assemblies of whether they will respond to the prophetic word of John’s vision and whether they will resist the teaching of those who are luring them away from the true worship of God is particularly acute. Nicolaitans The Nicolaitans are mentioned in the messages to Ephesus and Pergamum (Rev 2:6, 13). Koester comments that this group ‘were Christians who taught that it was acceptable to eat food that had been sacrificed to Graeco-Roman deities’ ,35 but this appears to be based solely on the juxtaposition of ‘the teaching of Balaam’ with the second mention of the Nicolaitans in 2:14–15. Although the grammar here is odd, there is no reason to infer this36 because the final word ὁμοίως in 2:15 suggests that the acceptance of the problematic teaching is the point of similarity, not the content of the teaching itself.37 There has been speculation, from the patristic period to the modern day, as to the identity of the Nicolaitans and their teaching, the two most common links being made to the Nicolaus mentioned in Acts 6:5, or early Gnostic movements. But none of these is based on any actual evidence, and even our earliest reference (Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.26.3) does not appear to know anything more concrete than what we have in the two texts in Revelation.38 Given the etymology of ‘Nicolaus’/’Nicolaitans’ (‘conqueror of the people’), the importance of νικάω in the messages and in connection with the eschatological vision of the book (12:11; 15:2; 21:7) and the symbolism of ‘Balaam’ and ‘Jezebel’ , it seems much more likely that the name is symbolic, and perhaps even a rhetorical device by John to criticize a tendency within the assemblies rather than refer to an existing, identifiable social group.

35. Koester, Revelation, 262. 36.  On this point I agree with Steven Friesen against Koester as well as against older commentators such as G. B. Caird, A Commentary on the Revelation of St. John the Divine (BNTC; London: A & C Black, 1966). See Steven J. Friesen, ‘Satan’s Throne, Imperial Cults and the Social Setting of Revelation’ , JSNT 27, no. 3 (2005):  355 n 12; following Steven J. Friesen, Imperial Cults and the Apocalypse of John:  Reading Revelation in the Ruins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 192–93. 37. It is quite surprising that Aune observes that ‘scholars are agreed that the Nicolaitans mentioned in the proclamations to Ephesus and Pergamum are identical with the movement represented by “Jezebel” in Thyatira’ , since there is no evidence for this either within the text or beyond it. Aune, Apocalypticism, Prophecy, and Magic in Early Christianity, 187. 38. For a full listing of the various speculative possibilities regarding the Nicolaitans, see Koester, Revelation, 262–64 and Aune, Revelation 1–5, 148–49.

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Antipas Antipas (2:13) appears to refer to an individual known to both John and the assembly at Pergamum by an actual, rather than symbolic, name, though there is no other attestation of such an individual elsewhere.39 This makes him the only Christian identified by name other than John himself.40 The epithet of ‘faithful witness’ links him with both John and the ideal human figure of Jesus. The mention of Antipas is bracketed within v. 13 by mention of Pergamum as the place ‘where the throne of Satan [is]’ and ‘where Satan lives’. Commentators have interpreted this in four main ways: as a specific reference to (1) the altar of Zeus and Athena on the acropolis; (2) to the Asklepieion at the foot of the acropolis; (3) generally as a reference to Pergamum as the centre of Roman rule in Asia; or (4) to Pergamum as a centre of the imperial cult. Friesen demonstrates why, from a historical and archaeological point of view, all four theories are unconvincing.41 The close juxtaposition of the language of witness, the mention of Satan (and its interpretation as the ‘Accuser’ of the people of God) and being faithful even to the point of death links the death of Antipas with Rev. 12:10–11 and suggests that the context is one of general external opposition. Balaam Balaam is mentioned in relation to his teaching, but there is no suggestion of a contemporary individual either present in or attempting to influence the communities that this term is referring to. The brief summary of Balaam’s negative teaching in Numbers 22–25 is in line with Josephus’s and others’ reinterpretation of the text within Second Temple Judaism.42 The ‘teaching of Balaam’ is often linked to the ‘Nicolaitans’ because of the similarity in etymology; Balaam probably comes from the Hebrew ‫ב ַלעם‬, meaning ‘devourer of the people’. Jezebel By contrast, the name of the notorious opponent of Israel, Jezebel the wife of Ahaz (1 Kgs 16–21), functions as a metonym for a person claiming to exercise prophetic 39.  Some suggest that this name was also symbolic, but Koester thinks this unlikely. Later hagiography makes Antipas the bishop of the city and has him being roasted alive in a bronze bull. Koester, Revelation, 287. 40.  For an imaginative, but historically disciplined, exploration of the life of Antipas, see Bruce W. Longenecker, The Lost Letters of Pergamum: A Story from the New Testament World, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2016). Longenecker notes how unusual the name is in Appendix C: Historical and Fictional Aspects of the Narrative (189). 41.  Friesen, ‘Satan’s Throne, Imperial Cults and the Social Setting of Revelation’ , 357: ‘None of these theories is satisfying.’ 42. Josephus, Ant., 4.6; L.A.B. 18. See Jan Willem van Henten, ‘Balaam in Revelation 2.14’ , in The Prestige of the Pagan Prophet Balaam in Judaism, Early Christianity and Islam, ed. George H. van Kooten and Jacques van Ruiten (Leiden; Boston, MA: Brill, 2008), 247–63. Van Henten wisely observes that ‘actual information about this social situation is missing’ (262).

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ministry in or around the communities.43 It is striking that the language of 2:20–23 appears to assume that ‘Jezebel’ is a member of the assembly, rather than an influence from outside the community. Although there are severe words of judgement (‘a bed of suffering’ , ‘strike her children dead’), this falls short of the language of exclusion directed to the assembly in Ephesus (‘I will . . . remove your lampstand’ , 2:5) and does not draw on the images of eschatological judgement, such as ‘second death’ (2:11, 20:6, 14, 21:8) deployed elsewhere. This reflects the broader asymmetry of judgement language at the end of each message; the eschatological promise to ‘those conquering’ is not paired with a threat to those who fail to be faithful in contrast to the judgement parables of Jesus (e.g. the dichotomous parallels of ‘eternal punishment’/’eternal life’ in Mt. 25:46). Synagogue of Satan The description of those who ‘say they are Jews but are not, but are a synagogue of Satan’ occurs twice in the messages to Smyrna and Philadelphia (2:9, 3:9), the second and second-to-last messages to the two assemblies that receive no rebuke. If the language of ‘Satan’s throne’ in Pergamum suggests external pressure, the language here suggests internal pressure, and has connections with Paul’s language about the meaning of the ‘true Jew’ and what it means to the ‘the Israel of God’ (Rom. 2:28; 9:6; 11:26; Gal. 6:16). If it is assumed that, by the time of the writing of Revelation, there has been a decisive split between ἐκκλησία and συναγωγή, then this should be understood as inter-group vilification.44 If, however, as now appears more likely, Christian faith continued to be significantly Jewish in character for some years, this should be understood as inner-religious anathematization.45 These named individuals and groups tell us that to be human in the tension between this age and the age to come is to be constantly faced with pressures and temptations of false teaching, even within the communities of faith in the seven 43.  I am not persuaded that the text supports the distinction between ‘Jezebel’ as an established prophet and the Nicolaitans as an itinerant movement as claimed by Leonard L. Thompson, The Book of Revelation:  Apocalypse & Empire:  Apocalypse and Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 123–25. 44.  For an influential argument proposing a significant divide in the first century and more or less complete by the early second century, see James D.  G. Dunn, The Partings of the Ways: Between Christianity and Judaism and Their Significance for the Character of Christianity, 2nd ed. (London: SCM Press, 2011). 45.  For sociological evidence of the continued contact between Christianity and Hellenistic diaspora Judaism, see Rodney Stark, The Rise of Christianity (San Francisco, CA:  HarperCollins, 1997), 49–71. On the terminology of disagreement, see Bertold Klappert, ‘The Coming Son of Man Became Flesh: High Christology and Anti-Judaism in the Gospel of John?’ in Anti-Judaism and the Fourth Gospel: Papers of the Leuven Colloquium 2000, ed. R. Bieringer et  al. (JCH 1; Leiden:  Brill, 2001), 159–86. On the interpretation of the phrase ‘synagogue of Satan’ see Jan Lambrecht, ‘‘Synagogue of Satan’ (Rev. 2:9 and 3:9): Anti-Judaism in the Book of Revelation’ , in Anti-Judaism and the Fourth Gospel, rev. ed., ed. Reimund Bieringer et al. (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 279–91.

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cities. In order to share in the victory won by Christ, followers need constant vigilance; they need heroes to emulate and villains to avoid in the specifically located contexts of their discipleship, and need to be ever open to the call to repentance (μετανοέω is used eight times in these chapters and only four times elsewhere in the book) in order to stay true to the calling of Christ. To be human here means to look ahead to the clear demarcation between those who will enter the holy city in the eschaton and those who will not, but to do so from the very mixed and messy context of the present age. Here, the boundaries are drawn fairly clearly but generously in terms of internal disputes in the communities,46 which engage the saints in the same theological controversies (idol meat, sexual immorality and/or idolatry, Judaizing tendencies) that are also present in the Pauline churches.

Collective Characters The Twenty-Four Elders The twenty-four elders are seated on twenty-four thrones in the scene of heavenly worship in chs: 4 and 5 (and revisited in 7:11; 11:16; 14:3; 19:4). These are the only obviously human agents present in this scene other than John himself.47 Their relationship with the community of the redeemed is complex. On the one hand, they appear to be closely connected with those in the assemblies in chs. 2–3, who have been promised that they will sit on thrones (3:21), wear white (3:5) and be given crowns (2:10) just as the elders do. And the elders also play harps and sing ‘a new song’ around the ‘glassy sea’ (5:8–9; 4:6), just as the 144,000 redeemed do later in the narrative (14:2–3; 15:2–3).48 They are not simply another characterization of the redeemed, since they sing and play alongside the redeemed – and yet the new song that they sing is one that ‘no one could learn except the . . . redeemed’ (Rev. 14:3). This close relationship is supported by the textual variant in Rev. 5:9, where Sinaiticus and other texts have the elders sing ‘With your blood you purchased us for God. . . . ‘ and by the frequency of the term πρεσβύτερος (twelve times) in Revelation. Twelve and its multiples consistently refer to the people of God. The depiction of the elders contributes two key insights into Revelation’s anthropology. First, they take their place alongside the four creatures, widely understood 46.  See Lynn R. Huber, Like a Bride Adorned:  Reading Metaphor in John’s Apocalypse (ESEC 10; New York: Bloomsbury, 2007), 134–35, for the relentlessly communal depiction of faith and salvation throughout Revelation. 47. The minority view (such as R. H. Charles, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Revelation of St. John, 2 vols [ICC; Edinburgh:  T&T Clark, 1920], 1.130) that these are angelic beings is highly unlikely, since πρεσβύτερος is never elsewhere used in this way, and Revelation is replete with angels of other kinds. 48.  For a detailed study of both the ‘new song’ and the identity of the elders, see Peter Watts, ‘Song and New Song: The New Song of Revelation in Diachronic and Synchronic Perspectives’ (PhD Thesis, Nottingham, England: University of Nottingham, 2013).

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as representing the created cosmos in the praise of God as creator – a consistent theme in the hymnic sections of Revelation. Humanity praises God as part of that divinely created order, so this is perhaps the closest Revelation comes to depicting humans as created in the image of God. Second, within the cosmic geography of Revelation, then, humanity is not only confined to earth but also inhabits the ‘heavenly places’ (‘dwellers in heaven’ , Rev. 13:6, compare Eph. 1:3). This finds its ultimate fulfilment in the New Jerusalem, where the space inhabited by redeemed humanity is coterminous with the space inhabited by the presence of God. The presence of the elders and the geography of the New Jerusalem both hint at the idea of theosis, of the destiny of the redeemed as ‘participation in the divine nature’ (2 Pet. 1:4). This is confirmed by the depiction of Jesus both as the pattern for the saints and as the faithful witness alongside his primary depiction in divine terms, participating in the being and reign of God on the throne. The goal of human life is to be like the one who most clearly expressed the divine nature. Humanity under the Seven Seals, Trumpets and Bowls The sevenfold sequences in chs. 6, 8–9 and 16 offer a general description of the experience of life for humanity, with some important features.49 In the first sequence there is a bifurcation of humanity between the ‘kings of the earth, the princes, the generals, the rich, the mighty, and everyone else, both slave and free’ (6:15) who appear to be subject to the disasters unfolded by the four horsemen and the ‘souls of those who had been slain’ under the altar (6:9) who have been the victims of violence inflicted upon them by others. This suggests that the mass of humanity is both the victim and perpetrator of violence and disaster. In the second sequence, there is no equivalent to the souls under the altar, but those subject to judgement appear to have the possibility of repentance open to them (9:20–21). So the bifurcation of humanity into the saved and the judged looks less fixed here, in line with the ambiguity we see in relation to the destiny of the ‘kings of the earth’. In the third sequence, which strongly parallels the second, judgement has once again become more fixed, though the focus is now shifting from humanity to the Great City Babylon, a personification of imperial power (16:19). The 144,000 and Those from ‘Every Nation, Tribe, People and Language’ The bifurcation in ch. 6 between the saved and the judged continues into the ‘interlude’ in ch. 7, which seems to offer more detail on the nature of judgement. The opening section borrows the motif from Ezekiel 9 of ‘sealing’ those who would 49.  In so-called ‘futurist’ readings, these sections depict anticipated future judgements of God. But literary analysis demonstrating the relation between these series and the ‘interludes’ in chs. 7, 10–11 and 14–15 suggest that these depict the world currently under judgement. For comparison with ancient ‘prodigies’ see David E. Aune, Revelation 6–16 (WBC 52B; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1998), 416–19.

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be preserved from judgement, and depicts them as being enumerated for the purposes of a census; in both OT antecedents (Numbers 1 and 2 Samuel 24) this is to assess the combat strength of the people. This image depicts the redeemed as being a fixed number of closed ethnic identity. But, in common with the dynamic between ‘seeing’ and ‘hearing’ throughout the text, having heard the number of the redeemed, he turns to see them, and the two accounts are different visions of the same group. Koester rightly concludes: The most plausible approach is that Rev 7 offers two perspectives on the identity of Jesus’ followers. They are heirs to the promise to Israel (7:4–8) and a group of people from many nations (7:9–17)). . . . God chose Israel to be his priestly kingdom, but this location is extended to all who are redeemed by the lamb (Exod. 19:6; Rev. 1:5–6; 5:9–10).50

Those whom John heard being counted out in fact cannot be counted, and although from the twelve tribes of Israel they are from ‘every nation, tribe, people and language’. The phrase combines the idea of distinctive selection of Israel (‘out of every nation’ , Exod. 19:5) with the universal taxonomy of humanity (‘families, tongues, lands and nations’ , Gen. 10:31) and so serves to undermine any fixed, simple binary between the redeemed and the judged. It occurs seven times in Revelation (5:9; 7:9; 10:11; 11:9; 13:7; 14:6; 17:15) and Bauckham proposes reading these in relation to three themes. The first theme is that of the sacrificial death of Christ, the means by which the Lamb wins the allegiance of the nations (5:9, 13:7). The second is the worship: those who worship the beast will worship God (7:9, 14:6). The third theme is that of the city: the nations who now serve Babylon will become God’s peoples in the New Jerusalem.51 According to these collective characters, to be human means to be subject to powerful spiritual, natural, social and economic forces, and even to be caught up in them in ‘following’ and ‘worship’. For some, the suffering that results functions as a sign and an anticipation of the judgement of God that comes at the end; yet for others, who respond to the invitation to become part of the people of God, the suffering becomes a means of purification on their journey to the perfection of the holy city. They reflect the original creation of humanity in all its ethnic, linguistic and social diversity, and is caught up in the praise of God as creator and redeemer, being brought into his presence in anticipation of God’s unmediated presence with his people at the end.

Conclusion In the text of Revelation we are offered a rich tapestry in the depiction of humanity. On the one hand, the general descriptions of humanity highlight the variegation of 50.  Koester, Revelation, 427. It is striking that Koester uses language about this group which parallels Bauckham’s language about the significance of the ‘kings of the earth’ and their destiny (Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation, 139). 51. Bauckham, The Climax of Prophecy, 326–37.

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power and ethnicity, and make this variety more clearly visible than any other New Testament writing. On the other hand, the particular Christian congregations (assemblies) are depicted as very mixed in their struggle to maintain faithfulness in their calling as followers of the lamb. Some are doing well; others are finding it hard to resist misleading teaching and influences; some appear to be at the point of fatal compromise. In both these descriptions of humanity (the general and the particular), the text makes space for the mundane realities of first-century life. Against this variegated reality, Revelation also depicts humanity in ‘ideal’ categories, which involve a sharp bifurcation between the redeemed and the rejected, and so anticipate future destiny. The tension within the narrative, in each section of the book, is largely generated by the question of how the diversity of humanity (within and beyond the assemblies) relates to these two possible destinies. Some readings of Revelation have seen the bifurcation of these destinies as an all-pervasive binary, which makes the book a simplistic and potentially dangerous text. But the evidence of the mixed nature of the assemblies in chs. 2 and 3, and the ambiguities inherent in the terminology of the ‘kings of the earth’ and between the redeemed as the ‘144,000’ and ‘from every tribe, people, language and nation’ demonstrate that the mapping of future destinies onto present identity is fluid and indeterminate. The present age is construed as a period of testing and trial but consistently as an opportunity for ‘repentance’ (for those within the assemblies as well as those without) which will affect one’s final destiny. Because of this, humanity is portrayed as having the power as a moral agent with a qualified sense of free choice. The world is shaped by cosmic forces of good and evil (represented respectively by the multitude of angels in the text and the figures of the dragon, beasts, whore and false prophet) and, although these are powerful, they are not in themselves determinative of human destiny. They create a world in cosmic conflict, and because of this, humanity does not have absolute freedom – but does have the freedom to decide which side to be allied with. We are not completely free, but we are free enough to respond to the liberating invitation of God to share in the victory of the lamb. Redemption is constantly a possibility, and this involves liberation from oppressive powers of spiritual domination which operate in the sphere of the mundane and the political. This sense of moral responsibility is reinforced by the figure of John, who is a near-model of faithful witness but who must choose to commit to this path, and the qualified confidence in the process of revelation. God’s perspective and insight on the way the world is and the choices faced by the Christian communities is not presented in unqualified autocratic terms, but must be listened to, received and acted upon. The theme of creation is prominent in the text, in the authority of God as creator, in the praise of his power as creator and in the final goal of the cosmos being the renewal and redemption of the created order. The notion of humanity as created in the image of God can only be inferred from this rather than being expressed explicitly. The sin of humanity is in the failure to worship the true God, and humanity’s redemption comes from the sacrifice of the Lamb upon the throne in breaking the power of all false claimants to worship, and liberating humanity to experience the victory of keeping faith as true witnesses and true worshippers.

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Humanity in Revelation is portrayed as inhabiting a specific chronological time and a specific cultural, social and political space. But these locations are not of absolute importance. Spatially, the redeemed in some sense already inhabit the heavenly reality, so that both vertical (heaven/earth) and temporal (past/future/ present) distinctions are relativized. To become a follower of the lamb is to enter into a sense of history as the story of God’s faithful dealings with his people in the past, and the eschatological story of God’s redemption and renewal of the whole of creation. At the End, the space occupied by the people of God in the New Jerusalem is also the space occupied by the presence of God; the city is a cube, representing the Holy of Holies, and the whole city shines with the light of the glory of the presence of God (Rev 21:23). For these reasons, Revelation’s anthropology is both realistic  – in that it expounds the complexities of life and faith as they are experienced in practice – and idealistic – in that the text constantly holds out the hope of clarity and perfection in the eschaton. The comfort of the text lies in the possibility of locating humanity’s messy reality in the ideal vision of human destiny; the challenge of the text lies in the urgency of the need to do so.

Chapter 14 S O N O F G O D AT T H E C E N T R E :   A N T H R O P O L O G Y I N B I B L IC A L - T H E O L O G IC A L P E R SP E C T I V E Brian S. Rosner

There is a great urgency in our day for a compelling and satisfying account of what it means to be human and the related question of what it means to be you. As Kevin Vanhoozer contends: ‘The human race as the dawn of the third millennium, following the demise of the Christian paradigm and the break-up of modernity, is suffering from a collective identity crisis.’1 It is thus timely for biblical scholars and theologians to consider afresh questions related to humanity, human nature and personal identity. If this volume demonstrates anything it is that the Bible has a lot to say about what it means to be a human being. Consider some of the highlights from the previous chapters: ●

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Timothy Brookins, by way of background, notes the prevalence of GrecoRoman conceptions of the composition and fate of human beings and its many points of contrast with both biblical and modern Western notions; Jamie Grant shows how a Wisdom anthropology offers a realistic corrective to any romantic understanding of humanity that ignores our finitude and mortality; Matthias Henze demonstrates how early Judaism likewise emphasizes the fleeting and ephemeral nature of human life and the fact that we are dust, underscoring the frailty of human existence and the inevitability of death; Amy Richer contends that for the Gospel of Matthew, while humans exist as members of biological families, the best form of human life is attained when one becomes part of Jesus’ family, a family not tied by biology but by allegiance to Jesus and his teaching; Mark Strauss, similarly, finds a stress on new family relationships and a new humanity as the key to the Gospel of Mark’s anthropology;

1. Kevin Vanhoozer, ‘Human Being, Individual and Social’ , in The Cambridge Companion to Christian Doctrine, ed. Colin E Gunton (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1997), 158.

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Steve Walton discovers in Luke and Acts an anthropology with Jesus as humanity par excellence and as the model human being whom others are to imitate; Benjamin Reynolds concludes that the theological anthropology of the Gospel and Epistles of John is ultimately relational and that the Word becoming flesh, God becoming a human being, enables us to be born of God and to be called children of God; Jason Maston’s study of Paul similarly points to the critical nature of Jesus Christ being human for anthropology, with Christ as the definitive revelation of true humanity; Mariam Kamell Kovalishyn’s look at the anthropology of the Epistle of James emphasizes, consistent with the Wisdom tradition, a realistic and pessimistic anthropology where people will go astray, love the world and falsely judge one another, while observing also that James’s anthropology follows a biblical arc whereby through God’s mercy, human beings can be renewed as new creations, reveal the imago dei and reflect the mercy and compassion of God into the world; Karen Jobes’s study of the Epistles of Peter and Jude underscores the critical role of memory and destiny in forming human identity and the identity of believers as God’s children through new birth; And Ian Paul’s study of the anthropology of Revelation stresses the place of story, along with memory and destiny, in defining God’s people: ‘To become a follower of the lamb is to enter into a sense of history as the story of God’s faithful dealings with his people in the past, and the eschatological story of God’s redemption and renewal of the whole of creation.’

Several common themes run across the essays, including the predicament, purpose and destiny of human beings, humans as social beings, the difference between human and non-human life, the role of memory and destiny in forming identity, the primacy of the family of God, and above all, the place of Jesus Christ in understanding what it means to be human. This concluding essay offers a biblical-theological account of humanity and personal identity that builds upon several of the insights of the earlier essays.2 And it takes its cue from two angles on personal identity that Richard Bauckham points to in a brief but penetrating essay: The self is a unique and particular center of personal identity that can be characterized as relational and narratival. It is relational in that it is formed in personal and non-personal relationships.  .  .  .  It is narratival in that it is formed in and through time and finds its unique identity in a story with a past, present and expected future. The human self has no independent being, outside of 2. Much of this essay summarizes and builds upon my book, Known by God: A Biblical Theology of Personal Identity (BTFL; Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2017). The reworked material here is used by permission.

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relationships, and no timeless existence outside of the temporal reality that we can only describe in narrative.3

These two notions – the self in relationships and the self as part of a story – go to the heart of biblical anthropology. With respect to the relational self, it is certainly the case that the identities of human beings are formed in relation to other human beings. As Michael Horton states:  ‘The ‘self ’  – understood as an autonomous individual  – does not exist.’4 Instead, humans exist in networks of relationships. And as much as our hyperindividualistic age might see personal identity as a ‘do-it-yourself project’ , the truth is that ‘persons come to know themselves in being known by persons other than themselves’.5 The Bible puts great stock on the social dimension of human nature. However, while the role of human relationships in defining the individual is acknowledged as important, something more lasting and stable is seen to be of utmost importance:6 ultimately, the Bible grounds the identity of human beings in being known intimately and personally by God.7 With respect to the narratival self, it is doubtlessly true that our life stories, with all their ups and downs, play a vital role in forming who we are. But it is not just experiences in a person’s own lifetime that forge their identity. National, cultural and family histories also play a major role. The Bible makes much of this aspect of what it means to be human. Michael Horton explains the significance of such shared stories and memories for national and personal identity in the Old Testament: The present generation makes history their story,  . . . History is not only rendered contemporary; it is internalized. One’s people’s history becomes one’s personal

3.  Richard Bauckham, The Bible in the Contemporary World:  Hermeneutical Ventures (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015), 138–39. 4.  Michael Horton, The Christian Faith: A Systematic Theology for Pilgrims on the Way (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2011), 87. 5.  David A. Jopling, Self Knowledge and the Self (New  York/London:  Routledge, 2000), 166. 6. According to Gal. 3:28, a human being is more than one’s race, ethnicity, nationality, culture and even gender, for ‘in Christ Jesus there is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus’. And in 1 Cor. 7:29–31, a human is more than one’s marital status, occupation and possessions, and there is a sense in which should ‘live as if you were not married, had no dealings with the world, and did not take full possession of anything that you own’ (my own translation). 7.  Cf. Hans Walter Wolff, Anthropology of the Old Testament, trans. Margaret Kohl (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1974), 1–2: ‘Just as it is impossible for a man to confront himself and to see himself from all sides or for a person who is still developing to know of himself whose child he is, just so certainly does man fundamentally need the meeting with another, who investigates and explains him. But where is the other to whom the being man could put the question: who am I?’

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history. One looks out from the self to find out who one is meant to be. One does not discover one’s identity, and one certainly does not forge it oneself . . . . Instead, it is the consequence of what are presented as the acts of God . . . . Israel began to infer and to affirm her identity by telling a story.8

The New Testament likewise urges believers to find their identity in a larger narrative, namely, in the story of Jesus Christ, and especially in his death, resurrection and ultimate revelation in glory as the Son of God, an aspect that several of the previous essays have highlighted. As Col. 3:3–4 puts it: ‘You died [our shared memory], and your life is now hidden with Christ in God [we are known by God]. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory [our defining destiny].’9 The self is relational; ultimately, believers in Christ are known by God. The self is also narratival; fundamentally, Jesus Christ is the life story of all those who belong to him. It is these two major biblical themes that I explore briefly in this chapter. As it turns out, they both relate to a third theme that is arguably the Bible’s most cohesive and comprehensive teaching on human identity, namely the notion that believers are adopted into God’s family as his sons.10 Divine adoption and being known by God are related in that believers are known by God as a father knows as his children. And we are sons of God by way of our union with the Son of God. Indeed, the main thesis of this essay is to insist that when it comes to human identity, S/son of God is at the centre. The language of sonship raises the issue of gender-inclusive translation. Clearly, when used with reference to all believers in Jesus Christ, ‘son’ is a generic term referring to both males and females. There are two arguments for retaining it in translation and in theological discussions. The first is the ancient connection between sonship and inheritance. In ancient times, it was the right of the eldest son in the family to be the primary heir (cf. Deut. 21:15–17; Num. 27:8; 36:1–12).11 To translate ‘son’ as ‘child’ , it may be argued, obscures the point that all believers, both male and female, have the status of being adopted into God’s family as his sons and rightful heirs. However, while technically, the language of sonship does maintain a link to Christians being heirs, we should also note that Paul, for example, does not always insist on always using it: in Rom. 8:16–17, he discusses Christians being heirs describing us as God’s ‘children’ (τέκνα). Nonetheless, there is a second reason for retaining the language of sonship, at least in some contexts, as long as it is understood that the term is gender 8. Horton, The Christian Faith, 86–87. 9. All quotations of the Bible are from the NIV 2011 unless otherwise indicated. 10.  Cf. C. S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters (London:  Harper Collins, 2012), 45:  ‘The Enemy  . . . has a curious fantasy of making all these disgusting little human vermin into what He calls His “free” lovers and servants – “sons” is the word He uses.’ 11.  Jesus’ Parable of the Tenants reflects this custom: ‘When the tenants saw the son, they said to each other, ‘This is the heir. Come, let’s kill him and take his inheritance’’ (Mt. 21.38; cf. Mk 12.7; Lk. 20.14).

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inclusive: it reminds us that we are part of God’s family and heirs, thanks to the Son of God; we are sons of God because he is the Son of God. Julie Canlis writes: I am unwilling to drop the gendered term ‘sonship’ , as our ‘sonship’ is founded upon Christ’s own Sonship. For those who find the term suspect, I do not think it can be interchanged with all sorts of terms like ‘becoming children of God’ or ‘being adopted’ ,  . . . these lose christological clarity.12

Looking ahead to the rest of this essay, our exposition of the three anthropological themes of being known by God, becoming sons of God in the Son of God and being included in the life story of Jesus Christ fall into the following major sections. We begin by observing that Adam, being made in the image and likeness of God, is a son of God and is known intimately and personally by his Father in the Garden; however, Adam proves to be a rebellious son and suffers death as a result. Consequently, a major step in salvation history is the adoption into God’s family of both the nation Israel and King David and his dynasty, both of which are explicitly said to be known by God. Yet, Israel turns out to be God’s wandering son and the Davidic kings God’s disobedient sons. Only Jesus Christ was God’s perfect and well-pleasing Son, and Jesus is known by God as such at his baptism, transfiguration and resurrection, key moments in his life at which his identity is confirmed. Finally, all believers in Christ are sons of God in him. Our new identity as God’s sons, by way of being united with God’s Son, is our true identity, since being made in the image of God we were created to be God’s sons from the very beginning. In Christ, as those known by God as his children, we regain our true selves and constitute a new humanity.

Adam, a Rebellious Son of God What are human beings? We begin at the very beginning with the striking assertion in the Genesis 1 creation narrative that human beings are made in ‘the image and likeness of God’. The phrase in question sets the course for the Bible’s understanding of humanity, our purpose and goal, and is the starting point for grasping our identity. Th e two main terms ‘image’ (‫ )צלם‬and ‘likeness’ (‫ )דמת‬do not appear to be significantly different. If in 1:26 mankind is made in the ‘image’ and ‘likeness’ of God, the parallel statement in 1:27 only mentions being made in the ‘image’ of God. And later biblical references use ‘image’ and ‘likeness’ interchangeably (e.g. ‘image’ – Gen. 9:6; ‘likeness’ – Gen. 5:1; Jas 3:9). Together and apart, ‘image’ and ‘likeness’ denote the same concept.

12. Julie Canlis, ‘The Fatherhood of God and Union with Christ in Calvin’ , in ‘In Christ’ in Paul:  Explorations in Paul’s Theology of Union and Participation, ed. Michael J. Thate, Kevin J. Vanhoozer and Constantine R. Campbell (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 404.

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So what does it mean that we are made in the image and likeness of God? In the literary context of Genesis 1, the image of God is connected to humanity’s role of ruling over creation. In 1:26, God makes mankind in his image and likeness ‘so that they may rule’ over the other creatures in God’s world. And in 1:27–28 the males and females are created in God’s image in order ‘to fill the earth and subdue it’ and to ‘rule over’ it. In historical context, kings were thought to be the living image of a god and to embody the divine rule, the Pharaohs of Egypt being a clear example.13 And in the Ancient Near East an image or statue of a king was a visible representation of the monarch’s rule. Thus, both the context in Genesis 1 and usage in the world of Genesis suggest that image language is associated with humanity’s rule over creation on God’s behalf, perhaps with some royal connotations. Peter Gentry writes: ‘ “Image” describes a relationship between God and humans such that ‘ādām can be described as a servant king.’14 Since kingship was a hereditary concept, and in God’s case it is Adam and Eve as his vice-regents, there may also be a filial dimension to the concept of being in the image of God, implying that Adam and Eve are God’s children. What about the usage of the expression? The next occurrence of the image of God in Genesis is in Gen. 5:1–3.15 If the context of humanity made in the image of God in Genesis 1 suggests that having dominion over creation as God’s viceregent is associated with the concept, the usage of ‘image and likeness’ in Genesis 5 defines it as the language of family relationship: This is the written account of Adam’s family line. When God created mankind, he made them in the likeness of God. He created them male and female and blessed them. And he named them ‘Mankind’ when they were created. When Adam had lived 130 years, he had a son in his own likeness, in his own image; and he named him Seth. (Gen. 5:1–3)

Genesis 5:1–2 contain a clear allusion to the creation of mankind in the image of God in Gen. 1:26–28. Both texts use the language of the ‘creation’ of ‘mankind’ as ‘male and female’ in ‘the likeness of God’. And Gen. 5:3 describes Adam’s son Seth in a language that echoes the creation of the first humans: ‘Adam  . . . had a son in his own likeness, in his own image.’ As his son, Seth bears the image and likeness of his father Adam. In Gen. 5:3, to be made in the image and likeness of someone is to be their son.16

13. Gordon Wenham, Genesis 1–15 (WBC; Dallas, TX: Word, 1987), 30–31. 14. Peter J. Gentry, ‘Kingdom through Covenant: Humanity as Divine Image’ , SBJT 12, no. 1 (2008): 28–29. 15.  Gavin Ortlund, ‘Image of Adam, Son of God:  Genesis 5:3 and Luke 3:38 in Intercanonical Dialogue’ , JETS 57, no. 4 (2014): 673, observes that ‘there has been surprisingly little exploration of the import of Gen. 5:3 for the meaning of the imago Dei’. 16.  In recent years, a number of scholars have written in support of understanding the image of God in terms of sonship, including Henri Blocher, In the Beginning: The Opening

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Two texts in the New Testament supply further support for the view that being made in the image of God points to human beings as God’s sons or children. First, in Paul’s Areopagus address in Acts 17, he cites the Greek poet Aratus (Phaenomena 5) approvingly in saying that ‘we [i.e., all human beings] are his [God’s] offspring [γένος]’ (Acts 17:28). Given that Paul elsewhere teaches that Israel and Christian believers are sons of God by adoption (e.g. Rom. 9:4; Gal. 3:26–4:5), it is indeed striking that Paul here affirms that all human beings are children of God. However, as John Calvin observes, ‘the word “sons” can be diversely taken’ , and for Paul there is a sense in which ‘all mortal men are called sons in general’.17 Second, and even more significantly, there is the genealogy of Jesus in Luke 3. The list of Jesus’ descendants begins with the intimation that Jesus ‘was the son, so it was thought, of Joseph’ (Lk. 3:23). It moves through some thirtyseven names, noting their fathers. Then the conclusion of the genealogy of Jesus in Lk. 3:38 runs: ‘the son of Enosh, the son of Seth, the son of Adam, the son of God’.18 At the end of the list, the reference to Adam as the son of God, as Joel Green writes, ‘presents the divine origin of the human race and indicates Jesus’ solidarity with all humanity’.19 Several commentators, including Geldenhuys, Bock and Ryken, link, correctly in my view, Adam’s divine sonship with being made in the image of God.20 In the Garden, Adam and Eve were known intimately and personally by God. He knew them by name and, we might suggest, as his children. He walked with them, conversed with them and showed them his fatherly care, loving concern and devoted attention. The presence of God gave the Garden its life-giving power (Gen. 2:7), an environment in which Adam and Eve experienced true life in knowing God and being known by him. But the serpent undermined their relationship with God by questioning God’s motives (Gen. 2:5). The serpent’s lies were designed to destabilize Adam and Eve’s confidence in God and to tempt them to find their identity independently of him. In succumbing to the serpent’s lies, they turned from their Father and became disobedient children. They suffered death as a result and forfeited their full status as God’s sons. It is no accident that in Deut. 21:18–21 the rebellious and disobedient son receives the most severe punishment.

Chapters of Genesis (Leicester: IVP, 1984), 89; Gentry, ‘Kingdom through Covenant’ , 28–29; John Dickson, A Doubter’s Guide to the Bible:  Inside History’s Bestseller for Believers and Skeptics (Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan, 2014), 28; G. K. Beale, A New Testament Biblical Theology: The Unfolding of the Old Testament in the New (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2011), 401; Gavin Ortlund, ‘Image of Adam’ , 679, 687; Graeme Goldsworthy, The Son of God and the New Creation (SSBT; Wheaton:  Crossway, 2015), 61, 67; and Horton, The Christian Faith, 388. 17.  John Calvin, Commentary upon the Acts of the Apostles, vol. 2 (Bellingham, WA: Logos Bible Software, 2010), 170. 18. Italics added. 19. Joel Green, The Gospel of Luke (NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1997), 189. 20. Cited in Ortlund, ‘Image of Adam, Son of God’ , 685.

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God is effectively left with no children and must resort to adoption, so to speak, to populate his human family.

Israel and the Davidic Kings, God’s Disobedient Sons Following Adam and Eve’s failed sonship, the theme of being the sons of God in the Old Testament is connected to two great moments in salvation history.21 The first is when God adopts Israel as his son at the time of the Exodus. In explaining that Egypt’s firstborn sons will be killed in judgement, God says to Moses: ‘Say to Pharaoh, “This is what the LORD says: Israel is my firstborn son, and I told you, Let my son go, so he may worship me. But you refused to let him go; so I will kill your firstborn son”’ (Exod. 4:22–23). The prophet Hosea makes the same connection between the exodus and sonship for Israel: ‘When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son’ (Hos. 11:1). In the New Testament, Paul reflects a similar understanding when he describes the nation of Israel’s blessings as including their ‘adoption to sonship’ (Rom. 9:4). The second note of divine adoption struck in the Old Testament concerns God adopting the king of Israel as his son in the Davidic covenant. In 2 Samuel 7 God says of the Davidic king: ‘I will be his father, and he will be my son’ (v. 14; cf. 1 Chron. 17:13). The promise is repeated with reference to Solomon in 2 Chronicles 28 when God addresses David concerning the question of who will build the temple:  ‘Solomon your son is the one who will build my house and my courts, for I have chosen him to be my son, and I will be his father’ (v. 6). And in Psalm 2, a coronation psalm, the Lord says to his anointed king: ‘You are my son; today I have become your father’ (v. 7). Once again, being a child or son of God in the Old Testament is linked to being known by God. Two references to being known by God in the Old Testament appear in the contexts that specifically mention the salvific event of the Exodus. When Amos 3:2 refers to God’s election of Israel, ‘you only have I known’ , it is preceded immediately by the reminder that Israel is the people God ‘brought up out of Egypt’ (3:1b). Additionally, Hos. 13:4–5 sets God’s knowing the nation in the context of the same saving event: ‘I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt . . . . I knew you in the desert.’22 The Davidic covenant in 2 Samuel 7 also supports the nexus of being adopted by God and being known by God. Following David’s offer to build God’s ‘house’ (in the sense of temple) being trumped by God’s promise to build David’s ‘house’ (in the sense of dynasty), God promises to adopt David’s offspring who will succeed him to the throne (v. 14). Amidst the sons of God, who are the nation of Israel, the

21.  Cf. Roy E. Ciampa, ‘Adoption’ , in New Dictionary of Biblical Theology, ed. T. D. Alexander and B. S. Rosner (Leicester: IVP, 2000), 376. 22. My own translation. Most modern English versions do not render the Hebrew ‫ידע‬ literally, preferring something like ‘I cared for you in the desert’ (NIV).

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Davidic king will be the supreme son of God (cf. Ps. 2:7). In the wake of this overwhelming news and the resulting feelings of inadequacy, David asks: ‘Who am I, O Sovereign Lord, and what is my family, that you have brought me this far?’ (7:18b; cf. 1 Chron. 17:16b). His answer underscored that he was known by God: ‘For you know your servant, O Sovereign Lord’ (7:20a; cf. 1 Chron. 17:18b). References to being known by God in fact appear at critical points in the biblical narrative. In the Old Testament, along with David, those who are known by God include other key figures in God’s unfolding plan to save the world. For example, in Genesis 18 the explanation that God has chosen Abraham to become God’s channel of blessing to the nations (v. 18) is that God knows him (v. 19): ‘For I have known him, in order that he may command his children and his household after him, that they keep the way of the LORD, to do righteousness and justice, that the LORD may bring to Abraham what He has spoken to him’ (NKJV). In Exodus 33 Moses is described as God’s friend, with whom he speaks face to face (v. 11) and he reassures Moses with the words, ‘I know you by name and you have found favor with me’ (v. 12). In Jeremiah 1, Jeremiah opens his prophecy with a word of the Lord that establishes his calling: ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations’ (v. 5). Finally, in Amos 3 the nation of Israel itself is said to be known by God: ‘You only have I known of all the families of the earth’ (v. 2; NRSV). Like Adam’s sorry tale, the history of Israel is one of failure and disobedience. The nation and its leaders rebel against God, break his Law and are expelled from the Promised Land and sent into exile. With the partial return from exile and failing to live up to expectations the Hebrew prophets look for something more dramatic and radical to restore God’s people. God’s plan of salvation reaches its climax in the sending of his true Son, Jesus Christ.

Jesus Christ, God’s Obedient and Well-Pleasing Son When Adam and Eve transgressed God’s word in the Garden by believing the lies of the serpent, they became rebellious children of God. As a consequence, all human beings also forfeited their status as God’s children and became estranged from him, no longer known by him as their Father. The contrasting case of the temptation of Jesus Christ, who withstood the lies of Satan and proved to be God’s faithful and obedient Son, gives us hope that our true identity as those known by God as his children can be restored. It is indeed striking that the devil’s three temptations of Jesus in the wilderness are also directly related to Jesus’ identity as God’s Son. The first two of Satan’s tests are prefaced with the taunt, ‘if you are the Son of God  . . . ‘ (Mt. 4:4, 6; cf. Lk. 4:3, 9). Satan’s tests are designed to see whether or not Jesus will remain God’s faithful and obedient Son. What does it mean to be the Son of God? What sort of Son is Jesus? In response to the first temptation, to turn the stones into bread, Jesus quotes the Old Testament: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes

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from the mouth of God’ (Mt. 4:4; cf. Deut. 8:3). This same pattern is repeated with the second and third tests. In each case Jesus quotes the Old Testament to indicate that ‘listening to God is that which is life-sustaining’.23 The similarities and differences between Genesis 3 and Matthew 4 are indeed striking and take a biblical theology of divine sonship full circle. First, both start with temptations to do with eating, but occur in entirely different settings:  one in the plenty of the Garden, the other in the scarcity of the Wilderness. Second, both scenes concern the truth and goodness of the word of God. If Adam and Eve deny what God said, succumb to temptation and transgress God’s word, Jesus affirms the sufficiency of God’s Word and stands firm. Third, both scenes reveal the identity of the ones being tempted. Adam and Eve are known by God intimately and personally as his children but doubt God’s ‘paternal goodness’.24 Jesus, on the other hand, affirms his trust in his Father and proves himself to be God’s faithful and obedient Son. Significantly, the scene immediately preceding the temptations of Jesus in Matthew is the Baptism of Jesus, which climaxes with the voice from heaven saying, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased’ (Mt. 3:17). Fourth, both set the pattern for two different versions of what it means to be a human being: one, following Adam and Eve’s example, leading to death, as God had warned; the other setting the course for a new humanity leading to life. In the Garden, Adam and Eve believed the serpent and became rebellious sons of God, suffering ‘a symbolic death’25 as a result. In the Wilderness, Jesus passed the test and refused to believe Satan’s lies; he was indeed the Son of God (cf. Mt. 4:2, 6). The two archetypal episodes of temptation in the Bible were fought over the issue of human identity. What is a human being? Who are Adam and Eve? Who is Jesus? Should they establish their identities independently of God? Will selfassertion lead to becoming like God? Does God their Father love them or not? At root, these questions are versions of the Bible’s most fundamental anthropological question: Are Adam and Eve and Jesus truly ‘sons of God’ and how should they behave? In both cases, the lesson is that true freedom is found in knowing God as Father, trusting his word, resisting satanic lies and finding one’s identity in being known and loved by him. Whereas Adam and Eve failed the test, Jesus Christ proved to be a faithful and obedient Son of God. Jesus’ identity as the Son of God is affirmed at crucial moments of his life in the Gospels. In Mt. 16:16, Peter answers Jesus’ question concerning his identity on behalf of the disciples: ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God’ (see Mt. 16:13–16, 20; cf. Mk 8:27–29; Lk. 9:18–20). Of course, it is not only Peter who

23.  John Nolland, The Gospel of Matthew: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2005), Preface, xvii. Italics original. 24.  John Calvin, The Institutes of the Christian Religion, I.  14.2; cited in Canlis, ‘The Fatherhood of God and Union with Christ in Calvin’ , 404. 25.  Kenneth A. Mathews, Genesis 1–11:26 (NAC 1A; Nashville, TN:  Broadman & Holman, 1996), 237.

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identifies Jesus as the Son of God in the Gospels. Others recognize him as such, including the angel to Mary (Lk. 1:32, 35), Nathanael (Jn 1:49), Martha (Jn 11:27), the unclean spirits (Mk 3:11) and the demons called ‘legion’ (Mk 5:7), and the centurion at Jesus’ crucifixion (Mk 15:37–38). However, most striking of all is the fact that at three key points of his life, Jesus’ identity as the Son of God is confirmed by God. Jesus, like those who trust in him, is known by God. There is, first, the baptism of Jesus about which Mark writes: At that time Jesus came from Nazareth in Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. Just as Jesus was coming up out of the water, he saw heaven being torn open and the Spirit descending on him like a dove. And a voice came from heaven: ‘You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.’ (Mk 1:9–10; cf. Mt. 3:13–17; Lk. 3:21–22)

The second incident is the transfiguration of Jesus: After six days Jesus took with him Peter, James and John the brother of James, and led them up a high mountain by themselves. There he was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became as white as the light. Just then there appeared before them Moses and Elijah, talking with Jesus. Peter said to Jesus, ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will put up three shelters – one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.’ While he was still speaking, a bright cloud covered them, and a voice from the cloud said, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!’ (Mt. 17:1–5; cf. Mk 9:2–8; Lk. 9:28–36)

Finally, commenting on the resurrection of Jesus, Paul writes: Paul, a servant of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle and set apart for the gospel of God the gospel he promised beforehand through his prophets in the Holy Scriptures regarding his Son, who as to his earthly life was a descendant of David, and who through the Spirit of holiness was appointed the Son of God [by God]26 in power by his resurrection from the dead: Jesus Christ our Lord. (Rom. 1:1–4)27

At three of the most critical junctures in Jesus’ adult life, when he was baptized, transfigured and raised from the dead, he is known by God as the Son of God. Not only is Jesus Christ’s identity critical for our identity, the manner in which he receives his identity is the same as ours: in both cases we are known by God. Son of God is arguably the most comprehensive identity of Jesus revealed to us in the Gospels. As we have seen, it has a long backstory in biblical theology and salvation history. It is associated not only with Jesus as the Messiah, but also with

26.  The verb ‘to appoint’ is in the passive voice with God as the implied agent of the action. 27. Cf. also Acts 13:32–33.

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Jesus as the new Adam and as God the Son, the second person of the Godhead. And Jesus as the Son of God is the key concept for our own identity in him. If Jesus is known by God as a father knows a son, believers in Christ are also known by God in a similar manner. In the New Testament, being known by God defines Christian existence (Gal. 4:8–9; 1 Cor. 8:3), is a criterion of the last judgement (Mt. 7:23 [‘I never knew you’]; 25:12; cf. Lk. 13:27) and is a measure of eschatological glory (1 Cor. 13:12 [‘then I shall know, even as I have been fully known’]). And the broader contexts of both Rom. 8:29 and Gal. 4:8–9 contain repeated references to divine adoption, strongly suggesting that we are known by God as a father knows his children. Intriguingly, in 1 Peter 1, both Jesus and believers are also said to be known by God the Father: To God’s elect . . . who have been chosen according to the foreknowledge of God the Father, through the sanctifying work of the Spirit, to be obedient to Jesus Christ and sprinkled with his blood. (vv. 1–2) He [i.e., Jesus] was foreknown before the foundation of the world but was made manifest in the last times for the sake of you who through him are believers in God, who raised him from the dead and gave him glory, so that your faith and hope are in God. (vv. 20–21; ESV)

While no New Testament text says it explicitly, Jesus being known by God as his Son may well be the grounds by which we are known by God as his sons and children. Either way, the related point that our identity as God’s sons arises from being in union with God’s Son is affirmed in Scripture.

Believers in Christ as Sons of God in Union with God’s Son Union with Christ is a rich theme in Paul’s letters with many dimensions. Indeed, Paul uses a number of images and metaphors when explaining the nature of union with Christ, including being members of Christ’s body, being married to Christ, being one flesh with Christ and being God’s building and temple in him. And the benefits of the status and identity of being in union with Christ are manifold: believers are free from condemnation, die with Christ, are raised with Christ, are a new creation and are coheirs in Christ. Being in union with Christ is a key notion for explicating the identity of believers in Christ in Paul’s thought. How, then, does being in union with Christ relate to theme of divine adoption according to Paul? Several scholars believe that the identity of believers as God’s sons is based on the fact that by virtue of belief in Jesus Christ they are in union with God’s Son. Several scholars note this connection. John Murray contended that ‘we cannot think of [divine] adoption apart from union with Christ’.28 Henri 28. John Murray, Redemption Accomplished and Applied (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1961), 170.

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Blocher argues that ‘in the Son we become sons, an act of grace which fulfills and transcends our primeval quasi-sonship’ ,29 a reference to Adam and Eve as image bearers and sons of God. Grant Macaskill writes that ‘in [John] Calvin’s account of adoption  . . . it is because believers are ingrafted into Christ through faith that they are adopted [into God’s family]’.30 And J. Todd Billings asserts that ‘our true identity, our real identity’ is ‘our identity as adopted children in union with Christ’.31 The view that adoption into God’s family is inseparable from union with Christ derives directly from Paul in Eph. 1:3–5 and Gal. 3:26–28. These two texts in Paul’s letters demonstrate that a link exists between union with Christ and the adoption of believers in Christ into God’s family. First, in Eph. 1:3–5 Paul lists a number of spiritual blessings that belong to God’s people that are found in Christ, adoption being among them:  ‘He destined us for adoption as his children through Jesus Christ’ (Eph. 1:5; NRSV). As Trevor Burke explains: ‘adoption in Ephesians 1:5 is situated within the context of a plethora of spiritual blessings that are ours only in and through God’s Son, Jesus Christ’.32 In particular, the description of Jesus Christ as ‘the one whom God loves’ refers implicitly to his status as God’s Son and indicates that our own ‘sonship’ is due to being found in him. The second text that links adoption to union with Christ is Gal. 3:26–28. According to v. 26, all of those who have faith in Christ become children of God ‘in Christ Jesus’.33 Grant Macaskill draws out the implications of becoming children of God in Christ Jesus and underscores the critical nature of the identity of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, for our own identity as God’s sons: The description in Galatians 3:27 of those baptized into Christ being ‘clothed’ with him is reflective of the extent to which the believer’s identity is now defined 29. Blocher, In the Beginning, 90. 30. Grant Macaskill, Union with Christ in the New Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 87. 31. J. Todd Billings, Union with Christ: Reframing Theology and Ministry for the Church (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2011), 30. 32. Trevor J. Burke, Adopted into God’s Family: Exploring a Pauline Metaphor (NSBT 22; Downers Grove, IL: IVP, 2006), 124. 33. There is debate among commentators and translations as to whether v. 26 should be translated: (1) ‘In Christ Jesus you are all sons of God through faith’ (cf. NIV, NRSV, NET, NIV, GNB, ESV); or (2) ‘You are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus’ (HCSB, NLT, NASB, NKJV). The issue concerns whether the phrase ‘in Christ Jesus’ is governed by ‘sons of God’ or by ‘faith’. Bruce, Galatians, 184, points out Paul usually expresses faith in Christ using an objective genitive (see v.  22). In response, Constantine R. Campbell, Paul and Union with Christ:  An Exegetical and Theological Study (Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan, 2012), 118, cites three texts where an expression similar to ‘faith in Christ Jesus’ appears. However, none of the examples matches Gal. 3:26 perfectly:  Col. 1:4 has ‘your faith in Christ’; and 1 Tim. 3:13 and 2 Tim. 3:15 include an article functioning as a relative pronoun (lit., ‘faith which is in Christ Jesus’). The grammar does not decide the issue. On balance, context favors understanding Gal. 3:26 as asserting that believers become sons of God by

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by the personhood of Jesus. The statement is paired with a negation of other grounds of identity or status (‘there is no Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female’ , 3:28) and with a declaration of unity in Christ (‘you are all one in Christ Jesus’). . . . The clothing metaphor here, then, is one that is intended to present believers in the identity of Christ as sons of God. It is subordinated to the imagery of adoption, but it is vital to note that the grounds of this is the categorically different sonship of Jesus: believers are baptized into him, and clothe themselves with what he is as constituent of his own identity. Their identity is derivative of his.34

The notion of being in union with Jesus Christ, the Son of God, draws together several threads of a biblical-theological anthropology. If in Adam humans lost their status as God’s sons and damaged the image of God, in Christ humans are being conformed to and renewed into the image of God’s Son (Rom. 8:29; Col. 3:10). Indeed, it is Christ’s purpose ‘to create in himself one new humanity’ (Eph. 2:15).

Putting on the Lord Jesus Christ, God’s Obedient Son We opened this chapter with Richard Bauckham’s contention that there are two dimensions to the human self, the relational and the narratival; human beings are social creatures and our lives find meaning as part of larger stories. To this point in our exploration of the Bible’s anthropology we have concentrated on the former angle, underscoring the critical nature of being known by God as his sons for the identity of Adam and Eve, the Davidic kings, the people of God in both the Old and New Testament, and, above all of Jesus Christ. In this final section we turn to the notion of the narratival self. Once again, the Son of God is central to human identity. Believers in Christ find their identity in the life story of Jesus Christ. Union with the Son of God implies participation in the major events of Christ’s life. If the defining events of the life of Christ are his death, resurrection and ascension, it follows for those in Christ that when we were ‘dead in our transgressions and sins’ , that ‘God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus’ (Eph. 2:1, 6). The Christian practice of baptism reinforces believers’ status as people who find their identity in Christ. Paul, for example, states: Or do you not know that all of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were therefore buried with him through baptism into

way of union with Christ Jesus: v. 27a’s reference to being baptized into Christ likely recalls and explains the reference to union with Christ in v. 26 (see explanatory gar at the beginning of v. 27). 34. Macaskill, Union with Christ in the New Testament, 196–97 (emphasis original). Cf. Stephen E. Fowl, Ephesians: A Commentary (NTL; Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 42: ‘We only obtain our share in this adoption through the true son, Christ.’

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death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life. (Rom. 6:3–4)

It is not that union with the Son of God cancels the significance of one’s life events. Believers do not lose their past stories but remain individuals in the fullest sense. Life’s ups – such as getting married, having children, getting a job, buying a house – along with life’s knocks, our family histories, and so on, remain significant for our life stories. But ultimately such things don’t define us. In this concluding section we return to a text that I noted in the introduction to this chapter, namely Colossians 3. There we noted Paul’s exhortation to believers to find their identity in the death, resurrection and ultimate revelation in glory as the Son of God (vv. 3–4): ‘You died [our shared memory], and your life is now hidden with Christ in God [we are known by God]. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory [our defining destiny].’ The rest of Colossians 3 draws out the implications of this new identity and underscores its universal significance. Consider vv. 9–10: Do not lie to each other, since you have taken off your old self with its practices and have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge in the image of its Creator. Here there is no Gentile or Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all, and is in all.

The old and new selves that are taken off and put on in vv. 9 and 10 are not old and new natures, but rather the old humanity associated with Adam and the new humanity associated with Christ. The key to understanding the old self (τὸν παλαιὸν ἄνθρωπον) and the new self (τὸν νέον [ἄνθρωπον]) is to recognize that they are corporate rather than individual concepts. Verse 11 makes this clear: ‘Here [in the new self] there is no Gentile or Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian’ , etc. We could translate that believers take off ‘the old humanity’ and put on ‘new humanity’. For Paul, the old humanity is first of all a reference to Adam and the new humanity a reference to Christ. Hence it is no surprise that elsewhere Paul can speak of ‘putting on Christ’ (Gal. 3:27; Rom. 13:14) as another way of saying ‘putting on the new humanity’. Adam and Christ, as representative of the old and new humanities, are associated with rebellion against God and obedience to God respectively, and represent contrasting patterns of conduct. To put on the new humanity is to enter a new sphere of existence in union with Christ. In terms of ongoing behavioural transformation, the new humanity is ‘being renewed in knowledge and in the image of its Creator’ (v. 10). As James Dunn notes: Here the exhortation makes more explicit use of the motif of Adam and creation, in terms both of knowledge and of the image of God, an unavoidable allusion to Gen. 1:26f. For knowledge was at the heart of humanity’s primal failure (Gen. 2:17; 3:5, 7), and humankind’s failure to act in accordance with their knowledge of God by acknowledging him in worship was the central element in

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Paul’s earlier analysis of the human plight, of ‘the old self ’ (Rom. 1:21). Renewal in knowledge of God, of the relation implied by that knowledge (see on 1:10), was therefore of first importance for Paul.35

The growth in knowledge that is both the goal and means of the renewal in question is knowledge of God and of Christ and also knowledge of ourselves in relation to God and Christ; we are those whose true identities are hidden with Christ in God (v. 3); we are known by God and that knowledge makes our identities permanent and secure. Renewal into the image of God is the outcome of the process, and it is no accident that Paul has already said in the letter that Christ is ‘the image of God’ (Col. 1:15). As Douglas Moo puts it: ‘It is Christ who supplies the pattern for the renewal of the new self.’36 Furthermore, the new humanity renders obsolete the divisions of the old humanity: ‘Here [in the new humanity] there is no Gentile or Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all, and is in all’ (Col. 3:11). The list of eight groups of Col. 3:11 makes it clear that the racial, ethnic, social and cultural distinctions of the old humanity are not relevant for the new humanity in Christ.37 However, it is not the case that such distinctions are removed entirely in the new humanity. The household code in Col. 3:18–4:1 indicates that ‘the Christian community is comprised of people who maintain their gender, familial and social identities’.38 Yet such earthly identities are not all important in the new humanity where people ‘bear the image of the heavenly man’ (1 Cor. 15:49). As Paul concludes at the end of Col. 3.11, ‘Christ is all [-important]’ and Christ is ‘in all [people]’ ,39 bringing unity to all by giving them all the same high status, even ‘slaves’ , ‘barbarians’ and ‘Scythians’ as God’s chosen people (see v. 12). The change of clothes metaphor (‘put on/ put off ’) reinforces the idea that the new identity calls for a new lifestyle. Or to run with the metaphor, a new identity means sporting ‘a new look’. Any identity brings with it characteristic behaviours and a change of identity necessarily means a change of behaviour. Thus, in v. 9, believers, having ‘taken off your old self with its practices’ ,40 need to put something on in its place. Having put on the new humanity, believers must clothe themselves

35.  James D. G. Dunn, The Epistles to the Colossians and to Philemon (NIGTC; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1996), 225. 36. Douglas J. Moo, The Letters to the Colossians and to Philemon (PNTC; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008), 268. Cf. Rom. 8:29: ‘Those whom God foreknew he predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son.’ 37. Paul makes the same point in 1 Cor. 12:13 and Gal. 3:28 with comparable lists. 38. Moo, The Letters to the Colossians and to Philemon, 271. 39. The phrase ἐν πᾶσιν could be neuter and mean that Christ is ‘in all’ things. However, the context favors taking πᾶσιν as masculine meaning ‘in all’ people. 40. ‘Practices’ translates πράξεσιν, which means ‘way of conducting oneself, way of acting, course of action’ (BDAG, 859; emphasis original).

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(= behave consistently with that new identity) with compassion, kindness and so on (v. 12) and ‘over all these virtues [to] put on love, which binds them all together in unity’ (v. 14). These, of course, are the very behaviours that characterize Jesus in the Gospels. When it comes to human identity in the Bible S/son of God is at the centre. If Adam was a rebellious son of God, Israel proved to be God’s wandering son, and David and his dynasty of kings were God’s disobedient sons. Only Jesus Christ was God’s perfect and well-pleasing Son; and all believers in Christ are sons of God in him. The believer’s new identity as God’s son by virtue of being united to God’s Son is one’s true identity, since being made in the image of God they were made to be God’s sons from the very beginning. In Christ, as those known by God as his children, believers regain their true selves. And this new identity has implications for human conduct in the present as they put on the new humanity, which is Jesus Christ the Son of God.

Chapter 15 T H E M YS T E RY O F C H R I ST IA N A N T H R O P O L O G Y Ephraim Radner

The critical scrutiny of New Testament texts is an essential element in articulating a faithful Christian anthropology. In itself, however, such study is not enough. The theologian’s task, in this case, is to engage the fruits of such critical study with particular tools that can place and integrate them within a larger cohesive vision, somehow consistent with the truth of God. Ecclesial traditions offer their own guidance in how this can be done. Yet even in its most scripturally tethered form, such theological work involves approaches and claims that go beyond textually specific determinations. Thus, a theological discussion of anthropology in the Scriptures is something that must, in the end, push beyond the identification of local textual attitudes, whether of this or that book or author of either New or the Old Testament. Every discrete text is replete with open-ended elements that seek their continuities with the rest of the canonical scriptures, in a way for which theological discussion becomes at least a kind of gloss on this movement. Theology is not, however, just a commentary on Scripture. It is primarily Scriptural, at least in the main historic ecclesial traditions, but as a ‘logos’ it is a human form of speaking to and about God. Within this discourse, the Scriptures are the ultimate and transfigured form of speech, but even so, always as that which can be spoken by human beings. Hence, theology must always deal with the speaker of God’s name, with the human being or person. Hence, theology is always wrapped up with human situatedness and with some kind of reflection upon it. This is especially true of theological ‘anthropology’: in such an enterprise, the speaker of God is speaking about herself or himself in just this situation of relating that speech to God. The question, ‘what is man?’ , then, is always pushing beyond the Scriptural words themselves to the one who asks the question, uncertain of its answer and thus mixing the particular uncertainties of human beings into the theological exploration the question opens up. Theological anthropology, as a result, is a discipline that has, almost by definition, required a form of ‘natural’ theology as an essential element of its pursuit, in the sense of making the very form of human experience part of the content of truthful theological discourse as its inextricable vehicle and object. A human being cannot talk truthfully about herself or himself before God without engaging the fundamental self-awareness of this subject. In the theological enterprise, the description and

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exegesis of biblical texts, such as this volume has richly provided, must next involve a human self who is encountering or being encountered by these texts. Sorting out the priorities of meaning, the shadows of reference and inevitable distortions in such discriminations, is part of the discipline, and it cannot be escaped. Here, historical and social description, analysis and critique cannot be set aside. ‘What is man?’ involves the questioner’s own sense of the one speaking, and that itself is at least variably expressed and probably, to some extent, variably sensed in different contexts. If Scriptural texts are to order this object, they must order this history and social practice somehow, illuminate it, even as perhaps they judge it. But apprehending such illumination and judgement remains an ongoing task for any human interpreter, precisely because its truth is always incompletely grasped in the transitory nature of human situatedness itself. ‘What is man?’ is, theologically, answered truly as ‘Jesus’; but that answer’s meaning must apply to the Jew and the Gentile, as well as to the Chinese and the African, the ancient and modern, the long-lived and the child dead in the morning. One cannot take these particularities simply as accidental aspects to the question ‘what is man?’ or to its answer. The particularity of human life as it is lived in asking the question is not only implied, but it is also essentially formative of any Scriptural anthropology. Hence, any theological anthropology that is scriptural must engage the Scripture’s anthropological breadth given in history and human experience. David Kelsey’s general argument for the foundational entry into anthropology of Wisdom literature, as Jamie Grant points out, derives from this conviction, and it is one I believe to be a normative method, as I explain.1 The challenge, then, is to locate such an experiential entry point within the theologically integrated Christological centre of the Bible as a whole. The essays in this volume take up particular portions of Scripture, in this case of the New Testament (although we could extend this to the Old) which are identified by literary boundaries or authorial or perhaps more corporately constrained intentions. But these texts, identified in just this way, have to find a way into this larger canvass, thereby losing aspects of their identity in the process. If ‘what is man?’ is a question for all people, it is also, in Scriptural terms, a question that can only be answered canonically. In the end, of course, it is the Christian reader who must, in a sense, take responsibility for this integrative act, the pursuit of which is itself a kind of ascetical submission to the whole of God’s work with respect to a human life. One is always asking the question, always being brought up short, always being confronted with the need for and gift of grace.

Bones and Bodies I offer only one way, among many possible ways, of pursuing the specifically theological task of articulating a Christian anthropology that makes use of key elements

1.  David Kelsey, Eccentric Existence:  A Theological Anthropology, 2  vols. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009).

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from the work done in this volume. It begins, admittedly, from a starting point that most of the authors of these essays did not in fact underscore, that is, with the human body as a fundamental and normative given. There are good reasons why this starting point may stand a bit in the exegetical shadows, to be sure: as Richter notes regarding Matthew, Jesus seems to rework expected notions of generative being – families, for instance; Mark gestures in a similar direction, according to Strauss, while Luke, Walton argues, reconceives the very shape of bodies within society along with the relationship these might have otherwise implied. As Reynolds describes John, furthermore, there is a more deliberate movement in the Johannine texts of fallen flesh upwards, as it were, to spirit. One could go on. Bodies, as Grant had earlier argued, are ‘frustrating’ , and Jesus in the New Testament in one way or another seeks to resolve this frustration. Yet, just in this orientation, bodies are given a tacit precedence, and it is this that I wish to take up in an attempt to engage the broader canonical and experiential context for a specifically Christian anthropology, in a way that can lay the groundwork for some of the redemptive realities the other essays rightly underscore. ‘Frustration’ is a given, in large measure because of the grace of createdness and its constraints within a world of mortal limits. ‘What is man?’ is properly answered in terms of such mortal limits, of ‘at least this!’ , so that the Gospel itself always implies this ‘at least’. I begin with Tertullian’s classic, if still striking, insistence that a human being, however we want to construe her or him, is a body, that is thus constituted in a certain way: And remember that ‘man’ in the strict sense means the flesh, for this was the first possessor of the designation ‘man’ [Hominem autem memento carnem proprie dici, quae prior vocabulum hominis occupavit.]: And God formed man, clay from the earth – already is he man who is still clay – and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man – that is, the clay – became a living soul [Gen. 2:7, 8]. and God placed in paradise the man whom he had formed. Thus ‘man’ is first that which was formed, and afterwards is the whole man.2

Tertullian begins with Genesis for the obvious reason that this text speaks of the human being’s initial creation by God. He links this, in an essential way, to the fact that human beings are, first of all, matter, whose fullness as a ‘life’ is utterly God given. This ‘essential’ element of being human – or the sensus strictus of the term ‘human being’ – is given simply in the fact that human beings are bodies, understood in all their bodily aspects, from birth to death, and in their temporal contingencies, needs and outcomes. For Tertullian, to say ‘human being’ is to say ‘human body’ – a body ‘on the way’ to something more (ensoulment, eternal life,

2.  Tertullian, ‘On the Resurrection’ , 5, in Ernest Evans, Tertullian’s Treatise on the Resurrection:  The Text Edited with an Introduction, Translation, and Commentary (Eugene: Wipf & Stock, 2016), 16–17.

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and more), but only because it is a body made by God in this way. That is, human beings are human creatures. Strauss points this out with respect to the Gospel of Mark, but it requires a steady turn to Genesis to unveil what the New Testament cannot escape. The creatureliness of human beings is, then, the fundamental basis for any Christian anthropology. The form of that creatureliness – bodies that come from God – is in fact a relatively universal human apprehension (‘naturally’ grasped, as it were). This has been made clear to me, anecdotally, by conversations with East Africans, Chinese and Inuit, among others. Whatever exactly it means to say that all of us are descendants, as it were, of Adam and Eve, it means at least that we all have bodies that are given in a certain way – from two parents, whether we know them or not – and that end up in a certain form: dust. Death is a part of creaturehood, in other words, in the same way that birth is, as its mirror. Both determine, in a large measure, what Tertullian calls a ‘body’ and what Genesis indicates as being a human creature made by God. Bodyliness is a recently popular topic in theology. But, as in the New Testament’s tacit anthropological foundation, it has always formed the basis of human encounters with God, as Job’s figure, narratively and physically, insists. Tertullian argues that a human creature is a human creature because God has made it a body. Bodies are given with humanness as an identity. This latter sense is a universally traditional one, in that bodily givenness is the primary matter of Scriptural reflection: lifespan, survival, physical order and relationship, sex, procreation, toil, pleasures, suffering, weakening and death – the matter of blessing, of frustration and of transfiguration. This bodily realm is not only the ground of Scriptural speech, but it also provides the basic topics of its human focus as well as human speech about God, that is, theology proper. ‘What is man?’ , then, is always Scripturally answered in terms of ‘what does God do with human bodies?’ in the context of what human creatures do with them. From this emerges essential elements and issues like ‘soul’ or ‘eschaton’ or ‘spirit’ , themes that we can see are specific, in different ways, to New Testament discussions about being human. Yet they arise only from this bodied creature. The material bodyliness of human creatures, in this coming-to-be and dying, are often identified with bones, for example. So, one avenue for a theological anthropology is to trace the ‘bones of Adam’. I am using this only as an example of what must happen to New Testament texts, of where they need to fit, and fit, as it turns out, in a grand and consistent human breadth of experience. The Inuit, for instance, have great respect for bones – bones of caribou, bear, whales. They turn caribou bones on the ground, so that they can ‘rest’; they won’t break certain bones of animals after they have been killed; they put seal bones back in an ice hole, so that new seals can be born. There is a great biblical – Jewish and Christian – tradition about bones as well. Even the particular human act and relationship we call marriage itself is related to these bones that the Bible talks about. Adam is made from earth; but Eve is made from the bones of Adam. This is what Adam recognizes in their initial encounter, the first ‘marriage’ of the world: you are ‘bone of my bones’ (Gen. 2:23; cf. Eph.

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5:30). We are joined together, man and woman, Adam and Eve, as one set of bones. The children that come from this joining are bones that come from bones. In some Jewish and recent Christian interpretation of Gen. 2:24, the ‘one flesh’ is read, not as the male–female union, but as the child that results from that union.3 This kind of connection, bound to generative physical intimacy sustains, perhaps, Paul’s own convictions regarding the power of God to sanctify children (1 Cor. 7:14). Human marriage and its experiential forms in this way properly stand at the centre of this osseous creaturely vocation and cannot be marginalized to one aspect of Christian anthropology. It is a worry I have regarding the way that some New Testament perspectives have been inflated, when detached from their tacit canonical context. Human marriage expresses and puts into action our createdness, according to the line of historical generation: flesh of flesh, bone of bones, Adam and Eve, family, Israel, genealogy, Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ and, in the mystery of the God-Man, all peoples past and present. To be a human creature is to be related to mothers and fathers, or related to those who come after us, through the flesh and bone. With this as a presupposition, it is possible to see both how the rejigging of these relationships even in Gospel terms will always be ecclesially demanding, and how they fit within the ongoing ordering of creaturely life. Peeler’s discussion of the familial characteristics of Hebrews’ depiction of Christological redemption is a good example of how such elements do not stand so much in tension, as in an informative relation. Scripture repeatedly underscores how life is passed on in the same way that Eve is related to Adam, and through the way man and woman are related through marriage by being connected to each other’s bones. We can note a few examples: And Laban said to him, Surely thou [art] my bone and my flesh. And he abode with him the space of a month. (Gen. 29:14) Then came all the tribes of Israel to David unto Hebron, and spake, saying, Behold, we [are] thy bone and thy flesh. (2 Sam. 5:1)

Bones express actual life as coming from God, in a way similar to blood, as Job exclaims: Thou hast clothed me with skin and flesh, and hast fenced me with bones and sinews. (Job. 10:11) His breasts are full of milk, and his bones are moistened with marrow. (Job 21:24)

Later Jews believed that one bone, at the bottom of the spine, called ‘the Luz’ , was the origin of all the rest of the bones, and hence the place where created life has its first beginning in a body, and where, at the resurrection, the new body will

3.  Sanhedrin 58a; Jean-Luc Marion, La rigeur des choses:  Entretiens avec Dan Arbib (Paris: Flammarion, 2012), 199.

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be constructed by God (the so-called os resurrectionis).4 According to the legend, it could not be dissolved in water or burned by fire, ‘and from it man will blossom forth at the resurrection’ (Eccles. R. 12:5, no. 1; Gen. R. 28:3). When life fails, this is felt in the bones: ‘For my life is spent with grief, and my years with sighing: my strength faileth because of mine iniquity, and my bones are consumed’ (Ps. 31:10). Indigenous peoples around the world, not only in North America, care for the bones of their ancestors, and see them as connected to their life in the land that God has placed them in. Israel felt the same way. So, for instance, when Joseph died in Egypt as a great man, he nonetheless made his descendants promise to carry his bones back to the promised land. And this is just what Moses and the Israelites did when they fled from Egypt hundreds of years later (Gen. 50:25; Josh. 24:32). Jews remained careful about caring for and burying the bones of those who died, because they represented the gift of created life that God began with Adam and Eve and passed on to all human beings. Ossuaries from Jesus’ time, some of them very expensive, survive to this day.5 At the resurrection, these bones would be put back together: life, made new life, anticipated in the manner of Ezekiel’s famous prophecy, ‘bone to his bone’ (Ezek. 37:7). Most importantly, the bones of Jesus were themselves preserved. The line of association was well noted in the Christian tradition here: from the psalmic prophecy (34:20), to the untouched body on the Cross (Jn 19:36), to the assimilation of baptized Christians into a ‘whole’ human form bound to its original Adamic frame as reflected in the later textual tradition of Eph. 5:30: ‘For we are members of his body, of his flesh, and of his bones.’6 The whole interest of the Bible in bones has to do with the way God has us pass on our created life from generation to generation: we receive life from our parents, we are married and we transmit that life to our children and descendants. Jesus is given his place in this lineage, hence the Scriptural interest in what we call ‘genealogies’ , the line of generations, attached to specific and named parents, that tie us to the past and to the future. While Richter notes the genealogy of Jesus in Matthew, she wants to stress ‘redefinition’ away from ‘biology’. While this proves true in terms of the ordering of familial responsibility within the Christian community, it is true only as this reordering takes place within the context of genealogical grace, the tacit form of human existence that remains firmly in place within the whole New Testament. In Christian history, this dominical genealogy, integrated with Luke’s version, was often celebrated, in the way that bones were celebrated and respected. Jesus was a descendant of Adam, of Abraham, of Ruth, of Jesse, of David, through the generations of which both Israel and, ultimately, all the

4. Ecclesiastes Rabbah 12:5; Genesis Rabbah, 28:3; Leon Yarden, The Spoils of Jerusalem on the Arch of Titus: A Re-investigation (Stockholm: Svensak Institutet i Rom, 1991), 39. 5. Craig A. Evans, Jesus and the Ossuaries (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2003). 6. ‘Of his flesh and of his bones’ , probably taken from Gen. 2:23, is found in some later manuscripts, and commentators dispute whether it is original or not, with the preference being that it is a scribal addition.

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Nations are a part. The ‘many brothers’ and sisters that Jesus carries with him, and is ‘not ashamed’ so to name, as Peeler stresses, are given ‘biologically’ in the nature of human creaturehood that the Son assumes. The Christian tradition went further yet, in insisting that baptized Christians are themselves literal descendants of Jesus, taken from his rib, just as Eve is taken from the rib of Adam – the image is Augustine’s, Hooker’s, and many others’ , often pictured in paintings of the Crucifixion, where the Church emerges from the side of Jesus. Bones, marriage, generation and redemption are joined here.7 The second Adam is recapitulatory in addition to being transfiguring, as Paul seems to insist in 1 Corinthians 15, a matter that, if taken seriously, cannot mean a sublation of what have been the normal terms of historical human existence. There has been too much said (not only in contemporary but also even in aspects of the early tradition) that is misleading about the character of Jesus’ singleness and its eschatologization of anthropology. The fact that Jesus is presented to us as a single and childless male is important; but it cannot be definitive of those terms. The application of the marriage figure to him and the Church in Ephesians 5 and its summation at the end of Revelation indicates a probative order. Jesus’ life, which includes his earthly and embodied vulnerabilities (cf. Rev. 12:1–6), becomes the ‘bridegroom’s’ preparation for a nuptial reordering of human life, one that does not so much dissolve its genealogical ordering as it perfects and transfigures its ongoing shape (e.g. Rev. 7:4–8; 21:12).

Probative and Liturgical The ‘probative order’ of human life is central to what makes Christian anthropology Christian. All people recognize the limiting and hence ‘frustrating’ features of human existence that provide its form, including, as we have mentioned, birth, lifespan, survival, physical order and relationship, sex, procreation, toil, pleasures, suffering, weakening and death. But the fact that the Son of God ‘learns obedience’ through suffering (Heb. 5:8), itself a ‘perfecting’ of God’s grace for human beings (Heb. 2:10), marks out the way that these limits provide a divine movement of purpose. Christ is ‘probed’ or ‘tempted’ in every way just like us (Heb. 4:15), and this movement within the constraints of human life turns them into vehicles of salvation at the hands of their Saviour. Human selfhood is limited. That means it is defined by something outside our individual selves, who is ultimately God. This divine definition also renders these limits in themselves essential virtues of human being. That may once have seemed obvious, but it is no longer. Among other things, Christian worship until the modern era tended to press this point relentlessly, both by framing everything in terms

7. For Patristic and medieval references, see Henri de Lubac, The Splendor of the Church (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1999), 54. Augustine’s phrase neatly summed up the idea: ‘Eva de latere dormientis, Ecclesia de latere patientis.’ On Hooker, see his Laws V.56.7.

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of ‘limits’ themselves, and then by relating these limits always to the ordering life of God in Christ. By the late twentieth century, these limits gradually (though sometimes very quickly) dropped from articulated concern. Yet Christian anthropology demands that these limits form the basis of redemptive truth. One way we express this fact is by the category of ‘creaturely mortality’ , that is, by the fact that we are ‘mortal’ , that we die, and that this death is divinely given. There has been debate over immortality as a created element, ruined only by the advent of sin, and the early Church did not have a consistent view on the matter. The official position of the Catholic Church has insisted on an intrinsic created immortality, while most Eastern Orthodox and many Protestants instead have argued that immortality is at best a grace, added to a fundamentally mortal nature, that includes souls.8 Even if death is not given by virtue of creation, however, its ordering of historical human existence has always, for all its profound roots in vicious rebellion (Rom. 5:12; 1 Cor. 15:26), been viewed as something provided, in the sense of both permission and providence, in God’s purposes. Thus, the category of mortality is not optional, but essential to a Christian anthropology. Our limits, given by God in our human-relatedness through him, all come to expression in the fact that we die, and are subject to dying and to its elements; and these elements more basically include that fact that we are born from parents, and bound up, however variously, in families, and raised in communities. Death, other people’s deaths, are always a struggle and a loss. We weep because of death, just as we order our relationships around this fact. Mortality, in other words, is not just about dying, but about the fact that we are such creatures as ‘are like grass’: ‘For all flesh [is] as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away’ (1 Pet. 1:24). We are also nonetheless living creatures for the short period we survive, and the movement of ‘coming and going’ involves us in the limited lives of others: we come in a certain way, and flourish in a certain way and then disappear in a certain way, in the process being and becoming intertwined in the lives of others. The whole ‘set’ of these ways of coming, passing and going constitutes our ‘mortal life’. And that ‘set’ intrinsically includes our network of relational being. Mortality is given to human beings in the very contours of each person’s life and lives that are lived together. Within a Christian anthropology, this means that mortality is given liturgically, in the sense not only of worship (rightly invoking our creator) but also of work (as the word ‘liturgy’ implies), the work that goes into existence, survival, the traversal of the limited lifespan of the human creature and, finally, the work of navigating the passage through the far end of that span, of

8. Emmanuel Hatzidakis, Jesus: Fallen? The Human Nature of Christ Examined from an Eastern Orthodox Perspective (Clearwater, FL:  Orthodox Witness, 2013), 45–47, provides a gathering of Patristic texts on this matter. More broadly, see Ephraim Radner, A Time to Keep: Theology, Mortality, and the Shape of a Human Life (Waco:  Baylor University Press, 2016), 38–39. The discussion is complex, due to the difficulty in integrating Genesis and Paul on this matter.

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dying. Christian anthropology describes how we work together the time that God has given us, whether it be short, or relatively longer. One can see this in terms of standard prayers that most of the Christian tradition has used to frame our lives, taking here as an example the Great Litany (1544) from Thomas Cranmer’s sixteenth-century reform writings, included shortly afterwards in the Book of Common Prayer. Part of the Litany’s power is to ask for ‘time’ , as well as to order the time one is in. This is its mortal shape. In addition, all the elements of a life lived are structured in a way that leans into the future, in a posture of hope or fear. This is its Christian shape. The Litany begins its petitions for deliverance with a general plea regarding the fallen character of the mortal life. From al evill and mischiefe, from synne, from the craftes and assaultes of the devyll, from thy wrathe, and from everlastyng damnacion: Good lorde deliver us.

The ‘Great Litany’ was ‘great’ not only because it was long, but also because it was meant to encompass in its petition the voices of all people in all their life, who would say it aloud together as part of the ‘great congregation’. Hence, those asking for deliverance are children, as well as youth, and their parents, along with magistrates and kings: the whole commonwealth, reflected in the whole Christian Church. These petitions were likewise lodged in the midst of the Litany on their behalf, for example: That it may please thee to preserve all that travayle by lande or by water, all women labouryng of chylde, all sicke persons, and yong chyldren, and to shewe the pytie upon all prisoners and captyves: We beseche thee to heare us good lorde. That it may please thee to defende and provide for the fatherles children and wyddowes, and all that be desolate and oppressed: We beseche thee to heare us good lorde.

This is what it means to be a mortal ‘self ’: to be bound up in the fear and hope of others, because of the dependence we have upon each other, not only in terms of survival, but also of being itself, in birth and death. Relationality, so central to most discussions of Christian anthropology – and rightly so – is given in terms of the ways in which this enwrapped self can best engage the contours of mortality. Peeler’s discussion of death’s centrality – in quite negative terms – within Hebrews reflects what will inevitably continue to be a Christian focus in the coming centuries: death is that with which and over against which the Christian vocation finds its shape. Life is shaped, thus, according to traditional notion of sin and virtue, aimed, finally, at ‘charity’ , that ‘enduring’ virtue according to St. Paul that somehow can span the breadth of limited existence and place it within the broader sphere of God’s wider purposes. One of the great mysteries is how sin itself became part of created life, infecting, insinuating, corrupting, in a way so intimate as to become

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indistinguishable from our very selves. This is a topic that cannot be treated here, other than to say that all bodies are ‘disputed’ over by the Devil and the Archangel Michael, like Moses’s (Jude 9), such that the agon of life opens up to abysses of meaning we tend to shy away from. Strauss’s depiction of Jesus in the Garden is, quite literally, the image of such a body. So, the Litany’s petitions move on to ask for a range of protections, many of which have deep ethical implications, yet all of which wind their way to the central reality of death: From blyndnes of heart, from pryde, vainglory, and Hypocrisy, from envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitablenes: Good lorde deliver us. From fornicacion, and all other deadlye synne, and from al the deceytes of the worlde, the fleshe, and the devill: Good lorde deliver us. From lightning and tempest, from plage, pestilence, and famine, from battaile and murther, and from sodain death: Good lorde deliver us.

When Cranmer wrote his Litany, just as in every historical era except the past 100 years, death rates were two to three times those of today, that is, about 25–35 per 1000. In such a situation, one prays for enough time to order a life, always under threat as it were, so that it can be properly aimed at a final life with God. Thus, dying was a central part of knowing, not only how to live, but also live with others, precisely because death demands relational response, humanly and God-ward. To exemplify my opening point regarding the way that any Christian anthropology cannot avoid the ‘natural’ forms of its experience, we can peek at quite normal Christian orientations, in which these prayers are uttered, as they are rooted in these mortal contours. So, a seventeenth-century father named Ralph Josselin writes about his young son’s death: This day my dear babe Ralph quietly fell asleep, and is at rest with the lord . . . We looked on it as a dying child three or four days . . . it died quietly without shrieks or sobs or sad groans, it breathed out the soul with nine gasps and died . . . Mrs. King and Mr. Harlakenden of the priory closed up each of them one of his eyes when it died; it died upwards, first in the feet and then in the head, and yet wonderful sweetly and quietly.9

Most Christians, until very recently, were encouraged, and took time, to think about dying, to prepare for dying, and to see in their dying and mourning of others’ deaths, a way to come closer to God, to live ‘the new life’ of Christ now, so as to live with Christ in the age to come. The medieval genre of the ars moriendi – books that helped Christians grow spiritually in the face of death, especially one’s own– remained popular well into the nineteenth century, in one form or another. Often they were illustrated with emblematic pictures that were meant to capture, in a

9.  Quoted in David Cressy, Birth, Marriage, and Death: Ritual, Religion, and the LifeCycle in Tudor and Stuart England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 392.

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single image, the meaning of human life and its calling, for example, a depiction of Adam and Eve, as our ‘parents’ , standing close to each other, perhaps surrounded by small children, yet shaded by the skeleton of death, and the call to ‘remember’ so as to prepare.10 These summary images would tell the reader that to die is to be born a human creature, in the first place; and second, that such a life is always a kind of judgement, in the sense that the shape of our small frame is given ultimate meaning through its ordering in our present existence. Even children were taught how to die well, and were used as an example for adults, their deaths described in collections that were read well into the Victorian era.11 The point was always this: to die well was the great achievement that a Christian could look forward to, engaging all one’s virtues and one’s dependence upon grace. Taking another example, we can read about William Johnson, a fellow of Clare College, Cambridge, who ‘registered strong satisfaction in his final exchange with his “dear pupil Mr. Searle” in August 1661’. The young man made a confession of faith answering affirmatively to every article of the Apostle’s creed. When I  asked him if he was in charity and forgave all the world, he answered, Aye, all, all . . . When I told him I doubted not but God would raise him up again he answered, Ο take me up. He blessed God and had a steadfast faith in his saviour. Johnson told Searle of another friend who, when dying, ‘had thought he saw the devil at the bed’s feet but he could spit in his face’. Searle answered, ‘that he thanked God he saw no such thing, but if he did he could spit in his face, he was not afraid of him’. Almost delirious as he passed away, Searle told his tutor, ‘he had been twice in heaven since his sickness’ , and when assured ‘we should meet in heaven, had answered, that we should be joyful indeed’. This was an exemplary Christian death as well as exemplary deathbed counselling, and a remarkable glimpse of the studentteacher relationship in loco parentis.12

‘In loco parentis’ points to a stream of this anthropological tradition that is founded on creaturely mortality, and that is precisely the genealogical element we have already pointed to, now located in its ‘working’ mode in marriage. We are all familiar with the Book of Common Prayer vows, whereby one spouse promises to take the other so as ‘to have and to hold from this day forward, for better

10.  Christopher Sutton’s Disce Mori or Learn to Die:  A Religious Discourse, moving every Christian man to enter into a serious remembrance of his ende [  . . . ] (London:  John Wolfe, 1600), to take one example among many, was reprinted dozens of times from its first appearance, through the mid-nineteenth century. 11. Cf. James Janeway, A Token for Children: Being an Exact Account of the Conversion, Holy and Exemplary Lives and Joyful Deaths of Several Young Children (London:  Dorman Newman, 1672), was one of the popular books of its kind, continuing to be published every 2–5 years on average until the beginning of the twentieth century. 12. Quoted in Cressy, Birth, Marriage, and Death, 392.

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for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance’. The phrases entered almost every English-speaking Christian tradition largely because they laid out succinctly and accurately the character of ‘life together’ that human beings properly engage within their mortal span. Medieval versions were no different, as this late fourteenth-century ritual from the Abbey of Barbeau shows: N., I take you to be my wife and I espouse you; and I commit to you the fidelity and loyalty of my body and my possessions; and I will keep you in health and sickness and in any condition it please our Lord that you should have, nor for worse or for better will I change towards you until the end.13

Bodies here are given over, and become the context for the virtues of fidelity and loyalty, and specifically the body’s own suffering of time’s fortunes, moving inexorably to ‘the end’. Yet this is a work, in the sense of a vocation given in the Lord, whereby human life finds its divine meaning unwound. Nor was this seen simply in terms of personal choices, in the form of only possible human futures. Marriage services, as in the Book of Common Prayer, saw this work as given very concretely in the lineage of Adam leading to Christ, that is, as an inclusive Christian vision for humanity as a whole. Abraham, Sara, Rebecca, Isaac, Rachel and Jacob are invoked numerous times in these prayers, which see these figures as the filiated line between ‘our first parents’ and the final marriage of Christ and the Church. Each link in this chain is ordered by the mortal labour of husband and wife in their time, as these strain forward towards the future through their children. The procreative centre of marriage, whatever its actual outcome in this or that couple’s life – and here the death of children, sterility or spousal demise framed the kinds of limitations mortal life engendered  – was never let go of. Within the Church’s life, this was indeed explicit. No one saw any tensions in taking up the many interactions of Jesus with parents and children, or the epistolary lists of household ‘duties’ – a rather grim characterization of what was humanly central to mortal existence – despite whatever hopes one might have for the future of a transformed heavenly form. ‘Anthropology’ could be articulated only from this context. Much of what we call today the Gospel’s ‘social’ implications are therefore located here as well. Life and dying are rendered problematic – precisely because preparation and virtue and ‘readiness’ require order  – by social unrest and upheaval, not to mention poverty and penury, something stressed over and over again in the Old Testament, by Prophet and Psalmist both. If Christian anthropology has its political dimensions, the pressures of mortality’s demands are what render them visible. The Letter of James, as Mariam Kamell Kovalishyn points out, finds its purchase just here. To be a self is to be a self bound to others, such that life

13. Quoted in Kenneth Stevenson, Nuptial Blessing: A Study of Christian Marriage Rites (New York: Oxford University Press, 1982), 75.

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and death belong to others at the best and are taken apart as the network of ‘otherness’ is itself frayed. So the Litany goes on: From all sedicion and privye conspiracie, [  .  .  .  ], from al false doctrine and herisy, from hardnes of heart, and contempte of thy word and commaundemente: Good lorde deliver us.

We depend on each other; our societies reflect and order this dependence; yet this dependence is itself simply a reflection of our creaturely reality as utterly God-given.

The Christological Centre The issue of our relationship of utter dependence upon God in the midst of a dangerous world is tied, of course, to the final dependence, our eternal destiny: this too is in God’s hands. It is the emblematic character of mortal life for eternal life – that is, life’s ‘probative’ nature – that makes this life both so wondrous and terrifying, and God’s grace something that is utterly inclusive of it. In all tyme of our tribulacion, in all time of our wealth, in the houre of death, in the daye of judgement: Good lorde deliver us.

This means, paradoxically but very profoundly, that grace is bound up with terror, as it were. Christian anthropology is coloured by ‘fear’ , not only at the assaults of death’s contours, but also at what is at stake in all this, and most especially at the divine meaning of this mortal form itself that constitutes our creaturehood. ‘What is man?’ inevitably asks as well, ‘Who is this God?’ How shall we properly stand from, before and in relationship to such a God? ‘The fear of the Lord’ as ‘the beginning of wisdom’ (Prov. 9:10, and its many iterations) is a fundamental posture of how a human creature is rightly human. We have a hard time grasping this attitude, not because we cannot perhaps feel it at times, but because it is, theologically, a ‘prohibited’ claim in our modern era. (This is why, including, as Ian Paul does in his discussion of Revelation, this aspect as a peculiarly anthropological element, is deeply important.) It troubles the religious currency of benignity: the world is benign, morals are based on benign people and the God who accompanies us in this benign realm is Benignity itself. Most of us know, at some point, that this simply makes no sense. The day comes. Well into the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, perhaps well beyond in many cases, prayers like the Great Litany – and all Christian traditions had their version of these petitions – made all the sense in the world just because the world, and its God, was not benign at all, but rather awesome and mysterious. The very real graces of existence were found only in the midst of and shaped by this awesome mystery. It is this sense that draws together Psalm 18, Luke 21, or Charles Wesley’s hymns about devastating earthquakes. The eighth-century Latin prayer, media vita

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in morte sumus, was taken up in various traditions, hanging limited human existence in its eternal frame upon divine grace, as Cranmer’s version puts it: In the midst of life we are in death of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased? Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death. The Saviour enters in precisely here, so that the container of religious truth – of true existence, of God-with-us as the meaning and purpose of our ‘selves’ – is mortality itself, given in all of its relational limits. In its filiated network of relationship and common life, such existence is bound to a common faith, which is the gift of and bond with the redeeming God who, in Christ, gives himself into the midst of the struggle of life. Maston’s discussion of Paul, although not described in quite these terms, gets at this central Christological identity, revealed, as in Philippians 2, in this katabasis or downward journey into the midst of human life, physically constituted, and from this constitution, defining the contours now of redemption. The theologian Katherine Sonderegger helpfully explicates some of the theological consequences of framing, finally, Christology in this context. Sonderegger’s recent Systematic Theology (vol. 1)14 orders her work on the basis of God’s oneness and related ‘attributes’ as foundational to theology, in a way that is both traditional and striking in comparison with much recent systematic presuppositions. In our day, the tendency has been to begin a ‘systematic’ reflection of God with a Trinitarian and personalized order that subordinates creation to complex intradivine dynamics. This move has also tended to relativize creation’s contours in light of divine dynamism, often given in terms of processual change. Beginning with the one God as Sonderegger does, by contrast, demands that the divine being in relation to creation must then be described, however apophatically, in a singular ordering fashion. This, in turn, logically forbids the disarticulation of human existence in its actual forms from exhaustive divine purpose. Given the intrinsic challenges, even experienced tragedies of this existence, Sonderegger’s focus must at least mean that these elements cannot be marginalized from a theological anthropology, but must be followed up, somehow, into God’s own being and will. This following up is the entry point for Christological reflection.

14.  Katherine Sonderegger, Systematic Theology:  The Doctrine of God (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2015).

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In an earlier and lucid essay on justification, Sonderegger takes up the way that Cranmer approaches the matter.15 Certainly, prayers like the Great Litany abound in references to God’s sovereign grace, but, as Sonderegeer argues, in such a context, whose contours are precisely those of mortality, they are given a peculiar form. Justification, both as a divine act and in its doctrinal formulation, arises out of the quite concrete recognition and claim that Jesus is there, already, in our deaths; he has gone to the place where our sins have taken our created substance. Hence, God’s justifying grace is not located in a distant realm, in the counselchambers of heaven where a high decision is made regarding what to do with fallen human creatures; nor does it reflect some intrinsic feature of divine dynamism, out of which creation itself has somehow already emerged. Rather, God’s justifying grace is located in what the one God does in the most personal of ways with His own being: he goes into our fallenness and takes it upon himself. Sonderegger is quite clear about this: mortality is the place we encounter Jesus, as God’s grace, simply because this is the form of created existence for human beings; and to this existence God came in Christ. It is not a message, but a place. ‘Christ occupies our death’.16 In this perspective, the atonement framework, as a doctrine, is not one of describing the shape of a divine calculus for sin; that would assume we knew what sin is. Rather, sin is viewed as a mystery in this liturgical context: death and sin are mixed together, with an origin that is shrouded – a kind of obscured plain between us and God, that has somehow become God’s passageway to us. What this means, of course, is that the place to engage ‘atonement’ is strictly within the scripturally given realities of Jesus’ Incarnation, death and resurrection as they take their place in a created human life that is itself ‘given’. This goes to the heart of how a specifically ‘Christian’ anthropology must play itself out:  ‘according to the Scriptures’ , but understood in both their canonical breadth and experiential limits. There is no divine reality to be articulated apart from what the Scriptures describe as God’s concrete relation to human existence as that existence is in fact experienced. The human beings to whom salvation is offered and given by God are no more than those who live and die in such and such a way; God becomes a human creature and saves human creatures because just this is what a human creature is; and, finally, this is all the Scriptures have to say, but with the exhaustive reference of creation as its object, in the way that Mariam Kamell Kovalishyn indicates. In an important manner, then, ‘eschatology’ is not properly an informing category for Christian anthropology, except as it describes God, rather than human beings in any intrinsic manner. Irenaeus’s oft-quoted phrase, ‘the glory of God is a human being fully alive’ , is certainly misunderstood if it is taken as a straightforward affirmation of ‘fulfilled’ human existence, understood in the contemporary

15. Katherine Sonderegger, ‘The Doctrine of Justification and the Cure of Souls’ , in The Gospel of Justification in Christ: Where Does the Church Stand Today? ed. Wayne C. Stumme (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006), 167–81. 16. Sonderegger, ‘The Doctrine of Justification and the Cure of Souls’ , 176.

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terms of authentically realized human potential.17 The homo vivens of the surviving Latin translation has little to say about ‘fulfilment’. At the same time, the quotation, with its following phrase – vita hominis visio Dei, ‘the life of a human being is the vision of God’ – is also misunderstood if it relocates the discussion of human ‘being’ primarily into an eschatological realm. Irenaeus, in this chapter, is discussing God as creator, the Father through Son and Spirit. Creation itself manifests, in an indirect manner, the invisible God, as Paul indicates in Romans 1. But the Son manifests the Father in yet a fuller way. Not only that, but by his Incarnation, the Son comes into an existence of mortality – dying – that permits the mortal creature to persist in ‘seeing’ God through Christ’s own flesh. This coheres well with Sonderegger’s argument: the life of God, which is the grace of created existence itself, is fully given to us in the human death God entered, so as to share it and meet us there with his divine being. Everything is thus God’s, including therefore the very contours of our created and mortal selves. To speak of human creatures is to speak of just this self, to whom God gives life in ways that admittedly vary and are yet unknown. But it is not another self that is still to come. Too often eschatology has proven an instrument for projecting human aspirations onto God. Rather, if eschatology means anything, it does so by referring to the way that God’s purposes are, in the utterly divine initiative, ultimately impressed upon human beings.

A Pneumatological Conclusion This brings us back to the issue of human enfleshedness in its genealogical order. For there has been a tendency, not only in contemporary theology but also in a raft of historical strands of Christianity, towards familial supercessionism, as if the fundamental character of human creaturehood, in its eschatological trajectory, is all about getting ‘beyond’ the primitive survivalism of human bodily generation – the human creature constituting a kind of rocket launched upwards to heaven, successively leaving behind various stages of its fuselage. The modern concept of ‘embodiment’ (as opposed to ‘bodyliness’), in its very form of enunciation, masks a certain bias: that there is a ‘thing’ – a human person – that can/does come in the form of a body. Put this way, that also means that the body is somehow a container, an instrumental form of this personhood which is ‘other’ to it. This contemporary notion of embodiment will take a saying like Mt. 22:30 (and parallels) in a certain way: ‘For in the resurrection they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven’ will indicate a change that somehow goes beyond bodies.

17.  Irenaeus’s against the Heresies (Adverus haereses) IV.20. The work continues to be easily accessible in John Keble’s translation, originally published in 1836:  Five Books of S. Irenaeus, Bishop of Lyons, against Heresies, with the Fragments that Remain of Other Works (London: Innes, 1836).

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But is this right? In any case, this saying has generated a good deal of discussion and speculative orientation in the tradition. Were we ‘always’ something other than bodies – souls or spirits, for instance? Do we move towards and into spiritual being? In Matthew and in Mark (12:25), the phrase is ‘like’ angels – ὡς – while in Luke (20:36), it is perhaps something on the order of ‘equal to angels’ (ἰσάγγελοι). Both phrases constitute a similitude, however, not an identity, and it is just this lack of identity that blocks clarity on the matter; hence, the speculation. The modern speculative path can be seen in the remarkable theory offered by the seventeenth-century philosopher Anne Conway.18 Her approach was to propose a universal continuum of spiritual matter, something difficult to conceive, but at least able to indicate how a creature might move from human bodyliness to angelic matter, and perhaps beyond, according to some divine dynamic or voluntary process, or a combination of both. ‘What is man?’ here is answered according to whatever that reality is that moves up or down the spiritual staircase of being. Corporeality is, for Conway’s Neoplatonist orientation, clearly ‘lower’ on the ontic staircase; hence, fallen angels gain greater corporeality. But the body/ spirit difference is a matter of degree: a thing can be pretty close to being a body or quite a long way from being a spirit; but the unity of body and spirit or soul actually implies their similarity, and refutes the idea that ‘one cannot become the other’.19 At the same time, Conway must conclude that God is never the source of death, for ‘how can any creature receive so vile and diminished an essence from him (who is so infinitely generous and good) that it does not share any life or perception and is not able to aspire to the least degree of these for all eternity?’20 Conway’s own move towards Quakerism is evident here, but at root no different from much modern Christian thinking that has relegated mortality from essentially informing human personhood. Twentieth-century theologians, from Charles Raven to Teilhard de Chardin, have dressed this up in evolutionary or emergentist language, but the common thread is the conviction that Spirit (the Holy Spirit) is itself the movement of God in transforming matter into full godliness, which is also ‘spirit’. Conway, like the tradition before and after her, also believes in human ‘souls’. But, as with most approaches that define the human person as ‘other’ than a body, it is unclear what these are, vis-à-vis the spiritual character of matter itself. The soul is the true ‘spiritual identity’ of the individual who happens to have the body they have. That body, however, will in fact change, and soul – its identity – will eventually indicate a more spiritual being in the future, such that matter and spirit become a perfect unity, ‘one’. This is hard to sort out, as are, frankly, most bipartite, let alone tripartite anthropologies of body, soul and spirit. Most of these schemes, however, end by implying, if not stating openly, that bodies are not intrinsic to

18. Anne Conway, The Principles of the Most Ancient and Modern Philosophy. trans. and ed. Allison P. Coudert and Taylor Corse (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 19. Conway, Principles, 48. 20. Conway, Principles, 45.

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human beings, other than as a general principle (some corporeality of some kind, but of different degrees). By contrast, Tertullian insists, as we saw, that ‘ “man” in the strict sense means the flesh, for this was the first possessor of the designation “man”: And God formed man, clay from the earth – already is he man who is still clay – and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man – that is, the clay – became a living soul, and God placed in paradise the man whom he had formed. Thus “man” is first that which was formed, and afterwards is the whole man’.21 For Tertullian, the issue is the intrinsic and persistent corporeal essence of a human being. There is, for Tertullian, also a ‘soul’ , and this soul properly fulfills human life. Unlike other more Platonist Christian thinkers of his time, however, he also insisted that the soul was created at one with the body, ‘without reckoning of time’.22 Furthermore, the flesh remains the soul’s ‘pivot’; in such a way that the soul’s very health is given through bodily life (e.g. virtue, or the receiving of the Eucharist).23 ‘Properly flesh’ is the paraphrase for ‘of dust’. It is only God that allows this body to ‘live’ as body and soul. Yet even in that life, and any life it may have including that in heaven, the human creature’s foundation is still ‘body’ more than anything. Tertullian’s concern, as is St. Paul’s and in fact because it is Paul’s, is with the resurrection of the body, and what will happen to it, as body. Paul will speak of ‘earthly’ and ‘heavenly bodies’ (1 Cor. 15:40), of ‘natural’ and ‘spiritual bodies’ (v. 44), of the ‘first Adam’ with a ‘living soul/mind’ , and the Second Adam with a ‘life-giving spirit’ (v. 45) and finally the ‘first man from the earth’ and the ‘second man from heaven’ (vv. 47–48). Human beings in Christ will ‘in the twinkling of an eye’ be ‘changed’ from one to the other, exchanging the ‘image’ of one for the other (vv. 51–52). Yet, they are still ‘bones’ , as it were, bodies: the body of Adam is moved to the body of Christ, but only insofar as Christ’s body has taken its form first from Adam’s. This marks the threshold of Christian anthropology beyond which details cannot be given. In this light, Christian anthropology faces into a basic mystery, which is properly pneumatological. The formation of a human body, even in the womb, is of the same kind as Adam’s formation, as Ps. 139:14–16 indicates. Here the ‘lowest parts of the earth’ stand as a clear metaphor for the mother’s womb, deliberately linking of the body’s formation as a foetus with the creation of a human person from clay, meaning ‘body’. The significance of this foetal coming-to-be is of the same mysterious character as the created substance itself in Genesis. Identity is given in just this miracle, nowhere else. In the same way, this mysterious identity is continuous,

21.  Tertullian, ‘On the Resurrection’ , ch. 5, in Evans, Tertullian’s Treatise on the Resurrecion, 17. 22.  Tertullian, ‘On the Resurrection’ , ch. 45 in Evans, Tertullian’s Treatise on the Resurrection, 125. 23.  Tertullian, ‘On the Resurrection’ , ch. 8, in Evans, Tertullian’s Treatise on the Resurrection, 25.

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even in its mystery, with its resurrected form in the age to come. ‘How precious also are thy thoughts unto me, O God! how great is the sum of them!’ (Ps. 139:17). ‘[Such] knowledge [is] too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot [attain] unto it’ (Ps. 139:6). The central Christian claim regarding human beings as ‘images’ of God, and creatures more broadly as reflections of God24 is useful, as long as it is placed in its asymmetrical relation of human ‘unknowing’ or mystery: to be ‘like’ is not the same as comprehension when it comes to God. Anthropology then is properly a surd that leads us to God in its acceptance as a divinely gifted surd, something that the mystery of mortality and resurrection imply. The ethical consequences of such an acceptance are properly worked out in the context of mystery’s elucidation, which must be biblical, as countless Christians have done in their mapping of human life ‘according to Scripture’ rather than to some external moral framework. This, in turn, thrusts us back upon the reality of bodies, as soul-entwined stewards of a mystery: of the Word and of the ordering and the embrace of existence in the Word’s forms. Here, the ‘law’ , both in its eternal form and in its Gospel iteration, finds its place: not as metaphysical markers, but as probative vehicles, as argued above, moving into the unknown. Tertullian is unclear what bodies will be used for, in all their particularities, once changed and heaven-lodged. He speculates on the use of teeth and so on, but admits that he cannot really give an answer. ‘Moreover, if [some part of the body does] exist, it will be possible for it also not to be inactive; it may possibly have something to do; for in God’s presence, nothing can be inactive.’25 But this is simply a reflection of the way bodies work today, that is, according to God’s purposes as given in the Scriptures. God creates us – bodies, as it were, with souls as bodily forms – out of nothing for the sake of a divine purpose, which we know only through his revealed will. The rest is a ‘given’; indeed, it is all given. Bodyliness is bound up with ‘it is too wonderful for me’ because it belongs to God. This ‘too wonderful’ is, finally, a pneumatic reality – an opening to a mystery of change, whose truth and even experience is given in a way that cannot be clearly grasped. Most pneumatological discussions, in the New Testament especially, are confusing in their systematic order, like Paul’s in Romans 8 which has given rise to often contradictory Trinitarian claims. Yet it is just in this context that Paul locates the ‘conforming’ promise of God for created bodies, governed by a purpose that leads directly through the suffering of creaturely contours (cf. Rom. 8:29). Here is where the Spirit lurks, and it is from this ground of creaturely struggle  – as

24.  This tradition extends in its own way, from the Fathers to Nicholas of Cusa, to Jonathan Edwards, and can be seen in contemporary theologians like Robert Jenson. 25.  Tertullian, ‘On the Resurrection’ , ch. 60, in Evans, Tertullian’s Treatise on the Resurrection, 181. The Latin term Evans translates as ‘being inactive’ is vacare, and is sometimes also rendered as ‘being useless’ or ‘idle’. Its root meaning of ‘emptiness’ is telling here. Bodies, as created by God, are ever ‘real’ and, from the human creature’s perspective, constitute their lived reality.

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with the body of Moses in Jude 9 – that the Spirit’s work within the transformative anthropological realities emerges for the Christian (e.g. in Jude 19–20). My own discussion in this essay here has not stressed this, but were space available it would; and the main critical chapters of this volume often seem to take off (as they should) from just this ground. ‘Empowerment’ , ‘leading’ , ‘change’ – the New Testament (as well as the Old) links all these to the Spirit. Ultimately, however, there is a concrete form that stabilizes this uncertain pneumatic dynamism as it works to conform the human body to its promised end, that is, to the human body assumed by Jesus. We shall be ‘like him’ , yet now we cannot know what this will be (1 Jn 3:2). We know only that this likeness will involve both ends of the creaturely threshold – the mysterious beginning, with its bodily essence and forms, and its unknown (yet at least continuous) telos of ‘angel-likeness’ in bodily essence and form as well. The Spirit, in creating, brings to its end, and thus is ‘on the way’ according to the forms of temporal life itself, whose bodily shape is precisely the thing that most frustrates us, yet also binds us to the future promises. Christian anthropology begins, and in a way that can never be left behind, with God giving us our existence, our being, as bodies, in a world of others’ bodies. This is a world to which God himself comes in his Son, taking our bodies with him, as both Paul and Hebrews indicate, and as is given its fullest manifestation in the Cross. The Spirit’s mysterious ordering of our actual bodies in time – their coming-to-be, growth, burdens, generative strivings, suffering, weakening and death – provides the form of this Christological ‘taking’ , a form that is finally his own, as it too is given over in the service of God for the future resurrection. This body of ours, joined to his body along with other bodies, becomes the basis for the same body’s nuptial transformation, as both Ephesians and Revelation attest. Yet this pneumatic ordering, noted through this or that sign or wondrous index, is still of a mysterious character – divinely compelling in its hiddenness. The Spirit does its work in the unknown. Its authority is thus granted only through ‘faith’ , that aspect by which bodies today are given their primary place as bridges to the ‘next world’ , which is unseen. So much of the New Testament’s transformative channels are bound to faith in this way, even at their most liturgically concrete (in the sense I have used the phrase above). Hence, James’s paradoxical comparison, in 2:26, of bodies that are dead without the Spirit, to faith that is dead without works: here he presents these concrete works – the matter of probative existence – as the Spirit’s gift to the body, that is nonetheless known only by faith itself. If Christian anthropology must always be founded on the body given by God, it is also the case that, because of this reality’s pneumatological ordering, the body itself as just this foundation is known only by faith. So we are thrust back on the Scriptures. ‘Through faith we understand that the worlds’  – and we should read also, ‘the human creature’  – ‘were framed by the word of God, so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear’ (Heb. 11:3). Both biblical critic and theologian strain to get beyond a text, only to discover, in its bare divine enunciation, who they are.

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Westfall, Cynthia Long. ‘Family in the Gospel and Acts’. In Family in the Bible: Exploring Customs, Culture, and Context, edited by Richard S. Hess and M. Daniel Carroll R., 125–147. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2003. White, John Lee. Form and Function of the Body of the Greek Letter: Study of the LetterBody in the Non-Literary Papyri and in Paul the Apostle. 2nd ed. Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature, 1982. Whybray, Norman R. Ecclesiastes. OTG; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989. Wilcox, Max. ‘Talitha Cumi’. In The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary, edited by David Noel Freedman, 6:309–10. Doubleday, 1992; Electronic edition by OakTree Software. Wilson, Brittany E. Unmanly Men: Refigurations of Masculinity in Luke-Acts. New York: Oxford University Press, 2015. Wilson, Brittany E. ‘Contextualizing Masculinity in the Book of Acts: Peter and Paul as Test Cases’. In Reading Acts in the Discourses of Masculinity and Politics, edited by Eric D. Barreto, Matthew L. Skinner and Steve Walton, 28–48. LNTS, 559; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2016. Wilson, Mark. The Victor Sayings in the Book of Revelation. Eugene: Wipf and Stock, repr., 2007. Wilson, Walter T. ‘Sin as Sex and Sex with Sin: The Anthropology of James 1:12–15’ , HTR 95 (2002): 147–68. Wink, Walter. Naming the Powers: The Language of Power in the New Testament. Philadelphia, PA: Augsburg Fortress, 1959. Winter, Bruce W. ‘On Introducing Gods to Athens: An Alternative Reading of Acts 17:18– 20’ , TynBul 47 (1996): 71–90. Wolff, H. W. Anthropology of the Old Testament. Translated by Margaret Kohl. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1974. Wright, Tom. Scripture and the Authority of God: How to Read the Bible Today. London: SPCK Publishing, Revised and Expanded ed., 2013. Yarbro Collins, Adela. The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation. Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2001. Yarbro Collins, Adela, Mark. Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2007. Yarden, Leon. The Spoils of Jerusalem on the Arch of Titus: A Re-investigation. Stockholm: Svensak Institutet i Rom, 1991. York, John O. The Last Shall Be First: The Rhetoric of Reversal in Luke. JSNTSup, 46; Sheffield: JSOT, 1991. Zimmermann, Ruben. ‘Remembering the Future: Eschatology in the Letters of John’. In Eschatology of the New Testament and Some Related Documents, edited by Jan G. Van der Watt, 514–34. WUNT 2.315; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011. Zuntz, Gunther. The Text of the Epistles: A Disquisition on the Corpus Paulinum. SchL; London: Oxford University Press, 1953.

INDEX OF ANCIENT SOURCES Old Testament Genesis 1–3 1–2 1 1:4 1:10 1:12 1:18 1:20 1:21 1:24 1:25 1:26–31 1:26–28 1:26–27 1:26 1:27–28 1:27 1:28–30 1:28 1:31 2 2:5 2:7 2:8 2:15 2:17 2:18 2:22–23 2:23 2:24 3 3:1 3:3–4 3:5 3:7 3:16–19

5, 21, 30, 32, 165 85, 179 1, 229, 230 123 123 123 123 191 123 191 123 123 1, 230 32, 178 32, 85, 177, 179, 189, 229, 230, 239 230 67, 85, 179, 189, 229 85 190 123 32, 165 231 32, 191, 231, 245 245 85 124, 239 189 32 246, 248 67, 85, 247 30, 123, 151, 178, 183, 234 165 124 239 239 30

3:19 5:1–3 5:1–2 5:1 5:2 5:3 6:1–4 8:1 9:6 9:15 9:16 10:31 18:18 18:19 27:27–29 29:14 49:1–28 50:25 50:26

37 230 230 229 67 230 30 192 229 192 192 222 233 233 38 247 38 248 12

Exodus 2:24 4:22–23 6:5 12:23 17:14 19:5 19:6 20:1–20 20:12 33:11–12 34:6–7 34:6 40:34–35

192 232 192 165 193 222 222 216 66 233 178 182 130

Leviticus 12–15 19 19:18 25:9

91 181 86 135

286 Numbers 1 15:39 19:11–22 22–25 27:8 33:55 36:12

Index of Ancient Sources

222 193 91 218 228 215 228

Deuteronomy 4:9–10 4:31 5:5–21 5:16 6:4–5 6:5 8:3 10:12–20 10:12–13 10:17–19 10:17 15:4 21:15–17 21:18–21 23:1 27–30 27–28 33:1–29

24 192 216 42 86 216 234 178 24 180 213 118 228 231 115 178 185 38

Joshua 7:9 12:1 24:32

215 214 248

Judges 8:34

193

1 Samuel 16

183

2 Samuel 5:1 7 7:14 24

247 232 232 222

1 Kings 8:10–11 10:24 16–21

130 214 218

1 Chronicles 16:12 16:15 17:13 17:18 22:18

193 192 232 233 215

2 Chronicles 9:23 28

214 232

Nehemiah 9:17 Job 1:1 1:8 1:11 1:21 2:3 2:9 2:22 3 4–27 4:17–19 7:20–21 8:13 9–10 9:11–12 10:9 10:11 10:18–22 11:1–6 11:7–9 11:13–20 12:4 12:13–25 12:13–16 13:4–12 13:15–24 13:15 13:19 13:20–23 15:8 15:14–16 16–17 17:16 19 21:24

193 17 17 22 37 9, 17 22 20 20 7 17 17 193 22 35 33 33, 247 20 17 8 8 8 8 8 9 9 9–11 11 17 15 2 22 39 22 247

Index of Ancient Sources 23:9 26:6 28 28:12–13 29:1–6 29:4 31:20–23 31:35–37 34:15 38–41 38–39 38:2 38:10 42:1–6 42:1–3 42:3 42:7–9

23 39 34 35 15 15 17 22 33 22 24 16, 22 24 15 15–16 22 10

Psalms 1:4–5 2 2:7 2:2 7:18 8 8:1 8:3–4 8:3 8:4 8:4–6 8:5–7 8:5 8:6 8:7–8 8:7 8:9 9:18 16:10 17:14 18 22 22:10 22:22–31 23 25:21 31:10 37:20 39:11 40

38 232 232–33 214 233 1, 34, 161–64, 171 81 1 81, 163 81 162 168 1, 15, 32 162 163 162 81 192 39 38 255 95 33 95 85 17 248 38 38 172

287

49:12 49:15 49:20 76:12 78:42 80:1 88:5–6 88:10–12 89:27 89:47–48 90:3 90:4 92:7–9 94:17 102:15 102:26–27 103:14 105:5 109:1 110 110:1 111:5 111:10 115:17 129:5–6 136:3 138:4 139:6 139:8 139:13–18 139:14–16 139:15–16 139:15 139:17 143:3 144:3–4

38 39 37 214 193 85 39 39 213 38 33 33 38 39 214 33 33 193 163 170, 172 163 192 23 39 38 213 214 261 39 32 260 33 32 261 39 1–2

Proverbs 1–9 1:7 1:8–19 1:32–33 2:1–15 3 3:5–6 3:7 3:11–12 3:34 4:5–9

12, 16 23 17 185 17 12 12 16 169 186 12

288

Index of Ancient Sources

4:10–19 4:26 5:23 8:22–31 8:27–31 9:10 14:12 15:22 16:1 16:3 16:9 16:16 16:25 20:9 20:24 21:5 30:7–9

17 12 20 33, 35 24 23, 255 20 11 11 11 11 18 20 16–17 12 11 20

Ecclesiastes/Qoheleth 1:12–15 1:15 2:14 2:15–17 2:15 2:16 2:18–19 2:24–26 3 3:11 3:12–14 3:14 3:19–21 3:19–20 3:20 3:22 5:7 5:18–20 7:1–2 7:3 7:13–14 8:12–17 8:12–13 8:14–17 8:15 9:1–3 9:7–10 11:7–12:7 12:7 12:1–8

13 13 37 20 20 20 20 18 14 14 18 24 37 19 33 18 24 18 20 13 13 24 24 18–19 18 37 18 18 33 37

12:9–14 12:13–14 12:13

23 23 23

Isaiah 2:1–3 14:26 24–27 24:21 25:6–8 26:14 26:19 29:18–19 34:2 35:5–6 40:11 40:13 43:18 44:21 49:6 49:15 53:9 56:3–8 56:6–8 57:19 60:2 61:1–2 61:1 65:11 65:13–14

106 23 39 214 92 39 39 91 214 91 85 35 196 192 106 192, 194, 203 181 115 106 106 214 91 112 193 92

Jeremiah 1 1:5 23:1–6 31:34 33:8 38:33 38:34 50:20

233 33, 233 85 92 93 170 170 93

Lamentations 4:12

214

Ezekiel 9 34:20 34:22–23 37:1–14

221 248 85 39

Index of Ancient Sources 37:7 37:11

248 39

Daniel 7:9 10:5–6 10:5 12:1–3 12:2–3 12:3

211 211 211 39 40 40, 41

Hosea 4:1 11:1 13:4–5

215 232 232

Joel 2:1 2:28–32 3:1–5 3:1–2 3:5

215 105, 118 105 118 106

Amos 3:1 3:2 9:2

232 232, 233 39

Micah 4:12 5:2–4

23 85

Zechariah 8:20–23 13:7

106 85

Malachi 1:6–14

171

New Testament Matthew 1:1–17 1:16 1:18–20 1:20–21 1:21 2:1–12 3:17 4 4:2

69 69 69 117 65 81 234 234 234

4:4 4:6 4:9 4:10 4:18 4:19 4:21 4:25 5:1 5:9 5:17 5:23 5:33 5:37 5:43 5:45 6:1–6 6:2 6:3 6:5 6:6 6:9–13 6:10 6:12 6:14–15 6:14 6:16–18 6:18 7:23 8:1 8:2 8:11 8:14–15 8:23 9:1–8 9:2 9:6 9:8 9:15 9:18 9:36 10:17 10:35–36 10:37 11:2–6 11:25 12:2 12:12 12:28

289 233–34 233, 234 75 81 72 72, 74 72 65 71 70 92 193 68 68 76 70 80 74 74 74 74 70, 80 81 76 75, 76, 80 76 74 74 236 65 81 92 67 71 75, 77, 80 70 78 78, 79–80 70 81 65 75, 76 71 71 91 76 71 74 90

290 12:31–32 12:31 12:46–50 12:50 13 13:38 13:55–56 13:55 14:1–12 14:4–5 14:33 15:1–9 15:2 15:3 15:5–6 15:6 15:22 15:25 15:30 16:9 16:13–16 16:13 16:16 16:19 16:20 16:23 17:1–5 17:16 17:22 18:18 18:22 18:35 19:3 19:7 19:8 19:9 19:13 19:14 19:16–22 19:19 19:20 19:29 20:20–28 20:20 20:24 20:28 21:15 21:16 21:23

Index of Ancient Sources 77 75, 77, 80 69 65, 70, 72 185 70 69 69 68 68 81 70 71 66 67 68 67 81 65 78, 193 234 71 234 78 234 75 235 71 75, 76 78, 80 78 78 65, 67 67 67 67 67 67 86 66, 70 65 71 72 72 72 73 81 81 65

21:25 21:38 22:15 22:30 22:36–40 23:5 23:9 23:31 23:35 25:12 25:46 26:17–19 26:18 26:24 26:28 26:59 27:22–23 27:55–56 27:55 28:9 28:20 28:17

74 228 65 41, 258 181 68 70 70 70 236 219 71 71 75, 76 79 65 65 73 73 81 81 75, 82

Mark 1:2 1:4 1:9–10 1:13 1:15 1:21–28 1:21–22 1:22 1:23–24 1:25 1:27 1:32–34 1:34 1:35 1:37 1:39 1:40–45 1:41 1:43 2:1–12 2:2–5 2:2 2:5 2:10 2:12

91 88 235 87, 89 86, 87, 88, 97 89 90 93 89 86 90 86, 89, 93 89, 90 95 93 89 90 85, 86, 95 92 77, 90, 92 93 93 85, 86, 95 92 78

Index of Ancient Sources 2:13–17 2:13 2:17 2:18–22 2:27 3:1–6 3:4 3:5 3:6 3:7–9 3:9–10 3:9 3:11–12 3:11 3:13–17 3:15 3:20–21 3:20 3:22 3:27 3:28–29 3:28 3:34 4:1–2 4:1 4:2–20 4:13 4:14 4:15 4:16 4:18 4:20 4:26–29 4:30–32 4:30 4:36–41 4:37–40 4:38 4:40 5:1–20 5:2–5 5:7 5:18–20 5:21–24 5:21 5:24–34 5:26 5:27–28 5:34

88 90, 93 87, 89 92 85 85, 90 85 86, 95 85 93 93 93 89 235 89 97 93 89 90 77 77 97 90 93 87 93 88 88 88 88 88 87, 97 97 87 94 95 90, 95 94 89 89 235 86 90 93 90 91 93 85, 86, 95

5:35–43 5:35 5:36 5:41 6:2 6:5–6 6:5 6:6 6:7 6:13 6:30–44 6:30 6:31 6:34 6:45–52 6:46 6:52 7:15 7:18 7:19 7:24–30 7:29 7:31–37 7:33–35 8:2–3 8:2 8:8 8:13–21 8:18 8:22–26 8:22–25 8:27–10:45 8:27–32 8:27–29 8:31–38 8:31 8:32 8:33 8:35 8:36 8:37 8:38 9:1 9:2–8 9:14–29 9:17–18 9:17 9:20 9:21–22

291 90 90, 91 91, 95 85, 86 90 95 95 90, 95 89, 93 89, 93 85 93 95 85, 86, 90, 93, 95 94 95 94 91 91, 93 91 89 86 90 86 93 85, 86, 95 86 94 94 90 86 90 94 234 94 90, 96 93 75, 94 96, 97 97 97 87, 88, 97 87 235 89, 90 90 90 90 90

292 9:23 9:25–27 9:26 9:29 9:30–37 9:31 9:32 9:34 9:37 9:38 9:41 9:42 9:43–47 9:43 9:45 9:47 10:1–12 10:1 10:13 10:14 10:15 10:17–22 10:17 10:20 10:21 10:23–25 10:24–25 10:26–27 10:29–30 10:30 10:32–45 10:33–34 10:35 10:37 10:39 10:41 10:45 10:46–52 10:47–48 10:51–52 10:52 11:13 11:17 11:18 11:22–24 11:25 12:7 12:14

Index of Ancient Sources 90, 95 87 90 90, 95 94 75, 90, 96 93 94 86 90, 93 86 86 97 97 97 87, 96 85 90, 93 86, 93 95 87, 96 86 90, 97 90 86, 95 96 87 96 97 97 94 96 90 93, 94 96 94 83, 89, 96 90 93 87 95 95 90 90 95 86 228 90

12:18–27 12:19 12:25 12:28–34 12:32 12:34 12:35 12:38 13:1 13:9–13 13:13 13:19 13:23 13:26–32 13:26–27 13:27 13:32 13:33 13:34 13:35 13:37 13:38 13:41 14:14 14:21 14:22–24 14:24 14:28 14:30 14:32 14:33–34 14:34 14:36 14:38 14:39 14:41 14:49 14:50 14:62 14:66–72 14:72 15:34 15:37–38 15:40–41 15:43 15:47 16:7 16:8

97 90 41, 259 86 90 86, 87 90 90 90 96 67 85 88 87 87 96, 97 86, 95, 96 88 88 88 88 88 88 90 75, 94 89 79 93 94 95 95 95 86, 95 96 95 88 90 94 87 94 193 95 235 94 87 94 93 94

Index of Ancient Sources Luke 1:20 1:26–28 1:32 1:35 1:39–45 1:38 1:77 2:7 2:36–38 3:3 3:8 3:21–22 3:23 3:38 4:1 4:3 4:9 4:5–6 4:6 4:14–15 4:14 4:15 4:18 4:31–37 5:8 5:17–26 5:20 5:21 5:24 5:26 5:32 7:1–11 7:18–23 7:22 7:47–48 7:49 8:1–3 9:1 9:18–20 9:28–36 9:44 10:17 10:13 10:20 10:38 10:42 11:4 11:20

116, 117 117 235 235 117 117 104, 108 213 117 103, 104 103 100, 112, 235 231 230–31 100, 112 233 233 107 75 112 100 112 100, 112 111 111 77 104 105 111 78 103 111 91 111 104 105 118 111 234 235 75 111 103 41 118 118 76, 105 90

293

12:10 12:11–12 12:11 12:29–30 13:3 13:5 13:11–17 13:27 13:29 15:7 15:8–10 15:10 16:19–31 16:30 17:3 17:4 18:1–8 18:9–14 18:14 18:15 18:18–23 19:1–10 19:10 20:14 20:36 21 21:12–19 21:24 22:19 22:20 22:22 22:63–65 23 23:13–15 23:14 23:15 23:22 23:41 23:47 24:47 24:49

77 113 75 107 103 103 115 236 92 103 118 41, 103 102 103 103 103 118 102 102 67 86 115 102, 122 228 259 255 113 107 193 79 75 113 116 113 113 113 113 113 113 103 112

John 1 1:1–18 1:1–2 1:3 1:4 1:5

165 35 124, 129 123 123, 126 124, 126

294 1:9–10 1:9 1:10–14 1:10 1:11 1:12–13 1:12 1:14–18 1:14 1:18 1:29 1:39 1:49 2:11 2:17 2:23 3:2–9 3:4–6 3:6 3:13 3:15–18 3:16 3:17 3:18 3:19–20 ` 3:19 3:20 3:31 3:36 3:20–21 3:20 4:29 4:42 4:50 4:53 5:8–9 5:13 5:21 5:24 5:28–29 5:29 6:25–31 6:37 6:39–40 6:39 6:40 6:44 6:53 6:55 6:62

Index of Ancient Sources 122, 123, 124 123, 126 129 123 121, 122 127, 128, 132 121, 122 138 128, 129, 130 130 122, 125, 134 130 235 127 193 127 127 127 128 124 127 121, 128, 136, 139 124 127 123, 125 124 123 124, 128, 139 121, 126, 139 122 121 127 125 127 127 127 127 127 121, 127, 132 127 125 127 128 127 128 121 128 127 121 124

6:63 6:65 6:66 6:70 7:5 7:7 7:25–31 7:34 7:40–44 7:50–52 8:12 8:13 8:21–30 8:21 8:23 8:24 8:31–32 8:34 8:36 8:44 9 9:4–5 9:38 9:39 9:41 10:11 10:15 10:28 10:36 10:42 11:27 11:45–46 12:41 12:46 12:48 13:33 13:36 14:4–5 14:23 15:4–5 15:4 15:5–6 15:8 15:13 15:18–19 15:18 15:19 15:22 15:23 15:24

128 128 127 128 127 121, 123 127 124 127 127 125 126 126 124, 126, 127 124, 126 126, 127 129 128, 129, 133 128 124, 132, 165 126 125 127 124 126 134 134 127 124 127 127, 235 127 130 122, 124, 127 127 124 124 124 122, 127, 130, 139 121, 122, 130 127 127 123 134 127 131 125 125 123 125

Index of Ancient Sources 16:4 16:5 16:8 16:10 16:28 17:3 17:5 17:6 17:11 17:12 17:14 17:15 17:16 17:21 17:23 19:36 19:39 20:31

193 124 125 124 124 121, 127 124 124, 127 124 128 125, 127 124 125, 127 122, 127 130 248 127 122, 131, 135

Acts 1:4–5 2:1–4 2:4 2:13 2:14–36 2:16–18 2:14 2:17–21 2:17–18 2:17 2:21 2:22 2:23 2:33 2:37 2:38–40 2:38 2:39 2:42–47 2:42 2:43 2:44–45 3:1–10 3:2 3:7 3:8–9 3:8 3:9 3:11 3:12–26

112 112 117 103 113 112 103 105, 106 118 209 104 100, 111, 112 103 112 103, 104 113 103, 105, 112 103, 105 112 113 111, 112 118 114 111 114 115 101, 114–15 101, 114 115 113

3:19 4:1–11 4:8 4:25–27 4:26 4:31 4:32–35 4:34 5:12 5:14 5:16 5:17–41 5:28 5:31 5:32 6:2 6:3 6:4 6:5 6:7 6:8–10 6:8 6:10 7:7 7:55 8:3 8:7 8:9–11 8:12 8:16 8:22–23 8:22 8:24 8:25–40 8:27 8:29 8:34 8:36 8:38 8:39 9:1–2 9:2 9:8–9 9:14–15 9:15–16 9:15 9:17 9:19–22 9:33 9:34

295 103, 105 113 112, 113, 114, 117 107 214 112, 113, 117 118 118 111, 115 118 111 113 100 103, 105 113, 114 113 117 113 113, 117 113 113 111 112, 114 108 112, 113, 114, 117 113, 118 111 107 118 105, 112 108 104 108 115 115, 116 112 116 115, 116 116 112, 115, 116 113 118 116 114 117 114 113, 117 113 111 111

296 9:36–43 10:1–2 10:19 10:25 10:34 10:38 10:43 10:44–48 11:12 11:15–18 11:16 11:18 11:24 11:27–30 11:28–29 12:3–11 12:20–23 13:2 13:4 13:9 13:27–29 13:32–33 13:38–39 13:42–49 13:43 13:50–51 13:50 13:52 14:3 14:5–6 14:8 14:11–13 14:11 14:19 15:6–29 15:12 15:16–18 15:20 15:28 16:13–15 16:14 16:15 16:16–24 16:16–18 16:19–21 16:20–21 16:22–23 16:23–24 16:23

Index of Ancient Sources 111 108 112 107 115 111 105 105 112 105 193 103 112, 117 118 108 113 107 113 113 112, 113, 117 103 235 105, 108 108 109 113 109 117 111 113 111 107 100 113 106 111 106 107 107 108, 118 104, 109 104, 118 107 111 114 107 113 107 113

16:28 16:29 16:30–31 16:30 16:31 16:33 16:40 17 17:4 17:5 17:6 17:12 17:16–31 17:16 17:17 17:19–20 17:22–25 17:22–23 17:22 17:24 17:25 17:27–28 17:27 17:28–29 17:29–30 17:29 17:30–31 17:30 17:31 17:34 18:6–7 18:7 18:12 18:13 19:1–10 19:2 19:11–12 19:18–19 19:23–34 19:23–27 19:24–28 19:27 19:35 20:3 20:7–12 20:19 20:21 20:22 20:23–24

107 107 103 103, 107 107 104 118 109, 231 108, 109 113 102 108, 118 108 107, 109 109 109 107 109 109 109 109 110 110 109 108 109 108, 109 103, 109 100, 111 118 108 109 114 109 105 112 111 108 114 107 107 109 107 113 108, 111 114 103 112, 117 114

Index of Ancient Sources 20:23 20:29–30 21–28 21:4 21:8–9 21:11 21:20–24 21:27–36 22:4 22:16 22:22–23 22:24–29 23:10 23:12–15 23:35 24:1–2 26:9–11 26:17–28 26:18 26:20 27:3 27:13–44 28:2 28:4–6 Romans 1–8 1–3 1 1:1–4 1:10 1:18–32 1:18–23 1:21 1:29–30 2:28 3:9 3:10–18 3:12–18 3:13–14 3:23 5–8 5:12–21 5:12–17 5:12–14 5:12 5:13–14 5:16

112 114 113 112 118 112 106 114 118 104, 105 113 113 113 113 113 114 113 105 107 103 107 114 107 107

165 150 149 235 240 108, 149 216 240 155 219 149, 150 150 150 155 216 142, 147–156 100, 147, 148, 149, 151, 166 30 123, 148 151, 250 151 151

5:17 5:18 5:21 6–8 6–7 6:1–23 6:1–10 6:1 6:3–4 6:6 6:12 6:13 6:15–23 6:16 6:18 6:19 6:21 6:22 6:23 7 7:7–25 7:10 7:14 7:15–20 7:17 7:20 7:21 7:24 8 8:1–13 8:2 8:3 8:4–11 8:4 8:5–13 8:6–8 8:7 8:8 8:9–13 8:10 8:11 8:13 8:14–17 8:15 8:16–17 8:16 8:18–25 8:18 8:23

297 151 151 148, 151 147, 151 148 153 153 133 239 150 150 150, 154 149 151 152 150, 152 150, 151 152, 154 150, 151 149, 154 149, 150, 151, 155 149, 151 130, 148 148 148, 150, 154 149, 150, 154 149 150, 151 154 149 154 157 154 155 151, 154 151 130 154 154 151, 154 154 150, 151, 154 155 152 154 32 32 154, 157

298 8:29

Index of Ancient Sources

9:4 9:6 11:26 12:1–2 12:1 12:2 12:6–8 12:10 12:11 12:14 13:8–10 13:14 14–15 14:13 16:16 16:18

147, 156, 213, 236, 238, 261 231–32 219 219 154 157 201 155 155 155 155 155 239 155 155 155 155

1 Corinthians 1–3 1:24 5:5 6:19 7:14 7:29–31 8:3 10:10 10:15–17 11:24 11:25 12 12:12–26 12:12–16 12:13 13:12 14 15 15:20–22 15:21–22 15:26 15:40 15:42–49 15:44 15:45–49 15:45 15:47–48 15:49 15:51–52

155 35 165 55 247 227 236 165 55 193 193 209 55 150 240 236 208 42, 152, 249 30 123 250 260 30 260 123 260 260 156, 240 260

2 Corinthians 3:6 3:18 4:4 4:16–5:10 5:1–4 5:2 4:26–5:10 12:2–3 12:4

154 137 156 157 55 55 55 157 210

Galatians 2 3:23–4:7 3:26–4:5 3:26–28 3:26 3:27 3:28 4:8–9 6:16

182 153 231 237 237–38 237–38, 239 156, 227, 238, 240 236 219

Ephesians 1:3–5 1:3 1:5 2:1 2:6 2:10 2:11 2:14–18 2:15 5 5:30

237 221 237 238 238 182 193 156 238 249 246, 248

Philippians 2 2:1–11 2:1–4 2:3–4 2:5–11 2:6–11 2:6 2:7–8 2:7 2:9–11 3:10–11 3:13 3:20–21

256 100, 155 146, 147 150 142, 143–147 156 143 144 143 146 153 196 147

Index of Ancient Sources Colossians 1:4 1:15–18 1:15–16 1:15 3:3–4 3:3 3:4 3:9–10 3:9 3:10 3:11 3:12 3:14 3:18–4:1

237 213 35 240 228, 239 203, 240 203 239 240 238 239, 240 240–41 241 240

1 Thessalonians 4:13

154

1 Timothy 2:13–14 3:13

123 237

2 Timothy 2:8 3:15

193 237

Hebrews 1 1:1 1:2 1:3 1:4 1:5–14 1:5 1:6 1:7 1:8 1:10–12 1:10 1:13 1:14 2:1–4 2:1 2:3–4 2:3 2:4 2:5

168 166 164, 165, 168, 169, 171, 173 166, 167, 168, 170 162 162 162 162 162 168 168 165 162, 163, 168 169, 174 162 172 163 169, 172 168, 170, 173 162

2:6–8 2:8 2:10 2:12–13 2:12 2:13 2:14–15 2:14 2:16 2:17 3–4 3:1 3:4 3:6 3:7–11 3:12 3:13 3:14 3:15 3:19 4 4:1 4:3 4:4 4:7 4:10 4:12–13 4:13 4:15 4:16 5:1 5:4 5:6 5:7–10 5:7–9 5:8 5:9 6:4–8 6:9 6:12 6:13–14 6:13 6:17 6:18–19 6:19 7:11 7:17 7:19 7:21

299 168 161, 162, 163 164, 167, 169, 249 168 169 169, 175 154, 165, 166 164 166 164, 166, 173 166 163, 170, 173 165 169, 170, 175 168 173 166, 173 173 168 173 173 167, 173 168 165 168 165 173 173 173, 249 173 166 166 168 169 164 169, 249 169 173 169 167 166 169 167, 169, 174 169 173 170 168 170 168

300 7:23 7:25 7:27 7:28 8:1 8:3 8:6 8:8–12 8:9 8:10 8:12 9:9 9:10 9:12 9:13 9:14 9:15 9:20 9:26 9:28 10 10:1–3 10:3 10:4 10:5–8 10:10 10:11 10:12 10:13 10:14 10:17 10:18 10:22 10:23 10:26–29 10:30 10:32 10:36 10:37–38 11 11:3 11:11 11:13 11:39 12:1 12:2 12:4 12:5 12:8

Index of Ancient Sources 165 169, 170 166, 173 169 168 166 167 166, 168 166 170 166, 170 171 166, 171 173 166, 171 169, 171 167, 169, 174 166 166, 171 166, 169, 171 171 171 166 171 168, 171 171, 173 170, 171 166, 168, 172 172 171, 172, 174 171 166, 171 171, 174 167, 174 174 168 193 167 168 166 165 167 165, 166, 167 167 166, 174 168, 174, 175 166, 174 167, 168, 196 169

12:9 12:11 12:14 12:18–21 12:22–24 12:22 12:23 12:24 12:25 12:26 13:1–5 13:6 13:12 13:13 13:20 13:21

169 170, 174 174 166 175 175 169, 174 175 168 167, 168 174 168 171, 174 174 164 174

James 1–2 1 1:2–27 1:2–8 1:2–4 1:4 1:5–8 1:5 1:6–8 1:6 1:8 1:9–11 1:9–10 1:12–21 1:12–18 1:12 1:14 1:15 1:16 1:17–18 1:17 1:18 1:19–21 1:19 1:20 1:21 1:22–27 1:22 1:25 1:26 2

183 181, 186 181 184 181, 184 180, 181, 182, 184 181, 183 183, 184 182 178 184 178 38 184–86 184 184 186 184, 185 184 178, 184, 185 178, 181, 183 185 184, 185 185 185 178, 185 178 184 181, 196 184 179, 181

Index of Ancient Sources 2:1–12 2:1 2:4 2:8 2:10 2:12–13 2:13 2:14–16 2:22 2:24 2:26 3 3:1–4:10 3:2 3:3–5 3:3 3:4 3:5–6 3:6 3:7 3:8 3:9 3:11–12 3:13–4:10 3:13–18 3:13 3:14–16 3:15 3:16 3:17–18 3:17 3:18 4 4:1–10 4:1–3 4:4 4:5 4:6 4:7–10 4:8 4:10 4:11–12 4:13–17 4:13–15 5 5:1–6 5:7 5:11 5:19–20

183 183 183 181 182 178 181, 182 181 181 181 262 182–83 179 179, 181, 182 179 182 182 179 179, 182 179 179 177, 179–80, 229 178, 179 184, 186–87 186 186 186 186 186 186 186 182 179, 187 186–87 186 182, 184, 186 187 186 187 182, 187 187 178 178 13 181 38 178 181, 182 182, 183, 184

301

1 Peter 1 1:1–2 1:3 1:20–21 1:23 1:24 2:1–3 2:2–3 2:9 2:10 2:21 2:22–25 2:22 3:5 3:6 4:1–6 4:1 4:3

236 236 198, 200 236 200 200, 250 200 211 200 200 200 200 181 200 200 200 200 200

2 Peter 1:4 1:9 1:12–15 1:12–13 1:12 1:13 1:14–17 1:14 1:16–21 2:12 3:1–18 3:1 3:2 3:3–7 3:5 3:7 3:8 3:9

221 196 196 197 192 192 199 192 198 189, 201 202 192, 198 201 202 196, 202 202 196 202

1 John 1:1–3 1:1–2 1:1 1:2–3 1:2 1:3 1:5 1:6

133 132 138 137 136 122, 138 133, 136 121, 132

302 1:7–10 1:7–9 1:7 1:8–10 1:8 1:9 1:10 2:1–2 2:1 2:2 2:11 2:13–14 2:13 2:14 2:15 2:16 2:17 2:22 2:23 2:24 2:25 2:28 2:29 3:1–2 3:1 3:2–3 3:2 3:3 3:4–7 3:4 3:5 3:6–10 3:6 3:8–12 3:8–10 3:8–9 3:8 3:9 3:10 3:11 3:12 3:13 3:14 3:15 3:18 3:21 3:22–24 3:23–24 3:23

Index of Ancient Sources 134 133 134, 135, 137, 138 133 133, 134 134, 136, 137 133 134 133, 137 138 121 133 136 136 131, 133 131 131, 137 132, 135, 138 137, 138 137 121, 136 122, 137, 128 133, 136, 137 121, 138 132, 136, 137 137 136, 137, 138, 262 137 134 132, 133 134, 136, 137 132, 133 133, 135 134 132, 133 132 133, 137 133 121, 132, 134 136 123, 133 13 132, 136, 137 137 133 137 136 139 132

3:24 4:1 4:2 4:4–5 4:4 4:7 4:9–10 4:9 4:10 4:12–13 4:14–15 4:15–16 4:15 4:17 4:18 5:1 5:3 5:4–5 5:5 5:6–8 5:10 5:11–12 5:11 5:13 5:16–17 5:18 5:19 5:20 5:21

138 132 138 131 132 132 132, 136 136 134, 137, 138, 139 137 138 121, 137 132, 135 137 138 121, 132, 135 136 132 132, 135, 138 138 135, 138 137 136 131, 135, 136, 137 134 132 131 121, 136, 137 133

2 John 1–2 2 6 7 8 9

121, 133 137 133 138 137 121, 133, 137

3 John 5

133

Jude 3–17 4 5 9 10 17 19–20

202 202 192, 198 252, 262 189, 201 198, 202 262

Index of Ancient Sources Revelation 1 1:1–2 1:1 1:2 1:3 1:4–5 1:4 1:5–6 1:5 1:9 1:12–16 1:18 2–3 2 2:5 2:6 2:9 2:10 2:11 2:13 2:14–15 2:14 2:15 2:16 2:20–23 3 3:5 3:9 3:10 3:11 3:21 4 4:6 5 5:6 5:8–9 5:9–10 5:9 6 6:9 6:10 6:11 6:15 7 7:4–8 7:9–17 7:9 7:11

208 209 208, 211 211, 212 209 212 208 222 211, 214, 216 208, 210, 211 211 211 211, 220 208, 216, 223 219 217 219 220 219 217, 218 217 218 217, 220 211 219 208, 216, 223 220 219 215 211 220 216, 220 220 206, 216 212 220 222 220, 222 221 221 212, 215 213 214 221, 222 222, 249 222 222 220

7:14 8–9 8:13 9:20–21 9:20 9:21 10–11 10:4 10:11 11:3–13 11:6 11:9 11:10 11:15 12 11:16 12:1–6 12:10 12:10–11 12:11 13 13:6 13:7 13:11 13:6 13:8 13:14 13:16 14–15 14:2–3 14:3 14:6–20 14:6 15:2–3 15:2 15:6 16 16:9 16:11 16:19 17:1 17:2 17:6 17:8 17:15 17:18 18:3 18:4 18:9

303 213 221 215 216, 221 216 216 221 210 222 213 209 222 215 211, 212, 214 206 220 249 211 218 212, 217 216 221 222 212 215 215 215 214 221 220 220 212 222 220 217 211 221 216 216 221 214 214, 215 211 215 222 214 214 216 214

304 18:11 18:17 19 19:4 19:10 19:11–21 19:19 20 20:4 20:5–6 20:6 20:12 20:13 20:14 21 21:7 21:8 21:24 22 22:7 22:8 22:10 22:12 22:18 22:19

Index of Ancient Sources 214 214 206 220 209, 211 212 214 213 211 213 211, 219 213, 249 40 218 213 217 218 214, 224 208 209, 211 208, 209 209 211 209 209

Apocrypha 1 Maccabees 7:11

165

2 Maccabees 7:9 13:4

40 213

4 Maccabees 15:23 15:30 16:14 17:12 18:23

49 116 116 116 40 40

Baruch 3:29–4:4

35

Sirach 1:4 1:9–10 3:21–22 5:6–7 7:36

35 35 35 37 37

10:9 14:12–19 15:14 16:19–23 16:24–30 17:1–24 17:1–10 24:9 24:23–39 24:28 40:2 41:1 41:3–4 42:15–43:33 44:1–50:24 49:16

37 37 31 35 33 33 30 35 35 30 37 37 37 33 33 30

Wisdom of Solomon 1:12–16 2:3 2:23 2:24 4:20–5:14 7:1–6 7:5–6 7:22–9:18 9:1–3 9:1 10:1–3 18:15

49 38 33 32 124, 165 38 30, 33 33 35 30 32 30 165

Dead Sea Scrolls 1QHa 4:14–15 4:27 5:3 5:19–22 9:11 9:19 9:21–23 10:12 10:18 10:20–30 11,20–22 12:24–25 18:3 18:20–22 19:9–10 19:11–12

31 32 36 34 36 36 34 36 36 36 41 41 36 36 36 41

Index of Ancient Sources 19:26 20:4–11 20:11 20:13–14 20:24–28 20:32–34 26:24–27

35 33 34 36 34 36 41

1QS 3:13–4:26 3:15–4:26 3:15 3:17–18 4:22–23 6:6–7 11:8 11:20–22

148 33 36 32 31 41 41 34

1Q34 bis 3 2:1–4

31

Pseudepigrapha 1 Enoch 1–36 2:1–5:4 22 27 42 48:9 51:1 91:10 92–105 104:4

30 33 40 40 35 38 40 40 41 41

2 Enoch 30:8–18 30:13

32 31

2 Baruch 14:8–9 14:8 14:10–11 15:5–6 20:4 21:23 42:8 44:6 48:16 48:42–47 48:46 50–51 50:2 50:4 51:5 51:10 54:15–22 54:19 56:4–7 82:3–9 85:10–11

30, 42, 174 36 36 38 36–37 36 40 33, 40 36 33 31 32, 33 42 40, 42 42 42 42 31 31 31 38 37

3 Baruch 4:16

31

4 Ezra 3:4 3:5

30, 174 33 32

33

4QHa frag 7

41

4QpPsa (4Q171) 3:1–2 iii 7–8

31 38

4Q185 1–2 i 10–11 1–2 ii 3

38 38

4Q400 1

41

4Q402 4 12–13

36

4Q417 1 i 6 1 i 8–9 1 i 8 1 16–17

36 35 36 31

4Q418 12 2 55 5–6 4Q504 8 4–6

CD 3:20

305

35 36 31

306 3:7 3:21–22 3:31 4:2–3 4:11 4:13–19 4:23 4:24 4:41–43 5:34 5:38 6:38–54 6:54 7:32 7:61 7:62–63 7:64 7:72 7:118 8:2 8:56–58 13:11

Index of Ancient Sources 30 31 36 36 36 33 36 38 40 36 36 33 32 33, 40 38 33 37 37 31 33 37 33

Apocalypse of Abraham 23:5 31 Greek Apocalypse of Ezra 2:9–17 30 Jubilees 2:1–3:29 2:14 3:4–7 23:27–41 23:31 26:34 49:2

174 30 32 32 39 40 38 165

Life of Adam and Eve 30, 174 4:1–2 31 27:1 31 Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum 3:10 13:8–9 33:3

174 40 30 40

Psalms of Solomon 17:34–35 17:40–41 18:10–12

106 85 33

Sibylline Oracles 1:22–37 3:27 3:616–17 3:772–73

32 31 106 106

Testament of Job 4:3–4

38

Testament of Moses 10

38 39

Testament of Abraham 1:3–7 38 8:9–12 38 10:14 38 13:1 165 16–20 38 20:15 38 Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs 38 Testament of Asher 5:2

38

Testament of Gad 4:7

38

Testament of Judah 25 25:4

39 39

Testament of Levi 18:12

165

Testament of Naphtali 3:2–4:1 33 Greco-Roman Aeschylus Agamemnon 483–487

58

Index of Ancient Sources

100

De finibus 1.29–39 3.5.16

51

Orationes Philippicae 12.2.5 60 Tusculanae disputationes 1.6.11 52

Apollodorus Library 3.10 Apuleius Metamorphoses 6.17–21 Aratus Phaenomena 5

46 62 46 45 46 45 45, 46 46 46 57, 59 46, 57 57

De generatione animalium 737A28 58 Metaphysica 1058A29–31

58

Ethica Nicomachea 9.4.3 9.8.6 10.7 10.7.9

55 55 59 55

Politics 1252A 1252B

58 58

Rhetorica 1.9.22 Cicero

59 57

Dio 231

Aristotle De anima 405A-B 405B 407B 412A 413A-B 413A 414A 415A 427A 429A 434A-B 434A

307

58

Orationes 8.5 31.75 32.20–25 32.27–28 36.19

89 59 60 60 56

Diogenes Laertius 6.103 7.37 7.134 7.141 7.151 7.157 10.63

49 57 48 48 48, 56 48 46

Epictetus Diatribai 1.1 1.1.7–12 1.6.13 1.9.1 1.9.32 1.14 1.14.12–14 1.14.12 1.18.3 1.18.7 1.18.9–11 1.23.1 1.25.22–23 1.18.10–11 1.28.19–22 1.29.4 2.8.6 2.9.2 2.10.16

56 56 47, 57 56 60 57 57 57 60 60 60 56 56 60 47, 57 60 47, 57 56, 60 60

308 2.17.33 3.1.40 3.13.14–15 4.12.15–19

Index of Ancient Sources 57 56 52 56

Epicurus Epistula ad Herodotum 67 46

Lucian Demonax 7 32

60 49

Lover of Lies 24 29 30

53 53 53

Vatican Sayings 65

60

De luctu 2–9

51

Heraclitus Epistle 2 Epistle 4 Epistle 5

60 60 60

Downward Journey or The Tyrant

49

Hierocles/Stobaeus Florilegium 4.67.23

57

Homer Iliad 1.3–5 1.423–24 3.276–80 9.408–9 14.518–19 19.258–60 24.54

50 115 51 50 50 51 50

Menippus or Descent into Hades 49 On Funerals 1 2 9 10 11

53 53 53 53 53

Philopseudes 40

52

The Dream

49

Lucretius Odyssey 4.561–8 4.563 11.13–50 11.482–91 11.473–76 11.576–600

51 51 50 51 50, 51 51

Juvenal Satirae 2.149–52

52

LS 34 47 53T 65G

56 47, 57 47 47

De Rerum Natura 1.111–27 3.829 3.136–7 3.161–76 3.258–87 3.323–32 3.417–829 3.629–32 3.830–1094 3.978–1023 3.979–1022

53 52 47 46 47 47 49 52 52 52 52

Musonius Rufus Diatribai 3 6

58 56

Index of Ancient Sources Plutarch

Ovid Metamorphoses 1.89–150 4.430–46 8.621–92

59 51 100

Plato Phaedrus 47 63C-69D 66A-67B 67C 68 70A 72B 79A 79A-80B 80D-82B 80D 90D 108B-114B 113D-114C

309

48 45 46 45 50 48 47 44, 46 48 50 59 48 51

Apophthegmata Laconica 230– 31 89 Moralia 6.188D 6.196D 6.197D

60 60 60

Pomelo 5.15–19

114

Pseudo-Aristotle 810a25–29

114

Pseudo-Diogenes Epistle 27

60

Pseudo-Cicero Rhetorica ad Herennium 4.26.23 58 Seneca

Protagoras 343B

60

Republic 435D-E 442A 453B-456A 620A-D 439D-440E 614–621

47, 48 47 59 58 46 47 48, 51

Timaeus 30B 41C-E 41D-E 42A 42B-D 42D-E 43A 45B 69–70E 69D-E 73C 88B 90E

47 47 45 48 58 48 44 44 47 47 55 47 45 58

Ad Polybium de consolation 4.1 48 5.1 60 9.2–4 48 9.7–8 48 10.6 61 13.4 60 17.2 61 Ad Marciam de consolation 5.2 60 16.1–4 58 19.4–5 52 19.4 48 23.1–3 48 25.1 56 102.28 48 De beneficiis 1.10.1 3.20.1 4.26.2–3 5.17.13 5.25.6 18.5

59 48 60 60 61 48

310 De clementia 1.6.3 1.6.4

Index of Ancient Sources

60 60, 61

De constantia sapientis 1.1 58 6.3–8 60 7.1 60 De providentia 6.6

60

De tranquillitate animi 7.4–5 60 10.3 60 11.1–3 56 De vita beata 8.2 17.3 17.4

56 60 60

Epistulae 24.18 31.9–10 32.2–5 36.10–12 41.1–2 41.4 41.9 47.1 47.10 48.12 50.5–6 50.7–8 50.9 53.11 54.4–5 59.14 63.16 64.5 65.15–17 65.24 68.14 71.16 73.12–16 73.16 75.32

48, 52 57, 60 60 48 60 57, 60 60 59, 60 58 57, 60 60 61 60 60 48 57, 60 48 60 56 48 61 48, 60 57 61 56

77.6 79.13 80.4–5 82.16 86.1 87.19 90 90.2 90.45–46 91.15–16 92.28 92.29–30 94.29 94.31 94.55 94.68–69 95.36 95.51–52 99.8 99.9 102.22 108.8 109.17 109.30 116.8 117.6 118.14 120.4 121.15 122.19 123.6–9 123.16 124.8–12 124.10 124.14–15 De ira 2.9.1 2.10.3 2.13.1–2 2.20.2 2.28.1 3.26.3–4 3.37.2

59 60 60 48, 52 48 57 59 61 61 49 60 57 61 61 61 61 59 57 61 61 56 61 61 48 61 50 58 61 58 61 61 49, 61 58 57 58 60 60 60 59 60 60 59

Simplicius in Epictetum commentaria 3.25 55

Index of Ancient Sources Socratics Epistle 14 Epistle 25 Sophocles Antigone SVF 2.463–81 2.790–800 2.790 2.809 2.810 2.812 2.890–822 2.895 Virgil Aeneid 4.569–70 6 6.236–8 6.452–4 6.713–14

49 49

54 47 46 48 48 48 48 48 56

58 51 51 52 52

Other Ancient Literature ’Abot 3.1

33

Apocalypse of Peter 4.3–4 4.10–12

40 40

311

Ecclesiates Rabbah 12.5, no.1

248

Enuma Elish

32

Gilgamesh Epic I.101–04

32

Irenaeus Against Heresies 1.26.3

217

Josephus Jewish War 1.59

116

Mekilta to Exodus 15.26

89

Philo De Abrahamo 135–136

116

De vita contemplative 59–61

116

De opificio Mundi De virtutibus Legum allegoriae

30 30 30

De specialibus legibus 1:60.325

116

Tertullian On the Resurrection 5 8 45 60

245, 260 260 260 261

Augustine De civitate Dei 6.5–8 6.6

52 52

Genesis Rabbah 28.3

248

INDEX OF AUTHORS Abelson, Robert B. 196, 199 Aernie, Jeffery W. 157 Algra, Keimpa 48 Allen, Garrick 206 Allison, Jr., Dale C. 38, 69, 76, 77, 78, 177 Andersen, Francis I. 10 Anderson, Gary A. 30 Anderson, Ray S. 3, 121 Annas, J. E. 45, 46, 63 Arichea, Daniel C. 197, 198 Arndt, William F. 177, 180, 182, 240 Ashbrook 190, 191 Ashburn, Daniel G. 24 Assmann, Jan 193, 195, 197 Attridge, Harold W. 161, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168 Aune, David E. 205, 208, 217, 221

Blocher, Henri 230, 237 Boring, M. E. 95 Boyarin, Daniel 35 Brennan, Tad 56 Brookins, Timothy A. 61, 225 Brown, Raymond E. 124, 125, 136, 138, 161 Broyles, Craig C. 10 Bruce, F. F. 237 Bultmann, Rudolf 28, 29, 122, 124, 126, 128, 129, 141, 142, 150 Burch, Vacher 207 Burke, Sean D. 116 Burke, Trevor J. 237 Burkes, Shannon 37 Burns, J. Patout 2 Byron, John 145, 148, 155

Bachmann, E. Theodore 181 Bammel, Ernst 113 Barclay, John M. G. 129, 152, 153, 154 Barr, David L. 205 Barr, James 49 Barrett, C. K. 107, 110 Barth, Karl 3, 9, 141, 165 Bartholomew, Craig G. 18 Bauckham, Richard J. 40, 106, 166, 177, 179, 197, 198, 206, 210, 211, 213, 214, 215, 222, 226, 227 Bauer, Walter 177, 180, 182, 240 Baum, Armin 208 Beale, G. K. 231 Beker, Christiaan J. 152 Berkouwer, G. C. 3, 5, 192 Best, E. 84, 93 Billings, J. Todd 237 Bird, Michael F. 106, 150 Black, Clifton C. 151 Blackwell, Ben C. 147, 148 de Boer, Martinus C. 138 Blickenstaff, Marianne 116, 117

Caird, G. B. 217 Calvin, John 2, 190, 229, 231, 234, 237 Cameron, Charles 207, 209 Campbell, Constantine R. 158, 229, 237 Canlis, Julie, 229, 234 Carter, Tim 105 Charles, R. H. 220 Cheney, Emily 73 Chester, Stephen J. 148 Cheung, Luke L. 177, 183 Ciampa , R. E. 232 Clark, Andrew C. 100 Clark-Soles, Jaime 127, 130 Clements, Ronald E. 12 Clifford, Richard 6 Cockerill, Gareth Lee 162, 172 Cohen, Shaye J. D. 28 Cohick, Lynn H. 144, 145 Collins, John J. 27, 30, 38, 39, 41 Collins, John J. Compton, Jared 163, 168 Conway, Anne 259 Conzelmann, Hans 108

314

Index of Authors

Cortez, Marc 2, 5, 122, 142, 156, 165, 189, 190, 191, 200, 207 Couch, Mal 207 Cousland, J. R. C. 79 Cranfield, C. E. B. 150 Crenshaw, James L. 18 Cressy, David 252, 253 Crick, Francis 191 Crossan, John Dominic 92 Crossley, James G. 91, 124 Culpeppe, R. Alan 129 Cunningham, Scott 113 D’Angelo, Mary Rose 117 Daniels, Scott 209 Danker, Frederick W. 101, 177, 180, 182, 240 Davids, Peter H. 179, 197, 198 Davies, W. D. 69, 76, 77, 78 Davis, Philip G. 95 Dean- Jones, L. A. 58 Deines, Roland 208 Deines, Roland 29 Dell, Katharine J. 8, 11 Destro, Adriana 124 Dibelius, Martin 100, 108 Dickson, John 231 Dimant, Devorah 41 DiTommaso, Lorenzo 209 Do, Toan Joseph 135 Dodd, C. H. 132, 133, 135 Dodd, Brian J. 143 Dunn, James D. G. 8, 12, 105, 112, 141, 142, 143, 219, 239, 240 Dunson, Ben C. 158 Eastman, Susan G. 149 Edwards, J. R. 85 Ellis, Nicholas 184 Endo, Masanobu 123 Engberg-Pedersen, Troels 55, 157 Eubank, Nathan 74 Evans, Craig A. 248 Evans, Ernest 245, 260, 261 Everson, S. 45 Farris, Joshua Ryan 2 Fee, Gordon D. 144, 145, 154 Fewster, Gregory P. 143 Fishbane, Michael A. 20

Flemming, R. 58 Flessen, Bonnie J. 116 Fletcher-Louis, Crispin H. T. 31 Fowl, Stephen E. 238 Fox, Michael V. 7, 11, 13, 15, 17, 23, 37 France, R. T. 85, 86, 87, 88 Frede, D. 45 Frey, Jörg 127 Friesen, Steven J. 217, 218 Gabriele, Boccaccini 30 Garland, David 83, 96 Garland, Robert 109 Gathercole, Simon J. 149 Gaventa Beverly R. 117, 118 Gempf, Conrad H. 108, 109, 110 Gentry, Peter J. 230, 231 Gill, Christopher 56 Gingrich F. William 177, 180, 182, 240 Goff, Matthew J. 31, 36, 37 Goldsworthy, Graeme 11, 231 Goodrich, John K. 148 Gordis, Robert 10 Gorman, Michael J. 145 Gowan, Donald 181 Gowler, David 181 Grant, Jamie A. 10, 15, 22, 225, 244, 245 Gray, Patrick 165 Green, Gene L. 198 Green, Joel 3, 97, 99, 102, 231 Green, Michael 198 Gregson, Fiona Jane Robertson 118 Griffin, Miriam 59 Gundry, Robert H. 83 Habel, Norman C. 22, 23 Haenchen, Ernst 109 Halton, Charles 124 Hankinson, R. J. 46 Harlow, Daniel C. 27, 30, 38 Harrington, Daniel J. 70 Hartin, Patrick 177, 180, 181, 183, 184 Hartman, Lars 104 Hatton, Howard A. 197, 198 Hatzidakis, Emmanuel 250 Haya-Prats, Gonzalo 112 Hays, Richard B. 111 Hemer, Colin J. 108 Henderson, Suzanne Watts 93

Index of Authors van Henten, Jan Willem 218 Henze, Matthias 29, 30, 42, 225 Herzer, Jens 29 Hodge, Charles 151 Hoekema, Anthony A. 5 Hoffmann, Matthias 212 Hogan, Karina Martin 36 Hood, Renate Viveen 207 Hooker, Morna D. 86, 249 Hope, Valerie M. 50, 53, 54 Horton, Michael S. 191, 227, 228, 231 Hossfeld, Frank Lothar 33 Huber, Lynn R. 220 Hurtado, Larry W. 95 Irenaeus 217, 257, 258 Irwin, T. H. 45 Janeway, James 253 Jeeves, Malcolm A. 3 Jensen Matthew D. 132 Jenson, Robert 261 Jeremias, Joachim 182 Jewett, Robert 49, 55, 150 Jobes, Karen H. 138, 199, 226 Johnson, Luke Timothy 112, 161, 163, 166, 172, 177, 178, 185 de Jonge, Marinus 30 de Joode, Johan 22 Jopling, D. 227 Kamell, Mariam J. see Kovalishyn Käsemann, Ernst 142, 145, 149, 158 Keck, Leander E. 6, 108, 153 Keener, Craig S. 108 Kelsey, David 3, 6, 244 Kirk, Alan 202 Kistemaker, Simon J. 197, 198 Klappert, Bertold 219 Koester, Craig R. 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 163, 169, 172, 208, 209, 212, 217, 218, 222 Konradt, Matthias 29 van Kooten, G. H. 149, 154 Koperski, Veronica 117 Koptak, Paul E. 16 Kovalishyn, Mariam Kamell 178, 182, 186, 226, 254, 257 Kugel, James L. 37

Kugler, Robert A. 38 Kümmel, W. G. 102, 108 Kynes, Will 6, 11 Labahn, Michael 3, 28 Lambrecht, Jan 219 Lane, William L. 161, 167, 168, 172 Langton, Karen 22 Law, Timothy Michael 124 van Leeuwen, Raymond C. 7, 11, 24 Lehtipuu, Outi 3, 28 Levenson, Jon D. 39 Levine, Amy-Jill 116, 117 Levison, John R. 30 Lewis, C. S. 228 Lied, Liv Ingeborg 42 Lieu, Judith M. 131, 133, 134, 135, 136, 193, 194, 195, 196 Lincoln, Andrew T. 210 Lo, Alison 19 Loader, William R. G. 137 Lockett, Darian 181, 187 Long, A. A. 56 Longenecker, Bruce W. 218 Longman III, Tremper 13 de Lubac, Henri 249 Luther, Martin 2, 172, 181 Luz, Ulrich 77, 78, 79 Macaskill, Grant 158, 237, 238 Maier, Harry O. 210 Malina, Bruce J. 98, 106 Mallen, Peter 101 Mankowski, Eric 193, 195, 199 Marcus, Joel 86, 89, 95 Marion, Jean-Luc 247 Marshall, I. Howard 99, 102, 111, 132, 133, 134 Martin, Dale 44, 46, 49, 50 Martin, Ralph P. 143 Martyn, J. Louis 148 Maston, Jason 139, 148, 149, 152, 154, 226, 256 Matera, Frank J. 95 Mathews, Kenneth A. 234 Matthews, Shelly 117 Mazzaferri, Frederick David 206 McCartney, Dan G. 177 McDonough, Sean M. vii

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316

Index of Authors

McKnight, Scot 178, 182 Meek, James A. 106 Menken, M. J. J. 134 Menzies, Robert P. 105, 112 Metzger, Bruce M. 111 Metzner, Rainer 125, 126 Middleton, Richard J. 5 Minear, Paul S. 80, 81, 138 Mirto, Maria Serena 50, 51, 52, 54 Moffitt, David M. 162, 163, 164, 174 Moltmann, Jürgen. 3, 189 Moo, Douglas J. 150, 152, 155, 198, 240 Morton, Russell S. 205, 215 Moyise, Steve 211 Mroczek, Eva 28 Murphy, Nancey 3 Murphy, Roland E. 14 Murray, J. 236 Naluparayil, Jacob Chacko 95 Nave, Guy D. 103 Neutel, Karin B. 156 Newsom, Carol A. 34, 36, 41 Ngwa, Kenneth Numfor 10 Nichols, Shaun 201 Nicholson, Ernest W. 7 Nickelsburg, George W. E. 27, 33, 39, 40 Nieburh, Karl-Wilhelm 29 Nolland, John 102, 234 Norbert F. Lohfink 14 Novenson, Matthew V. 211 Ogden, Graham S. 19 Økland, Jorunn 41 Oliver, J. P. J. 17 O’Reilly, Leo 111 Orr, James 5 Ortlund, Gavin 230, 231 Osborne, Grant R. 151 O’Toole, Robert F. 110, 111 Painter, John 135, 137, 138 Pannenberg, Wolfhart 3 Parsons, Mikeal C. 101, 114, 115 Pattemore, Stephen 212 Paul, Ian 206, 211, 216, 226, 255 Peeler, Amy L. B. 167, 168, 247, 249 Penner, Todd 116 Pennington, Jonathan T. vii, 71

Pesce, Mauro 124 Pesch, Rudolf 109 Peterson, David 102 Phillips, Elaine A. 10 Pietersma, Albert 162 Ponsonby, Simon 215 Powell, Mark Allen 82, 205 Praeder, Susan M. 100, 110 Provan, Iain W. 19 Rabens, Volker 157 von Rad, Gerhard 6 Radner, Ephraim 4, 250 Rainbow, Paul A. 124, 129 Rappaport, Julian 193, 195, 199 Rapske, Brian M. 113 Reese, Ruth Anne 202 Reis, B. 45 Resseguie, James L. 205 Reynolds, Benjamin 226, 245 Ridderbos, Herman 126 Robbins, V. K. 91 Robinson, James A. T. 49, 151 Rogerson, John W. 8, 12 Rohrbaugh, Richard L. 98 Rosner, Brian S. 4 Rothschild, Clare K. 3, 28 Rowe, C. Kavin 109, 110 Rowland, Christopher 209 Rudman, Dominic 14 Runia, David 49 Sanders, E. P. 106 Sanders, Jack T. 106 Sarna, Nahum M. 32 Schank, Roger C. 196, 199 Scheibe, Karl E. 196 Schenke, Ludger 89 Schläpfer, Esther 29 Schmitt, Mary 170 Schnackenburg, Rudolf 128, 133, 137 Schnelle, Udo 3, 83, 123, 125, 128, 151, 153, 154 Schreiner, Thomas R. 151 Schrorer, Silvia 6 Schwartz, Daniel R. 27, 40, 124 Schwarz, Hans 3, 97 Seim, Turid Karlsen 41, 117 Senior, Donald 67

Index of Authors Shaw, David A. 148 Shead, Andrew G. 23 Sheppard, Gerald T. 23 Silva, Moisés 144 Skinner, Matthew L. 113 Smalley, Stephen S. 138 Smith, D. Moody 124, 126, 129, 130 Snowden, Frank M. Jr. 115 Soards, Marion L. 100 Sonderegger, Katherine 256, 257, 258 Stark, Rodney 219 Staubli, Thomas 6 Stein, R. H. 89 Stenschke, Christoph W. 99, 102, 103, 107, 108, 109 Stevens, Gerald L. 207 Stevenson, Kenneth 254 Stone, Michael E. 30, 33, 36 Strange, James Riley 181 Strauss, Mark L. 83, 88, 92, 94, 225, 245, 246, 252 Strohminger, Nina 201 Stuckenbruck, Loren T. 41 Sutton, Christopher 253 Swidler, Leonard 117 Tabb, Brian J. 113, 114 Taeger, Jens-Wilhelm 108, 110 Taliaferro, Charles 2 Tannehill, R. C. 93 Taylor, Charles 56, 61 Telford, W. R. 83, 89 Thatcher, Tom 202 Thompson, Alan J. 114 Thompson, Leonard L. 219 Thompson, Marianne Meye 129, 130 Thompson, Trevor W. 3, 28 Ticciati, Susannah 9, 17, 22 Tromp, Johannes 30 Trumbower, Jeffrey A. 124, 126 Turner, Max 101, 105, 106, 112 Twelftree, Graham H. 110, 111 Tyson, Joseph B. 106

Van der Watt, Jan G. 123, 129, 137 VanderKam, James C. 27 VanderStichele, Caroline 116 Vanhoozer, Kevin J. 225, 229 VanLandingham, Chris 153 Vielhauer, Phillip 108, 109 Volf, Miroslav 104 Vollenweider, Samuel 42 Wall, Robert W. 177 Walton, John H. 6, 16, 17, 23 Walton, Steve 100, 111, 113, 114, 119, 226, 245 Watts, Peter 220 Watts, R. E. 91 Weatherly, Jon A. 103 Weber, Gadi Charles 18 Weiss, Zeev 27 Welker, Michael 3 Wenham, Gordon 6, 230 Wenk, Matthias 112, 113 Westerholm, Stephen 141 Westfall, Cynthia Long 68 White, John Lee 212 Whybray, Norman R. 23 Wilcox, Max 85 Wilson, Brittany E. 101, 116, 117 Wilson, Mark 211, 216 Wilson, Walter T. 184, 185 Wink, Walter 209 Winter, Bruce W. 109 van Wolde, Ellen J. 22 Wolff, H. W. 29, 227 Woodman, Simon 206 Wright, Benjamin G. 162 Wright, Tom 208 Yarbro Collins, Adela 93, 215 Yarden, Leon 248 York, John O. 101, 102 Zenger, Eric 33 Zimmermann, Ruben 137 Zuntz, Gunther 164

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