Characters and Characterization in Luke-Acts 9780567663917, 9780567663931, 9780567663924

Table of contents :
Cover
Title
Copyright
Contents
Contributors
Acknowledgments
Abbreviations
Introduction
Part I: The Gospel of Luke
Chapter 1: The Woman Who Crashed Simon’s Party: A Reader-Response Approach to Luke 7:36-50
Chapter 2: Levi’s Banquet (Luke 5:29-39) and Lukan Discipleship: Group Characters and Christian Identity Formation
Chapter 3: Zechariah and Gabriel as Thematic Characters: A Narratological Reading of the Beginning of Luke’s Gospel (Luke 1:8-20)
Chapter 4: The Characterization of the Two Brothers in the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32): Their Function and Afterlives
Chapter 5: A Woman’s Touch: Manual and Emotional Dynamics of Female Characters in Luke’s Gospel
Chapter 6: The Rich are the Bad Guys: Lukan Characters and Wealth Ethics
Chapter 7: A Cognitive Narratological Approach to the Characterization(S) of Zacchaeus
Part II: The Acts of the Apostles
Chapter 8: Jesus, Present and/or Absent? The Presence and Presentation of Jesus as a Character in the Book of Acts
Chapter 9: Sight and Spectacle: “Seeing” Paul in the Book of Acts
Chapter 10: The Characterization of Disciples in Acts: Genre, Method, and Quality
Chapter 11: Sociolinguistic Dynamics and Characterization in the Acts of the Apostles
Chapter 12: Simeon in Acts 15:14: Simon Peter and Echoes of Simeons Past
Chapter 13: Herod as Jesus’ Executioner: Possibilities In Lukan Reception and Wirkungsgeschichte
Bibliography
Index of Ancient Texts
Hebrew Bible/Septuagint
New Testament
Other Jewish and Christian Literature
Other Graeco-Roman Literature
Index of Subjects
Index of Authors

Citation preview

LIBRARY OF NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES

548 Formerly 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

Characters and Characterization in Luke-Acts

Edited by Frank E. Dicken and Julia A. Snyder

T&T CLARK Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the T&T Clark logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2016 Paperback edition first published 2018 © Frank E. Dicken, Julia A. Snyder and contributors, 2016 Frank E. Dicken, Julia A. Snyder and their contributors have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. viii constitute an extension of this copyright page. 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 catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-0-5676-6391-7 PB: 978-0-5676-8120-1 ePDF: 978-0-5676-6392-4 Series: Library of New Testament Studies, volume 548 Typeset by Fakenham Prepress Solutions, Fakenham, Norfolk NR21 8NN To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

CONTENTS Contributorsvii Acknowledgmentsviii Abbreviationsix INTRODUCTION­1 Frank Dicken and Julia Snyder Part I THE GOSPEL OF LUKE Chapter 1 THE WOMAN WHO CRASHED SIMON’S PARTY: A READER-RESPONSE APPROACH TO LUKE 7:36-50 James L. Resseguie

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Chapter 2 LEVI’S BANQUET (LUKE 5:29-39) AND LUKAN DISCIPLESHIP: GROUP CHARACTERS AND CHRISTIAN IDENTITY FORMATION23 John A. Darr Chapter 3 ZECHARIAH AND GABRIEL AS THEMATIC CHARACTERS: A NARRATOLOGICAL READING OF THE BEGINNING OF LUKE’S GOSPEL (LUKE 1:8-20) Hannah M. Cocksworth

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Chapter 4 THE CHARACTERIZATION OF THE TWO BROTHERS IN THE PARABLE OF THE PRODIGAL SON (LUKE 15:11-32): THEIR FUNCTION AND AFTERLIVES55 David B. Gowler Chapter 5 A WOMAN’S TOUCH: MANUAL AND EMOTIONAL DYNAMICS OF FEMALE CHARACTERS IN LUKE’S GOSPEL73 F. Scott Spencer

vi Contents

Chapter 6 THE RICH ARE THE BAD GUYS: LUKAN CHARACTERS AND WEALTH ETHICS  Cornelis Bennema

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Chapter 7 A COGNITIVE NARRATOLOGICAL APPROACH TO THE CHARACTERIZATION(S) OF ZACCHAEUS109 Joel B. Green Part II THE ACTS OF THE APOSTLES Chapter 8 JESUS, PRESENT AND/OR ABSENT? THE PRESENCE AND PRESENTATION OF JESUS AS A CHARACTER IN THE BOOK OF ACTS123 Steve Walton Chapter 9 SIGHT AND SPECTACLE: “SEEING” PAUL IN THE BOOK OF ACTS141 Brittany E. Wilson Chapter 10 THE CHARACTERIZATION OF DISCIPLES IN ACTS: GENRE, METHOD, AND QUALITY155 Sean A. Adams Chapter 11 SOCIOLINGUISTIC DYNAMICS AND CHARACTERIZATION IN THE ACTS OF THE APOSTLES169 Julia A. Snyder Chapter 12 SIMEON IN ACTS 15:14: SIMON PETER AND ECHOES OF SIMEONS PAST185 Stephen E. Fowl Chapter 13 HEROD AS JESUS’ EXECUTIONER: POSSIBILITIES IN LUKAN RECEPTION AND WIRKUNGSGESCHICHTE199 Frank E. Dicken Bibliography213 Index of Ancient Texts 233 Hebrew Bible/Septuagint 233 New Testament 235 Other Jewish and Christian Literature 244 Other Graeco-Roman Literature 245 Index of Subjects 247 Index of Authors 251

CONTRIBUTORS Sean A. Adams, University of Glasgow, UK Cornelis Bennema, Union School of Theology, UK Hannah M. Cocksworth, King Edward’s School, UK John A. Darr, Boston College, USA Frank E. Dicken, Lincoln Christian University, USA Stephen E. Fowl, Loyola University Maryland, USA David B. Gowler, Oxford College of Emory University, USA Joel B. Green, Fuller Theological Seminary, USA James L. Resseguie, Winebrenner Theological Seminary, USA Julia A. Snyder, University of Regensburg, Germany F. Scott Spencer, Baptist Theological Seminary at Richmond, USA Steve Walton, St. Mary’s University, Twickenham, UK Brittany E. Wilson, Duke University Divinity School, USA

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS We would like to offer our appreciation for all those who have contributed to the preparation of this volume. Thanks go first to our contributors, who have taken the time to think afresh about characterization in Luke-Acts and put their thoughts into essays that reflect their interpretive insights and methodological creativity. We are grateful for the cheerful assistance of Chase Dilworth in formatting footnotes and bibliography. We also thank Dominic Mattos and Chris Keith for accepting the volume into the LNTS series, as well as the staff at Bloomsbury, including Miriam Cantwell, for facilitating the publication process. Julia’s work on the project was supported in part by two fellowships from the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft, first as part of Excellence Cluster Topoi at the Humboldt University in Berlin, and then as part of a research fellowship at the University of Regensburg, Germany. We also express thanks to the copyright holders for permission to use excerpts from the following sources: An excerpt from “The Prodigal Son” by Robert Wilkins is used by permission of Wynwood Music, Nashville, TN. “The Prodigal Son,” from GOD’S TROMBONES: SEVEN NEGRO SERMONS IN VERSE by James Weldon Johnson, copyright 1927 by Penguin Random House LLC; copyright renewed © 1955 by Grace Nail Johnson. Used by permission of Viking Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

Albrecht Dürer’s The Prodigal Son (1496) and Rembrandt van Rijn’s The Return of the Prodigal Son (1636) appear courtesy of the National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. Frank Dicken and Julia Snyder 1 March 2016

ABBREVIATIONS ANTC ABRL ACCS BAFCS BCAW BDAG BETL BNTC BTB BTCB BZNW CBQ EKKNT ETSMS ExpT FFNT FRLANT Genre HE Hermeneia HTR IBT ICC JAAR JBL JETS JPTSS JSNT JSNTSS JSOTSS JTS LCBI LCL LSJ LNTS

Abingdon New Testament Commentary Anchor Bible Reference Library Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture The Book of Acts in its First Century Setting Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World Bauer, W., F. W. Danker, W. F. Arndt, and F. W. Gingrich. Greek–English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature. 3rd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000 Bibliotheca Ephemeridum theologicarum Lovaniensium Black’s New Testament Commentary Biblical Theology Bulletin Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Catholic Biblical Quarterly Evangelisch–katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament Evangelical Theological Society Monograph Series Expository Times Foundation and Facets: New Testament Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Genre: Forms of Discourse and Culture Hermes, Zeitschrift für klassische Philologie: Einzelschriften Hermeneia: A Critical and Historical Commentary on the Bible Harvard Theological Review Interpreting Biblical Texts International Critical Commentary Journal of the American Academy of Religion Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society Journal of Pentecostal Theology 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 Supplement Series Journal of Theological Studies Literary Currents in Biblical Interpretation Loeb Classical Library Liddell, Henry George, Robert Scott, Henry Stuart Jones. A Greek–English Lexicon. 9th ed. with revised supplement. Oxford: Clarendon, 1996 Library of New Testament Studies

x Abbreviations Mosaic NICNT NIGCT NovT NovTSup NPNF NTL NTM NTS OCM PBM PC PCNT Poétique PTMS PTS SBL SBLMS SBLSP SCM SJLA SLS SNTSMS SNTU SNTW SPCK TDNT TENT UBS WBC WUNT ZECNT ZAW ZNW

Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature The New International Commentary on the New Testament New International Greek Testament Commentary Novum Testamentum Novum Testamentum Supplements Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers New Testament Library New Testament Monographs New Testament Studies Oxford Classical Monographs Paternoster Biblical Monographs Proclamation Commentaries Paideia Commentaries on the New Testament Poétique: Revue de théorie et d’analyse littéraires Pittsburgh Theological Monograph Series Patristische Texte und Studien Society of Biblical Literature Society of Biblical Literature Monograph Series Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers Student Christian Movement Studies in Judaism in Late Antiquity Sacred Literature Series Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series Studien zum Neuen Testament und seiner Umwelt Studies of the New Testament and its World Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge Theological Dictionary of the New Testament. Edited by G. Kittel and G. Friedrich. Translated by G. W. Bromiley. 10 vols. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1964–76 Texts and Editions for New Testament Study United Bible Society Word Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Zondervan Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft

I N T R O DU C T IO N

Frank Dicken and Julia Snyder

This volume is the third in a series on characters and characterization in the New Testament, evidence of a growing interest among New Testament scholars in reading narratives not only as witnesses to historical events and theological developments, but as literary works with plot, setting, and characters.1 Some of the most famous and memorable characters in the New Testament appear in Luke-Acts. In Luke’s Gospel, we meet the angels and shepherds of the Nativity, the Good Samaritan, the Prodigal Son, and the penitent thief on the cross. The Acts of the Apostles features intriguing accounts of some of the most prominent figures of the early Christian movement, including Peter, Paul, Barnabas, Timothy, and James.

Previous Studies of Lukan Characters Luke’s characters have long been of interest to scholars of the New Testament, and studies touching on them are so numerous we cannot hope to list them here. Especially numerous are works on Christology, studies on Paul and Peter, and analyses of Jews, Gentiles, “Godfearers,” and “Christians” in the narratives. The rise of narratological approaches in recent decades has been especially influential on Lukan character studies. Early works of this type included monographs by several contributors to the current volume. In the 1990s, David Gowler’s Host, Guest, Enemy, and Friend: Portraits of the Pharisees in Luke and Acts applied a “socio-narratological approach” to characterization, building on an earlier article and illustrating the importance of reading characters in light of cultural scripts

1.  Previous volumes include Christopher W. Skinner, ed., Characters and Characterization in the Gospel of John, LNTS 461 (London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2013); Christopher W. Skinner and Matthew Ryan Hauge, eds., Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark, LNTS 483 (London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2014).

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such as “honor/shame.”2 Shortly thereafter, John Darr’s On Character Building3 advocated a methodology that combines sensitivity to ancient literary tropes (e.g., philosopher against tyrant) with an inquiry into a hypothetical first-time reader’s encounters with characters in the narrative.4 Scott Spencer’s The Portrait of Philip in Acts also appeared in the 1990s, applying a variety of historical and literary tools to the task of elucidating the role of Philip in Acts.5 Many works on Lukan characters illustrate how character studies can help address other types of interpretive questions. Some authors have combined studies of characters with theological reflection. S. John Roth’s The Blind, the Lame and the Poor: Character Types in Luke-Acts, for instance, is an audience-oriented study that examines references to the blind, lame, and poor, suggesting that for an audience familiar with the Septuagint, they point to Jesus’ identity as God’s agent of salvation.6 Many analyses of Christology and the portrayal of the Spirit in Luke-Acts likewise have theological implications. The portrayal of women in Luke’s works has also received attention, an overview of which can be gained from the Feminist Companions to Luke and Acts.7 As Scott Spencer notes in his recent Salty Wives, Spirited Mothers, and Savvy Widows, Luke’s work has been interpreted both as positive toward women and as repressive of them. Spencer tries to find a middle ground, arguing that Luke presents female characters as women of purpose and persistence.8 Lukan character studies have also intersected with a growing interest in the Roman Empire among New Testament scholars. Kazuhiko Yamazaki-Ransom’s The Roman Empire in Luke’s Narrative and Joshua Yoder’s Representatives of Roman Rule both examine Luke’s portrayal of authority figures, discussing what the texts might tell us about the third evangelist’s political perspectives.9 Another recent 2. See David B. Gowler, “Characterization in Luke: A Socio-Narratological Approach,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 19 (1989): 54–62; David B. Gowler, Host, Guest, Enemy, and Friend: Portraits of the Pharisees in Luke and Acts, Emory Studies in Early Christianity 2 (New York: Peter Lang, 1991). 3.  John A. Darr, On Character Building: The Reader and the Rhetoric of Characterization in Luke-Acts (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1992). 4.  See also John A. Darr, Herod the Fox: Audience Criticism and Lukan Characterization, JSNTSS 163 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998). 5.  F. Scott Spencer, The Portrait of Philip in Acts: A Study in Roles and Relations, JSNTSS 67 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992). 6. S. John Roth, The Blind, the Lame, and the Poor: Character Types in Luke-Acts, JSNTSS 144 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997). 7. Amy-Jill Levine with Marianne Blickenstaff, eds., A Feminist Companion to Luke, Feminist Companion to the Early Christian Writings 3 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002); ibid., eds., A Feminist Companion to the Acts of the Apostles, Feminist Companion to the Early Christian Writings 9 (London: T & T Clark, 2004). 8.  F. Scott Spencer, Salty Wives, Spirited Mothers, and Savvy Widows: Capable Women of Purpose and Persistence in Luke’s Gospel (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012). 9. Kazuhiko Yamazaki-Ransom, The Roman Empire in Luke’s Narrative, LNTS 404

Introduction

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contribution to the latter conversation is Frank Dicken’s Herod as a Composite Character in Luke-Acts.10 Dicken argues that the three historic individuals named “Herod” may be understood narratively as a single, or composite, character that represents satanic dominion over the Roman Empire. Studies of Luke’s characters, of which the books mentioned here are only a small sample, thus contribute to a variety of ongoing conversations within New Testament Studies.

Overview of the Volume Lukan character studies also represent a point of hermeneutical and methodological creativity, as the current volume illustrates. The first three essays highlight the generative potential of a reader-response approach to Luke’s Gospel. James Resseguie applies the reading strategies of Wolfgang Iser, especially the concept of “defamiliarization,” to a reading of the woman who anoints Jesus in Luke 7:36–50. He investigates how the text leads the implied reader to fill in blanks and make premature conclusions that are later encouraged or frustrated, and shows how the story of Simon’s entrapment exposes the deficiency of conventional norms and values. The contribution of John Darr also approaches Luke from an audienceoriented perspective, arguing that the episode of Levi’s banquet (Luke 5:29-39) has a “programmatic” function like that of Luke 4 and influences how readers will actualize significant portions of the text that follows. Darr suggests that the Levi episode programs readers to build a particular understanding of Christian discipleship as they continue through the rest of the narrative. Hannah Cocksworth similarly highlights the importance of narrative ordering in her exploration of the opening scene of Luke’s Gospel (Luke 1:8-20). She shows how this passage at the beginning of the text raises questions and issues that propel the reader through the rest of the narrative, and describes how the interaction between Gabriel and Zechariah leads to important thematic questions about Jesus’ identity. The contribution of David Gowler takes this interest in the effect of texts on audiences a step further. His exploration of the parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32) focuses on the reception of the two brothers in music, drama, and art. His examples show how ambiguities in the portrayal of the younger and older son in Luke’s Gospel have allowed for a variety of interpretations, including depictions of a reconciliation between the two brothers. The essays that follow illustrate how studies of Lukan characters can inform conversations about social relations and ethics. Scott Spencer explores the role of touch and emotion in characterization of women in the Third Gospel. His work is (London: T & T Clark, 2010); Joshua Yoder, Representatives of Roman Rule: Roman Provincial Governors in Luke-Acts, BZNTW 209 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2014). 10. Frank Dicken, Herod as a Composite Character in Luke-Acts, WUNT II 375 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014).

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informed by social-psychological research and various theoretical approaches to embodied emotion, and challenges sharp distinctions between reason, emotion, and physicality, as well as gender stereotypes. Cornelis Bennema’s essay focuses on money. He builds on his own methodological approach to characterization to examine how the portrayal of the rich fool in Luke 12:13-21, the rich man in Luke 16:19-31, the rich ruler in Luke 18:18-25, and Zacchaeus in Luke 19:1-10 inform Luke’s monetary ethics. He concludes that wealthy followers of Jesus are required to give to those in need. Returning to Wolfgang Iser, Joel Green offers a more in-depth analysis of Zacchaeus, drawing on insights from cognitive narratology to investigate the different labels applied to this character in the narrative. He highlights how the story deconstructs character “types” in the Gospel such that the only label that really matters in the end is the one applied by Jesus: Zacchaeus is a “child of Abraham.” The second half of the volume is devoted to the book of Acts, and begins with an analysis of the portrayal of Jesus by Steve Walton. As part of a detailed study of the various ways Jesus is characterized, Walton describes how Jesus shares characteristics with the God of Israel, and critiques scholarly claims that he is absent from the church after his ascension. The next two essays focus on the depiction of Jesus’ followers. Brittany Wilson looks at optical imagery in Acts, describing how Paul is characterized as both the subject and object of sight, a witness to salvation who faces suffering. She situates Paul in relation to the public aspect of persecution in the ancient world (“spectacle”). Sean Adams also situates Acts in a wider cultural context, comparing Luke’s depiction of Peter and Paul to the portrayal of followers of important figures in Graeco-Roman histories and collected biographies. He concludes with observations on how genre influences characterization. Next is an essay by Julia Snyder with text critical interests. She draws on sociolinguistics to describe how the words attributed to characters in dialogue fit the social contexts in which they speak, although with significant differences between the Vaticanus and Bezan versions of the narrative. Intertextuality and characterization come to the fore in the last section of the volume. Stephen Fowl focuses on James’ reference to “Simeon” in Acts 15:14, examining its intertextual relations with passages on Simon Peter, Simeon in Luke 2, and Genesis 34. He suggests that the use of “Simeon” in Acts is multivalent, and finishes the essay with a methodological reflection on how his reading fits with the interests of other interpreters in authors and readers. In the concluding essay, Frank Dicken also considers questions of intertextuality, examining possible relationships between the depiction of Herod in Luke-Acts and several second-century works: the Gospel of Peter and the writings of Ignatius and Justin Martyr. His analysis demonstrates that studies of characters can be fruitfully applied to questions of reception history.

Part I T HE G OSPEL OF L UKE

1 T H E W OM A N W HO C R A SH E D S I M O N ’ S P A RT Y : A R E A D E R - R E SP O N SE A P P R OAC H T O L U K E 7 : 3 6 - 5 0

James L. Resseguie

Reader-response criticism pays close attention to the actions of the reader in responding to a text, and focuses on what the text does to the reader.1 An examination of the text in and of itself is replaced by an analysis of the reading process, a description of the interaction between reader and text. Stanley Fish, an early reader-response critic, outlines the maneuvers of the reader when engaged in a temporal reading. “The concept is simply the rigorous and disinterested asking of the question, what does the word, phrase, sentence, paragraph, chapter, novel, play, poem do? And the execution involves an analysis of the developing responses of the reader in relation to the words as they succeed one another in time.”2 Multiple theoretical orientations are subsumed under the label “reader-response criticism,” including phenomenological, subjective, transactive, rhetorical, and structural, to name a few.3 All focus on the reading process, but each involves a 1. See James L. Resseguie, “Reader-Response Criticism and the Synoptic Gospels,” JAAR 52 (1984): 307–24. 2. Stanley E. Fish, Is There a Text in This Class? The Authority of Interpretative Communities (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980), 26–7. Emphasis is Fish’s. This quote represents the early Fish and “affective stylistics.” There are actually two incarnations of Fish. The early Fish talks as if the reader is manipulated by the text and the critic’s function is to describe that manipulative process (Fish’s “affective stylistics”). The later Fish abandoned this phenomenological emphasis and no longer claimed to describe the reading process. Instead, he adopted a structuralist approach that describes a theory of interpretative strategies. See Steven Mailloux, “Reader-Response Criticism?” Genre 10 (1977): 413–31. 3. Two standard introductions to reader-response criticism are Jane P. Tompkins, ed., Reader-Response Criticism: From Formalism to Post-Structuralism (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980) and Susan R. Suleiman and Inge Crosman, eds., The Reader

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different relationship between reader and text. Some critics, for example, focus on the reader in the text.4 They see the reader as inscribed in the text and as a property of the literary work. At the other end of the spectrum is a subjective approach that gives the reader complete dominance over the text. This reader is outside the text, and meaning is a creation by and in the individual reader.5 Still others see the act of reading as a two-way interaction between reader and text. An “implied”6 or “informed”7 reader interacts with the text, and meaning is a product of reader-text dialectic. This essay develops the critical assumptions of Wolfgang Iser, and applies his phenomenological theory of reading to biblical literature. A reading of the story of the woman in Luke 7:36-50 serves as a test case for his method. This is followed by a discussion of reader-response criticism as a necessary method for the analysis of characters in Luke.

Four Critical Assumptions of Wolfgang Iser The first critical assumption of Iser focuses on the reader’s role in the realization of a text’s potentiality. The reader is active, not passive, and contributes to the in the Text: Essays on Audience and Interpretation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980). See also Elizabeth Freund, The Return of the Reader: Reader-Response Criticism, New Accents (London: Methuen, 1987); Robert C. Holub, Reception Theory: A Critical Introduction, New Accents (London: Methuen, 1984); James L. Resseguie, Narrative Criticism of the New Testament: An Introduction (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2005), 257–8. 4. Gérard Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method, trans. Jane E. Lewin (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980); Gerald Prince, “Introduction to the Study of the Narratee,” Poétique 14 (1973): 177–96. The relation of reader to text (“in the text”; “over the text”; or “with the text”) was suggested to me by Steven Mailloux, “Learning to Read: Interpretation and Reader-Response Criticism,” Studies in the Literary Imagination 12 (1979): 93–108, 94. 5. Norman Holland, 5 Readers Reading (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1975); idem, “UNITY IDENTITY TEXT SELF,” Publications of the Modern Language Association 90 (1975): 813–22; David Bleich, Readers and Feelings: An Introduction to Subjective Criticism (Urbana, IL: National Council of Teachers of English, 1975). 6. Wolfgang Iser, “Indeterminacy and the Reader’s Response in Prose Fiction,” in Aspects of Narrative, ed. J. Hillis Miller (New York: Columbia University Press, 1971), 1–45; idem, “The Reading Process: A Phenomenological Approach,” New Literary History 3 (1972): 272–99; idem, The Implied Reader: Patterns of Communication in Prose Fiction from Bunyan to Beckett (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974); idem, The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978). 7. Stanley E. Fish, Surprised by Sin: The Reader in Paradise Lost (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967); idem, Self-Consuming Artifacts: The Experience of SeventeenthCentury Literature (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972).



The Woman Who Crashed Simon’s Party

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production of textual meaning by filling in information that is implied but not written. The implied sections of a text are called “gaps,” areas of “indeterminacy,” or “blanks.”8 By filling in blanks, the reader contributes to the meaning of the text. Iser calls this the “realization”9 (Konkretisation) of the work. He thus makes an important distinction between a “text” as written by an author and a “work” as realized by a reader: “The work is more than the text, for the text only takes on life when it is realized, and furthermore the realization is by no means independent of the individual disposition of the reader—though this in turn is acted upon by the different patterns of the text. The convergence of text and reader brings the literary work into existence.”10 A “text” is thus a product created by an author while a “work” is the realization of a text by a reader. Yet the reader’s participation in the realization of the text is limited; the text guides the reader in the Konkretisation of the literary work. Iser illustrates the reader’s contribution using the analogy of two people gazing at the night sky: “Both [may] be looking at the same collection of stars, but one will see the image of a plough, and the other will make out a dipper. The ‘stars’ in a literary text are fixed; the lines that join them are variable.”11 Each reader thus selects and organizes parts of a text, fills in gaps in her or his own way, and develops an interpretation, but the written portions of the text place limits on the reader’s production of textual meaning.12 Iser’s second critical assumption describes where the reader stands in relationship to the text. Is the reader inside the text, outside the text as a real reader, or between author and real reader as an intermediary? Iser’s reader is neither a “real” nor an “ideal” reader; rather, he uses the heuristic concept of the “implied reader.”13 Whereas the ideal reader is a property of the text and can perfectly interpret its meaning, Iser’s implied reader is more loosely tied to the text. The Iserian reader approaches the text with certain social and cultural assumptions and a degree of literary competence. He or she then follows guidelines transmitted in the text to realize the full potentiality of the text’s meaning. The implied reader is thus an intermediary between two conscious minds, that of the author and that of the real reader. Although the implied reader is located in the real reader’s mind, he or she is called into being by the author’s text, which asks to be read in a particular way.14 Iser’s third critical assumption defines the meeting place between text and reader. The reader can interact with a text only to the extent that conventions are shared by both text and reader. These conventions—what Iser calls a “repertoire”—consist “of all the familiar territory within the text. This may be in the form of references to earlier works, or to social and historical norms, or to the 8. Iser, The Implied Reader, 38–40; idem., “Indeterminacy,” 1–45. 9. Iser, The Implied Reader, 274. 10. Ibid., 274–5. 11. Ibid., 282. 12. Ibid., 276. 13. Iser, The Act of Reading, 27–38. 14. Ibid.

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whole culture from which the text has emerged.”15 But communication “always entails conveying something new,”16 and the meeting place between text and reader therefore goes beyond the shared familiar repertoire. “Communication would be unnecessary if that which is to be communicated were not to some extent unfamiliar.”17 The author takes the reader’s familiar repertoire and places it in a new context that makes the familiar appear strange, or employs disorienting devices to make the familiar seem odd and the unfamiliar seem natural. The disorientation of the reader’s familiar repertoire is a technique Iser—as Russian Formalist Victor Shklovsky18 before him—calls “defamiliarization.”19 For Iser, the ultimate function of textual strategies is “to defamiliarize the familiar.”20 The implied reader recognizes familiar literary patterns and themes, as well as allusions to common social and historical contexts, but the familiar now appears strange. This strangeness forces the reader to reexamine routine conventions, and the reader’s familiar repertoire is deformed, disautomatized, or reassembled in a new way as a result. What seems familiar appears unfamiliar; what is taken for granted becomes strange; commonplace, everyday points of view seem odd. Defamiliarization occurs, for example, when a context is deformed, or a reader is entrapped by a premature judgment that turns out to be false. It works when a point of view is demolished, or an expected outcome is overturned. The technique of defamiliarization jolts the reader from the lethargy of the habitual, compelling the reader to see familiar norms and values that have thus far been taken for granted in a different way. Iser’s fourth critical assumption focuses on the development of a consistent interpretation, which he calls “consistency-building.” Consistency-building: is the process of grouping together all the different aspects of a text to form the consistency that the reader will always be in search of. While expectations may be continually modified, and images continually expanded, the reader will still strive, even if unconsciously, to fit everything together in a consistent pattern … By grouping together the written parts of the text, we enable them to interact, we observe the direction in which they are leading us, and we project onto them

15. Ibid., 69. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid., 229. 18. See Victor Shklovsky, “Art as Technique,” in Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays, trans. Lee T. Lemon and Marion J. Reis (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1965), 3–24. The Russian term for defamiliarization is ostranenie, which means “making strange.” See also James L. Resseguie, “Defamiliarization and the Gospels,” BTB 20, no. 4 (1990): 147–53; idem, “Defamiliarization in the Gospels,” Mosaic 21 (1988): 25–35; idem, “Automatization and Defamiliarization in Luke 7:36-50,” Journal of Literature & Theology 5 (1991): 137–50. 19. Iser, The Implied Reader, 288. 20. Ibid., 87. Emphasis is Iser’s.



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the consistency which we, as readers, require. This “Gestalt” must inevitably be colored by our own characteristic selection process.21

By filling in the gaps of the text and developing interpretations that are later fulfilled, modified, or shattered by the text itself, the reader brings the work with all its familiar and unfamiliar aspects into existence. Consistency-building relies on a strategy of anticipation and retrospection that encourages the reader to anticipate outcomes, only to have those expectations frustrated or revised. Familiar elements of the reader’s repertoire are backgrounded or foregrounded, diminished or highlighted, trivialized or magnified, so that a “strategic over­magnification, trivialization, or even annihilation” of the familiar occurs.22 The reader’s interaction with a text involves a continual revising of expectations and the formation of new expectations. “We look forward, we look back, we decide, we change our decisions, we form expectations, we are shocked by their nonfulfillment, we question, we muse, we accept, we reject; this is the dynamic process of recreation.”23

A Reading of Luke 7:36-50 The following reading of the woman who anoints Jesus in Luke 7:36-50 uses Iser’s critical assumptions as the implied reader negotiates the text in a sequential fashion. The Iserian reading focuses on what the text does to the implied reader and how the text leads the reader to make premature conclusions that are later fulfilled or modified, encouraged or frustrated. Whereas many traditional interpretations neglect the temporal effects upon the reader in favor of a holistic interpretation, the Iserian reader believes that the series of interpretations and effects that lead up to the final synthesis of the narrative are important and have value. The Iserian reader-response approach examines familiar contexts that are modified so that they appear strange, and analyzes how unconventional settings compel the reader to reconsider previously held norms and values. In Luke 7, a 21. Ibid., 283–4. 22. Ibid., 288. 23. Ibid. For a critique of Iser’s implied reader, see “Reader-Response Criticism,” in The Postmodern Bible, The Bible and Culture Committee, ed. Elizabeth A. Castelli et al. (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995), 20–69. The Postmodern Bible does not critique Iser’s concept of defamiliarization, which I consider to be his most important contribution to biblical reader-response criticism. S. John Roth, The Blind, the Lame and the Poor: Character Types in Luke-Acts, JSNTSS 144 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 62–5 applies Iser’s method of reading to Luke-Acts, although he makes no mention of Iser’s concept of defamiliarization. John A. Darr, Herod the Fox: Audience Criticism and Lukan Characterization, JSNTSS 163 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998) also uses Iser’s method with modifications.

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formal meal is turned upside down when acts of hospitality are performed by a discredited stranger rather than the well-respected member of society who invited Jesus. What does this deformation of the familiar context of a formal meal do to the implied reader as he or she searches for a consistent interpretation, especially to an implied reader who is familiar with and sympathetic to traditional values and boundaries? How does defamiliarization work in the narrative to cause both Simon’s and the implied reader’s customary repertoire to appear less familiar, even strange or odd? When the standard cultural expectations voiced by someone at the top of the status hierarchy in Israel are dismantled, how does that alter the implied reader’s familiar repertoire? How do areas of indeterminacy in the text function to create expectations that are modified as the reader moves through the text from beginning to end? And how do the rhetorical maneuvers of the text—grammatical devices that over-magnify the woman’s behavior on the one hand (v. 38), and shame Simon’s behavior on the other (vv. 44-46)—compel the reader to revise his or her assessment of the woman and the Pharisee? How does Iser’s strategy of anticipation/retrospection work in the narrative to create an anticipated outcome that is later frustrated or shattered? If a temporal reading of a text can cause the implied reader first to lean in one direction and then to reverse that direction, how does this strategic pattern of disorientation work in Luke 7? Specifically, how does the plot alter the events of a typical real-life meal, creating expectations in the reader that must be revised later? How does the suppressing of important information catch the reader unawares and compel the reader to reformulate and abandon earlier judgments? These and other questions will be answered in a verse-by-verse, phrase-by-phrase, and word-by-word temporal reading of Luke 7:36-50: And one of the Pharisees asked [Jesus] to eat with him, and he entered the Pharisee’s house and reclined at table. And behold, a woman who was in the city, a sinner, when she learned that he was at table in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster jar of perfumed ointment (vv. 36-37).24

Although the Pharisees in Luke reject the baptism of John and therefore “God’s purpose for themselves” (cf. Luke 7:30), this Pharisee invites Jesus to a formal meal, which raises the expectation of an amicable encounter.25 But the familiar context of a ritually pure meal is creatively deformed when an interloper—“a 24. I provide a literal translation of the Greek in 7:36-50 to bring out the narrative’s rhetorical and temporal effects on the reader. For a bibliography on this passage, see John Paul Heil, The Meal Scenes in Luke-Acts: An Audience-Oriented Approach, SBLMS 52 (Atlanta: SBL, 1999), 44 n. 11; Kathleen E. Corley, Private Women, Public Meals: Social Conflict in the Synoptic Tradition (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1993), 121 n. 73. 25. Joel B. Green, The Gospel of Luke, NICNT (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1997), 307–8 gives other reasons why Simon should not be viewed as the stereotypical Pharisee that opposes Jesus. Also, this is the first of three encounters with Pharisees at a meal—the



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woman who was in the city, a sinner”—arrives at the banquet and surprises all with the unexpected.26 The woman could be engaged in a dishonorable occupation or even be in debt—the nature of her sin remains an unfilled gap in this story, despite critics’ attempts to identify it.27 As a “sinner,” she is at the lower end of the hierarchical scale in Israel, which was a well-defined hierarchy with priests, Levites, and full Israelites at the top, and temple slaves and eunuchs at the bottom. Women and children were “counted as things of little value,” while Pharisees, as guardians of ritual purity, were near the top of the scale.28 The setting of a formal meal is thus unexpectedly deformed by the presence of a discredited woman who fulfills the role of a host, while a Pharisee, who is at the opposite end of the status hierarchy, stands by watching. According to Iser’s approach to anticipation and retrospection, the deformation of contexts forces the reader to modify his or her initial response to the text. Context-deformation takes norms and values out of their normal setting—in which they have validity and a frame of reference—and places them in a new, unfamiliar context. In the story, the Pharisee’s point of view is upended when a ritually pure meal is deformed by an intruder who gives Jesus an enthusiastic welcome: And standing behind [Jesus] at his feet, weeping, with her tears she began to wet his feet, and with the hair of her head she was drying them, and was kissing his feet, and was anointing [them] with perfumed ointment (v. 38).

The narrative rhetoric dwells on the woman’s extravagance, allowing the reader to experience exceptional behavior that not only strains commonplace norms, but also motivates the Pharisee’s objection. A paratactic construction with a threefold repetition of καί (“and”) magnifies the woman’s excesses, highlighting each act of hospitality so that it stands out as a separate act:29 With her tears she began to wet his feet, and with the hair of her head she was drying them, other two are 11:37-52 and 14:1-24—and, thus, the reader is not at this stage of the Gospel anticipating conflict. 26.  This is not an ordinary meal but a formal dinner, because the guests recline at table. See David L. Jeffery, Luke, BTCB (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos, 2012), 111; Green, Luke, 308. The Pharisees are noted for their maintenance of ritually pure settings (cf. Luke 11:37-41). 27.  The nature of the woman’s sinfulness is not stated in Luke 7. For a spirited discussion of the woman as a “loose” woman, see F. Scott Spencer, Dancing Girls, Loose Ladies, and Women of the Cloth: The Women in Jesus’ Life. (New York: Continuum, 2004), 108–43. See Mikael C. Parsons, Luke, Paideia (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2015), 128–30 for a refutation of the idea that her unusual behavior proves she is a prostitute. 28. See Joachim Jeremias, New Testament Theology: The Proclamation of Jesus, trans. John Bowden (New York: Scribner, 1971), 227; idem, Jerusalem in the Time of Jesus, trans. F. H. Cave and C. H. Cave (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1969). 29. Cf. Resseguie, “Automatization and Defamiliarization,” 141.

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Characters and Characterization in Luke–Acts and was kissing his feet, and was anointing [them] with perfumed ointment (v. 38).

Moreover, the imperfect tense gives duration to the woman’s behavior. The grammatical lengthening of her actions clarifies her behavior as intentional—not accidental—which makes her extravagance even more offensive to the host who has invited Jesus: And with the hair of her head she was drying (ἐξέμασσεν)30 them, and was kissing (κατεφíλει) his feet, and was anointing (ἤλειφεν) [them] with perfumed ointment (v. 38).

Furthermore, the unusual towel that dries Jesus’ feet is foregrounded at the beginning of the clause, adding an unsettling cultural note. To dry the guest’s feet with her hair, she would have had to remove her headdress and unbind her hair, a breach of propriety that was “the greatest disgrace for a woman,” according to Joachim Jeremias.31 Additionally, the over-magnification of her gestures not only foregrounds her unusual behavior; it sets the stage for a culturally familiar objection to be voiced. Thus, an uninvited, sinful woman—whose sin is an unfilled blank in the narrative—enters the house of a prominent person in society and begins to upend norms of social intercourse by her presence at a formal meal. Her unvarnished display of emotion invites censure from those concerned with the maintenance of proper boundaries: And when the Pharisee who had invited him saw [this], he said to himself, “This man, if he were a prophet, would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, that she is a sinner” (v. 39).

The reader fills in a blank about what has caused Simon’s interior outburst. It appears to be provoked by the woman’s loosening of her hair in a public setting.32 30. The aorist, ἐξέμαξεν, is also well-attested with P3 ‫ *א‬A D L W Ψ in support. I agree with John T. Carroll, Luke: A Commentary, NTL (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 175c, that the more difficult reading is the imperfect tense—rather than the aorist—since it highlights the woman’s gestures as improper. 31. Joachim Jeremias, The Parables of Jesus, trans. Samuel H. Hooke (New York: Scribner’s, 1962), 126; Green, Luke, 313. Mikael Parsons, Luke, 129–30, offers other suggestions for understanding her unbound hair. It is a sign that a Roman or Greek girl is unmarried; or the woman could be grieving, in which case unbound hair was acceptable; or unbound hair could be an act of devotion to or veneration of a deity. See also Charles H. Cosgrove, “A Woman’s Unbound Hair in the Greco-Roman World with Special Reference to the Story of the ‘Sinful Woman’ in Luke 7:36–50,” JBL 124 (2005): 675–92. Whatever the reason for her unbound hair, it clearly elicits a disapproving response that leads Simon to conclude that she is a sinner (cf. v. 39). 32. Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke, I–IX, Anchor Bible 28 (New



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Simon’s objection, of course, is not intended to be overheard, but—as with all interior monologues that appear in texts—the reader listens in on his secret thoughts. His objection is phrased as a contrary-to-fact condition, allowing a normative cultural perspective to be highlighted. “If [Jesus] were a prophet [but clearly he cannot be], he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, that she is a sinner” (v. 39). The intimate plunge into Simon’s thinking amplifies a perspective that begs to be dismantled as a shortsighted conclusion. The silent statement attributed to the woman is altogether different from Simon’s overconfident thoughts. She is mute, a “sinner,” and lacks a name, in contrast to Simon who has a voice, a prominent position (“Pharisee” in vv. 36a, b; 37; 39), and a personal identity (“Simon” in vv. 40, 43, 44). Yet the anonymous woman has the upper hand and “speaks” in an elegant way with lavish behavior that makes Simon’s formulaic judgment a point of contention. While Simon’s interior monologue foregrounds the stereotypical idea that people and events ought to follow a rigid hierarchical order, the woman’s demonstrative rhetoric achieves the opposite by disrupting overbearing norms: And replying, Jesus said to him, “Simon I have something to say to you.” And he said, “Teacher, speak.” “There were two debtors to a certain moneylender. The one owed five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. When they could not repay, he forgave both [debts]. Therefore, which of them will love him more?” Replying, Simon said, “The one, I suppose, for whom he forgave more.” And he said to him, “You have judged correctly” (vv. 40-43).

Iser’s approach to anticipation and retrospection highlights three defamiliarizing techniques that make Simon’s automatized point of view conspicuous. Once revealed, these devices demolish his conclusion. The first technique is irony, which serves in the story to weaken the Pharisee’s position, leading to the overturning of a conclusion that he considers unassailable. In v. 39, Simon claims that Jesus cannot be a prophet because he has failed to recognize the woman as sinful. Jesus’ ability to know Simon’s complaint establishes his credentials as a prophet, however, and diminishes the validity of the Pharisee’s point of view— since his judgment about Jesus is clearly mistaken, his assessment of the woman and her behavior may be misguided as well. The second defamiliarizing device makes strange what is hidden by concealing the obvious. In the Parable of the Two Debtors, the identity of the referent—the York: Doubleday, 1981), 689: “Doing so in public, she caused surprise and occasioned the Pharisee’s comment. Her action does not confirm her sinfulness; it merely gives rise to an interpretation of her.” See also Green, Luke, 310; Parsons, Luke, 130, concludes that Simon’s reaction is not based on indecorous actions. It is based on his prior knowledge that she is a sinner since they are from the same city. This is possible, but cannot be granted greater weight than the conclusion that she is recognized as a sinner based on her current impropriety.

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woman—is concealed from Simon. The motivation for her actions becomes obvious when seen in light of this parable, and Simon’s point of view, which is revealed to be an unexamined, habitual point of view, is made to seem strange. Two debtors owe a debt. One owes five hundred denarii, while the other owes one-tenth as much, fifty denarii. When neither debtor has the means to pay off the loan, the creditor cancels both debts. To the question of who will love the lender more, Simon gives the obvious answer: the debtor who is forgiven the greater debt. The Pharisee is now a victim of the third and most effective defamiliarizing technique in the narrative: the entrapment of an unsuspecting character with his or her own words.33 Entrapment is a surprise attack on a character who makes a premature judgment—as Simon has in verse 39—who then is forced to abandon that assumption and revise his conclusion.34 Jesus catches Simon off-guard by posing a question that he cannot get wrong, which forces him to reconsider his point of view. His hesitation (“I suppose”) is a faint attempt to make the trap more bearable or to lessen the damage to his own perspective.35 Nevertheless, through an initial obscuring of the fact that the woman is the subject of the parable, the narrative sets a trap that performs its intended function of demolishing Simon’s point of view and compelling him to conclude that her motivation is love rather than something else. This is Iser’s context-deforming strategy at its best. It uproots Simon from his familiar context that had provided validity and a frame of reference for his norms and values, and places him in an unfamiliar setting that makes his point of view appear odd. In this new context, Simon is forced to see what he could not see, namely that the motivation for the woman’s behavior is love for a canceled debt.36 Furthermore, the implied reader, who not only shares Simon’s concern about violated boundaries but also upholds the traditional values of the culture, is compelled to see something new—namely, that rigid cultural boundaries are 33.  Commentators such as John Nolland, Luke 1–9:20, WBC 35A (Dallas: Word Books, 1989), 361, speak of a trap laid for Simon, but do not develop entrapment as a rhetorical device to discredit firmly held views. 34.  For a definition of entrapment in secular literature see David M. Vieth, “Entrapment in Restoration and Early Eighteenth Century English Literature,” Papers on Language and Literature 18 (1982): 227–33. For analyses of entrapment in literary works see Richard H. Rodino, “Varieties of Vexatious Experience in Swift and Others,” Papers on Language and Literature 18 (1982): 325–47; and Fish, Surprised by Sin. Entrapment also occurs when the implied reader is led to make premature conclusions based on assumptions he or she already holds, and is then forced to abandon the assumptions and reverse conclusions. 35. Parsons, Luke, 131: “Simon’s response is a reluctant acknowledgment of the obvious answer.” 36. Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation, vol. 1, The Gospel according to Luke (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 178, refers to the parable as an “imaginative bridge” that Simon is invited to step over to see the situation from Jesus’ point of view.



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artificial barriers that hinder those discredited by society from full reception into the family of God. And turning toward the woman, he said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; water for my feet you did not give, but she with her tears wet my feet and with her hair dried them. A kiss to me you did not give, but she, from the time I entered, did not stop kissing my feet. With olive oil my head you did not anoint, but she with perfumed ointment anointed my feet” (vv. 44-46).

A dramatic turning occurs at this juncture in the story. Not only does Jesus turn toward the woman, but the narrative turns from discrediting the woman to discrediting the Pharisee. The woman, who has until now been seen but not seen—so to speak—is foregrounded by Jesus’ extended commentary, which makes her actions appear to be the natural outcome of gratitude, in contrast to Simon’s behavior, which appears remarkably stringent. A new rhetorical maneuver allows his lapse as a host to become conspicuous. Although the Pharisee has already seen and made a judgment about the woman (ἰδών in v. 39), he is asked to take a second look (v. 44). With a second look comes a new rhetorical, grammatical construction—asyndeton—that highlights Simon’s omissions and solidifies the woman’s behavior as appropriate in this setting. Whereas parataxis lingers over the woman’s effusive actions in v. 38, asyndeton is a stark, naked construction that lacks all conjunctions to smooth or qualify the transition from one action (or lack of action) to the next. With a rat-a-tat-tat cadence, asyndetic clauses hammer into Simon’s head his failure as a host:37 water for my feet you did not give, a kiss to me you did not give, with olive oil my head you did not anoint (vv. 44-46).

By placing the missing acts of hospitality at the beginning of the clause (water, kiss, and oil), Simon’s lack of a proper welcome becomes even more glaring.38 And by offering no special acts of hospitality for his guest, Simon’s lapse treats Jesus as a stranger, not as a welcomed guest of honor.39 37. Cf. Resseguie, “Automatization and Defamiliarization,” 144–5. 38. See Andrew E. Arterbury, Entertaining Angels: Early Christian Hospitality in Its Mediterranean Setting, NTM 8 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2005), 138–9, on the cultural expectations of a meritorious host, and Jeffery, Luke, 114. 39. Bruce J. Malina, “Hospitality,” in Harper’s Bible Dictionary, ed. Paul J. Achtemeier (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1985), 408–9. “The ritual of foot washing marks the movement from stranger to guest (see Gen. 18:4; 19:2; 24:32; lacking in Luke 7:36-50),” 408. It is not expected that Simon would wash Jesus’ feet, but “he did not even think of offering a foot-wash.” See L. Goppelt, “ὕδωρ,” TDNT VIII (1972), 314–33, 324; see also Turid K. Seim, The Double Message: Patterns of Gender in Luke and Acts (Nashville: Abingdon, 1994), 93–4.

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At this point, the defamiliarization of Simon’s point of view is strengthened by irony’s dissembling work. He who was so concerned with the impropriety of the woman’s presence at the meal is now discovered to have omitted appreciated amenities for his special guest.40 To further heighten the Pharisee’s inattentiveness, three antitheses elevate the woman’s effusive behavior while relegating Simon’s deficiencies to more than a simple oversight: But she with her tears wet my feet and with her hair dried them … But she, from the time I entered, did not stop kissing my feet … But she with perfumed ointment anointed my feet (vv. 44-46).

The antitheses perform their intended function of highlighting the unequal symmetry between the woman and Simon. Jesus does not say, “Water for my feet you did not give, but she did” (equal symmetry). He says, “Water for my feet you did not give, but she with her tears wet my feet and with her hair dried them” (unequal symmetry). In other words, “You did not even offer to do this, but she did all that.” Because the Pharisee’s behavior is illiberal, it appears strange; the party-crasher’s lavish behavior, on the other hand, is seen as a welcome expression of an interior motive not yet revealed to the reader. To further discredit Simon and to magnify the woman’s attentiveness, a demonstrative pronoun performs an underlining function that highlights the woman’s behavior as that of an exceptional host: But she (αὕτη) with her tears wet my feet … But she (αὕτη), from the time I entered, did not stop kissing my feet … But she (αὕτη) with perfumed ointment anointed my feet (vv. 44-46).

Iser’s strategy of anticipation and retrospection relies on another defamiliarizing technique that encourages the reader to make premature judgments that are subsequently frustrated. This technique hides information or withholds important details from the reader, and reveals the missing information only when it can shatter mistaken points of view. The difference between story and plot clarifies the function of this defamiliarizing strategy. The story consists of the events as they actually happen at Simon’s party, that is, the chronological and causal sequence of happenings in real time. The plot consists of the story as it is told or the manner in which the events are linked together in the narrative.41 The plot can thus deform or make strange the real-life story by concealing information from the reader that is important for the formation of a consistent interpretation. More importantly, the plot can hide essential information from the reader, causing 40. Green, Luke, 312. 41. The Russian Formalists distinguished between the fabula, the basic story stuff, and the syuzhet, the plot or the story as it is actually told in narrative form. See Resseguie, “Automatization and Defamiliarization,” 145–6; Tannehill, Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts, 116–17, also notes the importance of this “significant detail of plotting.”



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the reader to reformulate his or her point of view at a later point in the story. This disorienting strategy is illustrated by the following outline of the story at Simon’s party as it takes place in real time. The storyline will then be compared to the plot as told by the narrator. In 7:36-50, the story is as follows: 1. Simon invites Jesus to a dinner party; 2. But he omits amenities for his guest. 3. An uninvited sinful woman enters and performs lavish acts of hospitality, 4. To which Simon objects. 5. Jesus then confronts Simon with a parable that reveals the Pharisee’s deficient point of view, 6. And Jesus contrasts the woman’s welcome behavior with Simon’s negligence. 7. Finally, Jesus pronounces the woman forgiven of her sins. The plot does not follow this chronological sequence of Simon’s party. The information in number 2 above—Simon’s omission of acts of hospitality—is kept secret and only made known in connection with number 6, when the comparison of the woman’s welcome to the Pharisee’s negligence is made clear. The plot thus initially hides Simon’s behavior from the reader and reveals his failure only when the demolition of his point of view is certain. The suppression of information also shapes the reader’s response. The plot allows Simon to be presented initially in a favorable light as a host who invites a special guest to a meal in his house. The plot suppresses all mention of his lapse as a proper host at the outset. As a result, the Pharisee’s point of view and his evaluations of events remain at first untainted by the negative information that is found at the end of the story. Similarly, the woman is presented in a negative light at her first appearance. She is labeled a sinner twice—first by the narrator (v. 37), and then by Simon (v. 39). Furthermore, the reader is unaware of her motivations until the story’s concluding remarks. Thus Simon’s premature conclusion initially appears to be a legitimate cultural concern relating to violated boundaries between righteous and sinners, until new information causes the reader to build a new interpretation: “Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven, for she loved much. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.” And he said to her, “Your sins have been forgiven.” And those who were reclining with him began to say among themselves, “Who is this who even forgives sins?” But he said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace” (vv. 47-50).

The defamiliarized point of view, a new perspective that is unshackled from the reader’s over-familiar context, must ultimately seem natural if it is to become part of his or her repertoire. Otherwise it remains strange. Jesus’ authoritative pronouncement in verse 47 introduces a new point of view that replaces a traditional, familiar perspective. What Simon saw as an offense by a sinful

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party-crasher receives a different interpretation, and the expected rebuke for her outrageous behavior is replaced with the public announcement of her having been forgiven for past sins. The grammar of verse 47 has two possible interpretations that nevertheless result in a similar perspective: the woman’s behavior is an expression of great love. The ὅτι clause, which is translated “for she loved much,” could be understood in a causal sense. The woman’s actions become the occasion for her pardon, and her extravagant display of love results in her being forgiven. Thus the clause is translated as “because she loved much.”42 Alternatively, the clause could be understood to say that her actions are a grateful consequence of her being forgiven. She loved much as a result of having been forgiven much, and thus her love proves that she is a recipient of divine forgiveness.43 Iser’s strategies of anticipation/retrospection and consistency-building confirm that her love is a consequence of being forgiven before the party at Simon’s house. The Parable of the Two Debtors reinforces this interpretation. In the parable, both debtors had their obligations canceled by the creditor, but the one whose greater indebtedness was annulled loves the lender more. The woman at Simon’s party is the debtor with the greater debt, and her actions, therefore, prove that she is a thankful beneficiary of forgiveness. John T. Carroll rephrases the verse to emphasize the intended nuance: “I am able to tell you this—that her sins have been forgiven—because, as we can all plainly see, she has (like the forgiven debtor) loved much.”44 The perfect tense (“your sins have been forgiven,” v. 48) further strengthens the view that her sins have been forgiven prior to Simon’s banquet.45 Jesus’ pronouncement of her forgiven state, therefore, is a necessary reaffirmation of her newfound status—a narrative gap that the implied reader is expected to negotiate.

Summary A reader-response approach invites the reader to enter the story and fill in the blanks, develop expectations that are later modified or frustrated, reexamine norms and values that are altered by making-strange techniques, and build a consistent narrative. All literature has gaps or indeterminate areas that the reader must fill in—it is impossible to narrate every event or happening, or to develop every character without leaving out some information. In the same way that a stargazer connects the lines between the stars of the night sky, the implied 42. John J. Donahue, “The Penitent Woman and the Pharisee: Luke 7:36–50,” American Ecclesiastical Review 142 (1960): 414–21; Heil, The Meal Scenes, 50. 43. Green, Luke, 313; John T. Carroll, Luke, 180. NRSV translates the clause as “hence she has shown great love.” 44. Carroll, Luke, 180. 45. Ibid.



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reader of Luke fills in the blanks and connects the lines between the events and happenings of this story. The textual strategy that undermines the reader’s familiar repertoire is the technique of defamiliarization, also known as “making strange.” It removes familiar conventions from their normal context and places them in an unfamiliar, strange setting that forces the reader to reconsider norms and values previously unexamined. Defamiliarization is especially effective when characters at opposite ends of the status hierarchy do surprising things, as happens in Luke 7. Defamiliarization also reveals what is hidden by concealing the obvious. The clever parable of the debtors conceals from Simon its true referent, the sinful woman, so that his point of view comes across as a highly visible attempt to erect barriers. Similarly, the true motives for the woman’s behavior are buried toward the end of the narrative, and only after the Pharisee has made a premature judgment concerning her behavior are her motives revealed. Simon’s entrapment allows norms and values that are deficient to be voiced so that they can be overturned or shattered—not only for Simon’s reformation, but also for the reader’s reeducation. The plot’s revision of the storyline also defamiliarizes the reader’s point of view. What happens in the encounter at Simon’s house does not correspond in all details to the plot narrated, for important information is absent from the reader’s initial reading. The missing information is added only at the decisive point, so that it can undermine jaded points of view, shatter commonplace perspectives, and compel the reader to revise previous assumptions. The implied reader, who is sympathetic to the conventional and over-familiar norms that accept rigid boundaries, anticipates censure as a normal response to the violation of norms. But upon later reflection the reader sees that this familiar cultural repertoire is a misguided effort to erect barriers against society’s discredited.46

The Necessity of Reader Response Why is reader-response criticism necessary for an analysis of characters and characterization in Luke? Is it an optional reading strategy among many ways of apprehending the Gospel, or is it necessary for an analysis of Luke’s Gospel? Of the three main components of a literary work—author, text, reader—reader-response criticism focuses on the role of the reader in the production of meaning. While other methods may look at the text as a whole or at the author’s socio-cultural setting, the reader-response critic believes that a temporal reading and a consideration of its effects upon the reader are necessary for a correct understanding of the text. Steven Mailloux, a longtime advocate of reader-response criticism, states categorically the unparalleled advantage of reader response over other methods: 46. Green, Luke, 308, notes that the open-ended narration “may well be an attempt to invite the reader who identifies with Simon’s concern with boundaries to respond with the expansive love characterizing Jesus’ actions.”

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“Only a temporal analysis of the reader’s response can fully explain how each part of an author’s text relates to those parts before and after it.”47 In a non-temporal, holistic reading, for instance, Simon the Pharisee is known from the outset to be a negligent host whose point of view marginalizes the woman. In a temporal reading, however, this crucial information is hidden from the reader because the plot defamiliarizes the storyline and buries important information until later in the story. Only at an opportune time when it surprises the reader, is the missing information narrated. Furthermore, as the reader moves through the text sequentially, the interaction of reader with text uncovers conventional norms and values that are made to seem strange. New norms and values are made to seem familiar. The reader-response critic, therefore, apprehends the text in a completely different way than a reader who adopts a holistic reading or a critic who applies other methods of reading the Gospel. Reader response also claims that interaction between reader and text is not an optional dynamic, but is necessary to bring the text into existence. Ruined expectations and unfilled anticipations are essential maneuvers of this reader, thus allowing the text’s full potential to be realized. Unlike other approaches that relegate the reader to the sidelines as a mere observer, the reader-response critic plays a crucial role in the production of meaning. A reader-response approach to Luke, therefore, is not one way among many critical approaches to the reading the Gospel. It is the necessary way to apprehend the Gospel’s potentiality. When the reader is left on the sidelines as a nonparticipant, the meaning of the Gospel suffers from the absence of one of its formational triad (author, text, reader). The full potential of the Gospel is then unexplored and underdeveloped. Reader response not only rejuvenates the role of the reader as a decisive player in the production of meaning, but also reinstates the reader as a full participant in the realization of the text.

47. Steven Mailloux, Interpretative Conventions: The Reader in the Study of American Fiction (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1982), 71.

2 L EV I ’ S B A N QU E T ( L U K E 5 : 2 9 - 3 9 ) A N D L U KA N D I S C I P L E SH I P : G R OU P C HA R AC T E R S A N D C H R I ST IA N I D E N T I T Y F O R M AT IO N

John A. Darr

Luke’s version of the brief episode in which Levi, the toll collector, hosts Jesus and his disciples for a meal (5:29-39; par. Mk 2:15-22, Mt. 9:10-17) has attracted relatively little critical attention, with the exception of Jesus’ unique and puzzling saying at the conclusion of the scene: “No one, after drinking old [wine] wishes for new; for he says, ‘The old is good’” (5:39).1 One expects Jesus to represent and argue for the new, so why does he advocate for the old here? As we shall see, this odd saying is indeed vital to the passage’s distinctive rhetorical dynamic, but commentators’ tendency to focus narrowly on this logion, reading 1. Representative articles focusing on the passage’s final saying(s): Jacques Dupont, “Vin vieux, vin nouveau (Luc 5:39),” CBQ 25 (1963): 286–304; Alistair Kee, “The Old Coat and the New Wine: A Parable of Repentance,” NovT 12 (1970): 13–21; R. S. Good, “Jesus, Protagonist of the Old in Luke 5:33–39,” NovT 25 (1983): 19–36; Anders Eriksson, “The Old is Good: Parables of Patched Garment and Wineskins as Elaboration of a Chreia in Luke 5:33–39 about Feasting with Jesus,” in Rhetoric, Ethic, and Moral Persuasion in Biblical Discourse: Essays from the 2002 Heidelberg Conference, ed. Thomas H. Olbricht and Anders Eriksson (New York: T&T Clark, 2005): 52–72; Jochen Flebbe, “Alter und neuer Weine bei Lukas: Zum Verständnis der sogenannten ‘Weinregel’ Lk 5:39,” ZNW 96 (2005): 171–87; and Suzanne W. Henderson, “What is Old? What is New? A Reconsideration of Garments and Wineskins,” Horizons in Biblical Theology 34 (2012): 118–38. Several recent critics have argued for the significance of the Levi episode in general, though not in the same sense as presented here: Michael Theobald, “Die Anfänge der Kirche: Zur Struktur von Lk. 5:1–6:19,” NTS 30 (1984): 91–108 (94, 101); David A. Neale, None but the Sinners: Religious Categories in the Gospel of Luke, JSNTSS 58 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 100–10; and Yvan Mathieu, “Pierre, Lévi et les douze apôtres en Luc 5:1–6:19: Les consequences théologiques d’une mis en discours,” Science et Esprit 60 (2008): 101–18 (108–13).

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it through redaction-critical lenses, too often has left other important elements of the episode—to say nothing of its broader functions in the narrative—largely unexamined. Inattention to the Levi story may be due also to its position among other striking and significant episodes: the miraculous catch of fish and call of Simon Peter (5:1-11); healings of the leper and the paralytic (5:12-26); the choosing of the twelve (6:12-16); and the sermon on the plain (6:20-49). The likely, primary reason for the relative neglect of the Levi story, however, is that it rests in the shadow of the Nazareth episode (4:16-30) wherein Jesus returns to his hometown and teaches in its synagogue—a text widely deemed as not only important, but also “programmatic” for Luke. Levi’s feast seems to pale in comparison. In this essay, I raise the profile of the Levi episode in Luke by showing that, when viewed through an audience-oriented lens, it appears no less programmatic than the more famous Nazareth episode. Narratives as lengthy and complex as Luke-Acts require more than one explicitly proleptic passage to help readers negotiate the story and its discourse. Indeed, Luke employs a number of such texts, sometimes in close proximity to each other.2 In brief, I argue that, whereas the Nazareth episode sets out a primarily Christological agenda, the Levi episode is essentially ecclesiological: it programs readers for a particular understanding of discipleship. At Levi’s banquet, Luke’s reader first encounters in concert the four main character groups that will interact with each other throughout the rest of Jesus’ (pre-passion) ministry (Luke 5–19); and three of these groups consist of disciples and their leaders: Jesus and his disciples; the Pharisees and their disciples; John the Baptist and his disciples (by reference); and the toll collectors and sinners (τελῶναι καὶ ἁμαρτωλοί).3 The latter grouping drops out of the narrative at 19:10 (with the climactic story of Zacchaeus, the ἀρχιτελώνης [head toll collector]), but the other three continue into Acts. Luke crafts this initial assemblage of discipleship groups (and sinners) at a banquet very near the beginning of Jesus’ ministry in order to focus reader attention on discipleship, and to guide the reader toward a proper (Lukan) understanding of the nature of Christian discipleship with respect to questions of association (With whom shall we “eat and drink”?); praxis (Shall we “fast or feast”?); and time (Is now the occasion for wearing “new or old garments,” or for drinking “old or new wine”?). Such questions were significant to Luke’s original, intended audience (the “us” of the preface [1:1-2]) in the 2. Elsewhere, I have suggested that the sower parable and its allegorical interpretation program Luke’s reader to process a lengthy discourse on anxiety and “hearing and doing the word,” John A. Darr, “Narrative Therapy: Treating Audience Anxiety through Psychagogy in Luke,” Perspectives in Religious Studies 39 (2012): 335–48 (342–8). A strong case for taking Acts 4:25–27 as programmatic for official antagonism to Christians has been made by Frank Dicken, Herod as Composite Character in Luke-Acts (WUNT II 375; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014): 71–87. 3. The τελῶναι were, strictly speaking, lower level toll collectors, not tax collectors (higher-ups who handled poll taxes in the Roman taxation system); see John R. Donahue, “Tax Collectors and Sinners: An Attempt at Identification,” CBQ 33 (1971): 39–61 (48–50).



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late first century as they contemplated their identity and legitimacy as a distinctive movement within a complex cultural milieu, and in light of a complicated history of development that was controversial and conflictive, especially with regard to their Jewish heritage.4 Uncertainty over issues of continuity and discontinuity with Jewish ethnicity, law, and ethos hung over the Christians—a state of affairs illustrated most clearly in Paul’s tension-filled relationship with Jews and Judaism in Acts.5 Levi’s banquet, with its focus on old and new affiliations and practices for Jesus’ disciples, is proleptic of the reader’s fraught situation, predicting, legitimizing (through Jesus’ own authoritative word), and providing an interpretive framework for understanding it.

Identifying and Interpreting Programmatic Passages in the Gospels Before analyzing our text, we must polish and adjust our interpretive lenses. Just what is a programmatic passage in the gospels? Nearly all critics agree that passages such as the Sower Parable of Mark 4, the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 5–7, and the Nazareth scene in Luke 4 are crucial to understanding the broader narratives in which they appear. Nevertheless, there has been surprisingly little sustained theoretical analysis of such texts, and no scholarly consensus about what to call them, or how they function, or even how to recognize them.6 Are such passages best described as signposts, keys, synopses, summaries, menus, tables-of-content, prolepses, paradigms, agendas, or programmatic statements? This variety of nomenclature alone should give pause and elicit deeper theoretical reflection on these special texts. Scholars have intuited that these “special” passages are anticipatory (or proleptic). That is, they point toward and illumine upcoming material in their 4. In linking “Christian” and (Jesus’) “disciples” in the Lukan writings, I am following Charles H. Talbert, “Discipleship in Luke-Acts,” in Discipleship in the New Testament, ed. Fernando F. Segovia (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 62–75 (62): “In the Acts, ‘disciple’ (6:1-2, 7; 9:10, 26; 11:26; 15:10; 16:1) is used for believers in Christ. The term is employed as a synonym for Christian (11:26; 26:28), for saint (9:13, 32, 41), and for Nazarene (24:5). The usage in Luke’s Gospel foreshadows that in Acts (6:13; 8:9; 9:54; 10:23; 11:1; 14:26; 19:37, 39).” In agreement with Theobald, “Anfänge der Kirche,” 101, I hold that Luke’s reader identifies with the disciples of the protagonist, Jesus. 5. Daniel Marguerat, “Paul et la Torah dans les Actes des Apôtres,” in Reception of Paulinism in Acts—Réception du Paulinisme dans les Actes des Apôtres, ed. Daniel Marguerat, BETL 229 (Leuven: Peeters, 2009): 81–100. 6. A notable exception to this lack of research is Mary A. Tolbert, Sowing the Gospel: Mark’s World in Literary-Historical Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), a groundbreaking study of the parables of the sower and of the tenants in Mark, which she calls summaries or synopses. The present essay is much indebted to Tolbert’s insights about how imaginative sayings like these two parables enable and guide the reading of a gospel narrative.

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respective narratives. Being proleptic (or analeptic, for that matter) hardly makes a passage unusual; according to reading theorists, every textual unit (paragraph, sentence, even word) both illuminates and is illuminated by what precedes it.7 What distinguishes the “special” passages we have identified is largely a matter of scale: their anticipatory dynamic is noticeably fuller, more explicit, and has farther-reaching effects than other texts. All texts are proleptic, but some are more proleptic than others; and ours fall into the latter category. Viewing these highly proleptic gospel texts from a primarily pragmatic (audience-oriented) perspective, I prefer to refer to them as programmatic passages, in that they program readers to anticipate and actualize large amounts of textual data in particular ways. If the sower parable in Mark, the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew, and the Nazareth scene in Luke are indeed programmatic passages, then we should be able to deduce from them common functions and constitutive formal elements that enable us to assess whether Levi’s banquet properly belongs in this category. In terms of function, programmatic passages in the gospels operate at both story and discourse levels, to use Seymour Chatman’s terms.8 At the story level, they prompt the reader to systematize, categorize, and summarize important information, e.g., the kinds of obstacles the protagonist will face and the types of characters with whom he will interact. In the Sower parable, for example, the soils represent four character types distinguished by how they react (mostly negatively) to Jesus’ word (the seed).9 In Luke’s Nazareth scene, Jesus refers to the Spirit, the poor, the captives, the blind, and the downtrodden, all of which will feature prominently in the upcoming narrative. The Sermon on the Mount begins with a list of “blessed” ones (e.g., the gentle, the merciful, the peacemakers) who represent values that the narrative will promote. Programmatic passages also foreshadow important aspects of plot, as when Luke’s synagogue-goers of Nazareth rise up, cast Jesus out of the city, lead him to a hill, and try to kill him (Luke 4:29). Their actions point toward to upcoming events in Jerusalem. Before he explains the sower parable to his disciples in Mark, an exasperated Jesus intimates that they will fail to understand all his parables, despite their advantage of access to insider knowledge (4:13). And, of course, Mark’s plot turns tragic as discipleship failure ensues. In his sermon (Mt. 7:22-23), Jesus predicts that “in that day,” some of those who are listening to him will be denied entry into the kingdom of heaven because they practice lawlessness. All of these foreshadowings serve as explicit prolepses, which are fulfilled either within the narrative, or within the scope of the broader story world.10 7.  John A. Darr, On Character Building: The Reader and the Rhetoric of Characterization in Luke-Acts, LCBI (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1992), 30; idem, Herod the Fox: Audience Criticism and Lukan Characterization, JSNTSS 163 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 51. 8. Seymour Chatman, Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1978), 9, 19, 26. 9. Tolbert, Sowing the Gospel, 128–31 and 170–1. 10. The story world is an imaginative construct that encompasses the overall horizon



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At the level of discourse, programmatic passages focalize and set a course for vital vectors of argumentation that persist and evolve intricately (at times merging with related discourse trajectories) over long swathes of narrative. The thrust of the sower parable in Mark is ethical; it lays the groundwork for a discourse concerning what constitutes—and does not constitute—a “good heart.” The Sermon on the Mount establishes the Matthean Jesus as a new (but greater) Moses who brings a new take on the law (complementary to, but moving beyond, Torah) for a new people of God. All of these controversial themes will be threshed out in the rest of the narrative. The Lukan Nazareth scene summarizes, sharpens, and sets preliminary guidelines for long, involved arguments concerning Christology, poverty and wealth, and universalism. In each case, a programmatic passage focuses and steers the reader’s actualization of a crucial discourse or discourses. Even a cursory overview allows us to deduce that the texts we have lifted up work so well because they are strategically placed and highly memorable. More precisely, these programmatic passages effectively spur, orient, and continue to enable lengthy narrative discourses, at least in part, because of their textual locations and mnemonic power. Each text in question occurs very near the beginning of Jesus’ ministry and, indeed, constitutes the first time the reader hears Jesus speak directly and publicly about his mission and identity. After hearing what the narrator and other characters (e.g., John the Baptist) have to say about Jesus, the audience is primed to learn what Jesus has to say for and about himself. Clearly, what Jesus says will greatly influence how they understand the rest of the story. At this obviously strategic narrative juncture, each of the three synoptic evangelists uses a different episode to serve his discrete, rhetorical agendas. The sower parable, the Nazareth scene, and much of the material in the Sermon on the Mount are common to the synoptic gospels. Their placement at the point of Jesus’ public self-introduction by Mark, Matthew, and Luke, respectively, elevates their roles in terms of each gospel’s overall narrative discourse. Audiences recall programmatic passages so readily, in part, because they establish a set of simple categories to facilitate ordering and comparing. They also owe their mnemonic power to effective uses of imaginative language. What audience, as it moves forward into a story and contemplates its identity as a faith community, could forget these images from the Sermon on the Mount: “the salt of the earth” (Mt. 5:13a); “the light of the world” (5:14a); “a city set on a hill” (5:14b); a “house built on rock,” or “a house built on sand” (7:24-27)? What perceptive reader of Mark would neglect repeatedly to retrieve and apply the metaphor of the rocky soil (Mk 4:5-6, 16-17), as the disciple nicknamed “Rock” (Peter) moves from an initial, enthusiastic acceptance of the word, to a less and less hospitable reception of the seed (word), and finally to “withering” under persecution and denying his allegiance to Jesus?11 Jesus’ likening of himself to a physician and to a (past and present) within which the narrative proper occupies a limited frame. The gospels’ story worlds run from creation to eschaton, but where the gospel narratives fit on the arc between these poles differs significantly in each case. 11. Tolbert, Sowing the Gospel, 154–9.

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prophet who is not accepted by his own (Luke 4:23-24) echoes down the narrative continuum as the action increasingly moves toward the Gentiles. Audience retrospection (a routine reading activity) is thus specifically channeled and reinforced through the use of highly memorable, imaginative sayings in these key texts. Finally, from a comparative or redaction critical perspective, we note that all three evangelists took pains to shape (or reshape) their chosen texts so that each would function more effectively as a programmatic passage in their specific narratives. In his version of the sower parable, Mark intensifies the description and allegorical interpretation of the “rocky soil” among all the other soils so that the reader will pay special attention to it. The Sermon on the Mount is a powerful artifice compiled by Matthew largely from material scattered elsewhere in the synoptic tradition. And Luke’s take on Jesus’ return to his home synagogue is hugely expanded and restructured from his Markan source. Each evangelist exercised a certain degree of freedom and flexibility in customizing common traditions for use as programmatic passages within their respective narratives. To summarize, a programmatic passage ideally: (1) occupies a strategic juncture at or near the beginning of a large narrative section; (2) shows signs of editorial or compositional (re)shaping for programmatic effect (when compared with parallel synoptic texts); (3) presents a clear-cut, memorable set of types or categories (often characters or values) to which the reader will have reason to return repeatedly; (4) explicitly foreshadows significant plot developments (or events in the story world beyond the narrative); (5) distills, orients, and launches complex narrative discourse; and, (6) makes significant use of imaginative language to summarize arguments and make them more memorable.

Levi’s Banquet as Programmatic for Discipleship in Luke-Acts Luke 5:29-39, the Levi’s banquet episode, fares well when measured against the set of criteria for programmatic passages outlined above. Strategic Narrative Placement First, this short scene is strategically situated within Luke’s distinctive account of the beginning of Jesus’ ministry (Luke 3:1–6:19). Whereas Mark telescopes and hastens the opening action from John’s appearance, to Jesus’ baptism and temptation, to Jesus’ initial foray as a preacher in Galilee, to the calling of the disciples (in only seventeen verses [Mk 1:4-20]!), Luke moves the action along at a much more deliberate pace, carefully ordering and dividing this preliminary material into several expanded units, each with its own literary integrity and focus on a limited set of dramatis personae. The work and preaching of John the Baptist, for example, are encapsulated in Luke 3:1-18. John is whisked off stage and into Herod’s prison (3:19-20) before Jesus arrives on the scene and his own ministry begins (3:21-4:44). In this account, John neither specifically identifies Jesus as the coming one nor plays a dramatized role in Jesus’ baptism. Luke “clears the decks,”



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allowing the Baptist to speak and act for himself at some length, quite apart from Jesus. Luke’s tendency toward expanded scenes and fewer primary characters continues in his portrayal of Jesus conducting a richly articulated, solo ministry of some length in Galilee (4:14-44) prior to calling his disciples.12 In contrast, Mark (1:14-15) and Matthew (4:12-17) give short shrift to the period between Jesus’ temptation and his choosing of fishermen as disciples. Luke’s development of this period sans disciples includes his expansive and programmatic version of the Nazareth episode (4:16-30), which maintains audience focus on Christology proper, and rooting important arguments, e.g., the legitimacy of the Gentile mission in Jesus’ own activity and words, apart from his pending interactions with future church leaders. Luke’s unique and very deliberate account of the beginning of Jesus’ ministry concludes with a carefully designed narrative arc (5:1-6:19) of seven scenes concerning disciples and discipleship. Michael Theobald’s insightful analysis of this series of scenes reveals much about its “formal-rhetorical architecture.”13 The arc is anchored at each end by mirroring episodes: in Luke 5:1-11, Jesus teaches the people beside the sea (a symbolic locale), and then chooses his first disciples (Simon Peter and the sons of Zebedee). In 6:12-19, he prays on a mountain (a symbolic locale), chooses twelve disciples to be apostles, and then descends to the plain with them to teach the people. At the exact center of this arc stands the story of Levi’s call and banquet (5:27-39), which is flanked immediately on one side by two miracle tales (5:12-26) and, on the other side, by two short sabbath controversy episodes (6:1-11).14 Theobald argues correctly, I believe, that this literary symmetry directs audience attention toward its central section, the story about Levi, where hearers learn the true (Lukan) meaning of Christian discipleship. Levi and the other disciples who dine with Jesus serve as a variety of figures with whom church members in Luke’s time can identify (“Identifikationsfiguren”).15 Although Theobald works with an overly idealized understanding of church realities in Luke’s time (open fellowship, rejection of Torah and purity law, joyous missionary meals with sinners, etc.),16 his arguments about the ecclesiological thrust and significant rhetorical positioning of the Levi story are sound. Hence, in light of both its broader (Luke 3:1–6:19) and narrower (5:1–6:19) literary contexts, the Levi episode appears to occupy a highly strategic location in Luke’s narrative. 12. For succinct treatments of how Luke’s distinctive construction of these periods affects the portrayal of the primary disciple, Peter, see Pheme Perkins, Peter: Apostle for the Whole Church (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina, 1994), 84–95, and Yvan Mathieu, La figure de Pierre dans l’oeuvre de Luc (Évangile et Actes des Apôtres): Une approche synchronique, Études bibliques, n.s. 52; Paris: J. Gabalda, 2004), 10–11. 13. Theobald, “Die Anfänge der Kirche,” 91–2. 14. Ibid., 92–4, 101. 15. Ibid., 101. 16. Ibid.

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Extensive Editorial Adjustment Second, Luke’s hand in significantly (re)shaping the Levi episode to serve his own, programmatic ends is evident. Here, I lift up several of the Lukan “touches” that bear most directly on my overall argument. The opening of the meal scene in Mark and Matthew is a bit murky; who hosts the dinner, and how it relates to what came just before it, are not apparent. Luke, by contrast, is clear: in a meaningful, reciprocal action, the toll collector Levi, who has just accepted Jesus’ call (5:28), now calls Jesus to his house. Luke alone elevates the profile of the event and, indeed, hints at its eschatological symbolism by referring to the repast not as a regular meal, but as a “great banquet” (δοχὴν μεγάλην; 5:29). The reader is primed to understand the ensuing scene proleptically (at the discourse level it connotes the ultimate future, the kingdom of God), and to ask who is to be included, who is to be excluded, and why. In all three of its versions, the Levi episode involves confrontation, criticism, and rebuttal. Nevertheless, Luke’s take on the controversy is distinctive. Instead of having the scribes of the Pharisees (Mark), or only Pharisees (Matthew) criticize Jesus for eating with toll collectors and sinners, Luke has the Pharisees and their scribes murmuring (ἐγόγγυζον) against Jesus’ disciples (5:30) for eating and drinking (ἐσθίετε καὶ πίνετε) with toll collectors and sinners. Then, Luke has Jesus, with his authoritative, narrative voice, step in to defend his disciples contra the Pharisees. This is still a tale about censure, to be sure, but the subjects, objects, and content of the criticism are significantly different from what appears in Mark and Matthew. Luke’s version focuses reader attention not on Jesus, but on his disciples—more specifically, on their distinctive associations and practices. Luke alone includes “drinking” (along with eating) in the Pharisees’ initial charge against Jesus’ disciples (5:30b); and they reiterate this term in their second criticism (5:33b). Finally, only Luke has Jesus conclude his rebuttal of the Pharisees at scene’s end with a saying about drinking wine (5:39). Thus, the drinking motif helps to tie the episode together.17 The most glaring difference among the synoptic accounts of the Levi episode is that, in Luke, the scene consists of a single, seamless debate between Jesus and his Pharisaic interlocutors. In Mark and Matthew, by contrast, one encounters two loosely connected controversy stories: in the first, Jesus, while dining, rebuts an accusatory question by the Pharisees about his own association with sinners; in the second (seemingly in a different setting) Jesus responds to a query from “the people” (Mk 2:18), or from “John’s disciples” (Mt. 9:14), concerning why his disciples do not fast. In Luke’s version, Jesus, while dining at Levi’s house, engages the Pharisees and their scribes in an ongoing, two-part debate. As noted above, the first salvo of the debate involves a charge of eating and drinking with toll collectors and sinners (5:30). Jesus responds that, just as only the sick need physicians, so he has come to call not the righteous, but sinners, to repentance.18 17. Dupont, “Vin vieux, vin nouveau,” 300–1. 18.  Only Luke has εἰς μετάνοιαν here, which is consistent with his practice elsewhere and



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Thwarted in their initial foray, the critics move on to a new accusation: “The disciples of John fast often and offer prayers, and so do those of the Pharisees, but yours eat and drink” (5:33). Jesus responds with the well-known analogy of the wedding guests and the bridegroom: “Can you make wedding guests fast while the bridegroom is with them? The days will come when the bridegroom is taken away from them, and then they will fast in those days” (5:34-35).19 So, in Luke, two somewhat distinct scenes from Mark appear as a single, integrated debate about the disciples: (1) “eating and drinking” with toll collectors and sinners; and (2) “eating and drinking” instead of praying and fasting. Finally, Luke significantly modifies Jesus’ climactic salvo of parabolic sayings concerning old and new garments, wineskins, and wine at the end of the debate, tacking onto them the aforementioned, unique logion about the drinking of new and old wine (5:36-39). I will treat these sayings more fully below; suffice it to say at this point that the Lukan adjustments to these concluding sayings effect a particular and significant temporal orientation to the entire scene’s discourse. When we step back to assess the overall result of Luke’s reworking of discrete, prior traditions, we perceive a coherent (though attenuated), Hellenistic symposium in which the debate swirls around the appropriate associations and practices of (Jesus’) disciples and ultimately pivots on the issue of (sacred) time. A Convergence of Character Groups Third, in the Levi’s banquet episode, Luke juxtaposes a set of four memorable and continuing character groups related to discipleship: Jesus’ disciples; Pharisees’ disciples; John’s disciples; and toll collectors and sinners (potential disciples?). Each group has appeared earlier in the story, and some have interacted briefly, but Levi’s banquet marks the first time the audience is asked to consider all four in terms of each other. If, as is so often affirmed, literary characters are defined largely in terms of their relations to, and interactions with, other characters, then Luke 5:29-39, as the preliminary assemblage of discipleship groups, clearly warrants attention as a nexus for the reader’s building of these characters as they go on to interrelate in the remainder of the narrative. We have seen that Luke crafts the Levi story to focus primarily on Jesus’ disciples, the prime group with whom readers identify. As a consequence, audience attention will be directed mainly toward how Jesus’ disciples compare to the other three discipleship groups. Seeing how sinners, Pharisees, and followers of the Baptist help to limn Jesus’ followers, however, will depend in turn on observing how these other groups are defined in terms of each other. Full character studies of these groups in Luke-Acts are not possible within the scope of this essay, nor are thorough analyses necessary underscores his distinctive take on psychological and ethical implications of conversion; see Hans Conzelmann, The Theology of St. Luke, trans. Geoffrey Buswell (New York: Harper and Row, 1961), 99–101. 19. Note that Jesus addresses the issue of fasting but not of praying, for he will shortly teach his disciples to pray (Luke 11:1-4), just as John had taught his disciples.

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to establish the plausibility of my thesis about the programmatic nature of the Levi’s banquet passage. It is expedient, however, to show briefly how each of these parties is designed to be taken as a group character, how they are portrayed prior to the Levi scene, and how that scene prepares the reader to actualize their depictions and rhetorical functions as the reading process continues. The setting of our banquet scene is a toll collector’s house, and one of the topics of debate is association with sinners. It seems best, therefore, to begin our survey of character groups with the toll collectors and sinners. A cursory comparison with the other synoptics shows that sin, sinners, and toll collectors are especially important for Luke. Although Luke shares four references to “sinners” with other synoptics, more than a dozen such references are uniquely his own.20 No less striking is Luke’s distinctive and considerable material on toll collectors, from their interaction with the Baptist (3:12; 7:29), to their specified role as listeners to the parables of lostness (15:1), to the toll collector contrasted with a Pharisee at prayer in a uniquely Lukan parable (18:10-14), and finally, to the exclusively Lukan account of Jesus’ encounter with Zacchaeus (19:1-10). It is hardly coincidental that scenes in which Jesus: (1) dines in the houses of forgiven toll collectors (Levi and Zacchaeus); and (2) declares on those occasions that his salvific mission is to sinners and the lost, frame Jesus’ ministry at its beginning and its end.21 Scholars have labored to identify what the evangelists might have meant by their references to sinners and toll collectors. Their investigations provide some insights for the current study. Most, however, are severely limited by simplistic historicizing, i.e., attempts to identify and narrowly reconstruct real social groupings in the milieus of Jesus, the earliest churches, or the evangelists’ so-called “communities.” Are Luke’s sinners the common people (am ha-aretz), a recognized, lower economic class (the poor), the ritually impure, persons judged to be immoral based on personal behavior, or by dint of belonging to unsavory 20. Luke shares the following references to sinners with Mark and/or Matthew: in the Levi episode; Jesus’ saying about coming for sinners rather than the righteous; the allusion to Jesus being a “friend to toll collectors and sinners” during his tribute to John the Baptist; and the charge that Jesus was “betrayed into the hands of sinners” in the passion narrative. All fourteen of the remaining references to sinners in Luke are unique: Peter’s confession to being “a sinful man” (5:8); four references in the sermon on the plain; descriptions of the ministering woman as sinful (7:37, 39); an observation about Galilean “sinners” killed by Pilate (13:2) with a warning to repent or perish; and four mentions of sinners in the parables of lostness (15:1, 2, 7, 10). In the parable of the toll collector and the Pharisee, the former calls himself a sinner (18:13). At the end of Jesus’ Galilean ministry, Zacchaeus, the head toll collector, is deemed a sinner by a murmuring crowd (19:7). This list is based in part on Dwayne H. Adams, The Sinner in Luke, ETSMS 8 (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2008), ix. 21. This significant inclusio is noted by Neale, None But the Sinners, 100–1, and Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation; Vol. One: The Gospel According to Luke, FFNT (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 107–8. It is vital to recognize, however, that the characterization of toll collectors actually begins earlier, at Luke 3:12.



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professions, or Jews who have crossed ethnic boundaries to “make themselves Gentiles” and work against Jewish interests?22 Where would toll collectors fit among these categories of sinners?23 Little critical consensus about these options has emerged, and the variety of solutions alone cautions us against taking a similar approach to the issue. We do better to understand these groups as literary characters (or, often, caricatures) based on narrative and social conventions, which serve as basic religious and ethical types for the spiritual and moral education of Luke’s audience. This approach does not entail abandoning the historical task; rather, it redirects that task from reconstructing first century realia to recovering contemporary literary and social conventions that attended and enabled the reading process. The text of Luke provides the matrix within which readers “built” these character groups. Throughout the reading process, however, readers also drew from an extratextual repertoire of relevant conventional knowledge.24 Sinners form a very broad category in Luke. John the Baptist calls the crowds (οἱ ὄχλοι) that flock to him vipers and demands that they repent of their sins and “bear fruit of their repentance” (3:7, 10). The breadth of this category is reaffirmed later when all of the people (πᾶς ὁ λαός) who hear Jesus eulogize the Baptist “justify God because they had been baptized by John” (7:29). A wide range of activities and inclinations (from economic injustice, to sexual immorality, to ritual infractions) are tagged as sinful in Luke. But the narrative does not generally dwell on the nature of particular sins, and Luke does not develop a detailed taxonomy of sinfulness. The exception to this broad take on sinners in Luke is the case of the toll collectors, a sub-category of sinners, who are characterized quite fully in relation to John, Jesus, and the Pharisees. Among the evangelists, only Luke has toll collectors come to John to be baptized and to ask what they should do (upon repentance). “Collect no more than has been allotted to you,” John replies (3:13), clearly drawing on a conventional notion that toll collectors were dishonest, taking advantage of people by collecting tolls beyond the designated amount. Their sin is not ritual impurity or working for Gentiles, but deceit resulting in economic injustice.25 The toll collectors’ acceptance of John’s baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins (Luke 3:12; 7:29) prepares them to recognize and respond correctly to Jesus and his message (“the salvation of God”), and then to serve as effective exempla in Luke’s vital, highly distinctive discourse about poverty and wealth. That discursive trajectory reaches its peak with Zacchaeus, a chief toll collector and rich (πλούσιος), who donates half of his money to the poor and repays fourfold whatever he may have gotten through fraud.26 In short, the 22.  More detailed options and the history of research on sinners in Luke are provided by Neale, None But the Sinners, 15, 67–97, and Adams, The Sinner in Luke, ix–xiii and 69–73. 23. Donahue, “Tax Collectors and Sinners,” 39–59. 24. Darr, On Character Building, p. 48, and idem, Herod the Fox, 36–42 and 92–103. 25. Donahue, “Tax Collectors and Sinners,” 58. 26. On the significance of the Zacchaeus story for Luke’s overall discourse on wealth, see Christopher M. Hays, Luke’s Wealth Ethics: A Study in Their Coherence and Character, WUNT II 275 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 175–81.

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Lukan toll collectors serve as the quintessential self-acknowledged sinners who, as a result of their repentance, are able truly to recognize Jesus and to “bear fruit” by committing fully to him and making amends for their former ways. When Jesus first encounters Levi and calls him away from his toll booth to become Jesus’ follower (Luke 5:27), the narrator does not provide explicit motivation for Levi’s immediate and unreserved response. The reader fills this narrative gap through retrospection and consistency building, identifying Levi with the toll collectors who received John’s baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.27 Levi’s “heart,” the reader understands, is already prepared to recognize and commit to Jesus when he meets him. Also pertinent to audience understanding of Levi’s motivation is another “call story,” the recent episode in which the fishermen, Simon Peter, James, and John, are summoned by Jesus to catch people rather than fish (5:1-11). Among the synoptists, only Luke has Simon Peter fall down at Jesus’ feet and declare, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord!” (5:8). Moreover, Luke alone reports that the erstwhile fishermen “left everything [πάντα] and followed him” (5:11)—actions Levi mirrors in 5:28. The pattern is set: true disciples of Jesus are self-acknowledged sinners who repent, are forgiven, and then “bear the fruit” of their repentance by giving up all else to follow him. Luke’s idiosyncratic treatment of toll collectors and Peter to this point casts an ironic light on the heated exchange between the Pharisees and Jesus in Levi’s banquet scene. Irony hinges on readers knowing more than figures in the story know, and then watching with humor or horror—but always with a degree of selfsatisfaction—as characters make fateful decisions based on their ignorance. Why do Jesus’ disciples eat and drink with sinners? Because they are sinners, as readers (but not the accusing Pharisees) well know. The Pharisees’ (mis)understanding of themselves as among the righteous to whom Jesus refers deepens the scene’s irony. The reader began to build the Pharisees as a group character already at Luke 5:17, where they were introduced as coming from “every village of Galilee and Judea and from Jerusalem” to hear Jesus.28 In this initial scene, the Pharisees were associated with teachers of the law (νομοδιδάσκαλοι); in the Levi episode, they are linked with scribes (γραμματεῖς). These associations establish them as experts in religious tradition. But the reader also knows the Pharisees as those who “dialogue in their hearts” and “murmur” (ἐγόγγυζον) against Jesus (5:21-22, 30). The latter term aligns them with the unrighteous, condemned congregation that murmured against God and Moses in the desert.29 So begins Luke’s lengthy narrative discourse on what constitutes true righteousness, with its surprising 27. The reader’s drive to build consistency in a gapped text is especially strong with regard to group characters; the group’s traits will be imputed to the individual, and, reciprocally, what the individual associated with a group does will be ascribed to the whole; see Darr, On Character Building, 30–1. 28. This universal reference reinforces the reader’s natural tendency to build the Pharisees as a group character; Darr, On Character Building, 93. 29. Ibid., 96. See Num. 14:26–30 (LXX).



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reversal of roles for sinners and religious leaders. In short, the Pharisees will serve as ironic, tragic figures, caricatures of self-righteousness and spiritual obtuseness, who exhibit the narrative’s anti-values and fail to recognize Jesus, despite obsessive scrutiny. As the faux righteous, they justify themselves (16:15; 18:9), whereas repentant toll collectors and sinners justify God (7:29). In Luke’s ironic rhetoric of reversal, the supposedly religious insiders become outsiders by refusing John’s baptism of repentance and rejecting God’s purpose (τὴν βουλὴν τοῦ θεοῦ) for themselves (7:30). John’s followers do not actually appear at Levi’s banquet, but the Pharisees bring them into the debate: “John’s disciples fast often and offer prayers, and so do the Pharisees’ disciples,” they say to Jesus, “but yours eat and drink” (5:33). Assuming that the Baptist’s followers are reflections of their leader, Luke’s reader assesses the Pharisee’s accusation in light of the plethora of earlier textual information about John and his relationship to Jesus. From Luke’s unique and complex synkrisis of John and Jesus as cousins in the infancy narrative (Luke 1:5-2:52) and from the (relatively) extensive account of the Baptist’s work and message (3:1-20), the reader already understands John to be the epitome of biblical prophecy: he both predicts the coming of the Christ and prepares hearts to recognize and respond to him properly (Lukanly) when he arrives. If any doubt about John’s exalted status and vital function in salvation history remains, Luke expunges it in 7:26-28 by having Jesus call John the preparer of the way and the greatest born of women. Yet Luke neither brings the cousins into direct contact nor allows John to identify Jesus as Christ. Furthermore, even the least in the kingdom of God is greater than John (7:28). The relationship between these protagonists in God’s plan, mirrors, from Luke’s perspective, the intimacy and disjunction, continuity and discontinuity, between Christianity and its Jewish matrix.30 The reader sees John’s disciples as true representatives of Jewish tradition in terms of morality and praxis, completely ready to recognize and accept Jesus, but having no opportunity, as yet, to do so. They differ from Luke’s Pharisees not in terms of Jewish religious practices like fasting and praying (which Jesus does not condemn), but because they have accepted John’s baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. Their practices might be similar to the Pharisees’, but their hearts are not. As Jesus observes in 7:30-34, Jewish religious leaders reject both John the Baptist and the Son of Man, regardless of the fact that the former does not “eat and drink,” but the latter does. To summarize: Luke assembles a set of four memorable group characters at Levi’s banquet to initiate and guide a discourse on discipleship. From this point on in the narrative, the reader constructs an understanding of Christian discipleship by comparing and contrasting how these groups relate in terms of Jewish religious tradition and the person and teaching of Jesus.

30. Darr, On Character Building, 61.

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Parables, Prolepsis, and Discipleship All of Jesus’ retorts to the Pharisees at Levi’s banquet use imaginative language. Jesus responds to the accusation that his disciples associate with sinners by stating that he is like a physician who, by definition, goes to the sick rather than the healthy (5:31-32). When the Pharisees shift their criticism to the fact that his followers’ party instead of fasting and praying, Jesus compares himself to a bridegroom and his disciples to attendants who naturally celebrate the nuptials by eating and drinking (5:34). Jesus then adds a portentous, proleptic note: “But the days will come when the bridegroom is taken away from them; then they will fast in those days” (5:35). This saying redirects the discourse to the issue of time, and more specifically, to how the disciples’ future religious practices may well differ from their present ones. This critical turn toward time as the determining factor leads directly to Jesus’ final argument, which the narrator calls a parable (παραβολήν [5:36]), but which actually involves the figurative use of several sayings about old and new garments, wineskins, and wine (5:36-39): “No one tears a patch from a new garment and fastens it to an old garment,” Jesus says; “if he does he will tear the new garment and the piece taken from the new garment will not match the old garment. And no one puts new wine in old wineskins; if he does, the new wine will burst the wineskins and be spilled, and the wineskins will be ruined. One must put new wine into new wineskins. And no one, after drinking old wine, wants new wine. For he says, ‘The old is good.’”

Much scholarly ink has been spilled over Jesus’ concluding remarks at Levi’s house, and especially over his final logion about the old being good. Some tortuous interpretations have emerged, due in large measure to the fragmenting tendencies of historical-critical approaches. Some redaction critics, for example, suggest that we simply disregard the final logion as extraneous matter that Luke unthinkingly allowed into the text.31 We have seen, however, that Luke’s version of the Levi episode forms a seamless scene in which the Pharisees engage Jesus in a two-part argument about his disciples’ affiliations and practices, both of which involve eating and drinking. Because it is all of a piece, the reader actualizes the final sayings about old and new in light of how the debate has unfolded to this point.32 From a reader-oriented perspective, Jesus’ references to old and new, and to choosing between the two, must have to do with issues of association and practice as they bear on group identity among Jesus’ followers. Let us retrace how the argument at Levi’s house builds to the final set of sayings. In the opening salvo, the Pharisees accuse Jesus’ disciples of eating and drinking with sinners. Jesus does not deny the charge, but parallels his ministry to sinners rather than the righteous with a physician’s treatment of the ill instead of the well (5:31-32). The reader knows that this is not the first time Jesus has likened 31.  An interpretive option rightly rejected by Dupont, “Vin vieux, vin nouveau,” 293–4. 32. Ibid., 294–5.



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himself to a physician. When he visited his home town synagogue, he accused his hearers of saying, “Physician, heal yourself; whatever we heard was done at Capernaum, do here in your home town as well” (4:23). Jesus then chooses not to perform healing miracles among his own, and he justifies his decision by pointing to Elisha who did not heal Israelite lepers, but only a Gentile leper, Naaman the Syrian (4:27). His pointed scriptural response is proleptic for the Gentile mission in Acts. In both cases in which the Lukan Jesus likens himself to a physician, the question is, “Whom does he ‘treat?’” And in both instances, his answer upsets his interlocutors: he goes to sinners within Israel, and he will go (through his disciples) outside Israel and to the Gentiles. When the Pharisees go on to criticize his disciples for eating and drinking instead of fasting and praying, Jesus responds with the saying about the bridegroom, thereby shifting the debate from the appropriateness of their activities per se to the criteria of timing and recognition. What one should do (and with whom one should associate) depends on the times and one’s ability to discern them. Jesus turns the tables here. The problem lies not with his disciples, but with the Pharisees: if they, too, recognized him as the bridegroom, they also would celebrate rather than fast. Luke’s Jesus recalibrates the divine timetable so that it centers on him: there is the time before Jesus, the time of Jesus, and the time after Jesus. Matters of association and praxis bearing on Christian identity depend on orienting oneself properly (Lukanly) within this Jesus-centered, temporal framework. Sacred time has been reset around the coming and going, presence and absence—and the ultimate coming again—of Jesus the Lord. Finally, Luke’s version of Jesus’ sayings about old and new (5:36-39) affirms the developing argument that either the old or the new may be good, but must be recognized, distinguished, evaluated, and utilized with careful regard to timing. A quick comparison between Mark’s and Luke’s versions of the saying about patching garments reveals striking differences. Mark’s Jesus warns against sewing an unshrunk patch of cloth onto an old garment because it will shrink and tear that garment, whereas Luke’s Jesus underscores the absurdity of destroying a new garment by tearing a patch from it in a futile attempt to mend an old garment. In the Lukan saying, the new garment is of greater value than the old one, so it must be preserved in its integrity. In this case, the new is recognized as the good, the better, and not compromised for the sake of the old. In the sayings about wineskins, both old and new are valued, but they must carefully be kept separate or both will be lost. Putting new wine in old wineskins ruins the skins and spills the wine. In the final saying, the old is valued over the new: one who drinks old wine will find it good and not compromise its taste by then drinking new wine. Taken together, these sayings teach that old and new should be differentiated, but that oldness and newness do not, in and of themselves, determine value or usage. In one case, the new may be good; and in another, the old. What really matters is the ability to recognize which is which, and to understand how and when to select one over the other. To unpack these sayings about old and new garments and wine, the reader looks back to Jesus’ use of wedding imagery. Clothing and wine were conventional

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social markers at nuptials, as we know from Matthew’s parable about the wedding guest who shows up in improper clothing (Mt. 22:11-13) and from the Fourth Evangelist’s story of Jesus miraculously producing good wine at a wedding in Cana (Jn 2:1-10). Wearing shabby clothing at nuptials gets you roughly and summarily ejected, while not providing good wine can bring the celebration to an abrupt halt and cause great shame. Garments and wine thus relate symbolically to discipleship identity issues raised in the debate between Jesus and Pharisees at Levi’s banquet: clothing has implications for group association (who is in and who is out), and drinking wine has to do with group practices. “Imagine our situation as a wedding,” the Lukan Jesus implies, “a place and time where both dressing in new clothes and drinking old wine are good and appropriate.” Mourning and fasting can wait until his death and departure. The suitability of old or new depends on discerning the times; and sacred time is now tied to Jesus for, as he declares in the next episode, “the son of man is lord of the Sabbath” (Luke 6:5).

Conclusion Like the more famous Nazareth scene (Luke 4:16-30), Levi’s banquet (Luke 5:29-39) is a programmatic passage in terms of strategic location, form, and function. Placed near the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, and serving as the centerpiece of an arc of episodes about discipleship, the Levi episode is strategically positioned to influence how the reader builds an understanding of Christian discipleship over the remainder of Luke-Acts. From a redaction critical perspective, we see that Luke connected and integrated discrete controversy stories to construct the banquet as an abbreviated symposium in which Jesus defends the affiliations and activities of his disciples over and against Pharisaic criticisms. The convergence at the banquet of four group characters having to do with discipleship provides the reader with a set of memorable types for comparison and contrast as the narrative continues and Jesus disciples are more fully defined over and against the others. Finally, Jesus’ imaginative sayings about physicians, bridegrooms, garments, and wine orient the narrative discourse about Christian discipleship to the issue of sacred time and how Jesus relates to it. More research is needed on specific programmatic effects of the Levi’s banquet episode for a sequential reader of Luke-Acts. Suffice it to say that the banquet passage initiates and helps to direct an ongoing discourse that addresses and seeks to legitimate the paradoxes and tensions of Christian identity in Luke’s own time. Luke’s second volume reflects these strains clearly as it attempts both to affirm the old and to embrace the new. Being a disciple of Jesus now means not only associating with and including the sinners and outcasts of Israel, but also welcoming the Gentiles in ever increasing numbers. And yet, Luke has Paul going to the Jews up to the very end of the narrative. In terms of old and new praxis, Luke relates Peter’s vision in which unclean meats (according to Jewish law) are now suitable for eating (Acts 10:9-16). But he also includes an apostolic injunction against eating strangled meat or blood (Acts 15:29), and depicts Paul taking a strict vow



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in the Jerusalem temple to demonstrate that he does not enjoin Jews to abandon their practices. Indeed, he himself still keeps the Torah (Acts 21:17-26). In his own defense, Paul declares, “I have not sinned against the law of the Jews, or against the temple, or against Caesar” (Acts 25:8).33 At Levi’s banquet, Jesus’ defense of his disciples’ openness to different associations, and of flexibility with regard to old and new practices (depending on the changing times), helps the reader to negotiate these tensions in Christian identity as the church moves into the second century.

33. Marguerat, “Paul et la Torah,” 81–2.

3 Z E C HA R IA H A N D G A B R I E L A S T H E M AT IC C HA R AC T E R S : A N A R R AT O L O G IC A L R E A D I N G O F T H E B E G I N N I N G O F L U K E ’ S G O SP E L ( L U K E 1 : 8 - 2 0 ) 1

Hannah M. Cocksworth

Beginnings are important, interesting, and tricky things. Exploring beginnings is important because they are a vital point in the understanding of a narrative as a whole, and have traditionally been viewed as key within the construction of narrative coherence.2 In narratological terms, beginnings play an essential role in initiating the act of communication—or discourse—which takes place through the narrative between author and reader.3 Narratology is a system geared toward the analysis of the inner workings or poetics of narrative, and has proved highly influential within the development of narrative criticism and its attempt to analyze the mechanics of the New Testament narratives. Indeed, Mikeal Parsons and Richard Pervo refer to narrative criticism as “biblical narratology.”4 This 1. This chapter is extracted from various parts of my PhD thesis: “Beginnings, Ending, and the Narrative Unity of Luke and Acts” (unpublished doctoral dissertation, The University of Cambridge, 2013). 2. See Michael Toolan, “Coherence,” in Handbook of Narratology, ed. Peter Hühn et al. (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2009), 44–62, 46. 3. See Seymour Chatman’s diagrammatic representation of this communicative act in Seymour Chatman, Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1978), 267. Also replicated in R. Alan Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1983), 6. 4. Mikeal C. Parsons and Richard I. Pervo, Rethinking the Unity of Luke and Acts (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), 16. For more on the relationship between the two methods see, Janice C. Anderson and Stephen D. Moore, eds., Mark and Method: New Approaches to Biblical Studies. 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008), 239; David Rhoads, Reading Mark: Engaging the Gospel (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004), 30 and Mark A. Powell, “Narrative Criticism: The Emergence of a Prominent Reading Strategy,”

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chapter will suggest that a narratological reading of the beginning of Luke’s gospel can offer a new reading of the text of Luke which focuses on Luke 1:1-20 alone as the beginning of the gospel, as opposed to the birth narratives as a whole. It will proceed along the following lines: it will begin by laying out some important features of beginnings, including the way in which characters can represent narrative themes—as is the case for Zechariah and Gabriel in the beginning of Luke. It will then undertake a narratological reading of Luke 1:8–20, showing the way in which, from the point of view of a first-time reader, these verses set up conflicts and questions which drive the following narrative. It will conclude by arguing that Gabriel and Zechariah function thematically in Luke 1:8–20, by initiating the theme of Jesus’ identity which permeates the Lukan narrative and reaches its climax in the gospel’s ending. This reading provides an insight into why the author begins not with Jesus’ but with John’s birth, and allows the opening scene between Zechariah and Gabriel to exist and speak in its own right as the beginning of Luke’s gospel.

Features of Narrative Beginnings: Questions, Conflicts and Thematic Characters The beginning acts as the opening or entryway into the story world which exists inside a narrative. It is the commencement of the narrative’s story. According to David Lodge, beginnings represent “a threshold, separating the real world we inhabit from the world the novelist has imagined.”5 As such, the beginning of a narrative is responsible for providing the reader with essential information, at least enough that they understand something of the narrative world into which they are about to step, and are equipped for moving beyond the beginning and into the middle. However, at the same time as providing key information, the beginning must not reveal too much, because it must also hook and draw the reader in to the narrative story world beyond the threshold of the beginning. Lodge notes that when reading begins it is tentative, the narrative world strange and the author’s voice and narration unfamiliar.6 Therefore, by providing enough information to allow readers to find their bearings within the narrative world while at the same time holding back certain information, a beginning can create and initiate problems or questions which need to be answered. These questions make up the plot and drive the narrative toward its ending. In other words, good beginnings must contain an aspect of intrigue in order to lure the reader past the beginning and further into the narrative story. Beginnings shape the narrative whole because in Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect, ed. Kelly R. Iverson and Christopher W. Skinner (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), 19–43, 20. 5. David Lodge, The Art of Fiction (London: Secker & Warburg, 1992), 5. 6. Lodge, The Art of Fiction, 5.



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they represent anticipation and lead toward “some goal, resolution or closure.”7 They set up both story and discourse and, in doing so, are integral to the entire narrative.8 Beginnings represent a delicate balance of disclosure and concealment, something revealed but also something kept hidden. Questions in narrative stories very often manifest themselves in the form of conflict; a driving force within the plot of a narrative. The occurrence of a central conflict or, more often, several co-existing conflicts, plays an essential role in propelling the implied reader through the narrative story. Conflict may form between characters; between characters and their social situation (that is, “social conflict”); between a character and some sort of external force such as nature or the environment (“physical conflict”); between a character and themselves (“internal” or “psychological” conflict); or between a character and a deity or perhaps fate (“metaphysical” conflict).9 The presence of conflict creates in the implied reader the expectation of resolution. If this expectation is eventually fulfilled, satisfaction is achieved on the part of the reader and, generally speaking, such a narrative will be deemed as possessing a sense of closure. Characters play an essential role in all this. Characters play an important part in the development of the story, interacting with settings to form the events which make up the plot. Literary critic James Phelan has argued that characters can take on a “thematic significance.”10 What this means is that a character or characters can function in such a way that their words, actions, and responses to narrative events transcend the individual character (what Phelan calls the “mimetic” or “character as person”) and play into broader, overarching narrative concerns (or, “character as idea”).11 The characters of Zechariah and Gabriel function less mimetically, since they are barely developed beyond the beginning of the narrative, and more thematically. They merge conflict and question to enact what 7. George Hughes, Reading Novels (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2002), 119. See also Robie Macauley and George Lanning, who observe that “the all-important thing about the first stage of any piece of fiction is that here the author makes certain promises. If the novel or story is to be a success, those promises must be borne out,” Robie Macauley and George Lanning, Technique in Fiction (New York: Harper & Row, 1964), 29. 8. For story and discourse see Chatman, Story and Discourse, 19. See also David Rhoads and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1982), 4 n. 14; Jack D. Kingsbury, Matthew as Story (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), 1–2; Mark A. Powell, What is Narrative Criticism? A New Approach to the Bible (London: SPCK, 1993), 23, and Elizabeth S. Malbon, “Narrative Criticism: How Does the Story Mean?,” in Mark and Method: New Approaches to Biblical Studies, ed. Janice C. Anderson and Stephen D. Moore, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008), 29–57, 32. 9. Ross Murfin and Supryia M. Ray, eds., The Bedford Glossary of Critical and Literary Terms, 3rd ed. (Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2009), 77–8. 10. James Phelan, Narrative as Rhetoric: Technique, Audiences, Ethics, Ideology (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1996), 30. 11. Phelan, Narrative as Rhetoric, 29–30.

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Phelan calls “the revelation of the first set of global instabilities or tensions” in the Lukan narrative.12 The conflict that occurs between Zechariah and Gabriel creates the first moment of tension between author and reader. This constitutes the beginning of the narrative, because it marks off the beginning from the middle as the narrative sets up a clear thematic direction and this tension begins to work itself out through the remaining narrative.13

Luke 1:8-20: A Narratological Reading A narratological reading of Luke 1:8-20 reveals that these verses exhibit all of the aforementioned features: questions and conflicts which create intrigue and which culminate in a moment of instability between two thematic characters. This instability creates a tension between author and reader which signals the end of the beginning of the Lukan narrative. Luke 1:8-20 is preceded by a brief exposition (Luke 1:5-7) which sets up the scene between Gabriel and Zechariah: In the days of King Herod of Judea, there was a certain priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly division of Abijah. His wife was a descendant of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. They were both righteous before God, living blamelessly in all the commandments and regulations of the Lord. But they had no child, because Elizabeth was infertile, and both were advanced in years. (Luke 1:5-7)14

As exposition, these verses serve to provide the implied reader with essential information, rather like a “who, when, what, where and how” of the narrative story world.15 These verses set up the problem of Zechariah and Elizabeth’s childlessness in tension with their righteous and blameless characters and their advancing old age (Luke 1:6-7). Finally, they establish the beginning of the gospel as a natural beginning. “Natural” is used to describe a type of beginning which begins with a fixed point of origin, for example, a birth. In the case of the Lukan narrative this is pushed back even further, to the point of conception.16 At Luke 1:8, this exposition gives way to the start of the narrative’s plot, described by some literary critics as the causal beginning of the narrative. This causal beginning can be identified by the presence of “catalytic narrative 12. James Phelan, Experiencing Fiction: Judgements, Progressions, and the Rhetorical Theory of Narrative (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2007), 18. 13. Phelan, Experiencing Fiction, 16; 18. 14. Translations are mine unless otherwise stated. 15. Macauley and Lanning, Technique in Fiction, 26. 16. For a discussion of “natural” versus “artificial” beginnings, see Anthony D. Nuttall, Openings: Narrative Beginnings from the Epic to the Novel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), vii–viii.



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moments,” that is, key events which begin to drive the narrative forward toward its ending:17 During his [Zechariah’s] service of priesthood before God when his division was on duty, he was chosen by lot, as is the custom in the priestly office, to burn incense in the temple of the Lord. At the hour of the incense offering all the congregation of the people was praying outside. (Luke 1:8-10)

As the causal beginning, Luke 1:8-20 contains the first event of the plot, which initiates the action of the narrative. As the plot begins, there is a change in narrative distance at Luke 1:8 from telling (diegesis) to showing (mimesis). This distinction has to do with how narrative information is conveyed to the implied reader and whether an event is recounted by the narrator to the implied reader or enacted by the narrative as an “unmediated presentation” of an event.18 In the Lukan narrative, this change is signaled through the use of nouns and adjectives used to provide a sense of the seemingly objective nature of the expositional information in Luke 1:5-7 (ἱερεύς; γυνή; δίκαιος; ἄμεμπτος; στεῖρα), versus the increased use and variety of the verbs used to describe narrative action in Luke 1:8-9 (τῷ ἱερατεύειν [infinitive]; ἔλαχε [aorist]; τοῦ θυμιᾶσαι [articular aorist infinitive] and εἰσελθών [aorist participle]). The previous expositional beginning of the narrative’s story (Luke 1:5-7) has been told to the implied reader rather than shown. Events were not enacted; rather, the implied reader was informed about certain facts pertaining to the characters and setting of the narrative. By contrast, in Luke 1:8-20, as the narrative reaches its causal beginning, the first, catalytic narrative event is shown to the implied reader by means of unmediated enactment. As part of the exposition, the narrator has already told the implied reader what the first event of the narrative will involve by setting up a problem. In this case, the problem is that “they had no child, because Elizabeth was infertile, and both were advanced in years” (Luke 1:7). The narrator now proceeds to show the implied reader how this problem will be solved through the enacting of the first event of the plot, the appearance and announcement of the angel Gabriel to Zechariah in the Jerusalem temple: The angel of the Lord appeared to him, standing at the right of the incense alter. When Zechariah saw him, he was terrified, and fear fell upon him. But the angel said to him, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear for you a son, and you will name him John.” (Luke 1:11-13) 17. See Catherine Romagnolo’s definition of “discursive,” “chronological,” and “causal” narrative beginnings, in “Recessive Origins in Julia Alvarez’s Garcia Girls: A Feminist Exploration of Narrative Beginnings,” in Narrative Beginnings: Theories and Practices, ed. Brian Richardson (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2008), 149–65, 152–4. 18. Chatman, Story and Discourse, 32.

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The announcement concerning John’s birth resolves the problem of Zechariah and Elizabeth’s childlessness as set up in the exposition. At the same time as this is taking place, however, the “driving conflict of the plot”—a defining feature of the causal beginning—is initiated.19 The first event of the plot, which shows the appearance of the angel Gabriel to Zechariah in the temple, contains the crucial announcement to the latter concerning the conception and birth of his son (Luke 1:13). While seemingly resolving the problem of Luke 1:7, Zechariah’s subsequent question following the announcement expresses his doubt as a consequence of his and Elizabeth’s old age (Luke 1:18). As a result, Gabriel invokes Zechariah’s muteness until the announcement becomes reality with the child’s birth (Luke 1:20). This “punitive miracle” enacts a metaphysical conflict between a character and a deity and functions as the first conflict of the Lukan plot.20 Therefore, Gabriel’s words (Luke 1:14-17) and Zechariah’s question (1:18) are catalytic because they drive the plot. They create a broader question for the implied reader which governs the entire Lukan narrative: He will be to you joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord. He should never drink wine or strong drink; even from his Mother’s womb he will be completely full of the Holy Spirit. He will turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. In the Spirit and power of Elijah he will go before him, to turn the hearts of parents to their children, and the disobedient to the way of thinking of the just, to keep in readiness a people prepared for the Lord. (Luke 1:14-17)

This announcement initiates for the implied reader the question of the meaning of Gabriel’s message. This question is developed by the Lukan narrative as it progresses, and is finally retrospectively assessed by the implied reader as the conclusion of what Barbara Herrnstein Smith refers to as the “running hypothesis.”21 This is the process whereby the implied author creates certain expectations for the implied reader that build over the course of the narrative, establishing an hypothesis which is tested against the narrative as it develops. Consequently, the ending provides the final, retrospective test of whether these expectations are satisfied or not and, therefore, either proves or disproves the hypothesis. Although Gabriel’s words initially refer to Zechariah and Elizabeth’s child, the implied reader will discover other layers to the announcement as the narrative—and with it the running hypothesis—progresses. Certain eventual implications of Gabriel’s message are, however, already hinted at in the narrative’s beginning. The use of χαρά in 1:14 expresses more than the 19. Romagnolo, “Recessive Origins,” 154. 20. Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke, I–IX, Anchor Bible (New York: Doubleday, 1981), 32–3. 21. Barbara H. Smith, Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1968), 119. For Smith’s concept of “retrospective patterning,” see Poetic Closure, 12–13 and 119.



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anticipation of “happy parenthood” for Zechariah and his wife; it holds the sense of “the joy of eschatological fulfilment,” with ἀγαλλίασις expressing “a similar force.”22 In addition, the narratee is told that “many [πολλοί] will rejoice,” thereby further emphasizing the implications of the child John’s birth beyond the sense in which it solves the problem of Zechariah and Elizabeth’s unjust childlessness. This is more than “merely a family affair.” This birth has implications “for all.”23 The remaining three verses of Gabriel’s announcement explain the reasons (hence the “causal” γάρ of 1:15) for the rejoicing (Luke 1:14) which will surround the birth of Zechariah and Elizabeth’s child.24 Luke 1:15 defines John’s role as one “great in the sight of the Lord,” therefore situating it within “a special consecration to God and in John’s significance for salvation history.”25 Crucially, however, it will become clear that the “significance” of this role lies in its preparatory function. The first feature of John’s role is as one who “will turn [ἐπιστρέψει] many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God” (Luke 1:16). The main verb ἐπιστρέφω can simply mean “to turn” in a directional sense or to “turn” in the sense of a change in a mental state of mind. Here, however, ἐπιστρέφω holds the sense of “to cause … to change belief or course of conduct with focus on the thing to which one turns.”26 Therefore, John’s role is causal and, in this case, the focus of the turning in relation to which John’s role will act as a catalyst is no less than “the Lord God.” The second characteristic is related to the first. It, too, involves turning (ἐπιστρέφω, Luke 1:17). However, this turning is now directly related to John’s preparatory role, explicitly emphasizing that “it is clear that despite John’s unsurpassed greatness (1:15) he is to be a preparer, and not the true object of hope.”27 22. John Nolland, Luke, Volume 1:1–9:20, WBC 35A (Dallas: Word Books, 1989), 35; 30. Luke Timothy Johnson argues that “the terms ‘joy and gladness’ have definite eschatological and messianic overtones (see, e.g., Isa. 12:6; 25:9, 29:19; 49:13)”, Luke T. Johnson, The Gospel of Luke, Sacra Pagina 3 (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1991), 33. François Bovon argues that “the relatedness of the individual and the nation, and the election of an individual for the salvation of the community, is seldom so clearly expressed,” François Bovon, Luke 1: A Commentary on the Gospel of Luke 1:1–9:50, trans. Christine M. Thomas, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002), 35. 23. Johnson, The Gospel of Luke, 33. 24. Martin M. Culy, Mikeal C. Parsons, and Joshua J. Stigall, Luke: A Handbook on the Greek Text (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2010), 16. 25. Nolland, Luke, Vol. 1, 30. 26. BDAG, 382. 27. Nolland, Luke, Vol. 1, 25. The Lukan narrator will go on to make a concerted effort to emphasize that Jesus outdoes John in every way, as seen within the paralleling of the birth stories of the two characters within Luke 1:5–2:52. Fitzmyer describes this as “a stepparallelism at work, i.e., a parallelism with one-upmanship. The Jesus-side always comes off better,” The Gospel According to Luke, Vol. 1, 315. Likewise, Nolland: “The infancy narratives are set out with an evident parallel between John and Jesus, but with Jesus surpassing John in every respect,” Luke, Vol. 1, 34. Finally, Johnson: “Stories concerning John are matched with those about Jesus, in each case showing Jesus’ superiority,” The Gospel of Luke, 34.

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The implied reader is told that John “will go before him [αὐτὸς προελεύσεται ἐνώπιον αὐτοῦ]” in order to “keep in readiness [ἑτοιμάσαι] a people prepared for the Lord [κυρίῳ λαὸν κατεσκευασμένον]” (1:17). The combined use of προέρχομαι and ἐνώπιον emphasizes John’s role as “precursor” to another.28 In addition, the two verbs in the final clause of the speech serve further to emphasize John’s causal role as one who will make the people ready [ἑτοιμάζω] and prepared [κατασκευάζω] for the Lord. In this way, Gabriel’s words hold significance for the entire Lukan narrative. As Luke Timothy Johnson argues, “In the larger sense, this is what the entire Gospel narrative tries to show, how a people within historic Judaism was prepared to become the restored Israel of God.”29 However, while the implied reader may be assured that “the people will be prepared for something by John,” Gabriel’s announcement does little to explain what, or who, this “something”—or someone—is.30 Zechariah’s question is a request for assurance of Gabriel’s announcement in response to the problem of his and Elizabeth’s advancing old age (Luke 1:18).31 For the implied reader, however, Zechariah’s reply sets up the broader question of the meaning of Gabriel’s words. The key question created for the implied reader is the identity of the one—“him” (Luke 1:17)—for whom John prepares and in light of whom John’s role as precursor will derive its full significance. The implied reader does not yet know who “he” is. In addition, this raises a related question for the implied reader as to the identity of “the Lord” or κύριος of Luke 1:17 (cf. Luke 1:15 and 16), and the relationship between “the Lord” and “him.” Johnson argues that “in Luke’s eyes … ‘going before the Lord’ meant being the precursor to Jesus.”32 However, from a narratological perspective, the first-time implied reader is not yet provided with this information and such implicit references to Jesus will only emerge retrospectively. Therefore, Zechariah’s “how?” (Luke 1:18) initiates a broader question for the implied reader which the Lukan narrative will serve to disclose in its journey toward its ending.33

28. Bovon, Luke 1, 37. 29. Johnson, The Gospel of Luke, 33. 30. Bovon, Luke 1, 37. 31. Nolland argues of Zechariah’s silence (Luke 1:20) that “it probably is meant to be a sign creating certainty,” Luke, Vol. 1, 25. 32. Johnson, The Gospel of Luke, 33. 33. Even after Zechariah has regained his speech in Luke 1:64, the narrator informs the implied reader that everyone who heard about the events surrounding John’s birth wondered about them and asked τὶ ἄρα τὸ παιδίον τοῦτο ἔσται; (Luke 1:66). This is a further (and a re-) “formulation” of Zechariah’s question of Luke 1:18. Fitzmyer likewise observes a link between this question about John and its answer through the life and work of Jesus as he argues: “Though the question, ‘What is this child to become?’ (1:66), is asked only about John, the reader senses that this is to be asked as well about the child with whom he is implicitly compared,” The Gospel According to Luke, Vol. 1, 315.



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Luke 1:20: The End of the Beginning It was argued above that Luke 1:5-20 functions as a natural beginning because it begins with an account of origins, the story of a birth. In a real very sense, however, the Lukan beginning highlights the problems which literary critics have observed surrounding the task of pinpointing a definitive natural beginning. Since each birth event is preceded by and dependent upon another birth, where, exactly, does a beginning begin?34 As an illustration of this, Luke 1:5-20 begins the narrative not with an account of the birth of the central character (Jesus), but rather with the story of the conception and birth of a preceding character (John) who is closely interlinked with and sets the scene for the appearance of the protagonist. Therefore, Luke 1:20 represents the end of the beginning of Luke’s gospel, even though the protagonist, Jesus, has not yet appeared on the scene or even been explicitly mentioned by name. Luke 1:8-20 contains the first event of the narrative’s plot and the opening scene which begins the gospel draws to a close with the first conflict of the narrative occurring in verse 20: Zechariah said to the angel, “How will I know that this is so? For I am an old man, and my wife is advanced in years.” The angel answered, “I am Gabriel, who stands in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to announce to you this good news. Now, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will be silent and not able to speak, until the day when these things come to pass.” (Luke 1:18-20)

The metaphysical conflict between Zechariah and Gabriel (or, in a larger sense, Zechariah and God) initiates the broader plot of the Lukan narrative. Gabriel’s words in Luke 1:14-17 and Zechariah’s question culminate in a moment of conflict which creates the first sense of instability in the relationship between characters in the narrative. If, however, these two characters are read as thematic characters, then the instability that forms between them within the story also creates a sense of tension in the discourse between reader and author.35 This happens because Zechariah’s question initiates a broader question for the implied reader concerning the meaning and significance of Gabriel’s words. This creates, as Phelan describes it, a gap in the first-time reader’s knowledge in regards to the narrative in which they are participating.36 This gap functions as a sort of break in the narrative, which “marks the boundary between the beginning and the middle.”37 It establishes the way in which the narrative is going to proceed because 34.  For an exploration of this issue, see, for example, Nils B. Leander, “To Begin with the Beginning: Birth, Origin and Narrative Inception,” in Narrative Beginnings: Theories and Practices, ed. Brian Richardson (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2008), 15–28. 35. For more, see Phelan, Narrative as Rhetoric, 90; 103. 36. Phelan, Narrative as Rhetoric, 90. 37. Phelan, Experiencing Fiction, 18. Literary critic George Hughes attempts to lay down

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it presents the reader with a question which needs answering as the narrative progresses in to its middle: how, exactly, will Zechariah and Elizabeth’s child fulfill Gabriel’s words and for whom is John preparing? In addition, the narrative following Luke 1:1-20 also provides evidence which points to Luke 1:20 as the end of the beginning: Meanwhile, the people were waiting for Zechariah, and wondered at his delay in the temple. After coming out, he was not able to speak to them, and they knew that he had seen a vision in the temple. He was making signs to them and remained mute. When his days of service as a priest were completed, he went to his home. After these days his wife, Elizabeth, conceived and for five months she kept herself hidden saying, “This is what the Lord has done for me when he looked favourably on me and took away my disgrace among my people.” (Luke 1:21-25)

These verses constitute the tail end of the beginning episode. Luke 1:21-25 functions as a summary that confirms and recaps the events of the beginning and helps to emphasize the break in the narrative which signals the end of the beginning. In this passage, the implied reader encounters characters who have already been met before: either the main characters who were introduced to the implied reader in the exposition of Luke 1:5-7 (for example, Elizabeth, who speaks for the first time in Luke 1:24-25) or characters who appeared in the first episode of Luke 1:8-20 (for example, “the people” in Luke 1:21; cf. Luke 1:10). The reappearance of “the people” in Luke 1:21 serves to confirm Zechariah’s visionary encounter in the temple along with evidencing his lack of speech (Luke 1:22), While Luke 1:24-25 confirms Gabriel’s announcement to Zechariah in the temple from Elizabeth’s point of view (Luke 1:13 cf. Luke 1:24). Following the summary of Luke 1:21-25, Luke 1:26 represents the beginning of a new narrative episode: In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The name of the virgin was Mary. (Luke 1:26-27)

Once again, the implied reader encounters characters that have appeared in the narrative beginning, but in this next episode characters from the beginning are used to introduce new characters. For example, the angel Gabriel functions as a connecting character and forms a narrative bridge between the beginning and the following episode. The now familiar character of Gabriel introduces a new narrative setting—Nazareth (Luke 1:26)—as well as new characters—Mary and a ground rule as to where a narrative beginning ends by arguing that “for the purposes of discussion it can be assumed that it continues until there is a break of some kind in the narrative,” Reading Novels, 263 n. 6. In this reading, the end of the beginning of a narrative is marked almost as a mini ending in itself.



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Joseph (Luke 1:27). In addition, later on Elizabeth also functions as a connecting character between the two episodes, as she is revealed to be Mary’s relative (Luke 1:36) and time is measured from Elizabeth’s pregnancy, which is used to link the stories of the two characters together (Luke 1:24, 26, 36, 56). The subsequent account of Mary’s visit to Elizabeth merges Zechariah and Elizabeth’s story with that of the new characters of Mary and Joseph (Luke 1:39-40). By the time the implied reader reaches the regaining of Zechariah’s speech in Luke 1:64, the story of the conception and birth of Zechariah and Elizabeth’s child has been intertwined with the beginning of the story of Jesus, the main character of the Lukan narrative.38 Therefore, Luke 1:26 marks the beginning of a new episode and is not part of the beginning of the narrative which has already taken place during Luke 1:8-20. While different episodes begin and end after Luke 1:20, only the latter represents the end of the beginning. This is important because it modifies the conventional view of what constitutes the beginning of Luke’s gospel. From the point of view of the narratological reading conducted here, the birth narratives as a whole (Luke 1:5–2:52) do not function as the beginning of the Lukan narrative. The majority of scholars adopt a chronological perspective, arguing that the end of the childhood narratives of John and Jesus, constitute the end of the beginning of Luke.39 However, although the “growth statement[s]” of Luke 2:52 has been viewed as indicating the end of the beginning of the Lukan narrative, the end of a narrative beginning is not necessarily tied to the chronological age of a character.40 Rather, 2:52, along with 1:80, provide summaries which conclude the birth story of each character (in addition, there is an extra growth summary in Jesus’ birth story at Luke 2:40).41 Luke 1:80 and 2:52 act as endings to episodes narrating John’s and 38. The interrelationship between John and Jesus is further evidenced in the contents of the prophecy which Zechariah proclaims following the regaining of his speech in Luke 1:68-79. 39. Cf. Nolland: “Despite dissenting views … the vast majority of scholars rightly recognize 1:5–2:52 as the first major section of Luke’s account,” Luke, Vol. 1, 17. Nolland observes that “1:5–2:52 is distinguished from the beginning of chap. 3 by the fresh setting in world history provided at that point, by the move from the infancy to the adult careers of John and Jesus” (17–18). However, Luke 1:26 also provides a new setting and the end of a beginning does not have to be tied to the chronological age of a character or characters. Romagnolo argues that “the categories of beginnings and middles are not mutually exclusive; that is, a section of a text can be considered both a middle and a type of beginning,” “Recessive Origins,” 163 n. 5. Perhaps this could provide a useful way to conceptualize Luke 1:26–2:52: as “both a middle and a type of beginning.” 40. Nolland, Luke, Vol. 1, 90. 41. Fitzmyer agrees, stating of Luke 1:80 that “the verse … brings to a close the story of John’s birth and childhood,” The Gospel According to Luke, Vol. 1, 388. Nolland asserts of Luke 2:40 that “this verse appears to be a Lukan creation” designed as a “parallel” to Luke 1:80, Luke, Vol. 1, 123. Likewise François Bovon agrees, observing, ‘Redaktionell sind die Sprache und die Symmetrie mit der Johannesgeschichte (1,80),” François Bovon, Das

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Jesus’ childhoods, respectively, but do not signify the end of the beginning of the Lukan narrative, which occurs at Luke 1:20. A narratological reading of beginnings is not tied to chronological markers, but rather aims to determine the point at which the conflict or instability that drives the plot is revealed to the implied reader. In Luke’s gospel, this is accomplished during the first event of the narrative in Luke 1:8-20, which initiates the question of the meaning of Gabriel’s words. The remainder of the birth narratives begins to uncover and disclose the layers of these words. In this reading, however, the story of the birth of Jesus is not part of the beginning of the Lukan narrative. John’s conception begins the narrative’s plot, whereas the story of Jesus is spread over several episodes which contribute to the continuing progression of this plot beyond the beginning and which begin to draw out the implications of Gabriel’s words for the Lukan narrative as a whole. This reading brings with it a helpful corrective to conventional readings which are often unclear as to why, exactly, the birth narratives begin with the story of John the Baptist—beyond providing a later contrasting parallel to the birth story of Jesus. Rather than beginning with the birth of the main character, the Lukan author begins by telling the story of the birth of his predecessor. Why? Because in this way the author can pose a question for the reader—through the conflict between Zechariah and Gabriel—which will drive and maintain the entire subsequent narrative. Starting with John’s birth story delays the answer to the question of Jesus’ identity a step further, creating more interest and suspense in the narrative on the reader’s part.42 A reading of the beginning of Luke’s gospel which ends at Luke 1:20 serves to give this story, along with its characters, a place and an essential role in its own right within the Lukan narrative.

Conclusion: Answering the Question of Jesus’ Identity The ways in which the ending of the Lukan narrative fulfills the beginning as laid out here would require further investigation. It is my contention, however, that the layers of Gabriel’s message are uncovered through the life and work of Jesus and are climactically intensified in the final chapter of the gospel, with the full revelation of Evangelium nach Lukas 1:Teilband Lk 1,1–9,50, EKKNT III 1 (Zürich: Benziger, 1989), 150. In addition, Nolland, like Fitzmyer, observes that the first phrase of Luke 2:40—“the child grew and became strong”—is an exact repetition of the phrase used to describe John in Luke 1:80; see Luke, Vol. 1, 123 and Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke, Vol. 1, 432. 42. For the importance of delays in narrative progression, see Roland Barthes, S/Z, trans. Richard Miller (Oxford: Basil Blackwell Ltd, 1990). Barthes argues that narrative questions should not be answered immediately. Instead, a narrative’s discourse should work at maintaining the openness of questions through delaying answers and, consequently, delaying a sense of closure. These delays create suspense, which serves to propel the implied reader through the narrative to its ending in expectation of the answer to narrative questions (209).



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Jesus’ identity as Lord and Messiah. On their post-resurrection visit to the tomb, the women do not see Jesus but are reminded of his words to them and told of his resurrection (Luke 24:1-12). By contrast, the two disciples on the Emmaus road see Jesus himself but do not recognize his identity and only come to this realization in the moment in which Jesus becomes invisible to them (Luke 24:13-32). Finally, the disciples both see and recognize Jesus (Luke 24:33-43). Jesus’ bodily resurrection and identity is proven and, in the light of this resurrection proof, Jesus’ final words to his disciples (Luke 24:44-49) provide the concluding answer to the question of the identity of the one before whom John goes (Luke 1:17), through a final, climactic confirmation of Jesus’ messianic identity. The description of John in Luke 1:14-17 is retrospectively assessed from the point of view of the subsequent framework of Jesus’ life, work, death and resurrection. The narrative has revealed that Jesus is “the Lord.” This running hypothesis is climactically confirmed by the declaration of Luke 24:34—ἠγέρθη ὁ κύριος—which verifies the identity of the κύριος of Luke 1:17 (cf. also 1:15 and 16). Later, the implied reader is shown, in direct speech, in words from his own mouth, Jesus’ identity as Messiah (ὁ Χριστός, Luke 24:46) and that the events that have taken place are the fulfillment of scriptural prophecy (πληρόω, Luke 24:44; 46, cf.; also Luke 1:20) which, in turn, points to Jesus. The latter is explicitly emphasized in 24:44 through Jesus’ use of the first-person personal pronoun in the phrase περὶ ἐμοῦ (in contrast with Luke 24:26 and Jesus’ use of the impersonal third person: εἰς τὴν δόξαν αὐτοῦ). This Messiah is the “him” for whom John has prepared and in relation to whom John acted as forerunner (Luke 1:17). The “joy and gladness” which accompanied John’s birth (Luke 1:14) grew from his role as the one who was to prepare the people for the arrival of the Messiah and this elation is echoed in the disciples’ joyful response to their encounter with the risen Jesus (Luke 24:41; 52). With the emphasis on their special role as μάρτυρες (Luke 24:48), the disciples are shown to be representatives of the ones who have been turned to the Lord their God (Luke 1:16), kept in readiness and prepared for the Lord (Luke 1:17) and the identity of “the Lord” for whom they have been prepared is Jesus, the Messiah. The preparation phase is now complete and it is time for those who have been made ready to act and to bear witness to the Messiah “to all nations” (Luke 24:47).43 Gabriel’s words in the beginning of the gospel have come to fruition through John’s subsequent mission and its intimate connection with the life and work of the Messiah. Jesus’ final words at the end of the gospel act as the ultimate fulfillment and confirmation of John’s role as announced to Zechariah by Gabriel. As I. Howard Marshall puts it, “John is the ‘type’ who finds fulfillment in the ‘antitype’ Jesus and is surpassed by him.”44 In narratological terms, the question surrounding 43. My thesis goes on to argue that the theme of Jesus’ identity as set up by the beginning of Luke’s gospel is transferred to the Acts narrative through the theme of witness, if Luke and Acts are read together. 44. I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke: A Commentary on the Greek Text, NIGCT (Exeter: Paternoster Press, 1978), 45.

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John’s role is answered by the identity of Jesus. Although the initial conflict and question grew out of a focus on John, by the time the implied reader reaches the resolution and answer at the end of the gospel, the focus of the narrative is firmly on Jesus. Functioning as thematic characters, the conflict between Gabriel and Zechariah takes on greater significance than just a mimetic interaction between characters in a narrative. Gabriel’s words and Zechariah’s response transcend the conflict between the two characters to create a broader, thematic tension for the reader of the Lukan gospel. With Zechariah, the reader wants to know what Gabriel’s words mean, how they will be fulfilled and for what—or whom—this child is preparing and making ready. Through these questions, these thematic characters instigate the unfolding theme of Jesus’ identity as Lord and Messiah. This reading of Zechariah and Gabriel gives these characters their fullest voice within the Lukan narrative and serves further to emphasize the significance of their interaction in forming the beginning of Luke’s gospel.

4 T H E C HA R AC T E R I Z AT IO N O F T H E T WO B R O T H E R S I N T H E P A R A B L E O F T H E P R O D IG A L S O N  ( L U K E 1 5 : 1 1 - 3 2 ) : T H E I R F U N C T IO N A N D A F T E R L I V E S

David B. Gowler

But Jesus spake in a parable, and he said: A certain man had two sons. Jesus didn’t give this man a name, But his name is God Almighty. And Jesus didn’t call these sons by name, But ev’ry young man, Ev’rywhere, Is one of these two sons.1 The parable of the Prodigal/Lost Son has fascinated interpreters over the centuries more than any other parable of Jesus. The Prodigal Son is the longest, most referenced, and most complex of Jesus’s parables. It has, for example, several scene changes, a more extensive plot, a greater amount of conflicts, three major characters, and more developed (mostly indirect) characterization—including dialogue, one of the few interior monologues, and a speech.2 The parable builds upon the desired positive reactions to the celebrations in the first two “lost” parables of Luke 15, and it also draws parallels between the two sons.3 Missing, however, are explanations from the narrator as to why the three characters act the way they do; direct definitions of the characters are minimal. 1.  James Weldon Johnson, “The Prodigal Son,” in God’s Trombones (New York: Penguin, 1990), 21. 2. Richard Lischer, Reading the Parables (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2014), 97. I also recognize that another title, such as “Lost Son,” would be more appropriate, but I use “Prodigal Son” because of its prominence in the parable’s reception over the centuries. 3. See, for example, Amy-Jill Levine, Short Stories by Jesus (New York: HarperOne, 2014), 25–70.

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The characterizations of the father and his two sons, then, are subtly fascinating; they invite investigation and leave readers mulling over the possibilities inherent in their portrayals. As Johnson’s poem above suggests, however, people tend to identify with—or be identified by others as—one of the two sons in parable, with most interpreters assuming that the father in the parable symbolizes God.4 The father and his two sons are memorable characters even without intricate modes of characterization, and parables are famously lacking in such details. The inclusion of three characters in the parable—although only two are on the stage at the same time—has the same effect as Sophocles’s innovation of adding a third character in Greek tragedy. This “triangle” of characters enhances their portrayal, with increased dialogues, dramatic action superseding narration, and more complex contrasts being made between characters.5 Responses to the parable, however, are generated primarily by the compelling and almost universal themes the parable evokes, such as conflicts between older and younger generations, including thankless or rebellious children; rivalries between siblings; the relationship between justice, love, and mercy; and the loss and restoration of community or family.6 Parables usually involve some sort of implied analogy, but since the parallels between the things being compared are often not made explicitly, they actively engage their audiences to understand and apply their messages. Parables, by their analogical nature, therefore, encourage hearers to imagine new possibilities, including (even) allegorical interpretations that explore the hermeneutical potential of these brief narratives.7 These analogies, within Luke’s retelling of the parable, extend to analogies with characters in the larger narrative, which are often extended in reception history to people outside of Luke’s narrative world. In other words, the characterization in the parable greatly impacts its reception through the centuries. In addition, the parable is famously open-ended: readers/hearers do not know whether the elder son relents and joins the celebration. What some interpreters fail to realize, however, is that the characterization of the younger son is also ambiguous: readers/hearers are not told for certain whether the younger son actually repents or whether, similar to when he initially asked for his inheritance, he plays his father for a fool. The contexts—both biblical and Lukan—raise significant questions about his motives and sincerity.8 4. Not all commentators agree, of course. See, for example, Lauri Thurén, Parables Unplugged (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014), 94. Cf. Levine, Short Stories, 48, 50. 5. See David B. Gowler, Host, Guest, Enemy, and Friend: Portraits of the Pharisees in Luke and Acts (New York: Peter Lang, 1991), 94. 6. Not to mention the Lukan themes the parable includes, such as God’s relationship to humanity (as a loving and forgiving father) and the resulting impact that should have on human relationships. Cf. Darryl Tippens, “Shakespeare and the Prodigal Son Tradition,” Explorations in Renaissance Culture 14 (1988): 57–77. 7. Frank Kermode, The Genesis of Secrecy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979), 44. 8. Cf. Levine, Short Stories, 53–4.



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The Function of the Two Brothers in the Gospel of Luke Over twenty-five years ago, I explored the portrayal of the Pharisees in Luke-Acts. Earlier studies of the Pharisees in Luke-Acts, I argued, were deficient because they did not examine the Pharisees as characters in a literary narrative. I undertook, then, the first extensive character analysis of the Pharisees in Luke-Acts and did so by developing a model for analyzing the process of characterization in Luke-Acts. I started with literary theorists and modern literature but developed the model for biblical studies by adapting it to ancient literature and integrating cultural and literary analyses. The resulting analysis of the portrayal of the Pharisees in Luke-Acts can be found in the 1991 book, Host, Guest, Enemy, and Friend: Portraits of the Pharisees in Luke and Acts.9 I subsequently refined this model—and have great appreciation for recent advances in the study of characterization in Luke-Acts10—but my conclusions about the characterization of the Pharisees in Luke-Acts, I believe, have proved to be persuasive, including the analysis of the Prodigal Son parable.11 Therefore, this essay will not reprise those arguments. Instead, I will explain briefly the function of the two brothers in the narrative of Luke-Acts and then focus on selected examples of the afterlives of the brothers over the succeeding centuries in visual art, drama, and music to demonstrate the power of Luke’s characterization of the two brothers. In the process, it will also become clear that analyses of receptions of the two brothers by “real” audiences over the centuries provide significant insights concerning their characterization in Luke and their hypothetical receptions by implied and intended audiences of the narrative. The Gospel of Luke provides us with the first “reception” of the parable, situating it in a series of three “Lost” parables—the Lost Coin, Sheep, and Son— that Jesus speaks to the Pharisees and scribes after they “grumble” about Jesus welcoming and eating with tax collectors and sinners (15:1-3; cf. 5:30; 7:39; 19:7). The Prodigal Son is the culmination of these three parables that virtually become mise en abymes; they defend Jesus’s ministry to tax collectors and sinners and challenge the Pharisees and scribes to join in the communal joy and celebration of the lost being found and restored.12 Since Jesus addresses these parables, the narrator informs us, to them, all three parables provide a powerful indirect presentation of the Pharisees and scribes. 9. Republished in paperback in 2007 by Wipf & Stock (Eugene, OR). 10. Refinements starting with: David B. Gowler, “Hospitality and Characterization in Luke 11:37-54: A Socio-Narratological Approach,” Semeia 64 (1993): 213–51. One of the best and most recent advances in the study of biblical characterization is found in Cornelis Bennema, A Theory of Character (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014). 11. Gowler, Host, Guest, Enemy, and Friend, 250–6. 12. For a more complete discussion of the characterization involved in Luke 15, as well as the characterization of the Pharisees in Luke-Acts, see Gowler, Host, Guest, Enemy, and Friend, 177–319.

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In the Gospel of Luke, the younger son reflects the faces of the tax collectors and sinners who are coming to listen to Jesus, and Luke 15:1-2 draws a now familiar contrast between the tax collectors and sinners and the Pharisees and scribes. The authoritative voice of the narrator, for example, had declared that the tax collectors acknowledged God’s justice but that the Pharisees and scribes “rejected God’s purpose for themselves” (7:29-30).13 The younger son is indeed a sinner who asked for his inheritance prematurely, departed with it to a distant land, “squandered his property in dissolute living,” and went to work feeding pigs for a citizen of that distant country. This younger son “came to himself,” however. The wording in the parable itself makes it unclear whether this realization constitutes true repentance or merely a plan of action to ensure he does not starve, but Luke understands it penitentially, just like the positive characterization of the tax collectors and sinners who come near to listen to Jesus (7:29; 15:1). In addition, in the Lukan narrative, the portrait of the elder son reflects the faces of the Lukan Pharisees and scribes; his actions parallel their actions, such as their grumbling about Jesus welcoming and eating with sinners (15:2). In contrast to the younger brother, the elder son plays the role of a dutiful son, but he gets angry and refuses to join the celebration over his brother’s return: he shamefully responds to his father by not addressing him as “father,” rejecting kinship ties with his brother (“this son of yours”; 15:30), and hyperbolically stressing his servitude to his father (“working like a slave” and “never disobeyed”; 15:29) and perhaps his brother’s debauchery, since readers only learn about the alleged prostitutes from the elder brother’s ill-informed speech (15:30). Although different interpretations are possible if the parable is interpreted outside the Lukan context, the father, for Luke, reflects God—and, as a result, Jesus as well, who speaks and acts as the narrator imagines God would— welcoming back the prodigal with joyous, compassionate, and loving arms. The father also shows love and forgiveness to his elder son, however, by seeking him out, assuring him (“all that is mine is yours”; 15:31), and urging him to enter the celebration. He addresses his elder son with an affectionate title (τέκνον) even after the son refused to address him with a title (15:31) and reminds him that they are celebrating “your brother,” thus gently reinforcing family ties and underlining the necessity of reconciliation (15:32). The function of the two brothers in Luke’s narrative is clear: the Pharisees and scribes object to Jesus joyfully welcoming sinners into the family of God, and Jesus urges them to join the celebration over the lost being found. God’s blessings are still all theirs (15:31), but they must rejoice over the tax collectors and sinners drawing near to Jesus. The open-ended parable—does the older son join the celebration?—reflects the still unanswered question of whether the Pharisees and scribes will respond positively to Jesus’ invitation. As Host, Guest, Enemy, and Friend demonstrates, the answer to the question of how the Pharisees respond is generally negative in the Gospel of Luke, where the Pharisees usually serve as paradigms of how not to act (e.g., “lovers of money”; 13. Translations of Biblical passages are NRSV.



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16:14).14 They engage in a series of controversies with Jesus, trust in their own righteousness, exalt themselves, despise others, and are “lovers of money” (5:176:11; 7:36-50; 11:37-54; 14:1-24; 16:14; 18:9). The “leaven of the Pharisees” (e.g., hypocrisy; 12:1) expands, such as when their “grumbling” (15:2) spreads to others who see Jesus going to the home of a chief tax collector Zacchaeus (19:7). In Luke-Acts, however, the Pharisees’ responses are portrayed along a continuum. In addition to being opponents of Jesus, the Pharisees in Acts include non-Christian Pharisees who defend Christians (Acts 5:34-39; 23:9), Christian Pharisees who still have a “deficient” concern about the Law (Acts 15:5; cf. 15:22-29), and the consummate Pharisee, Paul (for Luke-Acts; Acts 22:3; 23:6; 26:5), who serves as the paradigm for how Pharisees should respond to Jesus and his resurrection. Luke’s canonical “first reading” determines to a large extent how the Prodigal Son has been interpreted over the centuries, including allegorical interpretations of the parable. Since Luke implicitly characterizes the Pharisees (and scribes) as being examples of the elder son and tax collectors and sinners as examples of the younger son, these portrayals are extended to other groups as these characterizations generate fascinating “afterlives.”

The Afterlives of the Two Sons15 The earliest interpretations of the parable fall into four main categories: MM

MM

MM

MM

Gnosticizing interpretations interpret the older brother as denoting angels and the younger brother as symbolizing humanity (e.g., Pseudo-Jerome Epistle 35). Ethical interpretations view the older brother as symbolizing the righteous and the younger brother as depicting sinners (e.g., Jerome, Cyril of Alexandria). Ethnic interpretations see the older brother as denoting Jews and the younger brother as denoting Gentiles (e.g., Tertullian, Augustine), and sometimes incorporate aspects of ethical interpretations (e.g., Gentiles are idolaters). Penitential interpretations are similar to the allegorical aspects of ethical interpretations, but in this instance the younger son represents Christians who fall away but then repent and return, and the older brother represents

14. The scribes, since they—unlike the Pharisees—participate in the Lukan Passion narrative (e.g., 19:47; 20:1, 19, 46; 22:2, 66; 23:10; but cf. 19:39)—are portrayed even more negatively than the Pharisees. They virtually disappear in Acts, twice being associated with rulers and/or elders in persecuting Christians (4:5; 6:12) and once as “scribes of the Pharisees” who “find nothing wrong with” Paul when he is brought before the “council” (23:9). 15. Most of these individual examples are explored more fully in my forthcoming book, David B. Gowler, The Parables after Jesus: Their Imaginative Receptions across Two Millennia. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, forthcoming January 2017.

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arrogant Christians who question the reconciliation with fallen Christians (e.g., Clement, John Chrysostom).16 Such allegorical interpretations extend into the Middle Ages, with the ethnic interpretations dominating medieval understandings of the parable, but penitential readings being prominent as well (e.g., Bonaventure).17 Since the receptions of the Prodigal Son parable are so extensive, I will focus on selected examples drawn from visual art, drama, and music of two impulses within the history of interpretation that stem from characterizations of the two sons: (a) self-identification with the younger son and (b) assumed reconciliation between the two brothers. Although the parable itself is unclear about whether the prodigal truly repents, Luke interprets it as such, and this focus on penitence seems to be the foundation on which these two responses build: a self-identification with the prodigal both before and after repentance and—amid an overwhelming neglect of the older brother—a desire to see the two brothers and father reconcile. Both impulses primarily stem not only from penitential interpretations but also from ethical interpretations, with the younger son symbolizing sinful Christians who fall away from their faith and the need for other Christians to welcome them back home. John Chrysostom provides an early example of both these tendencies, since he believes the prodigal son denotes Christians who have fallen away from their faith. In a letter to his friend, Theodore of Mopsuestia, who had left his religious community and planned to marry, Chrysostom uses the prodigal son’s return as an example of what Christians who have “fallen away after having believed” (like Theodore) should do when they sin: For he also was no stranger, but a son, and a brother of the child who had been well pleasing to the father, and he plunged into no ordinary vice, but went to the very extremity, so to say, of evil … Nevertheless he returned again to his original condition, and had his former honour restored to him. But if he had despaired of his life, and, dejected by what had befallen him, had remained in the foreign land, he would not have obtained what he did obtain, but would have been consumed with hunger, and so have undergone the most pitiable death; but since he repented, and did not despair, he was restored, even after such great corruption, to the same splendour as before, and was arrayed in the most beautiful robe, and enjoyed greater honours than his brother who had not fallen … So great is the power of repentance.18

16. Yves Tissot, “Patristic Allegories of the Lukan Parable of the Two Sons, Luke 15:1132,” in Exegetical Problems of Method and Exercises in Reading (Genesis 22 and Luke 15), ed. François Bovon and Grégoire Rouiller (Pittsburgh: Pickwick, 1978), 363–6. 17. See Stephen L. Wailes, Medieval Allegories of Jesus’ Parables (Berkeley: University of California, 1987), 238–45. 18. John Chrysostom, An Exhortation to Theodore After His Fall, Letter 1:7, in Saint



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Chrysostom effectively integrates the ethical and penitential interpretations of the parable. Theodore did indeed “return home”; he decided not to marry, returned to his Christian community, and became a priest. He was welcomed back into the fold by his fellow Christians, who also later named him as Bishop of Mopsuestia.

Examples of Self-identification with the Prodigal in Visual Art Receptions of the younger son in visual art, which usually focus on the need for penitence, often self-identify with the prodigal and depict his dissolute life, “repentance” among the pigs, or loving reception by his father. The parable, seen as the gospel in miniature, was the most common narrative used in teachings about penitence in the Middle Ages.19 Self-identification with the prodigal son emerges in part from this focus on penitence that dominates medieval interpretations. A prime example is Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Parsons Tale, the longest and last of the Canterbury Tales. In this “sermon on penitence,” Chaucer uses the parable to discuss the deadly sin of acedia (sloth). Sloth begets despair because people believe they have committed so many sins that repentance is futile. Chaucer argues, however, that the Prodigal Son parable demonstrates that such despair should never occur, because the love and mercy of God are freely available and abundant: God is willing and able to forgive, and human sin may be destroyed through proper penitence, fasting, and giving alms, because of the death and resurrection of Jesus.20 Albrecht Dürer Albrecht Dürer’s The Prodigal Son (c. 1496) takes pride of place among receptions in visual art that self-identify with the prodigal son because of the impact this powerful image of the prodigal kneeling in penitence among the pigs had on later visual representations of the prodigal.21 The dilapidation of the buildings in Dürer’s engraving reflects the deterioration of the prodigal’s condition, and the urgency with which the ten pigs attempt to reach food matches the urgency of the prodigal’s repentance, who kneels on one knee, clasps his hands, and raises his eyes to heaven. Dürer’s work captures the Chrysostom: On the Priesthood, Ascetic Treatises, Select Homilies and Letters, Homilies on the Statutes, ed. Philip Schaff. NPNF I 9 (New York: Christian Literature Company, 1889). 19. Manfred Siebald and Leland Ryken, “Prodigal Son,” in A Dictionary of Biblical Tradition in English Literature, ed. David Lyle Jeffrey (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1992), 640. 20. Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales (Oxford: Oxford University Press 2008), 463. 21. See Ellen G. D’Oench, Prodigal Son Narratives, 1480–1980 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Art Gallery, 1995), 4.

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Figure 1  Albrecht Dürer, The Prodigal Son, c. 1496. Engraving. Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington.



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moment the prodigal decides to go home, ask his father’s forgiveness, and request to be treated as a servant. As early as 1604, some interpreters, such as Karel van Mander, have argued that the physiognomy of Dürer’s prodigal son demonstrates that it is a self-portrait. The image clearly resembles Dürer, including the long curly hair (although the prodigal only has a moustache, not Dürer’s full beard that he grew sometime after 1493). The engraving thus, in my view, is the first example of a visual artist identifying himself with the prodigal, and this print might also contain a glimpse of Dürer’s own spiritual life.22 There are hints in some of his later works, for example, of Dürer’s religious struggles in the midst of his unshakeable piety (e.g., the role of a Christian artist in his The Sudarium Held by Two Angels). Rembrandt Rembrandt clearly has an affinity with the Prodigal Son parable, depicting it many times over his long career,23 even depicting himself as the prodigal in one of his early paintings (1634–6), Self-Portrait with Saskia in the Guise of the Prodigal Son. Rembrandt portrays himself as the prodigal son celebrating extravagantly in a tavern with a prostitute—portrayed by his wife Saskia—on his lap. The “tally board” at the top left of the painting to keep track of drinks ordered and the peacock pie on the table are traditional elements in representations of the prodigal’s extravagant squandering of his inheritance. Tellingly, Rembrandt most likely painted this work for himself, and it is the largest among the multitude of his self-portraits.24 Rembrandt’s self-portrait as the prodigal son in a tavern betrays no sign of the repentance that should soon follow. Yet an etching roughly contemporary with that painting, The Return of the Prodigal Son, accentuates the prodigal’s anguish and repentance. The etching depicts the prodigal kneeling before his father— reminiscent of the prodigal’s pose in Dürer’s engraving—after he returns home. The abject son, his clothes ragged and his body emaciated, kneels before his father with his hands clasped in supplication and his face displaying utter desolation. His father bends over him and tenderly touches his son’s back with his right hand. The most famous—and perhaps the most moving—of Rembrandt’s depictions of the parable is the masterpiece, The Return of the Prodigal Son (1667–9), 22. Ibid., 7. 23. Rembrandt’s earliest treatment of the parable is a 1632/3 drawing, The Departure of the Prodigal Son, which is distinctive because the prodigal’s mother apparently is depicted entreating him to stay home. 24. See Ernst van de Wetering, Rembrandt (Amsterdam: Local World, 2008), 91; and Mariët Westermann, Rembrandt (London: Phaidon, 2000), 96–8. See also Ingrid Cartwright’s dissertation about artists identifying with the dissolute living of the prodigal son in seventeenth-century Dutch and Flemish art: “Hoe Schilder Hoe Wilder: Dissolute Self-Portraits in Seventeenth-Century Dutch and Flemish Art,” (PhD diss., University of Maryland, 2007).

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Figure 2  Rembrandt van Rijn, The Return of the Prodigal Son, 1636. Etching on laid paper. Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington.

one of Rembrandt’s last paintings. This work also conveys the impression that Rembrandt placed some autobiographical significance in the parable’s story of dissipation and redemption. As Nouwen puts it: I knew that Rembrandt deeply understood this spiritual homecoming. I knew that, when Rembrandt painted his Prodigal Son, he had lived a life that had left him with no doubt about his true and final home.25

25. Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son (New York: Doubleday, 1994), 6.



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The prodigal’s head is shaved, and his emaciated body is covered only in underclothes; his feet are scarred and his sandals broken—symbolizing the prodigal’s own brokenness. The father lovingly leans over the prodigal, and both his hands rest upon the shoulders of his son who kneels before him. Four other figures appear in the painting—with the elder son likely standing on the far right—but the focus of the painting remains on the loving and forgiving reunion of the prodigal and his father. As Schwartz notes, the painting itself has also been interpreted allegorically, with the father’s embrace of the returning prodigal being symbolic of one’s final return home to God and the end of one’s earthly sufferings.26 Many others over the centuries have identified with the prodigal—not just Rembrandt—but his work exemplifies that tendency better than any other. Thomas Hart Benton A very different message is conveyed by Thomas Hart Benton’s 1939 lithograph, Prodigal Son, which he describes in this way: Study for a painting—owned by Dallas Museum. Picture of the belated return of the “son.” The house was at the foot of the Boston hill in Chilmark, Martha’s Vinyard [sic]. It has long since hit the ground.27

The prodigal in this image is an old man who ponders his former home, having waited too long to return. The house now stands as a deserted and dilapidated shell of its former self. There will be no welcome home by his father, no complaining by his brother, no best robe, ring, or sandals, and no feast with a fatted calf. The sun-bleached bones of a cow are all that is left of what could have been a fatted calf, if only the prodigal had returned earlier. This image apparently undermines the biblical story, although it could serve as a warning to all prodigals not to wait too long to return home to their fathers. But in light of this work appearing in the era of the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl, the lithograph also speaks about the utter despair of those people in the rural areas of the United States who were not able to survive on their desolated farms. They could easily identify with Benton’s prodigal.28 26. Gary Schwartz, Rembrandt’s Universe (London: Thames & Hudson, 2006), 370. 27. Creekmore Fath, The Lithographs of Thomas Hart Benton (Austin: University of Texas, 1979), 78–79. 28. Notably, the same year he created this lithograph, Benton produced numerous images for the 1940 Twentieth-Century Fox film adaptation of John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. Benton’s The Departure of the Joads (1939) evokes the same feelings of loss and barrenness as does the lithograph of the Prodigal Son, and it uses similar images. In addition, the novel’s description in Chapter Six of Tom Joad’s return to his deserted childhood home is eerily similar to Benton’s Prodigal Son lithograph: John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath and Other Writings (New York: Library of America, 1996), 251–73.

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In addition, Benton probably self-identifies with this prodigal son. The dilapidation of the Chilmark farm on Martha’s Vineyard in this image reinforces the interpretation that Benton is implying that he, like the prodigal, had squandered his career—that had started in earnest at Martha’s Vineyard—and was, at that time, filled with despair.29 Benton’s homecoming to Missouri after years in New York City was not as welcoming as he had expected, and he felt estranged from many of his artistic contemporaries (such as his former student, Jackson Pollock). As D’Oench argues, “For Benton, like his prodigal son, going home to find resolution was an aspiration without hope.”30

Examples of Reconciliation of the Two Brothers in Drama Interpreters familiar with biblical traditions (e.g., Cain/Abel, Esau/Jacob) would likely favor or identify with the younger son.31 In one respect, though, the parable’s ending attempts to force its readers to identify to some extent with the elder brother’s dilemma. Since the parable does not give his response to his father’s pleas, hearers/readers are challenged to ask a similar question: What would I do? Would/will I join in the celebration? The parable desires, of course, a positive response, especially since this is the culmination of the three lost-being-foundand-the-resulting-celebration parables in Luke 15. Mikeal Parsons notes that afterlives of the elder brother primarily fall within three categories. The elder brother usually is: (1) ignored or minimized, (2) identified with Jews who are indignant at the emergence of Christianity and are incapable of repentance, or (3) identified with self-righteous Christians—in contrast to “penitent sinners”—who are urged to move beyond their feelings of jealousy.32 An interesting (albeit rare) impulse in interpretations that understand the elder brother as symbolizing “self-righteous Christians” is providing positive closure to this open-ended parable, where the elder brother actively joins the celebration of his brother’s return. Two dramas/plays can illustrate this tendency, although examples in other media may be found as well.33 29. Robert L. Gambone, “Religious Motifs in the Art of Thomas Hart Benton,” in Thomas Hart Benton: Artist, Writer, and Intellectual, ed. R. Douglas Hurt and Mary K. Dains (Columbia, MO: The State Historical Society of Missouri, 1989), 83–8. 30. D’Oench, Prodigal Son Narratives, 26. 31. Birth order and other family dynamics of interpreters, however, often play a role when people identify with one of the brothers. 32.  Mikeal C. Parsons, “The Prodigal’s Elder Brother: The History and Ethics of Reading Luke 15:25-32,” Perspectives in Religious Studies 23 (1996): 147–74. 33. The Chartres Cathedral Prodigal Son stained-glass window (c. 1210 ce), for example, depicts the older son joining his father and brother at the banquet table. Cf. the illuminated manuscript mentioned in Parsons, “Elder Brother,” 153.



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Antonia Pulci The Prodigal Son story was almost omnipresent in the Middle Ages, Reformation, and post-Reformation periods. Widespread literary interest in the parable began in earnest in the sixteenth century and Prodigal Son plays became exceedingly common. These plays, among other things, tend to emphasize the prodigal’s debauchery in order to stress, in contrast, moral teachings.34 The Prodigal Son play by Antonia Pulci (1452–1501), for example, is notable for incorporating the seven deadly sins into the narrative, reconciling the two brothers, and explicitly applying the message to all humanity. The elder brother plays an extended role in Pulci’s interpretation of the parable. At the beginning of the play he begs his younger brother to stay after the younger brother asks for his inheritance. In addition, after the younger son’s departure, the play includes a dialogue between the father and the faithful elder son, in which they declare their love and devotion for each other. Two major elaborations of the parable occur at the banquet celebrating the prodigal’s return. First, it includes the family’s relatives and friends who rejoice in the return of the beloved prodigal, an aspect not explicitly found in the Lukan parable but which reflects the rejoicing theme of the other “Lost” parables of Luke 15. Second, although the elder son objects to his father about preparing a feast for “this immoral wretch,” his reaction is more in sorrow than anger, and, unlike the prodigal who rejected four entreaties by his father before leaving home, the elder son only needs two speeches from his father to be convinced. He goes to the celebration, embraces his brother, and welcomes him back, calling him his “dear” and “sweet” brother. The play concludes with an angel instructing the audience on the play’s lesson: no sinner is so wicked that Jesus will not forgive their sins and welcome them into heaven if they repent. The play also instructs its audience how they should treat each other as brothers and sisters: they should welcome prodigals home and celebrate their return. Godspell The 1973 film Godspell, based on a play written by John-Michael Tebelak, uses New York City as the backdrop for the story, but the ten main characters—dressed in clown-like clothes—present the drama in an eerily deserted city. Their antics, like Jesus’s teachings, present an alternative reality—what life should be like in the kingdom of heaven. A whimsical and playful Jesus and his whimsical and playful followers speak of and also perform that kingdom for us—and they build a community of believers in doing so.35

34. Siebald and Ryken, “Prodigal Son,” 641. 35.  Richard Walsh, Reading the Gospels in the Dark (London: Trinity Press International, 2003), 84.

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The first hour of the film largely consists of Jesus inspiring his disciples, mostly through his parables and the Sermon on the Mount teachings, to listen, understand, and believe: in love, caring for one another, integrity, humility, and service.36 Godspell presents interpretations of seven parables—the Pharisee and the Tax Collector, Unforgiving Servant, Sheep and Goats, Good Samaritan, Rich Man and Lazarus, Sower, and Prodigal Son, all of which are spoken and acted out in creative ways. By opening with the parables of the Pharisee and Tax Collector and the Unmerciful Servant, the film immediately establishes that God is a forgiving God—even in the parable of the Sheep and Goats, the condemned goats are eventually forgiven and welcomed into the kingdom. So it goes for the two sons of the loving father, since the culmination of the play’s plea for forgiveness and reconciliation takes place as the characters narrate and act out the Prodigal Son parable at a theater. When the older brother refuses to join the celebration of his brother’s return, the father—wearing a huge cowboy hat and speaking with an exaggerated “Western” accent—walks across the stage to speak with his older son. He assures him that all the father has is also his elder son’s and pleads with his son to join the joyful celebration, since, “metaphorically speaking,” his “lost” brother has returned from the “dead.”37 As he speaks, the father brings the older son across the stage to meet the younger son, and the boys initially refuse even to look at each other. The father then looks at Jesus, who nods at him, and the father then comically knocks the boys’ heads together; they fall to their knees and hug, as their father says, “Them’s my boys.” The scene ends with the whole group cheering and applauding enthusiastically the reconciliation of the brothers. This restoration of community within the family symbolizes how all should treat each other as brothers and sisters, even returning prodigals.

Examples of Self-identification and Reconciliation of the Two Brothers in Music As with John Chrysostom, the impulse toward self-identification with the prodigal and the impulse toward reconciliation between the two brothers sometimes merge, as two examples in music—one ancient and one modern—will illustrate. Romanos the Melodist The identification with the younger son and the reconciliation between the two brothers are both found in a kontakion by Romanos the Melodist, the great Byzantine liturgical poet and hymn writer. The kontakion, “On the Prodigal Son,” 36. Carol de Giere, Defying Gravity (Milwaukee, WI: Applause Theater, 2008), 57–8. 37.  David Greene and John-Michael Tebelak, Godspell, directed by David Greene (USA: Columbia Pictures, 1973).



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begins with the speaker/singer identifying with the prodigal, since all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God: I have rivaled the prodigal by my senseless deeds and like him I fall down before you and I seek forgiveness, Lord. Therefore do not despise me, Master and Lord of the ages.38

The Congregants/prodigals are urged to repent and return home to God, and the celebratory feast of the sinner’s return is equated with the congregants’ celebration of the Eucharist. When the kontakion recounts the older brother’s refusal to join the celebration (stanzas 12–13), it stresses the “compassion and measureless pity” of God, who “wishes all to be saved” (1 Tim. 2:4). God emphasizes to the elder son, who symbolizes the ones who “have not separated from the Church,” that his place is with God, but that the younger brother had come home in shame, lamentation, and repentance. God asks the older brother: “How could I not have pity and save my son as he grieved and wept?” (stanza 19). God then invites the older son to the supper, where he will “celebrate and sing with all the angels,” and stanza 21 records the older son’s positive response: When he heard these words he was persuaded and shared the gladness with his brother. And he began to sing and say, “All of you shout with praise, that blessed are they whose every sin is forgiven, and whose iniquity has been covered and wiped away.”

The kontakion both urges its hearers to identify with the repentant prodigal and to celebrate as the elder brother when other prodigals repent and return home to God. All thus are “partakers of [God’s] supper.” Robert Wilkins Robert Wilkins was a blues artist in the 1920s–1930s; he quit in the mid-1930s, later becoming an ordained minister. Wilkins was “rediscovered” in the blues revival of the early 1960s, and he performed gospel songs until his death in 1987. The music for Wilkins’s song “The Prodigal Son” came from an earlier classic blues lament Wilkins had written, “That’s No Way to Get Along,” in which a young man complains to his mother about “these low down women” who “treated your poor son wrong.” After Wilkins became a minister, he rewrote the lyrics, and, using the same tune, retitled the song, “The Prodigal Son,” after it was “baptized” with lyrics 38. Romanus, On the Life of Christ: Kontakia, edited by Ephrem Lash, SLS (New York: HarperCollins, 1995), 101.

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based on the parable. The only part of the original lyrics that remain in the new version are the words “That’s the way to get along” in various forms, depending on the stage of the prodigal’s journey.39 The song begins with the prodigal asking for his inheritance and leaving home, because “that’s the way for me to get along.” Even after the son returns home in repentance, the father and son still do not agree on the best way “for us to get along,” because the son now says that the best way for “us to get along” is for his father not to “own” him as a son. His father responds, however, by calling the entire family together and restoring family relationships between “his” son and the rest of the family. The song also does not allow the older brother even to protest to his father about the welcome the younger brother receives. The father instructs the elder son to go and kill the fatted calf himself, and the song assumes that the elder son joins the celebration: And he told his elder brother go and kill my fatted calf (repeat) And that’d be the way for us to get along. Let us all eat and drink and all be merry and glad (repeat) And that’s the way for us to get along.

The message is universal: treating each other in this forgiving and welcoming fashion is indeed “the way for us to get along.” Everyone should welcome prodigals home. The connections between blues music and the Prodigal Son parable, however, go deeper than just this one song. Churchgoers often criticized those who played or enjoyed blues music as “sinners,” and blues was labeled the “devil’s music.” The devil, after all, played the guitar, banjo, and fiddle, and loved to teach wayward Christians how to play them.40 The prime example is the famed blues artist Robert Johnson, whose mythology includes the Faustian bargain that he sold his soul to the devil at the “crossroads” to be able to play the guitar better. Although the blues can integrate the sacred and profane, it is true that blues artists often existed at the periphery of the church.41 As a result, some early blues artists could identify with the prodigal son and envision their lives as a re-enactment of the parable: their own sinful lifestyles were similar to the prodigal’s debauchery in a foreign land. Christianity in the protestant South celebrated dramatic conversion stories, and when blues artists became preachers of the gospel, they enacted this prodigal son pattern by “returning home” from the “devil’s life.” 39. See Francis Davis, The History of the Blues (New York: Hyperion, 1995), 113–14: I have transcribed the cited lyrics from Robert Wilkins, “The Prodigal Son,” MP3, originally released on Rev. Robert Wilkins: Memphis Gospel Singer (Memphis Records, 1964), compact disc. 40. Jon Michael Spencer, Blues and Evil (Knoxville: University of Tennessee, 1993), 26–7. 41. See James Cone, The Spirituals and the Blues (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1972).



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Because of their lifestyle, blues artists often could supply a dramatic Damascus Road conversion experience. LaDell Johnson, for example, kept waking up one night to hear the devil play blues music on his guitar, and the devil even moved his guitar during the night. Similarly, Gatemouth Moore converted one night in a nightclub, when three times in a row he attempted to sing but could not.42 Although Wilkins never lived a prodigal’s life, his story of a blues artist turning to full-time Christian service and his “The Prodigal Son” song exemplify this transformation from “secular” to “holy.” The song also follows this “prodigal son pattern,” since it started as a secular blues song but was “converted” into a gospel sermon about the prodigal son parable and the way for all human beings to “get along.”

Conclusion The question to ask of [parables] from the standpoint of poetics is not just what they mean or what they do but what they want—what claim they make upon us, and how we are to respond.43

The quote above actually is about “pictures,” not “parables,” but in this instance pictures and parables function the same way (especially since parables tend to form pictures in their hearers/readers’ minds). In addition, the characterizations of the two sons in the parable, including ambiguities about both characters’ portrayals, generate a variety of interpretations. Receptions that self-identify with the prodigal are illuminating, as are the receptions of the elder son where often “the dog does not bark.”44 Ignoring or downplaying the role of the elder brother can lead to more superficial readings. English writer and artist John Ruskin, for example, complains that the elder brother is often relegated to a “picturesque figure introduced to fill in the background of the parable agreeably.”45 His point was that interpreters neglected whatever lessons the elder sibling’s portrayal could generate. Very few people, in fact, want to identify with the elder brother; people usually only want to identify others as fitting that role. Parables and other narratives, by their nature, do not function as telegraph messages that require a mere decoding. Parables, as indirect communication, 42. Spencer, Blues and Evil, 63–7, lists a number of other artists who had similar conversions. 43. William J. T. Mitchell, What Do Pictures Want? (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), xv. I have replaced “pictures” with “parables” in this quote. 44. As per the “curious incident of the dog in the night-time,” when it “did nothing”: Arthur Conan Doyle, “The Adventure of Silver Blaze,” in The Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes (Secaucus, NJ: Castle Books, 1979), 196. 45. Siebald and Ryken, “Prodigal Son,” 641. John Ruskin, Praeterita (Boston: Dana Estes, 1885), 397.

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serve to generate new meanings, and they to a certain extent foresee and anticipate our responses. Parables do not give the final word, because Jesus the parabler created them with one ear already listening for our answers.46 In addition, both parables and characterization themselves are rhetorical in the sense that they seek to persuade their readers, asking them to make particular choices.47 But readers do not have to acquiesce to the narrator’s attempts at persuasion, and the varying reactions to the prodigal son and his brother exemplify the enigmatic power inherent in such subtle characterizations. They also demonstrate the gap in most attempts at character evaluation, including some of my own previous attempts: it is informative not just to evaluate rhetorical aspects of characterization in narratives and the supposed effects on implied and intended audiences; it is also informative to evaluate the receptions of such characters by “real” audiences over the centuries.

46. David B. Gowler, What Are They Saying about the Parables? (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist, 2000), 103. 47. As Bennema notes, “Character evaluation inevitably leads to self-evaluation” (emphasis his), Theory of Character, 186.

5 A W OM A N ’ S T OU C H : M A N UA L A N D E M O T IO NA L D Y NA M IC S O F F E M A L E C HA R AC T E R S I N L U K E ’ S G O SP E L

F. Scott Spencer

Do women have greater tactile capacity than men, a heightened desire to touch and be touched, along with a more discriminating sensitivity to various types of touch? Are women more “touchy” than men? In her fateful conversation with the serpent, Eve first corrects the tempter’s harsh misrepresentation of God’s commandment: “We may eat every fruit in the garden, with only one exception.” Then she exacerbates God’s prohibition of the lone forbidden fruit by adding: “nor shall you touch it” (Gen. 3:2-3; cf. 2:16-17).1 Why state the obvious (eating anything requires some contact)? Is Eve reflecting a legalistic tendency to temper God’s abundant grace with over-strictness? Perhaps, but this begs the question of why she focuses on touch, rather than, say, proximity (“don’t go near that lethal tree”) or discussion (“don’t even speak about it”). Have her fingers been tingling for a feel of that forbidden fruit? And does she fear that touch is the tipping point, inevitably leading her to grasp the fruit, thrust it in her mouth, and share it with her husband? Of course, that is exactly what happens, as the woman’s desire to touch joins with her senses of sight and taste to trigger a powerful network of perceptual, aesthetic, intellectual, and emotional processes: “So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food … a delight to the eyes … desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate” (Gen. 3:6). And when the awareness of their disobedience kicks in, their hands promptly set to work to cover up their poignant feelings of fear and shame (3:7). The woman’s lively hand, heart, and mind conspire together toward a dreadful end. This foundational biblical narrative alerts us to the salience of touch—as richly textured manual-emotional, active-affective experience—in characterizing female 1. Translations are NRSV unless stated otherwise.

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figures. Unfortunately, however, in the history of interpretation, it has also sparked insidious judgments about women’s desires and actions: beware the tempting touch of an evil Eve! Less sinister, but no less chauvinistic and reductive, is the patronizing modern English idiom of “a woman’s touch,” designed to prettify a sloppy male environment (adding some nice drapery and knick-knacks). The following essay promotes an expanded appreciation of “touch” coordinated with women’s capacity to act in the world—including story worlds—with influential purpose (handiwork) and passion (heartiness), for good and ill. This includes the female characters in Luke’s narrative, several of whom appear as strikingly “capable women of purpose and persistence,” amid others cast in more passive and dependent terms.2 As it happens, a wide array of women’s stories in Luke’s Gospel features their dynamic handiwork or outreach; likewise, they incorporate a variety of “touching” elements reflecting the emotions of women and related characters. I aim to unpack the significance of these manual-emotional characteristics primarily surrounding Mary of Nazareth (Luke 2:1-20), the “sinner” woman (7:36-50), and the “bleeding” woman (8:43–48), with a brief nod in the final section to Martha (10:38-42) and women protagonists in three short parables of Jesus (13:21-22; 15:8–10; 18:2-5). Before attending to these characters and texts, I seek to ground this investigation in broader narrative-critical, bio- and socialpsychological, and gendered contexts.

Embodied Contexts Affecting Women’s Touch As with all human expression, women’s touch is thoroughly embodied. This somatic grounding is most palpable in connection with the hand, the basic organ of touch. But the hand is useless apart from its vital structural and neural networks within the whole human organism,3 to say nothing of its linkage with the physical and social environment: there must be something or someone out there to touch! And so our sense of touch, our capacity to feel, is necessarily embedded in a thick web of bio- and social-psychological dynamics. Moreover, our focus on women’s touch, in both tactile and emotional modes, potentially introduces distinctive gender elements into the discussion, that is, characteristically natural and nurtured feminine touches. Further, in this character-focused volume, I briefly justify my choice of focusing on touch as a key aspect of characterization. 2. See F. Scott Spencer, Salty Wives, Spirited Mothers, and Savvy Widows: Capable Women of Purpose and Persistence in Luke’s Gospel (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012). In the present essay, I develop the thesis of that book in new directions, focused here on women’s touch and handiwork. 3. The popular comic-horror American television series (also a film version), The Addams Family, featured a “live” disembodied hand called “Thing” that could move, communicate, and do all sorts of “handy” things on its own. This character was so absurdly funny because it was so antithetical to real life.



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How a narrative casts the outreaching actions and affections of its figures helps to fashion—to manufacture and manipulate—the contours of the story. I begin with this literary factor. Literary Character Portraits Narrative-critical character study in biblical literature has commonly focused on the implied authors’ “show-and-tell” presentations of characters’ admirable or fallible traits, as evidenced in what these figures say (speech) and do (action) to propel the story’s plot.4 Less attention has been paid to what characters feel, along with what they say and do, in and with their bodies, still less in and with particular body parts (like the hand), except in broad-brush branding of bodies as sick or well, dead or alive, male or female, Jew or Gentile. Of course, Jesus’ power to heal afflicted bodies and his own “passion” experience of bodily death and resurrection figure prominently in the Gospels, but these extraordinary somatic (incarnate) elements easily elide into constructs of Jesus’ transcendent, unbounded, supra-bodied “character.” Platonic and Cartesian dualisms between “soul” and body, the “spiritual” and material realms, with correlative dichotomies between (superior) rational thought (logos) and (inferior) emotional feeling (pathos), have exerted considerable influence over Western philosophy, theology, and biblical interpretation. But this longstanding anthropological paradigm has been crumbling in recent decades in favor of a thoroughly dynamic, holistic view of human nature, supported by a spate of scientific research (cognitive science, neuroscience, biomedical science, and social sciences) and theoretical reflection (philosophy of mind, feminist critique, affect theory) demonstrating the integrative networks of mind and body, rational judgment, and emotional activity.5 What, then, of the critical analysis of characters’ embodied emotions in literary works? No one would dispute the centrality of characters’ emotions—including 4. On narrative analysis of Gospel characters, see, e.g., James L. Resseguie, Narrative Criticism of the New Testament: An Introduction (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2005), 121–66; Mark A. Powell, What Is Narrative Criticism?(Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 51–67; David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), 98–136; Elizabeth S. Malbon, In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2000); R. Alan Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), 100–48. 5. Cf. George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied Mind and Its Challenge to Western Thought (New York: Basic Books, 1999), 5: “[T]here is no Cartesian dualistic person, with a mind separate from and independent from the body, sharing exactly the same disembodied transcendent reason with everyone else, and capable of knowing everything about his or her mind simply by self-reflection. Rather, the mind is inherently embodied, reason is shaped by the body.” For an insightful application of current scientific research to New Testament theology, see Joel B. Green, Body, Soul, and Human Life: The Nature of Humanity in the Bible (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2008).

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those of cosmic divine and heroic human figures—in creative writing. As Keith Oatley and coauthors of a major psychology textbook on the emotions state: “From the earliest times to the present, it is extraordinary that at the focus of poetic, fictional, and folk-historical narratives have been the emotions.” As examples from antiquity, they cite Homer’s Iliad, commencing with “Of rage sing, goddess,” and the Hebrew Torah, especially the Genesis “family history in which the protagonists … oscillate between fear and hopeful dependence on their god Yahweh.”6 Though Luke’s Gospel, together with its companion Acts volume, does not qualify as full-blown Homeric epic, Hebraic family saga, Greek tragedy, or Greek romantic novel (still less, a modern novel with its deep psychological probes), it displays an array of artistic, epic, poetic, tragic, and novelistic features. In other words, it relates the history of Jesus (and the early church) as a lively story (in unmistakably literary style).7 And while its characters rarely gush with emotion, they are not stiff, stolid, hyper-stoic figures without feeling or fluctuation. Luke’s Jesus, while courageous and resolute en route to the cross, is no Socrates. He experiences passions of anxiety, grief, frustration, and compassion in the course of his “Passion” (Luke 19:41-44; 22:14-23, 39-53; 23:28-49).8 6. Keith Oatley, Dacher Keltner, and Jeanette M. Haviland-Jones, Understanding Emotions, 2nd ed. (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006), 400–1. 7. The question of the genre(s) of Luke and Acts (considered separately or together) has sparked lively debate in recent scholarship. For example, close affinities with ancient epic-poetic sagas have been detected by Marianne P. Bonz’s The Past as Legacy: Luke-Acts and Ancient Epic (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000); and Dennis R. Macdonald’s Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? Four Cases from the Acts of the Apostles (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2003). A strong family resemblance between the canonical Acts, Greek and Roman romantic fiction (novels), and various later apocryphal Acts has been advanced by Richard I. Pervo, Profit with Delight: The Literary Genre of the Acts of the Apostles (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987); idem, The Mystery of Acts: Unraveling Its Story (Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge, 2008). Though these studies offer illuminating parallels between Luke’s writings and popular forms of ancient literature, they overplay the larger genre category. A better case can be made for broadly classifying Luke and other NT Gospels as ancient biographical narratives (βίοι); see Richard A. Burridge What Are the Gospels?: A Comparison with Graeco-Roman Biographies, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004); and Sean A. Adams, The Genre of Acts and Collected Biography, SNTSMS 156 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). In any event, whatever main generic model Luke employed, his work proves him to be an adept literary stylist, incorporating a variety of forms and elements into his sophisticated portrait of Jesus; see Robert J. Karris, Luke: Artist and Theologian: Luke’s Passion Account as Literature (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist, 1985); Robert C. Tannehill, The Shape of Luke’s Story: Essays on Luke-Acts (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2005); F. Scott Spencer, The Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles (Nashville: Abingdon, 2008), 19–54. 8. See Brittany E. Wilson, Unmanly Men: Refigurations of Masculinity in Luke-Acts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 190–242; F. Scott Spencer, Dancing Girls, Loose



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The passionate strains of literary art, however, have often been discounted, if not debunked, in academic circles. Plato, most famously, decried epic poetry and other popular literature as appealing to society’s base interests and impulses; however entertaining these materials might be, they lacked the edifying thrust of sober philosophy and historical reportage. As the philosopher and classical scholar Martha Nussbaum presents Plato’s position: “Like Plato’s Republic, we will omit the tears of Achilles at Patroclus’ death, if we wish to teach that the good person is self-sufficient. Nor will we want works around that make their connection with the audience through the emotions—since all of them seem to rest on the belief … that such external happenings do have significance.”9 Nussbaum herself vigorously rejects Plato’s stark demarcation of philosophy from literature as the only valid medium for rational-ethical character formation. As Nussbaum describes her personal educational journey: “I was finding in the Greek tragic poets a recognition of the ethical importance of contingency, a deep sense of the problem of conflicting obligations, and a recognition of the ethical significance of the passions, that I found more rarely, if at all, in the thought of the admitted philosophers, whether ancient or modern.”10 This positive assessment of emotion-laden literature has gone hand-in-hand with Nussbaum’s appreciation for the richly cognitive-evaluative, as opposed to merely instinctive-adaptive, purpose of emotional engagement with matters of core concern to human flourishing.11 Keith Oatley, who is also a novelist as well as an academic psychologist, agrees that literature profoundly exposes and appraises characters’ passions, Ladies, and Women of the Cloth: The Women in Jesus’ Life (New York: Continuum, 2004), 108–44. 9.  Martha C. Nussbaum, Love’s Knowledge: Essays on Philosophy and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 17–18; see Plato, Republic 387–88, in particular: “We must ask Homer and the other poets to excuse us if we delete all passages of this kind. It is not that they are bad poetry or are not popular; indeed the better they are as poetry the more unsuitable they are for the ears of children or men who are to be free and fear slavery more than death” (387b). 10. Ibid., 14. Nussbaum develops this point throughout Love’s Knowledge and Poetic Justice: The Literary Imagination and Public Life (Boston: Beacon, 1995); eadem, Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). 11. For a sustained argument concerning emotions as “judgments of value,” see Nussbaum, Upheavals, 19–88; cf. Robert C. Solomon, The Passions: Emotions and the Meaning of Life, 2nd ed. (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1993); idem, True to Our Feelings: What Our Emotions Are Really Telling Us (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 203–17. The philosophical roots of this perspective derive from Aristotle, as exemplified in his classic definition: “The emotions [pathē] are those things through which, by undergoing change, people come to differ in their judgments and which are accompanied by pain and pleasure, for example, anger, pity, fear, and other such things and their opposites” (Rhet. 2.2.8 1378a; trans. George A. Kennedy, 2nd ed. [New York: Oxford University Press, 2007]).

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both realized and frustrated, as vehicles for coming to grips with our own life “stories,” inevitably shaped by emotional responses to expected and, especially, surprising events.12 While cognitive-evaluative theorists of emotion do not deny the embodied context of emotional experience, their stress on the mental, intellectual, rational networks of emotions tends toward a relative neglect of physiological elements (outside the brain).13 At this point, “affect theory,” a critical movement increasingly influencing literary analysis, provides an incisive body-focused corrective. Its effects (and affects) are just starting to be felt in biblical interpretation. Amy Cottrill offers a sterling example of probing the embodied-emotional characterizations of Ehud and Jael in Judges 3–5. This case study proves especially pertinent to the present essay’s focus on manual action—both Ehud and Jael (a woman!) do a real “hand job” on Israel’s enemies—as an integral component of emotional expression (fear, anxiety, insecurity).14 Drawing on the work of Sara Ahmed and Teresa Brennan, among others, Cottrill explains the critical corporeal-cognitive nexus of affect theory informing her reading of biblical narrative: “Affect theory privileges what is happening in our bodily experience, the embodied context in which thought, rationality, and language occurs.”15 Further, “bodily affect—the visceral response of the body to its environment, which happens mostly on an unconscious level—evokes thought … [W]e may think through our feelings and bodily reactions, finding thoughts that match the physical registers of our

12. Keith Oatley, The Passionate Muse: Exploring Emotion in Stories (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 30, with emphasis on emotions as expressions of core concerns (vital values): “A particular kind of emotion … is caused in a character by a particular concern being affected by a pattern of events that impinge on this concern.” Here Oatley echoes the “law of concern” stipulated by Nico H. Frijda, “Laws of Emotion,” American Psychologist 43 (1988): 349–58 (351): “Emotions arise in response to events that are important to the individual’s goals, motives, or concerns. Every emotion hides a concern, that is, a more or less enduring disposition to prefer particular states of the world. A concern is what gives a particular event its emotional meaning” (emphasis original). 13. Part of this “cognitive turn” in emotion study away from bodily expressions has developed in reaction to the influential late nineteenth-century theory of William James and C. G. Lange that regarded emotions as primarily instinctual (involuntary) physiological reactions to environmental disturbances. See William James, “What Is an Emotion?,” in What Is an Emotion? Classic and Contemporary Readings, ed. Robert C. Solomon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 66–76. 14. The crude sexual connotations of “hand job” are pertinent, at least to some degree, to the Judges’ accounts of the exploits of Ehud and Jael. 15. Amy C. Cottrill, “A Reading of Ehud and Jael through the Lens of Affect Theory,” Biblical Interpretation 22 (2014): 430–49 (434); see Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion (New York: Routledge, 2004); Teresa Brennan, The Transmission of Affect (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2004). The entire issue of Biblical Interpretation 22 (2014) explores the interpretive value of affect theory for biblical studies.



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corporeal experiences.”16 This sets the stage for more reflection on the specific body-emotion link mediated by manual touch. Manual-Emotional Factors “He rubbed me the wrong way.” “Don’t be so touchy.” “She’s such a cold fish.” “He’s such a smooth operator.” “That’s a sticky situation.” These common English idioms readily convey conceptual links between manual-effective and internal-affective experience.17 For example, being “rubbed the wrong way” expresses feelings of irritation with some person, situation, or environment; whether or not the annoying man, say, makes physical contact, he feels like a clunky masseuse who makes the spasm worse, who hurts rather than helps our aching bodies. As with any meaningful metaphors, this one trades on actual experience. In fact, recent psychological research has demonstrated the “real” emotional valences of touch as “the most developed sensory modality at birth … contribut[ing] to cognitive, brain, and socioemotional development through infancy and childhood” (and into adulthood).18 In a fascinating set of studies, conducted by Matthew Hertenstein and associates, test subjects correctly identified above chance levels several emotions communicated solely by touch.19 The agents (encoders) were instructed to convey a random series of emotions to subjects (decoders) via any form of touch they chose (the movements were not pre-choreographed), and the subjects reported what emotion they “felt.” Significantly, these were blind tests: the subjects could not see the agent or act of emotional touch, as they were blindfolded in one experiment and positioned behind an opaque screen in another, with only hand-and-forearm projecting to the other side through a small opening.20 Moreover, no speech or other expressive behavior besides touch was allowed.21 The results showed high 16. Cottrill, “Reading of Ehud and Jael,” 435–36 (emphasis original), drawing here especially on Brennan, Transmission of Affect, 7. 17. See David J. Linden, Touch: The Science of Hand, Heart, and Mind (New York: Viking, 2015), 1–3. 18. Matthew J. Hertenstein, Dacher Keltner et al., “Touch Communicates Distinct Emotions,” Emotion 6 (2006): 528–33 (528). 19. Herstenstein, “Touch Communicates”; Matthew J. Hertenstein, Rachel Holmes, et al., “The Communication of Emotion via Touch,” Emotion 9 (2009): 566–73; Matthew J. Hertenstein and Dacher Keltner, “Gender and the Communication of Emotion Via Touch,” Sex Roles 64 (2011): 70–80; cf. discussion in Linden, Touch, 29–32. 20. A subsequent study introduced the element of third-party sight. Another group was shown the video tapes of the original touching experiments and asked to identify the emotion they thought was being conveyed. The positive results proved comparable to the blind tests (Hertenstein, “Touch Communicates,” 532). 21. These “blind-and-deaf ” studies focused solely on tactile communication intentionally factored out facial and vocal cues that have been amply demonstrated in research and common experience to convey emotions.

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levels of communicating “basic” (fear, anger, happiness, sadness, disgust, surprise) and “prosocial” emotions (love, gratitude, sympathy), accounting for various types, intensities and durations of tactile activity.22 For instance, disgust was effectively transmitted by pushing (away) motions of short duration and moderate intensity; gratitude by shaking hands for longer periods with somewhat stronger pressure. Broader analyses of the hand, the principal organ of touch, support its remarkable range of communicative-affective potential. As Finland’s national poet, Johan Ludwig Runeberg, puts it: “All the emotions that spring up in our bosom” may erupt as “pantomimic expressions of the hands.”23 In his stimulating “philosophical inquiry into human being,” British medical scholar and public intellectual Raymond Tallis explores the hand as the most distinct and dynamic organ of humankind, or “manukind,” as he riffs, the one component we must “come to grips with” to understand ourselves and the world we inhabit—and manipulate: This hand—this professor of grasping, seizing, pulling, plucking, picking, pinching, pressing, patting, poking … is the master tool of human life. The brain’s most versatile and intelligent lieutenant, the master grasper, it is simply ungraspable. We may, however, try to bring its multifarious … faculties to some sort of order … In the hand are combined an organ of manipulation, an organ of knowledge and an organ of communication: a three-in-one, it acts, knows and speaks.24

While a certain evolutionary, universal importance attaches to the expressive human hand and sense of touch, we must remain sensitive to distinct sociocultural manifestations (manu-festations). Touches, gestures, and various forms of public physical contact do not always translate well! (Butt-slapping, high-fiving, and chest-bumping work well on the basketball court; not so much in a British court, royal or judicial, or a Japanese boardroom).25 In terms of ancient biblical culture, the broad nexus between “hand” and “heart” clearly obtains. The words of God’s life-giving Torah must be “bound as a sign on your hand” and “kept in your heart” 22. The “self-focused” emotions of embarrassment, pride, and envy did not convey as well. 23. Cited in Raymond Tallis, The Hand: A Philosophical Inquiry into Human Being (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2003), 72. 24. Tallis, Hand, 22: For other fascinating, wide-ranging analyses of the evolutionary salience of the human hand, see John Napier, Hands, ed. Russell H. Tuttle, 2nd ed. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993); and Frank R. Wilson, The Hand: How Its Use Shapes the Brain, Language, and Human Culture (New York: Vintage, 1998). 25. See the study of celebratory contact in the National Basketball Association (NBA): Michael W. Kraus, Cassey Huang, and Dacher Keltner, “Tactile Communication, Cooperation and Performance: An Ethological Study of the NBA,” Emotion 10 (2010): 745–49; and discussion in Linden, Touch, 14–16.



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(Deut. 6:5-8).26 The “hand of the Lord” is a well-known anthropomorphic agent of divine power exercised in covenantal love, on the one hand, to save and succor God’s suffering people and, on the other hand, to judge and discipline the people when they go astray (Exod. 3:20; 13:3; 15:6; Deut. 6:21; Judg. 2:14-18; 1 Kgs 8:24; Neh. 1:10; Ps. 78:72; Isa. 9:11-20; Jer. 15:6; Ezek. 6:14). The early church in Acts implores the sovereign Lord to fulfill “whatever your hand … has predestined to take place,” not least to “stretch out your hand to heal” your broken servants (Acts 4:24-30), continuing Jesus’ restorative outreach motivated by compassion: “When the Lord [Jesus] saw [the widow at her son’s funeral], he had compassion for her … and touched the bier” before calling the young man back to life and handing him back to his mother (Luke 7:13-14).27 We are thus encouraged to probe the related manual and emotional dimensions of characters’ hand-touching in Luke; but we must consider these touches on their own terms, in their own literary and socio-historical contexts, and remain open to distinctive cultural meanings, not least gendered variables.28 Gender Matters In her examination of emotional expressions of women and men, psychology professor Stephanie Shields observes, “Gender similarities are the rule. That said, the more that social context is embedded in the research question, the more likely we will find gender differences.”29 For example: “The hearty handshaking style we associate with the successful politician works well for men, while for women the face says it all. Women may be more pressured to smile in social situations, but, as we found true for descriptions of emotional experience, social context sets the parameters for whether gender matters.”30 Here, and throughout her work, however, Shields only touches on the touch factor (handshaking), focusing more, along with most studies of emotion communication, on facial, vocal, and gestural rather than tactile expressions. 26. On the hand-heart nexus, see also Job 31:7; Pss. 28:2-7; 78:72; Prov. 6:16-18; 16:5; Eccl. 7:26; Lam. 2:19; 3:41; Sir. 2:12; 48:19-20. The Hebrew notion of the “heart” (‫ )לב‬as the seat of will, desire, and thought, as well as emotion, is broader than the English metaphor that associates “heart” more strictly with feelings. The complex cognitive-affective Hebrew “heart” is more like the embodied mind and brain of modern philosophy and neuroscience. 27. Cf. Kenneth Grayston, “The Significance of the Word Hand in the New Testament,” in Mélanges bibliques en homage au R. P. Béda Rigaux, ed. Albert Descamps and R. P. André de Halleux (Paris: Duculot, 1970), 479–87. 28. The Hertenstein studies accounted for some cultural variation (American college students compared with those at the University of Granada, Spain), but the researchers admit that more work needs to be done in cross-cultural analysis (Hertenstein, “Touch Communicates,” 531, 533; idem, “Communication of Emotion,” 572). 29. Stephanie A. Shields, Speaking from the Heart: Gender and the Social Meaning of Emotion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 27 (emphasis original). 30. Ibid., 38 (emphasis original).

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The groundbreaking studies of emotion-conveying touch cited above suggest some distinctive gender characteristics. In a recent article reassessing the results of their hand-and-forearm touch experiments involving various male–female dyads of encoders (touch initiators) and decoders (touch receivers) of twelve emotions, Hertenstein and Keltner found that three emotions—anger, sympathy, and happiness—particularly reflected gender variations at above-chance levels in certain combinations: 1. Anger was more likely communicated via touch (squeezing, hitting, trembling) when at least one member of the dyad was male. 2. Sympathy was more likely communicated via touch (patting, stroking, trembling) when at least one member of the dyad was female. 3. Happiness was only communicated via touch (finger-locking, patting) at greater-than-chance levels when both members of the dyad were female.31 These results are not surprising, given stereotypical socializations of men in most cultures toward more aggressive and competitive conduct and of women toward more affirmative and connective behavior. In emotional terms, angry men are normative, except when they cross the line with excessive and destructive tantrums, whereas angry women are typically viewed as deviant and dangerous from the start; conversely, women are expected to show tender sympathy, compassion, and pity, whereas men must guard against too much sensitive, “touchy-feely” expression, lest they appear weak and wimpy or just plain pathetic and pitiful.32 Undoubtedly, greater societal expectations of women’s kinder, gentler, more compassionate activity stem in large part from traditional maternal roles of care, nurturance, and intimate attachment to children from infancy.33 The gendered social dimension of emotional-tactile communication involves not only what the subjects feel and how they attempt to convey these feelings, but also who they are feeling with. In the Hertenstein and Keltner study, propensities of male anger and female sympathy were particularly manifest in 31. Matthew J. Hertenstein and Dacher Keltner, “Gender and Communication of Emotion.” 32. On societal shaping of women to be empathetic and sympathetic, see Leslie Brody, Gender, Emotion, and the Family (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 88–91; Shields, Speaking from the Heart, 69–88. 33. Cf. the anthropologist Sarah B. Hrdy, Mothers and Others: The Evolutionary Origins of Mutual Understanding (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009), 114: “As attachment theorists have long assumed, all primate infants evolved to seek contact with a warm and nurturing mother … But unless she was incapacitated, a … mother’s motivation to maintain tactile contact with her baby was nearly as strong as her baby’s powerful urge to stay attached to her.” Accordingly, Hrdy observes that, while biological mothers represent primary tactile caregivers for their children, in the absence of adequate maternal nurture, infants will seek and accept attachment with surrogates or “alloparents,” female (usually) or male (pp. 114–24). Thus, childbearers do not have a monopoly on sympathetic touching.



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opposite-sex encounters, and happiness was most conveyed in all female dyads. In her extensive analysis of Gender, Emotion, and the Family, Leslie Brody drives home the contextual point regarding both circumstances and participants: “I can’t emphasize too strongly that gender differences in any particular emotion vary depending on the type of situation that elicits the emotion and to whom the emotion is being expressed.”34 She also ventures a reasonable participant hypothesis that “men and women may express dissimilar emotions because each sex engages in more same-sex than opposite-sex interactions. Women interact with a greater number of women than men do, perhaps leading them to express emotions related to warmth, affection, and vulnerability, and men interact with a greater number of men that women do, perhaps leading them to express emotions related to aggression.”35 In biblical culture, stereotypical male-aggressive and female-sympathetic roles apply as readily as in most modern societies.36 Feelings of happiness, however, are more difficult to determine, given scant reports of subjective well-being.37 In general, the “hand of a woman” in the Bible is expected not to overreach, like Eve’s did, but to be dutifully engaged in industrious, self-giving care for her husband and children. Nowhere is this model sculpted more fully or idealistically than in Proverbs 31:10-31: This ode to a “worthy woman” extols the work of her hands or arms eight times (31:13, 16, 17, 19 [twice], 20 [twice], 31). Though by no means weak-limbed—she works hard with strong hands—all her handiwork serves to meet the needs of her household and the poor. Acknowledgment of her right to a “share in the fruit of her hands” only comes at the poem’s end, almost as an afterthought (31:31). The emotional tenor of this portrait is more subtle than the manual dimension. While we might assume the woman is moved with compassion to support her family and the needy, she is only said to express “kindness” in her “teaching” (not her working) (31:26), and any actual touching activity seems limited to the destitute outside her family (“she opens her hand to the poor/and reaches out her hands to the needy,” 31:20); otherwise, she handles fabrics and fruits to clothe and feed her family, but does not touch her husband and children directly. They “call her happy” (31:28), but we have no idea if she would concur; her subjective feelings matter little. The main focus falls on her supporting the emotional, physical, and social well-being of her husband: “The 34. Brody, Gender, 96–7. 35. Ibid., 97. 36. A famous counter-example (the proverbial exception that proves the rule) features a remote Arctic Utku community where expressing anger is strongly discouraged for all members—male and female—beyond early childhood. See the fieldwork report of Jean L. Briggs, Never in Anger: Portrait of an Eskimo Family (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1970); and the discussion in Jan Plamper, The History of Emotions: An Introduction, trans. Keith Tribe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 90–5. 37. On subjective well-being (SWB) reports as primary data for contemporary happiness studies across cultures, see Carol Graham, The Pursuit of Happiness: An Economy of Well-Being (Washington, DC: Brookings Institution, 2011), 5–16, 116–20.

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heart of her husband trusts in her, and he will have no lack of gain … Her husband is known in the city gates, taking his seat among the elders of the land” (31:11, 23). While the “good wife” should act with strong, purposeful hands to nurture her family and society’s unfortunates, she must do so within proper domestic bounds. The surest way to throw a patriarchal society into a social and emotional tizzy is for women to become the main breadwinners: “There is wrath and impudence and great disgrace when a wife supports her husband. Dejected mind, gloomy face, and wounded heart come from an evil wife. Drooping hands and weak knees come from the wife who does not make her husband happy” (Sir. 25:22-23). When women get “out of hand” and gain the “upper hand,” the hearts of men drop and their hands “droop” (not to mention other appendages). And Lord help the poor man utterly unmanned by “the hand of a woman” (Judg. 4:17-22; 5:24-27; Jdt. 13:1-9, 15).38 On the maternal side, though the Bible does not overstress mothers’ emotional coddling of babies and children (this is long before attachment theory and other modern parenting psychologies), it certainly places a high premium on maternal nurture. The shocking degradation of a mother’s tender touch and compassionate care constitutes one of the most gut-wrenching and soul-crushing horrors of war, as the poet laments in the wake of Jerusalem’s horrific destruction: “The hands of compassionate women have boiled their own children; they became their food in the destruction of my people” (Lam. 4:10; cf. 2:20; Deut. 28:53-57; 2 Kgs 6:28-29). In a similar, though non-cannibalistic vein, Luke’s Jesus also decries the terrible emotional pain war exacts on mothers, this time in connection with another siege of the holy city: “Daughters of Jerusalem … weep for yourselves and for your children. For the days are surely coming when they will say, ‘Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bore, and the breast that never nursed’” (Luke 23:28-29). The peaceful order of things, so brutally disrupted by war, is grounded in tenderhearted and generous-handed maternal delivery and care of the next generation.

Lukan Texts Involving Women’s Touch With these theoretical frameworks in mind, we come to explore various interlaced manual and emotional elements in episodes involving women characters in Luke. Since individual character’s actions and emotions are not (merely) private, internal experiences, I will take into account the larger narrative context of women’s “touching” responses.39 Table 1 provides a basic sketch of the salient 38. Cf. the disabled, unemployed Tobit’s “anger” because his wife Anna “earned money at women’s work” (weaving and selling cloth) (Tob. 2:11-14); and the humiliating revenge the divine Dionysus exacts on his earthly enemies, “causing them … to be torn limb from limb by the hands of the women” (Diodorus Siculus, Hist. 3.65.3). 39. On the basic narrative structure of emotions, see Peter Goldie, The Emotions: A Philosophical Exploration (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 5: “To make sense of



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Table 1 Lukan Texts

Women Characters

2:1-20

Mary of Nazareth Swaddling Laying baby Jesus in manger “Sinner” Woman Anointing Bathing Wiping Jesus’ feet “Bleeding” Touching Woman Jesus’ garment

7:36-50

8:43-48

10:38-42

Manual Actions

Martha and sister Martha’s Mary “much ministry”

Emotional Repertoire

Supportive Characters

Obstructive Characters

Awe-full fear Great joy “Treasured” reflection Love Gratitude Grief (?)

Joseph (and family [?]) Shepherds Angels Jesus

Caesar Augustus

Faith Fear Peace Frustration Anxiety

Jesus

Crowds Jesus Peter Jesus Mary

Jesus Jesus, women friends Jesus

Parables 13:20-21 15:8-10

Baker Woman Sweeper Woman

Kneading Sweeping

None Joy

18:2-5

Widow

Fist-shaking

Anger (?) Indignation (?)

Jesus

Simon the Pharisee

None Pharisees and scribes Judge and legal adversary

elements in each incident. I will concentrate on the first three narratives involving a woman’s direct touch of Jesus. In the final section, I will briefly bring the Martha incident and a trio of short women-focused parables into the discussion. For further orientation, I note two points related to gender matters: (1) only one of the women figures in view is identified as a wife and mother (Mary of Nazareth); the others all appear as single, unattached women; and (2) all of the touch encounters involve a woman’s initiated contact either with a man (Jesus; a judge [parable]) or with a household commodity (dough, broom and coin [parables]); hence these are all inter-sexed, female–male exchanges, except in the short parables of the baker woman, who prepares bread for a large group; and the sweeper woman, who rejoices with her female friends and neighbors (φίλας καὶ γείτονας) after finding her missing coin (Luke 15:9).

one’s emotional life, including its surprises, it is thus necessary to see it as part of a larger unfolding narrative, not merely as a series of discrete episodes taken out of, and considered in abstraction from, the narrative in which they are embedded … [E]motions are complex, episodic, dynamic, and structured” (cf. pp. 4–6, 11–16, 102–10, 181–9); Carolyn Price, Emotion (Malden, MA: Polity, 2015), 25–8, 50–3.

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Mary of Nazareth (Luke 2:1-20) Under difficult travel circumstances created by Caesar Augustus’ tax census and complicated by crowded conditions in husband Joseph’s ancestral hometown, Mary of Nazareth is forced to deliver her son Jesus in tight, makeshift quarters in Bethlehem.40 Though she has little choice except passively to follow the emperor’s edict and her husband’s lead, when it comes to bringing baby Jesus into the world, Mary takes matters into her own hands. Though we might assume the aid of midwives and other female attendants, especially in a household setting, Luke makes no mention of any agent besides Mary: “She gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger” (Luke 2:7). Mary not only carries and nurtures the God-appointed, Spirit-generated Messiah of Israel in her womb (1:32-35); she is also the first to touch Jesus in his earthly life. On the one hand, the types of touch are unremarkable. According to maternal custom, Mary swaddles her newborn son in strips of cloth and sets him to rest in a bed (albeit an unusual one), thus securing the infant’s warmth, growth, and health (swaddling likely was thought to facilitate proper bone development), which Luke narrates in functional, rather than emotional, terms. By modern childcare standards, which usually encourage closer, skin-to-skin, interactive contact between mother and baby, swaddling may even appear emotionally stifling. Nevertheless, though scarcely matching the maudlin mush of modern Mother’s Day cards, the biblical world still appreciated hands-on neonatal nurture as expressive of heartfelt maternal love. Observe by way of dramatic contrast (again) Ezekiel’s haunting association of God’s (temporary) abandonment of rebellious Jerusalem with a mother’s unthinkable neglect of her newborn: “On the day you were born your navel cord was not cut, nor were you washed with water to cleanse you, nor rubbed with salt, nor wrapped in cloths. No eye pitied you, to do any of these for you out of compassion for you; but you were thrown out in the open field, for you were abhorred on the day you were born” (Ezek. 16:4-5). Thank God for Mary’s (implied) compassionate ministrations toward Israel’s newborn Messiah. On the other hand, the simple ordinariness of Mary’s ministrations assumes a special significance. This Mary-fashioned scene of “a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in manger” is the banner sign (σημεῖον, Luke 2:12) of the Christ-child’s advent, announced as joyous news by the Lord’s angel to nomadic shepherds who become filled with more fear than joy, at least at first (2:8-18). So what does Mary’s handiwork signify about the situation, particularly about the Messianic infant she has swaddled? Thomas Phillips has suggested that Luke 40. The popular rendering of οὐκ … τόπος ἐν τῷ καταλύματι as “no room in the inn” is better translated “no space in the lodgings”; cf. Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah: A Commentary on the Infancy Narratives in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, 2nd ed. (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1993), 399–401, 670–71; or “no space in their place to stay,” according to Stephen C. Carlson, “The Accommodations of Joseph and Mary in Bethlehem: Κατάλυμα in Luke 2:7,” NTS 56 (2010): 326–42.



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might be tapping into Greek mythology surrounding the origins of gods like Ion and Hermes, appealing to their swaddling after birth as proof of their disputed divinity: “Swaddling clothes take on important symbolic significance as a divine son establishes his identity as a true son of god.”41 But while Luke affirms Jesus’ identity as Son of God (1:32, 35) and would welcome evidence supporting that a swaddled infancy does not disqualify Jesus’ divine heritage, Davidic monarchicmessianic symbols predominate in the Bethlehem story (2:4, 11; cf. 1:32), thus commending the stronger Hellenistic Jewish parallel from the Wisdom of Solomon, emphasizing the king’s affinity with common humanity: “I am mortal (human, ἄνθρωπος), like everyone else … when I was born, I began to breathe the common air, and fell upon the kindred earth; my first sound was a cry, as is true of all. I was nursed with care in swaddling cloths. For no king has had a different beginning of existence” (Wis. 7:1, 5). The significance of Mary’s inaugural touching of Jesus lies precisely in its un-specialness, its thoroughly quotidian character “like everyone else”—male or female, high (kings) or low (shepherds) born—whose lives are all embedded (enwrapped) in embodied-emotional existence. Apart from Mary’s implicit maternal compassion manifest through touch, what else might she feel, particularly in response to the shepherds’ explicit emotions of fear, joy, and amazement? The NRSV rendering of 2:19—“But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart” (cf. NIV, NAB)— suggests a sappy, emotional glow about all that is happening with her and her son. What a “treasure” she holds in her hands and heart! Well, yes, but that is not really the thrust of Luke’s language. The two compound syn/sym-verbs, συντηρέω and συμβάλλω, connote Mary’s determined striving to “keep/hold” (τηρέω) and “put/ throw” (βάλλω) together all these stunning words and events in her heart, the seat of will and desire, thought, and feeling (see n. 26 above).42 They reflect a complex cognitive-affective “purposing” and “pondering” evaluation of matters that most vitally concern Mary and her people.43 Mary is passionately engaged in the Christevent, arguably more than anyone else at this point; and such passion may evoke as much pain and anxiety (1:29; 2:34-35, 48) as joy and comfort (1:46-47; 2:10). But Mary is no empty-headed “hysterical” woman by any stretch: her emotions 41. Thomas E. Phillips, “Why Did Mary Wrap the Newborn Jesus in ‘Swaddling Clothes’? Luke 2:7 and 2:12 in the Context of Luke-Acts and First-Century Literature,” in Reading Acts Today: Essays in Honour of Loveday C. A. Alexander, ed. Steve Walton et al., LNTS 427 (London: T&T Clark, 2011), 29–42 (37). 42.  Cf. the nuance of συμβάλλω as “trying to get it all together,” in Frederick W. Danker, Jesus and the New Age: A Commentary on St. Luke’s Gospel, rev. and exp. ed. (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 61; and applied to Mary, as “tossing them together in her heart,” in Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke, I–IX, Anchor Bible 28 (New York: Doubleday, 1981), 413. 43. Cf. the nuance of συντηρέω as “keeping with concern,” in Brown, Birth of Messiah, 406; cf. Dan. 7:28 (Theodotion’s version) and the related verb applied to Mary’s pondering in Luke 2:51 after her “anxious” dealings with the adolescent Jesus (2:48). Recall, too, the emphasis on emotion as signaling matters of deepest core concern (n. 12 above).

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affect (touch) and are affected (touched) by her entire embodied experience in a rich reflective, evaluative response to the wondrous work of God in Christ— through her! The “Sinner” Woman (Luke 7:36-50) Like those evaluating the video clips of the “blind” touch encounters in the Hertenstein experiment (see n. 20 above), Simon the Pharisee watches a provocative scene unfold in his house as a “sinner” woman repeatedly touches Jesus’ feet at the dinner table, with both parties, the woman and Jesus, seemingly oblivious to Simon the host or any other guests. So how does Simon interpret this touching display? The narrator reports Simon’s initial interior impressions: “He said to himself, ‘If this man [Jesus] were a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching (ἅπτεται) him—that she is a sinner’” (7:39). While not elaborating on Simon’s thoughts and emotions, this brief report makes clear that he feels some contempt for both Jesus and the woman and deems their touching interaction—initiated by the woman—as inappropriate in this setting. The woman’s “sinner” reputation, whatever that entails (and it need not mean that she is a prostitute),44 intimates some emotional assessment on Simon’s part of her transgressive touch of the putative holy man Jesus. This need not, however, involve some specific legal judgment regarding purity regulations. There is no biblical law against a woman, “sinner” or otherwise, touching and washing a man’s feet, unless she has recently given birth or is currently menstruating, or he is a corpse (and all these cases have clear provisions for “cleansing” and restoration).45 None of these elements applies in the present scene, and the act of foot washing, by women or men, is in fact a normal, expected gesture of hospitality, as Jesus will soon remind Simon (7:44-46). But something undoubtedly irks Simon about this woman’s handling of Jesus and his blithe acceptance of her services; if not a legal violation, Simon is distraught over some perceived social impropriety. I have argued elsewhere that the woman makes a scene and raises eyebrows by her intrusive and excessive conduct.46 Her questionable reputation does not help the situation, but a “good” woman might be just as provocative touching Jesus this way in this place. The model Proverbs 31 wife would not be caught dead acting like this, especially with a man who was not her husband in another man’s house! To be clear, the woman in Luke’s story is not some exhibitionist who intends to create a public stir. She remains silent throughout the episode and motivated wholly by love toward Jesus (see more below). But she would no doubt be viewed as wildly out of bounds on various social and emotional grounds related to touch. She invades the house, crashes the 44. See my discussion of the woman’s identity in Spencer, Dancing Girls, 111–20. 45. See Lev. 12:1-8; 15:19-30; Num. 19:11-22; 31:19-24. Further, ritual impurity does not equate to moral sin, and “cleansing” from an “unclean” state does not amount to forgiveness of sin. 46. Spencer, Dancing Girls, 108–20.



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party, so to speak. No Pharisee in Luke invites a known “sinner” to dinner; table fellowship with “sinners” is a major bone of contention between Luke’s Jesus and the Pharisees (Luke 5:29-32; 7:34; 15:1-2; cf. 19:1-10). The “sinner” woman’s intrusiveness becomes all the more egregious as it extends to aggressive manhandling of an invited honored guest (7:36), a purported prophet no less! And the intimate manner in which she touches Jesus exceeds normal limits of female–male public encounter, by ancient or modern standards. Far from customary foot washing with water and towel (7:44; cf. Jn 13:3-12), this woman douses Jesus’ feet with a heady mix of her flowing tears, copious kisses, and decanted perfume, and then massages them dry with her unpinned tresses (Luke 7:37-38). Again, this display does not necessarily evince the wicked, seductive work of a prostitute. The good wife of Proverbs 31 might not carry on like this, but the good young woman in the Song of Songs certainly does in similar ways toward her male lover (except for shedding tears)—plenty of kissing, perfuming, and hair entangling (Song 1:2-3, 12-13; 4:1-3, 10-15; 6:5; 7:5-9; 8:1-3). Of course, the Song seems to celebrate premarital passion, and the Song woman’s eager participation in—and often, initiation of—lovemaking appears uncomfortably whorish for some tastes (cf. Prov. 7:6-20), hence the long history of allegorical interpretation, “sanctifying” the Song woman into God-loving Israel or the Christ-loving church. As for the single, unattached woman in Luke 7, she reaches out to Jesus in an unmistakably public, inter-sexed, erotically charged demonstration of love—a little too close for Simon’s comfort. No character in the Gospels touches Jesus more profusely or passionately than she does. So how does Jesus judge her advances? How does he see and feel them? In response to Simon’s interior prejudgment, Jesus begins with a parabolic illustration (about debt and love) followed by a visual challenge—“Do you see this woman?”—which is to say, “Do you truly perceive the significance of this woman’s embodied identity and activity?” (Luke 7:40-44). Jesus then answers his own question by showcasing the “sinner” woman’s exemplary manual-emotional conduct in contrast to Simon the Pharisee’s shameful inaction. Whereas Simon had offered Jesus none of the customary gestures of hospitality—all involving physical contact (foot washing, kiss greeting, head anointing)—the uninvited “sinner” woman reaches out to Jesus with welcoming ministrations well beyond the call of duty. And she does all this, Jesus exclaims, not out of bare obligation, but out of abundant love (7:44-47). Her intense manual (and labile) movements channel her passionate emotional attachment to Jesus. Though not specified as such, the love expressed in her intimate touching, while passionate and erotic, is less romantic (though such feelings would be natural) than grateful. As Hertenstein’s research demonstrated, prosocial emotions of love, compassion, and gratitude are closely connected and conveyable by touch, and Luke has a special interest in thankful responses to God’s gracious ministry through Jesus (17:11-19). The woman’s loving-tactile actions toward Jesus correlate with his handling of her “many sins.” It is not that she now seeks to obtain Jesus’ forgiveness by her emotional outburst; rather, she cannot contain her ongoing, overflowing gratitude for the forgiveness he has already given her, as evidenced in his double use of the perfect passive:

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“I tell you [Simon], her sins, which were many have been forgiven (ἀφέωνται); hence she has shown great love … Then he says directly to her, ‘Your sins are/have been forgiven (ἀφέωνται)’” (7:47-48). This language implies some dramatic prior experience(s) of Jesus’ compassionate, forgiving acceptance that the woman feels compelled to thank him for in lavish public demonstration and that he happily accepts in turn.47 Her tears accompanying her touches, while likely still tinged with grief over past mistakes, mostly support her ebullient gratitude. For Jesus’ part, he calls for no further grief over her sins. He has the last active-emotive word in the story, passing the peace, we might say, directly to the woman and affirming her proactive response: “Your faith has saved you; go in peace” (7:50). The “Bleeding” Woman (Luke 8:43-48) While the “sinful” woman touches Jesus extravagantly to express her love and gratitude for the love and grace he had extended to her, the “bleeding” woman touches Jesus momentarily in hopes of garnering his healing attention. Although both women approach Jesus from “behind” (7:38; 8:44) in public settings, the situations are quite different. The former attends to Jesus’ feet angled out behind him as he reclines at a banquet table; the layout requires the woman to operate behind Jesus. The present woman, however, presses through a traveling crowd to touch the back “fringe of his clothes” (8:44). She has other directional options, to come at Jesus from the side or front. Perhaps she makes a surreptitious hind strike because of her heightened anxiety, hyper-cautiousness, or sense of unworthiness. Or perhaps not: the narrative reports her desire to remain “hidden” (λανθάνω), and her accompanying emotional state (“fear and trembling”), only after she has been healed and Jesus asks, “Who touched me?” (8:45-47). While we can safely assume this woman’s considerable desperation after suffering her hemorrhagic condition for twelve years, compounded by financial destitution from futile medical treatments (8:43), such feelings have no necessary connection to her blindside approach to Jesus. But the “bleeding” woman’s touch from behind elicits a dramatic physical and emotional response from Jesus, which in turn affects her body and feelings. The emotional element of surprise, even shock, triggered by the woman’s quick tag of his clothing and electric tap of his energy, is obvious if one does not assume Jesus has proverbial “eyes behind his head” or super extrasensory detection powers. He has power aplenty to heal the woman’s affliction, but not, I argue, power to know what is happening beforehand or to control his power fully. Unlike with the “sinful” woman, Jesus does not see or feel this woman coming. How could he amid the mash of the crowd, many of whom are pawing and grasping at him 47. Cf. John J. Kilgallen, “Forgiveness of Sins (Luke 7:36-50),” NovT 40 (1998): 105–16; Barbara E. Reid, “‘Do You See This Woman?’: Luke 7:36-50 as a Paradigm for Feminist Hermeneutics,” Biblical Research 40 (1995): 37–49 (41–2). Reid also notes that the woman is identified in 7:37 as a former “sinner”: “the imperfect verb ἦν has the connotation ‘used to be’; she is no longer the sinner she once was” (41).



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(8:45)? Also, his focus is trained ahead on the medical emergency he has been called to answer at Jairus’ house (8:40-42). Jesus does not want to be deterred or to have his healing energy siphoned off by some “hidden” client without his permission. He instinctively reacts to this woman’s touch, with something like a startle reflex—“Who touched me?”—and then, quickly reports his conscious experience, while sorting out the details: “Someone [he does not know who!] touched me; for I noticed that power had gone out from me” (8:45-46). Of course, we cannot precisely track Jesus’ vocal tone (a key indicator of emotional tenor). But in this context, I “hear” strains of emotional turmoil and frustration.48 We should not miss or mitigate how extraordinary this scene is in Jesus’ ministry. Nowhere else in any Gospel does anyone else procure Jesus’ therapeutic power without his prior knowledge and control. The “hand of this woman” is powerful in its own right to detonate Jesus’ power on her behalf and to “touch” him in such a surprising (confusing, distressing, irritating) way.49 The procession stops. Such a shocking matter must be dealt with at once. Jesus has called out the power grabber. Suddenly, apart from whatever initial feelings the woman’s “immediate” cure (8:44) might have evoked within her (joy, excitement, surprise), these are now overwhelmed by a “trembling” (τρέμουσα) sense of exposure, prompting her to come forward, fall down before Jesus, and announce “in the presence of all the people why she had touched him” (8:47). She is truly terrified (this is more than “reverential fear”), and not just because she testifies before a large crowd. As usual in biblical narratives, this story does not flesh out characters’ emotions in any detail; but it does strongly suggest that this woman is now scared of Jesus to some degree. He does not, in my reading/hearing, seem altogether happy with her intrusive—and acquisitive—touch, and with the kind of high-voltage power he possesses, there is no telling how he might react if upset. If he can dry up a twelve-year blood flow without thinking, he can zap the lifeblood right out of someone if he chooses. We should not underplay the woman’s terror at this point. The emotion of fear arises in situations of perceived threat from dangerous objects (falling boulder), creatures (snake), persons (mugger), or institutions (police). Right now, Jesus is that fearsome personal force potentially threatening this woman. First emotional impressions, however, while useful, are subject to revision on further reflection. You feel foolish when you realize that the thing you just jumped back from is a long, crooked stick and not a snake poised to strike. But 48. Following Oatley’s (Passionate Muse) point on the role of emotions in signaling characters’ frustration when important plans (concerns) are blocked (see n. 12 above). 49. As I argued that Simon’s shock response to the “sinner” woman’s behavior has little to do with purity issues, so Jesus’ surprise at the “bleeding” woman’s touch is unrelated to purity concerns. Even if she suffers from some persisting vaginal flow, she is not labeled “unclean” (like the “lepers” in 5:12-15; 17:10-11), and is not violating purity taboos by simply touching Jesus’ clothes. See the discussion in Spencer, Dancing Girls, 59–60; Frances T. Gench, Back to the Well: Women’s Encounters with Jesus in the Gospels (Louisville, KY: Westminster, John Knox, 2004), 28–55.

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that is the way it often works in the swirl of hard-wired instincts and emotional judgments.50 The healed woman in Luke’s story will soon have solid reason to revise her terrifying response to Jesus, but only after he revises his perplexing reaction to “someone’s” jolting touch. It even takes Jesus a bit of time (emotional evaluation kicks in a matter of seconds) to catch up to the situation. But when he sees who this “someone” is and hears her story, he says to her in remarkably tender, accepting, and assuring terms: “Daughter, your faith has made you well (σέσωκεν); go in peace” (8:48—except for the “daughter” address, a verbatim reprisal of his last word to the “sinner” woman in 7:50). Her touch is affirmed as a model act of faith and her fear transformed into abiding peace. In prosocial emotional engagement, Jesus and the woman work out her “salvation” (σῴζω) together.

Final Touches A woman’s touch effects much in Luke’s Gospel. Women’s hands, as key instruments of embodied selves, make dynamic things happen in both initiatory and responsive interaction with the powerful Jesus. Women are purposive, not wholly passive, characters in Luke. Mary manufactures the “sign” of the cloth-wrapped and manger-laid Jesus, thus confirming his identity as the saving Christ for all people, not least the least and lowliest, beginning with nomadic shepherds. The “sinner” woman operates on Jesus’ soiled feet with meticulous and profuse care, prompting his affirmation of her display, before a negligent host, as a patent demonstration of gracious hospitality, liberating forgiveness, and saving faith. The “bleeding” woman presses through a crowd, extends her hand to touch Jesus’ garment, and extracts healing energy from him—a stunning move which Jesus also commends as exemplary saving faith in action. Though not involving personal, productive touch to the same degree as the three principal women who “handle” Jesus, the short Martha scene features her “much ministry” (πολλὴν διακονίαν), which entails typical women’s work of hospitable household service (implied cooking, table-waiting, guesttending), distinguished, however, by its lavish performance (“much,” munificent work, reminiscent of the “sinful” woman’s) on behalf of “Lord” Jesus by a female household head (10:38-42). Though Jesus does not commend Martha’s abundant ministry/service, he does not denigrate it either (his problem is with Martha’s attitudes, not her actions); in fact, elsewhere he extols and exemplifies “diaconal” domestic service as the “greatest” work in God’s realm 50. On the snake illustration as part of a sophisticated analysis of unconscious and conscious emotional responses surrounding fear and anxiety, see the work of leading neuroscientist and psychologist Joseph LeDoux, The Emotional Brain: The Mysterious Underpinnings of Emotional Life (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996), 138–78; idem, Anxious: Using the Brain to Understand and Treat Fear and Anxiety (New York: Viking, 2015), 203–32.



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for men and women (22:24-27; cf. 9:10-17, 46-48).51 Likewise, Luke’s Jesus features, albeit briefly, two hand-working women—the kneading baker and the searching sweeper—as models of God’s creative and redemptive rule (13:21-22; 15:8-10).52 And a third female protagonist in a parable features a persistent widow who brazenly flails her hands and/or shakes her fist against a callous, unjust judge, threatening to “give a black eye” (ὑπωπιάζω) to him (and maybe landing a punch or two!), and ultimately receives the just consideration she deserves (18:2-5).53 A woman’s touch also affects much in Luke, expressing her emotions toward Jesus and evoking deep feelings within him and those who witness their interaction. The range of emotions touched off by women’s hands includes common “basic” experiences of fear, anxiety, anger (frustration, irritation, indignation), joy, and surprise, along with prosocial sentiments of love, compassion, and gratitude. Whatever maternal feelings may attend Mary’s swaddling and nurturing of the infant Jesus, her actions contribute to the mix of surprising fear and surging joy experienced by the shepherds upon seeing the wrapped Christ-child, which, in turn, fire her own swirl of cognitive-affective reflections. The “sinner” woman’s gushy treatment of Jesus’ feet manifests passionate love and gratitude and secures her peaceful self-acceptance, even as it motivates Simon’s contempt and confusion. The “bleeding” woman’s outreach to Jesus and consequent withdrawal of power from him catalyze a rapid, three-stage succession of emotion-stoked actions: (1) Jesus’ halting and demanding, “Who touched me?,” sparked by his perplexity and likely irritation at the woman’s ambush; (2) her coming forward and falling down before Jesus in tremulous fright; and (3) Jesus’ sending her on her way in peace and health. Among the women spotlighted in parables, the sweeper, upon finally getting her hands on the lost coin, calls her women friends over to “rejoice with me” (15:9); and the widow, in punctuating her demand for justice with some kind of hand/fist gesture aimed at the insensitive judge, gives outward expression, we may reasonably imagine, to inner feelings of anxiety over her disadvantaged state and righteous indignation over a corrupt legal-economic system. She can only move the unjust judge to action with a moving display of persistent, passionate petition. The merging of manual-emotional, effective-affective responses reflects a fundamental “law of emotion,” according to the Dutch psychology scholar, Nico Frijda, concerning the “action readiness” or “action tendencies” of emotion: “State of action readiness is a central notion in emotion. All emotion—all states, that is, that one would want to call ‘emotions’—involve some change in action readiness: (a) in readiness to go at it or away from it or to shift attention; (b) in sheer excitement, which can be understood as being ready for action but not knowing

51. See Spencer, Salty Wives, 113–19, 165–89. 52. See Reid, “Beyond Petty Pursuits and Wearisome Widows: Three Lukan Parables,” Interpretation 56 (2002): 284–94. 53. See Spencer, Salty Wives, 266–93.

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what actions; (c) in being stopped in one’s tracks or in loss of interest.”54 Simply put, emotions tend to motivate movement, or, more particularly related to touch, emotions manipulate manual actions. In Luke’s social-narrative world, where women’s movements are carefully restricted and monitored, where wholly safe space is hard to come by, some passionate, perceptive women still push through in purposive action that affects Jesus and that Jesus affirms. Attentive mother Mary actually limits (controls) Jesus’ first movements by swaddling his arms and stationing him in a manger as signs of his embodied humanity and availability to all people. The loving and grateful “sinner” woman is moved to lavish her affection upon Jesus in a provocative manner that Jesus fully embraces. The desperate, determined “bleeding” woman tactilely draws out Jesus’ healing power and triggers an emotional response in Jesus that “stops him in his tracks” (to use Frijda’s phrase); and her consequent feelings of fear prompt her to throw herself at Jesus’ feet, tell her story, and trigger Jesus’ final words of salvation and peace. Indeed, all three main incidents feature Jesus’ ministry as Savior-Healer and Peace-Giver for the lowly and needy (2:11, 13; 7:50; 8:48), dynamically operating hand-in-hand for and with “touchy” women.

54.  Frijda, “Laws of Emotion,” 351; cf. idem, The Laws of Emotion (New York: Routledge, 2013), 3–46; Jon Elster, “Emotion and Action,” in Thinking with Feeling: Contemporary Philosophers on Emotion, ed. Robert C. Solomon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 151–62 (151–5).

6 T H E R IC H A R E T H E B A D G U YS : L U KA N C HA R AC T E R S A N D W E A LT H E T H IC S

Cornelis Bennema*

It is well-known that Luke has a vested interest in socio-economic issues. In this respect, a dominant ethical concern for Luke is people’s attitudes toward their possessions. I will examine four wealthy characters in Luke’s gospel—the rich fool in 12:13-21, the rich man in 16:19-31, the rich ruler in 18:18-25, and the rich tax-collector in 19:1-10—in order to ascertain how they inform Luke’s wealth ethics. I will draw on my theory of character reconstruction, which contains three components: (1) character in text and context; (2) character analysis and classification; (3) character evaluation and significance.1 In this essay, my interest is in how Luke views these four affluent characters in light of his social ethics. Luke has shaped his narrative according to his particular perspective on Jesus, which we call “point of view.” Hence, based on a close reading of the text, I will analyze and evaluate the four rich characters to illuminate Luke’s ethical point of view regarding wealth. I have two methodological clarifications, one of which relates to my approach to the topic of Luke’s wealth ethics and the other to the construct of the reader. First, my rationale for approaching Luke’s wealth ethics through characterization is that while Luke or the Lukan Jesus occasionally address the issue explicitly (6:24; 14:33), most teaching is implicit in stories, whether of fictitious characters in parables or characters representing real people in the first-century world. Characters function as moral agents by illustrating behavior, values and norms that are to be emulated or avoided. Since Jesus is the protagonist in Luke’s gospel * Cornelis Bennema is Extraordinary Associate Professor at the Unit for Reformed Theology and the Development of the South African Society, Faculty of Theology, North-West University, South Africa. 1.  Cornelis Bennema, A Theory of Character in New Testament Narrative (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014). For a summarized version, see Cornelis Bennema, “Character Reconstruction in the New Testament (1): The Theory,” ExpT 128 (2016): 365–74.

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and Luke seeks to persuade his readers to accept his view of Jesus, the main criterion for evaluating each character in the Lukan narrative is their response to Jesus. Second, I must explain my concept of the reader, who will be doing the job at hand, namely reading the Lukan text and reconstructing the four selected characters. While I could use concepts such as a modern reader of the Lukan text, the implied reader that the text evokes or the intended reader Luke had in mind, none of these constructs are without difficulties. It may not even be correct to assume that the Lukan reader only knows the Lukan text; the reader’s reconstruction of a character may well be influenced by multiple texts. Consequently, I must clarify the kind of reader I suppose and the texts such a reader has access to. John Darr recognizes that the reader one postulates determines at least in part how characters are reconstructed. While Darr admits that the reader is usually a heuristic construct of the modern critic, he also values the reconstruction of a text-specific reader, that is, an approximation of the intended reader with a degree of knowledge of the socio-cultural conventions assumed by the original author. Darr’s reader, then, is a heuristic hybrid, a fusion of ancient and modern cultural horizons.2 In line with Darr’s hybrid reader, I use the concept of a modern reader who has adequate knowledge of the first-century world and who can give a plausible explanation for the ancient sources Luke might have presumed. Hence, I assume a reader of the Lukan text who also knows the Old Testament, Mark, Matthew, Acts, and presumably various Jewish Second Temple and Graeco-Roman writings (although we cannot be sure which).

The Rich Fool (12:13-21) The larger literary unit 12:13-34 consists of two parts: 12:13-21, where Jesus addresses the crowd on the topic of πλεονεξία (“greed,” “covetousness”) and 12:22-34, where he addresses the disciples on the topic of anxiety.3 Each part consists of an imperative and a rationale from Jesus: in 12:15, Jesus warns against greed because life (ζωή) is more than an abundance of possessions; in 12:22-23, Jesus advises against anxiety about daily existence because life (the partially synonymous term ψυχή is used here) is about more than food. The two topics are complementary—greed about material possessions, and anxiety about the lack of them.4 Our focus is on the character of the rich fool, his role in the larger narrative unit and his contribution to Luke’s wealth ethics. 2. John A. Darr, “Narrator as Character: Mapping a Reader-Oriented Approach to Narration in Luke-Acts,” Semeia 65 (1993): 43–60 (47–8). 3. Cf. Abraham J. Malherbe, “The Christianization of a Topos (Luke 12:13-34),” NovT 38 (1996): 123-35 (124). Although Jesus switches his attention in 12:22 from the crowd to the disciples and changes the topic from greed to anxiety, the phrase διὰ τοῦτο logically connects 12:22-34 with 12:13-21. 4. Cf. Malherbe, who shows that pleasure and anxiety (featuring in 12:13-21 and



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Jesus tells the parable of the rich fool in response to a request from someone in the crowd to arbitrate on a matter of inheritance, while also refusing such a role (12:13-14). Directing his attention to the crowd, Jesus then issues a warning against all kinds of greed on the grounds that (ὅτι) life is not based on the superfluity (τὸ περισσεύειν) of possessions (τὰ ὑπάρχοντα) (12:15).5 Jesus then elaborates using a parable of an unnamed, rich landowner (12:16). The verb εὐφόρειν (“to produce an abundance”; 12:16) signals the danger of superfluity, and the implied question is about how the rich landowner is going to handle it. In this regard, the man’s soliloquy in 12:17-19 is disappointing. While he seems an intelligent and resourceful person who goes about his expanding business in an efficient and professional manner, it is evident that he is preoccupied with himself and the here and now. The repeated use of the first person singular in 12:17-19 indicates how self-centered the man is; he neither consults God or others, nor considers giving the surplus to the needy.6 The man’s sole consideration is how he can use his abundant wealth to maximize pleasure. God abruptly interrupts the man’s plans and the verdict is damning. God calls the man a fool and asks for his life back, immediately (12:20a). While the man’s business may have been flourishing, God determines that his life was not, and hence there was no use for it. With the loss of life, his abundant possessions will also be lost to him, as the rhetorical question in 12:20b indicates. The man’s foolishness lies in a way of life that does not involve God or others (cf. Pss. 10:3-4; 14:1; 53:1).7 Consequently, he cannot enjoy what he thinks he has because all is taken from him. The man reminds us of another rich fool who tells himself to rest in order to enjoy his wealth (ἐν τῷ εἰπεῖν αὐτόν εὗρον ἀνάπαυσιν καὶ νῦν φάγομαι ἐκ τῶν ἀγαθῶν μου), not realizing that life is transient and that his wealth will go to others (Sir. 11:19). Sirach exhorts people to be mindful of God who can suddenly reverse life situations and judges people at the end of their lives according to their conduct (Sir. 11:21–28). Hence, the egocentric accumulation of wealth is foolish. The rich man’s conduct is inexcusable because the Hebrew Scriptures are replete with instructions about social justice for the needy (e.g., Exod. 22:25; 23:11; Deut. 10:18; Pss. 72:4; 140:12) and warnings about amassing wealth and trusting in it for one’s security (e.g., Job 27:13–23; Pss. 49; 52:7; Eccl. 2:1-11).8 Instead, Jesus 12:22-34 respectively) were closely related in the topos on πλεονεξία in Graeco-Roman moral philosophy (“Christianization,” 127–8, 134). 5.  Malherbe, “Christianization,” 131. Malherbe argues that although τὸ περισσεύειν can mean “abundance,” the stronger sense of “excess” or “superfluity” is probably in view here. 6.  Cf. Thomas D. Stegman, “Reading Luke 12:13-34 as an Elaboration of a Chreia: How Hermogenes of Tarsus Sheds Light on Luke’s Gospel,” NovT 49 (2007): 328–52 (341–2). 7. Christopher M. Hays also notes an allusion to 11:39-40, where Jesus calls the greedy Pharisees “fools” (Luke’s Wealth Ethics: A Study in Their Coherence and Character, WUNT II 275 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010], 126). 8. Philo also warns against πλεονεξία (Leg. All. 3.166; Spec. 4.129, 215-217). GraecoRoman moral philosophers also knew that wealth had to be managed and put to practical use to meet human need (Malherbe, “Christianization,” 126–8). Although we cannot

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exhorts people to be “rich toward God” (12:21). The reader will have to wait until the end of the literary unit for the explanation of this exhortation. In 12:33-34, Jesus provides the antidote to both anxiety about daily existence and the foolishness of πλεονεξία. Instead of selfishly amassing wealth on earth, Jesus’ followers are to use their earthly possessions to alleviate need, an act that will result in amassing wealth in heaven. The locus of one’s treasure (earth or heaven) corresponds to the focus of one’s life (καρδία denotes the center of one’s life). Instead of amassing wealth for oneself on earth, Jesus exhorts his followers to sell their possessions and give alms (12:33). A reduction in wealth on earth as a result of alleviating need results in an increase of wealth in heaven. Jesus’ exhortation “to be rich toward God” (12:21), then, means to be rich toward the needy. Almsgiving or charitable acts for the benefit of the needy are ways of showing generosity toward God. This implies that possessions have a social dimension; they are about relationships with others.9 In contrast to the rich fool, Luke describes in 8:1-3 how several women display kingdom behavior, using their possessions (τὰ ὑπάρχοντα) to provide for Jesus and his disciples. In the larger literary unit on the topic of πλεονεξία, the rich fool’s role is to show the folly of a life that does not involve God but depends on the superfluity of possessions. The character of the rich fool contributes to Luke’s wealth ethics by showing that one should be mindful of and rich toward God by radically and generously using one’s possessions to alleviate need. Instead of thinking in terms of “my crops,” “my barns,” “my grain,” and “my goods,” Jesus’ followers are challenged to share their possessions with those in need.10 In commanding his followers to sell their possessions and give alms, Jesus is more radical than most scholars admit. I contend that what Jesus asks is not simply to reduce one’s wealth or to give away one’s surplus; rather, it is an unqualified challenge to get rid of wealth.11 Glancing ahead, Jesus challenges the rich ruler to sell all he has and give assume that Luke knew this literature, it shows that Jewish and Graeco-Roman morality held similar views about wealth and greediness. 9.  Rachael Oliphant and Paul Babie, “Can the Gospel of Luke Speak to A Contemporary Understanding of Private Property? The Parable of the Rich Fool,” Colloquium 38 (2006): 3–26 (20). 10. Oliphant and Babie, “Gospel of Luke,” 11–13. 11. Contra Henry Mugabe, for example, who states that Jesus is not against accumulation of possessions or being rich but only against those who do not want to share their excess with the needy (“Parable of the Rich Fool: Luke 12:13-21,” Review and Expositor 111 [2014]: 67–73, citing 70). Similarly, Hays contends that since Jesus did not say to sell all one’s possessions, we should not argue for an “exhaustive divestiture requisite” (Luke’s Wealth Ethics, 129). However, neither did Jesus say to sell some possessions. While Jesus probably did not intend that all his followers should sell all their possessions, I do think he intended that his followers eliminate wealth while not being anxious about the basic needs of life (cf. 9:3; 10:4; 22:35). Oliphant and Babie provide a more radical interpretation of the parable of the rich fool, asserting that “the only point of private property is the good it can do to others” (“Gospel of Luke,” 23–6, quotation from p. 25 [emphasis original]).



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the proceeds to the poor (18:22), and the stance of the early church in Acts toward possessions is so radical—no one claimed private ownership of possessions (οὐδὲ εἷς τι τῶν ὑπαρχόντων αὐτῷ ἔλεγεν ἴδιον εἶναι)—that all need was eradicated (Acts 4:32, 34-35). I suggest that “need” is the standard for the use of private property. Jesus’ followers are challenged to use their possessions to the extent that need is eradicated, first in the church and then in society.

Rich Dives (16:19-31) Luke 16:19-31 contains the parable of rich Dives and poor Lazarus.12 Lazarus never speaks and simply exists to aid the characterization of Dives, the main character. The contrast between the two characters is striking. On the one hand, there is an unnamed rich man, dressed in luxurious clothes and feasting sumptuously every day (16:19).13 On the other, there is a poor man at his gate, named Lazarus, “dressed” in sores and craving for the rich man’s scraps (16:20-21). The phrase, “yet, even the dogs would come and lick his sores,” already indicates that Lazarus received more compassion from the dogs (an unclean source) than he ever received from rich Dives.14 Luke 16:22-23 then swiftly describes the death of the two characters and the reversal of their fortunes in the afterlife. After poor Lazarus dies (perhaps due to malnutrition), angels take him to “Abraham’s bosom” (16:22a). To lie in someone’s bosom refers to the place of honor at a meal or banquet (cf. John 13:23), but also has connotations of intimacy and comfort.15 In contrast, when Dives dies and is buried, he finds himself in torment in Hades, the place of the dead (16:22b-23). His torment in Hades leads Dives to call out for mercy (16:24). Dives’s plea for Lazarus to be allowed to provide relief is ironic, considering Lazarus had sought relief from his earthly torment from Dives but had not received any.16 Luke 16:25-26 vividly describes the permanent reversal that has occurred. We must 12. The rich man is often referred to as “Dives,” which is not a name, but the Latin for “rich.” 13.  Feasting (εὐφρᾶναι) also marks the lifestyle that the rich fool anticipated for himself (12:19). Hays notes that Luke has earlier expressed his disdain for luxurious clothing (7:25; 12:27) (Luke’s Wealth Ethics, 158). 14. Since ἀλλά is the conjunction (with an intended contrast here), καί functions as an adverb (“even”). J. Lyle Story remarks that, unlike Lazarus, the dogs had access to the table scraps (“Twin Parables of Stewardship in Luke 16,” American Theological Inquiry 2 [2009]:105–20 [114]). However, it is unclear whether these are scavenging street dogs (so Klyne R. Snodgrass, Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008], 425) or household pets (so Hays, Luke’s Wealth Ethics, 155). 15. Cf. Story, “Twin Parables,” 115; Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 425. 16. The fact that Dives knows Lazarus’s name shows that he had been aware of his existence. Cf. Story, who notes that Dives could not have left his house without seeing Lazarus at the gate (“Twin Parables,” 114).

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note how space is used in this parable. The unbridgeable chasm between Dives and Lazarus in the afterlife reflects the “chasm” between Dives’s table and his gate on earth. Just as Lazarus had lain at the gate longing for any relief that might come from Dives’s table (but received none), so Dives longs for any relief that might come from Lazarus (but will receive none). The difference is that while Dives could (and should) have crossed the space between his table and his gate, no one is able to cross the space between the righteous and unrighteous in the afterlife. Realizing that he cannot get relief for his torment, Dives, for the first time, shows some concern for others (16:27-31). Remembering his brothers, who are still alive and apparently headed for the same destiny, Dives begs for Lazarus to warn them about the torment that awaits them if they do not repent. The reply, however, is that Dives’s brothers should “listen to Moses and the prophets,” that is, the Scriptures. The Scriptures are abundantly clear about the obligation to be merciful to the needy (Prov. 14:21, 31; 19:17; 22:9; Isa. 58:6-7; Zech. 7:9-10; cf. Sir. 28:4; 29:1), and about judgment for failing to do so (e.g., Ezek. 22:29; Amos 2:6-7; 5:12; 8:4). As Hays states, “Abraham’s injunction for Dives’ brothers to listen to Moses and the Prophets entails that they should indeed desist from their neglect of the poor, and show charity through sharing their possessions.”17 The message of the parable is to be merciful—that those who have the means should show mercy to those in need. From the start of his gospel, Luke presents God as merciful (1:50, 54, 58, 72, 78), just as God is characterized as merciful in the Old Testament (Exod. 20:6; 34:6-7; Num. 6:25; Deut. 7:9).18 Accordingly, in the context of loving one’s enemies, Jesus tells his followers that they should imitate God’s merciful nature (6:36). To be merciful is to show kindness or concern to someone in need, to be compassionate and forgiving to others (even one’s enemies). Then, in 10:25-37, Jesus tells the parable of the Good Samaritan to a lawyer in order to show the need to be merciful to those in need. The lawyer’s initial question is about what he should do to inherit eternal life, to which the answer is to love God and neighbor. The lawyer then asks who his neighbor is. Turning the question on its head, Jesus challenges him to be a neighbor instead. The parable shows that a neighbor is someone who is merciful to the needy. Here, in Luke 16, Dives shows no mercy, although he has the means to alleviate Lazarus’s suffering. Consequently, when Dives suffers, he receives no mercy, even though he longs for it. In Luke 4:16-21, Jesus had pointed out the great reversal that his coming would bring about, and this parable reiterates that message.19 Dives is not condemned for his wealth per se but for not using it to help poor Lazarus. While Dives has the means to alleviate Lazarus’s suffering, he lacks compassion, and therefore does not act.20 Even the unclean dogs show more compassion! Dives is indicted for violating 17. Hays, Luke’s Wealth Ethics, 157–8. 18.  The LXX ἔλεος (“mercy,” “compassion”) translates the Hebrew ‫“( ֶח ֶסד‬lovingkindness”). 19. Hays notes other economic reversal texts such as 1:52-53; 6:20-21, 24-25; 14:16-24 (Luke’s Wealth Ethics, 155). 20. Robert C. Tannehill states that poor Lazarus’s longing for the scraps of Dives’s table indicates “the minimum that the rich man might have done, had he been concerned” (The



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the legal requirement of charity toward the poor.21 As Snodgrass asserts, “The injustice of the juxtaposition of wealth and poverty cannot be tolerated.”22 The reader is reminded of the parable of the good Samaritan and the need to be a compassionate neighbor to others. The significance of this parable is to be compassionate to those in need and to use one’s resources to alleviate need and suffering.

The Rich Ruler (18:18-30) An unnamed ruler comes to Jesus and asks what he should do so that he can inherit eternal life (18:18).23 We must note that the entire pericope has strong soteriological overtones, as indicated by the ruler’s question (18:18), as well as references to the Decalogue (18:20), entrance into the kingdom of God (18:2425), salvation (18:26) and eternal life (18:30). In reply to the ruler’s question, Jesus points to commandments five to nine of the Decalogue (18:20), all of which relate to one’s relationships with fellow human beings.24 When the ruler says that he has kept these since he was a youth (18:21), he is probably referring to his bar mitzvah—the time when a boy comes of age (at thirteen years) and is held accountable for his actions—implying that he has been blameless ever since. Despite the ruler’s apparent piety, Jesus states that the man still lacks one thing necessary for inheriting eternal life (18:22a). Jesus then clarifies how the man can overcome this: by selling all his possessions (πάντα ὅσα ἔχεις) and giving the proceeds to the poor, he will generate treasure in heaven. Once he has done that, he can come and follow Jesus, that is, become his disciple (18:22b). This is not the first time in Luke’s account that we hear Jesus say this. After narrating the parable of the rich fool, Jesus issues a similar command to his would-be followers to sell their possessions and give to the needy, thereby producing treasure in heaven (12:33; cf. 14:33). Now, Jesus exhorts the ruler to eliminate his treasure on earth in order to create treasure in heaven.25 Hence, Jesus’ answer to the ruler’s question of what he should do to inherit eternal life is to rid himself of his possessions. Narrative Unity of Luke–Acts: A Literary Interpretation, vol. 1, The Gospel according to Luke [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986], 131). 21. Hays, Luke’s Wealth Ethics, 159: Cf. Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 433. 22. Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 433 (original emphasis). 23. Luke does not clarify what kind of ruler is in view and neither does Mark (10:17). The man could have been a synagogue official (cf. 8:41), a judicial officer (cf. 12:58), or a member of the Sanhedrin (cf. 23:13; 24:20). 24.  The order of the commandments mentioned by Jesus is seventh, sixth, eighth, ninth, and fifth. Before addressing the ruler’s question, Jesus addresses the ruler’s reference to him as “good” (18:19), although it is unclear whether Jesus rejects the honor that is due only to God or implicitly affirms that he is on a par with God. 25. As Tannehill remarks, “Possessions are a false, temporary treasure which lures people away from the true ‘treasure in heaven.’ Dependence on riches conflicts with devotion to God (16:13).” (Narrative Unity, 121).

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In a way, Jesus’ requirement relates to the tenth commandment in that it tests the extent to which the rich ruler “covets” his own possessions. In addition, Alan Stanley connects Jesus’ requirement here to the command “to love your neighbour as yourself ” in another conversation about what one should do to inherit eternal life, in Luke 10:25-28. Accordingly, “what barred the ruler from entering the kingdom was … his reluctance to part with his wealth—and thus to love the poor.”26 Daniel Hays also links this story to the Old Testament theme of social justice for the poor and needy, because as a ruler (whether connected to the synagogue, court or Sanhedrin [cf. n. 23]), he would be responsible for administering justice in the community. Jesus’ exhortation to the ruler is also a comment on the socio-economic inequality of first-century Palestine, where a few wealthy rulers were at the top and the vast majority of people struggled in varying degrees of poverty.27 In other words, by treasuring his own possessions, the ruler failed to love his neighbor—the poor—and provide justice for them. When the ruler hears Jesus’ exhortation, he becomes very sad because (γάρ) he is very rich (18:23). The depth of the man’s sadness is matched by the extent of his riches. For the first time in the story we learn that the ruler is excessively rich (πλούσιος σφόδρα), alerting us to the problem of wealth. The pious ruler may have presumed he was in a good position to qualify for eternal life, but Jesus clarifies that his possessions are the single obstacle to obtaining the prize he is after.28 In the language of 16:13, the ruler is “unable” (or unwilling) to leave Mammon in order to follow Jesus. Since both Mammon and Jesus demand exclusive allegiance, a person has to sever ties with the former in order to join the latter. Observing the ruler’s reaction, Jesus notes how difficult it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God (18:24).29 In fact, he says, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God (18:25). This radical statement rattles his audience, and their reaction, “Who can be saved, then?,” suggests that they see what Jesus demands as impossible (18:26).30 Jesus does not contradict them; in fact, he affirms that humans by themselves are incapable of entering the kingdom of God and that it requires an act of God—a 26. Alan P. Stanley, “The Rich Young Ruler and Salvation,” Bibliotheca Sacra 163 (2006): 46–62 (55). Cf. Hays, who identifies Jesus’ requirement as the commandment to charity, which is, as in 16:29–31, an essential element of the Law and Prophets (Luke’s Wealth Ethics, 169). 27.  J. Daniel Hays, “‘Sell Everything You Have and Give to the Poor’: The Old Testament Prophetic Theme of Justice as The Connecting Motif of Luke 18:1–19:10,” JETS 55 (2012): 43–63 (55–7). 28. According to Stanley, the ruler was unable/unwilling to give up his trust in wealth and place his trust in Jesus and his promise of treasure in heaven, i.e., eternal life (“Rich Young Ruler,” 57, 59). 29. The textual variant in 18:24 (“When Jesus looked at him, he became very sad”) is attractive but most likely not original. 30. Stanley remarks that the audience’s question shows that they have been infected by some kind of prosperity theology, where wealth signifies God’s blessing (“Rich Young Ruler,” 56).



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miracle as it were (18:27). In effect, meeting the requirement to shed any excess in order to enter the kingdom and inherit eternal life is beyond human capacity and belongs to the realm of divine action. Jesus’ statement also rattles Peter, who wants to check where the Twelve stand in this regard. When Peter exclaims that they have left behind their property/business (τὰ ἴδια) and followed him (18:28), he is harking back to his earlier experience (5:11; cf. 5:28) and may even be wondering whether they have done enough. After all, leaving one’s business appears less radical than selling all one’s possessions and giving the proceeds to the poor. However, Jesus reassures Peter, telling him that any detachment from earthly ties (whether possessions, business or family) for the sake of God’s kingdom will be rewarded manifold in this life (although the reward is not specified) and in the age to come with eternal life (19:29-30).31 With this final reference to eternal life we come full circle back to the rich ruler’s opening question. The lesson of this story is that nothing should stand in the way of the kingdom of God. Hays remarks that Luke presents the rich ruler not as “a special case with a unique handicap, but as nothing more than another would-be disciple (cf. 9:57-62) who is not willing to do what it takes to follow Jesus.”32 Having repeatedly demanded downward social mobility (13:30; 14:12-24; 18:14, 17), called for the renunciation of possessions (12:33; 14:33) and contrasted the service of God and Mammon (16:13), Luke has “erected ethical scaffolding sufficient for providing a context within which to understand the command of 18:22.”33 Prioritizing entrance into God’s kingdom and hence eternal life, potential disciples should radically abandon all potential obstacles, whether possessions, business, family, or any other earthly attachment. As Hays concludes, “Jesus issues the same set of commands that he has always pronounced, applying them appropriately to a Ruler as both a would-be disciple who must leave all, and a rich person who must love and support the poor. Sadly, the encumbrances and idolatrous bonds of Mammon prove too much.”34

The Rich Tax Collector (19:1-10) In 19:2, the narrator introduces another rich character. For the first time in the Lukan narrative, however, the character is named. Zacchaeus is a chief tax collector (ἀρχιτελώνης) and is curious to find out about Jesus (19:3), presumably because he has heard about the remarkable healing of blind Bartimaeus (18:3543).35 Zacchaeus’s behavior of running and climbing a tree is unbecoming for a 31. Most scholars agree that the manifold reward in this life refers to a new set of relationships with other believers (Stanley, “Rich Young Ruler,” 50 n. 25). 32. Hays, Luke’s Wealth Ethics, 172. 33. Ibid. 34. Ibid., 175. 35. For Robert C. Tannehill, the depiction of Zacchaeus as being both a chief tax collector and rich complicates the story because while the tax collectors are portrayed as

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man of his status and betrays his eagerness to see Jesus (19:4; cf. 15:20). Zacchaeus is thus presented as purposeful, resourceful and willing to risk his reputation to achieve his goal. When Jesus arrives at the tree that Zacchaeus has climbed, he urges him to come down, saying, “for today I must stay in your house” (19:5). The adverb σήμερον (“today”) frequently indicates important and imminent divine activity (2:11; 4:21; 5:26; 23:43).36 Jesus’ self-invitation to Zacchaeus’s house is a call to fellowship and acceptance. The reader is immediately reminded of another occasion when Jesus had table-fellowship with a tax collector (5:27-32), who then became a follower of Jesus, which raises expectations for this meeting. The urgency of Jesus’ request, as indicated by the use of σπεύδειν, σήμερον and δεῖν, may reflect his knowledge that he is fast approaching Jerusalem and a final confrontation with the Jewish religious authorities (cf. 18:31; 19:45ff.). Zacchaeus responds with the same urgency and gladly welcomes Jesus to his house (19:6). The onlookers’ strong disapproval of his fellowship with a “sinner” (ἁμαρτωλός) is not surprising since Jesus’ close association with “tax collectors and sinners” has caused offense to the religious authorities as well (5:30; 7:34; 15:1-2). However, Jesus has also clarified that the purpose of his coming is to call sinners to repentance rather than those who assume they are righteous (5:32), and that responsive sinners do indeed receive forgiveness (7:37, 47; 18:13-14). Zacchaeus’s response to Jesus’ fellowship is extraordinary. Addressing Jesus as κύριος (“Lord”), he announces that he will make amends in two ways: (i) he will give half of his possessions to the poor; (ii) he will repay fourfold those he has defrauded (19:8).37 Zacchaeus realizes that in fellowship with Jesus his relationship with his possessions must change radically.38 Jesus’ response matches the resoluteness and grandeur of Zacchaeus’s response: “Today salvation has come to his house because he also is a son of Abraham” (19:9). It shows that Zacchaeus’s response qualifies for salvation and the repetition of σήμερον from 19:5 confirms the importance of divine activity. While one could object that Zacchaeus does not give πάντα and falls short of the Lukan norm (14:33; 18:22; cf. 5:11, 28; 12:33; 18:28), the fourfold repayment to make reparations for his past dishonesty may well have cost him the other half of his fortune.39 As Hays perceptively notes, “If responsive to the preaching of John and Jesus (5:27-32; 7:29; 15:1-2), the rich are cursed (6:24), foolish (12:16-21), callous (16:19-31), and unresponsive (18:18-23) (“The Story of Zacchaeus as Rhetoric: Luke 19:1-10,” Semeia 64 [1993]: 201-11 [202]). 36. Cf. John O’Hanlon, “The Story of Zacchaeus and the Lukan Ethic,” JSNT 12 (1981): 2–26 (14); Robert F. O’Toole, “The Literary Form of Luke 19:1-10,” JBL 110 [1991]: 107–16 (114). 37. While Zacchaeus’s charity to the poor is an act of justice, the restitution is a correction of past injustice (Hays, “Sell Everything,” 61). 38. As O’Hanlon remarks, “Zacchaeus embarks on a new moral existence” (“The Story of Zacchaeus,” 16). 39. Cf. Tannehill, “Story of Zacchaeus,” 203.



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he [Zacchaeus] were to give all his money to the poor, he could not rectify his wrongs.”40 In Luke’s thought, the Abrahamic promise, God’s salvific acts and Jesus’ coming are closely entwined (1:47, 55, 68-69, 73). Abraham is a representative model member in the kingdom of God (13:28; 16:22-31). John the Baptizer explains that repentance and right conduct (rather than ancestry) are the necessary qualifications for true Abrahamic sonship and hence salvation (3:4-14), and Zacchaeus’s resolutions epitomize how John intends tax collectors to respond (3:12-13). When Jesus refers to Zacchaeus as a child of Abraham he is saying that he is a candidate for salvation (cf. 13:16). Hence, Jesus perceives the response of “sinner” Zacchaeus as one of repentance and as indicative of true Abrahamic sonship.41 In light of 18:24-27, God has made the impossible possible—a rich person has entered the kingdom of God. More precisely, a rich person who has shed his riches receives salvation. The Zacchaeus episode is also an enactment of three parables Jesus has told earlier to people upset about his close interactions with sinners (cf. 15:2 and 19:7). In Luke 15, in reply to the Pharisees and scribes who are disgruntled with Jesus’ fellowship with sinners, Jesus tells three parables of possessions that are lost and found. Here, after declaring salvation to Zacchaeus, Jesus clarifies that his purpose is to seek and save the lost (19:10). In fact, the Zacchaeus account reveals two quests, as indicated by the use of ζητεῖν in 19:3 and 19:10.42 Zacchaeus is on a quest to find Jesus, and Jesus’ earlier assurance (11:9-10) suggests that this quest is bound to be successful.43 At the same time, Jesus is on a quest to retrieve the lost (cf. 5:32; 15:3-32) and declares in 19:9-10 that his quest has been successful.44 40. Hays, Luke’s Wealth Ethics, 178. 41. Scholars have discussed the literary form of the story and the nature of Zacchaeus’s response. Some contend that Zacchaeus’s statement in 19:8 is to be understood as a defense and that the story is about the vindication of Zacchaeus to the crowd (Alan C. Mitchell, “Zacchaeus Revisited: Luke 19,8 as a Defense,” Biblica 71 [1990]: 153–76; D. A. S. Ravens, “Zacchaeus: The Final Part of a Lucan Triptych?” JSNT 41 [1991]: 19–32). However, Dennis Hamm has the better case (in my view) that Zacchaeus’s response denotes repentance and hence this is a conversion story (“Luke 19:8 Once Again: Does Zacchaeus Defend or Resolve,” JBL 107 [1988]: 436–7; “Zacchaeus Revisited Once More: A Story of Vindication or Conversion?” Biblica 72 [1991]: 249–52). While upholding Hamm’s argument for viewing Zacchaeus’s response as an act of repentance, others have argued that instead of a conversion story, the more precise literary form is that of a quest story (Tannehill, Narrative Unity, 122–5; idem, “Story of Zacchaeus,” 201–11; O’Toole, “Literary Form of Luke 19:1–10,” 107–16). 42. See especially Tannehill, “Story of Zacchaeus,” 205–7. 43. Cf. William P. Loewe, “Towards an Interpretation of Lk 19:1-10,” CBQ 36 (1974): 321–31 (323–4). 44. Twice in this quest, the crowd acts as an obstacle (19:3, 7) (Tannehill, “Story of Zacchaeus,” 206).

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In sum, the Zacchaeus story brings together various Lukan themes: (i) Zacchaeus’s response exemplifies the repentance John the Baptist seeks from his audience; (ii) Jesus’ table fellowship with and approval of Zacchaeus is reminiscent of another occasion on which a tax collector became Jesus’ follower (5:27-32); (iii) Jesus fulfills a quest for a lost sinner; (iv) the Zacchaeus story answers the question raised in 18:26 of who can be saved.45

Conclusion For Luke, discipleship and the renunciation of possessions are inextricably linked: to be a disciple of Jesus one must renounce πάντα. We have examined four rich characters in Luke’s gospel, all but one of whom fail to meet the radical demands of discipleship. The rich fool fails to involve God in his life and does not use his possessions to help the poor. Rich Dives fails to show compassion for poor Lazarus and does not use his resources to alleviate suffering. The rich ruler fails to part with his possessions because his wealth has become an obstacle. Yet, there is hope for the rich: Zacchaeus, the only rich character who is named, embarks on a quest for Jesus and responds appropriately, showing that it is not impossible for the rich to rid themselves of their wealth and enter the kingdom of God. Were it not for the story of Zacchaeus, the reader might think the rich are beyond hope after Jesus’ hard saying and the people’s incredulity in 18:24-27. Tannehill explains that the rationale for Jesus’ requirement of renouncing possessions is twofold. First, Jesus stresses the danger of wealth on the grounds that (i) it gives false security and lures people away from being rich toward God (12:21); (ii) wealth is a master that competes with God (16:13); and (iii) wealth holds people back from following Jesus (18:22-23). Second, Jesus requires renunciation of wealth so that through it, the needs of the poor might be alleviated.46 In three of the four episodes, Jesus provides an evaluative commentary on the rich character (12:21, 33-34; 18:24-25, 27; 19:9-10), by means of which Luke clarifies and develops his wealth ethic. Hays makes a convincing case that Luke presents a coherent wealth ethic in which the renunciation of possessions takes multiple forms, depending on the individual disciple’s vocation (itinerant or localized) and wealth.47 Given that such broad spectrum of behavior is viable in 45. Cf. O’Hanlon, “The Story of Zacchaeus,” 9–11, 22; Hamm, “Zacchaeus Revisited,” 250–2; Tannehill, “Story of Zacchaeus,” 203–5, 210. 46. Tannehill, Narrative Unity, 129. Glancing ahead at Luke’s sequel, we encounter the early Christian community whose members sell their possessions to eradicate any need (Acts 2:44-45; 4:32-37). 47. According to Hays, itinerant disciples of limited means leave their homes and livelihood behind (e.g., Peter and the Zebedee brothers); affluent itinerant disciples either give everything to the poor (which the rich ruler was unable to do) or continue to use their resources to aid fellow itinerants (e.g., the Galilean women in 8:2-3); rich localized disciples are required to show just conduct, extend hospitality to the itinerants and maximize



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Table 2  The aggregate results of our character reconstructions Complexity (in terms of number of traits)

Development

Inner Life

Rich Fool

little/some: he is resourceful and efficient

Rich Dives

little/some: he is excessive (in his lifestyle) and able to bargain (albeit unsuccessfully) little/some: he is devout and confident some/much: he is keen and resourceful (19:3–4), responsive and resolute (19:8)

little: his apparent common sense is identified as foolishness by God little: merciless Dives eventually shows concern for his relatives

much: all his type/personality communication reveals an abundant inner life little: agony (16:24) type

none

little: sadness (18:23) type

Rich Ruler

Rich Zacchaeus

Degree of Characterization

some: his behavior in little/some: eagerness personality 19:4 is in tension with and gladness (19:6) his status, and his radical response in 19:8 is surprising compared to all previous rich characters

the Lukan schema, Hays contends that the “use of πάντα does not categorically demand exhaustive divestiture of each possession, but underscores the radical extent to which the follower of Jesus leaves, sells, and gives of their possessions.”48 Returning to my specific theory of character (see the beginning of this essay), we can complete or enhance our character reconstructions by producing aggregate information to determine a character’s degree of characterization (see Table 1 above). That is, we can classify each character along three continua (complexity, development, inner life), and then plot the character on a continuum representing the degree of characterization involved (from agent to type to personality to individuality).49 I mentioned at the beginning of the essay that the author communicates his particular perspective or point of view through the characters in the story, generosity (e.g., Zacchaeus); localized disciples with limited means should also extend hospitality to itinerants, share their meagre resources and give what they can (Mary and Martha in 10:38–42) (Luke’s Wealth Ethics, 185–6). 48. Hays, Luke’s Wealth Ethics, 180–1 (quotation from p. 181). 49. For a detailed explanation of this second component of my approach to character, see Bennema, Theory of Character, 72–90. I position a character on each continuum using the terms “none,” “little,” “some,” and “much” in order to create a sliding scale.

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implicitly leading the reader to evaluate the characters, thus creating various degrees of affinity or distance with these characters. This has two implications. First, characters are potential change agents—they have the ability to effect transformation in the reader. An examination of characters as moral agents in an ethical reading of the biblical narratives relates to the discipline of virtue ethics. This is uncharted territory in biblical studies and needs further study.50 Second, the reader’s evaluation of the characters in the story according to Luke’s evaluative point of view also leads to the reader’s self-evaluation. Darr, for example, stresses the rhetorical force of the text and the reader’s involvement, where the reader witnesses what the characters witness and is forced to reflect on his own response.51 Darr draws the following conclusion about Luke’s dialogical quality of characterization: The process of constructing character is neither neutral nor unidirectional. Even as we fashion dramatis personae, we are being positioned and manoeuvred— indeed, shaped—by the rhetoric of the text. While building Luke’s characters, the audience experiences a certain character building of its own!52

Since the reader’s evaluation of the Lukan characters should lead to self-evaluation, I finish on a personal note. For Luke, wealth is an affliction that needs treatment, and the remedy is to give generously and seriously. In the kingdom of God, there must be a radical redistribution of wealth, an economic mutualism that meets every need. If we earnestly seek to eradicate need, we must eradicate wealth. A friend once captured the essence of Jesus’ radical demand in a remark he made. While living in India, I worked with Babu Immanuel, an expert on Luke-Acts. Once, while discussing the issue of wealth and poverty, I asked him, “How much should we give?,” to which he replied, “Till it hurts.”

50.  I made a first attempt in relation to Johannine characters: Cornelis Bennema, “Virtue Ethics in the Gospel of John: The Johannine Characters as Moral Agents,” in Rediscovering John: Essays on the Fourth Gospel in Honour of Frédéric Manns, ed. L. Daniel Chrupcala, Studium Biblicum Franciscanum 80 (Milan: Edizioni Terra Santa, 2013), 167–81. 51.  John A. Darr, On Character Building: The Reader and the Rhetoric of Characterization in Luke-Acts (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1992), 56–7. 52. Darr, On Character Building, 59.

7 A C O G N I T I V E N A R R AT O L O G IC A L A P P R OAC H T O T H E C HA R AC T E R I Z AT IO N ( S ) O F Z AC C HA E U S

Joel B. Green

“It is no exaggeration to think that in the first case readers are moved, in the second they smile and in the third they grimace.” With these words, Daniel Marguerat and Yvan Bourquin summarize readerly reactions to three character portraits in Luke’s Gospel—respectively, the introduction of a widow whose son had died (7:12), the description of the vertically challenged Zacchaeus (19:3), and the reference to money-loving Pharisees who scoff at Jesus (16:14).1 Marguerat and Bourquin thus hint at the possibility of examining the mind-relevant aspects of storytelling practices, including how our grasp of narratives—and, in this case, characters—surpasses an inventory and analysis of such elements as setting, plot, time, and the like, and therefore moves beyond any notion that characters are constituted simply through narrative artistry. This is true even if, as we will see, Marguerat and Bourquin prematurely judge how actual readers might respond to a Lukan character like Zacchaeus. Building on earlier forms of postclassical study of narratives, cognitive narratology unleashes a wider range of questions, including how textual cues evoke inferences about and experiences of characters on the part of readers as well as how readers actively participate in the construction of characters.2 1. Daniel Marguerat and Yvan Bourquin, How to Read Bible Stories: An Introduction to Narrative Criticism (London: SCM, 1999), 68. They are dependent on Mark Allan Powell’s reduction of readerly reactions to empathy, sympathy, or antipathy (What Is Narrative Criticism? Guides to Biblical Scholarship [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990], 56–8). 2. The best introduction to cognitive narratology is David Herman, “Cognitive Narratology,” in Handbook of Narratology, ed. Peter Hühn et al. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 30–43; idem, “Cognitive Narratology (last modified March 13, 2013),” in The Living Handbook of Narratology, ed. Peter Hühn et al. (Hamburg: Hamburg University). Available online: http://wikis.sub.uni-hamburg.de/lhn/index.php/Cognitive_Narratology.

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In fact, an analysis of Luke 19:1-10, Jesus’s encounter with Zacchaeus, provides an unusually rich case study for a character analysis informed by cognitive narratology. On the one hand, this is because of the complex of explicit ways the narrator and characters within Luke’s account label Zacchaeus: ruler among tax collectors, rich, short, sinner, son of Abraham, and lost; the ways Luke has Zacchaeus represent himself when he refers to Jesus as “Lord” and claims certain practices vis-à-vis the poor and swindled; and the implicit ways Luke maps Zacchaeus in terms of social space: up, down; in, out; and near, far. Even overt labels can be deceiving, however. After all, it is one thing to identify Zacchaeus in such-and-such a way, but quite another to thicken those identifiers with reference to their source (Whose perspective? How reliable?), their potential complexity, and their encyclopedic development within the narrative itself.3 Luke 19:10 serves as a valuable case study, on the other hand, because of the numerous gaps and potential ambiguities characteristic of this narrative account. What did Zacchaeus know of Jesus such that he wanted to see who Jesus was? How did Jesus know Zacchaeus’s name? Who are the onlookers who label Zacchaeus as a “sinner”? Where are Jesus and Zacchaeus located in v. 8—that is, does Zacchaeus “stand up” (as if they had been sharing a meal in his home) or “stand still” (as if they were still on the way to his home) or “stand firm” (wherever, as if he were taking a stand against those who malign him as a sinner)?4 On what basis does Zacchaeus refer to Jesus as “Lord”? Should we interpret the present active indicative verbs δίδωμι (“I give”) and ἀποδίδωμι (“I repay”) as examples of the futuristic present signifying “present resolve” or as examples of the iterative or customary present?5 When Jesus responds to Zacchaeus (εἶπεν δὲ πρὸς αὐτὸν ὁ Ἰησοῦς), why does he speak about him in the third person (καθότι καὶ αὐτὸς υἱὸς Ἀβραάμ ἐστιν), as though he were speaking to others present, perhaps even to Zacchaeus’s hecklers? To crib a concept from Wolfgang Iser, we might say that, with this account at least, Luke has provided us with a particularly gappy text, a text whose deficits can be negotiated in more than one way, with the result that different readers might understandably actualize the text in different ways and

3. See H. Porter Abbott, The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 122–6. 4. These are among the possible translations of ἵστημι in v. 8 (σταθεὶς δὲ Ζακχαῖος εἶπεν). 5. For the former view, see, for example, Ladislav Tichý, “Was hat Zachäus geantwortet (Lk 19,8),” Biblica 92 (2011): 21–38; Robert C. Tannehill, “The Story of Zacchaeus as Rhetoric,” in The Shape of Luke’s Story: Essays on Luke-Acts (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2005), 73–83; Dennis Hamm, “Luke 19:8 Once Again: Does Zacchaeus Defend or Resolve?” JBL 107 (1988): 431–7. For the latter, see, for example, D. A. S. Ravens, “Zacchaeus: The Final Part of a Lukan Triptych?” JSNT 41 (1991): 19–32; Alan C. Mitchell, “Zacchaeus Revisited: Luke 19,8 as a Defense,” Biblica 71 (1990): 153–76; idem, “The Use of συκοφαντεῖν in Luke 19,8: Further Evidence for Zacchaeus’s Defense,” Biblica 72 (1991): 546–7; Richard C. White, “Vindication for Zacchaeus?” ExpT 91 (1979): 21.



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thus visualize different Zacchaeuses.6 Indeed, for almost three decades, I have regularly involved my students in translating and interpreting Luke 19:1-10, pressing them to clarify for their peers what they regard as patently obvious. Without fail, this has resulted in spirited debates about what is “self-evident” in this narrative account; admittedly, less regularly, this has resulted in students’ growing awareness of the contribution readers make to actualizing Luke’s story— and, especially, to imagining Zacchaeus as a character in that story. Arguably, then, rather than debate whose is the “real Zacchaeus,” we should recognize that the gaps in Luke’s text can be filled in more than one way, so as to promote a limited number of sometimes quite different narrations of the one story. In what follows, then, I have no desire to foreclose ongoing conversation about Zacchaeus, nor to urge that this interpretation is the only correct one. Rather, informed by the construction of characters in cognitive narratology, I want to sketch a particular reading and demonstrate its coherence with the Lukan narrative.

Labelling Zacchaeus, Mapping Zacchaeus In the narrative of Luke-Acts,7 Zacchaeus is a decidedly minor character, appearing in a single, brief account. This is important for two reasons. First, people like Zacchaeus otherwise serve as little more than faces in the crowd, one of dozens of character types (e.g., merchants, artisans, minor officials, synagogue leaders, and day workers) that might be assumed to inhabit any urban landscape Luke paints. That he would be mentioned at all is a curiosity. Moreover, since minor characters typically represent well-known scripts, we might assume that this one will simply 6. For the notion of textual gaps to be filled in by the reader, see Wolfgang Iser, The Implied Reader: Patterns of Communication in Prose Fiction from Bunyan to Beckett (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974). For Iser’s understanding of indeterminacy, see idem, The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), 163–231. I am more at home with Umberto Eco’s notion of the “open work,” with its network of possibilities by which readers complete the text (e.g., The Role of the Reader: Explorations in the Semiotics of Texts, Advances in Semiotics [Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1979]). 7. Albeit with different aims than the current one, I have written of Zacchaeus earlier; consequently, this analysis will inevitably overlap with my other publications—Joel B. Green, “Good News to Whom? Jesus and the ‘Poor’ in the Gospel of Luke,” in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ. Essays on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology, ed. Joel B. Green and Max Turner (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans; Carlisle: Paternoster, 1994), 59–74; idem, The Gospel of Luke, NICNT (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1997), 666–73; idem, “Hospitality for Kids: A Lukan Perspective on Children and God’s Agenda,” in Exploring and Engaging Spirituality for Today’s Children, ed. La Verne Tolbert (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2014), 25–39; idem, Conversion in Luke-Acts: Divine Action, Human Cognition, and the People of God (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2015), 105–19.

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repeat the expected lines in the scene that unfolds.8 Such assumptions would quickly be frustrated, however, since the script we might predict of Zacchaeus quickly unravels into competing scripts. Second, perhaps because of the brevity of this account, Luke frontloads the scene with an expansive assemblage of character tags, then adds others as the story unfolds. It is as if Luke invites readers to make snap judgments about Zacchaeus—judgments, however, that would be complicated both by this unprecedented collocation of labels and by the way the account actually progresses. If we think of character development on a continuum between constraint and freedom, more or less determined, we might imagine the Zacchaeus is locked into a character type by the pattern this account follows. Dennis Hamm, for example, finds parallels among three Lukan texts that for him identify a conversion story (5:27-32; 15:1-32; 19:1-10): table fellowship, murmuring against Jesus’s behavior, Jesus’s defense, images of salvation, and rejoicing. David Matson writes of a household evangelism taxonomy (10:5-7; 19:1-10; et al.): entering homes of economically established householders, proclaiming the message of salvation, and remaining in those homes for table fellowship. Fernando Méndez-Moratalla has identified a Lukan conversion paradigm and studies 19:1-10 as one of its exemplars: divine initiative especially among the marginal, conflict or polarized responses to God’s plan, the universal need for a response of repentance, the expression of repentance in the proper use of possessions, the offer of forgiveness (sometimes expressed in joy and table fellowship), and a climactic statement regarding the nature of Jesus’s ministry.9 According to these readings, Zacchaeus can be understood in only one way, a sinner who converts, since his primary function is to fill a slot in a purported Lukan conversionary pattern. Under closer examination, however, this approach falters. On the one hand, the language of conversion is absent from 19:1-10, the salvific message is never proclaimed, and the promise of table fellowship is never actualized. In other words, the pattern fits only if one first assumes the pattern, assumes 19:1-10 belongs to the pattern, and posits the assumed presence of missing components otherwise definitive of the pattern. It is hard not to conclude that Lukan data have been pressed into a preformed mold. On the other hand, Luke’s narrative evidences a quite different “pattern” in relation to which the story of Jesus’s encounter with Zacchaeus might be understood. I refer to a handful of episodes in which people identify themselves through their behavior as having aligned themselves with God’s kingdom, but whose conversion Luke never recounts. For example, when and on 8. Cf. Catherine Emmott, “Constructing Social Space: Sociocognitive Factors in the Interpretation of Character Relations,” in Narrative Theory and the Cognitive Sciences, ed. David Herman, CSLI Lecture Notes 158 (Stanford, CA: Center for the Study of Language and Information, 2003), 295–321 (310). 9. Hamm, “Luke 19:8,” 426–37; David Lertis Matson, Household Conversion Narratives in Acts: Pattern and Interpretation, JSNTSS 123 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996); Fernando Méndez-Moratalla, The Paradigm of Conversion in Luke, JSNTSS 252 (London: T&T Clark, 2004).



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what basis were the sins of the woman from the city forgiven (7:36-50)? How does one of the criminals crucified alongside Jesus exercise genuine insight into Jesus’s identity, such that Jesus promises him a place with him in paradise (23:40-43)? In these and other instances, it is as if we join the story midstream, with Luke’s narrative logically presupposing encounters with God’s good news, encounters to which the evangelist has given his readers no access. Zacchaeus obviously engages in conversionary behavior (19:8), but, read alongside these accounts, we would remain agnostic regarding when he thus oriented his life in relation to God’s kingdom. My point is simply that appeal to Lukan “patterns” cannot foreclose the question of how Luke portrays Zacchaeus. What, then, of the various labels Luke uses of Zacchaeus? First, he is a ruler (or chief or leader)—in Luke’s world, someone of relatively high status, an overseer with administrative authority, associated in Luke’s Gospel with a company of others similarly designated: high priests (3:2; 22:50, 54), synagogue leaders (8:41, 49; 13:14), chief priests (9:22; 19:47; 20:1, 19; 22:2, 4, 54, 66; 23:4, 10; 23:13; 24:20), the demon-lord (11:15), governmental authorities or sovereigns (12:11, 58; 20:20), a leading Pharisee (14:1), a “certain ruler” (18:18), and the Jerusalem elite as a group (23:35).10 Any honorifics that we might be tempted to give Zacchaeus would be harshly contested by the cultural encyclopedia Luke constructs with his narrative. After all, Luke’s Gospel uniformly portrays “rulers” negatively in relation to Jesus and his message, beginning already in Mary’s poetic celebration of God’s gracious intervention on behalf of his people: “He has pulled the powerful down from their thrones; he has raised up the lowly” (1:52). Any impulse we might have toward allocating elevated status to Zacchaeus on account of his identification as a “ruler” would be militated against, too, by the nature of his “realm”: he is a ruler, yes, but a ruler of tax collectors.11 Tax collecting was perhaps the prototypical form of private enterprise in the Roman Empire. Long before Luke’s Gospel was written, Rome discontinued the practice of collecting its own taxes, instead selling the right to collect taxes to the highest bidder, who himself farmed out the work of collecting taxes to others. By way of analogy, we might imagine a pyramid scheme in which revenues from goods sold make their way up multiple levels of businesspeople, with each along the way taking a share of the profits. A major difference, of course, is that private enterprise in the service of Rome focused on collecting taxes, not selling goods. The tax rate might be set at ten percent, but this varied widely and tax collectors often simply took whatever they could get away with. Recall John the Baptist’s directive to tax collectors: “Collect no more than you are authorized to collect” 10.  That is, any character identified as an ἄρχων (“ruler”) or with a compound using the prefix ἄρχι- (“ruling, leading”). 11. For details on tax collection, I depend on Ernst Badian, Publicans and Sinners: Private Enterprise in the Service of the Roman Republic (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1983); Fritz Herrenbrück, Jesus und die Zöllner: Historische und neutestamentlichexegetische Untersuchungen, WUNT II 41 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1990); Otto Michel, “τελώνης,” TDNT 8:88–105.

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(3:13)—counsel that suggests a tendency among tax collectors to pad their own pockets. Luke’s tax collectors are typically those who occupy the front lines of the enterprise. People like this served as the public face of the business, and as such were tagged with all sorts of insults: thieves, snoops, and corrupt, the social equivalent of pimps and traitors. In Luke’s Gospel, the generally low public regard for tax collectors is accentuated by their vituperative association with “sinners” (5:30; 7:34; 15:1; 18:13). Even when these entrepreneurs were wealthy (and it is easier to imagine wealth accruing to the upper echelons of the hierarchy than to the bottom), they occupied lower rungs on the status ladder than their wealth might suggest. Theirs was “new money,” money gained from work—and widely detested work at that; contrast this with the resources and status of those from old families with vast land holdings. The exception to the typical tax collector in Luke’s Gospel is Zacchaeus, whom Luke introduces with a term otherwise unknown in ancient Greek literature: ἀρχιτελώνης, usually translated “chief tax collector” (e.g., NAB, NRSV, TNIV). As I have already suggested, the job title itself reflects Luke’s widespread interest in “rulers,” though here it apparently also designates Zacchaeus’s role as the head of a group of tax collectors, a kind of “district manager,” responsible for collecting customs on the lucrative trade route between Perea (to the east) and Judea (to the west), which passed through Jericho.12 This would help to explain a further term the narrator uses to characterize Zacchaeus: he was wealthy. If in Luke’s world rulers are elevated and tax collectors are held at arm’s length, it would be difficult to find a simple gloss for those with wealth. We have already seen that wealth has to be parsed with respect to its source—for example, landed wealth versus wealth achieved through business dealings. If we consider the cultural encyclopedia Luke has provided in his narrative, though, wealth is less ambiguous. God “has sent the rich away empty-handed,” Mary proclaims (1:53), and this is only the beginning of an altogether negative portrayal of those who carry the label “rich” or “wealthy.” The fate of the wealthy is a terrible one (6:24-25; 16:19-31), wealth chokes faith (8:14), since it entices people to pursue standing and security apart from God (12:13-21, 33-34), and rich people who want to enter God’s kingdom face insurmountable obstacles, at least from a human vantage point (18:24). Erasing any possible trace of uncertainty on the subject, Jesus announces, “You cannot serve God and wealth” (16:13). Character tags continue. Luke writes that Zacchaeus was unable to see Jesus “because of the crowd” (ἀπὸ τοῦ ὄχλου—using ἀπό in its causal sense). Just as the disciples constructed a barrier between Jesus and infants (18:15), so the crowd walled Zacchaeus off from Jesus. Just as those who led the parade coming into Jericho blocked a blind man’s access to Jesus (18:39), so the crowd has blocked Zacchaeus’s access to Jesus. Luke, it seems, pictures the crowd as it closes ranks against Zacchaeus, a portrait helped along by their subsequent reference to him 12. This was suggested long ago by Frédéric A. Godet, A Commentary on the Gospel of Luke, 2 vols., 5th ed. (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1870), 2:216.



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as a “sinner.” Note, first, that calling Zacchaeus a sinner does not make it so; this is the crowd’s opinion, after all, and crowds in Luke’s Gospel have not proven themselves to be reliable judges of character or identity (e.g., 3:7; 4:42; 5:19; 7:24; 9:18-19). Observe, second, that scholars champion a range of options for communicating the sense of the term “sinner”: the wicked, for example, as well as those who reject the Pharisees’ holiness program, the immoral, and so on.13 Frederick Danker gets us close to how Luke uses the term at this juncture when he recognizes that “being considered an outsider because of failure to conform to certain standards is a [frequent] semantic component.”14 Here, “sinner” is a relative term, measured in relation to a particular group—in this case marking Zacchaeus as a socio-religious leper. What Luke has given us thus far, then, is a baffling presentation of Zacchaeus. If Jesus and his message comprise the landmark by which we measure life’s orientation and trajectory, then Zacchaeus is a man torn in two directions, nothing short of schizophrenic. He is a ruler, but a ruler of tax collectors. He is rich, but regarded by a gallery of onlookers as a sinner. The customary labels fail, their paradoxical complexity undermining any attempt to prejudge Zacchaeus’s character. What of that other set of images Luke uses to tell Zacchaeus’s story, images of verticality: up, down? Zacchaeus was “short in stature,” he “climbed up” a sycamore tree, Jesus “looked up” and told Zacchaeus to “come down,” and Zacchaeus “came down.” As Luke sets the stage, our heads bobble up and down as we follow the action. In fact, Luke’s vertical images compete with each other. Humorously, Zacchaeus elevates himself in his quest to see the one whom he addresses with the high-ranking title, “Lord.” If Zacchaeus is a “ruler,” does this mean that his throne is a sycamore tree? What is a grown man doing in a tree? “How childish!” people might say, both then and now. We must allow for the strong likelihood that others would have looked down on Zacchaeus. This is not because Zacchaeus suffers from dwarfism, as Mikeal Parsons would have it,15 but because he suffers from the ailment accompanying those who are shorter than their peers (not least in a case like Zacchaeus’s, in 13.  Cf., for example, Marcus Borg, Conflict, Holiness and Politics in the Teachings of Jesus (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1984); Ed P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM, 1985); David A. Neale, None but the Sinners: Religious Categories in the Gospel of Luke, JSNTSS 58 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991); Dwayne H. Adams, The Sinner in Luke, ETSMS (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2008). 14.  BDAG 51. Cf. James D. G. Dunn, “Pharisees, Sinners, and Jesus,” in The Social World of Formative Christianity and Judaism: Essays in Tribute to Howard Clark Kee, ed. Jacob Neusner, Peder Borgen, Ernest S. Frerichs, and Richard Horsley (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 264–89 (esp. 275–80). 15. Mikeal C. Parsons, Body and Character in Luke and Acts (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2006), 97–108; Parsons is followed, for example, by Amos Yong, “Zacchaeus: Short and Un-Seen,” in Christian Reflection: A Series in Faith and Ethics—Disability, ed. Robert B. Kruschwitz (Waco, TX: The Center for Christian Ethics at Baylor University,

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which his short stature serves as an identifying feature), those for whom diminutive stature is correlated generally with diminutive status. Twenty-five years of psychological research have demonstrated that height is a metaphor for power and status, with those who are taller more likely to acquire respect and influence.16 This is consistent with the way humans generally correlate “up” with “more” and “down” with “less.” That is, Luke has given us a clear instance of the universal, conceptual metaphor according to which the physical experience of verticality is mapped onto subjective experiences of quantity, leading to a range of novel associations: Up Is Powerful, Up Is Important, and so on. Zacchaeus is “down,” and so of lesser standing and lower status. Given these conceptual linkages, we cannot help but observe how Luke thus associates Zacchaeus in Chapter 19 with infants in Chapter 18—smaller than those around them and spurned either by the disciples or more generally by those looking on (18:15; 19:7), but nonetheless recognized and blessed by Jesus as exemplary (18:16-17; 19:9-10). Imagining each of these labels as “containers,” with each representing a subset of a particular class, we come face to face with the enigma that is Zacchaeus. There are sinners and there are rulers, there are tax collectors and there are little people, and there are the shunned and there are the wealthy. Within the Lukan narrative, some of these subsets have overlapped, but others are quite distinct. We can imagine a rich ruler, for example (18:18-23), and we have seen tax collectors grouped with sinners (5:30; 7:34; 15:1). Zacchaeus perplexes because his identity overflows the available sets. If we think of character construction in terms of the time-honored categories of “flat” and “round,” then we can see how each of these containers, each of these subsets, each of these labels seeks on its own to flatten Zacchaeus, to cast him as a one-dimensional “type”; their unprecedented combination refuses any such reduction, however. He breaks the mold. He is one of a kind. While we have been tracking the explicit tags given Zacchaeus, Luke has been mapping Zacchaeus in other ways as well. As readers infer character traits, they sometimes draw on extratextual assumptions (including their biases regarding people with whom they catalog Zacchaeus) or give in to the allure of referential approaches to character making (that is, they project into the text what they imagine to be true of the historical Zacchaeus). This seems to have been the 2012), 11–17. As Parsons himself admits, the vocabulary of dwarfism is missing from Luke’s account, and the language Luke does use is hardly unique to dwarfism. 16. For example, Donald B. Egolf and Lloyd E. Corder, “Height Differences of Low and High Job Status, Female and Male Corporate Employees,” Sex Roles 24 (1991): 365–73; Timothy A. Judge and Daniel M. Cable, “The Effect of Physical Height on Workplace Success and Income: Preliminary Test of a Theoretical Model,” Basic and Applied Social Psychology 89 (2004): 428–41; Thomas W. Schubert, “Your Highness: Vertical Positions as Perceptual Symbols of Power,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 89 (2005): 1–21; Steffen R. Giessner and Thomas W. Schubert, “High in the Hierarchy: How Vertical Location and Judgments of Leaders’ Power Are Interrelated,” Organizational Behavior and Human Decision Processes 104 (2007): 30–44.



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case with Cyril of Alexandria, who taps into Zacchaeus’s interior life when he describes “a man entirely abandoned to greed, whose only goal was the increase of his gains.”17 Clearly, a single textual clue concerning Zacchaeus unlooses Cyril’s imagination, so that he sidesteps the possibility of wrestling with the ambiguity of Luke’s portrayal. If, with Cyril, we were to run roughshod over Zacchaeus’s dueling markers of identity, if we were inclined to paint Zacchaeus in negative hues only, then would we not stumble over Luke’s report of Zacchaeus’s quest to see Jesus? Alongside this small window into Zacchaeus’s psychology stands another: his joy at the prospect of welcoming Jesus. Luke’s use of the language of “joy” and “happiness” elsewhere encourages the view that, even at this early stage of the account, Zacchaeus is hardly an outsider to God’s agenda but should be numbered among those who participate in God’s gift of salvation.18 Read together, these two windows into Zacchaeus’s interior life might suggest the need for “cognitive repair” on our part, pressing us, retrospectively, to reimagine Zacchaeus’s place in the story.19 Negative images of Zacchaeus would be countered, again, by his agreement with Luke the narrator concerning Jesus’s identity (19:8): Luke: “Zacchaeus stopped and said to the Lord …” Zacchaeus: “Look, Lord, I give …”

Significantly, Luke and Zacchaeus refer to Jesus as “Lord” (κύριος), but Jesus’s disciples sometimes refer to him, inappropriately, as “boss” or “supervisor” (ἐπιστάτης [5:5; 8:24, 45; 9:33, 49]).20 Moreover, Luke provides no basis for assuming that Zacchaeus’s accurate assessment of Jesus as Lord evidences a turnaround in his life, as though his view of Jesus changed between his wanting to see Jesus and his words to him. What of social space in Luke’s account? Since we have solid evidence that, at a preconscious level, humans correlate spatial and social distance, and that our brains are wired to do so,21 we should reflect seriously on how, in 17. Cyril of Alexandria, Commentary on Luke, Sermon 127; cited in Arthur A. Just Jr., ed., Luke, ACCS: New Testament 3 (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2003), 289–90; emphasis added. 18. Cf., for example, 1:14; 2:10; 6:23; 8:13; 10:17, 20; 15:5, 7, 10, 32; Joel B. Green, “Joy,” DJG2 448–50 (449). 19. For “cognitive repair,” see Emmott, “Constructing Social Space,” 307–8. 20. Cf. C. Kavin Rowe, Early Narrative Christology: The Lord in the Gospel of Luke, BZNW 139 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006), esp. 84–9. 21. For example, Carolyn Parkinson, Shari Liu, and Thalia Wheatley, “A Common Cortical Matrix for Spatial, Temporal, and Social Distance,” Journal of Neuroscience 34, no. 5 (2014): 1979–1987; Yoshinori Yamakawa, et al., “Social Distance Evaluation in Human Parietal Cortex,” PLoS ONE 4, no. 2 (2009). Available online: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih. gov/pmc/articles/PMC2635936. Michael Peer et al., “Brain System for Mental Orientation in Space, Time, and Person,” Proceedings of the National Academic of Science 112, no. 35 (2015): 11072–7.

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character-construction, spatial experience maps onto relational concepts. Using the container schema, we conceptualize others as “in” or “out,” and thus we can speak of the cognitive metaphor Closeness Is Belonging.22 Turning to 19:1-10, we find both that Zacchaeus is separate from the crowd (shunned) and that the crowd has positioned itself between Zacchaeus and Jesus (obstructed). Zacchaeus seeks to overcome his exile by climbing a tree—behavior that results in his proximity to Jesus. In stages, then, Jesus closes the space between himself and Zacchaeus—with his directive to Zacchaeus that he come down (and join Jesus at the foot of the tree), his announcement that God’s agenda is served (δεῖ, “it is necessary” [v. 5]) by his sharing Zacchaeus’s hospitality, and his embarking with Zacchaeus on the path to his home (εἰσέρχομαι [v. 7])—with the result that others are effectively distanced from Jesus and Zacchaeus, reduced to the role of onlookers (v. 7). The progressive closeness (“in”) of this pair, Jesus and Zacchaeus, marks the exclusion (“out”) of these others. This is not because Jesus or Zacchaeus set out to form an exclusive or exclusionary in-group, but because the crowd had separated itself from Zacchaeus. From their perspective, Zacchaeus is “down” and “out.” As Jesus identifies himself with Zacchaeus, their shunning, grumbling displeasure toward Zacchaeus extends to Jesus as well. Setting aside for the moment all labels, we see that Zacchaeus takes extraordinary initiative to seek Jesus out and joyfully extends hospitality to him. Zacchaeus does more than meet Jesus in the streets and share a meal with him— behavior that brings with it no guarantees of sharing in the eschatological feast (cf. 13:23-30). Rather, through his practices of restitution and sharing with the poor, his behavior recapitulates John the Baptist’s exposition of conversionary practices (3:7-14): he shares half of what he has (cf. 3:11), and he acts on a commitment to collect no more than is authorized (cf. 3:13) by repaying any who are cheated under his watch (συκοφαντέω, “to extort,” appears in both 3:14 and 19:8).23 22. Cf. Mark Johnson, The Body in the Mind: The Bodily Basis of Meaning, Imagination, and Reason (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 30–40; Emmott, “Constructing Social Space,” 315–19. 23. Two common objections to the view that Luke thus presents Zacchaeus’s characteristic behavior come into focus here. (1) How can Zacchaeus be wealthy if he gives half of what he has to the poor? I have to admit that I do not understand the force of this objection. Apparently, a wealthy man can dress himself (repeatedly, with ἐνεδιδύσκετο in the imperfect) opulently in fine linen and purple, feast luxuriously every day, and remain wealthy (16:19), just as, today, (relatively) wealthy people practice various forms of wealth redistribution (tithing, gift-giving, etc.) and remain (relatively) wealthy. Is it not imaginable that Zacchaeus’s position in the pyramidal system of collecting taxes could be understood as replenishing his resources so that he was able to keep giving to the poor? (2) How can Zacchaeus’s characteristic behavior be conversionary if he must continuously repay those whom he defrauded? The sting of this objection is mitigated when we remember that Luke presents Zacchaeus as one who oversees frontline tax collectors, not as a frontline tax collector himself. If he takes responsibility for the behavior of those who work under his authority, then he would repay taxpayers when they were charged too much. It is



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Simply put, Zacchaeus exhibits a life oriented toward God’s purpose—and yet remains on the fringes of his socio-religious world. We turn, finally, to Jesus’s characterization of Zacchaeus. He does not label Zacchaeus as a ruler or a tax collector or a rich man or a sinner or a short man of low status. To Jesus, Zacchaeus is a son of Abraham. This moniker does not identify Zacchaeus simply as a Jew; for Luke, bloodlines do not make Abraham’s children. “Do not begin to say among yourselves, ‘Abraham is our father,’” John the Baptist warned (3:8). Rather, in Luke’s cultural encyclopedia, Abraham’s descendants are recipients of God’s mercy (1:54-55), they engage in conversionary practices— including those practices that characterize Zacchaeus’s life (3:7-14; 19:8)—they are the marginal loosed from bondage (13:10-17), and they are spurned in this life but blessed in the life to come (16:19-31). Abraham’s children (1) occupy society’s fringes where they are easily ignored, yet God responds to them with fidelity and mercy, or (2) demonstrate their family resemblance with Abraham through their socio-economic relations and hospitality. As though Luke were skilled in doubleexposure photography, we see both likenesses in the one image of Zacchaeus. Luke, thus, uses the story of Zacchaeus to deconstruct all labels and all labelmaking save one. “Abraham’s child”—this is the tag that matters. One final question: What does it means that Zacchaeus is counted among “the lost” whom the Son of Man has come to seek and to save (19:10)? Jesus’s climactic pronouncement encourages reflection within the interpretive horizons of Luke 15 and Ezekiel 34. In Luke 15, Jesus responds to the indictment brought against him by the Pharisees and legal experts by telling three parables in which finding the lost leads to heavenly and earthly celebration. In short, Jesus defends his eating with tax collectors and sinners with his claim that his behavior participates in God’s. What does it mean to be “lost”? Luke gives us no straightforward answer. Clearly, the younger son chose a life apart from his family, community, and religious traditions, giving rise to Jesus’s multivalent remark that this son journeyed to “a distant country” (15:13). That he came to his senses and returned home is a textbook example of repentance.24 Nevertheless, it is difficult to imagine how a coin, or even a sheep, might “repent”; they are simply lost, then found, and their finding is celebrated. Ezekiel 34 adds to this overall portrait since here God’s people need to be rescued, or restored, but are not called to repentance. They are lost, not because of sinful choices from which they need to turn but because of the failure of their fascinating that neither John the Baptist nor Jesus directs his audience to cease their work as tax collectors, thus suggesting the problem of facile stereotypes and the possibility of faithful life as a tax collector. 24. William L. Holladay, The Root šûbh in the Old Testament: With Particular Reference to Its Usages in Covenantal Contexts (Leiden: Brill, 1958), 53: “having moved in a particular direction, to move thereupon in the opposite direction, the implication being (unless there is evidence to the contrary) that one will arrive again at the initial point of departure” (original in italics).

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leaders (34:1-5). Therefore, the Lord stands against the shepherds and announces that he will take their place: “Behold, I will search for my sheep and watch over them.” “This is what the Lord says: I will seek the lost, and I will turn about the one that strayed, and I will bind up the crushed, and I will strengthen the abandoned, and I will watch the strong, and I will feed them with judgment” (34:11, 15-16, NETS). By way of analogy, Luke 15 portrays the Pharisees and legal experts as failed leaders, and tax collectors and sinners as God’s scattered people whom God seeks to shepherd. The “lost” are those spurned by Pharisees and legal experts, and so the lost-but-found sheep, coin, and son signify those tax collectors and sinners with whom Jesus gathers at the table. Similarly, in seeking hospitality with Zacchaeus, who was himself scorned by his townspeople, Jesus identifies himself with Ezekiel’s Lord, who seeks and saves the lost.

Conclusion Is the Zacchaeus Luke portrays simple or complex? Is he a sinner who repents or a lover of peace (as Jesus calls those who welcome his ambassadors [10:5-6])? How we read Luke’s account depends on how we negotiate the many qualities Luke associates with Zacchaeus—through explicit tags, through small windows into Zacchaeus’s interior life, through Zacchaeus’s behavior, and through the many ways Luke maps Zacchaeus in terms of social space. In some cases, I have suggested, the way forward is signposted with insights from cognitive linguistics, including conceptual metaphor theory and cognitive grammar, which pulls the curtains back on some mind-relevant aspects of character construction. In Luke 19:1-10, a man committed (ζητέω) to seeing Jesus finds that Jesus was committed (ζητέω) to finding him. An outsider in relation to his own townspeople, yet a man whose life exhibits his alignment toward God’s purpose, Zacchaeus (and with him, his household), is found by Jesus and restored to the community of God’s people. This is what it means to save the lost.

Part II T HE A CTS OF THE A POSTLES

8 J E SU S , P R E SE N T A N D / O R A B SE N T ? T H E P R E SE N C E A N D P R E SE N TAT IO N O F J E SU S A S A C HA R AC T E R I N T H E B O O K O F A C T S

Steve Walton

An Absentee Christology? Hans Conzelmann’s view that the ascension means that Jesus has departed to heaven and is, in consequence, now absent from the sphere of earth,1 has been highly influential on subsequent scholarship, especially as mediated (and qualified) by C. F. D. Moule’s influential essay, “The Christology of Acts.”2 Conzelmann asserts that Luke considers that, after the ascension, Jesus is now exalted as the living Lord in a distant heaven, and at some point in the future will return and judge the world. Jesus’ primary role in Acts is, thus, as a character of the past, whose teaching and deeds offer a source of teaching and inspiration for believers. Hence, readers of Acts meet reports of Jesus’ past actions and the promise of his future return, but they do not meet Jesus himself as an active and present character within the story of Acts. Two key passages are cited in support of this view. The first is the ascension scene in Acts 1:9-11, where Jesus is removed from human sight (v. 9), and the viewers are told that he is now in heaven and will return from heaven (v. 11). Similarly, 3:20-21 presents Jesus as remaining in heaven3 until the restoration of all things (v. 20), which occurs at the return of Jesus.4 1.  Hans Conzelmann, The Theology of St Luke (London: Faber & Faber, 1960), 170–206. 2. Charles F. D. Moule, “The Christology of Acts,” in Studies in Luke-Acts, ed. Leander E. Keck and J. Louis Martyn (London: SPCK, 1968), 159–85. 3. ὃν δεῖ οὐρανὸν μὲν δέξασθαι “whom heaven must receive” (v. 20). 4. This is the majority interpretation of “the restoration of all things” in scholarship, e.g., Luke T. Johnson, The Acts of the Apostles. Sacra Pagina 5 (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical, 1992), 74; Kevin L. Anderson, “‘But God Raised Him from the Dead’: The Theology of Jesus,” in Resurrection in Luke-Acts, PBM (Milton Keynes: Paternoster, 2006), 228.

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Moule further argues (against Conzelmann) that the Christology of Acts is more developed than that of Luke’s Gospel.5 In the Gospel, Jesus is almost never referred to as ὁ κύριος “the Lord” by humans,6 except in the narrator’s voice, other than when people address Jesus using the vocative κύριε, which is simply a respectful form of address and might be translated, “Sir.” Moule notes two exceptions: when Elizabeth speaks of Mary as “the mother of my Lord (τοῦ κυρίου μου)” (1:43), and when Zechariah speaks of John as one who will go “before the Lord (ἐνώπιον κυρίου)” (1:76)—although Moule argues that the referent of “the Lord” as Jesus in 1:76 is only clear with Christian hindsight.7 By contrast, after the resurrection, both in the Gospel and throughout Acts, Jesus is referred to as ὁ κύριος by people (notably Luke 24:34; Acts 10:36).8 If Jesus is absent, Conzelmann and others understand the Spirit to mediate or to substitute for the presence of the absent Jesus.9 Conzelmann characterizes the Spirit in Acts as “no longer the eschatological gift, but the substitute in the meantime for the possession of ultimate salvation.”10 This view has not gone unchallenged.11 Its significance for this essay is that there is evidently a tension within Acts between the physical absence of Jesus from earth following his ascension, including statements about him as a figure of the past in the evangelistic speeches, and Luke’s presentation of the exalted Jesus as now active from heaven within the narrative.12 In order to address this tension, we shall study both the means by which Luke characterizes Jesus in Acts, and the content of Luke’s characterization of Jesus. For both clarity and brevity, we shall 5. Moule, “Christology,” 160–1. 6. This descriptor is used by angels in Luke 2:11. 7. Moule, “Christology,” 160, 172; discussion of these exceptions forms part of the challenge to Moule in Eric Franklin, Christ the Lord: A Study in the Purpose and Theology of Luke-Acts (London: SPCK, 1975), 49–55. For an alternative, narrative reading of 1:76, arguing that this verse should be read as part of a thread running from 1:43 to 3:4-6, and thus that “Lord” in 1:76 refers to Jesus in Luke’s narrative context; see C. Kavin Rowe, Early Narrative Christology: The Lord in the Gospel of Luke (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2009), 69–77. Translations of biblical texts are mine. 8.  Moule goes on to identify similar shifts in usage for Jesus as prophet, the son of man, savior, and son (“Christology,” 162–5). 9.  E.g., C. K. Barrett, Luke the Historian in Recent Study (London: Epworth, 1961), 67; F. F. Bruce, “The Holy Spirit in the Acts of the Apostles,” Interpretation 27 (1973): 166–83, esp. 178–9; Bo Reicke, “The Risen Lord and His Church: The Theology of Acts,” Interpretation 13 (1959): 157–69, esp. 162, 166; Arland J. Hultgren, Christ and His Benefits: Christology and Redemption in the New Testament (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 81, 85. 10. Conzelmann, Theology, 97. 11. E.g., Robert F. O’Toole, “Activity of the Risen Jesus in Luke-Acts,” Biblica 62 (1981): 471–98; Mikeal C. Parsons, The Departure of Jesus in Luke-Acts: The Ascension Narratives in Context, JSNTSS 21 (Sheffield: JSOT, 1987), 160–2. 12.  For the latter, see Matthew Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts, SNTSMS 146 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), passim, e.g., 72–80.



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organize our discussion around the various means of characterization which Luke uses. We shall then synthesize our discussion in dialogue with the recent category of “divine identity” Christology, before returning to the question of how we should understand Luke’s portrait of Jesus’ presence and absence in Acts.

Means of Characterizing Jesus in Acts Robert Alter helpfully identifies a “scale of means” for characterization in biblical narrative, which he understands to be “reliable third-person [narration].”13 He identifies a series of means of revealing character which he sees as providing increasing degrees of explicitness and confidence: (i) the actions of a character and description of the character’s appearance (“showing”); (ii) what other characters say about a character; (iii) the character’s own speech to others; (iv) the character’s “interior monologue” (a category which is absent in Acts); (v) the narrator’s statements about the character’s views, intentions and attitudes (“telling”). These are also the means which an author uses to guide readers in evaluating characters, for the author’s choice of terms, presentation, speech, manner, and so forth will lead readers to sympathize, empathize or be antipathetic toward a character.14 Let us consider how Jesus is characterized in Acts using these means. Jesus’ Actions and Appearance (“Showing”) There is relatively little “showing” of Jesus, i.e., description of his appearance and actions, which is hardly surprising since he is not physically present for the vast majority of the story in Acts—this Conzelmann recognizes accurately. The only physical description may be that he shines (9:3). This reticence is shared with most ancient narrative. There are mentions of Jesus’ deeds in the past (e.g., 2:22; 1:1-11; 10:38), most notably of his death and resurrection (e.g., 2:23-24; 3:13-15; 4:10; 13. Robert Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (London: Allen & Unwin, 1981), 116–17; quotations are from p. 116; cf. the slightly longer exposition, with helpful examples, in James L. Resseguie, Narrative Criticism of the New Testament: An Introduction (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2005), 130–2. For a treatment of characterization by a literary critic which has been influential in Biblical Studies, and which makes similar points, see Wayne C. Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1961), 3–20. Cf. also Malbon’s five means of characterization of Jesus in Mark: what the narrator and other characters say about Jesus; what Jesus says in response to what others say to and of him; what Jesus says about himself and God; what Jesus does; and what other characters do which is related to what Jesus says and does; Elizabeth S. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009). Her approach, while useful for studying a Gospel, is less helpful for Acts, because of Jesus’ physical absence for most of the narrative. 14. Mark A. Powell, What is Narrative Criticism? (London: SPCK, 1993), 53–4; Daniel Marguerat and Yvan Bourquin, How to Read Bible Stories (London: SCM, 1999), 66–9.

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10:39b-41; 13:27-31; 17:18, 31), and of what Jesus does now: he causes Saul to be blind (9:9), and he heals Aeneas (9:34). Further, through Jesus’ name forgiveness is available (2:38), and the man with a congenital disability is healed (3:6). The last two references are the tip of an iceberg of mentions of the power of Jesus’ name (or “the name”) in the present of the Acts story,15 including: baptism “in the name of Jesus the Messiah” (2:38; 8:16; 10:48; 19:5; 22:16); forgiveness through the name of Jesus (2:38; 10:43); healing through the name (3:6, 16; 4:7, 10); signs and wonders performed through the name (4:30-31; 8:12 with 8:3-8); salvation given through the name (2:21; 4:12). We shall learn more about “the name of Jesus” when we look at other characters’ speech about Jesus below. In sum, the contribution of description of Jesus’ actions and appearance to our understanding of Luke’s characterization of Jesus is small, just as, according to Alter’s model, it is less explicit and significant. Other means of characterization will be more useful in developing a well-grounded understanding. What Other Characters Say about Jesus This is one of the two largest groups of references concerning Jesus in Acts (the other is the author’s comments on Jesus). Notable here is the variety of appellations predicated of Jesus by a number of characters,16 as well as the focus on divine testimony to Jesus (notably by his resurrection and exaltation), and the powerful effect of Jesus’ name. Calling Jesus Names17 Lord Jesus is called “Lord” κύριος in a number of places in a way that goes beyond the polite address of the vocative κύριε (“Sir”) by characters in Luke’s Gospel. It is, of

15. See John A. Ziesler, “The Name of Jesus in the Acts of the Apostles,” JSNT 4 (1979): 28–41. 16. I use “appellations” in preference to “titles” because older approaches considered Christology almost exclusively through “titles,” which tended to assume that the most significant factor in interpreting Jesus was the “titles” applied to Jesus, and that these “titles” had a pre-existing meaning that Jesus was recognized as fitting. By contrast, it seems more likely that early Christian encounter with Jesus in the flesh and through the life of the believing communities shaped how these “titles” were understood. On the importance of early Christian “religious experience” for understanding early Christian interpretation of Jesus, see, inter alia, Larry W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2003); Luke T. Johnson, Religious Experience in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998). 17.  See the helpful summaries in Larry W. Hurtado, “Christology in Acts: Jesus in Early Christian Belief and Practice,” in Issues in Luke-Acts: Selected Essays, ed. Sean A. Adams and Michael W. Pahl, Gorgias Handbooks 26 (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2012), 217–37 (221–6).



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course, likely that some uses of κύριος in Acts refer to God rather than Jesus;18 nevertheless, some characters use this appellation of Jesus in striking ways. One cluster of uses features address to Jesus in prayer, notably Stephen’s dying prayer to κύριε Ἰησοῦ “Lord Jesus” (7:59). Similarly, “the Lord” speaking in a vision to Ananias undoubtedly suggests a divine “Lord,” and thus the combination “the Lord Jesus” portrays Jesus speaking from heaven, and thus acting in the place of yhwh (9:10, 13, 17; see further below).19 This kind of combination of names is echoed in regular uses of the collocation ὁ κύριος Ἰησοῦς [Χριστός] “the Lord Jesus [Messiah]” by believing speakers (1:21; 4:33; 11:17, 20; 15:11, 26; 16:21; 20:21, with 24, 35; 21:13; 28:31) who are reliable characters. Stephen’s prayer follows hot on the heels of Jesus’ appearance to Stephen at God’s right side (7:55-56), sharing God’s rule. Stephen identifies Jesus as “the son of man,” echoing the exalted “son of man” of Daniel 7:13-14 who is given universal rule and authority.20 The Sanhedrin’s response in both stopping their ears21 and stoning Stephen to death indicates that they understand Stephen’s statements about Jesus as blasphemous, for stoning is a punishment for blasphemy, including the worship of false gods.22 Luke’s authorial observation that Stephen is πλήρης πνεύματος ἁγίου “filled with the Holy Spirit” when he sees Jesus exalted (7:55), indicates that Stephen speaks as a reliable character—what Stephen says is to be trusted, and the Sanhedrin have understood it correctly. Ananias encounters “the Lord” in a vision (9:10), and this character is consistently referred to as “the Lord” (9:11, 13, 15). Ananias himself then clarifies that “the Lord” is Jesus when he speaks with Saul, and that identification is a crucial point of continuity with Saul’s vision: “the Lord (ὁ κύριος), Jesus (Ἰησοῦς)23 who appeared to you on your way here, has sent me” (9:17 [my italics]; cf. 9:5). Stephen and Ananias both speak of Jesus as Lord and as a figure of the present. 18.  See discussion in James D. G. Dunn, “ΚΥΡΙΟΣ in Acts,” in The Christ and the Spirit: Collected Essays of James D. G. Dunn; Volume 1 Christology (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1998), 241–53. 19. Joseph Rius-Camps and Jenny Read-Heimerdinger, The Message of Acts in Codex Bezae: A Comparison with the Alexandrian Tradition, vol. 2, JSNTSS 302 (London: T&T Clark, 2006), 186–7. 20. F. F. Bruce, The Acts of the Apostles, 3rd ed. (Leicester: Apollos, 1990), 211; C. F. D. Moule, The Origin of Christology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 11–22. 21. Eckhard J. Schnabel, Acts, ZECNT 5 (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2012), 390; Alan F. Segal, Two Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity and Gnosticism, SJLA 25 (Leiden: Brill, 1977), 94–5. 22. E.g., Lev. 24:13-16; Deut. 17:2-7. 23. Ἰησοῦς is absent from 𝔐 sams, but its overwhelming support in primitive witnesses 45, 74 (𝔓 ‫ א‬A B C D E most minuscules vg) makes its presence extremely probable—with C. K. Barrett, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, vol. 1, ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994), 457; Bruce M. Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament, 2nd ed. (New York: UBS, 1994), 320.

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Jesus is certainly located in heaven, but he engages with the world of people from there, by appearance and speech—he is truly “Lord of all” (πάντων κύριος, 10:36). Messiah Jesus is also “Messiah,” notably in 2:36, where Peter signals that God’s action in raising Jesus from the dead and exalting Jesus to his right side (2:33) causes him to be known as “both Lord and Messiah.”24 The controversy over the healing of the man with a congenital disability at the temple gate is peppered with references in believers’ speeches to Jesus as Messiah, without reference to him as “Lord.” The healing itself takes place through “the name of Jesus the Messiah,” and Peter and John’s speeches identify Jesus as Messiah (3:6, 18, 20; 4:10). In response to the ban on speaking in the name of Jesus, the believers pray and identify Jesus as the “Messiah” of Psalm 2:2 (4:26). Proclamation is thus of Jesus as Messiah (5:42; 8:5; 9:22; 10:36; 11:17), and his messianic name brings deliverance from demonization (16:18). “Messiah” in first-century Judaism is a word with variegated reference.25 Χριστός is cognate with the verb χρίω (cf. 4:27; 10:38) and thus has the sense “anointed one,” which connotes kingship.26 Use of “Messiah” points to the present kingly rule of Jesus, demonstrated in his sovereign actions of salvation and healing. His rule as Messiah (and, indeed, Lord) necessarily challenges others who claim absolute rule, including Caesar.27 I am not suggesting by this that Luke understands earliest Christianity to be (or that it should be) aggressively antiimperial in its words and actions; importantly, there is little evidence—especially in Acts—that Roman rulers understood the lives and actions of believers that way.28 I am suggesting that the kingly connotations of Χριστός for Jesus necessarily implied that, where there was a clash of loyalties between Jesus and Caesar 24. I take ἐποίησεν here to signal not that Jesus has acquired a status he did not previously possess, but that through the resurrection and ascension of Jesus, and his pouring out the Spirit (2:33), Jesus is now known to be Messiah and Lord. See the valuable discussions in C. Kavin Rowe, “Acts 2:36 and the Continuity of Lukan Christology,” NTS 53 (2007): 37–56; I. Howard Marshall, Luke: Historian and Theologian (Exeter: Paternoster, 1970), 166–7. 25. See, e.g., N. T. Wright, The New Testament and the People of God, Christian Origins and the Question of God 1 (London: SPCK, 1992), 307–20 and literature there cited. 26. Moule, Origin, 31–2. 27. For fuller discussion, see Steve Walton, “The State They Were In: Luke’s View of the Roman Empire,” in Rome in the Bible and the Early Church, ed. Peter Oakes (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2002), 1–41; idem, “Trying Paul or Trying Rome? Judges and Accused in the Roman Trials of Paul in Acts,” in Luke-Acts and Empire: Essays in Honor of Robert L. Brawley, ed. David Rhoads, David Esterline, and Jae W. Lee, PTM 151 (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2011), 122–41; idem, “What Does ‘Mission’ in Acts Mean in Relation to the ‘Powers that Be’?” JETS 55 (2012): 537–6. 28. See the very valuable discussions in C. Kavin Rowe, World Upside Down: Reading Acts in the Graeco-Roman Age (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), esp. 91–176.



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(such as over offering sacrifices to Caesar), Luke calls believers to put Caesar second. It may well be the recognition of this greater status of Jesus which stands behind the claim of Paul’s opponents that he announces Jesus as “another king” (βασιλέα ἕτερον, 17:7).29 Servant Jesus is further identified as God’s παῖς “servant” (3:13, 26; 4:27, 30), exclusively by believers—a designation which echoes Isaiah 52:13: In 3:13 Peter goes on to speak of Jesus’ rejection, suffering, death, and exaltation, picking up further themes from Isaiah 52:13–53:12,30 and thus invites Luke’s readers to listen carefully to this echo—the quotation from this Isaianic passage in 8:32-33 underlines its importance. This name also echoes descriptions of both Israel and David as God’s “servant”;31 these echoes may suggest that the term both connotes and shapes Jesus’ role as Israel’s king, a king who “sums up” the nation in his own person.32 Mention of Jesus as God’s servant is, interestingly, focused on his past deeds, rather than his present actions. Savior Jesus is called σωτήρ “savior” only twice in Acts (5:31; 13:23), both in speeches by believers to not-yet-believing audiences. Nevertheless, Jesus’ activity of saving people is prominent—the verb σῴζω, “I save/heal,” is what Jesus does for people (2:21; 4:9, 12; 11:14; 14:9; 15:1, 11; 16:30-31; 27:20, 31), particularly in the programmatic summary, “we believe that we will be saved (σωθῆναι) through the grace of the Lord Jesus, just as they will” (15:11). Similarly, in speeches, “salvation” (σωτηρία, σωτήριον) is what Jesus—and no one else—brings (4:12; cf. 13:26, 47; 16:17; 28:28). There are uses of this word group which focus on healing as the present activity of Jesus (e.g., 4:9; 14:9), although the majority of uses on believers’ lips concern Jesus’ role in saving people from judgment, specifically by making forgiveness for sins available (2:38 with 2:21; 5:31; 10:43 with 11:14; 13:38, with 13:26, 47; 26:18).33 Jesus is characterized as one who saves, and that in the present as well as the future. Other names Several other designations are used, although none is as common as those discussed above. 29. With Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles: A New Translation and Commentary, Anchor Bible 31 (New York: Doubleday, 1998), 596. 30.  For details, see Darrell L. Bock, Proclamation from Prophecy and Pattern: Lucan Old Testament Christology, JSNTSS 12 (Sheffield: JSOT, 1987), 188–9. 31. Israel: Luke 1:54; cf. Isa. 42:1; 44:1–2, 21; 45:4. David: Luke 1:69; Acts 4:25; cf. Isa. 37:35. 32. cf. 1 Sam. 5:1-5, where the tribes gather to anoint David and say to him, “We are your bone and flesh,” language which suggests representation. 33. See Marshall, Historian, 138–41, 169–75.

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Holy and righteous one Jesus is ὁ ἅγιος καί δίκαιος “the holy and righteous one” (3:14). Holiness and righteousness are characteristics of yhwh in Scripture: yhwh is “the holy one of Israel,”34 and is righteous.35 Jesus has been called “the holy one of God” by demons (Luke 4:34), and is described as “the righteous one” by Jewish believers (Acts 7:52; 22:14). These uses focus on Jesus’ past, rather than his present, notably in the context of his death. Author of life Jesus is ὁ ἀρχηγὸς τῆς ζωῆς “the author/leader of life” (3:15) or simply ἀρχηγός “leader” (5:31). This term is widely used in LXX (and elsewhere) for “leader,”36 and that is most probably its sense here: Jesus as leader leads the way to life.37 The deeply ironic claim in 3:14 is that Jesus was the author of life at the point where the Jerusalemites had him killed. 3:14 is a statement about the past, whereas in 5:31 Jesus is now the “leader and savior” who presently gives repentance and forgiveness to Israel. Characters’ use of this designation, then, spans both past and present activities of Jesus. Prophet like Moses In the same speech as the previous two designations, Jesus is also seen as the “prophet like Moses” (3:22-33). Peter quotes Deuteronomy 18:15, where Moses promises that yhwh will send a prophet like him, whom Peter here identifies as Jesus, as does Stephen (7:37). Other Jews expected such a prophet, so identifying Jesus as that prophet was significant.38 The point of this identification is that the people should listen to Jesus: Peter quotes Leviticus 23:29 to underline the point (3:23). This description of Jesus roots his identity in Scripture, as many other designations do, and highlights Jesus as one who conveys the very words of God. The focus is thus on the past of Jesus: “God will raise up” may well focus on Jesus’ resurrection, for Peter has already spoken of Jesus’ earthly ministry (3:13b-15)—and if 34. E.g., Pss. 71:22 [LXX 70:22]; 78:41 [LXX 77:41]; 89:18 [LXX 88:19]; Isa. 1:4; 5:19; 12:6; Jer. 50:29 [LXX 27:29]. 35. E.g., Deut. 32:4; 1 Sam. 2:2; 2 Chron. 12:6; Ezra 9:15; Neh. 9:33; Pss. 7:11 [LXX 12]; 11:7 [LXX 10:7]; 116:5 [LXX 114:5]; 129:4 [LXX 128:4]; Isa. 45:21; Tob. 3:2; 2 Macc. 1:24; 3 Macc. 2:3. 36.  E.g., Exod. 6:14; Num. 10:4; 13:2, 3 [Mt. 3,4]; 14:4; 24:17; Deut. 32:21; 1 Chron. 5:24; Neh. 2:9; 7:70, 71; Isa. 3:6, 7; 30:4; Jdt. 14:2; 1 Macc. 9:61: For extra-biblical uses, see Barrett, Acts, 1:197. For other senses found in Greek literature, see D. L. Jones, “The Title ‘Author of Life (Leader)’ in the Acts of the Apostles,” in SBL 1994 Seminar Papers, SBLSP 33 (Atlanta: SBL, 1994), 627–36 (627, nn. 3–6). 37. τῆς ζωῆς is genitive of direction: BDF §166; cf. Mic 1:13 LXX ἀρχηγὸς ἁμαρτίας αὐτή ἐστιν “she is the one who leads to sin.” 38. E.g., 1QS 9:11; 4QTest 175:5-7; see also Julie E. Robb, “The Prophet Like Moses: Its Jewish Context and Use in the Early Christian Tradition” (PhD diss., King’s College London, 2003), ch. 2; Joachim Jeremias, Μωυσῆς, TDNT, vol. 8, 857–64, 867–73.



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“God will raise up” is a further reference to Jesus’ pre-resurrection ministry, there would be no possibility of repentance for those who rejected him then.39 A man Jesus is also referred to as “a man,” both by believers, using the specifically masculine term ἀνήρ (2:22; 17:31), and by unbelievers, using the generic human term ἄνθρωπος (5:28)—it is unlikely that there is any significance to the difference in term between believers and unbelievers, although the unbelievers, of course, believe that Jesus is only human. Peter also identifies Jesus’ humble beginnings in Nazareth: he is ὁ Ναζωραῖος (also 3:6; 4:10; 6:14; 22:8; 26:9; cf. Luke 18:37), confirming his human origins. There is no “Ebionite” suggestion here that Jesus began as human and later became God’s son, for Luke has made it clear that Jesus was God’s son from his origins (Luke 1:35).40 Peter believes that Jesus is more than human, but not less than human—and Paul’s claim in Athens that God will judge the world through “a man” (17:31) suggests that he understands the present, exalted Jesus as still human, although, again, more than human as the agent of God’s judgment (cf. 10:42). Jesus’ humanity is thus a past, present and future feature of his characterization. Gracious It is “the grace (χάρις) of the Lord Jesus” which saves believers (15:11), and the choice of χάρις in this subjective genitive construction (it is Jesus acting graciously which is in view) presents Jesus in similar colors to God himself (cf. 11:23; 13:43; 14:26; 20:24, 32) as a generous giver. It is striking that 15:11 is the only place in Acts where grace is predicated of Jesus, amidst a sea of references to God’s grace. Jesus’ grace is a present reality, for it saves people now. Divine Testimony to Jesus As well as human speech about Jesus, we should also consider divine testimony to Jesus in Acts. This is never explicit divine speech (contrast Luke 3:22—perhaps audible to Jesus alone; 9:35); it is usually found in the form of human speeches that speak of God’s actions and testimony to Jesus. Deeds of power Jesus’ own actions were divine testimony, says Peter on the day of Pentecost (2:22), for they were δυνάμεσιν καὶ τέρασιν καὶ σημείοις “deeds of power and wonders and signs.” These terms echo the prophecy of Joel quoted by Peter (2:19, citing Joel 2:30 [LXX 3:3]), except that in Joel they are yhwh’s deeds. It may be that we should connect the deeds of power with God’s anointing of Jesus (4:27), 39. Robb, “Prophet,” 100; Gerhard Krodel, Acts, PC (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981), 29; Anderson, But God, 231–2. 40. Against Ernst Haenchen, The Acts of the Apostles (Oxford: Blackwell, 1971), 187; with Hans Conzelmann, Acts of the Apostles, Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 20, 21.

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a further piece of divine testimony. As we noted above, anointing marked kings and signalled authority.41 The resurrection It is consistently the resurrection of Jesus to which the apostolic band is to bear witness (1:22; 2:24, 31, 32; 4:2, 33; 17:3, 18, 31, 32; 25:19; 26:23; cf. 23:6; 24:15, 21).42 This action is regularly presented as God’s action of vindicating Jesus against human injustice in putting him to death (2:23-24, 32; 3:13-15; 4:10; 5:30; 10:29-30; etc.), and thus is the center of the apostolic testimony (4:33).43 The verbs used, either ἀνίστημι or ἐγείρω,44 have God as active: it is never that “Jesus rose,” but rather that “God raised Jesus.”45 Implicit in the resurrection, then, is Jesus’ innocence, a theme stressed in Luke’s crucifixion account: Jesus is explicitly declared innocent no less than six times (Luke 23:4, 14, 15, 22, 41, 47). The innocent Jesus dies in the place of a guilty man, Barabbas: 23:25 sharply juxtaposes Barabbas’ guilt and his replacement by Jesus. The resurrection has two implications: first, that Jesus is now alive and available to his people (e.g., Acts 2:38); and secondly, that his innocent death has dealt with sin—forgiveness and transformation are now available through Jesus (e.g., Acts 2:38; 3:26; 4:12; 5:31; 10:43; 13:38; 26:18). Thus Jesus’ past act of humiliation now issues in his present ability to “save” (4:12). Scripture A further piece of divine testimony to Jesus is the voice of Scripture.46 When speaking about Jesus at Pentecost, Peter turns to Scripture to interpret recent events, citing Joel and two Psalms (Pss. 16; 110) (2:16-20, 25-28, 31, 34-35). When answering the Sanhedrin, Peter directs his hearers to Psalm 118:22 as identifying Jesus as the stone which the builder rejected, but which is now the cornerstone (4:11). When praying, the believing community see the recent events of Jesus’ trial, death and resurrection through the lens of Psalm 2 (4:25-28): Scripture provides divine interpretation of what has happened in Jesus’ lifetime and is now happening during the time of his reign from God’s right side. When Philip meets the Ethiopian eunuch, he finds him reading Isaiah 53, and responds to the eunuch’s question, “About whom … does the prophet speak?” (8:34) by “starting 41. See the discussion of “Messiah” above, pp. 128–9. 42. More fully, see Anderson, But God, 34–5. 43. See the fine exposition of the latter theme in Daniel Marguerat, “The Resurrection and its Witnesses in the Book of Acts,” in Reading Acts Today: Essays in Honour of Loveday C. A. Alexander, ed. Steve Walton, Thomas E. Phillips, Lloyd K. Pietersen, and F. Scott Spencer, LNTS 427 (London: T&T Clark, 2011), 171–85. 44. ἀνίστημι: 2:24, 32; 13:33, 34. ἐγείρω: 3:15; 4:10; 5:30; 13:30, 37. 45. With Anderson, But God, 127. 46. More fully, see Bock, Proclamation; Mark L. Strauss, The Davidic Messiah in Luke-Acts: The Promise and its Fulfillment in Lukan Christology, JSNTSS 110 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995).



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with that scripture,” and telling him “the good news about Jesus” (8:35). In the synagogue at Pisidian Antioch, Paul cites Psalm 2:7 (13:33), Isaiah 55:3 (13:34), and Psalm 16:10 (13:35), and uses the language of fulfillment/completion to describe the relationship between Scripture and Jesus (πληρόω, 13:27; ἐκπληρόω 13:33; τελέω 13:29).47 Further examples could be multiplied,48 but the point is clear: God’s voice in Scripture testifies to and interprets both the past and present of Jesus and his people. The Power of Jesus’ Name We noted the “name (of Jesus)” above as a means by which Jesus acts.49 It is frequently found on believers’ lips. Thus believing characters are (ironically) proud of the dishonor they suffer for “the name” (5:41; 21:13; 26:9); risk their lives “for the name” (15:26); speak “in the name” (4:17-18; 5:28, 40; 8:12; 9:14, 15); call “on the name” (9:21; 22:16); and are characterized as a people “for his name” (15:14). A good outcome of evangelism in a city is that “the name” is held in honor (19:17). In particular, Jesus’ name is called upon in prayer. The believers whom Saul goes to persecute are characterized by Ananias and the Damascene people at large as “those who call on (ἐπικαλουμένους) your name” (9:14, 21). Stephen calls upon “Lord Jesus” as he is being stoned (7:59). Baptism is into “the name,” programmatically so in 2:38.50 There is variation in the preposition: it can be ἐπί (2:38), εἰς (8:16) or ἐν (10:48), but there seems no discernible difference in meaning. Older studies, notably W. Heitmüller, understood baptism “into the name” as signifying becoming the possession of the one into whose name one was baptized;51 however the variation in preposition tells against such a specific idea being involved. It seems more likely that the name of Jesus was invoked in connection with the rite of baptism, by either or both of the baptizer and the candidate.52 Baptism is a ritual act of entering into the group of Jesus-believers marked by invoking his name, both as a component of the rite and 47.  See David Peterson, “The Motif of Fulfilment and the Purpose of Luke-Acts,” in The Book of Acts in its Ancient Literary Setting, ed. Bruce W. Winter and Andrew D. Clarke, BAFCS 1 (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1993), 83–104; John T. Squires, The Plan of God in Luke-Acts, SNTSMS 76 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993). 48. See the full treatment in I. Howard Marshall, “Acts,” in Commentary on the New Testament Use of the Old Testament, ed. Gregory K. Beale and Donald A. Carson (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2007), 513–606. 49. See above, pp. 126, 128. 50.  See Max Turner, Power from on High: The Spirit in Israel’s Restoration and Witness in Luke-Acts, JPTSS 9 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 358–60. 51. Wilhelm Heitmüller, “Im Namen Jesu.” Eine sprach.- u. religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum Neuen Testament, speziell zur altchristlichen Taufe, FRLANT I 2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1903). 52. Lars Hartman, “Into the Name of the Lord Jesus”: Baptism in the Early Church, SNTW (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997).

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as giving the rite its power. Thus in 22:16, “Now what are you waiting for? Get up, be baptized and (epexegetical καί) wash away your sins by calling upon his name.” Similarly, when Paul baptizes the Ephesian twelve in Jesus’ name and lays hands on them, the Holy Spirit falls—the rite is effective—whereas in their previous state as disciples of John the baptizer, they did not even know of the Spirit (19:2-7). Healing, too, takes place through Jesus’ name, and particular play is made of this in the healing of the man with the congenital disability at the Temple. There, Peter commands him to stand and walk “in the name of Jesus the Messiah” (3:6), and the man does so. The Sanhedrin’s question to Peter and John is “by what name” the healing took place (4:7), and Peter is clear that it is “by the name of Jesus the Messiah of Nazareth” (4:10). Jesus himself can intervene in the present story to heal, too, as Aeneas discovers (9:34)—this is a remarkable piece of evidence that Luke understands Jesus to be presently active in the apostolic community. Deliverance from evil spirits takes place through the name of Jesus, such as the slave girl in Philippi (16:18). This usage parallels the invocation of a powerful name in spells and on amulets of the period.53 People were prepared to use any name that was effective, as we learn comically in Ephesus, for the sons of Sceva discover that the name of Jesus is not a magical word to overpower spirits (19:13). Rather, a relationship with the Jesus whose name is invoked is critical.54 Summary As we have seen, the claims come from a variety of characters; they are “focalized” through different characters.55 This means that, in assessing Luke’s portrait of Jesus in Acts, we must take into account how reliable Luke considers the characters who speak to be—for example, Petrine and Pauline testimony is clearly of high value, for these are people full of the Spirit, whereas the testimony of opponents (e.g., in 17:7) needs handling with more care, as I sought to do above. Bearing this in mind, a very wide range of characterizing features are provided through the means of other (reliable) characters’ speech about Jesus, and they add up to a substantial testimony to him as human and much more than human. This testimony is not only concerning “titles,” as older scholarship thought, but also deeds and actions “in the name of Jesus.” Having studied other characters’ speech about Jesus, we have a greater sense of Luke’s own view of Jesus as a character. Some of the themes which were merely suggested by what Luke writes of Jesus’ own actions are developed and delineated by Luke’s reliable characters—and even sometimes unknowingly reinforced by less reliable characters. 53. For examples, see Hans D. Betz, ed., The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation: Including the Demotic Spells, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992). 54. See my article “Evil in Ephesus: Acts 19:8-40,” in Evil in Second Temple Judaism and Early Christianity, ed. Chris Keith and Loren Stuckenbruck, WUNT II 417 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 224–34. 55. For a helpful brief introduction to focalization, see Daniel Marguerat and Yvan Bourquin, How to Read Bible Stories (London: SCM, 1999), 72–4.



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Jesus’ Own Speech Understandably, Jesus’ own speech is rare in Acts, for Jesus is off stage most of the time. He is not inactive, but he is not center-stage. However, when he does speak after his ascension, and he does to Saul of Tarsus, his words are fascinating (9:5; 22:8b; 26:16b). Jesus asks Saul why he is persecuting Jesus, a question which implicitly identifies Jesus with his followers whom Saul is persecuting—and thus a question which entails Jesus’ being present in several different places, with his persecuted people, a portrait which Max Turner dubs “soteriological omnipresence.”56 Jesus is thus characterizing himself as one who shares God’s ability to be present in multiple places simultaneously—a remarkable claim. Authorial Comments This is the second largest group of factors, although very much smaller in number than comments by characters. Luke as author uses a number of appellations we considered earlier on characters’ lips, notably: Lord (5:14; 8:12, 16; 9:1, 17, 28, 42; 10:48; 11:20) and Messiah (8:5; 9:22; 10:48). With Stephen as focalizer for the observation, Luke reports Jesus at God’s right side (7:55), in the position of power in the universe, reinforcing the point addressed by Peter in the Pentecost sermon (2:33). Jesus is identified by Luke as the subject of proclamation or teaching by believers: Philip tells the good news (εὐηγγελίσατο) concerning Jesus to the eunuch (8:35); Saul proclaims (ἐκήρυσσεν) Jesus in the Damascene synagogues (9:20) and demonstrates (συμβιβάζων) that Jesus is the Messiah (9:22); the Cypriot and Cyrenian believers tell the good news concerning Jesus (εὐαγγελιζόμενοι); and the Cypriot proconsul Sergius Paulus is astonished by “the teaching about the Lord” (τῇ διδαχῇ τοῦ κυρίου, 13:12). This theme can be expressed as proclaiming the good news concerning the name of Jesus the Messiah (εὐαγγελιζομένῳ περὶ … τοῦ ὀνόματος Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, 8:12). Of course, baptism, as we noted earlier, is into Jesus’ name, and we hear this point in Luke’s narrator’s voice (8:16; 10:48), too. To focus attention on a person in this way, rather than on following a person’s teaching, was distinctive in the ancient world, and shows that Luke’s understanding of Jesus is of one who is accessible now to his people, rather than merely 56. Max Turner, “The Spirit of Christ and ‘Divine’ Christology,” in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ; Essays on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology, ed. Joel B. Green and Max Turner (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1994), 413–36 (421). Some might think of Paul’s statement that he could be present “in spirit” with the Corinthian congregations when they met (1 Cor. 5:4) as a potential parallel. However, Paul qualifies his role there, for his spirit is present “with the power of our Lord Jesus” (σὺν τῇ δυνάμει τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ), and Paul’s judgment is pronounced “in the name of the Lord Jesus” (ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι τοῦ κυρίου Ἰησοῦ). Indeed, Paul does not speak of the believing communities as belonging to him, as Jesus does in Acts; rather they are “the church(es) of God” (1 Cor. 10:32; 11:16, 22; 15:9; Gal. 1:3; 1 Thess. 1:1; 2:14; 2 Thess. 1:1, 4).

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a figure of the past—through the proclamation he can be encountered: in Joppa, Jesus is the object of faith (9:42), whereas among Jewish people, yhwh alone would deserve such allegiance and trust. Thus, at this “highest” level of Alter’s types of characterization, Luke as author points his readers to Jesus as the focus and center of his worldview, and as one whom he invites his readers to begin to trust or to continue to trust.

The Content of Luke’s Characterization of Jesus in Acts To assess the overall impact of Luke’s characterization of Jesus in Acts, we shall place it alongside the recent category of “divine identity Christology” developed by Richard Bauckham. In his book God Crucified, Bauckham seeks to go beyond sterile debates about functional versus ontological approaches to Christology, and instead asks what makes God God in second temple Judaism. His answer is twofold: God is the sole creator and sole ruler of all things.57 For example, Nebuchadnezzar recognizes God’s sovereignty over all when he comes to his senses after a period of madness: I blessed the Most High, and praised and honoured the one who lives forever. For his sovereignty is an everlasting sovereignty, and his kingdom endures from generation to generation. All the inhabitants of the earth are accounted as nothing, and he does what he wills with the host of heaven and the inhabitants of the earth. There is no one who can stay his hand or say to him, “What are you doing?” (Dan. 4:34-35)

Isaiah 40:28 similarly marks out yhwh as the creator of the universe: Have you not known? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable.

In consequence, yhwh alone is worth of worship: monolatry (worship of one God alone) follows from monotheism (belief that there is one God alone). Hence, Israel mocked idolatry, such as in the barbed critique of Isaiah 44:9-20. This 57. Richard Bauckham, God Crucified: Monotheism and Christology in the New Testament (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1998), 1–22; previously presented as “Didsbury Lectures” at Nazarene Theological College, Manchester, 1996.



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critique is predicated on yhwh’s exclusive status: “I am the first and I am the last; besides me there is no god” (Isa. 44:6). Against the hellenistic belief in many gods, Israel was marked by its belief in the one true God. Bauckham shows that his approach is fruitful in reading Paul,58 and Hays has further shown than this approach illuminates the Gospel writers’ reading of key Old Testament passages.59 This opens the possibility that such an approach might help us understand Luke’s characterization of Jesus in Acts. In other words, we can look at the passages we have studied in Acts to seek to understand what the book is communicating in its presentation of Jesus as a character. So let us interrogate our data from Acts to see if these features can be found concerning Jesus. Jesus is presented as reigning, for he is exalted to heaven (1:9). The cloud which hides Jesus from the disciples’ eyes echoes the cloud of Daniel 7:13-14, which is also a cloud traveling to heaven: on Daniel’s cloud the “son of man” is taken to the Ancient of Days and given universal sovereignty. Jesus, further, is now located in heaven (1:11) at God’s right side (2:33), and is now Lord of the Spirit, dispensing the Spirit to his own. To give the Spirit is an ability yhwh alone possesses in second temple Jewish understanding.60 Thus Luke never speaks of believers giving the Spirit to others. Rather, believers pray for God to give the Spirit (Acts 8:15); thus Peter objects to Simon’s request to buy the ability to lay hands on people in order that they might receive the Spirit, since the gift of the Spirit is “God’s gift” (Acts 8:20). The implication is that for Luke to record that Jesus, having received the Spirit from the Father, now pours out the Spirit, is to place Jesus in the same category as yhwh, and thus to invite worship of Jesus. This point can be developed further, for Jesus is given the divine name as “Lord of all” (10:36). Franklin writes, “Luke’s understanding, however, does not allow for any deification,”61 and there can be no doubt Franklin is right within a first-century Jewish framework of thought. It is worth reflecting on two passages in the Third Gospel, which help us see more of Luke’s theologizing. In 3:3-6, Luke quotes Isaiah 40:3-4 and applies it to John the baptizer: John is the one who prepares the way for the Lord to come, and in the context of Isaiah, that must mean yhwh. However, in the Third Gospel, the one who comes after John is Jesus, and he comes to baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire (3:16-17). This places Jesus in the yhwh position in the Isaiah quotation: Jesus is the Lord whose way John prepares. Luke makes a similar hermeneutical move in 7:27. There Luke’s Jesus quotes Malachi 3:1, concerning the messenger whom God sends to prepare for God’s own coming. Jesus applies this to John the baptizer: he is the messenger. But John’s role is to prepare the way for Jesus to come, which again places Jesus in 58. Bauckham, God Crucified, 25–42. 59. Richard B. Hays, Reading Backwards: Figural Christology and the Fourfold Gospel Witness (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2014). 60.  See Max Turner, Power from on High, 277–9; Turner, “Divine,” esp. 420; Max Turner, “The Spirit of Christ and Christology,” in Christ the Lord: Studies in Christology Presented to Donald Guthrie, ed. Harold H. Rowdon (Leicester: InterVarsity Press, 1982), 168–90. 61. Franklin, Christ, 54.

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the yhwh position in the Malachi quotation.62 As Hays observes, these texts (and others) “ascribe to Jesus roles and actions that are reserved in Israel’s Scripture for God alone.”63 By them Luke is pointing to Jesus as sharing the divine identity. Prayer to Jesus, which we have already observed as a remarkable feature, underlines the identity of Jesus further. Stephen prays to the Lord Jesus as he dies (Acts 7:59).64 Peter, in his Pentecost speech, quotes Joel 2:32 (LXX 3:5) in 2:21, concerning calling on the name of the Lord. The response required in 2:38 is “be baptized in the name of Jesus.” The likelihood is that baptism “in the name of Jesus” is shorthand for baptism in which the baptisand calls upon Jesus’ name for salvation, as the parallel description of Saul’s baptism suggests: “Get up, be baptized, and have your sins washed away, calling on his name” (22:16). This is all the more remarkable when we consider uses of the phrase “call on the name” in relation to yhwh in Scripture: Then we will never turn back from you; give us life, and we will call on your name. (Ps. 80:18) And you will say in that day: Give thanks to the Lord, call on his name; make known his deeds among the nations; proclaim that his name is exalted. (Isa. 12:4) At that time I will change the speech of the peoples to a pure speech, that all of them may call on the name of the Lord and serve him with one accord. (Zeph. 3:9) And I will put this third into the fire, refine them as one refines silver, and test them as gold is tested. They will call on my name, and I will answer them. I will say, “They are my people”; and they will say, “The Lord is our God.” (Zech. 13:9)

To “call on” Jesus is an unprecedented innovation, for while Jewish people recognized beings who were divine agents, such as angels, personified Wisdom, and the like, none of them were addressed in prayer in this way.65 Bauckham helps us to take the thought one stage further, for having concluded that the earliest believers innovated by placing Jesus alongside yhwh as an object 62.  cf. Richard B. Hays, Reading Backwards: Figural Christology and the Fourfold Gospel Witness (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2014), 62–4; Professor Hays kindly acknowledges a conversation about Luke’s divine identity Christology which we had (xx). 63. Hays, Backwards, 62–3. 64. The verb is ἐπικαλέω, which is used for calling upon a deity (BDAG 373 s.v. §1). See also, e.g., Richard I. Pervo, Acts, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009), 198–9; Haenchen, The Acts of the Apostles, 293 (comparing the prayer to “an ancient Jewish evening-prayer [Ps. 31:5]”). 65. Hurtado, Lord, 199; Craig S. Keener, Acts: An Exegetical Commentary, vol. 2 (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2013), 1459.



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for prayer and worship, he suggests that to do this redefines the God of Israel as one who suffers: “In this act of self-giving, God is most truly himself and defines himself for the world.”66 Can we find evidence of such reflection in Acts? Yes, we can, for Acts emphasizes the suffering of Christ as the necessary prelude to his glorification. Thus in 2:23-24, he suffered because of the Jerusalemites and their leaders’ actions, and God then reversed this human verdict; in 3:13-15 they killed the author of life (itself a wonderfully self-contradictory thing to do!) and rejected him, but God raised Jesus from the dead and glorified him (cf. Phil. 2:5-1167); in 8:32-35 Philip finds the eunuch reading Isaiah 53:7-8 and interprets the servant who suffers as Jesus.

Conclusion: Presence and/or Absence? In the light of our discoveries, we can return to the Conzelmann thesis, that Jesus is absent from the scene in Acts. There are several features we have noticed which suggest that Jesus is now personally active in the world, and not simply by means of the Spirit. Certainly he is active from heaven, for he is now located at God’s right side.68 To start at the beginning, Acts 1:1 sets the book up as being about what Jesus continues to do and teach, and 1:2 further shows that Jesus instructs the apostles. 1:8 identifies the apostles as his witnesses, and suggests thereby that their teaching and preaching is Jesus’ work. The major event of the early part of Acts is Pentecost, and Peter interprets this as Jesus’ being active in pouring out the Spirit (2:33). As we have noted, Jesus is present in the narrative by appearing to Stephen standing at God’s right side (7:56), and by appearing to Saul of Tarsus (9:1-9). The repeated charge that Saul has been persecuting Jesus (not merely his followers) implies Jesus’ identification and presence with his followers (9:4; 22:7; 26:14— this is a constant feature in each telling of the Damascus road experience). Jesus himself directs Saul to Damascus (9:6) and sends Ananias to him (9:11, 15-16)— indeed, he has to send Ananias twice because Ananias argues with him! Paul later says that he has received his ministry from the Lord Jesus (20:24), and surely thereby refers to the Damascus road experience. Aeneas is healed by Jesus the Messiah himself, not merely in Jesus’ name (9:34). 66. Bauckham, God, 69. 67. See Gorman’s valuable discussion of Phil. 2:5-11 which suggests that God’s very nature is to give of himself in service: Michael J. Gorman, Inhabiting the Cruciform God: Kenosis, Justification, and Theosis in Paul’s Narrative Soteriology (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009), 9–39. 68.  In what follows, I am drawing on an excellent conference paper, Beverly R. Gaventa, “The Presence of the Absent Lord: The Characterization of Jesus in the Acts of the Apostles,” Paper presented at SBL Annual Meeting, Atlanta, 2003. Professor Gaventa has summarized some of this thinking in her article “Acts of the Apostles,” in New Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, ed. Katherine D. Sakenfeld, vol. 1 (Nashville: Abingdon, 2006), 33–47.

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Saul continues to experience personal visitations by Jesus: Jesus appears to Saul on his first post-Damascus road visit to Jerusalem in the Temple to tell him to flee the city and go to the Gentiles (22:17-18, 21). “The Lord” who visits to assure Paul in Corinth may well be Jesus (18:9-10).69 Paul declares, strikingly, that it is Jesus himself who is announcing light to Israel and the Gentiles (26:23)—thus Paul’s proclamation is not merely Paul speaking, but Jesus himself at work (cf. 1:2, 8). 26:23 echoes the parallel missions to Gentiles and Israel of Luke 2:32, and thus Isaiah 49:6. Taken together, these features of Luke’s characterization of Jesus in Acts suggest that Jesus is now present in heaven, at God’s right side, but in such a way that he can continue to be active on earth in the missio Dei, guiding his people and drawing others into the body of Jesus-believers.70 Jesus thus shares the characteristics of the God of Israel,71 and is, therefore, rightly treated as deserving of the same veneration and honor as the one true God.

69. Identifying the “Lord” here as Jesus is suggested by the immediately preceding use, which speaks of believing “in the Lord” (18:6), a verb normally used in Acts with Jesus as object (when it has an object) (11:17; 16:31; 19:4). 70. For a recent, very rich, discussion of Acts using spatial theory to engage with Jesus’ location in heaven and activity on earth, see Sleeman, Geography. 71. Cf. this interesting treatment of the characterization of God in Acts: Ling Cheng, The Characterisation of God in Acts: The Indirect Portrayal of an Invisible Character, PBM (Milton Keynes: Paternoster, 2011).

9 S IG H T A N D S P E C TAC L E : “S E E I N G ” P AU L I N THE BOOK OF ACTS

Brittany E. Wilson

As the central character from Acts 13 onward, Paul has often been the focus of Lukan studies. Of the many facets of Paul’s characterization, his dramatic blinding on the Damascus road in Acts 9 has especially captured the attention of scholars, with a number of people situating this scene in relation to the larger motif of sight. In Acts and in religious discourse more broadly, sight and light are often equated with spiritual insight, whereas blindness and darkness are equated with spiritual ignorance.1 As Chad Hartsock observes, sight frequently functions in Acts as a metaphor for correctly perceiving God’s will, and Paul’s movement from blindness to sight in Acts 9 parallels his own shift in spiritual acumen.2 From a somewhat different angle, Dennis Hamm and Nils Aksel Røsæg connect Paul’s blinding and restoration of sight to the theme of bringing light to the Gentiles, a central theme in Acts that is drawn primarily from Isaiah.3 Indeed, various scholars have looked at Paul in relation to the motif of sight and blindness and, in doing so, have highlighted key Lukan themes, such as universal salvation and perception of the divine.4 1. Chad Hartsock, Sight and Blindness in Luke-Acts: The Use of Physical Features in Characterization (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 60–81, 102–24. 2. Hartsock, Sight and Blindness in Luke-Acts, 184–97. 3.  Dennis Hamm, “Paul’s Blindness and its Healing, Clues to Symbolic Intent (Acts 9, 22 and 26),” Biblica 71 (1990), 63–72; Nils Aksel Røsæg, “The Blinding of Paul: Observations to a Theme,” Svensk exegetisk årsbok 71 (2006): 159–85 (165–70). 4.  See also Alan Culpepper, “Seeing the Kingdom of God: The Metaphor of Sight in the Gospel of Luke,” Currents in Theology and Mission 21 (1994): 434–43; Susan Garrett, “‘Lest the Light in You Be Darkness’: Luke 11:33-36 and the Question of Commitment,” JBL 110 (1991): 93–105; Dennis Hamm, “Sight to the Blind: Vision as Metaphor in Luke,” Biblica 67 (1986): 63–72; John B. F. Miller, “Convinced that God Had Called Us”: Dreams, Visions, and the Perception of God’s Will in Luke-Acts (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 186–202.

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While illuminating, such studies, however, overlook a key aspect of Paul’s characterization in relation to sight: namely, that Paul’s relationship to sight in Acts intersects with the theme of public persecution, or what the ancients often called “spectacle” (Latin: spectaculum; Greek: θεωρία/θέατρον). The narrator of Acts (hereafter called Luke) describes Jesus’ crucifixion as a “spectacle” (θεωρία, Luke 23:48), and he patterns Paul’s persecution in Acts after Jesus’ death on the cross. Paul is not alone in this patterning, for the disciples Peter and Stephen, among others, also mirror aspects of Jesus’ life and death.5 Paul, however, mimics Jesus’ life and death in the most sustained fashion, to the extent that he even goes on his own journey to Jerusalem (and eventually Rome) in a manner that imitates Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem and subsequent passion. Paul’s characterization is in fact intimately linked with persecution, and looking at his characterization in relation to sight helps us to see this link all the more clearly. Thus while Paul’s newfound sight in Acts 9 inaugurates his “perception” of Jesus and his role as a proclaimer of light to the Gentiles, it also inaugurates his identity as one who is “to suffer” (παθεῖν) on behalf of Jesus (9:16). To explore the argument that Paul’s optical characterization intersects with his identity as one who is to suffer, this essay proceeds in three main sections. The first section provides a brief overview of spectacle in the Graeco-Roman world, and the second section analyzes Paul’s opening introduction in Acts 7–9, focusing especially on his blinding and restoration of sight in Acts 9. The final section turns to how these initial glimpses of Paul in Acts 7–9 serve as a springboard for his characterization later in Acts, highlighting how Luke portrays Paul in relation to sight and spectacle from Acts 9 onward. Overall, we shall see that witnessing to Jesus involves being both the subject and object of sight. Witnesses must exercise their visual capacity and proclaim the light, but this proclamation will often lead to them becoming the object of sight. According to Luke, the witness of universal salvation is not without its hurdles, for this witness is often met with suffering and persecution.

Discipline and Punish: Spectacle in the Graeco-Roman World In his book Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, Michel Foucault famously argues that disciplinary power in the pre-modern era was embodied in public torture and death, or “spectacle.”6 Such spectacle functioned as a public deterrent in order to enforce social control, but shifts in the Western penal system during the seventeenth century eventually led to a different form of social control: namely, state-sanctioned discipline in the form of incarcerated “surveillance.” According to Foucault, “spectacle” and “surveillance” are two different discourses 5. See David P. Moessner, “‘The Christ Must Suffer’: New Light on the Jesus—Peter, Stephen, Paul Parallels in Luke-Acts,” NovT 28 (1986): 220–56. 6. Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Pantheon, 1977).



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of power and constructions of sight that respectively characterize the pre-modern and modern eras. The birth of the modern prison, Foucault maintains, did not arise from a humanitarian impulse to expunge persecution and torture, but from a need to carry out such acts behind closed doors, far from the public gaze. Foucault’s claims about pre-modern spectacles find concrete expression when we turn our attention to the Graeco-Roman world, including the main geographical focus of Acts, the Greek East. As the satirist Juvenal memorably quipped, Romans were obsessed with only two things: “bread and circuses” (Sat. 10.11, LCL 91). Circuses and other elaborate public shows—including most famously the gladiatorial games—were extremely popular under Roman rule.7 Such spectacles, however, were not confined to the arena, but spilled over into almost every aspect of public life. Averil Cameron writes that “Roman imperial culture, especially in the cities of the Greek East … had become in political terms a spectator culture … Showing, performance, and affirmation became as important as argument.”8 Images also pervaded the imperial landscape in the guise of coins, public monuments, and other material forms, and key institutions, such as the imperial cult, were likewise intensely visual.9 At the same time, public venues were also places of status scrutiny and “policing,” suggesting that, contra Foucault, “surveillance” modes of seeing do not only belong to the modern era.10 Yet regardless of the degree to which the rhetoric of “surveillance” permeated the pre-modern age, it is clear that the Graeco-Roman world was still largely a place of public spectacle, a place both to see and be seen, but not to be seen as the spectacle itself.11 With the exception of Revelation, Acts reflects the influence of this spectator culture to a greater degree than any other New Testament text.12 Not only does 7. See Donald G. Kyle, Spectacles of Death in Ancient Rome (London: Routledge, 1998); Eckart Köhne, “Bread and Circuses: The Politics of Entertainment,” in Gladiators and Caesars: The Power of Spectacle in Rome, ed. Eckart Köhne and Cornelia Ewigleben, trans. Anthea Bell (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 8–30. 8. Averil Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse, Sather Classical Lectures 55 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 78–9, cited in Christopher A. Frilingos, Spectacles of Empire: Monsters, Martyrs, and the Book of Revelation (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 37. 9. See Frilingos, Spectacles of Empire, 14–38. See also Paul Zanker’s classic text, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, trans. Alan Shapior (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1988). 10. See Erik Gunderson, “The Ideology of the Arena,” Classical Antiquity 15 (1996): 113–51; David Fredrick, “Introduction,” in The Roman Gaze: Vision, Power, and the Body, ed. David Fredrick (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), 1–30. 11.  On the unique response by Christians who embraced their own specular deaths, see Catharine Edwards, Death in Ancient Rome (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 207–20. See also Edwards, Death in Ancient Rome, 46–77. 12. For a discussion of Revelation in the context of the spectator culture of the GraecoRoman world, see Frilingos, Spectacles of Empire.

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Luke depict Jesus’ crucifixion as a spectacle, but as we shall now see, Luke consistently portrays Paul in ways that center around spectacle. Indeed, in order to “see” Paul clearly, we must begin with the intersection of both sight and spectacle in his opening characterization.

Sight and Spectacle: Glimpsing Paul for the First Time Paul may take center stage in Acts 13, but we are first introduced to Paul—here known primarily as Saul—in Acts 7. Saul initially appears in 7:58–8:3 and this appearance coincides with the death of the disciple Stephen, the first Christian witness, or “martyr” (μάρτυς, e.g., Acts 22:20). Saul appears soon again at the opening of Acts 9 where he is blinded during his famous call on the road to Damascus. With these first glimpses of Saul, Luke links vision and persecution and portrays Saul as one who sees and is seen. Overall, Luke’s opening portrayal of Saul situates him as both the subject and object of sight, both the agent and recipient of spectacle. Saul first comes into our purview in Acts 7:58 as a spectator to Stephen’s stoning. Luke, as noted above, terms Jesus’ crucifixion by the Romans a “spectacle” (θεωρία, Luke 23:48), and he mirrors Stephen’s execution after Jesus’ widely watched execution. Luke uniquely subjects Jesus to the voyeuristic gaze in his account of the crucifixion, and the numerous verbal parallels between these two passages extend to the language of “looking.”13 Just as the crowds and the centurion “watch” (θεωρέω) and “see” (ὁράω) the crucified body of Jesus (Luke 23:48, 35, 47; cf. 23:8), so do the council members “gaze upon” (ἀτενίζω) Stephen (Acts 6:15). Just as followers and acquaintances witness Jesus’ death by “watching” (ὁράω) from afar (Luke 23:49), so are “witnesses” (μάρτυρες) present at Stephen’s death (Acts 7:58). Saul himself surfaces at the moment when these witnesses to Stephen’s death appear: “Then they dragged [Stephen] out of the city and began to stone him, and the witnesses [μάρτυρες] laid their coats at the feet of a young man named Saul” (7:58).14 As the one keeping watch over the witnesses’ coats, Saul in effect functions as a “witness” to the witnesses. He also functions as an authority figure since the coats are laid “at his feet,” echoing the earlier monetary gifts that are laid “at the feet” of the apostles (4:35, 37; 5:2).15 When Stephen dies, Luke concludes the account of his death by noting that: “Saul approved of their killing 13. See Brittany E. Wilson, Unmanly Men: Refigurations of Masculinity in Luke-Acts (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015), 233–34; Moessner, “‘Christ Must Suffer,’” 227–34. 14.  In 7:58, the “they”—or those dragging Stephen out of the city—appear to be council members plus a larger crowd (6:9, 11-12, 15). Translations are mine unless otherwise specified. 15. See F. Scott Spencer, “Wise Up, Young Man: The Moral Vision of Saul and Other νεανίσκοι in Acts,” in Acts and Ethics, ed. Thomas E. Phillips (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2005), 34–48 (41).



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him” (7:60–8:1). Saul may have played an unspoken role in orchestrating Stephen’s stoning, but he watches the execution from the sidelines. In the span of a few short verses, however, Saul transitions from being a passive onlooker to an active participant in the persecution of the Way. Stephen’s death incites a severe persecution against the Jerusalem church, and Saul emerges as the most zealous leader of this persecution. Luke writes that, “Saul was ravaging the church by entering house after house; dragging off both men and women, he committed them to prison” (8:3). By singling out Saul and emphasizing the extremity of his actions, Luke positions Saul as the greatest enemy of the nascent church. With this opening introduction, Saul begins by passively gazing upon a persecuted Christian before actively persecuting Christians himself. In other words, our first glimpse of Saul revolves around the spectacle of persecution and Saul’s passive and active participation in that spectacle. Luke picks up these intertwining threads of sight and spectacle when he returns to Saul in Acts 9. In 9:1-2, Luke writes that Saul is “still [ἔτι] breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord” and that Saul is on his way to Damascus in order to imprison “any who belonged to the Way, men or women” (cf. 8:3). At the outset of Chapter 9, Saul has members of the Way in his sight, yet in a startling turn of events, Saul ends up being the object of sight when he loses his sight on the Damascus road. Jesus himself incites this optical reversal when he appears to Saul as a “light” (φῶς) that shines around Saul alone, causing him to fall to the ground (9:3-4). Jesus then speaks to Saul, twice identifying him in terms of his persecution: “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute [διώκεις] me?” and, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting [διώκεις]” (vv. 4-5). As soon as Jesus stops speaking, Saul discovers that he sees “nothing” even though his eyes are opened (v. 8). Instead of going to Damascus to “lead” (ἀγάγῃ) bound Christians into Jerusalem (v. 2), Saul finds that he must be “led by the hand” (χειραγωγοῦντες … εἰσήγαγον) into Damascus (v. 8). Indeed, Saul begins his journey by actively seeking Christians, yet he ends his journey by passively waiting in Damascus, “not seeing” (μὴ βλέπων) for three days and neither drinking nor eating (v. 9). In Acts 9:10, Luke sharpens the sense that the blinded Saul is the object of sight when he abruptly shifts scenes, or in narratological terms, when he changes focalization.16 In verse 10, Luke suddenly transitions from Saul’s encounter on the Damascus road to the “vision” (ὅραμα) of a previously unknown disciple named Ananias. By changing the focus to Ananias, Luke shifts away from the typical pattern of a well-known story type from Jewish Scripture known as the call narrative.17 Up until v. 10, Saul’s encounter with Jesus on the Damascus road has been following this call narrative form. Luke’s account of Saul’s call, however, 16. Focalization differs from point of view in that focalization more specifically asks the question, “Who sees?,” or, “From whose perspective are the events brought into focus and presented?” See Mieke Bal, “The Laughing Mice: Or, On Focalization,” Poetics Today 2 (1981): 202–10. 17. On the genre, or form, of the call narrative in Jewish Scripture, see the often-cited Norman C. Habel, “Form and Significance of the Call Narratives,” ZAW 77 (1965): 297–323.

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deviates from the typical pattern when Ananias—not Saul—is the one to receive divine instructions and to pose an objection in response. Untrue to form, Luke introduces an additional person in the middle of Saul’s call and makes Ananias the mediator in Saul’s restoration of sight. What is more, Jesus’ specific words to Ananias consign Saul to our peripheral vision. In verses 11-12, Jesus says: “Behold! [ἰδού] [Saul] is praying and has seen [εἶδεν] in a vision [ἐν ὁράματι] a man by the name of Ananias come and place his hands upon him so that he might regain his sight [ἀναβλέψῃ]” (v. 12).18 With these words, we are told that Saul “sees” a man named Ananias healing him, but we only know of this vision because Jesus tells Ananias. Luke does not directly record the vision, but instead relegates the vision to indirect discourse. By shifting the narrative away from Saul and by focusing our attention on Saul in his absent, blinded state (“seeing” a vision no less!), Luke casts Saul as an indirect object of sight.19 Saul, however, does not remain an object of spectacle. Instead, Saul regains his sight, and his reversal regarding vision parallels his reversal regarding persecution: Saul goes from one who persecutes the Way to one who is persecuted on behalf of the Way. During the visionary interchange between Jesus and Ananias, Luke underscores Paul’s identity as a persecutor who will soon be persecuted. When Jesus instructs Ananias to heal the blinded Saul (9:10-12), Ananias objects because Saul’s reputation as a persecutor has preceded him: “Lord, I have heard from many about this man, how much evil he has done to your holy ones in Jerusalem, and here he has authority from the chief priests to bind all who invoke your name” (9:13-14). Jesus tells Ananias to “seek [ζήτησον] for a man of Tarsus by the name of Saul” (v. 11), but Ananias replies by distancing himself from Saul, calling him “this man [ἀνδρὸς τούτου]” instead of by name (v. 13; cf. v. 17). In reply to this objection (and objectification), though, Jesus points to Saul’s forthcoming persecution on behalf of the Way: “Go, for he is my chosen vessel who will bring my name before Gentiles and kings and the sons of Israel, for I myself will show him how much it is necessary [δεῖ] for him to suffer [παθεῖν] on behalf of my name” (vv. 15-16). For the first time, Jesus reveals Saul’s identity as one who is “to suffer” (παθεῖν), using the same word that Luke uses to describe Jesus’ own suffering and passion.20 Saul’s suffering is divinely mandated, or “necessary” (δεῖ), and this suffering will occur as a result of his proclamation of Jesus.21 Saul’s newfound identity as one who is persecuted on behalf of his witness quickly comes to fruition, for Saul is persecuted directly after he regains his ability to see. When Saul regains his sight (9:19), he “immediately” (εὐθέως) begins 18. The phrase “in a vision” does not appear in all manuscripts and may have been added as an explanatory gloss to clarify how exactly Saul can see this event occurring when he does not have physical eyesight. See Bruce M. Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament, 2nd ed. (New York, UBS, 2000), 319–20. 19. I thank Susan Eastman for first drawing my attention to this point. 20. See Luke 9:22; 17:25; 22:15; 24:26, 46; cf. Acts 26:23. 21. For a discussion of the divine δεῖ in Luke-Acts, see Charles H. Cosgrove, “The Divine ΔΕΙ in Luke-Acts,” NovT 26 (1984), 168–90.



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to proclaim Jesus in the synagogues (v. 20). His proclamation at first provokes surprise and confusion (vv. 21-22), but this response soon escalates into “the Jews” plotting to kill Saul (v. 23). Saul’s Jewish opponents literally have him in their sight, for they are “watching” (παρετηροῦντο) the city gates day and night so that they might kill him (v. 24). Such “watching” evokes the malevolent “watching” of Jesus by his various opponents (Luke 6:7; 14:1; 20:20), with the same word being used in all these instances.22 Although the disciples manage to help Saul escape from these watchful eyes under the cover of darkness (Acts 9:25), the pattern of proclamation followed by persecution repeats itself when Saul arrives in Jerusalem. Here Saul speaks boldly “in the name of the Lord,” and he argues with the Hellenists (v. 29), who are presumably Greek-speaking Jews. But sure enough, this witness leads to yet another attempt on his life, causing the disciples to take charge and save Saul once again (v. 30). With Saul’s restoration of sight, he soon becomes the object of the gaze, but this time it is because of his witness to Jesus. In Luke’s opening snapshot of Saul in Acts 7–9, Saul begins as the perpetrator of persecution, but he becomes the object of persecution. He begins as a witness to Stephen’s death, but he becomes a witness to the death and resurrection of Jesus. He begins by actively seeking to persecute the Way, but he becomes someone zealously sought after by his Jewish opponents. Saul is often known as the “persecutor turned proclaimer,” but when looking at the entire arc of Saul’s opening reversal, a better epithet would be the “persecutor turned persecuted,” or perhaps the “spectator turned spectacle.” Saul once persecuted the Way, but now, because of his proclamation, he is persecuted on behalf of the Way. Indeed, according to Luke, sight and spectacle cannot be separated, for witnessing to Jesus may very well lead to suffering.

Déjà Vu: Seeing Paul Later in Acts This opening, optically oriented characterization of Saul—or Paul as he is referred to from 13:9 onward—functions as a springboard for his characterization later in Acts. Indeed, Luke repeats Paul’s call two additional times in Acts, and each time Luke emphasizes Paul’s reversal from persecutor to persecuted (22:4-8, 17-24; 26:9-11, 14-15, 21), as well as his identity as a “witness” (μάρτυς) to what he has seen (esp. 22:15; 26:16-18). Beverly Roberts Gaventa rightly notes that this threefold repetition of Paul’s call indicates that his call is “definitive, or constitutive, of Paul.”23 However, Paul’s opening characterization, including Jesus’ 22. See esp. Luke 20:20, where scribes and the chief priests “watch” Jesus so that they might trap him and hand him over to the authorities. See also Ps. 36:12 [LXX]; Dan. 6:12 [Θ]; Sus. 12, 15, 16 [Θ]; Mk 3:2 [// Luke 6:7]. Hamm, “Sight to the Blind,” 467–68; Riesenfeld, “παρατηρέω,” TDNT 8:146–8. 23.  Beverly Roberts Gaventa, “What Ever Happened to Those Prophesying Daughters?,” in A Feminist Companion to the Acts of the Apostles, ed. Amy-Jill Levine with Marianne Blickenstaff (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2004), 49–60 (57).

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programmatic statement that Paul is “to suffer” (παθεῖν, 9:16), manifests itself on various fronts throughout Acts. From Paul’s blinding onward, Luke makes it clear that, after his call, Paul is persecuted because of his witness to Jesus. Paul is not only persecuted, but he is also imprisoned by representatives of Rome and is a frequent catalyst of public discord.24 Paul even connects persecution with the divine δεῖ when he and Barnabas tell fellow followers that: “It is through many persecutions [πολλῶν θλίψεων] that we must [δεῖ] enter the kingdom of God” (14:22; cf. 5:41).25 Indeed, Paul is someone who both sees and is seen; he is someone intimately involved in public proclamation and spectacle; he is God’s persecuted witness. In Luke’s narration of Paul’s “necessary” persecution, he often indicates that this persecution occurs before the public eye. After his blinding, Paul boldly proclaims the gospel in the public sphere and this public proclamation often results in public humiliation: as Paul tells King Agrippa, “None of these things have been done in a corner” (26:26).26 Luke explicitly draws attention to the public nature of Paul’s persecution when he is in the Roman colony of Philippi, a “leading city” of Macedonia (16:12).27 Here Paul and his traveling companion Silas are “seized” and “dragged” into the agora, which functioned as a public gathering place and the center of this “leading city.”28 In the agora, they are brought before the ruling authorities and accused of disturbing the city and advocating “un-Roman” customs not befitting such an important Roman colony (16:19-21). At this juncture, the crowd joins the attack, and the magistrates have Paul and Silas stripped of their clothing and beaten with rods (v. 22). After this “severe flogging,” the magistrates then throw them into prison (v. 23). But when the magistrates clandestinely try to release Paul and Silas the next morning, Paul replies: “They have beaten us in public [δημοσίᾳ] … and have cast us into prison, and now are they going to release us in secret [λάθρᾳ]? But no! Let them come and lead us out themselves” (v. 37).29 Paul demands that their unjust public 24. See Acts 14:19; 16:19, 22-24; 18:12; 21:27, 32-34; 22:24, 23:10, 24, 27-28, 30-35; 24:25; 25:6, 17, 23, 25, 26; 27:1; 28:17, 20. 25. See also Acts 20:22-28; 21:13; 25:11. 26. On public space in Acts, see Halvor Moxnes, “‘He Saw that the City Was Full of Idols” (Acts 17:16): Visualizing the World of the First Christians,” in Mighty Minorities: Minorities in Early Christianity, Positions and Strategies: Essays in Honour of Jacob Jervell on His 70th Birthday 21 May 1995, ed. David Hellholm, Halvor Moxnes, and T. Karlsen Seim (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1995), 107–31. 27. Based on text-critical grounds, some scholars translate the phrase in Acts 16:12, “a leading city of the district of Macedonia [πρώτη μερίδος τῆς Μακεδονίας πόλις],” and others, “a city of the first district of Macedonia [πρώτης μερίδος τῆς Μακεδονίας πόλις].” The former translation heightens the sense that Paul is humiliated in a prominent city. 28. On the agora as key public space in Philippi and other cities in the Roman Empire, see Moxnes, “‘He Saw that the City Was Full of Idols,’” 112–13, 126–8. 29. In addition to 16:37, the term δημοσίᾳ (“in public”) also appears in 5:18 (the apostles are put in a public prison or put in prison publicly [see below]); 18:28 (the believer



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humiliation be countered by their public release. They have been stripped naked and made the object of the public gaze, and Paul insists that they likewise be released before the public gaze.30 Like Jesus, Paul and Silas are unjustly persecuted, and unlike Jesus (whose release is thwarted despite his innocence), their public release validates their innocence.31 In this instance, Paul’s visible persecution and subsequent release functions as a form of public witness. Along similar lines, Luke indicates that Paul’s imprisonment in general functions as a form of public witness. To be clear, Luke does indicate that places of detainment are meant to police prisoners. For example, during Paul’s imprisonment as narrated above, magistrates command the prison guard to “watch” (τηρεῖν) Paul and Silas securely (16:23). Luke’s usage of the visually connotative verb τηρέω (“to watch” or “to observe”) is not unique, for Luke repeatedly says that Paul is “under watch” when he is a prisoner of the Romans (24:23; 25:4; 25:11 [twice]; cf. 12:5, 6), an imprisonment that comprises the entire last third of Acts (21:27–28:31).32 In fact, Luke employs every instance of τηρέω except one within the context of imprisonment.33 Luke even applies the cognate τήρησις to reference a prison on two separate occasions (Acts 4:3; 5:18) and is the only New Testament author to do so.34 At first glance, then, Luke’s terminology may suggest that prison itself can be a place of surveillance akin to Foucault’s discussion in Discipline and Punish of the Panopticon, an eighteenth-century prison design by Jeremy Bentham that controlled behavior by ensuring that inmates felt watched at all times.35 However, lest we too quickly presume that Luke evinces a strictly Foucauldian understanding of the prison as “surveillance,” Luke also emphasizes that imprisonment is a public affair. In Acts 5:18, Luke writes that the apostles are put “in a public prison,” or better, they are put “in prison publicly” (τηρήσει δημοσίᾳ).36 While both translations are possible, the latter implies public shaming of the Apollos refutes the Jews in public); 20:20 (Paul recounts that he taught in public during his ministry). 30. The stripping of Paul and Silas (Acts 16:22) parallels the stripping of Jesus during his passion (Luke 23:34). See Wilson, Unmanly Men, 233. Depending on the manuscript tradition, the reader may also assume that Stephen is naked when killed since some witnesses lack the possessive αὐτῶν or ἑαυτῶν in Acts 7:58 (Richard I. Pervo, Acts: A Commentary, Hermeneia [Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009], 198, n. 28). 31.  On the Lukan theme of the innocence of Jesus and his followers, see, e.g., Luke 23:4, 14-15, 22, 41, 47; Acts 3:14; 19:37, 40; 23:9, 29; 24:12-13; 25:8, 10-11; 26:31; 28:3-6. 32. On the connotations of τηρέω, see Riesenfeld, “τηρέω,” TDNT, 8:140–6. 33. See Acts 12:5, 6; 16:23; 24:23; 25:4, 11 [twice]. The one exception occurs in Acts 15:5, wherein Luke uses the verb τηρέω to describe keeping or observing the law. 34. The only other instance of τήρησις in the NT occurs in 1 Cor. 7:19. Here it means “observance of,” or “obedience to,” the law. See also Riesenfeld, “τήρησις,” TDNT, 8:146. 35. On Foucault’s discussion of the Panopticon, see Discipline and Punish, 195–228. 36.  The former translation reads δημοσίᾳ as an adjective and the latter translation as an adverb. Mikeal C. Parsons and Martin M. Culy, Acts: A Handbook of the Greek Text (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2003), 94.

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apostles and finds parallel in 16:19-40, wherein, as mentioned above, Paul and Silas are publicly imprisoned and subsequently released. Furthermore, as Matthew Skinner observes, Paul uses his time in jail as a time of public proclamation.37 Paul converts a jailor and his family while in prison (16:27-34), proclaims Jesus during his numerous custody trials (22:1-21; 23:10-21; 26:1-29), and preaches “without hindrance” at the very end of Acts, even though he is still in chains (28:31). Prisoners such as the apostles, Peter, and Paul are closely monitored behind closed, locked doors, but these doors miraculously open and exemplify God’s power to bring “release to the captives” (5:19, 23; 12:10, 17; 16:26-27; cf. Luke 4:18). And while God does not unlock the physical structures that enforce Paul’s custody in Acts 21–28, Paul uses his context of custody as a means to witness to those who police his custody, including the social and religious powers of his day.38 Thus, while Paul is invariably under surveillance by various jailors and guards throughout Acts, his imprisonment primarily functions as a form of public witness. Indeed, Paul’s witness often results in persecution and imprisonment, and these results in turn function as public opportunities to witness. In chapter 19, however, the frequently violent effects of Paul’s witness reach a fever pitch with the infamous riot in Ephesus, a scene infused with the language of sight. Although Paul himself is not personally persecuted during the riot (rather, there are “proxies” in his stead, cf. Acts 17:5-9; 18:12-17), Luke escalates the sense of persecution as public spectacle, and in this instance, as the result of failed witness. In Acts 19, the silversmith Demetrius instigates the riot by telling his fellow silversmiths that Paul’s critique of idols—or visual representations of the divine—will endanger their trade of crafting silver shrines for the goddess Artemis. “[Y]ou see [θεωρεῖτε] and hear,” Demetrius says, “that … this Paul [ὁ Παῦλος οὗτος] has persuaded … a considerable number of people by saying that gods made with hands are not gods” (19:26). Paul’s critique undermines Artemis’s majesty on the world stage, Demetrius claims, since “all [ὅλη] of Asia” and the entire “civilized world [οἰκουμένη]” worship her (v. 27). With these words, the silversmiths are “filled with rage,” which in turn leads to the city being “filled with confusion” (vv. 28-29). At this juncture, an unidentified “they” (presumably a mob from the city) rush together into the theater, dragging with them two traveling companions of Paul (v. 29). Luke then amplifies the public nature of this mob scene by identifying the crowd as a δῆμος, or “public assembly” (vv. 30, 33). Luke could have repeated the word “crowd” (ὄχλος, vv. 33, 35), but he instead twice identifies the unruly Ephesians as a public gathering, using a term that has political overtones and that is etymologically related to the term συνέκδημος, or “traveling companion.”39 Luke ironically calls the disorderly mob a δῆμος (“public assembly,” vv. 30, 33) and an ἐκκλησία (“assembly,” vv. 32, 39, 40) who attack συνεκδήμους Παύλου (“Paul’s 37. Matthew L. Skinner, Locating Paul: Places of Custody as Narrative Settings in Acts 21–28 (Atlanta: SBL, 2003). 38. Skinner, Locating Paul, 185–9. 39. BDAG, 223, 968; LSJ, 386–7.



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traveling companions,” v. 29), suggesting that the Ephesians’ so-called public order is anything but orderly. Indeed, the clash of worldviews between Paul and Demetrius results in rioting and the rejection of Paul’s message. More importantly, Luke twice mentions that this disorderly mob-scene occurs in the “theater,” or θέατρον, a word that also means “spectacle.”40 The theater in Ephesus could seat around 24,000 spectators and was a gathering place that held a range of public events, including civic assemblies, religious festivals, theatrical productions, athletic contests, gladiatorial games, and wild beast fights.41 In 1 Corinthians 15:32, Paul himself connects this latter usage of the theater with the city of Ephesus when he says, “I fought with wild beasts [ἐθηριομάχησα] at Ephesus.” Scholars debate what Paul precisely means by this phrase, but many agree that Paul is employing a metaphor, likening his battle with Ephesian opponents to that of a wild beast, or gladiatorial, fight.42 Even more telling than Paul’s mention of wild beasts in Ephesus, is that theaters were often sites where followers met their death in later Christian martyrdom accounts.43 From as early as the second century, Christian martyrdoms were spectacles that often occurred in the theater and were typically scheduled alongside wild beast fights and gladiatorial games.44 Although Paul’s traveling companions do not die, their time in the theater presages stories of future Christians who were not so lucky (or who were so lucky, according to the narrative logic of martyrdom literature). In Acts 19, Luke intensifies the sense that the theater is a site of a spectacle, or even a potential place of public execution, because he envelops both mentions of the theater with the repeated chant: “Great is Artemis of the Ephesians!” (19:28, 34). Such cries are reminiscent of the cries of those gathered for the games, who often cheered in unison for a favorite gladiator and shouted for the death of a despised victim.45 These cries also echo the earlier cries of “Crucify, crucify

40. BDAG, 446; Kittel, “θέατρον,” TDNT 3:42–3. 41. See Ekrem Akurgal, Ancient Civilizations and Ruins of Turkey: From Prehistoric Times Until the End of the Roman Empire, 5th ed. (London: Kegan Paul, 2002), 158–9; Mary T. Boatwright, “Theaters in the Roman Empire,” Biblical Archaeologist 53 (1990): 184–92. 42. For a discussion of how Paul’s metaphor in 1 Cor. 15:32 utilizes the terminology of the arena, see Abraham J. Malherbe, “The Beasts at Ephesus,” JBL 87 (1968): 71–80 (74). 43.  Josephus and Philo also record instances where tensions between Jews and Gentiles flared into violence in theaters and amphitheaters. See Josephus, War 2.490-493; 7.47-48; Philo, Flacc. 41, 74-75, 84-85, 95, 173. Ramsay MacMullen, Enemies of the Roman Order: Treason, Unrest, and Alienation in the Empire (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1966), 341, n. 2. 44.  David Potter, “Martyrdom as Spectacle,” in Theater and Society in the Classical World, ed. Ruth Scodel (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1993), 53–88 (66). See also Edwards, Death in Ancient Rome, 207–20; Kyle, Spectacles of Death, 242–64; Candida R. Moss, Ancient Christian Martyrdom: Diverse Practices, Theologies, and Traditions (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2012), 49–76. 45.  On cries in the theater, see MacMullen, Enemies of the Roman Order, 170, 339, n. 10.

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him!” by the crowds shouting for Jesus’ execution (Luke 23:21, 23).46 Such chants in the venue of the theater—a place that held both political events and violent fights-to-the-death—suggest that the Ephesian “people” (δῆμος) are not acting like a rational political body. Instead, they are acting like a disorderly mob at a public spectacle. As the initial target of the riot, Paul’s message against idols incites a spectacle in Ephesus that forces him to leave the area after the uproar dies down (20:1). Theaters were sites of spectacle, and in Acts 19, Luke appears to have in view the double valence of the term θέατρον as both “theater” and “spectacle.” In 19:31, wherein the second occurrence of the term θέατρον appears, Luke writes that Paul was urged: μὴ δοῦναι ἑαυτὸν εἰς τὸ θέατρον, which the NRSV translates as “not to venture into the theater.” To be sure, the infinitive δοῦναι (from the verb δίδωμι) can sometimes mean “to go,” or “to venture somewhere,”47 but δοῦναι more frequently means “to give,” or “to give up,” as well as “to offer,” or “to sacrifice.”48 Since δοῦναι is followed by the reflexive ἑαυτοῦ (“himself ”) in verse 31, a better translation reads as follows: Paul was urged “not to give himself up to the spectacle.”49 In other words, Luke may not simply be suggesting that Paul is dissuaded from entering the theater, but that he is dissuaded from sacrificing himself to the spectacle occurring within the theater. By using the language of spectacle, Luke parallels the rejection of Paul’s message with the rejection of Jesus on the cross; Jesus’ crucifixion is a “spectacle” (θεωρία, Luke 23:48), and the riot in Ephesus is also a “spectacle” (θέατρον, Acts 19:31). As with Jesus, Luke maintains, public witness is intimately linked with public persecution.

Conclusion In Acts, the themes of witness and persecution—or sight and spectacle—crystalize in the figure of Paul. Looking at Paul in relation to ancient optics reveals how Paul is someone who exercises his ocular agency, but who is also at the mercy of the hostile gaze. Indeed, Paul often becomes the object of the public gaze because of his witness, and this objectification in turn becomes a means of witness. Luke’s characterization of Paul in relation to visual imagery illuminates this inextricable connection between witness and persecution, and this connection in turn provides us with a clearer picture of the character Paul: Paul, as Jesus foretold, is one who is “to suffer [παθεῖν]” on behalf of the one who “appeared [ὁ ὀφθείς]” to him (9:16-17). In many respects, Luke’s account of witness and persecution in Acts functions as a prelude to later Christian martyrdom accounts. As in Acts, later martyrdom 46. See Pervo, Acts, 494. 47. BDAG, 242–3. 48. Ibid. 49. The closest I have found to this translation appears in Parsons and Culy, Acts. Here they write that this phrase “probably connotes that Paul should not let himself ‘fall into the hands’ of the people in the theater” (p. 376).



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accounts model the lives and deaths of martyrs after Jesus.50 They also depict martyrs as witnesses to Jesus, the objects of spectacle, and the recipients of visions, to name some of the main commonalities.51 Even the term “martyr” itself, as it is used in Christian martyrological texts, finds its roots in Acts. In Acts, the term μάρτυς references a follower who testifies, often based on what they have seen, as when Paul is instructed to be a “witness [μάρτυς]” of what he “has seen and heard” (Acts 22:15). But starting in the second century, the term μάρτυς came to have the meaning of “martyr,” or someone who dies on account of their testimony.52 While this meaning of the term μάρτυς developed after Acts, Luke sows the seeds of this etymological transition by depicting Paul as someone who is violently made a spectacle because of his witness. To be sure, this depiction of persecution in Acts and later martyrdom texts can—and has—led to problematic interpretive ramifications. Such accounts, for instance, can result in the acquiescence to oppressive power structures and the valorization of suffering, to name only some of the problems.53 At the same time, Luke’s account of sight and spectacle reveals a paradox that lies at the heart of the gospel. In the topsy-turvy world of Acts, honor is found in dishonor, strength is found in weakness, and salvation is found in spectacle. For Paul and those who follow in his footsteps, the line between seeing and being seen is a fine one, for the one about whom they witness became a spectacle on the cross.

50.  See Charles H. Talbert, Reading Acts: A Literary and Theological Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, rev. ed. (Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 2005), 57–68 (65–7). 51. For a discussion of sight and Christian martyrdom texts, see Elizabeth A. Castelli, Visions and Voyeurism: Holy Women and the Politics of Sight in Early Christianity, ed. Christopher Ocker (Berkeley: Center for Hermeneutical Studies, 1995). 52. See Strathmann, “μάρτυς κτλ.,” TDNT 4:474–508. 53. On the potentially problematic ramifications of martyrological literature, see, e.g., Elizabeth A. Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian Culture Making (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004), 172–203. * I thank Scott Spencer for reading an earlier draft of this essay.

10 T H E C HA R AC T E R I Z AT IO N O F D I S C I P L E S I N A C T S : G E N R E , M E T HO D , A N D Q UA L I T Y

Sean A. Adams

There has been a growing recognition over the past few decades that a narrative approach to the gospel texts and Acts can provide new and insightful interpretations.1 In this essay, I will investigate the relationship between genre and characterization, comparing Luke’s depiction of Peter and Paul as Jesus’ disciples in Acts with the ways in which followers of important figures are portrayed in ancient Graeco-Roman histories and biographies. I will argue that Luke’s presentation of Peter and Paul is closer in method and type to characterizations of similar figures in Graeco-Roman philosophical collected biographies than in histories and biographies of generals and/or political leaders.2 An important determiner in coming to this conclusion is identifying the function of the work. Just as the selection of genre is closely tied to the author’s rationale for writing, characterization is intricately associated with the plot and purpose(s) of the text. 1. E.g., David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel, 3rd ed. (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 2012); Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke–Acts: A Literary Interpretation, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986–90); Cornelis Bennema, Theory of Character in New Testament (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2014). 2. By this distinction, I do not mean to imply that these genres are unrelated or that they do not have significant overlap (they do, as will be seen below). Rather, these related genres show subtle differences in the way they portray biographic information. Cf. Simon Swain, “Biography and Biographic in the Literature of the Roman Empire,” in Portraits: Biographical Representation in the Greek and Latin Literature of the Roman Empire, ed. Mark J. Edwards and Simon Swaim (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), 1–37, esp. 23–7. For my perspective on genre as fluid, diverse, overlapping, evolving, and subject to the needs of the author, see Sean A. Adams, The Genre of Acts and Collected Biography, SNTSMS 156 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 26–67.

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Genre as an Influencing Force on Methods of Characterization One focus of this article is on the narrative depictions of actions and sayings, namely the method of characterization.3 Ancient writers did not engage in psychological assessment, trying to get behind what happened to understand the psyche of the actor.4 Moreover, there was no thoroughgoing method or theory of characterization in the Hellenistic period,5 though according to Aristotle the function of a character was intricately tied to genre and generally subordinated to plot.6 Accordingly, ancient writers portrayed a character through actions and words in a manner that facilitated the plot and purpose of the work as was appropriate for that genre.7 This approach to characterization is seen in the works of a number of ancient biographers and historians that focus on deeds and actions in their presentations of various individuals. As has been discussed in other works, these two genres had a long and entangled history, which resulted in a unique relationship between them.8 Even in the second century BC, ancient writers were starting to differentiate the two. For example, Polybius, in Hist. 10.21.5-8, makes a distinction between encomiastic biography and history: Now had I not dealt with Philopoemen in a special work in which I explain who he and his family were, and the nature of his training when young, I should be compelled to give an account of all these matters here. Since, however, I have formerly in three books, which do not form part of the present work, treated of him, stating which was his training as a boy and enumerating his most famous actions, it is event [sic; evident] that in the present narrative my proper 3. Richard A. Burridge, What Are the Gospels? A Comparison with Graeco-Roman Biography, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004), 139–40; Adams, Genre, 149–51, 161–3. 4. For the difference between character and personality, see Christopher Gill, “The Question of Character-Development: Plutarch and Tacitus,” Classical Quarterly 33 (1983), 469–87; Christopher Gill, “The Character-Personality Distinction,” in Characterization and Individuality in Greek Literature, ed. Christopher Pelling (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 1–31. 5. Cf. Outi Lehtipuu, “Characterization and Persuasion: The Rich Man and the Poor Man in Luke 16:19-31,” in Characterization in the Gospel: Reconceiving Narrative Criticism, ed. David Rhoads and Kari Syreeni, JSNTSS 184 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 73–105 (75). 6. On the pairing of plot and character, see Aristotle, Poet. 1, 6, 7, 9, 15. 7. Aristotle, Rhet. 1.9.33, 1367b; Poet. 15, 1454a-b. Cf. Xenophon, Cyr. 5.1.1; Valerius Maximus, 1.praef.; Pliny, Ep. 10.3A.3; Quintilian, Inst. 1.praef.14; Philostratus, Apol. 1.2.3. 8. Arnaldo Momigliano, The Development of Greek Biography: Carl Newell Jackson Lectures, exp. ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993); Adams, Genre, 68–115.



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course is to omit details concerning his early training and the ambitions of his youth, but to add detail to the summary account I  there gave of the achievements of his riper years, in order that the proper character of each work may be preserved. For just as the former work, being in the form of an encomium (ἐγκωμιαστικός), demanded a summary and somewhat exaggerated account of his achievements, so the present history, which distributes praise and blame impartially, demands a strictly true account and one which states the ground on which either praise or blame is based.9

The above passage provides clear evidence that at least one ancient person thought that encomiastic biography and history had different functions. Polybius also indicates that different topics and methods of characterization were appropriate to different genres. In particular, he highlights the fact that Philopoemen’s training as a youth had been fully developed in his previous encomiastic work and that for a work of history greater emphasis needed to be placed on the character’s later years. This does not mean that the character’s training was unimportant (cf. Polybius, Hist. 10.21.2). Rather, Polybius’ remarks highlight that the different genres involved different foci and methods of characterization. In the first century ad, ancient writers continued to differentiate intentionally between these two literary forms—the differences were yet not so established as to be taken for granted. The distinction between history and biography is sometimes slight, and not always clearly drawn. Hence the comment by Plutarch in his preface to the parallel lives of Alexander and Caesar: It is the life of Alexander the king, and of Caesar, who overthrew Pompey, that I am writing in this book, and the multitude of the deeds to be treated is so great that I shall make no other preface than to entreat my readers, in case I do not tell of all the famous actions of these men, nor even speak exhaustively at all in each particular case, but in epitome for the most part, not to complain. For it is not histories that I am writing, but lives; and in the most illustrious deeds there is not always a manifestation of virtue or vice, nay, a slight thing like a phrase or a jest often makes a greater revelation of character than battles where thousands fall, or the greatest armaments, or sieges of cities. Accordingly, just as painters get the likenesses in their portraits from the face and the expression of the eyes, wherein the character shows itself, but make very little account of the other parts of the body, so I must be permitted to devote myself rather to the signs of the soul in men, and by means of these to portray the life of each, leaving to others the description of their great contests (Alex. 1.1-3).10

9. Translation from Polybius: Historiae, ed. William R. Paton, 1923, rev. ed. Frank W. Walbank and Christian Habicht, 6 vols., LCL 138 (London: Heinemann, 2010–12). 10.  Translation from Plutarch: Lives, trans. Bernadotte Perrin, 11 vols., LCL 99 (London: Heinemann, 1919).

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This passage is typically discussed with relation to Plutarch’s genre awareness and his differentiation between biography and history.11 However, although Plutarch makes it clear that his desire to create moral character within his readers is part of the biography genre, the above citation also speaks to Plutarch’s method of characterization. For Plutarch, a depiction of Alexander does not require recounting his famous deeds (history); he focuses instead on small actions and sayings as a way of presenting the man (biography).12 Similarly, in Cat. Min. 37.4, Plutarch indicates that small incidents shed much light on the “manifestation and understanding of character” (πρὸς ἔνδειξιν ἤθους καὶ κατανόησιν).13 Admittedly, there is overlap regarding content between these genres (Nic. 1.1-2),14 but what we have here is a clear indication from an ancient writer that characterization differed between genres in general and between history and biography in particular.15 Unfortunately, however, the precise distinction between history and biography in this regard is not always as clear cut as one might desire. Eunapius, in his Lives of Philosophers, claims that he will focus on the individual’s major achievements (453), as this matches the focus of his work, namely, to record the accomplishments of the most illustrious philosophers. The focus on major deeds stands in contrast to the approach of Plutarch’s Lives. Nevertheless, Eunapius still distinguishes between his method of characterization here and that found in his history (482). More similar to Plutarch’s approach to characterization in his Lives, which includes references to small actions, is Tacitus’ Annals. For example, in his characterization of Tiberius, Tacitus not only mentions major choices and significant remarks, but also gives descriptions of gestures, facial expressions (or their absence), tone of voice, and style of expression.16 It is worth noting, however, that Tacitus does not see himself as following in the path of the great historians of the 11. Sean A. Adams, “What are Bioi/Vitae? Generic Self-Consciousness in Ancient Biography,” in Oxford Handbook of Ancient Biography, ed. Koen De Temmerman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, forthcoming). 12.  So also, Nepos, Pelop. 1.1: “As to his merits, I am in doubt how I shall speak of them; for I fear that, if I begin to give a full account of his actions, I may seem, not to be relating his life, but to be writing a history, or that, if I touch only on his principal exploits, it may not clearly appear to those ignorant of Grecian literature how great a man he was.” 13. Plutarch, Phoc. 5.4, claims that “a word or a nod” (καὶ ῥῆμα καὶ νεῦμα) is more important than lengthy writing. It is clear, however, that Plutarch is more focused on deeds than words, as only about twelve percent of the work consists of direct speech. Cf. Richard I. Pervo, “Direct Speech in Acts and the Question of Genre,” JSNT 28 (2006): 285–307 (300). 14. Cf. Timothy E. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 22–30. 15. For a variety of discussions, see the articles in Christopher B. R. Pelling, ed., Characterization and Individuality in Greek Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990). 16. E.g., Tacitus, Ann. 1.11.2; 2.29.2; 3.15.2; 3.51.1; 4.52.3.



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past who wrote about wars, the storming of cities, and the capturing of foreign kings. Rather, his work concerns an unbroken peace and describes intrigue and misery in the capital (Ann. 4.32.1-3; cf. 13.31.1). It is possible that this difference in topic and focus also contributes to differences in characterization. How does this relate to Acts? From the beginning of Acts, words and deeds are identified as constituting the core of Luke’s narratives. Just as Jesus’ words and actions were the focus of the previous volume (Acts 1:1, ὧν ἤρξατο ὁ Ἰησοῦς ποιεῖν τε καὶ διδάσκειν), the words and actions of his disciples, especially Peter, Paul, and Stephen, will be the key to understanding their characters in Acts. As we will discuss further below, events and deeds were selected for inclusion in Acts not because they were the most important aspects of individuals’ lives, but because they were appropriate to the focus of the work, namely, because they related to the Jesus movement and corresponded with the model set by Jesus. From the above examples we see that both histories and biographies used similar methods (i.e., references to words and deeds) to characterize individuals,17 and that there were also differences, especially in the selection of which deeds were to be included. Famous deeds, while a major aspect of histories, were less prioritized in biographies (though this does not mean that they were absent). The selection of major and/or minor deeds, however, was strongly influenced by the purpose of the work. We will continue to keep these methodological similarities and differences in mind as we progress. It is important to remember, however, that similarities in method of characterization do not equate to similarities in quality of characterization.

Disciples and Quality of Characterization in Histories and Biographies Related to the method of characterization is the quality of characterization, which focuses on the depth of presentation and the use of stereotypes and tropes.18 The reason that histories (and later, biographies) were thought to be applicable throughout the ages (see, e.g., Thucydides, Hist. 1.22.4) was that they were considered to speak to universal themes, with the same sort of people appearing and performing the same sort of actions.19 This idea of consistency in human character allowed for prototypical and stereotypical characterization of individuals through the inclusion of recurring motifs, actions, and sayings. Certain characters acted as models for other characters (and readers). This is particularly important for our discussion of Acts, in which the construction of 17. Xenophon, Ages. 1.6; Tacitus, Agr. 1.1-4. 18. See also the discussion of “flat/round” and “static/dynamic” characters by Edward M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel (New York: Harcourt, 1927), 69–81; Baruch Hochman, Character in Literature (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1985), 132. Cf. Richard Dyer, “The Role of Stereotypes,” in The Matter of Images: Essays on Representations (New York: Routledge, 1993), 11–18. 19. Burridge, Gospels, 120.

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a model character allows for interesting practices of imitation within the work, particularly among Jesus’ disciples. In my attempt to evaluate how disciples were characterized in histories, I have discovered that they are infrequently mentioned and do not form an important aspect of the narrative. This is determined primarily by the content of history and its typical focus on battles and politics, in which contexts military leaders and politicians are major players. Rarely is there discussion of professions that have disciples (philosophers, poets, or musicians), as they do not often impact political or military events, nor are they germane to such narratives. When disciples are mentioned in histories, they are rarely introduced in isolation. Rather, the term “disciple” and the character being referenced are almost always associated with another person: “Y, a disciple of X.”20 Through this sort of formulation, the author automatically sets up a comparison between the disciple and his master. If the disciple has been faithful and completed his training, there should be little difference between his actions and those of his teacher. The discussion of disciples implies a continuity that is normally reserved for religious and philosophical discussions and the identification of schools.21 In these fields, recognized succession and the fidelity of successors to the person they had succeeded was important. For example, in religious groups or philosophical schools there was a strong (potentially obligatory) requirement for maintaining past traditions and perpetuating them. In the fields of politics and generals, there was succession, but rarely was there talk of discipleship. Unlike the care taken to assure stability in philosophical schools, political and military succession rarely required or highlighted such continuity.22 As a result, there was no expectation or requirement for a successor to mimic his predecessor; each was evaluated in his own right, though typically with comparison to others who had gone before.23 A lack of expected conformity to the character’s predecessor(s) is thus a major difference between philosophical/religious biographies and histories and imperial/political biographies. If ancient historians do not discuss disciples, how do they describe successors within their narratives? Are all political and military successors stereotyped or is there a diversity of ways that they can be characterized? In Diodorus Siculus’ recounting of the Egyptian kings (Hist. 1.44.1–1.68.6) he spends very little space developing any of his characters; their importance to the narrative is that they ruled Egypt. Some did great deeds and were followed in these actions by subsequent kings (1.46.1; 1.64.2), while others broke away from previous tradition to start new patterns (1.45.2). In reading this section it becomes clear that Diodorus is less interested in developing the portraits of the Egyptian kings than in 20. E.g., Diodorus Siculus, Hist. 1.7.7; Philodemus, Stoicorum Historia 16.8; Strabo, Geogr. 14.1.7.4; Josephus, Ant. 1.200. 21. Athenaeus, Deipn. 7.281c; Diogenes Laertius, Lives 6.84; Cicero, Acad. 2.42-43. 22. E.g., Dionysius, Ant. rom. 1.73.1-5; Diodorus Siculus, Hist. 1.44.1–1.68.6. 23. A good example of this is the difference between Marcus Aurelius and Commodus in Scriptores Historiae Augustae: M. Aurel. 2–3; Comm. 1.1-9.



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recounting the wonders of Thebes, Memphis, the ancient tombs and pyramids, and the deeds of Sesoösis. As a result, the kings are static characters with very little depth of characterization.24 Even though it is clear that Greeks and Romans did not see character as fixed throughout a person’s life,25 the idea of development is rarely part of the characterization of individuals in biographies and histories. This is a result of the purpose of these works. Philosophical treatises attempt to instil moral change in the reader by advocating the adoption of a particular set of actions. Although historians and biographers also regularly conceive of their projects in ethical terms (i.e., passing judgment on the moral character of historical figures),26 they do this by presenting a person as a final product, thus giving the impression of stability of character over that person’s life. In individual biographies the presentation of a character is dependent on the type of biography chosen. For example, Isocrates’ Evagoras, as an encomium, is monotonic in praising him, resulting in a stereotypic representation (cf. Bus. 4). Such stereotyping is also found in Tacitus’ Agricola, whose presentation of Agricola as the model soldier and Domitian as the jealous Caesar forms a clear picture. Likewise, Iamblichus’ Pythagoras (186) portrays a philosopher who does not deviate from his beliefs and is steadfast in all his actions. Lucian’s biographic works have also been accused of typecasting in that he uses comments by characters (or by Lucian as the narrator) to chastise the actions and motivations of the main protagonist, or to provide a model for emulation. For example, in both Alexander and Peregrinus Lucian creates a picture of two “philosophers” who are not interested in the acquisition or advancement of truth, but rather are seekers of vainglory and make use of deceit in pursuit of such ends. These two are mercilessly ridiculed by Lucian in the first person throughout the works. In contrast, Nigrinus and Demonax speak out against ostentatious wealth (Nigr. 13–14) and pride, and provide models for later youth to follow (Demon. 2). Stereotyping, however, can also be found in collected biographies. For example, Nepos’ Atticus portrays a person who is upstanding in all aspects of life (13) and shows incredible willpower, even in death (21–22). Plutarch, in his Lives, though still attempting to model moral excellence to his readers (Demetrius and Antony excluded), is not as monolithic in his presentation. Rather, Plutarch’s characterization appears to be somewhat flexible, allowing for the possibility of personality development.27 Although for the majority of Plutarch’s Lives the individuals show consistency in character, there are a few examples of deteriorating character in which a person, near the end of their life, decides to stop following their practice

24. For other examples, see Diodorus Siculus, Hist. 18.1-75; Caesar, Bell. gall. 6.13; Cicero, Nat. d. 1.10.25–1.15.41. 25. Cf. Gill, “The Question of Character-Development,” 472–6. 26. E.g., Livy, Praef. 10; Tacitus, Ann. 3.65; 14.64; Hist. 1.3; Sallust, Cat. 4.1-4. 27. E.g., Arat. 51.4; 54.2; Sert. 10.2-5: Cf. Gill, “The Question of CharacterDevelopment,” 472.

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of virtue and to act according to vice (e.g., Arat. 51–53; Sulla 30.4-5; Sert. 10.3-4).28 This deviation from the expected pattern is a marked change in quality of characterization, as it breaks from stereotypical patterns established in other lives. Diogenes Laertius’ Lives provides an important example of how philosophers and their disciples are characterized. In most books there is one philosopher who dominates the narrative.29 However, despite the amount of narrative given to that particular philosopher, there is little change in the depth of characterization. We learn more about the philosopher’s teachings, sayings, and writings, but there is little in the way of development in characterization. What is presented is often an idealized picture of the philosopher, who is dedicated to his philosophical perspective and willing to hold on to his ideals through all forms of struggle. Typically paired with this model presentation are anecdotes that are used to support Diogenes’ characterization. In these vignettes we sometimes get a different glimpse into the philosopher. The actions are still in line with previous characterization, but there is often an additional element of humor or something unique to the person that can be seen as providing greater depth of characterization. For example, Diogenes recalls accounts of ill-feelings Plato had against Aristippus and Aeschines (3.36) and includes short, pithy sayings that exemplify the wit and insight of Plato.30 These scenes, which are a standard method of characterization in philosophical biographies, have the potential to provide depth of characterization. Recognition of this potential needs to be balanced with the realization that witty, humorous sayings are a regular component of Diogenes’ characterization and that their inclusion in the narrative often has the same function for all of the characters. As a result, the potential insight this provides into a particular character is lessened by the fact that almost all philosophers act in a similar, almost stereotypical, manner. A less developed pattern is found in Diogenes’ depiction of disciples. Despite identifying the most prominent disciples for almost every founder and giving them proportionally greater narrative space, there is little change in the quality of characterization among the followers.31 So, for example, Speusippus is introduced with the claim that he “adhered faithfully to Plato’s doctrines” (4.1), despite the fact that he committed suicide because he was despondent over his health issues (4.3), an action that Plato would not have approved of. This minimal depth of characterization is most likely a result of the purpose of the work. Diogenes Laertius was not interested in developing the character of his subjects (or his readers), but rather in tracing the lineage and teachings of different schools.32 If a philosopher deviated from his master, it was noted by Diogenes (e.g., 4.28), but 28. Cf. Dio Cassius, Hist. 57.13.6; Tacitus, Ann. 6.48.2. 29. For percentages for each book, see Adams, Genre, 264–7. 30. Cf. Diogenes, Lives, 3.21, 38–40. 31. For a discussion of narrative space for prominent disciples, see Adams, Genre, 206–9. 32. Diogenes, Lives, 3.47; 4.1; cf. 4.47. See also Jørgen Mejer, Diogenes Laertius and his Hellenistic Background, HE 40 (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1978), 2.



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the person’s adherence was still highlighted. This focus influenced the writing choices of Diogenes and resulted in stereotypical presentations of disciples as adherents to their master’s teachings who had taken up the mantle of leadership of a philosophical school. Similarly, Philostratus, Eunapius, and Jerome in their collected biographies are not interested in creating rounded or unique characters, but in claiming that their selected individuals have typical qualities that allow them to be characterized as good sophists, philosophers, or Christian writers. These stock features allow for the development of prototypes; a good sophist/philosopher/writer is good because they have a certain set of characteristics and qualities. This set of features is determined by those who have gone before (often modelled on the pinnacle example[s] of the field), and are also shaped by cultural expectations regarding the skills and values prized at the time of writing. An example of the impact of cultural expectations is provided by Philostratus, who only includes individuals in his Lives of the Sophists who were part of the first and second sophistic movements, with no portraits of people who lived in the intervening centuries. In his Lives, being stereotypic is not a bad thing, but something to be embraced, as it shows fidelity to a rhetorical system and that the individual has attained some level of achievement. Based on the above discussion, a few conclusions can now be proposed. First, disciples play a very minor role in histories and political/military biographies, but are more prominent in philosophical biographies.33 Second, depictions of disciples differ from those of successors; the former are typically constrained by the author’s portrait of the master, while the latter show more freedom for individual distinctions. Third, stereotyped characterizations are found in both biographies and histories. Fourth, the quality of characterization applied is influenced by the intended purpose of the work. These conclusions will form an important perspective for our interpretation of the disciples in Acts.

Characterization in Acts In the above discussion, one of the key determinants of quality of characterization is the intended purpose of the work. If the reason why an author is writing is to identify faithful adherents and trace the leaders of a school, then it is expected that those disciples will be presented in ways that are very similar to or even deterministically like their master and/or other faithful disciples. The number of characters in a work also impacts characterization. If there are a number of individuals discussed in a small amount of space (e.g., Jerome’s Illustrious Lives; Eunapius’ Lives of Philosophers), then it is likely that each individual will not be well developed. 33. This is not to imply that there are not individual distinctions within genres or that this is not an overlapping spectrum. Rather, I would argue that this distinction is typical of a majority of the examples, but is not deterministic of genre forms.

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This understating of stereotyped disciples in collected biographies relates to the Acts narrative and how its author characterizes the followers of Jesus.34 Acts opens by reminding the reader of the contents of Luke: “what Jesus began to do and teach” (ὧν ἤρξατο ὁ Ἰησοῦς ποιεῖν τε καὶ διδάσκειν).35 The use of ἤρξατο indicates possible continuation and suggests that Acts will continue to focus on Jesus’ actions and sayings. The narrative of Acts, however, is structured on the actions, deeds, and sayings of Jesus’ followers. As argued elsewhere, important disciples in collected biographies are champions of their masters’ teachings.36 This can be demonstrated in faithful promulgation of their messages, living according to the masters’ model, or, more likely, a combination of both. Often disciples have disciples of their own and pass on the teachings of their master, adding their own interpretations, but ultimately attributing their message to the founder. The opening of Acts suggests a continuation of Jesus’ ministry and it is not unwarranted to understand the disciples as the actors responsible for this task.37 Although Jesus appears at crucial points in the narrative (7:55-56; 9:34; 18:9), the disciples regularly act in Jesus’ name and attribute their actions to him (e.g., 3:6, 16; 4:10, 30). When comparing the narratives of Peter and Paul in Acts to those of notable disciples/characters in other collected biographies, it is apparent that Luke provides his leading figures with a substantially greater number of recounted events, which allows for the possibility of a more thorough portrayal of character.38 Despite this possibility, Peter and Paul (who are the primary characters in the Acts narrative) are relatively static characters. Although there is substantial development in Peter’s character between Luke’s Gospel and Acts, the same is not true within Acts. Peter’s actions and words are consistent throughout the text: his character functions as the primary spokesperson for the church (2:14-39; 3:11-26; 4:8-12), the lead disciple of Jesus for the first half of Acts (1:15-22; 5:29-32), a miracle worker (3:1-10; 9:32-43), and the key-holder for access into the in-group (5:1-10; 8:14-25; 10:1–11:18). The only real change for Peter in Acts is his recognition that the Gentiles are now part of God’s chosen people. Because of this revelation Peter changes certain behavioral traits (such as a willingness to enter a Gentile’s home), but this is consistent with his prior actions of always following the lead of the Holy Spirit and the teaching of Jesus.39 34.  For a recent discussion, see Richard A. Burridge, “The Genre of Acts—Revisited,” in Reading Acts Today: Essays in Honour of Loveday C.A. Alexander, Steve Walton et al., LNTS 427 (London: T&T Clark, 2011), 3–28 (23, 25–6). 35. Translations are mine unless otherwise specified. 36. Adams, Genre, 206–9. 37. Richard B. Hays, The Moral Vision of the New Testament: A Contemporary Introduction to New Testament Ethics (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 120–2. 38. For an insightful discussion of character in Luke-Acts, see Frank E. Dicken, Herod as a Composite Character in Luke-Acts, WUNT II 375 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014). 39. The characterization of Peter differs among manuscripts, most notably in codex Bezae.



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Paul, on the other hand, has a dramatic transformation, taking him from being an outsider (8:1) to an insider (9:1-19). This is an important change for the character of Saul/Paul, but it is not in conflict with ancient ideals of characterization or the wider practice of describing “conversions” in philosophical literature.40 Nevertheless, despite this transfer, Paul’s personality and character change very little. Both before and after his “conversion,” Paul is bold (9:28; 13:46; 14:3; 28:31), zealous for his religion (8:1-3; 9:1-2; 22:3), familiar with prisons (8:3; 16:23-40; 20:23; 22:4, etc.), and willingly travels to spread his religious teaching (9:2; 13:3-4, 13; 15:41). In addition to these specific characteristics, both Peter and Paul share a number of similar character traits. For example, they (and all of the disciples) are characterized by the standard description as being “full of the Holy Spirit”41 and “speaking boldly.”42 These characteristics of the disciples were preceded by similar depictions of Jesus in Luke’s gospel. For example, at the beginning of Luke, Jesus is regularly characterized as being full of the Spirit (Luke 1:15, 41, 67; 4:1, 14). Likewise, Jesus is said to teach with authority (4:32, 36) and in the power of the Spirit (4:15). Both of these disciples have other parallels to Jesus and his ministry. For example, all three heal a lame man (Jesus: Luke 5:17-26; Peter: Acts 3:1-11; Paul: Acts 14:8-10). Despite performing the same miracle, Jesus retains pre-eminence, as both Peter (3:16) and Paul (14:14-15) point to Jesus as the source of their power. Similarly, all three are in conflict with the Jewish leaders: Jesus is seen to challenge their authority (Luke 20:19, 46-47; 22:1-2), while Peter and Paul run into trouble by faithfully preaching the message of their master (4:2; 12:1-3; 24:5). The theme of education, a standard topos in ancient biographies and less prominent in histories,43 is another important aspect of Luke-Acts from its inception (1:1-4) and throughout both texts. For example, Jesus is characterized by having supernatural knowledge that is not attributable to any earthly teacher (Luke 2).44 Jesus is regularly portrayed as teaching (4:31; 6:6; 13:10, 22; 19:47; 20:1; 21:37; 23:5), is often called “teacher” by outsiders (7:40; 8:49; 9:38; 10:25; 11:45; 12:13; 18:18; 19:39; 20:21, 28, 39; 21:7; 22:11), and selects individuals to be his disciples and to learn his message (5:1-11). For Luke, the disciples begin their

40. For discussions of conversions in antiquity, see Arthur D. Nock, Conversion: The Old and the New Religion from Alexander the Great to Augustine of Hippo (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1933). For a well-known ancient example, see Apuleius, Metam. 11.1-30. 41. Acts 2:4; 4:31; 6:3, 5; 7:55; 9:17; 11:24; 13:9. 42. Acts 2:29; 4:13, 29, 31; 9:27-28; 13:46; 14:3; 18:26; 28:31. 43. Adams, Genre, 258. 44. Youthful behavior as an indicator of later traits was not absent in ancient biographies, but these examples are often vague generalities, not firm, tangible indicators of future character. Christopher Pelling, “Childhood and Personality in Biography,” in Characterization and Individuality in Greek Literature, ed. Christopher Pelling (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 213–44 (220).

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literary life with their interaction with Jesus.45 Their prior life seems to be of little value and there is no mention of any training they might have had prior to their apprenticeship with Jesus. Rather, it appears that their time with Jesus is sufficient for their training for ministry.46 The details of this training are rarely explicit, but the disciples are shown to have received a formative education through their actions in Acts. For instance, the disciples teach in the name of Jesus (4:2, 18; 5:28) and educate outsiders in the word of God/the Lord (15:35; 18:11; 28:31). In the narrative world, outsiders, specifically the Jewish leaders, recognize Peter and John as having been trained by Jesus and continuing his ministry (Acts 4:13). This training by Jesus is more effective than their lack of formal education and specialization and resonates with the saying of Jesus in Luke 6:40 that “a student is not above his teacher, but everyone who is fully trained will be like his teacher.”47 Another major similarity with Jesus is the depiction of Peter and Paul as speakers. Above we discussed the ancient commonplace that a character is known by words and deeds. It is perhaps surprising in this context that in Acts only three members of the Christian community have extended speaking roles: Stephen, Peter, and Paul. Since Luke could easily have had other characters make speeches, his limiting of them to these three characters is important. Not only does it create stronger parallels within the Acts narrative,48 it also emphasizes the positions of Stephen, Peter, and Paul, since they are characterized with the same method used by Luke for Jesus in his Gospel. Although we have not discussed Stephen’s role in the Acts narrative, he also follows closely in his master’s footsteps, particularly during his death scene. In evaluating Stephen’s death, there are strong parallels with the trial and death of Jesus. Particularly striking are the strong resemblances between the final words of Jesus and of Stephen, in that both pray that their spirit would be received: Jesus, πάτερ, εἰς χεῖράς σου παρατίθεμαι τὸ πνεῦμά μου (Luke 23:46); Stephen, κύριε Ἰησοῦ, δέξαι τὸ πνεῦμά μου (Acts 7:59). Moreover, both offer forgiveness to their aggressors: Jesus consistently preaches forgiveness of adversaries (Luke 11:4; 17:3; 23:34[?]; 24:47), while Stephen says, “κύριε, μὴ στήσῃς αὐτοῖς ταύτην τὴν

45. For biographies that discuss philosophical characters, especially those that include extended discussions of disciples, we find that childhood events are almost entirely absent in the characterization of the master’s followers. Pelling, “Childhood and Personality,” 216–17. 46. The notable exception is Paul, who claims to have studied the Law under Gamaliel (Acts 22:3). We do not know from the text where Paul learned what he did about Jesus (cf. Gal. 1:16-17), but that is not an issue for the narrative. According to Luke, Paul had an encounter with the risen Jesus (9:1-9), was filled with the spirit (13:9) and so was qualified to proclaim the message. 47. For the idea among Greek writers that education was more influential than a person’s innate nature, see Plutarch, Ti. C. Gracch. 1.5. 48. Andrew C. Clark, Parallel Lives: The Relation of Paul to the Apostles in the Lucan Perspective, PBM (Carlisle: Paternoster Press, 2001), 260.



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ἁμαρτίαν” (Acts 7:60).49 These parallels are clearly intentional. They functionally connect Stephen with Jesus and indicate that Stephen shows the same spirit and calmness when facing his death that his master Jesus did.50 These close parallels result in an intricate practice of characterization that allows the actions and sayings of the master to be established as the model for characterization of the disciples. Beyond Peter and Paul, the minor followers in Acts undergo no change at all in the narrative. They are given insufficient space within the narrative for Luke to develop their character, and what they do within Acts is predictable. This results in a standardized picture of disciples in Acts and a downplaying of any potential character diversity within the story. This lack of interest in character development, paired with a focus on teaching, conversion, and preaching, is in line with other collected biographies that trace philosophical succession or members of a profession. This indicates that the focus and purpose of Acts is not primarily the development of character within the story (although Paul and others do act as models to be emulated), but the message that the characters espouse and their embodiment of that message. Other collected biographies, particularly those of Diogenes Laertius, Philostratus, Eunapius, and Jerome, are focused on the words and teachings of their characters, rather than actions. This is demonstrated by the large proportion of those texts dedicated to speeches, sayings, and noting important literary works written by the subject. In Acts, there is much greater space given to the recounting of narrative than in typical collected biographies, in which there is generally little narrative. This difference is important as it suggests that faithful adherence to the teaching of Jesus is not sufficient for his disciples; deeds also need to be in line with words.51 We mentioned above that the opening of Acts suggests that Jesus is the paradigm for the actions and ministry of the disciples in Acts.52 Conversely, histories and political biographies, although they contrast and compare the individual in focus with prior examples, do not seek to establish or frame the discussion of the latter individuals solely in light of a singular predecessor. As a result, they differ from Acts, in which Jesus’ disciples speak and act in the ways that Jesus does in Luke’s gospel. Luke, therefore, creates a model in his first work and then has disciples follow it in the second. Luke’s characterization is very limited, since he shapes his depictions of the disciples to conform to his model of Jesus as established in his gospel.

49. For a larger list of parallels, see Clark, Parallel Lives, 264–67. 50. Tannehill, Narrative Unity, 99; F. Scott Spencer, Acts (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 69. 51. Cf. Iamblichus, Pyth. 189–95. 52. Michael D. Goulder, Type and History in Acts (London: SPCK, 1964), 63–4.

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Conclusion In this brief investigation into the characterization of the disciples in Acts we have come to a few conclusions. First, that the selection of genre influences the method and quality of characterization. Biographies and histories regularly employ the same method by recounting the words and deeds of an individual. However, the selection of which deeds and words are included is genre-sensitive. In Acts, the words and deeds of the disciples are selected on the basis of their relatedness to those of Jesus and their importance to the establishment of the new community. These may or may not have been the individual’s most famous deeds, but they are the most important ones for the author of Acts and his work. Second, there are very few depictions of disciples in historical works. These narratives regularly describe the succession of military and political leaders, but are not interested in discussing disciples. This difference in focus (i.e., wars and politics, as opposed to philosophy) is again genre-related and is informative for determining which characters will be included or excluded from the narrative. That Acts focuses almost exclusively on the words and deeds of Jesus’ disciples, an aspect that is largely absent from histories and political biographies, strongly suggests that we should begin our investigation of the disciples’ characterization by comparing them with those in philosophical biographies. Third, there are similarities in the quality of characterization of successors and disciples, although the purpose(s) and function(s) of these recountings are different; the discussion of disciples typically shows continuity, whereas successors may or may not follow in the path of those who have gone before them. Fourth, when disciples are depicted in literature they are regularly given minimal narrative space and are stereotyped. The characterization of disciples is often related to how their master was portrayed and they are shown to adopt similar patterns of behavior. Finally, the disciples in Acts—despite having more narrative space to recount their words and deeds than disciples in other collected biographies—are mostly static characters. In particular, they are presented as continuing the ministry of Jesus through their words and deeds and through strong parallel depictions both within Acts and between Luke and Acts. The actions of the disciples are modeled on those of Jesus and show that they are truly his followers. This relates to the purpose of Acts, which not only attempts to identify Jesus’ faithful disciples, but also to inform the reader of the type of words and deeds that should characterize a follower of Jesus.

11 S O C IO L I N G U I ST IC D Y NA M IC S A N D C HA R AC T E R I Z AT IO N I N T H E A C T S O F T H E A P O ST L E S

Julia A. Snyder

This essay takes its inspiration from the fact that audience reception of a narrative can be influenced by the words attributed to characters. The process is dynamic and involves a complex interaction between the person who receives the text and the words heard or read. On the one hand, each person brings a pre-existing cultural horizon to the act of reading or listening, a horizon that includes sociolinguistic sensibilities. Over a lifetime of communication, each person develops a sense of how particular ways of speaking tend to reflect social factors and shape social situations, and these sociolinguistic sensibilities influence the inferences he or she draws from characters’ words. The influence is not mono-directional, however. As audience members become accustomed to the social and linguistic dynamics that producers have imparted to the narrative world, the overtones they “hear” in characters’ words may begin to reflect the contours of the text more closely. In other words, the subtle messages audience members take from a text are influenced by both the experiences they have before coming to the text and the process of reading or listening itself.1 With this model in mind, the current essay will explore sociolinguistic dynamics in the Vaticanus and Bezan versions of the Acts of the Apostles. It will probe the relationship between the words attributed to characters and characterization, approaching the latter as both a production and reception process. Primary inspiration has been drawn from Sociolinguistics, a field that studies— among other things—how a person’s manner of speaking relates to factors such 1. On the process by which texts influence audiences, see John A. Darr, Herod the Fox: Audience Criticism and Lukan Characterization, JSNTSS 163 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 50–54; Herbert Grabes, “The Processualities of Literature,” Journal of Literature and Art Studies 3 (2013): 1–8.

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as his or her regional background, gender, social class, and participation in social networks, as well as the particular addressees, topics, and goals of a given conversation.2 Sociolinguists have observed that different individuals tend to speak in different ways, and that the same individual may speak differently in different contexts. They have also noted that a person’s manner of speaking rarely constitutes a static reflection of his or her biography and situation. Rather, people actively shape social situations by the way they speak, using socially significant words, structures, and tone to present themselves and their interlocutors in a certain light.3 This means that—to give just one example—using unexpectedly formal language among family and friends can dramatically change the tenor of a conversation or even a relationship. Words are a powerful tool by which people perform particular identities, and in this sense, they are immediately relevant to a study of characterization: every act of speaking involves characterization of both self and interlocutors. Analysis of narratives can engage with these observations in at least three ways. First, we can ask how the words attributed to characters reflect the social structure of the story world and the social location(s) of particular characters. As Janet Holmes writes, “Examining the way people use language in different social contexts provides a wealth of information … about the social relationships in a community.”4 Second, we can ask how analysis of sociolinguistic dynamics in a narrative might mediate access to the attitudes and purposes of its “producer(s),” a term I use to refer to real persons who produce written versions of texts.5 Of course, one can never assume that a text precisely mirrors lived realities, but narratives nevertheless invite reflection on their producers’ thoughts about social structures, and on the literary choices they have made in the process of creating characters with words. Third, we can approach characterization as a reception process and muse about the social inferences ancient audiences might have drawn from characters’ words.6 2. Many accessible introductions to sociolinguistics are available. See, e.g., Miriam Meyerhoff, Introducing Sociolinguistics, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2011). On topics addressed in this essay, see also Scott F. Kiesling, Linguistic Variation and Change, Edinburgh Sociolinguistics (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2011). Further references are provided in Julia A. Snyder, Language and Identity in Ancient Narratives: The Relationship between Speech Patterns and Social Context in the Acts of the Apostles, Acts of John, and Acts of Philip, WUNT II 370 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 9–16, 29–33. 3. See Robert B. Le Page and Andrée Tabouret-Keller, Acts of Identity: Creole-Based Approaches to Language and Ethnicity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Nikolas Coupland, Style: Language Variation and Identity, Key Topics in Sociolinguistics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 19; Kiesling, Linguistic Variation, 93–4. 4. Janet A. Holmes, An Introduction to Sociolinguistics, 4th ed. (Harlow: Pearson Education, 2013), 1. 5. I find “producer” a more helpful designation than “author” for a narrative tradition like Acts, which was successively produced by different people in different forms. 6. I employ the term “audience” because ancient people often experienced texts by hearing them read aloud. In this essay, the term refers to (hypothetical) real audiences.



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This essay will pursue all three lines of investigation. First, I will discuss several metalinguistic remarks in Acts—that is, explicit commentary on linguistic phenomena—to show that at least one producer in the lineage of extant manuscripts was aware of the fact that characters’ words might inspire inferences about their biography and situation. I will then describe a few findings from my own recent monograph, which analyzed sociolinguistic variation in the Vaticanus version of Acts, expanding on that study to consider how characters’ words reflect the social structure of the story world. I will also comment on the varying degrees to which different types of real audiences might have registered the sociolinguistic dynamics that are embedded in the text. Finally, I will discuss differences between the Vaticanus and Bezan versions of Acts, suggesting that the relevant producers either had different sociolinguistic sensibilities or different priorities that have affected the relationship between dialogue and characterization in those versions of the narrative.

Metalinguistic Remarks in Acts Metalinguistic remarks in Acts show that at least one producer was aware of how characters’ words might inspire inferences about their biography and situation. This is evident in the Pentecost episode (Acts 2), where a crowd is amazed to hear “Galileans” speaking in a range of “dialects.” The crowd’s surprise highlights the idea that the disciples’ manner of speaking would typically be expected to accord with their regional background, and the fact that it does not draws attention at a narrative level to the Spirit’s activity. The episode thus plays with conventional notions—or what are portrayed as being conventional notions—about the relationship between speech and biography.7 One sees a similar twist in Acts 4, where attention is drawn to the apostles’ bold, frank speech (παρρησία): “Seeing the παρρησίαν of Peter and John and understanding that they were untrained, ordinary people, [certain Judean leaders] were amazed and recognized that they had been Jesus’ companions” (Acts 4:13).8 According to this statement, the Judean leaders do not expect παρρησία from people without the appropriate training, and conclude that the apostles’ manner of speaking has been influenced by their relationship with Jesus. Just as in the Pentecost episode, the ostensibly conventional idea that the disciples’ speech would typically be expected to accord with their educational background is highlighted in order to draw attention to other factors that have influenced their speech patterns.9 7. On ancient stereotypes of Galilean linguistic abilities, see b. Erubin 53a, b; Craig S. Keener, Acts: An Exegetical Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2012), 1:835. 8. “Ordinary” does not appear in D. Translations are mine unless otherwise noted. 9. Discussing παρρησία in Acts are, e.g., Willem Cornelis van Unnik, “The Christian’s Freedom of Speech in the New Testament,” in Sparsa Collecta: The Collected Essays of W.C.

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Other scenes evoke similar ideas, such as when a tribune deduces from Paul’s Greek that he is not an Egyptian rebel: “Do you know Greek? Then you are not the Egyptian who recently stirred up a revolt and led the four thousand assassins out into the wilderness?” (Acts 21:37-38 NRSV). It is difficult to say whether ancient audiences—and producers of Acts—would have understood the tribune’s comment to refer to Paul’s level of fluency or the fact that he could speak Greek in the first place. Richard Pervo writes, “His question is best understood as a reference to the quality of Paul’s Greek accent, since a Jewish rebel from Egypt was likely to have spoken some Greek.”10 Although this may be true historically speaking, however, “facts” would hardly have stopped producers or audiences from employing less nuanced literary stereotypes.11 And other inferences might also have been drawn from the tribune’s remark. For some audiences—and producers—it might have evoked Paul’s educational background, social class, or urban origin. Similarly, a reference to a Lystran crowd’s speaking “Lycaonian” (Acts 14:11) could potentially have been interpreted both as a signal of the Lystrans’ regional background and as an indication that they are barbarians who do not yet know the Judean god. Likewise, there are several ways in which Paul’s speaking “in the Hebrew dialect” to a Jerusalem crowd in Acts 21:40–22:2 might have been interpreted.12 Some audiences—and producers—might have heard it as a signal of Paul’s regional background and experiences (he has command of a Semitic language, unlike some in the Diaspora); his cultural leanings (he is an authentic Judean who has not gone over to the dark side of unacceptable Hellenization); his educational background (he knows Hebrew in addition to Aramaic); his overall brilliance, shrewdness and/or situational sensitivity (he is multilingual and chooses to switch between several languages depending on his audience); and/or the fact that his audience are Judeans in Jerusalem. No doubt different audience members would van Unnik, vol. 2, NovTSup 30 (Leiden: Brill, 1980), 279–83; Stanley B. Marrow, “Parrhēsia and the New Testament,” CBQ 44 (1982): 431–46; Sarah C. Winter, “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ in Acts,” in Friendship, Flattery and Frankness of Speech: Studies on Friendship in the New Testament World, ed. John T. Fitzgerald, NovTSup 82 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 185–202; Craig S. Keener, Acts: An Exegetical Commentary, vol. 2, 3:1–14:28 (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2013), 1152–4; Rubén R. Dupertuis, “Bold Speech, Opposition, and Philosophical Imagery in the Acts of the Apostles,” in Engaging Early Christian History: Reading Acts in the Second Century, ed. Rubén R. Dupertuis and Todd C. Penner (Durham: Acumen, 2013), 153–68. 10. Richard I. Pervo, Acts: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009), 553. 11. On literary and linguistic stereotyping of Egyptians, see Leukippe and Kleitophon 3.9; and Susan Stephens, “Cultural Identity,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel, ed. Tim Whitmarsh (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 60–1. 12. Poirier argues convincingly that Paul speaks Hebrew rather than Aramaic here (John C. Poirier, “The Narrative Role of Semitic Languages in the Book of Acts,” Filología Neotestamentaria 16 [2003]: 107–16).



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have drawn different sociolinguistic inferences from the comment, and any of these considerations might have played into the relevant producer’s (subconscious) motivations for including it. While more could be said about each of these examples, I will instead simply summarize this section by saying that relationships between character identity and manner of speaking are repeatedly and explicitly invoked in Acts. These examples show that at least one producer was aware that characters’ words might inspire inferences about their biography and situation.

Lexical Variation and Characterization (Vaticanus) In the Vaticanus version of Acts (ActsB), this awareness is enacted at a more fundamental level in the very words attributed to characters. Lexical variation in dialogue contributes to a depth of characterization and allows dialogue to be a source of information about the social structure of the story world. Lexical Variation and Addressees In Language and Identity in Ancient Narratives, I have described how the forms of address attributed to characters in the Vaticanus version of Acts and the ways they refer to Jesus and the apostles” god reflect the “Christian” and/or Judean status of their addressees.13 I will not repeat the entire analysis here, but will mention a few findings in order to illustrate how these sociolinguistic dynamics reflect the social structure of the story world. For instance, the way the term θεός (“god”) is used enacts a social distinction between Christian characters and “pure Gentiles,” by which I mean “non-Christian” Gentiles without a prior Judean affiliation.14 When Christian characters speak among themselves, they tend to refer simply to “God.” In scenes where they address “pure Gentiles,” on the other hand, they modify initial references to θεός, seemingly in order to clarify which god they are talking about. To give just one example, instead of referring simply to “God” at the beginning of the Athens episode, Paul cites an inscription “to an unknown god,” then refers to “the god who made the world and everything in it (ὁ θεὸς ὁ ποιήσας τὸν κόσμον καὶ πάντα τὰ ἐν αὐτῷ)” (ActsB 17:23-24). The way in which characters use the term θεός also constructs a distinction between “pure Gentiles” and non-Christian Gentiles with prior Judean affiliations: first references to θεός are rarely modified when Christian characters address the latter. Forms of address, meanwhile, mark a differentiation between two other non-Christian populations: “brothers” (ἀδελφοί) is used as a form of address for non-Christian Judeans, but not for “pure Gentiles.” 13. See Snyder, Language, 36–89. 14. Cornelius has a Judean affiliation before he meets Peter and is thus not a “pure Gentile.”

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Differing ways of referring to Jesus also reflect a social distinction between Christians, non-Christian Judeans, and “pure Gentiles.” When addressing non-Christian Judeans, Christian characters do not refer to “the lord Jesus,” and they modify many uses of his name with relative clauses, such as “Jesus of Nazareth, a man attested to you by God by deeds of power and wonders and signs” (ActsB 2:22).15 This differs from how Christian characters speak among themselves. Furthermore, Christians employ “Jesus of Nazareth” and “the Messiah” only when addressing non-Christians who are Judean or Judean-affiliated, and when addressing “pure Gentiles,” they do not use Jesus’ name at all. Sociolinguistic variation is thus embedded in the Vaticanus version of Acts, helping to construct a story world in which “Christian” and “Judean” are salient social categories, and a distinction is made between “pure Gentiles” and Gentiles with a prior Judean affiliation. The social location of various characters is reflected in dialogue. Implications for Characterization as a Production and Reception Process These sociolinguistic dynamics raise questions about the producer responsible for incorporating them into the text, who, if not the putative “original author of Acts,” was nevertheless probably a predecessor of the Vaticanus producer rather than the same. Did this person always perceive the world in the categories described above, and did he or she know individuals who exemplified them? Did persons of the producer’s acquaintance speak differently when addressing different audiences in the manner illustrated here? Or do the sociolinguistic contours of the story world represent a purely creative exercise or an attempt to shape external reality rather than to mimic speech tendencies in “real life”? The answers probably lie somewhere between these extremes. It is also difficult to know whether the relevant producer was always conscious of incorporating sociolinguistic variation into the narrative. While I think he or she probably was, even if the dynamics described above have resulted from subconscious activity, they are still informative regarding characterization as a production process: a producer has attributed certain words to certain characters, thereby constructing a particular type of social world. What social inferences audiences might have drawn from characters’ words, on the other hand, is less clear. Audience members whose pre-existing sociolinguistic sensibilities closely resembled those imparted by producers to the story world would have been predisposed to attribute the same social overtones to the ways of speaking concerned. Audience members with a different sense of how those ways of speaking tend to reflect addressee identity, on the other hand, might not have interpreted the narrative in light of them at all, or perhaps in different ways, or only when the narrative had progressed to the point that they began to internalize its sociolinguistic contours. 15.  Ἰησοῦν τὸν Ναζωραῖον, ἄνδρα ἀποδεδειγμένον ἀπὸ τοῦ θεοῦ εἰς ὑμᾶς δυνάμεσι καὶ τέρασι καὶ σημείοις.



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I would therefore like to revise a remark I made in another context about characterization in ActsB, where I commented that Peter’s words in the Cornelius episode (ActsB 10) contribute to a characterization of the centurion as “more Judean than other Gentiles.”16 This comment was based on the observation that Peter’s references to “God,” “Jesus Messiah,” and “Jesus from Nazareth” more closely resemble dialogue between Christians and other Judeans elsewhere in the narrative than between Christians and “pure Gentiles.” While this is true, I would now add the qualification that the expressions only point to Cornelius’ Judean affiliation when characterization is viewed from a production perspective or from the perspective of an audience predisposed to attribute “Judean” overtones to those ways of speaking. An ancient audience with different sociolinguistic sensibilities, especially if listening or reading sequentially, might not have registered Peter’s words at all, because they resemble how he speaks in previous scenes. This audience might at most have thought that Peter’s manner of speaking suits addressees who are not members of the Christian movement; Cornelius’ Judean affiliation would probably not have been evoked for them.17 In later scenes, on the other hand, when the apostles begin to speak in contrasting ways, even this audience might have made sociolinguistic inferences using the categories I have described, especially in scenes where distinctive aspects of character identity are marked in other ways. In the Lystran scene, the first scene to focus on the apostles’ interaction with “pure Gentiles” (Acts 14), the fact that the Lystrans are neither Judeans nor Judean-affiliated Gentiles is signaled by narratorial reports that they speak Lycaonian and that the priest of Zeus wants to sacrifice to Barnabas and Paul. Thus primed, audiences might have noticed (subconsciously) that Barnabas and Paul’s short form of address for the crowd—ἄνδρες (“gentlemen”)—contrasts how Christians have been depicted as addressing Christians, Judeans, and Judean-affiliated Gentiles earlier in the narrative. They might also have registered (subconsciously) the unusual modified θεός when Barnabas and Paul urge the Lystrans to turn to “the living god, who made heaven and earth and the sea and everything in them,”18 which would have contributed to their interpreting the crowd as “pure Gentiles” (ActsB 14:15). As the narrative progresses still further, audiences might increasingly have internalized its sociolinguistic contours and continued to interpret characters 16. See Snyder, Language, 84–5. 17. On a second exposure to the narrative, however, the same audience might have been more attuned to the potential “Judean” overtones of Peter’s words. Cf. Wolfgang Iser, “The Reading Process: A Phenomenological Approach,” New Literary History 3 (1972): 285–6. On the benefits of sequential reading for narrative analysis, see Meir Sternberg, Expositional Modes and Temporal Ordering in Fiction (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), 90–6; John A. Darr, On Character Building: The Reader and the Rhetoric of Characterization in Luke-Acts, LCBI (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1992), 42–3, 85–126; Darr, Herod, 73–4; Grabes, “Processualities.” 18. θεὸν ζῶντα, ὃς ἐποίησεν τὸν οὐρανὸν καὶ τὴν γῆν καὶ τὴν θάλασσαν καὶ πάντα τὰ ἐν αὐτοῖς.

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in light of them. They might have (subconsciously) attributed “pure Gentile” overtones to Paul’s modified reference to θεός in the Athens scene (ActsB 17:24) and noticed that his oblique reference to Jesus as “a man whom [God] has appointed” (ActsB 17:31) contrasts references to Jesus in earlier scenes where the apostles address Christians, Judeans, and Judean-affiliated Gentiles. When Paul speaks to his shipmates of “an angel of the god to whom I belong and whom I worship (τοῦ θεοῦ, οὗ εἰμι ᾧ καὶ λατρεύω, ἄγγελος)” (ActsB 27:23), and addresses them as “gentlemen (ἄνδρες)” (ActsB 27:10, 21, 25), his words might similarly have inspired audiences to characterize them as “pure Gentiles.” And a range of audiences might have heard “Christian” overtones in Paul’s references to “the lord Jesus (ὁ κύριος Ἰησοῦς)” and “our lord Jesus (ὁ κύριος ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦς)” when addressing Ephesian elders in ActsB 20, because the latter expressions contrast how Christian characters are depicted as speaking to non-Christians in earlier scenes and resemble other inter-Christian dialogue. Lexical Variation and Speakers Thus far, I have focused on the relationship between lexical variation and the identity of addressees, but characters’ words in ActsB also have the potential to reflect on the social location of speakers.19 Peter and Paul, for instance, are portrayed as speaking differently with different addressees. Paul’s sociolinguistic adaptability is the most evident because he speaks the most, but Peter’s speech patterns also differ with Christian and non-Christian addressees in the narrative. At least from a reception perspective, this could inspire inferences about the protagonists’ being Spirit-filled, their sensitivity to different audiences, their concern for communicating clearly and persuasively, or even their multiple identities: is it because Peter and Paul are simultaneously Judeans and Christians that they have the ability to speak appropriately in all of these contexts? These possibilities are most relevant for characterization as a reception process, because there are no indications that producer(s) have intentionally withheld lexical adaptability from other characters. For all we know, non-Christian characters might also have been depicted as speaking differently to different addressees had plot provided the opportunity. From a production perspective, furthermore, the way that minor characters speak sometimes fits their own identity. Lydia’s remark about being “faithful to 19.  For other studies that discuss inter-speaker linguistic variation and characterization in ancient texts, see, for example, Frank Frost Abbott, “The Use of Language as a Means of Characterization in Petronius,” Classical Philology 2 (1907): 43–50; Bret Boyce, The Language of the Freedmen in Petronius’ “Cena Trimalchionis,” Mnemosyne Supplements 117 (Leiden: Brill, 1991); Stephen Colvin, Dialect in Aristophanes and the Politics of Language in Ancient Greek Literature, OCM (Oxford: Clarendon, 1999); Andreas Willi, The Languages of Aristophanes: Aspects of Linguistic Variation in Classical Attic Greek, OCM (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); Andreas Willi, “Register Variation,” in A Companion to the Ancient Greek Language, ed. Egbert J. Bakker, BCAW (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 297–310.



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the Lord (πιστὴν τῷ κυρίῳ)” (ActsB 16:15) suits her status as a new Christian if “the Lord” is understood as Jesus, and it is fully in keeping with the non-Christian status of Festus and Jewish exorcists that their references to Jesus are modified when Festus speaks of “a certain Jesus who has died, whom Paul was saying is alive (τινος Ἰησοῦ τεθνηκότος ὃν ἔφασκεν ὁ Παῦλος ζῆν)” (ActsB 25:19) and the exorcists invoke “Jesus whom Paul proclaims (τὸν Ἰησοῦν ὃν Παῦλος κηρύσσει)” (ActsB 19:13).20 In fact, the exorcists’ words have the potential to illuminate the social location of both speakers and addressees simultaneously, because first references to human beings in ActsB tend to be accompanied by introductory information, and their unmodified reference to “Paul” thus implies that their demonic addressee is familiar with Paul.21 He affirms the assumption when he replies, “Jesus I know and Paul I know, but who are you?” (Acts 19:15).22 Summary To summarize, dialogue in the Vaticanus version of Acts incorporates both addressee- and speaker-related sociolinguistic variation, analysis of which illuminates the social structure of the story world and the social location(s) of characters. From a production perspective, ActsB evidences a depth of characterization that extends beyond the metalinguistic level to lexical variation in characters’ very words, and this is likely to have influenced audiences’ experience of the narrative.

Vaticanus and Bezae Not all producers of Acts exploited this sociolinguistic potential to the same degree, however. In the Vaticanus and Bezan versions of Acts, references to Jesus and the apostles’ god are similar and many expressions, such as “Jesus of Nazareth” and “this Jesus whom you crucified,” are found in the same social contexts, but the sociolinguistic distribution of other ways of referring to Jesus and the apostles’ god differs, just enough to dilute their potential to contribute substantively to characterization as a reception process.23 20. See further Snyder, Language, 70–1. 21. That is, that the exorcists make such an assumption. 22. Thanks to Ms. Elisabeth Bittner for reminding me of this point. 23. For various perspectives on Acts’ complex textual history, see Bruce M. Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament, 2nd ed. (New York: UBS, 1994), 222–36; Barbara Aland, “Entstehung, Charakter und Herkunft des sog. westlichen Textes: Untersucht an der Apostelgeschichte,” Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses 62 (1986): 5–65; Édouard Delebecque, Les deux Actes des Apôtres, Études bibliques 6 (Paris: Lecoffre, 1986), 18–19; Peter Head, “Acts and the Problem of Its Texts,” in The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting. Volume 1: The Book of Acts in Its Ancient Literary Setting, ed. Bruce W. Winter and Andrew D. Clarke (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1993), 415–55; Stanley E. Porter, “Developments in the Text of Acts before the Major Codices,” in The Book of Acts

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References to θεός and Characterization For instance, the “pure Gentile” overtones that audiences of Vaticanus might have heard in modified initial references to θεός are attenuated in Bezae. In contrast to Vaticanus, an early prayer in Bezae begins with a modified reference to θεός: “Master, you who are the god who made heaven and earth and the sea and everything in them (δέσποτα, συ ὁ θεὸς ὁ ποιήσας τὸν οὐρανὸν καὶ τὴν γὴν καὶ τὴν θάλασσαν καὶ πάντα τὰ ἐν αὐτοῖς)” (ActsD 4:24).24 Barnabas and Paul’s first reference to θεός in the Bezan Lystran scene—and thus the first reference to θεός addressed specifically to “pure Gentiles” in the narrative—is also unmodified. The apostles announce that they are “proclaiming the good news of God (εὐαγγελίζομαι … τὸν θεόν)” (ActsD 14:15). This is not the case in Vaticanus.25 These two differences mean that modification of θεός does not correlate as clearly with the social location of addressees in Bezae as in Vaticanus, and the likelihood that Bezan audiences would have drawn “pure Gentile” inferences from modified forms is therefore substantially less, both in the Lystran scene when Barnabas and Paul subsequently refer to “the living god who made heaven and earth and the sea and everything in them (τὸν θεὸν ζῶντα τὸν ποιήσαντα τὸν οὐρανὸν καὶ τὴν γὴν καὶ τὴν θάλασσαν καὶ πάντα τὰ ἐν αὐτοῖς)” (ActsD 14:15) and in later scenes where first references to θεός are modified (e.g., ActsD 17:24). The Lystrans are still “Gentiles” in Bezae, but the apostles” words have less potential to contribute to that characterization than in Vaticanus. “The Lord Jesus Messiah” Another example of the lesser potential of characters’ words to evoke their social location in Bezae than in Vaticanus is Acts 13:33, where Paul speaks in the synagogue of Pisidian Antioch. In Bezae, he mentions God’s raising “the lord Jesus Messiah” (τὸν κύριον Ἰησοῦν Χριστόν), while in Vaticanus he refers to “Jesus.” The difference is striking, because Paul’s referring to “the lord Jesus Messiah” with non-Christian addressees would have been out of place within the sociolinguistic framework of Vaticanus, where such language is used almost exclusively when as Church History: Text, Textual Traditions and Ancient Interpretations/Apostelgeschichte als Kirchengeschichte: Text, Texttraditionen und antike Auslegungen, ed. Tobias Nicklas and Michael Tilly, BZNW 120 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003), 32–5. 24. In Vaticanus, the phrase does not include ὁ θεός. Those words appear in most manuscripts, however. 25. Vaticanus lacks the object entirely. Rius-Camps and Read-Heimerdinger suggest that Bezae contrasts “the one and only God (τὸν θεόν, with the article)” with “the plurality of ‘powerless things’” (Josep Rius-Camps and Jenny Read-Heimerdinger, The Message of Acts in Codex Bezae: A Comparison with the Alexandrian Tradition, LNTS [London: T&T Clark, 2004], 3:156–7). The articular form is the default in Bezae, however, and is probably not that significant.



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Christian characters address other Christians.26 Usage of this phrase thus does not correlate as clearly with inter-Christian dialogue in Bezae as in Vaticanus, and ancient audiences would correspondingly have been less likely to draw inferences about the Christian status of addressees from it in other passages where it appears. This also illustrates the Bezan version’s lesser interest in coordinating characters’ words consistently with the social location of addressees. As an aside, the use of the longer phrase in ActsD 13 cannot be attributed to haphazard addition of titles to the name of Jesus. As Rius-Camps and Read-Heimerdinger write, “It is often affirmed that it is a scribal feature of the Bezan text, or the Western text in general, to complete the name of Jesus with his full titles, as if reflecting later ecclesiastical practice, but the impression is a false one since there are many occurrences of the name of Jesus in Acts that the Bezan scribe did not add to.”27 Both they and Epp observe that “lord Jesus Messiah” occurs when Jesus’ resurrection is mentioned, which may be relevant.28 Alternatively, a producer may not have recognized the “Christian” overtones of “the lord Jesus Messiah” in a Vorlage or may have allowed other thematic or theological concerns to take precedence when selecting Paul’s words. References to κύριος and Characterization Bezae also exploits the potential of “the Lord” to contribute to characterization less than Vaticanus. In Vaticanus, there are several instances where usage of the phrase ὁ κύριος (“the Lord”) has the potential to evoke information about the social location of the speaker. This is because “the Lord” only appears in particular social contexts: When Jesus is meant, both interlocutors are Christians in all but a couple of exceptional cases.29 When the reference is to the Judean/Christian god, the interlocutors are either Christians or non-Christians who are Judean or Judean-affiliated Gentiles. In neither scenario does the expression appear in contexts where either of the direct interlocutors is a “pure Gentile.”30 Within this sociolinguistic framework, Lydia’s reference to being faithful to “the Lord” (Jesus) has the potential to evoke her status as a new Christian who has recently 26. The only partial exception is ActsB 16:31, where Paul and Silas are addressing the Philippian jailor. He is in the process of becoming a Christian, however. See Snyder, Language, 55. 27. Rius-Camps and Read-Heimerdinger, Message, 2004, 3:98, also 77; and see Jenny Read-Heimerdinger, The Bezan Text of Acts: A Contribution of Discourse Analysis to Textual Criticism, JSNTSS 236 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 261, 268, 272–3. 28. Eldon Jay Epp, The Theological Tendency of Codex Bezae Cantabrigiensis in Acts, SNTSMS 3 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966), 63; Josep Rius-Camps and Jenny Read-Heimerdinger, The Message of Acts in Codex Bezae: A Comparison with the Alexandrian Tradition, vol. 3, LNTS 365 (London: T&T Clark, 2007), 98; Read-Heimerdinger, Bezan Text, 268: Cf. Acts 2:32-36; 4:33. 29. See Snyder, Language, 56–63. 30. Ibid., 62.

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been baptized (ActsB 16:15), and Cornelius’ reference to the Judean god as “the Lord” reflects (at least from a production perspective) the fact that he is not a “pure Gentile” (ActsB 10:33). It is a little less clear exactly what inferences might be drawn from a reference to “the Lord” by Simon of Samaria, especially since the referent is more ambiguous in that case (ActsB 8:24), but from a production perspective, his words could reflect the fact that he is a Samaritan rather than a “pure Gentile” and/or the fact that he has already been baptized. In Bezae, on the other hand, the words attributed to these characters are less likely to inspire inferences about their social location, because instead of referring to “the Lord,” they refer to “God” (ὁ θεός), a sociolinguistically unmarked term in Bezae that is used by characters of a variety of social locations in a variety of contexts. The mere fact that it is employed in Bezae is unlikely to inspire audiences to make inferences about the social location of characters, and the words of Lydia, Cornelius, and Simon are thus less likely than in Vaticanus to contribute anything to characterization from a reception perspective. Whether their words elucidate characterization from a production perspective in Bezae depends on how one reconstructs Acts’ textual history, a daunting challenge that will not be attempted here. While I tend to think that “the Lord” is probably primary and “God” a secondary reading in the three instances cited above, one can at least consider the alternative. If the Bezan reading is prior in these three instances, they tell us very little about characterization or the sociolinguistic sensibilities of producers in the lineage of Bezae, because, as just remarked, “God” is an unmarked form in the Bezan text that does not in and of itself convey information about characters’ social location. In this scenario, the differences only highlight the fact that producer(s) in the lineage of Vaticanus chose to attribute words to characters that are sociolinguistically significant. For someone to change Cornelius” “God” to “the Lord,” for instance, he or she would have had to have been particularly interested in having the centurion’s speech reflect his Judean affiliation. The Bezan characters’ words are therefore informative about producer(s) in the lineage of Bezae only if they are secondary. Yet even in this scenario, the implications of the differences are not entirely clear, as one sees from the fact that Paul’s speech to the Ephesian elders in Acts 20 includes θεός in Bezae where Vaticanus has κύριος (Acts 20:32). Since both terms appear elsewhere in the same speech, the change—in whichever direction—has not been made out of concern for Paul’s social location or that of his addressees. Apparently, both terms were acceptable for a speaker like Paul and addressees like the Ephesian elders. Nor can the change have been inspired by the social makeup of an intended audience, on the same grounds. There might be a more subtle explanation for the change—κύριος could theoretically reflect a producer’s desire to have Paul entrust the elders to Jesus, while θεός reflects a different referent—but the variant is just as likely an accident. The term θεός is commonly used in all versions of the narrative, and a producer may have reverted to it by mistake. The fact that variation between θεός and κύριος has nothing to do with the social location of characters in Acts 20 means that we must exercise caution in



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positing such significance in other passages. Take Lydia, for instance. Could a producer have changed her words from “Lord” to “God” because he or she felt that the former was out of keeping with her non-Judean identity? (I am supposing for the sake of argument that θεός represents the secondary reading, having already considered the sociolinguistic implications of the alternative scenario above.) Rius-Camps and Read-Heimerdinger comment, “D05 consistently uses θεός to refer to the divine from the point of view of Gentiles,”31 which raises the question of whether a producer has altered Lydia’s words out of concern for the fact that she is not a Judean.32 This is possible, and intriguing, because it would indicate that Lydia’s “Gentile” status trumps the fact that she has already been baptized (and has Judean affiliations) for the producer responsible. On the other hand, it is just as plausible that a producer in the lineage of Bezae accidentally changed the term to “God” because this was his or her default personal object for pist- terms. One observes that in Bezae, “the Lord” only appears as a personal object of pistin places where Vaticanus has the same construction (Acts 5:14; 14:23; 18:8), and that when Bezae has an object that Vaticanus lacks, the term is always “God” (Acts 13:12; 18:8; 19:20).33 If one assumes for the sake of argument that a single producer in the lineage of Bezae looked at a Vaticanus-like exemplar and made all of these additions, it suggests that pist- + “God” was a default construction for that producer, and consequently that the use of “God” in such a collocation is sociolinguistically neutral. The Bezan Lydia’s reference to “God” would then reflect a producer’s linguistic tendency to complete pist- with “God” rather than concern for her “Gentile” status. In other words, on cannot simply assume that a sociolinguistic explanation makes the best sense of variation in her words.34 31.  Rius-Camps and Read-Heimerdinger, Message, 2007, 3:267; cf. Read-Heimerdinger, Bezan Text, 286–7. 32. Rius-Camps and Read-Heimerdinger are not necessarily making that suggestion themselves, nor do they assume that Vaticanus represents the earlier version. See Josep Rius-Camps and Jenny Read-Heimerdinger, The Message of Acts in Codex Bezae: A Comparison with the Alexandrian Tradition, vol. 1, JSNTSS 257 (London: T&T Clark International, 2004), 10. 33.  In Vaticanus, the personal object is almost always Jesus, referred to variously as “the Lord” (ActsB 5:14; 9:42; 14:23; 18:8), “the lord Jesus Messiah” (ActsB 11:17), “the Messiah Jesus” (ActsB 24:24), “the lord Jesus” (ActsB 16:31), “Jesus” (ActsB 19:4), and “our lord Jesus” (ActsB 20:21). The exception is ActsB 16:34. Third person pronouns complete the verb at ActsB 10:43; 13:39. 34. Epp suggests that the distribution of θεός and κύριος with pist- terms in Bezae reflects a distinction between pure Gentile and synagogue contexts, respectively, and that Lydia’s words in Bezae may be “the exception that proves the rule” (since she is affiliated with a synagogue, and nevertheless refers to θεός). See Epp, Theological Tendency, 87–90. This is possible, but I find either a collocation of pist- and θεός or a flattening of the distinction between “pure” and Judean-affiliation Gentiles more plausible explanations for the variant. Rius-Camps and Read-Heimerdinger offer an alternative sociolinguistic interpretation of Lydia’s reference to “God,” suggesting that it “signals an incomplete conversion,

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The fact that Cornelius refers to “God” in Bezae could also be attributed with almost equal probability to concern for his non-Judean identity or a linguistic accident. In Bezae, Cornelius tells Peter that they have gathered to hear what “God” (Vaticanus: “the Lord”) has commanded. A producer in the lineage of Bezae could made the change because he or she wanted to avoid having a Gentile refer to the Judean god as “the Lord.” This would indicate a flattening of the sociolinguistic distinction between “pure Gentiles” and Gentiles with Judean affiliations, and one would then want to ask what sort of producer might have been uninterested in the nuances of such a distinction. On the other hand, it is also possible that Cornelius’ words were changed because a producer (subconsciously) reverted to a linguistic default that had nothing to do with the centurion’s non-Judean identity. After all, the term θεός appears frequently elsewhere in the episode (Acts 10:28, 31, 34, 38, 40, 41, 42). Two final instances of θεός-κύριος variation are equally difficult to explain with certainty. It is possible that a producer in the lineage of Bezae thought Simon’s reference to “the Lord” was incompatible with his social location, either because he does not show evidence of having a proper Christian attitude or because he is a Samaritan rather than a Judean. The first alternative would reflect a scenario where the producer understood “the Lord” in his or her exemplar as Jesus and intentionally changed the referent. In either case, it is curious that this producer did not change Peter’s own reference to “the Lord” addressed to Simon in the same scene. Was the producer only thinking about matching characters’ words with their own social location and not that of their addressees? When James cites Amos 9:11-12 with reference to Gentiles at Acts 15:17, incorporating a reference to θεός in Bezae where Vaticanus has κύριος, motivation for any change is likewise difficult to pinpoint with certainty. Read-Heimerdinger comments that Bezae “prefers θεός for non-Jewish people,” whereas Vaticanus leaves open the possibility that the reference is to Jesus,35 which is possible. The evidence is inconclusive, however, and in light of Acts 20:32, we cannot assume that sociolinguistic considerations have been determinative. Could θεός-κύριος variation in any of the above instances reflect concern for clear or persuasive communication with an intended audience? This is unlikely, because Bezae shows ample diversity in the words attributed to characters and sometimes has κύριος where Vaticanus reads θεός (Acts 2:17; 6:7; 16:10). Nor does variation necessarily provide clues as to the social makeup of real-world communities. For two reasons, one should not read into the differences, e.g., a socially uniform Christian community behind Bezae that mixed little with outsiders and a producer behind Vaticanus who interacted with a more diverse range of persons. First, one cannot assume that a single producer in the lineage an attachment to the God of Israel but not faith in the Lord Jesus” (Rius-Camps and Read-Heimerdinger, Message, 2007, 3:284). The fact that “God” is also used by Christian characters in Bezae weighs against that hypothesis, however. “God” in an unmarked term in Bezae that cannot bear that sort of sociolinguistic weight. 35. Read-Heimerdinger, Bezan Text, 287.



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of Bezae looked at a Vorlage containing κύριος in all of the above instances and changed them all to θεός; the manuscript history is simply too difficult to trace at that level of detail.36 Secondly, characters’ words could reflect literary invention more than producers’ day-to-day realities. At a higher level of abstraction, however, the variation described here is still sociolinguistically informative, illustrating once again that characters are attributed words in Vaticanus with more potential to evoke their social location than the neutral terms found in Bezae. Whether this reflects intentionality in the Bezan tradition is unclear, but it is part of a broader tendency—as already illustrated by differing usage of θεός and “lord Jesus Messiah”—for Bezae to exploit the sociolinguistic potential of dialogue to contribute to characterization less than Vaticanus.

Conclusion Sociolinguistic variation thus represents a subtle and malleable tool for characterization. A producer in the lineage of Vaticanus has attributed words to characters that have the potential to evoke their own social location and that of their addressees, while the Bezan tradition has not exploited this potential to the same degree. Depending on one’s reconstruction of Acts’ textual history, this could illustrate the varying degrees to which audiences would have registered the sociolinguistic dynamics embedded in the version of Acts they encountered: a producer in Bezae’s lineage may simply have missed some of the sociolinguistic nuances of his or her Vorlage. A comparison between the two manuscripts also further highlights how a producer in Vaticanus’ lineage has employed dialogue to construct a socially complex story world.37

36. Regarding Acts’ textual history, see above, n. 23. Tuckett observes that the same person may not be responsible for all readings in Bezae that differ from other versions (Christopher M. Tuckett, “How Early Is the ‘Western’ Text of Acts?,” in The Book of Acts as Church History: Text, Textual Traditions and Ancient Interpretations/Apostelgeschichte als Kirchengeschichte: Text, Texttraditionen und antike Auslegungen, ed. Tobias Nicklas and Michael Tilly, BZNW 120 [Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003], 69–86). 37. Warm thanks to Sean Adams, Frank Dicken, and the English-German NT Colloquium of Eberhard Karls Universität Tübingen for commenting on previous versions of this essay.

12 S I M E O N I N A C T S 1 5 : 1 4 : S I M O N P E T E R A N D E C HO E S OF SIMEONS PAST

Stephen E. Fowl

Textual Puzzles and Interpretation I have two large aims in this chapter. The first serves the second. To begin, I will examine the puzzling use of the name Simeon in Acts 15:14. Ultimately, I want to argue that one can reasonably take this reference as a multivalent reference to a number of different Simeons. Having argued for this multi-voiced reading of Acts 15:14, I will spend the second part of this paper reflecting on the methodological status of such a reading and how it might fit in relation to interpretive interests in authors and readers. I do not expect either part of this paper to “solve” this textual puzzle in the sense of eliminating or resolving the elements of the puzzle. Rather, I hope to show both the limits and possibilities involved in treating this verse from a variety of perspectives. In a profession as methodologically fragmented as biblical studies, there is little to be gained if one set of interests seeks to eliminate all other interests. Instead, there may be a great deal to be gained if those committed to one set of interpretive interests understand how their own interests might co-exist with the interests of others. There is an oft-noted textual puzzle in Acts 15:14. At the climactic moment of the so-called Jerusalem Council, James begins to offer a judgment on what has preceded. He starts by saying, “Simeon has related how God first looked favorably upon the Gentiles, to take from them a people for his name.” The central piece of this puzzle is found in James’ use of the name Simeon [Συμεών]. On the one hand, James would appear to be referring to the account offered by Peter in 15:7-11. On the other hand, one must ask, Why use Simeon [Συμεών], rather than Simon [Σίμον] or Peter [Πέτρος]?1 Luke Johnson, among others, 1. Of course, the spelling of names in ancient documents can be somewhat fluid. Alternatively, once an author opts for one spelling of a name, the author tends to remain

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suggests that this “may be due to Luke’s love of archaizing.” He also makes the claim that unless “Simeon” is a reference to Peter and his comments in 15:7-11, “the reference itself would be nonsensical.”2 One should note, however, that although Luke may be fond of archaizing, this would be the only time in both Luke and Acts that Simon Peter is referred to as Simeon.3 Different commentators have tried to account for the appearance of “Simeon” in a variety of other ways. Nevertheless, the widespread conviction is that this is a reference to Peter’s comments in 15:7-11. The basis of this judgment is, as Johnson suggests, that “the logic of the entire narrative demands that we take it as referring to Peter and not some other character.”4 The narrative logic here is not without some problems. First, one might expect James also to make some reference to the accounts offered by Paul and Barnabas, which occur between Peter’s account and James’ judgment. Perhaps, as Bruce suggests, James diplomatically ignores Paul’s and Barnabas’ comments, since they would not have been well received by a hostile audience.5 This would be a consistent throughout the document. Josephus, for example, uses Σίμον to refer to Simeon ben Gamaliel in Life 191, and Συμεών in War. 4.159 to refer to the same character. In this case, Luke has already used Σίμον. One notable exception is 1 Macc., where the Maccabee brother known throughout the text as Σίμον is referred to as Συμεών (1 Macc. 2:65). In the case of 1 Macc., the change may be due to a translator. Alternatively, the change may reflect an allusion to the family patriarch mentioned in 2:1. 2. See Luke T. Johnson, The Acts of the Apostles, Sacra Pagina (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1992), 264. See also F. F. Bruce, The Book of Acts, NICNT, rev. ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1988), 293, who reads Simeon as a reference to Peter, arguing that Luke has simply used the Hebrew/Aramaic form of Simon; also Eckhard J. Schnabel, Acts, ZECNT (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2012), 637. Along similar lines, C. K. Barrett, The Acts of the Apostles I–XIV, ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 723, claims this usage is designed to give the passage a “Semitic air.” Gerd Lüdemann, Early Christianity According to the Traditions in Acts (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), 168, claims that this is an archaic reference to Peter, as does Hans Conzelmann, The Acts of the Apostles, Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 117. Ernst Haenchen, The Acts of the Apostles, ed. Bernard Noble and Gerald Shinn (Philadelphia: Westminster John Knox, 1971), 447, cites Riddle’s argument that this is not a reference to Peter without saying whether he accepts this view. Charles S. C. Williams, The Acts of the Apostles, BNTC (London: A & C Black), 182, notes Chrysostom’s view that Simeon is a reference to Luke 2:29-32, but follows Smothers (see below) in claiming that Chrysostom is simply wrong. Joseph A. Fitzmyer, “The Name Simon,” in Essays on the Semitic Background of the New Testament (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1974), 105–12, suggests that this may be a reference to Simeon Niger in Acts 13:1. 3. In Luke-Acts “Simon” is used 14 times in reference to “Peter.” Six of those times, “Simon” is paired with “Peter.” “Peter” is used on its own 75 times to refer to the apostle. 4. Johnson, Acts, 264. 5. Bruce, Acts, 293. Craig Keener, Acts: An Exegetical Commentary, vol. 3, 15:1–23:35 (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2014), 2245, follows a version of this, suggesting that James uses a Semitic form to show his solidarity with the “cultural conservatives” and



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stronger explanation if Acts actually reported the comments of Paul and Barnabas and if we knew more about the decision-making process at work in the Jerusalem Council. Although James mentions Simeon’s account, followed by a somewhat obscure reference to Amos, Acts does not really relate the pattern of reasoning at work in this decision. It is really the prompting of the Spirit that is decisive. Indeed, in a similar episode in Acts 11, where Peter is criticized for sharing fellowship with Cornelius and his family (Acts 10), the argument ceases following Peter’s assertion that Cornelius and his household had received the same Holy Spirit that his critics had received. The judgment of the Spirit appears to win over the most hostile of audiences. Secondly, although the narrative does situate Peter’s comments as a direct response to those who would demand circumcision of Gentile converts (cf. 15:5), James’ comments seem primarily directed toward issues of maintaining table fellowship between Jewish and Gentile followers of Jesus (cf. 15:19-21). Thus, the logical path that runs from Peter’s comments to James’ judgment is not as smooth as one might hope. These considerations do not rule out reading “Simeon” as a reference to Peter. Ultimately, I want to affirm that this is one way of reading the text. However, this is not the only way to take this reference. In an essay in the Festschrift for I. Howard Marshall, Rainer Riesner has revived and reshaped an interpretive option that is at least as old as the fifth century. Riesner argues that rather than a summary of Peter’s account in verses 7-11, James’ reference to Simeon is a reference to the prophecy of Simeon given in Luke 2:29-32, commonly known as the Nunc Dimittis.6 Riesner shows that this view goes back at least as far as Chrysostom’s sermons on Acts (c.400–1).7 For my purposes it is unfortunate that Riesner is ultimately interested in making historical judgments about Luke and his sources (both literary and conceptual), and about the history of the early church. Even so, he closes his essay by stating, “I do not wish to claim that this essay has demonstrated that the to remind his audience that Peter shares this cultural heritage. Although this may be an accurate explanation for the words James actually spoke, it does not really account for why Luke uses Συμεών here when he uses Σίμον everywhere else. Answering this question about why Luke uses “Simeon” is important for Keener because his exegetical approach appears to be committed to limiting Συμεών to only referring to one person. Beverly R. Gaventa, Acts, ANTC (Nashville: Abingdon, 2003), 218, makes a similar claim without denying that the reference could be multivalent. 6. Rainer Riesner, “James’ Speech (Acts 15:13-21), Simeon’s Hymn (Luke 2:29-32), and Luke’s Sources,” in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ, ed. Joel Green and Max Turner (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1994), 263–78. While I take Riesner’s work in ways he may not approve of, this essay could not have been written without having read his essay and I am systematically indebted to his careful work. 7. Riesner, “James’ Speech,” 266–9. E. R. Smothers also notes Chrysostom’s reading, but argues that Chrysostom is simply wrong to read the text this way. Edgar R. Smothers, “Chrysostom and Symeon (Acts xv.14),” HTR 46 (1953): 203–15.

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Simeon of James’ speech (Acts 15:14) is necessarily the prophet with the same name in the Lukan birth narrative (Luke 2:29-32), but I hope to have shown that this interpretation is worthy of serious discussion.”8

Simeon and Luke 2:29-32 I take Riesner’s closing remarks as an invitation to explore this interpretive possibility further. Rather than pursue the various historical questions Riesner’s work raises, I wish to press his findings into the service of an exercise that will offer a multivocal reading of Acts 15:14. To this end, I want to argue that the use of Simeon in Acts 15:14 can, and perhaps should, be read as both a reference to Peter’s comments in 15:7-11 and a reference to Simeon’s prophecy in Luke 2:29-32. Moreover, I will try to show that such an interpretation of “Simeon” stands at the center of a complex web of inter- and intratextual connections and echoes, all of which bear decisively on the issue of whether and how to include Gentiles in the church. I will first trace out the connections between “Simeon” and Peter’s comments, which themselves allude to Acts 10–11. Then I will further explore the connections and echoes evoked by reading “Simeon” as a reference to the prophet of Luke 2:29-32. Johnson and others are right to note that the narrative logic of 15:14 pushes one toward the view that James’ reference to “Simeon” is a reference back to Peter’s comments in verses 7-11. Although from the earliest parts of the narrative in Acts readers have been told about the salvation of the Gentiles, this only becomes a practical issue in Acts 10ff., when Peter is instructed by the Spirit to visit the centurion Cornelius. James’ use of πρώτως, then, can be seen as a reference to Peter’s characterization of what God was doing “from the early days,” which is a reference to the events of Acts 10–11.9 There are, however, other less well noted connections between James’ speech and both Peter’s account in 15:7-11 and the account in Acts 10–11. First, James’ reference to Simeon’s account, followed by his own scriptural citation, leads him to make a judgment (κρίνω) in verses 19-21 that “seems good to the Holy Spirit” (15:28). This judgment stands in contrast to the hasty and unformed judgment that Peter is urged by the Spirit to avoid (μηδὲν διακρινόμενος) when the men from Cornelius first arrive in Joppa (10:20) and the negative judgment (διεκρίνοντο) rendered on Peter’s actions by those “of the circumcision” in 11:2.10 In Peter’s summary of these events in 15:7-11, he urges his audience to recognize that God does not discriminate (οὐθὲν διέκρινεν) between “us” and “them.” Thus, the only times that διακρίνω appears in Acts have to do with Peter’s visit to Cornelius and subsequent discussions of its significance. The appearance of διακρίνω ceases with James’ use of κρίνω in 15:19, where the judgment to which the Spirit has been pointing from the beginning of Acts 10, if not earlier, is rendered. 8. Riesner, “James’ Speech,” 278. 9. Johnson, Acts, 264; Conzelman, Acts, 117. 10. See also Peter’s recounting of this event in 11:12, where διακρίνω is reiterated.



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All of these elements further point to interpreting “Simeon” in 15:14 as a reference to Peter. Does this rule out reading “Simeon” as a reference to the prophet of Luke 2:29-32? Is, as Johnson implies, the reference rendered nonsensical by reading “Simeon” in this way? It would appear that the only way to argue that one might also take “Simeon” as a reference to the prophet of Luke 2 is to show that such a reading makes sense of James’ comments in 15:13ff. As I noted earlier, Chrysostom provides us with what is probably the earliest expression of this view.11 In his thirty-third homily on Acts, Chrysostom seems to have no difficulty at all in reading Simeon as a reference to Luke 2:29-32. In what seems to be the earliest version of Homily 33 he says, “‘Symeon’ he [James] says ‘declared’ (namely,) in Luke, in that he prophesied, ‘Which thou hast prepared before the face of all nations, a light to enlighten the Gentiles, and the glory of Thy people Israel.’”12 I do not wish to argue that Chrysostom’s is the only way this text should be read, though it does show that someone made sense of the text read in this way. Rather, in addition to reading “Simeon” as a reference to Peter, one can also quite plausibly read it as a reference back to Luke 2:29-32. In fact, I will show that once this is done, one can construct an intertextual chain from Acts 15:14 reaching back to Genesis 34, which directly pertains to the issue of Gentile inclusion in the church. If one reads “Simeon” as a reference to the Simeon of Luke 2:25ff., James’ comments become an independent witness alongside the comments of Peter in 15:7-11 and those of Paul and Barnabas in 15:12. James’ use of πρώτως then becomes a reminder that it was Simeon in Luke 2:32 who first noted the blessing that would come to the Gentiles through Jesus. Hence, although the events related by Peter, Paul, and Barnabas might be surprising, they are not unanticipated. Further, James’ characterization of what God is doing, “taking from the Gentiles a people for his name,” corresponds to the characteristically Lucan use of λαός to refer to the people of God, as found in 2:32 and elsewhere.13 11. Oecumenius’ commentary on Acts (cited as sixth-century but now believed to be an eighth-century work) notes that some people (τίνες) take “Simeon” in Acts 15:14 to be a reference to Luke 2:29-32. He neither names these people, nor does he endorse this view [PG 113 col. 217]. 12. The English here is taken from the edition produced by Philip Schaff; see John Chrysostom, A Commentary on Acts of the Apostles, Homily 33, in Homilies on Acts of the Apostles and the Epistle to the Romans, ed. Philip Schaff, NPNF I 11 (New York: Scribners, 1889), 205–6, with editorial revisions of the 1889 version by George B. Stevens, who, in a note to this text, says, “It is remarkable that it does not occur to Chrys. that Symeon is Simon Peter.” Later texts of Homily 33 have Chrysostom open the possibility that James is referring to another Simeon (the text edited by J.-P. Migne follows this longer, later text). Even here Chrysostom never goes so far as to identify this other Simeon with Peter. Smothers, “Chrysostom and Symeon,” 210–11, argues that this is because Chrysostom did not have the text of 2 Pet. 1:1 available to him. For a summary of the text critical issues surrounding Homily 33, see Riesner “James’ Speech,” 267–8. 13. See Luke 1:17, 68, 77; 16:29; 20:1; 22:66; 24:19; Acts 2:47; 3:23; 4:10; 5:12; 7:17, 34;

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Reading “Simeon” in this way also alters the way one approaches James’ somewhat curious mention of “the prophets” in 15:15.14 Given the citation from Amos in Acts 15:16-17, one wonders why James uses the plural “prophets” in verse 15. If one takes James to refer to the Simeon of Luke 2, then he may be using “prophets” to refer to Simeon as well as to Amos. Of course, Simeon’s prophecy echoes Isaiah 49:6 (also 42:6; 52:10), a text that Paul has already quoted in Acts 13:47. In this light, James is tying together a whole range of prophetic texts, old and new.15 These texts foreshadow the inclusion of the Gentiles in the people of God in the ways Peter, Paul, and Barnabas have already confirmed, and form the basis for the judgment that Gentiles that join themselves to the people of God do not need to be circumcised.

Other Simeons? There is one further, somewhat deeper, intertextual connection here. The Simeon of Luke 2 is “righteous,” “devout,” and “full of the Holy Spirit.” When Jesus is presented in the Temple according to the “law of the Lord” (Acts 2:23), Simeon prophesies the blessings this child will bring to the Gentiles. As Acts 10–15 indicate, this blessing does not require circumcision of the Gentiles. Earlier in Scripture, however, another, more devious Simeon devises death for the Gentiles through circumcision. In Genesis 34, following the rape of Dinah by Shechem, Hamor, Shechem’s father, wishes to join his family to the Israelites through marriage. Jacob’s sons, including Simeon (one of Dinah’s brothers), require Hamor, Shechem, and all the men of their city to be circumcised. While they are still recovering, Simeon and Levi (Dinah’s other brother) kill all the males in the city. This event is significant enough that in Genesis 49:5-7, on his deathbed, Jacob reminds both his sons and us readers of the violence associated with Simeon and Levi. There is then an intertextual chain beginning in Gen. 34, where Gentiles seeking union with Israel find death at Simeon’s hand through circumcision. The chain then runs to Luke 2, where immediately after Jesus’ circumcision, the righteous Simeon prophesies light and life within the people of Israel to the Gentiles through Jesus. Finally, in Acts 15, James takes Simeon’s prophecy and the 13:17. “By having God choose ‘a people’ from among the Gentiles he suggests both an extension in the meaning of ‘Israel’ defined in terms of faith rather than in terms of ethnic or ritual allegiance, and a claim for the continuity of the Gentile mission with biblical history” (Johnson, Acts, 264). See also Nils Dahl, “A People for His Name (Acts xv.14),” NTS 4 (1958): 319–27, for both the OT and Targumic origins of this phrase. 14. It is common for commentators to take the plural as a reference to the book of the 12 (e.g., Haenchen, Acts, 448; Johnson, Acts, 264). 15. Chrysostom may also see things this way when he says, “But observe the discretion shown by him [James] also, in making his argument good from the prophets both new and old.”



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testimony of Simon/Simeon Peter, and declares that God is forming a people from among the Gentiles, and that membership in that people will be based on faith in Jesus and reception of the Spirit, all apart from circumcision.16

Thinking about Multivalent Readings Theologically Thus far, I have tried to show that one can make sense of Acts 15:14 by taking “Simeon” as a reference to Peter and to Simeon in Luke 2:29-32. Each reference contributes something to James’ judgment regarding Gentile converts. I have relied on the ambiguity of the appearance of “Simeon” in Acts 15:14 to chart out two (or perhaps three17) ways of making sense of this text. I have not tried to adjudicate between these various readings. In fact, I do not see why all of them cannot peacefully co-exist. In regard to the interpretive puzzle of Acts 15:14, I have argued that one commendable way of addressing the puzzle is to treat “Simeon” as polyvalent. Such an argument already reflects some prior commitments about interpretation, and discrete interpretive approaches or interpretive interests. In what follows, I would like to offer some reflections on how one might approach and evaluate such approaches. First, it is worth noting that rather than seeing Acts 15:14 as a puzzle in the sense of being a problem to be solved definitively, I have treated it as a puzzle that invites a form of reflection informed by elements of textual detail and the interplay of other canonical texts. I have not solved this puzzle in the sense of resolving its ambiguities. Rather, I have used the puzzle to affirm that “Simeon” in Acts 15:14 16. In an unrelated context, Anthony E. Harvey, “The Testament of Simeon Peter,” in A Tribute to Geza Vermes: Essays on Jewish and Christian Literature and History,” ed. Philip R. Davies and Richard T. White, JSOTSS (Sheffield: JSOT, 1990), 339–54, makes some similar observations. Harvey, 345, argues that due in part to associations with Gen. 34, the name Simeon was in disfavor. Luke’s use of the “righteous” Simeon in Luke 2 was an attempt to rehabilitate the name, and pave the way for the next Simeon, though normally called Simon, to address the issue of Gentile circumcision. Harvey’s work anticipates my own intertextual proposal. There are, however, several differences in our positions: First, the name Simeon/Simon was not in disfavor during this time. As J. Fitzmyer notes Simeon/ Simon was one of the most popular names during this time period (see “The Name Simon,” in Essays on the Semitic Background of the New Testament [Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1974], 105–112). Fitzmyer was aiming to refute the claims of Cecil Roth, “Simon-Peter,” HTR 54 (1961): 91–7. Whether or not he does this is irrelevant to my claims. Secondly, Harvey makes his argument on the basis of a redactional claim. I have no interest in redactional theories about Luke 2, although I would have to say that as a theory, Harvey’s view is needlessly complex. Third, Harvey simply assumes that “Simeon” in Acts 15:14 is Peter. 17. One could reject the allusion to Gen. 34 and still read “Simeon” in Acts 15:14 as a reference to the character in Luke 2.

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refers to Peter and that Chrysostom’s reading of Simeon also makes sense of the text, as well as to generate new ways of seeing this particular reference to Simeon. If one reads this passage from within the Christian tradition as part of Scripture, then there are good theological reasons for being open to such a multivoiced attempt to understand the reference to Simeon in Acts 15:14. As Augustine argued, followed in more detail by Thomas Aquinas, there is no reason to object to any passage of Scripture having multiple literal senses, as long as those readings are attentive to the relevant textual details, do not propose things that would lead Christians into deficient notions of God or other types of error and do not bring the faith into disrepute by having Christians believe things that are demonstrably false.18 With regard to Acts 15:14, whether one reads “Simeon” as Peter, Simeon of Luke 2, or both, the theological consequences are much the same. The judgment of the Holy Spirit articulated by James underwrites the practice of welcoming Gentiles into the people of God without requiring circumcision or other attendant aspects of the Law. This judgment does not strictly depend on whether Simeon is identified narrowly or broadly. Nevertheless, my reading is shaped by a set of theological convictions about the importance both of the relationships between Jews and Gentiles in the body of Christ and of the manner in which Gentiles were and are incorporated into the people of God. Moreover, an intertextual reading such as I have offered here ties this issue to both testaments in a way shared by Paul in letters such as Galatians and Romans.

A Readerly Approach to Multivalent Interpretation As a matter of contingent fact, however, one could largely affirm my interpretation of Acts 15:14 on “readerly” rather than theological grounds. That is, one could defend this interpretation of Acts 15:14 from a decidedly reader-oriented perspective. There are, of course, a variety of reader-oriented approaches to texts. They are all, however, marked by the fact that the interpretations they argue for are not dependent upon considerations about the authors of the texts in question. For example, if one could show that Luke could never have intended the reference to Simeon in Acts 15:14 to be taken in any or all of the ways I have taken it, that would not count as an argument against my interpretation. Rather, my interpretation depends on whether or not I have made a convincing argument that reading “Simeon” in this polyvalent way “sheds light” on this text. Rhetoric rather than historical probability plays a decisive role here. Such considerations, however, raise a host of questions: What counts as “shedding light” and for whom? Can answers to these questions, which focus so clearly on rhetorical 18. I offer a fuller account of Aquinas’ multi-voiced literal sense in “The Importance of a Multivoiced Literal Sense of Scripture: The Example of Thomas Aquinas,” in Reading Scripture with the Church, ed. A. K. A. Adam, et al. (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2006), 35–50.



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power, be easily separated from questions of institutional and personal power? Various reader-oriented approaches address these questions in different ways. For example, some approaches invoke particular theories of language and linguistic difference. Others rely on specific (anti-) metaphysical or political perspectives. What I find most striking, however, is that in the current state of professional biblical scholarship, I do not have to resolve these questions. Literary, readerly, author-independent interpretations such as the one I have given here have established themselves as respectable scholarly activities.19 The type of interpretation I have offered here has achieved a status analogous to what Thomas Kuhn calls “normal science.” Normal science represents the day-to-day scientific work which goes on within an established scientific paradigm. In normal science the crises, achievements, and arguments which at one point led to the establishment of a new way of doing or seeing things are all taken for granted. Normal science works within paradigms rather than trying to shift paradigms. Normal science recognizes that one need not re-invent the wheel before each attempt to work out specific problems of propulsion and movement.20 Thus, to the extent that there are established spaces within professional biblical studies to pursue readerly, literary readings, I want to trade on that establishment and for the moment leave unanswered these larger theoretical issues regarding reader-oriented approaches in order to look at author-oriented perspectives. It is perhaps ironic that as it has become easier within the profession to engage in reader-oriented interpretations, it has at the same time become more difficult to pursue an interest in authors. Claims about what an author meant or intended in any specific instance, as well as more general claims about the importance of authors, have come under intense critical scrutiny. Although the interpretation of “Simeon” I have offered here is independent of considerations about the author of Acts, it does strike me one can articulate such concerns in legitimate ways. Indeed, the vast majority of scholarship on Acts 15:14 is concerned with different author-oriented aspects of interpretation. I would like to examine some ways of formulating author-oriented interests in regard to this passage.

19. To see how much things have changed in the past 25 years, see the brief survey of movements within the profession offered by David Clines in What Does Eve do to Help? And Other Readerly Questions to the Old Testament, JSOTSS (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990), esp. 8–25. It would be difficult to point to another individual who has done more than Clines to establish the professional respectability of readerly interests. While this might lead him to be overly sanguine about the theoretical coherence of these interpretive approaches, I think a brief review of the program for any recent SBL Annual Meeting will be enough to sustain the claim to respectability I am making. 20. See Thomas Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970), chs. 2–4.

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What about Authors? First, some comments about being interested in authors as such. With their essay on the “intentional fallacy,” Wimsatt and Beardsley forcefully argued against any sort of methodological privilege for the author’s intention, even if one could determine it.21 More radically, post-structuralists from Barthes to Derrida moved to question whether the notion of authors as stable, writing subjects who control and authorize their own language is not simply a romantic fiction, a construction of competing and complex discourses.22 Displaying and rejecting this fiction signaled the death of the author. To believe in such constructions as authors risked premature closure of the interpretive game. Of the post-structuralist critics of authors, only Derrida has systematically tried to carry through this notion. In his extended arguments with John Searle (Limited Inc.) and Hans-Georg Gadamer (Dialogue and Deconstruction: The Gadamer-Derrida Encounter), Derrida persistently treats Searle and Gadamer as “dead authors,” maximizing points of disagreement, demonstrating that interpretation and conversation are, at bottom, exercises in a will to power. What is particularly interesting, however, is that while Derrida is quite willing to do this to others, he becomes upset when it is done to him. As Reed Dasenbrock has demonstrated, when Derrida himself is criticized for his apologetic stance toward Paul DeMan’s and Martin Heidegger’s involvements with Nazism, he complains (without a hint of irony) that he was not treated with the respect due an author.23 Derrida’s unwillingness to die the death that he advocates for other authors may be the best counter-argument to his theoretical argument against authors. It proposes a philosophical position that is exhilarating in theory, but by which no one is really willing to live. This does not mean that we can ignore the poststructuralist critique of an ever-stable, completely self-conscious, autonomous authorial voice. Further, we can recognize with Foucault that authors need not be cast as originating subjects. Rather, authors are constituted by variable, complex and sometimes competing discourses. A certain type of interest in authors could be devoted to unearthing these very contingent collocations instead of an eternally stable self. In fact, there seems to be no a priori reason why critics should not be interested in such investigations. We must recognize, however, that there may be some rather severe practical limitations in carrying out such work 21. See William M. Wimsatt and Monroe C. Beardsley, “The Intentional Fallacy,” in 20th-Century Literary Criticism, ed. David Lodge (London: Longman, 1972), 334–45. 22. Foucault leaves room for what he calls the “author function” in “What is an Author?,” in The Foucault Reader, trans. Josué V. Harari, ed. Paul Rabinow (New York: Pantheon, 1984), 101–20. Alternatively, the attack on “man” as subject, which concludes The Order of Things, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage, 1973), makes one wonder whether he did not have his sights set on a much bigger target than authors. 23. Reed W. Dasenbrock, “Taking it Personally: Reading Derrida’s Responses,” College English 56, no. 3 (1994): 261–78.



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with biblical authors. Nevertheless, the authorial perspective (which for biblical writers must always be a perspective reconstructed from rather meagre shards) can simply stand as one voice among many. Interpreters can pursue interests in authors without ruling out other interpretive perspectives. Given that there are no compelling theoretical arguments against a critical interest in authors properly conceived, there still are some important practical distinctions to draw with regard to authors and their intentions. Most of these are ably displayed by Mark Brett in his article “Motives and Intentions in Genesis 1.”24 The key distinction Brett draws is between an author’s communicative intention and an author’s motives. “That is to say, one ought to distinguish between what an author is trying to say (which might be called a ‘communicative intention’) and why it is being said (which might be called a ‘motive’).”25 For example, there may be numerous reasons why an author writes, desire for fame, fortune, tenure, selfsatisfaction, etc. These would be motives and an author may not even be aware of their operation. Consideration of motives is logically separate from an analysis of what an author actually writes. “In order to answer the question of what an author is trying to say (a communicative intention) one needs to attend to the language and genre of a text in its historical situation.”26 One can answer questions about communicative intentions without any recourse to motives. In fact, in the case of lying, for example, the motive is clear, but it would be important not to know the motive if the lie is to do its work. The operation of the semantic, contextual, and literary conventions of a particular time is what really matters. In this respect an interest in communicative intentions is not strictly an interest in authors as discrete historical characters. Judgments about communicative intentions ultimately treat authors as users of a particular language at a specific point in time. Judgments about motives must include semantic and literary considerations, but that is not all. Such judgments must take into account the history and biography of the author, recognition of the author’s circumstances, the people to whom and the projects to which the author is committed, and so forth. Can this distinction help when it comes to looking at the Acts 15:14? Remember Luke Johnson’s claim that “the logic of the entire narrative demands that we take it [the reference to Simeon] as a reference to Peter and not some other character.” This is basically a claim about the evangelist’s communicative intention. The claim is based on consideration of such things as context, semantics, and literary structure, rather than consideration of authorial motives. As I noted earlier, however, this “narrative logic” is not free of problems. In the course of producing a readerly argument for the polyvalence of “Simeon,” I hope I have displayed enough literary and semantic evidence to show that it may be Luke’s communicative intention in Acts 15:14 that the reference to Simeon could include both Peter and the prophet of Luke 2:29-32. At the very least, one can 24.  JTS 42 (1991): 1–16. Brett relies on Quinten Skinner, “Motives and Intentions in the Interpretation of Texts,” New Literary History 3 (1972): 393–408. 25. Brett, “Motives and Intentions,” 5. 26. Ibid.

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make a case that Luke’s communicative intention is ambiguous. To make either of these claims one need not make any judgment about Luke’s motives. That is, to claim that the reference to Simeon in Acts 15:14 points to both Peter and Simeon or is ambiguous does not require one to account for why someone injected a level of ambiguity into the text. Indeed, as anyone who grades student papers can attest, people are often ambiguous without being aware of it. My point is simply that the evidence for the communicative intention represented by the reference to Simeon certainly does not demand that “Simeon” refer to Peter alone. Indeed, if one reads Luke-Acts as a whole, the case for interpreting “Simeon” in this multivalent way seems even stronger. Although most modern commentators do not treat this text as polyvalent or ambiguous, I assume that some sense of this ambiguity (and discomfort with it) has played a role in the way they have tended to address this text. Almost without exception, modern commentators have made some judgment about authorial motives in order to explain what is either polyvalent or ambiguous at the level of communicative intention. In discussing why “Simeon” was used, they seek to find a way of narrowing the interpretive options. One must admit that in this case we have limited resources on which to draw for making judgments about authorial motives. Nevertheless, working with the limited resources available, let me lay out a few ways in which judgments about motive are used. One could claim that Luke was clumsy in redacting his sources. That is, Luke intended “Simeon” to be taken as a reference to Simon Peter and in this instance simply failed to alter “Simeon,” the name in his source material, to “Simon.” While this could explain Luke’s motive, albeit an ineptly executed motive, one might well expect that such a failure would have been caught and corrected by a later copyist. The manuscript evidence, however, does not seem to support this. My point here is that the very earliest readers/interpreters/handlers of this text did not see the reference to Simeon as a failure of communication that required correction. Further, it would mark the only time in all of the references to Simon or Simon Peter in Luke-Acts that Luke would have failed to make such a revision. Nevertheless, should one be able to establish that this is the probable reason for the presence of “Simeon,” it would establish the presence of “Simeon” as a mistake, a failure to execute the author’s motive. It is less clear how one moves forward in the light of that. The interpretive argument runs like this: Although A[uthor] actually said X, she really meant to say Y. Hence, we should simply read her work as if she had written Y instead of X. We can perhaps tolerate such arguments in the midst of face-to-face conversations with A. In the case of long dead authors, however, whose motivations and aims to say Y when they really said X are absolutely obscured from our view, such arguments carry limited force. More commonly, commentators argue that Luke is using an archaic form in order more faithfully to represent James’ actual words. It is not clear precisely why Luke would want to do that in this case. Numerous commentators have weighed in on this question, arguing for one reason or another that this would make James’ comments seem more persuasive to those gathered in Jerusalem. Craig Keener is



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one of the most recent to do this. He suggests that James uses the Semitic form “Simeon” to show a measure of solidarity with the pro-circumcision party, even as he is about to render a judgment that they will not like. Simultaneously, he is pointing out Peter’s cultural heritage.27 Most commentators leave things at this point, failing to explain why Luke would use a form of Peter’s name that would tend to confuse his initial Gentile readers rather than enlighten them. Even if James’ motive in referring to Peter as Simeon was to help persuade a hostile audience, James’ audience is not Luke’s audience. In this case it would seem that Luke’s audience is the more important. How would Luke’s readers recognize that this is a “semiticized” reference to Simon Peter, particularly without the qualifying use of “Simeon” in 2 Pet 1:1? Why would Luke invite such confusion? Keener, to great his credit, attends to this question in a footnote, claiming that since Peter’s Aramaic name, Kephas, was known in Pauline churches, “it is not impossible that Luke’s audience would also understand Peter’s original name ‘Simon’ to reflect a Semitic original, i.e., the biblical name ‘Simeon.’” 28 One must, of course, grant that such a possibility “is not impossible.” It is a rather speculative leap, however, and presumes a fairly precise account of the original readers’ background knowledge, for which Luke himself does not provide much evidence. In the light of the sort of inner- and intertextual allusions and echoes I have pointed out, one might make the argument that an ancient author could not possibly have intended such subtle polyphony. This view makes explicit the assumption that often seems implicit in modern commentaries on this passage: the use of “Simeon” here represents some sort of lapse or failure. Hence, there is a case to be made for resolving this ambiguity in favor of its being a reference to Peter and Peter alone. I make no claim that the intertextual chain of Simeons running from Genesis 34 through Luke 2:29-32 to Acts 15:14 is in any way dependent on Luke or another ancient character’s ability to read the text in this way. Nevertheless, in the light of what we have come to know as “inner biblical exegesis” and the allusive capacities of Paul, can we say with any certainty that Luke was incapable of such polyphony? It seems that the sort of intertextual reading I have offered here is not all that different from the types of intertextual reading practices found in patristic and rabbinic sources. Further, at least in regard to seeing “Simeon” in Acts 15:14 as a reference to Simeon in Luke 2, there is the witness of Chrysostom. Not only did he read Acts 15:14 as an allusion to the Nunc Dimittis, his comments make it pretty clear that he thought Luke meant “Simeon” to be read in this way because it accurately reflected James’ view. Thus, an early, if not contemporary, reader of Acts saw in the use of “Simeon” an intentional intertextual reference rather than a failed attempt to refer unambiguously to Peter. The difference between Σίμον and Συμεών is just a few letters in Greek. In focusing on what is just a few letters, I am playing into the stereotype that many of my colleagues have about biblical scholars. According to them, we are too focused on small details, on the arcane and historically exotic. Whether that is 27. See Keener, Acts, 3:2245. 28. See Keener, Acts, 3:2245 n. 369.

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characteristic of the profession or not, the advantage in this case of looking at the puzzle posed by the appearance of just a few letters that are different from what one might have expected is that many of the methodological concerns, interests, and tensions that mark the profession of biblical scholarship can come into clearer focus.29

29. I am particularly grateful for the comments of my colleague Rebekah Eklund who read an earlier version of this paper. In addition I learned a great deal from a faculty and graduate student seminar at Trinity Western University, Canada. I am fairly sure that most of those in the room were ultimately unpersuaded by this paper. Nevertheless, they asked very probing questions, and were a very charitable audience. Even if this version still fails to persuade them, the argument is tighter because of their contributions, and I am grateful to them.

13 H E R O D A S J E SU S ’ E X E C U T IO N E R : P O S SI B I L I T I E S I N L U KA N R E C E P T IO N A N D W I R K U N G S G E S C H I C H T E

Frank E. Dicken

Raymond Brown accurately summarizes the few references to Herod in secondcentury Christian literature when he writes, “The early tradition has Herod hostile to Jesus.”1 This essay examines references to Herod in the writings of three secondcentury Christian authors with a view toward determining: 1) to what extent they are dependent on the narrative depiction of Herod in Luke-Acts; and 2) how the motif of Herod as Jesus’ antagonist may be viewed as part of the developing reception and Wirkungsgeschichte of Luke-Acts.2 Lukan redaction of the story of Herod and John the Baptist reduces Mark 6:14-29 to a short interaction between the two that results in John’s imprisonment (Luke 3:18-20) and a straightforward statement that Herod beheaded John (Luke 9:7-9). And, whereas Matthew has the (in)famous narrative of Herod the Great’s antagonism toward the infant Jesus (Mt. 2:1-18), Luke adds several passages that tell of Herod’s (Antipas) hostility toward the adult Jesus. Several narrative details concerning Herod and Jesus are unique to Luke-Acts. First, though Herod wants to see Jesus because he has heard of Jesus’ miracle-working and preaching (Luke 9:7-9; cf. Luke 23:8),3 he also wishes to kill Jesus (Luke 13:31-33). Second, Jesus and Herod come face-to-face at Luke 23:6-12 during Jesus’ trial when Pilate, learning that Jesus is from Galilee and under Herod’s jurisdiction, sends Jesus to the ruler. Though Herod and his soldiers mock Jesus in that story, Herod agrees with Pilate 1.  Raymond E. Brown, The Death of the Messiah, vol. 1 (New York: Doubleday, 1994), 782. 2. Two texts will not be examined due to space limitations: Martyrdom of Polycarp and Melito of Sardis’ Peri Pascha. There are other texts that mention Herod, e.g., Acts of Peter, the dates of which are questioned and so will also not be included here. 3. A motive that makes Herod part of an evil generation (Luke 11:29-30), as Heike Omerzu, “Das traditionsgeschichtliche Verhältnis der Begegnungen von Jesus mit Herodes Antipas und Paulus mit Agrippa II,” SNTW 28 (2003): 126 indicates.

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that Jesus has done nothing worthy of punishment (Luke 23:15). Third, as Luke reflects on his passion narrative in light of Psalm 2:1-2, Herod is grouped with those who have plotted against Jesus: Pilate, the people of Israel, and the Gentiles/nations (Acts 4:24-28). Though there is some incongruity between Luke 23 and Acts 4, Luke has cast Herod as a king/ruler who stands against Jesus and ultimately bears responsibility for Jesus’ death.4 With this general understanding of Luke’s portrayal of Herod in place, what follows will examine the depiction of Herod in the writings of Ignatius, the (so-called) Gospel of Peter, and two passages in Justin Martyr. Each of these will provide points for comparison and contrast with the Lukan Herod.5

The Second Century: Herod as Jesus’ Executioner Ignatius We begin with the earliest mention of Herod in extant Christian literature of the second century, Ignatius of Antioch’s epistle to the Smyrneans.6 In one of five 4. Two monographs explore Luke’s characterization of Herod from different methodological perspectives. The first is John A. Darr, Herod the Fox: Audience Criticism and Lukan Characterization, JSNTSS 163 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998). Darr sees Herod as a paradigm of negative response, i.e., he has failed to recognize Jesus’ significance. For Darr, Herod is the tyrannical king who serves as a foil to the philosopher/prophets, John and Jesus. The second is Frank Dicken, Herod as a Composite Character in Luke-Acts, WUNT II 375 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014). In this monograph I contend that the three rulers called “Herod” by Luke may be construed as a composite character. Two historical anomalies concerning the Herods in Luke-Acts (the title “King of Judea” at Luke 1:5 which was held by no Herodian ruler, and the name “Herod” for Agrippa I at Acts 12) result in the ambiguity necessary for conflating the three Herods. This composite “Herod” functions as “an actualization of Satan’s desire to impede the spread of the good news through his [“Herod”] rejection of the gospel message and through political persecution,” (7) i.e., executing John (Luke 9:7-9), Jesus (Acts 4:24–28), James (Acts 12:1–2), and attempting to execute Peter (Acts 12:3–5). 5. Methodologically, even though three of the texts are not narratives I will approach characterization in these texts as scholars do with other narratives, i.e., by examining the following features when they appear: 1) the actions and words of the character; 2) statements made by others about the character, including the author or narrator; 3) how a character illustrates the theme(s) of the work; 4) the characterization of other characters with whom Herod is associated; and 5) the settings in which the characters appear. See James Resseguie, Narrative Criticism of the New Testament: An Introduction (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2005), 121–2; Dicken, Herod as a Composite Character, 28–31 and the notes there. See Cornelis Bennema, A Theory of Character in New Testament Narrative (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2014), 72–6, on how the number of traits present in a text create a more or less complex character. 6.  This essay utilizes the middle recension of Ignatius’ letters and the eclectic texts found in Michael W. Holmes, ed., The Apostolic Fathers: Greek Texts and English Translations,



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participial phrases in Smyrn. 1.1-2, Ignatius refers to the Lord as “nailed in the flesh under Pontius Pilate and Herod the tetrarch.”7 This is the only instance of the name “Herod” in the Ignatian corpus and the phrase includes four character traits. Here, Ignatius: 1) employs the name Herod; 2) utilizes title “tetrarch”; 3) links Herod with Pilate; and 4) implicates Herod in Jesus’ death. This brief portrayal shows Herod to be a ruler under whose authority Jesus is crucified. Since neither the name Herod nor the title tetrarch appear elsewhere in Ignatius’ epistles, the Bishop’s inclusion of this name and title here provide little in the way of characterization in and of themselves.8 The final two points, however, allow some elaboration on the character of Herod via examination of the Ignatian corpus. Ignatius refers to Pontius Pilate in two other letters, Magn. 11.1 and Trall. 9.1. In the former, Ignatius situates the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus during the governorship (τῆς ἡγεμονίας) of Pilate.9 In the latter, Ignatius describes Jesus as having been persecuted under Pontius Pilate (ἐδιώχθη ἐπὶ Ποντίου Πιλάτου). Τhe references to Pilate in these two letters, taken alongside Smyrn. 1.2, present a depiction of Pilate as a ruler under whose authority Jesus was executed.10 The addition of “and Herod the tetrarch” (καὶ Ἡρώδου τετράρχου) at Smyrn. 1.2 links the two rulers and places responsibility for Jesus’ death on both rulers. Though analysis of this singular reference to Herod in the Ignatian corpus does not result in highly developed characterization, for Ignatius Herod is a ruler with authority, who oversees the crucifixion of Jesus. Gospel of Peter Herod also appears as a character in the so-called Gospel of Peter (GPet), a fragmentary text dating to the mid-second century. The extant text narrates events from the moments before Jesus’ crucifixion to the day of Jesus’ resurrection and parallels the passion narratives of the canonical gospels in many instances, but also adds details not found therein. Herod only appears in the first five verses of the extant text (1.1–2.5).11 Despite Herod’s brief appearance, GPet provides a 3rd ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2007); Bart D. Ehrman, ed. and trans., The Apostolic Fathers I, LCL 24 (London: Harvard University Press, 2003). 7. The phrase under investigation reads ἀληθῶς ἐπὶ Ποντίου Πιλάτου καὶ Ἡρώδου τετράρχου καθηλωμένον ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν ἐν σαρκί. 8. From a historical perspective it is likely that Ignatius is referring specifically to Herod Antipas, who ruled as Tetrarch of Galilee and Perea at the time of Jesus’ crucifixion and whose rule overlapped with Pilate’s governorship over Judea. However, the caution of Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah, 2nd ed. (London: Chapman, 1993), 614 should be kept in mind, “One may well wonder whether early Christian hearers of the Gospel stories kept the various Herods distinct.” 9. The inclusion of Jesus’ birth during the time of Pilate is a clear anachronism. 10. See ἐπί 18a, BDAG, 367 for this preposition denoting “under” a king or ruler. 11. The most recent critical edition of the text is Paul Foster, The Gospel of Peter: Introduction, Critical Edition and Commentary, TENTS 4 (Leiden: Brill, 2010).

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relatively full characterization of Herod that progresses beyond that of Luke and Ignatius by portraying Herod as the leading figure in the events surrounding Jesus’ death.12 The characterization of Herod begins in the first line of GPet. The text picks up mid-sentence with the Jews, including Herod, refusing to wash their hands. This is undoubtedly a recasting of the tradition recorded in Matthew 27:24 where Pilate washes his hands as a sign that he is innocent of Jesus’ blood. Without knowing what goes before in GPet it is impossible to determine if the inaction of the Jews and Herod stands in contrast to Pilate’s washing his hands or not.13 Herod’s culpability with regard to Jesus is clear, as he gives a direct order (κελεύει, ἐκέλευσα) to execute Jesus (1.2).14 His joining the Jews in not washing his hands gives further evidence of his guilt. While Herod’s judges (τῶν κριτῶν αὐτοῦ) make no further appearances in the narrative (and therefore do not contribute to the characterization of Herod here), the Jews do appear again. As a collective character, they rejoice as Jesus is taken down from the cross (6.23), but later lament, believing that their actions have brought judgment on themselves and Jerusalem (7.25). Finally, GPet portrays the Jews as enraged by the resurrection (12.50, 52), wielding enough power to cause the witnesses of the resurrection, a centurion and several soldiers, to cower in fear of them (11.48). Therefore, though realizing that their actions have brought judgment on themselves, the Jews in GPet are portrayed as bearing guilt for Jesus’ death and wishing to stamp out any testimony to the resurrection. Since GPet aligns Herod with the Jews both while the King is giving orders for Jesus’ crucifixion, and, in not washing his hands,15 he shares in the guilt of the Jews. GPet 2.4-5 demonstrates Herod’s control over the circumstances of Jesus’ death and burial. After Joseph (of Arimathea) asks Pilate for Jesus’ body in order to bury it, Pilate does not deliver the body as in the canonical gospels.16 Rather, Pilate must ask Herod for the body (GPet 2.4).17 Herod’s response to Pilate begins with the term ἀδελφέ, indicating a respectful relationship between Herod and Pilate in the narrative of GPet. This link between Herod and Pilate helps round out the characterization of Herod. First, at 8.28-31 Pilate provides soldiers to guard Jesus’ tomb at the request of several Jewish leaders. Second, at 11.43-49 Pilate’s soldiers, having witnessed the resurrection, fear that if they report what they have seen, they will be stoned by the Jews. Taken together, Pilate stands in deference to and fear of the Jews, including Herod. Similar to GPet’s Herod, Pilate stands over against Jesus by providing soldiers to secure the tomb and suppressing testimony of the resurrection. In this way, Pilate completes what Herod begins—the crucifixion and 12. Léon Vaganay, L’Évangile de Pierre, Études bibliques (Paris: Gabalda, 1930), 129. 13. However, note Pilate’s declaration of innocence at GPet 11.46. 14. The title “King” as applied to both Herod and Jesus points to potential enmity between the two (GPet 1.2 for Herod, 3.7; 4.10 for Jesus). 15. Also, GPet 2.5 portrays Herod as concerned about matters of Jewish law. 16. Mk 15:42-47; Mt. 27:57-60; Luke 23:50–54; Jn 19:38-42. 17. Joseph buries Jesus at GPet 6.23.



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burial of Jesus, resulting in the narrative depiction of their shared responsibility in this text. In GPet, Herod is clearly the key leader presiding over the events surrounding the death and burial of Jesus. The portrayal is wholly negative—Herod orders the crucifixion, is aligned with the Jews who oppose Jesus, and joins with Pilate who completes the process of Jesus’ execution. Like Ignatius to the Smyrneans, GPet’s characterization of Herod focuses on his involvement in Jesus’ death. Because of its narrative framework, however, GPet goes well beyond Ignatius in providing a much fuller depiction of Herod as Jesus’ executioner. Justin Martyr The next writer who mentions Herod in the second century is Justin Martyr. Justin refers to a Herodian ruler once in First Apology and in six passages of Dialogue with Trypho. Justin is dependent, in part, upon the canonical gospels as sources for information on the Herods. Since the concern of this essay is the relation between second-century depictions of Herod and Luke-Acts, I will restrict my discussion here to two passages in Justin that are dependent upon Luke-Acts.18 Justin’s Herod is the Jewish King who is responsible for Jesus’ death. 1 Apol. 40 is part of an ongoing series of proofs from prophecy by which Justin demonstrates the foretelling of events in the life of Jesus in the Hebrew Scriptures. 18.  The question of dependence will be addressed below. At 1 Apol. 31.2 Justin writes of Herod sending copies of the Hebrew prophets to Ptolemy, King of Egypt. When Ptolemy sees that they are unintelligible, Herod commissions translators to translate them into Greek. Herod and Ptolemy as contemporaries is a clear anachronism as Philippe Bobichon, Justin Martyr: Dialogue avec Tryphon, vol. 2, Notes de la traduction, Appendices, Indices (Fribourg: Academic Press Fribourg, 2003), 724 states. 1 Apol. 49.4 describes the imprisonment and execution of John the Baptist at the behest of Herod’s niece’s mother, which is not recorded in Luke-Acts. The third gospel only makes passing reference to John’s imprisonment (Luke 3:18-20) and beheading (Luke 9:7-9; cf. Mk 6:14-29; Mt. 14:1-12 for the fuller story upon which Justin draws). Dial. 77.4-78.7; 102.2-3 are sections that mention Herod’s interaction with the Magi, clearly inspired by Mt. 2:1-12. Dial. 103.3-4 discusses the succession of Herod the Great to Archelaus to Herod (Antipas). Justin states that Archelaus succeeded Herod, which is only partially true given that Herod’s kingdom was divided between three of his sons (Jos. Ant. 17.188-189). Herod’s (Antipas) succession of Archelaus is therefore untrue; Antipas remained tetrarch of Galilee and Perea after Archelaus was deposed and Judea became a Roman province. Justin’s source for this is unknown, though he could remembering Josephus and/or conflating material from the canonical gospels (e.g., Mt. 2:19-23; Luke 3:1-2; etc.). Justin also refers to Antipas as King of the Jews (βασιλέα τῶν Ἰουδαίων), a title that Herod the Great held (Jos. Ant. 14.381-385), but Antipas never did (though he may have popularly been referred to as King as in Mk 6:14-29; Mt. 14:1-12; Acts 4:27). Andrew Gregory, The Reception of Luke and Acts in the Period before Irenaeus, WUNT II 169 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 291, 320–1 believes that Justin is dependent on Luke, but is not convinced that Justin knew Acts.

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Justin cites Psalms 1–2 in this section as evidence that David foretold the coming together (τὴν γεγενημένην … συνέλευσιν) of Herod (described as King of the Jews, βασιλέως Ἰουδαίων) with the Jews, Pilate (described as Procurator, ἐπιτρόπου), and his19 soldiers against Christ (κατὰ τοῦ Χριστοῦ).20 Συνέλευσις21 gets its force from the prepositional phrase κατὰ τοῦ Χριστοῦ—Justin portrays Herod as one of several figures who are antagonistic toward Christ. This is not unexpected as Herod is here grouped with both the Jews and Pilate, both of whom Justin holds responsible for Jesus’ death elsewhere in 1 Apology.22 The depiction of Herod alongside others, all of whom are responsible for Jesus’ death, accords with the portrayals in Ignatius and GPet. The second mention of Herod in Justin and its relation to Luke-Acts depends on how one construes a textual variant. At Dial. 52.3 Justin is again engaged in proof from prophecy, this time drawing on the oracles of Jacob in Genesis 49 in order to demonstrate that Jesus would suffer, after which there would no longer be a prophet or king in Israel. Trypho, attempting to undermine Justin’s argument by showing that there was no Jewish king before or during Jesus’ lifetime, responds by noting that King Herod was not a Jew but an Ashkelonite. Justin’s response is that even during the time of Herod, there was a high priest to rule the people. Now that Jesus has come, there is no prophet, king, or high priest. That is the context of the reference. It is the prepositional phrase that Justin employs to describe Herod that is under question. Marcovich’s text reads Ἡρώδην ἐφ’οὗ ἔπαθεν.23 Bobichon reconstructs the text as Ἡρώδην ἀφ’οὗ ἔπαθεν.24 Extant witnesses are split between the two and as Bobichon points out, several emendations have also been made in attempts to rescue Justin from error here.25 In either case, this appears to be an anachronism since both ἐφ’οὗ and ἀφ’οὗ are idiomatic, indicating that Herod (the Great, an Ashkelonite) was ruling when Jesus suffered.26 In light of the multiple variants that appear as efforts to correct the text and Justin’s confusion 19. The antecedent of this pronoun is unclear. It could refer to either Herod or Pilate. The grammar points to Pilate, but if the passage is dependent on traditions in Luke-Acts (which seems likely, cf. Luke 23:6-12), then Herod is in view. 20. The Greek text is found in Miroslav Marcovich, ed., Iustini Martyris Apologiae pro Christianis, PTS 38 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1994). 21. “Meeting, coming together,” BDAG, 968. 22. According to Justin, Jesus was crucified under Pilate (13.3; 61.13), and the Jews crucified Jesus (36.3; 38.8). 23. Miroslav Marcovich, ed., Iustini Martyris Dialogus cum Tryphone, PTS 47 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1997), 155. 24.  Philippe Bobichon, Justin Martyr: Dialogue avec Tryphon, vol. 1, Introduction, Texte grec, Traduction (Fribourg: Academic Press Fribourg, 2003), 316. 25.  Ibid., 1: 316 n. 1. Bobichon lists four other variants that change ἔπαθεν to ἐγεννήθη, ἔφυγεν, ἐπαύσατο, or ἔλαθεν. 26. So Marcovich, Dialogus, 47:155; Bobichon, Dialogue avec Tryphon, 2003, 2:724; Georges Archambault, Justin: Dialogue avec Tryphon, t. 1, texte grec, trad. française et index, vol. 8 of Textes et documents pour l’étude historique du christianisme, ed. Hippolyte



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regarding Herodian chronology in other places,27 it seems best to understand this as a second reference in Justin to Jesus suffering under Herod or while Herod was ruling.28 Therefore, as with Ignatius and GPet, Herod is, for Justin, one of the rulers responsible for Jesus’ death.

Reception History and Wirkungsgeschichte of the Lukan Herod Lukan redaction incorporates Herod in the narrative of the trial and execution of Jesus, a motif that appears in the three second-century writers examined above. What follows will suggest that analysis of characters in the canonical gospels may provide a new avenue for scholars to assess the reception and Wirkungsgeschichte of the gospels in the second century (and beyond).29 Scholarly consensus is that Ignatius did not know or draw upon Luke or Acts when composing his letters. Gregory sums up, “On balance, therefore, there is no compelling reason to suggest that Ignatius drew on Luke, and there are strong, if not compelling, reasons to suggest that he may not have done.”30 Foster agrees, “The case for Ignatius’ knowledge of the gospels of Mark and Luke is extremely poor.”31 Reasons given for this include the close proximity of the dates of composition for Luke-Acts and Ignatius (the latter being composed approximately twenty to thirty years after the former) and the lack of semantic overlap between the two writers. Numerous scholars explain the reference to Herod in Smyrn. 1.2 by appeal to Ignatius’ awareness of an oral and/or kerygmatic tradition rather than Luke-Acts.32 Such an appeal may be valid, since as Gregory points out, Hemmer and Paul Lejay (Paris: Librairie Alphonse Picard et Fils, 1909), 232–3. See ἀπό 2.b.γ BDAG, 105. 27. Bobichon, Dialogue avec Tryphon, 2003, 2:724 states that this is not exceptional absent-mindedness and notes Justin’s confusion regarding the Herods elsewhere. 28.  The charge that Herod is an Ashkelonite is made by Trypho in this passage and does not contribute to the characterization of Herod. 29. See Chapter 4 in this volume by David Gowler for a study of the reception of the Prodigal Son. 30. Gregory, Reception, 74. 31.  Paul Foster, “The Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch and the Writings That Later Formed the New Testament,” in The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers, ed. Andrew F. Gregory and Christopher M. Tuckett (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 181. See also Arthur J. Bellinzoni, “The Gospel of Luke in the Second Century CE,” in Literary Studies in Luke-Acts: Essays in Honor of Joseph B. Tyson, ed. Richard P. Thompson and Thomas E. Phillips (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1998), 60; Helmut Koester, Ancient Christian Gospels (London: SCM, 1990), 334. Over a century ago, however, W. R. Inge, “Ignatius,” in The New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers, ed. Oxford Society of Historical Theology (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1905), 80 wrote, “The balance of probability seems to be slightly in favour of a knowledge of the Third Gospel by Ignatius.” 32. William R. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress Press,

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second-century authors could have drawn on a tradition for which Luke-Acts is our only extant witness, while not being dependent upon Luke-Acts for that tradition.33 With such scant documentary evidence and a nebulous kerygmatic tradition, it may be possible that character studies provide a new means for evaluating allusions to the canonical gospels in second-century texts. Granted, establishing the use of an earlier text by a later writer is difficult in the case of such indirect use.34 The similarities between Luke’s and Ignatius’ respective depictions of Herod are obvious—Herod is a ruler who, along with Pontius Pilate, has executed Jesus. The points of contact between the Lukan Herod of Luke 23:6-12; Acts 4:25-27 and Smyrn. 1.2 are clear.35 The Lukan passages are redaction of and a reflection on the passion narrative placed in the mouth of the Jerusalem church. This fits a key criterion in establishing the use of texts, what Bellinzoni calls “textual distinctiveness.”36 Though Gregory remains skeptical that there is evidence of writers using Luke before Irenaeus, he grants that the presence of Lukan redactional material in later writings may be evidence of dependence.37 1985), 220; Helmut Köster, Synoptische Überlieferung bei den apostolischen Vätern, Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 65 (Berlin: AkademieVerlag, 1957), 26–27; Walter Bauer and Henning Paulsen, Die Briefe des Ignatius von Antiochia und der Polykarpbrief, Handbuch zum Neuen Testament 18 (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1985), 91; Robert M. Grant, The Apostolic Fathers: A New Translation and Commentary, ed. Robert M. Grant, vol. 4, Ignatius of Antioch, The Apostolic Fathers (London: Thomas Nelson & Sons, 1966), 114; Clayton N. Jefford, Reading the Apostolic Fathers, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2012), 55; Gregory, Reception, 283; Donald Hagner, “The Sayings of Jesus in the Apostolic Fathers and Justin Martyr,” in Gospel Perspectives: The Jesus Tradition Outside the Gospels, ed. David Wenham, vol. 5 (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 1984), 240. 33. Gregory, Reception, 6–7. 34. Ibid., 5. 35. Herod and Pilate also appear together at Luke 3:1-2. 36. Arthur J. Bellinzoni, “The Gospel of Luke in the Apostolic Fathers: An Overview,” in Trajectories through the New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers, ed. Andrew F. Gregory and Christopher M. Tuckett (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 51: Also see Inge, “Ignatius,” 79. 37.  Andrew Gregory, “Looking for Luke in the Second Century: A Dialogue with François Bovon,” in Reading Luke: Interpretation, Reflection, Formation, ed. Craig G. Bartholomew, Joel B. Green, and Anthony C. Thiselton (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2005), 404–5. Gregory leaves himself an out, though. He states that this is only the case if the material can be shown to originate with Luke. This is not only unsatisfying; it is unhelpful. In this line of thinking, there is nothing in any of the canonical gospels that can be demonstrably shown to originate with the gospel writer, since oral/kerygmatic tradition could be appealed to in order to account for every passage in the gospels! See also Édouard Massaux, Influence de l’évangile de Saint Matthieu sur la Littérature Chrétienne avant Saint Irénée (Louvain: Publications Universitaires de Louvain, 1950), 109.



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There are additional details that may link Ignatius and Luke. For instance, Luke, like Ignatius, refers to Herod as Tetrarch (3:1, 19; 9:7; Acts 13:1).38 Among the canonical evangelists only Luke uses the full name “Pontius Pilate” (Luke 3:1; Acts 4:27), as does Ignatius.39 Two semantic correlations do not prove dependency, but we must remember that Ignatius, in his appropriation of what would later become canonical Scripture, is not one to slavishly reproduce texts.40 Horrell states, “A literary or intertextual relationship need not entail precise or extensive repetition of large amounts of the source text, but can involve a more subtle and creative engagement.”41 The Lukan addition of an appearance before Herod would have been, without doubt, memorable. Therefore, if the narrative of Jesus’ appearance before Herod originates with Luke—which is the only evidence available—it does not stretch the imagination to posit Ignatius’ knowledge of the third canonical gospel even if that knowledge came to him only shortly before he composed his epistle to the Smyrneans.42 This is one possible way to reconsider Ignatius’ knowledge of Luke-Acts. Very little may be drawn from a singular 38. See also Mt. 14:1-12, though in that context Herod is both Tetrarch and King. 39. The full name also appears at 1 Tim. 6:13, but the linking of Herod and Pilate in Ignatius and the emphasis in 1 Tim. 6:13 on Jesus’ confession before Pilate make dependence on 1 Timothy unlikely, regardless of whether one considers the letter pseudonymous (late date) or not (early date). 40. Foster, “Epistles of Ignatius,” 161: Schoedel, Ignatius, 221 notes the connection of descent from David with Jesus’ birth. However, he states that this is Ignatian because Paul associates Jesus’ descent from David with the resurrection (cf. Rom. 1:3-4). He may have, however, missed a connection with Luke, who associates Jesus’ virgin birth with his descent from David (Luke 1:26-37), though this may also be drawn from the opening chapters of Matthew’s gospel. 41. David G. Horrell, Becoming Christian: Essays on 1 Peter and the Making of Christian Identity, LNTS 394 (London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2013), 14. Horrell’s comments concern the relationship between 1 Peter and the Pauline epistles, but his contention applies here as well. Moreover, en route to his martyrdom, a trip that essentially spanned the width of the Roman Empire, Ignatius was likely recalling information from memory as he composed his letters. On this point see Hagner, “Sayings,” 250; Charles E. Hill, “Ignatius, ‘the Gospel,’ and the Gospels,” in Trajectories through the New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers, ed. Andrew F. Gregory and Christopher M. Tuckett (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 269. The canonical gospels seem to have been copied and distributed widely before the second century, as indicated by François Bovon, “The Reception and Use of the Gospel of Luke in the Second Century,” in Reading Luke: Interpretation, Reflection, Formation, ed. Craig G. Bartholomew, Joel B. Green, and Anthony C. Thiselton (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2005), 382–3; Hill, “Ignatius,” 268; Harry Gamble, Books and Readers in the Early Church (London: Yale University Press, 1995), 129–30. Even if Ignatius did not previously know Luke-Acts, it is possible that he heard or read it during his transport to Rome, some twenty to thirty years after the initial composition of the writings. Such accessibility, even if brief, is another of Bellinzoni’s criteria for dependence. See Bellinzoni, “Apostolic Fathers,” 50. 42.  This does not presume scriptural or proto-canonical status for the Gospel of Luke at

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example. Perhaps this is enough to keep the case for Ignatius’ dependence on Luke open; perhaps it is not. In any event, even if Ignatius’ reference to Herod at this point depends not on Luke but on tradition, when viewed alongside the characterization of Herod in both canonical and non-canonical texts, it is an important (albeit small) piece of evidence for considering how both Herod and the Jews are increasingly vilified by Christian writers in the formative years of the early church. This seems to be precisely what GPet and Justin are doing in their portrayals of Herod that are drawn in part from Luke-Acts. The dependence of GPet upon the third evangelist with regard to Herod is clearer than in the case of Ignatius and Luke-Acts.43 Herod’s presence at a Jewish festival, his sharing in blame for Jesus’ death, his close association with the Jews, his friendship with Pilate (and Pilate’s deferral to him), and the title “King” all appear to be drawn from the portrayal of Herod, or composite “Herod,” in Luke-Acts.44 What is happening in both Luke-Acts and GPet is the shifting of blame from a Roman governing official to a Jewish ruler as part of a larger tendency in early Christian literature to exonerate Roman rulers and place ever-increasing guilt on the Jews and their leaders.45 The verdict-rendering Pilate of Mark 15:1-15 becomes the declaring-his-innocence-by-hand-washing and warned-by-his-wife Pilate of Matthew 27:11-26. Luke goes beyond Matthew. The third evangelist’s redaction of Mark has Pilate himself pronounce Jesus’ innocence three times and after learning that Jesus is a Galilean under Herod’s jurisdiction, seek to recuse himself from the case by sending the accused to the Jewish ruler (Luke 23:1-25), though he ultimately renders the sentence himself. The introduction of Herod into the passion by Luke is picked up by the author of GPet and taken one step further by reversing these characters’ roles. For GPet, King Herod is in charge and Pilate defers to the King, though both bear responsibility for Jesus’ death. Scholars are divided on whether Justin knew Luke-Acts. Gregory is ambivalent, raising many good prospects for Justin’s dependence on Luke and Acts, but ultimately deferring to the possibility that Justin and Luke were drawing on similar material.46 Alternatively, Biblia Patristica pairs Dial. 102.5; 103.4, 9 with Luke 23:7, 9.47 Bellinzoni believes passages in Justin that reflect Luke are the such an early date. Such considerations are almost certainly late second-century developments, as indicated by ibid., 67. 43. Foster, Gospel of Peter, 217–19, though the parallels with Luke are not as common as those with Matthew or Mark. Foster notes “striking details that appear to betray knowledge of features unique to the redactional hand of the third evangelist.” Bovon, “Reception,” 383 believes that GPet 1.1–2.5 is dependent upon oral tradition. 44. Cf. Luke 23:6-12, 15; Acts 4:25-27; 12:1-3. See also Dicken, Herod as a Composite Character, 38–9. 45.  Massaux, Influence, 379–381; Foster, Gospel of Peter, 224, 239, 242. Raymond E. Brown, The Death of the Messiah, vol. 2 (New York: Doubleday, 1994), 1330 lists several similarities between GPet and Luke. 46. Gregory, Reception, 283–93. 47. J. Allenbach et al., eds.., Biblia Patristica: Index des Citations et Allusions Bibliques



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result of Justin’s harmonizing of Matthew and Luke.48 Hagner finds evidence of Justin’s use of Luke 18:27 in 1 Apol. 19.6 and possibly Luke 3:9; 21:8 in 1 Apol. 16.13.49 Bovon does not waver; he believes that Justin is the first apologist to evidence use of Luke.50 Massaux also sees literary dependence on Luke by Justin in 1 Apology and Dialogue.51 With regard to Luke’s second volume, Haenchen is most optimistic about Justin’s use of Acts while Barrett remains more skeptical.52 Specifically related to Herod in Acts and Justin, Taylor believes that 1 Apol. 40.6 may be accounted for with Justin’s dependence on Acts 4:25-27.53 On the whole, then, while debate surrounding the extent of Justin’s knowledge of Luke-Acts continues, it seems that scholars lean toward Justin knowing Luke (as part of a gospel harmony he composed)54 and probably Acts. What GPet and Justin contribute to the reception and Wirkungsgeschichte of Luke-Acts is a Herod who is the primary ruler responsible for Jesus’ death. GPet transfers blame away from Pilate to the Jews, including Herod. Similarly, Justin, in trying to distance Christians from their Jewish roots and align them with the Romans as part of his apologetic project repeatedly refers to Jewish hostility toward Jesus,55 naming Herod specifically in several instances. Luke is clearly interested in the relation of followers of Jesus to the Roman world. Scholarly consensus is that Luke’s portrayal of the Roman Empire and its rulers is not monolithic.56 Rather, Luke situates the Empire under the authority of the devil (Luke 4:5-6), with various rulers portrayed over against Christian preachers and the Christian

dans la Littérature Patristique, vol. 1 (Paris: Éditions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1975), 374. 48. Bellinzoni, “Second Century,” 66, 75. Hagner, “Sayings,” 248 notes Justin’s harmonizing tendency. 49. Hagner, “Sayings,” 247. 50. Bovon, “Reception,” 395. 51.  Massaux, Influence, 505–7, 556–60. 52. Ernst Haenchen, The Acts of The Apostles (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1971), 8; C. K. Barrett, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, vol. 1, I–XIV, ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994), 41–2. 53. C. Taylor, “Justin Martyr and the ‘Gospel of Peter,’” Classical Review 7, no. 6 (1893): 246. 54. Bellinzoni, “Second Century,” 66; Marcovich, Apologiae, 38:29–30. 55. Judith M. Lieu, Image and Reality: The Jews in the World of the Christians in the Second Century (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 178. Lieu points out that for Justin, both Romans and Christians were the subjects of Jewish attacks in the revolt against Rome. 56. Numerous publications could be cited. For overviews of the state of the discussion, see C. Kavin Rowe, World Upside Down (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010); Steve Walton, “The State They Were In: Luke’s View of the Roman Empire,” in Rome in the Bible and the Early Church, ed. Peter Oakes (Carlisle: Paternoster, 2002), 1–41.

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mission along a spectrum from believing,57 to ambivalent,58 to hostile.59 In doing so, Luke depicts Pilate as proclaiming Jesus’ innocence, while Herod serves as the political opposition, though both are culpable in the key passage, Acts 4:24-28. Why have second-century writers continued along the trajectory we see developing in Luke-Acts, downplaying Pilate’s guilt and emphasizing Herod’s? As both Elliott and Tannehill state, this shift serves to protect an increasingly Gentile church in the Roman world.60 In other words, as the early church grew among Gentiles and more early Christians developed narratives of Jesus’ death, there was a need to distance the foundational narrative of the Christian movement from any hostilities with the ruling authorities, especially since those same authorities began to exhibit hostility toward the nascent Christian movement at times. Luke sits at a clear turning point in this development by introducing Herod into his passion narrative.61 In Luke-Acts, Herod is clearly depicted as a Roman ruler,62 but also as closely aligned with the Jews, especially the Jewish leaders (e.g., the high priests).63 GPet and Justin capitalize on this latter facet of Luke’s portrayal of Herod not only by aligning Herod with the Jews and their leaders, but also by making him the key leader among them. In this way, the political Herod of Luke that GPet and Justin develop serves, in part, to further distance Christians from Roman hostility due to the increasing localized pressures against Christians in the mid-to-late second century and beyond.64 If early readers of Luke-Acts recognized the political function of that narrative and appropriated Lukan characters to suit similar purposes, this adds another dimension to the understanding of the Wirkungsgeschichte of Luke-Acts vis-à-vis the Roman Empire in this early period.65 57. E.g., Sergius Paulus, Acts 13:4-12. 58. E.g., Gallio, Acts 18:12-17. 59. I have argued that Luke situates composite “Herod” at the extreme negative end of this spectrum. See Dicken, Herod as a Composite Character, 146–7. 60. J. K. Elliott, ed., The Apocryphal Jesus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 89–91; Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation, vol. 1, FFNT (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), 197. 61. Rowe, World Upside Down has masterfully shown how Luke seeks to navigate the very real conundrum in the Book of Acts with the gospel being an anti-Imperial proclamation and Christians repeatedly being accused of upsetting the social order, yet never being found guilty. 62. As evidenced by his inclusion in the synchronism at Luke 3:1-2 and his close association with other Roman rulers, including Pilate. See Dicken, Herod as a Composite Character, 144; Kazuhiko Yamazaki-Ransom, The Roman Empire in Luke’s Narrative, LNTS 404 (London: T&T Clark, 2010), 71–4. 63. Yamazaki-Ransom, Roman Empire, 163–4. 64. Foster, Gospel of Peter, 221. 65.  On the interplay between a text and its Wirkungsgeschichte, see Markus Bockmuehl, Seeing the Word: Refocusing New Testament Study (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2006), 118.



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Conclusion “The early tradition had Herod hostile to Jesus.”66 Both the synoptic gospels of the canonical New Testament and the second-century texts examined here evidence this. For the Christian writers of the second century, Herod has become a stock character.67 The Herodian rulers had already become stereotyped by the authors of the canonical gospels. Matthew’s Herod (the Great) is a virtual Pharaoh seeking to destroy Israel’s new Moses, Jesus. Luke’s Herod (Antipas and Agrippa) is a political opponent of Jesus and the movement that sprang up in the wake of his resurrection.68 In part, it appears that Luke’s Herod, who participated in the proceedings surrounding Jesus’ death, captured the imaginations of a few second-century authors. In the second-century writings, similarly to Acts 4:24-28, Herod bears responsibility for Jesus’ death, sometimes along with Pilate. In other instances, Herod functions as Jesus’ sole executioner. In short, Herod becomes a leading Jewish figure in the narrative of Jesus’ execution. Character analysis of Herod in Luke-Acts and references to a similar figure by Ignatius, Gospel of Peter, and two of Justin’s writings opens up new possibilities concerning the reception and Wirkungsgeschichte of Luke-Acts in the second century.

66. Brown, Death, 1994, 1:782. 67. M. H. Abrams, “Stock Characters,” A Glossary of Literary Terms, 5th ed. (London: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1988), 343–4. 68. Or “Herod” as in Dicken, Herod as a Composite Character.

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INDEX OF ANCIENT TEXTS Hebrew Bible/Septuagint Page references in italics denote a note. Genesis 1 195 2:16-17 73 3:2-3 73 3:6 73 3:7 73 18:4 17 19:2 17 24:32 17 34 4, 190, 191, 197 49 204 Exodus 3:20 81 6:14 130 13:3 81 15:6 81 20:6 100 22:25 97 23:11 97 34:6-7 100 Leviticus 88 12:1-8 15:19-30 88 23:29 130 127 24:13-16 Numbers 6:25 100 130 10:4 13:2, 3 130 14:4 130 14:26-30 34 19:11-22 88 24:17 130 31:19-24 88 Deuteronomy 6:5-8 81 6:21 81

7:9 100 10:18 97 17:2-7 127 18:15 130 28:53-57 84 32:4 130 32:21 130 Judges 2:14-18 81 3–5 78 4:17-22 84 5:24-27 84 1 Samuel 2:2 5:1-5

130 129

1 Kings 8:24 81 2 Kings 6:28-29 84 1 Chronicles 5:24

130

2 Chronicles 12:6

130

Ezra 9:15

130

Nehemiah 1:10 81 130 2:9 7:70 130 7:71 130 9:33 130

234 Job 27:13-23 97 31:7 81 Psalms 1–2 204 2 132 2:1-2 200 2:2 128 2:7 133 4:26 128 7:11 130 10:3-4 97 11:7 130 14:1 97 16 132 16:10 133 28:2-7 81 31:5 138 36:12 147 49 97 52:7 97 53:1 97 71:22 130 72:4 97 78:41 130 78:72 81 80:18 138 89:18 130 110 132 116:5 130 118:22 132 129:4 130 140:12 97 Proverbs 81 6:16-18 7:6-20 89 14:21 100 14:31 100 81 16:5 19:17 100 22:9 100 88, 89 31 31:10-31 83 31:11 84 31:20 83 31:23 84 83 31:26 31:28 83 31:31 83 Ecclesiastes 2:1-11 97

Index of Ancient Texts 7:26

81

Song of Solomon 1:2-3 89 1:12-13 89 4:1-3 89 4:10-15 89 6:5 89 7:5-9 89 8:1-3 89 Isaiah 1:4 130 3:6, 7 130 5:19 130 9:11-20 81 12:4 138 12:6 47, 130 25:9 47 29:19 47 30:4 130 37:35 129 40:3-4 137 40:28 136 42:1 129 42:6 190 44:1-2 129 44:6 137 44:9-20 136 45:4 129 45:21 130 49:6 140, 190 49:13 47 52:10 190 52:13 129 52:13–53:12 129 53 132 53:7-8 139 55:3 133 58:6-7 100 Jeremiah 15:6 81 130 50:29 Lamentations 81 2:19 2:20 84 81 3:41 4:10 84 Ezekiel 6:14 81 16:4-5 86



Index of Ancient Texts

22:29 100 34 119 34:1-5 120 34:11 120 34:15-16 120 Daniel 4:34-35 136 6:12 147 7:13-14 127, 137 7:28 87 Joel 2:30 131 2:32 138 Amos 2:6-7 100 5:12 100 8:4 100 9:11-12 182 Micah 1:13

130

Zephaniah 3:9 138

Tobit 2:11-14 3:2

235

84 130

Judith 13:1-9 84 13:15 84 14:2 130 Wisdom of Solomon 7:1 87 7:5 87 Sirach 2:12 81 11:19 97 11:21-28 97 25:22-23 84 28:4 100 29:1 100 48:19-20 81 Susanna 12 15 16

147 147 147

Zechariah 7:9-10 100 13:9 138

1 Maccabees 2:1 186 2:65 186 9:61 130

Malachi 3:1 137

2 Maccabees 1:24

130

New Testament Matthew 2:1-12 203 2:1-18 199 2:19-23 203 4:12-17 29 5:13 27 5:14 27 7:22-23 26 7:24-27 27 9:10-17 23 9:14 30 14:1-12 203, 207 22:11-13 38

27:11-26 208 27:24 202 27:57-60 202 Mark 1:4-20 28 1:14-15 29 2:15-22 23 2:18 30 3:2 147 4:5-6 27 4:16-17 27 6:14-29 199, 203

236

Index of Ancient Texts

10:17 101 15:1-15 208 15:42-47 202 Luke 1:1-2 24 1:1-4 165 1:1-20 42, 50 1:5 200 1:5-7 44, 45, 50 1:5-20 49 1:5–2:52 35, 47, 51 1:6-7 44 1:7 45, 46 1:8 44, 45 1:8-9 45 1:8-20 3, 41, 42, 44, 45, 49, 50, 51, 52 1:10 50 1:11-13 45 1:13 46, 50 1:14 46, 47, 53, 117 1:14-17 46, 49, 53 1:15 47, 48, 53, 165 1:16 47, 48, 53 1:17 47, 48, 53, 189 1:18 46, 48 1:18-20 49 1:20 46, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53 1:21 50 1:21-25 50 1:22 50 1:24 50, 51 1:24-25 50 1:26 50, 51 1:26-27 50 207 1:26-37 1:26–2:52 51 1:27 51 1:29 87 1:32 87 1:32-35 86 87, 131 1:35 1:36 51 1:39-40 51 1:41 165 1:43 124 1:46-47 87 1:47 105 1:50 100 1:52 113 100 1:52-53 1:53 114 1:54 100, 129 1:54-55 119

1:55 105 1:56 51 1:58 100 1:64 48, 51 1:66 48 1:67 165 1:68 189 1:68-69 105 1:69 129 1:68-79 51 1:72 100 1:73 105 1:76 124 1:77 189 1:78 100 1:80 51, 52 2 165, 189 2:1-10 74, 85, 86 2:4 87 2:7 86 2:8-18 86 2:10 87, 117 2:11 87, 94, 104, 124 2:12 86, 87 2:13 94 2:19 87 2:25ff. 189 2:29-32  186, 187, 188, 189, 191, 195, 197 2:32 140, 189 2:34-35 87 2:40 51, 52 2:48 87 2:51 87 2:52 51 3:1 207 203, 206, 210 3:1-2 3:1-18 28 3:1-20 35 28, 29 3:1–6:19 3:2 113 124 3:4-6 3:4-14 105 33, 115 3:7 3:7-14 118, 119 3:8 119 3:9 209 3:10 33 3:11 118 32, 33 3:12 3:12-13 105 33, 114, 118 3:13 3:14 118 3:18-20 199, 203



Index of Ancient Texts

3:19 207 3:19-20 28 3:21–4:44 28 3:22 131 4:1 165 4:5-6 209 4:13 26 4:14 165 4:14-44 29 4:15 165 4:16-21 100 4:16-30 24, 29, 38 4:18 150 4:21 104 4:23 37 4:23-24 28 4:27 37 4:29 26 4:31 165 4:32 165 4:34 130 4:36 165 4:42 115 5-19 24 5:1-11 24, 29, 34, 165 5:1–6:19 29 5:5 117 5:8 32, 34 5:11 34, 103, 104 5:12-15 91 5:12-26 24, 29 5:17 34 5:17-26 165 5:17–6:11 59 5:19 115 5:21-22 34 5:26 104 5:27 34 104, 106, 112 5:27-32 5:27-39 29 30, 34, 103, 104 5:28 5:29-32 89 3, 23, 28, 31, 38 5:29-39 5:30 30, 57, 104, 113, 116 5:31-32 36 104, 105 5:32 5:33 30, 31, 35 5:34 36 5:34-35 31 5:35 36 5:36 36 31, 36, 37 5:36-39 5:39 23, 30 6:1-11 29

237

6:5 38 6:6 165 6:7 147 6:12-16 24 6:12-19 29 6:13 25 6:20-21 100 6:20-49 24 6:23 117 6:24 95, 104 6:24-25 100, 114 6:36 100 6:40 166 7 13 7:12 109 7:13-14 81 7:24 115 7:25 99 7:26-28 35 7:27 137 7:28 35 7:29 32, 33, 35, 58, 104 7:29-30 58 7:30 12, 35 7:30-34 35 7:34 89, 104, 114, 116 7:36 89 7:36-50 3, 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 17, 19, 59, 74, 85, 88, 113 7:37 32, 90, 104 7:37-38 89 7:38 90 7:39 32, 57, 88 7:40 165 7:40-44 89 7:44 89 7:44-46 88 7:44-47 89 7:47 104 7:47-48 90 90, 92, 94 7:50 8:1-3 98 8:2-3 106 25 8:9 8:13 117 8:14 114 8:24 117 8:40-42 91 101, 113 8:41 8:43 90 74, 85, 90 8:43-48 8:44 90, 91 8:45 91 8:45-46 91

238 8:45-47 90 8:47 91 8:48 92, 94 8:49 113, 165 9:3 98 9:7 207 9:7-9 199, 200, 203 9:10-17 93 9:18-19 115 9:22 113, 146 9:33 117 9:35 131 9:38 165 9:46-48 93 9:49 117 9:54 25 9:57-62 103 10:4 98 10:5-6 120 10:5-7 112 10:17 117 10:23 25 10:25 165 10:25-28 102 10:25-37 100 10:38-42 74, 85, 92, 107 11:1 25 11:1-4 31 11:4 166 11:9-10 105 11:15 113 11:29-30 199 11:37-41 13 11:37-52 13 57, 59 11:37-54 97 11:39-40 11:45 165 12:1 59 208 12:1-3 12:11 113 12:13 165 12:13-14 97 4, 95, 96, 114 12:13-21 12:13-34 96 96, 97 12:15 12:16 97 104 12:16-21 12:17-19 97 12:19 99 12:20 97 98, 106 12:21 12:22 96 12:22-23 96 12:22-34 96, 97

Index of Ancient Texts 12:27 99 12:33 98, 101, 103, 104 12:33-34 98, 106 12:58 101, 113 13:2 32 13:10 165 13:10-17 119 13:14 113 13:16 105 13:20-21 85 13:21-22 74, 93 13:22 165 13:23-30 118 13:28 105 13:30 103 13:31-33 199 14:1 113, 147 14:1-24 13, 59 14:12-24 103 14:16-24 100 14:26 25 14:33 95, 101, 103, 104 15 55, 66, 67 15:1 32, 58, 114, 116 15:1-2 58, 89, 104 15:1-3 57 15:1-32 112 15:2 32, 58, 59, 105 15:3-32 105 15:5 59, 117 15:7 32, 117 15:8-10 74, 85, 93 15:9 85, 93 15:10 32, 117 15:11-32 3 15:13 119 15:20 104 15:22-29 59 15:29 58 58, 58 15:30 15:31 58 15:32 58, 117 101, 102, 103, 106, 114 16:13 59, 109 16:14 16:15 35 118 16:19 16:19-31 4, 95, 99, 104, 114, 119, 156 16:20-21 99 16:22 99 16:22-23 99 16:22-31 105 99, 107 16:24 16:25-26 99 16:27-31 100



Index of Ancient Texts

16:29 189 16:29-31 102 17:3 166 17:10-11 91 17:11-19 89 17:25 146 18:2-5 74, 85, 93 18:9 35, 59 18:10-14 32 18:13 32, 114 18:13-14 104 18:14 103 18:15 114, 116 18:16-17 116 18:17 103 18:18 101, 113, 165 18:18-23 104, 116 18:18-25 4, 32, 95 18:18-30 101 18:19 101 18:20 101 18:21 101 18:22 99, 101, 103, 104 18:22-23 106 18:23 102, 107 18:24 102, 114 18:24-25 101, 106 18:24-27 105, 106 18:25 102 18:26 101, 102, 106 18:27 103, 106, 209 18:28 103, 104 18:30 101 18:31 104 18:35-43 103 18:37 131 18:39 114 19:1-10 4, 89, 95, 103, 110, 111, 112, 118, 120 19:2 103 103, 105, 109 19:3 19:3-4 107 104, 107 19:4 19:5 104, 126 19:6 104, 107 19:7 32, 57, 59, 105, 116 19:8 104, 105, 107, 113, 117, 118, 119 19:9 104 105, 106, 116 19:9-10 19:10 24, 105, 110, 119 19:29-30 103 25 19:37 19:39 25, 59, 165

19:41-44 76 19:45ff. 104 19:47 59, 113, 165 20:1 59, 113, 165, 189 20:19 59, 165 20:20 113, 147 20:21 165 20:28 165 20:39 165 20:46 59 20:46-47 165 21:7 165 21:8 209 21:37 165 22:1-2 165 22:2 59, 113 22:4 113 22:11 165 22:14-23 76 22:24-27 93 22:28-29 84 22:35 98 22:39-52 76 22:50 113 22:54 113 22:66 59, 189 23:1-25 208 23:4 113, 132, 149 23:5 165 23:6-12 199, 204, 206, 208 23:7 208 23:8 199 23:9 208 23:10 59, 113 101, 113 23:13 23:14 132 149 23:14-15 23:15 132, 200, 208 23:21 152 23:22 132, 149 23:23 152 23:25 132 23:28-49 76 149, 166 23:34 113, 144 23:35 23:40-43 113 23:41 132, 149 23:43 104 23:46 166 132, 144, 149 23:47 142, 144, 152 23:48 23:49 144 202 23:50-54 24:1-12 53

239

240

Index of Ancient Texts

24:13-32 53 24:19 189 24:20 101, 113 24:26 53, 146 24:33-43 53 24:34 53, 124 24:41 53 24:44 53 24:44-49 53 24:46 53 24:47 53, 166 24:48 53 24:52 53 John 2:1-10 38 13:3-12 89 13:23 99 19:38-42 202 Acts 1:1 139, 159 1:1-11 125 1:2 139, 140 1:8 139, 140 1:9 137 1:9-11 123 1:11 137 1:15-22 164 1:21 127 1:22 132 2:4 165 2:14-39 164 2:16-20 132 2:17 182 131 2:19 2:21 126, 129, 138 2:22 125, 131, 174 2:23 190 125, 132, 139 2:23-24 2:24 132 2:25-28 132 165 2:29 2:31 132 2:32 132 179 2:32-36 2:33 128, 135, 137, 139 2:34-35 132 2:36 128 126, 129, 132, 133, 138 2:38 2:44-45 106 2:47 189 3:1-10 164 3:1-11 165

3:3-6 137 3:6 126, 128, 131, 134, 164 3:11-26 164 3:13 129 3:13-15 125, 130, 132, 139 3:14 130, 149 3:15 130, 132 3:16 126, 164, 165 3:16-17 137 3:18 128 3:20 128 3:20-21 123 3:22-23 130 3:23 130, 189 3:26 132 4:2 132, 165, 166 4:3 149 4:5 59 4:7 126, 134 4:8-12 164 4:9 129 4:10 125, 126, 128, 131, 132, 134, 164, 189 4:11 132 4:12 126, 129, 132 4:13 165, 166, 171 4:17-18 133 4:18 166 4:24 178 4:24-28 200, 210, 211 4:24-30 81 4:25 129 4:25-27 24, 206, 208, 209 4:25-28 132 4:26 128 128, 129, 131, 203, 207 4:27 165 4:29 4:30 129, 164 4:30-31 126 165 4:31 4:32 99 4:32-37 106 126, 132, 179 4:33 4:34-35 99 4:35 144 4:37 144 5:1-10 164 5:2 144 189 5:12 5:14 135, 181 5:18 148, 149 5:19 150 5:23 150 131, 133, 166 5:28

5:29-32 164 5:30 132 5:31 129, 130, 132 5:34-39 59 5:40 133 5:41 133, 148 5:42 128 6:1-2 25 6:3 165 6:5 165 6:7 25, 182 6:9 144 6:11-12 144 6:12 59 6:14 131 6:15 144 7:17 189 7:34 189 7:37 130 7:52 130 7:55 127, 135, 165 7:55-56 127, 164 7:56 139 7:58 144, 149 7:58–8:3 144 7:59 127, 133, 138, 166 7:60 167 7:60–8:1 145 8:1 165 8:1-3 165 8:3 145, 165 8:3-8 126 8:5 128, 135 8:9 25 126, 133, 135 8:12 8:14-25 164 8:15 137 126, 133, 135 8:16 8:20 137 8:24 180 129, 139 8:32-33 8:34 132 133, 135 8:35 9:1 135 145, 165 9:1-2 9:1-9 139, 165, 166 9:2 165 9:3 125 9:3-4 145 9:4 139 127, 135 9:5 9:6 139 9:9 126 25, 127, 145 9:10

Index of Ancient Texts 9:10-12 146 9:11 127, 139 9:11-12 182 9:13 25, 127 9:13-14 146 9:14 133 9:15 127 9:15-16 139 9:16 142, 148 9:16-17 152 9:17 127, 135, 165 9:19 146 9:20 135 9:21 133 9:22 128, 135 9:25 147 9:26 25 9:27-28 165 9:28 135, 165 9:32 25 9:32-42 164 9:34 126, 134, 139, 164 9:35 131 9:41 25 9:42 135, 136, 181 9:54 25 10:1–11:18 164 10:9-16 38 10:20 188 10:28 182 10:29-30 132 10:31 182 10:33 180 10:34 182 124, 128, 137 10:36 10:38 125, 128, 182 10:39-41 126 10:40 182 10:41 182 131, 182 10:42 10:43 126, 129, 132, 181 126, 133, 135 10:48 11:2 188 188 11:12 11:14 129 127, 128, 140, 181 11:17 11:20 135 11:23 131 165 11:24 11:26 25 12:1-2 200 12:1-3 165 200 12:3-5 12:5 149

241

242

Index of Ancient Texts

12:6 149 12:10 150 12:17 150 13:1 186, 207 13:3-4 165 13:4-12 210 13:9 147, 165, 166 13:12 135, 181 13:13 165 13:17 190 13:23 129 13:26 129 13:27 133 13:27-31 126 13:29 133 13:30 132 13:33 132, 133, 178 13:34 132, 133 13:35 133 13:37 132 13:38 129, 132 13:39 181 13:43 131 13:46 165 13:47 129, 190 14:3 165 14:8-10 165 14:9 129 14:11 172 14:14-15 165 14:15 175, 178 14:19 148 14:22 148 14:23 181 14:26 131 15:1 129 15:5 59, 149, 187 185, 186, 188, 189 15:7-11 15:10 25 15:11 127, 129, 131 15:12 189 15:13ff. 189 15:14 4, 133, 185, 188, 189, 191, 192, 195, 196, 197 15:15 190 15:16-17 190 15:17 182 15:19 188 15:19-21 187 127, 133 15:26 15:28 188 15:29 38 15:35 166 15:41 165

16:1 25 16:10 182 16:12 148 16:15 177, 180 16:17 129 16:18 128, 134 16:19 148 16:19-21 148 16:19-40 150 16:21 127 16:22 149 16:22-24 148 16:23 149 16:23-40 165 16:26-27 150 16:27-34 150 16:30-31 129 16:31 140, 179, 181 16:34 181 16:37 148 17:3 132 17:5-9 150 17:7 129, 134 17:16 148 17:18 126, 132 17:23-24 173 17:24 176, 178 17:31 131, 132, 176 17:32 132 18:6 140 18:8 181 18:9 164 18:9-10 140 18:11 166 148 18:12 18:12-17 150, 210 18:26 165 18:28 148 19:2-7 134 140, 181 19:4 134, 177 19:13 19:15 177 19:17 133 19:20 181 19:26 150 19:28 151 19:31 152 19:34 151 149 19:37 19:40 149 20:1 152 149 20:20 20:21 127, 181 148 20:22-28

20:23 165 20:24 127, 131, 139 20:32 131, 180, 182 20:35 127 21:13 127, 133, 148 21:17-26 39 21:27 148 21:27–28:31 149 21:32-34 148 21:37-38 172 21:40–22:2 172 22:1-21 150 22:3 59, 165, 166 22:4 165 22:4-8 147 22:7 139 22:8 131, 135 22:14 130 22:15 146, 147, 153 22:16 126, 133, 134, 138 22:17-18 140 22:17-24 147 22:20 144 22:21 140 22:24 148 23:6 59, 132 23:8 144 23:9 59, 149 23:10 148 23:10-21 150 23:24 148 23:27-28 148 23:29 149 23:30-35 148 25, 165 24:5 149 24:12-13 24:15 132 24:23 149 181 24:24 24:25 148 25:4 149 148 25:6 25:8 39, 149 149 25:10-11 25:11 148, 149 148 25:17 25:19 132, 177 25:23 148 25:25 148 25:26 148 26:1-29 150 26:5 59 131, 133 26:9 26:9-11 147

Index of Ancient Texts

243

26:14 139 26:14-15 147 26:16 135 26:16-18 147 26:18 129, 132 26:21 147 26:23 132, 140, 146 26:26 148 26:28 25 26:31 149 27:1 148 27:10 176 27:20 129 27:21 176 27:23 176 27:25 176 27:31 129 28:3-6 149 28:17 148 28:20 148 28:28 129 28:31 127, 150, 165, 166 Romans 1:3-4

207

1 Corinthians 5:4 135 7:19 149 10:32 135 11:16 135 11:22 135 15:9 135 15:32 151 Galatians 1:3 1:16-17

135 166

Philippians 2:5-11 139 1 Thessalonians 135 1:1 2:14 135 2 Thessalonians 135 1:1 1:4 135 1 Timothy 2:4 69 207 6:13

Index of Ancient Texts

244 2 Peter 1:1

189, 197

Other Jewish and Christian Literature 3 Maccabees 2:3

130

Babylonian Talmud Erubin 53a, b 171 Dead Sea Scrolls Community Rule (1QS) 9:11 130 Testimonia (4QTest/4Q175) 175:5-7 130 Gospel of Peter 1.1–2.5 201, 208 1.2 202 2.4 202 2.4-5 202 2.5 202 3.7 202 4.10 202 6.23 202 7.25 202 8.28-31 202 11.43-49 202 11.46 202 11.48 202 12.50 202 12.52 202 Ignatius of Antioch Magnesians 11.1 201 Smyrneans 1.1-2 201 1.2 201, 205, 206 Trallians 9.1 201

Josephus Antiquities 1.200 14.381-385 17.188-189

160 203 203

Life 191

186

War 2.490-493 4.159 7.47-48

151 186 151

Justin Martyr 1 Apology 13.3 204 16.13 209 19.6 209 31.2 203 36.3 204 38.8 204 40.6 209 49.4 203 61.13 204 Dialogue with Trypho 52.3 204 77.4–78.7 203 102.2-3 203 102.5 208 203 103.3-4 103.4 208 103.9 208 Philo Flaccus 41 74-75 84-85 95 173

151 151 151 151 151



Index of Ancient Texts

Legum allegoriae 3.166 97

245

De specialibus legibus 4.129 97 4.215-217 97

Other Graeco-Roman Literature Apuleius Metamorphoses 11.1-30

165

Aristotle Poetics 1 6 7 9 15

156 156 156 156 156

Rhetoric 1.9.33 2.2.8

156 77

Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 7.281c Cicero Academica 2.42-43

160

160

De natura deorum 1.10.25–1.15.41 161 Dio Cassius Historia romana 162 57.13.6 Diodorus Siculus Bibliotheca historica 160 1.7.7 1.44.1–1.68.6 160 1.45.2 160 1.46.1 160 1.64.2 160 84 3.65.3 18.1-75 161 Diogenes Laertius Lives of Eminent Philosophers 162 3.21 3.36 162 162 3.38-40

3.47 162 4.1 162 4.3 162 4.28 162 4.47 162 6.84 160 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Antiquitates romanae 1.73.1-5 160 Julius Caesar Bellum gallicum 6.13

161

Juvenal Satires 10.11 143 Livy Natural History Praef. 10

161

Nepos Vita pelopidas 1.1

158

Philodemus Stoicorum historia 160 16.8 Philostratus Vita Apollonii 1.2.3

156

Pliny the Younger Epistulae 156 10.3A.3 Plutarch Vita Alexander 1.1-3 157 Vita Aratus 51-53 162

Index of Ancient Texts

246 51.4 54.2

161 161

Vita Cato Maior 37.4 158 Vita Nicias 1.1-2 158 Vita Phocion 5.4

158

Vita Sertorius 10.2-5 161 10.3-4 162 Vita Sulla 30.4-5 162

Annals 1.11.2 158 2.29.2 158 3.15.2 158 3.51.1 158 3.65 161 4.31.1-3 159 4.32.1-3 159 4.52.3 158 6.48.2 162 13.31.1 159 14.64 161 Historiae 1.3

161

Vita Tiberius Gracchus 1.5 166

Thucydides History of the Peloponnesian War 1.22.4 159

Polybius Histories 10.21.2 157 10.21.5-8 156

Unknown Scriptores historiae Augustae: Commodus 1.1-9 160

Quintilian Institutio oratoria 1.Praef.14 156 Sallust Catalinae coniuratio 4.1-4 161 Strabo Geographica 14.1.7.4

160

Tacitus Agricola 1.1-4

159

Scriptores historiae Augustae: Marcus Aurelius 2-3 160 Valerius Maximus 1.Praef 156 Xenophon Agesilaus 1.6

159

Cyropaedia 5.1.1

156

INDEX OF SUBJECTS Page references in italics denote a note. Abraham 4, 99, 100, 104, 105, 110, 119 affect theory 7, 75, 78–80, 81, 87, 88, 90, 93, 94 afterlives see reception history Agrippa I 200, 211 Agrippa II 148 Allegory, allegorical 24, 28, 56, 59, 60, 65, 89 Aristotle 77, 156 art 3, 57, 60, 61, 63, 66, 71, 76, 109 audience-oriented interpretation 2, 3, 7, 24, 26, 36, 96, 192, 193 author-oriented interpretation 193 beginnings 3, 41–6, 49–52, 53, 54, 131, 159, 165 Benton, Thomas Hart 65, 66 biography 4, 76, 155–68, 170, 171, 173, 195 birth narratives 42, 44, 46–9, 51–3, 86, 87, 188, 201, 207 Blues music 69–71 body, bodily, embodied 4, 63, 65, 74, 75, 78, 79, 81, 87–90, 92, 94, 142, 157 characterization 1, 3, 4, 21, 32, 33, 55–60, 71, 72, 73, 75, 78, 95, 99, 100, 107, 108, 114, 119, 124–6, 129, 131, 133–7, 140–4, 147, 152, 155–80, 183, 188, 189, 200, 201–3, 205, 208 Christology 1, 2, 27, 29, 124, 125, 126, 136 divine identity Christology 125, 136, 138 Christological titles Christ 25, 35, 92, 139, 204 Lord 34, 37, 44–8, 50, 53, 54, 81, 92, 104, 110, 115, 117, 123, 124, 26–9, 131, 133, 135, 137–40, 145, 147, 174, 176–83, 187, 201 Savior 94, 124, 129, 130 Son of God 87 Son of Man 35, 38, 119, 124, 127, 137 Chrysostom, John 60, 61, 68, 186, 187, 189, 190, 192, 197 Codex Bezae 4, 164, 169, 171, 177–83 Codex Vaticanus 4, 169, 171, 173, 174, 177–83 Cornelius 173, 175, 180, 182, 187, 188 defamiliarization 3, 10–12, 15, 16, 18, 19, 21, 22

disciples 23–31, 34–9, 53, 68, 96, 98, 106, 107, 114, 116, 117, 134, 137, 142, 144, 145, 147, 155, 159, 160, 162–8, 171 discipleship 3, 23, 24, 26, 28, 29, 31, 35, 38, 101, 103, 106 disorientation 10, 12, 19 Dives 99, 100, 107 drama 3, 57, 60, 67 Dürer, Albrecht 61–3 eating 12, 24, 30, 31, 34–8, 57, 58, 70, 73, 119, 145 ecclesiology 24, 29, 179 emotion, emotional, feelings, anger, fear, happiness 3, 4, 14, 65, 66, 67, 73–94, 117, 202 Empire, imperial 2, 3, 113, 128, 143, 148, 160, 207, 209, 210 Ephesus 134, 150–2 ethics, ethical 3, 4, 27, 31, 33, 59–61, 77, 95, 96, 98, 103, 106, 108, 161 Eve 73, 74 first-time reader, sequential reading 2, 11, 22, 38, 42, 48, 49, 53, 175 focalization 27, 134, 135, 145 Gabriel 3, 41–6, 49, 50, 52–4 gaps, blanks, areas of indeterminacy 9, 11, 12, 20, 110, 111 gender 4, 74, 81–3, 85, 170 genre 4, 76, 145, 155–8, 163, 168, 195 gentile, gentiles 1, 28, 29, 33, 37, 38, 59, 75, 140–2, 146, 151, 164, 173–6, 178–82, 185, 187–92, 197, 200, 210 God 4, 17, 27, 33–5, 44–50, 53, 55, 56, 58, 61, 65, 68, 69, 76, 86, 88, 89, 97, 98, 100–3, 105–7, 114, 119, 120, 125, 127, 130–2, 136–40, 148, 150, 166, 172–82, 185, 188–92 Godspell 67, 68 Greek mythology 87 Greek tragedy 56, 76 group character 23, 32, 34, 35, 38

248

Index of Subjects

healing, therapeutic power 24, 37, 75, 81, 90–4, 103, 126, 128, 129, 134, 139, 146, 162, 165 Herod 3, 4, 44, 199–211 Herod Antipas 199, 201, 203, 211 Homer 76, 77 honor, shame 2, 12, 38, 69, 73, 99, 101, 113, 133, 140, 153 hospitality 12, 13, 17, 19, 27, 88, 89, 92, 106–7, 118–20 Identifikationsfigur 29 identity 2, 3, 15, 25, 27, 36–9, 42, 48, 52–4, 87, 88, 89, 92, 113, 115–17, 125, 130, 138, 142, 146, 147, 173–6, 181, 182 implied reader 3, 8–12, 16, 20, 21, 43–6, 48–54, 57, 72, 96 Iser, Wolfgang 3, 4, 8–10, 110 James 1, 4, 34, 185–92, 196, 197, 200 Jesus 3, 4, 11–21, 23–39, 42, 47, 48, 49, 51–5, 57–9, 61, 67, 68, 72, 74–6, 81, 84–110, 113–20, 123–40, 142, 144–50, 152, 153, 155, 160, 164–8, 171, 173–83, 187, 189–91, 199–211 Jew(s), Judaism, Jewish, Judean 1, 25, 33, 35, 38, 39, 48, 59, 66, 75, 87, 98, 104, 119, 128, 130, 136–8, 145, 147, 149, 151, 165, 166, 171–7, 179–82, 187, 192, 195, 202–4, 208–11 John (the Baptist) 12, 24, 27, 28, 31, 32, 33, 35, 45, 47, 48–54, 104, 105, 106, 113, 118, 119, 124, 134, 137, 166, 199, 200, 203 Joseph (father of Jesus) 50, 51, 85, 86 Joseph (of Arimathea) 202 Kingdom of God 30, 35, 98, 101–3, 105, 106, 108, 112–14, 136, 148 Kingdom of Heaven 26, 67, 68 Lazarus 68, 99, 100, 106 Levi 3, 23–6, 28–32, 34–6, 38, 39 manuscript 66, 146, 149, 164, 171, 178, 183, 196 Martha 74, 85, 92, 107 martyr, martyrdom 144, 151–3, 207 Mary (mother of Jesus) 50, 51, 74, 85–7, 92, 94, 113, 114, 124 Mary (sister of Martha) 85, 107 meals, banquet 3, 12–14, 18–20, 23–6, 28–2, 34–6, 38, 39, 66, 67, 90, 99, 110, 118 Messiah 53, 54, 86, 126–8, 132, 134, 135, 139, 174, 175, 178, 179, 181, 183 Moses 27, 34, 100, 130, 211

mother, maternal 63, 69, 81, 82, 84–7, 94, 124, 203 multivalent, polyvalent, polyvalence 4, 119, 152, 185, 187, 191, 192, 195, 196 music 3, 57, 60, 68–71 narrative criticism 41, 74, 75, 109 narratology, narratological 1, 4, 41, 42, 44, 48, 51–3, 109–11, 145 narrator 19, 27, 34, 36, 45, 47, 48, 55, 57, 58, 72, 88, 103, 110, 114, 117, 124, 125, 135, 142, 161, 175, 200 parable 3, 15, 16, 19–21, 24, 25–8, 32, 36, 38, 55–61, 63, 64, 66–8, 70–2, 74, 85, 93, 95, 97, 98, 99–101, 105, 119 Paul 1, 4, 38, 39, 59, 133, 134, 135, 137, 139–42, 144, 147–53, 155, 159, 164–7, 172, 173, 175–8, 179, 180, 186, 187, 189, 190, 192, 194, 197, 207 penitence, penitential 1, 58–61, 66 Peter 1, 4, 24, 27, 29, 34, 85, 103, 106, 128–32, 134, 135, 137–9, 142, 150, 155, 159, 164–7, 171, 173, 176, 182, 185–92, 195–7, 200 Pharisees 12–19, 21, 22, 24, 30–8, 57–9, 68, 85, 88, 89, 97, 105, 109, 113, 115, 119, 120 philosophers, philosophy 2, 75, 77, 80, 81, 97, 155, 158, 160–3, 165, 166, 167, 168, 194, 200 Pilate 32, 199–204, 206–11 Plato 77, 162 plot 1, 12, 18, 19, 21, 22, 26, 28, 42–6, 49, 52, 55, 75, 107, 109, 155, 156, 176 possessions 95–107, 112 poverty and wealth, rich, poor 2, 4, 26, 27, 32, 33, 68, 83, 84, 95–108, 110, 114–16, 118, 119, 161 prodigal son 1, 3, 55, 57–61, 63, 65–72, 205 programmatic passage 3, 24–30, 32, 38, 129, 133, 148 proleptic 24–6, 30, 36, 37 Pulci, Antonia 67 reader-response criticism 3, 7, 8, 11, 20, 22 readers, audience 2–4, 7–15, 18–22, 24–39, 41–4, 48, 49, 50, 52, 54, 56–8, 66, 67, 71, 72, 77, 95, 96, 98, 101, 102, 104, 106, 108–13, 116, 123, 125, 129, 136, 149, 158, 159, 161, 162, 164, 168–72, 174–80, 182, 183, 185–8, 190, 192, 193, 195–7, 210 reception history 3, 4, 55, 56, 57, 60, 61, 71, 72, 199, 205, 209, 211



Index of Subjects

Afterlives 57, 59, 66 Wirkungsgeschichte 199, 205, 209, 210, 211 reconciliation 3, 58, 60, 66–8 redaction, editorial activity 24, 28, 30, 36, 38, 191, 196, 199, 205, 206, 208 Rembrandt 63–5 repent, repentance 30, 32, 33–5, 56, 58–61, 63, 66, 67, 69, 70, 100, 104–6, 112, 119, 120, 130, 131 resurrection 53, 59, 61, 75, 124–6, 128, 130–2, 147, 179, 201, 202, 207, 211 Roman 14, 24, 76, 128, 143, 144, 148, 149, 161, 203, 208–10 Romanos the Melodist 68 rulers, kings 4, 44, 59, 87, 95, 98, 101–3, 106, 107, 110, 113–16, 119, 128, 129, 132, 136, 146, 148, 157, 159–61, 199–211 Samaritan 1, 68, 100, 101, 180, 182 Saul 126, 127, 133, 135, 138–40, 144–7, 165 scribe(s) 30, 34, 57–9, 85, 105, 147 Scripture 37, 53, 97, 100, 130, 132, 133, 138, 145, 188, 190, 192, 203, 207 self-identification with characters 60, 61, 66, 68, 71 sight, spectacle 4, 46, 47, 73, 79, 123, 141–8, 150–3 Simeon 4, 185–93, 195–7 sinner(s) 12–15, 19, 24, 29–38, 57–9, 66, 67, 69, 70, 74, 85, 88–94, 104–6, 110, 112, 114–16, 119, 120

249

socioeconomic 95, 102, 119 Sociolinguistics 4, 169–71, 173–83 Socrates 76 speech, speaking 4, 15, 16, 17, 27, 29, 48–51, 53, 55, 57, 58, 67–9, 73, 75, 79, 80, 99, 110, 124–35, 138, 140, 145, 147, 157–9, 161, 165–7, 169–80, 188 Stephen 127, 130, 133, 135, 138, 139, 142, 144, 145, 147, 149, 159, 166, 167 stereotypes 4, 119, 159, 160, 163, 164, 168, 171, 172, 197, 211 successors 160, 163, 168 surveillance 142, 143, 149, 150 tax collectors, toll collectors 23, 24, 30–5, 57–9, 68, 95, 103–6, 110, 113–16, 118, 119, 120 thematic characters 42, 44, 49, 54 touch 3, 14, 15, 63, 73, 74, 79–94 wealth ethics 95, 96, 98, 106 Wilkins, Robert 69, 70, 71 Wirkungsgeschichte see reception history witness 1, 4, 53, 108, 132, 139, 142, 144, 146–50, 152, 153, 189, 202 woman, women, female 2, 3, 8, 11–22, 32, 35, 53, 69, 73–5, 78, 81–94, 98, 106, 113, 145 Zacchaeus 4, 24, 32, 33, 59, 103–7, 109–20 Zechariah 3, 41–54, 124

INDEX OF AUTHORS Page references in italics denote a note. Abbott, Frank Frost 176 Abbott, H. Porter 110 Abrams, M. H. 211 Adams, Dwayne H. 32, 33, 115 Adams, Sean A. 4, 76, 126, 155, 156, 158, 162, 164, 165, 183 Ahmed, Sara 78 Akurgal, Ekrem 151 Aland, Barbara 177 Allenbach, J. 208 Alter, Robert 125, 126, 136 Anderson, Janice C. 41, 43 Anderson, Kevin L. 123, 131, 132 Archambault, Georges 204 Arterbury, Andrew E. 17 Babie, Paul 98 Badian, Ernst 113 Bal, Mieke 145 Barrett, C. K. 124, 127, 130, 186, 209 Barthes, Roland 52 Bauckham, Richard 136–8, 139 Bauer, Walter 206 Beardsley, Monroe C. 194 Bellinzoni, Arthur J. 205, 206, 207, 208, 209 Bennema, Cornelis 4, 57, 72, 95, 107, 108, 155, 200 Betz, Hans D. 134 Bleich, David 8 Bobichon, Philippe 203, 204, 205 Bock, Darrell L. 129, 132 Bockmuehl, Markus 210 Bonz, Marianne P. 76 Booth, Wayne C. 125 Borg, Marcus 115 Bovon, Francois 47, 48, 51, 60, 206–8, 209 Boyce, Bret 176 Brennan, Teresa 78, 79 Brett, Mark 195 Briggs, Jean L. 83 Brody, Leslie 82, 83 Brown, Raymond E. 86, 87, 199, 201, 208, 211 Bruce, F. F. 124, 127, 186 Burridge, Richard A. 76, 156, 159, 164

Cable, Daniel M. 116 Cameron, Averil 143 Carroll, John T. 14, 20 Carlson, Stephen C. 86 Castelli, Elizabeth A. 11, 153 Cartwright, Ingrid 63 Chatman, Seymour 26, 41, 43, 45 Chaucer, Geoffrey 61 Cheng, Ling 140 Clark, Andrew C. 133, 166, 167, 177 Clines, David 193 Colvin, Stephen 176 Cone, James 70 Conzelmann, Hans 31, 123–5, 131, 139, 186 Corley, Kathleen E. 12 Cosgrove, Charles H. 14, 146 Cottrill, Amy C. 78, 79 Coupland, Nikolas 170 Crosman, Inge 7 Culpepper, R. Alan 41, 75, 141 Culy, Martin M. 47, 149, 152 Dahl, Nils 190 Danker, Frederick W. 87, 115 Darr, John A. 2, 3, 11, 23, 24, 26, 33–5, 96, 108, 169, 175, 200 Dasenbrock, Reed W. 194 Davis, Francis 70 Delebecque, Edouard 177 Dewey, Joanna 75, 155 Dicken, Frank 1, 3, 4, 24, 164, 183, 199, 200, 208, 210, 211 D’Oench, Ellen G. 61, 66 Donahue, John J. 20 Donahue, John R. 24, 33 Doyle, Arthur Conan 71 Duff, Timothy E. 158 Dunn, James D. G. 115, 127 Dupertuis, Ruben R. 172 Dupont, Jacques 23, 30, 36 Eco, Umberto 111 Edwards, Catherine 143, 151 Ehrman, Bart D. 201

252

Index of Authors

Elliott, J. K. 210 Elster, Jon 94 Emmott, Catherine 112, 117, 118 Epp, Eldon Jay 179, 181 Eriksson, Anders 23 Fath, Creekmore 65 Flebbe, Jochen 23 Fish, Stanley E. 7, 8, 16 Fitzmyer, Joseph A. 14, 46–8, 51, 52, 87, 129, 186, 191 Forster, Edward M. 159 Foster, Paul 201, 205, 207, 208, 210 Foucault, Michel 142, 143, 149, 194 Fowl, Stephen E. 4, 185, 192 Fredrick, David 143 Freund, Elizabeth 8 Frijda, Nico H. 78, 93, 94 Frilingos, Christopher A. 143 Gamble, Harry 207 Gambone, Robert L. 66 Garrett, Susan 141 Gaventa, Beverly R. 139, 147, 187 Gench, Frances T. 91 Genette, Gerard 8 Giessner, Steffen R. 116 Gill, Christopher 156, 161 Godet, Frederic A. 114 Goldie, Peter 84 Good, R. S. 23 Goulder, Michael D. 167 Gowler, David B. 1, 2, 3, 55, 56, 57, 59, 72, 205 Grabes, Herbert 169, 175 Graham, Carol 83 Grant, Robert M. 206 Grayston, Kenneth 81 Green, Joel B. 4, 12–15, 18, 20, 21, 75, 109, 111, 117, 135, 187 Gregory, Andrew 203, 205, 206, 208 Gunderson, Erik 143 Haenchen, Ernst 131, 138, 186, 190, 209 Hagner, Donald 206, 207, 209 Hamm, Dennis 105, 106, 110, 112, 141, 146 Hartman, Lars 133 Hartsock, Chad 141 Harvey, Anthony E. 191 Hauge, Matthew Ryan 1 Haviland-Jones, Jeanette M. 76 Hays, Christopher M. 33, 97–9, 100, 101–3, 104, 105, 106, 107 Hays, J. Daniel 102, 104 Hays, Richard B. 137, 138, 164

Head, Peter 177 Heil, John Paul 12, 20 Heitmuller, Wilhelm 133 Henderson, Suzanne W. 23 Herman, David 109 Herrenbruck, Fritz 113 Hertenstein, Matthew J. 79, 81, 82, 88 Hill, Charles E. 207 Hochman, Baruch 159 Holladay, William L. 119 Holland, Norman 8 Holmes, Janet A. 170 Holmes, Michael W. 200 Holmes, Rachel 79 Holub, Robert C. 8 Horrell, David G. 207 Hrdy, Sarah B. 82 Huang, Cassey 80 Hughes, George 43, 49 Hultgren, Arland J. 124 Hurtado, Larry W. 126, 138 Inge, W. R. 205, 206 Iser, Wolfgang 3, 4, 8-10, 110, 111, 175 James, William 78 Jeffery, David L. 13, 17 Jefford, Clayton N. 206 Jeremias, Joachim 13, 14, 130 Johnson, James Weldon 55 Johnson, Luke T. 47, 48, 123, 126, 185, 186, 188, 189, 190 Johnson, Mark 75, 118 Jones, D. L. 130 Judge, Timothy A. 116 Just, Arthur A., Jr. 117 Karris, Robert J. 76 Kee, Alistair 23 Keener, Craig S. 138, 171, 172, 186, 196, 197 Keltner, Dacher 76, 79, 80, 82 Kermode, Frank 56 Kiesling, Scott F. 170 Kilgallen, John J. 90 Kingsbury, Jack D. 43 Köhne, Eckart 143 Koester, Helmut 205 Kraus, Michael W. 80 Krodel, Gerhard 131 Kuhn, Thomas 193 Kyle, Donald G. 143, 151 Lakoff, George 75 Lanning, George 43, 44



Index of Authors

Leander, Nils B. 49 LeDoux, Joseph 92 Lehtipuu, Outi 156 Le Page, Robert B. 170 Levine, Amy-Jill 2, 55, 56, 147 Lieu, Judith M. 209 Linden, David J. 79, 80 Lischer, Richard 55 Liu, Shari 117 Lodge, David 42 Loewe, William P. 105 Lüdemann, Gerd 186 Macauley, Robie 43, 44 Macdonald, Dennis R. 76 MacMullen, Ramsey 151 Mailloux, Steven 7, 8, 21, 22 Malbon, Elizabeth S. 43, 75, 125 Malherbe, Abraham J. 96, 97, 151 Malina, Bruce J. 17 Marguerat, Daniel 25, 39, 109, 125, 132, 134 Marshall, I. Howard 53, 128, 129, 133, 187 Marcovich, Miroslav 204, 209 Marrow, Stanley B. 172 Massaux, Edouard 206, 208, 209 Mathieu, Yvan 23, 29 Matson, David Lertis 112 Mejer, Jorgen 162 Mendez-Moratalla, Fernando 112 Metzger, Bruce M. 127, 146, 177 Meyerhoff, Miriam 170 Michie, Donald 43, 75, 155 Mitchell, Alan C. 105, 110 Mitchell, William J. T. 71 Moessner, David P. 142, 144 Momigliano, Arnaldo 156 Moss, Candida 151 Moore, Stephen D. 41 Moule, C. F. D. 123, 124, 127, 128 Moxnes, Halvor 148 Mugabe, Henry 98 Murfin, Ross 43 Napier, John 80 Neale, David A. 23, 32, 33, 115 Nock, Arthur D. 165 Nolland, John 16, 47, 48, 51, 52 Nouwen, Henri 64 Nussbaum, Martha C. 77 Nuttall, Anthony D. 44 Oatley, Keith 76, 77, 78 O’Hanlon, John 104, 106 Oliphant, Rachael 98

253

Omerzu, Heike 199 O’Toole, Robert F. 104, 105, 124 Parkinson, Carolyn 117 Parsons, Mikeal C. 13–16, 41, 47, 66, 115, 116, 124, 149, 152 Paulsen, Henning 206 Peer, Michael 117 Pelling, Christopher B. R. 156, 158, 165, 166 Perkins, Pheme 29 Pervo, Richard I. 41, 76, 138, 149, 152, 158, 172 Peterson, David 133 Phelan, James 43, 44, 49 Phillips, Thomas E. 86, 87, 132, 144 Plamper, Jan 83 Poirier, John C. 172 Porter, Stanley E. 177 Potter, David 151 Powell, Mark A. 41, 43, 75, 109, 125 Price, Carolyn 85 Prince, Gerald 8 Ray, Supryia M. 43 Read-Heimerdinger, Jenny 127, 178, 179, 181, 182 Reid, Barbara E. 90, 93 Reicke, Bo 124 Resseguie, James L. 3, 7, 8, 10, 13, 17, 18, 75, 125, 200 Rhoads, David 41, 43, 75, 128, 155, 156 Riesner, Rainer 187, 188, 189 Rius-Camps, Joseph 127, 178, 179, 181, 182 Robb, Julie E. 130, 131 Rodino, Richard H. 16 Romagnolo, Catherine 46, 51 Røsæg, Nils Aksel 141 Roth, Cecil 191 Roth, S. John 2, 11 Rowe, C. Kavin 117, 124, 128, 209, 210 Ruskin, John 71 Ryken, Leland 61, 67, 71 Sanders, Ed P. 115 Schoedel, William R. 205, 207 Schnabel, Eckhard J. 127, 186 Schubert, Thomas W. 116 Schwartz, Gary 65 Segal, Alan F. 127 Seim, Turid K. 17 Shields, Stephanie A. 81, 82 Shklovsky, Victor. 10 Siebald, Manfred 61, 67, 71 Skinner, Christopher W. 1 Skinner, Matthew L. 150

254

Index of Authors

Skinner, Quinten 195 Sleeman, Matthew 124, 140 Smith, Barbara H. 46 Smothers, Edgar R. 186, 187, 189 Snodgrass, Klyne R. 99, 101 Snyder, Julia A. 1, 4, 169, 170, 173, 175, 177, 179 Solomon, Robert C. 77, 78, 94 Spencer, F. Scott 2, 3, 13, 73, 74, 76, 88, 91, 93, 144, 153, 167 Spencer, Jon Michael 70, 71 Squires, John T. 133 Stanley, Alan P. 102, 103 Stegman, Thomas D. 97 Steinbeck, John 65 Stephens, Susan 172 Sternberg, Meir 175 Stigall, Joshua J. 47 Story, J. Lyle 99 Strauss, Mark L. 132 Suleiman, Susan R. 7 Swain, Simon 155 Tabouret-Keller, Andrée 170 Talbert, Charles H. 25, 153 Tallis, Raymond 80 Tannehill, Robert C. 16, 18, 32, 76, 100, 101, 103–5, 106, 110, 155, 167, 210 Taylor, C. 209 Theobald, M. 23, 25, 29 Thurén, Lauri 56 Tichý, Ladislav 110 Tissot, Yves 60 Tolbert, Mary A. 25–7

Tompkins, Jane P. 7 Toolan, Michael 41 Tuckett, Christopher M. 183 Turner, Max 133, 135, 137 Unnik, Willem Cornelis van 171, 172 Vaganay, Léon 202 Vieth, David M. 16 Walton, Steve 4, 123, 128, 209 Wailes, Stephen L. 60 Walsh, Richard 67 Westermann, Mariet. Rembrandt. London: Phaidon, 2000 24 Wetering, Ernst van de 63 Wheatley, Thalia 117 White, Richard C. 110 Willi, Andreas 176 Williams, Charles S. C. 186 Wilson, Brittany E. 4, 76, 141, 144, 149 Wilson, Frank R. 80 Wimsatt, William M. 194 Winter, Sarah C. 172 Wright, N. T. 128 Yamakawa, Yoshinori 117 Yamazaki-Ransom, Kazuhiko 2, 210 Yoder, Joshua 3 Yong, Amos 115 Zanker, Paul 143 Ziesler, John A. 126